From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 14 Jan 2002 04:45:53 -0000
Subject: Burn Brightly Through the Night (1/3) by C and Me
Source: direct

Reply To: berngard3@yahoo.com


Burn Brightly Through the Night (1/3)
(Rekindling -- Part II:  The Continuation)
By C and Me  berngard3@yahoo.com
Date Authored:  5/6/00 
Classification:  XR., MSR  
Keywords:  X-File, MSR
Rating:  NC-17 
Spoilers:  None, but since Jennifer Farwell wrote her piece in
1998, I would guess the timeline would be someplace before
season 4.
Archive:  Anywhere you wish, just please let me know first
Disclaimer:  Thanks to Chris Carter, Fox Network, 1013
Productions, there is no way these characters will *ever* belong
to me.

Summary:  Many years ago, in a land far, far away, Jennifer
Farwell wrote a beautiful series entitled the Rekindling Series.
You may find it at the Annex.  This story takes up where hers
left off (with a few minor twists), with two young people very
much in love, and an X-File hanging over their heads.   Although
perhaps not my first choice, I have tried to be true to
Jennifer's monikers for our heroes, her timeline, and the
scenarios she described.



* * *

Dana Scully's Apartment
New Year's Eve

I straightened my dress and took off the apron I used to keep
dinner's preparations away from the dark green velvet.  Passing
the table one last time on the way to the door, I hesitated. No,
there were things I wanted to say to Mulder first.  Better snuff
out the candles until dinner was ready to be served.  The
candles lit on the mantel, however, would lend an air of
intimacy and homeliness which I desperately wanted to portray.
For some reason, I really wanted Mulder to think of this place
as his home ... too.

I closed my eyes briefly as my hand rested on the front door's
handle preparatory to opening it, and lifted a quick and silent
prayer tonight would go the way I wanted.  I hastily amended
that request; maybe tonight should go just the way some higher
being would want.  After all, God himself had done a pretty good
job watching over us the past few years, bring us back from the
brink of death and despair too many times to count.

I turned the knob and threw open the door just in time to see
Mulder's hand poised to knock a second time.  Guess I tarried
too long in my musings.

He was gorgeous in his gray suit and funky purple and black tie.
No doubt about it:  my partner was never hard on the eyes.

But there was a hesitancy in his glance.  I saw his eyes flicker
only a moment with what I thought was ... fear?  Could Mulder be
as nervous as I about tonight's outcome?

His hand fell, joining the other as it rested on my hip. Without
a second thought I reached up and wrapped my arms around his
neck, lowering his face to mine, capturing his lips in a long,
ardent and passionate kiss.  He smiled into my lips, picking me
up gently and guiding me backwards as his foot blindly toed the
door closed.

I broke the kiss and hugged him fiercely, exhaling a breathy
whisper at his ear, "Fox ... I've missed you so much."  I could
feel him shudder in response and wondered if he was crying, or
fighting back tears.

"Day ... Oh, my love," he sighed into my shoulder.  When he
pulled back, I saw his eyes glisten with unshed emotion.

I didn't let go of him.  I couldn't.  I closed my eyes and
buried myself into his chest, his arms embracing me.  I was
overcome with a feeling of rehealing, separation finally broken.
This felt eternally "right", me in his arms.  I knew I had
missed him in my period of sorrow, but only now did I finally
realize just how much.  I was glad I snuffed out the candles;
there was no way I was ready to eat.  I had to talk to him
first.  I had to put voice to my need ... and my shame.

I led Mulder to the couch, sat and pulled him down with me. When
he settled with his arms around my shoulders, I turned to face
him more fully, one hand braced on his lapel.  I smiled
inwardly.  I knew this posture was not just so I could see him,
touch him, but also so I could keep him away until I could fully
confess my thoughts.

"Mulder," I started, shaking my head slowly as I gazed into his
worried expression.  "I'm so sorry.  I've treated you ... *us*
so badly...."

"No, Day," he interrupted, stroking my cheek with his finger.
"It's okay.  We'll be okay."

I shook my head fiercely.  "Please ... *please*.  I need to say
this.  There is so much I want to say to you ... so much you
deserve to hear.  Please ... just hear me out," I beseeched
urgently.

His expression softened, the look in his eyes becoming tender
and accommodating.  He nodded silently, tightening his grip
around my shoulder as if to beg me continue.

"I learned a lot these past several weeks," I resumed quietly,
dropping my head.  I could feel the blush of contrition creep
into my face.  How do you tell the most important person in your
life you've wronged him terribly ... and not feel shame?  But I
needed to do this, for me if not for him.  Suddenly I knew the
burden I had been carrying, a burden created solely by me and my
inability to let this man fully into my thoughts, fully into my
life, fully into my soul.  How wrong I had been!  Oh, Mulder ...
you deserve so much more than me.   Someone who will treat you
better.

"Nonsense!" I heard him say suddenly, scoffing.  "I'm not
convinced I deserve even what I have now!"  

I realized I had given voice to my thoughts, and quickly strove
to catch up with my words.   "I was wrong not to tell you about
Tristan from the start ... from when I first learned of his
illness.  And then to blow up at you for just wanting to be
there, to help me!"

"Day, you were in a lot of pain.  You were grieving, preparing
yourself for his loss," Mulder attempted to justify my acts. Why
does he do that?  Always finding fault with himself; always
lessening my guilt?

"No, Mulder," I said shaking my head.  "No.  I was withdrawing
from you ... not letting you into a part of my life.  And you
have every right ... you *should* be in every part of my life."
I paused, hesitant to continue, but found the courage to go on
when I looked in his eyes, still soft and tender.  "When I
needed you most, I pulled away from you."  My voice broke on
these last words as tears began to spill down my cheeks.

Mulder drew me tighter to his chest, kissing me tenderly on my
brow.  

"I needed *you*, not my mother....  I was just ... afraid ...
afraid of losing that part of me to you."  I sniffled into his
shirt.   "That was wrong of me.  And I hurt you so much."  I
hitched my breath as I could feel the sobs collect in my throat.
I am not one to cry, but these last few weeks had me teetering
on the edge of a total breakdown.  I relaxed further into his
frame, knowing I was safe here with Mulder, knowing he would
never use my weakness against me.  "I'm so sorry....  I'm so
sorry I hurt you.  I never wanted to hurt you, and I did ... and
in the worst way:  By leaving you."  I couldn't continue, my
throat constricted as I sobbed into his chest, my hand balling
his shirt in a tight fist.  

Mulder rocked me gently.  I could feel his own tears spilling on
my hair.

"How could I do that to you?" I sobbed rhetorically.  "How could
I do that after knowing how painful it was when you left me?"

"Ssh, ssh," he comforted, his arms encircling me firmly as if to
leach their strength into my very soul.   "Babe, it's okay. It's
okay now."

It took me a few more minutes to calm down.  I hoped he
understood these tears were not for Tristan as they had been the
last two weeks, but for Mulder himself.  It felt good to cry in
his arms, a release I realized for which I had been searching
since Christmas.  All I wanted was his comfort, his
steadfastness.  All I wanted was to know he was there ... for
me.  

And he was.  He had been ever since this tragedy entered my
life.  And I ignored him, tried so hard to face my demons
stoically on my own.  I didn't have to.  That's what he had been
trying to tell me all along, and I refused to listen.

"I learned, Fox," I whispered, still clutching his shirt tightly
and leaning against his chest.  "I learned I was not alone ...
that I didn't have to be alone ever again ... that I had you ...
if I'd just open myself up to accept your gift.  I'm sorry it
took me so long to understand what you were offering me.  I
guess I can be ... dense sometimes."

That earned a chuckle from my beloved.  "Yeah, Day.  Sometimes
you can be."  At his unexpected agreement, I looked up to his
face to see a broad and gentle smile.  "Sometimes I can be,
too....  And when we're both being dense at the same time ...
well," he scoffed.  "It doesn't work."

God, I love this man!  He can make me laugh, even through my
tears.  He reached for my face, cupping it and brushing the
moisture away with his thumbs, slowly shaking his head.  "What
am I going to do with you?  Here I was all ready for a ... an
interesting meal, and now my shirt's soaked and your make-up's
streaked."  He leaned forward to plant a kiss on my lips, "I
love you, Day....  I love you so much."  His lips were warm,
inviting, and best of all ... forgiving.

As I sank into his passion, I felt the last of my walls tumble
and break.  No more barriers.  Nothing between us.  And nothing
to fear.  My heart swelled with boundless affection as if it
would burst from my chest.  And in that instant I had my answer
... to all those cosmic questions ... all those doubts whether
marriage, unending togetherness was for us.  I knew from this
moment on if this man was not in my sight, part of me would be
gone as well.

When we broke the kiss, I found myself hugging him again as
fiercely as when I had opened the front door.  What an analogy!  

"You once accused me of being 'clingy'," I reminded him from
somewhere around his ear.  "Well, you've got it now.  I don't
want to let go of you."

He laughed and hugged me tighter.  " 'S'okay.  I'll take you
'clingy'.  I'll take you anyway at all ... anyway I can get you."

We sat like that on the couch for the better part of half an
hour, listening to the soft music and each other's heart beats.
It was warm and comfortable, and hopefully a precursor to many
more nights like this to come.  Neither of us seemed too hungry
for food, the soothing rise and fall of our breathing being
substantial sustenance for now.  I closed my eyes and
concentrated on the gentle, lazy strokes of his finger up and
down my arm.  He could lull me to sleep so easily.

* * *

My stomach was one big knot by the time I stood in front of
Scully's door.  In all the times I've faced this portal, I don't
think I've ever been as scared as I was then.  I swallowed hard
one last time and knocked softly.  Two minute raps on the wood
surface.

I thought I heard her coming toward the door, but then there was
silence.  I waited as the knot became tighter.  Maybe she was
having second thoughts.  Maybe "dinner" would be nothing more
than a shouting match, both of us ending up hurt, our very souls
torn from our beings and smashed on the wooden floor.  Time to
take out the exacto knife and scrape them off....

I began having second thoughts.  Maybe I should not have come.
Maybe she was just offering me charity, her pity when she asked
me to dinner.  

I couldn't walk away without one last attempt to reach her
though.  I just couldn't.  She was my life ... *is* my life.  I
raised my hand to knock a second time when the door flew open.  

My god!  Dana....  Well, frankly, there are times when I tell
myself she 'cleans up real good'.

She was beautiful, almost radiant, her hair in soft curls pulled
up on her head, a few strands gently flowing down toward her
shoulders.   And her dress!  A deep, rich green which showed off
the ivory of her skin and the fire of her hair.  Complete with a
low scooped neck.

I didn't get much more of a look before her arms were around me
and her lips settled on mine in a passionate kiss.  

*Bringing me home....*

Hallelujah!

Yep, no doubt about it.  

I can be a real jerk sometimes, thinking I've lost this ...
thinking she doesn't want me.  

I embraced her tighter, lifting her until I could feel her rest
slightly in my arms, assured her feet were no longer on the
ground.  I walked her back inside the apartment and felt for the
door's edge with my toe, closing it abruptly against any nosey
neighbors.

She led me to the couch.   I love Dana's apartment.  I don't
know what it is exactly.  Maybe the edges are softer, the light
less harsh than in my own.  The candles on the mantel beckoned a
welcome.  Her place always feels like home.  The psychologist in
me recognizes the use of the small things to put one at ease. It
was working.  Always has.

I settled next to her on the couch and folded my arms around
her, believing the greeting at the door may have given me
permission to try to recapture some of what we'd lost these last
few weeks.  But there was a ... a *pain* in Dana's eyes as she
began to speak.  I guessed Tristan's death was still too new,
the hurt still too raw.  I felt the cold fingers of jealousy
begin to claw at the knot in my stomach.  Sometimes I just hate
myself!

But Dana started talking about *me* ... something about how
she'd *wronged* me!  My mind did wheelies down the Indy 500
Speedway trying to catch up with her train of thought.

Where was this coming from?!  She was trying to apologize to me!
I didn't deserve this, not after the way I'd treated her ...
walking out at her mother's without so much as a good-bye,
almost shoving the ring in her face on Christmas Eve....

I tried to intervene in the conversation if only to save her
embarrassment.  "No, Day," I interrupted, stroking her cheek
with my finger.  "It's okay.  We'll be okay."  But Dana was
insistent.  There was something she wanted to get off her chest,
so I let her, swallowing hard again as I heard the pain in her
voice.

"Oh, Mulder ... you deserve so much more than me.   Someone who
will treat you better."

That's it!  That's enough!  My mind rebelled furiously at her
protestations.  There was no way I was going to sit there and
let Dana take on the guilt with which  I surround myself!

"Nonsense!" I barked.  "I'm not convinced I deserve even what I
have now!"  I know ... have known for a long time ... I don't
deserve Dana Katherine Scully.  I learned this years ago, almost
from the first case we had together when she lent me her humor,
her intelligence, her unwavering loyalty.  But I am graced with
her presence in my life, a gift I could never fully repay given
three lifetimes.

"I was wrong not to tell you about Tristan from the first ...
from when I first learned of his illness," she continued.  "And
then to blow up at you for just wanting to be there, to help me!"

"Day, you were in a lot of pain.  You were grieving, preparing
yourself for his loss."  Although I have never felt loss like
she did Christmas week, I could empathize with her grief.  There
were times in that week when I wanted to be the recipient of the
love and care she showered on Tristan.  I'm just beginning to
realize if it had been me -- and lord knows, there have been
plenty of opportunities for my demise over the years,
opportunities from which Dana herself dragged me back -- her
grief would have been tenfold what it was for her friend.   And
my sorrow for her in a similar situation....  Oh lord, may we
never find out ...!

At her next words my world seemed to shatter and a blinding,
glorious light seeped in the cracks.  I heard Dana tell me she
needs me ... *needed* me ... needs *ME*!   Oh, my love, you have
no idea ...!!

And then my own guilt flooded to the fore.  She needed me ...
needed me to stay with her, hold her, comfort her even when she
was pushing me away, and I fled her mother's house like a
coward.  Oh god, Dana!  How could I have hurt you so much?!  How
could I have done that to you?  Again....   And then stayed away
from you for a week?

