Title: A Mild Theodicy 
Author: foxcub 
E-mail: fox_cub@hotmail.com 
Category: S, R, and Angst-o-rama 
Disclaimer: You know that little voice at the end of 
each ep that always says "I made this"? That's not 
me. 
Spoilers: The Pine Bluff Variant, a couple small ones 
for "FTF", Triangle, and Milagro. None of "The Sixth 
Extinction" stuff has happened yet! 
Summary: One bad-ass guilt trip. Feedback: I will do 
a dance of joy that would put Michael Flatley to 
shame 

Author's notes: This is what happens when I read 
William Faulkner and take a religion class at the 
same time <g>. By far the longest fic I've ever 
written. A big plate of warm brownies go out to 
Alicia K. for lovingly taking over where CazQ left 
off ;-) Both of you are my guardian spelling angels 
<g>. 


********************* 
"No one asked you to suffer. 
That was your idea." 
--"Bringing Out the Dead" 
********************* 

Tuesday, 4:56pm 
-------------------- 
He fidgets absently with the file in his hands, 
feeling like a large sardine as he stands trapped 
behind a cluster of suits. A thread of conversation 
flows in as the elevator doors open. 

"...All I know is I'd have dropped his ass and moved 
on by now. Now way in hell would I stick around with 
him to see what certain death came around next." 

"I heard that psycho Padgett was stalking her or 
something. And he didn't do anything about it..." 

A gossipy, female exchange within two feet of him. 
Their hushed voices buzz around him like gnats. 

"Jesus, and how many times has she nearly been killed 
now?" 

A disgusted sigh. "I don't know. More than a few, 
from what Agent Billings has passed on to me. If it 
were me, I'd have either applied for reassignment or 
gotten the hell out of the Bureau by now." 

"No doubt. But I always thought....I mean, I'd heard 
they were....y'know...." 

A snort. "Give me a break. Nobody loves someone and 
then puts them through shit like that...." 

The doors open again, and as the conversation tide 
flows out, he is left alone in its wake. 

Like a drowning man. 

///// 

The stuffy darkness of their office hits him in the 
face as he drifts through the doorway, nearly making 
him gag. Today it feels like entering a tomb. 

She's clattering away at her laptop, but he doesn't 
look at her. The sight of her only causes the sudden 
pain in his head to scream louder and claw through 
his skull. He dumps the file on her desk like an 
afterthought on the way to his desk. 

Her head snaps up. "You were gone quite a while. Did 
you get that photo to forensics?" 

"They'll call in an hour." He is yanking on his 
trench coat, his back to her. 

"They'll call....? Wait, Mulder, where are you 
going?" 

"I....have a lead I need to look into." 

"A lead." She slips her glasses off. "Just some 
mysterious spur-of-the-moment lead you haven't 
bothered to mention to me?" 

"Something like that." He doesn't even bother to turn 
his desk lamp off as he practically sprints for the 
door. He is desperate to be anywhere but here. 

"Mulder! What the hell is going--" 

The slam of the door is her reply. 

///// 

It is seven o'clock and his desk chair still sits 
empty. 

With an irritated sigh, she stands and gathers up her 
coat and briefcase before turning out her light. She 
pauses just before shutting off his own neglected 
desk lamp, remembering her cell. She digs it out of 
her coat pocket. 

"C'mon, Mulder," she mutters as it rings and rings. 

Click. "...The cellular customer you are trying to 
reach is unavailable..." 

Typical. 

Another heavy sigh as she jabs the off button and 
stuffs the phone back into her pocket. She glances 
back down at the desk lamp. 

Fuck it. Let him turn out his own damn light. 

She turns on her heel and the door is slammed for a 
second time. 

///// 

It takes her all of ten minutes to admit to herself 
that she's worried. But it's not a run-of-the-mill 
worry -- more like a grab bag of worries. 

He's in trouble. 

He's disappeared. 

He's left for good. 

He doesn't trust her. 

The last one makes her throat constrict slightly. She 
knows she really has no business to be thinking these 
thoughts, but what if.... 

He's gone undercover. 

Again. 

Her car slows to a stop in front of her apartment and 
she sits motionless behind the wheel with the 
ignition still running. Her eyes close slowly. 

Pine Bluff comes rushing back to her in a landslide 
of sickening emotions. So close... she'd come so 
close to losing him. It remains a sickening, heart-
wrenching event that still haunts her from time to 
time. She'd sworn then and there in that bank in 
Pennsylvania that she wouldn't let herself go through 
an ordeal like that again. 

But so help her, if he'd gone under again.... 

She swallows hard and suddenly throws herself from 
the car, fiercely shutting the driver's door. 

Dammit, he would've told me, she thinks. He would've 
*told* me. 

She hardly realizes her rush as she anxiously forces 
the lock to her apartment open, making a bee line for 
the answering machine. 

The display reads zero. 

