Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 28 December 1998

Prayer: The Liturgy of the Hours

Summary: Matins: One of the canonical hours of prayer. Matins occurs at midnight.

Prayer: Matins

Eleven forty. He checked the clock once more, then his watch. Definitely too late to call her. Too late to expect her to call. Way too late for a visit. He sighed.

When had he become this dependent? It was a gradual thing; she had snuck into his heart when he wasn't looking, sliding right by all the defenses he set up to keep others out.

Arrogant. Cool. Incredible intelligence that manifested in a know-it-all manner. Memory that let him put things together that others couldn't comprehend. He used them all to keep people at a distance. But she had slipped in; never pushing, never prying, just a constant, comforting presence. Continually there until one day he woke up and realized she was as essential to his survival as the air he breathed or food and drink.

There had been no girls in high school. The specter of Samantha's disappearance had made everyone keep their distance. He'd been normal until Samantha had disappeared and then he had become as abnormal as they come.

Phoebe had been first. He'd fallen into the typical inexperienced male pattern. The first girl to let him have sex and he'd fallen at her feet, allowing her to walk all over his heart and soul.

He'd been burned, and badly, and had pulled the mantle of 'different' more tightly about himself, using it to force others to keep their distance.

A prophet is never respected in his own land. How true that had been in Quantico. Recruited right out of Oxford, pulled into high profile, high stakes VCS, he'd used his memory and intelligence to solve crimes no one else could. And he'd done it with the arrogance and self-assuredness that only the young can get away with. It kept everyone at a distance. Happy to have his 'help' on the worst of the worst cases, but never invited for a beer with the guys, or a barbecue with their family; he'd been isolated, alone, and found himself spiraling into the madness of the ones he pursued.

Diana had been like a lifeline, but she hadn't wanted him either. Only what she thought he had to offer. He'd been a rising star, and she'd hitched her wagon to him, willing to ride up the golden boy career path in his wake. She'd even followed him into the X-Files, mistakenly believing that his fast track would follow him to the basement. It hadn't taken long for her to see the error in her judgment, and he was alone again.

All that intelligence of his, that perfect, eidetic memory, and yet he'd still made the same mistakes, over and over again. But, while he might be slow, he did eventually learn, and he'd been a loner again, unwanted in the basement, but left to his own devices. His solve rate on the old open cases in the X-Files had been high enough that he was left alone. The new cases that drifted his way, the oddities, the unusual, the unexplainable, he managed to identify, categorize, codify enough of them that he was given a fairly free rein.

And he'd been content. Or at least as content as he ever expected to be in his life. He had interesting work to do, he did it well. He was able to pursue his own work, his own interests with little interference. He had access to information, sources, networks to advance his work, and he used them. And if he didn't have friends, if he didn't have the respect and admiration of his peers, they were still more than willing to slide by the basement, asking for a consult on this case, a 'could you take a look at that' on another case. More than willing to use him in private and abuse him before others.

But he'd been alone. And he'd told himself that alone was what he wanted. Alone was how he worked best. Alone was who he was.

Until Scully. She breezed in one day and had completely overtaken him. She opened the doors, slipped over the walls, cut through the fences and settled herself right in the center of his soul. All done effortlessly and apparently while he was looking the other way.

He smiled. It was just like her. Even the capture of his heart had been done neatly, carefully, with surgical precision. No wasted movements, no lost time.

Had it begun the first time -- the first case? When she'd bared herself to him in a darkened motel room? Revealing not just her body, but the depth of trust she was capable of, the faith she had in him even then?

Was it when she'd come to Puerto Rico for him? Following him outside the Bureau, outside the country, outside the law?

He'd first realized it, really realized it, when she was taken. That had been the worst. He'd thought nothing could be worse than losing Sam, but Scully's disappearance had changed that. It had been -- what was it that English author called it? The long, dark tea-time of his soul. How appropriate. He snorted bitterly. And he lived in apartment 42 to boot.

By the time she had been returned to him, he'd known. He was linked to her, bound to her in a thousand different ways, connected by a covalence that staggered the imagination and boggled his mind. That warmed his heart, soothed his soul, and terrified him to the very core of his being.

He'd looked for ways to make her leave, struggled for ways to keep her safe, but the one unfailing constant was -- she was constant. Always there, always with him, always on his side. Oh, they argued, yes, but only over silly things like what caused the man to disappear. Never over the important things, like why she hadn't disappeared yet.

It was the one dependable thing in his life -- his relationship with Scully. And like an addict with a growing need, he wanted more.

He had a sudden vision of her, naked, above him, head thrown back in ecstasy, and his hand slipped down to touch himself.

But despite the incredible sensations his fantasies of Scully evoked, it wasn't about sex with Scully. He was sure that would be fantastic, but it was the other things that made the lack of sex -- so far, he hastily amended -- so unimportant.

Scully was safety. He thought of how, in his drug-induced haze, ill and feverish, his father dead and lying on the bathroom floor, he had come to Scully. Somewhere, in the midst of it all, he had known where safety was.

And security. Scully was security. When he'd let that doctor drill holes in his head, when he'd let him inject him with unknown drugs in unknown quantities, Scully was the one that offered security. Coming in alone to face his madness. Staring down the gun he leveled at her. Offering the only security he'd known in his miserable life, as she kept the others at bay, and gave him back his life.

And Scully was protection. Standing guard over him all night in a Florida forest.

Scully was comfort. A hug when he'd chased his own demons and nearly cost a little girl her life.

But most of all, Scully was there. The one thing that had been missing in his whole life -- a solid presence and unconditional acceptance, the one person who never went away, no matter what he did.

He lay on the couch now, and looked at the clock once more. Midnight. He smiled. Another day. A new day. In a mere eight hours, he could be with her, and this day, this day would be different.

He lay back on the couch, the TV silent for once, pulled the shabby blanket that served as his bedcovers down over himself, and let himself drift off to sleep.

Summary: Lauds: One of the canonical hours of prayer. Lauds occurs at around 1:30 a.m.

Prayer: Lauds

He woke to a voice screaming and jumped up, only then realizing it was his voice, his screams. He was covered in sweat, his whole body shaking uncontrollably, and tears ran unfettered down his face.

He'd been running, chasing after something, but it was always just out of reach. Scully -- Scully was just out of reach. And she needed him. She was calling him -- words he'd heard crying out to him -- "Mulder, I need you." But he wasn't there, he wasn't fast enough, he just couldn't reach her.

He shook his head savagely, chest heaving as he fought to take in air, to breathe out the terror that so overwhelmed him.

He wiped his eyes harshly then glanced down at himself, noting that he'd fallen asleep in his clothes again, and his T-shirt was now plastered to his torso. He pulled it off roughly, balling it up and using it to wipe the fear-sweat from his body.

His eyes were inexorably drawn to the phone, willing it to ring even as he knew it never would. He began to pace, a frantic back and forth motion, even as he chanted to himself: "She's OK. She's OK. She's OK." But he couldn't convince himself, and almost without volition, he found himself lifting the phone and dialing.

A half ring later, and a sleepy voice murmured, "Shhh, Mulder, it's OK," and he smiled that she knew him so well.

"Scully," he breathed, and that said it all. "Scully."

"Hush now, it's all right." Her voice was heavy with interrupted sleep, but he could feel her waking for him, focusing on him, sensing what he needed.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Do you want me to come over?"

He shook his head, calmed by her voice, then realized she couldn't see him and answered, "No, uh, that's OK. I'm OK."

He closed his eyes and he could see her in his mind. She was sitting up in her bed, her hair in disarray, wearing those navy blue, man-style pajamas that she wore so frequently when they traveled. The phone was to her ear, and her head was tilted as she measured his response, trying to decide if he really was OK, or if she should come over anyway.

It was bad enough that he'd woken her, so he repeated, with more conviction this time, "Really, Scully, I'm OK. It just, uh, well, it was just ..." Shit, he couldn't even explain it to her.

But it didn't matter because she was speaking again. "It just overwhelmed you this time, right Mulder?"

And he nodded again, stupidly forgetting she couldn't see him, and his breath caught in his throat, a choked sound that carried through the phone.

"Shhhh," she soothed him, "it's all right. Was it the same one?"

He nodded again, then managed to choke out, "I was running -- you were there, but you weren't. And I couldn't get to you." His voice broke again, a strangled sob that escaped his best efforts of control.

"I'm here, and I'm OK. Nothing wrong with me -- I'm tucked up safe in my own little bed." He could see her again. She rose and was pacing now, and he felt so guilty for disturbing her rest. But she was worried and she wouldn't go to sleep until he was calm.

"You were calling for me," he offered tentatively. "You said you needed me," he paused, his voice echoing his forlorn countenance, then dropping to a mere whisper, "and I wasn't there. Scully, I wasn't there."

"Mulder, shhh," she soothed him, "it was just a bad dream. You're always there for me. Always. You're the one I count on, Mulder, no matter what. You are always there for me."

He sniffed, knowing he was being selfish, but unable to stop himself. "Not this time, Scully, you called and called and I wasn't there."

"It was a bad dream, Mulder. It wasn't real. This is real. Right here, right now. I'm here and I'm OK. And you're there. And I know that no matter what happens you're going to be there for me. No matter what. That's what's real."

He sniffed again, then cleared his throat, the last residue of the dream fading before the force of her conviction. In its place, guilt was fast approaching. She needed to rest, not babysit him via Ma Bell.

He must have been quiet for a long time, thinking, because she suddenly said, "I'm coming over, Mulder," and he could hear her moving about, as if she was getting ready to get dressed.

"No," he said sharply, his conscience finally kicking in as he thought of the long drive she would face to come and be with him, just because he couldn't sleep like a normal person. "No," he said again, easing his tone, "I'm all right now, Scully. Really I am."