My mind began to chant, 'I'm sorry, my love.  I'm so sorry.'

I held her tighter and felt tears fall down my chin onto her
beautiful hair.  

Dana was crying into my shirt, but I was only distantly aware of
it.  The sting from her next words sent shock waves through me,
my tears renewing.  "How could I do that after knowing how
painful it was when you left me?"

"Ssh, ssh,"  I called to her uselessly.  "Babe, it's okay.  It's
okay now."

I love her.  I love her so much.  Those words seem so trite, so
banal.  They adequately describe ... *nothing*!  

I latched onto her affirmation of need for me like a life ring
in a sea of turmoil. She needed me.  She needs me.  She needs
me.  Oh god, don't let her stop.  Help her know how much I need
her, too.  Please, please, *please* tell me this means she's
staying ... that she's not abandoning our love.

"I learned, Fox," she whispered, still clutching my shirt
tightly and leaning into my chest.   I could feel the warmth of
her wet tears soaking through the material.  "I learned that I
was not alone ... that I didn't have to be alone ever again ...
that I had you ... if I'd just open myself up to accept your
gift.  I'm sorry it took me so long to understand what you were
offering me.  I guess I can be ... dense sometimes."

Oh yes!  Ohyesohyesohyes!

She knows.  She knows!  

My heart sang with joy.  

My beloved Day knows I'm here for her ... always!

I heard the deafening crash of the last wall she erected inside
her heart as it fell to dust at my feet.  

And I was IN.  I'm in!  I'minI'min!  She let me in fully to her
self ... into her soul!

Oh my Dana!  My Dana.  

My beloved, beloved Day!

You know, really *know* how much I love you!

Dense?  Whoa, boy!  Yeah, we both can be that way.  And when we
are at the same time, everything goes to hell.  We yell and
scream at each other, tear and claw our way along the heartpaths
until we draw blood and see the pain and hurt in the other's
eyes.  Victorious in our struggle.

Dense?  Yeah!  Without a doubt.

But probably me more than her.

 ... Although....

There have been times -- a number of times -- when she just
closes off, pulls away from me.  Purposefully, I suspect,
refuses to listen.

I chuckled softly.  "Yeah, Day.  Sometimes you can be....
Sometimes I can be, too....  And when we're both being dense at
the same time ... well," I shook my head.  "It doesn't work."

I love looking at her face.  I can never get enough of it.  It's
smoothness, the sparkle from her eyes a fire to light my way
home.  I cupped her cheeks, wiping away her tears.  "What am I
going to do with you?  Here I was all ready for a ... an
interesting meal, and now my shirt's soaked and your make-up's
streaked."  

I had to tell her ... one more time.  I had to affirm her
revelation is right.  I leaned forward to plant a kiss on her
lips.  "I love you, Day....  I love you so much." 

Breaking from the kiss I cradled her in my arms, sitting back
against the cushions.  I found I was not hungry.  She's all I
need, all the sustenance I'll ever want.   

She is my life.  And I think now perhaps she may accept me to be
hers as well.  

I wished I'd brought the ring. 

* * *

I thought Dana had fallen asleep in my arms, until she stretched
and pulled away from me.  She offered a brilliant smile, the one
she saves solely for me, and invited, "Come, let's eat."  As she
rose she pulled me off the sofa with her, entwining our fingers.
I guess neither of us wanted to let the other go.

I adore her touch.  It anchors me in a way none other can. Calms
me.  Casts my fears and trepidation aside.  We've always been
able to communicate with our eyes, but I'm finding a new
language in our touches ... intimate and assuring.  I drew her
to my arms for one more hug, kissing the crown of her head as
she tucked it under my chin.

"Y'know, Mulder," she laughed low.  "I was so stupid.  I longed
for this for two weeks and just turned a blind eye to it."  She
tilted her head and looked up at me.  "I guess it just takes
time to learn how to be together ... *really* together."  I
could see her hesitate and swallow, a spark of uncertainty
flashing through her eyes.  "I guess that's what marriage is ...
being there for each other in the good and bad times, guiding
each other over the shoals of the pain and the unknown."  Tears
sprang to her eyes again and were mirrored in my own, as her
bottom lip quivered.  "Thank you.  Thank you for not giving up
on me," she whispered quietly before tucking her head again into
the place which had become her own at my neck.

"Never, Day," I whispered hoarsely as my throat constricted.
"Never.  I'll never give up on you.  I have faith in us.  I keep
it in my heart ... extra reserves if you should ever need them."
Her arms tightened around my waist as my voice turned to a sob,
"Never."

I felt her take a deep, cleansing breath, and she pulled back,
reaching up to wipe the tears from my face.  "I love you, Fox."
Our lips met again in an almost chaste affirmation, before she
took my hand and pointed me toward the table.

"Why don't you light the candles," Dana suggested.  "I'm going
to fix my face."  She turned and disappeared into the bathroom
as I stood frozen, my eyes transfixed on the table and the
little black box reposing solidly in its middle.  She heard my
gasp before the bathroom door closed.

I couldn't move.  My first thought was quite literally, 'How did
that get here?'  Then it came to me she must have been in my
apartment.  But when?  I don't even remember leaving....  Oh,
yeah.  I went down to the bakery and later for a quick jog to
work off some of the nervous energy which seemed to build up in
me like a crescendo all day long.  But I wasn't gone that
long....

Then, of course, I remembered I'm dealing with the FBI's crack
investigator here.  Like, duh!  I shook my head in disbelief.
She really went to all that trouble ... for me? ... For us?  A
slow smile of appreciation crept across my face as the doors to
my heart creaked open on too rusty hinges.  

This woman....   

My eyes slid slowly shut as I accepted that this must mean
something to her, too.  Something deep ... committed ... lasting
... forever.  My Day.  I shook my head as if to throw off the
disbelief.  My lovely, lovely Day.

I forced back the tears I felt again threatening to break forth.
I was beginning to feel emotionally spent.  Two weeks of the
highest highs and lowest lows ... and now this night ... her ...
well, I can't say  *apology* because her words were so much more
than that, and she didn't have anything for which to apologize.
But her ... affirmation slash realization she voiced to me so
far that evening....  

I think I'm becoming too emotional for my own good.  I'm
beginning to understand Scully is the strong one in this
relationship.  I felt as weak as my knees right then.  I
chuckled to myself.  She is a real "Steel Magnolia", remembering
that movie.   Well, Fox ol' boy, that makes you what?  ...
Flubber.  That pile of squishy, buoyant goo which has no form or
substance.  No strength.

Why would she want to marry *that*?

I was still glued to the spot on the floor by the couch when
Dana reappeared from the bathroom.  The sound of her laughter
broke my contemplation of The Box, and I offered her an
apologetic smile.

"Mulder," she rebuked me humorously.  

I still couldn't seem to find the power to move of my own
accord, even though I could feel my legs shake.  She laughed and
came to take my hand, guiding me like a lost child to the table
and settling me into a chair.  I think she was talking but my
brain hadn't started working to let me comprehend her words.

My gaze shifted slowly to her, just in time to see her stoop to
lift a large casserole from the oven.  As if a trigger, my brain
switched suddenly on and I bolted from the chair, reaching with
bare hands to help her, realizing only at the last second this
action would lead to severe burning, hearing her yell at me,
"Mulder!  Don't!"  I straightened and grabbed the dish towel,
taking the lasagna from her hands as I bent down and kissed her.
 Gotta love a woman who knows what I like to eat ... her
mother's recipe and my favorite.

Scully set salads and a bottle of red wine on the table, as I
-finally -- lit the candles.  She melted graciously into the
chair I pulled out for her.  Before leaving her, however, I
leaned in and took a small nip of the neck I love the most,
eliciting a surprised gasp and a low moan from her throat.  

* * *

Well, that did it!  I knew I couldn't last much longer.  I felt
the wetness of arousal pooling between my legs, all in response
to Mulder's lips and tongue on my neck.  Damn him!  I swore at
him in good humor ... and silently.  

As he served me then himself, the sparkle of gaiety returning to
his eyes, as did the easy banter to his tongue.  I think we are
over a severe and final hump.  He was back to himself.  I was
back....

Now all we had to do was talk about The Box.  But I no longer
felt the dread or nervousness I had last week or even up to that
day.  We both were relaxed, the waves of anxiety rolling off our
shoulders and seemingly right out of this apartment.   Good
riddance!

God, it felt good to be sane again!  

We laughed and enjoyed dinner as it was meant to be.  And I
don't think either of us was truly thinking about the small
centerpiece.  

Periodically one of us grabbed the other's hand for a quick
squeeze.  I guess I still couldn't let go of him.  But it wasn't
the clingy, desperateness I felt months before after he first
returned.  Nor was it the mere condescending pat I used to give
him just to let him know I was still putting up with him.  

No, this touch was the real thing ... the firm connection ... a
reaffirmation of what our eyes had been telling us all along.

I released a long sigh.  God, I love this man!  *My* man!

Jeez, Dana, getting a little possessive in your old age?

Yeah.  Definitely.  

Mine.  All mine.

Now  ... 

 ... and for the long future ahead of us.

I am resigned to happiness. 

After a few more bites, I set my fork gently on the plate,
pushing it back slightly.  I was full.

I propped my chin on my hand, my elbow resting on the table, and
just ... stared, watching my man enjoy his dinner.  His eyes
continued to twinkle at me, dancing with a light I'd never
before seen, but suspect will be there -- somewhere -- for the
rest of his life ... and mine.

"I got your favorite for desert," I alluded seductively to the
chocolate marbled cheesecake hiding in the frig.

"Yes, you do," he leered back.  I don't think Mulder was
thinking of the same type of cheesecake as I rolled my eyes
playfully at him, hoping he'd wait a little while longer.  We
still had to talk about the box ... The Ring.

He pushed back from the table, wiped his mouth and stretched his
arms over his head.  When he lowered them, he looked softly at
me.  That's all.  Just ... looked.  Drinking in the sight of my
face as I drank in his.  

This man is going to be my husband, I reminded myself silently.

I still can't get over that term.

I tried on his name all afternoon, ever since making up my mind
this is definitely the right path to be taking ... the Bureau be
damned.

Dana Katherine Scully Mulder.

*Mrs.* Dana Katherine Scully Mulder.

Mrs. Dana Mulder.

Mr. Fox Scully.  That brought a twitter.

Mrs.  Fox Mulder.

Mrs. Dana Scully Mulder.   Ooh ... too, uh ... stuffy.

Mrs. Mulder.  No ... that's too much like his mom.  

I think I'll just settle for Mrs. Fox Mulder.

"C'mon, Scully, I'll help you clean up."  Mulder rose from the
table and took my hand, reaching for the apron on the counter.
He tied it around my waist, then shed his jacket, rolling his
sleeves to the elbow.  With his help we made short shrift of the
dishes.  

"So....  What now?" he asked, leaning back against the counter
as we finished, drying his hands on the dish towel.  A soft
smile played on his lips, but his eyes refused to look at me.
Don't get nervous now, Mulder, I begged silently.  

"Well," I responded.  Taking the towel from his hands and
discarding the apron, I guided him toward the sofa.  He flopped
down and pulled me into his lap.  I wrapped my arms loosely
around his neck.  He was silent for a few moments and I wondered
if this is the proverbial 'cold feet'.  I think I had done
everything possible that evening to give him encouragement, to
let him suspect a positive answer.  I started quietly,
hesitantly, "Do you ... uh ... have something ... to, uh...."
Real.  Long.  Pause.  

Come on, Mulder, do I have to be the one to ask?  I groaned
inwardly.

Then I realized he was letting me take the lead here.  My
actions over the past month so intimidated or unnerved him he
was letting me ... what?  'Pop The Question'?  

No.  I didn't want this.  I didn't want to be the one to do the
asking.  I guess I'm just too traditional for that.  I wanted to
*be asked*.  I wanted to be the maid for whom he pines away. For
whom he'll slay any dragon and then come rushing to my side on
his white steed, pulling me up behind him as we ride off into
the sunset.  Go figure.  Now of all times in my life my honest,
deeply hidden, fairy tale wishes came to the fore.  A true
betrayal of my woman's lib notions.  But nonetheless sincere ...
what I really, *really* wanted.

Mulder noticed my hesitation and smiled, the curve reaching his
eyes gradually.

Damn it!  He was teasing me!  Playing me all along....

I moved to cuff him gently and he grabbed my left wrist before
my hand could strike his shoulder.  He turned the palm and
pressed a kiss there.  He held my hand in his, his other arm
around my shoulder securing me to his chest.

"Dana, my love ...  ," he began, his eyes never leaving mine.
His voice was soft and liquid like honey, growing low and deep
as his expression took on a hint of seriousness.  But his eyes
still laughed.  "In all my days," he continued.  "No one has
graced my life as have you. Supported me, challenged me, held
me, healed me, befriended me ... loved me.  The gifts of you are
mesmerizing, too magical to behold, too ... generous to be
deserved."

I started to protest but he silenced me with the gentleness of
his tone as he resumed, "You are my life ... the very ...
energy, the very cause which makes me draw breath, makes my
heart beat, gives me being.   I could no more live without you
than the sun could refuse to rise or the moon to shine.  

"I need you ... every bit of you, every last part of you.  I
need you forever."

I felt his hand move in mine, forgetting we were still entwined.
But I could not take my eyes away from his.  He held me there
with a force as strong as gravity itself, not that I was
struggling to leave or even desired to do so.

"Dana Katherine Scully ... will you do me the deepest and most
humbling honor of standing with me ... walking next to me ...
staying by my side for the rest of our days?"  A tear slipped
from his eye, and I swallowed back my own vainly.  "Will you be
my wife?  Will you marry me?"

I couldn't answer.  I blinked rapidly trying to maintain my
vision.  I didn't want to lose him, lose his eyes, lose his
gaze.  But I had to close my own in order to clear the tears
away.  When I opened my lids again I saw he had not wavered, his
vision locked still on my own.

I opened my mouth as the tears slipped slowly and silently down
my cheeks.  I had to close it again and swallow to loosen the
knot in my throat.

He is beautiful.  

He is the most beautiful creature to have ever walked the face
of this earth.

And he said the most beautiful words.

