Disclaimer: The concept of the X-Files and of its characters
belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and FOX. I mean no
infringement and I'm making no money from this.

Author's notes:
I have stuck fairly close to canon, though some elements that
were introduced in S8 are ignored.

Please note that there will be a second part, already written,
that will be posted not too long after Part One is completely
posted. Part One starts just after the events in Closure.

Many, many thanks to Carol for beta and cheerleading, and to Tess
and Char for encouragement and kind words!

=====

There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the
bridge is love. -Thornton Wilder

~x~

Land of the Living by ML

Prologue

~Traveler's Rest Motel, outside Victorville, California~

The ringing of his cell phone wakes him. He reaches out and
gropes for it, keeping his head buried in the pillow. He's so
tired.

"H'lo?" he mutters hoarsely.

"Mulder, it's me," Scully greets him. "I knocked on your door but
I guess you didn't hear me."

"Time's it?" he asks, turning his head toward the nightstand. The
clock there reads 12:00. No, that can't be right. They'd only
checked in at eleven o'clock. And why is it so light outside?
Can't be moonlight.

"It's almost noon, Mulder. I had to sweet talk the desk clerk to
extend checkout hours for us."

Normally, he wouldn't let a remark like that pass without a
response. However, his surprise at finding out it's noon *the
next day* shocks him into silence.

Finally he says, "Where are you, Scully?"

"Just outside your door. With lunch. Want some?"

He stumbles out of bed, grabbing his sweatpants and putting them
on as he opens the door. Scully stands there, immaculate, a bag
in one hand and her phone in the other.

He steps aside to let her in. "Give me a minute." He grabs his
clothes and enters the bathroom to shower and dress.

The cool water helps wake him a little more but he still feels
exhausted. So much has happened in such a short time. He closes
his eyes against the needles of water. His usually over-
stimulated brain seems emptied of every thought, every emotion.

What now? he thinks as he dries himself off. For the first time,
I don't really know. Maybe I don't care, either.

Scully arranges their lunch, listening to the shower and
wondering about Mulder's mood. She'd had a busy night, and not
much sleep. After talking with Arbutus Ray, she'd taken
Mulder to the motel and then driven Harold to the bus station.
Harold had lost heart, unable to accept that his son was not in
the same place Mulder had found Samantha. Scully had no words of
comfort for him. How many times has she seen Mulder in exactly
the same circumstances, and had no words that could reach him?
She's not sure now why Mulder accepts what he says he saw. She's
not even sure what he saw in that meadow. What kind of an
explanation is starlight, after all?

Once back at the motel, she'd found that Mulder had already
turned in. She couldn't even detect the faint blue light of the
television set. Sleep didn't come as easily to her as it had
seemed to for Mulder. The outcome of the case isn't as acceptable
to her as it seems to be for him.

But Mulder believes. For some reason, he believes. If it gives
him some peace, she can't begrudge him. But she cannot help but
worry about him. Is he accepting this explanation too easily?
She's too close to it all to take it in. She needs to gather more
information, understand what happened to Mulder, before she can
make up her mind.

As he opens the bathroom door Mulder can smell the warm greasy
odor of lunch awaiting him. Scully has set the food out on the
small table by the window and is in the process of adding the
minute portion of dressing she allows herself on her usual salad.

She doesn't look up right away and he's suddenly shaken by the
fear that this really is the end of the road, that he's done or
worse yet, Scully is done, and that she will finally and
irrevocably leave him. Panic rises over his numbness.

Calm, he must be calm. He can discuss this rationally with
Scully. She's still here.

Just at that moment she looks up and smiles. Not her welcome-
back-from-the-dead smile, this is not quite as toothy but every
bit as genuine. He remembers to smile back, just, and sits down
opposite her.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Okay, I guess. Tired. Really, really tired." He unwraps his
burger and takes a huge bite, washing it down with iced tea. Ugh.
Flavored.

She notices his grimace. "Sorry, there wasn't much choice."

"S'okay," he says after he swallows.

They eat and drink in silence. Mulder's mind begins to race
again, wondering what to say to Scully. Once before, he'd tried
to say something to make her stay, even tried to kiss her. It
hadn't turned out well. Not because she'd resisted him, though,
and the circumstances are a little different now. They've even
kissed, once, a couple of weeks ago. Not that either of them has
mentioned it since.

Scully breaks the silence first. "I don't think we need to go
back to Sacramento. Samantha was not a part of the LaPierre case.
We can send them a copy of our final report when we get back to
DC."

He nods his assent, staring down at the remains of his lunch.

"We can either drive up to San Francisco or over to Los Angeles
to catch a flight," she continues. "I checked this morning, and
no matter which way we go, those are the only airports with
direct flights."

"How far to San Francisco?" he asks. He doesn't remember much of
the drive down; Harold and Scully had driven most of the way
while he dozed.

"Couple of hours, at least. We're much closer to Los Angeles.
What do you want to do?" she asks, her blue eyes piercing him.

I want to kiss you, he thinks. I want to hold you so close that I
can't tell where I end and you begin.

"Mulder?" He hasn't spoken the words out loud, but her face has a
startled expression on it. He wonders what his face looks like.
When he doesn't say anything, she stands up and starts to gather
the lunch debris together.

As she turns back from the trash can, in one stride he's in front
of her, crowding her, grasping her arms and leaning in to kiss
her.

At first she turns her head to one side as if to avoid the touch
of his lips on hers. She turns back so quickly he thinks he may
have imagined it. She stands very still, her arms at her sides,
and allows him to kiss her. Her lips are cool and slightly sweet
from the soda. He settles his hands at her waist, leaning forward
to reach her.

Although surprised by Mulder's full frontal attack, Scully keeps
a tight grip on her own emotions. She wants him nearly as much as
he wants her, but this isn't right. She forces herself to remain
still, neither rejecting nor encouraging him as his lips press
hard against hers and his hands grip her tightly enough to leave
marks.

She loves him, she wants him, but not like this. It feels too
much like goodbye, like an end, like mourning. She will not yield
to her own desires under these circumstances.

The act of kissing Scully only seems to increase his panic. All
the emotions he's kept submerged for so long concentrate in this
one act. He presses his mouth against hers so hard that he thinks
she might bend backward. But Scully, with her core of steel,
stands firm. He feels her hands come up to grip his shoulders,
her nails digging into his flesh. He takes a firmer purchase on
her waist and tries to draw her closer to him.

She doesn't pull away, but she won't yield to him, either.

The awareness of this finally filters into his brain and he drops
his hands and hangs his head. "I'm sorry," his whispers almost
inaudibly. "I'm sorry."

She gently disengages and moves her hands up to his face to make
him look at her. Her thumbs rest at the corners of his mouth,
yearning to stroke over his pliant lips, to let him know that his
actions aren't unwelcome. His eyes are half-closed. His full
lower lip trembles ever so slightly, moist from their kiss.
Tension from him flows through her hands but even if she hadn't
been holding him, she would know how he feels from the set
of his shoulders and his still, watchful air.

Moments pass and neither moves. He's afraid to move. He can't
trust himself. He waits dumbly for her to speak, to pronounce his
fate.

Scully regards him with a serious expression, taking her time.
She still has his face cupped in her palms and it reminds her of
so many other times when she wanted to do more than to offer him
comfort. The most recent time was the night after his mother
died. If he'd approached her that night in this way, she wouldn't
have denied him. She's not sure where she finds the strength now
to resist him, when he needs her so desperately.

And why not now? Now, alone together in a motel room in the
middle of nowhere, the decision seems to lie with her. Mulder is
mute. She isn't sure if he takes her drawing back from his kiss
as a rejection or if he simply wants her to make the next move.

She leads him back to the table and says, "Mulder, just sit a
minute." He does so, obedient as a child, not looking at her. She
kneels next to him and chafes his hands between her own. They're
so cold. "Mulder, please look at me."

Very slowly he raises his eyes to her. She sees fear, loss, pain
in them. This time, she doesn't think it's only for Samantha, or
his mother. He still doesn't speak.

She raises his hands to her lips, kissing them gently, laying her
cheek against the back of his hand. He hasn't moved from where
she put him. "Is this what you want?" she whispers.

