Title: Lost in the Stillness
Author: Shelba
Email: Kits1013 @ aol.com
Rating:  R
Archive: I'd be honored; just tell me where
Category: RST, Post-Ep
Pairings: Mulder/Scully
Spoilers: Grotesque
Disclaimer: Not mine. 
Feedback: Please! Send to Kits1013 at AOL.com.

Written for the Fandomonium Season of Smut Challenge, Season Three.
 

Alexander Memorial Hospital
8:30 PM

Time crawled. There were just too many people in the hospital lounge.                                   
Mulder wanted to escape this place with its too-bright lights and 
careful conversations. He needed silence for his post-profile 
decompression and solitude to tame his emotions and clear the muck 
from his mind. He wanted to forget the last few days; he wished he 
could scour his soul.
While they waited, Mulder paced or stood and stared out windows. 
He had managed to be civil while declining offers of coffee and food. 
The others finally granted his wish that he be left alone, although                                
Scully couldn't keep her worried glaze from seeking him out. She sat 
with Bill Patterson's daughter Isabelle near the Surgery Receptionist's 
desk while A.D. Skinner drank coffee and talked quietly with Bill's wife 
during the interminable wait for news. 

Mulder had met Mrs. Patterson when he first joined the Bureau. She 
took a liking to the young agent and cautioned her husband to go 
easy on him.  For the first year or so Bill had not been as hard on 
Mulder as he would come to be. Young, innocent and straight from 
college, Mulder needed time to adjust to life in the BSU. He would 
always be grateful to Glenda Patterson for her kindness.

Patterson was a son of a bitch with an innate, if twisted, sense of 
honor. When he found himself mired in the darkness and unable 
to escape alone, he called on the one person who would be strong 
enough to go in after him, a man he trusted to stop him. 

Mrs. Patterson grasped Mulder's hand and thanked him for trying 
to help her husband. Her gentle regard nearly brought Mulder to 
tears. He wanted to express his regret and sympathy but the words 
stuck in his throat. Mulder returned the warm pressure of her 
hand and nodded. She smiled her understanding then turned 
her attention elsewhere so he could escape the hospital ritual 
of small talk.

When the news finally came Mulder was torn between relief
and sorrow. Patterson would survive, but the brilliant, arrogant 
man he had been was gone forever. One of Mulder's greatest 
strengths and yet potentially most devastating character traits 
was his capacity for empathy.  Mulder had killed in the line of 
duty and might have to do so again. Guilt was a stone in one's 
soul and Mulder could not imagine being weighed down with 
the blood of innocents. If Bill Patterson ever regained any 
semblance of sanity, guilt alone would keep him locked in 
hell with Mostow for the rest of his life. It might have been 
better if he had not survived.  

Mulder's solitary footsteps reverberated in the stairwell. He was 
exhausted and wanted to avoid the people he would inevitably 
meet on an elevator. He didn't want to run into any other agents. 
He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to think 
about Mostow, didn't want to think about the victims.

He didn't want to think about Scully and the fear and worry 
he'd seen on her face or the suspicion he heard in her voice. 
He'd been shocked that for a few moments, Scully had thought
him guilty of a heinous crime.  She had thought he was capable 
of killing Nemhauser, that he was actually capable of murder.

His mind skittered away from the pain, but a memory intruded 
that he couldn't banish. The Calusari had warned him that evil 
already knew him. The words threatened to form a permanent 
loop in his mind. After all, Bill Patterson had been aware of the 
danger of delving into a madman's mind. 

Innocence and vigilance might not be enough to save Mulder.  
Scully could easily have been right about him; she might yet be.

Scully watched Mulder disappear through the stairwell door. She 
wanted to talk to him; to make sure he was okay. The thud of shoes 
on steel risers followed him down the stairs, the sound echoing. 
Mulder's usual long strides were no advantage on stairs and as 
they descended she was catching up to him. 

She was surprised when he didn't notice that someone was in the 
stairwell with him. Mulder's paranoia was a well honed defense 
mechanism and this lack of caution, unusual. It spoke to his 
exhaustion and distraction. She was afraid that he might not 
make it home safely but she doubted that he would let her drive 
him. No matter. If he didn't allow her to take him home. . .
Well, she knew where he lived, now didn't she? 

Aside from Mulder's fatigue and inattention, something else had 
preyed on her mind. Something had nagged at her while she 
studied the reports and when the latest victim landed on her 
autopsy table, the nagging concern blossomed into fear. 
 
All of the victims had been slender, darkly beautiful men. 
Mostow's last victim had been an artist's model. He was tall, 
lightly but beautifully muscled, and had droopy eyes, full lips,
a generous nose, and strong, uneven but attractive features.  
Cut his shoulder length hair and from a distance, he could be 
mistaken for Mulder. Even Nemhauser had been slender and 
dark with a long face and gentle features. 

There was no denying it; many of the victims could have 
passed for Mulder's brothers. It seemed that no one noticed 
that Mulder fit the victim profile, that it was dangerous for him 
to be on  the case in the first place. She shuddered to think of 
Mulder, his face slashed, the soul gone from his eyes, his 
mutilation revealed as bloody clay was peeled from his body. 

Mulder would have known he fit the victim profile as soon as 
he saw it.  He was alone in the dark when he found Agent 
Nemhauser's body. How terrifying that must have been.

She thanked God that when Patterson found Mulder asleep at 
Mostow's studio, his mind was still somewhat intact and he 
was able to hold his demons at bay. Mulder was younger 
with a wiry strength but Patterson out weighed Mulder 
and had the advantage of surprise and strength enhanced 
by insanity.  He could have over powered the younger 
man easily.

Scully knew her fears were groundless. Mostow and Patterson 
had both been dealt with. It was ridiculous to think that some 
demon sought another vehicle to commit murder. Regardless 
of how silly it was, the idea chilled her.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and reached for the 
door. A strong grip on her arm spun her back against the 
handrail. Her weapon was trapped between her back 
and the waist high rail; even if she could reach it, she 
wouldn't be able to draw it. She shoved at the dark form 
of her assailant. As she opened her mouth to scream 
she was stopped short by a familiar voice.

"Did I scare you?" 

Scully glared at him. "Jesus, Mulder. Are you trying to give 
me a coronary?"

Mulder pulled her toward him, his warm breath fanning her 
face. "What's the matter? Afraid of me Scully?"

"What? Of course not."

"Of course not? Why 'of course'?" Suddenly he loomed 
closer, his face inches from hers. She flashed back to the 
warehouse. In her mind he saw him framed by sepulchral 
images. Backlit by the dim exit light above the door, 
his face was darkened with shifting shadows. She found 
herself staring up into wide glazed eyes. "You were 
before," he growled.  

She swallowed, wishing she was more certain of her 
words. "No Mulder. I wasn't afraid then. And I'm not now."

He snorted and looked away. "Could a fooled me." He released 
her.

Scully's wrists stung from her partner's grasp but she resisted 
the urge to rub them. After three years, Mulder certainly knew 
that she bruised like a peach. Even so, he would flog himself 
if he knew that he left bruises that encircled her arms, that 
he had marked her with his strength. The idea sent a tremor 
through her.

"I know you; I trust you." 

"Really. You trust me. You thought I took Mostow's knife from 
Evidence. You won't admit it; it might only have been for a 
minute, but you thought I murdered Nemhauser." 

The anger leached from his voice, replaced by a bone-deep sadness. 
He lowered his gaze. "Everyone says that one day, ole Spooky will 
turn out to be one of his monsters. I don't blame you if you thought 
that day had come."  He nodded to himself, never raising his eyes. 
"Yeah. You believed." 

"Mulder, wait. I'm sorry. I'd heard how good you were, that you 
make connections that were so accurate, they're uncanny.  But 
hearing about it and seeing your profiling first-hand. . . well, 
that was another thing entirely. I probably reacted badly a 
couple of times. I didn't intend to hurt you."

He searched her eyes for the truth. He seemed uncertain about 
what he read in them. He nodded. "Okay." He pulled his keys 
from his pocket and made a show of studying them. 

She willed him to look at her. "No, it's not 'okay.' Let me 
finish. The evidence did suggest that you took the knife, 
but I didn't think you had hurt anyone. I don't think 
you could ever do such a thing." 

He reached the door in two long strides. His tired voice floated 
back to her. " I have to go." Hurt and confused, he was drawing 
farther away from her. 

Scully needed for him to listen. If she couldn't get through to 
him their partnership could suffer irreparable damage. Their 
friendship would die. Future possibilities would become 
wisps on the wind.  

"Hey Mulder, wait. You know what? I'm hungry and you 
haven't eaten.  Why don't we go get something?" His head 
was shaking 'no' even as she asked. "At least get some caffeine 
in you so you don't fall asleep at the wheel."

He chuffed a weak laugh. "Sleep? Don't worry. I won't be 
sleeping any time soon. You go on.  Enjoy your supper.  
I'll see you at work."

Before Scully could respond, Mulder slipped out the door. 
She burst out into the night after him. She pulled out her 
keys and raced toward her car, scanning the parking lot 
as she went. She thought she would catch up with him, 
but before she reached her car she heard the growl of an 
engine, then saw a pair of tail lights speeding away. 

Alexandria
Harrison's Bar and Grill
10:40 PM

Mulder tilted his glass and studied the dark liquid swirling 
at the bottom. The 80 Proof whirlpool had transformed the 
tiny ice-cube glaciers into little floes, then to mere slivers. 
The booze was so watered down, it was going to taste like 
crap, but after four - - or was it five? --  Jack Daniel's on 
the rocks, he wouldn't be able to taste it anyway.

"Hey, Mulder." Jennifer O'Connelly placed a cup of coffee 
in front of him and ordered him to drink. When the young 
woman didn't get a response from her customer, she  leaned 
across the bar and tried again. "Mulder. Drink this. Then, 
you want me to call you a cab, right?"

"Hmm?" Mulder's bleary eyes left the interior of his glass 
and focused on the blue eyes regarding him. Scully? Wait. 
This was a bar. Scully didn't tend bar. Scully cut up dead
folks. He looked around. No dead folks here. 'Course,
that would be bad for Jennifer's business. But Scully didn't 
seem to be here at all. He frowned, remembering. Scully must 
still be upset with him. Maybe that's why she didn't come.

Scully would appreciate his scholarly attention to the science 
of ice swirling, though. He would have to ask her what that 
would be called. Cubology maybe?  He wondered if Jennifer 
would know.  She knew a lot about booze, so she had to 
know a lot about ice. Didn't she?

He spoke in the careful, polite manner of the inebriated. 
"I'm sorry. I was watching the swirly thing in this glass.  
What did you say, Jen?" 

"I said, it's about time for me to call you a cab." He stared 
at her, his expression blank. She elaborated, "You know. 
A guy lets you in his car. You give him money and he 
takes you somewhere."

"Ah." Mulder nodded sagely. "A conveyance for hire."

"Yeah, Spooky. Trans-por-ta-tion to your pad." 

