DISCLAIMER JAZZ: "The X-Files" and its characters are the 
creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen 
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I am, of course, using them 
without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. All 
other concepts or ideas herein are mine.
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Through US season 7
ARCHIVE: ONLY ON THE AUTHOR'S OWN WEBSITE 
(http://rowan_d.tripod.com/elizabethr.html) UNTIL STORY IS 
COMPLETED. This way I can mess with the early parts as later 
parts develop...
TIMELINE: Though this takes place sometime after "all things", in 
this universe "Requiem" did NOT happen...


"Water's Edge"
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@earthlink.net)


Chapter 25a:


"Tell her not to cry 
I just got scared that's all 
...
Tell her nothing if not this; all I want to do is kiss her."
                        "Tell Her This" by Del Amitri



**Mulder, this is a moment.  Take me home.**



Christopher woke just after 3am.  Scully nursed him.  Then she 
pulled him into her bed and let him sleep curled beside her.  
Christopher slumbered peacefully, utterly contented against his 
mother's warmth.  Scully took comfort in his nearness.  She 
drifted into a restless sleep.  And having Christopher against 
her breast as she had so many nights in his infancy, her mind 
wandered in and out of dreams and memories, and twice she half 
woke, sensing Daniel's body behind her and finding an empty 
mattress.

She remembered Mulder was gone.

When the alarm sounded at 5:30, her body would barely respond.

Scully dressed in the early morning darkness.  Christopher woke 
by 6:30 and she sat in the rocking chair in her tan suit and 
heels and offered him his breakfast.  Then she brought him to the 
kitchen and fed him some cereal before Margarite arrived.  
Christopher's sweet smile and gentle fingers on Scully's skin 
kept her focus on the joy of her son and away from the dull ache 
in her chest.

She said goodbye to Margarite, kissed Christopher, and hurried 
out the door.

Traffic was a nightmare.  Her head hurt from the lack of sleep.  
Her eye muscles felt stiff.  The sky was heavy and grey.  Scully 
was almost grateful.  She wasn't ready for brilliant sun.  The 
wind was cold on her sleep-deprived skin.  Winter was coming.

Maybe winter was here.


*****


"Dr. Waterston, there you are!"

*Oh, fuck me.*

Scully pulled her keys from the outside pocket of her briefcase.  
"Josh.  I'm sorry, did we have a meeting this morning?"

Josh Weller--the Academy's most anal student--pushed up from his 
encampment on the floor outside her office.  "No, no, nothing 
formal.  I was just hoping to catch you before your first class.  
You said if I had any trouble with the next assignment I should 
speak to you again.  I know the assignment isn't due until next 
Friday, but I had a few questions on your expectations, if you 
had a minute now..."

*I would rather drive through a massive skunk massacre with the 
windows down than talk to you right now.*

Scully glanced at her watch.  "I can spare a few minutes, I 
think, if we make it fast.  I don't technically have office hours 
until this afternoon."  She turned the key in the lock and pushed 
open the door.  "Have a seat."

Josh took his usual place beside her desk, and Scully tried to 
listen to his inquiries.  Josh was a true test of her 
determination in her new vocation.  How long was considered a 
respectable period to keep pushing on a brick wall before giving 
up the pretense of forward progress?

"Josh, I'm not sure I understand your question.  With this 
project, I'm asking you to take a case from history, something 
from a far more primitive era of investigation, and look at it 
through a modern day lens.  Tell me how that changes the case.  
Give me a different reconstruction of the scenario and try to 
back it up.  Widen your eyes to see the multitude of 
possibilities, to the inexactness of the science."

"But, we can't get back there, Dr. Waterston.  We can't run DNA 
tests, or CAT scans or..."

"I understand that.  I'm not asking you to.  I'm asking you to 
search your brain for the resources you do possess.  Look at 
photos from the crime scene and apply what you know about blood 
splatter patterns that the investigators of the time did not.  
Tell me if you see something that contradicts their assumptions.  
If you don't find anything wrong, that's fine.  Write up for me 
what steps you took and explain to me how your findings support 
the original outcome of the case and how your approach differed 
from theirs.  Maybe tell me why your proof is more substantial 
than theirs.  But if you do find something questionable, tell me 
about it.  Tell me what steps you would take if you *did* have 
the resources, what tests you would perform to back your own 
theory."

