Disclaimers in Part I

"Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia"
J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net)

Part VIII - The Contemplation of One Word Not Spoken (R)

F.B.I. Building, Violent Crimes Unit, 8:43 a.m. 33 minutes earlier

She had been caught in a traffic jam on the way to work of all days.  She
had found out from Skinner yesterday that Mulder's first day back from
vacation was today and so she had planned on calling him at 8:00 on the
dot.  She knew he would be there, earlier probably.  How he had managed to
stay away from the X-Files for two weeks was a mystery to her and that
scared her.

The Mulder she knew would not have been able to stay away for two weeks,
but this one had.  She didn't know him; just as she hadn't known the Mulder
who had unnerved and excited and angered her in her apartment two weeks ago.  

As she sat there at her desk, staring at her silent telephone, her mind
cried out in anguish, how she wanted that moment back; a plea she had made
over and over, ad nauseum.  So many things she would have done differently.
 No, just one thing.  She would have said "no."  It was as simple as that.
One word.  She should have said "no."

So what if I did, she thought.  She had said, "so what if I did?"  Implying
that she had, when she had not.  Implying that she had betrayed him, when
she had not.  Implying that she had fucked Ed Jerse, when she had not.
Implying that she did not love Mulder, when she did; implying that he meant
nothing more to her than a friend, her partner, when he meant so much more.

So many implications that would have been eradicated if she had only said
"no."  But she had not, she had said "so what if I did?"  She knew why she
had said it.  She could still recall the anger she had felt that night,
even if she could no longer summon the heat that had accompanied it.  Now,
she could only curse those words.

She shook her head, banishing thoughts of two weeks ago.  Due to the damn
traffic she had just arrived at work minutes earlier and still she hadn't
called him.  She had intended to, and even as her hand remained still, she
imagined that she would have already spoken to him, heard his voice, if she
had been here on time.

Her eyes strayed from the phone to a batch of paperwork that she had pushed
aside yesterday, saving it for today.  She really ought to finish that up
first, she decided.  Besides, he would probably call her before too long.
Yes, the paperwork first and he would call her.  He would call her, she
repeatedly told herself as she reached for the first folder, waiting for
his call.

~~~


Fox Mulder's Apartment, 6:23 p.m.

She stood outside his apartment, the #42 hanging neatly in place.  She
wanted so desperately to just use her key and open the door, but he had
changed the lock.  Just as he had changed his numbers and her position in
the Bureau.

It had taken one week in all to cut her out of his life.  His numbers had
been changed in only a couple of hours.  His lock had taken at least one
day.  She had come by two days after that night in her apartment and his
manager had informed her that he could not give her the new key.  Mulder
had deliberately given instructions that his *former* partner, Dana Scully,
not be given one.

She had been tight-lipped, trying to smile, trying to not show her
embarrassment.  Mr. Mardin had worn the same look of sympathy on his face
that Skinner had, it was a look she already despised.  She had seen it on
the faces of several people at the Bureau this last week.  

Being consigned to the basement had kept her out of the usual FBI gossip
mill for so long that she had forgotten how quickly word got around.  Just
about everyone knew that she was no longer assigned to The X-Files and that
Mulder had requested the reassignment.  She had heard the phrase "lover's
quarrel" so many times, that if she heard it once more she would scream.	

One day it had taken to cut her out of his personal life, while it had
taken a whole week before she was assigned to another department.  It was a
week she would never forget, a week that she had spent alone in her
apartment, with the exception of a visit to her mother two days after he'd
left.  That visit hadn't helped as she had hoped it would.  

No one, not even her mother, could assuage this pain, no one that is, but
Mulder, so she had unplugged the phone.  His landlord had told her that he
was on vacation, so she didn't need to answer it or the door.  He wouldn't
call; he wouldn't show up.

She wanted him to, needed him to.  After that evening in Philadelphia, she
had known that she loved him, but the extent of that love, the power his
mere presence had over her was something she hadn't realized.  Fox Mulder
was as necessary to her as breathing.  Following the whole Ed Jerse mess
and culminating in Mulder's desertion, she had realized this.

Ed Jerse, she thought of the name, of the man with derision, directed at
herself.  How she wished she'd never met him, never seen him, never spoken
to him.  How she hated him.  She knew it was unfair to blame him for the
situation, he was just the catalyst, not the cause, but hate him she did.
She wondered sometimes who she hated more, Ed Jerse or Fox Mulder?  

She didn't know and she didn't care.  Ed Jerse could go to hell for all she
cared; but Mulder, she just wanted him back.  She wanted to explain to him
that she loved him; that she hadn't fucked Mr. Tattoo and that she had
never betrayed him.  She wondered how she could not have realized that he
would react so violently.  

Mulder, who never trusted anyone, had trusted her completely and she had
forsaken him for another man.  And that made her feel sick.  It made her
feel worthy of his dismissal.  Memories of his behavior and her anger that
had followed had retreated to some distant corner of her soul, the
devastation his departure had wrecked on her life claimed all of her
emotion.  There was no room for anything else other than her loss and her
guilt.

And she did feel guilty.  She had not fucked Ed Jerse, but she had gone to
his apartment intending to do so.  And because of her lack of explanation
following the incident, because of her "so what if I did?" Mulder believed
that she had gone through with it, and that is what had dictated his
actions.  The morning after, she'd found his treatment of her unforgivable,
but now, she just couldn't find it anywhere inside of her to care.

Nothing at all seemed to have importance in her life anymore.  Even the
threat of cancer no longer seemed to matter, how could it?  She was dying
already, slowly, bit by bit, day by day without him.  She missed his voice
... his eyes ... his smile.  

She missed the way he hovered over her.  She missed his hand on the small
of her back, hated that her last memory of it was a reminder of how much
more comfortable and right his hand had felt instead of Ed Jerse's.

She missed him.

She loved him.  And she found that she needed him much more than she could
have ever imagined.  And this she found painfully funny: the thought, that
she, Scully, was the needy one.  Mulder was the one who needed her, the one
who always fell apart when something happened to her.  She'd remembered the
look on his face, in his eyes, after pulling the trigger countless times
over Robert Modell's body and his near-emotional suicide at what he'd
almost done.

She'd thought of Missy's descriptions -- darkness his constant companion --
and her mother's -- lack of hunger prompting forced dinner invitations,
dark circles under his eyes detailing lack of sleep -- of his attitude
after Duane Barry had taken her.  She knew that Mulder's behavior during
the period that she'd been missing had been the catalyst for the rumors
about the two of them.

Flipping through her memory, there were many moments, many tell-tale signs
that, without her, Fox Mulder was a complete basketcase.  She never would
have guessed that the same was so for her, but look at her now.  He was
gone and she could barely function.  It was funny, but oddly, she did not
find herself laughing, only crying.  She had cried more in the last two
weeks than she had in the rest of her life combined.  God, how she needed
him, and yet it was more than just that.

It was that he had chosen to leave her.  He had walked away from her
deliberately and that is what she could not handle.  If, God forbid, he had
died or been taken from her as she had from him, she truly believed that
she would be able to deal with it.  She could be strong, she would go on.
True, a part of her would die with him, be with him always, but she would
be able to live the daily, day-to-day functions of life.  She would
continue to work in the X-Files and she would find out what had happened to
his sister.

That is who she was.  That is the person her parents had raised.  But, and
that is where the punchline resided, in the but ... but, he had walked
away.  He no longer needed her and that is what she *could not* deal with.
