From: Karen Rasch Date: Mon, 13 Jul 1998 21:29:28 -0500 Subject: "Fate, Chance, Kings & Desperate Men" "Fate, Chance, Kings & Desperate Men" by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch CATEGORY: SRA RATING: PG-13 (at best) SUMMARY: Our heroes have found their way back to civilization (of a sort). Now, they just need to figure out the way home from there. Flickfic. All the cool kids are doing it. I just couldn't help myself. DISCLAIMER: They still aren't mine. They belong instead to Fox, 1013, and Chris Carter. I'm not writing this for profit, so for pity sake, don't hit me up for the green stuff. Anyone who knows me will tell you how infrequently I have any. NOTE: You know, I'm trying to work on other stuff, but I can't get the danged movie out of my mind. I've seen it more times than is reasonably healthy, so while I can't go back and review scenes on my VCR, I figure I'm familiar enough with the plot and characterization to attempt a missing scene story. This one is set between Mulder & Scully huddling on the ice and Scully's testimony before the panel back in Washington. I've been wondering what they would have to say to each other in the wake of their escape, so I figured someone else might be curious too. Enjoy! Archive where you will as long as my name remains attached. Seeing as "Travelers" is on tonight, I plan on doing a little work on my page. If you would like this story in one simple, easy to store file, stop by in a couple of hours. It should be ready and waiting for you. ************************************************** "Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men" - John Donne, "Holy Sonnets" ************************************************** A large man with an automatic riding on his hip barred Fox Mulder's way. "I don't know if now is such a good time, sir. I think she's asleep." "I won't wake her. I promise." Not waiting for permission, Mulder gave the armed gatekeeper his most earnest Boy Scout face, and stepped past him and his gun and into the hushed, darkened cell whose entrance the sentry so vigilantly patrolled. Taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, Mulder glanced over his shoulder at the man pacing with slow, deliberate step across the open doorway. No doubt about it--the guy didn't have an extra ounce of fat on him. His white-blond hair buzzed close to the scalp, he was tall and rangy with broad shoulders and wind-carved grooves lining the skin around his mouth and eyes. Rumor had it the guard had been hand-picked for his assignment by the top brass back in D.C. Mulder wondered if there was any specific reason the man he knew only as Sunderland had been named both his and Scully's protector. Some special skill he possessed, some important favor he owed. The agent had a feeling the explanation was something along those lines. His friend with the side arm performed his duty with far too much authority to be a novice. Which suited Mulder just fine. If he wasn't in a position to defend his partner, he damned well wanted a surrogate who would approach the task with the same dedication as he would himself. And try though he might, Mulder couldn't fault the man there. No matter what time of the day or night, it seemed Sunderland was on the job. In a uniform of jeans and one plaid flannel shirt after another, he stalked the infirmary's corridors, eyes narrowed like a particularly vicious Doberman. Logic dictated he had to have a relief-man, someone who would allow him to catch some shut-eye and the occasional meal. But, if that was the case, Mulder had never seen the phantom assistant. Of course, he hadn't been on his feet all that long himself. Which was why he was so thankful for Sunderland's watchfulness. Every time Mulder had shuffled down the hall from his own small, lonely room to this one, pj-clad and bruised like an over-fondled tomato, the big man had been ready with an update on the facility's other visitor from the north. "Her body temperature is up to nearly 97 degrees." "She was awake for a few minutes this morning and able to respond to some simple questions. The docs say that's a good sign." "Turns out the frostbite on her face and feet wasn't nearly as bad as they'd feared. They say she's likely to heal without scarring." While all of this was excellent news, Mulder couldn't help but wish he had been the one monitoring Dana Scully's progress. Instead, under threat of restraint, he had been all but wholly confined to bed, his recovery being supervised by a woman who, had it been up to him, would have been renamed Ratchet of Antarctica. Nurse Evelyn Kowalchik obviously knew her stuff, and seemed to genuinely have his best interests at heart. Yet she stubbornly refused him even a lick of freedom. Chafing under her care, Mulder had outwardly kowtowed to the nurse's demands. But whenever possible, he had made his escape, sneaking to Scully's bedside to steal a few moments with her, the interludes never lasting long enough to satisfy his yearnings. Oh well, that's what you get for visiting Antarctica out