CHAPTER EIGHT:

Room no. 201
Santa Cecilia Hospital
Las Vegas
March 24, 1985
Sunday

He didn't know how long he must've dozed off, but when he opened his eyes, he found Scully staring intently at him. He blinked several times to clear his blurred view, while she patiently waited for him to rouse from his sleep. He yawned heavily, eliciting a loud noise from his throat that echoed in the quiet room. When he returned his attention to Scully, she was smiling at him. That brightened him up. He scratched on his shoulder and yawned yet again.

"Hey," he greeted when he finished, this time stretching his long arms above his head. A few joints cracked in the process, which further widened Scully's smile. Mulder thought that she could brighten up a thunderstorm with that grin of hers.

"Hey," she answered back, tucking a hand under her chin. Her messy hair bundled up behind her, and Mulder had to laugh at her appearance. It was so un- Scully.

"I must look dreadful." She was a smart woman: taking clues and piecing them together.

Mulder mimicked her position, letting the amusement dance in his sleepy eyes. "No. You look okay for a patient. Do you need anything?"

She thought carefully, scrunching up her face and making little lines appear in the middle of her forehead. "I want to brush my teeth." Scully shyly turned her head away from him. "I mean; I feel so dirty. I cannot take dirty. At least let me brush my teeth, comb my hair... get this dextrose out of my arm..." She rattled her right arm with the IV. Mulder laughed.

"You're not that lucky, Scully." He stood up, lifting his arms towards the ceiling to have that full body stretch his muscles were pleading for. Mulder tossed the now useless white sheets on the bench, crumpling them up on one side and placing the pillow on top of them. Scully grimaced at the mess in front her.

"You should fix that. I know I would," she remarked. Mulder moved over to the table and picked up the basin he asked Byers to get last night.

"I know you would. But you can't do much about it right now, can you?" he teased, making her put on the most adorable scowl. Even with her dark eye bags and tousled hair, she still looked beautiful to Mulder. He opened Scully's trusty backpack (Mr. Jayson himself packed her things for her three- day stay in the hospital) and grabbed her green toothbrush with her toothpaste. He saw her comb and tucked it under his arm.

Scully was trying to comb her stringy hair with her fingers. It wasn't working as well as she wanted it to. "Dear Jesus, this is horrible. I have a companion who's bitching at me; a bad, bad, bad hair day, and I feel so untidy. What more could you do to me?" She gazed up the white ceiling, giving out her best "pity-me" look. Mulder went on to get one of the mineral water bottles that was left in the room and turned to Scully.

"I'd be bitching at you for three days, Scully. Here." He handed her the basin and the toothbrush utensils. She held the basin with both her hands and waited for him to finish pouring water on a plastic cup. Everything they needed was in the hospital room. He wasn't a Boy Scout special award recipient back in grade school for nothing.

Holding the basin to her face, they were able to maneuver quite well. Scully had her teeth brushed squeaky clean and even had her face washed. When that was done, he gave her the comb and she started brushing through the knotted strands with a wince here and there.

Mulder positioned himself on the bedside, anchoring his feet on his hospital bench beside the bed. He moved his temporary bed nearer to Scully so that he would be able to hear her if she ever needed him throughout the night.

"How are you feeling?"

Scully rubbed her eye with one hand and continued to wrestle with her hair using the other. "I'm fine, Mulder. I feel a lot better than yesterday. Do I still look pale?"

He cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. "Yeah. I guess you still do."

She didn't say anything and he didn't either. They were sharing a nice, comfortable, and rare (for Mulder) kind of silence.

They couldn't stay silent that way forever, unfortunately, so Mulder stood up and went over to the fruit basket. He began to hold up some fruits, asking which one she wanted to have for breakfast. A quick check on his wristwatch told him that it was only 6:32 AM – the hospital's breakfast did not come until 7 AM. She needed her nourishment for the time being.

She picked the pears for herself. He added an apple for himself.

They were already munching on the fruits when Scully opened up a topic that he didn't expect from her.

"Thank you for your help, Mulder. And for the beautiful lilies," she said, taking a big bite out of her fruit, which effectively hid her face from him.

Mulder smiled and was pleasantly surprised that she had said that. He had assumed that Scully was already his responsibility and that it wasn't necessary for her to keep thanking him. "It's... it's my job, Scully: to help you when you need me to."

She offered him a grin - that lilies-and-golden-summer grin of hers in return for his comment. And Mulder seriously believed in that moment, while she munched on her pear and smiled at him, that the whole day didn't matter anymore. All Scully had to do was smile that smile of hers and everything was going to be fine.

Everything was going to be okay.

He sat on that same hard bench, his hands clasped before him as if in a reverent prayer, facing Scully and her all- knowing look. They were spending the third and supposed last day in the hospital room with quiet glances at each other and Scully's aggressive gaze effectively conquered his own. He half wondered whether the news he had for her will have the same adverse effects that the news of having to stay in the hospital for three full days had, and he lengthened his arms before him, touching the cold metal of her bed's legs.