Quite simply, Dana needed Fox Mulder and all of his foibles and flaws,
dreams and heartbreaks, to need her.

And he did not.

If he had, he would not, could not, have walked away from her as he had
done.  So she sat in her apartment trying to contemplate her existence
without him in her life and she found that she could not.  

She had been reassigned and was working in, of all places, Violent Crimes.
Apparently they figured that Mulder's genius had rubbed off on her.  Her
new partner, her mind blanched at the word, was an older agent, Johnnie
Donat.  He was married, almost 15 years and had three kids.  He was nice,
very fatherly and was nothing like Mulder for which she would be forever
grateful.  She could not have handled any reminder of Mulder from this new
(her mind wanted to shy away from the word, ignore its reality) partner.
He was a man.  He was an agent.  The similarities ended there.  

She had thought that work would help keep her mind off of Mulder.  She was
wrong; nothing kept him out of her thoughts.  She found herself dreaming of
him, thinking of what he would say about the most recent events in her
life.  She decided that she would have told him about Leonard Betts, let
him know about the cancer.  She could even imagine his reactions.

There would be fear and denial, plus guilt for his past and most recent
transgressions.  But there would also be love and the desire to protect.
He would then understand Philadelphia.  And although he would be ashamed
and reeling because of his behavior that night, he would even put aside
that guilt -- his favorite companion -- to be there for her, to just be by
her side.

She pictured lighter moments as well, unburdened by Ed Jerse or Leonard
Betts.  She made up suggestive remarks for him, imagining the warm glint in
his eyes, the low, seductive murmur of his voice.  She thought of insane
theories for the mundane case she and Agent Donat were working on.  

She found herself running an internal conversation between the two of them;
it was funny, she swore that she could hear his voice and she just knew
that he was saying in her head exactly what he would say if he were
actually there with her.  Which he was not.

She missed him.

And that is why she was here, at his apartment.  He hadn't called her this
morning.  She had glanced at the phone so many times, hoping it would ring,
hoping he would call her and simply take the move out of her hands.  But he
had not, so before the clock hit  9:18 she had discovered that she couldn't
wait for him to never call her.  

She had called him.

She had heard his voice and it had taken every ounce of strength she
possessed to not dissolve into tears at the sound.  It had frightened her,
the power his voice alone had over her.

In that second, in-between hearing his "Mulder" and her response, her soul
had returned to life.  The husky timbre of his voice, a quality that spoke
of disuse, lit something within her.  A spark, a flame consumed her entire
being as a flush enveloped her and she felt her face grow hot, her eyes
widen, her lips curve in a smile.  

She said his name and joy suffused her body.  And then he spoke again and
the deadness chilled her.  It was as she had feared, his guilt -- raging at
a level of self-torment, and his anger -- muted but still palpable, had
taken hold.  She wondered even as she responded to his impersonal tone, her
voice trailing off into an aching void, if she should have tracked him
down, gotten to him before it had gone this far.

Then he'd said "we," one word combining, joining the two of them together
and she knew that she could still reach him ... with her own pain, her
guilt, and maybe even her now dormant anger.  	

And that is why she was here, outside his apartment, about to knock on his
door.  She knew he had to be here, his car was here, so he must be.   She
would see him and she felt a blooming joy within her, but it was muted by
her fear; fear that her actions in Philadelphia, inexplicable to him, had
damaged the core of him.

Mulder did not give his trust lightly and he felt that she had betrayed
that trust -- as mistaken and as unjust as it was, that is what he
believed.  She would have to deal with that and she was afraid that he had
stewed in that belief and his own culpability for too long.  She had to
break through the wall she knew that he had erected, out of his anger and
his guilt.

So here she was, standing outside his apartment, but she was afraid ... she
feared that the wall was nearly impenetrable by now and so she just stood
there, contemplating her life without him once again, instead of knocking
on the door.

But she missed him, so finally she knocked.
She heard his footsteps, his voice calling out.  She prepared herself to
push open the door right away, get in before he could shut her out again.
She refused to let him do this to her.  It was her life, too.

*His life is mine.  And my life is his.*

							The End, Part Eight

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia"
J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net)
 
Part IX (1/2) -  The Sound, The Feel of Breathing (NC-17)

Fox Mulder's Apartment, 6:26 p.m.

He walked to the door, wondering who it was.  Immediately his mind froze on
a picture of her.  He stopped.  If it was her ... he wouldn't open the
door.  He would ask who it was.  But if it was her, if he knew for sure, he
would have no excuse to open the door.  He would have no excuse to see her.
 And if he didn't see her, knowing that there was the possibility that he
could, he would finally do what he had been contemplating since he realized
that she had fucked Ed Jerse.

He would pick up his gun and put it where it was always meant to be put.
From that first day when they had handed it to him, a part of him had known
it belonged safely in his mouth where it could do damage to no one else.
And if it was her and if he didn't at least see her for a moment, that
would be it.

I'll just open it a little, he thought, he would catch a quick glimpse and
then he would slam the door.  But he had to see her face.  He had to know
why she was here, if it was because she hated him for the way he'd treated
her, or because she still loved him in spite of it.

And then he would shut the door, ignore her pleas ... if she pleaded.

He reached for the knob, waited for the eternity of a second and then he
opened the door.  She barreled in before he even got his glimpse.  She
moved past him so quickly, his reflexes were slow.  The door slammed shut,
he'd been so ready and he hadn't been fast enough.  

He feasted his eyes upon her, unable to do anything else.  She stood in his
living room and he felt the heart he had forsaken two weeks ago would break
at the sight of her.  He had lived for two weeks on memories of her face,
her hair, her eyes, the lips he had never noticed, the curve of her
breasts, her waist, her legs.  And here she was now, in the flesh.  His
knees felt weak.  He leaned against the archway of the living room, unable
to take another step.  He could only stare at her, trying to re-memorize
everything about her.

Her face was pale, paler than he remembered.  Her eyes were bloodshot as if
she'd been crying.  A lot.  Her lids were puffy, actually her whole face
was slightly puffy.  Her cheeks were red; her lips were pale, vivid teeth
marks standing out on their curve.

She was dressed neatly, as impeccably as usual, but her clothes seemed a
little loose.  Just slightly.  Her make-up was scant, fading already.  And
her eyes .... Her eyes were as dead as his had appeared every time he
looked in the mirror.  The beautiful bright blue of his Scully's eyes was
gone.  Her eyes were grey, muted, not a spark of joy in their depths, a
spark of anything.  He couldn't remember ever seeing her look this bad,
aside from the sight of her in the hospital after Duane Barry had abducted
her.

And as he looked at her, unbidden and unwanted came the picture of Ed
Jerse, followed with aching swiftness by a memory he'd created out of his
guilt and his anger.  His Scully fucking that man.

So when he found his voice, the words that emerged were not those he'd
practiced for when he would get up the courage to her again.  He did not
fall down before her on his knees and beg for forgiveness for he could not
get the image of his Scully and that fucking Ed Jerse out of his mind.  And
so the cruel stranger from her apartment returned.

"Are you happy?  Was fucking Ed Jerse worth it?"  He found strength from
somewhere.  He pulled away from the doorjamb, his voice stronger, rising
with a passion and anger he didn't know he was still capable of feeling.
"Was fucking him worth it?  I hope the pretty boy was worth it, Scully!"
