TITLE: LETTING GO AUTHOR: ELIZABETH EVENS E-MAIL: ebe1013@hotmail.com Spoilers: Mild ones, up to and including season 6 Category: MSR, Angst Rating: NC-17, for language and sex Synopsis: Capture by a madman forces the agents to deal with buried demons, and their own feelings. Disclaimer: If I owned them, they wouldn't need to resort to these sordid activities on paper, they'd have done it on TV long ago. So, hey, I don't own them. CC et al own them. But I asked nice, and he said they could come out and play. Archive: Sure, but please let me know And now, the moment you've all been waiting for.... Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Agent Fox Mulder rarely woke up in a good way. Sweating and shaky from night terrors, sick or wounded or captured, usually still gritty and exhausted. He'd pretty much given up on voluntary sleep, only succumbing when his own body or some outside agency forced him to. Because coming to was usually unpleasant. This time was no exception. There was the usual disorientation as he emerged from the darkness, the uncertainty of time, place, position. His couch? A hospital? Day or night? He blinked, attempting to clear his vision, and rolled over to look at his watch. It was then he realized he couldn't see. Or move his arms. And his head was pounding. He moaned softly, trying to remember what had happened. They were investigating a case, Scully and himself, helping out the local DC police department with a complex, possibly serial, killer. They'd split up as they entered the dark old building. He had gone in, gun drawn, the armed suspect known to be somewhere in the area, very possibly in the very structure they were searching. A noise, a flash of movement, sudden blinding pain in agonizing waves, radiating from his abused cranium. Then the black abyss. The throbbing in his temples made though difficult. Images surfaced and scattered before he could focus, random concerns and blurry mental photographs. Was he still in the abandoned factory? Who was his captor? Where's Scully? Where's Scully!? His thoughts were immediately more cohesive. Was she still out there, searching frantically for him? God, he hoped so. It was worth her lectures and her mothering, the exasperated sighs and the melodramatic complaints, just to know she was out there, looking out for him, pulling his ass out of the fire. She was so good at it. He figured his chances of surviving increased exponentially if she was free. Heaven knew he didn't seem competent to rescue himself. So the sickening plummet of his heart into his stomach when he heard her soft whimper was understandable. She was here, most likely restrained as well. His red-haired knightess would affect no liberation today. He'd dragged her into danger again. And that knowledge was more painful that the radiating waves through his skull. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. A faint glimmer of light streamed in hazy, dusty bars between rotting boards covering a window, striking a grimy barren wall and providing the barest hint of illumination. He shifted, trying to move without the benefit of his bound arms and legs, straining to turn over, to peer around the room. He saw her lying on the ground a couple of feet away, her still form in an awkward position. Despite her earlier noise, she was apparently unconscious, a liquid sheen on her thin face. He sucked in a sharp breath as he realized what the moisture was: blood. Wriggling frantically, he managed to scoot closer to her, examining her injuries the best he could without freedom of movement or adequate lighting. A sigh of relief escaped his lips; the would was superficial in appearance, a trail of flaking red-brown winding from a cut near her eyebrow to crust along her cheek and jaw. Nothing major, though undoubtably painful. Still, his insides ached to see her like this. Hurt because of him. She'd be so much safer away from him and the X-Files, away from the dangerous insanity he claimed as his quest and his life. If he had the strength to do so, he would push her away for her own safety. He couldn't protect her. Hell, he couldn't even protect himself. But he knew he could never bring himself to send her away. He tried, sometimes, a half-hearted effort characterized by feigned indifference and biting sarcasm. She'd become hurt, angry by his curtness and callousness, and some part of him hoped she'd leave him, save herself. And the part of him that knew her leaving would kill him inside always rejoiced when she stood her ground and fought back, burning his coldness, melting his good, honorable intentions. Leaving only the selfish desire that she would never, ever abandon him. So far she hadn't disappointed. He didn't know why, or how, but she was still here. Currently injured, always bearing the scars of their partnership on her body and soul. He was weak, so weak without her, too weak to bear the mere idea of life without her by his side, too weak to do what was best for her and force her to run away with all the speed she could muster. "Scully...." It was only a whisper. He didn't want to wake her. Her name broke from his lips, a prayer, a benediction, begging for her safety. Begging for her to return to him, whole and complete. His head bowed, forehead brushing the chilly concrete, he succumbed to fatigue once again. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * He awoke again less than an hour again. She was stirring, groaning, her restrained movements bumping her against him. He watched, powerless to help, as her body suddenly jerked, froze in confusion, and began to flail against her bonds. "Scully...shh...it's going to be okay." Her frantic thrashing still at the sound of his voice. "Mulder?" She sounded tremulous, scared, and his heart shattered with grief and guilt. He had caused her fear, her pain, and the burden weighed heavily on his soul. "I'm right here, Scully." She relaxed noticeably. Squirming, she flipped over to face him, their bodies lying inches away on the hard, unforgiving floor. Her gasp of pain was harsh, grating in the still tense air. "What happened, Mulder? Where are we?" He shook his head, a grimace clouding his face as his own pain flooded back, blurring his vision. "I'm not sure where we are, Scully," he muttered, teeth clenched against the agony. The waves slowly subsided, leaving him weak, slightly nauseous. "And I think we should leave as soon as possible. Any suggestions?" She smirked wryly, resting her head gingerly on the floor. Her arms tensed and flexed briefly as she tested the metal cuffs clamped around her wrists. "I take it you are wearing similar bracelets. Unless you have a key, I don't see that there's much we can do." Her statement hung in the air, darkening the room further. With startling clarity they both realized the helplessness of their situation. Bound hand and foot, unarmed and cut off from the outside world, the chances of an immediate way out of captivity were remote. With luck, they'd be missed soon and their steps could be re-traced, leads followed to bring someone crashing into their prison. Except they hadn't told anyone where they were going, specifically. If their captor was intelligent, they had been removed to some remote location. It could easily take days to track them. If they had days. If they could be found at all. Their eyes found each other in the dark, finding and giving solace in turn. Now words needed to be spoken. They would find a way to escape, to survive. Just like they always had. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Hours later they were both exhausted and frustrated. First, they had attempted to at least loosen the ropes binding their legs at the ankles. Neither had the slightest bit of success, their inability to see and the tightness of the well-knotted ropes too great a barrier to overcome. Then had then turned to exploring their surroundings, which had proven difficult and ultimately futile. The room was small, dusty, and empty. The single boarded over window on one wall, a securely locked door gracing another. Both agents were hungry from lack of food, agitated by their lack of progress, and bruised from the effort required to squirm across the floor. They had ceased moving around and lay, panting, next to each other. They had spent the better part of an hour struggling to their feet (no mean task, considering) and throwing themselves against the door, trying to break the lock. It hadn't so much as creaked. As they recovered, Mulder became acutely aware of something. "Um, Scully?" Her voice was still a bit thin, breathy. "Yeah, Mulder?" "I...um...I have to go." It took her a second to figure out what he meant. "Oh." He'd never been so embarrassed in his life. Unless he wanted to wet his pants, he was going to need her help. With his hands cuffed behind his back, she was going to have to undo his trousers. The logistics hadn't escaped her, either. "You can't hold it?" He voice was pained, humiliated. "I had two cups of coffee before we went to look for Bristol. And that was hours ago." She sighed, the soft escape of air booming in the enclosed space. "Alright, Mulder." "I'm sorry." Even in the dim lighting she could see the shamed flush on his face, heard the horrified embarrassment in his whisper. She softened, feeling his mortification. "It's not your fault. It's just....disconcerting." He smiled wryly. A brief, uncomfortable silence later, she turned her back to him. Grunting slightly as his bruised muscles protested, he maneuvered, bringing his lower body into alignment with her hands. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and with a quick wriggle was pressed against her. It was her turn to blush. The heat of his lean body enveloped her, his strained breath whistling near her ear, and she felt her own body betray her. Despite the necessity of what she was doing, despite their predicament, a sharp pang of arousal shot through her, shaming her. Hands trembling slightly, she found his belt buckle, the metal clasp in the waistband, the tab of the zipper. All the fastenings undone, she tugged at the fabric of his pants and boxers, loosening them from his hips. She paused, clenching her hands into fists for a brief, cleansing moment before she took the final plunge. His eyelids fluttered and shut as her smooth, cool hands slipped inside his pants, softly grasping him, guiding him through the opening in his garments. The contact lasted only seconds, but he felt the absence of her touch keenly as she withdrew, shifting slightly away from him. He cleared his throat, desperately wanting to ease the tension crackling in the air. Chagrin warring with flashes of desire. The memory of her palms on him burned in both their minds, coursed through their bodies. It definitely created some feelings of discomfort. "Thanks, Scully," he blurted, then shimmied away, aching to leave and desperate to stay. She felt the loss of his warmth, an almost physical pain, yet she also felt herself relax. She listened to the rustle of his clothes as it rasped across the floor, tracking him with her ears to the furthest corner of the room. A sharp, acrid smell filled the air, and she heard his sigh of relief. Then he was back, near her, and she was touching him again, rearranging slightly damp clothes, working with the closures. Everything was as it had been a few short minutes ago. A few minutes could change a lot. He had to get back some semblance of normality. He looked to his old standby, humor. "Let me know if I can ever return the favor, Scully. Anytime, anyplace." She laughed, a short bark. 