of season, he now silently mused as he padded stiffly across the tiled floor towards his partner, treading as quietly as he was able. Way too much unwanted attention. As far as he could tell, Scully and he were the only two full-time patients the facility had. So, together, they bore the brunt of the staff's zeal. Much to Mulder's dismay. He had repeatedly assured the medical personnel attending to his wellbeing. I'm fine, he told them. A little tired. A little crispy around the edges. But once you got past that and the assorted aches and pains throbbing along the length of his battered form, he really didn't have much to complain about. Nothing that a few hundred ibuprofen couldn't cure. He wished he could say the same about Scully. He drew alongside her bed, and paused a moment to take inventory of her condition. Thank God that tent thing had finally been removed. When he had first visited her not long after coming to, he had discovered her covered by what had looked to him to be a clear plastic bubble. An oxygen tent, he had been told, necessary for administering warm, moist air in an effort to heal some of the damage done to her lungs. The gunk that had nearly suffocated her had irritated the tissue lining her breathing passages. That, coupled with the frigid air she had been forced to take in while trapped out-of-doors, had made respiration painful. The treatment, the doctors had hoped, would ease her recovery. Mulder had hoped so as well, even though the image of her encased in that way, imprisoned, visible yet untouchable, frightened him at some deep, visceral level. That evening, however, she was unencumbered by such trappings. Rather, covered only by a warming blanket and a few other layers of bedclothes, she lay vulnerable and small, a slender IV line attached to her left hand, an equally narrow oxygen tube resting just above her upper lip. Dainty looking electrodes were placed just below her collarbones to measure her heartbeat and respiration. None of these would have hindered his touch. Yet, Mulder refrained. He had promised Sunderland. Sighing over his unappreciated nobility, Mulder snagged one of the room's two chairs, and settled it and himself beside Scully's mattress. He was only going to sit with her for a minute or two, he told himself. That's all. Just sit and share her space, her air. Watch her breathe. Breathing was good. And vastly undervalued. This, he now knew without question. All it had taken was an instant of Dana Scully lying beneath him, still as death, her lips soft and parted, but no air flowing between them, and he had come to realize how very much he had taken such things for granted. Way too many things for granted. For far too long. Never again, he vowed to himself, pulling his borrowed checkered robe more tightly closed, then folding his arms across the overlap to seal it. As soon as Scully and he got back to Washington, things were going to change. They had to. The alternative was a version of the nightmare projecting each evening on his lowered lids like some ghoulish late show. Let's see what's playing tonight, shall we? Will our not so willing audience get to see Dana Scully ripped to shreds by that "Alien" reject? Will she choke to death on the thick, viscous goo in which she had been stored like a mermaid on ice? Maybe she'll be crushed by an avalanche of snow and debris, buried in a frigid, unmarked grave. Or perhaps what little heat her slight body possessed will be leeched away on a frozen plain, the brilliant sun above blinding but in no way warming. The possibilities were endless. And nauseating, he thought, slicking his chapped, swollen lips with his tongue. God, was it any wonder why his sleep had been interrupted of late? He knew he had to be making noise, crying out his terror for all to hear. Thankfully, none of his attendants had caught on to his problem. Or, at least, none had confronted him with their knowledge of it. Like it would matter if they had, he silently groused, his eyes trained on the slow, steady rise and fall of Scully's chest, mesmerized by the sight. Soothed by it. Like he cared one iota that those around him might learn of the demons which haunted him. Who gave a rat's ass? The one person whose opinion meant anything to him rested before him, oblivious to him and his petty problems, mottled patches of red on her cheeks, nose and brow, circles beneath her eyes, her lips dried and cracked. She looked wonderful, he decided with a sudden flash of insight, the tender, whimsical kind that threatened to make his eyes swim and his throat clench. Exquisite. Positively radiant. God, how she would laugh if she could hear him going on, he acknowledged with a wry tilt of his lips. Or actually, no. Scully wouldn't stoop to laughing at such nonsense. She'd lift that brow, the one she used as an all-purpose punctuation mark . . . Period--No more, Mulder. Subject closed. Exclamation point--Mulder, you're crazy! Question mark--Oh really? She'd raise that finely arched auburn bow as high as it would go, but would ultimately