Title: Details and Logistics
Author: Trixie
Email: scullymulder1121@aol.com
Classification: V, UST, MSR (*I* consider it MSR - that opinion may 
differ amongst the rest of society) a fair amount of Angst.
Rating: PG, PG-13ish
Spoilers: Milagro
Summary: Hate summaries, hate summaries, hate summaries . . . Post-Ep 
Milagro Fic. Moose & Squirrel . . . deal.
Archive: Go for it! Drop me a line, let me know where I can see it . .
Notes: I have not read any Milagro fic yet. I wanted to finish this 
before I allowed anyone else's thoughts to color my perception. Just 
you watch, I'll read something brilliant and want to rewrite this . . 
. :)
Feedback is cherished! In fact, let me dedicate this to everyone who's 
ever sent me feedback and never gotten a response - I'm SUCH an 
EmailSlacker.

~~~~

Details and Logistics

~~~~

Just when I think I have her figured out, she throws me a curve ball.

And it's not just any curve ball; oh no. A Scully curve ball is like 
no other. You can't dodge it, you can't anticipate it and you sure as 
hell can't ignore it. Normally, my partner is cool; calm; unflappable 
comes to mind. You can't get under her skin. Well, I can, I just 
choose not to; have chosen not to for awhile now. It's her move, I 
kept telling myself. I did it the last two times; I made the effort. 
It's her turn now. She gets to decide where we go from here; gets to 
decide whether or not we ARE going anywhere from here. 

Until Padgett appeared on the scene, I'd thought she was aware of 
that.

Obviously, I was mistaken again.

I had no idea she was lonely; that she was as lonely as I am. She puts 
up such a brave front, my Scully. Her façade is almost always 
impeccably arranged. I can, in fact, remember only one other time she 
truly broke down in front of me. The horrors she suffered at Pfaster's 
hand so soon after her abduction broke something inside her. That was 
the first night I stayed on her couch while she slept. Because she 
needed me, and unlike all the other times that have come after then, 
she wasn't afraid to let me know it. 

Perhaps her fear was so consumed elsewhere, there was none left over 
for me; for us, for what we could be together. I had almost given up 
hope that she'd ever allow the walls to drop long enough to let me in 
when she needed me again. 

It's not that I wish her to be weak or dependent of me. I don't. I do, 
however, wish she'd let herself need me. I need her. I used to be 
ashamed to admit it. Shame means nothing when the alternative is 
closing myself off from the one person I trust enough to let inside. 

She hasn't let go of me since she woke up. 

The one word I have never used, nor ever thought I would use to 
describe Dana Scully is desperate. But she was desperate earlier; is 
desperate now. Her desperation has faded. The more time that passes 
since her attack, the more she relaxes. She sat passively through the 
questions the local PD asked her. I don't think she fully understood 
the answers she gave. Tomorrow she will most likely think up a 
rational, scientific reason that a man who died two years ago - a 
fictional character - pulled her still beating heart from her chest. 

Jesus Fucking Christ. How is someone supposed to get over something 
like that? How can I expect her to just snap out of it? I don't know 
what she experienced; I can't. I only know that it broke something 
behind her eyes. It broke it and I have no idea how to go about 
helping her do repairs. 

I glance at her, watching her blank stare. She's staring at the spot 
on the floor where I found her. Her hand tightens around mine and I 
can feel the terror, still fresh, coming off her in waves. 

"I'm filthy."

I'd grown so accustomed to the silence, the sound of her voice 
startles me. I jump slightly, assessing her slowly. "Would you like to 
take a shower?" I ask, keeping my voice deliberately neutral. Nothing 
wrong here, no sir-ee. I didn't walk in on my partner to find her 
covered in blood. I didn't believe she was dead for a heart-stopping 
gut-clenching moment in time. Nope, not me - you must be thinking of 
another Fox Mulder.

"Yes," she answers, not meeting my eyes. She's still staring at that 
spot on the floor. 

"Scully, are you okay?" 

The moment the words leave my mouth I want to take them back. Is she 
all right? Yea, I'm sure she's great; peachy fucking keen. Obviously, 
the fact that she isn't moving and hasn't spoken more than six words 
in an hour is a clear indication that everything's right with Scully's 
world. 

Her answer surprises me.

"I am okay," she whispers, finally turning her head toward me. What I 
see staggers me. It knocks me down and builds me up at the same time. 

For what just may be the first time in our history together, I am 
looking into Dana Scully's eyes, my view straight into her soul 
unobstructed. Those eyes . . . usually they're carefully emotionless; 
her mask slipped expertly into place. But right now, they're 
fathomless. I can actually see her fucking soul; it's almost as weary 
as my own. Scully sits there before me, vulnerable in ways she has 
never allowed herself to be in my presence. It's the raw honesty I'm 
reading in her very posture that lends credence to the feeling of 
unease that I have been unable to shake since I heard shots with 
Padgett. 

