Title: Truly Madly Deeply 5/5
Author: Somogyi
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com
Category: SRA
Rating: R for language, adult situations
Spoilers: Through Season Six
Keywords: MSR, MS Married
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.
*****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Somogyi
somogyi02@yahoo.com
Part 5
We manage to restrain ourselves until we get into the hotel elevator. The moment the doors close and we find ourselves alone, however, I find I can no longer hold myself back. I reach up, cradling his head in my hands, and pull his face toward mine.
The elevator bings and opens on my floor. Thank God no one's waiting for it. Somehow, we manage to make it into the corridor and to the door of my room. I start rummaging through my coat for the keycard. I feel his hands on my shoulders. He spins me around, pins me against the door with his body. His lips blaze a trail of fiery kisses down my jaw and neck. I swear, if I can't find that damned card in the next minute, I'm going to have him take me right here, right now.
I gasp as his mouth finds the swell of my breast just as my hand finally locates the card.
I manage to reach behind us and swipe it through. With a click, the door unlocks, and I turn the handle. We all but fall into the room.
We cross the threshold, and one of us kicks the door closed behind us. Various items of clothing fall to the floor, leaving a fabric trail toward the bed. We fall to the mattress as one, arms and legs intertwined. I start to pull myself back up the bed toward the pillows to give us more room.
Something sharp pricks my back and I cry out.
"What is it?" he asks, concern filling his voice, his face.
I arch my back, reach behind me to remove the object in question. It's the yellow rose I found in my room earlier that evening.
"Oh, shit," he mutters as I toss the flower onto the nightstand. "Scully, I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault. I'm the one who left it there."
"Here, turn over. Let me take a look."
"Mulder, it's nothing. Don't worry about--"
"Go on, turn over," he insists, hands gently but firmly grasping my hips and helping me flip over onto my stomach. He straddles my thighs, moving his head closer to get a better look.
"Well?" I ask, my cheek resting on the pillows.
"It drew blood. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."
Expecting him to get up in search of a first aid kit and antibiotics, I'm about to tell him not to bother. But then I feel his tongue, warm and wet, gently glide across my back, followed by his lips, placing a soft kiss over the tiny wound.
A shiver runs through me in response to this new sensation. "You're not going to transform into a bat and fly away on me, are you, Mulder?"
"Wasn't planning on it. Not right now, anyway. Oh, look, I must've missed a drop."
Oh God. I can't help but moan as he repeats the motions, his tongue tracing a lazy circle on my shoulder blade.
"How's that feel?"
"Heavenly."
"Did the rose get you any other place, Scully? Any other wounds I need to know about?"
"Here," I murmur, reaching for the flower. "If it didn't, we can make some."
"Never realized you were into S and M." He laughs as he takes it from me. "Hey, Scully?" He softly glides the rose petals lightly down my spine, and I can't help but shiver.
"Hmm?"
"Do you know what day it is?" He moves the petals to the small of my back, our own personal erogenous zone.
For some reason, it seems difficult to keep a clear thought. "Uhm .. . Thursday, I think."
He uses the flower to softly trace the circle of my tattoo. The ouroboros, a snake swallowing its own tail. No end, no beginning. Like I feel about Mulder and me right now: I don't know where he ends and I start.
"Yeah, I know it's Thursday. What I meant is do you know what *date* it is?"
"Mulder, do we really . . . mmm . . . have to play . . . nnnhh . .. twenty questions right now?"
He continues on down my body, the gossamer-light touches of the petal now gliding over my bottom, toward the back of my thighs.
"Seriously, Scully, do you know the date?"
I rack my brain, trying to remember. I wrote it on my damned report that morning, spoke it into the tape recorder during my autopsy.
He's down past my calves, approaching my ankles.
"The sixth," I gasp. "The sixth of March."
"That's right," he says, tickling the bottom of my feet, making me squirm. "March sixth."
The way he says the words, lingering on them, I realize that this date holds some sort of importance. But I'll be damned if I can think of what it is.
