Title: Always Running
Classification: SRA
Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST to RST
Spoilers: uh...nothing that you don't already know
Disclaimers: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to
             Mr. Chris Carter, lucky bastard
Rating: NC-17 (in parts)
Feedback: yes, to lil_gusty@hotmail.com
Distribution: sure, just let me know where
Timeline: for the purposes of this fic, assume that "Requiem" and
          seasons eight and nine never happened.
Notes: Mulder may not be a Freudian, but all psychology students
       are subjected to Freud's theories over and over.  In case
       you don't know much about Freud's theory of consciousness,
       he says that it has three parts: our Id, Ego, and
       Super Ego.  The Id is our pleasure-seeking part with no
       regard for what's right or wrong, good or bad.  The
       Super Ego is comprised of society's rules and accepted
       practices, what our parents try to tell us about how to
       act and behave.  The Ego balances the two, combining your
       personal experiences in life with what you know is
       pleasurable and what you know is right, reaching a
       compromise between the two.  Yes, this will be important
       later.

Summary: "It's all about the climax, but after that, what is
         there to look forward to?  To anticipate?"

<><><><><><>

"KEY!"  She shouts, and I dig around in my pockets, searching for
her door key.

So, I got lonely.  Is that such a crime?  To find the dark
stillness of your apartment stifling?  To feel smothered by the
tense hum of your home to the point where you're afraid that the
walls are quite literally closing in on you?  Is that so wrong?
Am I so wrong?

Well, I don't think so.  I wonder if Scully will.

The door doesn't even squeak, like mine, as I slowly push it open
and find...nothing waiting for me.  No lovely partner, devoted
friend waiting to greet me, no wafting scent of the meal that I
know she always indulges herself in every Friday night, no small
smiles and "Hi, Mulder,"s.  Just her brightly lit living room and
kitchen, empty.

"Scully?"

"Back here," she says, barely audible over some sort of humming
sound.

I follow her voice and find her sitting - of all places - on top
of her dryer, the doors to her laundry room slid open.  "What are
you doing?"  I ask slowly.

"I was cold.  It's warm here.  Actually, it's getting hot.  I
think my ass is burning."  She slides forward a little so that
her feet are now dangling a mere foot and a half off the ground.

I put my hands on my hips and grin - she looks like a little
girl, but I won't tell her that.  She might shoot me.  Again.

"So, what's up?"

"Nothing, I was just..." lonely, bored, lonely, missing you,
lonely, pathetic...is that really so wrong?  "Seeing what you
were doing tonight."

She nods, making a thoughtful sound in her throat and leaning
forward to prop her chin on her hands and her elbows on her
knees, her eyes never leaving my face.  "Oh."

"So, what are you up to tonight?"  I venture, hoping she'll say,
"nothing, want to stay for a while?"

"The usual: laundry, movie, putting off expense reports.  You?"

I sigh, walking to the rapidly vibrating washing machine and
leaning my hip against it.  "Do you ever get sick of me, Scully?"

She sits up rapidly, bumping her head on the shelf above her.
"Shit," she mutters, turning to look at the offender with
disdain.

"You okay?"  I cover her hand with mine on the back of her head,
feeling for, I don't know, blood or something, and trying to
ignore how soft her hair feels.

"Yeah.  Mulder, why would you think I get sick of you?"

"It's just...we spend something like sixty hours a week together
at work, we talk for an hour on the phone every evening, we
usually see each other on the weekends...do you ever just get
tired of me being around you all the time?"

She makes a face that's somewhere between a disbelieving smirk
and a sympathetic apology.  "If I got tired of you, I'd tell you,
believe me."

"So, you don't mind me coming over completely unannounced less
than an hour after we both left work?  Ruining your lazy Friday
evening?"

"My evening wouldn't be complete without it."

I smile at her and she smiles back, then slides down from the
dryer and pads barefooted through the kitchen and into the living
room.  Like a little puppy dog, I follow her, both of us sitting
side by side on the couch.

She reaches for the remote on the coffee table in front of us,
switching on the news and tucking her feet under her as she
returns to her position.  Looking down, I notice her toenails
have a slight bluish hue to them and I grab her big toe, pulling
it towards me.

"Are you that cold?"  I tease.

"It's my new nail polish.  Like it?"

"You?  Paint your toenails?  What have you done with my Scully?"

"Your Scully was a little...down last week and she went out and
spent sixty dollars on new lingerie, then spent twenty on
manicure stuff, trying to make herself feel pretty," she
explains, turning back to the news and watching her favorite
anchor, Gulstan.  Yeah, that's the only reason she watches this
station: she has a crush.

I try to keep most of the seriousness out of my tone, all
thoughts of expensive lingerie fleeing.  "You were down?  Why
didn't you tell me?"  I thought we were past this hide-your-
feelings-at-the-cost-of-insanity phase.

"You really want to know?"  She raises that right brow at me.

"Yeah."  She looks down, studying her pretty little toes, then
reaches up and starts to, uh, unhook her bra.  "Scully?"

"Hmm?"  She mumbles, not even taking her eyes off of the TV.

Make a joke, Mulder.  Lighten the mood a little.  Damn, it's hot
in here all of the sudden.  "What are you doing?"

"My bra's hurting me," she explains, content with her front-clasp
hanging open.

"Oh."  End of conversation.  Her hand is now back across her
thigh, all is right with the world.

"I got this bra during my shopping spree.  The underwire pokes me
between my breasts and it hurts."

"Oh."

"I have a peach-colored bra just like this one, but it doesn't
hurt."

"Oh."  Okay, Scully, I understand.  No more information is
necessary, please.

"See," she sighs, finally looking away from the TV as the news
goes to a commercial.  "I had to go to the gynecologist Tuesday -
that's the reason I left work early - and, you know, when they do
all that stuff, the pap smear and the pelvic exam," she gestures
between her legs, "it doesn't make you feel very sexy.  I mean,
now I have to live with the fact that the last time a man stuck
his fingers inside me, they were gloved and covered in
Astroglide.  Anyway, it was a little depressing, so I decided to
blow part of my paycheck on frilly, girlie stuff."

"Oh."  For the love of all that is pure, holy, and good, Scully!
Stop.  It.

"I guess it's better than the morning after guilt from sleeping
with a stranger, though," she says softly, shifting her attention
as David the weatherman fills the screen.