"What did Dr. Vast say Mulder?" Her tone matched her face, giving Mulder the perfect excuse to look down at his hands.

He had to spill it. She was an adult; she would take it as calmly as someone her age and stature would. So he did, spilling it all out in one breath.

"You need to stay two more days for another blood transfusion because the first one wouldn't be able to sustain your health for your upcoming physical performances." There he said it. It wasn't that drastic, was it?

Scully bobbed her head up and down composedly, swallowing once or twice as he knew that she was tucking her emotions beneath her heart. She had enough breakdowns in front of him and he understood her holding out this time around. Scully was a reserved woman. What he witnessed before - the vulnerable side of her – was unintentional; he could sense that was more than embarrassed about it and that she would now do everything in her power to stop herself from further breaking down.

"Another two days," she voiced out, finally. Apparently, those words were the only ones that mattered with what he had said.

"I'm staying here, if that's... that could make you feel better."

Scully managed a weak laugh, a different one from her giddy "ha's." It was more like a gasp to Mulder. "What am I suffering from?"

Mulder raised his head, giving up his fight and waving a white flag as he looked into her eyes. The blue hues were clouded, with tears pooling at her irises – but not falling, he took note of that. He couldn't help but admire her courage. "Anemia. Umm..." Mulder gathered all the facts that Dr. Vast had mentioned to him within a second, and he was ready to divulge them all out from his fabulous memory when Scully cut him off with her OWN explanations.

"Iron- deficiency anemia, pernicious anemia, or sickle- cell anemia?" Her voice shook as she carelessly recited those medical terms, and with her thick British accent, Mulder could hardly digest what she had just said. He thought he had a good idea, but still asked her to repeat herself. She did as he asked, this time slower and clearer.

"Dr. Vast said iron- deficiency anemia." He moved his head to one side, watching her eyes brighten with understanding. "That doesn't sound that bad, does it?"

"No. It is the most common form of anemia. I should be taking iron supplements after being released from this place. Did Dr. Vast mention anything about removing my spleen?"

That surprised him. Mulder didn't know what part shocked him the most - the fact she knew more than he would ever know about the sickness or that she asked about removing her own spleen. "Christ... no. Just blood transfusions. You lost acute amounts of blood from your hemorrhage."

"Would the treatment be repeated?" When that was said, Mulder swore that she almost sounded medical herself. He shivered from the cool air conditioning that hit his spine.

"I believe... that if you won't experience any more severe blood loss that this would be the last transfusion."

Mulder gazed into her eyes and was even more jolted as he found a spark of guarded fright in them. She broke their gaze and looked down at the white sheet on her lap, while playing with the folds with her small hands. "Did he... cite the... any cause?"

That part he completely missed. Dr. Vast mentioned something about it, like losing iron during childhood, during pregnancy, or plain insufficient iron in the diet. The doctor could not possibly pinpoint which of those probable causes would apply to Scully's condition, but trying to be helpful, he suggested that it could either be pregnancy (especially an end-of-term miscarriage) or that Scully was not eating well.

Mulder seriously felt upset when the Doctor mentioned pregnancy. Scully's only twenty, for God's sakes. And her tight figure had never showed any stretch marks or any of those telltale marks of a previous pregnancy.

Byers' wonderful statements two nights ago rang in his head as that occurred to him. How could he possibly know? He didn't have a single idea about the woman's past.

He tossed his feelings aside and reasoned with Dr. Vast that pregnancy could not be considered as a cause. Now, Mulder tried opening that same topic up to Scully so that he could be completely honest about her condition … and maybe, just maybe, she would be honest about her situation, too.

"The Doctor mentioned something about loss of iron during childhood, pregnancy, or insufficient iron diet." Mulder tried to sound as lost about the subject as he could, so he could let Scully open herself up a little and he could "pry" into her.

Scully was expressionless as she listened to him. When he finished, she smiled sideways at him. "I haven't been eating much during the past months ... especially when I arrived in America. I ... I didn't really have much money."

He hid his relief as he shifted in his seat. He didn't want her to see how much this affected him.

"I have been staying with you for only a few weeks ... and maybe the daily practices left me exhausted. Will the Doctor let me dance when I am released?"

"Yes. Of course he would."

"Ah," she breathed out, and they shared the same reprieve. "I'd have to get a diet of beef or calf liver then."

She knew a lot about her own sickness, Mulder thought. A lot more than a usual person should. The three- letter word "pry" danced in his head with the dexterity of Spunk, interlacing with each other until Mulder pushed them out of his thoughts. Her past wasn't his business. It was only her present and future that he should be worried about.

"That won't be hard. I'm sure Jenny would love to concoct something new for your liking."

"But I'm still staying here in Vegas until the show's done."

"You'd have to settle with my cooking, then," Mulder quipped. It was fairly arranged in his own mind that he'll be staying in Las Vegas with Scully in the apartment he had gotten her. He would be a personal caretaker of sorts, a male- nanny. That was the downside - the upside would be getting away from the chaos in his own Manor and being able to take care of some filming issues (like the script, for instance) in the silence of an apartment. He could get everything done when she was not around.

