NEW: A MATTER OF TIME (1/1)

TITLE: A MATTER OF TIME (1/1) 
AUTHOR: aka "Jake"
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine -- I write 'em for you to read 
'em. 
SPOILERS: All of Season 7. A bit of Season 8.
RATING: PG-13 (Adult Subject Matter)
CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR 

SUMMARY: In vitro fertilization? Mulder's terminal brain 
condition? The conception of little Will? Scully sorts out the 
events of Season 7 and tells us when and how she and Mulder 
became lovers.  
  
Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, 
FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement 
intended. Entertainment, yes. Profit, no. 

Author's notes: I needed a short break between case files. 
Making sense of CC's crazy timeline seemed like a distracting 
challenge. Hope this hasn't already been done to death by 
other, more gifted writers. 


A MATTER OF TIME 
By aka "Jake"


My professional relationship with Mulder began on March 6, 
1992. My personal relationship with him isn't so easy to 
pinpoint. Mulder and I have taken infinitesimal, dawdling steps 
toward one another for years. The exact moment we became 
lovers...well, that remains a bit fuzzy.

Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Making love is making love. 
It's a physical act. 

Right?

Nothing is ever so clear-cut when it involves Mulder and me.

Fact: Mulder and I did not engage in anything that might 
remotely be considered a sexual activity the first night we 
shared my bed. That was Monday, March 13 -- 2:13 a.m. to be 
exact. Sleeping together was just that. Mulder came to me 
exhausted. My arms were nothing more than a harbor, a quiet, 
calm embrace where he was able to find a good night's sleep. 

Mulder's insomnia -- the reason behind our chaste night in my 
bed -- had returned months earlier, in late November/early 
December. At that time, my inclination was to blame Cancer 
Man's debauchery for my partner's sleepless nights -- CGB 
Spender had both robbed and raped Mulder's mind. 

To be honest, however, I may have contributed to Mulder's 
unrest, as well. I had burdened him with my own needs at a 
time when, perhaps, he wasn't fit to deny me. Shortly after 
his brain surgery, and not long before Christmas -- the time 
of year when my memories of Emily haunt me most -- I asked 
Mulder to father my child by means of in vitro fertilization. 
Although he agreed, and joked about his trips to Dr. Parenti's 
office and the IVF donation procedure, having a baby was my 
dream, not necessarily his.

The next three months were hard on us both. I didn't become 
pregnant. Mulder lost his mother. Somewhere in between, Mulder 
killed a brain-eating mutant and I killed Donnie Pfaster. 
Mulder nearly died from snakebites in Blessing, Tennessee. We 
shared a kiss on New Year's Eve.

I don't mean to imply the kiss was a hardship in the same 
sense as the other events, but it did add tension to our 
lives. At least to mine.

Before New Year's Eve, before I asked Mulder to father my 
child, his kisses were born from his feelings of concern for 
my welfare. They were meant to calm me, and him. They were 
proof that we'd survived another threat -- to the X-Files, to 
our partnership, to our lives. 

The New Year's Eve kiss, however, was not the kiss of a 
concerned partner, although we had managed to cheat death that 
night. The New Year's Eve kiss was the kiss of an "interested" 
man. Don't misunderstand. Mulder was respectful. Cautious, 
even. But not "concerned."

Something had shifted in our relationship. For him, if not for 
me.

By the time my 36th birthday rolled around, Mulder was looking 
worn out. When pressed, he admitted he was having trouble 
sleeping.

"That's nothing new for me, Scully," he said, and shrugged it 
off, wanting to convince us both he was fine and that his 
insomnia was only temporary. 

I was willing to drop it, until, during one of his sleepless 
nights, he arrived at my apartment several hours after I had 
gone to bed. That was a Tuesday early in March. Mulder let 
himself in with his own key and sat in my livingroom until 
sometime before dawn. Never made a sound. He may have slept 
there on the couch or he may have just listened to my clock 
tick all night. I woke up to a small pile of empty sunflower 
hulls on the coffee table -- the only sign he'd been there at 
all.

I had to assume he'd left the shells on purpose. Mulder isn't 
careless. By leaving behind such an obvious clue, he was 
granting me permission to talk about his midnight visit. So I 
asked him about it at the office the next afternoon. 

"You came to my apartment last night?"

"Yep." He didn't look up from the slides he sorted.

"Why?"

He rearranged a few more slides. Then met my gaze. Looked a 
bit embarrassed. "Was it a problem?" 

"No, but why didn't you wake me?"    

He gave a little shrug and returned to his sorting. 

I didn't ask him any more questions. Mulder and I tend to 
tread lightly around personal issues. And perhaps I'd 
misunderstood the sunflower seeds.

A few days and nights passed without further mention of his 
late night stopover. I began to forget about it. Filed it away 
in the back of my mind with all the other odd things Mulder 
has said and done over the years that make no sense to me.

And then, Friday night, he visited my apartment again. I awoke 
to the scent of him in my bedroom. 

"Mulder?" 

