Taming The Unicorn 10: Marriage

How many times had he done this? How many times had he waited, lost in his own misery, to find out his partner's fate? This time, it wasn't so bad -- just a flesh wound; painful, but not life-threatening. This time, it was just a matter of waiting for her to be treated and released.

This time.

"Mulder?" and there she was, cradling her bandaged arm and looking weary; he jumped up from his seat and went to her, sliding one arm around her back, coming perilously close to embracing her. They had an unspoken agreement, to keep their personal involvement separate from their professional lives -- but it was all he could do to keep from showering her with kisses.

"It barely qualifies as an abrasion," she murmured, "I'm fine, Mulder," and he didn't believe it, any more than he ever believed it when she uttered those words -- he accepted it, because she needed him to, but he never believed it; he knew better.

A few last bits of paperwork, and then he was helping her to the car, as if she were made of porcelain and in danger of shattering; got her inside, buckled safely in, and strode around to the driver's side.

He moved to start the car, and couldn't; his hand was shaking too badly to fit the key into the ignition.

"Mulder?" and he glanced sideways at her, and remembered: the stake-out, the shooting, her cry of pain, and the terror that had seized him at that sound...

"I'm fine, Scully," he said, knowing that she wouldn't believe it, either.

Her good hand snaked across the seat of the rental car, took his; the feel of her fingers twining with his helped still the tremors. "It's over, Mulder," she said gently, "and I'm fine, truly."

"It's never over," he murmured. "It's never over."

He drew a deep, deep breath, and managed to regain control, the only way he knew how: by withdrawing, closing himself off from everything and everyone, folding inwards until there was nothing of himself showing through the impenetrable barriers. It meant shutting himself off from Scully, which he disliked -- but someone had to drive them back to the motel, after all, and it was the only way he could manage that simple task.

And she was silent for the ride back, allowing him his space and his self-imposed isolation, understanding him well enough to know what he needed, and why.

It wasn't a long drive. Just a little ways down Charleston Boulevard, past the local FBI headquarters to the Las Vegas 'Strip'. Theirs was one of the dirt-cheap motels on the north end, far from the glitz and neon of the large casinos where the tourists gathered. Scully had disparaged the flashiness of Vegas at length, upon their arrival, but he found himself wishing fervently that he had someplace more congenial to take her than the squalid little motel where they were staying.

He was just helping her through the door when his cell- phone rang; "I'm going to go take a bath," Scully said, and he nodded absently, answering the phone with the usual curt utterance of his surname.

"Skinner," said the voice at the other end, just as succinctly. "I just got a call from ASAC Lambert --" his old friend, and the reason why they'd been sent across the country to help handle the situation. It had been a long time since Skinner had ceased to be merely a boss, and had become an ally. Usually, this meant that he allowed a certain bending of regulations on their behalf; sometimes, it meant that he asked favors of them. This had been one of the latter times. "She said that your work was instrumental in closing the case."

"Did she also mention that Scully was wounded?" He had to fight to keep the anger from his voice; some irrational part of him wanted to rail at Skinner for sending them in, wanted desperately to have someone upon whom to lay the blame, even though he knew on an intellectual level that it wasn't their boss's fault. Occupational hazard; just part of the job...

"No, she didn't," and the concern in the AD's voice drained away the last of Mulder's anger. "Is she all right?"

"She's fine," he muttered, thinking, or so she says... "Just a scrape."

"That's good to hear." A slight pause. "You did an excellent job, both of you. Please convey that to Agent Scully -- and tell her that I hope she recovers swiftly." Another brief pause. "Why don't the two of you take a few days off, while you're there... assuming that Agent Scully feels up to it. I'll sign off on the expense reports when you get back."

It was an unexpected kindness; Mulder didn't know quite what to say, finally settling on, "Thank you, sir."

He ended the conversation as soon as he could -- the sound of water tumbling into the tub seemed to call to him. He knocked lightly on the bathroom door, waited for her response before entering. She was immersed up to her neck, bubbles covering all but her head, her knees, and the bandaged arm which rested carefully on the edge of the tub; he gazed at her, and thought how tired she looked, and how lucky he was that she was still alive...

"That was Skinner," he informed her, "he called to say thanks. Told me we could take a couple of days off, if we wanted."

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "In Vegas? What are we going to do, besides lose money in slot machines?"

"There are a couple of good shows," he said idly, "or we could do a grand tour of the buffet circuit, and see who can gain the most weight in the least time," striving for a light tone, and not quite making it.

And felt her eyes raking over him, scrutinizing him. "Mulder," she said softly, "talk to me."

He knelt beside the tub, reaching out to touch her injured arm gently -- it could have been so much worse. Just a few more inches, and she could have been dead...