Scully drops her things into a chair and rubs at her 
forehead in frustration. Something just isn't right, 
she can feel it in her bones. Yet her rational side 
reminds her how much Mulder's overprotectiveness of 
her annoys her. So what right does she have to know 
his every whereabouts? She isn't his mother, no 
matter how many times she likes to give herself 
delusions of grandeur. 

But this time her rational side is overruled as she 
picks up her cordless and hits the speed dial. She is 
soon greeted by his voice, but it's the tinny, 
faraway personality of his answering machine. 

"Mulder," she sighs as she turns off the phone and 
taps it on her chin. "Where the hell are you?" 

///// 

It wasn't until her partner's chair sat empty the 
entire following work day that she decided some kind 
of action needed to be taken on her part. After all, 
it was her duty as an FBI agent to secure the safety 
of her missing partner, and it had nothing to do with 
the fact that she had gotten no sleep the previous 
night; she had stayed up calling his apartment to see 
if he had returned during the night. 

She had come so close to barging into Skinner's 
office and demanding to know if Mulder had indeed 
gone under again. But she was hesitant; he hadn't 
been completely forthcoming during Mulder's Bermuda 
Triangle escapade. And her trust in him was still on 
probation. 

So the Skinner idea had been thrown out, and now she 
finds herself knocking on a familiar door. After a 
few moments, she is ushered in by the only other 
people she can trust. 

"Ah, the divine Agent Scully," croons Frohike. "To 
what do we owe this unexpected visit?" 

"It sure as hell ain't your good looks," comes 
Langly's snide reply. 

"Guys, I need your expertise," she says, unfazed. 
"Mulder has disappeared...." 

///// 
Somewhere in western Virginia
Wednesday, 10:47 pm 
---------------- 
Keet's Wagon Wheel Tavern, he thinks. What a fucking 
stupid name. 

He spins his shot glass on the bar before him, 
watching the booze slosh back and forth. He wishes 
Mr. Baldy Bartender would come by and pick up all the 
excess glasses that are beginning to congregate 
around him. He keeps knocking his hand into them. 

Jesus, what can you expect from a guy with a name 
like Keet? 

He pauses, then empties his glass and laughs to 
himself. 

Like he should talk. 

Mulder tosses the glass aside and wonders if the guy 
will give him another or be a pussy and tell him he's 
"reached his limit." He's an FBI agent, after all, 
with a goddamn gun. He can set his own limits, thank 
you very much. 

It's been a while since he's been wasted and he's 
forgotten how much he enjoys it. With everything 
blurred and numb you can't remember the trials and 
tribulations of your life, or abducted sisters, or 
government conspiracies, or how you completely fucked 
up your partner's life. 

He winces. Nope, not nearly wasted enough. 

He slams the now empty glass against the bar. "Hey, 
could I by chance get a refill down here?" he hollers 
to the guy he assumes is Keet. 

The bartender hesitates slightly and Mulder grits his 
teeth, realizing his gun is out in the car. But 
finally he manages to make his way over to him with a 
bottle in hand. 

"I was leaving you these little guys 'cause I figured 
they were gonna be your only company this evening," 
he says to him, indicating the posse of shot glasses. 

Mulder forces a weak grin. He thinks, Just pour the 
fucking booze, wise-ass. 

He is indeed alone. Alone in some bar out in the 
middle of nowhere in a state he can only guess is 
still Virginia. Once he'd gotten on the road, he'd 
driven without even glancing at a road sign. He'd 
only stopped when the gaslight began flashing, and 
then continued driving on through the night. He'd 
stopped around two in the morning at a dumpy motel 
and had proceeded to crash into a sleep that had 
lasted well into the afternoon. One thought had hit 
him when he'd managed to crawl out of bed: he didn't 
want to eat, he wanted to drink. Hard. 

And lo and behold, Keet's had been right across the 
road. 

He sighs weakly as his glass is filled. This had not 
been his plan, but then again he'd never had a plan 
since the moment he'd jumped in his car and took off. 
He thinks of his turned-off cell phone in the pocket 
of his suit jacket back in his room and wonders 
briefly if she's tried to call him.... 

At the thought of her voice coming through the cell, 
he throws back his drink, then rests his head against 
the glass in his hand. He's so tired....tired of 
everything. Lies, false hopes, frustration, denial - 
at the moment, it feels like the whole fucking lot is 
collapsing upon him, crushing his heart. 

*Nobody loves someone and puts them through shit like 
that...* 

Christ, he knows when to take a hint. Which is why 
instead of dying for his cause, like he'd always 
believed he would, he's now on his way to death by 
alcohol poisoning. 

His blurry mind wonders vaguely whether or not he'll 
go to heaven. 

Fuck, Fox, you know there's no God, he thinks. Of 
course, how can he forget? He's reminded of this 
practically every day. 

The glass is shoved aside. His head comes down slowly 
to rest against his folded arms on the bar. Finally, 
blessed numbness.... 

