TITLE: Last
AUTHOR: Innisfree
E-MAIL: milagro73@excite.com
CLASSIFICATION:  MSR, A
SUMMARY: I could try for something clever here, but 
it boils down to the missing scene from all things. I 
think it's a good time to revisit that episode just 
in case 1013 thinks we've forgotten it.
RATING: R for sexual situations. I feel like HBO.
SPOILERS: Everything up through all things.
ARCHIVE: Yes -- just e-mail me.
DISCLAIMERS: Not mine. Not getting any money. One of 
many things I write and, sadly, nobody pays me for 
any of it at the moment.
__________________________________________


Leather. When had she bought a leather bed? She can't 
recall. But it is comfortable, so it was clearly a 
good purchase... whenever she had made it. Mmmmmmm. 
Leather.

Wait a second. She doesn't have a leather bed. 

With as much effort as it would take her to lift a 
ninety pound weight at the gym, she pulls her eyes 
open slowly and blinks a few times to clear her 
vision. Mulder's coffee table. She turns her head a 
little to the right. Mulder's fish tank. She looks 
down. Mulder's couch. Her sleep-addled brain takes a 
few moments to add up the evidence before reaching 
the obvious conclusion. What is Mulder's apartment? 
Thanks, Alex, I'll take Places You Shouldn't Be 
Sleeping at Two in the Morning on a Work Night, this 
time for $500.

She sighs in resignation. She is extraordinarily 
cozy, tucked underneath Mulder's old Navajo blanket 
that smells exactly like him and therefore probably 
needs a trip to the dry cleaner's. She knows the 
blanket covering her is his doing since her last 
memory is of drifting off next to it, not beneath it, 
as he wondered aloud about what it would mean if the 
signs along the way had led them both here to this 
apartment, on this night. 

But she is also annoyed. Because she allowed herself 
to fall asleep here, she now has to make the trip 
back to her apartment in the middle of the night, 
virtually assuring that she will be wide awake by the 
time she arrives there. 

Well, alright. She doesn't have to make the trip to 
her apartment. Of course he wouldn't mind if she 
spent the night on his couch. Hell, he was the one 
who threw a blanket over her and turned off the 
lights in his living room. But for some reason, the 
idea of waking up here in the early morning seems... 
strange. 

Oh, she's spent the night here before. Quite 
recently, in fact. The night she came here to tell 
Mulder that his mother had definitely taken her own 
life, she had stayed with him until the morning. She 
had watched over him until he cried himself to sleep, 
and then she had managed a few hours of sleep for 
herself on this beaten-up leather couch. But this is 
different. Nothing is wrong. No one has died. No one 
is in danger. No one has been shot. Everything is 
just fine. And, clearly, that means that she should 
not be spending the night here.

She rises up from beneath the blanket, wincing as the 
leather couch issues a squeaky sigh in protest. She 
doesn't want to wake Mulder. She knows he'd give her 
a hard time about leaving now. He'd tell her it's 
crazy to drive all the way back to Georgetown in the 
middle of the night when there is a perfectly good 
bed waiting for her here. 

She can hear him in her head: "I'll take the couch, 
Scully. You go get some rest in there and I'll wake 
you up in time to head back to your place in the 
morning for a change of clothes. No, I don't want to 
hear it. Just get some sleep." 

Nope. Waking up in his bed tomorrow morning would be 
even more strange than waking up on his couch.

Half-blind in the dark, she searches around the 
coffee table for her discarded pumps. This is silly, 
she thinks. Not only is she leaving Mulder's 
apartment at - she checks her watch - two-thirty in 
the morning, she is fumbling around in the dark for 
shoes and clothes and keys so that she can sneak off. 
Talk about signs along the way. What does this sign 
mean? She doesn't want to look closely at it. But she 
knows what it means at the most basic level, thanks 
to the oddly nervous sensation in her stomach. She is 
afraid.