No answer. He wasn't there, but I was certain he had been there
only a few minutes before. I got out of bed, put on my robe and 
hurried to the livingroom. He wasn't there either. I checked 
the outer hall. 

"Mulder?" 

He stood at the end of the corridor in front of the exit door, 
hand on the knob. His shoulders stiffened when I called his 
name. An uncomfortable smile painted his face. He hadn't intended 
to be caught.

"Hey, Scully. Think the Knicks are gonna pull out a win this 
weekend?"

"Mulder, what are you doing here?"

He tested the doorknob. "Scully, you know your neighborhood has 
better pizza than mine."

"What are you doing *here*, Mulder?"

His smile faded. "I.... You want me to go?"

This made me frown, too. "No, I don't want you to go." I 
tilted my head toward the interior of my apartment. "Come in."

Squinting at me, he looked extraordinarily wary...and weary.

"No, Scully. I didn't mean.... Sorry I woke you. I'll see you 
Monday."

With that, he disappeared out the door.

Evidently, he couldn't wait until Monday to see me after all. 
Sunday night, I woke to find him hovering over my bed.

"Jesus, Mulder." I sat up, startled. Even in the dark, I 
recognized he wore the same suit and tie beneath his 
trenchcoat that he'd worn when I'd seen him two nights before.

"Knicks lost," he told me.

"Most guys would go to a bar to drown their disappointment."

"Yeah, well...." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and 
looked ready to bolt from my room. 

The streetlight outside my bedroom window lit half of his 
face. He'd clearly been crying. His unshaved cheek was still 
wet. I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the Knicks. 
My heart went out to him. It had only been a couple of weeks 
since he'd lost his mother. And despite his professed relief 
at learning the fate of his sister, he seemed at loose ends. 

"You don't have to stand, Mulder." I patted the bed.

His fidgeting ceased. His eyes rounded in a "you mean it?" 
kind of way, while his head shook "no."

"Mulder, lay down. You're tired. *I'm* tired. Neither one of 
us can sleep with you hovering there."

He didn't look convinced. My suggestion was too far outside 
our professional personas.

Partners. We were FBI partners. We were going to continue to 
be FBI partners. Weren't we?

For the last couple of weeks, I'd been having doubts about our 
future with the X-Files.

Mulder's search for his sister had fueled his passion for 
decades, had given him purpose. His determination became mine, 
too. Two weeks ago, however, Mulder discovered Samantha had 
died in 1979. That seemed to leave us directionless, our 
future unclear. With an ache in my chest, I felt "agents" 
Mulder and Scully were evaporating. 

For selfish reasons, I had hoped Mulder would latch onto a new 
quest, immediately, because I needed a goal, too. When I 
didn't become pregnant after the unsuccessful IVF attempts, I 
had resigned myself to my childlessness, and then hoped my 
life with Mulder, searching for the Truth, would be a 
satisfying second choice. Now, with Samantha's fate revealed, 
what truths were left to find? What would hold us together? 
Not COPS and killer computer games, surely.

Mulder shed his trench coat. He draped it carefully over the 
chair in the corner. Clearing his throat, he toed off his 
shoes. Then, he lay down -- on his back, on top of the 
blankets, still wearing his suit, and his gun, keeping as far 
to his side of the bed as possible.

"Mulder...take off your weapon. I'd rather not explain to 
Skinner how you shot yourself in my bed."

The mattress heaved as he sat up and removed his side arm and 
then the gun at his ankle. He set the guns side-by-side on my 
nightstand, right next to my own service weapon.

"Your tie, too, Mulder. Wouldn't want you to hang yourself."

"Why do I already feel like I'm suffocating?"

I laughed, thinking his comment came from nervousness. I found 
out only much later how mistaken I'd been. He meant something 
far more serious. Deadly serious.

Mulder pulled the tie from his collar and let it drop to the 
floor beside the bed. Almost as an afterthought, he removed 
his suit coat and tossed it on top of the tie.

"G'night, Mulder," I said as he settled onto his back once 
more. 

He remained outside the covers. I lay on my side facing him. 
Closing my eyes, I pretended to relax, hoping he would, too.

"Scully...I'm going out of town for a few days at the end of 
the week," he said to my ceiling.

"Do you need me with you?"

A great breath of air sifted from his lungs. "No." Then he 
rolled onto his side, facing me. He curled into a ball and 
leaned his head into my body. His forehead came to rest 
against my breastbone.

My arm automatically embraced him. I rested my cheek on the 
crown of his head. His hair felt unbelievably soft. He smelled 
wonderful, despite the two-day-old clothes. He smelled like 
the last seven years of my life.

I stroked his back and his rigid muscles surrendered to my 
caress. He nestled his face between my breasts and fell 
asleep. As simple and as quick as that.

When I awoke the next morning, he was already gone. 

Later that day at the office, we didn't discuss the fact that 
he had spent the previous night in my bed. Instead, we flew to 
Marin County, California, to catch a "theef."

We were back home by mid-week. By midnight, Mulder appeared 
again at my bedside.

This time, he didn't wait for an invitation to join me.

