Taming The Unicorn 9: Commitment

In the parlance of her profession, it was a fracture of the medial phalanx of the second metatarsal, accompanied by various contusions of muscles and tendons and a nasty sub- carpal hematoma. In practical terms, it was her ticket to extended sick leave... she could have simply accepted a temporary desk-job assignment; but Scully was more in a mood to take some time off.

And wonder of wonders, Mulder had taken some of his accumulated vacation time to stay home and nurse her back to health. Part of his sense of guilt, she supposed, for having caused the injury in the first place -- well- deserved guilt, at that, for if she hadn't been standing on extremely soft ground at the time, the car tire would likely have crushed the bones beyond repair.

He ran over my foot, she thought, and stifled her incipient giggles; for now that the pain was fading, the entire situation was nothing if not hilarious.

Absently, she shook a couple of pills into her palm from the prescription container on the nightstand, gulped them down with a swallow of wine -- Mulder had nearly had a fit, the first time he'd witnessed her taking the pain medication with liquor; Scully had had to very patiently explain the enhancing effect of the latter upon the former, and reassure him that it was perfectly safe, as long as she wasn't operating heavy machinery. She still wasn't sure he was convinced -- which was why she generally waited for him to leave the room before doing it.

At the moment, her partner (fiance, she corrected herself, still not used to the idea) was busy making her breakfast -- eggs over easy, bacon and hash-browns, toast and juice and coffee. In the past couple of weeks, he'd become quite proficient in the kitchen; all she had to do was let the slightest expression of distaste cross her face for the barest instant. Then it would be, "I'll fix you another one," as the plate was whisked away, to be replaced by another plate of food, more correctly cooked.

She'd always known that guilt was a powerful motivator, to Mulder; however, she'd never had the chance to apply that knowledge to their relationship before. Scully was almost ashamed of herself, sometimes, for letting him run himself ragged on her behalf -- almost ashamed, until the pain meds began to wear off, and she was forced to remember the severity of his offense.

He ran over my foot, she thought darkly; then, but he's sure working overtime to make up for it.

The bedroom door opened. "Coffee," said Mulder, sleepy- eyed and tousled and adorable, setting a steaming mug on the nightstand. "Breakfast in a few."

She smiled at him and touched his cheek in a silent thank- you; "Don't burn the bacon this time?" she requested, and he nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

"Good boy," said Scully, when the door was safely closed, letting her smile broaden into the wicked grin she fought to keep under wraps.

The first twenty-four hours after the injury had been deceptively mild; by the time their plane had landed in D.C., the full force of the pain had set in, and she had barely been able to bear being vertical. The blood rushing to her foot had been agony, and Mulder had had to requisition a wheelchair to get her to the cab stand. For the first week or so afterwards, she'd sincerely needed his help... but now, fifteen days after he'd run over her foot, she was simply savoring being pampered. Not that he'd ever neglected her, within the parameters of their romantic relationship -- but when they weren't going out on dates or in bed together, Mulder could be so self-absorbed, so damned distant...

Not now, though. For the past two weeks, it seemed that his whole universe had been shaped by her wants and needs -- and Scully was enjoying the experience immensely. It's about time! she told herself fiercely. I deserve this, and the small nagging voice of conscience retreated into the back of her mind.

By the time she'd finished her coffee, Mulder had returned with her meal and a refill -- breakfast was delicious, and she told him so; watched his face light up in response to her approval. "Aren't you eating?" she queried.

"Nah, I snacked on the stuff I burned," was the reply, and Scully wondered how many eggs, and what percentage of the package of bacon, had been destroyed during the preparation of her meal. Not that it was her problem. Since her injury, Mulder had been buying the groceries, and handling the bills.

"You're sweet," she said affectionately, placing one hand on his thigh -- and was intrigued by the sharp frisson that raced through his body in response to the touch.

