Taming The Unicorn 7: Friendship

They were chasing her.

She feinted left, dodged right, dashed quickly around a curve, then raced down the corridor, running for her very life; this was her last chance... Faster, faster, gaining speed on the straightaway -- finally, ahead, she glimpsed salvation.

Scully reached her goal and claimed it, with a small, breathless cry of triumph.

And the maze froze, and began to blink.

The teenagers who'd gathered to watch were cheering her success; she stepped back from the vintage Pac-Man game, wiped her sweating palms on her blue jeans and took a deep breath while Inky, Pinky, Blinky and Clyde cavorted on the screen with a little yellow ball... A fountain Coke with ice appeared in her hand: she blinked in surprise, then sipped from the straw gratefully.

"Way to go, Scully; you rock," said the familiar voice, the sound of someone grinning from ear to ear. She turned her head, and there he was -- and yes, he was, seemingly more pleased by her success than she was. "I told you that you'd like your present," he added, taking the paper cup from her hand, and she laughed and returned her attention to the game, which was starting up again.

It had been years since she'd played Pac-Man, but her reflexes were sound, and the old moves and patterns had come back to her as if it had been yesterday... Mulder had soundly beaten her at Centipede and Missile Command, the trak-ball games, but Scully and Pac-Man had an intimate and long-standing friendship; she'd been nursing the same game now for over an hour.

Another man might've gone off sulking and nursing his bruised ego -- in the past, many had -- but here was Mulder, keeping her supplied with sodas and cheering her success more loudly than any of the kids gathered around watching.

She'd taken it for a gag gift, that part of her holiday present; but no, Mulder had been serious. "You need to play more," he'd said, "we both do," and so they'd gone down to the arcade. She had to admit, he'd been right -- she'd needed this, for more reasons than he knew.

On their last case, he'd been particularly annoying: charging in with his own peculiar brand of naivete and paranoia, ignoring her advice along with all common sense, ordering her around and insisting on driving... for awhile, she'd felt like strangling him, until it had come down to crunch time and she was staring into a gun pointed at her face and trying not to look or be afraid: and then suddenly she was free and safe again, and Mulder was standing there bleeding and bruised and about a half inch away from killing her assailant.

"What did you do at work today, Dana?" "Nothing, Mom."

Now here they were, on something that neither of them had dared refer to as a 'date', unlike any evening Scully had spent since high school... and she was content. And that was something she couldn't explain, either; no one would understand. Her single friends rated their dates based on the lavish luxury of the restaurants they were taken to, the expense of the theater tickets -- how could she tell them that her evenings out were spent at video arcades, discount movie theaters and Denny's? Or that she wouldn't have wanted it any other way?

Besides, that wasn't all she did with her evenings...

"Go for the grapes, Scully," said his voice in her ear, and she pulled her attention back to the game, gratified to have discovered that she could still play Pac-Man while completely distracted -- she'd memorized the monsters' movements long before the cheat books had come out, had in fact discovered patterns that no one else had ever found. Now she moved to capture the bonus-points fruit, resumed the methodical flight, efficiently gobbling dots, evading her pursuers, and causing a gasp to arise from the spectators when she utilized a little-known glitch of the game to go through one of the monsters as if it didn't exist; she finished the maze easily, began on the next, all the while very aware of Mulder standing just behind her, eagerly watching her beat the game.

"Whoa!" said several voices at once, and "Excellent!" and "Way to go!" and Scully glanced at the top of the maze to see two sets of numbers spinning in unison: her own score and the High Score... she truly had beaten the game, though the ancient game had no place for her to enter her initials to prove it. Not that it mattered -- the crowd around her knew what she'd done, and more importantly, Mulder knew. It wasn't as if she needed to prove herself to him, not any more, but she still enjoyed it.

And he liked it, that was the best part; he treasured her skills and talents, delighted in the fact that she was smart and strong and unwilling to repress those things in order to seem more 'feminine'.

She didn't really want to be playing Pac-Man at all, she realized; what she wanted was to be in Mulder's bed, or with him in hers, or hell, even in the back seat of her car... Scully smiled to herself, continued piloting the munching yellow ball through the maze, wokka-wokka-wokka- gulp; she finished out the maze, then feigned an elaborate yawn and stepped back from the machine. "I'm bored," she said, and gestured one of her teenaged spectators to take over the game.