The lone waitress comes to the bar to whisper to the 
bartender. He hears their voices, hollow, far off in 
the distance, shimmering in and out of his half-
conscious mind. 

"....Insurance salesman or somethin'. Looked like 
shit when he came in here and he looks like shit now. 
Wonder what the hell's eating that guy." 

"Anybody with him?" A smoky female voice. 

"No one. Nobody at all. He's just been sittin' there 
all night, knocking back shots. He's money, though - 
gave me a big fuckin' wad of cash when he came in and 
told me to start pouring." 

"He looks clean. Do you think....I dunno....maybe his 
wife left him?" 

"Who knows? Personally, I don't give a shit, just as 
long as he's outta here by closing." 

"I think it's kinda sad, Keet...." 

"You would. Here's your Bud." 

In the dark cave of his folded arms, Mulder smiles 
bitterly to himself, thinking, Yeah, I am sad, honey. 
One big fat fucking sob story. 

Then, with a long pathetic sigh, he oozes slowly into 
unconsciousness. 

///// 

Heat and moisture. It's surrounding him like a 
cocoon. 

He is aware of smoothness, of silken sensations 
trickling through him like a steady stream. A 
shallow, uneven breathing has taken him over. There 
are hands - soft, careful hands skimming over his 
entire body. The moisture is coming from lips, lips 
that are pulling and devouring his own. 

He is touching as well. Feeling softness of skin, of 
hair, his lips claiming something as well. So much 
awareness is found through the fingertips, that which 
is both hot and liquid. 

Sound is heightened. Sighs, moans, both high and low 
- his own? Yes, he is aware of that, too. 

The tension slowly reaches its peak and he feels the 
tears building in his eyes. He feels so strongly that 
he doesn't deserve any of this, will never, ever be 
worthy of this. Yet he drinks in every moment, 
accepts it fiercely as fingers dig into hot flesh. 

The heavens do not move, but he is shattered 
nonetheless. After an eternity, his tears and body 
are finally spent and he sinks back down into the 
abyss of unconsciousness thinking only to love her, 
love her, love her, love her, love her.... 

///// 
Western Virginia -- The Green Parrot Motel 
Thursday, 12:31am 
------------------- 
He is eased out of his alcoholic haze by the feel of 
someone rubbing their thumb gently against his bottom 
lip. 

"I can't get over how unbelievably good you taste." 

His eyelids raise slowly. It is not the voice that is 
low, smooth, filled with accents and tones he has 
come to know so intimately well. This voice is smoky, 
sensual.... alien. 

Then he feels it, the sensation of a soft female body 
sliding against the length of his. And then his foggy 
brain is able to grasp what has happened. 

Had it not been for his current lack of full mental 
capabilities, he would've flung himself from the bed. 
But with what little strength he can muster, he can 
only blink at her and ask hoarsely, "What are you 
doing here?" 

The woman, the nameless waitress, grins at him and 
lightly kisses his chest. "You passed out back in the 
bar. I managed to get you out to your car and then 
you came alive again and were suddenly all over me." 
Her smile turns sensual and she looks up at him 
through thick lashes. "And I can't say I'm one to 
turn down a gorgeous man." 

She leans up to kiss him, but Mulder pulls her away. 
"You need to go." 

She laughs softly and without contempt. "Somehow, I 
just knew you'd say that afterwards. Although I bet 
you're a real cuddler when you're completely sober." 
With a slight peck on his nose, she throws the covers 
aside and stands. As she dresses, he lies still on 
the bed, trying to keep his head from spinning. 

"Tell me one thing, though," she says, crawling back 
up onto the bed and straddling his hips. She is 
braless beneath her oxford shirt and she leans 
forward to where her breasts brush lightly against 
his chest. "Are you always this dark and moody, FBI 
man?" 

He has enough presence of mind to wonder if she took 
any money while she was snooping through his wallet 
and badge. "People call me Spooky." 

She grins. "I knew you weren't an insurance 
salesman." She then sits up and takes a final look at 
him. 

"God, you are so beautiful." A slender hand slides 
lightly up and down his naked chest and torso. 
"Whoever Scully is, she's pretty damn lucky." 

As if struck by a current of electricity, he suddenly 
lunges for her and grabs her by the arms. "How the 
hell do you know that name?!" 

She's startled, but not upset. After a moment she 
grins slyly at him and replies, "It's what you kept 
moaning over and over again." She wiggles neatly from 
his grasp. "Don't tell me that's your wife's name." 

He sinks back down onto the bed and turns his back to 
her. His head becomes buried in the pillows. "Just 
go." 

The bed rises slightly from the loss of her weight. 
He's vaguely aware of the sound of her gathering her 
keys and excess clothing. Quiet footsteps lead to the 
door and then he hears her throw softly over her 
shoulder, "Thanks for the ride....Fox." 

As the door clicks shut, he is sick with the 
realization that he doesn't know her name. 

