Date: Thu, 19 Feb 1998 20:50:38 -0500
From: "Virginia D. Smith" <vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu>
Subject: Winterlude (1/4) by A.I. Irving


Winterlude (1/4)
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
Section rating: PG
Story rating: NC17
Category: A, R, S
Keywords: Scully angst, MSR
Spoilers: Memento Mori, Demons, Redux/Redux II, Emily/Christmas
Carol
Summary: On a snowy night in February, Scully reads Mulder's
journal and comes to realize the depth of his commitment to her.

Author's Note: This story is set approximately a year after the events of
The Cry of the Truth. It is NOT related to The View From Adversity,
the motel room story I recently posted. I should warn you that this story
contains second-hand accounts of Mulder's brief relationship with a
woman other than Scully. Surely you don't think she's the only one
who wants him, do you? <g> And a small detail: in my XF universe,
Scully owns a comfortably furnished condo in a pre-war co-op
apartment building in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of Washington.
She bought it as a tax shelter after Skinner and I gave her a raise in The
Actor.
Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and many of the details and
situations mentioned in this story are the original creations and property
of others--Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. P.B. Shelley belongs to the ages.

For Dani, as constant as the continent is wide.

XXXXXXXXXX

Mulder's hand searched blindly for the lever, his short nails scratching
against the vinyl. He grunted with frustration as his fingers brushed the
carpet, which felt like steel wool on his winter-dry cuticles. Pursing his
lips, he tried again. This time, his fingers curled over the hard plastic
ridge. With another, louder grunt, he pulled up with his hand, pushed
back with his feet, and succeeded in moving his seat back a good six
inches.

"Got it," he mumbled, vaguely winded by his efforts.

He fixed his eyes on the road ahead, trying to steady the dizziness that
had undulated through his head since he bent over to fuss with the seat.
After a few deep breaths, he was himself again.

"Damn," he muttered, squinting at the Virginia countryside. "Is it
snowing?"

"A flurry," his partner replied from behind the wheel of their Bureau-
issue Ford. "You have something against snow?"

"Yeah. I hate it. It's messy and wet and nobody south of Philly knows
how to drive in it."

"Yankee," Scully hissed, one corner of her mouth twitching into a hint
of a smile.

"Navy brat," he retorted, grinning at her.

Dana lowered her window a few inches, despite the whirling snow.
After two days in Portobello, Virginia investigating a dubious claim of
alien visitation in a hog-processing plant, Mulder had managed to
convince the sheriff that there was no X-file among the swine. To make
amends for calling them out unnecessarily, the sheriff's wife had given
them each a country ham. Now, two hours into the drive back to
Washington, the faint aroma of smoked pork was beginning to spread
from the trunk to the interior of the car.

Dana attributed that sparse Saturday traffic to the sensible, warm-
blooded Virginians who preferred to huddle in their homes, exchanging
heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, rather than venturing out in the snow
on Valentine's day.  She stole a sidelong glance at Mulder.
Unaccustomed to being the passenger, he had been fidgeting relentlessly
since leaving Portobello. His arms were now crossed over his chest,
and his fingers were thrumming along the folds of his coat sleeves.
His head bobbed gently to a tune only he could hear, causing his
recalcitrant forelock to wobble just above his brow.

"You've been unusually quiet since we left Portobello," Scully
observed. "Something bothering you?"

Mulder blew out a breath between puckered lips, like an aborted
whistle.

"Gray skies, rain, sleet, snow. Boring cases by the boatload.
Valentine's day. Call it midwinter malaise."

Scully took a moment to digest this. Mulder resumed his rhythmic
tapping.

"Do you hate everything about winter?" she asked.

"Mmm. Not everything," he said, shooting a meaningful glance her
way. "I liked the mistletoe part."

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire?"

"Hoo, that's gotta hurt," he quipped, still grinning.

They drove on in silence for another twenty miles, past the usual
collection of billboards advertising pecan pies, offers for salvation, and
towels by the pound.

The snow glanced off the windshield and faded into the pale gray sky.

"Hey Scully. How fast are you going?"

"Seventy-five. Why?"

Mulder shrugged.

"Couldn't remember if you were a speeder or not," he said.

"You want to drive?" she asked, without malice.

"Not really. Not unless you need a break."

"I'm okay."

Another fifteen minutes, and they whizzed past the exits for
Fredericksburg.

"Ever been to the National Softball Museum?" Mulder asked as they
passed the sign for the museum's exit.

"No. Can't say that's high on my list of things I want to do before I
die," she said.

Scully winced when she realized what she had said. The cancer that had
disappeared from her body over three months ago--and what it had done
to their relationship--was still a delicate subject between them.

"Ah...sorry about that," she said softly.

Mulder's trenchcoat twisted confiningly around his hips when he tried
to turn his body toward her. He settled for turning his head her way.

"What *was* high on your list, Scully?" he asked.

She smiled ruefully at the road.

"I tried not to make that list," she said. "I just wanted to live my life as
usual, for as long as possible."

"You weren't even tempted to do crazy stuff, just to make sure you had
no regrets?"

Scully snorted.

"I had cancer, Mulder, not a personality disorder," she said.

"Yeah, I know, but didn't you worry about coming to the end, and
thinking, damn, I wish I'd--I dunno--grabbed Skinner's ass? Just
once?"

She scowled at him.

Mulder flared his brows back at her.

"I seen you lookin', Scully."

"Huh," she grunted. "Mulder, I'm not sure it's been quite long enough
for me to see the humor in the situation."

"Yeah, well..." He pressed his lips into a tight line over his teeth; three
horizontal creases appeared in his forehead as he tried to summon up the
courage to keep talking. "I was just trying to wind my way around to
this next question."

Dana's frown of irritation shifted to an impassive mask. By the way she
chewed clandestinely on the inside of her lower lip, however, Mulder
could see that she was worried about what he might say. He said it
anyway.

"Did you regret what happened between us?"

She looked at him, registering the imploring pull of his spaniel eyes.
Her eyes returned to the road, then to the billboards, and then back to
his face. His expression was unchanged.

"You mean being lovers? No. Never." She made a little sound that
hinted at the difficult path that had led to her certainty in the matter. "I
would've regretted it if we hadn't."

For a few miles, Mulder casually studied her profile. She was
accustomed to his trance-like stare; usually he slipped into it when he
was working out the complexities in a case.

"Scully?"

"Hmm."

"Is your nose like your Dad's?"

"Uh..." She scowled at herself in the rear-view mirror. "No. It's like
my Scully grandmother's. Why?"

" 'Cause I like it," he said. "I like it a lot."

Perplexed, she shook her head and continued to drive. Her mind
wandered as the landscape became more rural, with fewer distractions to
occupy her mind. Inevitably her thoughts strayed to the man by her
side.

"You asked me about regrets," she began, more than a little uncertain.
"I admit I feel a little--well, more than a little--ashamed of the way I
called it off between us."

Mulder stared past the windshield wipers at some distant point on the
horizon.

"You did what you had to do," he said. "It ain't easy to love a man who
volunteers to have a couple of holes drilled in his head, and then tries to
kill you--just as an experiment."

Dana lifted her chin to nod, but then tilted her head eqivocally. Mulder
was partially correct: at the time, ending the romantic aspect of their
relationship had seemed like the most prudent course for preserving her
sanity in what little time she had left. Inexplicably, Mulder had driven
to Rhode Island one weekend during the their sixth month as lovers and
subjected himself to an experimental procedure designed to stimulate his
fractured memory. The trauma had nearly driven him to kill himself and
Scully before she pulled him back from the cloudy edge of
consciousness. Now, however, with a few months' perspective and the
erasure of her death sentence, it occurred to Dana that by retreating into
his past perhaps Mulder had been trying to distance himself from the
prospect of losing her.

In the aftermath, she had told him that she could not be both his lover
and his partner while struggling to survive the daily trials of her illness.
Mulder had accepted her decision without protest, and true to his noble
nature, never allowed it to come between them in the difficult days that
led them to the cancer's remission. But now, as her spirits and her
health improved with each day, Dana found that she missed being able
to touch him intimately. She missed demonstrating the love she still felt
for him. She told herself that she could easily broach the subject with
him, but a part of her feared that he would say, "you had your chance,
Scully, and you blew it."

