*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


It was over.  Finally.

All the lies.

The vicious battle for Mulder's very existence.

The X-Files.

Mulder and her.

Their lives, as they had known them, both together and apart.

Everything.  Done, finished.

Kaput.

Part of Dana Scully was glad--indescribably glad Mulder had 
survived, of course--but happy, too, the whole wretched mess 
was at last out in the open, that the world now knew not only 
of the peril she and her partner had faced, but also of the 
deeper relationship that had developed between them months 
before.  While she had long understood the need for subterfuge, 
it had never come easily to her.  She wouldn't miss the 
pretending, the secrets, the danger she had almost begun to 
take for granted.

Yet even with such small happiness had come a price.  An 
awful, unspeakable price.

Mulder hated her now.

Hated her for her well-meaning lies, her unwanted protection.

He wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't even touch her.

These days, he could scarcely stand to look at her.

Which was difficult on them both, as for weeks now there 
hadn't been much else to draw his eye.

They were in hiding, Mulder and she, in a safe house on what
Scully thought might be the Chesapeake Bay.  As they had been 
moved while she had been well and truly out of it, half-asleep 
and addled with pain medication, she couldn't be certain of the 
location.  But the coast seemed familiar, and the drive from the 
capital to this unnamed place had been more of a jaunt than a 
journey.  She had inquired as to their whereabouts soon after 
arriving, had blearily questioned one of their many minders, 
their many keepers, as he had overseen her transfer.  "Where 
are we?" she had softly asked from her sickbed.

Only they were a close-lipped lot, their protectors, the small 
army of professionals who guarded this supposed haven 
with the same steely vigilance with which they had once 
patrolled outside her hospital room in D.C.  For them, 
actions  had always spoken far more eloquently than words, 
with information given out on a strict need-to-know basis.

And despite the dire circumstances surrounding her 
convalescence, her attendant had seemingly not been at 
all convinced as to the depth of her need.

"Don't worry about that, ma'am," she had politely been told 
by a man she had come to know simply as Rolph.  "We've 
got it under control."

Under control.

Ironic . . . 

She had once believed she knew what that phrase meant.

She didn't anymore.

She wondered sometimes if she ever would again.

Still, even as Scully acknowledged in herself this particular 
ignorance, she found the very idea to be an anathema.  She 
railed against the notion that through her actions she had 
become something akin to flotsam, that her life had been 
turned into nothing more than metaphoric wreckage rolling 
helplessly atop equally metaphoric waves, floating there until 
the elements at last drove it under, sinking it without a trace.  
It had been bad enough when The Smoker had manipulated 
her into destroying her relationship with Mulder.  But matters 
had only deteriorated since she had been shot.

She couldn't remember much after Mulder had killed the Asian.
Lying there on the grass as her uncle's cabin went up in flames, 
she had been half out of her mind with pain.  The desire to let 
go had nearly overwhelmed her resolve, the urge to simply close 
her eyes and let darkness take her where it would being all but
impossible to resist.

Yet, she had fought the impulse as best she could, had 
struggled against it as violently as she would a human foe.  
She had done everything possible to stay awake and alert, 
not only because of clinical concerns like shock and coma, 
but because she had decided if she were indeed going to die, 
were going to bleed out beneath a star-bright September sky, 
she was first going to make her peace with Mulder.

She was going to apologize, and in so doing, ask for his 
forgiveness.

She was going to seek absolution.

And so Scully had confessed, had tried to explain why she 
had done what she had done.  She couldn't remember now 
what words she had used, what arguments she had made.  
She couldn't even recall Mulder's reaction to her unburdening.  
All she could recollect with any clarity was the high, mournful 
cry of sirens, their song eerie as it echoed through the trees.

Salvation, she had absently reflected.  If not for her, then at 
least for Mulder.

After that, it was all a mishmash.  Sound and movement,
dizzying in its noise, its scope, its energy.  

Hands had pulled and tugged at her clothes, ripping them, 
probing her wound, swabbing it clean.  

Oh.  Dear God.  Pain.  Always, always pain.  

All around her, men and women had yelled instructions, 
the words garbled and loud, like the roar of a jet leaving its 
runway, straining towards the atmosphere.  

<Sir, you need to step away.>

<Christ.  Get these people back.  Those cars could catch at 
any minute.>

<I am a federal officer!  This woman is my partner.>

<Sir, I don't care if you are Napoleon and this is the Empress
Josephine.  You are in my way.>

Lifting, jostling.  Something had been fitted snugly over her 
mouth and nose.  Moments later, air, cool and faintly stale, 
had poured into her lungs.  Without warning, something sharp 
had been jabbed into her arm, plunged beneath her skin.

Then . . .

. . . peace.

Or some facsimile thereof.

With a single prick of a needle, soothing heat had begun 
flowing slowly and sweetly through her veins.  Morphine, 
she had identified at once.  Glorious, glorious morphine.

And somewhere, on the edges of all this, his presence as
constant as had been her suffering, had stood Mulder.  Scully 
may have lost actual physical contact with her partner soon 
after help had arrived, but somehow she had still been aware 
of his nearness.  She had dimly heard his voice muttering 
mindless words of comfort, had sensed his eyes on her, his 
gaze anxious and unwavering.  Pushed past the point of all 
endurance, she had taken solace in his immediacy and trusting 
he was there amidst the chaos, keeping watch, had allowed 
herself at last to surrender.  Sighing, she had relaxed into the
starched white softness beneath her . . .

. . . and had awakened two days later in an upstate New York
trauma center.

Mulder had been there too when she had opened her eyes, 
dressed in what had looked to be borrowed pajamas and a thin, 
grey pin-striped robe.  Unshaven, his face lined with fatigue 
and care, he had been bending over her, his hand outstretched,
when her eyelids had fluttered open. 

"Mulder," she had weakly mumbled, the single word almost
instantly depleting her resources.

Yet rather than answering her simple greeting, he had instead
grimaced, his forehead wrinkling, his jaw clenched like a 
prizefighter's fist, and remained mute, his arm falling to his
side.  Scully had wondered at that, even in her muddled state, 
had pondered why Mulder, a man who could converse for 
hours on any of a number of arcane topics would be struck 
dumb at such a time.

But her ruminations hadn't lasted long.  After only a second 
or two of wakefulness, she had slipped once more into oblivion.

When next she had swum her way back to consciousness, 
her sleepy gaze had landed on Assistant Director Skinner.  
The big man had stood beside her bed, his hands hidden in 
his trench coat pockets, his expression grave.

"Agent Scully, good to see you awake," he had murmured,
taking a step closer, his voice not without a certain warmth.  
"Your doctors tell me you're doing well.  With any luck, you'll 
be on your feet in no time."

"Hmm," she had hummed, her lashes hanging low, her throat 
so dry she had feared her words might snag there, like fabric 
catching on a hangnail.  "Where . . . M-Mulder?"

"I took the liberty of flying the two of you back to D.C.," 
Skinner had told her.  "After all that's happened, I wanted to 
be able to keep a close eye on you both."

With that, Mulder had limped shakily into view, dressed 
again in pajamas and robe.  Hovering just behind their boss, 
he had said nothing, choosing instead to simply watch her, 
his face a study in contrast.

Taken at a glance, it would have seemed his features had been 
arranged into a decidedly neutral cast--his lips relaxed, his 
brow smooth.  Yet even with her drug induced stupor, it hadn't 
taken Scully long to note the tempest in her partner's eyes.  
Some strong emotion had turned his gaze stormy, all 
thunderclaps and lightning strikes and gallon upon gallon of 
sheeting rain.

"I don't want you to worry about anything," Skinner had said, 
seemingly unaware Hurricane Mulder roiled threateningly 
only an arm's length away.  "All precautions have been taken.  
You two were admitted here in secret, under assumed names.  
Your doctors have been hand-picked.  I have men stationed 
outside your rooms, and two more teams monitoring the 
perimeter."

Three teams of two agents each.  Six men.  Six mortal men, 
she had mused.  Would such a puny force be enough to repel 
the devil himself?

"Your mother has been notified as well," Skinner had
continued.  "While sparing her certain details, Agent Mulder
and I explained that you and he would be going underground 
for a period of time."

Scully had frowned at that bit of news, wishing she had been
the one to explain things to her mother, and worried over what 
the poor woman must be thinking as a result.  "What did she 
say?"

"She wasn't happy about it," Skinner had admitted wryly.
"About any of it.  In the end, however, I think she understood."

Scully had nodded, not entirely convinced.

"But none of that matters now," Skinner had said, pulling his 
hand free from his coat to lay it warmly on her arm.  "All that's
important is for you to get well.  Focus on gaining your strength
back, Scully.  Let us take care of the rest."

Exhausted by their brief discussion, she had tried her best to 
smile for him.  "Thank you."

Lips lifting in response, Skinner had tightened his grip on her 
arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.  Her eyes had drifted shut . . .

. . . and she had dozed off before either of her two guests had 
even left her room.

In the days that had followed, a similar pattern had emerged. 
Sleep had taken up the majority of Scully's time, her hours 
having been measured by naps, her slumber itself divided 
only by examinations and meals.  She had been lucky.  The
bullet had missed all major organs.  Still, with the blood loss
she had suffered and the surgery to remove the slug, simply
watching television had been enough to tire her.  The tedium 
of it all would have no doubt irked her if she had possessed 
sufficient energy for annoyance.

She had had no way of knowing if Mulder had been similarly 
engaged, if he had been snoozing away the afternoons or had 
instead been wearing out the buttons on his TV's remote 
control.

Her partner's room may have been right next door.

Yet Scully had seen more of her good friend, Rolph, than 
she had of Mulder.

At first, she had tried to tell herself it was simply happenstance,
nothing more than rotten timing which had kept Mulder from 
her side.  Okay.  So, he hadn't been there when she had awoke.
No big deal.  He's probably in his own bed right now, catching
a few z's.  What did she expect--that he would forego sleep, 
food, and comfort just for the privilege of watching her drool?
After all, he too had been injured.  He needed his rest just as 
badly as she.

And surely his pillow was more appealing for that sort of thing 
than her bedside. 

As days had passed, Scully had clung stubbornly to that belief, 
had assured herself Mulder's absence was in no way intentional.  
But as time had dragged on, and her partner had remained as 
elusive as a yeti, her rationalizations had grown increasingly 
less likely. 

Finally, one Tuesday afternoon, slightly more than a week 
into their hospital stay, the illusion had shattered completely.  
Unannounced, Mulder had shuffled past the guard and into 
her room, his shoulders bowed, his jaw peppered with stubble, 
his attire upgraded to black sweatpants and a wine-colored 
Henley.  Plopping himself down in the chair to her right, he 
had combed his hands roughly through his hair, then clasped 
them before him.  Sitting there, hunched forward so that his 
elbows were balanced on his knees, he had looked at her for 
a moment, his eyes shadowed, before dropping his gaze to the 
floor.

"Tell me," he had demanded hoarsely.

Scully didn't even pretend to misunderstand him.

Propped against the pillows, she had quietly outlined for him
her dealings with The Smoker.  Starting with the night their 
nemesis had been waiting for her at her apartment, she had 
spared neither her partner nor herself, at last confiding every 
threat, every lie, every error in judgment.

When she had finished, the effort taxing her more than she 
had cared to admit, Mulder had pushed slowly to his feet.  
His arms folded now across his chest, he had regarded her 
solemnly, chewing on the corner of his mouth for a second 
or two before murmuring, "Thank you."

Then he had turned to go.

"Mulder," she had softly called, stopping him before he could
escape.

"What?"

Mulder had stood in profile, framed in the doorway, his hand 
braced against the jamb, his posture weary.  His pose had 
so reminded Scully of that day in their office, of the hellish 
conversation that had resulted in her walking out, abandoning
both the X-Files and him, her words had dissolved before she 
could utter them.

Swallowing hard, she had merely shook her head, dismissing
him.

Hesitating just one breath more, he had nodded, then continued 
on his way.

Leaving her alone.

As she was to this day.

Or as alone as anyone could be sharing a cozy beach house
with not only Mulder, but with two more agents a floor below.

