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Author: Daydreamer

Posted: 28 December 1998

Prayer: The Liturgy of the Hours

Summary: Matins: One of the canonical hours of prayer.

Matins occurs at midnight.

Prayer: Matins

Eleven forty. He checked the clock once more, then his watch.

Definitely too late to call her. Too late to expect her to call.

Way too late for a visit. He sighed.

When had he become this dependent? It was a gradual thing;

she had snuck into his heart when he wasn't looking, sliding

right by all the defenses he set up to keep others out.

Arrogant. Cool. Incredible intelligence that manifested in a

know-it-all manner. Memory that let him put things together

that others couldn't comprehend. He used them all to keep

people at a distance. But she had slipped in; never pushing,

never prying, just a constant, comforting presence. Continually

there until one day he woke up and realized she was as essential

to his survival as the air he breathed or food and drink.

There had been no girls in high school. The specter of

Samantha's

disappearance had made everyone keep their distance. He'd been

normal until Samantha had disappeared and then he had become

as abnormal as they come.

Phoebe had been first. He'd fallen into the typical

inexperienced

male pattern. The first girl to let him have sex and he'd fallen

at her feet, allowing her to walk all over his heart and soul.

He'd been burned, and badly, and had pulled the mantle of

'different' more tightly about himself, using it to force others

to keep their distance.

A prophet is never respected in his own land. How true that

had been in Quantico. Recruited right out of Oxford, pulled

into high profile, high stakes VCS, he'd used his memory

and intelligence to solve crimes no one else could. And he'd

done it with the arrogance and self-assuredness that only the

young can get away with. It kept everyone at a distance.

Happy to have his 'help' on the worst of the worst cases,

but never invited for a beer with the guys, or a barbecue

with their family; he'd been isolated, alone, and found himself

spiraling into the madness of the ones he pursued.

Diana had been like a lifeline, but she hadn't wanted him

either. Only what she thought he had to offer. He'd been

a rising star, and she'd hitched her wagon to him, willing to

ride up the golden boy career path in his wake. She'd even

followed him into the X-Files, mistakenly believing that his

fast track would follow him to the basement. It hadn't taken

long for her to see the error in her judgment, and he was alone

again.

All that intelligence of his, that perfect, eidetic memory,

and yet

he'd still made the same mistakes, over and over again. But,

while he might be slow, he did eventually learn, and he'd been

a loner again, unwanted in the basement, but left to his own

devices. His solve rate on the old open cases in the X-Files had

been high enough that he was left alone. The new cases that

drifted his way, the oddities, the unusual, the unexplainable,

he managed to identify, categorize, codify enough of them that

he was given a fairly free rein.

And he'd been content. Or at least as content as he ever

expected

to be in his life. He had interesting work to do, he did it well.

He was able to pursue his own work, his own interests with

little interference. He had access to information, sources,

networks to advance his work, and he used them. And if he

didn't have friends, if he didn't have the respect and admiration

of his peers, they were still more than willing to slide by the

basement, asking for a consult on this case, a 'could you take a

look at that' on another case. More than willing to use him in

private and abuse him before others.

But he'd been alone. And he'd told himself that alone was

what he wanted. Alone was how he worked best. Alone was

who he was.

Until Scully. She breezed in one day and had completely

overtaken him. She opened the doors, slipped over the

walls, cut through the fences and settled herself right in

the center of his soul. All done effortlessly and apparently

while he was looking the other way.

He smiled. It was just like her. Even the capture of his

heart had been done neatly, carefully, with surgical precision.

No wasted movements, no lost time.

Had it begun the first time -- the first case? When she'd

bared herself to him in a darkened motel room? Revealing

not just her body, but the depth of trust she was capable of,

the faith she had in him even then?

Was it when she'd come to Puerto Rico for him? Following

him outside the Bureau, outside the country, outside the

law?

He'd first realized it, really realized it, when she was

taken.

That had been the worst. He'd thought nothing could

be worse than losing Sam, but Scully's disappearance had

changed that. It had been -- what was it that English author

called it? The long, dark tea-time of his soul. How appropriate.

He snorted bitterly. And he lived in apartment 42 to boot.

By the time she had been returned to him, he'd known. He

was linked to her, bound to her in a thousand different ways,

connected by a covalence that staggered the imagination and

boggled his mind. That warmed his heart, soothed his soul,

and terrified him to the very core of his being.

He'd looked for ways to make her leave, struggled for ways

to keep her safe, but the one unfailing constant was -- she

was constant. Always there, always with him, always on

his side. Oh, they argued, yes, but only over silly things

like what caused the man to disappear. Never over the

important things, like why she hadn't disappeared yet.

It was the one dependable thing in his life -- his

relationship

with Scully. And like an addict with a growing need, he wanted

more.

He had a sudden vision of her, naked, above him, head thrown

back in ecstasy, and his hand slipped down to touch himself.

But despite the incredible sensations his fantasies of Scully

evoked, it wasn't about sex with Scully. He was sure that

would be fantastic, but it was the other things that made

the lack of sex -- so far, he hastily amended -- so unimportant.

Scully was safety. He thought of how, in his drug-induced

haze, ill and feverish, his father dead and lying on the

bathroom floor, he had come to Scully. Somewhere, in

the midst of it all, he had known where safety was.

And security. Scully was security. When he'd let that

doctor drill holes in his head, when he'd let him inject

him with unknown drugs in unknown quantities, Scully

was the one that offered security. Coming in alone to

face his madness. Staring down the gun he leveled at

her. Offering the only security he'd known in his

miserable life, as she kept the others at bay, and gave

him back his life.

And Scully was protection. Standing guard over him

all night in a Florida forest.

Scully was comfort. A hug when he'd chased his own

demons and nearly cost a little girl her life.

But most of all, Scully was there. The one thing that had

been missing in his whole life -- a solid presence and

unconditional acceptance, the one person who never

went away, no matter what he did.

He lay on the couch now, and looked at the clock once more.

Midnight. He smiled. Another day. A new day. In a mere

eight hours, he could be with her, and this day, this day would

be different.

He lay back on the couch, the TV silent for once, pulled the

shabby blanket that served as his bedcovers down over himself,

and let himself drift off to sleep.

Summary: Lauds: One of the canonical hours of prayer.

Lauds occurs at around 1:30 a.m.

Prayer: Lauds

He woke to a voice screaming and jumped up, only then

realizing it was his voice, his screams. He was covered

in sweat, his whole body shaking uncontrollably, and

tears ran unfettered down his face.

He'd been running, chasing after something, but it was

always just out of reach. Scully -- Scully was just out of

reach. And she needed him. She was calling him -- words

he'd heard crying out to him -- "Mulder, I need you."

But he wasn't there, he wasn't fast enough, he just couldn't

reach her.

He shook his head savagely, chest heaving as he fought

to take in air, to breathe out the terror that so overwhelmed

him.

He wiped his eyes harshly then glanced down at himself,

noting that he'd fallen asleep in his clothes again, and

his T-shirt was now plastered to his torso. He pulled it

off roughly, balling it up and using it to wipe the fear-sweat

from his body.

His eyes were inexorably drawn to the phone, willing it to

ring

even as he knew it never would. He began to pace, a frantic

back and forth motion, even as he chanted to himself: "She's

OK. She's OK. She's OK." But he couldn't convince himself,

and almost without volition, he found himself lifting the phone

and dialing.

A half ring later, and a sleepy voice murmured, "Shhh,

Mulder,

it's OK," and he smiled that she knew him so well.

"Scully," he breathed, and that said it all.

"Scully."

"Hush now, it's all right." Her voice was heavy with

interrupted

sleep, but he could feel her waking for him, focusing on him,

sensing what he needed.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Do you want me

to come

over?"

He shook his head, calmed by her voice, then realized she

couldn't see him and answered, "No, uh, that's OK. I'm

OK."

He closed his eyes and he could see her in his mind. She was

sitting up in her bed, her hair in disarray, wearing those navy

blue,

man-style pajamas that she wore so frequently when they

traveled. The phone was to her ear, and her head was tilted as

she measured his response, trying to decide if he really was OK,

or if she should come over anyway.

It was bad enough that he'd woken her, so he repeated, with

more conviction this time, "Really, Scully, I'm OK. It just,

uh,

well, it was just ..." Shit, he couldn't even explain it to

her.

But it didn't matter because she was speaking again. "It

just

overwhelmed you this time, right Mulder?"

And he nodded again, stupidly forgetting she couldn't see

him, and his breath caught in his throat, a choked sound

that carried through the phone.

"Shhhh," she soothed him, "it's all right. Was

it the same one?"

He nodded again, then managed to choke out, "I was

running --

you were there, but you weren't. And I couldn't get to you."

His

voice broke again, a strangled sob that escaped his best efforts

control.

"I'm here, and I'm OK. Nothing wrong with me -- I'm

tucked up

safe in my own little bed." He could see her again. She rose

and

was pacing now, and he felt so guilty for disturbing her rest.

But

she was worried and she wouldn't go to sleep until he was calm.

"You were calling for me," he offered tentatively.

"You said you

needed me," he paused, his voice echoing his forlorn

countenance,

then dropping to a mere whisper, "and I wasn't there.

Scully, I

wasn't there."

"Mulder, shhh," she soothed him, "it was just a

bad dream. You're

always there for me. Always. You're the one I count on, Mulder,

no matter what. You are always there for me."

He sniffed, knowing he was being selfish, but unable to stop

himself.

"Not this time, Scully, you called and called and I wasn't

there."

"It was a bad dream, Mulder. It wasn't real. This is

real. Right

here, right now. I'm here and I'm OK. And you're there. And I

know that no matter what happens you're going to be there for me.

No matter what. That's what's real."

He sniffed again, then cleared his throat, the last residue of

the

dream fading before the force of her conviction. In its place,

guilt was fast approaching. She needed to rest, not babysit

him via Ma Bell.

He must have been quiet for a long time, thinking, because

she suddenly said, "I'm coming over, Mulder," and he

could

hear her moving about, as if she was getting ready to get

dressed.

"No," he said sharply, his conscience finally

kicking in as

he thought of the long drive she would face to come and be

with him, just because he couldn't sleep like a normal person.

"No," he said again, easing his tone, "I'm all

right now, Scully.

Really I am."

"You know I don't mind coming over, Mulder."

