After Midnight: Almost Paradise

	"Marry me, Scully."

	Mulder is raising my hand, attempting to put the ring on my finger.
With a muttered oath I yank my hand away.

	"Stop it," I snap, wrenching the heavy-carated, expensively
sparkling platinum and gold ring from his fingers. "Don't make this
any harder than it is, Mulder."

	He looks momentarily hurt, but the expression passes so quickly I
know the hurt doesn't run deep. He's pleased. He's pushing. There's
no X-File here as far as he's concerned, and he's ready to play
house.

	I slip the ring on my finger--size five, perfect fit. I wonder how
the people in the Evidence Storage Section knew what size to provide.
Skinner, maybe. Or maybe they guessed. Five is a common size, isn't
it? I just don't want to know if Mulder was involved. At the moment,
watching him slide a gold band on his own finger, if I thought there
was any chance he had something to do with the choice of rings, I'd
probably scream.

	We're dressed to go and he's ready. I can tell. His yuppie-dom
outfit, complete with loafers, navy sweater and pink polo shirt, is
the masculine equivalent of mine--tight, straight skirt and
embroidered sweater, with comfortable blouse and sensible shoes. I
feel ridiculous. I can tell Mulder is intent on making me feel even
more so as he slides his arm around me.

	"Ready to go, honeybun?" he loudly inquires, giving my waist a
familiar squeeze. Everyone within proximity of the FBI Evidence
Storage Section inside the Hoover Building turns to look.

	I elbow him away with a snarl I feel to the tips of my toes and
start down the busy hallway. He hurries after me, sliding his arm
along my shoulders for another try. I shake him off none too gently
and continue toward the elevators.

	"Come on, Scully," he pouts, catching up with me again. "We have to
practice. Don't we?"

	"No. And my name is Lana."

	"Laura."

	I grit my teeth. "Laura, then," I bite out, hating every minute of
this, hating every second that's passed since 9:00 this morning when
Skinner called us into his office and welcomed us back to the X-
Files. Our once and present AD was as close to smiling as I've ever
seen him. Mulder, of course, was nodding and serious like the world
was suddenly right again--except for the case we were given. Routine
disappearance, he called it, and argued for a moment with Skinner. I
don't recall having much of a reaction to any of it, actually--I felt
numb. I still do.

	I'm not sure why.

	I knew the reassignment was coming. It was only a matter of time,
so I certainly should have been prepared. Nearly a month of limbo had
passed since the un-meeting with Spender and our fiasco in Florida.
We'd been keeping busy since that time, looking for the people who
had gone missing since the Syndicate's burning at the hangar. Diana
Fowley, the smoking man, and Spender, whose blood--tests showed--had
somehow ended up on the floor under the desk in his office. No leads,
of course, but that never stopped Mulder from digging and chasing.
With nothing better to do, I went along.

	Nothing was Bureau sanctioned about the Syndicate investigation or
our trip to Florida, and somehow I let myself believe that what
Mulder and I were doing in our off time (what little we were doing)
was nobody's business but our own.

	We'd kissed some since his recovery, indulged in some heavy petting
that led to one or two awkward attempts to repeat the scene in my
kitchen a month ago, with not much success. Mulder is trying not to
push, trying to be understanding. At least he was until this case.
Now I get the feeling I'm in for something I'm not in the mood for,
and I don't think he realizes the danger in that.

	We have yet to talk about our partnership, about the way things
have changed and the way we feel about those changes. We have yet to
talk at all, really, since the night we talked long after midnight,
what seems like forever ago. And that's not good. We're officially
partners again--partners with a new-found carnal knowledge of each
other that I doubt very much the Bureau would appreciate. Given his
behavior in front of the Evidence Storage people, I wonder what
Mulder has in mind.

	The elevator doors slide open. I feel the hint of Mulder's hand at
the base of my spine, an acceptable touch that I'm used to. That I
welcome. If he continues with this and tries nothing more while we're
on this case, we'll do fine. We walk--he's guiding me, and I let him.
I have no idea where he parked this morning--we've spent the last
week apart, and came to work in separate cars. I fold my arms across
my chest and try to fight the sinking feeling in my stomach. We can
get through this, I tell myself. Not a big deal. I'll be calm, and
he'll behave. Keep his hands to himself.

	Right.

	Mulder chirps the alarm. It sounds different. I look up to see the
blink of lights in response and stop in stride, slow shock settling
over me. He hasn't unlocked our familiar Chrysler. I tighten my arms
around my body and swallow hard. My eyes slide closed. Oh, God. A
minivan. He's unlocked a minivan. My stomach rumbles. I think I'm
going to be sick.

	"Come on, Scully," Mulder says, brushing past me to the driver's
side of the nightmare suburban boxcar. "We meet the moving van at LAX
at 2:00 this afternoon. We've got a plane to catch."

	I don't move.

	Mulder opens the driver's door, peers through the windows at me, a
curious expression on his face. "Scully, you okay?"

	I don't answer.

	He starts toward me. "Scully, what--"

	I force myself forward--to the minivan, to the passenger door, and
somehow inside. Smiling, Mulder slides himself in behind the wheel,
turns the key in the ignition and begins to back out. Looking over
his pink polo-shirted shoulder, still smiling. I slowly draw my seat
belt on, just waiting for Mulder to start whistling.

	He does. I close my eyes. I'm going to die. I will die here, I know
it, having to play this part beside a man who is doing his best to
mimic my image of Mike Brady from the Brady Bunch. Why?

	Why is he doing this? Why is he dressed like that? Why did he touch
me that way in front of everyone? And why the hell are we driving a
minivan to the airport when we should be taking our own car? He's
testing me. Pushing. *Shoving* at us from behind his Rob facade, and
I know it. I just don't know what to do about it.
Do I call him on it? He knows how I feel. Why should I have to? Do I
play along, play the part my job requires? I shake my head. There is
no way. No way I'll be able to walk beside Mulder--let him touch me
with such open familiarity--wear this heavy ring on my finger and
*pretend* I feel the things for him I really feel. I'll lose my mind.
Fast.

	He talks to me on the way to the airport, case gibberish that
barely registers. I stare at his wedding ring. We review the file on
the plane (he still doesn't think it's an X-File), we talk about
nothing some more, and meet the moving van right on time at 2:00 pm.
After renting the California version of our D.C. minivan, of course.
My nightmare is nearly complete.

	We begin the drive to the Falls at Arcadia in silence. The traffic
is abominable--fast-paced one minute, bumper to bumper the next,
zipping and stopping and honking all mixed so nicely with that odd LA
haze. We'll spend lots of time in the car this afternoon, I can tell.
Plenty of opportunity to tell Mulder not to take this touchy-feely,
"you're mine" game too far. To warn him, at least. But I don't. He
should know, I tell myself again. I stare out the window, my stomach
in knots.

	"Los Angeles, California," Mulder declares, glancing toward me. I
can see his reflection in the window, the smiling, sun-glassed guy
I'm supposed to be married to. Rob Petrie. Pee-tree. Like the dish.
Or a dog's favorite target. "Don't you just love it here, honey?"

	I shake my head. I don't speak. I can't.

	"LA. Home of the Dodgers. Land of the stars. City of the--"

	I reach over without a word and jab the radio button on. The inside
of the car fills instantly with a loud, bouncy Beach Boys tune. Help
Me Rhonda. Sounds of the '60's. No more Rob. I turn my head and gaze
out the window again, staring at nothing, watching in reflection as
Mulder moves his hand off the steering wheel.
The music disappears with another push of the button. This one
decidedly more gentle than mine.

	"Scully," Mulder says, and it's him. His voice. For some reason I
think I haven't really heard his voice since that morning we stood in
my kitchen, sated and weak-kneed, clinging to each other. My heart
hurts thinking about it. Loving him. Wanting him. Being like this.
Tears fill my eyes. He is looking at me and I fight to maintain.
"What's going on?" he asks me.

	I swallow hard. I will not cry. "Nothing," I choke out. "I'm fine."

	I'm not, and he knows it. And I want him to know why, but how do I
explain? I can't stand this charade. I'm afraid of being a part of
it. It's like playing with fire, edging too close to the "normal
life" I've longed for (minivan not included) though it isn't real at
all. I feel the ring on my finger again, touch it, and think he must
know. I'm so obvious.

	Help me keep this professional, Mulder, I want to beg him. Help me
find a way to make it all fit together, so I don't feel miserable and
alone even when you're beside me. Don't make fun of me, and please
don't push. Not now. Not like this.

	He lets it go. We ride along in silence for what feels like a
lifetime, my insides so twisted I can barely draw a breath. This is a
nightmare, pure and simple. He doesn't understand what this is doing
to me, what the past month has done to us, and I can't find the words
to make him see. I'm terrified. Repulsed. Uncertain and off balance.

	I can't stand off balance.

	Not that it bothers Mulder. Now that he's asked and I've answered,
he seems to have forgotten he was ever concerned. Either that or he's
a damned good actor. I'm not sure which possibility pisses me off the
most.

	He's smiling in his sunglasses like he's king of the world. Rob
Petrie, at one with Mulder. I am livid. How can he do this, be so
calm and at ease? How can he allow what we so tenuously are to each
other to mix with this case in such a dangerous way? Is he that
careless, or does he really not know? We'll be living together in
front of people, a couple--touching--acting out lives. Letting
strangers see us in unison for who knows how long--pretending to be
in unison, when we aren't pretending at all.

We are in unison, and it's so private. So private that I don't want
people to see me. I don't want them to know. I don't want Mulder to
know I wish this ring on my finger had come from him, or that the
sentiment behind the seamless bands circling our fingers is all I've
ever dreamed of.

	A tear escapes the tight rein I've clamped on my emotions. I stare
out the window and brush it away. We follow the moving van onto the
turn off for the 14 freeway and I know from the file that we're
almost there. Not far from the freeway exit we come to the fine brick
work and waterfall at the entrance to the Falls at Arcadia. Mulder
punches in the number provided by the realtor--

	"Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Petrie," a computerized voice purrs in
a low, soothing tone.

	Mulder glances over at me, lowers his sunglasses a moment and
flashes a thousand mega-watt smile. I shrink in my seat, wishing that
I could disappear into it for the next few weeks at least. Safe from
Rob. Safe from Mulder. Our fragile relationship intact.

	The gate slides open. Sunglasses back in place, Rob/Mulder drives
through, entering the private community I know I should look pleased
to be part of. I force a smile. It feels so fake my face hurts.
The minivan jets up the slight, curving hill, at the top of which is
the home Mulder and I will share as Rob and *Laura* Petrie. In front
of the house neighbors have already started to gather, hanging
curiously back from the anxious-looking woman in our driveway who
holds a huge basket in her arms. My heartbeat quickens. My forced
smile begins to fade.

	Mulder reaches sideways. He finds my hand and squeezes it. For one
brief moment he's him again, and I squeeze back. I don't know why. I
want him to stay, I guess. Not Rob. Mulder.

	We pull up behind the moving van. Mulder lets me go and tosses his
sunglasses onto the dash. He gets out of the car, his navy sweater
loosely tied over his shoulders, and stands, hands on hips, staring
up at the house. I exit the car as he starts talking. Already
morphed.

	"Wow," he declares. "Take a look at this. Honey, what d'ya think?
Is this place us, or what?"

	What, I think, but I manage to smile at him. Rob. People are
watching. He'll start touching me any minute, I just know it. The
woman with the basket approaches.

	"You must be the Petries," she says. "Hi. Welcome--" she holds the
huge basket out to us--Rob/Mulder doesn't make a move, so I take it.
The thing is heavy, and I can't see much past it. "Welcome to the
Falls."

	Rob/Mulder extends his hand. "I'm Rob," he says and moves behind
me, placing both hands with a gentle caress on my tight shoulders.
"And this is my lovely wife Laura."

	Okay, I don't like this. I don't like this at all. My name is not
Laura, I'm no one's "lovely wife" and Mulder is perilously close to
losing a lung to my left elbow.

	He respects the dig and backs off, but hovers around me, touching
and feeling every chance he gets. He wants to play. I don't. I want
to shove him backwards and smack the smile off his face--see what
kind of impression that would make on our neighborly neighbors. We're
on a case, damn it, whether he thinks there's a case here or not, and
I want him to help me solve it so we can get the hell out. I shrug my
shoulders, trying to loosen his hold, then step a little away from
him.

	He follows. Barely smiling now, I stand with Rob/Mulder and listen
to the basket lady. She introduces herself as Pat Verlander, then
checks her watch and nervously tells us we' re late. She isn't sure
we can make it by the six o'clock move-in deadline.

	Mulder and I exchange a glance. Move-in deadline? C C & R's? Under
the weight of the welcome basket, with no help from Rob/Mulder, I
make my way into the house. It is immaculate, scraped clean, it
seems. I shiver in the foyer, looking for a place to set the basket
down. My investigative adrenaline kicks in. I don't know how or why,
but I know there's a case here. The fact that two couples have
disappeared from this scraped clean house in the past six months is
no coincidence. I'm more certain of that than anything else here--

	Except that if Rob/Mulder touches me one more time, I'll kill him.

*****

	The species Scullia Pulchratissima, when cornered or threatened,
will do one of two things: attack, or retreat into official mode. I
am actually surprised that I have not provoked her into attack yet,
but the day is young.

	And we only have one bed.

	"Why don't we have a guest bed?" she hissed at me when we were
moving our furniture in, but I only shrugged. I don't know who chose
the furniture for us from LA's extensive Seized Property department,
but apparently they thought two beds was overdoing it.

	Once we have our preliminary once-over finished, I flop onto the
couch. "Pizza," I announce. "Pizza is good for the first night in a
new house."

	She moves my feet off the seat and says, "How does a pizza delivery
boy get in past the gates? We need to go grocery shopping. And we
need to unpack . . ." She rubs her forehead. Uh-oh.

	"I'll do the grocery shopping," I say, standing. "Why don't you
unpack some necessities. There's no point in getting much out, unless
it looks like we'll be here for a long time."

	She nods. She looks tired. Worse than that, she looks tense. I can
think of a few things that would help, but all of them involve
touching her and at the moment I don't think that's a good idea. That
"back off" look she gave me earlier said plenty.
	She curls up in the leather chair and takes off her shoes. She
leans her head back, her eyes closed. She's been quiet all day,
except for when called upon to be Laura and when we made the video of
our beginning investigation. A quiet Scully is an unhappy Scully,
I've found, but I resist the temptation to get her to talk and
instead find a notepad and a pen.

	"What do you want from the store?"

	"Basics," she says without opening her eyes. "Cereal. Bread.
Butter. Milk. Fresh fruit. I don't know, Mulder, improvise."

	I write down all of these things and a few more that come to mind,
and tuck the paper into my pocket and grab my wallet and keys. "I
won't be long."

	"Take your time."

	"Be careful with my delicates, okay?" I add on my way out, but she
doesn't even snort in response. Oookay.

