TITLE: Passionate Intuition Parts I-IV (Combined) AUTHOR: S.N. Kastle RATING: R. Mild language and sexual situations. SUMMARY: In the wake of Scully's cancer diagnosis, she and Mulder learn to relax... But not until first overcoming a few obstacles. SPOILERS: This falls somewhere between Memento Mori and Gethsemane. DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and Walter Skinner belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Television. Any characters not found in "The X-Files" are mine and may not be used without permission. I am not making any profit from this story. CLASSIFICATION: SR. Mulder/Scully romance. It's fairly heavy on the UST in the beginning, but things do progress eventually. ARCHIVE: Anywhere, as long as my name and address remain attached. When possible, please send me URLs of archived locations. Originally posted from November 23, 1997, to December 24, 1997. THANKS: To Amanda, of course. Thanks to all the people who wrote and encouraged the continuation of the first section. A thanks also goes to Karen Rasch, whose work "Impossible Things" inspired this one, in a way. Last, but certainly not least, thanks to Dawson Rambo. Without his friendship (and editing) this piece might never have been finished. FEEDBACK: Compliments and constructive criticism are welcomed at shanak@nwu.edu AUTHOR'S NOTE: All those months ago when I started writing this story, I intended it as a cancer-arc piece. It wound up being more than that, but I couldn't drop the issue altogether. Given the conversation in "Detour" aboud Scully's struggle to find meaning in her illness, I've decided that she could very well have gone through a period of acceptance and hope before the cancer metastasized. **************************** P A S S I O N A T E I N T U I T I O N by S.N. Kastle **************************** One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition. William Wordsworth, "The Excursion" **************************** *1* Scully's apartment Saturday, 4:03 a.m. Mulder pressed his cheek against the cool wood of her bedroom door. His stubble scraped against the grain, louder than a chain saw in a backwoods grove. He turned the handle ninety degrees, wincing as the mechanism creaked. He'd never noticed that it needed oiling. Of course, he thought, he'd never tried to sneak silently into Scully's room before, either. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he should just go back out in the hallway and pound on the door until she awakened. No. He'd already ruined her night's sleep by keeping her at the office until after one, finishing a case report. He could at least do this for her. He opened the door smoothly, the cream plush carpet giving a slight resistance. The light he'd turned on in the living room spilled across half her bed, leaving her face hidden in the shadows. The maroon suit she'd worn that day was draped across the chair on the far side of the room; he'd found her shoes near the couch where she must have kicked them off. Mulder knew that was unlike Scully. On the road, her room was as immaculate as her outfits were neatly pressed. Debris didn't pile up on her coffee table nor did dishes lie unwashed in her sink for longer than 30 minutes. She must have been really exhausted to abandon her routine cleaning sweep of the house before bed. She'd looked tired when she left to go home a few hours before, but sometimes he couldn't tell if that was the cancer or the case. Probably both, tonight. He crossed to her closet, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He didn't want to pull the cord for the single bulb in the walk-in, afraid that the sudden illumination would disturb Scully's brief sleep. When he could distinguish the color of her taupe heels from her brown loafers, he rifled through her rack of suits. This was the one he wanted. Scully always wore it when they flew early in the morning. It was comfortable, didn't wrinkle easily and she could wear her favorite shoes with it. He grabbed the hanger with the charcoal gray pant suit and set it on the chair, moving the dirty clothes to the hamper. The low-heeled black pumps were set at the base of the chair. He chose another suit, black this time, and the blouses she normally wore with each suit. He brought the extra outfit into the living room and opened the coat closet. Her hanging bag was on the top shelf and he quickly loaded the clothes. He walked back to the dresser, kneeling down to the bottom drawer where she stored her jeans and sweaters. The dark green fisherman's sweater wasn't on top, and he dug down until his fingers brushed the cable knit. He'd only seen her wear it once, when he stopped by on a cold winter day to drop off a case file. He wasn't sure which jeans she liked; he'd seen Scully dressed that casually maybe a dozen or so times in four years. He took the first pair he found, which were slightly frayed at the ankles. One of the pockets was starting to tear off, but the denim looked more cozy than worn. He straightened up, groaning a bit at the stiffness in his back. He hadn't slept in almost two days and his body was starting to feel it, even if his mind was still alert. What else did she need? He was suddenly at a loss. Earrings. Her jewelry case sat on the dresser, and he found the small pearls that went with the gray suit and the gold hoops to go with the black one. He dropped the back of an earring and it fell in the top drawer, which was slightly open. Damn. This was going to be tricky without light. He closed his eyes, hoping he could find it by touch. He moved the drawer open as gently as possible, not wanting to shift the contents. His fingers touched soft cotton and walked in the direction he thought the back had fallen. He felt silk and some kind of a rod or wire. He opened his eyes. Shit. It was a bra. He slammed the drawer shut and pulled the back off another earring in the box. Her gold cross and the pearls he set on the edge of the dresser near the chair. There was a jewelry bag in the living room and he fumbled to unzip it. He padded back to the room, afraid his hastened departure might have disturbed Scully. But she hadn't changed position, so he retrieved the jeans and sweater from the floor, grabbed her hiking boots and wool socks and closed her door as he left. He made coffee, glad that Scully had bought ground beans. She never would have slept through that racket, no matter how long a day it had been. There was creamer in the fridge and he added a splash to her mug. He looked at his watch. 