By C. Charlotte
CCharlotte110@aol.com

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and all other regularly appearing
characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and
FOX. I don't claim them and am just borrowing them to
weave my little web.
Distribution: Anywhere, everywhere and Gossamer. Just
please keep my name and email address attached and drop
me a link so I know where it is.
Feedback: Gladly accepted at CCharlotte110@aol.com
Rating: PG13
Keywords: angst, MSR, Scully POV
Spoilers: Emily, Millennium, Triangle, End Game
Summary: Sometimes the path toward what you really want
is rocky and filled with obstacles.

************************************************

Click, click. Type, type. More clicks and more types. That's
all he ever gives me now. Maybe a few glances, a few
sentences when necessity warrants it.

Never any excessive touching. The hand on my back is
gone, no touches on the arm or cheek to get my attention.
And certainly no more jokes.

Sometimes the air is so riddled with tension that it becomes
hard to breathe and one of us ends up leaving. More often
than not, he is the one who rises silently from his chair and
exits the office with an excuse to search the FBI library.

Neither of us know what to do about the 'situation'. We
both just come to work, stumble through the work day, say
a few quiet good-byes and retreat to our respective hells.

It's oblivious to me how one horrible case, a torturous
night, and a simple kiss could have turned our carefully
constructed partnership into a sloppy mess.

A careful seven-years-in-the-making partnership built
entirely on trust and the relationship between two equals,
shattered over a purely emotional response, the kiss, to a
time of distress for us both.

Child kidnapping cases have never been particularly easy for
either Mulder or myself for personal reasons. Reasons that
we work so hard to hide beneath the surface and reasons
that occasionally surface as demons within their own
contexts.

Pearcy Rosemont was a 43 year old man suffering from a
history of mental delusion who simply wanted to avenge the
death of his daughter, by what he believed, were causes of
negligence on the part of local law enforcement in a
high-profile murder case that was taken to court over 15
years ago.

He chose to do so by kidnapping the daughters and sons of
those officers and federal agents living in the greater D.C.
area.

I can hear Mulder rustling on the opposite side of the room.
I sit there at my desk, imagining his nimble fingers flipping
through the pages of our latest case.

In my head I can see his hazel-green eyes skimming over the
black words, searching for the shred of a connection
between seemingly unrelated events.

He exhales and I close my eyes for a moment, concentrating
hard on the image of him that I'm creating within the
confines of my mind.

He gets up and I raise my head, following him around the
room, silently, with my eyes. He seems perplexed as he
checks under various piles of paper.

"What is it?" I ask him in a low tone.

"I need the stapler. I can't find it." he replies in just
as flat a tone.

I rummage around and hold it up triumphantly, cradling it in
an extended hand in his general direction.

He strides over, his dress slacks making reassuring swishing
sounds as they brush up against the skin of his legs.

He takes it from my hand, our fingertips brushing for a
fraction of a second. He freezes, his hand halfway around
the stapler while I continue to hold a tenuous grip upon the
object as well.

Time seems to stand still for a second and the only thing I
am aware of is the feeling of Mulder's skin against my own.
A sensation of fire and ice.

Just as quickly as the feeling comes, it is gone. Mulder pulls
his hand away, mumbling a lame apology for the touch, and
retreats to his side of the office, curling into his shell for the
rest of the work day.

I close my eyes and turn back to the computer screen,
staring at it but not really comprehending the words on the
screen. That is much the same way I feel about Mulder.

I can see him, and at times feel him, but I never truly
understand who he really is. I think I used to once. That was
before the kiss and before he shut me out.

My eyes glaze and I unconsciously drop my gaze to a file
lying on my desk. I register a feeling of slight shock as I
realize it is my final report on the Rosemont case.

Post-traumatic illness. That's what I decided Pearcy
Rosemont was suffering from. It was a nicer way to say that
he had perfected a fine form of insanity.

But is the lie I'm living any better? I sit here at this desk
every day and toil through the endless mountains of
paperwork, supposedly searching for the truth and at the
same time quelling the real feelings that I have for my
partner.

*He* kissed me. That must mean something in the long run.
Neither of us were intoxicated, or on pain medications. We
were both the true Mulder and Scully and we were in the
proper time era.

And while emotional distress can cause a person to do
irrational things, I don't think that this kiss was a mistake.
And I don't think Mulder considers it one either.

There are too many signs along the road that support my
theory.

There was the kiss on New Year's Eve. My whole ordeal
with cancer. The loss of Emily and the depth of Mulder's
support during the months that followed. And the sexual
innuendoes are never-ending.