His hands turn to grasp hers. His fingers are still cold. He
still doesn't speak. She scans his face.

"I don't think either of us is in any condition to make any
important decisions right now," she says gently. "A lot has
happened in the past few days."

Her heart tries to rally against her common sense. Why not just
give in, smother him with kisses, and to hell with the
consequences?

"Okay," Mulder's voice, soft and hoarse, sighs over her thoughts.
He must have taken her silence as waiting for an answer rather
than her own agonizing. "Okay," he says a little louder, clearing
his throat. "I'll call Skinner and ask for some time. But only if
you do the same."

She doesn't pretend to misunderstand him. They're way beyond
games of that kind. Still, her heart beats a little harder.
Keeping her eyes locked to his, she nods.

"Let me take care of things back in DC, and we can meet somewhere
in a couple of days. Okay?"

"Okay," he says again.

Scully looks at him for a long moment. "Will you be okay on your
own for a bit? Maybe you should come back to DC too. Then we can
decide what to do."

Mulder shakes his head. "I want to stay here."

"Not *here* here, I hope," Scully says lightly. "And not to
investigate anything, right?"

He shakes his head again. "You know what'll happen if we both go
back. We'll go down to the office, someone'll call, and it's off
to the races again." He attempts a smile.

"So you're not staying out here to investigate anything?" she
asks once more.

"No." He doesn't add, there's nothing left to find out. I learned
everything I'm ever likely to know about Samantha. It's time to
face that.

Scully crouches before him for another long moment, trying to
gauge his mood. Finally she gives his hands one last squeeze and
stands up. "Let's get out of here before they decide to charge us
for another night."

This wins her a very small smile from Mulder. He nods and stands
up. "Let's get this show on the road."

~x~

Chapter One ~San Francisco International Airport~

He used to play this game with himself after Samantha's
disappearance. <If I make this basket, Samantha will come back.
If can swim all the way across the pool underwater, Samantha will
come back.> He plays it now, waiting for Scully. <I'll close my
eyes and count to ten, no to twenty, and when I open my eyes,
Scully will be there.>

He shuts his eyes as he hears the counter person officially
announce the flight's arrival. He keeps his eyes shut and slowly
counts another twenty, hearing happy reunion sounds around him.
After a third count to twenty he slowly opens his eyes. He stands
up, a head taller than most of the people milling around him, and
watches as the flood of people from the jetway slows to a
trickle. At last he spots her coming around the bend in the ramp,
her face in its public mode: untouchable, remote, eyes focused on
something in the middle distance. She's wearing black leggings,
boots, a black leather jacket, and a bulky charcoal turtleneck.
All in black, there's a surprise. She seldom wears anything else
anymore.

He watches her approach. She hasn't looked up yet, hasn't seen
him, and he's grateful for the opportunity to observe her
unaware. Maybe he can gauge her mood, though he's as often wrong
as right. She's a better judge of his moods than he of hers. It
doesn't matter. She has come to him, and he loves her.

The words appear in his head without conscious thought. He's
thought them before, even said them to Scully once. He knows
their truth as entirely as anything in his life. *More* than
anything in his life. Too much has been taken away or been
disproved for that assertion to carry the weight it should.

They are poised on the edge of something, not for the first time,
but, he hopes, for the last time. He's ready to make the leap. He
hopes her presence here means that she is, too, that she hasn't
made this cross-country journey to humor or appease him, or
because she thinks he's too fragile to oppose. He doesn't think
this is the case, but he can't always tell with Scully.

Then all at once the crowds part and she's right there before
him. "Hi," she says, with a small smile.

"Hi," he says back, and almost leans down to kiss her, but stops
himself. He clears his throat nervously. "How was your flight?"

"Long," she sighs, rolling her neck. They stand looking at each
other for a moment.

"Do you have luggage?" he asks. She nods. "Let's go get it and
get out of here." He takes the carry-on from her and swings it
over his shoulder. To his surprise, she takes his hand in hers
and keeps it there until they get to Baggage Claim.

While they wait for her baggage, he asks, "Are you hungry?"

"Not really, I had some dinner on the plane." He knows what this
means. She picked at her entree, maybe nibbled at the bread or
the dessert.

"Well, we have about a two hour drive ahead of us," he says. "We
can stop on the way or have something when we get there, if
that's not too late for you."

"Where are we going?" She sounds a little suspicious, as if he is
taking her off to investigate an X-File.

"I think you'll like it," he says. He's been there for two days
already, and other than the lack of Scully, he thinks it's a nice
place.

He still feels a little awkward around her, in a way he rarely
has. After he launched himself at her in Victorville, the
unspoken thing between them presses on him. Until they actually
talk, he's in a state of suspended animation. Right now, however,
he needs the answer to at least one question.

"Does Skinner know where you are?"

She looks at him, considering. She doesn't want to recount the
conversation with Skinner, his inquiries into Mulder's state of
mind, his expectation that she assess him and report back, as he
had asked her to do during the case. Scully's firm response had
been that Mulder was going on vacation, and what he did on his
own time was his business. She stared him down, willing him to
say anything more. He'd ended up apologizing for the implication,
but she's pretty sure he knows what's up anyway. The request,
Scully's non-denial denial, and his concession are all part of
the game.

She says to Mulder now, "I didn't tell him, and he didn't ask. I
just said it seemed like a good opportunity to use some personal
time." He can just see Skinner's expression. Mulder's been the
recipient of it a few times before. It indicates that he sees
through whatever line is being spun but he's letting it go
anyway. It's a good thing Skinner hadn't asked; they both know
she's not a good liar.

Now Scully says to Mulder, "Mom asked to be remembered to you."

Mulder half-smiles. "You told your mom where you were going." It
is not a question.

Scully shrugs. "I told her I was taking some vacation time, and
meeting a friend in California."

"Was she, uh, concerned?"

"Only about you." Scully stops and turns to look at Mulder. "I
told her about your mom. She's very concerned for you."

"Thanks," Mulder says. "Thank her for me, would you? I hope you
told her I'm okay."

Scully almost asks, "*Are* you okay?" but she doesn't think that
the middle of San Francisco Airport is the place to start that
conversation. "That's when I told her I was coming to spend time
with you. And besides, she would have found out anyway."

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot you Scullys are all psychic."

Scully sticks out her little, pink tongue and makes a face, and
it's a good thing his hands are full of her luggage, or he might
have to ravish her on the spot.

In his dreams.

Still, even this little bit of banter helps him to relax and feel
that things are almost normal.

Once they finally get out of the airport, they cross the city,
heading for the Golden Gate Bridge and their own personal
Rubicon. By the time they are over the bridge, he knows she's
fallen asleep without even looking.

He likes her sleeping in the car. He allows himself to feel like
her protector at these times, something she would never stand for
when awake. This is so much like so many other trips taken across
dark landscapes, yet the end of this journey will be, he hopes,
entirely different.

The days without Scully have been long and filled with
uncertainty. Until she stepped off that plane, he hadn't been
sure she would return to him.

He'd dropped her off at the LA airport, and then on a whim, drove
all the way up the coast to San Francisco. He spent his first
night without her walking all over the city. He walked through
the infamous nightclub district, ignoring the come-ons of the
shills on the sidewalk. Lately, going to the clubs and watching
the videos he owns hasn't interested him. It has something to do
with Scully, he supposes. It was one thing to ease his
frustration when he'd decided she was unattainable. Now that this
may no longer be true, the substitutes he'd settled for in the
past hold no allure.

By the time he'd gotten back to his hotel, he was beyond weary.
He showered and threw himself onto the bed, turning on the
television as a reflexive action, and promptly fell asleep.

Only to wake up in a cold sweat not long after. He was used to
nightmares waking him up in this fashion. At least in recent
years he had Scully to call and talk to when they occurred. He
called Scully right away, not to tell her about the dream, but to
reassure himself that she was okay. Or so he told himself. She
guessed he'd had a nightmare, but as usual she did not press him
for details, just stayed on the phone with him, talking of
inconsequential things.

After that, they'd talked on the phone every night, conversations
which usually ended with her falling asleep-- a casualty of the
three-hour time difference. Sometimes he waited until he was sure
she was asleep before he disconnected, listening to her slow
breathing across the miles. At least one night he'd fallen asleep
himself to the sound, waking up with a cell-phone shaped dent in
his cheek and a dead battery. Most nights, though, he channel-
surfed until he found something suitably mind-numbing and fell
asleep to that.

