Date: Fri, 5 Dec 1997 10:40:47 -0600
From: Lydia Bower 
Subject: *NEW* Mid-Winter Thaw 1/2 by Lydia Bower NC-17


Title: Mid-Winter Thaw
Author: Lydia Bower 
Classification: VA, MSR
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content and disturbing images.
Spoilers: Um, not really.
Timeline: Occurs anytime after the fifth season episode Detour.
Distribution: Anywhere; as long as my name stays on it and it's archived in its 
entirety.
Summary: How far will Scully go to save Mulder from the mind of a madman?
Feedback: That would be nice. :-) All comments and complaints to .
Author's notes: Smut with a big helping of angst. If you're looking for sappy 
romance, turn back now. This ain't it. This one is for Lisa and Michaela. Thanks, 
ladies!
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013 
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement intended, no money being 
exchanged.


Mid-Winter Thaw
by Lydia Bower


	If there is a hell on earth, Mulder and I have found it. And despite 
everything I was taught those countless Sunday mornings in forgotten churches 
across the country, hell is not a place of fire and brimstone. Hell is bitter cold and 
located smack dab in the middle of Wyoming. 
	I push the motel room door closed with my foot, announcing, "The 
diner next door was still open, Mulder." Stepping through the doorway that 
connects our rooms, I proudly add, "I managed to get the last of the...."
	Mulder's room is empty.
	"...soup," I finish under my breath. 
	I set the two paper bags on the table and rub gloved hands together, 
trying to create more heat as I quickly scan his room.
	It's amazing how easily Mulder adapts to his surroundings. While my 
room appears much the same as it did when I first stepped through the door 
almost a week ago, Mulder's has taken on the appearance of our office back in 
DC. Papers and files and books are stacked on every flat surface. Glossy crime 
scene photographs are pinned to the walls; their garish and disturbing images the 
only real color in an otherwise sepia-toned room. The bed is unmade, the sheet 
and bedspread rumpled into a messy ball at the foot. Soiled dress shirts and 
trousers are draped over one of the chairs; testament to our need to find a dry 
cleaner before we both run out of acceptable working clothes.
	"Mulder?"
	I pull off my gloves and step to the half-closed bathroom door. Slowly 
pushing it open with the flat of my hand, I call out to him again. "Mulder, are you 
in here?"
	Nothing. There is no sign of him and my stomach takes a leap into my 
throat. I realize with panicked clarity that I've been waiting for this moment 
almost since we stepped off the plane.
	Knowing I'll find nothing, I nonetheless walk back into my room, hoping 
to find him there. And then I fight the urge to drop to my knees and check under 
the beds. My mind is busily flashing images of Mulder curled fetal-like under the 
false security of mattress and box spring; of cold steel frames.
	Cold. It's so fucking cold. And Mulder is slipping away.
	Back up, I tell myself. Try again. Mulder has already slipped away. 
Quite literally this time. 
	I shed my heavy coat and force my knees to bend enough to set me 
down in one of the vinyl chairs at the table. Though my eyes see it, it takes a 
moment for my brain to register the fact that Mulder's parka lies in a corner; 
abandoned, unused. 
	Relax, Dana. He must have gone for ice. Or to the motel office for 
something. 
	But the ice bucket sits on the table. And Mulder's wingtip shoes lay on 
the floor in front of the low dresser. Springing up from my tense crouch, I check 
the open closet area. His worn and battered sneakers are lined up next to his 
boots. My stomach takes another upward leap.
	No shoes. No coat. It's ten thirty at night, the wind-chill hovers at 20 
below zero. And Mulder is gone. 
	My legs lose their power to hold me upright and I collapse into the 
chair. I knew this would happen. I accepted long ago, after the horrible events 
surrounding John Mostow and Bill Patterson, that Mulder would lose himself in 
cases like these. That he would have to become the monster in order to 
understand what drives a man to do these things. I know it--and I am powerless 
to stop it.
	My eyes raise of their own accord and flick from one grisly photograph 
to another. Seven women, all young and attractive. All brutally raped, beaten and 
mutilated. Dumped unconscious--drugged and bleeding--in empty, gutted 
buildings. All arranged in obscene imitations of sexual abandon. All left to freeze 
to death.