keep the corresponding verbal missile in check. Unleashing it would only be overkill. Utterly refraining from speech, she would tell him quite eloquently just how full of shit she thought he was. And he would smile. Take it. And hang tough. Refusing to budge from his stance. You're beautiful, Scully. Get used to it. Because you're alive, and soon will be well. And with me. For a little while longer, at least. Christ, he'd give anything to touch her. Lips pressed tightly together, he compromised his desire by laying his hand atop the blanket, close to her arm, yet not resting directly on it. That was better, he decided. Well . . . nearer anyway. If he closed his eyes, he almost believed he could feel the warmth of her body seeping through the layers meant to hold in such heat. Blessedly, Scully wasn't privy to such ridiculous musings. Instead, she slept on, oblivious to everything but her body's demands. Sleep. She needed sleep, he thought, chastising himself for even contemplating rousing her. When had she last spent a night in her own bed? They had been here at McMurdo Station for over 48 hours, and prior to that, she had been 48 more beneath the ice. Four days. The night previous to that, there had been the sunrise flight back from Dallas. They had each snatched a few winks then, shoulders pressed firmly against each other as the jet headed home to National, Scully wedged alongside the window, he, sprawled, with his legs half in the aisle. Five days. The night before that, she had begun the evening tucked away beneath familiar bedclothes, only to be roused pre-dawn by his pounding. Well, that wasn't true. Scully had been awake when he had arrived. Or had claimed to be. Six days. Almost a week. That had been odd. Awkward, really. That night. To show up at her door unannounced, tequila fumes wafting like a noxious cloud off his rumpled form. What must she have thought? Not that he hadn't done that before, called or visited at some ungodly hour. But this had been different, felt different. Scully had seemed to expect something more from him when she had first witnessed him darkening her doorstep. Something besides a picturesque drive to Maryland and a quick trip to the morgue. What would she have done if he had taken another tack? If he had pushed his way across her threshold, wrapped his arms around her and lowered his lips to hers. If he had used something other than their work to try and bind her to him. Jesus. It had been raining that night. With their luck, lightning would probably have somehow zapped its way through her living room window, frying them both on the spot. Soundlessly, he chuckled, shaking his head. Who was he kidding? For a kiss from Dana Scully, he would be willing to chance death by electrocution. And by any of a number of other odious means. Even if the unthinkable did occur, he'd die with a smile on his face. And the taste of her on his lips. They had been so close . . . That was it. He had to touch her. He scooted his fingertips carefully along the blanket's scratchy weave, inching them forward until they rested with the weight of cobwebs atop her forearm, their skin separated by bedding. He anxiously watched her face to see if she had somehow sensed the shift, the intrusion. Yet, Scully seemed unaware of his delicate caress. She didn't stir. Good. At least Sunderland wouldn't be on his case. That's all he'd need, to be chased back to his bed by their hulking bodyguard. Yet, the big guy was being discreet with his watch. He wasn't trying to play voyeur. Instead, he had at long last stationed himself just to the right of the doorframe, almost entirely out of sight. Maybe the oversized lug was a romantic. Amusing himself by imagining their sentry adorned with tiny wings and a quiver full of heart-tipped arrows, Mulder smiled and returned his focus to the bed, his gaze settling after a second or two on the sight of his hand touching his partner. It was a simple connection really. Not terribly daring or even particularly intimate. Yet, for some reason, he suddenly couldn't tear his eyes away. Here was where frostbite had done its number on him. He had lost his gloves somewhere during his knight-in-shining-armor routine, and had paid the price for his carelessness. The backs of his hands were peppered with the stuff. Small blotches, irregular in shape. Rose-hued and itchy. He glanced at Scully's left hand, the one with the IV rising from its center vein. It lay smooth and white against her middle, free of the irritation marking his own. Must have been the parka that saved her, he ruefully realized. Its over-long sleeves had no doubt served as a sort of makeshift muff, shielding from the elements not only her arms but her hands as well. Thank God. When he had found her, he hadn't been sure at first what to do. He had known where her own clothes were, of course; but he couldn't go back for them. Time had been of the essence. And besides, the suit she had been grabbed in had in no way been appropriate for the arctic. Or Antarctic. It wouldn't have offered her