Worth Breaking (5/6)
by Narida Law
(narida_law@hotmail.com)

Headers available in a separate post.

Other parts can be found at:
http://www.angelfire.com/ms/naridalaw

~~~~~~~~
Chapter Thirteen
~~~~~~~~

Madhatter's Bar
Washington, D.C.
September 29
10:54 p.m.

It was Sunday night and everyone had work or school the 
next day, but not one of the many patrons of the bar seemed 
too concerned.

The push and shove of the bodies determined to be next 
served by the bartender, the dim lighting easy on bloodshot 
eyes, the din of the crowd as people raised their voices to 
be heard by their companions over the people at the next 
table - all this served to provide Mulder with the sense of 
anonymity he sought.  He took refuge in the crowd, the 
noise, the complete lack of concern over who he was or why 
he was there.

The cacophony of the many voices around him helped to dull 
the ones in his head, suppressing painful memories.  But no 
matter what he did, one voice continued to ring clearly.  
It was both the one he wanted to silence the most and the 
one he welcomed despite the pain it brought.

Mulder stared, unseeing, at the tabletop.  He didn't 
acknowledge the other three occupants of the booth.

"Hey buddy, I think you've had enough."  Frohike plucked 
the shot glass from Mulder's unresisting fingers.

His reaction was delayed.  "Hey, fuck you," Mulder was 
provoked into snarling.  "Who the hell do you think you 
are, my mother?"  Waking from his stupor, he signaled the 
server for another round.

"Luckily, I didn't commit =that= many sins in my past 
life," Frohike retorted.

Mulder buried his head into the crook of his arm, which was 
resting on the table.  He heard the Gunmen talking, but 
didn't care enough - and wasn't sober enough - to 
participate.  Scully's voice resounded in his ears, despite 
the racket of dozens of drunk people.  He kept hearing her 
tell him that it was all over.  He wasn't able to suppress 
the small whimper that issued from his throat.

"Man, if he starts to cry again, I'm gonna start bawling, 
myself," Langly asserted.  He and Frohike were seated 
across from Mulder and Byers.

Mulder thought he heard his name being called by a 
familiar, beloved voice.  It didn't matter that she'd so 
recently hurt him; his heart leapt in hope.  "Scully?"  He 
lifted his head.  Seeing that his partner was nowhere to be 
found, he resumed his former position.  His vision swam a 
little, and he closed his eyes.

The conversation continued over his prone form; he heard 
the words but didn't process their meaning.

"Have we ever seen him this bad?"  That was Byers.

"How about five years ago?" Frohike suggested under his 
breath.  "She was missing."  Then, loudly, "Come on, you 
lush.  Trying to drink yourself into an early grave?  
Taking the coward's way out?"

Mulder only realized he was the one being addressed when 
the question was followed by a hard punch to his arm.  He 
barely felt it.

She had left him.

Not completely - she =had= said they could remain friends.  
Or something like that.  Scully was not above using trite 
phrases when it suited her purpose.  Apparently, breaking 
his heart didn't warrant original phrasing.  He'd been 
reduced to a chore.  He could just see it in her Dayplanner 
- 10:30 a.m. Work out at the gym.  11:45 a.m. Rip out 
Mulder's guts.  12:00 p.m. Lunch.

She'd been utterly uncomfortable the whole time, seemingly 
oblivious to the fact that the words spilling out of her 
mouth had cut him deeper and deeper until he was sure he 
was bleeding right before her eyes.

He didn't blame her for not looking at him.  He supposed he 
had made a rather pathetic sight.  He'd known that she 
hadn't enjoyed hurting him, but she had obviously wanted to 
get away from him as soon as the distasteful deed was done, 
so he'd let her go.  She didn't like messes.

"It won't change our working relationship," she'd said.  
She was determined that their partnership would be as 
strong as always.

That was something, he supposed.  At one time, it would 
have been everything.

Now, however, he knew exactly what he was missing and he 
would mourn that loss for the rest of his life.  She had 
rejected him even before he had been able to offer himself 
properly.  Before he could lay his life at her feet and say 
that it was hers.  Now he would never have that chance.  It 
was still true, but she didn't want to hear it - and that 
knowledge hurt in the most agonizing way.

She'd made her wants clear.  She had pushed him away, and 
it was obvious that that was where she wanted him to stay.  
She was more out of reach to him now than before they'd 
even become physically intimate.

He had no one to blame but himself.  He'd lost her, and it 
was the result of his own greed and stupidity.

Their server returned with another round of drinks, but 
Byers quickly put them out of Mulder's reach and asked for 
four glasses of water.

"Whatever it is, it can't be that bad," Byers said.  He 
sounded confident.  "You've got to quit with this self-
pity."

"Yeah, man, you're getting us all down," Langly chimed in, 
obviously new to the act of offering comfort.

Mulder ignored them.  He hadn't wanted them here in the 
first place.  All he'd wanted was to drink his mind into 
oblivion and find a cold, dark place to hide.  There was 
nothing left for him now, nothing but an agonizing pain 
where his life used to beat.

He had failed.  He'd had a chance to make Scully fall in 
love with him and he'd blown it.  The idea that he could 
=make= her do anything was preposterous, of course, but he 
had hoped a little persuasion would help.  He'd allowed 
himself to hope, and for that, too, he was to blame.  The 
pain he felt now was of his own making.  That fact didn't 
dull the hurt, but at least it helped him focus his 
resentment.  It wasn't Scully's fault she wasn't in love 
with him.

And if alcohol would numb his ache, if it would send him 
away from a world in which Scully did not want him, he 
embraced the cure.

He'd wanted more than he had a right to.  He should have 
been content with what he'd already been blessed - he was 
the one she spent time with, he was the one she trusted.

In fact, Mulder had made himself indispensable to her, 
slowly but surely cutting other people out of her life 
until he was all that was left.  Her only friend.

She had gone along willingly with this, he knew.  Scully 
was not a woman to be manipulated.  She had made her own 
decisions.  Still, he had to admit that he had stacked the 
odds in his favor.  He had made it difficult for her to do 
anything but turn to him.

At first, he didn't even recognize that he was doing it.  
He would entice her with cases, knowing she enjoyed the 
challenge.  He would deliberately provoke her, knowing how 
she liked to prove him wrong.  At times, he would even grab 
for the most outlandish, far-fetched theory possible, 
because he enjoyed seeing that look of incredulity on her 
face.  And because he knew that it kept her with him.

When he'd finally realized what he was doing, it was too 
late.  He was addicted to her like a drug addict to a fix 
and couldn't stop it anymore.  There was no turning back, 
nor did he want to.  He fed his addiction.

It started with simple touches.  Invasion of personal 
space.  Days, months, years went by and he got bolder.  
Double entendres he half-hoped she would take seriously and 
half-hoped she wouldn't.  Verbal declarations of his 
feelings that he felt safe uttering because he knew she 
wouldn't believe him.  And aching, always aching to touch 
her.

Some days, it'd been all he could do to keep his hands to 
himself.  It was inevitable that a day would come when the 
temptation was too much, and when that day arrived, he'd 
given in with no real hardship.  It had been surprisingly 
easy to get her to let him sleep in her bed.  Then, perhaps 
it wasn't so surprising.  Scully had a big heart, and she 
cared about him.  He used to have nightmares a lot; she'd 
probably thought she was bringing him a little comfort, a 
little rest.

Mulder never had nightmares when he was sleeping next to 
Scully.  He wouldn't deny that that was a blissful thing.  
But it wasn't his primary motivation in seeking her bed.  
Mostly, he'd just wanted the intimacy.  He'd taken 
advantage of her kindness.  He'd only felt slightly guilty 
about it at the time.  Now he was paying for his sins.

She'd given him all of these things, and what had he done?  
He'd held these precious gifts in his hands and thought of 
what =else= he could have.  His avarice deserved to be 
punished.

"You guys get into a fight or something?" Langly asked.

He didn't want to talk about Scully.  And especially not 
with them.  In spite of everything, he only wanted to talk 
to =her=.

"Don't get yourself so down, buddy," Frohike said.  "You 
and I both know that come tomorrow, you two'll have made up 
and be attached at the hip again."

Was that how people saw them, as being attached at the hip?  
They weren't, were they?  It was more like he had a vice-
grip on Scully and wouldn't let go.  He was reminded of the 
more literal times they had been attached at the hip, 
moving together in a universal dance.  Wonderful, 
exhilarating moments he was not to experience again.

Mulder would not be consoled.  They didn't understand.  How 
could they?  They didn't know how badly he had screwed it 
up this time.  Things would never be the same, and it was 
all his fault.

He knew that letting his emotions get the better of him 
last weekend had been a huge mistake.  He'd expressed his 
feelings for her with the most primitive of emotions - 
jealousy.  She'd recognized it and had comforted him, 
because she was Scully.

He'd hoped desperately that she would overlook his 
behavior.  Everything had seemed all right; he'd gotten out 
of her hair the next morning as soon as he was able to bear 
leaving, but obviously, the damage had been done.  She'd 
been distant the whole week and yesterday it had all come 
crashing down.

He should've just stayed home, let her go out with 
Bruschard - nothing had happened there, anyway.  But no - 
he'd gone and flipped out, sitting outside her apartment 
waiting for her like some damn stalker.  The fact that 
she'd taken it well only served to make him feel like an 
even bigger asshole.

"She deserves better than me," he mumbled sorrowfully.  He 
sat up, but his shoulders still drooped.  He couldn't seem 
to lift them for the weight they held.

"Hell, we all know =that=," Frohike chortled.

Normally, Mulder would have shot back an equally biting 
response, but this time his friend's joking response left 
him deflated.

"Will you shut up?" Langly demanded, glaring at Frohike.  
"I'm telling you, I do not want to see this man cry again."

It didn't even bother him that he'd been blubbering into 
his cups when they'd found him nearly an hour earlier.  Who 
cared about appearances?  The one person he wanted to care 
about him decidedly didn't.  He didn't know how they'd 
found him, and at the time, hadn't cared enough to ask.

Now, however, he found himself curious.  Drunken oblivion 
still beckoned, but it wasn't going anywhere.  He'd be 
there soon enough, but for now, he found himself 
distracted.  He supposed he ought to be relieved; he was, 
instead, somewhat irritated.  He =wanted= to sink away into 
comforting darkness, but this question begged an answer.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" he questioned suspiciously.  
His head was starting to hurt - not a good sign.  It meant 
he either needed to drink more or find the nearest bed and 
crash.  He planned on doing the latter, but not before he'd 
done plenty of the former.

"Ah - " Frohike began, then stopped.  The three cronies 
looked distinctly uncomfortable.  They were hiding 
something.

Byers was the first to offer an explanation.  "We come in 
here now and again.  We were just as surprised to see you 
as you were to see us."

Right.  "Try again," Mulder suggested.

Frohike and Langly erupted into what appeared to be a 
difference of opinion, talking in low, urgent voices.  Both 
were obviously irritated.

Mulder sighed, resting his head in his hands, and wondered 
when they were going to leave so he could kill his brain 
cells in peace.  The throbbing in his head had worsened, 
his eyes felt dry and bloodshot, and he desperately wanted 
to quench the thirst in his mouth.  Preferably with a few 
shots of tequila.

The argument only got more heated and didn't seem as if it 
would be resolved soon.  Ask a simple question...  Mulder 
let it continue for a few moments longer while Byers tried 
to shut the other two up, but then he distinctly heard 
Frohike say, "She asked that we not say anything!"

"She?" Mulder interrupted forcefully.  Who else could 'she' 
be?  "Scully?"

Frohike looked tight-lipped while Langly looked triumphant.  
"=You= gave it away," Langly said smugly.

"Look - " Frohike turned to Mulder.  "Don't say anything, 
okay?  We were asked that you not be told."  He glared at 
Langly.