Truth be told, Scully rather liked their hideaway.  It wasn't 
anything fancy, its decor more summer cottage than luxury 
condo.  The furniture was mismatched, the pieces comfortable,
yet faded and worn.  The carpeting was indoor-outdoor, gray 
with flecks of green and black.  A bookcase full of paperbacks, 
their spines lined and cracked, took up one wall while an 
entertainment center packed with TV, VCR, and an impressive 
array of videotapes loomed opposite the sofa.  A small kitchen 
and dining area ran along the back of the apartment, with a 
hallway off to the right leading to the sleeping chambers and 
bath.  The entrance to the unit connected via an enclosed 
stairwell to a similar residence downstairs.  In deference to 
their privacy, the door had been kept locked since they had 
arrived.  Even so, she had faith that one pair of fibbies or 
another were always just a floor away, ready to break down 
that locked door, if necessary, should danger threaten. 

Whether it was because the place reminded her of childhood
vacations with her family, or because it was wired with an 
alarm system sophisticated enough to please even the Lone 
Gunmen, Scully felt safe there.

That security especially welcome after the past couple of
months.

Sighing at the thought, she crossed to the kitchen to begin 
cleaning up the dishes from lunch, her loose-fitting black knit
pants and over-sized flannel shirt as comfortable as pajamas.  
Having eaten alone, she hadn't much to set to rights.  While 
she had munched on a sandwich, Mulder had cloistered 
himself away in his room to ride the exercise bike.  Again.  
She could hear him at it still, the soft whir of the stationary 
wheels vaguely soothing.  Despite the problems they currently 
shared between them, she sympathized with her partner's 
restlessness.  She knew how difficult it was for him to be 
cooped up in any fashion.  With his injuries having been far 
less serious than hers, she had thought she had sensed him 
growing antsy before they had even left the hospital.  Now, 
weeks later, he was beginning to remind her of a hamster 
deprived of his wheel.  The man had way too much energy 
for his own good.

And hers.

It was unsettling.

To live so intimately with a man that . . . vital.

Especially when he was doing all within his power to pretend
she wasn't even there.

While she seemingly couldn't move without running into him,
breathe without inhaling his scent.

Damn him.

In the beginning, it had been easier to overlook her partner's 
disregard, as she had still been spending most of the day in 
bed.  Before long, however, Scully had opted to make her way 
into the living room, bored with all the shut-eye, yearning 
instead for some sort of distraction.

And the biggest one of all had been sprawled on the sagging
plaid couch, leafing through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated.
Mulder looked good, she had realized with a start.  No bandages
or bruises.  Not anymore.  He had still seemed a trifle thin in his 
sweats and T-shirt.  But that would be easy enough to correct 
once they got home. . . .

If they got home.

"Should you be out of bed?" he had murmured, clearly 
questioning the wisdom of her decision, his eyes sweeping 
over her as if searching for evidence to substantiate his 
misgivings.

"I don't see why not," she had responded, determined to
try and keep the conversation friendly.  "I think I've gotten 
enough sleep the past few weeks."

Mulder had gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a time
before querying, "So exactly how much sleep does it take to 
heal a bullet wound?"

She had stiffened at his surly tone.  "Sleep doesn't heal a 
bullet wound, Mulder.  Time does."

"Well, we've both got plenty of that," he had retorted before
returning his attention to an article on college football.

Okay.  So, he was right.  

But did he have to be such a bastard about it?

Mulder must have felt it too, must have realized he had been
unnecessarily harsh.  Because before he had done much more
than glance at the current Big Ten standings, he had sighed 
and impatiently tossed the periodical aside.  Lifting his gaze
once more to hers, he had muttered, "Oh for God's sake, 
Scully.  Sit down before you fall down."
 
Then, pressing swiftly to his feet, he had taken hold of her
arms and guided her gently onto the sofa.

"Here," he had said once she was seated and he had handed
her the remote.  "Why don't you watch some TV or something?
I think I'm going to go in and lie down for awhile."

"This place isn't all that big, Mulder," she had told him as he
had turned to walk away, her words clipped, her feelings hurt.  
"You're not going to be able to hide from me forever."

"I'm not hiding," he had replied, stopping to look back at her,
his face wiped clean of all expression.

"Bullshit," she had countered, not quite as successful in 
masking her emotion.

Mulder had held her gaze for a moment more before giving 
her a quick little nod and mumbling, "Yeah.  I know the 
feeling."

With that, he had surrendered the use of the living room to her
for the rest of the evening.  Yet, as Scully had huddled on the 
couch, indifferently channel-surfing, her victory had felt more 
like annihilation.  She had known Mulder was angry with her, 
had realized he no doubt felt betrayed by her lies, but she had 
clearly underestimated the depth of his resentment.  She had 
thought perhaps as time had passed and they had each healed 
their various physical and emotional wounds, matters between 
them would somehow work themselves out.

Ha.

She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

Not with anything involving Mulder and her.

That night, as she had stared blindly at the television, she had 
tried to come up with a solution to her dilemma, had attempted
to form some sort of plan for winning back Mulder's trust.  Yet,
even as she had sat there, gloomily considering her options, she 
had felt daunted by her task. 

Depressingly so.

To Mulder, trust was everything.  He valued it as some men 
did their reputation, hoarding it like gold, dispensing it with 
the generosity of a miser.  Scully could count on one hand the 
number of people with whom her partner shared this most 
precious commodity.

Once, her name would have topped the list.

Now, she couldn't be sure where she stood.

She wished those doubts didn't devastate her as much they 
did, that all the unanswered questions didn't so thoroughly 
undermine her confidence, make her second-guess whether 
Mulder and she ought to even try to find their way back to
each other.

Because if she was surprised by how well Mulder had been 
managing to avoid her while they had been housed under 
one roof, she felt certain his skill would utterly dazzle her
when they were released back into the world.

And it looked as if perhaps that day might not be that far
off, she acknowledged to herself as she wiped down the 
counter and put away the last of the silverware.

Skinner had contacted them to say he would be stopping
by later that afternoon.

He had something he wanted to discuss.

Although she hadn't any proof upon which to base her
assumption, Scully had a feeling she knew what that 
*something* might be.

The Assistant Director wanted to talk about their futures.
She would bet her life on it.

Suspecting what she did, she knew just as strongly that she 
couldn't allow Mulder to shut her out any longer, she couldn't 
be patient and hope her proximity alone might be enough to 
wear him down.

She would have to force the issue.

She would have to confront him.

Almost as if a silent bell had gone off, signaling the start 
of a match, Mulder chose that moment to enter the kitchen,
stepping onto the checkerboard linoleum the same way he
might into a ring.  Clad in his standard gray sweats and 
a white T-shirt, his color was high from his exercise, his 
cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.  Glancing in her direction, 
he crossed to the refrigerator. 

"Hey," he murmured in hello.

Scully leaned back against the cupboards, her arms folded
across her breast, and watched Mulder duck his head to peer 
inside the Amana, admiring the way the seat of his pants 
clung to his back side.

While, at the same time, she tried to muster enough courage 
to throw the first punch.

"Skinner said he'd be by," she said softly at last.  "Said he'd
leave the office early and be here before nightfall."

Mulder straightened, a bottle of sports drink in his hand, 
and pushed the door shut after him.  "You don't suppose I 
could call and ask him to pick up some ribs, do you?  I'm 
having cravings."

"Do you have any idea why he's coming out here?" she asked, 
ignoring his query.

"He missed my sparkling personality?" Mulder quipped as he 
reached up to grab a tumbler from the cabinet above, his eyes 
pointedly avoiding hers. 

"I think he wants to talk about how we can get our lives back,"
she murmured, willing him to look at her.

As if responding to her mute plea, Mulder set down both the
glass and the bottle, and directed his gaze her way.  Less than
a foot of space separated them.

"Do you want it back?" he asked, his expression guarded, his
voice pitched low.  "Your life, I mean."

"The way it was before?" she queried, turning to regard him 
more fully, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other 
planted on her hip.  "No."

He studied her for a moment, his brow furrowed, his lips
pursed, before ruefully shaking his head and again facing
the counter.  His attention now focused on twisting open 
the container before him and filling his glass, he mumbled, 
"I'm not surprised."

"You shouldn't be," she agreed, taking a step towards him,
her stocking feet padding lightly against the tile.  "Why 
should I want things the way they were when they can be 
so much better?"

Backing away as he replaced the cap on the bottle, Mulder 
all but sneered at her in disbelief.  "'Better'?  You call this 
'better', Scully?"

"I guess that depends on what you compare it to," she calmly 
replied, taking still another step in his direction, not about to 
let him retreat.  "At least since we've been here I haven't had 
to worry about waking up in the morning and finding you 
dead."

"Except maybe from boredom," he muttered petulantly.

"I'm sorry I haven't been more entertaining, Mulder," Scully
muttered back, her patience fast waning.  

"No more sorry than I," he grimly assured her, turning away. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he said before guzzling the acid yellow beverage
he had poured, then depositing the now empty glass in the 
sink.  Picking up the bottle, he crossed to the refrigerator to 
put it away.  "Forget about it.  I'm going to take a shower."

"I can't!" she insisted, deliberately stepping into his path, her
hand outstretched to avert a collision.  It was a near thing.  Her 
fingertips just barely grazed his chest.  "I can't 'forget about it'.

Ever since that night at the cabin, I have been trying to 'forget' 
every snub, every silence, every time you leave a room simply 
because I'm there too.  Well, I'm sorry, Mulder, but I can't do 
it.  I won't do it.  Not anymore.  Like it or not, you are going 
to have to deal with me."

"Deal with you?" he echoed warily. 

"Yes," Scully said.

Shoulders drooping, Mulder sadly shook his head.  "Scully,
I don't think I know how to anymore."

It was the sorrow in his voice that undid her, the sorrow and
the resignation that went along with it.

Apparently, she had been mistaken.

Mulder wasn't angry with her.  Not just then.

He had simply given up.

The notion terrified her.

"It's not that hard," she said with a self-conscious little shrug,
her arms spread wide, her fear conspiring to make the limbs 
tremble just a bit.  "We're the same people we've always been.  
Just talk to me.  Stop running away."

Lips pressed flat, Mulder pushed his fingers distractedly 
through his hair.  "What do you want me say?"

"I don't know," she admitted quietly.  "I don't know what I 
want you to say.  I mean . . . it's not like I have this scripted.  
It's just . . . I'm just so tired of you acting as if I don't exist, 
Mulder."

He didn't deny her claims, didn't interrupt to try and defend
himself.  Heartened, Scully continued, her voice gaining 
strength the longer she spoke.

"I'm sure it must difficult for you to understand the decisions
I made," she said, her gaze aimed at his collarbone, her hands 
hanging at her sides.  "I know I've hurt you, that because of 
my actions you were put in danger and other people's lives 
were lost."

With great difficulty, she lifted her eyes to his, trying to ignore
the moisture she could feel gathering beneath her lashes.  Her 
partner stared back at her, his own eyes the color of leaves at 
dusk.  "I want you to know, Mulder, how sorry I am, how much 
I wish I could take back all the pain I've caused you."

Scully could feel the back of her throat beginning to seal with 
tears, knew that if she didn't finish her apology soon, she 
wouldn't be finishing it at all.  But she wanted to do this right.  
She didn't know if she would get the opportunity again, didn't 
trust she would have Mulder all to herself again anytime soon.  
So, she didn't rush, didn't edit.

Scully said it all.

And she told the truth.

"I realize my mistakes and I would undo them if I could," 
she said, her words measured and firm, only the edges damp.
"But the bottom line is that . . . despite everything . . . you're 
alive.  That's all that really matters to me.  And if the price 
for that is losing you . . . then I'm prepared to pay it."

They looked at each other for what felt to Scully like the 
better part of forever, bodies close, gazes locked.  Finally,
Mulder pulled away and wandered past her towards the
living room, his palm scrubbing over the bottom half of
his face as he walked.  Her tears at last overflowing down 
her pale cheeks, she turned to watch him, absently swiping 
at the drops with the back of her hand.

"You think that's what all this is about?"

At first she didn't realize the question had come from
Mulder, that it had, in fact, been spoken aloud.  She was 
so wrapped up in her own misery it took a minute for her 
to make sense of his query, the process feeling to her 
muddled mind much like actual translation.

"What?" she asked dumbly as she sought to regain her 
footing.

He rounded to face her, his expression incredulous.  "You 
think I'm angry because someone bounced a bullet off my 
head?"

Surprised both by Mulder's countenance and his turn of 
phrase, Scully shrugged.  "That has been known to piss 
people off."

"Yeah?  Well, I got news for you," Mulder said as he crossed 
back towards her, his stride militant.  "What I'm pissed about 
has nothing to do with what happened to me."

She frowned at that.  "What has it got to do with then?"

"You," he said succinctly, reaching out to wrap his fingers
tightly around her upper arms.  Drawing her near, he glared 
down into her upturned face.