"You know I don't mind coming over, Mulder."

"I know, but it's not necessary. I'm OK now. It was just a little -- intense -- there for a bit. But I'm OK now."

"Are you sure?"

He could hear the hesitation in her voice. "Yeah, I'm sure. Besides, I'd have to change the tape in the VCR if you come over." It was a poor excuse for levity, but he made the attempt.

And, God bless her, she laughed. "Since when have you worried about my sensibilities, Mulder?" she teased.

He was suddenly very serious when he replied, "I worry about everything about you Scully." His voice was low, husky now, emotion laden. "Don't you know that?"

"Of course I do, Mulder." She was serious too. "And I worry about you. That's why I can come over if you'd like."

"Nah, that's OK, Scully. I'm all right now. I'm sorry I woke you." No I'm not -- I'd be insane if I couldn't call you in the middle of the night.

"No you're not. You'd go nuts if you couldn't call me in the middle of the night and you know it."

He actually pulled the receiver from his ear, staring at it as if it would reveal secrets to him, before slowly placing it back to his ear and replying, "You know me too well, Scully."

"Are you OK now, Mulder? Can you sleep?"

"I'll be OK," he skirted her question. "How 'bout you? Can you get back to sleep?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

There was a long pause as they sat together in contented silence. He could hear her pull the covers back as she slid back into the warmth of her bed.

He stripped off his jeans, and settled himself on the couch, phone still to his ear.

"Are you settled, Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm OK now."

"Call me if you need me?"

"I will."

"Mulder - promise you'll call."

Shit, she was really worried. I'm sorry, Scully. I always seem to worry you.

"I will Scully, I promise. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Sleep well."

"You too, Scully, you too. I'll see you soon."

He could hear her roll over in the bed, but she didn't hang up. And neither did he. Through the phone, he could hear her even breathing, and he slowly drifted off, content that she knew him so well, that she knew what he needed and was so willing to give to him.

Soon, Scully, soon. You have to know how much you mean to me soon. Phone to ear, he fell into peaceful slumber.

Summary: Prime: One of the canonical hours of prayer. Prime occurs at dawn.

Prayer: Prime

He'd managed about three and a half hours of sleep -- not too bad for Fox Mulder. He had awakened to find the phone still pressed to his ear, little Scullysounds still making their way into his subconscious. The even in and out of her breathing, a rustle of linen as satin pajamas shifted beneath cotton sheets, a tiny sigh as she rolled against the receiver. That connection, knowing she was right there had been enough for him to sleep -- and he almost never slept after a nightmare.

Ah, Scully, you know just what I need.

He listened a bit longer, feeling more like a voyeur now that his panic had receded, but unwilling to break the connection. Finally, he pulled himself up and whispered, "Scully?"

"Mmmm?" was the prompt, albeit half-asleep reply.

"Go to sleep."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"I'll see you soon."

"Yes-s-s-," the 's' a sibilant that stretched for long moments.

"And thanks."

"Mmmm." A yawn. " 'k."

He gently replaced the receiver in its cradle and rose to walk to the window. He looked out over the city, the sun casting that roseate false glow that occurred just before it crossed the horizon.

There was a tracing of adhesive on his window, in the shape of -- what else? -- an X. But Deep Throat was gone. And Mr. X was gone. Helpers were few and far between. It had been years since he'd seen Senator Matheson. Marita seemed to have disappeared as well. The only person who had any answers was someone he saw all too often. The smoking man.

He thought back on all those late night meetings -- parking garages, out of the way bars, darkened hallways. Dark. That was the one thing they all had in common. It was always in the dark it seemed. He was always in the dark. He lived his life in the dark spaces no one else wanted, no one else would take. Alone, unseen, left to his own devices. And, if the truth be told, he had preferred it that way. The dark seemed to fit him, offering protection from the rest of the world, the ones who didn't care, didn't understand, didn't want to know.

All the dark times -- all the alone times.

But Scully had changed all that. Scully was light -- chasing the shadows from his soul. The first night, even back to the first night, she had been light to him. A storm darkened room in a no-name motel, he was like a moth drawn to her flame. In candlelight, she trusted him, bringing that light into his soul, and it had never completely gone out.

There had been times when it was close, when the total darkness threatened to engulf him again, but always, she was there, a light flickering against the black aphotism that reached for him, called for him, beckoned him into its reaching arms.

Always, he was most vulnerable when he was away from her. She strengthened him with her light; her brightness showed him the way.

When they separated them, and he was on wire-tap, it was there. An inky, shadowed despair that clawed at him, trying to suck him into its maw. But she had been there too, her bright illumination chasing the morbid creature back to its lair, keeping him safe from its clutches.

When he lost hope, lost faith, almost lost his way, she came for him and pulled him back. She walked the edge with him willingly, her lambent touch holding him to the path, keeping him from plunging headlong into the nothingness that cried out to him.

When they took her -- his hands clenched even now in barely suppressed rage -- when they took her from him, they took his light. And look what he did. So desperate for her presence, her touch to ease his pain, to guide his path and soothe his spirit, he played with death, sleeping with a child of darkness.

And when she was returned to him, breathing, but her light faded, like a candle guttering in the weight of its own effluence, he had been helpless to bring her flame back. He'd tried, oh, yes, he had tried, but it was beyond his capabilities.

But somewhere in there, somehow, someone's prayers, someone's faith had been rewarded, and she had been returned to him, a glowing presence that once again chased the cobwebs from the corners and brightened the caricature he called his life.

The sun began to top the horizon, the pinks and dappled roses fading before the brighter golds and yellows of full day.

They all faded before the force of Scully's light. As long as he stayed in her orbit, he was within her sphere of protection. It was only when he ventured away, only at his aphelion, that the darkness threatened him now. And always, always, her pull brought him back.

Sinking into Patterson's madness, and she was there to pull him back. Facing demons from his own past, yet she faced down the gun he dared to point her way. Alone, in a spare hospital room, facing a man who wanted to play, his finger on the trigger, but Scully had been there -- her brilliance cutting through the murkiness imposed on him from beyond.

When Scully was there, he was safe. Why had it taken so long to figure this simple fact? He shrugged. Why didn't matter. What mattered was that he understood now. She was light and warmth and air; she was food and drink and all the sustenance that he needed. And it was time to tell her.

He gazed out the window, watching as the sun slid effortlessly above the horizon, selflessly sharing its warmth and light, chasing the night away, and bringing the promise of another new day.

Scully was the sun -- his sun. His warmth and his light, she had slipped effortlessly into his heart and brightened his soul. She was heat, her passion igniting his own raw need, her fire fueling a fever need in him that could only be cooled by her touch.

And now, the sun had brought another day. And Scully had seen him through another night and into that day. A day of promise and hope, of possibilities.

It was a day when there was warmth and light in his life, reflected from her presence. It was the day when he was going to give back to her.

Summary: Chapter: The morning meeting in a Benedictine monastery, held after Prime, to discuss the order of the day and any other business that needs addressing, including redress of brothers in sin.

Prayer: Chapter

"Morning, Mulder."

Mulder looked up from his desk, arm half over the notepad covered in his semi-legible scrawl. He smiled, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. She amazed him. Up half the night with her borderline psychotic partner, listening to his maunderings, soothing his psyche, and still she appeared at work on time, immaculate suit, not a hair out of place, the consummate professional.

God, why that suit? Why today? It would be the tightly tailored little black number, the one with the skirt that was just slightly shorter than her normal fare. He snuck a peek at her feet. Black heels with little bitty straps around the ankle and over her arch.

He suppressed a groan, feeling himself flush and looked back up to find her gazing curiously at him.

He glanced down at himself. Thank God he'd picked his laundry up from the cleaners and had a fresh suit this morning. The shirt was out of the bag new, but the tie? He shrugged. Scully said his ties always left something to be desired.

When he lifted his eyes to her again, she was staring expectantly at him. What? Had he missed something? He tried a half smile in her direction, but that just made her frown and she turned to put her handbag in her desk drawer, placing the cardboard tray with cups on the desktop.

"Are you OK, Mulder?" she asked as she faced him once more.

He turned the notepad over, still keeping one arm on top, and asked innocently, "OK, Scully? Why wouldn't I be OK?"

"You didn't answer me when I said good morning."

She was crossing the room now, her hand reaching out to touch his brow, and he found himself leaning almost unconsciously into her touch. Proximity with her was having its usual effect, and he fidgeted slightly in his chair even as his face flushed once more. He let her hand rest there for a long moment, enjoying the sensation of her cool fingers against his fevered brow, then gently shook her off.

"I was distracted. Sorry. Look, I'm OK. Is that coffee?" He deliberately shifted his gaze to the cups on her desk.

She looked at him a minute more, then sighed slightly and said, "Yeah. Coffee. But you look like you could do with juice instead. I think you've already been into the caffeine." She planted her hands on her hips. "Mulder, did you sleep at all last night?"

His eyes widened and he looked down at himself again. Did he look that bad?

"I slept Scully. I slept good after I talked to you." His voice dropped and he was suddenly self-conscious. This was supposed to be her day -- but things were already focused on him. He needed to get a grip now, and move this conversation in a different direction.

"I'm sorry I woke you last night, but," his eyes skittered away and he suddenly felt about 14 years old, "I appreciate you being there."

He stared at the floor for a long moment, then risked a glance in her direction to see her staring at him in almost open-mouthed amazement. Damn! Was he really so self-centered that honestly voiced appreciation was such a shock to her? He jumped to his feet and moved to stand before her.

"Scully." He paused, wanting to make sure he got this right. "I may not always say it, but," deep breath, in for a penny, in for a pound, "I do appreciate you being there."

She stared at him, her brow furrowed in concentration as if she was trying to decipher what he had said. Finally, she nodded and walked back to her desk.