Mulder hated himself for the joy that bloomed in his chest.  
Reality quickly squashed it.  "She wanted you to check up 
on me?  See if I had blown my brains out yet?"  Letting the 
bitterness seep through was almost a relief.

He'd been bottling his anguish, his hurt, his sorrow inside 
- he hadn't realized that it had needed expression.  He 
supposed he could have written in his journal, but the 
sight of it now disgusted him, pained him.  In it he had 
spilled all of his hopes, all of his dreams for Scully and 
himself.  It reminded him of what a pathetic idiot he was.

"She wanted to make sure you were all right," Frohike said, 
not bothering to hide the note of censure in his voice.  
"What'd you do to her, anyway?"

Mulder was incredulous.  "What did...what did =I= do to 
=her=?"

The water arrived.  Byers placed a glass into Mulder's hand 
and he automatically gripped it.  Realizing what it was, he 
grimaced and let go.  He needed something a lot stronger 
than H2O.

Frohike frowned.  "Look, I don't know what happened between 
you two, but she didn't sound good.  She asked us to look 
for you, make sure you were okay."

"How did she sound?" Mulder latched onto the detail, 
wanting to hear anything about Scully.

"Like I said, not good," Frohike replied gruffly.

Of course.  He was being stupid.  Scully was sensitive and 
caring.  She knew he was hurting and probably a danger to 
himself.  So she'd called the guys to check up on him, make 
sure he wasn't doing anything foolish.

She couldn't risk finding him herself, of course.  She knew 
he'd read too much into it, maybe have the breakdown he'd 
been so successful at containing in her presence in his 
apartment.

"She sounded like she'd been crying," Frohike added 
reluctantly.

What did it say about him that he was elated by this news?  
"Oh?" Mulder asked casually.  He hoped it was true.  Maybe 
she had changed her mind about what she'd said?  Maybe she 
was regretting what she'd done?

His tone apparently raised Frohike's hackles.  The other 
man stated, almost angrily, "Yeah.  She did.  So let me ask 
you again: what the fuck did you do to her?"

Mulder was immediately defensive, but the feeling died 
quickly.  Scully may have been the one to end things, but 
the deterioration of their relationship certainly wasn't 
her fault.  He'd been the one to push her into something 
she didn't want and hadn't asked for.

He'd promised one thing, all the while deceiving her, 
manipulating her into accepting him in her life as a 
friend, a partner, a lover.  He'd wanted to be everything 
to her.  He'd probably been smothering her.  No wonder she 
had wanted to be free of him.

"We just..."  He stopped.  There was no way to explain 
things except to reveal all, and he couldn't do that.  
There had been an unspoken agreement that what he and 
Scully were - had been - to each other, was between them 
and them only.  "Nothing," he said dully.  "Everything's 
just as they should be."  He swallowed the lump in his 
throat.

"Ah, bullshit," Frohike said bluntly.  "That's why you're 
practically crying tequila.  Sure."

Mulder was silent.  There was nothing else to say.  He just 
wanted them to go the fuck away now.

He ought to be celebrating the fact that she hadn't booted 
him out of her life for good.  He should be celebrating 
what he still had.  However, the urge to mourn what he had 
lost was too strong, so that's what he was doing.

Perhaps she was mourning, too.  If she was, he might still 
have a chance...

"You're an idiot."

Mulder was startled enough to stop staring at the tabletop 
and meet Frohike's gaze.  Mulder blinked, then sighed.  "I 
know."

"No, I really mean it.  You're an idiot."

All right, now he was starting to take exception.  He 
looked at his friend balefully.  "I heard you the first 
time.  I agreed."

"But not for the same reasons.  Look, it's obvious 
something happened.  You had an argument, whatever, and now 
you're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself, when what 
you really should be doing is talking to Scully."

God, even the mention of her name hurt, at the same time he 
wanted to hear it again.  He was a sick, masochistic 
bastard.

"She doesn't want to talk to me," he said hollowly.

There was a moment of silence, then Frohike said, "I hope 
you're not serious."  He exchanged looks with Byers.  "It 
was pretty obvious to me that she wanted to talk to you 
herself, but thought you'd be more receptive to the likes 
of us."

"She wanted to talk to me?"  He despised himself for the 
hope he heard in his voice.  He was being ridiculous, 
overly optimistic.  What did they know?

Frohike rolled his eyes.  "Uh - yeah.  You're the =only= 
one she ever wants to talk to.  You =know= that.  You're a 
bastard for making me say it.  So pardon me if I don't feel 
overly sorry for you."

"Well, right now I'm the last person she wants to talk to."  
He hoped he was lying; he hoped his companions would 
continue to feed the flame of hope he felt burning in his 
chest.

"You don't believe that any more than we do," Byers replied 
in a calm voice.

Was that true?  There was no doubt that yesterday he had 
been in a very bad place.  He'd gone into an anguished fit 
after she'd left - throwing things, kicking furniture, 
knocking things over, before finally crying himself into an 
exhausted, fitful sleep.  When he'd woken it had been dark 
outside.

That night - God, it had only been last night - he'd been a 
zombie, sitting on his couch, staring off into space, using 
his eidetic memory to recall every moment he'd shared with 
her over the last seven years, focusing most intently on 
the last few months.  Dawn had arrived.  He'd barely 
noticed, still lost in his memories.  He'd fallen asleep 
sometime before noon, he guessed, and when he'd opened his 
eyes again his first thought had been that he really needed 
a drink.

He'd gotten to Madhatter's just after seven, and had still 
been there when the Gunmen had found him.

Mulder had thought that his despair was irreversible, too 
deeply embedded inside to ever be wrenched free.  But 
apparently when it came to Scully, his heart knew no 
despair.  It would always hold hope.

His mind recalled Scully's behavior in the past two and 
half months in flashes of memory.  Her insistence on the 
formation of the rules.  The sight of her beautiful face as 
she'd made love to him with her mouth.  Getting emotional 
and hiding in her shower for ages when they had made love 
while on a case.  Looking at him with wide, wounded eyes 
before accepting a date with Bruschard.  The way she'd 
ended things with him, unable to meet his gaze, and then 
afterward, leaving so quickly.  The fact that she'd asked 
the Gunmen to make sure he was all right.

Every one of those actions had meant something different to 
him when they had happened.  Now, putting them into 
perspective, looking at each event as part of a greater 
whole, he realized they all had one thing in common: they 
spoke of deeper, hidden feelings.  If he hadn't been so 
busy trying to act casual and indifferent around her, he 
might have seen that sooner.  They'd been cracks in her 
defensive armor.  He realized now that he might not have 
been the only one presenting a front.

Mulder stared into his glass of water, concentrating.  A 
review of the facts was necessary.  He was certain that she 
didn't know he was in love with her.  If she'd known, he 
would have been afforded more pity.  He had been a little 
too convincing in his nonchalance - and she had been a 
little too willing to believe.  Ironic, he thought with a 
wry twist of his lips, that this would be the time she 
would choose to believe him.

If she didn't know his feelings, she couldn't be repulsed 
by them.  That didn't mean that if she =did= know, she 
wouldn't be, but he wouldn't dwell on that for the moment.  
It wasn't why she'd broken things off, and that's what he 
needed to discern.  It would have been a possibility, but 
now there was only two other reasonable explanations for 
why she had felt the need to end their physical intimacy.

One would be that she had simply tired of it.  If that was 
the case, there was nothing he could do.  Yet he didn't 
believe that her passion for him had dissipated.  Their 
last sexual encounter had been as full of passion as it had 
been from the start - and she had initiated it.  In spite 
of his brooding, possessive behavior, she had welcomed him 
into her arms and her bed.  It'd been his own mortification 
of his actions that had sent him fleeing from her apartment 
- not hers.

The other explanation was the one he hardly dared let 
himself entertain - that Scully loved him in return, loved 
him with the same mindless, breathtaking, uncontrollable 
feeling that he did her.  Which meant that she had done 
what she'd done out of a desire to keep herself from being 
hurt.  It pained him not a little that the woman he loved 
believed she had to protect herself from him.

It seemed so clear-cut.  Obvious.  Yet had it always been 
so apparent?  Or had the reality of losing her combined 
with Dutch courage enabled perception skills that had been 
overwhelmed by doubt and fear?

The idea that they had both been hiding things - feelings - 
from one another struck Mulder as both ironic and deeply 
distressing.  If he was wrong, then so be it.  But he 
wasn't about to let pride and misunderstanding throw away 
what he had with Scully.

It was up to him to make things right, if in fact things 
were wrong.  He wouldn't lie to her anymore; he would come 
clean with the truth and take the consequences like a man.  
He had always told her the truth, and now realized how 
wrong it had been of him to keep this from her for so long.

If she =was= in love with him, she was probably trying like 
hell to fall out of it.  He certainly couldn't let that 
happen.  Lucky for him, falling out of love wasn't a thing 
easily accomplished; he ought to know.  And of course it 
wouldn't be for Scully, either, whose loyalties were fierce 
and unwavering.  She was so strong...protective...loving.

All of a sudden it hurt to breathe.  He didn't belong here.  
It wasn't right that he was in a bar indulging his sorrows 
when he could be striving for the greatest joy he would 
ever know.  He ought to be with Scully.

"I've got to go," Mulder said abruptly.  He picked up the 
glass of water and gulped it down thirstily.  His headache 
was now only a slight ache behind his eyes.  The rushing 
adrenaline in his system allowed him to barely notice it.  
He felt wide-awake and more alive than he had felt in days.  
When the one glass was gone and he still felt thirsty he 
grabbed Byers' glass and downed it, too.

His friends watched his actions with open-mouthed 
amazement; yes, it was quite a change from his quiet 
contemplation just moments before.  He'd thrown some bills 
on the table and was out of his seat before his companions 
had even realized he was going.

"You can't drive in your condition," Frohike said, dogging 
his heels.  "Wait!"

Mulder shrugged off the restraining hand.  Not a difficult 
thing, considering how much taller he was than the other 
man.  He had to see Scully.

He pushed past the throng of people, jostling alcoholic 
beverages in hands, and earning glares from the bar's 
patrons as he rudely shoved past.  He ignored them all.  He 
had to get to Scully, and all these people were in the way.

He heard Byers call, "Mulder!  Let one of us drive you!"

Mulder ignored that.  He felt perfectly sober, certainly 
enough to operate a car.

The night was cold, the wind whipping up something fierce.  
There was a thickness in the air, and Mulder thought 
absently that it forebode rain.

Getting into his car, he drove quickly to his place, doing 
ninety on the freeway, and on the surface streets he ran 
several reds and ignored stop signs.  It was wasting a lot 
of time to drive from downtown Washington to Alexandria 
back to Georgetown, but there was no help for it.  There 
was something he had to get.  Fortunately, the local cops 
weren't out in force tonight.

Once in his apartment, he scrambled around frantically, 
looking for the leather-bound book.  The place was a mess.  
The last time he'd seen it, he'd hurled it away from him in 
a fit of rage.  He hadn't wanted to be reminded of what the 
journal contained, what he'd written on the pages like a 
lovesick puppy.

There it was.  He could see its black edge poking out from 
beneath a trail of paper and magazines.  It was askew, open 
to a random page where it had fallen.  He bent and 
retrieved it quickly, noting that some of the pages were 
bent and wrinkled.  His bold black scrawl filled half of 
it.  He was out the door two seconds later.

It was drizzling, but Mulder hardly noticed.  He drove 
determinedly to Georgetown, focused on only one thought.  
He would be with Scully soon.  His heart beat excitedly 
within his chest, knowing that he would be in her presence 
shortly.  He would get to see her bright, beautiful face 
and breathe in her wonderful scent.  And he would get to 
talk to her.  He would get to tell her that he loved her.  
His car quickly ate up the miles.