On the north side of Fredericksburg, Scully stopped at a McDonald's
for a bathroom break. While she was inside, Mulder wandered through
the parking lot until he found himself face-to-face with a looming plastic
statue of Ronald McDonald, dusted with snow and smiling demonically.
Hands in pockets, Mulder stood as still as the statue and stared up at it,
hoping for some inspiration that would help him resolve things with
Scully. The icon was unyielding, however. Glum and dejected,
Mulder headed back to the car.

Impervious to the snow, Mulder braced his arms against the hood of the
car and watched Scully walking across the parking lot toward him. The
wind whipped her hair into a frenzy of copper filaments, and although
she was pale as ever, the cold air had chapped her lips to a deep mauve.
He wanted to wrap her in the shelter of his coat and warm her with the
heat of his body. Then his intellect reminded him that she had dumped
him--no doubt about it. His sentimental soul recounted dozens of small
signs--many were the same signs he had trained himself to overlook
during the first five years of their partnership--that told him that she still
loved him. None of the parts of his psyche knew what to do about that.

"Ninety miles," he muttered, reading the mileage sign when they were
back on the highway.

"We could stop in Woodbridge, get some of that great Swedish cuisine
at Ikea," Scully teased.

"I had enough meatballs courtesy of the Portobello Municipal Police,"
he said with a grimace. "What a bunch of freaks. They acted like
they'd never seen a female FBI agent before."

Scully smiled, remembering the stunned expressions on the faces of the
rural officers when they realized that she was Mulder's partner, and not
his wife along for the ride into the scenic Shenandoah Valley.

"The older deputy--Glimmer? He asked if I was a lesbian," she said.

Mulder gaped at her.

"That's illegal as hell! You've got to write him up, Scully!"

"Oh, I don't think he was making a value judgment," she said. "He's
probably never met a lesbian before--at least not that he was aware of.
We perplexed him with the news that I wasn't your wife. He was just
curious. "

"So did you set him straight?"

Scully arched a brow at his pun.

"I tried to steer him back to the case. He asked me again, and I told him
that my sexuality had no bearing on the case. I think he was ashamed of
himself then, like a scolded child."

Mulder shook his head, puzzled.

"It amazes me that any man could think you..."

"You're generalizing, Mulder," she pointed out.

"Yeah, I am. I don't care. You're the sexiest woman I've ever met,
Scully. Ever *hope* to--" Mulder snapped his mouth shut. He had
already entered dangerous territory, and had no idea how to escape. He
settled for a pat conclusion. "The man must be brain dead."

Nor did Dana did pursue the subject any further. She was too distracted
by the unmistakable warmth that fluttered low in her belly and spread up
to her arms before settling in the soft inner surface of her wrists.

"Mulder--"

"Okay, okay, I'll drop it." He huffed out a breath of irritation, and
again squirmed in his seat. "So...you told me you had plans for
tonight. Somebody's birthday bash, something like that?"

She released a slow breath, trying to wipe the image of Mulder kissing
her wrists from her mind's eye.

"My friends Annie and Jerry Finkel are having a party tonight to
celebrate their tenth anniversary."

"They got married on Valentine's Day?" He groaned in disgust.
"Sheesh, that's repulsive."

"Yeah, well, Jerry's a hopeless romantic. And Annie's pregnant, which
makes her particularly vulnerable to mushiness." Scully smiled. "I'll
be there to represent the harsh realities of the single world."

"What, you're going to wear all black and quote the divorce statistics?"

"Great idea, Mulder," she said dryly. "Wish I'd thought of that."

"Oh, well, feel free to borrow my cynicism," he quipped. "So what
about tomorrow? You hanging out with your mom?"

"I'm staying home, tucked under my down comforter, with a two-
pound box of Godivas and a good book to keep me company."

Mulder's mental VCR whirred to life with images of Dana in red silk
pajamas, her hair wild and wavy, stretched languidly across her bed and
offering him a truffle from the palm of her hand.

"Is that some kind of Valentine's tradition with you?"

It's a sure antidote to being the only single person at the party tonight,
she thought.

"Sort of," was her softly spoken reply, however.

He cut a glance her way, and then returned his gaze to the passing fields
and strip malls. As they traveled farther north, the snow was whitening
the leesides of overpasses and buildings. Mulder knew that his
apartment would be frigid by the time he got home.

Scully turned on the radio, settling on a jazz station when she heard the
familiar voice of Ella Fitzgerald singing about love.

"Annie's the friend from med school?" Mulder asked after Ella had
made it through one chorus of "'S Wonderful."

"She and Jerry've bought a house in Old Town, not too far from your
place."

"He's a brain surgeon, or something, right? So they can afford Old
Town," he concluded.

Bet they'll introduce her to one of their doctor friends, who makes
200K a year, has never let anyone drill holes in his head, and is just
dying to find himself a gorgeous, brilliant wife, Mulder ruminated.

"I see them only a few times a year," Dana was saying. "I hope the
snow doesn't interfere with the party."

He scratched his right brow, buying a little time in which to suppress
the urge to beg her to let him accompany her on the off chance that her
friends' romance might be catching.

"Never thought of you as the partying kind, Scully."

"I'm not. Not really. I'm just going to say hello and to...you know, to
get out." She shrugged. "See what life in the real world is like."

"Oh yeah...the real world. I nearly forgot."

XXXXXXXXX

Scully parked the Bureau car on the street half a block south of her co-
op building. Before she had even turned off the lights, Mulder had
retrieved her bag from the trunk and hoisted it over his shoulder.

"Hey Scully, want me to take the hams by the soup kitchen near my
place?" he called from under the rear hood.

She locked the car and then reached for her bag.

"Yes, but give me my bag. You don't need to--"

"I know you can carry it," he said, smiling mildly. "I'm just being a
gentleman. It happens, you know, once or twice a year."

"Oh, right," she murmured, returning the smile. "Wouldn't want to
miss that."

Together they crossed Macomb Street, the wet snow slanting down
against their bowed heads and gilding their hair in the waning light of
dusk. Scully's long coat fluttered around her ankles, and the lug soles
of her boots squeaked and squelched on the damp sidewalk. Mulder's
hand hovered over her back until they reached the brick steps that led
them up to the beveled glass doors to the lobby.

As she fumbled in her pocket for her key, Scully shivered.

"You okay?" he asked.

"...Cold," she managed to whisper through clenched teeth.

With that, Mulder finally gave in to his sentimental heart: he slid his free
arm around her shoulders and drew her to his chest. Allowing her bag
to slide to the bricks at their feet, he took her keys and began sorting
through them.

Scully resisted his embrace only briefly. It was too cold to spurn his
offer of warmth.

"I'm all right, you know," she mumbled into his shoulder. "Just cold."

"Yeah. I know."

Mulder pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and felt the humid
exhalation of an answering sigh whisper over his neck. Thunder
boomed in the distance, heralding the arrival of more snow clouds.

"No stargazing tonight," he said.

"Nope," she agreed in the thin, girlish voice that heretofore he had had
only heard late at night, when she was half-asleep in his arms. For
Mulder, the sound of it made time stand still for a moment.

Dana rested her head on his shoulder and contemplated his face. With
each blink, his long eyelashes almost touched his cheekbones. The tip
of his nose was pink from the cold weather, and his jaw and upper lip
were slightly darkened with the beginnings of a beard. His lips
tightened over his teeth and a flash of a dimple showed in his chin when
he swallowed. Then he licked his full lower lip, which to her
amazement showed no signs of being chapped, and smiled faintly.

"I should let you go," he said softly, inclining his head away from her.

Scully told herself to release him, to unfurl the gloved fingers that
clasped the lapels of his coat and push herself away. But her body did
not want to cooperate.

Mulder wanted to spirit her upstairs to her cozy apartment, slowly peel
off her clothes, bathe her in a warm shower, and then crawl into bed
with her for a long winter's nap. And judging by the way she was
cuddled against him, Mulder thought his fantasy just might be
realizable. His conscience would not allow him to take the opportunity,
however. Not yet.

"Dana," he murmured. "There are things I need to tell you."

She sniffed.

"It was my fault, Mulder. You were hurting so much and I just
couldn't..."

"We should talk about it," he repeated, covering her hand where it
rested on his breast.

There was a fine line of insistence in his voice that piqued her ears. She
leaned back from him a bit to take a look at his eyes, and the pained
tenderness she saw there corroborated her suspicion. He knew
something she did not.

Mulder glanced quickly at the darkening street and then returned his
gaze to her face. Everything he ever wanted was there at his fingertips,
yet still somehow unattainable.

"Dana, when you were sick, I tried... I was desperate...desperately
stupid...I didn't..."

Puzzled by his stammering, she shook her head, the ends of her hair
brushing the collar of her coat.

