The Thing They Left Til Last
by seeyoustandingthere

Rating: R
Feedback:  Sassykay4@gmail.com

Summary:  Set about six months after IWTB. A little poetic
licence, maybe, and possible spoilers for everything, ever.

Author's Note: This has been my ultimate pairing since I was old
enough to know about love. I grew up with them, and have never
written them before - fearing, as I still do, that I might not get them
right, and being so protective of them as I am. But this demanded
to be written.

There is so much M&S fic out there already, and I didn't want to
add to it unless I could do it well. There is nothing worse than your
hallowed favourite show slaughtered through bad writing or through
being drastically out of character. I hope I've dodged that bullet.

I hope this reaches those who feel about them the way I do,
because I think if it doesn't speak to every X Files fan, it might at
least speak to the shippers out there who see these two as old
friends like I do. The X Files is almost as old as I am and I have yet
to see a couple who rival Mulder and Scully for sheer passion,
strength, tenderness and compatibility. The Perfect Other, as Scully
says…

Thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, just the love...


~ ~ ~ ~

The crowd stretched around Mulder like a pair of arms, making
him over-warm and emotional as he pushed gently through. The
bag in his right hand was heavy and he was looking forward to
putting it down. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes,
still a little sleepy from the flight. He was aching to see her, and his
tired eyes scanned the faces of those around him. His body
anticipated being wrapped around her, her hair on his cheek, cool
lips on his neck, their natural state. It was late afternoon, near
Christmas, marked by the irritatingly jolly music piping in
somewhere above him and the darkness outside the window. He
didn't tend to notice the time of year, but there was no missing it
here. The season's raw love and loss was all around him, amplified
as it always was by the clingy goodbyes and tearful reunions of the
airport. In his years of travelling he'd seen some sights. Bitter fights,
crying children, reaching out clammy little arms for the parent or
sibling left behind. Uptight businessmen pecking the cheeks of
wives who would cry when they had gone and not before. More
than one marriage proposal. Only one yes. He had once breezed
through these crowds, immune. He wasn't that tightly coiled
anymore.

It occurred to him that this was only the second time he had flown
into this airport, the first solo homecoming to this home. He didn't
need to locate the car rental desk, or catch the shuttle. Someone
was waiting for him. He walked with purpose, pressing ahead
despite the serpentine flow of the people around him as they
paused and readjusted cases on trolleys, received relatives into
their arms before they were supposed to, inside the security lines.
He knew he wouldn't find her there. It would go against every fibre
of her being to break a rule without reason. He smiled at the
thought of all the ones she had broken for him, and how much more
that all meant now that he had time to appreciate it. Time in the real
world to acknowledge that they had been living on the absolute
edge of everything for years. The edge of reason, of the law, of life,
really.

Of love, too, of course. They had crashed down on the brilliant side
of that particular line, thank god, and he did thank god, for he knew
he hadn't always played things well or even fairly. Hell, he had been
hard to live with sometimes, hard to love. But she made it look so
easy, this loving thing. Once upon a time he had believed women in
general were better at it, but now he knew better. She was just
really good at *him.* True to their regular form, they didn't do
even this last great endeavour the easy way. The reality of the
situation - their love, their unstoppable passion, had dawned,
descended even, like a bucket of ice water. They had both been
stunned, dripping, unsure how to proceed for some time. He still
laughed at them - the smartest at everything but this. They'd
struggled, really struggled - there was so much at stake. Caught
between the brilliance of those moments when they just couldn't
deny the force of it, literally speechless sometimes, and the worry of
what the other was thinking, how it would change them.

Just as it would all click into place, time would snap forward to a
dark place. A deadly illness. A Diana. A death, a long winter for
Scully without him. A slow recovery, and a pregnant belly that was
between them before they'd had chance to decide what it all meant.
A forced absence, months in New Mexico, thinking of her at home,
imagining her dazed and feeling her way around the paddock of
motherhood without him there, had driven him crazy in a totally new
way. He was unprepared for the physical need he now had for her.
The loss of proximity was crippling. For the first time in his life he
was ready to stop. Just drop it all like kindling and spend his days
and nights in quiet complicity with the woman his heart and mind
were now besieged by, and the child he still could barely believe
existed whom he was also in love with. And he couldn't explain
that, having spent less than twenty four hours with him. But he'd
always been a believer, and he would have let these two lead him
into a new kind of life. He would no longer need all the other things
- the shadows and the red eye flights and the basement files, to
remind him what it was all about - it was all in Scully's eyes
anyway.

