Title: Foils (1/2) Author: Kristin Mackenzie (kristl@mailexcite.com) Category: SRA Rating: PG-13 (one or two bad words, sexual implications) Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST Spoilers: Fight the Future Summary: Scully explores the evolution of her relationship with Mulder during the year after "Fight the Future," and the inevitable confrontation occurs. Note: Serious Angst! Dark themes. Shipper-friendly but not happy. I swear I've started lighter stories but they don't seem to make it off my hard drive. This story is ENTIRELY based on the relationship between Mulder and Scully . . . if you're looking for something else, turn back now! Disclaimer: Scully and Mulder belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are used without intention of infringement or profit. Yadda, yadda, yadda. FYI, I'm a newbie . . . I'd really love feedback of any variety. Foils (1/2) by Kristin Mackenzie I want to believe. The phrase has taken on a different meaning in the years since Mulder and I first started working together. At first, it was Mulder's mantra, his driving force. He wanted, more than anything, proof of what he already expected: the existence of alien life on this planet, and a huge government conspiracy designed to cover it up. Last summer he and I found - experienced - irrefutable evidence of both. Through my own grogginess on that ice-plain in Antarctica, I saw the look on his face as the magnificent alien craft moved over us and out of sight. In that moment he had vindication and realized his life's work. Since then Mulder has undergone an unsettling transformation. He probably appears no differently to those who don't know him as well as I do. But, as we continue to work on paranormal cases, and to search for a way to stop the global conspiracy we've uncovered, I notice a raw edge in him that I've never seen before. There's an air of futility and desperation in everything he does and says . . . as if he knows the time is growing short. I read the story of Faust as an undergraduate. Sometimes Mulder seems to me to be a modern Faust; a man who has sold his soul for the truth, and who is doomed to destroy himself and those unwary enough to get close to him with his newfound power. In the story, a woman fell in love with Faust and followed him on his path of destruction. She was ultimately destroyed because she could not give him up. How many times have I been destroyed because I could not walk away, only to be resurrected by Mulder, by his sheer will? When will it be the last time, the time the devil comes to collect his claim on Mulder's soul and I am left to die without him? Being without him is the only thing I fear now, and is the thing that will ultimately destroy me. Unless I can change what is preordained, and save him. Save both of us. I want to believe that can happen. As he hurtles speeding toward the precipice that is both victory and destruction, I want to be there to save him from himself, as long as God allows. But faith is hard-won these days. ***** "Scully," I answered my cell phone at 10:30 one night. "Shcully, it's me." "Mulder? Where are you? You sound . . . funny." Noise in the background, and female voices. "Shcully, I'm drunk!" he cried, announcing an accomplishment. Uh-oh. "Mulder? Mulder, you don't drink." "I don't drink?" he asked, incredulously. "Hey, um, Karen . . .Shcully says I don't drink!" More giggles, and then a sultry voice. "Well, Scully doesn't know you very well, then, Fox. You drank plenty tonight." I was furious. "Mulder, who is that?" "That's Karen, Shcully. She's going to give me a ride home." "I bet. I'll see you tomorrow," I said coldly, and hung up the phone. I'd been expecting this kind of thing, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. Mulder typically finds some way, these days, to distance himself from me when he feels we've gotten too close to crossing some invisible line. Not because he fears repercussion from the bureau (that doesn't stop him from doing anything else), but because he has an innate penchant for self-destruction that won't allow him to be happy. Our history reads like a romantic comedy that never comes to the happy ending: we flirt, fight, tease, insinuate, hug, touch and admit to all kinds of feelings. But we never say I love you and we're not allowed to kiss or anything beyond that. It's to the point that the comedy part of it is dark, the smiles are somewhat forced, and everyone around us is just wishing we'd get it over with. But that's not part of the game with Mulder. Each time it hurts more. That night I found myself curled up in pain that was actually physical, imagining Mulder in the arms of a ditzy girl from the bar, relieving his body's needs but always, always ignoring the needs of his heart. And mine. Why can't I walk away? No one I know can imagine what draws me to him -- a moth committing suicide in the flame. Especially since we are not intimate; most people assume that the kind of emotional relationship we have does not exist until the physical barriers have been broken. Not so, at least not with us. He is essential to me, necessary for my being, and I for his, as much as if we'd been lovers for fifty years. I made the