Date: Thu, 29 Jan 1998 23:13:40 -0800 From: "Imajiru F. Mackenzie" Subject: Taming The Unicorn 10 (1/2) MSR NC-17 NOTE: All versions of all installments of Taming The Unicorn should be credited to "Imajiru", at the e-mail address "imajiru@mindspring.com". No other name or e-mail address should appear on this story, anywhere. Thanks. Additional Note: Because I live here, *that's* why. And yes, the local branch of the FBI is a short bus ride away; the Original Pancake House at Charleston and Decatur makes the best damn eggs benedict you've ever tasted; and the Graceland Wedding Chapel does indeed advertise Ceremonies With The King. Truly. Spoilers: There is a teeny tiny spoiler for Redux in this, in the form of a reference to Dana's brother and his opinions, even though for the purposes of this story, most of the fourth and fifth seasons are considered to never have happened. I really don't think that the character reference is enough to spoil the episode, though. Gossamer Codes: S for Story, R for Romance, MSR for you- know-what, and NC-17 for nudge-nudge-wink-wink. Archiving: May be forwarded to atxc. May be archived at Gossamer. May be archived anywhere else where it is wanted; but please let me know where it's being put - and as stated above, PLEASE be certain that this and all other installments are being archived under the name "Imajiru". Acknowledgments: The Lone BetaReaders for this triad have been, in no particular order -- Bethy/Caia, AlexaFoxx, WynBleddyn, PRhino, JuliaK, Krissiekins, Stephiekins, and my bestest bud Leah. Thanks for the input, gang. Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. Would someone please come and pick them up and take them home? They're driving me crazy already. No, just kidding; it's nice having them around, Scully sitting on the edge of the bed looking over my shoulder and proofreading, Mulder on the phone ordering out for pizza, and all that. (But you'd better pay for your own damn pizza, dude; and get your butt over here already, 'cause it's YOUR turn to narrate!) -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn 10 by Imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com The story so far: I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. II - In which the terms of the wager are defined. III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. IV - In which bad things happen to good people. V - In which broken things are made whole. VI - In which Mulder's bed is unearthed. VII - In which a relationship is redefined. VIII - In which priorities are established. IX - In which the future is considered. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- X. Marriage How many times had he done this? How many times had he waited, lost in his own misery, to find out his partner's fate? This time, it wasn't so bad -- just a flesh wound; painful, but not life-threatening. This time, it was just a matter of waiting for her to be treated and released. This time. "Mulder?" and there she was, cradling her bandaged arm and looking weary; he jumped up from his seat and went to her, sliding one arm around her back, coming perilously close to embracing her. They had an unspoken agreement, to keep their personal involvement separate from their professional lives -- but it was all he could do to keep from showering her with kisses. "It barely qualifies as an abrasion," she murmured, "I'm fine, Mulder," and he didn't believe it, any more than he ever believed it when she uttered those words -- he accepted it, because she needed him to, but he never believed it; he knew better. A few last bits of paperwork, and then he was helping her to the car, as if she were made of porcelain and in danger of shattering; got her inside, buckled safely in, and strode around to the driver's side. He moved to start the car, and couldn't; his hand was shaking too badly to fit the key into the ignition. "Mulder?" and he glanced sideways at her, and remembered: the stake-out, the shooting, her cry of pain, and the terror that had seized him at that sound... "I'm fine, Scully," he said, knowing that she wouldn't believe it, either. Her good hand snaked across the seat of the rental car, took his; the feel of her fingers twining with his helped still the tremors. "It's over, Mulder," she said gently, "and I'm fine, truly." "It's never over," he murmured. "It's never over." He drew a deep, deep breath, and managed to regain control, the only way he knew how: by withdrawing, closing himself off from everything and everyone, folding inwards until there was nothing of himself showing through the impenetrable barriers. It meant shutting himself off from Scully, which he disliked -- but someone had to drive them back to the motel, after all, and it was the only way he could manage that simple task. And she was silent for the ride back, allowing him his space and his self-imposed isolation, understanding him well enough to know what he needed, and why. It wasn't a long drive. Just a little ways down Charleston Boulevard, past the local FBI headquarters to the Las Vegas 'Strip'. Theirs was one of the dirt-cheap motels on the north end, far from the glitz and neon of the large casinos where the tourists gathered. Scully had disparaged the flashiness of Vegas at length, upon their arrival, but he found himself wishing fervently that he had someplace more congenial to take her than the squalid little motel where they were staying. He was just helping her through the door when his cell-phone rang; "I'm going to go take a bath," Scully said, and he nodded absently, answering the phone with the usual curt utterance of his surname. "Skinner," said the voice at the other end, just as succinctly. "I just got a call from ASAC Lambert --" his old friend, and the reason why they'd been sent across the country to help handle the situation. It had been a long time since Skinner had ceased to be merely a boss, and had become an ally. Usually, this meant that he allowed a certain bending of regulations on their behalf; sometimes, it meant that he asked favors of them. This had been one of the latter times. "She said that your work was instrumental in closing the case." "Did she also mention that Scully was wounded?" He had to fight to keep the anger from his voice; some irrational part of him wanted to rail at Skinner for sending them in, wanted desperately to have someone upon whom to lay the blame, even though he knew on an intellectual level that it wasn't their boss's fault. //Occupational hazard; just part of the job...// "No, she didn't," and the concern in the AD's voice drained away the last of Mulder's anger. "Is she all right?" "She's fine," he muttered, thinking, //or so she says...// "Just a scrape." "That's good to hear." A slight pause. "You did an excellent job, both of you. Please convey that to Agent Scully -- and tell her that I hope she recovers swiftly." Another brief pause. "Why don't the two of you take a few days off, while you're there... assuming that Agent Scully feels up to it. I'll sign off on the expense reports when you get back." It was an unexpected kindness; Mulder didn't know quite what to say, finally settling on, "Thank you, sir." He ended the conversation as soon as he could -- the sound of water tumbling into the tub seemed to call to him. He knocked lightly on the bathroom door, waited for her response before entering. She was immersed up to her neck, bubbles covering all but her head, her knees, and the bandaged arm which rested carefully on the edge of the tub; he gazed at her, and thought how tired she looked, and how lucky he was that she was still alive... "That was Skinner," he informed her, "he called to say thanks. Told me we could take a couple of days off, if we wanted." Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "In Vegas? What are we going to do, besides lose money in slot machines?" "There are a couple of good shows," he said idly, "or we could do a grand tour of the buffet circuit, and see who can gain the most weight in the least time," striving for a light tone, and not quite making it. And felt her eyes raking over him, scrutinizing him. "Mulder," she said softly, "talk to me." He knelt beside the tub, reaching out to touch her injured arm gently -- it could have been so much worse. Just a few more inches, and she could have been dead... Her other arm rose from the bubbles, reached over and peeled back the bandage. "Look," she commanded, and he did; she was right, it was just a scratch, barely worthy of the gauze pad that had covered it. "I'm fine, Mulder..." "This time," he interrupted, and couldn't bring himself to say more. Scully's hand moved, took his, held it tightly. "Mulder," she said, "*talk* to me." He brought his other hand to cover hers, so that he held her hand in both of his. The base of his palm pressed against her wrist, and he could feel her pulse, the rhythm of her heart... "I almost lost you today," he said. She sighed. "We've been through worse," she reminded him. It was supposed to be consolation; it wasn't. "Yes," he muttered darkly, "I know." Her eyes were compassionate as they met his. "There's not much we can do about it," she murmured, "not while we're with the Bureau; and neither of us are ready to resign, not yet." "I know..." Though at times like this, he felt as if it would be easy. Times like this were more than he could bear -- he could turn his back on the questions, on the Truth, far more easily than he could stand even the idea of losing Scully. "So what can I tell you that you don't know?" she inquired softly, and the caring in her voice struck at his heart like a physical blow. A gleam caught his eye, sparkling through the bubbles -- the diamond-and-emerald ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand: the one that symbolized his commitment to her. A commitment as yet unfulfilled... and suddenly everything seemed crystal-clear to him. "I don't know what it's like to be married to you," he said, hearing the faint echo of his voice bouncing off the tiled walls. It seemed that her breath caught in her throat for a moment; she didn't respond. "Life is too short," he said slowly, struggling for words to convey the sudden welling of emotion within him, "and too damn uncertain. At least, it is for us. We can't count on tomorrows; we can only hope for them -- and if something goes wrong, if one of us... dies... I don't want to lose you without ever having known what it means to truly love you." He gazed into her eyes, seeing in them the glitter of unshed tears. "Marry me, Scully," he whispered. "Now. Here. I don't want to wait any longer... I don't want to take that chance." She drew a deep breath, opened her mouth to reply, and he prepared himself for an onslaught of rational protests -- there's no time to prepare, I want a church wedding, what about my family, Mulder-you're-crazy -- but she didn't speak right away; and in her eyes, he saw her own emotion fight down every one of those silent complaints, until only one answer was left. "Okay," Scully said, finally. "Yes." For a moment, he couldn't breathe. "But we are *not* getting married at the 24-Hour Church of Elvis," she added, with the utmost dignity, and the tension drained away from him in a great rush; he laughed. "You won't regret this," he promised her. "Oh, I'm sure I'll regret this wedding idea of yours," she responded archly -- then, in a wholly different tone, "but not marrying you. Not that, not ever." He kissed her hand, not bothering to try to hide the tears forming in his own eyes. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Mom? It's Dana... no, I'm fine. Everything's fine. I know it's late; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." She hesitated. "Um, listen -- your friend Rosalie, the travel agent? Well, do you think she could get you a last-minute flight to Las Vegas? Say, by the day after tomorrow?" Another pause. "No, Mom, nothing's wrong. Actually... I'm getting married." Even on the other side of the room, he could hear Scully's mother shriek with delight. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Mom? It's me, M... Fox. Uh... d'you remember the woman I work with, Agent Scully? --Yeah, I like her too. Actually, um, I like her a lot. In fact, I'm marrying her. --The day after tomorrow. Think you can come? --Las Vegas. --No, it's not a job requirement, Mom; I love her. --Yeah, she loves me, too. --No, Mom, she's not Jewish. --Yeah, the pink dress is fine; whatever you want to wear is fine. -- No, she's not pregnant, Mom! I just want to marry her, that's all. --Okay, Mom. I will. --Okay, Mom. --Okay, Mom. --Fine, Mom. I gotta go, Mom, seeya soon, 'bye." He hung up the phone and sighed heavily. "Mothers," he grumbled, at no one in particular. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Billy? It's me... --Your sister. --*Dana.