	I shut my eyes to the images of spread-eagled thighs and slashed 
breasts, of dark red blood and snowy white skin. My fingers bite into the arms of 
the chair and I swallow down a hot surge of bile. 
	I force my eyes open and focus on the leather-bound journal laying open 
on the table. Mulder's messy scrawl fills the pages; bordered by doodles the 
significance of which are known only to Mulder. Words and phrases--the 
shorthand of Mulder's mind--jump out at me.

	rage
	cold
	intense sexual drive, but fear and hatred of that which is sexual
	shame at the act, glory in the release
	cold. why the cold?
	envy
	he craves what they can give him
	hates their unresponsiveness
	cold
	frigid

And then the lines that stall my breath:

	I'm so cold 
	afraid to respond. afraid not to. wanting. needing. craving.
	scully

	Numb fingers close the journal and push it away from me.
	The logical part of my mind tries to convince me he simply desires my 
input. My name has appeared only because Mulder's mind pushes the pen across 
the paper. I have no other connection to these victims, these crimes, but that my 
name has been written down amongst the fragments of his hunter's mind.  
	I startle in my chair as the door behind me flies open. The shotgun crack 
of it hitting the wall is accompanied by a blast of frigid air.
	 Mulder steps inside and closes the door behind him. 
	Long strides of his legs bring him halfway across the room before he 
sees me. He directs the full force of his wild eyes in my direction. His arms are 
folded tightly across his chest, hands tucked into his armpits. His shoulders are 
pulled low and hunched defensively. His hair is sticking up from his head in 
riotous spikes, whipped by the wind. His cheeks and nose and chin are bright red. 
His lips are blue from the cold. He is wearing only a dress shirt and unknotted tie, 
his coal-black trousers and his socks.
	Mulder stops mid-stride and eyes me suspiciously. "What're you doing 
in here?" His voice is a low growl. My heart stops and then begins a frantic 
pounding. 
	The face of madness.
	How can it transform him so quickly? I couldn't have been gone more 
than twenty minutes. Was his request for food merely a ploy to get me away long 
enough to allow him to escape into the cold of the night and the madness of his 
prey?
	The words fall from my lips like measured drops of reason. "I brought 
soup. You wanted some. Remember?" 
	He blinks rapidly and I can see his eyes clear, his mind following slowly 
behind. I quietly push a long breath from my lungs. 
	"Scully?" His suspicion has changed to confusion.
	"Yeah, Mulder, it's me." I can move now. Can stand up and take the few 
steps that bring me to his side. "Where were you?"
	He glances down at me and then away. His attention is still drawn 
mostly inward. "I was...." He trails off as a violent spasm racks his lean frame. 
The skin on his forearms is raised with goose-flesh. His teeth chatter like dice in a 
cup. 
	I lay my hand on his arm and then snatch it away. His skin is like ice. 
"God, Mulder. You're freezing." Pulling the blanket from the end of the bed, I 
stretch awkwardly on tiptoe and drape it across his shoulders. My arm goes 
around his waist and I lead him to the bed. He passively allows me to maneuver 
him around until he's sitting on the edge. I crouch down on my haunches in front 
of him, tucked into the V of his opened thighs.
	My hands land on his arms and move rapidly up and down against the 
soft blanket, trying to warm him as best I can. "What were you doing out there?" 
I ask him. "Did you see something? Hear something?"
	I have given him permission to lie: his service weapon lays holstered on 
the dresser. There is a flicker of wry amusement in his eyes. He will not accept 
my offer of an easy out. Deception no longer fits into what we've become. 
Cancer teaches painful lessons Mulder and I have learned well. To ignore what 
we know because the threat is gone is a foolishness we cannot afford.
	"No," he tells me. "I wanted to.... I needed to see what it felt like. To be 
that cold."  
	"But, Mulder," I softly chide. "No coat, no shoes?"
	His feet. They must be like blocks of ice. My hands fly down. Yes. 
Blocks of ice. I quickly peel the socks from his feet and drop down on my butt, 
pulling his left foot into my lap. His toes are blue. "Jesus Christ, Mulder."