Her right hand finds her keys lying on a magazine at 
the corner of the coffee table, and she pauses. Why 
is she always afraid? Afraid of change, afraid of 
making the wrong choices, afraid of losing what makes 
her feel safe. If she'd learned nothing else in the 
past two days, she thought she had learned that life 
is a path where there is no purpose in being afraid. 
You end up where you are meant to be if you have 
faith that fate will show you the way. She just isn't 
certain that she is ready to be where her choices are 
apparently taking her. All of those choices weren't 
solely about ending up at the FBI, or about ending up 
assigned to the X-Files. They were also about ending 
up with Mulder, and the implications of that choice 
still scare the hell out of her. Time to go.

She closes his apartment door behind her, quietly, 
but firmly enough to assure herself that it's locked 
securely. She is becoming an increasingly big fan of 
locked doors even as she finds herself increasingly 
less confident that they will stay locked. Lock 
everything up as tight as a fortress, she thinks, and 
you'll still find CGB Spender sitting in your living 
room, or Donnie Pfaster standing in your closet. 
Duane Barry will still come crashing through your 
window if he really, really wants the aliens to take 
you instead of him this time. It's a question of 
desire. If someone wanted in badly enough, Dana 
Scully couldn't seem to find a lock to beat that 
sheer force of will. 

Smiling to herself, she presses the button on her car 
key to turn yet another lock designed more to make 
her feel better than to deter any reasonably 
ambitious thief... or any Alex Krycek with orders to 
send her up in one gloriously final fireball, for 
that matter.  

She is reminded of pulling the covers over her neck 
as a child so that the vampires wouldn't be able to 
get her. Ridiculous for so many reasons, she thinks. 
Ridiculous because they don't exist, of course, but 
mainly ridiculous because, even if they did exist, 
sheets pulled up over the neck would have offered her 
little protection. 

She turns the key in the ignition. The engine 
sputters briefly before whimpering away. She turns 
the key again, this time with that extra finesse all 
drivers use to curry favor with their cars, that 
gentle little motion that apologizes for turning the 
key so roughly the first time. Nothing. On the third 
try, the car doesn't even bother to sputter. 

"Dammit." 

She slams her hand against the steering wheel in 
frustration, and the car honks loudly to let her know 
it feels exactly the same way about her. She brings 
her hand up to massage her weary eyes. Perfect. She 
is fairly certain that the leather couch will be cold 
again by the time she gets back up to Mulder's 
apartment. Perfect.

Keys in hand, she trudges back up the walk that leads 
to his building, every step sounding out her defeat. 
She hears the sound of branches beating and 
scratching against a window, and when she looks up, 
she sees that it is Mulder's window receiving the 
wind's greeting. 

Tap. Tap. Scratch. Tap. 

As if the wind is trying to say something.

When she reaches his door again, not even ten minutes 
after she had gingerly pulled it closed, she slips 
the key he gave her years ago into the lock and tries 
not to make a sound. The knob twists in her hand and 
she pushes the door open. As she enters the 
apartment, she hears the faint murmur of the wind 
still knocking branches on the window in Mulder's 
bedroom. She thinks that this noise so near to where 
he's sleeping will mask her comings and goings 
tonight.

"Scully?" 

Or maybe not. She strains to adjust her eyes in the 
darkness lit only by the soft glow of the moon. In 
the doorframe by the couch, she sees Mulder standing 
with his shoulders slouched and a hand scratching 
through his hair so that it stands up wildly in 
silhouette. Of course the man who hasn't had a true 
good night's sleep in twenty years would hear someone 
entering his apartment in the dead of night. Perfect.

"It's me, Mulder," she says with a soft, guilty 
voice. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"No, you didn't wake me. I wasn't really asleep. I 
heard you leave a little while ago, but I didn't 
think you were coming back."

For an instant, she is puzzled and says nothing. He 
heard her leave but did not try to stop her, and this 
surprises her. He has only come out now because he 
wasn't sure who was skulking into his apartment. That 
would be her, she thinks. The skulker. 

"I... uh... I just went down to my car to... to get 
something." She doesn't want to tell him she was 
planning on leaving, although she's fairly sure that 
he will put two and two together in the morning when 
she has to ask him to give her car a jump. 

"What?" he asks innocently, without any hint of 
accusation or suspicion. 

