This chapter contains not-so-explicit material.

CHAPTER FORTY:

WB Building
Main Office
Los Angeles, California
April 12, 1986
Saturday

Mulder was not in a good mood.

It started a day, or maybe two – he wasn't sure, with the fucking time difference - when he had to suddenly book an early flight back home. Scully wasn't happy, he could see, but they both had no choice but to give in to separation because whatever Walter needed to tell him seemed pretty urgent and important. Thank God Emily was there in Paris and Scully had someone with her as she waited for the Bee Gees and some of the WB crew to arrive that Monday. And thank God for Janice and Friedrich who promised him they would do everything they could to watch over his two girls. The plan was for them to shoot the music video right then and there so that he could do the editing himself once the film came back with them a week from now.

Not only that, but Emily could also converse in basic French too, so he had nothing to be worried about. Maybe having a friend with her would cheer his daughter up – at least bring back some of that Emily he had known before the shit storm that was now her reality.

So, he struggled a bit with the booking. He had to pull some strings here and there to secure seats. Then, when he arrived at the airport – lo and behold, his flight was delayed for five hours. Scully stayed with him throughout the delay, but he was too pissed off to say anything substantial to her. He only relented up when they were called on for boarding, and he suddenly realized that he wasn't going to see her for a week. He practically inhaled her face when they said goodbye.

As he walked the corridors of the WB, towards the big boss's office, he sighed dejectedly. He couldn't get that last kiss with Scully off of his mind. It was going to be the last of her that he was going to taste for a while.

Then, on the plane, he sat beside an elderly man who snored all throughout the eleven-hour flight. That snore was something he wasn't getting off of his mind easily, too. It sounded like a hyena getting run over by a hippo.

He finally reached the door labeled simply as "CGB" and took a moment to straighten the collar of his shirt and run his fingers through his hair. He grimaced as he felt its coarse texture. He had no choice but to head straight to WB from the airport. It seemed very, very urgent, since the moment he landed and before he could call Scully from a long-distance payphone, his newly-issued beeper vibrated in his pocket. On its tiny screen flashed a message from Walter: "WHERE ARE YOU?"

Here I am, he thought, fresh from Paris. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He heard Walter's voice say, "Come in!"

When he entered, he was surprised to find not only Walter and their big boss there, but also John. They all looked up at him expectantly and he felt himself shrinking under their intense gazes. In the middle of his two friends was the biggest boss of WB – CGB to most people, but "Chance" to those who knew him well – and he was smoking his usual Morley's as he nodded at Mulder to come and take a seat. CGB had been a sort of mentor for Mulder ever since he started producing for WB. He was the one who trusted Mulder enough to give him a couple of small projects around the lot, and eventually was the one who trusted in him enough to give him a directing debut. Mulder honestly didn't know what CGB found so trustworthy in him – especially when they first met, when Mulder was nothing but a lost cause who partied way too much around the City of Angels – but John had remarked to him once that CGB would affectionately refer to Mulder as his "prodigal son" when he wasn't around.

He wondered what the prodigal son did now.

"Take a seat, Fox," Chance invited, taking a long drag of his stick. He stood up and the maroon tie he was wearing momentarily got caught in the mountain of papers on his desk. Smoothly, because he was Chance, the tie was free with a simple wave of his hand and he was stood up to acknowledge his presence, before promptly sitting back down.

Mulder sat on the ready chair in between John and Walter. They weren't looking at him anymore, but he could feel the tension in the air. It was as thick as the stale air in his mouth.

"What's going on?" he said, finding his voice too soft and weak for his liking. He allowed himself to blame the long flight and the fact that he had not yet shampooed his hair for the past twenty-four hours.

Chance tapped his cigarette on a WB-inscribed ash tray and leaned back on his leather chair. "Fox," he started, his voice even and tonic, but Mulder still couldn't help wincing at the sound of his first name. In all of WB, it was only Chance who could get away with calling him his first name without a punch to the kisser. "There are a few things that came to our attention when you left for Paris just last week."

