***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.
"She Said Yes" is by Rhett Akins.

ARCHIVING: Link only, please!

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She Said Yes
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, Mulder/Scully Romance

Rated PG-13

Spoilers for "Emily"

Summary: She says yes.

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She Said Yes
by shannono

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"They lit a flame with the match God had made ..."

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She said yes.

Oh. My. God.

She actually said yes.

Never, ever, *ever* when I started considering this did I believe
she'd agree, even if I did get up the nerve to ask.

Actually, I never really asked.

But she said yes anyway.

Maybe I should slow down here and give you a little background.
She and I have been working together for a while now, but then
I guess you know that. Six years, it's been. The best six years
of my life.

The best, and the worst.

In that six years, she and I have become so close it's starting to
feel like we're the same person. We've gotten to the point where
we can carry on an entire conversation without opening our
mouths. And when we do actually talk, we more often than not
say exactly what the other one's thinking. She's started doing
that to me even more than I do it to her.

Like with the Van Blundht case. Hmmm, somehow it doesn't sting
to talk about him so much now. Anyway, we were in the police
station after he'd escaped custody under questionable
circumstances. I called Scully over and told her I had a theory.
Without even blinking, she'd spouted exactly what I thought,
exactly what I believe had happened.

That's what started all this, really. That little quip I made about
"picking out china patterns." That's what got me thinking ...

Anyway, about that "unspoken communication" thing. I think it
drives some other people crazy. They can be right in front of
us, and they feel like we're off in another world, by ourselves.
It's particularly maddening to people who are trying to get us to
let something slip. It never does. As long as we can look into
each others' eyes, we can communicate.

Like I said, it's been the best six years of my life. But it's been
the worst, too. There are the obvious reasons, of course, starting
all the way back with the closing of the X-Files. We'd only been
together a little over a year, and they decided we'd gotten too
close, either to each other or the truth, I'm not sure. So they
decided to split us up.

Boy, did *that* little maneuver backfire.

She went back to Quantico, and they stuck me on wiretap duty.
They should've known better. They should have at least given me
something *somewhat* interesting to keep me occupied. I was
bored to tears, so I jumped at every chance to look into
something else. Why do you think I went to Puerto Rico in the
first place? Sure, it was a chance at "contact." But it was also a
chance to get away from all that drudge work.

Of course, I should have known she'd track me down. She always
does. She's saved me from my own recklessness and stupidity
more times than I can count. Idaho. Puerto Rico. Alaska.

You get the idea.

Anyway. It took a little while, and some help from that rat bastard
of a "partner" they sent me -- a *real* spy this time -- but they
finally figured out it wasn't working. So they decided to try
something different.

They took her away. For real.

And it nearly worked.

You know that scene in "Field of Dreams," when Shoeless Joe
Jackson is talking about being banned from baseball? He says,
"Getting kicked out of baseball was like having part of me
amputated." Well, that's what it was like when they took her. It
felt like they'd cut off part of me, maybe an arm or a leg. Only
worse. Like ... like they'd cut out part of my heart.

Because they had.

Oh, it would be awhile before I figured that out. Even when she
came back, I couldn't admit how deeply what I felt for her ran.
Her mom knew it. Her sister knew it. Heck, Melissa knew it so
well, she stepped in and did what her sister couldn't do. She
landed one swift kick to my ass and sent me flying to sit at her
bedside.

It worked. She came back to me. And my heart was restored.

Still, I didn't make the connection. For an Oxford-educated
psychologist, I can sure be a stupid son of a bitch sometimes. A
sorry son of a bitch, as her brother so succintly put it.
Singlemindedness is not a particularly attractive character trait.

So we went on. I didn't tell her how bad off I was without her,
but I think she knew. I should ask her about that sometime. She
didn't always understand me -- heck, *I* didn't always
understand me. But she always stood by me. She went to jail
for me. She risked her life, her career, her reputation. For me.

Me.

It took me a long time, too long, to realize exactly what she
meant to me. Even now it's hard to explain to myself, much less
anyone else. What I *do* know is, what finally opened my eyes
after all this time was the cancer. Crazy, isn't it? That I had to
nearly lose her again to realize how much I love her.