"Mulder, I'm not sure I--"

Impatient with himself, Mulder unlocked the door and lifted her bag
again.

"Let's get you inside," he said, temporarily closing the topic.

As they walked along the thickly carpeted hallway, Dana asked, "Any
plans for this God-forsaken Hallmark holiday?"

Mulder shrugged, and a lock of snow-damp air slipped over his brow.

"I need to do my laundry," he said. "Maybe check in with Frohike and
the guys. What about you?"

"The party tonight, and then tomorrow--"

"Oh, right." His eyes twinkled as they always did when he teased her.
"In bed, alone, with a good book?"

"And chocolate," she added with a little smile. "Don't forget the
chocolate."

Mulder nodded.

"Well, if you get bored with your book, and need some live
entertainment..."

He touched his thumb to his sternum, turned on his heel and headed off
down the hall.

"Mulder?"

Her voice had again taken on the sweet, girlish softness that made his
knees wobble.

"Mulder, come back."

Her head was inclined toward her door and her hands, one clutching her
keys, were outstretched toward him. Her eyes, intensely blue in the
dim of the hallway, were like a beacon showing him the way home.

Mulder covered the distance between them in a second. He wrapped his
arms around her and held her gingerly, as if she were made of paper and
might crumple under the press of his emotions. Her cheek was pillowed
by the firm mound of muscle over his heart. His shirt was crisp with
starch, and the silk twill of his tie was pleasantly dry under her
fingertips. Mulder never scrimped on his shirts, nor on any of his
clothes, for that matter. He was a knight in elegantly tailored armor.

"Come inside," she murmured against his chest.

Mulder pressed his nose into her hair for a long moment. Inhaling
deeply the cinnamon-clove scent of her shampoo and the warm, woody
undertones that comprised her body's natural perfume, he gave himself
over to the enormous wave of relief that her invitation provoked. His
arms tightened around her, and he rocked her slightly, side to side, over
and over, all the while murmuring a sweet, wordless reply.

She repeated the invitation.

"Come inside, Mulder."

With a sleepy smile, he cupped her cheek in his palm and bowed his
head until his lips were within a centimeter of hers.

She closed her eyes. In the darkness, she sensed the warmth of his
silent sigh across her upper lip, and smelled the familiar, pleasant
oakiness of his breath. Her forehead prickled and one brow twitched
infinitesimally as she awaited the touch of his lips. Then, just as she
was on the verge of whimpering with frustration, or opening her eyes
and demanding that he make his move, his lips came to hers.

Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, she mused as she slid her
hands up the front of his coat. Even at the nadir of her illness, Dana had
never stopped longing for the tenderness of his touch, his kisses in
particular. Tonight, as always, his lips were warm and soft. He flexed
his jaw and changed the position of his head slightly to vary the
pressure between their lips. A small sound of delight, a cross between a
hum and a sigh, escaped his throat and reverberated between them.

He released her, and she saw that he was wearing a bashful smile.

"Oh, Mulder," she said, unable to think of better words.

"I've missed doing that," he admitted.

She nodded, her eyes wide and glistening with a few tears.

"I should never have--" she began.

"Don't say it," he said. "You did what you felt was right."

"I never stopped loving you," she said.

He smiled down at the carpet, and found himself peering at the toes of
her boots where they peeked out from under the hem of her coat. One
pale, small hand, reaching out to him, came into his line of vision. He
clasped it.

"I know," he said, meeting her eyes.

She smiled for him, and Mulder felt the glorious warmth of it from the
roots of his hair to the soles of his tired feet.

"Then come inside," she said, tugging his hands.

"Not tonight, honey," he quipped.

A shadow of disappointment passed over her face.

"I guess I shouldn't take that personally," she said with an arch of her
brow.

He shook his head and, with another of his sad half-smiles,
brought her hands to his lips and kissed the cool knuckles.

"G'night, Scully," he said. "Enjoy your party."

End Winterlude (1/4)



Winterlude (2/4)
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
Section rating: R
Story rating: NC17

See part 01 for the Disclaimer.


As she had expected, Dana was the only single guest at the anniversary
party. She listened to enough stories of love and courtship to fill a
book, each offered to her in the guise of "don't worry--you'll find
someone" anecdotes. All the women, including the enormously
pregnant hostess, wore red in honor of Valentine's Day. Scully showed
up in a black velvet column dress with a neckline that made the most of
her impressive cleavage. When she saw that many of the married
women were tossing snide glances her way, she draped her sheer silk
scarf over the exposed skin in the hope of placating them. A few
drunken husbands tried to peek through the dark swath of chiffon while
pretending to converse with her about the Bureau. In her desolation,
Dana knocked back two martinis, olives and all, in quick succession.
She left as early as was civil, wishing she had stayed at home and
started that novel. As she walked to her car, she considered that
perhaps Deputy Glimmer had the right idea: if this was what
heterosexual life had to offer, maybe she should consider the alternative.

But that would be impossible as long as Fox Mulder had breath in his
lungs, she admitted to herself. Smirking at her reflection, Dana
replenished her dark burgundy lipstick in the visor mirror of her chilly
car, and then headed in the direction of Hegel Place.

It was a short drive. Only a few miles from Annie and Jerry's gentrified
address in Old Town, Hegel Place was in a section of Alexandria that
had sprung up to answer the post-War housing shortage of the 1940s.
Apartment buildings like Mulder's were commonplace. The tiny park
across the street from it, in which stood a statue of Georg Wilhelm
Friedrich Hegel, was all that distinguished his home from the rest.

Dana's heels tapped on the wood floor as she made her way from the
elevator to his door. Her nylons rasped with the movement of her legs.
Given the positive omen of the kiss she had shared with Mulder that
afternoon, she had worn thigh-high stockings and her
new black lace all-in-one, a bit of lingerie somewhat similar to a
swimsuit which served the purpose of eliminating the various points of
demarcation made by more conventional, separate units of underwear.

She knocked softly and listened. After a long minute of straining to
hear him on the other side, and detecting only the sound of her own
heart beating, Dana knocked again.

The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and dust burning off the coils of
baseboard heaters. The canned laughter of an old sitcom leaked around
one of the locked doors. Down toward the elevator, someone had put
out a doormat on which the printed "Welcome" message was
superimposed over two linked red hearts. The door directly across from
Mulder's bore a little paper cupid whose legs were attached to his body
with tiny grommets, so that they could be positioned to portray Cupid
as--as what, Scully wondered. In mid-flight?

Mulder's door remained its usual brown blank, with the 2 hanging
upside-down from a solitary nail. Dana knocked again, although she
knew that if he had been in the apartment he would've heard her the first
time. Assuming that he was most likely around the corner at the
Churton Street branch of Suds-and-Duds, she decided to wait for him.

Tugging her keys out of her coat pocket, Dana let herself into the dark
apartment. After locking the door behind her, she switched on a lamp
that stood on the hall table. She walked quietly through the small
apartment, idly touching the familiar objects with the affection she held
for their owner.

The VCR was loaded; she bent over and squinted at the title on the
cassette.

"_Words to the Wise_," she muttered. "His taste is improving."

She patted the cushion that rested against one arm of the black leather
couch. It bore the indentation of Mulder's head, and she knew from
experience that it carried his mild scent as well. The aquarium was
populated by a few shimmering fish; it was impossible to know whether
they were the same ones she had seen there a month ago. She was
surprised to see a large coral poinsettia thriving in a clay pot on his
windowsill.

Dana pulled back the curtain and peered out at the icy night. The fire
escapes of a few apartments across the courtyard from Mulder's were
decorated with multicolored blinking lights left over from Christmas. A
few flakes of snow sifted across her view. The night was as close to
silent as it could be: no sirens, no horns, no arguing couples, no
boomboxes, no barking dogs. No gunshots.

With a sigh of impatience, Dana sat in the hard Mission-style chair at his
desk. She gathered the long tails of her coat around her legs and
shivered once again. Switching on the halogen lamp, she sifted through
the desktop litter for something to read while she waited. A stack of
bills, dated and labeled as paid in his curious handwriting, sat atop a
well-used edition of the American Heritage dictionary.  Alongside the
picture of Samantha now stood a framed photograph of Dana herself,
taken last winter at her mother's house.

She thumbed the corners of several folders marked as X-files, each
pertaining to a report that Mulder was supposedly writing. With a
scowl, she pushed aside a seemingly untouched copy of the December
issue of _Playboy_, still wearing its brown paper mask. Beneath it, she
found a leather-bound book that bore no title. She opened it and began
to read words written by Mulder. The handwriting was a turbulent
scrawl compared to the precise annotations of his bills.

