SETTING:           Season Six, a little later on the morning after the 
night before seen in "Fancy Dance"    and "Fancy Footwork"
SPOILERS:	Beyond the Sea, Tithonus, Monday
CATEGORY:      MSR Angst
RATING:             PG-13 (for language)
KUDOS:	To the best betas in the business - mine, that is - Robs 
& Lena for [hopefully] helping me keep the sap factor to a tolerable 
level - and to Erly for helping me do the same with the - um - mature 
content.  We strive to please the masses.
ARCHIVE:          Sure, but please tell me where so I can exercise my 
parental rights
DISCLAIMER:   CC created them, Fox and 1013 made production 
possible but Gillian and David brought them to life.  So I think we all 
know who really owns them.  And it isn't yours truly.  I haven't made a 
wooden nickel off any of these, by the way, so please don't try to sue 
me.


"Fancy Three"
By Pebbles


My apartment has never looked so good.

Or so lonely.

I stand with my back against the door, looking around the haven I have 
created, my private sanctuary from the darkness which dominates my 
professional life.  It is nice and safe and familiar.  There is the chair my 
father always liked, the one in which I saw his fetch at the moment of 
his death.  The comfortable yet tasteful couch where I have consumed 
so many pints of ice cream during countless old movies on AMC. 

I lean wearily against the door, knowing that Mulder will undoubtedly 
be knocking at any moment.  I know he followed me home as I drove 
like a madwoman to reach my apartment.  I don't know why I thought 
that he would or could let this go.  While I am the expert at avoiding 
confrontations, Mulder is fearless in his pursuit of the truth, gleefully 
striking the match to our fuse when we are on a collision course.  As if 
on cue there is a soft rapping on the other side of the door.

"Scully?" he calls softly.

I close my eyes, desperately willing him to go away while 
simultaneously begging him to stay and see this through.

"C'mon Scully," he wheedles.  "I know you're there."  He sounds about 
fourteen.  "Let me in, Scully, we need to talk."

Caught in a purgatory of my own making, I turn my eyes heavenward.  
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what am I going to do now?  Help me out 
here, Someone.  I know that I don't have it in me to fight him alone.  
Where is Divine Intervention when I need it?

I wait another heartbeat, perhaps two more, all the while feeling his 
presence on the other side of the door like a magnet drawing me near.  
We have to talk and I know it.  The situation is unavoidable.  The fact 
that the idea of discussing the change in our relationship scares the 
mortal hell out of me does not alter the fact that it needs to be done.  I 
chew on my lower lip, wanting more than anything to turn tail and run 
into my bedroom, lock the door and hide my head under my pillow.  
Not that it would matter if I did.  Mulder is capable of breaking and 
entering in a dozen different ways and I have no doubt he will resort to 
drastic means if I continue to refuse him entrance.

Resigned, I turn the deadbolt and open the door, granting admittance to 
the inner sanctum.  He proceeds into the living room as I close and bolt 
the door behind him.  I see that he is wearing his trench over his clothes 
but the pants showing beneath the hem don't appear to be standard issue 
FBI blues.

Hoping to divert him before he has a chance to steer the conversation, I 
opt for a preemptive strike.  "Mulder, what are we going to tell 
Skinner?" I ask without preamble.  "We just got the X-Files back.  I'd 
rather not commemorate the victory by pissing off the boss."

"We won't," he says shortly, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it 
over the back of Ahab's chair.  He turns to face me and I see that he is 
dressed in black jeans and a matching tee shirt.  My very own Man in 
Black.  "I took care of Skinner," he states in a tone that brooks no 
further discussion.

He stands there watching me, hands on hips, that bulldog look on his 
face, and inwardly I groan, knowing that I am in for Mulder at his 
tenacious best.  "We need to talk," he begins matter-of-factly.  
"Whether you want to or not."  He moves brazenly into my personal 
space and takes me by the shoulders, squeezing gently, but firmly.  
"You're not going run away from this, Scully.  Away from me.  Not 
after last night.  You're going to talk to me and we're going to deal with 
this.  Right here.  Right now."

I try to twist away from him but the effort is half-hearted, a token 
resistance born of habit.  He refuses to give an inch, his eyes boring 
into mine, forcing me to face my weakness, like it or not.  "No more 
walls, Scully," he says hoarsely, his voice betraying a slight tremor of 
deep emotion.