	Pulling at his other foot until it rests beside the one already in my lap, I 
alternate between one and the other. Softly rubbing and kneading, trying to 
restore the warmth of blood beneath the marbled flesh. Mulder begins to speak, 
as if taking up a conversation already in progress. His thoughts are fragmented, 
his words haltingly spoken.
	"What is it about the cold, Scully? It's more than just a convenient way 
to kill them. The first murder wasn't until the first hard freeze. He plans it this 
way. He wants them to freeze to death."
	Another deep shiver runs through him. My hands enclose his ankles and 
move up his narrow calves. He's still so cold. 
	I'm frightened for him. For what the monsters do to him and take from 
him. He tears away bloody chunks of his well-being and offers them up to men 
with names like Mostow and Modell and Roche. What will we do when there's 
nothing left to give? What happens if my awkward attempt to bring him back 
from the brink fails me?
	"They're his art," Mulder blurts. "His sculptures of agony and ecstasy. 
Sex and death, frozen together into eternity." He sighs a weary sigh. "Because 
they give him what he wants or because they don't?"
	I force myself to speak my fears. I don't know if he will hear me. 
"Mulder, I think we should go home. There's nothing more we can do here. 
You've given them a profile. There's no need--" 
	"No." 
	I glance up at him sharply. His eyes are unfocused and don't meet mine. 
But I can see they're bright, and shining with a feral glow. "I can tell them what 
kind of man he is. I can show them what he does. But I can't tell them why."
	"It doesn't matter."
	"I should be able to tell them why."
	My poorly constructed calm evaporates. "Dammit, Mulder, you can't do 
this to yourself," I snap. "You can't be responsible for finding all of them. No one 
expects you know everything there is to know."
	"They do," he retorts, his chin lifting in the direction of the photographs. 
The blanket slips off his shoulders. "They talk to me, the same way he does. I 
hear them whispering in my dreams."
	My attention shifts back to Mulder's feet. I'm relieved to see the color 
slowly returning to them. I concentrate on the slide of my hands across his skin. 
It serves to drive away the voices I hear when I'm awake. "Mulder, we have to 
get you out of here. You're getting too close to this."
	He chuckles; a low, humorless grunt. "Too late, Scully. I got it bad this 
time."
	But not so bad that he can't see it. He knows, and is as powerless as I 
am. I wonder at this inexplicable tie that binds us together. I fear it, as well.
	I hazard a glance up and find him staring down at me. The turbulence of 
his mind shows in the seething gray of his eyes. 
	"Am I scaring you?"
	I look away. "No," I lie. "No, you're not scaring me."
	"You're lying," he tells me. But there is no accusation in his tone, only 
simple acknowledgment. "You should be scared."
	My eyes shoot level with his. 
	"You're just the kind he likes. His type." Mulder's tongue snakes out to 
wet his lips. "Small. Classically beautiful. Aloof." 
	"Mulder."
	"Almost arrogant in your self-confidence. Seemingly cold." His hand 
lifts and he taps a finger against his mouth, studying me with casual indifference. 
"But there's still the possibility of something very different beneath the surface. 
Under the ice could be softness. And heat."
	His voice is almost hypnotic. It settles heavy and silky-rough in my ears. 
My body draws tight with tension as I bow my head and plead with him. "Don't 
do this."
	"Is that what he's looking for?" Mulder asks the stillness of the room. 
"Or is that what enrages him when he finds it? Does he crave the fire or the ice?"
	"Please."
	"Or does he want both?" His tone holds notes of revelation.
	And then it happens. My sense of the man before me changes. 
Transforms itself into a different kind of awareness. I can feel his eyes on me. I 
can feel his cool flesh turn suddenly hot, burning my fingers. And now it is me 
who is cold. And then hot again. The warmth moves through my body with 
languid determination. I am frightened by its implication.
	All because Mulder's focus has changed. The white-hot brilliance of his 
tortured, haunted mind gathers the shards of his understanding and turns them in 
my direction. I have gone under his eerily perceptive microscope. I have become 
a thing to be studied. I stare at his feet and try not to jerk when his hands settle 
on my shoulders. They are heavy and warm.
	"Tell me something, Scully," he murmurs.