I wanted mine to be worthy of him.  I searched my brain
frantically for something I could say which would match his
poetry, but my mind seemed to have shut down.

I felt his hand grasp mine tighter, crushing against something
foreign there.  The voice in my head told me it was the ring,
but I wouldn't turn to look.  He was trying to give me strength.
This I know.  As I know he always will.

The edges of my mouth quivered and bent, but the words still
would not come.  I had to get them out soon before he drew the
wrong conclusion from my silence, as Mulder is wont to do from
time to time.  Most of the time that is.

I started again, "My love for you...."  My bottom lip was
shaking so much I was not sure he'd understand my words, but I
forged ahead. " ... knows no bounds.  And no time."

I collapsed into his shoulder sobbing, "Yes.  Oh yes, Fox.
Y-yessss."

* * *

I buried my face in the nape of her neck, surrounded by the halo
of fiery hair and wept.

She has pledged herself to me, and I to her.

Forever.

For always.

* * *

In the distance I heard the puff of firecrackers as someone
celebrated early the new year's arrival.  My hands entwined in
Mulder's hair, slipping through like silk, raining tickles on my
inner fingers.  His hair is baby fine and smells like jasmine. I
held him close as he cried his joy into my neck, my tears
ceasing before his.  I think Mulder cries more than I, but
usually in pain.  I don't think either of us has shed tears of
joy in all the years I've known him ... except that night.

My husband.

The words are synonymous with 'my heart', 'my life', 'my soul'.  

I laid my head on his shoulder and kissed his neck tenderly,
nuzzling into his hair.  I love holding him, giving him my
strength.  So often I feel I am seeking his, that on those rare
occasions when I believe he needs mine, it is a lovely, glowing
warmth to spread my arms around him and hold him tightly.

I watched the light play off the ring on my finger.  I don't
know how Mulder was able to scoop up the box, extract the ring
and palm the same without my seeing it, but he always had that
magician quality about him.  It's actually quite a beautiful
ring, and I surmise must have cost him a small fortune.  He was
listening, I note, when we went to the Mall.  It's the ring with
the heart shape and the diamond in the middle.  Just like my
father's necklace.

Oh, Mulder, you're such a romantic.  Who would have guessed?!

He calmed at length in my arms.  I knew when I felt him nibbling
on my neck, planting small kisses and laving the area lightly,
licking up his tears.  

I closed my eyes as I allowed myself to drink in his attentions.
But my mind swirled with topics we still had to discuss.
Acceptance of his proposal was not nearly the end of this
discussion.  We still had to consider our careers, our tempers,
our independence and interdependence, our inability to let the
other truly inside our most intimate places --  although that
topic may have been put somewhat to rest by our evening's
discussions.  At least I felt more at peace with Mulder now than
ever before.  Contentment does strange things to one's psyche.

I sensed my mind shutting down as certainly as I felt Mulder's
arms around me.  We were both emotionally exhausted by the
evening's events ... and by the two weeks previously.  When
Mulder leaned back against the couch, my body followed in
tandem, settling into his lap, my eyes closing as my head rested
against his chest.   I gave no protest when he turned and
stretched out on the sofa, my body lying on top of his.  He
reached up and flicked off the light on the end table, then
covered us with the afghan.   "Just a rest, Day...."  His hand
entwined again with mine, his thumb caressing the ring assuring
himself it was still there.

I woke to the stab of brilliant sunlight through my bedroom
window.  I still have no clue how I got into bed, and don't at
all remember taking off my dress, hanging it up (!), removing
the remainder of  my clothes, and crawling under the covers.  I
suspect it was the workings of my ... uh, fiance.  That terms
brings a smile to my lips.  I knew someplace in the night I felt
him next to me when I rolled over, but he was not here when I
awoke.  I looked down at my form and found I was wearing his
dress shirt from the night before.  I don't remember donning
that either, but I love the scent which permeated from its
threads.    

I laid back on the pillows and listened intently for any sound
which would indicate Mulder's whereabouts.  Nothing came.  Not
from the bath, the kitchen or even the living room.  No muted
sounds of television or computer.  Nada.  I expelled a sigh and
threw off the covers.  I knew I'd find him somewhere around,
some vestige or indication that he'd stayed the night with me.

I stopped suddenly, realizing my first thoughts had been of him,
of *his* whereabouts, *his* well-being.  This engagement thing
was beginning to feel pretty damned good!  I liked it that I
thought of him first.  I shook my head in wonder and continued
into the living room.

But my apartment was deserted.  I didn't even find his clothes
or suit from last night.  The little velvet box rested on my
bureau, the ring still on my finger.  That and the shirt were
the only indications he had ever been there.

Well, those and the heady feeling soaking through every fiber of
my being.

But it wasn't the same; it wasn't what I wanted.  I thought I'd
wake in his arms, make lazy and lingering love with him to
celebrate our decision, spend the day driving in the country or
planning our future, discussing those still outstanding
topics....

I missed him already, just like I knew I would when he was gone.
I began to feel an ache tug at my heart as it bent the corners
of my mouth downward.

Not even a note.  I'd have a few choice words to say to him
about that whenever he returned!

I shuffled into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.  Why did
I feel so bereft when he wasn't there with me?  I sat in the
chair, tucking my knees to my chest trying to make myself as
small as possible.  I felt small, like a gigantic part of me was
missing.  Maybe it was my heart, out there somewhere doing ...
whatever ... but no longer reposing in my chest.

Oh god, Dana!  Enough of this!  You've dealt with a missing Fox
Mulder before, more times that you'd like to think!

I heaved a sigh and straightened up, went to the bathroom and
took a long hot shower, intent on starting my day.  For some
reason, even the ring on my finger -- as foreign as it felt -did
not change all that much between us.  He'd still be ... HIM,
ditching me and running off without a moment's hesitation or
explanation.  I knew I had to get *really* used to this now that
I'd said 'Yes'.

Standing under the soothing stream raining on me from the shower
head, I did not feel or hear the bathroom door open.  I was more
than startled when the curtain was pulled back to reveal a very
naked Mulder climbing in behind me.  My heart finally returned
to a semblance of a normal rate when he pulled me back against
his chest and draped his arms around me.

"Hey," he breathed into my ear.  "Thought I'd get back before
you woke.  Just went to get some things from my apartment.
Y'know ... clothes."

I grinned devilishly, "Whaccha need *those* for?"

That earned me a chuckle as his hands roamed across my body,
fingers squeezing my nipples while the other hand crept lower
into my pubic hair.  I felt his erection pressing into my back,
throbbing in anticipation.  This was still so new to us, even
after a few months of sleeping together.  Now it would be a
lifetime.  And we had all the time in the world to take days
like this slowly, languorously.

I turned in his arms and fell into his kiss.  I could lose
myself in Mulder's mouth -- I think I have.  He'd shaved.  So
this must have been his second shower of the morning.  Well,
I'll be....    He reached around me and yanked off the water,
then gathered me in his arms.  Eventually we made it back to
bed, the coffee, the shower, and any other plans for the first
day of the new year long forgotten.

* * *

"Day?  You want to talk about it?"  I was hesitant to start this
conversation but I could tell there was something on her mind.
She'd never let outside concerns influence her passion for me,
so it wasn't as if something was missing from our ... what is it
now?  Second? ...  'session' of the day.  But still, it was like
I could read her mind, and I knew we were supposed to talk the
night before about this marriage business and never quite got
around to it.

She turned in my arms and pushed up on the pillows.   I decided
the best place for me to stay was right where I was, head on her
chest, leg thrown over hers, fingers lazily circling her nipple.
This was my place, the one I staked out as she had staked out
the curve of my neck and shoulder.  The place I liked the most,
and felt the safest.

"We need to talk ... make some decisions or at least do some
planning about this," she started with such hesitation I wanted
to break into all-out laughter.  Knowing that would only
engender her anger, I bit my lip and forced the smile back.    

I let her continue.  "So what about our work, Mulder?  I mean,
this is grounds for splitting us up, if not closing down the
X-Files altogether.  And I can't ... I won't ... I don't want
them...."  She stumbled and stopped.  

I felt her body shake and wasn't sure if it was anger or hurt
which caused the tremor.  I tightened my arm around her,
pressing my lips to her chest.  "Ssh," I calmed and felt her
take a few deep breaths before she went on.

"I don't want them to assign you someone else," she whispered
hoarsely. 

I knew this was Dana's biggest fear, that the Bureau would give
me another partner and ship Scully off to Quantico or some other
office in the Hoover Building.  And lord knows, I didn't want
another partner!  She and I were both certain without her at my
back, there was no way I would be alive today.  

"Scully, I'm not taking on anyone else.  I won't let them. Look,
the way I figure, Skinner will have one of three choices: he can
split us up and send one of us elsewhere, which neither of us
wants and which may be enough reason to leave the Bureau
altogether.  He can close the X-Files and reassign us elsewhere,
which may result in the exact same conclusion.  Or he can keep
us together on the Files and we'll all die happy.   He's not
dumb...."

"No, he's not.  But he *is* a team player and will put the
Bureau and its regs before us and what we want ...  ," she
interrupted heatedly.  

I knew she was not lashing out at me or at the decision we made
the night before.  Scully loved her career, loved working at the
Bureau -- certainly more than I did -- and the thought of losing
all that stung deeply.   And I knew she would not let them
reassign her to teaching at Quantico; that was not Scully.  She
would not end her career being a teacher, tucked away out of the
mainstream, removed from the field work and the investigations
she loved.  She'd fight them on that, and Scully as a fighter
was worse than a female tiger protecting her young.  I'd seen
enough of her ire in the years working together to know she
would not be backed into a corner without serious repercussions.

I was also wise enough and experienced enough with this woman to
know, deep in my heart of hearts, she would not turn tail and
run, would not regret her decision to marry me and change her
mind.  No, when Scully made up her mind -- especially when the
topic was intimately personal -- she stuck to her choice like
flies to honey.   But those cold fingers of jealousy just
couldn't stop their steady creep into my stomach.  I'm terrible
at this.  I know it's because of my innate lack of self-worth.
But I began to fear she was having second thoughts.  

She must have read this in my ... what?  Could it be the tension
suffusing my shoulders, neck, arm ... hell, the rest of my
body?!   She stroked her fingers along my bare back, cupping my
head with her other hand and bending over me slightly so as to
press her body into my face.  

"No, Fox," she called softly.  "I'm not changing my mind.   But
we still need to think about this, have some sort of contingency
plan," she reassured me.

I pushed against the pillows, sitting up in the bed and drawing
her to my chest.  "I know ... it's just....  Scully, I'm not
going to work there without you," I affirmed strongly.   "I
won't go back to the BSU and profiling ... *ever*.  And VICAP
and Violent Crimes really don't want me.  I'd be ostracized in a
day.  And I don't trust anyone else to watch my back."

We had to find a solution, Skinner be damned.   There was no way
in the world I was going to let him call the shots on this one.
The Bureau may win after all, if I quit ... or if we both quit.
But we'd lose ... access to the X-Files, resources needed to
investigate and bring down the conspiracy of the Consortium, the
opportunity to continue searching for Samantha.  

The Bureau didn't really have a policy against two agents
marrying -- hell, it happened all the time! -- but they wouldn't
let married agents work as partners.  The closest we'd get was
office consultations.  Never in the field.  Never working
together really.  I could live with that, knowing Scully was
safely tucked away back in D.C.  But she couldn't, and I
wouldn't blame her for her concern.  No one else at the FBI
cared whether Spooky Mulder lived or died.  No one else would
protect me as she could.  This was truly our only weakness, and
Skinner knew it.  

The thing was, neither of us really wanted to hide our love for
each other, disavowing our relationship or impending marriage.
To do so felt hypocritical, as if we were denying each other's
very existence.  Maybe I was becoming overly territorial, but I
wanted those pricks at the Bureau to know she was mine.  Hands
off, buddy!  And I wanted them to realize she was worthy of a
hell of a lot more respect and admiration than she ever received
before.  Goddamn it!  She was the best agent and housed the
kindest heart of anyone who ever walked those halls!

Neither of us really felt like going much further with this
topic.  We both knew there was no easy solution, and further
discussion would be futile ... for now.  The prospects of our
future careers loomed over us like a black rain cloud, following
us everywhere, always there ready to burst forth and drench our
spirits.

Just then the telephone rang.  I groaned audibly and quirked a
sheepish apology at Scully's withering look.  Okay, so it was
*her* apartment and I *should* expect her to receive telephone
calls, but why *now* of all times?  She leaned over me and
grabbed the receiver.  I'd learned the hard way not to answer
her phone.

The "Yes, Sir" gave me a clue she was speaking to the man
himself.  Yeah, speak of the devil....

"Today, Sir?   ... Yes, Sir."  She hung up the phone as her
groan seemed to match my earlier rendition.

"Skinner," she announced as if she needed to tell me who called.
"Wants us at Dulles by three to go to Keystone, Colorado.  Some
kind of murder slash haunted house case."  The look she gave me
told me not to respond, other than to express equal frustration
over being dragged from her bed in the midst of our day alone
together.  "Says two agents from the Denver office will meet us
at the airport and fly with us to ... uh, Summit Valley, that is
if the snow's not too bad.   Some big wig former FBI involved."

She looked at me with disgust and whined, "Why does it always
have to be *snow* when we're going to the mountains?  Why can't
it ever be mid-summer and lots of sunshine?"

I couldn't resist, lord help me!  But she looked so ...
delectable then, just like a little girl....  God, what does
*that* thought say about my sexual urges!?!  But I just had to
kiss her.  I pounced on her lips, quite literally, and all but
forgot about Skinner's call until Scully pushed me off laughing. 

"Mulder!"  Her eyes were wide with wonder and I knew it wasn't a
rebuke.  "We've got to get out of here!  It's already one ten!"
As if that number would magically make me reconsider my
activities.  Hah!  She's got *a lot* to learn ...!

But I acquiesced, reminding myself I was still one lucky SOB for
having received a positive response to my burning question last
night.  I guess she was right:  there really would be time later
for all sorts of things.  Maybe even a midnight romp in the
snow....  I could play the grizzly bear to her Little Red Riding
Hood....   I think a big leer licked my face just then because
Scully punched me hard in the arm.  "Ouch!"