He slipped off his shoes and coat, tie and guns. Then he 
stripped down to his boxers and slid beneath the covers. All 
without saying a word. He took my own silence as unspoken 
permission. Again, he curled against me and again he fell 
asleep almost instantly. For whatever reason, Mulder was able 
to dodge his nocturnal demons when wrapped in my arms. 

I was happy to give him a moment of peace. 

I didn't see him again until I went to the office the 
following week. He said nothing about where he had gone during 
the last few days and I didn't ask. Only months later would I 
find out he had traveled to visit several doctors, brain 
specialists. 

We spent the next five nights together -- repeat performances. 
Then Mulder didn't show for almost a week, angry with me for 
going with CGB Spender to Pennsylvania, risking my life. He 
was hurt that I had given my trust to our old enemy and not to 
him. My bed felt enormous and empty without him.

Mulder traveled to Vermont on a case. I stayed behind. He 
returned to DC without his anger and hurt.

His first night back, things went differently. He showed up as 
usual, but rather than falling asleep in my arms, he held me 
to his chest with a determination that took my breath away.

"You should have seen her, Scully."

"Who?"

"Ellen Adderly."

The Vermont case.

He buried his nose into my neck. "She swallowed her anger. 
Kept her emotions bottled inside," he said against my skin.

"And...?"

"It transformed her into something monstrous."

"Is there a lesson here somewhere?"

He chuckled and squeezed me tighter. Then suddenly, he kissed 
me. His mouth pressed against mine so hard it hurt. A moment 
later, he ended the kiss, burying his lips once more against 
my neck, leaving mine feeling prickly and alone.

With my bruised lips tingling and Mulder's breath hot on my 
skin, old words floated back to me. My words. Spoken in a 
Kansas high school bathroom to Sheila Fontaine:

"You know, one day you look at a person and you see something 
more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been 
flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is 
suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with."

Mulder? And me? 

It took a vision in a Buddhist temple a few days later to put 
a point on my revelation. I realized there is only one true 
choice in life and all the other ones are wrong. And there are 
signs along the way to guide us to that right choice.

Like a New Year's Eve kiss. A small pile of empty sunflower 
hulls on the coffee table. Or a story about Ellen Adderly. 

After discussing my Buddhist temple epiphany with Mulder, I 
fell asleep on his couch. When I woke, I went to his bedroom 
and stood beside his bed. I watched him sleep. I saw before me 
a good man. A devoted man. Noble, altruistic, uncompromising. 

I also saw the truth. I realized I loved Mulder with all my 
heart and that everything in my life had brought me right 
here, right now, for a reason. I removed my shoes, my jacket, 
my gun, and joined him in his bed. And we made love. Why not? 
Mulder and I had already been lovers for years. The physical 
act was not the defining moment.

Pressing me beneath him, he told me he had loved me for a very 
long time. I told him I loved him, too.

"I knew you'd come around eventually, Scully."

"You did?"

"Yep, it was only a matter of time."

Time. Mulder had almost none left. Although I didn't know it, 
he was dying of an untreatable brain inflammation. He had kept 
his secret from me and everyone else, investigating all 
possible avenues of treatment on his own -- everything from 
traditional medicine to feeding himself to a creature with 
alleged curative powers in Squamish Township, Pennsylvania. 

No wonder he couldn't sleep at night.

Mulder's illness explained a lot more than his insomnia. 
Things I didn't fully understand at the time. Like his 
willingness to help me conceive a child via IVF. Only now do I 
see he wanted to fulfill my heart's desire -- he may have even 
felt he owed it to me -- but given the status of our personal 
relationship and his abbreviated timeframe, IVF was the only 
expedient choice. He had no time to wait for natural 
conception. 

His illness also explained his stubborn refusal to accept his 
mother's suicide. She had willingly shortened her life at 
a time when he would have given anything to prolong his own. 
He preferred to believe she'd been murdered than to admit she 
squandered her remaining days.

Lastly, Mulder's illness explained his relief when he learned 
that Samantha was no longer "out there," enduring who-knows-
what. He knew he had run out of time to rescue her.

Fate had reduced the remainder of Mulder's life to only a few 
short months...which he generously gave to me, allowing me the 
luxury of coming to him at my own pace.

Thankfully, I wasn't too late. Over the next weeks, Mulder 
became addicted to nicotine and I became addicted to him. We 
painted Hollywood red on an FBI credit card and we brawled in 
Kansas City, Kansas. Mulder was granted three wishes and I 
became pregnant.

"Never give up on a miracle," he had told me. Mulder the 
believer.  

A year later, beyond all reasonable odds, Mulder is alive and 
healthy. We have a beautiful son, also healthy. And I am head 
over heels in love with my baby's father. Fox William Mulder, 
the man who waited for me to discover our love, one 
infinitesimal, dawdling step at a time. 


THE END

Author's notes: I think we have all the major events in their 
proper places, don't we? Did I forget anything? It's likely 
someone has already straightened out CC's mess far more 
eloquently than I have here, but I enjoyed the exercise 
anyway. Hope you did, too. Now it's time for me to get back to 
working on that next case file.