	I saw a supermarket on the drive to the house, so I head there.
It's one of those big mega-marts, with a pharmacy and florist and
bakery. I get a cart and amble through the aisles, whistling along to
the Muzak and snagging anything that looks nourishing and/or
delicious. Mostly delicious. I thump oranges and sniff apples,
squeeze loaves of bread and ponder the difference between grape jelly
and strawberry jam. I get eggs and cheese and butter, and spend a
good fifteen minutes deciding on which ice cream would please Scully
most.

	Something is nagging at me, though. Not just Scully's obvious
dissatisfaction with our new situation, but something that I should
have remembered.

	It's not until I'm in the bakery and see the displays of week-old
Valentine cookies that I realize. Shit. Shit shit shit. Bad
boyfriend. Or whatever the hell I am. I remembered Valentine's Day--I
gave her flowers--but I forgot her birthday. Yesterday. I even bought
her a present, but in the rush of looking for Spender and getting
ready for this assignment I forgot to give it to her. It's been
sitting in my suitcase for almost three weeks, waiting for me to
remember.

	Well. Okay. Either I can let it slide or I can do something about
it. Since I'd rather be good boyfriend than bad boyfriend, I'll do
something about it.

	I'm in the right place for it. I have flowers, a cake with "Happy
Birthday" written on it in bright blue and yellow frosting, candles,
and the makings for a romantic, though simple, dinner in minutes. I'm
not about to give up my corner store back at home, but I can
understand the appeal of places like this.

	Finally I lug all the bags out to the minivan and head back to the
Falls. I find a radio station that's playing U2, and tap my hands on
the wheel to the time. "My hands are tied," Bono and I sing, "my
body's bruised um, something, with nothing to win and nothing left to
lose--"

	When I get home I see Scully has unpacked some pans and dishes. Big
Mike's box of dishes is still on the table. I can't see Scully
anyway, and I call for her. "Scully? Where are you?"

	"Up here."

	Oh. I wonder if she found my present. I hoped before I left that
she'd unpack some of my clothes but now I'm hoping she didn't. "I got
some food!" I call, and put the flowers into the fridge.

	"I'll be right down."

	I'm hunting through a box of utensils for candlesticks, wishing I'd
bought some at the store, when Scully comes back down. She's changed
her clothes, the tight skirt for loose jeans and the sweater and
blouse for one of my flannel shirts. It's way too big for her, the
hem comes down to her knees. She looks positively adorable, like a
little girl playing dress-up in daddy's clothes.

	"What?" she says, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

	"Nothing." Oops. Caught staring. I go back to the box. "Do we have
candlesticks?"

	"I didn't see them on the inventory," she says dryly, and starts
unpacking a grocery bag. She finds the ice cream--Ben&Jerry's, only
the best for my Scully--and raises her eyebrows at me, holding the
cartons. "Well. You splurged."

	"I know what it takes to keep you happy," I say, grinning. She
shakes her head slightly and puts the ice cream away.

	It's not until she puts the milk into the fridge that she notices
the flowers and the cake. "Uh, Mulder . . . are we celebrating
something?"

	"We are." I come over to where she's standing by the fridge and
kiss her forehead. "Happy birthday, honeybunny."

	She grimaces and moves away. "Please don't call me that." She takes
out the package of pasta and the jar of alfredo sauce. "I guess we're
having Italian tonight?"

	"Is that okay?"

	"That's fine." She leaves those things out, as well as the loaf of
sourdough bread and makings for a green salad. She raises her
eyebrows again at the bottle of wine, and I just smile.

	"So if I can't call you honeybunny, what can I call you?" I go on,
once more unpacking a bag of groceries.

	She sighs. "'Scully' is always good, though under the circumstances
'Laura' would also be appropriate."

	"Laura," I mutter with a sigh. Whatever. Her response has dampened
my own enthusiasm, but, dammit, there's got to be something I can do
to get her out of this funk. "How about you lie down for a while,
while I make dinner?"

	"I'm perfectly willing to help."

	Of course she is. I put down the tomatoes and go to her, and put my
hand on her shoulders. I ignore her slight flinch, and gently steer
her to the couch. "Sit. Relax, birthday girl. I've got everything
under control."

	She grimaces again at "birthday girl," but stays seated. She even
lies down against the arm of the couch and lays her hand over her
eyes.

	I start cooking as soon as the groceries are put away, and I try
not to rattle the pans too much. With the water boiling, the bread
sliced and the pasta sauce warming, I feel confident this meal will
accomplish something. I just wish I knew what.

	We eat in silence, though I'm glad to see Scully tuck away a
healthy portion of both pasta and salad. She lost so much weight
while she was sick, but she's putting it back on in all the right
places.

	Of course, thinking about that perfect curvy little body makes me
want to show my appreciation for it, but Scully's been putting off
"Don't touch me" vibes all evening. The baggy clothes aren't helping,
either.

	Scully wipes her mouth with a napkin and says, "Thanks for dinner.
That was very good."

	"You're welcome." She starts to stand, but I stand up and gesture
for her to wait. "There's more."

	"Oh, you didn't, did you?"

	"What didn't I do?" I grin at her and get out the cake. I put in
the number candles I bought at the store and light them, and bring
the cake out to the dining room table. I sing loudly, proudly, and
badly, "You say it's your birthday, na na na na na na, it's my
birthday too yeah, na na na na na na--"

	She laughs. She actually laughs. She covers her mouth with her hand
and shakes her head, but she laughs nonetheless. Good sign.

	"Make a wish, make a wish," I say as I set the cake in front of
her. She does that head-tilt thing and looks up at me through her
bangs, and smiles.

	"Okay," she says, leans forward, and blows. The flames go out
perfectly. She smiles in triumph and reaches for the knife. "A big
piece, Mulder?"

	"Sure. It's chocolate."

	"I thought so." She cuts us both huge slices and lays them on our
plates. They practically hang off the dessert dishes. She scrapes the
frosting off the knife with her finger and licks her finger clean.

	"So what did you wish for, Scully?"

	"You know I can't tell you or it won't come true."

	"How am I supposed to make it come true if I don't know what it is?"

	She opens her mouth, then closes it and give me a tiny smile. "An
interesting question," she murmurs, and eats some cake. "This is
good," she says with her mouth full. "This is very good."

	"I had a sample at the store. Oh, that reminds me. Be right back."
I jump up from the table and run upstairs. She has hung up some of my
clothes, but my toiletry case is untouched. I get her present out of
the side pocket and fluff up the store-tied and quite squashed bow.
The wrapping paper is also somewhat worse for the wear, but there's
no time to rewrap it. I go back downstairs, where Scully is still
eating cake.
"Happy birthday," I say for about the twentieth time, and put her
gift on the table.

	"Mulder . . . you didn't need to."

	I sit back down at her side and say, "Yes, I think I did need to."

	"Thank you," she says quietly. She picks up the package and slides
her fingernail under the ribbon to take off the bow. She rips off the
paper and puts it aside, and stares at the CD in her hands.

	All right. It's not the kind of thing one platonic friend gives to
another. The title of the thing is "Romantica," after all, and the
cover has hearts and flowers and frolicking couples. Scully turns the
CD over and her carefully-arranged face crumples slightly when she
sees the subtitle: Great love songs from around the world. She tears
off the plastic and opens the cardboard CD case, and flips through
the liner notes.

	Her silence is starting to scare me. "Do you want to know why I
bought that?"

	"Do I?" she says quietly.

	"I was in the store looking for a new copy of, um, 'Communion', and
they played this over the PA. And I thought it was nice, you know,
pretty. Different. Then, um, they played this song." I turn the CD
over to the back and point to the song. Number 8. "And--" And I don't
know if I should tell her this, but I do anyway. "And I started to
cry."

	Her eyes finally rise from the CD to meet mine.

	"Right there in the New Age section of Barnes&Noble. Big, blubbery
. . . anyway. I went back to the music section and bought it, because
I want you to hear this song." Still she says nothing. I say,
"Because a song has never affected me this way. And it says things
that I've wanted to, but couldn't. Didn't have the words for." She
closes her eyes, and I gently take the CD from her hands. "I'll put
this in the stereo."

	She doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, as I go from the
dining room to the living room and put the CD into the stereo. It was
one of the first things I did this afternoon--it's no fun doing
physical work without tunes, in my opinion. I set it to track 8 and
turn up the volume. I stay kneeling in front of the stereo.

	It's a soft piece, just a guitar, a piano, and the singer, who has
a pleasant, soft tenor voice. But it's the words that moved me. It's
the words that I hope will help me now.

"He walks, he does not run,
He has no overwhelming need to fly,
His heart remains unbroken,
No need to search the sky.
But me, I've never found that place,
I wander recklessly,
And I know that she will find me,
I know that she will find me,
Even if I vanish without a trace,
Oh, and though I'm running blindly,
I know that she will find me,
Hiding with the shadows that I chase."



	Behind me I hear the legs of the chair scraping on the dining room
floor. I close my eyes, expecting Scully to tell me to turn this
nonsense off and not be so sentimental. But she says no such thing--
she hardly makes a sound as she walks across the floor and kneels
down behind me. Her arms go around my chest and her cheek presses
against my back. I put my hand over hers and exhale slowly.

"No one can rock his boat,
Or make him stand and wait upon his sea,
Everything is calm and even,
steady, safe as it can be,
But me, I've never found that place, I wander recklessly,
But I know that she will find me,
I know that she will find me,
Even if I vanish without a trace,
And though I'm running blindly
I know that she will find me
Hiding with the shadows that I chase."

	Her hands work free of mine and she moves from behind me to beside
me. She touches my face gently, and I open my eyes. Her eyes are
sparkling wet, and she had that sweet sad smile that tells me she
doesn't have words for what she's feeling either. She stands, holding
out her hands, and I rise as well and put my hands in hers. She
reaches over and pushes the Repeat Track button, and then pulls me
gently into her arms.

"Sometime we search too deep
That's when the darkness feeds our fear
We turn away from one another
Just in case we get too near
Me, I stay on this mountaintop,
I shout so she can hear,
And I know that she will find me,
I know that she will find me
Even if I vanish without a trace
And though I'm running blindly
I know that she will find me
Hiding with the shadows that I chase."

	We hold each other tight. It's not really dancing, it's more of a
swaying, with her head buried in my chest and her hands stroking my
back. At the words of the last verse--"We turn away from one another,
just in case we get too near"--she looks up at me. Her mouth opens
for a moment, and then she pulls my head down and kisses my forehead.
Our foreheads rest against each other, and then she lifts her head
and kisses my mouth.

	Oh. Oh oh oh. It's been too long since I've kissed you, Scully,
it's only been a week but it feels like an age. I have to stoop to
reach her as fully as I want to but it doesn't matter, Scully is in
my arms and kissing me and it doesn't matter how much longer we wait
to make love again, because Scully loves me.

	And she will always find me.


Note: Pulchratissima is "I'm too lazy to look it up" Latin for "most
beautiful."
Songs: "With or Without You" by U2, "You Say It's Your Birthday" by
the Beatles, and "She Will Find Me" by Dougie MacLean. Used without
permission. "She Will Find Me" is on the CD "Romantica," available
from Putumayo World Music.

After Midnight: Heart In Hand

	I'm dead.

	Floating.

	Outside of my body I watch, fascinated by what I see. Not a Dana
Scully robbed of breath and a pulse by the cancer that had ravaged
her body, but a Dana Scully robbed of her heart. Literally. My life
brought to a halt not by a cruel twist of cells and nature, but by a
killer I couldn't fight. The choke-hold on his neck never slowed him;
the five bullets I pumped into his chest went right through.

	And so I died.

	He's got hold of my heart now and is staring down at it, his gory
trophy, his face cold and  expressionless, though his eyes betray
him. I see victory in their glittering depths. Victory--and revulsion.

	I should hope so.

	A brief energy flows between us and in an instant I know he is like
me--dead. But he is different from me--he had no purpose to live
again but to kill. And he knows it. He looks up at me and smiles
grimly, as if
he knows as well what will come. I'm not interested in anything more
his black soul has to share with my world, and I think he knows that,
too.

	Because he disappears.

	Fast. Vanishes right in front of me, and I can't even feel him
anymore, his shadowed, soulless presence gone from me as if he'd
never been there at all. But for this strange state of existence for
me, and my body lying still and bloody on the floor of Mulder's
apartment, I wonder. Am I dreaming? Was he real? Did this happen?

	And where the hell is my heart?

	I hover above my lifeless body, studying the blood on my shirt and
already feeling so far removed from the agony I'd only seconds ago
suffered it frightens me. Dream or not, I can feel the fragile thread
of existence fraying for me, and I know what I'm supposed to do next.
I turn slightly, look over my shoulder in this warm, dark place, and
see the light. I knew it would be there. I don't know how. I just
knew.

	Without hesitation I start toward it. This is what the dead do, and
I do it. The certainty is wonderful and deep. There is no fear at
all. So I'm moving--not walking, not flying, just moving. Slow. Too
damn slow
for someone who's time has come, in my opinion. I don't fight it,
but I have the strange, instinctive feeling that something is pulling
me back.

	I don't hear the door slam back against the wall of Mulder's
apartment, but I sense it. And then I see him, gun drawn as he
crosses the threshold, though the weapon comes down, slowly, slowly
as he spots me on the floor.

	Oh, Mulder.

	He mutters something as he comes toward me, and his voice rings
through my consciousness. "Oh, no," he's saying. "No, no...." Mulder
kneels beside me. I turn to watch him and try to tell him I'm all
right. I'm in a safe place now. It hurt like hell to get here, but
the memory is already fading, Mulder. Don't worry. Don't cry.

	He isn't crying. Not yet. He's scanning my body, head to toe.
Looking for life--looking for breath--his eyes flickering over the
blood covering my chest, willing this reality away. He waits an
agonizing second, then another, refusing to believe what I know he
clearly sees.

	I reach a hand out to him, unthinking. Short of my goal I realize--
oh, no. No, wait! I'm moving again, faster this time, on toward the
light. Away from Mulder.

	"Wait!" I call out with no voice, though I can hear my voice
ringing in this warm, comforting place. "Wait, please! I'm not ready-
-"

	Did I just say that?

	Either way, I stop. And when I begin to move again, I'm moving in
the other direction. Back to Mulder. Back to me.

	He stares down at me, hazel eyes fixed on my soul as it re-enters
my body. Can he see it? Does he know? He exhales, one life-giving
puff of air nowhere near my lips--and yet his life breath fills me. I
suck it in
and jerk away, and without a thought begin to fight. Because I'm
alive--I'm alive!

	But my killer is gone. I stop fighting. My hands go soft in
Mulder's hold. My heart beats strong inside me, an impossible gift
from the man who lingers above me. Slowly, with infinite tenderness,
he takes me in his arms. But I don't want tender. I want Mulder.
Solid. Strong. Vibrant with life--and a love for me so intense there
is no longer any question. I was dead. He willed me back. My truth is
found.