"For some reason, you've decided that being with me is
worth dying for."

"What--?" she began, as lost as an abandoned mitten.

"And I'm here to tell you, Scully--nobody is that good in bed."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*




"I don't understand.  What are you talking about?" murmured
the petite red-haired woman in his grasp.

What am I talking about? Fox Mulder repeated inside his head,
his hands locked like manacles around Dana Scully's arms. 

What the fuck =am= I talking about?

He wasn't even sure himself sometimes.  Not anymore.  Not 
when everything he knew, everything in which he placed 
confidence seemed to be twisted and tangled, knotted like a 
willful telephone cord.

First he had trusted, without question or doubt, in Scully's 
love.

Then she had left him.

Only, soon after, he had discovered she had been blackmailed 
into her abandonment.

So everything would have been all right, except . . .

She had been shot.

And when she had laid there, wounded, blood all but gushing 
from the hole in her side, she had taken it into her head to 
apologize for what she had done.  To assure him she would 
never have succumbed to The Smoker's demands if it hadn't 
been that his attack had caught her unawares. 

"I never thought he'd go after you, Mulder," she had whispered,
lying small and still upon the cold ground, her eyes as dark and 
as wide as the inky sky above.  "You see . . . I always thought 
I'd be the one to die."

Shit.

"I am talking about what you said to me that night at the
cabin," Mulder answered at last, growling the words into 
Scully's face, noting with dismay the tear tracks marking 
her cheeks, but refusing to allow himself to be swayed by 
them.  "I'm talking about a certain inclination you seem to 
have towards martyrdom."

She scowled at that, at his harsh judgment upon her character.
Yet despite his explanation, her confusion seemingly remained.  
"You have me at a disadvantage, Mulder.  You appear to be
a whole lot clearer on what was said that night than I am."

"Are you telling me you didn't mean what you said?"

"I'm telling you I don't remember."

Flattening his mouth into a hard, narrow line, Mulder released 
his hold on his partner and backed away.  Turning from her, 
he started pacing, his fingers digging furrows in his hair.

"All right then, Scully, let me remind you."

Treading restlessly across the thin, gray carpet, he stole a
look at the woman he loved, glanced in her direction to see
how she was taking his ill-tempered little rant.

Well, one thing was for certain.

She wasn't particularly impressed.

Her arms folded across her chest, Scully stood watching him, 
freckles dusting her nose and cheeks like cinnamon, her eyes, 
banked blue flames.  The clothes Skinner had found for her 
from God-only-knew-where swam on her, swallowing her 
tiny frame in their excess.  Her posture was such that Mulder 
thought she might still be favoring her left side.  No surprise 
there.  Not to him.  Not with the damage that son-of-a-bitch 
had done . . .

Oh God.

He had never been so scared in his entire life.

When he had knelt beside her, helpless, with nothing but his 
bare hands with which to try and fend off her death.

"That night," he began, swallowing hard against the memories, 
"when we were waiting for help, you said something to me.  
Something I'd never thought I'd hear you say."

"What?" she asked quietly, her brow wrinkled with a frown.

Mulder stopped his aimless crisscrossing to pin her with a 
stare.  "You told me that when you'd decided to act upon
what you'd learned from Riggs, . . . when you came to my 
apartment that night, you did so fully expecting that a
relationship with me would get you killed."

At first, Scully said nothing.  Her eyes grew large, her mouth
opened, then shut once more.  Finally, she shook her head
and murmured slowly, "I can't . . . Mulder, I don't remember
saying that."

"Do you deny it?" he demanded.  "Do you deny saying it?"

"No," she calmly replied.  "I believe you."

"Then it was the truth," he said, his hands on his hips, his
stance wide.  "You meant what you said."

"I think it's a question of interpretation--"

"Don't try and turn this into a discussion of semantics, Scully!" 
he roared as he barreled back towards her.  "We're talking 
about your life here, not some dry, intellectual debate."

"That's right," she said when he lurched to a stop not a foot
from where she stood.  "=My= life.  My choice.  My decision."

Scully looked up at him, the fire in her eyes crackling to life,
his own temper its tinder.  "I've told you before, Mulder.  I 
knew the risk I was taking entering into a relationship with 
you."

"And you found the idea of impending death a turn-on?"
he muttered, his voice as ugly as his question.

"No," she insisted angrily.  "No, of course not.  Despite
what you apparently believe me capable of, I have never
had any intention of allowing myself to become a victim
of this relationship."

Hearing her passionate disavowal, it took everything Mulder 
had to keep from wincing in guilt.  Atta boy.  The woman 
takes a bullet trying to save your sorry ass, and you belittle 
her for it.

Oh yeah.  He was really something.

"But I won't pretend I wasn't aware there might be danger 
involved," Scully admitted, continuing on ignorant of 
his musings.  "You knew that.  We talked about it."

"We talked about the danger to =both= of us," he said, 
gesturing first to himself, then to her.  "Not just you."

"Mulder . . . ," she murmured tiredly, her eyes dipping away.

"My God, Scully--don't you realize how =twisted= that is?"
 he exclaimed, ducking his head to try and reclaim her gaze.  
"How wrong it is for you to consider me worth a bullet or a 
bomb.  How am I supposed to feel good about something like 
that?  How am I supposed to be with you, knowing you yourself 
view me as a likely cause of your death?  Christ.  I can't live
with that.  I don't even know what to say to you anymore."

Her lips pursed, Scully looked up at him through her lashes.
"This is what you've been so upset about?"

Mulder chuckled mirthlessly.  "Can you blame me?"

For a time, Scully remained mute.  Then, after tucking a piece 
of hair behind her ear, she shook her head.  "No.  I guess not."

Mulder nodded, then dropped his eyes, wishing he felt better 
about his partner's easy acquiescence.

"But I don't think you can blame me either."  

The words were spoken quietly, with little apology.

"What?" he queried, his gaze drawn upwards to light on hers.  
Scully stood, watching him, her expression grave.  Somehow, 
some way, they had moved still closer together.  If he were to 
open his arms, he could easily enfold her in his embrace.

"You can't blame me for telling you the truth," she said, 
so near now her hair rustled beneath his chin, stirred with
every breath he took.  "I've apologized for lying, Mulder, but 
I won't apologize for that."

"I'm not asking you to," he mumbled, confused by the turn
their conversation had taken, distracted by the blueness of 
her eyes, the lush fullness of her mouth.

When had he last kissed her?

Jesus.

He couldn't remember that far back.

"We both know that in the eyes of our enemies, I've never
been much more than an afterthought," she murmured, 
unknowing of his preoccupation.  "A sidekick.  Nothing 
more."

"Not to me," Mulder told her.

"I know," Scully said softly.  "I know that.  And that's why 
it was okay."

He nodded, but said nothing.

"Besides, it's not like I especially want their attention," she 
said, her brow arching with a kind of wry humor.  "Ego
notwithstanding, I've been quite happy existing outside of 
that particular limelight."

Mulder smiled.  She had a point.  There was something to
be said for living in comfortable obscurity.

Scully looked at him for a beat or two, thoughtfully studying 
his expression before glancing away, her hand rubbing wearily
over the back of her neck.

"But being 'unimportant' can also be thought of as being
'expendable'," she said with a small shrug, her voice, matter-
of-fact.  "I think we're both aware of that too.  And although I
can't be sure, I imagine that's what prompted me to say what 
I did to you at the cabin.  Even with all that's happened, I am 
still only valuable to The Smoker and his associates in how I 
relate to you."

Mulder bowed his head once more, pretending fascination 
with his newly acquired cross-trainers.

Yet, in reality, unable at that moment to meet Dana Scully's
eyes.

"But you know something, Mulder?  Seems to me your price 
on the open market has plummeted over the past few weeks 
as well."

Again bringing his gaze level, Mulder was surprised to see
Scully smiling at him, a degree of mischief contained in the
gentle curving of her lips.

"What was that?" he mumbled, only just managing to keep 
from reaching out and tracing the shape of those lips with his 
fingertip.

"While I'll be the first to admit The Smoker is not to be 
trusted, I believe he was honest in one thing," Scully 
murmured ruefully.  "I think he was telling me the truth 
when he said you've become too great an obstacle, that it's
gotten to the point where he can no longer ignore your work 
and its impact on his." 

"=Our= work," Mulder corrected quietly.

"Our work," she echoed just as softly, her smile ratcheting 
up a notch in brilliance.

He just basked in the glow.

"And because of that, Agent Mulder, it would appear you've 
become expendable too."

"How do you mean?"

"Near as I can figure, The Smoker's original plan was to
kill me and pin the murder on you," she said, her tone
betraying no emotion.  "He wanted us out of the way and
the X-Files closed for good."

"You think he wanted to make it look as if I'd snapped when 
you left?"

"It makes sense.  Just killing us wouldn't have been enough; 
other agents would have taken our places.  But if he had 
managed to discredit us--to make the X-Files seem like 
nothing more than the vanity project of a madman and his 
lover, chances are he would have succeeded in having the 
division shut down entirely."

"And his bugging your apartment . . . ?"

"Proof, as he so succinctly put it.  Of our relationship, and
my bringing it to an end."

His stomach souring at the idea, Mulder reluctantly nodded.   
"So you think my place is bugged too?  And the office?"

"I'd count on it," she said.  "The Smoker wouldn't have
wanted to miss anything."

"Like the conversation we had when you turned in your
resignation?" he dryly queried.

"Lots of material there," Scully concurred, her eyes avoiding
his.

"Don't remind me," Mulder muttered darkly.

That coaxed another smile out of her, this one considerably
less dazzling than the one preceding it.

"But the bottom line is this," Scully continued, her gaze still 
trained away, "when The Smoker's original plan failed and it 
seemed as if it were no longer feasible for you to be framed 
for my death, his would-be assassin had no hesitation about 
deviating from his orders." 

Mulder wished to God Scully would stop talking so casually 
about her near death.  It was giving him the willies. 

"Had things worked out to his satisfaction, you and I would
both have lost our lives in the fire," she murmured, bringing
her argument to a close.

Tired suddenly, exhausted in a way that pointed towards
emotional exertion rather than physical, Mulder turned and
began drifting towards the couch, its plaid bulk all at once 
inviting.

"So, what's it all mean, Scully?" he queried as he circled
around the sofa and plopped himself down on its bowed
middle.   "Where do we go from here?"

"I think that's up to you."

Mulder craned his neck to look at his partner, twisted in his 
seat to catch a glimpse of her face.  Scully looked back at him, 
her expression composed, her eyes intent, the muscle at the 
corner of her jaw clenching and unclenching.  

As if she were trying to physically curb the desire to say more.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked cautiously.

She lifted her brows, then glanced down and away, first at 
the floor, then at her hands.  They peeked out from beneath
her rolled up cuffs, as pale and seemingly delicate as porcelain.
"You know that talk we had in the office, Mulder?  The day I 
was packing up?"

He licked his lips and cleared his throat.  "Yeah?"

"I said a lot of things I didn't mean.  A lot of things to hurt
you, to drive you away."

He nodded, wanting to encourage her.

If not this particular topic of conversation.

"Yet, at the heart of it all was one fundamental truth."

Mulder felt his own heart plummet in his chest, ripping free
from the network of veins anchoring it, to drop inside him
like a stone.

"As long as we're working on the X-Files, we're going to be
at risk.  That's nothing new, and it's certainly not profound.
But it's also something we can't avoid."

True enough.   They had definitely been over that ground
before.

"I don't think either of us is crazy about the situation," Scully
said as she began crossing towards him, her stocking feet
mute against the carpet.  "I know I'm not.  But, like you, my 
choices are rather limited.  If I want you, I have to accept that 
our enemies might try and harm you because of it."

"Or you," he muttered stubbornly, looking up at her when 
she came to stand before him.

Scully smiled down at him sadly.  "The other is harder. 
I found that out pretty quickly.  It's one thing to take 
responsibility for myself and my own well-being.  But the 
thought that you might be made to suffer because of me or 
something I've done . . . "

She trailed off then, and pressed her lips together as if to
once more hold back unwanted sentiment.  Reaching out,
she skimmed her fingers through his hair, gently combing 
the unruly strands from his forehead.

"It was awful.  The fear, the guilt.  The sense I had that it 
might as well have been me who had hurt you, who had put 
you in that hospital bed.

Sighing, Scully's hand stilled upon his head.  "But then, you
knew that, didn't you, Mulder?  You knew what that felt like,
what a burden it could be."

