Landfall by Ambress

~*~*~*~*

At four a.m. I dreamed myself on that beach
where we'll take you after you're born
I woke in a wave of blood.

Lying in the back seat of a nervous Chevy
I counted the traffic lights, lonely as planets.
Starlings stirred in the robes of Justice.

~*~*~*~*

Mulder's face was blank, and almost stupid. If Scully
had been there, she would have recognized his panic
face. Of course, if she were there, he would have less
reason to panic. Or maybe he would have more. He wasn't
sure. He hadn't been sure of much lately.

The room was small, grey, and dingy. It had obviously
been used as a storage room. He could still smell the
disinfectant and dirty mop smell over the scent of his
own fear. The concrete floor was cold. The handcuffs
made it very difficult to investigate possible means of
egress.

He had really fumbled the ball this time. The harder he
tried to give Scully what she needed, the more he let
her down.

Come to think of it, he really didn't want to be blown
to Kingdom Come himself.

Krycek's words came back to him: "I won't tell you when
the bomb is set to go off. Don't worry, Mulder. You
won't feel a thing. You won't even see it coming."

~*~*~*~*

Six weeks earlier. . .

Scully felt an odd, warm feeling in the vicinity of her
torso, moving across her.

It was nice.

It was a hand. A nice warm hand, gently, but
persistently, caressing her breasts through the sheets.
It was not going to let her sleep.

What was more significant, it was promising her
something better than sleep, annihilating her desire
for sleep, seducing her away from sleep. Her nipples,
at any rate, were now wide awake and ready to play. The
rest of her was slowly, but surely, beginning to agree
with them. Warmth had ignited in her belly, and was
spreading, a slow tingling burn. Not too rough, not too
teasing, it pulled her up out of sleep into the nice
world, which she entered with a soft moan.

The world, for now, was a tangled bed. The sheets were
warmed with their body heat. The standard hotel blanket
had hit the floor hours ago, along with the slightly
slick bedspread, which Scully knew was made of some
fiber not found anywhere in nature. The pillows had
also been relegated to the corner of the bed.

"Just because you never sleep," she chided the owner of
the hand.

"I slept. I slept enough." If the hand hadn't already
clued her in to his intentions, the voice would have.
It was low and--well, filled with intent.

She knew she shouldn't encourage him. She considered
the fact that now--the morning after--was probably the
ideal time for "the talk." They needed to define their
relationship--to make sure that their attempt to
procreate didn't interfere with their friendship. She
considered it for about a quarter of a second, then
turned to roll toward him. Once more wouldn't hurt
anything.

"Did you want something, Mulder?" She smiled at him,
and let her voice tease him.

"Yes. You." Mulder's intent gaze was as hot as a star.

"I think you've had me."

"I want you again."

"Ummmm." She stretched up her arms and linked them
around his neck, playing with the hair at his nape.
"Okay. If you insist." After all, he had done so much
for her.

He grinned down at her."Scully, I can't tell you how
happy it makes me to discover you're a morning-sex
person."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, there are two kinds of people in this world:
the morning-sex people, and the no-way-in-hell people."

"You mean some people don't like sex in the mornings?"

"I don't know." He tried to look innocent, which was
difficult with his legs scissoring against hers, and
the smooth broadness of his chest rubbing against her
breasts. "I've never had sex with anybody else."

"Oh spare me, Mulder." She sniffed.

He leaned down and kissed her. His mouth was warm and
earthy. So that was what Mulder tasted like first thing
in the morning. Like turned over loam, like something
rich and strange. She was afraid she was the one who
had suffered the sea change. She was underwater in a
strange land.

The night before had been so frighteningly easy--as
easy as falling off a cliff. Once he had kissed her it
had been like a cascade. They had made love like a
couple married for years, who know each other's deepest
desires, with no tangled briars to hack through.

His naked skin slid against hers, smooth and silken.
She stroked his shoulders languorously. "You have great
trapezii , Mulder."

He was amused. "I do?"

"Yes. Broad, and well-defined."

"Thank you."

"Nice deltoids, too. And latissimus dorsi." She
followed them with her hand as she named them. "All in
all, a fine specimen." She would never admit it, but
she was wild even about the soft poochiness around his
belly button.

"Thank you, Doctor. I'm glad I meet your standards."

Pulling back to look at her, he ran his hands down her
belly from her breasts, caressing the curve of her
waist, her hips, her sides, slipping lower on his own
physical inspection.

The pads of his fingers stroked softly along the
vulnerable skin of her inner thighs. Oh, the joy of
finding a vulnerable spot on Scully!

"Do you like me touching you, Scully?" he asked her,
his voice thick.

"You doubt it?" She staved him off with a question of
her own, but he saw through it. His fingers, even as he
spoke, were insinuating their way deeper between her
thighs, curling through her hair, stroking softly at
her labia, coaxing her open like steam does an
envelope. She sighed with pleasure.

"I want to hear you say it." He dipped the tip of his
middle finger into the opening of her vagina, sliding
the wetness out over her clitoris, tracing a circle of
infinity, the shape of the snake on her back, around
and around its hardness, savoring the feel as it rose
up to his touch. He listened intently to her breathing
as it changed, became shallower, more labored. This
morning there was no other reason. The time for
conception was past. If she wanted him, then she wanted
*him.*

"I like you touching me, Mulder." She tried to say it
as though she were just stating the obvious, like,
"there's no such thing as werewolves, Mulder," but
somehow her need for oxygen undermined her ability to
remain cool.

"Good, because I like touching you." He leaned down and
kissed her again, still running his finger delicately
around and around her clitoris, until he was finally
repaid by her gasp.

"You feel so good, Scully. Let me make you come."

She didn't answer in words, just pushed her hips up
towards his hand. His breath tickled her neck, her ear.
He stroked her sensitive skin with his well-upholstered
lips. Brushing kisses under her jawline, he continued
his slow stroking of her clitoris.

She began to roll her hips along with the rhythm of his
touch. It was almost embarrassing: his tickling breath
and his stroking fingers were the only way he was
touching her. She knew he was watching her, drinking up
the changing expressions on her face, savoring her
escalating moans. Almost, but not quite embarrassing
enough to still her pelvis' instinctual dance.

He whispered in her ear, and the vibration sent a
thrill through her body, down to her toes. "You're so
sweet, Scully." He nuzzled the curve of her jaw as his
fingers ministered to her. "I love the way you respond
to me." His voice in her ear, and his hand between her
legs, made a circuit of pleasure down through the
center of her body. She was caught, pierced, by the
hook of his touch.

He pressed his mouth to the tender skin just below her
ear and began to suck, softly but insistently, stopping
to flick his tongue against the damp skin. She
whimpered, helpless against the excruciating onslaught.
One finger, then two glided into her. She felt the
heavy weight of his arm across her hip, and brought her
hand up to stroke his forearm with light fingers. She
could feel the small muscles in his arm moving
rhythmically as he caressed her.

It was incredibly erotic, as though his arm were her
arm, as though they were united in one body, as though
he were already inside her, bringing her to orgasm from
within. It was a bubble blown through a plastic wand,
so fragile she thought it would disappear at any
moment, and leave her aching with disappointment. It
didn't though. It just kept growing larger and larger,
until she knew when it popped she would be obliterated.

"Oh no, Oh no, Oh no."

"It's okay. It's okay." His voice was soothing, but it
was so low, so ragged, that it flicked that bubble like
a finger and it burst through her with a prismatic
sparkle.

"Oh!" she said, and laughed as the aftershocks rippled
through her. She pulled his head down and kissed his
forehead again and again.

"You're welcome." He was smiling, and the look in his
eyes was both tender and hot.

She was as loose-limbed as a fawn on ice and she smiled
back. "Umm. Whatever can I do to thank you?" She parted
her legs further, inviting him in.

Without having to be asked twice, he grasped his cock
in one hand and guided the hard head between the
slippery lips of her vagina. He hovered over her for a
moment, and then slowly thrust all the way in. His eyes
fell shut, and he let out a stifled groan, echoed by
hers.

She tilted her hips up to pull him deeper into her. "Oh
god, Scully. Stop wiggling," he begged her unashamedly.

She breathed light laughter in his face. "Are you
excited, Mulder?"

"What do you think?" He clenched his jaw.

"Then what are you waiting for? I've had my turn. You
don't have to try and impress me, Mulder." She wanted
him to take what he needed from her.

"Oh ho ho." It was a rumbling, growly laugh,
accompanied by a little shake of his head, in a tone
that indicated he perceived her comment as a challenge.

"Just fuck me, Mulder," she coaxed. "You know you want
to."

He quivered and pulled all the way out of her.
Obviously exercising tight control, he pushed back into
her silky wet body with leisurely deliberation.