"You're staying here? With me?" she asked, incredulous. Mulder didn't understand what was so unbelievable about it. They had been living with each other for weeks now.

"Yes. I have to," he pushed, knitting his eyebrows. Scully shook her head vehemently, crossing her arms under her breasts.

"You don't have to do that for me. I could take care of myself," she indignantly stated, emphasizing it with an eyebrow that could defy gravity. She was stubborn - all spice and no sugar at all. Even when she was so vulnerable, she was tingling with womanly salsa. Mulder wondered silently whether he would ever discover a side of Scully that didn't consist of her shouting, her cursing, her hard-headedness, and her spunk.

"Sure. You could... that's why you're here right now," he argued, swinging one leg over the other. Scully faltered, knowing it was an argument that she couldn't win now.

"Fine. But don't you dare cook." She settled her back on the wall, still keeping her arms tightly crossed and her pink lips pouted. Mulder bit the inside of his cheek, maintaining his serious expression as they studied each other's faces, trying to intimidate one another until someone gave up.

He sighed. He already won during the first bout. He should let her win this time.

"I won't dare, 'coz I will cook. For your information, Ms. Scully, I am a great cook."

That made her arms drop to her lap and she opened her mouth to say something, but closed it, instead opting for a tight-lipped smile.

It was a sunny Friday afternoon, a lot sunnier than Mulder expected when he woke up. A ring of sweat was forming around his neck and a thin film of moisture was already covering his half- naked torso. He realized that he forgot to turn the air conditioning to high cool last night - actually, come to think of all of it, he had forgotten his whole routine last night. It was a routine that had been going on for at least four days, since Scully was released from the hospital. Byers went back to Los Angeles after being assured that everything was to be handled by Mulder.

She still had a month to stay in Vegas for her practices until her final show, so he resolved the matter about their temporary house by renting an apartment that was a block away from Mr. Jayson's dance studio. It had two bedrooms and a large moving space for them when they get tired of each other, and enough space for them to not forget that they had a perpetual companion. The furniture in their apartment was borrowed from Mr. Jayson himself (the better and normal half of his stuff), and the tiny details were added by Scully later on. She had a mighty grand time designing the whole spot, filling up the corners with her lilies and carnations ensembles once again. She even placed a small vase with a lily on his computer stand, which he returned to her room the next day. He thought it looked too girly for him. Scully thought it brightened up his dreary working space.

The final draft of the script arrived two days ago, bringing Mulder into a swirl of work. People kept dropping in and out of the apartment: from his producer, Walter, to his scriptwriter, Kimberly Young. They discussed the first date of shooting (which was still under debate), the final casting of characters (settled yesterday), and the locations of each shoot (mostly in Warner Brothers' studio, but there were some scenes that needed special backgrounds).

The last two days left Mulder high and dry. Out of his much-needed sunflower seeds snack, he had nothing to keep him at bay while doing most of his work. He was rereading the whole script when he fell asleep on his bed, with the lights on, the air conditioning sputtering, and with his glasses askew on his nose.

When he woke up, he was tucked into the bed without his shirt, glasses, and script neatly resting on his desk. He did the math quickly. The only detail Scully forgot was the air conditioning. Then again, he had always set the air conditioning in her room. She probably had no idea that it was turned on.

After eating the breakfast Scully left him, he returned to the script once again. He argued a couple of times with John on the phone about a certain location that had to be shot in New York, called Emily to ask how her day went, watched some TV to release the tension building up in his neck, and ultimately, as the clock strike 4:30, he started cooking lunch (he was very, very thankful to his Mother who forced him to enroll in cooking classes back when he was a teen. She was a cooking- obsessed woman who wanted her kids to be the same), and his daily specialty - liver steak.

The days had been passing in lightning speed for both Mulder and Scully. It was crazy, chaotic, and stressful.

He had been giving Scully extra care when she was released from the hospital. He made sure that she had her ferrous sulfate pills every day, fixed her up a dish that would consist of liver, and he had always been at her side whenever she got a nose bleed. It almost had been a daily occurrence for her to get nose bleeds ever since she was diagnosed. He was crudely getting used to it.

The whole apartment was still littered with the scent of his favorite dish, pasta primavera, when Scully entered the place, sweat dripping from her forehead and her backpack slung over one shoulder. She sniffed at the air cautiously as he waved at her a good afternoon.

"Spaghetti, and ..." She grimaced as another scent caught her sensitive nostrils. "Liver steak. Again." Dropping the backpack on the couch, she dug in her pocket for her handkerchief and wiped away her sweat. Mulder was still tinkering in the kitchen, transferring the pasta on a serving dish. She crept up behind him, watching his movements in silence. He thought that she was probably wishing death to the liver steak that he was just scraping off the pan.