	Emotion surges through me, myriad, overwhelming. Fear, love, life,
devotion, gratitude rushes through my being, and I begin to sob.
Mulder's arms tighten around me, his hands clutch my shoulders and
the back of my head. I cling to him, claw at his back, needful,
desperate to make my way inside. Shelter is there, I know it. Shelter
from this storm, from my weakness, from the darkness I knew in that
warm, comforting place without Mulder there beside me.

	"Scully," he whispers, "Scully..." Over and over again, no other
words of comfort. Just Scully. He could whisper my name like this
forever and I would never get tired of hearing it. Never. There is
caress in his tone, absolute devotion, and reverence in the syllables
as he speaks them. Scully, Scully....

	The tumult slowly passes. I come back to myself slowly, feeling the
pieces fit themselves together. I'm aware of my heart beating solid
inside me, beating against Mulder's chest. I'm aware of our mingled
breath, our joined spirit, and the wetness of my blood sticking to
the skin under my blouse--staining the once snowy fabric, staining
Mulder's shirt. I wonder if Padgett is seeing this. I wonder if he is
writing it.

	But then I know, just as quickly, that he isn't. Because this is
real, honest and pure. Padgett knew nothing of those words. He knew
weakness and dreams, and the ugliness inside us all. He may even have
known my longing, but he knew nothing of *me*. The me I am here on
the floor of Mulder's apartment, cradled and rocked and whispered to
by my love. My destiny.

	The sobs subside and my hold on Mulder loosens. I want to let him
up, to release him, but he doesn't let go. I'm not surprised.

	"Mulder," I mutter into the safety of his muscled shoulder. "I'm
all right. I'm--"

	I feel his hands slide down me, one under my arms, the other gentle
against the backs of my knees as he lifts me. And I'm floating again,
lightheaded and heavy-limbed, though Mulder bears me with ease to the
couch. He lays me down on it then stands over me, cell phone already
in hand.

	"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder. I have an agent down--"

	"Mulder, I don't need--"

	"Yes. Fourth floor, apartment 42." Routine would have dispatch ask
Mulder to stay on the line with them until paramedics arrived, but he
doesn't. He pushes the talk button to disconnect then presses a speed
dial number, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he
bends over me and begins to undo my blouse.

	"Mulder, stop."

	"Skinner. No, I can't hold. Tell him Scully's down. He needs to get
here." Click. Mulder lets go of the phone. It hits the floor with a
unhealthy "thunk".

	"Mulder, this isn't necessary. I'm fine."

	He isn't listening. He's got my shirt unbuttoned and peels the
fabric away from where it's already begun to stick to my skin. He
stares at my chest, watches me draw breath, studies the blood-soaked
lace of my once-white bra. I blink and can't resist a look down
myself. Blood covers me, still wet. But there is no wound. No wound.

 	Mulder looks at my face. Our eyes meet and hold. Without a word he
places his hand, palm down, over my left breast. I feel the pump of
blood, the reassuring beat he's looking for, and smile. He closes his
eyes. My hand covers his.

	"Mulder, it's all right," I tell him, but he knows. He didn't hear
my screams, but he felt them. He doesn't know the agony of having an
assassin's hand invade his body, searching, digging, buried to the
wrist
in his chest cavity. But he's trying to know--for me. So I stop
trying to tell him everything is fine, and let him feel instead.

	It's what he needs. It's what we both need.

	A buzz fills my head and I close my eyes, listening to the sirens
fill the eerily still day outside Mulder's window. I'm suddenly
tired. So very, very tired. Mulder drops to his knees beside me, lays
his head
down on my chest, over our clasped hands. I raise my right hand and
stroke his hair, feel the brush of his lashes on my skin and the slow
trickle of his tears. He is quiet.

	We wait for the others to arrive.

*****

	The police left. Skinner is gone. The county morgue took Padgett's
body away. The paramedics told Scully to rest easy for the next day
or so, have a healthy meal, but not to worry because she lost no more
blood than your average donation.

	They couldn't find a wound.

	I saw it myself: her chest and stomach are as smooth and unmarked
as ever, only the fading scar from where that idiot Ritter shot her.
No new wound. No sign of entry. No source for all that blood.

	There was so much blood.

	She's now curled up in the corner of my couch under a blanket,
wearing three of my shirts and a pair of my sweatpants. I have a can
of soup warming up on the stove and cheese sandwiches assembled--the
best I can do on short notice--and I come out of the kitchen with a
glass of orange juice mixed with Sprite and ice.

	She's pale. She's been tanner than usual lately, from spending more
time in the sun, but she's pale now. I stand beside her and touch her
cheek, and her half-mast eyes fly up to my face. She smiles
uncomfortably and takes the glass with a murmured, "Thank you." She
drinks, holding the glass with both hands.

	"Chicken noodle soup," I say. "Is that okay?"

	"That's perfect." She rolls the glass over her face, her eyes closed.

	She looks fragile. Egglike. God, why does she make me think of
eggs? A perfect form unto itself, deceptively strong but breakable to
the wrong touch--

	I go back into the kitchen and snatch the now-boiling pot of soup
from the top of the stove. The frying pan is sizzling, and I put the
sandwiches onto it and press down on them with the spatula. As they
fry I get out bowls and spoons and plates, and divide the soup
between our two bowls. I flip the sandwiches onto their other sides
and bring a bowl and a spoon out to Scully.

	Her eyes are open but I know she's not seeing my apartment. Maybe a
sparsely-furnished, undecorated one that smells of cigarette smoke
and coffee. Maybe she's seeing an ordinary man made extraordinary by
the force of his imagination. Maybe she's hearing his voice, the soft
cadence of his seduction.

	Words. Only the signs of things, not the things themselves.

	I set down the bowl on the coffee table and her eyes meet mine. She
smiles again. Happier, this time. "Thank you," she says again. "It
smells wonderful."

	"Wait 'til you taste it," I say lightly, and she moves closer to
the coffee table to pick up the bowl. I catch her hand and she draws
in her breath sharply. "It's--it's hot," I say lamely, and she nods.
"I'll be right back I think I've got a tray somewhere." I go back
into the kitchen.

	It was only a book. Only words.

	But the words were enough, weren't they.

	I do have a tray. Another miracle. I grimace a smile and pass my
hand over my face. I take the sandwiches off the stove and put them
on a plate. I pour myself a glass of juice and bring all three out to
Scully.

	She's moved from the couch onto the floor, still wrapped up in the
blanket, and is eating the soup in slow, deliberate spoonfuls. She
pauses to watch me sit down on the floor opposite her, smiles again,
and
resumes eating.

	I eat automatically, swallowing the soup without tasting it. It
burns on the way down.

	How well do I know her? I thought I did. But then I read the book,
and now I'm not so sure. I can't ignore what I don't like--he was
right about so much else, he must have been right about the other
things
too. The Scully things.

	I know her better than I know anybody, and I don't know her at all.

	I lift my eyes from my soup bowl, and look at her. The sleeves of
my sweatshirt are rolled up to make fat doughnuts just above her
wrists. I'm finding her love of my clothes more and more appealing--
when she's
not here I can always find a shirt that smells of her. Beneath the
sweatshirt I can see the collars of two more t-shirts, which she put
on because she said she was cold. The blouse she was wearing is in
the trash. Her clothes are folded neatly in my bedroom. All her
makeup is gone from when she cleaned up after the attack. Well, most
of it was actually cried off, I think. Her hair is pushed back, held
off her face with a barrette from her gym bag. Her hands are steady.
Her expression is preoccupied.

	I remember the first time I saw her--the sensible shoes, the off-
the-rack suit, the hair, the handshake--I dismissed her the first
time I saw her. No, not dismissed. I just didn't think she would mean
anything me. I didn't want her to.

	But she crept into me. She consumed me. She remade me.

	And I still don't know her at all.

	I could rattle off a list of facts and that wouldn't begin to
describe the enigma that is Dana Scully. She runs, she paints her
toenails bright red but paints her fingernails with just a clear
varnish, she eats ice cream straight out of the carton, she goes to
church as regularly as she can, she has a dry, wicked wit and a
collection of fantasy-inducing shoes--

	I love her helplessly. Ferociously.

	"Mulder," she says, her spoon pausing on the way to her mouth,
"you're staring."

	I put down my spoon and lean my head on my hand. "You're
beautiful," I say softly, and she looks away.

	"Mulder . . ."

	"You have a face like a Renaissance painting of a virgin martyr."

	She grimaces. Okay, perhaps that was a poor choice. I say, "You
make me think of an egg."

	This brings out the Eyebrow, but I go on anyway. "You're an egg,
Scully. The most perfect marriage of form and function. The most
pleasing shape. The most pleasing texture. Completely self-contained."

	"Do I want to know what you think my function is?" she says dryly,
and then she closes her eyes and sighs. "I'm too tired for riddles."

	"How come you can open up to everybody but me?"

	Her eyes open and fix on my face, troubled. "You know me better
than anyone."

	"Do I? I used to think so."

	"I don't open up to everybody. I talk to you and my mother and my
priest, and that's basically it."

	I hold up one hand. "Eddie Van Blunhdt." I fold down one finger.
"Ed Jerse." I fold down another. "That Jack guy from Maine." I fold
down a third, and say deliberately, "Phillip Padgett." I fold down my
fourth finger, leaving only my thumb. "Where do I fit in all this?"

	She pushes her bowl away. "Mulder, please, I'm too tired for this.
I just want to sleep."

	The truth is, so am I. I let my hand drop. "Fine. All right. I'll
drive you home." I stand and collect our dishes to take them back
into the kitchen.

	"I'd like to stay here. If that's okay."

	When I look at her face there's pleading in her eyes. Say it's okay.

	"I want to sleep in your arms," she adds the softest voice I've
ever heard her use, and I can no more refuse than I can let her leave
me tonight.

	"Okay," I say gently, and bend down to kiss the top of her head
before going back into the kitchen. I rinse out the dishes and put
them in the washer, and stand for a moment leaning on the sink. I
want to hold her and keep her safe for as long as she'll let me. I
just want to hold her.

	No, that's not true. I want to make love to her. I want so much to
give her pleasure and comfort, to prove to her that I am committed,
that I am loyal, that there is nothing and no one that means more to
me.
And even though I respect her boundaries and her need to go slowly,
it's getting harder and harder because I want her so much. Just
sheer, animal want.

	But when she needs to be held, I'll hold her. When she needs to be
kissed, I'll kiss her. When she needs to be fucked, we'll fuck. It's
simple. It's inevitable.

	I'm aware I'm not going to sleep much tonight. That is also
inevitable.

	I splash cold water on my face. I have to wonder sometimes if she
has these same thoughts, that she's waiting for me to be ready for
sex too. Maybe we're both standing considerately back, waiting for the
other to step forward.

	Maybe it's time to take that step.

	However, when I come out of the kitchen, Scully is asleep on the
couch. So much for the pep talk. Her face is relaxed and trusting,
and her tiny body is curled up in the corner of the couch as if she's
trying
to wedge herself into the smallest space possible. She's so deeply
asleep that she doesn't even surface when I work my arms beneath her
and lift her up, and the only sound she makes is a soft "hmm" when I
lay her down in my bed and pull the blankets up over her.

	For a moment I stand there, watching her sleep, and I wonder how
long it has been since someone has carried her to bed and tucked her
in. Probably at least as long as it's been for me.

	I stroke her hair and kiss her face, and leave the door open so I
can hear her if she wakes up before I come back to bed. There's a few
things I want to do first, some calls to make and emails to answer. It
shouldn't be more than an hour.

	And then I'll come to bed and hold her.

*****

	The sound is tiny in the dark apartment, a mere whisper that I
wouldn't hear if I weren't listening for it. "Mulder?"

	Yet another odd association I make with Scully flits across my
brain--"It was little Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two"--and I
answer just as softly, "I'll be right there, Scully."

	Instead she appears, ghostlike, in the doorway to my living room,
and I repress a shiver. Ghostlike. Just what I need, images of
Scully's ghost. She pads across the room it's an earthly enough
sound, and I relax as she put her hands on my shoulders. "I woke up
and you weren't there."

	"I wanted to get some stuff done before bed."

	"Will you be finished soon?"

	"Soon. I don't want to keep you awake with my tossing and turning."

	"You usually sleep soundly when we're together."

	Neither of us say it, but we both think it: usually when we sleep
together it's after some foolin' around. She sighs and kneads my
shoulders, and I turn back to the computer and resume typing.

	"Another e-pal?" she says eventually.

	"Acquaintance. We have fundamental differences."

	"About . . ?"

	"He's under the impression that aliens have a lot to teach us. That
a race advanced enough for space travel must be ipso facto
benevolent."

	"Ipso facto," she murmurs, and kisses my hair. "Come to bed, Mulder."

	I can't stop the shiver that passes through me, and shut down my
computer. "I just need to brush my teeth."

	"I'll be waiting," she says, and her feet are nearly soundless on
the floor was she walks away.

	After the fastest teeth-brushing of my adult life and a quick
washing of the face, I turn out any lights that are still on and go
into my bedroom. Thank God for whoever redecorated this place for me,
who decided that most of all I needed a decent bed. I've replaced the
water mattress, of course, with a regular one, but it's still a
wonderful, comfortable bed. And it's even better when it smells of
Scully.

	As it does now. I change clothes in the dark, just a t-shirt and
flannel pajama bottoms, and crawl into bed beside her. We spoon up
like usual, my body encasing hers protectively, and then she sighs
and turns to face me. "I want to hear your heart," she whispers, and
her hand comes to rest on my breastbone.

	I lay my hand on top of hers. She's trembling all over, and her
hands and feet are cold. "You're freezing, you should have told me,"
I say, and start to rise to get another blanket.

	She pulls me back. "I'm okay. Just hold me."

	I rub her hands between mine and blow on them, and take her feet
between my knees. She presses her body against me, her head on my
chest. She mutters, "You don't happen to have a sleeping bag around,
do you?" and I snort on a laugh.

	"Nope. Though I could go get one--"

	"It's okay. We'll improvise." Her hand slips under my t-shirt to
rest on my stomach, right on my skin. I have to take a deep breath,
but I put my hand on top of hers again, through the cotton.

	I lie there, feeling her breathe, feeling the heat come back to her
body, feeling the heat moving through my own, and I wonder if she
honestly expects me to sleep like this. I feel like Henderson the Rain
King, the endless *I want I want* nagging at me--but unlike
Henderson I know exactly what I want. I'm holding what I want in my
arms, I've kissed what I want, I've come into her mouth and made her
come with mine. And it's probably terrible of me that I can't stop
wanting her when she's tired and weak and trusting, but then there's
that warm little hand resting on my stomach. She's not oblivious.
She's not cruel. I know the desire is there, if not the energy.

	The headlights of passing cars glide over the wall opposite my
window, and I count them as they pass by. I'm up to four in about
twenty minutes when Scully says softly, "Mulder? Are you asleep?"

	"No."

	"Neither am I."

	"I wonder why," I rumble, and she chuckles. She props her head on
her hand and looks down at me. Her other hand leaves my stomach and
comes up to touch my lips.

