From: Kbxf@aol.com Date: Fri, 29 Oct 1999 20:04:46 EDT Subject: NEW: Inamorata (1/9) by KatyBlue Source: xff TITLE: Inamorata (1/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue RATING: R CLASSIFICATION: UST, MSR SPOILERS: Milagro, Season six DISCLAIMER: CC, 1013 productions, Fox, DD and GA, I salute you. You have created a universe, please don't rebuke my humble efforts to expand upon it. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: To my editor, Meredith, who knows just how to make my characterization stronger. I owe her my Scully. And to all my fans who know who you are, even though I may not. Many thanks to all those who *have* let me know them through their encouraging feedback. It truly gives me the incentive to continue indulging myself in this slight addiction. I'll try not to disappoint... :) (p.s. the spooning is a special thanks for Shari, who has been behind my writing from my very first posting). **************************************************************** PART (1/9) She was trembling. Her body shook as hard as if she'd been struck with a palsy. She pulled herself up against me as if she wanted to crawl into me and I felt her fingernails dig into my back. "Scully," I whispered in a soothing mantra. "Scully... Scully..." She was sobbing. For a second, I couldn't breathe. Then, I remembered where we were and who might still be present and unaccounted for. But I couldn't keep my focus on that. All I cared about was making sure that Scully was truly okay. I lifted myself on one knee and brought her up with me, one arm wrapped around her and the other pushing off the floor to lever me up. She was light and clung to me fiercely. I made it to the couch with her, where I lowered us down without popping a kneecap. My heart was hammering against my chest. I couldn't seem to catch my breath.. From what I could tell, she couldn't either and we sucked in air erratically and in tandem, frightened and confused by what had just happened. I realized that I was still saying her name. Repeating it over and over while I smoothed my hand over her hair and kept her tightly against me. And then I remembered the blood. I extricated myself from her grasp with difficulty. Her hands groped and regained their hold whenever I managed to get one undone. And she was still trembling like a leaf when I finally pushed her back enough to get a look at her. "Scully...I need to make sure you're okay..." I pleaded. Her name faded on my lips as I looked with horror at the blood. The next words were frantic. Rushed. I remembered once again for a brief, flashing moment of clarity, that Padgett was still downstairs and that Scully's attacker could still be present somewhere. My eyes flew around the room and back to hers, which were glazed over in shock, staring at and through me. "Are you okay? Do you feel alright?" I babbled the questions while I reached out for her, brushing a strand of hair out of her pale face. Clutching her hand. "Are you okay, Scully?" She nodded numbly and then her face crumpled. "No..." she whispered almost inaudibly. There was blood all over her. Shining red and sticky on her neck. Staining her blouse in strange splatters. Her hand crept upwards as she felt for the buttons of her shirt, wincing and sucking in her breath as she bent her head to look downward. Reaching out, my fingers collided with hers as we both fumbled with them together. My hands were no steadier than hers and my fingers brushed and jumped roughly against hers and the task. Then, suddenly, she just dropped hers to her sides and left me to the task. Unsteadily, I struggled for a few moments more, unfastening each button with a difficulty that they didn't warrant. "I need to see if you're okay, Scully," I said, as if my actions required explanation. My words were strained. I was justifying. What I was doing seemed all at once strangely intimate and not necessarily born out of an act of fear. I felt, wrongly, as if I were violating her in some small way. And I still couldn't catch my breath. The breaks for air were in all the wrong places. She was sinking backwards on the couch and it scared me. I managed to undo the last visible button and with the slightest pressure, took hold of the two sides of the blouse and pulled them carefully open. The first thing I saw was the blood, slick on her pale skin. The second thing I saw was the white lace of her bra, stained red in large splotches. I hadn't seen Scully down to her bra since our first revealing conversation, complete with mosquito bites and thankfully sans blood, so long ago. The intricate delicacy of the simple undergarment was mesmerizing, as was the heaving of her chest, a gentle rise and fall that seemed too quick. I reached out to her skin, my eyes flying up to hers as if in request. She wasn't there. She was staring at me but her eyes were unfocused and her shaking had increased. I thought that she might be cold and yanked the blanket off the back of my couch and lifted her up enough so that I could pull it around behind her shoulders. Cursing myself for not being quicker about it. Putting a hand behind her neck to hold her up. "Scully," I whispered, pulling her toward me. I ran my fingers over her skin, knowing that I was touching her in a way that might hurt. Unable to believe it when I discovered no wound. They slipped over the unmarked skin that was visible and then, carefully under the lace, checking every place where blood was visible. Her body was hot to the touch and completely unmarked. But she whimpered under my ministrations. "Does it hurt?" I asked quickly. "Yes," she whispered, curling up toward me. I closed my arms around her carefully, wrapping the blanket more fully around her shoulders. "I don't see anything, Scully." I wondered why the hell my breathing was still not right. And if I was having a coronary with the way that my heart continued to pound so painfully against my chest. "Scully," I murmured against her hair. "I've gotta call this in. I left Padgett downstairs. I don't want him to get away..." She started to cry again, curled up against me. I couldn't believe the bastard had somehow managed this, while I was talking to him no less, and I tasted my own fear, glancing around the room again and at the open door. Holding her against me, I maneuvered across the couch to where I'd thrown my jacket. My hand fumbled through the pocket until I found my cell phone. With severely limited dexterity, I managed to dial the bureau and call in backup. Scully's hands were folded against my chest fluttering oddly as I felt her trying to breathe against me and managing no better than myself. "It's okay," I heard myself murmuring against her as I dialed the next number. "It's okay, Scully. It's gonna be okay." I should go arrest the fucking writer. Make sure that he was still around somewhere. Handcuff him to the god damned incinerator and kick the shit out of him while I was at it. I couldn't leave her. Never mind that she wouldn't let me. She was trying to catch her breath and still crying at the same time. "Scully, calm down. It's okay," I promised. "It's okay. They'll catch him. I called the paramedics," I warned. "We need to make sure you're okay. They'll be here soon." I said it like I was preparing her. Knowing how much she valued being in control. But strangely, she wouldn't let go of me. I could feel her body growing quiet against mine. She kept her face buried in my chest and her hands were curled fetally against my sternum. She heaved a big shaky sigh into my chest. I pulled back enough so that I could look at her. Her blouse was gaping open and some of the unexplainable blood had come off onto me. Enough so that the amount of it on her skin was lessened and the state of her undress more noticeable. Reaching out, I started to pull the edges of the shirt back together and my fingers brushed again over the lace and the pliant flesh underneath and I felt myself grow aroused. Nice, Mulder. What kind of sick bastard gets turned on at a time like this? Ashamed, I laid her gently back against the cushions and started buttoning up her shirt, my fingers no more dexterous than they'd been when undoing the buttons. Fretfully, she reached out to stay my hand. "Don't..." she whimpered. "It hurts." "Where does it hurt?" I asked anxiously. She laid a hand over her heart and her face scrunched up. I started looking again for a wound. "What did he do?" I asked. She shook her head and wouldn't answer. Or couldn't. "What did he use, Scully?" "His fingers," she said dully. I hadn't seen any scratches. Her eyes were so vacant it frightened me. I reached out and touched her face, stroking it and trying to bring her back to me. Uncontrollably, I found myself repeating her name again. "Scully..." Hoping that she was listening to me. Hearing me. "Scully," I pleaded. "Scully..." She wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were staring somewhere past me. I lowered my forehead to hers, forcing her to look at me. Murmuring her name against her lips. "Talk to me, Scully. Stay with me..." "I'm okay, Mulder," she whispered back slowly, her lips brushing against mine with her words. I kept mine there, our breathing intimate, her lungs pulling air from my own. I pulled her back up and held her more tightly against me, wrapping my arms around her body while her breathing slowed against my mouth. The erratic palpations of my heart ceased as I felt her begin to relax. When her body started to slump, I pulled her in tighter and said her name again until she responded to it, her lips answering against my own with hardly any voice at all. "I'm okay." We stayed like that until two agents came in the open door. It probably took them only minutes to get there. Scully's felt like a furnace by that point, though she tunneled it against me and whispered that she was cold. I warmed her by folding unnaturally around her where we were on the couch, half afraid the psychic heart extractor was still around somewhere. "Agent Mulder?" I looked up at their entrance. They were staring down at us strangely. I moved my face a little back from Scully's. "Where are the paramedics?" I demanded. One jerked a thumb behind him. Out in the hall." "Check the damn building," I hissed. "One of the suspects is down in the basement. Or at least he was. The other could be anywhere." I tried to lay Scully back against the couch but she had other ideas and wouldn't let go. "And get the fucking paramedics in here now," I ordered. The guy stared for just a second at the blood on me and then on Scully. I glared at him for the delay though I knew it was protocol for them to enter first. I made sure Scully's blouse was pulled shut as one stepped back out to hurry the medics in while he and his partner headed quickly down to the basement. I would have gone with them if Scully's grip hadn't been so tight on me that she was almost constricting the blood supply to my arm and neck. Scully focused on me as they started to check her over. "It's okay," I told her when she jerked at their touch. I extricated myself gently from her desperate grasp so they could get a better look. She watched me steadily while they asked her questions. It was unnerving. She looked small and scared. Two things that I didn't usually equate with Scully's personality or demeanor in situations like this. "Do you remember what happened?" one asked her. She shook her head and looked at me. They asked her where it hurt. They asked her name. If she had any difficulty breathing. What the date was. I watched as her eyes grew from confused and frightened to semi-cognizant and able to respond correctly. But they stayed locked on mine and I started to have trouble breathing again. She wasn't doing much better. The paramedics pulled out their stethoscopes and listened to her heartbeat. I watched as they puzzled over the blood. There was no visible wound. "Ma'am, you could have an injury to your chest," the medic said loudly, as if Scully were deaf or something. "She's a doctor. I think she knows that," I snapped at him. "We're going to take her in so they can check her out," one of them said to me, as if Scully would not understand if he explained to her what they were doing. And then I realized that I was doing the same thing by listening to them and reached out to squeeze her hand. I nodded at the paramedic and was reminded of the last time this had happened. "I'm going with her," I stated firmly. There was no way in hell they were putting her in that ambulance without me. The guy nodded. "That's fine." She laid back on a stretcher with some reluctance and continued to look to me for reassurance. I did my best. I held her hand and started to pull the blouse back together so it covered more of her but the medic beat me to it and pulled a blanket over her. The agents came up then to tell me about Padgett as we were bringing Scully out of the apartment. Or what had been Padgett. "Looks like he's another victim," the first agent explained loudly, though I was barely listening. "His fuckin' heart is just layin' out there in his hand. Ripped right the fuck out of his chest," he said with relish. Callously. Then suddenly noticed Scully's gaze turn to him while I glared with my own deadly intent. "The guy must've got to him too," he mumbled, turning away quickly. Scully was clutching my hand hard. I thought about explaining to the other two agents that Padgett had probably pulled out his own heart and quickly dismissed the urge. It made me grateful for Scully. For all the concessions she made to me. For all the times she at least listened and gave me the benefit of the doubt. I imagined the looks these two would give me if I told them what had really happened. And I didn't bother to correct them. I went with her instead of wasting my breath explaining. ************************************************** end part (1/9) continued in part (2/9) TITLE: Inamorata (2/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ************************************************** PART (2/9) The ride to the hospital was uneventful. They brought Scully into a trauma area but decided at some point, with her lack of wounds, that she wasn't a serious concern and what she really needed was to wait for a good couple of hours until they could do a few tests. They shuttled her off to a room and then came and got me to go sit with her and keep her company. She was decidedly more composed then when I'd left her. The room was sterile and dull and she'd been relieved of her clothes and cleaned of her blood. She was on a hospital type gurney, some type of cross between a bed and a table. Her arms werecrossed over her chest and she was lying back but slid up to a sitting position when I came in. I felt awkward and frightened for her. "You okay?" I asked quickly. She nodded tightly and stared down at her feet. They'd traded her clothes for a hospital johnny. Definitely not a fair shake. "They just want to do some X-rays and a CT scan," she muttered. And if I was reading her right, she seemed almost embarrassed about the whole situation. Or maybe she just wanted to hide. When Scully was injured, she was like an animal. She wanted to crawl away into the bushes where no one would find her and lick her wounds. "What do they think it is?" "Myocardial contusion. Possible pericardial inflammation..." "Translate to English now..." I urged gently, trying to coax a smile from her. It worked only a little. "A bruise, Mulder. And maybe a little