"You need it, Scully," he piped up, handing her the prepared spaghetti dish from the counter. She received it with both hands, holding the rim with a towel to buffer the plate's heat. She hopped over to the small dining table that was adjoined with the kitchen.

"I don't need it every day."

"We want to be consistent so that you'll be well soon enough." It was the liver steak's turn to get on the serving dish. Mulder made sure that he would be delivering it to the table himself, or else Scully would probably throw it out the window. "And it's pasta primavera, not spaghetti."

"I don't think I can eat that, Mulder." His last statement was ignored. She was setting the table with their simple silver plates and utensils, making a place for him and her. Finishing that, she sat down on her spot, and he on his own, across each other.

Scully protested against the dish with her small squirms as Mulder poured her the steak on a separate dish. All was in order, and they started eating, with Scully ignoring the liver steak.

Mulder pointed at the steak with his fork. "You're not forgetting about that, Scully. You tried that ploy yesterday. It didn't work."

She shook her head persistently, taking a mouthful of pasta into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed fast, before answering him. "I'm not eating that, Mulder. I'm sick and tired of it."

"You need to eat it."

"I don't."

"You had a nose bleed yesterday. You're eating that steak until your nose bleeds are gone."

"I am not eating this dish anymore EVER."

Mulder gazed up into the damn ceiling. Why, of all the people in the world to have this strange arrangement with, did he end up having it with Scully? She argued with him, fought with him, and usually left him tired.

He gathered strength from his momentary rest, and settled back to the conversation at hand.

The answer to his question was quite easy, actually. That's because Scully had the talent that he deemed perfect for his debut movie. And he should be thankful that he was lucky enough to have her. He almost lost her to Alex Kryceck - a bastard at that.

"I'll eat it with you if you want." He moved his head to one side, as if telling her with his tongue stuck out, "top that!" Scully considered this and then pushed the small serving towards him. He didn't – he dug his fork into one piece of meat and quickly tucked it into his mouth.

Ugh. He forgot how liver tasted. Tangy, metallic, and purely disgusting.

Seeing the expression on his face, Scully wore the look of triumph on hers. He frowned at her and concentrated on chewing the damn thing.

Swallowing it took some more effort.

"Not bad, huh, Mulder?" She twisted a fork on the fine strands of pasta. Mulder groped for his glass of water and drained the damn thing in one toss. He'd gladly drink a pitcher of cold water just to remove the aftertaste of liver in his mouth.

Scully propped up her head on her hand, brushing away the wild strands of hair from her face. "Well? How is it? Good? Great? Better?"

Mulder forced himself to recover from the liver when he heard her say that.

"Fuck you," was all he could get out, and she giggled. Her childish giggle - unlike a normal woman's giggle - was low- pitched, not at all girly or flirty. All spice, no sugar.

He didn't push her to finish his liver steak again during the whole meal. He would have to call Jenny up back home and ask for a good liver recipe that'll mask the funky taste.

Since Scully also received her script the same day that Mulder did, she spent some of her free time studying her lines. That was when it finally dawned on Mulder to consider her acting abilities - sure, she could dance the whole movie away, but could she act? It was a movie, for Christ's sakes. And it didn't occur to any of them that Scully had to act ... everyone was enthralled when she danced. They got caught in the heat of the moment - or in the heat of finding someone as talented of a dancer as her.

Using most of his Spunk courage and keeping all the Spunk rules intact in his mind, he approached her on the living room couch while she was scanning the some latter scenes of the script. The TV set was playing a rerun of The Cosby show, white noise to add life to the apartment's somber mood. After their meal, Mulder busied himself with more phone calls with his staff. That used up most of his time: two hours during the whole process of reviewing the script, an hour to complain to John about his lack of his favorite brand of sunflower seeds, and another hour of writing in his planner.

Mulder was on the phone with Walter for the fucking nth time when the Producer mentioned that particular subject to him:

"You are very fond of her talent, like we all are -" Walter grumbled, obviously reaching the extent of his exhaustion. Mulder entrusted most of the business back in Los Angeles to his producer, since John Doggett was already on full load with his Monica coming to the end of her third trimester. His assistant, Marita, still wasn't in the shape for something as important as this, so Walter was his choice. He trusted the bald man with his life. "... And I'm wondering if you ... have any idea if she knows how to act."

That was the exact statement which bought him to the edge of the couch, waiting for Scully to acknowledge his presence in her vicinity.

She glared at him quizzically, and he shrugged. Sighing, and maybe even understanding the need for him to talk to her, Scully slumped the thick bind of script beside her, moving away from him to give him some space. That was all settled when Scully reached over and turned the TV off.

"Is there anything you need?"

Mulder rested his ankle on his knee, pushing his arms across the couch's thick back cushion. He made sure that his arm didn't reach Spunk's side, or else she'd swat it with one of her stinging slaps. "I want to know if you could ... handle the role. You've read the script more than once already, right?"

Scully reflexively reached for her golden cross, twisting it around her fingertips lightly. "Yes. I have. Are you worried that I cannot act?"