He begins to trace a path back up my other leg, and I let out a low groan. "I don't know, Mulder."
"Don't tell me you don't remember what happened on this day."
"Remember--Oh!--what?"
"I thought guys were supposed to be the ones to forget about these kinds of things." He says it jokingly, trying to make light of my forgetfulness. But I know him too well. There's an undertone of disappointment in his voice.
I turn over, onto my back. "I give up, Mulder. What's so special about today?"
I watch as the smile fades, as his face sinks. "You're serious, Scully? You really don't remember?"
I shake my head. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell." I'm tired of this game. I want us to finish what we've begun. "Now, c'mon, Mulder," I say, reaching for him. "You've flown all the way out here. Let's not waste any more--"
I realize, then, that he's not responding to my touch. He pulls away, sits back. His face is blank. There's no longer any trace of the desire that consumed him a few minutes earlier.
Goddammit, why is he doing this? Things had been so perfect. We were so happy. Why is he ruining this night for me? For us?
"Mulder, I have no clue what this is about. Why don't you just tell me?"
His brow is creased. It's a familiar gesture. He's getting annoyed.
"You should know," he says, his tone biting.
"Mulder, *you* should know that I hate these silly little games. I'm not the one with the goddammed photographic memory! What the hell do you expect from me?"
He's getting out of bed.
"Oh, for God's sake, Mulder!" I try to do what he does, make light of the situation. "Okay, what was it? The day you lost your gun? The first time Skinner gave us a reaming? Oh, I know--it must have been that time you saw a little green man. Oh, but there were so many times. . . ."
"I'm glad you find this so funny. I'm glad I amuse you." He starts pulling on his pants.
"Mulder, what are you doing? Where are you going? Why don't you just come back to bed?"
He doesn't reply this time. Instead, he heads for the nearest exit--the door leading to the balcony.
I don't know what to say anymore. I don't know what it is he wants to hear. "Mulder, I thought you were just making this up. Finding an excuse to celebrate, to make the night more romantic."
I swear, I see him flinch, as though I just dealt him a physical blow.
He really is going to walk away. I'm desperate now, grasping at straws. "Hell, Mulder, you said yourself in the notes: 'Just because'."
He turns back to face me. He stands ramrod straight, hands at his sides and balled into fists. He has the most stricken expression on his face. It's a look of hurt. Of sorrow. Of . . . betrayal.
There's a cold feeling growing, festering deep in the pit of my stomach.
When he speaks, his tone is glacial, unfeeling. "It's our anniversary." Without another word, he turns around and walks outside, slamming the glass door behind him.
Our anniversary? What is he talking about? We weren't married in March. Am I not the only one
whose memory is failing?
"Goddammit!" I sit back against the headboard, sigh in frustration.
If I'm to have any hope of salvaging this night, of repairing the damage my lapse in memory has created, it looks like I'm going to have to figure out this little mystery with which he's presented me.
An anniversary, he says. On March sixth. Some sort of significant event for us. A first. What could it be?
As I try to recall, my eyes wander around the room. I see pieces of our clothing strewn across the floor, on the edge of the bed. A few feet away on the carpet, the red rose lays on top of his undershirt. On the rumbled bedspread beside me sits the yellow rose. I look from one flower to the other and back again.
Everything has a meaning, I realize. When it comes to romance, Mulder is a stickler for details. He likes everything to be perfect. Everything has significance. Two roses. Why did he choose those colors? Why did I receive the yellow first, then the red? And what does it all have to do with March sixth?
I close my eyes, let my mind wander. I try to recall all of the noteworthy events in our lives. Things that we've done. Things that have happened to us. Together. Logic tells me I should start at the beginning--
It hits me then, abruptly, with the sudden clarity of a salvaged soul who has found the light.
"Oh shit!" I mutter, covering my face with my hands.
I find myself flushing, guilt and humiliation filling me.
My Lord, how could I forget? How could I have forgotten such a significant day? Such a momentous occasion, though neither of us knew it at the time. A day that changed both of our lives--both of us--irrevocably. An event that started us on the common path, the shared journey, that has since bound us together.