Her other arm rose from the bubbles, reached over and peeled back the bandage. "Look," she commanded, and he did; she was right, it was just a scratch, barely worthy of the gauze pad that had covered it. "I'm fine, Mulder..."

"This time," he interrupted, and couldn't bring himself to say more.

Scully's hand moved, took his, held it tightly. "Mulder," she said, "talk to me."

He brought his other hand to cover hers, so that he held her hand in both of his. The base of his palm pressed against her wrist, and he could feel her pulse, the rhythm of her heart... "I almost lost you today," he said.

She sighed. "We've been through worse," she reminded him.

It was supposed to be consolation; it wasn't. "Yes," he muttered darkly, "I know."

Her eyes were compassionate as they met his. "There's not much we can do about it," she murmured, "not while we're with the Bureau; and neither of us are ready to resign, not yet."

"I know..." Though at times like this, he felt as if it would be easy. Times like this were more than he could bear -- he could turn his back on the questions, on the Truth, far more easily than he could stand even the idea of losing Scully.

"So what can I tell you that you don't know?" she inquired softly, and the caring in her voice struck at his heart like a physical blow.

A gleam caught his eye, sparkling through the bubbles -- the diamond-and-emerald ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand: the one that symbolized his commitment to her. A commitment as yet unfulfilled... and suddenly everything seemed crystal-clear to him.

"I don't know what it's like to be married to you," he said, hearing the faint echo of his voice bouncing off the tiled walls.

It seemed that her breath caught in her throat for a moment; she didn't respond.

"Life is too short," he said slowly, struggling for words to convey the sudden welling of emotion within him, "and too damn uncertain. At least, it is for us. We can't count on tomorrows; we can only hope for them -- and if something goes wrong, if one of us... dies... I don't want to lose you without ever having known what it means to truly love you."

He gazed into her eyes, seeing in them the glitter of unshed tears. "Marry me, Scully," he whispered. "Now. Here. I don't want to wait any longer... I don't want to take that chance."

She drew a deep breath, opened her mouth to reply, and he prepared himself for an onslaught of rational protests -- there's no time to prepare, I want a church wedding, what about my family, Mulder-you're-crazy -- but she didn't speak right away; and in her eyes, he saw her own emotion fight down every one of those silent complaints, until only one answer was left. "Okay," Scully said, finally. "Yes."

For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

"But we are not getting married at the 24-Hour Church of Elvis," she added, with the utmost dignity, and the tension drained away from him in a great rush; he laughed.

"You won't regret this," he promised her.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll regret this wedding idea of yours," she responded archly -- then, in a wholly different tone, "but not marrying you. Not that, not ever."

He kissed her hand, not bothering to try to hide the tears forming in his own eyes.

"Mom? It's Dana... no, I'm fine. Everything's fine. I know it's late; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." She hesitated. "Um, listen -- your friend Rosalie, the travel agent? Well, do you think she could get you a last-minute flight to Las Vegas? Say, by the day after tomorrow?" Another pause. "No, Mom, nothing's wrong. Actually... I'm getting married."

Even on the other side of the room, he could hear Scully's mother shriek with delight.

"Mom? It's me, M... Fox. Uh... d'you remember the woman I work with, Agent Scully? --Yeah, I like her too. Actually, um, I like her a lot. In fact, I'm marrying her. --The day after tomorrow. Think you can come? --Las Vegas. --No, it's not a job requirement, Mom; I love her. --Yeah, she loves me, too. --No, Mom, she's not Jewish. --Yeah, the pink dress is fine; whatever you want to wear is fine. --No, she's not pregnant, Mom! I just want to marry her, that's all. --Okay, Mom. I will. --Okay, Mom. --Okay, Mom. --Fine, Mom. I gotta go, Mom, seeya soon, 'bye."

He hung up the phone and sighed heavily. "Mothers," he grumbled, at no one in particular.

"Billy? It's me... --Your sister. --Dana. --No, it's not an emergency. I'm sorry I woke the baby. Listen, what are you doing over the next couple of days? --Oh, Mom called already? So why are you blaming the baby's crying on me, huh? --Well, then, it's a good thing you're not marrying him, isn't it? --Look, come to the wedding, or don't come; it's up to you. But don't think you're going to lecture me on who I should or shouldn't marry. You're my brother, not my keeper. --Sure. Fine. Whatever."

She hung up the phone, and he heard her sigh. "Brothers," she muttered, and he reached out and squeezed her hand in silent sympathy.

"This is Agent Mulder, I'm sorry to wake you... no, Scully's fine. I just need to ask you a question." He paused, wondering how exactly to phrase it. "This may come as a bit of a surprise..."