4:22. Skinner wanted them on the 7 a.m. flight to Maine, so they had a little over an hour before they needed to leave. Saturday traffic shouldn't be bad this early, but Scully would still need time to shower and get dressed. Mulder's bag was in the trunk of his car and he'd already changed. Maybe he could shave here, considering he'd forgotten while he was at his apartment. It was difficult to get her door open with both cups of coffee, and she had started to stir by the time he sat on the edge of the bed. His weight unbalanced the mattress, and her body slid toward him. Mulder quickly set the mugs on the nightstand as the hot liquid splashed dangerously close to the rims. Scully rolled over, still asleep, so that she was facing him. There were dark circles under her eyes, and he almost walked out and went to Maine on the damned case without her. This kind of a schedule could not be good for her health, no matter how tough she acted or how many times she told him she was fine. Then she wrapped her arm around his knees, resting her head on his thigh. His muscles tensed and he willed himself not to move. He flashed on the soft fabric of her bra. Even in the faint light he'd been able to tell it was sheer navy. No time for that. He shook her shoulder gently. She curled closer. He was a bit more insistent the next time, saying her name softly as well. Scully stretched back out onto the bed, and Mulder stood up as soon as she had moved. "Mulder?" Scully asked sleepily. He was standing over her, a coffee cup in his hand extended like a peace offering. She looked at the clock. It had better be a peace offering at this time of morning. "Please tell me something good," she said. Her throat was dry and she coughed the end of the sentence out. Mulder thrust the drink at her, and she acquiesced. "What?" he asked. Scully couldn't figure out the expression on his face. Guilt, maybe? He had better feel damned guilty for waking her up at this time of morning. "Don't tell me you're here at 4:30 a.m. because we have a flight to catch." "Umm..." Mulder took a gulp of his own coffee, burning his throat . He could kill Skinner right now. The case could have waited a few hours. Scully closed her eyes in disgust. A headache had already begun. It felt so deeply buried in her head that she'd have to crack her skull open to make it stop. Maybe if she just went back to sleep Mulder would go away. "Umm, Scully?" No such luck. She opened her eyes again, and recoiled from the brightness of the bedside lamp Mulder had turned on. Sitting on the chair behind him were her gray suit and the black blouse she always wore with it. "You have about an hour to get dressed," he said. "I, umm... Packed already. I know we skipped dinner, but I thought if we left early we could eat on the way to the airport." He looked at her expectantly, but when she didn't answer him right away, walked back to the living room. *2* Dulles International Airport Saturday, 6:18 a.m. Mulder slammed the trunk. He hadn't shaved because he'd forgotten that his travel razor had been left at the last motel, and his mind was beginning to feel as scratchy and sore as his body. Maybe the plane to Bangor would have open seats and he could stretch out for a nap. He handed Scully her bag and headed toward the terminal. "Mulder?" He turned around. Scully was leaning against the back of the car, her long winter coat billowing in the harsh wind. He could see why she liked to travel in that suit. It looked comfortable. She looked comfortable. He blinked suddenly. He *was* getting bleary-eyed. "What, Scully?" "How did you know which earrings to pick out?" Mulder blinked again, wondering vaguely which bra she'd picked to go under the outfit and if she'd fall asleep on his shoulder during the flight. His eyes flew open as he realized the direction his thoughts were taking. He forced a short laugh and turned back to the airport. He felt her hand on his elbow, resolutely tugging on his sleeve. "Do you really pay that much attention to what I wear?" He stopped and looked down at her, focusing his drooping eyes on hers. He was tired, feeling almost drunk, and he just wanted to get out of the parking lot. "I pay that much attention to everything about you, Scully," he said softly. He took the hanging bag out of her hands and strode away from the car, not meeting her gaze again. After a moment, she followed him. *3* Bangor International Airport Saturday, 9:48 a.m. They were waiting for the rental agent to finish the paperwork. Then it was a two-hour drive on slick roads to the ferry at Owls Head followed by a thirty-minute, stomach-churning boat ride to Vinalhaven Island. Mulder was still tired, even though he'd napped for a little over an hour on the flight. He'd awakened when Scully tried to buckle his seat belt for the landing. Her hand had been dangerously near his zipper, her brow wrinkled in concentration as she tried not to shift him and disturb his sleep. When he'd first opened his eyes, she hadn't even noticed, and he'd held the moan that was building in his throat . Eventually his lungs had begun to burn and he'd coughed, startling both of them and almost causing her head to connect with his chin. "Agent Mulder?" The rental agent forced the memory from his thoughts. She and Scully were both staring at him. "Your car is in space A-11. Here are the keys." He signed the forms and strode quickly through the small airport, shaking out his limbs from the tight little package into which he'd arranged them in the compact seat. "Mulder, I'll drive." He was already behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition. He didn't say anything, just gave her a stern look and adjusted the rearview mirror. "Mulder." Scully was pretty good at dishing out the stern looks, too, but he wasn't going to change his mind. She switched tactics. "You look like hell," she said, gently. "You barely got any sleep on the plane." "And you have a headache," he said. End of argument. She shut the door and shut up for a moment, allowing the roar in his own mind to subside briefly. "How did you know that?" Scully asked. Shit. Mulder cursed himself for having said aloud what he had meant to only think silently. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd forget the question and just rest. "Mulder?" No such luck. It was the way her eyebrows titled toward each other. The way she bent her neck a bit to each side to relieve the tension at the base of her head. The way she pulled on her right earlobe and then lightly massaged the pressure point behind it. Mulder didn't even think she was aware of that last little clue. "Just a guess," he said quietly. He didn't really expect Scully to buy that. He risked a quick glance away from the road sideways. She blinked, almost in slow motion, and Mulder realized she was far more fatigued than he had previously thought. She didn't seem to be capable of moving more quickly than the lava-flow pace she'd adopted soon after they had gotten on the highway. A flash of hot panic cramped his stomach. He wasn't even sure where the hell they were going; Scully had the map folded in her coat pocket and he had only a vague idea of the directions. There might not be a hospital anywhere near them -- what was he supposed to do if this weariness was more than just the predecessor to another nosebleed? His doomsday tendencies were always inflated by Scully's illness, and he was considering how he could get in touch with her mother when Scully covered his hand with her own. He had been gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the small crisscross pattern from the cover had embedded itself in his palm. "I'm fine, Mulder," she said, as she pried his fingers loose. The sleepy tingles as his digits came back to life made him grimace. "No, Mulder..." She'd mistaken that pained look as distrust of her usual disclaimer. "It's just from sleeping on the plane, with my neck all crooked," she said. "Really, I'm fine." He looked at her closely. She was telling the truth, or at least she thought she was. Sometimes he worried that she had so convinced herself that her body would not bear the telltale effects of cancer that she wouldn't detect any signs of deterioration. He nodded once, and she understood. Scully pulled his hand into her lap, massaging each of his fingers from the tip to base. The blood rushed back into them, and he bent them carefully. When he flexed his hand again, Scully's smaller fingers threaded themselves between his own. She shut her eyes and moved her seat back, not releasing him from her grasp. Mulder woke her when the car was on the ferry, and they climbed to the deserted upper deck to sit side-by-side on a wooden bench. Their bodies were close, touching from shoulder to knee. When the wind gusted sprays of ocean water into their faces, Mulder wordlessly put his arm around Scully's back and pulled her into his chest. *4* Vinalhaven Island, Maine Saturday, 11:45 p.m. A visitor to the island had two choices for lodging, Maine Country Inn and Penobscot Bay Bed & Breakfast. From April to October, when Vinalhaven's population tripled with the influx of tourists, most of the houses were also filled. A few hardy souls would stay on through the best part of the leaf-changing season, but by Thanksgiving all except the natives had retreated to New York or Philadelphia. It might be a nice place to take a vacation, Mulder mused. If he took vacations voluntarily, that was. Or if he took them with Scully. It was warm, for a March evening. Mulder's overcoat was unbuttoned and he'd left his gloves in the car. He was starting to regret the latter decision. It felt like he was pounding his fist against a concrete wall, and with the oak door his knocking seemed to make an equivalent amount of noise. Scully's lips were drawn into a fine line, and he could tell she was doing her best not to laugh. The door was finally opened by a sleepy-looking man in his mid-thirties. He was tall, well-built, hair clipped short to detract attention from his growing bald spot. He was also unclothed except for a pair of boxers. "The next ferry isn't until Monday during the off-season," he said, yawning. He looked at the two agents, his eyes drifting slowly from Mulder to Scully and back again. Despite the late hour, his eyes were focused and intense. "You the cops out on the cove today, asking about the Stevana kid?" Mulder remembered what it was like to live on an island. Ten square miles might have been too large to leave your car in a garage on the mainland, but it wasn't big enough for anything important to escape notice for longer than about an hour. Scully reached in her pocket for her badge. "There's a writers' convention at the Maine Country Inn, sir, or we wouldn't have bothered you at this time," she said. The man had already waved them in and opened a small cabinet to retrieve a room key. That was when Mulder noticed the guy's boxers and the small UFOs that seemed to be painted with glow-in-the-dark ink on the white cotton. He heard a small choking noise and realized the detail had not been missed by Scully, either. The B&B owner started up the stairs. When they didn't immediately follow, he gave them a pointed stare and continued his climb. "This is the family suite," he whispered in the hallway. "The other room is full." He raised his voice to conversational-level once they'd entered the room. "Breakfast is at 9, but there will be coffee starting at 7 until 10 or so. Okay?" Mulder reached for his wallet, but the man just yawned again and shook his head. "In the morning," he said. "You're not going anywhere, anyway, unless you plan on swimming back to Owls Head." He dropped the key on the coffee table and left. Scully dropped herself into the stuffed chair next to the window, wearily rolling her shoulders and closing her eyes. Mulder just watched. There were times he could force his attention away from her slim neck and the way her red hair fell across her chin in little waves. And there were times he could not. He usually managed not to touch. Scully frowned. "Ohhh," she said. Was that a moan? Mulder couldn't tell. Her eyes were still shut. "Our bags are in the car," she said, with a note of resignation at her rest being interrupted once more. He was halfway down the stairs before she opened her eyes to see where he'd gone. Mulder was back in under five minutes, a bag in each hand. Scully had shrugged out of her suit jacket and stretched out on the couch. He started to speak, then listened to the even rhythm of her breathing. There was an afghan on the chair, and he covered her up before taking a seat. No television. Figured. It was for the best, probably. He couldn't have watched it with her asleep in the room, and the set would have just taunted him with visions of infomercials and late-night soft porn on USA. Watching Scully was more entertaining anyway. And reassuring. These days, it often felt like he had to push Scully until she fell asleep standing up if she were to get any rest at all. Four cases ago, he'd heard her television through the motel wall at 3 a.m. He'd convinced her that they could save the establishment some money on electrical bills if they just watched Knight Rider reruns together. It wasn't the best