"I guess I just...I mean, I don't mean to question your 
authority, Dr. Waterston, I just..." Josh combed his fingers back 
through his close cropped curls and pushed his black framed 
glasses up his nose.  "I don't think I understand the benefit of 
attempting to work a case without the benefit of the modern 
advances we now have in our possession."

Scully drew a deep breath, staring down the small green alien-
head paperweight on her desktop.  "Josh...I can't help but feel 
you're essentially asking me the same question you ask every time 
we speak.  Which probably means I'm not doing my job."  She 
uncrossed her legs and fingered her the fountain pen on top of 
her grade book.  "I guess what I want you to learn is that 
despite what the PR department will tell you, we don't know 
everything yet.  We can't explain everything yet.  And sometimes, 
as wonderful as all these advancements are, they can be as much 
of a hindrance as a help.  Sometimes you can forget, that the 
single most valuable tool in any investigation is the mind of the 
investigator.  Machines will never look outside the box.  Things 
that look perfect on paper, may never work out in practice.  And 
sometimes the things that seem like the most bizarre possible 
scenarios when first presented, ultimately boil down to be the 
only possible solutions.  And I want...to open your minds...to 
those kinds of...extreme possibilities."  She paused for a 
moment, wrapping her own mind around the words, hardly aware of 
Josh's presence anymore.  "Sometimes--without ever letting go of 
the advantages science gives--you have to have the courage to let 
go of the safe guards, and take a leap of faith."

When Scully registered her student again, Josh was eyeing her 
almost suspiciously and she felt the familiar unspoken comment.  
*"That's right.  You were Spooky Mulder's partner for years, 
weren't you?"*.  At last he nodded, glanced at his watch and 
picked up his duffle bag.  "Okay, yeah, I'll give it a shot.  I 
appreciate you taking the time to see me, Dr. Waterston."

Scully nodded.  "No, problem."  She cleared her throat sharply.

Josh left the office and closed the door behind him.  Scully sat 
motionless several beats, then she blinked back her tears and 
turned to her lesson plans.


*****


By lunch there were two voice mails on Scully's cell phone.  She 
recognized the number.  She didn't listen to the messages.

On her afternoon class break, she checked her email.  Spam.  
Staff meeting notices.  One letter from Plan9Boy@hotmail.com
Subject: Scully
Body: 'Are you okay?'

She sent back a two word reply.

'I'm fine.'

And she went back to the autopsy bay.

At 4:30 she got a call from Gannon Michaels.  Maley's hearing had 
been set for two weeks away.  She told him to come to her 
apartment after work and bring the motherlode of files.  Before 
she left her office, she sent one more email.

'Must work late tonight, Maley's hearing is set.'

And she turned off the computer.


*****


Gannon Michaels had never fully adjusted to the fact that Dana 
Waterston was no longer his partner.  In that, he guessed, he 
held something in common with the elusive Fox Mulder.  As much as 
he had learned over the past two years, he certainly did not feel 
he was qualified to be the end of the line in charge of the X-
Files.  Agent Brennen was a good guy.  Well meaning, a decent 
agent.  But Gannon was still riding the fence on whether Brennen 
was right for the X-Files.  He was certain A.D. Skinner would be 
checking in with him soon, subtlety prompting him for an 
evaluation, and he hadn't yet decided what he was going to say.

But for tonight, he knew where he stood.  He and Dana would be 
working together whenever they could, for as long as it took to 
make sure James Maley lived out the rest of his days behind bars.

The down side was the extra hours away from his family.  He 
couldn't even let Dana quietly catch a little more of the load 
anymore now that she had a family of her own to get home to.

He juggled a large box of file folders and a giant bucket of 
fried chicken into one arm while he tapped softly on the door, 
not wanting to ring the bell and risk waking Christopher.

A moment later, he heard the sliding of the lock.

"Hey," Dana said, stepping back to let him inside.  She saved him 
from disaster by grabbing the bucket of chicken.  Tasha was happy 
to help.

