From: Peter Tran Date: Thu, 13 May 1999 22:40:48 -0500 Subject: NEW: "Hallways" (1/3) by Elizabeth Boyd-Tran DISCLAIMER JAZZ: "The X-Files" and its characters are the creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I am, of course, using them without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. All other concepts or ideas herein are mine. SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully's thoughts in the hours following 'Milagro'. Something more needs to be said... TITLE: "Hallways" AUTHOR: Elizabeth Boyd-Tran RATING: (PG) CLASSIFICATIONS: (SA) KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST SPOILERS: Tons:) Everything through US Season 6 is up for grabs ARCHIVE: Yes, Please, Everywhere!:) Just tell me, please. This story will be posted to a.t.x.c. and hopefully go to Gossamer from there. TIMELINE: Post-Milagro. For anyone who might be paying attention, this story is a stand alone and assumes my Ashes series did NOT happen. "Anything At All" could fit nicely as having come about a year prior to this story. AUTHOR'S NOTE: The small reference made in this story to a "mascara stain" is a reference to a line in an old post- "Irresistible" story of mine entitled "Breakfast". Self- indulgent, I know, but what can I say.:) As always, a million thanks to my fabulous beta squad (who were all very busy with Real Life this time around, but still found the time to whip me into shape!:))--Amanda Wilde, Barbara Langan, my Mother, and my Husband. HALLWAYS (a post-'Milagro' story) by Elizabeth Boyd-Tran Copyright (c) 1999 "And yet, reflected back upon him at last he could see his own ending. And in this final act of destruction, a chance to give what he could not receive." --The X-Files, "Milagro" "And you wake up to realize, your standard of living somehow got stuck on survive" --Jewel, "Deep Water" *Scully clung to me. *Clung* to me. Scully.* Mulder stared down at the disorganized heap of clothes on the foot of his bed. His crumpled and time worn Levis, his plain white undershirt, his long sleeved blue tee-shirt, the way it had fallen as he pulled it off for the night. And he could just barely detect the stretch marks in the cloth. But they were there, without question. Just over the shoulder, to the middle of the back...where Scully's nails had clawed at the fragile cloth, holding him to her, pulling her body as close to his as she could manage. A vise grip. *Clinging* to him. His stomach somersaulted once again. As it had each time today when he had thought of how Scully had felt in his arms, the gut wrenching shakes of her sobs that moved from her body into his, the smell of her hair, the soft skin of her neck where he had buried his face, offering the warmth of his breath as comfort when he had no words. Mulder tossed his jeans and socks and underwear into the overstuffed wicker laundry basket in the corner of his bedroom, another item that had appeared along with the waterbed. Not a scenario he was up for contemplating right now. But finding his bedroom suddenly neat and clean and, well...sleepable had at least inspired him to try to keep it that way for a little while. The tee-shirt he did not throw in with the heap. Instead, not thinking about his actions, moving on instinct, Mulder placed the shirt on his dresser top. Lying as it had been, the stretch marks visible. Why? He couldn't say. Perhaps the same reason that one chilling winter long ago, he had left a certain smudge of mascara on the lapel of his trench coat, never cleaning it until it had worn down of its own accord. Clinging to tangible evidence of the ethereal. But then...that had been his quest for a long time now, hadn't it. *Scully, I wanted to drive you home after our meeting with Skinner. I wanted to see you to your door. I wanted to touch your cheek and look at your eyes when I asked if you were okay, not listening for the denial that would pass across your lips on reflex, seeking the answer in your body, your touch. Why a taxi? Why tonight?* Mulder wiped a hand down his face, as if he could wipe away the exhaustion that demanded only dreamless sleep. Turning on the shower water, he replayed their last conversation in his mind... **...The click of her heels on the floor of the empty hallway halted abruptly as she spun to face him. A safe distance from Skinner's door. "That was fun," she said dryly, threw him a humorless smile. The lights of the Hoover Building had been minimized for the night, casting eerie shadows on the normally cluttered hallways, and making it harder than usual to read the finer lines of his partner's elusive expressions. "Guess this is just your week to play Fox Mulder," he had said with a warm smile and he had been gratified by a the hint of genuine humor reflected back in Scully's pale blue eyes. "I just wish *I'd* been more certain of what I had to say. It's hard enough to face Skinner with a bizarre story, but it's worse when even I'm not convinced of what I saw." Her tone was soft, accessible--the moments he treasured. Mulder