And yet . . . . she =does= seem okay. Shaken, certainly; still edgy 
with lingering horror, no doubt. But she doesn't seem as damaged as 
she had a mere hour ago. It's as though her strength has already 
rebuilt itself. For some reason, though, the mask and the walls 
haven't yet completed reconstruction. As far as I can tell, they 
aren't even in the building stages. 

"You sure?" I ask slowly, measuring her reaction carefully. "No one 
would blame you if there was a little post-traumatic stress."

"Do you still own that waterbed Mulder?" she asks, her question so out 
of the blue I just stare for a moment.

"I own the frame, but when it sprung a leak I pitched the actual 
mattress and got a regular one," I answer dumbly, unsure as to why she 
even asked the question.

Scully nods solemnly, as though this latest piece of information were 
vitally important. "I'm going to take a shower," she states. She 
releases my hand and I realize I am bereft without her touch.

I immediately berate myself for this response; for God's sake, I've 
been hoping she'll snap out of this for hours now. I am NOT allowed to 
be sorry now that she has. I watch her stand and walk on legs that 
shake only slightly into my bathroom. The door shuts behind her and I 
hear the water start up. I release a breath I hadn't been aware of 
holding. I pick up a pen and start twirling it back and forth, setting 
up a rhythm to the movement. I fix my eyes on the bathroom door and 
stare, almost willing her to finish quicker and come out. 

It isn't until I glance at the clock that I realize she's been in 
there for almost twenty minutes. Heaving a weary sigh, I resign myself 
to the task before me. Go into that bathroom and make sure Scully's 
still breathing without deriving any pleasure whatsoever from possibly 
seeing her naked. Easier said than done. I may be worried about her; 
hell, I may be =horrified= on her behalf, but in the end, I =am= just 
a guy.

I knock politely, fully expecting to get no answer, then open the door 
warily and peek my head in . . . .

"What is it Mulder?" she asks from behind the door, her voice clear 
and calm.

My brow furrows. "Just wanted to . . . Scully are you all right in 
there?" I ask, quickly losing my grasp on the situation. If I were to 
judge her mental state by the sound of her voice, I'd guess this whole 
ordeal effected me a hell of a lot deeper than it did her.

Only the memory of the way she clung to me earlier keeps that notion 
at bay.

"Fine Mulder," she calls. "Although I could use a towel - I don't 
really trust the one you've got in here."

I grimace; she's seen the towel. The thing was there when I moved in 
and I've just never gotten around to throwing it out. It used to be 
white; it's now an attractive shade of gray. "Back in a flash," I 
assure her through the door, heading into my bedroom. A quick glance 
at the pile of filthy laundry reminds me I used my last clean towel 
this morning. With all our time sucked up by Padgett, I hadn't had the 
time to go down to the laundry room. 

It takes me a minute to do the rounds of my apartment; all the 
cupboards are definitely bare, as far as towels go. Just as I'm about 
to rip up a sheet, I feel Scully behind me. My eyes widen slightly as 
I take in her appearance. Her hair is wet, the edges barely brushing 
the collar of my black terry cloth robe. It's huge on her and I find 
myself oddly captivated by her tiny feet sticking out the bottom of 
it.

She smiles slightly at me. "Hope you don't mind," is all she offers in 
way of conversation. She immediately moves to my closet. She opens it 
and begins going through my shirts. I am far too bemused by the 
picture she makes to say word one. Her hands land on my favorite 
sweatshirt, a light weight navy blue number that hits my upper thighs. 
Before I've fully processed the scene she makes at this moment, she 
undoes the tie on the robe and lets it fall to the floor, momentarily 
revealing her backside to me in all its glory. 

For the record, it's not like I haven't seen it before. I didn't 
exactly have a chance to take a good hard look, but I did see it. 
Scully has a beautiful body; this fact is illustrated by how 
incredible she manages to look in even the boxiest of suits. Most of 
the time, I manage not to want her. In fact, I'd say a good ninety 
percent of the time I view Scully as my partner, my best friend and 
nothing more. 

It's that other ten percent that kills me. Moments, not unlike this, 
where I can't ignore the fact that Scully is very much a woman. And 
not just any woman, but the woman I do love with all my heart. 
Normally, these urges don't come over me while we're working. That's 
probably the only reason I haven't thrown her down on my desk by now. 
It happens at the damnedest time, this feeling that comes over me. The 
amazing thing is, unlike every other woman I've wanted before, with 
Scully the physical want is only about forty percent of the equation. 