"So, you want coffee or not?" she asked.

Now it was his turn to look dumbfounded at her. Hadn't she heard him? Didn't she understand what he was saying? He frowned now. Maybe this was going to be harder than he'd thought.

"Coffee?" he repeated, trying desperately to stall for time as he worked things out.

"Yes, coffee. Do you want your coffee?"

"You brought me coffee?"

"Mulder," Scully was exasperated and it showed, "it's my morning to bring the coffee. You were supposed to bring the pastry." One hand went back to her hip and she cocked her head as she asked, "You did remember the pastry, right?"

Shit! This was not going well at all. A night of revelations, leading to today, the day he showed Dana Scully what she meant to him, and right off the bat he forgot it was his turn to bring their morning snack.

"No, Scully," he said evenly, "I just get tired of stale danish in the office. I thought we could get out and walk to that little bakery down the street." When all else fails, lie like a rug.

"You? Fox Mulder? In a yuppie bakery? One that serves cappuccino, no less?" She marched back over to him, lifting her hand to feel his brow again. "Are you sure you're not sick?"

He flushed again and lightly pushed her hand away. "Knock it off, Scully," he groused, "I just wanted to do something a little different." His shoulders slumped slightly, and he took a step back toward his desk.

She softened considerably at his semi-dejected demeanor, then said, "It's all right, Mulder, I was just teasing. I'd love to walk to the bakery with you."

"When do you want to go?"

She looked at the pending paperwork on her desk, then glanced at her watch. "Give me an hour to get this done and up to Skinner, then we can head out."

"You sure you can wait that long?" he teased.

"Watch yourself, Mulder," she growled. "You're already in trouble."

He smiled now, then plopped back down in the desk chair. "Oh, all right. Then hand me that file, will ya? And pass me my coffee."

Reprieve. Another hour to figure out how to make her see what she meant to him. An hour to plan his day and mend his ways. He smiled again then looked down at his watch.

Only an hour.

Summary: Tierce: One of the canonical hours of prayer. Tierce occurs at around 9:00 in the morning, the third hour.

Prayer: Tierce

Only an hour. Forty-five minutes ago that had seemed like an eternity. But that was before he had forty-five minutes to rethink his position.

Mulder glanced up from the file he was ostensibly perusing, and noted Scully was still tapping away at her laptop. The latest expense reports? Case notes? Who knew? She was certainly being more productive than he was. He'd spent the last forty-five -- he looked at his watch -- no, make that forty-eight minutes, trying to figure out how to tell her what she meant to him.

He'd told her he appreciated her, and she'd only nodded. Hardly the response he had been looking for. He'd been thrown for such a loop, he hadn't known how to respond to her non-response. And her lack of response? He was sure it was something he had done. Somehow, he had created a situation where she was uncomfortable with him and with his attempt to tell her how he felt.

The phone on Scully's desk rang, and he looked up, curious. She finished what she was typing, exchanged a quick look with him, and answered.

"Scully." She paused, listening, then said, "I see." A soft sigh, then she added, "All right. I'll be there as soon as I can. Would you tell them I'm on my way?" She was opening her desk drawer, removing her purse, as she ended with, "Thanks, Kim. Bye."

Mulder lifted an eyebrow inquisitively as she rose, digging through her handbag for keys.

"Quantico. Skinner volunteered me to review a questionable autopsy." Her stomach chose that moment to rumble softly and she flushed. "Damn, I'm hungry." She looked over at him and smiled. "I was looking forward to our bakery walk."

Mulder's guilt settled on him like an old, worn blanket. He'd forgotten and now she would have to go and work on an empty stomach. No wonder she didn't believe him when he tried to tell her how important she was to him. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said softly. "I should have remembered."

"It's all right, Mulder," she said as she pulled her suit coat back on, fumbling only slightly with the buttons. "I'll just grab an early lunch or something."

"No!" Mulder exclaimed, a new thought flashing through his mind. At her surprised look, he modulated his tone somewhat and went on, "I mean, no, don't grab lunch. I'll drive out and bring you lunch, OK?"

"You're going to bring me lunch?" Scully asked, the same peculiar look on her face that she had had when he told her he appreciated her.

"Yeah. What's so strange about that?" She certainly wasn't making any of this very easy. But then, turnabout's fair play. He'd never really made her life very easy either.

She shook her head slowly. "Nothing, I suppose. It's just," she paused, searching for the right words, "well, it's not your usual style." She dropped keys and purse onto the desk and walked over to stand before him again. "Mulder, are you sure you're feeling all right?"

Jeez. Was he a complete bastard, or what? A simple offer of lunch and she thinks he's sick. He shook his head, forcing himself to listen as she went on.

"I mean, you seem," again she paused, the struggle for words visible on her face, "more -- open? Is that what I mean?" Her eyes were closed and he could see her examining her statement, refining it, choosing a comment and then discarding it. He waited until her eyes opened and she said tentatively, "You were pretty upset last night."

Now it was his turn to nod. "I was." He was suddenly embarrassed and he dropped his head. "I was really glad you were there, well, on the phone there."

"You've been upset before," she stated.

"Yes."

"Well, you usually seem ..." she stopped again, and he realized that this discussion was very difficult for her.

Why? Why was it so hard for her to talk to him?

"... Mulder?"

He looked up, startled to find that she had continued speaking and he had missed it all. She was gazing at him speculatively now, an odd look on her face.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he apologized as sincerely as he could, his face flushed. "I got lost in thought."

She continued to stare at him, then apparently decided to let him off the hook and smiled. "Oh well, you know what they say about unfamiliar territory ..." Her short laugh caught him unawares and he found himself responding.

Damn! Even when he didn't listen to her, she still seemed to know just what to say.

He chuckled, then said, "Look, you probably need to go." At her nod of agreement, he stepped over to her desk, grabbing her keys and purse and handing them to her.

"Variations on a theme," he said lightheartedly. "Go. Be a doctor." He was rewarded with her splutter of laughter and a sharp smack on his arm. He opened the door for her, then walked toward the elevator, his hand resting lightly in the small of her back.

Her stomach rumbled again, and he looked down, chagrined. "I'll bring lunch, I promise." Her hand reached out to press the button to summon the elevator, then traveled over to gently touch his arm. He met her eyes and smiled. "I won't forget this time."

She smiled as well, then stepped away as the bell chimed and the doors whooshed open. "You better not," she threatened. "I'm armed. And I'm dangerous if I'm not fed regularly." She laughed at the look on his face, and her laughter was still ringing in his ears as the doors closed, hiding her from his sight, taking her away from him.

Summary: Sext: One of the canonical hours of prayer. Sext occurs at around noon, the sixth hour.

Prayer: Sext

Lunch. He needed to plan lunch. Burgers and fries wouldn't do it, but it couldn't be something too fancy or she'd start wondering if he was sick again. He shook his head. He offers to bring lunch; she thinks he's sick. It was a very revealing insight into their relationship.

Pizza? Too plain. How about some other Italian dish? Lasagna? Spaghetti? Fettucine? Good, but rather messy to transport.

There was always Chinese. Kung Pao chicken. Pork Lo Mein. Or Indian. Scully liked curry. Or Greek. A nice Greek salad with lots of feta cheese.

He could just go with soup and sandwiches. Though soup might be hard to transport as well. Roast beef au jus. Ham and Swiss. A nice thick club. With -- French onion soup? Chicken noodle? Vegetable beef?

Or a salad. Scully ate salads all the time. Probably how she was able to fit into that tight little suit she had on today. Mulder allowed his thoughts to drift to the vision of his partner as she had arrived this morning, and he quickly felt a tightening in his pants. He shook his head again. He had work to do and he was daydreaming already. No wonder Scully thought he was sick.

He was sick. Too obsessive to function in the real world. He'd been fortunate to survive so far, managing somehow to skate through rules and regs that would have caused others to be dismissed from the Bureau. Scully's steadying influence was a large part of why he'd made it so far.

He'd tried to tell her. She kept him honest. Made him prove things. Insisted he back it up with evidence, not just feeling and intuition. And it had made him a better person, a better agent. No longer just Spooky Mulder - he was an investigator others didn't mind working with anymore. What a tremendous gift she had given him.

And he was supposed to give her lunch in about two hours. He stared at the list he'd made. All the different possibilities, all the things scratched out. He was going to screw this up; he could feel it. A simple task like "bring lunch," and he was going to screw it up.

Well, he wasn't going to screw it up without trying. He rose to his feet, ready to go do battle with the restaurants of the world. He shoved the mutilated list into his pocket and pulled his coat back on. He was almost to the door when the phone rang. Almost without thinking, he returned to his desk and answered, "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder? I have some information you might find useful. Can you meet me?"

"Who is this?" Mulder could feel his heart begin to race; the catch in his breath as he thought of another shot at getting the answers he so desperately sought.

"That's not important. I work for NSA and I can provide you with the names of some people who wouldn't bear up under a bit of scrutiny. Can you meet me?"

Mulder checked his watch. Scully was expecting him and he still had to make plans, pick things up, and make the drive to Quantico. "When?" he asked cautiously.

The voice on the other end sounded surprised at his question. "Now. Meet me now." He rattled off the name of a backstreet bar not too far from the office.

"Uh --" Mulder was struggling, "I'm -- not... Can I meet you tonight?"

"NO!" the voice exploded. "Absolutely not! Do you take me for an idiot to give you time to set me up? Look, do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"

Mulder stared at his watch, watching the seconds tick by. His lower lip was pulled into his mouth and he chewed the tender skin until he tasted blood. Scully or the hunt. The quest or his partner. The truth or the woman who meant more to him than anyone in the world. She would understand. She always understood. Oh, she'd be a little upset, but once he explained it -- it was unplanned, unexpected. A one shot deal. How could he let it pass? She would understand and she would forgive him.

