"Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia"
by J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net)
Summary:  Mulder reacts to the events in "Never Again."  
Keywords: Story, MulderAngst, ScullyAngst, MSR/MSsex
Spoilers:  "Fire," "Tooms," "Duane Barry," "One Breath," "3," "One Breath,"
"Irresistible," a slight "Anasazi"  spoiler (so slight that you may not
even catch it), "Pusher," "Leonard Betts," and very heavy "Never Again"
Spoilers.
Spoilers Note: Some spoilers for "Leonard Betts" and "Never Again" are
contained within the notes of this introduction.
Ratings: Overall, NC-17, in parts ...

Part I: Mulder Comes to a Conclusion - R for language and slight sexual
imagery
Part II: Scully Finds Some Cardboard Boxes and Her Key - PG for angst
Part III: Dead Men Don't Feel Regret - PG-13 for slight sexual imagery
Part IV: He Didn't Know about the Drops of Blood - R for angst and language
Part V: All's Fair in Love and War - R for language and slight sexual imagery
Part VI: Her Mother Called Him Fox - PG for Angst
Part VII: Memories of a Florida Vacation - R for language, slight sexual
imagery and     verbiage
Part VIII: The Contemplation of One Word Not Spoken - R for language 
Part IX: The Sound, the Feel of Breathing - NC-17 for language and sexual
situations
Part X: The Importance of Understanding - NC-17 for language and sexual
situations 
Part XI: Never Again - R for language

Disclaimers: All characters belong to Chris Carter (except Ed Jerse - we
have Glen Morgan and James Wong to thank for
him.).  "The X-Files belong to Chris, 1013 Productions, Fox, etc. Yada,
yada, yada, you know the drill ... "Playboy" magazine and "Debbie Does Dallas 2000" are 
referred to without
permission.

Archive: Anywhere you want as long as I get credit and you let me know
about it!! :)

Comments? Questions? Love Notes? Flames of 6th Degree Burns? Insane Musings
on Cancer Man?  Send 'em here - arabian@ite.net

Dedications: First of all to Carrie whose enthusiasm kept me writing when
my own let me down and whose time-consuming editing (along with the help of
Deb)  made this story better than I could have ever done on my own.  To
Aileen, who concise comments kept me on the right track.  To Dana
Katherine, who enjoyed the story, even if she liked "Never Again."  To
Rhoni, whose oh-so-amusing editing added a nice polish to this tale.

Notes: This story features sex between Mulder and Scully.  This story also
features very heavy angst.  If you are not into either, this may not be
your cup of tea (obligatory DD reference).  This story also deals very
heavily with the "Never Again" episode  

If you are a fan of that episode you may not like this as I just about
recant and insult everything that took place (read next note) during it.
If you have not seen this episode, there are spoilers galore.  I spoil just
about everything except the fact that Jodie Foster does the voice of the
tattoo on Ed Jerse's arm. Oops, spoiled that.

More Notes: I am not a fan of the episode "Never Again." In fact, it is one
of my least favorite episode of The X-Files ever wow, something actually
topped, uh, I mean, bottomed "The Field Where I Puked."  Gee thanks,  Glen
and James, , you two were my heroes of the
4th season!). 

To be blunt I hated this episode.  I felt it was an insult to
relationshippers everywhere.  I wrote this story in reaction to my
reactions to it.  I wrote it with the hope of releasing some of my angry
tension and just trying to let it go.  I feel I've succeeded a little, but
I still never want to watch it again.  And I still wish it had never been
written or filmed or aired.  Oh, heck, I just wish the thing had never even
existed.  (So much for working through my feelings.)  

Another Note: I am of the belief that Scully did *not* have sex with Ed
Jerse in "Never Again."  I don't think we would have seen them the next
morning as we did if they had.  He on the couch, she on the bed, both still
dressed and she still in her nylons.   She was wearing his shirt because
the air conditioning in his apartment was so darn cold. 

Furthermore, I refuse to believe that Scully *could* have sex with another
man besides Mulder.  Mulder loves Scully  and Scully loves Mulder (Chris
said it!) and for Scully to do something like that would not only be wholly
out of character, it would also be a betrayal of her love for Mulder.
That's how I see it, that's how I portray it in the story ... if you don't
think that Scully was betraying her man, then bail now.  (Or not, I really
think I did a good job with this one.  Come on, give it a try!  You got
this far!)

And Another Note: Perhaps, I should just number them ... Anyhoo, some may
question why I have included the cancer reference from "Leonard Betts"
despite the fact that "Never Again" was supposed to air before "Leonard
Betts," instead of after, and my reasoning is very simple:  No matter how
Morgan and Wong (and Gillian Anderson) intended "Never Again" to be viewed,
Chris Carter felt that Scully's actions were so out of character (and boy,
do I agree!) that the cancer introduced in "Leonard Betts" was the best
shot he had of making sense out of her behavior.

Therefore, I am going with Chris' philosophy and including the events that
took place in "Leonard Betts" as a quasi-explanation for Scully's
inexplicable conduct.  While it really doesn't explain away Scully's
complete, well, Non-Scullyness in "Never Again" (in my opinion, nothing
will ever really be able to do that.  It just wasn't *Scully.*), at least
it eases some of the out-of- character actions taken by her if one really
tries to apply it.

And One More: I know, geez, get on with the story already.  Last one, I
promise.  I have loved Imajiru's MSR fanfic "Taming the Unicorn" since I
first read it and have read it many times since.  I so agreed with the idea
that Scully would eventually do something to hurt Mulder not realizing
until the damage was done, that I applied it to the scenario presented in
"Never Again." 

Last Note, I Promise: If you don't think that Scully did anything wrong in
"Never Again," this story will most likely infuriate you.  I do believe
that Scully messed up, and in this story, Scully believes so as well.  Just
warning Scullyists out there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part I - Mulder Comes to a Conclusion (R)

F.B.I. Basement, 6:33 p.m.

He looked down at the file on Ed Jerse and Scully and his mind recoiled
away from the connecting names.  He read the medical reports, the police
reports, the transcript of the interview conducted with Scully and tried to
ignore the obvious.  He wanted to believe that she hadn't done what it
painfully appeared that she had.  The police officer, (Jeffrey Jenkins, his
eidetic memory filled in absently) had made patently clear what he thought
had taken place.

He knew he should just ask her.  But if he did, if he did .... Once again
his mind shied away from unwanted implications.  He read the reports
through one more time despite having memorized them the first time several
readings ago.  There had to be something -- one word, one phrase, one
action -- that would alter the conclusion his mind was racing towards.  

She could not have ....  

He found he couldn't finish the thought and so he read the reports once more.

~~~
        
The Street Outside Dana Scully's Apartment, 7:24 p.m.

She must have.

He shut his mind down.  He turned the key and pulled it out of the ignition
and the click registered like a gunshot in his mind.  He opened the car
door and the creak its hinges made sounded to him like a burst of thunder.
Getting out and slamming the door, he stood stock-still for a moment, the
sound seeming to reverberate throughout the empty street.

He pocketed his keys and stood there a moment longer.

She must have.   

He closed his eyes and his mouth tightened; his fists were clenched tightly.

There on the street where she lived, he suddenly wished that Ed Jerse was
standing before him.  In his mind, he visualized that face, a smiling,
handsome man in a photograph taken before his life fell apart.  Suddenly,
the picture faded as he faltered for a second, his eyes opening in
contemplation, not sure whose life he was thinking about ... Jerse's or his.

He shook his head.  No matter.  

He wanted Jerse standing here and able to feel the pain of fists pounding
into his pretty boy face; feel the pain of heavy shoes kicking into his
side, his groin; feel the pain of impact as his body was slammed into a
wall.  

The man's mouth would fill with blood.  He would lose some teeth and his
nose would break.  He would be in pain, more pain than Mulder was feeling
right now; more pain than any man had ever felt short of death.  He wanted
pretty boy to be here, so that he could rip his beating heart out and stomp
upon it.
A dog barked in the distance and another responded, the two canines
beginning a chorus of yelps and howls.  They broke his reverie, interrupted
his chain of thought.  He looked at her building and felt dead inside.

She must have.

~~~
Dana Scully's Apartment, 7:27 p.m.

She opened the door after the second knock.  He stood there, just looking
at her and didn't enter the apartment.  Her hair was pulled back in a messy
ponytail, but it was short, too short to completely hold such a style.
Wisps of red brushed against her neck and cheeks and her cheeks were
flushed.  Her eyes were bright.  She wore bright yellow gloves that were
dripping wet, with bubbles of soap.  

Her eyes fell upon him and she smiled that special smile, the one that lit
up her face.  It was the smile that she graced upon him only rarely.  He
felt a tightening in his chest, but would not allow the warmth that usually
followed that smile to bloom within him.  She didn't deserve his warmth.
She must have.

*Bitch*

"Mulder, I was just scrubbing my bathroom down.  Wanna help?"  She smiled
again.

*Slut*

"Mulder?"  her voice faltered as her smile died.  The bright blue of her
eyes dimmed to gray as worry, a familiar emotion where he was concerned,
clouded her face.  She pulled the gloves off and set them on a table.
"What's wrong?"

"As if you care," he murmured in a dead voice as he pushed past her, into
the apartment.  

"Mulder?  What's going on?  Did something happen?"  She turned to him.  He
noticed that her white tee-shirt was wet.  She wore a bra, but it was
flimsy and he could clearly see the outline of her nipples.  Had Ed Jerse
touched her ... kissed her there? Or had it been a quick,
wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, fuck?

Her shorts were short, very short but her legs were long for someone so
petite.  He noticed this absently, wondering why he had never noticed the
length of her legs before or the curve of her waist, the high lift of her
breasts?  Or had he just not noticed that he'd noticed?  It didn't matter
now.     

She was looking at him, speaking, but her words just went through him.
There was no connection.  What she said had no meaning, meant nothing.  He
had believed in her completely and without reservation.  He had given her
his trust and his heart.  And she had betrayed him.  With Ed Jerse.  How he
wished he were here, right now, standing here in her apartment.  He would
kill him; make Scully watch her lover bleed to death before her eyes.  And
then he would laugh as the life slowly ebbed from his battered body.

"Mulder?"  Her voice was sharp, shattering through his wall.  He looked at
her face.  

*You broke my heart* 

He looked at her face. The chill around his heart heated a moment.  When
did she become the most beautiful woman?  Her lips were parted.  Why hadn't
he ever noticed the fullness?  The lushness?  Had Ed Jerse noticed?  Had he
appreciated them as he kissed her, plundering those lips with his own as
Mulder never had?  Killing him would be too quick, too easy, Mulder decided
as he stared at her lips, instead, he would torture him first.  

He couldn't look at her face a moment longer. If he did, he would cry.  And
he refused to give this woman one more thing from him, not even a tear.

*You have emptied my soul*

He looked away from her face and his eyes landed on her shirt again, the
moist dampness of white clinging to her breasts, her midriff.  His hungry
gaze lingered upon her midriff, her flesh bared between the rise of her
shirt and the waistband of her cotton shorts.  Green, his mind filled in
helpfully, green like my eyes.

His green eyes narrowed, narrowed on that slight expanse of flesh revealed.
 He walked towards her.  She was speaking again, but it was muted.  It
didn't matter.  He walked around her, pausing and locked his eyes on the
waistband of her shorts, the white of her shirt bunched up against it.  

He fell to his knees and she stiffened before him. 

"Mulder, what are you doing?"  Her voice sounded frantic, high-pitched.
She tried to turn away from him, but he reached out, his hands planting
themselves on her hips.  A shudder ran through him.  He wanted her.  He
wanted to fuck her just like Ed Jerse had.  No, his mind rebelled, no, not
Scully; not like that.  He wanted to make love to her, treasure her,
pleasure her.  He wanted to make her complete.  

What he wanted didn't matter.

He leaned against her, his head resting against the upward curve of her
butt.  His eyes were closed.  How could he have not noticed that he wanted
her?  She was still beneath him now, he could hear her breathing.  Their
breathing, it was the only sound in the room, hers was fast and shallow,
his hard and heavy.   Heat emanated from her, suffusing his very being.
She wanted him.  How could he have not noticed that she wanted him too?

Then how could she have fucked Ed Jerse?  How could she have betrayed him?
he wondered.  The questions cooled his feverish emotions.  He opened his
eyes and they were dead once more.  He moved his right hand from the side
of her hip and grasped the bunched up cotton, lifting it up.  It was there;
just above the green of her shorts, he could see a ring of dark blue.  

He switched hands, his left hand holding the shirt up away from her skin.
Under his less than gentle ministrations, she began to squirm again.  He
wrapped his arm about her waist, pulling the material taut across her body.
 She stilled once more.  He used his free hand and jerked her shorts down
roughly on the right side.

It was there.

The tattoo, it was there.  He ran a finger over its circular shape and she
jerked away in response.  He held her still and she stiffened, rigidity
settling in her spine.  With a suddenness, he pulled away from her, his arm
leaving her waist, his fingers disengaging from the tee-shirt, leaving the
tattoo.  He pushed up to his feet and pushed her away from him.  He was not
gentle.  

She took a few steps forward and caught herself before she fell to the
floor.  She turned to look at him, her hair in complete disarray, the
bright red tie held by only a few strands now.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"  Her voice dripped acid.  Perversely, he
enjoyed her anger, it gave his own another reason for its existence; not
that he needed a reason beyond that she must have.  It was time to ask her.
 Suddenly, the chill dissolved, the distance disappeared, in its place was
red hot heat, an intimacy that crackled in the air between them.

"Did you fuck him?!"  He hadn't meant to shout.

Her face was blank for a moment and then her hands flew to her back.  The
tattoo.

"Yeah, Dana," he sneered her first name, "the tattoo."  He enunciated each
word carefully, since she obviously hadn't understood him the first time.
"Did -  You - FUCK!"  Again, he hadn't meant to shout.  "Mr. - Tattoo?"  

She shook her head back and forth.  But not in denial.  He noticed that.
She wasn't denying it.  The look on Dana Scully's face was one reflecting
shock and the shaking of her head indicated a dismay, not negativity.  She
was not saying "no," she was not denying it.

Yes, she must have.

"Ed Jerse?  Mr. Pretty Boy?  Did you fuck him, Scully, while I was
exploring my inner Elvis?"  Why wasn't she answering?  He'd asked her
enough questions, although the answer required only one syllable.  

*No*  His head supplied and he wanted to cry.  Even after everything in the
reports, everyone of her actions, everything she had said to him on the
phone, everything she had said when she came back, he still wanted to
believe that she had not betrayed him.  

"So what if I did?"  is what she spat out with angry disdain.

He died.  Oh, he was still breathing.  Blood still ran through his veins,
pumping his heart.  But he was dead.  Nothing mattered.  Not Samantha.  Not
his parents ... Smoking man ...  little green men, little gray men.  The
X-Files no longer mattered. Nothing mattered.  Not Scully.  Not Special
Agent "I'm-a-medical-doctor" Dana Scully.  Not Dana Katherine Scully. 

He almost laughed.  That he had thought it was over before, that he had
thought that he was closed off, shut down before this moment was almost
funny.  But he was dead so he did not laugh.  Instead, he turned away from
her, unable to look upon her face, her beautiful betraying face, and he
walked to her door.  

And he walked out of her life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part II - Scully Finds Some Cardboard Boxes and Her Key (PG)

F.B.I. Basement, 10:37 a.m. The Following Morning

She opened the door of the basement and cautiously stepped inside.  She was
late, unable to find ease in getting up, getting dressed, coming to work
and facing her partner this morning.   She wasn't sure how to deal with a
Mulder she didn't understand, didn't know.  And that man, last night in her
apartment, that man was not a Mulder she understood.  It was not a Mulder
she knew.  

And as much as it had unsettled her, it had excited her as well.  For the
first time in a long time, she didn't know what he was going to do.  She
could not predict.  Last night, when he knelt behind her, when he touched
her, she had thought ... her mind tried to deny the fantasy, but could not.

She had thought that he was going to make love to her. The feel of his
hands on her bare skin, his breath warm on the small of her back had
started a chain reaction of heat flooding through her.  As confused as she
had been, as harsh as he had been preceding that moment, feelings, long
submerged, had come rushing to the surface.  Her heartbeat had quickened,
her breathing had shallowed and arousal had begun swelling within her body.

She had felt the heat emanating from him and she had indeed thought that he
was going to make love to her.  She had believed that what had happened in
Philadelphia was going to push their relationship over that carefully
observed line that they had never crossed.  Obviously, she had thought
wrong.  

Obvious as he had walked away from her, ignoring her as she spoke to him.
Very obvious as he had walked out of her apartment, carefully shutting the
door behind him, ignoring the calling of his name that followed him down
the hallway.  Yes, she had thought wrong.  And now, this morning, over
twelve hours later, she still didn't know what he would do.