nearly enough protection. He had been the one who had been properly garbed. And his mother had always taught him to share. Funny. If someone had told him that the first time he saw Dana Scully in the all-together he would be more concerned with getting her clothed than he would in savoring the moment, he would have asked them what they had been sniffing. But when the time had come, that was exactly the way it had played out. Yes, he had seen her naked. And no, he had not enjoyed it. How could he? Other things had claimed his attention: Her skin had felt so cold, it had nearly burned the pads of his fingers. They had been miles away from daylight, and the place had started shaking as if it were coming down around them. Hideous alien embryos had encircled them, seemingly moments from hatching, their intent unknown, their visages sinister. With all of that clamoring for his regard, was it any wonder why such soft, simple things as breasts and hips and thighs had failed to make much of an impact? Her feet, on the other hand . . . Maybe it was their size. Or the way her toes had peeked out almost shyly from beneath the snowsuit he had so roughly swaddled her in. But, the sight of Scully's naked feet had nearly done Mulder in. Not in any erotic sense. Rather it had been the all but overwhelming tenderness that had poured over him at seeing them, so pale as to border on translucent, fine-boned and small. He could remember reaching out to surround one with his hand, the chill numbing his palm, and thinking, like a parent might with a young child, 'She can't go outside like this.' Then, without further thought, he had plopped himself down on his behind, yanked off his boots, stripped off his thick woolen socks and slipped Dana's Scully's feet into them. Naturally, they had looked ridiculous on her, flopping about on her toes, sagging at the heels. Yet, fashion faux pas aside, they had succeeded in keeping her warm. Her feet might have suffered some of the same damage as her face, but at least she hadn't wound up losing them. Cold comfort, declared the glass-half-empty side of his brain. No pun intended, derisively countered the other. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head. He should go back to bed. If his recent internal argument was any indication, he was losing it. What time was it, anyway? The room's high, narrow windows let in through the blinds a thin, grayish light. Its source might have been the South Pole's version of afternoon, or may simply have been what passed for streetlights in the tiny community. Nights were forever this time of year. Scully and he had been fortunate to time their escape the way they had. As her name scrawled bold across his consciousness, Mulder's hand tightened a fraction just above her wrist. The action was over before he realized he had undertaken it. Almost as if in answer, he felt the muscles beneath his palm bunch, then release. Stealing a glance at her face, he saw her lashes flutter, her lids blink, then lift ever so slightly. His heart began thumping madly. And exhaustion evaporated like frost before a fire. Leaning forward, he whispered, "Scully?" Wearily, she turned her head towards him, her hair tangling on the pillow. Her lips moved as if to form his name, but no sound issued forth. "Yeah," he answered, not needing her words. "I'm here." She smiled, just the corners of her lips contributing to the effort. By contrast, Mulder's grin was a great deal wider. "Water," she murmured, the sound husky and rough. Pushing from his chair, he turned towards the carafe and glass stationed on the bedside table. But before he could complete his task, a voice interrupted. "Sir?" Pivoting, Mulder was confronted by a most disapproving Sunderland. "Um . . . she's awake," the FBI agent said, gesturing rather feebly towards his partner. "I see that," replied the big man, censure dripping from each and every syllable. "I didn't do it!" Mulder protested, all at once feeling as if he had been thrust back into grammar school. And whoever the heck Sunderland was, he made one hell of a scary principal. The bodyguard just stood there for a beat, hands on his denim-covered hips, staring at his two charges. Finally, his expression softened just a bit as he studied the female half of the team. "How are you feeling, Agent Scully?" he asked, all courtesy and polite regard. It really wasn't fair, the ability she had to turn a man from a pit bull to a lapdog with little more than a glance. On the other hand, Mulder silently allowed, from time to time, her skill had come in handy when dealing with Skinner. "Better," she said quietly, looking to Mulder as if to ask just whom this interested party might be. "I should go tell the docs you're awake," Sunderland said a trifle apologetically. "I know they'll want to stop by and see how you're doing." "No," Scully said with more volume than she had been able to muster to that point, her swift response beating Mulder to the punch. In support, Mulder's fingers found the slope of Scully's shoulder; lightly, they stroked