Just once, he gave her flowers. In an empty hospital room where her life had just been ripped away, far more harshly than her mother had ever ripped away a bandage. "Quick and clean— it only stings for a second," she'd always said, only Scully knew this pain would hurt for so much longer; it quite possibly would never STOP hurting.

As she laid the news before him, she could see she was ripping away his life in some small part as well. And she hated herself for it. She'd just been given a life sentence, yet what hurt the most was knowing that he'd bear the wound of her, long after she was gone. That he'd walk the remainder of his path alone. No bandage could fix that.

But the flowers were lovely, and when she arranged them in her best crystal vase, she smiled, despite knowing what their presence had just cost the both of them. And when her eyes were swollen shut from tears a few hours later, their scent was enough healing to get her through the night.

….

Just once, he asked her to dance. In Albion, Indiana, while a crowded barfull dreamed of walking in Memphis, but she dreamed only of walking the rest of her life next to him, wherever he happened to wander. Two-headed monsters, corrupt government officials, blood spilled across the white of a tissue, she realized she could navigate it all, so long as he walked along beside her.

She wondered whether he heard her gasp as their hips met that very first time, when they swayed beneath the smoke in the dark. Or her shudder while Cher put on her blue suede shoes, and his body settled ever so slightly against her own.

She wanted to live in that moment forever. As trite as that may sound.

Occasionally, she allows herself that luxury, slipping the CD from its hiding place beneath her most delicate lingerie. If she really concentrates, she can almost feel him pressed against her again.

….

Just once, he tried to kiss her. In his hallway, after she'd just done what she thought she could never do. Willingly walk away. The heat he bore into her shoulders as she walked out his door was brutal. But she thought she'd be safe—her pride was fire-proof.

Her heart was far from Mulder-proof though. And when he dug down deep inside and touched parts of her that hadn't felt anything for so long she'd almost forgotten, she and her pride crumbled beneath the pressure. Crumbled until the only emotions left standing were trust and respect and need and desire. And maybe even love. If she'd been brave enough to admit it to herself.

She wonders what would have happened had his lips actually found hers, beyond just the slightest whisper. She wonders whether they'd have ever been able to disentangle themselves again. Perhaps the two of them would still be in his hallway, drowning in the unfathomable depths of each other.

He tried, but he didn't succeed. She'll never forget him trying though.

Now, she walks through their phantom kiss every time she goes to see him.

….

Just once, he told her he loved her. The actual words. He'd told her without the actual words so many times she'd stopped counting. Not that she'd ever really started. But hearing the words, seeing them scripted across the sterile hospital air, was almost too much for her to bear. She wasn't yet prepared for the rawness that blossomed so instantaneously in her chest.

She waited until she was alone in the elevator before placing her palm against her breast and counting her wildly-thrumming heartbeats. It turns out that thinly veiled declarations are much easier to swallow than actual truths.

And now, his drug-drunk voice plays on an endless loop in her brain, every second of her day. scullyIloveyouscullyIloveyouscullyIloveyou scullyIloveyou. It's exhausting. It's exhilarating. It's driving her insane.

Because she's finally admitted to herself she loves him, too. But she fears she'll never find the courage to say it.

….

Just once, she invited him into her bed. Under the inky black dark of midnight, when decisions sometimes seem to make themselves. There were no extra bars of weight, nothing to unbalance the scales, but when they rose to head in opposite directions (he towards the door and she towards her bed), she suddenly couldn't fathom another night without him.

"Just once," she whispered as she drew him into her lair, hungry eyes asking permission, even though his mouth was already feeding its way across her jawline, his fingers already threading their way through her hair. His chest felt divine where her breasts pressed against it; it felt beyond divine when cotton and rayon and satin and lace were no longer there as barricades.

In the thickened air, they unearthed each other. Frantically. Thoroughly. They were early explorers, using fingers and tongues in place of compasses and maps. No hill, no valley, no hidden path remained uncharted on either of their quivering landscapes.

She wondered whether she could survive just from drinking in his moans. She wondered whether she could die just from his tongue lapping at her nipple. She wondered whether she'd ever want to touch another human being again.

She wanted him imprinted on her skin like a fingerprint.

When she came, she imprinted him onto her soul instead. As if he wasn't already there. As if he hadn't been there for seven years.

Just once.

….

His body was still damp when she crawled back up atop him. She looked into his eyes as she traced his outlines with her fingertip.

Then she whispered, "Fuck just once."

And she kissed him so deeply, it almost made up for all the times she hadn't.