He wasn't at his desk and after looking around the cramped space, she
realized that he wasn't there at all.  She felt a distinct sense of
disappointment flood through her as she had hoped that they would talk now.
 There were things that she wanted to tell him, things she needed to
explain, but last night she couldn't, not with the way he'd been acting.

No, last night had been too raw, too full of pain and he had been too
cruel, something she never thought that Mulder would be to her.  But cruel
he had been and today before she could explain, he owed her an apology,
more than an apology, she angrily corrected herself.  She expected
full-fledged groveling and then, only then would she tell him her truths.

She had come to several realizations in Philadelphia.  After Ed Jerse had
fallen asleep on the couch, she had lain on his bed, wondering what was
wrong with her.  She had been with a good-looking man, in his apartment,
there, ready to disregard her entire upbringing and sense of self to just
get laid and she couldn't do it.

He had kissed her and she had felt absolutely nothing.  He had put his arms
around her and when he pressed his hand against the small of her back, she
had thought of Mulder:  His hand against her back, but this hand was too
small; the fingers not as long, the pressure not as light, the heat not as
vivid.  It was not Mulder.

And so she had pulled away.  Apparently, Ed Jerse had felt the same thing.
With tears running down his face, he'd said "I'm sorry.  I can't.  My wife
--" he'd broken off and pulled away from her.  She hadn't been sorry.  If
he hadn't pulled away, she would have, begging off with, "I'm sorry.  I
can't.  My ... partner?"

An angry exhalation emerged from her lips, her mind mesmerized with a
memory that hadn't taken place.  My partner, she thought, as if that is all
he was.  Last night had not been the actions of a partner.  Mulder had been
acting the part of a betrayed, hostile -- hostile, her mind vehemently
reminded her -- lover.

But he wasn't ... her lover, but he was enough of something and more than a
partner that she would have pulled away from another man's embrace if that
man had not done so first.  But he had pulled away and so she had not
gotten laid.  Instead, she had sat there for two hours listening to his
sordid tale, minus his recent foray into the world of homicidal tendencies.

He had fallen asleep on the couch and she had prepared to leave.  She
should have left, but he looked so alone and young and (she admitted it to
herself now) so reminiscent of Mulder when he slept -- dark hair, strong,
attractive features, same lanky form -- that she could not leave him.  Not
until she knew he was all right.

Well, now I know, she thought with a tinge of angry regret.  The sense of
dislocation hit her again as she tried again not to ponder her actions in
Philadelphia ... actions that were so out of her character.  She had done
and said so many things that in retrospect filled her with dismay, with
disappointment.  They were things that made her glad that her father were
no longer there for he would have been ashamed.  Her actions were not those
of the daughter that he had raised.

She shook her head, banishing thoughts that had plagued her all too
familiarly since Philadelphia.  After returning to Washington and talking
to Mulder -- his lame jokes and snide comments an attempt to hide his hurt
-- she had come to several conclusions.  Most of them having to do with the
two of them.  Her mind froze on those words *the two of them* and she
couldn't help but thing again of him last night, looking at her, at her wet
tee-shirt, at her legs, at her body.  Mulder looking at her like a man
looks at a woman.  It had been a heady feeling and irrationally she had
hated every other woman he had ever looked at like that.

And then he had touched her.

And then he had yelled at her.  And as angry as he had been, an answering
anger had built in her.  If he had asked her and not yelled at her, not
been so vulgar, so possessive, she would have told him the truth ... she
would have told him that she loved him.  But he had yelled at her and he
had been vulgar and possessive.  So she had taunted him and he had left.
Just like that.  He'd walked out and ignored her cries for him to stop.
He'd just ignored her completely.

And now he wasn't here.  Damn!

She moved towards one of the tables (one she used for herself, since she
didn't have a desk of her own, she thought bitterly).  She noticed some
cardboard boxes lying beside it.  She couldn't recall if they had been here
the day before.  She didn't think so.  Wonder what he plans on packing up?
she thought absently.

She pulled a chair up and sat down.  And then she saw it.  It was sitting
in the middle of the table.  It was a key, her key, to be more specific.
Her name was written across the top in Mulder's handwriting.  But it wasn't
on Mulder's key chain, it was sitting here on the middle of the table she
used as a desk. 

Scully reached for the phone and quickly dialed Mulder's home number.
After two rings a sterile voice came on the line.  "The number you have
dialed is no longer in service.  If you would like to --"  Scully hung up.
Her lips pursed in thoughts that she did not want to be thinking.   

She picked the phone up again and dialed his cel phone number.  "The number
you have dialed is no longer in ser --"  She hung up.  A sinking sensation
was settling deep in her stomach.  She picked up the key, rubbing it
between her fingers.

She reached for the phone again when it suddenly rang, loud and shrill in
the silent room.  She jumped slightly, her eyes closed briefly in shock.
She licked her lips and ran a quick hand through her hair.  She picked up
the phone, hoping that she would hear Mulder's voice, but doubting that she
would.

"Agent Scully?"  A feminine voice inquired.

"Yes," she paused, trying to control the shaking in her voice.  "Yes, this
is she.  May I help you?"

"I'm calling from the Assistant Director's office.  A.D. Skinner would like
to see you as soon as possible."  There was a pause.  "He'll be waiting for
you."

There was a click and Scully held the phone for a moment longer.  "I guess
as soon as possible means now," she murmured to herself.  She took a deep
breath and looked at the key clutched between her fingers, squeezing it
tightly for a moment.  Whatever significance it held, this was not the time
to think about it.  With that final thought she set her key down and headed
for the A.D.'s office.

~~~
A.D. Skinner's Office, 10:58 a.m.

"Yes, sir?"  Scully asked politely as she stepped into his office.  Skinner
stood up and gestured to the chair before his desk.  "Agent Scully, thank
you for coming, have a seat."

She nodded slightly and headed toward the proffered chair.  Once she was
seated, she looked at him inquiringly.  He didn't speak.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?"  She prodded.

"Yes."  He paused, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.  "Agent
Scully, I wanted your take on the reassignment request."

That sinking feeling in her stomach grew in leaps and bounds.  She didn't
want to ask her next question.  She didn't want to hear the answer; but she
had to.

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about.  What reassignment request?"
Her voice was tight, her face pale.

Skinner looked momentarily startled.  "I, uhm, I'm sorry.  I thought Agent
Mulder would have informed you.  He handed the form to me this morning."

Realization dawned with his words.  Suddenly the boxes in the office, the
disconnected phone lines and now a transfer request, all made a dizzying
sort of sense.  Mulder was cutting her out of his life.  And he was doing
so with much more efficiency and with much more speed than her
perhaps-not-so-subtle attempts to ease him out of hers since Leonard Betts.
 And there was one more difference:  Her decision had been one made out of
love, designed to spare him the pain of what would most likely be the
remainder of her life, while his was a decision made out of anger.

As her mind processed this information, she sank further into her seat and
her shoulders slumped a bit.  The thought, 'this isn't happening,' skipped
erratically through her mind like a broken record.  A small whimper, almost
a cry, barely audible, emerged from her lips.  The slight sound was enough
to bring her back to her surroundings.  She was in the Assistant Director's
office; she would not make a scene.

She sat up and took a deep breath.  Raising her chin defiantly in an
attempt to regain her composure, she shut her eyes briefly and cleared her
throat.  She looked at Skinner, meeting his gaze despite the look of
sympathy on his face.

"Sir,"  she was ashamed of the catch in her voice.  She was determined not
to break down before her boss.  "Sir," she said more strongly, "what did
Agent Muld --" her voice broke.  The effort of saying his name, his name
immediately bringing to mind his face, was enough to undo her.  She bit her
bottom lip and lowered her eyes.  Inside, she screamed, 'I can't do this!'
but she knew she must.  

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and took another deep breath.  She
met Skinner's gaze once more, grateful for the unemotional void that was
now his expression.  Be calm, she silently demanded of herself, keep
control.   And as was the usual case, she obeyed her inner voice and when
she spoke, it was calmly and with control.   "What did he give as the
reason for the reassignment?  Did he request another stay with the Violent
Crimes Unit?"

Skinner's eyes narrowed.  "Agent Scully?  The request was for *your*
reassignment, not Agent Mulder's."  She froze and time seemed to stand
still.  An insane urge to giggle hysterically was instantly squashed, as
was the equally mad desire to fall apart with a great many tears and much
gnashing of teeth.

Instead, she settled for a slow blink and a forced relaxation of her limbs.
 Holding onto the gossamer threads of her strength, she took another deep
breath and managed to speak. 

"Of course, mine."

"Agent Scully, he is the senior --"

" -- agent," she finished quietly for him.  "Yes, I know. What were his
reasons?  Senior or not," she tried to smile, she failed, "he must have a
legitimate reason for reassigning an agent junior to him."  

Skinner looked away, silent for a moment before returning unreadable eyes
back to her.  "Agent Mulder feels that the differences in your
investigative approaches have brought your working relationship to a
standstill.  Your recent investigation into an X-File without the aid of
Agent Mulder was," he paused and reached for a sheet of paper on his desk,
"a primary example."

Skinner's voice took on a slightly stilted note as he was obviously reading
Mulder's words.  "Although Agent Scully and I have long come from opposite
fields of inquiry, recently the differences have escalated, reaching their
zenith during the Philadelphia case."

Scully's lips were red from her constant biting in an effort to control her
tears and her breathing came more quickly.  More than anything she wanted
to sob.  More than that, she wanted to run out of this room and never see
Skinner again.  

Much more than that she wanted to find Mulder and hurt him; hurt him as
badly as she was hurting right now.  As if sensing her pain, the Assistant
Director looked up, the sympathy returning to his eyes and echoing in his
voice.  "Agent Scully, Mulder went onto say that in his years working with
you, you have always acted with integrity, honesty, and with the utmost
professionalism."

She allowed herself a tight smile.  Skinner paused for a moment and then
looked once more at the sheet of paper before him and his tone took on the
same stilted quality as he read Mulder's report.        "However, due to the
events in Philadelphia as well as personal aftereffects that arose from the
Ed Jerse case, I surmise that it will prove increasingly awkward to
continue working with Agent Scully.  I feel that she has proven her worth
to the Bureau and should now be assigned to an area in the F.B.I. that will
better utilize her talents.  Furthermore --"

She stood up.  Skinner looked up from reading,  "Agent Scully?"  She looked
away from him, looking towards the door, escape.  "Sir, whatever he wrote,
I'm sure is satisfactory.  When will I be informed of my new assignment?"
She asked in a rush, not caring about the answer, just desperate to get out
of his office.

Skinner paused, "it will take a couple of days.  You should have your new
assignment in a week.  Do you have a particular area ...?"

She shook her head negatively.  Let me leave, please God, let him dismiss
me, she begged inwardly.

"Back at Quantico, perhaps?" he offered.

She looked at him.  "No."  Quantico had too many memories of him.  "Sir, I
would prefer to be in the field, please."  Skinner nodded.  "I'll keep that
in mind."  

"Is that all, sir?"  she asked, desperately needing to escape this office.
It was becoming much too difficult to control her emotions.  If he didn't
dismiss her now, the anguish and anger that she was keeping at bay would
erupt. 

Skinner nodded once more.  She turned to leave, relief at dismissal filing
her, but then she paused at the door, all at once needing to ask one more
question.  Without looking back, she took a steadying breath, "did he
request a new partner?"  She held still while she waited for the
affirmative answer that would break her heart.

"No."  

Her body visibly relaxed and she walked out of his office without another
word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part III - Dead Men Don't Feel Regret (PG-13)

F.B.I. Basement, 8:13 a.m.  Two hours and 24 minutes earlier

He pulled his keys out of his pocket and looked intently through them,
searching for the bright blue (like her eyes, he'd thought when he had
picked it out.  Yes, Fox Mulder was capable of a sentimental thought or
two, he mused absently.) tag with her name on it.  He found it and pulled
it off of the key chain, calmly walking over to the table she used as a desk.

Damn!  He thought suddenly.  Guess, I'll have to cancel that new desk
order.  He set the key down without hesitation or thought.  It didn't
matter.  He made a mental note to ask Mr. Mardin to change his lock.  She
still had his key.

He smiled grimly, wondering what he must look like.  Skinner hadn't even
asked question one when he handed him the form for her reassignment.
Probably thought I would hit him again, he thought with another grim smile.

He walked over to his desk and picked up the folded boxes of cardboard that
he'd carried in from his car.  So much for getting rid of my magazine
collection, he thought.  He'd been contemplating it as a gesture for her,
one she would have completely been unaware of, and wouldn't have given a
damn about anyway.

But now, even the contemplation of such an action was unnecessary, she
would be gone soon and he would need those magazines more than ever without
her here to fill his fantasies.  Funny, he thought (but didn't laugh), he'd
never allowed himself to analyze just what all of those fantasies meant.
Freud and the like had never interested him much.  Last night, however,
he'd put his psychology degree to good use and had picked apart every
single heat-inducing, blood-arousing, Special Agent-slash-Medical-Doctor
fantasy that he could remember. He had not liked the conclusions he's
reached, so after many different imagined memories of slipping into Dana
Scully, he'd stopped and slipped in for the phone book again and began
absently flipping through the pages.  He fell across Medical Doctors.  He
looked under "S."

"Well, what do you know?"  He muttered to himself.  "Agent
'I'm-a-medical-doctor' isn't in the phone book under 'Medical Doctors.'
Haha."

He flipped again and his gaze rested on Restaurants.   He looked for the
number for the Chinese Restaurant where they always ordered take-out.  

"Aha.  'Lo Pau Chinese Food - Good.'"  He glanced at the number, despite
having it memorized and on speed-dial.  He made a mental note to remove it
for it wouldn't do to accidentally dial it.  Hearing Lo Pau's voice would
be almost as bad as hearing --

"Sir?  I have a flight leaving for Tallahassee, Florida in three hours."

"Wonderful."  His voice didn't sound as if he thought it was wonderful.  He
didn't think anything was wonderful.  Not anymore.  "Can I buy it now with
a credit card?"

"Yes, sir,"  her voice became even perkier, if that was possible.  He gave
her his card information over the phone and held a long "one moment" while
she verified it.

He reached across the couch for the latest issue of "Playboy."  He flipped
through that, absently concluding that it was more interesting than the
phone book.  He turned it up, checking out the centerfold, not feeling the
least aroused.  He closed it and looked at the cover, he was about to set
it down when a new song began on the phone.  He figured he had a few more
moments to wait through.

He opened the magazine again and feasted his eyes upon a red-headed model,
decked out in a suit and holding a gun.  She was playing F.B.I., although
he doubted that the Bureau would ever endorse the way this *agent* wore her
suits.  He turned the page, studying her.

She was too tall.  Her hair was too long, and too bright a red, not
burnished enough.  Her eyes weren't blue enough.  Her lips weren't full
enough.  Her skin too tanned.  She was too busty.  And judging from the
lack of fire down below, she was not a natural redhead.  In short, she
wasn't Scu--

He shut his mind down as quickly as he shut the magazine.

"Sir?  Sir?"

He jerked his attention back to the phone.  "Yes, yes.  Sorry."

"That's all right."  She pleasantly informed him.  "Your ticket will be
waiting for you at the counter, Mr. Mulder.  Thank you for flying WestWay
Airlines."  He could hear the smile in her voice.  He felt slightly nauseated.

"Thanks."  He hung up the phone and stood up, still holding the "Playboy."
 He walked into his bedroom, pausing at the door to throw the magazine in
the circular file.  He looked about his room, wondering if he dare allow
himself the opportunity to break down once, just let himself go.  He felt a
bleak simmering begin in the pit of his stomach.  He saw her again in his
mind, standing before him in that wet tee-shirt with those long legs.  He
felt a hardening in his groin.

He closed his eyes, savoring the image -- the pale peach of her skin
against the white, clinging shirt.  The impression of lace and nipples
evidenced through the damp material.  The strands of fiery red vivid
against her skin, a startling, devastating contrast to the bright blue of
her eyes.  The full curve of her lips, those lips curved in a smile.  Her
happiness at seeing him, followed by her confusion and then anger.  His
eyes flew open, but the image of her anger, the blue darkening, the flush
deepening, remained in his mind.

He remembered it vividly ... every look, every touch, every word.  

He just didn't remember it happening to him.  He saw it from the outside
looking in, for he, Fox Mulder, would never treat her like that.  He would
never yell at her with such biting cruelty with words and a tone of voice
designed to cut deep.  Yet the memory of last night revealed that that man
had caused her immeasurable pain, more than anger, he had caused her such
pain.

So that man could not have been him.  He turned to the door, about to head
back to the phone, pick it up, call her, hear her voice.

Then he heard her voice in his head speaking the five words that he had not
recalled yet.  But he recalled them now: So what if I did?  He heard her
voice saying those words, "so what if I did?" and he stopped mid-stride.
That man in her apartment last night coalesced into this man standing
broken in his bedroom and he shut down.  No, he curtly informed himself.
If he just let himself go, he might do something stupid.

Like pull out his F.B.I. regulated gun and blow his brains out.

Or even worse, he might go to her and fall into her arms, begging for
forgiveness, begging for her return, begging her to never leave him, never
hurt him again.  He turned back to his bed.  

No.

He began to pack, his brief flirtation with emotion a distant memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part IV -  He Didn't Know about the Drops of Blood (R)

F.B.I. Basement, 11:21 a.m.

She began to put her personal belongings into one of the boxes that he had
left for her.  How considerate he is, she thought with a shaky laugh.  The
laugh began to dissolve into a sob.  She bit down hard upon her tongue; the
pain, the coppery taste of her blood, jerked her into awareness.  The sob
died, and she was once more under control.

She paused in her packing to spit a gob of blood into the trash can.  Let
him wonder, she thought, for a vicious moment.   Suddenly, the image of
Leonard Betts popped into her head, followed by the white of her pillow
stained with drops of blood.  She tried to shut her mind down, not wanting
to dwell on the consequences of his words, "you have something I need."  

Mulder doesn't know, she thought abruptly.  She hadn't told him; if she
had, he would have understood, he wouldn't have come to her as he had last
night.  She thought of him in her apartment, cold then hot fury in his
eyes.  If he knew what Leonard Betts -- no, her mind shied away from the
thought.

If he found out, it would deliver a helping hand to the efforts, others and
his own, that threatened to destroy him.  He would blame himself.
Furthermore, she didn't know for certain that it was what she feared.  She
wouldn't allow herself to think of what it meant until she had the medical
results of the tests she'd taken in her hand.

Besides, whether he knew or not, he had still come to her apartment last
night in a rage, without thinking.  He hadn't tried to find out what had
happened.  He had just assumed and been so cruel because of that
assumption.  And now this morning, cutting her out like this, not giving
her a chance to explain, she felt a wave of anger building up in her
alongside the pain.

*Bastard*

The excitement she had felt earlier, the sexual thrill that his touch on
her had caused was gone, replaced with outrage and desolation.  She fell
down into her seat, her hands covering her face as desolation took the
upper hand.  How could she have not realized how he would be affected by
her actions in Philadelphia?   Especially since he had no clue as to what
Leonard Betts had said to her.  

She hadn't told him.

She could have. She probably should have.  At least then she wouldn't have
to shoulder this burden of waiting alone.  But she'd wanted to handle it
herself; she had to believe that she could handle this without relying on
Mulder.  She didn't need him for her strength, she had her own and the
thought of him worrying over her, feeling the need to protect her was one
she did not relish.  So she hadn't told him, instead she had shut him out.

And now this.  Her actions in Philadelphia must have made no sense to him,
her feelings prior to leaving, a cipher he couldn't figure out.  Everything
had been fine between them before Leonard Betts.  How could he understand?  

She simply should have told him, but she had not, so he didn't know.  He
couldn't have known.  He couldn't have known what had motivated such
behavior from her.  After all, he didn't sleep beside her so he hadn't seen
the red drops on her pillow.  He couldn't have guessed at what demons had
caused her actions.  

What he thought were her actions, she amended.  Not that I helped disabuse
him of that notion, she thought bitterly.  God, why hadn't he just simply
asked her, 'Dana, what happened in Philadelphia? Who was that guy?'   And
she would have answered him truthfully.  She would have explained about
Leonard Betts.  She would have explained how she needed more than just the
X-Files, more than just him.  No, more than what she had from him.  She
needed all of him.  She loved him.

She would have explained that nothing had happened with Ed Jerse.  That she
had called him, gone out with him, gone to his apartment because she was
scared of dying, dying without having really lived.  And she'd been angry
with Mulder, angry and hurt because of his dismissal of her competence, her
attractiveness.

She couldn't predict how he would have responded to all of that, but she
believed that he would have understood and what he didn't understood, he
would have tried to.  And instead of the disaster that lay before her,
everything would have been all right between them.  Maybe even better than
all right, maybe it would have been wonderful.

She sat up straighter, her hands dropping to the table with a thump.  He
didn't ask you though, did he? she thought.  No, he'd just taken for
granted that you slept with a complete stranger.  Well, you were going to,
a hesitant voice reminded her.  

"That's not the point!" She cried out, then she laughed bitterly.  "Now,
I'm talking to myself," she lowered her head onto the table, "that's not
the point," she repeated softly, arguing with that hesitant voice.  The
voice that had been reasoning with her from the moment she'd met Ed Jerse
and one that she had submerged and ignored because she hadn't wanted
awareness that what she was doing was wrong.

Wrong, not only because of Mulder, because of whatever this *thing* between
them was, but more importantly, wrong because it wasn't her.  It was
behavior that she had been raised to believe was if not entirely immoral,
certainly not acceptable in the eyes of her parents, her father.  He would
have been ashamed.  And if she'd allowed herself to think about it, she
would have been ashamed, because Ahab would have been ashamed.  

She raised her head, her eyes staring blankly about her.  Again she
whispered, "that's not the point," the words now a plea to a man who was no
longer there.

Her father.  Mulder.

Mulder.  She wanted to be angry with him.  She believed she had every right
to be angry with him, after the way he had treated her last night.  But he
was Mulder and she could understand where his rage had come from.  And she
knew him.  She knew that given time, once he'd calmed down, he would never
forgive himself for his actions.  One more pile of guilt to add onto the
growing mountain that he'd created because of her.

Duane Barry ... Melissa ... and now this.  And he didn't even know about
the drops of blood, not yet.  She felt another tear trickle down the side
of her face and knew she had to leave, she had to get out of there.  She
was on the verge of a breakdown and she preferred to do that in the privacy
of her home, thank you very much.
        She rose from her seat and picked up the box.  She had only needed one.
She looked about the office, feeling a painful certainty that she would
never see it again.  Stepping outside and shutting the door, she allowed
her gaze to rest on the door's plaque for a moment.  

Fox Mulder-Special Agent

Only his name on the door -- his desk, his office, his X-Files.  Nothing
here was ever really mine, was it? she wondered. She bowed her head
briefly, leaning against his door.  She had thought that he was hers.
Another silent tear crept down her face and she jerked up, wiping it away
with one quick dash.  Not here, she reminded herself.  Home, I have to go
home.
~~~

