From: Trixie <trixie@wgn.net>
Date: Tue, 04 May 1999 16:41:35 -0700
Subject: REP: The Sexually Repressed Guide to Defining Forever (1/7)

Title: The Sexually Repressed Guide to Defining Forever
Author: Trixie
Email: scullymulder1121@hotmail.com
Category: Just your average Angsty, Humor filled MSR Story
Rating: NC-17
Summary: My version of M&S go to an island.
Notes: All right . . . I swear to GOD I have the WORST luck posting
things that have more than one part .  . I think it's hotmail's fault .
. yea, that's the ticket . . . blame HOTMAIL . . . .;-) if these reposts
STILL do not get through - I have haphazardly constructed a homepage
which is archiving all of my XF fic. That archive can be located AT:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Comet/3360/xfilesfic.html Please, won't
you come and visit :) And now . . . . . . . onward!

~

The Sexually Repressed Guide to Defining Forever

~

Prologue: Scully Gives the End Away

~

Well.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that's all I have to say. Clothes are strewn
everywhere. The black silk blouse hanging off the end of the bed will
never be the same again - ripped beyond repair. The heavy weight of my
partner is draped over me, and it's the most incredible sensation I've
ever experienced.

I knew, of course, that it would have to happen eventually; had been, in
fact, almost anticipating it.  Nearly six years of sexual tension
doesn't just evaporate into thin air; it weighs you down. It builds and
it builds until it explodes; if you're extremely lucky, it takes you
with it.

Looking around the room, I decide it has most certainly taken us with
it. I never would've guessed - not in a million years, not even in my
wildest fantasies - that this crazy weekend from Hell would end up like
this.  Sunlight streams through the window, hitting me squarely in the
eye. It's hot, sticky and humid in the air. I sigh, and stretch as best
I can. A muscle I haven't used in ages protests and the slight pain
brings a smile to my face.

Well, indeed.

~

Chapter 1: The Actual Beginning or Meet =This= Version of S&M

~

Two days earlier
Outside Dana Scully's apartment
6:42 AM

I'm so cold.

No, that's not true. I was cold when I first stepped out of the
relatively warm sanctuary of my apartment. The chill had hit me
immediately, but I'd merely pulled my coat tighter around my body,
lugged my suitcase to the curb and tried to convince myself that
=wasn't= a fine sheen of frost on the tip of my nose.

That was at 6:15.

Cold doesn't even begin to cover what I am now. Freezing my ass off is
much more accurate. Freezing my ass off and steaming mad. It's almost a
wonder I haven't burned a hole through the ground. Instead, I shift from
foot to foot, giving first one, then the other a blessed moment of
relief.

I don't have to be here. I could be in my nice, warm bed, sound asleep.
I could be replenishing my system of the lost rest and sleep it was so
cruelly deprived during the last case from hell Mulder and I endured
just last week. I could be lost in a dream of a decidedly erotic nature,
the likes of which I had been experiencing just this morning before the
ringing of my phone brought me crashing back to reality.

That damn dream was just starting to get good, too.

Who, pray tell, could it be on the other line, you ask?

Three guesses.

And the first two =don't= count.

One eye had slowly opened. As I reached for the phone blindly, it had
been brought to my attention that it was only 5:33 AM. No human person
should be forced into consciousness at 5:33 AM. Especially not by their
well meaning but totally self-absorbed way too chipper for that hour of
the morning star of the above mentioned dream partner's.

That isn't even the kicker though. If any sane, rational person were to
call another sane, rational person before 6:00 AM in the morning,
wouldn't it be logical to assume the first words out of their mouths to
be something along the lines of `Sorry, did I wake you?' Right?

=Right?=

But that wouldn't be Mulder, would it? Don't answer; rhetorical
question.

Mulder being Mulder, and nowhere even bordering on `sane' or `rational',
he began the conversation thusly - "Hey, Scully, you ever been to
Catalina?"

Just like that! He wakes me from a sound sleep at the crack of dawn, and
he opens the conversation by asking me if I'd ever been to Catalina. I
was good though. I did =not= hang up on him. I did =not= tell him to go
to hell. I did not even so much as yell at him for calling me so early.

I was far too sleep addled to do anything more than retort with an
extremely intelligent "Huh?"

Sue me, I was tired. I =am= tired.

But back to my story. So Mulder's on the other line, and he has the
nerve to =laugh= at my honest, sleep deprived confusion. "Catalina,
Scully," he'd explained again, slowly, as though =I= were stupid for not
immediately inferring what he was babbling about. "Have you ever been to
Catalina?"

"No Mulder, I haven't," I'd answered, making my first (of many, as it
would seem) mistake.

"Great. We're booked on the 7:25 out of Dulles. Don't forget to pack
your bikini Scully."

And then - =then= - he'd hung up.

The bastard called me almost two hours before I =ever= wake up on a
normal weekday, informed me we were flying to Catalina, then =hung up
on me before I could formulate a response.

I remember half sitting, half reclining in my bed, the phone still
pressed against my ear. I could barely keep my eyes open and he expected
me to be ready in time for a 7:25 flight out of Dulles? Ha! I'd mentally
scoffed. He really is nuts if he believes that . . .

But even as I'd thought it, even as I'd tried to be strong, tried =so
hard to stick to my New Year's resolution . . .

. . . my mind had already begun mentally packing for me.  All casual
clothes suited for island weather were in my bottom right hand bureau
drawer. My lightweight suits were neatly hung in the back of my closet,
suitable for warm weather investigations. And my bikini (my eensy
weensy, teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini =Mulder= had bought for me
as a gag gift nearly three years ago) was rolled up in my underwear
drawer, where it's remained since he gave it to me.

And before I could stop myself, I was up, packing for all I was worth,
throwing together enough clothes to last me four days (one never knows
with Mulder, after all) and five nights.  I jumped in a hot shower that
lasted a paltry three minutes, more an effort to wake myself up than any
attempt at hygiene.  Fifteen minutes (and not a single drop of coffee)
later and I was standing outside my building, waiting for Mulder to
arrive, as was the custom when he woke me from a deep sleep and informed
me we were heading out on some wild goose chase.

That sounded harsh. It's not that I don't enjoy the wild goose chases. I
do. More than I'd ever actually admit to Mulder, in fact. It's just that
sometimes . . . Sometimes I really, =really= would like to sleep.
Sometimes, I wouldn't mind it if Mulder just called me up because he
wanted to talk to me. Sometimes, I wouldn't mind if Mulder whisked me
away to Catalina simply because he wanted to see me in that stupid
bikini he bought for me that I'll never actually wear, but somehow
always bring with me when I know I'm going to be anywhere near the
ocean.

On the other hand, what would I do if he did just that? How would I
actually react if my infuriating, adorable, unpredictable partner
actually did fulfill one of my milder and deeply hidden fantasies? What
if he arrived on my door and played Prince Charming? Would I allow the
professional walls to drop between us, allow him to sweep me into his
arms and carry me off into the sunset? Or would I do what I usually do
when he attempts to bridge the gap between partnerly affection and
something decidedly more basic? Would I gently but firmly rebuke his
attentions, quickly diverting that keen mind of his elsewhere?

Ruefully, I admit to myself that I'm not sure what I'd do if he actually
put forth the effort. I just want to have the choice. I want to know if
the choice is really even available to me. I know he loves me. I know a
part of him even wants me, to a degree. What I can't begin to fathom is
what that means to Fox Mulder.  He's such a complicated mass of
contradictions. When I actually allow myself to ponder him, I'm left
more confused than when I began.  He is a fierce knight, out on the
quest of his life, attempting to right wrongs that have existed since
before he was born. He is an arrogant bastard, often blinded by his own
willingness to believe in everything and anything, sometimes even at the
risk of me, the person he claims to care about more than any other.

He is a tortured child, a twelve-year-old boy stuck in a constant,
unending causality loop, forced to relive the defining moment of his
life like a bad acid trip.  He is a selfish man, who at the same time
displays such acts of utter altruism, that it's astounding to realize
the same soul lingers beneath his skin.  And linger it does. Because
Mulder so rarely lets his soul out to play; he so rarely allows it to
take a walk out in the sunshine, or laugh with a friend.

Some odd combination of all the above characteristics is why I'm
standing out here at 6:46 AM, freezing my ass off, waiting for him to
show up. Because, through some cosmic joke, twist of fate or curse put
on me for some imagined crime, I have fallen in love with that totally
infuriating, unequivocally annoying and positively captivating man.

Life's a bitch.

The object of my affection (?) arrives within mere seconds of that
thought. I swear, sometimes I wonder if he isn't able to read my mind.
Was he waiting for a softening in my mood to approach? Did he sense that
I'd been waxing poetic in my head over how I feel about him, and deemed
this to be the best time to slip in, lest he be burned?

Bad call Mulder. You see, that's the funny thing about this love I have
for Mulder. I get my most angry at him when it's at its strongest.

Why?

Believe me, I've spent countless hours trying to figure that one out
myself. If you figure it out before me, be sure to let me know, will
you?

He hops out of the car, looking sufficiently contrite as he nears my
half-frozen body. I think my toes are numb.

"You could've waited inside," he points out to me as he bends for my
suitcase.

The glare I send him appears to have the desired effect - namely, to
shrivel his balls. He gives me this smile - this perfect, beautiful
MulderSmile that I have no defense against - and loads my suitcase into
the trunk of his car. "You'll forget all about this once you set foot on
the beach Scully," he assures me. "Trust me."

Trust him.

Ha.

~

I'm an idiot.

Contrary to popular opinion, I am aware of it. I even regret it. But
I'll be damned if I can do anything about it. It seems to be a trait I'm
unable to shake. Just ask Scully.

I swear I didn't mean to disturb her like this. I'm aware that in the
past I've drug her away from some much needed sleep for some really bone
headed reasons; Mad dashes to Area 51; shadow meetings with somewhat
nefarious characters; star gazing at three in the morning because I'd
heard there were lights in the sky somewhere outside DC.  In my own
defense, it's not like she's ever said no. Well, not and stuck to it.
She'd always relent. Be it a three AM flight to some middle of nowhere
town that has crop circles, or a haunted house on Christmas Eve, she's
always there, by my side, fighting the good fight. Humoring my madness.
Tempering it into something manageable.

She's good at that. But I know it's taken its toll on her. It's worn her
down over the years.  She's become distant, more closed off than she
ever has before. Sometimes I see her sitting at that pathetic excuse for
a desk, ferreting out the background of Joe Q Public and she just sort
of . . . drifts away. I don't know where she goes. I wish I could go
with her. Sometimes I imagine that I do. I imagine when we're stuck at
our little desks, doing our penance, we're really a thousand miles away,
laying in the sun on some beach, soaking up the peace around us.

That's how this particular intrusion on her rest came about. I was
sitting at home, staring off into space and I could =see= her in that
damn bikini. The image was starting to haunt me. I had no choice. I'd
hit the speed dial before I'd known what I was doing. Airlines were
number two, right after Scully, just before the Chinese place around the
corner.

I woke her up again. She was so tired after our last out of town jaunt,
so fucking weary.  I can't remember the last time the bags under her
eyes were that pronounced. And I felt bad - after all, it was my fault.
I'd been the one who believed (and was never proven conclusively wrong,
I may add) there were werewolves running rampant. I don't think Scully
will ever forgive me for the loss of her Donna Karen (and I only know it
was a Donna Karen because she told me so. Repeatedly) suit.

You know I'm almost - almost - pissed off that she's so pissed off.
Every time we shuffle a few feet ahead in this narrow gate to our plane,
she sends me yet another glare. It's a terminal case of damned if I do
and damned if I don't. If I were to go off on these little excursions by
myself - witness the Bermuda Triangle escapade - she's pissed. She
drones on and on for hours about how we're partners, and I can't
continue to ditch her when something peaks my interest.

Fine. I prefer her company, anyway. So I decide to bring her with me.
And what does she do? She's pissed! She glares at me (God she's cute
when she's angry) she angrily brushes that little lock of hair (is it
wrong I have fantasies about her hair?) off her forehead and trudges
along, looking for all the world like a good little trooper. As the
fifth tourist nearly dislocates one of my ribs by bumping into me, I'm
tempted to lose my temper. At least if I let loose on this guy I
wouldn't end up taking it out on Scully. She chooses this precise moment
to glare at me again and my resolve goes out the window.

Who the =fuck= does she think she is? I'm trying to do something nice
for my partner, and all she can do is scorn me for it. Fine. Whatever. I
don't need the aggravation. If Scully wants to pout whenever I take her
along on one of these wild goose chases, she can go right ahead, because
frankly, I'm sick of caring and I swear to God if that ass hole bumps me
one more time-

Oh. It's Scully this time. I wonder what she wants and why she's
smacking into me (amazing how my anger dissolves when I realize it's her
little body making contact with mine) to get my attention.