line he'd ever used, but she'd accepted it. Since then, they'd suffered their insomnia together. Sometimes they flipped between Dionne and Baywatch, but most nights they muted the television and just talked. They spent the early dawns filling in the blanks of their partnership, learning all the details they hadn't needed to cover each other's backs or sit through a stake out. Now they needed those stories to stay sane until morning, it seemed. Once they'd gone through each year of school, struggling to remember their teachers' names and who their best friend had been. Scully had accepted this closeness without comment, just as she'd seemed to acknowledge the symptoms of her disease while ignoring the implications of it all. Her nosebleeds were less frequent and less heavy. Her mother had found a good stain remover to get most of the blood spots off her clothes. The headaches came and went but Advil usually dulled the pain enough to function. She had difficulty sleeping but had learned to do with less rest. But she was sleeping now. Mulder watched her chest expand and contract until his own eyes grew heavy. Just before sunrise, he dozed off. *5* Penobscot Bay Bed & Breakfast Sunday, 8:35 a.m. Scully pulled the lace tank top over her head and dressed in the black suit and cream blouse. She wondered what would have happened had she not double-checked her suitcase before they left for the airport. Trust Mulder to forget the little things. Well, he'd remembered the earrings. Trust Mulder to forget the *important* little things, then. Like underwear. Although... The thought of him sorting through her lingerie drawer brought a sudden blush to her face. Which would he have chosen? The plain white satin set he'd already seen in Oregon? Or the new sheer blue bra and matching panties she'd bought last month so she could feel a little like a sexual woman when she was trapped in that basement with him for too many hours? Maybe he just wanted her to go without them this weekend. Maybe it was his private fantasy and not just an early-morning oversight. That was about enough of that, Dana. She grabbed the gold hoops and shut the bedroom door behind her, fastening the hooks through her earlobes as she walked. Mulder was waiting for her in the suite, leaning against the window that faced the water. He'd heard Scully come into the room and closed his eyes. Sometimes, when they were alone like this, he liked to fine-tune his Scully radar. If he concentrated, he could tell that she was about five feet behind him, on the right. She had stopped walking and was just looking at his back. Her gaze was warm across his shoulders and he could sense the bright morning sun through his eyelids. Both were red-orange impressions of color and heat, as though seen through a temperature-sensitive lens. It almost seemed like she was leaning toward him, unsteady now on her feet by the imbalance. "What are you looking at, Mulder?" Her voice was dimmed, almost cautious. As if he might say what she really wanted to hear, and she wasn't sure what they'd talk about after that. "You." He dropped his head so it hung loosely on his neck, aching to feel her response. A slight disturbance in the room's air pressure indicated she'd taken a step toward him. Just one, and then she stopped. Her eyes slid away, over to his right, looking at the choppy water. He felt her stare go like a shrunken blanket that could never quite cover his cold feet, and he wanted to grab at the edges and wrap it around his sudden chill. He sighed and opened his eyes. "The Stevana case isn't an X-File, Scully." His voice sounded more pleasant than he felt. "It doesn't even match a standard serial-killer profile. It's Missing Persons' domain, not ours." Vinalhaven suddenly made him claustrophobic and short of breath. "I think there is a small airstrip at Owls Head with charter planes, and if we can get one to pick us up we could be back in D.C. by early tonight." "What about the car?" Scully asked. "It's an island, Mulder. We can't expect the rental service in Bangor to pick it up. I have a feeling their door-to-door policy isn't going to cover this area." Mulder turned around slowly. There was an argumentative tone to her voice, some warning he couldn't detect without looking her in the eyes. When he did, all he could see was a clear cerulean blue, how Penobscot Bay must have looked in the summer months. God, she was beautiful. He whirled back to face the glass, needing the moment's respite from her visage to catch his breath. Then she was beside him, the moment's lapse from his attentive watch making him start in surprise when he felt her shoulder touching his. He wanted to take her hand and lead her back to the bedroom, tearing off the jacket she'd so carefully buttoned. Had she remembered to pack underwear? Or were her nipples hard and raw, the thin blouse fabric little protection against the wool of the suit? All he had to do was move his fingers to take hers, but his palm was magnetic, a negative against the windowsill's positive force. Two or three inches of movement and he could end four years of questioning, of wondering What Would It Be Like. But each time the pulse from his mind seemed to urge his hand in the right direction, the tides of the bay pulled it back. Scully inclined her forehead until it bumped gently against the pane. "We need a vacation, Mulder," she said quietly. "How long has it been since we just...relaxed?" Relaxed. Not thinking so much would be damn relaxing, he thought. Relaxing with Scully could bring a whole new meaning to the word vacation. "I wouldn't know what to do on a vacation without you," he muttered. He half-hoped the waves would cover his admission. When Scully didn't immediately respond he rescinded that plea. Better to know how she felt than wonder if he had to say it again. Scully straightened up suddenly, walking back to the bedroom. Mulder followed her with his eyes this time, not just his mind. Wait. Was she taking off her jacket? Shit. She laid it on the couch and turned to face him. Oh my God. She *wasn't* wearing a bra, even though there seemed to be some kind of tank top beneath the shirt. He felt the heat creep up his neck like in eighth grade when Mallory Watson gave a book report wearing a tight sweater and little else. He couldn't remember the title of the book or anything else about Mallory, but memories of that day had just been replaced by a new, painfully more embarrassing inability to control his body's response to a woman. And there was quite a difference between a middle-school fantasy and the sight before