The voice cleared its throat impatiently and Mulder turned his attention back to the phone.

It was always dark in the lower level of the Path building at Quantico. Mulder wondered, not for the first time, why they seemed to perpetuate the myth of dark and creepy being associated with the dead. A few more lights in the ceiling tiles would not break the FBI's budget, he was sure.

He walked down a corridor, past the autopsy bay, stopping in a little used 'L' in the hallway that led to an exit. He dropped his burdens and began to lay out the blanket. Getting everything set up, he made another trip to the car, bringing the basket and a couple pillows. God, he hoped she would forgive him. He always seemed to screw things up.

He laid the pillows out, then spread plates and utensils, but left the food packed for now. He filled the glasses -- iced tea -- and smiled. It was corny now, after five years, but it was an inside joke that never failed to make her smile. And as late as he was, he needed that smile.

He stood up and surveyed his impromptu picnic. Not great, but not too bad either. Finally deciding there was nothing more he could do, he turned to go and face his partner.

He rapped on the glass in the door, then pushed his way in when she turned and looked.

"Oh, there you are," she said. "I'd about given up on you."

Her words struck him and he caught his breath. "Don't," he choked out, "please don't."

Her gaze turned worried and she quickly stripped off her gloves and came to him. "Mulder, are you OK?"

"Don't," he repeated again, eyes staring into her own.

She cocked her head quizzically. "Don't what?"

"Don't give up on me."

Her face softened then, and she took in his obvious distress. "Oh, Mulder, what happened?" she asked softly.

"Nothing," he replied. He was getting better now. The panic that had gripped him at her words was receding. "Hey," he looked up and smiled, "I'm sorry I'm late."

She glanced down at her watch. "You're not all that late. It's hardly 1:00." She went and pulled on a new pair of gloves. "Let me put him away, and we can eat." She began to push the gurney toward a walk-in refrigeration unit. "What'd you bring anyway?" she called back over her shoulder.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Mulder replied.

Scully stepped back into the bay, stripped gloves and gown off, and then walked back over to join Mulder.

It was amazing to him how she made even hospital scrubs look attractive. He stood staring at her until she spoke.

"Mulder? Earth to Mulder? Lunch? You did bring food, didn't you?"

He nodded foolishly, but made no move. He was still staring at Scully, drinking her in, reveling in her presence. He had to make her see how important she was to him, no matter what stupid things he did.

"Mulder?" she asked again, growing a bit impatient. "What is it? Did I grow a second head or something?"

"No, Scully," he answered. "You look -- nice," he finished lamely.

She looked down at herself and laughed. "You are obviously suffering from a lack of proper nutrition." She smiled and took his arm. "C'mon, let's eat. I'm starving."

He let her lead him out the bay, then gently redirected her when she headed for the elevators.

"Where are we going? There's no place to eat down here."

"Shhh," he whispered. "Have a little faith in your partner, Scully. You just have to trust me. After all, I don't want to get shot. Again." He smiled down at her as he lead her down the darkened hallway to the little alcove by the exit.

They turned the little corner and Scully stopped, amazed. A soft blanket covered the floor, pillows against the wall to lean into. China plates, silverware, crystal goblets sat in readiness. Two hampers sat to the side, and she could smell the savory odors that drifted out.

"Mulder," she began, "I'm -- shocked. This is quite a surprise."

"You like it?" he asked, suddenly shy.

"It's -- amazing." She turned and looked up at him. "When did you do all this?"

"After you left. I got started. It took a couple hours, but I wanted it to be right." He didn't mention the phone call, or the informant he had refused to meet. She didn't need to know; it would only make her feel bad. And he wanted her to be happy now. To be pleased with his surprise.

She was still standing, staring down at the elegant display, and he took her elbow and gently eased her down. Once she was seated, he pulled her shoes off, ignoring the strange look she gave him. He took his own coat and tie off, then kicked his shoes off to join hers by the wall.

Opening the first hamper, he began to lay out the dishes.

Two soups -- onion and vegetable; three salads -- chef's Caesar, and Greek; roast beef sandwich, turkey club, ham and Swiss on rye; lasagna, spaghetti, fettucine; curry and fried rice; lemon pepper shrimp, broiled scallops, a stuffed lobster tail. And he hadn't even gotten to the desserts.

He ceased his labors to find Scully staring at him in disbelief. "Mulder," she asked, "what did you do?"

"Do?" he echoed, confused.

"Yes, do. What did you do?" She waved her arm at the array of dishes, then repeated, "What did you do?"

He shook his head. "I don't understand, Scully," he said, honestly perplexed.

"Mulder, if ever I saw atonement, this is it." She smiled at him to take some of the sting from her words. "Now," she ordered, "fess up."

He was shaking his head again. Was this what she thought of him? That he would only do something nice if he needed to make up for something else? He tried to think back. Surely he'd shown her some consideration at other times, but he was having difficulty calling any of those times to mind right now. He frowned, and his heart seemed to stutter within his chest. He'd screwed it up after all. He was never going to get this right. His head dropped and he waited for her to speak again.

"Mulder?" she asked, abruptly changing her tone as she took in his disheartened appearance. "Mulder? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take anything away from this." She motioned to the blanket again. "This is -- well, it's wonderful!"

His head had come up at her apology, and as she praised his efforts, a huge smile burst across his face. Unable to contain himself, he fell to his knees beside her and swept her up in a hug. "You like it?"

She laughed, squirming slightly within his unexpected embrace. "Yes, I like it. But, Mulder, you are acting very weird today."

He hugged her again, then released her, and pressed a plate into her hands. "Weird good? Or weird bad?"

She stopped in the middle of piling spaghetti on her plate, and looked up at him. "Oh, weird good. Definitely weird good." She ducked her head as she flushed slightly and returned her attentions to the food. "Mmmm, this smells heavenly."

Weird good! He hadn't screwed up after all. For once in his life, something good just might work out for him.

He smiled now. She'd taken a last bite, handed him her plate and leaned back into the pillows, sated. Her eyes closed, and she sighed contentedly. "Mmmm, that was wonderful, Mulder."

He was inordinately pleased with himself. He leaned back as well, inching over to sit next to her, and her eyes opened at his proximity. He slid the last few inches, until he was against her, his arm touching hers, his hip to hers, legs folded so that her knee rested against his own. "Is this OK?" he asked diffidently.

She gave him the odd, speculative look that he was coming to know, and then nodded. They sat quietly for some time, Scully with eyes closed, Mulder gazing at her, drinking her in. Finally she stirred, making as if to get up.

He reached out to hold her back. "Hang on a minute, Scully," he said. "You didn't check out dessert."

"No more food, Mulder," she laughed, groaning at the same time.

"Yeah, you gotta check this out." He scrambled for a moment, then pulled out half a turtle cheesecake. Looking around for a knife, a fork, anything, he was suddenly at a loss for a utensil.

Scully was studying him again, that same peculiar look on her face as she waited to see what he would do. He rummaged in the hamper a moment longer, then looked up and smiled. "Must be an X-File. Disappearing cutlery." He laughed when she rolled her eyes at him.

"Oh well," he continued, "who am I to give in so easily?" He broke a piece of the rich cheesecake off, and slowly brought it toward her. She stared at him, eyes wide with some strange emotion he couldn't name, then slowly opened her mouth. He placed the sweet dessert on her tongue, and was shocked when she clamped her mouth shut, capturing his fingers in her mouth.

Her eyes lowered to half-mast, and her tongue slowly slid against his finger, working it free of its half curled position as she quickly swallowed. A second later, there was a feeling of suction against his digits, and within the confines of his tailored dress slacks, he could feel himself leap to full erection. He closed his eyes and groaned.

At his inadvertent vocalization, she froze. His eyes shot open and he found her staring at him, very nearly in a panic. She opened her mouth and climbed to her feet, stepping over him and racing back down the hall. He could just barely make out her quietly desperate words, "Oh God, what have I done?"

Summary: Nones: One of the canonical hours of prayer. Nones occurs at around three in the afternoon, the ninth hour.

Prayer: Nones

Clean-up had taken longer than he'd expected. There was a lot of food left over. He'd dropped by a local shelter and given it away before coming back to the office. The original plan had been to take it home and recreate the picnic for dinner -- there was certainly enough food to do so without risking repetition.

But Scully's reaction to dessert, her blind panic and swift flight had scared him. He'd remained rooted in place for long minutes, his erection only slowly fading, his mind in overdrive as he tried to fathom her actions.

He'd finally clambered to his feet and followed her back to the autopsy bay only to be met by another surprise. She'd locked the door. He hadn't even realized you could lock those big swinging doors, but apparently you could, because she had. He could just make her out through the glass, standing stiff and silent by the far wall.

He'd knocked and been studiously ignored. He'd pulled his phone and dialed, but she had not moved. He'd called to her, begging her to let him in -- what appropriate wording -- but she had not even twitched in response.

Finally, he had conceded defeat for the time being. He'd packed up the remains of the picnic and hauled it back up to the car. He'd returned to pick up her shoes and carry them down to the bay doors.

"Scully," he'd called, watching as she stiffened slightly, but didn't turn, didn't answer. "Scully, I'm leaving now. I'm sorry I upset you." He paused a moment, hoping she might answer, but silent she remained. "Your shoes are outside the door, Scully. OK?" A quick nod of the head, but it was reward enough. At least she was listening to him.

"Scully, please, please, come back to the office when you're done here. Please?" No answer, no movement, no reaction. "I'm gonna wait there until you come back. Even if I have to wait all night." She straightened slightly at that, then her shoulders slumped. "Please don't make me wait all night."