"Uh huh."  A thought comes to me all of the sudden and I go with
it, blaming it on my Id.  Except I'm not a Freudian.  "Scully?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you sleep with Ed Jerse?"

She finally looks at me right in the eyes.  Taking a deep breath,
she parts her lips, licks them, then says, "Yes."

"Oh."

"Why?"

Apparently, we can expect a front to come in from North Carolina
tomorrow, bringing rain and cooler temperatures.  "I just
wondered.  I never knew."

"Does it matter?"  She asks slowly.

"No," I say, shrugging.  Okay, now I'm depressed.  More than I
was.  "I'm sorry, Scully," I say softly, tugging at her toe
again.

"For what?"

"For making you angry when I left that day, for not realizing
that something was bothering you."

"It's not your fault, Mulder.  It wasn't you.  It was probably
just PMS."  She looks back at the television, a sudden dimness
clouding over her eyes and she turns down the volume when Gulstan
reappears.  "Did you ever want kids?"  She asks softly, not
looking back at me.

"When I was younger, yeah.  It was all I could think about -
getting married, having kids as soon as possible, buying a two
story house with a white picket fence around the perfectly
manicured lawn, getting a dog.  Yeah," I answer easily.

"Not anymore?"

"No.  Not anymore."

"Why not?"

This just keeps getting worse and worse!  "Because, it's not me.
That's not the kind of life that suits me."

"When did you come to that conclusion?"

"When my father died."  She looks back at me sharply and I decide
that it's imperative that I know what the heat index will be for
the next five days.  "You know that all these years, I haven't
been chasing only my sister, don't you, Scully?  You know that I
was chasing my family.  The life that I had before Samantha was
taken.  I had a perfect life back then and when she disappeared,
it all just disappeared with her.  We stopped going on family
vacations, my parents divorced, my father started drinking...and
I kept thinking that if Samantha came back, that would fix
everything.  When I got a little older, though, I thought that I
could create a new perfect family, just like the one I had when I
was a kid."

"And?"  She asks anxiously.

"And, to do that, you need a wife.  And I never got one of those.
I was still so obsessed with finding my sister that I didn't make
any effort to have a social life.  I was too busy living in the
past to see the present or the future.  But when my father died,
everything just shattered...and I finally knew that I'd never get
my perfect family back.  It wasn't meant for me."

"Oh," she says softly, probably regretting she asked.  "Yeah, I
knew that."

"Knew what?"

"That you were chasing after your past, not your sister all these
years."

"You did?"

She nods.  "That's the reason that I never really wanted you to
find her."  My mouth falls open and she quickly clarifies.  "I
wanted you to have peace, but I was afraid of what would happen
when you finally found her.  It's like that man said a few years
ago, you always think that missing is worse than dead because you
never know what happened, but once you know, you'd rather not.
As long as you don't know, you can believe that she's out there
and that you'll find her and that you can be a family again
together, but once you find out the truth, all your illusions are
just...shattered," she repeats.

"At the time, I didn't understand that.  I couldn't imagine how
not knowing could be worse than the truth, but now that I
know...maybe because my truth was a little easier to hear than
his -"

"Do you believe it?"  She interrupts.  "That Samantha died in
1979?"

I shake my head at her, looking away at nothing.  "Yeah," I
answer uncertainly.  "Don't you?"

"I believe whatever you believe."

"No you don't," I smirk at her.

"Yes, I do.  It's not my place to decide whether or not what you
believe is the truth.  That's for you to decide and I'll believe
whatever you believe."

"You mean, you don't care?"

"No, Mulder, I care.  I care a lot, but it's up to you to decide
when to stop looking and be content with the truth.  Even if I
thought that we'd found the truth years ago, you would've
continued searching, so it wouldn't have mattered."

"You don't believe she's dead?"  I ask, my voice rising with my
anger.

"Mulder...given all of the evidence to the contrary and the
simply bizarre and completely irrational explanation of her soul
being changed into starlight by walk-ins, no, I don't believe
that she was killed so that she could be saved by them.  I
believe that she's dead, though.  I've believed that from the
very beginning."

"So, all these years you've just been humoring me?"

She takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly through her nose,
lips pursed.  "No.  I was helping you to find the truth, a truth
you could live with.  I suspended my beliefs to help you and if I
had to, I'd do it for the rest of my life."

I close my mouth, not quite knowing what to say to that, and just
stare at her.

"I didn't mean to make you angry," she finally says.  "I'm
sorry."  Her apartment seems eerily silent all of the sudden and
she stands, walking to her laundry room.  The dryer has stopped
and I hear her open the squeaky metal door and pull out the
clothes piece by piece, replacing them with the newly washed
ones, then carrying the dry ones into her bedroom to fold and put
away.  I should get up and at least offer to help, but I just
stare at the place on the couch that she vacated, wondering if I
lay down and close my eyes, she'd misinterpret that as a sign to
leave me alone.

Her feet make little pounding noises against the linoleum as she
walks back into the kitchen, sticking her head into the
refrigerator.

"Scully, you didn't make me angry," I tell her softly, turning to
watch her as she tries to find something that we both like to eat
among her leftovers from earlier in the week.  "You're just being
honest with me, and I appreciate that.  You're the only person
that's really had the courage to do so.  Most people just sugar
coat the truth to try and avoid a confrontation with me or they
just leave and don't even bother.  I'm always running from the
truth, Scully.  I keep up this front of searching for it when,
really, if I found it, I wouldn't have believed it because it
wasn't what I wanted it to be, but you won't let me do that
anymore."  Out of things to say and not sure if I'm making this
worse or better, I busy myself with a thread sticking out of the
top of her couch, not looking at her.

"Mulder, why did you come over tonight?"  She asks after a minute
of silence.

I make my best pathetic, pleading face.  "Don't you ever just get
lonely, Scully?"

She smiles softly, closing her eyes and nodding her head.

<><><><><><>

"So, what made you decide you were lonely tonight, Mulder?"  She
asks as we settle ourselves side by side on her couch after
dinner, clinking the necks of our beer bottles together.

"I don't know.  I just couldn't stand to sit in my apartment
alone tonight."

"Nothing's bothering you?"

Looking very far away, I shake my head.