He was yelling now, walking towards her and in the recesses of his mind he
noted the way her face paled even more, the way her eyes widened and her
lips moved in wordless denial.
He stopped.  Denial, he thought, she's shaking her head.  There is dismay,
but there is no shock in that negative shake of her head ... she is in
denial.  His heart stopped and he opened his mouth to speak, but words
escaped him.  She was mouthing the word "no."  And then she spoke, her
hands reaching out to him.  

"No, no, no, no," she repeated over and over again; her voice was low, a
mumbled elegy of denial.  She moved towards him, one more step and she
would reach him; she would touch him.  He couldn't let her do that.  He
side-stepped her and she stopped, her hands falling to her side.  And then
she said something other than "no."  

"I didn't -- I didn't fuck him, Mulder.  I didn't even sleep with him.  I
kissed him once.  And I felt nothing.  I just wanted you.  I wanted you.  I
wanted to be with you.  I didn't betray--" she stopped speaking and her
eyes filled with tears.  She bowed her head for a moment and he took a step
forward.  She looked back up at him at the sound of the creaking floor.
His gaze was locked on hers and in them he knew lay disbelief and shock,
plus a desire to take every word that she was saying and hold them close to
his heart forever.  But he was afraid ... afraid that he was wrong, afraid
that he was hearing only what he wanted to hear.

With her words, she refuted carnal knowledge of Ed Jerse and offered
forgiveness and her love to him.  It was too close to what he had wanted to
hear from her since he'd read those damn reports.

He wanted to believe.  But he was afraid.

She must have seen that. She must have known that even as she laid bare her
heart, her soul for him; even as she opened up all of her pain and
suffering for him to see, he still doubted her.  And Dana Scully must have
decided that it was time for him to see more of what she'd been through.

The anger that he'd been expecting alongside the grief at last decided to
make an appearance and it did so with a vengeance.  There was a narrowing
of her eyes and then fire consumed the blue, becoming a bright flame.  Her
gaze seemed to burn right through him.  He saw rage in their depths ,
partnered with the suffering still clearly evident.  

He retreated back a step, then two.  Her whole body seemed to radiate with
furious anguish, steaming, throwing off waves of heated wrath and her small
frame shook with emotions he'd never seen her express.

"You bastard," she hissed softly.  "You are such," her voice broke
slightly, a sob building in her throat, "a selfish bastard.  Do you have
any idea," she paused again, taking a deep breath, her voice rose in volume
until she was yelling, screaming at him, "any idea at all of what you've
put me through?!"  

He jumped back another step, shock taking over any other emotion he was
feeling.  He couldn't answer her, because he had no answer.  There was no
excuse for what he had done.  

Her eyes were blazing even brighter and her cheeks were bright red.  She
took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them.  "You
son-of-a-bitch," she cried in anguished rage.  Her fists pounded
ineffectually against his chest.  They made little impact physically, but
emotionally he felt as she were beating him to death.  In all the time he
had known her, she had never gotten truly angry with him.  She had raised
her voice, but in frustration more than anger.  

However, this was a Dana Scully in full fury and he didn't know how to
respond, for he knew bone-deep, as surely as anything he'd ever known in
his miserable life, that he deserved her wrath.  He deserved much more than
she could ever deliver.  The only punishment that could even come close
would be her walking away from him completely.

He felt a wave of desolation sweep over him then as he realized that that
is exactly what he had done to her ... the most damning thing that he could
ever imagine her doing to him, he had done to her.  The sound of her tears,
her muttered cries of anger, the feel of her fists faded into the
nothingness that he was sucked into.  My god, he thought, what have I done?
 He looked down at her, Scully, his mind screamed in guilty remorse.

He reached out for her, grabbing her wrists. She tried to pull away with
little success while tears streamed unchecked down her face.  Her words
once more became coherent.

"You left me that damn key and I had to sit in," her voice rose in a bitter
wail, "Skinner's office with no clue because you're too much of a," and now
her voice was a shout, filled with recrimination, "chicken-shit coward! to
ask me if I fucked some stranger in Philadelphia."  She tried to pull her
fists away again, wanting to hit him.  He released them, and she pulled
back, delivering a stinging slap to his face.

"All week long I've had to deal with curious looks and snide questions,"
she cried.  "Do you have any idea how many times I've heard 'figured you'd
get tired of Spooky first.'  God, I hate you so much!" she screamed as she
slapped him again, beating at his chest, his shoulders once more.  "I hate
you, I hate you, I hate --" her voice faded into to tears and emptiness as
she sagged against him, dissolving into wrenching sobs.  He wanted to wrap
his arms around her, comfort her -- although he was the cause of her pain
-- but she collapsed, falling down to the floor before him.  Her first
words rushed through his head with an echo and he fell to his knees next to
her.

"I didn't, I didn't, I didn't fuck him, I didn't fuck him, I wanted you, I
wanted you, I wanted you ..."  He closed his eyes, feeling sick, wanting to
throw himself off of a cliff, blow his brains out, fall prostrate before
her, begging, pleading .... She was crying heavily, her shoulders shaking.
He stared at her, her cries battering at him, but they sounded far away.
He stared at her and could not wrap his mind around the guilt coursing
through him.

In the last two weeks, he'd been unable to comprehend, let alone deal with
his actions towards her.  He'd thought that she had fucked Ed Jerse and
that had been his excuse, his answer whenever he tried to justify his
behavior.  But now ... she had not; she hadn't fucked him and he deserved
to die, worse than that, he deserved an eternity of punishment for his crime.

When he'd believed she betrayed him, the guilt had eaten at him because
nothing she'd done, nothing she could ever do, could justify his actions;
but to know her innocence ....  Now that he knew, something he should have
known, something he should have just asked her, he felt as if he'd been
dealt a mortal blow.  

As if reading his thoughts, she whispered brokenly, "God damn you, Mulder,
not everything is about you.  This is about me.  This is about us."

She raised her head and their eyes met and he reached for her, his eyes
pleading with words that would never be enough; begging for forgiveness,
absolution, knowing that he didn't deserve it.  He never would.

Somewhere the God that he no longer believed in must have been watching for
she reached for him as well, allowing their hands to meet, one hand
touching his, the other upon his face.   Her finger brushed against his wet
cheek and only then did he realize that he was crying, silent tears, as
silent as hers had not been.  She laid a second finger next to the first
and then another and then her whole hand was cupping his face and she was
leaning towards him.  He didn't think, he couldn't; he just reacted.

End, Part 1/2 of Part Nine

-----------------------
"Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia"
J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net)

Part IX (2/2) - The Sound, The Feel of Breathing (NC-17)

He reached out, wrapping his arms around her, dragging her body to his.
His mouth found hers, her lips opened beneath his and her lips ... her lips
were so soft, so full, so lush, so perfect.  Hungrily, he devoured her,
wanting to never let go.  His lips curved over hers, he sucked on her upper
lip, his tongue slid into her mouth, exploring her, tasting her.  

Her hands went around his head, applying pressure.  She was tugging his
hair, pulling him, pushing him, trying to draw him into her just as he was
trying to draw her into him.  Blood was rushing through him but he didn't
know what it meant.  He heard thunder in his ears and he didn't know what
that meant either.  He didn't care; it didn't matter.  His heart began
contracting and he could feel the blood pumping in and out.  

He tasted her, his hands clutched at her, never wanting to let her go.  He
felt dizzy, light-headed.  And then she pulled away; her mouth was gone,
her tongue, her teeth separate from him.  He didn't understand.  She was
breathing, breathing so heavily, her breaths coming in hard, fast gulps.