Their sexual relationship had been effectively quenched, for the time being; the pain of her injury had left Scully completely uninterested in such recreational activities. And Mulder, who was (she guessed) desperately grateful that she was even speaking to him, had not said one word about the subject -- no requests, no invitations, not even the slightest joking innuendo. He'd spent the first week sleeping on the floor beside her bed, lest she awaken in the night and need his assistance; since then, he'd been sleeping on her couch. To all outward appearances, the sudden absence of sexual activity wasn't affecting him one bit.

But Scully knew him better than that, and had for some time been noting the increased tension, the nervous energy, that she had long associated with accumulated sexual frustration. Moreover, she'd been keeping an eye on the temperature control of the shower she couldn't use, and every day it had moved a little bit further to the right -- for the last week, it had hovered solidly in the ice-cold range. The conclusion was inescapable, and unsurprising: Mulder was as horny as a three-balled tomcat.

A week ago, she would have been in too much pain to care. Now, though... she was feeling well enough to find the situation interesting.

She let her palm linger on his thigh, relaxed the muscles of her arm so that her hand seemed to slide closer to his groin of its own accord... Mulder's breath caught in his throat, and a quick sideways glance told her that even that slight caress had affected him strongly. "Uhhhh, I think I left the stove on," he stammered, leapt to his feet and dashed out of the room -- walking with difficulty.

Unseen, Scully grinned. He's got it bad, she thought. Wow. And then, Hmmm... what can I do with this? as she contemplated how she might capitalize on the situation.

Like all the men she'd been intimate with, Mulder was fairly well governed by his hormones, but that was the only similarity. Some of her ex-boyfriends had gotten mean when they wanted it and couldn't get it; some of them had become sullen, as if sex was something they were entitled to, that she was obliged to provide. Mulder, on the other hand, seemed almost embarrassed by his own sex drive -- for all that he could joke about it in the abstract, on a personal level he was far more shy and self-conscious. Which meant that he was cute when he was horny, instead of being annoying or sulky.

Or else she just found it appealing because she was in love with him. Whatever.

He's been so good to me, she thought fondly; then, He's never pushed me, not once. He's never tried to force me or persuade me to go further than I wanted to go. For all the stupid, selfish, annoying things he'd ever done in the course of their partnership, that was a side of him that she treasured. The true Mulder, she felt, the person he'd have been if childhood trauma hadn't twisted him ninety degrees away from so-called normality and left him with a psyche full of unanswered questions and unalloyed solitude.

I love him, Scully thought. It wasn't often that she phrased it to herself that way: it was something she knew, soul-deep, without needing to analyze or contemplate the fact. He was her partner, her lover, her friend, and she took him for granted in the same sort of absent-minded way that she accepted the presence of her arms, her legs, her eyes. Mulder was essential, and so much a part of her that voluntary separation was unthinkable. They were already married, as she'd told him: legal vows would be redundant.

But now, there it was, the stark fact: I love him, Scully thought. I love him, and he loves me. What a miracle that was; what a miracle he was, somehow all the more perfect for his imperfections. What a wondrous blessing, that they had the sort of relationship that could withstand everything they'd been through, everything they'd put each other through, and still thrive.

I love him, Scully thought, and he's horny, and a slow grin crossed her face and refused to go away. Oh, I think I can do something about that.

"Did you burn anything?" she asked him innocently when he returned.

"Huh? Oh. No," as he sat down on the edge of her bed, as usual. Scully nodded, and winced; she reached up to rub at her forehead. "Are you okay?" he asked, with concern.

"It's nothing," she said, "it's just a headache," and Mulder reached out and took her in his arms, held her close.

Scully rested her head on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his waist, letting her hands slide beneath the waistband of the sweatpants he wore in lieu of pajamas. "That feels good," she said, as he stroked her hair -- allowed her voice to deepen into a slow purr, the type she generally used when he was stroking her elsewhere -- and felt him shiver.