Mulder slipped his arm around her shoulders as they strolled away; behind them, she heard the sound of a wilting Pac-Man, as the hapless teenage boy failed to keep her game going. "That was great," her partner said, smiling, and she grinned up at him. "You up for more, or you want to get something to eat?"

"I think ice-cream sodas would be in keeping with the theme of the evening," she said, after a moment's consideration, and he laughed and acquiesced.

The Suzy-Q's in the strip mall was the perfect image of the archetypal fifties diner, right down to the jukebox; this meant that their prices were exorbitant, of course, but they did make an excellent chocolate malt. It also meant that the teenage date-crowd that permeated most of the shopping center was noticeably absent, driven away by the ten-dollar hamburgers and the Fats Domino music. They had the huge corner booth to themselves -- lots of extra space they didn't need, since they were sitting as close as if they were connected at the hip.

Scully almost laughed aloud at the thought, for they were so much closer than that.

"What you need," Mulder said, after a long, thoughtful perusal of the menu, "is an ice-cream sundae."

"No," she retorted pleasantly, "I don't," and let herself lean into him, just a little, enjoying his steadiness and his warmth.

"Sure you do. You had a rough day," and reality swam before her eyes, wavered and reformed into an image of that gun staring her straight in the face... His arm tightened around her, banishing the nightmare. "Ice cream sundaes are good for erasing rough days."

"You're fairly good at it yourself," she said, very softly, and rested her head against his shoulder.

She felt his hand smooth along her upper arm, a reassuring caress; and she was so happily drifting in the gentle comfort of his closeness that the sound of his voice, when he spoke, was a dismaying shock. "I'm sorry, Scully," in a tone that was as lost, as desolate, as she'd ever heard from him.

"Sorry for what?" She pulled away from him, stared up at him, completely at a loss...

"If I had listened to you in the first place, you never would have been in danger..." He turned away, staring out the window at nothing. "I wanted so badly to believe Mariano's story that I ignored you and disregarded all common sense, and it was almost Duane Barry all over again... You deserved better than that, especially from me; and I'm sorry."

She already knew it, of course; had seen it his face in the moment when he'd realized the truth of the situation. The contrition, the regret... not to mention the fear for her safety, and the fury that had caused him to use what the manuals tactfully referred to as 'unnecessary force' in subduing her assailant. Twenty-twenty hindsight, of the sort that Mulder was so good at -- she was accustomed to it, was well used to the blind spot formed by his willingness, his need to believe in the unbelievable -- and she knew he was sorry, she didn't need to be told; but it was nice to hear it anyway.

Her hands enfolded his, and she opened her mouth to tell him so -- then she saw his body tense. "Damn it!"

"What?" and she leaned across him to follow his gaze out the window.

"Someone's breaking into your car," and Mulder was sliding around the booth and dashing out of the diner at the speed of light; she followed him unquestioningly, prepared for action.

Not that any was necessary, or possible. As the diner's door swung shut behind her, she saw the taillights of her car disappearing out of the parking lot, the car fishtailing wildly, roaring away into the night.

And Mulder was standing there, a few yards away from her, shaking from the adrenaline burst, cursing a blue streak, and looking like he was one small step away from a nervous breakdown.

She went to him, took his hand, squeezed it hard enough for him to feel it. "It wasn't your fault," she said quietly, firmly, not talking about the car theft at all.

"If you had never met me, none of this would have happened!" was his anguished reply -- one that would have been a total non-sequitur to anyone who didn't know him as well as she did.

"If I had never met you, I wouldn't be as happy as I am now," she told him, moving to stand in front of him and challenging him silently to meet her eyes, to believe the truth of what she said.

"Happy?" Disbelief saturated his voice. "You've had your car stolen, you were almost killed today..."

"And between the two incidents, I had a wonderful evening at the video arcade with the man I love," Scully responded, with perfect dignity. "What more could any woman ask for?"

He stared at her incredulously, and she returned his gaze evenly; she wrapped her arms around him, and felt him grab hold of her, clinging to her fiercely; the tension drained out of him in the space of one long, shuddering sigh.

"I'm still sorry," he said, into her hair.