The odd thing is how much he's slept during the day, too. Deep,
dreamless sleep, as if he is catching up on years of sleepless
nights. It was one way to pass the time until Scully joined him,
and kept him from calling her throughout the day, pestering her.

Scully had suggested that he has a lot to process, but what's
left? His mother is dead -- suicide, Scully told him, and he
believes her. He knows what happened to Samantha -- and somehow,
he believes that, too. He's told Scully he just wants it to be
over. He thinks it's really true this time. He's the last of his
family, and it's time to move on. Time to start a new chapter in
his life, where the focus is not on his quest.

He hopes that this new chapter will include Scully. He realizes
not for the first time what a good friend she has always been and
how lost he would be without her. Hell, he'd have died years ago
without Scully to show up and save him, time and time again.

Now once again they are traveling together, hurtling toward the
unknown as they have so many times in the past...but different,
this time. He hopes, different.

x-x-x

Scully sleeps most of the way there, waking up only as Mulder
slows at the entrance of the compound. She's not sure where she
is for a moment. It's pitch black outside the car, not even a
street light to show the way. Then she sees the sign illuminated
by the headlights of their car.

"Sea Horse Ranch, Mulder?" He can tell her eyebrow is raised
without seeing her face. "Nothing like Mustang Ranch, I hope?"

"This is California, Scully, not Nevada. What do you take me
for?" He grins and adds quickly, "Don't answer that yet." He
maneuvers carefully down the narrow main road and turns off onto
a lane marked only by a small sign with a number on it. A few
seconds later a house appears in the headlights.

"Here it is, your home away from home," he says, turning off the
engine. He retrieves her luggage from the trunk and leads the way
up a short flight of steps to a railed porch and the front door.

It's too dark to see much of the outside. There is a hint of mist
in the air, collecting in an aura around the porch light. Scully
can just make out weathered wood siding before Mulder ushers her
inside.

Inside, it's a nice place, in a rustic way. The cozy living room
is furnished with deep, comfortable looking chairs and sofas.
There's a fireplace, and one wall appears to be all windows. The
curtains are closed, but even inside they can hear a low roaring
which is the sound of waves crashing on a not too distant shore.

"Mulder, where are we?"

"Somewhere north of San Francisco. I just took a drive one day
and this is where I ended up."

He doesn't tell her the rest of the story. How he'd come across
this little cliff-top enclave, weathered houses stuck out in the
middle of nowhere, rising out of the pale yellow grasses and
gray-green shrubs. It is about as different from Arcadia as one
can get. It sparked an idea in his head. A couple of inquiries in
the small town nearby got him a deal on a week's rental. He could
have had his choice of several, considering the time of year.

The next day he'd checked out of his hotel in San Francisco and
drove back up the coast, laying in some supplies and starting to
make some plans for Scully's arrival.

Now Mulder leads the way through the living room to the hallway.
"Here's your room, Scully," Mulder indicates a door on the left.
"Mine's just down the hall. And in case you think I picked the
best for me, they're identical. Even the bathrooms." He sets her
luggage down. "I'll be back in a minute -- I left some things in
the car. Are you hungry?"

She nods. She knows Mulder hadn't believed her when she told him
she'd eaten on the plane. He's been on too many flights with her.

"Thought so," he quirks a half-smile as he leaves the room.

Scully slips off her shoes and inspects her room before going
back out to join Mulder. It's several cuts above their usual
accommodations on a case. It's also obviously a vacation rental,
judging from the lack of personal touches. She does note with
pleasure that there's a tub in her bathroom, and that the towels
are large and soft.

She washes her hands and splashes water on her face,
contemplating her reflection and thinking about Mulder. She isn't
sure what she expected, other than some awkwardness over the
unspoken purpose of this vacation. She does not expect a total
personality change from Mulder. She half-expects him to pull an
X-File out of his jacket, and tell her they are going off to
investigate. No sign so far, but it could still happen. Maybe he
just wants to soften her up first.

When they talked on the phone, he'd been strangely silent about
how he passed the time while they were apart. Scully hadn't
wanted to pry. She had told him he needed time to process all
that had happened to him, but how does one process almost thirty
years of pain in a week?

After his refusal to believe that his mother had killed herself,
his passive acceptance of Samantha's fate puzzles her. On the
other hand, it's his quest, his sister, as he's reminded her time
and again. Surely it's his right to decide when it's over -- to
declare that he now has the closure that he sought for so long.
It is not her place to tell him how to feel or think, she tells
herself. She just wants to know that he's okay.

As Scully comes back out to the living room, she sees that Mulder
has lit the fire. He has also placed a tray containing cheese,
fruit and a basket of sourdough bread on the coffee table. As she
sits on the couch, he emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of
wine and glasses.

"Par-tay," he says, grinning, and Scully smiles back.

Mulder observes that she looks nervous. That suits him, because
he's petrified. For all the times he's fantasized about being
alone with Scully like this, all the daydreams of loving her, he
doesn't know how to start. He feels the panic rising again, just
like in Victorville.
Instead of making him act, however, it paralyzes him. He glances
over at Scully and smiles at her.

"Very California," she says, indicating the spread on the coffee
table.

"When in Rome..." he quips. "Aren't you glad we're not in Idaho?"

Scully doesn't say anything more, but she gives him another small
smile. She leans back against the sofa cushions and watches him
pour the wine. He sits down and hands her a glass, offering his
for a toast. They touch rims and sip the wine, each looking
forward into the fire, and both fetch a sigh at the same moment.

After exchanging sidelong glances for a split second, they both
laugh. There is so much he wants to say to her, but the words
seem to stick in his throat.

Scully pre-empts him by asking suddenly, "What did you do with
your week, Mulder?"

He's sort of taken aback by this question. They talked every
night, so she should pretty much know the answer to that. "Oh,
you know. Walked around. Slept a lot."

Scully rolls her eyes. "You had a week in one of the most
exciting cities in the world and you slept all day?"

"I thought I'd wait for you to do the sight-seeing," Mulder
replies.

"So of course we're now two hours out of the city," Scully points
out. "Seriously, Mulder, how are you?"

Mulder takes a sip of wine. "I'm fine, Scully."

"Why do I not believe you?"

Mulder shrugs. "I dunno. Why shouldn't you?"

Scully merely says, "Okay," and takes another sip of wine.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Scully," he says a little
defensively. "You're the one who suggested that I take some time.
Is there an assignment I'm supposed to complete? Are you here to
check on me, make sure that I'm fit to return to work?"

He regrets the words almost as soon as they're out of his mouth.

Scully wonders if Mulder can still read minds, then realizes it's
just his usual intuitive reasoning. If he could read her, he'd
know it's not the reason. Not the real reason. She responds
quietly with, "That's not fair, Mulder. I thought I was here at
your invitation."

"You are," he says, not quite ready to concede the whole
argument. "I just wasn't expecting the third degree."

"I only asked how you are. I don't think I'm pressing you any
harder than you've ever pressed me when you didn't like an answer
I gave."

"Now you know how it feels," he mutters.

"Mulder, why *did* you ask me here?"

Panic has now been replaced by anger. What is she *really*
asking? Some part of him expected not to talk at all. He *is*
living in a fantasy world to think she'd just fall into his arms.
He should have known better with Scully. She always wants to get
the answers, and isn't afraid to ask for them. It seems very
efficient, and not romantic in the least. But he can play this
game, too, if that's what she wants. Answer a question with a
question.

"Are you saying that my personal interest in you isn't enough of
a reason? Does it come as complete surprise, or are you just mad
that I haven't said or done anything before?"

Ouch, Scully thinks. At least his anger is better than his
passivity, which frightens her. She worried in Victorville that
Samantha had been the engine that drove him, and now that his
quest is done, nothing of him will remain.

She sighs a tiny sigh. "No, and no, Mulder," she replies. "You've
made it clear in so many ways..." She changes her mind and starts
again. "I know as well as you do that personal involvement is not
recommended, and you--we--have honored that in deed. But not in
thought. For once, neither of us is in the hospital, or on
opposite ends of the country, or being menaced by anything. I
think it's high time we talk about this. But I thought maybe
you had some other things on your mind, too. Things that might
still be bothering you."

