He walks out of the bathroom clad only in sweatpants. God, I love the way he looks with his bare chest and disheveled wet hair. When he stares at me with those sad, hazel eyes and tilts his head slightly to his right, I feel like melting. I walk to him, attracted like iron to a magnet.

 

 

"Are you hungry? I've prepared spaghetti with tomato sauce."

"Thanks, Dana, maybe later," he says, fidgeting with his hands. I take a look at his palms and notice the blisters.

 

 

"Want me to take care of those?" I offer.

 

"No need, I did it myself. I washed them and put some antibiotic cream I found in the bathroom."

 

"Hey, Mulder!" I call out jokingly in the direction of the kitchen. "I have this clone here pretending to be you!"

He rolls his eyes and pretends to take offense.

 

 "Hey, I managed to keep myself alive all those years before I met you, didn't I?"

 

 

"Of course, Mulder. You're not a child," I sober up, grabbing his arms and looking into his eyes. "And I'm not your mother, but that doesn't mean I can't care for you."

 

He silently guides me to the couch near the fireplace and sits beside me.

 

 

"Will you rub my back tonight?" He grins seductively.
Jesus! Does this man have any idea of the power he has over me, especially when he talks softly and smiles like that? If he only knew how much I like to touch him, to feel his soft skin over the well-toned muscles.

 

"Sure. You earned it after all the wood you chopped today."
After he adjusts himself to his favorite position, I begin working on his back, enjoying the blissful expression in his face as my fingers soothe the knotted muscles.

 

 

"I'm doing this almost every night lately, Mulder. I don't quite
understand how you manage to undo my work and end up so stiff."

 

"I can afford the luxury," he smirks cheekily, earning himself a pinch.

 

"Ouch!"

 

Half an hour later, I lie down beside him. We are very close to each other, his fingers lovingly caressing my face. A shudder runs through my body and I find myself falling into the depth of his eyes, glistening with the light of the fire. I put my hand on the back of his neck and pull him to my mouth. He smiles before I kiss him, softly first, harder later. He wraps both of his arms around me, rubbing my neck and hair, pressing my breasts against his chest, making me shiver. Being in his arms like this is even better than I had imagined; but does he really want to do this or is he doing it only because he knows I want it?

 

I slowly allow my hand to run down his back and reach his pants. I slide it under his boxers and I feel him stiffen and breathe a little faster. When my hand travels to his front, I realize that he doesn't really want me to touch him down there, but it's too late. He rolls to his stomach and turns his head away from me to hide his embarrassment. I acknowledge this but don't say anything, I'd rather give him some space to sort this on his own. We spend the next moments in silence, taking in the white noise and the sweet smell of the logs burning.

 

"How old were you when the abuse started, Mulder?" Mulder raises his head and looks at me in shock, he can't believe I actually asked him that.  He buries his head in my shoulder.

 

 

"Don't do this to me, Dana," he pleads with a voice muffled by tears.

 

"Please, Mulder. This is not a therapy session, I'm asking as a
friend."

 

"It gets worse when I remember. Look at what happened last time, I lost it big time."

 

"I know it hurts, and it's not like I enjoy seeing you like that, but what else can I do, Mulder? You scare me sometimes."
He looks hurt at my words.

 

"Scare you how?"

 

"You almost killed yourself when you were sixteen. How many other times have you tried?"

"I can't believe you're asking me this," he growls, avoiding my gaze. I don't repeat myself, but he knows I won't budge.

 

"A few," he concedes unwillingly. "I don't want to talk about
this."

"How many times in the last five years?" I insist, ignoring his
protest.

 

"I'm not suicidal, Scully. I never was really."

 

"How come?"

 

"Real suicidals don't fail."

 

I flinch at his words, not at their meaning, but at the way he pronounces them. I remember reading once that a lot of people find peace in the idea of committing suicide. The majority never try, but the thought that they can take the fast exit any time comforts them. I realize Mulder belongs to this group, and that maybe one day something inside him could snap. But Jesus, I don't want to lose him.

 

"Okay. So how many times did you fail? I won't back down until you tell me."

 

"I came close when you disappeared. Really close. Your mother or your sister must have told you."   I nod, urging him to continue.