He had stayed a bit longer, hoping she might reconsider and talk to him then, but had finally turned and made his way out to the car.

Trying to salvage something good from the day, he had dropped the still overflowing hampers of food at the shelter and then returned to the office. But once there, he had been unable to concentrate on work. Instead, he had pulled out his notepad, and begun to make a list. It was something he'd learned to do at a young age -- put things on paper and look at them, then you could make reasonable decisions.

There was something going on here -- he just needed to get a grip on it. Scully was there for him -- all the time, in any way he needed. But today, when he'd tried to tell her, to show her, what that meant, she'd been disbelieving. She'd hidden behind humor, partially ignored him, and then, when he'd finally broken through a tiny bit, she'd fled in panic and hidden behind locked doors.

OK, Mulder. You're the great psychologist. What the hell is going on here? He stared down at the piece of paper. He'd been writing this morning when Scully had come in, trying to put into words how he had felt when he woke to find her still there with him. There had been such a sense of peace when he heard her through the open phone line. And he had been so moved that she would stay with him in that way, watching over him in his sleep.

He read his words again, then quickly drew a T chart and began to make lists.

When had Scully leaned on him? The first case out in Oregon. The Pfaster case. When Penny Northern died. That was about it. Three times in six years.

When had he leaned on Scully? Modell. Roche. When his mother had her stroke. After the Cassandra case. The Mothmen. The list seemed endless. And that was just the case list. Add to it the innumerable times he had called her at three in the morning, panicked from a nightmare. The times he'd been injured, or sick, or hurting, and she had been there, holding his hand, her face the first thing he saw upon waking.

But when had he let Scully down? Again, the times were too numerous to count. Too many failures and almost failures. From Tooms attacking her in her bathroom, to getting himself shot and leaving her to face Luther Lee Boggs alone. From Duane Barry and her abduction, to his short-sightedness during the Pfaster case, when he had refused to acknowledge how really disturbed she was by everything. From letting Gerry Schnauz take her and terrify her, to her cancer and subsequent illness. And then his refusal to believe her when she experienced her own regression.

He slapped his forehead, staring down at the scrawls he'd made on the paper. It was suddenly so clear to him.

He was a psychologist. And he could see the pattern. He reached out to her when he was in need, and she always responded. He was only open with her when he was in need. It was his need that made him let her in.

But his own sense of failure, his ongoing guilt at the dangers she faced because of him, kept him from letting her get close at other times. And his own distance in the "normal" times, forced her to maintain a reserve, a wall, that now he could not breach. But he was going to get through that wall now, one way or another.

The bond that they shared, the connection between them, it was too real, and had existed for too long to let it continue on as it was. It was time for some forward movement. Scully was the most important person in the world to him, and it was time she knew.

He was going to make her see what she meant to him. Not just when he was sick. Not just when he was injured. Not just when he was scared, or hurt, or lonely. But every day, all day. Every night, all night. She was going to know how he longed for her. How she filled his nights as often as the nightmares did.

His hand drifted down to stroke his burgeoning erection. It wasn't about sex with Scully, but it kept coming up. He snorted slightly, amused at his own pun. Boy, did it keep coming up. He looked back at the words he had written, one hand still in his lap.

Once you put things on paper, it became so clear. She was going to have to see that things couldn't go on this way. It was time to move forward.

He looked at the clock. Almost five. He'd told her he'd wait all night, and that was exactly what he was going to do. He moved the notepad to the corner of the desk, pulled his laptop over, and decided to try to get some work done.

Hell, he'd waited six years. He could wait through this night if he had to.

Summary: Vespers: One of the canonical hours of prayer. Vespers occurs at the end of the day.

Prayer: Vespers

Maybe she wasn't going to come back to the office after all. He'd been pretty sure she wouldn't leave him here all night, but then again, she'd been pretty upset as well. Scully didn't run and hide very often. In fact, he couldn't think of a single time when Scully had taken flight like that. And considering their history of murderers, madmen, and monsters, that said a lot about how much he scared her.

He sighed and closed the folder he had been reviewing, reluctantly lifting another from the pile on the corner of his desk. He glanced at his watch again.

There was a sound at the door and he looked up expectantly. The door opened and Scully stepped in. Her eyes scanned the room briefly then dropped to the floor when she saw him.

"Oh, you're still here," she said quietly.

"Where else would I be, Scully?" he asked gently. "I told you I was going to wait."

She shrugged, then moved to her desk, dropping files, handbag, and tape recorder on the top.

"I see you found your shoes," he teased.

She flushed but declined to respond, instead opening her laptop and settling as if to work.

"Scully?" he asked. "Are we going to talk about what happened this afternoon?"

"No," she answered shortly.

That took him by surprise. He'd been prepared for her to avoid or to equivocate, but to actually refuse to discuss it, that he wasn't expecting. He remained silent a bit longer, mulling this over in his mind. If she refused to discuss it, wasn't that tacit admission that it happened? And that it had scared her as much as it had surprised him?

He looked up, eyeing her speculatively as she worked doggedly on her transcription. The earpiece to the small tape recorder was in her ear and the only sound in the room was the "tap, tap, tap," of her fingers on the keyboard.

He glanced back down at the pad on his desk and began to read his musings of the afternoon. He'd pretty much concluded he was the one who had caused Scully to be like this. Six years of intense neediness on his part, followed by total denial had trained her to deny her emotions toward him as he always denied his toward her. Six years of midnight phone calls, surreptitious visits between hotel rooms, cries in the night answered by her voice, soothed by her touch; demons banished by her strength. But he had steadfastly refused to admit his need in the light of day, hiding behind jokes and innuendo.

He thought back to his reaction to her on their first case. Frightened, she'd openly admitted her fear and thrown herself into his arms, seeking his reassurance. And what had he done? He'd stood stiff and unresponsive until he finally forced himself to slowly put his arms around her and awkwardly pat her shoulder. He'd responded, but she had known his discomfort. And then when the office had burned, she embraced him, offering comfort and her steadying presence, and he had refused to respond, standing stiff within the circle of her touch, unyielding to her care.

And despite his avoidance of any overt emotional admissions, she'd still had the inner strength and fortitude to reach out to him, to offer her strength and comfort on so many occasions.

He looked at his notes, his lists, and began to write again, his thoughts flowing faster than his pen could keep up.

With her reaction to his surprise lunch, and her subsequent action over dessert, he'd realized that physical intimacy was all that was left for them. Despite the avoidance and denial, they were as close as two people could be. He thought of the feel of her tongue against his fingers and felt the immediate arousal the memory evoked. God! She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him, certainly wouldn't touch him, and yet the mere thought of her was turning him on like nothing ever before.

This was not the way to break through Dana Scully's walls. He needed to get himself under control and figure out how to let her know that the feelings he was trying to share with her were real, that the connection he wanted to acknowledge was a reality, that the longing he was experiencing was the truth, and that none of it would fade come the next morning light. He'd trained her too well to accept emotional intimacy in little bits and pieces, rationed out at his command, shared on his whims. He'd allowed her very little opportunity to set the rules; rather, she had adopted his own standards, and he had then resented her for her steadfast refusal to be open with him. All the "I'm fine, Mulder"s that he had so resented, that had so angered him, were nothing more than her playing the game by the rules he had set.

He thought back through the day. She'd answered his call with her usual care and stayed with him through the night. She'd followed the unspoken guidelines that morning, not bringing it up, and had been surprised when he had. She must have perceived it as a sudden change in the rules halfway through the game. No wonder she had been confused. And then, despite his vow to be open and honest with her, he'd lied at the drop of a hat. His plans for a walk to the bakery were thwarted by her consult on the autopsy at Quantico.

But he'd thought it had gone well when she had seemed so pleased by his surprise luncheon. And they'd been comfortable together; the conversation had been relaxed. He'd been ready to unburden his heart to her, when he'd fed her that piece of cake, and she'd -- oh, God, he could feel his erection swell again at the thought -- well, she'd reacted to him in a way he had only imagined in his dreams.

A new thought flashed through his mind, and he realized he could easily have taken the prize for "Densest Man on the Planet." If she did that to him, relaxed and comfortable, with her guard down, then she must want him as well. Why hadn't he seen this earlier? Because, he mentally kicked himself, because I see everything through how it impacts me. But there was more than a one-sided desire going on here. And now, he smiled to himself, now the challenge would be making Dana Scully admit it.

He looked at what he had written. Lots of interesting psychobabble, very little practical decisions on how to move past this impasse. He glanced up at Scully again, and on the spur of the moment, decided to move back to her comfort level. Pushing her certainly hadn't worked, maybe he should try leading her a bit more gently.

"What did you find on the autopsy, Scully?" he asked.

His mouth dropped open in shock, when she rose angrily, strode to his desk, and threw the folder down in front of him.

"If you're so damned interested in the autopsy, Mulder, you can read the damn thing yourself!" She stood for a moment, glaring down at him, her hands on her hips, chest heaving from barely suppressed -- what? Rage? Frustration? Dare he hope it might be passion? Tears hovered in her eyes and she trembled slightly where she stood. Suddenly, without another word, she whirled and raced from the room.

Mulder sat, stunned. Shit! That had not gone well at all. He got up, determined to -- to what? He still didn't have a clue as to what was the right thing to say or do. He'd started this day with every intention of telling Scully how much she meant to him, how much he valued her friendship, and treasured her care and concern. And how much he wanted to provide those things for her, to have her come to him for comfort and solace, that she might draw from his strength when she felt weak; that she might know it was acceptable to admit her weaknesses with him, as he admitted his with her.

He rose and left the office, going down the dim hallway to stand before the door of the ladies room. He knocked softly but received no response. "Scully?" he called tentatively. "You all right?"

"Go away, Mulder," she answered, and he could hear the tears in her voice.

