TITLE: After (1 of 5) Author: MystPhile MystPhile@aol.com Rating: NC-17 Distribution: Gossamer, Xemplary, Spooky, yes; others, yes but please inform SUMMARY: The relationship is at its lowest ebb. Can it be saved while working on a case in Philadelphia? Classification: X, MSR, SA, S/O Spoilers: Revelations and Never Again Disclaimer: Property of 1013 Many thanks to betas alelou and SuperJame, for outstanding, super support at every level. Website, courtesy of Beaker: http://members.xoom.com/MystPhile/ Works also at Xemplary and at Galia's http://galias.webprovider.com/mystphile.htm <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< from "Beauty and Beauty" by Rupert Brooke------- "Where Beauty and Beauty meet All naked, fair to fair, The earth is crying-sweet And scattering bright the air, Eddying, dizzying, closing round, With soft and drunken laughter; Veiling all that may befall After---after " <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< The first case *would* have to be in Philadelphia, of all places, Scully thought, slamming the car door. The city had all their memories of Ed Jerse clinging to it, waving (in her mind) like flashy red banners. This was not going to be fun. Mulder gave no indication of discomfort. However, his face was angled slightly away from her. Maybe that was the indicator for him. His voice was even more flat than usual. "Down at the end of the block," he told her, taking off at a brisk pace in the mild autumn air. She scrambled to catch up. They were in South Philly, near the Italian market on Ninth Street. Any other time, she would have enjoyed the scene---the crisp beauty of trees turned red and gold, the blocks crammed with tiny rowhouses, the pungent scents from the Italian and Vietnamese restaurants that ringed the market area. But not today. She caught up with Mulder in front of a stone church with a large red door, noting that all Philadelphia churches seemed to feature a red door. She pointed this out to Mulder, interrupting the wide, pained silence that kept settling between them. "Do you think *all* of them have red doors?" He turned his head to meet her gaze, eyes squinting and hard in the sun. "You're the expert on Philadelphia, not me." "That wasn't fair," she protested. "You're right. I apologize." He didn't sound at all regretful. She felt like walking away, just leaving him in front of this church to sneer in solitude at whatever evidence was presented. In addition to its location, there was another strike against this case. It concerned religion. Scully thought she would approach the case with an open mind, or maybe even a willingness to believe, while Mulder, switching roles, would play the skeptic. The trouble was that he was a nasty, sometimes vicious, skeptic who seemed to take a perverse joy in tearing at her religious beliefs. She felt that when playing the skeptic, she made every effort to examine his beliefs and claims objectively, subjecting them to the lenses of science and rational thought. But she feared she might be biased. Her judgment seemed a bit shaky, even to her, these days. Especially now. On her first venture into the field with Mulder since. . . it. . . happened. To Philadelphia. To examine a religious claim. Once, some time ago, he had whispered to her in jest when confronted with a fool, "Kill me now." Today, she echoed his sentiment. Or maybe, she thought, she should have obliged him at the time. She might be a lot happier today. As they tramped around the church in search of a rectory, she recalled the title of a mystery she'd read several years back: "If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him." Inside, before the text of the story, was the conclusion of the sentence: "I'd be out of jail by now." She empathized. Deeply. Mulder practically galloped to the rectory door, as though he meant to leave her behind to choke in his dust. Hell, at this rate, he'd have the case cleared before she got to the scene. She sighed, wondering for the hundredth time at the wisdom of continuing this . . . partnership. Mulder was presenting his badge to an elderly woman, most likely a housekeeper. As Scully approached, he neglected to introduce her. Fuck him, she thought. And dared to interrupt. "Excuse me," she said with a sweet smile. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully. I didn't catch your name, ma'am." Mrs. Rotterby introduced herself and showed them to Father Malloy's study, a small, messy room lined with bookshelves. The priest looked up from a desk strewn with papers. Scully rushed forward to make introductions, startling him. She resented both the pettiness of her action and the necessity for it. This was not working, her inner voice informed her with a tired sigh. Father Malloy was a tall, middle-aged redhead with a freckled face and gentle blue eyes. His smile was kind, his handshake firm and warm. The fact that he resembled one of Scully's favorite uncles did not encourage her to tighten the thumbscrews on this amiable man. "You've reported instances of stigmata," Mulder said in his flattest voice, planting himself in the center of the couch. The priest headed for what was obviously "his" easy chair, leaving a straight-backed wooden chair available. Nah, Scully thought, heading for the couch. She sat in the center of the right-hand cushion. Mulder had to give ground. He didn't give much, however. "In your church's. . . statuary," Mulder continued, shrugging his shoulder as though trying to clear Scully out of his space. "I have a list here. Incidents of blood seeping from hands, feet, and the chest area. But the problem, Father, seems to be that all the evidence disappeared. Is that correct?" Father Malloy nodded. "The police have examined everything. So have I. The church is kept locked. We're all baffled." He gave a gentle smile. "Unless God really is trying to tell us something." "I'd prefer to look for a more logical explanation," Mulder said, nearly causing Scully to choke. Since when, she thought. Since religion is involved. Once, she'd told him that he was willing to believe in every light in the sky, but not in God's powers. If this had been a report of bright lights, she was sure he'd be crawling all over the ground checking for burn marks. But God could come up to him and turn his sunflower seeds into cashew nuts before his eyes and he'd shrug it off. Maybe even provide a rational explanation. For the tenth time, she wondered what they were doing here. It wasn't as if blood was allegedly pouring from human flesh, and she doubted that Skinner had assigned the case. Where was the *crime*? Had Mulder brought her to Philadelphia to watch her squirm? Had he chosen this bogus- looking religious case purely to poke fun at her faith? Was he really that cruel, and were they that far gone? She tried to shake off the depression this thought spread over her like a pall. "Who's looked into this on behalf of the police?" she asked. "Detective Fennelli. I told him you'd be arriving about now, so he should be here any time to go through the church with us. Tea? Coffee?" But Mrs. Rotterby appeared, trailed by a tall, thirty-something sex god in a beautifully tailored navy suit. He had dark, slightly wavy hair, dark brown eyes, even white teeth, and altogether perfect features. He looked like a younger Pierce Brosnan and was probably the best-looking man Scully had ever seen in person. Whew, she breathed to herself. She stood to shake hands, met warm eyes that held a glint of interest in her, and was told to call Detective Fennelli Jim. Sure, she thought. Whatever you want, babe. Mulder climbed onto his high horse and proceeded to treat the Philadelphia detective like a yokel. Scully interrupted once again to ask if they could just go look at the church and talk to the people who'd witnessed the blood flow. They processed to the church, and Father Malloy pulled from his cassock an immense key. "That's your security?" Mulder asked. "Not entirely," the priest said, moving a smaller key down to a second lock, a deadbolt. "What other keys are there besides your set?" Scully asked him. "Three sets. Jim has a list he can give you. They're all accounted for. Come in." He stood back and gestured, causing a near paralysis as a sudden wave of gallantry descended, and all three males wished to be last to enter. Well, it's not my problem, Scully thought, forging ahead. Carefully, they examined the statues whose hands, feet, and chests had been seen to drip blood--two Christs and a Virgin Mary. "There's no tube or anything like that inside," Jim said. "We moved them all down to our lab and checked out their interiors. They are hollow, however." "How soon after the incidents?" Mulder asked. Jim shook his head. "Not soon enough," he admitted. "We didn't hear about all this until several days had passed." Mulder nodded and gnawed at his lower lip. Scully struggled to repress the memory of what it felt like to take that lip between her teeth. And run her tongue across it, slowly and sensually. To her surprise, a glance at the splendid specimen from the Philadelphia PD did wonders to erase Mulder and his succulent lower lip from her mind. There may be a cure, she thought. As Mulder secured a list of the witnesses, along with their addresses, Scully's mind wandered. It had been so good at first, their sexual relationship, when they'd finally decided to go for it. It'd been like being let out of a cage. The sex had been amazing, full of passion, variety, and tenderness. Like starving beggars invited to a feast, they'd stuffed themselves, reaching for every delectable item at once, cramming their hands and