TITLE:  Spring Interludes
AUTHOR:  Jess < JessLB@aol.com >
RATING:  PG-13, for swearing and allusions to naked
pretzels
CATEGORY:  SRA
KEYWORDS:  RST, MSR but no hearts and flowers. Sorry.
SPOILERS:  The Erlenmeyer Flask, 3, Anasazi, The Blessing
Way, Emily, Kitsunegari, TRATB/Patient X, The Pine Bluff
Variant, TGTSC, all Fowley episodes. You should have some
knowledge of the abduction and cancer arc, Small Potatoes,
Folie A Deux, Triangle, Arcadia, The Unnatural, and Field
Trip.
ARCHIVE:  Yes, please. But let me know, too. I like to visit.
FEEDBACK: Of course.
SUMMARY:  After five years of secrets, Scully decides its
time for things to move forward.

DISCLAIMER:  Yeah, right. I'm only doing this because I
*don't* own them. If I did, they'd have already started
pumping out the Uber-Mulders and Scullies.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  Uh, well, this is isn't the story I
intended to write. Damn that muse. This began with my desire
for an MSR on the series, which grew into a thoughtful
question of what if, that became how, that blossomed into
sappy mush. Unfortunately, this story contains all but the last
one. Much angst, here. I honestly didn't plan on it being
so...well, dark. The end is not at all how I pictured it. [Just so
you know, I *am* a shipper, and the end pained me to write.
But it had to be done.] It *is* MSR, just not...conventional.

--------------------

I can still remember with perfect clarity the first time it
happened.

It was about a year after we'd started working together. A
year filled with sexual innuendo, eyebrows, and mischief
sparkling in hazel eyes. We were innocent, then, in a way I
don't think we can ever get back. I saw Mulder's first
heartbreak that first year.

When I was in medical school, or even at the academy in
Quantico, I never once imagined that I would end up sneaking
into a high containment facility to retrieve a frozen alien
embryo in exchange for my partner's life. Surely I would be
sitting neatly at a desk somewhere, filing paperwork and
investigating normal FBI things - not prehistoric worms,
UFOs, or liver-eating mutants.

He had taken a mandatory week off to recuperate from his
injuries, while I laid around my apartment, trying to shake off
the feelings of melancholy that come with being without him
for more than week. The day had begun regularly enough. I
slept in, cleaned, went to the supermarket, lounged on my
couch watching cheap horror films. And then, around ten
thirty, I decided to hit the sack.

I didn't sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling for almost
half an hour. Mere moments after my eyes had closed, the
phone had rung. It was Mulder, of course.

It's always been Mulder.

'They're closing the X-files, Scully. They're shutting us
down.'

I'd never thought I'd see the day when I'd find my heart
dropping over the X-files division, but at that moment my
only thought was that he wasn't my partner any longer.

After we hung up that night, I contemplated sleep for another
ten minutes before sliding out of bed and into a pair of jeans
and a T-shirt. Twenty minutes later, I found myself shuffling
my feet outside his door, dredging up the courage to knock.
He made my choice for me.

'How --?'

'I saw you pull up out front. You okay?'

And then, my official quote, 'I'm fine.'

He invited me in, and I settled down on his couch next to him.
We didn't speak for some moments, and when he did, finally,
it was with a sadly wry tone to his voice. 'Guess this is a big
promotion for you.'

I told him that at some point, that might have been right but it
wasn't anymore. That I was just as upset about the closing as
he was. I'd grown attached to those damn files - and to him.

His head had dropped to his hands, and after a moment, I
realized he was crying. I did what I had to do - I pulled his
head towards me and held him as he cried, allowing him the
moment. When he finally pulled back, my lips touched his
forehead gently - his nose, the crevice between his upper lip
and his nose -

And before I had a chance to reconsider, our lips had found
each other in the still darkness of his apartment, and they were
clashing - like dueling knights, each desperate to overcome
the other. I remember he pulled away after a minute, giving
me an exit, and I have to say I don't remember how we got
back to business. But there I was, on my back on his couch,
my hands in his hair, my mouth slanted insistently on his - and
there was only one certainty. I was irrevocably, abashedly lost.