Despite the distance, the voice at the other end of the line was clear and strong, if a touch sleepy. "Agent Mulder," Skinner said, "I doubt very highly that you are capable of surprising me at this point. I'm not blind, nor am I stupid; and I keep a close eye on the agents under my command. The two of you are subtle, but not that subtle. I've known for some time that the two of you were involved in certain extracurricular activities not falling under the Bureau's jurisdiction. I granted you the time off because I believed that you needed some time together, away from the Bureau; and if I am any judge of character whatsoever, I would estimate that you are calling to tell me that you have either gotten married, or are planning to marry, while you are in Las Vegas. Am I correct in that assumption?"

Taken completely off-guard, he couldn't help but laugh. "You are, sir," he confirmed, "but that's only partially the reason for this call."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, um... Agent Scully wants to know if you would consent to give away the bride."

A long, long pause. "Now I'm surprised," Skinner said. "Tell her that I agree, and that I'll fly in tomorrow," and hung up.

Mulder grinned, flashed a thumbs-up to Scully across the room, and dialed another number.

"Hey, it's me. Who's there? --Oh yeah? Fine. Put me on speaker, then." A flicking of a switch, and then the sounds of two additional voices joining Langly's. "Listen, I've got an announcement that's gonna break Frohike's heart..."

"Scully. --Bill, I am not going to reconsider! I'm in love, and it's none of your damn business! --Don't even start. I'm hanging up now, Bill. Goodbye."

It seemed to him that she hit the 'disconnect' button with unnecessary force. "I'm starting to hope that he doesn't show up," she grumbled.

"Mulder. --Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. --Because we were trying to keep it quiet, that's why. --You had a BET? How much? --Only fifty? So what are you complaining about? --No, we are NOT going to postpone the wedding so that you don't have to pay Langly. --Tough shit. That's your problem. --So don't get us a wedding present; see if I care. --Fine. Bye."

He shut off his cell-phone. "They had a bet," he said to his fiancee, his voice incredulous.

She smiled. "Let me guess. You never knew about the office pool, did you?"

"What office pool?"

"Hello, is this the Graceland Wedding Chapel? Listen, in your ad, it says you feature 'Ceremonies With The 'King'...'"

"Hang up the phone, Mulder."

"Yes, dear."

"Bill, if you call me one more time tonight, I'm going to take that baby picture of you sitting on the potty, and I'm going to post it on the Internet..."

"No, Frohike, I am not lending you fifty dollars!"

"I'm shutting off my cell-phone," he said to Scully.

She glanced up at him. "Good idea," she agreed wearily.

"Your brother really hates me, doesn't he?" Mulder mused, having a sudden dark premonition of stormy family gatherings, and wondering if it would be a social faux pas if he were to show up armed.

"He doesn't hate you, he just... he's not fond of my career in the first place, and he thinks I'd be better off with a different partner, and..." Scully sighed. "Okay, yeah, maybe he does hate you. But that's his problem, not mine."

"Are you sure?" he queried. Scully was close to her family; it mattered to her what they thought...

"I'm sure," she said firmly. "Mulder, I have never been involved with anyone that Bill approved of. I'm not sure he'd think anyone was good enough for me." She smiled. "Mom loves you, though; she couldn't be happier. If he does show up, she'll handle it."

"Okay," he said, and put the matter out of his mind as best he could.

It wasn't a difficult task, for Scully was sliding out of her bathrobe... amazing, how she could turn the pedestrian act of undressing into a seductive striptease without even trying. Or maybe it just seemed that way because he was so madly in love with her. It didn't matter which; the result was the same.

"Hey," he said softly, and she paused -- noted his appreciative gaze and shifted her stance subtly, to a come-on position as sultry as any stripper could have managed. "Hold that pose," he told her, rising from his chair and crossing the room toward her.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, which placed him more or less at eye-level with a mound of auburn curls; an as-yet-unexplored mystery, but one that he would unravel shortly. Soon, he thought, and the realization sent a sudden jolt through him. If we keep to schedule, the day after tomorrow...

She shifted position slightly, spread her legs a bit, and the scent of her lit a fire within him that sizzled straight to his groin; he placed his hands on her thighs and leaned forward, sliding his tongue between her labia in a particularly intimate kiss... moved his hands a bit, using his thumbs to part her lips and allow him better access to the sensitive folds of skin within, especially the glistening rosebud-nub that fairly begged for his attention. A soft, breathy moan was his signal that he was doing it right; he applied his full concentration to her desires, doing his best to ignore his own growing arousal, and the suddenly-tight fit of his suit pants.

Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, leaning more heavily as her knees weakened; he let his teeth graze her clitoris, ever so lightly, and delighted in her cry of pleasure. But she was getting to the point where she needed a steady rhythm -- he knew her body by now, almost as well as his own -- and so he provided it, knowing by the sound of her cries what tempo to pick, and when to increase the pressure and speed.

