************ Chapter 17 ************ Outside Darnell's apartment November 8, 2000 6:32 p.m. "I'm -- I'll... be fine..." Headlights, like bright twin diamonds, inch through the dusk on the distant highway, but no suspicious vehicle remains evident. Nothing moves now in the solitude of the parking lot except tiny waves of reaction, tremors from deep within Scully's scuffed body. She fights for breath, lips apart. Mulder reaches her side in a moment, but won't be placated by automatic, knee-jerk assurances. Hearing her panicked shout he'd shot out the front door like a runaway locomotive, heart in his mouth, hand on his gun. Too often she fakes coolness and control where none exists, shrugging off distress as effortlessly as water from a duck's back. Tonight, however, is not one of those times. "Don't move," he orders gently, crouching beside her on the balls of his feet, mindful of the cold pavement beneath her. He tucks a hand under her shoulders, thinking it prudent to test for injury first, but her avowals persist, expelled in choking gasps. Scrapes blossom across one temple, on her chin, her hand, dark with suffused blood. "Take it slow, keep breathing," he encourages, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. "It'll come back." Her respiration labors, forced out in shallow, agonized wheezes, and looking into her reddened face, he wants to take over and fill her lungs for her as she struggles to inhale life-giving oxygen. "Hospital?" "No! God... No --" Another airless pause and rasping gasp. "I'll be... okay." She worries her lip, eyes wide and pleading. "Did you see who did it? Recognize the car --" She shakes her head in frustration, straining to escape his hand, and he understands that she wants to get up, to compose herself and regain a semblance of dignity before Darnell skirts the narrow parking area toward them. Trusting her judgment, but fiercely protective, he helps her to her feet. She weaves and he holds her steady. "Aw, man! What the hell...?" Darnell has his weapon drawn, eyes darting toward each end of the dim lot, then back to Scully's bleeding face and heaving chest. He wears a look of bewilderment. "You gonna be okay, Agent Scully?" She nods, eyes shut, and Mulder leans closer to intervene. "She never saw it coming," he explains. "Bastard tried to run her down." "No I.D. on the driver, then, or any traceable license plate. D'you two want a quick ride to the hospital? Agent Scully?" The unwelcome question ricochets into the night; he feels Scully stiffen under his hands and shakes his head. "Thanks, but not necessary. I'm taking her back to the motel to clean up. No calls." "But --" "Read my lips, Darnell. No calls whatsoever, or I kick your kiester down to fish food. You got that?" The man, to his credit, nods and steps back, re-holstering his weapon. It doesn't take a genius to comprehend the protective bond between the two partners, or the tender way Mulder holds her close under his arm. Scully expels a few more harsh, sporadic gasps, her breath steadily returning to normal. She sags against him, head bowed, offering Darnell an eclipsed view of her injuries. "I'll check around here. See if anybody witnessed or heard anything. Shoot -- guess my vacation's officially over." He turns toward his apartment, sending them off with a grim wave of dismissal. ************ "There's your proof, Mulder," she says, hiccupping softly beside him. "That ridiculous little house didn't do me a bit of good." He makes no reply as he drives with a knot in his stomach, watching the way her head lolls against the back of her seat, angled toward the window. Her eyes pinch shut before oncoming headlights, knuckles white against the black expanse of her coat. Brittle as crystal, she seems ready to shatter and he vows to pick up every little piece, should it happen tonight. "Your room? Or mine?" "Mine," he hears her whisper. "Be quick." He's one step ahead of her, maneuvering the town's dark streets with a lead foot and the finesse of an Indianapolis 500 racecar driver. Swept along by another sense of urgency, he's fighting to outdistance forces of inevitability that surge behind them with tsunami power. Since their earliest days together, progress toward intimacy has been questionable, incremental, and veiled in platonic mist. Friendship bounced along the electric edge of flirtation, lurching to one side of the fence and then back again. He admits they've both accumulated enough emotional debris along this battlefront for the truth to fill a boxcar each. Maybe these elements were necessary in establishing new candor between them. An understanding, a point of ripe acceptance. They got honest and physical only months ago, chipping away old layers of self-protection and uncertainty. Significant other -- is that really what she is to him? Or something more fundamental and sublime, completing him as a person like no one else in the world could? But now the sands of denial threaten to drift back and reclaim ground taken at such a price. He swears he won't allow this case or its effect on Scully to mar what they've gained or halt the progress she's made toward her own personal resolution. Speeding against red lights and time, he parks close as he can and helps her out, one arm hooked around her as he unlocks the door to her