A/N: I've wanted to write something like this for quite some time, and then after watching Milagro, it sort of wrote itself. Spoilers to everything up until then, obviously. Once again I want to thank The White Masque for helping me putting this one together – brainstorming ideas really does help! Feedback is much appreciated, everyone, happy reading!

I Won't Say I'm in Love

She was finally asleep.

He took a deep albeit shaky breath and shifted a little, thinking she would be more comfortable without his weight crushing down on her. As soon as he moved away, though, she began to stir. He eased his body against hers again, wrapping his arm around her protectively. She shifted even closer to him, pressing her back to his chest. The way she was clinging to him caught him off guard, as it had earlier, in his living room, at the aftermath of the assault.

His recollection of the afternoon was mostly a blur. Somehow he managed to call Skinner and the paramedics with her still shivering violently in his embrace. She refused to let him get to the phone; she clawed at his shirt and begged him not to leave her, forgetting in her frenzy that his phone lay mere five steps away, on the coffee table behind them. He made the calls from his cell phone which was in his pocket, and then gently swept her in his arms and carried her to his bedroom. He didn't even ask her permission to do so. This was not the time for timidity or chivalry, and she didn't protest, which in itself was somewhat alarming. She was limp in his arms, like a rag doll. Or maybe he didn't feel her weight because he was so utterly shaken himself. He placed her on his bed and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets so she wouldn't see how badly they were shaking. She didn't lie back; she scooted close to the bed board and leaned against it, pressing her knees to her chest. He sat next to her. He didn't dare touch her. He could almost hear her heart racing. She was clearly on edge and he wasn't sure what would make her go off.

"Scully," he whispered, but she kept staring at the opposite wall. He wasn't sure if she even realized he was sitting there. Her eyes seemed glassy, her skin deathly pale. Even her lips were trembling. "Dana."

Her eyes flickered to meet his. They glimmered with recognition, and it filled him with relief. "Is Skinner coming?" she asked in a voice so small it broke his heart. In their six years of partnership, she had suffered many attacks, but never had he seen her so messed up. She looked as frightened as he felt. At least she'd stopped crying. Listening to her sobs had always been unbearable to him.

He nodded, speechlessness taking over for a moment. "He's on his way," he managed once he found his voice again. He glanced at her blouse and winced. It was stained with her blood. It looked luminous against the pristine white. He reached out and carefully tugged at the hem. "Do you want to take it off?"

He wasn't really surprised when she shook her head no. "It's evidence," was all she said.

He wanted to protest, but he knew she was right, that he probably shouldn't have moved her from the living room in the first place, but he couldn't just leave her there next to the pool of her own blood, or even place her on his couch which bore silent witness to what occurred there not fifteen minutes ago. He didn't feel particularly guilty. He did what he thought was best for her and evidence be damned. He knew Skinner wouldn't argue or reprimand him. He looked at his watch, wondering what was taking them so damn long, then turned his attention back to her.

"Do you want me to make you some tea?"

"No, just..." Her eyes met his, wide and anxious and oh so blue. The intention, although unsaid, couldn't have been clearer. He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around her, grateful that she would trust him enough to ask as much. He remembered previous unpleasant incidents in which she insisted she was fine, even though she knew he could see right through it. There were no false reassurances now, no pretending, as she lay her head against his shoulder. She wanted him to hold her, and he was more than willing to oblige. It was the least he could do.

She was surprisingly responsive when Skinner arrived accompanied by a forensic unit. He had personally questioned her as the other agents swept the apartment for prints and analyzed the blood patterns on the floor. Others wandered to the basement, where he was told they found Padgett's body. Someone said he was holding his heart in his hand. He didn't go back downstairs for an affirmation. He stood watch on the doorway of his bedroom and watched his partner reply their boss' questions in a placid tone, not breaking once in his presence. But even Skinner, usually so proper and detached, seemed stunned by the incident. When they were done, hours later, evening had already fallen. Scully seemed spent, and Skinner ordered him to get her out of there and not let her out of his sight. For once, he was more than happy to comply.

She watched him as he packed an overnight bag for himself. She had discarded of her blood stained blouse as soon as she was allowed to, and was now wearing one of his tee shirts. She didn't protest as he helped her into her coat. She hadn't said two words since the forensic unit had left, but she didn't object when he told her he was taking her home. And even if she did, he was adamant to stand his ground. He couldn't stay there himself, with the ghost of Padgett still all over the place.