"September 30

Still hung over from the ketamine. Every cell in my body hurts.

But that's not the worst of it.

Do you have any idea how glad I was to see you in Providence? I don't
remember much about those first few hours after you rescued me, but I
do remember your face, and the feel of your little hands on my
shoulders."

Stunned, Dana looked up from the journal. Because she hadn't seen
him writing in one for years, she had assumed he'd given up keeping a
journal. And this one seemed to begin just after the Cassandra case in
Providence. Whether it was due to the disinhibiting effects of the
alcohol she had drunk, or just plain curiosity, Dana read on.

"It wasn't until you came to the jail that I began to see what was going
on in your head. You were trying to figure out a nice way to dump me.
You were kind enough to wait until after you got me back to DC, all
tucked into my dusty old bed. You made me a cup of tea, Scully. I
don't think anyone's ever done that for me. And then you sat on the
edge of the bed and held my hand and dumped me.

I know you lied, Scully. A lie of omission--that's what you'd call it, if
I had done it to you. I know you're terrified by the cancer. That's the
only way you'd ever lie to me.

Isn't it?

You lied when you said that you wanted to call off our "other"
relationship because you couldn't deal with both the cancer and my
erratic behavior. That during this time of your life you needed to
eliminate superfluous drains on your limited energy--like a lover you
can't count on for shit. Well, fine. But I knew you were lying,
sweetheart, because I saw your hands shaking while you were telling
me this. Besides, you know damn well that you can count on me. I
didn't purposely try to kill myself with Goldstein's butchery. I was
hoping that I could remember something, anything, about my past--
something that maybe I could hold onto while everything solid in my
present is slipping away. I can't turn to you for comfort, not when
you're the one who's dying.

I asked you to forgive me for what I did to myself, and to us, by going
to Goldstein. Again I risked my life in a desperate grab for
enlightenment. You said my own self-castigation was enough, and that
you wouldn't add to it. But you did, Scully. You're denying me the
comfort of your bed, and that hurts in so many ways. You know
perfectly well it's not just the sex I'm referring to. That's great, of
course, but what I need so badly from you is the chance to hold you in
the night. That intimacy. The trust that goes with it.

Did you really think kicking me out of your bed would make me stop
loving you? Stop needing you? After five years of platonic love,
Scully, that would be absurd. Why can't you just admit that you're
scared shitless? Why can't you show me your tears, let me hold you,
let me love you? I don't want to feel sorry for you. I just want to be
with you, all the way, to wherever we're going.

XXXXXXXXX

October 5

Tonight I met a woman, Scully. I think you'd like her. She helped me
find some journals at the medical library at GW. I was looking for stuff
about your cancer.  Turns out she's a postdoc studying pathology.
Another science geek, but not as pretty as you. Still, she has her merits.
About five-six, not too thin, not too fat. Shapely. Pretty pale face with
blue-gray eyes, and nice dark hair with a few strands of gray.
Tomorrow night I'm meeting her for dinner. You have your Ed Jerse, I
have my Mary.

Sorry. That was mean.

XXXXXXXXX

October 6

Mary is beautiful. I mean really beautiful, down in her heart, sweet,
calm, and wise, with hope and perspective. Her sister died of cancer a
few years ago. She knows the fear, Scully. She speaks very
articulately about it. We hardly know each other and yet she has told me
so much about her emotional life. Do you hide yours from me now
because we know each other too well? Because now that I know how
to love you, I also know exactly how to hurt you?

Tonight I said to Mary many of the things I've been wanting to say to
you since Providence. You haven't made yourself available to hear any
of it. You've got this glacial wall around you, and it hurts every time I
look at you and see the enforced distance in your face. I told Mary
about you. She wonders if you're afraid that loving me, if the cancer
goes away, will turn out to be an impedance to your career. Somehow I
doubt that. Your reputation's pretty much already sullied with
Spookiness, but I didn't get into that--no need for her to know what we
do for a living. She tells me to be patient, and to stick by you, so that
when you're ready to reach out for me I'll be nearby.

I don't want to stick by your side. I want to take off and look for help,
as far from you as possible, so I can be your hero in absentia when the
cure arrives on your doorstep. I put everything I had on the table,
Scully, and you pushed it right back at me. Tonight I decided that I
don't care what your reasons were. I don't care that when you were a
kid you moved every year with the Navy, and therefore have trouble
forming attachments. I don't care that your dad was way too strict and
that you're afraid of being controlled by another man. That shit just
doesn't make any difference any more. I love you and I want to be with
you, and those reasons are not good enough to warrant your sending me
away at the end of our work days.

Mary says that I should just tell you this stuff, outright. But I'm afraid.
What if you tell me to go fuck myself, and then, two or three months
from now, the cancer kills you? What if you refuse to be baited into a
discussion of your feelings, and the confrontation only results in a final
schism? I'll be alone. I'll lose the only person who's ever loved me,
even before Death shows up to stake its claim.

I wish Melissa were here. She's set you straight. She was never, ever
afraid of you, Dana. Even your mom's afraid of you. Skinner's afraid
of you, for God's sake. But Melissa could've kicked your ass,
figuratively speaking. I don't have the balls to do it myself.

After dinner I kissed Mary in the parking lot. It felt good. Warm. Not
like kissing you, but good nonetheless. She smiled during the kiss.
You used to do that, you know. When you were really happy to be
making love with me.

Fuck. I'm making myself cry. Stupid bastard.

XXXXXXXXXXX

October 8

Today you had another nosebleed, and I thought for a minute you were
going to faint. So pale. So pale and thin. I need to take care of you.
Outside of the cure, it's really all I want.

I wanted to put my arm around you when I handed you my
handkerchief, but you sidestepped me like I had the plague. Then you
wouldn't look me in the eye. Do you really think I don't know what's
going on? I'm the one who knows you, Scully. I'm the one who loves
you--in spite of your obstinate pain-in-the-ass ways. You're transparent
as hell, anyway.

No use ranting here. Even if you did read it, wouldn't make any
difference. Nothing gets through that lovely skull of yours unless you
want it to. That's part of your strength. You're incredibly focused.
Some people might call it narrow-minded.

I'm on my way out the door, going over to Mary's place for dinner.
Bet she isn't half the cook that you are. Apparently she comes from an
upper-class family in Philadelphia. But she lives within her own
metaphor. She wears tie-dye and diamonds. It's really sexy, the
juxtaposition.

I might fuck her if the opportunity presents itself. Does that shock you,
Dana Katherine? Whether or not I find the cure, you don't want me
anymore. That much is clear. I'm not going to stop looking for the
cure, Scully. Maybe I should just stop hoping that you'll let down your
wall. Maybe that's what you really want me to do. Who am I to argue?

XXXXXXXXXXXX

October 10

I couldn't go through with it. Pulled back at the last minute, and she
was really nice about it. I believe her, too. She's got a good heart. Did
I tell you she has a dog? A big black lab named Luke. I think he likes
me. He didn't growl at me like Queequeg used to, so I assume that
means he likes me well enough.

She smells like Palmolive. You smell like Dove. I checked when I was
in the grocery store the other night, just to be sure I had my soaps
straight.

I haven't told her about my sister. Only about you.

Mary's quit trying to get me to talk about you. I think she's becoming
more interested in my relationship with her than my relationship with
you.

Just in case the vibes are getting through to you, through some cosmic
arc that has at other times existed between us: I love you, Dana. I love
you like nothing and no one I've ever known. I never want to love or
be with anyone else. I watched you today, in the car as we drove in
from the airport, and I realized it all over again. You're everything to
me. Without you, I'll fold up and die. Hopefully it won't take too
long.

You gave me half a smile today, when I dropped you off at your place.
I thought maybe you wanted to show me more of your heart. You
almost did, but then you caught yourself.

Mary came over soon after I came back from my run. I told her I was
really beat from our trip, but she had brought dinner, so I invited her to
stay. I kissed her, she kissed me, next thing you know we're getting
naked. If I could've pretended she was you, maybe I would've let it
happen. But I sent her home.

For a while, it felt good to be wanted. To be touched in that way.

Now I feel like shit again.

XXXXXXXXXX

October 13

Today I told Mary that we shouldn't see each other anymore. She took
it really well. Hell, she was probably relieved. It's only been a week.
Not long enough for anyone to get hurt. I'd say she was a cheap
substitute for you, but that's not true. There's nothing cheap about her.