About two miles from her apartment, two things occurred in 
quick succession that nearly undid all of his plans.  The 
drizzle had gradually grown stronger, and at that point, 
the heavens opened up in a sudden torrential onslaught of 
rain.  Not long after that, his car died.  Luckily he'd 
noticed something amiss and had pulled off to the side of 
the road before it became fully nonfunctional.

He cursed, trying the ignition again.  Nothing.  This was a 
bad omen.  Perhaps he was making a big mistake.  Maybe the 
fates were trying to tell him that this was not the time to 
confront Scully with his feelings, no matter what his heart 
craved.  Maybe he was wrong and she didn't want to see him.  
Maybe the idea that she actually reciprocated his feelings 
was only a pipe dream.

Mulder contemplated for a moment, doubt beginning to seep 
in.  He thought he had perfectly good reason for going over 
to Scully's - but he'd been drunk.  Did his reasoning 
=really= make sense or was it only the ramblings of someone 
who'd had one too many shots of tequila?

His gaze caught the gas gauge and he almost grinned in his 
relief.  It wasn't fate working against him - it was only 
his own idiocy at work again.  The car was dead for a 
reason no more complicated or nefarious than because it was 
simply out of gas.

He got out of the car, the rain slanting down mercilessly 
upon the streets of DC.  He tucked the journal close to his 
body, protecting it as best he could.

