I Believe
Author: Diana Battis
Classification: S/A ,MSR
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Milagro, minor ones for The End, Alpha 
Summary: A skeptic's journey for truth.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it!

*****

It is dark in the room, the soft glow from the hall the only illumination. I awaken, shifting 
slightly to find a more comfortable position. My movement serves another purpose, and I feel 
his arm snake around my waist, to settle with fingers splayed, just below my breast. My body 
moves back, resting against his warmth, my haven in the darkness. And I remember...

*****

Mulder left me seconds ago, ready to arrest Padgett. I am waiting in his apartment, fuming 
because he has abandoned me again, when I see a figure before me. Dark and hooded, a 
childhood nightmare come to life. My mind has barely registered the thought when he is upon 
me. I find myself falling, hitting the floor, struggling as though my life depended on it, which it 
does. But he is strong, my blows ineffective. 

He probes beneath my blazer, tearing at the opening in my blouse. I feel his hands against my 
breast, and then the pain. I scream in agony, fumbling for my gun. I have trouble removing it 
from its holster, my fingers slow and uncooperative. Finally pulling it free, I fire repeatedly, 
emptying the clip. And still the pain. I feel the blood now, warm and sticky as it flows down, 
drenching my blouse and beginning to puddle beneath me. I hear myself screaming, and the 
pain is more than I can stand. I scream again, then blackness...

I awaken with a start, my reflexes still working as I reach out to defend myself from this 
monster. But the hands touching me now are strangely gentle. Where once there had been pain, 
now there was only tenderness. I look into Mulder's face. He is stricken, agony apparent in his 
hazel eyes. I see something else flare there, too. Relief. His hands gently check for the wound. I 
reach upwards, grabbing him, holding him. My lifeline. I start to cry, great heaving sobs. He 
holds me, saying nothing. He doesn't need words. His presence is enough for me.

He lets me cry, hugging me tightly to him. The tears slow, then stop, and I feel drained. His 
arms shift and I realize he is lifting me, cradling me against his chest. I hear his heart, beating 
strong beneath my cheek. He carries me to the couch, trying to lay me down but I refuse to let 
him go. I can't let go. Mulder senses my need, and sits down, pulling me into his lap, smoothing 
my hair. I feel safe now, and I burrow my head into his chest, my arms stealing around his neck. 
I allow myself the luxury of closing my eyes.

I don't know how long we sit like this. I am so tired. From far away I hear his voice, telling me 
he wants me to lie down. I want to argue with him. I'm a doctor, I know what to do. But I can't. I 
allow him to stand, and deposit me on the couch. I open my eyes to look at him and notice his 
clothes. He is covered in blood. My blood. I lay there, my eyes never leaving him as he walks 
across the room. Mulder is on the phone. I hear the soft, even tone of his voice as he relays 
information. I love the sound of his voice, and I let it lull me to sleep...

There are others in the room now. Other hands are probing me. These hands are gentle, too, but 
they are impersonal. These hands don't really know me. I'm not a person to them, just a patient. 
I let them do what they need to, answering their questions. But my mind is on Mulder. 

I see him in the doorway, talking with someone. He hair is damp, and he has changed his 
clothes, replacing the bloodied shirt and slacks with jeans and a gray t-shirt. He is nervous, and 
can't seem to stand still. I notice his feet are bare, and he is shifting his weight from one foot to 
the other.

The officials and paramedics are clearing out. One by one, they leave the apartment. Soon they 
are all gone and it is just Mulder and me.

I attempt to stand, and am immediately sick. I feel disgusted and embarrassed by my actions, 
but Mulder takes it in stride. He moves to my side quickly, holding my head and brushing the 
hair away from my face. The spasms cease, and I fall back, exhausted. He leaves me, going for 
the bucket and mop I suppose. But no, he is back almost immediately, a washcloth in his hand. 
It is warm, wet, and slightly soapy, and he gently cleans my face, wiping away the evidence of 
my disgrace.

"Mulder, I'm sorry." I want to say more, but his fingers touch my lips, stopping further words. 
His concern is apparent, and I relish this moment. Mulder is taking care of me. 

He sits there, talking quietly to me. He talks about baseball, and though I hate the sport, at this 
moment it is fascinating to me. Mulder has that ability, to make the most trivial and mundane 
matters interesting.