 

"And after I killed Roche that night I thought"

 

"It's okay, go on," I whisper, taking his hand in mine.

 

"At the summer house, when I had the flashbacks. For the record, Scully, if I ever do something so stupid again, shoot me." I smile, but I won't let him deflect the subject with his quips.

 

"When you were sick... I *really* don't want to talk about that. Let's just say that this chip spared two lives instead of one."

 

He kisses the back of my neck as if to prove his point. I don't know much of what happened to him while I was in the hospital, except that the Smoking Man offered him a deal and used his sister as bait. Despite the immense grief that the rejection must have caused him, later on Mulder began to doubt the identity of that woman. I guess that in his heart he knew that if that had been the real Samantha, she would have come to him, trusted him. Her unwillingness to believe his side of the story was just too convenient for Cancerman's plans.

 

From one minute to the next, after counting at least four times he held a gun to his head in five years and let's not forget about Modell , the roles are reversed and I'm the one who needs the comfort. I might be strong, determined and everything, but I know for sure that I wouldn't survive Mulder's death if it were by his own hand. He seems to read my mind.

 

"I'm here with you now, Dana. I'm alive and I want to stay that way, because this is... like a dream come true. But listen to me, because I won't say this again: if I wanted to kill myself, you wouldn't be able to stop me. And most importantly, under no circumstances should you feel responsible."

 

"I won't feel responsible. What I *am* going to do is use the same gun against myself. And then, if there is another life after this one, I'll catch up with you and kick your ass so hard you'll land flat into the *next* life."   His chest reverberates with laughter under my cheek.

 

"You're sweet, Scully. I guess I'll stick around for awhile, just in case."

 

"You'd better," I hug him tightly, snaking my hand under his t-shirt. With the tips of my fingers I feel the faded scars.

 

"When did you figure out I had been abused, Scully?" he asks quietly.

 

"I don't know exactly. It wasn't a sudden revelation, but more a combination of little hints. I guess it started with your nightmares. You'd let me comfort you when you woke up after one, but you never ever talked about them."

 

His face reveals distress, it usually does when the subject of his nightmares pops up. I fondle his hair and resume our talk.

 

"I guess the first clue was Ellens Base, after you got kidnapped."

 

"Ellens Base? That soon?"

 

"Yes. I don't know how much you remember about it, Mulder. When I took you back to the motel, you were sick and very confused. You fought me when I tried to examine you." I chuckle softly. "I discovered the needle marks in your arms, the chafed redness of your wrists and I was so worried. But you also had a mild fever and seemed very tired, so I let you sleep. It was the first time I heard you scream in the night, and I

was horrified. I though it had to do with what you had experienced earlier, but you called for your sister, then your father, then you started to cry. I just I didn't know what to do. I felt like I was intruding, invading your privacy, but I sat down beside you, took your hand, and started to rub it until you calmed down." 

 

 The memory overwhelms me for a few moments. He was curled up in the corner of his bed, shivering, almost *asking* for someone to comfort him. And he had accepted me so eagerly; tears were rolling down my eyes that night, maybe somehow I knew that something terrible had happened to him to provoke such terrors.

 

"You know, Scully, it's funny. I might have never mentioned it, but I do remember that night, and it's very dear to me, because it was the first time I realized you were special. I'd been having nightmares for twenty years, and no one was ever there to comfort me. I mean, you were almost a stranger, you could have just closed the door and turned on the TV, you could have told Blevins and asked for a transfer for the sake of your night's rest. But you not only helped me, you had the decency to keep it quiet. I can't tell you how much it meant to me back then."

 

This time *I* need some time to contemplate his confession. I sit back on the couch before and take a deep breath.

 

"What did your father do to you, Fox?"

"I knew you wouldn't let me off the hook," he sighs in defeat. He covers himself protectively with a blanket and lets himself lean on my lap, cuddling until I wrap my arms around him and start running my fingers through his hair. He obviously doesn't know how to begin, so I give him some rope.

 

"How old were you when it started?"

"It started before Sam was born. So I was two, maybe three years." Oh God.

 

"What did he do?"

 

"He just touched me at first."