///// 

Western Virginia 
Thursday, 1:22am 
----------------- 
It could be any of the thousands of motels they've 
stayed at over the past six years. There was nothing 
at all unique about it. No little alien dolls 
dangling from the blinking VACANCY sign or vast 
fields near by full of crop circles. It was just a 
dingy little motel. That was all. 

She sits in her car parked outside his room, racking 
her brain in an attempt to understand his motives for 
driving two hundred plus miles to the edge of 
Virginia only to come to The Green Parrot Motel. But 
the truth is that she doesn't know where his motives 
even begin. 

Finally she climbs out and is standing by the door, 
fist poised and ready to knock. Half of her hopes to 
find him sprawled across the bed with a bag of 
sunflower seeds and a remote in hand; the other half 
hopes to just find him alive. 

She knocks twice and her heart lurches slightly when 
no answer comes. After a moment she sucks in a large 
breath and turns the knob. The door swings open and 
she stands in the doorway, taking in the sight before 
her. The TV is silent, the room is empty, and the bed 
is unmade. But as her eyes take in the mussed 
blankets and sheets, she is hit by an unmistakable 
lingering scent - the scent of sex. Recent and fresh. 

She fights the nausea that coils in her stomach, 
tearing her eyes from the bed. It isn't anything she 
hasn't seen or smelled before, but - 

There, from the bathroom. She hears something. A hiss 
of some sort, or perhaps more like a sniff.... 

Scully goes to the bathroom doorway and finds what 
she has come looking for. 

He is slumped on the floor against the far wall of 
the tiny bathroom in nothing but his boxers. His 
right hand is curled protectively around an 
unlabelled bottle, while his left holds a smoking 
cigarette. His hair is rumpled and his eyes are 
bloodshot and running with tears. 

His name leaves her in a rush of air. "Mulder." 

He looks up slowly, gives her a cold grin. "So you 
finally found me, huh, Scully? How'd you do it, sell 
government secrets or just sweet talk Frohike?" 

She crosses her arms over her chest and eyes the 
cigarette in his fingers. "As a matter of fact, the 
Gunmen did help out. You used your Visa to pay for 
the room and they managed to trace it." 

"Gee, it really is everywhere you wanna be." He takes 
a long, slow drag, making sure to puff the smoke out 
in her direction. 

She takes another gulp of air. "Mulder, what are you 
doing here? What possessed you to just up and leave 
yesterday without telling anyone - especially me - 
where you were headed?" She doesn't even blink as the 
thin cloud circles her. 

He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Sorry, Mom." 

"Dammit, Mulder, I'm serious. You were perfectly fine 
yesterday morning until I sent you to Forensics with 
that photo. Then you came back acting like something 
or someone was chasing you and you left without a 
trace." She pauses for moment to choose her words. "I 
was afraid you'd gone undercover again." 

He snorts. "If I was undercover, why the fuck would I 
be sitting alone in a piece of shit motel with a 
bottle of Jack Daniels?" 

Her eyes narrow as she sets her mouth in firm line. 
"I don't know, Mulder. You tell me." 

He hasn't met her eyes since she first came to the 
doorway. His gaze has been hovering toward a corner, 
but now they've focused on the butt between his 
fingers. 

"Diana made me quit these things," he mumbles, 
flicking ash onto the tile. "She always said I 
shouldn't be addicted to anything but my work." After 
a final drag, he tosses it into the toilet next to 
him. "That and how they'd fucking kill me one day." 

The name sends alarms sounding in Scully's mind and 
the rumpled bed in the next room suddenly brands 
itself into her mind. Lumps of fear and anxiety well 
up in her throat, but she is Steel Scully; none of it 
makes it to the surface. Yet it takes a great deal of 
strength to ask him a simple question. 

"Was she here tonight, Mulder?" There is no hint of 
her fear in the question. At least she hopes there 
isn't. Maybe he's too drunk to notice either way. 

His gaze slowly crawls back to hers and he laughs, 
the sound empty. The cold grin reappears. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Scully?" he says. 
"There's always a simple fucking explanation for 
everything in Scully Land. 'Mulder just decided to 
take a road trip so he could fuck his ex-partner away 
from the eyes of his current one.' " He raises the 
bottle up to her in a toast, his eyes bright with 
tears and sarcasm. "Bravo, Dr. Scully, bravo." 

She feels her jaw tightening. "This isn't about me, 
Mulder - " 

"No, of course not. It never is." He slumps back 
against the wall again, his hands swiping sloppily at 
his eyes. Then he sighs heavily and takes a drink. 

"Do you wanna know what I was thinking about coming 
back from Forensics yesterday, Scully?" he asks 
hoarsely. "I was thinking about how Memorial Day is 
coming up and how once, just once, I'd like to spend 
a Federal holiday alone with you. We could hang out 
in regular-people clothes and eat hot dogs and drink 
beer and just be *normal* for a day. That doesn't 
sound like too much, does it?" 