She snuggled close, and her hands drifted lower, to his hip... he was nearly fully aroused already, and starting to sweat; with her ear pressed against his bare chest, she could hear a strangled sound in his throat like a moan being choked back at the source. "Umm," he managed to say, after a few unsuccessful tries, "Scully, I think... I think maybe you should get some rest."

"I am resting," she answered contentedly, letting her hands wander a bit more.

"Scully," and now his voice was breathless, "ummm... don't you think you'd be more comfortable lying down? I can get you some more pillows..."

How far is he going to go to keep from admitting it? she wondered. "I'm more comfortable with you holding me," she said, letting the faintest note of pleading seep into her voice.

Mulder sighed. "Okay," he said, sounding defeated, and settled into the embrace.

For maybe a minute and a half, she rested in his arms, feeling the tension in his body as he struggled to restrain his own responses... knew, with sudden certainty, that he'd sit there holding her for as long as he thought she needed him, no matter how strongly her proximity was affecting him, without ever letting his own desires take control of the situation. That was Mulder, her Mulder; when he was annoying, he could be thoroughly obnoxious to deal with, but when he was being noble, he was every bit the knight-in-shining-armor of her girlhood fantasies.

She reached down, wrapped her hand around his erection -- and felt his body shudder fiercely as something approximating a whimper was wrung from his throat.

"Scully, don't," he said in a hoarse whisper, much to her surprise. "You don't know what you're doing to me..."

"Yes I do," she whispered back, "and I think you've suffered long enough, don't you?"

"Thought you had a headache...", then, "You set me up, didn't you?" and she grinned up at him.

Her fingers traced the length of him with a feather touch, then increased pressure for a second stroke -- and that was all it took to set him off. "Damn," he cursed, before the spasms had even begun to subside, then, "I can get seconds, right?"

She laughed. "Yes, you can get seconds," she confirmed, "and thirds, even," and reached over him to the nightstand for a tissue to wipe her hand with.

"Damn," he muttered again, chagrined, "I hate it when that happens..."

"It's been two weeks," she reminded him, kissing his reddened cheek in an attempt to eradicate his embarrassment.

"Two weeks," he repeated, "two weeks is nothing; I've gone so much longer than that..."

"Not recently." The tissue wasn't doing the job, so she gave up and wiped her hand on the bedsheet -- which would probably need to be changed anyway, by the time they were finished.

"No, not recently," and he kissed her forehead. "You're so good to me, Scully; I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do. You're a good man, Mulder; and I love you." She shifted position, studied his face: and you don't believe a word of it, do you?

"Not good enough to find Samantha," he murmured darkly, confirming her thought, "or to keep you safe; and as for the rest, I wish I understood why. Scully, you could do so much better..."

"Define 'better'," she challenged him.

"Someone stronger, someone stable, someone who doesn't drag you off into strange places with no warning for his own selfish reasons, or drive over your feet..."

"I've forgiven you for that, Mulder," she said patiently, "when are you going to learn to forgive yourself?"

He shrugged self-consciously, and didn't answer.

"You really need to do something about this self-image problem of yours," Scully told him.

"I know. You don't deserve that, either," and she sighed; glanced up and caught his sheepish grin. "Hey, maybe when we've been married thirty or forty years and raised a half-dozen kids, I'll get used to the idea that you love me. Until then, I'm afraid you're just going to have to cope with my belief that you're far too good for me."

She smiled, nuzzled closer -- then it hit her. "A half-dozen kids?" she squeaked. "Tell me, Mulder, are you planning to give birth to these half-dozen children...?"

He considered. "Not a good number?"

"Here's a clue, Mulder: childbirth hurts." But even as she said it, she was contemplating it -- children, hers and his. It was a new image, one she hadn't let herself envision before... their children, the ones they would conceive and raise together.

His hand found hers, curled around her still-sticky fingers. "I'll help," said Mulder. "I'll change diapers and everything."

"Oh, I know you will," she replied archly, "whether we have one or a flock; I'm not letting you off the hook." And smiled up at him. "You're going to make a great father."

"You think so? Sometimes I think I'm still too much of a kid myself..."

"You are," she confirmed, "and that's why." She found that she could picture it, so easily: Mulder and his children, their children -- playing with them in the back yard of the house they didn't yet have, reading bed-time stories, checking homework at the kitchen table, the whole nine yards.

"Wow," she said involuntarily, and he glanced at her inquiringly. "Kids," she answered his silent query, "marriage... it's all so new to me..."

He turned sideways a little, finding a more comfortable position; she moved with him, adjusting her pose to his. "Really? I've been thinking about it since the day we met."

This was a revelation; "Since the day we met?" she said, surprised.

And again, a faint crimson blush crept over his face. "Before I knew what hit me," he said, softly, "the first moment I set eyes on you. You've never heard of love at first sight, Scully?"

"I stopped believing in it, a long time ago," she said slowly, turning the thought over in her mind. "You've loved me for that long...? You never said anything..."

"I didn't want to take the chance of losing my best friend," said Mulder simply.

There it was again, that nobility... She pulled his head down and kissed him deeply, catching him off-guard; his startlement passed quickly, and he sank into the kiss the way he always did, with one hundred percent of his attention focused on it, on her. No such thing as halfway measures, with Mulder: when he kissed her, nothing else existed except the kiss, and them.

Scully's mind, however, was elsewhere. Thinking about the earliest days of their partnership, and the rapport they'd established over the years. How difficult it would have been for her to trust him, in the early days, if she'd realized how deeply he was attracted to her. How their partnership would never have become so close, so intimate, if she had held that knowledge from the beginning.

And what a wondrous thing it was for her to have that knowledge now.

"I love you," she said, when they came up for air. "Never doubt that."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't," he said. "Not usually, not really."

"Not ever," she told him, sliding her hand along his hip. "Ready for 'seconds' yet?" A rhetorical question; she was well aware of his renewed arousal.

But again, he shook his head. "Not just yet," he demurred, as his hand slipped under her t-shirt, cupped her breast, fingertip flicking across the nipple... and abruptly, Scully became aware that two weeks was a long time.

"Mulder, I'm fine," she said anyway.

"Uh-huh," said Mulder, in a tone of disbelief, "liar," and did something else to her nipple with his fingertips... the sensation rippled through her and set her afire with a thoroughness that astonished her. "On your back, woman, and don't argue," he said playfully, in a tone of mock severity.

He eased her t-shirt over her head first, then carefully propped up her foot with pillows -- and then he was kissing her, slow soft kisses from her lips on down, knowing exactly where and how. And she understood what it had been like for Mulder, because her orgasm began with shocking suddenness, uncontrollable: his tongue touched her clitoris and she felt herself go off, hair-trigger, like a match igniting a fireworks factory, a climax that built and built and spread through her, so intense it was almost unbearable.

"Those were new sounds," Mulder said reflectively, afterwards. "I liked them. Especially that last one -- I think my ears are still ringing."

Scully grinned sheepishly, for her ears were still ringing from that last frenzied cry. "My throat hurts," she admitted, and he laughed. "Mulder, explain to me why some woman hasn't already chained you to her bed, and kept you as her personal sex slave...?"

He considered. "I don't think I was this good before you," he said, finally. "I like the way you taste," and she felt his lips plant a light kiss on her stomach, about halfway between her navel and her groin.

She tangled her hand in his hair affectionately. "You think you can keep up the good work for the next thirty or forty years?"

"For you, Scully? Anything." Such absolute conviction in that statement; it warmed her straight through.

"Anything?" she wondered aloud.

"Anything."

"Would you... walk barefoot through hot coals for me?"

A moment's thought. "I could learn how to do that," he said finally, "sure."

"Would you... climb the highest mountain for me?"

"Do I get rappelling gear?"

"No."

Again, he took a moment to consider it. "Yeah, okay, I could do that, too," was his decision.

Scully smiled. "Would you get me another cup of coffee?"