"So you weren't even aware that what he did was wrong. You were too young."

 

"Those first years, no, I wasn't. I didn't like it, it felt weird, but I guess I thought it was normal for fathers to touch their kids like that. When the baby was about to be born, I remember asking dad if he was going to touch him or her too, and he just laughed."

Mulder's voice sounds amazingly solid, but I don't need to be a shrink to detect the defense mechanism.

 

"What happened after Sam was born?"

"Nothing, at first. Mom and Dad were so completely crazy about her that they pretty much forgot about me. I guess I felt grateful to my sister early on. For a four-year-old, I was aware of too many things already. I was dubbed a 'genius,' he adds with self-deprecation, "but I would have been a lot happier if I had been retarded"

 

"As I grew older, I started to rebel. Dad kept saying that discipline was for my own good, that he was trying to make a man of me, that I should be thankful. I remember every word he told me, Scully. Crystal clear. I remember him calling me to his den when I came back from school. It was a cozy, luminous room, with a great view to the garden, but it felt like a dungeon to me. The walls were painted in light blue, matching a dark blue carpet. It had stylish furniture and a huge wooden desk covered with a pane of glass. I hated that desk. When my father was working on something it was usually messy, but when he called me in, it was invariably clear..." he stopped for air, closing his eyes.  "I wasn't that big yet, I could stretch across it... I remember the coldness of the glass against my belly. The coldness of his voice warning me not to tell a soul about our games as he called them, and to be very quiet while we *played*... I was nine years old..."  his voice breaks.

 

 

"What about your mom, Mulder? Did she know?"

"I couldn't tell her. I was too scared."

 

"But she was there, she must have noticed something was wrong."

"Maybe she knew, but was too afraid of my father herself. When the beatings were really bad, the only thing that kept me sane was thinking that at least my mom and my little sister were safe."

 

"So protecting them somehow comforted you, made you feel like you were doing something," I suggest. The puzzle that is my partner's personality is falling into place in my head.

 

"Sometimes my father was good to me, especially if Samantha was around. You know kids, how sensitive they can be. My sister was like that. She could be a pest at times, but somehow she always knew when she could come and tease me and when to stay away."  He pauses to collect himself and press his face against me, gathering strength to go on. "People often ask me why I still grieve for my sister, why I never got over that loss. I'm sure you wonder, too."

 

"I do, yes." Mulder waits until he catches his breath and speaks in a soft, hypnotic voice. "When I was about to turn ten, I tried to tell my mom, but she didn't believe me. She kept saying I was making things up in order to upset her. It hurt to be ignored like that, almost as badly as the beatings and the... the... things my father did to me. Of course I never told Sammy, I didn't want to scare her, but she sensed it. I don't know how, she was only six years old, but she just knew that her father was doing something bad to her big brother and she didn't know why. One night I went to my room right from my father's desk and she followed me. I told her to back off, to leave me alone. I didn't like to cry in front of her, she was my little sister, for God's sake. But she just stayed there, holding her favorite rag doll, looking at me.  'What do you want, Samantha? Come back later, will ya?' I growled.  Instead of leaving, she walked towards me, took something out of her pocket and put it in my hand. It was my favorite chocolate candy bar. Then she dropped her doll and hugged me. 'Don't cry, Fox,' she said. 'I'll take care of you.' The little squirt knew she could get away with anything where my father was concerned, so whenever I was at home, she wouldn't leave my side. We grew really attached to each other, like every brother and sister should. I spent the next two and a half years playing dolls with her, teaching her how to play ball and stuff, and my father hardly hit me anymore, because it would upset Sam very badly. One time he got to lock his studio with me inside, but my sister began to bang the door calling me, and for the first time I got out of that room without even a bruise. And then that night... that night they took her away and I did nothing. She had been literally saving my ass for almost three years and the first chance I get to protect *her*, I fail. I could never forgive myself for that, Scully. I guess I deserved what happened to me later. Without her near, my life turned into a living hell..."

