Pretend

There's a tale in the Caballa that suggests that the Angel of Death is so beautiful that on finally seeing him you fall in love so hard, so fast, that your soul is pulled out through your eyes.

Pity, though, that it doesn't really work like that, and you don't even get the grace of oblivion, and you're rather awake afterwards, awake, awake, yes, you're awake, her hand very frail, white and possessive on your belly.

But of course, I'm not comparing her to the Angel of Death. She's too calm and practical and full of good, hard common sense, from the top of her pageboy to the edge of her sensible shoes. Doctors have to be, I suppose, and I guess she's had more reason to be than most, taking care of Mulder and me, both of us, so there isn't an ounce of romance in our good Scully's soul

"Hold still." She is pulling a needle through my side; the needle glints as she runs it through my skin. She's fed me codeine and painkillers, smeared a little dab of local anesthetic while she stitches my latest stupidity. It itches, it tickles, and there's a there's a little rumple in her brow. I try to smooth it out.

She doesn't even hesitate, and then, her brow is more creased up than ever. "Don't. You'll screw up your stitches."

"What, you didn't miss me?"

No response. She chews on her lip to figure out the correct placement of the next needle, then pokes it through. "This can be quick and easy, or it can be long and painful. Which would you prefer, darling?"

I laugh, "So you did miss me."

No response again, and I run a hand through her hair. It's still damp close to her skull; she was taking a shower when I came in.

"Alex. Please." Her voice is I suppose that she is tired, a day in the autopsy bay, a night of writing reports, shower for bed, ready to go to bed, and then I show up with a tear in me. I take my hand away, and she bends back to mending me.

She doesn't ask me any questions about where I've been, what I've been doing, how I got the cut. She's guessed that it's a knife, but she knows better than to ask, she doesn't really want to know, she doesn't care, and then, when she's done, she ties off the stitch with a little flick of her fingers, then lays a small, chaste kiss on the new scar on my abdomen.

She gets back on her feet with a creak, then jerks a thumb in the direction of her kitchen. "I went to the supermarket yesterday. Are you hungry?"

I shrug, and stand up. "I'm always hungry."

"I know." she says, rolling her eyes.

"You sassing me, little girl?" I grab her wrist and roll her over to me. I can wrap my thumb and forefinger around her wrist with an inch to spare; she has tiny little bones, and it wouldn't take that much to break them. Just squeeze and twist.

I push that thought away.

More gently, this time, and consciously relaxing my fingers. "You sassing me?"

"Sass?" She laughs, pushes me against the wall, she comes up to my collarbone and she has to tilt her head up to look me in the face. "*I* am the federal agent here, and I'm placing *you* under arrest, scum." There is a deadly serious undertone in her voice, and to take it away, I kiss her (she doesn't kiss me back, just let's me open her mouth and play around for a bit):

"So that's what they call it these days."

"You just wait till I get my handcuffs, Mister."

For the first time this evening, she actually smiles, this bright, shy little kind of thing that has just the barest hint of teeth.

So she is amorous afterall.

Me, I say, "I never knew you were into that kind of thing."

She makes this little sigh and runs a hand down the side of my face, testing the length of my stubble. I haven't shaved in a day or two, so she amuses herself playing with it for a bit, pricking herself with the longer bits. "Ah, Alex-darling, you bring out the best in me."

"One second I'm scum of the earth, next thing I'm you're darling. Make up your mind, little girl. I can't be both."

She frowns, then quickly reaches up pulls my head down without answering, and she's the one that starts kissing this time, and she's the one that pushes me down to the floor and makes it serious. We end up sprawled across her bed. Sshe snuggles up underneath my ribs, starts laying little kisses in vertical lines with just the faintest hint of tongue every now and then. It tickles; I tell her so, and she laughs.

"That's good. Means they didn't damage any nerves. You'll have full sensitive back in a matter of days." She intentionally runs her fingers across them again, and I squirm.

"Wench."

"Dickhead."

"Oh, you wanna meet him? You liked him plenty last time, didn't you?"

She laughs and smacks me across the gut, and I reach up and catch her wrists again. We roll across her bed, rumpling the sheets even more, and eventually, she comes out on top. I let straddle me, let her pin my hands up on the headboard, I let her kiss me, and I let us pretend, I let us pretend, pretend.