"I know, but it's not necessary. I'm OK now. It was just

little -- intense -- there for a bit. But I'm OK now."

"Are you sure?"

He could hear the hesitation in her voice. "Yeah, I'm

sure.

Besides, I'd have to change the tape in the VCR if you come

over."

It was a poor excuse for levity, but he made the attempt.

And, God bless her, she laughed. "Since when have you

worried

about my sensibilities, Mulder?" she teased.

He was suddenly very serious when he replied, "I worry

about

everything about you Scully." His voice was low, husky now,

emotion laden. "Don't you know that?"

"Of course I do, Mulder." She was serious too.

"And I worry

about you. That's why I can come over if you'd like."

"Nah, that's OK, Scully. I'm all right now. I'm sorry I

woke you."

No I'm not -- I'd be insane if I couldn't call you in the middle

of the

night.

"No you're not. You'd go nuts if you couldn't call me in

the

middle of the night and you know it."

He actually pulled the receiver from his ear, staring at it as

it would reveal secrets to him, before slowly placing it back

to his ear and replying, "You know me too well,

Scully."

"Are you OK now, Mulder? Can you sleep?"

"I'll be OK," he skirted her question. "How

'bout you?

Can you get back to sleep?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

There was a long pause as they sat together in contented

silence.

He could hear her pull the covers back as she slid back into the

warmth of her bed.

He stripped off his jeans, and settled himself on the couch,

phone still to his ear.

"Are you settled, Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm OK now."

"Call me if you need me?"

"I will."

"Mulder - promise you'll call."

Shit, she was really worried. I'm sorry, Scully. I always seem

worry you.

"I will Scully, I promise. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Sleep well."

"You too, Scully, you too. I'll see you soon."

He could hear her roll over in the bed, but she didn't hang

up.

And neither did he. Through the phone, he could hear her even

breathing, and he slowly drifted off, content that she knew him

so well, that she knew what he needed and was so willing to

give to him.

Soon, Scully, soon. You have to know how much you mean

to me soon. Phone to ear, he fell into peaceful slumber.

Summary: Prime: One of the canonical hours of prayer.

Prime occurs at dawn.

Prayer: Prime

He'd managed about three and a half hours of sleep -- not too

bad

for Fox Mulder. He had awakened to find the phone still pressed

his ear, little Scullysounds still making their way into his

subconscious. The even in and out of her breathing, a rustle of

linen as satin pajamas shifted beneath cotton sheets, a tiny sigh

as she rolled against the receiver. That connection, knowing she

was right there had been enough for him to sleep -- and he almost

never slept after a nightmare.

Ah, Scully, you know just what I need.

He listened a bit longer, feeling more like a voyeur now that

his panic had receded, but unwilling to break the connection.

Finally, he pulled himself up and whispered, "Scully?"

"Mmmm?" was the prompt, albeit half-asleep reply.

"Go to sleep."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"I'll see you soon."

"Yes-s-s-," the 's' a sibilant that stretched for

long moments.

"And thanks."

"Mmmm." A yawn. " 'k."

He gently replaced the receiver in its cradle and rose to walk

the window. He looked out over the city, the sun casting that

roseate false glow that occurred just before it crossed the

horizon.

There was a tracing of adhesive on his window, in the shape

of -- what else? -- an X. But Deep Throat was gone. And Mr. X

was gone. Helpers were few and far between. It had been years

since he'd seen Senator Matheson. Marita seemed to have

disappeared as well. The only person who had any answers was

someone he saw all too often. The smoking man.

He thought back on all those late night meetings -- parking

garages, out of the way bars, darkened hallways. Dark. That

was the one thing they all had in common. It was always in

the dark it seemed. He was always in the dark. He lived his

life in the dark spaces no one else wanted, no one else would

take. Alone, unseen, left to his own devices. And, if the truth

be told, he had preferred it that way. The dark seemed to fit

him, offering protection from the rest of the world, the ones

who didn't care, didn't understand, didn't want to know.

All the dark times -- all the alone times.

But Scully had changed all that. Scully was light -- chasing

the shadows from his soul. The first night, even back to the

first night, she had been light to him. A storm darkened

room in a no-name motel, he was like a moth drawn to her

flame. In candlelight, she trusted him, bringing that light

into his soul, and it had never completely gone out.

There had been times when it was close, when the total

darkness threatened to engulf him again, but always, she

was there, a light flickering against the black aphotism

that reached for him, called for him, beckoned him into

its reaching arms.

Always, he was most vulnerable when he was away from

her. She strengthened him with her light; her brightness

showed him the way.

When they separated them, and he was on wire-tap, it was

there. An inky, shadowed despair that clawed at him, trying

to suck him into its maw. But she had been there too,

her bright illumination chasing the morbid creature back to

its lair, keeping him safe from its clutches.

When he lost hope, lost faith, almost lost his way, she came

for him and pulled him back. She walked the edge with him

willingly, her lambent touch holding him to the path, keeping

him from plunging headlong into the nothingness that cried

out to him.

When they took her -- his hands clenched even now in barely

suppressed rage -- when they took her from him, they took his

light. And look what he did. So desperate for her presence,

her touch to ease his pain, to guide his path and soothe his

spirit, he played with death, sleeping with a child of darkness.

And when she was returned to him, breathing, but her light

faded, like a candle guttering in the weight of its own

effluence,

he had been helpless to bring her flame back. He'd tried,

oh, yes, he had tried, but it was beyond his capabilities.

But somewhere in there, somehow, someone's prayers, someone's

faith had been rewarded, and she had been returned to him, a

glowing presence that once again chased the cobwebs from the

corners and brightened the caricature he called his life.

The sun began to top the horizon, the pinks and dappled roses

fading before the brighter golds and yellows of full day.

They all faded before the force of Scully's light. As long as

he stayed in her orbit, he was within her sphere of protection.

It was only when he ventured away, only at his aphelion, that

the darkness threatened him now. And always, always, her

pull brought him back.

Sinking into Patterson's madness, and she was there to pull

him back. Facing demons from his own past, yet she faced

down the gun he dared to point her way. Alone, in a spare

hospital room, facing a man who wanted to play, his finger

on the trigger, but Scully had been there -- her brilliance

cutting through the murkiness imposed on him from beyond.

When Scully was there, he was safe. Why had it taken so

long to figure this simple fact? He shrugged. Why didn't

matter. What mattered was that he understood now. She was

light and warmth and air; she was food and drink and all the

sustenance that he needed. And it was time to tell her.

He gazed out the window, watching as the sun slid effortlessly

above the horizon, selflessly sharing its warmth and light,

chasing the night away, and bringing the promise of another

new day.

Scully was the sun -- his sun. His warmth and his light, she

had

slipped effortlessly into his heart and brightened his soul. She

was

heat, her passion igniting his own raw need, her fire fueling a

fever need in him that could only be cooled by her touch.

And now, the sun had brought another day. And Scully had seen

him through another night and into that day. A day of promise

and hope, of possibilities.

It was a day when there was warmth and light in his life,

reflected

from her presence. It was the day when he was going to give back

to her.

Summary: Chapter: The morning meeting in a Benedictine

monastery,

held after Prime, to discuss the order of the day and any other

business

that needs addressing, including redress of brothers in sin.

Prayer: Chapter

"Morning, Mulder."

Mulder looked up from his desk, arm half over the notepad

covered in his semi-legible scrawl. He smiled, shaking his

head almost imperceptibly. She amazed him. Up half the

night with her borderline psychotic partner, listening to his

maunderings, soothing his psyche, and still she appeared

at work on time, immaculate suit, not a hair out of place,

the consummate professional.

God, why that suit? Why today? It would be the tightly

tailored little black number, the one with the skirt that was

just slightly shorter than her normal fare. He snuck a peek

at her feet. Black heels with little bitty straps around

the ankle and over her arch.

He suppressed a groan, feeling himself flush and looked

back up to find her gazing curiously at him.

He glanced down at himself. Thank God he'd picked his

laundry up from the cleaners and had a fresh suit this

morning. The shirt was out of the bag new, but the tie?

He shrugged. Scully said his ties always left something to

be desired.

When he lifted his eyes to her again, she was staring

expectantly at him. What? Had he missed something?

He tried a half smile in her direction, but that just made

her frown and she turned to put her handbag in her desk

drawer, placing the cardboard tray with cups on the

desktop.

"Are you OK, Mulder?" she asked as she faced him

once

more.

He turned the notepad over, still keeping one arm on top,

and asked innocently, "OK, Scully? Why wouldn't I be

OK?"

"You didn't answer me when I said good morning."

She was crossing the room now, her hand reaching out to

touch his brow, and he found himself leaning almost

unconsciously into her touch. Proximity with her was

having its usual effect, and he fidgeted slightly in his chair

even as his face flushed once more. He let her hand rest there

for a long moment, enjoying the sensation of her cool fingers

against his fevered brow, then gently shook her off.

"I was distracted. Sorry. Look, I'm OK. Is that

coffee?"

He deliberately shifted his gaze to the cups on her desk.

She looked at him a minute more, then sighed slightly

and said, "Yeah. Coffee. But you look like you could

do with juice instead. I think you've already been into

the caffeine." She planted her hands on her hips.

"Mulder,

did you sleep at all last night?"

His eyes widened and he looked down at himself again.

Did he look that bad?

"I slept Scully. I slept good after I talked to

you." His voice

dropped and he was suddenly self-conscious. This was

supposed to be her day -- but things were already focused

on him. He needed to get a grip now, and move this

conversation in a different direction.

"I'm sorry I woke you last night, but," his eyes

skittered

away and he suddenly felt about 14 years old, "I

appreciate you being there."

He stared at the floor for a long moment, then risked a

glance in her direction to see her staring at him in almost

open-mouthed amazement. Damn! Was he really so

self-centered that honestly voiced appreciation was

such a shock to her? He jumped to his feet and moved

to stand before her.

"Scully." He paused, wanting to make sure he got

this

right. "I may not always say it, but," deep breath, in

for

a penny, in for a pound, "I do appreciate you being

there."

She stared at him, her brow furrowed in concentration

as if she was trying to decipher what he had said. Finally,

she nodded and walked back to her desk.

"So, you want coffee or not?" she asked.

Now it was his turn to look dumbfounded at her. Hadn't she

heard him? Didn't she understand what he was saying?