	I am afraid to respond. I am afraid not to. The bond we share has drawn 
me into his dark and dangerous game. I have only two choices: play it or leave. 
	I can't leave. I've learned that. And yet it's still a choice I make. Every 
day I wake, making the choice anew. Every night I tumble into sleep, both 
regretting and celebrating the decision I've made.
	I find my voice. "What do you want me to tell you?"
	"Are you warm with that kind of fire, the way I think you are?" 
	"Mulder."
	"Has any man ever touched that flame in you and been burned by it?"
	I push his feet from my lap and shrug his hands from my shoulders. His 
eyes follow my movements as I take to my feet before him. I am shaken by his 
words. They hold no hint of seduction. There is only curiosity. And yet they send 
an unexpected trill of desire through my body. My cheeks are warm. I'm 
trembling.
	"Is it you asking, Mulder?" I demand. "Or is it him?"
	He peers up at me with sleepy eyes and a slack face. I hold his gaze, 
determined not to be the one to look away. But there is little satisfaction when he 
drops his eyes. 
	"I'm so cold, Scully."
	"You should get into bed," I tell him. I begin to turn away from him, 
searching blindly for some task that will justify my leaving his side. And then 
Mulder's hands settle on my hips. I am anchored there as surely as if I were 
bound in chains. It takes forever to make the small shift of my body that brings 
me back to fully face him. 
	He whispers, "I need you."
	His confession is startling in its simplicity. The starkness of it 
momentarily confuses me. "I don't know what you want from me." 
	I stand frozen as his hands move down my hips and around, until his 
palms cup just the outer curves of my ass. His eyes hold mine.
	"I think you do, Scully."
	I can't move. I can't speak. All I can do is stare into his eyes as his hands 
slide up and he begins to unbutton my blazer. Each turn of his hand and twist of 
his fingers is slow and deliberate. He leaves me ample opportunity to stop him. 
But I don't. I find myself too fascinated by what he's doing to exert the effort it 
would take me to speak. I am silenced by my need to see how far he will take 
this.
	I am suddenly aware of a sharp pain and realize I've bitten down on my 
lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. One corner of Mulder's mouth pulls 
up as he hears my tiny gasp. He lifts a hand and draws the pad of his thumb 
across my mouth. And then he is pushing the blazer from my shoulders. And I am 
helping him.
	Dear God, I'm helping him.
	


Mid-Winter Thaw 2/2 NC-17
Disclaimer in part 1. This is nothing but story.

	~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
	Foolish school-girl fantasies of candles and soft music and slow 
seduction are chased from my head by the reality before me. I am being 
undressed by a man I know to be almost unstoppable when he sets his mind to 
something. A man who's spent the last several days crawling through the tortured 
landscape of the mind of a madman. A killer, a rapist, a defiler of all things good 
and decent.
	How much of what Mulder is doing is from an instinct and a need not 
his own? Is his courage to push us through this last barrier his alone, or is he 
operating on something borrowed from a faceless stranger he knows too well?
	The part of me that craves this, needs this, whispers that it doesn't make 
any difference. This moment was inevitable. Does it really matter why or how or 
where? Is an action borne of a need to comfort and be comforted any less real or 
valuable than one stemming from a declaration unspoken but so intimately 
understood?
	Mulder loves me. And God help me, I love him, too. 
	He stops his sober study of my face and drops his eyes to the skin he is 
exposing button by button as he works on my blouse. I hesitantly lift my hand 
and slowly pull my fingers through his hair. His eyes droop shut and he expels a 
long breath. 
	I am the one who loosens the cuffs of my blouse as Mulder slips the last 
of the buttons free. I have become an active participant in this drama playing out 
in a lonely motel room in the middle of a frigid hell.
	The blouse is eased over my shoulders and falls into a snowy pile at my 
feet. My hands come around to free the button on my slacks, but Mulder catches 
them and holds them gently. He brings first one and then the other to his mouth, 
baptizing them with feather-soft kisses across my knuckles. His eyes beg for 
understanding and permission. 
	I drop my arms to my sides. And as he loosens the button and slides the 
zipper down, I realize his languid movements are not those of an insecure 
hesitance, but of reverence. I ache to touch him. To push away his clothes and 
feel his skin beneath my hands. I crave his mouth. Yearn to feel its pillowed 
softness against my lips. 
