TITLE:  The Shirt
E-MAIL ADDRESS:  audrey_roget@yahoo.com
SPOILERS:  Various; most significantly, Pine Bluff Variant, Elegy, 
Ascension
RATING:  Varies from PG to NC-17
CLASSIFICATION:  SRA
KEYWORDS:  MSR, M/S/Sk friendship
SUMMARY:  Set between Pine Bluff Variant and The End.  The 
traditional toss of a bridal bouquet at the wedding of a colleague (yes, 
a cheesey situation, but work with me here) sets Mulder and Scully 
on a relationship slalom which causes them to question the nature of 
truth in their lives.
DISCLAIMER: Indulge me a moment.  The principal characters 
portrayed herein are ultimately owned by Rupert Murdoch, spawn of 
Satan.  I thank Chris Carter and company for bringing them to life and 
continuing to oversee their development and ongoing existence.  At 
the same time, Fox Television and 1013 Productions would do well to 
acknowledge that, in the larger sense, these characters belong to all 
of us, for without us, there is no they.  With that in mind, I declare a 
complete lack of intent to derive profit from the production/distribution 
of the following material or to infringe upon the ownership of the 
personages not created from my own imagination.
DISCLAIMER OF A DIFFERENT STRIPE:  Humor me.  Scientific, 
geographical, historical and institutional inaccuracies are most 
gratefully overlooked.



THE SHIRT 
by Audrey Roget


Chapter 1


I check my watch for the third time in four minutes, but I have no idea 
what time it is.  I hate these kinds of functions.  Don't mind putting on 
a tux though.  It's one of the few times I feel like I'm living up to the 
007 image people tend to associate with the work I do.  I just wish the 
occasion didn't call for a fun-filled evening in the company of my 
fellow agents, most of whom are also stylishly dressed, milling around 
the lobby of this swanky Georgetown hotel.

I've never been particularly comfortable at large social gatherings 
where one is obliged to feel festive.  If I had any choice, I'd have 
made my excuses long ago, but a request was made of me I couldn't 
refuse.  So I concentrate on my duty to a friend this evening, 
genuinely pleased at his good fortune and, knowing the difficulty he 
has making personal requests of any kind, honored that he has asked 
me to be here tonight.

Absently, I finger the chunky gold band in my vest pocket, a little 
tempted to try it on for size.  But I'd rather not relive any moments 
from the distant time when I wore a ring like this one for real and - I 
thought then - forever.  I think of the matching one Scully must have 
on her somewhere and what these rings mean to their owners.  
Where the hell is Scully anyway? Not like her to run late. 

It was just like Skinner to say nothing about this impending 
celebration until just a couple of weeks ago.  One morning like any 
other, he called us into his office, but instead of briefing us on a new 
case, he gave us the news that he and Sharon had reconciled and 
decided to reaffirm their wedding vows.  I actually felt a little surge of 
hope hearing this, for him and for me.

He delivered the information is his usual no-nonsense way, so it took 
a minute to process that what he was telling us had nothing to do with 
serial murders or government conspiracies.  He was issuing an 
invitation and a request - though it still managed to sound like an 
order - that we, Scully and I together, stand up for him at the 
ceremony as his "Best Agents."  Scully was particularly flattered, 
going so far as to plant a kiss on the  SOB's right cheek.  I swear he 
blushed.  I'm afraid I blushed a bit myself, mostly in relief that there 
would be one fewer in the pool of competitors for Scully's attention.

Since her remission, the two of them have shared some sort of quiet 
understanding, which I found unsettling somehow. Standing in the 
AD's office that day, offering a hearty congratulations, I knew that the 
joy I felt was as much for me as it was for him.

Finally, across the room, I spot Scully by the coat check.  She's late, 
but damn was it worth the wait.  I start to rise to go meet her, but am 
pinned to my seat as I watch her shed her black coat, revealing a 
fitted, sleeveless evening gown, midnight blue, cut low enough in the 
back to bare half of her creamy shoulder blades and spine.  Before I 
know it, I'm on my feet, striding over,  probably grinning like a fool, 
and trying to come up with an appropriate opener.

"Hey Scully.  Nice threads," is the best I can come up with.

"You clean up pretty nice yourself, Mulder," she replies, then dips her 
head to hide the smile creeping at the corners of her lips.  They look 
dark and sweet, as if she's been eating fresh berries.  Her hair is a 
little different tonight, too, falling in soft waves around her face.  I stifle 
an intense desire to run my lips over the gleaming crown of her head.

###

Mulder seems to be in good shape, though I can practically smell the 
tension I know courses through him when he's feeling awkward or 
out-of-place.  He's in especially good condition, considering what I've 
been overhearing in the lobby concerning last night's bachelor party.  
Let's just say the Bureau has made many strides to officially welcome 
women into the ranks, but sometimes you'd never know it from 
listening to certain agents recount their weekends.

"Some shin-dig, huh?" observes Mulder, glancing around the lobby.  
Then, as if reading my thoughts, leans in to add, "I'm surprised some 
of those guys can even walk today."  An evil glimmer lights his eyes.

"Well, I guess Skinner knew what he was doing when he chose you 
as Best Man," I reply lightly, fixing him with a practiced look.

"Hey - I only provided the entertainment.  It was actually a pretty tame 
evening while I was there," he says somewhat defensively.  "Some 
Best Agent you are. You didn't even show up."

"Thanks for the invitation, but I was sure you'd try to talk me into 
jumping out of a cake, " I quip, and start moving toward the ballroom. 

Our familiar banter eases his edginess.  He trails me to the head 
table, asking, "Just out of curiosity, Scully, how hard would it be to 
talk you into that?"  Luckily, my back is to him so he can't see the 
stupid grin spreading across my face.  I refrain from mentioning that it 
would take very little persuasion if it were for a certain audience of 
one.

I am rescued from having to make a comeback as someone steps to 
the microphone underneath a canopy set up  on the dance floor, and 
asks the members of the wedding to take their places.  Skinner spots 
us from the far end of the table, and flags us over.  We troop to the 
right side of the canopy, where Sharon Skinner, her parents and the 
rabbi are already waiting.

Mulder suddenly notices that I'm wearing the bride's ring on the chain 
with my cross and reaches out to examine it.  "Aw, gee, I thought you 
said you'd by /my/ date for the prom, " he cracks.

"They don't design women's formal wear with pockets in mind," I 
complain.

"Where would they put them?" he teases, giving me the once-over. 
My stomach flips as his gaze travels over me, lingering just a moment 
longer than necessary to prove his point.

I give him a disgusted sigh an start to remove my necklace, when he 
steps behind me, saying, "Allow me." He undoes the clasp, slips the 
ring off and re-fastens it almost entirely without touching me.  A little 
disappointed, I turn around to be confronted by a glare from Skinner.

"If you're ready, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, may we proceed?"  I 
have seen Skinner's human side just often enough to know of its 
existence.  I have to assume his wife sees a good deal more of it, 
though I have my doubts.  In my experience, even at his most sincere 
and good-natured, Skinner's behavior is always closely guarded.  His 
personal defenses make my own substantial ones look like 3-foot 
chain link. Lately, I've come to appreciate the respect we have for the 
other's boundaries.

The Skinners' vows are simple and to the point, naturally. Though I 
have never cried at a wedding in my life, a hard lump rises in my 
throat when Mulder and I hand over the rings.  I actually have to blink 
back tears hearing them recite, "I am my beloved's, my beloved is 
mine."

I steal a glance at Mulder, who is smiling gently to himself, not 
altogether present. This is one of those rare moments I choose not to 
speculate what is going on in the complicated labyrinth of his mind.  
Standing close to him, I shift slightly to feel the soft wool of his jacket 
against my bare arm and his warm breath on my shoulder.

After the ceremony, the chuppa is cleared away and an army of 
caterers hustle around serving dinner and pouring champagne.  
Reluctantly agreeing that Mulder could speak for both of us when 
making the ceremonial first toast, I stressed, perhaps a bit to 
strenuously, that it should be short, sweet and sincere.  I reminded 
him that attempts at humor could easily backfire, since Mulder's wit is 
often razor-edged and not universally accepted as funny.

"Here's to the happy couple," he addresses the fifty or so guests. 
"Two people who have proved that, though the course of true love 
never did run smooth, the truest of loves never lose each other 
entirely."  He turns directly to Skinner and continues, "Sir, on behalf of 
Agent Scully and the rest of these good people, I'd like to impart my 
best wishes to you and Mrs. Skinner for a long, happy, healthy life 
together.  I can only hope someday to count myself as lucky a man as 
you are tonight." Raising his glass, he turns back to the other tables.  
"To Walter and Sharon." 

As the guests echo his sentiment and raise their glasses, I register 
what he has said.  Mulder wants to settle down someday?  I never 
really thought of him as the marrying type.  I imagine a scene like this 
sometime in the not-too-distant future.  Mulder in a morning coat, 
facing his glowing lace-bound bride....and me to his right, in this same 
fucking dress.  Why does this image send a searing hot pain knifing 
through my abdomen?  It's not just a case of `always the best man, 
never the bride.'  

Mulder takes his seat next to mine and leans in to whisper, "How was 
that?  Did I work in all three /S's/?" There's a faint gleam in his eyes, 
casting them a deep green.

"Short, sweet, sincere. Works every time. "  I take another sip of 
champagne to banish my waking nightmare.

"Snappy Scully.  You could have your own infomercial."

"Just so long as I don't have to demonstrate surgical instruments on 
alien corpses."

After dinner, a little swing combo gets set up and the lead singer 
announces the first dance.  The Skinners take the floor.  He is 
surprisingly graceful as they fluidly turn around the floor to `Our Love 
is Here to Stay.'  Halfway through the song, Sharon's father cuts in, 
while Skinner dances with her mother, and soon other couples drift 
into the fray.

Mulder and I are standing well off to the side.  He hasn't asked me to 
dance, even out of courtesy.  I glance up at him several times and 
clear my throat, waiting for him to take the hint. 

The song ends and he finally says, "Well Scully, I guess that's my 
cue."  I turn to him, holding out my hand, already humming the strains 
of the next song, `Cheek to Cheek.' More like cheek to sternum in our 
case, which is fine with me.  He grabs my hand, gives it a squeeze.  
"Night Scully.  Don't stay up too late.  See you in the morning."

He's well on his way toward the door before it sinks in.  As soon as it 
does, I'm skittering after him in this damn narrow skirt, vainly trying to 
catch up with him, as usual. 

"Mulder - where the hell are you going?"  I almost have to shout to be 
heard and I'm not bothering to hide my disappointment.  He looks 
surprised by my question, my attitude.

"My work here is done, Scully," he tells me as if he's wrapped up a 
cut and dried case.  "Vows, rings, toast.  What else is there?"  He 
shrugs.  Maybe it's the lighting, but I can't tell if his nonchalance is 
genuine or smartly contrived.

"It's only 8:30, " I sputter.  "I can't believe you're leaving already, just 
like that."

"What am I, your date?" He almost looks amused. I feel like I've been 
slapped.

"Oh.  Excuse me.  I didn't realize you had something more important 
to attend to."  Angry, embarrassed heat rises in my cheeks.  "What?  
Did Langley pick up the latest issue of Licanthropy Enthusiast?  I hear 
Miss May is a real dog." 

He's a bit chagrined, but continues in full retreat, completely blowing 
me off.  I bring down the volume but sharpen the tone.  "But how 
could I expect you to endure something as mundanely enjoyable as a 
party?"  I turn heel and head back toward the dance floor, not waiting 
for an answer, and not really expecting one.  Still, it stings when I 
realize he's not going to follow me.

Once my anger has cooled a bit, I find myself inwardly reciting one of 
Mulder's own admonitions: /Go with it Scully/.  But it's been quite a 
while since I've faced down a big, loud party. Or any party, for that 
matter.  I'm still mulling over my options when a nice-looking fair-
haired man around 35 approaches me.

"Doctor Scully?"  Doctor.  Not Agent.  Must not be with the Bureau.  
Actually, I've noticed that the great majority of guests seem not to be 
connected to work.  I nod in the affirmative.

"David Rosen."  He sticks out a hand. "Sharon's brother? Walter has 
told me a bit about your work," he says.

"Don't hold it against me," I reply dryly.  He looks puzzled by my 
remark, but asks for a dance anyway.

"I've, uh, always been fascinated by the paranormal," he tells me.

"You'd probably rather be dancing with my partner, then," I quip, 
which elicits another perplexed face.  "Not that it isn't fascinating, of 
course," I feel compelled to add, "and challenging.  But even after all 
this time, I'm still a die-hard skeptic."  I try changing the subject.  
"What do you do?"

"Real estate risk management," he answers, without much 
enthusiasm.

I nod vaguely in response, causing him to grin self-consciously and 
explain, "Which may tell you why I have a hobby like freaky 
phenomena."  We chat politely through the next song.  He asks me 
about memorably bizarre cases, and I pull out a few anecdotes, 
steering clear of any mention of shadow governments or alien 
colonization. 

It's a pleasant fifteen minutes or so, but I can't help feeling like 
something's missing.  David seems perfectly nice.  What is wrong 
with me that that isn't enough?  When did tall, paranoid and oral 
retentive become my criteria for attractiveness?  And there's 
something else.  Given David's relationship to Skinner, I'm getting the 
feeling I've been set up.  Christ, I'm beginning to subscribe to 
conspiracy theories in social situations. Where will it end?

As the song winds down, I hear a familiar throat clear itself.  Out of 
the corner of my eye, I see one lanky arm tap David on the shoulder.  
"May I?" Mulder asks.

I thank David for the dance and, almost without missing a beat, a new 
song has begun.  "How High the Moon."  My right hand rests in his 
left, my left on his shoulder, his right rides cautiously at my waist, and 
even though we've only done this once before, it feels like coming 
home.


Chapter 2


It's rare nights like these when I wish I'd let Mom push me into going 
to those cotillion dances Sundays on the Vineyard.  But I didn't stop 
to consider the fact that I'm probably the worst dancer in this or any 
other galaxy until now.  I wouldn't even be thinking of it now if 
something hadn't caught my eye after Scully stomped off and I turned 
back toward the door. 

Two men were following her progress across the room.  Damn that 
dress.  One was a blond, wiry guy who looked about 17 but must be 
at least forty.  The other was Skinner, hunched over, whispering 
something in the guy's ear to send him scurrying in Scully's direction.  
For the second time tonight, I was rooted to the spot, watching my 
partner.  /What did you expect, asshole?/ a voice says from 
somewhere behind my eyes.  Once freed of my temporary paralysis, 
my legs carried me here of their own will.  There must be something 
in the files about involuntary movements of limbs or digits.