there, just inside the neckline of her gown, smoothing gently over her soft, warm skin. "Just give us a couple minutes," he said to Sunderland, wondering if the pleading tone of his voice was as evident to the other man as it was to him. "Okay? We haven't had much time since . . . since we got here. I need to talk to her. Just for a little while." The agents waited while Sunderland weighed his choices. Finally, he acquiesced. "All right. But only for a few minutes. I'll check back." "Thank you," Scully whispered, favoring him with a faint smile. Sunderland mirrored her expression and, dipping his head in farewell, silently exited the room. Scully immediately looked up at Mulder, a question in her wide, blue eyes. "His name is Sunderland," Mulder said, turning back to pour a bit of lukewarm water into a paper cup. "I don't know what he does or where he comes from, but for some reason he was elected our watchdog." "Do you trust him?" she asked as she shakily tried to hoist herself into sitting position. Coming to perch beside her on the bed, Mulder quickly nixed that idea. "Hang on a minute." Arms once more at her sides, Scully did as she was told. Then, slipping his arm beneath her shoulders, Mulder lifted her slightly from the pillows. Supporting her in that fashion, he brought the cup to her lips and slowly tipped it. Eyes drifting shut, she swallowed. "Yeah, I do," he murmured, absently answering her question, his attention fastened on the workings of her throat rather than on their protector. "I don't why. But I think the guy's legit." Scully didn't comment on his observation. Instead, she began to quietly cough, her head turned to the side, her slender frame straining to control the spasms. "You okay?" Mulder queried, worriedly looking to the door, certain at any second Sunderland was going to storm in and demand that he quit making matters worse. Luckily for him, the guard was nowhere to be seen. "Yeah," Scully muttered hoarsely, her head bowed so that her hair hid her face from view. "I'm all right." "You know, you might have an easier time with ice chips," he began hesitantly, his arm still propping her up. At that, she looked up at him through her hair, her eyes watery, her expression clearly amused. "No ice," she croaked. Delighted that after all she had been through, this woman still had the ability to crack wise, Mulder chuckled. And tightening his embrace, pressed his lips to her tousled hair. "No ice." After she had swallowed a few more small sips of water, he carefully lowered her to the mattress, adjusting her bedclothes, and brushing a fall of auburn from her brow. All the while, her eyes remained locked on his. "Where are we?" she asked softly after a time. "McMurdo Station," he replied just as quietly. "From what I've been able to gather, it's a settlement made up almost exclusively of scientists and researchers. Not a bad place to wind up if you're in need of medical attention. Even though it's still technically winter down here, there's a fair number of people around. We were lucky." Scully wet her lips with her tongue. "How'd we get here?" Mulder shifted to sit facing her, even with her hip. "You don't remember?" She shook her head. "You rescued me," he said softly, his thumb rubbing gently across the knuckles of her right hand. "Don't you have that backwards?" she whispered with a hint of a smile. "Uh-uh," he said, smiling back at her, his tone hushed but firm. "You hauled my ass off that glacier." She frowned as if trying to recall. "After we got out," he began, trying to decide how best to distill the tale of their deliverance. "Out of the hole . . . I just . . . I was exhausted. I'd been running on adrenaline for so long that once the immediate threat had been removed, my body just gave out." Even though her eyelashes drooped, Scully appeared to be listening intently, her hand tightening on his in mute support. "I don't know how long I was unconscious. But after awhile, I could hear you, talking to me, saying my name. It was like you were miles away. But still, I recognized your voice." "I remember that," she said, the words slow and slurred. "I was afraid. I couldn't wake you." Mulder grimaced with chagrin, and skimmed his fingers along the curve of her cheek. "Sorry about that," he mumbled. "Some fucking cavalry I turned out to be." "You did all right," she assured him, smiling fondly. "Yeah, well . . . the story wouldn't have had such a happy ending if it hadn't been for you," he retorted grimly. He could remember quite plainly hearing her voice, throaty and broken, whispering from somewhere near his ear. "Mulder, wake up. We can't stay here," she had pleaded. At first, the words hadn't made any sense; he couldn't discern their meaning. But he had sure liked hearing her speak. It seemed like such a long time since they had held a conversation, Scully and he. Why hadn't they talked? Because she had been taken from him. Bits and pieces of memory had swirled together inside his mind, bouncing off each other, their jagged edges pricking at his