Good question, she thinks. She had no purse or 
satchel with her when they came up to his apartment 
earlier, and she has none with her now. 
Surreptitiously, she touches the pockets of her suit 
jacket to see if there are any promising items to be 
found there. Other than her badge, she feels nothing 
but a few dollar bills. Nothing that would justify a 
trip to her car at this time of night. A nervous 
feeling rises in her stomach as she realizes that she 
is about to be caught in a rather stupid lie.

"I went down there looking for my contact case, but I 
couldn't find it." That's good, she thinks. Contact 
case. And she doesn't even have to produce it.

"Contact case, huh?" This time, Mulder's tone is not 
quite so neutral. 

She decides that he's onto her. He is, after all, an 
investigator by trade and a profiler by nature. 

"You should have just asked me. I always have an 
extra one in the medicine cabinet."

"I didn't want to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep."

"So you said."

"Well, even if I had been, you know you can always 
wake me up if you need anything."

She nods her head. Several times. She knows she could 
wake him up for any reason, anywhere, anytime, and he 
would grumble a little for effect while he secretly 
thrilled at the chance to do something for her. How 
many people in her life would be happy to get out of 
bed to find a contact case if she asked? Besides 
maybe her mother, she can only think of one. Mulder. 
And this unnerves her sometimes. 

He inches toward her and the moonlight captures his 
face, allowing her to see his jaw set with a firmness 
that seems out of place beneath his tired eyes. He's 
standing only a foot or so away from her, and her 
eyes drop involuntarily to sweep across his bare 
chest, its muscles outlined even more sharply by the 
softest light. Her heart begins to beat a little 
faster as the fear starts to spread out from her 
stomach. She can feel it on her skin.

"Do you?" he asks, his voice almost as soft as the 
light that bathes his body. 

She looks in his eyes and sees that, behind the 
bravado of his steady gaze, there is fear in him as 
well.

"Do I what?" She tries very hard to sound casual, 
even though she knows there is nothing casual about 
the way his eyes are fixed upon her.

"Do you need anything?" 

His voice has softened to where it hangs just above a 
whisper, and she hears such tenderness in it that she 
thinks she might shatter from the sound. He can be 
the most gentle of men when you cut past the cocky 
exterior he has constructed to hide his pain and his 
disappointments. But she has never heard the voice 
she's hearing tonight. So careful, so tender. A voice 
that carries something very fragile.

"No, Mulder. I'm fine." She winces just a bit on the 
inside as she gives him her trademark distancing 
signal. Even she has tired of hearing that brief 
little phrase over the years. "I don't need 
anything." 

She lifts her hand and places it on his shoulder, a 
friendly gesture meant to soften her words a bit and 
let him know that she appreciates his solicitousness. 
She smiles for extra measure and begins to move 
toward the couch.

"Do you need me, Scully?" he asks with surprising 
calm, placing emphasis on the word "me." 

Oh God, she thinks. This is it. If he hadn't stressed 
that one word, she could have brushed off his 
question as a simple rephrasing of his previous 
inquiry. Need anything? No thanks, Mulder. Need me, 
Scully? No, everything's really fine, Mulder. Okay 
then, Scully, I'll just hit the sack and see you in 
the morning. 

But he isn't asking her if she needs an extra 
blanket, and he isn't asking her if she needs him to 
show her where the contact case is. He's asking 
something altogether different. The question that has 
always remained unspoken between them, until tonight. 

All of her choices have brought her to this moment, 
and she is terrified of it. The fear has taken over 
her body and she finds it hard to breathe. It takes 
every nerve she has, working together in defiance of 
fear, to turn her body back around to face him. She 
is sure that he can see it in her face as he studies 
her for a moment, searching, questioning. Whatever he 
finds seems to cause him to set his jaw even more 
firmly.

"Because I need you." He pauses. "So much."

"Mulder, it's late." Her voice quivers, the words 
falling out of her mouth without any of her usual 
resolve.

"I know. It is late. But it's also time."

She understands exactly what he means. Because she 
knows that he's right. No matter how much it 
frightens her, she understands that this is finally 
the time. Their time. Their moment. Their choice. 
This is where the road that is all things at once 
splits in two. They cannot keep moving toward love 
forever. At some point, they either arrive and settle 
in, or they turn away. And she can see the city limit 
sign from here.