Then out again, still with measured slowness. He
watched her face intently, raised himself up high on
his elbows, with his forearms in a triangle, the apex
of which was the tips of his fingertips lightly
stroking her hair.

He wanted to tell her he loved her again, but he was
afraid. So he tried to show her the only way he could
right then; he worshiped her with his body. She had
closed her eyes, so he was free to watch her without
fear of her seeing too much in his face, his eyes.

He kept up a leisurely, thorough pace as long as he
could, and his reward was the swift return of her
arousal. Soon she was moaning underneath him again. Her
head was thrown back, and her neck arched. She was the
most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

Then her eyes opened and she looked up at him. Her
eyes. Her greenish-blue eyes opened and suddenly he was
looking deeply into them, with his throbbing cock
buried deep in her body. "Mulder," she whispered, just
a puff of air that was his name.

He lost it then. With a tight groan, he thrust hard and
fast into her. His thighs slapped hard against hers and
her cries escalated to a full-throated wail as she
shuddered. The sound seemed to draw his orgasm out of
him, tightening his balls and sucking the hot burst of
semen out from the base of his spine into her shaking
body. It left him trembling. His head dropped, and he
rested his mouth against her forehead, breathing into
her hairline. His Scully. His Scully.

~*~*~*~*

The next thing he knew, he was waking from a dream
about an earthquake. "Come on." Her hand was on his
arm, and she was shaking him gently. "We have to check
out by eleven."

He groaned and opened his eyes.

She was standing over him, clean and fresh faced. Her
hair was still slightly damp and curling behind her
ears. She had evidently gone back to her room, because
she was wearing her FBI garb: black pantsuit over a
shell.

She smiled at him, but he couldn't read her eyes. They
were still a mosaic of blue and green. He wanted to
read a sign in the pattern they made, but there was
none in a language he knew.

~*~*~*~*

Mulder had just enough time to take a quick shower and
throw his stuff back in his bag. Scully took care of
checking out of the hotel and met him downstairs in the
lobby. Crossing to meet her, he was struck by the fact
that he had crossed a room to meet her a thousand
times, and had never felt precisely the same
trepidation he did at this moment.

The morning was clear, though cold. Efficient New
England snow plows had cleared the roads as soon as the
snow had stopped falling. Not enough time had yet
passed to turn the edges of the road black with grime.
The usual weekday commuter traffic was much lighter on
the weekend. It was a pristine white world.

In the car on the way to the airport, he startled her
with an unexpected suggestion. She was admiring the
trees, the white stillness of the landscape, the curve
of the Merritt Parkway. The concrete bridges that
crossed the parkway were built by FDR's WPA in the
thirties. Each one was different, yet each one looked
picturesque and Rockwellian in the snow.

"Maybe we should get married." His face was thoughtful
as he said it. He wasn't looking at her, but ahead, at
the road.

Then he seemed to realize what he'd said, and glanced
over at her quickly. His face was both earnest and
anxious.

She felt a wide panic open up in her. Things were
accelerating. She could suddenly feel the ground
rushing up at her.

"Let's not make any decisions until we know what's
going to happen. I may not even be pregnant."
Reasonable. Calm. Not afraid.

He nodded, apparently accepting her response with ease.
She felt a flash of annoyance. He could at least be a
*little* disappointed. She stifled the feeling as
unworthy of her.

As they passed the New Rochelle exit, he asked the next
big question: "How long will it be until we know?"

"Well--" She hesitated. "Usually, you would wait until
after you miss your period to take a pregnancy test."

"I knew that." His tone was wry. "I'm not totally
ignorant."

"I wasn't implying that you were. I just meant that my
periods have not been regular, so that method can't be
relied upon. I don't have any way of determining when I
would get my period. I've been taking artificial
hormones, but if They are to be believed--and have made
conception possible for me--then They must have
counteracted the effects of those hormones in some way.
At least, I hope They have." She was thinking about the
risk of birth defects. "I think if I take a pregnancy
test in two weeks we should know pretty definitely." It
had been a while since her gynecological rotation, but
she wasn't sure that they had ever covered
eventualities like this, anyway.

She wondered if she would be able to overcome her
embarrassment at the wildness of her story in order to
talk to her own doctor honestly. Maybe she would just
see how things stood in two weeks.

Two weeks. These would be the longest two weeks of her
life. She glanced over at Mulder, seeing his hands
loose and steady on the steering wheel in a way she
never had before. She was sure that hers were trembling
still.

~*~*~*~*

over the Town Hall. Miscarriage of justice,
they sang, while you, my small client,
went curling away like smoke under my ribs.

Kick me! I pleaded. Give me a sign.
that you're still there!
Train tracks shook our flesh from our bones.

Behind the hospital rose a tree of heaven
You can learn something from everything,
a rabbi told his Hasidim, who did not believe it.

I didn't believe it either. O rabbi,
What did you learn on the train to Belsen?
That because of one second one can miss everything.

~*~*~*~*

Their flight was uneventful. The chicken sandwich was
disgusting, the cookie was stale, and the napkin was
too small. What was worse, someone had done all the
crossword puzzles in their seat row--done them wrong--
in ink. All in all, a completely normal domestic
flight.

Scully had taken a cab to the airport, and Mulder had
left his car in long-term parking, so it only made
sense for him to drive her home. When they pulled up in
front of her apartment building, she swallowed twice
and finally managed to ask: "Would you like to come up
for some coffee?

In the dark interior of the car he briefly contemplated
the implication of her question. He couldn't see her
face, only sense her as a warm, but indistinct
presence. Her shadowy outline was a question mark
itself.

She had asked him without prompting, so he didn't have
to worry that he was being too pushy. He didn't want to
take anything for granted. She *had* asked him, though.
He would go and show her that he could be whatever she
wanted him to be.

"Sure," he finally answered. While turning off the
ignition and lifting her suitcase out of the trunk, he
reminded himself of a few important facts.

They were friends. They were still friends. Making love
hadn't changed anything about that. Okay, he could
handle that. He was relieved, in fact. They needed to
stay friends. It was important. It was more important
than anything.

Together, they went upstairs to her apartment.

She made coffee, and they drank it together, sitting on
her couch, talking softly and chuckling often. They
talked about past cases. They argued again, but without
hostility, about the exact nature of the conspiracy.
They talked about Skinner and Kersh. He spread office
gossip--the latest of which was speculation about
Skinner and his secretary, Kimberly--and she pretended
she wasn't interested. They talked about everything but
what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Eventually, however, it came time for him to leave. He
stood up and put on his coat. He carried both their
coffee mugs to her kitchen sink, more to give himself
time to think than because he had been well brought up.
It was ridiculous not to kiss her good-night, after
he'd spent all night making love to her. What else was
he going to do, shake her hand? Rub noses?

At the door, his keys in his hand, he leaned down to
kiss her softly, just a little g'night-and-see-you-
tomorrow-at-work-kiss.

Her mouth melted underneath his, a snowflake on a hot
car engine. It was instinct that made him press his
mouth harder into hers, trying to make solid contact
before he could let go.

Her mouth--the cave of Ali Baba at the Open Sesame
command--magically opened. Her tongue was the richest,
sweetest treasure, seeking his out. To hell with
friendship! God help him; he was weak, weak, weak!

A loud *ching* echoed in the room as his keys dropped
out of his hand and hit the floor. Arms around her.
Pulling her hard against him. Oh, the luxury of her
sweet, resilient body against his.

He pressed her close to him, wanting to imprint her on
his body as she had been imprinted on every other part
of his being. Her mark was on his heart, mind, and
soul. From balls to bones, his very cells read: Scully
was here.

Her mouth searching his urgently. Her tongue--was
Scully muscular everywhere? The soft, soft skin of her
belly--the little dip of her belly button--the arch of
her waist--God--she was creamy velvet under his hands.

His hands tugging her shell out of the waistband of her
slim trousers. No time to waste with her jacket--he
could burrow his hands up underneath the fine shirt--
touch her skin immediately.

Without mercy for his clothing budget, she was pulling
his nice Armani suit jacket down both arms at once--
effectively strait jacketing him.

Her usually dexterous fingers laboring to undo the
little pearlized buttons of his shirt--saying to them,
"Come on, come on,"--He almost laughed--but this was
too serious, too essential--Scully fumbling with the
buttons, making a noise of frustration--he had never
heard that one from her before--yanking his shirt
apart. Buttons pinging across the room like runaway
popcorn.

Wanting to feel his skin against hers again, now. Right
now. Very now.

That shirt was his favorite--it was one hundred percent
Sea Island cotton!--Searching for the zipper of her
pants--no time for idle drollery. Where was the tab to
these things, anyway?