It was only twenty minutes.  He would run.

~~~~~~~~

Scully's Apartment
September 29
11:01 p.m.

There was something comfortingly methodical about doing 
laundry.  No strenuous thought processes were required of 
her, yet it kept her busy and helped pass the time.

Scully sorted the most recent load after tossing everything 
onto her neatly made bed, folding up articles of clothing 
with systematic precision.  She set aside the items that 
needed to be ironed.

The wait was excruciating.  Frohike, why haven't you 
called?  Haven't you found him yet?

She needed the distraction to keep herself from looking at 
the clock every two minutes.  She'd gotten it down to about 
every five minutes now.

Earlier, she had needed some kind of diversion from 
thinking about Mulder at all, and she'd spent the entire 
day finding things to do in order not to dwell on those 
hurtful thoughts.

Lunch and some shopping with her mother had taken care of a 
large part of the day.  Once or twice she had zoned out 
from the conversation and returned only to find her mother 
looking at her strangely.  She'd quickly covered up, citing 
exhaustion for her lack of concentration.

After those slip-ups, she'd determined not to arouse any 
more suspicion from her mother, and to do all she could to 
distract herself from thoughts of Mulder.

She'd suggested that she and her mother have dinner 
together as well, desperately needing someone else with 
her, keeping her attention from straying into forbidden 
territory.

Time alone was too dangerous, too tempting.

That was proved two hours ago when she had returned to her 
apartment after dinner.  She'd given in to the impulse that 
had plagued her all day, and dialed Mulder's number.  Her 
heart had been in her throat; what would she say?  Why was 
she really calling?  In the end, her jitters had been for 
naught - he hadn't picked up.  Either he wasn't home or he 
wasn't picking up his phone; she'd still wanted to make 
sure he was all right.

In a way, she felt relief.  Hearing Mulder's voice might 
very well snap the thread of control she was so tenuously 
holding on to.

So she'd called the Gunmen instead.  It had been a rather 
rash decision; she probably shouldn't have gotten them 
involved, but at the time it had seemed necessary.  She 
needed to know.

Frohike had answered.  She'd asked him, hesitantly, to 
check up on Mulder for her.  Such a request had immediately 
roused all sorts of questions about Mulder's safety, 
whether something had happened, if he had gotten himself 
into some kind of trouble.  She had declined to answer.  
"Would you find him for me, please?" she'd implored.  "I 
know it's a lot to ask...but it's very important.  Please 
tell me as soon as you know he's all right."

Perhaps it was something in her tone that quieted any 
further inquisition.  There had been a beat of silence 
before Frohike had answered, "I care about him, too.  
Consider it done; I know of a few places he might be."

That had been over two hours ago.  Since then, she had done 
two loads of laundry, the bookshelves and countertops had 
been dusted, the kitchen was sparkling, and there wasn't a 
single piece of furniture out of place.  The apartment was 
immaculate, and she was fast running out of things to do.

She needed distractions to keep herself from worrying.  
Time was passing by at an unbearably slow rate, and more 
and more, she was allowing herself to remember the events 
of the day before.  The worry of not knowing if Mulder was 
safe allowed memories to seep in...she was no longer able 
to solely concentrate on =not= thinking about him as she 
had previously done.

Scully dragged out the ironing board.  Filling the iron 
with a bit of water for steam, she plugged it into an 
electrical outlet.  While she waited for it to heat, she 
sorted the wrinkled clothing into an order in which she 
would iron.  The folded clothing she put into the 
appropriate drawers, the towels and sheets into the linen 
closet, and what needed to be hung up was efficiently 
speared by hangers and placed in her spacious closet.

The one thing she had not done was vacuum, because she was 
afraid the noise would keep her from hearing the phone 
ring.

Once the iron was ready, she took the first item - a shirt 
- and diligently began to press out the wrinkles.  A billow 
of steam rose up to bathe her face in the heated 
evaporation, but instead of turning away she remained where 
she was, letting it hover over her.  She welcomed the 
moistness now condensing onto her skin; she pretended for a 
moment that it was she who was bringing herself this wet 
relief.

She ignored the dryness of her eyes.  It was an odd and 
frustrating thing, but she had not been able to cry.  The 
aching tightness in her chest begged for release, but 
curiously she had not been able to shed any tears.

Prior to the official end of their physical relationship, 
Scully had cried.  "Too much" was what she had told Audrey.  
Now she was unable to do it at all.  She had experienced 
dry sobs, and real tears had been elusive.

Now she was numbly resigned to the fact that the physical 
release of crying was denied her.  Perhaps when it had all 
sunk in, that it was really over - maybe then the tears 
would come.  But it was possible she would never know what 
it was to cry, again.

She tried to concentrate on the shirt she was ironing, but 
felt her eyes glaze over and was unable to stop it from 
happening.  She was no longer seeing the iron, or her hand 
holding it...

He hadn't made a scene.  He'd sat there on his couch, 
unmoving and silent.  She hadn't been able to look at him.  
She couldn't even remember the words she had used.  She 
hadn't planned to do it that day, but her session with 
Audrey had invigorated her resolve.  Even with the other 
woman's caution to proceed carefully, Scully had known what 
she had to do.  She'd felt then that she was as strong as 
she would ever be, so she had to take her chances and do it 
while she could.

God, it seemed an eternity since then.  Could it have been 
only twenty-four hours ago?

Armed with a false sense of strength and her self-
preservation instincts, she'd knocked on Mulder's door with 
purpose.  All had crumbled to dust when he'd opened the 
door, smiling hugely and looking at her with eyes filled 
with happiness that she'd come to see him.

He'd led her into the apartment, offering coffee and 
conversation.  Her heart in her throat, she'd followed his 
movements with hungry eyes.  She'd told herself that she 
was being ridiculous, that she would have cause to be there 
again, that she was doing this =so= that would always be 
possible, but her inner self wasn't listening.  It kept 
memorizing every detail of her lover.

Every one of his actions made doing what she had to do as 
difficult as possible.  He'd run a careless hand through 
his hair, making it peak adorably, before giving her a 
sheepish smile and apologizing for the mess.  He'd brewed 
coffee, taking out mugs from the cupboard, adding cream and 
sugar in the amounts he knew she preferred.  Every action 
was familiar, endeared to her aching heart.

He'd offered her an apologetic grin, holding out a mug.  
"Sorry if you get some grounds in there; I need a new 
coffeemaker."

His jeans had been worn and comfortable-looking, his gray 
t-shirt clean and hanging loose.  His feet were bare, 
sexily so.  Scully had swallowed, berating herself for 
finding even his feet incredibly attractive.

She'd considered for a brief, wonderful moment that she 
didn't have to do this.  He would never know.  They could 
carry on as they were, take things as they would come.

He's not in love with you, she had reminded herself.  This 
is killing you, little by little, and if you let this 
continue, if you don't get out now, when he ends it, it 
=will= kill you.  You won't be able to handle it then - 
you'll be in too deep.  You'll lose it all.

People work through things like that, she'd tried 
rationalizing to herself desperately.  Perhaps she could 
confess her feelings.  If he didn't feel the same, they 
could handle it.  They could try and forget it ever 
happened.

Then he had asked her why she was behaving so oddly, why 
she was looking at him so strangely.

His query had prompted her to remember why she had to do 
what she had gone there to do.  Last weekend had shown her 
that she was weak, that she had come to expect things from 
Mulder that he wasn't ready to give.  Might never be ready 
to give.

A slight burning smell distracted Scully from her reverie.  
Her eyes refocused on what she was doing, and saw that 
there was now a light brown stain in the shape of the iron 
on her snowy-white shirt.

"Shit," she muttered, trying to work up the energy to care 
more.  She tossed it aside and picked up another shirt.  
This time, she'd keep her mind more on her task.

Who was it that had said friends were forever, but 
everything else was transient?  Especially lovers.

They'd seated themselves on his couch; he'd gone silent.  
Her hands had been shaking slightly, and she had gripped 
her mug tightly in order to stop the giveaway reaction.

He hadn't said a word through the whole thing, the whole 
spiel she had made.  Her voice hadn't been steady, and she 
had felt like vomiting the whole time, but she'd gotten her 
point across.

Even when she had finally stopped speaking, he hadn't 
jumped in with any arguments or demanded more explanation.  
It had been incredibly painful to accept that he wasn't 
going to try and convince her to change her mind.  She'd 
expected him to at least voice objection because he enjoyed 
what they =did= have together, if only on a physical level, 
even if he wasn't emotionally invested.  To try and 
preserve that much of it.

Perhaps he had sensed how close to the edge she was.  How 
desperately she wanted him to convince her that things 
would work.  He had probably sensed her need, and had shied 
away from it, realizing that she had gotten too close and 
her backing away was the only viable solution.

Perhaps he had been relieved.

She had not been able to look at him almost the whole time 
she had been there - aside from her stolen glances while 
he'd been making the coffee - and when she had finally 
dared to look up, the expression on his face had caused her 
chest to contract so tightly that it had been impossible to 
breathe for a few moments.

The depth of hurt there, the presence of betrayal in his 
eyes, had felt like a physical blow.  She had begged 
without words for him to understand.  In a moment of 
weakness she had almost given in to the urge to fling 
herself into his arms and plead for his forgiveness.

Such an action would have been disastrous, Scully now 
acknowledged.  He probably would have demanded explanation 
for why she had ended things if she hadn't really meant it, 
and she would then have either confessed all - ending 
things anyway, but badly, or she would have made something 
up, and things would have gone back to the way they were 
before.  Luckily, the reason she had to do it was never far 
from her mind, and it was one she would gladly suffer 
excruciating pain to preserve - their partnership.

Last weekend he had shown a possessive streak, but that was 
not what had disturbed her about the incident.  It had been 
her response to him and what she had allowed herself to 
reveal by it that had shaken her.

She'd basically told Mulder that she wanted no man other 
than him; that she was in love with him.  God, she'd even 
told him that she belonged to him, thinking at the time 
that it was what he wanted to hear - which it probably was, 
but his desire for this affirmation had stemmed from 
territorial motivations.  She, however, had pretended that 
his primitive actions had been prompted by caring rather 
than his alpha male instincts.

Unfortunately, she hadn't shaken herself out of her 
fantasies until after she had showered and returned to the 
bedroom to find an already-dressed Mulder pulling on his 
shoes.  He'd been flustered, embarrassed, and barely 
stammered out an apology before he'd taken himself off.

To say reality had slapped her in the face would be to 
phrase it nicely.  Obviously, he'd caught a glimpse of her 
true feelings, and his immediate reaction had been to run 
like hell the other way.  She'd accepted then that the 
lines were blurring too much for her; if she had any hope 
of recovering her equilibrium she had to end things.

The entire week after that weekend, he'd tried his utmost 
to be engaging, to behave as though everything was normal.  
As if she hadn't handed him her heart and he hadn't 
politely refused.  If she hadn't been weighed down with the 
knowledge of what she had to do, she would have basked in 
his attention.

Contrarily, it was actually his casual, friendly behavior 
that provided the final straw.  It was so damn =obvious= 
that he cared nothing for her the way she did him; he 
couldn't be so nonchalant and blase if he did.  It was what 
he had said from the beginning: he wanted to be friends 
with a little sex on the side.  He was completely capable 
of separating the two.

She'd finally had to admit that she couldn't do the same.  
She couldn't be his friend and fuck him impersonally once 
in a while.  She was in love with him, and it was killing 
her that she made love to him while he had sex with her.

The hurt and betrayal she'd seen in his eyes she'd believed 
stemmed from his feelings of personal unworthiness.  Mulder 
was at the same time both the most egotistical and also the 
most fragile person she had ever known.  His capacity for 
self-recrimination was truly extraordinary.

The idea that she would be one more person to contribute to 
this diminished self-image had made her nauseous.  She'd 
quickly explained that her decision was not the result of 
anything he had done, and in fact had nothing to do with 
him at all.  He was by far the best lover she'd ever had; 
she had simply reached the conclusion that it was just not 
a good idea to keep mixing their professional relationship 
with a personal one.  They'd tried it and it wasn't working 
out.  She had said something like that.

She'd stayed as long as she dared, until she'd felt as 
though she was choking on his hurt and hers.  The faster 
she got out of there, she'd told herself, the faster they 
would both be able to recover.  He would get over it in a 
matter of days; it would take her longer.  It would be 
easier for her to start killing the feelings when she saw 
how well and truly he had gotten over it.

His hurt won't last long, it's his pride suffering, she'd 
convinced herself.  She'd reminded herself how casual and 
aloof he had been during the whole of their physical 
relationship.  That reminder had given her the strength to 
propel herself to the door and out of his apartment.

After she'd left, she had driven straight home.  
Considering her state of mind, it had probably been a 
miracle she'd gotten both her car and her person home 
intact.

Unable to cry and unwilling to allow herself to drown in 
thoughts about what she had done, what she had said, what 
she could have said, his reaction, and all the minutiae 
that was there to be analyzed and dissected, she'd soon 
left again.  A walk would help keep those hurtful thoughts 
at bay.

She had been surprisingly successful.  It was as though her 
mind had set up a block and refused to let her remember in 
detail anything that happened before she had arrived at her 
apartment that afternoon.  She suspected that she hadn't 
been prepared then to fully digest what had happened.  If 
even one thought had escaped, she likely would have 
crumpled right there on the street.

Returning hours later, it had already been dark, and Scully 
had been so exhausted from the day's events - such strong 
denial took a lot of energy - that she had crawled into bed 
and immediately fell into a dreamless sleep.

When she had awakened this morning she'd felt like a ton of 
bricks had dropped onto her head during the night.  Every 
part of her ached, but what hurt most of all was the empty 
gaping hole inside of her.  It'd once been filled with hope 
and love - two things not easily replaced.  She had dry 
heaved into the toilet, and considered calling her mother 
to cancel their plans.  She'd realized, however, that her 
mother would provide company and a good source of 
distraction.

Even after the all-day excursion, Scully had been unable to 
banish the look of hurt on Mulder's face from her mind.  
The image haunted her.  She knew he was upset.  His hurt 
didn't stem from the same place that hers did, but it was 
pain just the same.  And she loved him; she needed to be 
sure that he was all right and not doing something foolish 
out of a perceived sense of having done something wrong.

She'd told herself she was probably flattering herself in 
her assessment of his emotional state; he was likely lying 
on his couch, remote control in hand, watching TV, without 
a care in the world.  Even so, she had called the Gunmen, 
because she had to be sure.

It saddened her that she had had to send them out to make 
sure he was okay, instead of being able to do it herself.

The point of what she'd done had been to =preserve= her 
relationship with Mulder, not destroy it.  So why did he 
feel lost to her?  Why did she feel more distanced from him 
than ever before, more than when he had believed she'd 
betrayed him, more than when Diana Fowley had reappeared in 
his life?  Perhaps because this time, the distance was of 
her own making.

With sudden, horrifying clarity, she recognized that 
despite her naive hopes, their friendship could never 
return to the way it had been.  Such a thing was 
impossible, not with all they had done and been to each 
other.  =She= was now incapable of seeing him as anything 
other than the man she loved, and in all likelihood, that 
was always how she would see him.

They couldn't go back, and now, because of her, they 
couldn't go forward.

Scully felt an unbearable tightening in her chest, and 
almost choked on the tears she couldn't shed yet felt 
locked somewhere inside of her.

Her ironing done, she went into the kitchen to distract 
herself from this new realization eating away at her soul.  
Had she done it all for nothing?  Had she given up 
something real for something elusive?  The reality of their 
physical intimacy for the continuation of a friendship that 
was altered and could never be the same again?

She poured herself a glass of water with shaky hands.  The 
sight of her coffeemaker sitting in the corner reminded her 
of Mulder and the fact that he needed a new one.

Picking up her water, she went into the living room and 
settled onto her couch, willing the phone to ring.

When it actually did as bidden, pealing loudly in the 
quietness of her apartment, she started, and the water 
sloshed around in the full glass, threatening to escape its 
confines.

Setting it down quickly on an end table, she was able to 
pick up the phone after only one ring.  "Frohike?"

"Hey, Scully."  He sounded hesitant.

Her brow knitted.  "Did you find him?  It's been over two 
hours."  She couldn't keep the worry out of her voice.

"Um, yeah...we found him.  He was ah - drinking."

Scully gripped the receiver tighter to her ear.  Mulder had 
been drinking?  Over her?  "Where are you?  Is he with 
you?"

"We're still at the bar - Madhatter's.  He was a little too 
fast for us and we couldn't catch him when he left."

"He's gone?  Where is he now?"

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then with 
obvious reluctance, Frohike shared, "I think he's going 
over to your place.  He left about five minutes ago."

Her breathing quickened and butterflies appeared in her 
stomach.  "He's coming here?  Why?"  She wasn't ready to 
face him.  Why was he coming to see her?

"Don't get mad, Scully...but it sort of slipped that you 
were the one who asked us to find him..." Frohike trailed 
off.

She closed her eyes.  Of course.  It would have given 
Mulder the idea - correctly - that she wasn't sure if she 
had done the right thing.  If he had it in his mind to 
persuade her to give things another try, she didn't think 
she was strong enough to refuse.  "What did he say?"  
Holding her breath, she waited for Frohike's answer.

"I believe he said something to the effect of: 'Why?  She 
wants to see whether I've blown my brains out yet?' "

"He was upset?"  She was a terrible person, but she was 
glad that he wasn't taking their separation lightly, even 
if it wasn't a separation in the strictest definition of 
the word.

"You could say that.  Look, he was kind of messed up.  He 
got real quiet and then he just up and left."

"Did he say he was coming here?"

"He didn't say that specifically, no - but it was pretty 
obvious to us that that's where he'd go."  Frohike's voice 
lowered, grew more serious.  "He seemed like he wanted to 
be with you, talk to you, about something important.  I 
don't know what's going on, but...won't you talk to him?"

Scully swallowed the lump in her throat.  Mulder must have 
been in a bad way when they'd found him for Frohike to 
sound so concerned.  And for him to make such a request of 
her indicated that he knew she was partly to blame for 
Mulder's condition.

His condition - this wasn't the first time she'd known him 
to get drunk.  Oh God.  "Did he take a cab?" she asked, 
concern deepening the natural alto of her voice.

Frohike hesitated.  "Ah - he had his car.  We told him he 
couldn't drive in his condition, but...well...you know how 
he gets.  We said we'd drive him but he wouldn't listen, 
and..."  It was obvious Frohike didn't want her to be upset 
with them for letting Mulder go off half-assed and drunk.

"I know," she sighed, conveying that she understood his 
dilemma.  When Mulder got a bee in his bonnet, deterring 
him from his intended goal was next to impossible.  It was 
one of his most attractive qualities.  He never gave up.  
He approached life with a single-minded purpose that was 
breathtaking at times.

She looked at the clock on her mantle.  It was 11:36.  It 
wouldn't be too long before Mulder arrived.  Half of her 
dreaded his appearance for what it would require of her, 
while the other half desperately needed to know that he was 
physically safe and wanted to see him as soon as possible.

A few words of thanks, and she hung up with Frohike.  Now 
all there was to do was wait.  She busied herself by 
rinsing out her mug, then went around the apartment 
straightening items that had already been straightened a 
number of times in the past couple of hours.

When after fifteen long minutes he still hadn't shown, she 
sat down on her couch.  No position was comfortable for 
long, and she felt highly tense.  Her nerves were stretched 
taut imagining all manner of scenarios that could present 
themselves once he arrived.  What would he say?  How would 
she respond?  Yet there seemed to be a block in her brain 
that refused to allow her to dwell on any one possibility 
for long.  The butterflies in her stomach kept distracting 
her.  She noted that her hands were shaking and clenched 
them into fists in an effort to cease the involuntary 
movement.

Nervously anticipating his arrival and at the same time 
wondering where he was and why he was taking so long, 
imagining all sorts of horrific possibilities, was 
draining, and her composure was fast slipping.  It didn't 
take this long to get to her place from that bar.

Twenty minutes later, she was calling all the area 
hospitals, asking about car accident victims, automatically 
citing all of Mulder's physical statistics while inside she 
screamed at the possibility that he could be hurt.  No one 
matching his description had been admitted to the hospitals 
she'd called within the last few hours.  However, that 
didn't mean something bad hadn't happened.  It had started 
to rain not too long ago, upping the chances for a car 
accident to occur.

It was, of course, possible the Gunmen had gotten their 
information wrong and Mulder wasn't on his way over to see 
her at all.  At this point, however, she could settle for 
nothing less than to know for herself that he was all 
right.  She called his apartment and got no answer.  
Perhaps he had gone somewhere else entirely.  She didn't 
know where that might be, but she would worry about that 
when the situation presented itself.

Perhaps he was home and wasn't answering his phone.  In 
that case, she had to go over and make sure for herself.  
She didn't even care at this point what he would think of 
her intrusion.  Another bridge she would cross when she got 
to it.  Not knowing if he was all right was doing serious 
damage to her mental and emotional state.  It was sapping 
her already depleted reserve of strength.

Amidst all the horror her brain kept conjuring up, an image 
cropped up again and again, breaking her heart and making 
her even more resolute in finding him.  She kept recalling 
Mulder's beautiful, blinding smile yesterday when he'd 
first opened the door to see her standing there.

Scully didn't bother to change, remaining in her sweats and 
t-shirt.  She stepped into her tennis shoes and grabbed her 
keys from the coffee table.  She pulled her jacket hastily 
on, not caring that it was bunched up and tweaked in 
places.

She opened the door...and found Mulder on the other side, 
fist poised to knock.

Even overcome by relief and elation, she could only stare 
up at him for a few moments.  The shock of his appearance 
left her somewhat dumbfounded.

The state of his appearance probably also contributed to 
that.  He was soaked.  His hair was drenched, causing 
rivulets of water to streak over his face and drip from his 
chin.  He apparently hadn't shaved in days, the dark 
stubble on his face almost menacing, as it indicated his 
state of mind - that the last thing he was thinking of was 
being civilized.  His shirt was so wet that it was 
plastered to his body, and he held an object in his hand.  
She couldn't tear her gaze away from his face long enough 
to discern what it was.

Mulder met her unblinking gaze with one of his own.  It was 
then that she noticed his eyes - large, bloodshot, and a 
little wild-looking.  They seemed to be drinking her in, 
and she leaned into him slightly, as if offering more.

The sound of his voice when he finally spoke provided a 
marked contrast to his untamed countenance, and the sexy, 
familiar tones sent shivers racing down her spine.  Calmly 
and without breaking eye contact, he asked, "Are you going 
somewhere, Scully?"