choice to commit myself to him and to this quest more than four years ago, standing over his hospital bed in Alaska, having brought him back from the dead for the first time. I knew then that I could not desert him. So I have to suffer all the little destructions along the way, and I bear the physical and emotional scars of my battles. Mulder knows it. He can't seem to stop doing these things that hurt him and me, but he's always sorry for having hurt me. The fact that he doesn't much care that he's hurting himself is what frightens me. I think, too, that it's a defense mechanism. The people who work against us know that to destroy one of us is to destroy the other, and if they can, they will find a way to use that against us. Mulder believes, and I have come to accept the possibility, that our souls have always been and will always be together. So death is not really what we fear. But Mulder has made some very Faustian bargains over the years, and although it goes against my faith, I am afraid that his soul, upon his death, will belong to some dark power, and not to me anymore. It's that ultimate separation that terrifies us both. And Mulder somehow thinks that he's hedging his bet by not completing our relationship. ***** I dragged myself out of bed the morning after he called from the bar, my whole body heavy with lack of sleep. My face in the bathroom mirror was pasty and drawn. Dammit, Mulder, I thought wearily. If this was anyone else, any other kind of relationship, I'd have gotten a copy of "Co-Dependent No More" a long time ago and walked away. The hot shower only served to make we want to crawl back into bed. I dressed in my severest black pants suit with a black shell underneath - my mood was funereal; I decided to dress the part. My gold cross stood out in stark relief against the black - with my minimalist makeup, I looked like a nun. Sister Dana, I thought wryly, celibate and likely to remain that way. My bright hair seemed like an affront to the dismal outfit, so I clipped it tightly back with a black barrette. There. Mulder was not in the office when I got there - no big surprise, considering the activities in which he'd undoubtedly participated last night. I logged on to the network and checked my e-mail, then settled uneasily in for the unpleasant task of organizing my notes from a particularly nasty autopsy. He came in about nine o'clock and shut the door very softly behind him. I didn't turn, but I could feel him come up behind me and pause. I felt the warmth of his hand hovering over my shoulder, as he was trying to decide whether or not to touch me. He waited an instant longer, and then stepped back. I could hear the faint exhalation, a tiny sigh, and then the scrape of his chair as he sat down. I waited for the familiar sounds of the computer booting up, of sunflower seeds cracked between teeth, of coffee being gulped. There were no sounds at all. One minute. Two. Finally I had to turn. He was sitting at his desk, staring blankly at the door. There was a long gash on his forehead, running from the inside of his right eye up to his left temple. It hadn't been stitched. He was cradling his left hand in the right one, and I could see that a makeshift bandage bound the palm. Reflexively, I crossed to him and began examining the cut on his forehead. "What the hell happened to you, Mulder?" He took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said softly. "Who did this to you?" My anger was being quickly replaced by fear. "Are you OK?" "I'm fine," he said, essaying a wry grin and then wincing with the effort. "And she did this to me. The girl from last night." "Oh." Anger came flooding back. "Well, the cut on your head looks superficial. What's wrong with your hand?" "Just a scrape. Nothing I didn't deserve." "Yes. Well." I turned on my heel and went back to my chair. "I'm sorry things didn't work out between you and . . . Karen, wasn't it?" "Yeah. Look, Scully, I really am sorry. I'm sorry I called you last night, and I'm sorry about Karen, and I'm just sorry." "Cut the crap, Mulder. I'm tired of your self pity." "Fine," he said defensively. Then, after a pause in which I could feel him looking me up and down, "Are you OK, Scully? You look like hell." That did it. The red dam in me broke in that moment and for the first time I felt, really felt, all the pent-up rage of six years. I stood up sharply, and turned to face him. I must have looked suitably terrifying; he blanched visibly. Good. My tone, when I spoke, was glacial. "I wonder why that might be, Mulder. It might have something to do with the fact that I was up all night alternating between worrying about you and wanting to hurt you like you'd hurt me. It might be the collective effect of six years of being ditched, kidnapped and otherwise scared out of my mind. It definitely stems from having a big, brave partner who, after all we've seen and been through, is still chickenshit enough to systematically destroy our relationship rather than buck up and do something about his feelings. What is it with you, Mulder? We've had enough fear and angst to last us several lifetimes. Why must you ruin any chance at happiness we might have?" My voice escalated considerably