Dana eyed the bucket suspiciously.  "Clearly you've never been to 
Dudley, Arkansas."

"Excuse me?"

But she shook her head.  "Nothing.  An old X-File."

She was looking as stunning as ever.  Tan slacks and a white 
blouse, killer heels, hair tied up in a twist.  But he had worked 
with this enigmatic woman long enough to recognize that she was 
off tonight.  Something was bothering her.  Probably not case 
related.  Probably not something he would ever hear about.  But 
it was there.

"Little guy sleepin'?"  he asked, clunking his box onto the 
dining room table and tousling Tasha's ears.  She wagged her tail 
at him for a moment, then followed the chicken.

"Snoring away.  Margarite took him to the park today, and he 
rolled himself around in the grass for a couple of hours.  He's 
thinking about the Army Crawl, lately."

"Ah, yes, the scoot and roll stage.  I remember it well.  Nothing 
like fresh air and exercise to konk the little guys out and give 
you some peace and quiet."

"How are your guys?" Dana asked, returning to join him at the 
table with the bucket of chicken, two small plates and a thick 
stack of napkins.

"Crazy as ever.  Love 'em to death," he said with a wide smile, 
hands on his hips.

That made Dana grin.  "I'd like to see them again."

Michaels shrugged.  "Open invitation.  Amanda's been askin' when 
you'll be over again."

Dana dropped her gaze to the table as she pried open the lid of 
the chicken bucket.  "Can I get you something to drink?" she 
asked.

"Got any scotch?"

She looked up and lifted her eyebrows.  "Pepsi?"

"Close enough."

Dana went to pour the drinks while Michaels began sorting through 
the overflowing box of file folders.

"I talked to the D.A. this morning," he called toward the 
kitchen.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah.  He's pretty pumped.  Thinks we're fairly solid.  He wants 
to see us tomorrow, if we can, Monday at the latest, and go over 
what we've got."

"What time tomorrow?"

"Early afternoon, maybe?"

She reappeared with the drinks, nodded brusquely.  "Maybe."

They sat down, face to face across the dining room table, and 
each took a drumstick from the top of the bucket.  Tasha rested 
her head in Dana's lap.  Michaels had spread several files across 
the table to scan while they ate.  Dana took a bite with her eyes 
on an autopsy report, then she pushed back the top page with her 
pinky fingernail to expose the crime scene photos he had 
deliberately left covered in the interest of dinner.  She didn't 
even flinch.  She took another bite and wiped the corner of her 
mouth.  He would never understand how she could do that.

"Are you as fuzzy on all this these days as I am?" Michaels 
asked.

Dana's left eyelid sank for a moment.  "Actually, not as much as 
you'd think.  Guess he made an impression on me.  Have we talked 
to Miranda Lockheart yet?  Does she know about Maley?"

Michaels shook his head.  "No phone privileges.  Don't know if 
she's heard, her lawyer jumped on it ASAP.  But I'm waiting for 
him to call back to set up a meeting, see if she's willing to 
testify."

Dana fell quiet again, absorbed in a combination of reading and 
chewing.

"Hey, Dana.  I just want you to know, I'm really sorry this is 
coming up for you right now."

She shrugged, didn't look up.  "It's a case, it's part of the 
job.  I just want him put away."

"Well, yeah, but it's not *just* a case for you.  You're not just 
an investigating officer on this one, you're--"

"A victim?"  She nodded.  "Really, that's not so uncommon for me 
either."

And he knew that would be the end of the subject for the duration 
of the trial.  So, with his usual nerve or stupidity, Michaels 
reached out and squeezed Dana's forearm.  "Well, that sucks," he 
said.

Dana looked up at him mid-chew, caught by surprise.  Then, to his 
relief she broke into a genuine smile.  "I've missed you, 
Gannon," she said simply.

"That's just 'cause you've forgotten what I was really like day 
to day."

"Probably true."

They worked well into the night.  The chicken was followed by 
grapes and apple slices and the dining room table became the 
carpet around the coffee table and eventually they landed on the 
couch with designer coffees.

When Gannon actually fell asleep mid-sentence, Dana called it for 
the night.

"Go home.  Sleep."