"Well, I don't," he says. He fiddles with his wine glass,
avoiding her eyes. He keeps his tone neutral.

"Mulder, at some point I think we *need* to talk."

"Fine," he says. "I'm all for it. We'll do whatever you want. You
want to talk, be my guest."

She almost says, I came all the way across the country just for
*me*? I don't think so. She lets the silence be, watching him as
he sits looking at his hands. She thinks she's beginning to
understand a little. He's giving her an out, if she wants it.

"It's not all about me, Mulder," she says softly. "And it's not
all about you. It's about *us*."

Suddenly she's too tired. She can't do all the work here, and
it's too much effort to drag words out of him tonight. *She's*
the one who had the long flight, the layover in Denver, the
airline food. She says, "Why don't we talk tomorrow when we've
both had a good night's sleep. I don't want to fight." She
stifles a yawn.

Mulder is on his feet immediately. "I think that's a good idea.
No point in making a big deal about this." He can't seem to help
the edge in his voice.

Scully says in a calm voice, "Mulder, this *is* a big deal. It's
our lives we're talking about." She stands and leans over to give
him a swift kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight." She turns away before
he can do or say anything more.

Mulder stays where he is, but his eyes follow her until he hears
the click of her bedroom door.

~x~
Chapter Two

"Maybe dreams are the answers to questions we haven't yet learned
to ask." -Fox Mulder

Coward. Idiot.

He lies on the sofa, staring at nothing. All talk and no action.
Not even much talk, really. When it comes right down to it, he
choked. Everything he wants, sitting right there next to him, and
he is too petrified to make a move.

Maybe he should just drive them back to the airport in the
morning. If the whole week is going to be like this, there is no
point in continuing.

After he heard Scully's bedroom door close he'd taken their
nearly untouched food back to the kitchen and cleaned up. He came
back out to the living room and flopped down on the sofa. He
thinks of all the things he'd wanted to say and do, and how
differently he thought this evening would end. Instead, here he
is, camped out on the couch, alone as usual, dreaming of Scully,
instead of kissing and touching her.

Now that she's here, he's not sure how to deal with the reality
that things are changing between them. He has been afraid all
along that Scully will convince herself that getting closer is a
bad idea. She will rationalize herself out of it, and then do her
best to make him do the same. That's her usual MO with an X-File
she can't believe in. He wonders if all this talk about his
"feelings" are a cover for her reluctance.

And he's afraid that if he makes a move to touch her, he will
lose all control. He scared her in Victorville, he thinks, and he
doesn't want to do that again. He is still, first and foremost,
her friend.

He doesn't want to think about this right now. The silence in the
room oppresses him. He flips on the television, hoping to dull
his senses with whatever mindless drivel there is. The sound is
very low, but it helps drown out the roar in his ears. Eventually
the remote falls from his loosened grip and he dozes off.

x-x-x

Scully brushes her teeth, washes her face, and tries not to think
about the man she left in the living room. It doesn't do any
good. She can't think of anything else. Despite her best
intentions, they've almost fought, after only a few hours
together. Is this what the week is going to be like?

She hadn't really expected him to behave as he had in
Victorville. She isn't quite sure what she expects, though. She
thought about it on the plane, has been thinking about it nearly
every moment the week they were apart. What does she want? Mulder
asked her, and it seems only fair to give him an answer. She
will, however, insist he's clear about what he wants, too. This
"I want what you want" crap is not going to cut it.

She can hear the mumbling of the television from the living room.
She imagines Mulder sprawled on the sofa, watching whatever with
half-shuttered eyes.

Maybe she should just go out there, forget the words, just love
him and let it be enough.

Why does it always have to be so difficult for them? Both
professionally and personally, everything is a struggle. She
supposes that it's partly due to their own natures. They are
both driven, though Mulder is much more single-minded that she
is.

Maybe this is still too soon. His mother has been dead such a
short time, and the mystery of Samantha's disappearance revealed
-- not solved, exactly, but an answer that Mulder seems to be
able to live with has been achieved. Still, to plunge directly
into any change in their relationship could be a big mistake.
Maybe he's realizing this, too.

She sighs again. It's useless to conjecture. She thought she
understood in Victorville, that his actions had been born of
reaction and maybe panic. Her suggestion that he take some
personal time had evidently been taken as a sort of challenge by
him. *I will if you will*, each daring the other to make the
first move. Well, they have--Mulder in asking her to come out to
California, and she in actually coming out. They are equals;
equal in risk, equal in emotional investment.

It's time to admit, once and for all, how they feel about each
other and what they want to do about it. Maybe they both do want
the same thing. But they both have to admit it. She is willing to
admit it first, if that's what it will take. Having decided at
least that much, Scully turns out her light and tries to sleep.

x-x-x

She dreams of Teena Mulder, of seeing her at Bill Mulder's
funeral. So stoic, so patrician-looking. She'd accepted the flag
from the coffin as her due but without emotion.

Mrs. Mulder turns as she approaches, listening to what Scully has
to say without comment. How can she be so calm with her ex-
husband dead and her son missing? Has she put two and two
together? Does she know what her husband was involved in? What
her son has been doing? Mrs. Mulder says all the right words, but
in this dream-state Scully feels that she's hiding something.
This is not something that occurred to her at the time, and Mrs.
Mulder had flown right out of her mind once the Englishman
approached her with his warning.

The dream changes abruptly and now it's only Mrs. Mulder, her
hand out to Scully, asking, almost beseeching...

Scully rouses herself, her heart pounding. She must have been
whimpering in her sleep; she can still hear the echo of it in her
ears. But no, she still hears it, coming from the other room.
It's Mulder, not so much whimpering now as shouting incoherently.
Scully hesitates only a moment before opening her door and going
out to the living room.

Approaching Mulder quietly, she lays a hand first on his arm,
then on his forehead, smoothing the hair away. She says his name
softly. "Mulder. Mulder, it's me, wake up."

"Scully," he says urgently, not quite awake yet.

"Mulder, it's okay. I'm here, I'm okay." He realizes it's Scully,
patting his arm, stroking his forehead. Her hands are cool and he
struggles to sit upright, as though the action will loosen the
last grip the dream has on him.

He reaches blindly for her and she allows him to, opening her
arms, crooning soothing nonsense to him. Eventually his breathing
slows and he rests his head on her shoulder.

"You okay?" she asks, stroking his hair.

He nods. He can't help thinking that this is so much better than
comfort over the phone. "I'm sorry I woke you," he says in a
gravelly voice. "Did I wake you?"

"I was awake anyway." She starts to add more, but thinks better
of it. He has his own bad dreams. He doesn't need to be burdened
with hers, too.

They sit together on the sofa, arms around each other. It feels
so comfortable. The harsh words they traded earlier might never
have been spoken.

Mulder, however, feels compelled to mention them, taking the
blame in typical fashion.
"I'm sorry for how I behaved earlier."

"I'm sorry too," she says. "It was the jet-lag talking, I guess."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he says. He shifts position
so that she rests her head on his shoulder. She offers no
resistance to this. He reaches up and tentatively strokes her
hair.

"Umm, nice, Mulder," she murmurs. "Much better..."

As she speaks, realization dawns. "Scully, did you have a
nightmare, too?"

"Um hmm," she says sleepily. She rarely talks about them to him,
though she has as much raw material for nightmares as he does.
"S'okay now, though."

"That's good." He notices she's got on flannel pajamas. He is
still in his clothes, since he hasn't bothered to move from the
sofa.

They sit in silence for some time. Scully finds herself relaxing
into sleep again. Before she realizes what's happening, he's
lifted her onto his lap and reclines against the arm of the sofa,
his legs stretched the length of the sofa. She's too tired to
protest. She makes herself more comfortable by turning sideways
so that her back is against the back of the sofa but she's mostly
lying on Mulder. She rests her head on his shoulder and puts her
hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

"Scully, are you warm enough? Maybe you should go back to bed."
He doesn't really want her to move, but feels he should at least
make the gesture.