My clothing is dry now, the blood stiffening the material. I pull at my blouse and grimace. 
Mulder sees my look. "Let's see what we can do about your clothes." He leaves me, heading for 
the bedroom. I have always prided myself on my independence, and yet now I want nothing 
more than to let Mulder take charge, and make all my decisions.

He isn't gone long. He returns, reaching for my hands and helping me to my feet. His gaze is 
full of concern, and I know he worries that it is too soon, that I am not yet strong enough to 
move. I straighten my spine, and start unsteadily toward the bedroom door. He stays with me, 
guiding me like a parent with a toddler who has just mastered the talent of walking.

We enter his bedroom, and I have recovered enough to be curious about this inner sanctum. It 
isn't at all as I had pictured it. Though there are numerous filing cabinets along one wall, the 
rest of the room is surprisingly normal. And wonder of wonders, it has a bed.

I sink onto that bed now, and watch Mulder move around. He places a new toothbrush, towel 
and washcloth on the bed beside me. He is uncomfortable, almost blushing, as he asks if I can 
manage. I'm not sure I can, but I don't tell him of my uncertainty. "I'm fine." How many times 
have I said those two words, thinking I meant it. I say them again, and I am not sure which one 
of us I am reassuring. He nods, and hands me a pair of his sweats to change into. "If you need 
me, just yell," and then he is gone.

I walk into the bathroom, sinking onto the seat of the toilet to remove my shoes. I don't shut the 
door. After today, I don't want any additional barriers between Mulder and me. The blazer is 
off, and I peel the stiff blouse from my body, dropping it onto the floor with the blazer. The rest 
of my clothes follow, and I make a mental note to ask Mulder for a trash bag so I can dispose of 
them. They are beyond saving.

I step into the shower and turn it on full force, adjusting the temperature. The water rushes out, 
hot and cleansing. I wash myself, seeing the water turn pink. My blood washing away. I was 
baptized today, by my own blood. I shampoo my hair, lathering once, twice, the lather 
cascading over my body to swirl down the drain. I stand there in the spray of the shower, 
cleansed.

I look at myself in the mirror. My hair is wet, and starting to curl. Mulder's comb is useless for 
taming those curls, and I give up. I brush my teeth, rinsing repeatedly to get the bad taste out of 
my mouth. I am feeling more normal now.

In the bedroom, I start to dress. The clothes are much too big, they are Mulder-sized. I lift the 
sweatshirt to my face, inhaling and searching for some of the smell that is uniquely Mulder. 
Pulling it on, I have to turn the sleeves back several times before my hands are visible. The 
pants are much too long, and I decide to go without them. The sweatshirt reaches mid-thigh and 
I hope that is enough.

Emerging from the bedroom, I see Mulder sitting on the couch. He has cleaned away the proof 
of my earlier humiliation. The room smells piney, and I smile at the thought of a domestic 
Mulder.

He is still tense. I can see that from where I stand. His hands are clenched by his sides, and he is 
unaware of my scrutiny. The room's only illumination comes from the television. Its flickering 
light plays across the planes of his face. I love his face. It is strong and pleasing, with 
intelligent eyes that see so much. I enjoy looking at Mulder. I want to go on looking at him 
forever.

It comes to me now, something I have known all along yet refused to acknowledge. I love this 
man. He is my savior, my guardian angel, my mentor, my love. My love. Finally admitting it, I 
feel free.

He sees me standing there, his eyes still anguished. I pad over to the couch, and sit next to him, 
our legs almost touching. He watches me move, and now his face turns toward me. There are so 
many things I want to say to him, but I stay silent. Sometimes, words aren't enough.

I reach out to him, touching his face, then lean forward to press a light kiss on his lips. He 
reaches out for me then, and I think that, perhaps, he missed me. The thought that Mulder could 
be lonely flashes across my mind. For the first time it occurs to me that I am the one he is 
lonely for. 

I go into his arms, settling myself into his lap, again safe in the sanctuary that is Mulder. He 
shudders, and I note that the tension has left his body. We are both content, for the moment.

For the second time that day, we are united. How long did we stay this way? I don't know. 
Minutes, hours, days? Time ceases to have meaning. There was only the two of us, both 
needing to know that the other was near. At this moment, nothing else in the world matters. 

I am tired, so tired. I can't stay awake. I feel Mulder rocking me, like a baby. I look up at his 
face, wanting it to be the last thing I see before I surrender to fatigue. I sleep... 