 

He gets up in a rush and heads to the bathroom, making it to the sink barely in time. I'm not far behind, but all I can do is rub his back while he retches and cries at the same time. When he finishes, he's awfully pale and sweaty and he can't breathe well. His shoulders shake violently and strangled noises come from the depth of his throat. The sight of him is enough to break anybody's heart, and mine is particularly sensitive tonight. I want to scream, to cry, to kick, to smash things. But one of us broken and in tears is one too many.

 

I'm quite concerned by his nausea, he's been vomiting way too often lately. I think Mulder is showing somatic symptoms of the emotional upheaval he's suffering.

 

"Are you okay?"  He shakes his head slowly and his knees almost give away. I help him back to the couch, where he just cuddles up against me and stays still waiting for the nausea to recede. What I wouldn't give right now for another couple of arms.

 

Fire and silence are our only company. My partner is so quiet in my arms that only the erratic pattern of his breathing tells me that he's not sleeping. I hold his head with my right hand while I gently kiss the incredibly soft and warm skin of the back of his neck. I take deep breaths, filling my nostrils with the scent of him. My fingers trace his spine very slightly, and I'm pleased when he shudders a little. I've somehow managed to put away the horrendous images of a nine year old Mulder at his father's mercy so I'm a lot calmer myself, but I believe I've gone too far pushing Mulder like I did. I don't want to see what little is left of his sanity snap because of me and my questions.

 

"Scully" his raspy voice calls me.

 

"I'm here. I've got you" I reassure him as my hands massage his neck and shoulders.

"It's so good to have you here."

 

"There's no place I'd rather be, Mulder."

 

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

 

I lie open in my partner's arms, completely vulnerable and defenseless. She sees now who I truly am, a far cry from the self-confident smartass she knows. And she lets me weep on her shoulder, touching me tenderly, soothing me. I outweigh Scully by a good seventy pounds, I'm a generous foot taller and three years older, and yet she has enormous power over me. I don't think Scully has a full idea of what she's doing to me. She's held me crying before, but this is the first time I'm aware of the effect it's having on me. I had forgotten what it was like to feel safe, and it's so overwhelming that it makes me break down harder in grief for all the time I did without it.

 

"Don't leave me alone, Scully, please promise me you won't leave me alone," I stutter amid my tears.

 

"Shh... it's okay... I won't leave you, Fox. I promise. I need you just as much as you need me." Her soothing voice begins to untie the knot in my stomach, a knot so old I almost forgot it was there at all.

 

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

 

The trembling of his voice is a sign that he's dangerously close to another breakdown, and I'd really hate having to medicate him. So I resort to the same resource that worked on calming him a few months ago: music. I disentangle a little from him and fetch the remote control, which is miraculously within reach. I don't know about any good local FM, so I hit play and pray whatever is on the CD player will do. Sarah McLachlan! There *is* a God. Maybe the angsty lyrics aren't the best thing for Mulder right now, but I doubt he's paying attention. By the fifth song, the gentle melodies work their magic. The wracking sobs have subsided, replaced by choked hiccups, and once he's calmed down, I coax him to get up and move into the bed.Before I turn off the music, I listen to the beautiful, sweet voice for a moment and smile through my own tears. And when I gather my soundly-asleep partner against me a few minutes later, I paraphrase the lyrics I've just heard:

 

"We are born innocent."   Believe me, Mulder, you are still innocent."

 

Monday 10:13 am

 

When I wake up the next day, I'm not that surprised to see it's past 10 am. Obviously, last night's ordeal plus all that trekking we did effectively wore us out.  Mulder is still slumbering beside me, his left arm draped across my belly. I'm so grateful he's been able to sleep without serious nightmares lately. I thought he would have a few last night, but fortunately, he didn't.

 

I gingerly get out of the bed, trying not to bother him, and open the  blinds. Clouds are covering what yesterday was a clear blue sky, and the steamy glass tells me it's really cold outside. I gloat at the perspective of a domestic afternoon, basking in front of the fire, drinking hot chocolate and catching up on my reading. I prepare breakfast and bring it back to our room. Tea, toast, orange juice and scrambled eggs for Mulder.

 

"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. Skinner's waiting and we're late!" I push, pretending a serious tone. The sole mention of our boss is enough to make Mulder jump in the bed.

"Geez, Scully, you know how to greet a guy good morning, don't you," he growls drowsily.