She was somewhat more talkative on the drive to Georgetown. He kept the conversation trivial and unimportant. He told her about a documentary he watched on TV the other day even though he thought as he was watching it that she would probably have hated it. He just wanted to keep her talking, distracted, and it seemed to be working. By the time he pulled the car into a vacant parking space in front of her building, she even cracked a tiny smile.

He made her some toast as she took a shower, and persisted she'd eat even though she insisted just as stubbornly that she wasn't hungry. She seemed more contemplative in the safety of her own home; she had closed off again. They said very little to one another. He had turned the TV on as background noise earlier. He didn't want to listen to the shower running; he didn't want to be caught listening to her sobs if she used the water to muffle the sound as he had suspected. He knew that if he heard her cry again, it would send him over the edge as well, for he had been holding back all afternoon. She didn't turn the TV off when she reemerged some time later, and he presumed she didn't mind it. She ate her toast in tiny bites, looking in the direction of the TV without really watching it. At some point she looked up at him.

"I don't want to talk about this tonight," she pleaded even though he hadn't actually asked her to. He guessed his probing gaze was enough of a request.

"Okay," he nodded. He reached over and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. It dawned on him a second too late it might not be a good idea, but it was too late to pull back. Luckily she didn't seem too disturbed by the motion. "How about you try and get some rest?" he asked softly.

She nodded slowly, but didn't get up right away. She eyed him wordlessly, hesitantly.

"What is it?"

"Could you...?"

The rest of the question remained in her eyes. He was on his feet in no time, turned off the TV, then guided her down the hall to her bedroom.

He drew comfort from her presence just as much as she had from his. He tried to relax, to let sleep take over him as well, but he couldn't. He was too alert. His mind just wouldn't shut up. Now that the worst of it was behind them, he could allow a moment of selfishness, because despite the horribleness of what had occurred, there was only one thing that really, truly bothered him.

Agent Scully is already in love.

He didn't know what to make of Padgett's statement. He hoped that he would be able to make sense of it with time, but the significance of the words was still staggering. He glanced at her as though for the first time and wondered how much else he hadn't known, because if this was true, he had no clue. Which was quite shameful, really; he was a friggin' profiler, a gifted one, he'd often been told. Surely he should have known this about her. He should have seen this coming. Scully had never been one to wear her heart of her sleeve, but he didn't even suspect she had a special someone in her life, someone she might –

Unless he couldn't know because it was too new. Unless Padgett was referring to something that blossomed in the past couple of days. Unless what he had walked in on the other day had more to it than what he had assumed it to be.

But that was impossible, wasn't it? Only a few days ago, she seemed horrified with the thought of Padgett sending her the Milagro charm, that anyone might do so. The idea that he would be interested in her was almost repellent to her. There was no way she would change her mind so quickly.

Only what if she did? What if the young writer had provoked her interest after all? She was obviously intrigued by him, almost despite herself, it seemed. And he was still ticked by the way she defended Padgett during his brief arrest, maintaining his right for a lawyer, restraining him for pushing too far. She seemed to have a soft spot for brooding, tormented men. Another man's image came to mind and he cringed, remembering where she ended up following her brief encounter with Ed Jerse. She vehemently denied that what Padgett had written about her in his book was accurate, but what if she'd only done so to appease him while truly, Padgett had figured her out, and this very fact brought on her change of heart? What if it happened so swiftly it was impossible for him to notice it?

What if he had lost his chance?

He couldn't remember a time where he wasn't in love with her, but he had only known for certain when he held her right after Penny Northern died. Somewhere along the way she had become the most important thing in his life, more important to him than his Truth. The thought of losing her was excruciating. Throughout her battle with cancer he denied those feelings, telling himself the timing couldn't have been worse, that it would be twice as bad if he indeed lost her, but there was very little he could do about it. And when her cancer went into remission, it was as if something inside him had awakened. He felt as though he'd been given a second chance.

Yet even then, he had never acted on it, not really. He told her he loved her once, but the declaration was halfhearted and drug induced, and she didn't take him seriously. Why would she? He'd also asked her to marry him several months before and he was obviously joking back then. The second time he tried to tell her, she collapsed in his hallway following the sting of a bee infected with a virus. This was when he figured it was probably not meant to be. Mostly he was good in keeping his feelings at bay, but when he found her lying unconscious on his living room floor earlier that day, all he could think of was how much he loved her, and how she would never know now.

Could she really have been in love with Padgett? He was shocked when she told him his next door neighbor was her secret admirer, a notion he himself had lightheartedly suggested without really thinking there was much to it, and secretly reveled at the indifference her tone carried as she dismissed him outright. He honestly thought that was the end of it, until he barged into Padgett's apartment and found her there, in his bedroom, no less. It was worse than that one time when he broke into her apartment and found her about to kiss him, or Eddie Van Blundht who had pretended to be him. That time had filled him with hope. Now all he felt was rage, and blinding, ridiculous envy.