shook his head. "Forget about it. You made it through, you go to work in the morning, and we hit the next case like this one never happened." She nodded in silence. She drew a deep breath, then released it slowly, as if letting go of more than carbon dioxide. She lifted her gaze to his. "We should both get some rest. I'll take the report home with me tonight." "Okay. I just want to check my email and grab some files from the office, then we can take off." In his car. He had driven her here straight from the hospital. Her car was still on the street outside his apartment. Scully narrowed her eyes. "Actually, I just need to grab my briefcase, and then I have an errand I need to run. I can take a cab home." Mulder frowned, "There's no reason to pay for a taxi all the way to Georgetown. I can take you wherever you need to go on the way. I'll only be a few minutes to--" "No, thanks, Mulder. Really. It's fine." She offered him a placating smile. But he knew when he was being brushed off. How could he not recognize it by now? "Okay," he replied softly. "I'll give you a call tonight." She nodded, her thoughts already elsewhere. And she had slipped away again...** The water pounded against his skin, washing away dirt and dust and traces of Scully's blood. But failing to take away the lingering tensions within. He had been subconsciously on guard for days now. As if listening close enough could keep Scully safe and under his watch. No matter how far away she was. He hoped Scully would be home by the time he got out of the shower and settled in front of the television. * * * * * Dana Scully had to return to the church as soon as possible. Or it would be tainted. And beauty like this, the testament of a faith so ancient and deep, should not be clouded by fear. The vast recesses seemed without human occupants tonight. Just as well. It was the church she wanted. The artistry. The *grandeur*. She closed her eyes and a shiver like a draft skittered up her spine, beneath the silk of her blouse. Moving briskly up the aisle, she stopped to genuflect, made the sign of the cross. *Hail Mary, full of grace...I want to feel safe again.* She had not felt this violated since her abduction, the discovery of the chip in her neck, the memories of the tests. She spent her life building the walls that protected her. Perfecting her defenses, the polish she showed the world. And this man, this Stranger...he had slipped into her life unseen, slipped between the bars of the iron gates, slithered his way over the courtyard walls, barrier by barrier. Silent and constant. While she remained unawares. She had never had a chance to protect herself. He had had no weapon, no physical strength to speak of beside her admirable self-defense skills. He had spoken to her quietly for no more than a few minutes...and he had had her on the verge of tears. Saying nothing cruel, nothing threatening, he had just reached through all she had built and touched the guarded place inside. So, of course, she had turned cold, angry. Defensive. She had left this place trembling and flushed. Telling herself she was inflamed by his audacity. Now here she stood, so short a time later, yet a world away. Her eyes insistently moved to the painting of the burning heart. She strolled slowly toward it, willing herself to think only of the beauty, of the sense of peace she had felt on visits past. She had rarely been to this place at night. The atmosphere was different without the sunlight filtering through the many stained glass windows. The light was softer, highlighted by the flickering votive candles. The scent of incense was strong and quietly comforting. She had spent much of her life with this scent. It spoke of family, of home. Taking a last lingering look at the painting, Scully stepped back and slipped into one of the first pews, smoothing her coat tail beneath her as she took a seat. The blouse beneath her blazer was slightly wrinkled. After being checked out in the emergency room, she had changed into the extra clothes she kept in the trunk of Mulder's car. Her previous blouse had been collected as evidence--to be sure the blood was all hers. To check for hair and fibers. She was a little uncomfortable with the idea of finding out the results of those tests, though she doubted the physical evidence would offer anything to clear her inner turmoil. Scully propped her forearms on the pew ahead of her, clasped her hands loosely, and closed her eyes. A wave of fatigue washed over her, and she was suddenly aware of the dull aches in her muscles from her frantic struggle. She needed to be home, to slip out of her high heels, to curl up in the softness of her own bed, let the day's tensions go. Soon. First she needed a few more minutes in this place to clear her mind. Then her body would have its turn. * * * * * (Continued in Part 2) HALLWAYS (a post-'Milagro' story) By Elizabeth Boyd-Tran Copyright (c) 1999 * * * * * Steam rose around him like a cocoon, but still he let the water pound. *Scully wears black much more often than she used to.