There was no talk of the X-files, or being shut down, or the
FBI. For the eternity of one night, we were stripped of our
titles and our barriers. We were just two people seeking the
comfort we knew only each other could offer.

I told myself that's what it had been, on that old, cliched
Morning After. Comfort. That was a hell of a lot easier to
digest than facing a possible truth. I awoke before he did, just
as the early morning sunlight was starting to stream through
his living room window. I carefully extracted myself from
under his heavy arm, retrieved my clothing, and left a note
before shutting the door behind me.

I didn't see or hear from him for at least a month. Deciding it
was better to just face the problem head-on than to ignore it, I
cornered him at his desk.

'Mulder.'

He looked up at me briefly, nodding a little, then returned to
typing at his keyboard.

'Can we talk?'

'No.'

'Look, I --'

'I don't.' His reply was short and a little bitter.

I gave up, then. I touched his shoulder lightly, gently, and left.
He dropped a little missive by my desk the next day,
apologizing for his attitude, and asking me to meet him for
lunch. I did, and we talked about everything under the sun
except for that fateful night in May. Things slowly became
normal after that luncheon, and by the time I was returned and
we had the X-files back, our spring interlude was tucked
neatly into the past.

Until exactly one year later. We were in between cases, bored
as hell with the paperwork load. Me, still in shock over
Melissa's death; Mulder in shock at his father's. Maybe that
was the catalyst - that we both lost people we loved within
weeks of each other. I didn't realize the significance of the
date until that particular night, when I got home from work. I
passed by the calendar in my kitchen, the date barely
registering.

He showed up about two hours later, smiling and asking if I'd
ever seen the Geena Davis/Jeff Goldblum version of 'The
Fly.' Near the end of the film, I noticed that he had positioned
himself close but still at enough of a distance. And that he'd
used the 'yawn and stretch' routine to get his arm on the back
of the couch and thus around me.

I said his name quietly, just loud enough so that he'd turn to
face me. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault this is a bad remake, Scully. Don't worry
about it.'

'I'm sorry...about what happened last year. I was going to
apologize when I came to see you that day. You wouldn't let
me, Mulder, so I'm doing it now.'

'Better late than never,' he'd said, a half-sarcastic edge to his
words to hide his nervousness. 'Scully --'

He broke off there, saying he needed to go, and headed
towards the door. I went over to get the tape out of the VCR,
but he stopped me, saying he trusted me enough to loan out
his stuff. So I followed him to the door, and took his hand in
mine. I guess his objective, then, was to aim for my nose, and
either I moved or it was intentional - and his lips landed on
mine. There was the briefest of pauses, he asking for
permission and I firmly persuading him to continue. I allowed
myself to sink into the familiarity of the kiss, of him - of us.

He left the next morning before he thought I was up. My eyes
were closed, my head whirling with admonitions against my
actions the previous night. I watched through bleary eyes as
he got dressed, pulled the covers up a little more over me,
smoothed back my hair, and closed the door behind him.

And it was Monday that day. Work. I went in, diligent in my
duties as usual. I uttered my normal morning greetings to him,
steadfastly refusing to mention It. He smirked at me and threw
a file folder in my direction, calling 'catch!' as an
afterthought.

That's when I realized that we'd never talk about it. It was as
staunchly guarded as the smoking man's secrets. But I pushed
aside the quiver inside my stomach at the thought. Ours was a
play, we each had our cues, and I'd be damned if I was going
to cave in first.

The next year, I knew it was my turn to go to him. True to our
relationship, we never discussed it. It was simply a given. And
it was a given that this night was something we needed to
have, as unattainable and unrealistic as it may seem. I felt
butterflies in my stomach on my drive over to his apartment. It
hadn't been the best year for us, as partners. For months we
were out of sync, something that had never happened before,
even with our annual trysts looming between us. He let me in
on the first knock, and I didn't leave a note the next morning.
It wasn't necessary. It wasn't in the rules.

The fourth time, he came to me, and I saw the apprehension in
his eyes. We'd never let it get in the way of the X-files or us
as partners, but my cancer was threatening to destroy him
before it got to me. My brother Bill told me a few days before
that night that he and Tara were finally expecting a baby. And
Mulder was still tiptoeing around because of Eddie Van
Blundht. But he came anyway, but for the first time, I was
answering my hotel door, not my apartment's. We'd never
brought this into our work lives. I remember that I would
never have heard his soft knock on my door if I hadn't been
listening to it. Maybe that was his way out - knock so quietly
that I couldn't hear and he'd have an excuse. I let him in.