fluid around my heart." "No wound...?" I half asked. She shook her head, all seriousness again. "But it's my blood type. My blood, I'm sure. I had them save the shirt for tests. They're hypothesizing massive nosebleed. I'm letting them." I couldn't stop the look that shot across my face. Scully and nosebleeds was guaranteed to strike the fear of god in my own heart. I fought back the grimace by looking away. I was uncertain for a second. "It wasn't a nosebleed, was it, Scully?" "No," she sighed. "What was it?" I implored. "Who was it?" "I'm tired," she sighed. She didn't want to talk about it. Another Scully tactic. Pretend it isn't there and it'll go away. "Was it the stranger?" I asked. She frowned. "Who do you think?" she snapped. "You know already, Mulder. I don't know why you're even bothering to ask me." "I'm asking you because you're the one it happened to," I said impatiently. "I wasn't. It was the psychic doctor, wasn't it?" I wanted her to concur. "Did you recognize him?" She scowled. "Yes. It was him. Are you happy?" Was I happy? What the hell kind of a question was that? "What did he do?" The reason I asked was part curiosity, part concern. "I don't want to talk about this, Mulder." Her voice trembled. She was shivering. And then she got quiet. That was Scully. When she was feeling something, she was a woman of few words. I moved closer to the examination table that she was perched on. "A nosebleed?" I repeated, trying to be non-threatening. Acting almost like I was joking with her. On her side. Like it didn't matter to me either way. But it did. "And you went along with that?" "Well..." her voice faltered. "What else could I do, Mulder? I have no wound. And unless I'm going to start professing stigmata, or explaining my newfound belief in psychic surgery, I didn't really see the point of trying to enlighten them." And this was the difference between Scully and I. She was always worried about appearances. How she'd look to her colleagues. "You'd rather they believe something is wrong with you that isn't?" I could hear the disbelief in my voice. For Christ's sake, she was a doctor! It pissed me off that she would treat her diagnosis so casually. "I don't agree that they're necessarily incorrect in their assessment of my medical condition, Mulder. Their conclusions are valid, anyway. I have fluid collected in the pericardial sac around my heart. I heard it myself with the stethoscope. It's a distinctive sound when you listen. And the bruising could have happened with a blow to the chest. There was no wound. Where else would the blood come from?" "That's not what really happened, is it, Scully?" I said, my voice harsh. I wasn't accusing her. But I wanted her to be honest with herself. She glared at me. "What do you want from me, Mulder?" "Well, for starters, I'd like to put down the correct information in our own files. I guess misleading information in your medical files is your perogative." "Yes," she snapped. "It is." "Sorry," I said quickly. Sorry that I'd pushed. Sorry that she was doing what she was. Trying to lie to herself. She heaved a sigh, accepting the apology. Ready to believe in her own lie. Silence reigned. She plucked at the hem of her johnny and then self- conciously adjusted it to cover more of her legs. Finally, I grew brave again and asked. "So, what is it?" "What is what?" "What's the correct information?" She sighed again, annoyed. Shaking her head, she wouldn't look at me. "Scully," I prompted. I hadn't been there and I wanted to know. "It wasn't a nosebleed, was it?" And half of me was asking out of a small center of fear that I'd secured somewhere deep in my psyche, walled off but remembering the threat of cancer. The other half was goading her into the truth. For herself. For her own psychological well- being. She hid at first behind anger. "No, it wasn't a god damned nosebleed, Mulder. Okay? Are you happy? It was fingers," she spat. "It was his fingers in my thoracic cavity and I don't know why I don't have any wounds because they were certainly in there..." Her voice rose and her breath caught. Her hands flew up and covered her heart, and she curled around herself slightly. She almost started to cry, whether out of anger, or her fear at remembering the moment, I didn't know. Her face twisted and she looked away from me, fighting it. God, I was such a bastard. Such a pushy, insensitive bastard. She stared at the wall behind me and her tone took on a distant quality that made me realize she might not be addressing me so much as she was herself. Her anger was no longer directed outward but became confusion turning inward. "He had his hand in there... I could feel it. My ribs should be broken... I felt them move. And then he was pushing and I was screaming...it hurt so much..." she stopped cold, staring at her legs, her eyes wide. Then she closed them tightly shut and stayed like that for a second. Was I a first class jackass, or what? Given the fragile condition of my partner, I bull-dogged ahead. The consummate asshole, grilling her for a statement. Even a suspect is at least allowed medical treatment before they have to answer questions. There's a reason for that and I couldn't believe that I'd pushed her this far. I moved closer, wary of my reception. Her eyes opened and focused on me with something like defiance. She slid her legs around and dangled them off as if she were ready to go but wasn't quite sure. She looked fragile balanced there on the edge of that tall metal table, legs far above the floor. Fragile was not a word I usually thought of in conjunction with her. "Scully, it's okay... I'm sorry...you don't need to talk about it now." "I shot him, Mulder," she said, staring up at my approach. There was naked fear in her eyes. "I shot him point blank. I emptied the cartridge into him. He didn't stop. It didn't even phase him." "It's okay, Scully," I said, cutting her off. "It's okay," I finished quietly as I moved in even closer, until I was up against the table. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. It brought me flush up against Scully's legs. Up into her space. I was good at invading Scully's space. I'd been doing it for years. Teasing her with my physical presence. I think I did it out of some perversion. A desire to make her respond, though she never did. I always got only as far as the permission from her to do so and no farther. Her body would grow still, as it was doing now. She would invariably straighten her spine. I would sense the change in her breathing from normal to evenly spaced, a shallow but carefully regulated effort. And there was some essence about her that answered my challenge. Silent, and responding. But yet not. Motionless... ....and very ready to run. Reaching out, I put a hand on either side of her face and held her gaze. Even more alarming was the fact that I had somehow insinuated myself between her legs. She moistened her lips in that way that always gave me a weak feeling somewhere south of the border. But she wasn't trying to be provocative. She was nervous. "It's okay," I said again. And I knew that I meant more than my acknowledgment of her obvious distress at what had happened. "Mulder," she murmured uncomfortably. Her eyes dropped. She tried to shimmy back on the sterile table so that her legs didn't have to part in order to allow my presence but she could only go so far and I was still there. Maybe I was pushing too far because the hard edge of anger came into her eyes and she lifted them defiantly back to mine. The door opened and I moved back quickly, realizing how we looked at that moment. The woman who'd entered cleared her throat and came over to us. "Dr. Scully, I'm Doctor Kay. I'm need to check you out just a bit and then bring you down to X-ray..." Scully was fiddling with the hem of her johnny again and wouldn't look up at me as I turned to go. "I'll be in the waiting room," I promised. She made a non-committal reply and the doctor assured me that someone would inform me when her tests were finished. I wandered around for a bit restlessly then found a bank of vending machines and got one of those god-awful cups of coffee with the playing cards on the cup in a concentrated attempt to stay awake. I tried to watch a ball game that was on in the corner but I'd never been very fond of the Red Sox and they were losing anyway. Thankfully, a nurse summoned me back fairly soon to Scully's taciturn side. X-rayed and imaged, she was more than ready to go home while we waited for someone to come back in with the results. She pressed her lips together and seemed reluctant to start a conversation with me. I could tell that she was still angry from the little scene before they'd taken her away. She was swinging her legs and sitting at the very edge of the table, probably in order to keep me at bay. "Scully..." I started to say. "Don't start, Mulder," she snapped darkly. The doctor came in, smiling at both of us. Everything is looking fine, Dr. Scully," she said brightly. She rattled on to her about her results. All about things like mild pericardial serous fluid build-up in the pleural space and the danger though highly unlikely threat of cardiac arrest or respiratory distress from this. "The best thing for you," she concluded, " is to stay under observation for tonight." Scully groaned quietly before she spoke. "I'd rather not stay here overnight, if that's okay with you. I feel that I'm capable of evaluating my own condition." The doctor smiled and shook her head. "I didn't mean that you had to stay here. You can go home as long as you've got someone who can watch you...just in case." She looked at me, having drawn her own misguided conclusions from our previously observed interaction. "Will you be staying with her tonight?" An awkward moment for both of us. Added on top of that was the fact that I actually was the logical choice for the task. Unless Scully wanted to call her mother in the middle of the night and explain what had just happened and I knew that wasn't likely. The doctor was addressing me. "Mr....uh..." "Mulder," I supplied. "And yes, I can stay with her." Scully was glaring at me then but dropped her eyes. She wanted to go home more than she minded me staying over. Or that's what I thought she was thinking anyway. Despite our yin and yang approach to things, on a case Scully and I could almost read one another's opposing minds. We had gotten so good at predicting the other's actions and reacting in tandem that it almost fit the definition of that word co-workers called me behind my back: spooky. But out in the real world, I could look at her and not have a clue what the hell she was thinking. Like right now. "Let's go, Mulder," she urged. But the doctor turned to me with a long list of instructions of what to watch for, further annoying Scully, who watched from the cold steel table in her little johnny. Make sure that she was breathing okay, that she was responsive, etcetera, etcetera. Scully piped up from behind us and informed the good Dr. Kay that she could fill me in on the necessary details, rather rudely, I thought. The woman didn't seem to mind and left us to it. Must be a bonding thing among doctors, this intolerance for the process when it's directed at them. I stood there for a second, until I realized that she'd crossed her arms and was standing now, waiting impatiently for me to do something. "What?" I was slightly defensive by this point. The eyebrow arched up delicately. "I need to get dressed, Mulder." "I won't watch," I said lightly. She didn't think this was funny at all so I took my cue and exited post haste to the waiting room. When she came out, she was frowning. They'd given her hospital scrubs to put on in place of the bloodied shirt and it didn't go very well with her slacks. Plus, she didn't have a jacket, nor did I. Luckily, the night was mild and we went out to the rental the department had left in the parking lot for us, at my insistent request. There are some benefits to government work. ************************************************** end part (2/9) continued in part (3/9) TITLE: Inamorata (3/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ************************************************** PART (3/9) Scully was silent all the way home. We got to her apartment and she wasted no time getting through her door and into her sanctuary. But I had gotten as far as three steps inside the door and closing it behind me before she turned on me and I braced myself. "You don't have to stay, Mulder. I'm perfectly capable of realizing if there's a problem. I've got my cellular and I'll put it by my bed and give you a call if I need you." I crossed my arms and stared her down, prepared to do battle on this one. "I'm staying, Scully." I guess she wasn't up for a fight because the challenge went out of her eyes quickly and she just shook her head and sighed. "Fine. The couch is all yours." She disappeared into her bedroom and came back out with blankets and a pillow, which she tossed to the sofa. "If you don't mind, Mulder, I'm really tired." Her voice invited no argument. "Make yourself comfortable. The remote's on the t.v., and there's plenty of reading material around. Wake me up in the morning in time to get to work." This wasn't a discussion, it was a list of options and an order. I imagined that all the little Scullys had been spoken to like this by their father. No discussion necessary. Just snap to it and do as you're told. She disappeared into the bathroom and I heard the water start. Her shower must have taken all of about three minutes before she came out, bundled into a robe and toweling her hair briskly. She stopped suddenly and made a face at my chest. "What?" I looked down and saw the blood that had been transferred from her to me earlier. "Hang on a sec." She went back into the bedroom and came out with some sweats and a t-shirt that one of her brothers must have left there at some point. I didn't want to consider any other explanations. "Here," she tossed those to the couch too, as if getting close to me right now was something she didn't want to do. "Feel free to take a shower, Mulder. It won't keep me awake." And she disappeared into her bedroom. The wounded animal, crawling quickly and quietly away into the bushes. Or in this case, a warm, soft bed. To recover or die. Alone. I could understand. I wouldn't want me there either. In fact, I don't think she should have let me get my foot in the front door. It was a catch 22 with me, how Scully tolerated me. Part of me wanted to get down on my knees and kiss her feet for doing so. To grovel pathetically and thank her. Another part of me thought that she was nuts. Sometimes, her actions were more self-destructive than any of my more impulsive urges ever dreamed of being. For example, what the hell was that with Padgett? I couldn't comprehend why Scully would go into a room alone with him. Sitting there, drinking coffee, while I was impatiently preparing to arrest him right next door. What had called her in there? What could have possibly drawn her to chat amicably with a psychopathic killer, in his bedroom no less, shooting the breeze about life and love or whatever the hell they'd talked about, while he was probably trying to slip roofies into her tea. I hoped they hadn't been discussing any of the more steamy descriptions he'd penned about her. She'd insisted that I know her better than that, but I hadn't been able to respond. Because sometimes, I felt like I didn't