 

"Ah, but I *do* know what you like, Mulder," I smirk as I place the tray on his night table. His smile fades and he shifts uncomfortably. I can see he's pleased by my attention, but also that he's not at all hungry. He compromises by eating a little and drinking the juice.

"That was nice of you, Dana, but you shouldn't spoil me this much."   I sit back on the bed, still wearing my robe and pajamas. I take a close look at him and grimace at his dull, glassy eyes.

 

"Are you okay, Mulder? You don't look so good," I probe gently.

"Can I say 'I'm fine?'"

 

"Only if you mean it. And you'd better do a good job convincing me." He glances at me and then lowers his head.

"My head hurts. And my stomach feels funny," he admits.
I lower myself to him and put my lips on his forehead.

 

"You have a low grade fever, Mulder. Stay put, I'll bring my stuff."

 

Five minutes later I'm examining him and he lets me get away with it without so much as a sigh. God, it breaks my heart the way he looks at me with those sad, swollen eyes while I gently palpate his abdomen and chest, each contact being much longer than necessary. He occasionally moans softly if I touch a sore spot, but he's okay, other than his temperature of 100ºF. "Roll over," I instruct, and he complies. I repeat the process with his back, and he doesn't even realize that this has nothing to do with any medical examination. My hands travel down from his neck to his lower back and I hesitate about my next move. Then I decide to gently lay my hands over his buttocks.Since he's still wearing sweatpants, I figure he won't be so distressed. However, he flinches as soon as he feels the contact.

 

"Shh... I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart. Shh... just relax,
that's it. No one's going to hurt you again, Fox. Never," I comfort him.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm not scared of you, Dana. It's just..."

"I understand, Mulder. I understand"

 

Monday 2:20 pm

 

Early in the afternoon, I decide to go for a walk. I get the impression that Mulder needs to be alone for a while, and frankly, so do I. It's not easy having to listen to your best friend, someone you love, recount the abuse they went through. The cold and the chilly wind work wonders on my overloaded mind. I ask myself aloud how far I'm willing to go in order to help Mulder through this nightmare. The answer comes clean: as far as necessary, for as long as it takes.

 

About two hours later I return, fresh and stimulated by the cold. My first move is to pump some hot, delicious coffee into my system, then I check on my partner. He's sitting on the pearl of the living-room, an antique, sturdy-looking rocking chair, and staring through the huge window in the living room. I can't see his face, but his very position and quietness suggest that his mood hasn't improved. I leave him alone with his silence.

 

Monday 5:40 pm

 

Mulder went back to the room and he was sleeping, or pretending to, when I checked on him. He's still a little sick, but I know better than to hover over him in doctor mode. He needs a little privacy, and I understand that.

 

Maybe Mulder was right all this time trying to protect me from his pain. The impotence I feel at my inability to make it go away is overwhelming. I know he expects me to be strong, to take care of him, but this is so damned hard. I wonder if I would have survived a life like his. The mere idea of Ahab trying to take advantage of me when I was nine sickens me and makes me want to cry. But if I want to be of any help to Mulder, I need to let go off my sorrow and get my act together. I will seek professional help as soon as we're back in DC. There has to be someone working with friends and relatives of abused people. And I will also see that Mulder starts some serious therapy too, even if I have to drag his stubborn ass. I feel better already. I have a plan.

 

I go into the bathroom to take a shower, hoping it will erase all
tracks of my previous distress. The hot steam feels nice, soothing, and afterwards, my face in the mirror, though blurred, looks almost human again. Mulder is now sprawled on the couch staring into nothing with void eyes. I don't like what I see. He's almost detached from reality, and I don't want to know what his mind is up to right now. I hope it's as blank as the look in his eyes. Finally, he acknowledges my presence and pats the couch beside him.

 

"Scully," he swallows hard.

"I'm right here, Mulder. Right here," I reassure him lovingly.He looks back at me with glassy, tear-stained eyes.

 

"I don't feel so good, Scully," he says quietly. Then he suddenly gets up and strides to the bathroom. Retching sounds follow, again. I frown. This is no stomach flu, this is pure, unadulterated stress.

