The Eternal Return

by storybycorey

She's convinced herself that working together again is possible. That it's not only possible, it's healthy. A new start, a rebirth, the next fork in their meandering path of a relationship. They've come full circle, from colleagues to friends to lovers, and now back again.

She's surprised by the sharp bite of jealousy, its teeth scraping against the walls of her chest while another woman moves in his arms. Not that it's a new sensation for her—even in one's strongest hour, insecurity can rear its ugly head—but just that she's convinced herself she is ready for this.

She's convinced herself that working together again is possible. That it's not only possible, it's healthy. A new start, a rebirth, the next fork in their meandering path of a relationship. They've come full circle, from colleagues to friends to lovers, and now back again. The eternal return, much like the ouroboros still marking her skin, cycling and circling, beginning anew just as it reaches its end. Their relationship hasn't ended, it's only been transformed, a tree branch budding with new leaves after a callous and unforgiving winter.

At least that's what she tells herself.

But now, as she watches him through the smoke and twang of the bar, two-stepping it with a woman in denim so tight she must have been zipped up Scarlett O'Hara-style, gripping a bedpost and sucking in her breath, now she's not so sure.

She left him four months ago.

She wonders how long it took him to notice.

….

When they contacted her about returning, she'd laughed. At what they were asking her to do, who they were asking her to be, this many years too late. Laughed because they had no idea. Those people they were asking to return no longer exist. Those people, those eager young agents, thirsty for answers and hungry for the truth, they've been gone for months, years. They've searched for the truth, found the truth, been devoured by the truth. And when that wasn't enough, the truth regurgitated them back up and abandoned them to swim amidst the sickness, to fend for themselves.

But, though she'd laughed, she'd seen the offer for what it was. An opportunity. A chance to reach him, to draw him out of the pit into which he'd fallen. And she couldn't pass that up. She wouldn't, not if the possibility still existed.

She owed him that much.

….

He'd been taking his meds. She checked with the pharmacy, and he'd refilled his prescription twice.

But medicine only goes so far, she knows. It's only the first step in an extremely tall stairwell, and the last she'd seen of him, he had many stories yet to climb.

She hoped he'd at least made it to the first landing.

There was no way to know though, without seeing him, without standing across from him and looking him in the eye.

And so she went to him.

….

She paused at the doorway to his office, taking in the piles and the clutter, the coffee cups and the takeout cartons. An accumulation of a decade's worth of distance between them. And in the center of it all, there he sat, dug into his nest, just as he'd been four months ago when she'd left.

"They've asked us to come back," she murmured against the wall of stale air, hoping it was loud enough to tunnel through, to reach him amidst the fog. His body was a cavern around the keyboard as he sat hunched before the screen, and for a moment, she wondered whether he'd heard her at all.

But slowly, achingly, his body uncurled, his fingers stilled, and he looked at her.

And oh God, he looked at her. Really looked at her. And she felt the tears well behind her lashes as she realized how many months it had been since she'd seen his eyes. Since she'd seen the man beneath the unkempt body, the soul within the broken shell.

She knew then that he'd been climbing those stairs. She could read it in his eyes. There was a clarity there that had been missing, a brightness she couldn't deny. It was /Mulder/ in there, her Mulder. He was finding his way out.

"Do you think you can handle it?" she asked as gently as possible.

He closed his eyes and nodded yes.

….

Descending into the basement, she had no idea what to expect of him, what to expect of herself, in this strange new world where they're together but they're not, where they're back where they started, yet have lived an entire lifetime between.

But he surprised her, as he always seems to do, by smiling and tossing a case across the desk.
"Well partner, ready to get to work?" he asked, full of unexpected life and full of the man she thought had faded away. She couldn't help but smile back, eyes downcast as she pulled back the tears threatening to spill across her blouse.

Because it had been the right decision. They could do this.

The winter hadn't completely devastated them. The newest branch on their tree had just sprouted its first bud.

….

With the passing of the weeks, they've fallen further back in step.

It almost feels like old times, being in the field with him, watching each other's backs. It almost feels like old times, except for one small thing.

Except that he hasn't touched her.

In the month since they've returned, he hasn't touched her. His fingers haven't brushed across her cheek, his hand hasn't rested upon her hip, his arm hasn't pressed against her shoulder. No part of him has touched any part of her.