Dana Scully's Apartment, 12:43 p.m.

She sat huddled on the couch.  She couldn't really remember walking out of
the F.B.I. building, nor the drive home.  All she remembered was a song
that had played on the radio, Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.  She
recalled laughing because her eyes were already blue.  She had not cried,
however.  She was saving her tears for home.

And here she was and she couldn't cry.  She wanted to; she wanted the
release that her tears would bring.  And then she could get on with her
life, waiting for Mulder to stop being an infantile asshole and apologize
for his behavior.  Apologize, hah, beg for her forgiveness is more like it,
she thought.

"Did you fuck him?" she muttered under her breath.  "What gives you the
right, Fox Mulder, to judge me?  Maybe if you paid more attention to me
than you do to your stupid alien hunts, we wouldn't be in this situation."

Aliens, space-squeezing mutants and dead EMT's who could regrow their heads
by eating cancer .. how's a girl to compete, she thought sarcastically.
She reached out for the throw pillow across the sofa and paused in thought.
 Compete? she wondered, did I ever try and compete with them?  And then in
a rush of anger she determined, I shouldn't have had to.

She flung herself up from the sofa, feeling an angry tension and nervous
energy swelling throughout her body.  She walked through the apartment,
slamming her hands against walls and tables.  She entered her bedroom and
opened the closet.

Maybe I'll go out, she thought defiantly, really get laid.  She stared at
her wardrobe, fooling herself a few moments longer before she slammed it
shut.  She wanted to cry, but she couldn't.  She wanted to yell at Mulder,
but he wasn't here.

And she wanted him here so she that could scream and rail at him.  She
wanted to hit him, feeling his solid body under her fists.  She wanted to
slap his face, she wanted to see him fall before her, begging for her
forgiveness.  And then she would beg him for his, she thought with a heavy
sigh as she sprawled out on her bed.  She squeezed her eyes shut, willing
the tears to come but they did not.

She got up off the bed, too restless to stay put and walked back into the
living room.  She headed towards the video cabinet, wondering if Mulder was
getting off on one of his porn films right now or if he was wallowing in
his guilt as he damn well should be.  She knelt down and perused the
titles, hoping something would catch her eyes.

A tearjerker would be good, she thought.  If that son-of-a-bitch's actions
weren't going to make her cry and give her the release she needed, maybe a
good chick movie would.  

And then she saw it:  Superstars of the Superbowls.

She fell back on her heels as she gingerly reached out for the video.  She
held it before her, her fingers tracing the laminated cover.  And tears
began to drop.  Slowly at first, slipping from the corners of her eyes,
wending their way down her pale cheeks.  One drop landed atop the Super in
Superbowls and she carefully brushed it away.

Another landed upon a picture of some football player she'd never seen
before, and just as carefully she wiped that one away.  And then another,
and another and the tears were flooding too quickly for her to wipe them
away so she held the video box close to her, her fingers clasping it to her
heart.

Her shoulders began to shake, softly at first, but like her tears, the
shaking began to build until her entire frame was shuddering with the force
of the sobs ripping through her body, scaling her throat.  She lay down on
the carpet, clutching his only gift to her and she cried.  Wrapping her
arms about herself, she curled up in a fetal position, her fingers biting
into the hard edges of the video.  Everything -- Mulder, Leonard Betts,
Mulder, Philadelphia, Mulder, Mulder, Mulder -- everything hit her with the
blow of a thousand fists.

She cried but it offered her no release.  In the midst of her agony, she
doubted that anything ever could.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part V -  All's Fair in Love and War (R)

WestWay Airlines Flight 1901, Washington D.C. to Tallahassee, Florida, 1:44
p.m.

The flight attendants had just completed their meal service.  He had chosen
the beef, but had managed only a couple of bites and those had stuck in his
throat.  He'd been more grateful than most when they'd taken away his tray.

Images of the last two days were flowing through his mind with the
randomness of life.  Scully standing before him wearing a wet tee-shirt.
Jeffrey Jenkens apparent understanding of what had taken place between
Scully and the pretty boy.  Skinner gazing at him in disbelief as he handed
him the request form that would sever all professional ties with Scully.
Pulling her key off of his keyring.  Setting it on her *desk.*  Scully's
"so what if I did?"  Mr. Mardin's questioning look when he'd explained that
his former partner would no longer have access to his apartment.  Scully
smiling, her eyes bright, soft bubbles dripping from bright yellow gloves.
Scully.  Scully.  Scully.

Slowly, but steadily, the chill that had settled around the deadness within
his heart began to dissolve.  The distance that anger and jealousy allowed
him had protected him from the realization of the enormity of his actions.
Distance was fading as he flew farther and farther away from her.

Images, stronger and faster, swept with dizzying intensity through his mind
now.   The dimming of bright blue to gray.  The shock and dismay as he
yelled at her.  The rigidity in her spine when he'd touched her, and how he
had touched her without a hint of tenderness.  His anger had translated
quite easily into the rough touch he'd laid upon her.  She'd almost fallen.
 That memory, unlike the others, played in slow motion.  Scully jerking
away from him as he stood, pushing her away, his actions the opposite of
gentle.   And she'd almost fallen ... because of him.  She could have hurt
herself.  He had hurt her.

But she fucked Mr. Tattoo.  She hadn't denied it.  She had said "so what if
I did?"  She had not said no.  He had wanted her to, even after the
reports, and the obvious conclusion that anyone would have come to after
reading the reports, he had believed, deep in his heart, that she would say
no.  But she had said "so what if I did?"

She hurt him.

Therefore, he hurt her.  All's fair in love and war.

He looked out the window, feeling a tightening in his chest.  Love and war,
he thought.  When was there ever love or war between he and Scully?
Affection, caring, yes.  Deep affection, strong and nurturing caring,
definitely, but love?  He had loved Phoebe and it had been awful, painful,
full of lies and deceit -- betrayal, ups and downs that twisted him inside
out, wringing him dry.  Phoebe had made him miserable.  That was love.

Scully made him feel good.  Before she fucked the man with the tattoo, that
is.  She had made him feel strong and ... right.  She believed in him.  She
never lied to him.  She stood by him, not merely kowtowing to his beliefs
like a little follower, but she listened to those beliefs even as crazy as
they were half the time.  She listened and then she agreed or disagreed.
And she trusted him enough to know that he would listen to her in turn.  

At least on the job.  And that was the crux of the matter -- on the job.
Whenever something was bothering her, if it had nothing to do with work,
she didn't say one word to him.  He tried, he'd asked, he'd wanted to be
there for her, but she was having none of that.
Not Dana Scully.  No, she's responded with her standard "I'm fine" at all
times.  All times but one, there had been that one time she'd let him hold
her, let him comfort her.  But it had only been that one time and after
she'd pulled away from his arms, she'd never mentioned it again and had
rebuilt her wall.  And he had never been able to scale it.

But Mr.-fucking-tattoo-pretty-boy had.

The anger swelled up in him again.  He hadn't touched a woman since her
disappearance two years ago, and that had had nothing to do with sex.  It
had simply been about the need to connect with another human being.
Besides, as far as he knew, she'd been dead.  She, however, had fucked Mr.
Tattoo when he was simply on vacation.  She'd fucked Ed Jerse.  Another
man.  She'd let another man touch her, kiss her, slip inside of her.

He shut his eyes in despair, seeing her face -- the vivid red of her hair,
the brilliant blue of her eyes -- seeing her body -- the soft cream of her
flesh marred by the ring of blue, the outline of her nipples visible
through her wet tee-shirt and flimsy bra, her long legs -- seeing all of
her in his mind and it hurt.  It hurt so badly.  He'd had to leave.  To
actually see her in the flesh would be impossible now.  How could he look
at her, be with her, talk to her, knowing that she had fucked Ed Jerse?

He had done the right thing, the only thing, in walking away.  There had
been no other choice.  He wondered if she had made it in to work yet, or if
she'd called in sick.  He wondered if she knew that it was over, they were
over.  Had she tried to call him?  Had she seen Skinner?  Did she know?
And if she did, did she care?  Probably not.  If she did, she wouldn't have
fucked the pretty boy with the tattoo.

Hell, all's fair in love and war.

Back to that, are we, Fox? he thought.  Love and war.  War and love.  He
thought of the pain, the anger that had rushed freefall through him in her
apartment.  He thought of her wet tee-shirt and how it had clung to the
lacy, damp transparency of her bra.  This hurts too much to not be love.

Love.  Is this love?  Affection and caring do not drive a man to hurt a
woman as he had.  And he had hurt her.  But she fucked him, he reminded
himself as a kernel of guilt danced along the edge of his dead heart.  She
fucked Mr. Tattoo, he repeated.   She had played the first hand.

And had destroyed him.  One battle and she'd won the war, but he'd still
fought back, a resilient soldier he could be ... and had been.  War.
Without love could there be a war?  Hand in hand they sat.   Love and war. 

Images continued unabated through his mind.  The anger blazing in her eyes.
 The disdain in her voice.  Did she know?  The transparency of her
clothing.  Why could he not forget what he had never really noticed before?
 Did she know that he was gone?  Did she know that he had kicked her out of
the X-Files?  Her long legs, he saw her long legs, felt the heat of the
cream of her flesh beneath his fingers.  Did she know that he had cut her
out of his life?  Did she care?

All's fair in love and war.  But this is Scully.  Of course she cares.  It
was Scully. Scully.  I love her.  I can't -- I did hurt her.  I made her
eyes blaze with anger.  She almost fell.  But she fucked him, he protested.
 She almost fell.  The blue dimmed to gray and she almost fell.   She had
been stiff and unyielding in his grasp.   But she had also been hot, the
scent of arousal had been there and he could not forget her heat, the cream
of her skin, the feel of her beneath his fingers.  But she had been stiff,
because he had been cruel.  

He wondered if she had found her key?  Was she in pain?   Had her anger
been eclipsed by pain?   How much more pain did he give her?  Did it hurt
when she found her key?  She didn't deserve such pain.

But she fucked him, he reminded himself.   Is she yours? his torn mind
responded.  All is fair -- shut up!  Is she yours? he demanded of himself.
Is she your lover?  Is she your wife?  Do you sleep beside her at night,
wake up to her beauty every morning?  Does she call you "sweetheart?"  Do
you tell her you love her?  Have you ever told her that you love her?  So
what if she fucked him?  She almost fell.  She almost fell.