 

I place him comfortably back on the couch and get my medical bag. Relieved to be stepping again into familiar territory, I work on him quickly and efficiently. His fever has spiked to 102.1.

 

"Are you in pain, Mulder?" He nods.

"Where? Can you show me?"

 

"My stomach, and my lower belly too," he muses, barely moving his lips.

"Are you nauseated?"

 

"A little." I poke and prod all over his body, which, like this morning, he allows without complaint. When I'm done, I fish in my medical bag searching for something for his fever.

"Your fever is pretty high, and we have to get it down. Let me see if I can find some Tylenol in here." What I find is an expired sample that I'm not willing to give him and some suppositories. Cursing myself for not checking my stock of pills before leaving, I wonder how I will approach this subject without embarrassing both of us.

 

After a moment of consideration, I leave it to him to decide. Despite my current tendency to baby him, he's not a little boy but a man, a grown-up. He might unconsciously expect a mother's comfort from me sometimes, but I must keep in mind that these are very unusual circumstances.

 

"Mulder, wake up."

"Huh?"

 

"I need to give you some Tylenol, and all I have left are
suppositories. Do you think you can handle it?" Despite his fever, he opens his eyes wildly.

 

"What?"

 

"Your fever is worrying me, I don't want it to go any higher. It could be dangerous, and we're many miles away from the nearest hospital."

"Yes, luckily." He smiles faintly.

 

"Mulder if this bothers you, I understand"

"No, it's okay. Besides, I feel like crap. You're the doctor, I trust you."   I tenderly kiss his damp forehead, unable to hide my sigh of relief. I cover his shivering body with the blanket and hand him the medication.

"Here you are. I'll give you some privacy."

 

I get up to leave but he stops me, then raises his body and throws his arms around me. I hug him for all I'm worth. When did I become such an understanding and patient person? I gotta love this man who brings out the best in me.

 

"I love you. I love you so much it hurts."

"Yeah, loving me hurts, or so I'm told."

 

"That's not what I mean."

"But it's the truth. I can see how much it's hurting you to see me like this." If there's something I like about my partner it's his sensitivity. He always seems to know how people around him are feeling, and that talent often serves him well when he's interrogating a witness. He would make a great therapist if he decided to leave the Bureau and consider a career move.

 

"Don't worry about me, Mulder. If you want to make me happy, just concentrate on getting better yourself." He sighs deeply in defeat.

 

 

 "Then give the damned thing before I change my mind."

 

I come back into the living room carrying a basin with tepid water and a few towels to find Mulder hunched in fetal position, eyes closed shut. I sit again, putting his head on my lap, but he writhes uncomfortably.

"Scully..." he whimpers, and I silently pray for him to get better soon. He doesn't need this to add to the emotional pain he's enduring. I take his hand and squeeze it.

 

 "Shh, it'll go away soon, I promise. Just relax, it'll be okay."

He nuzzles against me and stays quiet while I bath his fevered skin.

 

Thursday 6:50 pm

 

Mulder's health has improved these last few days. His fever and nausea are gone. I tease him saying how proud of him I am for getting better without my having to call the cavalry in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about his emotional status. He's been nothing but sweet to me, but he's fighting hard to keep that control. Opposite forces are colliding inside him -his natural tendency to care and protect me against an overwhelming need to vent his rage on whomever is near.
Senator Matheson will be very pleased to find out that all his lumber has been already chopped. Mulder's dexterity with the axe impresses me. His smashes are hard and precise, even when the tool is so heavy that I can barely lift it off the ground.

 

Earlier in the evening I found a deck of cards in a drawer and we played a few games. I became furious when I realized he was letting me win from time to time so I wouldn't lose interest. He could remember every card played. At least he had the decency of not gambling with me.

"You know Mulder, I don't see why you have to work,"  I tease him. "A few trips to Atlantic City or Vegas and you could live easily off the money counting cards like Dustin Hoffman in 'Rain man'"

"I don't work for the money, Scully. I thought you had at least *that* much figured out about me."

"I'm not into this for the money either, I could make a lot more in private practice, but... you should try to enjoy yourself a little more, Mulder. It's not a crime to be good to yourself from time to time."