Involuntarily, it seemed, her pelvis thrust forward, silently begging: more, more... He slid his hands around to the backs of her thighs, giving her added support, since she was leaning back so far that he was afraid she'd fall backward. Immersed in his task, he couldn't see her stance, but his mind painted a picture; Scully in the throes of passion, eyes closed, lips parted, arched backward in a catlike pose... And the scent of her, the taste of her, was driving him crazy: pheromones provoking hormones, making him so hard that the need to touch himself was all but unbearable. But his hands were otherwise occupied, and Scully was so close that he couldn't break the rhythm now, he couldn't do that to her...

He almost came when she did: her sharp cry was an aphrodisiac, and the throbbing of her flesh against his tongue was nearly enough to bring him over the edge -- nearly, but not quite; just enough to increase his arousal to the point of desperation. "Mulder," she sighed, and the sound of her satiated voice raced along his nervous system like liquid flame, wrenching a hoarse cry from his throat.

One hand stroked the back of his head in a silent thank- you; then she was kneeling before him, her eyes fastened on his, as her hands reached for the zipper of his fly. "It's that kind of night, hmm?" was her soft appraisal of the situation.

"I want you so bad," he managed, though he was very nearly beyond coherent speech -- moaned as her hands drew his hard-on from the confining fabric. "Oh, god, Scully..."

"Shh," she said, "lie back," and he fell back against the thin carpet, helpless against the force of his desire.

She knew him as well as he knew her, knew when to tease and when not to; one hand wrapped around his balls, gently caressing him, as she took him into her mouth -- hot and wet and tight, not what he wanted most but so damn good, so damn good. Gauging the strength of his need with her usual skill, she skipped over foreplay and arousal and cut straight to the chase, bringing him swiftly to the point of no return and beyond, to a wonderfully intense orgasm.

And it wasn't enough. Not this time.

"Two days," he murmured. "I don't know if I can wait two days."

She stretched out beside him, propping herself up on one elbow. "Mulder, we've come this far..."

"Don't say 'come'," he interrupted.

"We've managed to avoid intercourse for this long..." she continued patiently.

"Don't say 'intercourse'," he cut her off.

Scully sighed. "Mulder, it was your decision to wait..."

"Don't remind me," he groaned.

"...and if you've changed your mind, well..."

"Don't say it." He drew a deep breath, expelled it in a sigh. "You're right, we've waited this long, we might as well wait a little longer. It's only two days -- a hellish eternity, but I'll manage."

"Can you?" she wondered aloud.

"No. But I will anyway." His erection had barely faded, and now it was coming to life again, demanding more... "Damn," he grumbled.

And then he spotted something that knocked all thoughts of passion straight out of his mind. "You're bleeding," he said, with alarm.

She glanced at her arm. "Just a little. It's nothing; I'll get a bandaid..."

"You get into bed. I'll get a bandage," he told her sternly, and struggled to his feet -- paused to zip up his pants, then bent to help her up.

He went to the bathroom and retrieved a damp washcloth and her cosmetics case, pawed through it for the little zippered purse that held the first-aid essentials that Doctor Scully always carried. Wiping the slight trickle of blood from her arm, he applied ointment and a gauze pad, taping it securely into place. "Damn stupid idea, doing it standing up," he muttered, "I should have known better..."

"Are you blaming yourself for things again? Mulder, we've discussed this." Her free hand reached up to touch his face, a lingering caress that traced a path from his forehead, along his hairline and down, past his cheek and along his jawbone, fingertips brushing lightly against his lips. "Besides, that was great."

"I'm glad," he said, smiling slightly, "but still..."

"Shut up, Mulder," she said, pressing her fingers against his lips to silence him. "Now, about you..."

"I'm fine," he demurred. "Seeing you injured has a tendency to dampen my libido."

"Mmm. And knowing your libido, that'll last about five minutes." She took the cosmetics case and set it on the nightstand. "Turn out the lights, and come to bed."

"Scully..."

"Shut up, Mulder," she said softly, in the sultry tone that never failed to send the blood spiraling downward from his head to his groin -- it worked; he shut up, turned off the light, and slid into bed beside her.

The pounding at the door woke him up, long before he was ready; he squinted at the harsh sunlight penetrating the blinds, fumbled for his robe, drew his gun just in case, and went to the door. "Whozzat?" he inquired, less than eloquently.

"Skinner," came the reply, and the arm that held the weapon relaxed somewhat. "Let me guess: you're not dressed."

"We're not even awake," he protested.

"Well, get up and get dressed; I'm taking you to breakfast," was the response.

He sighed. "Do we have to?"

"That's an order, Agent Mulder." The voice was stern, but there was humor in it.

Helplessly, Mulder glanced at the bed, found Scully sitting up cross-legged, blinking back at him. "He is our boss," she said.