Oh, God, he is going to break down my new barrier before I even 
manage to lay the first row of bricks.  I look up at him, into those 
warm, wonderful eyes that speak volumes to me without his ever 
uttering a single word, and suddenly I'm wondering how in the hell I'm 
ever going to manage to push him away this time.

Still reeling with aftershocks from the earth moving the night before, 
my reserves are depleted, my knees rubbery, my resistance dangerously 
low.  I suddenly realize how very tired I am.  Tired of the constant 
niggling thoughts that haunt me about the unprofessionalism of being 
in love with my partner.  Tired of denying myself the pleasure of 
appreciating that love for the pure joy of it, and the wonder that it has 
come to me, to us.  Tired most of all of holding back tears that I know 
would cleanse if I could only let them fall, tears that I know would be 
shared and vanquished by the man who now holds me before him in a 
strong but tender grip.  He is going to fight for me, I know it.  Fight for 
us.  Because he believes in us.  And he has always had tremendous 
strength in his beliefs.  

His image goes blurry as my eyes fill, but through the haze I recognize 
the Mulder to whom I have already entrusted myself for years now.   
The Mulder who has gone to the ends of the earth to save me, who has 
performed astounding feats of heroics in my name.  The Mulder who 
pulled me back from the abyss when I was so far gone I could not find 
my way but for the power of his voice, calling me home.  

I feel a single tear escape each eye, trickling down my face to salt the 
corners of my mouth.

Mulder's hands slide from my shoulders up to my cheeks, where he 
tenderly cradles my face, his thumbs lightly brushing away my tears.  
"Talk to me, Scully," he whispers, his eyes searching mine, searing 
their way into my heart.  "Talk to me.  Please."

I want to lower my gaze but if I do all of the tears will fall and then he 
will pull me into his arms and I know I will be undone and lost forever.  
So I glare at him instead, trying to work up a measure of rage that he 
has reduced me to this, that he is forcing me to come clean about this 
most intimate of secrets.

But the anger refuses to surface.  I can't in good conscience hold any of 
this against him.  This is all about me and I can't deny it.  I can't deny 
any of it.

"I'm afraid," I finally say in a very small voice, not trusting myself to 
speak louder.

His eyes are dark with concern, his brows drawn into a point over them.  
He is trying so hard to understand.  "Afraid of what?" he asks in a 
breath, his voice and manner gentle.  He is always gentle with me - 
except when he is driving me up the wall with innuendo and games of 
cat and mouse.  He wears me out in more ways than I can count.  Or 
maybe it's just my ongoing battle between the way I *think* things 
should be and the way I *want* them to be that does me in.   Either 
way I am exhausted.  Too exhausted to fight.

"Tell me what you're afraid of, Scully," he urges, his voice barely 
above a whisper.  "Tell me so I can make it go away."

Go away?  Not on your life, buster.  In a breath I give up the fight, 
finding that I no longer wish to run from the truth.  Or to hide it from 
him.  "You," I say simply, lowering my head, the flood upon me.  I feel 
the tears as they breach the dam of my eyelids, flowing down my 
cheeks to land wetly on my chest, trickling down into the neckline of 
the pink sweater to pool in my cleavage.

"Me?"  His tone is one of astonishment.  "Scully, why are you afraid of 
me?  After all these years, after all we've seen and done together, after 
all we've *been* for each other - how can you be afraid of me?"

"Not *of* you," I correct softly, my eyes downcast, still unable to look 
at him as I admit my weakness.  "I'm afraid of *loving* you."  I hear 
his quick intake of breath.  He tips my chin so that I must look him in 
the eye.  I meet him dead on; there is no other way.  "I'm afraid of 
loving you," I say again, watching the impact of my words, how his 
eyes grow misty, how his throat tightens as he swallows my admission.  
"But, I do, dammit," I continue, angrily swiping at my eyes so I can see 
him better while I make a fool of myself.  "Love you.  No matter how 
hard I try not to."

His face has gone all soft and goofy, that little boy smile playing across 
his features and transforming them into something magical and 
endearing.  "Then don't," he says quickly.  "Don't try not to.  Just 
accept it, Scully.  Accept this gift we've been given.  The gift we gave 
each other last night, the gift of every single day we have together, for 
the rest of our lives, however long that may be."