OK.  I came of age in the dark, overlapping days of disco and punk.  
With one memorable exception, I haven't been near a dance floor - or 
a mosh pit, for that matter - in I don't know how long.  But I strode 
down here like Fred Fucking Astaire, and here I am, barely lifting my 
feet for fear I'll crush Scully's toes.  And lovely toes they are, painted 
a delicate pink, peeking out of her high heels.  Staring at our feet 
gives me a few seconds to figure out what to say.  She beats me to it.

"I thought there was somewhere you had to be?" she asks guilelessly.

"Yeah - uh," I pat the jacket pocket where I usually keep the phone.  
"Byers called.  The boys are all down with the flu.  Very contagious.  
They didn't want to infect me, too."

"Mmmhmm...that's a shame."  She cocks her head.  "Maybe we 
should go by there, see if they need anything from the pharmacy.  
This new South American strain of influenza can be lethal.  Here -" 
she reaches for my breast pocket "-let's call them, make sure they're 
all right."

I quickly bring my hand down over hers, over the empty pocket.  
"Can't.  Battery's low - I lost the connection talking to Byers."  I call 
her bluff.  "Why don't you use yours?"

She shrugs innocently, enjoying every second of my squirming like a 
live specimen under her microscope.  "I left it in the car, Mulder.  I told 
you - no pockets.  Besides, who brings a phone to a wedding?"  She 
can't resist a victorious little half-smile.  Seeing that smile, I don't 
even care.

This little exchange lets Scully put me in my place while 
simultaneously letting me off the hook.  How does she do that with 
such grace?  And why?  It has also distracted her enough to allow 
herself to relax a little in my arms.  She leaves her hand on my chest, 
with my fingers curled around it.  Meanwhile, the band has shifted into 
a down-tempo number.

With the speed of a glacier, I slide my hand around to the small of 
Scully's back and pull her an inch or two closer.  We're still dancing at 
a respectable distance.  A prom chaperone would approve.  
Something about her posture and sudden quietness tells me she 
wants to be even nearer, but the situation and her own sense of 
space hold her back.

I can't help thinking, that though I've held her closer on more than one 
occasion, there is something slightly unsettling about the way we 
cling to each other now.  It's as if our bodies exert a gravitational pull 
on each other and only our own inhibitions keep us from colliding and 
erupting in flames.  We feel the heat of these flames, even as we 
chastely sway on a crowded dance floor, our easy conversation 
dissolved into a heavy silence, and neither of us daring to look the 
other in the eye.

Still, now that an opportunity to be this close to Scully has presented 
itself, I'm sure as hell going to enjoy it.  I lean imperceptibly closer, 
breathing her in.  Her scent is warm, sweet and a little earthy, like 
sun-ripened apricots.  Her bare arms and shoulders glow under the 
soft light, her skin supple and soft-looking.  I ache to slide my hands 
along the length of those arms, following with my lips and tongue, 
tasting every inch, fingertips to collarbone.

I picture Scully getting ready for tonight, stepping out of the shower, 
smoothing a fragrant lotion over her arms, shoulders, neck, belly, 
breasts.  /Whoa, whoa whoa/.  Too much.  Too far.  I shake my head 
slightly to clear the steam from between my ears. 

Scully gives me a confused look.  "No, what, Mulder?  Are you feeling 
all right?"

There's genuine concern in her voice.  I smile sheepishly and in a 
thick voice assure her I'm fine.  She doesn't know what to make of the 
expression that must still hang on my features, probably somewhere 
between dazed and confused.

"Are you sure?  You look flushed.  Do you have a fever?"  The hand 
I'm not holding presses against my forehead.  She can't be taking the 
Lone Gun flu seriously, can she?  Maybe she's starting to buy it.  That 
would be typical Scully procedure:  Immediately dismiss anything 
implausible I throw out, then chew on it for a while and reconsider if 
any hard evidence turns up. I've come to rely on that process, to need 
it.  Need her.

"Seriously. I'm great," I say a little too loudly, then confess into her 
waiting ear, "I - I'm glad I decided to hang around for a while."

Her answer is a smug, mildly surprised grin.  But it does bring her 
eyes up to mine.  Looking down into her face, I'm picturing that 
fogged-up bathroom again.  But this time, I'm there too, spreading 
lotion across her shoulder blades, kissing my way down the curve of 
her spine.  I'm on the verge of circling my tongue around the tiny 
dimples above her ass when I suddenly feel a pang of uneasiness. 

A familiar hot swelling between my legs comes as no surprise.  But I 
realize all at once that while I've immersed myself in a fantasy, the 
real live subject is directly before me, rocking side to side, her hand 
over my heart.  A cool flood of shame washes over me.  I've 
fantasized about Scully plenty - and with increasing frequency as the 
years have passed - but never while she was physically this close.  
Yet, for some reason, instead of backing away, I am emboldened.

I have touched Scully in comfort, in friendship, and now, in a way that 
could be called social obligation.  But never without an excuse, never 
in any way that couldn't be innocently explained away, even as that 
contact later launched any number of uninnocent daydreams. And, I 
should add, that though touching her and having her touch me is 
always pleasant, I have never touched her sheerly for pleasure.

The hand that has been resting at the small of her back begins to 
slide slowly upward, along the zipper of her dress, resisting a passing 
but powerful urge to grasp it and pull for all I'm worth.  Instead, I trace 
the edging lightly with one finger before slipping the whole of my 
splayed hand further up and across the silky expanse of her bare 
back.  I let it wander in a wide, lazy circle, over one shoulder blade, to 
the nape of her neck, then down along the other side, slowly, so 
slowly, and back to the center, where my thumb draws tiny figure-
eights over her spine.  I know I'm crossing a line here.  A line so 
deeply ingrained, so long-standing, that the sands of time have all but 
covered over it, erased it completely.  I'm trying to work out a way to 
say all of this to Scully when she breathes in sharply, blinks hard, and 
tries to suppress a tiny shudder.

###

"Mulder."  It takes a moment to get his attention.  Almost the entire 
time we are dancing, he looks like he is a million miles away, off in 
another solar system or a black hole.  What is going on in that skull of 
yours, Mulder?  Where is it you want to be instead of here, dancing 
with me?  Who is there with you?  What is putting the beginnings of a 
self-satisfied smile on your lips?

"Mulder," I repeat, "the music has stopped."

He resurfaces, stops shuffling, and offers a half-shrug.  "Oops.  
Forgive my faux-pas.  What can I say - I'm a dancin' fool."  From the 
slow, soft delivery of these words, if I didn't know better, I'd say he 
was stoned.  But his eyes are clear and focused.

On me.

All at once, the answers to my questions gather on the horizon.  It's 
me.  We've been right here on a dim dance floor the whole the time, 
volleying little electric sparks back and forth, with him absently 
caressing my back, sending arctic grade shivers down my spine.  But 
in some well-lighted room in Mulder's mind, we were somewhere else 
entirely.  And I get the impression now that we weren't chasing down 
a band of extraterrestrial bovine exsanguinators.

I'm suddenly overly aware of every point where our bodies are 
touching, especially where my hand rests over his heart, feeling its 
strong, steady beat and the smooth muscles under his clothes. 
Glancing down, I notice one of my sandals planted squarely on 
Mulder's toes.  He doesn't seem to notice.

"Scully - uh - I'm kind of particular about these shoes.  And you're 
about to crush two of my favorite toes. "

I mumble an apology, dropping my arms away from him, somehow 
embarrassed now that the song is over.  Within seconds, the band is 
onto another tune, this one bouncy and oddly familiar.  Mulder's 
broad hand is against my back, stilled, but unmistakably there.  I must 
be wearing a too-serious expression, because he pushes out a short 
laugh and asks, "What's the matter?  Not up for the Hokey Pokey?"

"I'm up for just about anything," I challenge.  I know he's caught my 
tone, but looks as if he hasn't heard correctly, and gives a strange 
little cough. 

"You want me to put an end to all the speculation?" he furrows his 
brow, realizing how that must sound.

"What speculation, exactly?" I push the parallel conversations one 
degree further.

"The speculation that Spooky Mulder has no sense of humor.  
Especially when it comes to himself."  He grins - in relief? - and leads 
me to place in a wide semi-circle just as the bandleader begins to 
croon, "You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out..."

This is absolutely surreal.  Far rarer than a hundred Human 
Blockheads.  I laugh almost without break at the sight of Walter 
Skinner, an Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation 
and a few fellow Fibbies wriggling their ankles like seven year-olds.  I 
laugh to see Mulder, too, watching his long, beautiful limbs flailing 
loosely about, an open-mouthed, all-out smile having taken over his 
entire face; at myself, thoroughly and utterly silly and un-self-
conscious, for the first time in far too long.  It feels so good to let go 
like this.  I am momentarily...liberated.

I am unbelievably turned on.

The game ends, Mulder and I still grinning like fools.  This is one of 
those moments in overwrought, idealistic  romance novels - okay, I'm 
not proud to admit I've read one or two - where the hero and heroine 
give each other a meaningful look, draw each other into a fierce 
embrace and finally confess their mutual love and admiration.  Which, 
if they'd simply done two hundred pages earlier, would have ended 
the story right there. 

As if I need reminding, my life is most definitely /not/ a romance 
novel.  And, as if to prove it to me yet again, Mulder claps a hand 
lightly on my shoulder, laughing, "Look at you Special Agent Scully - 
who knew you could Hokey like a pro!  I don't think I've seen you 
smile so much since they doubled the number of women's toilets in 
the Hoover Building."  Oh Mulder, you hopeless romantic.  
Nevertheless, my spirits remain high until the bandleader calls out, 
"All right, all you unattached fillies out there - it's that time.  Come on 
up to the bandstand and let's see which one of you lucky gals will be 
the next to hire Big Bob and the Boppers!"

Absolutely not.  My shoulders slump and I make a face of pure 
disdain.  Mulder gives me a look of mild, mocking surprise.  "What? 
Don't tell me you're not going to take a shot at the coveted bridal 
bouquet?"

I cross my arms before me.  "I'm certainly not going to line up like a 
piece of chattel hoping I'll get lucky enough to be the next one 
harnessed to the yoke."  Wow. All-time land speed record for 
breaking the mood.  Way to go, Dana.

It gets a laugh from Mulder, though.  He puts his hands on my 
shoulders and turns me around, ushering me over to where a tight 
knot of a dozen or so women, presumably unattached, are waiting for 
Sharon Skinner to fling her flowers over her shoulder.

"Mulder..." I offer a feeble, whiny protest.  I am already attached, I 
want to say.  More married than half of the wives I know.  Or so it 
seems for the moment.

"Listen Scully, there's somewhere else I have to be.  You can get 
yourself home?"

"Of course, but -"

He looks apologetic and relieved all at once.  "Good luck.  I'll see you 
in the morning."

Having delivered me into this crowd, he gives me a little wave and 
turns toward the door.  I'll be damned if I'm going to chase after him a 
second time tonight. And I know with a sinking surety that this time, 
he's not coming back. 

I'm still fuming when a forest of arms rises up around me, my own 
among them.


Chapter 3


I glance back toward the dance floor just before pushing through the 
ballroom's double doors.  I spot Scully with her arms waving in the air, 
giving in to the competition of the moment because she just can't 
resist the pull to best anyone in any situation.  There is a look of pure 
determination on that gorgeous face, ignited, no doubt, by her fury 
with me and my abrupt exit.  I hang by the door just long enough to 
watch her spring off the floor, arms reaching high, higher, snatching 
the flowers out of the air, thwarting the attempts of the statuesque 
dark-haired woman directly behind her.  Back on terra firma, a 1000-
watt smile of triumph flashes across Scully's face, and she high-fives 
the tall colleague, who has at least six inches on her.  Spontaneously, 
I raise my fist to her victory, chuckling to myself as I head out into the 
chilly spring evening.

It's not as if I don't feel like a real shit for bailing on Scully.  But feeling 
shitty is virtually second nature to me.  Most of the time, I take little 
notice of it, letting it run its course through me like a low-grade fever.  
And if I don't exactly enjoy it, at least it's familiar.  Scully's ire, though 
unpleasant, will pass.  I don't look forward to the day when she finally 
decides not to forgive me for one of these little stunts. 

She doesn't know the favor I'm doing her by getting the hell out of 
Dodge while I had the chance.  I completely let my guard down 
tonight, starting with that moronic fantasy and working up to the 
Hokey Pokey.  At some point in between, I noticed that the shitty 
feeling had disappeared.  That was a red flare, because it's whenever 
I feel unburdened of that constant weight that I know the sky is about 
to cave in.  Happens time and time again.  I usually get just enough 
time to let the lightness settle over me before the mushroom cloud 
erupts.  This time, I didn't want Scully standing in the bull's-eye.

Not to sound too cocky, but I could see where the night was headed. 
One more slow dance like that last one and I would've been leading 
Scully to a room upstairs where I would have devoured her with teeth 
sharpened on five years' attraction and denial.  And then....what?

Even assuming the fair Dana would have let down her own inhibitions 
and allowed herself to act out of pure, untempered instinct - and I 
pause here to consider that assumption fully - I repeat: Then what?  
Watch the Bureau separate us again?  Let the men who took her from 
me and nearly let her die an early, agonizing death pit us against one 
another?  Not to mention what substantiated rumors of fraternization 
with her partner would do to her career.  The Bureau is brutal on its 
female agents who don't play by the book.  Scully has already put her 
reputation on the line more times than can possibly be healthy. 
Because of me.  As I walk the six blocks to an appointment at a bar in 
another hotel, I predict the entire meteoric rise and crash of our 
phantom love affair, knowing that our friendship, our jobs and our 
lives would inevitably follow. I set this meeting for tonight on purpose, 
to give me a marginally justifiable reason to make an early exit, 
should anyone have asked, before things could progress too far to 
turn back.

Jesus.  I can't believe I let him get to me.  That bastard, Skinner.  He 
has to make sure everyone's following the rules.  After making his 
little announcement two weeks ago, he dismissed Scully and asked 
me to stay back.

"So," I rubbed my hands together, "I know strip-o-grams are popular 
these days, but I think I can find something much more interesting in 
the celluloid vault."

Skinner was wholly unamused. "Agent Mulder, what in the hell are 
you talking about?"

"Planning the bachelor party?"

He regarded me stonily.  "Later."  His tone softened slightly.  "You 
understand now why I've been somewhat distracted lately.  I haven't 
been tracking your work closely since your infiltration of the militia 
group.  Anything new to report on that front?"