Mulder closed his eyes for an instant, choosing to concentrate
only on the warm weight of her palm pressing against his
scalp, and not on the emotions her simple query evoked.  
"Yes."

"So now I guess the question remains, 'Is it worth it?'  To you,
I mean."

Lifting his lashes, Mulder looked up at her.  "Is what worth it?"

Scully's hand slid away to hang heavy at her side, her sleeves
covering all but the very tips of her fingers.  "Me."

His eyes grew wide with dismay.  "You think I don't want you?"

She shrugged with what appeared to him to be studied 
nonchalance.  "I'm not so worried about me as I am the 
baggage I bring with me."

Confused, he shook his head.  "What baggage?"

"The stuff you told me just a little while ago you can't live with."

Brows raised, Mulder cocked his head.  "I want to make sure I'm
following you here, Scully.  So why don't you spell it out for me.  
Exactly what stuff would that be?"

She sighed again, her eyes focused somewhere around his knees.  
"Just the usual, Mulder.  Nothing too exotic."

Scully looked up then, stared him right in the eye.  Conviction
shone in her gaze, an almost fierce resolution.  But a kind of 
trepidation flickered there as well, a fear Mulder couldn't ever 
remember seeing before.  Not in her.

"I love you," she told him quietly.  "More than anything.  More
than my life."

Like some dreadful line of Hallmark verse, his heart seemed to 
have suddenly solved the mystery of flight.  Rushing upwards
from the pit of his stomach, it soared until it could go no further,
lodging uncomfortably in his throat.

"Scully--," he tried, surprised to find he could speak around the 
obstruction.

"I want to be with you," she said, cutting him off, her words 
husky with emotion.  "To work beside you.  To share your bed."

Oh Christ.  His eyes were watering.  If he didn't watch it, he'd
soon be blubbering like a baby.

"I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen,"  
Scully continued, reaching out to trail her fingertips lightly 
across his brow.  It felt wonderful, cool and soothing.  Again, 
Mulder murmured inside his head.  Again, please.  "And if 
anyone--The Smoker, Skinner, or some still unknown someone
--threatens you or what we have, I will oppose them."

I know that, Scully, he silently assured her, losing himself in 
the calm, smooth cadence of her voice, in the liquid midnight 
of her eyes.  I do.

You've always been my champion.

"To get to you, they will have to go through me," she said,
almost as if she were echoing his musings, her hand skating
down the side of his face until she cradled the corner of his
jaw in her palm.  Stroking his cheek with her thumb, the
motion slow and tender, she leaned down to query softly,
"Can you honestly tell me it's any different for you?"

Mulder swallowed hard.  Once, then again, trying to force 
his heart back where it belonged.

So he could speak.

"No," he whispered hoarsely, the single word all he could 
muster.

Scully smiled at him, her expression wistful, his face still
nestled in her hand.  "So what do we do, Mulder?  It's up to
you.  The best assurance I can offer you is that The Smoker
now seems just as likely to try and kill you as he does me.

She seemed to find this humorous, and arched her brow in 
bemusement even as her smile faded.  "I know that's not 
much, but it's something."

Leave it to Scully to find hope in both their lives being
jeopardized, Mulder thought with rueful admiration.

"So what do you want to do?"

Saying nothing at first, Mulder took her hand from his 
cheek and pressed his lips to its center, his eyes shut
tight.  Then, changing his grip, he grabbed hold of her
wrist and tugged gently on her arm.

"Come here."

Lowering herself carefully, Scully sat beside him, one leg 
tucked beneath the other.  The minute she was settled, he 
reached for her.  Weaving his fingers through her hair like 
ribbons, Mulder pulled her to him, carefully not to move too 
quickly or too far, mindful of her injury.  Bringing her face 
to his, his hands bracketed on either side, he kissed her, 
softly, his mouth lingering.  Her lips met his and clung, 
warm and welcoming, as sumptuous as velvet, as heady as
champagne.

After all too short a time, he reluctantly eased away to 
look at her.  Scully's cheeks were flushed, her mouth damp, 
her eyes closed.  For just a second longer, her lashes remained 
lowered.  Then, slowly, lazily, they drifted open, revealing a 
decidedly slumberous gaze.

Bedroom eyes.

"That was nice," she murmured, her throaty alto feeling to
Mulder as if it were reverberating against his very groin.

"Yeah . . . well, you asked me what I wanted to do," he
mumbled in reply, his fingers clenching in her hair, the 
cool strands sifting between them like watered silk.

"So, was that supposed to be a fairy-tale kind of kiss?" 
Scully queried, her hands closing over his wrists as if to 
hold him to her.

"You mean of the princess and frog variety?" he queried
back.

She smiled.  "Well, I don't know about that.  I'm not exactly 
what you'd call princess material, and green has never been 
your color."

Note to self:  ditch any and all leftover St. Patrick's Day garb.

"No," she said quietly, her thumb tracing a leisurely path 
across his knuckles.  "What I mean is, . . . you know how 
at the end of most children's stories, the hero and heroine 
kiss and everything is suddenly back the way it should be--the 
kingdom is restored, the villain is carted off to the dungeon . . . "

"And they all live happily ever after?" Mulder murmured, 
gently releasing her face from his grasp.

Scully shrugged almost sheepishly, her brows lifting in 
tandem.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure how best to respond.
Finally, he covered her hands with his, curled his fingers
round hers and held on tight. 

"I can't promise you 'ever after', Scully," he said, shaking
his head in remorse.  "I can't even promise you tomorrow.
Not anymore.  All I have to give you is right here, right 
now." 

She sat, watching him, her eyes luminous and large.

"But I can tell you this--regardless of how much time we
have together, how many more days and nights . . . this
is it for me," he told her solemnly.  "This . . . you and I . . . 
this is for life."

Scully looked at him for a moment or two more, her gaze
searching, her breath shallow and quick.  Then, as if coming
to some sort of conclusion, she nodded, her study of his 
features continuing still. 

"For life," she softly pledged.

And saying nothing else, she stretched up to kiss him, one
hand hooking around the back of his head to draw him close, 
the other grabbing hold of his T-shirt as if for balance.  Mouth
open, hot and yearning, Scully pressed her lips to his.  Sliding
and releasing.  Angling, first one way, then another.  Moving 
over his.  Soft, so soft.  And sweet, like the most sinfully rich
dessert imaginably.  Caramel and fudge and dollop upon 
dollop of freshly whipped cream.

Falling back against the sofa cushions, Mulder pulled his
partner with him, his hands on her shoulders, in her hair, 
towing her along until she somehow knelt over him, her 
arms twined around his neck, her breasts brushing unfettered 
against his chest.

"No more shutting me out, Mulder," Scully muttered against
his mouth, pulling away only just far enough to voice the 
words.

"No," he agreed before capturing her lower lip between both 
of his and tugging on it gently.  "No more."

"I thought you were mad at me," she whispered between 
kisses, stringing them like pearls along his jaw line.  "Angry 
at what I had done."

"I was angry," he admitted breathlessly, nuzzling the side of
her face with his nose.

Angry at the risks you took, the danger you courted.

"And now?"

"Now I'm getting over it," he mumbled, sealing her lips
with his and plunging his tongue inside.

Greeting him in a similar fashion, Scully softly moaned,
the sound echoing oddly through them both.  Her hand
cupping his cheek, she pressed and pulled at his lips with
hers, varying the angle and force, her tongue sliding along 
his, flicking and stroking hotly.  Reveling in her response, 
Mulder slowly mapped the interior of her mouth, exploring 
its shape and depth, carefully and thoroughly, as if he thought 
never to leave.

His breath harsh, his pulse quickening, he ran his hands
down the graceful slope of her back, cupped her bottom in 
his palms.  Squeezed, released.  

And repeated.

Several times.

Apparently approving of his actions, Scully's kiss grew wilder, 
more aggressive.  She nipped at his lips, sucked on them, 
on his tongue, all the while making small frantic noises in 
the back of her throat, the low, faint cries sending shivers 
down his spine.

His groin growing heavy and hard, needy with desire, Mulder 
stole a hand beneath her shirt.  For a moment, he merely
stroked her heated skin, petted the downy valley at her waist.  
But before long, such innocent caresses weren't enough.  
Following her body's natural curve, he slid his hand upwards
towards her breast.  Soon finding what he sought, he held it
in his grasp, fingers relaxed, his thumb circling round and 
round the tender peak, coaxing its center to harden.

Bemused, he felt Scully become distracted by his touch, 
mesmerized by it.  Almost as if against her will, her kisses 
slowed, her hand fell away from his face to land heavily on
his chest, fingers lax.  Encouraged by her reaction, Mulder 
decided to take matters a step further.  Grasping her now 
taut nipple between his forefinger and thumb, he rolled
it, twisting gently, then tugged on the nubbin, stretching
the sensitive bit of flesh with care.

Shuddering atop him, Scully gasped at the unexpected pull,
and turned, one shoulder in front of the other, as if hoping 
to somehow heighten the sensations assailing her.  However, 
the instant she moved past a certain point, she grimaced and 
froze, sucking in a quick, painful breath.

"What?" Mulder mumbled worriedly, instantly slipping his
hand free from her clothes.  "What's wrong?  What happened?"

"Nothing," she murmured with a measure of chagrin, wrinkling
her nose as she gingerly worked out the kinks.  "I just twisted 
funny.  It pulled on the wound.  That's all."

Feeling like the worst kind of masher, Mulder smoothed his
hands over her hair in apology, sweeping the rumpled strands
away from her face.  

"That's *all*?" he echoed dryly.  "I'd say that's enough."

Scully eyed him speculatively, her cheeks blushed pink with 
arousal, her lips swollen and red.  Keeping him fixed with 
her gaze, she reached down between them.  Her aim unerring, 
her palm landed heavily on his thickened shaft.  Unthinkingly,
his hips lifted to push against the soft weight, to seek greater
pressure, greater heat.  Scully only smiled.

"Really, Mulder?" she queried huskily, her brow doing its 
signature bend and stretch.  "Enough, you say?"

"Scully . . . just give me a minute, okay?" Mulder entreated,
vaguely embarrassed by the situation, by his lack of control
in more ways than one.  "Give me a minute to get myself
together here, and then we can take a step back, take it slower
 . . . cuddle or something."

"Cuddle?" Scully parroted back in disbelief.

"Or something," he mumbled stubbornly.

"Gee, Mulder.  And maybe after that we can maybe go to 
the soda shop for a malted," she muttered from his lap.

"You're mocking me," he muttered back, glowering at her.

"Yes," she agreed, her expression utterly deadpan.  "Yes, 
I am."

"I don't want to hurt you," he said reasonably, cutting
to the heart of her discontent.

"You won't," she assured him.

Unconvinced, he shook his head.

Taking up the challenge, Scully slipped carefully from the 
sofa to stand before him, bracing herself as necessary against 
his knees.

"As long as I don't make an sudden movements from side
to side, I'm fine," she told him, her fingers finding the tiny
buttons on her checkered shirt and slipping them free one 
by one until the garment hung open from her shoulders, 
exposing a swath of pale, smooth skin.  And the corner of
her bandage.

"That's not going to work," Mulder told her, his arms folded
disapprovingly across his chest, the low, rough quality of his 
voice belying his words.

Scully cocked her head as if in consideration.  "You sure?  
What about . . . ?"

Hooking her thumbs inside the waistband of her pants, she
pushed them and the panties beneath, past her hips to the
floor.  The baggy slacks dropped easily away.  Keeping her 
eyes locked on his, she stepped free of them, garbed now
only in loosely flowing flannel and her floppy rag socks.  
Mulder could see her slim, strong legs, the twin inner curves 
of her breasts, her navel's shadowed dimple, the nest of auburn 
curls shielding her sex . . .

Oh God.

He could smell her, like an animal scenting its mate half a
forest away.

"What about this, Mulder?" she queried guilelessly after he
had stared at her slack-jawed for a century or two. 

"That just might do it," he admitted as he shifted restlessly
in his seat.

Smiling softly at his discomfiture, Scully stepped closer to 
him, her shirt playing peek-a-boo as she neared.

"I'll be careful, Mulder," she told him as she bent down to 
try and help him with his sweats.  Shooing her away, he
acknowledged defeat, and quickly toed off his sneakers, 
then shucked his socks and pants, littering the floor with 
his clothes.  "As long as we take it easy, I'll be fine."

His rigid length seemed to pulse in his lap as he waited, 
heavy with blood and want.

Take it easy.

Just take it easy, damn it.