Mulder frowned. "Transporter pad?" He looked down. "I'm 
glad my shirt isn't red. Get it? Red shirt." He laughed at his 
own cleverness, then looked at it again. "Is it?"

She smiled at the oblique Star Trek reference. It seemed
that Mulder's inner geek was alive and well. "Yeah, I get it."  
She obliged and checked his shirt front. "Nope. It's white. But 
it does have some hot wing sauce on it. That stuff's red."

"Oh. That's okay then." 

She studied him. "You know, it's been a long time since I've 
seen you drink this much. Either you haven't *been* drinking, 
or you're cheating on me with another bartender." She hesitated, 
laid a hand on his arm. "Your partner doing ok?"

"Scully? Nothin' wrong with her. Nope. She's good." He smiled, 
a goofy, crooked smile. "She's great."

"Then what's the deal, Mulder? Don't you know you're supposed 
to tell your bartender everything?"

"I know all about you bartender psychics, psychos...shrinks. Don't 
need one. Yet. I don't need a cab either. I can drive; didn't drink 
that much. Just a couple of these." He waggled the glass at her. 

"A couple? Your math skills are a bit off, or we don't count the 
same way." 

" I can count." He held up two fingers. "I had four drinks. "

"Ah. Four? Try seven. And for you, Mr. I-Only-Drink-Guiness, 
and usually not a whole one, seven Jack's on the rocks is a 
whole lot of Tennessee's finest."

"Whatever. What was the question? Oh. Wait. I know. Why 
I'm drinkin'." He peered at her. "Is this a trick question?" 

She shook her head no. 

"Okay then." He continued, " I'm drinking because it's . . .it's 
my heri .... hermitage.... hermetic.... it's a legality.... a leggy...." 
He lifted his glass in a wobbly toast. "It's a family tradition."

"Tradition? Hon, if this is tradition, I don't think you've got 
the hang of  it yet. I'll call your partner if you don't want a 
cab, but buster, you are not driving home." Jennifer pried 
the whiskey glass out of his hand and put the coffee cup 
back in it. "Now drink this."

"What's this?"

"It's coffee. You drink it." 

He obediently took a sip, then made a face. "You're trying to 
poison me."

"Not today. Maybe next time, if you're good. So drink it. Now."

Mulder nodded and gamely sipped at the coffee. Satisfied 
that he was diluting the blood in his booze-stream, Jennifer 
picked up her phone and started to dial a familiar number. 

"Hey, I'll go home if it makes you happy. Just don't call my 
partner."  He dragged items from his pockets until he found 
his wallet, then pulled it open.  Jennifer plucked his key ring 
from the bar, removed the car keys and tucked the denuded 
key ring into his shirt pocket. 

"Hey, Jen. Could you do me a favor?" He studied his wallet 
with a frown.

Jennifer looked up from her phone. "I'm doing one now. Uncle 
George will be here soon. What do you want?"

"I seem to be having some difficulty ascertaining which 
pieces of paper to give you." He held the wallet out.

Jennifer looked and shook her head. There were three 
five-dollar bills, a one with a phone number scrawled on  
it, two sunflower seeds and a wad of receipts crammed 
into the bill compartment. "I hate to break it to you, 
Spooky, but I don't think you've got enough in there."

"Oh. Ok. No problemo. Here." He fumbled out a piece of 
plastic  and dropped it on the bar.

She studied it and tucked it back into the wallet. "Uh uh. The 
last time you gave me your Bureau card, your partner made me 
swear, I wouldn't let you do it again." She patted his shoulder.
 "Don't worry about it. You'll have enough cash to pay your 
cab fare. You can pay me next time you're in."

"What if I forget?"

"I'll remind you."  She winked. "And if you don't have enough, 
we can work something out. Something in trade, perhaps?" 

Mulder flushed bright red and Jennifer laughed. "Don't worry, 
Mulder. I'm kidding. I've seen your partner's gun." A honk 
sounded before Mulder could puzzle out her meaning and 
formulate a response. "Come on, pal. Time for all good little 
fibbies to go home."

She steered Mulder to the curb and with the cabby's help, 
poured him into the back seat. "George, this is Mulder. Say 
'Hi,' Mulder." Mulder managed a wave. "Get him home and 
into his apartment safe and sound, won't  you, George? I 
think he's had a tough day."

George rubbed his chin. "A fine lookin' boy. Pining over a 
lass?"

"He says it's not woman trouble. Probably work. He doesn't 
usually drink like this. He's a fibbie, but he's an okay guy."

"Ah, a man of the law. And one that can't hold his likker.  
Sure, I'll just be seein' him on home then, don't you worry."

"Thanks, George. If he doesn't have enough for the fare, let 
me know. He should have, just don't let him talk you into 
going anywhere but 42 Hegel Place. Unless he wants to 
go to his partner's place. It's in Georgetown. Call me for the 
address; don't take his word for it. He'll con you. Agent Scully 
might kill him for getting drunk, but she won't mess up your 
cab and she'll take care of his fare." 

"Scully? An Irish name. A fearsome woman?" 

"You have no idea," Mulder groaned. "Shot me once."

"Shut up, Mulder." Jennifer grinned. "Yeah, she's fearsome. 
Tiny. Red hair and a gun."

"Ah, an Irish lass with a weapon. Hegel Place it 'tis, then. Don't 
you worry, love; he's safe as a babe in his mother's arms."

The cab pulled away from the curb. Jennifer watched the tail lights turn 
a corner, then speed off. Jennifer hoped Mulder wasn't prone to motion 
sickness. She shook her head. Mulder could be such an idiot. Didn't he 
know, whatever he had done, his partner would forgive him? 


Hegel Place
Apartment 42
10:45 PM

Scully grasped the doorknob, surprised when it turned easily 
under her hand.  She would not have believed it possible, but there 
were even more drawings than the last time she was here.  Most 
still clung to the walls but a few were scattered across the floor 
like monstrous leaves.

The pungent odor of old pizza hung in the air. She wrinkled her nose 
and stepped farther into the room. A pizza box, complete with an entire 
dried-out pizza lay under the coffee table. A bag of  trash sat beside the 
couch as though Mulder had started toward the door with it and then simply 
walked away from it. A spongy gray mass obscured the surface of  the 
coffee table. Closer inspection revealed it to be clay. A partially formed 
gargoyle seemed to be growing out of the dark wood. 

She grabbed Mulder's cordless phone and headed back to the hallway. 
Speed dial three gave her what she needed. After a few rings, a familiar 
voice sounded in her ear. <'Mulder, you better have a damned good reason 
for waking me up.' >

"Whatever happened to 'Magic Bullet, what conspiracy are *you* part of?' "

<'Ah, the delectable Agent Scully.'> She waited for the innuendo she knew 
was coming. <'Pray tell, why are you calling from Mulder's place so late? 
Are you compromising his honor? Want to compromise mine? '>

"Frohike, that tape machine had better be off."

<'It's off. '>

"Melvin, I'm warning you. . ."

A soft click sounded in her ear. <'Ok,'> he grumbled. Grumbles were ok. 
Grumbles were just fine. He could even pout. As long as she didn't 
have to watch him do it, she didn't care if he sucked his thumb and 
clung to a blankie.

"That's better. Have you seen him?" Scully didn't have to specify which 
'him' she meant. 

<'You mean he's not at his place? '>

"Noooo, if he were here, I wouldn't be calling Geek Central."

<'Now that was harsh. But I'll forgive you if. . . .'>

"Frohike. Gun."

<'Just one little favor? '>

"Are you forgetting I shot Mulder? And I like him better than I do you."

<'Just 'cause he's taller. Crap. Now the guys are up and Mr. Goody Two 
Shoes wants to put you on speaker. Is that ok? '>

"Sure." Muffled voices came over the line. <Narc> <Hippie> <Looo-zer.> 
She sighed. "Are you guys done? Should I go do my nails or something? "

<'Agent Scully, what can we do for you? Frohike refuses to say.'>

<'Hey Narc,*I* don't know yet and if you had left me alone she would 
have told me.>

"Guys! I'm too tired for this. Byers, I was trying to tell Frohike that
I'm looking for Mulder. He's not answering his phones and he's not at 
work or at his apartment." She gave the door an uneasy glance. "Though 
I certainly can't blame him for that."

<'So what's up with Mulder? Did he ditch you? That bastard! '>  Langley 
sounded wired. Scully hoped his kung-fu was up to a Fox hunt. 

"No, no ditching. Not exactly. You guys heard about the Mostow case, 
right?" 
 
A chorus of "yeses" answered her, followed by Frohike's low whistle. 
<'The guy who carved his victims into gargoyles?'>

<'If Mulder profiled that case, no wonder you're concerned. Can we help
in some way, Agent Scully?'>

Byers's offer went a long way toward soothing her ragged nerves. She really 
did not want to tackle the apartment alone. 

"John, I don't want him to have to come back and deal with this mess 
alone. I'd rather he not even have to see it again.  I couldn't stand being in 
there long enough  to use the phone. I'm in the hall with his cordless. I 
can't imagine how he slept in there."

<'Dude, what's wrong with the big Dude's pad? '>

"He drew stuff. Pictures.  Gargoyles. Dozens of them. They're all over. 
On every wall and he's got a clay one laid out on his coffee table."

<'Monster in state. Harsh decorating.'> 

<'Hey, not to worry, pretty lady. The Narc and I will help you clean up. 
Blondie will look for Mulder. '>

<'If he's used a credit card, he's mine.'>

Scully felt a rush of warmth and unexpected affection for Mulder's trio 
of odd buddies. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

<'Do you want us to bring anything?'>

"Yes, if you have extra trash bags, bring them. I don't know what 
cleaning supplies Mulder has, and I am not rummaging around 
in there.  It'll take me a little while, but I'm going to go home to 
change into some old clothes. I'll grabsome stuff to work with. 
If we need anything else, I can get it at the twenty-four 
hour market near Mulder's place.  I'll meet you here. And 
guys? Thanks."

Hegel Place
11:00 PM

The yellow cab coasted up to the curb and glided smoothly to
a stop.  "Lad, you awake? Here's your place; let's go."

Mulder blinked and looked around.  "Thanks, George." He handed his money 
to the cabbie and climbed out. "I'm ok. You don't have to come up with me."

"And you're sure? I promised Jennifer that I'd see ye home and you do
look a mite wobbly. . . ."

"No, really. I've got it. Thanks for the coffee. I appreciate the help."

George had a huge red coffee thermos that rode shotgun with him. He had
given Mulder a cup to help clear his head, but in the confines of the cab 
the smell of the coffee was nauseating. Clucking in sympathy George 
had taken pity on Mulder's abused stomach  and  opened a window to 
dispel the odor.  Once Mulder's stomach had settled he was able to drink two 
cups of George's brew. The combination of coffee and cool air cleared 
his mind, and he figured he would be able to manage the long hike to the 
elevator. As long as his bladder didn't burst from seven Jack's on the 
Rocks and three cups of java, he'd be fine.