"You tell me, sir," I reply.  Immediately regretting the flippancy in my 
tone, I scramble to add, "You heard, of course, of the untimely and 
unnatural demise of Jacob Haley."  He nods.  "Scully has been 
researching every pathogen she can identify that shares 
characteristics with the bio-weapon tested in Ohio.  Through unofficial 
sources, we've had reports of similar-sounding agents in California 
and Alabama, but we've only been able to obtain microscopic tissue 
samples from the bodies.  Agent Scully continues to carry out further 
lab analysis, but I don't really see the point."  My voice takes on a 
bitterer edge.  "We know who was responsible for the deaths in Ohio 
and Folger Park and there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it."  
Recalling my own role as patsy in that scam brought a fresh rush of 
shame up my spine.  "Other than that, we've just been working 
background on some stalled projects."

"And Agent Scully.  How is she dealing with Dara Kernoff's death and 
the subsequent...events?"

I shrugged, noting the concern in his voice, wondering what brought 
that up.  "She seems to be holding her own well enough.  She took a 
couple of personal days, but you know her.  She says she needs 
work to feel whole."

"Is she still taking advantage of the Bureau's counseling services?"

"I think so, but I haven't asked how regularly."  This little rap session 
was beginning to feel familiar, like the regular updates I used to give 
him during Scully's illness.  It was oddly comforting then to have 
someone to discuss her condition with.  No matter how deep his 
concern, and how deeply sublimated, that stoic exterior let me deal 
with the turmoil a little more calmly.  Scully didn't like discussing the 
particulars much and worked hard at protecting both me and herself 
from careening out of control on that narrow, twisting emotional 
highway.  Near the end of the ordeal, when push literally came to 
shove, Skinner forced me to find a solution, instead of letting my 
anger and grief consume me.  But I could tell he had an agenda that 
morning, was heading somewhere I didn't want to go.

"Sir, shouldn't you be asking Agent Scully all this?"

"If I wanted to ascertain Agent Scully's physical or psychological 
state, I /could/ ask her, or simply consult her personnel record.  What 
I've been trying to determine, Agent Mulder, is /your/ level of 
communication with your partner and /your/ impression of her well-
being" he explained, as if to a developmentally disabled six year-old.

The son of a bitch wanted to know how we were getting along, 
probably whether we were sleeping together, as there are certainly 
rumors to that effect in circulation.  Of all people, he knew how it tore 
me apart to keep my involvement in the Bremer investigation a secret 
from Scully.  He could damn well have taken some responsibility for 
any lapse in trust that might have engendered.

Even though I knew the answer before asking, I decided to force the 
point.  "With all due respect, sir, may ask where you're going with this 
line of interrogation?"

He registered my sarcasm, chewed on his options and finally said,  
"I'll be frank with you, Mulder.  I'm concerned about the path I see 
your relationship with Scully taking.  I've fought tooth and nail to keep 
you partnered up in the X-files, because you make one hell of a team.  
Your devotion to  the work and to each other is admirable, but 
potentially extremely dangerous.  Given the losses and near-misses 
you've both already sustained since you became partners, I'm sure 
you're all too aware of the peril to which you subject each other."  
Then he used the phrases I've been trying to get out of my head ever 
since.  Fraternization.  Protocol.  Policy.  Sexual harassment.  Lack of 
propriety.  Objectivity.  Reputation.  Departmental integrity.  And my 
personal favorite:  Self-Preservation.  Mine.  Hers.  His.

I listened as politely and coolly as I could, for as long as I could 
before interrupting.  "A.D. Skinner, not that I should have to tell you 
this, but let me assure you I have considered all of these issues."  I 
fought to retain my composure.

"And Agent Scully?" he asked, glaring at me narrowly.

"I have no doubt that, if she feels they are relevant to her, she has 
thought them through."

"'If relevant?'  So you are saying these issues do hold relevance for 
you, Agent Mulder?"  And when did you stop beating your wife?

I have no reply, so he answers for me.  "From what I've observed, 
they do.  For both of you."  He paused and took on a confessional 
tone.  "I'm a man who has finally made some peace in his personal 
life, Mulder, set some priorities straight, so maybe these things are 
foremost in my mind and are making me go out of my way to see 
situations, connections, that don't exist."  He paused for a moment, 
considering his own doubts.

"I've given the two of you a lot of leeway to pursue investigations as 
you've seen fit.  Your results have been consistently above Bureau 
standards, and when they're not, it has been sufficient in my mind 
that you've raised necessary questions, even when the answers have 
eluded you.  For that reason, I'm generally reluctant to interfere with 
your methods or question the dynamics of your partnership.  It is 
imperative you understand that I personally am not interested in what 
you - either of you - do off duty.  But I must ask you directly:  What is 
the nature of your relationship with Agent Scully?"

A thousand replies sprang to mind.  Lust.  Ache.  Unquenchable thirst 
and insatiable hunger.  Safe harbor.  Love.  Truth.  Redemption.  I 
voiced none of these things, said nothing at all.

Gingerly, and with visible discomfort, he finally reached ground zero 
and dropped the bomb:  "Are you in love with her?"

In a tight voice, and without raising my eyes to his, I answered as 
simply and truthfully as I could.  "I respect Agent Scully.  I trust her.  I 
care about what happens to her."  My control began a long slide down 
a slippery slope.  "She is the finest agent I've worked with, one of the 
sharpest minds I've ever encountered, and probably - no, definitely - 
the best friend I've ever had.  I can't imagine ever doing something 
stupid enough to jeopardize that."  Shakily, I stood and made for the 
door to the outer office.

"That's what I thought," he said quietly, then handed me a parting 
shot.  "Back during Watergate, we called that a non-denial denial."

I refused to turn around, to give him the satisfaction of my anguish, 
even though I knew perfectly well that my own interests were 
foremost among his concerns.  "Call it what you want," I said quietly, 
striding across the floor and closing the door behind me with a quiet 
click. 

Leaving Skinner's office, I didn't feel like going back to the basement, 
couldn't face Scully given the denial I'd just endured.  Instead, I made 
my way through the bullpen and leaned into the glass double doors, 
heading out without direction, just needing to move.

Story of my life.  Keep moving.  Don't stop, don't even slow down, or 
you're dead.  But the joke's on me, because for all of this motion, I'm 
not getting anywhere.  At least I didn't give Skinner an opening to ask 
what would surely have been his next question.  `Does she love you?'  
Well, does she?  How would I have answered, without sounding 
cocky or deluded, or both?

`Of course she does, sir.  Haven't you seen the looks she gives me, 
especially when she thinks I'm not paying attention?  But you have to 
watch carefully, sir because we're the only two who can feel it, and 
the really high-voltage stares only happen when no one else is 
around.  Scully's not one for lavish displays of affection so you'll 
almost never catch her groping my ass.'  Unspoken sarcasm is the 
bitterest kind.  `No, Mr. Skinner, she hasn't told me in so many words, 
but we share this quasi-telepathic means of communication.  If we 
didn't love each other, how else on earth could we have put up with 
each other this long?'

I walked around the city for nearly two hours that afternoon before 
returning to my office.  At one point, I collapsed on a park bench, 
reliving moments I could point to as proof of the depth of our 
connection, knowing that, even if she truly wanted it, openly giving 
Scully my love would be, at best, a dubious gift. 

I thought back to the night Scully poured out all of the reasons she 
was bound and determined to fight her cancer.  Among them all, she 
didn't list the sheer delight of being with me.  She didn't have to.  I 
saw it.  I felt it when her arms encircled my waist, under my jacket, 
not just resting her head on my chest, but burrowing into it.  Or maybe 
I am delusional.  Maybe she just needed someone - anyone. If 
Frohike had held vigil outside Penny Northern's room that night, 
would she still have been momentarily mollified by platitudes about 
truth and salvation?

Scully's brother was right.  I am one sorry son of a bitch.  He flattered 
me.  I'm not just sorry, but sick.  One sick bastard, that's me.  
Because in that empty hallway, exhausted and scared, and clutching 
at my partner, I was unbearably aroused.  That's right, tell me you 
have a terminal disease and I'm poppin' wood. 

No.  Her show of strength and vulnerability all wrapped up together 
was what did me in.  I wanted to take her home, into my bed, as if 
fucking her with my whole body, my whole soul, would make it all go 
away.  As if I could make love to her with such passion, give her such 
pleasure, and finally confess how completely I love her, there 
wouldn't be room for anything else.

It was an rare instance where we were able to open up to each other 
at the same time.  Normally, in terms of emotional disclosure, Scully 
and I have spectacularly lousy timing.  She risks laying herself open 
to me and I'll crack a joke or pretend I haven't heard; I somehow 
know to reach out to her just as she's looking for the nearest exit.  We 
put physical and emotional distance between ourselves in the belief 
that it will keep our partnership untainted.  And how else to define 
love than by the ache that comes with separation, voluntary or 
enforced?  I know.  Sick.  Sorry.

So I'm sitting here in the hotel bar, nursing an iced tea, catching the 
odd glance from the bartender, probably wondering who the freak 
who just left was.  No.  Freak is too harsh.  Deranged, deluded even.  
Probably in need of serious psychiatric intervention.

We sat here for two hours while he gave me "information" so 
fantastical, and more importantly, so illogical, ill-conceived and 
patently disprovable that even I couldn't take it seriously.  Funny how 
people who can sound so reasonable and credible in an e-mail 
message can turn out to have only a passing acquaintance with 
reality.  The icing on the cake was when he asked me to autograph 
an article that appeared several years ago in a MUFON journal.  It 
wasn't even my article.

So now I've proved myself a schmuck twice in one night.  I hang my 
head, letting the tip of my nose touch the glossy wood of the bar.  I 
consider ordering something stronger than tea, thinking the burn of 
whisky in my throat might bring me some clarity.  Instead, I opt for the 
thudding ache of self-pity.

I contemplate the span of my life for a moment, which I tend to do 
when I've just had a fresh reminder of how far removed it is 
from...normalcy, I guess.  Was Neil Young right?  Is it better to burn 
out than to fade away?

Am I going to be doing this when I'm seventy years old?  Waiting in 
bars and back alleys and deserted parking garages for some 
shadowy figure to leak the one crucial piece of information that will 
finally bring this quest to an end?  If I were to meet the individual 
tomorrow who could give me definitive proof of exactly what 
happened to Samantha - why she was abducted and how she came 
to call Cancer Man her father - what would I do then?  After 
everything I've seen, knowing how wide the net of obfuscation and 
injustice is spread, how complicated this web we're caught in is, 
would I be satisfied with that?  With finding the answers to just one of 
a hundred-thousand mysteries?  Could I just walk away - put away 
everything I've experienced?

Let's dream big for a minute.  Let's say, thirty years down the line, the 
Bureau finally acknowledges the legitimacy of the work we're doing - 
that feels so oddly right to say "we" in terms of the far-off future, but 
I'll consider Scully separately - and they give me autonomy over the 
X-Files division.  I'm 67 years old.  I've got a whole staff of young, 
brave investigators.  Do I become the Matlock of the paranormal?  
Creep around suspicious DOD facilities with my flashlight in one hand 
and my oxygen stroller in the other? 

And what about Scully?  If we were somehow ever to pinpoint the 
criminals responsible for her abduction, her cancer and the tragedy of 
Emily's life and death, then bring them all to justice, would this all end 
for her?  Will she leave me when her own mysteries are solved?  Will 
she need me then?  And do I believe any longer that we can ever 
achieve those aims?  I want to believe we can...or do I, if it means 
facing the possibility of losing Scully to a `mundanely enjoyable' life?  
Better that than to lose her irrevocably when her nine lives eventually 
run out.

My tea is long gone.  I've even chewed through the last of the ice, my 
tongue numb.  I raise my head from the bar top and glance around.  
The place has mostly cleared out, save for a huddle of post-grad 
policy wonks in their power ties over in the corner.  Nothing like 
asking yourself the big questions after midnight on a Monday 
morning.  I suddenly feel exhausted.  I pay my tab, slide off the stool 
and go off toward the Metro stop and the Alexandria station.  I climb 
on the train, hoping that, once home, sleep can claim me for a few 
hours, that blackness can absorb some of this loathing.


Chapter 4


It was an early night, sort of.

I politely waited around for the garter toss, with its accompanying 
striptease soundtrack and testosterone-induced hooting.  Actually, 
none but the drunkest had the guts to make cat-calls over Skinner's 
round of territorial glares.  That, at least, was entertaining.  Mental 
note:  Demand and destroy all copies and negatives of the traditional 
bouquet/garter-catcher photo.

I was home by eleven and in bed a half-hour later.  It was difficult to 
let go of the anger I still harbored over Mulder's abrupt departure and 
couldn't stop trying to imagine where he had taken off to, whom he 
had to see.  Around midnight, I broke down and tried calling his 
apartment, and got the machine.  I didn't leave a message.  I 
managed to convince myself I had too much self-respect to try 
reaching him on his cel phone.  Besides, I don't think I really want to 
know where he was or with whom.  Unable to settle down, I found 
myself channel surfing and finally drifted off during a Discovery 
Channel documentary on the mating habits of the praying mantis.

I made a point of rising a little before usual this morning so I could hit 
the lap pool in the gym before the early crowd amassed.  There's 
something about the rhythm of moving through water when I have the 
pool all to myself that lets me focus my thoughts.  The soothing 
sounds of lapping water and my own breathing let me sink into a 
meditative state.  Even when, like today, I don't arrive at any 
conclusions, I still come out thinking straighter that when I went in.

A little later,  Mulder looks surprised that I've beaten him into the 
office (arriving first being precisely my other reason for getting up at 
the crack of dawn), though he is apparently eager to get a jump on 
the day as well.

"Morning," he nods, hanging up his coat.

"Morning," I reply, turning back to my computer screen.

I can't, I won't be the one to open for discussion the events of last 
night.  The air is alive with tension.  He wants to say something, I can 
feel it.  He's afraid to ask outright how the rest of the reception turned 
out, and he's certainly not going to apologize for taking off, let alone 
tell me where he went.  At least, not without a hell of a lot of prodding. 
I'm not in the mood to play Spanish Inquisition.