Holding out his hands in invitation, he guided her down 
over him.  Scully knelt above his lap, her legs framing his.  
Reaching down, she slid her hand slowly along his hot, silky 
shaft.  Mulder grimaced in pleasure, a moan vibrating softly,
deeply in his throat.

"It's been a long time, Mulder," she said, watching him and
his reaction as she stroked him, petted him hard and long.  
"Weeks."

"Months," he corrected quietly, his hips languidly following
the rhythm set by her caress.

"A long time," she murmured again.

And, at last, lifting him in her palm, she centered herself 
over him.  Slowly, slowly, she sunk down.

Her eyes sliding shut as he filled her, Scully tipped her 
head, arched her neck so her hair dangled midway down 
her back.  Her teeth snagged on her lower lip, she sighed, 
her breath escaping in a long, seemingly endless hiss, her 
posture almost painfully erotic.

Determined to keep his eyes open and on her, Mulder 
groaned brokenly as they joined, all but overcome by the 
sensation of Scully closing around him, taking him in.  
Hot and wet and tight and softsoftsoft.

God.  It had been a long time.

Forever.

Fucking forever.

Finally, he was buried in her, deeply, to his hilt.  With her
hands on his shoulders, Scully bent her head to kiss him.

"See?" she whispered, smiling, bathing his lips with the word.  
"Piece of cake."

Answering her smile with one of his own, Mulder tenderly
smoothed the back of his index finger along the slope of her 
cheek, yet said nothing in reply.

Scully didn't seem to mind his silence.  She pushed against 
him with her hands, against the couch with her legs.  

Lifted.

And lowered over him once more.

Her rate deliberate.

Leisurely.

Lazy as summer's hottest afternoon.

Scully swayed above him, her full, round breasts bobbing 
before him, swinging as temptingly as Eve's apple did from 
Eden's tree.  Sliding his hands beneath her shirt, up her back 
and around, Mulder stilled their gentle motion, balanced them 
on his palms and lifted them to his lips.  There, he suckled and 
pulled, nursing on the tender tips, nipping at them, then soothing 
them with teasing little licks, with sweet, honeyed kisses.  Scully 
mewled in his hold, yet refrained from hurry, continuing on 
instead at her same steady pace.

It was killing him.

Christ.  Mulder wanted nothing more than to simply drop 
them both to the floor, roll Scully beneath him, and drive into 
her.  He yearned to piston and pound into her strong, soft body, 
to rut mindlessly between her legs until his own form exploded 
in pleasure.  His need was so great, his arousal so fierce, that 
this slow slip and slide just wasn't enough.  The friction wasn't 
hard enough, fast enough.  He wanted more . . .

More . . .

"More," he moaned softly, helplessly, his head resting against 
the back of the sofa, his hands skimming urgently up and 
down Scully's arms.  Sweat beaded on his brow, his lips felt
swollen, sensitive, raw from their kisses.  "More."

"Are you close?" Scully whispered, her hair an auburn tempest, 
her eyes the deepest, dearest sapphire, a faint tremor shimmering
through her slender frame as she strained to increase her speed.

"Yeah," Mulder panted, squeezing her shoulders for emphasis,
his hips pumping beneath her as aggressively as he dared.  
"Yeah . . . close."

Swiping her mouth with her tongue, Scully nodded.  Then, 
sighing, closed her eyes and began to rise and fall more swiftly 
than before.

Yet, although the added intensity was welcomed by Mulder, 
at the same time, he feared the toll being exacted on his partner.  
He saw the sweat gleaming on her skin, recognized the 
fierceness with which she gripped his shoulders, felt the harsh, 
hurried flow of her breath as it bounced against his cheek.

Tired, he thought.  Scully had to be tired.  She was still only 
weeks from a hospital bed.  Weeks from a bullet and a beating.  
She had to be exhausted.

"Easy, Scully," he murmured, wanting to do the right thing, 
the noble thing, trying to wrap his arms around her and pull 
her flush against him, thinking to still or at least slow her 
motion.  Even if it killed him.  "Remember we said we'd take 
it easy?"

But rather than melting against him in gratitude, drained
and shivering with fatigue, Scully fought his efforts.

"I want to finish, Mulder," she muttered into his face, the 
hair edging her face damp and dark, her eyes dilated with 
passion.  "Let me finish."

"Scully--"

"Lie down. . . . just lie down."

Securing her atop him, Mulder did as he was told.  Swiveling 
on the sofa, he propped his head against its arm and throw
pillow, and stretched his legs out along its cushions.  As soon 
as they had shifted positions, Scully adjusted too.  Keeping him
secreted within her, she balanced above him on her hands and 
knees, her palms planted high on his chest, her legs on either 
side of his hips, her shirt draped over them both.

Almost instantly, she began to move.

"Scully--," Mulder groaned as their bodies met, then fell away, 
closing his eyes in mindless pleasure and pressing his chin 
towards the ceiling, baring his throat in surrender.

God, it was fabulous.  Scully was moving more swiftly than
she had before, with more authority, and apparently more
ease.

"Leverage," she muttered, her head hanging between her
arms, her hair obscuring her face from view.  "I needed 
leverage."

Mulder didn't need anything.  Not right at that moment in
time.  Not when the woman he loved was gliding over his
exquisitely sensitive cock with such power, such care.

"Are you . . . ?" he queried weakly, his hands coasting over 
her, stopping every once and awhile to clutch and knead.

"Oh yeah," she assured him hoarsely, the curls at her core
mixing with those at his, tangling with every slap of their
heated flesh.  "Yeah."

Good.  Because he didn't think he was going to be able to
hang on much longer.  His hips were rolling beneath her,
almost of their own accord, faster and higher, his fervor 
increasing by the second.  Dragging his hands from where 
they rested almost chastely on her thighs, he slid them 
towards her middle.  Spreading his fingers wide, like a 
girdle, he positioned his thumbs where their bodies joined.  
Capturing a bit of the moisture he found there, slicking 
their way, he lifted his hands just a wee bit more, searching 
for the plump little bud that would set Dana Scully free.

"=Mulder=!"

Ah.  There it is.

Circling lightly over her, above and below, swirling and sliding, 
both his hands moving in concert, Mulder felt Scully begin to 
shudder above him, her breath coming now in tortured-sounding 
gasps, her head lolling feebly from side to side.

"Come on," he coaxed, his eyes pinched shut, his lips pulled
tight, his jaw set, his thumbs spinning.  "Come on . . . come 
on."

Please.

Oh, please.

At last, she stiffened above him.

"God. . ." she moaned.  

Her arms finally giving out, Scully collapsed her upper body 
onto his, her cheek pressed against his breast, driving the 
breath from his lungs.  Her hands creeping upwards to burrow 
in his hair, she began to clench around him, fast and fluttery, 
her groin yet spanking his.

As soon as Scully's contractions began, Mulder let go.  Twining
his arms around her slender back, holding her close, he thrust 
upwards once, then again, bucking beneath her, all restraint 
forgotten as his body pumped wetly into hers.  Electric sparks
seemingly crackled behind his eyes, danced on the ends of his 
hair, surged down his arms and legs, make the hair dusting 
the limbs stand on end.

Oh boy.

Afterwards, as he murmured soft nonsense words of love, 
Mulder ran his hands up and down Scully's limp form, soothing 
her and him, while they floated blissfully on what had suddenly 
become the world's most comfortable couch.

"Okay, now I'm tired," Scully confessed after a time, speaking
the words into his chest.

"Me too," he mumbled against her hair.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?"

"I missed that."

"Definitely."

Silence.

"Missed you too."

Jesus.  If you only knew. . . 

"I was always here."

Drawing Scully more securely against him still, Mulder
pressed a kiss to the top of her head.  "I was just a little 
hard to find.  That's all."

"No more hide and seek," she whispered, nuzzling her
brow just beneath his chin, her fingertips toying with the
hair at his temple.

"No," he promised quietly.  "No more hide and seek."

Not from you, Scully, he thought to himself.  

Even as he wondered if perhaps a version of that children's 
game might be what the two of them had to look forward to
if they were to stay together.

And alive.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*


It was almost exactly half past ten on a blustery November 
morning when Walter Skinner stood at the foot of the Lincoln 
Memorial, craning his neck as he searched for the one who 
had summoned him not twenty minutes before.

There he was, leaning against that far wall, his gray trench coat 
flapping around his legs like a flock of petulant ducks.  The 
Smoker.  Catching sight of the Assistant Director, the older 
man grimaced, almost as if he would have preferred to have 
avoided their upcoming conversation rather than have initiated it.  
Skinner stifled the urge to smile at the other man's sour expression.

Averting his gaze, he quickly climbed the steps, eager to have it 
out between them, once and for all.

"You wanted to see me?" the A.D. drawled when he reached the 
top, scanning the crowd around them to see if the nicotine fiend 
had brought anyone along with him for support.  No one immediately 
stood out from the throng as suspicious.  It appeared it was just the 
two of them.

The Smoker squinted against the gunmetal sky, the lines around his 
eyes deep and long.  "I need to talk to you, to discuss the little
show 
your agents are putting on as we speak."

Skinner feigned surprise.  "You mean the press conference?"

"Yes.  The press conference."

"If you're so concerned about it, why aren't you there instead 
of here?"  

"I don't need to be there," The Smoker replied as he rustled 
around in his vest pocket and dug out a battered pack of Morleys.  
"I have a representative in attendance."

"I've got a metal detector at the entrance to the auditorium and 
guards posted at every door, if your 'representative' tries anything, 
anything at all--," Skinner gritted out as he took a step towards his 
nemesis.

The Smoker showed no fear.  Instead, he regarded the other man 
mildly, a cigarette dangling from between his lips, his lighter in his

hand.  "No need for alarm, Assistant Director Skinner.  I assure 
you, the last thing I want is to call undue attention to Fox Mulder 
or his partner."

"That's what I'm counting on," Skinner muttered, striving to get his
heart rate under control.

The Smoker took a moment to process that bit of information, filling
the time by lighting his cigarette and taking a leisurely drag.  "Oh, 
is that what this is about?" He scoffed at last.  "Is that the reason 
why you've decided to make Mulder and Scully's 'situation' public?"

"What if it was?" Skinner asked, his posture tense, his hands balled
tight inside his coat pockets.

The Smoker puffed thoughtfully on his Morley.  "Interesting tactic.  
To try and hide the two of them in plain sight."

"I'm not 'hiding them'," Skinner said.  "I'm making them too 
famous for you to kill."

"Famous?" The Smoker parroted mockingly.  "Is that your 
sole defense?  You know what Warhol said about the fickle 
nature of fame, Mr. Skinner.  It will happen to all of us.  And 
it will last no more than fifteen minutes."

"Warhol might have been right," Skinner admitted with a small 
shrug.  "When it comes to most people.  But you know as well 
as I do that Mulder and Scully have always fallen just a little 
outside the norm."

In more ways than one, the Assistant Director ruefully mused.  
Few people would have gotten themselves into such a predicament 
to begin with; fewer still would have had the guts to go along with 
his scheme to set it all right.

"Precisely why this ploy of yours won't work," The Smoker 
responded tartly.  "Mulder has no credibility, neither with the 
public nor with the Bureau.  Anything he says, any story he tells, 
is suspect."

"Under normal circumstances, I 'd agree with you," Skinner said.  
"Mulder's reputation typically precedes him.  But this time, he isn't 
trying to bring to light a global conspiracy or prove to the American 
public the existence of extraterrestrials."

"No?" The Smoker sneered before sucking on his cigarette.  "Then 
what is Chicken Little shouting about now?"

Skinner came to within an inch of slapping the Morley from 
the smug son-of-a-bitch's mouth.  "Agent Mulder is telling the 
reporters assembled about a blackmail plot designed to destroy 
the careers of both Agent Scully and himself.  He is telling the 
press everything--about the relationship he and his partner share, 
the threats made against them.  Everything the two of them have 
been through over the past few months will soon be splashed 
across the front page of every newspaper from here to the Pacific."

The Smoker said nothing, choosing instead to draw yet again on 
his fast dwindling stick of tobacco.

"He has no names to give, of course," Skinner continued.  "We 
were unable to identify the bodies we recovered of the two men 
responsible for the agents' injuries."

"Pity," The Smoker murmured, pulling the cigarette butt from 
between his lips, dropping it to the ground, and grinding it 
beneath his Oxford-shod foot.

"Yes," Skinner agreed.  "It is."