And when I woke up to my alarm at eight the next morning, I
was still wrapped snugly in his arms. Which was, decidedly, a
first. I nudged him awake on my way to the shower, which he
used after I got out. We got dressed in my room, and while he
disappeared to find some coffee, I dutifully messed up his bed.

If the first four were comforting and slow, the fifth was filled
with fury and hurt, on both our ends. So much had happened
to us in six months. My daughter died. Modell returned.
Cassandra and Jeffrey Spender. Mulder's undercover job to
infiltrate Bremer and his group. Folie a deux.

Diana Fowley.

I remember watching Mulder lift Emily from her bed when
she fell ill. In a split second, I felt my own heart tug that this
wasn't our daughter, and I saw his eyes cloud with the
knowledge that he'd never have the chance to carry his child -
our child - that way, even without my infertility. We didn't
talk about our yearly rendezvous; the chance that we'd go to
the next level was slim to none.

And as I laid in bed next to him, watching the moon through
the window over his head, I unconsciously moved a little
farther away from him. No matter how clandestine our
meetings were, I'd always known it was ours, just his and
mine.

That night, I felt someone else there with us, and I was
reminded of how small the 'i' was that separates Diana from
Dana.

And now I sit here at my desk, clicking away at my laptop as
though this were any day other than May 21, 1999. He's
doing the same across the room, although he's pulling off
nonchalance much better than I am. I remember the thoughts
that have been brewing in my head for some time now, things
I had planned on bringing up before today. And though I'm
full of questions and hurt, I'm lacking in the confidence
department. Suddenly, I look up and say his name.

"Mmm?"

"I want to go to dinner tonight."

His head pops up, and this time, I'm watching his eyebrow
arch. "Pardon?"

I repeat my request and wait. He's silent, taking in this new
piece of information and processing it in all the ways he
thinks I mean it. "I-I can bring some pizz --"

"Dinner, Mulder," I say firmly. "Restaurant, waiters, food fit
for consumption."

"Scully?" I raise my eyebrows questioningly. "Why?"

I roll my eyes in frustration. "Jesus, Mulder. Do I have to have
a reason? I want to go to dinner tonight. Preferably, with you.
If, however, this is inconvenient for you, I'm quite sure I can
find someone else."

Mulder watches my face carefully, searching for clues. Jesus,
I'm transparent. Of course he knows I have ulterior motives in
this. "Okay," he says slowly, cautiously. "I'll pick you up at
seven."

"Fine." And then I go back to my work.

* * *

True to his word, Mulder arrives at precisely seven, much to
my surprise. He's never prompt. At least I'm ready, although
I'm beginning to wonder if this is too much. After all, it's
been months since he's seen me in color. Maybe red's too
much....

"You look beautiful," he tells me as he starts up his car.

Sixteen year old Dana wants to blush, but thirty five year old
Scully simply smiles. "Thank you, Mulder."

"Hm? For what?"

"Dinner."

"We haven't even gotten to the restaurant yet, Scully," he
says teasingly. I laugh a little, delighting in his surprised look.
Has it been so long since he's seen me smile? I guess he's not
counting my baseball lesson a few weeks ago.

"I know that. But I got the impression you didn't want to do
this. Not that I'd be - well, I just understand your hesitation.
We aren't usually so ceremonious."

His jaw tightens a little at my words, words I realize sound
much more hard than I'd intended.

"You're getting expensive, Scully. I don't know that I can
afford the fanclub anymore," he retorts back, his tone
conversational but his words hurt. As he intended them to be.
Fortunately, I'm saved from answering. He pulls into the
parking space and we head into Cantone's. Nice, Mulder, I
think. He knows how to treat a girl on the first date.

This brings a smile to my face. We've slept together for five
years, and we've never been on a date. I sometimes wonder if
we don't actually try to be unorthodox.