know her that well at all. Not when it came to this stuff. And if I was going there, evaluating her choice in men, how about Ed Jerse? There was another fine selection. Another demented psycho killer. By all means, pick up a guy you don't even know, go out and get drunk in some dive bar and then tattoo yourself up with a snake on your back in some twisted version of an erotic moment. Excellent choice there, Scully. And then comes the inevitable conclusion of my wanderings. Let's not forget yours truly. Dana Scully, lover of sociopaths. It made me wonder about her. And it made me worry about me. I stopped myself for just a second, venting some of the anger by tossing the pillow to the right spot on the couch and forcefully shaking out the too neatly folded blanket. But I returned to the inescapable facts. I was on the top of that list right now because I belonged there. I had virtually taken over her life. I'd closed off any possibilities of her being able to be in a healthy, normal relationship with anyone else. And I selfishly kept her all to myself, cloistered away in my solitary, deranged little world. Fox Mulder, slightly demented, emotionally damaged sociopath and keeper of Dana Scully. I wasn't a killer but I had killed. My own insanity and shortcomings I had long ago learned to live with. But I expected more from Scully. Sometimes, I wanted her to kick me out the door with both feet. Sighing, I took the clothes she'd tossed at me and went into her bathroom, turning on the water. It was irrational, but at the expense of myself, I wanted her to want more for herself. It disappointed me that she didn't. I took the shower she'd inferred that I should. It didn't make me feel clean. And of course, I couldn't sleep. At first, I flipped restlessly through the channels. But all Scully had was your basic, boring cable. So I moved on to the reading material option, slightly curious to pore over Scully's bookshelves and glean a few more insights for my ongoing profile of her psyche. But the first thing I stumbled over soured that taste in my mouth. The copy of Padgett's manuscript was lying on the coffee table, pages turned about two thirds of the way through. Sure, we gave him his manuscript back. But we're the F.B.I. Did he really think we wouldn't make a copy? It creeped me out, seeing it there. Could the pages alone bring the psychic killer back, or had it taken Padgett's will to summon him? Was there any significance to the spot? Leaning over with a great amount of trepidation, I started to read. I'd already read it once, but not through Scully's eyes. The words practically jumped off the page at me. '...She is standing there watching him, her face a studied contrast. Provocative. Ignored. He is speaking but she does not hear him. Her ear is turned within her body. The flush of her skin, hot to the touch. Her arousal that he does not notice. She presses a finger to her lips and touches her tongue to the tip of it, a movement he does not see, blind to her body. Imagining a moment where she can taste him. Her heart flutters as she feels the flush travel downwards...." I slammed the thing shut and stood, pacing restlessly. Looking around to make sure that there was no one in the room with me. Fighting my own sudden arousal. Nice job, Mulder. Pop a boner reading about your partner licking her finger. My face was hot. Finally, I strode over to the bookshelves and skimmed over the books, looking for something that might take my mind off what I'd just read. I saw Scully's copy of Moby Dick, a suitably distracting fishing story. Taking it down, I tucked it under my arm. And then, unable to quell my fear that reading the manuscript might have reawoken the stranger, I walked down the hallway to the door of her room, slightly ajar. Pushing it open carefully, I moved in. The bedside reading light was still on, though Scully was asleep, exhaustion likely to have claimed her as soon as her head touched the pillow. Carefully, I eased myself into the chair on the other side of the bed table and settled down with the book. Scully was sleeping peacefully, the covers tangled loosely around her waist. She had on boxers and a tank top that clung rather provocatively to her skin, her chest visibly rising and falling. I watched the evenness of her breaths, remembering the doctor's instructions to me. My eyes wandered and for a second I stared at the rounded shape of her breasts, outlined under the thin material, a perfect handful. Then I realized what I was doing and decided that maybe being turned on by my partner right now might constitute a problem later, so I distracted myself by opening the book and starting to read. I hadn't remembered it being such a snoozer. Or maybe I wasn't in the mood for long, artistically rambling descriptions of whaling practices and equipment. Anyway, at some point, I must have laid the book across my stomach and slid down in the chair, closing my eyes. And I finally slept. ************************************************** It took me a minute to figure out what had woken me. When I realized that it was Scully, I came fully awake very quickly, almost drawing my gun before I realized that she was just dreaming. A dream that would obviously be more appropriately described as a nightmare. She was moving restlessly on the bed. Fists clenching and unclenching on the covers. I debated with myself waking her up, knowing that an abrupt change might do more harm then good. While I vacillated, she gave a little cry and jerked violently, the sudden movement causing her to awaken. The light was still on and the book rested precariously on my stomach. For a second, she stared at me as we both froze and awareness grew into recognition. The fear in her eyes faded but it was the same look that she'd been giving me when I found her lying on the floor earlier that night. The uncertain side of panic. "Mulder." She said my name like a statement. She knew me at least. I reached out and laid a hand on her arm, catching the book as it began its downward slide toward my legs. She gave a little jump at my movements, though they hadn't really been all that sudden. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "What are you apologizing for?" Managing to get the book closed, one-handed, I placed it on the bed table and leaned toward her, resting my elbows on my knees and keeping the one hand on her. "You want to talk about it?" I asked softly, meaning the dream. He eyes became evasive. "No." Short but sweet, that was my Scully. She began to take stock of her surroundings and then her state of dress or undress. With a blush even I could discern in the sixty watt light bulb's glow, she reached down and jacked the covers up to her neck, despite the growing warmth of the night. Effectively hiding that provocative tank top and the rumpled boxers that I didn't want to theorize where she'd gotten. "I'm fine, Mulder," she intoned. "You don't have to be in here. That chair can't be very comfortable." I sighed and let her words slide over me, like water off a duck's back. I'd long ago stopped believing in Scully's 'I'm fines,' but that had never stopped her from dishing them out. She was half-scowling at me. Taking the hand off of her and leaning back into the highly uncomfortable chair, I heaved a second sigh and closed my eyes. "I'm fine, Scully," I mocked. She was stewing in her comfortable little bed. Pillows soft and freshly washed. Scully's house was impeccable. The little bedtime outfit would probably be worn once and thrown into the hamper. I let my mind settle in, ignoring her. 'She didn't want me here' didn't translate into 'I leave now'.. Not with what had happened to her today. And I knew I would never forgive myself if something happened after I left. Like I needed that kind of guilt trip on top of everything in my life. I was staying. For a minute, I tried to sleep, or thought about it anyway. And then I thought that she was being much too quiet. So I opened one eye and cast it in her direction. She was staring at me. And I couldn't read her look. She didn't look angry, or even annoyed. Not frightened or impatient. She wasn't observing me in that way she sometimes did, as if I was a particularly curious object, necessary of rigorous quantitative study in order to determine its peculiar behavioral patterns. She seemed to be just resting her eyes on me. I opened both of mine and stretched my legs, all the way down to my feet, which were getting cramped. As I stared back, her eyes followed my stretch, all the way down to the curling in my toes and then flew back to my face. And that same blush that had first stolen over her came back with a vengeance. This was enough to puzzle and confuse me. But then, as if they popped out of the air, Padgett's words came back to me. The ones that he'd spoken to us when we questioned him in that cold cell. To be honest, they'd scared the hell out of me at the time. Okay, to be honest, they scared the hell out of me now. 'Agent Scully is already in love...' That didn't mean what I thought it did... Did it? The two of us had just stood there, watching him go. I was close enough to see the breath heaving in and out of Scully's chest as if she'd just gone for a good, hard run. I glanced at her rigid back and opened my mouth to say something once, but then didn't. I let it go. She let it go. We let it go, though it had, at the very least, deserved some kind of comment. Refutation... sarcastic quip...something other than silence. I said something now. "What did Padgett mean?" I asked. Her eyes, which had drifted away, snapped back to mine. And this time they were angry. Anger was one of the few emotions that I could recognize with Scully. She let me see it. Not always. But usually. "What are you talking about, Mulder?" And there was the impatience finally, though I suspected she knew exactly what I was talking about. I tried to make it a joke. "Who's the lucky guy, Scully?" I asked. Wrong thing to say. Very wrong. She stared at me for a minute like I was the biggest asshole in the world. Like she wanted to spring out of the bed and rip my own heart out. Something feral and dangerous that, even as I looked back in all innocence at my quip, changed to something that bore more resemblance to hurt. "Mulder, Phillip Padgett was a writer." Her words were measured and still traced with anger. "He wrote fiction, Mulder. And he stalked me for years without me knowing about it." She shuddered here. It was a daunting thought and I suppressed my own shudder. "The guy was delusional. He didn't know me any better than any fictional character can be known. He had created a version of me that *doesn't exist*." She determined that she'd made her point and flopped back against her pillow. And then added for good measure. "And I don't know what the hell he was talking about." I nodded slowly but some perverse alter ego stepped forward and had the last word. "You don't...?" This got her going. She raised herself up on one elbow and stared me now. "Mulder, why the hell are you pursuing this issue? Have you ever heard the saying that it's best to let sleeping dogs lie?" "Scully, are we going to fall into another one of those analogy competitions?" I asked with a small smile. "I'd better be more awake for that." I slid up in the chair and leaned forward. "And that's an interesting one to pick, Scully, though I'm confused as to its reference and relevance." She was starting to look frightened again. And some jerk-off inside of me went for the jugular. Probably just the same asshole I'd been all my life. "Forget the analogies. Let's wake those dogs up, I say." She honestly looked petrified. And again, I felt like a first class jackass.. As if she hadn't had enough to stress about today, before the night had even passed, she had her partner hitting on her, wanting to define the twisted wreck of our strange relationship, when all she needed was to sleep. "Scully..." I was about to say I was sorry, reaching my hand out to reassure her I'd leave the topic alone when she snatched hers away and scooted up on the bed like I was some kind of pervert about to attack her. "Mulder, get out!" she ordered, pointing toward the door. I rolled my eyes. "Scully...I said I'm sorry..." Her words were like ice. "Get. Out." ************************************************** end part (3/9) continued in part(4/9) TITLE: Inamorata (4/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ************************************************** PART (4/9) I had the forward momentum going to stand when something stopped me and I stayed where I was. "You really think that'll solve everything, don't you, Scully?" I asked quietly. "Drive me away like you do everyone. Is that what you want?" Icing on the cake. "You're one to talk," she spat. "And right now... Yes." she answered firmly. "That's exactly what I want." There was a final, vicious add-on. "And who are you to think you know what I want or don't want?" she hissed. That one hurt like a sucker punch. And these were the words inside my head that never made it out. I'm no one, Scully. I've only just been here for the past seven years, but I understand if that's nothing to you. Instead, "I don't know what you want," was all I could manage to say. "I've told you before, you hide your feelings well, Scully." "And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" she demanded. She was so angry by this point that she let the comforter drop and didn't care about the lack of coverage. Her breath was heaving in and out of her chest, just as it had when Padgett made his statement. My eyes dropped and I worried for a second about what I was supposed to be worrying about...watching Scully by the doctor's orders. Wondering if breathing this hard meant any sort of medical distress. Scully had other ideas about what I was doing. She yanked the covers back up and my eyes shot back up to her face. "Quit staring, Mulder!" I had to laugh, even though I knew that it was dangerous at this point. She leapt to her feet, letting them drop away completely. So angry she didn't care what I might be looking at. "P.S. Mulder," she snapped into my face on her way past, drawing out the first two letters as if they were words. "*If* there were anything wrong with my heart, which there isn't, this would not be exactly healthy right now, if you care." She stepped haughtily by me and left the room. I heard her bathroom door slam. God, was I a miserable son of a bitch or what? ************************************************** It was a good fifteen minutes before she came back into the room. She acted as if I wasn't there. Crossing over to the bed, and just happening to stay as far away from me as possible. Taking the half of the bed that was on the other side from where I was sitting. She lay there for a second, rearranging the covers. Finally, she acknowledged my presence with an 'oh, you're still here,' kind of glare. My mouth opened to protest. And these are the words that came out this time.. I inserted them along with my foot. "Scully, you can think you're like an open book to me but you're not. Most of the time, I can't read you. The words don't make any sense to me..." My voice trailed away. "Oh, so now I make no sense?" she demanded. That wasn't what I'd meant. But I lifted my shoulders in a shrug, unable to better explain myself. She stared at me for a long minute. And then, for the second time that day, Scully was about to cry. Or what passed as crying for