She was so loud, her breathing was so loud.  He could feel her breath
whispering against his face.

And then he understood.  They were both breathing, in unison; she had
pulled away because she needed air.  They needed air.  She wasn't leaving
him, she was still here.  He reached for her again, his mouth descending on
hers.  He didn't need much air, all he needed was Scully.  His Scully.  He
released one hand, letting it fall behind him.  He pulled her up more
firmly against him, falling back.  It was awkward, but she came with him.
And then he was on the floor, shielding her soft body from the hard floor.

He pulled away from the kiss in short bursts, allowing only as much oxygen
as they needed to survive.  He wound his fingers in her hair, feeling the
red on his fingers.  Her soft, her heat, everything about her flooded
through his body.  She was whimpering, soft sounds emanating from in
between their kisses.  Whimpers became words.  

"Love you.  Sorry.  Love you.  Need you.  Mulder. God.  Mulder. Love you."

He ran his hands down her body, wanting her clothes off, wanting to feel
her, to see her.  He wanted to see what he had only imagined.  He wanted to
see, to touch, to hold, to make love to what
Ed-Fucking-Mr.-Tattoo-Pretty-Boy-Jerse had never seen, had never touched,
had never held, had never made love, could never make love to.

He wanted her.  His Scully.  His.  All his.  Always his.  He needed to look
at her.  He pulled back, his head dropping to the floor with a slight thud.
 The faint pain was distant, he didn't feel it.  It didn't matter.  Her
lips followed his descent, she wouldn't let go.  He moved his hands up from
her waist, he held her shoulders and slightly pulled.

Her lips left his with an audible pop.  She looked devastated and began to
lean in again; he put a hand over her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips.
 So soft, so full, so lush, he thought.  So Scully.  He could feel her
breath whispering against his touch.  He gloried in the feeling.

"Mulder," she cried, his name muffled against his fingers.  "I'm sor-"  He
shook his head, interrupting her.

"I just need to look at you."  His voice sounded hoarse but it didn't
matter.  He looked at her and she was beautiful, more beautiful than he
could possibly have ever imagined.  He ran his fingers over her face,
outlining her nose, her eyebrows, her cheekbones.  He ran one finger as
softly, as tenderly as he could over her eyelashes, her eyelids.  A sigh
fluttered from her lips.  Her eyes, their grey -- their ugly, awful grey --
was gone, the vivid beauty of her blue once more shone brightly up at him.  

She was so beautiful, he kept repeating in awe over and over again in his
mind.  Suddenly he sat up and she slid down his body, her eyes widening.
She clutched his shirt, her legs now wrapped about him on either side.  He
once more wrapped his hands about her waist and he stood up, pulling her
with him, her legs fell from around him, landing on the floor with a soft tap.

He stood silent, just gazing down at her, marveling still at her perfection.  

"I want to look at you," he whispered again.

She understood and shrugged off her coat.  He reached for her, his fingers
carefully undoing the first two buttons and then he met her eyes and he
grasped the opening of her shirt with both hands and yanked hard.  Faux
pearl buttons went flying across the room.  His eyes followed the distance
of a few of them.  He laughed, a sound of pure joy, it was an emotion he
had forgotten how to feel.  She began to giggle.  His eyes met hers again
and her laughter died the same time his did.  

He pulled her to him, lifting her up.  He felt the lace of her bra, a
flimsy one again, her nipples were hard, pressing into his shirt.  He
snaked his hand underneath her shirt, running his hand over her back,
feeling the skin, as soft as satin.  He kissed her; she kissed him back,
wounding her arms about his neck and wrapping her legs about his hips.  His
hand drifted down to the curve of her derriere and he pulled her up more
firmly against him.  He forgot to breathe again.  He pulled away, stumbling
a bit.

"Scully," he breathed her name, gasped it as a dying man cries out his last
word.  He set her down, grabbed her hand; held her face, kissed her once
more, a short, passionate burst of energy exploding between them.  He
looked at her as the kiss broke and could feel the grin spreading across
his face.  

He pulled his tee-shirt off then reached for her again.  She swayed against
him, her hands exploring his chest, his back.  She pushed at him and he
fell away from her, towards the sofa.  Landing with a soft thud, he still
held her hand and so he pulled slightly.  She moved between his knees, her
shirt hanging on either side of, her breasts hidden only the white lace.
He reached up with his free hand and tugged at the white rose nestled
between her breasts.  The bra remained securely in place so he tugged
harder, the grin spreading wider across his face as she fell against him
slightly.

"Mulder," she purred his name and tugging her hand free, she reached behind
her as he leaned up and pulled her shirt off her shoulders.  She undid the
clasp and her bra fell, landing on his spread legs while her shirt went
unnoticed to the floor.  He breathed in the sight of her.   His hands
skimmed along her arms, dropped to her hands and after a moment's clasp, he
released them.

He reached up, capturing her breasts.  She leaned into his touch and as his
fingers circled their tips, he gloried in the soft weight held within his
hands.  It was too much.  He wound his arms about her back and pulled her
roughly against him.

A gasp escaped his mouth, a cry from hers, when her naked flesh met his.
He had a moment only to categorize another new Scully sound and feel.  He
kissed her.  He had decided that he could live forever like this, just
holding his Scully in his arms, feeling her nakedness against his, kissing
her lips.  Tasting her.  Breathing her.  Listening to the sound of her
breath.  Feeling the touch of her breath on his skin.

As the thought passed through his mind, his body demanded more.  Her hand
brushed along the front of his jeans, her fingers found the snap, the
zipper.  She pulled away from him slightly, her breath lingering on his
lips.  Her eyes stared into his and he wondered that he could ever have
thought her capable of hurting him, of betraying him.  He was a fool.

She reached out a tender finger, running alongside his face.

"No more," she whispered with a soft smile, accurately reading his mind.
She slid down, kneeling between his knees.  She pulled his throbbing cock
out from his boxer shorts, her eyes never leaving his.  He bumped the sight
before him to the top of his list of the perfect moments in his life.  Her
fingers encircled him, her pinkie dancing along his head.  She lowered her
eyes and began to dip her head towards him.

He reached out, one hand cupping her face, the other curving around her
arm, about her back.  She looked at him in question.  He shook his head, he
couldn't speak, he needed her too much, too badly, too now.  He jerked her
up, pulling her flush against him once more.  She leaned over him, kissing
him, her tongue dipping into his mouth as she opened herself to him
completely.  

He ran his hands up her thighs, under her skirt.  He tugged at the
waistband of her nylons, her underwear, pulling them down in one, long
movement.   She broke from the kiss and bending slightly, her hands helped
him.  He sent a rueful smile her way when her nylons snagged on her heels
as she tried to step out of the clothing.

She laughed throatily and leaned back slightly as he stood up and turning
her a little, her back now facing the sofa, he pushed her down.  Once she
was seated, he removed her shoes, her nylons, her underwear.   And again he
ran his hands under her skirt, an urgency roughening his movements a bit.
He pushed her back against the cushions, leaning over her, laying down upon
her carefully.

Her eyes were locked on his.  Trust.  Love.  Acceptance and joy centered in
their gaze.  Her eyes were bright blue, a slight sheen of liquid still
glistening at their corners but now she looked happy.