during the last three sentences until I sounded like the Irish fishwife my great-great-grandmother almost certainly was. Mulder's eyes were obsidian chips. He was way past the usual depression and self- flagellating that usually followed any discussion of the ways in which he'd hurt me, and on into a nice, healthy anger. "I don't know, Scully. Possibly because you shut me out at every turn. Not now, Mulder, we can't, Mulder," he mimicked nastily. "It's not professional, Mulder, I'm afraid, Mulder. Dammit, I tried a year ago to tell you and to show you how I felt, but you wouldn't let me in -" "Mulder! That's not fair! The bee . . . " "No. Before the bee stung you, I saw it in your eyes. Denying me, denying us. Horror and disbelief as you realized I meant to kiss you. Then, later, you didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to deal with it. Rejected my attempts to draw you out. My . . . perversions don't include masochism, Scully. How many times do you expect me to take your rejection before I give up and try, however futilely, to get over you?" "I needed time. . ." "There's been enough time, Scully. Life is short. I've made my feelings abundantly clear to you over the years, and you've made yours clear to me, but when it comes down to it, you won't take that next step and let me in. You say you want us to be together, but you won't cross that line with me. I'm not afraid to be with you, but the thought that you might never let me terrifies me!" He moved toward me, looking down at me with the twin intensities of anger and desire. "Do you want to know why Karen hit me, Scully? Why she broke a lamp over my head and bit my hand as I tried to reach out and apologize?" I was momentarily diverted. "She bit you? God, Mulder." "Yes. She was pretty pissed off. And rightfully so, because at the big moment, at the height of passion, I cried out another woman's name." My eyes widened in realization, and I bit back an insane urge to laugh. "Even a one-night stand has a right to be the only one for that night," he said bitterly. "She jerked away from me like I'd burned her, and then took the lamp from the bedside table and smashed it over my head. I tried to reach out to her, to explain, and she bit me. Because I said another woman's name, Scully. Your name." I had recovered my indignation and tilted my chin up, squaring my shoulders. "If that's supposed to be flattering, Mulder, it falls a little short." He grabbed my shoulders then, and there was a look in his eyes I'd never seen before. "The ball's in your court, Scully. As I said before, I'm sorry for what happened last night. But I will not suffer your rejection again." With that he turned and walked out the door. Who is the destroyer here and who the destroyed? I thought miserably. For everything he does to wreck our chances for a real relationship, I'm right there with the second half of the one-two punch. We are perfect foils. Sitting in the silent office for a long time, listening to my computer hum industriously, I realized we'd passed some kind of point of no return. This time there would be no glossing over, no going back to the way things were. We would either complete the relationship or dump it entirely. And I was fairly sure that, either way, we were doomed. End I wanted to leave the ending up in the air, but found that I couldn't - see Foils 2/2 to find out what becomes of our favorite pair. Feedback, good or bad, eagerly awaited at kristl@mailexcite.com Title: Foils (2/2) Author: Kristin Mackenzie (kristl@mailexcite.com) Category: SRA Rating: NC-17 Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance Spoilers: None Summary: Mulder reassesses his relationship with Scully and comes to a new conclusion. Note: You don't necessarily need to read part one to enjoy this (if only for its inherent smut value!) but the themes play off of each other, so you'd have a more complete picture if you read it. The NC-17 rating should give it away, but just in case you missed it, this piece contains descriptions of romantic feelings and sexual activity between Scully and Mulder. You have been warned, or encouraged, as the case may be. I love feedback, of any variety. Replying to your e-mail will give me something fun to do at work! And I'm a newbie, so you can encourage my newfound addiction. Disclaimer: Scully and Mulder belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are used without intention of infringement or profit. Foils (2/2) by Kristin Mackenzie Doomed. I don't know when the end will come. There's a definite element of risk in our jobs anyway, so it could be tomorrow, next week, next year. It could be random and inconsequential - a stray bullet or a car wreck - or it could be momentous, part of the plan, meant as punishment for our arrogance, our presumption in daring to know the truth. We are each other's nemesis and saving grace. Yin and yang, existing in perfect tandem, neither able to exist without the other. It occurred to me, sitting in the dark of my own apartment, that it didn't matter any more. Whether we kept a safe, professional distance, or gave into our human need to be joined, our bond was already forged and unbreakable. There was nothing anyone could