He frowned now. Maybe this was going to be harder than

he'd thought.

"Coffee?" he repeated, trying desperately to stall

for time

as he worked things out.

"Yes, coffee. Do you want your coffee?"

"You brought me coffee?"

"Mulder," Scully was exasperated and it showed,

"it's my morning

to bring the coffee. You were supposed to bring the pastry."

One

hand went back to her hip and she cocked her head as she asked,

"You did remember the pastry, right?"

Shit! This was not going well at all. A night of revelations,

leading to today, the day he showed Dana Scully what she meant

to him, and right off the bat he forgot it was his turn to bring

their morning snack.

"No, Scully," he said evenly, "I just get tired

of stale danish in

the office. I thought we could get out and walk to that little

bakery down the street." When all else fails, lie like a

rug.

"You? Fox Mulder? In a yuppie bakery? One that serves

cappuccino, no less?" She marched back over to him, lifting

her

hand to feel his brow again. "Are you sure you're not

sick?"

He flushed again and lightly pushed her hand away. "Knock

it off, Scully," he groused, "I just wanted to do

something a

little different." His shoulders slumped slightly, and he

took

a step back toward his desk.

She softened considerably at his semi-dejected demeanor,

then said, "It's all right, Mulder, I was just teasing. I'd

love to walk to the bakery with you."

"When do you want to go?"

She looked at the pending paperwork on her desk, then

glanced at her watch. "Give me an hour to get this

done and up to Skinner, then we can head out."

"You sure you can wait that long?" he teased.

"Watch yourself, Mulder," she growled. "You're

already

in trouble."

He smiled now, then plopped back down in the desk chair.

"Oh, all right. Then hand me that file, will ya? And pass me

my coffee."

Reprieve. Another hour to figure out how to make her see

what she meant to him. An hour to plan his day and mend

his ways. He smiled again then looked down at his watch.

Only an hour.

Summary: Tierce: One of the canonical hours of prayer.

Tierce occurs at around 9:00 in the morning, the third hour.

Prayer: Tierce

Only an hour. Forty-five minutes ago that had seemed like an

eternity. But that was before he had forty-five minutes to

rethink

his position.

Mulder glanced up from the file he was ostensibly perusing,

and

noted Scully was still tapping away at her laptop. The latest

expense reports? Case notes? Who knew? She was certainly

being more productive than he was. He'd spent the last forty-five

he looked at his watch -- no, make that forty-eight minutes,

trying

to figure out how to tell her what she meant to him.

He'd told her he appreciated her, and she'd only nodded.

Hardly

the response he had been looking for. He'd been thrown for such

a loop, he hadn't known how to respond to her non-response. And

her lack of response? He was sure it was something he had done.

Somehow, he had created a situation where she was uncomfortable

with him and with his attempt to tell her how he felt.

The phone on Scully's desk rang, and he looked up, curious.

She

finished what she was typing, exchanged a quick look with him,

and answered.

"Scully." She paused, listening, then said, "I

see." A soft sigh,

then she added, "All right. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Would

you tell them I'm on my way?" She was opening her desk

drawer,

removing her purse, as she ended with, "Thanks, Kim.

Bye."

Mulder lifted an eyebrow inquisitively as she rose, digging

through

her handbag for keys.

"Quantico. Skinner volunteered me to review a

questionable autopsy."

Her stomach chose that moment to rumble softly and she flushed.

"Damn, I'm hungry." She looked over at him and smiled.

"I was

looking forward to our bakery walk."

Mulder's guilt settled on him like an old, worn blanket. He'd

forgotten

and now she would have to go and work on an empty stomach. No

wonder she didn't believe him when he tried to tell her how

important

she was to him. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said softly.

"I should have

remembered."

"It's all right, Mulder," she said as she pulled her

suit coat back on,

fumbling only slightly with the buttons. "I'll just grab an

early

lunch or something."

"No!" Mulder exclaimed, a new thought flashing

through his mind.

At her surprised look, he modulated his tone somewhat and went

on, "I mean, no, don't grab lunch. I'll drive out and bring

you

lunch, OK?"

"You're going to bring me lunch?" Scully asked, the

same peculiar

look on her face that she had had when he told her he appreciated

her.

"Yeah. What's so strange about that?" She certainly

wasn't making

any of this very easy. But then, turnabout's fair play. He'd

never

really made her life very easy either.

She shook her head slowly. "Nothing, I suppose. It's

just," she

paused, searching for the right words, "well, it's not your

usual

style." She dropped keys and purse onto the desk and walked

over

to stand before him again. "Mulder, are you sure you're

feeling

all right?"

Jeez. Was he a complete bastard, or what? A simple offer of

lunch and she thinks he's sick. He shook his head, forcing

himself to listen as she went on.

"I mean, you seem," again she paused, the struggle

for words

visible on her face, "more -- open? Is that what I

mean?" Her

eyes were closed and he could see her examining her statement,

refining it, choosing a comment and then discarding it. He

waited until her eyes opened and she said tentatively, "You

were pretty upset last night."

Now it was his turn to nod. "I was." He was suddenly

embarrassed and he dropped his head. "I was really

glad you were there, well, on the phone there."

"You've been upset before," she stated.

"Yes."

"Well, you usually seem ..." she stopped again, and

he realized

that this discussion was very difficult for her.

Why? Why was it so hard for her to talk to him?

"... Mulder?"

He looked up, startled to find that she had continued speaking

and he had missed it all. She was gazing at him speculatively

now, an odd look on her face.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he apologized as sincerely as

he could, his

face flushed. "I got lost in thought."

She continued to stare at him, then apparently decided to

let him off the hook and smiled. "Oh well, you know what

they say about unfamiliar territory ..." Her short laugh

caught him unawares and he found himself responding.

Damn! Even when he didn't listen to her, she still seemed

to know just what to say.

He chuckled, then said, "Look, you probably need to

go."

At her nod of agreement, he stepped over to her desk,

grabbing her keys and purse and handing them to her.

"Variations on a theme," he said lightheartedly.

"Go.

Be a doctor." He was rewarded with her splutter of

laughter and a sharp smack on his arm. He opened

the door for her, then walked toward the elevator, his

hand resting lightly in the small of her back.

Her stomach rumbled again, and he looked down,

chagrined. "I'll bring lunch, I promise." Her hand

reached out to press the button to summon the elevator,

then traveled over to gently touch his arm. He met

her eyes and smiled. "I won't forget this time."

She smiled as well, then stepped away as the bell chimed

and the doors whooshed open. "You better not," she

threatened. "I'm armed. And I'm dangerous if I'm not

fed regularly." She laughed at the look on his face, and

her laughter was still ringing in his ears as the doors

closed, hiding her from his sight, taking her away from him.

Summary: Sext: One of the canonical hours of prayer.

Sext occurs at around noon, the sixth hour.

Prayer: Sext

Lunch. He needed to plan lunch. Burgers and fries wouldn't do

it, but it couldn't be something too fancy or she'd start

wondering

if he was sick again. He shook his head. He offers to bring

lunch;

she thinks he's sick. It was a very revealing insight into their

relationship.

Pizza? Too plain. How about some other Italian dish? Lasagna?

Spaghetti? Fettucine? Good, but rather messy to transport.

There was always Chinese. Kung Pao chicken. Pork Lo Mein.

Or Indian. Scully liked curry. Or Greek. A nice Greek salad

with lots of feta cheese.

He could just go with soup and sandwiches. Though soup

might be hard to transport as well. Roast beef au jus. Ham

and Swiss. A nice thick club. With -- French onion soup?

Chicken noodle? Vegetable beef?

Or a salad. Scully ate salads all the time. Probably how she

was able to fit into that tight little suit she had on today.

Mulder allowed his thoughts to drift to the vision of his

partner as she had arrived this morning, and he quickly

felt a tightening in his pants. He shook his head again.

He had work to do and he was daydreaming already. No

wonder Scully thought he was sick.

He was sick. Too obsessive to function in the real world.

He'd been fortunate to survive so far, managing somehow to

skate through rules and regs that would have caused others

to be dismissed from the Bureau. Scully's steadying

influence was a large part of why he'd made it so far.

He'd tried to tell her. She kept him honest. Made him prove

things. Insisted he back it up with evidence, not just feeling

and intuition. And it had made him a better person, a better

agent. No longer just Spooky Mulder - he was an investigator

others didn't mind working with anymore. What a tremendous

gift she had given him.

And he was supposed to give her lunch in about two hours.

He stared at the list he'd made. All the different possibilities,

all the things scratched out. He was going to screw this up;

he could feel it. A simple task like "bring lunch," and

he was

going to screw it up.

Well, he wasn't going to screw it up without trying. He rose

to his feet, ready to go do battle with the restaurants of the

world.

He shoved the mutilated list into his pocket and pulled his

coat back on. He was almost to the door when the phone rang.

Almost without thinking, he returned to his desk and answered,

"Mulder."

"Agent Mulder? I have some information you might find

useful.

Can you meet me?"

"Who is this?" Mulder could feel his heart begin to

race; the

catch in his breath as he thought of another shot at getting the

answers he so desperately sought.

"That's not important. I work for NSA and I can provide

you

with the names of some people who wouldn't bear up under a

bit of scrutiny. Can you meet me?"

Mulder checked his watch. Scully was expecting him and he

still

had to make plans, pick things up, and make the drive to

Quantico.

"When?" he asked cautiously.

The voice on the other end sounded surprised at his question.

"Now. Meet me now." He rattled off the name of a

backstreet

bar not too far from the office.

"Uh --" Mulder was struggling, "I'm -- not...

Can I meet you tonight?"

"NO!" the voice exploded. "Absolutely not! Do

you take me for an

idiot to give you time to set me up? Look, do you want to hear

what

I have to say or not?"

Mulder stared at his watch, watching the seconds tick by. His

lower

lip was pulled into his mouth and he chewed the tender skin until

tasted blood. Scully or the hunt. The quest or his partner. The

truth

or the woman who meant more to him than anyone in the world. She

would understand. She always understood. Oh, she'd be a little

upset,

but once he explained it -- it was unplanned, unexpected. A one

shot

deal. How could he let it pass? She would understand and she

would

forgive him.

The voice cleared its throat impatiently and Mulder turned his

attention

back to the phone.