Oh God, what have I done?
It all makes so much sense now.
He has gone to all this trouble--the notes, the flowers, flying out to Pennsylvania--so that we could spend this special day together, and I didn't even realize why.
Why do I suddenly feel like Judas, guilty of the most heinous of crimes?
I've got to go to him, to tell him I finally remember. I've got to make things right.
I just hope it's not too late.
I scramble to my feet, searching for something to wear. The first thing I find is his dress shirt. I quickly pull it on, fasten some of the buttons. I pick up the flowers and follow him out onto the balcony.
The door slides shut behind me, and I find myself hesitating. I take a moment to look at him, to study his silhouette in the moonlight. His tall, lean form is bent over, hands gripping the railing tightly. He's staring up at the night sky.
If he knows I'm there, he makes no indication.
"Mulder. . . ."
He bows his head, as though in defeat, but still does not acknowledge my presence.
I've hurt him deeply. Unintentionally. But I've wounded him nonetheless. I just hope that as I've healed his injured body in the past, I can now mend his ailing heart.
Why do I falter? Why do I find my confidence failing me?
Because there has never been anything or anyone more important to me than this man, than my love for him.
The thought of losing it--of losing him--is unfathomable.
*So stop wavering, Dana, and go tell him how you feel. Time to take the direct approach. You've got nothing to lose--except him, and therefore yourself.*
With a deep breath, I walk over to stand beside him.
"March sixth, nineteen ninety-two. Shortly after nine a.m. I knocked on your office door in the basement of FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C. You called out 'Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted' as I swung the door open and walked inside. I looked around at the cluttered space, took it all in: the books and magazines, the newspaper clippings adorning the walls, the poster of the UFO with the words 'I Want to Believe.'
"I approached where you sat at the side table, sifting through slides. You turned around to face me, and I swear my heart skipped a beat. I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so goddamned good looking.
"You sat there in your rumpled shirt and loud tie, a stray piece of hair falling onto your forehead, a smug expression on your face. But what got me were the glasses. I've always been a sucker for a man in glasses.
"You shook my hand limply. God, I hate that. Men judge one another on the strength of their handshakes, and yet when they shake a woman's hand, it's like holding a goddammed fish."
I see the corner of his mouth quirk, and this small gesture gives me hope.
"I remember thinking then, wondering, 'He's not going to be one of those, is he?' One of those male chauvinists who's going to try to protect me, to coddle me, who won't let me do my job and pull my own weight.
"I introduced myself, told you I was looking forward to working with you. You replied, 'Oh, really? I was under the impression you were sent here to spy on me.' And you had that smartass, shit-eating grin on your face.
"The whole time, you kept those humdingers coming. While discussing my credentials, you pulled out a copy of my senior thesis, made a remark about my rewriting Einstein. I asked if you had even bothered to read it. 'I did. I liked it. It's just, in my line of work, the laws of physics rarely apply.'
"You turned on the slide projector, asked my opinion on what was to become our first case. You were testing me, of course. Trying to determine the extent of my scientific background, whether I was open to extreme possibilities. That's when things got interesting. A verbal fencing match ensued. You lunged. I parried. We each held our own.
"And then you played your ace-in-the-hole: Voice husky, tone only half-serious, you asked me, 'Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?' I immediately launched into some tirade about the scientific implausibilities of aliens and space travel, and you all but rolled your eyes at me. It was positively infuriating.
"I realized then that this was going to be a challenging assignment, working with you on the X-Files. I was going to have to stay on my toes if I was going to keep up with you, with the fast-paced leaps and bounds of your mind. If I was going to prove your more . . . eccentric . .. ideas scientifically impossible.