Mulder was cautious now. The tension that was present in the air felt like it was about to descend like a plane crash on him. Beside him, both Walter and John shifted uneasily in their seats. Was he supposed to say something? Mulder wanted to release the button chokehold of his shirt, but decided against it. He should say something.

"What things?" There, he said something. It's their turn now.

Surprisingly, it was Walter who spoke next. He passed a manila envelope to Mulder (something he didn't notice when he first walked in – was Walter now a magician?) and pointed at it once it was being opened.

"Mulder, those are photographs that were taken by the paparazzi just outside the Los Angeles General Hospital. They have these high-precision lenses now and they took photos of you and Dana …"

They seemed about ready to spontaneously combust in his hands, these photographs. They were all black and white but clear as day: him and Scully on that bench, sitting, talking, guarded against each other. Then, him and Scully leaning against each other. Until the last remaining batch of the photos are second-by-second snapshots of him leaning in for a kiss and her reciprocating eagerly – more than a sort-of-manager would. It ended with them going back to the hospital hand-in-hand and with him carrying his overnight bag.
Fuck. Define shit storm please? Yes, Fox Mulder, noun. Got it.

He ignored the way John cleared his throat. He went straight for the kill.

"Chance, I can explain," he responded, his voice lower than intended. Chance crushed his cigarette into the ash tray and smiled at him. Was it a sad smile or an amused one? God, he couldn't know now – not when the photos in his hands felt like they were about hundred degrees Celsius!

"Fox," Chance placed extra emphasis on the x of his name, "it's okay … you don't really need to explain to me. Walter and John have already self-appointed themselves as your lawyers."

Shocked, he looked at his two companions – first at Walter, who was looking down at the photographs and missing his eye, then at John, who was looking straight at him and offered him a small smile of encouragement. Suddenly, the photographs in his hands didn't feel as warm anymore.

"I know you, Fox. I know you love this girl. You wouldn't fuck anybody for fun or just because you're the director of her movie. No, I know you. You stayed in that marriage looooong enough." Chance leaned forward, his hands intertwined before him. "I'm calling you in not because I want you to stop this relationship; I'm calling you in because you need to explain to them."

"Them? Them who?"

It was John who spoke. "Mulder, WB has paid a substantial amount for the photos to not be published. For now. We're concerned that it may hurt the publicity of the movie."

"I know that," Mulder gathered the photos together and placed them back inside the envelope, "That's why Scully and I decided to keep it a secret. We tried to fight it," he added, as a way of explaining to the two men beside him why they never knew about it, "but we couldn't. She's everything to me." He straightened up and took a deep breath. "But so is the movie. What can I do?"

Chance brushed a strand of white hair from his eyes and pursed his nicotine-stained lips towards him. "Not only what you can do, Fox. What both of you can do: set a date for a press conference. The media has always been enamored of you and there's no way they would pass this up. I'm sure you'd charm them somehow and the idea of an up-and-coming actress and a director who has been single since his divorce a few years ago will make endearing news. The press conference has to be ASAP, Fox. We can't stall anymore. The movie's 99% done and we don't want any hitches when it premieres next month."

Mulder froze. What both of them could do? Scully had never spoken in public before – she had never attended a press conference, let alone been in one where she was the hot topic. She had that interview in Entertainment Weekly (which didn't really go that well) and other small tidbits that followed, but nothing this public or major. She was going to freak out, he knew it. No, he was going to freak out at the thought of her freaking out. He couldn't subject Scully to the media this early – those people could be vultures. They would eat her alive.

"Chance, let me do this on my own. I'll pay the paparazzi …"

"National Enquirer," Walter supplied for him.

"The National Enquirer – those sons-of-bitches – whatever amount it takes. I'll do the press conference myself. Leave Scully out of this. She's new; she wouldn't be able to handle the media."

Chance sighed, long and deep. Mulder swallowed. That wasn't a good sign.