Finding it at last, on the side, dammit, after his
hands had roamed around from back to front and back
again, a pleasantly frustrating journey. Growling into
her mouth by the time he found the tab--working it down
her hip. The sound of the zipper unzipping the music of
the spheres. His hands gliding in under the fabric to
clasp the roundness of her ass. Kneading it--in
response Scully rubbing her pelvis against his growing
erection.

Both of them panting--hard gulps of air--wanting to get
as much air in their lungs as possible--needing not to
waste time on breathing, time that could be devoted to
the mutual liquid slide of tongues.

Back into his arms, mouths reconnecting with the
inevitable force of a drunk and a tree. Scully making
small "mmm mmm" noises into his mouth that were about
to melt his brain.

Her black lace bra. Cupping her breasts together,
releasing her mouth--bending and placing adoring kisses
on the tops of their creamy curves. Inhaling deeply--
the secret warm smell of her. Running his fingers over
her clavicles, the delicate bird-like bones.

Reaching behind her, attempting to unhook her
brassiere--his turn to fumble. Guessing he had used up
all his bra karma the night before--Scully doing it
herself with a quick pinch of her fingers.

Both of them groaning in relief when they made skin to
skin contact. The goal in sight. His hands running over
her back, clutching at her as though he thought she
would melt away. Oh, her shoulder blades--the little
bumps of her spine--the small dimples just above her
buttocks--he had missed them all so much. It had been
hours. Hours!

Mulder had a brief moment of clarity, realizing that
though they could do it in the hall, he was a little
old for that. He hoisted her in his arms, and she
obligingly locked her legs around his waist. "Bedroom?"
He was disoriented, and didn't want to end up in the
coat closet.

She gestured with one hand in the proper direction, and
he headed that way, her attached to him--an enormous
barnacle--kissing his throat, the hollow at its base--
everywhere she could reach.

He half-stumbled as he finally reached the bed, and
fell on top of her. The breath was knocked out of her
for a moment, but she didn't let go. She squeezed her
legs more tightly around his waist and squirmed beneath
him. "You okay?" he gasped.

"Oh yeah. Yes, better than okay. Take your pants off,
Mulder." She was breathless too, but she hadn't lost
her focus on the essentials.

"If you let go of me, I will."

"What kind of challenge would that be?" she asked, but
loosened her hold and allowed him to stand up.

When he did, everything suddenly slowed down. He was
standing above her, undoing his belt slowly, watching
her as she lay back on the bed. The light from the
other room cast shadows over his body. They seemed to
love it too, caressing the lines of his muscles, making
the planes of his honey body glow. Her mouth was dry.
She smiled at him and raised one arm with a bent elbow
above her head.

"You--are--so--sexy," he said. He pulled his belt free,
and dropped it to the floor. He undid the button of his
trousers, and then the fly, still watching her watching
him. He let his pants drop to the floor. Her eyes were
drawn to where the material of his shorts was strained
by their excited inhabitant.

He reached down and grabbed first her left foot, then
the right, pulling off her boots. He tugged her pants
and panties down her legs. She lifted her hips to help
him. When she was naked, she lay back on the bed and
regarded him.

"Boxers too, Mulder," she whispered when he seemed to
be awaiting instructions. Obediently, he pushed them
down his legs and kicked them away. His erection sprang
free, apparently grateful for being released.

She sat up and scooted closer to him, wrapping her hand
around him, stroking him slowly from base to tip. His
eyes closed in ecstasy.

"My new best friend," she cooed at his cock, and his
eyes popped open again in surprise. She glanced up at
his face. "A friend in need is a friend indeed," she
told him solemnly.

He laughed, but it was an agonized, choked sound. She
was still running her hand slowly up and down his cock.
He inhaled sharply when she leaned forward and stuck
out her tongue, licking him with excruciating slowness
from the base underneath all the way to the crown.

His hips jerked, and she pulled back slightly and blew
softly on the wet path her tongue had made. He shivered
convulsively, but she didn't give him time to recover
before her open mouth was gliding down, down, down,
over him, enveloping him in its wet heat.

She swirled her tongue in a spiral around and around
him as she slid him in and out. Her hair fell forward
in a curtain, and he pushed one side back with his hand
so he could watch her pretty berry-dark mouth
swallowing his rigid length.

"Scully," he said finally. "Get up."

She looked surprised, but she pulled her mouth away
from him, licking her lips so as to savor the lingering
taste. The taste of his flesh was dark delicious
purple.

"Turn around." It was an order, though delivered in a
husky tone.

She gave him a look that indicated skepticism but
followed his instructions. She got onto her hands and
knees. He knelt on the bed behind her, and guided her
hands to the headboard.

He ran his hands down her back, to her ass, and she
shivered a little. She moved her knees far apart,
spreading her legs open, and arched her back, lifting
her ass high and offering him her engorged vulva as a
target. She flicked a teasing glance over her shoulder
at him. "Is this what you want?" Her voice was husky
too.

"Yes." He slid up to cover her with his body. He placed
her hands on the spindles of the headboard, and covered
them with his hands, holding them in place. The blunt
head of his cock found her opening, and he thrust into
her until his balls bumped against her ass. She made a
little hiss of satisfaction.

"Oh, that's good. Don't stop."

He didn't. He pumped into her again and again, forcing
gasps out of her. Oh yes, they were still friends. He
was her bestest, bestest friend in the whole wide
world. There was nobody like him. Nobody. The way he
touched her heart--Christ--with his enormous cock--

Suddenly, he pulled out of her, away from her, and she
let out an abbreviated wail. But then she felt his warm
tongue stroking along her vulva and the wail turned to
a screech. Crouching low and awkwardly behind her, he
licked her ripe labia, ran the tip of his tongue around
the tender mouth of her vagina, rubbed it over her
clitoris, as hard as a marble. He was lifting her hips
up with his hands to get to it, and her knees came off
the bed. She was helpless.

"Oh, Mulder," she gasped, trying to wiggle backwards to
get more of the delicious wet muscle caressing her.

With one last generous lick, he moved back up over her
body, and entered her again. Reaching around her hip,
he trapped her clit between his fore and middle
fingers. As he stroked steadily into her, the force of
his thrusts crushed her clitoris against his hand.

She twisted her head back to kiss him, but it was too
difficult to maintain the contact and she dropped
forward again, her pulse pounding throughout her body
with each thrust. He was pounding into her so hard she
could feel her knees start to slip on the sheets, and
the bed jar with each stroke. If she wasn't holding
onto the bed spindles she would end up on her face. She
was completely unaware of the sobbing groans emerging
from deep within her, only conscious of her heart
speeding up and beating harder--harder, deeper, until
it stopped completely--her vagina ballooned and
contracted like the blooming of a flower caught on
film, and her body was convulsed by ecstatic shivers.

Mulder shouted in triumph and let his orgasm roar into
her.

. . .

Like a building in the process of demolition, in stasis
before it collapses in on itself, they were still for a
long moment. Then the edifice their bodies made
crumbled together, back and onto their sides.

Still breathing heavily, Mulder remarked, "Well,
goodnight. Thanks for the coffee."

She turned her head back into the pillow to hide her
smile. "You're welcome." Scully's voice always sounded
like she'd just been fucked, but god, when she had. .
.Then she groaned and stretched her legs out between
his. "I think you rearranged all my internal organs,"
she told him.

"Flattery will get you real cream cheese on your bagel
tomorrow. I might even spring for donuts." It was his
turn to feel the expansive generosity of O'Malley the
Alley-Cat.

"You're just a big sugar daddy, aren't you?" She was
relieved he assumed he was staying. That way she didn't
have to decide whether or not to ask him to.

"Oh, yeah." His voice rumbled with amusement. "Stick
with me, baby and it's all the pastries you could ever
want."

"Don't call me baby." She shoved her elbow back sharply
into his ribcage to emphasize her point.

"Ow! No donuts for you, woman. Okay. Okay. Agent Doctor
Baby."

"Pshaw," she retorted, an airy expulsion of consonants,
but attempted no further bodily harm on him. She
couldn't, really. She was already asleep.

~*~*~*~*

On Sunday, as promised, they went out for donuts.
Mulder was planning to bring them back and feed them to
her in bed, but she decided she couldn't wait that long
for coffee. It turned out to be a nice walk. They ate
their breakfast together at an orange Formica table as
retired people read the newspaper around them. Mulder
wondered if she would rebuff him if he tried to hold
her hand. He didn't have the nerve to try it. Somehow
he was sure that Scully would object to public
demonstrations of affection.

On the way back to Scully's apartment, they passed a
store called "The Stork's Roost." Mulder looked at
Scully, looked at the storefront, looked at Scully
again.

"I don't think so, Mulder." She shook her head.

"What can it hurt?"