* In the early years of their partnership, her choices in colors had been far more varied. Her coats had sometimes been tans, her suits had ventured into lighter shades, her blouses had even been pastels now and then. The styles had been more flirtatious. A pleated skirt here and there... Her hair had been longer, softer. Her make-up had spoken more of glamour than of quiet elegance. But she had shifted over the years. Her aura was a bit darker now. She was no less elegant, no less sleek...no less beautiful. But she had developed a deeper mystique, the darkness she had suffered had slipped into her choices in fashion. Mulder had wondered at first if it was as simple as "black is slimming"; he knew Scully was conscious of her weight, worked to keep it where she liked. She didn't know she was in no danger of being anything but lovely. But Scully's motives were never so clear, never so surface. More believably, it was her way of silently mourning those she had lost. She had moved in the path with death...lost her father, her sister, her child...and even danced with the darkness herself for a while. Tasted its flesh. Scully did not look as young as she used to. No one did. But Scully had perhaps been aged in ways she should not have. Scully was a little bit battle scarred, a little bit time worn. It didn't always show. But some days. Was she self-conscious of the new wrinkles around her eyes, of the more defined character lines in her hands? Did she know how much more beautiful these things made her in his eyes? The deeper her character, the more worth while she was to know. He had never tried so hard in his life to know someone intimately. He had never known someone more worthy of his efforts. Scully was no longer an innocent and naive young agent. As much as her tears had always cut him like broken glass, they meant more now. She was no longer shaken by the trauma of something new, by the exposure and subsequent adjustment required of a life entangled with violent criminals. She was no longer broken by the loss of a family member. Her core strength, always a force to reckon with, had grown daily since their work on the X-Files had begun; her sense of what she could stand, what she could survive... So now, when this woman with a gaze that could send any newbie agent to his knees without a word, this woman with hands that had held a child in her arms as her precious essence slipped away...when this woman whose scope of the darker truths of the world no longer allowed her to chatter pleasantly at the local charity luncheon, finally broke down into sobs in his arms--there was something well worth his time to understand. *"Well, isn't that what you do, Mulder, as a behavioral profiler? You...you imagine the killer's mind so well that you know what they're going to do next?" Yes, Scully that is what I do. But for all of my knowledge and skill and prestige, I have never been able to accurately profile you. Tell me Phillip Padgett did not succeed where I failed.* He had asked her if Padgett had gotten inside her head, if what he had read were true. And she had denied the possibility without hesitation (if without eye contact). But even Padgett had admitted he made some mistakes in her characterization...the depth and type of attraction Scully had felt for Padgett, the possible progression of their relationship and why... But what about the rest? Hundreds of pages. *Some* of it must have been near to the truth or Scully would not have been so affected by the intrusion. She had used the word "frightening" to describe their first encounter. Not a word Dana Scully threw around lightly. And for a moment, Mulder had found it hard to speak, to continue their conversation on a professional basis. *Not to touch her hand.* But he had stammered through his next words, and she had picked up the slack, and they had let the topic slide. He hadn't learned the full details of that encounter until she had recounted them clinically for A.D. Skinner. Then another hint, when he had asked her if she had read the book, if she knew she was in there. Her voice had been utterly lacking her usual unapproachable cool as she responded, asked him what had been said about her. And his rather heartless crack about hoping the "naked pretzel" segment was "a priori" as well had not prompted the anger he had expected from her. Rather, she had seemed genuinely injured and had reached out to affirm his own intimate knowledge of her as it ran against Padgett's error. *"I think you know me better than that, Mulder."