I hear what he is saying and they are exactly the right words to say.  
But somehow they fail to comfort, for now all I can see is a ticking 
clock.  My time with Alfred Fellig had touched me deeply.  Our 
conversations about life and love affected me much more than I care to 
admit.  His wrenching story of surviving his wife by so long that he no 
longer remembered her name had moved me immeasurably.

I have always felt in my heart that I would die if anything happened to 
Mulder.  But after Alfred Fellig I found myself obsessed with the fear 
that, in my brief contact with him, I had assumed his immortality.  
Having fought death so hard such a short time ago I now know my 
greatest horror is the idea of *not* dying, of living on without Mulder 
by my side.  And now, after six years of loving him covertly, the 
thought of giving in completely to my emotions is terrifying.  The 
potential for heartache should I ever lose him shakes me to my core.

"M-Mulder," I stammer, fighting for control of my voice, wanting so 
badly to make him understand.  "I want to accept it.  I need to accept it.  
Everything in me is crying out for me to accept it.  But I'm so afraid of 
letting go.  I'm so afraid of having you and then losing you.   *They* 
could take you out at any time.  And I would have to live on without 
you.  I couldn't bear it."  A shameful sniffle escapes me; but I have 
come too far to stop now.  Once released, the words tumble forth in a 
burst of deep-seated fear.

"I would want to die," I continue, my voice trembling, my body 
quaking.  "And I'm so afraid I'll be like Alfred Fellig and I won't be 
able to die or that I'll be like that Pam girl you told me about, that poor 
girl in the bank who was caught in her own perpetual hell and was 
doomed to repeat the same horrible day, day in and day out, every 
single day of her life, and...and..."   I'm rambling now and I know it, 
and crying to boot.  I'm ranting and raving and hormoning all over the 
place and all of this in front of Mulder, who must be thinking that his 
tightly wound partner has finally snapped.  And he might not be too far 
off the mark.

Wordlessly he enfolds me in his arms, urging my head onto the pillow 
of his broad and oh-so-comforting chest.  His breath teases my hair as 
he shushes me.  He holds me up as my knees give way and I sag against 
him, weeping as I have never done in my life, weeping in a manner I 
never thought I would or could.  That little wall I had been trying so 
hard to rebuild all morning is smashed to smithereens by the raging 
torrent of long repressed tears and fears.  

And I was right, I think through the tumult.  As much as it hurts to cry, 
the tears *are* cleansing.  And I was also right that they would be 
tenderly received by the man I love.  And I have no doubt, even as I 
lean against him and cry like there is no tomorrow, that he will banish 
those tears.  In his own inimitable way.  And, of course, he does.

"Scully," I hear him say as his hand caresses the back of my head, 
smoothing over my hair.  "Scully, listen to me.  Shhh, now listen.  
Shhh.  Shhh."  He waits a few moments while I compose myself 
enough so that he can be heard over my sobbing.  Finally I have 
regained enough control so that I now hang, limp and docile in his 
arms, quietly hiccuping.  "Do you remember New Mexico?" he asks 
quietly.

I nod my head against his chest, sniffing loudly.  I didn't want to 
remember that dreadful time, would much rather have forgotten the 
horror of discovering that my partner had apparently died a fiery death 
trapped in a burning, buried train car.  Although I had reported the 
incident, and everyone had assumed that Mulder was dead, I somehow 
couldn't believe it myself.  I didn't *feel * that he was dead.  
Somewhere along the way I began to feel his spirit again, beside me as 
always, right where it belonged.  And, as it turned out, he wasn't dead 
and before long he was communicating with me, via my dreams.

"Scully, I died in New Mexico," he continues, rubbing his cheek 
against my hair.  "I died yet I came to you, didn't I?  I came to you in a 
dream and told you that I was returning to you, to continue our fight."  I 
draw a deep, shuddering breath and his arms tighten around me in 
reaction.  Again I feel his lips in my hair, this time lingering in a tender 
kiss.

"And that time when you were taken, and then returned to me, in a 
coma so deep that everyone had given up hope for you."  I feel his body 
shudder at the recollection, feel his throat muscles working as he 
swallows the painful memory.  "I sat with you all night, that last night.  
I held your hand so that you could feel me wherever you were.  I 
reminded you that I was there, reminded you that you weren't ready to 
leave.  And you heard me, didn't you, Scully?"