"I'm qui' comfortable," she mumbles against his shoulder. She is
already half asleep again.

He peers at his watch. Half past midnight. That would be three-
thirty AM, Scully time. No wonder she's exhausted.

He closes his eyes. He is plenty warm enough, draped in his
living blanket. He drifts off to sleep again.

Much, much later, Scully wakes up, disoriented, and then
remembers how she ended up in his arms. He seems sound asleep
now, but the fire has gone out and she's cold. Very carefully she
climbs off of the sofa and Mulder. She can barely see him in the
darkness but she touches his cheek softly before she turns away.

Back in her own room, she finds she cannot get back to sleep.
She's warm, and the bed is comfortable, but she'd rather be
sharing the sofa with Mulder.

x-x-x

There is just a suspicion of lightness around the edges of the
drapes when he opens his eyes again. He feels a little chilled. A
soft sound at the edge of his hearing tells him that Scully
extricated herself just moments ago and has gone back to her
bedroom. He feels better. Maybe they aren't so good at
verbalizing, but their body language seems okay. Maybe there's
hope yet.

~x~

Chapter Three

I've flown around the world in a plane;
I've settled revolutions in Spain;
The North Pole I have charted
But I can't get started with you...

-"I Can't Get Started" words & music by Vernon Duke and Ira
Gershwin

Scully has already started the coffee when Mulder makes his
appearance.

"Hi," she says. She feels a little shy, like she's not sure what
to say to him. Well, they did sleep together last night. Sort of.

"Good morning," he returns her greeting, with a small smile.
"Sleep well?"

"Part of the time, anyway," she says, and adds, "You make a very
nice pillow."

He gives her the ghost of his leer. "Well, you make a great
blanket. We should try that again some time."

She's used to him using humor and double-entendre as a shield.
It's time to rise to the bait. "Well, Mulder, play your cards
right and maybe you'll get lucky." She turns away to hide a smile
but not before she sees a slightly dumbfounded look on Mulder's
face. She sits at the table to drink her coffee and opens a
container of the yogurt Mulder has thoughtfully provided.

Mulder chooses not to follow up on her last comment. Not because
he can't, he's just choosing not to, he tells himself. He sits
opposite her with his mug. "What do you feel like doing today,
Scully? Hike along the beach? See the giant redwoods? Visit a
biker bar? You can have your pick, all within easy driving or
walking distance."

"A biker bar?" She raises her eyebrows, willing to play along.

"Well, strictly speaking, it's a road house, but I did notice a
bunch of Harleys in the parking lot last night." He gets up to
rummage around in a cupboard and finds some Pop-Tarts. He offers
the package to Scully, who shakes her head. She indicates the
container of yogurt in front of her and he's pleased that he
remembered to get some.

Scully asks with a disbelieving look, "Have you visited this
establishment, Mulder?" Even in his leather jacket he's a little
too clean cut, she thinks, but he might not be immediately pegged
as law enforcement. He can look pretty dangerous with a day's
growth of beard.

"Why yes, actually I have," Mulder says through a mouthful of
Pop-Tart. He reaches for the refrigerator door, just within his
reach, and pulls out a carton of milk. He stops just short of
drinking directly out of the carton, and gets up for a glass,
avoiding Scully's eyes. He decides not to mention the cocktail
waitress who came on to him at the bar.

"The bar might be safer than the redwoods," Scully says
thoughtfully. "There's always a chance of some prehistoric bugs
out there."

"Only after dark, and I'd be sure we didn't get lost." This is
nice, he thinks. Banter has been missing from their conversation
for a while. Too many tragedies, too many losses. It's easier to
refer to a case from the early days, before so many of those
losses piled up.

"What else did you mention? A beach hike? Are there sea monsters
lurking, or perhaps some kind of sand-devil menacing the locals?"
She's beginning to enjoy herself.

"Not that I'm aware of," he plays along. "Though I'm told the
local crab population can get out of hand sometimes."

"Sounds like we should check them all out, Mulder," Scully
replies. "You never know what we might find."

"Well, I vote we hit the beach first. Did you bring your running
shoes? I thought I'd go for a run. Wanna join me? We can wait
till later to check out the crab population. Maybe dinnertime."

"At the biker bar, I suppose."

"No, no, Scully. Crabs and bikes don't mix. There's another place
just up the coast that specializes in crab. There'll be a couple
with our names on `em tonight."

Scully looks at him in mock-admiration. "It's nice to know that
your investigative skills aren't getting rusty. Sounds like
you've got all the bases covered."

"Not yet," he says, and this time he gives her the full force of
the leer. "But I'm getting there, I think."

Indeed you are, Scully thinks. She looks up to find Mulder
grinning at her.

"I said, let's get it in gear, Scully. Last one to the beach is a
rotten egg." He sprints out of the room, feeling elated.

The early morning fog has already cleared as they traverse the
wooden footpaths to the cliff's edge. It is a beautiful winter
day and almost warm, something they don't have often in their
usual part of the world. The boardwalk leads to a weathered
wooden staircase clinging to the cliff's edge. Scully eyes it
warily.

"C'mon Scully, I checked it out yesterday morning. It's as safe
as the stairs in the Hoover Building." He grins at her.

"Safer, I hope," she says. "I don't think anyone could leap out
and attack us along here."

"Good point, G-Woman," Mulder responds, and steps onto the
landing. "I'll go first, to break your fall."

"Very funny, Mulder," says Scully dryly. "Just remember we have
to climb back up."

"Nag, nag, nag," Mulder mutters as they begin their descent.

The beach is quite wide, with very few rocks along the shore,
offering an easy running surface of packed sand. They run in
tandem, Mulder fitting his pace to Scully's shorter stride. They
run to the far end of the beach, bounded by rocks.

Scully perches on a tumble of rocks and watches as Mulder
clambers around her. It's wonderful to see him this way. He's a
different person than he was last night, playful and carefree.

He's crouched on his haunches now, inspecting something in the
rocks. She winces a little as he reaches down to touch or pick up
something. He's never been cautious about sticking his hand in
things, very much like a child in that respect. She has often
wished she could have known what he was like before Samantha was
taken. Perhaps she is finally getting that chance.

Another thought intrudes: the wish to know what a child of theirs
might be like. A touch of melancholy threads through her. She
shakes her head as if to rid herself of it. It's foolish to let
her thoughts stray there. They are not even lovers, though she's
no longer denying that possibility. But children, from her, are
definitely not possible. How important is that to Mulder? Has he
ever thought about it?

Mulder is thinking he'd like to sit next to Scully, put his arm
around her, but he's not sure this is the right time yet. He
looks around for something to draw her attention to, to get her
to talk again. If they can keep connecting on a level approaching
normalcy, he has great hopes for their immediate future.

Aware of Scully's eyes on him, he inspects the tide pool as
thoroughly as a crime scene. He is particularly fascinated by the
hermit crabs. One is struggling with a new shell, trying to fit
it over his vulnerable body. It suddenly strikes him as a
metaphor for what he is going through now, with Scully.

He looks up to see her staring off to the horizon. "Hey Scully,
come take a look at this." His voice makes her jump, but she gets
up and comes over.

She joins him where he kneels looking down into a tide pool. It's
so perfect it's like an aquarium exhibit. Sea anemones cling to
the rough rocks, limpets carpet the bottom and sides. Hermit
crabs scuttle away as Scully's shadow joins Mulder's. To finish
off the underwater tableau, a starfish adorns the center of the
pool.

His index finger prods the surface of the water and indicates the
intrepid hermit crab. "I kinda know how he feels, Scully," he
says quietly after a few moments. He doesn't know how else to
express what he means, but trusts her to read between the lines
as she so often has in the past.

Mulder evidently has been harboring some heavy thoughts, too,
despite his carefree appearance. Scully reaches for his hand,
clasps it. "Me, too," she whispers.

He squeezes her hand in answer and pulls her up. "Let's head
back."

They hold hands as they climb down off the rocks, and continue to
hold hands once they've gained the beach, until they get to the
cliff stairway.

"It's almost lunch time," he says as they get to the house. "I'm
going to hop in the shower and then we'll eat. Sound okay to
you?"