	What will he taste like? I wonder. The salt of the sea and the tang of 
life? The smokiness of masculinity? The bitterness of failed dreams and 
unwinnable wars? The heady musk of his arousal?
	My pants, along with the pantyhose beneath them, are skimmed down 
my hips and thighs and calves. Mulder slips off my boots and I take a step away 
from my clothes and towards him. I am left wearing two small scraps of cotton. I 
feel the goose-flesh rise up on my skin. The fire begins to burn hotter in my belly. 
	As though sensing the heat, Mulder's mouth is drawn to my stomach. 
He wraps an arm around my hips as he presses a single kiss just above the dip of 
my navel. My hands come to tangle in his hair as he turns his face and rests his 
cheek against me. I feel the roughness of his evening beard, the heat of his breath, 
and glory in it. 
	Mulder braces one hand behind him, flat against the rumpled sheet, and 
pulls himself further back on the bed. His arm guides me but still I stumble, my 
hands landing on his shoulders. I come to rest on my knees, straddling him as he 
sits, my buttocks cushioned on his thighs. 
	In the space of a second, the clasps of my bra are unhooked and Mulder 
quickly removes it. My hands fly to the front of his shirt as he buries his face in 
the valley between my breasts. His hands move in lazy strokes up and down my 
back. He pulls away and I watch as he opens his mouth and his tongue slips past 
his lips. 
	In strokes that last an eternity but are over in fractions of seconds, 
Mulder laps at the taut peak of my breast. He licks in long circular strokes 
around the nipple before finally taking it into his mouth.
	I am undone. I grasp his head in my hands and thrust my hips against 
him. I can feel the hot and heavy length of his erection pressing into the thin 
material of my panties. His answering thrust brings even more friction to the 
source of my heat, my fire. It burns him. It burns us both. 
	His mouth moves to my other breast as his hands slide up my back and 
cup my shoulders. My head, too heavy even for the support of my neck, falls 
backward. My hair brushes sensuously against the bare skin of my back. The 
sudden absence of his mouth and the chill it leaves in me causes me to unbow my 
spine and open my eyes. Mulder is looking up at me. His eyes are hooded and 
bottomless. His expression is that of drowning man reaching blindly for safety. 
His eyes both plead and give thanks. His mouth opens on a word that will not be 
uttered. I won't give him the chance.
	I cover his mouth with mine. Lips speak without sound. Tongues 
whisper secrets, one against the other. And Mulder tastes of all the things I 
imagined.
	My hands take on a life of their own. They move frantically, ignoring 
the slower pace of our kisses. I struggle with buttons, too many buttons, and hear 
Mulder chuckle into my mouth as I fight with the sleeves of his shirt. I whisper 
my thanks as he quickly pulls it off, and then curse to find not skin, but a t-shirt. 
	Mulder saves me again. He strips off the shirt in one fluid motion and 
my hands are drawn to the silky golden skin of his chest, the tickle of his matted 
hair between my fingers. I playfully pinch his tiny nipples and feel his groan of 
delight as it rushes down into my ears to settle between my legs.
	Mulder wraps his long fingers around my neck and pulls my mouth 
down to his. I explore the planes of muscle and bone--ribcage and spine, thick 
biceps and steely forearms--as he explores my mouth.
	And then he drags his lips from mine and nibbles and licks a slow path 
across my jaw and down my neck. His hand snakes around my back and up to 
capture a handful of my hair, tugging my head backward and exposing the 
vulnerable flesh of my throat. 
	We are reduced to breathy moans and earthy grunts as Mulder feeds on 
me; as I delight in his hunger. His strong white teeth nip at me before his lips and 
tongue return to soothe the burn. I rock my hips against him in small, instinctual 
thrusts and then gasp as his hand slips into my panties to cup me. With gentle 
desperation his fingers slide into me and back out, spreading new moisture over 
already slickened and swollen folds. Fingertips find my clitoris and I buck against 
him, grinding into the heat of his hand.