'If we're here much longer, you may have to." "Ooo...is that a promise?" There was a pause, the tension relieving some as the flow of banter re-established their normal relationship. He shifted to a comfortable distance, wanting to stay close but not daring. Emotions were running high, and this was neither the time nor the place. He wasn't sure it ever would be. Her voice floated, barely audible, to him, startling him as it wavered. "I wouldn't have done that for anyone but you, Mulder." "No one but you." There was something in the inflection of her voice, the hesitancy, the slight tremor, that seized his chest. His heart faltered, picked up speed, and he could feel his groin tighten in response. How could she do that with her voice? "Scully...." It was a hoarse whisper, pregnant with possibilities. She turned over, watched his eyes shifting colors in the filtered light, widening, darkening... The grind of metal on metal snapped both their heads around. A key turning in the lock on their door. They stared, fear and rage battling, as the door creaked open, a short stocky figure silhouetted by the harsh light behind him. "Something fuckin' stinks in here." They could only watch, enraged and helpless, as Joseph Bristol strolled into the room. He was holding a gun, one of their's, scratching the barrel along his temple. Naked to the waist and barefoot, he sauntered over to his prisoners, squatting next to them. As their eyes focused, they could see his smug twisted smile, the flat expressionless eyes. Mulder wanted nothing more than to throttle him with his bare hands. And when Bristol's gaze slid and lingered over Scully's bound form, she felt her insides writhe with nausea and terror, while Mulder trembled with a rage so fierce and all-consuming he literally saw red. Bristol cataloged both reactions, smirked, then stuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans. His hand stretched out casually to trace her face, clinically noting the smooth, soft skin, how she flinched from his touch. His other hand tangled into her hair, fiery red tendrils would tightly in his clenched fist, preventing escape. Her sharp gasp pleased him, and he continued his callous examination of her features before his hand trailed lower, skimming her shaking shoulder, the side of her breast, her rounded hip. Mulder couldn't bear it anymore. This man's hand running down his partner's body, her quiver of revulsion and agonized fear breaking his heart, igniting his rage. "Leave her alone, you fucking bastard!" he choked out, his own intense emotions strangling him. Bristol ignored him, touching her tensed legs, probing the muscular calf. When he reached the rope tied around her ankles, the hand still griping her hair suddenly yanked free, causing her to cry out, a rush of tears blinding her momentarily. She was stifling the urge to let those tears fall when she realized he was cutting her bonds, tossing the rope aside. 'Maybe he's letting us go!' she hoped wildly. His dark leer drained that thought quickly. "Bathroom break, bitch," he sneered, hauling her to her feet. "I'll be back for you momentarily," he promised Mulder. She was led down a short hallway and thrust into a small, sparsely furnished bathroom. There was only a toilet and a sink, nothing that could be used as a weapon. Still, her eyes roved frantically about, looking for something, anything, to get them out of this situation. "Keep your back to me or I'll blow your brains out here and now." Odd, she thought, how such violent words could be uttered in such a flat, emotionless tone. She stood still, shaking slightly, and felt the smooth, cold touch of metal against the back of her neck. There was some fumbling, then with a click her hands were free. "I'll be back soon. Don't think of trying anything, bitch." With that he was gone, and she heard the door lock behind her as she stood, trembling and alone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder waited, horrible thoughts tumbling in his guilt tortured mind. Agonizing minutes where all he could imagine was Bristol with his partner, his Scully. Was he beating her, torturing her, raping her? Oh God, could he bear it if he hurt her? He couldn't prevent his hiss of indrawn breath as Bristol returned, alone. "Where is she!" he demanded, his voice and his sanity threatening to break. Bristol looked genuinely confused for a second. "Oh, the skirt. In the bathroom, just like I said." Then his face darkened, menace clouding his voice. "I'd have taken you, too. Didn't want you fuckin' pissing all over my place. Guess I'll have to punish you now." His tone was so flat through all it's darkness that Mulder thought he was joking. Until he undid his stiff leather belt, slipped it through the loops, flipped it idly through the air. His relief at Scully's apparent safety, the stress of their captivity, and the sudden fear of his upcoming fate exploded in a quiet sob. "Of course," Bristol continued coldly, "we'll need to get you properly set up for this to be effective." He sauntered around his prone captive, moving to his exposed back. He had taken Mulder's jacket when he'd divested him of his gun, and now he examined the tense muscles straining against the thin cotton dress shirt. Bristol crouched, his head cocked, his prisoner's uneven breathing music to his ears. With a hand on Mulder's shoulder, he pressed him to lie flat on his back and bound hands. Without further preamble he tore a the dirty white garment, ripping it open, moving it to his shoulders, roughly pushing him back on his side to jerk the shirt down his arms to bunch around his bound wrists. Then he stood, poised over the newly bared flesh of his victim, and he gripped the belt tighter. The first blow caught Mulder by surprise, a harsh yelp wrung from his lips before he could prevent it. But as the strikes rained down upon the skin of his back and shoulders and arms, the metal buckle biting at his neck and chest when Bristol nudged him over with his foot, no other sound emerged. He drifted off, relishing the pain. Fear had been replaced almost instantly by the desire for the cleansing fire of punishment. Penance. For his sister, his father, Scully... Again and again the belt slashed his body, leaving bloody welts. A few stray blows caught his chin, his cheek, causing reddened marks to raise and swell. 'More, please...' He anticipated, his body lurching up to absorb the impact, the sting, the burning fire. 'Yes, pain, more, deserve the pain...' Because he did deserve it. It was his fault Scully was in this mess, his fault her sister had been killed, her abduction, his own sister, Scully's cancer, oh God so much hurt and betrayal, make it stop, accept the agony... The thrashes sent a chant ringing through his head. 'For you, Samantha.' 'For you, Scully.' 'Samantha.' 'Scully.' 'Samantha.' 'Scully...' Until, finally, he slipped into unconsciousness, and his sweat-slicked tormentor threw down the bloody belt in disgust. One cry at the beginning, nothing more. Disgruntled and furious, he left the wounded agent to retrieve his partner. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Scully was going insane with anxiety. It hadn't taken long to relieve herself and wash up. After that, there was nothing to do but wait and worry. Worry about what that psycho was doing to her partner and best friend. Even through her fear for him, her mind returned to the image of his face, his voice just before Bristol had entered. She'd like to sign it off to the stress of the situation, a relief of the strain and embarrassment. And that was true, at least in part. They had rarely been abducted together. There was always the knowledge that the other was out there, frantically searching, usually finding in time. But never, ever, giving up hope. Now, trapped together, that element was gone. The corresponding terror and uncertainty was at its peak. So that was a factor of the drowning rush of desire she'd felt as her hand glided briefly over his skin, as the heat of his body had washed over her. It was a factor. A very small factor. As time passed and her fear for him increased, she was forced to acknowledge that those feelings may have been drawn out by their surroundings, but they had existed for some time. Buried deeply, then gradually surfacing in odd flashes and half-remembered dreams. Burning, intense emotions, all directed at him. She was in love with her partner. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips as that thought swept through her, body and soul. How long had she been denying this simple truth? How long had they been denying it? While it had certainly been a while, she was still capable of reading desire in a man, and it had been pouring off Mulder in surging waves. It had been nothing like the little erotic tingles that sometimes passed between them with a glance or a light touch. This had been almost overwhelming in its intensity. But what should she do about it? Shrug it off like the little flashes of attraction that had flared in the past? That certainly seemed easier. Less uncertainty, less danger less exposure to potential pain. It was also damned cowardly. Now that she was certain of her love for him, she didn't really want to push it aside, although the thought of confronting him with it terrified her. Neither of them were good with emotions. She was the enigmatic Dr. Scully, the Ice Queen, the consummate professional. He was Spooky, obsessed, focused on his search for the truth with an intensity that was truly frightening at times. She still wanted to try. Because she loved him. She groaned and buried her face in her hands. Nothing with Mulder could be simple. She wanted him, burned for him. She was relatively sure he felt the same way. And yet there was so much standing in the way, not the least of which was their natural reluctance to jeopardize their already intense and mostly satisfying relationship. There was the Bureau. The Consortium. The stress and danger and threat of death they faced everyday. Their general ineptitude and inexpedience with romantic relationships. The pros and cons whirled through his mind. She couldn't think straight, couldn't decide. Not here, not now. Not in this situation, with a madman standing between them. That's when the madman decided to return. The door burst open, Bristol's dour visage looming over her, gun extended and aimed directly between her eyes. "Get up, bitch," he snarled, jerking her to her feet with his free hand tangled in her blouse. She heard the cloth tear and a button ping against the tile floor. The urge to resist rose strong, fierce, mixed with rage and bile as he twisted her around, grasping at her wrists. He felt her tense, prepare to lash out, and he pressed the gun against the back of her neck. "Don't even think about it," he hissed, snapping a cuff around one of her wrists. "I don't want to have to clean the inside of your skull off my wall." With a cruel twist, her other hand was secured. He thrust her down the hall to her prison, through the open door. She tripped as he gave her a hard shove between the shoulder blades, falling to one knee. A small cry escaped her as she saw her partner. "Mulder!" He was naked to the waist, his flesh marred by scores of overlapping shallow cuts that oozed blood. The skin that wasn't ripped open was swollen, already turning various shades of red and purple. A few bruises were forming on his jaw, one high on his cheek, and his breath was coming in rapid puffs. "What did you do to him?" she managed through teeth clenched with anger and sorrow. "I beat him, what the fuck does it look like? Get away from him." Scully looked up at him, astonished. "I'm a doctor. Let me take care of him as well as I can. I need to take care of him." She was surprised by how calm she sounded. Fury flashed and burned in Bristol's eyes as he knelt on level with her, forcing the gun against the soft flesh of her temple with enough pressure to make her wince. "What is it with you two? He fucking take and enjoys a beating, you want to play doctor? Goddamn sadist and a total idiot." His hand shot up and around her throat, squeezing the pale flesh. Insanely glittering eyes met huge, terrified ones as he slowly tightened his grip, his fingers biting into her neck, cutting off oxygen. "Don't you get it yet, you dumb cunt? You're both going to die. As soon as I get things set up, I'm going to kill you both." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder was sincerely beginning to believe that remaining unconscious was much more preferable to anything the real world had to offer. He couldn't move. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He could move, if he tried hard enough. It was just that the pain wasn't worth it. It felt like everything above the waist was on fire. Moving even slightly rubbed exposed nerve endings over rough concrete, sending explosions of horrendous pain dancing from one taxed neuron to another. He'd tried it once, biting his tongue and drawing blood in order to hold back the scream that almost burst from his throat. He lay as still as possible. Even breathing hurt. He'd managed to turn his relatively unscathed head to find Scully, now shackled by one wrist to some sort of pipe running down the wall. She looked alright, as far as he could tell. Eyes closed in slumber, ringed with dark circles of anxiety and fatigue, but other than that and the bruise on her temple none the worse for wear. Her name floated past his lips without his knowing it. The beating had done little to expunge his guilt. She was still a captive here with him, still in danger, still in harm's way. If, when, they got out of this, he was determined to do something to convince her to leave him and the X-Files. She deserved so much better. He had nothing to offer but a life filled with fear and danger and death. This was the final straw. He could no longer subject her, this incredible, strong, intelligent woman, to his insanity. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Because he loved her. The thought rose of it's own volition, through weakened physical and emotional defenses. It was something he'd known on some level for months. Maybe even years. It had threatened to emerge before, teasing itself forward until it was just within reach of his conscious mind, a swelling shimmer that tickled with a promise of happiness and fulfillment if he would only acknowledge its presence. Of course, there was too much risk involved there, and some rational or timid or absolutely petrified portion of his brain would force the emotion back, holding the lions at bay. But now, battered and bone weary and more than a little scared for both their sakes, his love had crept forward and quietly made itself known. And though he may have been too frightened to allow the knowledge free reign before, he was powerless to push it back now. Besides, he didn't really want to. He loved her, and while he didn't have the foggiest idea of how to deal with it, he refused to deny it any more. It warmed him cold, lonely heart, this love, and for all the pain he was certain it could bring he would never be without it's presence again. He sighed softly, staring off into space, daydreaming. Being with Scully in some semblance of a normal relationship. It amazed him sometimes how tame his imagination could be. All he wanted at that moment was to simply hold her, comfort her, be near her and not have to lie about why he was drawn to her presence like a moth to flame. He was sick of deceiving her and himself. "Mulder?" His head jerked slightly in response to her voice, causing an involuntary hiss of agony to erupt past pain-thinned lips. "Yeah, Scully, I'm still here. What's left of me, anyway." She sounded tired, and so very sad. "I'm sorry, Mulder." He smiled faintly, though she couldn't see it in the faint light of the room. "Unless you were holding the belt, I don't think this is your fault, Scully. Unless....you didn't tell him to beat me, did you?" She almost laughed. It was absurd, him cracking jokes while he lay broken and abused on a cold, filthy floor. Still, she figured it meant he wasn't injured too badly. "You found me out, Mulder. It was meant to be a secret." "I'll get you for this later." "Promises, promises." Their gazes locked, small smiles playing across bruised and battered features. They could beat the odds and survive this. There had to be a way out. Then Scully remembered. "Mulder? Bristol told me...he said he was going to kill us." Mulder smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I've heard that one before. We'll just have to get out of here before he's ready to do it." The frustration of the situation was evident in her voice. "How, Mulder? In case you've forgotten, we're both a little tied up at the moment." "You seem to have a bit more freedom." She tugged viciously against her bonds. "Bristol didn't like the way I was hovering over you when he brought me back. I wanted to take care of your injuries the best I could, but he objected and chained me up over here." Even as he was responding, his body shrieked with phantom agony. "Maybe I could get over there and you could get my legs free." She'd seen the wounds on his body, felt the hard gnarled surface of the floor against her own skin. She winced reflexively, feeling his pain shoot through her own body. "Do you think you can make it?" Setting his teeth, he rolled onto his side, waiting for his vision to clear after tears of agony blurred his sight. He sized up the distance he had to travel, the unforgiving stretch of cruelly pebbled surfaced he'd have to scrape raw flesh over to be near her, touch her again. About ten feet, he estimated. It was the longest ten feet he'd ever traveled in his life. His infrequent wails echoed off the walls as his abused form twitched inch by painful inch across the floor, ripping off newly formed scabs to leave a trail of iron-red fluid on the unyielding concrete. The rapid thrum of his heart throbbed in every cut and scrape. About half-way he had to stop, head swimming, crippling nausea racking his body and he breathed in swift, rapid pants. On the verge of passing out, he contemplated simply giving up. It would be so much easier to simply lie and wait for death to claim him. Her voice, soft and steady and just a touch demanding, egged him on, urged him to continue. He was close, so close, he was strong, he could make it, dammit Mulder don't you dare give up now, and somehow he was moving again, concentrating so hard on the unrelenting stream of mild curses and encouragements flowing to him that he almost forgot the unbearable pain. And then he was there near her, her outstretched hand cool against his flaming brow, wiping away the sweat and tears he hadn't even realized were streaming down his face. Tears flooded her eyes as well. It was pure torment to watch this pain drag himself toward her, knowing how each movement must feel like another beating. He bore up so well, only the faintest of cries escaping every so often, face stoic against the pain. But his eyes, when she could see them, were tortured and pleading. When he stopped, she knew he could not do this alone. That's when her occasional words of encouragement became a litany of praise and admonition, a verbal torrent unleashing pent-up stress and anger and affection in a constructive and permitted way. She was drained as well when he collapsed against her legs, the cathartic release leaving her gasping faintly as she stroked his face. Together, they got him sitting with her against the wall, his head sagging to her shoulder as she worked with his bunched and ragged shirt to pull it over his wounded back and shoulders despite his feeble protests. "Hurts, Scully," he mumbled, wincing slightly as the material stuck to bleeding scrapes. "I know it does, Mulder, but we've got to keep you covered up. It'll protect you from insects and any more dirt. Plus, I just don't like looking at your bloody body." He snorted weakly into her arm, still using her as a support mechanism. "What, you don't think I'm sexy anymore?" Her breath caught slightly as she forced a lie past dry lips. "Who said I ever found you sexy to begin with?" His laugh was more pronounced, and his head lifted so he could look at her. "Ooo...Scully, you would my fragile male ego." There was something about his eyes, the way they suddenly glinted, almost dangerous. He knew she way lying. She knew he knew. But the game played on. Neither the time nor the place... "As tiny as it is, you'd think it would have died years ago..." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It took over an hour of exasperated, one-handed grunting and tugging for Scully to work his feet free. By the time the ropes had been cast aside, Mulder had heard conclusive proof that his partner was a Navy brat. The array of explicatives that exploded from her normally placid lips were enough to make the most hardened sailor turn his head. He stretched languidly against the wall, working the kinks out of his severely cramped legs. "God, that feels good," he groaned. The noise became a yelp as his movement caused the sensitive skin on his back to rub and catch. "Easy there. Try not to break those open." "I'll keep that in mind." The silence that stretched between them was stressed, their discomfort and fear and a sense of impending doom building up. Death loomed with an uncertain deadline. And there was something else... "Mulder?" "Yeah, Scully?" She cleared her throat, unsure of how to proceed. Honesty was something they routinely sought and fought for in their work but rarely practiced in their real lives. "Bristol said something about you, about when he was hurting you." Genuinely curious, Mulder turned his full attention to bear, ignoring the faint twinge of doubt. "What did he say?" "He said you enjoyed it." He sought his memory for his reactions, trying to imagine how he must have looked to Bristol. Eager, probably, arching up to meet each blow. His previous mental chant rang through his head, echoing, distracting him. "Mulder?" He shook himself mentally, looking over at Scully with a set, slightly petulant expression. "That's probably what he needed to believe. He enjoys hurting others so much, he wants them to enjoy it as well." She'd seen that particular look too often for it to be effective, although it certainly was cute with that full lower lip of his hanging out. And for once, she decided to call his bluff. There was something else here, something deeper, and she wanted to know what it was. "I'm not buying it, Mulder." He frowned. This wasn't their established pattern of conversation. "What is it you want to hear, Scully? That I'm into whips and chains? That I like a little bondage?" Warning signals flared with such intensity she could have sworn they were real. 