mouths, arriving at satiation, then hungering, and feasting, again. At first, they were thrilled, amazed that they'd foolishly hesitated so long to do what they both wanted. How silly, they thought, to have let professional considerations keep them apart. Both had been afraid to damage the partnership by adding the romantic, sexual element; this fear had held them back for years. But, she thought now, they should have held out longer. The sexual relationship had lasted a little over six months before ending last month in an atmosphere of hostility. They'd kicked around the idea of splitting the partnership as well, then decided to give it a try, see if they could regain the old rhythm. They'd cheated at first, avoiding each other at the office. Scully found a lot of forensic work to do and spent an inordinate amount of time at Quantico. Mulder even loaned himself out to do some profiling. But now, here they were, on their first field trip since the breakup. No longer sleeping together, either in DC or on the road. In Philadelphia with a case that involved religion and alleged miracles, hot button topics for them. Stalking around each other as warily as two cats on a hot tin roof. Seeing if the old partnership had enough resiliency to snap back into place. So far, not. It was a long afternoon. They drove, they plodded, they questioned witnesses, discovering little more information than was in the police reports they held in their hands. Finally, tired and bored, they headed for their hotel. "Not the usual hotel," Scully had specified before they left DC. Mulder nodded. "And rooms on different floors." "Yes." After dropping their bags, their routine called for them to eat dinner together. With the reluctant steps of Death Row inmates, they headed for a seafood restaurant on Spruce Street. Scully picked at her food. She could not shut out memories of the times they'd eaten together as lovers, when food became part of the sensuous experience. When their new status permitted them to taste each other's food, to cook for each other, to feed each other tidbits when in private, to take food from the other's mouth in moments of intimacy. Mulder's mouth. She couldn't dislodge it from her mind. Now that she knew it so well, how it tasted at any hour of the day or night, how it felt to have her fingers or tongue lodged and welcomed inside that warm cavity, the very texture of his tongue---all imprinted on her . . . her molecular structure at this point. His body had become a part of her; he'd left his mark like no other lover. A tongue that had tasted Mulder---all of him, every millimeter- --was not easily satisfied, even by fillet of sole with almonds. Normally, she'd banish these memories from her mind, slam the door, and turn the key. But normally, she didn't have to eat with him, watch the food slide across his lips, see that familiar tongue flick out to wipe the sheen from his generous, soft lower lip. . . and remember all that his tongue was capable of. Luckily, he spoke, making her forget his delightful sensuous qualities and reminding her that his tongue was capable of giving pain as well as pleasure. "I suppose you believe all this shit," he said, swallowing a mouthful of crab. Appropriate choice for him, Scully thought. "Why would you think that?" "Your, uh, proclivities where religion is concerned? The only time *you* want to believe?" Scully wiped her mouth carefully with her napkin, trying to cool down and not make this personal. She failed. "And the only time you don't." "Nah," he baited her, "there are lots of things I don't believe in." Head him off, she ordered herself. "I *do* recall a time that you refused to believe, Mulder. Which left me alone to save a little boy named Kevin Kryder. The kid had stigmata, but your prejudice against religion or any kind of faith other than yours almost caused a disaster. Which just goes to show that you prefer to sit around with a smug smile and. . . and quote all the instances of faked stigmata rather than acknowledge the real thing, even if it's biting your ass." Shit, she thought. Wrong image. She did not care to contemplate Mulder's ass or actions her mouth had taken on it in the past. Its taste, its texture, the play of muscles under her tongue and fingers. The firm line of his buttocks. Whoa. Fortunately, Mulder seemed too irate to recall that she had actually bitten his ass, albeit gently, a number of times. "The trouble with you, Scully, is that you operate under a double standard. Ms. Science. Doubting Scully. Ms. Show Me the Proof. Until a religious claim comes along. Then you fall for it like a trout leaping at the bait." "You're mixing your metaphors, Mulder." She pushed her plate aside. Her appetite, which had never really appeared, was now a faint memory. Mulder pushed his plate back as well. "That doesn't obviate the fact that you demand proof for everything else. You won't accept what I saw. Half the time you won't even accept the evidence of your own eyes. But put a cassock on it and it suddenly becomes believable. To you. You say my childhood warped me. I'd have to say the same for you." Fuck you, she thought, rising. "I did not say I believed this case involves genuine stigmata. But then why would you, of all people, be concerned with the facts? I'm leaving. Alone." After (2 of 5) by MystPhile@aol.com Scully stalked out onto Spruce Street and glanced around at the darkening evening. No way was she going to go seethe in her room. Or, even worse, contemplate Mulder's body parts. And she had no notes to write up since all their information was already contained in the police report. So, what was she going to do? Well, why not a walk? This was a mild and beautiful autumn, nicely settled into an Indian Summer phase. The temperature was still in the high sixties, and she was wearing a jacket. She was armed and had no fears about walking in the dark. She set off. She found herself headed south, toward the church. Why not? It would help to walk off some of her frustrations, and if she got tired, she could always take a cab back to the hotel. She got her emotions in hand and tried to take in the sights and sounds of the city as she walked. Some tiny front gardens, windowboxes still crowded with hanging blossoms, lots of small businesses on her way south. The kinds of "Mom and Pop" enterprises that were disappearing too fast. The streets were still lively. There were passersby, residents perched on their white stoops enjoying the warm air and an after-dinner cigarette, children playing and biking and shouting. Normal life, going on all around her, without her. Her mood did not improve. Sooner than she thought possible, she was standing outside St. Thomas's Church, the scene of the alleged bleeding statuary. Apparently, an evening service had just ended, and she decided to loiter and see what happened next. She wanted to find out how long it would take Father Malloy to lock up and check to see if the church was really empty. It'd be easy enough to conceal oneself beneath a pew and rig the statues to bleed. See, Mulder, she said inwardly, I *am* looking for fraud. You think I'm a credulous idiot. She folded her arms and leaned against a black wrought-iron fence, checking her watch as the last parishioners walked away. Time passed. Well, she thought, I suppose he could have locked up from the inside and already exited through the rear. He could be in the rectory by now. She walked over and tried the door. It opened, so she slid inside, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the large, shadowy space. Most of the lights were turned very low. A bank of votive candles near the front left provided the most light, and that was muted at best. She wondered what was going on. The door was unlocked; anyone could enter. No one was in sight. Where was Father Malloy? Why hadn't he locked up? She hoped he wasn't lying in a bloody heap somewhere, especially since he looked so much like her Uncle Dan. Eyes adjusted to the dimness, she edged forward, careful to keep her back against the wall and to stay well away from the pews, where a miscreant could be lurking. She reached the confessionals. Excellent hiding place, she thought. She pulled open the door of the first box, one for the penitent. Empty. She opened the priest's compartment, the one in the center. Nope. The only other door was on the other side of the priest's box. She glanced around before opening it, making sure no one was sidling up behind her or worming his way across the floor under one of the pews. A church, it occurred to her, had a hundred hiding places. There, above her head. The choir loft. Excellent place to hide. Plus the sacristy. All sorts of other places, enough to conceal a small army. She pulled the door open. A man sprung out and nearly gave her a coronary. He was tall, as nearly everyone was to her, and in the muted light, he was an immense, threatening shape, the kind of apparition every child imagines lurking in her closet. He loomed over her. As her senses returned, she quickly stepped back and drew her weapon. "Agent Scully," he said. He reached back and opened the door to the priest's compartment and snapped on a light. "Detective Fennelli," Scully breathed, reholstering her gun. "Jim," he reminded her. "Right, Jim." Her breath was still coming in tiny gasps and she could feel her heart galloping like a runaway. "I think it would be superfluous to mention that you startled me." When she was upset, her vocabulary tended to rocket out of the mid- range, into either the polysyllabic or the Anglo-Saxon. "Something like that," he agreed. "The feeling is mutual. I