Land of the Living – Part I

Title: Land of the Living Part I
Author: ML
Posted Date: February 12, 2006

Distribution: I welcome it, just tell me where.
Spoilers: you’ve seen the whole series, right?
Rating: Adult themes, adult situations
Classification: S, A, UST/MSR
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance
Disclaimer: The concept of the X-Files and of its characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and FOX. I mean no infringement and I’m making no money from this.

Author’s notes: I have stuck fairly close to canon, though some elements that were introduced in S8 are ignored.

Please note that there will be a second part, already written, that will be posted not too long after Part One is completely posted. Part One starts just after the events in Closure.

Many, many thanks to Carol for beta and cheerleading, and to Tess and Char for encouragement and kind words!

Summary: What happens next? Picking up the pieces after “Closure.”

=====

There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love. -Thornton Wilder

~x~

Land of the Living by ML

Prologue

~Traveler’s Rest Motel, outside Victorville, California~

The ringing of his cell phone wakes him. He reaches out and gropes for it, keeping his head buried in the pillow. He’s so tired.

“H’lo?” he mutters hoarsely.

“Mulder, it’s me,” Scully greets him. “I knocked on your door but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

“Time’s it?” he asks, turning his head toward the nightstand. The clock there reads 12:00. No, that can’t be right. They’d only checked in at eleven o’clock. And why is it so light outside? Can’t be moonlight.

“It’s almost noon, Mulder. I had to sweet talk the desk clerk to extend checkout hours for us.”

Normally, he wouldn’t let a remark like that pass without a response. However, his surprise at finding out it’s noon *the next day* shocks him into silence.

Finally he says, “Where are you, Scully?”

“Just outside your door. With lunch. Want some?”

He stumbles out of bed, grabbing his sweatpants and putting them on as he opens the door. Scully stands there, immaculate, a bag in one hand and her phone in the other.

He steps aside to let her in. “Give me a minute.” He grabs his clothes and enters the bathroom to shower and dress.

The cool water helps wake him a little more but he still feels exhausted. So much has happened in such a short time. He closes his eyes against the needles of water. His usually over- stimulated brain seems emptied of every thought, every emotion.

What now? he thinks as he dries himself off. For the first time, I don’t really know. Maybe I don’t care, either.

Scully arranges their lunch, listening to the shower and wondering about Mulder’s mood. She’d had a busy night, and not much sleep. After talking with Arbutus Ray, she’d taken Mulder to the motel and then driven Harold to the bus station. Harold had lost heart, unable to accept that his son was not in the same place Mulder had found Samantha. Scully had no words of comfort for him. How many times has she seen Mulder in exactly the same circumstances, and had no words that could reach him? She’s not sure now why Mulder accepts what he says he saw. She’s not even sure what he saw in that meadow. What kind of an explanation is starlight, after all?

Once back at the motel, she’d found that Mulder had already turned in. She couldn’t even detect the faint blue light of the television set. Sleep didn’t come as easily to her as it had seemed to for Mulder. The outcome of the case isn’t as acceptable to her as it seems to be for him.

But Mulder believes. For some reason, he believes. If it gives him some peace, she can’t begrudge him. But she cannot help but worry about him. Is he accepting this explanation too easily? She’s too close to it all to take it in. She needs to gather more information, understand what happened to Mulder, before she can make up her mind.

As he opens the bathroom door Mulder can smell the warm greasy odor of lunch awaiting him. Scully has set the food out on the small table by the window and is in the process of adding the minute portion of dressing she allows herself on her usual salad.

She doesn’t look up right away and he’s suddenly shaken by the fear that this really is the end of the road, that he’s done or worse yet, Scully is done, and that she will finally and irrevocably leave him. Panic rises over his numbness.

Calm, he must be calm. He can discuss this rationally with Scully. She’s still here.

Just at that moment she looks up and smiles. Not her welcome- back-from-the-dead smile, this is not quite as toothy but every bit as genuine. He remembers to smile back, just, and sits down opposite her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Okay, I guess. Tired. Really, really tired.” He unwraps his burger and takes a huge bite, washing it down with iced tea. Ugh. Flavored.

She notices his grimace. “Sorry, there wasn’t much choice.”

“S’okay,” he says after he swallows.

They eat and drink in silence. Mulder’s mind begins to race again, wondering what to say to Scully. Once before, he’d tried to say something to make her stay, even tried to kiss her. It hadn’t turned out well. Not because she’d resisted him, though, and the circumstances are a little different now. They’ve even kissed, once, a couple of weeks ago. Not that either of them has mentioned it since.

Scully breaks the silence first. “I don’t think we need to go back to Sacramento. Samantha was not a part of the LaPierre case. We can send them a copy of our final report when we get back to DC.”

He nods his assent, staring down at the remains of his lunch.

“We can either drive up to San Francisco or over to Los Angeles to catch a flight,” she continues. “I checked this morning, and no matter which way we go, those are the only airports with direct flights.”

“How far to San Francisco?” he asks. He doesn’t remember much of the drive down; Harold and Scully had driven most of the way while he dozed.

“Couple of hours, at least. We’re much closer to Los Angeles. What do you want to do?” she asks, her blue eyes piercing him.

I want to kiss you, he thinks. I want to hold you so close that I can’t tell where I end and you begin.

“Mulder?” He hasn’t spoken the words out loud, but her face has a startled expression on it. He wonders what his face looks like. When he doesn’t say anything, she stands up and starts to gather the lunch debris together.

As she turns back from the trash can, in one stride he’s in front of her, crowding her, grasping her arms and leaning in to kiss her.

At first she turns her head to one side as if to avoid the touch of his lips on hers. She turns back so quickly he thinks he may have imagined it. She stands very still, her arms at her sides, and allows him to kiss her. Her lips are cool and slightly sweet from the soda. He settles his hands at her waist, leaning forward to reach her.

Although surprised by Mulder’s full frontal attack, Scully keeps a tight grip on her own emotions. She wants him nearly as much as he wants her, but this isn’t right. She forces herself to remain still, neither rejecting nor encouraging him as his lips press hard against hers and his hands grip her tightly enough to leave marks.

She loves him, she wants him, but not like this. It feels too much like goodbye, like an end, like mourning. She will not yield to her own desires under these circumstances.

The act of kissing Scully only seems to increase his panic. All the emotions he’s kept submerged for so long concentrate in this one act. He presses his mouth against hers so hard that he thinks she might bend backward. But Scully, with her core of steel, stands firm. He feels her hands come up to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh. He takes a firmer purchase on her waist and tries to draw her closer to him.

She doesn’t pull away, but she won’t yield to him, either.

The awareness of this finally filters into his brain and he drops his hands and hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” his whispers almost inaudibly. “I’m sorry.”

She gently disengages and moves her hands up to his face to make him look at her. Her thumbs rest at the corners of his mouth, yearning to stroke over his pliant lips, to let him know that his actions aren’t unwelcome. His eyes are half-closed. His full lower lip trembles ever so slightly, moist from their kiss. Tension from him flows through her hands but even if she hadn’t been holding him, she would know how he feels from the set of his shoulders and his still, watchful air.

Moments pass and neither moves. He’s afraid to move. He can’t trust himself. He waits dumbly for her to speak, to pronounce his fate.

Scully regards him with a serious expression, taking her time. She still has his face cupped in her palms and it reminds her of so many other times when she wanted to do more than to offer him comfort. The most recent time was the night after his mother died. If he’d approached her that night in this way, she wouldn’t have denied him. She’s not sure where she finds the strength now to resist him, when he needs her so desperately.

And why not now? Now, alone together in a motel room in the middle of nowhere, the decision seems to lie with her. Mulder is mute. She isn’t sure if he takes her drawing back from his kiss as a rejection or if he simply wants her to make the next move.

She leads him back to the table and says, “Mulder, just sit a minute.” He does so, obedient as a child, not looking at her. She kneels next to him and chafes his hands between her own. They’re so cold. “Mulder, please look at me.”

Very slowly he raises his eyes to her. She sees fear, loss, pain in them. This time, she doesn’t think it’s only for Samantha, or his mother. He still doesn’t speak.

She raises his hands to her lips, kissing them gently, laying her cheek against the back of his hand. He hasn’t moved from where she put him. “Is this what you want?” she whispers.

His hands turn to grasp hers. His fingers are still cold. He still doesn’t speak. She scans his face.

“I don’t think either of us is in any condition to make any important decisions right now,” she says gently. “A lot has happened in the past few days.”

Her heart tries to rally against her common sense. Why not just give in, smother him with kisses, and to hell with the consequences?

“Okay,” Mulder’s voice, soft and hoarse, sighs over her thoughts. He must have taken her silence as waiting for an answer rather than her own agonizing. “Okay,” he says a little louder, clearing his throat. “I’ll call Skinner and ask for some time. But only if you do the same.”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand him. They’re way beyond games of that kind. Still, her heart beats a little harder. Keeping her eyes locked to his, she nods.

“Let me take care of things back in DC, and we can meet somewhere in a couple of days. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again.

Scully looks at him for a long moment. “Will you be okay on your own for a bit? Maybe you should come back to DC too. Then we can decide what to do.”

Mulder shakes his head. “I want to stay here.”

“Not *here* here, I hope,” Scully says lightly. “And not to investigate anything, right?”

He shakes his head again. “You know what’ll happen if we both go back. We’ll go down to the office, someone’ll call, and it’s off to the races again.” He attempts a smile.

“So you’re not staying out here to investigate anything?” she asks once more.

“No.” He doesn’t add, there’s nothing left to find out. I learned everything I’m ever likely to know about Samantha. It’s time to face that.

Scully crouches before him for another long moment, trying to gauge his mood. Finally she gives his hands one last squeeze and stands up. “Let’s get out of here before they decide to charge us for another night.”

This wins her a very small smile from Mulder. He nods and stands up. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

~x~

Chapter One ~San Francisco International Airport~

He used to play this game with himself after Samantha’s disappearance. He plays it now, waiting for Scully.

He shuts his eyes as he hears the counter person officially announce the flight’s arrival. He keeps his eyes shut and slowly counts another twenty, hearing happy reunion sounds around him. After a third count to twenty he slowly opens his eyes. He stands up, a head taller than most of the people milling around him, and watches as the flood of people from the jetway slows to a trickle. At last he spots her coming around the bend in the ramp, her face in its public mode: untouchable, remote, eyes focused on something in the middle distance. She’s wearing black leggings, boots, a black leather jacket, and a bulky charcoal turtleneck. All in black, there’s a surprise. She seldom wears anything else anymore.