And until now, she hadn't realized how much she depended on it. Eight years as professional partners, and close to fifteen personally beyond that. She's forgotten how to exist alongside him without the feel of his skin against her own. It's become a language for them that is just as essential as one spoken, if not more so. And without it, she can't help but feel like she's lost something. The final piece needed to complete a puzzle that's been months, years in the making.

She realizes how unfair this is—wanting him so tangibly—when she's the one who walked away.

She understands. She does. They've been put into an awkward situation. He needs to set boundaries. It's /smart/ to set boundaries with the past they share. But that doesn't stop her from missing it, from craving it when the day has ended and goodnights are murmured, and they retreat alone to separate homes, feeling a million miles apart.

Just like old times…

….

Which is why tonight, propped against the bar, dressed in her closest approximation of western attire, she's fighting waves of jealousy over a woman who cannot relate to her predicament at all. Because Mulder is having no boundary issues at all with this woman's hips, her waist, and occasionally even her ass.

It's not that she's worried about this particular woman—God no, she's a dance instructor, a suspect, for Christ's sake— but she just hasn't thought ahead this far. She hasn't considered the possibility that leaving him may have set him free. That by walking out that door, she might not only have untethered herself, but untethered him as well. Once he's escaped these newest demons, she may not be the one to whom he turns. And the thought of that catches her utterly and devastatingly by surprise.

Because even through the most difficult of times, she still has always held hope that they'll come out of this on the other side. Together. Somehow.

….

But now is not the time to wax poetic about her failed relationship. She has a job to do, and watching Mulder's Wrangler-wrapped ass unfortunately is not part of that job, even when the suspect's hands happen to be resting there right this very second.

She wrenches her eyes from the ass in question and glances across the room to the other agent working the case. He gives her the signal they've accomplished their mission.

She glances to Mulder, who for a moment still seems slightly distracted by the tight plaid and teased hair in his immediate view, but soon, his eyes make their way across the room to find her. She's pleased to know at least they still share this connection, the uncanny awareness of each other's presence.

She arches her brow in retaliation while he shoots her a smug grin, and he obediently clamps down upon his lips. Nodding toward the door, she inwardly smirks while watching him disentangle himself from his octopus of a dance partner. She heads outside to wait.

….

With his thumbs hooked in his beltloops, he meanders toward her car. Western is a good look on him, she notes, while taking in the sight of tight denim stretched across his thighs, the swagger that settles in his hips as he stirs up the dirt with his boots. She can't help the flush that sweeps through her body as she remembers the many other things she knows those hips can do.

He reaches her and stops, allowing a sheepish smile to grace his face.

"Nice work out there, Agent Mulder," she teases him, arms crossed as she leans back against her car.

"Umm, well, yeah," he chuckles, "ya know, just doing my job and all…"

"Mmm-hmm, is that what it was?" again with the eyebrow while she playfully harasses him.

He laughs again, then looks down to the ground, and they both watch as he scuffs his pointed toe nervously into the dirt. The mood suddenly changes, from light-hearted to serious, and her heart stutters for a moment as she senses something shifting, something rumbling beneath the surface.

"Hey, Scully?" he asks, in a quiet, sandpapered voice that makes her breath catch.

"Hmm?" She's not sure she trusts herself with words quite yet, not until she knows where this conversation is heading.

"Follow me back to the house," he murmurs, raising his head back up and catching her eye. "I think we should talk."

Her mouth drops open at his words, and their implication buzzes inside her head, raising too many questions for her to comprehend in this one, contained moment.

But as she looks down at her feet and tries to formulate a response, she realizes that she doesn't want to answer the questions, doesn't want to dissect and scrutinize and analyze every molecule of why and where and how. For once, she just wants to trust her instincts.

So, surprising them both, she raises her eyes back to his and whispers, "Okay."

….

His taillights are a beacon in the distance, and she follows him with trembling hands at the wheel.

She thinks about the countless times she's followed him throughout the years. How many mutants has she chased through the forest? How many demons has she pursued in the dark? How many times has she followed him blindly, only to be rewarded with answers to questions she hadn't even thought to ask?

Will this night be another answer, or will the monsters swarm until there are no answers left? She cannot even begin to guess. Her heart is pounding, and the deep breaths she's taking are doing nothing to calm the rhythmic throbs within her chest.