Naturally, he chose the worst possible moment to realise all this -
one in which his life and theirs were more in danger than ever
before, and he instead had to try and stand still, knowing that he
was no good to her dead. When finally he saw her face, he feared
that he had been no good to her anyway. He played the fool when
she walked into that stinking cell, so afraid that she couldn't love
this man, so wary of the time that had passed and what he'd just
been told. The loss of William that had broken her beautiful heart in
two (he knew it), was written all over her, in her posture, her
perfectly manicured hands, her steel gaze, and the way she still,
after it all, managed to muster the fire to kick his ass in that prison
cell. It just couldn't all be for nothing.

Their kiss in that cell was blinding. Everything he had in one motion,
telling her without making a sound, giving it all to her, what he'd
been wanting to give her all that time, taking from her the pain and
the love that she was wearing on her sleeve. So relieved and so
aroused by her reception, strong arms and a hot touch, no holds
barred, Skinner or no Skinner. He sensed the truth in her kiss.

He let her go eventually, and, unable to keep from touching her,
took her hand, kissed it. Hoping that this was his. Hoping she knew
that he was hers. She turned to him, eyes heavy with unshed tears.
His heart had raced like never before.

He saw her then. Really saw her. The years fell away and there she
was, raw and beautiful and noble and the greatest human being he
had ever had the good grace to know. Her capacity for pain was
infinite, and he had never known strength like it. Fire, and ice, she
had always been, but in that moment he looked down the whole
length of her and saw the core of this lady. One who had never told
him a lie. Never sugarcoated a bitter pill, never shied away from
him no matter how deeply implicated or obsessed he became. One
who always saw, and demanded, the absolute best he had to offer,
no exceptions. One who, in almost ten years, hadn't let another man
anywhere near her heart. Then he knew. That she was his, had
always been his.

He carries this image with him often. It serves as a searing reminder
of what they could have lost, and of the passion and force that their
combined emotions have. They are alive, despite many wanting
them dead, so many attempts and near misses. They conceived a
child against a myriad of shitty odds. They defied that particular
science, as they have seen so many others defied in their years
together. He knows she believes William came about due to sheer
force of will. He knows that she's right, and it's why he can't let
their son become another part of the long, bloody battle that has
been his life. Scully's choice for their son was a very, very brave
act, and he is still bewildered by her capacity to see reason over
what must have been devastating pain. He doesn't think he could
have done it. He would have believed he could protect him, and
might have died trying. Afterwards, he could have fought, could
have searched. But he kind of goes with fate on this one. It's right
that William is safe, and while he wishes with all his heart that he
could absolve Scully of her guilt over it, he is actually intensely
proud of her. For putting William first. As the mother of his child,
it's the most he could ever have asked of her.

And yet she gave him more still. Left behind one life to run away
with him, literally, completely. Lived in motels for months, let her
hair grow longer, quietly watched the news every morning and
every night and never made him feel guilty for anything. She
breathed hot air into his mouth when he kissed her unexpectedly.
She stroked his hair in the dark and told him about the X Files
cases he had missed, the ones she had worked with John and
Monica. She indulged his need to talk conspiracies and risks and
possible escape routes, lay in bed in the mornings talking idly about
where they might end up. She went running with him after dark, in
the more remote places. Made love, again and again, learning and
re-learning this new language, the thing they left til last. She smiled
when he bought her lite beer and again when her bottle cap beat his
into the trash can - this in state after state. She never said enough
was enough, only edged into conversation one day that she thought
they could probably get away with renting a house if they were
careful. It was the same morning he had wished for a kitchen table,
to drink coffee at, to spread the newspaper over. He gazed (yes,
Holman was right, it turns out) at her for a second then, before
chuckling to himself and wondering when he would stop being
surprised that they were wholly, completely, utterly on the same
page. It had been true for so long.

He loved their house in West Virginia. It was imperfect, rambling
enough for his tastes, neat and warm enough for hers. They hadn't
tried to make it into their home, but it had quickly become that. Her
medical journals on the table, faint smell of coffee grounds always
lingering in the kitchen. His office, which was never discussed, just
grew up around him as he started spending time in there. The huge
overgrown yard which they never tended, just wandered through
and beyond to the woods where, in spring and summer they would
run together. The porch where they sat sometimes after dinner,
needing the fresh air after so many months of motel. The house
allowed them both to roam. Scully signed a year's rental on it,
sneaking him out to it late at night so he could see it from the road.
It wasn't until she got the job at Our Lady of Sorrows that he
thought about buying it. By then it seemed they were safe enough -
or rather, her name was running through various databases and
nothing had happened. He had no doubt they knew where she was,
and therefore, where he was. It wasn't about that. Never had been.