* --No, it's not an emergency. I'm sorry I woke the baby. Listen, what are you doing over the next couple of days? --Oh, Mom called already? So why are you blaming the baby's crying on me, huh? --Well, then, it's a good thing *you're* not marrying him, isn't it? --Look, come to the wedding, or don't come; it's up to you. But don't think you're going to lecture me on who I should or shouldn't marry. You're my brother, not my keeper. --Sure. Fine. Whatever." She hung up the phone, and he heard her sigh. "Brothers," she muttered, and he reached out and squeezed her hand in silent sympathy. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "This is Agent Mulder, I'm sorry to wake you... no, Scully's fine. I just need to ask you a question." He paused, wondering how exactly to phrase it. "This may come as a bit of a surprise..." Despite the distance, the voice at the other end of the line was clear and strong, if a touch sleepy. "Agent Mulder," Skinner said, "I doubt very highly that you are capable of surprising me at this point. I'm not blind, nor am I stupid; and I keep a close eye on the agents under my command. The two of you are subtle, but not that subtle. I've known for some time that the two of you were involved in certain extracurricular activities not falling under the Bureau's jurisdiction. I granted you the time off because I believed that you needed some time together, away from the Bureau; and if I am any judge of character whatsoever, I would estimate that you are calling to tell me that you have either gotten married, or are planning to marry, while you are in Las Vegas. Am I correct in that assumption?" Taken completely off-guard, he couldn't help but laugh. "You are, sir," he confirmed, "but that's only partially the reason for this call." "Oh?" "Yeah, well, um... Agent Scully wants to know if you would consent to give away the bride." A long, long pause. "*Now* I'm surprised," Skinner said. "Tell her that I agree, and that I'll fly in tomorrow," and hung up. Mulder grinned, flashed a thumbs-up to Scully across the room, and dialed another number. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Hey, it's me. Who's there? --Oh yeah? Fine. Put me on speaker, then." A flicking of a switch, and then the sounds of two additional voices joining Langly's. "Listen, I've got an announcement that's gonna break Frohike's heart..." -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Scully. --Bill, I am *not* going to reconsider! I'm in love, and it's none of your damn business! --Don't even start. I'm hanging up now, Bill. Goodbye." It seemed to him that she hit the 'disconnect' button with unnecessary force. "I'm starting to hope that he doesn't show up," she grumbled. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Mulder. --Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. -- Because we were trying to keep it quiet, that's why. --You had a BET? How much? --Only fifty? So what are you complaining about? --No, we are NOT going to postpone the wedding so that you don't have to pay Langly. --Tough shit. That's your problem. --So don't get us a wedding present; see if I care. --Fine. Bye." He shut off his cell-phone. "They had a *bet*," he said to his fiancee, his voice incredulous. She smiled. "Let me guess. You never knew about the office pool, did you?" "*What* office pool?" -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Hello, is this the Graceland Wedding Chapel? Listen, in your ad, it says you feature 'Ceremonies With The 'King'...'" "Hang up the phone, Mulder." "Yes, dear." -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "Bill, if you call me *one* more time tonight, I'm going to take that baby picture of you sitting on the potty, and I'm going to post it on the Internet..." -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "No, Frohike, I am *not* lending you fifty dollars!" -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "I'm shutting off my cell-phone," he said to Scully. She glanced up at him. "Good idea," she agreed wearily. "Your brother really hates me, doesn't he?" Mulder mused, having a sudden dark premonition of stormy family gatherings, and wondering if it would be a social faux pas if he were to show up armed. "He doesn't *hate* you, he just... he's not fond of my career in the first place, and he thinks I'd be better off with a different partner, and..." Scully sighed. "Okay, yeah, maybe he *does* hate you. But that's his problem, not mine." "Are you sure?" he queried. Scully was close to her family; it mattered to her what they thought... "I'm sure," she said firmly. "Mulder, I have never been involved with anyone that Bill approved of. I'm not sure he'd think anyone was good enough for me." She smiled. "Mom loves you, though; she couldn't be happier. If he does show up, she'll handle it." "Okay," he said, and put the matter out of his mind as best he could. It wasn't a difficult task, for Scully was sliding out of her bathrobe... amazing, how she could turn the pedestrian act of undressing into a seductive striptease without even trying. Or maybe it just seemed that way because he was so madly in love with her. It didn't matter which; the result was the same. "Hey," he said softly, and she paused -- noted his appreciative gaze and shifted her stance subtly, to a come- on position as sultry as any stripper could have managed. "Hold that pose," he told her, rising from his chair and crossing the room toward her. He dropped to his knees in front of her, which placed him more or less at eye-level with a mound of auburn curls; an as-yet-unexplored mystery, but one that he would unravel shortly. //Soon,// he thought, and the realization sent a sudden jolt through him. //If we keep to schedule, the day after tomorrow...// She shifted position slightly, spread her legs a bit, and the scent of her lit a fire within him that sizzled straight to his groin; he placed his hands on her thighs and leaned forward, sliding his tongue between her labia in a particularly intimate kiss... moved his hands a bit, using his thumbs to part her lips and allow him better access to the sensitive folds of skin within, especially the glistening rosebud-nub that fairly begged for his attention. A soft, breathy moan was his signal that he was doing it right; he applied his full concentration to her desires, doing his best to ignore his own growing arousal, and the suddenly-tight fit of his suit pants. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, leaning more heavily as her knees weakened; he let his teeth graze her clitoris, ever so lightly, and delighted in her cry of pleasure. But she was getting to the point where she needed a steady rhythm -- he knew her body by now, almost as well as his own -- and so he provided it, knowing by the sound of her cries what tempo to pick, and when to increase the pressure and speed. Involuntarily, it seemed, her pelvis thrust forward, silently begging: //more, more...// He slid his hands around to the backs of her thighs, giving her added support, since she was leaning back so far that he was afraid she'd fall backward. Immersed in his task, he couldn't see her stance, but his mind painted a picture; Scully in the throes of passion, eyes closed, lips parted, arched backward in a catlike pose... And the scent of her, the taste of her, was driving him crazy: pheromones provoking hormones, making him so hard that the need to touch himself was all but unbearable. But his hands were otherwise occupied, and Scully was so close that he couldn't break the rhythm now, he couldn't do that to her... He almost came when she did: her sharp cry was an aphrodisiac, and the throbbing of her flesh against his tongue was nearly enough to bring him over the edge -- nearly, but not quite; just enough to increase his arousal to the point of desperation. "Mulder," she sighed, and the sound of her satiated voice raced along his nervous system like liquid flame, wrenching a hoarse cry from his throat. One hand stroked the back of his head in a silent thank-you; then she was kneeling before him, her eyes fastened on his, as her hands reached for the zipper of his fly. "It's that kind of night, hmm?" was her soft appraisal of the situation. "I want you so bad," he managed, though he was very nearly beyond coherent speech -- moaned as her hands drew his hard- on from the confining fabric. "Oh, god, Scully..." "Shh," she said, "lie back," and he fell back against the thin carpet, helpless against the force of his desire. She knew him as well as he knew her, knew when to tease and when not to; one hand wrapped around his balls, gently caressing him, as she took him into her mouth -- hot and wet and tight, not what he wanted most but so damn good, so *damn* good. Gauging the strength of his need with her usual skill, she skipped over foreplay and arousal and cut straight to the chase, bringing him swiftly to the point of no return and beyond, to a wonderfully intense orgasm. And it wasn't enough. Not this time. "Two days," he murmured. "I don't know if I can wait two days." She stretched out beside him, propping herself up on one elbow. "Mulder, we've come this far..." "Don't say 'come'," he interrupted. "We've managed to avoid intercourse for this long..." she continued patiently. "Don't say 'intercourse'," he cut her off. Scully sighed. "Mulder, it was *your* decision to wait..." "Don't *remind* me," he groaned. "...and if you've changed your mind, well..." "Don't say it." He drew a deep breath, expelled it in a sigh. "You're right, we've waited this long, we might as well wait a little longer. It's only two days -- a hellish eternity, but I'll manage." "Can you?" she wondered aloud. "No. But I will anyway." His erection had barely faded, and now it was coming to life again, demanding more... "Damn," he grumbled. And then he spotted something that knocked all thoughts of passion straight out of his mind. "You're *bleeding*," he said, with alarm. She glanced at her arm. "Just a little. It's nothing; I'll get a bandaid..." "You get into bed. I'll get a bandage," he told her sternly, and struggled to his feet -- paused to zip up his pants, then bent to help her up. He went to the bathroom and retrieved a damp washcloth and her cosmetics case, pawed through it for the little zippered purse that held the first-aid essentials that Doctor Scully always carried. Wiping the slight trickle of blood from her arm, he applied ointment and a gauze pad, taping it securely into place. "Damn stupid idea, doing it standing up," he muttered, "I should have known better..." "Are you blaming yourself for things again? Mulder, we've discussed this." Her free hand reached up to touch his face, a lingering caress that traced a path from his forehead, along his hairline and down, past his cheek and along his jawbone, fingertips brushing lightly against his lips. "Besides, that was *great*." "I'm glad," he said, smiling slightly, "but still..." "Shut up, Mulder," she said, pressing her fingers against his lips to silence him. "Now, about you..." "I'm fine," he demurred. "Seeing you injured has a tendency to dampen my libido." "Mmm. And knowing your libido, that'll last about five minutes." She took the cosmetics case and set it on the nightstand. "Turn out the lights, and come to bed." "Scully..." "Shut up, Mulder," she said softly, in the sultry tone that never failed to send the blood spiraling downward from his head to his groin -- it worked; he shut up, turned off the light, and slid into bed beside her. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- The pounding at the door woke him up, long before he was ready; he squinted at the harsh sunlight penetrating the blinds, fumbled for his robe, drew his gun just in case, and went to the door. "Whozzat?" he inquired, less than eloquently. "Skinner," came the reply, and the arm that held the weapon relaxed somewhat. "Let me guess: you're not dressed." "We're not even *awake*," he protested. "Well, get up and get dressed; I'm taking you to breakfast," was the response. He sighed. "Do we have to?" "That's an order, Agent Mulder." The voice was stern, but there was humor in it. Helplessly, Mulder glanced at the bed, found Scully sitting up cross-legged, blinking back at him. "He *is* our boss," she said. Again, he sighed, and stumbled toward the bathroom. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- (continued in TTU-10 2/2) continuous with part 1 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- After a shower with Scully that was far too brief, in his estimation, they dressed and headed out. The AD was waiting in the shabby motel office, reading the local paper. "It's about time," he said, without preamble. "Come on, we'll take my car. How are you feeling, Agent Scully?" "Fine, sir," she said, "where are we going?" "Hotel buffets notwithstanding," Skinner told her, "there is only *one* place to eat breakfast in Las Vegas." He drove west along Charleston, away from the Strip, past the FBI building, past the hospital where Scully had been treated; a left turn onto Decatur, a quick right into a parking lot, and found a space. "This is it," Skinner said, with a brief glance in the rear-view mirror, "we're here; you can stop drooling on the back seat now." "With all due respect, sir," Scully said, with great dignity, "we are not drooling." "We're making goo-goo eyes at each other," Mulder added, straight-faced. "There's a difference," his partner concluded, "scientifically speaking." Skinner turned around to look at them, resting one arm on the back of the seat, and Mulder found himself witnessing a remarkable sight: the AD, grinning from ear to ear. "Get out of the car," he said. They walked up the ramp and into the restaurant; the place was crowded, and there were people waiting, silent testimony to its popularity. "Skinner," the AD said to the hostess, "three, non-smoking; how long?" "Maybe five minutes," was the reply, and they moved toward the bench seats lining one wall. "Is this place really that good?" Mulder wondered, snagging a menu and studying it. "Best damn eggs benedict you've ever tasted," Skinner responded. "Eggs benedict," he mused. "I guess that's why they call it the Original Pancake House..." as Scully leaned in to look at the menu. Skinner turned toward her. "Agent Scully," he said, "just out of idle curiosity, why are you marrying this smart-ass?" She was startled, but only briefly. "He's good in bed, sir," was her come-back, delivered with the same sober demeanor with which she might have described the results of an autopsy. "Ah, I see," Skinner replied, nodding. Glancing from one to the other, Mulder shook his head. "When did I lose control of this situation?" he muttered. "You were under the impression that you *had* control of this situation?" Scully parried; her hand came to rest on his arm, squeezing slightly, in a silent loving signal that all was well. Returning her attention to Skinner, she responded, "If you would satisfy *my* idle curiosity... is this purely a social visit, or is there some official business you wish to discuss?" The AD shrugged, a dismissive gesture. "'Giving away the bride' implies a certain degree of responsibility in this matter," he stated, "I have to make sure this joker is good enough for you, don't I?" and again, there was that startling grin: an expression which altered his whole face, from forbidding to friendly. //Do I even know this man?// Mulder wondered briefly. "Aside from that... no, no particular business. Just thought I'd take you to breakfast, and wish you well. I also thought you might need some assistance putting this thing together at the last minute -- I've spent some time in Vegas, and figured I might be able to help." "Thanks," Mulder answered, still slightly stunned at the transition from AD Skinner to... "Walter," he hazarded, testing the waters. The other man nodded slightly, accepting the informality. "Not a problem." The grin broadened. "Especially considering that your impending nuptials just won me something like twelve hundred dollars in the office pool." "*Twelve* hundred?" Scully said, astonished. "The last time I checked, it was only up to six..." "That was before Agent Morelli spotted the two of you at Umberto's Italian Restaurant after hours, nuzzling in the corner booth. It drove up the betting considerably. Not that I officially knew about any of this, of course; I had my secretary place the bet, and I'll be splitting the pot with her, once we collect." "Twelve hundred dollars," she repeated, in a resigned tone. "Damn, I should have placed a bet myself." "How come *I* never knew about any of this?" Mulder protested. "I didn't have the heart to mention it. You were both trying so hard to maintain the pretense." "Skinner," called out the hostess, "party of three?" and they rose in unison, followed the woman to their newly- vacated table. "Were we really that transparent?" Mulder asked, holding Scully's chair for her. "Actually, you've done quite well. In fact, that may be the key factor in maintaining the current personnel complement of the X-Files division. You're both well aware of Bureau guidelines in this matter," Skinner mentioned, seemingly casual. Mulder exchanged a quick glance with his fiancee. "We are," she acknowledged. "We're prepared to fight the system, if we have to," he added, on the heels of her remark. "Don't. Save your energy for the fights that matter." Skinner set aside the menu, having apparently already chosen his meal. "I'm fairly sure that I can pull enough strings to keep the two of you together, assuming that your job performance continues to adhere to the same high standards that it has so far." Another quick grin. "And assuming that you can refrain from 'making goo-goo eyes' at each other during working hours." Under the table, he felt Scully's hand slip into his, squeeze gently. "I think we can manage that," she affirmed, and Mulder nodded in agreement. "Good. Don't worry about it; I'll handle matters on your behalf. Coffee all around," Skinner said to the waitress, who upended their cups and poured it for them. "Now, to more important matters. I certainly hope, Dana, that you've managed to keep him away from the Graceland Wedding Chapel...?" -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "So, Mulder," Frohike wanted to know, "once you've strapped on that ol' ball and chain... can I have your porno collection?" Scully had gone off with both of their mothers, to select and purchase her wedding dress, since it was for some reason inconceivable to any of them that she might get married in a rented dress. Skinner had gone along as well, to help pay for it; the least he could do, he'd said, considering the amount he'd won as a direct result of their marriage. And so Mulder had been left alone, in the dingy little motel room -- at least, until the Lone Gunmen had shown up at the door. He'd welcomed the company; without Scully, he'd felt oddly bereft. Never mind that she wasn't far away, and wouldn't be gone for long: she was so much a part of him, now, that even such a minor separation felt like an amputation. And now, here they were: Byers, as neatly groomed as ever -- Frohike, as scruffy and disreputable-looking -- Langly, looking like a refugee from a Grateful Dead concert -- sitting on the bed eating the pizza they'd ordered, and teasing him mercilessly about his upcoming wedding. "Well?" Frohike prodded. Mulder helped himself to a slice of pizza, picked off the anchovies and thought about it. "Yeah, okay," he said, feeling uncommonly generous. "No shit. Really?" "They're yours," he said, "the whole shebang; take 'em all." "You're kidding," said Langly, disbelieving. "You've got some *classics* in that collection... Man, you'd better share," he said to his colleague. "I'll rent 'em to ya," Frohike responded. "Fifty bucks a night." "I could get a hooker for fifty bucks a night," Langly grumbled. "The kind of hookers *you* use, you could get two," Frohike shot back. "I don't believe it, you're just *giving* 'em away -- and after all the shit we had to go through to get you to let us *borrow* 'em... Man, you are whipped," Langly opined. Mulder grinned. "With a woman like Scully," he said placidly, "who needs videos?" Instantly, he had their full attention. "She's as hot as she looks, huh?" Frohike wanted to know. "Come on, share; we want details," the blond man prodded. He pondered for a moment, torn between a desire to brag and his concern for Scully's privacy... //Typical male,// said a voice in his head; Scully's voice. "Let's just say that she is a goddess of love, in every sense of the word," he said, at last, "and that the details are none of your business." "Yeah, yeah, sure, it's hot and heavy *now*, but I'll bet that all changes once you've been hitched for awhile," Langly said; and Frohike seconded the opinion. "Think what you want," Mulder responded, "whatever will make you feel better," but inwardly he wondered: would it happen? Would their relationship become stale and boring with time? Somehow, he couldn't imagine that happening. Maybe to other people, but not to them... their relationship was based on so much more than just sex, or even love; theirs was a bond forged in fire and blood and absolute trust. They were *friends*, and somehow he felt certain that no matter what else happened, that friendship, that bond, would stand up to the test of time. After all, it had survived so much else already... His eyes traveled across the room, to the spot where Scully had stood, moaning with passion as he'd brought her to orgasm; and he smiled. "You're being awfully quiet," he said to Byers, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, finishing a slice of pizza and managing not to drip tomato sauce on his suit. "That's because they're pigs, and I'm not," said the other man, with a slight smile. "Oh, yeah, right," interjected Langly, "Mister Sensitive over there -- I seem to remember you and Frohike coming to blows over who was gonna borrow 'Pirate Wenches of the Caribbean' after I was done with it..." "Hey, y'know, we're missing a trick, here," Frohike spoke up suddenly. "This man over here is getting married tomorrow, and we're just sitting in a motel room eating pizza... tell me, what is wrong with this picture?" He and Langly exchanged significant glances. "Bachelor party," said the blond, and grinned. "Exactly," Frohike confirmed. "Wait a minute," Mulder protested, but Frohike grabbed him by one arm, and Langly seized the other, and together they propelled him out of the room before he could voice any further complaint. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- The motel room was dark when he fumbled his key into the lock and staggered inside. "Mulder?" said a sweet, familiar voice in a tone of concern, and the light flipped on... "Ow," he mumbled. "Turn it off, Scully, please." She came to him, sniffed the air... "How much have you had to drink?" and her voice was disapproving. "Too much. Not my idea. The boys came by an' decided I needed a bachelor party." "Nice of them," she muttered, in a voice that indicated she felt exactly the opposite. "Yeah, well, boys will be boys. I gotta lie down," and he staggered past her and fell onto the bed. He felt her pulling off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt; he tried to cooperate, but the effort was too much for him. "If you're going to throw up, tell me," she directed him, "and don't do it on the bed." "I already threw up. Twice." Hazily, he debated with himself, on how much to tell her. "Y'know, there's this place, over on the west side, I think... nice place, if you like strippers. They had all kinds there: tall ones, small ones, big ones, little ones..." and his hands described the shape of the anatomy to which he was referring. "Really," said Scully, in the cool voice she generally used to shoot holes in his wilder theories. "Yeah. And none of 'em as pretty as you." "Liar," she disputed; but her voice was smiling. "Truly. I swear." She was working on removing his jeans, now; his body was far too alcohol-sodden to respond to the provocation, and he felt a vague pang of regret at that fact. "The boys thought it'd be a nice gesture to buy me a lap-dance. And y'know what? I must be 'way deep in love, 'cause all I could think about was you." He used every last bit of energy he had left to lever himself upright, enough to gaze blearily into her eyes. "I love you, Dana Scully. I love you so much." And he watched her face soften, the last traces of resentment fading away. "I love you too," she responded. "Even when you're drunk and stupid." "Oh, good," he said faintly, falling back again, "ow," at the impact of his head against the pillow, "'cause I don't know what I'd do without you." "I don't know what you'd do without me, either." She pulled the covers over him, turned off the light -- //ah, blessed darkness// -- and slid into bed beside him. "God, Mulder, you reek of cheap liquor." "'M sorry," he murmured. "Does this mean we can't snuggle?" A long, heavy sigh. "Come here," she said, and he mustered the energy to slide closer to her. She was curled up on her side, facing away from him; and he nestled in behind her, fitting his body to hers, wrapping one arm around her waist, enjoying her warmth. "Try not to be too hung-over in the morning?" she requested. "Believe me, I'll do my best," he mumbled, burying his face in her hair. "Scully, I'm sorry about this... can you forgive me?" Her hand slipped into his, and held it. "I'll forgive you by morning," she said, again with a smile in her voice. "Go to sleep, Mulder." "Yes, dear." -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- By the time he stepped out of the cab outside the chapel they'd chosen, his headache had just about faded; and his consolation was the sight of his three companions