BLURRING THE LINES

BY

AllyinthekeyofX

THREE

"How did you know where to find me?"

Mulder shrugs lightly and grimaces as the movement pulls at his shoulder injury. I make a mental note to check it when we get back to my apartment, slightly ashamed that I haven't been able to bring myself to even think to do so before now. Past experience tells me that Mulder is just stupid enough to ignore any warning signs that the injury isn't healing as well as it should. But he quickly rearranges his features in the hope I haven't noticed and takes a step away from me, gesturing towards the lake below with his good arm.

"I know you used to come to the lake when you had Can..." he pauses and swallows and sadness abruptly overwhelms me that even after all these years he still has trouble with that word. "...when you were sick. So I played a hunch and after a couple of false starts...well, here you are."

"Here I am." I whisper, unable suddenly to meet his eyes because there is a part of me that is afraid of what I will see there or maybe more accurately, what he will see in me and I remember another time in another place where he searched for me before while the snow packed landscape stretched ahead of him in to infinity and his singular determination to bring me back pushed him to limits no one should ever have to endure. We've never talked too much about it – some wounds are just too painful to keep re-opening – but I have always known with blinding certainty that he was prepared to give his own life in an attempt to save mine; that he accepted the odds without question as he quite literally travelled to the ends of the earth to find me and bring me back. That he wasn't ready to give up on me then; that he isn't prepared to give up on me now. And I find myself feeling so ashamed suddenly of just how I have treated him these last few days. I have directed my own confusion, my own uncertainty and my own discomfiture squarely back at him when I essentially have no right or reason; because for years I have refused to allow him even a glimpse as to what actually lies behind the walls that over time have left me more damaged, more insular than I ever thought I could be and half of the emotions I keep locked away I don't actually understand myself, so how in the hell am I supposed to expect him to?

As though to contradict me, as though he is literally reading my mind he touches my arm gently and without even looking up I can hear the smile in his words.

"Least this time you were easier to find huh?"

And he trails his fingertips downwards until his gloved hand envelops my own, instantly warming me through the thin fleece gloves I wear. I hadn't realised just how cold my hands were until that moment; or of how the lighting had subtly changed around us, bleeding what colour there was from the landscape and casting everything in a peculiar luminosity that, after years of living through winters here I knew was a warning that a storm was gathering; a bad one if the weather warnings of this morning were to be believed. In fact, I could feel the temperature had dropped at least a few degrees since I had left my apartment and neither one of us, but Mulder especially, was dressed to get caught in a serious snowstorm.

"We should get back Scully. There's a hell of a storm brewing."

Reading my mind again Mulder? The thought makes me smile; the first genuine smile I think I have managed for days and I nod, waiting for him to release my hand from his. But instead he tightens his fingers around mine and pulls me in closer to him, our arms practically touching and despite the biting wind that has sprung up from nowhere, I don't think I have ever felt warmer than I do right now.

XXXXXXX

By the time we reach the haven of my apartment, the sky above has darkened to an ominous shade of purple and wind is howling around the building. Unsurprisingly, we hardly saw a soul on our return and the few we did see were hurrying along, heads bowed against the biting wind with hands thrust in to coat pockets, intent on getting home in to the warm as quickly as they could and for me at least, the blast of warm air that hits me as we step over the threshold in to my apartment instantly banishes the chill that was starting to creep upon me. Mulder though is shivering like a rain soaked puppy and despite trying valiantly to hide the fact that he is freezing, the hollow sound of his teeth clacking together kind of gives him away. I'm not surprised he's cold. His suit pants are soaked to the knees from the ankle deep snow and I'm in no doubt that his feet have benefitted from only scant protection afforded by the dress shoes he wore to work today. Hardly the correct attire to come searching for your errant partner through five inches of fresh snow; under normal circumstances I would be frustrated with him – angry even - but my fingers are still tingling pleasantly and frankly, I just don't have the heart. My tone though, leaves no room for argument.

"Hot bath Mulder. Right now." I gesture toward the bathroom "There's fresh towels in there. I'll fetch you some clothes."

The fact he immediately acquiesces speaks volumes but I know he won't be able to resist at least an attempt at a Mulder quip.

"Feel free to join me Scully. Plenty of room for two."

And despite what happened between us, the kiss we finally shared, I know that this time he is just teasing me because he feels that a glib comment is expected of him and which does more to dispel the niggling fear that has been my constant for days than I think anything else could. Because this is normal, this is him and this is us.

"In your dreams Mulder...and Mulder? Don't get those stitches wet or I'll kick your ass."

"Promises, promises Scully"

I shake my head, knowing that he has to have the final word. The final word that has set a pattern during our long partnership and one which I usually concede because if I didn't he would carry on with the verbal sparring all day long.

I've always known that he has a reputation for arrogance and it's all too easy to see why but those who know him well – and I can count on one hand just who he has allowed that singular privilege – know that much of that perceived arrogance is simply Mulders way of protecting himself. Of projecting an unshakable self-belief that cushions him from the deluge of incredulous ridicule he has suffered over the years. Because despite the facade he tries to hide behind, I know it's all pretence; because while he has become skilled at outwardly ignoring the constant jibes, immune to them he certainly isn't and I sometimes find myself marvelling at the fact that he has managed to survive at all. And while it would take a thousand armies to drag it out of me, it's the reason I could never leave him. Not now; not after everything we have shared. Because I have seen him fall too many times when he reaches breaking point; when the pressure becomes too much and his self respect is replaced with a self loathing that creeps up on him. An insidious darkness that would, if it were permitted, devour him from the inside out.