"Mulder," and with that, he knew that the CGB meant every single thing he was about to say, "I support you on this new relationship. Actually, I'm happy for you. However, this is still our movie and our movie is top priority. Unless you want Kryceck to beat you at that," Chance let that dangle in the air for a moment, "but my only ultimatum is that you two face the media together in a press conference ASAP. If she won't be fine, then you'll have to make her fine."

"We're thinking that it may also help the movie's publicity," Walter once again interjected, and Mulder's eyes widened.

"I don't want my personal life …"

"It already is part of it. When you entered a relationship with Ms. Scully, you knew that whatever happens, as long as the movie has not been released, your personal life would be intertwined with everything that's about the movie." Chance smirked, not unkindly, Mulder took note. "That's what you have to do. That's all. I don't care if you want to pay the Enquirer to stall for another week until Ms. Scully finishes shooting the MTV. I only care that you do the presscon and that you do it together." There were emphasis on words that Mulder didn't like, but he had no choice but to nod. They were actually giving him a lot of leeway on this matter – it wasn't the shit storm he made it out to be, but it was still a storm. Maybe of a different kind, but still a storm nonetheless. He couldn't get the mental image of Scully staring at a room full of media people in a deer-caught-in-the-headlights sort of way.

"Okay, Chance," he gave in, knowing he had no choice. He was the deer-caught-in-the-headlights this time and he wanted to live another day to sort this storm out. "I'll talk to Scully tonight. I'll tell her everything."

The corners of Chance's lips turned up into what Mulder could read as a satisfied smile. But then, it didn't stop there. "Fox, there's something else." The smile was gone.

Was the shit returning? "What is it?"

John placed a tentative hand on his arm and it took all of Mulder's willpower to not jerk out of it. He didn't like where this conversation was going.

"Mulder, we received some news a day ago from Chicago …"

"Chicago? Who's in Chicago?"

"Mulder," John said, firmly now. Mulder directed his attention to his friend and they stared at each other eye-to-eye. This was John, his best friend since university, and for the first time in their damn history together, he couldn't read the expression on his face. He had never seen that expression on his face before, ever.

"Samantha's in Chicago. She's dying."

Mulder opened his mouth to say something.

Nothing came out. It was as if everything within him was vacuumed into his gut and nothing, not even breathing, could get it out.

"She's dying of complications related to AIDS," Walter now continued somewhere behind his head. "She's been in the intensive unit since last week. She listed you as next-of-kin and the staff there said … it doesn't seem good. They're giving her less than two weeks."

Mulder wanted to double over. No, he wanted to cry out in joy – in pain, something, something. But still, nothing came out. He felt that his gut was sucking him out of the world.

Chance eyed him with what seemed like concern. "We're sorry, Fox. The WB can prepare everything for you if you wish to go to Chicago. We'll also pick up your mother and daughter for you."

That was when he was able to speak, but it sounded out like fluctuating gasps. "E- Emily's in Paris. She followed soon after." He took a deeper breath to calm himself, then directed the next question to John. "H-how did, did this happen?"

"Drugs," John concluded, his hand still on Mulder's arm. "That's the only thing the hospital could offer."

And here he was, Fox Mulder in his most awaited scene for his own personal movie. How long had he dreamed of this moment? How long had he prayed this moment to a god he didn't even have a name for? How long did he talk about this moment with Byers, especially when his father's death would sting every now and then? How long did it take for this scene to be produced, filmed, cut, edited, and delivered?

How come that now it was in front of him, he didn't feel satisfied? How come he couldn't feel anything?

Mulder feared that his lack of reaction might frighten the gentlemen in front of him, so he slowly put his face into his hands to hide.

In twenty-four hours, Scully would be home. And he had not told her a single thing.