She didn't know how to answer that, or more precisely,
she didn't know any other way to *not* answer that, so
she rolled her eyes and gave in.

The door tinkled as they stepped in.

Cribs, changing tables, bassinets, mobiles. Pastel
yellow, blue, green. Little alphabet quilts, and lamps
in the shape of Noah's Ark and teddy bears. White
furniture for girls and light-colored wood finish for
little baby boys.

Mobiles with little dalmatian puppies in fireman hats
to play Brahm's lullaby and turn in front of newborn
eyes hungry for contrast. Soft rainbow padded wall
hangings.

What was she doing here? Mulder looked like he had just
been invited aboard an alien spaceship. He blinked in
wonder and bemusement.

Neither of them belonged here. Scully felt like a
clumsy giant among the tiny furniture. It was all too
bright, too soft, too ruffly.

Nobody decorated a nursery in black, with little SIG
and scalpel motifs. She would need a lamp in the shape
of Leonard Betts' head, and a mobile made of alien
implants. An intercom wouldn't be enough. They would
need their own Global Positioning System.

The two of them looked more like a couple of crows in a
butterfly sanctuary than prospective parents, she
thought.

A grey-haired woman in a navy blue pantsuit approached
them. Her powdery face was fixed in permanent smile
lines.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Scully had the urge to whip out her badge and say: we
are investigating a homicide. Someone has murdered my
good sense.

"We're just looking right now," she managed to rasp.

"What are these?" asked Mulder.

"Those are slings," the saleslady explained. "See, you
put it around yourself, like this," demonstrating, "and
the baby rests in here. It frees your hands for other
things, and keeps the baby close to you. That's very
important."

The serious, fascinated look on Mulder's face made her
want to shriek with laughter. She had a flash of him in
his dark suit, with a baby blue sling decorated with a
cloud pattern around his shoulder. She shook it off.

"What about this?" He seemed determined to do his
research.

"That's a breast pump." The saleslady smiled at him
tolerantly.

Scully admired Mulder for controlling his recoil. She
had to admit that the breast pump didn't look like a
lot of fun to her either.

"If your lovely wife plans to return to work after the
baby is born," continued the woman, "She can pump her
breast milk and freeze it so that the baby can continue
to be breast-fed."

Mulder nodded sagely, apparently, trying to look like
he knew all about these matters. "That's very
important." He parroted the woman's words back to her,
and they smiled at one another in perfect accord.

The saleswoman, whose name they soon learned was
Lorraine, couldn't be more overjoyed to explain to
Mulder the purpose of every item in the store.

"And this?"

"That's a video monitor. So you can keep an eye on the
baby while you're chopping vegetables in the kitchen."

Oh perfect. An item precisely suited to Mulder's
paranoia. Why not bring the baby with you to the
kitchen, wondered Scully. Oh, of course, this way you
never had to actually be in the same room with your
child.

"Mulder," Scully finally said. She tried to infuse her
voice with all the desire she had for him to be
reasonable.

"Yes, Scully?"

Lorraine blinked in surprise at their exchange, but she
was a professional, so she recovered quickly. The world
was full of all kinds of parents.

"I really think we should be getting back." She
communicated imminent nuclear meltdown to him with her
eyes.

"All right," he agreed.

~*~*~*~*

Back at her apartment, Mulder sensed Scully's
discomfort, but didn't understand its source. He was
still set on showing her how useful he could be.

"Why don't you let me make us some coffee?" he asked
her.

After a moment's hesitation, she agreed.

Mulder rummaged around looking for a coffeepot. She
observed him from the couch. "Why don't you use the
French press, Mulder?" she finally asked him.

"Uh, okay." He looked critically at the contraption on
her countertop. He set the kettle on to boil--so far,
so good--and filled the press about a third of the way
up with coffee. He glanced at the back of Scully's
head. She looked stiff and uncomfortable in her own
home.

He brought her coffee to her. She took one sip of the
dark sludgy liquid and set it down on the table.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked her.

"No!" She immediately seemed appalled at the vehemence
of her answer, and tried to recover. "I mean, I think
it's a good idea for us to spend non-work time
together."

He nodded. From a practical point of view, if they were
going to be parents together, they needed to be able to
get along in a setting other than work. He understood.
Of course he did. Completely. It was an entirely
rational decision.

~*~*~*~*

They returned to work on Monday. They agreed that there
was no good reason for to change their behavior at work
until they knew for sure.

As the day worn on, Scully's words kept coming back to
Mulder in a mental patchwork. First he would hear her
in his head saying, "It's important that we maintain a
standard of professional conduct."

Then, a minute later, while he sharpened his pencil, he
would hear her voice again: "Oh Mulder! Oh Mulder! Oh
Mulder! Oh Mulder!"

He wasn't sure which voice to listen to.

He forgot what number he was looking up as he heard the
Scully of memory saying, "If I'm pregnant, of course,
then we'll have to deal with the repercussions at work
as well as in our personal lives."

But then again, she had also said, "Oh, right there--
yes!--oh, that's so good."

At the end of the day, the effort of maintaining a
nonchalant exterior was killing Mulder. He tried to act
casual, normal, undemanding. He couldn't, however, stay
silent any longer. "So, what are you doing tonight?"

"I have plans." She sat primly in the chair in front of
his desk. Her small chin taunted him; he wanted to
nibble on it.

"Plans?" He didn't want to whine, but he could sense a
fine merlot coming on. What did she mean?

"I plan to see my lover." Her clever, capable hands
adjusted the lapels of her jacket, and then the side
slit in her skirt, lining it up along her calf.

His heart and lungs contracted painfully and then
expanded in his chest. He wasn't conscious that his
heart had stopped beating, until it started thumping
again. Was that what he was? She meant him, right?

"Oh?" He hoped he wasn't quavering. He was afraid he'd
been taken over by the spirit of Winnie the Pooh.

"Yes, I'm meeting him at my apartment, and I plan to
fellate him until he cries like a baby."

He sat perfectly still for a moment. "Jesus Christ,
Scully." He wouldn't be able to stand up for an hour,
at least.

The look on her face made it clear to him what the Mona
Lisa had been smiling about.

"He's a lucky man." That was the best that he could
manage. If they were his last words, he couldn't do
better.

~*~*~*~*

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.

It should be the fifth food group. Mulder wasn't
getting any sleep. Either he was with Scully, and
therefore the reasons for not sleeping were many and
obvious, or he was lying awake staring at the somewhat
blotchy ceiling of his bedroom, wondering when she
would want him next--if it would all come to an end
suddenly--what exactly "it" was--if that blotch in the
corner was shaped more like a turtle or a dolphin.

Coffee kept him going during the day.

Returning to his office after his third raid on the pot
that morning, he found Scully standing at his desk,
perusing a sheaf of papers.

"What's that?" he asked.

Only her eyes shifted up to look at him. Her head
stayed at the same angle. It gave her that
schoolteacher-nun look. Uh oh.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Hmm?" He took the papers from her hand, with a puzzled
expression, which quickly turned to dismay. "Ahhh."

"When were you going to tell me about this?"

He felt as he often had in seventh grade algebra when
Mr. Beaupain asked him a question he hadn't the
slightest idea how to answer.

"I--wasn't?" He was just guessing.

"That's what I thought."

Apparently he had guessed wrong. She looked like she
wished she were a wasp, so she could sting him.

"There's nothing to tell, really." All bluster.

"Tell me anyway."

"Fine. It's a--situation that was brought to my
attention."

"Not a case."

"No, not a case, per se."

"Per se?"

"Yeah, it means 'by or in itself'"

"I know what it means, Mulder."

"Well, anyway the situation is that there's a
laundromat on Wisconsin Avenue street, one which
patrons are beginning to say is haunted."

"A haunted laundromat." Flat as a squashed bug.

"Yes. Apparently--" He stopped. Gulped. Onward into the
breach. "Apparently whenever patrons of this laundromat
leave their clothes unattended they return to find them
sorted and folded neatly in their laundry baskets."

Scully felt a muscular twitch in her forehead pulling
her eyebrows up against her will. What did he think he
was doing? Trying to protect her from a haunted
laundromat?

"Their clothes get folded and this is evidence of--
what, exactly? Elves?"

"It's not the only evidence, Scully. The lights flicker
on and off. People have reported cold spots in the
laundromat, particularly by the change machine; the pay
phone often rings, but when someone answers it, all
they can hear is a harmonica playing, "The Lion Sleeps
Tonight."

"A harmonica?"

"Yes."

"The Lion Sleeps Tonight?"

"Yes," Forgetting all his resolve, he fell into the
rhythm of pre-case conversations with her. "And most
importantly, many of the patrons have reported having
their clothes stolen right out of the dryer."

"Mulder. . ." She shook her head in helpless amazement.
"Socks?"

