From: Paulette Burks <pbburks@bellsouth.net>
Date: Sun, 13 Jun 1999 14:04:19 -0400
Subject: NEW:  FANCY THREE

TITLE:  	FANCY THREE
AUTHOR:		PBBURKS
SETTING:	Season Six, a little later on the morning after the 		night
before seen in "Fancy Dance" and "Fancy Footwork"
SPOILERS:	Beyond the Sea, Tithonus, Monday
CATEGORY:       MSR, Angst
RATING:         PG-13 (for language)
ARCHIVE:        Sure, but please lemme know where
DISCLAIMER:     CC created them, Fox and 1013 made production possible
but Gillian and David brought them to life.  So I think we all know who
really owns them.  And it isn't yours truly.  I haven't made a wooden
nickel off any of these, by the way, so please don't try to sue me.


FANCY THREE
By PBBurks


My apartment has never looked so good.

Or so lonely.

I stand with my back against the door, looking around the haven I have
created, my private sanctuary from the darkness which dominates my
professional life.  It is nice and safe and familiar.  There is the
chair my father always liked, the one in which I saw his fetch at the
moment of his death.  The comfortable yet tasteful couch where I have
consumed so many pints of ice cream during countless old movies on AMC. 

I lean wearily against the door, knowing that Mulder will undoubtedly be
knocking at any moment.  I know he followed me home as I drove like a
madwoman to reach my apartment.  I don't know why I thought that he
would or could let this go.  While I am the expert at avoiding
confrontations, Mulder is fearless in his pursuit of the truth,
gleefully striking the match to our fuse when we are on a collision
course.  As if on cue there is a soft rapping on the other side of the
door.

"Scully?" he calls softly.

I close my eyes, desperately willing him to go away while simultaneously
begging him to stay and see this through.

"C'mon Scully," he wheedles.  "I know you're there."  He sounds about
fourteen.  "Let me in, Scully, we need to talk."

Caught in a purgatory of my own making, I turn my eyes heavenward. 
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what am I going to do now?  Help me out here,
Someone.  I know that I don't have it in me to fight him alone.  Where
is Divine Intervention when I need it?

I wait another heartbeat, perhaps two more, all the while feeling his
presence on the other side of the door like a magnet drawing me near. 
We have to talk and I know it.  The situation is unavoidable.  The fact
that the idea of discussing the change in our relationship scares the
mortal hell out of me does not alter the fact that it needs to be done. 
I chew on my lower lip, wanting more than anything to turn tail and run
into my bedroom, lock the door and hide my head under my pillow.  Not
that it would matter if I did.  Mulder is capable of breaking and
entering in a dozen different ways and I have no doubt he will resort to
drastic means if I continue to refuse him entrance.

Resigned, I turn the deadbolt and open the door, granting admittance to
the inner sanctum.  He proceeds into the living room as I close and bolt
the door behind him.  I see that he is wearing his trench over his
clothes but the pants showing beneath the hem don't appear to be
standard issue FBI blues.

Hoping to divert him before he has a chance to steer the conversation, I
opt for a preemptive strike.  "Mulder, what are we going to tell
Skinner?" I ask without preamble.  "We just got the X-Files back.  I'd
rather not commemorate the victory by pissing off the boss."

"We won't," he says shortly, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it
over the back of Ahab's chair.  He turns to face me and I see that he is
dressed in black jeans and a matching tee shirt.  My very own Man in
Black.  "I took care of Skinner," he states in a tone that brooks no
further discussion.

He stands there watching me, hands on hips, that bulldog look on his
face, and inwardly I groan, knowing that I am in for Mulder at his
tenacious best.  "We need to talk," he begins matter-of-factly. 
"Whether you want to or not."  He moves brazenly into my personal space
and takes me by the shoulders, squeezing gently, but firmly.  "You're
not going run away from this, Scully.  Away from me.  Not after last
night.  You're going to talk to me and we're going to deal with this. 
Right here.  Right now."

I try to twist away from him but the effort is half-hearted, a token
resistance born of habit.  He refuses to give an inch, his eyes boring
into mine, forcing me to face my weakness, like it or not.  "No more
walls, Scully," he says hoarsely, his voice betraying a slight tremor of
deep emotion.