Turning towards me, legs folded underneath her, she asks in a
soft voice.  "You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

For the next few minutes, she flips through the TV stations,
trying to find a movie to watch and I stare purposefully at the
label on my bottle, reading the ingredients and the nutrition
facts.  When the rapidly changing colors and shapes suddenly
stabilize, I look up to see what she's decided on.  It's black
and white, and looks to be some kind of interview/documentary
thing.  Raising her hand to start flipping again, I speak up.
"Do you know what this is?"

"No.  I thought it was a movie."

"It is, kind of.  It's the James Dean Story."  She looks over at
me like she can't believe I just said that.  "It is.  I've seen
it before.  Really good.  Kind of melodramatic and sad, but
good."

"You want to watch it?"

"Is there anything else on?"

She shrugs lightly and puts the remote down beside her.  Yes,
Scully, I may be a little young, but when I was a kid, I loved
James Dean.  My favorite movie was "Rebel Without a Cause" and on
most weekend nights, when other people my age were out drinking
and having casual and largely unprotected sex and just being
normal, I was at home with my video, wishing that I could find a
girl like Judy and a friend like Plato.  They had their own
little family - father, mother, and son - and they had so much
love, even for confused and ignored teenagers.  When I was that
age, I would've given anything to have that kind of acceptance
and companionship.

And yes, Scully, I would feel Jim's anger as he tried to make his
parents understand why he was so upset after the car crash and
yes, Scully, I did really almost cry at the end when Plato got
shot.  It had such a sad ending and movies aren't supposed to end
like that.  Movies are supposed to end with the two soul-mate
lovers walking off into the sunset, holding hands and kissing,
promising the rest of their lives to each other.  Happily ever
after.

Unfortunately, real life isn't like that.  Not for me, anyway.
Not for Jim, either.

For the next two hours, I sit in rapt fascination as the story of
one person's miserable, misunderstood life is explained to us by
a long-dead narrator, idly wondering if Scully will lean her head
on my shoulder and fall asleep from boredom.  She doesn't.
Instead she just sighs and wiggles a lot, getting up to get
another beer twice and taking an unusually long bathroom break
once.  She missed the whole section about when he fell in love -
really fell in love - and how he was able to sleep through the
night without having nightmares and how he was happier when she
was around, how his general attitude and demeanor changed after
he met her.  And that's what Scully does for me.

When it's finally over, after the car wreck is dramatized and
he's killed, she turns down the volume and stares emptily at the
screen.  "You know, Mulder, you're a lot like him."

"I know," I agree miserably.

"He found happiness towards the end, though.  It wasn't that
sad."

"Yeah, but just when things started going right, just as he found
happiness, he was killed.  He couldn't win."

She studies the side of my face for a while in the dim,
flickering light from the TV.  "Is that how you feel?  Like you
just can't win?"

"Well, it never fails, Scully.  Whenever things start to go
right, something comes along and screws it up."

"Like what?"

Like when Diana reappeared in my life after all these years just
as my relationship with you was starting to get, ah, more
intense, shall we say.  Like how my mother went and killed
herself and I found out Samantha was dead just after I kissed you
for the first time and you didn't slap me or push me away.
Something like that always happens to us to push us away from
each other.  Two steps forward and three steps back.  "I don't
know," I finally say.

She nods, knowing I'm holding out on her but not willing to push
it right now.  "Yes, Mulder, sometimes I just get lonely, too,"
she answers my three hour old question.  "But I always have you
and that's enough for me."

What if it isn't enough for me anymore, this hands off
relationship we have?  What if I want more but I'm so afraid to
go after it that I'm willing to go on being lonely for the rest
of my life?  "It's late.  I should go home," I tell her, standing
and stretching.

She slips her hand into mine, tugging at it.  "No, you can stay
here tonight."

"Thanks, but -" I turn to look at her and she's sitting, staring
up at me with those wide, expressive eyes, and I feel something
inside me melt a little.

"I want you to.  Stay tonight."

"Why?"

"Tomorrow, something could happen to come along and screw things
up, but tonight, I want to prolong the rightness that we have
now."

I slowly sink back down beside her, still holding her hand.
"Scully, when I said I was lonely, I didn't mean -"

"I know what you meant, Mulder.  And I know what I meant."  I
find something minute to look at on the spotless carpet just so I
don't have to look at her.  She's not having any of that, though,
as she stands in front of me so that I'm face to face with her
perfect little blue toes.  "Mulder," she says softly, placing her
hands on either side of my face and lifting it to hers.  Not
saying another word, she fluidly places her lips on top of mine,
like it's normal for her to do so.  I just stop breathing,
waiting for the world to explode.

<><><><><><>

Frohike doesn't believe it, but I've consciously repressed my
escalating feelings towards Scully for years.

I figured out that I loved her back when I couldn't manage to
sustain an erection while faced with a not-yet-vampire sex kitten
years ago.  My first thought after Scully'd woken up in the
hospital after being returned was, "Tell her how much you
appreciate her.  Tell her how you don't want to live without
her," but I never did.  I figured out that I was in love with her
when her brother told me that her cancer had gone into remission.
My first thought after she was well enough to be released from
the hospital after that, "Tell her how much you love her.  Tell
her how you can't live without her," but I never did.  You want
to know why?

Because, I'm afraid of those feelings fading.  I'm terrified that
Scully will just become another woman to me like Phoebe did, like
Diana did.  When I first met both of those women, there was just
something unexplainably magnetic about them and before long, I
was head over heels in some combination of love and lust with
them and I jumped.  I went after them, thinking of how I couldn't
go on breathing if I didn't have every part of those women right
that moment.  At first, it was everything I had imagined and
wanted.  The sex was wonderful on a purely physical level, but
the romantic closeness, the passion and intimacy that went along
with it was exquisite.  I loved and I thought I was loved -
really, truly loved this time - in each of those cases.  I
couldn't go a day without experiencing that unique bond with
them.  My life was perfect and I was in Heaven - for a while.