He raised a hand, cupping her face, bending down for a kiss.  His lips
touched her and she grabbed him, once again opening herself to him
completely.  She spread her legs, wrapping them about him.  His fingers
explored her inner folds, she arched her back slightly, her breasts pushing
into his chest.

He dipped his tongue inside her mouth as he entered her.  She stiffened,
pulling from his kiss and her eyes were wide.  "My God, Mulder," she cried.
 She clutched him closer as he moved within her.  

He tried to stay calm.  He tried to pace himself, make it last, prolong the
moment that had taken forever to come.  He wanted her to remember their
first time as the most magnificent moment of her life, but he couldn't hold
back any longer.

He felt her tightening about him, her muscles contracting.  He felt her
breasts against his chest, her breath against his face.  Everything about
her meaning everything to him and he just couldn't; he couldn't hold back,
one second, one moment longer.  He moved within her, faster and harder and
she was crying, crying his name, crying God's name, crying incoherent words
of love.

She was with him.  He could feel her on the edge right with him.  He
smiled, they would go over together.  He pulled almost completely out of
her, it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, and then with one final,
powerful thrust slid fully inside of her, bursting.

"Mulder!" she screamed.

She screamed his name, he murmured hers in a whisper.  She was crying, her
arms wrapped about him.  She rained kisses on his shoulders, his throat
before he pulled her to him, cupping her face in his hands and he kissed
her with what little energy he had left inside of him.  And once more, he
forgot to breathe.

						The End, Part Nine
	~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia"
J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net)

Part X -  The Importance of Understanding (NC-17)

Fox Mulder's Apartment, 7:08 p.m.

He was heavy.

For some reason, that was the only thought she could summon.  Fox Mulder
was heavy.  She wanted to laugh.  She knew he was heavy because he was
laying on top of her and then she was happy because she had finally leaped
to another thought past the one observing that he was heavy.

He was heavy and he was lying on top of her.  Somewhere in the depths of
her joy she was able to make another connection.  He was lying on top of
her because he had just made love to her.

She did laugh then.

She had never thought anything more wonderful than that last thought.  She
liked it so much, she repeated it.  Fox Mulder has just made love to me.
Again, her mind playfully demanded, Fox Mulder has just made love to me.

He nuzzled the side of her neck and she felt his breath and then his lips
on her skin.  She laughed again.  When he raised his head and looked at her
she was delighted to make another observation:  Fox Mulder's eyes were
incredibly, intensely green after he made love to her.

"I love you," he murmured and she wanted to cry.  He reached out a finger,
running it along her face.  She noticed then that she was already crying.

"One more," she whispered.

He must have thought she said "once more," because he told her that he
loved her again.  She didn't mind that he had misunderstood her.  If every
misunderstanding led him to saying "I love you," she would be a very happy
woman.  Of course, she was already a very happy woman because she had
discovered that Fox Mulder was heavy.

"You're heavy," she whispered and her voice was filled with indescribable
joy.  Her heart was singing with the purity of a choir of angels.  She
giggled at the absurd romanticism of her thoughts, happy that she had made
yet another observation ... Fox Mulder's lovemaking had the power to turn
her into a mushy romantic.

"Sorry," he murmured and began to move off of her.   At first she thought
he was apologizing for bringing on her 'choir of angels' smaltz, but then
she realized that he saw her "you're heavy" comment as a complaint.  She
clutched at him, not as thrilled with this misunderstanding.

"Don't move.  I like it.  I was just making an observation," she paused and
said with the utmost sincerity, "it was my first one."

He looked confused.  "First what?"

She smiled, her face lighting up, "never mind.  I love you, too."  Her eyes
dropped and she suddenly wished she hadn't said that.  Her mind began
making other connections.  She had first realized that she loved him when
she was in Philadelphia.  She had betrayed him, she had almost betrayed him
in Philadelphia.

She looked back up at him, needing to explain, needing to tell him
everything.  If she didn't tell him now, before things went further, she
never would.  It would always be there between them and he would always
wonder why she had done what she had done.  He would always wonder why she
had said "so what if I did?" instead of "no."  

She had to tell him now, because after now, she never wanted to think of
the last two weeks again; the last two weeks before he had made love to
her, of course.  The thought, that precious thought, made her smile once
more.  

She repeated it in her mind, Fox Mulder has just made love to me.  She
found that she liked it even more than the first couple of times she had
thought it.  She said it aloud.

"Fox Mulder has just made love to me."  It sounded so good that she said it
again, "Fox Mulder has just made love to me."

"Scully," Fox Mulder broke into her joyful musings.  "Fox Mulder is right
here."

She grinned up at him, "I know."  She wanted to kiss him again.  She wanted
him to make love to her again, but if she kissed him, if he made love to
her again, they wouldn't talk.  They wouldn't talk about what happened.
And they had to.

"Mulder, you have to get up now."  Her voice was suddenly serious.

"You just said not to move," he protested with a light laugh, but he did
get up, fumbling a little as he had to maneuver around the jeans and boxers
bunched about his knees.  He sat up, pulling her legs over his.  He slipped
off the rest of his clothing and she wriggled her body at him, indicating
her skirt.  He took the hint and pulled that off as well. 

She lay there for a moment, enjoying the feel of his eyes on her.  His
eyes, she loved his eyes, which were turning a darker shade of green even
as he looked at her.  She drew her legs off of his lap and turned to the
side, sitting up.  She ignored the noticeable disappointment on his face.

"Mulder, we have to talk.  We have to."

The disappointment on his face deepened.  "I don't want to" he said in that
little boy voice that should irritate the hell out of her after all these
years, but she loved it.  She loved him.

"We have to," she repeated.  "I need you to know why I -- what happened."

He glanced at her, looking as contrite as she'd ever seen him.  "Scully
..." he let her name linger in the air, "there is nothing to explain.  The
only thing I need to know," he paused, obviously searching for the right
words, "is that you can forgive me for that night in your apartment."

She opened her mouth to speak but he reached over, pressing a finger to her
lips.  "Even if you had," he swallowed deeply, his eyes shutting briefly,
"slept with him, there is no excuse for how I behaved.  I --" he broke off,
unable to meet her gaze.  When he once again looked at her, the shackles of
guilt weighed heavily in his eyes.

"God, Scully, I just went crazy.  I couldn't deal with the thought of you
with another man.  
I just couldn't --"

"-- Mulder," she interrupted, his name on her lips was a gentle sigh.

"Scully," he reached out again, cupping the side of her face with the palm
of his hand.  "Scully, I was --" he broke off with a harsh laugh, dropping
his hand.  "I am an unimaginable bastard.  I am a cowardly, chicken-shit,
son-of-a-bitch."

She shook her head back and forth.  "I am, " he repeated emphatically.  She
shook her head again, more vehemently, "Mulder, no.  I was angry --"

"-- and you had every right to be and why you're here ... why you still
love me, have ever loved me, is the biggest mystery of my life."

"Listen to me," she cried as he looked away.  "Listen to me!" she repeated
insistently, "yes, what you did was wrong, but --, Mulder, look at me."  He
raised his head, the bleakness in his eyes tearing at her heart.

She would not let him take all of the blame for this; as awful as his
actions were, if she had not shut him out, not gone to Ed Jerse's
apartment, he wouldn't have done what he had.  "Your actions were not
entirely unjustified."  He began to shake his head back and forth.

"No, Mulder, you're doing it again.  You're making this all about you.  And
it's not.  Mulder, it's 
not.  I made the decision to cut you out.  I was restless, I was thinking
about my life because," she paused, debating whether or not to tell him
about Leonard Betts.