guess this is the great minds think alike phenom at work. I was looking for whoever rigs up these bloody tricks. You too?" She nodded. "I was surprised to find the church door unlocked." "Yeah. I asked Father Malloy to leave it open so I could see what developed." He chuckled. "And all I caught for my trouble was an FBI agent." He looked around. "You're here without your partner? Or is he about to lob a grenade at me from the choir loft?" Scully laughed. "We're not nuns, you know. I'm here alone." "Even nuns don't come in pairs any more, I don't think. Anyway, the night is young. Care to join my stakeout?" What the hell, she thought. She could share a church and possibly solve a case with this phenomenally good-looking guy, and then get the hell out of Dodge, or Philadelphia, and back to the safety of DC. Or she could return to her hotel room and mope, alternating her remembrances of hot sex scenes with bitter memories of the things that had gone wrong and were still wrong in her relationship with Mulder. Was there even a choice? "Where do you suggest I hide?" He retreated to his confessional seat. Scully climbed high enough up the stairs to the choir loft to be out of sight and sprawled comfortably across several steps. She drifted into stakeout mode, maintaining the requisite degree of alertness while allowing her thoughts to roam freely. She made an enormous effort to keep them away from Mulder. It was unexpectedly hard to be on the road with him. At the Bureau, they'd managed to avoid each other, mainly by pursuing separate activities and meeting occasionally to exchange businesslike reports. But on the road, they had no means to avoid each other. They were thrown together: Them against the criminal. Them against local law enforcement. Them, the only ones they knew they could trust. Them, and hotel rooms, easy access, soft beds. And those treacherous hot memories. She snatched her mind back from some sexual gymnastics performed in Omaha, a gold-medal performance by both parties. This time, she was sitting here without her partner and *with* local law enforcement. Mulder was undoubtedly sulking in his room. Or stroking himself to climax in front of a porn flick. No, don't picture that, she told herself. Or sitting in a bar putting the moves on a tall blond who was staring hungrily at his lower lip. Don't picture that either, she added. Or possibly, as Jim suggested, Mulder was, like them, drawn to the scene. She envisioned him lurking in a bush outside. Maybe the criminal was staying away because every cop in Philadelphia was concealed on the premises. Thinking of Philadelphia cops, that certainly was a tasty specimen over there. Did they all look like that? Not in her recollections from the Jerse case. Ah, good old Ed. So uncomplicated. Just your average, run-of-the-mill psycho with a talking tattoo. How refreshing, compared to Mulder, who preferred to roast her slowly and carefully rather than hoist her through the furnace door. Ed's way was more merciful. And blissfully quick. Her mind jerked back to attention as she heard fumbling at the outside door. Slowly, she rose and crept a bit further down the stairs, taking care to remain in total shadow. "It's open," a voice muttered, sounding shocked. "Look out, it's a trap," said another voice, the crackling voice of a male adolescent. "They must know we stole the key and made a copy. They're gonna get us." "Over some bloody statues we rigged? Get real. Who really gives a shit, except the priest and the usual old farts." He cleared his throat and croaked. "Anyway, if they know we have a key, why leave the door open?" Scully, blinking at the kid's logic, squinted at their figures in the darkness. Their silhouettes were short and skinny. They entered stealthily, yet their voices kept rising. What inept criminals to have baffled so many cops, Scully thought, easing her way down the steps. "Yeah, that old geezer of a priest is going to be on his knees before the Lord, thanking Him for the sign and for honoring his little church with His miraculous presence." He snickered. "He should be fuckin' thanking us instead of the Lord, pathetic old fart." Scully wondered if they were altar boys gone amok. She was also struck that they called Father Malloy an old geezer when he was well short of fifty. They must be really young, she concluded. They snorted amiably. "Yeah, what do we expect. That they're gonna call in the fuckin' FBI?" The fuckin' FBI's representative was amused but still quietly pulled her gun. Teenage boys could be quite deadly when cornered. She hoped Jim was on his toes and hadn't been lulled to sleep by the long wait. As they moved forward, enough light shone on them to reveal two scrawny kids, greasy hair flopping over their necks. They wore jeans, tees, and hightops, and one carried a gym bag, probably stuffed full of tubes and blood bags. "What cha wanna rig tonight? How about a different one?" They looked around. "Depends which ones are hollow. Wanna check out Joseph?" Scully detected a slight movement of the confessional door. She scampered quietly down the few remaining stairs until she was at the same level as the boys. As they moved forward, she trailed them, weapon ready. When the boys were halfway up the center aisle, still chattering about their plans, the confessional door whipped open with a bang and Jim emerged with weapon drawn. "Don't even think about moving," he warned. Being not very bright teenage boys and confident that they would not be shot down in the house of God (some vague notion of sanctuary probably having crossed their minds at some point), they of course turned to run for it. As they swiveled, they beheld, standing a few yards away, a tiny woman holding a large, steady gun. "Halt," she said. Her voice was quiet and rock hard. "FBI. I will not hesitate to shoot." Something about her voice and the steadiness of her stance convinced them, even though they appeared to be the type who would be unlikely to accord women much respect. They stopped, muttering to each other, "The fuckin' FBI?" Their knees were actually knocking, she observed, and they couldn't have been a day over fifteen. Master criminals, indeed, Scully thought, watching the terror spread over their acne-splotched faces. She moved closer. "Drop the bag. Hands up. Now, lace your fingers together behind your head. Move!" Apparently, they were too dazed to completely understand her instructions. Jim moved in behind them to cuff them, called for a squad car on his cell phone, then, after handing over the terrified kids, drove himself and Scully to the precinct. "Not bad," he said on the short drive. "The FBI appears and the case is cleared within hours. Our tax dollars at work." Scully laughed. "I think you could have managed without me. These idiots would have been caught without any police work at all, probably." "Yeah. Imagine how many people they must have bragged to. It's a South Philly tradition." "Oh, I remember," Scully said. "That poor guy---was it Coyle?--- about ten years ago who picked up money that fell off an armored truck and got caught because he just couldn't resist telling everyone about his good luck." Jim laughed. "And throwing the money around like confetti. That's us. What you see is what you get." The interview didn't take long. The suspects crumbled like crispy crackers. Their names were Iggie and Stan, and they lived in the neighborhood. They were bored shitless, they confided. And they were fuckin' fed up with their parents. Among their many faults, their parents were religious fanatics. Bad enough they were always over at St. Thomas mumbling at statues, but they kept dragging the boys there as well. They were fuckin' fed up and so fuckin' bored it was not to be believed. Then, inspiration struck. If they were gonna be stuck there listening to the mumbo jumbo, why not entertain themselves? Rig the statues to bleed, give the old priest and the old folks a thrill for the first time in their fuckin' boring lives. Yeah, their mouths would fall open, they'd think it was a fuckin' miracle. Scully sighed. She felt like washing their fuckin' mouths out with soap, little twerps. For *this* she came to Philadelphia? It worked, Iggie proclaimed. Their prank got all these people freakin' out of their gourds. They were prancin' around muttering about the strange ways of God. Ha, they chortled. They should have been talkin' about the strange ways of Iggie and Stan. Give them some respect, damn it. Didn't this show they deserved it? Fooling all those fuckin' people? Nobody had a fuckin' clue! This was rapidly turning into a Spike Lee movie, Scully thought, eyes rolling back. Hadn't they been questioned? the police wanted to know. No, they'd always managed to be out when the cops came around. And besides, Stan sneered, ignoring the fact that he was surrounded by city cops, everyone knew the Philadelphia cops were on the take. They get suspicious, slip them a tenner. Everybody knew they came cheap. Scully stared at the two suspects, who were teetering on the edge of jubilation at their cleverness in getting away with their prank for so long, and simultaneously becoming paralyzed with terror as it slowly sunk in that they were busted. She shook her head. Had she ever in her life participated in such an inconsequential case? She checked her watch. Maybe she should call Mulder and tell him the case was closed and they could leave first thing in the morning. It was--unbelievably-- only 11:15. It seemed a lot later. Dealing with idiots can make an hour seem like an eternity. She told Jim she was going to call her partner, then catch a cab back to the hotel. "It's not that late," he said. "Come by my place for a drink. I live three blocks away." She looked at his gorgeous face and was tempted. What was it about Philadelphia, she wondered. Would this fine specimen turn out to be a psycho? "Will your wife still be awake?" He flashed his perfect smile. "Who knows? She's been gone for five years. Don't you know all cops are divorced? But, Dana, eight years of marriage domesticated me pretty well. The place is nice. It's not a sty. I am a perfect gentleman, guaranteed. You seem like a nice woman with an interesting job. Why not stop by and chat for an hour or so? That's all I'm suggesting." She gazed into his eyes and saw sincerity. And an attraction to her. "Sure," she said. "Just let me make my phone call." "Mulder." She listened to his voice. Was there any trace of heaviness or unevenness in his breathing? She knew much too much about the Mulder symptoms of arousal. And that was no longer any of her business. "It's me. I'm at the precinct. We've caught the two kids who rigged the blood in tubes. They've confessed. We can leave tomorrow." There was a pause. "Who's 'we'?" "Jim. Jim Fennelli. He was staking out the church when I got there." "Oh. Well, glad to hear no miracles occurred. You heading back?" "In a while. Just leave a message for me on my voice mail about when we're leaving, okay? See you in the morning, Mulder." "Yeah." Click. "Ready?" Jim asked. "Yep." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< After (3 of 5) by MystPhile@aol.com Jim's townhouse was small, less than twelve feet in width, but it seemed roomier because of its open floor plan. He'd gutted the first floor, the only remaining partition being the butcher block island that partially separated the kitchen from the living area. That left a clear view from the front door to the French doors that opened into the tiny courtyard in back. Because the night was still warm, they sat in the courtyard. It was very attractive, quite small, but with enough room for a small Japanese maple strung with tiny clear lights and three young azaleas, similarly decorated. Other than the plants, there was just a herringbone-patterned brick center space, a black wrought-iron table and two chairs, and an eight-foot wooden fence surrounding the entire area. It was a cheerful, cozy space, the red of the Japanese maple glowing from the tiny lights. Jim, having shed his jacket and tie in favor of a cotton sweater, returned from the kitchen bearing a bottle of Merlot, poured a generous splash for both, and raised his glass. "May all your cases be so easily solved." "I'll drink to that." It felt strange to be with another man, if this, indeed, was being with a man. More likely, it was just a quick drink with a colleague she would never see again. Scully told herself not to make more of this than it was. That the man happened to be devastatingly good looking didn't make this a man/woman transaction. He couldn't help the way he looked. He could even be tired of having women throw themselves at him, for all she knew. Surely, women would have been flinging themselves at him for at least twenty years. She gazed around the courtyard. It really was charming. Her friend Ellen would have concluded by now that this man (who lived in a neat house with charming dcor, whose suit was exquisitely tailored, and who was incredibly good looking) was gay, and that's why he'd left his wife. Scully merely assumed that he enjoyed pleasant surroundings. How different he was from Mulder, who tended to be oblivious to just about everything but what was on his mind at the moment. That was the problem, wasn't it, she thought. One of them. Mulder was good looking too. But he wasn't in this guy's league, and besides, his quirky character and paranormal interests seemed to keep women at bay. For a good looking guy, he'd seemed to attract remarkably few women over the years. They'd give him the eye, but once they talked with him, they seemed to realize that he was too much--or too little--for them to handle. She had tried, God knew. And it was true. He was both too much and too little. Always the paradox. She realized that this man who looked like a god was addressing her, and she'd been mooning about Mulder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was admiring your yard. It's so tranquil. Did you do this yourself?" "Yeah. I needed a place that didn't look anything like my work, where I could escape totally. This is it." Scully well understood the impulse to escape. Sometimes she wished herself on the moon. "Your work get you down?" She sipped her wine. Nice. He nodded. "Junkies. Kids who've ruined their lives by the time they're twelve. Parents who've ruined their kids by the time they're five. Senseless violence. Sometimes, it's just. . . shitty." Scully knew of a boy whose life was terminally blighted by the time he was twelve. "Yeah, you're right. It's most hard to deal with when kids are the ones damaged. Grownups, you can say it's their lookout. They should have known what they were doing. But kids. They're at our mercy. And often we are not merciful." An image of Emily floated through her mind. "What about your work? Do you run across gruesome stuff?" Let me count the ways, she thought. "A lot," she told him. "For one thing, I'm a pathologist, so I deal with the dead. Sometimes, they've suffered horribly. As I'm sure you know. And in the field, I've had cases that make tonight's look like a walk in the park. Although those poor guys are such morons that they really are sad." He poured some more wine, and they chatted for another hour. It was a pleasant conversation. Jim seemed like a really nice guy as well as a good cop, genuinely concerned with his work and not jaded or bitter, despite all he'd seen. He gave no indication that he realized that nine out of ten women would trample Antonio Banderas to get to him. For someone who looked like a sex god, he hid any knowledge of it well. At one a.m., Scully put down her glass, thanked him for the drink and pleasant conversation, and said she'd call a cab. Jim turned to her, dark eyes alight in the magic courtyard. "Dana, I do not come on to women I've just met. Not that you have any reason to believe that, but it's true. And I'm not even any good at saying things like this, but I have to ask. The worst that can happen is that you'll tell me to get lost." He moved close, causing her heart to skip a beat. Nose to nose, he was a stunning sight. Not a flaw in that perfect face. She wondered if this was his standard line. He delivered it with great conviction, but then, she'd encountered a lot of convincing liars in her years in law enforcement. His face next to hers, he continued, "You're a beautiful and interesting woman. I've enjoyed talking with you. Can I persuade you to . . . stay longer?" She opened her mouth to respond, despite the fact that she had no idea what she was going to say. She knew the smart thing to do---call a cab. One-night stands were not going to enrich her life in any substantial way. On the other hand, she liked the guy and found him incredibly attractive. She had spent so much time lately contemplating the break with Mulder, going over practically every minute of their time together, analyzing the relationship until she was ready to scream. She was exhausted from wondering if this or that had been done or said differently, could it possibly have worked better? Did it have to end the way it did? She was also hit by desire at a visceral level. Here was a man who offered pleasure without complication. Not pleasure followed by misery, bewilderment, and frustrated longings that she could never quite vanquish. Having gotten used to sex again, she was feeling its loss keenly. This man appealed to her on every level. Before the words, whatever they were going to be, had a chance to emerge from her mouth, his lips touched hers. It was a sweet kiss. He did not touch her body at all; only her lips. He did not attempt to push into her mouth, just kept his lips on hers with a gentle pressure. It was as if he'd read the Scully Wooing Guidebook, because she loved nothing more than a respectful approach. If he'd grabbed her, she would have been gone in a flash. Since she was enjoying his undemanding kiss, she stayed. Her lips had been parted to speak when his lips covered hers. Now, some seconds into the kiss, she parted them further and placed her hand on the nape of his neck. He responded immediately by parting his lips invitingly. She went forward into his mouth, blinded by a wave of lust. He, in turn, deepened the kiss, and moved his hands to her shoulders, which he caressed gently. As both her arms wrapped around his neck, she came to her senses. She was horny, yes. This could be pleasant, possibly mind- blowing, yes. But she didn't want to start going to bed with strangers. Just because it hadn't worked, going to bed with the one she loved best, that was no reason to do something this foolish. She was still bruised from the breakup, but this would give her maybe an hour of relief, followed by more recriminations from the Scully conscience, which didn't take these things lightly, at all. She was already talking to herself so much, she was ready to apply for a gag order. She gently extricated herself from Jim's arms. She stroked his cheek, a farewell gesture. "It'd be nice," she said. "But not right. I'm . . . on the rebound, I guess you'd call it. You're great, and I really enjoyed being here, but. . . " "But you'd like to call a cab," he concluded for her. "It's okay, Dana. I thought you might not be ready for this. You seem, I don't know, distracted?" She nodded. "That's a good word for it." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Early the next morning, Scully stepped out of the shower. There had been no message on her voice mail from Mulder about the flight, so she was planning to call him. She felt like going home, snuggling up on her couch, and sipping a nice big brandy. And putting up the barricades and not emerging for the next hundred years. The world was too much with her these days. At least her good sense had asserted itself in time to prevent another mistake last night. Nice guy, Jim Fennelli. He *was* a perfect gentleman, as he'd guaranteed. Why could she never meet men like him at the right time, in the right place? Because she'd met a man who crowded out all the rest, while refusing to give her what she needed. There was a knock at her door. She slipped on the hotel's terry robe and peaked through the viewer. Mulder, in tee-shirt and blue jeans. She checked her watch. It was 7:40 a.m. Why hadn't he called her, she wondered. She opened the door, continuing to dry her hair. He looked past her. "Anyone here?" Baffled, she stepped back, her reflex of many years kicking in. Of course, he'd enter her room. He had when they were mere colleagues, and he'd stayed in her room when they were lovers. "I asked the desk to call me when you came in last night," he said. "Told them I needed to get in touch with you on official business. They called me at 2, but they didn't say whether you were alone or not." He stared at the bed, apparently trying to determine how many bodies had occupied it. Scully felt a sudden rage rip through every nerve in her body. If she had hackles, they would be reaching for the sky. "Why in the hell would you think I brought someone back? And what's it to you anyway?" He looked down at her, his face still expressionless. "Oh, I didn't really think you brought him back. But I noticed the way you looked at old Jimbo. Pretty boy. And you called me at about 11:15 to say the case was wrapped. Then you didn't get back here until 2." "And you're keeping track of my hours now?" The sky was blue outside her window, but Scully's vision was taking on a red tinge. That clich was true, apparently. He shrugged. "Well, Scully's in Philadelphia. Who ya gonna fuck?" Her fist shot out and caught him on the jaw, hard. They were both astonished. He rubbed his jaw, his eyes holding something she'd never seen before. It was strange---she thought she knew every nuance of his every expression. She rubbed her fist and wrist, eyes tearing up for the pain that was accosting her on all fronts. Scully had not struck anyone out of anger since she was ten and Bill threw her erector set into a creek. She could not believe she was capable of this act. Who *was* she these days, that she could have so little control? Her mind had already gotten out of bounds, spending so much time sifting through the abrasive sands of the broken relationship. Now her body was acting without her permission as well. This was a sad day. "I'm sorry, Mulder. That was unforgivable," she said. "I never thought I'd resort to physical violence." She threw her towel to the floor and collapsed into an armchair. Mulder retreated to the bed, rubbing his jaw. He still looked dazed. He sat down, arms folded across his chest in a protective stance, slumping forward, looking down. He looked as if all the starch had gone out of him, as if one of his alleged mutants, maybe a bone-sucker, had removed his frame, leaving him a pile of mushy flesh. "We can't go on like this, obviously," she said, staring at what was left of Mulder on her bed. "It's just . . . too bad. For both of us. Better to walk away than torture each other like this." He continued to study the floor. "I guess." She saw a tear streak down his cheek. It gleamed in the sunlight pouring through her window. "Would you do me a favor . . . and . . . tell me what did happen last night? I know it's none of my business, but I'd just. . . rather know." It was truly none of his business, she thought. But, no, that was a lie. When they'd thought they could retreat to a professional relationship, they were kidding themselves. Something about locked barn doors and stolen horses. Or burning bridges. Amazing, she thought, how so little sleep will make you think in clichs. She still thought about him *all* the time. Why should she assume he could just turn it off like a faucet? Mulder had never let go easily, of anything. That was part of the problem. "I'll tell you what happened," she said softly. "Jim invited me to his house for a drink. We sat outside in his courtyard drinking and talking. He's a really nice guy, and I enjoyed the conversation." She paused. The whole truth? Yes. This might be the parting of the ways, and Mulder always wanted the truth. Or at least that's what he liked to think. "I said it was time to leave, and he asked if I'd like to stay. He kissed me. And I . . . I kissed him back. And I was tempted to stay, but I knew that wasn't the right thing to do. So I came back here. Not really much of a story, is it?" Mulder looked up. She still couldn't read his face. Since they'd become lovers, she'd seen it in various permutations of joy. Through their years at work, she'd seen it mutate through grimness, sarcasm, bitter humor, irony, sorrow, and fear. Among others. But this one had her baffled. If it was over, she thought, why not ask for the truth from him? So she did. "Mulder?" He focused his attention on her. "Would you tell me the truth about something? For once in our lives? He nodded. Shell-shocked, that was the expression. Just as she felt at the end of her tether, he had reached his end as well. The blow she'd landed on his jaw was apparently a TKO. "I. . .I've been miserable lately," she began. "But I didn't think you were. You've been so cool, so detached. Except when you make cruel and sarcastic remarks. Did you bring me here to torture me? Have you . . . have you grown to hate me?" Her voice broke on the last words. She didn't see how they could stay together in any capacity at all after this. But to have him hate her. To say things like, who ya gonna fuck. So full of contempt. So clearly meant to wound. That made her weep inside. His eyes cleared, came back into focus. "Scully, believe me, I am so far from hating you, you wouldn't believe it." After (4 of 5) By MystPhile@aol.com His confession seemed to have restored Mulder's spine, for he sat straighter and continued. "The truth is, I've avoided you. . . made hurtful. . . uh, maybe acted like a jerk sometimes. . . because it's the only way I could think of. . ." He paused, gathered himself. "If I don't push you away, if I don't insult you, I am in very grave danger of shoving you against the nearest wall and fucking your brains out." He spoke quickly, eyes totally focused on hers. "I cannot forget you. Your taste, your smell, the sounds you make, the fact that I can't have you any more. And I really don't understand why I can't. The fact that I can't has . . . has driven me to the brink of lunacy." Now it was Scully's turn to be shocked. Although she had spent weeks contemplating Mulder's gorgeous body rather than his beautiful soul, to hear his carnal longings stated so baldly rocked her to the core. What? she thought. He doesn't miss *me*, the closeness, the . . . the whole thing? He just wants to fuck my brains out? Furious, she jumped up from her chair, fumbling with the knot in her belt. Pulling her robe open, she planted herself in front of Mulder, so close that her nipple nearly took out his eye. "This is what you want?" she asked harshly. Mulder leaned back on his hands and directed his gaze to her stormy eyes. The appraisal in his own eyes showed her that he'd already retreated from the rare, raw honesty that'd slipped by his barriers. His next words, delivered in his patented monotone, suggested that he was seizing the quiet-voice-of-reason role in deliberate counterpoint to her aggression. "Just sex, you mean?" he asked. "We both know that no such thing exists, unless someone leaves money on the bureau. And even then, it may not be 'just' sex." Grimacing, he rubbed his swelling jaw. Her anger defused as quickly as it'd flared, Scully stepped back and retied her robe. "I didn't notice anything on my bureau." Turning to the table, she lifted the lid of her ice bucket and shifted the cubes around. "You mean you weren't getting anything out of it." His voice cracked, and his face shifted toward the window, away from her view. Scully stepped into the bathroom to fetch a washcloth to hold the ice. As she approached Mulder, she read the desolation in his quickly averted eyes. She sat beside him and held the icepack to his jaw. The infinite sorrow of his expression was enough to make her want to open the tenth-floor window, step outside, and take her chances in the new-morning air. Her impulse was not one of suicide, more a recognition that this part of her life, the part she'd valued most, was either dead or dying, and she didn't care to sit at its bedside listening to the final breaths. Whatever its actual status, it was on life support and fading fast. Perhaps a Do Not Resuscitate sign was in order. "I was getting something out of it," she told him, unwilling to leave him with an inaccurate impression, especially when he looked so miserable. Mulder took the washcloth from her and pressed it to his jaw, turning his body away. Scully sighed and stared longingly at the bright blue sky. It wasn't even 8 a.m., and she felt an irresistible urge either to flee the room or to jump back into bed, huddle under the covers, and