He gathered his things, leaving most of the files for Dana to 
work over through the weekend.  They planned to meet again 
Saturday after his son's soccer game.

At the door, Dana stopped him.  "Could I, uh...could I ask a 
quick favor?"  The tone of her voice was almost shy, hesitant.  
And that was so rare with Dana, the phenomenon always commanded 
his attention.
 
"Anytime.  What's up?"

"Could you just stay here for a minute and listen for Christopher 
while I make a run down to the basement storage area.  I need to 
bring something up and I don't want to leave him alone."

He gestured her out the door.  "I got it."

Dana nodded her thanks and grabbed her keys from the top of the 
polished rolltop desk.  She was back in less than five minutes, 
carrying only a dark piece of cloth, a t-shirt, maybe, which she 
quickly tossed on the couch.

"Kiss the kid for me," Michaels said as he opened the door.

"And yours for me," Dana replied, exhaustion thick in her voice.  
Whatever was hurting was hitting her hard tonight.

He closed the door and started for home, looking at his watch, 
and deciding he would be half an hour late for work in the 
morning and take the time to have breakfast with his kids.


*****


Fox Mulder stared at the dogs playing poker over his headboard 
and tried to gauge the levelness of the frame.  He tapped a 
corner and stepped back again.  Better.  The rustic farmhouse 
watercolor that had come with the apartment just hadn't done it 
for him.

He was trying to stay busy.  Work was a bad place to do that 
these days.  Not much to keep his attention.  Certainly nothing 
to keep him after hours.

He had finished dinner two hours ago, and nothing good was set to 
come on TV for another hour and a half.  Monkeyman's B-Line 
Cinema was showing Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, and he figured 
after two dozen viewings, one more couldn't possibly hurt.  He 
had grown accustomed to Friday nights at home over the past two 
years.

Almost 48 hours since he had spoken to Scully.  His hair was 
starting to ache.

He hadn't gone so long without a phone call when they had been 
strictly partners.

They had never been strictly partners.

How he had gone two years was beyond his wildest imagining.

The 'back-off' vibes were resoundingly clear.  Yet he was almost 
certain he was the one who needed to resolve this.  He had been 
the one to rip the bandages off the carefully tended wounds.  He 
hadn't slept in 26 hours.  He hadn't smiled in longer than that.

Mulder gave the picture frame a last quick tap, and retreated to 
the kitchen to check on his microwave popcorn.

He needed to see Scully.

He was terrified to see Scully.

Mulder had changed out of his work suit into jeans and a navy t-
shirt with the intent of bumming around the local strip mall, but 
he had failed to motivate himself to physically leave the 
apartment.  As he stared into his empty refrigerator, he started 
to debate using hunger as a motivation to go out.  Frozen dinners 
didn't stick with you very long.

He forgot it all when the doorbell rang.

Dana Scu-Waterston stood in his hallway.  The moment his gaze 
settled upon her familiar figure, her sunset hair and strong jaw, 
all the reasons he hadn't wanted to face the moment of 
confrontation crumbled into dust in the air, and he found a 
genuine smile gracing his lips.

"Scully, hey--" but he broke off as she touched a finger to her 
lips with a small smile and a nod toward the baby carrier at her 
side.  Christopher was fast asleep beneath a heap of blankets and 
a pale blue cap.  "Oh, sorry," Mulder whispered.

But Scully only gave a soft smile, and glanced down at her son 
who hadn't stirred at the sounds.

Mulder touched a hand to Scully's elbow and nudged her forward.  
"Come on in," he said softly.

Scully shifted the weight of Christopher in his carrier and eased 
them through the door, only slightly reluctant in her entry.  She 
scanned her surroundings with a specific intent, then found what 
she sought and settled Christopher in a cozy corner beside the 
easy chair.  Standing, she turned back toward Mulder who waited 
like a nervous teenager, long arms useless at his sides.

"I, uh...I got him ready for bed, then we just got in the car and 
he fell asleep on the way over."

Mulder nodded.  "Sure.  Do you want to put him down somewhere?  I 
mean...we can make a place for him somewhere, if--"

"No, it's okay.  He's all right there for now."

His eyes narrowed, bracing at the implication that she did not 
intend to stay.