* * *

Continued in Part 2

* * *

Part 2

The courier met us at the airport with the X-File in hand.
Having committed the unpardonable sin of being late -- as usual
for Mulder -- the plane was ready to taxi as soon as we boarded.
I hate it when we get stares from the rest of the traveling
public, like we're some hot shot government types who deserve to
have the airplane wait.  Come to think of it, we are some hot
shot government types....   But still!  I'll have to work on
getting Mulder to move a little faster when these emergencies
arise.  

It really was not necessary to turn back to his apartment a
third time just to retrieve a packet of condoms.  Like we'd been
using those all along -- *not*!  Besides, if he really wanted
... strike that, *needed* them, he could buy some in Colorado.
I'm sure that state sells condoms somewhere.  Or maybe he just
didn't want to be embarrassed.  You know, big FBI man sauntering
up to the high school girl at the local drug counter and
slapping down a pack of Trojans in some small town, like he was
getting lucky!  I could barely contain my laughter at the idea,
and gave up with a smile ... one which I would *not* explain to
Mulder.  I think he just wanted to see my reaction.  He can be
so puerile sometimes!

The flight to Denver was a tedious three hours.  I gazed out the
window most of the time, onto the blue expanse of space.  We
were lucky:  we got one of the last remaining two seat sections.
I pulled my legs up and leaned back into Mulder's arms, his legs
taking up my reserved foot room.

He'd had the foresight to pull down one of those rough faux wool
acrylic blankets when he set my overnight bag into the overhead
carrier, and draped across us.  What that man can do with his
hands under the cover of  ... covers!  Never let it be said he's
intimidated by public settings!  He had me coming someplace over
western Kentucky in short fits and spurts, as I buried my head
in his chest and tried to control both my breathing and jerking
muscles.   Damn him!  Why's he so good at this?!  No, I don't
want to know an answer to that question.

I'm thankful his frame is broad enough when turned just so he
tends to block the view of anyone across or going down the
aisle.  When my breathing was finally under control and I felt
him once again return the zipper of my slacks to its rightful
place, I looked up at him, pulling his head down for a long and
lingering kiss.  I wondered if he'd always wanted to do that to
me on an airplane, after all the trips we've taken together? Too
bad I couldn't reciprocate just then.

Agents Smith and Weston met us at the terminal.  *Really*,
that's their names.  Thomas J. Smith and Joseph Weston.  With a
'T'.  I can't believe the Bureau put these two together.  Must
be someone's sick humor.  But they were very likable young men,
strapping and broad shoulders.  They called me -- politely
-"Ma'am."  I put a stop to that as soon as I was able.  "Agent
Scully," I corrected as quickly as I could.

Mulder looked sullen, his mood turning irritating.  There was
... *is* absolutely no rationale for his change in attitude.
These agents were just kids, for god's sake, almost fresh out of
the Academy!  There was absolutely no reason for him to be
jealous.  I hit him hard on the chest with the back of my hand
when no one was looking.  Yes, the hand still wearing his ring.
*HIS* ring.  I think he got the message.

"A squall's moved in over the Divide and it'll be snowing on The
Pass by the time we get there," we were informed by Agent Smith.
This meant something, I know, but for the life of me I could not
discern his message.  I nodded knowingly when he explained, "We
can't fly into Dillon, so we'll have to drive."  A few years
with Mulder and I know how to feign intelligence with the best
of them.

"I'll get the truck," Weston announced and took off solo down
the concourse as Smith walked with us.  He made the mistake of
reaching for my case, but was able to stop himself from being
too chivalrous when he saw the look in my eyes.  Or was it the
glare from Mulder?  Anyway, he didn't try again.  It must be
hard for nice young men, raised in polite and educated society,
to know just how far to go accommodating liberated and
independent women such as myself.  Smith seemed to learn quickly.

Neither Mulder nor I studied the case file on the plane ride out
here, minds and hands occupied elsewhere.  Ahem.  Smith seemed
to have little else to say, so he commenced filling us in on the
details.  Any other case, any other day we would have stopped
him cold.  Neither Mulder nor I had it in us today.  I'm still
trying to recover from the pleasant shock of last night.  I
think Mulder's mind is elsewhere too, as I see him lift his
fingers to his nose and take a long sniff.  Jeez, Mulder!  Could
you act any less decorous?!  

Seems unexplained phenomena have been occurring over the last
few weeks at a house owned by ... get this ... Michael Jackson.
I rolled my eyes in disbelief.

"Michael *Creighton* Jackson?" Mulder asked showing no signs of
incredulity.  When Agent Smith nodded his head, Mulder leaned
into me and explained in a low voice so as not to be overheard.
"He was third ranking in J. Edgar's Bureau.  Some real power
there."  Guess we don't want to show the newbies us old timers
don't know anything

"He's not there now," Smith continued, referring to the house,
not the Bureau.  "Apparently some friends of his grandson have
been staying there until this ... phenomenon got out of control.
Young man, age twenty-one, died last night.  Apparently killed
by a moose."

"A moose?" Mulder and I echoed in unison.

"A moose.  Stuffed, hanging on the wall.  Head only, of course,"
Smith answered.  "Dead at least twenty years.  Not native to
Colorado."

Mulder continued in a much more sardonic tone, "What?  Did it
fall off the wall and hit him?"

"No," Smith replied.  "Ate the kid."

Mulder looked at me stunned.  He just couldn't wait to get to
the car to peruse the file on this one, I could tell.  I gave
him the look which said, 'Wait until I get finished with the
autopsy.'

Our walk from gate to car seemed interminable.  Down the
concourse to the underground train to the main terminal to the
curb.  Stepping outside we could see ominous gray clouds puffing
over the distant peaks.  It seems the airport sits on a high
plain, nothing but grasslands in sight.  Agent Weston was kind
enough to pull the Ford Expedition to the doors.  As he hoisted
our luggage into the back on top of his and Agent Smith's, he
pointed out the distant skyscrapers of downtown Denver in answer
to my query.  They looked like toys.  Why Denverites built their
airport this far out of town I'll never understand.

An SUV.  Mulder hates SUVs.  Thinks they are ostentatious.  But
in snowy Colorado they may be more utilitarian.   And black. Why
were government vehicles always a pretentious black?  At least
this one didn't have tinted windows.

The drive through the Denver environs went quicker than I'd
expected, I-70 being clear today.  Everyone must be home
watching football.  Just west of Denver we came upon our first
delay.  "Deadman's Curve," Weston explained.  "The grade east
comes down steeply, too much for some trucks or in bad weather.
And of course the highway planners were really thinking on this
one," he continued sarcastically.  "They made a sharp left turn
right at the bottom.  I don't think DOT or the politicos call it
that, but all the locals know it as 'Deadman's Curve.' "

"Been known as that all my life," Smith confirmed.  

"You from around here, Smith?"  Mulder asked.

"Native."

Smith's build suggested a former football player.   "Tom Smith?
*Tommy* Smith?"  Mulder started, searching his eidetic memory.
"Didn't you used to play in college ... for the ... uh ... one
of the Colorado teams?"

"CU Buffs," Smith nodded.  "Defensive back.  Before going to the
Academy, that is."  He smiled a boyish grin.  "You, Agent?  You
ever play ball?"

Mulder nodded his head looking out the window.  "It was a long
time ago."  

A wistfulness in his voice caught my attention.  He wasn't
*that* old.  But compared to these two young agents, ... well,
let's just say I'm sure Mulder saw himself in them as he had
been when he first joined the Bureau.  Idealists and eager, awed
to be in the presence of a Bureau legend such as my partner.  I
slid my hand along the seat, brushing Mulder's as it rested on
the faux leather.  He turned his head and caught my eye.  A hint
of sadness flitted through his eyes, then he winked at me,
caressing my little finger once with his.

I diverted my attention to the road, just as we crested the hill
at Genesee Park, and caught my breath.  The view was
spectacular.  A valley lay before us, jutting jeweled evergreens
to the sky, and beyond that, the purple colored peaks of the
Continental Divide rising as a barrier to whatever lay beyond.
The mountains were covered with a coat of white as a bank of
gray clouds roiled behind them, moving swiftly toward us in the
dying daylight.  It was awesome.

"Ever been to Colorado, Agents?"  Weston asked from the driver's
seat.

"Only from the air," I responded.  Too many of our cases took us
over the Rockies at 30,000 feet.  Too high to get any real view
of the mountains.

"Well, you're in for a treat," Smith promised.  "Looks totally
different from this elevation."

"Are we headed up there?"  Mulder stirred from his reverie.

Smith nodded, "The other side."

"We have to go over *that*?"  My voice belied my naivete when it
came to the Rocky Mountains.

Weston chuckled, "Well, not *over* it.  More like *through*.
There's a tunnel we'll take, although going over the Pass
actually would be faster.  But it'll be closed by the time we
get there, if it's not already."

Mulder caught on quickly to the danger lying ahead of us.  "How
deep's the snow up there?"  I heard the unmistakable tension in
his voice.

"At least forty ... fifty inches on the top of the Pass," said
Smith.  "Maybe more like seventy.  We've had a lot of snow so
far this year.  Down in Keystone there were four foot drifts,
but that was before this storm moved in.  It'll be deeper now.
Hope you brought your boots."

Mulder looked at me.  Yeah, I know.  Forty inches would come up
to my chest, and I'd be quickly swallowed by fifty.   But
seventy would be almost over Mulder's head.

We were driving through a broad valley, past Idaho Springs.
"Mine tailings, Scully," Mulder pointed out the window toward a
gravelly promontory halfway up the hillside.  

"Silver," Smith interjected.  "Got a lot of that on the eastern
slope.  This was a big silver and gold area.  Just on the other
side of that hill," he pointed to the right.  " ... is Central
City.  Well known boom town for miners.  'The Face on the Bar
Room Floor' used to be there, actually painted on the old wooden
slats.  It's gone now, replaced by some casino or other."

By the time we passed Georgetown, it was snowing hard, the
mountains obliterated by low hanging clouds.  Weston picked up
the handset from the CB radio on the dash.  "Central, this is R
Eight Niner.  Patch me through to the Highway Patrol up at the
Tunnel."  A confirmatory squawk came through the speaker.

A moment later the response we heard, "R Eight Niner, this is
CSP. Over."

"CSP, this is R Eight Niner, Agent Weston of the FBI.  Could you
patch me through to your patrol at the east entrance of the
Eisenhower Tunnel?"  

"R Eight Niner ten-four.   This is Sergeant Peterson.  How can I
help you, Agent?  Over."

"Pete?"  Weston spoke into the mic.  "Joe here.  How's the Pass?
Still open?  Over."

"Negative, Joe.  Closed two hours ago.  Where you headed?  Over."

"Keystone.  What's the status of the Tunnel?  Over."  Weston
asked.

"CSP is closing the approaches in thirty.  The west side is
pretty treacherous.  Y'need chains.  What's your ETA?  Over."

Weston glanced at Smith behind the wheel.  "Probably about
twenty," Smith responded.  Our speed had decreased to less than
forty miles per hour as the snow became packed on the roadway.
We noticed an increased number of vehicles pulled off to the
side of the road or outright abandoned.

"That's affirmative, CSP," Weston continued over the CB.  "We
estimate twenty.  What's the status of six?  Over. "

"R Eight Niner, the western approach is pretty treacherous.  Six
is snowing and snow packed.  Chains only.  What's your cargo?
Over."

"Agents from D.C.  Over."

"R Eight Niner, pull up at the east entrance and apply chains. 
We're convoying the last hazmats through in ten.  Will come back
to get you before we head down to the Valley.  Over."

Weston glanced again at Smith, but replied, "That's affirmative.
Thanks for the help, CSP.  R Eight Niner over and out."  He
replaced the mic on its holder and sat back, expressing a
worried sigh.

I looked at Mulder.  His eyes were tight with barely disguised
concern.  "You guys come up here often?"  He asked of Smith and
Weston.  I knew he was gauging Smith's driving abilities in such
adverse conditions.

Smith answered, his voice lowered and serious.  "This storm's
predicted to be bad ... a Hundred Year storm.  We're pretty used
to driving in snow here in Colorado, and as a native I've had
fair practice in these mountains in pretty adverse conditions,
Agent Mulder.  We'll make it, but it won't be easy ... or quick."

Weston spoke up, "Peterson is a good friend.  He'll see that we
make it to Keystone in one piece."

We all fell silent as the snow continued to pelt us, the wind
picking up causing white out conditions.   I noticed an
increased number of tractor-trailer rigs pulling off to the
right shoulder, the number of passenger vehicles having fallen
off to almost none after we passed Georgetown.

"Hazardous materials vehicles normally are routed over Loveland
Pass, past Keystone and rejoin I-70 at Frisco ... on the west
side of the Divide," Weston explained.  "But when the weather
gets bad, they're convoyed through the Tunnel by the Highway
Patrol.  But it requires closing the Tunnel to passenger
vehicles.  Peterson will escort us through after he convoys the
group back from the West."

Smith pulled the Expedition to the side of the road, or as close
to the side as I imagine he could get.  "Agents, it'd be best if
you stayed in here while Weston and I put on the chains.  We've
got it down to a science by now."  The two local men shrugged
into their parkas and tugged on what looked like moon boots,
tucking in their slacks.  Bundled with gloves and hoods, they
stepped outside into the blowing storm and were quickly
obliterated from sight by the snow sticking to the windows.  

"Mulder?" I looked at him, reaching for his hand, and grasped on
with a grip expressing my worry.

"You okay, Scully?"  He asked me as he returned a strong squeeze.

I looked at our joined hands.  He had checked the case file with
his usual lightning speed as we climbed the eastern slope of the
mountains, and remained all but silent since.  I nodded slowly,
"I'm glad you're here."

Mulder threw off any lingering thoughts about the case as he
brushed his hand along my cheek and leaned towards me, "Hey,
Day.  We'll be okay," he offered in a soothing and lowered
voice.  

"I've just never been in this much snow, in a vehicle driven by
... by ...  ," I shook my head and let the thought die.  These
two agents were so young and I couldn't help but wonder about
their experience in the field or on the roads.

