Million (1/1) 
By Alanna 
alanna@alanna.net

+++++++++++++++

I am a million different people.

She is one.

I change, I adapt. I allow my moods to overwhelm me, color me. 
Paint me in different hues, some of which I don't like. Some of 
which I do, like the ones Scully creates in me.

I am an enigma. She is an enigma, too, never more so than at this 
moment. I look at her. I have been watching her off and on since 
the plane took off from DFW almost three hours ago. It might be a 
cliche, but I can't seem to stop looking at her. We have known 
each other for so long, and yet I feel like I've only really just 
begun to know her.  I know her body now, of course, but even more 
importantly, I know her mind. Her soul. But she's still such a 
mystery. She'll probably remain so until the day I die, but I 
don't mind. I'll enjoy trying to unwrap her enigma. And enjoy her 
trying to unwrap mine.

The plane hits a bit of turbulence and she is jostled out of 
sleep.  Scully always looks so beautiful as she wakes up. She 
always denies it, though, with some sort of feminine modesty at 
not looking put-together, but I love the way I see the raw woman 
in her. The one who belongs to me, not the world. Me.

"Hi." Her voice cracks, fizzles. It is raw. It is her.

"Good morning."

"Is it still morning? I lost track of time."

"Late night?" I run my fingertips along her leg.

"Yeah.... but I enjoyed every minute."

I love her brazenness and the slight twinkle in her eye. She 
speaks softly, coyly. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

I narrow my eyes. "I made love with a beautiful woman all night. 
So yeah, I think that qualifies as 'good'."

She blushes slightly at my gaze, which is still intense and 
searching. As I search her face and she mine, the world slowly 
dissolves, until it could fit in the pinpoint of air between us. 
Scully leans over and kisses me, devouring my mouth with hers. 
Air leaves my lungs and rushes into hers. What was I saying about 
loving her brazenness? A flight attendant passes by, asking us to 
prepare for landing. We need to breathe, so I slowly break the 
kiss, inhaling then peppering the sides of her mouth with tiny 
kisses. I reward her with a huge grin.  She rewards me in kind. 
Imagine that, a Scully grin.

I am a comic. I remember the first time I made Scully laugh -- 
really laugh. That was, I believe, the proudest moment of my 
life. We were lying in her bed after some incredible lovemaking 
(yeah, we're having sex a lot these days -- sue me). I said 
something, though I can't remember what. And I watched as a 
bubble of joy seemed to rise from her chest and burst in her 
face. She laughed -- such an amazing sound, so loud and hearty. 
Her face broke out in a toothy grin she could barely suppress. I 
felt something wash over me. I'm not sure what it was, exactly, 
but it sang through my veins and made me glow with joy. Wow.

I see a hint of that same laugh in her eyes right now.

The plane lands. We get off. I walk behind her, letting her lead 
the way. I love watching her -- have I mentioned that already? 
She is so composed, so together. A hot, fiery woman encased in 
the body of a cool, intelligent professional. It's a wonderful 
contrast. Scully is nearly swallowed whole by her huge garment 
bag, but she'd never ask for my help. Stubbornness is not one of 
her better qualities, but it's a strangely endearing one.

We walk past commuters, past tourists, past airport employees.   
Ordinary people, ordinary lives. Sometimes, but not often, I wish 
my life were ordinary. A house in the suburbs, a wife, two kids. 
The American Dream. But that's not me. I'm extraordinary, in the 
literal sense of the word. Outside of the norm. I kind of like it 
that way.

And if I were just ordinary, I wouldn't have Scully next to me, 
taking my hand as we board the escalator down to our level of the 
parking garage, lacing her fingers through mine. So quietly, so 
blithely.  Like it's the most natural, most ordinary thing in the 
world. She's become so demonstrative since we became lovers. 
Never flaunting, just more physical than I would have expected. 
I'm just trying not to take advantage of it. She's like a cat I 
want to lure inside, but don't dare make any sudden moves, 
exploiting her trust in me.

She drives this time. It's her car, after all. Besides, it's my 
turn to sit and watch her. She basks in my attention, I can tell. 
We like to play a game when she drives. I say the most outrageous 
things I can think of to get her to crack a smile. Personally, I 
think she's just biting her cheeks so she'll win. She almost 
always does, but when she doesn't.... the smile that spreads over 
her face is just amazing. I wear the scar of it on my cheek, on 
my soul, as the just rewards of a hard-fought battle.

I win today.

I have to trump her this time, so I slyly say, "I hear Frohike 
has a date with Cindy Crawford tonight." That gets her. She 
throws her head back and laughs, all the while keeping a steady 
eye on the road.  I feel victorious.

I am a best friend. I share everything with Scully. I can only 
assume she shares everything with me. We can talk about anything 
and nothing, and I know that she will listen to me without 
ridicule, even if she doesn't necessarily agree. And often times, 
we don't even need to talk at all. She and I can pass miles 
without saying a word, without a need to talk. Our connection 
serves as our voice. I could  be with her a million years and 
never tire of her company. Love does that to a man, I guess.

She pulls into the parking garage at the FBI Headquarters, wiping 
the smile off her face and putting on her Agent Mask for the 
guards at the gate. She's a human kaleidoscope at times, though 
nobody would ever know it except me. I'm so grateful she lets me 
see all her emotions.  It's one aspect of her to which I have 
exclusive rights.