consciousness, begging him to reassemble the parts into a whole. To remember. Awaken. Because neither of them were yet safe. And so he had come to, clumsy and disoriented, cradled in Scully's arms, his head resting against her chest. "Mulder, we've got to get out of the cold," she had said, her eyes tearing from the wind, patches of frostbite already forming on her face. "How did you get here?" "Sno-Cat," he had mumbled, squinting against the unforgiving sun, the frigid temperature seemingly freezing his brain the same way it was his extremities. It had been so damned difficult to hold a thought for more than a second or two. "Where?" Scully had demanded, shuddering now beneath the parka, her tremors rippling their way through them both. He had looked around, blearily struggling to get his bearings. "There," he had said, not at all certain about the direction. "Over that rise, I think." "Come on," she had said, urging him to his feet. And supporting each other, like two drunks weaving their way home from a party, they had tramped and stumbled towards their target, Mulder praying like he hadn't prayed since childhood that he wasn't leading them astray. "You half dragged me back to the Sno-Cat," he told her now, his expression wry. "Had it been up to me, I'm sure I would have been perfectly happy to make that snowfield my final resting place." Her brow wrinkled in disapproval. "Don't even say that." He shrugged, not as bothered by the notion as he probably should have been. "It's the truth. I owe you my life." "I was only repaying a debt," she said, her voice quite small. He smiled at her, all the affection he held for this woman evident in the slight curving of his lips. "I told you back in D.C., Scully. You owe me nothing." She reached out her hand and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, gripping him tightly. He pressed his own hand around hers, completing the bond. For a time, neither said anything, each content to simply hold on to the other. Finally, Scully murmured sleepily, "Are we going to be okay?" Mulder chose the safer interpretation of her question. "With the spare tank of gas, we were able to run the Sno-Cat's heater. But, neither of us were in any condition to drive. We were found when crews went out to investigate the unusual seismic activity in the area. Thankfully, they were quick to respond. When we were brought in, the doctors diagnosed us with joint cases of hypothermia and frostbite. With the treatment we've had the past few days, the worst seems to be over." She nodded, her lashes hanging low. "They were concerned about the unidentified fluid they'd found in your respiratory and digestive tracks," he continued, recognizing this matter was undoubtedly her deepest concern. "Some inflammation had occurred, so they flushed your system." Her eyes blinked open, wider than before. "And?" "And you're going to be fine," he said soothingly. "They don't believe any permanent damage was done." She nodded once more. "They asked me if I had any idea what that stuff might have been," he admitted quietly, his gaze drifting away from hers. "I told them I didn't know. They couldn't identify it, and I didn't want them looking at you as some kind of a lab rat, an experiment to work on during those slow winter months. I figured we can wait until we're back in Washington before telling our story. It's not as if anyone's likely to believe us anyway." Scully seemed to agree with his plan. Or maybe she was simply too tired to argue. "Okay." Her eyes were all but closed. Stretching forward, Mulder pressed his lips to her forehead, his hand cupping her cheek. "I should get out of here. You need your rest." As he stood, her eyes flickered open. "Mulder?" He leaned down so she wouldn't have to strain. Their faces were close. It was tempting, his lips so near hers. "Hmm?" She reached up and softly stroked her fingertips along his jaw line. "I won't leave you." Without warning, his eyes began to moisten and sting. Don't make promises you can't keep, Scully, a vicious little part of him warned. Clearing his throat and, as best he could, his mind, he whispered, "You won't?" "No," she said, the word very like a sigh. "I'm staying." "We'll talk about this when we get back," he said, dodging like a rollerblader during rush hour. "Once you're well again." "Nothing to talk about," she murmured, her hand falling away, her eyes clinging to his. "Can't go. Not now." He really couldn't have this conversation. Not when she wasn't even able to focus on his face. "That's right," he mumbled, combing lightly through her hair, uncertain whether she was even still following him, not hovering between sleep and wakefulness like she was. "You're not going anywhere. You're going to stay right here, in this bed, and get better." Yet, despite his evasion, Scully wouldn't let the matter drop. As he turned to go, she reached out blindly, searching for his hand. Finding it, she latched on, her grip surprisingly strong. Her hold pulled him back towards the bed; so he sat, his hip neatly filling in the curve