Classification: VRA
Rated: R
Key Words: Mulder/Scully Romance
Spoilers: Season Eight in general, but nothing specific except
Dead/Alive.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter and 10:13 productions created Mulder
and Scully, but I think they belong to their fans as well. However,
I don't want to get in any legal trouble, so I'll say that I'm just
borrowing them. For eternity.
Archive: Gossamer, please. Email me before archiving elsewhere.
I don't see why I'd refuse.
Summary: For this is what he does.

Comments: I've never posted anything on the internet before. I
don't know any internet fans and none of you know me. This is all
very strange because I've been a XF fan for years - I'm just shy.
So yeah, this story has not been beta read. In fact, it hasn't been
shown to anyone.

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"Without thee were but a becalmed bark,
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside."

- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'Constancy to an Ideal Object'

Every season she goes through this. Every night, for a week at
least.

She doesn't know why. Maybe it comes with the change in temperature,
as her senses adjust, though this doesn't always fit. Maybe it is
the full moon, tugging on the liquid parts of her body as hormones
swirl through her blood. Or maybe it is no more than a release,
something her subconscious needs.

Only he sees the signs. From the muted terror of the first night,
she knows it's started again, and the terror only grows. Of course,
she never tells him. This is the way she is. But he knows, from less
smiles and clouded eyes. He knows, from her tone of voice, from the
way she touches him. Even the way she eats ice cream is a sure sign.
He watches her do this, every day. During good times, she turns the
spoon upside down to savour the taste. In the bad times, she barely
notices she's eating. Her lack of interest in what she usually takes
pleasure in, yes; this is the surest sign of all.

They make love less than they once did. Three times a week, usually,
sometimes a bit more. During her bad spells, they make love every
night, sometimes twice. Lovemaking is her only pleasure in these
times, her only relief. It is exhausting, and sometimes she tries
to refuse. She says she wants sex to be special, as though they
could go back to those few months when it always was. It still is,
of course, but when she says special she means perfect. She wants
to make love solely for the purpose of making it.

But she can't refuse him anything, especially this. He can't refuse
her anything either. They still speak about this sometimes, their
undying love. In her bad times they barely speak at all. "Are you
okay?" is a useless question. He's known this for years. Comfort
without words is his only option.

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

She sits on the dryer, her face in her hands. It is two o'clock in
the morning. Will is asleep and so the house is silent. Of course
she is not crying - she is past that now.

He sits on the laundry bench, watching her. It is the third night.

"It was the cemetery, I was standing by your gravestone. It was
snowing, the middle of the day, and I was cold. It was so cold, it
made me think of the mortuary, and then, there I was. You were laid
out, like you were when..." she bites her lip, because this is too
difficult to say, even for her. "I couldn't breathe so I just closed
my eyes. When I opened them you were gone, there was just the slab."

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

The first time, he wouldn't let her speak about her dreams. As soon
as she started he cut her off.

"I want you to try and forget them," he whispered into her neck.
He pressed his hand against her bare belly. "Forget the nightmares,
Scully. No more nightmares. We don't need them any more."

By the third time it happened, he realised his mistake. The dreams
were not papers that could be filed away in the dark corner of an
old office. They were not eyewitness accounts and neatly typed
reports about demons, ghosts and goblins.

They were just as vicious and ugly as these monsters. They could
only be exorcised by endurance and courage. Eventually, after
many battles, they would be slain.

And so he decided to let her endure the worst. He would accompany
her through it all, taking as much of the load as she would give.
For this is what he does.

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

She still sits on the dryer, but he moves from the bench. Two steps
and he is standing between her legs. His fingers squeeze her bare
shoulders.

This is Mulder the lover, her lover. Tender, gentle, understanding.
It drives her crazy when he's like this all the time, every day,
every night. She needs him as a bastard sometimes; selfish and
arrogant, shoving heaped spoonfuls of self-pity down her throat.

Except in these times, when she can only hear his voice, and the
ticking of the clock in the hall.

"Back to bed?" he asks. He knows better than to command.

"I want you here," she says, trailing her fingertips from his navel
to the base of his adam's apple. She speaks with a voice that undoes
him, as it always does.

"I love you," she says.

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

They were sitting beside the Potomac, holding hands.

It was a clear, chilly day, the wind picking up a few strands of
her hair at a time, leaving them in untidy heaps on her head. They
had walked from the restaurant to sit beside the river. It was
sunset, a pale pink impressionist affair that didn't compare to her
vibrant colouring.

"I love you," she said, as they sat on their bench beside the murky
river.

They were only a week away from the end of this part of their lives.

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

He kisses her, as only he can kiss her, and she responds with her
kisses, as only she can. She wraps her arms around his waist and
pulls him against her. Soon, he is inside her, and his fingertips
flutter across her back. Her nails dig into his. He treats her like
porcelain and she is hard as diamond.

They have the rest of their lives to do this. All of the furniture
in their house is free for them to christen. They can make love.
They can go out to dinner. They can tuck their son into bed. They
can choose to go hiking on the weekends or curl up together and
watch TV.

Perhaps, one day, he will be annoyed by her nightmares, and they
will fight, and separate, and divorce. But this is as likely as the
oceans drying up, leaving nothing but piles of gritty salt and dying
fish.

They have picked out china patterns and visited antique stores,
arguing about prices and styles. Each paint colour, each roof tile,
bears their stamp. The bond between them remains without even a
hairline crack. Together, they have created something that they will
never allow to crumble.

This is how it is, and the way it must be.

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Since this is my first fanfic, I don't know what getting feedback is
like. Please send it to me so I can find out.

My email address is: apollostemple@yahoo.com