'Danger! Danger!' She should stop, now. Maybe it was the stress, or the weariness, or the frisson of desire that lingered still between them, but for some reason she persisted. "That's not what this is about. For some reason, you wanted to be beaten. You felt...you think you deserved it." The chill was palpable. He turned away, anger surging upward. Why would she want to press an issue like this? "Leave it alone, Scully," he growled. She sighed sadly. "That's all we ever do, isn't it." It was a statement, not a question. "How do you mean?" But he already knew. And he wasn't sure he could change. "Shadows and smokescreens, Mulder. We face them so often at work, I'm surprised we have any tolerance for them anyplace else." His voice was soft, almost desperate. "Maybe we don't know anything else." Her hand touched his cheek, crumbling the few defenses that hadn't been stripped away in the fire of his past and the pain of this present. She turned him to face her, her own expression a contrast of terror and uncertainty and hope. Their mutual, unspoken attraction crackled in the air, and for an instant both were certain the other would give it voice. "Is there any hope we could learn something new?" His breath escaped in a shuddering sigh, heated puffs that brushed her cheek and sent shivers running down her spine. Not the time or the place. But maybe the only time and place left to them. "I don't know, Scully. It may not be possible after all this time." She nodded automatically, understanding even as she despaired this lost opportunity... "...but I think I'd like to try." It took a moment for his comment, spoken so low it was barely audible, to register. And even then, she assumed she must have misheard, misunderstood. This wasn't right, they weren't that brave, had never even acknowledged this thing that lay between them, let alone examine it closely, contemplate altering it... And then she noticed he was trembling, shaking all over. Alarmed, she reached out to touch his face, concerned the injuries he'd suffered might be too much for his body to handle. But he was cool to the touch, her palm brushing his brow, his cheeks. His shuddering became far more pronounced. She understood, then, as his eyes met hers, piercing her body and soul. Her hand stilled on his face, and she suddenly experienced a tremor as well. Blood surged and pounded in her ears, a flood of empathy and violent, inexplicable desire. "Scully..." It was a prayer, a lonely heartbreaking cry, delivered in such a hoarse, pleading tone it sent another quiver of fear and exhilaration coursing along her nerves, making her flesh tingle. Oh God, how could this be happening here, now? He could see the conflicting emotions flit in her clear blue eyes, feel the slight shake of her hand against his flushed face. She was so beautiful as she struggled to comprehend this startling new revelation, that they could be honest with each other, talk about this, deal with this. Her eyes darkened, uncertainty and hope flaring even as he watched, and his own tiny spark of hope that maybe she would like to try and learn something new, change their relationship for the better, grew and warmed his aching heart. She wanted this, too. He moved closer to her, ignoring his screaming wounds, relishing the slide of her hand along his cheek and ear as he crept toward her. Her eyes widened, deepened, and he realized with a triumphant flush that her gaze had traveled and fixated on his parted lips. His heart rate tripled, his mouth suddenly dry with this confirmation of her desire. "Do you really want to try, Mulder?" Her raw whisper traveled from his ears straight to his groin. He had to focus on her words, try not to make this wrong move that might cause this fragile spell to crumble, cause her to retreat back into normality. Because this was nothing if not surreal. "More than anything, Scully." This wasn't real. This wasn't happening. Her head was buzzing, his throaty, earnest response robbing her of coherent thought. Her mind whirled with all the reasons why they couldn't, shouldn't, why this could be the biggest mistake of their lives. But it was all drowned out by a solitary, undeniable fact. She wanted to try, too. They were mere inches apart, paused in a single perfect moment of hesitancy and anticipation. The walls were down, emotions flowing freely behind their eyes, warming and thrilling each of them as the reality of the situation hit them. It was going to happen, finally, they would kiss. Not more almosts or wishes or blown opportunities. Nothing could stop this moment. Except Bristol, and once again the harsh grate of key and lock filled the tiny room. Scully cried aloud, panicked, as Mulder's head whipped around to face the door. Their captor was fully clothed now, wearing a leather jacket and gloves and carrying Mulder's gun. He scowled as he took in the scene, the two of them once again close together, his legs somehow untied. But Mulder was handcuffed as before, and with Scully still shackled to the wall there was nothing they could do to stop him. He smiled, throughly enjoying their terror, their helplessness, and what was about to happen. The thought of their deaths, a violent crimson splattering of blood by his hand, filled him with excitement, suspense. Which one first, and exactly how to do it? He paused, pondered, and decided. And the sense of dread that had been building suddenly imploded and formed a dull, heavy knot in the chest and throat of the two agents as Joseph Bristol leveled the gun at Mulder's head. Time was up, run out, the final grain of sand having slipped through the glass floor to plummet and rest, here and now. To the last, Scully refused to believe. It couldn't end like this, not after how much they had seen and known, and how much they still had to learn. Her voice, shrill and clear, filled the room as she screamed at him to stop this. She strained, rattled against her bonds, her free hand clutching at the air, reaching for Mulder. "On your knees," Bristol ordered, ignoring the woman's laments, hauling Mulder to a kneeling position, pressing the pistol to the back of his head. "Any final thoughts before you die?" This was it. He knew it, a hollow certainty in the marrow of his bones. He was going to die, and Scully with him. Scully. He looked at her, hopeless, tear-filled eyes searching for hers as she raged and fought, stronger than he to the end. And he could think of only thing to say. "Scully..." She stopped her curses and pleading, still lurching silently forward as far as she could when she heard him, heard the fear and guilt and dread in his cracking, sorrow drenched voice. Her eyes found and locked with his, read the empty despair and the last, unspoken truth between them. Her heart contracted, beat wildly, and her voice broke on a sob even as he gave that truth it's voice. "Scully, I love you." Bristol sneered, pressed harder into the flesh of Mulder's scalp. "How fucking beautiful. But hey, if it's any consolation, you'll be joining him shortly. Maybe I'll even let you tend his wound before you die..." He laughed, and cocked the gun. "No! Drop the gun, you fucking bastard, don't shoot, don't kill him, no Mulder, no..." Bristol looked down into her tear-streaked, reddened face and winked. "Say goodbye to lover boy..." "Damn it, Mulder, no!" Two shots later, and the room was silent. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The details proved to be somewhat of a puzzle. When police first arrived at the isolated shack, the only thing they knew for certain was that someone was dead, and federal agents were involved. They left with a lot more information but still no absolutely clear picture of the events that had transpired. But many things were certain. A prime suspect in several area killings, Joseph Adam Bristol, was pronounced dead at the scene, two gunshot wounds the clear cause of death. Agents Mulder and Scully were both hospitalized for injuries sustained during their ordeal. The killing was obviously self-defense, a clear cut case of justifiable homicide if ever there was one. The real mystery lay in how they had escaped. Because the pipe in the wall should have easily withstood the force of Scully's thrashings. And an armed man, all things being equal, should have easily been able to fend off a woman, no matter how pissed off. Especially one with a broken wrist. But, as both agents could attest to, stranger things have happened. Both their memories were a bit hazy. Mulder's head had been bowed, prepared for the bullet and the agony of death. Scully had somehow ripped herself free, shattering the pipe and her wrist in the process, then disarmed and shot Bristol. She was a bit unclear on the specifics, her memory muddied from pain, terrified instinct, and adrenaline. At any rate, both were released upon completion of their treatment. Scully's only obvious injury, aside from the bruise on her temple, was marked by the pristine white plaster incasing her right hand to the elbow. Mulder had a few stitches in some of the deeper cuts, some antibiotic ointment to ward off infection, and many colorful patches marring his skin. They were ordered by Skinner to take a few days off to recover from the harrowing experience, then sent home. And that was the end of it, as far as everyone else was concerned. Another terrifying case brought to a satisfying conclusion by the rogue partners, yet another sanity shattering, heart stopping escape from death's clutches. Except that wasn't the end of it. Something had happened, something huge and scary. And Mulder couldn't deal with it right now, right after, still strung out and defenseless and unable to cope or hide from her feelings, or from his. So he had checked in on her, exchanged some terse, uncomfortable words of concern, then jumped into the first cab he could find. Home, he needed to get home to that black, dreary little pit where he could curl up and forget for a while, hide out until all his wounds, both physical and emotional, healed over. He felt so bare, exposed, his naked self left flayed and dangling in the wind, and all he could think of was to protect what little dignity he had left. So that's what he did, went home to an empty cluttered apartment. Lonely, bleak and safe. His mind reeled from the memories of all that had happened. The looks, the touches, the desires finally uttered aloud. Too much to absorb, comprehend, too much to deal with. He turned off his phone, flipped on the television, and vowed not to see her until he had sorted it all out and decided on a plan of action. What that plan would have been, and how long it would have taken him to arrive at it, quickly became moot. It didn't even take two full days before Scully, driven by fear and concern, sought him out. It had hurt, their painfully guarded exchange at the hospital, token words devoid of meaning or emotion. But she knew he needed some time, some space, and was prepared, at least theoretically, to allow him that. She needed a little break herself, a chance to compose her thoughts and feelings. But the revelations unearthed over the previous harrowing hours weren't as unexpected or overwhelming to her, nor did they conjure up the terror and the guilt. She was scared, yes, of the potential mistake this could be, afraid to fracture their old relationship and risk losing him altogether should they be unable to deal with anything deeper, more intimate. But the fear was an afterthought, a tantalizing shadow that heightened, rather than overshadowed, her desire. It galvanized rather than paralyzed, and she was soon ready to face him and work this out. Still, she knew his capacity for fear and doubt to far exceed her own, so she allowed him a full day to himself before even attempting to contact him. She couldn't reach him. The phone in his apartment simply rang and rang, the sound muted and the machine disconnected. His cell phone, too, generated no response, and with each attempt her worry mounted. Though never suicidal, she knew him to be a man of unconsciously destructive impulses, that he often reacted to his pain and confusion in unpredictable and dangerous ways. Her ever present concern for his well being coupled with the newly acknowledged depth of her emotional attachment to him made for anxious hours as she tried, and failed, to call him. And when she could stand the tension no longer, she was out the door, driving with little regard for speed or traffic laws to the only place he could be. His refuge from her, the world, that messy dark place he went to hide and heal. She knew him too well, knew she'd probably find him sprawled on the couch watching basketball or God forbid one of his videos, using the flash of images to forestall sleep or thought. Before she even knew what to say she was there, pounding on his door with her good hand, calling to him. "Mulder? I know you're in there. It's me, Scully, open up." No answer. She tried again, a tiny bit of fear creeping into her voice. Had he left, rashly chasing some false lead without notifying her? Or was he sick, injured, a victim of a shadow man's bullet? Her mind raced with the possibilities, and she fumbled for his key, cursing the cast which slowed her movements. It was as she had imagined. In the car, anyway. He lay on the couch, eyes glazed over as lights from the screen played over his haggard face. >From the noise emanating from the set, she deduced it was a sports event, and with a mental sigh of relief she reached for the remote on the coffee table, switched it off. "Mulder?" No response. He just lay, staring at nothingness. Truly alarmed, she walked to the couch, knelt to touch him. "No." His voice was weak, rusty. Still uneasy, she ran her hand over his brow, his cheeks, nothing with clinical detachment that the cuts she could see appeared to be healing well, though she doubted he'd used the ointment. He looked raw, weary, eyes bloodshot and two days worth of beard bristling against her palm. But he otherwise seemed healthy. "Mulder, please. Talk to me. Are you hurt?" He blinked, moved a bit under her hand. "I'm fine, Scully. Just leave." She bit her lip, fighting a sudden rush of tears. He sounded so hollow, empty, devoid of any emotion. This hurt, seeing him like this, knowing he was cutting her off intentionally. "You weren't answering your phone. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Tired, he was so tired, too tired to think straight or send her away with finesse. "I'm okay, I just need to think. Leave me, please, Scully..." Shaking slightly, she rose to go, angry and confused and afraid for both of them. "Alright, Mulder. But I'll be back tomorrow to check on you, and then we are going to talk." She had turned, too proud to let him see her battle her feelings, when his voice floated up to her, weary and then and very sad. "No. I can't. I want you to leave me, Scully, leave me and never come back..." She gasped, dropped to his side again in a heartbeat. "What did you say?" He looked at her then fully for the first time since she'd come. She was pale, her eyes moist and brittle, a bit disheveled. He drank in the sight, the way her lip quivered almost imperceptibly, the way her hair was tucked neatly behind her ear, the slight flush. He almost lost his nerve, seeing her in front of him, alive and whole and so very close, but he pressed on with all the resolve left to him. "Leave me, Scully, before I hurt you any more. You have to, now, while you still can." His voice broke as he noticed the cast, the shield covering the break of her perfect body. His fault, all his, and all the beatings in the world were not penance enough for his sin. He pressed on, willing his voice to be calm, certain. "Look at all the pain I've caused you. This," he whispered, gesturing to her arm, "was just the final straw." She couldn't believe she was hearing this. "We've been over this before, Mulder. I'm not leaving you or the X-Files. This is my quest now, too, as deeply and wholly as if this had been my choice from the beginning..." "But that's just it, Scully, this wasn't your choice. It was thrust upon you, I was thrust upon you. And look at all the pain you've suffered as a result. I can't deal with that anymore, being the cause of your pain. I'm giving you back your freedom, Scully. Leave me." She began to shake, and he thought she was going to cry. He was prepared for that, had steeled himself for a hot rush of tears. So he was somewhat shocked when instead of breaking down, she cooly, methodically slapped him, hard, across the face. Her voice was splintered ice. "Damn you, Mulder. Damn you and your self-righteous, narcissistic pity parties. You aren't going to set me free by forcing me to go. I'm staying, and you are going to sit there and listen to me for once in your fucking life." She rose and glowered above him as he lay, rubbing his jaw where she'd struck him. This wasn't really working out the way he'd though it would. She was supposed to cry and protest that she couldn't leave him, and he was supposed to convince her it was for the best, and somehow he had managed to convince himself that it could work that way, that he could rationally talk her out of his life. As usual, Scully proved to be a surprise. Her anger was clear now, furrowing her brow, causing her eyes to glitter a hard, dangerous blue. "I'm a grown woman, Mulder. I can take care of myself. I don't need you, or anyone else, to feel an acute obligation to protect me." He opened his mouth to respond, quickly snapped it shut again at her furious glance. She was just getting warmed up. "We work for the FBI, Mulder. I knew going in the dangers inherent in such a career choice. And I made that choice. Not my parents, not the Consortium, and certainly not you. So your sense of duty to my well being, while touching, is somewhat inappropriate." "But, Scully," he broke in, gathering the tattered shreds of his courage and his conviction, "do you know how often the average federal agent gets seriously injured on the job? Not very often, that's for damn sure. It's because you're with me that you were abducted, that you had cancer, that you gave birth to a child you didn't even know existed and had to watch die! Jesus Christ, Scully...it's because of me. Because they paired you with me. Because of a quest you had no choice in becoming a part of. Because of...me." His throat closed up, swollen withe the truth of his words and the utter anguish he experienced in finally speaking them aloud. She'd come to her senses now, realize she had to get away, and the best and brightest part of himself would wither and die with the departure. It had taken him years to gather enough resolve to do this, to drive back the selfishness that made him cling to her, that made him keep her close, keep her near him, keep her in harm's way. "Grow up, Mulder," she snapped, dragging him back to the discussion at hand. "You are still that child, that boy who helplessly watched his sister disappear, and I'm sick of it. You chase your demons with the mind set of your past but the resources of an adult. You are not responsible for the things that have happened to me, Mulder, they are. Yes, you're right, they probably wouldn't have happened if we weren't partners. But you had no control over that, and therefore none over anything else." His head was swimming with fatigue, the aftermath of physical pain, the surety in her words and tone. He wanted to believe what she said, wanted to believe she believed it. But he couldn't, it was his fault, and the guilt had been with him so long he didn't know how to let it go. She saw the struggle and the confusion in his face, felt him tense against the truth in her words. In many ways he really hadn't grown up, the hurting boy still very much a part of the hurting man. She wanted to heal them both. She had to try. She knelt once again, placed her hands on his cheeks and looked straight into his eyes. He moaned slightly, the conflict too much to contain. "Mulder," she said softly, holding him captive with her eyes, "you had no control. None of it is your fault. Not my abduction, or my cancer, or Melissa or Emily. And not Samantha." "None of it, Mulder. None of it is your fault. You have to believe that, and know that I believe it, too. It's not your fault. It's their fault. Not you, Mulder. Never you." "It's not your fault." She repeated it, over and over, not your fault Mulder, until he had no choice but to listen, to let the words pervade his mind and soul. Images swam before his mind's eye: the light that swallowed his sister and stole his childhood, the papers and things he'd seen to convince him there was a larger truth out there, Scully that first day in the office, Scully in a hospital bed, Scully with that look of scepticism and silent, unwavering faith, Scully in pain, Scully smiling... Thoughts of pain and loss rose and died at the alter of her and the redemption of her forgiveness. She watched his eyes cloud, his face crumple under the weight of his sorrow and self-recrimination, the old demons struggling to retain their hold on his psyche. "Let it go, Mulder, the pain and the guilt. It's not your fault. Forgive yourself for being powerless in the face of things beyond your control. Forgive yourself, let it go, it wasn't your fault..." And with a final, vicious cry he let go. He had imagined this conversation in these past dark hours, imagined her tears and pleas and his dry-eyed admonitions. But it was he who sobbed now, he who broke apart and released the pent-up flood of decades worth of emotional baggage. She was the one whose eyes remained dry, mostly, as she held his head to her chest, ignoring the awkward cramping in her legs. Time ceased to have any real hold over them. He cried forever, it seemed, cried for a sister he'd lost so long ago, and for the boy who had been lost with her. He cried for his parents and their descent in the aftermath of that hell, and for the boy they blamed in their pain and ignorance. He cried for the obsessive man he'd become, driven by an elusive past and a guilt which knew no bounds. He cried for the pain that his obsession had caused others and himself, and for the man he would still be, for the need for the truth would not evaporate with this cathartic release. And he cried for Scully. Her agony and loss, her faith and her trust. That she'd been forced to see what he saw, know what he knew, believe in things beyond human comprehension. That she was stronger than he, so that he could not live without her, and that he needed her. That she chose this now, freely, chose to continue down a dark, uncertain path in the name of truth and justice. Finally there were no more tears. He worked himself free of her embrace, vaguely embarrassed by his loss of composure. She studied him, composed but sorrowful. She still hurt, he could see, hurt for him and because of him, the things he'd said. And when she spoke, the pain was evident, though her words were a study in neutrality. "Do you still want me to leave, Mulder?" He laughed aloud. She'd angrily denied the reason behind his request and reduced him to tears with her insight, her knowledge of the motivations of his soul. Now she wanted to know if he still clung to those motivations? He was giddy, light headed. The truth was he had never wanted her to leave, not really, that he had been compelled to voice the absurdity by a profound sense of guilt she had unearthed and banished, at least for now, with the light of her absolution. He wanted to tell her, show her what she'd done, but his thoughts tumbled with such fury that he couldn't collect them enough to form a coherent sentence. Her bottom lip trembled as she watched him gape at her, an amazed sort of half smile curling his lips as mangled words emerged in a tumble. She was drained, utterly confused, and the fact that he hadn't vehemently disavowed his desire for her to go caused her heart to sink. His random, stuporous ranting weren't helping, syllables without meaning, and she rose to leave yet again, believing this may be the last time. The sight of that galvanized him, immediately congealing his thoughts and sentiments. "No! Wait, Scully, don't go..." She sighed, uncertain if he really meant it. "I'm tired, Mulder. I want to go home and forget this horrid night ever happened." He yelped, sat up, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist. "No! Please, you can't leave Scully, not until we talk. We have to talk." She laughed, a hoarse bitter bark. "We don't talk, Mulder, we never talk. Besides, I thought you wanted me to leave. To leave you." He tugged at her arm, drawing her to sit with him on the couch. "No, Scully, never that. I didn't mean it. I mean, I meant it, but not that way." She sighed, her head and her heart aching. She wasn't sure he could say anything that would make it all okay, anything that would wipe the slate clean. It pained her beyond measure that he had ever tried this, ever entertained the notion that she could abandon him or their quest, for it had ceased to be his alone when they'd taken her away. So any apology, no matter how sincere, was going to fall short. He sighed himself, seeing her anger and pain behind the bland mask. His hand slipped to her wrist to her slim, cool hand, clasping it gently as he struggled to express himself in a concise, meaningful way. "You were right, Scully. I can't set you free. I'm not sure your freedom lies in your hands, but it certainly doesn't lie in mine. I had no right to try and