"Mulder, I'm falling asleep on my feet," she tells me as she thrusts
something toward my stomach. "Don't eat the airline food." She quirks
her lips slightly at me, then moves in front of me, simultaneously
shielding me from the woman who'd been stopping suddenly for the last
few minutes and allowing me an easier manner of keeping track of my
partner. You see, I tend to lose Scully in airports. I don't mean to.
She just gets shoved aside by much bigger, rude people.

I glance down at what she'd thrust at me. A package of sunflower seeds
she'd no doubt picked up when she bought herself a pack of gum and a
romance novel (she swears she doesn't buy or read but I know better) for
the plane. A smile pulls at me, one I allow myself to smile at the back
of her head because I know she can't see me. It's really not fair that
she can evaporate my exasperation with her with such ease.  I watch with
respect as my Scully (would she really kill me if she knew I thought of
her as such?)  nimbly works her way far ahead of me, darting between
passengers with a speed that would give the Roadrunner cause for envy.

I reach the plane minutes after she did, grimacing as I see the rush of
people before me. Our seats are near the back of the plane, and I opt to
wait just to the left of the galley until the aisles are clearer.  I
have no desire to kill myself by getting in the way of a mother with a
screaming baby (or, God forbid, a tourist with an attitude) just so I
can claim my seat first. Leaning against the inside of the plane, I
allow the rest of my fellow passengers to pass me, scanning the back of
the plane for Scully's head.

"Excuse me, Sir, may I help you find your seat?"

I turn, focusing on the source of the (way too bubbly, not at all
soothing like Scully's) voice. "No," my eyes dart to her nametag,
"Candy," I almost snicker (why is it always Bambi's and Candy's . . .)
covering quickly. "I'm just waiting for the crowd to dissipate before I
join my partner."

An eyebrow quirks (though nowhere near as artfully as Scully's)
"Partner?"

I have one of two choices here. I can explain or I can lie. I've done
both in the past. For some reason, today I feel like being honest. Maybe
it's because I'm trying to start this trip out on the right foot. "I'm
an FBI Agent," I explain.

"Really?" she asks, her gaze turning almost predatory (that =can't= be
my imagination) in a matter of seconds. "Do you have a  . . . gun?"

She places a hand on my chest in what's supposed to be a flirtatious
gesture (Scully's the only one who can touch me like that and make it
work for me) but instead makes me extremely wary. "Yea," I answer
slowly, once again scanning the aisle quickly, hoping to see my path to
Scully clear.

Only to find Scully herself. Staring at Candy and I. Well, no, staring
isn't exactly the right word. Glaring would be more accurate. Scully is
glaring at this blonde flight attendant (who happens to be terrifying me
at the moment) touching me like we're old friends and all I can think is
God she truly =is= beautiful when she's angry . . .

Extracting myself from Candy with a mumbled `excuse me', I head to the
back of the plane, taking in Scully's pursed lips as she flops into the
seat by the aisle. I sigh. She knows I prefer the aisle seat so I can
stretch out, just as I know she prefers it because being next to the
window makes her fear of flying worse. So we trade off - one flight I
take the aisle, the next, she does. Last time I had the window seat.
Ignoring this, I step over her, refusing to notice this brings my crotch
even with her face (I just can't have thoughts like that on a crowded
plane full of people) as I flop into the seat beside her.

We sit in silence for what seems like hours, but is in actuality only a
few minutes. The Captain announces we'll be taking off momentarily. The
safety video runs. Scully starts to do her `breathing'. I take her hand
and refuse to let go, even as she tries to pull it away. After a moment,
she relents, allowing herself to hold onto me. I know how difficult it
is for her. How hard it is to admit she might actually need me on
occasion Ow!

Scully's fingernails dig into my skin as we taxi down the runway. I know
it's mostly just nerves, but . . . I glance at her from the corner of my
eye. Damn. Her lips are still pursed. Her jaw is jutted out way more
than usual and that little furrow thing is between her eyes.

She is so pissed.

~

My arm is asleep.

I realize this is my fault, but, perversely, I feel the need to blame it
on Mulder.  My arm is asleep because I've been lying on it for the last
hour and a half, attempting (not succeeding, mind you) to get some
sleep. However, I wouldn't have been attempting to sleep at this
unbelievably uncomfortable angle had I not been on this unbelievably
uncomfortable plane. And I wouldn't be on this unbelievably
uncomfortable plane if Mulder hadn't called me at 5:33 AM . . . but then
we've covered that already, haven't we?

Sufficed to say, my arm is asleep and it's all Mulder's fault.

I peer at him from the corner of my eye, noticing =he= doesn't appear to
be sleep deprived, in the least. Instead, he's flipping through an old
Stephen King novel (really Mulder, The Shining again?) pretending not to
notice me shift and turn and fidget in my seat every few minutes.

Okay, so I'm not a very good flyer. It might not be all Mulder's fault
that every nerve ending I have is on edge, ready to snap at the
slightest provocation. That, I blame on the above mentioned slight
problem with flying, and `Candy', our perky blonde flight attendant.
`Candy' has been flirting with Mulder since we came aboard. Mulder,
though, has been oddly unreceptive to her. Normally, if a buxom blonde
starts blatantly going after him, Mulder at least smiles at her kindly.
If I didn't know him better, I'd think he hadn't even noticed `Candy's'
existence.

The third time `Candy' offered Mulder an extra blanket, `Candy' got
stuck on my `list'. This is a very exclusive list, you see. It's a list
of women who never want to meet me in a dark alley.  `Bambi' is on that
list. Phoebe Greene is at the top of that list. Det. Angela White is
sandwiched nicely in-between `Bambi' and Phoebe. Diana Fowley is
currently residing just below Det. White, only in deference to Mulder's
obvious . . . affection toward her.  Candy is now just below Diana.

"Excuse me, Sir."

Oh God, why won't it just go away?

"What is it?" I ask Candy, knowing she's talking to Mulder, not
particularly caring.

She looks at me like I'm a speck of dust she'd like nothing more than to
brush away. "Sir," she says a bit more firmly, and Mulder, who up until
now had been blessedly oblivious to the silent, purely feminine battle
over possession being waged mere inches from him, perks up.

"Yes?"

This is where I have to flag on the play. Why is it that all big-busted
blonde women have to inherently be bitches, sluts, total morons, or a
combination of the three? Why is it that I am seemingly incapable of
meeting just one that's nice, friendly and helpful? Why?

"There's an opening in first class," Candy all but purrs. "If you'd
like, I could upgrade you."

"Ah," Mulder stammers for a moment. "I thought it was against the rules
to do that?"

A purely feline smile crosses Candy's face and I have to firmly tamp
down on the urge to throw up. Yea, I'm jealous by nature. What tipped
you off? "Well," she drags the word out. "Technically, we're not
supposed to. But I could make an exception . . ." she trails off
meaningfully. "If you're interested," she adds.

Mulder nods slowly and - miracle of miracles - finally gets a clue. He
smiles kindly. "Thanks, but I'm fine where I am."

Candy appears to pout. It's not a cute pout though. Not the kind of pout
Mulder has, that melts me and makes me want to do nothing more than to
gather him into my arms and make him smile. This is an annoying pout.
This is a pout that makes me want to knock Candy unconscious. "Your
loss," she informs Mulder haughtily, traipsing away.

"My narrow escape," Mulder mutters under his breath.

I smile at that. Only Mulder could classify missing out on what was
obviously a none-too-subtle invitation to join the mile high club with
an extremely well endowed blonde woman as a `narrow escape'.  I tell him
so.

He chuckles. One of those rich, meaningful chuckles that only he's
capable of emitting. It sends tingles up and down my spine, that laugh.
It makes me want things I have no business wanting, imagine things I
have no right to imagine. "Hey Scully," he whispers close to my ear,
"what makes you think I'd be =joining= the mile high club?"

I don't have an answer to that, so I send him one of my enigmatic little
looks and fold my hands in my lap, thankfully noting that circulation is
beginning to restore itself in my arm. "So Mulder," I begin, purposely
ignoring his last comment (as I always do when he says something truly
interesting like that) "would you care to tell me why we're on a
Trans-Pacific flight to Catalina, or are you going to surprise me?"

He worries his lower lip between his teeth and I have to forcibly tear
my gaze from the sight.  "Well, given the choice, I think I'm going to
surprise you," he remarks, his face not giving a clue to what he's
thinking.

Damn it I hate that. I hate not being able to read him. And he's doing
it on purpose, I can tell. He doesn't want me to know what he's
thinking. I do at least know him that well. I heave a sigh. "Just
promise me this has nothing to do with Sea Monsters," I plead in a wary
tone I don't feel even an ounce of.

"No Sea Monsters," he assures me, using his best Boy Scout voice.

"And no Sand Monsters," I add.

"No Sand Monsters," he assures me, his voice turning almost soothing as
he removes the pillow from behind his back and settles it over the
armrest separating us. The extra padding allows me to lean into it
without hurting my side, and a smile tugs at my lips.

"And no Mexican Goat Suckers," I murmur, taking the invitation I think I
see in his eyes, slowly draping my body across the space between us, my
cheek gently landing against his shoulder.

"Damn," he whispers against my hair, his cheek coming to rest against
the top of my head. "You've got me there," he tells me, and something
about his words goes beyond the simple teasing I think he was trying to
impart.

I can hear his heartbeat from my position. Turn about is fair play,
Mulder, I whisper to him in the confines of my soul, watching as he goes
back to his book. You've had =me= there for years.

~

~

Chapter 2: The Journey Continues or What =Not= to do on Your Catalina
Excursion

~

You tell people that you graduated from Oxford, and they assume you're
pretty smart.  You tell people you're an FBI Agent, they have one of two
reactions: They become instantly wary of you, as though you're escorting
a dangerous serial killer everywhere you go. Or there's the response I
got from our friendly flight attendant. Instant attraction, based solely
on the misguided notion that danger is sexy.

You tell people your partner is a woman and their first reaction
(whether they vocalize it or not) is to assume you're fucking her. How I
long to scream `I wish' at the top of my lungs when such an assumption
is made (especially when they vocalize it.) Then they =see= your partner
and they =know= you =must= be sleeping with her, because how could you
stop yourself?

This habit of referring to myself in the second person within the
confines of my own mind is a defense mechanism. I know that. It
separates me from the rest of the world; it separates me from my own
problems. If I don't concentrate on them, they don't exist.

However, the fact is I =did= graduate from Oxford and I =am= smart. I
=am= an FBI Agent, I =do= have a female partner, and with all my heart
and soul I =wish= I were sleeping with her.

Her head lying on my shoulder, her breath puffing delicately against my
neck the entire flight certainly only served to drive matters home. The
feel of Scully's breath never fails to invoke three different reactions
within me, simultaneously.  One is the infinitely precious knowledge
that she is alive. She's breathing, she's alive, and she's with me. The
second response is an overwhelming flood of tenderness. Usually when I
feel her breath, it's because she's allowed me into her personal space.
Scully doesn't allow just anybody inside, and I'm honored to be one of
the few. The third is predictably male - the feel of her breath against
the side of my neck, my face, my arm (okay, okay, =anywhere=) is
indescribably erotic.

Except, of course, for right now.

At the moment, the feel of her breath against the back of my neck is
nothing but comforting. Her hand in my hair, doubly so.  And I find
myself bitter. Because if I weren't bent over the railing of this ship,
retching what was left of my stomach over the edge, I could =really
enjoy the feel of Scully touching me.

She's restraining herself. I can tell. She's not lecturing me about the
stupidity of my eating fish on an airplane. Which is a good thing,
because if she started in on that, I'd have to explain why I ate the
fish. I know better. It's just that . . . well, she was asleep on my
shoulder. Her hot little breath (which I believe I already mentioned is
quite intoxicating to my senses) was puffing against the side of my neck
and I =needed= to do something with my hands (and =not= the something
they seemed to want to do) and fast. The Shining had been finished for
nearly an hour and our friendly flight attendant (not the blonde,
whatshername, as you might think, but a very nice African American male
who I caught gazing at Scully a little too long . . . ) came over to me,
informing the passengers stuck back here that the fish was the only
lunch left.

So I lapsed in judgment. I ate the fish. It kept me from doing decidedly
unpartnerlike things to Scully.  Apparently this is my punishment for
being a gentleman. I wish I hadn't lost the bag of sunflower seeds she'd
gone to so much trouble to buy me. I don't even remember the last time I
felt this bad without having sustained some kind of near fatal injury
before hand. I couldn't have been older than seven. I think it was when
I had the mumps or the measles - I couldn't breathe half the time and
the other half a deep breath made me want to throw up. I take a deep
breath, hoping to calm my stomach . . .