She saw in his eyes self-recriminations for the last two weeks.  She knew
that he already blamed himself for her abduction two years ago.  She
honestly did not believe that he could deal with her cancer tonight.  He
could only handle so much before he would self-implode.

She decided that the cancer would have to wait.

"Because," she began again, "because I was in one of my
I-need-to-get-a-life moods.  I blamed you because you were easy to blame,
you were there.  And I knew that no matter what I said you'd shrug it off
and things would be fine."  She shifted and pulled her knees up, wrapping
her arms about them.  She wasn't uncomfortable being naked in front of him,
but she was cold.

He was already reaching over and pulling a blanket from his side of the
sofa.  He leaned over and wrapped it around her form.  She smiled her
thanks and then felt her thankful smile turn to wistful when he picked up
his boxers and pulled them back on.  I have to tell him, she reminded
herself.	

"If you had been with me in Philadelphia on the case, the mood would have
just passed and --"

"-- Scully," he interrupted, "it may have passed then, but it would have
come again and eventually we would be where we are right now.  This is just
sooner than later."

She looked at him and a twinge of irritation piqued at her.  She knew what
had happened better than he, she knew more than he.  This was her tale to
tell.

"Scully?" she gazed at him and he looked so earnest.  He had that little
boy, I-want-to-help look on his face; he looked young and at peace.  That
haunted look that had been in his eyes, hanging about his body like a
shroud since she'd come back from Philadelphia was gone.  He was her Mulder
again, but moreso than ever before.  She suppressed her annoyance; she
loved this man ... flaws and all.  

"That isn't the point," she tried again, hoping this time he would listen.
"I was in Philadelphia alone and I was angry at you because I thought that
you didn't believe I could handle one of your precious X-Files on my own
--"  She winced inwardly at the sneer in her voice as he shot up
indignantly.  She supposed that too much had happened for her to so easily
subdue her anger, her frustration.  She opened her mouth, intending to
soften her last words, but he spoke first.

"-- Scully, I never said that!"  He looked genuinely hurt.

And then she felt genuinely angry, as irrational as it was.  He was, after
all, just being Mulder, but she needed him to listen, really listen to her
and understand why she'd done the things in Philadelphia that she had.

It was more than the threat of cancer; it was the realization that that
threat had brought on:  The realization that she truly had no life outside
the X-Files.  And that is what she needed him to understand and he just
wasn't listening.

"Mulder, sit down," she commanded.  After a moment of shocked silence, he
complied.  "Now, I want you to listen to me.  This is about *me.*  This is
me telling you why I went to another man's apartment."  He winced, but she
ignored it.

"You kept calling me up, checking to make sure that I was doing justice to
your stupid investigation --"

"-- That's what you thought I was doing?" he asked incredulously,
interrupting once again.  

"Mulder!  God damn it,  Just shut up!"  He shut his mouth and then spoke
again anyway.  "Wait, Scully!  I understand --"  he held out a hand,
halting her words.  "I do.  You know why I did what I did and you want me
to understand your actions, but Scully, I can't -- you have to let me
explain.  I missed you.  I just wanted to hear your voice.  I just wanted
to establish some kind of contact so I talked about the case. 

"I would never, ever say or imply or even think that you couldn't handle a
case on your own.  Never!"  He repeated emphatically.

She dropped her eyes from his, the slightest touch of remorse dampening her
anger.  "I didn't realize -- Mulder, don't you see?  I was looking for a
life and all you could talk about was an X-File."

She shook her head slightly.  Why hadn't he just said that, she thought.
Good question, she told herself and looked back up at him.

"Why didn't you just say that?  Why not tell me you missed me?  Just wanted
to hear my voice?"  She asked him, a bittersweet note lacing her words.  "I
never would have thought twice about another man, any man."

He sat back down next to her with a heavy sigh.  "I thought you knew," he
responded softly.

She sighed, remembering her anger, her frustration that he had seemingly
thought so little of her investigative skills.  "Maybe we need to work on
our communication skills," she reflected wryly.  	

"I thought you knew," he repeated in a near whisper.

"I guess I didn't."  If she had realized ... if he had told her.  

But he hadn't.

"I thought differently.  And I was mad at you and I had met," she paused
and she had to look away. She couldn't look at him when she said Ed Jerse's
name and she had to say his name.  She refused to give him the importance
of avoidance.  "I had just met Ed Jerse and he asked me out.  I wasn't
really interested but you called.  And you made it so painfully clear how
shocking you found the idea that a man could possibly want me --"

She broke off when Mulder surged to his feet once more, a look of utter
disbelief on his face.  She looked up at him.  "What?"

"When --"  he broke off himself, looking about the room, for what she had
no clue.  "Why --"  He turned to look at her again, more than disbelief in
his eyes, there was also hurt.  "How could you possibly think that I
thought the idea that a man would find you attractive shocking?  That I
wouldn't understand a man asking you out?"  She began to speak, but he cut
her off.  "How?  How, Scully?!"

She stood up herself, wrapping the blanket about her.  "Well, if you would
let me speak ..."

He threw out his arm, gesturing for her to go on.  "Well, thank you," she
muttered sarcastically.   "You asked if I had a date in a tone of voice
clearly implying how unrealistic that sounded.  Then when I didn't say
anything -- when I didn't say anything" she repeated in a louder voice,
cutting him off as he opened his mouth to interrupt again.  "When I didn't
say anything you said, and I remember this clearly, 'you have a *date* ?'
as if you just couldn't believe the actuality of that happening.

"Go on, deny it!  Deny you said that."  

He was quiet for a long moment, a bewildered look on his face.  Finally
when he spoke, there was a weary note in his voice.  "Hell, maybe we
*should* work on those communication skills."  

He looked at her, "I didn't mean it that way."  He fell onto the sofa,
leaning back heavily.  He placed a hand over his eyes and spoke suddenly in
that soft voice of his, low and intimate.

"Dana, I wasn't shocked that another man would be interested in you."  He
lowered his hand, his eyes meeting hers, a plea in their depths.

"I was shocked that *you* would be interested in another man.  We'd never
talked of it, this thing," he gestured to her and then himself, "between
us, but I figured that we had this unspoken deal.  We belonged to each
other.  I just couldn't believe that, after four years of," he smiled
sardonically, "you and me against the world you would suddenly turn to
another man."

He leaned up and captured her hands, pulling her to him.  "Dana," he
crooned her name.  Dana, she thought with an inner sigh.  "It was just me.
 I never meant for you to think ... God, you're beautiful.  You're
wonderful.  Any man ... every man would want you.  I --" he broke off,
pulling her onto his lap and rained kisses on her face.

He met her lips and without thought she kissed him back.  Her arms went
around 
his neck, the blanket falling from her shoulders.  His lips, his beautiful
lips kissed her, his tongue in her mouth, his arms around her.  He was
devouring her, consuming her.  She had no idea where she ended and he
began.  They were two halves of a whole.  It was such a clich=E9, but so tru=
e
in their case.

He pushed her back down on the sofa, his heavy weight falling over her
again, her legs entangling in his.  She felt safe and loved; warm and
wonderful.  He pulled away, trailing kisses down her chin, back up across
her face, over her cheeks.  He gently kissed her eyes and drew back.  She
felt him looking at her, the heat of his gaze burning through her and she
opened her eyes.