~~~~~~~~
Chapter Fourteen
~~~~~~~~

Scully's Apartment
September 30
12:37 a.m.

He wondered if he had made an enormous mistake by coming 
here.  He was feeling a bit warm and flushed.  Had the 
alcohol he'd consumed compromised his thought processes?  
Isn't that what alcohol did?

True, that he'd felt sober when he'd left the bar.  True, 
that he'd felt sober driving around DC and Virginia.  And 
true, that he'd felt stone sober running the thirty-odd 
blocks to Scully's apartment.  But now that he was there, 
he was suddenly assaulted by a wave of dizziness.  Whether 
it resulted from nerves or the alcohol in his system, he 
couldn't be sure.

What he did know what that his first sight of Scully could 
be likened to the advent of sustenance to a starving man.  
He drank her in, noting every feature of her face as if he 
had not seen them in years.  She was even more beautiful 
than his tortured mind had allowed him to remember.

After a while, he noticed that Scully was still staring at 
him, as he was staring at her, and neither of them had said 
a word.  Doubt and uncertainty began to seep in, 
threatening his fragile bravery.  He felt brittle, and he 
waited for the words from her that would splinter him into 
a thousand shards.

Yesterday, Scully had gone to his apartment with the intent 
to break their relationship apart; he had come here to put 
it back together.  It was right that he should be the one 
to do so; the whole situation was his fault, after all.  
=She= didn't know why he was here, however, and was 
probably wondering with dismay why the hell he had shown up 
at her door - and how she was going to politely get rid of 
him.

Two minutes, Scully, that's all I need, he thought.  It 
would only take that long for him to spill his guts and for 
her to respond.  If she never wanted him to darken her 
doorstep again, then he wouldn't.  He would leave quietly, 
not make a scene, wait until he was alone to express his 
anguish.

Even now, he was on the alert to make tracks, if necessary.  
He didn't want to be a source of aggravation for Scully.

He finally took in the detail that she was dressed to go 
out - her keys were in hand, and she'd opened the door 
before he'd even knocked.  "Are you going somewhere, 
Scully?" he asked, for lack of anything better to say.

In a way, he felt almost calm.  In fact, it was amazing how 
calm he felt.  The heart that had threatened to jump out of 
his chest all the way over here was no longer pounding a 
mad beat.  His breathing had slowed, and his vision was 
somewhat glazed.  He felt - resigned.  He could almost 
swear that he felt nothing.  One last plea for mercy.  Was 
this how the condemned felt when the executioner lowered 
the axe?

Scully was apparently spurred into action by the sound of 
his voice.  She was suddenly a flurry of motion.  Grabbing 
his wrist, she pulled him into the apartment and shut the 
door.

Well, at least the door wasn't shutting in his face.

And he had lied.  He didn't feel nothing.  On the contrary, 
his skin burned where she touched him, sending tiny flames 
of heat to his sensitive nerve-endings.  The rapid beating 
of his heart started up again, causing the blood to pulse 
in his temples.  He had to close his eyes from the 
sensation; it made him dizzy.  He began to shiver from the 
combination of the tangibles that assaulted him, including 
the fact that her heated apartment made his dripping-wet 
self suddenly feel very cold.

"Mulder," Scully murmured, caressing his wrist ever so 
slightly, and he thought he detected concern in the action 
and in her voice.  He opened his eyes again to meet her 
eyes, dark with worry.  Without a word, she let go of him 
and left him standing there as she quickly made her way out 
of the room, disappearing into her bedroom.

He didn't know what to do with himself.  He was very tired 
and wanted to sit down, but didn't want to mess up her 
couch.  Her apartment was even more immaculate than usual - 
and that was saying something.  Why did he suddenly feel so 
uncomfortable in the place where he had always felt the 
=most= comfort?

Scanning the area, he noted with sorrow that everything was 
perfectly in place.  The surfaces fairly gleamed.  Scully 
had always been neat, but not like this.  He doubted there 
was a trace of dust anywhere.  He'd only been here a week 
ago and she had already cleaned up after him.

Scully was moving on; did he really want to mess up her 
neatly ordered life with his presence?  And shouldn't he 
have thought of this before arriving here, now dripping 
water onto her carpet?  Perhaps he ought to leave.  Leave, 
before she came back from whatever it was she was doing in 
her bedroom.  The water stains on he carpet would 
eventually evaporate.  It would be as if he had never been 
there at all.

His mind chose that moment to remind him of the object he 
held clutched in his hand.  He stared at the journal, not 
recognizing it for a moment what it was.  He then recalled 
the reason why he had raced out of Madhatter's like a 
madman, why he had driven like a maniac back to his place, 
and why he was now standing inside Scully's apartment.

Now that he was here, secure in the knowledge that she was 
close by, he began to take notice of a pressure in his 
bladder.  It'd been there for a while, but he'd relegated 
to the back of his mind due to more pressing matters at 
hand, but it was definitely becoming a concern now.  He'd 
consumed a remarkable amount of alcohol and a lot of water 
in short succession soon thereafter.  The combination was 
enough to get him moving.

"I'm going to use the restroom," he called out timidly.  If 
things had been normal, if he had been comfortable, the 
idea of telling Scully that he was going to go pee, like an 
8-year-old child, would have been absurd.  Under the 
current circumstances, however, it felt necessary.

"Okay."  Her reply was muffled.

He wasn't sure why he was hesitating.  Go already, he told 
himself.  What are you waiting for, a commendation?

His clothes were uncomfortably damp, and he wished that 
he'd been a little less hasty before barreling over here 
without a plan...or an umbrella.

The bathroom was neat and clean, just like the rest of the 
apartment, and it smelled like flowers.  It seemed 
incredibly appropriate that it should smell like springtime 
in Scully's bathroom.  And she had liquid soap.  Of course 
she did.  Much more hygienic to have liquid soap.  He 
looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror, noting 
without surprise his bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks.

Physically, he felt enormously better after relieving 
himself.  Except, now that he'd "broken the seal," he'd 
have to pee every hour for the rest of the night.

Returning to the living room, he wondered what was taking 
Scully so long.  What was she doing?  On second thought, 
perhaps the better question was, what was =he= doing, 
standing in Scully's living room soaked to the skin and 
having no idea of what he was going to say to her?

He'd reached some conclusions in the bar that now seemed 
laughably unrealistic.  Was he really going to risk what 
they had left for =might be=?  He realized fatalistically 
that he was.  He'd taken risks before, big risks that 
included giving up the stability of the career track he'd 
been on for the chance to find out what had happened to 
Samantha.  And yet he'd turned around and given up the 
person he'd thought was his sister for Scully.  Even then 
he'd known that he couldn't live without this woman.  And 
there were other risks he'd taken, with his life and with 
his career, that no sane person would ever have.  But now 
all that seemed but practice for this moment.  The biggest 
risk he would ever take, because it meant more to him than 
anything had ever meant in his life.

Not surprisingly, he was suddenly gripped by a paralyzing 
fear, the fear of being rejected.  He didn't think he was 
strong enough to face Scully rejecting him - again.  It 
would be more pain than he believed he could bear.  He 
looked at the journal again.  Perhaps he could just leave 
it for her.  He'd still be taking the risk; he just 
wouldn't have to see her make her decision in person.  He 
could postpone having his heart sliced into ribbons.  If 
she liked what she read, she would contact him, tell him.  
If she didn't, she wouldn't have to say anything - her 
silence would be answer enough.

But that would be taking the coward's way out, and Mulder 
was not a coward.  Usually.  In any case, though his false 
bravado was slipping away, something purposeful remained, 
determined to see him through this.  Despite the 
nervousness churning in his stomach and the fear that 
gripped his insides, he felt physically incapable of 
leaving voluntarily.  Scully was here.  How could he go?

These thoughts were soon overshadowed by one that crept 
into his consciousness unexpectedly.  He missed her.  
Already the few seconds she had been gone was too long - he 
wanted to see her again.

As if reading his needy thoughts, Scully reappeared sans 
jacket, bearing towels and a neat little stack of clothes.  
He recognized them - they were his.  He supposed it was 
something that she hadn't returned all his things to him 
the day she'd gone to his apartment and handed his heart 
back.

"Come on, Mulder," she said softly, and he had a momentary 
compulsion to crawl into the cradle of her arms and bawl.  
His ears burned to hear the sound of her voice saying his 
name again.  Or it didn't even have to be his name; he 
wanted to beg her to just talk to him, and never stop.

She placed the bundle on the couch, then walked over to 
him, taking his hand and leading him further into the 
living room.  He now stood next to the end table by the 
couch.  He stared down at the objects on the table.

"Your phone is off the hook," he said.  It was a jarring 
aberration in the immaculateness of the rest of the 
apartment.

"Oh," she said, staring at the phone for a moment before 
quickly securing the receiver into place.  She seemed 
flustered by this minor detail; it confused him.

"Let's get you out of those wet clothes, Mulder."

He watched as her tiny fingers deftly undid the buttons of 
his shirt.  When that was accomplished, she slid the shirt 
over his shoulders, running into problems when it wouldn't 
slide off.  The buttons of his cuffs were still securely 
fastened, keeping the material together.  She gently took 
the black book from his hand.

Mulder opened his mouth to say something, panic rising in 
his chest - but she merely placed it on the coffee table 
without giving it a second glance.  At last, his shirt was 
deposited in a wet heap to the floor.

"I'm sorry for messing up your carpet," he said in a small 
voice.

She looked him directly in the eyes, the first time she had 
done it since she'd found him standing at her door, and 
there was something there that held him captive.  In a 
moment it was gone, replaced by typical Scully pragmatism.  
"Don't be silly," she said firmly.  "You're not ruining it, 
and it wouldn't matter if you did."

Perhaps it was pathetic, but he found it extremely 
wonderful of her not to mind if he ruined her carpet.  It 
was also promising - that, and the fact that she hadn't 
ordered him to leave.  She obviously still cared about him 
on =some= level, even if it was only friendship, so perhaps 
she would be willing to listen to what he had to say 
without dismissing it out of hand.

She began to rub him briskly with a towel, and a tingling 
sensation assaulted the affected skin.  She was gentle yet 
decisive in her actions.  She went up on tiptoes to reach 
the back of his neck, and it brought her achingly close to 
him.  If he leaned down just a few inches, he could touch 
his mouth to hers.  He was so very close to her...only a 
few inches...

"Okay," she rasped, stepping back once more.  She handed 
the towel to him.  "Can you manage the rest yourself?"

If not surprised, he was still crushed that after all they 
had been to each other, all they had done together, she was 
now inserting this distance, this need for modesty.  Or 
perhaps she simply didn't want such an intimacy.  So he 
nodded, clutching the towel, and she turned her back.

There were things that he was supposed to be telling her, 
important things that had the power to change the very way 
he approach life from this moment on.  But he couldn't find 
the voice to say them out loud; he didn't even know =how= 
he was going to express himself.  He was afraid that it 
would come out wrong, that she would not be convinced - or 
worse yet, wouldn't allow him the opportunity to finish 
before he got it all out.  He needed more time to think 
things through, and so he held his tongue.

He reached down to untie his shoelaces before stepping out 
of his shoes.  His socks were uncomfortably damp, and he 
was glad to strip those off.  He quickly undid the buttons 
of his jeans, feeling the wet, uncomfortable material 
abrade his skin as he removed it.  His boxers went next, 
and he hurriedly ran the towel over his exposed skin, 
rubbing the damp spots quickly, thinking mournfully that it 
had felt so much better when Scully had done it.