"No." He huffed at her. "Underwear."

"Ah, the eternal question: boxers or briefs?"

"Women's underwear."

"Panties!?"

Rosy pink spread up out of his collar to his forehead.
Blushing! Mulder blushing! At the word panties! She
couldn't allow herself to be distracted by the
deliciousness of it.

"Mulder, everyone loses small items at the laundromat.
That is the nature of doing one's laundry in a public
place where many other people also do their laundry.
Items are left clinging to the sides of washers or
tucked up on those little ledges, and the next person
ends up accidently taking them home in their basket."

"It's not just one or two items, Scully. In the last
three weeks, all the--panties--of all the female
patrons--have disappeared between going into the dryer
and coming out of it. I don't know why we're even
talking about this." He threw his hands up. "I wasn't
even going to mention it to you!"

That reminded her of why they had begun this
conversation in the first place. "I know you weren't,
and why is that? Is that because you were trying to
protect the weak female? You thought that I might be
pregnant, and so all my investigative skills have been
nullified, is that it?"

"No! That wasn't it at all!" He was shocked--shocked--
he told himself, that she could believe such a thing.

She wasn't listening. "I knew this would happen!" She
pressed her fingertips to her forehead.

"No, you didn't! It hasn't happened!" They were
shouting at each other. When had they ever done that?

"What were you doing then? Investigating a case without
even telling me about it?!"

"I wasn't! I thought it was a silly case! I wasn't
going to investigate it!"

She opened her mouth to shout back, but almost choked
on air. A silly case? He thought it was a silly case?
Well, that was an explanation that had never occurred
to her. Who was this man, and what had he done with
Mulder?

She finally recovered her voice, and her poise. "Well
you know, Mulder, it does sound like these women might
be being targeted by someone," With determination, she
retrieved the report from his hands. "And I've never
heard 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' played on harmonica."

He stared at her, his chest heaving slightly, hazel-
green eyes still whirling with emotion. Then he smiled.

She smiled back.

"A wimoweh, a wimoweh, a wimoweh, a wimoweh," she
said.

"Eeee-Oh-um-away," he replied.

~*~*~*~*

So, it was settled. They would take the case.

One afternoon, however, a problem developed. They were
in Skinner's office, delivering a report on it. It was
a case of fetishistic astral projection, according to
Mulder. A simple case of stalking, according to Scully.

They had just gotten to the traditional moment in the
meeting when Skinner made them both feel like idiots,
and the most startling thing occurred.

"So, are you saying--" Skinner stopped. His mouth
dropped halfway open. His eyebrows shot up to his
nonexistent hairline. His upper lip lifted in a sneer,
revealing his strong, even teeth. Either agony, or
pleasure, made a rictus of his face. His eyes rolled
back in his head. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" he said, and. . .

. . .sneezed.

Papers flew about his desk, and Janet rattled on the
wall. Skinner shook his head like a dog shaking off its
bath, and made a growling noise.

"Gesundheit," said Mulder, and glanced over at Scully,
who was usually, much to Mulder's secret amusement, the
first to say "God Bless You" in circumstances like
these.

Scully's mouth was pressed in a firm, tight line. Her
eyes, however, were nearly bugging out of her head. She
was clutching the arms of the chair with a desperate
grip. He could see a quiver run through her.

He realized that he needed to get her out of there
before she gave herself an aneurysm.

Now was the time to take action. She was depending on
him. "Sir, I think perhaps we need to review our report
one more time before we can definitively answer your
concerns."

Skinner looked bemused. He gave his head a quick shake.
Since when was it important to them to address his
concerns, much less definitively? "Fine, Agent Mulder.
Let me know when you're ready to do so." They were
dismissed.

Scully sprang out of her seat and strode swiftly to the
door. Mulder had to hurry to catch up with her. Her
shoulders were already quivering. He grabbed her arm,
and escorted her to the elevator. Once they were in it,
he stabbed the down button. As soon as the doors
closed, the storm hit.

She was shaking harder than ever, and he had to grin.
"Oh my God!" The laughter finally gushed out of her,
and she hooted. "Ohhhh haa-ha-ha, Did you ha--see that,
Mulder? Oh God, this is--huh--all your fault. Uhee heee
hee--" She was gasping for air. Tears were rolling down
her face. He'd never seen her like this. She slapped
the walls of the elevator with her palm, and leaned
against the rail, apparently unable to hold herself up.
"Oh help," she gurgled.

It was catching. His grin turned to a laugh too. He put
his hand on her shoulder to hold her still. "You should
never have told me that sneezing thing--" she choked.
He was looking down at her, chuckling. He couldn't
resist her. He was about to lean over and seize her
laughing mouth with his, drink her laughter up, when
the elevator doors opened.

Holly and two other secretaries were standing there,
staring at them. It must have looked bad. Holly's eyes
were as big as teacups. One of the other women had a
decided smirk on her face.

Mulder thought fast. With his thumb and forefinger he
pried open Scully's left eye and peered into it. He
made little probing motions at her eyeball, and then
wiped something imaginary off Scully's face. "I think I
got it," he said. "Just a little grit."

"Thank you." She looked properly grateful, with just
the right touch of embarrassment.

"You and your grit in the eye," she hissed at him as
they walked down the hall together.

"Works in a multitude of situations." He was proud of
the way he had handled this crisis.

~*~*~*~*

Scully had anticipated that the two weeks' wait would
be interminable, and for her it was, but for Mulder it
passed with dizzying speed. There was not enough time
to plan, to prepare, to consider, to do all the
worrying that desperately needed to be done.

As the day approached, Mulder's stomach was
increasingly populated with tiny iron butterflies. For
days he had been imagining both the best and the worst
possible scenarios. Visions of little Scully girls
danced in his head. My God, what if she had his nose?
Or what was arguably worse, his height and athletic
build? A red-headed Gabrielle Reese. He would have to
lock her up until she was thirty, to save her from
marauders.

A boy would be nice too. A boy with Scully's arrogant
little nose--that would be trouble. He could just
imagine trying to be a responsible father to a male
teenaged version of the Enigmatic Dr. Scully. He would
have more than his share of difficulty attempting to
command his respect. Still, the thought of a boy to
play basketball with, to take to Knicks and Yankee
games, was alluring.

Oh, but what if something went wrong? What if their
various exposures to biotoxins, mutant goo, alien
viruses, and whatnot had altered either or both of
their genes in some way? What if, and the thought made
Mulder's blood turn to ice, pregnancy made Scully's
cancer come back? Why hadn't he thought of that before?
He'd rather stay childless forever than lose her. They
could have tried adoption.

Who was he kidding? There would be no "they" if it
hadn't been for her need to get pregnant. He was just
glad they had been away when it happened. Otherwise, it
might be Skinner anxiously counting the days. Mulder
knew he was in love with her too; Skinner would have
done anything he could to help Agent Scully out. Mulder
realized he was unconsciously clenching his fists, and
relaxed them.

He'd spent the night at her apartment the night before
they were due to take the test. Scully had said that it
would be helpful to test her urine first thing in the
morning, and she wasn't going to sit with her legs
crossed until he drove to Georgetown. If he wanted to
be there he needed to sleep there. So he had.

He'd slept in her bed, wrapping himself around her from
behind. They were both too nervous to make love. His
left arm rested under her neck, and his right stretched
over her belly. Periodically, during the night, he
would wake and his arms would contract without his
conscious will, pulling her in tight.

~*~*~*~*

In the morning, they got up in silence. He followed her
to the bathroom, and watched her as she opened the box.
She looked cool and calm. She shut the door.

Mulder hovered outside. He could hear her moving around
in there. Then all was quiet.

"Scully?"

"Hang on, Mulder," she replied. The toilet flushed, and
she came out, holding the white plastic indicator in
her hand.

"We have to wait a minute," she said, as he looked at
her expectantly.

She put the indicator down on the hall table and looked
at him.

"Say something, Mulder." Her face was tight.

"How 'bout those Yankees?" It fell flat, although she
gave him a fleeting smile of acknowledgment.

A blue minus sign emerged in the little window.

"Not pregnant." Her voice was dull. It didn't sound
like her at all. He had to glance and make sure it was
really Scully sitting there. He didn't know what to
say. He knew he needed to say something, for her, for
himself, but his throat was clogged with salt.

He wanted to put his arms around her, but he was afraid
she would push him away. Maybe she didn't want comfort
from him. Should he say he was sorry? He was, but that
would imply that it wasn't his loss too. And it was.

Finally, she spoke. "Perhaps it's for the best."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure I'm cut out for motherhood, Mulder. I
love my job. I love what I do. Maybe I wouldn't have
made a good mother."

"What does one have to do with the other?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't believe that, and I don't believe that you
believe it either."