Again, he sighed, and stumbled toward the bathroom.

After a shower with Scully that was far too brief, in his estimation, they dressed and headed out. The AD was waiting in the shabby motel office, reading the local paper. "It's about time," he said, without preamble. "Come on, we'll take my car. How are you feeling, Agent Scully?"

"Fine, sir," she said, "where are we going?"

"Hotel buffets notwithstanding," Skinner told her, "there is only one place to eat breakfast in Las Vegas."

He drove west along Charleston, away from the Strip, past the FBI building, past the hospital where Scully had been treated; a left turn onto Decatur, a quick right into a parking lot, and found a space. "This is it," Skinner said, with a brief glance in the rear-view mirror, "we're here; you can stop drooling on the back seat now."

"With all due respect, sir," Scully said, with great dignity, "we are not drooling."

"We're making goo-goo eyes at each other," Mulder added, straight-faced.

"There's a difference," his partner concluded, "scientifically speaking."

Skinner turned around to look at them, resting one arm on the back of the seat, and Mulder found himself witnessing a remarkable sight: the AD, grinning from ear to ear. "Get out of the car," he said.

They walked up the ramp and into the restaurant; the place was crowded, and there were people waiting, silent testimony to its popularity. "Skinner," the AD said to the hostess, "three, non-smoking; how long?"

"Maybe five minutes," was the reply, and they moved toward the bench seats lining one wall.

"Is this place really that good?" Mulder wondered, snagging a menu and studying it.

"Best damn eggs benedict you've ever tasted," Skinner responded.

"Eggs benedict," he mused. "I guess that's why they call it the Original Pancake House..." as Scully leaned in to look at the menu.

Skinner turned toward her. "Agent Scully," he said, "just out of idle curiosity, why are you marrying this smart-ass?"

She was startled, but only briefly. "He's good in bed, sir," was her come-back, delivered with the same sober demeanor with which she might have described the results of an autopsy.

"Ah, I see," Skinner replied, nodding.

Glancing from one to the other, Mulder shook his head. "When did I lose control of this situation?" he muttered.

"You were under the impression that you had control of this situation?" Scully parried; her hand came to rest on his arm, squeezing slightly, in a silent loving signal that all was well. Returning her attention to Skinner, she responded, "If you would satisfy my idle curiosity... is this purely a social visit, or is there some official business you wish to discuss?"

The AD shrugged, a dismissive gesture. "'Giving away the bride' implies a certain degree of responsibility in this matter," he stated, "I have to make sure this joker is good enough for you, don't I?" and again, there was that startling grin: an expression which altered his whole face, from forbidding to friendly. Do I even know this man? Mulder wondered briefly. "Aside from that... no, no particular business. Just thought I'd take you to breakfast, and wish you well. I also thought you might need some assistance putting this thing together at the last minute -- I've spent some time in Vegas, and figured I might be able to help."

"Thanks," Mulder answered, still slightly stunned at the transition from AD Skinner to... "Walter," he hazarded, testing the waters.

The other man nodded slightly, accepting the informality. "Not a problem." The grin broadened. "Especially considering that your impending nuptials just won me something like twelve hundred dollars in the office pool."

"Twelve hundred?" Scully said, astonished. "The last time I checked, it was only up to six..."

"That was before Agent Morelli spotted the two of you at Umberto's Italian Restaurant after hours, nuzzling in the corner booth. It drove up the betting considerably. Not that I officially knew about any of this, of course; I had my secretary place the bet, and I'll be splitting the pot with her, once we collect."

"Twelve hundred dollars," she repeated, in a resigned tone. "Damn, I should have placed a bet myself."

"How come I never knew about any of this?" Mulder protested.

"I didn't have the heart to mention it. You were both trying so hard to maintain the pretense."

"Skinner," called out the hostess, "party of three?" and they rose in unison, followed the woman to their newly- vacated table.

"Were we really that transparent?" Mulder asked, holding Scully's chair for her.

"Actually, you've done quite well. In fact, that may be the key factor in maintaining the current personnel complement of the X-Files division. You're both well aware of Bureau guidelines in this matter," Skinner mentioned, seemingly casual.

Mulder exchanged a quick glance with his fiancee. "We are," she acknowledged.

"We're prepared to fight the system, if we have to," he added, on the heels of her remark.

"Don't. Save your energy for the fights that matter." Skinner set aside the menu, having apparently already chosen his meal. "I'm fairly sure that I can pull enough strings to keep the two of you together, assuming that your job performance continues to adhere to the same high standards that it has so far." Another quick grin. "And assuming that you can refrain from 'making goo-goo eyes' at each other during working hours."

Under the table, he felt Scully's hand slip into his, squeeze gently. "I think we can manage that," she affirmed, and Mulder nodded in agreement.

"Good. Don't worry about it; I'll handle matters on your behalf. Coffee all around," Skinner said to the waitress, who upended their cups and poured it for them. "Now, to more important matters. I certainly hope, Dana, that you've managed to keep him away from the Graceland Wedding Chapel...?"

"So, Mulder," Frohike wanted to know, "once you've strapped on that ol' ball and chain... can I have your porno collection?"

Scully had gone off with both of their mothers, to select and purchase her wedding dress, since it was for some reason inconceivable to any of them that she might get married in a rented dress. Skinner had gone along as well, to help pay for it; the least he could do, he'd said, considering the amount he'd won as a direct result of their marriage. And so Mulder had been left alone, in the dingy little motel room -- at least, until the Lone Gunmen had shown up at the door.

He'd welcomed the company; without Scully, he'd felt oddly bereft. Never mind that she wasn't far away, and wouldn't be gone for long: she was so much a part of him, now, that even such a minor separation felt like an amputation.

And now, here they were: Byers, as neatly groomed as ever -- Frohike, as scruffy and disreputable-looking -- Langly, looking like a refugee from a Grateful Dead concert -- sitting on the bed eating the pizza they'd ordered, and teasing him mercilessly about his upcoming wedding.

"Well?" Frohike prodded.

Mulder helped himself to a slice of pizza, picked off the anchovies and thought about it. "Yeah, okay," he said, feeling uncommonly generous.

"No shit. Really?"

"They're yours," he said, "the whole shebang; take 'em all."

"You're kidding," said Langly, disbelieving. "You've got some classics in that collection... Man, you'd better share," he said to his colleague.

"I'll rent 'em to ya," Frohike responded. "Fifty bucks a night."

"I could get a hooker for fifty bucks a night," Langly grumbled.

"The kind of hookers you use, you could get two," Frohike shot back.

"I don't believe it, you're just giving 'em away -- and after all the shit we had to go through to get you to let us borrow 'em... Man, you are whipped," Langly opined.

Mulder grinned. "With a woman like Scully," he said placidly, "who needs videos?"

Instantly, he had their full attention. "She's as hot as she looks, huh?" Frohike wanted to know.

"Come on, share; we want details," the blond man prodded.

He pondered for a moment, torn between a desire to brag and his concern for Scully's privacy... Typical male, said a voice in his head; Scully's voice. "Let's just say that she is a goddess of love, in every sense of the word," he said, at last, "and that the details are none of your business."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, it's hot and heavy now, but I'll bet that all changes once you've been hitched for awhile," Langly said; and Frohike seconded the opinion.

"Think what you want," Mulder responded, "whatever will make you feel better," but inwardly he wondered: would it happen? Would their relationship become stale and boring with time?

Somehow, he couldn't imagine that happening. Maybe to other people, but not to them... their relationship was based on so much more than just sex, or even love; theirs was a bond forged in fire and blood and absolute trust. They were friends, and somehow he felt certain that no matter what else happened, that friendship, that bond, would stand up to the test of time.

After all, it had survived so much else already...

His eyes traveled across the room, to the spot where Scully had stood, moaning with passion as he'd brought her to orgasm; and he smiled.

"You're being awfully quiet," he said to Byers, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, finishing a slice of pizza and managing not to drip tomato sauce on his suit.

"That's because they're pigs, and I'm not," said the other man, with a slight smile.

"Oh, yeah, right," interjected Langly, "Mister Sensitive over there -- I seem to remember you and Frohike coming to blows over who was gonna borrow 'Pirate Wenches of the Caribbean' after I was done with it..."

"Hey, y'know, we're missing a trick, here," Frohike spoke up suddenly. "This man over here is getting married tomorrow, and we're just sitting in a motel room eating pizza... tell me, what is wrong with this picture?"

He and Langly exchanged significant glances. "Bachelor party," said the blond, and grinned.

"Exactly," Frohike confirmed.

"Wait a minute," Mulder protested, but Frohike grabbed him by one arm, and Langly seized the other, and together they propelled him out of the room before he could voice any further complaint.

The motel room was dark when he fumbled his key into the lock and staggered inside. "Mulder?" said a sweet, familiar voice in a tone of concern, and the light flipped on...

"Ow," he mumbled. "Turn it off, Scully, please."

She came to him, sniffed the air... "How much have you had to drink?" and her voice was disapproving.

"Too much. Not my idea. The boys came by an' decided I needed a bachelor party."

"Nice of them," she muttered, in a voice that indicated she felt exactly the opposite.

"Yeah, well, boys will be boys. I gotta lie down," and he staggered past her and fell onto the bed.

He felt her pulling off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt; he tried to cooperate, but the effort was too much for him. "If you're going to throw up, tell me," she directed him, "and don't do it on the bed."