from the night before, all of whom looked like death warmed over in a microwave. "Hi, guys," he said, in a deliberately loud voice, slapping Frohike hard on the back with one hand and Langly with the other, and had the satisfaction of seeing them nearly keel over. "Don't look at me," Byers warned him, looking considerably more frayed around the edges than was normal, "I tried to keep them under control..." "Yeah, I know. Can I have my car keys back now?" he inquired, and Byers handed them over, grinning. Skinner strolled over to him, wearing what Mulder could only describe as a 'just-got-laid' look on his face. "Good morning," he said to the AD. "I assume you had a pleasant evening with ASAC Lambert?" "Oh, most definitely. I understand you had a rather interesting evening yourself..." "Interesting... is not the word I would use," Mulder muttered. "'Disaster' would be a far more appropriate term." "I see," observed Skinner. "Well, congratulations on your big day," and a hand impacted against his back with stunning force, nearly causing him to lose his precarious balance. He recovered, barely. "That was cruel," he grumbled, and was treated to another one of Skinner's startling grins -- this one had a definite mischievous edge to it. Just then, a limousine pulled up to the curb, and Mulder felt his heart skip a beat, knowing who was inside... His mother emerged first, and he gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek, more preoccupied with the other occupants; then Scully's mother got out of the car, and then... She was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. The dress fitted her like a second skin, innocent and demure and somehow shockingly sexy all at once -- virginal white, of course; if anyone had the right to wear it, she did -- a simple garland of white flowers adorned her hair, matching the bouquet she carried, and her face was absolutely radiant. "Scully," he breathed, and ran out of words. "I guess you like the dress?" she murmured, blushing at his scrutiny. He supposed that he ought to come up with a suitably snappy come-back, but his mind didn't seem to be working properly; all he could do was stare at her, and marvel. Only one thought remained uppermost in his mind, and it was the only thing he could think of to say: "I love you *so* much." Her eyes met his, and time stood still; the world went away, and all that existed was the two of them. Scully, in that incredible white dress... Scully, his bride, soon to be his wife. Time and time again, he'd wondered at the miracle of it, that someone so completely perfect for him should stumble into his life, and somehow not be deterred by his myriad faults: now, it seemed more of a miracle than ever. To love this woman, and be loved by her... nothing could be better than this. Nothing. "What time is it?" he heard Scully's mother say. "Two o'clock, on the nose," responded Frohike. "It's time," Langly added. Mulder held out one hand to Scully, and she took it; and together, they walked into the chapel. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "So where is he?" his mother said, to the woman holding down the fort at the wedding chapel. The brunette shrugged helplessly. "The minister should be here any minute," she insisted, "he's never missed a wedding yet..." Mulder abandoned his restless pacing, slid onto the bench where his bride-to-be was sitting. "Tic-Tac?" he offered. "Thanks." She took the box from his hand and popped one into her mouth. "Y'know," he mused quietly, "I knew it was too good to be true. This guy's never going to show up, we're never gonna get married, I'm going to die a lonely, broken man..." "Mul-derrr," Scully said patiently, "if he doesn't show up in another ten minutes, we'll find another chapel to get married in. Maybe even the 24-Hour Church of Elvis." She took his hand in both of hers. "Are you even remotely capable of the slightest fragment of optimism?" He shrugged. "You're a dream come true, Scully," he said simply. "I can't help it; I just keep expecting to wake up." She brought his hand to her lips, kissed his fingers. "Get used to the dream, Mulder," she said, "because I'm not going anywhere." "Sorry," said a breathless voice from the doorway -- and there, standing before them in white sequined jumpsuit and long silk scarf and sideburned wig, was the minister who they'd spoken to the day before. "I got held up at a gig on the Strip," he explained apologetically, "just give me half a minute to change, and I'll be right with you..." Mulder glanced at Scully, and together they burst into laughter. "Don't change," Scully said, through her giggles, to the minister. "We like you just the way you are," Mulder seconded. The minister shot them a quizzical look, then shrugged. "It's *your* wedding..." -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- And so it was that they stood together, side by side, before a minister dressed like Elvis, listening to the words of the brief ceremony delivered in a credible imitation of the King himself, and struggling not to laugh at the implausibility of it all. Scully caught his eye with a sidelong glance; and suddenly all thoughts of laughter were far from his mind. Elvis or no Elvis, it was the most serious moment of his life: 'sacred bond' and 'lifelong commitment' were more than just words, they were the words that would define his life, from now on... But then, what else was new? It had been that way since she'd stepped into his basement office, and into his life. He gazed at her, loving her, knowing that nothing could mar the perfection of this moment... And just as the minister was getting to the part about 'speak now or forever hold your peace', a voice echoed through the chapel: "Wait!" Mulder turned, with a sudden sinking feeling in his gut, and there he was: Dana's brother Bill, sweaty and breathless, standing in the doorway. "Thank God it's not too late! Dana, you can't marry this asshole..." "Hey," said Langly helpfully, "she *loves* that asshole," and Byers elbowed him in the side, hard. "He's all wrong for you, Dana! You've had nothing but grief since you teamed up with him... you'll never be happy with him, Dana, *don't do it...*" Scully faced her brother, fire in her eyes and fury in her voice: "Bill, I swear to God, if you say *one more word*, I will SHOOT YOU!" reverberated through the small room with stunning force. "Dana..." her brother protested. And then Mrs. Scully stood up, turned to look at her eldest son. "William," she said, in a voice that brooked no disobedience, "you always were too big for your britches. You've had your say; now sit down, and shut up." "Ma..." "NOW." For a long moment, the man hesitated; then, sullenly, he stormed to a seat at the back of the chapel and sat down. Silence reigned, broken finally by the minister's voice: "Can we get on with this?" But Mulder found himself staring at the angry man seated at the back of the room. In some part of his mind, he understood; how could he not understand? If Samantha had been with him, and marrying some man he couldn't stand... who was to say what he might do, how he might react? Of course he understood. "I love her," he said quietly, in a voice that projected as clearly as Scully's shout had. The room was still, as if no one dared to move. "I would die for her," Mulder added. "I would die without her. She's everything to me..." wanting him to understand, to at least begin to understand. //She's your little sister, but she's *everything* to me.// Bill raised his head, stared back. "Just take care of her!" he flung back, a challenge. "I will," Mulder said. "I do." He glanced at Scully, was startled by the tears in her eyes; then she smiled up at him, and he knew that it was all right. //I do.// Her brother turned away, still angry but somehow placated; Mulder took Scully's hand, and they turned to face the minister together. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- "...Do you, Dana Katherine Scully, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" //Say yes, please say yes...// "I do," she responded, without a moment's pause. "And do you, Fox William Mulder..." //God, I hate that name.// ...take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" //Hell, yes!// "I do," he said, through the lump in his throat. "Then with the power vested in me by God, the State of Nevada, and the King himself..." //This is it. It's real. It's happening. It's not a dream...// "...I now pronounce you husband and wife." //It's real. This is real. We're *married*...// "You may now kiss the bride." //Just try to stop me.// He took her in his arms, and she turned her face up to him, radiant and a little teary-eyed and impossibly, breathtakingly beautiful... And in the moment that their lips met in the kiss that sealed their vows, he knew that forever could never be long enough, with Scully. -------/end, TTU-10 Taming The Unicorn 11 by Imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com The story so far: I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. II - In which the terms of the wager are defined. III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. IV - In which bad things happen to good people. V - In which broken things are made whole. VI - In which Mulder's bed is unearthed. VII - In which a relationship is redefined. VIII - In which priorities are established. IX - In which the future is considered. X - In which a partnership is finalized. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- XI. The Taming Of The Unicorn "Okay, so... how are we supposed to do this? Do I carry the luggage in first, or do I carry *you* in first, or what?" "It doesn't matter, Mulder. Just open the door." Her first view of the honeymoon suite was of its ceiling; then he set her down, and she took a look around. It was beautiful -- but then, considering the price they'd paid for it, she'd expected nothing less. "Look, Scully; a sunken hot tub. Just what I need for my back -- y'know, I think that dress of yours must weigh about fifty pounds, 'cause I don't remember you being that heavy..." He placed their suitcases on the floor just inside the door, came to stand beside her. "Well, this sure beats that expense-account motel we were staying in." "Yeah." She slipped one arm around him, settled into his side. "It's nice," she added, feeling unaccountably tongue- tied. "It is," he confirmed, and there was a long, awkward silence. "So," Mulder said, after awhile, "here we are." Scully tilted her head upward to look at him. "Are you as nervous as I am?" she asked him. "Who, me? Nervous? Me? Nervous? Naaaah," he denied, and she laughed. She turned to face him, wrapped her arms around his waist; his arms slid around her, holding her close, and he studied her face as if he'd never seen it before. "You're my *wife*," he said, in a tone of wonder. "Yeah," she agreed, looking at him and thinking, //husband, not just partner anymore, *husband*,// and feeling the weight and the importance of it. "Weird, isn't it?" "Really weird," he agreed fervently. One hand rose, rested against her cheek. "And, y'know, the best thing that ever happened to me." "Me, too," Scully said, feeling her nervousness drain away: it was going to be all right. She rested her head against his chest, just enjoying the embrace for a few minutes, letting his closeness settle her jangled nerves, allowing herself time to get used to the whole idea. Married, she was married, they were married now... who would have thought, years ago, that walking into the basement office of the FBI's Most Unwanted would lead to this? "And to think," she said softly, "it all started with a bet." He chuckled. "Best bet I ever lost." "So, slave-for-life," she teased, "when are we getting you fitted for chains and a collar?" "Gee, I thought that's what the wedding was for," was his response, innocently-voiced; and she hit him -- not too hard, just lightly enough to let him know that she didn't *really* mean it. "Ow," he said, grinning -- and then the mischievous smile turned into something deeper, warmer; he took her hand, the one that bore the simple silver band, brought it to his lips and kissed it. "Mrs. Mulder..." he began -- then paused, frowned. "'Mrs. Mulder's my *mom*." "Mrs. Scully-Mulder?" she suggested, feeling something within herself twinge at the sound of it. //Mrs. Scully- Mulder...