From: MystPhile@aol.com
Date: Fri, 10 Dec 1999 06:19:39 EST
Subject: xfc: NEW: "For Me" (1 of 2) by MystPhile, MSR (R) post-Rush
Source: xfc

From: MystPhile@aol.com

Title:  "For Me"
Author:  MystPhile@aol.com

Distribution: Gossamer, Xemplary, Spooky; others, yes, but 
please inform.

SUMMARY: Some viewers perceived a hint of RST in Rush.
How might our heroes have reached that point?

Spoilers: Anything up to Rush, particularly season seven

Rating:  R

Category:  S, post-ep, MSR

Disclaimer: Property of 1013

Feedback:  Welcome!

Webpage courtesy of Beaker:
http://members.xoom.com/MystPhile/

and works also housed at Xemplary and at Galia's
http://galias.webprovider.com/mystphile.htm


I.      Like Talking to a Wall (6th Extinction)

She clutched his unresponsive hand.  Tattered strips of memory 
from her own coma persuaded her that he could hear.  But 
whether he heard her or not, something inside clamored at her, 
insisting that she try to break through. 

"I need you to hold on."  She bent closer, saw not a flicker of 
response in his stony face.  If he were awake, would she have 
mentioned her need, she wondered.  Need wasn't the sort of 
thing they admitted.  They might feel it, but stoicism was 
their modus operandi.  

They most often spoke of confidence in the other's ability, as 
Mulder had done in the hospital corridor in Allentown.  He did 
not say *he* needed her to get well, although she'd feared 
that if she died, he might not outlive her for long.  She had 
felt the burden of living for two during those months.

Yet when she'd told him of her determination to carry on, she 
spoke only of finishing things she needed to do for herself and 
her family, not for him.  Bound together so tightly that they'd 
fought like rams to maintain their independence, they had 
become expert at ignoring the obvious.  Their mutual need was 
like an invisible elephant in the corner.  Of a small room.

Mulder had stunned her by breaking their implicit agreement in 
his hallway, shortly before a bee crawled out to end the 
conversation.  "I need you on this."  "You've made me a whole 
person."  She hadn't been sure if it was her scientific 
viewpoint or her own self that he needed.  The bee halted 
further discovery.  True, their lips had nearly touched, but 
that could have just been the emotion of the moment.  They were 
so unaccustomed to showing their feelings that it was hard to 
judge.

But now, Mulder was so out of it that she could give free rein 
to her emotions.  And they were overwhelming her.  She 
regretted that she hadn't shown him her. . . her need for him 
when he was still lucid.  Come back, Mulder, she thought, and I 
will treat you better.  I'll let you know that I do need you.

"Mulder," she said, voice wobbly and eyes filling, "please."  
Begging again.  Come back to me, she thought.  I need you on 
every level.  Don't you know that?  "Hold on," she pleaded.  
For me, for me.  Don't leave me like this.  Please.

II.    Breakthrough

She found him after a frantic marathon in the Department of 
Defense Building.  My God!  Someone had performed brain 
surgery.  And abandoned him!  Had they stolen his intellect, 
his beautiful mind?  Would he ever recover?  Would he even wake 
up?

She leaned over him, barely able to see through her tears. 
Would he ever again flash his cynical grin and spin an 
impossible theory about little gray men or flashing lights in 
the sky?  Mutants and monsters, psychics and psychos.  What a 
strange, compelling history they had.

This was like Snow White in reverse, she thought, bending 
closer to his comatose body, pleading with him to wake up so 
she could rescue him.  More than anything, she wanted to be the 
'prince' who would restore him to life.  Then, he could do 
anything he wanted with his life and she would stop bitching 
and delivering nasty little speeches about his self-destructive 
tendencies and giving the eyebrow a workout.  She'd do better 
in every way if he would just goddamned *wake up*.

Despite her medical training and excellent physical condition, 
she couldn't carry him out of there or even hoist him into a 
wheelchair while he was dead weight.  She needed his 
cooperation, and soon.  Who knew how much time they had?

One of her tears fell onto his cheek. "No one can do it but 
you, Mulder."  She held him tighter, trying to pull him--by 
strength of will--back to reality, to her.  Oh, God, what if 
his brain was gone?  What if he was a vegetable?  Or he awoke 
with the mental capacity of a three year old?  He'd rather be 
dead.

She begged as she'd done back at Georgetown.  She could not do 
this alone.  Dana Scully, who had spent years training herself 
to be a strong, independent woman, needed this man.  She needed 
him to return with his mental powers intact.  She needed him to 
be capable of movement, so she could get him out of here.  She 
needed him, period.  For so many things.  She tried to tamp 
down her fear that he might not wake up.