. . . and realize the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Christ, there can't be that much =left= to throw up. I've been standing
here for what seems like hours, Scully's gentle, unimposing presence the
only thing keeping me from saying to hell with it, and jumping over the
edge, just to put an end to the misery.

"Shark's Mulder," she whispers into my ear, a wry note to her voice,
"speaking as an expert, it's an ugly way to die."

A weary, pained chuckle escapes my lips (totally against my will) as I
lift my head to meet her eyes, my mind obviously having been read. "As
opposed to the pleasant way I'm dying now, you mean?" I comment, trying
very hard not to start in on round three.

"You're not dying Mulder," she informs me, using that no nonsense tone
that screams SCULLY to me. "You're just having a negative reaction to
something you shouldn't have eaten," she points out, and I can =hear
the `I told you so' tone.

"Scully, I'm begging you," I mumble, turning away from the rail to lean
my back against it heavily.

"Not yet you're not," she murmurs, softening her words by brushing the
hair (what little is left of it) back from my face. "Mulder, I think you
should lie down for the rest of the ride to Catalina."

"I can't lie down on a ship," I explain, "it only makes it worse. If you
think I'm seasick now .  . ."

"But I don't think you're seasick now, Mulder," she informs me. "I think
you ate fish on a plane, and now you're paying for it."

"Fine," I mutter. "But either way, if I lay down, I'm going to get
seasick." I give her a pout. "Do you want to see me sicker?"

She almost rolls her eyes. I can see the incredible control, can almost
hear the `aye yi yi,' she wants to let loose with.  Instead, she
composes herself, mask dropping carefully back into place. "Can I get
you anything?" she asks, her tone achingly polite.

"Got any Listerine?" I crack, half hoping she actually does.

She shakes her head though, and lays a comforting hand on my upper arm.
"Anything else?" she asks and I can see the genuine wish to help in her
eyes.

I smile at her, reaching for the hand she's placed on my arm. I squeeze
it in my own, then don't release it, instead turning back toward the
rail, inviting her to come with me. She does, and we drop hands, instead
linking our arms as we stare out at the water, side by side, letting the
silence envelope us. It's peaceful right now. This is what I envisioned
when I woke her up this morning. This is how I wanted this trip to be.

I'd spent hours on my computer, pouring over useless detail upon useless
detail about life on Catalina. Then, finally, I'd come across something
that I might actually be able to manufacture into a reason for our
coming here: The hotel I booked us at has supposedly been haunted for
the last thirty years. And I knew there was no way, no how I was getting
Scully out to another haunted house, no matter how good a story I spun,
or how concerned for my life she was. So I'd done the simplest thing I
could think of.

I hadn't told her anything, save where we were headed.

However, I hadn't taken into account the fact that not everyone is the
insomniac I am. Honestly, the fact that I might be waking her up really
didn't cross my mind until I heard that sleepy (erotic) husky (sexy)
little girl (won't touch it with a ten foot pole) voice of hers across
the line. It was slightly confused and totally unprepared for a full on
assault. In retrospect, the way I'd gotten her ready had been cruel -
I'd made her believe I was taking her to Catalina for legitimate
reasons, rather than tell her the truth - I really, really, =really
want to see her in that bikini.

And I want her to smile. She doesn't smile nearly enough. I want her to
laugh, too. And relax. I want her to luxuriate, maybe even let herself
be pampered for awhile; let =me= pamper her for awhile. Thoughts of
rubbing suntan oil on her back as we sit on a quiet beach filled my mind
around four thirty this morning.

As we stand here at the railing of this ship, I (almost) don't care
about seeing her in that bikini. Because this is enough - just standing
here with her, being in her presence, soaking up pure, uncensored
ScullyEssence. It's priceless. It's perfection.

"Storm's coming," Scully pipes up beside me, shattering the stillness.

I glance down at her, refusing to accept what she's saying. "Why do you
say that?" I ask warily, feeling my visions of suntan oil and ScullySkin
beginning to wither.

She shrugs, just staring toward the tiny mass of land appearing on the
horizon. "Curse of a sailor's daughter," is all she says in answer.

Keeping my eyes on her for a moment, I slowly move them back to the
land, our arms still twined together. I bite my lower lip, considering
what she's said, that she's allowed her intuition to speak for her.

Fuck.

It's going to rain.

~

I am =not= amused.

Mulder throws me a nervous glance and I see genuine fear behind his
eyes. He's communicating me a silent plea - Please don't kill me Scully.
And, if you must, at least wait until we're alone to do it.

No promises Mulder, but I'll try, I silently send back.

He looks like he's going to be sick again.

I sigh and lean my body against the side of the wall, running a hand
through my soaking wet hair. It isn't his fault; not really. Unless I
follow my earlier logic on the plane, not one damn thing that's happened
since we landed is his fault.

Of course, I wasn't this rational an hour ago. Oh no. An hour ago, I was
ready to cheerfully strangle him from the passenger seat of the only
rental car currently available at the tiny little rental place by the
harbor. A convertible. A convertible, with a top that wouldn't go up.
Normally, that wouldn't be a problem on an island. Of course, this
particular island was currently in the middle of a tropic rainstorm. As
a result, both Mulder and I became utterly and totally drenched on our
way to this very hotel.

Even as I was furious at Mulder, I couldn't help feeling bad for him.
I'd had the good fortune to sleep through lunch (if you can call airline
food lunch). Mulder hadn't had the same luck. He ate the fish (FISH on a
plane - I long to yell MULDER, you were ASKING for it) and not an hour
later became almost violently ill. That little airline bathroom wasn't
built for that kind of thing. The short boat ride from California to
Catalina hadn't exactly settled his stomach, either. He looks miserable,
I concede to myself, watching as he handles the hotel manager behind the
desk.

I sigh. And of course, due to the storm, no boats are being allowed to
leave the island. And so everyone who'd intended to check out today has
decided to extend their stay, indefinitely. So Mulder and I get to take
the only room available. One room. Single. Uno.  More than anything at
this precise moment, I want to go upstairs and crawl into a nice hot
bubble bath. I'm dripping wet and freezing cold (again). I'm in a bad
mood and I don't want to take it out on Mulder, but damn it, he's right
there and it =is= his fault.

Sort of.

"Hey Scully," he murmurs, finally returning to my side after a far too
lengthy discussion with the desk clerk. "Good news or bad news?"

"I get a choice?" I ask sardonically.

Then he gives me the look. The `Jeez, I'm sorry I fucked up, but could
you please wait just a little bit longer to call me on it, Scully?' look
that only he can sell. He lets the look speak for him, and I sigh.

"Bad news first," I mumble.

"There's only one room," he tells me. His voice sounds contrite, but I
swear there's a glint in his eyes - almost a twinkle. Not really that
torn up about it, are you Mulder? I'd love to call him on it. Only the
fear of being wrong keeps me silent.

"And the good news?" I ask, almost feeling hopeful. If that was the bad
news, the good news had to actually be good.

"It's a suite," Mulder announces. "We've got the best suite in Avalon,
actually," he informs me, handing over a brochure. As I begin to flip
through it, my eyes widen. He smiles an extremely pleased smile at my
reaction.

"Sunken six seater hot tub," I read from the brochure, liking the sound
of that a =lot=. "Two King sized beds, a kitchenette, full living room,
view of the ocean," I grimace, looking out the full glass windows at the
raging storm, "twenty-four hour room service, Mulder," I break off,
turning my head to look at him intently. "We can't afford this," I
inform him, knowing damn good and well we couldn't write this off on the
Bureau's tab - we hadn't been able to write off any of our little
excursions lately. Not since we lost the X-Files. My eyes drift down to
the prices on the brochure - one thousand dollars a night. I nearly
choke to death on the figure.

"They're giving it to us at a discount, to apologize for the
inconvenience," Mulder assures me.

"Even at a discount," I mumble, staring at the price.

"Hey Scully?" he murmurs softly, causing me to meet his eyes. "Don't
worry about it, okay? I drug you out here. It's on me."

"Mulder," I murmur doubtfully.

"End of story," he states, slashing the air with his hand. He picks up
my suitcase, along with his own, leaving me with only my laptop to
contend with. "C'mon, I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see
what constitutes a four star room on this island."

Watching him walk ahead of me with more than a little bemusement, I
gather my nerve, as well as my wits to me tightly and follow.

I'm a little curious myself.

~

Mulder is almost completely forgiven.

I realize now, as I recline in a hot tub of water, lilac scented bubbles
tickling my chin, that perhaps I've been too hard on him.

Amazing how much more inclined to sympathy I am, when my toes =aren't
numb.

Despite my reservations in the lobby, I'm pleased to report that this
four star room is absolutely beautiful. Not to mention twice the size of
my =apartment=.  The water feels heavenly. Mulder hadn't even let me
argue with him when we'd first arrived beyond the threshold. He'd merely
deposited my suitcase on one bed, made the quick trip into the adjoing
bedroom to lose his own, and then walked briskly into the suite's only
bathroom. He'd flipped on the tub, deposited the bubble bath and
returned to the living room.

"Soak in there for thirty minutes. If you still feel the urge to kill
me, I'll be lying prone and vulnerable in the other room," he'd informed
me, a single hand raised toward me to still the words in my throat. He'd
offered me a hopeful smile then, and once more the look in his eyes
totally deconstructed me.

"I wouldn't kill you Mulder," is all I'd protested, moving to the
bathroom as fast as my exhausted body would carry me.

And it's the truth, I reflect wryly. I wouldn't kill him. I might be
compelled to shoot him (again) one day. I might even strangle him (but
only until he loses consciousness) in a fit of Mulder-induced-insanity.
But I wouldn't kill him. I couldn't. I wouldn't do that to =myself=.
Guilt issues and prison aside, I'd be lost without Mulder.

Worse than that; I'd be bored out of my mind.

Contrary to popular opinion, I do remember my life before the X-Files. I
remember sitting on the floor with female friends, drinking wine and
giggling over this man and that. Debating whether a guy was `a good
fuck', `the man I could marry', or `a total loser'.  Yes, women do
categorize. I also recall, at the time, feeling oddly empty while doing
so. Like I wasn't mean to =be= just one of the girls, dabbling in her
life.

I first began to withdraw from social friends when I joined the FBI.
That decision was definitely unpopular with my family. However, it
didn't distance me from them, per se. It made relations between myself
and the male members of my immediate family somewhat strained.
Especially Dad and Bill. Charlie, I think, understood. Even if he didn't
want his big sister in the line of fire, he `got me'. Charlie and I had
always been like that though. I suppose it stemmed from my not being his
`little' anything - Missy and Bill, I think, always felt like they had
to protect me.

Even though he understood on some level, though, Charlie never really
understood what I had to go through. He may have been the `baby' of the
family, but I was still the youngest girl; I was the =female= baby.
Everyone was supposed to protect me, see to it that nothing bad ever
happen to me.

That went over =real= well with me, as I'm sure you can imagine.

I think it's yet another reason why Mulder's over-protective streak
rankles so badly. I know he means well. I know how much pain and guilt
he's suffered over his life because of a perceived inability to protect
the people he loves.  Yet even with this understanding, not just of his
motivations, but of his character at an elemental level, I can't help
but wish he'd trust me to take care of myself.

Sighing, I lean my head against the back of the tub, letting my eyes
drift shut. The X-Files, while definitely doing their fair share to fuck
with my life, have brought me a sense of accomplishment that has been
sorely missing my entire life.  They challenge and excite me. They are
the reason I haven't resigned from the bureau by now, dragging Mulder
behind me. I want them back almost as much as he does, more if you take
into account the fact that I want them back =for= him, in addition.

It'd be nice if I could convince Bill of that. If I could let him see
Mulder isn't the devil; I didn't sell my immortal soul when I became
partnered with him; I gave it away. I may not have intended to, but I
did have a choice. I had the choice to leave when I felt myself falling
for him. I could've left him after our first case. But something (my own
pride and an already deep affection for Fox Mulder) stopped me from
requesting that transfer out of the X-Files; an inherent curiosity, in
everything that lived and breathed around him. I truly wanted to see if
he could prove me wrong; if he could challenge every belief I'd ever
had, make me re-evaluate, reconsider things I knew to be gospel.

I wanted to see if he could get under my skin.

Ruefully, I recognize that he'd more than proven he could. Do I believe
everything he does? Of course not. Do I consider the possibility that he
might be right, even when I don't believe him? Yes. And that, in my
eyes, is far greater an accomplishment on his part than getting me to
believe. I don't believe what he believes. But I believe =in= him. In
his passion, in his dedication, in his truth. My truth. Our truth. It's
all become horribly blurred over the years.  And the damnedest thing is,
I can't make myself care. I used to be able to work up a good righteous
indignation over the fact that my life was so inexorably entwined with
Fox Mulder's.  That head of steam fueled more than one foray into our
regular philosophically lined, scientifically infused banter sessions.