him. Her breasts stretched the shirt to near-opacity, allowing the dark centers to show clearly through the layers of fabric. The rays of the morning sun reflected off her fire-red hair, making her pale skin even more creamy in context. "Mulder." It wasn't quite a bark, not really a command. But he was sure that Scully was well aware of his reaction. She was a doctor, if not also a highly observant field agent. He blinked and tried to clear his throat. What came out was a closer relative to the moan than the polite cough for which he'd been aiming. "You're right, Mulder," she said, in an authoritative tone he would have gladly followed into any hellfire. "This isn't an X-File. And when we get back to Bangor tomorrow, we can hand it over to the field office there, and they can handle the rest of it. But I haven't had a day off I didn't spend in the hospital or recovering from an injury since I started working with you." Her voice dipped a notch. "Mulder, I'm tired. And though I'm quite sure I've forgotten what relaxation is supposed to be about, I'd like to take a stab at remembering." He still couldn't speak, so he smiled. It was the wild and free grin of a man with half of the American Dream in his pocket and the other half beckoning at him from the distance. Scully paused for breath, and then drew her brows together in mock reproof. Her voice was laden with sarcasm: "And since it appears you didn't *forget* to pack casual clothes for me, I'm going to put on some jeans. Then I'm going to take a walk on the beach, window-shop along Main Street and, hopefully, have a nice dinner." She paused for a moment, making sure he was looking at her. "Assuming we can find a restaurant that's open this time of year, that is." It was easier if he didn't try to talk, because it wasn't as obvious that he hadn't the faintest idea how to respond. Mulder just nodded, and went to change. *6* Vinalhaven Island, Maine Sunday, 11:42 a.m. They spent the day apart. Scully had instructed Mulder to meet her at 6:30, dressed appropriately for dinner at the one nice restaurant on the island that was open during March. He wasn't sure what "appropriately" meant, or what he was supposed to do to occupy himself all day. He felt that look of desperate fear begin to form on his face and turned away. She had pressed her hand upon his arm and promised she'd be back for dinner. The warmth of her touch through his suit jacket had made him a little weak, and when she closed the door behind her, he had to bite his lip to keep back the sudden wetness in his eyes. When she had first been sick, he had tried to postpone her exits with another file requiring her signature or a dozen silly questions he could have answered himself. It had worked for about a week, and then Scully had lost her patience. He'd mumbled a half-apology for wasting her time and grabbed a new case file to hide behind. She'd sat down next to him and reassured him that she wasn't so sick that she'd collapse the moment she left his sight. The talking-to didn't necessarily quell his concerns, but he wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Mulder tried to finish the Stevana case paperwork in the main lounge and wondered when he'd become so dependent upon Scully to make decisions. Hell, to do most everything. Not only could he not pick out a suitable tie for dinner without her assistance, he wasn't sure what he'd do with his life if she weren't a part of it. He didn't like to consider that, though. Mulder sometimes thought that Scully had become more centered, more composed, since her diagnosis, while he'd just spun out of control, farther and farther off course from his original target. What had that objective been, all those years ago when he'd first unearthed the X-Files? To find Samantha, he supposed, and expose the men who'd taken her away. But he thought he'd found her before, only to discover that exposing Them meant digging through even more Mulder family secrets. Now he spent whatever time he could steal between cases buried in oncology textbooks and on the phone with doctors claiming to have some magic bullet cure for all kinds of rare cancers. The rest of the conspiracies would just have to wait. He couldn't really fault Scully for separating her illness from the rest of her life. He did it, too. It was almost as if there were two Scullys: the one whose medical chart he had faxed to every specialist in the developed world and the one who stood next to him through countless debriefings, interrogations and hearings. Three, maybe, since that second Scully wasn't quite the one who sat up in his motel room until 5 a.m., laughing at bad '70s sitcoms and trying to steal the thin comforter to cover her feet for a little warmth. The problem was that Scully wasn't a clone. There weren't three of her. There was just one. One perfect Scully. And in his heart, Mulder knew that. Because all three made his pulse jump the same way when she entered a room, and all of them made his stomach drop with the same dread whenever she left. His phone rang shrilly, making him jump a bit in the dead silence of the converted old house. It was Skinner. Mulder explained the un-unnatural nature of the case and their travel plans back the next day. "Where's Agent Scully?" Skinner asked. Mulder paused. "Umm... I'm not exactly sure, sir. I think she went for a walk on the beach." Skinner was unusually silent, and Mulder began to think they had been disconnected. "Sir?" "How... How is she?" Skinner asked after a moment. "She's fine, sir," Mulder answered automatically. Skinner's snort of disbelief made him realize how much like Scully he'd just sounded, and he had to cough back a laugh. They'd spent so much damn time together they'd even started to talk alike. "Really, sir," he said. "I trust you're looking after her, Agent Mulder," Skinner said firmly. "Of course, sir," Mulder said. "As much as she'll allow me, that is." Why did he feel as if he were picking Scully up for a date? Did he have to have her home by midnight as well? "I don't have to tell you how much the Bureau values her work, Agent Mulder." Skinner paused. "Or yours." Mulder didn't know what to say. "Thank you, sir." "I wasn't handing out awards, Mulder. But we value good agents and take pains to ensure their welfare. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Mulder was confused. "I'm not sure, sir." Skinner sighed. For all his brilliance, sometimes Mulder could be quite obtuse. "It is my understanding that Agent Scully is feeling more hopeful about her prognosis. It is also my understanding that your ... support, for lack of a better word, has played a large part in that. Right now, the Bureau feels that your presence in Agent Scully's life has been most recuperative, and we see no reason to change the situation." Which situation was that, Mulder wondered? And on the tail of that, "more hopeful"? "Take whatever time you need to wrap things up in Maine, Mulder," Skinner continued. "When you get back to D.C., I'm going to recommend that you and Agent Scully be allowed to operate with slightly more freedom than in the past. As long as your cases-solved rate remains high and Scully's health doesn't decline significantly, there's no reason that two agents as experienced as you and Scully need to be under constant supervision." He paused again. "Do you understand that, Mulder?" Mulder was pretty sure he must have heard Skinner incorrectly. He was pretty sure his supervisor had just given permission for him and Scully to be involved. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking, his projected interpretation of Skinner's words. When Mulder didn't answer, Skinner sighed again. "Off the record, Agent Mulder, I just want to see Agent Scully feeling well again. Whatever you can do to help that is appreciated and will not be questioned. I'm not asking you to reveal the nature of your ... involvement in that, nor do I wish to be informed of it." Mulder was floored. "Umm..." He couldn't think of anything quite appropriate to say. Sure, he had told himself that he and Scully would have to indefinitely continue their delicate balance between being partners in work and in other parts of their lives. Half of him was flattered that Skinner would trust them so deeply, but the other half felt the need to stand up for Scully's reputation and deny they were having some kind of secret affair, as Skinner seemed to suspect. Skinner didn't wait for his approval. "I'll see you when you return to Washington, then, Agent Mulder," he said, and hung up. Mulder continued to stare at his phone, the harsh squawking of a recorded message unheard. Then he just started laughing until his gut ached and he was bent over his knees, gasping for breath. That was how Jeff Williams, owner and operator of Penobscot Bay Bed & Breakfast, found Mulder 10 minutes later. "Are you okay?" Jeff asked. Mulder sat up so quickly he hit his head on the back of the chair, which just made him start laughing again. Perhaps he was a bit hysterical, he thought as he simultaneously rubbed the tender spot on his head and wiped the tears out of his eyes. "Sure," he said weakly in the direction of the voice. "Except for everything seems to be happening kind of fast." Jeff just stared at him. Mulder blinked twice, trying to make the man come into focus. Oh. It was the UFO-boxer guy, except he was fully clothed now. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked. "Let me get you some ice for your head." He slowly led Mulder by the elbow into the kitchen and fetched a cold-pack from the freezer. Mulder sat at the counter for a few minutes until the aching dulled. His senses returned slowly. Oh. It was the owner of the bed and breakfast. Mulder took out his wallet and held up his badge as means of introduction. "Fox Mulder, FBI. How much do we owe you for the suite?" The owner reached out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Fox," he said. "I'm Jeff Williams." "It's just Mulder," he said, shaking his hand slowly. Jeff smiled. "Okay. I'm still Jeff." Mulder grinned. For some reason he felt a kinship with this man -- perhaps because he'd walked in on Mulder having some kind of breakdown and hadn't batted an eye. And he had great taste in underwear. "I assume you two are staying tonight as well?" Jeff asked. Mulder nodded and then winced at the pain that shot through his skull. "We can check you out in the morning, when the other guests leave. If that's okay, that is. It's easier to do everyone at once." "Sure. Fine." Mulder stopped himself before he *really* started to sound like Scully. He smiled at the thought. The owner walked out of the room before Mulder noticed. "Hey! Jeff?" He turned around at the sound of his name and stuck his head through the door. "Yeah?" "Is there some sort of men's clothing shop in town?" Mulder asked. Jeff shook his head and walked back into the kitchen. "Not unless you count the all-purpose general store," he said. "And I don't. There's one women's boutique, but most people shop in Owls Head or even Bangor for nice clothes." Mulder looked forlorn. "Oh..." Shit. His suits were usually up to Scully's fashion standards, but the only ties he had with him were his normal wild and garish type. She'd probably send him home if he showed up at the restaurant in one of them. Jeff couldn't believe how this man's facial expressions could change so quickly. He had this adorable puppy-dog look now that must work wonders for his love life, Jeff thought. "Were you looking for something specific?" he asked. "Maybe I could help." Mulder's eyes brightened immediately. "I just need a tie," he said hopefully. Jeff looked at Mulder quizzically. "What?" Mulder asked. Jeff pointed at Mulder's suit and tie. "You've got one on." He looked closer, though, and noticed the yellow and green paisley pattern. It was... Well, Jeff had been raised not to say anything at all if he couldn't say something nice. "It's ugly," Mulder said. Jeff laughed, reassured that Mulder at least realized how bad it was, even if he still wore it. "I need a *nice* tie, for dinner at that Italian place in town. If I show up in this one I'll be eating from the doggie bag." "Big date?" "Umm..." Mulder fumbled. Was this a date? Fancy dinner, nice tie, no case, Skinner's permission. Could be, he supposed. He was going on a date with Scully. Shit. He was instantly nervous. "Hey, man, relax," Jeff said. "Not trying to give you the third degree. My partner and I've got a whole drawerful of ties -- you can have your pick." Mulder nodded his thanks and followed Jeff to the back of the house. The owner's suite was larger than the rooms upstairs. In the living room, a man sat in front of a laptop with a look of intense concentration on his face. He was about Jeff's age and build, but with darker hair and eyes. He looked up with a smile when they entered. "Paul, this is Mulder," Jeff said. "Mulder, this is my partner, Paul." "What an unusual name, Mulder," Paul said as they shook hands. "Oh, it's his last name," Jeff explained, his voice musical. "His first name is Fox," he told Paul with a wink. "Or is that a secret?" Mulder just laughed as Jeff showed him to the