	A low whimper leaves his mouth as he mimics the pumping of my hips. I 
am flooded with another wave of heat as I realize it is the back of his hand 
against his cock that elicits his frenzied response. He is pleasuring himself even as 
he pleasures me. My arousal soon blends with envy. I want to touch him as he 
touches himself. I come up on my knees and reach down between us. My fingers 
find his turgid, straining erection through his trousers and I lightly trace its 
length.
	"God. Scully." He is breathless and his words escape on a sigh.
	I do my best to wrap my fingers around him through his pants, moving 
my hand in short strokes. Up and down. Up and down. I dip my head and croon 
into his ear. "Does that feel good, Mulder? You like that?"
	"Jesus," he responds through clenched teeth. "I'm burning up here." 
	His mouth moves to my neck and then his teeth sink lightly into my 
shoulder as I squeeze him gently. Suddenly I am flipped around and thrown down 
on my back, my legs spread wide. Mulder backs off the bed and strips down his 
pants and boxers with jerky movements, his eyes locked between my legs. He 
instinctively takes his cock in his hand and strokes himself. His eyes are distant 
and unfocused, his mouth open and sucking in air in short, labored gulps. 
	"Take off your panties," he tells me.
	I lift my hips from the bed and hook my thumbs into the waistband, 
drawing them slowly down my legs, enjoying Mulder's obvious impatience. He 
rocks from one foot to the other as I slip my panties from my ankles and toss 
them over the side of the bed. I wantonly allow my thighs to fall open, my feet 
braced flat on the bed.
	"Oh yeah," Mulder murmurs. His words are full of wonder but his face 
holds a measure of trepidation. 
	"C'mere." My invitation is low but unmistakable. My hands slide across 
the warm skin of my inner thighs and Mulder's eyes slip shut. He stands frozen at 
the end of the bed.
	"Mulder?"
	The seconds pass like hours and an annoying little tickle starts in the 
back of my mind. What is he waiting for? Has the physical distance between us 
somehow become a spiritual one, as well? Is he having seconds thoughts, regrets 
for something that hasn't even happened yet? 
	"Mulder, what is it?"
	A bitter chill seeps into my bones in the few seconds it takes him to 
respond. His eyes remain closed as he speaks. "Tell me I'm not dreaming, Scully. 
Tell me I'm not gonna wake up in the cold."
	I blink back sudden tears. He sounds so forlorn and lost. "Oh, Mulder. 
Come here. Let me keep you warm."
	His eyes open and he studies me, searching my face for the reflection of 
my words. And then he drops to his knees and crawls across the mattress and 
into my waiting arms, cradled in my open thighs. 
	He slowly pushes inside me, filling me with his heat as I surround him 
with mine. His face is a portrait of contentment and joy as he thrusts the final few 
inches that join us fully together. Mulder's lips drop tender kisses on my face as I 
strain up against him. He cradles my head in his hands and holds my gaze as he 
begins a lazy pumping within my body.
	"So good, Scully," he murmurs. "You feel so good. So warm."
	His hands slide under me and lift my torso from the bed, drawing my 
back into a bow as he pulls himself upward, sitting with his legs folded beneath 
him. His mouth finds my breasts as his hands land at my hips, lifting me up and 
away before slamming me back down. I can do nothing but cling tightly to him, 
my fingers digging into his shoulders, my head thrown back in glorious surrender. 
I ride him with a fierceness and a passion I didn't know I possessed. 
	There is no sound but that of our whispered pleas for more--please 
more--and the liquid slap of our bodies coming together time and again. No 
thought but of how good this is, how right. We give and receive, ask and answer.
	And then we are beyond words, incapable of anything more than a 
primal understanding that we must find relief now. That to continue to hold back 
would be risking falling into a hell that would consume us forever. To deny 
ourselves release is a sweet agony we can no longer bear.
	Mulder gently eases me back to the bed. And then all gentleness leaves 
him as he begins to slam into me, thrusting in short violent strokes. Sweat drips 
from his face and clings to his chest. We grasp and cling to each other as friction 
becomes heat becomes melting fire. My legs are wrapped around his hips with 
incredible strength. I can't let go. I can't let go. 
	The tension coils tighter and tighter within me and I call out to him. 
Mulder raises his head, looking into my eyes, and I see the love there. Burning 
hot, burning strong.