Naturally, once I'd made my choice, there was no going back. There was
no deciding it was the wrong choice; no take backs. There were a lot of
little decisions that lead up to the choice; The Tooms case, the first
time I really chose Mulder over something important to me. That storage
room, in Icy Cape, when I chose possibly dying at Mulder's hand to give
us both proof that he wasn't infected. I trusted him more than I trusted
others that day. The day Deep Throat died, when I suspended my disbelief
to bargain for Mulder's safety; when I was taken, then returned. I
returned not only to this life, but also to Mulder's side. I could've
left after that; God knows he wouldn't have blamed me.

But I didn't. I continued with him. And then, one cold November night,
Fox Mulder made it so I could never leave him again. On a bridge under
the cover of darkness, he gave me the greatest affirmation of my meaning
to him. He traded the woman he believed to be his sister, Mulder's very
own Holy Grail, for my life. I don't kid myself into believing he traded
life for life. Mulder, as always, had a plan. Not to mention the fact
that, lingering in the back of his mind, was the idea that she might've
been a clone. It doesn't matter that he intended to save us both. The
fact that he made the risk - that I meant so much that he was willing to
=take= the risk - was the sign I'd subconsciously been waiting for.

And so we continued. We searched and found, cried and laughed, lost and
died, fought and survived for the next few years. And finally -
=finally= - I thought we were getting somewhere. I truly believed we
were nearing the point where we'd break down this final wall between us,
perhaps even destroy the barrier that exists between professionalism and
something decidedly more personal. After my cancer, we turned to one
another more. We let down defenses that were so deeply entrenched
neither of us dropped them consciously. It just sort of happened when we
were alone together. We were =connecting= again, like we hadn't since
our first year together. And a little bit of hope began to breed and
grow inside me again.

That was short lived.

Because that was when =she= showed up.

Grimacing as the thought of her crosses my mind, I pull the plug on the
tub, allowing the now tepid water and bubbles to drain away. The her in
questions is, of course, the ambiguous Diana Fowley. After a nearly
eight year absence in =my= Mulder's life, she waltzes back into it,
acting like she has the Goddamn =right= to be there. As though she spent
the last six years fighting him and loving him and saving him and being
saved by him. As though she had salvaged his soul from the bottom of his
desk drawer. As though she had made him a whole person. As though he had
completed her, so effortlessly it almost made her believe in fate.

Even as those somewhat petty, but no less true thoughts crossed my mind,
I'd begun to let doubt creep up on me. Maybe she =did= have the right.
Maybe her absence from his life =had= been a mistake. Maybe he hadn't
always been like this - tortured, lost, searching so desperately and
passionately for the little sister that'd been taken from him so long
ago. Maybe this quest for Samantha, for the truth was a supplement for
something missing from his life. Maybe he'd buried himself in his work
to forget about =her=.

I know, I know. It was stupid. It wasn't at all rational and nothing
you'd expect from Special Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully. But there it
was. It was how I felt. I was so fucking terrified that he was going to
say `Hey, Scully, it's been great, but Diana's back now and we're going
to finish up this whole search for the truth thing, k?' I know he never
would've done that. I know that even if he'd wanted to, his deep sense
of loyalty and devotion to me would've stopped it. But that knowledge,
that surety didn't help me where I was then.

The seed had been planted, and it was growing at a rate I was powerless
to stop. Every word she spoke, every time she touched him, it brought me
one step closer to my eventual `realization'. He didn't need me. He
never had. I was holding him back. I've been keeping him from finding
his sister, from finding his truth. My inability to open my mind, to be
whatever he needs me to be has taken its toll. I'm hurting him. I'm
letting my own desire, my own need to be with him, to fight at his side
color my perception of our relationship. He'd rather be with her.

He'd set me straight on that one, once he became aware of my feelings.
The fact that he'd almost kissed me gives me a kind of wary hope for us.
I wish I knew whether he'd done it because he wanted to, or because he'd
thought it was something I wanted. Something to keep me from walking out
of his life.

I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have walked out of his life. Quit
the bureau? Sure. Done. No problem. Leave Fox Mulder? Ha. Not in this
lifetime. Oh, I would've been there. I would've been ready to do an
autopsy if he needed me to, to help the guys track him down when he'd
done something truly stupid. My couch would've been ready, willing and
able to accommodate a late night movie, the occasional Chinese food
confessional and even a few hours of nightmare free sleep.  I would've
remained what I'd always been - his friend.

But I wouldn't have been his partner. And that would've killed me.

I just didn't realize until that fateful moment in his hallway that it
would've killed him too. Armed with that knowledge, once we'd escaped
from the third ring of hell (AKA Antarctica) I'd made a decision. I
wasn't going to encourage anything less than professional between us,
but I was going to stop discouraging it, too. I wouldn't make an overt
pass at him; that wouldn't be my style and it certainly wasn't who =we
were. Are.  Over the last few months, I've become more open to him. I've
tried to talk to him. I haven't left him alone when I knew he needed me
with him. I've shown up at his apartment and just stayed there for
awhile, talking to him, making him talk to me.

And he's been receptive. In return, he's shown up at my apartment on
Friday nights, bringing little offerings with him. I think he thinks I
won't accept him if he comes alone. Foolish man. So he brings me
chocolate, dinner, wine, sparkling grape juice, ice cream, a single
yellow rose, whatever it is he thinks will make me smile at him that
day. And so I smile at him. I give him one of my breathtaking smiles,
the kind I know he's going for, no matter what he brings me. And then, I
get my real present. The real reward for that smile. I get one of his
smiles. The kind that spread over his face gently, then touch his eyes.
When his eyes smile at me, I'm his. I am totally under his power,
willing to do anything he'd ever ask of me.

I shiver, realizing the water's gone and I've been sitting here in the
tub like an idiot for the last fifteen minutes. Shaking my head at the
ease at which Mulder totally consumes my thoughts, I stand, grab one of
the huge complimentary bathrobes (Wow, real cotton, thick, warm, better
than my robe, this baby's coming home with me) the hotel supplies and
wrap it around my body, already feeling warmer. Exiting the bathroom, I
glance around my area of the suite, finding no sign of Mulder. Slowly
making my way across the room, I pause outside the door to the other
bedroom in the suite. I knock lightly, not wanting to disturb him if
he's managed to fall asleep.

He really had looked horrible earlier.

A low moan answers my knock. Furrowing my eyebrows, I knock again, a
little louder. "Mulder?" I call gently.

"Five more minutes, Mom," he mumbles and I pull my lower lip between my
teeth. That sounded like DeliriousFeveredMulder.

Pushing his door open, I walk slowly into his bedroom, jumping slightly
as a tree branch hits the window with a thud. Glancing out, I see the
storm continues to rage with no sign of stopping. Licking my lips, I
creep toward the bed, spotting Mulder's form (prone and vulnerable, just
like he promised) stretched out in the middle of the bed. He'd managed
to strip down to his boxers, but hadn't quite covered up or even washed
the airport grime and sea salt off his body. He is soaked to the skin.
Reaching a hand out, I place it over his forehead. Just as I'd
suspected, he's burning up.

"Mulder," I call gently, trying to get him turned off his stomach.
"Mulder, roll over for me," I plead softly, heading into the other
bathroom. Returning with several towels, a washcloth and a basin of hot
water, I seat myself on the edge of the bed next to him. "Mulder," I
call again, more firmly this time. I inject a note of Maggie Scully,
mixed with Special Agent no nonsense. It does the trick.

"Wha?" he mumbles, turning over onto his back, one arm disjointedly
coming up to scratch his bare stomach.

"Mulder, you smell bad," I murmur, dipping the wash cloth into the warm
water. Very gently, I move over his face, washing the filth away. I'd
like to get him into a shower, but somehow given the difficulty we had
turning him over, walking into the bathroom is probably out of the
question.

"Nu-uh," he mumbles like a child, his eyes slowly drifting open to look
at me.  "Scully?" he asks softly, as though he didn't really know.

Moving the washcloth down his neck, to his shoulders, I offer him a tiny
smile of reassurance. "I told you not to eat the fish, Mulder," I
chastise lightly, my heart breaking for how obviously sick he is.

"Wasn't the fish," he denies, slurring his speech like a drunk. "Was the
damn boat," he insists, screwing up his face like a five-year-old
presented with Brussels sprouts.  "'Sides," he adds, wincing at he tries
to sit up on his elbows, "you didn't tell me not to eat it right before
I did."

I roll my eyes, rinsing the cloth in the water, moving on to his chest.
I run the rag over his ribs, then to his stomach, keeping my touch as
gentle as I can make it for him. "Why is it you can remember every guy
whose sunk a basket for the New York Knicks, yet the simplest
instruction from me can be forgotten in a matter of minutes?" I question
lightly, only upset with him because he's sick. I hate seeing him sick.
I'd rather have him ditch me than see him sick or hurt.

I'll kiss Kersh before I ever tell him that.

"You wearing anything under that robe?" he asks, leering at me
drunkenly. I can barely contain a chuckle as my hands move down his
legs, rinsing the cloth again in the water. I wince as I feel how hot
his entire body is - I hope this is just a reaction to the fish. I
really don't want to have to take Mulder to the hospital in the middle
of a tropic storm.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I banter back, finished with my task of
washing him. Grabbing a dry towel, I quickly follow the same path I'd
taken before, making sure every drop of water has left his skin.

His hand settles itself on my thigh and I ignore it, deducing
(correctly, as it would seem) that he's playing me for a reaction. Even
DeliriousFeveredMulder is =still= Mulder.  "Maybe I would," he mumbles,
slowly drawing his fingertip along the edge of my robe. "Man is a
naturally curious animal," he continues, slipping his thumb beneath the
fabric, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger now. "And when presented
with an enigma - especially an enigma of the female variety - he can't
help being interested," he finishes, raising his eyes from his hand to
my eyes.

Mulder is absolutely irresistible to me like this. His voice is
hypnotic, that laconic, almost disinterested, gravelly, verbal caress
that makes me shiver at the sound of it. It's not fair for him to be
this sick, this utterly pathetic and have this effect on me. "Trust me
Mulder, what's under this robe isn't all that interesting," I murmur, my
voice intentionally self deprecating. I brush his hair (what little
there is of it) off his forehead and reach for a clean washcloth.  I use
some of the fresh drinking water by the bed to dampen it, then lay it
across his forehead gently.

"Does that mean there's something else under the robe, or is it just
you, Scully?" he asks, his fingers abandoning the edge of my robe,
working up to the knot around my waist. His brows furrow, as though
spending this much energy on thought is painful. "And either way, why
wouldn't I be interested?" he asks, his voice genuinely confused as he
slowly works the knot loose enough for the material to gape at my chest,
making it clear that it is in fact `just me' under there. A tiny smile
pulls at his lips, as though he's pleased by this new information.

Licking my lips, I snap out of the trance-like state that I'd been in
since his hand moved further up my body. Tying the robe securely once
again, I remove the washcloth. "You need sleep Mulder. You're
delirious," I inform him, unwilling to chalk up his latest performance
to anything else.  He often does and says things he doesn't mean when
he's out of it. A declaration of love comes to mind.

"Why don't you ever believe I mean it?" he asks, reading my mind again.

Stop that Mulder, I long to yell. Or at the very least, dust while
you're in there. "Mean what, Mulder?" I ask lightly, leaning over him to
pull back the covers on the side of the bed he's not occupying. His hand
moves along my back as I do, settling at the base of my neck. His
fingers slip beneath the top of my robe and slowly begin sliding against
my skin. I nearly lose my balance and fall on top of him. Control wins
out and I succeed in pulling back the covers. "Roll over Mulder," I
instruct, my tongue darting out to nervously lick my lower lip again.

He obediently rolls until his back hits the cool sheets. Crossing to the
other side of the bed, I cover him only with the sheet, leaving the
blanket near so he can cover himself when he begins chilling in a few
hours. I do not give myself the chance to examine why I know the stages
of Mulder's suffering when he's sick. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't
mean it, Scully," he mumbles into his pillow, once again on his stomach,
his cheek pressed against the soft cotton.

I crouch down on the floor beside him, running my fingertips over his
scalp, circling his temple.  "I know," I murmur, humoring him.

His eyes open and I can tell how much effort it's taking for him to
focus on me. "No, you don't," he whispers, gazing at me with such
sadness I feel my heart cracking for him. "But you will," he adds,
closing his eyes again, his breathing deep and labored. "Make sure of
it," he mumbles, already half asleep.

"Whatever you want Mulder," I whisper, standing, pressing a light kiss
to his forehead as I do.  "Whatever makes you happy."

Straightening, I move to the other side of the room, watching the storm
rage outside. There are moments I wish I could be like the storm. I wish
I could rage at all around me, that I could let all the turmoil, all the
pain inside me free. Perhaps that release would cleanse me. Perhaps that
release would allow me to move on, to move forward.

