Summary: Something between them has been slowly
melting, thawing like the winter cold, and maybe
tonight it will wash away.

Notes: Thanks to Lib for her fantastic beta! As
always, it was full of encouragement and sound
advice :)

---------------------

Dedicated to Sallie, with best wishes for her
recovery and much love.

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*Bridgewater, Virginia*

Mulder watches the rain as it splatters against
the pavement, haloed by streetlights. Far above
him, the night sky is black and cloud-crowded,
the moon occasionally flickering as a chill wind
blusters through.

He breathes gulps of country air, taking in the
small town atmosphere at night. The road beside
him is empty of everything but stalled cars and
sopping rotten leaves. He knows that in the houses
around him, people are tucked in their beds,
sleeping without fear. The whole place is silent,
muted, except for the splashing rain and the
rattling of leafless trees.

It's amazing how beautiful it is, to be out here
with the cold water dripping over his face, soaking
his clothes and drawing goosebumps up on his arms.
Mulder leans his head back and closes his eyes,
tasting the rain. The cacophony of cleansing water
is almost a presence tonight, drawing the scent of
spring out of the ground.

Mulder treasures the rain as some people treasure
snow. He loves the slow slide of water along windows,
the sound of it pattering on rooves and dripping
from awnings, and its nourishing, purifying qualities.
He finds comfort in the randomness of rain, the way
it scatters and fades, how it can never be exactly
predicted.

Rain holds a sense of anticipation too, especially
here, an hour after twilight, on the verge of spring.
Mulder feels he's waiting for something to happen,
but he doesn't know what it is. He just revels in the
suspense, the expectancy, as he soaks nature into his
skin.

---------------------

The road is saturated beneath him, glistening black.
A part of him wants to jump in the pothole puddles
and laugh into the darkness, but he's too tired, too
reflective, and he lets the laughter flood up inside
him instead, bringing a smile to his face.

The rain has ebbed to a light drizzle, becoming more a
cloud of tiny droplets than a downpour. It clings to
the fine lines and hairs on his face, blurring his vision.

A car turns onto the road, but he doesn't see it.

He hears the rush of water along the road, the familiar
sound of winter's destruction. New leaves will unfurl
soon, curling open into crisp spring light. He smiles
and doesn't see the car speeding towards him, lurching
from side to side as it hurtles along the road.

Mulder crosses the white divider, stepping into the
car's path, but he still doesn't see it. He's watching
the moon brighten in the clearing sky.

When headlights illuminate his feet he doesn't know
what to make of them.

Then something latches onto his shirt and tugs,
dragging him onto the sidewalk. Off-balance, he trips
and lands shoulder-down on the gritty, wet concrete.
A horn blares behind him, a man's slurred voice
yelling obscenities as the car speeds off into
the night.

"What the -?" he mutters, unable to move for a moment.
He feels a hand settle on his arm and glances up,
dazedly, completely bewildered.

Scully is bent over him, her expression shadowed in
the pale light. He rolls onto his back and winces,
pain shooting from his bruised shoulder. She keeps
her hand on his arm, sliding it down to cup his elbow.

"Scully?" he whispers up at her. "What the hell just
happened?"

She is trembling, shivering, and doesn't speak. He
stands quickly and pulls her to her feet, trying to
make sense of the situation.

"Scully?"

When she looks up her face tilts towards a streetlight,
allowing him to read a bleak horror in her expression.

"Scully," he says, clasping her shoulders, leaning
close to her. "Scully, it's okay. I'm okay." He hears
a dull, shaky edge to his voice when he speaks, but
can't help it.

"I know, Mulder," she replies, seeming calmer, the pain
fading from her eyes. She reaches up to gently clasp
his face between her hands, and he feels the rapid beat
of her pulse against his jaw before she pulls away.

She appeared out of nowhere, he realises. How on earth
did she do that? She isn't even meant to be here, for
God's sake. She's meant to be in DC, recovering from
the concussion she suffered during their last case.
She's meant to be sitting by the fire with her feet
up, reading tacky romance novels and listening to the
rain patter outside.