Scully nods. He reaches for her hand again, just brushing the
back of it as he turns toward his room. The moment has passed
again, like the sun going behind clouds. Every time she thinks
she's gotten a glimmer, it disappears. She goes to her own room
to shower and change.

She beats Mulder out to the kitchen and inspects the cupboards
she started to go through that morning. She finds the food--
"supplies" --he's laid in. It's an impressive array of junk food,
from Pop Tarts to potato chips, with chocolate bars, cookies, and
microwave popcorn in between. A review of the freezer reveals ice
cream and frozen waffles. In the refrigerator, to his credit,
there's more yogurt, and a few fruits and vegetables.

"I see you found my stash," he says as he comes in behind her.

She turns and raises her eyebrow at him. "Now I know what you've
been living on, Mulder. Do you have any nutritious food here?"

"Be careful. If you're not nice to me, I won't share." He opens a
lower cupboard and indicates canned goods, pasta, rice. "You just
need to know where to look." He allows himself the smallest smirk
and adds, "There's a general store just down the road if there's
anything else we need." He gets out some canned soup and busies
himself at the stove.

Scully gets the dishes and flatware out and sets the table while
he warms the soup and puts some bread in the oven. Once they're
seated with their soup, he asks, "What do you want to do this
afternoon?"

She stifles a yawn. "Actually, it'd be nice just to stay here,
maybe take a nap this afternoon," she says, and adds, "I didn't
sleep very well last night."

"Me neither, except for a little while," he grins. "A nap sounds
good. Mind if I join you?" He's only half kidding.

"Not on the sofa, Mulder," she says.

"Okay." He says nothing else for a while, then, "Your place or
mine?" He's not leering at her. It all seems weirdly
dispassionate.

She comes right out and asks. "Do you have something in mind
besides sleeping, Mulder?"

He keeps his face devoid of anything suggestive. "Why no, Scully,
I just want to sleep with you."

She has to laugh just a little at this. "Mulder--" she starts.

He interrupts her, but puts his hand over hers to take the sting
out of it. He will give her an out if she wants it.

"I really don't think I'm capable of anything else right now. You
ran my legs off on the beach this morning and you *know* how much
sleep I got last night. But if the idea makes you too
uncomfortable, forget it. I just want to be close to you, that's
all."

She still can't figure him out. Is he still doing what he thinks
she wants, or does he really mean what he says? She turns her
hand to hold his. "I think we both want the same thing. I think
you're right. Let's be as comfortable as we can with each other.
We've got all the time in the world." She smiles a little to him,
hoping for an answering smile.

That's about as equivocal an answer as he's ever heard. She
absolutely refuses to go one iota further than him. He says, more
or less as he did the night before, "We don't have to decide
anything definitively right now, or even this week. All I want to
know is that you think it's worth thinking about."

"Oh, it is," she says quietly. "Or I wouldn't have come out here.
But, Mulder --"

"Don't you trust me?" He tries to hide the hurt he feels but it's
a raw edge in his voice.

She says, "Of course I do. With my life." She raises his hand and
kisses it. With my heart, she adds silently. But you've got to
trust yourself first.

This whole thing is making him nuts. He looks at her for a long
moment and then gets up from the table. "Okay," he says. I'm
going to go take a nap. You know where to find me." He sets his
dishes in the sink and leaves Scully sitting at the kitchen
table.

He hopes against hope that she will follow him down the hall,
make some kind of definitive move. After a moment he hears the
clink of dishes and water running. He stands just inside his
bedroom door and listens. The sounds stop and then he hears the
sound of the outside door opening and shutting.

He leaves the door open and lies down on the bed, punching the
pillow in frustration. God, he loves her but she's making him
crazy. Why doesn't she come right out and say what she wants?

The phrase, "be careful what you ask for, you might not like it,"
floats back into his consciousness. Maybe it is easier to live
with the idea that *maybe* she loves him than to find out for
sure that she doesn't.

He curls onto his side and shuts his eyes. He won't be able to
sleep until he hears the door open again and he knows that even
if Scully won't come to him, at least she hasn't run away.

x-x-x

She gets up from the table and moves around quietly, putting away
the leftovers and loading the dishwasher. She'd like to slam
things around, scream, anything to release some of the tension
from their little discussion. They are making such a hash out of
what is a simple decision for most people. If she is to believe
books, movies, television, most people can't get beyond their
first meeting before tearing each other's clothes off. Where do
we get such superhuman control?

Or is it superhuman fear? She stands at the sink, gripping the
edge of the counter, staring without seeing. She grabs her jacket
and slips out the kitchen door, heading toward the cliff path.

Once there she stands for a long time, staring out to sea, the
constant wind blowing her hair and her thoughts away. Then she
turns on her heel and marches back to the house.

Almost without pause, she strips off her jacket and shoes and
walks down the hall to Mulder's room. He's lying on his side on
top of the covers in his sweats. His back is to the door but she
knows he's not sleeping. She sits on the bed and he stays turned
away. She lies down and rolls over to spoon up behind him,
putting her arm around his waist.

Mulder feels the shift of the mattress as she sits on the bed but
he stays turned away. When she lies down behind him, putting her
arm around him, he's not sure what to do. The faintest scent of
ocean and fresh air clings to her, and he shivers a little,
partly from cold, and partly from something else. She still
hasn't spoken.

He turns his head slightly back toward her and mumbles, "You're
cold, Scully."

She mumbles back, her breath a warm whisper in his ear, "So warm
me up, Mulder."

At that he finally turns and puts his arms around her. He kisses
her forehead, her cheek, and finally, her lips. They are soft
kisses, making no demand for further intimacy. She meets his
kisses in exactly the same way. Finally his cheek rests against
her hair and she nestles into his shoulder.

This is enough, he tells himself, and he almost believes it. I
can wait for more, until she's ready. He kisses her hair and
pulls her a little closer, listening to her heart and his own.

~x~

Chapter Four

He must have dozed off at some point because he didn't notice
when their positions shifted. She is now lying with her back to
him. His arms are still around her, holding her close. He buries
his nose in her hair, nudging the strands aside to bare the nape
of her neck. He can barely make out the scar now, though if he
touches it he can feel the chip just under her skin. He presses
his lips against the spot. No response from Scully. He kisses her
again and then again, up to her hairline and back, down to the
neckline of her sweater. She stirs a little but he's on a roll
now, and won't stop until she says something. She turns her head
and he lands an awkward kiss on her cheek.

"Mulder, are you trying to take advantage of me while I'm
sleeping?" she asks drowsily.

"No," he tells her between kisses, "I'm trying to wake you up so
I can take advantage of you."

She sits up in a hurry.

Mulder leans back and raises his hands in surrender. "Just
kidding, Scully. I just wanted to wake you up, and it seemed like
a good way to do it. Sleeping Beauty." He smiles his most winning
smile.

Feeling a little foolish, she lies down to face him, propping her
head on her hand. "Well, I'm awake now." She is not going to be
the first one to flinch.

Mulder notes that she isn't smiling, but looking a little
watchful. He can't describe it better than to say that it's a
*good* watchful look. Not like she's about to bolt or knee him in
the groin, just waiting to see how far he'll go and whether
she'll let him.

"So I see." He leans in and kisses her lips, then pulls away
quickly again. For a second, it looks like she's leaning toward
him, following his mouth. "I don't want us to be late for
dinner."

"Where are we going? You said something about crab." Scully is a
little disoriented, and more than a little aroused by Mulder's
wake up technique.

"We're going to a crab feed, sponsored by the local Catholic
Church," he tells her.

She rolls her eyes, just a little. "Don't tell me, you bought the
tickets yesterday."

He grins again. "Actually, two days ago when I stopped in the
aforementioned grocery store. Have you ever had Dungeness crab?"

"Yes, I have. I'm no stranger to church crab feeds."

"Thought as much," he says a little smugly. "Well, they're very
popular in this neck of the woods. And it goes to a good cause."

Scully gives him a long appraising look and asks, "Is there
something you're not telling me? Are you planning to relocate and
run for office? Is there an X-File hiding in there somewhere?"

He flashes his pouty you-don't-believe-me look. "Nothing like
that. I'm just on vacation, enjoying the local atmosphere."

"Seriously, Mulder, what is this all about?" He really is
reverting to form, she thinks. He always has reasons for what he
does. The trick is getting him to reveal the reasons.