"I'm not June Cleaver, or Mrs. Santa. I'm not the
warmest woman in the world."

"You're the kindest, most generous woman I know." He
wished that he could say it clearly, forcefully enough
that she would know the truth of his words.

She had to fight hard to keep the tears at bay, then.

~*~*~*~*

He thought, at first, that it would just take some
time. That, as with her cancer, she would surprise him
with an unexpected confidence, as she had in the woods
of Florida. He soon realized that, like with the
cancer, she wouldn't tell him anything until it was all
over. By then, perhaps, it would be too late.

Three days after the test came back negative, Mulder
determined that he would initiate the conversation. He
tried calling her, but she wasn't answering at home or
on her cell. He started to worry.

After an hour of inner debate, he drove to her place.
He let himself into her apartment. His heart was in his
throat as he used his key. The ambiguity of their
relationship struck him as he did. He had a key, but he
didn't normally use it. He kept a gym bag of personal
items at her apartment, but he had no drawer.

When he opened the door, he saw her immediately. She
was just sitting there--on her couch in the dark. Her
hands rested like sleeping birds at her sides. There
was an ottoman in front of her, but her feet were flat
on the floor. She still had her coat on.

"Scully?" He called softly from the doorway. She turned
her head and looked at him.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes. I was just--thinking." She didn't ask what he was
doing there, or where he got the nerve to let himself
in her apartment. That worried him more than anything
else.

"What were you thinking about?"

"I don't know," she said, and she sounded surprised to
realize it herself.

He crossed the room and sat down on the couch next to
her. He covered her passive hand with his where it lay
on the couch.

"Scully, I think we have to talk about what happened."
he said finally.

"What happened?" she asked, apparently genuinely
curious.

His face registered both hurt and sympathy. "We became
lovers, in an attempt to get you pregnant, and it
didn't work."

"Ah," she said. "That." She nodded.

"Yes, that."

"Mulder, I appreciate your concern, but I don't want to
talk about this now."

"If not now, then when? You need to talk about this,
Scully."

"You can't make everything better. You can't fix things
for me."

He felt her words like shards of glass in his heart.
No, he couldn't.

"You need to talk about it, Scully," he said again. He
didn't mention what he needed, how much he needed to
talk about it, to ask her forgiveness, to show her his
grief.

As she looked at him, he got smaller and smaller until
it looked to her as though he were down the wrong end
of a telescope.

She raised her arm, as if to refute him, and then her
hand curled into a fist and she pounded it into her
thigh.

"Scully, stop."

"It's not fair, Mulder."

"I know. I know it isn't."

She collapsed against him suddenly, butting his chest
with her head. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking
her hair.

He thought she was sobbing, but there were no tears.
She simply shook in his arms, like an old jalopy about
to shudder to a halt. He saw that her fists were
clenched hard enough that a piece of charcoal in her
hand would emerge from her grip a diamond.

Her face was pressed against his dress shirt. It was
lightly starched, and smelled of dry cleaning with an
undertone of the sweat of the day. He held her tightly
to him, as though he were afraid to let her go. In an
embrace closer than he had ever held her, some part of
her exhausted brain realized that he had always shown
restraint before. He had held her loosely. Now he held
her in as firm a grip as whatever was holding him. They
were both enclosed in the fist of an entity more
powerful than they.

Against her conscious will, her body slowly relaxed.
Her breathing slowed, and the hard arch of her spine
relaxed into a more natural curve. They slid down on
the couch, and she listened to his heart beat until she
stopped hearing it.

~*~*~*~*

They awoke in the morning, curled together on her
couch. Pressed as close as letter and envelope, the
dampness of sweat had made her hair stick to the skin
of his neck in dark whorls.

She breathed softly, trying not to let him know she was
awake. She didn't want to move just yet. She didn't
want to open her eyes, and start *talking* about it
again, for God's sake. She wasn't pregnant; what was
there to say?

She lay listening to his heart beat underneath her ear.
It soothed her, as did the smooth feel of his shirt
against her cheek. If only they never had to move.

He started to shift and she could sense him opening his
mouth to say something. She lifted her head up and
kissed him. He tried to pull away, to speak, and she
caught his jaw with her fingertips, bringing his mouth
back to her. She kissed him with soft, open-mouthed,
slow kisses. He made a slight sound of resistance, but
she persevered, stroking his bristly cheek lightly, and
his lips with deep kisses.

She pulled back slightly and brushed her mouth lightly
against his. He tried once more: "Scu--" but then she
began rotating her hips against him. With every
movement, his cock grew bigger and harder, and soon he
seemed to forget whatever it was he wanted to say.

His hands were stroking up and down her back, and he
returned her kisses, finally, with force.

She let her skirt ride up her legs until she was sure
her ass, still clad in pantyhose, was hanging out. She
didn't care. She didn't care. She didn't care.

All she cared about was Mulder's body underneath hers,
his mouth kissing hers, immersing herself in the smell
of him.

She knew the exact moment when he gave up entirely on
conversation. His mouth sought deeper entrance into
hers, and his hands clasped her buttocks as they peeked
out from under her skirt. He pulled her closer to him
and thrust his pelvis up at her.

She wiggled away from him and stood up. His eyebrows
were raised in surprise and his half-open mouth still
glistened from their kisses.

She decided to ignore the fact that she was still in
yesterday's clothes and had slept all night rumpled up
on the couch with Mulder. She shrugged her jacket off
and let it drop to the floor. She met his eyes, and was
pleased with the sudden intensity of their interest.
She undid the French cuffs of her blouse, and then the
buttons down the front. She raised her arms up to
shoulder height, and slowly pulled apart the two halves
of the blouse, watching Mulder's eyes glimmer as she
did so. She raised first her left shoulder, then her
right, pulling them out of the sleeves. Then she
dropped the blouse on top of her jacket, heedless of
the disruption in her tidy apartment.

She watched the kaleidoscope of color in Mulder's eyes
change as she stood there. His gaze was as attentive as
a predator's, a golden-eyed wolf ready to gobble Little
Red up. She could see his throat working, getting ready
to devour her.

She reached behind her to unzip her skirt, and slid it
and her pantyhose down over her hips, her thighs,
stepping out of them and kicking them into the growing
pile of discarded clothing.

Mulder had brought himself up on one elbow to gaze at
her, but didn't speak.

She wondered at herself as she stood there in her bra
and panties, but bent her arm behind her back to undo
the hook and eye. She let it slide down her arms slowly
and then dropped it carelessly to the side.

When her breasts were free, she cupped them up in her
hands, squeezing and lifting them. He touched his
tongue to his upper lip in unconscious response.

She let her hands glide down her sides, over her
ribcage, to her hips. The words, "Do you like what you
see?" were in her mouth, but she kept them there. It
would sound too needy, and she was too needy to let
herself sound it.

"Beautiful Scully." There was no comma in his
statement. He said it as though it was how he referred
to her everyday in his head. Beautiful Scully.

"Your hair--" His voice croaked. He tried again. "Touch
your hair, Scully."

She did what he asked, wanting to please him. She heard
him make a noise as she ran her fingers through her
hair and her breasts rose, following the muscles of her
arms.

He had undone his pants and was stroking himself as he
watched her.

Smiling her inscrutable smile at him, she hooked her
thumbs in her panties and pushed them down her legs.

"Get over here, Scully."

She stepped towards him, and saw his nostrils flare as
he inhaled her scent. She dropped to her knees by the
couch, and cupping her breasts in her hands again,
offered them to him.

When his mouth closed over her left nipple and he
sucked it deep into his mouth, it was as if he brought
the hot salt from deep inside her up to her eyes. A sob
half-escaped her throat, and she hoped he attributed it
to arousal.

Perhaps he knew her divided heart, because his hands
were gentle as they spanned her back, and pulled her
closer. He switched to her right nipple, his stubble
scraping her fragile skin as he moved to it. She was
glad.

~*~*~*~*

Scully's method of avoiding conversation about their
loss worked remarkably well for the next couple of
weeks. They didn't talk, but Mulder was relieved to
find that he could still be of some use to her. He
could give her something she needed: oblivion in their
bodies.

One day, however, he realized how fragile a hold sex
actually was.

They were in the kitchen. She was putting dishes away,
and he was drying. When he finished his task, he
stopped her in her circuit from the sink to the
cabinets. He kissed her, and her mouth opened sweetly
underneath his. He threaded his damp fingers through
her hair.

He reached up to cup her breasts and she flinched,
apparently resisting a powerful urge to bat his hands
away. He noticed her reaction anyway, despite her
attempts to conceal it.

"Not tonight?" He made it a light question, but he
couldn't hide his feelings of rejection any better than
she could hide her knee jerk reaction to his touch.