She'd brought replacement boxers, a t-shirt, socks, and 
sweats.  All he donned with haste, except for the socks 
because he didn't want to waste anymore time.  All he 
wanted was for her to turn around again.

"Okay, Scully," he said when he was done.

She turned around, moving closer to him and put a hand on 
his chest.  He held his breath, but all she did was apply a 
gentle pressure, making him move backwards, eventually 
causing him to fall backwards onto the couch.

Seating herself next to him, she then turned sideways to 
face him.  Picking up the towel again, she used it to rub 
vigorously over his hair, mussing up the damp strands, 
massaging his skull in the process.

It felt unbelievably good, and God, she was so close.  He 
could smell her warm fragrance, and closed his eyes while 
he breathed her in, so that he could concentrate on the one 
sense without being distracted by the others and therefore, 
appreciate it better.  It felt so good to be cared for like 
this by her.  Yet, wasn't that why he never worried about 
getting himself into one scrape or another?  Because he 
knew she'd be there to care for him?  Or perhaps it stood 
to reason that he even did those things in order to achieve 
this exact end?

Mulder had never considered before that perhaps she was 
tired of doing it.  Maybe she didn't =want= to do it.  
Jesus, was it always about him?  Was he such a bastard?  
The answer was a glaring yes.  He'd been the one to suggest 
that they alleviate their sexual needs together, with the 
full intention of tricking her into loving him...needing 
him.  He had never fully realized prior to this moment 
exactly how selfish he was when it came to Scully.  She 
deserved to know that about him.  He owed it to her to 
admit it outright.

He didn't even realize she had stopped drying him until he 
felt the soft touch of her fingers on his cheek.  He 
reopened his eyes, staring immediately into hers, which 
were filled with concern.

"Are you...tired, Mulder?" she asked softly.

Scully motioned to move her fingers away from his face, and 
out of an instinct to keep her close, one of his hands 
grabbed hers quickly as it retreated.  Holding her hand 
there, their gazes still locked, he rubbed against it, 
hearing the slight rasping sound his stubble made against 
her palm.

She flattened her hand against his cheek for a moment, even 
going so far as to slowly run her thumb back and forth 
against his skin, before she gently but insistently tugged, 
wanting him to let her go.  He did so, with reluctance.  He 
would let go of her hand - for now - but letting her go 
entirely was another matter.

He'd just have to make her listen to him.  And he knew she 
=would= listen to him, if he could stop being so clingy and 
allowed her room to breathe and think.  He resisted the 
urge to grab her to him.

Sliding down from the couch to the floor, she positioned 
herself between his knees.  Her expression was clear and 
unguarded.  "You didn't put your socks on, Mulder," she 
reprimanded lightly.  "Your feet will be cold."

His toes reflexively dug into the carpet at her words, and 
he thought about how nice and soft the carpet felt under 
his sock-donned feet.  His apartment had hardwood floors, 
and he'd never much thought about the difference before.  
Now he knew that carpet was far superior.  Of course, he'd 
grown up with carpet and he hadn't felt this way about it 
then.  Maybe it was just Scully's carpet that was better.

He remained still as she put the socks over his feet, her 
soft touch inadvertently tickling the soles of his feet.  
He enjoyed the way his toes warmed almost immediately.  
Even through the thick cotton material, he could feel the 
lightness of her touch.

She placed a hand on his knee.  "I'll make hot chocolate.  
You want hot chocolate?"

It didn't matter that the whole situation was rather 
bizarre and unreal.  He nodded, trying to contain his 
enthusiasm.  It wasn't for the hot chocolate, that was for 
sure.  She was offering him a drink!  He could stay!  
Somewhere inside him, a little boy danced and rejoiced.  
Not only was Scully herself prolonging his visit, but now 
he had more time to think about what he was going to say to 
her.  He decided that it would take him quite a while to 
finish his chocolate.
 
"Okay," she said, looking hesitant for a moment.  She 
opened her mouth, and it seemed as though she was going to 
ask him a question, but then closed it again.  Instead, she 
said, "I'll be right back."

Mulder followed her movement away from him, trying to 
communicate with a desperate look what he found so hard to 
do with his voice.  She didn't turn around, however, so 
this attempt was wasted.

Watching her as she bustled about the kitchen, opening 
cupboards and getting milk from the fridge, he reflected on 
how domestic it all felt.  And how wonderful that was.  He 
knew he was an interloper, however, and the cozy warmth he 
felt being there was superceded by the cold weight of the 
truth that settled in his stomach.

He wistfully thought about what he would have done only a 
scant week ago, had he found himself in this position - he 
would have gotten up from the couch, followed her into the 
kitchen, and then wrapped his arms about her waist, burying 
his face in the side of her neck, as she went about 
preparing the hot drink.  She would complain that he was 
making the process take twice as long, but as always, would 
make no real attempt to make him detach himself.  The 
longing to experience that was so great he had to clench 
his fists to keep himself from getting up and doing it.

Now he suspected he wouldn't be able to get within a foot 
of her without being told to keep his distance.  The 
thought was utterly depressing.

So why, exactly, was he here?  His glance strayed from 
Scully to the journal sitting on the coffee table.  She 
hadn't made any note of it at all - that was strange, 
wasn't it?  Did she suspect what it was, and wanted to 
avoid talking about it?  Yet how could she know?

Most likely, she'd simply dismissed it.  She had other 
things on her mind - like why the hell he'd shown up on her 
doorstep in the first place.  Yet if she was concerned 
about that, wouldn't she have demanded an explanation from 
him at the beginning, instead of offering dry clothes and 
hot chocolate?

When he returned and was once again settled on the couch, 
he reflected on how incredibly good it felt to be here, so 
comforting.  Yet it felt wrong, as if he was being 
intrusive.  He had no right to impose on her like this, 
basking in her care.  Perhaps if he were here on a 
legitimate basis, as a friend or as her partner, the right 
would be his.  But he wasn't, and she still didn't know the 
truth.  He felt like a fraud.

He would be honest with her.  He would come clean, as he'd 
originally planned when he'd raced out of the bar like a 
lunatic.  He wouldn't stay in her apartment and force his 
company on her under specious pretenses.  He didn't want to 
think that his presence here wasn't entirely wanted, that 
it was only tolerated because he had put up a false front.

Scully returned with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.  
His attention was brought once more to the fact that she 
was dressed to go out - she was even still wearing her 
shoes - and that he might have interrupted her plans.  But 
it was almost one in the morning.  Where would she be 
going?  Maybe he didn't want to know.

He accepted the mug of chocolate that she held out to him, 
and had a brief flash of memory: he, holding out a steaming 
mug of coffee to her yesterday in his apartment.  Now, he 
was made miserable by the reminder of what had happened 
afterward.

Staring at her tennis shoes, he whispered, "I'm sorry, 
Scully.  Are you going out?"

She sighed.  He watched her still-shoed feet make their way 
over to the couch.  The cushions moved a bit as she sat 
down, so close to him that the material of their respective 
sweatpants brushed together.

"Mulder," she began, sounding hesitant.  "I was going out 
to look for you."  She placed a hand on his arm.  "I'm glad 
you're all right," she finished quietly.

His head turned sharply to look at her, and his gaze 
immediately caught hers.  Her luminous blue eyes were 
filled with relief and...something else.  She gave him a 
tiny smile, and he could have sworn that her eyes were 
brighter than usual.  And were they glistening, just a 
little?  He felt a tiny bit of hope reassert itself in his 
chest.

"You were going out to look for me?"  He attempted to sound 
less delighted than he was.  He took a sip of his drink to 
hide any emotion he might give away on his face.  Hot.  Ow, 
really hot.  Okay, now his tongue was burnt.  As if he 
wasn't already having enough trouble using it.  He quickly 
set the mug down next to the phone.

She looked away, at the same time taking her hand from his 
arm to clasp it defensively to her other hand, which rested 
in her lap.  He noticed that her mug of hot chocolate was 
sitting on the coffee table, steam rising steadily.  It was 
apparently forgotten by Scully.  "Of course.  I know you 
know I asked the guys to see that you were okay."

He winced at the remembered hurt.  "Why did you do that, 
Scully?  If you wanted to know I was all right, why didn't 
you make sure, yourself?"  It was a baldly inquisitive 
question he wouldn't have dared ventured if not for his 
suddenly inflated sense of courage.  It was odd how it came 
and went.  The second she relented a little bit, the second 
Scully gave an inch, he took a mile and more.  But now that 
the question had been posed, he couldn't take it back; he 
had crossed a line.

If he wasn't sure about what he wanted to reveal tonight 
before, it was now too late.  The ball had been put in 
motion.  His pulse fluttered erratically as he waited for 
her response.

"I couldn't," she said in a barely audible voice, still not 
looking at him.

Scully had a beautiful profile, but he wanted to see her 
face.  His fingers itched to reach for her chin, to turn 
her toward him, but he dared not touch her, for fear that 
she would retreat even further.  He had to tread carefully, 
consider his actions, bide his time.

"Why?" he asked, awaiting her reply with both dread and 
anticipation.

There was moment of silence, and when she spoke it wasn't 
to answer but to counter with a question of her own.  "Why 
did it take you so long to get here, Mulder?"  She finally 
turned her head to pierce him with the clear intensity of 
her eyes again.

His breath caught.  Leave it up to Scully to cut right to 
the chase, even though she couldn't know she was doing it.  
It was his turn to avoid her gaze.  His glance slid away, 
landing once again on the journal, almost directly in front 
of him on the coffee table.  The urge to pick it up and 
shove it into her hands was nearly overwhelming.  What he'd 
written in there would tell her all she needed to know.  It 
would be so easy to let the journal do his work for him... 
yet something in him rebelled against the idea.  It wasn't 
right.

He had let her know in various forms, had told her a 
thousand times in a million unvoiced actions, how he felt.  
Other people had come closer to saying it for him than he 
had - at least, to her awake and conscious form.

It was well past time that he spoke for himself.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here?"  He 
ignored her question for the time being.  Turning his head, 
their gazes locked once more.

"Are you drunk, Mulder?"

He was frustrated by the question, though it was posed so 
gently.  "No.  I'm not.  Scully, I don't think I've ever 
been so sober."

"But you've been drinking," she stated matter-of-factly.

"I had a few drinks this evening, yes," he said.  That 
seemed ages ago.  The only drug affecting him now was her 
presence.  "But I am not inebriated."

She leaned close to him, sniffing.  Their gazes caught and 
he met hers steadily.  "Tequila?" she asked.

He sighed.  She knew his drink of choice; that was just a 
lucky guess.  "Yes.  So?  Aren't you wondering why I'm 
here?"

Scully sat back and did not break their gaze.  "I gathered 
you wanted to talk to me about something."

He could lose himself in those eyes.  He could, and he 
wanted to - but more than that, he wanted to be welcome to 
do so.

"I do," he answered.  Now that the moment had arrived, he 
faltered.  "There is something I want to tell you."  He 
cleared his throat, as his voice had cracked on the last 
word.

She regarded him patiently.  "Just tell me, Mulder."  Her 
voice shook, just slightly, and for some reason that was 
all the encouragement he needed.

Taking a deep breath, he screwed up his courage...and all 
that needed to be said spilled forth in a rush from the 
deepest recesses of his heart.  "Scully, I came over to 
tell you that I love you, that I've loved you for a very, 
very long time but only had the guts to tell you once 
before and I was disappointed but a little relieved that 
you didn't believe me.  I'm was afraid then and I'm afraid 
now, and I don't know why I found the courage tonight to do 
this, maybe it's because I've been drinking, maybe it's 
because I know what I'm missing now and can't take not 