There was a long silence and Mulder was beginning to think he'd made a big mistake. Given his track record of saying the wrong thing, this may have been a mistake. A day of trying to put feelings into words hadn't worked for him, and he had a feeling this was his last shot. Maybe the direct approach would work.

"Hey, Scully," he called again, "I'm sorry you got upset at lunch, but I'm not sorry it happened. It's kind of nice to know I can turn you on since you turn me on so much."

He could hear the sharp intake of air as Scully gasped on the other side of the door. Oh shit! That hadn't been the right approach. He'd screwed up. He always screwed up, and now he screwed up what should have been the best day of his life. Why the hell did everything he touched turn to shit?

He was leaning against the bathroom door, debating on whether or not she would shoot him if he just went in, when the door opened and he stumbled forward. Scully stood to the side and let him fall into the small room, making no effort to catch him; scrupulously avoiding touching him. When he caught his balance, and turned to look at her, she was staring composedly at him.

"I am going to get my paperwork and go home, Mulder. I think it would be best if we just forget about this very strange day." She gave him a tight, forced smile, and walked out the door, leaving him to stand alone in the women's bathroom.

He walked over to the commode, lowered the lid, and sat. With elbows on knees, he placed his head in his hands and slowly let fall the tears that had been threatening all afternoon. He sobbed quietly, recognizing that these were tears of mourning. The realization of how much Scully meant to him was a one shot thing. It was too hard and too painful to risk himself in this way when she was obviously not prepared to hear or accept his sentiments. He knew, as the tears continued to creep down his cheeks, that this one day was his one day of courage. Tomorrow, things would be back to normal. She would be the professional, and he would be the jokester. He would hide in humor and she would hide in business. And this relationship of theirs would continue on forever, because he doubted he would ever again be able to take the risks he'd taken today.

He shook his head sadly, then brushed the tears from his eyes. He rose and walked to the sink, washing his face carefully, running his fingers through unruly hair, and then washing his hands. He straightened his tie and tucked his shirt in, then looked closely at himself in the mirror. No longer was the image that of a man in love, a man filled with longing and desire for a beautiful woman. No longer was the reflection that of a man of emotions, a man who wanted only to care for, protect, cherish, and make happy the woman of his dreams. No, now it was Fox Mulder, FBI agent, professional partner of Agent Dana Scully. Friend, yes. Something more? Apparently not in this lifetime.

He sighed and ran his hand over his hair one last time, then turned and left.

Summary: Collation: The evening meal, followed by sacred reading.

Prayer: Collation

The man was going to drive her mad. Dana Scully fumed as she drove to her apartment. Whatever had been going on with him all day today? This day itself should qualify for X-File status. She shook her head as she pulled into the parking lot of her building. Mulder in a mood was a force to be reckoned with, and he had certainly tested her today. What on earth was the matter with him?

Scully parked and pulled her briefcase and laptop out with her, locked the car and trudged up the walk to her apartment. She dropped her work materials on the desk and then went to rummage in the kitchen. Despite that wonderful lunch -- no, don't go there Dana, she warned herself -- it was late and she was hungry again.

Before she had lost control and made a complete fool of herself, she had harbored a small flicker of hope that she might be sharing a repeat of Mulder's repast this evening. Only here, in her home, in front of the fire, perhaps, and with a nice bottle of wine instead of iced tea. But for all her internal complaints about Mulder's strange behavior, her own actions took the cake. And the fingers too, she added wryly. Mulder must have thought she'd lost her mind.

God! How many times had she envisioned just that scenario? A romantic picnic for two. A quiet, out of the way spot. Though, she had to admit, down the hall from the morgue wouldn't have made her list of possible locations. She shook her head, smiling, as she pulled a TV dinner from the freezer. Leave it to Mulder to make the most macabre setting into something magical, creating a memory she would never forget.

He'd been so -- sweet? Was that a word you could use for Fox Mulder? He'd been trying all day to be kind, going out of his way to let her know he appreciated her being there when he called last night. She put the dinner in the microwave, set the timer, and started it. Then she let out a snort. As if she would have been anywhere else.

>From the beginning, she had known that Mulder was uncomfortable with his emotions. Whether it was his innate nature, or a learned behavior in the face of continual rejection from his parents after Samantha's disappearance, she didn't know. What she did know, was that he needed her, but he couldn't admit that. And so she had grown adept at "being there" for him, and then ignoring it the next day. Mulder's behavior today had cast those patterns away, and made her unsure of what to say and do.

The microwave dinged and she sighed and rose. Pulling back the cover on the dinner, she looked down at a rather unappetizing display of meat loaf, corn, and mashed potatoes. Thinking back to the spread from this afternoon, she found herself unable to even take a bite and she carried the cardboard tray untouched to the garbage, depositing it there. She sighed again, then fixed a glass of wine, and went back out to the desk in the corner of her living room, settling in to get some work done.

She set the laptop out and pulled the tape recorder from her briefcase, not bothering with the earpiece since Mulder wasn't here to be disturbed. Mulder. What was going on with Mulder? He'd pushed her buttons all day, keeping her off balance, never sure how to react. She'd grown complacent in the aftermath of his battles with demons. He called to her, she responded. He was hurt, she sought to comfort.

But, never, never did the terrors of the night cross into daylight's waking hours. Mulder was always the one with a ready joke, an off-color remark when she would ask how he was, had he been able to sleep any. It was as if his resistance was lowered at night, and in the day his natural reticence reasserted itself. He might offer an offhanded "thank-you" but no serious discussion of his night terrors was ever undertaken.

Today, however, he'd seemed to want to talk. Not about the dream, not about the call, but about them. And she'd been scared. Face it, Dana, it scared you. This is not a Fox Mulder you are prepared to handle. And was there a "them" to talk about outside of the work relationship? She didn't know.

Oh, sure, she had her fantasies. What healthy woman wouldn't? Mulder was brilliant, totally devoted, loyal to a fault. He was good-looking, charming when he wanted to be, and had an arrogant self-assuredness that could be most appealing at times. And he was good-looking. Had she mentioned good-looking? Oh, yeah, she'd had her fantasies, that was for sure.

But to do what she had done ... She felt her skin burn and knew she was flushed as she thought back to the feel of his fingers in her mouth. He'd been acting so strange all day. She'd been struggling so hard to keep things in the safe zone. And then, in one fell swoop, he feeds her cheesecake with his fingers -- with his fingers! -- and she was lost. Her reaction had been so totally without thought, it caught even her by surprise and then she had flown, away from her mistake, away from her weakness, away from Mulder.

She sighed again. Today was an aberration. Things would be back to normal tomorrow. She looked down at the tape recorder and realized it had played out while she had been lost in thought. Yeah, things would be back to normal tomorrow, including Skinner's demand for her report and daydreaming like this wasn't going to get it done. She rewound the tape, then picked up the file to review before she finished the transcriptions. Holding the file in one hand, her eyes were drawn to the bright yellow of a legal pad that had been under the autopsy report. She didn't remember putting that in there. Looking closer, she realized it was covered with Mulder's spidery scrawl.

She pulled her eyes away. She'd obviously picked up his notes on something. She needed to call him and tell him that she had them. Knowing Mulder, he was still at the office, either searching for them, or recreating them from that perfect memory of his. She glanced back over and saw her name, followed by the words "offers her care" and rose quickly, walking away. These were not case notes. These were Mulder's private thoughts. Thoughts about her. No way could she call him and tell him she had them. After the day they'd had, there was no telling what he would read into her inadvertent mistake. She would just have to take them in tomorrow and leave them on his desk. She'd go in early and leave them so he would find them first thing. She wouldn't mention she'd had his notes, and maybe by tomorrow, he'd be back to normal, and he would be willing to let it slide as well.

She went back to the desk and lifted the pad from the briefcase, turning it face down beside her laptop. She'd deal with it in the morning. In the meantime, she had a report to write.

She turned on the tape and began to type, but her eyes were repeatedly drawn to the notepad, the cardboard back seeming more vibrant than even the yellow lined pages had. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. The way he was behaving today, there's no telling what he wrote. The good little angel that sat on her right shoulder continued to offer her advice. I need to respect his privacy. I'd be appalled if he ever read some of the things I've written.

But there was never a conversation with the angel of the right that its counterpart didn't chime in. He'll never know. And Lord knows, you're an expert at denying things that have happened. Maybe it will give you some insight into what was going on with him today. Would that really be an invasion of privacy? Or would that just be an extension of partnerly concern?

Against her better judgment, she turned the pad over, sighing. If the fallout was bad, this was once she could truthfully say, "The devil made me do it."

Taking a deep breath, she began to read. And was amazed. Mulder had poured out his heart on the pad. Here was the record of his day. Every comment he had made, every action he had taken. His feelings for her, and his strategy as he tried time and again to tell her what she meant to him. His own analysis of why she wouldn't hear him. And, of course, a healthy dose of his trademark Mulderguilt, assuming that he was responsible for her not wanting to accept his words and emotions. And she could feel the blush in her cheeks as she read his words after the little incident at lunch. Here was not only his love, his care, his concern for her, but also his desire, a desire he'd kept carefully hidden for years if these words were to be believed.

And here was his fear. His fear that he would never again be strong enough to try and share his feelings with her. That her unwillingness to accept what he offered was not just because she was surprised by his actions, but rather, that it was her way of telling him she wasn't interested in anything more than the relationship they had. That she was still hoping for a "real" life, the safety and security that a real life would bring. The husband, the house, the minivan, maybe a couple of kids, a job that didn't involve monsters and madmen. A life that didn't include Fox Mulder.

She sat for a long time at the desk, then rose and walked to the bedroom. She changed out of her suit and pulled on a soft cotton sweater and a pair of leggings. Padding barefoot back out to the living room, she curled up on the couch, and began to read again.