I decided a very long time ago that I could never let that happen; that whatever it took I would remain with him and even though it weighs heavily on me at times the sacrifice, if it can be described as such, is worth it to me. Because I love him; a love that transcends all boundaries and one which sometimes threatens to consume me with an intensity that scares me beyond rational thought when I consider just what my life would be without him by my side. So I tend not to dwell on it and right now I shake my head to dispel the thoughts before they overwhelm me, turning my attention to more mundane matters; switching effortlessly back to the Dana Scully that is practical and methodical and unruffled. My own way of surviving I think.

XXXXX

By the time Mulder emerges from the bathroom I have lit a fire in the small grate that is the focal point of my living room. He is wearing the t shirt and sweats that I had earlier removed from the drawer in my bedroom where they sat neatly folded alongside an almost identical set that he keeps here for situations just such as these and it hasn't escaped me recently that somehow, along the way, other items of Mulders have joined them. A pressed suit, a dress shirt and tie which hang in my closet and which, assail my senses with the scent of him each time I open the door, a pair of faded jeans hanging beside them that he left here after spending the night on my sofa and which he never saw fit to claim, a small drawstring bag containing a razor, toothbrush, shower gel and shampoo which I actually went out and purchased after he complained one day after showering here that it was a dent to his masculinity to have walk around all day stinking like a sidewalk florist display. His toothbrush is kept permanently on stand-by on my bathroom shelf, keeping my own company in the frosted tumbler that matches the soap dish. And when I really think about it, it probably seems a little odd to some that we keep such personal items to hand in each other's homes; but to us it's just how it is. The years have made us both comfortable enough with each other for it to be normal. Friday night movie nights have become a weekly tradition and only rarely do we bother driving home from whichever apartment we happen to find ourselves in and I've spent many nights sleeping peacefully on Mulders soft leather sofa where he has covered me gently with the old Navajo blanket before retreating to his own bed.

I'm conscious now though that he is lounging in the doorway that leads from the hall to the living room, just watching me as he watched me in the office earlier and I know that sooner or later we are going to have to talk; to bring this thing out in to the open – this thing that for reasons I still don't understand, made me retreat from him in a way I haven't in years.

But right now, I have more pressing matters to attend to.

"Come over here Mulder and let me take a look at your arm".

The look on his face tells me instantly that I'm not going to like what I see and neither the redness around the ugly row of stitches that are holding the deep wound together nor the strangled hiss of pain he emits as I start to gently probe the wound with my fingertips particularly surprises me. Because while I couldn't say that it's raging with infection, it is certainly inflamed way more than it should be and I struggle to keep my tone neutral, knowing him well enough to know that accusation and judgement on my part will just seek to put him immediately on the defensive.

"When did you last take your antibiotics?"

He doesn't answer but at least has the decency to look contrite. Because without him having to confirm it, we both know that he hasn't bothered. And by the look of the wound, the 6 hourly anti inflammatories have also gone by the wayside.

I resist the urge to call him an idiot. Because he already knows he is and I have never been able to fathom just why he seems to put so little stock in his own well being; this man who will cross continents to keep me safe but who seemingly lacks the ability to take a pill that will keep him healthy.

I know the hospital prescribed him Naproxin due to the nature of his injury, an antibiotic often used to treat animal bites where the risk of infection is high and they had teamed it with a fairly effective painkiller which, if memory served me, was most likely Augmentin. It seemed like the logical choice under the circumstances and one which I myself would have prescribed. Unfortunately for him though, I didn't have the same luxury of choice and the best I could come up with at short notice was Amoxicillin and Vicodin. He pulled a face at the Vicodin, a drug which I know from past experience makes him drowsy and occasionally nauseous but he had the good sense not to argue, taking them both without comment and resting back on the sofa, angling his body slightly so his uninjured shoulder takes the weight of him and I half expect him to close his eyes but he doesn't. Instead he shifts position slightly and turns them on me, the colour dark and intense with the flickering flames of the fire reflecting within. And there is something in the way he looks at me that makes my heart begin to beat painfully inside my chest; respect, gratitude and an aching vulnerability that, if I really thought about it, would break me in two, a man of such complexity, of such intelligence and such compassion that he is sometimes unfathomable to me.

"You want to know why I kissed you?" his voice is soft, barely more than a whisper as he leans toward me, cupping my chin in his palm, his long fingers brushing my cheek and I can't move, can't breathe, can't find the words to answer him, so I just nod my head slightly, almost unconsciously inclining my head towards him as he moves closer, feeling his breath against my neck which makes me shiver despite the warmth he radiates.

"I kissed you because I was still with you. Because I don't want to die regretting all the things I should have said to you...because I don't ever want to die with you not knowing and because you deserve so much more."

And slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, he brings his lips to mine, teasing me, tasting me, claiming me finally as his, deepening the kiss as I slide my hands around his neck, even now carefully avoiding putting any pressure on his injury as I close my eyes, savouring this moment, knowing that I am falling, that finally I am falling and that this time, there will be no going back.

Continued Part four

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