Plead, she thought.  Maybe he'll hear you.

"Mulder, help me," she begged, touching her face to his.  She 
wanted to bury her head in his neck, ostrich-like, and never 
emerge.  What if this was the end for him?  Who knew what 
butchery "they" had performed?

And then she felt it.  He moved.  She felt his muscles tighten.  
She lifted her head to check his eyes, afraid of hoping for too 
much.  Her heart leapt when she saw lucidity.  He was still 
Mulder.  His voice was scratchy from disuse, but the words 
ground out of him, the best words she had ever heard.  "You. . 
. help. . . me."

Oh, yes, she thought, as she clutched him fiercely and felt his 
arms close around her.  Safety.  We'll help each other.  We 
need each other.  We need to get to a hospital.  It's urgent.  
Let's move.

III. Forward Motion

For someone recovering from a grave medical ordeal, Mulder 
seemed extraordinarily happy.  Well, Scully thought, why not?  
Maybe he's just goddamned happy to be alive.  Even the news of 
Fowley's death hadn't depressed him, as far as she could see.  

She returned to his apartment after her autopsy of what 
remained of Fowley's body parts.  She'd showered twice as long 
as usual, not wanting to carry any trace of Fowley's blood and 
tissues.  She'd hated having Fowley's blood on her hands.  She 
preferred to keep her distance from that mysterious figure from 
Mulder's past, dead or alive.

She walked on little cat feet around him that night, when she 
returned to his apartment bearing shrimp with walnuts, fried 
rice, pan-fried dumplings, and spiced beef.  Gotta fatten him 
up, she thought.  Get his muscle tone back, too.  Munching on 
the food, they lounged on the couch in front of the tv, the 
sound of a Bogart movie turned to a murmur.  Scully didn't even 
know what movie they were watching, only that Bogart looked 
pretty cool with his ever-present cigarette dangling from his 
lips and his slouchy hat pulled over his beady, alert  eyes.

Their talk earlier today, when she and Mulder had declared 
their mutual regard, was etched in her memory.  "You were 
my constant.  My touchstone," he had told her.  At 
last, not just intense stares and phantom touches, but the 
words of . . . of connection.  Of significance.

And she, she who had poured out her heart to him all the time 
he was unconscious, how could she stop now?  She had resolved 
that she would tell him how very much he meant to her, if only 
he would wake up and be himself again.  Well, this morning he'd 
been awake and bright-eyed; how could she not tell him the 
truth:  "And you are mine."  A perfect moment, one of their 
few, she thought, as Bogie mowed down some thugs in overcoats.  
The moment felt sealed in time by the kiss she'd placed on his 
forehead.  

My tear falling on his face restored him to life, she thought 
fancifully.  What did my kiss on his forehead mean?  It was 
like a pledge.  We are together.  She turned to watch him 
shoveling rice into his mouth with chopsticks, eyes fastened to 
the screen.  How could he look so young and have gone through 
so many lives, like a cat?  And suffered so many losses.  
Losses of just about everything and everyone, except his 
mother, who had apparently turned him over to the butchers.  
Not that she'd admit to such a thing.  That convenient stroke 
again.  Bitch, she thought.

"What's happening here?" she asked idly, trying to capture a 
slippery walnut.

"Bogie's being the world's toughest guy."  

"Toughness can be overrated, I think."  She was thinking of 
herself, mostly.  She'd grown such a carapace where Mulder was 
concerned that her feelings had been stifled. 

Mulder stopped chomping and set his food down.  "I don't know," 
he said with a smile.  "Look where it gets Bogie.  He always 
gets the girl and the glory and vanquishes evil, and gets off a 
lot of clever lines in the process.  A guy could do worse."

"Yeah, he's a good hero, isn't he?  Looks really hard-nosed and 
talks a big game but underneath, he's the kind of guy that 
cares about people.  A soft tough guy."  She paused.  "An 
oxymoron.  An impossible ideal."

"Well, I'm in no shape to compete anyway," he said, retrieving 
his food and digging in again.  "I'm lucky to be alive.  Thank 
you."

She smiled and set her food down, picking up her cup of green 
tea.  "Nah," she said.  "*I'm* lucky you're alive.  I didn't 
want to go on without you."  