	He smiles down at me and softly coaxes, "Yeah, c'mon, Scully. C'mon, 
baby. Gimme that fire."
	And so I do. I don't know how not to.
	I bring him over the edge with me as the tiny muscles of my vagina 
contract around him, milking his essence as we kiss and swallow down the 
sounds of one another's joy. The last thing I remember is Mulder's fingers moving 
softly over my face, trailing warmth and contentment and hope.
	I wake some time later in an empty bed. A twist of my head towards the 
window shows me it's still dark. Mulder stands nude in front of the open blinds, 
staring out into the cold night. The sodium light from the parking lot casts a 
pinkish glow over his skin. I take few moments to admire the smooth planes of 
his back, the perfect roundness of his small ass, the length of his legs, the set of 
his shoulders.
	I call to him. "Hey."
	He turns and looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes move over my 
nakedness in a quick study before returning to my face. He smiles then, a shy 
smile. "Hey."
	"What're you doing?"
	He makes a face and shakes his head. "Nothin'. I just woke up a little 
while ago," he tells me. There is an odd note in his voice I can't quite place; a 
certain melancholy.
	"Oh." I enjoy a long stretch, feeling certain muscles protesting their use 
after so long within regular exercise. I'd forgotten how strenuous sex can be. It's 
cold in the room and I lean up to pull the sheet over me. And then I notice the 
stacks of papers and books have all been moved to the table. The clothes that 
were draped over the chair are gone. The crime scene photographs have been 
taken from the walls.
	I turn back and find him watching me. "Mulder, what's going on?"
	"I, uh, I called the airline. We fly back to DC this morning."
	My first reaction is a strong sense of relief. But then I remember how he 
sounded when I first woke. I sit up and lean back against the headboard. "Are 
you okay?"
	Mulder slowly turns to face me, but he makes no move towards the bed. 
"Yeah," he says. And then quickly, "Look, Scully, I need to say something to 
you, but I don't want you to take this the wrong way."
	Dread grips my heart. I wonder if he's been up rehearsing a nice little 
speech about how this was a mistake and he's sorry and it will never--can never--
happen again. Oh, please no. 
	"That's not your best opening line, is it, Mulder?" There is more than a 
tinge of defensiveness in my tone. I'm not foolish enough to hope Mulder didn't 
catch it.
	He drops his eyes. My heart takes a corresponding fall. "I just..." His 
hesitation is not reassuring at all. "I just want to thank you, Scully. For tonight. 
For helping me when I needed you."
	There is such tenderness in his words that my worst fears begin to fade 
way. "Mulder."
	"And I just want you to know that I'm not going to start expecting 
anything from you. We both kind of got caught up in things and, well, you know 
what can happen."
	"No, Mulder, I don't. Why don't you explain it to me?"
	He's caught off guard by my response. His mouth opens and he works 
to push out the words. I have recognized what I heard in him earlier and I won't 
let him do this to himself. There's no room for guilt when we're both responsible 
for what's happened.
	"What do you mean?" is what he manages to come up with.
	I push out an impatient sigh that's only partially felt. "Explain to me how 
you can take what happened here and turn it into nothing more than a favor I was 
doing you."
	And now he steps to the bed, his hands open in supplication. "I didn't 
mean it that way, Scully."
	"Do you think I'm in habit of making love to someone just because 
they're having a bad day?"
	"Of course not." 
	"Because if I was, Mulder, you'd have been laid a thousand times over."
	That gets me a head tilt and the beginnings of a confused smile. He says, 
"Scully, I think it's your turn to do some explaining."
	I cross my arms and stare him down. "I think you know exactly what 
I'm saying. And I'm not going to let you get away that easily. Not anymore. I'm in 
this for the long haul. What about you?"
	He stares at me, his eyes wide. "You mean it?" 
	He sounds truly amazed. And as much as I'm enjoying his genuine 
shock, I yearn to turn it into easy familiarity. I want him to know he doesn't have 
to be fighting monsters to make it acceptable for him to need me, or for me to 
need him. I want him to know that I'm here always. 
	"Yes, Mulder, I mean it. Now shut up and come back to bed. I'm cold."
	And his answering smile warms me anew. 

	~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~    	
	  
	    THE END
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