pretend this morning had never happened. Anything to escape. All they'd established was that they still couldn't talk without misunderstanding each other and that they were both half-mad with lust. No, wait, she thought. He doesn't know that. In fact, I got totally pissed and misled him. If this is the end, let's at least make it an honest one. She remained facing the window. "What you said about wanting to fuck my brains out, Mulder. That's . . . mutual. I've spent most of my time since . . . it happened remembering. . . what you're like. Every inch of you." There was a silence. Scully felt Mulder fidgeting on the bed behind her. At last, he spoke. "So, the sex was great. We've always worked well together. What's the missing piece here? What made it all go to hell?" Scully didn't turn her head. It was kind of like going to confession, she thought. She could say what was on her mind without having to face someone. Now, if only absolution were possible. "I think I expected. . . too much. That sleeping together would bring us closer. . . closer than it did. Change some things that've always bothered me, improve them." She paused. She'd gone round and round about her feelings on this. Now she wanted---needed---to know his. "What did *you* expect, Mulder? Did you think things would change? Did you want them to? Were you disappointed?" She felt his weight lift off the bed and heard his pacing behind her. "Maybe I expected changes that . . . I wasn't aware I expected," he told her. "For instance, I probably didn't realize it, but I think I expected you to trust me more. Trust my judgment, trust that I actually saw what I described, trust that if I didn't tell you something, I had a really good reason for it. So, when you were your, uh, usual skeptical self, it kind of seemed . . . like a personal betrayal." Scully kept her eyes pinned on a fluffy white cloud drifting across the bright sky. "So, you resented me for that." There was a pause. "Without realizing it, I think I did. It doesn't even make sense---that your behavior at work should change, I mean. But I think the subconscious expectation was probably there. And it was unfair. And it undermined . . . us, at work and personally. And I'm sorry, Scully." Scully heard him flop into the armchair. She turned from the window to watch him, elbows on knees, hands rubbing his eyes. "So," she said, "we were victims of our expectations." His eyes met hers. "What kind of changes were you expecting, specifically?" After reviewing and reliving the history of the relationship in obsessive detail, she had a whole month's worth of resentments stored up, but she didn't want to blast him out of his chair now that they were actually talking. "Like you," she began, "I expected you'd trust me more. But instead, you were still making your secret phone calls and sneaking around to meet shady people in the dead of night. And still shutting me out. It's like you'd let me into your bed but not into your confidence, into your heart." "Do you?" he interrupted, sitting back in the chair and glaring at her. "Or did you?" Scully was confused. Now what, she thought. Two minutes after apologizing for his own bloated expectations, he won't even let me say what mine were? She blurted, "Did I what?" "Let me into your heart. You're not in any position to complain about someone not sharing feelings or anything else, Ms. I'm Fine, T. M." Now I'm pissed, Scully thought. She rose from the bed; it was her turn to pace. "The fact is, Mulder, that you don't *respect* my feelings---or my ideas. That doesn't exactly make me eager to share them, not if you're going to sneer." Mulder's reasonable air was but a memory. "Name one time I sneered," he dared her, his voice a low hiss. "Right now." Scully eyebrow rose as she paused in her pacing. "You're sneering at the very idea that you act that way." His eyes were unyielding. "Another." "Whenever I offer a rational explanation to counter your paranormal theory. Whenever you set forth a ratio of which of us is right more often in our theories---you refuse to acknowledge that I'm ever right! Whenever we get remotely near a priest or anything having to do with the existence of God." She folded her arms across her chest, still gathering steam. "Whenever I crawl out of a warm bed to go to Mass on Sunday. I hate your attitude. It's like . . . like I'm going off to meet a witch doctor or, or, or to make a ritualistic sacrifice of a rooster. Except if that were the case, you'd throw on your clothes and race me there." Mulder stood and towered over her. "I don't sneer at your religion." Scully held her ground. "You certainly don't respect it." "You don't respect my most basic beliefs either," he threw back, stalking away as best he could in the confined space. "I don't know how we've ever---" He broke off and retreated into the bathroom to study the bruise forming on his jaw. I don't know how we've ever. Yep, Scully thought. That just about sums it up. She leaned against the doorjamb, watching him examine his sad face in the mirror and gingerly finger the lump on his jaw. "Contrary to what you think, Mulder, I've always listened to what you had to say. I don't sneer. I don't sneak around gathering information behind your back. I share the information I do gather. I listen to your opinions and give them consideration. I don't walk away while you're still talking, cutting you off and refusing to hear." Mulder gave a martyred sigh. "I'm listening to this, aren't I?" Scully drew breath, opened her mouth, changed her mind, and clamped her lips shut. She stomped over to the chair and dropped down, arms folded tightly across her chest. "Remember that you're in *my* room. Feel free to leave any time." She was distressed to hear a tremor in her voice, instead of the cool indifference she'd hoped to project. He still had the power to wound her, and with so few words. Eventually, he---and his words---would be gone from her life. Some moments passed. Scully finally relaxed enough to uncoil her arms and stretch them out on the chair. It was like unwinding tangled cobras. She wondered idly if Mulder had slit his wrists, a difficult and presumably time-consuming task with a Lady Bic. She felt a measure of relief---at least this confrontation offered some small sense of closure. It was a great loss, this ending of the most important era of her life. A death, to be mourned. Perhaps for a very long time in the bleakest of spirits. But it was still better to talk it over and let their feelings out, then make a break. Not a clean break, to be sure. A very jagged one at best, as if its edges had been gnawed by a pair of trapped animals. But even this pain was preferable to passively watching their relationship flow slowly and bitterly and inconclusively down the drain. Mulder reappeared, face washed, hair damp, and eyes glittering. "I don't want to leave," he told her in a voice steeled by determination. He knelt in front of her. "Is there any way we can make this right?" She studied his earnest eyes. She appreciated the sentiment, even shared it, but she was just so goddamned tired and defeated. She'd waited a month---a very long month---to hear those words, or any words that would indicate that he cared. Had the moment passed? "I don't know. I don't want to lose you, Mulder. But we seem to be at an impasse. And we're both so fucking miserable. I can't. . . can't go on like this." Her voice cracked. "I can't." Mulder stared into her unhappy eyes, then drew a deep breath. "Then let's go on some other way. I *do* respect you, Scully, even if our beliefs are different. Especially because our beliefs are different. I don't mean to sneer or give that impression. You know what an asshole I can be." He laid a hand on her knee and swayed toward her, speaking with the urgency of a man arguing against his own death sentence. "I think we just . . . expected some things to change when we started sleeping together. And we didn't tell each other, or maybe even admit it to ourselves, that our expectations had changed. We just. . . stayed the same stubborn people we've always been. Only we'd set up these secret tests, which we both failed. So ultimately, the only change is that we were less horny, which wasn't enough." Scully looked at the face she loved. Mulder's bright eyes were totally focused on her. "Mulder, I think I've learned. . . that I don't think I *can* keep the same relationship we've always had and just add sex. If there's sex, there's gotta be . . . more. For me, at least." He nodded. "Tell me what you need." Various scenarios crossed Scully's mind: undying devotion, a handsome prince with a *big* lance on a white steed, a man who'd spend 48-hour periods licking melted chocolate from her body, all the while murmuring, "You're right, you're right." This was incredibly frustrating, she thought. She had Mulder on his knees in front of her, his pleading eyes clamped to hers, inquiring most earnestly about her needs, and this was all she could come up with? Jesus, was having him in this position actually her need? What a *girl* I am, she thought. Unprepared to answer his question, she turned her mind to something that bothered her. "Last night," she said slowly, "at dinner. You said there're lots of things you don't believe in. What'd you mean?" "The truth?" She nodded. "Even if it hurts---either one of us." "Love. I don't really believe in it, for me. I'm a life-long loser, from family to romantic love. I was thinking that when you were my dearest friend, our love was . . . transcendent, unbreakable. But as soon as it changed, well, you joined the long line of women who've