He looked at her in silence a moment longer.  "Dana, I just didn't want to
believe that you wanted another man," he paused and licked his lower lip.
She moaned slightly and leaned up. 

"I didn't.  Never.  Only you," she whispered on her way to that lip,
bringing her own tongue to join his on that delectable lower lip.

The meeting of tongues developed into another dance.  She wrapped her arms
tighter around his neck, entwining her fingers in his hair.  She maneuvered
beneath him, wrapping her legs about him and felt the hard heat of him
pressing into her.  She drew her arms away from his head, running her
fingers down his shoulders, along his biceps and triceps.  She moved to his
hips, jerking at his boxers, needing to feel him inside of her again.

He raised himself up fractionally, helping her.  Her fingers closed around
him and she pumped her hand up and down, marveling at the feel of him.
Wanting him.  Loving him.  He was breathing heavily, his hips moving in a
rhythm as old as time.  

"Scully," he breathed her name as she wrapped her legs more tightly around
him and guided him into her.  As he filled her, she once again trembled
with the knowledge of what making love was.  She had had sex before, but
she had never made love.   Not until Fox Mulder.  They truly became joined;
two people becoming one.  He is inside of me, she thought with joyous
amazement, we truly are one being, united in love.

He moved inside of her, taking it slow this time, making it last.  His hand
fell from her face and a moment later, a spark of heat lit inside her as
his finger found the core of her.  As he slowly thrust with infinite care,
building up a wave of pleasure inside her body, he touched her deeply,
intimately; doubling, tripling, multiplying her pleasure.

The thought passed through her mind that it was Fox Mulder inside of her,
Fox Mulder touching her.  The knowledge alone nearly sent her over the
edge.  She clutched at him tighter, moaning his name.  Apparently that was
too much for him, his finger picked up its pace, one more joining in the
fun, he drove deeper into her, harder and faster and deeper and she was
crying and flying and screaming and soaring.

He let out a hoarse cry, falling heavily against her again, the only sound
in the room was their combined breathing.  She was happy to make a new
observation: they were breathing in unison.

He pulled away from her slightly, looking down at her and ran one finger
across her cheek, a tender look in his eyes.  Then he smiled, a mischievous
smile lighting his lips.  He spoke ... in that soft voice; that low,
intimate, husky whisper that never failed to send a multitude of shivers
running through her body.

"Twice in an hour.  Impressive, huh?" he laughed, seemingly amazed and
thrilled with his performance.  She could only join in his laughter and her
eyes were shining when she told him that she loved him.

End, Part Ten
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia"
J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net)

Part XI - Never Again (R)

Fox Mulder's Apartment, 7:34 p.m.

He was impressed.  Of course it had been two years, but still ....  He
looked down at the miracle that was Dana Scully and had a pretty good idea
that she was the reason for his repeat performance.

He grinned at her, loving the sound of her laughter.  He reflected for a
moment on the fact that he had only heard this joyous sound from her once
or twice before tonight.  He decided, as she lay there nestled against him,
her slender body shaking with mirth, that he wanted to hear it forever.

"So does this mean you're not impressed?" he asked without a hint of
seriousness.

"Oh, I'm very impressed," she replied, humor dancing around her eyes.  She
laughed again.  Actually this was more a giggle; he decided he liked the
giggle more than the laugh, if that was possible.

He began to move slightly, trying to ease some of his weight off of her.
It took a little maneuvering, and a lot of awkwardness, but they managed.
And she giggled throughout the entire process.  Finally though, he was
laying on the sofa on his back and she was on top of him, curled up in his
embrace.

He was silent for a few moments and she seemed to content to simply bask in
the afterglow of their love.  He shook his head at the absurd romanticism
of his thoughts.

"The afterglow of our love," he drawled under his breath, dragging out the
word 'love.'

"What?" Scully murmured into his throat.  He shook his head in response and
then belatedly added, "nothing."  With a quiet murmur, unintelligible, she
snuggled closer to him, rubbing her nose against his shoulder.  He stared
up at the ceiling thinking of the last couple of hours, the last couple of
weeks.

He still could not completely wrap his mind around everything.  Scully
believing that he had no faith in her investigating ... although if he was
being completely honest with himself (and he was being completely honest),
she hadn't really done her best work in Philly.  At least according to the
reports, she hadn't.

Regardless, she was still the best agent he'd ever worked with.  Of course,
he thought with a sardonic grin, the fact that she was lying deliciously
naked on top of him had absolutely nothing to do with that evaluation.  He
closed his eyes, thinking of the first moment she walked into the basement,
joining the F.B.I.'s most unwanted.

Young and fresh-faced she'd been, a tantalizing combination of intelligence
and innocence alight in her eyes.  After that first meeting when she had
stood equal to him, during that first case when she had put devotion to her
duty above Their agenda, even above her own scientific beliefs, and through
the following years, she had never ceased to amaze him.

No, the fact that her warm, bare body lay so contentedly against his had
nothing to do with his designating her the finest agent he'd ever had the
privilege to catch psychos and their mutant cousins with.  His grin faded
as he reflected on the fact that he had so rarely expressed that sentiment
to her.  I just assumed that she always knew, he thought bitterly.
He glanced down at her, seeing only her mussed red hair and the pale
expanse of her back tapering into the rounded curve of her derriere.  He
began tracing lazy circles down her spine, delighting in the softness of
her skin.

He closed his eyes briefly, baffled anew that she could have ever supposed
that he found her allure to other men in question.  Had he really sounded
that way to her?  It troubled him, adding to the guilt that had been
escalating for the last two weeks, that he had hurt her ... again, and in
so many little (and big, he reminded himself) ways.

He really was a lousy son-of-a-bitch.

As if reading his thoughts, she pulled away and he felt a moment's fear
take hold of him, but she only stretched and yawned noisily.  She looked up
at him, grinning, "sorry."

He shook his head slightly, "I'm sorry."

Her smile faded, "why?"

"I'm just sorry.  Everything that happened, everything I did ... I just
blew it all out of proportion.  What I did to you, cutting you out like
that, if you had done that to me, I would have --" he broke off, knowing
exactly what he would have done and also knowing that she wouldn't want to
hear it.

She shut her eyes, squeezing them tightly together and he felt compelled to
apologize again.

"I'm sorry.  I --" a quick shake of her head held off his words of
contrition.  "I just take you for granted, just assume that you'll always
be here."

She reached up, brushing her lips lightly against his, "I will."

"Scully, I haven't been fair to you."

"Mulder, don't.  It took both of us to create this situation.  You may have
been more complete and methodical about it, but I cut you out before
Philadelphia.

"And," she rushed ahead when he opened his mouth to deny her any blame, "I
didn't exactly give my all in investigating the X-File on my own ..." she
paused, apparently waiting for his interruption, but he was trying to be
honest, so he didn't.

She smiled wryly, "you did read the reports."  

He nodded.  "I did and well ..." he trailed off and she finished for him,
"I didn't do my best."

She was silent for a moment, then she took a deep breath, meeting his eyes.
 "I messed up in Philadelphia.  I never should have gone to his apartment --"

"-- Scully," he interrupted.  "I pushed you into --"  It was her turn to
interrupt.  "No, I pushed myself into it.  I wanted to be bad.  I wanted to
be someone other than the ever proper Dr. Agent Scully.  I wanted to be Dana."

She pushed herself up and looked down at him, that plea for understanding
back in her eyes.  