"I know," she murmured into his chest, "and you should be; but don't worry about it, okay?" and she heard him laugh, just the barest breath of mirth. A good sign: when he was truly immersed in one of his moods, it required intensive effort to bring him out of it. Being with Mulder was a full-time job, in and of itself -- but then, she'd come to terms with that a long time ago; had decided that she wouldn't have it any other way.

Scully pulled her head back just far enough to look up at him. "I think," she said, "that we should go inside, call the police and report the robbery, and order the biggest, most fattening ice-cream sundaes on the menu."

"I concur," said Mulder, and let her lead him inside.

The first thing she did when the cab let them off at her apartment was to strip off her jeans -- they were snug- fitting, and unforgiving to such things as a waistline distended by too much ice cream and syrup. The second thing she did was wash her face -- Mulder had taken a positive delight in dabbing whipped cream on her nose, over and over and over again, until she'd been giggling so hard she'd thought she might vomit.

She thought she might, anyway; she hadn't eaten that much ice cream at one sitting since childhood.

Clad in sweatshirt and panties, she trudged through her apartment to the kitchen, where Mulder was -- she blinked, in astonishment -- doing the dishes that had been sitting in the sink since that morning's breakfast. "You'd make a good housewife, Mulder," she commented approvingly.

"Does that mean you're going to make an honest woman of me?" he teased, and she smiled.

"Sure," she said, playing along. "If I can ever get you to make a dishonest woman of me, maybe..."

"Is that a prerequisite? I thought you were saving yourself for marriage," said Mulder; she couldn't see his face, so she couldn't quite be sure if it was a jest or not.

"I gave up on that a long time ago, you know that," she answered, hoping that she'd managed to keep the bitterness from her voice; she tore a paper towel off the roll and wiped the countertop dry.

"Saving yourself, or marriage?" he wondered.

"Both, maybe," she answered honestly, and this time she heard the disillusionment in her own voice and cursed herself for it.

She expected him to offer some comforting platitude; typical of Mulder, that he did no such thing. "I never actually expected to marry," he mused. "It just never fit into my worldview. All that mattered was finding Samantha, finding the truth. I didn't think anything would ever matter to me as much as that."

"And now something does?" she queried, knowing the answer, wanting to hear him say it.

Preoccupied with rubbing a coffeestain from the counter, she didn't sense him approaching, and let out a small surprised squeak when his hands slid around her waist. "My best friend matters," he said. "My very best friend in the whole world."

"Ah. I see." Scully leaned back, into him. This was comfortable, this was perfect. This was the way it was supposed to be between them.

"Mm-hmm. In fact," and Mulder's voice dropped, to a conspiratorial tone, "she's such a good friend that even though I let her down all the time, she still loves me."

She opened her mouth to protest at that -- thought about what she'd been ready to say, reconsidered, and began again. "You do let me down," she agreed. "You ask me for my input and then ignore it, you take me for granted, you're careless and you're annoying. All very true."

"And you still love me." It wasn't, Scully thought, quite a question; but it was close enough. The eternal question: the one he'd never gotten past asking.

"I do," she affirmed. "Because despite all your irritating superficial qualities, you are also the very best friend that I have ever had. More than that, you are my one certainty." She reached for the hands that embraced her, held those hands tightly. "Don't forget that, Mulder. Because I don't. Not even when you piss me off."

Again, that soft laughter, sign that his mood was breaking. "I'll try to do better," he promised, fingers twining around hers.

"I wouldn't recognize you," she disputed, and was rewarded by another small breath of laughter.

He released her -- not without a certain reluctance -- and returned to his self-appointed task, while Scully began to dry and put away the dishes he'd washed. "You do realize," she remarked, conversationally, "that you're blowing this way out of proportion. There was no way either of us could have foreseen or prevented that confrontation," and again, briefly, she was looking down the gun barrel... Scully took a deep breath and blinked hard; she was accustomed to these flashbacks after the fact, the moments of terror that mercifully usually only happened after it was all over. She'd never gotten used to the danger, had often had nightmares after some particularly stressful or traumatic episode. At least now, when she fell asleep, it would be in the comforting haven of his embrace. She wouldn't be alone... would never be alone again. Not as long as they both lived.

It was a new feeling, and yet it was also an old familiar feeling, because it had been that way... just about since the beginning of their partnership. In that sense, despite all the changes in their relationship, nothing had really changed at all.