And there are the smaller times, times that we were both
fighting physical ailments and doped up out of our mind, but
as some people say, sometimes it takes drugs to make you
admit your true feelings.

There was the time that Mulder almost drowned himself.
And then admitted he loved me. There are the numerous
times he has been shot, or stabbed, or suffocated, or infused
with an alien retro virus and then, while recovering,
expressed his gratitude that I was there with him.

But for some reason instead of once again expressing his
gratitude the night we finished the case, he radically altered
our partnership and slammed the door in my face.

************************************************

Laying in my hotel bed, I turn the fan so that it's cold and
reassuring breeze hits me square in the face. The Rosemont
case has led us out to Louisiana where Pearcy is rumored to
have a summer house.

A summer home where he has, theoretically, taken the
eleven children to. Myself, Mulder and eight other agents
will engage in a strike tonight that will ultimately, we hope,
provide for the safe return of the children to their families.

Rising slowly, I dress methodically in the riot gear clothing I
was given the day before and meet Mulder in the lobby of
the shabby lodging.

Half an hour later we are in the black SWAT van and on our
way to the clandestine location that has so assiduously been
kept secret from the public, and especially the media.

And an hour prior to that event we are back in our motel,
Mulder lying quietly on his own bed and I on the floor, by
his head.

Our intervention had ultimately caused the death of Pearcy
Rosemont and two innocent children. Two innocent
daughters of a police officer and an agent in Drug
Trafficking.

The television plays noiselessly, both of us thinking about
our involvement with an operation that was designed to
ensure the safety of that handful of children.

An operation that we ourselves were deeply involved in
planning. And as is painfully obvious, we are holding ourselves
responsible for those three deaths, as are the other eight
agents who participated.

He exhales a shaky breath and finally just flips the television
off. Neither of us speak and the couple that were just
recently arguing next door are now quiet, utter silence
descends upon the room.

He sniffles and I tip my head back to see him desperately
holding onto the few shards of control he has managed to
contain thus far.

He makes room on the bed and I climb up off the cold floor
and onto the only marginally more comfortable mattress. It
sags under our combined weight, and dips in the middle.

The slight movement seems to be enough to launch Mulder
into an attack of fear as he shuts his eyes tightly and balls up
his fists, fighting back the tears prickling against his eyelids.

"It's okay, Mulder." I murmer, smoothing stray strands of
hair down with my fingers.

His lips move in a soundless utter of words, words that
seem to be a silent prayer to whatever god he believes in to
hold back his fears for just one more day, and perhaps one
night.

I wrap my arms around him, burying my face into the soft
down of his hair and clutching onto him in a more forceful
grip when his body begins to tremble against my own.

A single, tearfilled whimper is released from his lips before
the floodgates open and the tears are released.

My shirt is quickly soaked, the silken material sticking
against my shoulder.

My own body gives a shudder as I feel his long and
well-muscled arms thread their way around my waist and
hold on with a tight grip.

My own tears rain down into his hair and onto his head and
I fight to gain control of my emotions. Sniffling, I force
down the lump rising in my throat and the feeling of
queasiness within my stomach.

There is one thing to concentrate on here and that is the
welfare of Mulder. Nothing else will matter to me until I am
sure that my partner is no longer distressed. That has always
been my ultimate goal.

His crying quiets and I feel confident to release my grip the
tinest bit...

************************************************

Mulder's angry voice snaps me from my reverie and I find
myself staring into his face, the skin relatively pale and the
eyes large and deep green in the light.

Tiny pyramids of gold are mired in the surface of his orbs
and I barely restrain myself from grabbing him by the tie and
pulling him down into another kiss.

"Well, gee Scully, thanks for paying attention every now
and then! I mean, hey I am only your partner." he snaps,
glaring at me and removing his hands from my desk, wiping
them on his suit pants as though to remove something
unsatisfactory he assumes would come from the surface of
the polished cherrywood desk.

My desk.

I drop my eyes and let a small sigh escape from between
my parted lips.

"Sorry. I was thinking about the Rosemont case." I offer as
an apology as my fingers skim the surface of the glossy 10'
by 14' of Pearcy and his daughter, taken nearly 19 years
prior.

The girl has the purest blond hair, almost golden in the
picture, and blue eyes, the color of Carribean waters. Emily
would have looked like her had she the chance to grow up.

But neither Emily nor this girl ever had a chance to really
grow up. One girl's life was cut short by a menace of
society. Another life ended by a menace of the body.