her. After the incident with the stranger, she had cried like I'd never before heard Scully cry. Now, she was back in control and exercising it over herself. I saw her eyes well up and her face got that pained look that people get when they're about to cry. My sister Samantha used to call it the boo-boo face. Scully's stopped there. Right at the boo-boo face. She closed her eyes quickly and put a hand up to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she just had a headache or something. Her lips twisted and then straightened out as she fought it. And then her eyebrows lifted and a sort of calm stole over her face. Somewhere in there, Scully was centering herself. Alone on her island where no one was invited. Where crying wasn't allowed. "Scully..." I whispered. Wanting her to come back to here. To me. To the world of intense, wretched feeling. Her eyes opened. Calm. Collected. "What?" she asked without any shred of emotion or connection. God, she was intolerable sometimes! I closed my own. "Forget it," I muttered. Perversely, she did. She rolled away from me, presenting me with her back. "Could you turn the light off?" she inquired frostily. The room was silent except for the sound of our breathing. I watched her back and the rise and fall of her ribcage. I didn't move for the light yet. "Are you going to stay way over there?" I asked as gently as I could. She heaved a sigh, back still toward me as she replied. "Yes." "Then would you mind if I used the other side?" She flipped over and stared at me incredulously. "Mulder, you have got to be kidding..." I shrugged. "I'm staying in here, Scully. We don't know that it was Padgett pulling the stranger's strings," I reminded her. "What if it was the other way around?" She just stared at me. "I'm staying," I repeated, ready to argue, "whether I get to be comfortable or not." The glare slowly faded from her face. Replaced by resignation. She shook her head sadly. "I don't care, Mulder. Sleep in the damn bed." Turning away again, she flopped down, drawing the covers up around her. Careful not to jostle her and surprised by my luck, I crawled in. The bed was warm, not yet cooled from her body resting there only a short while ago. I could smell Scully's shampoo on the pillow and the crisp freshness of just washed sheets. She kept her back turned toward me, resting on her side, practically on the very edge of the bed. The position looked precarious. As if she might easily fall off if she rolled forward a little. "Scully, I don't take up that much room," I murmured hesitantly. She didn't answer. "Scully, I'm sorry about what happened today..." This time, she rolled onto her back and stared at me with an expression somewhere between exasperation and puzzlement. "Mulder, why in god's name are *you* apologizing for it?" I shrugged as well as I could, lying there. "Because I'm sorry it happened." She scowled. "Well, you don't need to apologize. It wasn't your fault." "I shouldn't have left you there alone," I stated. She rolled her eyes and then bored them into me, speaking slowly as if I were a particularly dense person. Which, in her estimation, I probably sometimes was. "We were doing everything by the book, Mulder. We thought the suspect left but weren't sure. You went to check, I stayed with the surveillance. By the book. End of story." "We shouldn't have," I insisted. "We should have stayed together." She sighed and stared at me, head resting quietly on her pillow. "Whatever, Mulder. You'd blame yourself no matter what happened." She said it like she was tired of this, closing her eyes to me. It hurt. I watched her, uncertain how to stand up for myself on this issue. And at least by this point, she'd relaxed a little about me being there. So I stayed quiet and she stayed where she was, lying on her back, facing me but not opening her eyes back up. Probably afraid I'd continue with the conversation. As if for good measure, she mumbled, "I'm tired, Mulder." A subtle hint for me to shut up, turn off the light and go to sleep myself. I didn't. "Scully...?" She sighed, eyes closed. She didn't answer. I just looked at her for a few minutes, reminded through some uncountable bend in perspective, that my partner was also a very desirable woman. Scully's face bore the beatific serenity of an classic painting. Her profile was perfection, like a greco-roman statue, living art with skin smooth as marble. And her lips...well...suffice it to say that I had no words to describe their pursed tranquility, but I'd like to use mine to define them. Reaching out, I let my finger gently trace up her arm. "Scully?" I repeated. Her eyes flew open at my touch. She stared at me, startled. "Today really scared me," I said quietly. She opened her mouth slightly but seemed at a loss as to what to say. Her eyes slid nervously down to my fingers, still touching her arm. She could have asked me to shut off the lights again but she didn't. She looked like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure how to and I sure as hell couldn't tell what it was. I let my hand slip away and turned on my side, propping my head up and watching her. She sighed heavily and stared up at the ceiling. "You want to talk about it, don't you?" I nodded. It came from somewhere, but I'm not sure where since I wasn't at all convinced that I wanted to talk about it. But I think there was a little part of me that wanted to hear what Scully had to say for herself. "It scared me too, Mulder," she said quietly, still not looking at me. "So...what are we going to do about it?" She cast a dubious eye on me. "What do you mean?" A little fear sprang into her expression. "You don't think it's over?" "No, that's not what I meant," I said quickly. "It's over, Scully. It's over," I repeated as emphatically as I could. I was surprised by how closely she was watching me and at how much dependence I saw her placing in my answer. Scully was a woman of science, a rigid, fairly unyielding field. When it came to X-files, she had no ground on which to base assumptions. Though on the surface, she mostly thought I was completely whacko, there was another part of her that depended upon my interpretations for the things we saw that her training couldn't handle. The things her mind just would not bend around, unable to grasp. Like whether or not a psychic doctor had the ability to come back and rip her heart out. Somehow, my rational explainations of the irrational calmed her. My leaps into the darkness and my conclusions of the world we lived in as more than what we were seeing in the light of day were acts she could only follow me on. In this way, Scully was the blind one and I, the leader. I'd never led anyone. I'd been alone my entire life. After the death of my sister, people were no more than casual associations to me. Even as part of a team, I'd played alone. Until Scully. This was all new to me. Even after six years, it still felt new. Habits of a lifetime die hard. And I was used to being alone. Reaching out, I touched her face, running a finger down her cheek. "You're safe," I promised. Wrong answer. Tears sprang back into her eyes and she shut them tightly, retreating again, to that island. "Mulderrrr...." and there was anguish in her voice. "You can't do that. You can't promise me that I'll be safe." Her eyes opened back up and pinned me, still shining fiercely with tears. "You don't know that," she said grimly. "You don't..." she stopped, biting her lip. "I don't what?" I asked. And there was a scared ball of fear in my own gut, starting to spin in slow concentrated circles. "Nothing." "I don't what, Scully?" I demanded. She turned abruptly onto her side, facing me. "Mulder, stop this!" "Stop what?" "Everything!" she railed. "Stop worrying, stop hovering, stop questioning. Stop all of this..." she waved her hand at me in her bed. "This. I mean, what the hell are you thinking, sleeping in my bed? How do you think that makes me feel?" It was my turn to be completely puzzled. Or maybe I'd been puzzled for as long as Scully and I had been doing this. This thing we did that meant nothing and everything. This thing that was unspoken and nurturing and destructive and consuming. That didn't even have a name, that defied definition or description. "What do you mean, how does that make you feel?" I spoke my dense words of wisdom. Of hurt and confusion. "I hope it makes you feel safer. I care about you, Scully. That's why I'm here." She let out her breath angrily. There was something both tender and terrible in her return gaze. An acknowledgment of my words as both uplifting and damning in her eyes. She shook her head sadly. "Oh, Mulder..." And she closed her eyes again. "Talk to me, Scully," I pleaded. She turned away, presenting me with her back. "I can't talk to you," she insisted firmly. "I don't understand you. I don't know how to talk to you like this. Go to sleep, Mulder." "Scully, talk to me." This time it was an order. I reached out and closed my hand around her arm, turning her onto her back to face me. And this time, I didn't care how much she'd been through today. I didn't care about her being hurt, or tired, or completely drained. I cared about what this all meant for me. Selfish, egotistical, live-for-the-moment bastard that I was. She stared incredulously at my hand wrapped around her arm. "Mulder, unhand me and get the hell out of my bed," she hissed. I couldn't help it. 'Unhand me' sounded like such an antiquated term I had to laugh. "Unhand me?" I repeated stupidly. "I'm not kidding, Mulder," she said, dangerously quiet. I missed the note of fear in her gaze. Either that, or I was thoughtless and uncaring about how this might be adding up in her eyes. I held on tighter. I think my voice was still reasonable. A plea for understanding. I was still trying to appeal to her intellectual side. To spark a debate about the issue maybe. "Scully, we are going to talk about this." "And I said no, we're not!" she spat. "I think I have some say in this, Mulder." She made a move to rip her arm out of my grasp and get out of the bed. And I reacted without thought or conscience by hanging on tighter and throwing my leg over hers to keep her where she was. I'm sure that her reactions were just as instinctive as my own, and probably tinged with the panic that she'd already felt once that day and which had likely just revisited her in a nightmare and was visiting again in the form of her overbearing partner. Scully put up a fight. And Scully was no blushing wallflower when it came to self-defense. I stood to get seriously hurt if I didn't take some immediate, evasive action. I should have just let her go but I wasn't exactly thinking by that point. Just reacting. I saw her arm cutting up hard toward the side of my head and just barely caught it, trapping her clenched fist in my hand and pushing it down to the pillow. When I saw her leg moving upward with a similar intent to harm, I rolled all the way on top of her and pinned her with my body, staring at the fear in her eyes as we came face to face. "Scully, stop it!" I said in alarm. Her eyes were murderous. "Get the hell off of me, Mulder." She said this through clenched teeth. It all seemed a little surreal to me by that point. And I didn't dare let her up yet. "Scully, listen to me," I pleaded. "Please..." Her body stopped its struggles and grew still. So did mine. She glared up at me dangerously. In this moment of calm that followed our battle, I finally realized our position. So did she. It was an awkward moment, at best. And as if awkward wasn't enough, in a damning and disturbing male response, I felt myself getting hard. She couldn't have missed it. I don't know if it was a manifestation of man's most primitive of reactions, born of the jungle and needing little rational explanation, if it was the disturbing result of watching way too much late night porn, or if it was an indication of my deeper feelings for Scully. At the time, all I knew was that it was something decidedly less than appropriate. I froze. She froze and her eyes narrowed at me. "We need to talk," I insisted. "Seems like you have something other than talking on your mind, Mulder." Feeling my face get hot, I slid off her, releasing my hold. As soon as I did, she was up like a shot and out of the room. I heard the door slam at the end of the hallway. Guest bedroom. Goodnight, Scully. I was alone. As always, alone. Occupying my partner's bed, in my partner's apartment, after having effectively chased her out of it with a combination of felony assault and smothering, neurotic concern. Despite the fact that she'd already been through more today than any one person should be expected to shoulder. Welcome to my world. Padgett might have been wrong. I thought that Scully was more likely to hate me right now than love me. And I hated myself enough for both of us. ************************************************** end part (4/9) continued in part (5/9) TITLE: Inamorata (5/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ************************************************** PART (5/9) I didn't leave. I couldn't. In fact, I spent most of the night sitting on my ass in the hallway outside the guest bedroom, propped up against the wall. I really didn't dare enter that room. Scully would undoubtedly shoot me if she had her gun, or brain me with the nearest blunt object if she didn't. A few minutes of it, I slept. But most of it I spent finding new and more interesting ways to berate myself. I got up early enough in the morning so that Scully wouldn't discover exactly how pathetically attached to her I was and retreated back to the couch. The manuscript was still sitting open on the table, prominently displaying itself as if proud of prompting my irrational acts of the night before. Reaching out in disgust, I picked it up again. Compelled, once more, to reread a part that I remembered vividly from the first read- through. Page twenty-two, my overly accurate memory supplied, having noted it somewhere in my head. I flipped to the spot and my eyes traveled slowly over the words. 'She stared at her partner.' The paragraph started. 