*. And his own anger and frustration had faded and softened as he nodded and passed the book her way. Stealing a meaningful brush against her fingers as he completed the exchange. So which words had stung her? What had Padgett touched inside of her that had shaken the cool of this woman who could take on the world and still arrive at work on time the next morning without a hair out of place? As the water continued to pound on Mulder's skin, his thoughts continued to shower his brain. Sentences, fragments, thoughts from Padgett's pages washed across him, moved around him as he searched his eidetic memory for the words that would slip into his profile like a long missing puzzle piece. When the water heater had been exhausted and he was at last forced to shut off the faucet and reach for his towel, there was one single paragraph that would not leave his mind. --*But if she'd predictably aroused her sly partner's suspicions, Special Agent Dana Scully had herself become...simply aroused. All morning the stranger's unsolicited compliments had played on the dampened strings of her instrument until the middle "C" of consciousness was struck square and resonant. She was flattered. His words had presented her a pretty picture of herself quite unlike the practiced mask of uprightness that mirrored back to her from the medical examiners and the investigators and all the lawmen who dared no such utterances. She felt an involuntary flush and rebuked herself for the girlish indulgence. But the images came perforce and she let them play... What would her partner think of her?*-- * * * * * Padgett's words had felt too good to her. For all of her professional pretenses, Dana Scully's sexuality had always been an essential part of her self image. Even the strongest of egos could not hold out forever without occasional support. And she had felt something in her encounters with Phillip Padgett that she had been without for too long... The way he had spoken of her, the way he had looked at her, he had shifted her image of herself, shifted it to something it had once been that she had begun to lose sight of recently. On this subject, Phillip Padgett's words had rung unnervingly true. Scully had gone through her day, luxuriating in subtle sensations she had long neglected....the way she held her head, the sensuality in the way her hair slipped down beside her eye, an awareness of the line of her breasts as her blouse slipped slightly to one side when she removed her blazer. The taste of her lipstick, and the feel of her own tongue moving across the corner of her lips. The way she used her hands as she worked, and the glamour in her carefully tended nails. So much more aware of her own sexuality when she knew that *he* was seeing it, that it was not being lost on her observers. The ethereal made real by the affirmation of another. It was illogical, and perhaps even juvenile. But to her...it was real. And it spoke to a soft place inside her that had gone too long neglected. * * * * * He sat on the couch in his sweats and tee-shirt, remote in his hand, TV dinner growing cold on the coffee table before him. But his attention focused on neither. His gaze remained on the carpet at the corner of his couch. On the faint but fresh blood stain dotting the inherent pattern. Scully's blood on his floor. He honestly didn't know how many more times he could stand to see her like that, find her on the verge of death, possibly already gone. He still had nightmares replaying the moment she had collapsed in his arms, sunk to unconsciousness on the dusty floor of his apartment hallway. His memory could be a curse. *Think, Mulder. Use your supposed genius for selfish purposes for once. Think through everything you know about the truly enigmatic Dr. Scully.* *The dampness of her tears against his throat, her fingers against the back of his neck.* *Know what you need to say when you pick up the phone.* The majority of the time, Scully gave him nothing to go on. She revealed as little as possible of her true feelings, her personal crises, her family life, her hopes, dreams, loves, losses. But in all the time they had spent together, he had caught enough glimpses into the woman beneath the professionalism, he of all people should be able to piece together a clearer picture by now. Throughout this case Mulder had once again been given privilege to the narrow streak of vulnerability that wove its way through Scully's strength. He had seen it before, at the most unexpected times. He didn't know the triggers, didn't recognize the keys. He only knew that for all of her strength and confidence against his willingness to believe--the few times she had shown herself vulnerable to manipulation, she had been perhaps even more susceptible than he. So, what pain blinded her? There were only a handful of moments he could name. The Ed Jerse incident sprang to mind at once. Ninety-nine percent of the time Mulder never gave a second thought to Scully needing protection. Between her street smarts and her formidable self- defense skills any guy had better watch his ass if he tried to mess with her. But that week in Philadelphia Scully had picked up a stranger in a tacky tattoo parlor, and he had turned out to be a murderer. And even when Mulder had visited Scully in the hospital, her sympathies had seemed to remain in this man's court. The Koklos case. Scully had let her visions of Emily lead her into lands well beyond science, and play her emotions against her professional