She felt bold, making such a statement.  Why in the hell did 
she have such a tough time communicating with this man?  Why, 
she wondered, had she always been afraid to give too much away, 
to show she cared so much?  Because, she answered, early on, 
he'd struck her as someone who would either walk away or get 
killed.  It wasn't wise to get too attached to someone bearing 
a death wish, or at least a death-defying attitude.  But now it 
was too late.  She was firmly attached.  For good.

He juggled his food and freed an arm to drape around her 
shoulder.  "Scully, you're the only one I can't get along 
without.  Don't go away.  Huh?"

She kissed his cheek.  "I'm not going anywhere, Mulder."  

Gratified as she was to hear that she was indispensable, she 
still wondered why he(tm)d shown so little distress at Fowley's 
death.  "Would you tell me something?"

He returned to his food.  Apparently, he was making up for days 
of lost nourishment.  "If I can."

"Diana," she said hesitantly.  "Is . . . is that a big loss?"

He turned to meet her eyes.  "Once she was, uh, kind of a 
middle-size loss, but that was years ago.  In another life, 
really."  He returned to his food, eyes once again focused on 
Bogie's heroics.

Scully too resumed eating, feeling in some obscure way that the 
decks had been cleared.

From: MystPhile@aol.com
Date: Fri, 10 Dec 1999 06:21:23 EST
Subject: xfc: NEW: "For Me"(2 of 2)by MystPhile, MSR(R), post-Rush
Source: xfc

From: MystPhile@aol.com

"For Me"   part 2


IV.      Happy New Year

Back at work, Scully thought, and with Mulder back in fighting 
trim.  There was one big difference.  He was not fighting with 
her.  They'd begun to spend their evenings together, watching 
old movies, conversing casually during commercials.

Many barriers had been breached, and finally they were leaning 
over the edge, staring into the last chasm.  The bridge that 
might have carried them from being friends to being lovers had 
been blown away.  Or maybe it had rotted over the years, since 
it had taken them such a long time to find the path to this 
point.  Seems like a millennium, Scully thought.

At least they were a lot better off than Frank Black, she told 
herself, noting his weathered face with deep lines carved 
around his haunted eyes.  This is what an impossible mission 
will do to someone, she thought.  Someone who isn't Bogie, a 
celluloid hero, but one who's made of flesh and blood.  He's 
lost it all---wife, child, job, hope.  Well, maybe not hope, 
since he still hopes to get his daughter back.  

Scully brushed off the thought that that would make him luckier 
than she.  We've all had our losses, she thought.  We all 
deserve to make what we can of what's left to us.  Take the 
happiness that's available.

Leaving him behind in the sanitarium, she and Mulder paused to 
confer.  "Oh, Scully?"  he concluded, as they prepared to go 
their separate ways.  "Would you do me a favor?"

He knew she would, she thought.  She could see the knowledge in 
his eyes, and he could tell by looking at her that she wasn(tm)t 
going to argue.  "Don't let anybody remove the staples from the 
deputy's mouth, okay?  Please?"

She looked into his eyes.  Finally, he knew that he didn't have 
to argue her into anything.  All he had to do was ask.  It had 
taken a long time for them to realize that. 

A smile touched his lips, and she knew that his thoughts were 
similar.  "Just humor me.  Thanks."  Yes, he knew she would.  
This was a kinder, gentler partnership, the rough edges filed 
down by time and turmoil.  They had paid their dues.  Now when 
would they collect their reward?

V.      Happier New Year

They sprawled on Scully's couch in front of the fire, sipping 
champagne.  She had managed to shut the Eddie Van Tail incident 
out of her head and turn on some Charlie Parker.  They had 
kissed back at the hospital; the world hadn't ended.  It was 
just beginning, as was the twenty-first century.  Their work 
hadn't ended either, not by any means, not after what had 
happened to Mulder.  Yet they were refreshed and renewed, 
trusting that together they could do what needed to be done.

"More champagne?" Scully asked, contemplating the fire.

There was a long pause.  "More of you."

"Oh, Mulder," she said, turning to him and kissing his lips.  
How nice to be able to do that at last.  "All you had to do was 
ask.  That's all you ever need to do.  Didn't you know that?"

He returned her kiss, then set both their glasses on the table 
and turned to face her.  "I didn't know that," he told her.  "I 
spend my life knocking my head against brick walls.  It never 
occurred to me to just ask.  Or that you'd be receptive if I 
did."

She moved closer to him, regretting the times she'd been cold 
and distant.  It'd seemed necessary to her survival, then.  "I 
haven't given off friendly vibes."