Again I nod, my heart aching at the visual image of a grieving Mulder 
at my bedside, holding my hand, sitting with me through the long, 
lonely night, calling me back to him.  And, indeed, I had heard him, 
and returned.

He moves me away ever so slightly and uses the tips of his fingers to 
bring my face up to look at him.  "Don't you see, Scully?" he asks 
gently, his eyes searching my face for evidence that he is getting 
through to me.  "We both died, yet we both felt the other one, despite 
death, perhaps *in* spite of it.  We've communicated across the great 
beyond, our spirits have been together no matter the realm of our 
existence.  And that's how we'll always be, Scully.  No matter how 
much time we have in the corporeal world, in here," he finds my hand 
and links  his fingers with mine, touches our combined fist to our 
hearts, now so close together, "in here, we are joined forever.  Nothing 
can change that.  Even death.  Whenever that comes."

I stand quietly in his arms, watching him intently, listening raptly as he 
speaks of death and rebirth, of paranormal communications between 
people in the spirit world and those in the real world.  And I want so 
badly to believe.

Miraculously, he seems to hear me, my unvoiced thoughts, my 
unspoken fears, my needs long denied.  "Believe, Scully," he urges, his 
eyes shimmering.  "I know you want to.  You know you want to.  Just 
let it happen."  He squeezes my hand.  "Believe in *us*, Scully.  
Believe in *us*.

He leans down and tenderly brushes his lips against my temple, moves 
to my eyelids, kissing each one and taking my tears with him.  They 
glisten on his lower lip as he makes his declaration.

"I love you, Scully," he tells me, his voice husky with emotion, his own 
unshed tears threatening to fall and add to the river that I have already 
cried this day.  "I *love* you - with everything I've got, with everything 
I am.  Believe in my love, Scully.  Believe in *our* love.  I'll never 
leave you.  I swear it on my father's grave."

That oath is one I cannot take lightly.  I know he still agonizes daily 
over the death of his father, though he rarely speaks of the man who 
hurt him so badly, who so totally doomed his only son to a life of guilt 
and self-doubt.  Now it is my turn to comfort.  I cannot look into his 
face and see his wounded heart without rallying to heal it.

"Mulder," I say, smiling through my tears, reaching with my free hand 
to caress his face as he has so often caressed mine.  "I do love you.  I 
believe you - I believe in us."  I could not choke out more if my life 
depended on it.

With my admission he goes in for the kill.  His mouth swoops down 
over mine and I am reminded all too vividly of why I have fallen so 
completely and head-over-heels in love with him.  Because I realize 
that he *does* love me with everything he's got.  And I owe it to both 
of us to unleash my heart and return the sentiment in equal measure.  
And I do.

We stand locked in passionate embrace, mouths molded together, 
tongues tasting, hands stroking, connecting on a level I never believed 
existed until now.  If angels run and hide when we dance, they 
positively weep when we make love.  Surely we are the only two 
people in the world to ever experience this.  Surely no one else has felt 
this connection the way that we do.

Mulder, my best friend, my partner, always my love, pulls away from 
me with a ragged sigh.

"What is it," I ask in a drugged sort of voice.  That's what he is to me.  
Mulder:  my drug of choice.  And I am now hopelessly addicted.

He gently disentangles himself from my arms, stepping back from me 
with a look of genuine regret on his face.  "If we keep this up I won't be 
able to stop and I don't think you will either."  I sigh heavily, unable to 
resist a peek at the bulge in his pants as he stands in front of me.  I hate 
it when he's right.  He sees the direction of my gaze and flashes that 
sexy grin.  "Don't worry, Scully.  I'm not going anywhere, remember?"  
He looks down at his crotch, back up to capture my eyes with his.  
"Neither is *it.*"

I flush deeply at his words, fighting a losing battle to keep my upper lip 
straight.  I have to look away from him before I dissolve into helpless, 
hysterical laughter and further humiliate myself.

"I bought us some time with Skinner," he continues, in a decidedly 
more cheerful voice.  "But not nearly enough time to do with you what 
I want to do."  I dart my eyes back to his in time to catch the wicked 
intent.  We smolder for a few heartbeats, reading each other with 
perfect clarity.    "But, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm working on my 
patience.  We'll continue along this line of thought when we get back 
from California."