Between them they had something of an investment and property
portfolio - for all the good it did them. He still had his parents'
houses in Massachusetts, but he couldn't do anything with those
while he was living underground. He'd managed to get at his savings
online, put everything into Scully's name. Ironically, they had plenty
of money. Scully still had her apartment in Washington, and it was
this they sold via a PO Box, to buy the house in West Virginia. He
surprised himself the day she came home with the deeds.
Happiness ebbed in, making him kiss her softly, sweetly, in their
(their) kitchen, and he started thinking madly about things he could
fix while she was out at work. It felt damn good to have their own
house. He knew in those early days she was still vaguely fearful of
his disappearing, and the autonomy of her being the only normal
citizen of record made a sad kind of sense in light of that.
Technically, it was her house. Her car. Muddied up one side some
mornings, when she would know to look for the keys in the pocket
of his jacket. He imagined her standing in the grey morning light, at
the kitchen counter, considering scolding him for taking such a risk,
deciding against it. She knew he wouldn't care about her having
everything of his. If he was going to go, he would go.

What he couldn't articulate to her (he tried, late at night as they
moved together, that had become the way he told her how he felt,
the best way anyway) was that he didn't want to go anywhere . He
wanted to stay still, but instead find some purchase in this new kind
of life. One where the running happened in your head, or through
your computer, rather than in rental cars and motel rooms and
dark, deserted places. He knew he had to find something else to
do, or a new way to do what he had always done. Virtually
confined to their house and yard, he spent his days online and
reading books from the crate her mother had sent via the PO Box.
The few things they'd kept at Scully's place. He had things to say,
and although he knew his incredible partner would listen to him until
her head exploded, he needed to say more, do more, be more than
just a crackpot in a room full of newspaper clippings.

It all slid into place, funnily enough, after the difficult few weeks
working with the FBI. He and Scully weren't really ready for that,
although he admired her for wanting to give him back what he once
needed, even if she hated what happened next. He sees now that
the case came along at a crucial moment for her, fighting as she was
to save that young boy's life - to be given the chance to try,
anyway. He knows that she needs a certain level of normality now.
He failed in his attempts to reassure her that he wanted the same
thing. In the end the case just worked out a few of the kinks. He's
no longer wanted. He got back in the game, so to speak, and it
didn't, contrary to her worst fears, drag him away from her for
good. But he is back out in the world. He can take her out to
dinner now, at least.

Of course it was Scully who knew before he did what he might do
next. It was she who suggested writing. He didn't think the idea
held much water at the time. But having just spent a week talking it
over with a publisher and editor, he has begun to see the wood for
the trees. They think there's a book, maybe two, in his experiences.
They think he could be a useful contributor (anonymously, of
course) to the work of others - profiling, violent crimes. He isn't
sure, yet, how this will work, but he has ideas burning a hole in his
brain, and, happily, it is his laptop and office he is yearning for,
rather than his car and cell phone. Sure, it might not last. The
darkness might know better. But he knows he needs to do
something, create a centre of gravity for himself other than Scully.
Because, despite her having borne it for what is now getting on for
seven years this way, with scarcely a complaint (recent FBI related
activities aside), he would like her to have something of a normal
life. He would like her to be able to tell her colleagues that her
partner 'does something'. He would like them to be able to walk
down Main Street on Saturdays and read the paper in the coffee
house he's never been in. He would like to marry her.

He's been away for two weeks all told. One in New York, which,
aside from frenetic days of bad coffee and meeting after meeting,
was quite solitary. He was reminded of how little time he spent
genuinely alone when they worked together. He can't remember the
last time he stayed in a hotel without her. Even before they were
lovers, she was always on the other side of the connecting door. He
realises now what comfort that must, if subconsciously, have been
to him. Yes, she has kept him sane and driven him crazy so many
ways.

The second week he spent in Massachusetts. He has signed papers
and collected mementoes and finally, formally, the two houses in
which he spent his childhood are up for sale. He has said his
goodbyes to this part of his life, to Samantha's memory once again,
to the lingering smell of his father's cigars and his mother's
hairspray. He can add his name to the house in West Virginia now,
get a second car. On the last day of this week, he went to DC. He
hasn't told Scully he went there. He went to see her mother, who he
knows has been sick with worry about her. He sat on her couch,
said he was sorry. He didn't have to ask her to keep his visit
between them, he knew she would. He wanted her to know he
didn't plan it this way. That he never meant for Scully to lose
William, or for her to lose Scully. He can see in her eyes that she
understands, and like the younger Scully, that she forgives him
completely. Like her daughter, she never blamed him. When he
gets home, he will suggest to Scully that she invite her mother to
stay, now that they can.