room. Darkness greets them, infused with the clean scents of maid service and Scully's familiar, chosen brand of toiletry. Easing her inside, he snicks on the shallow bedside light to assess the true situation. Trembling hands cover her face, her body tense and threatening to fold in upon itself. Respiration seems normal now, but her nerves and muscles quake. The external toughness she usually displays is gone, victim to the inner turmoil she's battling due to danger and her personal, supernatural connections to this case. Only he is privy to one unusual kernel of truth as it pertains to his partner, and he safeguards that reality and her compromised self-respect with jealous care. He considers that she should by rights have stayed back in D.C., unscathed and unmolested, where her yearly mourning would be completed by now. Instead, she accompanied him to Aubrey. "Here... let me have a look," he suggests, persuasive. She shakes her head, face still hidden by a swathe of tousled hair. Her fingers unknowingly smear one welling contusion along her temple. "Mulder... just hold me for a minute." Reaction chokes her voice, making it tight and breathy. Her slender form feels lost in his embrace, strands of red hair sifting into his mouth and against his chin as he presses her close. He tries to still the shaking of her body, rocking from side to side when she wraps her arms around him. Tries to smooth away the deep tremors, evidence of the sobs she suppresses. She's unyielding as concrete, still so unforgiving of herself it makes his chest burn. In mid-hug she straightens and pushes him away, finished with weakness. The clock, he feels, is spinning backward, to their first tense night here -- Scully bathed in shadow before the window, holding her tattered sensibilities like fragile eggshells. Solitary, allowing no more than superficial touch. Denying herself the full luxury of the comfort he's hungering to give. He won't let her force a repeat of that night. Selfishly, he won't relinquish progress gained during this last week together. "I'm not leaving," he informs her, stroking back the sticky hair from her brow. To justify his obstinacy he holds her red-daubed fingers before her face. "Yours. And there's more. Tell me where it hurts and I'll check you out." She wavers on a logjam of indecision, red-rimmed eyes locked with his. Then, acquiescing with a tiny nod, she glances downward. "My right hip..." she murmurs, forehead furrowed. "This elbow..." "Let's handle one pain at a time." Accepting his help, she shrugs off the coat and blazer before attending to the blouse, where her fingertips stumble over the tiny buttons. He replaces them with his own sure hands, ticking quickly down the line over her breasts until the garment parts under her numbed gaze. He's attentive, murmuring his support. Moments later she stands before him in bra and panties, wincing as he kneels to examine the large magenta bruise that stains her hipbone. "Hurt much?" "I think I'll live," she whispers down to him. "That's not what I asked." But her bravado gives him a tingle of reassurance, a pungent taste of the old Scully, and he feels her hand browse into his hair, fingertips kneading his scalp. Magical. He brushes a kiss over the contusion with whisper-soft lips, heart swelling with relief. "To make it all better," he explains when her watchful eyes question. "I guarantee it works every time." Lingering over the silken skin, he wants to graze his way six inches southeast and sink his nose into the wispy fragrant nest there, to breathe in her essence. But now's not the time -- he quashes those thoughts as inappropriate for the moment with a sigh. She has another, more precarious situation to prepare for tomorrow with the Tillman boy. She'll need her grit, her control, and every ounce of faith she possesses. "Ow," she says, dabbing the bleeding scuffs on her face with a trembling hand. "I think I need a mirror." "You need to shower off," he corrects, standing to tower over her. "Then we'll deal with the damage we find. Sound like a plan?" She nods and offers him her back. Freed from restraint, her breasts settle forward, nipples budding beneath her crossed arms in the cooler air of the room. Panties slip from hips to knees; he works them down and off, then helps her remove shoes and knee-highs before guiding her fully naked into the bathroom. They haven't done this nearly enough, he thinks in retrospect. The water thing -- economizing, showering together. A sad truth, when pre and post-coital water games could promote closer bonding and a higher degree of erotic play. He's open to trying more of it in the near future. Admittedly, until this case in Aubrey, most of their lovemaking has either been in bed or on the couch, rarely involving the sharing of water. Standing outside the curtain with soaking shirtsleeves, he slides a washcloth from the side of Scully's brow, down the narrow slick curve of backbone to her rosy ass. Using the continuous comforting strokes of a masseuse, he washes away tension and blood-smear. Calm her, keep her strong, don't lose ground. Under the hiss of water and his even rhythm she braces herself, palms flat against the tile, dripping hair a shield to her face on either side. Erotic as all hell, he decides. "Feel good?" "Mmmm, yes," she