Summary: Compline: The last of the canonical hours of prayer. Compline occurs at bedtime.

Prayer: Compline

Eleven forty. He checked the clock once more, then his watch. Definitely too late to call her. Too late to expect her to call. Way too late for a visit. He sighed.

Face it, Mulder. You screwed up big time today. You'll be lucky if she doesn't run to Skinner and demand a transfer after your bizarre behavior today. He'd blown it. He knew it. He'd made a mess of things as he so often did.

And still it was there. A longing to see her. A desire to hear her voice. A yearning to reach out and know she would be there. A craving for her touch. The never-ending need to be with her. A need that included all forms of touching, of knowing, of being together. To experience the full connection with her.

He sighed and looked at his watch again. Way too late to call. The need was upon him, though, and it would take every bit of will-power to refrain from lifting the phone, begging her forgiveness, pleading for her understanding. He would cast this day away, if only she would still be with him. He could only pray that he had not so confused her, so unbalanced her that she refused to even work with him any longer.

He took one last look at the clock, then lay back on the couch. He turned the TV on, then hit the mute button to silence it. The flickering light cast eerie elongated shadows on the walls around him. He would talk to Scully tomorrow, but he would be light. He would write today off as a deviation, yet another Mulderquirk, a peculiarity of his many moods. And if he was lucky, very lucky, she would let him get away with it and he would be able to go on. And if she bolted, running from him with the good sense he knew she was capable of, well, then he would let her go, and what happened to him would no longer matter.

For tonight though, he would have to stay awake. If he slept and his demons came to call, he would ring her without thinking, and he couldn't allow that to happen. Not until he'd tried to fix the damage he had caused today. He scrubbed his face. God, he was tired. But he'd run on less sleep than this, and for not nearly as good a reason.

He rolled onto his side and pulled his blanket down. With weary eyes, he tried to focus on the pictures of the TV screen, forcing his wayward thoughts aside. There was nothing more he could do about Scully tonight. He'd worry about it tomorrow.

Scully sat in the car, her eyes fixed to the window far above. She could see him moving about, pacing, and then the lights went out, leaving only the familiar shadows cast by the glow of the TV. She'd seen those shadows often enough when she'd slipped into his motel room after he'd had an especially bad dream and his cries had wakened her.

She could imagine that he was laying on the couch, surfing the channels with the sound off, trying desperately to stay awake. He would be fighting the urge to call her, afraid that his odd behavior of the day had somehow ruined things, and trying to still the panic she knew was rising within him even now.

She sighed as she thought of his lonely struggles. All too often he fought his battles alone, and she had felt privileged to join him in the fight on the occasions he had allowed her in. But she knew he was more unsure of himself this night than he had been in many years. Unsure because after the admissions he had made to himself, and to her albeit unknowingly, he would not be able to deny that he needed her. And for Fox Mulder to admit need was a new and dangerous place for him to be.

No doubt he was working on damage control even as she sat here and stared up at the flickering lights that cast murky shapes against his walls. No doubt he was planning to tell her today was an aberration and blow the whole thing off. Or even better, ignore everything, pretending it never happened and giving her a quizzical look if she was so bold to bring it up.

Well, not this time, partner. You've set the rules long enough. Tonight, it's a whole new game, and we'll make the rules together, as we go along.

With a determined set to her face, she opened the car door and got out. Bending back in, she retrieved the few things she had brought with her. He'd find the wine cliche, but the other, well, it had taken her two hours to find the damn thing, and if they got to that point, he'd know exactly what the other meant.

Mulder started, sitting up slightly and listening. He hadn't been all the way asleep but rather in the hypnogogic state that lets all one's cares fall away and the mind is freed to drift through dreams and fantasies. And he'd been enjoying it too, damn it. His thoughts had strayed to Scully, of course, with the usual result. He was hard. And it had seemed that for a moment his guilt was going to let him enjoy it. So, who the hell was knocking at his door at this hour?

He grabbed his weapon and made his way to the entry, opening the door cautiously. Scully? Why was Scully here?

"You going to let me in, Mulder?"

He stared at her in surprise then stepped into the hall, looking in both directions. "You OK, Scully?" he asked.

She smiled at his actions, then gently chided him. "Is it that bad, Mulder? Do I only come to visit when something's wrong?"

"No. I -- uh," he was stammering now, unsure of what to say. He looked down at his watch. "It is almost midnight though, Scully. Not exactly normal visiting hours."

"Since when do we do anything normal?" she teased and he found himself smiling without even thinking about it. Scully in a playful mood was a rarity, to be enjoyed while it lasted. He stood there, just looking at her, thinking how lucky he was that she still wanted to have anything to do with him. He was sure he wouldn't see her tonight, but here she was. His smile broadened to a grin as he let himself feast on her presence.

"You gonna invite me in, Mulder? Or do you plan to spend the night in the hallway in nothing more than your boxers?"

Oh shit! He looked down at himself. She was right. He hadn't put on any pants and the vestiges of his erection were still visible. He colored, then turned without a word and went back to the living room, immediately pulling his jeans back on.

He watched as Scully came in, then carefully placed her bundles on the table by the door and locked up. She grabbed her parcels and made her way to join him in the living room. Placing the wine bottle and box on the coffee table, she walked over to him, standing very close. Very close indeed, and he felt himself grow hot from her proximity. He unconsciously took two steps back, seeking to restore his body space, but she followed him and put her hands on his arms, holding him in place.

She looked up at him, and he was suddenly drowning in the blue depths of her eyes. Why was she here? She still hadn't spoken, but she was holding him tightly, as if she knew his every instinct was to bolt, and she was determined to prevent it.

"Mulder," she murmured softly, and he felt his breath catch in his chest. Just the way she said his name, it was like an electric shock running through him. He closed his eyes, fighting for control.

"Mulder," she said again, insistent, and he pried his lids open to look down at her upturned face.

"Yes?" he croaked. Oh, God, he sounded like he was fourteen. His voice hadn't cracked that badly since he was a teenager. His face was hot again, and there was no way around it -- he was totally confused. What did she want?

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry for the way I acted today."

She was sorry? For the way she acted? He started to shrug, but she must have thought he was pulling away because she tightened her grip on him and stepped closer, until she was pressed up against him. He could feel himself reacting to her again, and, damn it, he was sure she could too.

"Scu -- I, uhm, that's ..." His witty repartee was suddenly cut short as she stretched on tiptoes -- and he felt every inch of that stretch. Her taut abdomen scraped against his groin, her breasts dragged upward over his belly and chest. He closed his eyes and tried in vain to suppress the groan that escaped him, and then her lips were against his cheek, and she was kissing him, and all thought of suppression was right out the window. The groan morphed into a squeak, and all his dignity was gone as she pulled away and he was left clutching empty space.

"Mulder?" she asked from the kitchen door, and he dragged his eyes open and stared hungrily at her from across the room. Amazed. Baffled. Confused. Delighted. Excited. Frightened. Let's play the alphabet game, his treacherous mind was chanting.

"Hmmm?" he managed to respond.

"Wine glasses? I said, do you have any wine glasses?"

He stood staring at her, mouth half open as he tried to process her words with his befuddled brain. Had Dana Scully really just apologized to him? With a kiss?

"Oh, wine glasses." Real smooth, Fox old man. Real smooth. He forced his feet to move and crossed to the door, pointing at the cabinet by the sink.

"I started this bottle at home," she offered as she opened the cabinet he had pointed to. "But I really felt it might be a fitting end to this rather odd day we've shared." She was on her toes now, her bottom dancing up and down and back and forth as she searched for the illusive glasses. He felt vaguely like a pervert as he stared at the graceful display and fought down the reactions it engendered in him.

This was his partner for God's sake. And she knew him well enough to know he would be stressing over today. So instead of making him suffer through the night, she was kind enough -- he paused in mid thought as she lifted one leg, bent at the knee, as she rose to her toes on the other leg again, and swayed slightly as she moved things around in the cabinet. Shit! Where was I? Oh yeah, kind enough to come over tonight and let him know things would be OK between them. He stared at her backside again, fighting back yet another groan.

Yeah. Right. She was being kind. That was it.

She looked back over her shoulder and beckoned to him, but he was unable to move. If he came any closer to her, he would spontaneously combust, he was sure of it. She was talking, but his higher functions seemed to have shut down. All he could think of was why she was here. And what she wanted. And how he would get through drinking wine, at midnight, with his partner, without making any more of a complete and utter fool of himself than he already had.

"Mulder!" she called sharply, and he sensed it wasn't the first time she had called his name. "Come over here and help me. It's obvious they're out of my reach."

He stumbled forward, feet dragging against the old linoleum, and stopped a few feet away from her. How was he supposed to get to the glasses when she was standing in front of the cabinet? His brain felt muzzy, and he knew there was a simple answer, but he'd be damned if he could think of it right now. Instead, he was standing there, still staring stupidly at her, and waiting for further instructions. Ah, yes. He could ask her to move. A simple and elegant solution to the situation with just one slight hitch. It required the power of speech, which seemed to have deserted him at the moment.

She was staring at him now, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"You can't reach the glasses from there, Mulder," she admonished him. "You'll have to take a few more steps."

But Scully, you're there. You're where I need to be. Fine thoughts but his traitorous tongue refused to give them voice. Instead, he took the coward's way out and stepped forward, halting just behind her, carefully not allowing any part of his body to touch hers.

He lifted an arm and leaned forward, and her arm came up as well.

"Ah, up here?" she asked.

Her back arched and her bottom pressed full against him, and it was all he could do not to jump. As it was, he knocked the wine goblet out of the cabinet and only Scully's quick reactions saved it from shattering. She lifted it up victoriously, then leaned back against him, and he had to bring his arm down to hold her, just to keep them from overbalancing.