Besides, the sight of him in my favorite shirt is distracting.  I wonder if 
he knows I have favorites among the items of his wardrobe.  I doubt 
it.  I don't imagine he has his clothing categorized according to What 
Drives Scully To Distraction.  That shirt would always be at the top of 
the laundry rotation, if such things were up to me.  It fits him like 
nothing else I've ever seen him wear.  The fabric is fine cotton and 
drapes his body as if his muscled shoulders were doing it a favor by 
allowing it to grace him.  But it's the color that makes it remarkable.  A 
deep blue-gray-green, it is exactly the hue his hazel eyes take on 
when he's lost in thought, rolling a complex riddle around in his head, 
making connections, looking like he's about to coax the secrets of the 
universe out of the Sphinx.  It's a pleasure to watch him in that state, 
even when I'm shooting down whatever theory results from it.  Not 
often, but every once in a while, I catch him fixing me with that dusky 
gaze, as if he's processing some piece of information that will finally 
unravel the enigma that is Special Agent Doctor Dana Katherine 
Scully.  Good luck, pal.

The casters of his chair squeak painfully when he collapses into it, 
breaking my reverie.  He starts rifling through the piles of paper on his 
desk.  Collecting a stack of files, he catches me watching him on his 
way to the file cabinet.  He twitches his eyebrows as if to say `What 
are you looking at?'

"You look like hell, Mulder," I toss off, peering over the tops of my 
glasses.  He does.  It hurts to look at him.  Hurts more to consider the 
possible reasons for his unfocused state.  Wherever he escaped to 
last night must not have turned out according to plan.

He lets out a squeaky, self-deprecating laugh.  "Not all of us can look 
so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on so little sleep."

"Strange words from a man whose personal definition of R.E.M. is 
`Ready Ever Mulder," I try to inflect a casual tone.  "And why do you 
assume I didn't get much sleep last night?"  I pause for a second.  
"Because to told me not to stay out too late?"  Damn.  I didn't mean to 
go there.  I'm going to be sorry for that.  But he doesn't zing back, 
despite a perfect opening.

"Should've taken my own advice," he replies quietly, sitting down 
again.

I don't know how to respond. I came out punching but he just threw 
up his hands and collapsed against the ropes.  God, I feel like a bully.

###

So Scully had a late night, did she?  I'm not even going to ask myself, 
let alone her.

Paper.  I'm drowning in it.  If I weren't so paranoid, I'd requisition a file 
clerk to put all this crap in order.  My inability to focus this morning 
exists in sharp relief to Scully's even cooler, calmer and more-
collected self.  I'm making all kinds of conspicuous busy-work noises:  
Slamming drawers, feeding outdated files into the shredder, shuffling 
and re-shuffling piles of paper.  No remark from Scully, just a 
sideways glance or two.

After a couple of hours of uncomfortable near-silence, I decide to 
venture what should sound like a little light conversation, but quickly 
turns into something else entirely.

"So...," I start, "didja catch the bouquet?" That's mistake number 1, 
pulling up the thread of a conversation she obviously didn't want to 
continue in the first place.

She makes that little noise in her throat that means I've caught her off 
guard and she isn't sure how to answer, if at all.  "No." She sips at her 
coffee and won't meet my eyes.  "Cindy Duran. Over in Hate 
Crimes?"

My turn to be unprepared.  "Well, don't feel bad.  She's...uh...pretty 
tall, isn't she?"

"She's got quite a reach," Scully agrees too readily.

"She could play for the Sparks," I add lamely.

"Three-time All-American at UCLA, I believe she said."

"There you go," I say, trying to sound casual, but getting more and 
more pissed off by the second.  What the hell is going on with you, 
Scully?  Why lie about something so inconsequential?  Then, and 
epiphany.  I pushed her to into it, and she's refusing me the 
satisfaction of having won.  What the hell, let's see how far I can go 
down this road.  "How `bout the garter?"

"Huh? Oh...uh...David Rosen, I think - Sharon's brother."

I nod. "That the guy you were dancing with?"

"Yep."

"I'll have to stop over by Duran's desk, see if she's got the photo of 
her and Rosen.  They'd make quite a couple, with the height 
difference and all..."  Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, then 
narrow to shoot me a sideways look that would shrivel cactus.  Finally 
a response. The last five years have given me a certain amount of 
practice in cracking that shell, but it is amazingly durable.

She arches one eyebrow and responds dryly, "Don't laugh, I saw 
them catching a cab together as I was leaving."

Is that it? Was she getting her hopes up for /him?/

"Well, I hope they find a better band for their wedding that Bob and 
the Boppers," I say, immediately regretting it. 

Scully rolls her head back on her shoulders, then finally faces me 
head on. "Is there a point to this conversation?" she asks.

I purse my lips and start to shake my head.  But the words come out 
before I can stop them.  "Just wondering what's got you so freaked 
out about a bunch of flowers that you'd have to lie about it."

###

My blood turns to ice water.  My turn to go to the mat. I'm trapped in 
his accusatory glare, his eyes nearly black with anger and - what - 
pain, betrayal? Over something so pointless?  So pointless I had to 
fabricate a goddamn story.  I sigh and turn away, rising out of my 
chair.  I pull off my glasses, rub at my eyes.

"Forget it," he says, not meaning it.  I hear him wheel his chair around 
and push out of it.

"So you do have eyes in the back of your head," I say, turning around, 
sounding colder and more accusatory than I intend.

That gets him to face me.  "I'm sorry," he offers angrily.

"For what?" I counter, "I'm the grown woman who made of spectacle 
of herself participating in a ritual I don't even like.  A supposed adult 
acting like a damn fifteen year-old who couldn't handle her best friend 
leaving the party for a better offer.  I'm the one who should be sorry." 
My throat begins to constrict. 

At the words `better offer,' Mulder lets out a short bitter laugh and 
shakes his head.  After a moment he ventures, "The Church teaches 
that there are sins of omission as well as commission, isn't that 
right?"

I nod, sensing I've missed a segue somewhere.

"If I were to let you assume I had done one thing, but really done 
another, and avoided telling you the truth, that's just the same as 
lying, isn't it?"

Searing cold flashes through me.  What does he think I did last night, 
anyway? "Yes, but, I'm telling you now, I admit caught the stupid 
thing, and I went home by myself twenty minutes later.  I didn't mean 
to suggest that I was out all night with David Rosen or anyone else.  
And it's debatable that leaving out the details of the rest of my 
evening is even relevant here.  How is it that even a discussion of my 
personal life turns into a philosophical discourse?"  Only after the 
words tumble out do I realize I've said far too much.

He flinches at the words, `my personal life' as if I don't have any 
business having one.  Truth be told, I don't really have one, anyway.  
Mulder heaves another sigh, as if trying to explain something to a two 
year-old, his patience evaporated.  "I didn't mean to parade the 
sacred cow of /your personal life/ before the USDA, Scully, and it /is/ 
beside the point.  I'm trying to apologize for last night."

Last night.  I wanted to avoid this at all costs, but we're already in too 
deep.  I must still look perplexed.  "You weren't talking about me just 
now?"

He shakes his head.  "I had an appointment with a potential source 
last night in Georgetown and it was a fiasco," he says quietly.

"And you didn't want to tell me about it because you knew it was a 
specious lead to begin with."  Momentary relief sweeps over me, 
replaced in quick succession by anger, annoyance and frustration.

"I had my suspicions, yes."

"And because you knew how I'd react if you'd just told me that up 
front."  My own voice has become softer now, too.

He nods, still angry with himself and me.  Despite the quieter tone our 
discussion has taken, I feel anger again bubbling below my skin, 
though I'm not sure I'm entitled to it.  Neither of us says anything for 
several moments.

Finally, he asks with wrenching sincerity, "How do we keep ending up 
back here, Scully? Selectively wounding each other with what we 
hold back?"  This question runs much deeper that the trivial issues we 
have ostensibly been arguing.  A bridal bouquet, a fruitless meeting.  
He's venturing into uncharted territory, here.  As usual, I'm reluctant 
to follow without knowing the lay of the land first.  I can't take the 
intensity of his eyes on mine, so I drop my head to my chest, 
choosing the road more traveled.

"Mulder, is it logical or fair to compare what we do in our off-hours to 
what goes on in relation to our work?  Do you honestly see our lives 
as being that closely intertwined?"  Posing this last question feels like 
leaping from a cliff. 

His only answer is to turn his back to me and snort, "Logic..."

That does it.

###

I can feel her stare shooting through my back.  That was mistake 
number 2...or number 37, I've lost count now...deriding her precious 
logic.  There's nothing logical about how we operate, surely it can't 
have escaped her notice.  I thought, deep down, she had come to 
terms with the randomness of our lives - excuse me, /my life/.  I've 
reached something far beyond that inside of her, and she's hanging 
on for dear life to the rock she knows best:  Reason.

"Mulder you become frustrated with me for keeping things to myself 
that you perceive as essential to our partnership."  I turn to face her.  
"And for those instances where our work has suffered because of it - 
and I could count those instances on one hand - I apologize.  But 
don't come after me with platitudes about honesty unless you're 
willing to live up to them yourself."

Pulling the sword from my gut, I try to explain.  "Scully, this guy I met 
with last night sounded so promising on paper, but he was out of his 
mind -"

"I'm not just talking about last night," she cuts me off, exasperated 
and humming with ire, "or even instances where you feel the need to 
remain secretive because of some misguided, albeit noble, desire to 
protect me.  Here's a little honesty for you:  You can't." She 
immediately looks like she would like to take it back, if she could.  If it 
weren't true.  Her lips move soundlessly, searching for words.  
Getting past it, her forehead creasing, she adds more gently, "And 
even if you could, that's not what I expect of or even want from you.  
That's not your job."

Oh, but it is.  And not just a job, but an adventure.  "I expect you to 
protect /me/ on occasion," I manage to slip in.

"But then you're talking about very specific, immediately life-
threatening situations."  She shakes her head and sighs.  "I'm only 
trying to point out that you say you want absolute truth, but the reality 
is that there are things we /never talk about/, either because we can't 
find the words to use or because we know we can't deal with them 
honestly."

Red-hot warning signals go off before my eyes.  Where is she going 
with this? "Are you calling me a hypocrite?"  I ask, barely controlling 
my temper.

"No. Never," she answers emphatically, then softly adds, 
"just...human."

I'm caught off guard by the melancholy in her tone, which causes my 
heart to clench.  Oh God, I want nothing more at this moment than to 
erase the space that separates us, to throw my arms around her, 
plant a kiss on the mouth that can't tell me these truths and make her 
show them to me instead.

The alarm on Scully's watch goes off.  She lets out a frustrated groan 
and throws her head back.  "I have to go," she says, gathering up her 
coat and keys.

I can't let her leave with all of this so up in the air.  I make it to the 
door just as she's about to got through it.  "Scully," I say, barely above 
a whisper, laying a hand on her shoulder.  She turns her head, reads 
my expression, and nods.  We'll finish this later.  I manage a small 
smile as I reach down to squeeze her hand.  She surprises me by 
leaning up to lay a fast kiss on my cheek before closing the door 
behind her.


Chapter 5


Karen Kosseff knows me well.  An odd thing to say about someone 
with whom I've held perhaps a dozen or so conversations in five 
years' time.  But she knows things about me that no other single 
person on the planet does.  This doesn't disturb me because I know 
it's her job.  She's a keeper of secrets, harborer of other peoples' 
fears and angst, like a confessor without a collar.  Her office is a safe 
place to voice the thoughts that won't emerge in front of other people.  
People like Mulder and my mother, who have a personal stake in 
these thoughts.  I have been recounting the events of last night and 
this morning.

At one point, she asks, "We've talked in previous sessions about your 
concerns that your partner feels that you are his responsibility, that he 
may perceive it his role to look after you, somehow.  But let me pose 
this to you:  Would you say that censoring what you tell your partner 
and others about your anxieties or desires is a way of protecting 
them, as well as yourself?"

"I suppose so," I say slowly, trying to absorb exactly what she's 
getting at.  "To keep them from worrying about my well-being, for 
instance."

"That's one example.  Or to avoid upsetting the balance of the 
relationship, or altering its dynamic," she offers.

I pull in a deep breath at her acuity.  "Yes, though I think my 
motivation in the latter examples is spurred as much by a egotistical 
need to control certain aspects of my life as by a concern for others."

"Of course," she agrees, "but often, so are the motivations of others."

"You're saying that my partner, besides wanting to protect me from 
possible injury or anxiety, may also want to simply avoid getting into 
an argument, or dealing with the consequences of having told me 
something that might alter my own perceptions or actions."

"Sounds like that's what you're saying."

"Got me." I smile a little to myself.  But something she said about not 
being able to express my desires has me perplexed.  I tend to be 
pretty upfront about my goals and ambitions. They don't shame me 
like fear.  "When you suggested that I'm not forthcoming about my 
desires, what did you mean?"

"Why don't you tell me?  Does the risk of expressing what you want, 
or of pursuing it seem too great?" she asks in her ultra-rational but 
sincere way.

"I never used to think so," I mumble.

"What's changed?" she asks gently.

I think hard on this before responding.  "The goals I want to achieve. 
The person I want to be once I get there." I say, and quietly add, "who 
I want with me."

"Tell me about that, Dana."

"It's funny.  On one hand, self-determination has always been my 
guiding principle, despite, or maybe because of, the presence of 
major players in my life who hold substantial influence over me.  And 
part of me seems to need that - it's part of how I define myself - even 
as the other side demands total autonomy.  Until a few years ago, 
that was my father, and our relationship was pretty typical.  He was 
strict but loving; I was eager-to-please but with a rebellious streak.  
After his death, I thought I had transferred this dynamic to the 
relationship with my partner.  But this man - whose opinion carries 
more weight with me than I care to admit, by whom I measure myself, 
who demands so much and needs so much I wonder whether I can 
ever possibly be enough - is constantly asking me to shake loose the 
ties that bind me."  A notion that's been forming in my head for some 
time now suddenly coalesces.  "Here's the paradox:  He acts as if he 
wants me to let down my guard, be less rigid in my standards, more 
open to `extreme possibilities.'  But what he truly needs from me is 
structure and stability.  So when I rebel against his ideas, his plans, 
am I doing it to assert myself in the face of his expectations, or out of 
a desire to fulfill them?"

"Where your partner is concerned, is your desire to meet his 
expectations one that you've had trouble expressing?"

I take another deep breath, giving myself time to think.  "Among 
others."  An encouraging look from Karen prods me forward.  "It's 
hard to explain, but one of the ways I've changed is that, deep down, 
I like being challenged to push my limits, to push the boundaries of 
my world-view.  I like the way my partner, in particular, does the 
pushing.  I...I think I've come to depend on it."

"You've spoken before about coming to terms with relying on your 
partner's strength, his drive, and now about he ways he motivates 
you to stretch yourself.  Your growing ability to accept these things 
seems to me to reflect that you're becoming more comfortable with a 
certain level of intimacy in your relationship."