"I know," Mulder answered, scrubbing a stubborn bit of food from a bowl. "I can't help it. Call me crazy, but I have this little philosophical objection to losing people I love."

"That's not a failing, Mulder; but you don't need to go overboard. We face danger, we protect each other; that's what partners do." She felt herself smile. "And best friends."

"Yeah, but..." and he fell silent, devoting (she noted) far too much attention to the simple task of dishwashing, staring steadfastly at the plate he was washing so that he wouldn't have to meet her eyes. "I just want to protect you," he continued, after a moment -- surprising her; she'd thought she would have to drag it out of him, the way she usually did. "I don't want you to be hurt, not ever. Sometimes I wish I could lock you up in an ivory tower somewhere, like a princess in some fairy tale, so that I'd know you were safe, and that no one could ever take you away from me. Even though I know it's impossible. And that you'd hate it, even if I could."

Scully put down the dishtowel she was holding and stared at him, for a long moment -- he knew he was being scrutinized, and his face reddened with embarrassment, yet still he refused to look at her, scouring a saucepan as if it was the most important thing in the world. His nightmare, one that remained with him constantly; and it tore him apart to confess it -- even to her, even though she already knew. As if speaking it aloud might make it come true.

And there was no way she could reassure him, not really, because it had happened before, and might happen again...

"I feel the same way about you, you know," she said finally.

This earned her a quick sidelong glance. "Do you?"

"Of course I do. You think you have some sort of monopoly on fear and insecurity? I worry about you all the time. And you, you go off chasing rainbows into bottomless chasms, and leave me sitting in the passenger seat of some rental car wondering if I'll ever see you again..." She snatched up the dishtowel and thwacked him on the arm with it; inexplicably, this brought a smile to his face. "And I try to protect you, or at least to temper your belief with reason, and more often than not, you refuse to listen..."

"I listen," he protested. "I just... don't always heed your advice. I have to follow my own instincts..."

"As do I," she said quietly.

"I know that." He washed off the last dish, set it in the drainer, and turned to face her finally, abandoning pretense for directness. "Scully, I wouldn't change you, not for anything; that's not what I'm saying..."

"I know what you're saying," she told him.

"Do you?"

"Yes." She took his hands in her own; they were wet, a little soapy, but as strong and as warm as always. "And as I said, I feel the same way. I would like to protect you, too... even though I know that I can't."

He nodded once, slowly. "Yeah," and his tone was wistful. "But there's never going to be any real safety for us, is there?"

"Not as long as we're doing what we're doing," she said, very softly.

"Yeah." And then there was silence, a stillness that seemed to stretch forever.

After an eternity, Mulder drew a deep breath, and broached the subject that neither of them had ever dared speak of. "It would be safer," he said, in an unsteady voice, "if we left the Bureau. Or at least, the X-Files."

We, Scully thought, wondering what exactly that meant. "Do you think we really could?" she asked him, placing the slightest emphasis on the 'we'.

"I don't know," he said bleakly. "But if it meant that you would be safe..." and his voice trailed off. "Sometimes... sometimes, I think..." and again, he didn't -- couldn't -- finish the sentence.

She contemplated him thoughtfully, amazed by what he'd said, and what he'd left unsaid. It was true enough that there were times she wanted nothing more than to be done with the X-Files; to leave it all behind, the endless uncertainty, the chasing of rainbows and the scurrying away from the faceless shadows that wanted their secrets kept... and then there were the times when the need for the Truth burned within her ferociously, a fire that he'd kindled, but which her own nature kept alight. His fight had become hers; and yet there were times when she wanted to leave the struggle far, far behind...

Somehow, though, she'd never imagined that he might have become ambivalent about his Holy Grail. She'd certainly never dreamed that she might be at the heart of the ambivalence.

"Could you?" he asked her finally, his eyes meeting hers tentatively, as if he feared what she might say, but had to know the answer anyway.

"I could never work with anyone but you, not now," she said at once, not having to think about that part of it; their partnership ran so deep, with or without the romantic aspects, that the thought of being paired with any other agent was unnatural, even repugnant.

That seemed to reassure him; but he persisted: "What if... what if I left the X-Files?"