Then, it got stale.  It would start simply, innocently enough, by
one of us just being too tired one night.  One night stretched
into two and eventually, into five.  When we would finally make
up for the abstinence, I'd be too excited to wait for her and she
wouldn't have an orgasm which, of course, pissed her off.  She
would claim to be tired more often and the romance, the passion,
the intimacy would eventually disappear until it was just sex,
and not even very good sex anymore.  The love would flee, leaving
me empty and I would withdraw from her.  We would become two
strangers sleeping in the same bed a few nights out of the week
until, finally, she'd leave me for someone else.  During the day,
I'd barely notice her absence, being so caught up in work,  but
at night, when I'd lay in my big, empty bed with the icy cold
sheets, I'd miss her warm body, her arms around me, and wonder
what went wrong.

Right after she gave the big, "It's not you, it's me," speech,
I'd ask her if we could still be friends, terrified at the
prospect of being completely alone again.  She'd say yes, but I'd
have a conniption fit when she dated someone else and yell at her
after she'd slept with him the first time.  She'd yell back,
claiming that I was possessive and I still didn't understand that
it was over between us, that maybe it would be better if we
weren't friends, since I couldn't seem to adjust to my suddenly
reduced role.  Then, she'd leave me for good and I'd be alone.
Again.  Naturally.

And I'm afraid it would happen with Scully eventually.  Then I'd
lose her friendship along with her body and I'd be alone.  Again.
And I can't let that happen.  Loneliness at night is nothing
compared to perpetual loneliness and I opt for the former.  I'd
long ago resigned myself to knowing that I'd never know what she
sounded like when she came or how her mouth tasted or how it felt
to be held by her as we fell asleep together.  In the grand
scheme of things, it's just not that important.

Of course, all thoughts of the grand scheme of things and
perpetual loneliness flee for higher ground when her soft,
slightly moist mouth starts moving over mine and her tongue darts
out to lick, then suck, my lower lip.  When that same tongue
pushes further and searches for mine, I hear the door in my head
slam as my Super Ego leaves for the evening.  And when her tongue
finally finds mine, I reach up to her neck and crush her lips
against mine, overwhelmed with the sensation of kissing someone
for the first time in years.

And we remain like that, her standing, me sitting, her slightly
taller than me, kissing, for what feels like hours, until she
finally pulls back and gasps in oxygen, leaning her forehead
against mine and laughing slightly.  "Mulder," she says again,
but I don't let her finish.  Instead, I just kiss her again,
pulling her between my legs so that her chest is flush against
mine.

Her hands are quite mobile, her fingers tensing on my shoulders
before they sneak beneath my arms to slide down over my ribs.  I
just keep my hands where they are - anchoring her head to mine -
afraid that she'll decide she's had a little too much to drink
and that This Is Wrong.  Because it is, my Super Ego shouts,
knocking on the door and probably realizing he forgot his key to
get back in.  Too bad, he'll just have to stay out there for the
rest of the night.  My Ego is throwing a party and letting my Id
out of his room.  Super Ego will have a hell of a time cleaning
up tomorrow, but that's what he's there for and he needs to start
earning his keep.

And you wonder why I'm not a Freudian?

She pulls away again, gasping louder and more frantically,
stepping back but not letting go.  I blink at her, remembering
that Super Ego has a spare key under the door mat and that if we
don't hurry, he'll remember that, too, and he'll crash the party.
"Scully..."  I nearly moan, calling her back to me.

Leaning her forehead against mine again, she blows a puff of hot,
moist air against my mouth.  "Yeah?"

Swallowing, then panting again, I manage to ask, "Is this why you
want me to stay tonight?"

"Yeah," she repeats, and I attack her again.  After a few more
seconds of increasingly anxious, excited kissing, she sits
unceremoniously on my lap, her knees hitting the cushions on
either side of my hips, and pushes me back until my spine touches
the back of the couch.  Then, she goes on the offensive, towering
over me and struggling to pull my shirt over my head without
letting go of my mouth.

"Slow down," I tell her, helping her nearly rip my shirt off.
Any minute now she'll be stopping, apologizing, and saying that I
should go home after all - I should at least allow her the time
to do so.  She doesn't respond except to trace her nails over my
nipples and at that moment, my Ego chooses to go out and get
something to eat because I lay her down and settle myself between
her legs.  And she wraps said legs around my waist.  And aliens
must've abducted us because I don't remember the next nine
minutes other than a few moans, a feeling of soft, wet Heaven,
and crushing Scully underneath me after I collapse on top her,
spent.

And then, nothing.  The next thing I know, it's morning and I'm
in her bed, Scully sprawled across my chest, still asleep.  When
I realize that both of us are nude and my morning erection is
pressed up against a delicate spot, I hold my breath and try not
to wake her up.  Somehow, I have to get out of bed, dressed, and
out of her apartment before she wakes up.  Super Ego found his
key and is shaking his head at the mess Id made, muttering about
how long this is going to take to clean up and how expensive it
will be to replace everything that's been damaged.

Slowly, I ease her hips off of me and onto the mattress, then
slide the rest of my body out from under her.  She takes a few
irregular breaths, acclimating herself to her new position, but
doesn't open her eyes.  She's so pretty with those little red
blotches on her neck and shoulders.

As I turn over, I wince as long unused muscles make their
dissatisfaction about being so abused last night and this morning
known.  Finally out of bed, I pull the covers over her body,
trying not to look at where else those pretty little red blotches
are.  Then, I'm faced with the next dilemma of the morning -
finding my clothes.  They should be strewn haphazardly around the
couch, but I'm having difficulty finding my boxers.  Once I do, I
dress right there in her living room, staring at the still damp
spot on the middle cushion of the couch and wondering if it'll
leave a stain once it's dry.

Of course it will, Super Ego says.  Id pouts in the corner.  Ego
helps Super Ego find the broom, the better to sweep up the shards
of the best damn friendship I ever had with.

And I leave, closing the door softly and locking it behind me,
praying to a God I don't even believe in that Scully really did
have too much to drink last night and won't remember a thing -
not even the approximately 4,790 times I moaned a combination of
the words "I," "love," "you," and "Scully," and the exactly zero
times she said it to me - that happened when she wakes up.

<><><><><><>

She called right after I got home Saturday morning, asking if I
was okay.  I told her I was fine and waited while she thought of
something else to say.  "Oh," was all she managed before I told
her I was going for a jog and wouldn't be back for a while.  A
while meaning a century or so.  She sounded slightly
disappointed, but only asked me to call her later, which I
didn't.  I spent the whole day either sitting on my couch,
pouting and moping, or scrubbing off the top few layers of skin
in the shower, trying not to cry.  She called later that night,
right before the sun set, and asked if I had plans for the rest
of the evening.  I said yes and she didn't ask what.