She swallows hard against the new lump in her throat. 

"Then I heard these two agents talking in the 
elevator about how badly I've fucked up your life and 
how you should be getting the hell away from me." He 
stares at the bottle in his hands. "And then I 
realized what I've probably known since after Duane 
Barry; I don't deserve anything normal with you 
because I've already taken everything normal from 
you." 

The lump dissolves and she sighs. "Mulder - " 

"Think about it, Scully. When my life's not in danger 
or the fear of losing me isn't present, doesn't 
whatever you feel for me fade? When I'm not lying in 
a hospital at death's door or being held at gun 
point, doesn't the strength of your caring weaken?" 

It is her gaze now that has focused on a corner, away 
from his. "I don't think - " 

"If nothing's fatal or permanent, we go back to 
square one. Isn't that it? That was your attitude in 
Bermuda, right? And after Antarctica?" 

Steel Scully starts to slip away. "So this is why 
you're here lying half naked on a motel bathroom 
floor, because of something you overheard in an 
elevator and my not giving you enough attention?" 

She is greatly surprised by his agility in his 
drunken state as he rises to his feet and grabs her 
firmly by the shoulders in one fluid movement. He is 
looming over her, his bright eyes searing their gaze 
into hers. 

"What would you do if I kissed you -- right now?" His 
voice has gone low, husky. 

She prays very hard that there isn't a blush creeping 
up her neck as she clings to whatever shreds of Steel 
Scully are left. She defiantly holds his gaze, but 
dear God, he's so close and he *is* half naked and 
his hands feel like they're burning through her 
clothes. The scent of alcohol and sex filling her 
senses repulses her, yet she can't help noticing how 
those lips of his seem fuller when he's drunk.... 

"I....wouldn't do anything." 

Mulder's arms drop to his sides. "Of course you 
wouldn't." He slowly eases himself down onto the 
toilet seat nearby and drops his head into his hands. 
"I guess what this all boils down to is that it's 
okay for me to know I don't deserve you, for you to 
know I don't deserve you." His long fingers slide 
into his hair as he sighs. "But sometimes it's too 
much to know that everyone else knows it, too." 

What follows is a long silence permeated only by his 
sporadic sniffing. She feels as if she's back in 
Bermuda all over again; more ramblings from an 
inebriated Mulder? Or does a man really drive two 
hundred miles just to spout off random drunken 
thoughts in a motel bathroom? 

She finally moves to take a seat on the edge of the 
bath tub across from him. 

"We've been together six years, Mulder," she says 
slowly and quietly. "And never in those six years 
have I known you to care so deeply about what others 
think of you." 

He sniffs again in reply. 

"Mulder, I know you think it's your duty to protect 
me, but contrary to what you may believe, you don't 
always know what's right for me." She pauses for a 
moment to glance down at her folded hands. "What 
makes you so certain that you don't deserve me?" 

His voice comes out small, muffled. "I'm a pathetic 
flake who chases lights in the sky and who stole your 
life." 

She waits for a quiet moment, her eyes carefully 
tracing the veins on the back his hands. She wishes 
for the strength to tell him that he is so much more. 

"You didn't steal my life, Mulder." She doesn't mean 
for it to come out in a whisper, but it manages to 
anyway. "You altered it, changed it, but you never 
stole it." 

His short laugh sounds more like a cough. "You call 
your abduction an 'alteration'?" 

"And you honestly think a stolen life can make you a 
whole person?" As she echoes his words spoken that 
fateful night in the hallway of his apartment, she 
swears the sudden sound of her rushing pulse is 
resonating throughout the tiny room. 

He moans slightly and digs the heels of his hands 
into his eyes. "God, I don't know, I don't know...." 

Scully sighs as she rises and comes to stand in front 
of him, resisting the urge to lay her hand against 
his head. "I can't save you every time you decide to 
run from your guilt. But if there's one thing I've 
learned from my time with you, it's that certain 
truths should never be believed." 

Against her will, her fingers uncurl to thread 
themselves through the softness of his hair. A flood 
of air leaves his lungs as he slowly turns his face 
upwards to lean into her touch, his twenty-four hour 
stubble raking against her fingertips in a caress of 
their own. With just another slight nudge, his lips 
are pressing into her palm, kissing it carefully, 
hesitantly, and the sudden lick of heat that shimmers 
through her body reminds her that yes, by God, he 
*is* half naked.... 

She pulls her hand away as if it has been burned and 
backs away from him. Her time has expired; these are 
his demons that he alone must fight. 

"Mulder, promise me you'll be back in DC by tomorrow 
morning," she says as she makes her way to the 
doorway. "I don't think you want Skinner himself to 
hunt you down." 

He doesn't answer and she mentally kicks herself for 
thinking that the AD's name would mean anything to 
him in his current state. After one final glance at 
the bottle sitting in the corner, which she briefly 
considers dumping down the sink, she turns to leave 
him in his melancholy. 