"And that's all you have to base this circus on?" The Smoker 
queried after a beat.  "Two nameless bodies and the ravings of 
a man his own colleagues view as unstable.  I'm surprised your 
superiors allowed you to proceed."

"Allowed me?" Skinner echoed sardonically.  "My 'superiors' 
view this as a PR wet dream."

The Smoker just looked at him.

"Recruitment is down," Skinner explained, warming to his topic.  
"Especially among women.  The Bureau has been looking for a 
way to lure qualified candidates to its ranks.  Mulder and Scully 
are young, attractive, intelligent; both possess advanced degrees.  
And say what you like about Mulder's often unorthodox methods--
but their solve rate is in the upper 3% of departments Bureau-wide.  
Throw in a near-tragic love story, and they're practically custom-
made for this sort of thing, poster children for the new FBI."

"'New FBI'," The Smoker sputtered with derision.  "Don't be 
absurd.  Do you honestly expect me to believe that Mulder has 
suddenly gone from being the outcast in the basement to the 
Bureau's wunderkind?"

"Why not?" Skinner replied, hard won satisfaction coloring his 
words, lifting the corners of his mouth.  "It's not that far a leap.  
After all, Agent Scully's record is nearly spotless and it wasn't 
so long ago that Mulder himself was on the fast track.  Besides, 
they now have the Department of Justice's spin-doctors behind 
them, working their magic.  You'd be surprised what you can 
do for a person's image when you position the facts just right."

For a time, The Smoker was silent.  Turning away from the 
Assistant Director, he surveyed instead the Mall, his eyes narrowed 
as before, his expression overall difficult to read.  He remained 
mute just long enough for the first stirrings of worry to churn 
thickly in the pit of Skinner's stomach.  

Shit.

What if their gamble backfired?

What if the man contemplating the Reflecting Pool below decided 
to eliminate Mulder and Scully despite their efforts to prevent just 
such a calamity? 

What if, after all was said and done, he wound up failing his
two charges?  Again.

When at last he spoke, The Smoker gave no indication as to what 
his intentions were.  He merely shifted to once more regard the 
former Marine, his gaze measuring.  "I really must applaud your 
efforts, Assistant Director Skinner.  It sounds to me as if a great 
deal of work went into coordinating today's revelations.  You 
must have called in a good many markers."

"I collected on some favors," Skinner said, his tone matter-of-fact.

As before, The Smoker said nothing at first, opting instead to study 
the man standing before him, his mouth pressed thin.  Finally, he 
asked,  "Why?"

Skinner hesitated himself, considering whether he should 
indeed indulge both The Smoker and his own pride.  Turning 
the matter over inside his head, he glanced away, his eyes 
lighting on the Washington Monument, standing tall and 
strong at the other end of the Mall.  He thought about the 
history the obelisk was meant to invoke, the values embodied 
by its namesake and by the man whose statue loomed opposite,
towering over their clandestine meeting, solemn and serene.  
He remembered how, when he was young, he had hoped to follow 
in the tradition of these two great leaders, to serve his country 
and its citizens, defending its interests and upholding its laws.  He 
recalled too how quickly those ideals had been tainted.  By Vietnam 
and its aftermath.  By the machinations of the man now waiting for 
his reply.

"I did it because it's the right thing to do," he said at last, the 
wind whipping off the Potomac stinging his cheeks, wetting his 
eyes.  "Because I am sick and tired of you toying with my agents, 
treating them like chess pieces instead of human beings."

The Smoker uttered nothing in his defense.  He stood by stoically, 
letting Skinner have his say.

"I did it because for the first time in a long time I thought I had a 
battle I could win," Skinner admitted.  "Scully said your assassin had

told her your goal in all this was to shut down the X-Files.
Publicizing 
the department rather than burying it should make that harder for you 
to do."

"Do you really believe your 'spin-doctors' can make Mulder's 
crusade seem like the vocation of a reasonable man?" The Smoker 
queried.

"Do I believe the country as a whole will embrace the X-Files 
and the work Mulder and Scully have done?" Skinner queried 
back.  "No, of course not.  I'm not naive.  I know most people 
will roll their eyes at the stories they'll hear."

The Smoker's lips quirked at that, as if he himself was disinclined 
to take the matter seriously.

"But at least their case will have been heard," Skinner said, 
vaguely surprised by the urgency he could feel contained within 
his words, the fervor with which he spoke.  "Finally.  The seed 
will have been planted."

"So when the world realizes how it has been betrayed by you and 
the men you work with, when the day comes and your deal with the 
devil is finally revealed, people will remember my agents and their 
sacrifices," he continued, his voice low and firm.

"And they will understand."

The Smoker looked at him for a second or two longer, seemingly 
reflecting on what had just been said.  "You consider Mulder
and Scully heroes," he murmured at last.

"I do," Skinner confirmed.

The Smoker slowly nodded, his gaze speculative.  "You know,
Assistant Director Skinner, . . . it's a funny thing about heroes.  
It seems the ones who live longest in our memory are the men 
and women who come to the worst ends."

Bastard.

Skinner recognized the threat, heard the sinister note threading
through The Smoker's words.

But was the menace real or merely a bluff?

He couldn't judge.

And, in the end, it wouldn't matter anyway, Skinner admitted to 
himself.  He had known going into this that he wouldn't be able to 
protect Mulder and Scully if the man standing opposite him chose 
to strike.  Not forever.  Not with the weapons The Smoker had at 
his disposal.  That was why he had formulated this particular 
plan to begin with.  

All he could really do was convince the tobacco junkie it would be 
in his best interests to spare the two agents' lives.

Best not to overplay his hand.

"Well, if that's the case, then it seems I made the right decision,"
he murmured finally.

The Smoker frowned, seemingly surprised by Skinner's reaction.  
"What do mean?"

Skinner shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.  "I 
want Mulder and Scully alive.  You want them and the work 
they do out of the public's eye."

The Smoker pursed his lips as if not entirely agreeing with
Skinner's take on things.  Yet, he held his tongue.

"So all you have to do is leave them alone," Skinner said
reasonably.  "And we both wind up happy."

"Happy?" The Smoker repeated with disdain.

"It's the little things that mean so much," Skinner replied, his
tone similar.

The Smoker glanced away again, his eyes trained now on the
crowded horizon.  "One man and one woman," he murmured 
almost dreamily.  "When weighed against the whole of civilization, 
the matter of their survival seems small indeed, does it not?"

"Small enough to overlook," Skinner said, the last word
spoken with particular emphasis.

The Smoker turned to regard him once more, his face giving
away nothing.

"After all," Skinner said persuasively, "surely you must have more
important things requiring your attention."

The tiniest measure of amusement flickered across The 
Smoker's countenance.

"You have no idea, Assistant Director Skinner.  No idea at
all."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

"Well, that may have been the most humiliating hour of my life."

"More humiliating than that time we were walking out of Skinner's 
office after the strategy session on the Pepito kidnappings, and your 
heel caught on the rug and you--"

"Yes, Mulder.  As hard as it may be to believe, more humiliating
than that."

Sighing with exasperation, Dana Scully maneuvered past her partner 
and into their basement office, her path lit only by the single bulb
aglow in Mulder's desk lamp.  Dumping her briefcase on her own 
desk, she lowered herself into the chair behind it, the entire
sequence 
accomplished with little of her usual grace.

"I don't know, Scully," Mulder said as he flipped on the overhead 
fluorescent, then ambled over to peer expectantly into his in-box.  
"I didn't think it was all that bad."

"All that bad?" she echoed in disbelief.  "Mulder, those reporters
were getting so personal with their questioning I kept expecting
one of them to ask my bra size."

"34B."

She glared up at him.

"34C?"

"How can this not bother you?" she asked, leaning forward in her
chair, her elbows braced against the blotter, her query both a
question 
and a demand.

"Do you think this =doesn't= bother me?" he retorted as he crossed to 
stand before her.  "Do you think I *like* the idea of you and I being 
tabloid flavor of the month?" 

All at once ashamed of herself for being so peevish, Scully dropped 
her eyes and shook her head, her lips pursed in a tight, little moue.

"Scully," Mulder began as he took a step closer and pressed his hands 
flat against the desktop.  Looming over her in that way, his face
hovered 
just inches above hers.  "The last thing I want is to share you, share

what we have, with Jerry Springer's studio audience.  But I thought 
we had agreed that, given our limited options, this was the best way 
to go."

She sighed again, this time exasperated only with herself.  Yes, they 
had agreed.  And, yes, given the choice of either living as a kind of 
guiltless fugitive for the rest of her life or admitting to a roomful
of 
scandal-hungry reporters that she had been sleeping with her partner, 
she preferred the latter.

It was just that it had all seemed so much more manageable when 
Skinner had first pitched the solution to them weeks earlier.

"Mulder, I'm sorry," she quietly apologized.  "But you know how 
I am about my privacy.  Ever since the night The Smoker was 
waiting for me with that damned tape, I've felt as if I can never 
be certain where the next microphone might turn up."

Nodding as if in silent encouragement, Mulder settled himself 
on the corner of her desk.  Scully continued. 

"It's been as if my life is no longer my own.  For months now 
I've known I was being listened to, watched.  That we both were.  
I've had to be careful what I said, what I did.  One word out of 
place . . ."

"And I eat poisoned pizza," Mulder mumbled, not without a 
touch of wry humor.

"Exactly," she glumly concurred.

"Okay," he said after a second or two, his voice determinedly 
upbeat.  "But that was then and this is now.  Look on the bright
side--after this morning, there won't be any need to edit yourself.
Everyone will know about us.  It'll all out in the open."

"=Way= out in the open," she murmured, her funk proving 
resistant to his optimism.

"There are pluses to that though, Scully," he insisted, bending 
down to try and recapture her gaze.  "Think of all the things we 
can do now without having to worry about the consequences.  
Hell--we'll save a fortune on vacation airfare alone."

That brought a smile to her lips.  A small smile, but a smile 
nonetheless.

Seemingly heartened by her reaction, Mulder took Scully's hand 
in his and pressed his advantage.  "I think this is gonna work.  I 
honestly do.  Going public not only offers us protection, but it 
finally lets us be who we really are."

Scully wearily shook her head, her eyes dipping to study their 
tangled fingers.  "'Who we really are'," she repeated in a hushed 
voice, her brow furrowed.  "You know, Mulder, I think that's the 
problem."

"What do you mean?" he asked, rubbing his thumb soothingly 
across her knuckles.

"I mean that for months now I've been watching everything I 
say, everything I do, altering my behavior for some unseen 
audience.  Nothing has been 'normal'.  You know?  I've been 
living everywhere but home.  We haven't worked on a case in 
I don't know how long . . ."

She paused then, struggling to order her thoughts.  She hadn't 
planned on all this coming out, hadn't even known half of it 
had existed.  The anxiety that had plagued her since the crisis 
had begun had always been an amorphous thing, shapeless and 
cloudy, its scope difficult to measure.  Only now, when she was 
trying to articulate for Mulder her feelings was she beginning 
to come to terms with just how deeply The Smoker's manipulation 
had wounded her.

"What's happened these past several months has changed a lot of 
things for me," she said, able to hold his gaze only intermittently.

"Changed the way I look at things, the way I look at myself."

"How do you look at yourself, Scully?"

"Do you mean in the past or now?"

"Either.  Both.  I don't care.  Just help me understand."

Mulder was sitting close to her, his hip resting alongside her arm,
their hands yet joined.  The jovial mood he had been maintaining 
for her benefit had vanished in the wake of her disclosures, 
replaced by what looked to her troubled eyes to be confusion 
and concern.  Feeling vaguely guilty for having spoiled his fun, 
Scully at last lifted her chin and met him stare for stare.  Raising 
his fingers to her lips, she kissed them softly, then held them for 
a moment to her cheek before lowering them once more.

"I guess the easiest way to explain it would be to make a 
confession," she began. 

"Am I going to be expected to come up with some sort of 
penance?" Mulder teased.

Yet despite her partner's effort to lighten the mood, Scully 
refused to play along.  Instead she at long last said aloud the 
words that had been ringing inside her head for weeks.  "I'm 
truly disappointed in myself for the way I handled this whole 
thing, Mulder.  Disappointed in the decisions I made, in the 
way I let my fear get the best of me."

He shook his head in dismissal and disgust.  "Oh for God's sake, 
Scully.  We've been through this already.  What happened was 
not your fault--"

"I don't think you understand how unsettling this experience has 
been for me," she insisted, ruthlessly slicing his argument in two.  
"How disturbed I am by the way I reacted."