The way she read him didn't surprise him anymore, because he could do exactly the same to her: read her like a kindergarten book - all he had to do was look into her eyes and her emotions would be as plain as day to him.

"Umm... you are a wonderful dancer, Scully, but this is a movie. If you haven't experienced acting before, tell me now so I could get you acting classes."

Scully shook her head, letting her cross fall back on her clavicle. "No, no need for that. I can act. I... I wouldn't have had accepted this job if I couldn't."

"What's my guarantee that you could?" He was blunt about it, and he was sorry; however, it was his movie. He had to be sure that she could act. It was for the best of the studio and for the best of everyone involved.

"I was forced to enroll in theater workshops when I was young." Scully turned her head away from him as she recalled those memories. Mulder moved closer, eager to hear what she had to say. "Dancing is my first love ... and I danced even if my siblings didn't like it. So to keep my energy down, they decided to enroll me in acting workshops. I was officially enrolled in acting, guitar, piano, and art workshops. I was enrolled in all of them, except dancing."

Mulder laughed, relieved at best. He believed her. There was nothing to doubt about her statement. There was nothing to doubt about Scully herself.

"Go figure." She rolled her eyes, returning her attention back to him. For that quick span of time, Mulder knew that Scully missed Wales. The telltale mistiness in her eyes was enough for him to sympathize with what she was feeling - it wasn't easy for her to be jumping into the world of Hollywood when she should actually be in college … which made Mulder think about a particular topic.

"Scully... did you ever consider studying in a university? You're really too young to be all alone."

She smoothed her hair consciously, answering immediately before he could ask another question. "Yes. I had two semesters in college. I was accelerated in primary school."

Interesting. The earth wasn't as flat in her realm after all. Spunk had actually wanted something different from dancing and she was smart, too. "What were you taking up?"

To his surprise, a crimson blanket fanned over her pale cheeks. Mulder smiled at her reaction. He hadn't been seeing her blush for a long time now, and he wouldn't deny to himself that he loved seeing her all flushed up.

Scully pressed her palms flat on her cheeks, bowing her head. "I was actually taking a pre-med course."

Mulder didn't know whether to laugh or say something.

Medicine? Scully was into medicine? How could a woman who was deathly afraid of hospitals (and had thrown incredible fits when in one) take up medicine in college? Did the fear of hospitals come before or after she studied the subject? The mere thought of staying a whole week in a hospital almost killed Scully ... how could she survive all the slicing and dicing a pre-medicine course involved?

"Mulder," Scully interrupted, her blush fading to a vibrant pink. "You want to ask me something. Go ahead and ask it."

He didn't waste any time contemplating the words that came flying out of his mouth. "How could you study medicine, Scully? I saw your reaction in the hospital ... you couldn't have ..."

"I did. I was interested in pathology. The idea of ... saving people ... appealed to me."

"It did?"

"Yes," she answered. She opened her mouth, and then closed it at once. When she spoke up, Mulder knew that it wasn't what was initially in her train of thought. "Well, I didn't last for even a whole year. I guess my fear got the best of me."

He tapped his fingers on the upholstery, gradually trying to sink in what he was hearing. "E- yeah. But really, Scully... is that the reason you know so much about Anemia?"

Scully replied with a nod. Mulder clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Curiosity was eating him away. Churning his insides and picking at the fine spots of his flesh. He was a lousy quitter. It was a good trait, but sometimes, it got the best of him. Byers be damned.

"You still continued reading books after you stopped studying?"

"Medical books to be exact. I ... still am in love with Medicine. It's my second darling." The way she said 'darling' ("dahling") made Mulder's heart skip a beat. He was beginning to appreciate the fine points of her British accent as he continued to live with her. Maybe someday, he would get to appreciate her Spunkiness.

"That's something," he gushed, and the pink of Scully's cheeks became a full blown red blush again. Seeing that, Mulder laughed.

Fox Mulder has known Dana Scully for three weeks by now. He had also endured the consequences of coming to know her as he lived with her 24/7 under the same roof in the most abnormal of circumstances. More than many times, he had been shouted at, thrown things at, argued with, given the snubbing, and had been embarrassed. But also, more than many times, he was fascinated by Scully. He was fascinated by the way she talked with strange eloquence, by the way she laughed, by the way she cried, by the way she gave him small bread crumb hints of her care for him.

Those short three weeks were only the start of their relationship with each other, but as those three weeks went on, Mulder learned something about the complicated woman - something very, very important about her.

Scully was a body with two personalities conquering her. You might say that she was a lone body in the middle of two towering souls to give it a clearer image, no matter how absurd the idea was. Mulder knew immediately, as the realization bolted upon him, that this was the real reason behind her tantrums, her moodiness, and her never ending show of vulnerability and independence at the same time. He didn't think she had mental issues, of course, but it was the only temporary explanation he could conjure to stop HIMSELF from insanity with the way she was treating him.