force my perception of your situation on you as if it were truth when the truth is I don't know why you were sent to me, how much longer your time here will be, or even if you could ever leave." "But you were also right about me, Scully. I am that boy, that child crying out into the night, raising an impotent fist to the forces above, be they alien, human or divine. I know that, I've always known that my devotion is derived from a tainted source, that my search for the truth is clouded by the shadow of lies." His eyes captured hers, held those moist aqua pools with the earnest hazel of his own. The force of his being rose up in his eyes and voice, silently begging her to believe him now as she always had before, believe the truth he was pouring out. "That's changed now, Scully. It changed the moment you set foot in my office. I told you once that you kept me honest, made me a whole person. I meant that. Your purity forced me to see the muddy source of my own inspiration, to see that it was the darkness of guilt, not the light of justice or knowledge, that fueled my obsession with the truth in all its forms. But until tonight, I didn't have the power to change that, to have your purity, and to leave the guilt behind." "You are the one and only, Scully. No one else, myself included, could ever forgive the child and set the man free. You did that, Scully. Your forgiveness, finally spoken aloud, allowed me to finally forgive myself. Intellectually, I've always known that none of it, including you or Sam, was my fault. But I could never believe. And now that I have the strength of your beliefs I also have the strength to let go of all the guilt, that dark force that has clouded my search and my heart for so very long." He drew in a shaky breath, scarcely able to believe he was telling her all of this, but unable and unwilling to stop. The flood gates had been opened with her honesty and his tears, and he was compelled, exhilarated, to be just as honest in return. His gaze dropped to her lap where their hands lay, loosely coupled, his thumb lightly stroking the satin skin beneath. A flood of emotions, most too complex to articulate, stalled his monologue briefly, then propelled it to the end. "I don't want you to leave me," he whispered, only his focus on their intertwined fingers preventing him from breaking down again. "Not ever. It's your choice, of course, it always was. The reason I asked was...the reason no longer exists. I do feel responsible for your safety, and I always will. You're my partner, my friend, my...but I won't try to protect you, or drive you away, because I feel guilty about your presence. I'll never do that again. Please stay, Scully. I want to you stay." His tone then reminded her of his voice during those moments of their captivity, low and rough with emotions, almost naive in its sincerity. Her chest clenched, a dull throb of devotion mingled with the vestiges of anger and pain. This, too, was like him, to come clean in such an open, all-encompassing way. She couldn't sustain the fury, couldn't mentally recreate previous cruelties to retain any negative feelings in the face of such naked honesty. Typical. She resigned herself to the fact that she forgave his insensitivity, now and most likely in the future. Mulder would forever be her blind spot. Yet a question remained, one crucial to them both. She'd wondered if she would have the courage to ask, but it seemed their day for open dialogue, and she couldn't let the door close without knowing. "I'm not going anywhere, Mulder. And I'll hold you to that promise to never mention it again. Here, with you and the X-Files, is where I belong. But I still need to know something." He flinched inwardly, expecting her to readdress the issue of his reaction to Bristol's beating, his evident enjoyment. With the release of his guilt, the need for punishment seemed ludicrous, and he didn't want to have to explain his romantic notions of the divine power of penance. But as she continued, he realized his penchant for accepting abuse was the last thing on her mind. "We said a lot of things to each other, Mulder, things which could be attributed to the psychological stress of the situation. And I need to know, now that things have cooled off and we've both had a chance to reflect...did you mean any of it?" He swallowed hard, a spark of panic setting his nerves on edge. Had she changed her mind, did she want their relationship to return to the way it was before? He didn't think he could. The smoke had finally cleared, and for the first time in years the path ahead seemed obvious. Forward, with her. But if she had different ideas... She watched his eyes widen with something akin to terror, and the world was dark again. For all their openness, he still couldn't take one more step. Still, she figured she should be glad she'd helped him come to terms with some of his demons. 'Dr. Scully to the rescue,' she thought ruefully, mentally admonishing herself for bringing up a topic which would bring the veil back down between them. He spoke then, even as she despaired of hearing what she wanted. It was soft, barely above a whisper, and he was so scared she would reject him that he could barely force the words past the lump in his throat. "All of it, Scully, I meant every single word. I want to try to change this thing with us, to learn a better way. I want it to be more like tonight, where despite the pain and the fear we've gone farther than I ever dared dream. And I meant it when I said...when I told you I love you. I love you, Scully." He stood abruptly, walked over to his paper strewn desk and stared out the window, unable to bear what he was certain was coming... 'I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way...' 'I love you, but...' 'I want to go back to the way things were...' She slipped behind him, her arms sliding under his, around his chest, to hold him, press herself against him. She knew his thoughts as if he had spoken them aloud, and a small laugh broke free as she pondered what such a happy, momentous occasion should be so clouded with self-doubt. Never simple... "I love you, too, Mulder," she murmured against his back, the warmth of his flesh pleasant even through the soiled shirt he wore. "I know your fears, your doubts, but I think you should know something. I love you, and I want to try this. Something new, where we don't lie to each other. I want to try being with you." His head dropped, chin burrowing into his chest, soft murmurs of relief flowing of their own volition from his lips as his hands found hers and held them, hard, against his chest. A few silent tears slipped free from both pairs of eyes, tears of intense joy, intense release, intense fear and anticipation. Neither was foolish enough to believe this would be easy, a solution to the horrors of their lives. It was possible, likely even, that this would blow up in their faces. It could be the greatest mistake of their lives. Neither of them cared. They stood like that for some time, her holding him from behind, just thinking and feeling and being for a solitary, quiet span. There was nothing else, just right now, and for all the horrible moments in the past and the potential pitfalls of the future, nothing could soil this time. It was Mulder who pulled away first, drawing in a shaky breath. This was new, different, the very air felt strange and light. He turned to face her, at a very rare loss for words. A hand rose, stroked the smooth skin of her cheek while the other clasped the fingers protruding from the cast encasing her hand. She smile up at him, bright and warm, and he couldn't help but smile back. This was nice, if somewhat awkward, not having to suppress or deny the sudden rush of affection, allowing himself to experience the depth of their attachment. But he was aware, primarily, of something far more immediate, urgent. "Scully?" "Yeah, Mulder?" His grin became slightly sheepish. "I'm exhausted. I haven't slept since I came to at Bristol's. So as much as I'd love to continue this conversation, and where ever else it may take us..." She shivered at his words, the innuendo, the brush of his thumb along her cheekbone. "...I can't right now. I can barely keep my eyes open." He was right, she realized immediately, noting the stoop of his shoulders, the drooping of his eyelids. Leave it to Mulder to spend a day and a half on his couch without getting any sleep. "Okay, Mulder. You get some sleep. I'll come back tomorrow, if for no other reason than this sneaking suspicion that you haven't been using that ointment on those gashes." He laughed, amused by her concern and the validity for it. But her leaving wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Suddenly shy, he glanced down at the floor, his bare toes scuffing the carpet. He cleared his throat, wondering if what he was about to propose was just a touch too forward. "Yeah, I suppose you could do that...or you could stay here tonight." Her eyes widened, glinted as a warm flood engulfed her. She knew he had nothing sexual in mind, not as tired as he obviously was, but it still felt good, so good, to hear him make this request. Apparently, he had been serious about wanting to change their relationship. Still... "And just where do you propose I sleep, Mulder? On the floor? Upright in a chair? Not on that couch, God forbid?" "That hurts, Scully, I love this couch. But seriously, I do have a bed. You can sleep there, and I'll take the couch." Her jaw almost literally hit the floor. "You have a bed?" He nodded, motioned toward a closed door Scully had always assumed was a closet. "Yeah, of course. I just happen to prefer my couch. And the weirdest thing happened a while back. I think someone's cleaning lady got into the wrong apartment by mistake, 'cause when we got back from that one trip the whole place had been cleaned up and there was a _waterbed_ in there. It sure threw me for a loop. Wish I could figure out who did it." "To thank them, or beg their forgiveness?" "Neither, to get my porn back." She rolled her eyes. "Hey, I had some classic issues..." She reached up and placed a finger across his lips. "Spare me the details. Suffice it to say you have a clean bed I can use." He nodded slowly, just barely resisting the urge to run his tongue along the slender digit pressed to his mouth. 'Down boy...you're too tired to do it right.' "Yeah. Except I got rid of the waterbed. Not my style at all." She smiled, then stepped back, uncertain what exactly to say now. Mulder's jaw-splitting yawn saved her the effort. She laughed lightly, realizing how tired she was herself. Such emotionally charged conversation tended to be draining. "Well, goodnight then, Mulder. We'll talk more in the morning." He watched as she shuffled to his bedroom door, opened it and peered inside in mild disbelief. Scully, his Scully, sleeping in his apartment, his bed, maybe soon in his arms... "Scully?" "Yes?" "Thanks for staying. I always sleep better when you're close. It makes me feel...safe." Good Lord, when he opened up, he opened all the way up. This new, vulnerably honest Mulder was going to take some getting used to. She looked forward to it. "No problem, Mulder." Just before closing the door, she couldn't resist teasing him just a little. Anticipation never hurt anyone... "And Mulder?" "Hmmm?" "Maybe if you're lucky, you won't need those magazines back anyway." With that, the door closed softly, leaving a gaping Mulder to settle on his well-worn couch. "As if I'll get any sleep now," he grumbled to himself before succumbing, almost willingly, to the pull of unconsciousness. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder's subconscious was well aware that something far from ordinary was present as he slept. However, it also knew that this aberration posed no threat, that it was in fact a good, safe thing, and so it allowed him to slumber blissfully onward. It was without a doubt the single longest stretch of continuous sleep he'd gotten in years (without the aid of medication or a serious head injury). A deep, healing, restful sleep with no nightmares or cryptic phone calls or mental alarms to wake him. For the first time in a long time, he was at peace. Of course, it had to end eventually, the rising through stuporous levels of hazy images and half-imagined sensory perceptions, until almost eleven hours after he'd closed his eyes the night before, he awoke. Something was definitely not right. He wasn't on his couch. He was in his bed. And a small, warm body was pressed against his side. He closed his eyes again, waited a moment, reopened them certain he'd discover that what he thought he'd just seen was merely an illusion, and that he was really on the couch with his muted television flickering static over the room. But his first impression had been correct, he was in his own bed, the one he'd exchanged for the mysterious waterbed, and the figure curled up with him was Scully. He moaned slightly, mentally scrambling to sort out the night before. He could have sworn she'd come in here alone... "You don't remember, do you?" Her voice, heavy and slow with sleep, surprised him. He looked at her, the lazy smile spreading across flushed cheeks, the fan of red hair on his pillow and shoulder. 'Oh God, please don't tell me we made love and I can't remember.' "Um....no. Last thing I recall is going to bed out there." She propped herself up on an elbow, scratching absently at her neck. "Uh-huh. But about an hour later I woke up to find you sitting in the chair looking at me. Since you wouldn't talk to me, I figured you were sleep walking and got you into bed. Didn't hear a peep out of you the rest of the night." He stared at her incredulously. "But Scully, I don't walk in my sleep." She grinned. "So you came in here on purpose?" He blushed, stammered. "No! I mean...I have no idea. To the best of my knowledge, I've never done that before." She chuckled softly. "A couple days worth of sleep deprivation and a truckload of stress will do strange things to you. I wouldn't worry about it. Besides," she paused, her eyes dropping, "it was nice just to be near you. To be close to you." His face lit up with a slow, seductive smile. "Oh, really?" It took a lot of effort on her part to keep her voice from shaking as she replied. "Certainly. You're very warm, you know." He laughed, a soft throaty sound that made her heart jump. "Ooo...so now I'm just a big electric blanket?" "Something like that." He waggled an eyebrow and moved in for the kill. "Wanna see how electric I can be?" It was too much. While she was getting turned on, as was almost inevitable whenever she was in close proximity to him, the sight of him leering, using a cheesy line...she cracked up laughing, and he joined in. Though he did want to arouse her, this was too awkward, staged. "That's what I love about you, Mulder, you're always good for a laugh." He feigned indignation. "I should hope I'm good for more than that. Perhaps," he commented, glancing at her sidelong, "we'll have an opportunity to find out in the near future. But in the meantime, I'm going to clean up." She wrinkled her nose. "Please do. You've been wearing that outfit for what, three days now?" He tentatively sniffed himself, caught the stench of grit and hospital and stale sweat. "Yeah, I guess it has been a while. Good Lord, Scully, how could you stand being this close to me all night?" She laughed, smoothed a hand down his arm. "You have to take the thorns with the rose, Mulder." He nodded, a warm smile playing across his lips. Somehow, she accepted him as he was, thorns and all. He touched her face, saw the love and desire he felt mirrored in her eyes. "We'll talk more when I'm done," he whispered. "I promise." That turned out to take rather longer than either of them anticipated. Feeling inexplicably nervous, it took Mulder more time than usual to shower, shave, and clothe himself. It took her a small eternity to bathe as well, because she refused to have the conversation she desperately hoped they were going to have with him fresh and clean while she smelled like some sort of fetid bed sheet. Having one arm wrapped in both plaster and plastic, she struggled to perform all the necessary functions, simultaneously wishing she could move faster and thankful for the delay. She shivered at random moments, felt her nerves flutter as her thoughts strayed toward the seemingly endless potentials of the immediate future. Finally ready, she donned the sweatpants and t-shirt she kept at his place for emergencies and went into the living room. He was sitting on the couch sipping coffee, looking better than anyone had a right to in faded jeans and an old black bar t-shirt. His hair was damp, mussed, the faint odor of soap and shampoo wafting to her as she sat down next to him. He swallowed the too-hot mouthful absently and stared at her. How could anyone possibly look that good in an old gym outfit? Somehow she pulled it off, and his mouth went suddenly dry as he looked her over. Wet tendrils of hair swept across pale, creamy skin, a small trickle of water sliding down her slender neck even as he watched. He wanted to lap the moisture off the clean, fragrant flesh but decided that may be a touch presumptuous. "So..." she began shyly, looking at anything but his face. "So..." he replied, unable to take his eyes off her. She made an unintelligible noise in her throat, unable to start. Fortunately, he was more than capable, and unwilling to wait any longer. He cupped her chin, turned her face to his. "I still love you, you know." Still unaccountably shy, she fixed her gaze on the mole near his full, mobile lips. "I know. I still love you, too." "Even after the smell?" She laughed, an abnormally high titter. She was floating, watching this bizarre exchange from outside herself, present and yet not. He snapped her back. "I'm going to kiss you, Scully." It was a statement, rough and husky, and her eyes finally found his. They were dark, almost black, drawing her into this with their raw desperation. She was silent, heart hammering unbearably fast, as his hand slipped into her hair, tugged at the nape of her neck. The silence plagued her, called attention to the air of tension and anticipation, and as they drew closer she couldn't seem to still a flow of comments. "Checking for bees?" "Had an exterminator in here just last week." "Door locked?" "Always." "Phone?" "Still off the hook." "Mulder...I'm scared." He paused in his descent, a twinge of doubt momentarily distracting him. "We don't have to do this, Scully. I'm scared, too. But I want you, so much..." Her voice trembled, barely audible. "Me too. So much it hurts. But what if..." "Scully?" he interrupted. "Yeah?" "Shut up." That stunned her just enough to still the surge of random thoughts, and in the ensuing silence he swooped in, touched his lips to hers. It was soft, chaste, the faintest of contacts, lips sliding gently with the utmost caution. Then he withdrew, releasing the breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding in a shuddering sighs. Her eyes fluttered open, 'when did I close them?', and she reflected on what had just transpired. He had kissed her. At last. And nothing bad had happened. No explosions or illness or gun shots. In fact, the only downside she could see was that the kiss had ended. "Well," he murmured, fingers still skimming the back of her neck, causing her tingle. "Well," she replied. Then she breached the gap again, found his mouth with an urgency that shocked them both. And this was anything but chaste. It was an explosion of need, the culmination of a very, very long period of unrequited desire. Her involuntary groan followed his as they embraced, hands trailing over hair and arms and back, lips teasing and parting to allow the slide of tongues. "God, Mulder," she gasped as he broke the kiss to take in oxygen, moving to the soft flesh near her ear. "I may not be a deity, Scully, but I'll certainly give it my best shot," he moaned, sucking at the side of her neck with enough vigor to leave a noticeable mark. "No hickeys, Mulder," she laughed, not really caring even though she wasn't especially fond of them. "At least not anywhere people can see them," he retorted, bringing his mouth back to hers for another deep, drugging kiss. She moaned again, captured his lower lip between her own, tugged gently. She'd been watching it for years, the way it hung out slightly when he was pouting or thoughtful, how enticing it looked as it glistened with moisture as he worked a sunflower seed between his teeth. Now she had it, had him, and the realization hit her full force, sending a rush of electricity through her veins. She pulled back, breath coming in ragged gasps. His breathing was just as erratic, sharp whistles of heated air brushing past her ear. "What did you stop for?" he muttered, nuzzling the side of her neck where a medium-sized purple bruise was starting to form. Her eyes shuttered closed briefly, fighting the dizzying effect of his hot, wet mouth on her flesh in order to talk sensibly. "I was just thinking..." "Don't" he sighed, nipping lightly at her earlobe. "Mulder," she insisted, pushing him back so she could express herself. "I was thinking we should take this into the bedroom. Where there's a bed. More room, better for our joints." It took a second for her suggestion to register. His bedroom. His bed. Scully in his bed. He could only nod slowly, slightly dazed. Amused, she stood, drew him to his feet with her good hand, began to lead the way. "Scully," he rasped, overwhelmed by the knowledge of what they had just been doing, tantalized by the promise of what lie ahead. She smiled, walking backward as she led his unprotesting form into the newly unearthed room. She sat on the rumpled bed covers, patted the spot next to her. "Come here, Mulder. This won't hurt a bit, I promise." He sank to the bed next to her, still too amazed to really respond. She was wrong, this would hurt in a way, create a bitter-sweet ache, the pleasure reminding them of the pain of the past and the looming uncertainty that was the future. She saw the shift in his posture, the tensing of his back and shoulders, and sighed. "Mulder...look at me." He did as he was told, looked into those deep blue eyes, saw her love and understanding. "Sorry," he mumbled, embarrassed to have allowed dark thoughts to intrude here. "It's okay, Mulder. But you have to stop thinking, too. We can't change what was or predict what will be. But we can be happy now." "How did you know..." "...what you were thinking? Mulder, you're an open book. Now, let's focus on the task at hand, shall we?" He shook himself mentally, adjusted his mind set to include only his partner and this very new bed. "Hmmm....sounds like a good idea to me. Now, where were we?" It began again, each seducing the other with lips and tongues and teeth, stoking the fire burning within. It ignited quickly, causing flesh to burn and throb with each touch. "Scully, clothes," he whimpered as he tugged at her shirt, throwing it across the room, her bra close behind. He groaned loudly at the sight of her breasts, soft firm pale mounds with rosy, pebbled tips just waiting for his touch. He wasted little time, blindly seeking and finding a nipple with his mouth, sucking hard. She arched beneath him, the first shock of that almost forgotten sensation exploding behind her eyes, deep in her chest, low in her abdomen. She clasped his head to her, encouraging the rough, almost violent suction on the sensitive skin. Encouraged by the continued twitch of her body beneath him, he worked each breast in turn, laving the red, taunt peaks, massaging the pliant flesh. Each noise she uttered was music, a lovely strain that reverberated throughout his body and fanned the flames. His hands wandered lower, skimming ribs and fluttering muscles to slip beneath the sweats she wore. His fingers spread the coarse damp hair, found the hooded nub of