Before him, Teena sat on his couch, exhausted. She hadn't done anything else but stare at blank patterns inside the Mulder Manor since he delivered the news to her a few days ago. Getting her to Los Angeles was a bit of an effort: spring break was ending and there were a lot of drunk and wasted teenagers shuttling back and forth states. When she finally was able to board a flight to LA, Teena was almost ready to collapse. She wouldn't cry – no matter how hard Mulder embraced her in the airport and soothed her with, "I'm sorry, I know she means a lot to you, we'll get to Chicago as soon as the WB could arrange flights" – and she still stayed stoic, with an unreadable expression on her face.
Now three hours later, he unintentionally spilled out to her all the shit storm he was in: Emily's impending divorce, his relationship with Scully (yes, the relationship – at least that made her smile a little), what vague facts he knew about Samantha's condition and the she refused to talk to any of them on the phone, the upcoming press conference that Scully still didn't know about, the movie – yes, all that shit.

Teena accepted all he had to say without giving into his self-deprecating mood swings. One minute, he'd be laughing when he recounted how Scully twirled underneath the Eiffel Tower; the next, he'd be choking down the sobs as he thought of his beautiful little Emily and her dead baby. Now, at the third hour, Teena began to insist that he call Scully up in France and tell her what she was about to expect when she came back to LA. Thirty minutes into the third hour, they were only able to call Emily and inform her that they were waiting for her to see Samantha. Emily ended the phone call with a sob that went straight to Mulder's already-tattered gut. By the end of the third hour, Teena was at the end of her patience too. She threw her son dirty looks every now and then whenever he cracked a sunflower seed in his mouth. He was stalling, he knew it and she knew it, and she hated him for it. Especially with the shit storm they were in.

"Eleven hours, Fox," she tensely raised in the air, tapping her white hand on the upholstery, "Eleven hours and forty minutes."

"In those eleven hours, Scully could go from I'll-be-fine to I'm-not-okay to I'm-going-to-fucking-jump-out-of-this-plane." Another crack; another seed. "I know her, Mom. It is better she does not know until I see her face to face."

"Emily's there to help her."

Mulder wanted to slam his fist into the tray of sunflower seeds, but stopped himself before he could. Not now. Easy, easy, eaaasy. "Mom, Emily needs help herself."

"You need help."

"You do, too," he picked up a seed and rolled it around his thumb and forefinger. "We fucking need help in this family from a psychologist because damn it, I couldn't even use my degree when I need it the most!"

Teena closed her eyes. She talked while keeping them still, her eyelashes brushing delicately against her cheeks. "Fox, you have to trust Dana. You have to trust that she's old enough to handle the situation you're facing with the media and that she's old enough to know what she wants to do. You can't keep protecting her." She rubbed her temples, eyes still closed; rubbing at that delicate spot on the tip of her nose bridge.

"At this point in my life, she's the only one I could protect." He winced at how sad that sounded, but now that it was out there, he couldn't take it back. That was the problem: Samantha was dying and he couldn't do anything about it because now that he wanted to help her, he couldn't. He should've helped her before, but he didn't. Emily was in so much pain and he couldn't do anything about it too because this was her life now and she had to fix or leave her marriage on her own. Teena was in pain for a daughter she gave birth to but never really had bonded with and he couldn't do anything about it because she loved Samantha despite it all.

Scully … Scully, he could still protect. Scully, he could still keep away from the storm. Scully was the only thing perfect in his life right now. He wanted to keep it that way. Somehow.

Teena opened her eyes, the green in them suddenly vibrant, and faced him. "Look at it this way, Fox: do you think if Dana found out about the paparazzi AFTER she arrives from Paris that she'd be happy with you? You think she would still want to be PROTECTED?" Teena almost spit the last word out. "I doubt if she'd talk to you for days. And you know that you need to set the press conference at once."

Mulder groaned. Mothers truly knew best. They knew just where to pinch him and hurt him just enough to make him learn.

"Mom …"

She knew she had won. A tiny smile danced on her lips for the first time in three hours since they've been together that day. "Pick up the phone, Fox. Before they leave the hotel." She pointed at the phone at the far end of the room. Mulder grabbed one last seed, cracked it in his mouth, and spitted out the husks on the floor (somewhere he didn't look at) only to annoy Teena. He didn't wait for her reaction, only heard her mechanical harrumph that made him wonder if she was only doing it so that he could feel vindicated.