I keep waiting for Mulder to make the first move. All the first moves. I
wait so I can stay safe. So I can remain removed from it all; I don't
have to worry about rejection if I don't put forth the effort. I know
it's unfair to him. After all, I can't risk rejection, yet I expect him
to? A man who's been rejected more in his life than I can even fathom? I
know loss. I understand pain; even his, to a degree.

I don't know why I'm so deathly afraid. I was raised with love. Even
when I doubted my place in my family, I've never doubted I was loved.

I have doubted Mulder.

Partaking of one final look at Mulder's sleeping form, I slip from the
room, leaving the door to the suite's living room open. I walk to my own
room, leaving that door open as well, wanting to make sure I'll be able
to hear him if he needs something in the night. Stripping the robe from
my body, I pull a clean pair of pale blue silk pajamas from my bag.
Dressed for bed, I climb in, pulling the covers to my chin. The sound of
the storm rages around me and I can see the trees sway with the force of
the winds outside the window next to my bed.

Awake now, more so than Mulder has ever been, I stare outside the
window, trying to watch the wind. I have never doubted Mulder's passion,
nor his dedication. I have never doubted Mulder's character, nor his
intense devotion to this quest of his. I have, however, doubted his
devotion to me. I have doubted whether or not he needed me. I have
doubted whether he loved me. I still doubt.

After New York, after Fellig, I have begun to examine my own mortality
anew. After my Cancer I could barely talk about it. I was simply glad to
be alive. But there's something about Fellig that has made me examine my
life. Both with Mulder and independent of him.

That I love him is a surety I can no longer deny; not even to myself;
barely to him.  That I need him, the way I need air is a fundamental
part of my being. He has done what I always feared he would. He has
consumed me. And I have done what some part of me has always feared I
would do. I don't care. I embrace this consumption he offers me. I offer
to consume him, in return.

And I have been fine with this. I have, in fact, been secure in this.
There's a kind of safety in surrender. No longer being on guard; no
longer wondering when, where or how it's going to sneak up on you; this
wanting, this longing. I have familiarized myself with my need for him,
my love for him. By doing so, I have gained power. There is no time in
my life for denial; I have no tolerance for it. That's something Alfred
Fellig taught me, whether it's what he meant to impart or not. Life is
short and the =second= you start to take it for granted, you've lost
something infinitely precious.

I had begun to take Mulder for granted before Diana Fowley came back
into his life. I had assumed he would always be there. I had assumed
that no matter what our relationship seemed - friends, partners,
co-workers - we both would always recognize that it was more. That =we
were more, whether we ever spoke it aloud or not. Diana Fowley had other
ideas.

And so, my doubts started to fester. And now, I'm left here, in this
place that is neither the present nor the future - it's a limbo-land
where nightmares are real and insecurities have voice and form.  I am so
afraid, I need him so desperately, I love him so completely - yet I am
lost to the point that I do not know how to tell him. I am lost to the
point that I don't know how to find him.

The partner who shares not only my work, but my soul sleeps soundly in
the next room. A storm rages, both outside and within.  The moon shines
brightly, seemingly above the ravages of wind and rain and thunder and
lightening.  Sleep will not come for me tonight.

So I watch the wind until morning.

~

Chapter 3: Mulder Coughs Up the Goods, or The Epiphany That Nearly
Killed Dana Scully

~

She hasn't slept.

I've always been able to tell. Ever since the first time, when she
walked into our (I still referred to it as MY office at the time)
office, not quite looking herself. Nothing overt, of course; her hair
was masterfully styled; the small amounts of makeup she wore applied to
perfection; she'd even worn her wine colored suit. But something was
=off=. Her eyes were just a little dimmer than they'd been the day
before. That was the first day I'd begun to read her eyes. They told me
everything I'd ever want to know. If she was sad, happy, wary, amused,
frightened, excited, aroused (I've placed that emotion more times than I
can count) and enraged. Each one of these emotions is accompanied by a
slightly different look in her eyes; the tilting of her mouth, one way
or another; the furrow of her brow, or merely the way she carried
herself.

I was forced to learn to read her moods once I'd realized she wouldn't
give me a straight answer if she weren't all right. After the
forty-fourth `I'm fine' it really started to piss me off. Rather than
confronting her with it (even at that early stage in our relationship, I
knew how well THAT would go over) I did what I always do: I worked
around it. I can read her from a mile away; know exactly what she's
feeling, just by the way she walks into a room. And if I'm actually
lucky enough to glimpse her baby blues, I can usually get a beat on how
to fix it.

Of course, I don't always do what I know will fix it. Nine times out of
ten, what would fix it involves her, a beach, and me. It involves us
getting as far away from work, from hell as we possibly can. It would
require a total distraction of her mind, to allow her soul to heal. And
so the idea was born. I tried to ignore it; I did. I knew something
irrevocable would happen to us as soon as we were on our way. And when
the idea first occurred to me, we weren't anywhere near ready for
whatever it was that would happen. I drove her up north once, shortly
after her abduction. She hadn't yet returned to work and I'd begun
missing her. When I dropped by her apartment, she'd looked depressed;
her eyes were sunken into her face and I couldn't remember seeing her
ever look that frail. So I'd suggested the trip. We'd driven to Maine
for the weekend. Stayed at a beautiful little bed and breakfast on the
shoreline.

And it had almost broken me.

It was hard keeping my hands off her that weekend. My emotions were
already raw and exposed - the roller coaster I'd been riding the
previous three months had seen to that. I'd wanted nothing more than to
wrap her in my arms, to keep her safe for as long as she'd allow. And it
was God damn reckless to have taken her out of town; it'd been as
selfish as it was selfless. Despite the test of my control, we really
had a wonderful time that weekend. It was yet another moment in our life
together that brought us a few more baby steps closer to each other.
That weekend is something I've tried damn hard to re-capture; I think
she has, too. Why else would she choose Maine as a vacation spot?

With the exception of that trip, we've never gone out of town together
socially. There's always been a reason - be it lights in the sky, a
nefarious informant or some other mutant liver eating serial killer with
gills. But there were moments when my thoughts strayed - I couldn't help
myself. She'd give me a sigh that was just a tad bit more world weary
than the last, and I'd begin to plot - how do I get Dana Scully to
relax? How do I get her to calm down for a little while?

The answer came to me in a flash. Manufacture a reason. Give her some
mystery she thinks she's saving you from. Make sure she feels needed (in
a non-sexual, non-emotional way) on the case. Tell her we're going ghost
hunting. The plan ready in my mind, all I had to do was wait until I
caught her at her weariest.

Ever since Fellig, her weariness has grown leaps and bounds. This last
out of town jerk off fertilizer assignment was the last straw for her. I
saw something behind her eyes snap; something I'd barely seen bend
before. I knew if I didn't enact my plan fast, my plan would become
useless. So I moved fast; got her here. And now, because I failed in my
duties, she hasn't slept. Because I got sick, she hasn't rested.

Even when I try not to, I can't help fucking up.

She has not yet seen me; I can tell. I stand so I face her profile; her
eyes are focused on something I can't see outside the window. The storm
still rages heavily, showing no sign of abating. She looks so God damn
tired. I can see the bags under her eyes; the blankets are pulled just
above her breasts, her blue silk clad arms flattened over them. The
fingernails of one hand tap the rhythm of the rain silently, the other
picking at invisible pieces of lint on the covers.  I have to pull her
out of this. She's teetering on the edge of something that frightens me;
I am terrified of losing her to something I might not be able to bring
her back from. Even if it means crossing that invisible line in the
sand, I will save her. I have to.

I am lost without her.

"Morning Sunshine," I murmur, my voice sounding booming, even to myself
in the quiet of her bedroom.

Her hand flies to her heart and she snaps her head around to meet my
eyes. She takes a few deep breaths, her eyes shutting. "Jesus Mulder,"
she mutters, eyes opening again to take me in. "Anyone ever teach you to
knock before you come into someone's room?"

"Door was open," I point out, ambling toward the bed. I plop myself down
on one side, folding my arms beneath my head as I lie beside her. "So
what do you want to do today, Scully?"

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Don't tell me you intend to investigate
whatever we're here to investigate in this weather," she tells me
dubiously.

"Why should the weather effect our investigation?" I ask innocently,
knowing she has no clue what I'm talking about. At her look, I relent,
inclining my head toward her in surrender. "What we have to investigate
is at this hotel," I murmur softly.

The eyebrow creeps almost infinitesimally higher. "And that would be?"
she asks, letting the sentence trail off.

A grin splits across my face. "Didn't you know Scully? This place is
haunted."

"Why am I not surprised?" she murmurs dryly, giving me that tiny little
half smirk of hers.

"For the last thirty years, guests of the hotel have been reporting . .
. odd occurrences," I downplay, wanting to ease into this explanation,
rather than blindside her with it.

"What sort of odd occurrences?" she questions, that slightly suspicious
tone creeping into her voice.

"Oh you know, the usual," I wave off, folding my arms over my chest. I
turn my head to look at her. "Hungry, Scully?" I ask enticingly.

Her eyes narrow for a moment, seemingly debating whether it's worth it
to force a confession from me. "Starved," is all she says, obviously
deciding that it isn't.

I smile gently at her. "Then get it in gear, Girlfriend. Breakfast
buffet closes at eleven." Hopping out of bed, I head back into my own
room.

"You sure know how to treat a girl, Mulder," I hear her mumble when she
thinks I can't hear her. I smile a little wider at that. I'm trying
Scully; I'm trying.

Going straight for my suitcase, I pull out a pair of jeans and a gray
t-shirt. I refuse to wear a suit on an island in the middle of a
tropical storm.  Dressed, I weigh my options carefully: I could stick
around the room, wait until Scully's up and ready to go ghost busting.
She would see that as hovering, though, and my hovering irritates her.
The one thing I do =not= want to do this trip, is irritate her. In the
end, the only viable option is to go downstairs and wait for her in the
hotel lounge. Decision made, I stride back to her room, leaning my head
around her door.

"I'll meet you downstairs, k?" I suggest casually.

Her eyes are still focused on the window. I hate it when she does this;
it's like that damn rose petal, all over again. "Whatever Mulder," she
answers, heaving a sigh.

I have to physically force myself to move away from her, to leave her in
that room alone and adjourn to the lobby. I can't bring her out until
she's ready; she won't let me. I have to wait until the exact right
moment. I have to be her friend, none of that bullshit like I pulled
last night.

Groaning to myself, I step into the elevator, letting my forehead rest
against the wooden panel. What little I can remember of my fever-induced
delirium proves to me what a jackass I can be. I'm lucky Scully didn't
cold-cock me for that performance with her robe. I really wish I could
remember what I said, as so to put the proper amount of spin control on
it.  I never mean to cross that invisible, but oh so necessary line we
have between partnerly concern, and something decidedly more personal.
Yet somehow, I seem to be doing so with increasing frequency. Granted,
in my defense, there have been a few unusual circumstances.

It all started when I thought she was going to leave me. The thought of
going on without her had been so unthinkable that invisible barrier
between us had been demolished for a few precious seconds. In its
interim, a crazy notion had occurred to me. Kiss her, the part of me
wildly in love with her had urged. It'll ruin everything, the sensible,
careful part of me had warned. But I was too out of control in that
moment to be sensible, or careful. So I'd moved in to kiss her . . .

. . . and instead of experiencing something I'd been curious about for
years, I found myself trying to lower my partner to floor without
hurting her further. The next few days, my hospital stay and subsequent
escape are a blur. I only clearly remember the moment I saw her in that
cryo-pod, trapped, eyes wide open and filled with terror. Then my focus
narrowed again - the litany that had filled me from the moment I
awakened to Larry, Moe and Curly above me began anew: Get Scully Home.
Get Scully Home. Get Scully Home.

And I did. Together, we both found our way home. The difference from all
the other times we'd done it was, once I'd gotten home, I realized the
only place I wanted to be was with her. She nipped that in the bud with
her refusal to acknowledge what had transpired between us in my hallway.
I realize I probably could've asked her out right - but that's not our
style, Scully's and mine. We're subtler than that. Or so I'd thought.
Now, I have to wonder; had she been waiting for me to make the first
=real= move? By some perverted sense of reality, could her insecurities
truly be bigger than mine?

I'd thought surely not; that is, until I saw her reaction to Diana, up
close and personal. Once Diana was assigned the X-Files, Scully's claws
(and I do mean claws) came out. For the record, I don't think she's
right about Diana. I really don't think Diana would ever do something
like that to me; that kind of betrayal has no place in what we were -
and are - to each other. But I believe Scully has some ridiculous idea
in her head that given the choice between Diana and herself, I'd choose
Diana.