"Scully, aren't you taking some time off work?" he asks
softly, deciding not to cut to the chase just yet. "I
thought we agreed you'd stay in DC this week."

She breaks their eye contact, plastering an innocent
expression across her face. He knows she's about to
tell a lie, and she knows that he knows it, but he
doesn't call her on any of this. He tells himself there
will be time for honesty later, when they can both
breathe evenly again.

"I *have* taken some time off," Scully insists, sounding
a little too composed. "I cleaned my apartment, I fed
your fish, I did some paperwork, I had lunch with mom -"

"You were bored," he cuts in, letting her off the hook.

"Of course not," she retorts, while flashing him a
grateful smile. "I just...I'm feeling better, Mulder, and
I wanted to get back to work."

"I understand, Scully...but..."

He wants to know how she managed to arrive at precisely
the right time. How did she even know he was out here,
at this exact spot? His urge to investigate is almost
on overdrive.

But with desolation still lingering in her eyes, he
doesn't want to question her. He doesn't want to remind
her of what could have happened. The truth can wait,
he tells himself again.

Scully is cold and shaken, her skin ivory white, her
eyes wounded. He wants to pull her against him, to
soothe her spine with his hands, but as he's dripping
with freezing water he doesn't think she'd welcome his
embrace.

Thinking this, he looks down at himself and realises
that he's waterlogged and bedraggled, with steam rising
from his sodden clothes. Suddenly he's desperate for a
scalding shower and a soft place to lie down. He wants
to wrap Scully in blankets and snuggle with her, cradling
her warmth in his arms.

"Come on," he says, putting a hand to the small of
her back, "let's go inside."

---------------------

When he steps out of the steamy bathroom, scuffing his
hair with a towel, he finds Scully eating his sunflower
seeds as she peruses the case file. She's perched on
the bed, wrapped in linen and a ratty brown coverlet,
with her damp hair pulled up in a ponytail. He finds
everything about her endlessly fascinating--from the
tiny frown lines on her forehead to the way she drags
the seeds across her lower lip before cracking them.

She must sense something because she looks up and sees
him standing there, shirtless and half-dried, still
pinning the towel to his head with one hand. He quickly
starts mussing it over his hair again, grinning at the
way she's eyeing him. Interesting, he thinks, as the
atmosphere sparks and crackles around them, a blush
rising high on her cheeks.

"Cat got your tongue, Scully?"

"Um..." she blinks, looking down at the folder in
her lap. "I was just thinking about the case."

He drops the towel on a chair and grabs a fresh T-shirt
from his case, pulling it over his head. "What about
the case?" he asks, settling beside her on the bed and
peering over her shoulder.

Her right eyebrow arches in precisely the way he finds
adorable. "Mulder, what do a funeral home, a short-sighted
professor and a woman with five-inch fingernails have in
common?"

"Grave robbery."

"Grave robbery?"

"Well, as there are no burial plots involved, it should
technically be known as 'body snatching'." His voice
slides into a hypnotic monotone. "Basically, it's the
unlawful removal of corpses for scientific purposes.
It dates back to Victorian era, when the dissection of
human bodies was forced into the underground, leading
to corpses being sold on the black market. This is real
Mary Shelley stuff, Scully."

Scully pales, her lips tightening. For a second he
feels slightly offended, tempted to ask why she didn't
like his spiel.

"This isn't...similar to the Pfaster case in any way,
is it?" she asks quietly.

Shit. Of course.

He's careful not to touch her, knowing what she must
be thinking right now.

"No, no," he murmurs, keeping out of her space. "This
is bona fide, old-fashioned grave robbery, Scully, and
there are no fetishisms, quirks or psychoses involved.
It's a very simple story, actually. The short-sighted
professor, as you so aptly put it, was arrested this
afternoon. Apparently his budget has been a little tight
lately, so he decided to work the graveyard shift, if
you get my meaning, without fully comprehending the
consequences."