Mulder bent and kissed my hand quickly.  "I'm not going to let
anything happen to you in the wilds of Colorado.  And I don't
think we're destined to die on this highway in a blizzard."  He
offered me a small smile, but it did little to ease my anxiety.
I wished I could feel his arms around me.  I always felt safe
there.  I forced down the nerves knotting in my chest, but
didn't let go of his hand.

Until Smith opened the door, that is, and stepped in.  Moving
the car a few inches forward, he exited quickly again without a
word.  Another five minutes and both agents rejoined us in the
vehicle.  Smith quickly cranked up the heat, and Weston again
took up the mic.

"R Eight Niner to CSP Peterson.  Come in, please."

"CSP Peterson here.  Over."

"All tucked up and ready to roll here at the east portal.  Over."

"Ten four, R Eight Niner," came the instant response.  "We'll be
returning east in about ten minutes.  Can you hold out?  Over."

"That's affirmative," Weston answered.  "R Eight Niner over and
out."

Within minutes there appeared the flashing blue and red lights
of law enforcement outside our windows, making eerie patterns in
the ice clinging to the glass.  Agent Smith stepped out for a
moment, then reentered the vehicle and proceeded to follow the
CSP car through the tunnel and down the steep western approach
to the portal.  We were creeping, advancing only feet at a time.
Advance, brake, slide, creep forward, brake, slide.  The pattern
continued unending.   Even with a four wheel drive with chains,
I knew we had no business being out there in that weather.  

Mulder reached for my hand, and tucked it in his lap.  It was
dark outside now.  I was not sure whether to be glad or
terrified not to see my surroundings.  I was thankful for
Mulder's comforting grip, hidden by the darkness from the view
of the two agents in the front seat.  With his reassurance I
began to calm.

Finally the lights of a small city appeared off to our left.
Dillon we were told, and we turned, driving through the town
into the dark of night again.  It took another hour before
lights appeared in the near distance.  

Only then was the silence broken.  Weston spoke up from the
front seat, "Keystone sits in a bowl on the west side of
Loveland Pass.  It's popular with the natives and locals
-skiing.  Because of the season it was hard to get hotel rooms.
We were only able to procure a couple of condos.  Two bedrooms.
We cleared it through A.D. Skinner late this afternoon, if
that's okay with you?  We've arranged to have it stocked with
provisions...."

"That's fine," Mulder agreed, not relishing the idea of sharing
a bedroom with the two newbies.  But we couldn't very well start
sleeping together in front of the two agents.                    

At length, Smith maneuvered the vehicle between a couple dark
buildings, pulling in front of the one to the right.  Stepping
out I managed to land up to my knees in the fine white powder. I
felt it trickling into my shoes, and made a quick beeline to the
small porch and front door.   Mulder and Weston brought in the
luggage, while Smith hauled in two bags of groceries from the
back of the Ford.  

Weston opened the door for us, setting the bags in the foyer.
The condo was immaculate.  Long paladian windows faced the front
door, towering over a glass dining table.  Off to the left was a
sunken living area, complete with fireplace, built-in book
shelves and television.  The two bedrooms, each with separate
bath, were off to the right behind the kitchen and utility room.

Smith set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, but did not
unpack them.  Weston showed Mulder the remote controls for the
t.v. and fireplace, as I found a switch which lowered a window
quilt over the dining windows.  Amazing.  This felt like the lap
of luxury.  Now if we only didn't have to share it....

Weston and Smith moved to the front door.  "Our condo is about
four buildings to the west of here.  Number twenty-eight,
forty."  They turned to leave.

"You're not bunking here?"  Mulder inquired hesitantly.

"Oh, no, Sir," Weston piped up quickly.  "This is for you and
Agent Scully.  Our SAC thought you'd be more comfortable here
with some privacy, than crammed into one of the flea bag motels
on the main strip, or down in Dillon, if there'd been any rooms
left."

Mulder nodded his appreciation.  "We'll be fine.  Thanks."

"See you at eight-thirty?"  Smith asked, obviously looking for
direction from the senior agent.   "Uh, Sir?  You're Assistant
Special Agent in Charge on this case."

Mulder pursed his lips, understanding for the first time the
respect with which Skinner offered the assignment.  "Thank you,
Smith."  He walked toward the front door to show the young men
out.  "You'd better get going before you get snowed in.  I'll
see you at eight-thirty, here."

Weston and Smith turned to me, offering their good-nights, and
closed the door behind them.  Mulder and I stared after the
door, only slowly redirecting our gaze to each other.

My eyes asked the silent question, 'Are we being set up?'  I
could tell Mulder honed in on the issue when he smiled at me. We
spent the next thirty minutes searching for electronic devises. 
Only when Mulder pronounced the "all clear", did I breathe a
sigh of relief.  

Unsaid we agreed to leave the curtains on the windows open a
little while longer.  It gives those surveilling us something to
see: that we aren't doing anything normal, good little FBI boys
and girls wouldn't do.  It's disgusting.  But we made a show of
taking our suitcases into separate rooms, setting our toiletries
in separate bathrooms.  It's all for the audience we suppose is
out there somewhere.  I think we're going to have to invest in
electronic detection equipment.  We're going to need it
everywhere we go from now on, even if we're just going home. 

Passing me in the small hallway, Mulder laughed when he heard
the loud grumble from my stomach, protesting a lack of food
since ... when?  Dinner last night?!  "I'll see what I can
scrounge up for us," I offered.  Suddenly I was very hungry.  I
hoped the newbies gave us some real food to eat, not any of that
frozen dinner stuff.  I was pleased to find the refrigerator
fully stocked, including a couple of thawed steaks.  Yes!  I
made a meal of the steaks, a salad and couscous.  Yeah, Mulder
is a funky couscous kind of guy.

Finishing our meal and the tedious clean up, we decided it was
time to close the curtains, light the fire and ... relax.
Something for which I had been waiting all day.  We turned off
all the lights except for those in the two bedrooms.  At least
to an outsider it would look as if we'd retired separately.  

I joined Mulder on the sofa in front of the hearth, offering him
a glass of fruit juice.  He set the goblet aside and grabbed for
me instead.  "This is the only juice I want," he grumbled
playfully.  

"Do I take it to understand that our new ASAC is demanding
sexual favors?" I quirked an eyebrow at him but did not object
to his hands' exploration of my breast and back.  

"Yep," he nuzzled my ear.  "Every sexual favor I can think of
... and then some."

I turned and looked at him with undisguised worry in my eyes.  I
didn't really need to ask if we could do this while on
assignment; I knew the answer was negative years ago.  

"I'm off the clock," Mulder said softly, planting small kisses
along my jaw as he held my head between his large hands.  "I'm
sitting in front of an inviting fire with my beloved fiancee.
It's the weekend.  I have the A.D.'s permission to be sharing
this very large, very luxurious condo tucked away in the Rocky
Mountains with you.  I've conducted an exhaustive and thorough
search of the premises for bugs or cameras, and found none.  And
you're wearing your gray sweater that drops into a V neck,
sitting here in my arms."  Mulder ran his finger down the
neckline of my sweater, tugging at the base of the V to cast his
eyes a little lower into forbidden territory.   "Can you think
of something else you'd rather do?  I'm really not *up* ... for
Parcheesi."  I let the innuendo slide.

My heart was racing in my chest as the tingles of arousal lit
that special spot between my legs.  He is so good at this
seduction thing!  I gave up and melted into his arms,
remembering I was pledged to him for the rest of my life, with
or without the Bureau.  I guess if I'm going down, I'd better
enjoy the ride.

Mulder lay me gently back on the couch, sidling next to me as
his hand commenced unbuttoning said gray V-neck sweater one
pearl button at a time, kisses trailing after each.  I mewled
low and ran my hands through his hair, arching my back, pressing
my chest to his face.   He reached around my back and in one
quick motion released the clasp of my bra, then proceeded to
extract me from my sweater and the underclothes.  

I felt his wet lips latch onto my nipple, his breath moist and
warm.  He tugged at the erect gumdrop of flesh and nerve, laving
it with his tongue gently.   I was lost ... completely.  I
wanted him ... now!  Badly!  I grabbed for his shirt and pulled
it roughly over his head, his eyes glancing up to me, unvoiced
mirth vying with love and contentment.

That was all it took.  Mulder latched on fiercely to my lips,
exploring, tasting, dueling feverishly with my tongue.  My hands
were reaching for his waistband, searching blindly for the metal
button of his jeans and the zipper tucked underneath.  It was a
race between us to disrobe the other first, finding a selfish
victory in the other's undress.  

Mulder grasped my shoulders and pulled me off the couch onto the
sheepskin rug someone thoughtfully draped on the floor in front
of the fire.  I had his jeans and boxers down to his knees
before he could tug my legs out of my pants.  His sweat-dewed
body glistened in the light from the fire, sparkles of orange
dancing along the planes of his shoulders and hips.  

He settled between my legs.  My whole body was ready for him,
wet and hot and tingling from the very thought of him being
inside me.  In one smooth motion he entered, sheathing himself
deeply, setting off a quiver throughout my frame.  I grabbed for
his shoulders and pulled him down to my chest.

"Oh, Day," he whispered, his voice trembling as he concentrated
on self-control and timing.   He cradled my head in his hands,
holding me to his neck and shoulder, to my safe place.  

I was not going to last much longer, my hips rising rhythmically
to meet his thrusts.   My hands clasped at his shoulders, nails
clenching into the skin.   My body twitched as I felt the rush
of fireworks flood my groin.  "Oh god!  Mulder!"  I cried
uncontrollably and tumbled headfirst over the sweet abyss.  He
followed me seconds later.  

Spent and covering me with his body, still buried inside, Mulder
chuckled somewhere around my shoulder.  He announced to the
nonexistent crowd, "And, folks, they set a new world land speed
record tonight in the great state of Colorado!"  My tongue
sought his mouth, if only to shut him up.  But really it was
just because I could not get enough of this man.  I'm so
insatiable at times!

"That wasn't the cup," I purred.  "It was just the warm-up lap."

"Ooh, Scully," Mulder cooed.  "I like the way you think."  

Somewhere near midnight we stumbled toward the bedrooms,
exhausted by our activities.  Mulder, the ever prepared
traveler, set his lamp on a timer to turn off somewhere around
two, his usual sack out hour.  We turned the light off in my
room and tumbled into the big, king size bed chest to chest.   I
wormed my way lower, falling asleep to the steady beat of
Mulder's heart at my ear.  

* * *

It's the nicest sensation waking next to Scully in the morning.
She snores.  Not loudly, but a soft quiet, almost purr-like
exhaling, as if she's expressing a contented sigh with each
breath.  I could get used to this.  Come to think of it, I now
have permission to get used to this!  Other than the night she
agreed to be my wife, I don't think I've fully processed the
fortune which has landed in my lap.  

Dana's going to marry me....  Dana's going to marry *me*.... 
*Dana's* going to marry me....  I chant these phrases over and
over again.  They break through my conscious thought at the
oddest times, like when I'm walking through the airport watching
her hips sway seductively in front of me, or when I look up and
see her smiling at me from across the room, or when I step out
of the shower and she's there brushing her teeth.  Just normal,
every day activities which remind me she's mine.  

I wonder if this heady feeling will ever resolve itself.  I hope
not.  I hope one day I don't turn fifty-two and look over to see
Scully cleaning the oven and say to myself, 'Now why did I ever
go and marry her?'   I know some couples seem to drift apart
after a few years, still physically together but that spark
which ignited their love dwindling and dying like an overripe
tomato on the vine.  I don't want that to happen to us.  I guess
that's part of the challenge of marriage, to keep the love not
just alive but meaningful.  

I know -- god, how I know! -- there will be times when we just
don't see eye to eye, not just about a case -- because we've
become pretty proficient in that over the years -- but about
something else significant or insignificant in our personal
lives.  I don't want either of us in those times to roll our
eyes and regret we ever got into this relationship.   I hope in
those instances we'll each be able to think a little more
intelligently, a little more clearly, empathize with the other's
position a little more readily *because* we've worked together
so long in this business of murder and mayhem, *because* we've
learned analytical tools in our profession, *because* we've each
seen how fleeting this thing called 'Life' can be.  

I want to cherish her always.  Today I promise myself from this
time forward I will try my damnedest to remember that.  

I sure hope the first time ... the tenth time ... the one
hundred, eighty-second time(!) we fight I will remember my
promise:  I will cherish her, love her, support her, fight *for*
her not just with her.   And remember my life was ... *is*
graced by her presence.  Something which I never deserved one
iota, but which some higher being dropped in my lap one day,
saying 'Here.  Take care of this.  It's worth *everything*.'

She is, y'know.

So as I held her next to me at 5:47 in the morning the day after
we arrived in Keystone, I tightened my arm a little firmer
around her frail body, planted my kiss on her head with a little
more tenderness, whispered 'I love you' a little more
affectionately ... and choked back my tears of joy once again.

"Mulder ...  ," Scully sighed into my chest, drawing out the
word like a prayer.

It gave me an instant hard on, not that I was looking for sex.
It's just the way she has with that tone of voice, her words,
the breath which caresses my skin, the warmth of her sigh.  

I felt her lips smile against my chest as she tightened her arm
around my stomach.  "'Morning," she said in that sultry tone
which licks at every nerve in my body.  I groaned and tried to
maintain some semblance of control.   After all, we had to get
up, shower, dress and have breakfast before "the boys" -- as
Scully refers to Agents Smith and Weston -- got there.  Oh, and
I had to roll around on the bed in the other room and make it
look like that's where I slept.

But for just a few minutes we lost ourselves in kisses.  Nothing
more.  Just kisses.  When we finally pulled away I could see the
love light in her eyes.   

I took her hand and pulled her off the bed, directing her
playfully to the shower.  She was done by the time I finished my
romp in the other room.   Damn, but probably for the best....

Scully opened the curtains as I made a great show of coming out
of the second bath towel drying my hair, walked into my room and
closed the door.  God, I hate this pretending!  I'll have to
talk to Scully about borrowing some of the Lone Gunmen's
electronic surveillance detection equipment.  Looks like we're
going to be using it for a while.   Hope it's small enough to
carry in a suitcase.

Scully made me breakfast.  I didn't even ask her to.  I'll try
to reciprocate later today and make dinner or breakfast
tomorrow.  She deserves equity in this relationship.