"And then, when I turned to leave, you offered some parting words and shook my hand again. Except this time, you clasped my hand tightly. The grip was firm. I had passed the first test. You found me a worthy partner. I knew, then, that this assignment was going to be different. You saw me as a capable, competent fellow agent. Sure, a little green around the edges. But my mind was sharp, I was quick on my feet, and I was willing to go the extra mile to get the job done. The fact that I was a woman didn't matter--you didn't hold that against me. I knew then that this was going to be an equal partnership--give and take from both sides. Little did I know that our partnership was going to become the single most important relationship in my life."
By now, Mulder has released his death grip on the railing. He's turned to face me, his eyes riveted to my face as I recall the details from our first meeting.
I can see that he's surprised I remember the day with such vivid detail. How could I not? I must have replayed the events of our first encounter over and over in my head at least a dozen times that same night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I'm surprised he does not realize how deeply he affected me from day one. I guess I should've told him sooner.
"I'm so sorry, Mulder," I say, walking closer to him. "I never meant to hurt you. You know I've never been good with dates. But I haven't forgotten the events of that day, or their importance to us, our relationship.
"For me, every day is a celebration of our anniversary. Every day I thank God that you came into my life. First, as a friend--"
I hold out the yellow rose, gently run the petal across his cheek.
"And, later, as my lover, my husband, my other half."
With the other hand, I reach out with the red rose, touch it to his lips, run it down his chin, his neck, his chest.
I trace a path back up the way I came. Only this time, instead of the flower, I use my mouth. I place soft butterfly kisses on his chest, slowly making my way upwards, over his collar bone, onto his neck, his jaw, his chin. I stop mere millimeters from his mouth.
I decide to draw out the anticipation a bit more.
I kiss first one lip, then the other. Then I pull back.
His eyes slowly open. Two pools of rekindled desire, burning brighter than ever.
I've gone this far. Might as well continue the sweet torture.
My tongue darts out to the corner of my mouth, wets my bottom lip.
That seems to push him over the edge. Almost before I realize what's happening, I feel one hand bury itself in the hair on the back of my head, the other on the small of my back. He's pulling me towards him. My body pressed against his, my lips on his. We move backwards, our kisses fervent in their intensity, our movements almost frenzied in their urgency. We stop as my back encounters the cool glass of the balcony door.
I feel his hands on my waist, lifting me. I reach for him, arms snaking around his neck, legs wrapping around his hips. Somehow, he manages to find the handle to slide open the door, and he carries me inside, over to the bed.
He starts to kneel on the edge of the bed. I lay back, still holding him, pulling him down with me. I reach down, unfasten the zipper of his pants, and he wriggles out of them. As his nimble fingers undo the buttons of the shirt I wear, one by one, his gaze fixes on my face.
He looks down at me, and I see his love for me reflected in his eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I could lose myself there, in the endless depths of his eyes, his soul. Lose myself in my love for him.
I love him. More than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life. More than I ever thought it possible to love another person.
I love him more with every breath I take.
Truly madly deeply.
"Happy Anniversary, Mulder," I murmur, encircling his neck and lifting my head toward his.
"Happy Anniversary, Scully," he replies, meeting me halfway.
Finis
*****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Savage Garden
I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish I'll be your fantasy.
I'll be your hope, I'll be your love be everything that you need.
I love you more with every breath truly madly deeply do...
I will be strong I will be faithful 'cos I'm counting on A new beginning.
A reason for living. A deeper meaning.
I want to stand with you on a mountain.
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever.
Until the sky falls down on me...
And when the stars are shining brightly in the velvet sky,
I'll make a wish send it to heaven then make you want to cry...
The tears of joy for all the pleasure and the certainty.
That we're surrounded by the comfort and protection of...
The highest power. In lonely hours. The tears devour you...
I want to stand with you on a mountain,
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever,
Until the sky falls down on me...
(BRIDGE)
Oh can't you see it baby?
You don't have to close your eyes 'cos it's standing right before you.
All that you need will surely come...
I'll be your dream I'll be your wish I'll be your fantasy.
I'll be your hope I'll be your love be everything that you need.
I'll love you more with every breath truly madly deeply do...
(CHORUS)
[repeat until fade]
I want to stand with you on a mountain...