It was always dark in the lower level of the Path building at

Quantico. Mulder wondered, not for the first time, why they

seemed to perpetuate the myth of dark and creepy being associated

with the dead. A few more lights in the ceiling tiles would not

break the FBI's budget, he was sure.

He walked down a corridor, past the autopsy bay, stopping in

a little used 'L' in the hallway that led to an exit. He dropped

his burdens and began to lay out the blanket. Getting everything

set up, he made another trip to the car, bringing the basket and

a couple pillows. God, he hoped she would forgive him. He

always seemed to screw things up.

He laid the pillows out, then spread plates and utensils, but

left the food packed for now. He filled the glasses -- iced tea

and smiled. It was corny now, after five years, but it was an

inside joke that never failed to make her smile. And as late as

he was, he needed that smile.

He stood up and surveyed his impromptu picnic. Not great,

but not too bad either. Finally deciding there was nothing more

he could do, he turned to go and face his partner.

He rapped on the glass in the door, then pushed his way in

when she turned and looked.

"Oh, there you are," she said. "I'd about given

up on you."

Her words struck him and he caught his breath.

"Don't," he

choked out, "please don't."

Her gaze turned worried and she quickly stripped off her

gloves and came to him. "Mulder, are you OK?"

"Don't," he repeated again, eyes staring into her

own.

She cocked her head quizzically. "Don't what?"

"Don't give up on me."

Her face softened then, and she took in his obvious

distress. "Oh, Mulder, what happened?" she asked

softly.

"Nothing," he replied. He was getting better now.

The

panic that had gripped him at her words was receding.

"Hey," he looked up and smiled, "I'm sorry I'm

late."

She glanced down at her watch. "You're not all that

late. It's hardly 1:00." She went and pulled on a new

pair of gloves. "Let me put him away, and we can eat."

She began to push the gurney toward a walk-in refrigeration

unit. "What'd you bring anyway?" she called back over

her shoulder.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Mulder

replied.

Scully stepped back into the bay, stripped gloves and

gown off, and then walked back over to join Mulder.

It was amazing to him how she made even hospital

scrubs look attractive. He stood staring at her until she

spoke.

"Mulder? Earth to Mulder? Lunch? You did bring

food, didn't you?"

He nodded foolishly, but made no move. He was still

staring at Scully, drinking her in, reveling in her presence.

He had to make her see how important she was to him,

no matter what stupid things he did.

"Mulder?" she asked again, growing a bit impatient.

"What

is it? Did I grow a second head or something?"

"No, Scully," he answered. "You look --

nice," he finished

lamely.

She looked down at herself and laughed. "You are

obviously

suffering from a lack of proper nutrition." She smiled and

took his arm. "C'mon, let's eat. I'm starving."

He let her lead him out the bay, then gently redirected her

when she headed for the elevators.

"Where are we going? There's no place to eat down

here."

"Shhh," he whispered. "Have a little faith in

your partner,

Scully. You just have to trust me. After all, I don't want to

get shot. Again." He smiled down at her as he lead her

down the darkened hallway to the little alcove by the exit.

They turned the little corner and Scully stopped, amazed.

A soft blanket covered the floor, pillows against the wall

to lean into. China plates, silverware, crystal goblets

sat in readiness. Two hampers sat to the side, and she

could smell the savory odors that drifted out.

"Mulder," she began, "I'm -- shocked. This is

quite

a surprise."

"You like it?" he asked, suddenly shy.

"It's -- amazing." She turned and looked up at him.

"When did you do all this?"

"After you left. I got started. It took a couple hours,

but

I wanted it to be right." He didn't mention the phone call,

or the informant he had refused to meet. She didn't need

to know; it would only make her feel bad. And he wanted

her to be happy now. To be pleased with his surprise.

She was still standing, staring down at the elegant display,

and he took her elbow and gently eased her down. Once

she was seated, he pulled her shoes off, ignoring the strange

look she gave him. He took his own coat and tie off, then

kicked his shoes off to join hers by the wall.

Opening the first hamper, he began to lay out the dishes.

Two soups -- onion and vegetable; three salads -- chef's

Caesar, and Greek; roast beef sandwich, turkey club, ham

and Swiss on rye; lasagna, spaghetti, fettucine; curry and

fried rice; lemon pepper shrimp, broiled scallops, a stuffed

lobster tail. And he hadn't even gotten to the desserts.

He ceased his labors to find Scully staring at him in

disbelief. "Mulder," she asked, "what did you

do?"

"Do?" he echoed, confused.

"Yes, do. What did you do?" She waved her arm at the

array of dishes, then repeated, "What did you do?"

He shook his head. "I don't understand, Scully," he

said, honestly perplexed.

"Mulder, if ever I saw atonement, this is it." She

smiled at him to take some of the sting from her words.

"Now," she ordered, "fess up."

He was shaking his head again. Was this what she thought

of him? That he would only do something nice if he needed

to make up for something else? He tried to think back. Surely

he'd shown her some consideration at other times, but he

was having difficulty calling any of those times to mind right

now. He frowned, and his heart seemed to stutter within his

chest. He'd screwed it up after all. He was never going to

get this right. His head dropped and he waited for her to speak

again.

"Mulder?" she asked, abruptly changing her tone as

she

took in his disheartened appearance. "Mulder? I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to take anything away from this." She motioned

to the blanket again. "This is -- well, it's

wonderful!"

His head had come up at her apology, and as she praised

his efforts, a huge smile burst across his face. Unable to

contain

himself, he fell to his knees beside her and swept her up in

a hug. "You like it?"

She laughed, squirming slightly within his unexpected embrace.

"Yes, I like it. But, Mulder, you are acting very weird

today."

He hugged her again, then released her, and pressed a plate

into

her hands. "Weird good? Or weird bad?"

She stopped in the middle of piling spaghetti on her plate,

and looked

up at him. "Oh, weird good. Definitely weird good." She

ducked

her head as she flushed slightly and returned her attentions to

the

food. "Mmmm, this smells heavenly."

Weird good! He hadn't screwed up after all. For once in his

life,

something good just might work out for him.

He smiled now. She'd taken a last bite, handed him her plate

and leaned back into the pillows, sated. Her eyes closed, and

she sighed contentedly. "Mmmm, that was wonderful,

Mulder."

He was inordinately pleased with himself. He leaned back

as well, inching over to sit next to her, and her eyes opened

at his proximity. He slid the last few inches, until he was

against

her, his arm touching hers, his hip to hers, legs folded so that

her

knee rested against his own. "Is this OK?" he asked

diffidently.

She gave him the odd, speculative look that he was coming

to know, and then nodded. They sat quietly for some time, Scully

with eyes closed, Mulder gazing at her, drinking her in. Finally

she stirred, making as if to get up.

He reached out to hold her back. "Hang on a minute,

Scully,"

he said. "You didn't check out dessert."

"No more food, Mulder," she laughed, groaning at the

same time.

"Yeah, you gotta check this out." He scrambled for a

moment,

then pulled out half a turtle cheesecake. Looking around for a

knife, a fork, anything, he was suddenly at a loss for a utensil.

Scully was studying him again, that same peculiar look on her

face as she waited to see what he would do. He rummaged in

the hamper a moment longer, then looked up and smiled.

"Must be an X-File. Disappearing cutlery." He laughed

when she rolled her eyes at him.

"Oh well," he continued, "who am I to give in

so easily?" He

broke a piece of the rich cheesecake off, and slowly brought it

toward her. She stared at him, eyes wide with some strange

emotion he couldn't name, then slowly opened her mouth. He

placed the sweet dessert on her tongue, and was shocked when

she clamped her mouth shut, capturing his fingers in her mouth.

Her eyes lowered to half-mast, and her tongue slowly slid

against

his finger, working it free of its half curled position as she

quickly swallowed. A second later, there was a feeling of suction

against his digits, and within the confines of his tailored dress

slacks, he could feel himself leap to full erection. He closed

his eyes

and groaned.

At his inadvertent vocalization, she froze. His eyes shot open

and he found her staring at him, very nearly in a panic. She

opened

her mouth and climbed to her feet, stepping over him and racing

back down the hall. He could just barely make out her quietly

desperate words, "Oh God, what have I done?"

Summary: Nones: One of the canonical hours of prayer.

Nones occurs at around three in the afternoon, the ninth hour.

Prayer: Nones

Clean-up had taken longer than he'd expected. There was a lot

of food left over. He'd dropped by a local shelter and given it

away before coming back to the office. The original plan had been

to take it home and recreate the picnic for dinner -- there was

certainly enough food to do so without risking repetition.

But Scully's reaction to dessert, her blind panic and swift

flight had scared him. He'd remained rooted in place for

long minutes, his erection only slowly fading, his mind in

overdrive as he tried to fathom her actions.

He'd finally clambered to his feet and followed her back to

the autopsy bay only to be met by another surprise. She'd

locked the door. He hadn't even realized you could lock

those big swinging doors, but apparently you could, because

she had. He could just make her out through the glass, standing

stiff and silent by the far wall.

He'd knocked and been studiously ignored. He'd pulled his

phone and dialed, but she had not moved. He'd called to her,

begging her to let him in -- what appropriate wording -- but she

had not even twitched in response.

Finally, he had conceded defeat for the time being. He'd

packed

up the remains of the picnic and hauled it back up to the car.

He'd returned to pick up her shoes and carry them down to the

bay doors.

"Scully," he'd called, watching as she stiffened

slightly, but

didn't turn, didn't answer. "Scully, I'm leaving now. I'm

sorry I upset you." He paused a moment, hoping she might

answer, but silent she remained. "Your shoes are outside the

door, Scully. OK?" A quick nod of the head, but it was

reward

enough. At least she was listening to him.

"Scully, please, please, come back to the office when

you're

done here. Please?" No answer, no movement, no reaction.

"I'm gonna wait there until you come back. Even if I have

to wait all night." She straightened slightly at that, then

her

shoulders slumped. "Please don't make me wait all

night."

He had stayed a bit longer, hoping she might reconsider and

talk to him then, but had finally turned and made his way out

to the car.

Trying to salvage something good from the day, he had

dropped the still overflowing hampers of food at the shelter

and then returned to the office. But once there, he had been

unable to concentrate on work. Instead, he had pulled out

his notepad, and begun to make a list. It was something

he'd learned to do at a young age -- put things on paper and

look at them, then you could make reasonable decisions.