"Ok, then. You take care of yourself and apologize to your woman."

"She's not. . ." He shook his head. 'Never mind that,' he thought. 
"Apologize? What am I supposed to apologize for?"

"Son, it never hurts to apologize. 'Tis a rare day when a woman can't 
think up a reason for you." George grinned and waved, and an open 
mouthed Mulder watched the cab pull away from the curb.

Mulder wobbled a bit as he walked, but he kept his legs under him 
and found that as he continued, he felt steadier and his mind got 
much clearer. 

Unfortunately clarity begets memory. His apartment was trashed with 
drawings. He couldn't sleep in there until he got rid of  them. He hadn't 
done laundry in a week; all of his suits, save the dirty one he was wearing, 
were at the cleaners. He was going to be called for OPR meetings, maybe 
as early as tomorrow. His car was still at Harrison's bar; he had used the 
last of his cash for the cab.  Scully was probably mad at him. 

He groaned. Scully was mad at him. George was right.

He made his way from the elevator to his apartment. He managed to unlock
the door on the second try, and taking a deep breath, entered. He looked
around.  It was as bad as he remembered. He turned on a small light near 
the door so he wouldn't trip and kill himself. The others he left off in 
deference to the post-whisky headache that was starting to tap dance 
in his skull.

He shrugged out of his suit coat and tossed it and his trench coat 
over a chair. He walked to the wall and stared at the mess.
The dark drawings stared back at him. He started pulling them 
down. He hoped he had enough trash bags for the mess.
 
Alexandria 
Quick Mart and Deli
11:45 PM

Scully changed into an old sweat shirt and a pair of black sweat 
pants. Leggings would have been more comfortable, but she 
didn't want Frohike to get distracted and hurt himself. 

Comfortable clothes and a fast shower had done wonders 
for her fatigue, but she hadn't eaten since she had a package 
of crackers at the hospital and her stomach was protesting the 
neglect. She decided to get a sandwich rather than eat the 
pizza Frohike would almost certainly order. She munched 
on a vegetable pita as she pushed her cart through the aisles. 
But thinking about Mulder's art gallery wreaked havoc with 
her appetite, so after a few bites she discarded the sandwich 
and washed down the doughy taste with a Diet Coke. 

She could always reconsider the pizza. She'd make Frohike 
order a veggie supreme.

Two bags of cleaning supplies, one mop, a plastic pail, a package 
of sponges, and one box of trash bags later, Scully was in her car 
and heading back to Hegel Place. 
 
Scully neared Mulder's exit and groaned. A three-car accident 
at the exit ramp had the entire street blocked off. Yellow hazard 
lights washed the area with gold.  A knot of people watched a 
motorcycle policeman moderating an argument. Every so often
someone would offer a suggestions and delay detente. 

She turned off the engine and called the Gunmen but got no response. 
When left to his own devices Langly  turned off everything but the 
caller ID and used it to record numbers. He hated to be disturbed while 
working.  He said the voices on the machine wrecked his karma. 
Whatever that meant. 

She tried Mulder's cell phone and was pleased when it rang. At least he had
turned it back on. He might even answer it next time. 

Scully watched the altercation between the tow truck drivers and policeman 
with a bored interest. When the drivers finally hooked up the damaged cars 
and began clearing the intersection, she sighed with relief.   The guys were 
nice enough to help her; she didn't want to keep them waiting outside 
Mulder's place.  She thought about that for a moment, then laughed. Frohike 
was as proficient with a lock pick as he was a computer. Byers would grouse 
about the illegal nature of breaking and entering, but would keep watch 
while Frohike practiced his burglary skills. 

Although it would be entertaining to see their reactions when they 
walked into Mulder's place, maybe she'd get lucky and they would 
already have the drawings down when she arrived.


Hegel Place
12:15 AM

Scully hesitated, hand hovering next to the cockeyed '42' on the door.  
A muffled thump was followed by soft rustling. Someone was in 
Mulder's apartment. She smoothed her hair back from her face 
and pressed  an ear to the door.  The faint rustling from inside 
paused, then resumed. 

She jumped when a thump was followed by a muffled curse. The 
list of possible suspects had just decreased by a factor of two. It 
wasn't the Gunmen, for she would hear bickering. Scully briefly 
entertained the idea that Mulder was being robbed then dismissed it. 
She couldn't see a burglar even going in, much less staying in 
there long enough to actually steal anything. And Consortium 
goons, while not as polite as your average cat burglar, were 
quieter. 

She slipped her key into the lock and eased the door open.  

Grotesque images glared down at her and peered up from piles 
of wadded paper, but there seemed to be fewer of them. A 
box of charcoal pencils that teetered on the corner of Mulder's 
desk earlier, had lost their battle with gravity and formed a 
small gray landslide across the rug. A dented metal waste 
basket lay on its side next to the desk.  She hadn't noticed it 
earlier so she assumed its crushing had elicited the cursing. 

The curser was nowhere to be seen, but if Scully was any judge 
of odd noises, then Mulder had made it home.  After being partnered 
with Mulder for the better part of three years she was on her way 
to being an expert on odd noises. But odd noises aside, there was 
more evidence. The door to Mulder's bathroom had been open 
earlier but was closed now. Mulder's pin-stripe jacket, and his 
wool trench coat laying across a chair indicated that her partner 
was, indeed, home. 

She smiled and turned to close the door and gasped. She found 
herself face to face with a picture that seemed to be crying black 
tears.  Leave it to Mulder to have a charcoal demon picture with 
ebony stigmata tears. Closer examination revealed a broken pen 
jabbed into the wall through the eye, India ink trickling down to 
create a tiny black puddle on the floor.   

The clay figure was still splayed out on Mulder's coffee table. The 
upper face was intact, but the rest of the figure had been smashed 
into a misshapen lump. Of all the creepy things in the apartment, 
she found the clay effigy the creepiest. It  reminded her of the 
murdered corpses found in peat pits. 

A small lamp illuminated the area near the door, but the 
rest of the apartment was in shadow. She didn't relish being 
able to see the macabre drawings in any detail but she certainly 
wasn't going to pull them down in the dark. She told herself she 
needed more light to improve working conditions; it had nothing 
to do with the crypt-like atmosphere.  She fumbled under a drawing 
and found the wall switch. The lights on each end of the sofa came 
on and she looked up, startled to see Mulder standing across the 
room, blinking at her and shading his eyes. 

Her partner stood near the window, a mass of paper spilling out of 
a trash bag at his feet. One arm was full of crumpled paper, the other 
was protecting his eyes.  Several partially filled trash bags were 
scattered around the room. 

Mulder's face was camouflaged with ink and smeared charcoal. He 
owned some beautiful shirts but if Scully was any judge of laundry 
disasters this blue Armani was destined for the rag bin.  He wiped 
one mottled cheek on his shirtsleeve and added to the damage. Her 
heart sank when she looked at the rest of his clothing. The faded 
jeans he favored when off duty weren't in evidence. He still wore 
the pants from his dove gray suit. The fabric was smudged with ink, 
and streaks of charcoal and clay decorated his thighs. 

Mulder pulled a paper from the wall. "What's that?" He nodded at 
the pail dangling from one of Scully's hands, and the sponge mop, 
clenched in the other.

"Well, hi to you, too, Mulder." She stepped around the coffee table 
and over a small stack of blank paper. He would have used every sheet, 
continuing to draw, working until he learned who (or what, her mind 
supplied) the murderer was. 

"Sorry. Hi, Scully. So, what's up? Aren't you supposed to be 
home asleep?"

"I had an urge to see some ugly decor, so I decided to come and 
admire yours." She leaned the mop against the wall and dropped 
the pail next to it. Standing next to him, she surveyed the room. He 
had gotten a lot done already. He must have arrived shortly after she 
left. "Why do you think  I'm here? I came by to help you clean up." 

He shook his head. "Sweet talker. If I didn't agree about the esthetics, 
I'd be insulted." He pulled some more drawings down. "Thanks for the 
offer, but it's not necessary. Had a message on the machine. 
OPR meets with Skinner on Monday. I'm not due until Tuesday. 
I've got lots of time and nothing else to do." 

Her partner's skin and clothes stank of alcohol, cigarette smoke 
and a trace of unfamiliar perfume. She wondered if he had been 
drinking alone. She wondered if some woman had been allowed 
to touch him.  She wondered if he *done* any touching. She 
wanted to ask. She wanted to scream. 

She reminded herself that it really was none of her business. She 
tamped her inappropriate feelings down and looked at him. He 
needed a shave; his hair was mussed and oily from the charcoal 
and clay his hands had deposited as he'd raked his fingers through it. 
But what drew her, what concerned her, were the shadows in 
his eyes. 

Mulder seemed watchful and alert; his movements unimpaired 
by the drinking he had been doing. She could feel his eyes, the 
weight of his regard on her, but his eyes darted away when she 
tried to meet his gaze. 

She put a tentative hand on his, ready to draw back if he recoiled. At 
the hospital, when she'd brushed against him, he'd flinched 
so hard, he'd almost fallen. "Mulder, what is it?" 

He allowed the touch and a sigh, felt more than heard, escaped 
his lips. "It could happen to me, Scully." 

"You're okay. You're going to stay that way."

He dropped the sheet of paper he'd been worrying at, and stepped 
into her space.  "Promise?"

"Yeah." She smiled at his woeful expression. "Yeah, I do." She 
looked up into suddenly dark eyes and felt a tugging in her chest. 
He lifted one hand and brushed her cheek. 

Gravity shifted. Scully wondered where the air in the room had 
gone. The world slid out and away. It was only natural that they 
should find themselves falling toward one another. Close, closer 
than they had ever been  . . . .

Before their seeking mouths could touch, her cell phone rang. 
Scully gasped, Mulder jerked as if shot, and the spell was broken. 
Gravity shifted again and the world wobbled back to its 
mundane course. 

Mulder turned away and began yanking papers off the walls. 
Every time he thought they were on the verge of reaching out 
to one another, something interfered. 

He could hear her talking to someone, but none of the words 
made sense. She was telling someone not to come. What, did 
she have a date? He ripped more sheets down and punched them 
into a trash bag.

"Mulder? It's Byers. He and Frohike are on their way to help 
me clean your apartment. They had to stop for a wreck and 
picked up some glass and had to change a tire. I told them you 
were here and already had a lot done. Do you want them to 
come and help finish up?"

Scully was shaken. What had almost happened? When her cell 
phone rang she had felt the ridiculous urge to shout 'Saved by 
the bell!' John's call had broken the spell; a spell brought on 
by her worry, and his guilt and alcohol-lowered inhibitions.

Mulder took a couple of deep breaths. "No that's ok. Tell them 
to go on. . . Wait. Ask them if they could go get my car and 
take it to their place. It's at Harrison's."

Scully looked puzzled. "Do the guys have keys to your 
car?"

"No. Jennifer has my keys." 