"But the way I acted, the things I did, the things I said about my father,
about you, that wasn't Dana.  It was no one I knew.  That's why when I woke
up the next morning in his apartment and recalled my behavior the day
before, I honestly didn't know how to act.

"So I did everything wrong, up until that night in my apartment when I said
'so what if I did' instead of 'no.'  Oh, I was angry with you, furious with
the way you treated me, but part of that anger stemmed from my guilt and
confusion at my own behavior."

She lay back down and he didn't know what to say.  He knew what he wanted
to say.  He wanted to ask her why she was still at the pretty boy's
apartment the next morning if she hadn't fucked him.  He'd forgotten that
little detail.

He also wanted to know what she had said about him.

However, he knew that she needed understanding now, not more guilt and/or
anger inducing 
questions.  She needed his absolution just as he had needed and been given
hers.  And so he said nothing, back to square one, not knowing what to say
at all.

When she spoke again, he was thankful for his silence as she obviously
wasn't finished.

"I was wrong.  I just never expected you would react the way you did.  I
should have.  In retrospect, I can't imagine that you would have reacted
any other way, knowing you."  She tucked her head back down, her next words
slightly muffled.

"After he --, when he kissed me I knew that I was trying to be someone I
wasn't.  I didn't know this man, for all I knew he," she paused and let out
a bitterly ironic laugh, "could have been a homicidal maniac."

He tightened his arms around her, truly for the first time realizing the
danger she had been in.  He'd been so concerned with first his jealousy and
then his guilt, that he really hadn't thought of how close to death she'd
come.  Selfish, selfish, selfish, he silently harangued himself.  Always
thinking of yourself, he thought, this whole mess was his fault, well
mostly his fault.  

She deserved so much more, so much better than he could ever be.  But he
was selfish, and indeed, selfish enough to keep her as long as she was
willing to be with him, whether he deserved her or not.  About that, he
knew, he could never be unselfish.  He knew that as long as she remained
here, he would never let go of her again.

"If it hadn't been for the storm I would have gone back to the motel and I
can't even begin to think where things would be now," she interrupted his
thoughts, answering his earlier unspoken question, "But because of the
storm I stayed there and he started crying, telling me the sob story of his
life.  I felt sorry for him, he seemed like just a nice guy down on his
luck and it was terrible outside, so he offered the bed and slept on the
couch.  I should have just left the next morning.  When I woke up, he was
gone, but as I said, I was confused and I didn't want to just disappear, so
I waited for him to return and, well, when he did, I became the unwitting
victim of his psychotic tattoo."

She shook her head, her hair brushing against his skin.  She laughed
lightly, "next time I decide I need to get a life, reel me in, okay?"

He was quiet, waiting to see if she was done, half-hoping she wasn't, as he
searched still for what she needed to hear.  When she remained silent, he
decided that ready or not, it was his turn.

"Scully, it is a nice tattoo you got," he rolled his eyes, imagining that
she was doing the same.  Brilliant, he thought.

"I mean -- damn," he broke off.  "I don't know what to say."  He took a
deep breath.  "Let's try this again, but first, I need to look at you."  He
began to move under her and she sat up.  After some seconds of maneuvering,
they sat side by side, slightly turned to the other.

"Maybe this was bound to happen eventually.  I understand the need for a
life, I really do.  I may have submerged my own need for one, but I do
remember the feelings and if I hadn't been so blind, I would have seen the
signs.
"You were restless and you needed someone willing to listen, to just be
there for you -- one human being to another and I just didn't do that.
What happened, what I did wrong, what you did wrong ... the specifics don't
matter.  The only thing that matters is that we don't forget why it happened.

"And I won't.  Dana," he reached out a hand, curving it about her neck.
"Scully, I won't ever forget.  I will never treat you like that again.  And
I will do my damnedest to listen to you, to be there for you.  I can't
promise that I always will, because we both know what a selfish bastard I
am," she offered a watery smile at his words, agreeing, "but I'll try.  All
of the pain and misunderstanding that led up to tonight will never happen
again.

"Never again.  I swear."

There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling when she nodded.  And in
that smile he saw her understanding, her forgiveness, her love and he
prayed with everything in him, that she saw the same reflected in his eyes.

"I love you," she whispered and he gloried in her words.  He gloried in her
smile, in her lips.  God, her lips, he thought, leaning towards her and
taking those lips once more.  And he was thrilled because he knew now how
their fullness felt beneath his own; filled with joy because the lushness,
the redness, the perfection was all his alone.  She was his. *His* Scully.

"You're mine," he whispered in between kisses.  

Her lips, my god, how he loved her lips; they were full and lush and moist
and he wanted them, wanted to kiss them forever.  He captured her face in
his hands, kissing her.  He was kissing Scully.  Agent Scully.  Dana
Katherine 'I'm-a-medical-doctor' Scully.  This realization hit him with a
thundering force.

She really was his.  She really was here.  He had made love to her.  Twice.
 It wasn't a dream.  It was real; she was real.  Why this was suddenly
hitting him now with such explosive power, he couldn't answer, but there it
was.

He was kissing Scully.

His hands were in her hair and it was soft.  His hands roamed over her
body, soft and yielding.  His lips covered hers, sucking at her upper lip,
tasting her.  She was delicious and sweet.  He wanted to never let her go.
That thought seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn't think; he couldn't
breathe.

She pulled away, laughing in between gasping breaths.

"Mulder, breathing is important," she finally managed to get out.  "You
seem to forget that."

"You're mine," he repeated huskily, a deep urgency filling him.  He needed
her to know this, no more misunderstandings, never again; he needed to know
that she would never look at another man again.  He needed to know that she
knew that she was his, just as surely as he was hers.   "You're mine," he
repeated with more urgency.

Her eyes met his and they were vivid and bright, everything she was.  He
thought of cornflowers and skies and oceans and dreams of heaven.  She
seemed to understand him; to know what he was demanding of her with his claim.

"Yes."

One word.

She said "yes."  And everything was right.  The urgency left him.  She
knew; she understood.  She knew him; she understood what he needed.  She
would never hurt him again and he would never hurt her, not deliberately;
they would never mention fucking Ed Jerse again.  She was his.

"Mine," he whispered, vaguely aware of how possessive he must sound and he
was afraid that she would become angry; she wouldn't want to be his.  But,
his mind argued, as he continued staring into those blue eyes, she knows
me, she understands me.

"Yes, Mulder.  I'm yours."  More tears slid down her face and she leaned
forward, pressing her lips, those perfect lips, against his forehead.  She
pressed a light kiss on each of his eyelids.  She parted her lips, lightly
running her tongue down the bridge of his nose.  He smiled. 

She kissed his cheeks on either side.  Pulling back, she looked him in the
eyes, staring straight into his soul.

"And you are mine," she whispered, sealing her claim softly, but as
possessively as did he.  She leaned forward once more, kissing him and for
a long moment he held onto her.  But this time, he was not afraid to let
go.  He knew she would be there ... always.  

"I love you," he whispered softly, euphoria filling him because he could
say the words to her now.  Now and always.  "I love you so much," he said
again ... just because.

She was his as he was hers.  My life is yours, my life is yours, my life is
yours, ran through his mind, a joyous litany.  He drew away from her lips
and his mind, his soul, his heart were at peace.  And he could breathe.
She was here.  She would always be here, so this time he remembered to
breathe.

The End