My heart's taken. That's all there is to it. I know it, she knows it, and I
hope you know it, Scully. You and no other. I've said that to you
many times, and if you ever doubted it, here's your proof. Mary is the
kind of woman you'd pick for me if you didn't have dibs on me
yourself. She's great, really great. But she isn't what I want.

She isn't you, and you--your health, your love, your happiness--are
what I want most now."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Dana sat erectly in his chair, her thin shoulders squared like a hanger for
her coat. One hand rested lightly on the page, holding the book open in
the warm pool of lamplight. Her head was bowed over the journal, the
auburn hair parted to expose the back of her pale neck. The black silk
scarf offered no protection from the drafts seeping around the edges of
the old casement window.

She blinked at the page before her, trying desperately to organize her
impressions of what she had read. The journal was evidence of
Mulder's pain, his anger, and, ultimately, of his noble nature. His loyalty
to his partner had been tested, and in the end he had chosen to stand by
her. That much she understood about him. As for
herself...Dana's impression of herself was not as favorable. A dark
triptych, heretofore unknown to her, cast its shadow over her identity.
Jealousy played a part in it, certainly. But jealousy alone was not
enough to make Dana Scully cry. Shame and self-loathing had joined
with jealousy to turn her ego inside out.

She wept over the callousness of her behavior toward Mulder, rejecting
him when he was still reeling from his experience in Rhode Island. Her
chief concern after rescuing him from the old summer house at
Quonochontaug had been for herself. She had quickly judged his
behavior to be outrageously careless, without examining what might
have inspired it. Now, in the silence of his apartment, Dana understood
the true nature of his offense: he had interfered with her pursuit of
numbness, and for that reason, if nothing else, she had had to be rid of
him.

She closed the journal. There were more entries, but she would not
read them.

Her eyes wandered to the photo of Samantha. The child's smile seemed
hollow, her image stirring in Dana only a sense of frustration, rather
than any sort of affection. And then she saw herself, framed in
pearwood marquetry, smiling brightly, flushed and tousle-haired from
wrangling her nephew during last year's New Year's celebration.
Mulder had not been with her that night at the family gathering, but had
later palmed the photograph when he thought she wasn't looking. She
had been touched to know that he wanted it. Now the sight of it
sickened her.

Mary: a sweet, old-fashioned name. The name of a virgin, a saint, a
mother.

Dana pictured Mary's eyes, clear and unblinking, the eyes of a woman
who was not judgmental, who was not patently skeptical, who did not
analyze everything Mulder said or habitually try to convince him that the
sky was not actually blue. Dana imagined Mary as a woman who had
ready reserves of joy in her heart, and was not afraid to share them with
a stranger. She was not the sort of woman who would throw away love
because she wanted to face death without the burden of emotion.

The stinging pain of guilt and grief--and jealousy--burned through her
pores; it gripped the roots of her hair and scraped the surface of her
bones until she moaned. She stumbled to the bathroom and slapped
blindly at the wall just inside the doorway until she found the light. The
fluorescent strip above the vanity blinked and trembled to life, and
finally stabilized into a harsh, unrelenting beam that, combined with the
horrible neutrality of the mirror, revealed to Dana every flaw she could
name and even a few she could not.

She tore off a strip of toilet paper, folded it over, and blew her nose.
The mucus was blood-tinged, a sight that always made her stomach
lurch in spite of the fact that Dr. Zuckerman told her she could expect to
see it for another few months. She tossed the paper in the toilet and tore
off another piece, using it to scrub the wet streaks from her face as she
entertained the idea that perhaps it would've been for the best if she had
died in the hospital after Mulder's hearing.

After flushing away the evidence, Dana switched off the light and, with
a deep, shuddering sigh, headed into the living room to retrieve her keys
from the desk.

She heard a click and a breathy epithet as she stepped into the hall.

"Jesus, Scully! You scared the *shit* out of me."

End Winterlude (2/4)


Winterlude (3/4)
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
Section rating: R
Story rating: NC17

See part 01 for the Disclaimer.

She suppressed her own curse when she saw Mulder standing just
inside the door, lowering his weapon. He was dressed in gray sweats,
snow-caked running shoes, and a tattered ball cap. His face was pink
from the cold; whether he was panting from fear or from the effort of
running up the hill and then up four flights of stairs, she could not be
certain.

Dana cleared her throat and tried to smile, but found that she could not.

"Sorry, Mulder. I was just going."

She walked to the desk and closed her fist around her keys,
clandestinely returning them to her coat pocket. A shiver came over her,
for Mulder had brought the cold in with him.

"What's going on?" he asked, yanking off the hat and shoving his
fingers through his damp hair. "Something break on the Garibaldi
case?"

"Uh...no." She buttoned her coat carefully and pulled her gloves from
the pockets. "No, I just...I was in the neighborhood, after the party,
but I...I have to go. "

But he was upon her, his hand closing over her elbow so that with just a
little nudge he was able to make her turn toward him. With his free
hand, he cupped her chin. She shook her head and tried to take a step.

"Scully?" he murmured, his voice low and gentle.

"I really need to head home," she said, trying half-heartedly to sound
casual. "Before the weather gets worse."

"Look at me," Mulder said. He pushed his thumb a little more firmly
against her chin, sensing the bone just millimeters beneath the skin.

Dana tossed her head to one side, irritably like a horse, and then looked
up at him, her eyes wet again. She was at once embarrassed and angry.

"I have to get out of here," she insisted.

"No. You've been crying," he stated in the clipped tone that he usually
reserved for reticent witnesses. "You've been alone in my apartment,
crying. Why?"

"I let myself in to wait for you," she replied in her characteristically dry
manner. Her arms were stiff and straight against her sides. She jutted
her chin toward the door. "And now it's time for me to go."

"Dana," he chided, like a father prodding his child to come clean about
the grenade in her lunch box.

Her head ached terribly. All she wanted was to crawl into her bed and
forget.

"Let me go now, Mulder." She was nearly whining now.

For a second his jaw flexed, as if he were about to speak. Then he
pursed his lips and studied her grim expression for a moment longer.

"When I realized you were here," he began, "I thought maybe you..."

Mulder released her, then shuffled away to sink into the comforting
embrace of his couch.

Dana walked to the door. With her hand on the knob, she looked over
her shoulder, and saw that he had covered his eyes with his forearm,
like a blindfold.

"Mulder?" she said softly.

"You can go," he replied, his voice cracking slightly.

One brow twitched slightly into her pale forehead. She knew that if she
did not tell him the truth now, Monday morning would be nearly
unbearable.

"I-I'm sorry," she said.

He lifted his arm from his face.

"For what?" he croaked.

New tears were stinging in her nostrils, and she feared she might sneeze
before she sobbed. She pinched her nose momentarily, and then
sighed.

"For not being strong enough to--to love you the way you deserve to be
loved. For hurting you," she said. "For thinking only of myself."

In one fluid motion Mulder sat up and rose to his feet. In three steps he
was at her side, reaching for her hand.

"Look, Scully, I'm not exactly sure what you're apologizing for, but
you don't need--"

"No," she said, firmly but not unkindly. "I *am* to blame. I cut you
off at the moment when you needed--when we needed each other the
most. The reasons I gave you were false. I was afraid of seeing you
suffer, of feeling responsible for your pain, and...Truth is, Mulder--"
she glanced down at their entertwined hands "--I couldn't handle
needing you as badly as I did. It scared me. I think I'm probably just
incapable of accepting the kind of love that you were offering me.
Basically, it's true--I'm a cold-hearted woman."

Mulder snorted.

"Yeah, and I'm really spooky," he countered. "Look, it's twenty
degrees out there. Stay for a while and we'll talk about this--whatever
this is."

Dana shook her head. She saw further humiliation in any conversation
they might have about Mary, and was afraid.

Mulder tucked his chin to his chest and tried to get a look at her
downturned face. He was surprised, as if someone had turned on the
sun at midnight, when her eyes met his. Somehow he had forgotten
how luminous they were. She sniffed, a tiny motion that tugged the tip
of her nose down for just a second, and blinked away her tears. Her
full, wine-rouge lips parted and he spotted the even white row of lower
incisors. The memory of what it felt like to sweep his tongue along the
channel between those teeth and her lower lip made him shut his eyes
and draw a steadying breath.

"Dana, please."

For that moment, she saw him transformed to an earnest, lonesome boy
who had but one wish. She would not deprive him of what little truth
she had to offer.