He called the operator, recited the hotel's number from memory, and waited anxiously for Scully to pick up the phone.

A few seconds, maybe lifetimes later, he heard a sharp click and her breath came through the receiver before her breathy, "Hello? Mulder?"

He smiled despite himself. He loved it that she recognized that it was him before he even made a sound. Then again, he was the only person who would ever call her in Paris at this hour. "Darling, you sound breathless. What's happening there?"

"Oh, do I? That's because its 1 AM here right now, Mulder. Our flight's at 6, I've barely packed our things, and here you go calling me up again …"

"Am I being a bother?"

"No," she responded too quickly, and it melted the anxiety that he had been holding inside of him away. "No, of course not. I miss you," she whispered, and his insides unraveled like a yarn that jumped out of a kitten's paws. "I really needed to hear your voice right now, especially right now. I'm knackered silly here."

He let a moment of silence pass between them. If he acknowledged how much he missed her, he could never get to what he truly needed to say, so he allowed his silence to tell her what he needed to.

Mulder thought about their last conversation, which was at least five hours ago, and the hours that needed to pass before he would be able to put his arms around her and bruise her lips with a kiss. Too long; time apart is always too long when it came to her.

"How's Emily doing?" he softly said into the speaker, clearing his throat so that she didn't hear the thickness of his voice.

Scully sighed. "We've talked a bit and she's calm. She's having some wine right now by the balcony and I've let her do that. Yes, wine at 1 AM. I told her that I would be the one to pack our things and she really appreciated it." Another deeper sigh. "She needs her space, Superman."

Don't we all, his fogged up brain cackled, and he shut his eyes to shut it down too. "Look, Scully, there's something I need to tell you …"

She immediately noted the change of his tone. "Do I need to sit down?" she asked.

"Yes."

He heard something shuffle from the other end of the line, before she returned to the speaker with another breathless, "What is it?"

"Remember when we were at the LA General Hospital sometime ago and we had that fight?"

"Yes, I remember. Byers had asked me to bring you your overnight bag and we talked outside the garden because that was the only place I could keep a conversation without, umm, freaking out."

Mulder twirled the telephone chord in his finger and thought about chewing on it too, but then thought that he was now being incredibly Freudian. "Yeah, yeah, that time. Scully, we were not alone that time." He took a deep breath. "There were some paparazzi with this new high-precision lenses that captured our every move – our kiss – from a considerable distance away. I've seen the photos –"

"Oh," she cut in, and he was surprised that it was steady, "Are they publishing them?"

"No, not yet. The WB paid a small amount to keep them from publishing the photos. But they've talked to me some, umm, time ago and they're asking for something … something I'm not sure you're ready to give."

"What is that?"

"They want a press conference ASAP from us to announce to the media that we're … dating. The media has gotten a whiff of this and I've received offers for us to do a magazine cover for People. But we have to set the press conference date soon."

"Mulder …"

"I did everything I could, Scully. I swear I did. I-I stalled them for another week after you've come back so that you could get settled first and then we can talk about this once you're here. I'm sorry, Scully. I'm really sorry. This should've have had happened. I should've been more careful."

"Mulder," sharper this time, but still gentle, "listen to me: it is fine. It's all right. Stop saying I because you are not the only one in this relationship. This is our relationship. If we were careless that day, then it is both our responsibilities. And as it is our responsibility, our relationship, we are the only ones who could fix it. Together."

Mulder felt, for the first time in a week, that he could freely breathe. And he did breathe loud, hard, almost like a gasp – a choke, and he didn't care if she heard it and he didn't care if his mother heard it, for it meant that everything was going to be all right. Everything would be fine. Thanks to her; as always, thanks to her.

"Scully, I don't know what I did to deserve you," he confessed and his voice hitched and again, he didn't care. "But goddamn it, I'll make it worth your while."