"Scully, I couldn't sleep tonight because I was 
thinking of you lying out here. How you were so 
close. How much I wanted you to walk through that 
door and lie down next to me. With me. In my bed." 

His last words send a shiver straight through her. 
Such intimate words said so... intimately. 

He frowns, his eyes suddenly angry, and she's afraid 
that she has pushed him too far in this strange dance 
of theirs. But then she looks more closely and sees 
that his anger is the special kind he reserves for 
himself.

"But all I could do was lie there. Instead of coming 
out here and... and taking you in there with me... I 
just lay there. Wanting you, like I always do. 
Afraid, like I always am." 

He spits the words out but looks down at his feet, 
directing the venom away from her and toward his own 
dark figure. She can hear him breathing deeply, 
trying to calm himself before he raises his head 
again.

"I'm tired of being afraid, Scully," he tells her, 
his voice more even and controlled again. "I used to 
think that changing things between us might threaten 
everything we already have. And I don't ever want to 
lose that. But lately," he says tiredly, "I'm 
starting to think that if you stop something from 
growing and changing, it'll die anyway."

His words alarm her. Does he think their friendship 
is so weak that it can't survive a choice to embrace 
it on its own terms? What kind of friendship needs to 
transcend itself to survive, to become something more 
or wither away?

"I don't know what you mean, Mulder." There is a 
surprisingly sharp note in her voice. "You and I have 
a solid friendship built on trust, and time, and 
loyalty... and nothing will ever change that."

He smiles at her words. A wistful smile, not the 
smirk to which she's so accustomed.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"You're afraid of our friendship?"

"No. I'm afraid of what will happen to us if we keep 
pretending that a friendship is the only thing 
between us. We have so much more than that, Scully. 
And if we ignore it forever, it'll eventually fade 
away. Not because the feeling isn't strong, but 
because it's too strong to carry inside us forever 
with no chance of release." 

She knows this feeling. She feels its power every 
minute of every day. Sometimes she thinks that it 
will overwhelm her entirely. That there will be 
nothing left of Dana Katherine Scully. That there 
will only be this frighteningly intense love and need 
for the man standing in front of her. 

"Mulder, I'm... I don't know what to say. These past 
two days have been hard, and I'm not sure I can have 
this conversation right now." 

Please, she thinks. Some other time when she has had 
time to prepare, when she doesn't feel like she's 
going to break apart with anxiety.

"Because you're afraid too." 

He steps forward and, suddenly, she finds that he's 
close enough to touch. She looks at him and realizes 
that he is baring himself before her, arms to his 
sides, chest uncovered, eyes open wide. Without 
thinking, she wraps her arms around herself, 
realizing too late that she has wordlessly confirmed 
his statement in doing so. She wants to tell him that 
she's not afraid of this. That she's not afraid of 
anything. That he's wrong. She wants to lie.

Instead, she nods her head slightly and casts her 
eyes down from the shame of it all.

"I know, Scully. I just don't know why we're so 
afraid of becoming what we're meant to be. Unless..." 
His voice catches in the middle of his thought and 
she hears him push a long breath of air out of his 
lungs. "Unless you're afraid of me." 

Afraid of him. The idea slices into her and she finds 
that she wants to lie again. She wants to tell him 
that she could never be afraid of him. She could say 
that she's only afraid of herself. But that would be 
a half-truth, and she thinks that perhaps the time 
has come to stop telling half-truths and choosing 
words so carefully.

"I am afraid of you, Mulder. I'm afraid of me, and 
I'm afraid of you, and I'm afraid that there's no way 
the two of us could possibly avoid hurting each 
other."

She searches his face for a reaction to what is 
easily the most honest thing she has said tonight. 
His eyes close, and she knows that her very words are 
the proof of what she fears. Res ipsa loquitor. The 
thing speaks for itself. Her words are truthful, but 
they have hurt him. And she knows that he knows she 
is right. They hurt each other all the time. It is 
rarely malicious or intentional, but it is part of 
who they are.

"We can't avoid that," he says, almost as if he is 
talking to a child.