When he continued to shake his head in disagreement, she 
pressed to her feet, and circled around the desk to stand before 
him, all the while keeping hold of his hand.  "Mulder, if you had 
asked me six months ago what I would do if The Smoker went 
on the offensive, I'm certain I would have outlined for you a very 
detailed, very logical plan designed to circumvent any measures 
he might decide to take against us.  I would have been calm and 
self-assured.  And as we both now know, the entire performance 
would have been a colossal sham."

"Scully, you are being way too hard on yourself," Mulder muttered, 
his fingers tightening on hers, the pressure feeling to her half 
supportive, half punishing.

"This isn't about that," she countered, pulling free from his grasp.  
"This isn't about my beating up on myself or mistakenly trying to 
assume blame for something I didn't do."

"What is it about then?"  

"It's about identity," she said with a helpless sort of shrug, at a 
loss for any other way to phrase her concern.  "It's about my not 
knowing myself quite as well as I thought I did."

This news seemed to surprise Mulder.  Unlike before, he didn't 
argue with her.  Instead he simply sat, his eyes locked on hers, 
and waited for her to say more.

"All we've talked about lately is change," she said.  "About how 
our going public is going to reshape our world."

Mulder nodded, both agreeing and encouraging.

"But what about the changes that have been happening all along, 
ever since we met?  Not with the world or how its inhabitants 
perceive us, but with ourselves."

"What about it?  People change, Scully.  You know that."

"Yes.  Yes, I do.  And I'm not suggesting I should be exempt 
from the process.  I just didn't realize that with such change I 
could become someone who was very nearly unrecognizable 
to me."

Again her words gave Mulder pause.  Brow wrinkled in 
bewilderment, he asked, "In what way do you consider this 
supposed new you 'unrecognizable'?"

"In my actions--my keeping secrets, acting on impulse, taking 
foolish risks.  That's not like me, Mulder.  Not like me at all.  
Where would behavior like that come from?"

She could almost see the light bulb go off above his head.  
Chewing on his bottom lip for a moment before speaking, he 
murmured, "From me?"

Scully could only stare.  The thought had never occurred to her.

Faced with her silence, Mulder's expression turned sheepish.  
"Don't say I never gave you anything."

Unwilling to let him shoulder the blame, she shook her head.  
"I don't know, Mulder.  It's sweet of you to offer, but I don't 
think I can pin this on you."

"Sure you can," he said with a lift of his brows.  "I'm not saying 
you're easily influenced, Scully, or that you have no will of your 
own.  But given all the time we've spent together, the hours on 
and off the job, a few of our tendencies, our personality traits, 
are bound to have 'crossed over'.  It's inevitable."

Reluctantly, she nodded, still not entirely convinced.

"I don't think it's such a bad thing," Mulder continued, his tone 
conversational.  "Of course . . . you may want to refrain from 
picking up some of my less appealing habits--getting beaten 
up by guys twice my size, dropping my weapon at inopportune 
moments. . . ."

"Stay away from oversized thugs and hang on to my gun," she 
mumbled dutifully, the corners of her lips lifting slightly.  "Got 
it."

Mulder nodded as if approving her quick study.  "Who knows--
you may even find some of your more 'Mulderesque' leanings . . . 
not all that hard to live with."

She chuckled at that, her frame of mind improving almost in 
spite of herself.  Mulder grinned right back, apparently pleased 
to have provoked such a response.

"I'll grant you, it takes some getting used to," he said after a 
moment or two spent simply smiling at her.  Stretching out his 
hand, he tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, his voice 
soothing and low.  "It's scary sometimes when you realize how 
much power another person can have over you."

"You sound as if you're speaking from experience," she said, her 
voice sounding to her ears unexpectedly rough around the edges.

"I am," he admitted, his fingers skating now along the curve of 
her cheek, a bread crumb trail of sparks following in their wake.  
"You don't think I'm the same man today that I was the day we 
met, do you?"

She considered that, considered Mulder-Then vs. Mulder-Now.  
Fondly, she recalled the confident, caustic young agent who 
had been waiting for her when she had knocked on his basement 
door, and measured him against the somewhat more weathered 
version sitting before her now.   

"I guess not," she finally conceded, reaching out to take hold of 
his lapel, the urge to touch him growing exponentially the longer 
his hands remained on her.  "I suppose it's been the same for you 
as it's been for me."

"What's good for the goose . . . ," he mumbled, his head bowed 
as, with apparent fascination, he watched her lightly finger his 
jacket.

Edging closer, she kept her gaze lowered as well, her forehead 
knit.  "It's just . . . much as I wish I could say otherwise, Mulder
. . . I prefer the new you to the new me."

Now it was his turn to chuckle.  "Of course you do.  I've become
more like you."

"More like me?"

"We're practically twins.  Any day now my hair is going to turn 
red and you're no longer going to have to stand on a box to look 
me in the eye."

Growling with mock indignation, Scully brought her other hand 
up alongside the first, filled her fists with Armani's finest wool, 
and gave her partner a good, hard shake.  Laughing, Mulder ended 
her assault by wrapping his arms around her and hauling her nearer 
still.  His bear hug trapped her now between his legs so that her 
upper body rested flush against his. 

"Scully, you've already admitted that I've changed since you 
first met me," he said, his breath warm and soft against her face.  
Even with the heat he was giving off, she fought the urge to shiver.  
"But haven't you ever stopped to notice exactly what those changes 
are?"

Standing so close, she could smell his after shave's faint woodsy 
undertones, the starch on his shirt, the clean yet earthy scent of 
his skin. 

You wonder if I've noticed you? she longed to ask.  Oh, Mulder.
If you only knew.

"I'm more careful than I was," he continued, blessedly unaware 
of her musings.  "More methodical in my work.  I do my 
damnedest to scrounge up some kind of evidence now before 
I run with an idea; I check my facts and try not to trust the first 
mysterious informant that comes along."

Reaching up to cradle the back of her head in his hands, Mulder 
stretched forward and pressed a kiss to her lips.  "I do those 
things because of you," he murmured afterwards, his eyes turning 
tender, his voice scraping the bottom of his register.  "I'm telling 
you, Scully--I'm a changed man."

"I wouldn't go shopping for a halo just yet," she said, her fingers 
creeping up the back of his neck to thread through his hair.  "While 
I will accept you've made great strides in that area, I still see
plenty 
of room for improvement in the 'look-before-you-leap' department."

Mulder shrugged slightly, clearly not at all offended by her take 
on the situation.  "Well, as with most things, it's an ongoing 
process."

"That is not what I wanted to hear."

"What?  You don't think I should continue to strive for perfect 
Scullyhood?"

"Strive all you like," she told him, a faint smile softening the 
edges of her mouth.  "In this particular instance, I'm more 
worried about me."

Mulder frowned.  "What's got you worried?"

"What if it's not only an ongoing process for you, but for me 
as well?" she asked, her tone playful even though her question
wasn't without its serious side.  "What if I'm only in the early 
stages of assimilating some of your more outrageous qualities?  
What if matters only escalate from here?  Think about it, Mulder.
The situation could get . . . dangerous."

"Have I ever told you you're sexy when you're dangerous?" he 
queried with a mock leer.

"Mulder."

"You are," he insisted before leaning in for a quick, noisy kiss.  
"As for the rest of it . . . I say don't worry about it."

"You do?" she challenged, her eyebrow shooting towards the 
stratosphere.

"I do," he confirmed, his hands gently kneading her shoulders.

She chuckled at his utter certainty.  "And why is that?"

"Because--just like always, Scully--I've got your back."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that regardless of what happens, what choices you 
make, what turns the road we're on might take, we'll adjust.  
=I'll= adjust," Mulder promised as he continued his massage.  
"If you want to be the wacky one in this relationship, I can work 
on being practical.  Hell, it won't even be like work.  It'll come 
naturally.  You'll see.  You and me, Scully--we're like yin and 
yang."

"Yin and yang?"

"Yin and yang.  Peanut butter and jelly.  Batman and Robin."

"Batman and Robin?" she queried.

"I know.  Not an obvious choice," he admitted with counterfeit
chagrin.  "But I have this reoccurring fantasy involving you, a 
pair of tights, thigh high boots, and a cape." 

"Mulder," Scully chided again, bemused despite her better 
judgment.  "May I say again--not what I wanted to hear."

"Give me another shot," he murmured, his hands at last stilling 
on her shoulders.  "And I'll see if I can do better."

Good humor lingering, she nodded, silently granting him 
permission.

But rather than immediately firing out another quip, Mulder 
hesitated a moment before continuing.  When he did finally 
speak, his tone was different than before.  Huskier, more 
intimate.  His pace was measured, as if he were choosing his 
words with care.  "You say you find this change in you disturbing, 
Scully.  That you worry you're turning into someone unrecognizable."

Puzzled by the direction their conversation had taken, Scully 
quietly agreed.  "Yes.  That's right."

Taking hold of her upper arms, Mulder put some space between 
them and looked her over, top to toe.  His head cocked, his eyes 
intent, he let his gaze slip slowly down her slender frame as if he 
were somehow searching for structural defects.  Fidgeting under 
his scrutiny, Scully was just about to tell him to 'take a picture' 
when he suddenly drew her back into his embrace.  

"I recognize you," he whispered an instant before once more 
lowering his mouth to hers.  This kiss wasn't like the others, 
swift and chaste.  This time Mulder lingered, took his time, 
allowing her to truly savor the contact.  His lips were warm 
and firm and, much to her delight, tasted vaguely of peppermint.  
Scully felt her own mouth heat as they kissed, melt like sun-
touched wax, shaping itself to his.  Pressing and clinging.  Sliding.

Slow and seductive.  Sighing with pleasure, she twined her arms 
around his neck and let her body relax against his.  Secure in 
Mulder's hold, she felt as if she were floating, his lips the only 
thing anchoring her to earth.  It was sinful the way he could so 
effortlessly do this to her, she thought as his tongue stroked 
along hers, coaxing it to play.

Positively sinful.

"I'd know you anywhere, Scully" he told her moments later 
when they came up for air, the words spoken softly against her 
cheek.  "Anywhere.  Anytime.  This life or the next.  No amount 
of change will ever make you a stranger to me."

Throat tightening, eyes stinging with unshed tears, Scully nuzzled 
the side of his face with her own.  "I'm not afraid, you know.  Of 
what's ahead of us.  I'm not."

"I know."

"I just want this to work."

"It will.  We'll make it work."

Yes.  They would make it work, she vowed as she kissed a path 
back to Mulder's mouth.

They would.

They had to.

The two of them continued for awhile in this way, their lips 
meeting and retreating, their hands caressing whatever they 
could reach.  Their basement sanctuary was all but silent save 
for the rustle of clothes and the faint, breathless sound of their 
need.

In the end, it was Mulder who broke the spell, his nose buried 
beneath her hair.  "Hey, Scully--you know what I've always 
wanted to do?"

Please, Mulder.  No Twenty Questions, she yearned to shout.  
Not when you're doing such lovely, lovely things to my neck.  
"What?"

"Well . . . to be honest, it's what I always want to do," he 
muttered, his hand on her breast, lifting and squeezing, his 
mouth poised just below her ear.  "With you, that is."

"What?" she asked again, having trouble following the 
discussion.  She had her reasons, of course.  Mulder's thumb 
was now spiraling around her nipple, turning like a top in a 
series of tight yet lazy loops as he patiently urged the tiny tip 
to harden for him. 

Something like that was bound to distract anyone, she reasoned 
in a vain attempt to salvage her pride.

"I want to do this," he whispered, his breath shallow and hot 
against her ear, his hand trembling as, having achieved its goal, 
it relinquished her breast in favor of her behind.  "This, only 
more so.  I want to be inside you."  

"Yes," Scully agreed, reaching down to cup him through his 
trousers.  Grunting his approval, Mulder thrust forward with his 
hips, nearly scooting off the desktop in an effort to press against 
her palm.  "Come on.  Let's get out of here."

"No."

"No?"

"I want to do it here."

"Do what here?"

"This," he rasped, grabbing hold of her derriere and yanking her 
against him, belly to belly.

"Here?" she squeaked, pulling back to get a better look at his 
face.

"Right here, in this room," Mulder repeated, his eyes boring 
into hers, bright and nearly feverish.  "Preferably on this desk."

"You can't be serious."

"I can."

"That's crazy," she flatly told him.

"Quite possibly," he replied.

"Mulder, we're probably being listened to--"

"We're not.  I had the guys come in and sweep the place this
morning."