The scene repeated Sunday, only without the calls from Scully.
It was the first time in nearly three years that we'd gone twenty
four hours without speaking to each other.

I didn't sleep much those two nights.  Whether it was simple
loneliness or horniness, I replayed every detail that I could
remember of Friday night (and early Saturday morning) in my head,
wondering at which point I had decided that a few moments of pure
physical ecstasy was worth a lifetime of pain and solitude.  More
than once, I'd had to stop myself from picking up the phone and
asking her if she wanted to come over, but each time, I managed
to convince myself that platonic Scully was more important than
no Scully at all.  In all likelihood, she'd decided that what
happened was a mistake, too, and that because we're partners and
best friends, we shouldn't be romantically involved because it
might get in the way of...something.  I don't know, she's the
logical, rational one.  I'm just the overly emotional, orally-
fixated, desperately needy wreck.  She was supposed to stop all
this from happening anyway, but she didn't.  Hell, she instigated
the whole thing.  This is all her fault, falling down on the job.
Damn her.

God, I've fucked up.

So, here it is Monday morning, five 'til eight.  Scully will be
walking through that door at any moment and I'll have to face
her, work with her, spend nine hours in this tiny room alone with
her, knowing what happened.  And then, I'll go crazy and we won't
have to talk about what happened.  Perfect!

Her heels click against the tile floor outside, moving from the
elevator, down the hall, to the office steadily, not missing a
step.  In response, my heart speeds up and my blood pressure
surges as I try to act nonchalant.

"Morning, Mulder," she says brightly, stepping through the door
and closing it behind her, like nothing is different about today.

"Hmm," I mumble in response, deciding to check my email for the
fifth time in thirty minutes.  Yeah, nothing odd here.

I feel her eyes staring at me as she walks to her desk and sits,
turning on her computer.  "You okay?"

"Hmm," I repeat.  Just fine, Scully, why do you ask?

From the corner of my eye, I see her frown and she sighs heavily,
finally looking away.  My heart slows a little as I continue to
studiously ignore her for the rest of the morning.

At lunch time, I'm deep into some form of paperwork and don't
hear her as she walks up beside my desk.  I do jump when she
touches my shoulder, though.  "Mulder," she asks cautiously.  I
just gape at her as her hand lingers against my shirt,
remembering all the wonderful things that hand and its companion
can do.  "You ready for lunch?"

"Uh..."

She smiles slightly, but not happily.  "I thought we could try
that new pizza place they opened down the street, but we can go
some place else, if you want."

"Th-, uh, s-, y-yeah.  F-fine."

"You sure you're okay?"  She narrows her eyes at me and uses
that, "don't bullshit me, Mulder," tone.

"Yeah," I finally tell her, standing and walking out the door,
leaving her behind me and not looking back.

The rest of the day drags by slowly, interrupted by ringing
phones and speaking only when absolutely necessary.  I try my
best not to look at her or think about her until she approaches
my desk again and I tense up, leaning away from her so as not to
be touched again.

"Mulder, just tell me what's wrong," she says in an exasperated
sigh, her eyes pleading with me to do the same.  I just keep
typing.  "Is this about Friday?"  She finally asks.

Not answering, I stop and lace my fingers together underneath the
desk.

"I thought so.  Will you just talk to me?"

"Scully..."  I take a deep breath as Id rattles the bars of his
cage, trying to get my attention.  Just try it, it might not be
so bad.  Scully's different from the others, she's real, she's
forever.  She loves you, he says.  He said the same thing about
Diana and Phoebe though.  I don't trust him.  "Scully, I think
what happened was a mistake," I finally tell her, staring at my
shoes.  "I don't think that we should...do...that...again."

Crossing her arms, she nods at me.  "You're right, Mulder, we
definitely shouldn't do that again.  Especially if this is how
you're going to treat me afterwards."

I look up at her, not anticipating seeing pain and confusion in
her eyes and open my mouth to assuage it.  She cuts me off,
though.

"If you want to forget it ever happened, we will.  I certainly
don't want to push you into anything that you don't want to get
involved in.  I just thought," she hugs herself tighter, looking
down instead of at me.  "I just thought that we were ready."

After waiting in vain for my answer, she turns around and walks
out the door, her heels clicking against the tile, going silent
as she disappears into the elevator.  I don't stop her.

I'll never be ready, Scully.  I'll never be ready to let you
become old and stale to me.  I'd rather look, remember, and not
touch than to look, touch, and forget.

Id shakes his cage again and Ego watches, looking mournful.
She's different, Ego agrees.  You love her and she loves you,
even if she didn't say it.  You know that it wouldn't fade with
her.  You know she's forever.

I know, I tell him, but I'm still running from the truth after
all these years.  I'm always running.

<><><><><><>

I don't think Scully will be as understanding this time as she
was last week.  Not only is it almost midnight on a Tuesday, but
since my admission last Monday that I didn't want to continue
this, ah, new avenue of our relationship, things haven't exactly
been easy between us.  I've never felt uncomfortable around
Scully before - in fact, I've always felt uncomfortable without
her - but I doubt we've said ten words to each other that didn't
have to do with work.  Which is odd.  And stifling.  And I hate
it.  And I hate myself for causing it.

I know that if I just told her the truth, she'd understand.
She'd say something about how she's different from Phoebe and
Diana - which she is, my Ego keeps telling me - and how things
will never be simply mundane between us.  After all, she'll say,
when have we ever been anything approaching normal?

And I'll grin and make some stupid joke and then we'll go to bed
and make love - not have sex, not fuck, but make love - and wake
up the next morning and do it all over again.

And I want that so badly right now I'm willing to get down on my
knees and beg her to forgive me for leaving the other morning.

So, I knock, going over the script in my head one last time
before she opens the door.  Except that she doesn't open the
door.  I don't even hear her feet crossing the floor to look
through the peep hole.

Of course she's asleep, dumb ass, Super Ego says.  Id tells me
that I have a key and to use it.  Ego justifies it by saying that
Scully gave me the key for emergencies and this is an emergency
of the most serious kind.  I'm willing to admit that I was wrong
and apologize for it - that has to qualify for a State of
Emergency.