Despite his earlier words, the statement stunned her; she'd never imagined hearing him say such a thing... "I can't imagine you doing that," she said, feeling slightly dazed, as if she were in a dream.

He thought about it for a moment. "I can't imagine living without you," he said at last. And fell silent again, as if he couldn't bear to say anything more.

"I feel the same way," Scully whispered, and left it at that; she hugged him, hard enough to drive such troublesome thoughts far, far into the distance, and felt his arms tighten around her, grateful for the distraction.

Leave the X-Files? What about the Truth? What about Samantha? Unbelievable, that he would even consider it... And what would become of them, if they did? The X- Files were at the heart of their partnership -- yet that union had become so much more. The very idea, that she had somehow come to mean more to him than his life's quest... inconceivable.

It scared her, even as it warmed her. And after the tumultuous events of the past day, she didn't even want to think about it. She didn't think she could handle any more instability, not at the moment. She didn't think he could, either.

"Let's go to bed," she said, and he agreed silently, signaling affirmation with a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

They were chasing her.

Faceless demons, and ones with all-too-familiar faces. Duane Barry. Mariano. The darkness of impending death, looming up on her inexorably. She raced through the maze, eerily similar to that of the Pac-Man game she'd beaten; but this was no game, this was her life... and worst of all, she was alone.

It seemed to her that it was wrong, this aloneness; it was wrong, in the sense that a two-headed baby would be wrong -- impossible, implausible, something that should not be -- but she couldn't remember quite why.

She ran, and ran, knowing that there was no way out, until finally a clawed hand snatched her and dragged her down...

...soft kisses on her face, her neck, warm strong hands caressing her, easing her from the falseness of dreams into blessed reality, chasing away the demon fears of her sleeping mind with the comforting knowledge that the nightmare had denied her -- that she was not alone; never alone.

"Mulder," she whispered, and let herself sink into his embrace.

"Scully," came her name, a soft murmur, as his arms wrapped around her and drew her even closer, one hand rising to smooth her tousled hair... He knew all about nightmares, of course; he'd had enough of his own. She'd witnessed many of them, especially recently, and had become adept at soothing away the residual horror that lingered after the dream had been dispelled. Apparently, he'd learned a thing or two along the way.

Or else it came naturally, this capacity for nurturing and tenderness; a latent tendency, rarely expressed. Whatever. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Only that he was there, as (it seemed, now) he'd always been.

She cried a little, and he held her until the tears stopped; they seemed to wash away the last of the nightmare, left her feeling calmer and less unsteady. Resting her head on his chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart, it occurred to her that nothing in her life had ever felt so right... "I think," she said, "that you are quite probably the best thing that has ever happened to me."

A soft chuckle. "I'm glad you feel that way," said her partner, "because I know you're the best thing that ever happened to me. How'd I ever get so lucky?" and there was wonder in his voice, awe, at the machinations of a universe that had once seemed so cruel and uncaring, and yet had presented him so unexpectedly with the prospect of a bright and shining future.

Scully knew the feeling. Shared it. How was it that her inexplicable (and at the time, undesired) pairing with the FBI's arguably strangest agent had led to this?

"I don't know," she said, "sounds like a case for the X- Files," and he laughed.

Theirs had never been a relationship built on merriment. They'd built a fragile foundation of trust amidst a gnarled tangle of conspiracy and lies, strengthened that bond over years of shared experience, until their faith in each other had become something that they'd come to rely on utterly -- but smiles and laughter had been rare, few and far between. They'd been a part of each other, yet had never been truly close... until that one fateful night, when a dare had become so much more. Within that new intimacy, they'd begun to build a new rapport, integrated with the old, solid bond to form something even stronger -- and Scully was beginning to discover something amazing and wondrous: that Mulder was an entirely different person when he was happy.

She wriggled free from his grasp and straddled him, still shaking slightly with the giggles that wouldn't quite go away. "You're gorgeous when you smile," she told him, and bent down to kiss the tip of his nose.