	"Can we talk a little? I mean, really talk?"

	"Sure, Scully, what about?"

	She sighs and bends her head to kiss my forehead. Her hair tickles
my face. "Padgett," she whispers, and her hands starts stroking my
face. "I'm still trying to understand what happened, exactly."

	"They found him in the basement with his heart in his hand and his
manuscript burned. End of story."

	She goes on stroking my face. She says, "Do you think the killer
attacked him?"

	"I don't know. Did you see him leave?"

	"No. I told you I'd passed out by then."

	"I wonder why he left it unfinished. Of course, I'm glad he did "

	"Of course." She sits up, pulling up her knees. "Because I--I'm not
sure . . . I don't think he did leave it unfinished."

	"Scully, you're alive, your heart is right where it belongs,
beating the way it's supposed to. Somehow for whatever reason he left
and attacked Padgett instead."

	"Do you really think so?" She turns her head to look at me.

	I sit up and put my arm around her. I press my lips to her hair and
inhale the scent of her, and I whisper, "I don't know." She sighs and
leans against me, and I say, "Nothing in this case really makes
sense. The simplest answer is usually the right one, right? But
there's no simple answer here, that I can find."

	She puts her arms around me and lies her head on my shoulder, and
whispers, "Mulder, I think I was dead. I think I died. For a minute--
less than that I was dead."

	"Scully "

	"I'm serious. I saw him. I saw my body. I saw the blood. And then
he was gone and you were there and then--and then I wasn't dead
anymore."

	"It might have been the adrenaline, Scully, the fear people
sometimes think they've left their bodies in highly stressful
situations--"

	"He had my heart in his hand and it was beating, and then he wasn't
there."

	"Why didn't you tell the police this?"

	"Because you don't believe me, Mulder, why would they?"

	"Sweetheart, it's not that I don't believe you--"

	"I know what death feels like, Mulder, I've been there a few times.
And so have you."

	She's right. We've both hovered on that edge. I kiss her hair
again, and then move so that she's between my legs and I hold her to
my chest. Her arms tighten around my waist. "Tell me why you wanted
to believe him."

	"I don't know. Maybe because I was written to."

	"You were also written to fall in love with him, but you didn't."

	"Because I'm already in love," she says, raising her face to mine,
and I want to weep at how beautiful she is, how tender and fragile.

	"Do you love me?"

	"Yes."

	"Will you say it?" Because she's told me once. I'd like to hear it
more often than that. She doesn't have to express her undying
devotion to me every hour, but I'd like to hear it more often than,
say, once every four months.

	"I love you, Mulder," she whispers, and her hand goes into my hair
to pull down my head. She kisses me sweetly, and lies her head on my
shoulder again. I bend my head over hers to kiss her cheek.

	"Someday, Scully, it's going to be the right time. We're both going
to be healthy, physically and emotionally. We're not going to be torn
apart by other people's expectations. We're going to need each
other more than ever, and we're going to act on it."

	"Yes," she whispers into my shoulder. "But it's not now."

	"Just promise you'll stick around when it is. Okay?"

	I can't see her smile, but I know she is. "I'll be here. I'm not
going anywhere."

	I smile too, and lie us both back down. And even though both of us
sleep deeply, neither of us let go.

After Midnight: A Fine Piece of Ash

	There are moments in your life that you keep crystallized. Things
that you remember with such clarity, with such perfection, that they
stay with you all your life as if they happened five minutes ago.
Some you
would rather forget, some you would give anything to forget, but the
others . . . ah, the others . . .

	The suede of Scully's jacket is soft as butter. She smells sweetly
of baby powder and something lemony, maybe her lotion, maybe her
shampoo. Her hair is delicate as feathers brushing against my face. I
can feel the strength of her body as we swing the bat together, and
each time the bat connects with the ball she jumps like an excited
little girl. I can't see her smiling but I know she is.

	I've made Scully happy.

	This is a keeper moment, forever. This is what I want to remember
when I'm dying. This is what I want in the Good Deeds column. This is
what I want Scully to think of when someone says my name.

	We have so few moments like this, when we can relax and play and
enjoy each other. I want to tell Scully everything that's in my
heart, but I'm afraid that mentioning it will spoil it. You don't
point out a special
moment, you just let it be.

	She leans back against me and sighs, and her cheek nuzzles my arm
for a moment. "Hey, Mulder," she says softly.

	"Hey, Scully."

	"How long are you planning to keep the kid up past his bedtime?"

	I look at my watch. It's later than I thought, almost ten. "Yeah,
let's see him home," I say, and though I'm reluctant to let go of
Scully I do, and she holds the bat while I take out my wallet and go
pay Poor Boy.

	He grins at me when I hand him the twenty, and pushes his cap back
from his face. "She's pretty," he says matter-of-factly.

	"She is. Should I drive you home?"

	"Is she your wife?"

	I look back at the batting cage. "Not yet," I say softly, and the
boy giggles. Scully has picked up a ball and is rolling it in her
hands like an orange, and she smiles at us when she sees us looking.
"So anyway, do you want a ride home?"

	"Nah," Poor Boy says, and puts the twenty in his shoe. "I'm just a
couple blocks over. G'night, Mister!" He darts off into the darkness,
and Scully watches him go.

	"He doesn't want a ride?" she says as she walks towards the
pitcher's mound.

	"He said he lives close by. So, what do you want to do now?"

	"We should probably get home."

	"But tomorrow's Sunday."

	"Well, nobody said we had to go home separately, did they?" She
smiles at me again, and holds the ball to her nose and sniffs it. I
smile back at her--I love the smell of baseballs too--and take the
bat from her
hand.

	"Let's go, then, pretty girl. Your place or mine?"

	"Yours, cute boy. I'm in the mood for that ridiculous bed of yours."

	"I like my bed," I protest, but I put my arm around her shoulders.
I'm trying to not read too much into this: we do spend a lot of time
in bed together but we don't do anything more than kissing and
feeling and at
most a finger-fuck or a handjob. She hasn't been very comfortable
with even oral sex, which I suppose I can understand. It's an Issue.
And since we're not very good at talking about Issues, it's remained
an Issue.

	We start walking towards the parking lot, then I stop and pull her
back to the pitcher's mound.  "I've always wanted to do this," I say,
taking her face between my hands, and I kiss her soundly.  "You know,
kiss a
pretty girl on the pitcher's mound.  Though I wanted to do it at
Yankee Stadium."

	She laughs, and puts her hands on my waist. "You may yet get your
wish."

	I throw back my head and laugh, and we go to the parking lot. My
arm stays comfortably around her shoulders and her arm rests around
my waist. She leans her head against my chest for a moment when we
stop at
her car, and then she steps back and catches my hands. She stands up
on her toes and kisses me quickly.

	"Don't dawdle," she whispers, and gives me a smile and a flick of
her eyes that tell me I'll be rewarded if I hurry. I smile back and
squeeze her hands, and we both hurry to our cars.


******

	I'm tempted to race Mulder home the way we raced to our cars, giddy
like children but with wild  plans for the night. I gun the motor and
back quickly out, before Mr. Stodgy has even unlocked his door. He's
so
mechanical sometimes--so methodical and predictable. He watches me
as I shove the car into gear and take off, the expression on his face
telling me this is a side of me he's never seen before.

	Well, he's about to see another. Maybe more.

	Pebbles fly as I peel out of the empty parking lot, onto the dark
streets of Arlington and into the night, shooting like the stars
toward destiny.  I wrap my hands around the steering wheel and hold
on tight,
alternately glancing to the side for Virginia PD, out my windshield
at the  beautiful night, and in my rear view mirror for Mulder. No
red flashing lights or Mulder beams behind me, and I can't help but
laugh out loud. I feel free. Flying free.

	While he's probably still standing there looking for his keys.
Wondering what the hell got into me.

	He got into me. Big time. With his soft, sweet talk and his hips
before hands, his $20 birthday gift, his long, lean fingers and his
less-than-subtle instructions on how to hold a "bat". How to hold a
*bat*, Mulder? The minute he walks through his apartment door, I'll
give him a lesson in "bat" holding he won't soon forget.

	The thought brings another smile to my lips. I shake my head and
laugh out loud again. I love this man. I love everything about him.
Well, almost everything. If I wasn't absolutely certain before,
tonight was just one more inexplicable, undeniable reason why. He
called me to the park under a pretense that was see-through and I
went anyway, not in the best humor but wanting to see what he was up
to. And he showed me. Boy, did he ever show me.

	With his arms tight around me and his body pressed to mine, we
swung for the stars. Corny, I think now, speeding through the streets
of Arlington, but true. How many times have we reached for the
impossible, Mulder and I, only to come up frustrated and empty?

	"Not tonight," I tell myself, and still I'm smiling. We will not
come up empty tonight.

	I reach Mulder's apartment building and with the luck of the Irish
on this warm, spring night there's a place to park right in front. I
whip around from the opposite side of the street and take the spot
neatly, get out of my car, chirp the alarm and look over my shoulder--
force of habit. No sign of muggers, no sign of Mulder--I smile again.
He's probably a good ten minutes behind me, obeying the speed limit
like he always does when there isn't an alien, a smoking man or a
clone of his sister in the car up ahead of him.

	My keys in my hand like I always carry them until I'm inside, I
enter Mulder's apartment building and find the elevator waiting for
me. That never happens. But tonight is special, I remind myself.
Tonight is like
a dream. I punch the button for the fourth floor, still smiling--I
can't stop smiling. And now I'm smiling like some funky, virginal
teen. I feel like a funky, virginal teen, ready to take that step,
ready to give
myself over to the man I cherish, knowing more the  rightness of it
than the consequences. So I don't know the future. So I have no
guarantees. So what?

	The bell dings for Mulder's floor, the door opens and I head down
the hallway, *our* hallway, the place where this new feeling between
us exploded almost a year ago. I glance at the spot where he held me
and I fell, the smile drifting from my lips as I move in front of
Mulder's door. I use my key. On instinct I glance up at the brass 42,
making sure I've got the right place. I could find this place in the
dark and blind-folded, I know, but all of a sudden I'm feeling
nervous. I wonder why.

	Mulder's apartment is a mess. He wasn't expecting me. The smile
slides back. Somehow that makes what I'd planned even better. No time
to clean up, I tell myself, noting his dirty plate and iced tea glass
on the coffee table beside half a dozen X Files. His tennis shoes lie
on their sides in front of the couch, and his sweatshirt is draped
over the back.

	With a sigh I remove my jacket, hang it up, then flip the light on
and go over to the bookshelf where he moved his CD's. I find the one
I'm looking for--Barry White. Sex music. Perfect for what I've got in
mind,
and what I refuse to let my mind talk me out of. I put the CD in,
set the buttons--Barry White on continuous play. That'll work.

	In the kitchen I don't find much--more dirty dishes, an open box of
cereal and something that looks like a sprouting potato in the sink.
Ignoring it all I retrieve the bottle of wine I stuck in the back of
his refrigerator two weeks ago, pop the cork and locate two clean
glasses. Hardest part of all. I set everything on a tray and leave
the tray on the table just inside his front door--a little hint for
you, Mulder. Subtle as your bat. I leave the light on dim, sway a
little to the low hum of Barry White, then head into the bedroom.

	Ah, the bedroom. More of the same in here, only worse. I kick off
my shoes and they end up beside his work shoes, which look to be
awaiting a polish at the foot of his bed. For a few minutes I busy
myself walking
around, picking up Mulderwear wherever I see it--boxers, socks, a
tee shirt or two. Two dress shirts hang on the bathroom door knob--I
frown,but leave them be. He's usually more careful with his work
stuff, but he's been a little distracted the last few days.

	All right, a lot distracted.

	We've both been on edge since the Padgett thing. Too much talking
and very little else. I've been telling him for weeks we'll be
stronger for it all in the end, and he's just Mulder enough to give
that theory a try for the first five minutes after I've mentioned it.
But he always slips back, wondering and then asking what it is about
him or this new relationship that doesn't sit quite right with me.

	I leave his dress shirts on the bathroom knob, drop an armful of
his stuff in the hamper then sit down on the edge of his bed, mindful
of our shoes. They look so funny there next to each other--his 11's,
mine size
5, but taller. It's the only way I can meet his gaze without
straining my neck. Whatever the logistics, it works. We fit together--
we always have.  Isn't that what matters? Maybe I haven't found the
right words to
explain to him what I can't even explain to myself. Words and sex
aren't who we are. I just keep thinking when the time is right, we'll
know it.

	"Let go, Scully. Let it fly...."

	How often have I done that? *Never*, I tell myself, except with
total strangers. People who don't know me, people I don't care to
know and whose opinion of me matters less than Krycek's. Why is it so
easy to let
go with people you aren't vested in, with people you don't love and
who don't love you, when the people who *do* love you are the ones
that count? I shake my head, unable to answer, but I still hear
Mulder in my
brain.

	"Let go, Scully. Fly...."

	My hands are on the buttons of my blouse, half way down and then
done before my mind has even processed my heart's intentions. Yes, I
want this. I want this now. Tonight. With Mulder. There is no reason
to continue this silly, perfunctory dance--no reason to allow this
last wall to stay between us. It's just a technicality now. My God,
he's touched me everywhere, like I've touched him. The only real
mystery here is how much he'll fill me, and how fast. It's been a
while, remember.

	I remove my blouse, determined to do this, to see it through. This
is right. I know it. Mulder and I were destined to make love, like
Mulder and I are destined to be together, no matter how many past
loves,
conspiracies or virus-laden bees try to come between us. I can't
imaginemy life without him. I know he feels the same. There is
nothing more to talk or think about--tonight's the night.

	Oh, God, Rod Stewart, I think, as I fold my blouse across my lap.
*Please* don't start singing Rod Stewart, Dana. Not in the middle of
Barry "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Baby," White. And I don't. I
don't
sing. I mean, I don't feel like singing, really, and I don't much
care for Rod Stewart. Well, that "if you want my body" song wasn't
bad, but--

	"Scully?"

	I jump to my feet, letting my blouse fall to the floor over my and
Mulder's shoes. "What?" I choke out as I hear the front door close.
Mulder starts down the hallway. "Wait!" I cry. "Don't come in here!"

	He laughs a little, that low, wonderful sound. It always puts me at
ease. It does so now and I take a deep breath.

	"What're you doing in there?" he asks, not even trying to be sexy
with that husky, raspy voice of his, but it's there. Depth. Promise.
Control. Oh, Mulder....

	I push the bedroom door half-closed with my foot, just in case he's
tempted to peek. "You'll see," I say to him, and I can almost see his
quizzical smile. "Now go on. Clean your couch off. I'll be there in a
minute."

	Clean your couch off?

	Well okay, Scully, nice, seductive mood-setter there. Anything else
you'd like to add? "Mulder, the--uh--" I say, unzipping my pants and
stomping them to the floor. "The wine is on the table there--"

	"I saw that, Scully."