I should have told her then, while she was in the hospital. I nearly
did, several times, but something in her eyes stopped me. I know
what it was. She didn't want any deathbed confessions, no
declarations of love when it looked like it was too late. If our
time ever came, she wanted it to be on our own terms, not
dictated by a disease.

And maybe she thought that, if she didn't make it, not having said
the words would make it easier somehow. For both of us.

Of course, she didn't die. She was still sick for a while, as much
from the treatment as from the disease. And after she recovered,
she didn't have long before she took another hit, when she found
and lost Emily. So much pain, so many tragedies. I was afraid
she, or rather we, wouldn't recover from that one.

But we did, gradually. She managed to work through some of the
grief, and I managed to work through some of the guilt. It took a
few months, a pile of cases and a lot of late-night, post-nightmare
conversations, but we moved on. Together, as always.

For a while after that, we saw a bit more of each other away from
the office. We'd get together for pizza or a movie, go to dinner
at her mom's, and once we even went to a symphony concert.
Yeah, believe it or not, she got me to sit down for three hours
of classical music. Of course, the featured pieces were
"Brandenberg Concerto" -- you know, the Voyager music; I can never
remember if it's No. 2 or No. 3 -- and "The Planets." It was most
definitely appropriate.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, it all came down to this.
I couldn't quite believe I was actually going to do it. We hadn't even
kissed. But then I am a reckless guy, as I've so carefully proven,
time and time again.

And, as I've said, I knew I loved her, and I was pretty darn sure
she loved me back. Unspoken communication, remember. It was
in her eyes.

So I did it. I called her up after I got home from work Friday night
and offered to take her to dinner Saturday night. I made up an
excuse about it being payback for covering for me in some meeting
with Skinner, or something like that. Anyway, I said it would be
"something a little better than the corner deli, and I promise to
wear a relatively sedate tie, okay?"

She bought it. "Seven sharp," she said warningly. "Yes, ma'am,"
I obediently replied, and was rewarded with a soft laugh as she
hung up.

So Saturday evening arrived, and I drove to her place, obligingly
wearing my newest dark suit and my least outlandish tie that
didn't make me feel like an overgrown Yuppie. I barely noticed
the gun on my hip after so many years, as I'm sure she didn't.

I walked to the door, trying to keep my breathing steady. I sure
don't want to give this away, I told myself, as I knocked on her
door and waited.

A few moments passed before the lock turned and she opened
the door wide. Despite my best efforts, the breath did catch in
my throat as I saw her. She wore a midnight blue dress in some
soft material with a sheen to it. It was a simple design, demure
even -- long sleeves, scoop neckline, with a fitted top and a
flared skirt that fell just below her knees. But on her ... on her,
it was perfection.

I managed a smile and a "Hey" as I stepped in, then gathered
enough wits about me to say, "You look fantastic." She blushed,
as I somehow knew she would, and turned to pick up her purse.

"Wait," I said, putting out a hand to still her movements. "I
wanted to ask you something first."

She looked up at me, that familiar "what-have-you-got-up-your-
sleeve-Mulder?" look on her face, and I smiled in response, sliding
my hand down her arm to clasp her hand. "Come on," I said,
tugging her toward the sofa.

She following, albeit a bit reluctantly, and followed my direction
to sit, perching on the edge of the cushions. I bent to my knee
beside her, my hand still clasping hers. "Mulder, what ..." she
started, but I interrupted.

"Shh," I said, putting a finger to her lips, then reaching the hand
into my pocket and pulling out the small box. I offered it up for
her inspection, and I heard her breathing stop as she gazed
at it. She slowly raised her eyes to meet mine, which I hope
held all the love, desire, hope and joy I saw in hers.

"Open it," I whispered, and after a moment, she extracted her
hand from mine and reached up, prying open the lid. Inside
sat a slim gold band, adorned with a perfectly round single
diamond. Nothing big and gaudy for her. Just beautiful and
perfect.

She lifted her eyes back to mine, and I saw the tears
shimmering there, just before one fell to slide down her cheek.
I felt a match to it sliding down my face. I lifted my thumb to
wipe hers away and left my hand there, cupping her face. I
opened my mouth to speak and couldn't get the words out. I
swallowed and tried again, but she stopped me with a finger
on my lips.

I looked at her, questioning, and she smiled.

Then she said yes.

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