Scully frowned at this, but relayed his request to Byers.. "Yeah. 
Harrison's. You know it?" She listened for a minute. "I see . . . Yes,
I've met her. She worked somewhere else. . . . Yes, I know Mulder 
likes her, too. . . .Yes, I'm glad too. . . .No, he didn't need to be 
driving. . . .No, you don't need to. . . .We'll come pick the car up." 
She shot a glance at her partner. "He's fine. . . . Um, hmm. I'm 
sure. . . .I'll tell him. . . .Yeah. . . .I know. . . . .Ok. I'm sure. . . . 
Absolutely. . . ." She turned her phone off and snapped it closed.. 

Scully didn't want to think about what might have happened if 
Byers had not called. Mulder was going to kiss her, she was 
certain. Just as she was certain she was going to let him. Thank 
God<,> that had not happened. To take such a step because of 
high emotion and alcohol-impaired judgment would be 
detrimental to their partnership.  Making such a fundamental 
change in their friendship would be disastrous.

In the morning, Mulder might not even remember that they 
nearly kissed. If he did, after he sobered up, he would regret it. 
If it was for the best, why then did she feel so let down? 

"Byers said to tell you, there's room for your car in the garage 
where they keep the van. I told him, we've got everything under 
control." 
 
"Yeah. That's right. We've got *everything* under control." He 
kept his face averted, ripping sheets of  paper, complete with tape, 
paint, and plaster chunks from the walls, then cramming them into 
trash bags. Behind him he heard the whisper of pages as Scully 
separated adhesive from paint<,> and the crackling as they were 
folded and placed into bags. 

Mulder ripped the next sheet in two. 

 ~  ~~ 
After Byers's call, the rest of the clean-up went quickly; Mulder's 
energetic gargoyle removal meant his walls would have to be 
repaired, but all of the 'artwork' was stuffed in bags for disposal. 
Scully eyed them, wondering how many trips to the dumpster 
would be required.

"Don't worry about this stuff, Scully. There's a neighbor kid who 
does odd jobs for me. He'll carry all of it out for a few bucks 
in the morning.  "
 
"Ok. Sounds good. I don't know about you, but I'm tired and 
hungry. As far as I can tell, you have no clean clothes or food 
in here. Come back to my place. I've got stuff for sandwiches." 
In an attempt to lighten the mood, she continued in a sing-song 
voice, " And, I've got clean to-wels." 

She was gratified by his answering chuckle. "High class offer!  
Sounds like fun, but I need to do laundry before I go anywhere." 
Still smiling fondly, he continued,  "You go on home. I'll take 
care of my laundry, and I swear, I won't starve." He waggled 
his fingers. "See? My dialing hand works."

"And you're going to stay in your suit until tomorrow? Your 
overnight bag is in my closet and you left a pair of sweats in 
my car. Come on. I'll feed you and you can get clean." She 
wrinkled her nose. "We can have a burial service for your 
poor suit and that pathetic shirt."

He looked mournfully at his ruined clothing. "Oh, yeah. They 
are bad, aren't they? But really, Scully, you're tired too. Don't 
go to all that trouble on my account."

"It's no trouble. If you feel really indebted, when you do your 
laundry, you can do mine."

"Aren't you worried about our undies consorting in a washer?"

"So, you think what? That your boxers will get assaulted? Come 
on. You're coming home with me. You have everything you need 
for tonight and we'll see about that laundry tomorrow. " 

"Everything I need. Right." He watched her putter around, tying 
trash bags and stowing cleaning supplies. Yeah, everything he needed. 
He doubted that Scully would appreciate, or agree, that *she*
was everything he needed.

She continued, "We both can stand a shower and some clean 
clothes.  Then after we eat, we can get some sleep."

"I won't share a shower unless you wash my back." Ah, there 
it was. The expected innuendo was not up to his usual level, 
(or down, depending on one's standards),  but there it was. 

"Sorry, you wash your own back. Nice try though." 


Alexandria
2:00 AM

Hot water pounded his back; shampoo ran down his chest.  
Mulder lifted his arms to let the hot spray work out the kinks 
in his shoulders. What the hell? He sniffed at one armpit 
experimentally and wrinkled his nose. Ugh. Eau De Sweat 
mixed with Essence of Jack Daniel's. 

No wonder Scully had been relieved when Byers called. It's a 
wonder she hadn't hosed him down or thrown him out of his 
apartment. 

Mulder lathered up and scrubbed his body, again. When he 
decided he no longer smelled like bourbon and old socks, he 
stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel. 
For a moment he stared at his image in the mirror. He drew 
fingers through his hair, then along his stubbled jaw, his 
hands tremulous with fatigue and nerves.  If he shaved now 
he would probably cut his throat. Scully took a dim view of 
his bleeding all over the place.  He would shave in the morning.

Scully looked up from the sandwiches she was assembling 
and smiled. Mulder stood in the doorway, blinking at her. His 
hair was smoothed back from his face and stubble shaded his 
face. He had lost weight while profiling and his tee-shirt was
loose and the sweat pants he'd donned hung low on his hips. 
The Mostow case had only lasted a few days. What was he like, 
when a deep profile lasted for weeks? 

He shifted under her scrutiny. She averted her gaze.  "Feel 
better?" 

"Yeah, thanks."

She nodded  toward a chair. " I fixed some soup and sandwiches. 
Sit down before you fall down."

"You didn't have to go to all that trouble. I'm ok." 

"It's no trouble. I was hungry and fixing enough for two is as easy 
as fixing for one." She guided him to a chair. He was still upright, 
but she suspected he didn't have the energy to remain that way for 
long. "Come on, sit down." 

Scully placed a bowl of soup, a ham sandwich, and a bottle of 
iced tea in front of him. He picked up the sandwich but then 
returned it, un-tasted, to the plate. 

"What's wrong? Your sandwich okay?"

"It's fine." He picked up the sandwich as though to take a bite,
but couldn't bring it to his lips. The ham was pink and moist 
like torn flesh. The bread white, with tiny pores like spongy 
bone. He sighed and put it down again. "I'm sorry. I just don't 
think I can eat."  

Mulder had eaten next to nothing for a week and his stomach 
was now rebelling at putting anything in it. To add atrocity to 
abuse, he had found Agent Nemhauser butchered, his body 
covered in clay, his arms and legs scattered in corners, a cat 
lapping at one disembodied arm. 

"I'm sorry you went to all this trouble." Mulder pushed away 
from the table. Embarrassed by his perceived weakness, he blushed.
The pink, added to the green caused by his nausea, gave
him roughly the same complexion as one of his EBE's. "I'll 
just head on back to my place. I'll talk to you tomorrow.. Thanks 
for everything."

He began to rise but stopped when he found Scully's hand on  
his chest. "No, Mulder.  You're staying here." She smiled and scooted 
his bowl toward him. "Just try to eat a few bites of soup. It's not 
heavy and you'll feel better." 

Her partner nodded and dutifully took a sip of the rice soup. 
Then, when his stomach didn't protest, he ate a bit more before 
pushing the bowl away. He had eaten about half the soup. 
Better than she'd expected, not as good as she'd hoped for.

Mulder sipped a little tea, then hid a yawn behind his hand. 
"Sorry."

"No reason to be sorry." Scully pushed her chair back and 
squeezed his hand gently. "Come on," she said softly, "let's 
get you to bed."

Mulder looked up at her and she thought she detected a blush. 
Was this about that aborted kiss? She was taken aback at
this unexpected display of vulnerability. 

He dropped his gaze and bit his lip, but allowed her to lead 
him to her guest room. Stopping beside the bed, he simply stood 
over her, cradling her hand and staring into her eyes. There was 
that spell again. Scully found she couldn't breathe. She was teetering 
between desire and terror, when Mulder broke the gaze. He smiled
sadly, then slid under the covers, breathed goodnight, then fell 
asleep almost instantly. 

Weak kneed and trying to remember how to breathe, Scully supported 
herself against the door frame and for a moment she watched him 
sleep. The dim light from the window softened the lines in his 
face and washed away years of grief. Asleep, in the silver moonlight 
he looked younger; his features glowed as though lit from 
within by his innocent soul. 

She didn't understand what was happening with her partner. 
Did Profiling magnify his emotions and enhance his sensual 
nature? She didn't know how to deal with this emotional Mulder. 
But whatever was going on, she was thankful. He was safe. He 
was whole and sane. She closed the door, sending a prayer of 
thanks heavenward. 

Georgetown
4:15 AM

Mulder shivered, wondering how he had gotten here and where 
exactly, here was. The air was redolent with the oddly pleasant 
smell of compost and mustiness of fallen leaves. The earthy 
smells reminded him of summers on the Vineyard with his 
Grandma De Kuiper. She planted seeds in the shallow trenches 
that young Fox dug for her and he pulled weeds. While they talked 
he swiped tiny ears of corn and baby carrots, and happily snacked 
on the garden.

Mulder's grandmother had an extensive collection of books. 
Fox read them all. During those happy times on the Vineyard, 
Oma guided his inquiry and nurtured his curiosity. Religious 
tomes stood next to his Hardy Boys Mysteries.  Leather bound 
historical texts sat beside books on magic and myth, Greece 
and Rome. One shelf was dedicated to books about Medieval 
Europe and another, the Native American people of the Vineyard. 
Some books touched on ancient witches, others, their modern 
incarnations, the Wicca. 

The precocious six year old who loved The Hardy Boys gave way 
to the preteen who was wounded by the loss of his sister. As time 
passed and Oma showered him with love, Fox began to heal,
his curiosity revived and he delved into mythology and the 
mysteries they sought to explain. 

The young man who left for England took with him a fascination 
for the arcane. Fox absorbed tales of lost cultures and wondered 
what secrets might be revealed by them. He studied protective 
symbols, fertility rites, coming of age rituals, and ancient legends
and the stone shadows they left behind. Egyptian tombs, the mammoth 
heads of Easter Island, Pyramids, Stonehenge, and gargoyles all 
fascinated him.

The psychologist he became studied Jung and Campbell. He looked 
for truths and connections to the old stories. He asked questions that 
few cared about; he believed the stories held answers that applied 
to all human experience, that they transcended time.
 
The sun fell beyond the horizon. Beyond a rise of land the Atlantic 
dashed against the shore, grinding stone into sand. The familiar outline 
of his family's beach house rose above him, but Oma was nowhere 
to be seen and no lights brightened the windows. 

A bulbous moon appeared in the sky. It's sepulchral light leached 
color from the rich loam of the garden. Plants awoke and reached 
for him with jagged leaves painted purple and silver by moonlight. 
Sun-kissed pumpkins awaiting harvest during the day were 
transformed by moonlight.  Bloated and ashen, they trembled 
on twisted vines, vines that clung to his ankles, tripping him, 
grasping his body to drag him down.  