	Right. Bra next, front hooking and undone with a quick flick. I
toss it without looking to see where it lands--I'm too busy trying to
think of something sexy to wear. I put boxers, tee-shirts and stiff
socks into
the hamper, left Mulder's dress shirts on the bathroom door--I grab
one, white with razor thin blue and gray stripes. I recognize it
immediately. One of my favorites shirts....

	It's unbuttoned and I start to pull it on. Mulderscent surrounds
me. I bunch the shirt in my hands and bring it up to my face,
inhaling deeply. Him. Faint soap, musky sweat, a sprinkle of Downy,
spicy cologne.
I inhale again. Yum.

	I'm a fool. How can I doubt the rightness of this when all I want
to do is wrap myself in his discarded clothing and live there the
rest of my life? He is for me like no other man has ever been or ever
will be. We
are right. Nearly seamless. Whether we're chasing aliens, Samantha,
child killers or mutants; whether we're conjecturing, conspiring,
being conspired against or mind controlled, battling Kersh or batting
at stars, we are bound. Blended.

	With one exception.

	Mouth tight, I button myself into Mulder's shirt and head for the
bedroom door. There is one hurdle left between us and damn it, I'm
gonna straddle that hurdle tonight and wring it dry if it's the last
fucking
thing I do.

******

	Even though I drive as quickly as I dare, she still beats me to my
building, and when I park my car she's nowhere in sight. I punch the
button for the elevator and when it's slow in coming, decide to take
the
stairs. I take the stairs two and three at a time, and when I arrive
on my floor and go to my door it's already unlocked. I can hear music
from inside. I have to grin: we've been experimenting with mood
music, and
while she prefers classical and I prefer rock, we've found that R&B
works wonders for us both. So now she's got the Barry White playing.

	"Scully?" I call as I close the door behind me. "Where are you?"

	"What?" she calls back faintly. From my bedroom. "Wait! Don't come
in here."

	I chuckle.   "What're you doing in there?"

	"You'll see," she says, and the door clicks completely shut.  "Now
go on. Clean your couch off. I'll be there in a minute."

	Clean your couch off?  Okay, it is covered with clothes and files
and yesterday's paper.  I start gathering things up, and that when I
notice the wine.

	"Mulder, the--uh--" There's a faint rustling from my bedroom. "The
wine is on the table there--"

	"I saw that, Scully." This is an interesting development.  I turn
the stereo up a little and put the baseball bat away in the corner
behind my bookshelf. So, what has my lovely Scully gotten up to,
waiting for me? Will I open my door to find candles burning, Scully
lounging on my bed, her clothes already tossed aside? Or is she just
changing into the pajamas she's taken to leaving here, and will come
out in a moment for an evening on the couch with the TV, to fall
asleep in my arms before the news is over?

	It's almost a given, however, that we're not going to talk.  Not
about anything really important, anyway.

	I sit down on the couch to take off my shoes and socks, and then
lean back. Why don't we talk about issues? I think, and then notice
that my toenails need clipping. Why don't we talk? We do talk, but
not about the heavy things, the important things, or even the little
things, really. We have to agree to talk, and even then it's so hard
to say what we're really feeling.

	What about if, when she comes out of my bedroom, I say, "Scully,
when are we going to have sex?"

	And then she'll say, "When I trust you," and I'll have to ask why
she doesn't trust me and she tell me, and then we'll probably fight
and she'll leave in tears . . . no, scratch that plan.

	That, friends and neighbors, is why we don't talk. I am afraid of
what she'll say.

	The door finally opens and Scully comes out, and my mouth falls
open. She's not wearing sweats or pajamas or whatever else I was
expecting. She's wearing one of my shirts. And as far as I can tell,
nothing else.

	She smiles and walks over to me, and gently shuts my mouth. She
leans over and kisses me.  "I'm thirsty," she says. "Will you pour
some wine?"

	Wine, yes, wine, that's what this bottle is.  I manage to grasp the
bottle without my hands shaking too badly and fill the glasses as she
curls up at my side and leans against me.

	"Thank you," she murmurs when I hand her a glass.  I mumble
something and sip my own.  I am trying to relax. Okay. We're hanging
out. She likes wearing my clothes. It's a good night, but an ordinary
one, and
it's going to end like so many others.

	And her hand is tracing circles on my knee.

	Relax, Mulder. Relax.

	"Mulder, did you have dinner today? I know it's often the last
thing you think of."

	"I ate. I had, um, hot dogs."

	She laughs. "So healthy."

	"Man does not live on non-fat tofruitti Rice Dreamsicles alone,
Scully." Ice cream would be good right now.  Got to cool down.

	Her hand moves upwards, her nails scratching lightly through my
jeans. It feels good. Too good. Much better than it should at this
moment, when I'm trying to just relax and keep her company. I can
barely pay
attention to the music--Scully's gentle, knowing hand is massaging
my thigh.

	"Are you comfortable, Mulder?" she says softly. "Those jeans look a
little . . . tight."

	I look down at her, puzzling. Am I missing something? She lifts up
my arm and puts it over her shoulders, and my hand, purely by
accident, right? all but cups her breast.

	I could smack myself upside the head for my sheer stupidity. Well,
well, well. As it is, I just smile quietly and brush my hand lightly
over the top of her breast, then move it to her shoulder.

	I am being seduced.

	That's what this is. The music and the shirt and her bare legs all
but draped over my lap. She's seducing me.

	Scully, you are full of surprises.

	"You're right, Scully," I say, leaning back.  "These jeans are a
little tight."

	"Poor baby," she murmurs, and her hand moves up my thigh to my
waistband.  "Just relax, Mulder.  I'll take care of you."

	Truth is, I am feeling a lot more relaxed now than I was five
minutes ago.  She sets aside our wine glasses and pushes gently on my
shoulders, and I lie on my back beneath her.  She unbuttons my shirt
and starts rubbing my chest, a sweet gentle massage through my
undershirt.  She's straddling me just below my waist, I'm sure not by
mere chance, and her slight weight is unbelievably arousing.

	"Relax, Mulder, relax," she croons, and she undoes the first three
buttons on my jeans.  I gasp in my breath, and she chuckles.  "Well,
what do we have here?"

	"Scully, I, uh--"

	"Just shake hands with it, right?"  She undoes the rest of my fly
and eases her hands into my shorts.  Her fingers stroke my cock, and
I whimper and put my hands on her knees.

	"Hello, Mr. Penis," she says softly, her voice low and amused.
"It's a pleasure to meet you.  Oh, no, no, Miss Scully, the pleasure
is all mine."  She scoots down my body and starts maneuvering my cock
out of
the fly of my briefs.  My hands have fallen to my sides, but I raise
them up to grasp her shoulders. She looks up at me, her eyebrow
already arching.

	"Scully, I need to know . . . I need to know you're sure about this."

	She sits up to look into my face, resting her weight on her arms.
"Mulder, do you remember what you said about us knowing when the time
is right?"

	"I remember."  I cup her face in my hand.

	"I think it's not going to get much more right than this."  She
rubs her cheek against my palm.  "I don't think I could love you more
than I do at this moment.  I don't think I could like you more,
either."

	"Oh, Scully . . ."

	"Or want you more."  She moves her head and opens her lips, and
sucks my fingers into her mouth.

	I moan at the sensation.  It's hard to concentrate on the task at
hand. "Scully, talk to me."

	She smiles around my fingers and gives them an extra-hard suck
before letting them fall out of her mouth. "All in good time," she
whispers, and starts kissing my chest again.

	Something about this doesn't quite feel right.  The wine and the
lights and the music and everything is a perfect setting--too
perfect.  I don't know what to make of her concentration on me,
asking nothing for
herself, when all I want is to have my hands on her skin.  It's like
she can't stop long enough to let me do anything.  Like she's
determined. Like she's afraid to stop.

	"Scully," I whisper as she nibbles and licks her way over my
stomach. "Scully, tell me you're sure about this."

	"I'm sure."

	"Because I'm not so certain that you are."

	She stops and sits up.  "What do you mean?  Of course I'm sure.
Isn't this what you want, what you've been hoping for--all but
begging for--for the past four months?"

	"Yes, it's what I want, but not if you have any doubts."  She leans
back on her heels and gives me a hard look, and I sit up.  I put my
arms around her and kiss her.  "No lingering doubts, Scully. I don't
want you to ever regret this, or take it back.  This is forever,
Scully.  I want it to start right."

	Scully bites her lip and studies me, and then gives a strange sort
of sigh and leans her head against my chest.  "Forever," she says.
"You sound so sure of it."

	"I am.  I won't let you settle for anything less."

	She chuckles softly and rubs her lips on my collarbone.  "I think I
can do forever," she says.  "Forever is what I want, too."

	"So tell me about the rest of it, then."  Please, Scully, tell me
you don't doubt me anymore.  I run my fingers up and down her spine
and wait.

	"It's hard for me to need people," she whispers.

	"I know it is."

	"I want you," she whispers.  "I trust you.  I trust you with
everything."  But she makes no further movement, just sits on my lap,
holding me.

	I sigh. Maybe I shouldn't have asked.  Finally I whisper, "Tell me
what you're afraid of, Scully."

	Her arms tighten around me, and she whispers into my chest, "Losing
you."

	"Oh, sweetheart, you're not going to lose me.  I'm never going to
leave you."

	"I know.  Not voluntarily.  But if someone takes you away--Mulder,
if you were--if you died--if they took you away from me--what would I
do?" She lifts her face to mine, and there are tears in her eyes.
"What
would I do without you?"

	For a moment I don't know what to say.  I stroke her back and her
hair, and gently kiss her face.  I've often wondered what would
happen to me if Scully died, how I would handle it, what would I do.
It was as painful as a physical blow, when I saw her in a hospital
bed after I asked her to lie for me and tell everyone I was dead . .
. But it has never occurred to me that Scully might miss me that
much, if I die first.  If I were taken away as she was taken from me,
she would suffer as much as I did--even more, because at that time I
really didn't comprehend how much I loved her.

	"I can't make you any promises about that," I whisper finally, and
she heaves a shuddering sort of sigh.  "But I can tell you this--I
would fight, I would do everything and anything, I would claw my way
back to you.  They would have to kill me, to keep me away from you."

	"It will happen or it won't, whether we're lovers or not," she says
quietly.  "I know that.  But I still have nightmares sometimes.
Sometimes I see myself as a bitter, half-mad old woman who hates the
rest of the world because her lover died.  You are the love of my
life, Mulder," she whispers, and her eyes close as if it hurts to say
it.

	I gasp at her admission.  God.  The love of her life.  God.  I
stroke her cheek and kiss her again, and rock her in my arms.  "The
time isn't right yet, Scully," I say, and she sniffles.  "I don't
know when it will
be.  If you're waiting for some cosmic sign to tell you we're going
to live happily ever after--"

	"I don't know," she says pensively.  "Ever after is just that, it's
as much time as you have. Whether the rest of our lives means seventy
years or seventy days, I'm sure we can live them happily."

	"But you need something more first."  I run my finger under her
teary eye.

	"I wish I knew exactly what it was."

	"So do I."

	She lets me hold her a few minutes more, then she resolutely pulls
away. "I'm going to put some clothes on," she says quietly.  "Do you
want to find a movie?"

	"Okay."  I watch her go back to my bedroom, and I can't hold back a
wistful sigh.  Someday, Scully.  Someday.

After Midnight: Deuces Wild


	"Hello? Mulder! Can you hear me?" I walk past the tv, cell phone
pressed to my ear, half-listening to the local news about Timothy
Landau being arrested for the murders of Grant Ellis and Suzanne
Modeski,half-listening to Mulder.

	"Where are you, Scully?" he asks. I hear a crack, a spit, and the
rustle of a bag. Okay....

	Frowning, I cup a hand over my free ear and try to get a grip on
the situation. Mulder is kicked back somewhere eating seeds, while
I'm--Christ, alone in the middle of Fucked or Broke, Nevada. "I'm at
the hotel," I tell him. "Where are you?"

	Crack. "What hotel?" Spit. Rustle.

	"What do you mean, what hotel? Las Vegas. I'm in Las Vegas. Aren't
you? You called me."

	Mulder laughs. "I didn't call you." Crack.

	"What do you mean, you didn't call me?"

	Spit. Rustle. "Is this a game, Scully? How kinky. Great set up."

	Set up. *Set* *Up*. Instantly, I understand. The Gunmen got me--
they got me good. The little shits. "Oh, man," I mutter. "I am gonna
kick their asses."

	I can almost see Mulder sit up a little straighter. Crack. Spit.
"Whose?" he asks, significant rustle as he sets his bag of seeds
aside.

	I've got his attention, at least.

	Shaking my head, I walk back to the tv and jam the button off. This
would be funny, I tell myself, if it had happened to anyone but me.
On my only free weekend, the one I was going to use trying to catch
up on some reading, and sleeping, and--well, whatever. I had things I
wanted to do. Things that had nothing to do with the Three Stooges.

	"Scully?"

	"The gunmen," I tell Mulder, glad to find the connection clearer
with the loss of the tv noise. I sit stiffly down on the couch, more
than pissed. Really pissed. "Those shifty bastards. They lured me
here, Mulder, and used your voice to do it."

	"Lured you?" I can hear the doubt in his voice, and the suppressed
laughter. I wonder what the hell he finds so funny, but I don't ask.
"The gunmen *lured* you to Vegas? How--exactly?"

	I swallow hard and cross my arms over my chest. "I don't know--
exactly."

	"Oh." I hear another significant rustle. I've lost him already.
Crack. Spit. "Well, when's your flight back?"

	"Tonight at ten."

	Rustle. "Well, babe, you've got a few hours to kill." Crack. Spit.

	I grind my teeth. *Babe*? "You mean a few geeks to kill," I grumble.

	"I don't know what they were thinking, why they did what they did."
Rustle. Crack. Spit. "But they must've had a good reason."

	"Easy for you to say," I snap. "You're not sitting alone in a Las
Vegas hotel room, unable to show your face in the casino for fear of--
well, never mind."

	"Did you make new friends and influence people?" he asks, and again
I can hear the amusement in his voice. God, if he only knew.

	"Not quite," I tell him. Not quite the truth, but not a lie,
either. Not really. Those weren't friends I was making down in that
lounge, playing with a cigarette between my teeth and tongue. I did
manage, however, to flick a few Bics. I wave my hand in front of my
face. Hoo. Is it suddenly hot in here, or what?

	Crack. Spit. "You can always hang out at the airport, Scully,"
Mulder suggests. Rustle. Crack. "Lots of interesting people hang out
at airports." Spit. He laughs, some private joke about Krycek,
mutants, and the varied effects of the mysterious black oil. I make
no comment, not wishing to encourage him. "Scully? You still there?"

	Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I do my best to
shrug out of my jacket. "I'm here," I say, tossing the jacket onto
the glass table in front of me with a flick of my wrist. I lean back
against the couch cushions and sigh. My head is starting to hurt.

	"What's wrong?" he asks. "I mean--beside the obvious."