He didn't think about the ways in which he would miss Scully until
he left. Fourteen days has dragged like a nail in his skin. Nothing
feels right without her, and he is not afraid of that sensation.
Looking back, he probably never has been. He marvelled
sometimes at the ways in which they could still find joy and surprise
in one another. Seventeen years. Such a lifetime. As a younger man
he was pessimistic about the longevity of relationships - so frequent
were the marriages that grew stale or platonic around him. His
parents included. And yet now she still brought him to his knees,
and they never tired of the sights or sounds of one another, no
matter how familiar, no matter how many times. They had both
grown older, but also better at it, at the physical and emotional
ways of being with another person. He knew he couldn't have done
this at thirty. He wasn't ready for her then. But now, oh, yes they
were pretty good at this. Dark or light, it just was, a slow burn
along a long road.

He was desperate to get to her, already thinking about the moment
when they closed their door against the world and it was just them,
and he could bury his face in her hair and say all the things he had
been holding in for two weeks. The things you felt like an ass saying
over the phone, the words of lust and of love that needed
accompanying gestures, responses, hands and clothes and smiles
and the ticking of time that no-one was listening to. The crowds
around him seemed to slow down just to frustrate him, and then a
trio of small children in front of him broke into a run, off to the left,
which cleared a path. There she was, face turned up towards the
arrivals board, as ever not allowing sentiment to take over. Her
eyes, still the coolest, clearest blue, darted slowly back and forth
across the screen. Her arms were folded across her chest, across a
thick double breasted coat. Beneath that, a very well fitted skirt
suit. He watched her in admiration as she turned, caught sight of
him, stopped. Smiled, a spreading, sensual thing. It was an
involuntary reaction, and he loved it, mirrored it, he hoped, as he
drew closer.

He reached her in a few long strides. Her eyes danced as he stood
before her, dropped his bag at their feet. He took her face in both
hands, kissed her as though his life depended on it. For a second
they were back in that dank cell, as her thumbs swept across his
cheeks, met his kiss with her own and an equal sense of urgency.
The passion coursed through them both, as his arms went around
her and lifted her just off her feet. She hugged him tight, running
hands through his hair and kissing his face. He leaned back from
her, took her hand in his.

"Hey," he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. She turned to look at
him, eyes brimming, complicit. A few breaths hitched in her chest.

"Hi," she said, softly. "Good trip?" He knew she was anxious to
know that he had found some footing. He nodded, not letting go of
her.

"Very." She dropped her head, another smile. He picked up his bag
and let his free hand find its usual place in the small of her back.
Some habits die hard. Others just live.

At the car she handed him the keys because she knew he liked to
drive. He talked a little about New York and the closing up of his
parents places. He knew she'd ask him more detailed questions
later. He asked her about work and whether she had been running
without him. He mentioned calling her mother, and she looked
relieved, grateful almost. He thought about the fact that it was
Christmas, and what other families do on that holiday. He made a
mental note to transmute those thoughts a little better once he had
slept.

At home the door clicked quietly closed behind them. Even after
being cooped up here for years, he was glad to be back. In the dim
hallway he pulled her close to him, and she went willingly, sliding
her hands up his back and along his shoulders, whispering in his ear
that she had missed him. He kissed her, and without much warning
it became heated, so quickly as was usually the way between them.
He always wants her. She took his hand and pulled him up the
stairs to their room, where he helped her out of her coat and blazer.

Under the covers a few minutes later they lay, naked, breathing
against one another, taking in the reality of this proximity that was
now theirs for life, if they wanted it. He lifted her hand, kissing the
knuckle and the tips of her fingers, so sure that they will never grow
old or unfamiliar to him. She worked her way from his ear to his
chest, taking in the outside smell of him, something away from home
that he had brought back with him. She felt the steady beat of his
heart in his chest, a rhythm she had come to depend upon. He
snaked an arm around her delicate waist, drawing her as close as
he could, and looked into her eyes. Level with his now, she stared
back, never afraid of what she would see there. He rewarded her
with a glimpse of the calm he was feeling.

He wanted to thank her. He wanted her to know he was excited
about work for the first time since the X Files. He wanted to ask
her to marry him. He wanted to tell her all kinds of things, but this
wasn't the moment for words.

He didn't need to say any of it. She rolled onto him, raised above
him like a siren in the night. Fingers laced, her hair falling onto his
chest.

"You make me happy," she said, and he stared at her. He thought
what a miracle this was. But then they had always punched above
their weight in that department. He pulled her down for another
kiss, feeling the inevitable, delicious heat building between them.

"At last," he murmured, against her lips. She pulled back, frowning
at him. He didn't let her get any words out, but kissed her again,
hooking his leg over hers. She would want to argue this point, but
he wasn't going to let her. Their bodies could do it for them. They
could tell each other everything. He arched his back, felt her draw
in breath in a rush, and he knew that he had the floor.


END.