being with you anymore.  But it doesn't really matter why 
because I've finally said it, and I'm sorry if you don't 
want to hear it, Scully, but I thought you should know, I 
thought you should know that I love you."

He was beyond the point of caring that his confession came 
out in long disjointed sentences and sounded like he was 
babbling.  He didn't care that he was almost crying.  He 
didn't care that his heart was jumping from his throat to 
his stomach and back, or that his pulse was hammering so 
strongly that he thought he might have a heart attack.  
Those things were the least of his worries.

It was painful not to be touching her, and though he had 
already blurted out the most relevant news, the words kept 
spilling from his mouth, running out of him like rainwater, 
cleansing and pure.  It felt so good to finally tell her 
the truth that he couldn't stop.  "Scully...I'm in love 
with you and I won't apologize for it, I won't apologize 
for the truth - but you deserve the truth and there it is, 
I'll say it again: I'm in love with you."

There was nothing left to do now but hold his breath.  He 
could hear the mad pounding of his heart within his chest, 
felt the blood pumping like quicksilver through his veins, 
as he waited for her reaction.  It was the most torturous 
moment of his life...he was laying it all out there.  He 
was completely vulnerable; he had placed his heart in her 
hands, and now waited to see what she would do with it.  
God, after this week, nothing would ever faze him again.

She stared at him with an expression that could only be 
construed as shock.  She was silent for so long that he 
felt dread begin to seep from his abdomen, radiating out to 
all of his nerve-endings.  Suddenly he felt like vomiting.  
God, he'd been so wrong to come here and foist all of this 
on her.  How was she to respond to such a declaration from 
him, if she didn't feel the same?  Watching her try and 
couch a response in nice terms was a hundred times worse 
than having her flat out reject him.  A thousand times 
worse.

He'd been an utter fool; an impassioned, reckless fool with 
a penchant for believing in all the wrong things, including 
the beautiful lies he was prone to spinning for himself.  
The flame of hope flickered and died in his chest.  He 
swallowed convulsively, willing the massive aching in his 
heart away.

How could he have been so unthinkingly selfish as to come 
here, so wrapped up in his own need that he'd actually 
believed for a few hours that she would welcome it?  
Obviously, she didn't feel the same or she would have said 
something by now.  Fuck.

He had just made up his mind to get up and walk out, 
intending to give her all the space she wanted, determined 
that he would never again overstep her boundaries, that she 
would never again have to ask him for his distance, when 
Scully made a sound.

For a moment he thought he had imagined it when she didn't 
say anything further, nor did her expression change, and he 
bitterly castigated himself for this additional evidence of 
self-delusion.  God, was it his fate to be continually 
tormented by this stubborn hope that refused to die?  
Wouldn't he ever give up?  The fight was lost.  He had 
lost.

But then the sound came again, it wasn't his imagination, 
and it unmistakably came from Scully.  She was looking at 
him with wide eyes, and her lips had parted slightly, 
though she had yet to utter a recognizable word.

"Mulder - " she began, a catch in her voice, and he noted 
that her eyes had begun to glisten again.  She unclasped 
her hands, and reached out to once again place her hand on 
his arm.  Her fingers was shaking slightly...in fact, her 
entire body seemed to be trembling.  They noticed this at 
the same time, and immediately she withdrew it.

She was hurting for him, hurting for what he was doing to 
their relationship.  He hadn't realized how much of an 
anchor her hand had been until she removed it; he instantly 
felt bereft, lost and adrift in a situation he was 
floundering in.  He felt moisture begin to pool in his own 
eyes, and he fought to keep them in check.  She didn't need 
to deal with his tears on top of everything else.

"I know," she began shakily, then stopped and took a deep 
breath.  "I know that you're upset..."

"I'm sorry, Scully," he blurted before he could stop 
himself.  The tears spilled in spite of his attempt to 
reign them in.  "I...I can learn not to show it so much.  I 
can pretend I don't love you; I can hide it, I swear.  I 
won't mention it ever again, I promise."  This last ended 
on a small sob.  "I promise, Scully."  Of its own accord 
his hand reached out to implore her, yet even then knowing 
to keep his distance, not daring to actually touch her.

Through the hot wetness of his tears he suddenly saw the 
tear tracks running over her cheeks.  God, he had made her 
cry.

She reached out and took his hand, and in spite of his 
pain, he felt an inordinate amount of relief wash over him, 
bathing his senses with its sweet presence.  She didn't 
hate him.

Her voice was steady when she spoke, if a little deeper 
than usual.  "Mulder, I'm glad you love me, and I don't 
ever want you to feel the need to hide it."  Her voice 
lowered even further, making it harder to catch her words.  
"I love you, too...you know I do.  But as for being in love 
with me...you only think that right now, because of all 
that's happened." He saw more tears slip down her face.  
"You're overemotional - "  She stopped.  With her other 
hand, she touched the tips of her fingers to her wet 
cheeks.  "I'm crying..." she breathed, as if it were the 
most stunning revelation.

He had been too stunned by what he was hearing, unsure he 
was hearing her correctly, to speak for several long 
moments after she informed him that he was not really in 
love with her.  Clutching her hand in his, he now burst 
forth with a forceful, "No!"  He stared at her accusingly.  
"You don't think I'm capable of knowing when I'm in love 
with someone?  You think I've carried over residual 
feelings from what we've been doing for the past couple of 
months, that that's all it is?

"I =am= overemotional right now, but it's because I'm 
scared shitless.  Of losing you.  How can I lose you, 
Scully?"  What was with him tonight that he couldn't shut 
up?  "I need you, I want you to know how I feel, and I am 
=in love= with you.  I may never have felt this emotion 
before, but I can recognize it.  It =is= like everyone 
says..."  His throat had progressively tightened during 
this rant, until it became difficult to continue.  "...you 
just know," he finished in a whisper.

Mulder searched Scully's face for some sign of realization, 
of acceptance.  He was further frustrated when none came.  
He never imagined that the hardest part would be to 
convince her of his love; it wasn't as if he hid it 
particularly well, judging by how easily other people were 
able to read him.  Apparently, "other people" did not 
include Scully, which was ironic considering how well she 
was able to read him in every other situation.

She was shaking her head; he grew desperate.  He clutched 
her hand tighter, drawing it near to his heart.  "How can 
you not know?" he asked, blinking rapidly, inadvertently 
dislodging some previously unshed tears from his eyes.  
God, if he lost her because of his own stupidity, of his 
own actions...he would never forgive himself.  He had to 
make her understand.

"Scully...Scully, you know that I asked you to make love 
with me because I wanted that intimacy with you.  I wanted 
to be as close to you as a human being could possibly be to 
another.  Each time we made love, I felt close to you.  I 
felt so close to you."  He tried desperately to control his 
panic, needing more than anything to make her listen; it 
had never been more imperative that she believe him.

She reached out to tenderly brush the tears from his 
cheeks, but he was too caught up in his confession to 
analyze what that meant.  He continued, "It was wrong to 
deceive you like that, and I am so sorry, Scully.  I only 
did it because I wanted to make you fall in love with me, I 
wanted you to love me in the way that I loved - =love= - 
you."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"  She didn't take her gaze 
from his face, but neither did she joyfully embrace him.  
He wasn't in the clear yet, but she was giving him a chance 
to explain himself.  This opportunity he grabbed and hung 
on to for dear life.

"Scully..."  He looked down, not being able to look her in 
the eye, but refusing to let go of her hand.  "I didn't 
want to overwhelm you," he explained in a low voice.  "I 
knew you didn't feel what I felt for you.  I didn't want to 
risk our friendship, not knowing how you felt."  He 
squeezed her hand.  "You know our friendship is the most 
important relationship I have, Scully.  The most 
important," he emphasized fervently, daring to glance at 
her before looking down once more.

"My plan was...my plan was...not great," he finished 
lamely.  "I wanted to be the best lover you'd ever had.  I 
wanted you to enjoy our physical intimacy, and accept the 
idea that I could be everything for you."  He looked up 
again, pleading silently for her to understand.  "I can be 
everything for you, Scully.  Please let me try."

Why wasn't she saying anything?  Maybe he was being too 
obsessive, too suffocating.  As hard as the words were to 
get past his mouth, he said them.  "You don't even have to 
love me back, it would be o-kay," he forced out.  "And I 
won't be so needy, Scully.  You think I can't do it but I 
can!  Whatever you want, I can do.  I can give you as much 
or as little as you need.  All I want is for you to be 
happy..."  He was desperate for her concession.  Surely she 
couldn't turn him down now, could she?  "You were happy 
with me, weren't you?" he asked, hesitating.

She smiled, and it was a beautiful sight to see.  It 
reached her eyes.  "Yes, I was happy, Mulder," she 
answered.

"See?  See?" he jumped in eagerly.  "I can do that.  I can 
do it forever."  His other hand came around to grab her 
hand.  God, he was holding her hands.  For a moment he was 
completely overcome by the simple joy in having her hands 
enveloped with his - it was as if all of the compassion and 
strength she was capable of was imbued in the small 
capacity of her palms and fingers.

"So you were pretending not to love me, so that you could 
get me to fall in love with you?" she asked matter-of-
factly.

He mulled that over.  "Sounds like crap when you say it."  
It sounded familiar; he thought he had said that to her 
before.  "It made sense at the time," he defended himself.

Inside, he was doing somersaults.  This was very, very 
good.  She didn't sound upset or angry, and she was 
allowing him to hold her hands.  Dared he hope...?

Suddenly she began to laugh, much to his consternation.  He 
was just starting to feel the first stirrings of hurt 
beneath his confusion, when she explained.

"You're an idiot, Mulder."  Her smile was securely in 
place, her eyes now shining with amusement instead of 
tears.  She reached over to give him a quick peck on his 
temple, and he got the feeling it had been an impulse she 
wasn't able to control.

He felt a sense of deja vu.  Hadn't he already heard that 
once tonight?  "Yeah, that seems to be the general 
consensus."  He was a little too confused by the sudden 
turn of events to fully process the fact that she'd just 
kissed him.

That made her laugh again, and he smiled uncertainly.  The 
air in the room was so much lighter than it had been only 
moments before.  He was glad, of course, that she was 
finding merriment in this situation, but where did that 
leave him?  How was he supposed to respond?  "Want to share 
the joke?"  He hadn't meant to sound so irritated, but he 
couldn't help it.  He'd just spilled his guts in the most 
daring move he'd ever made in his life, and the woman he 
loved was laughing - and it seemed, at him.

"It might only be amusing to me," she said casually.

"Try me."

A red eyebrow arched.  "Temper, temper, Mulder.  I won't 
tell you if you keep pouting like that."  She smiled.  
"Ready?"  At his nod, she continued conspiratorially, 
"Here's what's funny: if you hadn't been trying so hard to 
keep me from seeing that you loved me - which you did very 
well, by the way, I commend you on a fine performance - you 
might have caught that I was doing the same thing."

He played her words over in his head a few times before he 
would let himself believe what she was saying.

Scully apparently did not feel the need to practice the 
patience she had so recently preached to him, and grew 
annoyed waiting for his response.  "Should I rephrase that 
into simpler terms?" she asked sarcastically.

He nodded; he was still too overcome by what he was pretty 
sure she'd just admitted, and wanted her to relay the 
message in no uncertain terms.

Her face grew serious.  Removing her hands from his, she 
placed her hands on either side of his jaw and drew his 
head down to hers, so that their foreheads and the tips of 
their noses touched.  Looking directly into his eyes, she 
whispered, "I'm in love with you, Fox Mulder."