He glances at her, afraid she'll retreat into herself
and tell him she's fine, or that she'll simply get up
and walk into the bathroom. She does neither of these
things. Her expression has become more curious, less
stoic, and he brims with relief.

"He's been stealing bodies from the funeral home to use
in class dissections?" she asks.

"You got it, partner," he says, briefly smiling at her,
wanting to make sure she's okay. "The home's security
system is...less than secure."

She echoes his smile. "Mulder, what on earth does a
woman with five-inch fingernails have to do with any
of this?"

Mulder leans back on his palms, finally allowing himself
to relax. "Not much, actually, but she's the reason I
was called down here. The town residents refer to her only
as 'that crazy old witch', but her name is Millie Fitzgibbon.
She's sixty years old and currently survives on a small
disability pension, living alone on the outskirts of
town, in--get this Scully--a paisley trailer she
calls 'Daphne'."

Predictably, Scully doesn't even hint at being amused.
"Mulder, there's nothing funny about a poor, lonely,
rather eccentric old woman -" she protests.

He rolls his eyes, grinning at her. "Scully, Millie
told me she knits at least one pair of green socks
every day."

"What?"

"Apparently she had a vision a few years ago, in which
Bob Marley appeared before her in rainbow cloud of mist.
He took out a guitar, started playing a riff from 'No
Woman, No Cry', and said to her--'the world needs more
green socks, man'."

Scully nods slowly, bemused. "Oh."

"She became involved in the case when several police
officers saw her 'skulking'--the Sheriff's words, not
mine--around the funeral home, clutching a pair of
lime-coloured stockings and muttering to herself."

"Ah-ha."

"The Sheriff sent me an email that really perked my
interest. He dropped the usual words--'Satanism in our
community', 'possible cannibalism and necrophilia',
'witch craft', et cetera. So like the sucker I am, I
dropped everything to drive down here and talk with him -"

She gives a huff of impatience.

"Anyway," he continues, rolling his eyes again, "to
cut a long story short..."

"Too late."

He shoots her a look. "As I was saying...it turns out
that Millie's only surviving relative is a sister, whose
son, David, was killed in a car accident a few weeks ago.
His body was one of those stolen from the funeral home.
When I interviewed Millie, she told me she'd gone to
the home to pray for the safe return of her nephew's
remains, and I was given no reason to disbelieve her."

"And...?"

"And a few hours later, the PD received an anonymous
tip-off concerning the short-sighted professor."

Scully mock-gapes at him, widening her eyes. "Mulder,
are you telling me there's no fantastic explanation
whatsoever? That there isn't even a deeply troubled
individual involved here? No twisted motive, no
underlying theme...?"

"You sound as though you're disappointed," he says,
raising his eyebrows at her.

"No. I'm implying that *you* should be disappointed,
Mulder. This must be the most mundane case you've ever
investigated."

"You're forgetting Kersh's manure detail."

"Well, excepting that."

"I guess this time it just didn't seem to matter. I
was expecting the unexpected, so the mundane kind of
took me by surprise." He shrugs, trying to look casual,
"Plus, in the end, I was just...I was glad to tie it up
so quickly."

"And why is that?" Her eyebrow arches again and he wants
to smooth it down with butterfly kisses. He doesn't move.
He's not even sure what she's asking, or how to respond,
so he pauses, not looking at her.

The silence should be uncomfortable, but for some reason
it isn't. It swirls softly through the air around them
until he clasps her hand and runs a fingertip across her
palm. "You know why," he murmurs, a hushed depth to
his voice.

She is contemplative, still quiet, gazing down at their
hands as she links her fingers with his. Her eyes are
warm and crystal bright, half-hidden to him by their
angle. He realises suddenly, surely, what he was waiting
for, out in the rain. What she's been waiting for, too.

Something between them has been slowly melting, thawing
like the winter cold, and maybe tonight it will wash away.