"Oh, Mulder," she trailed off before clearing her throat. He understood. It wasn't the time to whisper sweet nothings to each other – no, not when his mother was staring at him with an expectant face, not when his daughter was drinking wine at 1 AM on a Parisian balcony, not when Scully still had to pack for their 6 AM flight back to LA. No, there would be time for that. Lots of time later on. "You set the press conference next week on a Saturday. I'm coming with you to Chicago."

He wanted to protest or argue, just like what they did back then when she was Spunk and he was a chocoholic knocking at her door before midnight, but he didn't. She was a part of his life now, a part of his family, and if she wanted to be there to see him talk to Samantha for the last time, then so be it. He needed her to be there.

"Okay, darling. God, CGB will be so fucking happy about this. Thank you, Scully. Thank you."

He could hear her smile. "I love you," and he could hear her keep the smile even as she whispered those words.

"I love you, too. I'll see you in a couple of hours. And don't forget to call me from the airport." Before he hung up, though, he added: "Please, please take care of Emily."

She was still smiling: "I will. I'll see you soon."

They hung up at the same time and again he took a deep breath. Finally, finally, everything was falling into place and as always it was because of her.

They were shy with each other at the airport. In Mulder's head, he wanted nothing but to sweep Scully up in his arms and kiss her deeply, longingly, inside the First Class VIP lounge. However, he was only able to give her a small kiss on her cheek and a kind-of tight hug as he bent down to take her hand-carried luggage. When they parted, Scully's smile told him that she understood. Then, he reached over behind her to hug his daughter.
Now that they both were aware of the impending public knowledge of their relationship, they were unwilling to give the paparazzi what they wanted the most at this point. It was a tense standoff: the media awaited the date of the press conference and those photographs were but a few thousand dollars away from being published. Money wasn't an issue, really; he was more concerned about the redheaded Spunk who walked a few steps behind him as they went straight to his car in the parking lot. Emily was walking in his stride, so Mulder placed a hand around her shoulders and hoped that Scully could keep up with their pace.

At home, Jenny prepared a lovely dinner for the whole gang. It was rare for Jenny to cook for this much people (if Mulder had any visitors, he usually gave them an impromptu tour of the best restaurants around LA) and his helper was showing off. They had thick, buttery steaks, roasted corn on the cob, some fancy-shmancy salad that tasted so good but couldn't – for the life of him – remember the name of, chilled white wine, a tropical fruit shake for Emily (who was not in the mood for wine), and home-baked truffle chocolate cake slices for dessert.

His family reached the unspoken consensus to not speak about Samantha and other issues while eating. Instead, they spoke about Paris, the MTV, the magnificent dinner, Danced Yesterday … anything, except what awaited them tomorrow. Scully, in particular, squirmed more than once in her seat whenever Teena would address her as, "darling Dana" or joke with questions like "what did you see in my son, anyway?" with a small laugh. When his mom was about to make another comment about how Mulder didn't know how to throw his boxers inside the hamper, he raised his eyebrow as high as he could and made sure that Teena got the point to shut up. He could feel the heat of Scully's blush even if she was a seat away.

After dinner, Emily retreated back into her old room and kissed him good night, telling him she was exhausted from the long flight and wanted to get ready for Chicago the next day. He watched her amble up the stairs tiredly and he shared a look with Scully, who he saw was also watching Emily. From her eyes, he read Scully telling him that Emily's fine, but when her mouth twitched, he saw that she wasn't so sure about that either. His mother stayed in Scully's old room and she remarked about how organized the room was. With a wink, she added that she was just what Mulder needed in his messy Manor. Again, Scully blushed ferociously.

After Mulder finished some phone calls to the WB about the limo that was picking them up tomorrow for the airport and their hotel arrangements in Chicago, they were alone (at last) in their room. He entered the master's bedroom and found Scully already dressed in her violet silky pajamas. She was sitting on their bed, reading a medical book he bought her a few months ago.