"Are you okay?"  Words that had nothing to do with Scully, nothing to do
with images interrupted his mental ramblings.  He turned to the voice, a
gentle voice, full of concern.  A woman sat next to him, an older woman,
with blue eyes.  Blue like Scully's.  She almost fell.

"Sir, are you okay?"  He looked at her, wondering why she was speaking to
him, didn't she know that he'd almost made Scully fall?  He'd hurt her.
She had fucked him, yes, but he had hurt her, how could he have hurt her?

"She almost fell."  He whispered and was surprised to find how broken and
how lost his voice sounded.  "She almost fell," he repeated.  He reached up
and ran a hand through his hair, his hand brushing over his face and he was
even more surprised to feel a trail of wetness on his skin.

"Sir?" She tried one more time, but he was no longer listening.  Her voice
was a muted sound.  An ocean lay between them, her lips were moving, but
the ocean was too vast and deep and he could not make out her words, so he
looked away from her blue, like Scully's, eyes and faced the window.

The sky was blue.  Like Scully's eyes, but hers were gray.  Blue dimming to
gray.  And then back again, blazing with anger after she almost fell.  The
tears fell unchecked down his face and their coolness was no deterrent for
the heated shame that was coursing through him.

He closed his eyes, but that didn't stop the tears.  He bowed his head and
squeezed his eyes tighter, but the images still ran rampant through his
mind.  Scully standing before him wearing a wet tee-shirt.  Pulling her key
off of his keyring.  Setting it on her *desk.*  Scully's "so what if I
did?"  He tasted salt on his lips.

He clenched his fists, willing the images away, but they had a will of
their own.  Scully smiling, her eyes bright, soft bubbles dripping from
bright yellow gloves.  Scully.  Scully.  Scully.  The dimming of bright
blue to gray.  The wet tee-shirt, the lacy, damp transparency of her bra.
Almost falling and again, she almost fell, in slow motion, Scully almost fell.

The tears fell as she almost fell ... again, and again.  Her blue eyes, her
wet tee-shirt, her key and Scully almost falling played before his closed
eyes and he realized with no more pretense or defense that this was love
and that he had lost the war.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part VI - Her Mother Called Him Fox (PG)

Maggie Scully's House, 8:57 a.m. Two days later

"Honey, what's wrong?"  Maggie Scully asked as her daughter stumbled into
her living room.

"Mom," she broke down upon hearing her mother's voice, seeing her
compassionate face.  "Mom, he's gone and I don't know what to do.  I was so
wrong.  I was so stupid, how could I do --"  She couldn't finish; she
couldn't think.

She collapsed into her mother's arms, crying her heart out, crying tears
that she had thought were all shed.  Her mother brushed her hair from her
face, holding onto her and made shushing noises as she led her to the
couch.  They fell onto the seat together, Dana's head nestled in her
mother's bosom.

"Dana, tell me what's wrong."  

She gulped a few times and pulled away slightly, raising reddened eyes to
her mother.  "He's gone.  His numbers are changed and he went on vacation.
I found the boxes and my key.  He just left them and I don't know where he
is.  He told Mr. Mardin to not give me the key.  He specifically told him
to not give me the key.  Mom, what am I going to do?"

She pulled away once more, moving to the other side of the couch, trying in
vain to control her tears, trying to control her emotions.  She couldn't do
it; she couldn't do this.  She stood up, wobbling slightly.

"Dana?"

"I gotta go.  I can't do this.  I have to go.  I have to find him.  I can
call the airlines, I can -- I can," she broke off, a light, hysterical
laugh entered her voice, "I can put an 'X' on my window ..."  she sat down,
overcome with sobbing again.  Through her tears, she whispered, "I hurt
him.  I hurt him so badly.  I know him, I know him so well and yet I didn't
realize what I was doing to him."  

She turned to her mother.  "I didn't realize what it would do to me."

"Dana, what is going on?"

"He's gone," she said as calmly as she knew how.

"Fox?  Did something happen to Fox?"  

She just sat there looking at her mother for a moment, silent tears running
down her face.  Fox.  Her mother called him Fox.  Her mother had an
intimacy with him, that he had never allowed her.  Why had he never allowed
her to call him Fox?  What was wrong with her?  What was wrong with him?

"He always let you call him," she paused, briefly closing her eyes, "Fox.
Only once did I ever call him that."  She stood up again, her voice
suddenly angry.  "And he lied to me!  He said no one called him Fox.  He
said he made his parents call him 'Mulder!'  He lied ..."  Her  voice
trailed off in tears.  She sank back onto the couch again.

"I was on a case without him, a couple of days," she paused again, her
voice catching.  More tears began rushing down her face.  She lowered her
head into her hands, her shoulders hunched over and shaking.
"Dana."  Her mother moved over to her side and pulled her into her arms
again.  "Sshh, honey, it's okay.  It's gonna be okay."  Dana snuggled
closer, her tears subsiding slightly.  Her voice was lost.  Lonely.

"No.  Mom, it's not okay.  It just seems like it was so long ago, not just
two or three days.  Or was it four?"  She smiled through her tears.  "I
don't even remember how long ago it was now.  I was in Philadelphia on a
case and he was on a forced vacation."  She smiled again, remembering his
disgust at the notion.  At the time, she'd been thinking about Leonard
Betts and her life, or rather her lack of one, and had found no humor in
his reaction.  She was almost surprised to find that now, despite the last
two days, she did.  And more than that, a faint charm.  The reaction was so
Mulder.

She was silent for a moment longer, wondering where her anger was;
wondering if he was still angry with her.  Her smile died.  He was gone.

"Dana?"  Her mother's voice drifted through her reverie.  She closed her
eyes, searching for her last words.  Vacation, she thought, Mulder's visit
to the home of Elvis.   "He never took vacations, so the Bureau made him." 

She pulled away and looked up at her mom, a smile gracing her face again.
"He went to Graceland."   And then she began to cry again.  Loving him.
Missing him, God, how she missed him.  Graceland.  And her cries turned to
a mellow laugh.  So Mulder.  She closed her eyes briefly, her laughter
dying alongside her tears, as she once again grabbed the reins of her
emotions close to her.

She took a few deep breaths.  She must continue talking, she thought, maybe
talking would help.  Maybe her mother would say the right thing and soothe
the pain away.  Maybe there were such things as extraterrestrial biological
beings.  Maybe she had been abducted by a U.F.O.  Maybe the truth was out
there.  Maybe she could survive without him in her life.

"I was feeling restless.  We had just finished this case and there was this
man," she drew in a shaky breath, "Leonard Betts.  The case, he, disturbed
me.  But I," she paused and her eyes briefly met her mother's before
jerking away.  I can't tell her this, she suddenly thought, not like this,
not now and Lord, not until I know for sure.

"I was restless," she repeated, "and I took it out on him," the only him in
her mind being Mulder.

"Him?" her mother questioned.  Dana raised stricken eyes to her face and
didn't say anything.  "Fox," Maggie faintly replied and Dana could only nod
in response, then softly, "him."  She kept her gaze locked on her mother's,
seeing a solace there that eased the pain slightly.

"I was restless," again she repeated, and I blamed him for not having a
life.  I blamed him for not having a desk.  I blamed him because he was
there and easy to blame.  And when I got to Philadelphia, I just gave a
cursory glance to the case and called it a hoax and walked away.

"He kept calling me, checking up on me.  He wasn't happy when I told him
about the case, but at that point I didn't care, I was going to leave then,
but there wasn't a flight until the next morning.  And then he made a crack
about my not being able to get a date.

"Mom," she stood up and began pacing back and forth.  Her eyes fleetingly
met her mother's and then took off again.  She couldn't meet her eyes,
those compassionate, loving eyes.  She couldn't bear to see the
disappointment in them when she told her, but she had to, she had to tell
someone and her mother would understand.  She had to understand.

"I was upset with --" she broke off and stood still, her eyes heavenward.
"My God, I can't say his name."  She turned anguished eyes to her mother,
"why can't I just say his name?"

She shook her head, not expecting a reply and resumed pacing.  "I was upset
with," a pause, "him," she finished, heated passion in the word.  "I was
upset with life ... with my life and I was restless and he couldn't believe
that I had a date!" she spoke in an angry rush.

"So I called up a man I had met earlier.  He had given me his number and he
was good-looking and damnit, he's just my partner," she said defensively.

"Is he?"  Maggie asked softly.  Dana paused in her pacing and looked at
her, but she couldn't answer.  Almost defiantly, she kept her gaze locked
on her mother's.  "I called this man up, Ed Jerse, that was his name.  I
called him up and we had drinks and I --, I --" she broke off again, unable
to maintain eye contact.

"I went to his apartment."  She fell back down on the seat next to her
mother.  "I was mad at him, he hurt my feelings and so I," she looked at
Maggie, contrition and shame in her eyes, "I intended on sleeping with
him."  She looked away, not missing the quick flash of surprise on her
mother's face.

"I'm a grown woman," she stated, her voice warbling like that of a child.
But even as she said the words, she couldn't look at her mother.  The Dana
Scully she was describing was not the daughter her parents had raised.  But
she had to get this out.  Maybe it would help.  Maybe she would understand
why she had done what she had done.   

"Yes, Dana, you're a grown woman and you make your own choices.  It's not
something that I would have done or even thought of doing, but," she
reached out and gently laid her finger on her daughter's cheek, capturing
her gaze.  "But," she repeated, "times are different.  *You* are different
and I can't know what demons are driving you.  And I certainly don't
understand your relationship with Fox.  I won't and I don't judge you."

"But, dad would have been ashamed."

Her mother opened her mouth to speak and then paused and Dana felt more
silent tears run down her face.  She looked down at the fingers clasped
tightly in her lip, biting her lip, trying to hold back the painful sobs.

"Dana, your father wouldn't have been ashamed.  Never that.  But, he
wouldn't have approved.  I'm sorry, I know that's not what you want to
hear, but I won't lie to you."

Dana nodded, biting her lower lip even harder in an ineffectual effort to
stem the flow of tears.  "I didn't, mom, I didn't go through with it.  One,
it was one kiss only.  I didn't sleep with him."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"It's okay, sweetheart," was her mother's soft reply and the tears subsided
a bit.

"I didn't even particularly want to have sex with him," she continued, "but
he was good-looking and he was so needy.  He reminded me of ... of him,
that's why I was there, because he reminded me of him and because I was mad
at him and life was passing me by and," she paused, renewed anguish surging
through her voice, "Fox Mulder *wasn't* helping.  So I went to a stranger's
apartment and five minutes later I didn't want to even be there."
Her voice was choked with uncried tears; more tears waiting to break free
and overwhelm her, the way she had been overwhelmed since Skinner had told
her about the reassignment.  Tears that had begun to fall when she packed
her stuff up in the basement.

"But, I didn't leave, there was a storm and he offered to let me stay
there. So I did and listened to him talk and then the next morning I found
out that he was under suspicion for murder," she paused and gave her mother
what she thought was a reassuring glance.  "He didn't hurt me; not much."
She felt a flash of remorse as Maggie sighed deeply, her eyes closing for a
brief second, but when she spoke her voice was steady, just the slightest
waver in her tone and Dana knew she was all right.

"Did you tell Fox this?  Is that why he left?"

"No," she shook her head.  "He found out that I was at Ed Jerse's apartment
because of the murder investigation.  Actually, he received all of the
information about it because it fell under Bureau jurisdiction because of
his assault on a federal agent, and then when we found out that there was a
hallucinogen in the dye used for the tattoo -- both he and I  had recently
gotten tattoos at the same place, that's where I met him," she explained
and smiled at her mother's raised brow, "just a Celtic symbol.  Anyway,
there was a drug in the tattoo dye and so it became, technically, an X-File.

"He mentioned the dye the day after I got back.  He also made some asinine
jokes and sent a few snide comments my way, but really, he seemed fine, if
a little upset.  I mean, I knew he was upset of course, but to the degree
....  I don't know, maybe he hadn't read all of the reports yet.  Maybe he
just hadn't come to the conclusion he had yet."

"Which was?"  Maggie prompted softly.  

Dana raised eyes, red-rimmed but dry, to her mother's.  "That I had had sex
with another man."  She turned away and fell heavily back against the sofa.
 "I knew he was upset, but I  didn't realize how much it would hurt him.

"Mom, he thought I betrayed him.  And I did, even if I didn't sleep with Ed
Jerse.  I thought about it; I was going to and I can dress it up with all
of the excuses I want to -- dissatisfaction with my life, Leonard Betts --
but what it comes down to it:  I was going to cheat, yes *cheat,*" she
repeated emphatically, "on him because I was mad at him and I wanted to
hurt him.

"And now I feel so guilty, despite what he did the other night, I feel
guilty because he couldn't have known why I was so upset.  He couldn't have
known, because I didn't tell him about Leonard Betts.   Still, he didn't
just ask me what happened in Philadelphia.  He came to my apartment and he
was quiet.  He just kept looking at me and I thought, I thought that maybe
what had happened in Philadelphia wasn't such a bad thing after all," she
laughed, a slight hint of hysteria once more entering her tone.  "I thought
we would finally," and then her laughter was gone, only pain and regret
visible on her face, "you know," she finished softly.

"I know."  Maggie nodded.

"But he didn't; we didn't.  Instead, he was cruel;  he yelled at me,
shouting, asking if I'd been with Ed Jerse, although that isn't what he
said," a spark of anger lit within her at the remembrance of his
accusation, his actions that night and her next words came out in an
furious rush.

"The way he acted, the things he said, I was so mad at him.  Because I
thought, what right does he have to ask me?  Get angry with me?  I'm not
his property; I'm not his lover, his wife."  Her voice lost its heat,
softness invading her tone, not of her volition.  "I'm only his partner,
that's all ..." she trailed off at the look on her mother's face.

"I know.  I know it's more than that.  And I know that if he'd slept with
another woman, I'd be furious with him.  I'd -- I'd do what he did."  She
shook her head suddenly.  "No, I wouldn't do what he did, because I'm not
like he is.  I've had love.  I've had trust.  I know that people make
mistakes and it doesn't mean that they no longer trust and they no longer
love.  But he doesn't.  I can see so clearly now that of course he would
act that way.  He would see it as an ultimate betrayal.  A betrayal of our
bond."

She straightened up again.  "Mom, he requested that I be reassigned.  He
left my key, the key I gave him to my apartment, at the office and he told
his landlord to not give me his new key.  He changed the locks, his
numbers.  When I got to work the other day, he'd left some boxes for me to
pack my stuff.  I found out from Skinner about the reassignment.  And now
he's gone, on vacation."

The calmness began to slowly leak from her voice as the cold recitation of
the last two days pounded into her again.  Tears once more began to fall
and the pain surrounded her voice, shrouding her words with its presence.

"I don't know where he is.  I could find out, but what good would it do?
He hates me now.  As much as he loved me, that's how much he hates me now.
I didn't think."

"Dana," her mother began, "if I know anything about Fox, it's that he could
never hate you.  He may think he does right now, but he doesn't.  He does
love you.  And Dana, he --" she broke off, a hint of anger entering her
voice, "-- he has completely overreact --"

"-- No he hasn't, mom.  Not for him.  

She stood up again and turning to her mother, she held out her hands in
supplication, trying to make her understand, but knowing that she never
could.  Her mother didn't know him like she did.  No one did.

"I betrayed him!  I broke his heart!  I gave -- he thinks I gave something
of myself to another man, something that --" She broke off again, her arms
falling to her side.  She closed her eyes and wiped at the wet streaks.
Opening them again, she locked her gaze upon her mother's and took a deep
breath, smiling.

"Mom, I'm sorry. I can't explain this.  I thought I could.  But I can't.
Yes, he's been wrong.  What he's done in the last couple of days is
inexcusable, but what I did to him began this whole thing.  I should have
told him about Leonard Betts, but I didn't.

"I shouldn't have spoken more than two words to Ed Jerse, but I did.   I
was wrong.  Now, I just have to wait for Mulder to come back.  I just have
to wait and hope that the damage isn't permanent, that he can forgive
himself enough to let me forgive him."

She gave her mother one more strained smile and began to walk out.

"Dana, I don't understand --"

"Mom, I know" she turned around to face her mother, fresh tears staining
her face.  "I need to go home.  I'm sorry I dragged you into this.  I'll be
fine.  I will be fine."

She turned and left, unable to face her mother.  Unable to aleve her worry,
anymore than she'd been able to aleve her own pain.

She stepped outside, resting the back of her head against the front door.
She closed her eyes and a quick, silent prayer came to her mind, a prayer
sent to the God that she had forsaken so often and she found herself
praying as she had never prayed before.



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

Part VII - Memories of a Florida Vacation (R)

F.B.I. Basement, 9:16 a.m.  1 week and 5 days later

He sat at his desk, reading the latest news from the Lone Gunmen.
Apparently there had been sightings of little green men in Seaford,
Delaware.  Not aliens, no, but leprechauns.  The Lone Gunmen said it was
for real, and that just like in those horror movies, these leprechauns were
hacking away.  Somehow, he still doubted it, probably a copycat hoax, he
thought.