Oh, God, he is going to break down my new barrier before I even manage
to lay the first row of bricks.  I look up at him, into those warm,
wonderful eyes that speak volumes to me without his ever uttering a
single word, and suddenly I'm wondering how in the hell I'm ever going
to manage to push him away this time.

Still reeling with aftershocks from the earth moving the night before,
my reserves are depleted, my knees rubbery, my resistance dangerously
low.  I suddenly realize how very tired I am.  Tired of the constant
niggling thoughts that haunt me about the unprofessionalism of being in
love with my partner.  Tired of denying myself the pleasure of
appreciating that love for the pure joy of it, and the wonder that it
has come to me, to us.  Tired most of all of holding back tears that I
know would cleanse if I could only let them fall, tears that I know
would be shared and vanquished by the man who now holds me before him in
a strong but tender grip.  He is going to fight for me, I know it. 
Fight for us.  Because he believes in us.  And he has always had
tremendous strength in his beliefs.  

His image goes blurry as my eyes fill, but through the haze I recognize
the Mulder to whom I have already entrusted myself for years now.   The
Mulder who has gone to the ends of the earth to save me, who has
performed astounding feats of heroics in my name.  The Mulder who pulled
me back from the abyss when I was so far gone I could not find my way
but for the power of his voice, calling me home.  

I feel a single tear escape each eye, trickling down my face to salt the
corners of my mouth.

Mulder's hands slide from my shoulders up to my cheeks, where he
tenderly cradles my face, his thumbs lightly brushing away my tears. 
"Talk to me, Scully," he whispers, his eyes searching mine, searing
their way into my heart.  "Talk to me.  Please."

I want to lower my gaze but if I do all of the tears will fall and then
he will pull me into his arms and I know I will be undone and lost
forever.  So I glare at him instead, trying to work up a measure of rage
that he has reduced me to this, that he is forcing me to come clean
about this most intimate of secrets.

But the anger refuses to surface.  I can't in good conscience hold any
of this against him.  This is all about me and I can't deny it.  I can't
deny any of it.

"I'm afraid," I finally say in a very small voice, not trusting myself
to speak louder.

His eyes are dark with concern, his brows drawn into a point over them. 
He is trying so hard to understand.  "Afraid of what?" he asks in a
breath, his voice and manner gentle.  He is always gentle with me -
except when he is driving me up the wall with innuendo and games of cat
and mouse.  He wears me out in more ways than I can count.  Or maybe
it's just my ongoing battle between the way I *think* things should be
and the way I *want* them to be that does me in.   Either way I am
exhausted.  Too exhausted to fight.

"Tell me what you're afraid of, Scully," he urges, his voice barely
above a whisper.  "Tell me so I can make it go away."

Go away?  Not on your life, buster.  In a breath I give up the fight,
finding that I no longer wish to run from the truth.  Or to hide it from
him.  "You," I say simply, lowering my head, the flood upon me.  I feel
the tears as they breach the dam of my eyelids, flowing down my cheeks
to land wetly on my chest, trickling down into the neckline of the pink
sweater to pool in my cleavage.

"Me?"  His tone is one of astonishment.  "Scully, why are you afraid of
me?  After all these years, after all we've seen and done together,
after all we've *been* for each other - how can you be afraid of me?"

"Not *of* you," I correct softly, my eyes downcast, still unable to look
at him as I admit my weakness.  "I'm afraid of *loving* you."  I hear
his quick intake of breath.  He tips my chin so that I must look him in
the eye.  I meet him dead on; there is no other way.  "I'm afraid of
loving you," I say again, watching the impact of my words, how his eyes
grow misty, how his throat tightens as he swallows my admission.  "But,
I do, dammit," I continue, angrily swiping at my eyes so I can see him
better while I make a fool of myself.  "Love you.  No matter how hard I
try not to."

His face has gone all soft and goofy, that little boy smile playing
across his features and transforming them into something magical and
endearing.  "Then don't," he says quickly.  "Don't try not to.  Just
accept it, Scully.  Accept this gift we've been given.  The gift we gave
each other last night, the gift of every single day we have together,
for the rest of our lives, however long that may be."