There was something going on here -- he just needed to

get a grip on it. Scully was there for him -- all the time,

in any way he needed. But today, when he'd tried to tell

her, to show her, what that meant, she'd been disbelieving.

She'd hidden behind humor, partially ignored him, and then,

when he'd finally broken through a tiny bit, she'd fled in

panic and hidden behind locked doors.

OK, Mulder. You're the great psychologist. What the hell

is going on here? He stared down at the piece of paper.

He'd been writing this morning when Scully had come in,

trying to put into words how he had felt when he woke to find

her still there with him. There had been such a sense of

peace when he heard her through the open phone line. And

he had been so moved that she would stay with him in that

way, watching over him in his sleep.

He read his words again, then quickly drew a T chart and

began to make lists.

When had Scully leaned on him? The first case out in

Oregon. The Pfaster case. When Penny Northern died.

That was about it. Three times in six years.

When had he leaned on Scully? Modell. Roche. When

his mother had her stroke. After the Cassandra case.

The Mothmen. The list seemed endless. And that was

just the case list. Add to it the innumerable times

he had called her at three in the morning, panicked

from a nightmare. The times he'd been injured, or

sick, or hurting, and she had been there, holding

his hand, her face the first thing he saw upon waking.

But when had he let Scully down? Again, the times

were too numerous to count. Too many failures and

almost failures. From Tooms attacking her in her

bathroom, to getting himself shot and leaving her

to face Luther Lee Boggs alone. From Duane Barry

and her abduction, to his short-sightedness during the

Pfaster case, when he had refused to acknowledge how

really disturbed she was by everything. From letting

Gerry Schnauz take her and terrify her, to her cancer and

subsequent illness. And then his refusal to believe her

when she experienced her own regression.

He slapped his forehead, staring down at the scrawls

he'd made on the paper. It was suddenly so clear to

him.

He was a psychologist. And he could see the pattern.

He reached out to her when he was in need, and she

always responded. He was only open with her when he

was in need. It was his need that made him let her in.

But his own sense of failure, his ongoing guilt at the

dangers she faced because of him, kept him from letting

her get close at other times. And his own distance in the

"normal" times, forced her to maintain a reserve, a

wall,

that now he could not breach. But he was going to get

through that wall now, one way or another.

The bond that they shared, the connection between them,

it was too real, and had existed for too long to let it continue

on as it was. It was time for some forward movement.

Scully was the most important person in the world to

him, and it was time she knew.

He was going to make her see what she meant to him.

Not just when he was sick. Not just when he was injured.

Not just when he was scared, or hurt, or lonely. But

every day, all day. Every night, all night. She was going

to know how he longed for her. How she filled his nights

as often as the nightmares did.

His hand drifted down to stroke his burgeoning erection.

It wasn't about sex with Scully, but it kept coming up.

He snorted slightly, amused at his own pun. Boy, did

it keep coming up. He looked back at the words he had

written, one hand still in his lap.

Once you put things on paper, it became so clear. She

was going to have to see that things couldn't go on this

way. It was time to move forward.

He looked at the clock. Almost five. He'd told her

he'd wait all night, and that was exactly what he was going

to do. He moved the notepad to the corner of the desk,

pulled his laptop over, and decided to try to get some work

done.

Hell, he'd waited six years. He could wait through

this night if he had to.

Summary: Vespers: One of the canonical hours of prayer.

Vespers occurs at the end of the day.

Prayer: Vespers

Maybe she wasn't going to come back to the office after all.

He'd been pretty sure she wouldn't leave him here all night,

but then again, she'd been pretty upset as well. Scully didn't

run and hide very often. In fact, he couldn't think of a single

time when Scully had taken flight like that. And considering

their history of murderers, madmen, and monsters, that said

a lot about how much he scared her.

He sighed and closed the folder he had been reviewing,

reluctantly lifting another from the pile on the corner of his

desk. He glanced at his watch again.

There was a sound at the door and he looked up expectantly.

The door opened and Scully stepped in. Her eyes scanned the

room briefly then dropped to the floor when she saw him.

"Oh, you're still here," she said quietly.

"Where else would I be, Scully?" he asked gently.

"I told you

I was going to wait."

She shrugged, then moved to her desk, dropping files, handbag,

and tape recorder on the top.

"I see you found your shoes," he teased.

She flushed but declined to respond, instead opening her

laptop

and settling as if to work.

"Scully?" he asked. "Are we going to talk about

what happened

this afternoon?"

"No," she answered shortly.

That took him by surprise. He'd been prepared for her to avoid

or to equivocate, but to actually refuse to discuss it, that he

wasn't

expecting. He remained silent a bit longer, mulling this over

in his mind. If she refused to discuss it, wasn't that tacit

admission

that it happened? And that it had scared her as much as it had

surprised him?

He looked up, eyeing her speculatively as she worked doggedly

on her transcription. The earpiece to the small tape recorder was

in her ear and the only sound in the room was the "tap, tap,

tap,"

of her fingers on the keyboard.

He glanced back down at the pad on his desk and began to read

his musings of the afternoon. He'd pretty much concluded he was

the one who had caused Scully to be like this. Six years of

intense

neediness on his part, followed by total denial had trained her

deny her emotions toward him as he always denied his toward her.

Six years of midnight phone calls, surreptitious visits between

hotel

rooms, cries in the night answered by her voice, soothed by her

touch; demons banished by her strength. But he had steadfastly

refused to admit his need in the light of day, hiding behind

jokes and

innuendo.

He thought back to his reaction to her on their first case.

Frightened,

she'd openly admitted her fear and thrown herself into his arms,

seeking his reassurance. And what had he done? He'd stood stiff

and unresponsive until he finally forced himself to slowly put

his

arms around her and awkwardly pat her shoulder. He'd responded,

but she had known his discomfort. And then when the office had

burned, she embraced him, offering comfort and her steadying

presence, and he had refused to respond, standing stiff within

the circle of her touch, unyielding to her care.

And despite his avoidance of any overt emotional admissions,

she'd

still had the inner strength and fortitude to reach out to him,

to offer

her strength and comfort on so many occasions.

He looked at his notes, his lists, and began to write again,

his

thoughts flowing faster than his pen could keep up.

With her reaction to his surprise lunch, and her subsequent

action

over dessert, he'd realized that physical intimacy was all that

was

left for them. Despite the avoidance and denial, they were as

as two people could be. He thought of the feel of her tongue

against

his fingers and felt the immediate arousal the memory evoked.

God! She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him, certainly

wouldn't touch him, and yet the mere thought of her was turning

him on like nothing ever before.

This was not the way to break through Dana Scully's walls. He

needed to get himself under control and figure out how to let her

know that the feelings he was trying to share with her were real,

that the connection he wanted to acknowledge was a reality, that

the longing he was experiencing was the truth, and that none of

would fade come the next morning light. He'd trained her too

well to accept emotional intimacy in little bits and pieces,

rationed

out at his command, shared on his whims. He'd allowed her very

little opportunity to set the rules; rather, she had adopted his

own

standards, and he had then resented her for her steadfast refusal

to be open with him. All the "I'm fine, Mulder"s that

he had so

resented, that had so angered him, were nothing more than her

playing the game by the rules he had set.

He thought back through the day. She'd answered his call with

her usual care and stayed with him through the night. She'd

followed the unspoken guidelines that morning, not bringing it

up, and had been surprised when he had. She must have perceived

it as a sudden change in the rules halfway through the game. No

wonder she had been confused. And then, despite his vow to

be open and honest with her, he'd lied at the drop of a hat. His

plans for a walk to the bakery were thwarted by her consult on

the autopsy at Quantico.

But he'd thought it had gone well when she had seemed so

pleased

by his surprise luncheon. And they'd been comfortable together;

the conversation had been relaxed. He'd been ready to unburden

his heart to her, when he'd fed her that piece of cake, and she'd

oh, God, he could feel his erection swell again at the thought --

well, she'd reacted to him in a way he had only imagined in his

dreams.

A new thought flashed through his mind, and he realized he

could

easily have taken the prize for "Densest Man on the

Planet." If

she did that to him, relaxed and comfortable, with her guard

down,

then she must want him as well. Why hadn't he seen this

earlier?

Because, he mentally kicked himself, because I see everything

through

how it impacts me. But there was more than a one-sided desire

going

on here. And now, he smiled to himself, now the challenge would

making Dana Scully admit it.

He looked at what he had written. Lots of interesting

psychobabble,

very little practical decisions on how to move past this impasse.

glanced up at Scully again, and on the spur of the moment,

decided to

move back to her comfort level. Pushing her certainly hadn't

worked,

maybe he should try leading her a bit more gently.

"What did you find on the autopsy, Scully?" he

asked.

His mouth dropped open in shock, when she rose angrily, strode

to his desk, and threw the folder down in front of him.

"If you're so damned interested in the autopsy, Mulder,

you can

read the damn thing yourself!" She stood for a moment,

glaring

down at him, her hands on her hips, chest heaving from barely

suppressed -- what? Rage? Frustration? Dare he hope it might be

passion? Tears hovered in her eyes and she trembled slightly

where

she stood. Suddenly, without another word, she whirled and raced

from the room.

Mulder sat, stunned. Shit! That had not gone well at all. He

got

up, determined to -- to what? He still didn't have a clue as to

what

was the right thing to say or do. He'd started this day with

every

intention of telling Scully how much she meant to him, how much

he valued her friendship, and treasured her care and concern. And

how much he wanted to provide those things for her, to have her

come to him for comfort and solace, that she might draw from his

strength when she felt weak; that she might know it was

acceptable

to admit her weaknesses with him, as he admitted his with her.

He rose and left the office, going down the dim hallway to

stand

before the door of the ladies room. He knocked softly but

received

no response. "Scully?" he called tentatively. "You

all right?"

"Go away, Mulder," she answered, and he could hear

the tears

in her voice.

There was a long silence and Mulder was beginning to think

he'd

made a big mistake. Given his track record of saying the wrong

thing, this may have been a mistake. A day of trying to put

feelings

into words hadn't worked for him, and he had a feeling this was

his

last shot. Maybe the direct approach would work.

"Hey, Scully," he called again, "I'm sorry you

got upset at lunch,

but I'm not sorry it happened. It's kind of nice to know I can

turn

you on since you turn me on so much."