"Someone could walk in--"

"Not if we lock the door."

Scully sighed with a kind of double-edged frustration and 
folded her arms across her chest.  "Mulder, we have an 
agreement about this kind of thing.  You know that."

"Yes, I know that.  Our agreement has always been to keep 
the personal side of our relationship separate from the 
professional," he said as if reciting from rote.  "But that's all 
changed now, Scully.  After this morning, it's all one and the 
same."

True enough.  It was certainly no longer a secret just how 
complete their partnership was.

"It's like we're starting fresh, you and I," he said, his voice 
silky and persuasive, his thumbs stroking back and forth along 
the swell of her ass.  "And what better way to celebrate our new 
beginning than with a. . ."

"=Bang=?" she queried dryly, her eyebrow arched.

"You said it," Mulder retorted, clearly delighted that she had.  
"I didn't."

Yes, she had.  She had, indeed.  Yet more evidence of Mulder's
influence, she supposed with a sigh.

"You know . . . two years ago, I would never even have
considered something like this," she murmured, looking up 
at him through her lashes.

"I =know=," Mulder assured her happily, punctuating the 
statement with a vigorous nod. 

"If anyone were to find out about this, Mulder, we could 
be in a hell of a lot of trouble," Scully warned, tapping her 
finger against his swollen lower lip for a little emphasis 
of her own.

"I'll cancel the second press conference," he promised before
capturing her finger in his mouth and sliding his lips tightly all 
the way to its base and back again.

Helpless against the hot, wet suction, Scully shivered, the
almost violent tremor traveling quickly down the length of 
her spine.

Mulder's eyes turned slumberous as he watched her, dark and a 
trifle unfocused.

"Let me make love to you here, Scully," he murmured as he 
pulled her to him for another kiss then leaned his forehead
against hers, his hands still framing her face.  "God knows I've 
imagined it enough times.  Let me make it real.  After all, how 
many opportunities does a person have to do that with a dream?"

Well, when he put it that way . . .

And like that, all her remaining reservations disappeared.

"All right," she whispered.

He nodded, then pressed his lips to hers again, softly, reverently.  
"Thank you."

Setting her away from him a step, Mulder unfolded his body
from its perch atop the desk and crossed to the door.  There,
he threw the dead bolt, then reached over and hit the light
switch, plunging the room into instant twilight.

Scully lifted a brow in query.

"Mood lighting," he explained with the smallest of shrugs.

"I see," she said with a gentle smile.

He smiled back, his expression faintly sheepish, and returned
to her side.

"First things first," he mumbled as, hesitating just a instant,
he stretched out his arm and swept the desktop free of its 
accessories.

The crash was deafening within the chamber's limited confines.

"Was that really necessary?" Scully queried breathlessly, her 
heartbeat racing now for more reasons than one.

"Absolutely," Mulder said, grinning like a madman amidst 
the rubble, his gaze now glittering with excitement.  "This is 
supposed to be the realization of a fantasy, Scully.  Remember?   
A dream come true.  Surely something as momentous as that 
deserves a *little* drama to spice things up."

She shook her head in amusement.  "First 'mood lighting', now
adding a touch of  'drama ' to the proceedings.  What are you 
doing here, Mulder, setting the stage?"

"The stage is set," he said, reaching for her.  "Now it's on to
Costumes."

Pulling her squarely in front of him, Mulder held her in place
with one hand while nimbly popping loose the first three 
buttons on her blouse with the other.  Allowing him to lead, 
Scully watched as he then reached beneath the parted fabric 
and slipped first one, then the other breast free from her bra.
Balanced atop their underwire shelf, the pale, soft mounds 
quivered as she breathed.

"Do you want . . . ?" she asked, gesturing rather weakly to 
the suit jacket she still wore.

"No," he murmured hoarsely, staring unabashedly at her 
exposed chest.  "Leave it on.  Just leave it on."

"Part of the costume?"

"Yeah."

"You really have given this some thought, haven't you?"

His gaze meeting hers at last, Mulder took his finger and
lightly stroked it around the center of her left breast.  Scully
could feel the skin there tightening in response, crinkle and
flush in arousal.

"Only every day since we met."

With that, he bent his head to her and took her nipple between
his lips.  Tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, he at the
same time worked its twin with his thumb and forefinger, gently 
pinching and rolling it to make it harder still.  Just when Scully 
thought she couldn't stand it any more, when she was certain her 
knees were going to give out completely and drag them both to 
the floor, Mulder released the tiny nubbin.

Only to repeat his wet caress on the other side.

Her hands clenched in his tousled hair, she held him to her,
struggling not to moan when Mulder began to suckle sweetly
at her breast.  Before she could make a sound, however, he
straightened once more and pressed a series of kisses along
her hairline.

"Come here, Scully," he mumbled against her temple, his 
hands beneath her clothes as he guided her backwards.  "Come 
here with me."

Following blindly, she let him maneuver her over to the desk.
With Mulder's help, she soon found herself seated atop it, her
legs dangling over the side, her skirt bunched high on her
thighs.

"I don't suppose you're wearing stockings today, are you?" he 
muttered, his cheek against her hair, his palms skimming along 
her curves.

"Sorry, Mulder," she murmured, grabbing hold of his behind.
"I dressed for a press conference, not for sex."

"Guess we'll have to improvise then," he said, and sliding his
hand beneath her hem, curled his fingers in the crotch of her
pantyhose and pulled.  The flimsy fabric gave at once, tearing
open at her core.

"I would have taken them off if you'd let me," Scully said
before giving his ear a nip.

"If I'd wanted them off, I'd have taken them off myself," he 
retorted before slipping his fingers through the ruined nylon
and underneath her panties.

"Mulder!" she moaned, arching in his grasp, her hands 
clutching at his arms in an effort to remain upright.  As if 
in answer, he traced along the slick, warm opening to her 
body, its entrance now nearly distended with need, his
range of motion limited by the clothes she still wore.

"This is all part of it, Scully," he explained as he gently 
lowered her to the desktop, his fingers busy still beneath
her garments, spreading the moisture they found there and
teasing her with hints of what was to come.  "You, here, 
like this.  It's all part of the fantasy."

Mulder looked down at her from where he stood, tie askew, 
hair wild.  Stepping in closer, so that her thighs were held 
open by his, he unzipped his fly and took himself in hand.  
Breathing fast and hard as he leaned over her, he slowly 
stroked the rigid shaft with his palm, his gaze pinning her 
immobile with its intensity.

"You're my dream come true," he told her, the tender words
seemingly at odds with the almost feral light in his eyes.

"Show me how the dream ends, Mulder," she begged from 
where she lay, panting and flushed, and yearning.  Painfully
yearning.  "Show me how it ends."

Nodding, he obliged her.  Holding the crotch of her panties
aside, he entered her in one quick, strong jab of his hips, 
joining their bodies together.

"Oh God!" she softly cried, her chin pushing towards the 
ceiling, her eyes squeezing shut.

Hooking her legs over his arms, he immediately began to move.  
All Scully could do was hang on, her fingers grasping for 
purchase on the desktop's edge as Mulder pumped inside her, 
his pace measured, his thrust powerful enough to rattle the 
drawers beneath her like dice in a cup.  Lashes lowered, she 
wondered what she must look like to him, lying there, breasts 
bouncing, glistening from the tonguing they had received, her 
hair tangled, her lips parted and puffy from his kisses.  She 
questioned what it was about this particular scenario that excited 
Mulder so, what made it the subject of fantasies long treasured, 
yet subsumed.  Was it the forbidden aspect alone, the idea of 
their having an intimate encounter in the very bowels of the FBI, 
that turned him on, or did it go deeper than that?

Then, she opened her eyes and looked at him, studied the man
above her, his arms braced like Sisyphus against the rock, his
face screwed tight in a grimace of bliss.

Yes, he was beautiful.  And yes, he felt so damned good
driving into her the way he was.  The friction, the heat, the
fullness.  The sense that as his body pounded its way to 
ecstasy inside hers, he wasn't only sharing with her sexual 
release, but a kind of physical one as well.  Here, in this 
primitive fashion, the two of them were celebrating their return 
to their lives, their work.  Without speaking a word, they were 
saying to hell with protocol and fear.  They were taking back this 
place, this awful, wonderful, claustrophobic place.  Their office.  
Rescuing it and them from the more painful memories contained 
within its walls.  They were demonstrating to all the shadow 
conspirators, to that sneaky bastard with the nicotine stained 
fingers and a marked lack of morals just how badly his plot had 
gone awry.  The Smoker hadn't destroyed what Mulder and she 
had.  He had only made it, them, stronger.  They might not have 
any power over his future plans, they might even be at risk right 
now with scant hope of tomorrow.

But at least they had this moment.  Together, united.  At least
they had each other.

New and improved, or otherwise.

"I love you," Scully told him, the words coming out breathy 
and hushed as she writhed beneath him, straining to meet him 
stroke for stroke.  "I love you, Mulder."

Her declaration seemed to affect his rhythm.  Head bowed, 
he faltered for an instant, hesitated, then sawed wildly, his 
movement choppy and short, sweat trickling now from his 
hairline to wet his cheeks.  Whimpering, he sucked in a deep, 
ragged breath and, with a visible act of will, reined in his 
motion.  Slowed it, evened it out.   Jaw set, he struggled to 
remain in control.

Scully was having none of it.  "Don't hold back," she urged, 
letting go of the desk and stretching up in a failed attempt to  
touch him, to direct his eyes towards hers.  "Don't hold back 
for me."

"I want . . ." he rasped, looking up, his hair hanging down 
over his brow, nearly obscuring the gaze she sought to meet.

"I'm there . . . I'm there," she assured him, grasping at his
jacket sleeve, the delicious tension indeed coiling tighter 
inside her by the second.  "I'm right behind you."

"You sure?" he queried, leaning in closer, his legs thudding 
against the beleaguered piece of furniture with every forward 
thrust.

At long last able to reach him, she cradled his head in her 
hands.  "Yes," she breathed, kissing him once, then again.  
"I am.  Let go, Mulder.  Let go.  Come in my arms."

Moaning his surrender, Mulder nestled his face against her 
neck and did as Scully asked.  Giving himself over to his need, 
he jerked and jumped in her embrace, all finesse abandoned
and, crying out her name, emptied his body into hers.  True 
to her word, Scully tumbled right after him.  One final stroke 
and her world suddenly whirled like a wind-tortured pinwheel, 
dizzying and fast.  Color and motion and the sensation of flight 
on a sun-drenched summer afternoon.

Afterwards, when they lay exhausted, her slender frame
graciously cushioning his lankier, more muscular form, 
Scully spoke, her voice dreamy with satisfaction.  "We were
wrong, Mulder."

"'bout what?" he murmured somewhere beneath her hair.

"That wasn't the end of the dream."

"No?"

"Uh-uh.  It was only the beginning."

In reply, his arms tightened around her.  Scully smiled.

Dreams are like stories our psyches tell us, she thought, her
fingers lightly sifting through Mulder's hair.  Well . . . she might 
not know the way this particular story ended.

But she certainly intended to follow it through to its conclusion.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

THE END

Endnotes:  These notes alone could fill volumes.  Given the length
of this story, however, I will do my best to stifle certain impulses.
As many of you know, it's been a rather trying year for me.  With
some of the stuff going on in my life, it seemed at times that my
online activities were fated to become a thing of the past.
Thankfully, that wound up not to be the case.  I would like to thank
Connie for her friendship and unbelievable generosity.  I don't
deserve either, Con.  But I thank you for them just the same.  Thanks
to Missy, who not only was kind enough to go to the trouble of hunting
down missing stories, jpgs, etc. for me, but who also checked in from 
time to time at my work addy to make certain I was still alive 
and kicking.  Word of warning, folks--this woman has a touch 
of the private eye in her.  Don't try and hide.  She will track you 
down.  ;-)  To Danielle who was a valuable beta for this story, 
but whom I lost track of when my computer hit the road.  Thanks,
sweetie!  I hope you don't find too many errors in these final 
chapters.  To Nic and MD and Jen and Jill and all the rest of my 
online friends.  I've been up and running internet-wise now for a 
week.  I wanted to concentrate on finishing this silly story first,
before tackling my in-box.   Seeing as the danged thing has sat 
for months and months.  I shudder to think what spam awaits me.  
<g>  I will, however, get back to it and you.  I've missed you 
guys.  That goes for all of you.  Thanks for taking the time to read 
not only this story, but these notes.  I hope it was worth the hours 
spent.

Karen