Scully slipped her hands in her trench coat pockets and moved a 
few paces into the room, soaking up the full scope of her 
surroundings.  She caught his gaze for a moment, then continued 
her surveillance.

"It's nice," she said at last.

"You like it?"  He was surprised how much her answer mattered to 
him.
 
"I do.  The furniture's not quite you," she said plainly.  "But 
you'll fix that."  She turned and really met his gaze and the 
intensity was like an adrenaline shot through his veins.

He swallowed hard, then shrugged his shoulders and tried to 
escape into the lighter formalities.  "Meaning I'll add some 
pizza stains and old sweats?"

The corner of her mouth flickered in a failed attempt at a 
cursory smile, but her thoughts were a million layers deeper. 

"I missed you last night, Scully," he said, not planning the 
words.

She drew a pensive breath through her nose, but she did not 
speak.

She turned her attention back to their surroundings.  He watched 
her focus on the less than impressive 20 inch television, the 
green plaid sofa, the bookcases devoid of his collections and 
directories of the strange and unusual.  She peered through the 
archway into the kitchenette and breakfast nook.  The tiny little 
Formica-topped table was old and far out of style, but truthfully 
it was his favorite piece in the apartment; it reminded him of a 
table he and Samantha had played summer games on on his 
grandmother's screened porch.

He was hardly breathing, waiting for Scully to speak.

In the silence, Scully walked a very deliberate and graceful 
circle, stopping with her back to him, a silhouette of elegance 
against the soft light on the end table.  Scully dropped out of 
her trench coat and tossed it across the couch.  Her blazer had 
been left at home, only her creamy silk blouse remained.  As 
Mulder stood, frozen to the floor, Scully methodically unbuttoned 
her blouse.  His heartbeat skipped as she reached the last button 
and sank to the edge of the coffee table.  She pushed the silk 
material down off her right shoulder, smoothing her hand 
deliberately over her bare skin.  Her hooded lids rose and her 
eyes locked onto his with a piercing intent.  There were words in 
her silence.

He heard them like a shout.  *Oh, God.*

Scully was waiting, breathing heavily, one eyebrow rising ever so 
slightly, as her hand still held her blouse off the white skin of 
her shoulder.

He took a half step forward.  "Scully... no.  You don't have to."

But he recognized the tightening of her jaw, the steel set of 
determination.  She had been through it all.  She had read the 
research, weighed her options, heard his claims.  She had made 
her choice.  This wasn't a weakened plea for forgiveness.  This 
was a firm decision  And he needed to respect that, to respect 
her.
 
"Scully.  Are you sure?"  His voice sounded far away.

Scully drew a breath through softly parted lips, and the first 
tiny glimmer of vulnerability washed across her countenance.  
"I'm sure if you are," she said simply.  And his chest clenched.  
*Scully.*  A dozen images flashed before his mind's eyes.  Scully 
on a bridge, hands against his and blood on her lip as the woman 
who could have been Samantha was sentenced to death; Scully 
conceding to bear witness to Mulder's own death; Scully's 
shadowed eyes and pale hand pulling at him, begging him to finger 
her for a murder she didn't commit, *"...you have to lay it on 
me..."*; Scully pulling a weapon over his hospital bed to fire at 
a monster in which she did not believe.  His Scully.  His one in 
five billion.

Mulder wanted to protest again.  To tell her she didn't have to 
make this choice.  But that would have been an insult now.  He 
nodded, wordless.  He crossed the room to a heavy black bag in 
the corner bookcase.  He hefted the bag off the shelf and dropped 
it onto a nearby table.  Silently, ever aware of Scully's 
presence behind him, Mulder removed a metal box with a 
combination lock.  He worked the numbers, long fingers quivering.  
He removed a neatly packaged syringe, and a small amber bottle.

He turned at last to Scully, who had not moved her position, 
though her eyes had trailed his activities.  She was utterly 
still, save for her shaky breath.  Mulder knelt beside her and 
her scent filled his nostrils.  It was the closest they had been 
since the moment he walked away, and his body was pulling toward 
hers like a butterfly to an open window.  Her breath was a rush 
of surf in his ears.  He kept his eyes down for a long moment as 
he meticulously measured and filled the syringe.  Then he set the 
bottle aside and made eye contact with the best friend he had 
ever known.