I hear what he is saying and they are exactly the right words to say. 
But somehow they fail to comfort, for now all I can see is a ticking
clock.  My time with Alfred Fellig had touched me deeply.  Our
conversations about life and love affected me much more than I care to
admit.  His wrenching story of surviving his wife by so long that he no
longer remembered her name had moved me immeasurably.

I have always felt in my heart that I would die if anything happened to
Mulder.  But after Alfred Fellig I found myself obsessed with the fear
that, in my brief contact with him, I had assumed his immortality. 
Having fought death so hard such a short time ago I now know my greatest
horror is the idea of *not* dying, of living on without Mulder by my
side.  And now, after six years of loving him covertly, the thought of
giving in completely to my emotions is terrifying.  The potential for
heartache should I ever lose him shakes me to my core.

"M-Mulder," I stammer, fighting for control of my voice, wanting so
badly to make him understand.  "I want to accept it.  I need to accept
it.  Everything in me is crying out for me to accept it.  But I'm so
afraid of letting go.  I'm so afraid of having you and then losing
you.   *They* could take you out at any time.  And I would have to live
on without you.  I couldn't bear it."  A shameful sniffle escapes me;
but I have come too far to stop now.  Once released, the words tumble
forth in a burst of deep-seated fear.

"I would want to die," I continue, my voice trembling, my body quaking. 
"And I'm so afraid I'll be like Alfred Fellig and I won't be able to die
or that I'll be like that Pam girl you told me about, that poor girl in
the bank who was caught in her own perpetual hell and was doomed to
repeat the same horrible day, day in and day out, every single day of
her life, and?and?"   I'm rambling now and I know it, and crying to
boot.  I'm ranting and raving and hormoning all over the place and all
of this in front of Mulder, who must be thinking that his tightly wound
partner has finally snapped.  And he might not be too far off the mark.

Wordlessly he enfolds me in his arms, urging my head onto the pillow of
his broad and oh-so-comforting chest.  His breath teases my hair as he
shushes me.  He holds me up as my knees give way and I sag against him,
weeping as I have never done in my life, weeping in a manner I never
thought I would or could.  That little wall I had been trying so hard to
rebuild all morning is smashed to smithereens by the raging torrent of
long repressed tears and fears.  

And I was right, I think through the tumult.  As much as it hurts to
cry, the tears *are* cleansing.  And I was also right that they would be
tenderly received by the man I love.  And I have no doubt, even as I
lean against him and cry like there is no tomorrow, that he will banish
those tears.  In his own inimitable way.  And, of course, he does.

"Scully," I hear him say as his hand caresses the back of my head,
smoothing over my hair.  "Scully, listen to me.  Shhh, now listen. 
Shhh.  Shhh."  He waits a few moments while I compose myself enough so
that he can be heard over my sobbing.  Finally I have regained enough
control so that I now hang, limp and docile in his arms, quietly
hiccuping.  "Do you remember New Mexico?" he asks quietly.

I nod my head against his chest, sniffing loudly.  I didn't want to
remember that dreadful time, would much rather have forgotten the horror
of discovering that my partner had apparently died a fiery death trapped
in a burning, buried train car.  Although I had reported the incident,
and everyone had assumed that Mulder was dead, I somehow couldn't
believe it myself.  I didn't *feel * that he was dead.  Somewhere along
the way I began to feel his spirit again, beside me as always, right
where it belonged.  And, as it turned out, he wasn't dead and before
long he was communicating with me, via my dreams.

"Scully, I died in New Mexico," he continues, rubbing his cheek against
my hair.  "I died yet I came to you, didn't I?  I came to you in a dream
and told you that I was returning to you, to continue our fight."  I
draw a deep, shuddering breath and his arms tighten around me in
reaction.  Again I feel his lips in my hair, this time lingering in a
tender kiss.

"And that time when you were taken, and then returned to me, in a coma
so deep that everyone had given up hope for you."  I feel his body
shudder at the recollection, feel his throat muscles working as he
swallows the painful memory.  "I sat with you all night, that last
night.  I held your hand so that you could feel me wherever you were.  I
reminded you that I was there, reminded you that you weren't ready to
leave.  And you heard me, didn't you, Scully?"

Again I nod, my heart aching at the visual image of a grieving Mulder at
my bedside, holding my hand, sitting with me through the long, lonely
night, calling me back to him.  And, indeed, I had heard him, and
returned.