do to us to change that. And if fate had decreed that we would be ultimately separated -- no help for that, either. The thought was both terrifying and liberating. Scully and I had been dancing around this particular issue for years, dodging and parrying, each of us ready with a new objection or an old one when the other seemed to be crumbling. And I admit that in my own self-destructive style, I've done things to create barriers between us. I've found over the years that I'm more afraid of Scully's rejections, precipitated by her own fears, than of anything else that might go wrong. The mental health lady at the bureau tells me I'm afraid to be happy. She might be right. Happiness would be one more thing they could take away from me. But that's not a real reason. Scully's right; I'm a chickenshit. She has been, too, sometimes, about this particular issue. The fact is that there is no reason, earthly or extraterrestrial, for us to be apart. We've come to far and seen too much, and whatever will happen now will happen regardless. Che sera, sera and all that. In gravest danger, safety. The possibility of what could be rises up, phoenix-like, out of the ashes of our lives. There is nothing to lose. The dance ends here. ***** I let myself quietly into Scully's apartment. It was dark except for the blue light of the television, which she had left on. I could make out the outline of her sleeping form on the striped couch. Looking down at her sleep-softened face, I could see traces of the bright-eyed, innocent young agent who had joined me six years before. I had been stricken by her bravery, awed by her strength of her heart, caught up short by her unwavering faith in the truth as she knew it. All the best of that younger Scully existed in this version, but the strength, bravery and faith had been tested and honed over and over again until they formed the glowing core of a more complex woman. A woman who fought monsters and demons for a living. We were both changed, evolved as a result of the things we'd been forced to accept as truth. But Scully seemed to emerge from each ordeal stronger, while I crumbled and faded slowly. I couldn't remember the last time I'd really felt human. "Mulder." I started slightly. Scully's eyes were open, gazing up at me in confusion. In the pale TV light I could see they were swollen and red-rimmed. I swallowed. "Hi," I said lamely. Suddenly there were no words to tell her what I'd been thinking. My throat closed over and I stood there, mouth open, trying to think of something to say that might convince her not to throw me out. She sat up. "Mulder, what are you doing here? It's nearly midnight." Her tone was accusing; I resisted the urge to squirm like a schoolboy caught in the act. "I wanted to talk to you," I managed to get out. One eyebrow arched in elegant disbelief. "It couldn't wait until morning?" "No. Scully, I . . . " I sighed and shrugged, feeling about two feet tall. "Spit it out, Mulder," she said impatiently. "What is it?" I can't say that what I did next was the result of any kind of personal courage or even conscious thought. In one moment I was sitting on the edge of the couch next to where she lay. In the next moment I had her head cradled in my hands, fingers twined in her silken hair. And in the third moment I was finding her lips with my own, reaching, searching and finally brushing her lips with an awkward kiss that served to intensify my thirst rather than quench it. Her eyes had closed reflexively as I leaned in, but as I pulled back slightly they flew open again, twin pools of blue alarm. "Mulder," she breathed. "Why now?" I was only inches away, aching to taste her. "Because now is the right time," I said against her cheek. She trembled slightly in my hands, and I could feel the force of effort she used to push down her own fears. "The right time," she echoed, and kissed me back, gently but not hesitantly. We learned each other slowly, in soft kisses and with searching hands, tongues darting out to taste and then entwining in a kiss of such heat that I felt unaccustomed butterflies. I had thought the act itself would be almost an afterthought, given the depth of our feelings, but I had never been more wrong. My heart thudded in my chest and I was filled with awe at the thought that my presence and actions could arouse this amazing woman. Scully was clinging to me, her hands up under my sweatshirt, her moist lips pressed against my throat. I tightened my arms around her and turned slightly, sliding one arm down under her knees. She brought her arms up to circle my neck, and I lifted her up, off the couch. Just then she opened her eyes, slowly, and the look there almost made me stagger. She smiled. "The bedroom, Mulder. Now." I hurried to comply, tripping and stumbling in my haste so that we were both giggling like nervous teenagers by the time we reached the bedroom. I laid Scully gently on the bed, stretching my own lanky form out to cover her, and we laughed softly into each other's mouths as we shared another kiss. Teasing her, I pulled away repeatedly, only allowing the briefest tastes, until she growled deep in her throat and pushed my head down with her hands, claiming my lips and tongue