It's only Mulder, she tells herself, but the thought simply burns the flames of her anxiety more brightly. He was her shelter for so many years, her refuge from a tempest that stole nearly everything. Until the past month, she was so sure she had lost him, that the winds had finally carried him away as well.

She was so sure she had failed him.

And just the possibility that he may not be lost after all has made her unbearably desperate, for things she's not sure are even hers for the taking anymore. For things he may not be willing to give back.

They reach the property and stop briefly while he struggles with the old gate at the entrance. She wonders when he last opened it for someone besides himself.

As they climb the creaking steps to the porch, she recalls that lazy afternoon a few years ago, when the glowing sun and gentle wind had invited them out to play. They'd nestled together on the porch and necked like teenagers, and before long, more than just the steps had been creaking. Her eyes prickle with unshed tears as she remembers lying in the hammock afterwards, letting the sway of the breeze cool their heated skin, completely unaware of the smothering silence that would soon envelop their lives.

"Home sweet home," he says as he leads them in, but somehow the sentiment falls flat with the knowledge that this is home to only one of them now.

She sits at the table they scavenged from a thrift store so many years ago.
"Coffee?" he offers. She folds her hands awkwardly in her lap as she tries to feel comfortable in a place where /she/ used to be the one to offer the coffee, she was the one to scoop out the grounds.

"Sure," she smiles, as if putting on a happy face will contain the throng of butterflies pulsing in her belly.

She is reassured that he seems restless as well, fussing unnecessarily while he prepares the coffee and wiping at the countertop when there's nothing there.

Placing her coffee before her, he sits, glancing around the room as if there's a manual hidden somewhere, a guideline for beginning the most difficult conversation of one's life.

"Soooo…," he drags out.

"Yes. So." She's straight and to the point. Not because she knows the rules of this awkward game, but because she's not sure she can manage anything but.

Their eyes meet briefly before dropping back to the table, and she begins to regret even coming. Why is this so difficult? God, the things they've been through, the obstacles they've overcome, why is simply talking the most insurmountable of all?

"So, what a case, huh?" he ponders casually, not fooling her at all, but at least providing some room for them to breathe.

"Yes, it is," she answers a bit too quickly. "Your little dance instructor seems to have quite the operation going down, doesn't she?" The tightness in her chest lessens as they climb back onto familiar ground. Talking shop has never been their problem. Cerebral engagement is easy. Emotional engagement is where they are a bit more deficient.

"Oh, /my/ little dance instructor, you say? Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Scully?" His eyes light up at the opportunity to tease her.

"Mulder, it takes a bit more than skin-tight jeans and well-teased hair to make me jealous, you know…," she takes a sip of coffee and appreciates the fact that their earlier unease has somewhat dissolved.

"The higher the hair, the closer to heaven, Scully," he grins at her while she rolls her eyes.

They sip quietly from their mugs, and her mind wanders to memories of countless cups of coffee, shared over this very table. They collect in the corners of the room and taunt her.

She feels his gaze on her cheek and turns to him.

"What /would/ be enough to make you jealous these days, Scully?" His voice is raw and quiet, and she aches at the intimacy of it.

She sucks in her breath and looks into her lap, surprised at how quickly he was able to turn things around, to take things from professional to personal with no warning at all. That move definitely was not in the rulebook.

Flustered, she considers her answer. Honesty or diversion? Fight or flight? She's so tempted to take the safe route, so tempted to run. She's perfected her stride through the years. Running is so easy.

But before she can situate herself at the starting block, he's pushing away from the table, turning to the counter and flipping on the secondhand radio that sits beside the toaster. Fiddling with the knobs, he finds a country station, turns to her and says, "Forget it, Scully. Come dance with me."

He reaches his hand to her above the table, and for a moment she is back in that darkened hall, Cher singing in the background, a two-faced monster dancing in the seat beside her. A familiar thrill dips through her body, and it's just as stirring now as it was twenty years ago.

But so many things are different today. Then, their dance was an innocent celebration, a frolic after a job-well-done. Now… Now, she doesn't know what it is. An invitation? A reunion? A good-bye?

She shakes her head as he's already pulling her to her feet, and she can't help but laugh as she says, "Mulder, no…"

But he takes her hand, and he grasps her hip, and she is suddenly lightheaded as sensation floods her body. Nerve endings that have lain dormant for months suddenly burst to life at his touch, and she wants to sob at the pure decadence of it. God, she's missed him so much.