My body wants her on occasion when my guard slips and wayward thoughts 
drift to the forefront of my consciousness; when I am in the throws of 
a dream I don't wish to wake from. But my mind; my mind wants her 
always. It craves her intellect the same way my soul craves the 
shelter she offers. In Scully, I have found more than a partner, more 
than a friend, more even than a lover or a wife. 

I have found a soul mate whose presence and place in my life makes 
even the term 'soul mate' seem wholly inadequate to describe all that 
she is to me.

She is wearing my shirt, I realize dumbly. She walks toward me, her 
eyes downcast. It isn't until she reaches me and still won't meet my 
eyes that I realize she's ashamed. Before I can call her on it, 
however, her hands are at the hem of my shirt. She efficiently strips 
me of it, then moves on to my pants. Her touch isn't remotely 
arousing. If I had to give name to the motion, it would be maternal, 
although that isn't right either. Once I've been stripped of all 
clothing, save the neon green silk boxers she bought me for my 
birthday, she stands back from me. I can see the smirk as she takes in 
the underwear, but I still can't see her eyes.

Her hand finds mine and she tugs, moving toward the bed. The blinds 
are shut and she flicks off the light, plunging the room into 
darkness. She curls up in my bed, never releasing my hand so I have no 
choice but to follow her.

"Scully?" I ask, her body against mine as she finds a comfortable 
position. 

"What?" she asks, sounding as though she has no idea this is bizarre.

What? I find myself echoing silently. Do I have a problem with this? 
No, not really. Do I think there's something =wrong= with us doing 
this? Not even a little bit. After all, what are we doing here? We're 
just lying in bed together. I'm holding (when did my arms go around 
her?) my friend because she needs me to. Nothing in our posturing 
suggests anything remotely near a sexual nature. We don't have sex; 
why does that mean we can't sleep together?

"Nothing," I finally mumble, settling into position with her. Her 
cheek rests against my shoulder and some distant part of my twisted 
personality reminds me her ear is just above the scar from where she 
shot me. 

"What did you think of Padgett?" she questions softly after a lengthy 
silence. "I mean, before you knew he was a murderer. When you just 
thought he was a writer, what did you think of him?"

I don't know how to answer this question. Before I thought he was a 
murderer, before I knew he liked, LIKED my partner, I didn't have much 
of an opinion. He seemed like a loner; someone who preferred the 
company of his characters, than that of the rest of the world. I could 
identify with him. Hell, before Scully, I had BEEN him. For over a 
year I locked myself away in my basement and surrounded myself with my 
files. I memorized every fucking case file for Christ's sake. You 
don't do something like that unless you've got a shit load of time on 
your hands. I did; I think Padgett did, too. In the end, being left 
alone with his madness is what probably killed him. 

"I didn't really think anything of him," I answer slowly. "He reminded 
me a little of myself; in an abstract sort of way." I chuckle 
ruefully. "Look what could've happened to me if you hadn't come 
along," I tease gently, squeezing her shoulders lightly.

"I realize now part of what I was doing had to do with you," she 
surprises me by saying. I have been trying damn hard NOT to make this 
about me. "He didn't really remind me of you," she continues. "Maybe 
there was something . . . an intensity to him that was reminiscent of 
you," she hypothesizes, seemingly throwing this theory around in her 
head as she speaks it. She's using me as a sounding board, the way I 
normally use her as one.

"At least I haven't gone all Eugene Tooms on you," I quip, trying to 
pull her out of the musing place she's gone in her head, to no avail.

 "I was trying to get your attention," she states, figuring it out as 
she goes along. I'm extremely familiar with that particular mental 
process. "That wasn't all it was," she's quick to clarify. "I found 
him . . . attractive. Not . . . not in a physical sense so much as . . 
. he was a puzzle. An enigma; I was drawn to something unknown in 
him." I'm staring at the top of her head and I realize this is why 
she's seemed ashamed ever since she snapped out of the state she was 
in. She's afraid I'll judge her. "I've become very interested in 
solving puzzles over the last few years. I didn't even realize at the 
time what I was doing, why I was doing it," she babbles and this 
really scares me because Scully NEVER babbles. 

Scully has so many layers to her. There's what she lets everyone see; 
the consummate professional; the woman who can stare down a mutant 
serial killer without batting an eyelash. Then there's the woman who 
hides away, a strict Catholic upbringing no doubt playing a huge role 
in her shame at certain feelings or desires. This woman has a dark 
side and isn't afraid to explore it. Then there's the woman I'm 
holding right now; the one who's allowed her defenses to drop and has 
given me the most precious of gifts; her unconditional trust. 