Her apartment is dark and still when I open the door.  As I close
it and lock it behind me, my hand hesitates at the safety chain:
she didn't have it locked.  She was expecting me, or maybe she's
just done that for years on the off chance that I'd decide one
lonely, stormy night to come to her.  She knows me so well.

I slip off my shoes and leave them next to the door, not wanting
to wake her.  This is rapidly becoming a bad idea, but I could
just get "my" blanket and "my" pillow from her linen closet and
set up "my" bed on the couch and no harm done.  She wouldn't
question that; she'd just figure I had a bad dream and wanted to
be close to her.

You're more right than you know, Scully.

I pause in her bedroom doorway as a flash of lightening
illuminates her.  She's asleep, of course, curled into a tight
ball in the center of her bed, the sheet and comforter tucked
around her waist and giving me a glimpse of her smooth, white
shoulders, bare under her camisole.  I just hold my breath and
wait for another bolt of lightening.

When she shifts, I exhale heavily, slightly dizzy from lack of
oxygen.  Turning onto her back, she senses a presence and reaches
for the bedside lamp, or maybe her gun, but stops, sitting up and
letting the covers fall to her knees.  "Mulder?"  She asks
softly, sleepily, and my knees get weak.  "What's the matter?"

I drop my head and shift my gaze rapidly from my socked feet to
her scantily clad body, thinking of how easy it would be to slip
under the covers beside her and wondering if she would stop me.

"Are you okay, Mulder?  What's wrong?"

"Nothing.  Just..."  Even though it's nearly pitch black, I know
she's staring at me.  "I'm sorry, Scully.  I didn't mean to wake
you."

"It's okay."

I think this is the most intimate conversation we've had in a
week.  "Do you want me to leave?"

"No, I want to know why you're here."  Another flash of
lightening.  Jesus, Scully, that camisole doesn't leave much to
the imagination.  What ever happened to those long sleeved, high
necked pajama tops you used to wear?  "Did you get lonely again?"
She asks quietly as the rain picks up, pelting the roof with
little bullets.

I sigh in frustration.  This isn't going well at all.

"Mulder," I hear her shift again and her voice is closer to me.
"It's okay."

She must be sitting at the foot of the bed now, because her warm
little fingers work their way into my tight fists, easing the
tension.  I stop breathing again.

"Just promise me that tomorrow morning, we won't start all over.
I want to move forward or not move at all.  It's your choice and
I won't push you."

"I love you," I tell her softly.  She pulls me between her legs,
latching her lips to mine and winding her arms around my waist.
When she lays back against the bed, I cover her body with mine,
letting Id out of his cage again.

How could this ever become boring, I ask myself as I slowly
penetrate her.  She inhales sharply and I take the hint, stilling
as her body adjusts to mine.  "I love you," I tell her again,
pressing my lips against her neck and wondering why she doesn't
say it back.  "Scully, I love you.  I love you.  I love you.  I
love you.  I love you.  I love you," each time I thrust.  She
just moans, wrapping her legs high around my ribs and tilting her
pelvis up to increase the angle and depth.

When her thighs start shaking violently around me, I stop moving
and still her counterthrusts, putting my sweaty forehead against
hers.  "Scully, tell me you love me.  Please, tell me.  Tell me
you love me."

Damn her advanced knowledge of anatomy.  She reaches down and
penetrates my anus with one little finger, searching for,
finding, and massaging my prostate.  Id and Ego lock Super Ego in
the cage for the rest of the night and I don't think anymore,
just instinctually move, as Scully comes around me, making the
lightening outside seem dim in comparison.

<><><><><><>

This time when I wake up, she's sprawled across my back, holding
onto me like she's afraid I'll get away.  Which I will, as soon
as I can move my legs again.  I shift and she stirs, tightening
her arms around me and nuzzling my back with her nose; I have to
get out of here.

My clothes occupy various stations around, under, and behind the
bed, but I manage to find them with little effort and lots of
pain.  As I'm dressing, facing the window, I hear her breathing
hitch and sheets rustle.  I turn and look at her like a deer in
the headlights.

"What are you doing?"  She nearly whispers.

"Go back to sleep," I tell her instead, hoping that she's not
fully awake yet.

She turns her head to look at the clock.  "It's almost five
thirty.  What are you doing, Mulder?"

I put my back to her again and tug my T-shirt over my head,
covering myself.  "Going home."

"Why?"

"I have to get ready for work."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not!"  I snap.  "I need to go home and get ready for work!"

"That's just an excuse.  That's not why you're leaving."

"Then why am I leaving?  What do you want me to say?"

She sits up against the headboard, pulling the sheet so that it
barely covers her breasts.  "I want you to tell me the truth.  I
want you to tell me why you feel like you have to leave."

"We made a mistake, Scully.  Again.  It shouldn't have happened."

"Then why did you come here last night?  Why did you let it
happen if you knew it was a mistake?"

"You wouldn't tell me that you love me," I answer slowly, knowing
that it doesn't match the questions.  She looks down and
straightens the covers, shaking her head.  "Do you?  Love me?"

When she looks up, she has tears in her eyes.  "How can you even
ask me that?"

"Scully, in case you missed it the previous hundred thousand
times, I love you.  The reason that I come here isn't loneliness
so much as it is love.  If I was lonely, I could pick up a girl
on the street, but I don't.  I come to you because I love you.
But you...why do you let me stay?  Are you just too moral to hire
someone to keep you company?"

"I can't believe you," she says, furiously wiping away her tears
with her shaking hands.

"It's the reason I leave, too.  Because I love you and I need you
and I'm afraid of what'll happen when it ends."

"What makes you think it'll end, Mulder?"  I wince, not having an
answer other than precedent and experience.  "Do you think that
little of me?"

"No, I think that much of you."  Last night, while Id was
trashing my consciousness, Ego went out and got another cage so
that Super Ego could have his own.  Now, they're both locked
safely away and Ego has his hands on his hips, shaking his head
and wondering where he went wrong.  I just turn around and walk
out her bedroom door, not looking back.

"Mulder, I do love you.  More than I could ever tell you.  But if
this is what it's going to do to us, it's not worth it."

Ego stamps his foot and says, "I told you so."