mumbles through the torrent that soothes both nerves and flesh. "I'm also committed to doing the flip side, when you're ready to turn around." He catches a glimpse of a smile. "So altruistic..." "That's me, all the way." Entranced, he bends further past the curtain, breath labored in the thick steam. As he hopes, she senses his closeness and leans back against him to further drench his shirt. Eyes slits against the beat of the shower, he kisses the wet, warm skin in front of her ear, catching a glimpse of soft vanilla breast and pert cherry nipple. A hint of rust- hued fuzz lower down in the mist turns his erection to such baseball-bat stiffness that he bites his lip. A hesitant angling of heads to one side and their mouths meet and meld. Her lips feel soft and tremulous under his, yielding to accept his tongue briefly, though not offering hers in return. His hand halts in its journey up her ribs when he realizes she's still tensed as wire, fighting to recover from the sideswipe in the parking lot. Shivering despite the warmth of the shower, her eyes stay veiled and he ends the kiss. It's enough to know she's still with him -- that they haven't lost precious ground. "Where's your soap?" He keeps his voice low, fingers light on her waist as he looks behind him around the tiny steamed room. "Sink," she murmurs and bows forward again into the water, against the supportive wall of the shower when he steps away to hunt. Only then does he hear hard pounding on her door. Scully is oblivious to the intrusion, perceptions dulled by the wet hair plastering her ears, shower noise, and jangled nerves. The sudden rapping perplexes him. No calls, he'd stipulated to Darnell back at the apartment building, under threat of violence. Does the man really think personal visits are an acceptable alternative? Propelled by anger, he takes quick strides to the front door, yanking it open to do battle before Brian Tillman's startled face. He's the last person Mulder expects to see blocking Scully's doorway. Fists working open and shut, mouth zipper-tight under his mustache, Tillman's skin seems bluish from neon light and worry. It appears the same thing must be shooting through the Lieutenant's mind about Mulder. "Where is she? Is she all right?" The two men eye one another across the threshold, both with expressions of wary concentration. Mulder chances a glance toward the parked cars and sees no one else he recognizes, then swings his attention back to Tillman's taut face. An unmoving obstacle in the doorway, he feels like a wolf protecting his injured mate and warms to his preferential alpha male position inside her motel room. Possession, he remembers for some inane reason, is nine- tenths of the law... Stalemated, the two men gauge the other's advantage, each feeding off the freezing, testosterone-laden air that pours through the opened door. "She'll be okay," he says slowly. "Apparently the message didn't get through that she was to be left undisturbed." "I heard all that... but I had to check for myself. Darnell said she was injured by the hit-and-run. Bleeding." He pauses, edgy, glowering at Mulder under tucked brows. "She should go to the hospital." "That's her call, Tillman, and her right to refuse treatment. Need I remind you that she's a doctor?" "And doctors make the world's worst patients." Mulder smirks. "I wouldn't suggest you tell *her* that..." "Then, step aside, Agent, and let me talk to her -- she should also make a formal statement to the police about what happened --" "I'll give you a statement," interjects Mulder, breathing out plumes of condensation with dragon-like vehemence. His grip tightens on the door and jamb and his voice turns to gravel. "Leave her the hell alone. In other words, get the fuck out." Shivering, aware that bone-chilling night air and his sopping shirt work against him, he has no intention of letting this Missouri interloper harass his partner in her present condition. Tillman, he notices, runs a calculating eye over Mulder's sodden clothing and shirtsleeves, his damp hair. At the dripping washcloth he still clutches in one hand. The intrusive gaze flickers past him -- to the smooth shadowed bedspread where his long thick coat smothers Scully's. To her clothing heaped on the carpet next to the bed where she shed them, piece by piece. Gauzy bra and panties look like survivors adrift on a suggestive sea toward the bathroom. Such evidence she usually hides with meticulous care -- until tonight's emergency... Muted shower-sounds penetrate the heavy alpha haze and become simultaneously audible to both men. Her voice, plaintive and unmistakable in its urgency, calls out for Mulder. It occurs to him that he and Tillman have talked at length about Scully and haven't once mentioned her by name. "Get the picture, Lieutenant?" Gooseflesh covers Mulder's body, while outrage keeps him simmering. "Next time, have the balls to ask for information instead of delegating to one of your people. Darnell deserves better consideration... and, in case you're wondering, he hasn't acquired a taste for what amounts to low-class, horse-shit snooping." His teeth begin a light chatter; he squeezes the wet washcloth to still them, wanting to tend to Scully's needs. She'll have *his* balls in a sling when she knows what transpired -- this brazen caveman facade he's adopted while Brian Tillman gawks at the intimacies of their off-duty private world. Still, he feels justified in doing so, satisfaction for truth outweighing this specific breach of trust. "Got it." Tillman looks bleak, chagrined on both counts, and nods once as though conceding defeat. "Okay. But, just hear me out -- I still need to talk to both of you as soon as possible. Something else has happened tonight. Personal developments possibly related to the case." He eases out a breath. "I'm serious about this." "Is tomorrow morning soon enough? We planned to stop by anyway, to see your son." Fear clouds the man's eyes. He hesitates before nodding again, rubbing his mustache with a nervous forefinger. "Yeah, I guess it'll have to be..." Another plea, more querulous, echoes from the bathroom, drawing Mulder's attention back over his shoulder. "Sounds like you're being paged. Better take care of business, agent." "I will. Tillman, wait --" "Yeah?" "I'm sorry about..." Mulder clears his throat, eyes direct. "About the events that have affected you here over the years. Believe that." Processing the implication in silence, Tillman jerks his hat lower into the wind. "Take good care of her," he orders gruffly, turning on his heel and wading back through the neon and darkness of the parking lot to his car. ************ Conestoga Motel November 8, 2000 8:09 p.m. "*What* possessed you? Mulder? Answer me." "It was..." "It was what?" Her voice frosty, demanding, from the depths of the bed. The mere thought of Brian Tillman ogling her discarded, day-old underwear is enough to set her off again. "Must have been a guy thing," he finishes after a lengthy pause, the weak explanation intended to clarify more than conciliate. Unflinching, he remains preoccupied with his task, sitting shirtless beside her recumbent form. As his solemn gaze combs her face and shoulders for fresh bruises, he insists on turning back the edge of the sheet to permit a more thorough examination of her cleansed injuries. She pinches her eyes shut, steeling her body for the chill. "No," she contradicts with heat, "it was a pissing contest - - and in *my* room no less. We'd agreed to keep personal matters private, especially in the field. *Jesus*, Mulder..." "Sounds like you're feeling a lot better. Arm up." She complies, shivers in the cold. Her room still feels like an icebox after the open door during Tillman's unannounced visit, but Mulder's warm hands are calming on the cucumber-smooth skin of her elbow. Strong fingers worry the joint, test the site of impact where she slammed pavement through layers of winter clothing. Fortunately she presents a less opposing and formidable obstacle than most people, and her roll away from the car was split-second automatic reflex. Thank God for adrenaline. Thank God for rigorous, exacting training and a thick coat. Thank God her partner was close by and willing to shield her from the prying eyes of strangers... Except here, in her own motel room. She shakes her head slowly, exhaling with an exasperated hiss. "You know, I'm trying hard to view this philosophically." "Hey... if you want to sleep solo for the duration, just say the word. I suppose I can handle being celibate for a few more days. All things considered," he says, probing a rib like an examining physician and ignoring the goose-fleshed breast beside it, "you were lucky tonight. I'd take bruises over broken bone any day." His fingers play her sides, light and teasing, and slip to her chest before she can make a response. One step ahead, he pauses, gently cradling each breast in the supportive, elastic skin between thumb and forefinger. His gaze draws him in closer, like a moth to light. Hot breath surrounds one taut, cool point and she closes her eyes to the inevitable, expecting to feel the moist warmth of his mouth at any second. He merely sighs over the waiting nipple and pulls the sheet from her lower body to more closely inspect her bruised hip. "You enjoy this, don't you, Mulder?" She observes his actions with wry surprise and renewed irritation, noting his intensity and control at her expense. He seems to relish each subsequent inch of flesh, each new limb revealed to the air, heightening her vulnerability. "Playing doctor? One of my favorite games since childhood, Scully. How'd you guess?" "It's obvious. Your self-restraint is also admirable, by the way." He winks at the sarcasm. "Just staying professional here. Proving I'm not the horny, opportunist bastard I seem, out to pork you at every turn..." "Mulder, I've never once thought that -- never." Stung by his sudden self-deprecation, she reaches out to touch him. Not far from where his fingers rest, the springy curls of her pubic hair sit at attention, auburn-fresh from the shower. A palpable reminder that time has brought a dramatic shift in their partnership, that this man now owns a share in her nakedness, an investment that bars all other bidders. His examination of her body extends far beyond simple carnality and lust. He proved that by his gift last week, on the night of her yearly funk. Though cloaked in the guise of a seductive sex act, she understood his intent, the real message of the comfort and pleasure he gave her that night. All at once, nothing else has relevance