He watches her approach. She hasn’t looked up yet, hasn’t seen him, and he’s grateful for the opportunity to observe her unaware. Maybe he can gauge her mood, though he’s as often wrong as right. She’s a better judge of his moods than he of hers. It doesn’t matter. She has come to him, and he loves her.

The words appear in his head without conscious thought. He’s thought them before, even said them to Scully once. He knows their truth as entirely as anything in his life. *More* than anything in his life. Too much has been taken away or been disproved for that assertion to carry the weight it should.

They are poised on the edge of something, not for the first time, but, he hopes, for the last time. He’s ready to make the leap. He hopes her presence here means that she is, too, that she hasn’t made this cross-country journey to humor or appease him, or because she thinks he’s too fragile to oppose. He doesn’t think this is the case, but he can’t always tell with Scully.

Then all at once the crowds part and she’s right there before him. “Hi,” she says, with a small smile.

“Hi,” he says back, and almost leans down to kiss her, but stops himself. He clears his throat nervously. “How was your flight?”

“Long,” she sighs, rolling her neck. They stand looking at each other for a moment.

“Do you have luggage?” he asks. She nods. “Let’s go get it and get out of here.” He takes the carry-on from her and swings it over his shoulder. To his surprise, she takes his hand in hers and keeps it there until they get to Baggage Claim.

While they wait for her baggage, he asks, “Are you hungry?”

“Not really, I had some dinner on the plane.” He knows what this means. She picked at her entree, maybe nibbled at the bread or the dessert.

“Well, we have about a two hour drive ahead of us,” he says. “We can stop on the way or have something when we get there, if that’s not too late for you.”

“Where are we going?” She sounds a little suspicious, as if he is taking her off to investigate an X-File.

“I think you’ll like it,” he says. He’s been there for two days already, and other than the lack of Scully, he thinks it’s a nice place.

He still feels a little awkward around her, in a way he rarely has. After he launched himself at her in Victorville, the unspoken thing between them presses on him. Until they actually talk, he’s in a state of suspended animation. Right now, however, he needs the answer to at least one question.

“Does Skinner know where you are?”

She looks at him, considering. She doesn’t want to recount the conversation with Skinner, his inquiries into Mulder’s state of mind, his expectation that she assess him and report back, as he had asked her to do during the case. Scully’s firm response had been that Mulder was going on vacation, and what he did on his own time was his business. She stared him down, willing him to say anything more. He’d ended up apologizing for the implication, but she’s pretty sure he knows what’s up anyway. The request, Scully’s non-denial denial, and his concession are all part of the game.

She says to Mulder now, “I didn’t tell him, and he didn’t ask. I just said it seemed like a good opportunity to use some personal time.” He can just see Skinner’s expression. Mulder’s been the recipient of it a few times before. It indicates that he sees through whatever line is being spun but he’s letting it go anyway. It’s a good thing Skinner hadn’t asked; they both know she’s not a good liar.

Now Scully says to Mulder, “Mom asked to be remembered to you.”

Mulder half-smiles. “You told your mom where you were going.” It is not a question.

Scully shrugs. “I told her I was taking some vacation time, and meeting a friend in California.”

“Was she, uh, concerned?”

“Only about you.” Scully stops and turns to look at Mulder. “I told her about your mom. She’s very concerned for you.”

“Thanks,” Mulder says. “Thank her for me, would you? I hope you told her I’m okay.”

Scully almost asks, “*Are* you okay?” but she doesn’t think that the middle of San Francisco Airport is the place to start that conversation. “That’s when I told her I was coming to spend time with you. And besides, she would have found out anyway.”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot you Scullys are all psychic.”

Scully sticks out her little, pink tongue and makes a face, and it’s a good thing his hands are full of her luggage, or he might have to ravish her on the spot.

In his dreams.

Still, even this little bit of banter helps him to relax and feel that things are almost normal.

Once they finally get out of the airport, they cross the city, heading for the Golden Gate Bridge and their own personal Rubicon. By the time they are over the bridge, he knows she’s fallen asleep without even looking.

He likes her sleeping in the car. He allows himself to feel like her protector at these times, something she would never stand for when awake. This is so much like so many other trips taken across dark landscapes, yet the end of this journey will be, he hopes, entirely different.

The days without Scully have been long and filled with uncertainty. Until she stepped off that plane, he hadn’t been sure she would return to him.

He’d dropped her off at the LA airport, and then on a whim, drove all the way up the coast to San Francisco. He spent his first night without her walking all over the city. He walked through the infamous nightclub district, ignoring the come-ons of the shills on the sidewalk. Lately, going to the clubs and watching the videos he owns hasn’t interested him. It has something to do with Scully, he supposes. It was one thing to ease his frustration when he’d decided she was unattainable. Now that this may no longer be true, the substitutes he’d settled for in the past hold no allure.

By the time he’d gotten back to his hotel, he was beyond weary. He showered and threw himself onto the bed, turning on the television as a reflexive action, and promptly fell asleep.

Only to wake up in a cold sweat not long after. He was used to nightmares waking him up in this fashion. At least in recent years he had Scully to call and talk to when they occurred. He called Scully right away, not to tell her about the dream, but to reassure himself that she was okay. Or so he told himself. She guessed he’d had a nightmare, but as usual she did not press him for details, just stayed on the phone with him, talking of inconsequential things.

After that, they’d talked on the phone every night, conversations which usually ended with her falling asleep– a casualty of the three-hour time difference. Sometimes he waited until he was sure she was asleep before he disconnected, listening to her slow breathing across the miles. At least one night he’d fallen asleep himself to the sound, waking up with a cell-phone shaped dent in his cheek and a dead battery. Most nights, though, he channel- surfed until he found something suitably mind-numbing and fell asleep to that.

The odd thing is how much he’s slept during the day, too. Deep, dreamless sleep, as if he is catching up on years of sleepless nights. It was one way to pass the time until Scully joined him, and kept him from calling her throughout the day, pestering her.

Scully had suggested that he has a lot to process, but what’s left? His mother is dead — suicide, Scully told him, and he believes her. He knows what happened to Samantha — and somehow, he believes that, too. He’s told Scully he just wants it to be over. He thinks it’s really true this time. He’s the last of his family, and it’s time to move on. Time to start a new chapter in his life, where the focus is not on his quest.

He hopes that this new chapter will include Scully. He realizes not for the first time what a good friend she has always been and how lost he would be without her. Hell, he’d have died years ago without Scully to show up and save him, time and time again.

Now once again they are traveling together, hurtling toward the unknown as they have so many times in the past…but different, this time. He hopes, different.

x-x-x

Scully sleeps most of the way there, waking up only as Mulder slows at the entrance of the compound. She’s not sure where she is for a moment. It’s pitch black outside the car, not even a street light to show the way. Then she sees the sign illuminated by the headlights of their car.

“Sea Horse Ranch, Mulder?” He can tell her eyebrow is raised without seeing her face. “Nothing like Mustang Ranch, I hope?”

“This is California, Scully, not Nevada. What do you take me for?” He grins and adds quickly, “Don’t answer that yet.” He maneuvers carefully down the narrow main road and turns off onto a lane marked only by a small sign with a number on it. A few seconds later a house appears in the headlights.

“Here it is, your home away from home,” he says, turning off the engine. He retrieves her luggage from the trunk and leads the way up a short flight of steps to a railed porch and the front door.

It’s too dark to see much of the outside. There is a hint of mist in the air, collecting in an aura around the porch light. Scully can just make out weathered wood siding before Mulder ushers her inside.

Inside, it’s a nice place, in a rustic way. The cozy living room is furnished with deep, comfortable looking chairs and sofas. There’s a fireplace, and one wall appears to be all windows. The curtains are closed, but even inside they can hear a low roaring which is the sound of waves crashing on a not too distant shore.

“Mulder, where are we?”

“Somewhere north of San Francisco. I just took a drive one day and this is where I ended up.”

He doesn’t tell her the rest of the story. How he’d come across this little cliff-top enclave, weathered houses stuck out in the middle of nowhere, rising out of the pale yellow grasses and gray-green shrubs. It is about as different from Arcadia as one can get. It sparked an idea in his head. A couple of inquiries in the small town nearby got him a deal on a week’s rental. He could have had his choice of several, considering the time of year.

The next day he’d checked out of his hotel in San Francisco and drove back up the coast, laying in some supplies and starting to make some plans for Scully’s arrival.

Now Mulder leads the way through the living room to the hallway. “Here’s your room, Scully,” Mulder indicates a door on the left. “Mine’s just down the hall. And in case you think I picked the best for me, they’re identical. Even the bathrooms.” He sets her luggage down. “I’ll be back in a minute — I left some things in the car. Are you hungry?”

She nods. She knows Mulder hadn’t believed her when she told him she’d eaten on the plane. He’s been on too many flights with her.

“Thought so,” he quirks a half-smile as he leaves the room.

Scully slips off her shoes and inspects her room before going back out to join Mulder. It’s several cuts above their usual accommodations on a case. It’s also obviously a vacation rental, judging from the lack of personal touches. She does note with pleasure that there’s a tub in her bathroom, and that the towels are large and soft.

She washes her hands and splashes water on her face, contemplating her reflection and thinking about Mulder. She isn’t sure what she expected, other than some awkwardness over the unspoken purpose of this vacation. She does not expect a total personality change from Mulder. She half-expects him to pull an X-File out of his jacket, and tell her they are going off to investigate. No sign so far, but it could still happen. Maybe he just wants to soften her up first.

When they talked on the phone, he’d been strangely silent about how he passed the time while they were apart. Scully hadn’t wanted to pry. She had told him he needed time to process all that had happened to him, but how does one process almost thirty years of pain in a week?

After his refusal to believe that his mother had killed herself, his passive acceptance of Samantha’s fate puzzles her. On the other hand, it’s his quest, his sister, as he’s reminded her time and again. Surely it’s his right to decide when it’s over — to declare that he now has the closure that he sought for so long. It is not her place to tell him how to feel or think, she tells herself. She just wants to know that he’s okay.