There were times when Scully would be extra sweet towards him, when she would be like a little girl looking for her lost lollipop, and Mulder had christened those moments as the Scully-girl. She would be very commiserating, soft even. She'd cry after her nightmares and Mulder would have to run towards her room to make sure she was okay. These were the times when she would tell him a bit of herself; when she would let a little bit of him in to her life.

However, there was also the Spunk in her that continued to threaten that Scully- girl out of her way. This Spunk was the woman he met for the first time, the one who cursed and shouted at him for no apparent reason. This was Scully in her after- bitch attire, she herself becoming his own worst nightmare. Spunk was the woman who had her whole wall built against him, making sure that he wouldn't peek into her fortress - and if ever he was able to peek in, he wouldn't be able to see anything in it.

He could read her that way, that well.

Mulder sometimes wondered if their relationship would be any different if Scully was in the middle ground of those two personalities: what if she stood in the middle of Scully- girl and Spunk? How would she treat him? How would she react to his care? How would he react to her when that happened - if that did happen?

One night, Mulder seriously thought he had gained the answers to those questions. But the woman was far too complicated to be answered by the gestures they shared during that rare evening.

He had fallen asleep earlier than Scully that evening, probably due to all the guests Walter had brought with him to their apartment. While Mulder entertained everyone to death with the prospects of the movie, Scully served them orange juice, afterwards locking herself in her room. She wasn't very hospitable.

Countless dreams of dancers clothed in white and angels tangoing with them were invading Mulder's tired mind when he felt a warm body close in on his frame. By reflex, even in his sleep, he reached for that warmth and found an arm. He closed his hand in on the wrist and dragged it to the muscles of his bare tummy. The body didn't protest ... actually, that someone even cuddled closer to him. Contented, he sighed and began to sleep again.

He didn't know how long he lost consciousness, but when he came around, imagine his own surprise when he found Scully's head sprawled all over his chest; an arm slung over his torso, snuggling up closer to him. His first reaction was to jerk back, but seeing that Scully was so peaceful in her own position, he opted for a slight jarring of her shoulder.

Scully woke up, her eyelids still half- closed. She lifted her head from his chest and stared at him with her groggy blue eyes. Mulder swallowed hard. Did she have to be so beautiful even when she was in this state? Fuck. What was he thinking? He was going way crazy, living with this woman every damn mother fucking day.

He focused on the situation at hand, thanking the night's darkness for aiding him in hiding his revealing facial expressions.

"Scully... what are you doing here?" he stuttered as he said that, inch- by-inch removing himself from her hold.

Her hand tightened around his waist, pinning him in his position. His nerve endings didn't help him much - they were enjoying her touch as much as the rest of his body was.

"Stay with me, please," she pleaded, with those watery Scully-girl blue eyes that Mulder had never, ever tried to resist. With this complication before him though, he was going to dare big time.

"I can't do that."

"Why not?" Panic rose over the edges of her sleep- draped voice.

"'Coz this is my room and you're the one who's supposed to leave?" he joked, and he didn't stop himself from feeling the soft strands of her hair with his hands. It had to be a dream. This was all a dream, a product of his fertile imagination from being in the presence of a beautiful woman every day, one of the adverse side effects. Something in his fucking hormones had to go haywire when that opportunity was given to you.

Shit. He's not going to say "fuck" when they are positioned like this in one bed. If he wanted to keep their relationship platonic, he should lose the "F" word when he's drunk, when his hair wasn't washed, and when he's in bed with Scully ... wait, wasn't that almost equivalent to the "F" word? Shit. Deep, smelly shit.

Mulder tried to retreat once again. "Scully please, I'll ... carry you back to your room if you want ... don't ..."

"I don't want to go back there. I... I had nightmares... again."

Mulder laid his head back down on his pillow, getting the explanation. He removed impertinent worries from his brain. Of course, Scully was always in check. She wouldn't be barging into his bed for no reason. She had a nightmare, and she needed his company. When she got nightmares, he usually was the one who stayed beside her in her bedroom. He would stay, holding her hand, until she fell asleep. This time, he slept earlier than she did and she woke up from her nightmare without him to comfort her.

Guilt washed over Mulder. He should've been there for her.

"I'm sorry... did you cry?"

"Yes. And I had a nose bleed after." Her disease - it definitely heightened the nightmares. What choice did she have than to seek for that comfort herself?

He surrendered when she told him that, pushing his body towards her smaller one, enveloping her in a hug. She buried her face on the slick skin of his, and not long after, wetness invaded his flesh. She was crying again. The nightmare must've been an enormous one this time.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered, like he always did. But like she always did, she shook her head. She never had, not even once, considered talking to him about her dreams. And that was fine with him. Whatever she's comfortable with, it was fine with him.

He dipped his mouth to her ear, while his hand traveled up and down her trembling back. "I'm here for you, you know that don't you?" She nodded meekly, and if it was possible, she buried herself deeper into his embrace, almost to the point that he felt they were becoming one molecule, invading the laws of physics and matter and all that science crap she so loved.