His eyes shoot open and he places one of his hands on 
each of her arms, pulling them down from where they 
shield her chest and forcing them to her sides. One 
hand lets go, but the other slides down to envelop 
her shaky fingers in a strong grip. 

"We're going to hurt each other because that's part 
of the deal. That's part of love, Scully. You can't 
opt out of that part of it because it's hard. It's a 
package, good and bad."

He moves his body so that it's almost against her, 
still far enough away that she can look into his eyes 
but close enough for her to see the raw need that 
seems to cover him with a sheen. He is aroused, and 
his voice has grown deeper with each passing minute. 
She's not shocked. The intensity of this moment is 
terrifyingly arousing. Everything they have pushed 
down deep inside for years is being drawn up to the 
surface by these words, by the charge in the air, by 
the promise of shelter that seems to lie in 
moonlight.

"I want you to say it, Scully," he whispers roughly, 
his lips hovering near her ear. "I need you. I love 
you. Everything you are is a part of me, and I'm 
yours forever, whether you want me or not. But I want 
to hear you tell me what I am to you." 

The command in his voice is startling at first, but 
then she relaxes into its hold. She thinks she can 
hear the sound of a lock breaking, and as it is with 
every other locked door that tries to face down 
determination or desperation, she knows there is no 
way to stop this man from coming in. His tone tells 
her that he wants to be forceful, but as he slides 
his forehead slowly and lightly across hers, she 
feels the force of his need tempered by tenderness. 

She sees now that she never had a chance in the face 
of this desire and devotion. Her heart couldn't 
present itself to him quickly enough, no matter how 
insistently her mind tried to reason with it.

"Mulder," she whispers.

"Say it, Scully," he pleads, his voice taking on the 
tone of a prayer. His warm breath hits her face, 
caressing and stinging at the same time, like a gust 
of the Santa Ana winds she remembers from her 
childhood. "What am I to you?"

"You're..." She pauses, not sure what she can say 
that will explain the magnitude of her feeling for 
him without sounding like something from an airport 
romance novel. "You're the last man I'll ever love."

He pulls his face away from hers and she watches as 
the color drains away. 

"What?" he says weakly, all the passion in his eyes 
transforming into something that looks like horror 
and telling her that he has misunderstood.

"No, Mulder," she says gently, threading her fingers 
through his hair as she eases his head back to rest 
against her own. She stifles a small laugh of 
disbelief at his remarkable ability to latch onto the 
worst possible meaning in everything. "I don't mean 
that you're the last man on earth I'd ever fall in 
love with. I mean that I've been in love before. But 
not like this. So I know that I'll never again love a 
man who isn't you. You're the last."

She can feel him smile against her cheek, and she 
hears that smile infused in the low rumble of his 
voice when he speaks again. 

"The last, huh? Nobody else but me anymore? Ever?"

She finds herself sharing his smile when she hears 
the hint of glee behind his words. But as she 
considers the rest of what she needs to say, she 
pushes the smile away.

"You're it, Mulder. But I didn't say that I'm ready 
to change things between us."

She expects him to pull back again, a wounded look on 
his face and defeat written on his body. He surprises 
her by pulling her closer. With feather-light 
touches, he presses his lips to her forehead, her 
cheek, the edge of her mouth. Everywhere.

"Back to being afraid, are we?"

She feels her resolve slipping while her skin burns 
in the wake of his kisses. She thinks of this man, 
this love, this moment where she can grab hold of so 
much more if she can only find the courage to reach 
out for it.

"I may love you, Mulder, but I also know how to be 
alone. We both do. And as much as I..."

"Do you want to be alone, Scully?" 

The question hits her hard enough to pass through her 
outer layers and burrow into the place inside where 
truth lives but rarely shows its face. His lips hover 
dangerously close to hers, brushing against them so 
slightly that she can't be sure if she's feeling what 
he's actually doing, or merely what she wishes he 
were doing.

"I asked you if you want to be alone, Scully. Do 
you?"

"I..." The sound coming from her mouth is so quiet 
that she's not sure either of them can hear it. "No." 
It is the sound of a secret breaking free. 

"Then stop." 