// "Okay. Hey, d'you suppose I ought to call you Dana now? Since we're married and all..." "Only if you want me to call you Fox," she told him, and watched his face crinkle into a look of distaste. "Have I ever mentioned how much I hate that name? Seriously," he said, "it sounds better when you say it, but I still hate it." "Mulder," she said patiently, "on the rare occasions when you have called me Dana, I have had to look around the room to ascertain who you are speaking to." "So I should call you Scully, then...?" "You always have," she reminded him, "why stop now?" He smiled: the smile she so cherished, the wide, happy smile that she'd so rarely seen -- at least, until they'd begun their love affair. "Scully," he said, "my sweet, sexy, smart-ass Scully. I love you, y'know." Her breath caught in her chest; it was an effort to speak. "I know," she murmured. "I love you, too." "I sure hope so; you married me, after all. You should probably take off that dress," he mentioned, "we have champagne to drink, and..." his voice trailed off, expression altering subtly, to that look of wonderment she'd seen before. "One day, one of our kids may want to walk down the aisle in that dress." She knew what he was feeling: at his words, she found herself envisioning the future, *their* future. Babies, growing to become children, and then adults; and she and Mulder helping them grow, watching them bring home stray animals and report cards and dates and someday, children of their own... "Yeah," she agreed softly -- then added, "Let's just hope it's not one of the boys," and he roared with laughter. Scully took her suitcase into the bathroom with her, carefully slithering out of the dress; a shame, she thought ruefully, that she'd never wear it again. But someday, her daughter... She hung it up carefully on the padded hanger and zipped it into the garment bag she'd brought for just that purpose. She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror, found herself gazing at her reflection. Not as young as she'd used to be, that was for certain. And there were scars: as much a part of her job as her badge or her gun. Obvious, from the image in the glass, that she wasn't a girl anymore... ...she was a woman. A wife. Mulder's wife. And someday, the mother of his children... The thought thrilled her, scared her, made her want to lock the bathroom door and hide even as another part of her wanted to run naked into the bedroom and fling herself into his arms... She shook her head, silently scolding her reflection. //You're being ridiculous, Scully.// //I'm a newlywed. I'm supposed to be ridiculous,// the reflection retorted, and she smiled at the absurdity of the internal dialogue. Quickly, she freshened up her makeup, applied a quick spray of perfume to her hair -- a trick she'd learned long ago: a way to keep her skin from tasting unpleasantly of alcohol -- slipped into a silk robe, and emerged hesitantly from the bathroom, dress in one hand, suitcase in the other. Mulder, she discovered, had changed from the rented suit into the bottom half of a pair of black silk pajamas; he was sitting in one of the easy chairs, staring at the television, restlessly flipping the remote control from channel to channel, click-click-click, not seeing any of what was flickering past on the screen. "You *are* nervous," she said softly. He glanced over at her. "Damn straight I'm nervous," he said, setting the remote down on the small nearby table. "I mean, talk about performance anxiety..." "Why?" She seated herself on the arm of the chair, let one hand ruffle his hair -- he usually kept it neatly combed; that was probably why she loved to tousle it into disarray. "Why?" he echoed. "Because I want this to be perfect for you, that's why." "It *is* perfect, Mulder; it's already perfect." Her other hand folded itself around his, fingers entwining. "We're together, now and for the rest of our lives. Everything else... is just icing on the cake." "But icing is the best part of a cake," he responded, with logic so flawless that she wanted to smack him for it. "Hey, you didn't wait all this time to lose your virginity just so I could screw it up, right?" Scully shook her head, exasperated; how was it that he could be so right, and so wrong, at the same time? "Mulder," she sighed, "first of all, I waited so that I could be with the right man, which I am. Second, I'm not losing anything, I'm gaining a soul-mate. Third, wedding nights are traditionally *supposed* to be disastrous, so anything that doesn't send me to the emergency room screaming in pain will be fine by me. Fourth, you're not being graded on this; I'm not going to hold up a card with a numerical score when it's done. Finally... this isn't an ending, you know. It's a *beginning*. And if it isn't up to your standards of technical perfection, well, we have the rest of our lives to practice. Okay?" He gazed at her affectionately. "Well, excuse me for wanting to be good in bed," he said mildly. She laughed. "Just don't *worry* about it." "I want this to be right for you," he countered, insistently. "It *is* right for me. *You* are right for me," and he pulled her down, into his lap, into his arms. For a while, they cuddled together, semi-watching TV. "Why are we watching the Weather Channel?" Scully wondered, and he picked up the remote control and began flipping channels again. "Not sports..." "It's basketball," he protested. "Mulder," she said, and he sighed and changed the channel. "Casablanca?" he suggested, after an interval of channel- surfing. She thought about it, shook her head. "Something with a happy ending." "Oooh, look, Scully, alien abductions, hosted by Mike Farrell..." "And no *work*," she scolded him lightly. Click, click, click. "Wanna learn how to re-shingle a roof?" "Not today, Mulder." More channels flashing past. "Mating habits of elephants," she said thoughtfully. "Anything but that. The last thing I need right now is an inferiority complex," and she laughed. Click, click, click. "Here we go, Road-Runner cartoons. We can't go wrong with Road-Runner cartoons." "As long as nothing in this room was manufactured by the Acme company," she agreed. The antics of the coyote and the road-runner occupied their attention for awhile; but Scully grew restless. Idly, she let her hand drift across his chest, fingertips trailing through the sparse hair there, then brushing lightly over one nipple. She felt him shiver, felt him plant a light kiss on the top of her head. "You trying to seduce me, Agent Scully?" "Now why would you think that?" she responded, and allowed her hand to drift lower, toward his stomach. Another shiver, of a different sort. "Don't *tickle*," Mulder warned. "Oh," she said sweetly, "you mean, like this?" and he jumped half out of the chair. "You want to play? Okay, I'll play," and he set to work with a vengeance, until Scully was on the floor, giggling helplessly and vainly attempting to squirm away from his fingers. "Stop!" she pleaded. "Should I? I don't know... I like to hear you laugh," but all at once his fingers stilled, stroking instead of tickling, as he stretched out beside her on the carpeted floor. Her robe had fallen open, and he bent his head to kiss each breast in turn, so that neither would feel neglected. "Hey, you wanna do it on the floor?" "My back would never forgive me," she said, and he knelt beside her, offered her a hand and helped her up. Once on her feet, she automatically pulled her robe closed - - not knowing quite why; suddenly, she was nervous again. "What's wrong, Scully?" Mulder asked, picking up on her anxiety. She shrugged. "I suppose there's something to be said for spontaneity," she murmured. "It would have been easier if this had just *happened*..." "So I'm not the only one with performance anxiety, huh? C'mere," and he enfolded her in one of those wonderful, all- encompassing Mulder-hugs that she so loved. "Like you said: it's not the end, it's the beginning. And it'll be all right." She leaned into him, enjoying the feeling of resting against his strength, being held and protected. Something she would never allow herself in the course of their work, where it was imperative that she rely on her own strength; but an infinite joy when they were alone together. "It sounds awful, I know," she said at last, "but I just want to get this over with." "Get it over with? I think I'm wounded," he replied, in a joking voice; but she thought she discerned a trace of actual hurt beneath the light tone. "It's just..." she struggled to explain, "it's an intimidating thing, you know?" "An intimidating thing," he repeated. "I didn't know I was *that* big," and she slapped at him, smiling. "Well, now I know: I have an intimidating thing." "Better intimidating than underwhelming," she retorted. "As long as you think so." The teasing tone slipped away, leaving only concern, and love. "I'm not going to hurt you, y'know. I mean, I'd rather cut my own throat than hurt you." "I know. I trust you, Mulder; you know that." "I know." He was silent for a moment, absently stroking her hair, fingertips twining through the strands without ever tangling in them. "You know what I think? I think we should try out that hot tub, because y'know, you smell." She stepped back, surveyed him with disbelief. "You are just *sooo* romantic," she noted dryly. "That's why you married me," he parried, grinning. "I wonder what happens when you put bubble bath in a jacuzzi?" "A vast proliferation of bubbles?" she hypothesized. "Well, we don't have to clean it up, do we?" he countered mischievously; and she grinned wickedly back at him. He poured half the bottle into the hot tub before she could stop him; and together they watched as the bubbles grew and overflowed onto the carpet. "You know, they might make us pay for damages," she realized belatedly, and together they fetched towels from the bathroom to mop up the worst of the mess. She turned her back on him before taking off her robe, feeling ridiculous about it, since it was nothing he hadn't already seen -- felt slightly better when she noticed that he was doing the same thing -- and finally they were in the tub together, staring at each other from opposite ends through the miasma of bubbles. "Well," he said, "we're both naked; that's a good start." Scully laughed, albeit a trifle self-consciously. "This is so silly," she said, "for us to be nervous now, after everything we've been through together." "You think it's silly?" Again, his tone was light and playful, but with a deeper undertone. "You think it's silly that I'm terrified out of my wits, that I won't be good enough, or last long enough, or be able to get it up at all?" She moved her foot to nudge his, underwater. "You really *are* nervous," she said, somehow surprised by the depths of his worry. "Hey, you just have to lie there and spread your legs; I'm the one who has to be Mister Wonderful." "Mulder..." "Yeah, yeah, I know. But I can't help how I feel. You matter to me," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Well, you matter to me, too. And this is not just for me, you know," she reminded him, "it's *our* wedding night." "Our wedding night," he repeated. "You know, I thought for some reason that saying the vows would be the hard part; I never expected that the honeymoon would be our main stumbling block. I mean, it's not like we've never *been* together before... I'd even venture to say that we're pretty good at it." "We are," she agreed. "Well, except maybe for that one night, when we had the flu..." "Yeah, that was pretty disastrous, wasn't it? Let me tell you, if that had been our first time together, I would have crawled under a rock and stayed there, for the rest of my life," and she laughed. "I don't even know why we bothered trying; we were both feeling so lousy..." "We were in bed together," she said, "it was inevitable; we couldn't help it." Remembering, she laughed again -- though it hadn't been funny at the time. "At least you managed not to throw up on me." "It was close, though. Hey, Scully," he mentioned, "why are you on the other side of the tub?" "Why are you?" she challenged. "Come here." "No, you come *here*." They stared at each other for a moment. "I'll meet you in the middle," he said at last, and she nodded. He stood up, extended one hand to her; she took it, rose to her feet -- then she was in his arms, feeling his body against hers, warm and wet and slippery from the soap- bubbles: skin against skin, deliciously intoxicating. His eyes, dark with passion, seeming to gaze into her soul; his lips, seeking hers and finding them, seizing them gently, capturing her with his kiss. A slow fire building within her, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the jacuzzi's hot water, consuming her little by little until her entire nervous system was: his manhood pressed against her, hard and insistent, signifying a longing that matched hers. "Let's go to bed, Scully," he murmured huskily, in a voice roughened by desire. She didn't trust her own voice; she simply nodded, and took his hand, let him help her out of the tub and lead her to the oversized bed. (continued in TTU-11 1/2) continuous from part 1 --- The room was warm enough that she didn't feel chilled; the satin sheets were delightfully cool against her fevered skin. She pulled them up, over herself, but his hand stopped her -- "Let me look at you," he coaxed, drawing the sheets