For now she gently extracts her hand, an amused glint
replacing the serious light in her eyes. "There's just
one thing I don't understand, Mulder," she says, grinning
at him. "If Millie has five-inch fingernails, how does
she knit?"

"It's truly a sight to behold."

---------------------

Mulder lies stretched on the bed while Scully takes her
shower. He listens to the water rush over her skin,
picturing the scarlet flush it must be bringing out.

A few weeks ago he would have burned with shame to be
thinking of her like this, but he suspects she has the
same thoughts about him. Recently he's caught her
casting him sharp sideways glances, a hot spark in her
eyes that he can't ignore.

When the water shuts off he hears Scully drying herself,
humming tunelessly under her breath. His eyes drift
closed at the sound, her happiness soothing him like
nothing else can. For a while he dozes, completely
content. Despite his concern for her, he's glad that
she's here. He's missed her this week.

When he opens his eyes she is sitting beside him, curling
her legs onto the comforter. She's wearing a bathrobe
that dwarfs her small frame, her hair hanging damp and
soft around her eyes. He can't resist brushing a few
strands from her face, delighting when she captures
his hand and nuzzles her delicate cheek against his palm.

"Hey," she whispers, heat expanding in her eyes.

He's sprawled across the bed in sweatpants and a grey
T-shirt, and he wonders what he must look like to her.
His patchwork eyes stare up into hers. Can she really
find him attractive?

As though in answer, she moistens her lush, pink lips.

His mouth goes dry. "Hey yourself," he murmurs, tracing
a finger across her chin.

He feels a change in the air come abruptly, like an
icicle snapping and falling away. Their pupils are
dilating, their breath quickening, and he knows there's
no stopping this thing between them now.

"Scully," he whispers, suddenly nervous, "do you think
I need a haircut?"

Scully chuckles and lies beside him, drawing her hands
through his hair, caressing the wavy strands.

"I like it this long," she murmurs in reply, shifting
her head so she can press hot kisses below his jaw.

When her tongue darts out to taste his five-o-clock shadow
he groans and rolls her over, pressing her into
the mattress.

Her lips taste like the falling rain, and he kisses and
kisses her, moulding her mouth with his, their tongues
stroking and twisting together. Their bodies start a
rhythm, rocking slowly at first and then faster, harder,
as he hears her moaning into his mouth. He pulls away
slightly, watching her face contort with pleasure while
he moves against her.

She unties her robe and parts it down the middle, her
eyes fixed on his all the while. Her bared body is sleek
and lightly freckled, curved like a fresh pear, and he
decides he has to taste every inch. He runs his mouth
over her breasts, belly and inner-thighs, listening to
her quiet, desperate sounds of pleasure. Once he starts
he doesn't think he can stop, tracing every bend and
dip of her with his tongue, groaning when he pushes her
legs apart and tastes the center of her, the very core.

She arches and contorts like a bound bird, struggling
to break free, to fly, but he doesn't let her. He leaves
her on the verge of takeoff, licking his moist lips
and grinning at her, knowing she was expecting him
to finish.

And Scully hates the unexpected. Panting, she curses
him under her breath, grasping his T-shirt by the
shoulders and pulling him over her body, somehow getting
his shirt off in the process. He quickly slides out
of his sweatpants, watching as her darkened, hungry eyes
run over him.

She pushes him onto his back, and it's her turn to explore,
to take her time with him. She goes about this in her usual
methodical manner, nipping at his collarbones and biceps,
rubbing her flushed body all over his, sometimes pausing
to nuzzle her face against his neck or to slowly suck his
nipples. He shifts and bends under her, moans vibrating
through his throat.

"Love the way you taste," she whispers, licking the
clenched outlines of his pectorals, dipping her tongue
into his navel and making his hips quake beneath her.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tosses his head as her
mouth continues downwards, veins standing out along
his neck. He strokes her hair with one hand as her
mouth slides over him, his other hand gripping the
sheets, twisting them until they come loose from
the mattress.

"Mmm...Scully, stop," he groans, blood jolting through
him, his ears ringing. He pushes her hot mouth away,
muttering pleas and curses until she slips up his body
and impales herself on him.