Scully's endless blue eyes were looking to his, asking 
reassurance, needing...*him*.  Mulder reached up and drew a 
single finger down the hollow of her cheek.  "You want this?" he 
whispered.

She nodded.  "Yes."  The word was barely a breath.

He cradled his hand to the side of her throat.  "Okay.  It'll be 
okay."

She cringed and broke their gaze.

He knew what hurt.  "Christopher will be okay."

She only drew a long quivering breath.

He swallowed hard.  "Now, I need you to know that this can really 
hurt going in."

"I know.  I read the files."

"I know you did.  And for some people it's not too bad.  But for 
others...it's a little rough.  But the pain does not signify 
anything wrong, okay?  It's not doing any damage.  Okay?  You got 
it?"

She nodded stiffly.  "I know.  Okay."

Mulder kept his hand on her throat a beat too long.  Then he 
pulled away and returned his attention to the syringe.  Cradling 
her upper arm in the warmth of his hand, he squeezed the supple 
flesh to form a solid surface for the injection.  Scully held 
still, too accustomed to needles in her life.

He moved slowly, his stomach tensing against the final moment of 
truth.  Mulder slipped the cool steel along her lightly freckled 
skin and at last broke the surface, catching the vein perfectly, 
still surprised that somewhere in this blurry two years he had 
gained some formidable medical skills.  That was supposed to be 
Scully's forte.

He pressed the pump of the syringe steadily but firmly, having 
learned early that if he didn't finish the contents before the 
pain hit, it was sometimes impossible to keep the patient still 
for the remaining drops.

He saw it hit Scully with a blush of color across her collarbone.  
She sucked in a hard breath.  "*Oh, God....Aaahhhhh....*"  He had 
the needle out in a breath and tossed it onto the table to free 
his hands.  *Dammit.*  This was going to hurt her like hell.

Scully cried out again and held onto his forearm and dug her 
nails into his skin.  Mulder was on his feet above her, hugging 
her from behind, arm across her stomach, offering her all the 
strength he had to give.

"Scully, it's okay--"

"*Aaaaaaaahhhhh!  Oh, Jesus....*"  Scully could barely breathe, 
head down as she pulled at his arm, clawing at his skin.  He 
hadn't seen her in this kind of pain since one blood soaked and 
half-imagined Christmas Eve.  He could barely hold her still as 
she reached up and pulled at the shoulder of his T-Shirt.  
"Mulder...."

"It's all right.  Hang on."

She caught her breath on a half sob, the tendons of her throat 
hard as rock.  He held on for dear life.

"It's okay.  I'm so sorry.  It'll be gone in a minute.  I 
promise.  I've seen it done a dozen times..."

But she was barely hearing him.  Her voice was pure 
vulnerability.  "Oh, God, it hurts."  She hunched over and he 
leaned down and kept his chest tight to her back.

His heart was pounding in his ears.  "Hang in here.  It's almost 
over, Scully.  It's almost over."

She cried out in deepest pain.  He held on as his eyes burned 
with tears.  They tried to breathe.

It felt like forever before he sensed her relaxing a bit.  Just a 
whisper.  Just enough that she could straighten her back, sit 
further upright.  As the waves of pain rippled and ebbed, her 
stomach muscles still quivering beneath his arm, her grip on his 
muscles slackened, and her anguished cries fell quiet.

Mulder dared to loosen his grasp.  He lifted a hand to stroke the 
back of her neck.  Scully kept her eyes closed and didn't 
respond.

"It's all right," he whispered.  And she gave a faint sound of 
acknowledgement.

They sat together for time without count.

In the encroaching stillness and the silencing of the pain, 
Mulder grew achingly aware that Scully's blouse had slipped from 
her other shoulder in the struggle, that her breasts were resting 
snugly against the tensed muscle of his forearm, that her bare 
back was only a thin tee-shirt from his chest. She was panting 
for breath and he could feel her pulse on his skin.

"Are you okay?" he breathed in her ear.