"All right," she exhaled.

Mulder led her back to the couch. He wrapped the old Navaho blanket
around their shoulders to bar the chill that permeated the apartment, and
then clasped her hands again. It was only then that he realized that her
nails had been lacquered a deep burgundy hue. On the middle finger of
her right hand, she wore three antique silver rings that resembled coiled
snakes. The sight of these fashion oddities on a woman whose hair was
brightest color she ever wore both perplexed and intrigued him.

Mulder grinned.

"So," he said. "Public morals squad bust up the party?"

She shook her head. Had she been any sort of liar, even a fair one, she
might have found a way to salvage a scrap or two of her pride. As it
was, she knew there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

"Mulder, I read your journal. I read about...her." She swallowed with
a little grimace. The tears had left a foul taste in her mouth. "I'm sorry I
invaded your privacy."

His brows lifted and peaked toward the center of his forehead. Now he
understood what had brought his stoic Scully to tears. He had wept
over his own guilt more times that he could count.

"I'm glad," he said carefully. "Now you know why I wouldn't stay
with you this afternoon. I've been struggling to figure out to tell you.
The words are a lot harder to say than to write."

She nodded tearfully.

"Yeah. I know what you mean," she said, recalling the open letter she
had written to him when she had first learned of her cancer diagnosis.
She was fairly certain, however, that Mulder had not learned anything
from her journal that was as revelatory as his entries about Mary.

He bowed his head and sighed.

"Scully," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head dismissively.

"No. I came here tonight because I couldn't wait until tomorrow for
you to kiss me again, like you did this afternoon. I didn't know how
badly I wanted that until it happened, and I just assumed--" She
clenched her teeth to staunch a sob. Her voice had become hollow and
deep with barely suppressed tears. "I just *assumed* that I could have
what I wanted, when I wanted it, on my terms. That's what I've done
all along with you, Mulder--since the day you first told me you loved
me. My arrogance astounds me. It never even occurred to me that
another woman--a perfectly sane, intelligent woman--might come along
and treat you better than that. Apparently I thought you'd been sitting
around holding a torch for me, when you were doing exactly what you
should've done, which was to get on with your life and--"

"Hey Scully," he said gently. "I think you're supposed to be beating
me up, not yourself."

"But you did nothing wrong, Mulder," she said. "I called off our
personal relationship. You were free to do whatever pleased you, with
this--this woman--"

"Mary."

Dana's jaw tightened at the sound of the name on Mulder's lips. A
sudden and acrid wave of jealousy echoed in her ears: Mulder and
Mary. Mary and Mulder. Mary Mulder.

"Mary," she concurred, forcing herself to say the name. "It's your life.
I have no claim--"

"You can claim everything that's mine." He looked at their hands, and
then, through the veil of his dark lashes, at her face. "You're my life,
Scully. The time I spent with Mary make it crystal clear to me, once and
for all. I was hurt, a little angry, looking for comfort, I guess. I found
some of what I wanted in her...but not enough."

Nodding contemplatively, she rested her hands on her knees and
extended her feet toward the coffee table, revealing to Mulder her
delicate ankles and finely arched feet in their matte satin pumps.

Mulder reached for her hand and ran a fingertip over the stack of rings.

"Where'd you get these?"

"They were Melissa's," she said, flexing her fingers. "I wore them for
courage, I guess."

"Did they work?" he asked.

Dana tried to smile for him, but managed only a lopsided grimace.
Mulder slid an arm behind her shoulders and she relaxed against him,
much as she had in the hall outside her door earlier that day. His cheek
rested against the smooth crown of her head.

"Mulder...if you'll have me, I'd like to give it another try." The words
were slow and deliberate, as if she feared he might actually turn her
down.

Mulder grinned, but tried not to laugh out loud. After all he had said,
after all she had read, it seemed absurd for her to actually voice a formal
request. Nonetheless, he supposed there was something inside her that
needed to ask, and to receive a sincere reply.

"There's nothing I want more," he said.

Dana sighed her relief. With her right arm she reached across his chest
to grip his shoulder, mimicking the position they had favored when
sleeping side by side.

"You feel wonderful," she said, her lips brushing against his neck as
she spoke.

"Yeah. Too bad I don't smell wonderful," he said, nuzzling her hair.
"Although you smell good enough for both of us. Did I tell you how
gorgeous you look? You do, you know."

A few tears escaped her swollen eyelids and dribbled down his neck.

"Don't cry anymore, Dana," he said, rocking her slightly. The motion
comforted him as much as it did her. "Don't cry, sweetheart.
Everything's going to be all right now. What the FBI has forged let no
man--or alien--or hybrid--put asunder."

She chuckled, her shoulders twitching under his encircling arm.

"Mmm. I missed you," she said, weariness slurring her words.

He squeezed her closer to his chest.

"Stay with me, then," he said.

Her hand drifted from his shoulder to his ribs, resting there with
familiarity bred by time.

"I want to," she began. "There's so much I want to make up for...but I
think I may need a little time to process all this before I'm really able to
give you my full attention."

He kissed the pale part in her hair.

"I don't need your full attention tonight, sweetheart," he murmured.
"I'd settle for you snoring in my arms."

He felt her lips stretch into a smile, taut against his neck, before she
pressed a kiss to the soft skin above his carotid artery.

"It's tempting, but..."

"But what?" he murmured, his hand traveling to her back. He rubbed
small circles over the area where her hips began their elegant outward
flare, and almost immediately felt an answering, though subtle,
undulation.

She moaned and pushed herself away from him. Longing for a reunion
had brought her to his apartment in the first place, and in spite of the
ugly realizations that had come to her, Dana was not without hope. He
was offering her his love. He was ready to accept hers. In that, she saw
redemption.

"Give me an hour. Take a shower, pack a few things, and come over to
my place," she said, getting to her feet. When she looked back at
Mulder, and saw that his sweatpants were tented by an obvious
erection, a thick wave of lust washed over her. Clearing her throat of the
clotted tears, she tried to speak again. "I think...I think we need a bed."

He gave her a slow, simmering smile.

"I think you're right."

XXXXXXXXX

The allotted time was too long, Scully decided as she opened her door to
Mulder. In fifty-five minutes, she had showered, turned back the bed,
and changed into the red silk pajamas Mulder had given her for
Valentine's day last year. All the while her thoughts had been
dominated by doubt.

Mulder knew, as soon as he saw her face, what was coming. He
lowered his duffel bag to the floor and slipped off his coat, preparing
himself for the onslaught.

"Ask me, Scully," he said, like a child presenting the whipping belt to
his father.

She locked the front door and switched off the small punched-tin
sconces that illuminated the tiny foyer.

"You wanna be on top this time?" she drawled. There was no
accompanying smile.

"Ask me about Mary," Mulder persisted. "Let's get it over with."

Dana paced by him and continued through the dining room and into the
kitchen. In the corner, on the tiled countertop, burned a small lamp with
a darkly flowered shade. She reached into a cabinet and brought down
two tumblers of weighty, uncut crystal.

"Drink?"

"Whatever you're having," Mulder said, pushing the sleeves of his dark
olive sweater over his elbows. He leaned against the counter, the heels
of his hands resting on the edge, his ankles crossed below.

Dana went into the dark pantry and emerged with a half-empty bottle of
wine. As she passed him, she worked the cork from the neck until it
came out with a satisfying pop. In the far corner of the kitchen, within
the golden circle of light, she divided the wine between the two glasses
and recorked the empty bottle. When she turned to present a glass to
Mulder, the planes and slopes of her body were revealed to him by
transillumination of the silk top of her pajamas. For a moment she
seemed to be on fire, a chaos of copper hair, saffron lamplight, and red
silk.

He took the glass with a slightly unsteady hand. Despite his initial
bravado, he was beginning to fear that she had changed her mind.

"You remember the first time we made love?" Dana asked.

Mulder paused with the glass half way to his lips.

"We started in here," he said.

"You surprised me that night." Against the opposite counter, she
mirrored his posture. The porcelain sink, just behind her, emanated a
chill that turned the skin of her forearms to goose flesh and her nipples
into hard little knots. "I had no idea what to expect from you as a lover.
You never told me much about your past, the other women....I just
assumed there were plenty of others. You had an experienced touch."

Mulder sipped the wine.

"You weren't disappointed, as I recall."

Dana shook her head.

"It was wonderful, Mulder. Wonderful. That night, and all the nights
thereafter." Her voice was soft, girlish, of a timbre he rarely heard from
her anymore. "I've never felt so loved, never in my life."