Fox shivered in the dark. He clawed his way along the row 
of plants. He wanted Oma. He wanted his mother. He asked 
where Samantha was, but the voices that answered rumbled 
from deep in the earth. They called his name and assurances
that he had nothing to fear, were followed by demands that
he stay forever. Gravelly voices declared that never again 
would he be alone. He would be among his own kind for 
all time. Forever, and ever, amen.

Time stumbled, then resumed its march. Oma did not answer 
his pleas; Samantha was silent.

Bizarre creatures with long faces and bat-like wings arose
from the loamy womb of the earth. The creatures' breath stank 
of sour compost and the cloying odor of dead things.  They 
lumbered after him, clutching his limbs and binding his body 
with vines. They smeared his body with thick clay that sapped 
his strength. They shaped him into a parody of a mummy, a 
living being turned artifact. 

Time shifted again. Samantha was long gone, Oma, dead for years. 
There was someone he needed, someone who was always there. 
As he struggled against the clay and vines that constricted his chest 
and bound his arms, an exquisite woman appeared. Her eyes 
were full of light and life and her smile promised to banish 
the darkness. Smoothing tear-loosened clay from his face, she
 murmured words of comfort and care and began releasing 
him from his bonds.

Mulder's short-lived relief transmuted into horror as one of 
the beings overshadowed her. He fought to free himself and 
keep the monster away from her but couldn't do it. The wings 
rose, higher, higher. They arched over her and faster than 
his eyes could follow, they covered her. She winked out 
as though she had never been. He screamed. 

"SCULLY!"

Dana Scully did not wake easily, but the terror filled voice of her 
partner yanked her from sleep. She bolted out of bed, wide awake, 
reaching for her weapon. 

"Scully! No! Scully!" 

Scully dashed from her room, eyes searching for something--
anything--out of place. She reached the spare room. Gun raised, 
she heard the rustling of bedclothes, heard Mulder's voice. She 
pushed open the door to the bedroom and rushed in, sweeping 
the room with her weapon.

Mulder was alone. There was no assailant accosting him. He 
wrestled with the sheets, his face pressed against a pillow.  
Sometime during the night, he had shed his tee shirt and 
sweat pants. Sweat glossed the skin of his back and long legs. 
Tears glinted on the side of his face, his body twisting and 
heaving. He gasped, "nononononono." 

Scully sagged in relief. This was a nightmare. Mulder's dreams 
were as imaginative as the concoctions of his waking mind were. 
Atrocities, both seen and experienced, were enhanced by the 
imaginings of a mind that was childlike in its wonder. Granted, 
Mulder's unconscious treated him to some impressive nightmares, 
but they were still just nightmares.  Nightmares, she could handle.

Scully placed her weapon on the floor outside the door. It wouldn't 
do to approach her partner, then have him open his eyes and see 
someone beside him with a gun. A fully awake Mulder possessed 
good reflexes, a wiry strength and a healthy paranoia; a sleeping 
Mulder was not much different. But a Mulder who was suddenly 
awakened while wracked by a night terror was likely to throttle 
first and ask questions later. 

"Mulder." She kept her distance, softly calling his name. She 
touched his shoulder, and recoiled as his hand moved to slap
her away. She tried another touch, this time to his foot, then 
one to his hip. All the while, she spoke to him, reassuring him, 
asking him to wake up. 

Mulder's frantic movements stilled, though his breath came 
in short pants. His eyes glinted from between lashes that 
shimmered with tears. Good. He was awake. She eased onto 
the mattress next to him and reached for him again, this 
time resting a hand on his shoulder. 

Mulder's long arm swept her off the bed as though he were batting 
a mosquito away. Scully shrieked in surprise. She landed against the 
wall several feet away from the foot of the bed, then yelped in pain

Mulder bolted upright, chest heaving, eyes wide. He stared down 
in grim triumph.  He came fully awake, blinked and his triumphant 
expression faded into horror. Scully was crumpled on her side by 
the wall, eyes wide with shock.

Scully lay still, checking herself for injury. She found a cut on 
her lip and a tender area on her cheek that would soon bloom 
like a field of irises. In spite of her hammering heart and sore face 
however, nothing was really damaged except her pride. 

She had been so certain that Mulder was awake,  she forgot an
important fact regarding the care and feeding of Fox Mulder: never 
assume he's going to respond the way you think he will.

She was annoyed with herself, and though she knew, she *knew,* 
Mulder had not done it intentionally, he *had* knocked her half 
silly. It was illogical but Scully was peeved. "What the hell was 
that!?"

Mulder threw off the blankets and was on the floor beside her in a 
flash. She shrieked again, this time in surprise as her now-awake 
partner scooped her into his arms and smashed her face against 
his chest. He pressed kisses to the top of her head and moaned, 
"OhScully, I'msosorry, pleaseforgiveme, I'dneverhurtyou, Ididn't
knowitwasyou."

"Murfer!" She smacked his shoulder, and pulled her face away 
from his chest so she could actually speak. "Mulder." He squeezed 
her again. "MULDER!"

"What, Scully, where are you hurt? I am sooo sorry." He tightened 
his grip again.

"I'm not hurt, but if you keep this up, you're gonna pulverize my
ribs. They're not made of rubber, you know. Now let go of me, 
you big lug." 

"Oh. Okay. Sorry!" He let go.

She landed across his lap, her head and arms on one side of his 
body, her legs stretched out on the other. She lay there for a moment, 
eyes closed, slowly counting to ten. 

She finished, took a deep breath and looked up. Mulder's eyes 
were riveted on her belly. She lifted herself on her elbows and 
looked down. Several of the buttons on her pajama top had 
come undone and her abdomen was displayed in all its alabaster 
glory.

The button directly between her breasts was still doing its duty. 
Mulder was eyeing it with an odd mixture of hope and fear on 
his face.  

Scully didn't know whether to smack him for his hopeful 
expression or pity him for his terror. Then he licked his lips. 
She let out an exasperated sigh. The motion made her breasts 
jiggle and his eyes widened. 

She smacked his shoulder. He rubbed his shoulder. "What was 
that for?"

"Mulder, don't be such a jerk. Not to mention, a letch." 
She squirmed, trying to figure out how she was going
to get up gracefully and decided there was one answer. 
She wasn't going to. She huffed, "Well, crap."

Mulder's teeth flashed in a grin, then when her eyes narrowed, 
he sheepishly pulled her upright. 

Scully sighed with relief, then realized her mistake. She was no 
longer spread out like a banquet in front of a hungry man, she 
was now skin to skin with six feet of sex on a stick. 

The same sex-on-a-stick that had nearly kissed her earlier. 
Scully forgot to breathe for a minute. Her mouth fell open 
and she stared up at her partner in shocked desire. She 
wondered if she looked as panic stricken as she felt.

Suddenly, Mulder was on his feet and setting her on hers. 
He turned away. "Don't worry, Scully. I'm not going to jump 
you."

He grabbed his clothes from a chair by the door, then stalked 
to the bathroom, mustering as much dignity as a boxer-clad man 
with an erection could. The door closed behind him with a soft 
snick instead of the bone-jarring slam she had expected. A 
moment later, she heard the shower start.

She stood there, tongue worrying the split corner of her mouth. 
She should go talk to him, to explain, to make this right. If she 
knew what 'right' might be, she would do it, but as things stood 
now, she had no clue. 

Scully retrieved her weapon from its resting place by the door. 
She trudged into her bedroom and replaced it in her nightstand 
drawer. She sat on her bed and refastened her buttons. The shower 
stopped running and she sat there for several minutes, listening 
for her front door to close. She was quite certain the next time 
she saw Mulder, it would be in the office. They would agree, 
without verbalizing it, to never mention this night again. 

A tear trickled down her cheek. How could she be sure that Mulder 
really wanted her, that he wasn't reacting to adrenaline and a fear 
of loss? 

She was pretty certain she knew how she really felt about him 
and it scared her half to death. Why the hell did she not know 
what she wanted to do about it? She wiped her tears, then 
rested her face in her hands. 

A gasp from the doorway brought Scully's head up. Mulder 
stood in her doorway, his eyes dark with regret and pain. 
Supporting himself with one hand, he grasped her first-aid 
kit in the other. His teeth worried his lower lip. 

Mulder had redressed in sweats and tee-shirt. Her eyes followed 
the long line of his body from his wet hair to his bare feet. 

She sniffled, then wiped her eyes. He might be thinking about 
leaving, but he wouldn't go without his shoes. Smiling gamely, 
she met his eyes. Perhaps things would be okay.

The evidence that Scully had been crying brought Mulder out of 
his temporary trance. Galvanized into action, he was across the room 
and on his knees beside her. She was hurt. *He* had hurt her. "Oh, 
Scully." He reached for her. Fingers hovering near her face, he 
studied her wounded mouth and the bruise that bloomed on her 
cheek. "I am so, so sorry. Let me help?"

Scully watched him, wondering what he would do, if he would 
actually touch her. She nodded. 

He rocked back on his heels, then stood and extended his hand. 
"Come on, partner. I'm no Special Agent Medical Doctor, but I 
think I can patch you up."

Scully snorted at the list of titles he recited. It was a running joke 
at the Bureau: Mulder was taller and spookier, but Scully's long 
list of creds evened things out. If he could joke with her, they 
would be okay. 

"Okay," she smiled then probed her torn lip with the tip of her 
tongue. She took his hand, then looked up and froze. His gaze 
was fixed on her lips, his own lower lip held between white teeth. 
He pulled her hand until she was standing right next to him, 
forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.  Her eyes were 
wide; her breathing shallow. The first-aid kit hit the floor. Mulder 
held her hip with his left hand, his right hand was at her shoulder, 
then his fingers quivered up the column of her throat. 

Scully's head fell back of its own volition; Mulder's fingers burned 
where they touched. She could imagine the fiery trails spiraling up 
to follow them into her hair. His hands cradled her head; he leaned 
forward, nuzzling her jaw, kissing and nibbling at her throat. His 
teeth worried the large tendon on the side of her neck and Scully 
thought she would die from the surge of lust that rocketed through 
her.

She wanted to ask Mulder what he was doing, but her speech center 
seemed to be offline. Her pulse pounded in her ears. 

He breathed out, "Don't you know what you do to me, how I feel 
about you?" 

Scully's eyes were wide and wild. Her breath puffed out in soft 
little pants against the side of his face; her pulse thrummed like a 
humming bird against his seeking mouth. "So lovely, so delicate. 
Please forgive me. I would rather die than hurt you." 

She gasped as he lightly touched the cut on her lip with the tip 
of his tongue. She imagined him tasting her blood, taking
her life's very essence in to join with his. She wanted to 
hold him, wanted to taste his lips, his skin. She shivered and 
pulled away to look at him. 

She needed to see his eyes; she would be able to see the truth in 
them. If their defenses were battered and they were only acting 
under the influence of high emotion, it would decimate them. It 
would lead to disaster. She tensed, wondering how to tell him to 
wait, that they needed to think this through, when every cell in 
her body screamed to tell him 'yes.'