Author: Somogyi
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com
Category: SRA
Rating: R for language, adult situations
Spoilers: Through Season Six
Keywords: MSR, MS Married
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.
*****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Somogyi
somogyi02@yahoo.com
Part 5
We manage to restrain ourselves until we get into the hotel elevator. The moment the doors close and we find ourselves alone, however, I find I can no longer hold myself back. I reach up, cradling his head in my hands, and pull his face toward mine.
The elevator bings and opens on my floor. Thank God no one's waiting for it. Somehow, we manage to make it into the corridor and to the door of my room. I start rummaging through my coat for the keycard. I feel his hands on my shoulders. He spins me around, pins me against the door with his body. His lips blaze a trail of fiery kisses down my jaw and neck. I swear, if I can't find that damned card in the next minute, I'm going to have him take me right here, right now.
I gasp as his mouth finds the swell of my breast just as my hand finally locates the card.
I manage to reach behind us and swipe it through. With a click, the door unlocks, and I turn the handle. We all but fall into the room.
We cross the threshold, and one of us kicks the door closed behind us. Various items of clothing fall to the floor, leaving a fabric trail toward the bed. We fall to the mattress as one, arms and legs intertwined. I start to pull myself back up the bed toward the pillows to give us more room.
Something sharp pricks my back and I cry out.
"What is it?" he asks, concern filling his voice, his face.
I arch my back, reach behind me to remove the object in question. It's the yellow rose I found in my room earlier that evening.
"Oh, shit," he mutters as I toss the flower onto the nightstand. "Scully, I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault. I'm the one who left it there."
"Here, turn over. Let me take a look."
"Mulder, it's nothing. Don't worry about--"
"Go on, turn over," he insists, hands gently but firmly grasping my hips and helping me flip over onto my stomach. He straddles my thighs, moving his head closer to get a better look.
"Well?" I ask, my cheek resting on the pillows.
"It drew blood. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."
Expecting him to get up in search of a first aid kit and antibiotics, I'm about to tell him not to bother. But then I feel his tongue, warm and wet, gently glide across my back, followed by his lips, placing a soft kiss over the tiny wound.
A shiver runs through me in response to this new sensation. "You're not going to transform into a bat and fly away on me, are you, Mulder?"
"Wasn't planning on it. Not right now, anyway. Oh, look, I must've missed a drop."
Oh God. I can't help but moan as he repeats the motions, his tongue tracing a lazy circle on my shoulder blade.
"How's that feel?"
"Heavenly."
"Did the rose get you any other place, Scully? Any other wounds I need to know about?"
"Here," I murmur, reaching for the flower. "If it didn't, we can make some."
"Never realized you were into S and M." He laughs as he takes it from me. "Hey, Scully?" He softly glides the rose petals lightly down my spine, and I can't help but shiver.
"Hmm?"
"Do you know what day it is?" He moves the petals to the small of my back, our own personal erogenous zone.
For some reason, it seems difficult to keep a clear thought. "Uhm .. . Thursday, I think."
He uses the flower to softly trace the circle of my tattoo. The ouroboros, a snake swallowing its own tail. No end, no beginning. Like I feel about Mulder and me right now: I don't know where he ends and I start.
"Yeah, I know it's Thursday. What I meant is do you know what *date* it is?"
"Mulder, do we really . . . mmm . . . have to play . . . nnnhh . .. twenty questions right now?"
He continues on down my body, the gossamer-light touches of the petal now gliding over my bottom, toward the back of my thighs.
"Seriously, Scully, do you know the date?"
I rack my brain, trying to remember. I wrote it on my damned report that morning, spoke it into the tape recorder during my autopsy.
He's down past my calves, approaching my ankles.
"The sixth," I gasp. "The sixth of March."
"That's right," he says, tickling the bottom of my feet, making me squirm. "March sixth."
The way he says the words, lingering on them, I realize that this date holds some sort of importance. But I'll be damned if I can think of what it is.