I consider her words carefully and recognize the essential, if 
fluctuating, truth of them.  I shrug, then nod.  "It varies.  There are 
times when I feel so close to him that words aren't even necessary.  
Other times, he's an utter mystery, and language isn't sufficient to 
bridge the chasm that separates us."

"Is there a constant across that spectrum?  A common thread woven 
into all of those perceptions?"

Karen is fond of saying that each of us knows how to solve our own 
problems, that whatever truth we seek is already deep within us, and 
just needs to be allowed to come into the open.  When I nod and 
open my mouth to answer her question, I realize how right she has 
been all along.  "Love," I whisper.  She smiles slightly.  She knew it 
was coming down to this.  "I love him."  I finally say aloud what I have 
known to be true for a very long time.  And it feels good to say it.

Right.

"I would like you to do something for me, Dana."  I look up at her.  
"The next time you're sharing one of those intimate-feeling moments 
with your partner, do your best to put into words the things we've 
been discussing here today.  It isn't always best to rely on silence to 
convey what you're thinking."

"Which part?" I feel it necessary to ask.

"Any of it," she smiles warmly.  "All of it."

###

I find Scully in an otherwise vacant lab spooning cheesecake yogurt 
and peering into a microscope.  Her back is to me and she doesn't 
hear me come in.  For a long minute I admire the straight line of her 
shoulders, the casual way she hooks her heels on the rungs of the 
work stool, since her feet don't touch the floor.  She brings her hands 
around low on her back, stretches her spine, then slowly rotates her 
head a few times.

I wonder if she knows how often I've taken to doing this very thing.  
Roaming the miles of Federal Building corridors, hoping to spy the 
gloss of her head bent over a specimen.  Seeing her like that, hair 
tucked behind her ears, totally focused on a puzzle always undoes 
me a little.  I feel a pounding in my chest, then hear it in my ears. 

Without warning, Scully wheels around to find me looking at her, not 
quite managing to hide her surprise at finding me here, watching her.  
"Hi," she says in a small voice.

Today, fortunately, I have a legitimate reason for tracking her down.  
"Hey," I answer, taking my cue to move toward her on my suddenly 
rubbery knees, unsure of whether my appearance is welcome.  "You 
get cable on that thing?" I ask, indicating the microscope, lobbing a 
soft one her way and getting a little grin in return, a minor victory.

"Fifty-seven channels and nothin' on," she quips back.  Any 
conversation where the Boss is quoted can't turn out badly.

"I take that to mean the sample isn't yielding any clues about the 
specific nature of the pathogen?"  I segue into professional mode.

"Only that the decay was swift - we already knew that.  I just wish we 
had access to larger samples.  I appreciate the trouble your contact 
took to get these for us, but these cells just don't let me draw any 
conclusions." She looks dejected, but I think I can cheer her up.

"Well then today is your lucky day.  Larger sample, you say? How 
about an entire body?"

Her eyes brighten at the prospect.  How can I be so turned on by a 
woman who thrills to cutting open corpses?  She's still pissed over 
not being able to get her hands on any of the bodies from California 
or Alabama before they were destroyed.  There was no way for her to 
confirm that the substance that killed another 11 people was the 
same as the one unleashed in a small-town movie theater in Ohio.  
Even though I have my doubts about being able to unravel the covert 
government operation that has continued to develop these bio-
weapons, it still seems crucial that we track their progress, learn what 
they know, try to bring them into the light.  And the renewed fire in 
Scully's eyes is all worth it.

"Up in rural Pennsylvania.  I got tipped to a body found this morning 
by state troopers displaying what sounds like remarkably similar 
indications of tissue decay."

"Oh my God.  Did you warn them about how easily we think it might 
be spread in its active state?"

"According to the troopers, they took one look, called the medical 
examiner, and he went out in full bio-hazard gear."

"And the M.E. hasn't alerted the CDD?"

"Not yet.  I convinced them to keep the body warm - cold - just for 
you.  But we have to get down there this afternoon."

A look of frustration passes over her.  "I'm still waiting for the 
computer to finish running my data.  Will we have time to stop at my 
apartment for my overnight bag?"

"I hate to waste any more time than necessary.  I don't think you're 
going to need it, anyway.  It'll only take an hour and a half to get down 
there.  You can look at the body, take some more substantive 
samples, and we're outta there.  We'll be back tonight."

She considers my timeline for a moment before agreeing.  She gets 
that look in her eyes that tells me she's excited about the potential of 
this little road trip.  I haven't seen that look in far too long.  It makes 
my heart swell a little and I smile down at her.  She takes it in for a 
second, acknowledging that the bond we share is intact, if a bit 
mangled.

"So, why don't we meet up in the basement in an hour?" she 
suggests.

"Sounds like a plan," I reply.  She goes back to her scope, and I turn 
to leave, but am wrenched backward by a loud, sharp "CHRIIIIIIIIST!"  
I spin back.  Scully's face is contorted in pain and she's got one elbow 
pointed up behind her head as if trying to work a cramp out of her 
neck.

A shot of sympathetic pain rings through me.  "Jesus, Scully, what did 
you do?"

"Too much time spent hunching over stiffs," she tries to joke, panting, 
her voice tight.

I try to say something soothing and figure out how to ease her 
discomfort.  Slowly lowering her arm, I guide her back to the stool.  
"OK. Easy does it."  I lay my hands on her shoulders, feeling the ache 
of her tension in my own fingers.  I press them deeply against her 
muscles, trying to get her to let go a little.  "Just take a few deep 
breaths," I croon, exerting more pressure, really digging in with the 
heels of my hands.  I see her wince at the strength with which I knead 
at her muscles, but in typical Scully fashion, she sucks it up and 
doesn't make a peep of protestation.

I do my best not to notice that, at this angle, I can look directly down 
the front of Scully's shirt, the little bow at the top of her bra peeking 
out, the creamy swells of her breasts just barely in view.  "Just think 
of going limp," I murmur calmly, wondering which of us I'm trying to 
convince.

Soon, the tightened muscles unknot, becoming softer and more 
pliable.  Her shoulders lower in relief, and her head bobs forward, 
revealing the tiny, raised white scar at the nape of her neck.  My 
insides lurch and unconsciously, I begin to lower my head to press 
my lips against it.

###

The pressure of Mulder's large, warm hands through the thin fabric of 
my blouse slowly but surely eases the muscle spasms in my back 
and dispels the accompanying panic.  Though my breathing returns to 
normal, my heart is racing.  I worry that he can feel it under my skin.

I'm facing a wall lined by glass-doored storage cabinets.  In them, I 
can clearly see our reflection.  The determination on Mulder's face as 
he labors over me is almost unbearable to watch.  I can't help 
imagining what it would be like to feel him caress me this way all 
over.  My center turns to liquid at the prospect.

My head begins to pound and I lower it to my chest, but I can't take 
my eyes off of the reflection before me.  At this, Mulder's pace slows 
and lightens, his hands moving slowly up the center of my back.  
Then I realize what has distracted him.  I forget it's there myself, 
sometimes.  His head dips toward me as if to get a better look, then 
snaps back.  I watch in astonishment as he raises one hand to his 
mouth, kisses the fingertips, then smoothes them over my nape with 
such inexpressible tenderness, sudden tears spring to my eyes and 
threaten to fall.

I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out.  Mulder catches 
me wiping the dampness from the corners of my eyes.  He leans 
down, and in voice filled with a matching tenderness says, "Scully, I'm 
sorry.  Did I hurt you?" 

I can't turn to face him yet.  I can only shake my head, and say 
thickly, "No, no.  Really.  You helped.  Thanks."

He's silent for a second or two, perhaps arguing with himself whether 
he should say out loud what comes next.  He swivels the stool around 
so that we face each other, almost eye-to-eye.  "Scully, if I did 
something to hurt you, I wish you'd tell me.  I won't think you're 
weak."

My heart stops altogether now as I consider his meaning.  He isn't 
talking about a too-vigorous massage, is he?  Taking courage from 
his last words, I begin, "Mulder, thank you for getting rid of my back 
spasm. you didn't hurt me just now, and I feel better." 

I'm not finished yet, but he can't resist prodding me a little.  "Just 
now?" he repeats softly.

This second, right now, is one of those moments I told Karen about.  I 
can feel its current as if I were wading in it.  It would be so easy to 
verbalize only a vague remark and let the ocean of unspoken 
meaning wash the tension out to sea, as we so often do.  I let my 
eyes rest in his a few seconds longer before looking away.

"You did hurt me last night."  I shift my gaze back to his face.  It's his 
turn to stare off into space.  I continue, "When you left last night, it 
stung to recognize that there might be someplace else you'd rather 
be."  Especially after the looks and caresses you bestowed on me, I 
think, but decide against going so far as to say out loud.  He brings 
his eyes back into focus as if to protest, but I go on.  "Maybe if I were 
less skeptical of your sources, you would have been more 
comfortable being up front about where you were going."  His 
expression clouds, and I clarify, "I say this as a statement of fact, not 
as apology." 

"That's not why, Scully," he says quickly.  " I wait while he scrubs his 
face with both hands and lets out a quiet, guilt-ridden sigh.  Letting his 
hands drop, one of them comes to rest comfortably on my knee.  "I 
purposely set the time and date for the meeting so that I would have 
an excuse to get out of there."

I should have known.  And he must've shown up late to meet his 
"source," since he came back to dance with me.  "I know those kinds 
of affairs aren't easy for you.  But I think we did Skinner proud."  I 
manage to smile a little, savoring the word `we.'

"And I suppose the disastrous result of that meeting could be my 
penance for a sin of omission?"  He allows himself a small relieved 
grin. 

Back to secrets and lies.

"I hope the penalties are never more severe than that, "I reply more 
seriously than intended.

He catches my tone, gives me a quizzical look.  I let my head drop to 
one side

"It's not as if I have a spotless record," I admit, almost to myself.

His hand leaves my knee and comes up under my jaw, caressing it 
gently and bringing our eyes to meet again.  "What are you not telling 
me?" he asks, again in that same tender voice which moves me so 
deeply.

/Any of it./

I find a place to start.

"A while back - it must be over a year ago now - we had an argument 
because of something I'd held back from you."  I watch him search his 
vast memory for a bit before continuing.  "You were angry because 
you thought I didn't trust you enough to tell you what I'd seen, to 
admit I doubted my own perceptions."  He's remembering  a late-night 
conversation in the sloping hallway of a psychiatric hospital.  He 
doesn't see yet why I've dredged up this, of countless arguments 
debating faith and belief we've engaged in over the last five years.

I continue, "To strengthen my trust - which you already had, by the 
way -" at this he nods, "you told me you knew what I was afraid of, 
and that you were afraid of the same thing."  He doesn't like my 
bringing this up, I know.  Doesn't like to be reminded of how close 
death hovered, and how helpless he felt in the face of the cancer.  His 
eyes grow deep green with buried sadness.  I hope saying what 
comes next can wash some of that away.

"You thought I was afraid of what the visions of those girls meant - 
that the end of my life was imminent, that the cancer was working 
faster that we thought it would.  And that did scare me, but I let you 
assume that was all there was.  I couldn't let myself admit that what 
you were saying to me was the essence of much greater fears.  Fears 
that predated the cancer, the abduction, that go back almost to the 
beginning of our partnership."  I am careful not to sound accusatory, 
to inflect these words with kindness . Above all, I don't want him to 
make himself responsible for my fears.

This time, he breaks our gaze.  I reach for his hand and twine my 
fingers with his.  Even this minor contact makes me tingle 
uncontrollably.  But it's this contact that lets me finally get to the point.  
"When you said that by keeping information from you, I was 
effectively working against you, I felt everything slipping away.  
Among my greatest fears is that of disappointing you, of somehow 
failing you.  Of failing myself in the process by proving that I'm not 
tough enough or fast enough or smart enough to keep up with you.  
Of losing you."

At this last, Mulder's eyes slam shut and he shakes his head violently.  
"No no no no..."  He repeats the word over and over, then takes my 
face in his hands.  "I was right then, and I didn't even know it," he 
says tightly.  "We /are/ afraid of the same things."  He pulls me 
against him in a fierce embrace.  This is sensory and information 
overload.  I can't process it all at once, so I bring my arms around his 
waist, reveling in the lifting of this great psychic weight.

After a moment, I pull back, and ask the inevitable.  "The $64,000 
question, Mulder, is why are we so afraid of losing each other?"

He answers with another question, my own.  "Do you see our lives as 
being so closely intertwined?"

Before I can formulate an answer, the ancient dot-matrix printer on 
the counter across the room explodes to life, noisily spewing out page 
after page.  We both erupt in nervous, relieved laughter.

"I think your data's up," Mulder croaks.

"Yeah, I guess," I snort.  "I'll get this and meet you the basement, 
OK?"


Chapter 6


The ride up to Nicodemus, Pee-Ayy is quiet, partly because Scully 
takes the opportunity to catch up on lost sleep.  I take the opportunity 
to let the gray cells catch up with what's happened in the last 18 
hours.  I glance over at her dozing form, curled up against the door.  
She deserves to rest.  She's had quite a day, had some close call.  I 
have come as close as I ever have to telling Scully that I love her.  
But at the first distraction, I lost my nerve.  Then again, she seemed 
as relieved as I was.  Can't blame her there.  That's quite a burden to 
saddle anyone with.  I'm still reeling from the stream of epiphanies 
that flowed out of her.  I don't know whether to feel elation or relief or 
dread.

"Municipal" is a figurative term in this part of Pennsylvania.  Kind of 
the reverse of calling Chicago a "toddlin' town."  The Nicodemus 
Municipal hospital looks more like the Baltimore City College student 
health center.  Scully catches the attention of the desk clerk and asks 
directions for the morgue.

"Morgue?" he asks between snaps of gum. "Like for stiffs?"

My partner and I exchange one of those looks.  "May I speak with the 
attending physician who was on duty yesterday evening?" Scully 
inquires frostily.

The clerk's eyes roll back in deep concentration.  "Ummm...that would 
be...Arnold.  Yeah, Arnold.  Lemmee see if I can get him up here for 
ya."

Several minutes later, a bespectacled guy around 30 appears at the 
desk.  "Hi.  Can I help you folks?"

"Special Agents Mulder and Scully, Federal Bureau of Investigation," I 
answer for both of us.  "I spoke with Sheriff Alberts this morning about 
a body that was brought in late yesterday afternoon."

"It would have shown signs of extreme decay, perhaps appearing as 
a fungal intrusion," Scully adds.