As Scully comes back out to the living room, she sees that Mulder has lit the fire. He has also placed a tray containing cheese, fruit and a basket of sourdough bread on the coffee table. As she sits on the couch, he emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and glasses.

“Par-tay,” he says, grinning, and Scully smiles back.

Mulder observes that she looks nervous. That suits him, because he’s petrified. For all the times he’s fantasized about being alone with Scully like this, all the daydreams of loving her, he doesn’t know how to start. He feels the panic rising again, just like in Victorville. Instead of making him act, however, it paralyzes him. He glances over at Scully and smiles at her.

“Very California,” she says, indicating the spread on the coffee table.

“When in Rome…” he quips. “Aren’t you glad we’re not in Idaho?”

Scully doesn’t say anything more, but she gives him another small smile. She leans back against the sofa cushions and watches him pour the wine. He sits down and hands her a glass, offering his for a toast. They touch rims and sip the wine, each looking forward into the fire, and both fetch a sigh at the same moment.

After exchanging sidelong glances for a split second, they both laugh. There is so much he wants to say to her, but the words seem to stick in his throat.

Scully pre-empts him by asking suddenly, “What did you do with your week, Mulder?”

He’s sort of taken aback by this question. They talked every night, so she should pretty much know the answer to that. “Oh, you know. Walked around. Slept a lot.”

Scully rolls her eyes. “You had a week in one of the most exciting cities in the world and you slept all day?”

“I thought I’d wait for you to do the sight-seeing,” Mulder replies.

“So of course we’re now two hours out of the city,” Scully points out. “Seriously, Mulder, how are you?”

Mulder takes a sip of wine. “I’m fine, Scully.”

“Why do I not believe you?”

Mulder shrugs. “I dunno. Why shouldn’t you?”

Scully merely says, “Okay,” and takes another sip of wine.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Scully,” he says a little defensively. “You’re the one who suggested that I take some time. Is there an assignment I’m supposed to complete? Are you here to check on me, make sure that I’m fit to return to work?”

He regrets the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth.

Scully wonders if Mulder can still read minds, then realizes it’s just his usual intuitive reasoning. If he could read her, he’d know it’s not the reason. Not the real reason. She responds quietly with, “That’s not fair, Mulder. I thought I was here at your invitation.”

“You are,” he says, not quite ready to concede the whole argument. “I just wasn’t expecting the third degree.”

“I only asked how you are. I don’t think I’m pressing you any harder than you’ve ever pressed me when you didn’t like an answer I gave.”

“Now you know how it feels,” he mutters.

“Mulder, why *did* you ask me here?”

Panic has now been replaced by anger. What is she *really* asking? Some part of him expected not to talk at all. He *is* living in a fantasy world to think she’d just fall into his arms. He should have known better with Scully. She always wants to get the answers, and isn’t afraid to ask for them. It seems very efficient, and not romantic in the least. But he can play this game, too, if that’s what she wants. Answer a question with a question.

“Are you saying that my personal interest in you isn’t enough of a reason? Does it come as complete surprise, or are you just mad that I haven’t said or done anything before?”

Ouch, Scully thinks. At least his anger is better than his passivity, which frightens her. She worried in Victorville that Samantha had been the engine that drove him, and now that his quest is done, nothing of him will remain.

She sighs a tiny sigh. “No, and no, Mulder,” she replies. “You’ve made it clear in so many ways…” She changes her mind and starts again. “I know as well as you do that personal involvement is not recommended, and you–we–have honored that in deed. But not in thought. For once, neither of us is in the hospital, or on opposite ends of the country, or being menaced by anything. I think it’s high time we talk about this. But I thought maybe you had some other things on your mind, too. Things that might still be bothering you.”

“Well, I don’t,” he says. He fiddles with his wine glass, avoiding her eyes. He keeps his tone neutral.

“Mulder, at some point I think we *need* to talk.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’m all for it. We’ll do whatever you want. You want to talk, be my guest.”

She almost says, I came all the way across the country just for *me*? I don’t think so. She lets the silence be, watching him as he sits looking at his hands. She thinks she’s beginning to understand a little. He’s giving her an out, if she wants it.

“It’s not all about me, Mulder,” she says softly. “And it’s not all about you. It’s about *us*.”

Suddenly she’s too tired. She can’t do all the work here, and it’s too much effort to drag words out of him tonight. *She’s* the one who had the long flight, the layover in Denver, the airline food. She says, “Why don’t we talk tomorrow when we’ve both had a good night’s sleep. I don’t want to fight.” She stifles a yawn.

Mulder is on his feet immediately. “I think that’s a good idea. No point in making a big deal about this.” He can’t seem to help the edge in his voice.

Scully says in a calm voice, “Mulder, this *is* a big deal. It’s our lives we’re talking about.” She stands and leans over to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight.” She turns away before he can do or say anything more.

Mulder stays where he is, but his eyes follow her until he hears the click of her bedroom door.

~x~ Chapter Two

“Maybe dreams are the answers to questions we haven’t yet learned to ask.” -Fox Mulder

Coward. Idiot.

He lies on the sofa, staring at nothing. All talk and no action. Not even much talk, really. When it comes right down to it, he choked. Everything he wants, sitting right there next to him, and he is too petrified to make a move.

Maybe he should just drive them back to the airport in the morning. If the whole week is going to be like this, there is no point in continuing.

After he heard Scully’s bedroom door close he’d taken their nearly untouched food back to the kitchen and cleaned up. He came back out to the living room and flopped down on the sofa. He thinks of all the things he’d wanted to say and do, and how differently he thought this evening would end. Instead, here he is, camped out on the couch, alone as usual, dreaming of Scully, instead of kissing and touching her.

Now that she’s here, he’s not sure how to deal with the reality that things are changing between them. He has been afraid all along that Scully will convince herself that getting closer is a bad idea. She will rationalize herself out of it, and then do her best to make him do the same. That’s her usual MO with an X-File she can’t believe in. He wonders if all this talk about his “feelings” are a cover for her reluctance.

And he’s afraid that if he makes a move to touch her, he will lose all control. He scared her in Victorville, he thinks, and he doesn’t want to do that again. He is still, first and foremost, her friend.

He doesn’t want to think about this right now. The silence in the room oppresses him. He flips on the television, hoping to dull his senses with whatever mindless drivel there is. The sound is very low, but it helps drown out the roar in his ears. Eventually the remote falls from his loosened grip and he dozes off.

x-x-x

Scully brushes her teeth, washes her face, and tries not to think about the man she left in the living room. It doesn’t do any good. She can’t think of anything else. Despite her best intentions, they’ve almost fought, after only a few hours together. Is this what the week is going to be like?

She hadn’t really expected him to behave as he had in Victorville. She isn’t quite sure what she expects, though. She thought about it on the plane, has been thinking about it nearly every moment the week they were apart. What does she want? Mulder asked her, and it seems only fair to give him an answer. She will, however, insist he’s clear about what he wants, too. This “I want what you want” crap is not going to cut it.

She can hear the mumbling of the television from the living room. She imagines Mulder sprawled on the sofa, watching whatever with half-shuttered eyes.

Maybe she should just go out there, forget the words, just love him and let it be enough.

Why does it always have to be so difficult for them? Both professionally and personally, everything is a struggle. She supposes that it’s partly due to their own natures. They are both driven, though Mulder is much more single-minded that she is.

Maybe this is still too soon. His mother has been dead such a short time, and the mystery of Samantha’s disappearance revealed — not solved, exactly, but an answer that Mulder seems to be able to live with has been achieved. Still, to plunge directly into any change in their relationship could be a big mistake. Maybe he’s realizing this, too.

She sighs again. It’s useless to conjecture. She thought she understood in Victorville, that his actions had been born of reaction and maybe panic. Her suggestion that he take some personal time had evidently been taken as a sort of challenge by him. *I will if you will*, each daring the other to make the first move. Well, they have–Mulder in asking her to come out to California, and she in actually coming out. They are equals; equal in risk, equal in emotional investment.

It’s time to admit, once and for all, how they feel about each other and what they want to do about it. Maybe they both do want the same thing. But they both have to admit it. She is willing to admit it first, if that’s what it will take. Having decided at least that much, Scully turns out her light and tries to sleep.

x-x-x

She dreams of Teena Mulder, of seeing her at Bill Mulder’s funeral. So stoic, so patrician-looking. She’d accepted the flag from the coffin as her due but without emotion.

Mrs. Mulder turns as she approaches, listening to what Scully has to say without comment. How can she be so calm with her ex- husband dead and her son missing? Has she put two and two together? Does she know what her husband was involved in? What her son has been doing? Mrs. Mulder says all the right words, but in this dream-state Scully feels that she’s hiding something. This is not something that occurred to her at the time, and Mrs. Mulder had flown right out of her mind once the Englishman approached her with his warning.

The dream changes abruptly and now it’s only Mrs. Mulder, her hand out to Scully, asking, almost beseeching…

Scully rouses herself, her heart pounding. She must have been whimpering in her sleep; she can still hear the echo of it in her ears. But no, she still hears it, coming from the other room. It’s Mulder, not so much whimpering now as shouting incoherently. Scully hesitates only a moment before opening her door and going out to the living room.

Approaching Mulder quietly, she lays a hand first on his arm, then on his forehead, smoothing the hair away. She says his name softly. “Mulder. Mulder, it’s me, wake up.”

“Scully,” he says urgently, not quite awake yet.

“Mulder, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m okay.” He realizes it’s Scully, patting his arm, stroking his forehead. Her hands are cool and he struggles to sit upright, as though the action will loosen the last grip the dream has on him.

He reaches blindly for her and she allows him to, opening her arms, crooning soothing nonsense to him. Eventually his breathing slows and he rests his head on her shoulder.

“You okay?” she asks, stroking his hair.

He nods. He can’t help thinking that this is so much better than comfort over the phone. “I’m sorry I woke you,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Did I wake you?”

“I was awake anyway.” She starts to add more, but thinks better of it. He has his own bad dreams. He doesn’t need to be burdened with hers, too.

They sit together on the sofa, arms around each other. It feels so comfortable. The harsh words they traded earlier might never have been spoken.

Mulder, however, feels compelled to mention them, taking the blame in typical fashion. “I’m sorry for how I behaved earlier.”