He begins to trace a path back up my other leg, and I let out a low groan. "I don't know, Mulder."
"Don't tell me you don't remember what happened on this day."
"Remember--Oh!--what?"
"I thought guys were supposed to be the ones to forget about these kinds of things." He says it jokingly, trying to make light of my forgetfulness. But I know him too well. There's an undertone of disappointment in his voice.
I turn over, onto my back. "I give up, Mulder. What's so special about today?"
I watch as the smile fades, as his face sinks. "You're serious, Scully? You really don't remember?"
I shake my head. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell." I'm tired of this game. I want us to finish what we've begun. "Now, c'mon, Mulder," I say, reaching for him. "You've flown all the way out here. Let's not waste any more--"
I realize, then, that he's not responding to my touch. He pulls away, sits back. His face is blank. There's no longer any trace of the desire that consumed him a few minutes earlier.
Goddammit, why is he doing this? Things had been so perfect. We were so happy. Why is he ruining this night for me? For us?
"Mulder, I have no clue what this is about. Why don't you just tell me?"
His brow is creased. It's a familiar gesture. He's getting annoyed.
"You should know," he says, his tone biting.
"Mulder, *you* should know that I hate these silly little games. I'm not the one with the goddammed photographic memory! What the hell do you expect from me?"
He's getting out of bed.
"Oh, for God's sake, Mulder!" I try to do what he does, make light of the situation. "Okay, what was it? The day you lost your gun? The first time Skinner gave us a reaming? Oh, I know--it must have been that time you saw a little green man. Oh, but there were so many times. . . ."
"I'm glad you find this so funny. I'm glad I amuse you." He starts pulling on his pants.
"Mulder, what are you doing? Where are you going? Why don't you just come back to bed?"
He doesn't reply this time. Instead, he heads for the nearest exit--the door leading to the balcony.
I don't know what to say anymore. I don't know what it is he wants to hear. "Mulder, I thought you were just making this up. Finding an excuse to celebrate, to make the night more romantic."
I swear, I see him flinch, as though I just dealt him a physical blow.
He really is going to walk away. I'm desperate now, grasping at straws. "Hell, Mulder, you said yourself in the notes: 'Just because'."
He turns back to face me. He stands ramrod straight, hands at his sides and balled into fists. He has the most stricken expression on his face. It's a look of hurt. Of sorrow. Of . . . betrayal.
There's a cold feeling growing, festering deep in the pit of my stomach.
When he speaks, his tone is glacial, unfeeling. "It's our anniversary." Without another word, he turns around and walks outside, slamming the glass door behind him.
Our anniversary? What is he talking about? We weren't married in March. Am I not the only one
whose memory is failing?
"Goddammit!" I sit back against the headboard, sigh in frustration.
If I'm to have any hope of salvaging this night, of repairing the damage my lapse in memory has created, it looks like I'm going to have to figure out this little mystery with which he's presented me.
An anniversary, he says. On March sixth. Some sort of significant event for us. A first. What could it be?
As I try to recall, my eyes wander around the room. I see pieces of our clothing strewn across the floor, on the edge of the bed. A few feet away on the carpet, the red rose lays on top of his undershirt. On the rumbled bedspread beside me sits the yellow rose. I look from one flower to the other and back again.
Everything has a meaning, I realize. When it comes to romance, Mulder is a stickler for details. He likes everything to be perfect. Everything has significance. Two roses. Why did he choose those colors? Why did I receive the yellow first, then the red? And what does it all have to do with March sixth?
I close my eyes, let my mind wander. I try to recall all of the noteworthy events in our lives. Things that we've done. Things that have happened to us. Together. Logic tells me I should start at the beginning--
It hits me then, abruptly, with the sudden clarity of a salvaged soul who has found the light.
"Oh shit!" I mutter, covering my face with my hands.
I find myself flushing, guilt and humiliation filling me.
My Lord, how could I forget? How could I have forgotten such a significant day? Such a momentous occasion, though neither of us knew it at the time. A day that changed both of our lives--both of us--irrevocably. An event that started us on the common path, the shared journey, that has since bound us together.