"Good, Mulder," she teased. "Can you get the other one a little less dramatically?" Her head was thrown back against his shoulder and she looked up and to the side as she spoke, her lips mere inches from the spot on his cheek that still burned from her earlier kiss. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and a hint of something else. Something he was having a hard time placing. A hard time. He was having a hard time. More apt words had never been thought and not spoken. Scully came down off her toes and her weight rested more fully against him as he struggled to make sense of this surreal evening. He spread his legs slightly, only to be sure he was firmly in place so that he could support Scully, of course, then closed his eyes again as she wriggled against him.

He was dreaming. The explanation finally came to him. He'd fallen asleep despite his best attempt to stay awake. He remembered the dream he'd been having when she knocked on the door. It was his psyche's way of preventing him from venturing into territory best not explored with his partner. Though that same psyche seemed fine with the bizarre behavior this dreamScully was exhibiting. He sighed softly and wrapped his arms around her, burying his head in her hair and breathing in her essence. It was OK. She was a dream and he could relax and enjoy it.

"Mulder," she was calling his name again. God, why couldn't she just be quiet for a minute and let him enjoy this? A warm, wiggling Scully pressed up against him, and no sign that she intended to shoot him for enjoying the sensation. But, no, she had to keep talking and ruin the moment.

"Shhh, Scully," he whispered, "it's my dream and I'm going to make the most of it."

"Mulder," she said again, insistently. "Wake up, Mulder, and get the other wine glass." She was staring up at him and she started to pull away now. He tightened his grip. God, this was one realistic dream!

"Oh no, you don't," he said as he held her against him. "You want the wine glass, you have to help get it." Her eyes had taken on an odd look and she shrugged slightly, then took his hand and lifted it toward the cupboard.

"I'm helping," she murmured, as his hand stroked her arm and passed over her hand to reach the back corner of the cabinet and retrieve the other goblet. He pulled back reluctantly and watched as she picked up the glasses and twisted out from between him and the counter. She walked to the wine bottle and poured, then handed him a glass, lifted her own and walked back into the living room.

Maybe it wasn't a dream. He stood in the kitchen staring out to where she had kicked off her shoes and curled up on his couch. How many times had he imagined Scully in just that position? Only he was usually behind her, his arms wrapped around her and, well, um, occupied with various parts of her anatomy.

God, what was wrong with him? He'd completely lost his mind. The whole point of today was not sex, it was about telling Scully what a wonderful person she was and how much she meant to him. And he'd blown it big time. And now, she was here, and he had another chance, and he couldn't think, or speak, or even move, without some sexual reaction. No wonder Scully thought he was behaving strangely today. He was certainly going for the record for bizarre behavior tonight.

"Are you coming?" Scully called to him.

Oh, Scully, you don't want to know. His treasonous mind was suddenly filled with witty retorts. But he only stood and stared dumbly into the living room.

"Mulder. You. Me. Wine." Scully was smirking at him now. Could she be enjoying his discomfiture? Nah. Not Scully. She just wants to give me a chance to set things right. To make sure everything will be OK tomorrow. He glanced down at his watch. Well, later today.

"Mulder, were you asleep when I got here?" she asked as his cement-laden feet began the long journey into the living room.

Her visit was just a chance to make things right. To get beyond the debacle of today, to move past the uneasiness he had caused. And mostly to forget Scully's reaction to the cheesecake he'd fed her. Though, in reality, he would never forget that reaction. Not for as long as he lived.

He carried his wine glass into the living room, carefully sitting on the chair opposite Scully's position on the couch. He was staring into the amber fluid in his glass, watching the way the light reflected through the liquid. No way was he going to tempt fate and sit beside her. No way was he going to risk any more mistakes. Sit down, be quiet, smile a lot, and agree with whatever she says.

"Mulder?"

His head came up and he found her staring at him from her curled up spot on the couch. She'd asked him something. What was his plan again? Smile and agree. So he nodded agreeably and smiled at her.

She was watching him expectantly and he was suddenly at a loss. What had he just agreed to?

"Well?" she asked. "Are you planning on moving anytime tonight?" Her words were crisp and Scullylike, but her tone was soft and her smile gentled their delivery.

"Moving?" Oh, God, the squeak was back. He finally gets his voice back and it betrays him. Et tu, Vox?

"Yes, moving. As in lifting your ass and settling it over here. I want to show you something and you can't see it from over there."

Oh, God. She wanted him to sit beside her. Surely she could see what was going on. He glanced down at his lap. Hell, they could probably see what was going on in the next county. Well, perhaps he was being a bit overly impressed with himself when he said the next county, but hell, he was hard enough to drive nails, and no sign of relief in sight. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to think of an excuse to go to the bathroom and do something to relieve his discomfort. If you could really call it discomfort. He was ready to do something, anything to change the atmosphere in this room. Well, anything but sit by her on the couch. That was not going to change the atmosphere in the proper direction, he could be sure of that.

But, with no other options presenting themselves, he rose reluctantly and shuffled across the rug to sit on the far end of the couch from Scully. Wine glass in hand, he drew himself as far into the corner as he could and still get credit for being on the couch with her.

"I need you to sit by me, Mulder. You can't see from over there."

"I, uh, Scully, I, well, I just don't think that's such a good idea right now, Scully." Good job, Mulder. An almost coherent sentence. That's what? three since she got here? You must be impressing the hell out of her.

"Don't be ridiculous."

That was Scully. Never would believe the truth, even when it was right in front of her. Even when it was as obvious as this truth was.

"I don't have cooties."

No, Scully, what you have is far more dangerous. He could feel that deer in the headlights look steal over his face as he stared wordlessly at her.

"Slide over, Mulder," she ordered, patting the cushion beside her.

Like a condemned man facing his executioner, he slowly slid across the smooth leather, settling at last beside her. God, she was hot! How could one woman radiate so much heat? Or was that him? She reached out and patted his leg, as if he was a not so bright child who had suddenly done something very clever. Jeez, Scully, I just slid across the couch, he whined in his head, but once again, he had been rendered speechless by her touch.

She leaned over to the coffee table and he gasped inaudibly as the V-necked sweater she was wearing gaped, and he was treated to the sight of more Scully than he had seen in a long time. His jeans were amazingly tight, and he was concerned about constriction of blood flow. He could ask Scully. Scully would know. How long could he stay like this before it became dangerous? And, please, can we get a definition on dangerous?

She was talking to him again, and he dragged his eyes up to meet hers. She was pointing at something in her lap, and speaking, explaining really, but the words weren't registering, because he had recognized the item in her hands. It was his notepad. Covered with his handwriting. His notes on this day of disasters. And she had read them. The blood was pounding in his ears and suddenly the tightness in his jeans was not a problem anymore. She had seen his notes -- and read them.

What was she saying? Listen, Mulder, listen to her. It could be the last time she ever speaks to you.

"... and so I was thinking that, perhaps, I hadn't been as receptive to you as I should have been."

She was looking up at him now, eyes wide and a little frightened as she waited for his response. He shook his head again, trying to clear the fog from the corners of his mind, but it just seemed to confuse him more. Why was she looking so scared?

Scully was scared. What he was feeling didn't matter. There was only one thing to do if Scully was frightened. He reached out and gently touched her arm. "Don't be afraid, Scully," he whispered, "there's nothing to be afraid of."

She smiled at him, a tremulous little smile, and murmured, "My Mulder. Always worried about me."

My Mulder. Had she really just said 'My Mulder?'

"Pinch me, Scully," he whispered again. "I'm really not sure I'm awake."

She laughed at that. "Oh, you're awake all right, Mulder, and so am I. I think we may both really be fully awake for the first time in a long time." Her hand came out and caressed his thigh, and his little problem leapt to life again, but this time he wasn't as concerned with discomfort. He was ready to sit back and enjoy.

"Hey, Mulder," she was running her hand back and forth over his denim clad leg. "Guess what we didn't do today?"

Guessing games? Why did she want to play guessing games at a time like this? He just closed his eyes and shrugged, then laid his head against the back of the couch, willing her hand to rise just a little further on its upward stroke.

Her hand stopped, then lifted and was gone, and he felt the desolation of her absence. For a brief moment he thought he really was dreaming again, that none of this was true, for in his cruelest nightmares, this was exactly how she left him.

But he could hear a scrambling as she shifted on the supple leather, and her leg brushed against his. There was a rasp of paper? cardboard? being pulled. And then, her hand was at his mouth, her fingers nudging his lips apart, and he opened obediently. Sweet, it was sweet. Chocolate, caramel, cheesecake.

His eyes flew open to find her staring at him, a smile that could be described as nothing other than seductive on her lips. He closed his lips over her fingers, trapping them inside, and swiped the sweet cake from within them, swallowing quickly. Then, just as she had done earlier, he ran his tongue along her digits, sucking gently, and was rewarded with a widening of her eyes, and a slight intake of breath.

He opened his mouth, and she slowly pulled her hand back. All day today, he had tried clumsily to tell her what she meant, to express his feelings, and all day he had muddled it so badly. But this was Scully. It might take them time to reach a point of agreement, but they always did. He smiled at her now, and in a low husky voice, a voice suddenly restored to him, he asked, "No, Scully, what didn't we do?"

She broke off another piece of the cheesecake, and lifted it toward his mouth.

"We didn't finish our dessert, Mulder." She nudged his lips apart again, and he risked a quick kiss of her fingers before he opened for another bite.

He swallowed, then reached out to break a piece of the cake off for her. Scully's reaction to cheesecake promised to be most -- interesting -- if this afternoon was any indication.

"Well, Scully," he whispered, as he brought his fingers to her mouth. "You know what they say. Save the best for last."