He tries to look a little put out at her questions, but makes a
show of giving in. "It's a *date*, Scully. Remember those? I'm
*courting* you." Telling her outright is not part of his original
game plan, but he's nothing if not resourceful. It's time to up
the stakes. Now it's her move.

"*Courting* me?" She is dumbfounded by his answer. She really has
half-expected him to pull an X-File out. "Were you going to let
me in on this sometime, or was I just supposed to guess?"

Now he looks embarrassed. "Well, I know we're going about this a
little backward, Scully, now that we've slept together" --his
face is carefully deadpan, but she can see the spark in his eyes-
- "but I'm trying to approximate what a normal couple might do
when they're getting to know one another. So, up here, the
closest I can come to dinner and a movie is the local crab feed,
and videos."

"Mulder--" she can't believe they're sitting on his bed, talking
about this. No matter what she expected when she came to
California, it wasn't this.

"So how'm I doin'?" he asks. "Are you bowled over by my charm
yet?" He's doing his best to keep it light, but he is anxious. So
much is riding on her reaction.

"Well, Mulder," she makes a show of considering his question. "I
guess it'll depend on the video you got. If it's `Porky's III',
all bets are off."

"Aw nuts," he says. "I *knew* I shouldn't have listened to the
clerk. He said it was a chick movie."

"Well, I'm sure there are chicks *in* it, Mulder," she smiles.

x-x-x

When Scully comes out to the living room a while later, ready to
go, Mulder is pleased to note that she is not wearing all black.
She's changed to jeans and a deep blue, soft knit sweater that
does something wonderful to her eyes. He wants to reach out and
stroke the sweater. What do they call that stuff? Chenille? "Nice
sweater," he manages.

Scully takes note of the slightly glazed look in his eyes and
smiles. "Glad you like it."

The crab feed is in a community hall a little farther up the
highway. The parking lot is a grassy field, brown and shorn this
time of year, and thankfully not muddy. Several cars are already
there, and he can hear the thump and whine of amplified music as
they approach the long, low building.

As they get to the door, Mulder is greeted familiarly by an
overly made-up bottle blonde woman and a man in a John Deere cap.
Mulder hands their tickets over and introduces Scully. "This is
Myra, who works at the Byetheway, and Ted, who runs the grocery
store."

"Glad you brought the missus, Mulder," Ted says cordially.

Myra smiles thinly and offers an unenthusiastic hand to Scully,
her eyes marking the lack of a ring on her finger. Scully doesn't
bother to correct Ted, however, and neither does Mulder.

It's even noisier inside with music and conversation. Long tables
have been set up, covered with white butcher paper and set at
intervals with baskets of bread and large bowls of salad. No one
is sitting down yet. A makeshift bar has been set up at the end
of the room, and Mulder steers Scully there, getting her a glass
of wine and himself a beer.

He watches Scully looking around and wonders if it brings back
good memories. If it brings back bad ones, he's really screwed,
but he's pretty sure most of her childhood was fairly happy.

It does remind Scully of the dinners at churches she's attended
throughout her life. Jovial Knights of Columbus members roam
through the crowd, selling raffle tickets and cracking jokes with
the people they know. A few young kids are running around, and
the older ones have been pressed into service, setting the tables
with plates and utensils. The only difference is the lack of
smoke in the air. Everyone seemed to smoke when she was growing
up; now no one does, at least in public places. She welcomes this
not only for the obvious reasons. It also marks this as a
different time and place than her childhood. She already has a
feeling of unreality about this place.

"Hey Scully, you with me?" Mulder nudges her a little.

She shakes her head slightly. "Yeah. Just a little disoriented
for a minute."

Uh-oh. Maybe bad memories after all. "Are you feeling okay? Do
you need to sit down?"

She shakes her head no. "Just a little flashback to fund-raisers
past," she says. "I used to help out with dinners like this
sometimes."

Mulder is cautiously pleased with this admission. "A little piece
of Scully history," he teases. "Any good stories about it?"

"No, not really. It was just something the church youth groups
always helped with. You know, carnivals, dinners, and so on." She
smiles a little, maybe feeling a little bittersweet. "Didn't you
ever help out with something like this?"

"Nope, I missed out on all that stuff. My family wasn't involved
in any, uh, organized religion." His pleasure at her memories
dims a little. He doesn't want her to feel responsible for
bringing up any painful memories, because she isn't. There are no
memories, painful or otherwise, of anything like this in his
past.

"Hey, Mulder," he hears Ted hailing him from across the room.
"Come on over here and grab a seat before they're all taken." He
gladly changes the subject and leads Scully over to the table Ted
has indicated, seating her before seating himself. Ted does the
same for Myra, and she looks faintly surprised and pleased.

As if on cue, everyone finds a place to sit and the place falls
silent as the parish priest offers up a blessing. Mulder sneaks
sideways glances at Scully, her head bowed, her lips moving
silently. When the blessing is over, everyone says "Amen," and
conversations resume a little less loudly than before as the
diners start in on the salad and bread.

Then comes the pasta, big bowls of ziti with meat sauce. Ted and
Myra, obviously crab feed veterans, share the Parmesan cheese
they brought with Mulder and Scully. Mulder tries to pace
himself, but it all tastes so good. He notices that Scully has
taken only a small helping of the pasta and has eaten only a
piece of her French roll.

The kitchen doors open again and a stream of helpers march out,
carrying huge platters of crab, plunking them down almost
simultaneously at each table. The noise level sinks to a
murmur as people fall to.

It's a messy but delicious meal. Ted saves the day again by
producing a crab shell cracker. Mulder keeps putting his choicest
tidbits on Scully's plate, and she accepts them, but
reciprocates. They might as well be feeding each other, she
thinks.

Mulder must be having the same thought. "Ever see the movie 'Tom
Jones'?" he murmurs in her ear. "Eating like this figures
prominently in it."

Scully smiles to herself. "Maybe that's the movie you should have
gotten for tonight, Mulder," she says.

"Why watch a movie when you can experience the real thing?" he
smirks, and waves a succulent piece of crab in front of her.

She takes it delicately between her lips. "Thank you, Mulder."
Suddenly she is acutely aware of Ted and Myra sitting across from
them. She can feel her face heat up. Ted smiles fatuously at them
but Myra looks a little disappointed as she glances at Ted.

x-x-x

Mulder is quite pleased with himself as they drive back home. He
feels he's regained any lost ground. If he can just keep himself
in check, Scully may relax enough to respond honestly to him, and
not just as a reaction to his actions. He hadn't wanted to admit
to Scully that he is doing his best to woo her instead of just
going ahead with it, but she seems okay with the idea. Tonight
she is as relaxed as he's seen her in a long time.

On the other hand, he hasn't been able to relax. He wanted to
talk to her on the beach, and all he'd been able to do was make
some lame analogy between himself and a hermit crab. Still,
Scully seemed to understand the subtext. Later in the afternoon,
he felt they'd taken one step closer to each other, and then he'd
almost scared her away again. When he'd heard her leave the house
after lunch he was certain he'd blown it, shown too much need,
tried to crowd her too much. He'd been very surprised when she
came into his room. It had taken all his will power not to pin
her to the bed and smother her with kisses.

Maybe isolating themselves is a bad idea after all. It's like an
assignment they've given themselves: go off and learn how to be
intimate. He grins to himself, and glances over at Scully, who
appears to be lost in her own thoughts. She'd seemed almost
carefree during the evening but now the Enigmatic Dr. Scully is
back.

He enjoyed himself, despite the lingering tension. Never one to
be comfortable in large groups, he'd felt okay. More than okay.
He'd felt very much in the moment, not thinking too hard about
anything but enjoying himself, and enjoying Scully's company. He
could tell he surprised Scully by his behavior. He'd surprised
himself.

Maybe that's the key, he thinks. Don't think so much, don't take
everything so seriously. It sounds suspiciously like a jingle or
a silly song to him, but he realizes that he has taken life
*very* seriously pretty much since Samantha was taken. Humor is a
defense mechanism he learned at Oxford, where everything and
nothing was taken seriously. Everyone had a joke or a quip for
every situation, no matter how dire, and he picked up the habit.
Especially after Phoebe. If he hadn't made light of *that*
disaster, he wouldn't be here now.