Oh God, what have I done?
It all makes so much sense now.
He has gone to all this trouble--the notes, the flowers, flying out to Pennsylvania--so that we could spend this special day together, and I didn't even realize why.
Why do I suddenly feel like Judas, guilty of the most heinous of crimes?
I've got to go to him, to tell him I finally remember. I've got to make things right.
I just hope it's not too late.
I scramble to my feet, searching for something to wear. The first thing I find is his dress shirt. I quickly pull it on, fasten some of the buttons. I pick up the flowers and follow him out onto the balcony.
The door slides shut behind me, and I find myself hesitating. I take a moment to look at him, to study his silhouette in the moonlight. His tall, lean form is bent over, hands gripping the railing tightly. He's staring up at the night sky.
If he knows I'm there, he makes no indication.
"Mulder. . . ."
He bows his head, as though in defeat, but still does not acknowledge my presence.
I've hurt him deeply. Unintentionally. But I've wounded him nonetheless. I just hope that as I've healed his injured body in the past, I can now mend his ailing heart.
Why do I falter? Why do I find my confidence failing me?
Because there has never been anything or anyone more important to me than this man, than my love for him.
The thought of losing it--of losing him--is unfathomable.
*So stop wavering, Dana, and go tell him how you feel. Time to take the direct approach. You've got nothing to lose--except him, and therefore yourself.*
With a deep breath, I walk over to stand beside him.
"March sixth, nineteen ninety-two. Shortly after nine a.m. I knocked on your office door in the basement of FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C. You called out 'Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted' as I swung the door open and walked inside. I looked around at the cluttered space, took it all in: the books and magazines, the newspaper clippings adorning the walls, the poster of the UFO with the words 'I Want to Believe.'
"I approached where you sat at the side table, sifting through slides. You turned around to face me, and I swear my heart skipped a beat. I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so goddamned good looking.
"You sat there in your rumpled shirt and loud tie, a stray piece of hair falling onto your forehead, a smug expression on your face. But what got me were the glasses. I've always been a sucker for a man in glasses.
"You shook my hand limply. God, I hate that. Men judge one another on the strength of their handshakes, and yet when they shake a woman's hand, it's like holding a goddammed fish."
I see the corner of his mouth quirk, and this small gesture gives me hope.
"I remember thinking then, wondering, 'He's not going to be one of those, is he?' One of those male chauvinists who's going to try to protect me, to coddle me, who won't let me do my job and pull my own weight.
"I introduced myself, told you I was looking forward to working with you. You replied, 'Oh, really? I was under the impression you were sent here to spy on me.' And you had that smartass, shit-eating grin on your face.
"The whole time, you kept those humdingers coming. While discussing my credentials, you pulled out a copy of my senior thesis, made a remark about my rewriting Einstein. I asked if you had even bothered to read it. 'I did. I liked it. It's just, in my line of work, the laws of physics rarely apply.'
"You turned on the slide projector, asked my opinion on what was to become our first case. You were testing me, of course. Trying to determine the extent of my scientific background, whether I was open to extreme possibilities. That's when things got interesting. A verbal fencing match ensued. You lunged. I parried. We each held our own.
"And then you played your ace-in-the-hole: Voice husky, tone only half-serious, you asked me, 'Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?' I immediately launched into some tirade about the scientific implausibilities of aliens and space travel, and you all but rolled your eyes at me. It was positively infuriating.
"I realized then that this was going to be a challenging assignment, working with you on the X-Files. I was going to have to stay on my toes if I was going to keep up with you, with the fast-paced leaps and bounds of your mind. If I was going to prove your more . . . eccentric . .. ideas scientifically impossible.