'He was a singularly driven individual. Focused on matters outside of her world. She'd always felt as if she were just standing on the threshold of his, staring in at a place and a person she could not reach. In truth, he barely noticed her there. They worked well together, and sometimes had congenial times outside of the office. But he never bothered to look inside of her. Never saw the blood pulsing, her heart's pumping. The needs. The hunger. His concerns remained outside of her and he did not willingly enter her inner world, choosing instead his work as his passion.' "Piece of crap," I muttered. What the hell was I doing here if not entering her world? And what had that been last night? That had been a disturbing desire to enter a little more than her world. But in Padgett's creation, that was just about it for me as a character in the story. Peripheral and of little consequence. I got mentioned every chapter or so in a paragraph pertaining to the case. Described for my detail, but detached from the story. No, not really detached from the story. I was in there. Just detached from Scully in the story. I wondered how true that paragraph had rung to Scully when she read it. Now that the light of day had chased away most of the possibility of monsters, there didn't seem to be much reason for me to hang around, other than to apologize for my inexcusable behavior of the night before. I made the coffee exactly the way that Scully liked it and contemplated going. Going seemed safer. Staying seemed right. Albeit unwise. Scully could be a real bear in the morning. This morning, she was a grizzly. I've heard, though, that polar bears are more deadly, so maybe she was a polar bear. She kind of looked like one when she walked out in a thick white terry robe, pulled tightly around her and belted like a tourniquet at her waist. She scowled in the general direction of where I sat on the couch, clutching my mug of coffee as if that would protect me from her wrath. She shuffled into the kitchen and I heard a cup slam down on the counter. I prepared myself for a mauling. But Scully came back in relatively quietly and sat down on the opposite side of the couch from me. "Morning," she mumbled. Subdued. Maybe even a touch embarrassed. There were dark shadows under her eyes. "Morning," I answered with some trepidation. The belt had loosened around her waist and the robe slipped open a bit to reveal the tank top of the night before. I brought my eyes back up to Scully's face before she noticed me looking. She was staring at the item in my hand with a grimace. Realizing I had picked up the manuscript again, I shut it quickly and set it on the table. "Why are you reading that?" she accused, uncertainty in her question. "Why were you?" I shot back. Scully didn't answer my question. Instead, she chose the direct attack, setting her mug onto a conveniently placed coaster on the coffee table and facing me. "Mulder, what the hell was that all about last night?" she demanded. I looked for my own coaster and swiped the moisture off the table's surface with a guilty hand. "How are you feeling?" I asked instead. Evasion. "Don't change the subject." I glanced at my watch. "Skinner's going to want to see us first thing this morning." "I said, don't change the subject, Mulder." "What was the question again?" I tried to say it lightly. She let out her breath in exasperation and impaled me with her gaze. It warned me that if I made her repeat the question, her claws were coming out. Bears have formidable claws. I dropped my eyes from hers, thinking about my answer. "What it was about, Scully..." I finally started. I looked up at her now, to see her reaction to this part. "...was us. It was about *us*," I said bravely. Proud of myself. Her reaction was singularly disappointing. "I know it was about us, Mulder." And it was as if I'd just stated the null hypothesis. Dull and boring. A no-duh type of response. "But what the hell did it mean?" she demanded. And then, in the same breath, "No, forget it." She waved a hand in the air. "I don't want to know. I just wish that you'd think before you do things sometimes, Mulder." And that was it. In Scully's world all was forgiven and more than ready to be forgotten. She was anxious to push it under the rug and pretend that nothing had happened. Boil it all down to a simple lesson for Mulder that he'd never be able to learn anyway. "Think before you do things'. Despite my own evasiveness, I truly wanted to talk about it. I just didn't have the courage. Scully, on the other hand, was perfectly content not talking about it. She wanted to file it neatly away. Mulder, I forgive you for your irrationality. I forgive you for jumping on top of me with a hard-on. Now, let's pretend it never happened. As if to confirm this, she said, "You're right about Skinner. He'll have our hides if we don't file that report today. We'd better get moving." I stared at her for a minute, amazed at her mettle. The steel in her spine. I was sure that Padgett had gotten her wrong. There was no wild, wanton woman inside Scully. She was all about control and the suppression of emotion. If that persona in Padgett's novel existed, it was trapped somewhere deep inside her subconscious. And if it was trying to get out, it probably wasn't screaming loudly enough. "Maybe you ought to take a little time off, Scully," I said, partly due to my annoyance with her response. Partly, from a very real concern for her mental state. "Mulder, you know that I'd rather work through things like this," she stated, leaning forward to straighten the journals I'd pushed around on the coffee table. "I'm not going to sit home stewing over what happened." "You don't think you're going to do the autopsy, do you?" I asked. She glared at me. "I could," she insisted stubbornly, negating my say in it. And then at my look, relented. "Don't worry, Mulder. I'll let someone else. It could hurt the case if I do," she stated, as if that were the only reason for not doing so. I stared at Padgett's novel. And decided that he'd gotten the paragraph that defined me very wrong. I was the one, standing at the doorway, looking into Scully's world. And most of the time, when she caught me at it, she slammed the door in my face. She set down her mug, perfectly centered on the coaster, and abruptly stood. "We'd better hustle if we want to get to work on time." And then, to cement the analogy more firmly in my mind, she disappeared into her bedroom and firmly shut the door to me. ************************************************** Skinner regarded us with his familiar stoicism. "So what you're telling me, Agent Mulder, is that Philip Padgett reached into his thoracic cavity and ripped out his own heart?" I nodded, watching him clamp his lips tightly down on the retort that he'd like to make. It would go something like 'Agent Mulder, are you out of your mind?' Instead, he turned to Scully, as he always did, for confirmation. For the injection of sanity she gave our cases. "Can you corroborate this story, Agent Scully?" She stared straight ahead but I knew she was aware of my eyes on her, watching the show. "Neither of us were witness to that event, sir. While the autopsy findings do substantiate the heart being removed with a blunted object, possibly a hand, it is highly doubtful that the suspect would have the strength to remove his own heart. He surely would have lost consciousness before completion of the act." She paused to shoot me a look, afraid that I was going to interrupt her or argue. "It is still my conviction that Philip Padgett had an accomplice, and perhaps, working in tandem to restrain the victim, they managed to subdue the victim and most likely used some type of blunt tool, along with their hands, for the actual heart removal. In Padgett's case, it's possible that he didn't struggle but allowed his accomplice to perform the final act on himself willingly." Skinner looked a little puzzled now and shot looks from Scully to myself. I stared at the wall above his head. "It is my understanding, Agent Scully," Skinner said slowly, "that you were, in the course of your surveillance, an unfortunate victim of one of these attacks. That you were in fact injured in an altercation with one of the suspects. A suspect whom you identified as matching the description of a man who's been dead for a number of years." She turned to glare at me. I continued to stare somewhere above Skinner's head, steepling my fingers together and afraid to meet her gaze. She'd known that would have to go in the report. I'd even told her that I was putting it in and my only reply had been a grunt from the general vicinity of her desk, which I'd taken, perhaps erroneously, to mean 'okay'. She turned back to Skinner. "Yes. I was attacked by a suspect who very closely *resembled* a man committed for similar crimes a few years back. However, this suspect seemed very much alive and my conclusion is that he was unable to carry the act to completion on myself without his accomplice." That was my Scully. The master of delicately stepping around the truth. Of supporting my work without actually having to stand fully behind me. Sometimes, I was hurt by this, but, for the most part, I didn't blame her. I even appreciated it. This ability was probably what had kept the X- files going for so long. She made things sound not quite as crazy as they did when they left my mouth. In short, she made my theories not quite as crazy as me. Skinner shook his head, looking down at the papers in front of him in bewilderment. "Am I understanding correctly that the two of you think that Padgett was not a victim, but in fact one of the perpetrators of these crimes?" We both nodded. "And am I also correct in understanding you both think that there was a second person involved...this man referred to as 'the stranger' in Padgett's manuscript...but that you both feel that further efforts to locate this individual would be a waste of your time and would like to close the case here and pass on a description of the second man to the local P.D.?" I looked at Scully. "That's correct, sir." She nodded in agreement but didn't hold my eyes. But it wasn't all neat ends. He turned to Scully. "Is it also true that you fired six rounds into this very much alive suspect, Agent Scully, at point blank range, but none of the blood recovered at the scene belonged to him?" She looked stricken for a minute but then regained control. "I thought I did, sir, but in my disorientation, it's possible that I missed." You go, girl. Skinner frowned and nodded for a minute more, staring down at his desk. Then he looked up at us with the familiar mix of confusion and some sort of general displeasure that I'd come to expect from these meetings. "And may I ask, Agent Scully, why you didn't take the day off today? When an agent is injured in the line of duty, we like to allow for a little down time to overcome any physical or psychological difficulties that have arisen from such an event." His voice was stern. It was not really a question, but more of a reprimand. He glared at me too, as if I'd had any influence over her decision. Ha. Scully's response was to straighten her spine and stare back coolly. "I'm aware of that allowance, sir." She made no excuses for her behavior. When he looked at me, I just shrugged as imperceptibly as I could and pressed my lips together in a 'no comment' sort of way. "In that case, you're both dismissed and I'll have to insist that you take the rest of the day off, Agent Scully." Scully's lips pursed in irritation around her "Yes, sir." And she beat me out of the room, though she'd been sitting in the chair farthest from the door. I heard her muttering to herself as we left the secretary's office. And she didn't head toward the exit but walked with me back down to the basement silently, taking her chair when we got there. I moved to my own desk and watched her for a few minutes. She didn't seem to be getting ready to go. Very delicately, I cleared my throat. "Um...Scully?" "What?" she snapped. Scully never took reprimands well. I'd driven us in that morning, so she was stranded as far as getting herself home. Cautiously, I got up from my desk and crossed over to her part of the room. I sat on the very edge of the desk she used when she was down here and held out my keys. "If you want, I'll take you to lunch and drop you off after..." She sighed, eyeing the keys like she wanted to snatch them out of my hand. "Tell you what, Mulder. I'll let you drive me home and take a rain check on the lunch thing. I'm not very hungry right now." She gave me a tight smile and turned away to start packing up for the day. Thank you very much, Mulder. You're dismissed. ************************************************** end part (5/9) continued in part (6/9) TITLE: Inamorata (6/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ************************************************** PART (6/9) I thought maybe we'd talk in the car. I thought wrong. Scully's lips were pressed together in that alluring way that she has. Although what it really means is 'I'd rather not talk to you.' She stared idly out the window and her conversation consisted of, "I'm sorry you have to go out of your way like this, Mulder," somewhere around the half-way point. I thought she was joking. "Yeah, it's a real pain, Scully." And when she didn't seem to notice my gentle ribbing, or even that I'd spoken at all, I added, "I never mind skipping out on paperwork, Scully." We'd taken to commuting to work recently, so her comment struck me as odd. I shot her a look but she was still staring out the window. I cleared my throat, checking to see if that would capture her attention. Nope. I drummed on the wheel for a bit while we waited at a light. I didn't understand her silence. I started to get paranoid. And finally, I had to say something. "Have I apologized yet for last night?" I asked hesitantly, unsure of my reception. Scully heaved a sigh. "Yes, Mulder. In your own way. And I don't need an apology." "Why not?" She heaved another sigh. Then shot me an assessing look. She must have seen me squirm. "What exactly is it again that you're apologizing for, Mulder?" she asked innocently. A challenge. But her eyes weren't laughing above her slight smile. What was I apologizing for? For getting in her bed? For that little indiscretion of a certain body part? For being overprotective or some one of those other things she'd accused me of? Worrying? Hovering? Questioning? I had no clue. There were so many things I could apologize for. She let me off the hook, her slight smile fading. "I don't need you to apologize for just being you, Mulder." She paused. "In fact, I should thank you." But her eyes didn't say thanks. They said 'drop me off and leave me alone.' And if I was waiting for sincerity, I'd be waiting for another day because there was no follow up to this ambiguous comment. I'm not sure that it was a thanks either, given its preface and delivery. Silence reigned. Traffic was nasty at lunch hour and I had plenty to concentrate on. All too soon, we were at her apartment. Without saying anything I'd wanted to say. Not that I knew what I wanted to say anyway. "What are you going to do with the rest of your day?" I asked, letting the car idle in front of her complex. "Oh, I'll think of something," she said vaguely. I started to worry as she pushed the door open. "Scully..." We didn't know that the stranger was gone. We just didn't know. The last thing I wanted to do was leave her alone. It didn't seem like all that great an idea suddenly. She was staring at me, one eyebrow lifted in an 'are you going to say something and if you are, you'd better think about it first' type of way. "Be careful..." I urged. "We don't really know..." I stopped, not wanting to scare her again. "Just be careful." I said again. Lame. She rolled her eyes, impatient with my concern. "I always am, Mulder." She smiled without humor. "Casing my apartment for suspects is like second nature to me now. I'll see you tomorrow." And she shut the car door firmly and strode away. Sighing, I put the car in gear. And didn't want to go. But I did. ************************************************** I limited myself to three calls from the office, spaced at equal intervals throughout the afternoon. Scully was either not there, or there and not answering. I'm ashamed to admit that I did a drive by on my way home, even going so far as to let myself into her apartment after I found that her car was gone. There was nothing out of place. The damn manuscript still sat heavily on her coffee table and I had an urge to chuck it into the fireplace and light it up but I didn't want Scully to know that I'd been there. She must have gone somewhere and the fact that this surprised me, well, suffice to say that it surprised me. I didn't