"It's not that--" She stopped. How could she explain
that one? I'd be happy to fuck you, but I don't want
you to touch me?

"It's okay," he said. "I understand."

He didn't. How could he? She didn't understand herself.

~*~*~*~*

There are rooms on this earth for emergencies
A sleepy attendant steals my clothes and my name,
and leaves me among the sinks on an altar of fear.

Your name. Your name. Sign these papers,
authorizing us in our wisdom to save the child.
Sign here for circumcision. Your faith, your faith.

O rabbi, what can we learn from the telegraph?
asked the Hasidim, who did not understand.
And he answered, That every word is counted and
charged.

'This is called a dobtone," smiles the doctor.
He greases my belly, stretched like a drum,
and plants a microphone there, like a flag.

~*~*~*~*

The latest incident in his convoluted relationship with
Scully had convinced Mulder of one thing: it was time
for him to face the facts. He had failed her. Eighteen
year old boys all over America trying desperately to
avoid knocking up their girlfriends, and he couldn't
even do it on purpose. Maybe he was too old.

She would slide away from him like water if he didn't
do something to stop it. After he thought about it, he
knew what he needed to do. He would correct the error
he'd made years ago.

He went to the Gunmen's office. Frohike, who seemed to
be the designated doorkeeper--in need only of big furry
green gloves, tall green hat, and long soggy mustache--
answered his knock. Barely acknowledging his greeting,
Mulder jumped right in with what was on his mind.

"I need you guys to find Scanlon again, and I need you
to do it right away."

Langly, Byers, and Frohike exchanged dubious looks.
Mulder intercepted them and waved their doubts away. "I
don't care what you have to do. Just find him. It's
important."

"Is Agent Scully all right?" asked Byers.

"No. She's not."

~*~*~*~*

Agent Scully was tired. Her head flopped back against
the slope of the tub, piled high with pear-scented
bubbles. She couldn't keep her eyes open. She had
intended to read, but she felt so heavy, so fatigued.
She just needed to rest. She closed her eyes, and felt
herself sinking into herself. She was floating away.
She became aware that she could drown. Perhaps she
should stay awake long enough to get to the bed. Just
another minute.

She didn't know what to do about Mulder. She didn't
have the energy to reassure him at the moment. If he
didn't know how she felt about him now, after all they
had been through, how could anything that she could say
make a difference? What did it matter what one said?

What could she tell him, anyway, when she was so
confused herself? She felt out of sorts, aching and
sore all over. She'd taken a battering by circumstances
this time, and she just needed some time to get her
strength back, to rest and recover.

She came back to herself as the water was cooling and
the bubbles had all flattened out. She must have fallen
asleep. She got out, dried herself off, and put on
clean pajamas. It would feel good to get in the bed.

~*~*~*~*

Arriving late at the office the next day, Scully's mind
was in a whirl of disjointed thoughts and emotions,
including an overwhelming desire for lunch. A reuben
sandwich and fries were turning enticingly on a fantasy
plate in her mind. Walking down the hall to the
elevator, in a world of her own, Scully was jolted when
Skinner called to her.

"Agent Scully, may I see you for a moment? In my
office," he added. Skinner looked serious, but then,
Skinner always looked serious. That was no reliable
indicator of how much trouble she was in.

She didn't answer in words, just turned and walked
through his office door.

Once she had taken a seat, he seemed unsure how to
start. She was certain she knew what he was going to
say. She had been distracted at work lately, her
productivity had fallen off, he was concerned, was
there anything she would like to tell him? She prepared
her non-answers in her head, but they were all blown
away when he spoke.

"It's about Agent Mulder." Skinner looked distinctly
uncomfortable.

"Sir?" She was unable to keep the surprise out of her
voice.

"I'm concerned about his--state of mind, Agent Scully."
He tapped his fingers on his desk. She could smell the
dry-cleaned scent of his shirt, and the leather of his
desk accessories. No smoke today. There had been no
smoke for a long time.

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"You haven't noticed his recent behavior?" Skinner
seemed to find that incredible.

She avoided answering the question adroitly.

"What behavior are you referring to, Sir?"

Skinner looked almost embarrassed, as though caught in
a moment of feminine weakness.

"He seems. . .distracted."

The echo of her own thoughts made her jump.

"Frankly," Skinner went on. "I might not have noticed
it if my secretary hadn't brought it to my attention.
But Kimberly is right. Your partner looks like he
hasn't slept in weeks. He's lost weight." He hesitated.
"I'm surprised your haven't noticed it yourself."

Scully ducked her head, but that was her only response.
How could she answer that? I've had some more important
matters on my mind, Sir?

"Do you know of something that might be troubling him,
Agent Scully?" Behind his glasses, Skinner's brown eyes
looked sincerely concerned, not just about Mulder, but
about her too.

Scully felt his words like the sudden skid of ice under
your feet, when you didn't know it was there. She could
see clearly what she hadn't seen before, until Skinner
showed it to her. Mulder's face was before her mind's
eye. He was haggard, drawn. The bones of his face had
never been more apparent. He had circles under his
eyes, and the look in them--

She did. She did know.

~*~*~*~*

Dr. Scanlon's new home was an unobtrusive square brick
building. There was a keypad lock, but the door was
open. Mulder thought back to the last time a door had
been left unlocked for him, but he had gone too far to
back down now.

This time Mulder had come prepared--with a cooler. It
was a standard red and white model with an easy-
carrying handle. It was brand-new. He set it down to
inspect the locking mechanism of the freezer.

"Looking for something?" inquired a familiar voice.
Mulder spun around.

"Krycek!" Whatever Mulder had expected, it wasn't his
duplicitous former partner.

"Mulder, you didn't think we wouldn't know you were
coming, did you?"

"Did you bake a cake?" asked Mulder, unable to stop
himself.

"I have something even better for you," replied Krycek,
in a voice that made Mulder very, very nervous.

~*~*~*~*

After looking all over the FBI building for Mulder,
Scully had gone to both his apartment and hers. Both
places proved empty, a wasted trip. She proceeded to
various haunts of his where she knew he went to think:
the reflecting pool, a track where he sometimes ran,
the basketball court. Finally, she tried the office of
the Lone Gunmen.

As soon as Frohike opened the door, she got right to
the point.

"Do you know where Mulder is?" Scully's voice was
demanding. "I need to talk to him." She wrinkled her
nose. Their office smelled like tacos and ink.

The three of them exchanged anxious glances. She
translated their looks. "He told you not to tell me?"

They were still gulping like fish and staring. "Listen
to me carefully. I need to speak to Mulder. I have
something very important I need to tell him. He needs
to know it. Now tell me where he is." Several things,
she thought. I have several things I need to tell him.

Frohike broke first, as she knew he would. "He went
after Scanlon again."

"Where?" The word was a projectile.

"Nashville." He seemed contrite, though she knew he
wasn't to blame for Mulder's haring off on his own.
This time, she knew, she was partially responsible.

Scully felt an enormous bubble of distress rising up
within her. She felt like if only she could muster up a
big enough belch she might be able to relieve it.
Unfortunately, a belch big enough would shatter all the
windows in a one mile radius, not to mention frighten
the Gunmen.

"Tell me everything." She bit back her discomfort, and
set her mind to doing what had to be done.

It made her heart pound, and her head hurt, to think
about having to rescue Mulder. She wasn't up to this at
all. She was tired. She needed a sandwich and a nap.

~*~*~*~*

"You know, Mulder," said Krycek conversationally, "I
could get into big, big trouble over this."
Nonetheless, he clicked the handcuffs into place behind
Mulder's back .

"We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Mulder's attempt
at repartee wobbled a bit.

"Well, it would only happen if your tobacco-stained
friend finds out it was me who blew you into fragments.
He's quite foolish about you, you know." Krycek
continued. "It's obvious that you'll keep chasing down
this enterprise as long as it, and you, exist."

"I'm just killing two birds with one stone," he
concluded, as he stood back and surveyed his work. It
evidently satisfied him.

~*~*~*~*

They must have looked like the latest alternative rock
group getting off the plane at the Nashville airport.
They attracted admiring and curious glances as they
disembarked through gate C5. Scully was obviously the
lead singer, and her three men in black, toting their
black trunks full of equipment, were the backup band.
She strode out in front, with Langly and Byers each on
point. Frohike's head swivelled from side to side as he
covered the back.

Scully made a beeline for the Whitt's barbecue stand
directly across from the gate. She purchased a pulled
pork sandwich, fries, and a container of milk.

They rented a van downstairs at the Avis counter.
Scully muttered to herself all the way out to the
parking lot. Byers and Langly shot nervous glances at
each other, obviously afraid she had lost it.