We walk through the entranceway, punching in the necessary codes 
to get through the doors. We maintain a brisk space as we take 
the labyrinthine route to the basement, my hand keeping a steady 
vigil at the small of her back. The Bureau allows us to sleep 
together, so long as we compartmentalize. No public displays of 
affection. Small of back is skirting the edge, but acceptable. I 
glue my palm to the soft flannel of her suit blazer, feeling her 
skin move under the fabric, marvelling at the way her body is so 
still even as her legs move. Those legs provide a staccato beat 
traveling up my arm. It mimics her heartbeat. Our blood flows 
together. And yet, we're apart -- or so they think.

I feel so clever.

I am a knight. I quest. She unlocks the door of our office and we 
step inside, heading toward our respective desks. Hers is plain, 
almost spartan, furnished with the simple necessities for 
productivity. Mine is my castle, my armory. I glance over the 
weapons of my mind -- photos and newspaper clippings of flying 
saucers and aliens. The truth is my Holy Grail. Truth about 
conspiracies, about my sister, about Scully's abduction. I'm 
seduced by the idea of truth even as I harbor fears about what it 
might mean. But that doesn't stop my -- our -- quest. Nothing 
ever will, even after it is over. We have our own truth to seek 
together. The truth about us. A package we are opening every day.

I lack the nobility of a knight, though. I am good, but I am not 
pure. I am honorable, but I am not without blemish. I am a lover, 
but I am not deserving. If I were all those things, I could be 
content with just loving her. But as I glance over at Scully 
taking her seat, I feel a flash of pure light and love, and know 
that just loving her isn't enough. I need more, I want more.

We settle down for a couple of hours of work. We could have just 
gone home but we have too much work to do. Good thing we're both 
workaholics. As we sort through the piles of flotsam that have 
accumulated on our desks in our absence, I feel myself returning 
to the old life, to safety. And sure enough, as if she has read 
my mind, Scully calls out, "Here we go again."

 "Yeah?" I can't help but be excited.

"Seems they want to send us out on another case tomorrow." She 
flips through the file. "Hmm, Mississippi. We haven't been there, 
have we?"

"Does this mean we get to christen another state?"

I earn another grin, closely followed by a mock-glare. "Watch it, 
or I'll have Shari book us separate rooms this time."

The smile lingers on her lips. I want to kiss her so badly, but I 
restrain myself with as much force as I can muster. Finally, I 
just have to look away. I can't resist her if my eyes are on that 
dear face.

She begins speaking again. I force myself to concentrate on her 
words. "Looks like another case involving herbs. Two in one week?  
That must be a record."

I lean back in my chair. "Could you hand me your Bureau 
directory?  I'll call Shari this time." Scully's taken aback. 
She's so used to doing the little tasks like travel arrangements 
that my volunteering has thrown her for a loop. She reaches over 
and hands me the booklet. Her fingertips brush against mine. Fire 
courses through my veins. I want to seize her hand and press it 
to my chest, into my skin, but I file away that urge for later.

I am a dreamer. I spend the rest of the afternoon shuffling 
papers, but lost in fantasies -- of what Scully and I already 
are, of what we could become. As the clock marches onward, she 
picks up the phone and calls her mother, just to let her know 
that we're back in D.C., safe and sound. They chat for about 
fifteen minutes, about everything and nothing. I admit that I 
envy their easy closeness and affection.  Aside from Scully, I've 
never really had anyone to give me that. Not for many years. Not 
since Sam. As Scully's voice murmurs over the wires, I dream 
about what might have been had things gone differently. These 
dreams often feature a grown and happy Samantha. Yet, somehow the 
"might have been" never includes Scully because I was never sent 
to her in the first place. And I fear that "might have been". I 
drift over to what could be. Samantha back, watching Scully and 
me continue to build the life we have together. A perfect circle.  
Dreams are often so much better than reality.

But then I glance over at Scully and realize that reality isn't 
so bad after all.

A couple of hours pass. Once again, we are in her car, going 
home. I drive this time. She's too tired. The commute is 
relatively easy this evening, even though we're in the middle of 
rush hour. She pulls her laptop out and begins typing, but leaves 
off after a few minutes and just turns her head and looks at me. 
I love it. I love her. I love being the focus of her attention.

I am a lover. I give so much love I can scarcely contain it and I 
receive so much love I might collapse under its weight. We stop 
at a light down the street from her apartment and I glance over 
at her.  She robs me of breath. She stuns me. I am agnostic, but 
I've been blessed. Looking at Scully is my religious experience. 
The cravings in her eyes are my absolution. I want to take her 
and show her my love in as many ways as we can imagine, plus a 
few we haven't imagined yet. I can't drive the final half-mile 
home quickly enough for my --our-- sanity. Time is of the 
essence.

We make it into her apartment on shaky legs born of desire, then 
stumble over furniture on our way to her bedroom. We've been 
lovers for perhaps three months now, yet we're still at the 
insatiable stage. I hope we stay there for the rest of our lives. 
I run my hands over her skin and her soul, both bared to me, 
exposed and open. I come alive in her hands. I feel my blood and 
my souls begin to gel. I am on fire. I am all of my selves, 
merging.

And I am a million other people, slowly coming alive under her.

********

END (1/1)