know where Scully would go in her off time or why it was so hard for me to imagine that she'd have places to go outside of me. The only place I could think of was her mother's, which was doubtful. Their relationship had been strained for a while now. Because of me, of course. And because Scully was just as one-minded about her work as I was. I locked up after me and went home. Dinner, if you call a few handfuls of snackfood dinner, and a case file. T.V. and a case file. Maybe my life was all about my work. So I dribbled the basketball and shot a few hoops without the case file, until my neighbor downstairs got out her broom and started tatooing her ceiling with it in a poor imitation of my skill. Three more calls, evenly spaced and the third one was the charm. A slightly curt sounding Scully answered the phone with, "Mulder, what do you want?" "How'd you know it was me?" "Mulder, you know I have caller i.d.," she answered impatiently. "Have you truly called six times?" "Well, putting it like that, Scully...you make me sound like a stalker," I protested lightly. Trying to test the waters and see if she was up for some of my more colorful banter. I should have known better. No response from the other end. Sometimes, Scully and I liked to play this waiting game on the phone. We sit out the silence and see who speaks first. I lost this time. "Where were you all day?" She made a little noise that I couldn't translate. And then, "I told you I wasn't going to sit around. I went to the University Library and caught up on some research for an article I'm writing," she said. "And now, I'm going to have a little dinner, watch a little t.v. and then go to bed. Is that okay with you, Mulder?" Ouch. That hurt. I was still obsessing about 'the stranger' and was about to ask if she wanted a little company but figured out what my answer would be without even having to ask. Best not go there, Mulder, my boy. "And I think every two hours could very well constitute stalking..." she said gently. At least it was a small attempt at humor. I hoped. Probably because she was aware that she'd just ranked on me for my concern. Scully does possess a good dose of compassion when I inspire pity. "Mulder..." She paused again. And when it returned her voice was a little sharper. "...were you by any chance in my apartment tonight?" I was instantly alert. "Why?" I'd moved nothing while I was there and I was immediately afraid that she was examining evidence of someone other than me having invaded her home. But I realized Scully could have done something as simple as the old tape on the door trick. I hadn't checked for that. Confession time. "I did stop by after work," I said slowly, "to check and see if everything was okay but I didn't touch anything, Scully. Is anything out of place?" She sighed. "It's all right. Don't go into full alert. It was you." "Tape on the door?" I asked. "Yes." She paused. This one was a long silence. I waited. She waited. She lost this one. "I wish you wouldn't do that, Mulder. I don't like just anyone wandering into my apartment without my knowledge." So now I was just anyone? "Hello, Scully," I said. "It's me...your partner? The guy who backs you up? I was just checking the place as a professional courtesy." And because I knew that sounded very 'detached'. "You didn't let me know where you were, Scully. For all I knew, you were unconscious on the floor." I didn't add, 'with blood all over you', or 'with someone trying to rip your heart out', or worse, 'dead'. And it hit me then. I was in my apartment, sitting on the couch with the phone to my ear, staring at the exact same spot where Scully had been lying. And I saw in a flash myself coming through the door. And Scully lying there on the floor, covered in blood. It could have been happening right then, the image was so vivid. It took a minute for my eyes to realize I was seeing ghosts. That Scully wasn't lying there on the floor. That I was bending forward, the phone away from my ear and a hard knot of fear in my stomach. The little area rug was gone, crumpled in my laundry basket, covered in blood that would undoubtedly never come out.... It was just yesterday. I'd thought for a good minute that she was dead. I thought I'd finally lost her. And all those things had come screaming through my mind that do in such circumstances. Those frightened voices in panicked flight about what comes next. About endings of things. About losing a person's place in your life. About losing the special rituals you have with that individual. About the spaces that they fill in. About all the things that you'll never do again because of the loss. Or maybe had never done... My heart was slamming in my chest, stimulated into this erratic action by mere thoughts alone, as I sat quietly on my couch, staring at the floor. And the fears that I'd felt then were right there, still with me, insidious and terrifying. With at least one little voice in there that promised some sort of demented, manic melt-down in my head at the thought of what my life would be like without Scully. Screaming it at me in a voice that was disturbingly my own. "...I said Mulder, are you there?" Her voice was a half-shout, breaking me out of my reverie. I put the phone back against my ear. "I'm here," my voice was almost a whisper. "What's wrong?" Her voice was sharp. "Nothing," I lied. "I'm standing here talking to you on the phone and you're not even answering," she stated. "You're not even listening, Mulder! *You* called *me*, you know..." She was ranting. Sparked to anger by my lack of response to whatever she'd been saying. "Scully," I interrupted. A tense silence rested on her end now. "Scully..." "What?" she snapped. It took me a few more seconds to get the words out. A tentative and, to my ears, slightly desperate overture. "Can I come over?" I asked quietly. The silence lasted for a few more heartbeats. I could hear her breathing. Trying to think of how to say no, I suspected. Trying to understand what I was asking. "He's not here, Mulder," she finally answered. "I checked every room very thoroughly. I really don't need you to come over..." "I need to," I stated. My next word was a plea. "Please..." I was glad that it didn't come out sounding as pathetic as it was. And when she didn't say anything at this, I pressed my luck and continued. It was easy once I got going. "Look, you said you haven't eaten yet? I'll stop and get some take-out from that place you like down the street. Call in an order and I'll pick it up." I tried for levity into her continued silence. "And don't put it under Fox this time," I warned, "or *I'll* wring your neck when I get there." She gave a small snort of laughter into the phone. "But they always make me spell Mulder," she complained. "And they don't believe it's a name." "Put it under George, then" I offered. I could almost see her rolling her eyes. "Okay, Mr. Hale. And Mulder?" "Yeah?" "Hurry up. I'm hungry." She hung up. ************************************************** It was a slightly warmer Scully than I'd endured for the past twenty-four hours that greeted me at the door, but she still seemed reluctant at my invasion. And her eyes were weary. Not up for this. Being with her was enough. I didn't need to push anything. At least she had her sense of humor back. "Very funny, Scully," I griped as I came in the door. "I hope the food isn't cold. It took me a while to make my exit, seeing as how I was a minor celebrity in there." She was smirking. "It seems, unbelievably enough, that I was the first person they'd ever encountered whose name was 'Hale-Bop'." She let out a laugh on her way to the kitchen with the bag of food. "You asked for it, Mulder," she called back. It was an uneasy truce resting between us and I watched my step, trying not to disrupt her routine too much with my presence. I'd learned very early in life how to be unobtrusive. After Samantha's disappearance, that was how I'd lived, not making waves until I'd gotten older and figured out that I could. And that it was actually okay to. We're all, in varied ways, products of our backgrounds. I watched Scully carefully remove the journals and that damn manuscript to a chair nearby and set out two neat place settings for us. I helped bring out the food and followed her with my eyes as she turned the television on and flipped around the channels precisely, finally settling on a news show. Scully, sitting there on the couch with her food, concentrating on good manners and recent politcal events, had been raised with a great amount of discipline and order. It was no wonder that chaos upset her. What was the puzzle was why she let herself be exposed to it through me. I was used to having the rug yanked out from under me. In fact, in some perverse way, I think I expected it. Understood it. Hell, in a sick way, I welcomed it. Come'on, old friend, I can handle you. But to Scully, it had to be much more distressing. She glanced over at me. "What's up, Mulder? Am I wearing some of my dinner?" Her voice teetered between amused and annoyed. She held out her napkin, presumably for me to wipe it off. I took the napkin, in some kind of daze, and stared at it. "Mulder...?" she was frowning now. I set the napkin back into her hand and used mine to close her fingers around it. "You're fine, Scully..." My voice was almost hoarse with some deeper emotion, stirred up from its resting place. "You look beautiful," I added, almost reverently. What she looked now was shocked. ************************************************** end part (6/9) continued in part (7/9) TITLE: Inamorata (7/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ************************************************** PART (7/9) What had possessed me to tell her she was beautiful? Not that she wasn't. It's just that I'd never felt compelled to tell her before. I didn't blurt things out like that usually. Verbal diarrhea. I cleared my throat and let go of her hand, returning quickly to my dinner and staring up from my plate to the television. I could feel her watching me. "Mulder, are you feeling okay?" she asked hesitantly. I nodded, pretending that I had just found something particularly fascinating about my sandwhich. I hadn't meant that to slip out but it had. And I wasn't going to take it back. She was beautiful and I was a lucky guy to get to look at her every day. To watch the way she walked. To observe her expressions which, when she wanted them to, could be eloquent and aesthetic. To admire that damn prideful demeanor she carried around like a rod up her spine... The remains of my sandwich lost my attention and I set the plate down on the table and stared down at my hands. I sensed Scully in my peripheral vision doing the same with her dinner and felt her moving over to my side of the couch. "Mulder...?" her voice was worried. She touched her hand to the back of my neck. Every hair there rose up at it and a flush traveled over my skin, making me hot and cold all at once. That was all it took. One touch and I felt tears well up fiercely in my eyes, and confusion from the strange mix of emotions being visited upon me. I fought them back, not too thrilled about the idea of blubbering like a baby in front of Scully, thank you very much. Not that she hadn't already seen that particular horror. I couldn't even look at her for a minute. But she was all compassion, her anger at me flying in the face of this strange reaction. "Mulder, what's wrong?" she whispered, concern and fear warring in her voice. She kept the one hand on the back of my neck and rested the other on my forehead. Checking my temperature. Trust Scully to think I must be sick. "What is it, Mulder?" If she only knew. I *am* mucho loco, Scully. Unfortunately, dans la cavasa. In other words, in my head. I wiped impatiently at the little moisture that did manage to leak from my eyes. "Sorry," I mumbled. "It's nothing, Scully. I think yesterday just shook me up a little more than you." She didn't know what to say. I could finally look at her. Her eyes were wide. Unsure. She took her hand off my forehead and stared at me. "You think that it didn't shake me up?" "It doesn't appear to have too much," I stated. "Maybe I just hide it better," she said coolly. She withdrew her other hand from me and I felt their leaving like a disconnection from her. We sat there for a second in awkward silence. And then she blurted out, "It's not as if I don't have feelings, Mulder. I have them," she said defiantly. I studied her. Seeing if I could read her. If I could figure out what it was that she was feeling right at that moment. And there she was, sitting calmly before me, her hands folded in her lap. A picture of quiet composure. The infamous, enigmatic Doctor Scully. And completely unreadable to me. What was I doing here? What had Padgett's words been again? I had to think hard to recall them and that usually didn't happen to me. 'Agent Scully is already in love.' Yeah, right. Somebody ought to try telling her that. Scully stared down into her lap, uncomfortable with my study. Her voice was small when she spoke. Not her usual firm delivery. "I know that it affected you, Mulder, seeing me like that. And I'm sorry..." I couldn't help myself. "What are you apologizing for, Scully? It wasn't your fault." And there was a nasty accusation in the words that was unlike me. Because they weren't my words, or anything I would ever have said, without her having thrown them at me first. She nodded. "I deserved that. And you're right. I guess we both feel bad when the other hurts and I do understand that's not necessarily a bad thing." She looked up at me from under her lashes and gave me a small smile. "I'm sorry for giving you a hard time about being sorry..." I laughed at the convolution of her apology and then sobered. I looked up again. And suddenly, I could almost hear Padgett's damn book whispering in my ear. She was sitting up straighter and staring at me. To me, undecipherable. But the passage was something about the turmoil inside her. The whirling tempest of raging emotions. Want and need and desire, hidden in there like a secret. Were they there? Was her inner life that rich? Was she thinking right now about me? About things we could do together that we never had? Acts that meant something unifying and basic. A complex mix of two people trying to be one. And deep down, meant something even more simple. That meant something deliciously liberating and carnal. The all-night, down-and-dirty, naked pretzel. I knew that I was thinking it. "It's okay, Scully. Stop apologizing." I stopped. And then I opened my mouth again and let it run like a faucet. "This is about a little more than a few apologies, I think." Her breath was coming a little quicker but her words were like a stream of cold water. "Like what?" she asked guardedly. Was she truly imaging us doing something more that sitting her on her couch, evading issues in our practiced way? Probably not. I passed a tired hand over my eyes, breaking the contact. What she was contemplating probably involved what a complete loser I was. How pathetic her mentally unstable, transparently horny partner was. How I needed to get a life and stop bothering her on her off hours. That's certainly what I was thinking by this point. I lowered my hand and put on a brave face. I think it most closely resembled a grimace. "Scully..." I started. Nothing came. I tried again. "Scully..." And out they emerged. My pearls of wisdom. "I think I'd