aside. "You're so beautiful," in a hushed voice. "Scully. I love you so much." Tears formed in her eyes, tears of joy, a happiness so deep that it could be expressed in no other way. "Mulder," she said, trusting him to hear everything she felt in the single word, knowing that he would understand. He knelt on the bed beside her, drew her into a sitting position, kissed her -- his hands roamed over her breasts, down to her hips, in almost a possessive motion; //mine,// they seemed to say, //my wife, my love,// and she yielded to him, letting the heat of his hands soak into her skin and melt away any lingering unease. Suddenly, she needed to feel him close; and she pulled him to her, savoring the feel of hard muscles and soft skin and the tautness of arousal that coursed through him -- felt him tremble: "Scully," a soft sigh that sent shivers through her. She leaned back, pulling him down with her, feeling his weight atop her, pressing her into the mattress even though he braced himself with one arm to keep from hurting her; oh, it was wonderful. Everything was wonderful; and she marveled that she could ever have been afraid of this, could ever have felt nervousness, when every moment of togetherness between them was sheer perfection. Even that time with the flu, even with chills and nausea as a deterrent, it had been wonderful to rest in his arms and know that she was loved: even with stringy hair and pasty- pale skin and a runny nose, she had still been beautiful to him. To him: Mulder, her husband. "I love you," she whispered, and kissed the tip of his nose. He kissed her back: her lips, her neck, her breasts, hands and lips and tongue teasing and caressing her everywhere -- she wondered hazily if her skin tasted of soap, but if it did, he obviously didn't care. Lower, and lower, heading purposefully toward his favorite destination; his hands snaked around her hips as his lips found their target, and she laced her fingers through his hair and cried out softly as his tongue made contact with the center of her arousal, bringing simmering desire to the boiling point. Closer and closer he brought her, to the pinnacle of pleasure, until she was so close that she could hardly bear it; and then he was moving, to rest atop her again, his hardness positioned between her thighs -- she wrapped her legs around him, and felt him tremble. "Ready?" he whispered. And now, at the moment when she should have felt the most nervous, all she could feel was love. "Yes," she whispered back. Slowly, so slowly, so carefully, she felt his cock ease into her, probing the tender aperture... she felt herself stretching to accommodate him, and it didn't hurt; no, not at all. He pulled back a bit, then pushed forward a bit more forcefully, entering a little more deeply -- one more time, one last thrust, and he was inside her, all the way, filling her completely. She lay still, adjusting herself to the feeling: a wild flurry of thought raced through her mind -- //this is it,// and //ohmigod, it's finally happening// and //now I am a woman//... the last, an archaic feeling straight from some old romance novel, an embarrassment to her modern-nineties- liberated-female psychology; but at that moment, it was what she felt, and she couldn't bring herself to feel ashamed of the emotion. //I'm so glad I waited. I'm so glad I waited for *him*.// "Scully," and she opened her eyes, looked up at his sweat- slicked face. "You okay?" "Yeah," she breathed, unable to quite describe just how okay she was; and he kissed her, a swift soft kiss for reassurance. And then he moved, withdrawing and thrusting again, and she let out a startled cry of pleasure, for no amount of clinical knowledge or research could possibly have prepared her for how *incredible* it felt. Buried within her once more, he hesitated. "You sure you're okay?" "Stop again, and I'll kill you," she whispered, only partially joking. A soft breath of laughter. "I love you *so* much." Then he was moving again, sweet hot friction against sensitive tissue, every stroke bringing her a whole new world of pleasure, totally unlike anything she'd ever known before, almost too good to bear. She gazed at him, seeing in his face the strength of his arousal, and his control; how hard it was for him to keep it slow and gentle, when his body was screaming for more... his eyes met hers, locked with hers, and through that connection it seemed as if their souls met and intertwined: as if she could see straight into his heart. Feeling him inside her body, inside her soul, she knew with utter certainty that this was right; this was perfect; this was *home*. So completely in tune, they were, that she knew when he just couldn't stand the slow pace anymore, because it was the same moment that her own body demanded more; harder, now, and faster, exactly as she needed it to be, speeding them both toward the point of no return. And then it was upon her, pleasure upon pleasure, so incredibly strong that she didn't think she could survive the intensity of it -- a howl welled up in her throat, a long keening cry of passion, held back by the same slender thread that separated her from orgasm -- she felt the same sudden tension in him, knew he was there with her, so damn close that it *hurt*: tension building, and building, and building, until she thought that she would explode... ...and then she did: both of them, together, screaming cries of passion that should have deafened each other, endless rippling contractions that seemed to echo in time, spasms of ecstasy, of relief, of pure wondrous completion. Reality returned slowly. His weight upon her, his breathing hoarse and irregular in her ear, the pounding of his heart in rhythm with her own, and a sticky wetness between her legs that might've been uncomfortable at any other time, but felt at that moment like a badge of honor. And still, even then, the small residual echoes of orgasm, little twinges of lingering pleasure penetrating and saturating her utter contentment. He moved sideways, rolling off her, an effort that seemed to require every bit of what little energy he had left; his arms wrapped around her and took her with him, into a comfortable embrace. She gazed at him, at his warm, pleased smile -- and all at once she was laughing, great uncontrollable peals of laughter: relief, and happiness, and absolute satisfaction with her life, and the world. "Y'know," she heard him say, through her giggles, "it's not generally a good sign when they laugh, afterwards," but something in his tone told her that he understood; and she pulled him close and kissed him hard, just to be certain. "Hey, Mulder," she said, still unable to quite stop laughing, "guess what? We had sex, and we survived." "Speak for yourself," he responded, "I'm still not sure I won't require CPR, after that." "It *was* incredible, wasn't it? See, you worried for nothing," she scolded him lightly. "Well, I had to make up for that time with the flu," he reminded her. Suddenly, the giggles were gone, leaving only a vast tenderness. "It was *perfect*," she told him, fervently. "Thank you, 'Mister Wonderful'." He met her smile with one of his own. "Anything for you, Scully," he said. "Anything." And yawned. "Wouldja mind too much if I took a little nap?" he queried. "I'm halfway there myself," she informed him, yawning in return. "Good. I'll meet you in my dreams, then," settling himself into position, tugging at the pillow until he was comfortable; waiting for her to do the same, then wrapping one arm securely around her, just like always. "See you there," she said sleepily, and he kissed her lightly as she drifted off. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- A full bladder awakened her from a sound sleep -- and Mulder was still holding her, dammit; she had to untangle herself from his embrace before she could get out of bed. She swung herself upright, stood -- nearly fell over; //I thought it was just a cliche,// she thought hazily, //but my legs really *do* hurt. Wow.// Somehow she managed to stumble to the bathroom, and take care of necessary business. She splashed her face with cold water, looked at her reflection in the mirror... //I don't look any different,// she thought; and then, //Yes, I do,// though she couldn't pinpoint the difference, exactly. //Now I am truly a woman,// she thought. //Oh, God, that *is* a cliche. Somebody shoot me before I start spouting love poems, and carving little hearts and initials into the furniture...// But she couldn't quite stop smiling. She turned on the shower, intending to soak away some of the unfamiliar aches in her legs and back -- paused; somehow it didn't seem right for Mulder to wake up alone in bed on their honeymoon night. So she padded back into the room, bare feet moving soundlessly on carpeted floor, peered at his sleeping form to see if he was anywhere near consciousness. "Mulder?" she inquired, resting one hand on his bare shoulder. "Mmmmm?" came a bleary sound from the pillows. "I'm gonna take a shower," she told him. "Mmmmm," was the reply, just as incoherent; and she tugged the blankets up over him, and went back to the bathroom. The hot water eased into her muscles, relaxed her -- and got rid of the dried sweat and other secretions, for which she was thankful; parts of her had been starting to itch. She luxuriated in the heat, and the steam, remembering... felt the memory beginning to arouse her anew. //Marriage. Sex. Mulder. God, I've got to stop grinning like an idiot; my face is starting to ache.// She laughed softly. //I'm as giddy as a newlywed. Hey, wait; I *am* a newlywed. So I suppose it's permissible,// and laughed again. After awhile, she heard the bathroom door open. "Scully?" said a familiar voice, sleepily. "Yeah," she responded. //And who else would've snuck into the shower while you were sleeping, genius?// But then, that was Mulder... "Mmmm," came the acknowledgment, and she ducked her head under the spray to wash out the shampoo. Shortly thereafter, the glass shower door slid open, bringing with it a burst of cold air. "I ordered coffee from room service," she heard him say. "And new sheets from housekeeping." "Good move," she said, rubbed water out of her eyes and opened them. "You look tired." "I am tired. Happy-tired. S'okay," and he slipped his arms around her waist, drew her close. "How about you, you okay? No regrets?" "Regrets?" she said, keeping her voice absolutely sober. "Yes, I have regrets; you're too big, you're too good, and I want a divorce." Expecting to see him smile, she glanced up instead to see his stricken face -- "I was *kidding*," she said hastily. "I'm not awake yet; don't joke like that," he chided her, and she felt him relax. "Seriously..." "I feel wonderful," Scully told him, sincerely, "and I am *so* happy." And there was the smile she'd been waiting for. "Me too," he said. "So you don't want a divorce, then." "Mulder, there is no way in hell that I am ever letting you get away from me." She hugged him, hard. "Wash your back?" she offered. "Sounds like heaven," he agreed. And thus they began the rest of their lives together. -------/end TTU-11 IT ENDS. IT FINALLY ENDS. Acknowledgments: The writer would like to take this opportunity to thank all the people who have read this, and waited -- patiently, and not so patiently -- throughout the what? year and a half? it's taken me to finish it; and whose comments and praise have meant far more to me than any of them could possibly know. And to all my beta readers, past and present: you know who you are, and thanks. NOTE: All versions of all installments of Taming The Unicorn should be credited to "Imajiru", at the e-mail address "imajiru@mindspring.com". No other name or e-mail address should appear on this story, anywhere. Thanks. Spoilers: None. As with all installments of Taming The Unicorn, this story ignores canon wherever it proves inconvenient, i.e. most of the last season or two. Gossamer Codes: S for Story, R for Romance, MSR for you- know-what, and PG-13 because there's nothing particularly racy in this one. Archiving: May be forwarded to atxc. May be archived at Gossamer. May be archived anywhere else where it is wanted; but please let me know where it's being put - and as stated above, PLEASE be certain that this and all other installments are being archived under the name "Imajiru". Disclaimer: Fan fiction, no matter how well or badly written, is the sincerest praise that any series-creator could ever hope to receive; for it signifies that the series they have created is so *real* to the viewers that it has utterly captivated them. It demonstrates that the fans of the series in question love it to the point of laboring for endless hours to create a small fragment of that series- universe that is their very own, without hope of receiving any compensation other than the possible recognition of their peers. The existence of fan fiction, though perhaps technically a 'copyright violation', is a sign that the series-creator has indeed created something wondrous; and if anyone feels the need to take legal action against me for this 'crime', they are perfectly welcome to TRY. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn 12 by Imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com The story so far: I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. II - In which the terms of the wager are defined. III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. IV - In which bad things happen to good people. V - In which broken things are made whole. VI - In which Mulder's bed is unearthed. VII - In which a relationship is redefined. VIII - In which priorities are established. IX - In which the future is considered. X - In which a partnership is finalized. XI - In which something is lost, and much more is gained. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- XII. Happily Ever After "...And that's the way it was for your father and I," Dana Scully said, gazing across the front seat of the car to the girl -- //no,// she thought, with mingled pride and sadness, //young woman// -- seated beside her. She had her mother's bright, incisive eyes, highlighted by raccoon-dark eyeliner that her mother would never have worn; she had her father's dark hair, accented by a bold dyed-pink streak; she wore the uniform of her generation, regurgitated from the punk-rock 80s and reborn as a 'brand-new' trend -- and somehow managed to make the entire facade look stylish and mature. "Wow," Lacy said thoughtfully. "I knew Daddy was a saint, putting up with us kids, but I never knew he was *that* much of a saint." "Your father," said Scully, "is a very special man," and a secret smile crossed her lips, remembering how it had been last night -- and myriad nights before that: over fifteen years' worth of days and nights, now. And still, every time was like the first time, as miraculous and joyous as their honeymoon had been... She banished those thoughts, to attend to the matter at hand; she met her daughter's eyes, with the same level honesty she'd always granted her children. "You're a young woman, now," she said, "and old enough to make your own decisions, whether I like them or not. I know you well enough to know that your decisions are your own, not prompted by peer pressure. I also know that virginity isn't exactly fashionable these days, and hasn't been for a great many years. If you feel you're ready for birth control, Lacy, I'll make sure that you have what you need. But I want *you* to know how special it can be, when you wait for the right person. When you know that the person you're with is the one you'll spend the rest of your life with. It doesn't always work out that way for everyone," she said candidly, "but when it does, it's incredible." "So you're glad you waited?" Lacy pressed. "Yes," her mother answered, without hesitation; and again that faint, mysterious smile lit her face from within, for just a moment. The younger woman considered, for a moment. "You and Dad are still together," she mused, "after all this time; I don't know anyone else in my school who still have the same two parents they started with." "Lifelong commitment isn't exactly fashionable these days, either," said Scully ruefully. "Many people find it simpler to shop for a new mate than to make things work with the one they've got." Days and nights of stress, transitions, adjustments, arguments and reconciliations... two fiercely independent people, building a life together; it hadn't been an easy road, for either of them. But it had been worth it. "There were times," she said slowly, "that I felt left out, as if I was missing something; times when I felt as if I was waiting in vain, that I'd never find 'the right one'. But in the end, I realized that if I hadn't waited, I would have missed out on far more." Lacy nodded. "I'll think about it, Mom," and though her tone held an edge of impatience, Scully knew her daughter well enough to know that it wasn't a dismissal, or an idle promise. "But, y'know, Joey's supposed to call me, and I don't want to miss out on that... and I'll bet the ice cream's melting, too." "You're probably right," Scully agreed. "Let's get these groceries inside, shall we?" -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- The family room was aglow when she stepped inside. There was the Christmas tree, resplendent in its glory, decorated with fifteen years' worth of keepsake ornaments and at least two more strings of lights than were actually needed. There was the array of stockings, 'hung by the chimney with care', over a dozen of them: one for each of the kids and their parents and the people who constituted their extended family, each one bearing a name in bright silver glitter. There was the heirloom menorah on the mantel, waiting for the time when its candles would be lit. There was the solstice display that Lacy had fashioned, holly and mistletoe and a simplified altar; a yearly tradition ever since their eldest child had declared herself pagan on her eleventh birthday. And there was the television, which was lit up and howling with the shoot-em-up game that the twins were avidly playing on the video-game system that they occasionally managed to wrench away from their father... "Save your game and come help me with the shopping," Scully called out; and, "Right, Mom," came the chorused reply, in perfect unison, as the boys set aside their gamepads and scurried out the door to obey: two freckled redheads so alike that even their parents had trouble telling them apart. "Hi, Mommy," piped up a small voice from the sofa; a little girl in a white nightgown, all but hidden beneath the crocheted afghan on which she'd been conceived, so many years ago. "Hi, sweetie," Scully answered, kneeling beside the couch to hug her youngest child. "Feeling better, now?" "All better!" Emmy declared -- the effect was marred by her stuffed nose; but still, she looked far better than she had last night, when she'd awakened her parents with her hoarse cough. Scully placed one hand on her daughter's forehead, and was satisfied by the reduction of the fever. Sound of a basketball bouncing against the concrete patio, then the sliding door opening, and a voice laced with excitement: "Hi, Moms, guess what? I got picked for first- string!" "Congratulations," said her mother, smiling, reaching out to tousle the short, shaggy dark-blonde hair of her second- eldest. "Does your father know?" "Oh, yeah," said Thea, spinning the basketball effortlessly on one finger, then catching it, "Pop's stoked to the max, fit to bust!" "I suppose that's a good thing," said Scully wryly. "Could you go help your brothers with the groceries?" "Sure, Ma," and Thea bounced out the door, propelled by the same relentless energy she'd always possessed. Scully let her purse fall onto the easy chair next to her daughter's basketball, shed her coat and left that in a crumpled heap on the chair's arm, then picked up her shopping bags and headed for the kitchen. The radio on top of the refrigerator was set to the same blues-rock station as always; 'Thou Shalt Not Meddle With Daddy's Radio' was one of the Fifteen Family Commandments, immortalized on a piece of orange construction paper taped to the wall. A wonderful aroma filled the kitchen, as steam rose from a giant pot on the stove: a recipe of his own devising, involving meat and potatoes and vegetables and an array of spices that he steadfastly refused to divulge. Every Thursday night was Stew Night, and not coincidentally, the contingent of drop-in dinner guests on Thursdays was generally a large number. He was standing by the stove, stirring the stew with a wooden spoon, humming along to the song on the radio; and for a moment she simply stood there, looking at him. He'd aged, of course, as she had; not quite as slender as he'd been once, hair greying and thinning -- and he was every bit as handsome as he'd ever been, in her estimation, if not more so. "Hey," she said finally, and he glanced up, startled; he hadn't heard her come in -- but then, his hearing wasn't as acute as it had once been, either: not since the unfortunate incident with the twins and the M-80 firecrackers, several Fourth-of-Julys ago. But his smile hadn't changed: and she loved the way it lit up his whole face, eyes sparkling as brightly as any fireworks. "Hey, Scully," he said, and held out one arm to her; she went to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. She felt her body react to his warmth, his strength, his scent, and reflected to herself that some things would never change. Love, for example. Friendship. The intensity of their partnership: a unity that had begun with their first meeting, and had continued unabated through all the years since. Desire... "Good day at the office, Doctor Scully?" he murmured, into her hair. "Not too bad, considering the season. Colds, flu, viruses. The Henderson kid threw up on me. Same old thing." She tilted her head upward to look at him. "You?" "As per usual. Finished up that article I was working on, and sent it off to the Journal; express-mail, so I should just make the deadline. The twins' teacher sent another letter home -- we're supposed to go in for another meeting next Tuesday. And I got a new recipe for meatloaf off one of the PBS cooking shows. I think I'll try it out tomorrow." His grin broadened. "Thea made first-string, did she mention?" "She did," Scully confirmed. "You must be floating on air." "Pretty much, yeah. I don't think I've been this proud of our kids since they hacked into the Bureau's computers. Speaking of which, we're having guests for dinner..." "I assumed as much. After all, it *is* Stew Night." She grinned. "'Uncle Skinner' and who else?" "Callahan and Rodriguez, probably; they rarely miss a Thursday, when they're in town. And the Lone Gunclan, naturally." In the intervening years, the 'boys' had increased their ranks, gaining two self-proclaimed 'Lone Gunchicks' -- the arrangement was more than simply a matter of shared interests and mutual paranoia; there was some sort of rotating sleeping arrangement that neither Scully nor Mulder had ever cared to delve into... for numerous reasons. One of the Gunchicks called herself Sunflower; her dizzy- blonde facade concealed a sharp mind and sharper intuition, and she had a knack for making computers sit up and beg... in addition to other, more mysterious talents, which 'the boys' occasionally alluded to with veiled innuendoes. The other Gunchick was generally known by the name Kelly Leibowitz -- formerly an investigative journalist, she'd stumbled across one inconsistency too many, and had begun her own independent search for the Truth, one that had eventually led her to cross the Lone Gunmen's path. Kelly had told them her own convoluted tale of woe: adopted, she'd been haunted for the duration of her youth by half-realized memories of another family, another life, another name, until finally she'd undergone hypnotic regression to try to remember her past... And even with all the data right in front of them, even with all the clues staring them straight in the face, it had taken everyone a ridiculous length of time to realize that Kelly Leibowitz was in actuality Samantha Mulder. It was a happy ending, of sorts; one of life's little ironies was the fact that Mulder and 'Kelly' didn't particularly get along -- and the very thought of his sister sleeping with *any* of the Lone Gunmen, let alone all of them in turns, tended to make him cringe. But she was alive, and well, and close at hand -- and those facts had brought Mulder the inner peace he'd lacked, at long last. "I wonder who's sleeping with who *this* week," Scully speculated, straight-faced teasing; and felt her husband shudder. "Don't take me there, sweetheart, 'cause I don't wanna go." She felt his lips plant a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "I swear, if Kel starts snuggling with Frohike on our sofa, I'm going to vomit." "Not on me, okay? I've done that today, already," and he laughed and kissed her again: this time, on the lips, and more than casually. "Ewww, mushy stuff," said one of the twins -- William or Walter; there was no telling which, not without closely checking the pattern of freckles. The kids were bringing in the bags of groceries, now; and Scully moved to release her husband from the embrace... and discovered that she couldn't. It was like that, sometimes; even now, after fifteen years of marriage, there were still moments when she was helpless before the intensity of her love for this man. And she liked it that way: other couples grew bored, discontented, the relationship becoming stale and colorless -- but not theirs; not them. "Grow up," said Thea scornfully, to the boys; she set down the bags she was carrying, rummaged through