After her sobbing subsided, he flipped her to one side, so that she had her back against him and he could cover her arms with his own. This position would make her feel protected; it would make her feel shielded from her demons.

Mulder kissed the top of her head and tucked it under his chin. His arm went aroundto hold her to him, anchoring his fingertips on her flat stomach. Her hand moved underneath his arm, and Mulder paused her movement by taking her cold hand with his own, interlacing her fingers with his.

Scully's breath slowed down, molding her body to his perfectly with one wiggle. Mulder relaxed in the darkness, still not quite believing that he's in bed with Scully, that he's allowed to hold her this way. This was how he believed it was for Scully-girl and Spunk to come together - a vulnerable yet strong woman. A perfect woman.

He wanted to entertain some ideas that were inching towards his brain. He really wanted to think about the nature of her nightmares - why she was such a troubled young woman, why she needed him so during those times - but the only thing dancing up in his brain like a graceful Spunk was the fact that they fit so well together like this, like two juggernauts of tectonic plates finally finding each other in the vast sea of the Atlantic. Home, mates. This was home. How her short legs weaved over his long ones, how her back molded to his front without ado. Home.

Mulder kissed her hair softly, and drifted off into a euphoric, dreamless sleep.

The sunlight was already doing salsa on his naked torso when Mulder's senses shook him awake. He bolted out of the bed right on his ass, paddling through the soft sheets around him. There was another scent invading his head, a pleasant scent that consisted of baby powder ... cucumber ... strawberries ...

He remembered the incident last night, and instinctively searched for Scully beside him. She was nowhere to be found.

Mulder jumped off his bed, scratching at an itchy patch on his stomach. It was a Saturday, Scully's day- off from rehearsals. She should be outside, cooking breakfast or watching TV. Was it his turn to cook breakfast today? Usually, it's Scully who bothered with the morning goodies, since his duties were lunch and dinner. It wasn't fair, was it? But anyway, she's the one who had to physically work her butt off in this. All he had to accomplish the rest of the day was to tinker with the script, argue on the phone, and entertain the guests ...

Without a second thought, he exited the bedroom, crisscrossing through the living room, still scratching at that patch on his stomach. Damn it. Maybe Scully pulled a trick on him last night and spread itching powder on him.

"Scully?!" He checked on the dining room table, not even giving a second glance at the living room. He was hungry. His stomach was making known its protest. There was no breakfast. Mulder grumbled, "Where's breakfast? Didn't you do something? Is it my turn today?"

No answer.

Mulder mumbled a string of curse words under his breath. Where the hell was she? He was too lazy to look around for her today. His eyelids were still at half- mast, and he's somewhat afraid that if he gained full consciousness, he'd break the silly spell on him - the one she cast over him last night: the dreamy, hazy, heady spell that consisted of baby powder, strawberries, and cucumber.

"You didn't even make me coffee. Is this the thanks I get for last night? I could've thrown you out of the bed, you know, but NO- ooo... Ms. Scully had to use her charms on Mr. Sleepyhead to get her way with him. That wasn't very polite, you understand?" He was in the mood for bantering with her today. He just hoped she'd make a sound that she was annoyed. If she didn't, he'd have to bother himself with finding her in their small apartment.

"Mulder."

Ah! She was there! Finally, someone he could annoy for the whole day. He decided that he was in the mood for everything today.

Flipping himself so that his ass was pressed on the kitchen counter, he turned towards the sound of her voice ...

Only to bring himself to face another surprise.

Or shock.

His breath completely left him at that moment, as if he was hit straight in the gut.

Whatever. What the FUCK ever.

John and Monica Doggett were seating across Scully in the living room, smiling lethargically at his disheveled form. Scully, still in her silky pajamas, had her face in her hands. Her ears were turning to a bright pink, matching the color on Monica's cheeks, and probably the color of the sudden rush of blood to his face.

Shit. Double sided, fly- infested, son-of-a-bitch shit.

"Hey... John... 'Nica..." That was the only thing he could produce form his faltering vocal chords. Of all the places he didn't want to look at today, he chose not to look at the living room. Why were the gods so cruel to him? Why today, of all days?

Through her hands, Scully spoke up, "I woke up early. John and Monica were knocking and I didn't... h- have time to wake you up."

It didn't matter, really. John had seen him in his 'still in La la land state' more times than he could ever care about, and Monica wouldn't give a crap - what he was really worried about was what he said in his 'still in La la land state'. He replayed what his big mouth spurted, and it only made his crimson face blood red. Fantastic. As if it could've been any, any better.

"Good morning, mi amigo." Monica's attempt at sounding perky obviously wasn't working. John wasn't helping. He was only staring at Mulder with pure astonishment.

"Good morning, mon ami-e." Mulder hoped his French would salvage some things that were already damaged, but with the weak smiles he received from the other end, little could be done. John and Monica already had the same conclusions in their minds: that he and Scully were lovers.