"Scully? It wasn't her." 

She freezes, still half in the doorway. She whirls 
around to meet his blurry gaze. 

"I don't even know her name. I think she's a waitress 
at the bar across the street. I didn't even know her 
name, Scully...." 

Relief, mixed with an assortment of anger and 
resentment and hurt, courses through her veins. She 
still doesn't let out the breath she's been holding. 
No words, absolutely none, come to mind in reply. 

"But I thought it was you, Scully. The whole time I 
thought it was you." His voice has started to crack. 
He coughs out another tight laugh. "But you know, she 
didn't even look a thing like you." 

That damn lump has returned to lodge itself in her 
throat again. She shakes her head and her eyes close. 
No more; she needs to get the hell out of here. 

"Have you ever had a one night stand, Scully?" 

Oh, Christ. She wants so badly to turn her back on 
him. 

"Because I think if it was you....if it's ever 
you....all it'd end up being is a one night stand to 
you. I think, in your mind, no matter how much you 
may love me, that's all I'd ever be." 

Two tears force their way from the corners of her 
eyes and skim down her cheeks. There will be no more 
words; she's heard enough. 

With the slam of the door she leaves the booze, the 
cigarettes, the sex-soaked sheets, and her wasted 
partner alone to fend for themselves. 

///// 
Thursday, 11:44am 
----------------- 
He parks his car in the Hoover building parking lot 
with his stomach wrenched in knots. He's over two 
hours late, but on top of this he wonders -- or 
rather, fears -- what her reaction will be when he 
finally shows his face. He flashes his badge a few 
times and is again on the same elevator where the 
chain of events first began. Since he is alone, he 
sighs loudly and leans his head back against the 
wall; he wishes he could remember everything from the 
night before and not just bitter random moments. He 
remembers the slam of his motel room door and then 
not long after that dragging himself to his bed and 
weeping drunkenly into a pillow. 

Jesus, how pathetic, he thinks. 

But at least he was able to climb into the car this 
morning, hang-over and all, and drive back to DC. He 
had to no matter what; she expected him to end his 
guilt trip and get his sorry ass back to work. 

Ah, there's another fear: the fear that the guilt 
will never end. Yet he somehow feels purged - dirty, 
humiliated, and pathetic, but purged nonetheless. 

He enters the office hesitantly and finds her right 
where he left her two days earlier, glasses perched 
on her nose, her small fingers clacking away at her 
laptop. He doesn't make a sound, not a one, but of 
course she can sense his presence. 

She looks up and the look she gives him is neutral, 
blank. "You're late." 

"I know. Sorry." Mulder moves quietly to his desk and 
turns the lamp on. He takes a seat and is so very 
careful not to meet her stare. 

"Skinner called looking for you. I told him you'd be 
here an hour ago, but obviously I was being 
optimistic." 

"I said I was sorry, Scully. But at least I'm here 
now." 

She pauses at his sharp tone. "Yes. You're here now." 
She finds herself struggling to resist the urge to go 
check him over, to make sure he is all right, and she 
curses the doctor in her. 

Stagnant silence fills the office as they both work 
very hard not to look at one another. Finally, after 
the void has lingered long enough to where she can no 
longer stand it, Scully forces out what she hopes is 
a bored sigh and quips, "Well, you'd better go while 
you still can." She pauses for the barest moment 
before throwing out, "You owe at least *someone* a 
reasonable explanation for your whereabouts." 

He goes very still and stares down at his hands that 
are spread on his desk. It's the hurt tone in her 
words that she's trying so diligently to disguise 
with annoyance and impatience that cuts right through 
him. Why can't she just hate me, loathe me enough to 
never speak to me again? he thinks. Then I'd never 
have to hear that goddamn hurt in her voice ever 
again. 

It's as if there is not enough breath left in him to 
sigh as he slowly rises from his chair. There is a 
churning within him, a coil of regret and sorrow 
surrounding a painful longing to drop to his knees 
beside her desk and pour out an apology for being the 
man that he is. Instead, he stares momentarily at the 
bent red head that refuses to glance up before 
leaving the suffocation of the tomb behind for the 
office of his superior. 

///// 

She never found out what exactly it was that Skinner 
said to him. Whether it had been an out-and-out 
scolding or a mild reprimand, his actions gave away 
nothing when he returned an hour later. He came into 
the office wearing his usual blank expression, and 
when she nonchalantly asked, "Well?," he made sure to 
divert his attention to the case file in his hand as 
he answered, "Everything's fine. We've got work to 
do." 

And so it went: the usual ramblings about some such 
mutilated body in this and that strange town and blah 
blah sightings documented every year. She took it in, 
gave her two cents when necessary, raised her 
eyebrows skeptically at the right moments. Business 
as usual. 

Except desperately trying to ignore a previous night 
of guilt and drunken confessions wasn't usual. 