<><><><><><>

We didn't know how bad it would get, but she just kept getting
sicker and sicker.  More than once a night when we were out of
town, she'd get up and I'd hear water running in her room - she'd
had another nose bleed.  I was in denial - my Scully?  Cancer?
Sick?  Possibly dying? - and I think she was, too.  She wasn't
too expressive back in those days.  Neither was I, though I
constantly told myself that it was all her fault that we were so
emotionally distant - her personal closure, her strict guarding
of herself, her tight control.  Still, though, I would've done
anything for her, even when I was angry or annoyed with her.  If
she only would've asked, I would've done anything.

If she'd come to me back then and asked me to make love to her
with no strings attached - no exclusive commitments, no promises
of a long term relationship, no desire for even a repeat
performance - I would've done it without a second thought.  I
would've taken her into my bed - or hers, it was up to her - and
made slow, sweet, achingly tender love to her until I couldn't
stand to hold back anymore.  When I finally did come inside her,
she'd have left me alone and shivering in the empty bed and I'd
have prayed that there would be one tiny ovum left inside her and
that she would get pregnant, just so she would be connected to me
forever.  Just so she would always have to deal with me, no
matter how far from me she tried to run.  Selfish, I know, but I
was desperate back then.

And the next morning, when she put on one of those severe suits
of armor and smiled slightly at me, murmuring, "Good morning,
Mulder," just as she always did, a little piece of me would've
died.  She wouldn't have seen it like I did: finally making my
passion and love physical, tangible, real.  Making it
unavoidable.  Giving it life.  She would have seen it as a purely
physical release, a moment of sexual need and professional
weakness.  Not love.  Not like me.  She didn't love me.  She
doesn't love me.

I can't even imagine how it must've felt to her when I withdrew
after our first time.  Maybe she thought it was just my
inferiority complex making itself known.  Maybe she was afraid
that I thought that she'd changed her mind, didn't mean it.
Whatever her perceptions of me, she never shared.  I didn't tell
her the truth, either.  It just seemed easier to let her think it
was just me being me instead of me being, well, me, only a part
of me she didn't know.

I like to think that I know everything about her, but I know I
don't.  I didn't even know if she slept with that my-tattoo-
talks-to-me guy from Philadelphia until a few weeks ago.  As far
as I know, she hasn't spoken to him since he almost killed her,
and I can only imagine that that's exactly what would've happened
had she come to me instead of him: we never would've spoken of it
again, if we spoke at all.

After the second time, I knew she must hate me for playing with
her, confusing her, jerking her around.  She's perfectly entitled
to feel that way; so do I.  She must think that all it was to me
was the physical, not the emotional, and that I was lying to her
all those 9,247 times I told her I loved her.

But I do love her.  Too much to ever do this again.  At least
that's what I keep telling myself.  And I always end up back at
her door again on dark, interminably long, lonely nights.  And
she always lets me in, she never turns me away or tells me I
missed my chance.

This time when I come to her, she's awake and waiting for me,
watching me as I move silently across her bedroom like she knew I
was coming and was almost glad I'd finally arrived.  Maybe she
does love me.

I just need to hear her tell me while I'm inside her, make it
real.

"Scully," I whisper against her neck, the shadows from the
streetlights making her bare, sweaty shoulders glow against the
blackness of her bedroom.  "Scully, tell me you love me."

She threads her fingers tightly in my hair, pressing my face into
her neck and rocking her hips more frantically against mine, and
doesn't answer.

When she pushed me up against the headboard and straddled my
thighs earlier, I didn't complain, I just let her take control.
She has control over all of me - body, mind, soul.  She can
destroy me if she wants to, or she could heal me.  She could fix
everything, make everything perfect.  If she would just tell me
that she loves me.  If I could just hear those words, I would
tell her everything and she would understand and everything would
be okay.

She leans closer to me, crushing her breasts against my chest and
changing the angle of penetration, driving me impossibly deeper
inside her.  I tighten my grip underneath her arms and around her
shoulders, holding her tightly against me, afraid she'll get away
if I let go.  "Scully, I love you.  Sc-...love you.  Love you,
Scully.  Love you, Scully.  Love you...l-love you...l-love
you...Scully, I love you."  It's just babble now, but it's honest
babble.  Id rattles around in my head as I lean it back hard
against the wall.  "Scully, pleeeeeeeeeeeease.  Tell me you love
me."

She keeps rocking, not making any sounds at all, except for her
frantic pants against my neck.

Sliding my hands down her slick back, I still her hips, taking a
deep, shuttering breath.  "Don't.  Scully, this isn't...this
isn't what I want."

She tries to distract me by sucking at that spot just behind my
ear and I moan before I can stop myself.  My grip around her hips
loosens and she starts moving again.

"Scully, if you don't love me, tell me.  If this is just about
sex, tell me.  Just tell me what you want.  What ever you want,
Scully, I'll do it.  Even if you don't love me, just please tell
me.  Tell me, Scully."  Nothing but silence from her as the
headboard makes another dent in the wall.  "You don't have to
love me, Scully, I just need to know.  If this isn't about love
to you, then tell me so I can stop wondering.  We don't...we
don't have to stop.  I just want to know."

I could live with that, knowing that she didn't love me and was
only using me to assuage her own loneliness.  I could pretend
that she was really happy with me, really wanted me in bed with
her every night and asleep beside her when she woke up in the
morning.  Maybe if I knew it wasn't mutual, it wouldn't get
stale.  It wouldn't fade.  My love and passion and lust wouldn't
fade because I'd always be trying to convince her to make it more
than what she wanted.  I'd never be satisfied and I wouldn't get
bored.

But if she does love me, if she's just afraid of me running away
from her again, it would get boring and stale.  It's all about
the climax, but after that, what is there to look forward to?  To
anticipate?

I honestly don't know which version I'd rather live.

She speeds up and in another few seconds, is pulsing around me,
drawing me deeper inside her.  I do the only logical thing:
follow her, knowing it's the last time I'll have the opportunity.

<><><><><><>

This time, I'm spooned around her when I wake up; I can't ever
remember being more warm or comfortable, never wanting to move
again.  I have to, though.  Have to go and deny that this
happened.

As soon as I move, her fingers tighten around mine: I wasn't the
first to wake up this morning.  "I love you," she says softly
against the sheets.  I lay my face against her neck and the soft
hair covering it and cry.

Turning over to face me, keeping as much of her skin against mine
as possible, she reaches for my head and lays it against her
breasts so that I can hear her heart beating.