“I’m sorry too,” she says. “It was the jet-lag talking, I guess.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says. He shifts position so that she rests her head on his shoulder. She offers no resistance to this. He reaches up and tentatively strokes her hair.

“Umm, nice, Mulder,” she murmurs. “Much better…”

As she speaks, realization dawns. “Scully, did you have a nightmare, too?”

“Um hmm,” she says sleepily. She rarely talks about them to him, though she has as much raw material for nightmares as he does. “S’okay now, though.”

“That’s good.” He notices she’s got on flannel pajamas. He is still in his clothes, since he hasn’t bothered to move from the sofa.

They sit in silence for some time. Scully finds herself relaxing into sleep again. Before she realizes what’s happening, he’s lifted her onto his lap and reclines against the arm of the sofa, his legs stretched the length of the sofa. She’s too tired to protest. She makes herself more comfortable by turning sideways so that her back is against the back of the sofa but she’s mostly lying on Mulder. She rests her head on his shoulder and puts her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

“Scully, are you warm enough? Maybe you should go back to bed.” He doesn’t really want her to move, but feels he should at least make the gesture.

“I’m qui’ comfortable,” she mumbles against his shoulder. She is already half asleep again.

He peers at his watch. Half past midnight. That would be three- thirty AM, Scully time. No wonder she’s exhausted.

He closes his eyes. He is plenty warm enough, draped in his living blanket. He drifts off to sleep again.

Much, much later, Scully wakes up, disoriented, and then remembers how she ended up in his arms. He seems sound asleep now, but the fire has gone out and she’s cold. Very carefully she climbs off of the sofa and Mulder. She can barely see him in the darkness but she touches his cheek softly before she turns away.

Back in her own room, she finds she cannot get back to sleep. She’s warm, and the bed is comfortable, but she’d rather be sharing the sofa with Mulder.

x-x-x

There is just a suspicion of lightness around the edges of the drapes when he opens his eyes again. He feels a little chilled. A soft sound at the edge of his hearing tells him that Scully extricated herself just moments ago and has gone back to her bedroom. He feels better. Maybe they aren’t so good at verbalizing, but their body language seems okay. Maybe there’s hope yet.

~x~

Chapter Three

I’ve flown around the world in a plane; I’ve settled revolutions in Spain; The North Pole I have charted But I can’t get started with you…

-“I Can’t Get Started” words & music by Vernon Duke and Ira Gershwin

Scully has already started the coffee when Mulder makes his appearance.

“Hi,” she says. She feels a little shy, like she’s not sure what to say to him. Well, they did sleep together last night. Sort of.

“Good morning,” he returns her greeting, with a small smile. “Sleep well?”

“Part of the time, anyway,” she says, and adds, “You make a very nice pillow.”

He gives her the ghost of his leer. “Well, you make a great blanket. We should try that again some time.”

She’s used to him using humor and double-entendre as a shield. It’s time to rise to the bait. “Well, Mulder, play your cards right and maybe you’ll get lucky.” She turns away to hide a smile but not before she sees a slightly dumbfounded look on Mulder’s face. She sits at the table to drink her coffee and opens a container of the yogurt Mulder has thoughtfully provided.

Mulder chooses not to follow up on her last comment. Not because he can’t, he’s just choosing not to, he tells himself. He sits opposite her with his mug. “What do you feel like doing today, Scully? Hike along the beach? See the giant redwoods? Visit a biker bar? You can have your pick, all within easy driving or walking distance.”

“A biker bar?” She raises her eyebrows, willing to play along.

“Well, strictly speaking, it’s a road house, but I did notice a bunch of Harleys in the parking lot last night.” He gets up to rummage around in a cupboard and finds some Pop-Tarts. He offers the package to Scully, who shakes her head. She indicates the container of yogurt in front of her and he’s pleased that he remembered to get some.

Scully asks with a disbelieving look, “Have you visited this establishment, Mulder?” Even in his leather jacket he’s a little too clean cut, she thinks, but he might not be immediately pegged as law enforcement. He can look pretty dangerous with a day’s growth of beard.

“Why yes, actually I have,” Mulder says through a mouthful of Pop-Tart. He reaches for the refrigerator door, just within his reach, and pulls out a carton of milk. He stops just short of drinking directly out of the carton, and gets up for a glass, avoiding Scully’s eyes. He decides not to mention the cocktail waitress who came on to him at the bar.

“The bar might be safer than the redwoods,” Scully says thoughtfully. “There’s always a chance of some prehistoric bugs out there.”

“Only after dark, and I’d be sure we didn’t get lost.” This is nice, he thinks. Banter has been missing from their conversation for a while. Too many tragedies, too many losses. It’s easier to refer to a case from the early days, before so many of those losses piled up.

“What else did you mention? A beach hike? Are there sea monsters lurking, or perhaps some kind of sand-devil menacing the locals?” She’s beginning to enjoy herself.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he plays along. “Though I’m told the local crab population can get out of hand sometimes.”

“Sounds like we should check them all out, Mulder,” Scully replies. “You never know what we might find.”

“Well, I vote we hit the beach first. Did you bring your running shoes? I thought I’d go for a run. Wanna join me? We can wait till later to check out the crab population. Maybe dinnertime.”

“At the biker bar, I suppose.”

“No, no, Scully. Crabs and bikes don’t mix. There’s another place just up the coast that specializes in crab. There’ll be a couple with our names on `em tonight.”

Scully looks at him in mock-admiration. “It’s nice to know that your investigative skills aren’t getting rusty. Sounds like you’ve got all the bases covered.”

“Not yet,” he says, and this time he gives her the full force of the leer. “But I’m getting there, I think.”

Indeed you are, Scully thinks. She looks up to find Mulder grinning at her.

“I said, let’s get it in gear, Scully. Last one to the beach is a rotten egg.” He sprints out of the room, feeling elated.

The early morning fog has already cleared as they traverse the wooden footpaths to the cliff’s edge. It is a beautiful winter day and almost warm, something they don’t have often in their usual part of the world. The boardwalk leads to a weathered wooden staircase clinging to the cliff’s edge. Scully eyes it warily.

“C’mon Scully, I checked it out yesterday morning. It’s as safe as the stairs in the Hoover Building.” He grins at her.

“Safer, I hope,” she says. “I don’t think anyone could leap out and attack us along here.”

“Good point, G-Woman,” Mulder responds, and steps onto the landing. “I’ll go first, to break your fall.”

“Very funny, Mulder,” says Scully dryly. “Just remember we have to climb back up.”

“Nag, nag, nag,” Mulder mutters as they begin their descent.

The beach is quite wide, with very few rocks along the shore, offering an easy running surface of packed sand. They run in tandem, Mulder fitting his pace to Scully’s shorter stride. They run to the far end of the beach, bounded by rocks.

Scully perches on a tumble of rocks and watches as Mulder clambers around her. It’s wonderful to see him this way. He’s a different person than he was last night, playful and carefree.

He’s crouched on his haunches now, inspecting something in the rocks. She winces a little as he reaches down to touch or pick up something. He’s never been cautious about sticking his hand in things, very much like a child in that respect. She has often wished she could have known what he was like before Samantha was taken. Perhaps she is finally getting that chance.

Another thought intrudes: the wish to know what a child of theirs might be like. A touch of melancholy threads through her. She shakes her head as if to rid herself of it. It’s foolish to let her thoughts stray there. They are not even lovers, though she’s no longer denying that possibility. But children, from her, are definitely not possible. How important is that to Mulder? Has he ever thought about it?

Mulder is thinking he’d like to sit next to Scully, put his arm around her, but he’s not sure this is the right time yet. He looks around for something to draw her attention to, to get her to talk again. If they can keep connecting on a level approaching normalcy, he has great hopes for their immediate future.

Aware of Scully’s eyes on him, he inspects the tide pool as thoroughly as a crime scene. He is particularly fascinated by the hermit crabs. One is struggling with a new shell, trying to fit it over his vulnerable body. It suddenly strikes him as a metaphor for what he is going through now, with Scully.

He looks up to see her staring off to the horizon. “Hey Scully, come take a look at this.” His voice makes her jump, but she gets up and comes over.

She joins him where he kneels looking down into a tide pool. It’s so perfect it’s like an aquarium exhibit. Sea anemones cling to the rough rocks, limpets carpet the bottom and sides. Hermit crabs scuttle away as Scully’s shadow joins Mulder’s. To finish off the underwater tableau, a starfish adorns the center of the pool.

His index finger prods the surface of the water and indicates the intrepid hermit crab. “I kinda know how he feels, Scully,” he says quietly after a few moments. He doesn’t know how else to express what he means, but trusts her to read between the lines as she so often has in the past.

Mulder evidently has been harboring some heavy thoughts, too, despite his carefree appearance. Scully reaches for his hand, clasps it. “Me, too,” she whispers.

He squeezes her hand in answer and pulls her up. “Let’s head back.”

They hold hands as they climb down off the rocks, and continue to hold hands once they’ve gained the beach, until they get to the cliff stairway.

“It’s almost lunch time,” he says as they get to the house. “I’m going to hop in the shower and then we’ll eat. Sound okay to you?”

Scully nods. He reaches for her hand again, just brushing the back of it as he turns toward his room. The moment has passed again, like the sun going behind clouds. Every time she thinks she’s gotten a glimmer, it disappears. She goes to her own room to shower and change.

She beats Mulder out to the kitchen and inspects the cupboards she started to go through that morning. She finds the food– “supplies” –he’s laid in. It’s an impressive array of junk food, from Pop Tarts to potato chips, with chocolate bars, cookies, and microwave popcorn in between. A review of the freezer reveals ice cream and frozen waffles. In the refrigerator, to his credit, there’s more yogurt, and a few fruits and vegetables.

“I see you found my stash,” he says as he comes in behind her.

She turns and raises her eyebrow at him. “Now I know what you’ve been living on, Mulder. Do you have any nutritious food here?”

“Be careful. If you’re not nice to me, I won’t share.” He opens a lower cupboard and indicates canned goods, pasta, rice. “You just need to know where to look.” He allows himself the smallest smirk and adds, “There’s a general store just down the road if there’s anything else we need.” He gets out some canned soup and busies himself at the stove.

Scully gets the dishes and flatware out and sets the table while he warms the soup and puts some bread in the oven. Once they’re seated with their soup, he asks, “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

She stifles a yawn. “Actually, it’d be nice just to stay here, maybe take a nap this afternoon,” she says, and adds, “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Me neither, except for a little while,” he grins. “A nap sounds good. Mind if I join you?” He’s only half kidding.