found Fox Mulder . . . inadequate." "Give me your hand, Mulder." She cradled it on her lap, her fingers trailing everywhere: over the palm, up and down and between his slender fingers, across his smooth nails, around his thumb, back to the palm, rubbing until his eyes closed in ecstasy. "Is this like a Groucho Marx thing, Mulder? How he wouldn't belong to any club that'd accept him as a member? Is that how you are about women?" she whispered, her finger moving to his wrist, to the delicate skin of his inner arm. "Were you afraid that once I'd grown to love you, I couldn't possibly be worth having?" Her face moved closer to his, as he still knelt with eyes closed, shaking his head as he absorbed her gentle words and soft touches on his hand and wrist. "Or did you have trouble believing that I really did love you?" "Some," he confessed, opening his eyes to the blue that was now so close. "I don't feel like the most lovable guy in the world. And," he smiled bitterly, "I think I can say with some confidence that I'm not. You've shown me that." Tears filled Scully's eyes. "I should have told you more often that I love you," she said. You're so . . . so arrogant that I forget . . . your needs. And I . . . I somehow felt that it'd put me in your power, that you'd take advantage, use it in some way." He leaned forward and kissed the side of her mouth. "I would probably use it," he admitted, briefly resting his forehead on her knee. "I'm ruthless where the work---or anything I want---is concerned. And like any child who's felt unloved, I'm an expert manipulator." He raised his head to meet her eyes, daring her to guess whether his confession was itself a manipulation. "Jesus, we are a mess," he added. She nodded. "I have my own," she put quotes around the word with a hand gesture, "issues. I'm afraid if I get too close, I'll get burnt, so I . . . put up a lot of resistance. We're an accident waiting to happen----I withhold; you need. I fear intimacy; you're a stranger to it. You manipulate; I dread losing control. We're misfits, Mulder." "So misfit that we might actually fit, I think." He picked up her hand, kissed it, tucked it under his chin. "We've got years invested here, Scully, and lots and lots of deep feelings. Love." His voice caressed the word, and he paused. "I lied, Scully. About not believing in love. You've made me a believer, at least sometimes." He lowered her hand and stared at it thoughtfully. "I don't think you'd lie about loving me," he said. "I believe in you." She gave him a shaky smile. "'I want to believe,'" she quoted. "I do too, Mulder. I really want to believe in us." He looked into her eyes and spoke in the tones of one making a vow: "I will change, give you . . . anything I have in me to give. Anything. If you'll tell me what you need to keep going and stay with me." After (5 of 5) MystPhile@aol.com What did women want, Freud had inquired. Hell, it was hard enough for Scully to figure out what she herself wanted, let alone speak for her gender. She leaned forward and stared into Mulder's eyes, hoping to glimpse a response that would lift her heart. "I need . . ." She broke off, swallowed, and began again. "To . . . to know that I'm important to you for who I am. Not just a sounding board for ideas at work or your private scientific reference. Not just someone whose ideas you ignore before you do what you've already decided to do anyway. I need to be . . . listened to. Respected, as I said before. And, I've got to . . . feel that I'm important to you beyond the work function. And . . . and the sex function. I can't just be your Friday night lay, or whatever." "Have you ever felt like that?" He looked more horrified than if she'd morphed into Godzilla. She shook her head. "The sex has been out of this world. So good that it kept these issues hidden for a lot longer than was healthy." Scully's mind flashed back to the scene which had ended their sexual relationship and tossed them into their present morass. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< The night before their breakup, a Friday, was a perfect evening: close, romantic, mind-blowingly sexual. After cuddling on her couch while sharing Thai food, they'd lain back, limbs entangled, to watch a Meg Ryan film. (Mulder's agreeing to watch Meg Ryan should have aroused her suspicions, not her libido, she realized in retrospect). But instead of focusing on Meg's charming moues, they'd turned their attention to each other. They touched; they tasted. Clothing drifted to the floor, followed shortly by their bodies. And then, they were everywhere, in every room it seemed, consuming each other, consumed with each other- --to the point of literally bouncing off the walls. Scully was surprised to wake up alone the next morning, nursing a goose egg on the back of her head where she'd climaxed noisily against the wall of her hallway. She checked the plaster to see if she'd cracked it, then noticed that Mulder had left no message. His jogging clothes were in the drawer she stored them in. I don't own him, she thought, and went about her business, cleaning, shopping, returning videos. She bought a chicken to roast for dinner, feeling it was time for a home-cooked meal for a change. Still no word from Mulder. By 10 p.m., his cell phone remaining unresponsive, Scully was worried enough to drive to Mulder's apartment. There, she saw no evidence of his having stopped by. She took some aspirin for her headache and paced restlessly, wondering what had happened to him. She was divided between worry about his well-being and rage at his disappearing in the middle of the night. She contemplated the notion that he'd given her an unusually vigorous sexual workout to ensure that she'd sleep through his exit. Such connivance was not a pretty idea to entertain. Since he did not appear until 2 a.m., she had plenty of time to review his treatment of her; various scenes she'd overlooked at the time forced their way into her consciousness. She grew more and more angry while at the same time her worry meter zoomed into the red zone. By the time he dragged himself in, clothes ripped and face bruised, she was thoroughly enraged, both at this incident and all the past slights she'd had such ample time to tote up. "Where the fuck have you been?" He collapsed on the couch, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. "You don't wanna know." His voice slurred with exhaustion. "Oh, but I do. I really, really do." Had he been more alert and less beaten up, he might have noticed that she was speaking through gritted teeth. But, apparently consumed by his aches and pains, he put her off. "Scully, believe me, there's nothing here to know. I had a call, I went out, I was a moron. I paid for it. I *really* don't want to get into this now." "It's now or never." She'd had hours and hours to reach this point. He seemed to be more absorbed in his failures than with her feelings. But maybe that's the way it always was, she'd thought. And if that's the way it would always be, well, she'd had enough. She'd tried to be his full partner in every sense of the word. What more could she do to win his total trust? Obviously, she'd failed. She'd even permitted him to fuck her into a stupor, she reflected bitterly. Why? So she'd find him charming and forgive him for this one hundredth ditch? She'd just delivered an ultimatum---talk to me now, or never!--- and he'd ignored it. So, she provided the answer herself. "Never." "Not tonight, Scully," he groaned, rubbing his tired eyes. "I'm not up to one of those 'Mulder, how could you' deals. Please, just let me get some sleep. There's nothing you need to know. Nothing happened except for me making an ass of myself. It's nothing. Please." "Yeah, Mulder. You're right. It's nothing. *We* are nothing." She studied him. No response. She prepared to cut the cord. "This isn't working, Mulder. It's over." He forced his eyes open. "I'm not up for this, Scully. Tomorrow, huh? What the fuck do you think is over anyway?" "Us. You and I." His eyes shot open then, but he did not put up a fight. Instead, he retreated; he sulked. She found that unforgivable. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Scully jerked her mind back to the present. "We should have talked about these things months ago," she continued, "but we were busy making love, not making sense. To finish answering your question, I think . . . I need more affection. More attention. In a, a non-sexual context." He gave a nod of understanding. "You *are* important to me for who you are, Scully. And I do respect you, both you and your ideas." He touched her cheek, staring into her bruised-looking eyes, where hurt lingered. "I can see that I haven't . . . haven't always treated you as the partner you are to me, in all senses of the word." He drew her face closer, cradling it in his hands, and continued, "You have to know that you're the most important person in the world to me." He paused and nodded. "And if you need me to, to show you that more often, I'll damned well do it." Scully smiled and leaned forward to kiss his lips lightly. What he'd said---and the sincerity with which he'd said it--- had somehow turned her internal tides. Their castle was no longer a hopeless ruin, half washed out to sea with only jagged remnants remaining. Suddenly, she realized there was plenty of daylight left to build a sturdier edifice on higher ground. One cooperatively designed by two architects who would consult frequently, not just keep adding more rooms to their separate wings. "I believe you," she said, kissing him again, more emphatically. But there was one remaining