In reality, she was just rehearsing what she would say
to Mulder when she found him, "If I have to hunt down
your miserable carcass *one* more time, Mulder. . ."
She still felt like she was suffering from the world's
worst case of heartburn, and it was wearing her
patience thin. The stench of fuel and burnt rubber
throughout the airport didn't help matters either.
Normally, she'd be quietly frantic about him. Today she
couldn't be quiet about it.

Langly had traced Dr. Scanlon's Traveling Fertility
Clinic and Hybrid Freak Show to a short office building
on Division. They took 40 West to Demonbreun.

The rental car smell of the van was irritating, and
Frohike's driving didn't help matters any.

~*~*~*~*

Scully told Frohike to wait for her in the van, and
keep it running. Langly and Byers followed her into the
building.

As it had been for Mulder, the front door was unlocked.
Inside, the three split up.

Scully made her way down the hall, trying doorknobs and
preparing herself for what might be on the other side
of them. Every door opened to her, but no one was in
any of the rooms. She found labs, examining rooms, and
even the break-room, but no one was there, especially
not Mulder.

Finally, at the end of one hollow sounding hallway she
found a doorknob that would not turn. She banged on the
door. "Mulder, are you in there? Mulder, can you hear
me?"

After a hundred year long wait, his voice licked her
ear like a grateful dog. "Scully, is that you?"

"Yes!" Relief poured over her. "Mulder, hang on. I'm
going to get you out of there." She thought perhaps she
would have a crest drawn up and make that her motto.

She called Byers on her cellphone. "Found him!" She
told him to have he and Langly meet her at the van.

"Scully, what are you doing here?" Mulder sounded
frantic.

"I'm here to get you," she yelled back at him through
the door.

"Scully! Scully, listen, Krycek has a bomb set to go
off somewhere in the building. You've got to get out of
here." When the words registered, she quickly turned
off her cellphone.

"I intend to!" Oh, he was ridiculous. She would just
turn and skedaddle out of there, is that what he
expected her to do?

The lock wasn't that difficult to pick. The room was
meant for mops and brooms, after all, and Scully was
pretty good at picking locks. She didn't like to admit
it, because it didn't sound scientific, but it was
largely a matter of convincing the lock that it wanted
to be open.

Mulder's head was down when she finally got the door
open, and a cold feeling flooded her. "Mulder!" she
exclaimed. Her relief when he looked up was as sudden
and all consuming as her panic.

She elaborated on her previous answer to his question:
"What do you think I'm doing here, Mulder? I'm coming
to your rescue, as usual." Her tone was sharp and
acerbic, but she was already on her knees, ruffling his
hair, checking his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, embarrassed.

"Good, because when we get out of here, I'm gonna kick
your ass, and I want it in good shape for that."

"I look forward to it."

She unlocked his handcuffs, grateful that Krycek had
chosen to use Mulder's own set on him, and that he had
left the key.

Going together to the door, the checked the hallway
before stepping out of the small room.

"Let's go. The Gunmen are outside, waiting for us."

"Wait, hang on," he said. He dragged her down the hall
to another room. He looked around frantically.

"Mulder, we have to get out of here."

"I know. Wait--just a second. Ah!" He spotted the red
and white item in question, snatched it up, and darted
for the heavy metal door at the back of the room. He
spun the lock impatiently, and it opened with a whoosh.

"We don't have time for this, Mulder."

"We need to make time."

It was a freezer full of drawers, and Mulder was
running his index finger down their file labels
urgently.

Belatedly it occurred to her what he was looking for,
and she moved closer to look along with him. They saw
it at the same time: Scully, Dana. Mulder wrenched open
the drawer, making a little sound of satisfaction when
he saw the vials lined up like good soldiers. He
started transferring them to the cooler, lifting them
out one by one as if they were gold bars, and gently
depositing them among the blue gel packs in the cooler.

"You didn't have to do this." Maddened, and touched.

"Yes, I did."

She didn't want to argue with him; She just wanted to
get the two of them out of there.

"Just hurry, Mulder."

He refused to, and she became more and more agitated.
He methodically placed each and every vial in the
cooler, one by one, and carefully closed the lid.

She kept him in front of her as they made their way out
of the building, just in case he had any bright ideas
for another Easter egg hunt. That's what this adventure
was about, wasn't it?--the resurrection of hope. Mulder
always wanted to make the dead rise and come forth.

The van was running, thank God. Scully yanked the back
door open and pushed Mulder and his precious cooler
inside. "Go!"

Frohike peeled out.

"What on earth were you thinking, Mulder?" She was so
exasperated she couldn't even wait until they were
alone to demand an explanation. "What exactly did you
think you were up to?"

"I thought I was up to retrieving part of what they'd
stolen from you, and I seem to have succeeded." He
looked at the cooler with glee painted on his face. He
was disgustingly pleased with himself, and her hand
tingled with the urge to slap him. She didn't, of
course, that would be irrational.

He looked up at her then, and seemed to realize that
she wasn't as thrilled as he was about this little
adventure.

"You were so unhappy," he stammered, disappointment
crushing his face. "I thought--we could try again--I
mean--if you still wanted me to--You could have these
ova fertilized--by whoever you wanted really--and then
have in vitro fertilization."

"Perhaps I will, Mulder. Not immediately, however."

He noticed she didn't say anything about his role in
that possibility. He knew he should keep his face
carefully neutral, but he was afraid his lip was
quivering.

"I know why you did this, Mulder."

"You do?" Irrationally, he felt guilty.

"I do. You did it because you love me, didn't you?" She
sounded like she was ready to break out the shock stick
if he didn't immediately confess.

"I do," he said simply. "You know that."

"And you wanted me to be happy. You wanted to be my
knight in shining armor, didn't you?"

In the back of the rented van they rolled around a bit
as Frohike took the corners with verve. She ended up in
his arms. He reached out with one hand to grab the
cooler frantically and protect it.

"Is that wrong?" he asked.

"So you put yourself in jeopardy for that?"

"No," he answered. "Not just for that. I wanted a baby
too. And--I didn't want to lose you, Scully."

Her throat worked frantically, and she opened and shut
her mouth twice before the words burst out of her: "I
love you, Mulder. I love *you*, not your sperm." She
glared at him. "I love you even when you're stupid. I
love you even when you run off and don't tell me where
you're going. I love your socially stunted emotional
development, and your poor impulse control. I love your
brilliant mind, your soft heart, and your delightful
body. Te amo. Te amavi. Te semper amabo. Is that
sufficient, or do you need it in another language?"

Mulder started to look hopeful. "Really?"

"Really." Her expression softened. "Although I admit
it's an irrational love."

He smiled then, his eyes shining suspiciously.

"I was upset, it's true. Weren't you?" She touched his
shoulder, noting to herself that she was already
addicted to touching him.

He nodded. The movement loosened the tears pooling in
his eyes, and two ran down his face.

"It was very painful, very hurtful, to have my hopes
dashed that way." She looked away, reliving those hard,
ashen days in memory. "But--"

"But, what?"

"Well, a couple of things, really." She looked back at
him, and smiled. "Something someone said to me made me
realize that you were the only one who knew how I was
feeling, because you felt the same way."

She pretended his hair was straying into his eyes and
brushed her fingers across his forehead. "That whatever
happened, for good or for ill, we were in it together.
My partner." She made the word sound like the most
tender endearment ever spoken. She cocked her head as
if to ask him if that wasn't so.

He nodded, unable to speak. The relief he felt was
overpowering. "And also. . ." She paused.

". . .pregnancy tests can be wrong."

He started to speak, and all that came out was a
helpless sputter. "You--you--do you mean?--What do you
mean, Scully?" He was afraid to put it into words.
Terrified, in fact.

"Yes, Mulder." Her hand was curling around his, and
grasping it tightly.

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll marry you. Yes, I'll live with you and be
your love. Yes, I'll save the world with you. Yes, I'll
attend parent/teacher conferences with you. It's all
the same, isn't it?"

"Yes?"

"Yes. What do you think of the names Ishmael and
Rachel?"

"Melvin's a good name," Frohike piped up from the
front.

"Quiet!" hissed Byers, who wanted to hear this.

"Two?" he squeaked. Two names? Two--

She smiled at him, and touched his cheek tenderly.
"You're lucky it isn't four."

Something descended on his face then, transforming it.
It was a look she had never seen before, and she hadn't
realized it until just this moment. It was joy.

~*~*~*~*

A thousand thumping rabbits! Savages clapping for joy!
A heart dancing its name, I'm here, I'm here!
The cries of fishes, of stars, the tunings of hair!

O rabbi, what can we learn from a telephone?
*My shiksa daughter, your faith, your faith
that what we say here is heard there.*
--Nancy Willard, "For You, Who Didn't Know"

The End

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