for a kiss that satisfied and inflamed our hunger at the same time. My Scully. God. Something in me thought how unfair it was that we had to be at the end of our ropes, with nothing to lose, to be able to have this. But the thought was unworthy and I pushed it away. Scully put her arms around me and hugged me fiercely, pressing her small body against mine. I knew what she wanted - it was foremost in my own mind just then. To meld ourselves somehow, to be subsumed one into the other so that no one and nothing could part us again. I pressed back, clutching her to me, covering her face and neck with starving kisses. Until death do us part, I thought. Of all the people who make that vow every day, how many mean it? "Mulder," she gasped. "Too many clothes." I chuckled softly, raising myself up just enough so that she could tug my sweatshirt over my head. Her little, warm hands against my suddenly-cooled skin were intoxicating. I wondered with an evil grin how they might feel lower down. She struggled with her own shirt, so I grabbed the bottom and pulled it up over her head in one motion - not quite all the way off. This had the effect of binding her hands together above her head. The idea that was suddenly appealing. I bent and placed a soft kiss between her breasts, and she stopped trying to get completely out of the shirt. Her breathing was quick and shallow, punctuated by sudden sharp intakes when I reached a particularly sensitive spot. She hadn't been wearing a bra. There was nothing to impede me as I brought my hands down to cup the warm weight of her breasts. "Scully," I whispered. "You are so beautiful." She exhaled, a long sigh as I drew my thumbs lightly over her pink nipples. Bending further, I tasted the pale, taut skin of her belly, flicking my tongue lightly in her navel, eliciting more erratic breathing patterns. When I came up again to take one of her nipples into my mouth, she arched up against me, crying out this time. I suckled gently, stoking the fire in both of us. Scully had quietly worked her arms out of the shirt sleeves and brough her hands down to my head in a kind of benediction. They fluttered down further, and one came back up to toy with one of my own nipples. I jerked back, surprised at the electric intensity her touch created. She was smiling a smile I'd never seen before, a hazy half-smile that sent little flames to lap at my groin. Her other hand darted down to rub at my need, clearly visible under my sweatpants. I groaned, dropping my head so that our foreheads touched. "Point of no return, Scully," I said on a harsh whisper. In answer, she leaned up to kiss me again, a deep, carnal kiss that spelled out her desires very clearly. Her pajamas had shorts for bottoms; they were easily pushed away, along with the lacy scrap of panties. I slid out of my own pants and boxers, and we came together again, feeling for the first time the silken heat of skin on skin all along the lengths of our bodies. Time stopped just then; neither of us moved as we searched each other's faces. I was suddenly overcome by a wave of intense love that convulsed my heart and rushed up to pool in my eyes. I tried to blink back the stinging tears until I saw that Scully's unfathomable blue eyes were filling, too. For a moment I was terrified - overcome by the realization that this was not just sex, or even just making love. This was different from anything I'd experienced before. A mingling not just of bodies, but also of souls. Scully saw my fear and soothed it with another kiss, one gentle and familiar in its scope. And she took the opportunity of my weakness to roll us both over so that her compact body was stretched out on top of mine. Any doubts were forgotten as her hands were all over me, exploring, rousing. They moved across the hyper-sensitive skin along my ribs and hips, and she laughed softly when I shuddered at her tickling touch. She played with the tiny crisp hairs that ran in a straight line down my belly, bending to tease them with her nose. Further along, she stroked the strong columns of my thighs and calves. My eyes had closed involuntarily, so I didn't see her hand reach its inevitable goal, but I felt her fingers, first lightly tickling my balls, and then closing around my erection, in every fiber of my being. She was wonderfully, maddeningly gentle, stroking me until I twitched uncontrollably beneath her. My heart stopped as I felt the warm humidity of her breath along the length of me. And then her tongue, licking, teasing. . . When she took me whole into her mouth, the world shattered into several distinct sensations. I was excruciatingly aware of the softness of the sheets and pillow beneath me, and of the coolness of the air that touched my chest and legs. But her mouth and tongue became the center of my existence, and their motion my whole reason for being. A stuporous languor spread through my body, giving my joints the precise consistency and mobility of warm custard. I could hear the small sounds of Scully's persistent ministrations and the irregular rasp of my own breath. The peach scent I always associated with Scully's hair wafted up from the pillows, and I breathed it in, letting the breath out again on