He appears reluctant to answer for a moment, then bursts out, "Oh, 
wait - yeah.  /Yeah/.  Sheriff said they found the guy in the woods two, 
three miles from here.  Probably been out there at least 48 hours.  
Most of the guy's face was just eaten away.  Gnarly.  I called the 
biohazard team from down in Hagerstown?  That's the closest 
authority for this kind of thing.  I mean, it's not like we could keep the 
body here," he says, sweeping his arms out, "this is pretty much it.  1 
ER bay, 1 OR, 1 birthing room, a coupla rooms for the occasional 
overnighter."  Arnold shrugs.  "I'm not sure why the Sheriff thought 
we'd be holding the body here."

"So the biohazard team took it back to Hagerstown?" Scully interjects, 
sounding a little impatient - with Arnold, the Sheriff and, I suspect, 
me.

"Uh - no.  They said they couldn't transport unidentified biological 
hazards across state lines.  I mean," he gestures at us, "I don't have 
to tell /you/ all about that."

Scully shoots me a sharply arched brow, which tells me - Well?  You 
got me into this.  She turns her attention back to Doc McCoy of the 
Starship Hicksville.  "So where /would/ it have ended up?"

He puffs his cheeks out, befuddled.  "Look, Sheriff Alberts said he 
was gonna call some folks up from D.C. he'd heard of who might 
have some expertise with this kind of thing, and that I should let them 
inspect the body when they got here."

"That would be us," I point out.  When I finally got around to checking 
my voice mail at the Bureau this morning, I heard Arnold's message 
and called him right back.  "I talked to the Sheriff this morning.  He 
said, as far as he knew, the body was still here."

The doc actually scratches his head in confusion.  "Well, but the crew 
from D.C. was here before lunch.  The Sheriff ordered me to release 
the body to them."

Shit.

"Do you have any idea where they might've taken it?" Scully 
demands.

He looks at us warily, but decides it might just be in his best interest 
to be helpful.  "It might take a while for me to look up the paperwork, 
track it down.  Mind waiting?"

"Do we have a choice?"  Scully's voice slashes the air like a finely-
honed scythe.  I love that no-bullshit tone when it's directed at 
somebody else.

The guy smiles feebly, offering an apologetic, "I'll do my best."

I steer Scully over to the plastic chair waiting area.  But waiting is not 
my strong suit, so I tell Scully that I'm heading over to the Sheriff's 
office to see if he has any information.  I ask her to call as soon as the 
ER doctor has anything.

When I get to the Sheriff's station, which is in the next town over,  he 
refuses to see me.  After a few vague threats to the desk officer about 
the possible career implications of  impeding a federal investigation, 
Alberts peeks his head out of his office door.  And turns into Andy 
Taylor.  The one from TV.

"Well, now...I sure am sorry I didn't get a chance to give y'all a ring 
after they came to get the body.  But I kinda assumed you guys had 
sent `em.  I tell ya, I can't tell one federal agency from th'other these 
days."  He didn't drawl when we spoke this morning.  And he didn't 
seem to have any trouble picking out `FBI' in the phone book last 
night.

In the car on the way back to the hospital, I check in with Scully.  Still 
nothing.  She's been paging through the Jurassic-era magazines in 
the waiting room.

"Well it's been nice catching up on Twin Peaks," she says tartly.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a Peaks fan, Scully."

"Oh, yeah. I got totally caught up in it when I was a resident.  I used to 
tell my colleagues I joined the FBI so I could meet a guy like Dale 
Cooper."

"You're saying David Lynch determined the course of your life?"

I hear her crack a half-grin through the phone.  "Know what ruined it 
for me?"

"Finding out Bob was a spiritual manifestation who could be seen in 
his true form only by his victims, and entered unwitting physical 
bodies to commit murder?"

"Nope.  The whole thing with the cross-dressing Fed.  Completely 
unrealistic and inane."

###

Mulder comes through the hospital door just as Marcus Welby finally 
reappears.  The expression on the doctor's face signals that we're not 
going to like what's coming.  Nervously, he appeals to Mulder.  "Gee - 
I'm sorry it's taken so long.  I had one heck of a time getting through 
all the bureaucratic crud."

"But you don't have to tell /us/ about /that/," smirks Mulder.  Playing 
good agent/bad agent with Mulder is always fun, since we tend to 
switch off without warning.

"But you did get through to someone who knows where the body is?" 
I demand sweetly.

"Oh - oh yeah.  Finally got through to some clerk at the Pentagon."

My partner and I exchange an apprehensive look.

"The body's back in DC?" I ask, incredulous.

"No ma'am," Arnold shakes his head, "It seems to be at an Air Force 
facility near Fort Washington.  They're still working on a positive ID?  
But figured they'd probably get a match on the dental records by 
day's end."

Dammit.  I've got to get a look at this corpse.  But if the DOD is 
involved, there's no way they're going to admit me.

The afternoon has grown a little warm and sticky, and on the way out 
to the car, I slip off my trench as Mulder fills me in on his visit to 
Sheriff Alberts.  "There's something rotten in Denmark, Scully.  
Alberts sounded pretty reasonable on the phone this morning -"

"Yeah, well a lot of idiots seem helpful until you actually meet them," I 
say, frustrated and feeling the effects of little sleep.

Clearly stung by my remark, Mulder continues anyway, " - and turned 
into a know-nothing bumpkin by this afternoon.  They got to him, 
Scully, I'm sure of it."  He ignores my rolling eyes.  "He admitted that, 
once he mentioned having contacted us, he was ordered to give out 
no information about the condition or collection of the body.  They 
wouldn't even tell him where they were taking it.  It's a miracle Doogie 
Houser in there was able to track it down."

"Regardless.  This is something we are not meant to see," I tell him.

He's already pissed off, and takes my words more fatalistically than I 
mean them.  Still, I'm stunned by his reply. "That's a load of crap, 
Scully.  If you want to go home, take the car and I'll find a way up to 
Fort Washington."

"Hey - just because I'm not /supposed/ to see it," I clarify, "doesn't 
mean I don't /intend/ to see it for myself.  But if you're going to 
behave like this, you can sure as hell find another ride."  I grab for the 
keys in my coat pocket, fingering the one on the Apollo 11 ring next to 
the key for Mulder's apartment.  Worked into a pissy lather myself, I 
push him away from the driver's side.  He looks amazed, though 
somehow satisfied, by my reaction.  I want to shove him again, 
harder, to wipe that damn smirk off his face. The one that says 
`Scrappy Scully's so cute when she gets all worked up.'  If he says 
one word, I'm prepared to hit the auto locks and peel out.  
Fortunately, he trots over to the passenger side and slips in without 
so much as a mutter under his breath.  Actually, he is to be 
applauded for remaining studiously poker-faced as I fling my coat into 
the back seat and adjust the seat and mirrors.

###

I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut for a while when we get 
back on the road.  Scully's driving faster than usual but taking the 
curves of this winding rural route well.  I don't say a word about the 
speed.  Or the bank of dark clouds moving in on the eastern horizon. I 
don't have to.

"I'm trying to out run that storm," she says nodding toward the 
window.  And I've slept more recently than you have."

I don't point out that I am more accustomed to not sleeping than she 
is.  In fact, a wave of exhaustion breaks over me, and I recline the 
seat, intending just to rest my eyes for a few minutes.

Not too much later, a deafening clap of thunder rouses me.  "Christ," I 
mutter, shaking off the remnants of sleep.

"You've been missing quite a show out there," she says unflappably.  
But her knuckles are white as they grip the wheel, and our pace is 
significantly more cautious.  I sit back up in time to see a purple-silver 
thunderbolt spike the horizon.  The asphalt beneath us rumbles with a 
close-following explosion of thunder.  Scully's eyes widen slightly, 
remaining frozen on the road before us. I reach for my seatbelt just as 
a torrential rain begins to slam against the car.

The wipers are going at full speed, barely keeping up with the 
streaming water.  When pea-sized hail starts bouncing off the 
pavement, we slow to a crawl.

"Dammit!" she yells, releasing the day's pent-up anger.

"Why don't you pull over at that turnout up there?" I suggest in what I 
hope is a soothing tone.

Her jaw tight, she nods in agreements. But before we reach the 
indentation at the curve of the road, another blinding bolt flashes not 
a hundred yards in front of the car, instantaneously felling an 
enormous pine tree, which bounces when it hits the highway.  Luckily, 
we are going slowly, and Scully reacts quickly, but the road is too 
slick.  The car spins twice, missing the tree, and comes to rest in the 
roadside ditch, which is already at least a foot deep in mud.  
Amazingly, the car doesn't go head-first into the ditch, just lands there 
intact, without so much as an airbag inflated.

After a short, stunned silence, we turn to look at each other, jaws 
agape.  Within another second, we are a tangle of arms and lips.  
Only the bucket seats keep us from getting horizontal.  My fingers 
tangle through the fire of her hair.  Her arms are tight around my 
neck, fiercely gripping my coat collar.  Her mouth is hot, pulling 
greedily at mine.  A purple shock of lightning flashes through /me/, 
slamming into my groin.  Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over, and 
we are in the furthest corners of our respective seats, mute, the only 
sounds the wind and rain pounding into the roof.

"Dammit!"  Scully explodes again, punching the wheel and flinging the 
door out.  Actually, the door only opens about a foot before digging 
into the muddy slope of the wash.  She mutters a few more select 
curses and begins to clamber out of the car.  Looking down at the 
light gray silk of her jacket as she is about to climb out, she rolls her 
eyes and pulls it off, flinging it into the back.  Sinking knee-deep into 
the muddy water, she inspects the car for damage, and is quickly 
soaked to the skin.  I reach under the seat for the umbrella she 
stashed there months ago.

Pulling my coat collar up around my ears, I follow her out of the car, 
shouting to be heard above the storm.  "Scully! Let's get over to that 
shelter."  I gesture toward the rest area fifty yards up the road.  She 
stands stock-still staring at the Taurus, anger and shock and disgust 
written large on her features.  All at once it occurs to me that the 
expression and her state are as likely the product of our actions in 
crash's aftermath as of the crash itself.

Slogging toward her, I reach for her elbow.  She wrenches away, 
scrambling out of the ditch and heading for the shelter.  I follow 
behind, pulling out my cell phone to call the highway patrol.


Chapter 7


I'm freezing, trying to hide the fact I'm openly shivering, soaked to the 
bone.  It's not working.  Goosebumps appear up and down my arms.  
And they're not the most prominent things popping up.  My silk tee-
shirt is almost transparent and clinging to my skin.  Embarrassed, I 
fold my arms across my chest and sit on top of the sheltered picnic 
table.  My favorite shoes are a total loss.  Oh, they're definitely going 
on the expense report.

Mulder tries to offer his coat, but I shoot him a look that would stop a 
stampeding elephant.  I'm not angry at him.  I am furious with myself.  
First for the accident.  I've never been at the wheel in a collision.  
That's usually Mulder's prerogative.  What possessed me to keep 
going even as the spring shower became a monsoon?  Then, losing 
control.  Twice.  Three times.  Yelling and screaming like.../a 
hysterical woman/.  As if that were going to solve anything.  And then.  
My stomach is still in knots.  Despite a violent case of the chills, I can 
feel the red flush that lingers on my chest and cheeks.

I could be injured, in shock, but I won't let Mulder near enough to 
check for signs of disorientation or bruises.  I'm sure as hell not up to 
doing my doctorly duty to examine him.  We got a pretty close 
inspection of each others' tongues a minute ago.  I felt great for a few 
seconds there.  He felt pretty good, too.  But I can't take comfort in his 
coat.  I need some distance.  Being wrapped in his residual body 
heat, his scent, allowing myself the luxury of his concern - these are 
not things I can handle right now.  He doesn't get it.  Just sits there 
looking pouty, like I'm pissed at him and stubborn for no reason.  
After a few minutes of frigid silence interrupted only by the occasional 
chattering of teeth, he pushes out a disgruntled sigh, hops off of the 
table and jogs back to the car to retrieve my coat.

Before long, the storm has almost let up entirely, and evening begins 
to settle in.  The gushing stream that was merely a drainage ditch is 
dropping in volume.  The highway patrol apparently told Mulder that 
there is a power outage and a number of serious road mishaps due to 
the storm.  It might be a while before they can get to us.  

There's no place I'd rather be than a goddamn rest area in the middle 
of nowhere, courting pneumonia, with a man I love desperately but to 
whom I can't bear to say more than two words in succession, without 
even an historic archive of People magazine to keep my over-active 
mind occupied.  And the aforementioned man, my partner, probably 
thinking my nasty attitude is directed at him - for jumping me? - when 
the reality is I was on him like wet on water.  Mostly, I'm scared to 
death it will never happen again, that I've kissed my soulmate for the 
first and only time, and I didn't even have a chance to enjoy it.  God.  
Five seconds of pure heaven.  That sexy curve of a mouth on mine, 
electric.  One hand tilting my head up to his, the other pressed over 
my left breast, like it knew instinctively where to go, how hard to 
squeeze.

###

All in all, not the most congenial two hours I've ever spent in Scully's 
presence.  Anger and shame fairly seeped out of her pores.  She 
refused to look at me.  Just grunted when I told her the tow-truck 
would be delayed, and again when I flung her coat at her.  It's nearly 
dark by the time the rain clouds clear out.  Another hour after that, we 
finally see headlights.

The driver pulls up alongside the ditch, climbs out, and shakes his 
head in disgust.  Scully leaves her perch on the picnic table, pulling 
her coat tightly around her.  She turns back to me and says quickly, 
"I'm sorry I lost it back there."  Back to the Scully cool.  She trots over 
to the truck to converse with the driver.

I'm dragging my heels, feeling defeated.  Not only have we wasted 
half a day chasing down a corpse we'll probably never get to examine 
- another piece of the puzzle hidden from us - but I've proved my own 
lunacy yet again by jumping my partner.

It's not like she was squirming to get away, but...Jesus.  Practically all 
I've been thinking about for the last two hours is how her body felt 
pressed against mine.  The silkiness of her hair, softness of her lips, 
yielding and demanding all at the same time.  The sensual weight of 
her breast as I lifted and kneaded it.  And /she/ apologized for losing 
it.  Do I take that to mean she's sorry for the clinch or the blow-up 
afterwards, or - and this just occurs to me now - for creating an 
awkward situation?  Only sorry, maybe, for bad timing? - my heart 
starts making like Ringo - sorry that, given the immediate 
circumstances, we weren't in the ideal setting to take things to their 
logical conclusion?  She`s sure as hell not giving anything away now, 
having securely re-installed the Special Agent Scully public interface 
to give the tow-truck driver her AAA number. 