"Why are you crying?"

I shake my head, pushing my cold nose underneath one of her warm
breasts and forgetting how to breathe.

"You think this isn't about love to me?  You think I don't love
you?"  She asks slowly.  "You're wrong, Mulder.  I do love you."

"You won't say it when I ask you to.  I begged you to tell me
last night and you wouldn't."

"It wouldn't have made a difference.  You would've found a way to
rationalize it in your mind so that it was a lie.  You don't want
to believe it."

I cry harder and she tunnels her fingers through my hair,
stroking my scalp and sending shivers down my spine.  "Scully,
I'm so confused.  I don't...I'm terrified of this."

"Why?"  She asks soundlessly.

Ego and Id currently aren't speaking to each other, so Super Ego
is in control.  "I'm afraid that it's wrong.  Not
wrong...ordinary.  I'm afraid that it will turn out to be just
like every other relationship I've ever had that's ended badly.
I'm afraid that when we finally go back to being just friends,
you'll decide that you can't even do that anymore and you'll
leave me completely and I won't care.  I don't want that to
happen to us, Scully.  I can live without you at night, but I
need you during the day.  I need you forever."

She doesn't say anything for a long time and in desperation, I
say the first thing that comes to my mind.  "Marry me."  It's not
a question, but a command.  It's the only way.  Then, I'll have
forever and she'll be legally bound to me.  Even if she wanted to
leave me, she couldn't.  I wouldn't let her.

"No."

This time, when I move to get out of bed, she doesn't stop me.
She doesn't say a word as I slowly get dressed and walk out of
her door, dreading the prospect of another day at work with her,
pretending that these things haven't happened.  Things had been
getting better between us during the daylight hours, but then I
had to go and test my luck one more time.  And she let me.

Next time, though, I have a feeling she'll turn me away.

<><><><><><>

She was late to work this morning and, for a moment, I almost
believed that she wasn't coming in at all, that she never wanted
to see me again and had quit her job and moved to a country where
I didn't speak the language.

When she did come in, it was obvious after only the briefest of
glances that she'd spent extra time in the shower, crying because
of what I'd done.  She didn't say good morning, and we didn't
speak to each other all day.

When she left, she didn't say goodnight.

I had a dream just after I fell asleep tonight on my wrinkled,
cold leather couch.  I was holding her stiff, pale body - rocking
her, trying to keep her warm - and she wasn't moving.  She was
bleeding and dead and all I could do was cry and call her name
over and over, thinking that it would bring her back to me.  When
I woke up screaming her name, I got dressed and got in my car.

With those same red blotches still bright and tender on my skin
and my groin muscles still sore, I put my key in her door and
pray that some fat, old man isn't waiting on the other side with
a sawed-off shot gun and a bottle of whiskey.  Or that Scully
isn't waiting with a sawed-off shot gun and a bottle of whiskey.
I think I'd rather take my chances with the new tenant, thank
you, if those were the accessories.

She pulls her head out of her microwave and looks back at me,
eyes wide, as I slowly close and lock the door behind me.  She
sniffs once and looks away, wiping her nose with the back of her
hand and putting her head back in the microwave, scrubbing
violently at the inside.  One of the first things I learned about
her: when she's upset, she cleans.  Her apartment has always been
mysteriously pristine.

"I know why you wanted to marry me," she says flatly.  "You think
that, if I do, you'll have me forever.  This is already forever
to me, Mulder, whether we're married or lovers or friends.  I'd
like to be more than just the last one and I think I've been
sufficiently clear in stating my intentions.  I think I've been
patient, too, but I'll keep waiting for you to decide what you
really want.  If you want to keep running from the truth, just
like always, fine, but if you want to move forward and stop being
so damn afraid of the past repeating itself, it's your choice.
Either way, I'll still be here, but I'm not going to let you jerk
me around like you have been.  I can't stand it.  And neither can
you."

I open my mouth to respond to that, but close it and think
instead.  She's right.  Of course she's right, she's Scully.
She's always right, even when she's wrong.  "Scully?"  I ask in a
shaky voice.  "If something ever happened...if these aliens,
government men, whoever they are decide to colonize the planet,
what would you do?"

She gapes at me.  "Have you even been listening to me?"

"If you had the chance to take your family to a safe place and
avoid the disease and destruction, would you?"

"What choice would I have?"  She whispers.

"You could stay and fight Them."

She goes to the sink to rinse out her sponge, her head down.
"What would you do?"

"I would fight."

"Then I would, too."

"Even if it meant giving up any chance of safety and security?
Even if it meant leaving your family?"

She hesitates.  "You're a part of my family, Mulder.  If I
thought we could win, I'd stay.  If you stayed, I'd stay.  I
could never be content knowing that you were in danger and I
wasn't there to help you."

I look down at her floor, trying to remember why I thought this
was a good idea in the first place.  "You know I'd find you if it
ever happened, don't you?  You know that I wouldn't give up.
Even if I knew you were dead, I'd still find you.  I'd need a
place to be buried, too.  I'd want to be beside you forever."  I
say quietly, wanting her to know how much I mean that.

"And how is that any different from being together while we're
alive?"  She asks so softly, I doubt for a minute that I've even
heard it.

I hear a gigantic thudding sound as Super Ego faints.  Id and Ego
run over to see what they've missed.  All of my Ego defense
mechanisms being destroyed, maybe?  You'd think Ego would pay
attention to things like that.

I hold my breath for a long time, waiting for one of us to make a
move and, when no one does, I exhale loudly, sounding like I've
just finished a marathon.  Which, in a way, I guess I have.

Forever.  With Scully.  Id's jumping up and down on the bed, too
excited to contain himself while Ego is trying to revive Super
Ego, like I ever need him.  After a long pause, Ego walks to the
front of my consciousness, speaking for everyone.

"She's right," is all he says.

I walk into her living room and collapse onto her couch, my limbs
sagging from exhaustion.  Following me, she throws a blanket over
me for warmth.

"Do you believe that I love you, Mulder?"  She asks, stepping
between my legs.

"Yes," I whisper.  And I stop running.

<><><>End<><><>

Thanks: To my betas realb, Karri, and Vicki.

Feedback, good, bad, and ugly, is always accepted at
lil_gusty@hotmail.com