Because if writing about her and sending her mysterious love tokens wasn't enough, Padgett also saved her. By sacrificing both his manuscript and his own life, he saved hers, thus proving his complete devotion to her. Would she find this irresistible when she woke up the next morning and finally learned of what transpired in the basement of his building? Would she mourn Padgett's death once she knew it was so that she could live?

He tried telling himself that it didn't matter. If his partner was in love, he should offer his condolences for her loss and stay the hell away because it was none of his business. He had already caused her enough harm. He had no reason to feel hurt or betrayed. If she really was in love and kept it from him, she had a good reason for doing so. And if Padgett was the one who had stolen her heart, well, he'd settle on being the friend that he hoped he was to her and help her get through it. It wouldn't be easy, but he owed her as much. There was no reason why they would both be heartbroken.

He pressed his nose against her hair, breathing her in. She was so warm. He felt selfish, as though he was taking advantage of her pain, but at the same time he couldn't help it. He couldn't stay away. Everything would be different in the morning. They would discuss what happened, and he would have to be the one reminding her that Padgett was dead. They would get on with their lives, and he would never tell her. He had missed his chance. Besides, why would she want him? Already she had lost so much because of him. God knew why she was keeping up with him as his partner; surely that was more than enough.

And yet, from some reason, she had. That should give him some hope, shouldn't it?

He was asleep before he could figure out how to best answer the question.

xxx

When she opened her eyes, she felt as if she had been sleeping for days.

The room was swimming in shadows, but she recognized it as her own. It was late, probably way after midnight. She was safe and warm in her bed, with Mulder's arm draped around her waist. His warmth wrapped around her like a cocoon. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to have him there beside her, spooning against her with his head resting against her shoulder. He was fast asleep, snoring softly in her ear. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

She was reluctant to fall asleep at first, fearing nightmares and fitful slumber, but there was none; only endless darkness. His presence was comforting. Throughout the afternoon, he was nothing but tender and attentive towards her. In any other circumstances she might have scolded him for treating her like a fragile doll, but today she was grateful for it. From the moment she regained consciousness and found him looking down at her, he didn't let her out of his sight.

She remembered every last detail of the passing afternoon, but didn't let her mind wander in that direction. Not tonight. Not when she finally stopped shaking. She closed her eyes, determined to fall back into obliviousness, but all she saw was that hooded figure looming over her. She focused instead on her dark bedroom, on the sound of his breathing, on the beating of her own heart.

She felt drained. She'd come to expect it following incidents such as this one. It was pathetic, the way these assaults and their aftermath were becoming somewhat of a routine for her. Only this one was different than the psychos she'd encountered in the past. This was no liver-eating mutant or a death fetishist. This one felt more personal somehow, and thus far more traumatizing. She felt fine though, in control of herself. Being a doctor sucked sometimes; she knew it was probably an illusion, her body's way of protecting itself, and that reality would most likely come crushing down on her tomorrow, but at the moment she didn't care. She didn't want to think about it. A much more pressing thought sneaked into her mind. A memory jolted; suddenly she felt wide awake.

Agent Scully is already in love.

As if his uncanny ability to read her so well hadn't terrified her enough, his statement, so honest and so certain, caught her completely off guard. She was freaked out as it was when he recounted her life story, various details of her daily routine he couldn't have known unless he had studied her as carefully as he admitted to be doing. Under different circumstances she might have found it flattering. He was so intense; the mere sight of him sent a chill down her spine. Learning that she was an essential character in his novel was a shocking revelation, but it paled in comparison with those words he later uttered.

How could he possibly know?

She didn't look at Mulder as he said it. She didn't dare to. She knew he would sense her frantic reaction; he had a knack for picking up on those things. It was one of many traits which made him such a brilliant agent. And that made her all the more paranoid, because being the gifted profiler he was, surely Mulder would already know this about her. He was getting into the minds of monsters and serial killers on a daily basis; surely profiling his partner of six years was a piece of cake. Was it possible that he had known all along but deliberately kept it to himself, not wanting to upset or offend her? Could the thing she had worked so hard to keep a secret was no secret at all?