He stalks away, throwing his body almost petulantly into his
swivel chair which winds around in shock from the suddenness
of his weight,

He growls, stops the chair by forcing a foot under his desk
and grabbing onto the grey surface with his hands.

"What is it that you need, or needed, Mulder?" I ask slowly,
trying to clear my head of all the sudden trains of thought.

"Nothing, Scully. I don't want to bother you with my own
problems when you obviously have pressing issues of your
own." he says sarcastically, biting off every word and
spitting it out in a well-controlled and terribly bitter
tone.

Red flashes before my eyes and I can almost feel the anger
building within my bones and flooding into each vein, en
route to every sensitive spot in my body.

In an instant, I am transported back to that night.

************************************************

I release his body tentatively and hold him for a bit longer
when he scrambles for purchase as soon as my arms are no
longer providing him with a safe harbour.

Almost fifteen minutes later, he seems ready to pull away
and sits up, wiping his eyes with his right hand and shakily
running the opposite hand through his hair and attempting
to right the strands into some form of his previous hairstyle.

He gives in futilely several minutes later and allows the
weed-wacked look to remain.

Glitters of pain and remorse flash across the crystalline
surfaces of his eyes and he parts his lips, moves them to say
something, and just as quickly puts those thoughts to rest.

He smiles weakly at me and I pull his trembling body back
against me. He resists for a fraction of a second and then
regains his rightful place against my chest, his head nestled
in the groove between neck and shoulder.

He breathes deeply a few times and I can distinctly feel his
heart beating against my chest in a slow and steady manner.
He pulls away seconds later and cradles my face in his
hands.

He brushes a fingertip over the tip of my nose, smiling
gently, before leaning down and pressing his lips against my
own.

I smile but all too soon it is over and his hands are no longer
on my face, but by his sides.

And looking into his eyes I see the one thing I never
expected.

Pure terror.

************************************************

My eyes dilate and for a second I wonder if I will pass out
from the shock of it all.

My hands clench at a file on the desk, releasing and
retightening in an effort to try to stop the anger pooling.

Suddenly everything explodes in a wide and bright ball,
repressed feelings ripping out into the broad spectrum of
color and every last drop centered directly towards Mulder.

Any prior reservations I had about confronting Mulder have
flown out the window as I rise from my seat and slam a
hand down onto the desk.

His eyes are suddenly upon me and I can see all my own
feelings mirrored within his eyes. He silently watches me,
his lips pursing in anger.

"You know what?! I've had enough of all of your self
righteous bull-shit Mulder!" I explode. "You act as though
I'm some type of disease and you don't come near me, you
barely give me a straight answer, and when you do it's
usually LACED WITH SARCASM!!"

I'm sure I'm screaming by this point, only parts of images
flash before my eyes in a distorted color scale of red, orange
and yellow. Angry streaks of green and blue occasionally
flash by.

Mulder backs away slightly, allowing the sheaf of papers in
his hands to drift down to the floor in their own lazy
manner.

His eyes are wide and he seems surprised by my sudden
outburst. Good, damn it. He should be.

"You can barely touch me without wincing. Am I really
*that* repulsive to you?" I continue, my voice now
a controlled whisper that is choked with the
beginnings of tears.

He shakes his head, kneeling down to collect the papers and
keeps his gaze carefully trained on the featureless floor. He
rises again and places the leaflets carefully on my desk
before advancing to my side and grabbing my wrist and
pulling me up against him.

He tips my head back, slowly and gently, testing every move
and waiting to see what my reaction will be until he allows
himself to continue.

I relax from my anger and allow him to touch me, his
fingers grazing and creating a sensation that I have
not felt in a generation.

"I'm sorry." he whispers. "I thought I made a mistake when
I....when I-...."

".....kissed me." I finish for him. "You can say the word
Mulder."

He nods and draws my head into his hands, cupping each
cheek and wondrously running the pads of his fingers over
my skin in languorous motions.

"You're not repulsive to me in the slightest way, Scully." he
says, speaking finally in a low and even tone. "I was afraid.
Afraid that I had overstepped some invisible boundary that
night. I was afraid you were angry. I didn't know what else
to do other than ignore and try to bury it. My feelings."

I nod and bring my own hands up to his face. He smiles
gently and I feel my hands moving in a motion of their own,
tracing the outline of his jaw and mouth on an accord of
their own.

His grip suddenly tightens and he moves his head down near
mine, his hands no longer on my face but neatly laying
against my waist and pulling me up against him.

In a searing second, he captures my lips for the second time.
In that moment, time freezes.

For once in my life, something feels right.

E  N  D