"Hey," he greeted her, shutting the door behind him with a click and feeling a wave of relief at the thought of finally being alone with his girl.

"Hello," she answered back, pushing away wild strands of red tendrils from her face and giving him that lilies and carnations grin. Somewhere inside him, random places – he believed his heart and groin – throbbed.

He started stripping off his shirt and shorts until he was only wearing his boxers. Scully went back to her reading, and he wondered what was so fascinating about that medical book.

"What's that there?" He stretched his arms above him and felt some bones creak. God, it had been a long day.

"I'm reading up on AIDS and some new researches published about it." Mulder nodded, didn't say anything because he didn't want to talk about Samantha yet, and waited for Scully to close the book and place it at her bedside. When she did, she dimmed the night lamp, turned to him, then motioned for him to come to her by patting the empty space beside her. Mulder complied and sat down near her. Their shoulders touched.

This was different. Before, the first time they were separated for a week, they had devoured each other and erased the days apart with their bodies. That was when they were alone in their own world; when they were the only ones who knew. Now, it seemed as if the whole world knew or was about to know and it was strange … discomforting. Their relationship was never meant for public consumption; sure, eventually they had to tell someone, but not like this, not this way.

Mulder made the first move. "Does it bother you that we're sleeping together tonight and my Mom's just a few steps away?" He nudged her with his shoulder.

Scully chuckled. "A bit. She's like you in a lot of ways. She couldn't …"

"Quit?"

"Yes," she breathed out, relieved that he said the word for her, "she couldn't. But she's taking this quite well. I'm surprised."

"She likes you. She's liked you ever since. You get to be called 'darling.' Most of my girlfriends didn't make it beyond 'your friend.'" This time, they both laughed. Then, gingerly, easily, as if he would break, Scully reached over and wrapped him in her arms.

He didn't protest and how could he? When she was running her fingers through his hair in that unique way he liked; when she was kissing his eyes, cheeks, nose, and then his mouth; when he opened his lips and found her tongue prodding in – wet, hot, familiar; when she whimpered into his breath as he popped a button of her pajama top open and found a nipple.

He missed this, missed her, and at the back of his head, he vaguely wondered when he could stop missing her. Would he ever get used to the distances they would have to endure as their respective careers picked up? Would he ever stop feeling as if he was about to go insane with longing when she wasn't around? Would he ever stop the way he unabashedly showed her his need, just like now in their bed, as he stripped her naked and ran his tongue on each corner of her body – making sure he tasted every single spot he hadn't for over a week, making sure that he covered all bases, making sure to brand her with his soul?

He missed the way her hips arched when his tongue met her sex, when he prodded into her the same way her tongue had prodded into his mouth a while ago. He missed the way she gripped the bed sheets until her knuckles turned white as he inserted one finger into her and looked for that padded area that would send her easily off the ground. He missed her orgasm – damn, he missed this the most – when she almost screamed but held off with a palm to her mouth because she remembered his mother was only a few steps away from their room.

Mulder flew up from between her legs and faced her, angling his body so that he was poised to enter. He was so ready for her – his cock felt painful, hot, uneasy, everything – and he wanted nothing more but to be granted permission.

She was still breathless, but she smiled when their eyes met. Scully opened her legs further until the back of her thighs met the cushion (yes, she was that flexible) and without any word, Mulder filled her. They both gasped, and yes, they both missed this so much. He grunted as he moved.

Scully held his head in place as he thrust into her, holding his eyes with her own. He felt her legs coming up to his arms and he momentarily lifted himself up from the cushion so that she draped her legs on his shoulders. Now, she felt tighter, hotter, wetter, and he wanted to scream her name out loud – to declare to the heavens how good this felt, how he wanted nothing more but to do this with her for the rest of his life – but he kept her gaze at her. She held him steady, smiled at him, as if she understood. It was that same small smile he heard in her voice on the phone a few hours ago, that same smile in the airport, and now in their bed. As if she knew what he wanted to say all along and he didn't need to tell her twice.