In many ways, she didn't even think of it as love until Padgett had spelled it out for her. As soon as he said it, something clicked into place. It all made perfect sense. Of course. She was in love. How come it hadn't occurred to her? But revelation also brought along panic. Because if Mulder knew –

She couldn't really pinpoint the shift in her feelings towards him. In a way, what she told Sheila Fontaine a few months back described her own situation to a tee. One day she looked at him and realized that the respect she had felt for him almost since day one was blossoming into something different. When she was covering for him, it was more than just for the sake of their partnership. Each time she was facing an actual risk of losing him, fearing she would never see him again, there was this anxiety she couldn't quite fathom, so intense she could barely breathe. And a few months back, upon meeting Diana Fowley, she couldn't explain this ache in her chest whenever she saw them huddled close together.

Only now she could. It was so clear. She was in love.

All this time, she had stood strong against his ongoing teasing and innuendoes. She somehow kept control when they went undercover as a married couple and he was getting all touchy feely, throwing himself into his role entirely. He had definitely given the impression he might be interested. The truth was she was the one wary of moving things forward. She'd been in this impasse too many times before; seeking for someone else's authority and approval. It happened with Daniel, then with Jack. But it was different with Mulder. Yes, he could be obnoxiously domineering when he wanted to, but he was the first man in her life to consider her his perfect equal. He didn't expect her to look up to him like some sort of a damsel in distress. Only a few months back he told her that she saved him a thousand times over. He told her she had made him a whole person. No one had ever told her anything that came close.

Whenever she allowed her heart to beat just a little faster at the recollection of what happened there in his hallway, the image of Diana Fowley was enough to bring her swiftly back to the ground. Because what true chance did she have against the older woman who had already had a history with Mulder, both personally and professionally? They shared a similar viewpoint; they discovered the X Files together. She even was just Mulder's type, a leggy mysterious brunette. Perhaps without Diana on the sidelines she might have stood some sort of chance, but with her looming presence…

What if it was too late for her?

She tried telling herself it didn't matter. Even without Diana's attempts to lure Mulder back into her arms, it could never be. Not so long as he was so committed to his Truth. She didn't want to be second best to his quest. She didn't want to be left behind and worry about him whenever he was off to confront government conspirators or chase little green men. She had enough of it now, as his partner. She didn't want to imagine how much worse it would be as his lover as well. Like she told Padgett, loneliness was a choice, one she was willing to make if she couldn't have him. Unrequited love must be easier to handle than heartbreak.

She reached for his hand and laced their fingers together, then slowly brought them to her lips. She didn't feel guilty for taking advantage of his obliviousness. She was so grateful for his presence, for the fact that their partnership had reached a point in which she didn't even need to ask him to stay, to hold her until she fell asleep. She knew how wrong this was, how inappropriate, and yet she couldn't stay away. It would be morning soon, and their lives would assume their familiar pattern. She would thrive on stolen moments such as this one, and he would never know.

He stirred in his sleep and sighed, slowly awaking. She pressed another kiss to his fingers before she reluctantly let go. She turned on her back to face him just as his eyes fluttered open. He seemed disoriented briefly before his eyes filled with concern.

"Scully, are you okay?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes flying across the room as if he suspected there was someone there.

"Shh… Everything is fine, Mulder. Go back to sleep." She found it funny she was the one reassuring him.

He chuckled darkly as if the same thought had crossed his mind and pulled away from her, leaning on one elbow so he could look down at her. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," she said honestly, for once not insisting she was fine. Feeling strangely defiant, she reached up and touched his stubbly cheek as she locked her gaze with his. "Thank you for staying."

"I didn't see it as an option," he replied gravely. "Plus, Skinner ordered me not to leave your side," he added, smiling sheepishly.

"Look at you, following orders."

He didn't come up with a witty backfire of his own. "Only when it comes to keeping you safe," he said, his eyes still dead serious.

"Mulder, I – "

"I know. You're fine. But I almost lost you."

The word he didn't say, again, echoed in the silence between them.

"But you didn't. I'm here."

I'm yours.

It was all in the words they didn't say.

She wanted to look away, knowing that if he stared at her long enough he would figure it all out. Oh, she was in love, alright. There could never be another option; there could never be anyone else. His eyes wouldn't release her and for a moment she was transported back to his hallway. It felt as if they were picking up right where they had left off. He was leaning towards her ever so slightly, and for one dreadful moment she thought he would kiss her. Dreadful, because she knew she wouldn't be able to resist if he did.

His warm lips lingered against her forehead, delicately, as though she was made out of glass. She savored the touch, but her lips remained burning. "Go back to sleep," he whispered. His hazel eyes were gleaming at her, telling her something else entirely.

I'm here. I'm yours.

Maybe there was still hope.