He guides her into a languid rhythm and smiles down at her, "See, this isn't so bad, is it? Want me to show you some of my moves?"

No, it's not so bad at all, she thinks. "I don't know that you need the practice, Mulder. You seemed to be doing quite well with your partner earlier," she's aware how trite she sounds, but his proximity is throwing her off-balance, causing her to react before considering the consequences.

"Mmm, I /was/ doing pretty well out there, wasn't I?" he grins as he pulls her slightly closer, his fingers resting at her waist as they sway to the beat, "but my partner just wasn't quite doing it for me. My taste runs a little more sophisticated. A little more like this, I'd say," and he slides his fingers up her ribs then back down along her hip, indicating her denim button-down shirt and black fitted jeans. "You do Western well, Scully, very well…"

She feels the flush that blossoms across her chest, and knows he must see it as well. Jesus, what is happening here? She can't think. Being this close, feeling the pulse of his body, the slip of his fingers, she's having a hard time concentrating. She has longed for this so desperately. God, just the liquid slide of his hands through her clothing is filling places that have felt empty for years.

It's not right though. A few touches and flattering words can't erase months and months of nothingness. Heartbreak and guilt and pain and the torrent of emotions she's cried against her pillow don't just disappear.

She twists herself from his hold, "Mulder, we shouldn't… We're not ready for this."

But before she can retreat, before she can tuck herself back into her shell, he draws her into him, wrapping her in his arms and folding her against his chest.

Her mind tells her stop, tells her not to surrender, but oh, her body wants to give in so badly. It's been so long since she's allowed herself to be held like this, so long since she's admitted how terribly she needs it.

"I'm sorry, Scully. I'm doing this all wrong," his voice is rough with emotion as he silently begs her to hear him out. He drops his chin atop her head and closes his eyes, breathing her in, "Fuck, it just feels so goddamn good to touch you again."

She chokes back a sob, laying her forehead in the crook of his shoulder and linking her arms around his waist.

"Scully, I'm so sorry…" Her eyes squeeze shut at the regret in his voice.

This is finally it. This is them, finally discussing things, finally addressing the real issue. "I know that sorry doesn't even begin to encompass everything I should be saying, but God, I'm just so sorry."

His words are a life ring in the ocean, an offer, a chance to find her way back onto solid ground. "Mulder," she murmurs, not as answer, but as acknowledgment. Letting him know she's listening, letting him know she hears.

"There's no excuse for what I put you through. None. It was unforgivable, but I'm on my knees begging for forgiveness even so. I'm getting better, Scully. I am. I'm taking the medicine you gave me, I've been seeing a therapist…" He's gripping her shoulders, kneading her like a cat, trying to press his apology into her skin until she understands.

The tears are streaming down her cheeks now, soaking into the cotton of his shirt. "God Mulder, I just felt so inadequate, so insufficient. I thought I'd failed you somehow…"

It feels so good to talk, to allow the words that have piled inside for months finally spill free.

He leans back, pulling her jaw into the cradle of his palms as he meets her eyes, "Christ, Scully, don't ever think that. /I/ failed /you/. I disregarded you completely. I forgot I could turn to you, I forgot you were my lifeline."

He drops his forehead against her own, and she hears the "click" as it fits into place. This position has always been a homecoming for them, a place to connect, to bond, to reunite.

She lays her hands on his chest and looks down into the negative space between them, considering the many shapes it's taken throughout the years. It's been as large and unfathomable as the distance between the earth and the stars, and it's been so small, she would have struggled to slide her hand between.

And right now…

Right now, his breaths are quick and fast against her cheek, his hands are warm alongside her neck, and he's swaying to the music's rhythm in a way that's making her knees weak. And the space between them is shrinking and shrinking as he pulls her slowly, deliberately, into his atmosphere.

He presses his lips to her forehead and murmurs against her skin, "God, Scully, I miss us so much, I can barely stand it."

She grips his shirt into her fists and whispers, "I miss us, too, Fox. I miss us desperately."

And everything dissolves into a delicious blur as she tunnels her fingers through his hair and pulls his lips down against her own.