The Boys showed up right on time, stomping a path to our front
door from the parking lot.   Scully still wanted to autopsy the
body, and we were informed the same had been retained at the
local 'hospital'-more-like-clinic.  The kids who initially
stayed at the house were still available for interviews.  We'd
visit the crime scene in the afternoon, after "Bill", with whom
Agent Smith made arrangements to plow the road to the house, had
sufficient time to complete his task.

Sitting around the table we considered the weather reports.  It
was still snowing, an additional foot accumulating since we left
Denver the afternoon before.  There was now a base of five feet
on unplowed roads, with drifts up to seven.  And Scully brought
her one and only *white* parka.

We agreed to take shovels with us in the Ford, and rope.  I
wanted Scully tied off on a tether if she decided at any time to
go exploring.  That little wish earned me not only the patented
Scully glare, but the silent treatment for a good half hour.  I
gave her the choice of wearing one of my dark basketball tank
tops over her parka or spraying a bright orange 'X' on the front
and back of her coat.  I wanted her to be visible against the
solid white background of drifts, and didn't think her hair
would be enough of a beacon.  I couldn't afford to lose her.

"Scully," I approached her about thirty minutes later, while The
Boys were shoveling the rest of the walk.  I tried my best and
most authoritative voice, "The drifts are over your head and the
snow's over your waist.  If you fall in, you won't be able to
get out on your own."  She just stood in front of me with her
arms crossed, heated daggers being thrown from her eyes.  I let
them glance off me.  "When the snow reaches five and a half
feet, I'll tether the rest of us."  

She turned her back to me, trying to calm her rage.  It took a
few minutes, during which I packed away the maps and case file
in the day pack we brought.  When she once again deigned to face
me, her expression was softer and more forgiving.   "I'll do it
... but not because the ASAC ordered me.  . .but because my
fiance asked, and I know *he* doesn't want me disappearing under
the snow."

I offered her an apologetic and loving nod.  I hope she got it.
I approached her tentatively, and brushed a finger against her
cheek.  "I love you," I whispered, just in case.

She grabbed my finger and softened further.  "I love you, too,
Mulder.  Just next time ... talk to me first ... *outside* the
presence of others."  She was right, of course.

We dropped Scully off at the hospital, then headed to the
Sheriff's office for interviews which Smith and Weston scheduled
earlier.  Three young men, all college age, on their first ski
trip for Christmas vacation.  Too bad it ended with their
companion laid out on a cold stainless steel table, his chest
probably now cut open by Scully's scalpel.  

All three attended Yale, economic and pre-law majors.  All three
told the same story.  They had separate bedrooms in the large
ski lodge, and were awakened at about 2:20 in the morning by
Kyle Margolis' screams.  By the time they got to him, he was
dead, bleeding from his stomach.  Blood dripped from the mouth
of the moose head displayed on the wall of the library.   All
doors and windows were still locked, and no additional
footprints appeared in the snow around the structure.  All three
were anxious to leave Colorado as quickly as they could,
thoughts of skiing and 'babes' long erased from their heads.  I
asked them to stay until we'd completed our investigation.

At 12:40 we made it back to the hospital.  I found Scully tucked
away in the makeshift morgue, stooped over a microscope.

"Find anything?"  I queried.  This was one of those times when
the chant renewed in my head.  'Dana's going to marry me....'

Scully shrugged indecision.  "My investigation indicates one
Kyle Margolis died of fright -- elevated levels of adrenaline
consistent with a sudden onset of fear.  But he also lost a
considerable amount of blood from an eviscerated abdomen."

"What caused it?"

"Difficult to tell.  The edges of the wounds are too rough for a
knife or surgical instrument.  Could be bites.  I extracted some
of the edge tissues and have them ready to send off to Quantico
for examination.  The hospital really does not have the lab
facilities I need to make the dental comparisons.  I've also
prepared a second packet to send to Denver to the regional FBI
lab.  But I'll need to make an impression of the moose's teeth
for further analysis."

After a quick lunch at a local diner, we headed to the Jackson
house.  It sat up a small canyon north of Keystone.  Bill had
been true to his word, plowing a passable road up to the
driveway, where drifts and plowed snow obscured our objective. 
After digging a path through the snow, piling it up on either
side like a walled walkway, we made it to the stone steps.

The house was large, no ... more like totally massive.  River
stone and timbers in a post and beam construction.  Two storeys,
square.  This one cost *big* bucks, even when it was built in
1958.  Now it would be worth a millionaire's small fortune.  

As we stood outside our eyes caught sight through the windows of
a fire burning in the hearth in the library.   To our knowledge,
no one was staying at the house any longer.  When we mounted the
steps of the front porch, Scully cried out, "Mulder!"  She
pointed towards the library window, where we could see the
flames licking the outside of the fireplace, scorching the
mantel.  

Unlocking the door quickly I ran to find the kitchen in search
of a fire extinguisher.  Scully joined me, shouts from the
newbies echoing through the vast structure.  Quickly locating
the extinguisher, I bolted toward the library door, finding it
closed.  Jerking the handle quickly, we gained entrance....

 ... Only to find no fire.  Anywhere.  No fire in the fireplace.
No flames moving up the walls.  Scully bent, extending her hand
toward the grating.  Cold.  The fireplace had not been used for
quite some time.    I *know* this was the library room we saw
from the outside -- same furniture, same fireplace, same
impressive painting -- an original Winslow Homer -- over the
mantel.

We made a quick examination of the remainder of the rooms on the
first floor.  No fire ... anywhere.

"But I *saw* it," Smith expelled in confusion, an emotion echoed
on the remaining faces in our small group.  I stepped back out
onto the porch, looking through the library window one more
time.  I saw nothing but a concerned Scully looking out at me.

The snow and wind picked up again, its intensity increasing as
the storm tried its best to exhaust itself over us.  We spent
the next several hours combing through the house, inside and
out, searching for any modicum of evidence which would indicate
the source or cause of Margolis' injuries.

The moose head was removed from the wall and tagged for further
examination.  Scully extracted blood and tissue samples from its
mandible, and managed to make a decent cast of the dead beast's
molars, setting them out on the kitchen counter to dry.  With
the assistance of Weston and Smith, we took prints and
photographs of almost every conceivable surface.  It was tedious
and time consuming -- and I'm sure a worthy training ground for
the newbies.

By  the time we finished, the snow once again had blown heavy
across the road, obscuring our path, and for all intents and
purposes rendering us snowbound for the night in the large
house.  I guess we could have *tried* to dig out, but ... why?
The house had been cleared by the sheriff and CBI before we got
there; it was no longer considered a crime scene.  And it would
be a treacherous trek back down the mountain to Keystone.  We
decided to stay put until daylight.

We lit a fire in the Great Room's fireplace and found enough
edible food to make a decent meal.  It wasn't the best treatment
of a crime scene, but like I said, we had little choice.  At
about eight o'clock, the electricity went out, a victim of the
ice and snow on the old power lines.

"Mulder," Scully tugged gently at my arm, leading me back to the
dark kitchen tucked under the grand staircase. "I'm tired," she
expressed in a low voice.  In the candlelight her eyes looked
heavy with exhaustion.  Hours on her feet conducting the
autopsy, then more time examining and detailing the crime scene
were taking their toll.

"Why don't you go lie down, Day," I suggested gently.

Scully looked at me appreciatively, "I saw a couple comfortable
couches in the library and an afghan.  You wouldn't mind?"

"What I mind," I told her quietly, resting my hands lightly on
her hips.  "Is missing your kiss good-night."  That elicited a
smile.  "Go on, lie down.  I'll come in later."  I squeezed her
hand briefly and Scully shuffled off, disappearing behind the
library door.

The Great Room was as large inside as the house seemed outside,
its posts rising to a ceiling two storeys above, around which
all doors led to bedrooms, the library or other spaces.  In the
middle, separating the dining and living areas was a large stone
fireplace.  I settled down in front of the fire with Weston and
Smith.  They too looked sleepy.  We kept up an animated
discussion of sports for an hour, before I saw them close their
eyes and their heads dropped back on the cushions.  

I took my coffee mug back to the kitchen.  The house certainly
seemed to emit an atmosphere of the inexplicable.  The three
college students detailed incidents of slamming doors, lights
turning on or off by unseen forces, yells and conversations the
participants of which could not be identified or located in the
structure.  And after observing the fire in the library when
obviously no fire was lit there, I too concurred with their
assessment the house was downright spooky.  I began to wonder if
the observed phenomena was nothing more than a manifestation of
psychic illusion.  I think it, I perceive it, therefore my
thoughts are actual observations.   I resolved to discuss this
with Scully when she awoke.

Just then the air was spit by a woman's scream.  

Scully.  

I knew it ... just *knew* it was from her.  And it was not her
usual 'Mulder' call for help.  This scream was one of terror and
abject pain.

I yelled for her in response, running to the library.  "Scully!"
 My voice matched the pitch and volume of her scream.

I yanked on the door handle, "Scully!  Scully, let me in!"

There was no response and the door didn't budge.  I barely
registered Smith and Weston at my side, likewise pounding on the
door as the screams continued from inside.

"Scully!  Scuul-leee!!  Dana!"

I took a step back and kicked at the latch with my foot.  The
door still did not budge.  I reared back and kicked it again.
The door gave way, slapping heavily against the wall and
rebounding towards me.  I hit it back as I stepped into the dark
room.

And froze.  

Oh, god, no!  No!  Not Dana!  Not my Dana!  

Please!  Noooo.

In the little light permeating the room I saw her lying on the
couch, her eyes open and transfixed on some point behind me. Her
hands were clutching her stomach, a dark liquid seeping through
her fingers.  

Blood.  

I knew instinctively it was blood.  It had to be.

"Dana?"  I called softly, my words halted by the constriction in
my throat.  

Propelled by some innate force I ran to her side, falling on my
knees by the sofa.  "Dana?"  I choked out again, my eyes
beginning to mist over.

My hand came out from my side, my weapon grasped firmly in it. I
don't even remember drawing my gun.  I quickly reholstered it,
and reached for Dana's neck, checking for her pulse.  It came
back through my trembling fingers, somewhat thready but still
there.

"Day, let me see," I cajoled as I pried her fingers apart.

Her blouse was stained, soaked by the life force pumping from
her abdomen.  I forced myself to tear her blouse open, the
buttons flying off and pinging around the room.

I'm sure my face was a mask of panic.  The injuries staring at
me were horrific.   Scully's stomach was torn open, five long
claw marks spouting blood.  The cuts were deep, easily
penetrating any subcutaneous fat -- not that Scully had much on
her to begin with -- into the abdominal cavity and its precious
organs.

Inadvertently I heard my voice, "Oh god, Day!" 

I quickly pulled off my sweater and pressed it to her stomach,
replacing her hands there to hold the sweater in place. Reaching
under her shoulders and knees, I lifted her into my arms,
noticing how her head flopped lifelessly backwards.  I shifted
her so she rested against my shoulder and spun toward the door,
running to the front porch and out into the snowy night.  I had
to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Taking maybe ten steps along our shoveled path, I stopped in
renewed horror.  The Ford was no longer in sight, having
vanished from its parked location.  

I wheeled around, seeing Smith on the front porch in flight
after me. 

Then we heard the second cry.   A man's.  From inside the house.

Weston!

"Weston!"  I yelled as Smith turned around and reentered the
lodge.

The top floor was ablaze, tongues of flame licking at the
windows.

My god, what was happening?

WHAT THE FUCK WAS HAPPENING?!?

* * *

Continued in Part 3

* * *

Part 3


I don't much like being bounced in someone's arms, even when
those arms belong to Mulder.  I woke up to find myself being
carried -- I repeat with some incredulity, *carried* -- outside
into the snow.  I snaked an arm around Mulder's neck for better
support, something to hang onto while being jostled.

Then I heard a scream.  Well, two screams actually.  The first
came from someplace distant, the second from Mulder himself. 
"Weston!"

I looked up to Mulder's face.  There was terror written in every
line of that beautiful countenance.  I knew deep down something
was seriously wrong.

"Mulder?" I called to him softly.  

He didn't respond.  I tried again, "Mulder."

He turned his face to me.  I saw the fear in his eyes as he
tried to focus on my face, tears slipping from their corners.

I reached up to wipe them away.  "Mulder?  What's wrong?"

"Day?"  The word caught in his throat.  He swallowed and
continued, "Your stomach...."

"What's wrong with my stomach?" I asked, perhaps a little too
huskily.

Looking down my torso I saw Mulder's sweater bunched there.  I
pulled it away to reveal my pristine white top torn open -- need
I say it was only two week's old? -- my bra and belly exposed to
the icy cold, my skin ivory in the winter night.  I rubbed my
bare skin and looked back up at Mulder, only to see his face had
lost all expression and blanched white.

"Mulder?  What is it?"

"Dana," he expelled breathily and confused.  "Your stomach....
The blood....  The ... cuts...."

"Mulder,"  I barked roughly.  "Put me down."  I kicked my legs
in an effort to extract myself from his arms.

He almost complied with my demand, then snatched me back to his
chest with a sheepish quirk to his mouth.  "No shoes," he
pointed out.

"Mulder!"  I'd had enough of the rough jostling.  But he was
right, I didn't have my shoes.  I recalled removing my boots
before lying down on the sofa.

I resigned myself to staying in his arms, tightening my grip
around his neck.  Who was I kidding?  I really liked it there.

Just then we heard a shuffling at the front door.  Smith
appeared dragging Weston, an arm folded over Smith's shoulder.
Weston's white dress shirt was soaked with blood, and his feet
stumbled, trailing behind him.  

The house seemed to groan, cracks overhead being heard.  Mulder
turned suddenly around to face away from the structure, tucking
me closer to his chest, bringing his face down to shield my
head.  We heard then felt the rush of wind as the windows of the
second floor exploded outward, showering us with glass.

Mulder glanced behind him, assured Smith still had a grip on
Weston, then took a halting step forward on the path.  I looked
up to see the Ford Expedition parked in the drive where we'd
left it hours before.  I don't know why, but Mulder stopped, his
eyes widening when he saw the SUV.

"Mulder, it's cold out here," I reminded him from my rest at his
neck.