Wonderful. That made him... what? A fucking monster? Branding his stars before they even hit the camera?

"Umm..." Mulder picked at his thoughts carefully, afraid that the harshest of them might spill out of his mouth. Glimpsing at Scully, he saw that she still had her head in her hands, doing the "ostrich's" way out of it. He couldn't blame her. She wasn't the one who started yapping about 'last night' like it was the day's horoscope. "What... are you- you two doing here?" He rubbed his blurry eyesight ferociously to get a better view. "Monica? Aren't you supposed to be at home, resting?"

John answered that question for his wife, locking Mulder's gaze with his 'I'm-going-to-beat-you-down-like-He Man-later-and-don't-you-try-to-run' gaze. "We came here to personally deliver you your sunflower seeds." To express her husband's point, Monica reached over her side and lifted the juicy XXXL pack of sunflower seeds.

He was salivating at the sight, but in response, Mulder only raised his head higher.

"And Monica wanted to see Dana. She also bought her new clothes."

The "new clothes" were a heap of paper bags labeled Guess and Banana Republic on Scully's feet, scattered aimlessly. By that time, Scully's head had popped out from its hiding place, but the redness on her cheeks was as stubborn as she was.

"Oh. Thanks, John." What else could he say? We didn't fuck last night, John. Trust me. She slept in my bed - we slept together, actually, but nothing happened.

As if they'd believe a single word that out his mouth.

Having run out of options, he awkwardly joined the group in the living room, making sure that he didn't meet Scully's eyes. He wouldn't want to read them this time.

John half- carried/half- dragged Mulder from the living room, and to the outside of the apartment. The swift afternoon air varied from warm to humid hot, and still needing a good morning shower, Mulder didn't exactly appreciate his friend's gesture of leaving the cool air conditioned room behind. He kept grumbling under his breath as the incessant Doggett seized his bicep, almost toppling his trashy form on the railings. Mulder held onto the rails, regaining his footing.

"What the hell are you thinking Mulder? That girl's only twenty!" John bellowed, attacking Mulder with full force. Shaking his head, John pressed his two fingers against his temples.

Mulder muttered another string of curses before answering, "We're not involved, John. I appreciate your concern for me and Scully, but you're assuming -"

"Then what about that crap you were talking about, huh?!" John's voice became ragged and labored. "You expect me to think otherwise? You slept with her in the same bed! What do you want me to think? That she got scared and you let her climb in? Fuck that Mulder!"

Yeah, fuck that - but that was the truth.

"Actually, John..."

"No, Mulder- I'm not letting you off the hook this time! This ... woman, Dana, she's special, I know ... and the studio needs her! You were given the responsibility of taking care of her and I'm not going to watch you fuck that up!"

And Byers told him that he had the habit of not letting people finish their sentences. That title should now be awarded to Mr. John Doggett, maudit friend of his. Mulder could not even believe the patience he was stretching for this conversation. He should be barfing what his mind was picketing right into John's face right now. But Mulder stood by, actually enjoying the enraged expression on his friend's face. He had a hidden sadistic side to him, apparently.

"Dana's young - and you, you're on the rebound from Diana! Do you think you could give her everything, everything, EVERYTHING you didn't give Diana? Are you going to marry this girl?! I'll only let you fool this if she has an engagement ring on her finger! Which, of course, she is devoid of! What were you thinking? Are you turning into a complete idiot, Mulder?"

"No," he defied, bringing John into another round of fit. Before his friend could start sputtering hardly- recognizable English words at him (or worst, Spanish), he took John by the shoulders and shook him hard enough to rattle the man's brain for a second.

"I am NOT having a sexual relationship with Scully. Scully is my star, my responsibility, and my friend ... but not my lover. It happens that she has these... these nightmares that bother her every night, and it so happened that you guys arrived during the first and probably ONLY night we'll ever sleep together in bed. She just wanted comfort from me, nothing more than that. Sure, we slept together, but we didn't have sex." Mulder released John, hoping against hope that his explanation was clear enough. He wasn't up for going through it all again, seeing that it was not necessary to do so.

John brushed his fingers through his brown hair, skimming through them as if skimming through all the speculations underneath that blanket of brown roots.

"Tell me that's true, please."

Mulder scratched on that spot on his stomach once again, breaking away from John's one- sided view. "You've never lied to me, John. I've never lied to you. It's true."

"Y- You... You're not fooling around with her? Nothing has happened between you?"

The director turned his back to his friend, resting his elbows on the thin metal railings, finally allowing the ragged humid breeze to fill his lungs completely. He hesitated before answering, shuffling his fingers together; feeling in between the ridges sticky, smoldering sweat.

"No. Nothing has happened. No."

John came to stand beside him, and his best friend patted him on the back. Mulder shrugged, finding nothing more to say - or argue about.

END OF CHAPTER EIGHT

NOTES: I have been watching Gillian Anderson interview clips when she speaks with her British accent ... and let me tell you that it kicks the Spunk imagery in me alive!