"And then, when I turned to leave, you offered some parting words and shook my hand again. Except this time, you clasped my hand tightly. The grip was firm. I had passed the first test. You found me a worthy partner. I knew, then, that this assignment was going to be different. You saw me as a capable, competent fellow agent. Sure, a little green around the edges. But my mind was sharp, I was quick on my feet, and I was willing to go the extra mile to get the job done. The fact that I was a woman didn't matter--you didn't hold that against me. I knew then that this was going to be an equal partnership--give and take from both sides. Little did I know that our partnership was going to become the single most important relationship in my life."
By now, Mulder has released his death grip on the railing. He's turned to face me, his eyes riveted to my face as I recall the details from our first meeting.
I can see that he's surprised I remember the day with such vivid detail. How could I not? I must have replayed the events of our first encounter over and over in my head at least a dozen times that same night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I'm surprised he does not realize how deeply he affected me from day one. I guess I should've told him sooner.
"I'm so sorry, Mulder," I say, walking closer to him. "I never meant to hurt you. You know I've never been good with dates. But I haven't forgotten the events of that day, or their importance to us, our relationship.
"For me, every day is a celebration of our anniversary. Every day I thank God that you came into my life. First, as a friend--"
I hold out the yellow rose, gently run the petal across his cheek.
"And, later, as my lover, my husband, my other half."
With the other hand, I reach out with the red rose, touch it to his lips, run it down his chin, his neck, his chest.
I trace a path back up the way I came. Only this time, instead of the flower, I use my mouth. I place soft butterfly kisses on his chest, slowly making my way upwards, over his collar bone, onto his neck, his jaw, his chin. I stop mere millimeters from his mouth.
I decide to draw out the anticipation a bit more.
I kiss first one lip, then the other. Then I pull back.
His eyes slowly open. Two pools of rekindled desire, burning brighter than ever.
I've gone this far. Might as well continue the sweet torture.
My tongue darts out to the corner of my mouth, wets my bottom lip.
That seems to push him over the edge. Almost before I realize what's happening, I feel one hand bury itself in the hair on the back of my head, the other on the small of my back. He's pulling me towards him. My body pressed against his, my lips on his. We move backwards, our kisses fervent in their intensity, our movements almost frenzied in their urgency. We stop as my back encounters the cool glass of the balcony door.
I feel his hands on my waist, lifting me. I reach for him, arms snaking around his neck, legs wrapping around his hips. Somehow, he manages to find the handle to slide open the door, and he carries me inside, over to the bed.
He starts to kneel on the edge of the bed. I lay back, still holding him, pulling him down with me. I reach down, unfasten the zipper of his pants, and he wriggles out of them. As his nimble fingers undo the buttons of the shirt I wear, one by one, his gaze fixes on my face.
He looks down at me, and I see his love for me reflected in his eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I could lose myself there, in the endless depths of his eyes, his soul. Lose myself in my love for him.
I love him. More than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life. More than I ever thought it possible to love another person.
I love him more with every breath I take.
Truly madly deeply.
"Happy Anniversary, Mulder," I murmur, encircling his neck and lifting my head toward his.
"Happy Anniversary, Scully," he replies, meeting me halfway.
Finis
*****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Savage Garden
I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish I'll be your fantasy.
I'll be your hope, I'll be your love be everything that you need.
I love you more with every breath truly madly deeply do...
I will be strong I will be faithful 'cos I'm counting on A new beginning.
A reason for living. A deeper meaning.
I want to stand with you on a mountain.
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever.
Until the sky falls down on me...
And when the stars are shining brightly in the velvet sky,
I'll make a wish send it to heaven then make you want to cry...
The tears of joy for all the pleasure and the certainty.
That we're surrounded by the comfort and protection of...
The highest power. In lonely hours. The tears devour you...
I want to stand with you on a mountain,
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever,
Until the sky falls down on me...
(BRIDGE)
Oh can't you see it baby?
You don't have to close your eyes 'cos it's standing right before you.
All that you need will surely come...
I'll be your dream I'll be your wish I'll be your fantasy.
I'll be your hope I'll be your love be everything that you need.
I'll love you more with every breath truly madly deeply do...
(CHORUS)
[repeat until fade]
I want to stand with you on a mountain...