Scully's desire was clear to Mulder. He felt warmth suffuse 
her skin, watched it bloom like a rose, felt the tiny points of 
her breasts through her silk top. He could smell her arousal. 
The scent went straight to his cock and he quivered. "God, 
how I want you."

Scully trembled against him, teetering on the edge of control.  
Passion and panic warred within her, the conflict widened her 
eyes and shortened her breath. 

Mulder was no fool. Until a certain red-head took all his attention 
and care, he hadn't lacked for bed partners. He knew that women 
found him sexually appealing. He knew it wasn't his chic apartment 
and cool car that made women come back for more. 

With one well placed caress, one probing kiss, he could 
sweep the barriers away and catch her as she fell. He could 
persuade her to give herself to him but he couldn't risk it. One 
wrong move, one kiss too many, one touch too intimate, and 
she would vanish from his grasp. 

If they made love and Scully had any doubts, any at all, their first 
time would be their last. Worse yet, he knew the way her mind 
worked. She would not stand and watch him suffer. In a mistaken 
attempt to be kind, thinking that time and distance would help him, 
she would leave, and he would die by degrees.

Mulder wanted her, wanted her so badly he ached. But not like 
this, not in a one time deal. Love won out over lust. Sighing, he 
rested his forehead against hers, then released her and looked away. 
They would continue on as though he hadn't kissed her, hadn't given 
her a primitive caress with his tongue, hadn't felt her thundering 
pulse with his lips. 

Mulder scooped the first-aid kit from the floor and turned 
toward the bathroom. His voice cracked.  He cleared his throat. 
"Come on, Partner. Let's get your mouth cleaned up, then I'll 
get an ice pack for you."

Scully could easily reach the wound, but she knew that while she 
could take care of it herself, she also knew that Mulder needed to 
do this for her. How well she knew him. How she treasured him.

She treasured his gentle soul, his brilliant mind, and his pure heart. 
She wanted his long hands on her, his hard body against hers. 
She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn't come. If 
she told him how much she cared for him, how she relied on him, 
how much she wanted him, he would not understand why she 
pulled away. Expressing herself was so difficult. Her lips trembled. 

His fingertips were soft as a whisper against her lips. "Shhh, 
Scully. It's alright."   

Mulder led her into the bathroom. Her eyes flew open in surprise 
when he grasped her at her waist and placed her on the counter. 
She fixed her eyes on his shoulder while he gently cleaned 
her mouth and clucked over the bruise on her face.

Of their own volition, her eyes drifted up to his face. He was 
studying the bruise as though if he looked at it hard enough, it 
would disappear.  His eyes met hers and she suddenly realized,
he was memorizing, not the wound, but her face.  His eyes 
were full of longing, regret, tenderness, and pain. Love. 

She stared at him. "Mulder. . .?" 

"Don't worry, we're almost done." His smile was lopsided, his 
eyes glistened. He placed the bottle of antibiotic cleanser back in 
the first aid kit. His hand trembled as he smoothed some 
ointment on the corner of her mouth, then returned it to the 
cabinet. "There, you'll be good as new in no time."

Scully watched his movements, relieved that the man who nearly 
overwhelmed her senses with his beauty and sexual power had
been replaced by Mulder, her friend, her reliable partner. They 
had gotten a reprieve. Relief flooded through her. She smiled.

Mulder felt like he had been kicked in the gut. He didn't understand 
what was wrong, why she refused to give them a chance.  Standing 
in the close quarters of her bathroom, her proximity and the smell
of her sleep warmed skin had nearly brought him, begging, to his 
knees.

Knowing that Scully desired him was a beautiful, bitter thing.
His feelings reeled between elation and despair. Scully did not 
*want* this desire. He respected her, would maintain the boundaries, 
knowing she wished it, but he was bewildered. 

He looked at Scully. Her face was now open, relaxed, her eyes 
soft. He'd seen the fire in her eyes, felt the pounding of her heart. 
Was that  a purely physical response? *Just* a physical response? 

He considered her reactions. Scully had been injured, they had just 
had an emotionally jarring encounter following a horrific case; a case 
that brought home one of the dangers his job posed. He knew she 
cared about him; she had worried about him during the case and 
felt a need to ensure his well-being afterward. Mulder knew about 
physical responses to emotional trauma. She might have reacted 
to any man under those circumstances.  

This realization hurt.  He could deal with a lot of things, dealt with 
many everyday, but knowing that Scully wouldn't allow herself to 
care for him just hurt too damn much.  

Mulder knew Scully. Unlike many women, Scully did not reserve the 
right to change her mind. She was not open to a relationship beyond 
what they already had. Once she made a decision, she was implacable 
in her resolve. 

They had a tradition, he and Scully. They never said 'good-bye.' 
Scully, if asked, would jokingly attribute it to his bad phone 
manners, never to an unreasonable fear, a superstition born on 
battlegrounds and shared by comrades in arms.

Mulder held on to the tatters of his pride, wrapping them around 
himself like a cloak. Tonight, he decided, he would say "good-bye" 
for the first time. He needed some time to decide if he could
live with the pain of rejection. He didn't know if he could stand 
being near her after she rejected him. He didn't know if
he could stand the pain of making a permanent break. 

Scully studied his face, wondering at the play of color
in his eyes.   She knew Mulder's eyes were changeable,
but she'd never seen all these colors, never seen them changing 
like this.  She wanted to ask him, but what was she to say? <Hey, Mulder,
did you know that  your irises have turned into kaleidoscopes?>

She shook her head at the whimsical idea, but didn't get a chance 
to ask if he were ok. Mulder smiled the crooked, sad smile he reserved 
for the families of victims, then turned and walked away. A moment
later, a lamp in her living room flared into life and she heard the 
television murmur.
 

The television flickered, painting the planes of Mulder's face 
silver and casting blue shadows in the hollows of his cheeks 
and eyes.  On screen a monster lurched up the stairway of a 
castle being lashed by wind and rain. As the mad scientist
laughed, lightening illuminated its turrets and stone guardians. 
Mulder shuddered and switched channels.

Scully handed him an ice tea, and glanced at the TV. Mad 
scientist and monster were gone and a man was extolling 
the virtues of a kitchen gadget. Mulder nodded his thanks, 
but said nothing. It would be some time before either of 
them could watch the B-movie monster flicks that Mulder 
loved so well. 

Scully was uncomfortably aware that Mulder was fully dressed, 
down to his feet. A small bag that contained his ruined shirt and 
suit pants sat by the door. His dress shoes were an incongruous 
addition to his baggy gray sweats and oversized tee-shirt. He 
looked like he had gone shopping at a Goodwill store. 

Scully dozed off while her partner surfed the tube. Every few 
minutes, shot glances at her, then to his watch,. By the time his cell 
phone beeped, it was near dawn. Mulder rose from his 
seat. He pulled his travel bag from its closet home. 

Scully looked up and blinked curiously. He smiled at her 
sleep-befuddled expression. "That's my ride. Scully. . . ." He licked
 his lips and continued, "Thanks for everything. I know I don't 
say it enough, but I appreciate everything you've done for me. 
You're the best partner I could ever have hoped for." He reached
 for his bags. 

She was baffled. "You don't have to go, Mulder." 

"Yeah," he whispered, "Yeah, I do." but he couldn't explain it to her. 
One simple word from her to stay, and his resolve would be shot to 
hell.  Mulder scooped up the bags. The look he gave her was unreadable, 
his face devoid of expression. ""Hey, look, Frohike is waiting; I've 
got to go. Good-bye." 

The door snicked shut. Mulder was gone.

The grumble of Frohike's van grew to a growl as it pulled away 
from the curb. Mulder held on to the door handle and studied the 
receding sidewalk as though gauging a leap. Frohike's concerned 
gaze flicked toward<,> him then back to the street. Mulder was 
grateful for his friend's concern and that Frohike was respecting 
his silence. He might try to explain later, but not now while he 
was so raw. Now, it was time to lick his wounds.

He placed his hands on the cold glass of  the window and watched
Scully's building recede into the distance. 

Alexandria
6:00 AM

Scully turned off the shower and dressed in jeans and an FBI 
tee-shirt. She ate a light breakfast of a bagel and juice and puzzled 
over this morning's events. Something nagged her about 
Mulder's departure. She couldn't put her finger on it so she was 
going to go directly to the source to find out what was going on 
with her partner. She filled her travel mug with coffee. It might 
be a long day. Scully was not facing it without caffeine. 

She slipped on some moccasins, pulled on a hooded sweatshirt 
and grabbed her wallet and keys. She was brought up short 
however, by her reflection in the mirror next to her door. 

It was obvious that she should have rested with a cold compress 
instead of  taking a hot shower and running around her apartment. 
Gravity, her activity, and hot-shower-enhanced circulation, had 
spread the bruise from her cheek-bone down to meet the one that 
fanned out from her torn lip. She looked like a battered wife. Scully 
smeared some makeup on her face, and frowned at the mirror.  Now 
she looked like a battered wife who was trying to hide the evidence 
of her abuse. There was little to be done about it now; it would have 
to do.   

Hegel Place
Apartment 42
6:00 AM


Mulder stared at the "SAVE" prompt window on his screen. He toyed 
with the mouse, running the cursor back and forth, hovering the little 
alien head over first one, then the other buttons. 

<YES>, <NO>, <CANCEL>, it asked. <MAKE A DECISION,> it 
taunted him. <GO>, <STAY>, <'WAFFLE>.   

Too many thoughts were spinning in Mulder's head, too many emotions 
were jumbled up somewhere around his liver. He chose <WAFFLE> 
and pushed away from the desk. He had to clear his head and untangle 
his gut. 

The coffee maker gurgled, sounding unnaturally loud in the apartment. 
The smell made him nauseous. After abusing his stomach with booze 
and worry, he had better eat something first or the coffee would come 
right back up.

Mulder had nothing edible in the apartment but there was a coffee shop 
near his place. He would get some juice and eat some breakfast. He 
could stay there, maybe read the paper and do some people watching 
while he had some decent coffee. Then, nourished and clear headed,
 he could face those damned buttons. 

Mulder reached for his keys and remembered his car was at the Gunmen's. 
He had wanted to go pick it up on the way to his apartment, but Frohike had 
refused. He had ordered the younger man to go home and get some sleep, 
said that car wasn't going anywhere. Mulder could worry about it later. 

Mulder sighed. He was tired but wanted to get out of the apartment. He 
put on running shoes and tucked some money in his running wallet. A 
few minutes later, he emerged, blinking, into the morning light. He 
glanced down the street, then moved off, his long legs carrying him 
away from his dilemma.


Alexandria
8:00 AM

Mulder's car wasn't at his place. There was no answer to Scully's 
knock and she heard nothing, not even the omnipresent drone of 
the television. She hesitated a moment, then unlocked the door, 
calling his name as she entered. His travel bag was on the couch. 
The bag containing his ruined suit and the bags stuffed with his 
gargoyle drawings, were gone. 