That is what she would have said.

But she wasn't here.  And it was so silent.  Silent, not quiet, for quiet
was the two of them working side by side, the slight rustling of her paper
a partner to his.  Her breathing a soft presence in the room with him.  But
she wasn't here and so he sat in solitude and silence.  Deafening silence.
So this was life without Dana Scully, he thought. 

Outwardly, there wasn't much different.  The office had in fact looked very
much the same as he had left it two weeks ago.  A few things were missing
from the table, a few items here and there were gone, but really there
wasn't much to notice.  Yet, there was a change, and like the silence, it
was intangible.  Her perfume, as subtle as it had been, no longer lingered
in the air.  Her presence, her heat no longer surrounded him.  That
unspoken tension evolving between them on a daily basis had dissipated with
her departure.

He missed her.  He tried to tell himself that he didn't, just as he tried
to pretend that he didn't care enough to care that she was out of his life.
 But he did.  He wanted to believe that she missed him too and that she
thought about him as much as had been thinking about her.  But of course,
if she had felt for him as he felt for her, she wouldn't have fucked Mr.
Tattoo Man.

Besides, there had been no notes under his door, no messages on his phone.
If she had really cared, she could have easily gotten his new number from
the phone company.  Obviously she hadn't cared, which was his fault of
course.  How could she still care after his behavior in her apartment?
Because of him, because of his actions, she no longer cared so she hadn't
tried.  

He checked with them himself.  She hadn't tried.  And as much as he wanted
to convince himself that it didn't matter ... it did.  She did.  More than
life itself.  

Life.

He could feel his life slowly draining out of him, day after day.  Second
after second and he felt so empty.  He knew how important she was to him,
he had known since Duane Barry had taken her, but somehow he had thought
that he could live his life without her.  He should have realized that he
couldn't, he was a psychologist, after all.  But he hadn't realized, not
really; he hadn't understood his reaction, he had just reacted.         

Without thought, he had reacted and laid his rage upon her.  He had been so
cruel.   The distance that saved him from his guilt had disappeared midway
through his plane ride.   And the guilt had fought with his dying anger for
a futile battle before guilt won the war.  And remembering that evening in
her apartment, he knew that he would never be able to deal with the
mortification he felt every time he thought of it, of her that night.

And in the following days, stronger than the remorse that came with the way
he had treated her, was the guilt that he savored the feel of her beneath
his hands.  He had replayed the image of a sodden-tee-shirt-clad Dana
Scully with long legs beyond countless times.  He thanked God for his
photographic memory even as he lambasted his demons, his jealousy that had
driven him to such emotional brutality.

Even if she didn't love him, want him and he knew that she did, what he had
done was uncalled for.  Even if she had fucked Ed Jerse, his actions were
unforgivable ... by anyone's standards.  Then to make matters worse, as if
his treatment of her wasn't bad enough, he had just cut her out of his
life, as effectively as he knew how without killing her ... without killing
him.  Yet another blow that was designed to hurt her as deeply as he was
hurting.

And because of it, because of the isolation he had created, he was hurting
now more than ever. She was as much a part of his life now as she ever was,
just not in a corporeal sense.  And so he was dying.  He thought that when
she uttered the words "so what if I did?" that he was dead inside.  Just as
he had thought he was dead inside when he came to the inescapable
conclusion that *his* Scully had fucked Ed Jerse.  He had been wrong the
first time.  He was also wrong the second time.

He wouldn't even hazard to guess that he was dead now.  It was happening in
stages, each one worse than the next.  He woke every morning in
Tallahassee, Florida in a cheap motel, thinking of her, hard for her,
wanting her, dreaming of her.  

He heard her voice.  He smelled her hair, her perfume.   He was lost in the
memory of her, everything about her. He would lay there in a daze,
replaying snippets of conversations they had had.

He had always known that he was attracted to her.  He had always known that
he had cared about her, but until Mr. Tattoo, he hadn't realized that all
of the women he had been remotely involved with since he met Scully (ooh,
count 'em, four, he thought, derisively) had reminded him of Scully in some
way, or had been a replacement for Scully, because he thought he couldn't
have her.

He had ignored the signs of jealousy.  He had ignored the higher
appreciation for the centerfolds and videos when they featured delectable
redheads.  He had never realized until she had fucked Ed Jerse that he had
lusted after her with a rampaging need that he had suppressed and disguised
as lust for other women, desire for other things -- the truth, the answers,
little green men.

He hadn't realized that he loved her.  Loved her in a way he didn't believe
he was possible of loving someone.  Loved her in a way, he hadn't believed
*anyone* was possible of loving someone.  He had never realized until he
had cut her out of his life that he loved her beyond doubt, beyond
reservation, beyond anything he had ever believed in.  

Some psychologist.

He hadn't gone out at all on his vacation.  Ha, vacation, he thought with a
laugh devoid of emotion.  In Florida, he had stayed inside his room all
day, returning to Washington paler and gaunt.  He had rented a VCR and some
porno flicks all featuring redheads on the video jackets.

And he had thought of her.  Scully.  Dana.  He had believed every night
that it would be his last.  No man could possibly live in such pain day
after day, but he had continued to wake up each morning.  Thinking of her,
hard for her, wanting her, dreaming of her.  Loving her and hating her ...
and hating himself even more.  

He also thought of him, Mr. Tattoo, Ed Jerse.  He had actually found
someone that he hated more than himself.  
He had an insane urge to visit Mr. Tattoo in the psycho ward in Philly.
Taunt him and hurt him; make him tell him all the sordid details.  He
wanted to find out from the only source he knew of what Dana Scully looked
like in the throes of ecstasy.  He wanted to ask the pretty boy with the
burnt arm if she was a screamer or if she bit her lip and kept it inside.
He wanted to know whose name she cried out when she came.  He wanted to
know if it was his.   Mulder.  Fox.

Fox, she called him that once.  And he had rebuffed her, made up some lie
about making his parents call him Mulder.  He hadn't wanted her to get too
close or him to get too close to her.  He laughed without humor, only with
pain.  As if the intimacy of his first name could have made them any
closer.  As if the formality of his last name would keep their feelings for
each other at a friendly distance.

Even then, when so many things that would draw them ever more into each
other, had yet to happen ... even then, he'd known how much she could meant
to him.  An d consequently, how much she could hurt him.

Oh, and how she'd hurt him.  He was a dying man, dying in stages without
her.  And he was without her because she had hurt him or he had hurt her.
It was all mixed up in a painful jumble in his mind now.  Only one thought
stood with any clarity.

He missed her.

The shrill cry of the telephone ringing jarred him out of his thoughts.
He stared at it for a moment and then realizing that he was once more back
on the job, he picked up the phone, "Mulder."

"Mulder?"  His heart stopped beating.  He thought he had prepared himself
for her voice; he thought that he was prepared.  He had thought ..., but
no, he couldn't do this; he just couldn't.  He missed her, an anguished
voice interjected.  I miss you, he thought he'd said it aloud, but then he
realized that it was only in his mind and he was grateful because she had
hurt him.  He couldn't tell her.  He wouldn't tell her.  He wouldn't let
her know how much she meant, when he meant nothing at all to her.  Just a
friend.  She wouldn't fuck a friend.  Make me Ed Jerse, he thought.  Then
she'd fuck me.  

A dim memory of anger, pushing through countless layers of guilt, peeked
through.  She'd fucked Mr. Tattoo.

"Agent Scully, does this call pertain to a case you or I are currently
working on?"  He heard the ice in his voice and was relieved to observe
that the soldier still marched on. Helpless and on the fringes, the lover
cried, 'how am I doing this?  How can my voice be so cold?  Why am I not
crying her name?  Why do I not tell her that I miss her, I love her?'

"No, I just --" she broke off.  She sounded lost and he refused to question
why.  If anything she should be bitter and angry because of the way he had
treated her and he had treated her that way because she had hurt him.  She
had betrayed him, broken his heart, destroyed him.  She had fucked Mr.
Tattoo, Pretty Boy, Ed Jerse.  "I just wanted to talk to you, Mulder.
Explain ..."  Her voice trailed off.

"If this has nothing to do with F.B.I. business, then I suggest we," the
lover surged forward, heat lacing the word, remorse breaking his voice, but
the discipline of denial was well-ingrained and quickly he retreated, "we
have no need to continue this conversation."  He hung up and sat silently
for a moment staring at the phone.

He picked up the receiver again, laying it down on his desk.  As if in a
dream, he stood up in one fluid movement and walked over to the door,
locking it.  The tight click snapping into place seemed enormously loud to
him.  He stood stock-still for a moment and leaned his head against the
hard surface, feeling a build-up of tension shuddering through every line
of his body.

He took a ragged breath and backed away from the door and slowly turning,
he returned to his desk.  Shutting his eyes briefly, he then reached out
for the Lone Gunmen's latest dossier detailing homicidal leprechauns and
set it to the side.  He laid shaky hands upon the desk, surveying the now
empty space before him, and then crossing his arms over the surface, he
laid his head down upon them.  And he cried.

He missed her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part VIII - The Contemplation of One Word Not Spoken (R)

F.B.I. Building, Violent Crimes Unit, 8:43 a.m. 33 minutes earlier

She had been caught in a traffic jam on the way to work of all days.  She
had found out from Skinner yesterday that Mulder's first day back from
vacation was today and so she had planned on calling him at 8:00 on the
dot.  She knew he would be there, earlier probably.  How he had managed to
stay away from the X-Files for two weeks was a mystery to her and that
scared her.

The Mulder she knew would not have been able to stay away for two weeks,
but this one had.  She didn't know him; just as she hadn't known the Mulder
who had unnerved and excited and angered her in her apartment two weeks ago.  

As she sat there at her desk, staring at her silent telephone, her mind
cried out in anguish, how she wanted that moment back; a plea she had made
over and over, ad nauseum.  So many things she would have done differently.
 No, just one thing.  She would have said "no."  It was as simple as that.
One word.  She should have said "no."

So what if I did, she thought.  She had said, "so what if I did?"  Implying
that she had, when she had not.  Implying that she had betrayed him, when
she had not.  Implying that she had fucked Ed Jerse, when she had not.
Implying that she did not love Mulder, when she did; implying that he meant
nothing more to her than a friend, her partner, when he meant so much more.

So many implications that would have been eradicated if she had only said
"no."  But she had not, she had said "so what if I did?"  She knew why she
had said it.  She could still recall the anger she had felt that night,
even if she could no longer summon the heat that had accompanied it.  Now,
she could only curse those words.

She shook her head, banishing thoughts of two weeks ago.  Due to the damn
traffic she had just arrived at work minutes earlier and still she hadn't
called him.  She had intended to, and even as her hand remained still, she
imagined that she would have already spoken to him, heard his voice, if she
had been here on time.