He could hear the sharp intake of air as Scully gasped on the

other

side of the door. Oh shit! That hadn't been the right approach.

He'd screwed up. He always screwed up, and now he screwed up

what should have been the best day of his life. Why the hell did

everything he touched turn to shit?

He was leaning against the bathroom door, debating on whether

not she would shoot him if he just went in, when the door opened

and

he stumbled forward. Scully stood to the side and let him fall

into

the small room, making no effort to catch him; scrupulously

avoiding touching him. When he caught his balance, and turned

to look at her, she was staring composedly at him.

"I am going to get my paperwork and go home, Mulder. I

think

it would be best if we just forget about this very strange

day." She

gave him a tight, forced smile, and walked out the door, leaving

him

to stand alone in the women's bathroom.

He walked over to the commode, lowered the lid, and sat. With

elbows on knees, he placed his head in his hands and slowly

let fall the tears that had been threatening all afternoon. He

sobbed

quietly, recognizing that these were tears of mourning. The

realization

of how much Scully meant to him was a one shot thing. It was too

hard and too painful to risk himself in this way when she was

obviously

not prepared to hear or accept his sentiments. He knew, as the

tears

continued to creep down his cheeks, that this one day was his one

day of courage. Tomorrow, things would be back to normal. She

would be the professional, and he would be the jokester. He would

hide

in humor and she would hide in business. And this relationship

of theirs would continue on forever, because he doubted he would

ever

again be able to take the risks he'd taken today.

He shook his head sadly, then brushed the tears from his eyes.

rose and walked to the sink, washing his face carefully, running

his fingers through unruly hair, and then washing his hands. He

straightened his tie and tucked his shirt in, then looked closely

at himself in the mirror. No longer was the image that of a

man in love, a man filled with longing and desire for a beautiful

woman. No longer was the reflection that of a man of emotions,

a man who wanted only to care for, protect, cherish, and make

happy

the woman of his dreams. No, now it was Fox Mulder, FBI agent,

professional partner of Agent Dana Scully. Friend, yes. Something

more? Apparently not in this lifetime.

He sighed and ran his hand over his hair one last time, then

turned

and left.

Summary: Collation: The evening meal, followed by sacred

reading.

Prayer: Collation

The man was going to drive her mad. Dana Scully fumed as she

drove to her apartment. Whatever had been going on with him all

day today? This day itself should qualify for X-File status. She

shook her head as she pulled into the parking lot of her

building.

Mulder in a mood was a force to be reckoned with, and he had

certainly tested her today. What on earth was the matter with

him?

Scully parked and pulled her briefcase and laptop out with

her,

locked the car and trudged up the walk to her apartment. She

dropped her work materials on the desk and then went to rummage

in the kitchen. Despite that wonderful lunch -- no, don't go

there

Dana, she warned herself -- it was late and she was hungry again.

Before she had lost control and made a complete fool of

herself,

she had harbored a small flicker of hope that she might be

sharing

a repeat of Mulder's repast this evening. Only here, in her home,

in front of the fire, perhaps, and with a nice bottle of wine

instead

of iced tea. But for all her internal complaints about Mulder's

strange behavior, her own actions took the cake. And the fingers

too, she added wryly. Mulder must have thought she'd lost her

mind.

God! How many times had she envisioned just that scenario?

A romantic picnic for two. A quiet, out of the way spot. Though,

she had to admit, down the hall from the morgue wouldn't have

made her list of possible locations. She shook her head, smiling,

as she pulled a TV dinner from the freezer. Leave it to Mulder

to make the most macabre setting into something magical, creating

a memory she would never forget.

He'd been so -- sweet? Was that a word you could use for Fox

Mulder? He'd been trying all day to be kind, going out of his

way to let her know he appreciated her being there when he called

last night. She put the dinner in the microwave, set the timer,

and started it. Then she let out a snort. As if she would have

been anywhere else.

>From the beginning, she had known that Mulder was

uncomfortable

with his emotions. Whether it was his innate nature, or a learned

behavior in the face of continual rejection from his parents

after

Samantha's disappearance, she didn't know. What she did know,

was that he needed her, but he couldn't admit that. And so she

had grown adept at "being there" for him, and then

ignoring it

the next day. Mulder's behavior today had cast those patterns

away, and made her unsure of what to say and do.

The microwave dinged and she sighed and rose. Pulling back

the cover on the dinner, she looked down at a rather unappetizing

display of meat loaf, corn, and mashed potatoes. Thinking back

to the spread from this afternoon, she found herself unable to

even take a bite and she carried the cardboard tray untouched

to the garbage, depositing it there. She sighed again, then

fixed a glass of wine, and went back out to the desk in the

corner

of her living room, settling in to get some work done.

She set the laptop out and pulled the tape recorder from her

briefcase, not bothering with the earpiece since Mulder wasn't

here to be disturbed. Mulder. What was going on with Mulder?

He'd pushed her buttons all day, keeping her off balance, never

sure how to react. She'd grown complacent in the aftermath

of his battles with demons. He called to her, she responded.

He was hurt, she sought to comfort.

But, never, never did the terrors of the night cross into

daylight's waking hours. Mulder was always the one with

a ready joke, an off-color remark when she would ask how

he was, had he been able to sleep any. It was as if his

resistance

was lowered at night, and in the day his natural reticence

reasserted

itself. He might offer an offhanded "thank-you" but no

serious

discussion of his night terrors was ever undertaken.

Today, however, he'd seemed to want to talk. Not about the

dream, not about the call, but about them. And she'd been

scared. Face it, Dana, it scared you. This is not a Fox Mulder

you are prepared to handle. And was there a "them" to

talk

about outside of the work relationship? She didn't know.

Oh, sure, she had her fantasies. What healthy woman wouldn't?

Mulder was brilliant, totally devoted, loyal to a fault. He was

good-looking, charming when he wanted to be, and had an arrogant

self-assuredness that could be most appealing at times. And he

was

good-looking. Had she mentioned good-looking? Oh, yeah,

she'd had her fantasies, that was for sure.

But to do what she had done ... She felt her skin burn and

knew

she was flushed as she thought back to the feel of his fingers in

her mouth. He'd been acting so strange all day. She'd been

struggling so hard to keep things in the safe zone. And then, in

one

fell swoop, he feeds her cheesecake with his fingers -- with his

fingers! -- and she was lost. Her reaction had been so totally

without thought, it caught even her by surprise and then she had

flown, away from her mistake, away from her weakness, away

from Mulder.

She sighed again. Today was an aberration. Things would be

back

to normal tomorrow. She looked down at the tape recorder and

realized it had played out while she had been lost in thought.

Yeah, things would be back to normal tomorrow, including

Skinner's

demand for her report and daydreaming like this wasn't going to

get it done. She rewound the tape, then picked up the file to

review before she finished the transcriptions. Holding the file

in one hand, her eyes were drawn to the bright yellow of a legal

pad that had been under the autopsy report. She didn't remember

putting that in there. Looking closer, she realized it was

covered

with Mulder's spidery scrawl.

She pulled her eyes away. She'd obviously picked up his notes

on something. She needed to call him and tell him that she had

them. Knowing Mulder, he was still at the office, either

searching

for them, or recreating them from that perfect memory of his. She

glanced back over and saw her name, followed by the words

"offers

her care" and rose quickly, walking away. These were not

case

notes. These were Mulder's private thoughts. Thoughts about

her. No way could she call him and tell him she had them. After

the day they'd had, there was no telling what he would read into

her inadvertent mistake. She would just have to take them in

tomorrow

and leave them on his desk. She'd go in early and leave them so

he would find them first thing. She wouldn't mention she'd had

his notes, and maybe by tomorrow, he'd be back to normal, and

he would be willing to let it slide as well.

She went back to the desk and lifted the pad from the

briefcase,

turning it face down beside her laptop. She'd deal with it in the

morning. In the meantime, she had a report to write.

She turned on the tape and began to type, but her eyes were

repeatedly drawn to the notepad, the cardboard back seeming more

vibrant than even the yellow lined pages had. I shouldn't. I

really shouldn't. The way he was behaving today, there's no

telling what he wrote. The good little angel that sat on her

right shoulder continued to offer her advice. I need to respect

his privacy. I'd be appalled if he ever read some of the things

I've

written.

But there was never a conversation with the angel of the right

that its counterpart didn't chime in. He'll never know. And

Lord knows, you're an expert at denying things that have

happened.

Maybe it will give you some insight into what was going on with

him today. Would that really be an invasion of privacy? Or would

that just be an extension of partnerly concern?

Against her better judgment, she turned the pad over, sighing.

If the fallout was bad, this was once she could truthfully say,

"The devil made me do it."

Taking a deep breath, she began to read. And was amazed.

Mulder had poured out his heart on the pad. Here was the

record of his day. Every comment he had made, every action

he had taken. His feelings for her, and his strategy as he tried

time and again to tell her what she meant to him. His own

analysis of why she wouldn't hear him. And, of course, a

healthy dose of his trademark Mulderguilt, assuming that he

was responsible for her not wanting to accept his words and

emotions. And she could feel the blush in her cheeks as she

read his words after the little incident at lunch. Here was not

only his love, his care, his concern for her, but also his

desire, a desire he'd kept carefully hidden for years if these

words were to be believed.

And here was his fear. His fear that he would never again be

strong enough to try and share his feelings with her. That her

unwillingness to accept what he offered was not just because

she was surprised by his actions, but rather, that it was her way

of telling him she wasn't interested in anything more than the

relationship they had. That she was still hoping for a

"real" life,

the safety and security that a real life would bring. The

husband,

the house, the minivan, maybe a couple of kids, a job that didn't

involve monsters and madmen. A life that didn't include Fox

Mulder.

She sat for a long time at the desk, then rose and walked to

the

bedroom. She changed out of her suit and pulled on a soft cotton

sweater and a pair of leggings. Padding barefoot back out to the

living room, she curled up on the couch, and began to read again.

Summary: Compline: The last of the canonical hours of prayer.

Compline occurs at bedtime.

Prayer: Compline

Eleven forty. He checked the clock once more, then his watch.

Definitely too late to call her. Too late to expect her to call.

Way too late for a visit. He sighed.