bedroom. There was a large bed with an antique headboard and matching wardrobe and dresser. Books were stacked haphazardly on one nightstand; the other was neatly organized and held only an alarm clock and box of Kleenex. Jeff opened the middle top drawer on the dresser. There were dozens of ties stacked neatly next to suspenders. "Oh," Mulder said, before he could stop himself. "What?" Jeff asked. "Oh, nothing," he said quickly, his face red. "What?" Jeff repeated. "I just realized that you didn't mean Paul was your business partner." Jeff laughed. "No, Paul doesn't do well with money. He's a writer, and this is a good location for him to get work done. We've been together for 12 years, opened this place about eight years ago. I manage all the finances for the inn, and between that and his royalties we've done pretty well." Mulder continued sorting through the drawer. "No wonder you have so many ties," he said sheepishly. "We're lucky to be close to the same size," Jeff said. "But we both had fairly large wardrobes when we met, so it just means we have twice as many clothes to wear." Jeff picked a muted green and burgundy floral tie from the drawer. "If you wear this suit, this one will look fine," he said. Mulder's paranoia kicked in. Who was he to let some stranger pick his outfit for the big date? If it was a date, that is, he quickly corrected himself. "Look, Jeff, I'm trusting you here," he said. "I'm basically color-blind. If she thinks I look stupid, I might have to arrest you or something." "Don't worry, Mulder," Jeff said. "This will make your eyes look greener and bring out the warm tones in your skin, I promise. Happy now?" "Yeah. Sorry if I sounded rude." "It's okay. You're just nervous." He paused, not wanting to push any more buttons. His curiosity got the better of him. "You two never do the dating thing before or what?" Mulder laughed. "That's one way to put it, Jeff. I'm not sure we are now, to be honest." He folded the tie and walked toward the door. "Thanks a lot. I really appreciate your help." "No problem at all. We're a full-service operation around here. Actually, if you want, there's a small greenhouse around the back. You could pick some flowers to bring to dinner. Or for the room." It looked to Jeff like Mulder was blushing. "Or whatever," he finished lamely, hoping he hadn't embarrassed the man. You'd think Mulder was 15 or something, as worked up as he was about this woman. *7* Jolene's Restaurant Sunday, 6:28 p.m. Mulder shifted from foot to foot in the lobby, fiddling with the flower he'd cut from the greenhouse. He'd returned to find a bottle of red wine and two glasses set on the main foyer table inside their suite. His paisley necktie was wrapped around the bottle like a waiter's towel on champagne. If this was a date, he knew what the rules were supposed to be. Except he had the distinct impression that the guidelines for dating Scully were drastically different from those he'd followed in the past. The one thing that was the same was the adolescent awkwardness he felt mired in. He turned to adjust the knot of his tie in the entry mirror, praying that Jeff had really chosen something Scully would consider "appropriate." He brushed aside a wayward lock of hair and shrugged his shoulders so the suit jacket fell squarely across his chest. A rush of brisk air raised goose bumps on his neck and he turned to find Scully staring at him from a few feet away with a slight smile on her face. It must be a date, Mulder thought with a foolish lightheadedness. Scully wore a simple, slender black dress that draped gracefully in waves to her ankles. He stood silently as she handed her trench coat to the clerk and gave her name to the hostess to check against the reservation list. As they waited for the table, Scully cocked her head to one side and came closer, reaching out to finger his tie. He remembered the flower in his hand and brought it up between them. She placed her hand flat on his chest, right above the heart, for a second, looking into his eyes and smiling. "You look nice," she said softly. The hostess called Scully's name. She plucked the flower out of his grasp and followed the waiter to the table. They conversed easily over dinner, about the case paperwork and a new movie about FBI agents, bouncing effortlessly between work and what passed for the rest of their lives. Bill's wife was pregnant and Maggie had been considering redoing her kitchen cabinets. Scully had found out about a diner in Owls Head where they could get a full breakfast on the way back to D.C., and Mulder had found a better flight out of Portland. The server arrived with a dessert cart, and Mulder ordered espresso. "By the way," he said, "Dad called." Scully looked at him. "Dad?" "You know, our father confessor." "Skinner?" "Yeah. He said... Well, he said that we didn't need to be 'under constant supervision,' I think was how he put it." The bridge between her delicate eyebrows scrunched together. "What do you think he meant?" she asked. Mulder fumbled for words. "Umm... Maybe just that... I don't know, Scully." He could tell she didn't believe him. Better come clean. "He said you thought there were reasons to be hopeful about your health, and he seems to think I might have something to do with that." He took a deep breath. Talk about confessions. "Skinner said that?" Scully asked. Mulder nodded. "I think sometimes we don't give him enough credit, Mulder." "I bet he just wants to win the office pool," he said, grinning. Scully reached over and took his hand. They could do this, he realized. When Scully was by his side with her gun drawn or picking apart an outlandish theory he'd floated as an explanation, he could focus on their work. But they'd learned to carve out personal time on hard cases, evenings when they dug deeper than profiling models and pathology reports. There wasn't a switch that shut off the shop talk -- both he and Scully were far too dedicated to their searches to set those kinds of boundaries. But away from the office or an investigation, they'd begun to take advantage of the other's company. "You know something strange, Mulder?" He brought his chin up in response, a silent prompt for her to continue. "I think Skinner trusts us with each other more than we trust ourselves." *8* Penobscot Bay Bed & Breakfast Sunday, 9:24 p.m. The Northern sky lay scattered in reflection on Penobscot Bay, brilliant pinpricks of luminescence shining through a dark velvet curtain. There were so many stars glittering that it was difficult to see the space between them; there was more light than