one and withdrew a dripping carton. "Ma, the ice cream's melting," she complained. "If you don't like it," said her mother, finally disentangling herself from Mulder -- not without difficulty, because he didn't seem to want to let go, either -- "you do the shopping." "I would, if you'd let me drive!" retorted the blonde. "Thea, you're thirteen," Mulder pointed out reasonably, "and we've discussed this already." He pointed to the orange construction paper taped to the wall. "Thou Shalt Not Drive Without A License, remember?" "It was only that once," she grumbled, stowing the ice cream in the freezer, and licking the melted stuff from her fingers. "Only the once that I found out about, you mean," her father said mildly. "You can get your permit when you're sixteen, and *then* we'll talk." "I'll be in the NBA before you let me drive," Thea grumbled. "Kewl! Frosty Chocos!" exclaimed one of the twins, pulling a box of breakfast cereal from another grocery bag. "I'm getting the prize, it's *my* turn," protested the other twin, struggling to extract the box from his brother's grasp, meeting resistance along the way. "Cut it out, boys," said Scully, automatically, grabbing an armful of Noodle-Roni boxes and handing them to Thea. "Put these in the pantry, please..." The phone rang. "That's for me!" Lacy shouted, dropping her grocery bags on the table unceremoniously as she raced for the receiver -- Scully winced at the sound of eggs cracking. A small angelic shape in white padded into the kitchen, dragging her stuffed bunny rabbit by one foot. "I'm thirsty," she murmured. Her father picked her up, carried her over to one of the cabinets. "Which one?" he asked her, and Emmy pointed at the bright yellow box that held the honey-lemon tea. "Good choice," said Mulder approvingly, "it'll make that sore throat all better," kissing her too-warm forehead. There was a tearing sound, as the box of sugared breakfast cereal split in two, showering the kitchen floor with Frosty Chocos; and all at once, the kitchen was silent. "Uh-oh," Emmy said dolefully, from her daddy's arms. "Now look what you've done," agreed their father. "Clean that up, right *now*," their mother directed. "And now *neither* of you is getting the prize," Mulder added, "so there." "Awww, Dad...!" came the inevitable protest, in stereo. Scully raised her voice to be heard over the whines. "Clean it up!" she commanded, in her best 'don't-mess-with-me' tone left over from her days in the Bureau; and grumbling, the twins went to fetch broom and dustpan and mini-vac. "Little brats," Thea muttered. "Don't talk that way about the little brats," Mulder told her. He leaned over and picked up the plastic-wrapped object of the twins' contention. "Hey, look, Scully, it's a secret decoder ring." "Decode *this*, Mulder," Scully said tiredly, carefully stepping around the Frosty Chocos strewn over the linoleum on her way to the fridge. Lacy stomped into the kitchen, crushing breakfast cereal underfoot. "It's for *you*," she said, thrusting the cordless phone at her mother. "Don't stay on too long, 'kay? I'm expecting a call." As she departed, her complaints lingered behind her: "...don't see why we can't get another phone line in this crummy house..." "Because we already have three modem lines, *that's* why," called her father after her. "Teenagers," said Scully under her breath, as if it were an epithet; then, into the receiver: "Hello?" "I'm on my way over," said the familiar voice on the other end of the line, "and I was wondering if you needed anything. Pistachio ice cream, perhaps...?" She laughed as she took a seat at the kitchen table. "I just got back from the store," she told him, "and yes, if you don't mind; we could use a double carton of eggs," surveying the wet, soggy bag that had once contained twenty- four intact ovoid units, before Lacy's mad dash for the phone. "And a box of Frosty Chocos." Her eyes strayed to the pair of red-headed boys crawling around on the kitchen floor. "And a pair of leashes." A soft chuckle met her statement. "The boys are giving you trouble again," said their 'uncle', not as a question. "Want me to take them off your hands for the weekend?" Scully hesitated, but only for a moment. "If you don't mind," she said, mostly from reflex; he *never* minded. Since retirement, he'd had a lot of time on his hands -- and their family was the only family he had. It had begun more or less by accident: she'd been pregnant with Lacy, and overdue, and Mulder had just left for the QuickieMart to pick up the pistachio ice cream she craved, when Skinner had dropped by to say hello. Of course, her contractions had begun; and of course, the electric company had picked that *exact* moment to have a systemwide blackout; and of course, they'd gotten stuck in a massive traffic jam on the highway... Mulder had been stuck in the same traffic jam, about a mile behind them; after frantic coordination via cellphone, he'd raced down the highway shoulder to their location, had gotten there just as the baby crowned. But it had been Skinner who'd delivered the baby, sweating rivers and managing to maintain a facade of calm control by the barest of threads, in the back seat of his car halfway between Exits 11 and 12. One of Scully's most treasured memories: gazing at her newborn infant, wrapped in Skinner's suit jacket in lieu of a blanket, holding her for the first time, aching and happy; and Mulder standing atop the hood of the car shouting, "It's a GIRL!" at the top of his lungs, while all around them car horns blared congratulations; and Skinner half-collapsed in the passenger seat, leaning over the backrest and gazing at her, shaking his head and smiling. "Only you two," he'd said, and hadn't bothered to finish the sentence, reaching out to touch one infinitesimal hand of the life he'd just helped bring into the world. Since then, he'd been a part of the family, as much so as any blood relation might be; and it was a standing joke between them that he *always* called first to see if they needed anything from the store. "I'll take them out to the cabin by the lake," said their old friend, "let them expend some of that energy playing in the snow, and keep them out of your hair for a few days." "That would be... quite a holiday gift; thank you, Walter," she told him sincerely. Mulder glanced at her inquiringly, and she made a vague hand-motion toward the kids and the door; he grinned, and pantomimed wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Not a problem. I *like* the little monsters. They keep me on my toes. Eggs and Frosty Chocos, is that all you need?" There was a click, as the extension phone was lifted; "Mommmmm," moaned Lacy. "Show some respect, young lady," warned her 'uncle', "you're not too old to spank." "Oh, yeah, right," said Lacy affectionately, "as if you ever would. You're coming over, right?" "Sure am," said Skinner, "if I can finish up this conversation with your mother in peace." "Yes, sir; but I'm expecting a call, okay? so hurry up, pleeeeease," and Lacy hung up the phone. "Teenagers," muttered Scully. "Don't linger at the store, Walter; I think dinner is almost ready," she estimated, from the aroma that filled the kitchen. "It's been ready for the last half-hour, actually," Mulder said in the background, as the kettle began to whistle; he turned off the flame, poured Emmy's tea into the Winnie-The- Pooh cup that Byers had given the girl for her last birthday. "Tell him to get his ass over here before I feed his share to the garbage disposal." "Tell him I heard that," Skinner said. "See you in a few." "Right," said Scully, and heard the telltale beep of the call being terminated from the other end. One of the twins lifted his head curiously. "We get to hang out with Uncle Skinner?" "Kewl!" exclaimed the other, and they high-fived. "Clean that up," Scully reminded them; and smiles turned into scowls as the boys returned to their labor. (Continued in TTU-12 2/2) continuous from part 1 --- Again, the phone rang. "I'LL GET IT!" resounded through the house, as Lacy scrambled for the upstairs phone. A moment later: "THEA, IT'S FOR YOU, AND YOU'D BETTER KEEP IT *SHORT*, DWEEB!" "Zark off, twitbreath!" Thea yelled back, taking the cordless unit from the kitchen table and disappearing with the phone. "I see she's been reading Hitchhikers," Mulder observed. He dipped a spoon into the bowl of stew, blew on it to cool it off, and brought it over to Scully. "Here, taste this." She eyed the spoon cautiously. "You got *cooties* all over it," she said dryly. "You like my cooties," he countered. Scully grinned, tasted the stew. "Last week's was better." "You always say that," Mulder challenged. "That's because the quality of your cooking is declining," she told him. "Okay, then, *you* can make dinner from now on..." "No, no, that's fine, the stew is wonderful, it's perfect, it's a chef's wet dream," Scully said quickly. "Mommy, what's a wet dream?" Emmy piped up, from her seat at the table, where her father had deposited her some time before. "It's when you dream about, um, rain, or snow," said her mother, thinking fast, "lots of snow, so you don't have to go to school; you know, a really *good* dream." Mulder laughed. "Nice save," he commented. Rummaging through the freezer, he came up with an ice cube, which he dropped into the Pooh mug before setting the cup before Emmy. "Watch it, sweetie, it might be hot," and the little girl nodded gravely. "You want some?" he said to his wife. She nodded. "Chamomile, please," and reached out to take his hand; their fingers entwined for a moment, then Mulder went off to make her tea. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Dinner was the usual chaos: five children, and twice that many adults, crowded around the oversized table. Conversation flowed -- half of it the normal ramblings of kids and parents, school and such; and the other half 'shop talk', as the latest discoveries and theories were debated. Agents Callahan and Rodriguez had uncovered a few interesting new wrinkles in the course of their latest X- Files investigation, and of course this was of interest to everyone else as well... Scully and Mulder had left the Bureau well over a decade before, when Lacy was a little over a year old, and Thea was still a work-in-progress; the decision had been precipitated by a gunshot wound that should have crippled Mulder for life but miraculously hadn't ("...and I want to live long enough to see my kids grow up, Scully; let's get the hell out of this business before it kills us both..."). According to various sources, many many sighs of relief had been breathed when they'd resigned. And yet, if anything, the Quest was progressing more strongly than ever; their hand-picked successors were carrying the torch with skill and style, and their circle of contacts had grown instead of decreasing. Once upon a time, they had worried about the safety of their children, lest the shadowy figures decide to exact retribution in their most vulnerable area. But that had been before the memorable incident in which said children had displayed what they'd learned from their elders, extricating their parents and uncles and aunts from a life- or-death situation and demonstrating quite effectively that even the youngest members of the Scully-Mulder clan were formidable, and not to be trifled with... Since then, they'd carried on their work with relative impunity; even their most implacable foes left them alone. To their neighbors, they were just another suburban couple: Scully, the family doctor to more than half the neighborhood, and Mulder, the house-husband who supplied much-coveted cookies for PTA bake sales and occasionally substitute-taught classes at the local elementary school. If they had only known how many government conspiracies and cover-ups were discussed at the dinner table, or how many secrets flowed through the desktop computer in the study... The phone rang halfway through dinner; and although it was a long-standing family rule that Thou Shalt Not Interrupt Dinner For Anything Short Of Nuclear War, Lacy tensed, poised for flight. "Daddy, please..." she implored. Mulder paused in the midst of interrogating Rodriguez about the case file, glanced sternly at his daughter -- then relented. "Just this once," and she dashed from the table, frantically diving for the phone. Shortly thereafter, Lacy returned to the table -- floated, actually; her face was wreathed in blissful happiness. "He asked me out!" she crowed. "Finally, finally, *finally*, he asked me out!" "Congratulations," said Agent Callahan, smiling; she and Lacy were close. "He's cute, I bet." "Oh, he is *so* cute; he's the coolest guy in my class!" exclaimed the girl happily, taking her seat at the table. "And just who is this 'he'?" Skinner wanted to know. "Joey McCann," Lacy answered, pronouncing the name as if it were a prayer; beside her, