The Unicorn Tamed 12: Correlation

There were dark circles under his eyes, yellowed remnants of deep bruises on his face and arms. Part of his head had been shaved, in order to suture his wounds; it was starting to grow in, but his hair still looked as if small woodland creatures had been nibbling at it while he slept. He walked unsteadily, but he was walking, having spurned the wheelchair they'd offered -- still, she stayed close to him as they made their way to her car.

He was going home. She was taking him home. Not one of his playthings -- there had been offers aplenty, but he'd chosen her to play chauffeur. She wasn't sure if this was his idea of offering an olive branch, or only tossing her a bone -- but she wasn't about to turn it down.

Throughout the weeks of his recovery, the female traffic to and from his room had been intense. Some of Mulder's girlfriends had been friendly, some had been wary, some had been downright hostile -- she'd learned to confine her visits to after-hours, using her pull as a fellow M.D. to gain access, for those were the only times they could talk.

Not that there was much talking. The gulf that separated them was still vast. But Mulder seemed content with her presence; and so they sat together in silence, hour after hour, broken only by the occasional fragment of small talk or shop talk -- nothing real, nothing important, no discourse about their feelings or their relationship.

At least they were together, and that was a start.

Now, she got him into the passenger seat, belted him in, tucked a pillow behind his head -- he was still prone to severe headaches; his recovery was far from complete -- not daring to allow herself to react to his physical proximity, trying not to react to him at all, and so his voice in her ear came as a shock.

"Taking pity on me, Scully?"

Pity? Where the hell had that come from? "Just trying to make sure you're comfortable for the drive back," she responded.

"Mmm," and he closed his eyes and said nothing more.

Halfway back, miles later, it came to her -- what she'd said, when they'd fought -- Shit! Words of anger, nothing more; but just try convincing him of that now... "It was never pity," she said, struggling to keep her voice calm and steady. "It was always love, Mulder. Always."

The only answer she got was the same unresponsive, "Mmm."

She drove him to his apartment, parked in the 'No Standing' zone in front, displayed her FBI parking permit prominently to (hopefully) prevent being towed. "Well, here we are," she said, with a sigh.

His eyes opened, and he glanced out the window -- "This is my place," he said with a faint frown, sounding puzzled.

"Yeah," Scully agreed, wondering.

Mulder seemed at a loss for words. "I thought... you asked me if I wanted you to take me home."

It took her a moment to sort it out in her mind. "You thought I meant my home?" But of course, it made sense - - the head injury had been a nasty one, and he still had headaches, dizzy spells; Mulder could barely take care of himself at the best of times, let alone now...

"Never mind," he said abruptly, and began fumbling with the seatbelt.

"No, wait..." She reached out and grabbed his hand, stopped him from unfastening the restraint. "Do you mean that you want me to look after you, is that it?"

His face was closed and set -- he wouldn't allow himself the luxury of begging, of course: not her, not now. "Wouldn't want you to take pity on me again," he said tightly.

She sighed. "It wasn't pity, it wasn't ever pity."

"'S what you said." He wouldn't look at her, but the expression on his face as he stared pointedly at the windshield told her how badly her words had hurt him.

Shit. "I was angry," she said plaintively. "I lied."

"Sure," he said, "fine. Whatever."

Another sigh. "Mulder, haven't you ever said anything in anger that you regretted later?"

"I never told you that I was only using you for sex," he said shortly. "I never told you to get the hell out of my life. And I never told you how irredeemably ugly that tattoo is."

Ouch. "Point taken," she said softly.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, and she wondered what he was thinking. Was he hoping that she'd take him home with her? Was he counting the seconds until he could be free of her? What did he really want? Once upon a time, she would have known -- but everything had changed, and now she couldn't tell.

Her hand still held his arm, which was stiff and tense in her grip; but he'd made no move to break the contact.

"Mulder," she asked him finally, "what do you want me to do?"

Something like a shudder passed through him. "Do whatever you want," he said curtly.

She thought about it for a moment, then let go of his arm, started the car again and pulled away from the curb.

As she drove, it occurred to her that if he'd meant to maneuver her into playing nursemaid, he'd done a damn good job... The thought chilled her. Mulder, with his detachment and his intuitive knack for profiling, could easily manipulate just about anyone into doing just about anything. He knew Scully better than anyone else; if he wanted to exact his revenge against her, it wouldn't be a difficult task -- She shivered, and not from the air-conditioning.

But as she glanced at him sideways from the corner of her eye, she saw the fatigue and the pain, and most of all the despair -- and thought that perhaps it was just his loneliness at work: that no matter how much he might shy away from her, he needed her even more than he could consciously admit. If she was being manipulated, she thought, it was for that reason rather than any sort of vengeance.

At least, she hoped so.

She hadn't made any sort of preparation for a visitor, but she always kept the guest bedroom ready -- serendipity, that she had a guest room at all: there hadn't been a one-bedroom apartment open for rent when she'd chosen the complex, and by the time one had become available, it had been too much trouble to move. In the intervening years, it had been useful to have that spare room at hand -- Mulder had slept there more than once -- and now, he would reside there again.

There was something comforting in that. Despite the distance between them, for a little while he would be at least physically close by...

Scully got him settled in bed, then went off to see about getting his prescriptions filled -- the hospital had provided a small supply of meds, but not enough to last, and she wanted to get that task out of the way. It occurred to her at the drugstore that she should have grabbed a few things from his apartment while they were there, and she detoured past Target on the way home: after their breakup, his spare suits and shaving kit had remained at her place, but there had never been much need for sleepclothes in the course of their relationship. She bought him a couple of pairs of cheap pajamas, t-shirts and sweatpants on sale... and then it occurred to her that she could use some extra food in the fridge...

I'm avoiding him, she realized, as she paid the supermarket cashier and carried her bags to the car. I don't know what to say to him, how to act or react, so I'm finding any plausible excuse to stay away. The knowledge added to her sense of dread, so that when she finally did get home, she sat in the car for ten minutes before she could force herself to get out of the car and enter her apartment...

...which was an anticlimax: Mulder was asleep.

She sat at his bedside for awhile, watching him sleep. Awake, he always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders; asleep, some of that fell away from him -- but only some of it. The burden of being who he was had long ago etched itself onto his soul, and not even slumber could erase its mark.

Pity, she thought. Of all we've shared, all the things we've said to each other, that's the one thing he chooses to remember...

It made sense -- too much sense. Having become convinced that she'd slept with him solely from pity, he'd set out to find women who wouldn't share that sentiment. How else to convince himself that he wasn't a pitiable creature, deserving only of contempt? All things considered, she supposed that it had been a more healthful option than the next logical alternative: that of crawling back into his shell alone, destroying all the progress he'd made toward normal sexual function.

She only hoped that he hadn't contracted anything nasty in his travels. The blood screens at the hospital had turned up negative, but one never knew what might show up later. Hopefully, Mulder was smart enough to practice safe sex...

...but he wasn't smart enough to know the difference between an angry remark and a truth, which didn't give her much hope for the future.

Or was there? He was here, after all. And knowing Mulder, she was certain that he'd rather have starved to death in his own apartment than accept lodging in hers, no matter how sick he might be -- unless deep down inside, he wanted to heal the hurts that separated them.

On the other hand, knowing Mulder, it would require all her time, energy and attention to do so.

Scully sighed, knowing that she had already, intuitively and without stopping to think about the consequences, made her choice. After all, she wouldn't have brought him home, no matter how badly he might need her, if she didn't feel he was worth the effort...

But it would be a long, hard road for both of them.

She found him in the kitchen when she awoke, managing to stay upright by virtue of a hand clutching the countertop and holding on for dear life, struggling to make coffee with the other. "I'll do that," she said, taking the filter basket from his hand, "you sit down, before you fall down."

He must have been enduring one of his dizzy spells, for he didn't argue. "You'll be late for work," he reminded her.

"Huh? Oh... that's right, you don't know." She busied herself with filter and coffee and water. "Ms. Green elected to file a formal complaint. Skinner doesn't think she'll bother pursuing the matter to the point of disciplinary action, since she's already gone back to her side of the pond, but... I'm on an unpaid leave of absence while the matter is investigated," and snuck a quick glance sideways to see how he was reacting to the news.

Surprise first, then unmitigated anger. "That bitch," and the sound of a fist thumping against her kitchen table. His anger was gratifying; for a moment, it felt as if they were on the same side again...

"You never did tell me why," he added, a moment later.

"Why what?" Water and filter and coffee in place, she flicked the switch that would begin the brewing process.

"Why you beat the crap out of her." His voice was very soft, almost hesitant.

Was it truly possible that he didn't know? "I told you I would," she said, "if I ever got the chance."

"Yeah, but... that was before..." and the rest of the sentence died on his tongue.

She turned to look at him directly -- thought better of it, for the movement would allow him a clear look at her face as well. "Mulder," she said tiredly, "some things don't change," and escaped to the bathroom, to fetch his medication, wash her face and regain her composure.

It took her some time to accomplish those tasks, especially the last; and by the time she emerged, the coffee was ready. Mulder had apparently tried to pour himself a cup, had succeeded only in spilling a goodly portion of it on her floor, and was trying to clean up the mess by means of pushing a paper towel around the linoleum with one foot. She shooed him away, grabbed an old dish-sponge, and finished the job before filling two cups with coffee and bringing them to the table.

"How am I supposed to take care of you if you won't let me?" she grumbled -- then flinched at her own words, for they evoked a memory that was more painful in retrospect than the original event had been: a too-cold shower, and his body shivering against hers...

"I don't need your pity." The pain in his voice, so carefully veiled yet still so obvious, wrenched at her.

"You're not listening to me, Mulder. It was never pity... I said that in anger, damn it."

"And the truth will out," in a voice so soft that it was nearly a whisper.

Her restraint began to fray; temper seeped through. "If that's what you really believe, Mulder, why are you here?"

His eyes met hers, wearing an expression she couldn't fully decipher. "I'm a glutton for punishment," he murmured. "But then, you knew that already."

She almost lost it completely, then; almost snapped back at him -- stopped herself just in time. That was how they'd gotten into this mess, and giving in to anger now would only make it worse... Instead, she drew a deep breath and reined in her temper. "Tell me something, Mulder," she began, trying for a more logical tack, "do you truly believe that I'd have sex with somebody unless I sincerely cared about him?"

"No, but..."

"No buts. Answer."

It took him a moment. "No," he admitted.

"Do you believe that I was lying to you when I told you that I had desired you for some time prior to your confession?"

"Not lying, exactly..."

"Just answer the question, Mulder."

An even longer time before he could bring himself to respond. "I guess not, no."

"So what makes you believe that I had sex with you purely as a result of pity?" Surely, even Mulder could see the logic of that chain...

"The amount of shit you put up with between point A and point B," he replied, very softly.

Her eyes closed of their own accord. "Maybe I just thought you were worth it," she murmured.

"Now why would you think that?" His tone was wry, almost joking; but all the self-loathing he carried around with him expressed itself within the parameters of that sentence.

"Because you are?" she tried, knowing that it was an answer he wouldn't accept. "Or maybe you're not; I don't know. But I believe you are."

"Or maybe you just pitied me enough to think you believed."

She sighed heavily. "If you're that determined to believe that you're pitiable, there's not much I can do to change your mind," she said slowly. "But consider this: I've stayed with you for five years, despite suffering personal consequences for having done so. Despite the fact that I don't believe in the things you consider gospel. I have stayed with you for five years as your partner and your friend, simply because I believe you're worth it. Which means: either I am an abominable judge of character -- or your opinion of yourself and your worth is a load of bullshit." Fatigue washed over her in a great wave, as if she hadn't slept at all the night before; the conversation was wearing her down as little else could. "Figure it out for yourself, Mulder; I'm tired, and I'm going back to bed."

Abandoning her untouched coffee, she left him there at the table, and retreated to her own room.

Rising some hours later, she found his mug in the sink, rinsed but not washed. Hers was still on the table; apparently, he hadn't trusted himself to carry the full mug of now-cold coffee. He had, however, managed to find his way to the fridge, and cannibalized half of a Sara Lee chocolate layer cake she'd left there; she chided herself for not having offered him breakfast before her retreat.

As for Mulder himself, he was sprawled on the living room couch, snoring.

She retrieved the bottles of medication and a glass of water, placed one hand on his shoulder and shook him awake; he managed to lever himself into a sitting position, and swallowed the pills without fuss.

Afterwards, she let him lean on her as he stumbled to the bathroom, and waited outside while he took care of his needs -- "I'm going to take a shower," he stated through the closed door, over the sound of the toilet flushing.

"I don't think that's too wise," she responded.

"I don't care. I feel downright scuzzy." The door opened, and he stood there staring down at her, daring her to argue. "I'll be fine," he said flatly.

She looked at him -- looked at the tight grip he was maintaining on the door frame, and how even that support wasn't enough to keep him from swaying. "You can't even stay on your feet," she scolded lightly -- hesitated over her next words, then said them anyway. "I think you need some help."

"You helping me," he murmured, "is how we got into this mess in the first place."

It was a moment before she could reply. "We got into this 'mess'," she said finally, "because I said something untrue in a moment of anger. And because you don't have the sense to realize it."

He shrugged. "Be that as it may."

"Be that as it may," she retorted, "I will not have you slipping and falling and breaking your neck in my bathtub. Shower with help, or don't shower; your choice."

Mulder took his time making up his mind. "Fine," he said at last, sounding as if he were forcing out the words from between clenched teeth, "you can help," making it sound like an epithet.

He undressed with his back to her, struggling to get the sweatpants off without having to bend and possibly lose his balance -- she thought about offering to assist him, decided that it wouldn't go over well, and instead sloughed off her own robe and nightgown. She stepped past him and got the shower going, adjusted the temperature until it was comfortably warm, and waited for him to decide that he was ready...

Not so long ago, it had been natural and pleasurable to shower with him. Now, the situation was painfully awkward. It was clear to Scully that he hated having her there, would have done anything to avoid it -- she reached out to wash his back, and he flinched from her touch. But he couldn't do it himself; he was hanging on to the washcloth- rail above the soap dish, fighting to stay on his feet -- so she lathered him up quickly, trying for his sake to get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible.

Halfway through, "Scully," she heard him say faintly, "I..." and he swayed sharply; she grabbed hold of him as he fell backward, eased him down to the tub in a sort of controlled fall until his butt was safely resting on terra firma.

Utilizing all her restraint to keep from saying, 'I told you so,' she asked instead, "Are you okay?"

"Just a little dizzy," he muttered, "I'm fine," and moved as if to try to stand.

"Oh, no. You just sit still," she admonished, reaching for the hand sprayer.

She washed his hair, using the shampoo from the bottle he'd left in her bathroom, remnant of when showering together hadn't been a chore -- she tried hard not to think of that, instead devoting her attention to keeping the foam out of his eyes. While she did, he finished washing himself, having two hands to devote to the task -- she rinsed him off carefully, leaving no trace of soap on his skin or hair -- turned off the water, when the job was finished, and listened to the last droplets of water falling from the showerhead in the newfound silence.

Looked at him, huddled on the floor of her bathtub, and couldn't keep herself from hugging him: wrapped her arms around his shoulders and chest from behind, resting her cheek against his wet hair. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Mulder, I'm so sorry."

"So'm I," she heard him say. But it wasn't a reconciliation, only an expression of bleak despair; with a sigh, she released him and reached for a towel.

Dinner was Chinese take-out -- she thought perhaps that she should have cooked him a more nutritious meal, but he seemed happy with his chicken chow mein, and she was tired. The parts of his hair that weren't regrown-stubble had gotten long; strands kept falling into his eyes, despite her attempts to comb them away from his face, and he kept shoving them back with an annoyed gesture.

It was an oddly companionable meal: as if the tension between them had been set aside, by mutual consent, as being too damned inconvenient to sustain. There was little conversation between them, but that was better than the studied small-talk that had passed for conversation in the hospital -- better not to talk at all than to talk about nothing and know that there was something huge and ominous being deliberately ignored.

"I could cut that for you," she said, after the fifteenth or sixteenth time he'd stopped eating to shove the hair out of his face.

"I'll survive." The hand lingered along one of the stubbly patches of scalp self-consciously. "I'm missing enough hair as it is."

"It'll grow back," she reassured him: stubble though it was, the regrowth was thick and even, showing no trace of impending baldness. "Don't worry; I'm sure your girlfriends won't mind."

She'd been trying for humor, but apparently it was the wrong thing to say: his body tensed, all over and in the space of a heartbeat. "What do you know about my girlfriends?"

Scully shrugged. "Not much," she said, lying through her teeth. She'd spent enough time listening to them chatter amongst themselves in the hospital's waiting room and ladies' room -- enough to know that most of them considered him a 'mystery man', signifying that he didn't have a single confidante among them. Enough to know that his contacts with these women were shallow and insubstantial things, dinners and movies and sex and not much else. Enough to know that he hadn't seen fit to demonstrate many of his oral skills to them, as he had to Scully; and that those who needed more than a straight screw to achieve satisfaction considered him a passable lover at best. Not that it mattered to a single one of them -- Mulder was handsome, could be incredibly charming when he wanted to be, had been educated in old-fashioned notions of courtesy and gallantry, and wasn't inclined to scrimp on a date with a woman who he intended to take to bed -- all of which made him a notable catch for any woman out fishing for a man.

As she'd only ever known Mulder as Mulder, it had been a real eye-opener to discover what these women thought of him. A wholly new perspective on an old friend...

"I don't want to talk about that," he said flatly, and she shrugged again and let it drop.

The meal progressed in silence. "It's funny," Mulder said at last. "When I wasn't having sex, it seemed like the most important thing in the world, and now that I am..." He shrugged, a more expressive conclusion to the sentence than any words could have been.

So much for not wanting to talk about it, Scully thought. "I don't know if it's the same for men," she said, choosing her words carefully, "but I've always found that it matters more who you're having sex with than the mere fact of sex itself."

"You could be right," he mused. Then, very softly: "It mattered with you."

She looked up sharply, studying him closely; but he'd devoted himself to the chow mein, and his too-long bangs covered his face and hid it from view.

"I thought so, too," she murmured. To stop the moment from lingering and becoming awkward, she rose to her feet and asked, "You ready for another soda?"

"Sure," he said, sounding relieved, and she went to get it.

Halfway there, she thought, doing some unnecessary puttering in the kitchen to kill some time and let the dust settle. At least he's talking. At least he's admitting that what we had together meant something... Finally, we're getting somewhere.

But where? And how long would it take? Who knows? Scully thought wearily, and did her best to put the question out of her mind.

Returning to the living room, she found that Mulder had finished his meal and was toying with a fortune cookie. "Ready to see what the future holds?"

"Not really," he muttered; but he cracked open the cookie anyway. The slip of paper seemed to startle him -- he read it twice, then folded it in half and slid it into the vest pocket of his pajamas. "Your turn."

Idly, she picked up the other cookie and snapped it in half while Mulder nibbled on the wreckage of his own, read the paper she found inside. 'That which you thought lost will soon be found' -- she sighed, and hoped that it was true.

"What's it say?" Mulder asked.

"I'll trade," she retorted.

He thought about it for a moment. "Never mind," he dismissed, while her curiosity itched.

Whatever. "You want to watch some TV?" she asked him.

"Actually, I'm kind of tired," he demurred. "I could use some sleep."

Where have I heard this before...? "Okay," she said. "Shove over," and didn't wait for him to comply, instead wriggled onto the couch with him.

"What the... oof... what're you doing?"

"You liked it well enough last time." It took some doing, but she managed to wedge herself behind him, so that if he leaned back as he had been doing, he would be resting against her.

"That was different..." He seemed -- nervous? No, not quite. But definitely edgy, as if confronting something he feared.

"No, it's not." She took hold of his shoulders and tugged. "C'mere."

He resisted -- for a moment, then acceded to the inevitable, turning slightly onto his side and letting his head rest against her shoulder. Still, his body was tense against hers, and she pondered what she could do about that.

The answer came to her in a flash of sudden insight, as his hand raised to rub at his forehead. "Headache?" she asked rhetorically, and began to stroke his hair.

"Some," he allowed, not moving to stop her; after awhile, he began to relax.

It wasn't long before he fell asleep, and she resigned herself to several hours of pins and needles in slowly- numbing arms and legs -- but first, she let her fingers wander, just a bit, to the pocket of his pajama shirt. He stirred once, slightly, and she froze briefly; but after another moment, she had it in her fingers.

One-handed, she fumbled the slip of paper open, and read his fortune.

'That which you thought lost will soon be found'...

I'll be damned, she thought. Coincidence?

One way or another, they'd find out.

She awoke to the feel of a blanket sliding over her; startled, she opened her eyes and found him bending over her.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he said, by way of explanation. "You looked cold..."

"Thanks," she said blurrily. "You okay?"

He shrugged. "As well as can be expected. I'm a little dizzy, but I'm not nauseous, and my head doesn't hurt." Ever since the injury, it had always been at least one of the three.

Then he knelt beside the couch, reached out and touched her face with a single fingertip. "Thanks," he murmured.

Heartened by the touch, she moved quickly, grabbed his hand before he could withdraw it. "It was my pleasure," she said.

He'd turned off the lights; the television screen flickered with unseen pictures, its sound muted, providing the only illumination. She could just barely see his face in the shadows, could just barely discern its expression -- somber, troubled, as it looked sometimes when he was fighting to solve a puzzle, struggling to make it come clear. "You read my fortune," he said, his tone carrying no censure for the invasion of privacy.

She nodded slightly. "It was the same as mine," and noted by his lack of surprise that he'd read her fortune, too.

"So," he said, and had to stop to clear his throat before he could continue. "What do you think, do fortune cookies really tell the future?"

There was only one answer to that. "You tell me," she said.

Silence. "No," he said, at last. "You tell me, Scully. Tell me..." and his voice caught, so that he couldn't continue.

"Tell you what?" she countered softly, when the silence had again lengthened between them.

His eyes flickered away, as if he feared what she might say next. "Tell me the truth, Scully," he whispered. "Tell me how you really feel."

She hesitated for a long moment, knowing that what she said at that moment would define the future of their relationship -- would define whether there would be a relationship at all. "You're my friend," she said quietly, "you're my partner. I trust you with my life, and with my soul."

He made a small, dismissive motion with his free hand, as if to say, I know that already, and she continued.

"When I found out... what had been done to you... I was so angry at her, and so unhappy for you. I wanted... I would have done anything to heal that pain. Even if it was at my own expense. Even if, once you were healed, we were never together again. It... it meant everything to me, to be able to give that to you."

A spasm of pain crossed his face, as if his worst fears had been realized. "I see," he mumbled.

"No, you don't see," she insisted. "You see the pieces of the puzzle, but not the reason... Why do you think it mattered to me? Why do you think I cared so much whether you were emotionally scarred or not? It's because I love you, Mulder. I love you so much..." The tears were beginning to choke her; she fought them back, because she had to finish, while he was still listening. "I love you so much that if it means losing you -- if that's what it takes, if that's what you need to be whole again, and leave the old pain behind you -- it's a price I'm willing to pay. Just to know that you're all right."

The tears choked her then, and blinded her: she closed her eyes, so that he wouldn't see her crying.

Then she felt his fingertips caress her face, gentling away the teardrops; felt his hand settle alongside her cheek.

"I love you too, Scully," she heard him say.

She opened her eyes then, found herself gazing into his, great dark liquid pools of misery and hope and pain and love, shimmering with unshed tears.

"Mulder," she whispered.

His head dipped closer, and she raised her head to meet him halfway, and his lips brushed against hers -- so hesitantly at first, as when they'd first kissed, then with the sureness she'd come to know later -- his arms moved to embrace her, to draw her closer; and almost of their own accord, her hands clutched at his shoulders and pulled him down. The feel of that kiss, of his tongue twining with hers, the taste of his mouth again, after so long...

That was when the tears broke free of her tenuous restraint, began to roll down her face in earnest -- it didn't matter; his cheeks were already wet.

Finally, breathlessly, they parted, gazing at each other with the same fearful hope. "Is it... are we going to be okay now?" she murmured, her voice trembling.

Again, his fingertips brushed the tears from her face. "I want to believe," he murmured.

She caught his hand in hers and tugged him closer. "C'mere..."

This time, he moved willingly closer, snuggling into the room she made for him on the narrow couch; his arms closed around her, and for the first time in a perceived forever, she felt his body pressed against hers... They kissed, and now there was no room for tears between them: only desire, only love.

And it had been entirely too long since it had been that way...

There was no room for fancy technique, and no need. She was aching to feel him inside her again, and could tell easily enough that he was feeling the same way. A few moments of hurried fumbling got the clothing out of their way; she pushed him back against the pillows, straddled him, guided his hardness inside her until he was fully sheathed.

Oh, God... It was perfect, it was bliss, it was... Completion. More so than she'd remembered.

From that point, things progressed quickly -- the emotion between them demanded swift culmination, as if sex was the only way to really resolve the issues they'd fought so hard to mend. Almost at once, she felt herself hovering at the brink, knew from his ragged breathing and his hoarse cries that he was right there with her, increased her pace to bring them both there together... and the waves of pleasure shuddered through her as she heard him cry out her name. Her orgasm was prolonged, sharp and sweet and satisfying; and afterwards she fell against him, too suddenly exhausted to do anything else.

"Are we going to be all right?" she asked him blurrily, as she slid down the slope toward sleep, head nestled against his sweaty shoulder, breathing in the fragrance of him and savoring the scent.

Beneath her, he moved slightly, one long arm snagging the blanket that had fallen to the floor in the course of their exertions, retrieving it and tugging it into place to cover them both. "Ask me in the morning," he murmured, over a yawn.

She smiled a little, knowing that she wouldn't need to ask, knowing that everything was going to be just fine, and let herself complete the headlong tumble into slumber.

But when she awoke the next morning, she found herself alone on the couch.

She dragged herself to her feet, wrapping the blanket around herself like a toga, and made the journey to the bathroom; when she emerged, she was wearing her bathrobe instead. It didn't take a rocket scientist to follow the scent of brewing coffee to the kitchen, and sure enough, that was where she found him.

Mulder was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing clean sweatpants and a T-shirt, a half-drained mug of coffee by his elbow. He'd lit one of her candles -- not the tall tapers she occasionally utilized for semi-formal dinners, but one of the little votive jobs she liked to use for candlelit bubble baths -- and was staring into its flickering flame. Next to the candle was one of her bowls, holding not food but a small amount of black ash... and before him was the little black book in which he kept his girlfriends' numbers; he was perusing one page, and punching a number into the touch-pad of her telephone.

As she approached, he favored her with a quick, wary glance -- his face was closed, shuttered, absolutely impenetrable -- and her heart sank to her feet. It's over. Last night doesn't matter, our love doesn't matter... he's decided that it's over between us.

To cover her confusion and her hurt, she moved past him, poured herself a cup of coffee, and tried not to listen to his telephone conversation -- tried, and failed utterly.

"Hello, Miriam? It's me, Will... No, I'm fine. I just... I wanted to thank you for coming to see me in the hospital. The flowers were very kind..." He paused briefly. "Listen, Miri... I can't see you anymore."

Hope sprang to life within her, warring fiercely with the despair.

"There's someone else... someone very special to me, and I've decided that our relationship needs to be exclusive." Another pause, this one longer. "I know that, and I appreciate your feelings... but this means a lot to me." One quick, searing sidelong glance at Scully. "She means... more than anything to me."

Oh, Mulder.

"Yeah, well, thanks. Take care of yourself, okay? Good luck with the dancing; I hope you make it big someday, and then I can tell myself that I knew you when... Oh, and give up the smoking, will you? That stuff'll kill you. ...Yeah, you too. And thanks. Goodbye, Miriam."

He hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment -- then picked up the little black book and very deliberately tore out a page. Carefully, he held it over the candle, until the flame caught the paper; as it burned, he dropped it into the bowl, sipped at his coffee as he watched the page dissolve into ash.

Again, he glanced at Scully, his expression not quite as guarded -- "Morning," he said casually.

"Yes," she agreed, "it is." She moved to stand beside him, noting as she did that he was already halfway through the book. "You want some breakfast?"

"That'd be nice," he assented. "Pancakes?"

"If you want."

"If it's no trouble..."

"It's not."

"Pancakes, then."

She let her fingers trail along the back of his neck in a slow caress. "Sure," she said, and moved back toward the stove, leaving him his privacy.

It's okay, she thought with relief, as she mixed milk with the powdered mix to produce batter. Or maybe it's not okay just yet. But it will be... we will be. We're going to be okay, and that's enough.

More than enough. It's everything.

"Hello, Patty? It's me, Will..."

Everything's going to be just fine, Scully thought, picking up her mug and taking a long, long drink.

And coffee had never tasted so good.

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