Got to give Scully credit for one thing; when she's wrong, she's WRONG.
Then again, she's never done anything in small measures, my Scully. It's
one of the first things that attracted me to her; one of the first
things that truly made me wonder what it would be like to be more than
simply her professional partner.  I would wonder sometimes, when it was
dark and sleep would not come, if she would throw herself into a
relationship the same way she threw herself into work; if she would show
the same passion, the same intensity. In my heart of hearts, I believe
she would show more. Those thoughts, coupled with the concern I feel for
her has prompted this Ghost hunt.  I damn this storm for ruining my
vision of rubbing suntan oil over her near naked body.

Blinking that thought away before it gets me into trouble, I stride
through the hotel restaurant and seat myself in the lounge, waiting for
one of the gaily-dressed server's to notice me. I notice they have a
rather diverse selection of magazines available and begin sifting
through them, looking for something interesting to read while I wait for
Scully.

~

Epiphanies are unusual things.

I usually don't come upon them that often; not =important= epiphanies,
at any rate. The solution to a case will sometimes hit me out of the
blue, for no apparent reason. But when it comes to me - to my personal
life - the epiphanies are few and far between. I believe that's mostly
because I so rarely allow myself more than a moment or two of
introspection.  When you've had so much pain over one lifetime, you tend
to shy away from reflection. I don't want to explore my own psyche. The
very idea terrifies me. Yet when it comes to the subject of Mulder, I
can't seem to help myself.

Participating in a serious case of introspection while observing Mulder
is what brought me to the above-mentioned epiphany.

Watching Mulder nervously eat sunflower seeds, his gaze riveted to a
copy of some UFO magazine, I finally understand why I seem to love him
most when I'm angriest with him. It's because the man I love - the Fox
William Mulder that absolutely melts my soul and deconstructs my being -
is elementally everything that drives me nuts. His recklessness, his
continued forays into the unknown and usually dangerous.  His
frustration when the rest of the world refuses to see what he =knows= to
be gospel, his astonishment when I don't believe in ghosts after he's
known me =this= long.

The way he continues to view the world through the innocent, wonder
filled eyes of a child, even after every ounce of his innocence has been
ruthlessly stripped away over his lifetime. The knack he has for
unerringly finding himself in harm's way - ferreting out a serial
killer's lair, or deciphering that a mutant's killing spree is directly
proportional to the position of the moon that night.  All these things
endanger his life and, as a result, my protective instincts come out
full blast. Mother Tigers have got =nothing= on a Scully woman when the
man she loves is in danger. Often, however, these protective instincts
are expressed to him as anger; hostility toward his way of doing things,
rage at the differences between us.

Paradoxically, these things that divide us so are also what I love most
about us, as a fundamental unit. His passion, his belief in the
unsubstantial, his beautiful Mulderish way of doing everything that is
inherently his and his alone brings me a kind of frustrated joy.  It's
like being swept away with a wave, letting it take you wherever you
please. Except with Mulder, I don't have to worry about crashing on the
sand too hard. I know he won't allow it to happen. He'll keep me safe,
gently carry me back to land and maybe - if I'm lucky - he'll stay with
me for awhile. He allows himself to be grounded, to spend a few precious
hours with me in my world because he believes it pleases me.

I like his world. I like living in his world. I've already bought a
house and moved in my plants. Doesn't he get I'm not going anywhere?

And yet how can I expect him to know this? Just this morning, I snapped
at him for entering my room without knocking. I =had= left the door
open, just in case he'd needed me in the night. The truth is, my
thoughts had been so turbulent, so focused that the sound of his voice
had nearly given me a heart attack. I don't know what's wrong with me
lately; ever since Fellig, I haven't been myself. Mulder's noticed; it's
why he manufactured a ghost story for me.

A smile tugs at my lips as I watch him struggle with a particularly
stubborn seed, forcing it to crack, his face taking on all the
consternation of a little boy trying to fold his first paper airplane.
One of the minor epiphanies I arrived at last night was the purpose of
this trip. For the last few weeks, I've been wondering how, or even if,
he was going to approach the subject of my listlessness. I'd finally
decided he was going to let it lie.

Apparently, I was greatly mistaken. I've also underestimated my partner,
yet again. That's something I'd decided not to do after we'd been
partnered for a few months; underestimating Mulder is almost always a
miscalculation. He manufactured this entire outing; of this, I'm almost
positive. He's gotten it into his head that he needs to `save' me from
myself. Maybe he does; maybe I'm happy he's trying. I know I'm happy he
cares enough =to= try. I realize I've been difficult lately. I haven't
been as open or receptive to him, as he's grown accustomed to. Not that
I'm normally =that= open; I'm just usually at least willing to listen.
Lately, I haven't even been that.

I guess I have no one to blame but myself for his inability to grasp
that I've become a permanent fixture in his life, whether he likes it or
not.
I watch him toss another shell on the growing pile beside him. Maybe he
doesn't get it yet.

It's about time I assure Fox Mulder of his position in my life.

"Don't think you're getting out of buying me breakfast because you've
filled up on seeds," I warn, coming up behind him, allowing a teasing
note I can't remember using in awhile show through.

From the slightly startled look on his face, it's been a =long= time
since I've really teased him. I'm sorry Mulder.

The startled look leaves his face quickly, to be replaced by a gentle
smile. "What, you think a few seeds can fill me up? Men need real food.
Eggs, bacon, pancakes, a wide variety of assorted tropical fruit . . ."

"You eat all that in one morning and you won't be able to perform manly
deeds of manliness in the height of your manhood," I remind him,
plopping down on the Love seat beside him.

He takes in my appearance, moving past the loose black slacks, lingering
on the long sleeved wine colored blouse I didn't bother to button all
the way in concession to the . . . . tropic local. What he doesn't know
- couldn't know - is that in a fit of whimsy I put my bikini on beneath
my clothes. I try damn hard not to grin; maybe this little ghost busting
expedition of Mulder's will end up doing us both a world of good.

"Scully, I'm wounded you're taking my ability to perform into question,"
he delivers dead pan, managing to work the MulderPout to its fullest
effect.

I'm saved from finding a snappy retort by the appearance of our
waitress. "Hi, my name is Susan, are you ready to order?" she asks,
sounding mightily perky. Something in my expression must've shown,
because she gives me a sheepish smile. "They make us sound like members
of the Minnie Mouse on Helium brigade," she explains. "Especially with
the somewhat nasty weather we're having," she adds.

I raise an eyebrow at `somewhat' but don't comment further. "I haven't
even had a chance to look at my menu."

"We have a great special today," Susan informs me. "Nonfat vanilla
yogurt and an array of fresh fruit indigenous to the island."

"That sounds good actually," I murmur. "And a cup of coffee."

"And you sir?" she asks, turning to Mulder.

"Western omelet, coffee and orange juice," he replies as though he's had
his order memorized for quite some time now. I hadn't sulked in the room
for =that= long. "Susan," Mulder begins, voice smooth as silk. I raise
an eyebrow; this'll be good. "Would you happen to know anything about
this hotel's history?"

Ahh, ghost hunting; still for my benefit, Mulder, or has the allure of a
good mystery peaked your interest? "Would I!" Susan responds, genuinely
perky now. She bites her lower lip. "Look, my break's coming up in about
fifteen minutes - mind if I eat with you? If you're one of those people
interested in the bumps and rattles the hotel management insist don't
exist, do I have some stories for you."

"I can assure you, we are definitely interested in anything that bumps
and grinds in the night," Mulder assures her, sending me a discreet
wink.

Susan misses it completely and smiles sweetly as she departs. Mulder and
I consider one another in silence for a moment, exchanging a smile or
two through our eyes. "What are we doing here Mulder?" I ask, no
preamble; Mulder and I don't `do' small talk.

"I told you," he reminds me, gesturing with one hand, "there's been
paranormal occurrences in this hotel for decades."

"So something strange goes on, and we hop a plane?" I ask, not the least
bit irritated any longer; at this stage in the game, I'm just playing
with him.

"Who you gonna call Scully?" he counters, looking so adorable I have to
work hard to contain a laugh.

"Us, it seems," I murmur dryly, picking up one of his sunflower seeds
and rolling it between my thumb and forefinger.

"No one really calls us anymore," he points out, and I can see something
akin to guilt fill his eyes. "I seem to either go looking for this kind
of stuff, or stumble into it unwittingly."

"And drag me along with you," I can't help adding.

At the look that crosses his face, I wish I could've helped myself.  "I
don't mean to put a cramp in your style, Scully," he murmurs, managing
to sound pissed that I'm not jumping for joy at being here, and contrite
for my inability to jump for joy.

I don't know whether to console him, or snap at him. "You only cramp my
style because I let you Mulder," I settle on, my tone grudging, even to
my own ears. I glance up at him, seeking his eyes with my own, needing
that contact between us for some reason. "I kind of like the way you
cramp," I admit, allowing my lips to curve slightly.

He leans toward me, letting our shoulders bump as his head inclines
toward mine. "I like the way you cramp too," he murmurs quietly, gentle
affection and just a hint of amusement simmering behind his eyes.

Does he mean something else by that? I look closely, trying to hear more
than he's saying. There have been moments in our life together I truly
believed I was cramping his style; a bleach blonde detective, and an
entomologist with a little =too= much love for her profession come to
mind; not to mention a certain fellow FBI agent and current head of the
X-Files division.  Is it possible I could've misjudged the irritation I
surely thought I read in his eyes? Would he have welcomed my intrusion,
rather than scorned it? I must've communicated with him silently again,
for he smiles at me, the smile still barely there; one of those smiles
only I would be able to detect.

"You can cramp my style =any= time," he murmurs, taking hold of my hand
and squeezing gently. When he moves to release it, I refuse to let go,
holding his hand a little firmer than I normally would. His eyes are
puzzled, but they are also pleased. I squeeze his hand for emphasis,
letting him know that the feeling is most definitely mutual.

"You planning on sharing any of these ghost stories you've read about?"
I ask, my voice huskier than I intended it to be.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes glancing at our hands briefly, before
rising to meet mine again. We must look like we're together, I realize
suddenly. Not that we aren't together; we're just not together in the
way most would assume. I see a woman watching us in my peripheral
vision, her eyes having found us the most interesting sight in the room.
She probably thinks we're newlyweds, come to Catalina to celebrate our
honeymoon in the sun and sand. That would be about par for our course
together; when we go on our honeymoon, some tropical storm will most
likely interru-

My GOD did I just say when?

"Scully, you okay?"

At least I think that's what he said; it might've been something more
like `what?' or even `Scully, want to run around the hotel naked?' I
can't be sure because I just thought of WHEN, not IF, concerning Mulder,
a romantic future and me. When the HELL did I allow my random thoughts
and feelings to start thinking in terms of eventualities, instead of
unlikely futures? It must've happened recently; my psyche never would've
slipped like that before we lost the X-Files. It's ridiculous, really;
something that was supposed to break our spirits has actually brought us
closer. We'd never really socialized much, Mulder and me. But with the
loss of the X-Files, we were forced into grunt work that made the time
we spent together less quality than it'd been in the past. So we started
employing our own brand of socializing; you might even call them dates.

"Yea Mom, Mulder and I flew to Vegas this weekend. Oh, nothing much.
Just a meeting with a nefarious government snitch that was cut short by
a bunch of MIB's before we ever even met up with him. Same old, same
old."

"Billy, I was late for Christmas morning because I spent it with Mulder.
We opened some presents together. You know, after we got out of the
haunted house and away from the two restless spirits who tried to get us
to murder each other in some twisted lovers pact. And what did you and
Tara do on Christmas Eve?"

"Mulder and I went to a high school reunion. Granted, it wasn't either
of ours and we nearly drowned because some guy couldn't admit he was in
love with his high school crush, but hey, we danced all night and got
free eats, as Mulder so colorfully reminds me."

In the midst of all our `extra curricular activities,' Mulder and I
became closer in a way we'd never been before. We started talking to
each other about things we'd never talked about before; sharing our
feelings, at least a little bit. In some ways, I trust him more now than
I did even a month ago. What happened to me in New York changed me in a
subtle, but no less substantial way. When I look around, I sometimes see
people in black and white. I know it's merely my imagination; these
people don't die. But it doesn't change the very real psychological
impact Fellig has had on me; I fear for my sanity, like I never have in
all my years partnered with Mulder.

Who, incidentally, is looking at me like I really have lost my mind. All
because I lost my mental discipline for a few lousy seconds and thought
of when, instead of if.

"Scully, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I answer, my automatic answer leaping forth as I try to
calculate exactly how long I've been quietly freaking him out. "I spaced
out," I say dumbly.

"Were it not below a highly trained FBI Agent to say so, the word `duh'
would spring to mind," Mulder mutters, squeezing my hand without
conscious thought on his part.