"No," said Mulder, straight-faced; he planted another soft kiss on her stomach before levering himself off the bed.

She drank the coffee he brought her, even though he'd microwaved it to within an inch of toxicity; and then she set her mug aside and reached for him, pulled him down atop her. "Time for seconds," she said, delighting in his smile.

"Go left."

"No, that'll take us back to the schoolroom."

"No it won't. Go left."

Mulder had relocated the desktop computer to her bedside, and presented her with a gift at the beginning of her convalescence... one that dated back to a time before their partnership had become a romance. 'You've never played Myst?' she could remember him saying, an eternity ago, in an incredulous voice; the next day he'd brought it to work with him, and they'd spent the better part of a week working their way through it, neglecting X-files and paperwork and everything else. Well, she had -- Mulder had already beaten the game, months before.

Now the sequel was out, and they were playing it together, puzzling out the game's enigmas, and arguing merrily about every detail -- it was like working on a case, only less demanding and dangerous; and Scully was having a wonderful time. "I told you that was the wrong way..."

"So I got turned around, so sue me. Let's go play with the snapping fish while we're here."

"Is that your cellphone?" she said suddenly, distracted.

He muted the sound on the computer and listened... "Yeah," he said, sprang to his feet, and headed for the living room where he'd left it. Shortly, he returned, immersed in an animated conversation; after a few minutes of terse discussion, he ended the phone call, turned to her: "The boys have turned up something interesting that they want us to look at," he said, "I can't get anything out of 'em over the phone; but it sounds like it might have to do with that string of abductions in Nevada. We should..." and abruptly fell silent, glancing first at her foot and then at her face.

His expression was one of agonized indecision, and Scully made a split-second decision; the only one she could make. "Go," she said.

"It's not that important -- I don't have to..." he began.

"Yes you do. You need to do this." She knew it, with certainty; knew him.

Mulder blinked back at her, not moving, gazing into her eyes: are you sure? the look seemed to say.

"Go," Scully repeated. "It could be something important. You can tell me about it when you get back," and ruthlessly suppressed the small irrational voice of terror within her that cried out: if you get back, if something awful doesn't happen to you while I'm not there to guard your back...

But Mulder was Mulder, and if she tried to stop him from being who he was, doing what he did best, it would destroy their relationship... maybe even destroy him. He'd been there for her when she'd needed him to be, the way she'd needed him to be; now it was time to return the favor. "Go," she said softly.

He hesitated -- then shook his head, decisively. "Come with me," he said.

She sighed. "Mulder, I can barely walk; and I haven't been able to bathe properly for weeks now, I look terrible..."

"Frohike won't care, and the others won't notice. And you can walk well enough to make to the car and back; and if you can't, I'll carry you." Mulder paused suddenly, as if searching for words. "I need to do this," he agreed, very quietly. "And I need you with me."

Dana Scully looked at her fiance, for the first time seeing him as such: not her partner or her friend or her annoying distraction, but the man she would marry, and spend the rest of her life with. How handsome he was, not merely for the cut of his hair or the angles of his face, but for the earnest sincerity that emanated from him, for the love that shone in his eyes. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of this man -- the one man who would love her utterly and completely: who would know all the sides of her, serious and silly and sarcastic, who would value her for her strengths and her weaknesses, for everything she was. She had discarded the dream in favor of pragmatism, had scorned the idea that such foolish fantasies could come true, had refused to believe in fairytales.

And then this man had come along, and taught her to believe in, oh, so many things. I, Dana Scully, take thee, Fox Mulder...

She reached out to him, and he reached back; their fingers entwined. "I need to be with you," she said, past the lump in her throat.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'll get you some clothes," he said, his voice roughened as hers was, "and a hairbrush."

But he kissed her first, a long slow kiss that took her breath away; and she kissed him, thinking about the next thirty or forty years, and how wonderful they would be.

And then they got dressed, one of them armed and the other one limping, and went to see three men about an X-File.

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