	"I'm tired," I tell him. "And--tense."

	His low laughter trickles through me, not irritating but doing
nothing to soothe the edge crackling along my every nerve. What the
hell is so funny?

	Crack. "Where's Frohike?" Spit. Mulder's grinning like a twelve-
year-old now. I can feel it. "He'll help you relax, Scully. You
wouldn't even have to ask nicely."

	All right. Okay. Adolescent humor, predictable as the seasons. I
draw a deep breath and close my eyes. "Fuck you, Mulder."

	Silence. I don't hear the bag of seeds being set on the desk, the
creak of leather as he leans back in his chair, or the slow,
deliberate unbuttoning of his comfy 501's. I don't hear anything but
our mingled breathing, but I feel the tension shift, like altered
current between us. "Go on," he says finally, his voice so low I
swear it's coming from inside me.

	I hesitate, barely managing to speak. "Go on--what?"

	A long exhale, and he whispers roughly: "Fuck me, Scully."

	Warmth floods me like a desert rain. I need no further prompting.
Breathing deeply, eyes still closed, I let my free hand drift over my
clothed body. My linen pants feel alternately arousing and confining,
soft on my sensitive legs. My nipples are hard against my thin silk
blouse. "I'm on the couch, Mulder. Pantsuit on. Bags packed. Ready to
go. But I'm bored. I'm so bored, Mulder. And warm. Very warm."

	"Warm...."

	"Hot. Everywhere."

	"Yeah."

	I smile, letting him stroke on that one a minute while I remove my
clinging blouse and unzip my pants. When I pick the phone up again,
he's waiting. "I'm in my bra, slipping my pants off now, down my
hips." I fold the slacks onto the table next to my jacket and blouse,
then sink back into the cushions of the couch. "Uhm.... There we
go...."

	"Better?" he mutters.

	"Much better," I concur. "I'm wearing my black bra and panties now,
Mulder. Nothing else. I'm--relaxing."

	"Good."

	"Do you want the bra on, Mulder, or off?"

	"Off."

	"And the panties?"

	He groans. "Ah--on."

	I smile and undo the front clasp of my bra. My breasts spring free,
tight and heavy, tingling with anticipation. "Done. Mmmmm," I sigh,
teasing my nipples with my thumb and forefinger. "I love it when you
touch me like this, Mulder. Let me touch you the same way. Take your
shirt off for me."

	I imagine my hands slipping under his untucked shirt, the warmth of
his muscles flexing taut beneath my fingers. Smiling, I listen to
buttons pop, and the quick toss of his shirt and something heavy,
onto what sounds like a glass table top. Glass?

	"Shirt's off," he breathes into the phone. Panting. Panting
already. A very good sign.

	"Good. That's good, Mulder. Mmmmmm, I love your chest. I love to
run my hands over your shoulders, touch your skin, feel the warmth of
you. I love to watch my fingers move with your breath, your heart
beat. I love to kiss your chest, feel the tickle of hair under my
lips, feel you respond. When I trace my tongue down, Mulder, I taste
you. Sweet, salty. Sexy. Spice. Uhmmm--- Yes...."

	"Yeahhhh...."

	My hands whisper over my body like a teasing breeze. I am amazed at
the sensations I've aroused. The slightest touch on my skin elicits
pleasured groans, from me, from him, my imagination conjuring images
of Mulder and me in each other's hands, squeezing, tasting, kissing,
pleasing. "Slide your jeans down, Mulder," I urge him, letting my own
hand glide over my stomach to the wispy edge of my panties.

	"They're--down."

	"I'm down, Mulder. Down in front of you. Between your knees." I let
out a breath, and with my eyes still closed picture myself where I
want to be. There with him. His legs spread. My mouth on his cock.
Sucking. Licking. Drawing my nails over his full, tight balls.
"Uhmmmm, Mulder. I love your cock. The way you move when I touch it,
the way you make me feel."

	"Ah, God.... Scully...."

I slide my fingers down, under the silk of my panties, and dip into
my heat. I'm ready. Wet. I want him. I miss him. I wish he was here.
"Talk to me, Mulder," I rasp, doing my best to mimic the thrust of
his fingers, the hard-gentle way he has of stroking me inside. "Oh,
Mulder...."

	"Scully--" I hear his strokes, begun with slow rhythm, now
increasing in beat. I push, he pulls, we slide in, withdraw. "You're
everything," he growls. "Everything."

	"We're good together, Mulder. Mmmmm-- Mulder...."

	"You say my name--like that again--" he grunts. "And I'm--gonna
come--"

	"I'm so ready," I promise him, letting my thumb graze my clit.
Once. Twice.

	"Let me in, Scully-- Let me--"

	"Yes, Mulder. Yes-- Now...."

	"You're so wet, Scully. Tight. Wet. I ca-- I can't--"

	Increased pressure with my thumb, again, one more time against that
tiny bead inside, and I explode. I'm there. Beyond. My throat
convulses, the phone held tight between my cheek and shoulder as I
ride the waves. I'm gone. "Oh, Mmmmmullllderrrr...."

	He groans my name in response, a sweet resonance in my ear as I
swim in color, moaning his name. He makes a guttural sound like he's
lost all capacity to function, and I pant into the phone as he chokes
out the words: "Holy-- Fuck. Scu--uh--uhlly...."

	Yes. Yes.... I smile as I float unhurriedly to the surface, half on
the couch, half off, the phone still near enough that I can hear him
breathing. In. Out. Like he's trying to remember how.

	"Mulder?" I sigh. "You still there?"

	"Where?"

	"Home. At your desk. With your seeds. In your chair." And however
else I imagined him being. We're both nearly naked, and definitely
sated. I can't think beyond that.

	"On the floor, Scully."

	"What?"

	"I hit the floor ten minutes ago."

	"Oh." I smile at the image of Mulder flat out on the floor, jeans
back up over his hips but still unbuttoned. He's pulling his shirt
down off the table top now, sliding his arms inside. I glance at my
own clothes folded on the glass table in front of me, and suddenly
I'm not smiling anymore. Tears fill my eyes. I sigh and sit slowly
up, reaching for my blouse.

	"Scully?"

	"Yeah?"

	"You okay?"

	I shrug, working my way into the blouse that seemed to come off so
much easier than it's going back on. "Fine, Mulder. I'm fine."

	He's silent a minute. "Scully," he says finally. "Talk to me."

	What can I say? I love him. I miss him. I wish he was here.

	"I'm tired, Mulder. And I want to be home. I miss you."

	"I miss you, too, Scully. I wondered what had happened to you this
weekend. You didn't return my call, and I got a little worried."

	I nod, only half listening again as I pull my pants back on and
slide the zipper up. "I was busy returning the call you *didn't*
make," I tell him, moving into the bathroom to check my face and
hair. I can see I'll need a little work before I go out in public--
the rose in my cheeks and the muss of my hair are tell-tale signs
that I've been fucked. So to speak.

	"...Langley and Byers," Mulder was saying. "But Byers can't lie. He
never could. So I knew where to--" There is a faint knock on the
door. I frown, not sure if I heard the sound from the other room, or
through the phone. "--look."

	"Mulder, are you expecting someone?"

	"No. Are you?"

	The knock comes again. I'm certain now I hear it in two places--in
my ear, and from the other room. I shake my head, obviously over-
sensitized. Amazed at the orgasmic power my partner unleashes in me,
even over the phone, I start into the other room. "Mulder, I have to
go. Someone's at the door."

	"All right, Scully. Just one more thing--"

	"What's that, Mulder?" I jerk the door open.

	He stands in the open doorway of the room across from mine, his
long sleeved shirt hanging open and untucked, his 501's barely
buttoned. Mulder smiles. "I've got a bed *and* and couch. Wanna come
see?"

*****

	Scully stares at me, her eyes huge and her mouth clenched tight.
She's still clutching her phone to her ear, too, until I lower mine.
She lowers hers slowly as well, and takes a deep breath. "You-" she
starts, and then clamps her mouth shut.

	"Hi," I say, putting my phone aside. "It's good to see you."

	"You son of a bitch," she bites out. "Have you been here all
weekend? Have you been hiding here? I bet you and the boys had a
great time, laughing at me, talking about me behind my back. I'm out
of here." She turns, her phone still clenched in her hand.

	"Scully--love, wait--" I reach out and grab her hand, and she
glares at me. "Scully. Sweetheart. Come on. I got here about an hour
ago. I was worried about you all weekend and then I remembered the
guys would be here in Vegas for the conference. Byers told me where
you were, so here I am. I was trying to get a hold of the guys when
you called me. We haven't been talking about you behind your back and
we certainly haven't been laughing at you."

	Her glare softens. "This whole thing is so embarrassing."

	"Oh, Scully . . . and that on the phone just now--that was so cool.
I didn't think you'd actually do it but you did and damn," I shake my
head in admiration, "you are so hot, Scully."

	"I'm not sure I feel any better about all of this," she says, but
there's a smile lurking in her face. She says shyly, "It really was
hot?"

	"Oh, yeah."

	She lowers her head, smiling. "Well," she says quietly, "that's
good to know."

	"Scully." I tug on her hand until she reluctantly comes into my
arms. "Scully. Change your ticket for tomorrow, we'll fly back
together, and we'll play around in Vegas tonight. How does that
sound?"

	"We need to go back," she says, leaning her head against my chest.
"We have to go to work tomorrow."

	"The guys feel guilty," I whisper. "They're willing to spring for
the hotel room, and they left us some treats."

	"Treats?"

	"Chips for the casino. A small wad of cash. Requests for permission
to continue worshiping you from afar."

	"I can just imagine."

	"I want to play James Bond," I whisper, nuzzling her ear. "I want
to put on a tux and play baccarat at the high stakes table and have a
gorgeous woman blow on my dice for luck."

	"They don't use dice in baccarat."

	"Whatever. Do you want to blow on my dice, Scully?"

	She laughs, looking up at me. "Are you sure that's what you want me
to blow?" she says, a wicked glint in her eye, and I groan and laugh
at the same time.

	"Wicked woman," I growl, and pick her up, making her squeal with
surprise. "If you want to stay here all weekend and play Secret Agent
I'm all for it, you know." I lie her down on the bed and she cradles
me between her legs and strokes my face with both her hands.

	"Secret Agent, huh," she whispers. "I seem to remember a promise
you made about handcuffs once . . ."

	I stop nibbling on her neck and look up at her, my eyes wide. My
sweet lovely Scully continues to surprise me, but this is . . . whoa.
I stumble out, "I think I have some around here somewhere."

	She crooks her finger. "Fork 'em over."

	I get my cuffs and my keys from my suitcase, and press them both
into her hands. I'm shaking with excitement. The symbolism of this
moment is one thing--she knows already that she's the one in control
and I trust her judgement without question--but the eroticism of it
is something else. I've got to get her to Vegas more often.

	She smiles at me as we change positions, so that I'm lying beneath
her and she straddles over me. She kisses me firmly and draws her
hand up my arm, and clamps the cuff around my wrist and the other end
on the bedstead.

	"God, Scully," I moan, shifting beneath her. "This is so
incredible. I love you, I love you so much--Scully?"

	Because she has climbed off the bed and is straightening her
clothes. She tucks the keys to the handcuffs into her bra and snags
the money the guys gave me from the table. "I haven't forgiven you
yet, Mulder," she says, still with that wicked smile.

	"Scully--" I tug my handcuffed arm desperately. "You're not leaving
me like this, are you?"

	"I want you to think about what you've done," she says with mock
severity. "Consider this a time out."

	"Scully--please, this isn't funny--"

	"I don't know, Mulder, from where I'm standing it's hilarious. Kind
of like being tricked into coming to Vegas on my first free weekend
in ages to help out the Three Stooges. And then giving you phone sex
because I missed you so much, while you're hiding in the next room.
Pretty damn funny, don't you think?"

	"I said I'm sorry, didn't I? And I didn't put the guys up to
getting you out here, you believe that, don't you?"

	"Actually, you haven't said you're sorry. And whether you put the
guys up to it or not, I'm still upset over the whole thing. And now,
Mulder, I'm going to do something to make me feel better."

	"Scully?"

	"I'm going shopping, Mulder," she says as she closes the door. "I
won't be long. Probably." The door clicks shut.

	I jerk on the handcuff some more, but the links hold and the
bedstead is solid. I'm stuck. "Well, fuck," I say, because at the
moment that's really all I can do. It's not so terrible, though, is
it? The remote to the TV is right at my free hand, I don't have to
pee, I'm fully dressed--pretty much--and I'm not thirsty. It could be
worse.

	And she'll be back soon. She'll show me what she bought and we'll
have a good laugh, and she'll have to uncuff me eventually, right? I
mean, she can't leave me here, right?

	She'll be back soon, right?

After Midnight: Down the Rabbit Hole

	Mulder's got his hand through.

	I stand in front of him, my eyes closed, my mouth moving. I can't
see him, but I can see him. The sunlight filters into the darkness
like God's own rays, and the dirt from above trickles down over
Mulder's head. He closes his eyes and pushes, struggling to speak,
though neither one of us can. I hear voices shout, but I'm too far
gone to know if they're from above or inside my head.

	"From above," I mutter, pray, hallucinate, whatever. "From above,
from above...."

	A hand reaches out, and grabs a hold of mine. Mulder. I can't see
him through the sticky yellow, pain-black haze surrounding me, but I
know. He squeezes my fingers, a tight grip telling me to hang on.
Hang on....

	"Hold on. I'm with you. Beside you. Inside you."

	And then he's gone. His hand leaves me grasping as he's hauled
heavily upward, away from me. The aliens have finally landed, I
suppose, and are taking Mulder to their leader.

	"Wait!" I scream, though I know it's a mere whisper, if the sound
has emerged at all. "Please, take me, too!"

	They return for me then, the aliens. Strange looking beings who
titter and hover around us, all of them looking like Skinner. They
all look like Skinner, every one of them--tall, bifocaled, face-
masked Skinners. How odd, I think, that we've spent so much time
looking for an alien race that looks like Skinner.

	The Skinners are concerned. I don't know why. They've strapped me
to a board and are rolling me toward their ship, a big, hulking army-
like vehicle. I wonder how it will fly. I wonder where Mulder is, if
he's already aboard, and if he's noticed that all his aliens look
like Skinner.

	One of the Skinners bends over me, whispers something to me that I
fight to make out. "Scully," he says, dark eyes grim and piercing
from behind his glasses. "You'll be fine. You'll be all right,
Scully."

	"Mulder...." I say, but they hear "mushroom".

	"We found it. Just take it easy."

	"Scully."

	I open my eyes. "Mulder?"

	"Hold on."

	"Mulder, where are you?"

	"Get 'em in the van!" the Skinner yells, and he stands back as the
rolling board I'm on is raised and shoved onto the alien craft. A
door is slammed. The place reverberates. I figure the switch has been
flicked and the engines have started. Do aliens have engines? I'll
have to ask Mulder.

	"Mulder?"