"You certainly made Myra's night by dancing with her," Scully
says suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

"Well, I try to do my part," he says modestly. "Did you have a
good time? Ted didn't step on your toes, did he?"

"No, but I'm glad you rescued me all the same," Scully replies.
Ted asked her to dance after Myra grabbed Mulder -- was there a
little jealousy thing going on there, perhaps? -- and then tried
to get a little too close during a slow dance. With practiced
ease, Mulder had exchanged Myra for Scully.

"Always glad to be of service," he says. It is the golden memory
of the night for him, Scully in his arms, smiling up at him. The
dance, and the one after it, was over much too soon to suit him.

"Mulder, has anyone ever told you what a good man you are?"
Scully asks, putting her hand on his arm.

"It's more normal to be told I'm one sorry son of a bitch," he
says, glancing over at her in surprise. Scully doesn't say
anything else, and he adds, "I'm waiting for the other shoe to
drop here, Scully."

"There's no `other shoe.' I just don't think you get credit for
who you are very often."

"Well, thank you," is all he can think of to say.

"You're welcome," she replies.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Once back inside the
house, Mulder says, "Are you tired? It's not that late. I could
build a fire."

Scully nods. "That would be nice. Do you want some coffee, or
tea?"

"Actually, I wouldn't mind a glass of wine. I didn't have any at
dinner." Mulder took one sip of the table wine and declared
himself the designated driver, sticking to water and coffee the
rest of the evening.

Scully makes a face. "Well, you didn't miss much. I think I'll
join you."

Mulder busies himself with the fire and Scully goes into the
kitchen for the bottle of wine they'd started the other night.

When she comes back into the living room, Mulder is seated on the
sofa, channel surfing. "So what's the movie really, Mulder?" she
asks.

He says a little sheepishly, "I didn't get one. Raincheck?"

"Sure. I'll add it to your account." She pours them each some
wine. They each sip and sigh, and Scully sees a repeat of the
previous night's events unfolding if she doesn't say something,
and soon. How is it when she needs inspiration most desperately
it won't come?

Mulder also fears a replay of the night before. He doesn't want
to blow it again. What he'd really like to do is just lean over
and kiss her, but he can't tell if that's what Scully wants or
not, and he does *not* want a repeat of what happened at the
motel in Victorville.

He shifts a little where he sits, sets his wine glass down, and
clears his throat, turning to say, "Scully--"

She's right there, turned to face him. Her eyes are soft and her
lids are slightly lowered. Her lips are so close to his. He'd
barely have to lean over to touch them. He finds he doesn't have
to move at all; Scully has moved to meet him, more than halfway,
touching her lips to his.

~x~
Chapter Five

The grave's a fine and private place; but none, I think, do there
embrace. -John Donne

Mulder closes his eyes and revels in the sensation of Scully's
kisses. He's almost afraid that he will wake up, find he's back
home in his apartment, that he's dreamed this whole trip. He
stays very still while he can feel the pressure of her lips on
his, marveling that Scully has made the first move. He feels her
part her lips slightly and pull on his lower lip. He sighs, and
gropes for her hand, which has been looking for his as well. They
twine fingers as they continue to kiss, draw breath, and kiss
again.

For now, Mulder is content to let Scully take the lead, and be
merely an enthusiastic follower. She pulls back for a moment, and
he opens his eyes to see her with her head lowered, drawing a
shaky breath. He lowers his head, too, so that his temple rests
against hers, breathing in time with her. He doesn't want to lose
contact with her, and nudges her cheek a little with his nose. He
closes his eyes as she turns to kiss him again. Except for hands
and lips, he has not yet touched her. It is all he can do now to
let her set the pace, and he doesn't want to do anything that
will stop what she's doing, what he's wanted for so long.

Scully's lips are so soft--softer than he remembers from their
brief New Year's kiss. She brushes her lips back and forth over
his with the lightest pressure before deepening the kiss, opening
her mouth and inviting Mulder to do the same. Then, without
breaking contact, she moves the hand not holding Mulder's to his
shoulder and shifts so that she's sitting sideways with her legs
tucked under her. This gives her enough leverage to move closer
to his side, to encourage him to put his arms around her as she
reaches up to cup his face. He feels a tingling in his lips that
shoots up to the top of his head and then down his spine,
radiating through his body to his groin as her tongue touches
his, darts away, and returns, beckoning his to do the same, to
connect, to explore.

They finally have to stop to breathe and Mulder leans his head
back against the cushions, his throat working to drag more air
in. "*God*, Scully. Don't do this if you don't mean it," he
finally manages to say. He looks unutterably sexy to her with his
head thrown back and his eyes closed, throat working to gulp down
in more air.

What a thing to say to her. She can barely speak herself. "Do you
think I don't?" she asks.

At this, he raises his head and looks at her. "*Do* you?" It
comes out sounding like a challenge, though in his eyes she can
see he genuinely needs to know.

By way of answer she leans forward and presses her mouth against
his. "What does this feel like?" she asks between kisses. "Does
it feel like I mean it?"

His answering groan fills her ears and her soul. He pulls her
into his lap and his mouth explodes against hers.

They kiss and kiss some more, stopping only to draw ragged
breaths from time to time. His hands run up and down the contours
of her back, shoulders, arms, and face; she does the same to him.
Lips and tongues touch and caress mouths, eyelids, cheeks,
throats and earlobes, imprinting desire.

He has not yet crossed the barriers he set so long ago for
touching her. But his mind and body cry out for further
exploration, even more intimate touches. Still, even after seven
years, and at the edge of the final border, he delays taking that
last irrevocable step.

After her initial bold move, she seems content to nestle in his
arms. She kisses him with enthusiasm, but hasn't let her hands
stray past certain boundaries, either. Part of him wants to move
quickly, get past the point of no return quickly so that there
will be no turning back. But every inch of her skin is so
delicious, he wants to take his time, explore each precious
increment of flesh before advancing to the next.

And, he tells himself, he has to be sure. Sure that this is truly
what Scully wants, that she isn't just swept along on the wave of
his enthusiam. If it isn't mutual, it will never be right.

After a long while, Mulder gently pulls his mouth away from
Scully's and tucks her head against his shoulder, settling into
the corner of the couch, his arms wrapped around her.

"Scully," he says gently when his breathing slows enough.
"Scully, I need to know. Do you really want this?"

She stirs a little in his embrace but doesn't look up at him.
"What about you? What do you want?" she asks softly.

He grins. "I think you know," he says in a smoky undertone,
placing her hand on his thigh where she can feel how hard he's
become.

She brushes her fingers along his jeans-clad length, eliciting a
sharp breath from him. She looks up at him with a little half-
smile. Her eyes are almost black, and there is a spark deep
within them. "Are you saying you could stop right now?" she asks
wickedly.

"Sculllyyy...," he groans. "I asked what *you* want. I *know*
what I want. But I won't assume anything about you."

"This from the man who accepts the existence of extraterrestrials
without question," she teases gently, hugging him more tightly.
"And now, when I practically throw myself at you, you want
incontrovertible proof."

He only smiles briefly at this, intent on saying what he needs to
say. He might never be able to explain himself if he doesn't do
it now. "Scully, if I've learned nothing else from you, it's that
I should never take you for granted." He brushes her hair from
her eyes, trailing his hand down her cheek. It's a gesture of
affection he's used many times in the past, but never before has
she felt just how freighted with meaning it is. He continues, "I
want you to be clear about what you want. Because for me, this is
it. This is forever." He kisses the top of her head.

Before this moment, he'd felt tongue-tied and incapable of
expressing himself. Now the words just pour out of him. It's as
though Scully kissing him was the key he'd sought for so long.
"I've fought this for years, Scully. For all the times I've
teased you and flirted with you and made suggestive comments, I
always meant it as more of a pressure release. If I could keep
you exasperated enough, you were safer, and so was I. I've gotten
so good at hiding my feelings over the years, sometimes even *I*
can't find them. Until I look at you, Scully. They're all there,
every one of them."

He presses his lips against her hair again. "I don't want to
influence you one way or the other, but like I said, I already
know what I want." He turns her face to his, cupping her