judgement. Not so far off from how she had handled the Boggs' case after her father's death. Or from her fierce protection of Kevin Kryder when the facts of the case would have dictated other approaches. There was something Scully needed, something she needed to believe, some comfort or security that her daily life did not pacify...something that found its way to the surface every year or two. Mulder didn't understand what she needed. He would have given it to her long ago if he did. Maybe he would never understand, maybe she didn't want him to, maybe she needed her vulnerability to balance her spirit. But her fear killed him. He sat in pained awe each time he was given a glimpse. It was so easy to forget the immense whirlwind of feelings and pain and passion that ran silent and deep behind her incalculably cool exterior. He would always watch her for a time after each slip, wishing like hell he knew when she was hurting, how often she was on the edge of breaking down and nothing ever pushed the last step...so he never knew. And never got to hold her. * * * * * (Continued in Part 3...) HALLWAYS (a post-'Milagro' story) By Elizabeth Boyd-Tran Copyright (c) 1999 "There's a warmth in my heart. It haunts me when you're gone." --Jewel, "What's Simple is True" For five years, Scully had trusted her relationship with Mulder. She had not been able to define it; she had had no solid hold on what their relationship was or where it might or might not be going. But the value they had held in each other's lives had never been a question for her. Trust had been sacred. Loyalty synonymous with the trust. Until roughly a year ago, when this concrete invariant in Scully's life had shaken beneath her. Something had been lost between Mulder and herself. And to this day she did not understand what had triggered the shift. But their timeless trust had wavered. Their loyalties had come into question. He had ceased to cooperate with her requests before he had performed his own investigations. Their faith in each other's instincts had lost its potency. Their silent communications had gotten mixed in the translations. Her quiet requests for reassurance had gone unheard or unheeded. And perhaps Mulder had felt the same from his side. But she didn't know. And that, in itself, was foreign. And yet they had remained side by side. Out of habit, perhaps. But her deepest whispers had believed there was something more to it. Perhaps she had *needed* to believe. Then a few months ago, when she thought things had reached their lowest of lows, when her thoughts of leaving the Bureau to return to medicine had moved to the forefront once again, when she had sufficiently detached and nearly ceased to think in terms of loyalty to anyone but herself--a spark had awoken, and with it...a timid hope. The doors at the back of the church opened for a moment, and Scully glanced over her shoulder to see an elderly woman in a dark cape slipping into the sanctuary and into one of the rear pews. The draft of wind from beyond the doors raced up the aisle and flickered the light of the votive candles, tossing shadows about Scully's silent form. Miracles must have been easier to accept when candles lit the world. Science and the supernatural had not always been so distinct. Religion had been considered education. This week, Dana Scully had struggled with her inclination to open her mind to the improbable, been tugged constantly by the safe cocoon of the facts and scientific tests upon which she had built her own faith. And this time Mulder had been on her usual side of the argument, leaving her more alone in her uncertainty. But then...perhaps not so alone as she had thought. She could not remember the last time she had been so terrified and blinded by pain as she had this afternoon. A near deadly assault was horrifying enough for any human being, but for it to come in the guise of the fantastic, the unbelievable...to shake her faith in the principles upon which she had built her life, even as that very life was put on the line...was a bit too much to ask of anyone on a Thursday afternoon. So when Scully had awakened, still terrified and hell bent on survival, and seen Mulder above her, his tiny smile of relief breaking through as she came conscious, the relief flooding her own body had been overwhelming. She had reached out to him to share that relief. For affirmation that she was still alive, that her residual fear was no longer valid. For reassurance that they were both actual and breathing. And for a moment, she had held onto him feeling only those sensations. But then something had touched her... The scent of his after shave? The warm cushion of his neck, the texture of his hair?...The intangible sensation that came from being in Mulder's aura and no other. (She had never been so long without the comfort of his arms. Cold since a certain conversation and an emotion charged embrace in Mulder's hallway.) His touch had awakened the pain and hurt and betrayal and loneliness and need of the past months, all magnified by the fears and violations of her recent days. And she had made a choice. --"Loneliness is a choice."