of her waist. As she looked up at him, some of the clouds seemed to have lifted from her gaze. All at once, eyes the color of sapphires held him captive, daring him to try and glance away. He surrendered almost immediately, far too willing to be her prisoner. "We're good together, you and I," she whispered, the words breathy and quick, as if she were desperately trying to get this all out, to unburden herself before sleep claimed her as its own. "Better than we are on our own." God, Scully. Like I don't know that already. Like I'm not aware what a sham of a human being I am without you to fill in the gaps. I'm the one who told you how you complete me, Mulder thought. Yet, "I know," was all he said in reply. "I didn't realize . . ." she murmured, her phrasing languid and low. "I thought . . . you didn't want . . . didn't need . . . " Oh, he wanted. And needed. More than she could ever imagine. "But you know better now," he reminded her instead, taking her small hand in both of his and raising it to his lips. Gently, he pressed a kiss to the back of it. "Now you know the truth." "I do," she softly agreed, the corners of her mouth quirking as if she thought to smile. "I do now." He nodded, their hands yet entwined, watching as her lids grew heavier still, closing despite her best efforts to keep alert. I'll just sit here until she falls back asleep, he decided. After all, he wasn't really in any hurry to leave her side. All he wanted was what was best for her. But Scully wasn't ready to nod off just yet. "Mulder, do you believe in fate?" she asked, her eyes closed, her voice little more than a ghost of sound. "You know I do," he answered, his volume keeping with hers. "I believe you and I . . . we were brought together . . ." She was drifting off, speaking in fragments rather than in sentences, her hand going lax in his. "Not by chance . . . for a purpose." "By Blevins, you mean?" he queried as he took his thumb and traced the shape of her face, using her hairline as his guide. "No," she whispered, her tongue easing out to moisten her mouth. "Someone else . . . some =thing=." He smiled indulgently, his hand now curled loosely around her neck, half hidden in her hair. Slowly and rhythmically, her pulse beat against his palm. "Are you thinking 'divine intervention', Scully?" "Hmm," she hummed in apparently agreement, her lips opening just a sliver when she spoke, the words slipping out mumbled and dreamy. "Feels like it . . . sometimes. Like destiny." He couldn't argue with that. Couldn't take issue with the idea of being created solely to stand at this woman's side. Not when there was the only place he ever felt whole. "Go to sleep." He didn't know if he believed in God. As a man who was used to searching for the miraculous in the mundane, it wasn't something he often thought about. Mulder saw the spiritual everywhere, in the flickering of the stars overhead, in all the questions that couldn't be answered in rational terms. The existence of a benevolent being who ruled the universe and all its creatures seemed somehow old-fashioned to him, archaic. But Scully believed. The tiny cross currently squirreled away next door with his personal belongings a symbol of her faith. And if someone as wise as she believed there was something sacred in their pairing, then who was he to disagree? She was finally out, her respiration once more measured and deep, her body utterly relaxed. He sat, studying her, her hand again nestled between his, wordlessly thanking whomever or whatever had granted him this. The opportunity to watch Dana Scully breathe. Unbidden, a small snippet of a prayer slipped to the forefront of his thoughts, one he had heard countless times on television and in the movies, but one which he had never thought he would hear voiced on his own behalf. "Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder," Mulder whispered to her like a lullaby. Scully slumbered unawares. Normally after such a vow, a kiss was shared to seal it, he mused. But not them. Not now. Their last attempt hadn't gone too smoothly. And besides, if their lips were to ever meet again, he damned well wanted her awake for it. But, beyond that, Mulder didn't know if he could keep such a promise. Not if he also hoped to keep Dana Scully alive. Wasn't there some sort of sappy greeting card sentiment about loving something enough to let it go? Did he care for Scully enough to spend the rest of his life apart from her? Could he envision a future without her in it? Yes. He even had a pet name for it. Hell on Earth. But that didn't mean he wasn't willing to face it. Not if it meant Scully living a long and healthy life. Even remembering how lost he had been during the time she had been missing, how empty and joyless his life had seemed, he knew he could bear it, every last agonizing second of it. If he knew she was safe. The question was, given what she had just told him, would Scully ever agree to walk away? And if he did somehow convince her, would their first real kiss be one of farewell? * * * * * * * * THE END