“Not on the sofa, Mulder,” she says.

“Okay.” He says nothing else for a while, then, “Your place or mine?” He’s not leering at her. It all seems weirdly dispassionate.

She comes right out and asks. “Do you have something in mind besides sleeping, Mulder?”

He keeps his face devoid of anything suggestive. “Why no, Scully, I just want to sleep with you.”

She has to laugh just a little at this. “Mulder–” she starts.

He interrupts her, but puts his hand over hers to take the sting out of it. He will give her an out if she wants it.

“I really don’t think I’m capable of anything else right now. You ran my legs off on the beach this morning and you *know* how much sleep I got last night. But if the idea makes you too uncomfortable, forget it. I just want to be close to you, that’s all.”

She still can’t figure him out. Is he still doing what he thinks she wants, or does he really mean what he says? She turns her hand to hold his. “I think we both want the same thing. I think you’re right. Let’s be as comfortable as we can with each other. We’ve got all the time in the world.” She smiles a little to him, hoping for an answering smile.

That’s about as equivocal an answer as he’s ever heard. She absolutely refuses to go one iota further than him. He says, more or less as he did the night before, “We don’t have to decide anything definitively right now, or even this week. All I want to know is that you think it’s worth thinking about.”

“Oh, it is,” she says quietly. “Or I wouldn’t have come out here. But, Mulder –”

“Don’t you trust me?” He tries to hide the hurt he feels but it’s a raw edge in his voice.

She says, “Of course I do. With my life.” She raises his hand and kisses it. With my heart, she adds silently. But you’ve got to trust yourself first.

This whole thing is making him nuts. He looks at her for a long moment and then gets up from the table. “Okay,” he says. I’m going to go take a nap. You know where to find me.” He sets his dishes in the sink and leaves Scully sitting at the kitchen table.

He hopes against hope that she will follow him down the hall, make some kind of definitive move. After a moment he hears the clink of dishes and water running. He stands just inside his bedroom door and listens. The sounds stop and then he hears the sound of the outside door opening and shutting.

He leaves the door open and lies down on the bed, punching the pillow in frustration. God, he loves her but she’s making him crazy. Why doesn’t she come right out and say what she wants?

The phrase, “be careful what you ask for, you might not like it,” floats back into his consciousness. Maybe it is easier to live with the idea that *maybe* she loves him than to find out for sure that she doesn’t.

He curls onto his side and shuts his eyes. He won’t be able to sleep until he hears the door open again and he knows that even if Scully won’t come to him, at least she hasn’t run away.

x-x-x

She gets up from the table and moves around quietly, putting away the leftovers and loading the dishwasher. She’d like to slam things around, scream, anything to release some of the tension from their little discussion. They are making such a hash out of what is a simple decision for most people. If she is to believe books, movies, television, most people can’t get beyond their first meeting before tearing each other’s clothes off. Where do we get such superhuman control?

Or is it superhuman fear? She stands at the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, staring without seeing. She grabs her jacket and slips out the kitchen door, heading toward the cliff path.

Once there she stands for a long time, staring out to sea, the constant wind blowing her hair and her thoughts away. Then she turns on her heel and marches back to the house.

Almost without pause, she strips off her jacket and shoes and walks down the hall to Mulder’s room. He’s lying on his side on top of the covers in his sweats. His back is to the door but she knows he’s not sleeping. She sits on the bed and he stays turned away. She lies down and rolls over to spoon up behind him, putting her arm around his waist.

Mulder feels the shift of the mattress as she sits on the bed but he stays turned away. When she lies down behind him, putting her arm around him, he’s not sure what to do. The faintest scent of ocean and fresh air clings to her, and he shivers a little, partly from cold, and partly from something else. She still hasn’t spoken.

He turns his head slightly back toward her and mumbles, “You’re cold, Scully.”

She mumbles back, her breath a warm whisper in his ear, “So warm me up, Mulder.”

At that he finally turns and puts his arms around her. He kisses her forehead, her cheek, and finally, her lips. They are soft kisses, making no demand for further intimacy. She meets his kisses in exactly the same way. Finally his cheek rests against her hair and she nestles into his shoulder.

This is enough, he tells himself, and he almost believes it. I can wait for more, until she’s ready. He kisses her hair and pulls her a little closer, listening to her heart and his own.

~x~

Chapter Four

He must have dozed off at some point because he didn’t notice when their positions shifted. She is now lying with her back to him. His arms are still around her, holding her close. He buries his nose in her hair, nudging the strands aside to bare the nape of her neck. He can barely make out the scar now, though if he touches it he can feel the chip just under her skin. He presses his lips against the spot. No response from Scully. He kisses her again and then again, up to her hairline and back, down to the neckline of her sweater. She stirs a little but he’s on a roll now, and won’t stop until she says something. She turns her head and he lands an awkward kiss on her cheek.

“Mulder, are you trying to take advantage of me while I’m sleeping?” she asks drowsily.

“No,” he tells her between kisses, “I’m trying to wake you up so I can take advantage of you.”

She sits up in a hurry.

Mulder leans back and raises his hands in surrender. “Just kidding, Scully. I just wanted to wake you up, and it seemed like a good way to do it. Sleeping Beauty.” He smiles his most winning smile.

Feeling a little foolish, she lies down to face him, propping her head on her hand. “Well, I’m awake now.” She is not going to be the first one to flinch.

Mulder notes that she isn’t smiling, but looking a little watchful. He can’t describe it better than to say that it’s a *good* watchful look. Not like she’s about to bolt or knee him in the groin, just waiting to see how far he’ll go and whether she’ll let him.

“So I see.” He leans in and kisses her lips, then pulls away quickly again. For a second, it looks like she’s leaning toward him, following his mouth. “I don’t want us to be late for dinner.”

“Where are we going? You said something about crab.” Scully is a little disoriented, and more than a little aroused by Mulder’s wake up technique.

“We’re going to a crab feed, sponsored by the local Catholic Church,” he tells her.

She rolls her eyes, just a little. “Don’t tell me, you bought the tickets yesterday.”

He grins again. “Actually, two days ago when I stopped in the aforementioned grocery store. Have you ever had Dungeness crab?”

“Yes, I have. I’m no stranger to church crab feeds.”

“Thought as much,” he says a little smugly. “Well, they’re very popular in this neck of the woods. And it goes to a good cause.”

Scully gives him a long appraising look and asks, “Is there something you’re not telling me? Are you planning to relocate and run for office? Is there an X-File hiding in there somewhere?”

He flashes his pouty you-don’t-believe-me look. “Nothing like that. I’m just on vacation, enjoying the local atmosphere.”

“Seriously, Mulder, what is this all about?” He really is reverting to form, she thinks. He always has reasons for what he does. The trick is getting him to reveal the reasons.

He tries to look a little put out at her questions, but makes a show of giving in. “It’s a *date*, Scully. Remember those? I’m *courting* you.” Telling her outright is not part of his original game plan, but he’s nothing if not resourceful. It’s time to up the stakes. Now it’s her move.

“*Courting* me?” She is dumbfounded by his answer. She really has half-expected him to pull an X-File out. “Were you going to let me in on this sometime, or was I just supposed to guess?”

Now he looks embarrassed. “Well, I know we’re going about this a little backward, Scully, now that we’ve slept together” –his face is carefully deadpan, but she can see the spark in his eyes- – “but I’m trying to approximate what a normal couple might do when they’re getting to know one another. So, up here, the closest I can come to dinner and a movie is the local crab feed, and videos.”

“Mulder–” she can’t believe they’re sitting on his bed, talking about this. No matter what she expected when she came to California, it wasn’t this.

“So how’m I doin’?” he asks. “Are you bowled over by my charm yet?” He’s doing his best to keep it light, but he is anxious. So much is riding on her reaction.

“Well, Mulder,” she makes a show of considering his question. “I guess it’ll depend on the video you got. If it’s `Porky’s III’, all bets are off.”

“Aw nuts,” he says. “I *knew* I shouldn’t have listened to the clerk. He said it was a chick movie.”

“Well, I’m sure there are chicks *in* it, Mulder,” she smiles.

x-x-x

When Scully comes out to the living room a while later, ready to go, Mulder is pleased to note that she is not wearing all black. She’s changed to jeans and a deep blue, soft knit sweater that does something wonderful to her eyes. He wants to reach out and stroke the sweater. What do they call that stuff? Chenille? “Nice sweater,” he manages.

Scully takes note of the slightly glazed look in his eyes and smiles. “Glad you like it.”

The crab feed is in a community hall a little farther up the highway. The parking lot is a grassy field, brown and shorn this time of year, and thankfully not muddy. Several cars are already there, and he can hear the thump and whine of amplified music as they approach the long, low building.

As they get to the door, Mulder is greeted familiarly by an overly made-up bottle blonde woman and a man in a John Deere cap. Mulder hands their tickets over and introduces Scully. “This is Myra, who works at the Byetheway, and Ted, who runs the grocery store.”

“Glad you brought the missus, Mulder,” Ted says cordially.

Myra smiles thinly and offers an unenthusiastic hand to Scully, her eyes marking the lack of a ring on her finger. Scully doesn’t bother to correct Ted, however, and neither does Mulder.

It’s even noisier inside with music and conversation. Long tables have been set up, covered with white butcher paper and set at intervals with baskets of bread and large bowls of salad. No one is sitting down yet. A makeshift bar has been set up at the end of the room, and Mulder steers Scully there, getting her a glass of wine and himself a beer.

He watches Scully looking around and wonders if it brings back good memories. If it brings back bad ones, he’s really screwed, but he’s pretty sure most of her childhood was fairly happy.

It does remind Scully of the dinners at churches she’s attended throughout her life. Jovial Knights of Columbus members roam through the crowd, selling raffle tickets and cracking jokes with the people they know. A few young kids are running around, and the older ones have been pressed into service, setting the tables with plates and utensils. The only difference is the lack of smoke in the air. Everyone seemed to smoke when she was growing up; now no one does, at least in public places. She welcomes this not only for the obvious reasons. It also marks this as a different time and place than her childhood. She already has a feeling of unreality about this place.

“Hey Scully, you with me?” Mulder nudges her a little.