-- In that moment, Scully had let go of all the anger and defensiveness and let Mulder back inside. He had re-earned her trust when she wasn't looking. There had been no confrontation, no moment of truth. And yes, a lot had gone untouched, not dealt with, not apologized for. And much of it might yet surface. Still gradually, over their past few cases, their classic chemistry had begun to work again. She and Mulder had functioned in synch. They had argued with respect, complimented one another even in their silence. And when Phillip Padgett had come onto the scene, the irrational passion Mulder had shown, pursuing the killer with an enthusiasm that hampered his professional judgement, had screamed with every gesture his concern for her. His overwhelming need to keep her safe at all costs. To stop anyone who tried to hurt her. Burying her face in Mulder's shoulder, Scully's fear had melded into an overwhelming need simply to cling to his warmth. To validate the corporeal, affirm this real and present relationship in her life, and banish *his* portrait of her, as lonely and waiting. * * * * * *Scully smells better than anyone I have ever known.* He didn't know if it was specifically her soap or her perfume or her shampoo...perhaps none of the above, because it didn't seem to have changed in the years he had known her. There was just something sweeter about breathing in Scully than any other woman he had ever held. When he was with her there was never anyone he would rather be with. He had neglected to contemplate the deeper implications of that knowledge, and for now he would leave it at that. Scully was home. Which was why it had hurt like hell when she had shut him out. For months he had felt more alone than he could remember since the years after Samantha's disappearance. When family and love and trust and security had vanished in a day and become the stuff of childhood fantasy. But Scully...for all of their fights and anger and frustration and even occasional cruelties...Scully had always been warmth. And healing. And comfort. Until this year. When something had shattered. He had lost her somehow, slipped up unknowingly in his infamous self-involvement no doubt, slighted the person he valued the most. And yet she had remained. But he had found himself holding his breath each morning until he saw her stride through the office door, saw her set down her briefcase and laptop and settle in for the day. Christmas had been a brief reprieve. For a few days he had again tasted the sweetness that being in Scully's good graces could offer. But the coldness had set in again with the winter's second wind. And the pillar of his confidence had been set shaking once more. Scully had never physically pushed him away. She had asked for her independence, denied pity, rejected sympathy. But he had never been afraid to take her hand lest she pull her own back, never been afraid to touch her hair, lest she duck his affectionate offering. Until a few months ago, in the most innocuous of circumstances, playing the game on an undercover case, he had let his arm linger about her shoulders a moment too long...and she had backed away in anger, offended by nothing more than the closeness of his body. He couldn't remember when he had been hurt like that. Worst of all, he did not understand why. Yet not long after that, things had slowly begun to change, and he had not dared to shake his luck with so much as a question. Scully had begun to warm to him, respond to his humor, cease to resent his theories but merely argue their inadequacies. And he had latched onto her meager offerings like a starving child, only aware at her return, how much truly had been lost while she was away. This morning, in the hallway outside Padgett's holding cell, Scully had been working up to perhaps the most angry he had seen her in a long time, and without forethought, Mulder had had the nerve to practically lift her small form and plunk her down in his usual position. Three months ago, such daring would never have crossed his mind. Then this afternoon, if only for a moment, he had thought he had failed her in the worst way a partner can ever fail another. By all rights she should have been dead like all the others. The perfect crime. And nothing he, the expert profiler, could do but fall to pieces at her side. Just seeing her breathe had brought such joy into his heart, he should have felt relief from anything that followed. But when Scully had started to cry...really cry, as he so rarely (if ever) had seen from her...when her nails had pulled at his shirt and her arm tightened around his neck, he had felt almost as sick as at the sight of her prone and blood-soaked body. He never hesitated a moment in holding her for all he was worth. He couldn't speak, refused to whisper "Scully..." in a quiet or respectful surprise, to offer empty phrases spoken by rote, for even that small utterance took the chance of embarrassing her, of making her think she might have reacted any less than she had. His touch could not be mistaken. *Scully....What did he take from you? And what can I offer to heal?