I awaken in bed, sheets soft against my body. I feel refreshed, and I tentatively sit up, 
wondering how I got here and where Mulder is. As though on cue, he appears in the doorway, 
carrying a tray. He brings it over to the bed and sets it next to me, his movements awkward, and 
yes, shy. He isn't used to doing domestic things, and he is unsure of himself. 

I glance at the tray. Chicken noodle soup, straight from the can, and saltines. A mug of tea 
completes the meal. He did this for me. I smile up at him, my pleasure apparent. Mulder cooks. 

My stomach is empty, and I relish the taste of the hot soup and sweet tea. Mulder sits beside 
me, helping himself to saltines, dropping crumbs into the tangle of bedclothes. He's accused me 
in the past of being a neat freak. Maybe it's true most of the time, but not today. I accept the 
crumbs, just as I accept him. Without reservation.

He removes the tray, putting it on the floor beside the bed. I am sated, and I sit there, holding 
the half-full mug of tea, and wonder at the circumstances that have brought us to this stage in 
our relationship. I wonder if he is as aware of the significant changes that have occurred. 

He is sitting quietly beside me, and I sense his need to analyze the events of today, to put the 
Mulder spin on Padgett and the consequences of his actions. He hesitates, and I think it is 
because he is afraid to remind me of that earlier terror. Setting the mug on the night stand, I 
turn back to face him. I speak first.

"Mulder, we need to talk about this." There, I've given him the opening he needs, and I wait for 
his reply. I don't have to wait long.

"I screwed up, Scully. It's my fault, all my fault. You were almost killed today. How many 
times will I put your life in jeopardy because of my conceit, my arrogance?" He turns away 
from me and cradles his head in his hands. I want to stop his words, but I know that won't do 
him any good. He needs to get this off his chest, out in the open. I let him talk.

His voice is muffled, and I can barely make out his words. I realize he is weeping, and that 
spurs me to action. It is my turn to cradle him, to murmur soothing words. I wrap my arms 
around him, pulling his head to my shoulder, feeling the wetness of his tears on my body. 
Another baptism.

"Scully, Scully, Scully." He is crooning my name, over and over, his mantra. I stroke his hair, 
feeling the strands soft and clean under my fingers. I rest my head against his and inhale the 
fragrance of his shampoo, of him.

His body stills and his voice is quiet. I feel him pull away, and though I want to keep holding 
him against me, I let him go. He is wiping his cheeks, his hands obliterating the last traces of 
wetness from his face. I reach out to him, feeling the raspy stubble as I stroke his cheek. Now it 
is my turn to speak.

"None of this was your fault, Mulder. None of it. I should have trusted your instincts sooner. 
But I didn't. I was the one who was arrogant." I was remembering Padgett's words to us from his 
cell. "Agent Scully's already in love," he'd said. He was right, and now was the right time to 
admit it.

"Padgett was right about one thing, Mulder. I am already in love. With you." I can feel his 
tenseness, his body suddenly still. He has stopped breathing, I think. He waits, as though he 
expects more. I repeat the words. "I love you, Mulder." It feels good to say them, I want to 
repeat them over and over again. "I love..."

His mouth stops me. That beautiful mouth. His lips tease mine, kissing lightly only to pull 
away when I seek to deepen the kiss. I moan, and the sound is foreign to me, coming from a 
place deep inside. A place I've only just discovered. 

His lips are traveling, down to the hollow in my throat, his tongue washing me clean. He is 
moving up to my ear, nipping lightly as he goes, soothing the hurt with the balm of his tongue. 
He reaches the lobe, sucking it into his mouth, and I feel that pull in other places, and my 
nipples harden in response.

Back to my mouth, and this time I take the initiative, holding his head and crushing our mouths 
together. The hot, smooth wetness of his tongue invades, and tangles with mine. I am aching 
with desire, and my breathing becomes more erratic. All from a kiss. Mulder's kiss.

I slide into his lap for the third time. Third time's the charm, I think, before all thoughts cease. 
Now I just feel. I feel Mulder, his hardness beneath me. The sweatshirt is bunched up around 
my waist, and I am pressed against his groin with only his jeans between us. And I am wet, so 
wet.

He pulls away from my mouth, and I groan in disappointment. His hands are at my waist, and 
he pulls the sweatshirt higher. I want it off, and I raise my arms, in assistance or surrender, I 
don't know which. Does it matter? I am his regardless.

One tug and it's off. Now I want the same from Mulder. I am dragging his shirt out of his jeans, 
my fingers skimming across his stomach as they peel it off and expose his chest. He is as 
cooperative as I was, and his shirt joins mine on the floor.