She shakes her head slightly. “Yeah. Just a little disoriented for a minute.”

Uh-oh. Maybe bad memories after all. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need to sit down?”

She shakes her head no. “Just a little flashback to fund-raisers past,” she says. “I used to help out with dinners like this sometimes.”

Mulder is cautiously pleased with this admission. “A little piece of Scully history,” he teases. “Any good stories about it?”

“No, not really. It was just something the church youth groups always helped with. You know, carnivals, dinners, and so on.” She smiles a little, maybe feeling a little bittersweet. “Didn’t you ever help out with something like this?”

“Nope, I missed out on all that stuff. My family wasn’t involved in any, uh, organized religion.” His pleasure at her memories dims a little. He doesn’t want her to feel responsible for bringing up any painful memories, because she isn’t. There are no memories, painful or otherwise, of anything like this in his past.

“Hey, Mulder,” he hears Ted hailing him from across the room. “Come on over here and grab a seat before they’re all taken.” He gladly changes the subject and leads Scully over to the table Ted has indicated, seating her before seating himself. Ted does the same for Myra, and she looks faintly surprised and pleased.

As if on cue, everyone finds a place to sit and the place falls silent as the parish priest offers up a blessing. Mulder sneaks sideways glances at Scully, her head bowed, her lips moving silently. When the blessing is over, everyone says “Amen,” and conversations resume a little less loudly than before as the diners start in on the salad and bread.

Then comes the pasta, big bowls of ziti with meat sauce. Ted and Myra, obviously crab feed veterans, share the Parmesan cheese they brought with Mulder and Scully. Mulder tries to pace himself, but it all tastes so good. He notices that Scully has taken only a small helping of the pasta and has eaten only a piece of her French roll.

The kitchen doors open again and a stream of helpers march out, carrying huge platters of crab, plunking them down almost simultaneously at each table. The noise level sinks to a murmur as people fall to.

It’s a messy but delicious meal. Ted saves the day again by producing a crab shell cracker. Mulder keeps putting his choicest tidbits on Scully’s plate, and she accepts them, but reciprocates. They might as well be feeding each other, she thinks.

Mulder must be having the same thought. “Ever see the movie ‘Tom Jones’?” he murmurs in her ear. “Eating like this figures prominently in it.”

Scully smiles to herself. “Maybe that’s the movie you should have gotten for tonight, Mulder,” she says.

“Why watch a movie when you can experience the real thing?” he smirks, and waves a succulent piece of crab in front of her.

She takes it delicately between her lips. “Thank you, Mulder.” Suddenly she is acutely aware of Ted and Myra sitting across from them. She can feel her face heat up. Ted smiles fatuously at them but Myra looks a little disappointed as she glances at Ted.

x-x-x

Mulder is quite pleased with himself as they drive back home. He feels he’s regained any lost ground. If he can just keep himself in check, Scully may relax enough to respond honestly to him, and not just as a reaction to his actions. He hadn’t wanted to admit to Scully that he is doing his best to woo her instead of just going ahead with it, but she seems okay with the idea. Tonight she is as relaxed as he’s seen her in a long time.

On the other hand, he hasn’t been able to relax. He wanted to talk to her on the beach, and all he’d been able to do was make some lame analogy between himself and a hermit crab. Still, Scully seemed to understand the subtext. Later in the afternoon, he felt they’d taken one step closer to each other, and then he’d almost scared her away again. When he’d heard her leave the house after lunch he was certain he’d blown it, shown too much need, tried to crowd her too much. He’d been very surprised when she came into his room. It had taken all his will power not to pin her to the bed and smother her with kisses.

Maybe isolating themselves is a bad idea after all. It’s like an assignment they’ve given themselves: go off and learn how to be intimate. He grins to himself, and glances over at Scully, who appears to be lost in her own thoughts. She’d seemed almost carefree during the evening but now the Enigmatic Dr. Scully is back.

He enjoyed himself, despite the lingering tension. Never one to be comfortable in large groups, he’d felt okay. More than okay. He’d felt very much in the moment, not thinking too hard about anything but enjoying himself, and enjoying Scully’s company. He could tell he surprised Scully by his behavior. He’d surprised himself.

Maybe that’s the key, he thinks. Don’t think so much, don’t take everything so seriously. It sounds suspiciously like a jingle or a silly song to him, but he realizes that he has taken life *very* seriously pretty much since Samantha was taken. Humor is a defense mechanism he learned at Oxford, where everything and nothing was taken seriously. Everyone had a joke or a quip for every situation, no matter how dire, and he picked up the habit. Especially after Phoebe. If he hadn’t made light of *that* disaster, he wouldn’t be here now.

“You certainly made Myra’s night by dancing with her,” Scully says suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

“Well, I try to do my part,” he says modestly. “Did you have a good time? Ted didn’t step on your toes, did he?”

“No, but I’m glad you rescued me all the same,” Scully replies. Ted asked her to dance after Myra grabbed Mulder — was there a little jealousy thing going on there, perhaps? — and then tried to get a little too close during a slow dance. With practiced ease, Mulder had exchanged Myra for Scully.

“Always glad to be of service,” he says. It is the golden memory of the night for him, Scully in his arms, smiling up at him. The dance, and the one after it, was over much too soon to suit him.

“Mulder, has anyone ever told you what a good man you are?” Scully asks, putting her hand on his arm.

“It’s more normal to be told I’m one sorry son of a bitch,” he says, glancing over at her in surprise. Scully doesn’t say anything else, and he adds, “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop here, Scully.”

“There’s no `other shoe.’ I just don’t think you get credit for who you are very often.”

“Well, thank you,” is all he can think of to say.

“You’re welcome,” she replies.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Once back inside the house, Mulder says, “Are you tired? It’s not that late. I could build a fire.”

Scully nods. “That would be nice. Do you want some coffee, or tea?”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine. I didn’t have any at dinner.” Mulder took one sip of the table wine and declared himself the designated driver, sticking to water and coffee the rest of the evening.

Scully makes a face. “Well, you didn’t miss much. I think I’ll join you.”

Mulder busies himself with the fire and Scully goes into the kitchen for the bottle of wine they’d started the other night.

When she comes back into the living room, Mulder is seated on the sofa, channel surfing. “So what’s the movie really, Mulder?” she asks.

He says a little sheepishly, “I didn’t get one. Raincheck?”

“Sure. I’ll add it to your account.” She pours them each some wine. They each sip and sigh, and Scully sees a repeat of the previous night’s events unfolding if she doesn’t say something, and soon. How is it when she needs inspiration most desperately it won’t come?

Mulder also fears a replay of the night before. He doesn’t want to blow it again. What he’d really like to do is just lean over and kiss her, but he can’t tell if that’s what Scully wants or not, and he does *not* want a repeat of what happened at the motel in Victorville.

He shifts a little where he sits, sets his wine glass down, and clears his throat, turning to say, “Scully–”

She’s right there, turned to face him. Her eyes are soft and her lids are slightly lowered. Her lips are so close to his. He’d barely have to lean over to touch them. He finds he doesn’t have to move at all; Scully has moved to meet him, more than halfway, touching her lips to his.

~x~ Chapter Five

The grave’s a fine and private place; but none, I think, do there embrace. -John Donne

Mulder closes his eyes and revels in the sensation of Scully’s kisses. He’s almost afraid that he will wake up, find he’s back home in his apartment, that he’s dreamed this whole trip. He stays very still while he can feel the pressure of her lips on his, marveling that Scully has made the first move. He feels her part her lips slightly and pull on his lower lip. He sighs, and gropes for her hand, which has been looking for his as well. They twine fingers as they continue to kiss, draw breath, and kiss again.

For now, Mulder is content to let Scully take the lead, and be merely an enthusiastic follower. She pulls back for a moment, and he opens his eyes to see her with her head lowered, drawing a shaky breath. He lowers his head, too, so that his temple rests against hers, breathing in time with her. He doesn’t want to lose contact with her, and nudges her cheek a little with his nose. He closes his eyes as she turns to kiss him again. Except for hands and lips, he has not yet touched her. It is all he can do now to let her set the pace, and he doesn’t want to do anything that will stop what she’s doing, what he’s wanted for so long.

Scully’s lips are so soft–softer than he remembers from their brief New Year’s kiss. She brushes her lips back and forth over his with the lightest pressure before deepening the kiss, opening her mouth and inviting Mulder to do the same. Then, without breaking contact, she moves the hand not holding Mulder’s to his shoulder and shifts so that she’s sitting sideways with her legs tucked under her. This gives her enough leverage to move closer to his side, to encourage him to put his arms around her as she reaches up to cup his face. He feels a tingling in his lips that shoots up to the top of his head and then down his spine, radiating through his body to his groin as her tongue touches his, darts away, and returns, beckoning his to do the same, to connect, to explore.

They finally have to stop to breathe and Mulder leans his head back against the cushions, his throat working to drag more air in. “*God*, Scully. Don’t do this if you don’t mean it,” he finally manages to say. He looks unutterably sexy to her with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, throat working to gulp down in more air.

What a thing to say to her. She can barely speak herself. “Do you think I don’t?” she asks.

At this, he raises his head and looks at her. “*Do* you?” It comes out sounding like a challenge, though in his eyes she can see he genuinely needs to know.

By way of answer she leans forward and presses her mouth against his. “What does this feel like?” she asks between kisses. “Does it feel like I mean it?”

His answering groan fills her ears and her soul. He pulls her into his lap and his mouth explodes against hers.

They kiss and kiss some more, stopping only to draw ragged breaths from time to time. His hands run up and down the contours of her back, shoulders, arms, and face; she does the same to him. Lips and tongues touch and caress mouths, eyelids, cheeks, throats and earlobes, imprinting desire.

He has not yet crossed the barriers he set so long ago for touching her. But his mind and body cry out for further exploration, even more intimate touches. Still, even after seven years, and at the edge of the final border, he delays taking that last irrevocable step.

After her initial bold move, she seems content to nestle in his arms. She kisses him with enthusiasm, but hasn’t let her hands stray past certain boundaries, either. Part of him wants to move quickly, get past the point of no return quickly so that there will be no turning back. But every inch of her skin is so delicious, he wants to take his time, explore each precious increment of flesh before advancing to the next.

And, he tells himself, he has to be sure. Sure that this is truly what Scully wants, that she isn’t just swept along on the wave of his enthusiam. If it isn’t mutual, it will never be right.