better go." She shut down. But not before I glimpsed the first emotion I'd been able to conclusively identify all night. Anger. Evident and unhidden. "Go ahead, Mulder." Just as quickly, it was gone. She stood, starting to gather the plates. "Thanks for dinner..." she managed, without looking at me. I started to help her put the dishes away. This was another exclusive aspect of our relationship. This ability to still function and go on like everything was normal, even when we were spitting mad at each other. We had obviously both learned the lesson somewhere along the way that if you ignore it, it'll go away. Unfortunately, that conclusion is wrong. Completely erroneous. Things never go away when ignored. They fester and come to a boil. They erupt at inopportune moments, or they attack and insidiously eat away at the insides of their host until they've destroyed it. ************************************************** For Scully and I, the eruption started in the kitchen. And it started that night, though it didn't finish then. We were good at drawing things out for as long as humanly possible. She stood at the sink, rinsing away at the dishes with her obsessive-compulsive need to clean them and by doing so, put some order into her surroundings. And I stood behind her, trying to figure out how to fix this with my own obsessive-compulsive tendencies, which involved destroying anything good in my life by fixating on it and worrying it like a dog with a good bone. "Scully..." I urged quietly. "Mulder, I can't do this right now," she muttered, scrubbing fiercely at one of the plates. "What are we doing right now that you can't do?" My voice came out sounding petulant, like a child not getting his way. She picked up a sponge and a glass and started jamming her hand in and out of it. Her back was rigid and unyielding. So I did something really stupid. I reached out from where I stood behind her and put my hands on her shoulders, thinking that I was going to turn her around to face me, I guess. She practically jumped out of her skin at my touch. Can you say 'over-reaction'? I confess that I jumped a little too, in surprise. The glass slipped in her grasp and hit a plate before shattering loudly, the pieces falling away from her hand in that musical, delicate way glass has upon breaking. "Damn it, Mulder!" she swore, sucking in her breath and staring down at the mess in her sink. We both watched with that sick fascination we all harbor when it comes to our own mortality, waiting for the inevitable result of fractured glass on delicate flesh. Bright red specks of blood suddenly appeared against the pale white of her skin. Gathering volume. Each drop welling up to a rounded, perfect sphere before rolling off in a little trail, leaving her hand a spiderweb of red tributaries on their exodus to the sink. "Shit!" she added as an epithet. I reached around her and grabbed a dish towel while she ran the water over her hand, accessing the damage, all business now as she turned around and allowed me to wrap the towel under it, glaring at the remorse in my eyes. Staring down, she dabbed at the blood. Turning her hand over in the cradle of mine and peering intently at each spot, separating skin with a practiced hand to see how deep each was. "Superficial," she announced. "I'm fine, Mulder." She closed the towel around it with one quick wrap and, slipping under my arm, disappeared into her bathroom. I leaned weakly back against the sink and stared over my shoulder at the mess. At the bright swirls of scarlet, like some kind of intricate pattern against the white of the china and the uneven scattering of crystal shards, catching the light and reflecting back prisms of blood red. For a second, I thought I might pass out. Instead, I pulled the garbage can out from underneath and started extracting the larger pieces of the glass from the sink and tossing them away. Cleaning up the mess. Story of my life. Or more accurately, story of Scully's life now. In our work, I usually left her to clean up my messes. To tidy up the disorganization of my unconventional approaches. "You don't need to do that, Mulder," she said from the doorway. "No sense both of us getting cut." I kept at it, and winced as I mumbled my next words into the sink. "I'm sorry, Scully." I waited for her to bludgeon me for yet another apology, but obviously, she'd meant the sentiment she'd expressed earlier in the night. "It's okay, Mulder." Her voice was tired. "I'm the one who overreacted." I turned around, staring contritely at her hand, several band-aids and a bath of iodine later. "It's fine, Mulder," she sighed. "Just scratches." She crossed her arms and stared down at her feet. I turned back to the sink and finished cleaning up the mess. I turned the water on and sent the tiniest slivers of glass down the drain, starting to wash and rinse the dishes again to make sure no fragments clung there waiting for another unsuspecting victim. "You don't need to do that, Mulder," she repeated. I ignored her and continued. I heard her leave the room with a sigh. When I was done, I went out and hesitantly sat down by her on the couch. I sat close enough that our hips were touching. We both stared at the t.v. "Is it all right?" I asked, pointing at her hand. "It's fine, Mulder." She sighed. "And I'm sorry." We were certainly a pair tonight. It seemed like our every interaction required an apology by one or both of us. "For what?" I entreated. She didn't answer. Instead, she repeated one of her earlier phrases. "I can't do this, Mulder." "Can't do what?" I demanded. We fell into one of our silences, both staring into her lap. I was actually studying at her hand, resting there carefully on her thigh. I reached over and picked it up gently, examining it for myself. She let it lie there in mine, limp and inert. Until I ran my finger carefully over one of the bandages. Then she startled as badly as she had at the kitchen sink, jerking her hand out of my grasp. She stared at me wildly, rearing back away from me on the couch. Glancing down at how close I was sitting to her. "This!" she railed. "I can't do this..." She leapt to her feet and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "This...this..." she sputtered. I almost said, for God's sake, spit it out, Scully. "This...*physical* thing that we're doing, Mulder...that you're doing." And we stayed there like that, her standing and me sitting. Staring at one another and absorbing the implications of her statement. I pulled out my best defense. Sarcasm. It was a shell that I wore to protect myself from this kind of scene. "Physical thing..." I mused. "Hmmmm...I thought we were having a conversation." "Bullshit, Mulder," she snapped. "You were touching..." She broke off, a flame of embarrassment climbing up her face. Her chest was heaving up and down. And oh yes, I could definitely see some emotion in her expression and body language right now. Unfortunately, it was still mostly anger. "Touching," I said quietly, as if explaining the word to myself. Mocking her because I was hurting. "Since when does my concern...my *touching* you over an injury," I emphasized the word unduly, "make you jump out of your skin, Scully?" I asked. "Since you made it personal," she said savagely. I have to confess that I had no clue as to what Scully was referring to here and what convoluted things and complex connections were going on, or had gone on, in her mind. Though the words sounded vaguely familiar, I was completely in the dark but convinced now that Padgett was partly right. There was certainly something going on in there. I just wasn't so sure if it had anything to do with repressed passions and desires. "Since I made it personal..." I repeated the words instead of responding to them, like a big dumb moron who couldn't figure out the definitions or the meaning behind the statement. Because I couldn't. "Once more, Mulder," she said, and now there really was something repressed in her voice. I'm pretty sure it was rage. Her lips were pressed tightly together between sentences and there was a tempest going on in there. Here was my emotion, full-blown and tumultuous. And yet, she was still standing as if unmoved. "I am *not* doing this with you tonight." She stated. Or maybe any other night, if tonight was anything to go by. "I think you'd better leave." Her eyes slid away from me at this last comment. She looked at the door, as if wanting it to magically open and usher me out. I did this part myself. And I shut it behind me, but I wasn't shutting her out. I didn't need to. She obviously didn't want to come into my world anyway. And she wanted me out of hers. ************************************************** end part (7/9) continued in part (8/9) TITLE: Inamorata (8/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ************************************************** PART (8/9) There was a knock on my door. Quiet but insistent. I recognized it. She could have just used her key but she didn't. Getting up from my position on the couch, I opened the door. Studying a slightly rumpled Scully. "I thought we weren't doing this tonight?" I said. "That was two nights ago, Mulder. And I'm tired of you avoiding me at work. Can I come in?" she inquired, looking like she was afraid that I was going to refuse her entrance. There was no reason for me to refuse. And we did still need to work together. I'd been worried about the strain myself. I stepped back from the door, ready to play her game. Forgive and forget. "Come in." I moved around the apartment, very aware and slightly chagrined that I'd been 'relaxing' for a while now on the cleaning issue. I scooped up my running shorts and t-shirts from the past three days and brought them into the bedroom to dump them in the laundry basket. I noted the wrinkle across the bridge of Scully's nose as I cleared the dirty dishes from my last two dinners, including an almost empty pizza box, out from in front of where she perched uncomfortably on my couch. When I came back in the room, she sat back. Then moved forward and reached behind her to extract a pair of boxers, which she draped very delicately in my outstretched hand. And then she grinned. "Nice touch, Mulder." I left the room to throw those in with the rest of the laundry heap, on top of the bloodied rug that I should have just thrown out and couldn't figure out why I hadn't. I took a minute to gather myself. Emotionally, I'd grown up with a father who wasn't there. Physically, he'd been a little more there. I bore both kinds of scars, but I'd made my peace with that a long time ago. And I'd learned some valuable lessons from it. I could do detached. No problem. Again, note here that conclusions from life's less forgiving lessons are often wrong. When I reentered the room, I sat down very carefully, as far from Scully as I could get. I didn't want any accidental touches misconstrued by her. "What can I do for you, Scully?" I asked, my voice the perfect blend of readiness to listen and practiced, professional detachment. In part, I'd learned this skill from yet another master. Scully herself. She cleared her throat nervously, picking at one of the fine lines of a scab on her hand. I wanted to reach over and make her stop, but didn't. "Mulder..." "Before I misunderstand," I said quickly, "This is a conversation we're having right now, isn't it? It's not that physical thing, is it?" "Mulder," she wailed, impatient but tolerant. "Because I wouldn't want to..." "Mulder, stop it!" she ordered. Leaning over, she clapped her hand over my mouth and held it there. This time, I was the one that jumped. I pried her hand away and let it fall, scowling at her. Already, she was violating her own rules. She actually laughed, pulling her hand back and shaking her head sadly. "Well, I asked for that one, I guess." I waited. I was too confused to attempt anything. I let Scully take the lead. She stared at me. "I hate to even do this...add on another apology...but I have to say that I'm sorry, Mulder." She bit her lip. "And that I was wrong," she said bravely. I was still confused. "About what?" "About *us*," she said significantly. I held up a hand. "You don't need to do this, Scully," I answered, vaguely saddened by this moment. By this need of hers to finally and conclusively define exactly what we were not. "I understand, okay? Let's just leave it there." "No," she insisted stubbornly. "That's not what I want." "Well, it's what I want," I argued back. "Is it, Mulder?" she demanded. "You could have fooled me." "You fool me all the time, Scully." Touche. "In fact," I blurted, "I wouldn't know what you were thinking if you came up and hit me over the head with it." She let out her breath. "Wow. Thanks, Mulder. That one hurt." I dropped my eyes, ashamed and repentant that my words had been meant to wound. I put my head in my hands and turned it in her direction to give her a tight smile. "I hate to be unoriginal, but can we not do this right now, Scully?" "Okay," she said gently. And then, "I know it's late..." Her voice trailed away. It took me a minute before I figured out why she'd stopped and where she was staring. She was staring at the infamous spot. Her eyes widened. She froze and opened the door to her demons. "Oh, god," she said, putting a hand over her mouth. She closed her eyes. I was afraid for a second that she was about to puke on the coffee table. "Scully," I said quickly, putting a hand on her arm. Her eyes opened and she stared at me. And then, "Sorry," I said and removed my hand. She moved hers to her forehead, looking pained. And her words came out like a flood. I was reeling just trying to catch them all. Her delivery was rushed and lacking the precise articulation I'd come to expect from her. "I thought I couldn't do the physical thing...I mean, it just seems wrong, you know?" she implored. I stared at her blankly. "It feels weird and strange and sometimes, it's been so long, that I feel androgenous," she explained. "As if I stopped being female at some point and became this...this...genderless thing to you!" My mouth dropped open. "What?!" "And then, when Diana showed up, and you didn't want anything to be personal between us..." She broke off and took a deep, shaky breath. "To be honest, Mulder, we've gone on so long this way, I'm not sure I can change. I don't know if I can be with you...like...like...that." And she stopped abruptly. She opened her mouth and then closed it. And seemed surprised by what she'd just said. And then surprised again that she was finished. That nothing more was coming out. I sure hoped that this little speech made her feel better because it hadn't done a whole hell of a lot for me. "...genderless thing?" I croaked. "Well...that might be an exaggeration," she said sheepishly, "But it gets the point across." Another silence between us, but, in one of the exceptions of our long history, this one was achingly uncomfortable. I was painfully aware of how close she was to me. And at how far that distance seemed. It was her turn to put her head in her hands. And I wanted to reach out and touch her but I couldn't. I tried and the distance just seemed too great. The movements too awkward. I was suddenly self-conscious in a way that I rarely was with Scully. I reached out but drew my hand back. I stared at her and opened my mouth. Nothing came out of that either. She cast an apprehensive eye in my direction and didn't seem bolstered by what she saw. She looked like she felt ill. Slowly, she moved her eyes and stared back at the spot on the floor. "God, Mulder. I don't know where that came from," she said quickly. "I guess that the other day did affect me more than I thought." She was trying to lighten the moment. To take back her words or, at the very least, make them mean less. She clapped her hands together and I could see that she was clenching them because they were pale and bloodless where her fingers pressed into the skin. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have dumped all that on you. I should go..." She started to stand and I knew she was going to make an exit that might make my head spin, it would be so fast. This was enough incentive for me to take the initiative and do something, which was to reach out and grab her arm. I literally pulled her back into a sitting position from her forward momentum. Never one to tolerate restraint, Scully ripped her wrist out of my grasp and then rubbed at it absently, casting a wary eye in my direction. "Could I say my piece now?" I asked, fear having loosened my tongue a bit. "Sure," she shrugged. Her eyes glued back to that cursed spot on my floor. I even looked to make sure that I'd removed all the traces of her blood from the cracks in the floorboards, she was staring with that kind of fixation. "Could you look at me and not that....that place." Her eyes flew back to mine. They swirled with that inner world of hers. "What are you thinking right now?" I asked, curious. Wanting to know. "How scared I was," she said softly. Her brow furrowed. "How strange it felt." And she rubbed at her chest distractedly. I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck again, remembering too. I reached out and covered her hand with mine, stilling its repetitive motion where it rested, just slightly over her heart. And then I slid mine underneath it and traced my fingers over the spot instead. Sliding them into the open neck of her blouse and letting them draw small circles on her skin, over her heart. My fingers trailed along the edges of lace. Her breathing changed as she grew tense, holding still but racing inside, and shaking like a frightened animal. "Scully, it's okay," I said gently. She laughed nervously. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm just not..." she shook her head. "We've got to stop this apology thing," I murmured. "And you're not what, Scully?" She shrugged. "I don't know..." She stared down, still as death at the motion of my hand. I stopped what I was doing, letting her relax, but I kept my hand there. "I don't think I'm very good at this sort of thing, Mulder." She started in again, almost talking to herself more than me. Spewing out one of those confessions you make that are really fears you have about yourself. And usually, afterward, you wish that you'd never told. "I mean, I must be alone for a reason, right? I must have been alone for all these years because of something about me." I felt my own pain and hurt over this statement. Had she really felt this alone? Had I been that terrible to be with? That absent from her life? Had I made her felt like that? Because it sure hadn't felt like that for me. She was one of the reasons that I was still alive. That I continued to get up in the morning and drag my sorry ass through yet another day. "You aren't alone, Scully," I stated, capping my sorrow and disappointment at her words. "You haven't been alone all these years." "Yes I have." She stared at me and finally came to some small realization of just how much her last statement might have hurt me. But this didn't stop her. She was on a roll. "I know you've been here too, but I don't know what I am to you, Mulder," she confessed. "I never have." I found it almost difficult to speak after this, but the words were easy. "You're everything," I said simply. She shook her head vehemently, denying my words. "Don't say that. That kind of thing scares me, Mulder. And it's not true anyway. No one can or should be everything to someone else." That one felt like an impalement but she was right. Still, I felt physically sick to my stomach and I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. I opened my mouth and more of the same confession came out, but in a truer form. "You're the only person who's ever truly cared about me, Scully," I admitted, my mouth dry and my heart pounding somewhere up in my throat. "And that scares *me*." I think she was about to disagree with my latest statement and then stopped herself. I could almost see her ticking things off in her mind and was delighted that I could follow her to this extent. She knew that I hadn't had the advantage of growing up in the Scully household, where like every family there was definitely dysfunction but also plenty of love and support. And I'd been as short on the social end of things as she had since the creation of the X-files division. She was even more well-versed with my antagonistic relationship with most of our co-workers. Of my status as 'Spooky' Mulder, the demented, oddball pariah in the basement. She came to the inevitable final conclusion about my lack of a fan club and blessedly didn't say anything at my pity party. I started to slide my hand out of her shirt and she jumped again, as if she'd been bitten by a nasty bug. "Jesus, Scully," I bit out insensitively, but annoyed by her continued recoil from me. And I was ashamed to see her eyes water with tears, which she brushed at impatiently. "I can't help it, Mulder..." And then she actually allowed herself to cry. Silently letting the tears fall unchecked from her eyes. Obviously, as much as, if not more hurt and scared than I was right now. "I don't know how to be like this with you," she murmured. I fought back a wave of depression and wasn't exactly sure either. I wondered when we had taken this complicated turn into a place where neither of us seemed able to function. And why we hadn't seen it coming and been able to prepare for it. But I had to do something. So I put my arms around her and pulled her roughly up against me, forcing her to let me hold her because *I* wanted to. Clutching her tightly against my chest as her tears slowed and stopped. She held her hands up for a minute, as if she wasn't sure where to put them. And then she wrapped them around my neck, clinging back strong, her heart beating steady against mine. "It's not so hard, Scully," I whispered in her ear, my hand stroking her back. "I promise." She took a big, shaky breath. "Easy for you to say." "Believe me, Scully," I said tightly, "This is going to be the easy part." ************************************************** end part (8/9) continued in part (9/9) TITLE: Inamorata (9/9) AUTHOR: KatyBlue DISCLAIMERS, ETC.: See Part (1/9) i.e. they're not mine and as much as I wish that I controlled them, I'd probably mess it up at some point too... ****************************************************** PART (9/9) I led her into my bedroom. If anyone had told me when I first met Scully or before I knew her that I would end up with someone like her at this point in my life, I would never have believed them. I was always one for tall, leggy brunettes. But then, who ever says, 'I'd like a short, controlling, know-it-all redhead please? She came with me reluctantly, still protesting that she didn't think this was such a great idea. I was pretty sure that she'd bolt if I let go of her hand, so I didn't. I'll admit that her steps were forced and part of the way I had to actually drag her forward a little. "I didn't come here to stay over, Mulder," she argued. "It's late, Scully. We have to work in the morning. It's ridiculous to go all the way home." "Mulder, tomorrow's Saturday." "We're workaholics, Scully, remember?" "I didn't bring anything..." she said vaguely. And then quickly, realizing this could be taken the wrong way, "I mean to wear..." her voice trailed away. My Scully, the prude, a product of years of big Catholic guilt and voluntary celibacy. "I think I've got a flannel nightie in here," I leered. I thought she was going to hit me hard for this one, so I let go of her hand and went to my drawers, rummaging quickly through for a t- shirt and a pair of boxers. I tossed them to her. "Will those cover enough?" She caught them deftly, barely in the doorway, and stared at me as if I was a stranger. Not *the* stranger, but just someone that she didn't quite recognize and didn't exactly know what she felt about. A new door was opening for us. But who exactly was letting whom in? This door seemed like the kind that was shared. Like a door adjoining two separate rooms. And maybe we were both afraid to open it and see what we'd find. She disappeared into the bathroom and while she was in there, I dressed in basically the same outfit she was putting on. T-shirt and boxers. I didn't want to scare her too much. When she came out, I went in. And when I came out, ready for bed, she was gone from the room. A bit alarmed, I went out into the apartment proper, looking for her. I found her standing and staring contemplatively out the window at the empty street. I came up behind her quietly so as not to startle her too much. "Scully..." "Hmmmm?" she answered. Her arms were wrapped around her middle. "We don't have to do this," I said finally. "Not that we're doing anything," I quickly assured her. "I like my couch better anyway," I teased. She turned around, all seriousness. "I want to, Mulder." And she meant it. So I took her hand and led her all over again to the bedroom. Deja vu. I sat down on the edge of the bed, while she stayed in the doorway again. I patted the spot beside me, willing to be patient. "Come sit here a minute, Scully." She unfolded her arms and crossed the room. She looked damn sexy in my boxers and, though the t- shirt was oversized on her, the material was thin enough that I could see the delicious outline of her breasts and the fact that she wasn't wearing her bra, thank god. She smiled at me almost lazily on the way. "What happened to your waterbed, Mulder?" "Oh, that's a long ugly story," I answered. "Suffice it to say that after nineteen hundred dollars of water damage to a very unforgiving neighbor's possessions, I've decided to take the more conventional approach." I let her settle beside me. "Not that the waterbed was my idea," I insisted. "Yeah, yeah, yeah..." she droned. We sat there like that for a few seconds. I reached over and took her hand and was surprised myself by how strange this all was. So I said, "We can do this, Scully." Almost as much to convince myself as her. "Can we?" she answered. "Because all I keep thinking about is how complicated this is going to make everything. I mean, we work together every day, Mulder. We're not supposed to get involved like this, so it's going to be some big secret thing...and all the other things...you know...like do we have to sleep in the same room now when we're on the road and who comes over to who's apartment and if you're going to start throwing things all over my place...and I think you're driving me insane..." She was babbling. "Whoa, Scully. Stop." She was beginning to make even me feel the tugging at the more extreme edge of my anxiety. I held up a calming hand. "Please," I pleaded. "You're starting to scare me." "You should be scared," she insisted. I sighed and pulled the covers up for her. "Like I said, this is the easy part." She was staring at the bed, still hesitant. I sighed and ushered her in by holding them up higher and pointing to a spot where she could lie down. "Slide in, Scully." Shooting me a look, she did. I followed her in. When we'd both moved around a little and rustled the covers into an acceptable form, I turned to find her facing me. We lay like that for a few minutes, kind of staring at each other's heads resting on my pillows, amazed at this event. And I have to admit, I was a little freaked out when I thought, here's Scully, lying in my bed, expecting something from me. Was I really willing to give it? And then I saw how scared she was. I could actually read it in her eyes. And I thought, well, I'm expecting something from her too, aren't I? So I reached out and put my arms around her. She tried to make a joke out of it, mumbling, "I don't want to wrestle, Mulder," which was what I'd said to her in the woods that time. I pulled her up to me and gathered her in, wrapping my arms around her body and copping a cheap feel of the smooth skin of her back by sliding my hands under instead of over the t-shirt while she tried to get comfortable, shifting around a little in this trap. I wrapped my legs around her too and then we looked at each other from this new perspective. We had to move our heads back a little so that we could focus. "Are you comfortable?" I asked. She nodded but I could tell that she wasn't. "Turn around, Scully," I suggested. She glared at me and I laughed. "It's nothing kinky," I promised. Scowling but trusting me, she did. I slid in behind her and pulled her back in close against me. When I put my hands on her stomach, she sucked in her breath in alarm and it brought her fully up against me. Tense and rigid. But then I felt her body begin to relax by degrees. Fitting each part to one of mine. I let her work it out. She was so small, and yet somehow she fit there perfectly. At some point, I took a deep breath to stomp down the more base urges she was waking up and just held her. "Are you going to turn the light off?" she asked. Reaching behind me, I flicked the switch. And for a second, in the darkness, I realized that she had become as difficult to discern as ever. Actions can always be read. But someone's thoughts are another matter entirely. In fact, you can be psychic and even then, another person's brain still works in its own unique way, interpreting the world around it differently. Perception; the great disconnection. So I asked. "What are you thinking right now, Scully?" She sighed and stretched her body against mine. Her feet found my feet, and she rested her soles on top of mine, wiggling her toes experimentally and sliding one smooth leg sort of in between mine. I wrapped my arms around her, gliding them along her arms first and threading our fingers together at the end. A complex meshing of limbs and body parts that ended up working. "I'm thinking about how good this feels," she whispered. "It does, doesn't it?" I could almost feel her thoughts. "This *is* the easy part, Mulder," she agreed. *********************************************************** THE END Feedback very welcome at katy2blue@aol.com Feed me. I'm hungry. Feedback...yum yum! . AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, this was another one of my more laborious attempts to get these two together, which they rarely cooperate with. Despite the fact that in fanfic, Scully is often portrayed as a wild, wanton woman, I'm skeptical that this is the case and chose my own interpretation. Her background certainly suggests otherwise, so I've taken a few liberties in the name of realism. Though I'm a shipper at heart, I'll admit that imaging how they would finally get together and writing them acting on their urges has always been like pulling teeth for me. This one started as a vignette that wouldn't end so I kept at it until it happened. Anyway, if you read all the way through this for smut, you were probably disappointed. No down and dirty sex here, just lots of references to it and plenty of angst about it...that's what I do :) Hope you enjoyed it...let me know...