From: "Lee W. Payne" Date: Sun, 17 Jan 1999 15:54:47 -0600 Subject: Two Sided Triangle Title: "Two-Sided Triangle" Author: Angie Rating: PG-13 Summary: Set immediately after "Triangle". A late-night conversation between our two favorite agents. Mulder/Scully romance,but nothing really heavy. Told in first person, alternating between Mulder and Scully. Spoilers: Major ones for "Triangle". Minor mentions of events from "Chinga", "Detour" and "The X-Files Movie". Disclaimer: All the characters mentioned herein do not belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Note: I do not have internet access. This is being posted for me by my wonderful brother, who does. PLEASE do NOT e-mail him with comments about the story, or he will never let me do this again. I lie here in the hospital bed, trying to get back to sleep. It's not exactly as if being in a hospital bed is an unfamiliar experience for me. How many times have I woken up in a hospital bed during the past few years? And how many times has she been right there beside my bed, watching me with that same look? Concern and love, which she tries so hard to mask with irritation at my rashness or medical professionalism. Skinner came back, later, and told me what she'd done. Confronted him, confronted Kirsch, threatened Spender. All for me. Like she hasn't already trashed her career badly enough for my sake -- given up promotions, accepted the ludicrous "Mrs. Spooky" moniker, become a bureau joke. And I'm too tired to even get into thinking about the toll our relationship has taken on her personal life. Scully was there with me, on that ship. We both were there in 1939. We saved the world. Or at least, she did. Actually, my contribution to making sure history kept on course consisted of convincing her of the truth, kissing her and jumping overboard. God, it felt good to hold her, to feel her mouth on mine. She may not believe it, but she was there. That's why I told her. I figured it was time to stop playing games. No more pretending that my love for her depends on what kind of soft drink she brings me, no more marriage proposals through our cell phones. Just the facts, ma'am: "Scully?" "Yeah, Mulder?" "I love you." Okay, so "Oh, brother!" wasn't exactly the response I was looking for. I was hoping for something more along the lines of "I love you, too." Even, "I know you do," wouldn't have been bad. But I know she loves me, too, even if she doesn't want to admit it. How long have I known? At least since the time she came racing up that hillside in Puerto Rico to save my ass. Maybe since before then. She wouldn't put up with half the stuff she does if she didn't love me. I don't think she wants to admit it. Certainly not to me, maybe not even to herself. Suddenly, my musing are interupted by the sound of the door to my room being pushed all the way open from its slightly ajar position. I quickly close my eyes and steady my breathing. I don't want another jab in the rear from a nurse armed with a sedative. Then I recognize the footsteps and, as they draw nearer, the scent. It's her. Even without being able to see her or hear her voice, I know when she's in the same room with me. I keep my eyes closed and my breathing even, so she'll think I'm asleep. I wait to see what she'll do next. I push the door open slowly, careful not to wake him. He looks relaxed, at peace this way -- a look I seldom see on his overly intense face during waking hours. I like to be by him when he's sleeping. I think he likes to be by me when I'm asleep, too. I know I like waking up that way. The memories drift through my mind. The feel of his fingers tracing a light path down my face, the teasing note in his voice when he says I've drooled on him as I wake up with my head on his shoulder during one of our many late night stakeouts. The heavy, warm feel of his upper body across my lap as I stroke his hair while we sit on the ground in a Florida forest. The times I've woken up in a hospital to see him there. Why does he always do this to me? I wonder as I cross the room to the bed and let my fingers wander to his hair, beginning the aimless stroking that I only ever allow myself to indulge in when I know he's asleep or in a coma. Why can he only come close to admitting his feelings for me when he's been drugged, or I'm near death or we're hundreds of miles away from each other and talking over the phone? Well, okay, there was that one time when he actually told me I made him a whole person and started to kiss me while we were both sober, on our feet and only inches away from each other. To be fair, it wasn't HIS fault that damned bee stung me just as our lips were meeting. He said he loves me. Even if he wasn't too drugged to know what he was saying -- and he probably was -- what does he mean by that? That I've taken the place of Samantha, the little sister he lost so long ago? Is that how he loves me, like a sister? I hope not. Because, God knows, the way I feel about Fox Mulder is in NO way similar to the love I feel for my brothers. But at least he had the guts to tell me. If there's one thing I've always insisted upon in our partnership, it's absolute equality. If he's going to take risks, I'm taking them right along with him. So I lean over his sleeping form and whisper softly in his ear, "I love you, too." When she breathes those words into my ear, my eyes fly open. All I can see is her hand and part of her arm. Her other hand is stroking my hair, her mouth is by my ear, the rest of her body shielded from my view by her position and the dimness of the room. I reach one hand up and grasp the nape of her neck, turning her head so that we're face-to-face. She gives a soft gasp and stares into my open eyes. "I didn't mean," she says, then hesitates. "You didn't mean it, Scully?" I ask, almost roughly. "You thought it was somebody else in this hospital bed?" I bite my lip and shake my head. "I was going to say, 'I didn't mean to wake you up'," I whisper. "Sweetheart, do you want to know what ELSE we did on that ship?" he says. "You mean, BESIDES saving the world and setting history back on a straight course?" I ask, trying to joke, trying to keep my legs and brain from turning to mush over the fact that he's just called me 'sweetheart'. "Yeah, besides that." "What?" "I kissed you. I mean REALLY kissed you. Want to know what happened after that?" She's looking at me with a look of anticipation and embarrasment on her face as she nods. "You hit me." "I did what?" "You hit me. Not slapped, hit. Balled your hand into a face and punched me right under the eye. Look, you can still see the bruise." She lets me move her fingers to the swollen spot under my left eye, then drops a tender kiss on it. "Mulder, that probably happened when a piece of flotsam from the boat you were on hit you during the storm." "Are you saying you wouldn't actually hit me if I kissed you? I mean REALLY kissed you?" "Of course I wouldn't." The words are barely out of my mouth before I realize the corner I've backed myself into. He's giving me that smile, the one I see all too rarely, but it's having it's accustomed effect. My pulse rate must have at least tripled in the past few seconds. He pulls me down toward him wiht the hand he has fastened on the back of my neck, his grip surprisingly strong for a man who is hospitalized. I am off-balance both emotionally and physically, my toes barely maintaining contact with the floor as his mouth brushes mine. He deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into my mouth, and I moan softly. Lack of oxygen, not lack of desire, finally forces me to break the kiss. She gives a little whimper when our lips part. Her eyes are closed and her mouth looks slightly swollen. I smile smugly. She doesn't hit me. In fact, she just sighs softly. Finally, I whisper, "When I wake up in the morning, are you going to try to convince me I dreamed this, too?" "No," she whispers back. "But I should go now. You need to rest." "You'll come back in the morning?" "I'll always come back to you, Mulder. Haven't you figured that out by now?" THE END