That seemed to spur him on.  He continued quickly along the path
to the car.  I yanked the passenger door open and he deposited
me there, leaning down and rubbing my bare stomach, his eyes
searching.  

I drew my blouse closed around me, throwing him a look.  I
couldn't believe he seemed to abandon his professionalism in
such an intimate manner and with an audience only a few feet
away.  But later, after he told me what happened, I understood
his need to confirm my well-being.

Mulder straightened and rushed back to Smith, struggling to
support Weston.  Between the two men, Weston was dragged back to
the SUV and placed on the back seat.  I turned to look, hoping
to examine his wounds, but saw only his white shirt, his breath
and deportment returning to normal.  As Mulder climbed behind
the steering wheel, I looked at him, mouth gaping in disbelief
at what I'd witnessed.   As he backed the vehicle out of its
resting place, we saw the roof of the house collapse, flames
sending sparks high into the night sky.

I reached for his hand, needing assurance he was still with me,
my eyes not deluding me.  Mulder squeezed it quickly, then
pressed the accelerator, backing down the snow-covered road
rapidly, and heading out to the highway.   It was a treacherous
trip made slowly.  Looking behind us as we turned once again
toward Keystone, the night was eerie black, no glow of fire to
mark where we had been.

We made the return trip to the condo in silence, each lost in a
futile search for the logic of what occurred that night.  Mulder
pulled in front of our building and shut off the engine.  He sat
staring ahead into the blackness for a moment before turning to
the agents in the back seat.  

"I think you should stay with us tonight, if you don't mind," he
suggested.  "I just want to make sure this is over before
letting you out of my sight," he quickly explained.  

He then shot me a look of apology, but I nodded my head in
agreement.  "Agent Weston, I want to examine you more
thoroughly," I directed.  The two in the back seat looked white
and scared.

Mulder came around to the passenger's side and hoisted me into
his arms again, this time without protest.  After all, it would
be the only physical contact we would have that night.  I let
him carry me to the door, surreptitiously rubbing my thumb
behind his ear in that place where all nerves seem to meet.  He
looked at me and winked.  When he set me on the stoop, my
stockinged feet sunk into the newly-fallen snow.  "Sorry,
Scully." 

I made a quick retreat to my bedroom, changing my blouse and
socks before returning to the living room.  Mulder sat alone on
the couch, the two others spread on the floor in exhaustion.  I
quickly bent over Weston.  He raised his shirt to reveal a firm,
muscular stomach, absent any signs of trauma.  I looked at
Mulder and shook my head.

I withdrew to the sofa, sitting next to Mulder.  He reached over
and massaged my shoulders, his fingers sinking into the knots of
tension.  "Christmas all over again," I alluded to our
misadventure last year.  

He nodded, "Something like that."

Smith croaked from below us, "Sir?  What happened?  What caused
Agent Scully's injuries?  What happened to Joe?"

Mulder settled in and offered up his theory of the case,
explaining our previous similar encounter to the two young
officers.  "I think the house was able to project a psychic
phenomenon.  What we thought became real, but only as long as we
stayed within its confines.  The moment we left, the house lost
all ... power over our minds and reality returned to its normal
state.   Margolis died of fright, as you said Scully, but also
because he didn't leave the house quickly enough.  The longer he
stayed there, the more real his injuries became ... until they
actually killed him."

"You mean it's ... false?!" Smith asked incredulously.  "I mean
... I've heard the stories about you two, but this ... this is
the type of stuff you investigate?  And it's real?  But what we
saw tonight wasn't?"

Mulder grinned and just nodded.  It did little to placate Smith.

"Mulder," I asked with a touch of disbelief, just the usual
challenge I would throw up at him.  "Who would want to harm us
... me?  Who would envision my being attacked, clawed in my
stomach?  Or ... or Weston?  Are you saying one of us thought
that ... and ... and suddenly it just ... happened ...
materialized?"  Before I could answer, I gasped, "The moose
head!  We left it there!  And my samples ... *all* the evidence
we gathered ...!"

"It won't be there tomorrow.   And, no, Scully.  I'm not saying
that one of us *consciously* thought 'What would it be like if
Scully was bleeding to death'.  Just that our unconscious
visions ... what we may have *imagined* in our wildest dreams it
would be like ... maybe in our deepest fears....  Maybe that's
what the house was reacting to,"  Mulder  speculated.  "We'll go
back and examine the ruins in daylight.  Right now," he yawned.
"Why don't you go to bed, Scully.  Weston, you can take my room.
I'm going to sack out here on the couch.  And Smith, that chair
opens up into a bed, I think.  I'll get you guys some tee shirts
and blankets.  We're exhausted, and I think we could use the
sleep."

I was stunned, gaping -- again -- at Mulder.  Is that what he
thinks about, what it would be like if I was attacked?  Dying in
his arms?  Oh, Mulder!  No!  I promised myself he and I would
have an *intense* discussion about this at our earliest
convenience ... when we were finally alone.

Mulder stood and guided me to my room with a hand at the small
of my back.  "Scully," he leaned in, lowering his voice as we
got to my doorway.  "I'd expect some nightmares tonight, if I
were you.  These boys have never seen this type of thing before."

I looked past him.  The faces of the young agents showed signs
of strain, the fright still lingering in their eyes.  I returned
my gaze to Mulder's and nodded my agreement.  Lowering my voice
to a whisper I smiled up at him, "Good-night, Mulder.  Thank you
... for getting me out."  I placed my hand softly in the middle
of his chest, "I love you, Mulder."

He smiled gently at me, "Love you, too, Day.  See ya' in the
morning."  I don't think he saw the sorrow in my eyes, saddened
he may believe our time together to be shortened by some awful
and literally gut-wrenching death I may one day face.

Reluctantly I stepped back into my room and closed the door
quietly, leaving him to his couch and charges.

I hate it when I can't sleep.  I punched that pillow at least
twenty times, rolled over half that many.  One thing traveling
with Mulder has taught me is if I can't sleep, lying in bed
trying to force myself to do so just makes the insomnia worse. 
I sat up and turned on the small light by the bed, blinking back
as my eyes became accustomed to the light.

I don't sleep well any more without him by my side.  There, I
said it.  It's just become a fact of life, as eating and
breathing.  Dana Scully doesn't sleep without Fox Mulder in the
same bed.  Damn.

I had only been one day without him ... without any time alone,
any hugs.  Oh yeah, there were those kisses when I woke that
morning, but they seemed so long ago.  I missed being held.  I
missed his scent.  Being carried to the car because he thought I
was dying doesn't count.  Rubbing my tummy to see if there are
any fatal injuries doesn't count.  A brief brush of my cheek
with his finger or his hand on the small of my back, just
doesn't cut it any more. 

I wanted him ... there with me, holding me, showering my face
with kisses, sighing into my hair.  HIM.

Damn!

So I looked for the next best thing.  Spying his sweater tossed
on the floor where I left it after returning from Jackson's
house, I reached down and scooped it up, bringing it to my nose.
 Not a strong scent because he hadn't worn the garment next to
his body, but still enough of the after shave, shampoo and
perspiration I could vaguely smell him.  I buried my face in the
soft material, lost in my dreams and memories of two days ago.

So lost in fact I didn't hear the small knock at my bedroom
door.  When I opened my eyes, Mulder was leaning against the
frame, chuckling noiselessly to himself.  I smiled into the
sweater, taking a last whiff.

Mulder walked in, closing the door to within an inch of its
lintel.  "Let me give you the real thing," he said quietly as he
sat on my bed next to me.

He leaned toward me.  I lay my face along side his, holding him
there with my hand.  I closed my eyes, relishing the roughness
of his beard's stubble, breathing in his scent, letting his fine
hairs tickle my nose.  I could have stayed like that for hours,
but Mulder pulled away after a moment.

"We can't do this now," he admonished me.  I guess he saw the
longing in my eyes.

I lowered my head, feeling a rush of loss at his
well-intentioned rejection.  I knew we couldn't be seen
touching, but damn it all, I still missed him.  I nodded my head
vigorously, hoping my hair would fall around my face and hide
the pain reflected there.

But Mulder -- my Mulder -- knew me too well.  He crooked a
finger under my chin and brought my eyes back to his.  Of course
he was hurting too.  I gave him a sheepish frown.

"I guess I'm just missing my fiance tonight," I explained,
hoping if I kept the conversation in the third person no one
would figure out I was talking about the man sitting in front of
me.

"I bet he misses you too," Mulder quickly picked up my thoughts.
"Terribly."

"I don't sleep well without him next to me."  I shrugged.

Mulder laughed, "Yeah, well my guess is he doesn't sleep at all
without you by his side.  He's one lucky guy."  He tucked my
hair behind my ear, his hand lingering a moment to cup my face.
I turned and planted a chaste kiss in his palm.

Mulder stood quickly, keeping his voice low, "Well, Scully, want
to go over the file with me.  Maybe it'll lull you to sleep."

'Don't leave!  Don't leave,' my eyes shouted at him.   'Please,
please, please.'  I guess he got the message because he moved
the wing back chair up to the bed.

"I'll be back in a moment," he whispered then left the room. 

True to his word, when he returned a minute later the case file
was opened in his hand.  Again, he shut the door, leaving it
ajar its usual inch.  Can't let the newbies think we're doing
anything in here we wouldn't want them to see.   They could
verify for themselves whatever they wanted.

Mulder tossed the file on the chair, then leaned over me,
grabbing the comforter.  "Here, Scully.  Scoot down into bed and
wrap yourself up comfortably.  Maybe my voice will send you off
into the nether lands."  

I did as I was told, then Mulder flopped down into the chair,
throwing his legs on the bed.  I inched closer, just enough so
his feet pressed into my belly.  Contact.  Little, but at least
I had that much.

Mulder opened the folder again.  If anyone looked into the room,
it would look as if we were going over the case, falling asleep
with it opened on his lap.  But Mulder had no intention of
talking about the file.

"Day," he started tentatively.  I knew he didn't want to get
into this topic, but it was burning a whole in his chest.  And
trying to discuss this in our current positions was going to be
a trial of our wills.

"I was scared ... really scared, tonight," he continued.  "I
thought I'd lost you ... seeing you there like that...."  Tears
sprung to his eyes.

I rocked against his feet.  "Ssh, it's okay."  I wished I could
throw my arms around him.  "Mulder, it's okay.  You didn't lose
me, and only because you could think analytically enough to get
me out of there.  But you did cost me a pair of boots and a
parka," I tried to lighten his mood.  I'm not sure it worked. 
"Mulder?  Do you really think of me dying?  Like that?  Is that
what you're afraid of?"

He nodded, then rubbed his hand over his face trying to control
his emotions.   "I just don't want anything to happen to you.  I
want to be able to protect you, and I keep fucking up."

"Mulder, you *do* protect me.  You've protected me for years,
and you're damned good at it.  The only one I trust.  And I
protect you."  I extracted a hand from my covers and reached for
him.  He grasped onto me, hard.  It was enough.  He began to
calm.  I held onto him with all my strength.  'Please don't
break the contact,' I begged silently.

At length he sat back, curling his toes and pressing them
further into me.  "Close your eyes, Day."

"I want to go home," I admitted in my small girl's voice.  I was
too exhausted to fight myself into something stronger.  And I
really did want to go home, curl up in bed with him and ignore
the rest of the world ... for a long, long time.

"We well, hon.  Tomorrow.   ... And then you can sleep with that
fiance of yours again, tucked up all safe and warm," he
promised.  I drifted off to the sound of his voice.

Slowly I regained consciousness at about 8:40 the next morning.
Mulder still sat slumped in the chair, his head leaning to the
side supported by the wing, feet still on the bed.  The case
file lay opened on his lap.  I rested there watching him for a
few minutes, orienting myself to the sound of voices in the
kitchen and the smell of bacon and coffee.  The Boys were up.  

I sat and leaned toward him, brushing my finger along his cheek.
"Mulder," I called gently.  "Mulder, time to wake up."

His soft lashes fluttered as his hazel eyes opened and came into
focus on mine.  I kept my hand on his face, my thumb pressed
against his lips silencing any errant word he may inadvertently
speak.  He pressed my palm more firmly to him with his own hand,
then turned his lips into it and kissed me.  

"'Morning, Day," he mumbled, his love for me spoken in volumes
by the smoothness of his voice.  I stood and disappeared into
the bathroom, tousling his hair as I went by.  Damn.

* * *

I miss her.  I miss her like there's no tomorrow.  And she's
only inches away.  

This is going to be hard, so very, very hard.  In all the years
we've worked together, it never felt this difficult to refrain
from touching her.  And believe me, there were times I thought
I'd die if I didn't see her, revel in her eyes, feel my heart
explode as she gave me that special smile.

But now ... NOW it's all so different.  So incredibly
challenging, so much *harder*.  Now that she's mine.

And we have to keep up the pretense ... stay just friends, just
working partners ... make others think that's all there is, that
the little squeezes or hand holding is just "normal" FBI partner
behavior.  I try to envision Smith and Weston repeating Scully's
and my actions, and almost guffaw with laugher choking back in
my throat.  Yeah, like right!  The idea of these two manly men
touching in the way I touch Scully is too absurd to consider ...
unless they're gay, which they aren't.  Weston's engaged to be
married, and Smith ... well, I saw him eyeing a few of the 'snow
bunnies' who came into the diner yesterday.  No way in hell is
he gay!

Okay, so my touches of Dana are not normal FBI partner behavior,
probably never were.  But now that she's mine ... I miss her all
the more.  At least if we'd stayed in a motel we'd have
connecting doors and no company -- ahh, but that was *my*
mistake.  Should never have invited The Boys to a slumber party.
But how was I to know the manifestations we witnessed at the
Jackson house weren't something which would follow us home?

I miss her.  Waking up in that damned chair, with her hand
tenderly caressing my face, with her thumb brushing my lips --
god, it's enough to arouse me just thinking about it -- all but
sent me over the edge!  And then not being able to take her into
my arms, kiss her, *make love to her*....  I know I  just made
things worse by thinking about it, but as she stood *naked* in
that shower only a few feet away from me, with only a door
between us....

Aarrgghh!!!