dark visible in the moonless night. Scully propped her elbows on the wooden railing of the balcony, her arms drawn tight across her to ward off the early-spring chill. She heard Mulder step through the glass door onto the deck, his shoes making light clacking noises as he crossed to her. When he was just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body through her dress, he stopped. She felt his breath on her neck and couldn't contain a slight shiver. When she rolled her shoulders forward to regain her balance, she leaned her body backward. Mulder reached out to encircle her before his mind processed his limbs' movements. It was like that morning, except this time the waves in the bay had dragged him forward to the water, toward her. She was immersed in his embrace, the gentle wind tickling fine strands of hair across her cheeks like angels' wings. She sighed from deep in her chest, so that his shoulders rose in time with hers and fell with her exhalation. And then she relaxed. Mulder felt the tension go from her neck as she bent into his frame. He molded his larger form to hers, supporting her weight and allowing her to recline even more. His face was turned to the soft skin of her neck. The rhythm of her pulse beneath his cheek thudded through to his own heart, and down farther to that place deep in his spine that guided his conscience. He knew, as sure as dawn would bring the morning tide, that he loved this woman. He knew that already, actually. What he understood now was that he had to tell her. No more guessing. No more innuendoes. No more moments like this one that faded into a bad joke. "Mulder." Her voice was soft, but it jarred him. It was the first word either had spoken since the check arrived and he had convinced her to let him pay half. They'd returned from the restaurant in silence, walking mere inches apart down the sandy path to the old house. Scully had headed directly for their suite's balcony; Mulder had sensed seriousness darken Scully's horizon and waited for her to share what she was thinking. He'd opened the bottle to let the wine breathe and joined Scully outside. He didn't want to talk. At that moment he yearned for true psychic ability more than ever, for he wanted to look into her eyes and have her simply understand how he felt. "You feel like I'm safe now, don't you?" She spoke quietly and firmly, not requiring an answer. He knew he could just listen. He laughed at himself for a moment, at the idea that he might control or steer the conversation they so badly needed to have. He was good at interrupting or distracting them from the issues. Scully always brought them back to the point at hand. "I do," she said. "Feel safe, I mean." He wanted to crush her to his chest, to hold her so tightly that nothing, not even the cancer, could get through and do her harm. "I know how difficult it was for you, those months I was gone. And I'm sure that sometimes you feel this illness is your fault, that if you'd found me quicker or done more, that I would have escaped their project." He couldn't talk now. If he did, the tears that were creeping up his throat would escape. "I know you think sometimes that if you just hold on tight enough, I won't get any sicker, and I won't disappear again. You think if you look away for a moment, I'll fade away." The wetness spilled over then, tumbling in rivulets down her neck and across her collarbone. Scully loosened herself gently from his hold, enough to turn around and balance herself on the railing. She slid one arm around his waist and lightly massaged his neck with her other hand, pulling his head down to rest on her shoulder again. "Sometimes you need to close your eyes, Mulder." He brought his eyes up to hers. His hand found the curve of her cheek and settled it in his palm. He pushed his voice up through his swollen windpipe. "Sometimes I think you want to close your eyes," he said. "That you want to fade away." She shook her head emphatically, catching his fingers when they drifted away from her face and down her arm. "No, Mulder. I don't want to die." Mulder let his chin drop. "You sound defeated." "No," she said, resolutely. She let a long moment go by in silence. "Do you know how you want to die, Mulder?" The shock on his face answered her question. "Neither do I. I don't want this illness to be the end, or this case, or this year. But if this illness, this cancer..." She paused at the word that always hovered above but rarely landed in their spoken conversations. She started again: "If this cancer has taught me anything, it's that I have to be prepared for that." Mulder shivered at how comfortable the word suddenly seemed in her mouth; if not yet the name of a friend, then it was a close acquaintance. "I have to settle my account at the end of the day, every day," she said. "If I can stay caught up, I'm not afraid of dying. I don't even think it's death that really scares us, Mulder. I think it's the unfinished business we'll leave behind. Death -- whether in the form of cancer, or chasing some informant down a dark alley, or a bullet meant for someone else -- all death kills is time." She tightened her hold on his back and drew him toward her. "Not us, Mulder, just time." He glanced up and saw the determination in her eyes that she be proved right. When she looked at him like that, with that strong sense of herself and her beliefs, his faith in her surged. "Time ... and opportunity, Scully," he said. "I..." He paused, took a break, and tried again. "I love you," he said simply. Buried beneath those words was another meaning: he believed in her, and her ability to define her own life. And once the words were out he knew how right she had been. All the hours he'd agonized over when to tell her, or where, or using what words -- he'd been stuck, wasting time. He didn't need any more thinking to know this was the right time, the right place, and the right way. It just ... was. His accounts were settled and paid in full. She didn't answer him, but she didn't need to. Mulder could read her eyes and know she felt the same. In any case, he hadn't told her so she could just parrot it back. He'd told her because it was the truth. He leaned forward and kissed her gently and lightly on the lips. He carefully lifted Scully off the railing and into his arms, pulling her into his shoulder and resting his chin on top of her head. "We have time for this, Scully." She took his hand and led him into the suite. "I know," she said. **************************** T H E E N D **************************** Please send all feedback to: shanak@nwu.edu