Her eyes strayed from the phone to a batch of paperwork that she had pushed
aside yesterday, saving it for today.  She really ought to finish that up
first, she decided.  Besides, he would probably call her before too long.
Yes, the paperwork first and he would call her.  He would call her, she
repeatedly told herself as she reached for the first folder, waiting for
his call.
~~~

Fox Mulder's Apartment, 6:23 p.m.

She stood outside his apartment, the #42 hanging neatly in place.  She
wanted so desperately to just use her key and open the door, but he had
changed the lock.  Just as he had changed his numbers and her position in
the Bureau.

It had taken one week in all to cut her out of his life.  His numbers had
been changed in only a couple of hours.  His lock had taken at least one
day.  She had come by two days after that night in her apartment and his
manager had informed her that he could not give her the new key.  Mulder
had deliberately given instructions that his *former* partner, Dana Scully,
not be given one.

She had been tight-lipped, trying to smile, trying to not show her
embarrassment.  Mr. Mardin had worn the same look of sympathy on his face
that Skinner had, it was a look she already despised.  She had seen it on
the faces of several people at the Bureau this last week.  

Being consigned to the basement had kept her out of the usual FBI gossip
mill for so long that she had forgotten how quickly word got around.  Just
about everyone knew that she was no longer assigned to The X-Files and that
Mulder had requested the reassignment.  She had heard the phrase "lover's
quarrel" so many times, that if she heard it once more she would scream.        

One day it had taken to cut her out of his personal life, while it had
taken a whole week before she was assigned to another department.  It was a
week she would never forget, a week that she had spent alone in her
apartment, with the exception of a visit to her mother two days after he'd
left.  That visit hadn't helped as she had hoped it would.  

No one, not even her mother, could assuage this pain, no one that is, but
Mulder, so she had unplugged the phone.  His landlord had told her that he
was on vacation, so she didn't need to answer it or the door.  He wouldn't
call; he wouldn't show up.

She wanted him to, needed him to.  After that evening in Philadelphia, she
had known that she loved him, but the extent of that love, the power his
mere presence had over her was something she hadn't realized.  Fox Mulder
was as necessary to her as breathing.  Following the whole Ed Jerse mess
and culminating in Mulder's desertion, she had realized this.

Ed Jerse, she thought of the name, of the man with derision, directed at
herself.  How she wished she'd never met him, never seen him, never spoken
to him.  How she hated him.  She knew it was unfair to blame him for the
situation, he was just the catalyst, not the cause, but hate him she did.
She wondered sometimes who she hated more, Ed Jerse or Fox Mulder?  

She didn't know and she didn't care.  Ed Jerse could go to hell for all she
cared; but Mulder, she just wanted him back.  She wanted to explain to him
that she loved him; that she hadn't fucked Mr. Tattoo and that she had
never betrayed him.  She wondered how she could not have realized that he
would react so violently.  

Mulder, who never trusted anyone, had trusted her completely and she had
forsaken him for another man.  And that made her feel sick.  It made her
feel worthy of his dismissal.  Memories of his behavior and her anger that
had followed had retreated to some distant corner of her soul, the
devastation his departure had wrecked on her life claimed all of her
emotion.  There was no room for anything else other than her loss and her
guilt.

And she did feel guilty.  She had not fucked Ed Jerse, but she had gone to
his apartment intending to do so.  And because of her lack of explanation
following the incident, because of her "so what if I did?" Mulder believed
that she had gone through with it, and that is what had dictated his
actions.  The morning after, she'd found his treatment of her unforgivable,
but now, she just couldn't find it anywhere inside of her to care.

Nothing at all seemed to have importance in her life anymore.  Even the
threat of cancer no longer seemed to matter, how could it?  She was dying
already, slowly, bit by bit, day by day without him.  She missed his voice
... his eyes ... his smile.  

She missed the way he hovered over her.  She missed his hand on the small
of her back, hated that her last memory of it was a reminder of how much
more comfortable and right his hand had felt instead of Ed Jerse's.

She missed him.

She loved him.  And she found that she needed him much more than she could
have ever imagined.  And this she found painfully funny: the thought, that
she, Scully, was the needy one.  Mulder was the one who needed her, the one
who always fell apart when something happened to her.  She'd remembered the
look on his face, in his eyes, after pulling the trigger countless times
over Robert Modell's body and his near-emotional suicide at what he'd
almost done.

She'd thought of Missy's descriptions -- darkness his constant companion --
and her mother's -- lack of hunger prompting forced dinner invitations,
dark circles under his eyes detailing lack of sleep -- of his attitude
after Duane Barry had taken her.  She knew that Mulder's behavior during
the period that she'd been missing had been the catalyst for the rumors
about the two of them.

Flipping through her memory, there were many moments, many tell-tale signs
that, without her, Fox Mulder was a complete basketcase.  She never would
have guessed that the same was so for her, but look at her now.  He was
gone and she could barely function.  It was funny, but oddly, she did not
find herself laughing, only crying.  She had cried more in the last two
weeks than she had in the rest of her life combined.  God, how she needed
him, and yet it was more than just that.

It was that he had chosen to leave her.  He had walked away from her
deliberately and that is what she could not handle.  If, God forbid, he had
died or been taken from her as she had from him, she truly believed that
she would be able to deal with it.  She could be strong, she would go on.
True, a part of her would die with him, be with him always, but she would
be able to live the daily, day-to-day functions of life.  She would
continue to work in the X-Files and she would find out what had happened to
his sister.

That is who she was.  That is the person her parents had raised.  But, and
that is where the punchline resided, in the but ... but, he had walked
away.  He no longer needed her and that is what she *could not* deal with.
Quite simply, Dana needed Fox Mulder and all of his foibles and flaws,
dreams and heartbreaks, to need her.

And he did not.

If he had, he would not, could not, have walked away from her as he had
done.  So she sat in her apartment trying to contemplate her existence
without him in her life and she found that she could not.  

She had been reassigned and was working in, of all places, Violent Crimes.
Apparently they figured that Mulder's genius had rubbed off on her.  Her
new partner, her mind blanched at the word, was an older agent, Johnnie
Donat.  He was married, almost 15 years and had three kids.  He was nice,
very fatherly and was nothing like Mulder for which she would be forever
grateful.  She could not have handled any reminder of Mulder from this new
(her mind wanted to shy away from the word, ignore its reality) partner.
He was a man.  He was an agent.  The similarities ended there.  

She had thought that work would help keep her mind off of Mulder.  She was
wrong; nothing kept him out of her thoughts.  She found herself dreaming of
him, thinking of what he would say about the most recent events in her
life.  She decided that she would have told him about Leonard Betts, let
him know about the cancer.  She could even imagine his reactions.

There would be fear and denial, plus guilt for his past and most recent
transgressions.  But there would also be love and the desire to protect.
He would then understand Philadelphia.  And although he would be ashamed
and reeling because of his behavior that night, he would even put aside
that guilt -- his favorite companion -- to be there for her, to just be by
her side.

She pictured lighter moments as well, unburdened by Ed Jerse or Leonard
Betts.  She made up suggestive remarks for him, imagining the warm glint in
his eyes, the low, seductive murmur of his voice.  She thought of insane
theories for the mundane case she and Agent Donat were working on.  

She found herself running an internal conversation between the two of them;
it was funny, she swore that she could hear his voice and she just knew
that he was saying in her head exactly what he would say if he were
actually there with her.  Which he was not.

She missed him.

And that is why she was here, at his apartment.  He hadn't called her this
morning.  She had glanced at the phone so many times, hoping it would ring,
hoping he would call her and simply take the move out of her hands.  But he
had not, so before the clock hit  9:18 she had discovered that she couldn't
wait for him to never call her.  

She had called him.

She had heard his voice and it had taken every ounce of strength she
possessed to not dissolve into tears at the sound.  It had frightened her,
the power his voice alone had over her.

In that second, in-between hearing his "Mulder" and her response, her soul
had returned to life.  The husky timbre of his voice, a quality that spoke
of disuse, lit something within her.  A spark, a flame consumed her entire
being as a flush enveloped her and she felt her face grow hot, her eyes
widen, her lips curve in a smile.  

She said his name and joy suffused her body.  And then he spoke again and
the deadness chilled her.  It was as she had feared, his guilt -- raging at
a level of self-torment, and his anger -- muted but still palpable, had
taken hold.  She wondered even as she responded to his impersonal tone, her
voice trailing off into an aching void, if she should have tracked him
down, gotten to him before it had gone this far.

Then he'd said "we," one word combining, joining the two of them together
and she knew that she could still reach him ... with her own pain, her
guilt, and maybe even her now dormant anger.    

And that is why she was here, outside his apartment, about to knock on his
door.  She knew he had to be here, his car was here, so he must be.   She
would see him and she felt a blooming joy within her, but it was muted by
her fear; fear that her actions in Philadelphia, inexplicable to him, had
damaged the core of him.

Mulder did not give his trust lightly and he felt that she had betrayed
that trust -- as mistaken and as unjust as it was, that is what he
believed.  She would have to deal with that and she was afraid that he had
stewed in that belief and his own culpability for too long.  She had to
break through the wall she knew that he had erected, out of his anger and
his guilt.

So here she was, standing outside his apartment, but she was afraid ... she
feared that the wall was nearly impenetrable by now and so she just stood
there, contemplating her life without him once again, instead of knocking
on the door.

But she missed him, so finally she knocked.
She heard his footsteps, his voice calling out.  She prepared herself to
push open the door right away, get in before he could shut her out again.
She refused to let him do this to her.  It was her life, too.

*His life is mine.  And my life is his.*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part IX (1/2) -  The Sound, The Feel of Breathing (NC-17)

Fox Mulder's Apartment, 6:26 p.m.

He walked to the door, wondering who it was.  Immediately his mind froze on
a picture of her.  He stopped.  If it was her ... he wouldn't open the
door.  He would ask who it was.  But if it was her, if he knew for sure, he
would have no excuse to open the door.  He would have no excuse to see her.
 And if he didn't see her, knowing that there was the possibility that he
could, he would finally do what he had been contemplating since he realized
that she had fucked Ed Jerse.

He would pick up his gun and put it where it was always meant to be put.
From that first day when they had handed it to him, a part of him had known
it belonged safely in his mouth where it could do damage to no one else.
And if it was her and if he didn't at least see her for a moment, that
would be it.

I'll just open it a little, he thought, he would catch a quick glimpse and
then he would slam the door.  But he had to see her face.  He had to know
why she was here, if it was because she hated him for the way he'd treated
her, or because she still loved him in spite of it.

And then he would shut the door, ignore her pleas ... if she pleaded.

He reached for the knob, waited for the eternity of a second and then he
opened the door.  She barreled in before he even got his glimpse.  She
moved past him so quickly, his reflexes were slow.  The door slammed shut,
he'd been so ready and he hadn't been fast enough.  

He feasted his eyes upon her, unable to do anything else.  She stood in his
living room and he felt the heart he had forsaken two weeks ago would break
at the sight of her.  He had lived for two weeks on memories of her face,
her hair, her eyes, the lips he had never noticed, the curve of her
breasts, her waist, her legs.  And here she was now, in the flesh.  His
knees felt weak.  He leaned against the archway of the living room, unable
to take another step.  He could only stare at her, trying to re-memorize
everything about her.

Her face was pale, paler than he remembered.  Her eyes were bloodshot as if
she'd been crying.  A lot.  Her lids were puffy, actually her whole face
was slightly puffy.  Her cheeks were red; her lips were pale, vivid teeth
marks standing out on their curve.

She was dressed neatly, as impeccably as usual, but her clothes seemed a
little loose.  Just slightly.  Her make-up was scant, fading already.  And
her eyes .... Her eyes were as dead as his had appeared every time he
looked in the mirror.  The beautiful bright blue of his Scully's eyes was
gone.  Her eyes were gray, muted, not a spark of joy in their depths, a
spark of anything.  He couldn't remember ever seeing her look this bad,
aside from the sight of her in the hospital after Duane Barry had abducted
her.

And as he looked at her, unbidden and unwanted came the picture of Ed
Jerse, followed with aching swiftness by a memory he'd created out of his
guilt and his anger.  His Scully fucking that man.

So when he found his voice, the words that emerged were not those he'd
practiced for when he would get up the courage to her again.  He did not
fall down before her on his knees and beg for forgiveness for he could not
get the image of his Scully and that fucking Ed Jerse out of his mind.  And
so the cruel stranger from her apartment returned.

"Are you happy?  Was fucking Ed Jerse worth it?"  He found strength from
somewhere.  He pulled away from the doorjamb, his voice stronger, rising
with a passion and anger he didn't know he was still capable of feeling.
"Was fucking him worth it?  I hope the pretty boy was worth it, Scully!"
He was yelling now, walking towards her and in the recesses of his mind he
noted the way her face paled even more, the way her eyes widened and her
lips moved in wordless denial.
He stopped.  Denial, he thought, she's shaking her head.  There is dismay,
but there is no shock in that negative shake of her head ... she is in
denial.  His heart stopped and he opened his mouth to speak, but words
escaped him.  She was mouthing the word "no."  And then she spoke, her
hands reaching out to him.  

"No, no, no, no," she repeated over and over again; her voice was low, a
mumbled elegy of denial.  She moved towards him, one more step and she
would reach him; she would touch him.  He couldn't let her do that.  He
side-stepped her and she stopped, her hands falling to her side.  And then
she said something other than "no."  

"I didn't -- I didn't fuck him, Mulder.  I didn't even sleep with him.  I
kissed him once.  And I felt nothing.  I just wanted you.  I wanted you.  I
wanted to be with you.  I didn't betray--" she stopped speaking and her
eyes filled with tears.  She bowed her head for a moment and he took a step
forward.  She looked back up at him at the sound of the creaking floor.
His gaze was locked on hers and in them he knew lay disbelief and shock,
plus a desire to take every word that she was saying and hold them close to
his heart forever.  But he was afraid ... afraid that he was wrong, afraid
that he was hearing only what he wanted to hear.

With her words, she refuted carnal knowledge of Ed Jerse and offered
forgiveness and her love to him.  It was too close to what he had wanted to
hear from her since he'd read those damn reports.

He wanted to believe.  But he was afraid.

She must have seen that. She must have known that even as she laid bare her
heart, her soul for him; even as she opened up all of her pain and
suffering for him to see, he still doubted her.  And Dana Scully must have
decided that it was time for him to see more of what she'd been through.

The anger that he'd been expecting alongside the grief at last decided to
make an appearance and it did so with a vengeance.  There was a narrowing
of her eyes and then fire consumed the blue, becoming a bright flame.  Her
gaze seemed to burn right through him.  He saw rage in their depths ,
partnered with the suffering still clearly evident.  

He retreated back a step, then two.  Her whole body seemed to radiate with
furious anguish, steaming, throwing off waves of heated wrath and her small
frame shook with emotions he'd never seen her express.

"You bastard," she hissed softly.  "You are such," her voice broke
slightly, a sob building in her throat, "a selfish bastard.  Do you have
any idea," she paused again, taking a deep breath, her voice rose in volume
until she was yelling, screaming at him, "any idea at all of what you've
put me through?!"  

He jumped back another step, shock taking over any other emotion he was
feeling.  He couldn't answer her, because he had no answer.  There was no
excuse for what he had done.  

Her eyes were blazing even brighter and her cheeks were bright red.  She
took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them.  "You
son-of-a-bitch," she cried in anguished rage.  Her fists pounded
ineffectually against his chest.  They made little impact physically, but
emotionally he felt as she were beating him to death.  In all the time he
had known her, she had never gotten truly angry with him.  She had raised
her voice, but in frustration more than anger.  

However, this was a Dana Scully in full fury and he didn't know how to
respond, for he knew bone-deep, as surely as anything he'd ever known in
his miserable life, that he deserved her wrath.  He deserved much more than
she could ever deliver.  The only punishment that could even come close
would be her walking away from him completely.

He felt a wave of desolation sweep over him then as he realized that that
is exactly what he had done to her ... the most damning thing that he could
ever imagine her doing to him, he had done to her.  The sound of her tears,
her muttered cries of anger, the feel of her fists faded into the
nothingness that he was sucked into.  My god, he thought, what have I done?
 He looked down at her, Scully, his mind screamed in guilty remorse.

He reached out for her, grabbing her wrists. She tried to pull away with
little success while tears streamed unchecked down her face.  Her words
once more became coherent.

"You left me that damn key and I had to sit in," her voice rose in a bitter
wail, "Skinner's office with no clue because you're too much of a," and now
her voice was a shout, filled with recrimination, "chicken-shit coward! to
ask me if I fucked some stranger in Philadelphia."  She tried to pull her
fists away again, wanting to hit him.  He released them, and she pulled
back, delivering a stinging slap to his face.

"All week long I've had to deal with curious looks and snide questions,"
she cried.  "Do you have any idea how many times I've heard 'figured you'd
get tired of Spooky first.'  God, I hate you so much!" she screamed as she
slapped him again, beating at his chest, his shoulders once more.  "I hate
you, I hate you, I hate --" her voice faded into to tears and emptiness as
she sagged against him, dissolving into wrenching sobs.  He wanted to wrap
his arms around her, comfort her -- although he was the cause of her pain
-- but she collapsed, falling down to the floor before him.  Her first
words rushed through his head with an echo and he fell to his knees next to
her.

"I didn't, I didn't, I didn't fuck him, I didn't fuck him, I wanted you, I
wanted you, I wanted you ..."  He closed his eyes, feeling sick, wanting to
throw himself off of a cliff, blow his brains out, fall prostrate before
her, begging, pleading .... She was crying heavily, her shoulders shaking.
He stared at her, her cries battering at him, but they sounded far away.
He stared at her and could not wrap his mind around the guilt coursing
through him.

In the last two weeks, he'd been unable to comprehend, let alone deal with
his actions towards her.  He'd thought that she had fucked Ed Jerse and
that had been his excuse, his answer whenever he tried to justify his
behavior.  But now ... she had not; she hadn't fucked him and he deserved
to die, worse than that, he deserved an eternity of punishment for his crime.

When he'd believed she betrayed him, the guilt had eaten at him because
nothing she'd done, nothing she could ever do, could justify his actions;
but to know her innocence ....  Now that he knew, something he should have
known, something he should have just asked her, he felt as if he'd been
dealt a mortal blow.  

As if reading his thoughts, she whispered brokenly, "God damn you, Mulder,
not everything is about you.  This is about me.  This is about us."

She raised her head and their eyes met and he reached for her, his eyes