I hide behind my menu for as long as I can before Nicolo, our
waiter, arrives to take our order. I wait until he leaves before I
open my mouth. "Mulder --" And somehow, I can't seem to
force the words out. I prepare to try again, but I fall short once
more. "Would you order me some more wine?" He nods, and
his eyes search mine inquiringly. "I need to use the ladies'
room."

* * *

I pull my watch out of my purse - it didn't go with the dress,
and I do have as much vanity as the next woman - and check
it for the twelfth time since I've hauled up in here. Five
minutes. I close my eyes. He's going to come back here soon.

A quick pep talk, bathroom break, and hair smoothing later, I
return to the table, unable not to notice his face. He's in
profiler mode. He knows something's up and he's going to -

"Scully, what's wrong?"

I put on my best 'Mulder, you're crazy' face. "Nothing's
wrong. I'm fine."

He nods shortly and leans closer. "Did I do something?"

I can't help the hard laugh that escapes my lips. He looks
startled. "No, not recently, Mulder."

"Implying that I *have* done something, just not recently?" I
don't answer him, sipping my wine. "Scully, I can't read your
mind."

"You used to be able to," I mutter under my breath, inhaling a
little when I realize he heard me.

He looks away for a moment, then refocuses on me again. "Is
this about what happened after I got back from the Triangle?"
I shake my head. I'm only lying a little. "Dragging you away
from your family on Christmas? Arcadia? Karin? Padgett?
Baseball? Mushroom trips? Dammit, Scully, give a little,
here!" He takes a deep breath and meets my eyes. "Diana?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

He visibly tenses as he rubs the bridge of his nose. "What the
hell do you want from me, Scully?"

Not the right words, Mulder. My temper flares immediately.
"For once, Mulder? For once, I want the truth. Don't bother
saying you have, you haven't. I want you to tell me if I've
been some kind of fill-in for Diana Fowley for the past six
years. I want to know if this night means any more to you than
the night you fucked your partner five years ago. You have a
lot of disgusting habits, Mulder. I'd hate to be one of them."

"I don't want to do this here."

"The hell with what you want, Mulder. You've had your own
way for six years. Speaking as the person you claimed saved
you, made you a whole person, I'm asking you acknowledge
that after all these years, you owe me a hell of a lot more than
what you've been giving me."

"Diana --" Mulder pauses, and I can see him rephrasing his
answer in his head. "Scully, Diana has nothing to do with you
and I together. Whatever I felt for her, I felt eight years ago,
and I don't feel it anymore."

"But you trust her more than you trust my judgment."

"I don't trust anyone more than I trust you, Scully!" he says
angrily, then lowers his tone. "If the situation were reversed,
if she had told me that she thought you were dirty, I'd still be
here, defending you and trusting you. Because you would
never give me cause to doubt you. Your opinion of her has
nothing to do with her ability as an agent and everything to do
with jealousy and insecurity."

"I had to work for your trust, Mulder. Why do I feel like I
don't have it anymore, regardless of what you say? If she were
to call you right now and ask you to come to her apartment,
you'd feel no remorse leaving me here."

He doesn't answer me, instead stares back at me, his eyes as
wary as my own. After a moment, he speaks. "I can't tell you
anything more than the truth. And I've just told you it. She
was a part of my life when I found the X-files, but she's not a
part of my life anymore; you are. I don't know how to make
you believe me, but Jesus, Dana, it's the truth."

"You don't have to call me Dana. You only use it because you
think you need to get my attention. You've had my attention
for the past six years, Mulder."

The waiter sets our food down suddenly, and we spend the
rest of the meal in heavy silence.

* * *

I didn't expect him to, but he followed me up to my
apartment, and is now quiet behind me as I slip my key into
the lock. I step in, leaving the door open for him to enter or
leave. He comes in and closes it quietly. I feel him come up
behind me, and I wait, expecting - knowing - his movements.

His hands start out tentatively at my waist, then trail up a little
to wrap around my shoulders. He holds me to him for a
moment, and I let out a little sigh. A sigh of what, I'm not
sure. Surrender, resignation, pain. His lips press a soft kiss on
the exposed skin of my shoulder, then make a circle around
the back of my neck, hesitating at my scar. He turns me in his
arms, and this time, I'm the one who tiptoes to meet his lips.
He's crushing me to him, trying to erase my uncertainty about
his trust in me, my fear, my hurt, every ache I've ever had. I
indulge him, letting him pull me to the couch. When his lips
travel to the rest of my face, I put my hands on his chest to
stop him.