And, oh my God, kissing him again is like reconciliation, like uttering a prayer in a church pew, washing away transgressions and beginning anew. His tongue spells apologies into the wet of her mouth that taste so glorious, she sucks them down like fine wine.

And once the dam is breached, they flood against each other in such a rush, they can hardly contain themselves. Their desperation is tangible, hovering in the air and spilling through their bodies with fury.

His hands are already on her breasts, coaxing her nipples in exactly the way he knows will make her whimper, and she's rapidly unbuttoning his shirt, absolutely ravenous to lick at the salt she knows has collected in the hollow of his throat.

The depth of their touch runs so many years deep, it's staggering. They know each other more intimately than they know themselves, and rediscovering it after hovering above an abyss for so long only makes the unwrapping that much more sweet.

Their shirts have made it to the floor, and he's fumbling behind her with the intention of adding her bra. But he never makes it that far, because it's much easier to just slide down the cups and take her flesh into his mouth immediately, frantically. His tongue rolls against one nipple while his finger toys with the other, and her head falls back as she pulls him even closer. God, he hasn't forgotten a single thing about her, and she groans in appreciation of his excellent memory.

She's losing her balance while his mouth devours her breasts, as he both pushes against her with hunger and pulls her back with need. She grasps his shoulders for support, and they stumble their way across the floor until finding the support of a wall. Her skull thuds against the hard surface, but she's too busy relearning the planes of his back to notice.

She grips at his arms, pulling him back up to her lips while she slides her hands around to finally cup his ass. His hips thrust against her belly in response, and their moans echo inside each other's mouths. She squeezes her fingers into his cheeks and murmurs breathlessly against his lips, "You fill out a pair of Wranglers quite nicely, Mulder…"

"Thanks Scully, but I'm afraid you're on the wrong side," he pants while nipping at her ear, "I fill the front out even more nicely." And he pulls her pelvis hard against his cock to illustrate. Her harsh gasp is music to his ears.

Before she can investigate for herself though, his hands have slithered around and he's frantically unbuttoning her pants. He cups her roughly through the satin of her panties, and groans as his fingers slip against the soaked fabric.

"Fuckkkk, Scully…"

She's panting now, drawing the air into her throat and releasing it in short bursts against his neck. The longing is literally pulsing through her veins. She wants his touch on so much more than just her clothing. She wants it imprinted onto her skin, engraved into her bones, etched within her soul. She grabs at his hand and struggles to convey her request, sliding his fingers beneath fabric until he's home.

He presses greedily into her wetness, first one finger, then quickly adding another. She leans back against the wall, closes her eyes, and releases a moan she's held imprisoned for months, "Ohhhh Godddd…"

His thumb finds her clit and traces an "x", marking her, reclaiming her as his own. She sucks in her breath and arches fiercely against him in reply. She has always been his, always.

She grinds against him and he eagerly complies, working her until she can barely hold herself up. He is a sculptor, kneading her cunt like earthen clay, massaging her until she is warm, pliant, wet with slip and blossoming like a terra-cotta vessel.

But she wants, she needs… my God…, she can hardly think.

"Mul…, Muld…, Mulder…," she gasps between waves, "Please…" She's frantic and dizzy, falling beyond the parameters of her own body, eyes closed and fists clenched in the dampened air.

He slips out his hand to shove away his boxers and jeans, then presses himself back up against her. He is hard and willing and ready, and the sensation coaxes a delirious whimper from her throat. Jesus, has it ever been this hot between them? This fevered, this desperate?

He reaches between them to roughly remove the rest of her clothing, scraping his teeth against her throat, sucking at her pulse. They work together, while his tongue laves slick trails across her clavicle.

She yanks at his hair, drawing him back to her mouth, and climbs her way up his body in an attempt to consume him completely. She is ravenous, starved for him. She needs to feel him everywhere, to be wrapped tightly around him, tucked deeply inside him, immediately and simultaneously.

He grips her ass, lifting her fully against him, grunting at the feel of her slick flesh slurring against his own while her calves wrap themselves tightly around his waist.

"Wanna find out what this old house is made of?" he murmurs as he thrusts her hard against the wall. She feels tremors in the foundation as his fingers knead her rear and his tongue slicks beneath her jaw.

"God…, God…, Mulder…," she's already reaching for him, slipping her fingers between them, gripping him, stroking him, inviting him home.