Now she sits in her car out in the pouring rain, once 
more parked outside her apartment, staring at the two 
plane tickets in her hand. They are to fly out to 
Jefferson, Mississippi, tomorrow morning at eight 
o'clock. It will be a two hour flight. 

Two hours, she thinks. Will we then be finally able 
to speak of last night, or are we destined to be 
careful and polite with one another from now on? 

*Have you ever had a one night stand, Scully?* 

She winces slightly. Jesus, is this what it would be 
like? Awkward glances, stunted conversations, a 
complete dismissal of eye contact? 

*In your mind...that's all I'd ever be...* 

She feels both anger and a deep sorrow that he could 
possibly think that of her. How could he let himself 
believe that she would ever throw away over six years 
of carefully cultivated trust and respect and love 
because of one night of....of.... 

She cannot let herself think the dangerous word; 
thinking the word opens the bolted, very secluded 
door to the part of her mind that harbors images, 
thoughts, emotions, fantasies...all centered around a 
single noun when put into context with her partner. 

And then a realization hits her. He was right. 

Goddamn it, he was *right*. 

A rip of lightning tears through the night sky as she 
suddenly starts the engine and throws the car into 
reverse, dumping the plane tickets onto the seat 
beside her. 

///// 
Thursday, 8:17pm 
-------------- 
He went running in the rain, not giving a damn about 
the fact that he hates the feel of wet clothes 
against his skin. It was like a sequel to his 
previous escapade, only this one required lung 
capacity rather than gasoline. He had no idea how far 
or long he ran; it was only when he nearly collapsed 
face-first onto the puddled sidewalk that he knew 
he'd had enough. He stood for a long time braced 
against a streetlamp with his face lifted up to the 
rain, letting the drops beat themselves into his 
body, his soul. Then he walked slowly back his 
apartment. 

The only sound that can be heard as he comes through 
the doorway is his wet socks squishing loudly in his 
water logged sneakers. He is soaked to the bone and 
is dripping onto the floor like a leaky faucet, but 
he doesn't pause to grab a towel, only moves 
methodically to the leather couch to drop his 
exhausted body down upon it. He rolls onto his 
stomach, his sopping clothes slipping against the 
leather, leaving slimy wet trails. Pulling a throw 
pillow into his arms, he buries his face into it and 
sighs a sigh filled not only with physical 
exhaustion, but exhaustion stemming from mourning for 
something lost. Wet threads of hair fall into his 
eyes and he shivers from the cold air against his wet 
skin and clothes, but he only closes his eyes and 
tries to concentrate on the chill of his body. 

The soft knock at his door sounds like it is miles 
away, echoing from a dream. He shivers again and does 
not move. The knob turns and he hears someone enter. 

"Mulder?" 

She calls his name softly, carefully. She sees a dark 
figure stretched out on the couch, but there is no 
response. Her steps are cautious as she moves into 
the foyer. 

He wishes he could simply blend into the shadows and 
become invisible. If he speaks, what other 
intelligent words may come tumbling out to hurt her 
even more than he already has? God, how he wishes he 
were invisible.... 

He now senses her standing next to the couch, taking 
in his wet form and assuming, he hopes, that he's 
asleep. His hands, which are folded underneath him 
against his chest, feel the sudden aching thud of his 
heart. 

Just leave, Scully, he thinks. We'll be on a plane 
tomorrow morning, and by then I'll be sane, composed, 
even dry. I won't be the dripping, pathetic dumb fuck 
you see lying before you. 

The warmth of her fingers against the chilled skin of 
his forehead startles him, causing him to shrink away 
from her touch. 

"Mulder, you're soaked to the bone," she whispers. 
Her voice sounds as if it is level with his face, and 
he realizes she's kneeling beside the couch. 

He silently takes in a breath before responding. "I 
guess it really is raining outside." 

"You'll catch pneumonia." She says it like a last 
minute observation. Her fingers move again to brush 
the wet hair from his forehead, but he again shies 
from her hand, turning his face toward the back of 
the couch. 

"If I need a doctor, I know who to call." His eyes 
have yet to open; he doesn't trust himself to look at 
her. "I'll see you in the morning." 

He's dismissing me, she thinks, swallowing against 
the large knot growing in her throat. She stares at 
the back of his head and tries to will herself to be 
annoyed by his actions. But they only succeed in 
clawing at her insides, making her wonder, if ever so 
briefly, whether last night had been partly her 
fault. Because goddammit, he had been right about 
her; all his Oxford training and psychology degrees 
had fucking paid off. 

"Mulder -- " Her voice sounds rusty, unused. " -- I 
came here to tell you something. You...you were right 
about me." She sucks in a breath and her lungs felt 
incredibly tiny. There was a single drop of water 
running down the back of his neck, so she focuses her 
attention on it. "What you said last night...you were 
right." 