pleading with words that would never be enough; begging for forgiveness,
absolution, knowing that he didn't deserve it.  He never would.

Somewhere the God that he no longer believed in must have been watching for
she reached for him as well, allowing their hands to meet, one hand
touching his, the other upon his face.   Her finger brushed against his wet
cheek and only then did he realize that he was crying, silent tears, as
silent as hers had not been.  She laid a second finger next to the first
and then another and then her whole hand was cupping his face and she was
leaning towards him.  He didn't think, he couldn't; he just reacted.
         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part IX (2/2) - The Sound, The Feel of Breathing (NC-17)

He reached out, wrapping his arms around her, dragging her body to his.
His mouth found hers, her lips opened beneath his and her lips ... her lips
were so soft, so full, so lush, so perfect.  Hungrily, he devoured her,
wanting to never let go.  His lips curved over hers, he sucked on her upper
lip, his tongue slid into her mouth, exploring her, tasting her.  

Her hands went around his head, applying pressure.  She was tugging his
hair, pulling him, pushing him, trying to draw him into her just as he was
trying to draw her into him.  Blood was rushing through him but he didn't
know what it meant.  He heard thunder in his ears and he didn't know what
that meant either.  He didn't care; it didn't matter.  His heart began
contracting and he could feel the blood pumping in and out.  

He tasted her, his hands clutched at her, never wanting to let her go.  He
felt dizzy, light-headed.  And then she pulled away; her mouth was gone,
her tongue, her teeth separate from him.  He didn't understand.  She was
breathing, breathing so heavily, her breaths coming in hard, fast gulps.
She was so loud, her breathing was so loud.  He could feel her breath
whispering against his face.

And then he understood.  They were both breathing, in unison; she had
pulled away because she needed air.  They needed air.  She wasn't leaving
him, she was still here.  He reached for her again, his mouth descending on
hers.  He didn't need much air, all he needed was Scully.  His Scully.  He
released one hand, letting it fall behind him.  He pulled her up more
firmly against him, falling back.  It was awkward, but she came with him.
And then he was on the floor, shielding her soft body from the hard floor.

He pulled away from the kiss in short bursts, allowing only as much oxygen
as they needed to survive.  He wound his fingers in her hair, feeling the
red on his fingers.  Her soft, her heat, everything about her flooded
through his body.  She was whimpering, soft sounds emanating from in
between their kisses.  Whimpers became words.  

"Love you.  Sorry.  Love you.  Need you.  Mulder. God.  Mulder. Love you."

He ran his hands down her body, wanting her clothes off, wanting to feel
her, to see her.  He wanted to see what he had only imagined.  He wanted to
see, to touch, to hold, to make love to what
Ed-Fucking-Mr.-Tattoo-Pretty-Boy-Jerse had never seen, had never touched,
had never held, had never made love, could never make love to.

He wanted her.  His Scully.  His.  All his.  Always his.  He needed to look
at her.  He pulled back, his head dropping to the floor with a slight thud.
 The faint pain was distant, he didn't feel it.  It didn't matter.  Her
lips followed his descent, she wouldn't let go.  He moved his hands up from
her waist, he held her shoulders and slightly pulled.

Her lips left his with an audible pop.  She looked devastated and began to
lean in again; he put a hand over her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips.
 So soft, so full, so lush, he thought.  So Scully.  He could feel her
breath whispering against his touch.  He gloried in the feeling.

"Mulder," she cried, his name muffled against his fingers.  "I'm sor-"  He
shook his head, interrupting her.

"I just need to look at you."  His voice sounded hoarse but it didn't
matter.  He looked at her and she was beautiful, more beautiful than he
could possibly have ever imagined.  He ran his fingers over her face,
outlining her nose, her eyebrows, her cheekbones.  He ran one finger as
softly, as tenderly as he could over her eyelashes, her eyelids.  A sigh
fluttered from her lips.  Her eyes, their gray -- their ugly, awful gray --
was gone, the vivid beauty of her blue once more shone brightly up at him.  

She was so beautiful, he kept repeating in awe over and over again in his
mind.  Suddenly he sat up and she slid down his body, her eyes widening.
She clutched his shirt, her legs now wrapped about him on either side.  He
once more wrapped his hands about her waist and he stood up, pulling her
with him, her legs fell from around him, landing on the floor with a soft tap.

He stood silent, just gazing down at her, marveling still at her perfection.  

"I want to look at you," he whispered again.

She understood and shrugged off her coat.  He reached for her, his fingers
carefully undoing the first two buttons and then he met her eyes and he
grasped the opening of her shirt with both hands and yanked hard.  Faux
pearl buttons went flying across the room.  His eyes followed the distance
of a few of them.  He laughed, a sound of pure joy, it was an emotion he
had forgotten how to feel.  She began to giggle.  His eyes met hers again
and her laughter died the same time his did.  

He pulled her to him, lifting her up.  He felt the lace of her bra, a
flimsy one again, her nipples were hard, pressing into his shirt.  He
snaked his hand underneath her shirt, running his hand over her back,
feeling the skin, as soft as satin.  He kissed her; she kissed him back,
wounding her arms about his neck and wrapping her legs about his hips.  His
hand drifted down to the curve of her derriere and he pulled her up more
firmly against him.  He forgot to breathe again.  He pulled away, stumbling
a bit.

"Scully," he breathed her name, gasped it as a dying man cries out his last
word.  He set her down, grabbed her hand; held her face, kissed her once
more, a short, passionate burst of energy exploding between them.  He
looked at her as the kiss broke and could feel the grin spreading across
his face.  

He pulled his tee-shirt off then reached for her again.  She swayed against
him, her hands exploring his chest, his back.  She pushed at him and he
fell away from her, towards the sofa.  Landing with a soft thud, he still
held her hand and so he pulled slightly.  She moved between his knees, her
shirt hanging on either side of, her breasts hidden only the white lace.
He reached up with his free hand and tugged at the white rose nestled
between her breasts.  The bra remained securely in place so he tugged
harder, the grin spreading wider across his face as she fell against him
slightly.

"Mulder," she purred his name and tugging her hand free, she reached behind
her as he leaned up and pulled her shirt off her shoulders.  She undid the
clasp and her bra fell, landing on his spread legs while her shirt went
unnoticed to the floor.  He breathed in the sight of her.   His hands
skimmed along her arms, dropped to her hands and after a moment's clasp, he
released them.

He reached up, capturing her breasts.  She leaned into his touch and as his
fingers circled their tips, he gloried in the soft weight held within his
hands.  It was too much.  He wound his arms about her back and pulled her
roughly against him.

A gasp escaped his mouth, a cry from hers, when her naked flesh met his.
He had a moment only to categorize another new Scully sound and feel.  He
kissed her.  He had decided that he could live forever like this, just
holding his Scully in his arms, feeling her nakedness against his, kissing
her lips.  Tasting her.  Breathing her.  Listening to the sound of her
breath.  Feeling the touch of her breath on his skin.

As the thought passed through his mind, his body demanded more.  Her hand
brushed along the front of his jeans, her fingers found the snap, the
zipper.  She pulled away from him slightly, her breath lingering on his
lips.  Her eyes stared into his and he wondered that he could ever have
thought her capable of hurting him, of betraying him.  He was a fool.

She reached out a tender finger, running alongside his face.

"No more," she whispered with a soft smile, accurately reading his mind.
She slid down, kneeling between his knees.  She pulled his throbbing cock
out from his boxer shorts, her eyes never leaving his.  He bumped the sight
before him to the top of his list of the perfect moments in his life.  Her
fingers encircled him, her pinkie dancing along his head.  She lowered her
eyes and began to dip her head towards him.

He reached out, one hand cupping her face, the other curving around her
arm, about her back.  She looked at him in question.  He shook his head, he
couldn't speak, he needed her too much, too badly, too now.  He jerked her
up, pulling her flush against him once more.  She leaned over him, kissing
him, her tongue dipping into his mouth as she opened herself to him
completely.  

He ran his hands up her thighs, under her skirt.  He tugged at the
waistband of her nylons, her underwear, pulling them down in one, long
movement.   She broke from the kiss and bending slightly, her hands helped
him.  He sent a rueful smile her way when her nylons snagged on her heels
as she tried to step out of the clothing.

She laughed throatily and leaned back slightly as he stood up and turning
her a little, her back now facing the sofa, he pushed her down.  Once she
was seated, he removed her shoes, her nylons, her underwear.   And again he
ran his hands under her skirt, an urgency roughening his movements a bit.
He pushed her back against the cushions, leaning over her, laying down upon
her carefully.

Her eyes were locked on his.  Trust.  Love.  Acceptance and joy centered in
their gaze.  Her eyes were bright blue, a slight sheen of liquid still
glistening at their corners but now she looked happy.

He raised a hand, cupping her face, bending down for a kiss.  His lips
touched her and she grabbed him, once again opening herself to him
completely.  She spread her legs, wrapping them about him.  His fingers
explored her inner folds, she arched her back slightly, her breasts pushing
into his chest.

He dipped his tongue inside her mouth as he entered her.  She stiffened,
pulling from his kiss and her eyes were wide.  "My God, Mulder," she cried.
 She clutched him closer as he moved within her.  

He tried to stay calm.  He tried to pace himself, make it last, prolong the
moment that had taken forever to come.  He wanted her to remember their
first time as the most magnificent moment of her life, but he couldn't hold
back any longer.

He felt her tightening about him, her muscles contracting.  He felt her
breasts against his chest, her breath against his face.  Everything about
her meaning everything to him and he just couldn't; he couldn't hold back,
one second, one moment longer.  He moved within her, faster and harder and
she was crying, crying his name, crying God's name, crying incoherent words
of love.

She was with him.  He could feel her on the edge right with him.  He
smiled, they would go over together.  He pulled almost completely out of
her, it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, and then with one final,
powerful thrust slid fully inside of her, bursting.

"Mulder!" she screamed.

She screamed his name, he murmured hers in a whisper.  She was crying, her
arms wrapped about him.  She rained kisses on his shoulders, his throat
before he pulled her to him, cupping her face in his hands and he kissed
her with what little energy he had left inside of him.  And once more, he
forgot to breathe.
        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part X -  The Importance of Understanding (NC-17)

Fox Mulder's Apartment, 7:08 p.m.

He was heavy.

For some reason, that was the only thought she could summon.  Fox Mulder
was heavy.  She wanted to laugh.  She knew he was heavy because he was
laying on top of her and then she was happy because she had finally leaped
to another thought past the one observing that he was heavy.

He was heavy and he was lying on top of her.  Somewhere in the depths of
her joy she was able to make another connection.  He was lying on top of
her because he had just made love to her.

She did laugh then.

She had never thought anything more wonderful than that last thought.  She
liked it so much, she repeated it.  Fox Mulder has just made love to me.
Again, her mind playfully demanded, Fox Mulder has just made love to me.

He nuzzled the side of her neck and she felt his breath and then his lips
on her skin.  She laughed again.  When he raised his head and looked at her
she was delighted to make another observation:  Fox Mulder's eyes were
incredibly, intensely green after he made love to her.

"I love you," he murmured and she wanted to cry.  He reached out a finger,
running it along her face.  She noticed then that she was already crying.

"One more," she whispered.

He must have thought she said "once more," because he told her that he
loved her again.  She didn't mind that he had misunderstood her.  If every
misunderstanding led him to saying "I love you," she would be a very happy
woman.  Of course, she was already a very happy woman because she had
discovered that Fox Mulder was heavy.

"You're heavy," she whispered and her voice was filled with indescribable
joy.  Her heart was singing with the purity of a choir of angels.  She
giggled at the absurd romanticism of her thoughts, happy that she had made
yet another observation ... Fox Mulder's lovemaking had the power to turn
her into a mushy romantic.

"Sorry," he murmured and began to move off of her.   At first she thought
he was apologizing for bringing on her 'choir of angels' smaltz, but then
she realized that he saw her "you're heavy" comment as a complaint.  She
clutched at him, not as thrilled with this misunderstanding.

"Don't move.  I like it.  I was just making an observation," she paused and
said with the utmost sincerity, "it was my first one."

He looked confused.  "First what?"

She smiled, her face lighting up, "never mind.  I love you, too."  Her eyes
dropped and she suddenly wished she hadn't said that.  Her mind began
making other connections.  She had first realized that she loved him when
she was in Philadelphia.  She had betrayed him, she had almost betrayed him
in Philadelphia.

She looked back up at him, needing to explain, needing to tell him
everything.  If she didn't tell him now, before things went further, she
never would.  It would always be there between them and he would always
wonder why she had done what she had done.  He would always wonder why she
had said "so what if I did?" instead of "no."  

She had to tell him now, because after now, she never wanted to think of
the last two weeks again; the last two weeks before he had made love to
her, of course.  The thought, that precious thought, made her smile once
more.  

She repeated it in her mind, Fox Mulder has just made love to me.  She
found that she liked it even more than the first couple of times she had
thought it.  She said it aloud.

"Fox Mulder has just made love to me."  It sounded so good that she said it
again, "Fox Mulder has just made love to me."

"Scully," Fox Mulder broke into her joyful musings.  "Fox Mulder is right
here."

She grinned up at him, "I know."  She wanted to kiss him again.  She wanted
him to make love to her again, but if she kissed him, if he made love to
her again, they wouldn't talk.  They wouldn't talk about what happened.
And they had to.

"Mulder, you have to get up now."  Her voice was suddenly serious.

"You just said not to move," he protested with a light laugh, but he did
get up, fumbling a little as he had to maneuver around the jeans and boxers
bunched about his knees.  He sat up, pulling her legs over his.  He slipped
off the rest of his clothing and she wriggled her body at him, indicating
her skirt.  He took the hint and pulled that off as well. 

She lay there for a moment, enjoying the feel of his eyes on her.  His
eyes, she loved his eyes, which were turning a darker shade of green even
as he looked at her.  She drew her legs off of his lap and turned to the
side, sitting up.  She ignored the noticeable disappointment on his face.

"Mulder, we have to talk.  We have to."

The disappointment on his face deepened.  "I don't want to" he said in that
little boy voice that should irritate the hell out of her after all these
years, but she loved it.  She loved him.

"We have to," she repeated.  "I need you to know why I -- what happened."

He glanced at her, looking as contrite as she'd ever seen him.  "Scully
..." he let her name linger in the air, "there is nothing to explain.  The
only thing I need to know," he paused, obviously searching for the right
words, "is that you can forgive me for that night in your apartment."

She opened her mouth to speak but he reached over, pressing a finger to her
lips.  "Even if you had," he swallowed deeply, his eyes shutting briefly,
"slept with him, there is no excuse for how I behaved.  I --" he broke off,
unable to meet her gaze.  When he once again looked at her, the shackles of
guilt weighed heavily in his eyes.

"God, Scully, I just went crazy.  I couldn't deal with the thought of you
with another man.  
I just couldn't --"

"-- Mulder," she interrupted, his name on her lips was a gentle sigh.

"Scully," he reached out again, cupping the side of her face with the palm
of his hand.  "Scully, I was --" he broke off with a harsh laugh, dropping
his hand.  "I am an unimaginable bastard.  I am a cowardly, chicken-shit,
son-of-a-bitch."

She shook her head back and forth.  "I am, " he repeated emphatically.  She
shook her head again, more vehemently, "Mulder, no.  I was angry --"

"-- and you had every right to be and why you're here ... why you still
love me, have ever loved me, is the biggest mystery of my life."

"Listen to me," she cried as he looked away.  "Listen to me!" she repeated
insistently, "yes, what you did was wrong, but --, Mulder, look at me."  He
raised his head, the bleakness in his eyes tearing at her heart.

She would not let him take all of the blame for this; as awful as his
actions were, if she had not shut him out, not gone to Ed Jerse's
apartment, he wouldn't have done what he had.  "Your actions were not
entirely unjustified."  He began to shake his head back and forth.

"No, Mulder, you're doing it again.  You're making this all about you.  And
it's not.  Mulder, it's 
not.  I made the decision to cut you out.  I was restless, I was thinking
about my life because," she paused, debating whether or not to tell him
about Leonard Betts.

She saw in his eyes self-recriminations for the last two weeks.  She knew
that he already blamed himself for her abduction two years ago.  She
honestly did not believe that he could deal with her cancer tonight.  He
could only handle so much before he would self-implode.

She decided that the cancer would have to wait.

"Because," she began again, "because I was in one of my
I-need-to-get-a-life moods.  I blamed you because you were easy to blame,
you were there.  And I knew that no matter what I said you'd shrug it off
and things would be fine."  She shifted and pulled her knees up, wrapping
her arms about them.  She wasn't uncomfortable being naked in front of him,
but she was cold.

He was already reaching over and pulling a blanket from his side of the
sofa.  He leaned over and wrapped it around her form.  She smiled her
thanks and then felt her thankful smile turn to wistful when he picked up
his boxers and pulled them back on.  I have to tell him, she reminded
herself.        

"If you had been with me in Philadelphia on the case, the mood would have
just passed and --"

"-- Scully," he interrupted, "it may have passed then, but it would have
come again and eventually we would be where we are right now.  This is just
sooner than later."

She looked at him and a twinge of irritation piqued at her.  She knew what
had happened better than he, she knew more than he.  This was her tale to
tell.

"Scully?" she gazed at him and he looked so earnest.  He had that little
boy, I-want-to-help look on his face; he looked young and at peace.  That
haunted look that had been in his eyes, hanging about his body like a
shroud since she'd come back from Philadelphia was gone.  He was her Mulder
again, but moreso than ever before.  She suppressed her annoyance; she
loved this man ... flaws and all.  

"That isn't the point," she tried again, hoping this time he would listen.
"I was in Philadelphia alone and I was angry at you because I thought that
you didn't believe I could handle one of your precious X-Files on my own
--"  She winced inwardly at the sneer in her voice as he shot up
indignantly.  She supposed that too much had happened for her to so easily
subdue her anger, her frustration.  She opened her mouth, intending to
soften her last words, but he spoke first.

"-- Scully, I never said that!"  He looked genuinely hurt.

And then she felt genuinely angry, as irrational as it was.  He was, after
all, just being Mulder, but she needed him to listen, really listen to her
and understand why she'd done the things in Philadelphia that she had.

It was more than the threat of cancer; it was the realization that that
threat had brought on:  The realization that she truly had no life outside
the X-Files.  And that is what she needed him to understand and he just
wasn't listening.

"Mulder, sit down," she commanded.  After a moment of shocked silence, he
complied.  "Now, I want you to listen to me.  This is about *me.*  This is
me telling you why I went to another man's apartment."  He winced, but she
ignored it.

"You kept calling me up, checking to make sure that I was doing justice to
your stupid investigation --"

"-- That's what you thought I was doing?" he asked incredulously,
interrupting once again.  

"Mulder!  God damn it,  Just shut up!"  He shut his mouth and then spoke
again anyway.  "Wait, Scully!  I understand --"  he held out a hand,