Now we are skin to skin, my breasts pressed against his chest, the slight sprinkling of hair a 
delightful abrasion. I lean forward to press soft kisses along his collarbone. I kiss my way down 
his strong chest, and my tongue bathes him, paying special attention to his flat, male nipples. I 
am astonished to hear his moan, amazed to think that I can affect this man that way. 

It is his turn now, and he lowers his head to my breasts, kissing the tops, circling them with his 
lips, touching everywhere but where I crave it most. I am moaning again, my cries a plea for 
more. He hears and understands. I feel his lips close around a nipple, the turgid flesh made for 
his mouth. He suckles, and I hear sounds, inexplicable, incoherent sounds and I realize that I am 
making them. 

His teeth lightly scrape across the nubbin of flesh, and I grind myself into him. "Oh Mulder..." 
It is my prayer, a litany of praise to him. His tongue laves the tip, soothing it before repeating 
the procedure, moving from one breast to another. I am lost. 

I feel his fingers in my hair, and my scalp tingles where he touches it. He anchors his fingers 
there and pulls my head toward his again. "I love you, Scully." He whispers those words against 
my lips, and then all talking stops. Another kiss, deep and wet, I am drowning in him. Oh, god, 
Mulder, who taught you to kiss like that? My heart is beating so hard I think it will leave my 
chest of its own accord. 

My heart. That is what this is all about. Padgett wanted my heart, but it was already spoken for. 
It belongs to Mulder, and I think it always has. It always will, too.

I can't take much more of this. I am so ripe, so ready. It won't take much to put me over the 
edge. My hands reach down to the waist of his jeans, tugging at the button, sliding down the 
zipper. Part of my mind is shocked by my boldness, but the other part is impatient. The 
impatient side wins, and I reach inside.

It's been so long since I've made love, and I have almost forgotten the beauty of an aroused 
man. And Mulder is beautiful. My breath catches in my throat as my hands caress him. He is so 
hard, so hot. He shudders at my touch, his breath hissing through his teeth. His hands grab my 
wrists, stopping me. I want to cry.

He lifts me effortlessly, as though I weighed nothing, and lays me back on the bed. He stands, 
and I hear myself moan in disappointment. He is leaving me. "Mulder, please..." I am begging, 
pleading as though for my life. And in a way, I am, for he is my life now.

He shoves his jeans down, and I hear them hitting the floor. Stepping out of them, he is back 
beside me, his arms reaching for me, pulling me close again. We are pressed together, skin to 
skin. It is electric. I feel him, pressing against my thigh, and I move my hips restlessly, aching 
for that final fulfillment. 

I feel him probing, and then he is entering me. I moan, a song of pleasure that I sing only for 
him. He thrusts rhythmically, the music for my song. I am so ready, and I feel myself teetering 
on the brink before falling, falling. "Oh god! Mulder, Mulder, oh god, Mulder." I say his name 
over and over. The pleasure is almost too much to bear...

At the sound of my voice, he tenses, then drives harder, once, twice, three times. It is his turn to 
fall. I feel the spasms as he empties his seed in me. My final baptism.

I can't believe what just happened. That we are here, like this, joined body, heart and soul. It 
seems almost more than I deserve. A gift from the gods. He kisses me one last time, a gentle 
kiss, full of tenderness and promises. And full of love.

We drift off to sleep this way, limbs intertwined, hearts beating in unison. Two halves, now 
whole.

*****

And so I am awake. I can tell by the even tenor of his breathing that Mulder is still asleep. 
Good. I want to savor this experience, the feel of his skin against mine, his breath gently 
stirring my hair. 

I think back to this last year and all that has happened to us. He has been my savior so many 
times. He never gave up on me. I remember the poster, with its message of hope. I WANT TO 
BELIEVE. The poster that had gone up in smoke with his life's work. The poster that had come 
back to him, his legacy from a lonely woman who found some happiness in just knowing him. 

I move again, still unable to believe that I am here with him. That I am loved. He stirs, 
murmuring my name, pulling me closer still. He doesn't awaken. He has slain the dragon this 
time, and is exhausted by his quest. 

I have always been the skeptic. That was what brought me into Mulder's life. I was the one with 
the scientific reasons for everything, blithely explaining away the bizarre situations. In my 
arrogance, I discounted any theory Mulder had. But no longer. Now, his quest is my quest. I 
have found the truth. 

And I believe.


The End