flesh a the top of her sex, pressed it gently. He was rewarded for his efforts immediately. She went rigid for an instant, the pleasure momentarily overriding every synapse in her mind. Then she groaned, long and hoarse, and the subconscious thrust of her hips became focused, surging upward to find that stimulation again. He complied with her unspoken request, manipulating the little knot with slow, rhythmic circles. His mouth still worked at her nipples, teasing with nips, soothing with the wet inferno of his lips and tongue. Her vocalizations were changing, increasing in frequency and intensity, rough desperate little cries as her release built with a speed and fury beyond her comprehension. It had been forever since a hand other than her own had touched her, and her responses were lightning fast, shatteringly powerful. Her cognitive self ceased to function. Everything narrowed to the warmth of his touch, the heat of his mouth, the grind of his fingers. This wasn't fair, how easily he could reduce her to this, a seething, needy thing concerned only with reaching the pinnacle. And what about him, not fair to him, here he was giving her this pleasure and getting nothing in return. She tried to say something, anything to urge him both to stop and continue in the same breath. It came out garbled, his name and God's and an explicative all thrown in for good measure, and he took this as a directive to proceed. He pressed faster, harder, taking his cues from her breathing, the erratic surge of her pelvis, the insistent clutch of her hands on his head. It was too much to contain, and with a sob of delight she exploded, white hot fragments spinning out from the epicenter, racking her body and mind with spasms of searing, surging pleasure. Mulder continued to tease her lightly as she convulsed, her wordless gasps assuring him it was a job well done. She pulled gently at his head, guiding his face level with hers. He was smiling, a soft tender curve of full moist lips, a happy glimmer in the depths of his eyes. He was so beautiful, she thought, content for the moment to see her weak and satiated. "I'm sorry," she whispered, face coloring slightly. He frowned a little. "What for?" "You didn't...I wasn't...well, you're still fully clothing and I'm throbbing with the aftermath of an orgasm." His smile returned. "I know. And doing that for you has been a dream of mine for some time. So I'm quite alright for the time being. Although I sincerely hope you didn't want to quit now." "God, no!" "Well then. I'll get mine, have no fear. And if I have my way, you'll get yours again, too, as many times as possible." A little chill ran along her spine. Ah, the possibilities his words conjured up in her imagination. "Hmmm....I like the sound of that." "That's my girl." He pulled her mouth to his, hands tangled in her hair. Slow, erotic, the slide of lips and hands as he kissed her deeply, drinking her in. He wanted to consume her, swallow her whole, quench the flames that even now crept higher into his chest and throat, reaching for his mind. Only she could douse the fire she had started so long ago. Her hands slid over his body, pulled the shirt over his head. The rough plaster of her cast rubbed against a healing scrape on his upper arm, causing his to wince even as his breath caught in a sharp, uneven hiss; her fingers had discovered the tiny peaks of his nipples and were twisting gently. "Oh, Scully...ow!" Her eyes flew to his. "What, I hurt you?" "No...well, yes, the cast. On the cuts." She sighed and ran a clinical eye over his torso. Most of the wounds were completely closed, crusty little scabs marking the site of a blow, a few black railroad threads holding more serious gouges together. The patchwork of bruises was nastier looking, sickly green and yellow encircling bull's-eye purple. "Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry. I completely forgot." He grinned. "Good, I was hoping this wasn't a pity fuck." "Mulder!" "Sorry. It really doesn't hurt too much unless you press directly on the bruises. Or rub plaster on the cuts." "Sorry. Damn, and it's my dominant hand, too." "Don't worry. We'll work around it. We'll both heal. But maybe, for now, we could skip the preliminaries?" His eyes glinted as he asked, dark and mischievous. She smiled in return, ran her left hand carefully down his chest and stomach, skimming over injuries to rest on the bulge in the front of his jeans. He swallowed audibly, throat bobbing wildly as the heat of her palm seeped through the denim. "So, you think maybe we should just get right to it?" "Yeah...ah, Scully..." he groaned as she began to rub and squeeze him through the material. "You seemed eager for foreplay a bit ago." "That, ooo...that was different. No pain involved...women need more...I can do without...Sculleee..." "How articulate," she laughed. He reached for her hand, stopping the sweet torture she provided so that he could talk. "Scully, wait a sec. I love foreplay. Sometime soon when the stitches are out and the cast off we can spend as much time as we like exploring every inch of each other. But I don't need any extra stimulation right now. All I need is you." She smiled softly, seeing the sincerity in his face. And while she experienced a pang of regret that the seductive teasing would end for now, he had a point. The logistics, what with her wrist and his battered body, made extended exploration both infinitely more difficult and potentially painful. He was right, too, that this wasn't a one shot deal, there would be time for more later, 'much more, much much more'. So perhaps, just this once... "Mmm...there is something to be said for getting right to it." "Well, not always, but we have to be flexible." "And you promise I can have my way with your body at a later date?" "Scully, you can do anything you want with my body." "Really? Anything?" "Well, within reason." She smiled, reached for him again, pressed gently on the confined length of his erection. "I'll take you up on that, you know." "Yeah, I know...oh, Scully..." She ran her hand along the firm ridge one final time, causing him to shudder deeply. It had been quite a while for him as well, his reactions to even the slightest touch rapid and deep. Then both her hands were at his waistband, struggling with the button, the zipper. "You had to wear jeans? Stupid cast..." "You take care of your pants, Scully I'll take care of mine..." Soon naked bodies pressed together, his lean hard body covering hers. He bent down, kissed her slowly, trying to convey with actions what this meant to him, what her love and acceptance had done for him. She returned his kiss eagerly, letting him know that he meant the world to her as well. The swollen length of his cock nudged against her hip, brushed the sensitive skin of her thigh and her sex as he positioned himself between her legs. Close, so close to heaven now, he was trembling with the force of his desire to claim her with one brutal thrust. But even with their abbreviated foreplay he wanted this to be slow, right, perfect... "Scully, I love you." "I love you, too." "Are you sure? I mean about this." "Yes, Mulder, I'm sure." He nodded, closed his eyes, and with one slow burning stroke was inside her. He groaned, a soul deep explosion of sound ripped from his throat as he was enveloped in liquid fire. He paused, waited for the sparks to fade from behind his eyes before continuing. She moaned as well, arching up to receive him. God, how long had it been, the feel of a man imbedded in her, body and soul? A tremor ran through her as he filled her, completed her, and she held on to him tightly, reveling in how good it felt, and that it was this man with her now. Some semblance of control regained, he began to move. Slow, deep thrusts, each one igniting another fire in his body and mind. Too long, it had been way too long since he'd felt this, experienced the pulsing heat of another. Like a freight train he could feel his release building, rushing and unstoppable. He wanted to hold on for as long as possible, wanted to make this good for her as well as himself, but against his will the pace increased, his hips surging forward to bury himself inside this incredible woman, again and again. Not that she was helping. Breathy little moans drifted up to his ears, urging him on, stripping his restraint. She bowed beneath him, meeting each thrust with her own insistent motion, taking him in as deeply as possible. Good, so damn good for both of them, and far too quickly (in his own opinion, anyway) he reached the summit. "Scully...can't...too much..." She growled in response, grinding against him. As pleasant as this was she was far from his level of excitement. But she found she didn't care, that as nice as another orgasm would be the act itself was worth the effort. After all, this was just one time, the first of many, and the fact that it was happening at all, after so much time and effort, made it all worth while. She reached up, drew his earlobe into her mouth, her tongue flicking over it briefly before whispering directly into his ear. "It's okay, Mulder, just let it come. I want you to come for me, inside me..." That was it. All control lost, he lurched forward in erratic, frantic bursts, and with a guttural moan lost himself inside her. His mind incinerated in a white hot blaze of light, his entire body rigid and convulsing as he experienced one of the most powerful climaxes of his life. It seemed to go on forever, endless ripples of overwhelming ecstacy coursing through his veins. When the universe righted itself, he discovered he had collapsed atop her, his rubbery arms no longer capable of supporting his weight. She held him to her, stroked his sweat-slicked back and kissed his neck. His pulse still beat wildly, fluttered beneath her lips. "God, Scully, I'm so sorry." Her arms tightened around him, hugging him gently. "Whatever for?" "That was...awful." She laughed, genuinely amused. "If that was your idea of awful, I don't think I'll survive even mediocre sex with you." With what little remaining strength he possessed he rolled off her, pulled her against his chest. "But Scully, it was so quick. And you got nothing out of it." "Mulder," she explained patiently, "this isn't a porn video. As a general rule of thumb, woman have a difficult time climaxing from intercourse alone. So, no, I didn't have an orgasm." "But I got plenty out of it. I got to be with you. Believe it or not, that was pretty satisfying in and of itself. I would rather have 'awful' sex with you than multiple orgasms with some other guy." He processed this, realized what she said was a very high compliment. It warmed him, placated his fragile male ego to know she accepted him without reservation, whatever he could give, even when it wasn't the best by his standards. Not that he wouldn't try to do better next time, but his embarrassment faded as she snuggled into his chest, totally content with what had transpired. "Thanks, Scully," he murmured, kissing her shoulder. "But it will get better. What kind of lover would I be if I didn't strive for perfection?" She snorted, burrowed deeper into the warmth of his skin. "Just remember, I get to have my way with you later." "Ooo...is that a threat or a promise?" Their light banter floated back and forth, sweetly familiar yet totally unique as the lay wrapped around each other. Soon fatigue settled over taxed limbs and healing psyches, wrapped them in a blanket of drowsy contentment. And so they slept, aware only of their love and the brilliant hope for the future. There were still things to work out, issues to discuss, decisions to be made. Together. For they were finally one, and secure in that knowledge and the peace it brought, they dreamed the day away. Together. Well, ladies and gents, that's all she wrote. So did you love it? Hate it? Laugh so hard your pants are damp? Please, let me know....I live for feedback, and I'm on the verge of starving here. ebe1013@hotmail.com