The computer monitor glowed in the dim room.  The screen saver
hadn't kicked in yet, so Mulder couldn't have been gone long.  A 
carafe of coffee sat cooling on the counter next to a full Marvin 
the Martian mug. The cordless phone lay next to it, the low-battery 
indicator blinking.  He had made coffee, then for some reason, 
walked away. Scully picked up the cordless and returned it to the 
base unit on his desk so it could charge.

What she saw on the computer screen caught her breath. 
Mulder's email program was open.  A message addressed to 
ADWSK @fbi.net . gov peeked out from behind a letter 
composed on Mulder's letterhead, and it too, was addressed 
to Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner. 

She hit <CANCEL> on the prompt window and read.


      Dear Sir, 

I am officially notifying you of my decision to take a two 
week leave of absence, effective immediately. Due to 
circumstances beyond my control, I need to take some 
time off. I have a decision to make that impacts upon 
the future of my career. 

To make this decision and to deal with a personal concern 
and related matters, I require time and privacy.  

I hope my wishes can be honored, but should an emergency 
arise that necessitates my attention, you can reach me at 
Martha's Vineyard. You have that  number.

Until I return, I leave the X-Files in Special Agent Dana 
Scully's capable hands. If Agent Scully is required to go 
out in the field, I'm sure you will send her with someone 
trustworthy to watch her back. 

      Please inform Agent Scully that I will contact her upon 
      my return.

You will find that I have accumulated several weeks of 
leave time. I hope to need only two, but will inform you if 
that time is insufficient. Please forgive the short notice 
and any resulting inconvenience.

      Respectfully submitted,

      Fox Mulder, 
      X-Files Division. 
      


Shocked by what she'd read, Scully sank down on the desk chair. 
". . . will contact her upon my return. .  ." The bastard was ditching 
her and letting Skinner take the heat. She stared at the screen and 
fumed until the screen saver came on and Flying Toasters morphed 
into flying saucers.

Scully stalked into the kitchen. She had some time to kill before her 
partner turned up and she got the chance to kill him. She made a 
fresh pot of coffee, then took a cup and settled on the sofa, picking 
up the newspaper from the clay smudged coffee table. As she sat 
the paper slid from her numb fingers and she reached for the other 
items on the table. Two transfer forms lay there, one with Mulder's 
name on it, the other with hers.

Mulder's letter to Skinner flashed before her mind's eye. <. . . deal 
with a personal concern ... >  <. . . decision to make...> She stared 
at the door and willed her wayward partner to walk through it.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Mulder hadn't gone far when he ran out of energy but the exercise  
had helped clear his head and the light breakfast finished the job. 
He returned to his apartment balancing a cup of coffee in one hand 
while he dug in his running wallet for his apartment key. 

Mulder's decision was made; he only had to hit a button on the screen.

The door creaked open. Scully waited quietly on Mulder's couch. 
She watched him move across the room. He was holding a cup 
of coffee and made a beeline for the computer.  He reached for 
the mouse. 

"So, partner, what's up?" 

"Jesus!" Mulder spun around. The lid on his cup saved his coffee 
and kept one or both of them from getting scalded.  "Scully!" he 
swore, "You scared the crap out of me."

"Well, good." Scully stood, hands on hips. "That's a good thing, 
because apparently you are full of it." She shook a paper filled 
fist at the computer. "What the hell is all this about?"

Mulder recognized the paper and noticed the prompt window 
was gone from his computer screen. His letter to Skinner was there in 
all its black and white glory. He hadn't meant for Scully to see any of this. 
He didn't know how he was going to explain it. He didn't know how he 
would convince her of the truth.

"Scully, let me explain."

"Which part? The part where you ditch me and let Skinner tell 
me? Or maybe the part where you transfer me out of the X-Files?" 
She shook the papers at him again. "Or the ultimate ditch, where 
you" she made little quote marks with her curved fingers, 'leave 
the X-Files in Agent Scully's capable hands'?" 

"Scully, please listen." Mulder stepped toward her, but she moved, 
keeping the coffee table between them.

"To what, Mulder?" Before his eyes, his furious partner crumpled. 
"Another 'good-bye'?" She buried her face in her hands. Her 
shoulders shook.

"No, Scully. No." Mulder dragged the coffee table away so she 
couldn't retreat around it again. "I didn't mean for you to see any 
of this."

She sobbed aloud. "I know."

"No, you don't. I was going to delete the email, Scully. I swear, 
I was going to talk to you about this. And those transfer forms? 
I was going to trash them." 

Scully glared at him, but the tears running down her face diluted 
the effect. "You were going to leave me." 

"Yes, but not really." He slumped down on the edge of his couch. 
Scully had retreated again and was across the room by his 
aquarium. He knew better than to chase after her. Her next move 
would probably be out the door.

"What the hell does 'yes, but not really' mean?" Scully scrubbed 
her face with her hands and sniffled against her sleeve. 

"It means that yes, I plan to go away for a while." Mulder pushed 
a box of tissues at her. "The transfer forms were a self-pitying 
indulgence. I wasn't going to turn either of them in."

She bit her lip, motioning for him to continue. "What about going 
away? Is that also indulgent self-pity?

"No. That's an act of self-preservation."

"I don't understand."

His laugh was bitter. "No, I don't suppose you do."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"It means. . . I think . . . " He leaned against the back of his couch 
and tilted his face toward the ceiling. "Crap. Scully, the last couple 
of days have been hell for me. I've wanted to touch you, to be 
close to you for a very long time. I thought that maybe you wanted 
it too." He looked over at her still form, then back at the ceiling.  
"However, it seems obvious that you don't want the same things 
that I do." 

Scully sniffed but said nothing, just stared at him.

Mulder continued. "It's going to take me some time to get my 
head around it, and I confess to feeling sorry for myself. I was 
hurt and angry and I wanted to go up to the Vineyard to get out 
of my head for a while."

"To get away from me, you mean."

"I won't lie. Yes, partly. I figured if I go somewhere where I had 
been truly miserable, then coming back here alone wouldn't be 
so hard."

A gasp broke her stunned silence. She looked at him. "Being 
with me is miserable?"

"No. *Not* being with you is miserable. Scully, I've taken
some liberties the past couple of days. I hope you'll forgive me 
and we can forget about it, at least enough to allow us to work 
together."

Scully stared at him, her arms crossed over her chest. "I see."

"Good. I admit I'm relieved. The important thing is that you realize 
that I respect you, as a person, as a woman, as a partner. I think I 
frightened you.  I won't ever presume on our friendship or 
touch you and make you uncomfortable again."

Scully smiled and his heart sank. He was right about what she 
wanted from their partnership. He managed to return a sickly smile. 

"Do you know what I thought when I came in here and found this 
stuff?

Mulder shook his head. He had a pretty good idea, but he wasn't 
going to chance being wrong. 

"I thought that you were angry with me."

"No! Not at all!" He started to rise, but sank back on the couch when 
Scully held up a hand. 

"Tell me, what did I do wrong, that you would do this?" She gestured
at the transfer forms and the letter.

His shoulders drooped. "Scully, what do you want from me?"


"I don't understand."

Mulder fell back against the couch. "Neither do I." He studied his hands, 
considering whether to speak his mind. He decided to tell her. He would 
tell her; she would tell him she never wanted him the way he did her; he 
would promise to never make her uncomfortable again. Then he could 
start his life over. Without Scully, if need be. To do otherwise was to 
set himself up for repeats of the last twenty-four hours and  that, he 
knew, would eventually kill him. He was in too much pain; he wanted 
to get it over with.

"Please understand, I never meant to make you afraid or uncomfortable. 
I can learn to face the fact that you don't want me the way I do you. It 
hurts. I won't deny that, but I'll get over it. I admit that the Mostow case 
lowered my defenses and the liquid courage lowered my inhibitions, but 
I would never have touched you unless I thought you wanted me to. 
Before you tear my head off, you didn't lead me on; I'm not saying 
that. You can't help that I mistook physiologic responses for something 
more and made advances. It was completely my fault. . . ."

Mulder sat still, not daring to look at his partner. He expected a lot of things. 
Scully walking out, a hard object landing in his vicinity, her sailor heritage 
coming out as she described his shortcomings in Technicolor.  He had not 
however, expected laughter.

Stunned and insulted, he gaped at her. 

Her face was glowing, her eyes bright. "Oh Mulder. What am I going to 
do with you?" The puzzled outrage on his face was almost more than 
she could take. "You call me a cock-tease then tell me it's your fault." 

"I did NOT!"

Scully shook her head. "Do you really think that you frightened me with 
your advances?  Mulder," she chided, "I am not a virgin or a shrinking 
violet."

He glowered at the reminder. "I never said you were."

"Just listen to me for a minute?" He nodded, his face blank with 
dread. She had her work cut out for her. "Mulder, I wasn't afraid. 
What I was, was turned on, so turned on, I thought I might combust."

"Physical responses are.  . ." 

"Would you shut up and let me talk?" 

"Shutting up." His mouth snapped closed. 

"I think I know a little about physical responses," she remarked dryly. 
She paced back and forth, collecting her thoughts. "I confess, I was 
certainly having some." She looked at him.

He bit his tongue.  He was not going to make any comments, even if it 
meant he had to bite it off. 

Scully stepped around the table and stood over him. "I thought I 
would never see you again." Her eyes welled with tears. "God Mulder. 
Do you have any idea how I felt?"

"I'm sorry, Scully. Truly." His eyes stung in sympathy. 

"No," she shook her head. "Don't be. You know, while I was waiting 
for you to come back, I was having some uncharitable thoughts about 
you." 

He winced. "I can imagine."

"I don't know if you can.  At first, all I could think of was how angry I was
about you ditching me. I was furious that you were going to let Skinner 
tell me.  After all we've been through, I thought I deserved the courtesy 
of hearing it from you myself." She wiped her eyes again. "You know, I 
had every intention of giving you a piece of my mind the second you 
walked through the door. But I had a little time to think about not seeing
 you again. And you know what?" 
 
"No," he whispered.

"I discovered that I was terrified that you wouldn't come back."  She 
stepped closer and stroked his cheek. She whispered, "I had this 
horrid idea that you had just left, that you had walked away from 
everything and wasn't coming back at all. I thought I was never going 
to see you again. I couldn't stand the idea."   

Mulder's eyes fluttered shut and he turned his face toward her palm 
like a plant following the sun. He covered her hand with his own. "I'm 
sorry, Scully."

"No, don't be. Just don't leave me, Mulder."

"I won't. I'm sorry about the transfer forms. You know I don't want 
to work with anyone else." Mulder shifted under her scrutiny, "That's 
what you want, isn't it?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? Did I say, 'Don't leave the FBI?'  Did I 
say, 'Don't work with someone else?' No.  I said, 'Don't leave *me*.'  
I couldn't bear it, Mulder. I can always find someone else to work with, 
but I can never replace you." She took his hands in hers. "Promise."

Mulder pulled his hands away and flopped back against his couch. 
"Scully," his voice shook. "I'm feeling a little stupid. I don't understand 
what you're saying."