Crazy, overwhelming, exhilarating euphoria burst open in 
his chest.  It was only natural, with their faces so close, 
that he should close the distance and kiss her fiercely, so 
this he did.  It was passion and frenzy and need, all 
combining into the sweetest, most intense kiss he'd ever 
known.

She loved him.  She'd said she loved him.  And now he was 
kissing the woman he loved, and it was even better than 
that - the woman he loved was loving and kissing him right 
back.

He broke the kiss to whisper, "I feel like I'm dreaming."  
And in fact, he felt dizzy and out of control, as dreams 
were wont to be.  Suddenly he felt a sharp, stinging pain 
on his shoulder.  "Ow!"  Mulder jerked back involuntarily, 
staring at Scully.  "What'd you pinch me for?"

"Just reassuring you that you're not dreaming," she 
answered.  "And punishment was in order.  Who said you 
could stop kissing me?"

He grinned, delighted.  So the slight throbbing on his 
shoulder was a love wound.  He could live with that.  
That's what he got for falling in love with a redhead.  
"I'd kiss you for the rest of my life, if I could," he said 
with feeling.

"Do you always have to be so extreme, Mulder?"

"Always," he answered unrepentantly.  "But that's why you 
love me, isn't it?"

"I'm sure you know it's one of the reasons why I love you," 
she replied, smiling.

"What are the others?" he asked eagerly.

Looking at him from beneath her lashes, the look she gave 
him was mysterious.  "I can't divulge all my secrets at 
once, Mulder."

He considered whining, but thought better of it.  He had 
the rest of his life to learn them all.  This caused his 
face to split into a huge grin.  "Okay...then tell me you 
love me, again."

"You love me again."

"Scuh-leee."

"All right.  I love you."

"Again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"At this rate, you're going to get sick of hearing it."

He was amazed by the very idea, and such was evident in his 
voice when he said, "I could never get sick of hearing you 
saying that to me, Scully - never.  I love you.  Okay, your 
turn."

"Mulder."  She was exasperated, he could tell.  "When you 
were a little boy, you wore out your new toys in the first 
week you got them, didn't you?"

"No," he said seriously.  "Any toy I liked to play with 
over and over, I took very good care of."  He kissed her 
softly.  Looking directly into her eyes, he promised 
solemnly, a catch in his voice, "I am going to take such 
good care of you."

She maneuvered herself so that she was sitting on his lap.  
Her hands were resting on his shoulders, but one lifted to 
trail up over the side of his neck, and then further up to 
cup his cheek.  "You already do," she answered simply.

He noticed that her eyes were watery again, and quickly 
moved to kiss them closed.  "Don't cry anymore, Scully.  I 
hate to see you cry," he confessed miserably.

"Mulder...I'm glad I'm crying."  She attempted a smile, and 
it only made him more confused before she elaborated.  "I 
wasn't able to cry before this, and I felt like my grief 
was choking me.  Your being here like this...just being 
=you=, it touches something inside me, and it lets me open 
up.  Thank you," she whispered.

"You're welcome," he said tentatively, still not completely 
certain that making Scully cry was ever a good thing.

When she opened her eyes once more, Mulder saw with relief 
that the threat of tears had dissipated.  She sniffed, and 
her face was adorably pink from emotion.  He felt her trace 
the tearstains on his own face.  "And I hate to see you 
cry, too, Mulder," she said in a gentle voice.  "We've 
cried more than our share in this life.  So we'll just have 
to make sure we do less of it from now on."

"Okay," he agreed quickly, relieved.

"And no more hiding things from each other."

"Of course not."  He was appalled by the very idea.  "I 
wouldn't have done it, except - "

"Yes, yes," she brushed him off.  "We've already 
established that you're an idiot."

He hoped he didn't look as crestfallen as he felt.  "But 
I'm not," he protested, before amending, "Or if I am one, 
you're one too.  You were doing the same thing, =and= you 
went out with some other guy!  Besides, I was the one who 
came here to spill my guts; =you= were the one who ended 
things between us!"

The reminder of the torture he had gone through the day 
before was enough to make him truly distressed, not to 
mention the reminder of her quasi-date with another man.  
He never wanted to feel as he'd felt on either of those 
occasions ever again.  He pinned her with an accusatory 
gaze, even as he wrapped his arms around her to pull her 
close.  "You know you nearly killed me, Scully.  Why did 
you do it?"

A guilty look stole over her face before it was replaced by 
a glare.  She clasped her hands around his neck.  "What do 
you mean, why, Mr. Let's-Have-Sex-To-Relieve-Stress?  I had 
to protect myself from being emotionally traumatized!"

"Emotional trauma?  What about imposing all those stupid 
rules on our fledgling relationship?  You were determined 
not to feel anything!"

"That's right, I wasn't - not with you running around 
assuring me every five minutes that all you wanted from me 
was sex!"

"I didn't just want sex!  I was in love with you, dammit!" 
he shouted.

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?  You did everything 
you could to hide it from me," she said in rebuttal.

"Well, maybe I didn't want to get hurt."

"Well, maybe =I= didn't want to get hurt."

They were both breathing hard.  There was silence as they 
both brooded, and Mulder wondered in panic if Scully had 
now changed her mind and decided she was mistaken and 
couldn't be in love with an idiot like him, after all.  Why 
couldn't he just keep his damn mouth shut?  How had they 
degenerated into yelling at each other, anyway?

He was just about to apologize when Scully said 
thoughtfully, "I think we just had our first romantic-
associated fight, Mulder."

"Yeah...so?" he asked warily.  Here it came; she was going 
to announce that their personalities were too different, 
that this wasn't going to work...all the things he knew 
weren't true.  He gripped her tightly to him, and mentally 
prepared for the argument he was sure would be occurring 
momentarily.  There was one thing he knew for sure: he 
wasn't letting go.  It was then that he noticed she was 
holding onto him just as firmly, allowing him to relax...a 
little.  Scully was nothing if not clever.  He had to be 
prepared for anything.

She smiled brilliantly at him, the appearance of her teeth 
lending feral effect.  She drew seductively nearer, 
bringing her mouth close to the skin of his neck.  He could 
feel her warm breath on him, and goosebumps rose all over 
his body.  "You know what happens after a fight, don't you, 
Mulder?" she murmured.

He blinked.  She definitely didn't sound mad.  In fact, 
that tone of voice was rather familiar...one that his cock 
immediately recognized, as it twitched to attention.  
"What?" he rasped.

"You know."  She adjusted herself so that the swell of her 
bottom brushed up against the front of his sweatpants, and 
he groaned.  "Make up sex," she purred against the side of 
his neck, her lips just touching the skin there.  "It's 
required."

He shivered, involuntarily bringing one of his hands around 
to the rapidly swelling hardness at the front of his pants, 
while keeping his other arm around Scully.  At least he was 
wearing sweats.  The restriction wasn't =too= uncomfortable 
...yet.

"If you s-say s-so," he said cooperatively, his eyelids 
dropping down.

She was obviously pleased with his reaction because she 
nibbled lightly at his neck before placing her hand over 
his, encouraging him to cup himself fully through the 
material of his sweats.

"Will you indulge me in something, Mulder?" she breathed 
into his ear, and he trembled.

Oh, Scully, I would do anything for you.  "A-anything," he 
promised.  He'd never been more serious in his life.

With effort, given how strongly he was holding her, she 
moved away from him.  He tightened his grip, intending to 
pull her close again.  She firmly resisted, and reluctantly 
he stopped exerting pressure.

She took her hand away from his, and now they weren't 
touching at all.  Collapsing his weight fully against the 
cushions, he reluctantly removed his hand from the front of 
his pants, feeling somewhat conscious about it now that 
they were separated.

"Okay, then...I want to go to your place."  She licked her 
lips.

He was dumbfounded.  Why in the world would she want that?  
It was so much nicer here.  It was so Scully here.  
Although, that was probably not a very good bargaining 
point.  And besides...  "We're already here.  What's wrong 
with here?"

Scully rolled her eyes.  "We =always= do it here."

"So?"  He was defensive.  She made it sound as though he 
was a boring old man, set in his ways.  He thought he was 
pretty adventuresome - he just liked making love in her 
bed, feeling surrounded by her.  "And, no we don't."

"Usually," she dismissed.

"But we're already here," he repeated, staring at her.  Why 
wasn't she using =reason=?

She leaned forward into his space again, then straddled 
him.  
She wrapped her arms around his neck, rubbing her breasts 
against his chest - an obvious ploy to make him forget his 
arguments.  It worked, and he saw small sparks as his brain 
short-circuited.  All thoughts of resisting further were 
decisively tossed to the wayside.

"I want to make love on your couch, Mulder.  I've always 
wanted to, and it's the one place we haven't done it yet.  
Isn't that strange?  Don't you think it would be 
appropriate for us to christen the last place we haven't 
made love on the day we cleared up all these 
misunderstandings?"  She felt so good, sitting on top of 
him like that.  Her mouth was so close.  He wanted to kiss 
it.  But she kept talking.  "It would be a symbolic gesture 
of all we've been through to reach this point."

He was distracted by the bottoms of her feet, which were 
normally sources of delight for him - Scully's skin was so 
soft there - but what he liked to see was frustratingly out 
of sight.  "Scully, you're still wearing your shoes."

She sighed in exasperation.  "Do you ever listen to 
anything I say?"

"Every word," he swore.  "You know I love listening to you.  
You want to go to my place and make love on my couch," he 
relayed smugly, still having no idea why.  He wasn't sure 
she was making any sense to herself, either.  His arms 
reached out, his hands pushing on her tennis shoes to get 
them off.

She swatted at his hands.  "Stop that.  If we're going to 
your place, I'll have to put them back on."

"But I want to feel your feet."

"Do I know about this fetish?"

"I don't know."  He stopped his attentions to her shoes for 
the moment, nuzzling his face into her breasts.  "You know 
about this fetish, though."

He felt pretty damn gratified when she moaned.

"Yeah, I know about that one," she gasped.

Mulder ran his hands over her calves, up the sides of her 
thighs and then under, to cup her gently rounded bottom.  
"What about this one?" he asked, rubbing his nose against 
her nipple.

"Uhm...uh hum...yeah..."

Already she was becoming incoherent.  He grinned to 
himself; he'd get them to stay here yet.

He hadn't expected a counterattack, but should have.  If 
he'd been in any position to do so, he would have expressed 
his admiration at her skills.  As it was, he could only 
witness as his resistance crumbled in the wake of a far 
superior warrior.  There was, however, still one soldier 
standing proudly at attention, who loved the enemy too much 
to fight her, who wanted to make love, not war...

She grabbed the back of his neck, pushing his face firmly 
into the soft, sweet-smelling mounds of her breasts as she 
gyrated her hips against him in a circular motion.  He 
jerked up involuntarily, his cock hitting the area between 
her legs, and he saw stars, it felt so good.

When her hand reached between them and cupped his balls, he 
was done for.

"I want to go to your place," Scully stated again, gulping 
from her own arousal.  She was more in control of her 
faculties than he was of his, however, and he did not 
begrudge her this.  The great thing about these power 
struggles was that he inevitably lost most of them, but he 
wasn't really losing at all.  There were only winners.

One last attempt before he waved the little white flag.  
"Why, again?"

She rolled her hips again and he groaned.  "There are 
several reasons, actually.  First is that we've never done 
it there and I think it's about time we did.  Second 
is...second is..."  He wasn't really listening anymore; he 
was too busy trying to capture her nipple between his lips.  
It was tricky, being as how said nipple was hidden behind a 
t-shirt and her bra, both rather slippery for his task.  
"Second is that I think it would be...uhm...symbolic."

Symbolic of what?  And did he really care at this point?  
If indulging her in this meant that much to her, then he 
was thrilled to do it.  Ecstatic, even.  His mission in 
life was to make Scully happy.

"Get your coat."

*Go to next chapter*

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