	We take off. We're flying. Where are we going? Wherever it is,
we're going fast. This is a fast ship.

	"Fast ship? You've never heard of the Millennium Falcon?"

	An old man leans away from a beat up table, shaking his head. He
looks like one of the Skinners, but he's dressed like--Ben Kenobi.

	I glance over at the handsome man next to me. Mulder?!

	"Han Solo. I'm captain of the Millennium Falcon. Chewey here tells
me you're looking for passage to the Alderaan System."

	Mulder, do *not* tell that man I am a Wookie. I'm your partner, but
I am not a Wookie, Mulder, and you're not--

	"I've outrun Imperial Starships. Not the local bulk cruisers, mind
you, I'm talkin' about the big Corellian ships now. She's fast enough
for you, old man. What's the cargo?"

	Wait a minute--wait a minute! This is all wrong!

	Obi-Wan/Skinner ignores my outburst, and looks directly at
Solo/Mulder. "Only passengers," he replies.
"Myself, the boy (Spender?!). Mulder. Scully. And no questions
asked."

	Mulder? Scully? What--what about the droids?

	I shake my head, trying to clear the vision. Mulder in a white
shirt and dark, Corellian vest. Pirate. Well, that's somehow fitting.
I open my eyes, half-expecting to see me or Chewbacca sitting next to
him as the cantina music fades. But I see nothing.

	Nothing. Inside the ship it's dark and empty, and I close my eyes
again, not wanting to see dark and empty. I wonder if I should be
afraid. Of course I should be afraid. But I'm not. I'm not afraid,
because I know--without seeing, without hearing--that Mulder is near.

	I reach my hand out.

	His hand is there. Waiting. His fingers clasp mine, tighten, and
through a sudden blast of blinding pain in my head, I hold on for
dear life. Hurts, this hurts, and the strength in his grip lets me
know he's feeling the same. I know without words what he's thinking,
what he's feeling. How can I know?

	"It's all right, Scully," he says without speaking, and my eyes
fill with tears. The pain is unbearable. I want to scream. I can't.
"Hold onto me, Scully."

	"I am, Mulder. Please don't let go."

	"I will never let go."

	"They want to separate us, Mulder."

	"I've got you. I'm here."

	"You were Han Solo a minute ago."

	"I know."

	"So how do I know you're really you now?"

	The conundrum doesn't phase him.

	"You know," he says, and smiles.

	"But *how*, Mulder?" I ask him, my un-voice pleading. "How can this
be? How can I hear you when you aren't speaking? How can you hear
me?"

	"I am you," he tells me. "You are me."

	I don't ask him to explain. I *know*. Not in the logical center of
my brain where one part of me is trying to process this experience to
the nth degree, but in my heart. In my soul. I know. Just as I know
that something inexplicable has flamed to life between us, and we
will never be the same.

	Flicked switch. Trust. Intuition. Absolute. One in five billion. I
believe. Strength of your beliefs. Scully, pick up the phone. I've
come back to you. Scully--*run*! The truth will save you, Scully.
It'll save us both. You made me a whole person. Breathe! I see it,
Mulder. I see it. I love you. Don't look. Don't look, Scully. You're
a lucky man. You love him, don't you? Agent Scully is already in
love. Love....

	"I love you." His voice sails inside me, fills me, flows with my
blood, gliding along every cell.

	"I love you," I tell him, hearing my voice echo through him as his
does through me. And I believe, but I can already see beyond. Far
beyond the words we've declared or are even capable of declaring,
because *we* are beyond. Love. Affection. Kinship. Regard. Devotion.
Where do we fit in?

	"We don't, Scully," he says. "Let go. Let it fly...."

	Another wave of pain rushes in, followed closely by the white light
with which he surrounds me. He's right. We are love. We are beyond. I
close my eyes as we hurtle through space, hands clasped, fingers
laced. Pain drifts away like he's willed it, my heart, my haven. And
with the first real peace I've known in six years, I smile.

	The aliens can't hurt us. The Skinners, the Fowleys, the Consortium
of Smoking Men in Imperial Starship Cruisers--all of them will try.
Pain, fear, separation, doubt--they will try anything, but in the end
they will fail. In the end Mulder and I will embrace the Truth. I am
he. He is me.

	We are beyond.

*****

	I'm thirsty.

	As if by magic a waitress appears at my side with her little drink
tray. "Your martini, Mr. Mulder," she says as she sets it on the
gaming table.

	Never mind that I don't drink, that martinis always seem like a
wuss's idea of a man's drink, that I hate the taste of gin, that if I
am going to drink I take the straightforward route of beer or at most
a Scotch, neat--I pick up the martini. There is a pearl onion glowing
in the bottom of the glass, and "Drink Me" is etched into the side. I
take a sip. "Thanks, baby," I say to the waitress, and she smiles at
me before she turns away.

	I am in a casino. I am wearing a velvet tuxedo. Neither of these
facts surprises me, though I suppose they should. Nor am I surprised
that I am at the baccarat table, though I haven't a clue how one
plays baccarat and I can't afford to be here at the high-stakes table
anyway. There is a stack of $500 and $1000 chips at my left hand, and
a stacked redhead at my right. Life, though confusing, is good.

	Scully's hand rests gently on my knee, and she leans over to
whisper, "Remember, Mulder, if you lose we can always hang out in
airports." Her neckline is dangerously low. Her skin is like cream
against the deep red wine of her gown. There are blood-red rubies at
her ears, a gold and ruby necklace about her neck. She looks elegant
and cool, and I want nothing more than to tear that satin gown from
her body and ravish her, right here at the baccarat table. Do you
think anyone would be shocked?

	"Do you feel lucky, Mr. Mulder?" says my opponent in clipped tones,
and I tear my eyes away from more skin than I've seen Scully show in
years to look at him. I know that scar, those freaky blue eyes, that
pinky held oh-so coyly to the corner of his mouth, the cigarette
grasped between his thumb and forefinger. It's my nemesis, my mortal
enemy. Dr. Evil.

	I narrow my eyes at him and say, in an English accent that's
improved a lot since my student days, "Bring it on, baby, this is
exactly my bag."

	He smiles at me evilly and places his bet on the table. It's an
egg, a white, perfect egg. He balances it on its larger end and leers
at Scully, and says, "How much is that worth to you, Mr. Mulder?"

	"More than all the evil petting zoos in all the world," I answer,
pushing my entire collection of chips onto the table. Scully cocks
her eyebrow but says nothing, and the dealer gives me the dice.

	"We don't use dice in baccarat," he says. "Roll."

	I hold my cupped hand below Scully's mouth. "For luck," I ask, and
she smiles and lowers her head, and blows lightly across my palm. I
shudder visibly and Dr. Evil snickers. I shake the dice and roll them
across the table.

	"Seven!" the dealer announces, and gives the egg to Scully, who
starts peeling back the shell.

	"If you get it all off in one piece and make a wish, your wish will
come true," she says, and lays the coiled shell on the table. She
bites the end of the egg and holds it to my lips. "You really should
eat some breakfast."

	"I'm groovy, baby," I say, but eat the egg out of her hand anyway.
"Better tasting than Godiva chocolates."

	She smiles demurely and dusts off her hands, and takes a chip off
my pile. She slips it between her breasts. "For safekeeping," she
says.

	"It's my turn," Dr. Evil whines, and picks up the dice, which have
transmogrified into eggs as well. He rolls them across the table and
they come to a wobbly stop in front of Scully.

	"These aren't real eggs," she says as she starts peeling off their
shells as well.

	"House wins," says the dealer, sweeping up Dr. Evil's chips. He
adds them to my pile, which has doubled since I last looked at it, as
fascinated as I've been with Scully and the eggs. "Your turn, Mr.
Mulder."

	"How do I roll without any dice?" I ask, the English accent gone,
and the dealer looks at me blankly.

	Scully hands me the eggs, which are now jeweled and heavy, as
ornate as a Faberge egg. "You have to be patient," she says. "You
have to go slowly to find what's inside."

	"You're my good luck charm," I tell her, and she smiles again and
rises from her chair to stand behind me.

	"I'm here," she whispers into my ear, placing her hands on my
shoulders. "I'll always be here."

	The band starts to play, a song I recognize but I'm not sure from
where. Scully hums along to it, stroking my hair and swaying slightly
to the music. I roll the eggs back towards Dr. Evil. He tries to blow
them back towards me, but his breath wheezes and stinks like stale
tobacco and has no effect on the eggs at all. They come to a stop in
front of him and the dealer cries, "Snake eyes! Snake eyes! Mulder
wins!"

	"You can't win!" Dr. Evil says, slamming his hands on the table,
and the eggs crack open and their gooey contents spill out. "I won't
let you! I've worked and planned too long, you little whelp!"

	"Whelp?" I repeat, but Dr. Evil is too occupied with his tantrum to
notice. He's knocking over chairs and spilling chips on the floor,
and he grabs an old lady's cup of quarters and throws it to the
ground. They tinkle like bells as they hit the floor.

	"No no no!" he screams like an overtired two-year-old, stamping his
feet on the ground, and behind me Scully chuckles.

	"Mulder," she says softly, and I stand and take her hand. "Let's go
home."

	"How? I'm not even sure how we got here."

	"It's a kind of magic," she whispers, and she starts to waver and
ripple as if she's being projected onto a screen. Her voice seems to
come from far away. "Close your eyes and wish, Mulder. Close your
eyes and wish."

	I close my eyes.

*****

	"Thirsty," I say, and open my eyes. Instead of the bright lights of
the casino, what meets my eyes are curtains around my bed, a TV
mounted on the wall, hospital machinery all around.

	Hospital.

	I remember now. The skeletons found in the field, the underground
cave, abducting a Grey, Scully in tears, voices from above us, Scully
covered in goo. Reaching out for her hand. Finding it.

	"Scully?" I whisper hopefully, and try to sit up.

	At once I feel a hand on my shoulder, and she whispers soothingly,
"Shh, Mulder, shh. You need to rest."

	"Scully." I grab her hand. It's warm. Even through the bandages, I
know her fingers. These are her delicate fingers, this is her palm,
this is her wrist. I kiss her palm and press it against my cheek, and
she smiles at me. "Scully, tell me I'm not dreaming anymore."

	"I'm . . . I'm pretty sure this is real."

	"Pretty sure?"

	"I think I'm still having flashbacks, every once in a while." She
sits down on the edge of my bed. She's wearing a hospital gown and a
bathrobe, and her hair is pulled back from her face with a headband.
Her face looks sunburned. She strokes my cheek with her thumb. "How
do you feel?"

	"Weird. Thirsty."

	"Oh--here." She reaches over to the table beside my bed and gives
me a lidded mug with a bendy straw. "It's water."

	I raise the bed behind me and take the mug. The water is warm but
still tastes delicious. She strokes my face as she waits for me to
finish drinking.

	"How long have we been here?"

	"Two or three days. I'm still fuzzy on the details. We're in
quarantine, basically. If you see guys in Hazmat suits they're
probably real."

	"I'll keep that in mind." I put the mug aside and take her hands
again, and pull on them gently. "Hey. Snuggle?"

	She smiles and says, "Just for a little while," and lies down at my
side. "Does your skin hurt any? We have a lotion for it, to help the
healing from the acid."

	"I'm okay. Are you okay?" Wisely, she chose my side without the
IV's stuck in my arm, and I cradle my arm around her and pull her
closer.

	"Aside from the hallucinations and acid burns, I think I'm okay."

	"Poor pretty girl," I coo, stroking her cheek gently. My own hands
are bandaged. The skin on my face and neck feels tight, raw, like I
took a nosedive on asphalt. More forms to fill out when we go back to
work. Joy.
Scully props herself up and turns to look at me. "I had the
strangest dream, Mulder, I thought you were Han Solo and I was
Chewbacca--"

	I guffaw. "You'd make a great Wookie, Scully."

	"--and all the aliens looked like Skinner."

	"Cool."

	She raises her eyebrows. "'Cool,' Mulder?"

	"I dreamed I was Austin Powers and C.G.B. Spender was Dr. Evil. We
played baccarat with dice and he threw a tantrum when he lost." I
play with a curl at the side of her face. "You were my good luck
charm, Scully. I won because of you."

	She smiles. "Yet somehow that makes sense," she says quietly, and
lies down again, her head on my shoulder. "I also dreamed you died,"
she whispers after a moment.

	I tighten my arms around her. "I'm here, Scully."

	"I know. I know. It was so real, for a while there, though. I went
to your wake and everyone treated me like I was your widow."

	I kiss the top of her head. "I'm sorry."

	"It confuses me, though. If the purpose of the hallucinogen was to
relax the prey, why would it give me something that would agitate
me?"

	"I don't know. Is that what you've decided the purpose was?"

	She nods. "I've been talking with our doctors, telling them about
my dreams. The hallucinogen lulls the prey into complacency so the
digestive enzymes can do their work. We ingested some of it, too, I
think, that may have prolonged the effect."

	"Uh-huh," I mutter, wondering what it is about smart women that
works so well. "I wish I had more energy."

	"Or more privacy," she murmurs, and then chuckles. "Yet the psychic
bond continues."

	"Mm?"

	"We were--I thought--in a way we were reading each other's minds,
for a while there." She pauses. "Or I dreamed we were."

	"I was just thinking how much I'd like to make love." She makes no
answer. "Scully?"

	"I was just thinking that too. If I had more energy. If we had more
privacy. If I weren't so worried about hurting you."

	"I'm tough, I can take it."

	She chuckles again. "But I'm not sure I can."

	"Ahh . . . Wookie, you're killing me."

	"Wookie? Did you just call me Wookie?"

	"Um . . . yeah."

	"Wookie." She laughs. "All right. You may keep that one. It's
better than honeybunny."

	I smile, and kiss my little Wookie on the top of her red head.
There are things I remember, that I'm not sure if they were real or
if I dreamed them. I say, "You were afraid. You thought we would
leave you behind. You held onto my hand as if it were a lifeline."

	"And you said, 'I'm with you. I'm inside you.'"

	"You panicked when you couldn't find me."

	"I thought the Forestry Service van was the Millennium Falcon."

	"You wanted me to hold your hand, you wanted it so badly I could
feel it."

	"You sent away my pain."

	"I just wanted your hurting to stop."

	"You said, 'I am you, you are me,' and it made sense." She pauses.
"It still makes sense, Mulder."

	"I'll never let go," I whisper, and kiss her hair again. "I love
you, Scully. They can't hurt us, no matter what they do. You're
here," I touch my heart, "and I'm here," I touch hers. She takes a
deep swift breath. Oh GOD I wish I had more energy. "They can't come
between something that's no longer two entities, Scully. We're one
now."

	She nods. "One," she whispers, and moves up to kiss me. She smiles
and strokes my cheek. "Mulder . . ."

	"Yeah?"

	"When we get out of here you are going to get *so* lucky." She
kisses me again and lies her head on my shoulder.

	After a moment I manage to say, "Is that a promise, Scully?"

	"Go to sleep, you need to rest."