More than anything at this moment in time, I want to say just the 
right thing. I want to say what she needs to hear, I want to say what 
will make her feel better. I have no idea what that is. I search my 
consciousness and settle for the best I can come up with. 

"Scully, you already had my attention. How could you even think that 
you'd lost it?" I know the answer to that as soon as I ask the 
question. It's yet another layer to my partner. She has so much 
confidence in herself professionally; so much intelligence as to who 
she is and what purpose she serves. Yet when it comes to Dana Scully 
the woman, she is so filled with insecurities. She constantly craves 
the approval of those in authority, especially male figures in her 
life. She grows further out of that the longer I know her and I revel 
in the change. I fear I have only served to heighten those 
insecurities as far as her place in my life goes. 

Have I become so consumed with preserving the work that I've 
sacrificed the partnership to the altar of the truth?

For the first time in awhile she tilts her face toward mine. I can 
barely make out her features in the faint moonlight spilling through 
the blinds. Her eyes seem to have become perpetually wet, the moisture 
causing them to glisten almost mystically. "I guess I knew that," she 
murmurs, smiling so faintly I can barely detect it. "I just wanted . . 
." she trails off, her voice taking on that helpless, lost quality 
that makes me want to wrap myself around her and never let her go. I'm 
so glad I don't have to squelch that urge tonight. "I wanted to see 
what you'd do; how you'd react," she finally states, her voice sure, 
even as it retains the sound of dawning realization. 

Her words almost make me break a vow I made to myself when her Cancer 
went into remission. 

I love my partner. I believe she loves me. I am unable to express that 
love to her in any obvious way; unable to tell her so when I'm in full 
possession of all my faculties. I can't love her the way she needs; 
can't love her the way she deserves to be loved. Not yet, at any rate. 
We are both too consumed in this quest, this journey we're on. I 
believe, in a place so deep in my soul I can't even define it, that we 
will be together in the end; that there can be no other ending to the 
journey. 

I just know it can't be now. When I love her in any other way than by 
afar, it won't be because we're lonely and have no one but each other 
to turn to. It won't be because I'm so lost in the pain and sorrow 
I've seen and experienced over my lifetime that the temptation to ease 
my weary soul into her being overwhelms me. And I will never allow it 
to be because I almost lost her and I need to reassure myself that 
she's real; that she's alive. That I do just fine without crossing 
those lines. When I love her, it won't be because she's my partner, or 
the only one I can trust, or even because she's my friend. 

When I finally allow myself to love her, it will be for one simple 
reason: She is Scully.

Everything else is just details and logistics.  

A few of those details assault me now. The logistics of our current 
position doesn't escape my notice, either. I'm pretty smart, you know. 
I promised myself that when she got better I wasn't going to 
jeopardize our work so we could indulge a few wants and desires. I 
assured myself we were above that; what we have together is purer than 
that. However, that has never stopped me from wanting her in those 
quiet moments where guards and walls don't exist. In those moments I 
allow myself to want her, I do it so badly that I ache. 

"You know that I love you," I find myself saying, not crossing the 
lines I assure myself quickly; merely blurring them a bit. 

"I know," she answers, wrapping her arm around my waist. "Most of the 
time," she amends softly. 

"Always Scully," I promise, running my hand up and down her arm, 
trying to warm something inside her I know mere tactile contact could 
never reach.

I feel the wetness on my skin a second before I realize she's crying. 
She's not sobbing like she was earlier; the tears are just running 
down her cheeks. I pull her to me tighter and I feel her try to melt 
into me. I brush my lips over the top of her head and give her the 
gift of silence. Sometimes we really do just need a hug; someone to 
hold onto in the dead of the night. 

She has taken it upon herself to chase away the demons and monsters of 
my memory. The least I can do is return the favor when she allows it. 
After endless minutes, I feel her still in my arms and her breath 
begins puffing evenly against the side of my neck. I lay with one of 
my arms covering the one she has slung over my waist, the other gently 
petting her hair back. I keep my touch as soothing as I know how to 
be. I soak up the peace she exudes when she's resting. I'm startled to 
realize I feel myself begin to rest as well. 

The thought that I might actually get some sleep tonight of all nights 
is near terrifying. I know I may have dreams tonight; horrible, 
terrifying dreams. However, the prospect doesn't scare me as bad as it 
usually does. Having Scully here takes away most of the fear. 

In that place that isn't sleep, but hasn't yet totally abandoned 
consciousness is where a thought, unbidden, enters my mind.

I want her tonight; more than ever. But I no longer ache.

~~~~

END