a long groan, reluctantly forcing myself back to consciousness. Things were quickly reaching the point of critical mass. And while the typical guy in me would happily have laid back and let Scully finish the best blow job in recorded history, I had other plans. And it was probably best if I stuck to them. I reached down to touch her cheek, gently, and she pulled her mouth away from me agonizingly slowly, looking up to give me a little embarrassed grin when she was done. "What goes around, comes around, Scully," I said ominously, moving out from underneath her. We lay side by side, facing each other, and I just had to kiss her again. One of those deep, wet, tingly kisses. I could taste myself on her, which was both arousing and unsettling. Without breaking our kiss, I snaked one hand down between us and used my fingers to part the damp curls there. One cautious finger dipped inside. Jesus. She was already amazingly wet. I used the single slickened finger to flick lightly at her clitoris, causing Scully to gasp and bury her face in the crook between my neck and shoulder. She clung tightly to me, moaning and whimpering, as I pushed the finger deep into her core, using my thumb to continue the outside assault. Then two fingers inside, thrusting, and her hips were pressing against my hand convulsively. She spread her legs slightly to give me better access, and I used the opportunity to slide down, down, until my head rested on her inner thigh. I wanted to taste her. Her whole body was sprung as tightly as the strings on a violin, her eyes clenched shut. Without preamble, I sank my tongue into the creamy-slick depths of her, and she relaxed, sighing my name. I thrust my tongue in and out a few times, slowly and lazily, and she moaned. So far, so good. I tried a sucking open-mouth kiss a little higher, right where I knew she wanted it, and I suddenly had a writhing, groaning Scully on my hands, legs wrapped around my neck. Victory. Bringing my hands up to cup her hips, I used my tongue and lips, relentlessly pushing her towards the inevitable. She quivered beneath me, reached down to entwine her fingers in my hair, made several half-coherent threats about what she would do to me later, and . . . I pulled away. Her eyes flew open, confused, but not for long, because in about two seconds I was sheathed completely in her. Her head dropped back and she made a guttural noise, arching against me. I could feel her body adjusting to my invasion. When she moved beneath me I suddenly doubted the wisdom of this particular idea, because it was painfully apparent that I wasn't going to last long, and the whole point had been to have her come while I was inside her. I looked into her eyes, and they were unfocused, cloudy with arousal and frustration. I swallowed. OK then, we'd go together. We both cried out at my first thrust. God, she was tight and slick and hot and all the things I dreamed about that made me wake up in a cold sweat. I thrust again, and she lifted her hips to bring me deeper inside. Oh Jesus. I said her name over and over, Scullyscullyscullyscully, and could only thrust erratically, with sweat beading my forehead and the need for our mutual release driving me like a demon. She writhed beneath me, pulling me deeper, and then suddenly opened her eyes and looked at me with perfect clarity. "Mulder," she gasped, and then I saw panic and wonder in her gaze as her orgasm overtook her. I thrust through it, pushing her over the edge, feeling the contractions that would drag me over with her. I thrust and thrust and thrust, completely unable to stop or to tear my eyes away from hers, until we were both quiet and shaking in each other's arms. We must have slept for a few minutes, still joined. When I came back to myself, Scully was still beneath me, flushed with exertion and smiling an incredibly sweet smile, eyes closed. I rolled off her, groaning at the sudden separation but afraid I might be too heavy. I lay beside her, stroking damp red strands away from her face. Scully opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling for a few minutes, still smiling. After a few moments she spoke. "I thought it would be different. After, I mean. But nothing's changed." I knew what she meant. One of my greatest fears had been that if we completed our relationship in this way, the bond would change somehow. We might be awkward with each other or realize we'd made some huge mistake. But she was right - nothing had changed. We were still Mulder and Scully: best friends, partners, and now lovers. It was just another facet of the same feeling with us. I felt exultant, truly lighthearted for the first time in at least a year. We had won this battle, if not yet the war. The forces that had sought to divide us could not, not even our own fear could keep us apart. It had taken six long years, but we'd done it, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. I looked back at Scully and found her eyes on me, smiling, curious. "What are you thinking, G-man?" she asked lightly. I took her in my arms, stroked her hair, kissed her lovely flushed cheek. "That I would sell my soul to do that again." ***** End Feedback to Kristin Mackenzie at kristl@mailexcite.com