The driver is making small talk while the car gets dragged up out of 
the muck.  "...sure are lucky! Must notta been goin' too fast, huh?"

"No," Scully replies, "the hail was really starting to come down, so we 
were crawling.  But I didn't even think about the car sliding on it."

"Yeah, yeah.  Dangerous stuff alright."  The driver, whose uniform has 
"Buck" sewn over the pocket, looks up as I approach.  "Alrighty, y'all 
can ride in the cab with me into town.  Ready?"

/Town/ is a farming village of fewer than 1,000 souls.  There is one 
mechanic, whose shop is closed up for the night.  Buck Elam, the 
truck driver, swears the garage will be open by six a.m. to check the 
car out, make sure it will be safe to drive back to DC.  There is one 
motel, the Hi-Hill Motor Inn, owned by Elam's sister-in-law.  The motel 
is a group of stucco bungalows scattered in a wooded area, 
connected by a winding gravel driveway. 

In this one-mechanic, one-motel town, there is but one motel room 
available.  With one bed.  The rest have been rented to a band of 4-H 
kids in town to show their livestock.  Fortunately, the cottage given to 
us is upwind from the animal trailers.

Scully wraps up details with Buck while I check us in.  Nell Elam 
apologizes for the lack of space, offering us the government rate for 
her best - and only - room available.  She apologizes that there are 
no roll-away beds to offer.  She's sure, though, we'll be very 
comfortable.  In the Elvis Fantasy Honeymoon Suite.  I think I actually 
blush as I sign the register, tempted as hell to put down "Mr. and Mrs. 
Spooky," but remember that this little ditty gets handed in with our 
expense report.  I grin slightly, picturing the reactions that might get in 
accounting.  That image is replaced by Scully's reaction to my 
registering the two of us into a honeymoon suite as Mr. and Mrs. 
anybody.  Hell, I'm afraid just to tell her about our accommodations.

When she asks about them as I step out of the office door, I just point 
up the hill.  She's rescued our laptops and briefcases from the car 
before the truck dragged the pathetic thing away.  Slinging hers over 
her shoulder, she mutters, "No time to stop for your overnight bag, 
Scully.  We'll be back before dark..."

"Hey, I don't even carry a toothbrush in my case, like some people I 
know.  Besides, the lady at the desk said we'd find everything we 
need in the...our...rooms."

###

We reach the last cottage on the path, the largest and spiffiest of the 
dilapidated bunch of them, before Mulder pulls out his room key.  I'm 
catching a weird vibe from him and my stomach flops to and fro.  
"Uh...Mulder...can I have my key, please?  I'm beat." Last night's 
sleeplessness is catching up with me.  I'm hungry, too, but have 
absolutely no appetite.

He stops, glances at me quickly, then fixates on the key in his hand.  
"It turns out this is the only cottage available.  The Future Farmers of 
America here have everything else booked."  He finally turns his face 
to mine, holding up a hand to silence the complaint he knows is 
coming.  "But I'm sure you'll appreciate the historic status of this 
particular motel."

"I don't see any signs saying George Washington slept here."

"Oh, no presidents, Scully.  But I understand this particular room is fit 
for the King."  With that, he flings open the door and flicks on the 
overhead light.

Speechless.  I was prepared to be pissed off all over again, but I can't 
sustain it in light of the sight before me.  I manage to suppress a 
smile until we're inside.  As soon as the door clicks behind us, a silly-
sounding giggle bubbles its way up from somewhere deep under my 
ribs.  Mulder, for his part, breathes a sigh that is equal parts relief and 
awe.  Like a pilgrim at Mecca.

Larger than it seemed from the outside, the room seems to be almost 
half bed.  It must be two queen or king-sizers shoved together, made 
up with black satin sheets and animal print spreads and pillows.  
There is a curved bar near the door, circled by high leather stools.  
On the other side of the room sits a long white leather couch, replete 
with silver-studs along the edges.  And the piŠce de r‚sistance:  A 
portrait of the King himself - on black velvet - in a heart-shaped frame 
hangs just above the headboard, as if blessing the union of whoever 
might inhabit it.

"Ho Mama," Mulder breathes in his best Memphis drawl.

I snort out another stunned laugh.  "What the hell...?"

His lips twitch before speaking.  "Legend has it Elvis slept here some 
time in the early fifties.  When he hit the big time, the owners cashed 
in by calling this place Elvis' home away from home, and kept a room 
open for him at all times."  He begins strolling around the room, 
inspecting things.  Checks out the wide-screen TV, sticks his nose 
into the complimentary fruit basket.

"Let me guess the rest," I venture, laying my case on the gold-record 
coffee table.  "After his death -" a teasing glare from Mulder makes 
me hedge - "supposed death - the owners turned the room into a 
shrine.  They get much demand for such a room in this part of 
Pennsylvania?"

"Desk attendant said there was a wedding in town on Saturday.  
Guess where the happy couple chose to launch their life of love?" he 
muses lecherously.

A spirit of fresh consummation lingers in the air.  "I trust they've 
laundered the sheets since then?" I feel compelled to ask.

He shrugs, takes off his coat and hangs it on a guitar-shaped coat 
rack.  Somehow, the absolute absurdity of our surroundings has 
broken the tension.  I shrug out of my trench and hang it next to his.  I 
bend down to slip off my shoes, grieving their loss. All at once, fatigue 
covers me like a canopy and as I lean over, I feel light-headed, lose 
my balance and wind up on my ass.

Mulder hears me thunk down to the floor, drawing his attention away 
from the montage of photographs and memorabilia along the opposite 
wall.  He sees me press my head between my knees and rushes 
over.  "Scully?" He rests a hand on my shoulder.

The ocean roars between my ears.

###

Shit.

My heart is slamming into my ribs.

Maintain, boy.

Focus.

Fuck.

She was injured and it's just now hitting her.  God dammit, why didn't 
I demand she see a doctor?

"Scully, are you going to throw up?  Is your vision blurry?"  I palm her 
forehead anxiously.

She raises her head and I slide my hand down to the nape of her 
neck to cradle it.  Her hair is still damp underneath.

"I'm okay...I'm okay...," she says foggily.

"And yet you choose the zebra skin rug to collapse on instead of the 
nice comfy couch," I mumble.

"I just - lost my balance, I guess.  I felt a little light-headed."

I think back over the afternoon.  Neither of us has eaten since before 
leaving D.C.  I jump up to grab a banana out of the basket on the bar.  
As an afterthought, I take an apple for myself.

"Good choice."  She curves her lips slightly when I hand her the fruit 
and settle on the floor next to her.  "I probably just need the 
potassium."

We eat in silence, her focus and my heartrate normalizing with every 
bite.  Inwardly, I applaud myself for not gawking at Scully as she 
devours the banana.  After this afternoon, the old self-control 
mechanism is clipping along as it should.  Don't look at her for too 
long.  Don't touch her unless absolutely necessary.  Don't think about 
the shape of the fruit as she wraps her full lips around it, looking like 
she's consuming manna from the heavens.  We finish our little picnic 
and I toss the remains into the trash.  Getting to my feet, I offer a 
hand to Scully, which she ignores as she struggles stiffly to stand. 
She's exceeded her daily capacity for allowing herself to need 
anyone's help.  Especially mine.

Looking down at her still-damp and stained trousers, she announces, 
"Shower.  What I need is a shower.  And sleep.  Mind if I go first?"  I 
shake my head in answer, and she turns toward the bathroom.  She 
starts to slip off her jacket, and stops midway.  "Crap," she lets out an 
exasperated sigh.

"What?"

Her back still to me, in a small voice, she says, "I just remembered I 
don't have any other clothes."

My mind races at the implications.  And the heat of our embrace hits 
me all over again, flashes through me, making /me/ momentarily light-
headed.  There's only one answer.  I lose my jacket and tie, and free 
my shirt from my trousers, glad I thought to pull on a tee-shirt this 
morning.  "Here."  I come up behind her, holding out the dress shirt on 
one hooked finger.  "I can't guarantee springtime freshness, but at 
least it's dry."

She swivels her head back to offer a subdued "thanks" and shuts the 
door behind her.

###

The bathroom is every bit as outrageous as the main room.  
Interesting, considering Elvis bought it in the bathroom.  Oversized 
(naturally) bathtub with dual showerheads and built-in water jets, 
huge fluffy towels, bright, tropical-themed frescoes on the walls and 
ceiling.  Blue Bayou, I think.  Or Blue Hawaii.  Anyway, there's a lot of 
blue.  Another goodie basket sits on the counter, this one filled with 
tubes of bath gel and shampoo, loofahs, even toothbrushes and 
paste.  This is quite a leap up from our usual accommodations. 
Normally, we're lucky to get the little strip around the bowl that says 
"sanitized for your protection."

I go to hang Mulder's shirt on the doorknob, but first close my eyes 
and hold it to my nose.  It's not laundry-fresh, but infinitely better.  It 
smells of him, a faint, warm mix of soap, after-shave, detergent, the 
burnt-pop-tart-and-coffee smell of his apartment, the slight dankness 
of the FBI basement...and...whatever indefinable Mulderness that 
lurks inside his cells. I open my eyes to the sight of myself in the 
mirror and am immediately humbled by the sorry-assed vision:  
smudged eye-makeup, frizzy-damp hair, filthy, limp clothes, my face 
buried in Mulder's shirt, as if I were an Elvis groupie with one of his 
jumpsuits.

With a sigh of disgust, I ditch the shirt and begin peeling off my own 
clothes. Though I had the foresight to protect my jacket, my tee-shirt 
is still damp and sticking to my skin.  Same goes for the bra and 
briefs underneath.  It feels sinfully good to step out of them and into 
the hot bathwater.  Without hesitation, I flip the switch on the wall 
which activates the bubble jets.

Finally allowing myself to relax, my brain throwing off alpha waves, 
my mind wanders.  Guess where it winds up.  If I hold my breath, I 
can feel the electricity that was in the air around us and passing 
between our bodies.  Part of me would like to write off that kiss as 
spontaneous combustion resulting from our years of mutual 
attraction, kindled by the events of a particularly frustrating day and 
sparked by a potentially life-threatening incident.  It only makes sense 
that, rattled, partners - friends - would grasp blindly for each other.

Right.

That all sounds logical, until I remember that the car just wasn't going 
that fast.  And how many scores of real traumas have we suffered or 
narrowly averted and yet never reacted that way?  Our argument this 
morning and reconciliation this afternoon must have affected us more 
deeply than either of us realized.

There are few, if any places, on earth I feel more welcomed, more 
secure, than in Mulder's embrace.  Some combination of his natural 
empathy and his own profound loneliness allows him to open his 
arms to me so easily, seeking my warmth even as he offers his to 
share.  And then there are times, instances where the chemistry turns 
on a dime.  When the hand at the small of my back, guiding me 
through a doorway glances lower than expected, leaving a trail of 
sparks down my spine.  Or an unassuming, comforting hug that 
should last a few seconds goes on for a minute or more, causing us 
to become quiet and too-aware of our bodies.  Then we part, feeling 
either that we've left something unfinished or as if we've escaped one 
more treacherous situation by the skins of our teeth.

I think of today's session with Karen.  How do I reconcile these 
internal conflicts?  When I'm feeling loose from the moorings, lost or 
alone, it's always Mulder I want with me.  Why am I afraid to ask him 
for what he so badly wants to give me?  I curse my neediness, yet 
don't much begrudge Mulder his insecurities.  I suppose the tragedies 
that were visited upon him so early in life provide obvious 
explanation, justification, for them.  By contrast, it seems that the 
close-knit family life I enjoyed as a child, my parents' unquestioned, 
unconditional love, my siblings' loyalty which I always took for 
granted, should have sealed my security.  Not that my family could 
measure up to the Nelsons or the Bradys, as Mulder seems to think it 
did.  For better or worse, I know my determination to keep even those 
closest to me from suspecting my own human fragility is as much a 
product of genetics as early training.  You don't have to look any 
further than Ahab to confirm that.  Or my mother.  As warm and loving 
as she was and is, it was her nerves of steel and inner strength kept 
us together, made us a family, when Ahab was at sea for months at a 
time. 

Besides, I always had to be tough for Bill and Charlie to let me tag 
along.  One tear, one shriek of alarm or any misgivings about our little 
adventures was all the excuse they needed to leave me behind.  To 
be called a crybaby was the ultimate humiliation, second only to 
hearing my mother's voice cautioning them, "Boys, you play nicely 
with Dana and don't be too rough.  Remember, she's a /girl/."  God, 
those words and their implications have haunted me my whole life.  I 
wonder sometimes if I chose pathology sheerly for the shock value.  
Secretly, I love the looks of disgust and surprise I still get from people 
when I tell them what I do, knowing they're thinking - `but you're a 
girl!'

It occurs to me that this journey Mulder and I are on has flung open 
those secure-seeming gates, leaving me vulnerable, making me 
needy.  But the idea of returning to some other, idealized existence, 
where safety, security and blind rationalism are the walls that hold out 
evidence of deeper and darker truths, of miracles and secrets of the 
soul, no longer holds much appeal for me.  I'm a richer person for 
traveling this road, that is a certainty, though one I am often hard-
pressed to argue or explain, sometimes even to myself.  I only wish 
that those I hold most dear weren't subject to the grief that befalls me.  
It just seems horribly selfish to feel I've profited somehow from the 
pain of others, even if the pain is mine, too.  Perhaps, ultimately, this 
is what keeps Mulder and me from becoming lovers.  Ironic, isn't it, 
that the fear of harming each other surpasses even the fear of our 
own heartache?

Any of it.

All of it.

On some level, I'm fairly certain that Mulder knows I love him, and 
that he loves me.  But if we say nothing, we don't have to deal with 
those feelings in the open.  Neither of us has to risk being wrong.

Despite the continued internal conflict, my body has responded to the 
magic of the warm, frothing water.  Groggily, I haul myself out of the 
tub and dry off, then slip on Mulder's shirt.  It's comically oversized, 
the tails practically touching my knees.  A little thrill goes through me, 
feeling the softness of the fabric.  Allowing myself the comfort of 
being surrounded by Mulder that I denied earlier, I try to convince 
myself that our kiss meant nothing.  I rub my hair with another towel 
and rinse out my underwear in the sink, hanging them out of the way 
on the top rung of the towel rack to dry.  Mental note:  From now on, 
/always/ carry spares in the briefcase.

When I come out of the bathroom, Mulder is sprawled on the sofa, 
channel surfing, the remains of another banana and some grapes on 
the coffee table.  He glances up at me, watches my progress across 
the room for a few seconds before going back to the TV.