"What do you think I'm saying?"

"Oh no you don't. Please, just this once, don't answer a question 
with a question. I need to know what you want. I'm dyin' here, Scully."

Her hand shook as she reached for him. She shrugged. "It's pretty 
simple, really.  I want to be with you." 

Mulder sucked in a breath. "What?"

Scully slowly eased onto the couch next to him, watching as though 
she expected him to bolt. She had hurt this proud, gentle man 
unintentionally. She wanted to settle things without causing further 
pain. "When I thought you were taking off without telling me, then I 
found those transfer forms. . . I was so angry. I wanted to kick
your ass. I wanted to tell you to go to hell."

He grimaced. "So I gather."

"This is hard for me. I'm not a very demonstrative person, Mulder." 
She glanced up at him to see if he were going to comment and was 
relieved when he just waited for her to continue. "I thought about how 
we are together. No one else makes me laugh like you do; no one else 
gets me as pissed off." He snorted. "Yeah, I know. Some declaration 
of affection, right? I told you this is hard for me."

"I know, Scully." He held out his hand, palm up and looked at her. She 
placed her palm against his and his fingers around hers. They gazed 
at their joined hands. Some things just felt so right. He looked at their 
hands and saw love. He hoped that someday she would see it too. If 
Scully saw solidarity and faith instead, he hoped he could to learn to be 
content with that too. 

"Scully, I understand."   

"Do you?" she wondered. "I'm not sure you do. No one else matters 
to me like you do. When I'm in trouble, I know that you will do 
everything in your power to make sure I'm all right. I don't even 
think about it, I just know you'll be there, doing what you 
can to help me. I'm ashamed to admit I've come to take that 
for granted. I apologize for that."

Mulder shifted, uncomfortable with the way this was going. So 
far, he was hearing that he was a good friend, that he was her 
friend. "Scully, you don't have to apologize. You're my 
best friend. I know you appreciate me; you do the same for 
me."  If Scully had some other point to make he wished she 
would get to it.

"Oh, Mulder," She stroked his cheek again. His eyes fluttered 
shut like a kitten being petted. He was so vulnerable. So beautiful. 
"You *are* my best friend but I'm not talking about friendship. 
When you touched me it stirred up so many feelings." 

She turned to him, placing her hands on each side of his face 
and stared into his widened eyes. She stroked his face with her 
thumbs. "When you touched me, when you kissed me, everything 
spun. I was scared to death. I wanted you to stop.  I wanted you 
to *never* stop." She was shocked when tears welled up in his 
eyes. 

Mulder reached up and stilled her hands. "Please, Scully. I know 
you aren't sure what you want, but I am. That's why I need to go 
away for a while. "I'm  not looking for anything you don't want to 
give. "I'll come back, I promise, but I need some space so I can 
process things."

"I'm not making myself clear. It isn't that I'm not sure about how 
I feel. I do. I was unsure what I wanted to happen because of those 
feelings. When I thought about not seeing you again, I mean *really* 
not seeing you again, a wave of loneliness hit me like I've never felt 
before. I'm not talking about missing a friendship. I've lost other 
friends, friends whom I've loved dearly. This, Mulder, this 
loneliness. .  .it wasn't just loneliness. I can't describe it."
 
Mulder turned to her, holding her gaze with his own. "I think I can." 
Pulling her hands away from his cheeks he kissed each palm in turn. 
"It feels like a hole opens in your soul and everything falls through. 
It's like your heart still beats but makes no sound. You're still there, 
but you're lost in the stillness."

"Yeah, kind of like that," she breathed. She watched in wonder as he 
nuzzled her hands then kissed her wrists. "Mulder, I don't want to ever 
feel like that again." She slid her arms around his waist and cuddled 
close. She whispered against his throat, "I don't want you to leave. 
I want you to stay and explore this thing," she motioned 
between them, "with me. "

He pulled back and stared into her eyes. "Really?"
 
She kissed him at the corner of his mouth, a sweet soft kiss, and 
smiled when he hissed in surprise. "Yeah, really."

Mulder tugged her to him; she molded to his body, her head fitting 
under his chin, her heart beating in time with his, their breaths 
mingling, their souls joining. 

He had heard the cliche, that when you find the one you are 
meant to be with, that they fit with you as though they 
were created just for you. With Scully's arms around him, her 
sweet mouth opening under his, the soft duel of lips and tongues, 
the way she filled his arms. . . . they fit together so sweetly, so 
completely. . . . Sometimes, cliches only describe the truth. 

When she kissed his throat, Mulder hummed with pleasure. 
Smiling smugly, she rubbed her face against his chest like a little 
red haired cat claiming a nice warm pillow. When he kissed the 
side of her neck, Scully purred and ran fingers through his hair. 
When he nipped at her breasts she arched her back and her 
nipples, already hard, tightened to the point of pain. Even 
through their clothing, he could feel every curve of her body.
Every fiber of his being came alive in response to her touch. 

He hoped she felt the same. This joy was too big for one heart to 
hold, one soul to contain. She squirmed against him, and Mulder 
thought he would burst with lust. "Scully," he whispered, "I 
want to touch you." 

"I thought you'd never ask." She smiled up at him, and took 
his hand. He watched in stunned amazement as she guided 
his hand down. When she bypassed her breasts, she laughed 
at his pout. She continued on, and rested his hand on the curve 
of her ass. Her eyes closed and she wriggled her approval 
when he grasped her tiny bottom in his big hand and squeezed. 

Mulder laughed and slid both hands down her legs, then stroked 
back up again to squeeze her bottom while he kissed and nipped 
the erogenous zone where clavicle met shoulder. Scully rewarded
him by putting her mouth against his throat and licking him while 
pinching his nipples. She ground her pubis against his erection 
and he saw stars. The hell with a telescope, having sex with 
Scully was going to be like exploring his own galaxy.

Mulder appreciated a fine ass as well as the next man. To be honest 
about it, a nice ass and shapely legs attracted his attention sooner 
than a nice set of breasts. He intended to get well acquainted with 
said ass and legs, but he was dying to see her breasts. He had 
imagined pink tipped nipples, rose colored nipples, brown nipples; 
he wanted to know every shade of color on her precious body, wanted
to taste every inch of skin. 

Mulder slid his hands up her sides and stroked the sides of her 
breasts, then placed kisses along the line of her bra, paying extra 
attention to her cleavage. "Can I take this off?" He smiled at her 
lowered lashes and tiny nod. He reached for the hem of her tee-shirt,
then stopped and stared. Scully had let go of his neck and held 
his lower arms, stroking her thumbs back and forth.  She was 
biting her lip and blushing. 

He tilted her chin up with one finger. "We don't have to do this 
tonight, Scully." 

Her blush deepened. "That's not it, Mulder. It's just that I've thought 
about being with you for such a long time. And now that it's happening..."
She shrugged again. "I'm not that big, Mulder. I've been told that 
I'm kind of flat. I'm just kind of nervous. I don't want you to be 
disappointed."

"Disappointed?" He pulled her close. "Flat! Some asshole actually 
said that to you?"

She shrugged, not really answering. "Well, I'm not as big as a lot 
of women, even other women about my size."

He was amazed. Some man had told this beautiful woman that
she didn't measure up. 

"Some men are assholes, Scully.  I bet the guy who told you that 
was a real mosquito dick."

Scully burst out laughing. "Now that you mention it. . . ."

"Well, if that's the case, I hope *I* measure up." 

She leaned back and looked down to where Mulder's cock tented 
his sweat pants. "Either you measure up, or you're wearing your 
holster in an odd place."

Mulder rocked her in his arms and laughed. He had known loving 
Scully would be wonderful. He hadn't thought about it being fun. 
"Oh, Scully, I love you so much." He kissed her hard, then 
grasped the hem of her shirt. "Ready?"

She nodded, and in one smooth motion, he pulled her tee-shirt over 
her head.

The morning sun slanted across the room, lighting her hair and 
making her soft skin glow. The bra she wore was simple, a nearly 
sheer bit of silk. Round pink nipples strained against the fabric.  
He smiled. Scully had freckles on her chest that looked like 
flakes of gold had been scattered on creamy satin. She looked as
delicate as fine china, she was as well formed as a pixie and 
as desirable as a mermaid who lured men to sea with her siren call. 

Mulder sighed, and buried his face over her heart. "Mulder?"

The uncertainty in her voice broke his heart. He lifted his eyes
to meet hers. He had to make her see the truth in his eyes, 
to hear it in his voice. "You are so beautiful, Scully. I want to show you
something. Look at our hands." Mulder held his hand up; then placed 
hers against his, palm edge to palm edge. Her finger tips ended 
long before his did. "Look at the way our bodies fit together. I 
can tuck you under my chin, close to my heart, right where I 
want you to be. You are delicate and lovely. You are perfect. 
You are glorious."

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh Mulder." She buried her face 
against his neck.  
 
He stroked the silky skin of her back with worshipping fingers. "Shhh, 
none of that." He kissed the top of her head, then kissed along her 
hairline to catch her tears with the tip of his tongue. She gasped, 
laughing then, and kissed him back. She reached behind her and 
undid her bra. Smiling, he slipped it down her arms. "Pink." 

"What?" She followed his gaze to her breasts and laughed and 
blushed again. "Oh. Pink."   

"Damn. I would have lost the bet. Glad I didn't get in on that 
betting pool." He winked and laughed when she thumped his 
head. 

"Shut up and kiss me, you fool."  

Mulder gathered her close and nibbled her neck again. "You 
know, you keep calling me names, one of these days you're 
gonna hurt my feelings." Scully opened her mouth, but before 
she could retort, Mulder swooped in and kissed her. 

She kissed him back and pulled his shirt over his head. The 
feel of skin on skin chased banter from their minds. Clothing 
was discarded, the teasing laughter of earlier was replaced 
by sighs and whispered endearments. 

He entered her for the first time and the world ended in heat 
and pounding blood. She shattered in his arms and was created
anew with her climax. Mulder cried her name as he gasped and 
emptied his body and soul into hers. Loneliness and pain were 
swept away.

The world shattered and reformed. They would never be the 
same again. They were new creatures; brought together by 
chance, torn apart in pain, recreated by love.  


~Fin~

Finally.

When I started writing, Skinner was conducting a meeting 
in his office with Our Heroes. Mulder was stoic and Scully 
was frantic. Scratch that beginning. And the one with the 
apartment-cleaning fight. And the 'waking from a nightmare' 
one. And the next, and the next. I wrote and discarded PAGES. 
But I enjoyed writing all the incarnations, so it was ok. 
I hope you enjoyed this version.

Thanks to Carol for the comma slaying and continuity policing. 
Your help and comments are appreciated more than I can
say, dear. (And I don't care what that *other* writer says, you are 
not really a Beta-Nazi.) 

Thanks to Sallie for helping me. You are a kind, selfless lady and
my writing is better for your help. 

Thanks to the Fando list for the opportunity to take part in their
Season of Smut.