I arch a brow at him.  "California?"   

"Yeah, nice little country club setting, something really weird going on.  
Homeowners disappearing, neighbors pleading ignorance."  His eyes 
are lit like a Christmas tree and I can't help but smile as he rubs his 
hands together in joyous anticipation of an X-File, after all these 
months of boredom.  "And we get to play house."  He drops the bomb 
on me without missing a beat.

I shake my head to clear it.  "I beg your pardon?"  He's standing there, 
grinning like a Cheshire cat, the one who just ate the canary.

"Married, Scully," he purrs, his eyes twinkling, his brows waggling 
suggestively.  "We get to go undercover as a married couple."

Stunned, I remain silent, considering the possibilities of this 
arrangement, pro and con.  I'm going to have to tread very carefully 
here and I know it.  How we conduct ourselves on this case could have 
far-reaching effects on our relationship, as well as our careers.
 
"We'll get all the details from Skinner," he promises, reaching for his 
coat and slinging it over his arm, moving toward the door.  "Our plane 
leaves in just over four hours and we've got a hell of a lot to do before 
we go.  Shopping for clothes, compiling our cover, buying the rings, 
you know the routine."

Buying the rings?  This is proving more interesting by the minute.

"I'll meet you in Skinner's office in an hour."   He bends to drop a 
quick, chaste kiss on my forehead before opening the door.

"Hey!" I tug at his sleeve.  "Not so fast."  He turns to look at me, brows 
raised.  "If we're going undercover there are a few things we'd better 
get straight first.  Right here.  Right now."

He grins, earnest as a little schoolboy.  "Sure, Scully," he agrees.  
"Anything you say."

"Number One:  No hanky panky while we're working."

"Please explain to me the scientific nature of hanky panky," he 
deadpans.

I bite the inside of my cheek, determined not to laugh at his teasing.  
"Sex, Mulder," I state firmly, not giving an inch.  "No sex while we're 
working."

He dramatically slaps his hand to his heart, groaning.  "Aww, Scully!" 
he protests.  "Do the words 'party pooper' mean anything to you?"

I hide my smile and continue smoothly.  "Number Two:  What we do 
together in the privacy of our own little world has nothing to do with 
anybody else and nobody else needs to know.  This stays between us.  
Got it?"

"Goes without saying, Scully," he says readily.  "Too many people 
would have way too much fun with that information."  His eyes grow 
serious as he considers a darker side of the situation.  "And too many 
people wouldn't hesitate to use it against us," he finishes, reaching to 
take my hand and giving it a squeeze as he smiles softly down into my 
eyes.  "Just you and me, G-woman.  That's all I need."

Damn him, he's doing it again.  Just when I take control of a situation 
he has to go and make me all weepy again.  I blink back the sudden 
mist, clear my throat and forge ahead.

"And Number Three," I manage to croak, pausing meaningfully, still 
clutching his hand.

"Number Three?" he prods.

I take his face in my free hand, cupping his cheek gently, my thumb 
caressing that luscious lower lip that now belongs to me.  "No regrets," 
I whisper and rise on tiptoes to take that lip between my own and 
gently suck on it, swirling my tongue over it at the last second before I 
let it pop out of my mouth.

I feel his immediate and urgent prodding against my belly, smile with 
triumph at my power over him.  Suddenly all my fear has left me and I 
feel nothing but good ahead for us.  I don't even mind so much getting 
on the damned plane, as long as Mulder is along for the ride.

I plant a quick kiss in the dimple of his chin before putting my hands 
on his chest and pushing him backward out the door.  "Skinner's office, 
one hour," I repeat, ushering him out into the hallway.

He favors me with his best Mulder smile, kisses his first two fingers 
and blows across the threshhold at me.  His eyes are sparkling with 
happiness, reflecting the fireworks that I know are going off in mine.

"Be there or be square," he teases.  He turns toward the elevator, 
tossing his trench coat casually over his shoulder.  "Make sure you 
bring your nightie," I hear him call, and then, under his breath, as if to 
himself:  "Not that you'll need it."

I watch him saunter down the hallway, catch the waiting elevator and 
disappear from my sight as the doors close in front of him.    "Cocky 
bastard," I whisper, smiling as I close my own door.  "We'll just see 
about that."


- END - 



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