She doesn't have to elaborate; they both know exactly 
what she means. Scully knows she doesn't have to put 
into mere words that she truly is terrified of 
falling for the beautiful man that lies before her, 
only to the awaken the next morning to discover that 
it is only Mulder, her neurotic and severely flawed 
partner; that the thought of sleeping with a fantasy 
and being left with reality is more than she can 
handle. She doesn't have to tell him this. He already 
knows. 

Scully's words sink into his brain, and he slowly 
begins to breath again. He wonders if she is crying, 
even a little; tears mean she's hurting, hurting for 
him. Then again, no -- his partner does not cry. 
Crying is reserved for abductions and near-death 
experiences, not for a man's breaking heart. 

Though he can feel the air entering his lungs, his 
chest feels as if it is exploding, slowly morphing 
into a mini supernova that is about to self combust. 
The tension seeps into his throat, constricting it, 
but his bites his bottom lip fiercely. *Goddammit, 
Fox, you will not shed a tear. You deserve this, ALL 
of this. You knew this was inevitable....* 

Then he feels her touch again, but this time it is 
not just her fingertips, but rather her whole palm 
that sweeps against his wet, coarse cheek and tries 
to coax him into facing her. He can feel the heat of 
her blood pulsing through the warm skin of her hand 
and how it seems to permeate him, causing the fight 
within him to ebb. 

"I have always told you the truth, Mulder," she 
whispers, and oh, how he longs to believe the 
roughness of her voice is from tears. "And I admit to 
being scared, scared of the unknown. Not just the 
unknown of the universe...but of my feelings." The 
sigh that follows is long, shaky. He hears her 
swallow hard. And then the supernova within him is 
nearly detonated when he feels her rest her cheek on 
his damp neck. Her lips brush lightly against his 
skin as she speaks. "I stay with you because I choose 
to, because your search for the truth has become mine 
as well. It's a part of us, like breathing." She 
sighs again. "We complete each other, you and I. It's 
what makes us strong and makes our enemies fear us. 
But completeness is not deserved, Mulder, it is 
found, either by fate or chance. You choose which one 
you want to believe in." 

He swears he can feel a tear trickling down the side 
of his neck. He has to see, has to know whether it is 
real or not. 

Mulder turns over ever so carefully. He feels her 
head lift from its place against him and his eyes 
finally open to actually see her for the first time 
since she intruded into his dark hole. It takes a 
moment for his eyes to focus in the darkness. A bolt 
of lightning splits the sky and her face is 
illuminated for a split second. 

Her eyes are glistening and her cheeks are wet. Dear 
god, it's true. 

He is the only man on earth who considers her tears 
more precious than gold. 

Mulder hears himself speaking, saying words he 
himself has been terrified to hear, let alone ask 
this wonderful, intriguing woman who is bestowing 
upon him the gift of her tears. 

"Scully, do you love me?" 

Of course he knows the answer; every fabric of his 
being screams the affirmative. In that loyal, 
faithful way of friends and partners, they have 
always loved one another. But the love he had 
confessed to after his fateful time travel in the 
Bermuda Triangle had been the love she feared...the 
love of the unknown. He knows he feels it; he, too, 
fears it yet trusts it. And even though he knows it 
will inevitably break him and shatter him into a 
million pieces, for better or worse, he has to hear 
her say it. 

He asks it like a small child, and the soft, 
vulnerable tone in his voice is like a fist wadding 
her heart into a ball. Christ, how she longs to find 
a way to make him stop hating himself, to let him 
realize once and for all that he is a brilliant, 
exceptional man who deserves all the love in the 
world. And she wishes she didn't have to answer him 
just to let him know. He should already know. 

She cups his face in her hands, running her thumbs 
over his cheekbones in gentle circles. His eyes are 
so dark, as if they contain all the haunted ghosts 
and demons of his ever-present guilt -- she refuses 
to believe they are a door to his soul. This man, she 
thinks, deserves redemption, not suffering. No 
reasoning will ever convince her otherwise as long as 
she carries enough faith in God for the two of them. 

Of course she loves him. How could he even ask her? 

Her thumb trails down his stubbly cheek to rub gently 
against his soft lower lip. "You would never, ever be 
a one night stand. Ever." She replaces her thumb with 
her lips, pressing lightly and tasting the salt of 
his tears as they drip down his face to mingle with 
their mouths. 

She did not say the exact words. But she answered 
with a promise. And a promise is enough to fill him 
with warmth and hope to last until the day she 
conquers her fears. Or maybe the day he defeats his 
guilt. Either way, it is more than enough. 

Their mouths part so slowly, like time has suspended 
itself to allow nothing but this moment to occur. His 
head raises slowly, and as he begins to paint 
delicate kisses along her brow, he hears her whisper 
once more, breathlessly, "Never." 

Oh yes, it is more than enough. 

///// END. ///// 

End notes: This is only my third fanfic and has been 
in the works since August. It is a labor of love in 
every sense of the word. I'd love to hear what you 
think of it ;-) fox_cub@hotmail.com