"I'm sorry," I offer lamely, not meeting his eyes, terrified of what he
might read there. Jesus, I feel so raw right now; so exposed; so naked.

Okay, BAD choice of words. Naked and Mulder in the same realm right now
is not a good place to go. I have the totally irrational urge to shoot
the woman who'd been staring at us for starting me on this train of
thought in the first place.

"Don't be sorry," he admonishes. "Just tell me what the hell just
happened to you."

"I... I don't know," I lie quickly, totally unprepared for this
conversation. "I told you, I just spaced out."

The look on his face states he clearly doesn't believe me. However,
Mulder being Mulder doesn't call me on it. He rarely calls me on it out
loud. Then one day when I'm least expecting it - POW - the other shoe
drops and we end up in a much more weighty discussion than the original
lie got us out of. I contain a sigh knowing when this point comes up,
it's going to be a doozy. And quite possibly the catalyst for . . .
something.

"Okay, we've got a breakfast special, a western omelet, a glass of
orange juice and I just brought you a pot of coffee to share." Susan
gives us a huge smile as both our eyes turn simultaneously to take her
sudden appearance in. Her eyebrows waggle. "You ready to hear some
kick-ass ghost stories?"

~

Chapter 4: The Plot Thickens (Materializes) or Mulder Finally Gets Proof
of =Something= He Believes

~

I tried to listen to Susan's ghost stories; really, I did. I even tried
to appear interested. I may have even succeeded a few times, especially
once she started talking about the Lovers.

She just has to have a ghost story about Lovers.

Ever since Maurice and Lyda, I've been fascinated with the concept of
`together for all eternity'.  Not that I'd ever enter into a
murder/suicide pact with Scully; hell no. I much prefer us the way we
are: Alive, healthy and able to watch each other's backs. I suppose it's
the concept of forever that's really giving me pause. What is forever?
Is it until we die, or some undetermined time after that point? Is
forever as long as our souls exist and, if so, does that include future
lives? If you promise someone forever in this life, but love another in
a future life, does that invalidate your promise of forever? I've
thought of this at great length, especially after my encounter with
Melissa Ephisan. I don't know if she was my soul mate; and even if she
was, I know damn good and well she isn't my =only= soul mate. I know, in
a place so bone deep inside me only Scully's ever touched it, that
Scully is my soul mate. She is the person I am supposed to devote my
life and time to; my life; my love; the center of my universe. She has
always existed in this capacity; in this life and all others. I just
haven't been able to resign myself to it until now. Is what Scully and I
have forever? Or is forever some other entity entirely, reserved for
Romeo and Juliet type lovers?

And if you were going to end your life in some pledge of love for all
time, why the HELL would you pick Catalina to do it in? But these
Lovers, at least had taste; they killed themselves in the suite Scully
and I are currently residing in.

But wait, it gets better; they did so on Valentine's Day.

What's tomorrow, you ask?

Me and my big fucking ideas. So much for my attempt to take Scully's
mind off our lives. One look confirms what I already knew; she's taking
Susan's story in with her usual dose of skepticism, plus a large amount
of trepidation. Scully doesn't believe in ghosts; but, as she's admitted
in the past, she does have an irrational fear of them.

I swear to God I didn't know the place might =actually= be haunted. I'd
thought it was like most of the hotels and tourists traps on any island;
there were people who liked to believe it was haunted to drum up
business. But what Susan is telling us goes beyond a few tales to tell
your grandchildren about your summer vacation. The noises she's
reporting having heard herself are classic trademarks of spirits not
laid to rest. Apparitions other guests have seen in the halls fit the
description of Anthony Bellows and Felicity James, the two kids whose
families didn't approve of their relationship. They came here nearly
twenty years ago to the day and killed themselves in our room.

If I weren't so worried about Scully, I'd be practically foaming at the
mouth. This case is like a kook's wet dream; a genuinely good
opportunity to observe paranormal activity up close and personal. Be it
a case of `been there, done that' mentality, or my total focus on making
Scully feel better, I just can't work up the proper interest.

"And that's the first time I saw her myself," Susan concludes, sitting
back in the chair in front of Scully and me.

"Felicity," Scully clarifies, definitely wearing her little `skeptic'
beanie.

"Yep," Susan confirms. "I've never seen Anthony - none of the women
have. But some of the guys . . .  one of the busboys around here SWEARS
he saw Anthony the night he proposed to his wife. The funny thing is,
people who just . . . see them, like me, have no problem talking about
it. But people - couples - who see both of them, refuse to divulge any
secrets. They just sort of grin." Susan leans in, affecting a
confidential manner. "They say Felicity and Anthony danced before they
died; the only reason their bodies were discovered so quickly was
because they'd left a record playing over and over again and the other
guests began to complain."

"Which record?" I ask, before I can stop myself. Scully gives me a `you
insensitive pig' look, which I pointedly ignore. Sue me; I'm curious.

"It was an old Elvis Presley tune," Susan murmurs, gnawing on her lower
lip. She snaps her fingers triumphantly. "It was `Fools Rush In'," she
announces proudly.

"The King strikes again," Scully murmurs, smirking as she sits back in
the love seat to my left.

"Ha-ha," I mumble, sending a smile Susan's way. "Thanks for your help -
the Missus and I are fascinated by this sort of thing."

Scully's eyes are wide as saucers. I'm not even looking at her, but I
can =feel= it. Susan smiles kindly at us. "You guys here on your
honeymoon?"

"Yea," I confirm, looking a bit bashful. I sneak a glance at Scully.
Just as I'd assumed - her eyes are now popping out of their sockets,
much like a cartoon characters.

"Well, you two have a great time. I know the weather's not the best for
an island, but we've got tons of fun stuff to do around the hotel." An
excited look gleams in her eyes. "Oh hey, we've got a dance contest
tonight and one of our couples just dropped out - it'll be a great
time!"

"We'd love to," Scully answers before I can open my mouth to voice a
refusal. My head snaps around to stare at her blankly. She gives me a
self-satisfied little smile that seems to say `marry me off without my
consent, will ya'.

I can't contain a grin. At least she's having fun. It's at my expense,
but it's still fun. "What are your names?" Susan asks.

"Mister and Missus Ricardo," I supply helpfully, and with a totally
straight face I might add.

Susan eyes us suspiciously. "Ricky's mother was a big fan of nineteen
fifties television," Scully cuts in, keeping her face and voice totally
neutral. "She had his name legally changed to Richard Ozzie Ricardo."
She blushes and affects a laugh that makes me want to start laughing. "I
swear, sometimes I think he only married me because my name is Lucy."

"Sweetheart," I croon, taking her hand and placing a kiss to the palm,
"you know that despite what mom said, if you'd been named Deborah we'd
of just had it changed."

At this, Susan has apparently withstood all any mere mortal can of Mr. &
Mrs. Spooky. "It was really nice meeting you both; I'll be sure to sign
you up for the dance contest tonight. Can I get you anything else?"

"Just the check," Scully and I answer at the same time, never taking our
eyes off one another.

"You betcha," Susan mutters, quickly tossing our check down and fleeing
the table.

As soon as she's out of earshot, we both start laughing, near hysterics.
"You're in a mood," I comment to Scully once I've caught my breath.

"Me?" she counters, still giggling a little. "You're one to talk."

"But that's different," I protest. "I'm =always= in a mood."

"Mulder, you will get no argument from me there." She smiles at me, a
real, wide, beautiful smile. "So what now? I suppose you want to go back
to the room and wait for Felicity to show up."

I pretend to consider that for a moment. "We could do that," I allow,
keeping a firm hold on her hand. "Or we could practice for the dance
contest tonight."

Her eyebrow raises at me. "Mulder, I wasn't serious," she begins,
watching me carefully. "I was just having a little fun with her."

I narrow my eyes, feigning annoyance with her. "Are you trying to back
out?" I ask, sounding shocked. "Lucy," I draw out, doing the best damn
Ricky Ricardo of my life.

I succeed in sending her into another peal of giggles. "Okay, okay," she
concedes, holding up a hand. "You win. We'll go . .. practice for the
dance contest," she murmurs, pronouncing the syllables of each word
carefully, as though she can barely believe she's saying it.

"I knew there was a reason I married you," I murmur, smiling into her
eyes, loving the sound of her laughter.

The laughter stops and something passes over her eyes. Aw jeez, what did
I say? Stop that Scully, I long to yell. Come back; I like it when you
laugh. This sudden change in her brings to mind what happened earlier.
While she'd love me to believe she just spaced out, I know damn good and
well there was more to it than that; is more to it. For some reason,
something I've said or done has caused that sadness, that utter
stillness to come over her entire being.

She speaks before I can contemplate her further. "I'd really like to
just go up to the room for awhile, maybe lie down," she murmurs, looking
more distant than she has since we arrived. "I didn't sleep much," she
explains further when I'm silent.

I nod slowly, forcing myself not to betray my cool exterior. "Sure," I
agree a bit too easily. "I'm still a little worn out, anyway," I add,
alluding to the fact that I've been almost violently ill most of our
journey. What I don't say out loud is that I'd rather have her in that
room than anywhere else on this whole damn island. I don't say what I
want to do more than anything else is take her upstairs and wrap her
inside me for a few precious hours. I don't say all the things I want to
say; all the things I've realized over the last year; all the things
I've always known somewhere, but refused to acknowledge for one reason
or another. I want to acknowledge all those things now; to give voice
and substance to the looks, the little touches, the subtle gestures. I
want to take the subtlety out of our relationship. I want to live in
something more substantial than subtext. And I want to live there with
Scully.

I only hope she wants the same thing.  That's something I hadn't
admitted, even to myself. This whole trip was concocted in my mind,
supposedly for her own good; but it's one of the most selfish things
I've ever done. I'm sick of the distance between us because I need her.
I'm tired of wondering what she's feeling, instead of being able to
simply ask her. I'm through playing her platonic work-mate, the man she
sees as a good friend, yes, but `off limits'. I don't want to be `off
limits' to Scully. I don't want her to be `off limits' to me.

Heaven forbid I make the first move though; hell no. Ever since that
aborted attempt in my hallway, I haven't been able to work up the
courage to try bridging the distance between us in anything resembling a
romantic overture. Half of me is afraid an assassin with a AK47 will
take her out just as our lips brush; the other half is terrified she'll
just shoot me. I'm not sure which eventuality scares me most at the
moment.

She really is beautiful. The thought occurs to me sporadically over our
life together. The light catches a certain way and I'm once again made
aware of the magnificence that is my partner. She isn't classically
beautiful or in any way what you'd call surface pretty. She is unique; a
true original. Her beauty transcends the cover girl's today's public
call the most beautiful women alive. It comes from within; it radiates,
no matter the day she's had or the hardships she endures on a daily
basis. Looking at her now, I'm struck at how her beauty takes on a new
layer when she is sad. It's the kind of poignant beauty that has made
poets weep and artists paint; to capture her essence would be to capture
an enigma; a work of art, for sure. The kind men would give up their
lives to spend an hour with. Scully is worth the loss of a mere life; I
would give mine a thousand times for her. I have.

It is brought to my attention that she is speaking. I wish I could say
it was for any other reason than I was staring at her lips and realized
they were moving. "You were pretty sick last night," she's saying, a
look of genuine concern on her face. I realize now that I must've had
her pretty worried last night. I wish to God that I could remember
exactly what I did. Whatever it was, it doesn't seem to have put her off
me too badly; maybe most of what I remember was a dream.

"I am better now," I clarify, not wanting to worry her further. "I'm
just tired." I offer her a gentle smile, hoping to assure her that I am
indeed telling the truth, not just feigning it for her benefit. She
refuses to be the weak one; refuses to be the one who needs to rest.
Only when she's sure I'm about to fall over does she admit to herself
the level of her exhaustion.

"Let's go take a nap then," she suggests, looking almost relieved to be
heading upstairs. She stands and looks at me expectantly. "Coming
Ricky?" she asks, an amused eyebrow raised.

And the time has arrived. The moment in every day where I decide just
how far I'm going to push the casual flirtation between us. Over the
past few years, it's become so much a part of who we are, I don't think
either of us acknowledges just how far we do go sometimes. The innuendo
stopped being serious somewhere around our sixth month together; through
mutual unspoken consent, we'd decided we weren't going down that road
together. We would be partners; no more, certainly no less. Somehow,
we've evolved beyond mere platonic partners without consent on either of
our parts. It hasn't moved into the physical, but she has taken up
residence in the corner of my soul I'd marked off years ago; it was
surrounded by police tape and she somehow found a way inside. Now it
belongs to her and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

The original question stands; how far do we go? How much do I give away
this early? How far am I prepared to go, period? If I cross the line
first, will she follow? And if she does, will I have the courage to bury
the line in the sand? It's already hopelessly blurred. Can we both take
that final step, together?