	Obediently I close my eyes--whenever she tells me to go to sleep I
do in seconds, it's weird--but I still say, "I sure hope that's a
promise, Scully."

	"Good night, Mulder." Pause. "I love you too." Pause. "Wookie."

NOTE: Neither "Star Wars" nor "Austin Powers" belong to us.


After Midnight: Revelation

	Scully is upset. I know I've upset her. Diana has upset her. Still,
I try to help her see.

	"You're wrong," I tell her, knowing what this will do to her,
knowing what it has already done. "It holds everything. Don't you see-
-all the mysteries of science, everything we can't understand or
won't explain--every human behaviorism, cosmology, psychology--
everything in the X Files. It all owes to them. It's from *them*."

	"Mulder, I will not accept that! It's just not possible!"

	I can hear the fear in her voice. The panic. I'm not helping her at
all. I can't give her evidence. Not from here. But I can give her
room.

	"Well then you go ahead and prove me wrong, Scully." I bring the
phone down and hang up, knowing Scully has already done so. I can't
convince her. I'm too tired to try. She will come to the truth not in
the same way that I have come to it, but she will know just the same.
We will both know.

	Diana takes the phone from my hand, but I don't look at her. I
can't. I push myself back down in the bed and pull the covers up over
my head, trying to block out the voices. With Scully it isn't
necessary. I feel, I know, I answer her. With Diana it's different.
Diana, I know, is plotting already.

	. . . check in . . . heard from Scully . . . players are in place .
. .

	I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes. Diana is calling
someone. I don't want to hear. Childish, I know. Gibson Praise would
shake his head in wonder, but Gibson Praise isn't among us at the
present time.

	Of course, hands over my ears does nothing.

	. . .Mulder called me scenario. . .safe for now . . .

	The lying bitch. Diana has her reasons. I can feel them. I don't
care. Who in God's name is she trying to kid? Herself, maybe. She
always had that narcissistic potential. Part of the reason we hit it
off so well. Neither of us required much from the other. Except sex.
She required sex.

	I enjoyed that aspect of our relationship, though thinking of it
now--thinking of Scully, of her soft beauty and the endless reaches
of her light--my stomach starts to twist. I feel the difference
between the dark and Scully's light, and realize too late that I have
slept with the devil. More specifically, with his daughter.

	. . . sex is good . . . talk in bed . . . he always does . . .

	Christ. I'm pathetic. Trusting and idealistic and too easily
controlled. These people know me inside out--or at least they did,
until Scully. Scully!

	. . . bra on . . . liked to take his time to remove it . . . white
. . . good, functional . . . know I didn't plan this . . .

	My chest tightens. I know I'm about to be ambushed in my bed, and I
am suddenly desperate to escape. I fight with the covers, suddenly
unable to breathe. She is getting closer. I want out. I want Scully.
Help me. God. I choke out her name, or the beginnings of it-- "Scu--
uh--" Oh, God. I can't speak. I can't breathe.

	. . . chin up . . . chest out . . . likes me confident . . . likes
my breasts . . .

	I kick the covers off, my legs tangled in sheets, my chest tangled
in panic. "Scu--lly!" I force the sound out. I'm in trouble, Scully.
She's coming. She's here--

	Diana strides into my bedroom, blouse off, and comes to stand
before my bed. I stare up at her, images of nights past confusing,
clouding my emotions. She begins to unzip her skirt. The
determination inside her chills my blood. My eyes widen as she leans
into me, but she only smiles at me and touches my shoulders, urging
me gently backward. I resist, still struggling to breathe. No, I tell
her. No.

	. . . perfect . . . he remembers . . . wants me . . . waiting . . .
looks good . . . we'll enjoy this . . .

	No.

	She meets my gaze and smiles, softer this time, her push on my
shoulders more insistent. The room sways around me. I push her back,
gasping for air, and try to stand. Skirt off, she straddles my lap
without a word and kisses my mouth, giving me air. Sucking my air. I
feel the life draining from my body, the will to fight her lost on my
limbs and the desire to participate non-existent.

	"Fox," she breathes against my mouth, and I realize that with her
voice in my ear, the burden of her thoughts is off me and I am able
to breathe. I focus on her words, knowing she will lie to me, not
understanding why. "I've missed you so much. Do you know how long
it's been--since the two of us...."

	She trails kisses over my face, working her way down. Expert.
Efficient. I feel my strength returning, but not for what she wants.
Never for what she wants. She slides her hand down me, slow and
methodical to the waistband of my boxers. I seize her hand. "No," I
tell her, the word emerging loud and clear. "Stop."

	"What?"

	"Get off me." I shove her off my lap and onto the bed.

	She smiles knowingly at me. Misinterpreting again. . . . oh, I see
. . . Yes. Yes . . .

	My chest tightens again. I press my hand over the place where it
hurts and look at her. "Get--out--" I struggle to say.

	She blinks at me. She's beginning to understand. This will either
work for me, or against me. I'm thinking against.

	. . . fighting it . . . fighting me . . . must know something . .
."You don't mean that," she says. "Fox, you're ill."

	"Stop--the lies--"

	Diana stares up at me. ...lies...only knew... "I care about you,
Fox. I want to take care of you--"

	I swallow hard. "Scu--lly."

	One word. One name. One gift that defines everything that is for me
now, and ever will be. Scully. I don't need to repeat it. Diana
understands. Her mouth tightens.

	"Leave," I say.

	She stands, her expression hard. Harder than I've ever seen, like
she's aged years in two minutes, and ages in ten years. The woman I
knew and trusted so long ago is gone, if she was ever really there at
all. Diana reaches sideways for her purse, and I want to think she's
collecting her things. Preparing to go. Then I know--

	. . . know about you . . . from the beginning I've known . . .
married you . . .

	I freeze. Pain squeezes my brain. I cover my ears and hunch my body
over, the weight of the conspiracy invading, depleting every muscle,
seeping into bone. I gasp for air as her thoughts rage on, twisted
and callous, invading all the corners, every inch of my brain.

	. . . they planned this. . .used you . . . I used you . . . get
what we need . . .

	Screaming. I'm screaming. I don't know what I'm saying, I only know
what I feel. My life has been darkness, Scully it's only light.
Scully--Scully! I fall to my knees, praying she will find me. Find
me, Scully. Find me. Agony stabs at my temples and I look
beseechingly up at Diana. End this. Stop it now. Do the right thing.
I make no attempt to defend myself when Diana holds the canister up
to my face and sprays.

	. . . lose you my own way . . . not to her . . . never to her . . .

	Chemical. Burn. Cold pain. Invading tissue. Icing every cell. I
don't even feel myself falling. I hit the floor hard, and the dark
rushes in. Like the tide it surrounds me, tugging, tenacious, and
though I fight its pull I clearly fight in vain. Before it drags me
under I think of Scully. I love you, I need you, find me, trust no
one, Scully--Liars.

	. . . liars . . .

*****

	"Well then, you go ahead and prove me wrong," Mulder says wearily,
and I click off the phone in frustration. Prove him wrong? With what?
An artifact no one can read, pieces of an increasingly insane puzzle,
a theory that sounds as terrifying as it sounds true?

	This isn't the first time Mulder has needed the impossible from me.
This is the first time I'm not sure I can deliver.

	And why wouldn't he tell me why that woman answered his phone?

	He said it was okay, but I am still terribly afraid. Not that he
will be unfaithful to me--I have moved beyond that fear. We have
moved beyond that point. And even though our relationship remains, as
Mulder likes to put it, unconsummated, we are still bound together by
something deeper than sex, deeper than friendship, deeper, maybe,
even than love.

	I am afraid of her. I am afraid for him. She will hurt him anyway
that she can, and he is so fragile right now.

	Sandoz approaches me and says softly, "Albert has asked to be taken
home. His family wants to do a healing ceremony for him."

	"Do you really think that's wise, leaving the hospital at this
point?" I whisper, glancing at the door to Albert's room.

	"They've done all they can for him here."

	I know that feeling. Science is exhausted, it's time for faith.

	Sandoz says, "Albert would like you to come as well," and I look up
at him in surprise.

	"I don't--"

	"As a friend," Sandoz says, and at this I can't refuse. Maybe
witnessing the ceremony will soothe my worries about Mulder.

	I collect my things to leave the hospital and meet the Hosteen
family at their home. Mulder said he's okay, I remind myself. His
"It's okay, Scully," was meant to tell me more than not to worry
about him--to not worry about us, either. It's okay, nothing is going
to happen. It's okay, she'll be leaving soon. It's okay, but I wish
you were here.

	Part of me wants to think I'm fooling myself, but I trust Mulder
more now than I ever have. I'm certain--beyond certain--that when he
says it's okay, he means it.

	Diana Fowley's voice on the line is not sending this unease through
me. It's not part of the never-ending Mulder-worry, either. If it
weren't for our need for answers I'd hop on a plane right now, even
if Mulder laughs at me for overreacting. I'd welcome him laughing at
me if I could just be sure he's really all right.

	I'd feel it if he really needs me, I think, and then laugh to
myself. At myself. Whatever connection, psychic or otherwise, we had
after our encounter with the giant mushroom, was due more to the
hallucinogens and our knowledge of each other than anything else. We
are connected, Mulder and I, but it's purely an earthly connection.

	. . . liars . . .

	I stop and look around. It's like someone whispering in my ear,
only softer, clearer. But there is no one nearby me to whisper such a
thing to me.

	But I heard it. I know I did.

	And I know whose voice I heard, as well.

	"Mulder, I whisper, and my hands fumble for the keys to my rental
car.

	"Agent Scully?" Sandoz calls to me. "Do you need directions to the--
are you all right?" He jogs up to me, and puts his hand gently on my
trembling ones.

	"I--I just had a terrible--worried about a friend--" Get a hold of
yourself, Dana.

	"I'm sure if Agent Mulder needs you to come home soon he'd have
asked you," Sandoz says, and I look up at him. In a way he's right--
if he truly needed me Mulder would have said Come home, and I would
have done it. I'd be on my way right now.

	But the ghost of his voice--was that pleading for my return? Does
Mulder need me, or am I imagining things?

	"He's been ill," I say quietly, returning to the search for my keys
in my purse. They're at the bottom, beneath my wallet and a travel-
sized bottle of lotion. "He's supposed to be resting but he's always
been so bad at following doctor's orders." Key in lock. Turn. Open
door. Movements like a reflex, most of the time, but today I have to
concentrate. I babble on, "Sometimes it's all I can do when he's sick
to get him to stay home--he once went running in 10-degree weather
with a 102-degree fever because he was bored--"

	"You'd feel it if he needs you," Sandoz says, and I look up at him
again. I lean against the car and clutch the keys in both hands.

	"I think--I'm not sure what I feel--"

	"If you want to go home we'll understand. Albert will understand."

	I should go. I should kick Diana Fowley out of Mulder's apartment,
out of his life. Bitch.

	But on the other hand maybe I'm just worried, overtired, wanting to
go home to him so badly I'm inventing an excuse. And she wouldn't--
seriously--supposedly she was in love with him once. He said it was
okay. He said it.

	"No," I say resolutely, "I want to come with you, at least for a
little while. If we can find anything more about the artifact--"

	"Albert is too weak to do any translating."

	"Perhaps one of the others . . . at any rate, I'll stay here.
Mulder will--he'll let me know if he needs me."

	Sandoz nods, not quite believing me, I'm sure. "All right. Why
don't you follow my car. I know the way well."

	The drive is unending, the scenery familiar. Though it's been years
since I've been to New Mexico I remember taking this road, looking
for someone to help us, a drugged and delirious Mulder in the seat
beside me. I thought I'd never be so afraid . . . and it was only the
beginning.

	I bite my lip hard. Mulder, be well. Be well, sweetheart. I love
you with everything that's in me. I'll be home soon, and you can show
me there's really nothing to worry about.

	I'm in the city so much it's easy to forget how dark the desert
night can be, and as I watch the stars I can't help but think of all
the implications this artifact has brought. Is there a purpose to
human life, as we like to believe, or were we an accident of
electricity and amino acids? All of us, with our cell phones and our
nuclear bombs and our Baby Gap and our video games, why are we here?

	And love, I think, and brush my eyes with the back of my hand. A
divine invention or a response of chemicals and affinity?

	If there is no God, is there no love?

	I am certain out of all of human history no one has loved the way
that Mulder and I do. There is no paradigm for this kind of love.
Cerebral, platonic, lustful--it is all of these and none of them. In
my more romantic moments I think we were guided together, formed for
each other so that we could not help but fall in love. He was meant
for me, soul mates and ex-wives and old lovers notwithstanding. He
was born to love me. I was born to love him.

	I wish Mulder were here, to run his hand through my hair and tease
me about trying to answer all the questions ever posed. Come here and
kiss me, woman, he might growl, and I might laugh and get into his
lap and kiss him and let him pet me until we're both trembling. I'd
rather spend the evening that way, but who wouldn't? Forget
philosophy, I just want to show the man I love what I love about him.

	I let my attention drift from the road as I daydream. Mulder's
hands caressing gently the swell of my breast, as he nuzzles my neck
with his nose and hums one of those silly songs he likes so much,
changing the words to suit his mood . . . an unexpected tickle on my
side, a warm chuckle as I laugh and writhe away from him, only to
return and give my own attentions to his more sensitive parts, biting
where he likes to be bitten and licking where he likes to be licked .
. . and finally kissing him, kissing him and kissing him, cradling
his body against mine and feeling his heartbeat steady and strong.

	I swallow the lump in my throat. I need him. I miss him. I still
need to make up to him for that handcuff thing in Las Vegas, though
he's dropped more than a few hints about how I could do that. When I
get home, Mulder, I promise the stars, you are going to get shagged
and shagged well.

	When we finally reach the hogan the Hosteen family has prepared, I
find myself unable to go inside. It feels disrespectful-I don't
believe as they do, my presence will not help matters any. I wait
outside and watch the stars. My mind whirls with questions, and I
know the answers are waiting, somewhere . . . maybe in the mind of a
dying man. Maybe in the mind of a living one, who needs me.

	I shiver in my jacket and stop myself from reaching for my cell
phone. In a day or two I will go home, when I have something to bring
Mulder, one more piece of the puzzle, one more answer, one more
explanation . . .

	Sandoz comes out of the hogan. "The healing ceremony has begun, if
you want to go inside."

	"No, I-I don't think that's right. I don't share in their faith."

	"The medical doctors say they've done everything they could."

	"I know. I think they have." My cell phone rings, and my heart
freezes. "Sorry," I murmur, and answer it. Please be Mulder. Please
be Mulder.

	It's not Mulder. And as I listen to Skinner's voice tell me to come
as quickly as I can, I know that something is wrong with Mulder,
something more than I ever imagined. Something worse than I ever
feared. And that woman is the cause.

	I take my leave from Sandoz as quickly as I can and get into my
car, and for a moment I can only sit and tremble. Mulder. Mulder. I'm
coming, Mulder. Hold on. I'll find you. I will.