Face it, Mulder. You screwed up big time today. You'll be

lucky

if she doesn't run to Skinner and demand a transfer after your

bizarre

behavior today. He'd blown it. He knew it. He'd made a mess

of things as he so often did.

And still it was there. A longing to see her. A desire to hear

her voice.

A yearning to reach out and know she would be there. A craving

for her

touch. The never-ending need to be with her. A need that included

all forms of touching, of knowing, of being together. To

experience

the full connection with her.

He sighed and looked at his watch again. Way too late to call.

The

need was upon him, though, and it would take every bit of

will-power

to refrain from lifting the phone, begging her forgiveness,

pleading

for her understanding. He would cast this day away, if only she

would still be with him. He could only pray that he had not so

confused

her, so unbalanced her that she refused to even work with him any

longer.

He took one last look at the clock, then lay back on the

couch. He

turned the TV on, then hit the mute button to silence it. The

flickering

light cast eerie elongated shadows on the walls around him. He

would

talk to Scully tomorrow, but he would be light. He would write

today

off as a deviation, yet another Mulderquirk, a peculiarity of his

many

moods. And if he was lucky, very lucky, she would let him get

away

with it and he would be able to go on. And if she bolted, running

from

him with the good sense he knew she was capable of, well, then he

would

let her go, and what happened to him would no longer matter.

For tonight though, he would have to stay awake. If he slept

and his

demons came to call, he would ring her without thinking, and he

couldn't

allow that to happen. Not until he'd tried to fix the damage he

had

caused today. He scrubbed his face. God, he was tired. But he'd

run on

less sleep than this, and for not nearly as good a reason.

He rolled onto his side and pulled his blanket down. With

weary eyes,

he tried to focus on the pictures of the TV screen, forcing his

wayward

thoughts aside. There was nothing more he could do about Scully

tonight. He'd worry about it tomorrow.

Scully sat in the car, her eyes fixed to the window far above.

She could

see him moving about, pacing, and then the lights went out,

leaving

only the familiar shadows cast by the glow of the TV. She'd seen

those shadows often enough when she'd slipped into his motel room

after he'd had an especially bad dream and his cries had wakened

her.

She could imagine that he was laying on the couch, surfing the

channels with the sound off, trying desperately to stay awake. He

would be fighting the urge to call her, afraid that his odd

behavior

of the day had somehow ruined things, and trying to still the

panic

she knew was rising within him even now.

She sighed as she thought of his lonely struggles. All too

often

he fought his battles alone, and she had felt privileged to join

him in the fight on the occasions he had allowed her in. But

she knew he was more unsure of himself this night than he

had been in many years. Unsure because after the admissions

he had made to himself, and to her albeit unknowingly, he

would not be able to deny that he needed her. And for Fox

Mulder to admit need was a new and dangerous place for him

to be.

No doubt he was working on damage control even as she sat

here and stared up at the flickering lights that cast murky

shapes against his walls. No doubt he was planning to tell

her today was an aberration and blow the whole thing off.

Or even better, ignore everything, pretending it never happened

and giving her a quizzical look if she was so bold to bring it

up.

Well, not this time, partner. You've set the rules long

enough.

Tonight, it's a whole new game, and we'll make the rules

together,

as we go along.

With a determined set to her face, she opened the car door and

got out. Bending back in, she retrieved the few things she had

brought with her. He'd find the wine cliche, but the other, well,

it had taken her two hours to find the damn thing, and if they

got to that point, he'd know exactly what the other meant.

Mulder started, sitting up slightly and listening. He hadn't

been

all the way asleep but rather in the hypnogogic state that lets

all

one's cares fall away and the mind is freed to drift through

dreams

and fantasies. And he'd been enjoying it too, damn it. His

thoughts

had strayed to Scully, of course, with the usual result. He was

hard.

And it had seemed that for a moment his guilt was going to let

him

enjoy it. So, who the hell was knocking at his door at this hour?

He grabbed his weapon and made his way to the entry, opening

the

door cautiously. Scully? Why was Scully here?

"You going to let me in, Mulder?"

He stared at her in surprise then stepped into the hall,

looking in

both directions. "You OK, Scully?" he asked.

She smiled at his actions, then gently chided him. "Is it

that bad,

Mulder? Do I only come to visit when something's wrong?"

"No. I -- uh," he was stammering now, unsure of what

to say.

He looked down at his watch. "It is almost midnight

though,

Scully. Not exactly normal visiting hours."

"Since when do we do anything normal?" she teased

and he

found himself smiling without even thinking about it. Scully

in a playful mood was a rarity, to be enjoyed while it lasted.

He stood there, just looking at her, thinking how lucky he was

that she still wanted to have anything to do with him. He was

sure he wouldn't see her tonight, but here she was. His smile

broadened to a grin as he let himself feast on her presence.

"You gonna invite me in, Mulder? Or do you plan to spend

the

night in the hallway in nothing more than your boxers?"

Oh shit! He looked down at himself. She was right. He hadn't

put on any pants and the vestiges of his erection were still

visible.

He colored, then turned without a word and went back to the

living

room, immediately pulling his jeans back on.

He watched as Scully came in, then carefully placed her

bundles

on the table by the door and locked up. She grabbed her parcels

and made her way to join him in the living room. Placing the wine

bottle and box on the coffee table, she walked over to him,

standing

very close. Very close indeed, and he felt himself grow hot from

her proximity. He unconsciously took two steps back, seeking to

restore his body space, but she followed him and put her hands

on his arms, holding him in place.

She looked up at him, and he was suddenly drowning in the blue

depths of her eyes. Why was she here? She still hadn't spoken,

but she was holding him tightly, as if she knew his every

instinct

was to bolt, and she was determined to prevent it.

"Mulder," she murmured softly, and he felt his

breath catch

in his chest. Just the way she said his name, it was like an

electric

shock running through him. He closed his eyes, fighting for

control.

"Mulder," she said again, insistent, and he pried

his lids open

to look down at her upturned face.

"Yes?" he croaked. Oh, God, he sounded like he was

fourteen.

His voice hadn't cracked that badly since he was a teenager.

His face was hot again, and there was no way around it -- he

was totally confused. What did she want?

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry for the way I acted

today."

She was sorry? For the way she acted? He started to shrug,

but she must have thought he was pulling away because she

tightened her grip on him and stepped closer, until she was

pressed up against him. He could feel himself reacting to

her again, and, damn it, he was sure she could too.

"Scu -- I, uhm, that's ..." His witty repartee was

suddenly

cut short as she stretched on tiptoes -- and he felt every inch

of that stretch. Her taut abdomen scraped against his groin,

her breasts dragged upward over his belly and chest. He closed

his eyes and tried in vain to suppress the groan that escaped

him, and then her lips were against his cheek, and she was

kissing him, and all thought of suppression was right out the

window. The groan morphed into a squeak, and all his dignity

was gone as she pulled away and he was left clutching empty

space.

"Mulder?" she asked from the kitchen door, and he

dragged

his eyes open and stared hungrily at her from across the room.

Amazed. Baffled. Confused. Delighted. Excited. Frightened.

Let's play the alphabet game, his treacherous mind was chanting.

"Hmmm?" he managed to respond.

"Wine glasses? I said, do you have any wine

glasses?"

He stood staring at her, mouth half open as he tried to

process

her words with his befuddled brain. Had Dana Scully really

just apologized to him? With a kiss?

"Oh, wine glasses." Real smooth, Fox old man. Real

smooth.

He forced his feet to move and crossed to the door, pointing at

the cabinet by the sink.

"I started this bottle at home," she offered as she

opened the

cabinet he had pointed to. "But I really felt it might be a

fitting end to this rather odd day we've shared." She was on

her toes now, her bottom dancing up and down and back and

forth as she searched for the illusive glasses. He felt vaguely

like a pervert as he stared at the graceful display and fought

down the reactions it engendered in him.

This was his partner for God's sake. And she knew him

well enough to know he would be stressing over today. So

instead of making him suffer through the night, she was kind

enough -- he paused in mid thought as she lifted one leg, bent

at the knee, as she rose to her toes on the other leg again, and

swayed slightly as she moved things around in the cabinet.

Shit! Where was I? Oh yeah, kind enough to come over tonight

and let him know things would be OK between them. He stared

at her backside again, fighting back yet another groan.

Yeah. Right. She was being kind. That was it.

She looked back over her shoulder and beckoned to him, but he

was unable to move. If he came any closer to her, he would

spontaneously combust, he was sure of it. She was talking,

but his higher functions seemed to have shut down. All he

could think of was why she was here. And what she wanted.

And how he would get through drinking wine, at midnight, with

his partner, without making any more of a complete and utter

fool of himself than he already had.

"Mulder!" she called sharply, and he sensed it

wasn't the

first time she had called his name. "Come over here and help

me. It's obvious they're out of my reach."

He stumbled forward, feet dragging against the old linoleum,

and stopped a few feet away from her. How was he supposed

to get to the glasses when she was standing in front of the

cabinet? His brain felt muzzy, and he knew there was a simple

answer, but he'd be damned if he could think of it right now.

Instead, he was standing there, still staring stupidly at her,

and

waiting for further instructions. Ah, yes. He could ask her to

move. A simple and elegant solution to the situation with just

one slight hitch. It required the power of speech, which seemed

to have deserted him at the moment.

She was staring at him now, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"You can't reach the glasses from there, Mulder,"

she admonished

him. "You'll have to take a few more steps."

But Scully, you're there. You're where I need to be. Fine

thoughts

but his traitorous tongue refused to give them voice. Instead, he

took the coward's way out and stepped forward, halting just

behind

her, carefully not allowing any part of his body to touch hers.

He lifted an arm and leaned forward, and her arm came up as

well.

"Ah, up here?" she asked.

Her back arched and her bottom pressed full against him, and

it was

all he could do not to jump. As it was, he knocked the wine

goblet

out of the cabinet and only Scully's quick reactions saved it

from

shattering. She lifted it up victoriously, then leaned back

against

him, and he had to bring his arm down to hold her, just to keep

them

from overbalancing.

"Good, Mulder," she teased. "Can you get the

other one a little less

dramatically?" Her head was thrown back against his shoulder

and

she looked up and to the side as she spoke, her lips mere inches

from

the spot on his cheek that still burned from her earlier kiss.

Her eyes

sparkled with mischief and a hint of something else. Something he

was having a hard time placing. A hard time. He was having a hard

time. More apt words had never been thought and not spoken.