He sighed.  "I gave you a lot of reasons, I guess.  You haven't 
trusted me not to do something stupid or hurtful.  And you were 
probably right.  And then there(tm)s my own insecurities.  I've, 
uh, harbored thoughts about you, had, uh, feelings, made 
remarks from time to time, and you've ignored them all.  So why 
would I think you were interested?"

"They were always jokes," she pointed out.  "Or mostly.  And 
who responds to joking remarks?  You say something like 'marry 
me' on the phone.  You expect me to say yes?  Actually, for a 
long time, the joking convinced me that you thought any 
relationship between us would be laughable."

He sighed.  "I'm not a very good psychologist.  Or maybe I am.  
Maybe I made approaches in a way that would guarantee 
rejection.  Then I could tell myself that you weren't 
interested and I was just a stupid schmuck who didn't deserve 
you anyway.  A kind of self-fulfilling wish to fail."

Scully smiled.  "This is all in the past.  I hope.  Let's look 
at where we are now.  On my couch in front of a warm fire, 
actually talking about our feelings.  We've learned that we 
need each other.  We've learned that if we tell each other what 
we need or want, it's likely to be forthcoming."

He kissed her again.  "And we've learned that we can kiss 
without alien attack or killer bees or Armageddon descending."  
He slid his arms around her and pulled her body to his.  "And 
I've found out that I can take you into my arms and you won't 
knee me in the balls and bring sexual harassment charges."

"Oh, when did you ever think I'd do that?"

"Never, really.  But you have successfully managed to look less 
than enthralled with me for years and years.  You know that, 
Scully."

"Enough, Mulder.  Focus on the present."  Some demonstration 
was in order, she thought.  She wrapped her arms around his 
neck and laid her mouth over his.  His mouth opened and she 
entered.  The world not only did not end, it spun a bit faster 
on its axis.  It even performed a few flips.  This was like 
exploring a magic cave, Scully thought.  Full of new tastes and 
sensations, so warm and welcoming.  Mulder's mouth was the 
eighth wonder of the world, she decided, head swirling.

He pulled her onto his lap, she rearranged her legs so she was 
straddling him, and their hands became active.  Soon, each was 
naked from the waist up and bare flesh rustled against bare 
flesh; then they parted to look at each other.  They started 
with the eyes, where passion and commitment resided with 
surprising compatibility.  They then focused on the mouths.  
Two smiles met and widened.  Each was surprised at how happy 
the other looked--and a bit sad that the expression was such a 
foreign one.

Their eyes and hands moved downwards, concentrating on the 
bared flesh.  Each had touched this flesh before, but never by 
firelight in a non-emergency.  The flickering shadows, the 
golden tones, the soft feathery touches were intoxicating.  His 
hand weighed her breast.  "You are incredibly soft," he 
breathed.

"For you I am."  She leaned forward to taste his shoulder, 
nuzzle his collar bone, run her hands down his chest, still not 
fully conditioned after his illness.  Every touch, every taste, 
every scent, every texture---she wanted to put it into a time 
vault, saving it to confound the inhabitants of the next 
millennium.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered.

What I(tm)ve always wanted, she thought.  "You."

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

In her bed, lights dimmed, their intimacy grew.  "Yes," she 
murmured, "touch me there.  Uh-huh, harder.  Please."

"Anything you want."

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

" Will you do this for me?  Take it in your mouth.  Yes, that's 
exactly right.  Oh, God.  More.  Yes!"

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

"Where?  Here?  Is this good?"

"It's fantastic.  I can't believe what you do for me."

"For you?  Anything.  Lean forward.  Yes.  Let me see if I can 
. . .  Oh, Christ.  Oh, Jesus."

VI.    Rush

Several weeks later, after days of hard work and nights of 
passion, they stood discussing a case.  Having spent the 
previous night together, both were in a loving, playful mood.

"Mulder, rather than spirits, can we start with Tony's 
friends?"  She placed a gentle hand on his lapel, moved it to 
his tie, gave a teasing tug, then slid under the tie, touching 
the chest she had so thoroughly kissed the night before.  
Slowly, deliberately, she ran her hand up and down his chest, 
maintaining eye contact, then shifting her eyes to his lips. 

This is dangerous, she thought, carrying on like this in 
public.  And what a . . . rush.  This is the right case for us, 
given that we're acting like lovesick teenagers these days.  
And I love it.

"Please?  Just . . . for me?"

Although her words sounded flirtatious, they were actually an 
emblem of their new understanding:  that all she---and he---had 
to do was ask.  And it would be given.

END