* Mulder picked up his phone and dialed Scully's home number. * * * * * The night air was bracing after the warm shelter of the sanctuary. Scully was paying by the second for the cab she had asked to wait. But for once, she was not concerned. It wouldn't be easy to hail another ride at this time of night on this side of town. And she had more pressing matters on her mind. She took a moment to herself on the front steps of the church, breathing in the fresh night air and luxuriating in the health and wholeness of her body. She no longer harbored any youthful delusions of invincibility. Life and limb were precious things. Taking her time, ignoring the lingering sense that she was still being watched, Scully took the last few steps and strolled down the walk to where her ride was parked. Her trench coat still hung over her arm despite the chill. Home now. Rest. But first, perhaps she should circle past Mulder's place and retrieve her car. She could sleep later in the morning if she took care of that errand now, and she had a feeling she would be grateful for that reprieve when her alarm rang at 6am. So as she slipped into the backseat of the cab and gave the driver the apartment address in Alexandria, she told herself she was going back solely to pick up her car. She never thought of speaking to Mulder. Never thought of wanting to thank him. Needing to thank him. * * * * * Five tries and there was still no answer at Scully's home number. He had no reason to be legitimately concerned. She hadn't told him what errand she was running, so he had no way of judging the appropriate time frame for it to be completed. But what could she be doing late at night on a Thursday? Maybe her refrigerator was as empty as his own. She could be strolling through the dairy section right now, looking for those small cups of flavorless yogurt she persisted in consuming. Perhaps she really was home already and she was simply luxuriating in an unusually long hot shower, just as he had a short while ago, and she had forgotten to leave the phone within ear shot. If he were truly panicked he could, of course, call her cell phone. But he didn't want to do that tonight, he didn't want her to feel he was hovering, being over protective. She needed her strength respected now more than ever. Mulder had shoveled in a few bites of his tepid TV dinner between redials, and the remainders now lay forgotten on his coffee table. The TV continued to drone softly in the background, having turned from late night talk shows to the late late movie. He had reached for his basketball and was about to give in to the temptation to begin bouncing it over his sleeping neighbor's head, when there was a knock on his door. "Hey, Scully. What are you doing here?" She was standing on his doorstep, one hand in her trench coat pocket, the other at her side, looking up at him and squinting slightly against the light from his foyer. Her eyes were always sensitive to light late at night. "Hey, Mulder...I didn't wake you, did I? I just...I came by to pick up my car so I wouldn't have to come get it in the morning. I didn't want you to think it disappeared. No government conspiracies at work or anything." She offered him a small smile. He nodded, not rising to her bait, too many more thoughts in his head now that she was here in front of him again. "Oh...okay. Well, did you get something to eat?" he asked. "I can throw something in the microwave if--" Scully shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Really. I'm just going to go home and crash. Not that I don't regret passing up a chance for a Gourmet Entree a la Mulder." This time he half-smiled at her teasing and nodded, but his gaze was holding her, reading her. And she knew it. He saw her pull back, try to divert his attentions. "I grabbed your paper on the way in. Your delivery boy is leaving it near the elevator again." She lifted the rolled paper from the folds of her coat and held it out toward him. "Oh, thanks, I never even looked on my way in." She nodded as Mulder tossed the paper onto the floor of his foyer where it landed on top of two others, unread. "Well, I'd better get going," she said softly. *No, Scully, don't go. You don't know yet, you don't know how hard I've been thinking this evening, you don't know how much I want to be here for you. Not just through your tears, but for the talks that should come afterward. I just don't know how.