This time, she's certain that he is really pressing 
his lips against her lips. It's not their first kiss, 
but it is the first to carry passion, the first to 
suggest that he wants more than a very close friend. 
She knows that the feeling in his kiss isn't new. 
Like good wine, it has aged and deepened over time. 
But he has never before been brave enough to show it 
to her, and she has never been brave enough to accept 
it, as she does when she finds her lips moving over 
his in response.

She is lost in the simple act of kissing this man who 
excites her, infuriates her, charms her, and loves 
her, when she realizes that her last words to him 
might again be open to misunderstanding. Reluctantly, 
she pulls back from him and she thinks she hears 
something like a whimper. She isn't quite sure 
whether it came from her, or from him, or from both 
of them.

"Mulder."

"Hmmmmm?" He begins rubbing his forehead gently 
against hers again in what seems to be his own 
variation on an Eskimo kiss.

"When I said that I don't want to be alone, that 
isn't precisely what I meant. I don't want you to 
think that... if we decide to do this... that it's 
only because I'm lonely."

"I know what you're trying to say. I do." He speaks 
softly against her skin, his voice the voice of a man 
who's trying to calm someone. "But there's nothing 
wrong with wanting this, in part, because we're 
lonely. Scully, we've been the worst kind of alone. 
We've been alone while we've been together, and it 
doesn't have to be like that anymore."

She knows that this is true. She remembers reading 
once that Rilke defined love as two solitudes that 
border on one another. It is a definition that 
describes their relationship over the past seven 
years perfectly, but it doesn't need to describe 
their future. No, it doesn't have to be like that 
anymore, even though she understands that some part 
of her will always be alone. It is the same for him. 
Some part of each of us is cut off from the rest of 
the world, no matter how much we wish it weren't so. 
She realizes that there's always one lock that cannot 
be broken. 

"Scully..." 

Mulder's hands roam her body with confidence now, 
assured that they have received permission to do so 
at long last. He holds her to him tightly, and she 
feels the weight of his need press against her. She 
has always known that he found her attractive. 
Alluring. She wonders how many times he has found 
himself becoming hard at the thought of something he 
might never have with her, how many times he had to 
hide it for fear of scaring her and driving her away. 
She feels her own arousal on every plane of her body, 
centered in the place where she now feels a desperate 
need to join with him. So much desire, held back for 
so long. It's the terrible power of it all that made 
her so afraid and, even now, makes her pause in the 
face of this new step that is a risk as well as a 
gift.

"Walk with me," he whispers as he takes her by the 
hand and leads her toward his bed. 

She wants to be all things to him tonight. She wants 
to be the confident lover she believes he deserves 
and which she knows she can be. But she's seventeen 
again at this moment, walking with Marcus toward the 
back of a farmhouse in the country, past the other 
girls fumbling with their prom dates and boyfriends 
in the open night air. It is different, of course. 
She loves this man, and whatever she may have felt 
for Marcus, it was not the same. But she's just as 
unsure, just as petrified that she will disappoint 
him somehow.

The covers on his bed are already a mess. He must 
have been tossing and turning in here as she slept 
soundly out on the couch. The thought of it secretly 
thrills her. He pulls the covers back and sits on the 
edge of the mattress, and his arm around her back 
encourages her to do the same. She's so nervous she 
thinks she might start laughing soon if he doesn't 
simply cover her with his body and force her mind to 
shut down. 

"Scully, I thought that... well..." He takes a deep, 
shuddering breath. "I'm sorry I'm so nervous." 

She smiles at his willingness to admit to the feeling 
she's trying so hard to conceal.

"I just... don't want you to think that I don't want 
you. I do. I want nothing more than to run my hands 
over every inch of skin on you, to be... to be with 
you, to feel what it's like to be..." 

He trails off to better collect his thoughts, and the 
dim light in the room is enough to show her the blush 
that covers his face. The sight gives her courage... 
courage to help him take these first awkward steps. 
Carefully, she places one hand on his broad back, 
stroking it in a soothing motion. Her other hand 
moves to rest on his thigh quite near his very 
obvious erection. The gesture was not meant to tease 
him, but she's admittedly flattered by the sound of 
him sucking in air as she touches him.

"I can see that you want me, Mulder." 