And when he finally slides in, her "welcome back" is a sob, choked against his neck like prayer.

"Scully…fuck, Scully…," he moans. His cheeks are damp as they scrape against her temple, and she closes her eyes in thanksgiving. It is intoxicating to be in this place with him again.

Thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of her armpits, fingers splayed across her scapulae, he pins her to the wall like an artifact, to be treasured and cherished, lovingly beheld again and again and again. And when he begins to move, my God, she feels his reverence completely.

He is slow at first, tender, adoring, rocking into her so gently she aches. When she sighs into the warmth of his mouth, he breathes her in like air. But her patience only lasts so long, and soon she is grasping at him, urging him on, undulating against him with need.

"Tell me what you want, Scully, tell me…," he murmurs against her cheek.

"Fuck, Mulder…, you know what I want…, you know…," she is breathless, panting, and she both adores him and detests him for being such a tease.

He pulls her close, slipping his arms around her back to grip her shoulders, then slams into her, pitching her against the wall. And then he does it again. Over and over and over. She rolls her head against the plaster and groans in appreciation. God, he is exquisite.

But it's more than just physical, the way he's moving within her. She can feel him, pouring his emotion into every thrust. Love, regret, remorse, combining until he has laid himself bare before her. Until she is full and bursting with him, until he has given her everything he has left.

And she loves him for it.

She wants to tell him. That he's forgiven, that she understands, that they'll make it through this. But she can't. Because he's pounding into her so frantically, all she can do is close her eyes and feel, all she can do is experience their bodies, writhing and heaving against each other in glorious unison.

It is magnificent, the thud, thud, thud against the wall, the wet slap between their bodies, the grunts and gasps and groans falling from their mouths. He is thrusting her against the wall with such force that her favorite picture crashes to the ground with a tinkle of glass. But she doesn't care.

She doesn't care, because they are finally here. They are finally back to this place she thought had disappeared.

He's gasping into the air, his rhythm faltering. She knows he's close.

"Mulder…," she whimpers, finding his mouth, kissing him, fisting her fingers in his hair as she feels him shatter within her. She's almost there, almost there, and he reaches between them to grind his thumb into her clit. Breathless, she bucks against his hand, keening, splintering as she collapses against him in a million pieces.

When she's finally caught her breath, she finds herself still in his arms, limp and loose against his solid chest. He's gathered her fragments and has put her back together, spent, but whole and complete.

She settles her nose against his neck, inhaling the humid air that hovers beneath his jaw, sucking it into her lungs so she can possess it indefinitely. When gravity starts pulling at his legs, he sinks them to the floor, burrowing his face in her hair and whispering nonsense in her ear.

She clutches at him fiercely, desperately.

They cling to each other, softly kissing, gently caressing, relishing all they thought had been lost. It's divine, wrapped in this cocoon, safe and protected from reality.

But reality is persistant. It finds ways of intruding. With doubts, fears, insecurities. Tonight is no exception.

"When will you come home, Scully?" he murmurs softly into her neck, "I need you." It aches hearing the need in his voice, knowing she cannot yet help him soothe it.

She pauses. "I can't yet, Mulder. You know I can't. We need to take this slow," she hates being the one who always needs to be rational, when what she really wants is to climb into their bed, wrap herself in his arms, and never leave again.

But she's optimistic, hopeful. They've made it through the hard part.

She cradles his jaw in her hands and leans in to kiss him. "We can do this, Mulder, we can," she murmurs against his lips. He slips his fingers through her hair and kisses her back, relearning her mouth, committing it to memory.

"I know," he sighs, "but it won't stop me from missing you."

"No," she murmurs, looking down, "It won't stop me from missing you either. I've had a lot of practice."

….

Rebirth, while exhilarating, is not without its struggles. She realizes this. Growth is complex, changeable. With each new cycle, there are new paths to take, new decisions to make.

But there is also an endless sea of opportunity.

Their relationship will not perish. She won't allow it.

They have been through too much for this to be the end. Because there really is no end—she understands this now. There is only transformation, resurrection. The next rotation in the unceasing revolution of their lives.

This recent storm may have come close to overcoming them, but she's confident that in time, their tree will not only sprout new buds, it will thrive and it will blossom. It's the only option she'll accept.

She hopes he is just as determined.