She nodded, swallowed hard.  "Yeah."  Her voice was weak.

He continued to stroke her neck, leaned down and kissed just 
below her hair.

"I'm so sorry.  It's not that bad for everyone.  Only some."

She swallowed again.  "Lucky me."

He almost smiled.

Mulder lowered his weight to the coffee table behind her, arm 
still locked around her midriff.  He rested his head on the back 
of her hair.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"No," she said, voice suddenly stronger, though she did not move.  
"I want this...*thing*...out of my body.  And I don't want to 
die."

*Scully...*  Mulder wrapped both arms around her and held on 
hard.  "Then we're gonna do it."

"I hate you for leaving me," she whispered.

"I know."

"Mulder?"  There were tears in her voice.

"Yeah?"

She took several breaths to find her voice.  "You did this for 
me.  You gave up...everything.  For me."  She breathed again.  
Then, "Thank you."

His heart was in his throat.  "Scully.  I would do anything for 
you.  And if you don't know that by now...you're a lot stupider 
than you come across."

He felt her smile.  He felt her cry.

Their skin was touching.  And Scully was starting to feel it to.  
The nature of her touch had shifted, the way she moved against 
him, her carriage.

Mulder kissed the skin between her throat and her shoulder.  
Scully leaned her head away to sink into his ministrations, hair 
falling across his chest, and he had never been so hard in his 
life.  Dana Scully was pressed up against him, looking in the 
soft light like an erotic impressionist painting of the timeless 
red-head by firelight.

He reached up and smoothed his hand down the side of her neck, 
over her shoulder, the length of her arm.  Scully twined her 
fingers through his as he met with her hand.  Then she let him go 
and traced her own fingers up his forearm.

She turned like a dancer in his arms and before he knew it her 
lips were on his and he was kissing her like it was the first 
time.  And she was kissing him like she wanted to draw him inside 
her and never let go.  She was all soft cloth and silky white 
skin and petals of perfume in his arms.  He loved her longer hair 
and the way it was always brushing his skin like feather kisses.  
It had always been so hard for him not to touch her hair...he 
could scarcely believe he had free license at last.

Scully hooked one leg over his to keep her on the narrow table.  
His hand was on the small of her back, skin on skin, exploring 
the precise notches of her spine.  The tattoo was still there.  
He had caught glimpse of it when her blouse first fell.  He 
wondered what she thought of it now.  What it meant to her after 
all these years.  What Daniel had thought of the snake on his 
wife's back.  If Daniel had ever known the woman who had walked 
into a seedy tattoo parlor in Philadelphia.  If Mulder himself 
ever had.  He knew he wanted to know.

Scully's tongue was in his mouth.  Her cheeks were flushed from 
the adrenaline and the pain and the tears and the heat between 
them.  He saw her on a thousand cold nights, hands in her trench 
coat pockets, cheeks wind-burned and flushed from running, and 
soft, moist lips beneath misty breaths.  Three feet between them 
then.  Nothing but electricity between them now.

Mulder wrapped his arms tight across her back and kissed her with 
all he had.  She responded with every muscle in her body, 
sensitive to each offering and gesture.  Her body was as in tune 
with his touch as her instinct had ever been with his maneuvers 
in the field.

Christopher sighed softly and shifted in his carrier.  Scully 
listened for a moment, and when he was silent, she pressed her 
mouth tight to Mulder's again, and he was lost in her touch.

"Mulder," she breathed on a hoarse thread of air.  Her eyes were 
on his mouth and he wanted her with a gut-wrenching ache.  
"Please be with me."

Mulder leaned forward and kissed her eyebrow with as much feeling 
as he had ever given her lips, and he could smell the hallway of 
his old apartment and feel her lips against the bandage on his 
forehead.  A lifetime ago.  "I want you more than I have ever 
wanted anyone in my life."

Mulder pressed to his feet and lifted Scully with him, her 
graceful arms around his neck and legs hugging his hips.  She 
kissed him again.

He spoke against her mouth.  "And the true beauty of this 
apartment, is that I haven't lived in it long enough to bury the 
bed."

Her laughter was the sweetest he had heard since the day he left.


*****

End Chapter 25a (Continued in 25b...)
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