A small cruel streak overcomes her primary desire to 
comfort him for just a moment, and she moves her hand 
in small strokes on his thigh. Massaging the skin, 
back and forth. 

"I know you know that I want this too. Very much. So 
what are you trying to tell me?"

His face contorts in an effort to regain some of his 
control before he speaks, and in aid of that same 
goal, he stills her hand and brings it up to his 
lips. Running them along her fingers, he lets out a 
low laugh.

"I'm trying to say... not very well, I know... that 
it's very late, and we're both tired. And duty calls 
at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. I don't want this to be 
rushed, and while I'm certainly up for it as you can 
see, I'd really like just to sleep here with you 
tonight. And when we're ready for more, and I 
sincerely hope that's going to be very soon, we can 
do it right."

He turns his head to face her, and the shy look in 
his eyes is almost enough to break her heart. He's 
worried that he may have said the wrong thing. 
Offended her. Ruined this night. He couldn't be more 
wrong, and she tells him this by taking his face in 
her hands. She slides those hands down to his mouth 
just as she did last fall when they stood in his 
doorway talking of touchstones and of friends lost. 
Her thumbs caress his lips, just as they did on that 
day six months ago, and then fall away. But now she's 
ready to fulfill the promise she left with him back 
then, and she covers his mouth with her mouth, 
breathing him in and breathing into him.

"We've waited a very long time. And I am very tired."

"I might not be in top form, you know?" She knows 
that he's trying to lighten the mood for his own 
benefit more than for hers, and she's glad for an 
opportunity to help him in this small way.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder. Are you?"

"Ummmm... Well, I did have plans to run off to Aruba 
with Kersh's secretary, but I can definitely put that 
trip on hold for a few days."

"Only if it's not too much of a hassle."

"Well, fortunately I didn't buy the tickets on 
Priceline, so it shouldn't be a problem."

"Good." 

Their ability to slip into their usual banter at a 
moment like this amazes and reassures her. It amazes 
her that they have so completely mastered the art of 
humor as deflecting device. It reassures her that 
this new aspect of their relationship won't change 
the way they are with one another. 

Ever the gentleman, Mulder pulls at her suit jacket 
in an offer to remove it for her. She lets the fabric 
slide off her shoulders and arms, and he takes it to 
the edge of the bed, folding it neatly before laying 
it down where it will be easily within her reach. She 
wonders if this is his subtle way of making it easier 
for her to leave, of letting her know that she's 
always free to go. How very Mulder to give her the 
exit he hopes she won't take.

He slides in underneath the covers, moving to the 
opposite side of the bed to make room for her. In 
another echo of another moment in another place, he 
pats the mattress beside him and waggles his eyebrows 
playfully. She smiles, quirking her chin slightly to 
the left to acknowledge the reference. 

Lifting her silk sweater over her head, she sees that 
the lighthearted look on his face has turned somber. 
He is transfixed by the sight of her undressing for 
him, and the pure desire in his gaze catches her off 
guard for just an instant. She peels away the rest of 
her clothing, but keeps the two items without which 
it would be unfair to expect restraint from either 
one of them, regardless of fatigue. 

He pulls the covers over her, protectively, as she 
settles in the bed next to him. She rests her head 
against his shoulder and finally allows herself to 
feel the exhaustion that has been prodding at her 
since she woke on his couch. 

"Goodnight, Mulder," she mumbles, the peace she feels 
flowing out with her words.

As his arms come around her, enfolding her and 
binding her to him, he suddenly tightens his grasp. 

"I'm glad I'm last, Scully."

She sighs and places a soft kiss on his chest. A 
benediction. 

He is the last, and also the first. He is everything 
she has lost and everything she has run from. He is 
every turn she didn't take, and every turn she did. 
He is every promise kept and broken. He is all the 
things that have been and will be in her single, 
seemingly insignificant life. And the fear that 
steals into her heart as she feels her skin against 
his, bare and unguarded for the first time, is the 
fear that comes from knowing that now... now there is 
so much more for her to lose.

END


Author's Notes:  Sorry if you're disappointed that I 
didn't go "there." I'm still new at this, and a bit 
shy. Have to work my way up to it. But, in the world 
of canon, you better believe I think something more 
than sleeping happened that night.