"Our honeymoon and you want to nap?" I ask, forcing an aghast tone to my
voice.  I stand in front of her, placing my hands on her hips, giving
her a smile that tells her I'm serious, but that we can pretend I'm not,
if she likes. "Whatever happened to making love until we can't move
anymore?"

Her eyes search mine; I can feel them like a caress. She's searching me
for something; trying to figure out how she should react. She wiggles
out of my grasp, trailing a hand down to grab mine when it would've
fallen to my side. She quirks a playful eyebrow at me. "You've been
sick," she answers, smiling gently. "I'd assumed it'd tax your already
depleted resources."

I tug her hand gently, pulling her toward me until our bodies barely
brush. I smile gently, hoping the gesture will put her at ease. "Don't
assume anything where I'm concerned, Scully," I warn, letting the
seriousness creep into my voice again.

"I figured that out a long time ago, Mulder," she murmurs after a
lengthy silence. She drops my hand and heads for the elevator bank. She
inclines an eyebrow, as if to say `coming?' as she holds open the doors.

Shaking myself out of the paralysis momentarily taking residence in my
body, I follow her, mentally kicking a clot of dirt onto that line in
the sand.

~

His hand caressed her milk white breast, his thumb brushing across the
tip of it. She arched toward him, an enraptured look on her face. The
sunlight glinted off her red hair. She whimpered when his mouth claimed
hers in a bruising kiss, sealing their bond for all time. In whispered
words, she begged him to take her, moving her own hands to the buttons
of his jeans. After a timeless interval, she held his manhood in her
hands, stroked his hardness slowly, and poised him at the entrance to
her body. His hazel eyes bore down into hers and she could already feel
herself lost in his heat Jesus Christ why am I reading this with Mulder
next door?

I set my book beside me and heave a sigh. Why the hell did I have to
pick the book that had a guy with hazel eyes on the cover? God knows I
had no clue the woman was going to be a redhead. Nor did I know it was
going to be a mystery/romance involving two CIA Agents (had they been
FBI Agents I would've suspected some kind of Consortium interference)
who have been partnered for three years and let loose their unresolved
sexual tension when they're assigned to a case in Hawaii (where it's
actually SUNNY, damn them).

When I was young, I used to wonder why on Earth Melissa would read those
sappy, borderline pornographic `romance' (her word, NOT mine) novels
she'd become obsessed with when she turned thirteen. She'd sigh at my
annoying, inexperienced in the art of love (again, her words, NOT mine)
self and patiently explain `you just don't get it yet Dana.' I remember
how much that used to piss me off, even when I was barely ten.

I read my first romance novel when I was eleven. I hated it and couldn't
fathom why anyone would buy into the commercialized sap. I picked up
another one when I was fifteen, and my opinion wasn't much improved.
Then, after I lost my virginity, I gave them another try.

I couldn't stop laughing long enough to get past the first sex scene.

Throughout my life, I never lost my distaste for romance novels. I found
the idea of love at first sight, the ice around your heart melting
because you found that special person and never knowing the person you
loved with your soul loved you back, to be trite and unrealistic. There
were times I picked one up for a good laugh; I even found a passage or
two moving. But I never enjoyed them and I sure as hell =never= would've
brought one along on a trip.

That is, until about three months into my partnership with Mulder. I
think it was after we got back from Icy Cape. Something about being
trapped in a small room with him that made my palms sweat (and it wasn't
out of fear) and my face flush. The memory of his hand at the back of my
neck, his touch so gentle and calming as he checked me for infection
never fails to send a surge of warmth through my soul. That was the
moment I trusted him completely. And, I think that was the moment he
trusted me, =really= trusted me, not like he had before then. He liked
me, I knew that. He'd liked me from our first meeting in spite of
himself. He even respected me at that point. But he didn't trust me the
way he needed to; the way we both needed to in order to be real
partners.

That trust was born in that storage room and it's grown ever since.
We've been neglectful parents to it at times, taking it for granted,
assuming it would always be there, no matter what we did. It was
strained, sometimes even bent and frayed to the point we thought it
might shred. But it didn't; our trust has never been broken, no matter
what has passed between us. It's a line we've never crossed, one I doubt
we ever will. I will trust him always. I believe he will trust me
always. I have to.

And ever since that trust came into fruition, I have been hopelessly in
search of the perfect romance novel.

At first I convinced myself it was just a latent woman thing. I'd never
really been into `girly' stuff; this was probably left over from my
teenage years. I didn't really believe myself then, but I forced myself
to accept the excuse. After a couple of years, I had to admit it wasn't
just a phase left over from adolescence. I was on a mission; am on a
mission.

I'm trying to find words to describe what I feel for Mulder. Something
inside of me is searching for someone else who's possibly felt this
much, this deeply, this profoundly for another human being. I've yet to
find my own thoughts echoed in anyone else's voice. These thoughts are
uniquely my own. But still I do not admit defeat. It isn't my style. I
search, with almost the same passion I give Mulder in our search for the
truth. I search for one of the truly lost art forms: Romance.

Who'd of thought Dana Katherine Scully, professional skeptic, was a
closet romantic?

It isn't traditional romance I crave though. It was the kind of romance
anyone else would find foolish or stupid. Playing Scrabble with Mulder
on his desk is romantic to me. To just say it, it doesn't sound so. But
when I explain it, I think maybe even the most conventional people might
agree. When we play Scrabble at our desks, it's because we've stayed
late to finish up some report Kersh needed. We're both wired and
unwilling to leave each other's company yet. So Mulder breaks out the
Scrabble bored. He sweeps all the papers off his desk as he would if he
were about to take me . . .

Just going to get OFF that train of thought . . .

Okay, we're back. He sets up the board and gives me the most adorable
grin. We are both intelligent people. I maintain that the only reason he
beats me most of the time is because of his eidetic memory. Still, we
fill almost every space on the board until all tiles are exhausted.
Sometimes for fun, we split it into categories - only rare diseases
allowed; use only words that could be found in one of our old case
files. If you use a word, and it's challenged, you have to use it in a
complete sentence, relating to said case. Most of the time, we don't
even finish the game, dissolving into laughter at the unique cases we
come up with.

The laughter is what makes it romantic. We can laugh at anything
together. We can even laugh at each other, secure in the knowledge that
it's not mean or petty.

Another thing that happens during these late night Scrabble games, is
that Mulder shares his sunflower seeds with me. I know people don't
realize this, but Fox Mulder sharing his sunflower seeds is like most
men sharing their blood.

He does things that are considered to be out of date, but I find
charming. He holds open doors for me. He stands when I arrive at any
area he's seated at. He places his hand at the small of my back, I think
more as a reassurance to himself that I'm there. As much as he trusts
me, part of him still doesn't believe I'll never leave him. A lot of
that is my fault. I promise myself again that I'll find a way to prove
to him that I'm here forever before he turns forty.

He holds my hand on airplanes because he knows I'm terrified and it
helps. He throws paper airplanes at my head when I've gotten too far
into mindless drudgery. He does a frighteningly accurate Kersh
impression that never fails to brighten my mood. He flies all the way to
New York because he's scared for me and doesn't trust anyone else to
watch my back. He trusts me not to reject him when he calls me just
because he needs to hear the sound of my voice. He expends time and
energy to draw me out, even when the result is often my exploding at
him.

That is romance to me. Hell, the way he says my surname is the most
exquisite verbal caress. All the sweetheart's and baby's and honey's in
the world don't equal one softly spoken, huskily tender `Scully'. That's
what I search for in these books. I admit, I've found a few that come
close. But none have hit the mark. Although, I do give the current one
credit - it's almost scarily close.

Remembering I am about half of the way through it, I pick it up and
quickly scan the words to find the place I left off . . .

"Time to get up Sunshine," Mulder's far too upbeat voice calls as he
barges in, without knocking.

"Mulder, do you have any idea what a closed door means?" I ask, tossing
my book to the foot of the bed in disgust.

"A closed door is a door waiting to be opened," he responds, eyes
instantly darting to the book.

Fuck. There's no time to kick it aside, no time to pretend I wasn't
really reading it. He's got me, he knows that he's got me, he knows that
I know and so on and so on. He snatches it before I can and I'm poised
at the end of the bed, our noses nearly bumping. He pulls back and holds
the book up, his eyebrows raised.

"Civilized people adopted a custom a few centuries ago," I bite out,
pissed that he finally has proof.

"Why Scully, is this one of those books that aren't yours?" he asks
before I've even stopped speaking, pissing me off further when he uses
one of my own lines back at me.

"It's called asking permission before entering someone else's room," I
continue, gritting my teeth.

He once again talks over the end of my sentence. "It looks interesting,"
he comments, flipping it open where I'd left it. Oh shit he's going
straight for the sex, I know he is. "Her eyes told him something he'd
always known," he quotes aloud, his voice imperious and mocking.

"Some people actually knock," I call out loudly, inserting the comment
in an attempt to stop his words.

"The passion erupted between them as his stare gave her all the answers
she needed. He filled her in one fluid motion and they rode the waves
together, sinking and shifting into each other until they crested and
climaxed together as one," he finishes with a flourish.

I sit on my knees, quiet now at the end of the bed. My head is bowed in
defeat and I warily lift my eyes to see his face. A single eyebrow is
quirked in amusement and I sigh, folding my arms around my middle. I
feel the bed dip beside me and my startled eyes fly to his face.
"Mulder," I begin quietly, having no clue what I'm about to say.

"I'm sorry," he says before I can decide, looking contrite. "I didn't
mean to embarrass you," he adds. "I just . . . I can't believe you
actually read these things," he explains helplessly.

"And why not?" I ask, wanting to know what's so fucking implausible
about me having a romantic side.

"Well," he babbles, "because you're Scully."

My eyes widen. "Because I'm Scully?" I repeat dumbly, rising from the
bed. "Do you honestly think that I have no passion? No need or yearning
for love and affection, even in the most vicarious of thrills?"

"Scully, no," he begins, back peddling furiously as he stands before me.
"It's just that these things are so mindless," he begins.

I cut him off. "For the record, I admit to reading romance novels.
They're mindless, yes, and I go through them in about an hour and a
half. But . . ." I pause for a moment, pursing my lips, trying to gather
my thoughts and explain this to him in a way that won't seem totally
ridiculous. "I enjoy them," I finally stutter, barely believing it
myself. "Especially since a select few of them are actually pretty good.
You just have to wade through layers of crap to get to them," I admit,
sheepish again as my anger fades.

I feel the back of his thumb against my chin and I raise my eyes to his.
He smiles gently. "Scully, why do you think I watch the skin flicks?" he
asks, gentle affection soothing me as it always does.

"Do you really want to know what I think?" I counter, a playful eyebrow
raised.

"Scratch that," he amends, chuckling. "My point is," he continues, "we
both have releases Scully. Just because you don't use mine and I don't
use yours doesn't make either . . . silly," he finally settles on. "I'm
sorry I made fun of yours."

I smile back at him. "I'm sorry for all the times I made fun of yours,"
I mumble, hating the apology but knowing it necessary. I hadn't realized
that may he was searching for the same thing I was.

"So, are you ready?" he asks, switching subjects faster than a speeding
bullet.

"For?" I prompt, truly having no clue. I haven't gotten a minute of
sleep since the plane.

"Scully," he says as though my name should explain everything. "The
dance contest," he explains further when my name elicits no response.

"Is not for another two hours," I finish for him.

He shakes his head, looking disappointed in me. "We have to =practice
for the dance contest," he reminds me.

"Mulder, I came up here to nap," I remind him.

"And you did. You've been in here for almost two hours," he practically
whines.

I contain a sigh. I can't refuse him like this. He's a little boy,
begging for attention he never received. "All right," I grumble. "We'll
practice."

"Are you going to wear that?" he asks, indicating my sweat pants and
gray t-shirt.

I look down at myself in my sleepwear. "Is there a problem with it?" I
ask, failing to see why my attire should matter.

"It's just . . . kind of not what one would wear to go dancing," he
mumbles, clearly having decided what he was about to say wasn't safe.

I narrow my eyes. Does Mulder want to play? Fine; we'll play. "Give me a
minute, I'll change," I say breezily, smiling falsely.

His eyes narrow. "Scully, you look fine," he attempts to retract.

"Mulder, I'm changing," I say definitively.

He smiles at me, that same gentle affection and - dare I think it
consciously? - love in his eyes. "I hope not," he whispers softly,
exiting my room and shutting the door gently behind him.

Oh God damn him. Just when I've gotten a REALLY good idea in my head to
pay him back for at least half the innuendoes he's thrown at me over the
years, he has to go and say something that makes me want to cry. Well,
to hell with that. I've got a good idea and I'm running with it.

Not to mention that fact that he'll probably enjoy it more than I will.

~