"I already threw up. Twice." Hazily, he debated with himself, on how much to tell her. "Y'know, there's this place, over on the west side, I think... nice place, if you like strippers. They had all kinds there: tall ones, small ones, big ones, little ones..." and his hands described the shape of the anatomy to which he was referring.

"Really," said Scully, in the cool voice she generally used to shoot holes in his wilder theories.

"Yeah. And none of 'em as pretty as you."

"Liar," she disputed; but her voice was smiling.

"Truly. I swear." She was working on removing his jeans, now; his body was far too alcohol-sodden to respond to the provocation, and he felt a vague pang of regret at that fact. "The boys thought it'd be a nice gesture to buy me a lap-dance. And y'know what? I must be 'way deep in love, 'cause all I could think about was you." He used every last bit of energy he had left to lever himself upright, enough to gaze blearily into her eyes. "I love you, Dana Scully. I love you so much."

And he watched her face soften, the last traces of resentment fading away. "I love you too," she responded. "Even when you're drunk and stupid."

"Oh, good," he said faintly, falling back again, "ow," at the impact of his head against the pillow, "'cause I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I don't know what you'd do without me, either." She pulled the covers over him, turned off the light -- ah, blessed darkness -- and slid into bed beside him. "God, Mulder, you reek of cheap liquor."

"'M sorry," he murmured. "Does this mean we can't snuggle?"

A long, heavy sigh. "Come here," she said, and he mustered the energy to slide closer to her.

She was curled up on her side, facing away from him; and he nestled in behind her, fitting his body to hers, wrapping one arm around her waist, enjoying her warmth. "Try not to be too hung-over in the morning?" she requested.

"Believe me, I'll do my best," he mumbled, burying his face in her hair. "Scully, I'm sorry about this... can you forgive me?"

Her hand slipped into his, and held it. "I'll forgive you by morning," she said, again with a smile in her voice. "Go to sleep, Mulder."

"Yes, dear."

By the time he stepped out of the cab outside the chapel they'd chosen, his headache had just about faded; and his consolation was the sight of his three companions from the night before, all of whom looked like death warmed over in a microwave. "Hi, guys," he said, in a deliberately loud voice, slapping Frohike hard on the back with one hand and Langly with the other, and had the satisfaction of seeing them nearly keel over.

"Don't look at me," Byers warned him, looking considerably more frayed around the edges than was normal, "I tried to keep them under control..."

"Yeah, I know. Can I have my car keys back now?" he inquired, and Byers handed them over, grinning.

Skinner strolled over to him, wearing what Mulder could only describe as a 'just-got-laid' look on his face. "Good morning," he said to the AD. "I assume you had a pleasant evening with ASAC Lambert?"

"Oh, most definitely. I understand you had a rather interesting evening yourself..."

"Interesting... is not the word I would use," Mulder muttered. "'Disaster' would be a far more appropriate term."

"I see," observed Skinner. "Well, congratulations on your big day," and a hand impacted against his back with stunning force, nearly causing him to lose his precarious balance.

He recovered, barely. "That was cruel," he grumbled, and was treated to another one of Skinner's startling grins -- this one had a definite mischievous edge to it.

Just then, a limousine pulled up to the curb, and Mulder felt his heart skip a beat, knowing who was inside... His mother emerged first, and he gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek, more preoccupied with the other occupants; then Scully's mother got out of the car, and then...

She was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. The dress fitted her like a second skin, innocent and demure and somehow shockingly sexy all at once -- virginal white, of course; if anyone had the right to wear it, she did -- a simple garland of white flowers adorned her hair, matching the bouquet she carried, and her face was absolutely radiant.

"Scully," he breathed, and ran out of words.

"I guess you like the dress?" she murmured, blushing at his scrutiny.

He supposed that he ought to come up with a suitably snappy come-back, but his mind didn't seem to be working properly; all he could do was stare at her, and marvel. Only one thought remained uppermost in his mind, and it was the only thing he could think of to say: "I love you so much."

Her eyes met his, and time stood still; the world went away, and all that existed was the two of them. Scully, in that incredible white dress... Scully, his bride, soon to be his wife. Time and time again, he'd wondered at the miracle of it, that someone so completely perfect for him should stumble into his life, and somehow not be deterred by his myriad faults: now, it seemed more of a miracle than ever. To love this woman, and be loved by her... nothing could be better than this. Nothing.

"What time is it?" he heard Scully's mother say.

"Two o'clock, on the nose," responded Frohike.

"It's time," Langly added.

Mulder held out one hand to Scully, and she took it; and together, they walked into the chapel.

"So where is he?" his mother said, to the woman holding down the fort at the wedding chapel.