Scully

came down off her toes and her weight rested more fully against

him

as he struggled to make sense of this surreal evening. He spread

his

legs slightly, only to be sure he was firmly in place so that he

could

support Scully, of course, then closed his eyes again as she

wriggled

against him.

He was dreaming. The explanation finally came to him. He'd

fallen asleep despite his best attempt to stay awake. He

remembered

the dream he'd been having when she knocked on the door. It was

his psyche's way of preventing him from venturing into territory

best not explored with his partner. Though that same psyche

seemed fine with the bizarre behavior this dreamScully was

exhibiting. He sighed softly and wrapped his arms around her,

burying his head in her hair and breathing in her essence.

It was OK. She was a dream and he could relax and enjoy it.

"Mulder," she was calling his name again. God, why

couldn't

she just be quiet for a minute and let him enjoy this? A warm,

wiggling Scully pressed up against him, and no sign that she

intended to shoot him for enjoying the sensation. But, no, she

had to keep talking and ruin the moment.

"Shhh, Scully," he whispered, "it's my dream

and I'm going

to make the most of it."

"Mulder," she said again, insistently. "Wake

up, Mulder, and

get the other wine glass." She was staring up at him and

she started to pull away now. He tightened his grip. God, this

was one realistic dream!

"Oh no, you don't," he said as he held her against

him. "You

want the wine glass, you have to help get it." Her eyes had

taken on an odd look and she shrugged slightly, then took

his hand and lifted it toward the cupboard.

"I'm helping," she murmured, as his hand stroked her

arm and passed over her hand to reach the back corner of

the cabinet and retrieve the other goblet. He pulled back

reluctantly and watched as she picked up the glasses

and twisted out from between him and the counter. She

walked to the wine bottle and poured, then handed him a

glass, lifted her own and walked back into the living room.

Maybe it wasn't a dream. He stood in the kitchen staring

out to where she had kicked off her shoes and curled up

on his couch. How many times had he imagined Scully

in just that position? Only he was usually behind her,

his arms wrapped around her and, well, um, occupied

with various parts of her anatomy.

God, what was wrong with him? He'd completely lost

his mind. The whole point of today was not sex, it was

about telling Scully what a wonderful person she was and

how much she meant to him. And he'd blown it big time.

And now, she was here, and he had another chance, and

he couldn't think, or speak, or even move, without some

sexual reaction. No wonder Scully thought he was

behaving strangely today. He was certainly going for

the record for bizarre behavior tonight.

"Are you coming?" Scully called to him.

Oh, Scully, you don't want to know. His treasonous

mind was suddenly filled with witty retorts. But he

only stood and stared dumbly into the living room.

"Mulder. You. Me. Wine." Scully was smirking at

him now. Could she be enjoying his discomfiture?

Nah. Not Scully. She just wants to give me a chance

to set things right. To make sure everything will be

OK tomorrow. He glanced down at his watch. Well,

later today.

"Mulder, were you asleep when I got here?" she asked

as his cement-laden feet began the long journey into

the living room.

Her visit was just a chance to make things right. To

get beyond the debacle of today, to move past the uneasiness

he had caused. And mostly to forget Scully's reaction to

the cheesecake he'd fed her. Though, in reality, he would

never forget that reaction. Not for as long as he lived.

He carried his wine glass into the living room, carefully

sitting on the chair opposite Scully's position on the couch.

He was staring into the amber fluid in his glass, watching

the way the light reflected through the liquid. No way was

he going to tempt fate and sit beside her. No way was he

going to risk any more mistakes. Sit down, be quiet, smile

a lot, and agree with whatever she says.

"Mulder?"

His head came up and he found her staring at him from

her curled up spot on the couch. She'd asked him

something. What was his plan again? Smile and agree.

So he nodded agreeably and smiled at her.

She was watching him expectantly and he was suddenly

at a loss. What had he just agreed to?

"Well?" she asked. "Are you planning on moving

anytime

tonight?" Her words were crisp and Scullylike, but her

tone was soft and her smile gentled their delivery.

"Moving?" Oh, God, the squeak was back. He finally

gets his voice back and it betrays him. Et tu, Vox?

"Yes, moving. As in lifting your ass and settling it

over here. I want to show you something and you

can't see it from over there."

Oh, God. She wanted him to sit beside her. Surely

she could see what was going on. He glanced down at

his lap. Hell, they could probably see what was going

on in the next county. Well, perhaps he was being a bit

overly impressed with himself when he said the next

county, but hell, he was hard enough to drive nails, and

no sign of relief in sight. He shifted uncomfortably, trying

to think of an excuse to go to the bathroom and do something

to relieve his discomfort. If you could really call it

discomfort.

He was ready to do something, anything to change the

atmosphere in this room. Well, anything but sit by her

on the couch. That was not going to change the atmosphere

in the proper direction, he could be sure of that.

But, with no other options presenting themselves, he rose

reluctantly and shuffled across the rug to sit on the far end

of the couch from Scully. Wine glass in hand, he drew himself

as far into the corner as he could and still get credit for

being on the couch with her.

"I need you to sit by me, Mulder. You can't see from over

there."

"I, uh, Scully, I, well, I just don't think that's such a

good

idea right now, Scully." Good job, Mulder. An almost

coherent sentence. That's what? three since she got here?

You must be impressing the hell out of her.

"Don't be ridiculous."

That was Scully. Never would believe the truth, even when it

was right in front of her. Even when it was as obvious as this

truth was.

"I don't have cooties."

No, Scully, what you have is far more dangerous. He could feel

that deer in the headlights look steal over his face as he stared

wordlessly at her.

"Slide over, Mulder," she ordered, patting the

cushion beside

her.

Like a condemned man facing his executioner, he slowly slid

across the smooth leather, settling at last beside her. God, she

was hot! How could one woman radiate so much heat? Or was

that him? She reached out and patted his leg, as if he was a

not so bright child who had suddenly done something very

clever. Jeez, Scully, I just slid across the couch, he whined

in his head, but once again, he had been rendered speechless

by her touch.

She leaned over to the coffee table and he gasped inaudibly

as the V-necked sweater she was wearing gaped, and he was

treated to the sight of more Scully than he had seen in a long

time. His jeans were amazingly tight, and he was concerned

about constriction of blood flow. He could ask Scully. Scully

would know. How long could he stay like this before it became

dangerous? And, please, can we get a definition on dangerous?

She was talking to him again, and he dragged his eyes up

to meet hers. She was pointing at something in her lap, and

speaking, explaining really, but the words weren't registering,

because he had recognized the item in her hands. It was

his notepad. Covered with his handwriting. His notes on

this day of disasters. And she had read them. The blood

was pounding in his ears and suddenly the tightness in his

jeans was not a problem anymore. She had seen his notes --

and read them.

What was she saying? Listen, Mulder, listen to her. It

could be the last time she ever speaks to you.

"... and so I was thinking that, perhaps, I hadn't been

receptive to you as I should have been."

She was looking up at him now, eyes wide and a little

frightened

as she waited for his response. He shook his head again, trying

to clear the fog from the corners of his mind, but it just

seemed to confuse him more. Why was she looking so

scared?

Scully was scared. What he was feeling didn't matter. There

was only one thing to do if Scully was frightened. He reached

out and gently touched her arm. "Don't be afraid,

Scully," he

whispered, "there's nothing to be afraid of."

She smiled at him, a tremulous little smile, and murmured,

"My

Mulder. Always worried about me."

My Mulder. Had she really just said 'My Mulder?'

"Pinch me, Scully," he whispered again. "I'm

really not

sure I'm awake."

She laughed at that. "Oh, you're awake all right, Mulder,

and so am I. I think we may both really be fully awake for

the first time in a long time." Her hand came out and

caressed his thigh, and his little problem leapt to life

again, but this time he wasn't as concerned with discomfort.

He was ready to sit back and enjoy.

"Hey, Mulder," she was running her hand back and

forth

over his denim clad leg. "Guess what we didn't do

today?"

Guessing games? Why did she want to play guessing games

at a time like this? He just closed his eyes and shrugged, then

laid his head against the back of the couch, willing her hand

to rise just a little further on its upward stroke.

Her hand stopped, then lifted and was gone, and he felt the

desolation of her absence. For a brief moment he thought he

really was dreaming again, that none of this was true, for in

his cruelest nightmares, this was exactly how she left him.

But he could hear a scrambling as she shifted on the supple

leather, and her leg brushed against his. There was a rasp of

paper? cardboard? being pulled. And then, her hand was at

his mouth, her fingers nudging his lips apart, and he opened

obediently. Sweet, it was sweet. Chocolate, caramel, cheesecake.

His eyes flew open to find her staring at him, a smile that

could be described as nothing other than seductive on her

lips. He closed his lips over her fingers, trapping them

inside, and swiped the sweet cake from within them, swallowing

quickly. Then, just as she had done earlier, he ran his tongue

along her digits, sucking gently, and was rewarded with

a widening of her eyes, and a slight intake of breath.

He opened his mouth, and she slowly pulled her hand

back. All day today, he had tried clumsily to tell her what

she meant, to express his feelings, and all day he had

muddled it so badly. But this was Scully. It might

take them time to reach a point of agreement, but they

always did. He smiled at her now, and in a low husky

voice, a voice suddenly restored to him, he asked, "No,

Scully, what didn't we do?"

She broke off another piece of the cheesecake, and lifted

it toward his mouth.

"We didn't finish our dessert, Mulder." She nudged

his

lips apart again, and he risked a quick kiss of her fingers

before he opened for another bite.

He swallowed, then reached out to break a piece of the

cake off for her. Scully's reaction to cheesecake promised

to be most -- interesting -- if this afternoon was any

indication.

"Well, Scully," he whispered, as he brought his

fingers to

her mouth. "You know what they say. Save the best for

last."

<center>The End - Absolutely No Sequels.

While I enjoy the NC-17 as much as the next person,

CatholicGuilt prevents me from tackling such a topic.

Note added 14 July 2004:

Wow! Look at what I write now. I sure got over my guilt, didn't I? <g>

Please send feedback to: <a href=mailto:daydream59@aol.com>Daydreamer</a>

<center>Disclaimer:

The X-Files is a creation of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions

and belongs to the Fox Network.

No copyright infringement is intended.</center>

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