He liked that, she could tell; and so she worked her way down, her hair brushing against his skin as her lips trailed kisses... As she passed his belly button, his hips arched up to meet her, presenting evidence of his desire that poked her in the jaw; she grinned and applied kisses there, too, feeling a long, ferocious tremor consume him as her lips slid along heated flesh. She knew what he liked, how he liked it, well enough to predict his every response to her every move: and in this case, familiarity didn't breed contempt, only a delicious intimacy that just got better and better each time they were together. Like riding a roller coaster, over and over -- no less exhilarating on the tenth, the hundredth journey, no matter how well one knew the course of the track: the long slow ascents were just as fraught with tense anticipation, the sheer coasting drops just as likely to provoke wild screams of pleasure -- Scully had never been overly fond of roller coasters, actually; but this particular ride was one she loved dearly.

And it was as easy now as it had been the first time, to bring him to the peak of that ascent... as easy, and as much fun: to hold such complete power over him, as he lay whimpering and writhing beneath her, his hands clutching at the sheets, digging furrows into the mattress, so aroused that the smallest flick of her tongue could provoke near- convulsions... she held him there, on the edge of culmination, loving the feeling of power, of mastery, of owning him: her Mulder, hers and hers alone, for no one else could do to him what she did -- she knew this; he'd told her so, in more than words -- held him there until he could stand it no longer, then drew his throbbing erection all the way into her mouth, as deeply as she could, with one long hard application of suction, lips and tongue conspiring to draw him over the edge.

She was sure that her neighbors could hear him howl, not merely the next-door tenants but the entire apartment complex, as his orgasm seized him and consumed him; she suckled gently, enhancing the spasms, swallowed without thinking about it, and smiled to herself, pleased with her work. Loving him this way was as good as being the recipient of similar attentions: a trite old cliche, but absolutely true in this case. Maybe because he was so contained that it was a delight to see him lose control so thoroughly, to provoke him to such extreme responses. Maybe just because he was her Mulder, and she loved him with all her soul.

For a long time, his breathing was ragged and hoarse, as he struggled to recover -- his muscles were as limp and lax as a rag-doll marionette who'd had its strings severed; he lay motionless, as if the effort of respiration were all he could manage -- and she inched her way up the bed to lie beside him, snuggling into her familiar, comfortable place against his side, placing her hand palm-flat against his chest to feel it rise and fall in that irregular pattern, to feel the hard pounding of his heart. Watching drops of sweat slide down his face, she saw his lips move silently in a well-used pattern; she waited the space of a breath and heard him add sound to it: "Scully," in a whisper that barely qualified as a vocalization. Her name, the only one he'd ever used for her, a name that belonged to him and him only. Her surname, an impersonal appellation -- except when it came from his lips; and then, it was an endearment.

Then he smiled, that wonderful, sated, contented, happy, gorgeous smile that she so enjoyed seeing, and said it again in a stronger voice: "Scully," the paired syllables conveying so much more than her identity. His respiration was stabilizing, now; and he turned, rolling over and capturing her in his arms, holding her close enough that she could feel his heart thumping in syncopated rhythm with her own. Lips forming a kiss on her forehead, another on her eyebrow: "Scully," once more, in a voice saturated with love, and she smiled and kissed him back.

And then he pushed her gently back against the mattress, rallying his strength, and began to return the favor.

Morning arrived with the annoying, persistent buzz of an alarm, piercing her consciousness and nagging her to alertness despite her fatigue; she wriggled out from beneath the arm that held her immobile, and stumbled into the bathroom.

She didn't shut off the alarm, knowing that if she did, he would never awaken... she was in the shower when she heard the bathroom door open, heard the unmistakable sounds of the usual morning routine; and shortly afterwards, the shower curtain slid back, and he stepped in with her.

Her shower wasn't built for two, but there wasn't any choice; there was neither enough hot water nor enough time for them to shower separately and still make it to work on time. A neat little gadget from an airplane SkyMall catalogue had remedied the logistical problem: a shower- head extender that created two simultaneous sprays, so that neither of them had to shiver at the cold end of the tub -- he reached around her to position the gadget, then reached further for the soap, pulled her into his arms and began to wash her back. She reciprocated, letting herself rest against him for one long lazy moment, luxuriating in the feel of warm wet skin against hers. Shared showers might have been practical, but they were also delicious, even when there wasn't time for anything more than getting clean.