After a long while, Mulder gently pulls his mouth away from Scully’s and tucks her head against his shoulder, settling into the corner of the couch, his arms wrapped around her.

“Scully,” he says gently when his breathing slows enough. “Scully, I need to know. Do you really want this?”

She stirs a little in his embrace but doesn’t look up at him. “What about you? What do you want?” she asks softly.

He grins. “I think you know,” he says in a smoky undertone, placing her hand on his thigh where she can feel how hard he’s become.

She brushes her fingers along his jeans-clad length, eliciting a sharp breath from him. She looks up at him with a little half- smile. Her eyes are almost black, and there is a spark deep within them. “Are you saying you could stop right now?” she asks wickedly.

“Sculllyyy…,” he groans. “I asked what *you* want. I *know* what I want. But I won’t assume anything about you.”

“This from the man who accepts the existence of extraterrestrials without question,” she teases gently, hugging him more tightly. “And now, when I practically throw myself at you, you want incontrovertible proof.”

He only smiles briefly at this, intent on saying what he needs to say. He might never be able to explain himself if he doesn’t do it now. “Scully, if I’ve learned nothing else from you, it’s that I should never take you for granted.” He brushes her hair from her eyes, trailing his hand down her cheek. It’s a gesture of affection he’s used many times in the past, but never before has she felt just how freighted with meaning it is. He continues, “I want you to be clear about what you want. Because for me, this is it. This is forever.” He kisses the top of her head.

Before this moment, he’d felt tongue-tied and incapable of expressing himself. Now the words just pour out of him. It’s as though Scully kissing him was the key he’d sought for so long. “I’ve fought this for years, Scully. For all the times I’ve teased you and flirted with you and made suggestive comments, I always meant it as more of a pressure release. If I could keep you exasperated enough, you were safer, and so was I. I’ve gotten so good at hiding my feelings over the years, sometimes even *I* can’t find them. Until I look at you, Scully. They’re all there, every one of them.”

He presses his lips against her hair again. “I don’t want to influence you one way or the other, but like I said, I already know what I want.” He turns her face to his, cupping her cheeks the palms of his hands. “This is for keeps, Scully. If it’s not the same thing you want, I’ll figure out how to deal with that, too.” He falls silent, counting the beats of his heart until he hears her speak.

She scans his face, seeing nothing but love and hope in his eyes. They’ve both hidden their true feelings well over the years, at least from each other. They’ve ignored the signs for as long as they could. She doesn’t want to anymore. She shoves her doubts and fears deep down. She wants this so badly. If not now, when? They’re so far away from any one and anything that can interrupt them. Mulder was right to find a hideaway for them. It’s time to stop thinking and feel for a while. If Mulder still has things to deal with, they’ll deal with them when they come. Now is the time to stop dwelling on the past and look to the future. Now is the time for them both, at last, to be on the same page.

“So, what are we waiting for now, Mulder?” she whispers. “Hasn’t everything we’ve been through taught us that we’d be better off taking what happiness we can, while we can? I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He is silent for a long time, until he hears Scully whisper his name.

“I’m here, Scully, I’m with you.” His arms tighten around her. “Are you really sure?”

“Are you saying you don’t believe me?” she smiles up at him.

He smiles back. “I just never thought this day would come.”

“That we’d become lovers?”

The simplicity of her words makes his breath catch but he can’t resist a smart comeback all the same. “That you’d agree with me.”

She laughs then, a full throated guffaw that catches him by surprise and makes him laugh too. It sounds strange to his ears– how long has it been since they’ve laughed together?

Scully surprises him again. “Not since Oregon,” she gasps, reading his mind, “and that was more hysteria than humor.”

“I’m glad to know that the idea of us together isn’t making you hysterical,” he says. He kisses her briefly once, twice, three times, each a little more intense than the last.

She’s still on his lap, and he swings his legs up onto the couch, turning sideways to make room for Scully to lie alongside him, half-reclining on him. He settles his hands on the small of her back and concentrates on her mouth, moving over it and into it slowly, savoring all the tastes and sensations of it, the sound of Scully’s breathing, the small, satisfied noises she makes as they kiss.

Scully has one hand on Mulder’s chest and she curls the other around his neck as she settles into his side and kisses him back. He’s stoking his hands down her back, and she feels as though she’s undulating against them, her skin rippling like a cat’s fur when it’s stroked. She wants to concentrate on kissing him, but there are too many other sensations to enjoy as well. The contrast of his body against hers, alternating hard and soft. The warmth of his hands through her sweater, then under her sweater. She realizes she’s making little sounds, and he answers her like a slightly delayed echo.

“Mmm.” His mouth leaves hers and kisses along her jawline, behind her ear, down her neck.

“Hmmm.” She can feel his heart beating under her hand, and the vibration of his voice.

“Ahhh,” he sighs as her lips graze his throat. His eyes flutter closed. She traces her fingers over his lips, indulging herself in her desire to touch the mouth that has fascinated her for so long.

It’s too much. She’s already on sensory overload, and they’ve barely begun. She wants to watch Mulder, catalogue his reactions as she experiences her own, but it’s too much. She closes her eyes and tries to slow her breathing.

Something unwelcome and unexpected floats across her mind’s eye. She flinches.

Mulder freezes. He looks at Scully with concern, his hands stilled on her body. “What is it?” He has an uncomfortable flashback to another interrupted kiss.

She feels her face flush, knowing from his panic face what he must be thinking of. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry.” She pushes gently away from him and tries to sit up. She feels dizzy and a little disoriented, a little like she’s been pushed from a height, and is still falling.

“Did I hurt you?” Mulder persists. He struggles to sit up and move closer to her.

“No, it’s not you. It’s nothing you did.” She takes his hand and strokes her fingers over the back of it, over and over. “It’s nothing,” she says again, as much to convince herself as Mulder. “Maybe I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, turning his hand over to capture hers, bringing it to his lips. “But in a good way. You wanna stop?” he asks very reluctantly.

“No,” she whispers, turning back to him. “No, I don’t,” and kisses him to emphasize her declaration.

Slowly he brings his hands up to cup her face, leaning in to kiss her. She inclines her head toward him, inviting his touch. She pulls herself into his lap, willing herself into the mindless ecstasy she still hopes to achieve.

When it happens again, her hands clutch Mulder harder than she intends and he takes it as a cue to stop what he’s doing. She wants to scream her frustration at the unfairness of it all. She slides off Mulder’s lap and sits staring straight ahead, hugging herself.

No one says anything for a moment. They sit side by side on the couch, almost afraid to move.

“Scully,” Mulder says with admirable patience, considering that he’d just about gotten to first base, “are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or are you going to make me guess?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says.

“You don’t know what’s bothering you?” he asks.

“I don’t know if I can tell you,” she replies.

“I think you have to,” he says. “I’m starting to get a complex here.” He’s only half-joking. His mind is going in several different directions at once. His natural inclination is to blame himself, but it occurs to him that there’s a lot he doesn’t know about Scully’s personal life. Maybe there are some unresolved issues in her past. He dismisses that idea almost at once, but her next words give him pause.

“I know I have to tell you, it’s only fair,” she says, but doesn’t say anything more.

After waiting for several moments, Mulder says, “You’re scaring me, Scully. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. But you have to tell me first.”

She sits very still, not looking at him. “Mulder, the other night, when you were having that nightmare–”

“–You had one, too,” he finishes for her. “What about, Scully? Did it have something to do with me? With us?”

“Not directly,” she says. “At least, I don’t think so. I don’t know.” She takes a deep breath. “I dreamed about your mother.”

He feels the blood drain from his face. Guilt and sorrow vie for dominance. “Oh God, Scully, I’m so sorry. Is it because of the autopsy? I should never have asked you to do that, I know, but who else would have told me the truth?”

“Mulder, listen to me. It was nothing like that. She’s just– there, standing there, reaching out to me, trying to say something to me. I don’t know what. She’s trying to make me understand something, and I think it’s about you, but I’m not sure.”

“And you’re thinking about this now, at this moment?” Mulder tries to smile. “Guess I have to work on my technique.”

Scully doesn’t attempt a smile back. Should she tell him the rest, or not? Either way has the potential for disaster. But she knows if she pulls back one more time, that will be the end for certain.

She takes a breath. “There’s more. Just now, as we were kissing– it was like I was dreaming again. She was here. Watching us.”

Mulder doesn’t speak for quite a while. He looks at Scully, at his hands, at a point on the wall. He gets up off the couch and paces around the room. Scully watches him.

Finally he says, “Scully, if this is — if you really don’t want to go on with this,” he gestures at the couch, where they were so recently reclined, “you can just say so. I know what `no’ means.”

Scully can tell he’s trying to hold his emotions in check. She needs to touch him, to ground him and herself before going on. She goes to him and lays her hand on his arm. She can feel the tension in his muscles.

“Nothing could be farther from the truth. You of all people should know that. I didn’t just have a dream last night, I’ve been having them since — since your mother died.” She feels him flinch at this. “I can’t explain what happened just now, but I can’t deny it, either. Please come sit down. There’s something happening and we need to talk about it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mulder says firmly. He can barely look at her. “Talk about the off-put of the century. Mention a guy’s dead mom when you’re making out with him? Guaranteed to stop him in his tracks.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Scully starts to say.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he interrupts her. “But I have no idea what to do with this. I have no idea what it means.”

“Maybe we can figure it out together,” Scully says softly.

“I don’t think I can, right now,” he says. He grabs his jacket, goes to the door.

“Where are you going?” Scully asks.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Don’t wait up.”

~x~ Chapter Six

Never the time and the place and the loved one all together… -Elizabeth Barrett Browning

There’s nowhere else to go but her room, so Scully goes there and shuts the door, slamming it. Not that anyone will hear it, it’s just that she has to do something. She sits on her bed, taking deep, slow breaths. Whether it’s to keep from screaming or crying, she’s not sure. She feels equally capable of either.

He’s ditched her. For all his noble words about working things out, he cut and run. She doesn’t think she could have felt any worse once she’d confessed, but she does. This mixture of pity and anger she feels toward Mulder is familiar. She can’t decide if she wants to run after him and comfort him, or to kick his ass.