I bolted out of the room as fast as I could and almost ran right
into Weston as he toddled off to his -- *my* bedroom.
"'Morning," I managed to expel grumpily.

"Morning, Sir," Weston returned.  "We just finished breakfast.
Left you and Agent Scully some coffee.  If you don't mind, Sir,
we're going to go back to our condo to shower and change.  What
are your directions today, Sir?"

Cut the 'Sir' shit, kid -- that's Rule number one.  It never fit
me.  Never will.

"Yeah, you two could go back to your condo.  But you might want
to pack up.  I think we can finish the rest of what we have to
do today.  Smith, can you make arrangements for Margolis' body
to be released?  And Weston, I need you to do some research in
the local historical archives -- y'know, historical society,
library, old timers on the police force.  Find out what you can
about the Jackson house.  We may be able to get some stuff off
the Internet, so leave that for later.  But concentrate on what
you can get here while we're here.  The Denver library also may
have some history of Keystone materials.    Scully and I are
going back to the house to check out the ruins, so we'll meet
you in town later.  Smith, you can release the three guys --
Margolis' companions -- let 'em leave, and then help Weston out
with what you can on the research.  Okay?"

The Boys nodded and bid me adieu.  I waited about two minutes
after they left, then threw the bolt on the door, made sure all
the curtains were closed and skipped back to Scully's room.  

Finding her dressing, I put a stop to that one right away, "Not
so fast, Agent Scully."  She had donned only her bra and slacks.

She whirled around, surprised to see me standing in the door, a
lecherous look on my face.  "Where are the guys?"  She asked
with some suspicion.

"The new ASAC sent them on their way -- errands to do," I leered
-- yes, I must admit it, I actually *leered* -- triumphantly.  I
took a couple of steps towards her, letting my lust melt, to be
replaced by a tenderness and loneliness I felt deeper within.

Scully reached for me, falling into my outstretched arms.  I
clutched her tightly to my chest.  I just wanted to hold her for
a little while -- like a hundred years.  I lay my cheek on her
head and closed my eyes to the blissfulness as it suffused my
heart.  

She was shaking, tiny tremors running through her body.   "I've
missed you," she whispered into my neck.  I ran my hand lazily
up and down her spine, while one arm continued to hold her to
me.  I want to do this ... every morning, every night.  Just
hold her, meld into her.  Just become one.  Nothing sexual. Just
... transmuting.

"Oh, Day," I heard myself sigh contentedly.  I reached for her
face, kissing her mouth at first tenderly, our kisses growing in
depth and urgency.

We broke off the kisses, both knowing where *that* would lead
and that such activity was not possible right now.  But we
continued to hold each other.  I told her of my little
self-discussion about the FBI partner touching stuff and The
Boys.  She chuckled into my chest.  

"Yeah, I guess this is a little more than how I imagine the rest
of the Bureau greets its partners in the morning," she agreed.
"But I'm not going to stop."

After a few more minutes of swaying against each other, Scully
reached down and squeezed my butt playfully.  "Okay, big boy ...
better hit the showers.  I'll get you some coffee."  

She leaned up and kissed me again, slowly, luxuriously.  My
tongue explored the outline of her lips, then dived inside her
mouth for one last taste.  Showers hell!  This 'big boy' wanted
to hit the sack ... with her, but I guess that would have to
wait.  I sure as hell hoped we'd be going back to D.C. tonight. 

Dana broke from the kiss, her eyes laughing with mirth.  She
slapped me playfully on the butt as she passed by, headed for
the kitchen.

"Keep it up, woman, and we'll never make it to the Jackson
house," I threatened in jest.  I'm sure she rolled her eyes in
that Scully sort of way.

We packed up and loaded our bags into the back of the Ford.
Scully cleaned out what remained in the refrigerator, giving it
to the maid who came in to straighten the unit.   By ten we were
headed back up the canyon to view the smoldering remains of the
house we'd left the night before in panic.

* * *

Mulder was able to find the road to the Jackson house -- after
passing it by three times, of course.  It lay under a foot of
fresh snow from the night before.  The indentation in the
surrounding snow banks gave him a clue.

We made the trek up the hill foot by precarious foot, trying to
see just where the road had been plowed the previous day, just
where we had inched our way down it in retreat.  I would have
walked the path for my partner, but today's footwear consisted
of slip-on flats, my boots now only charred remnants of their
former selves someplace up ahead.   I swear, I lose more shoes
on this job!   My mom once asked if I could take the dark
pantsuits and shoes as a tax write-off.  You know, uniform
necessary for the job.  Don't think so.  Every now and again I
can justify a line on our expense reports as 'Apparel
replacement'.  Sometimes Skinner raises an eyebrow, most of the
time not.  He's usually too busy counting the number of times
Mulder's replaced his weapon or cell phone.   It's annoying when
Skinner glances at me as if by some magical force I was supposed
to be able to tie the missing object to my partner's body.   I
never return Skinner's glares, but study the tiles in his
ceiling instead.  Did you know one of those tile squares has 98
holes?

Mulder eventually pulled into the alcove carved in the snow by
yesterday's plow.  I opened the door and hopped out immediately
-- no carrying me today.

Mulder rounded the hood and gave me an exasperated look, seeing
the snow up to my ankles.  "Scully ...  ," he signed.

I just rolled my eyes.  Yeah, it was cold, but what the hey. 
I'd reserved a pair of warm socks to put on when today's mission
was completed.  Mulder felt it was the least he could do to act
as my advance man, taking small steps in front of me up the path
toward the house, so I'd have footprints -- *big* footprints --
to walk in.  He really can be considerate at times.

We rounded the snow bank from the plowing, took maybe five
additional steps, and I bumped right into the back of my
partner, my vision focused on the footprints so I didn't see him
stop abruptly.  Well ... the footprints and his shapely ass, but
we won't go there.

"What?"  I asked from behind.  I craned my neck to look beyond,
but he makes such a better door than window.  Bracing my hands
at his waist for balance, I leaned on one foot perilously to the
left until I could see.

The sight greeting me made me blink twice.  Of course the house
no longer stood, its timbers having fallen into a heap after the
fire.  What I didn't expect to find was a mound of snow burying
the remains.  Or -- and this was the most incredulous thing --
my boots set out on the stone steps as if by an unseen hand,
placed there side by side, waiting for me!  I gasped.

Mulder took a step to the side, allowing me to stand next to
him.  We just stared at the picture ahead of us for a long
minute.  Then his voice split the tranquility..  "But what about
our parkas?"  He yelled as if to ask some phantom entity.

That did me in.  I laughed and couldn't stop laughing.  My
endearing, beloved fiance, with his twisted sense of humor,
yelling at a pile of burned wood, covered with an inexplicable
three feet of snow, my boots waiting for me on the step and he
... *he* wants to know about our *parkas*!  

You had to be there.  It was too funny, too bizarre for words! 
He joined m, his arm snaking around my waist to keep me upright.
 It reminded me of our first case when we broke into laughter
standing over the empty graves in the rain in Oregon, guffawing
over the inexplicability of it all.

God, I love that man!

Collecting ourselves once again, we walked in tandem to the
steps.  They were free of snow, as were my boots.  Naturally.  I
sat down and pulled them on, trading in my flats.  Better!

Mulder scrambled over the remains of the structure, kicking snow
aside to check what lay beneath.  He returned to my side just as
I finished tying up my last boot.  "It's cold.  The timbers are
cold.  And there's lichen and small plants growing between the
logs, like they've been here for years."  He looked at me
waiting for some scientific explanation.  I had none to give. 
There was no doubt in either our minds this was the house we
were in last night.

We sat there in the brilliant Colorado sunshine a few minutes
longer trying to absorb the import of this discovery, then made
our way back toward the car, this time side by side.  On the way
I slipped my hand into his.  He turned and faced me, then looked
back at the steps and what remained of the house.  He heaved one
big sigh, then slid his arm across my shoulder, turning once
again to the Ford.  Without saying a word, we climbed in and
returned to Keystone to fetch the Boys.

As we sat in the booth at the diner, Smith and Weston reported
their morning's findings.  They had been good, really good
investigative agents.  After releasing the body to the local
funeral home and dismissing Margolis' companions, Smith joined
Weston at City Hall.

Historical records revealed the Jackson house was built in 1958
on the site of an abandoned miner's cabin.  The lodge burned to
the ground two years later, the fire of undetermined origin. The
ruins had laid undisturbed for forty years.  Few in either the
police force or fire department could remember anything about
the building.  The town of Keystone sprung up out of almost
nothing at the hands of the Ralston Purina Company as a resort
for its workforce, establishing police and fire with it years
after the Jackson house already lay in dormant ruins.

"What about the grandson ... Jackson's grandson ... who gave
these guys permission to use the house?"  I asked still hoping
for some grain of reality.

Weston flipped through his notes of the interrogations.  "Steven
Jackson, age twenty, son of Michael Jackson the Second -- guess
'junior' was not the word to use in that circle -- lives in
Chicago.  Now attending Loyola."  He looked up at me, "We've got
an address.  Maybe we should check him out."

Mulder shook his head, "We won't find him.  He's not there.  And
I'd venture that the home addresses these three college kids
gave us won't exist either."

My eyes bugged large at him, but I knew deep down he was
probably right.  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed
information.  Within a minute I was talking to the Registrar at
Loyola University in Chicago.

Seeing my actions, Smith grabbed his phone and did likewise,
calling Yale.  After a few minutes we both hung up.  Mulder was
right; none of these men seemed to exist, at least not where
they said they'd be.

"We'll run them through the NCIC and the Bureau's database when
we get back to Denver," Smith declared not giving up.  

Mulder shrugged silently.  After a few moments, he placed his
hands on the table and pushed out of the booth.  "Let's go." 

We trudged out of the diner in silence.  Mulder handed the car
keys to Smith, and rubbed his stomach in satisfaction.  "Home
James," he directed stifling a yawn.  "I'm sleeping in the back
seat ... that is, if I can borrow your lap, Agent Scully?"

I shot him a look of tolerant disgust and slid in next to him.
True to his word, Mulder settled his head in my lap, pillowing
an errant sweater underneath, and was asleep before we reached
Dillon.  My eyes crept shut someplace around the western portal
to the Tunnel.

I woke up as we descended from Arapaho East ski area along I-70,
the area of infamous for Deadman's Curve.  Blinking my eyes I
realized my head was resting against Mulder's shoulder.  I
looked up.  He was sitting staring out the window, his hand
covering mine in a nonchalant pose.  I knew it was anything but.

Smith and Weston were carrying on an animated but quiet
conversation about the Denver Broncos' chances at another Super
Bowl.  I heard Mulder chime in periodically, his voice a low
rumble through my ear.

Before pushing off him, I squeezed his thigh where my hand
rested, feeling his silent corresponding reply.  I sat up and
rubbed my eyes.

"Hey, sleep well?"  He greeted.

"Thought you were going to sleep, Mulder?"  I asked somewhat
grumpily.

"I did," he defended.  "Until about Idaho Springs.  Felt great!"
 I rolled my eyes, but he continued, "Got us on a seven o'clock
flight to D.C."  My eyes caught his.  I know exactly what he had
in mind.

* * *

FINALLY!!  Scully relaxed in my arms as our plane winged through
the night on our way home.  I love it on these evening flights
when the crew turns off the cabin lights, having fed their
passengers.  In the semi-darkness, Scully leaned up and pulled
my head down to hers, favoring me with a long and ardent kiss.
Then she curled in my arms, lazily writing figure eights on my
chest.  It was heaven just to hold her.

We stopped by my apartment to pick up appropriate office apparel
for the next day, then headed for Scully's.  I was looking
forward to two, no make that *three* things:  a meal of
left-over lasagna, thoughtfully frozen before we left three days
ago; a hot shower to wash away the last of cold Colorado from my
skin; and Dana ... in bed ... with me ... tonight.  You get the
picture.  I got all three wishes, and I feel like a lucky, lucky
man.

The dawn is breaking; it's early morn.  Hum ... sounds like the
beginnings of a song.  No taxi though.  No jet plane -- at least
not today.  Today we go to the office and write our reports,
trying to explain to a Skinner who has over the years come to
accept some of our more bizarre theories upon the closure of
cases, how a young man in the prime of his life died from a
moose bite ... from a mounted trophy which only *may* have
existed ... in a house which burned to the ground forty years
ago ... in which Agents Scully and Weston were also attacked ...
and from which we have no evidence.  Yeah, right!  But they
don't call 'em X-Files for nothing.  At least this time we have
corroborating evidence in the form of Smith's and Weston's own
reports which will be faxed to us today.  My guess?  Those boys
were up all night putting the final touches on their paperwork,
and I'll find it in my machine the moment I walk in today.

Scully and I still haven't come up with a solution to the
possible dissolution of our partnership now that we're engaged. 
Maybe I can suggest to Skinner he create a corresponding Office
of Paranormal Pathology and put Scully in charge.  That way, we
have our separate divisions but still can work together.  If I
get really bold, maybe I'll ask him to give us a staff.   I know
two agents in the Denver field office who would sign on in a
heart beat.  As they dropped us off at DIA, Smith asked to be
kept in mind for further 'weird' cases.  An eager Weston nodded
his head in agreement.  Maybe the Boys would like to move to
D.C....

And Scully?  My beautiful Day is curled around me, snoring
softly, an arm draped across my waist.  I can't believe I was
such a fool to leave her once, bolting from this bed and out of
her life for one year.  I've pulled some really *dumb* acts in
my time, but that takes the cake!  I think she's overcome the
heartache and pain my stupid, stupid actions inflicted.  Now I
have to work hard to overcome the memory.

I feel my life is just beginning -- at age -- well, thirty
*something*.  Who would figure!?  All because of her.  *Only*
because of her.  She is my tether, my lifeline, always bringing
me home.

I look at her form draped over me, a fiery red halo marking the
entrance to my heart.  

I love you Dana Katherine Scully.  Now and for forever.

You're going to marry me. 

I am the happiest man alive.

I toss aside my journal and slip down lower in the sheets,
intent on making you the happiest woman alive ... this morning.
We still have time before work.  There's always time to rekindle
the spirit, making sure it burns brightly through the night.

She sighs and pulls me into her embrace.

***

The End