"Scully..."

He uncrossed his ankles, as if he were about to step across the narrow
channel of the kitchen and embrace her. She held out a hand to tell him
to stop.

"Hang on. I just want to know this. In your journal, you wrote about
Mary as if she was someone you could love, given enough time and the
right circumstances. Did you break it off with her because you were
afraid of that possibility, the possibility of someone else getting close to
you?"

Mulder took a long drink and then crossed his arms over his chest, the
tumbler clutched in the uppermost hand. His drowsy eyes swept over
her, appraising the way the silk clung to the ridges of her quadriceps
and the prominence of her breasts. Her face shone pale like a gray pearl
in the semi-darkness. The light was such that he could not see the
expression in her eyes, but he could guess by the set of her mouth that
she was holding herself tightly in check. Whether it was rage, grief, or
lust she was suppressing, he could not say.

"I was losing you." Mulder's voice was thready. He cleared his throat
and continued. "Had already lost you, in one sense. But the idea of
never seeing you again, never hearing your voice, smelling your smell,
feeling your touch...that idea was--is--unbearable. I was filled up with
the fear of it. Mary knew what that was like--she'd felt it herself. So I
used her, I guess, to convince myself that I could survive if you died.
That I might still be human, possibly--just possibly--lovable, even
without you."

Mulder unfolded his limbs and, leaving his glass on the countertop,
took a step toward her. Now he could see her eyes, albeit in shadow,
and they held nothing for him but love.

"What I learned, Scully, is that although I could, maybe, find someone
else to love me someday, I don't want anybody else. I just want you."
He touched his fingertips to his chest. "You make sense to my heart.
No one else has ever even come close. I've found that thing that people
search for their whole lives, and die from not having. It's a--a kind of
certainty that I just wish I had in other areas of my life. It's just...it's
you."

He shrugged slightly and gave her an apologetic little half-smile.

Scully peered at the glass in her hand. Then her eyes wandered to
Mulder's feet, clad in a pair of workmen's waxy black oxfords that he
hardly ever wore. And red socks. He was wearing red socks. The
beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips.

"Mulder, to me, and probably to just about any other sentient human
female, you are entirely lovable. I'll make it my mission to remind you
of that every day for the rest of your life, if that's all right with you."

He nodded enthusiastically, suddenly rendered speechless by the
warmth of her smile. It was the same smile that had kept him alive in
Tunguska, the one that he would gladly die for, but would prefer to
enjoy in the burgeoning state of bliss that was overcoming him like the
coral-pink dawn after a long Arctic night.

End Winterlude (3/4)


Winterlude (4/4)
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
Section rating: NC17
Story rating: NC17

See part 01 for the Disclaimer.

He began to laugh, quietly and delightedly, when her fingers went to
work on the tiny knotted silk closures of her top. Her eyes danced and
sparked in the half-light, and her smile deepened until the dimples at
either corner of her mouth appeared.

At last the mandarin-style top hung loosely from her shoulders. She
worried the hem between her thumb and forefinger as she waited for his
reaction. His giggling had calmed into a slow smile that was manifested
not by the usual upward curve of his mouth but by a certain glimmer in
his eyes, now nearly black with the expansion of his pupils. One brow
twitched inward, toward his nose, as he tracked with absolute intensity
the slide of his hands under the fabric and over her shoulders.

The warmth of her skin surprised him, for the kitchen was cold and,
outside, the night was icy. His hands cupped her neck, then eased
down her back, fingers palpating the tight bundles of muscle between
spine and shoulder blades. Her head lolled forward, and Mulder
returned to massage the stiff columns of tendon in the back her neck.
Her hands, fingers curled into loose fists, came up tentatively, then
dropped to her sides again.

As his hands moved to her triceps, then her biceps, the silk became an
afterthought and, unable to withstand his constant agitation, fluttered
like a discarded banner to the floor. It was then that Mulder tucked his
head, bent at the waist, and pressed his lips against hers. His hands
skimmed over her arms and shoulders, traced the ridges of her collar
bones, then descended to lightly knead her breasts. His tongue stroked
the sensitive underside of her upper lip before sweeping along the even
line of teeth. She was moaning, low and steady, as the firm tip of his
tongue traced the seam of her palate.

He broke the kiss to stare at her. Bare-shouldered and slightly flushed,
she licked her lips and stared right back at him. One arching eyebrow
asked the question for her. Mulder's answer was to weave his fingers
through the thick hair at the base of her skull, steadying her head for his
renewed onslaught.

She tried to catch his lush bottom lip, to suck on it and perhaps take a
nip or two at it, but he was too fast for her. So she opened herself to
him, and allowed his tongue, grainy and slippery and tasting faintly of
those few sips of wine, free range of her mouth. She rummaged under
his sweater, freeing his tee shirt from the confines of his jeans and then
popping each button of his fly. When her hands slipped under the
waistband of his boxers and pushed them, with his jeans, over his hips,
Mulder grinned against her lips, and offered a preliminary thrust against
her belly.

"Take them off," she commanded in a dark, husky tone that, until that
afternoon, he had not expected to hear again, at least not in this lifetime.

Mulder bent over to ease his pants over his ankles, discarding his shoes
and the red socks in the process. Then he got down on his haunches
and tugged her pajama pants to the floor. She stepped out of them and
put a foot lightly on his thigh, urging him to his knees.

Their clothes cushioned his knees, made delicate by years of running.
Mulder buried his nose in the thick crop of pubic hair before him. He
took a deep breath of her briny scent, and the frustration that had
knotted and corroded inside him over the past few months degraded into
a molten state. His lashes brushed the delicate skin of her lower
abdomen as he closed his eyes; his brows tickled her when he furrowed
them together.

Scully's fingers played in his hair.

"The bedroom," she said, smoothing his cowlick like a mother.

"No." He nuzzled his face against her, pressing one closed eye and
then the other into the slight swell of her belly, before tilting his head
back and giving her a drunken grin. He chuckled. "This is the kitchen.
Let's eat."

Scully laughed. It was an outpouring of clear, joyous delight that
distracted her just long enough for Mulder to close his hands around her
waist and make his move.

"On the--" His words broke off into another bout of breathy laughter as
he rolled backwards onto the floor, his head narrowly missing the oven
door. Scully followed, landing over him on her hands and knees. He
pushed and pulled her, still giggling, until he had her where he wanted
her. "On the floor. Yeah. Like--mmm--like that."

She found herself straddling his jaw, his fingers spread over the spheres
of her ass while his tongue plundered the soft, serrate lips in search of
the clitoris that he remembered as being more than a little recalcitrant.
Her arms flailed, grappling for balance, and finally her hands hooked
onto the white enamel edge of the gas cooktop. Grinning, a little
breathless from laughing, she began to rock, careful not to crush him,
bumping and grinding against the friction of his late-day whiskers, his
tongue, his teeth and those lips, sucking, drinking lips that seemed to
speak to her in a language she was born knowing.

As her movements became more frenetic, the range tilted forward; Dana
released her hold and it fell back in place with a shuddering crash that
made her giggle madly. Mulder laughed beneath her, his rushing
exhalation tickling her into more giggles.

The misery that had tormented her earlier in the evening had been
supplanted by her own version of the certainty that Mulder had
described. Soon, however, thoughts--thoughts of what she had learned
and of the tears she had shed--became irrelevant. Mulder had found his
target, and had latched onto it with his lips. He taunted her until a
sharp, stabbing shock twitched through her anus, then up to her lower
abdomen, then back to her clitoris, and, mysteriously, to her upper
arms, where he had so recently touched her. The sensation softened on
the return trip, blending into her nervous system and turning into a
gentle, rippling insistence that repeated upon itself, over and over, like
the warm waves of the Chesapeake in August. She struggled to form
words to tell him how much she loved him, and how much she regretted
the distance she had forced between them. The words would not
coalesce, however. Then Mulder's expression returned to her: you
make sense to my heart, he had said. Eyelids fluttering, she smiled
dreamily and nodded in agreement as her intellect relinquished its
overweening pride and bowed to the sensible heart.

Mulder helped her down from her perch so that she rested on her back
on the cool tile floor. He propped himself on one elbow and peered
down at her, grinning proudly.

"Thanks," she murmured, languidly stroking his belly.

"You don't have to thank me," he said. "I had a great view."

"Kiss," she whispered, reaching for him.