His eyes wrench open and they stare at each other,
wordless. She is boiling and fluid around him, slowly
rising up and lowering back down, her eyes swirling
with cobalt and sapphire. Her movements are steady,
almost painfully slow, making him grit his teeth and
think of Tooms' bile to keep from bucking into her.

When she deliberately clenches around him he can't
stand it any longer, sitting up and shifting her into
his lap, taking hold of her hips and slamming hard
and fast inside her.

"Love you, love you, love you..." he chants, turning
her onto her back so he can murmur it into her ear
on the downstroke, his voice rough, deep as double
bass notes. "Love you, Scully, love you."

"Love you," she echoes, her voice choked.

He whispers her name as he glides a hand down her
body, stroking between them until she's quivering
in earnest, pulling him with her.

The elaborate beauty of it, the immensity, rises up
before it crashes down. They shudder, their voices
cracking, as they fall upward into flight, spinning
higher, driven out of time and thought. Somehow,
through all of the aching and shattering, they keep
their eyes open.

They watch one another as their wait ends.

---------------------

"So, are you going to tell me why you *really* drove
down here?" he asks, sometime later, when they've
turned off the lights and pulled the curtains closed.
He is tracing words around her navel, letter by
letter, and she concentrates, feeling him call her
'my love' with his fingertip over her skin.

"Mulder..." she whispers, stretching cat-like under
his touch. She takes his hand and presses it palm-down
across her belly, sighing when he flexes his fingers.

He pulls her closer, spooning around her so he can
nuzzle her sensitive neck. "Tell me why you drove
down here, Scully," he urges, kissing her earlobe.

"I don't...I don't know why." The rain is falling
again outside, dripping and pattering, and he can
barely hear her voice.

"Just tell me what happened."

She takes a shallow, sharp breath. "I had a feeling
of foreboding, Mulder. It was so powerful, it...it
kept me awake last night." A brittle quaver of fear
creeps into her voice. "I was terrified. I thought
maybe I'd lost you already, but I kept telling myself
it was ridiculous--that you were fine. I finally
fell asleep, but when I woke up the feeling was still
there. It was even worse."

"So you came."

"I came. It took me a while to persuade myself,
though." She turns in his arms, wrapping herself around
him and slinging her leg over his smooth hip. "God,
Mulder...when I saw you crossing that road--when I
saw the car--if I'd arrived any later -"

He kisses her forehead, pulling back to meet her
eyes. "Do you know how much it means to me, that you
came?" he murmurs.

"I -"

"Scully, you usually push that kind of feeling aside
and pretend it isn't happening. You've listened to
it when one of us has been in obvious danger, but I
know you've never listened when it's been a completely
irrational feeling--when it's struck you out of the
blue. Until now."

"Mulder," she whispers, her voice guilt-tainted.
"Mulder, I *did* try to push it away. I tried very
hard -"

"But you didn't succeed, Scully. You drove down here
because you were worried about me, not because it was
a reasonable, sensible decision." He brushes his lips
across hers. "Thank you, Scully. Thank you for caring
about me that much."

She shakes her head, pressing her face to his chest.
He expects sorrow, and starts when he feels her mouth
purse against his skin, realising she's suppressing
laughter. What the hell...?

"Mulder, there's another reason I came," she confesses,
voice muffled, her lips tickling his chest hairs. "I
guess I'm just...I'm just glad to be here."

Her words and tone sound like something he said, he
realises, in their earlier conversation. He flashes
back to it, recalling her reply.

"And why is that?"

"You *know* why."

She moves sinuously, shifting her body until he's in
position, pressed against her heat. Moaning, he sinks
inside her, melting into her again, and he knows.
He knows.

---------------------

Bridgewater, Virginia, is a real place. Apologies for
any inaccuracies--I've never been there, I just like
the name :)

Liked it? Hated it? Do you think I'm spooky?
Please send feedback to: apollostemple@yahoo.com