"All yours," I announce.

"Thanks," he mumbles, then addresses the tube, "fucking Yankees. 
They're gonna break my heart this year.  I know it already."

###

A cloud of steam precedes Scully out of the bathroom.  She shakes 
out her hair, looking scrubbed and refreshed.  Seeing her in  the shirt 
I offered to her makes me buzz pleasantly all over, though it reveals 
just a tiny glimpse of carved ivory thigh.

"All yours," she tells me, meaning the bathroom, but given that I'm 
trying not to think about her bare legs, I am momentarily confused.

"Thanks," I finally say.

I wonder if she knows that's my favorite shirt.  I wouldn't give it up to 
anyone but her.  But then, it achieved favored status only because 
she once said she liked it.  Actually, what she said was, "Nice shirt, 
Mulder," giving me one of those analytical appraisals over the rims of 
her glasses.  It was clear she was thinking a lot more than she'd ever 
say.  And that one phrase was enough to spark a month's worth of 
fantasies, most of which started with that phrase and progressed to 
one or the other of us destroying it in a frenzy to rip it off me.  In any 
case, I wear it an average of 1.48 times per week, depending on how 
often the laundry gets done.  Good thing I did a load on Saturday, or I 
wouldn't be gawking at the way Scully's auburn hair glows against the 
collar.

I roll off the sofa and lope into the can.  As I open my fly, I remember 
sickly that I didn't think to throw in any boxers when I washed the 
shirts.  This morning, the red Speedos seemed a better solution than 
running shorts.  Now I'm glad I didn't go with option three:  free and 
breezy.  If my tee-shirt were a little longer, or the trunks any color but 
red...fuck it.  I'll sleep in my pants.  Not like it's the first time.

When I come out, Scully is checking out the memorabilia wall.

"Do you think they'd miss this picture of Presley and Nixon?" I ask, 
pointing over her shoulder.

"Thinking of taking home a souvenir?" she arches a brow at me.

"Well, I was thinking it would look great on the bulletin board 
alongside the photo of Carter shaking hands with an alien," I reply.

She chuckles softly.  "I must be tired," she says glancing up at me, "I 
thought that was funny."  She punches me lightly on the shoulder and 
walks around to the far side of the bed.  Scully pulls back the covers 
and makes herself comfortable.  I envy those satin sheets as she 
slides her body in against them.  "I hate to admit it, but this place 
keeps getting better and better.  Almost worth explaining it on our 
expense report."  She is suddenly silent, then utters, "Oh My God.  
Mulder...did you see this?" she demands.

"Huh?" I swivel my head around to her, then follow her gaze upward.

"There is a mirror.  Over the bed."  She sounds amused behind the 
shock.  It's centered over the bed, outlined with two rows of tiny stage 
lights.  I spy what looks to be a dimmer switch on the end table.  Sure 
enough, the brightness can be adjusted from low and smoky to 
Disneyland Main Street Parade.

"Come on, Scully, tell me this doesn't turn you on,"  I tease, then flop 
down to get the full effect.  We haven't talked about sleeping 
arrangements.  The bed is gigantic, there isn't much danger in 
sharing it.  Or there wouldn't be, if that little scene in the car had 
never happened.

Fatigue suddenly washes over me.  Unconsciously, my lungs let go a 
weary sigh.

"See what I mean about this place?  The bed alone is worth it," Scully 
murmurs, near sleep.

"Yeah," I grunt, pulling myself up, "but the couch feels just like home."

"You can't be serious," she says, her eyes flying open.

"It's all yours, Scully."

"Mulder, don't be ridiculous. You need to get some real sleep.  I 
promise to keep to my acre."

"I was afraid you'd say that."  What else can I do, but offer weak 
innuendo?  "Seriously, I'll sleep better on the sofa."  My body 
practically rebels at the words, crying out for the sleek sheets, soft 
pillows and cozy blankets, and...the possibility of...Scully's warm 
figure alongside mine.

I resume my place on the couch, and soon I hear Scully's breathing 
deepen.  Lazily flipping channels, I come across some soft porn on 
the cable.  Not with Scully in the same room.  Shit.  Maybe there's a 
`Lassie' rerun somewhere.  Women's beach volleyball championship.  
Aerosmith video.  Baywatch.  Partridge Family.  God, I used to lust 
after Lori.  Her and the short-skirted Brady girls.  Larry King 
interviewing Julianne Moore.  The resemblance is too much.  I could 
hardly sit all the way through that last movie of hers without running to 
the men's room.  She really should have gotten the Oscar for that 
one.  Jesus.  Needless to say, I bought the video the first day it was 
out.  Even Emeril's against me tonight.  Romantic dinner for two - 
oysters and chocolate mousse.  Scully loves chocolate mousse.  I 
give up.  I flip the TV off and scooch down, trying to get comfortable. 

Wherever the King is, I know he wouldn't approve of this sofa.  For 
one thing, it obviously doesn't get used much - the leather is stiff and 
cracked in places, scraping my bare arms when I roll over.  I close my 
eyes, but the lingering TV teases are nothing compared to what my 
mind's own screening room spools out behind my eyelids.  The 
frenzied clinch in the car.  The sight of her in /my/ shirt.  The simple 
but scorching peck on the cheek she bestowed on me this morning 
before rushing out of our office.  Strong, soft, bare arms emerging 
from her coat.  Confident hands snatching at a bunch of flowers mid-
air.  Those same hands on my shoulder, over my heart.  Rather than 
getting me worked up, however, these visions somehow relax me, 
bring her essence closer.  I start to doze, but jerk awake at the 
unbidden memory of last night's shower fantasy.  Crap.  I have to get 
past this.  Eventually, the kids at the Academy will stop referring to 
me as `Spooky' and give me a new nickname:  `Blue Balls.'

Scully shifts around in her sleep.  It's kind of chilly in here.  Maybe I 
should pull a quilt off the bed.  The bed.  It looked so comfy.  I get up 
slowly and pad silently over to the side opposite Scully.  She's facing 
the other way.  It's dark, but I can see how possessively she pulls the 
covers up around her.  Well, who wants a blanket hog anyway?  I do.  
So much it hurts.  There's no way to slip a blanket off without waking 
her up.  The pillows call my name.  She groans delicately in her sleep 
and rolls back toward me.  I freeze until she settles down again.  God, 
she is lovely.  When she sleeps, her face takes on an ethereal quality, 
as if she were roaming the heavens in her dreams.

Hell, I'm going to be thinking about her whether I'm on the couch, on 
the bed, or curled up on the porch.  Maybe I'll just lie down here and 
watch her sleep for a little while.  I'll go back to the couch before she 
wakes up.  Staying close to the edge of the mattress, I carefully inch 
my way under the top spread, sinking quietly into the pillows.  Scully 
is a good three feet away.  A safe distance from which to admire her.  
/She is so beautiful/ is my last conscious thought.

I come awake with a start a couple of hours later.  I don't know if I 
have been dreaming.  But what I awake to is more surreal than 
anything my subconscious could have created.  We are side by side, 
facing, in the middle of the bed.  Scully's forehead rests against my 
chest, her hair obscuring her face.  My arm is closed around her, our 
legs entwined.


Chapter 8


I come awake slowly.  It's still dark outside, I think, and the only light 
in the room is coming from the dim glow of the mirror bulbs above 
me, so I can't have been asleep for very long.  I am nestled in the 
warmth of Mulder's body, aware of this fact before I'm fully conscious.  
Aware of the measured rise and fall of his chest, of a cocoon of 
security and sweetness that envelops us.  And something else.  My 
whole body is buzzing.  If I were to look up into that mirror right now, I 
think I would see myself glowing like a firefly, radiant.  I am savoring 
these sensations when I feel Mulder waken.  He breathes in sharply 
and makes a little sound of surprise.  I don't open my eyes yet, 
wanting to hold onto this moment for as long as possible.

Mulder's arm leaves my waist, his hand stealthily brushing the hair 
away from my face.  I open my eyes and tilt my head up to meet his 
gaze. Softer than a whisper, his fingers graze my face and linger 
there.  He holds my gaze for a few seconds before giving an 
embarrassed, even apologetic, little smile, and starts to pull away.

Instinctively, I grab his shirt.  My voice is thick. "Don't go," I manage.  
"Stay."  A dozen reactions flash through his eyes in a matter of 
seconds, colors shifting like a gold-green-blue-gray kaleidoscope.  I 
am mesmerized.  That must be it.  It is the only rational explanation 
for what I do next.  I lift one hand to mimic his gesture, my fingertips 
grazing over his stubbled jaw.  Hesitantly, I slide up, never losing 
contact with his gaze, neither of us closing our eyes even as our 
noses brush, even when I breathe in as if preparing to swim an 
Olympic length under water.  I am breathing him in, inclining closer, 
so close, until our mouths find one another.  This accomplished, my 
eyelids finally drop, surrendering to the light.

###

I have forgotten how to breathe.  I don't really care.  I would gladly go 
without air as long as Scully keeps her mouth sealed over mine.  So 
warm.  So liquid.  So trusting and so worthy of trust.

Oh God.

She nibbles gingerly at the edges of my lips, then salves them 
sensitively with the tip of her tongue.  Her curious mouth explores the 
underside of my chin, my jaw, then wanders to the side of my face.  
When her tongue probes at my ear, I discover I apparently am able to 
breathe.  Involuntarily, I suck in a deep, dizzying chestful of air, and 
let out a long, shuddering sigh.

Easy, boy.  That's it.  Don't want to pass out now and miss 
everything.

Even after this short absence, my mouth misses hers.  It occurs to me 
that I haven't returned her kisses, only accepted them.  Lacing my 
fingers through her sleep-tousled hair, I glide my lips over the 
burnished strands, then drag them in a direct route over her forehead, 
nose, at last finding the pink-petal softness of her mouth.  Sweet, 
infinitely edible, returning my attention with ever-increasing ardor.

One of us groans infinitesimally.  I think it's Scully.  Her small, strong 
hands roam over my back, kneading at my shoulders.  She rolls onto 
her back, tugging me on top of her in the process.  She must be able 
to feel my hard-on pressing against her - she's a doctor, for 
godsakes.  Not that it takes some sort of special training to detect the 
lump of coal in my stocking...in fact, she squirms a little underneath 
me, building the friction in fits and starts.  Then she says it.  Out loud.  
"Make love with me Mulder."  Her voice is all rock salt and molasses, 
those startling eyes fixed squarely on mine.

Scully has always been one to choose her words carefully.  She 
doesn't use that particular phrase off-handedly.  It's the closest she 
can come to giving voice to what we already know to be the truth.  
And it scares the living hell out of me.  A tornado materializes in my 
chest, churning my stomach, ripping my anxieties from their moorings 
and whipping them about, clogging my nose and throat, blinding me 
in its dark whirlwind.

"S-S-Scully," I stutter, not at all sure the contents of the fruit basket 
will stay down.  "What are we doing here?"

She must think I'm putting her on, because she sighs good-naturedly 
and croons, "I thought that was fairly obvious."  One hand snakes 
through my hair and tries to pull me down for another kiss. 

Without explanation, I resist.  I break into a cold sweat, flight instinct 
in overdrive.  I rest my forehead against hers long enough to whisper, 
"I'm sorry."  Sickly, I disentangle myself from the bedclothes, from 
her, and escape to the bathroom.  I do not pass GO, I do not collect 
$200.  I do slam the door and lock it behind me.

###

The sucking sound you hear is my heart, being siphoned out of my 
chest through a half-centimeter drinking straw.  I lie on the bed, 
stunned, too stunned to let sobs or screams form in my chest or erupt 
from my throat.  Never, not once did I stop to consider that Mulder 
might react this way.

One thing is for certain.  I've got to get out of here.  I fling myself off 
the bed and retrieve my slacks from the clothes rack next to the 
bathroom.  Twin bolts of worry and humiliation streak through me as I 
pass the door and consider knocking.  But what would I say, what 
could I?  Gee, sorry I jumped you for the second time today, /partner/.  
Five years of meaningful looks, chemistry that would dissolve 
Madame Curie's beakers, double entendres to shame Benny Hill, 
trust and respect and friendship, and always, always the suggestion 
of something more, waiting, just beneath the surface.  I pull on my 
ruined shoes, rough and misshapen from my journey through the 
Trenches, and grab my coat.

All this time, I have more or less assumed that Mulder was waiting for 
me to make a move.  Waiting until I was sure of my feelings, sure of 
his, or at least sure enough to risk our partnership.  How could I have 
fallen for such an obvious clich‚?  Ice maiden finally melts and 
expects her hero to swoon with relief and gratitude, perpetually ready 
to ravish and be ravished.  Now I know why ice maidens stay 
maidens.  Once they've sweated the heat of the day, they eventually 
realize the sun is an aloof, unreachable star.  To salvage what's left of 
themselves, they never brave the light again.

I check the closet for extra blankets, finding none.  I'll have to be 
satisfied with my coat and a pillow, which I snatch angrily from the 
bed.  Just as I get to the door, my hand turning the knob, Mulder 
scuffs out of the bathroom.

###

OhshitOhshitOhshit.

Every daydream and every nightmare collide and manifest 
themselves in one night.  Half of my brain is still ringing with sheer 
elation.  The other half is envisioning my own personal Armageddon. 

God.  The feel of her in my arms.  Lithe and cuddly as a kitten.  She'd 
crack my nuts to hear me say something like that, but I'd swear she 
was purring.  Without saying a word, she poured everything out to 
me, completely laid herself open.  Showed me her doubts, fears, 
desires. And like Pandora's box, once all of these things rose up from 
her eyes, I looked into the clear blue depths and I'll be damned if at 
the bottom of it all I didn't see hope.  Hope.  The very essence of the 
human condition.  The single word that defines what Scully and I 
have.  But we are all-too-familiar with the dark side of hope:  
disappointment and despair.  Though I'm not known for weighing 
consequences in emotional matters, even I can't blind myself to the 
very real dangers of trying to make my fantasies real.

I turn on the cold water faucet and splash it over my still-flushed face.  
Blindly, I grope for the towel rack.  What I grab and swab across my 
face is most definitely not a towel.  They're light blue, stretchy cotton.  
Tiny but modest.  Practical, even.  My erection, which sagged along 
with my spirits when I tore myself from Scully's embrace, makes a 
stunning return, enlivened by two nearly simultaneous realizations.  
One:  These are Scully's panties.  That in itself is enough to warrant 
fresh arousal.  Two, and more earth-shattering:  If I'm in here holding 
her underwear