Mulder lowered his head and allowed her to lick his lips and chin, then
kissed her with a wet smack. He felt a smooth leg sliding between his
knees and a small hand caressing the tender spot just in front of his hip
bone. For the time being, he decided to ignore it, and focus on the
important task of covering her face with slow, tender kisses.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he murmured, each repetition
punctuated by a kiss.

She smiled against his lips and kissed him back.

"You know, Scully," he said softly, his lips brushing hers as he spoke.
"My couch would've been more comfortable than your kitchen floor."

"You're the one who wanted to stay in here," she replied.

Her hand had migrated from his lower abdomen to the patch of dark
curls at the root of his cock. Mulder paused in his kissing, savoring the
anticipation of her touch. Her nails rasped among the coarse hair. When
her fingers closed around him and began the rhythmic stroking that she
knew he liked best, he sighed like a man given water after days of
wandering in the desert.

"You always..." He chuckled breathily. "...Knew how to do
that...from the first--ahhh--time."

"No I didn't," she corrected him. "You just remember it that way,
sweetheart."

Mulder opened one eye at the sound of the endearment. She had not
used it since their first night together.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding and caressing him
with all the warmth and affection she had kept hidden for so long.

They held each other tightly on the kitchen floor for some time, again
rocking ever so slightly, like children who have learned to comfort
themselves in the absence of a loving mother. Legs soughed together,
backs were stroked, shoulders and foreheads were kissed. Eventually
Mulder sensed that Scully had dosed off. With great care he managed
get them both off the floor without waking her. Scully mumbled and
instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. With one hand
supporting her ass and the other pressed against her upper back, Mulder
made his way back to her bedroom.

A lone pillar candle burned in a little celadon dish on the table next to her
bed. In the soft light, the white-and-cream monochromism of her room
took on a warm golden tone. Mulder approached the bed, with its tall
tiger-maple posts, like an old friend. His knees popping like
firecrackers, Mulder lowered her to the mattress and reluctantly released
her.

The softness beneath her body awakened Scully. She blinked up at
him.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No, baby. Lift up, so I can pull back the covers."

She did as he asked, and soon he was in the bed with her, snuggling
beneath the fluffy down comforter.

"I love your bed almost as much as I love you," he said, sweeping one
long leg across the smooth expanse of pure white cotton.

"My bed is your bed, then," Scully said with a yawn.

Mulder stilled, then touched her chin to make her look at him.

"You mean it, Scully?"

Dana's smile faded when she realized what he had heard in her offhand
expression. Quickly her brain whirred to life again, processing the
consequences of the offer while Mulder watched anxiously.

She nodded, her hair crinkling against the pillowcase.

"Absolutely," she said.

Burned by a careless lover and the memories of his parents' disastrous
marriage, he had once been a man who scoffed at the idea of
commitment. Then came Scully.

"There's no undoing it, Dana," he said, pulling her to him.

"I know," she mouthed against the silky skin of his shoulder.

They rolled together under the cloud of goosedown like two dancers,
coordinated by instinct and memory, leading and following in turn. At
one point Dana thought she heard him humming to her. She pressed her
lips to his throat and felt the vibration of his song all the way to her toes.

She came to rest on her back, her arms draped around his neck as she
shared with him a kiss that gradually brought them back to the point of
merging. True, she felt his hands on her breasts, then on her thighs,
but the touch barely distracted her from seeing his dream played out
across the dark interior of her eyelids. With him she stood on a beach at
the foot of strangely colored cliffs. A summer wind lifted their hair, all
but giving them flight. As the ocean licked at their feet, they held each
other, tan and ivory, male and female, skeptic and believer--the
differences only made them more beautiful to the overarching sun.

When he slid into her, Dana arched her back and gasped. Her eyes
fluttered open and she saw the concern in his face as he held himself in
check above her.

"Dana...?"

She cupped his face between her palms and lifted her head from the
pillow so that she could kiss him.

"I'm fine," she said. "It's just been a long time, and it feels so good..."

"But I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No. You're not hurting me," she said, gently thrusting upward as
proof.

Mulder smiled and returned the thrust, and then settled into a soft
cadence that pleased them equally. But even as he savored the return to
his natural place, he was necessarily reminded of the months when he
had thought he would never know this utter acceptance again.

"Look at me," she said, her fingers glancing over his cheekbones.

He hadn't realized that his eyes were closed. When he opened them, he
understood the true nature of Dana's gift to him. In her eyes, he could
see himself reflected as a man who, even with his worst sins revealed,
was pure in her heart.

"Heaven," he muttered, increasing the tempo.

She grinned.

"Are we angels, or saints?"

"Tourists, for now."

Together they laughed, faces glistening with the light dew of sweat and
tears. When Dana smoothed back the hank of dark hair that bounced
against his forehead with each thrust, his lips grazed her wrist.

"Touch yourself for me," he panted, suddenly overmastered by the need
to see her come.

"Mmm. A little harder, then," she suggested, sliding a hand over her
belly.

Mulder felt her first and second fingers form a tight vee around his cock;
for a while she teased him with her grip, then pulled her hand back
slightly to spread apart the engorged, welcoming lips. He was
pounding into her, rapid-fire and on target. Her middle finger wandered
to her clitoris, and with as much accuracy as she could manage under
his barrage, she flicked her nail against it.

Her bellow surprised them both. The sensation that shot through her
was hard, bone-rattling, and deafening. Her ears were filled with the
thunder of blood pumping through her
heart, rushing from her extremities to fuel a fanfare greeting for the
insistent visitor at the gates to her womb.

Mulder saw her head and shoulders curl up toward him. Her eyes were
clenched shut, and her teeth glinted whitely behind curled, chapped lips.
Am I dreaming, he asked himself.

"Sculleee," he cried.

He knew reality by the way she fiercely clutched his cock within her.

His thrusts came in a jagged rhythm punctuated by the wet slap of their
colliding flesh. His eyes narrowed to slits. His jaw went slack.
And then his entire body seemed to go up in a flash, sending the pain of
their separation to burn in a furnace of Dana's devising, where it was
converted to pure energy.

Her arms were spread out across the width of the bed. Mulder rested
atop her, his chest heaving. Both were drenched in sweat and
secretions.

"Can't move," he muttered.

"Just rest," she panted.

After a long moment, Mulder managed to push himself off of her,
dragging his spent, wet penis across her thigh as he went. Dana looked
down at the mess they had made and laughed.

"You been saving it up for me, Mulder?"

"Yep. The balance in my sperm bank was topped out."

Thoughts of unborn daughters tormented them both for a moment.
Scully squeezed her eyes shut, cursing herself for opening the topic
even as Mulder was cursing himself for mentioning his own fertility.

Abruptly she got to her feet and staggered into the bathroom. Tears
trickling across his temples and into his hair, Mulder listened for her
sob. All he heard was the sound of the toilet flushing, and then of water
running from the tap. The bathroom door opened, the light was
switched off, and she returned.

"Scully, I--"

"Shh. I'll clean you up," she said, gently wiping the tears from his
cheeks with her fingertips.

Mulder watched the tenderness in her face as she used a warm, damp
cloth to remove the remnants of his orgasm.

"I have this fantasy," she said, prying his thighs apart so that she could
complete her task. "It's about us. We get married, buy a rambling old
house in a pretty little town, and have a baby. Now, I know that's not
going to happen. But at least now we have each other, right?"

"It might happen, Dana," he said kindly. His patted her knee. "The
chances are slim, but as long as we stick together, there's hope."

"And I love you for it," she said in a voice made husky by an hour of
heavy breathing. "For giving me hope."

Her eyes met his, and Mulder knew she was telling him the truth. He
simply nodded and opened his arms to her.

Dana tossed the cloth overboard and blew out the candle. In the
darkness, they wriggled together until they were contentedly spooned
together, warm in their cocoon of goosedown and cotton. As she
descended into sleep, Dana took savored the lack of pain in
her psyche. It was not numbness that had replaced it, but joy.

Mulder's lips formed a smile and a kiss on her right shoulder.
Then his chin came to rest just above the crown of her head, and his
right hand loosely cupped her breast, just below her heart. He sighed
and murmured his way into sleep.

"If winter comes, can spring be far behind?"

Were the words part of a dream, or had he actually uttered them?
Through the blue haze of sleep, Dana reminded herself to ask him in the
morning.

At the first light of dawn, Mulder presented her with the answer.

End Winterlude (4/4)



Virginia = A.I. Irving
It's an anagram, already!

Get a sentimental education about the X-Files at
http://www.wolfe.net/~dani/aiirv.html