He was close now, so close, especially when her hips began to thrust upward to meet his own. Her eyes rolled back into her head, but she tried to still maintain his gaze. She was close, he was close, and he whispered "I love you" to her and she whispered it back. That was their undoing. With long moans coming from both their throats, they lost it: Scully's walls quivered around his cock and his shook back, spilling everything – every single shit storm he had been facing the past week – into her until he was spent, sated, nothing.

He dropped to his forehead atop her. He tried to move away to give her some breathing space, but she held him there by kneading his back with her small fingers. Mulder sighed and closed his eyes.

"If you need more money to pay the National Enquirer, Mulder, there's money in your account that you could use."

This caught him off guard. If he wasn't so tired, he would've reacted more than just lifting his head from the mattress to stare at her clear blue eyes. "The monthly deposits of $5,000? I couldn't use that. We couldn't even trace where it comes from until now. That's why I kept it in a separate account." He kissed her swollen lips and they both stifled a groan when they felt his soft penis involuntarily roll out of her. "Money's not an issue, Scully. You know that. I have more than enough to keep them silent for the time being."

"No," she insisted, her voice becoming tinier. The hands that were massaging his back continued on, but more erratically, as if she couldn't figure out the pattern she needed to ease him through their conversation. "I insist that you use those monthly deposits."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Scully?"

She blinked, tried to avert her eyes away from him, but now it was his turn to hold her head in place. He gently dug his fingers into her soft hair and steadied her gaze. Scully breathed in, which he felt against his chest, and resigned to stare up at him.

"That's, that's my family's money. Before I left for Wales, Melissa made me swear on my mother's grave th-that I would write her every month so that she'd know I was safe. I gave them details about you and they were able to find out where to send the money secretly. I don't know how they did it and why they still are doing it … but I think they've been paying for my board and lodging or something like that." She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I should've told you sooner."

It made sense now: why she kept writing those letters and why she never received any reply. Those were purely for transaction purposes; they get the letters to tell them where she was and how she was doing, while they replied monetarily.

Mulder grimaced. That was pretty cold, even for Scully's family.

"Please, don't be angry," she whispered, almost like a little child – not even Scully-girl – and it broke Mulder's heart. Reflexively, he pressed his lips against hers. He licked the quiver on her lower lip as they parted.

"I'm not angry, Scully. I'm angry at them. You write these, these personal letters every month to your sister and you never receive a reply from them. Then, they send you these cash deposits through my account as if it could make up what they could never write back to you." He wondered, though, if the letters were really personal for he had never attempted to read any of them. He had seen Scully writing them and she hadn't been trying to hide their contents from him, but he thought that it was too much of a stretch to invade her personal space just like that. There were things in Scully's past that she obviously wasn't ready to talk about and he wanted Scully, not him, to start that conversation.

"They have their ways. I'm just glad they are okay. I'll be worried if they stop sending those cash deposits." She stopped kneading his back and with a small push, he found himself beside her. He gathered her into his arms so that they were face-to-face. He rested his hand on her lower back and kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger there. She kissed the part she could reach – which was his clavicle – and spoke through his skin. "You are not mad?"

"No, of course not. Surprised, yes. Not mad." Her breathing was starting to even out and he was about to drift off to sleep in a few minutes, but he ended their conversation with one last thing: "When we get back from Chicago, I'm transferring all that money into your own bank account. I don't need that money, Scully. Though if they find out that I'm fucking you, that maybe useful in bailing them out of jail because, man, they'd surely kill me."

He felt her flinch against his skin, so slightly that he could've missed it, and then she laughed. It sounded a bit too forced, but again, he was sleepy and he wasn't rational enough to digress that. Soon, they were gone and he was left with dreams of a dancing Scully in an empty press conference, five thousand dollars in her hand, and him, helpless and watching her make a fool of herself as she danced while pretending that the money was a living, breathing partner.

END OF CHAPTER FORTY

A/N: Advanced happy holidays to you too, dear readers!