He moves me away ever so slightly and uses the tips of his fingers to
bring my face up to look at him.  "Don't you see, Scully?" he asks
gently, his eyes searching my face for evidence that he is getting
through to me.  "We both died, yet we both felt the other one, despite
death, perhaps *in* spite of it.  We've communicated across the great
beyond, our spirits have been together no matter the realm of our
existence.  And that's how we'll always be, Scully.  No matter how much
time we have in the corporeal world, in here," he finds my hand and
links  his fingers with mine, touches our combined fist to our hearts,
now so close together, "in here, we are joined forever.  Nothing can
change that.  Even death.  Whenever that comes."

I stand quietly in his arms, watching him intently, listening raptly as
he speaks of death and rebirth, of paranormal communications between
people in the spirit world and those in the real world.  And I want so
badly to believe.

Miraculously, he seems to hear me, my unvoiced thoughts, my unspoken
fears, my needs long denied.  "Believe, Scully," he urges, his eyes
shimmering.  "I know you want to.  You know you want to.  Just let it
happen."  He squeezes my hand.  "Believe in *us*, Scully.  Believe in
*us*.

He leans down and tenderly brushes his lips against my temple, moves to
my eyelids, kissing each one and taking my tears with him.  They glisten
on his lower lip as he makes his declaration.

"I love you, Scully," he tells me, his voice husky with emotion, his own
unshed tears threatening to fall and add to the river that I have
already cried this day.  "I *love* you - with everything I've got, with
everything I am.  Believe in my love, Scully.  Believe in *our* love. 
I'll never leave you.  I swear it on my father's grave."

That oath is one I cannot take lightly.  I know he still agonizes daily
over the death of his father, though he rarely speaks of the man who
hurt him so badly, who so totally doomed his only son to a life of guilt
and self-doubt.  Now it is my turn to comfort.  I cannot look into his
face and see his wounded heart without rallying to heal it.

"Mulder," I say, smiling through my tears, reaching with my free hand to
caress his face as he has so often caressed mine.  "I do love you.  I
believe you - I believe in us."  I could not choke out more if my life
depended on it.

With my admission he goes in for the kill.  His mouth swoops down over
mine and I am reminded all too vividly of why I have fallen so
completely and head-over-heels in love with him.  Because I realize that
he *does* love me with everything he's got.  And I owe it to both of us
to unleash my heart and return the sentiment in equal measure.  And I
do.

We stand locked in passionate embrace, mouths molded together, tongues
tasting, hands stroking, connecting on a level I never believed existed
until now.  If angels run and hide when we dance, they positively weep
when we make love.  Surely we are the only two people in the world to
ever experience this.  Surely no one else has felt this connection the
way that we do.

Mulder, my best friend, my partner, always my love, pulls away from me
with a ragged sigh.

"What is it," I ask in a drugged sort of voice.  That's what he is to
me.  Mulder:  my drug of choice.  And I am now hopelessly addicted.

He gently disentangles himself from my arms, stepping back from me with
a look of genuine regret on his face.  "If we keep this up I won't be
able to stop and I don't think you will either."  I sigh heavily, unable
to resist a peek at the bulge in his pants as he stands in front of me. 
I hate it when he's right.  He sees the direction of my gaze and flashes
that sexy grin.  "Don't worry, Scully.  I'm not going anywhere,
remember?"  He looks down at his crotch, back up to capture my eyes with
his.  "Neither is *it.*"

I flush deeply at his words, fighting a losing battle to keep my upper
lip straight.  I have to look away from him before I dissolve into
helpless, hysterical laughter and further humiliate myself.

"I bought us some time with Skinner," he continues, in a decidedly more
cheerful voice.  "But not nearly enough time to do with you what I want
to do."  I dart my eyes back to his in time to catch the wicked intent. 
We smolder for a few heartbeats, reading each other with perfect
clarity.    "But, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm working on my
patience.  We'll continue along this line of thought when we get back
from California."

I arch a brow at him.  "California?"   

"Yeah, nice little country club setting, something really weird going
on.  Homeowners disappearing, neighbors pleading ignorance."  His eyes
are lit like a Christmas tree and I can't help but smile as he rubs his
hands together in joyous anticipation of an X-File, after all these
months of boredom.  "And we get to play house."  He drops the bomb on me
without missing a beat.