"I don't need to go to a casino if I wanted some 'easy money' as you put it. My family lacked a lot of things, but money was not one of them," he says bitterly.

"Mulder, you keep unfolding like a flower," I joke to lighten the mood.

"Are you telling me that you're actually rich?"   He gazes at me with a lopsided grin.

"Why, Scully, now you think I could be a good catch after all?"

"Hey, you're good looking, bright, funny, caring... and now rich too! That matches a girl's definition of a blue prince, Mulder!" I laugh.

"Then maybe you should kiss me, because I feel more like a frog than a prince."  I smile and place a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

 

"There you are. You always look beautiful, Mulder. Even when you cry."

 

He lowers his head sheepishly and leans against my shoulder.

"Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not rich, my father was. I don't know how he racked up his fortune, all I know is that I don't want it. It's there, and it's legally mine, but I never touch it. It's like blood money to me."

"Perhaps one day you'll get the chance to do something good with it."

"Money will do anything for you, except one thing: it can't change who you are. If you're a son of a bitch, money will only make you a rich son of a bitch. I'm damaged goods, no amount of money can change that either."

"Do you really believe that? Not the money part, but that you're damaged goods."

"Come on, Scully, we both know it's true. You've been treading on eggshells around me since I told you about my father, like I'm some fragile porcelain figure that could break into pieces at the slightest touch."  I throw both of my arms around him, one hand massaging the back of his head, my lips kissing his neck softly.

"Truth is, Mulder, that you *are* in a fragile emotional state." "Do you know what my greatest fear is, Scully?" he says quietly. "I'm scared I'll end up losing my marbles for good. I'm afraid I'll wake up one day in a mental institution, drugged to the gills, staring into the air and drooling all over myself. Sometimes I feel so close..."

A sob gets caught in my throat and my eyes well up with tears. I hold him tight in a possessive gesture.

"That's not going to happen, do you hear me? It's *not* going to happen. You are going through a very rough period in your life and you're upset, but you're not going to be punished for this, for Christ's sake!"

"Some blue prince I am, huh?" he murmurs.

"You're only human, Fox Mulder. If you were a poster boy and nothing else, I would have enjoyed the view for a while and then walked away. You're a very complex person, but you're worth the effort."  I have lost count of the times I told him how much I appreciate him, how much I need him, but it seems he just can't believe it.

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are. And you're going to be fine, you'll see."

"How did I get so lucky as to have you in my life, Scully?"

 

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It's hard to balance the feelings I harbor, to maintain a delicate equilibrium between my inner rage and my devotion to her. I know that when she says I'm not damaged, she's only trying to make me feel better. Scully knows me for what I am, and I'm screwed up. I have my good days and bad days, but I will never be anything near 'normal.'  All that matters to me is that she loves me just like I am, something I've never experienced before in my life. That's why I'm not afraid of her, why I allow myself to cry in her arms like a baby. I can give in to her need to touch me, to hold me, knowing she won't take advantage like Phoebe Green used to. I want to love her back. I want to show her how much she means to me, how much I need her. A little nagging voice inside tells me I'm being selfish, that I'm asking a lot from her and not giving anything back. But how can I refuse her open arms, ready to give me the peace I need so badly? So I hold onto Scully and tell her not to leave me time after time, and I never get tired of hearing her reassuring words. I pray to whoever might be listening that nothing else happens to me, at least not soon, because all my defenses are shattered, and all I can do is seek refuge in her strength. Night was a time I used to dread for one reason or another, but since I get to spend them with Scully by my side I'm finally able to sleep for more than three hours in a row; and more importantly, if I wake up, I can just go back to sleep. But as with everything, you start taking things for granted and you want more. I want more tonight. I want to touch her, *really* touch her. I want to make her happy.

 

My kiss is shy at first, I feel like a teenager asking for permission. Scully smiles her approval and grants me access.I bless this woman for her sensitivity, for knowing what I need better than I do myself. She lets me feel her, explore her beautiful body, but she hardly touches me back. She doesn't seem to mind either that I'm still wearing t-shirt and underwear. My hands hungrily knead her flesh and she seems to be enjoying it but I blush when I remind myself where most of my expertise in this field comes from.

 

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