obstacle. "I . . . I said our relationship wasn't working, Mulder. And you, you who fight me on virtually every word that emerges from my mouth---not a peep from you. It was as if you were glad, relieved that I'd saved you the trouble. I . . . I figured you were tired of me, maybe sorry we'd ever gotten involved that way, glad I'd ended it." "That's totally wrong." He leaned back on his heels. "I . . . accepted it when you said it was over because I was just . . . waiting for it to happen. I'd hoped that what we had was different---that you actually could love me. But when you said it wasn't working. . . well, it was just what I'd been dreading. Like the ax had fallen at last, after hanging over my head while I hoped it'd go away. I just figured that . . . like the rest, you'd discovered that I really wasn't good enough. I felt like shit because, unlike the others, I loved you. And I was still working with you. And slowly dying," he ended bitterly. Scully was speechless; the only thing she could think to do was lay her hand on his shoulder and squeeze. He rubbed his eyes and continued, "A person . . . who's been emotionally abused, Scully, is . . . always willing to believe he's failed in a relationship. Just sitting there waiting to be told to get lost. So, that's why I accepted your decree without a murmur." Scully was appalled that Mulder's self-esteem was so much lower than she'd ever suspected. He truly didn't feel entitled to love or loyalty or any of the normal, good things in life. Which he *should * have expected, damn it! At the same time, she was glad that they were communicating- --dragging the unpleasant truths into the light. It *can* work, she told herself. It's just not as simple as we thought it would be. We assumed we knew each other, and we could simply move into a new phase. But we were wrong. We've got a lot to learn. Realizing that they both needed to bring more to the relationship if it was to succeed, she asked, "What can I do to make it better for you in the future?" Mulder considered. "You don't have to agree with me---about anything. Where work is concerned, we both need to lower our elevated expectations and maintain our usual roles. With added attention and respect. And minimal sneering," he added with a small smile. "I promise you that. Okay?" She gave a quick nod. "In our personal lives," he continued, "if we can just . . ..not let the work carry over. We've got to try to separate the two because in our . . . intimate life, I need acceptance, not an adversary." He hesitated a few seconds. "Love," he blurted. "I need to feel loved. Be . . . convinced of it, feel secure about it. Same as you, I think." "I do love you," she told him, resting her forehead against his. "And I love you," he said, pulling her forward so he knelt between her legs. The robe fell away from her bare thighs, and he ran his hand from her knee to her buttock. "And I don't want us to be together out of some desperate need, like I'd die without you. Though I probably would," he grinned. "But I'd rather we be together . . . out of a positive desire. That we can be good for each other, not just try to, to obliterate all the bad stuff that's happened." "I know what you mean," she said, wrapping her arms and legs around him. His body felt so good against hers. It was like recovering a missing limb. "I don't want to . . . what'd you say, fuck our brains out. That's literally mindless, an escape. I want to experience the joy." A thought occurred to her. "Mulder, did you know that lust is the Anglo-Saxon word for 'joy'?" "Works for me," he murmured. "It's not about the X-Files or any of that stuff. It should be just us, as people." She pushed his hair back and gently caressed his swollen jaw. "I'm sorry." He touched her face, running a finger across her cheekbone, along her jawline, and around her neck. He closed his eyes, reading her like Braille. His other hand moved up her leg and made light patterns on the soft skin of her inner thigh. "Don't be sorry," he whispered. "The blow seemed to be exactly what we needed to wake up and face . . . our problems." His hand moved up to caress her lower stomach. "I'd like to go to bed with you. We don't have to have sex, but I really need to hold you and kiss you and love you." She tightened her legs around him, pulling him close enough for her to feel him stirring within his jeans. She kissed his ear and took the lobe in her mouth for a moment. "What's this about no sex?" she asked in mock alarm. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Their naked bodies coiled on the bed, twining and rustling, moving sensually. They refused to rush this union---this reunion---both intent on savoring every movement, every taste, every sensation. Scully reacquainted herself with the texture of Mulder's tongue, then licked his lower lip and drew it into her mouth, her eyes closed in ecstasy as she repossessed what she'd dreamed of for four long weeks. She moved to his ear, that delicate, flexible shell composed of translucent skin. Behind the lobe lay the special soft spot designed for her nose to nuzzle into, making a perfect fit. She breathed him in, high on his texture and scent. And on the effect his actions were having on her. His hands abandoned her breasts as his mouth moved down to take over, suckling until she moaned hoarsely, thrusting her hardened nipple against his throat. More, more, more, she thought. "Ley lines," she murmured, thinking he'd enjoy the paranormal reference. Her ley lines ran from the tips of her nipples to her vagina. Any pressure above brought an answering spasm below, causing her hips to grind against him. He released her breast for a second. "L-a-y or l-e-y lines?" he asked in a voice like melted honey, before inhaling her breast once again. She laughed until his fingers reached down to press, then grasp, her clit, and then, for some moments she was incapable of rational thought. All she could do was thrash and gasp and abandon herself to sensation---and cry out one-syllable words, like "more." Eventually, he brought her release and she fell back and closed her eyes. When the blinding neon colors behind her eyelids started to fade, she tried to regulate her breathing as he wiped the sweat off her face and kissed each dried spot. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and pulled him to her, holding him tight enough to imagine that she could keep him there always. She felt wrapped in bliss. Eventually, she roused herself to kiss her way down his body. She took her time and enjoyed every second of the journey, suckling his hard little nipples, combing the hair on his chest with her fingertips, licking at his abdominal muscles, watching them tense. She cradled his balls while holding his swollen cock in her mouth, her tongue tracing intricate patterns around the head. She watched his hands clench and unclench on the sheets and felt his throbbing inside her mouth. After a few minutes---or an eternity---he implored her to stop, or not to stop---his words weren't clear because of the music of the spheres inside her head. But, after all these weeks, she wanted him inside her, not scattering his seed into the metaphorical winds. So she slithered up his body, distributing kisses freely, and straddled him, adjusting the angle of her body to take him in. She ran her hands down his chest, mussing the fine hair, letting it tickle her palms. She studied his face, searching for some indication that this time it would work. Sex in itself was not enough and it never would be. Without effort, it could all fall apart again, leaving further gaping wounds. She dreaded that prospect, didn't think she could bear it. She really loved him if she was willing to open herself up to such searing potential pain, she thought. Or maybe she trusted him, both of them, to do what was necessary to keep things right. His hands brushed back her hair as his thumbs caressed her lips. They moved lightly down her neck and chest, stopping to squeeze her nipples gently and hold her breasts for a minute. They touched her stomach with reverence before moving to grasp her hips. "Come here, my love," he whispered. His smile was so blissful, it was the most beautiful sight Scully had ever seen. She flashed him her full-wattage smile in return, letting him see her joy in their union. Incredibly, his smile grew even fuller; he looked like a man who had found nirvana. It made her want to cry, and she could feel her eyes start to flood. It wasn't right, really, that she should mean this much to him. She wasn't adequate to fill his life in that way, to be so vital. She could never be all he expected her to be. But, she told herself, all he really wanted was her love. And she did love him. She knew they'd still fight and have misunderstandings and shout nasty, hurtful things at each other from time to time. But that was all right. Her parents had had some grand shouting matches; it was all part of the game. And besides, he wasn't expecting anything of her that she didn't want from him. They were laying equal burdens on each other. Or, looked at another way, equal opportunities to bring joy to each other and themselves. She lowered her mouth to kiss his eyelids, his cheek, his ear, and finally, his lips. His mouth opened under hers, and her tongue entered the wet warm cave. At the same time, she lowered herself onto his penis, which slid inside her so fast and so smoothly and fit so perfectly, it had to be right. Nestled inside each other, they began their movements in exquisite harmony. END Feedback much appreciated at MystPhile@aol.com WEBPAGE: http://members.xoom.com/MystPhile/