The brunette shrugged helplessly. "The minister should be here any minute," she insisted, "he's never missed a wedding yet..."

Mulder abandoned his restless pacing, slid onto the bench where his bride-to-be was sitting. "Tic-Tac?" he offered.

"Thanks." She took the box from his hand and popped one into her mouth.

"Y'know," he mused quietly, "I knew it was too good to be true. This guy's never going to show up, we're never gonna get married, I'm going to die a lonely, broken man..."

"Mul-derrr," Scully said patiently, "if he doesn't show up in another ten minutes, we'll find another chapel to get married in. Maybe even the 24-Hour Church of Elvis." She took his hand in both of hers. "Are you even remotely capable of the slightest fragment of optimism?"

He shrugged. "You're a dream come true, Scully," he said simply. "I can't help it; I just keep expecting to wake up."

She brought his hand to her lips, kissed his fingers. "Get used to the dream, Mulder," she said, "because I'm not going anywhere."

"Sorry," said a breathless voice from the doorway -- and there, standing before them in white sequined jumpsuit and long silk scarf and sideburned wig, was the minister who they'd spoken to the day before. "I got held up at a gig on the Strip," he explained apologetically, "just give me half a minute to change, and I'll be right with you..."

Mulder glanced at Scully, and together they burst into laughter.

"Don't change," Scully said, through her giggles, to the minister.

"We like you just the way you are," Mulder seconded.

The minister shot them a quizzical look, then shrugged. "It's your wedding..."

And so it was that they stood together, side by side, before a minister dressed like Elvis, listening to the words of the brief ceremony delivered in a credible imitation of the King himself, and struggling not to laugh at the implausibility of it all.

Scully caught his eye with a sidelong glance; and suddenly all thoughts of laughter were far from his mind. Elvis or no Elvis, it was the most serious moment of his life: 'sacred bond' and 'lifelong commitment' were more than just words, they were the words that would define his life, from now on...

But then, what else was new? It had been that way since she'd stepped into his basement office, and into his life.

He gazed at her, loving her, knowing that nothing could mar the perfection of this moment...

And just as the minister was getting to the part about 'speak now or forever hold your peace', a voice echoed through the chapel: "Wait!"

Mulder turned, with a sudden sinking feeling in his gut, and there he was: Dana's brother Bill, sweaty and breathless, standing in the doorway. "Thank God it's not too late! Dana, you can't marry this asshole..."

"Hey," said Langly helpfully, "she loves that asshole," and Byers elbowed him in the side, hard.

"He's all wrong for you, Dana! You've had nothing but grief since you teamed up with him... you'll never be happy with him, Dana, don't do it..."

Scully faced her brother, fire in her eyes and fury in her voice: "Bill, I swear to God, if you say one more word, I will SHOOT YOU!" reverberated through the small room with stunning force.

"Dana..." her brother protested.

And then Mrs. Scully stood up, turned to look at her eldest son. "William," she said, in a voice that brooked no disobedience, "you always were too big for your britches. You've had your say; now sit down, and shut up."

"Ma..."

"NOW."

For a long moment, the man hesitated; then, sullenly, he stormed to a seat at the back of the chapel and sat down.

Silence reigned, broken finally by the minister's voice: "Can we get on with this?"

But Mulder found himself staring at the angry man seated at the back of the room. In some part of his mind, he understood; how could he not understand? If Samantha had been with him, and marrying some man he couldn't stand... who was to say what he might do, how he might react? Of course he understood.

"I love her," he said quietly, in a voice that projected as clearly as Scully's shout had.

The room was still, as if no one dared to move.

"I would die for her," Mulder added. "I would die without her. She's everything to me..." wanting him to understand, to at least begin to understand. She's your little sister, but she's everything to me.

Bill raised his head, stared back. "Just take care of her!" he flung back, a challenge.

"I will," Mulder said. "I do." He glanced at Scully, was startled by the tears in her eyes; then she smiled up at him, and he knew that it was all right. I do.

Her brother turned away, still angry but somehow placated; Mulder took Scully's hand, and they turned to face the minister together.

"...Do you, Dana Katherine Scully, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Say yes, please say yes...

"I do," she responded, without a moment's pause.

"And do you, Fox William Mulder..."

God, I hate that name.

...take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Hell, yes!

"I do," he said, through the lump in his throat.

"Then with the power vested in me by God, the State of Nevada, and the King himself..."

This is it. It's real. It's happening. It's not a dream...

"...I now pronounce you husband and wife."

It's real. This is real. We're married...

"You may now kiss the bride."

Just try to stop me.

He took her in his arms, and she turned her face up to him, radiant and a little teary-eyed and impossibly, breathtakingly beautiful...

And in the moment that their lips met in the kiss that sealed their vows, he knew that forever could never be long enough, with Scully.

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