except this tender manifestation of devotion. "It's okay," she whispers. The skin of his arm feels familiar and warm under her hand, defusing her indignation. "I'm sorry. Just forget about it." "To what are you referring?" "Our unexpected visitor... Tillman, to be specific. And this bizarre machismo competition you have going with him for my attentions, which is insulting and completely outside the realm of reason. *We* have the lasting relationship, Mulder -- the bonding, the history, the connection. You and me -- and I love you without question. How many more ways can I say it? *That* reality should supercede any insecurity or threat you encounter here in Aubrey during this investigation. When it's done, then we go back home. Together." "To live happily ever after..." She frowns up at him. "Why are you smiling?" "Your logical, pragmatic stance in all this, Scully. It brought to mind a quote by the famous Philadelphian, Ben Franklin, whose insight, I suspect, must have come about from personal experience." "Tell me." "He said, 'Hear Reason, or she'll *make* you feel her.'" She scoffs aloud. "Then you'd damn well better get your ass into this bed with me." Shedding his shoes and pants he climbs in beside her, mattress bowing under his weight. His smile remains, eyes tender and amused in the dim light, lips pouted as he draws close to plant a kiss. "Thought I was the spy left out in the cold," he murmurs as he zeroes in. "You still like to keep me guessing." He lends her his warmth, the heat of his nakedness. With infinite care his hands and arms envelope her, not wishing to cause further discomfort by rough handling, but hungry for touch. Gentleness gets her every time and he understands that. Their kiss is hesitant at first, then grows hotter by increments, seething with arousal until it erupts into flame. His erection, hard and unyielding, shifts against her belly. He responds to the heat of her groin with subtle, testing pressure. The press of turgid flesh against fresh bruise proves too great a barrier to intimacy, and she's unable to smother a cry of pain. "Oh, shit," she pants, pulling her head aside for air, "Mulder, I don't know if..." "Yeah, but *I* should've. Didn't mean to jump the gun like that. Must be another guy thing." He sighs, repositions his body, and tugs her head to rest against his shoulder. "That may be, but I wanted it, too." "Realistically, I think sleep's enough for tonight, after your impressive tuck-and-roll," he concedes, nose buried in her semi-damp hair. "Mulder, I'm so sorry." He shakes his head, nuzzling her like a puppy. "Relax, Scully. You'll need all your energy tomorrow, since we're speaking with Benjie first thing in the morning." "You can't be any more specific?" "Better if you hear it right from the pony's mouth." "God," she breathes, closing wet eyes and sighing into his neck. "A copycat case with two corpses, the killer still loose, and ... and now this." "Like I said, one pain at a time. And I'll be right beside you." He switches off the bedside lamp, plunging them into a darkness tempered only by the pale light bleeding in from the bathroom and the strip of parking lot glare between the thick motel curtains. This is her feng shui, her place of perfect balance, in bed clasped in Mulder's muscled arms. Never had she hoped to gain such comfort, such peace of mind from sharing this intensely private place with another person. Only one thing needs to be rectified. "Mulder," she broaches, "Seriously... I don't think I *can* sleep right now." Eyes closed for honest slumber, he kisses her forehead, thumb stroking over her cheek, rhythmic and soothing. With no other response forthcoming, she raises a hand and glides an inquisitive, purposeful finger over the pout of his lower lip, browsing it back and forth. "I think I may need a proven antidote for insomnia," she whispers into his ear, "if I'm to get any decent rest tonight." His thumb halts its movement over her cheekbone; from deep within his throat she hears the birth of a chuckle. In another moment he's up on his elbow, fully attentive and grinning like an idiot through the shadows. "You're kidding me. Right?" "Is it like me to kid about such a thing?" She's amazed at what a grain of encouragement accomplishes when sex is on the line. His hands seem instantly omnipresent. Willing thumbs brush her nipples to exquisite tightness, palms and fingers knead her breasts with the most delicate of caresses. She feels him reach a hand low under the sheet to softly comb at her mound. While he plumbs her mouth with his tongue, long fingers begin to stroke and insinuate themselves over and between her sensitive nether lips, making her tremble. "And I'd never pass up the honor," he purrs, unceasing in his worship of her body, her breasts. Alternating kisses with close eye contact, he finally shifts to a more comfortable, conducive position between her parted thighs, mindful of both her injury and her pleasure. She watches him through a rippling film of tears. Crouched on knees and elbows, the moons of his muscled behind pale in the dimness, Mulder smiles as he bends his head to her soft thatch. Leisurely he inhales its fragrance. At the first wet, teasing touch she shivers, eases back onto the pillow, and shuts her eyes... ************ End of Chapter 17