I shake my head to clear it.  "I beg your pardon?"  He's standing there,
grinning like a Cheshire cat, the one who just ate the canary.

"Married, Scully," he purrs, his eyes twinkling, his brows waggling
suggestively.  "We get to go undercover as a married couple."

Stunned, I remain silent, considering the possibilities of this
arrangement, pro and con.  I'm going to have to tread very carefully
here and I know it.  How we conduct ourselves on this case could have
far-reaching effects on our relationship, as well as our careers.
 
"We'll get all the details from Skinner," he promises, reaching for his
coat and slinging it over his arm, moving toward the door.  "Our plane
leaves in just over four hours and we've got a hell of a lot to do
before we go.  Shopping for clothes, compiling our cover, buying the
rings, you know the routine."

Buying the rings?  This is proving more interesting by the minute.

"I'll meet you in Skinner's office in an hour."   He bends to drop a
quick, chaste kiss on my forehead before opening the door.

"Hey!" I tug at his sleeve.  "Not so fast."  He turns to look at me,
brows raised.  "If we're going undercover there are a few things we'd
better get straight first.  Right here.  Right now."

He grins, earnest as a little schoolboy.  "Sure, Scully," he agrees. 
"Anything you say."

"Number One:  No hanky panky while we're working."

"Please explain to me the scientific nature of hanky panky," he
deadpans.

I bite the inside of my cheek, determined not to laugh at his teasing. 
"Sex, Mulder," I state firmly, not giving an inch.  "No sex while we're
working."

He dramatically slaps his hand to his heart, groaning.  "Aww, Scully!"
he protests.  "Do the words 'party pooper' mean anything to you?"

I hide my smile and continue smoothly.  "Number Two:  What we do
together in the privacy of our own little world has nothing to do with
anybody else and nobody else needs to know.  This stays between us.  Got
it?"

"Goes without saying, Scully," he says readily.  "Too many people would
have way too much fun with that information."  His eyes grow serious as
he considers a darker side of the situation.  "And too many people
wouldn't hesitate to use it against us," he finishes, reaching to take
my hand and giving it a squeeze as he smiles softly down into my eyes. 
"Just you and me, G-woman.  That's all I need."

Damn him, he's doing it again.  Just when I take control of a situation
he has to go and make me all weepy again.  I blink back the sudden mist,
clear my throat and forge ahead.

"And Number Three," I manage to croak, pausing meaningfully, still
clutching his hand.

"Number Three?" he prods.

I take his face in my free hand, cupping his cheek gently, my thumb
caressing that luscious lower lip that now belongs to me.  "No regrets,"
I whisper and rise on tiptoes to take that lip between my own and gently
suck on it, swirling my tongue over it at the last second before I let
it pop out of my mouth.

I feel his immediate and urgent prodding against my belly, smile with
triumph at my power over him.  Suddenly all my fear has left me and I
feel nothing but good ahead for us.  I don't even mind so much getting
on the damned plane, as long as Mulder is along for the ride.

I plant a quick kiss in the dimple of his chin before putting my hands
on his chest and pushing him backward out the door.  "Skinner's office,
one hour," I repeat, ushering him out into the hallway.

He favors me with his best Mulder smile, kisses his first two fingers
and blows across the threshhold at me.  His eyes are sparkling with
happiness, reflecting the fireworks that I know are going off in mine.

"Be there or be square," he teases.  He turns toward the elevator,
tossing his trench coat casually over his shoulder.  "Make sure you
bring your nightie," I hear him call, and then, under his breath, as if
to himself:  "Not that you'll need it."

I watch him saunter down the hallway, catch the waiting elevator and
disappear from my sight as the doors close in front of him.    "Cocky
bastard," I whisper, smiling as I close my own door.  "We'll just see
about that."


- END - 


Feedback makes my day!  Please send comments to pbburks@bellsouth.net


KUDOS:	To the best betas in the business - mine, that is - Robs & Lena
for [hopefully] helping me keep the sap factor to a tolerable level -
and to Erly for helping me do the same with the - um - mature content. 
We strive to please the masses.  :-)