Ritual: he exited the shower first, so that when she emerged, there was a huge fluffy towel being wrapped around her before the cooler air could touch her skin and make her shiver; another towel deposited itself upon her head, and gentle strong hands rubbed her hair briskly. She plugged in the dryer, picked up a comb and began to style her barely damp hair; a long arm stretched across her field of vision, blocking her view of the mirror, as he plugged in his razor, and side by side they shared the bathroom mirror. There wasn't really enough room in the little bathroom, but they managed, as always.

He finished shaving before she was through drying her hair, left the bathroom -- not long after, she smelled the drifting aroma of coffee brewing, and headed to the kitchen to claim her cup as soon as she'd finished coaxing her hair into its usual professional 'do. It was waiting for her, black coffee steaming in her mug, sitting on the countertop; and Mulder was making breakfast, the usual pot of oatmeal, made with a dash of vanilla and a bit of heavy cream, a liberal helping of cinnamon and entirely too much brown sugar, one of the few meals he could prepare without destroying half the kitchen.

The toaster popped, and she plucked the protruding slices from the slots, got out the spread and began to butter the toast, slid each piece onto a paper towel and took them to the table along with her coffee; a moment later, Mulder was there, bringing two bowls with him. She traded him a slice of toast for a bowl of oatmeal, and they sat side by side, eating their breakfast.

It wasn't until he spoke that Scully realized that neither of them had said a word since waking: that all their morning preparations had been conducted in a silence as comfortable as their conversations. But then, words weren't necessary; not between them, not anymore.

"I don't think I could," he said slowly. "I wish I could, sometimes, but I can't."

She was momentarily confused, wondering what he was talking about; an instant later, it was clear. "I didn't think you could," she agreed. "I don't think I could, either."

His eyes met hers: still sleep-fogged, but intense. "I love you," he said, and she had no doubt that he meant it. "How could I put anything else before you?"

It was clear to her that he felt guilty about that -- yet she felt no resentment; and she searched her mind to figure out why. "It's not a question of who or what you care more deeply about," she said at last. "It's a matter of what you believe, and who you are. And who I am." Her hand snaked across the table, fingers intertwining with his. "It isn't merely your quest anymore," she reminded him. "It's mine, too."

"Because I forced it on you..."

"You did no such thing." Sometimes, Scully thought, with mingled fondness and annoyance, he can be so blind... "You showed me things I had never seen before," she continued, "opened my eyes to new possibilities, opened my mind to questions I hadn't considered. Do you think I blame you for that? I'm thankful for that."

"Really?" and it was clear that he'd never considered that angle before.

"Really," she confirmed. "To be perfectly frank, if you were to tell me that you were giving up the X-Files for me, I would have to insist that you seek immediate counseling. Because that's not you, Mulder."

Finally, a smile -- how she loved to see him smile. "You amaze me, Scully."

"Good," she said, and watched the smile widen.

They finished breakfast, took their dishes to the sink. "We're late," she said, with a cursory glance at the clock, "again. And we still have to dress, and call a cab..."

"Yeah." He turned toward the trash. "Guess I might as well take this out when we leave; you're too pretty to spend the day smelling like yesterday's garbage."

"My hero," she said, grinning. "Don't forget, the blue bag goes in the container on the left..."

"I know, I know, you recycle." Mulder reached for her hand, and she reached back automatically -- suddenly, belatedly realized that he wasn't being affectionate...

"Hey!" she yelped involuntarily, snatching at the hand that had stripped the ring from her finger.

Mulder caught her hand and held it immobile. "You said you recycle," he said reasonably. "And I think we ought to save our money for a new car; personally, I'm not expecting the local authorities to find anything except possibly a burned-out wreck." His eyes met hers, gazing at her with such love, it took her breath away. "Scully... will you marry me?"

It took her a moment to realize what he'd said. It took another moment for it to sink in.

"But Mulder, we're already married," she heard herself say, and knew in that instant that it was true.

His smile was a treasure. "We are," he agreed. "So maybe we should walk down the aisle and make it official?"

She didn't have to pause to think about it. "We should," she affirmed.

Very carefully, very tenderly, he slipped the ring back onto her finger, drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it.

That was when the tears began, and the laughter that bubbled up through the tears and coexisted with them; he wiped away her tears with the corner of a paper towel, paying no heed to his own, both of them laughing and crying at once, sharing an emotion that was too big for words or laughter or tears or even the kisses that followed.

And they never did get to work that day.

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