This is not the way she envisioned things. Once she’d committed herself to the idea of an intimate relationship with Mulder, she figured it would just be a matter of time and details. She’s only recently been considering the possibility herself, but she is pretty sure that Mulder has just been waiting for her to say the word. He’s shown for some time by his words and actions that he’d like to deepen the relationship. She knew there’d be a number of things still to negotiate, but ultimately they would somehow find a balance. She would have staked her future on it. In fact, she had, by returning to California.

She can’t explain what happened, how it is that Teena Mulder appeared to her so vividly. It seems especially unfair that Mulder’s mother could still cause him such pain from beyond the grave, and she’s angry that she has been used as the instrument. If Teena Mulder hadn’t already been dead, at this moment she’d probably do the deed herself.

In the meantime, there’s her immediate concern for Mulder. Where has he gone? She goes to the kitchen and looks out the window, to the kitchen window. The car is still there so he can’t have gotten far. She decides to leave him alone to blow off steam. If he means what he’s been saying, he’ll be back and they’ll talk. Or she *will* kick his ass.

x-x-x

The darkness is welcome to Mulder. Only the faintest starlight guides him along the footpath. He takes a deep breath, drawing the cold winter air into his lungs. There is a sharp wind blowing; no fog tonight. He looks up at the stars, tiny pinpoints, keeping their secrets. What are they hiding from him? Is Samantha really up there in the starlight? His father? His mother?

He has vague recollections of meeting his father in starlight, somewhere in between the land of the living and the dead. His father urged him to go back to the living, not to give in. What the hell does his mother want? He’s never known what she wanted from him. She was never particularly interested in talking to him when she was alive. Even dead, she’s not appearing to *him*.

All he wants to do is move on. Continually talking and talking isn’t going to change anything. Why did Mom appear to Scully and not him? He thinks of all the times he’d begged her to talk to him while she lived, and she always put him off. “I don’t remember,” or “It was a long time ago,” or, “It doesn’t matter, Fox.” Like hell it doesn’t.

“Oh, Mom,” he groans aloud. “Why couldn’t you just tell me when you were alive? Why did you have to be so damned secretive?” His eyes sting with tears as he throws his head back, staring at the stars. There is so much she could have told him. If only she hadn’t felt the need to hide behind the lies. Even during her last visits to him in the hospital, he couldn’t read her clearly.

He wanders to the cliff’s edge. He sits on a bench near the path and stares out to the dark mass of ocean. He can hear it breathing, but can only see an occasional flash of phosphorescence from the breaking waves. He feels soothed by the sound in spite of himself.

Scully was right in Victorville. He’s obviously not prepared to be with her. It’s beginning to look like he never will be. He shouldn’t have forced her to come out here. His hopes and dreams of the past seven years are fading away, as surely as the apparition of Samantha. If he hadn’t asked Scully out here, he could still have his hopes. He should have known better.

Little by little he becomes aware of the cold. He hopes he’s stayed out long enough that Scully’s gone to bed. He doesn’t think he has the strength to face her just yet. He jogs slowly back toward the house.

After several fruitless moments at the door, he realizes that the keys he’s trying to fit into the back door lock are the car keys. He feels around in his pockets for another set and remembers that Scully had unlocked the door when they came back from the crab feed and he’d only put the set of car keys in his jacket pocket. He leans his forehead against the door and quietly but vehemently says the worst five words he knows, and then repeats them.

What are his options? Bang on the door and shout Scully’s name until she unlocks it, possibly causing any neighbors within a mile to call the sheriff? Go and tap on her bedroom window, risking another gunshot wound? When she shot me before, he thinks, she said it was for my own good. How angry is she now? Could she call it self-defense?

He gropes in his pockets and comes up with his cell phone, pressing the speed-dial for Scully’s number. He’s actually relieved when he gets her voice mail, and does not leave a message.

He really, really doesn’t want to face Scully right now. She may have had the vision, or hallucination, or whatever the hell it was, but he is the one who called a halt to their little tête-à- tête. One of two things could happen. She will answer the door with her face devoid of any emotion, let him in without a word, and continue the silent treatment until he cracks. Or, she will rail at him, pummel him with her fists, sob and scream and cry and allow him to comfort her. He knows that the former is much more likely than the latter. Forgiveness might come at some point, but it doesn’t seem likely just now. He’s tried to control the situation since he asked her to meet him, and he’s failed miserably.

Perhaps it’s better this way. There’s always the work. He’s not sure that’s what he wants any more, but it’s what he’s familiar with. Submerge the personal in the work. Let the work take over, and he can forget about the Scully-sized hole in his heart. He’s done it for years.

But what about Scully? She said some things that indicated to him that she’s willing to explore a more personal relationship. He believed her–at least, until she flinched away from him and mentioned his mother. It’s almost too pat. Easier than facing the truth, maybe?

He’s still standing on the back step in the cold wind, shivering. Weighing his options once again, he goes for a third choice. He unlocks the car door, reclines the front passenger seat as far as he can, and pulling his jacket closer around him, settles in to pass the hours until morning.

~x~

Chapter Seven

Scully wakes up with a start. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and now it’s early morning. She gets up off the couch and slips quietly down the hall in stocking feet to see if Mulder sneaked in without her hearing him.

The bedspread on Mulder’s bed is rumpled from their nap the afternoon before — was it really only yesterday? — but no sign that Mulder’s been in there recently. She can hardly bring herself to look at the sofa, but there’s no Mulder there, either.

A look out the kitchen window confirms that the car is still there. But where is Mulder? She is beginning to panic a little. Could he have fallen on the cliff path in the dark? She puts her shoes and jacket on to go out.

As she passes the car, she sees Mulder in the fully reclined passenger seat, fast asleep.

x-x-x

An insistent tapping on the window wakes Mulder up. He wipes the condensation that’s formed on the inside and sees Scully standing there, wrapped in her jacket. It’s daylight but hard to tell what time it is. The fog has returned.

Scully steps back and he opens the door slowly, stiff from staying too long in one position.

“Mulder, what are you doing in there?” she asks.

He shakes his head wearily. “Locked myself out,” he mumbles.

To his great relief, Scully doesn’t ask why he didn’t just knock on the door. “You must be frozen through. I’ll make coffee.” She turns on her heel and goes back inside without waiting for a reply.

After a minute Mulder follows her in. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, stirring milk into her coffee.

He’s having a hard time looking at her, as much as he wants to try and read her. It doesn’t help that she’s not looking at him, either. They hug their coffee mugs with both hands and stare into the liquid, looking for answers there.

Delaying isn’t making this any easier. He clears his throat and Scully glances up at him.

“I don’t think this is working,” he says quietly. “Maybe it’s just not meant to be.” He feels defeated and so tired. Not just the tired that comes from a sleepless night, but a soul-deep weariness.

“What isn’t?” she asks. After all he said last night, this is his conclusion?

“This place, I guess.” He gestures half-heartedly around the room, at the two of them. “Maybe us, too. Trying to be something we have no hope of being.” He knows that’s not adequate, but no one should be made to explain something like this before coffee.

“And what is that, Mulder?” She refuses to intuit what he is talking about. Make him say it, admit it, if it’s what he really thinks. How can that be? How could what he said he’s wanted for so many years change overnight?

He looks up at her and sees his weariness mirrored in her face. He can’t go on, he can’t do this.

“I’m sorry, Scully, I’m obviously not making a lot of sense right now. Could we postpone this discussion for a while?” He’s back to not looking at her.

“Sure, Mulder, we’ve only been postponing this for…what, five or six years now? What’s a few more hours, or months, or years?” She speaks in a hard tone that is not usually directed at him.

He doesn’t respond, can’t respond.

She turns to leave the room, but barely gets to the door before she turns back. “No, Mulder, I won’t accept that. It’s too easy to give up, to quit, to back away. Because going on is going to be very hard. You’ve always known that. So have I. But I’m willing to give us at least as much attention as we give to an X- File. I thought you would be, too.” She leans closer to him, puts her hand on his arm, and speaks very softly. “Last night you said some things to me that I’ve waited to hear for a long time. Are you taking them back now? Or are you just afraid?”

Damn right, he’s afraid. Afraid of failing Scully, or his life’s work? Maybe both.

“Do you think I’m not afraid?” Scully asks him. “I’m afraid the same as you are.”

He remembers saying something similar to her once, hoping to reassure her. He wonders if it worked then, because it sure as hell isn’t working now.

“I’m tired, Scully. I’m so damn tired of beating my head against a brick wall. I wanted this to be over. But it’s never going to be over, is it? Even when I try to stop, I can’t stop. I think what’s happened here proves that. As long as there’s something out there to find, I can’t stop. I can’t. You of all people have to understand that.”

“I’m not expecting you to stop, Mulder. I never have. You know I’m not going to try and dissuade you from your work. I believe in it too. And it’s important to me — just as important to me to find the answers as it is to you. All I’m saying is, why can’t we have both? Is it necessary to work on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? No wonder you’re tired, Mulder. You never rest. You owe yourself that much, at least. A rest, once in a while. Not a stop, not retirement, just a pause. We both do.”

“You deserve better than that, Scully. I don’t want to use you as recreation between cases. I never have.”

“Of course not,” she says. “I have some say in this too, don’t I? You think I’d go along with that? If so, we’d have been fucking like bunnies years ago. It sure as hell would be easier than this. But that’s not me, and it’s not you.”

Mulder stares at Scully.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she says. “You can’t tell me that it’s never occurred to you before.”

“I just never expected to hear it from you,” Mulder admits after several attempts. “I sure as hell didn’t expect to hear it put like that.”

“I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?” Scully says sarcastically.

He can only nod in agreement.

Silence reigns in the little kitchen.

“So what do we do now?” Mulder asks tiredly. Maybe Scully can tell him that, too.

“I don’t know,” Scully says. “We need to figure this out. Maybe we should just go home. I don’t think we’ll find the answers here.”

More silence. He hates to admit defeat.

Faintly, he hears a cell phone ringing. They look at each other.

“It’s not mine,” Scully says. “I’ve left it turned off.” She smiles at the irony. “I didn’t want any interruptions this week.” She goes to his jacket and pulls out the trilling phone, handing it to him. “It’s okay,” she says. “Answer it.”

Reluctantly, Mulder flips it open. “Mulder,” he says, and listens to a frantic-sounding voice on the other end. “Frohike? Where are you?”

~x~

Part II