* Mulder nodded. His eyes narrowed and again she looked away. He grasped at straws. "Are you sure you're okay? You want me to drive you? Or at least get you some coffee?" Scully shook her head, barely a motion at all, because she knew Mulder knew her response already. Her gaze remained locked on some formless object just past his left hip. "Mulder, I just..." she licked her lips gently, and all his focus turned to her with fervent hope. It had never occurred to him that *she* might be the one to speak. "I wanted to thank you," she said softly, and quite deliberately she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. He answered with the openness of a child. "For what?" Scully swallowed thickly, tightening then relaxing the sleek tendons in her throat. She drew a soft breath, slipped in and out of eye contact. "Your shoulder," she said quietly. He clenched his jaw, took in in that moment the tension running through every inch of her poised frame. He wished he could hold her again. After a beat, Mulder reached out and touched the backs of his fingers to the wind-chilled skin of her cheek. She shivered. "It's always been yours..." he said softly. He could have sworn she danced past tears once more. But she offered Mulder a sad-shy smile in response and lowered her gaze to the floor. He saved her from a vocal reply when he continued by saying, "...to shoot or lean on as you see fit." And this time she couldn't avoid a genuine if short lived smile. Scully-smiles. They held a light like no other. Scully drew a deep breath, and pushed back the tails of her trench coat as she rested her hands on the backs of her hips, supporting her tired back. But she cringed slightly as she moved and shifted her shoulder to lessen the pain. Mulder frowned, reaching out to touch the side of her ribcage. She caught her breath at the contact. "What is it, does your back hurt?" She nodded, avoiding his questioning gaze. "Yeah, I was...My gun was wedged beneath me in the struggle." Such a matter of fact report. "Did you tell the doctors? Did they check it out?" He was looking toward her back, itching to examine it himself, certain he could see more than the doctors though he had no medical knowledge. "Mulder, it's fine. It's sore, that's all." Her gaze softened in contrast to her words, perhaps regretting some of their abruptness. But he knew her walls were weakened tonight, knew she felt the need to strengthen her defenses. She lifted her eyebrows slightly and stared him down, waiting for the confirmation of his assent. He acquiesced, reluctantly as always. "Well...," she began, and her expression filled in the rest of her previous comment, *I'd better get going*. Mulder nodded, but he still wasn't ready to let go. "Good night, Mulder," she said softly, and she turned to leave. "Scully..." She looked back. "... you do know that I think you're beautiful?" He didn't know the words he would speak until he heard them echo through the quiet hallway. But in that moment they were right. He wasn't just speaking of physical beauty, of tangible attributes...he was touching an area that had remained in silence too long. "Mulder..." Mulder glanced down, growing shy, but no less determined to press forward. He forced himself to offer her at least the fleeting eye contact she had bestowed upon him in her confession. For her part, she seemed unable to look away. "I mean...extraordinarily beautiful. You have this way of carrying your..." he struggled for the word, "...*grace*...when you're in hospital scrubs or tree climbing gear...as well as if you were in an evening gown. While the women who work beside you...fail." Scully's lips parted slightly, her chest lifting against shallow breaths. He matched her intense blue gaze for a moment of pregnant silence, then he let the tightrope fall between them as he mumbled, "Well...," And he moved to retreat into his apartment. Her voice stopped him. "Mulder..." Even as she spoke his expression softened into the kindest of smiles, and with a slight crinkle of his nose and shake of his head, he let her know that he did not expect or need a response from her. Not tonight. It was enough to have it said. "Good night, Scully," he said. Quietly, distractedly, she managed, "Good night, Mulder," and she took a step away. Mulder swung his door closed. A moment later he heard her walk to the elevator. * * * * * The metal doors slid open at her first touch of the button. She stepped inside and turned to press the button for the ground floor. She drew her first real breath since Mulder had spoken. *Mulder...what did you just say? Did I hear you? And why? What did you hear in my thoughts when I was unaware? You, in your sweats and tee-shirt, looking like an oversized little boy. But not a little boy at all. Smelling of Ivory soap. Your hair still damp from your shower.* Her hand moved automatically to the increasingly sore place on her back. And as she moved, she found herself aware of the line of her chest, the smooth skin of her midriff as it brushed her silk blouse. She felt the gentle cascade of auburn hair that slipped into her line of vision as she tilted her head, the bare skin of her neck fielding the drafts of the elevator. *Mulder... Goodnight, Mulder...* THE END ************************** Feedback joyfully accepted at lizbethb@geocities.com http://www.geocities.com/Paris/2275 ******************* "Loneliness is a choice." --Dana Scully, The X-Files "Milagro"