"Mulder," I murmur.

He retracts immediately, and through my haze of distress, I
feel a shimmer of affection for him. "What is it?"

"I didn't want to discuss Diana at dinner tonight," I admit. He
pulls back a little more, confusion evident on his face. He
encourages me with a nod. "I've been thinking. About you
and I. About all of this."

"You want me to go?"

"No," I say, drawing on my wavering confidence. "I want you
to stay."

He shakes his head. "Sorry?"

"I want you to stay. I want you to be here when I get up and to
still be here in the evening, and I want you to stay for the
weekend. I'm sick of having you in my arms once a goddamn
year, Mulder. I'm sick of feeling like I've betrayed you every
time a man asks me for a date, or I find myself attracted to
someone else. I'm tired of ignoring May 21 for three hundred
and sixty four days a year, only to assume I'm going to get
lucky simply because it's a damn anniversary. I want - I want
us to stop acting like being together will cause the end of the
world and just be with each other. In short - Mulder, I'm tired
of pretending."

He's quiet. My heart, I think suddenly, has skipped quite a
few beats in my anticipation of his reply. I don't realize he's
spoken until he looks away, his eyes heavy.

No.

No?

I push him away from me and sit up on my couch, trying not
to glare at him. "Okay, Mulder." My voice is tight.

"I've almost lost you, how many times, Scully? Either by some
stalker, or a serial killer, or to a bee." He's rushing his words
out at a hundred miles an hour, so quickly that I know I have
to interrupt him if I'm going to get a word in edgewise.
There's a frantic, panicked look in his eyes - a look that's
telling me I've made an appalling miscalculation.

"That's an excuse," I begin.

"If we - if we were to be together, Scully - I-I won't risk us
losing what we already have. Not to attempt something
neither of us are great at and possibly ruin what we have. I
would do anything for you, anything. And as much as I would
give my life to have that - I can't. I won't mess us up." Mulder
laughs shortly, running a hand over his face. "Jesus, I never
thought I'd deny this if it ever came up."

"Then why are you?" I ask, careful to check my anger at the
door. I keep my voice neutral.

"Because the thought of having you forever would be the best
thing that could ever happen to me, and if I lost you, I'd lose
myself, too," I hear, and I get the feeling he's trying to
convince himself as well as me.

"Not everything has to end."

"We're great like we are now, aren't we?"

I figure now's as good a time as any, so I shrug. "I love you," I
say listlessly.

It must sound like goodbye to him, because he takes my
shoulders and forces me to look at him. I see the desperation
in his eyes and I feel it in his strong grip. I know I will have
bruises in the morning, and if I'm right, my couch is going to
have another fierce exercise tonight. "I'm not walking away
from you. I'm not walking away from us. Please, Scully --" He
breaks off and slides down to the floor in a slithering puddle
at my feet. He rises up to his knees and winds his arms around
my waist, his head in my lap. I struggle to decipher his
muffled words. "Don't walk away, either. You can hate me,
and I'll never touch you again, just don't leave. I love you.
Scully." He repeats my name, and I realize he's crying quietly.

I pull his head up gently, tasting his tears before I kiss him. I
tug him up from the floor, and within seconds, we're lost in
each other again.

* * *

The sunlight nudges me awake, and my eyes slowly drift
open. After a moment, I glance quickly around the room,
searching for some sign of him. My head drops back onto the
couch, my eyes closing tightly.

I half-fooled myself into thinking he'd change his mind, that
he'd be here, a smile on his face and a kiss for an apology. I
touch my lips gently, pressing on them in an attempt to
capture him again. I don't agree with his reasons. But I
understand his fear. And I know that if I love him the way I
know I do, I'll respect his decision. Maybe if I can't have
what I want, I'll just have to settle for taking what I'm given.

In a few hours, I'll get up and start my day. I'll spend my
weekend like any other weekend, and on Monday morning,
we'll start the game again. We won't mention last night, and
he'll probably make an effort to figure out on his own if
Fowley is dirty or not, as an apology.

And I'll wait another three hundred and sixty four days for the
one night that I know he's mine.


the end

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