halting her words.  "I do.  You know why I did what I did and you want me
to understand your actions, but Scully, I can't -- you have to let me
explain.  I missed you.  I just wanted to hear your voice.  I just wanted
to establish some kind of contact so I talked about the case. 

"I would never, ever say or imply or even think that you couldn't handle a
case on your own.  Never!"  He repeated emphatically.

She dropped her eyes from his, the slightest touch of remorse dampening her
anger.  "I didn't realize -- Mulder, don't you see?  I was looking for a
life and all you could talk about was an X-File."

She shook her head slightly.  Why hadn't he just said that, she thought.
Good question, she told herself and looked back up at him.

"Why didn't you just say that?  Why not tell me you missed me?  Just wanted
to hear my voice?"  She asked him, a bittersweet note lacing her words.  "I
never would have thought twice about another man, any man."

He sat back down next to her with a heavy sigh.  "I thought you knew," he
responded softly.

She sighed, remembering her anger, her frustration that he had seemingly
thought so little of her investigative skills.  "Maybe we need to work on
our communication skills," she reflected wryly.         

"I thought you knew," he repeated in a near whisper.

"I guess I didn't."  If she had realized ... if he had told her.  

But he hadn't.

"I thought differently.  And I was mad at you and I had met," she paused
and she had to look away. She couldn't look at him when she said Ed Jerse's
name and she had to say his name.  She refused to give him the importance
of avoidance.  "I had just met Ed Jerse and he asked me out.  I wasn't
really interested but you called.  And you made it so painfully clear how
shocking you found the idea that a man could possibly want me --"

She broke off when Mulder surged to his feet once more, a look of utter
disbelief on his face.  She looked up at him.  "What?"

"When --"  he broke off himself, looking about the room, for what she had
no clue.  "Why --"  He turned to look at her again, more than disbelief in
his eyes, there was also hurt.  "How could you possibly think that I
thought the idea that a man would find you attractive shocking?  That I
wouldn't understand a man asking you out?"  She began to speak, but he cut
her off.  "How?  How, Scully?!"

She stood up herself, wrapping the blanket about her.  "Well, if you would
let me speak ..."

He threw out his arm, gesturing for her to go on.  "Well, thank you," she
muttered sarcastically.   "You asked if I had a date in a tone of voice
clearly implying how unrealistic that sounded.  Then when I didn't say
anything -- when I didn't say anything" she repeated in a louder voice,
cutting him off as he opened his mouth to interrupt again.  "When I didn't
say anything you said, and I remember this clearly, 'you have a *date* ?'
as if you just couldn't believe the actuality of that happening.

"Go on, deny it!  Deny you said that."  

He was quiet for a long moment, a bewildered look on his face.  Finally
when he spoke, there was a weary note in his voice.  "Hell, maybe we
*should* work on those communication skills."  

He looked at her, "I didn't mean it that way."  He fell onto the sofa,
leaning back heavily.  He placed a hand over his eyes and spoke suddenly in
that soft voice of his, low and intimate.

"Dana, I wasn't shocked that another man would be interested in you."  He
lowered his hand, his eyes meeting hers, a plea in their depths.

"I was shocked that *you* would be interested in another man.  We'd never
talked of it, this thing," he gestured to her and then himself, "between
us, but I figured that we had this unspoken deal.  We belonged to each
other.  I just couldn't believe that, after four years of," he smiled
sardonically, "you and me against the world you would suddenly turn to
another man."

He leaned up and captured her hands, pulling her to him.  "Dana," he
crooned her name.  Dana, she thought with an inner sigh.  "It was just me.
 I never meant for you to think ... God, you're beautiful.  You're
wonderful.  Any man ... every man would want you.  I --" he broke off,
pulling her onto his lap and rained kisses on her face.

He met her lips and without thought she kissed him back.  Her arms went
around 
his neck, the blanket falling from her shoulders.  His lips, his beautiful
lips kissed her, his tongue in her mouth, his arms around her.  He was
devouring her, consuming her.  She had no idea where she ended and he
began.  They were two halves of a whole.  It was such a cliche, but so true
in their case.

He pushed her back down on the sofa, his heavy weight falling over her
again, her legs entangling in his.  She felt safe and loved; warm and
wonderful.  He pulled away, trailing kisses down her chin, back up across
her face, over her cheeks.  He gently kissed her eyes and drew back.  She
felt him looking at her, the heat of his gaze burning through her and she
opened her eyes.

He looked at her in silence a moment longer.  "Dana, I just didn't want to
believe that you wanted another man," he paused and licked his lower lip.
She moaned slightly and leaned up. 

"I didn't.  Never.  Only you," she whispered on her way to that lip,
bringing her own tongue to join his on that delectable lower lip.

The meeting of tongues developed into another dance.  She wrapped her arms
tighter around his neck, entwining her fingers in his hair.  She maneuvered
beneath him, wrapping her legs about him and felt the hard heat of him
pressing into her.  She drew her arms away from his head, running her
fingers down his shoulders, along his biceps and triceps.  She moved to his
hips, jerking at his boxers, needing to feel him inside of her again.

He raised himself up fractionally, helping her.  Her fingers closed around
him and she pumped her hand up and down, marveling at the feel of him.
Wanting him.  Loving him.  He was breathing heavily, his hips moving in a
rhythm as old as time.  

"Scully," he breathed her name as she wrapped her legs more tightly around
him and guided him into her.  As he filled her, she once again trembled
with the knowledge of what making love was.  She had had sex before, but
she had never made love.   Not until Fox Mulder.  They truly became joined;
two people becoming one.  He is inside of me, she thought with joyous
amazement, we truly are one being, united in love.

He moved inside of her, taking it slow this time, making it last.  His hand
fell from her face and a moment later, a spark of heat lit inside her as
his finger found the core of her.  As he slowly thrust with infinite care,
building up a wave of pleasure inside her body, he touched her deeply,
intimately; doubling, tripling, multiplying her pleasure.

The thought passed through her mind that it was Fox Mulder inside of her,
Fox Mulder touching her.  The knowledge alone nearly sent her over the
edge.  She clutched at him tighter, moaning his name.  Apparently that was
too much for him, his finger picked up its pace, one more joining in the
fun, he drove deeper into her, harder and faster and deeper and she was
crying and flying and screaming and soaring.

He let out a hoarse cry, falling heavily against her again, the only sound
in the room was their combined breathing.  She was happy to make a new
observation: they were breathing in unison.

He pulled away from her slightly, looking down at her and ran one finger
across her cheek, a tender look in his eyes.  Then he smiled, a mischievous
smile lighting his lips.  He spoke ... in that soft voice; that low,
intimate, husky whisper that never failed to send a multitude of shivers
running through her body.

"Twice in an hour.  Impressive, huh?" he laughed, seemingly amazed and
thrilled with his performance.  She could only join in his laughter and her
eyes were shining when she told him that she loved him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part XI - Never Again (R)

Fox Mulder's Apartment, 7:34 p.m.

He was impressed.  Of course it had been two years, but still ....  He
looked down at the miracle that was Dana Scully and had a pretty good idea
that she was the reason for his repeat performance.

He grinned at her, loving the sound of her laughter.  He reflected for a
moment on the fact that he had only heard this joyous sound from her once
or twice before tonight.  He decided, as she lay there nestled against him,
her slender body shaking with mirth, that he wanted to hear it forever.

"So does this mean you're not impressed?" he asked without a hint of
seriousness.

"Oh, I'm very impressed," she replied, humor dancing around her eyes.  She
laughed again.  Actually this was more a giggle; he decided he liked the
giggle more than the laugh, if that was possible.

He began to move slightly, trying to ease some of his weight off of her.
It took a little maneuvering, and a lot of awkwardness, but they managed.
And she giggled throughout the entire process.  Finally though, he was
laying on the sofa on his back and she was on top of him, curled up in his
embrace.

He was silent for a few moments and she seemed to content to simply bask in
the afterglow of their love.  He shook his head at the absurd romanticism
of his thoughts.

"The afterglow of our love," he drawled under his breath, dragging out the
word 'love.'

"What?" Scully murmured into his throat.  He shook his head in response and
then belatedly added, "nothing."  With a quiet murmur, unintelligible, she
snuggled closer to him, rubbing her nose against his shoulder.  He stared
up at the ceiling thinking of the last couple of hours, the last couple of
weeks.

He still could not completely wrap his mind around everything.  Scully
believing that he had no faith in her investigating ... although if he was
being completely honest with himself (and he was being completely honest),
she hadn't really done her best work in Philly.  At least according to the
reports, she hadn't.

Regardless, she was still the best agent he'd ever worked with.  Of course,
he thought with a sardonic grin, the fact that she was lying deliciously
naked on top of him had absolutely nothing to do with that evaluation.  He
closed his eyes, thinking of the first moment she walked into the basement,
joining the F.B.I.'s most unwanted.

Young and fresh-faced she'd been, a tantalizing combination of intelligence
and innocence alight in her eyes.  After that first meeting when she had
stood equal to him, during that first case when she had put devotion to her
duty above Their agenda, even above her own scientific beliefs, and through
the following years, she had never ceased to amaze him.

No, the fact that her warm, bare body lay so contentedly against his had
nothing to do with his designating her the finest agent he'd ever had the
privilege to catch psychos and their mutant cousins with.  His grin faded
as he reflected on the fact that he had so rarely expressed that sentiment
to her.  I just assumed that she always knew, he thought bitterly.
He glanced down at her, seeing only her mussed red hair and the pale
expanse of her back tapering into the rounded curve of her derriere.  He
began tracing lazy circles down her spine, delighting in the softness of
her skin.

He closed his eyes briefly, baffled anew that she could have ever supposed
that he found her allure to other men in question.  Had he really sounded
that way to her?  It troubled him, adding to the guilt that had been
escalating for the last two weeks, that he had hurt her ... again, and in
so many little (and big, he reminded himself) ways.

He really was a lousy son-of-a-bitch.

As if reading his thoughts, she pulled away and he felt a moment's fear
take hold of him, but she only stretched and yawned noisily.  She looked up
at him, grinning, "sorry."

He shook his head slightly, "I'm sorry."

Her smile faded, "why?"

"I'm just sorry.  Everything that happened, everything I did ... I just
blew it all out of proportion.  What I did to you, cutting you out like
that, if you had done that to me, I would have --" he broke off, knowing
exactly what he would have done and also knowing that she wouldn't want to
hear it.

She shut her eyes, squeezing them tightly together and he felt compelled to
apologize again.

"I'm sorry.  I --" a quick shake of her head held off his words of
contrition.  "I just take you for granted, just assume that you'll always
be here."

She reached up, brushing her lips lightly against his, "I will."

"Scully, I haven't been fair to you."

"Mulder, don't.  It took both of us to create this situation.  You may have
been more complete and methodical about it, but I cut you out before
Philadelphia.

"And," she rushed ahead when he opened his mouth to deny her any blame, "I
didn't exactly give my all in investigating the X-File on my own ..." she
paused, apparently waiting for his interruption, but he was trying to be
honest, so he didn't.

She smiled wryly, "you did read the reports."  

He nodded.  "I did and well ..." he trailed off and she finished for him,
"I didn't do my best."

She was silent for a moment, then she took a deep breath, meeting his eyes.
 "I messed up in Philadelphia.  I never should have gone to his apartment --"

"-- Scully," he interrupted.  "I pushed you into --"  It was her turn to
interrupt.  "No, I pushed myself into it.  I wanted to be bad.  I wanted to
be someone other than the ever proper Dr. Agent Scully.  I wanted to be Dana."

She pushed herself up and looked down at him, that plea for understanding
back in her eyes.  

"But the way I acted, the things I did, the things I said about my father,
about you, that wasn't Dana.  It was no one I knew.  That's why when I woke
up the next morning in his apartment and recalled my behavior the day
before, I honestly didn't know how to act.

"So I did everything wrong, up until that night in my apartment when I said
'so what if I did' instead of 'no.'  Oh, I was angry with you, furious with
the way you treated me, but part of that anger stemmed from my guilt and
confusion at my own behavior."

She lay back down and he didn't know what to say.  He knew what he wanted
to say.  He wanted to ask her why she was still at the pretty boy's
apartment the next morning if she hadn't fucked him.  He'd forgotten that
little detail.

He also wanted to know what she had said about him.

However, he knew that she needed understanding now, not more guilt and/or
anger inducing 
questions.  She needed his absolution just as he had needed and been given
hers.  And so he said nothing, back to square one, not knowing what to say
at all.

When she spoke again, he was thankful for his silence as she obviously
wasn't finished.

"I was wrong.  I just never expected you would react the way you did.  I
should have.  In retrospect, I can't imagine that you would have reacted
any other way, knowing you."  She tucked her head back down, her next words
slightly muffled.

"After he --, when he kissed me I knew that I was trying to be someone I
wasn't.  I didn't know this man, for all I knew he," she paused and let out
a bitterly ironic laugh, "could have been a homicidal maniac."

He tightened his arms around her, truly for the first time realizing the
danger she had been in.  He'd been so concerned with first his jealousy and
then his guilt, that he really hadn't thought of how close to death she'd
come.  Selfish, selfish, selfish, he silently harangued himself.  Always
thinking of yourself, he thought, this whole mess was his fault, well
mostly his fault.  

She deserved so much more, so much better than he could ever be.  But he
was selfish, and indeed, selfish enough to keep her as long as she was
willing to be with him, whether he deserved her or not.  About that, he
knew, he could never be unselfish.  He knew that as long as she remained
here, he would never let go of her again.

"If it hadn't been for the storm I would have gone back to the motel and I
can't even begin to think where things would be now," she interrupted his
thoughts, answering his earlier unspoken question, "But because of the
storm I stayed there and he started crying, telling me the sob story of his
life.  I felt sorry for him, he seemed like just a nice guy down on his
luck and it was terrible outside, so he offered the bed and slept on the
couch.  I should have just left the next morning.  When I woke up, he was
gone, but as I said, I was confused and I didn't want to just disappear, so
I waited for him to return and, well, when he did, I became the unwitting
victim of his psychotic tattoo."

She shook her head, her hair brushing against his skin.  She laughed
lightly, "next time I decide I need to get a life, reel me in, okay?"

He was quiet, waiting to see if she was done, half-hoping she wasn't, as he
searched still for what she needed to hear.  When she remained silent, he
decided that ready or not, it was his turn.

"Scully, it is a nice tattoo you got," he rolled his eyes, imagining that
she was doing the same.  Brilliant, he thought.

"I mean -- damn," he broke off.  "I don't know what to say."  He took a
deep breath.  "Let's try this again, but first, I need to look at you."  He
began to move under her and she sat up.  After some seconds of maneuvering,
they sat side by side, slightly turned to the other.

"Maybe this was bound to happen eventually.  I understand the need for a
life, I really do.  I may have submerged my own need for one, but I do
remember the feelings and if I hadn't been so blind, I would have seen the
signs.
"You were restless and you needed someone willing to listen, to just be
there for you -- one human being to another and I just didn't do that.
What happened, what I did wrong, what you did wrong ... the specifics don't
matter.  The only thing that matters is that we don't forget why it happened.

"And I won't.  Dana," he reached out a hand, curving it about her neck.
"Scully, I won't ever forget.  I will never treat you like that again.  And
I will do my damnedest to listen to you, to be there for you.  I can't
promise that I always will, because we both know what a selfish bastard I
am," she offered a watery smile at his words, agreeing, "but I'll try.  All
of the pain and misunderstanding that led up to tonight will never happen
again.

"Never again.  I swear."

There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling when she nodded.  And in
that smile he saw her understanding, her forgiveness, her love and he
prayed with everything in him, that she saw the same reflected in his eyes.

"I love you," she whispered and he gloried in her words.  He gloried in her
smile, in her lips.  God, her lips, he thought, leaning towards her and
taking those lips once more.  And he was thrilled because he knew now how
their fullness felt beneath his own; filled with joy because the lushness,
the redness, the perfection was all his alone.  She was his. *His* Scully.

"You're mine," he whispered in between kisses.  

Her lips, my god, how he loved her lips; they were full and lush and moist
and he wanted them, wanted to kiss them forever.  He captured her face in
his hands, kissing her.  He was kissing Scully.  Agent Scully.  Dana
Katherine 'I'm-a-medical-doctor' Scully.  This realization hit him with a
thundering force.

She really was his.  She really was here.  He had made love to her.  Twice.
 It wasn't a dream.  It was real; she was real.  Why this was suddenly
hitting him now with such explosive power, he couldn't answer, but there it
was.

He was kissing Scully.

His hands were in her hair and it was soft.  His hands roamed over her
body, soft and yielding.  His lips covered hers, sucking at her upper lip,
tasting her.  She was delicious and sweet.  He wanted to never let her go.
That thought seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn't think; he couldn't
breathe.

She pulled away, laughing in between gasping breaths.

"Mulder, breathing is important," she finally managed to get out.  "You
seem to forget that."

"You're mine," he repeated huskily, a deep urgency filling him.  He needed
her to know this, no more misunderstandings, never again; he needed to know
that she would never look at another man again.  He needed to know that she
knew that she was his, just as surely as he was hers.   "You're mine," he
repeated with more urgency.

Her eyes met his and they were vivid and bright, everything she was.  He
thought of cornflowers and skies and oceans and dreams of heaven.  She
seemed to understand him; to know what he was demanding of her with his claim.

"Yes."

One word.

She said "yes."  And everything was right.  The urgency left him.  She
knew; she understood.  She knew him; she understood what he needed.  She
would never hurt him again and he would never hurt her, not deliberately;
they would never mention fucking Ed Jerse again.  She was his.

"Mine," he whispered, vaguely aware of how possessive he must sound and he
was afraid that she would become angry; she wouldn't want to be his.  But,
his mind argued, as he continued staring into those blue eyes, she knows
me, she understands me.

"Yes, Mulder.  I'm yours."  More tears slid down her face and she leaned
forward, pressing her lips, those perfect lips, against his forehead.  She
pressed a light kiss on each of his eyelids.  She parted her lips, lightly
running her tongue down the bridge of his nose.  He smiled. 

She kissed his cheeks on either side.  Pulling back, she looked him in the
eyes, staring straight into his soul.

"And you are mine," she whispered, sealing her claim softly, but as
possessively as did he.  She leaned forward once more, kissing him and for
a long moment he held onto her.  But this time, he was not afraid to let
go.  He knew she would be there ... always.  

"I love you," he whispered softly, euphoria filling him because he could
say the words to her now.  Now and always.  "I love you so much," he said
again ... just because.

She was his as he was hers.  My life is yours, my life is yours, my life is
yours, ran through his mind, a joyous litany.  He drew away from her lips
and his mind, his soul, his heart were at peace.  And he could breathe.
She was here.  She would always be here, so this time he remembered to
breathe.

The End

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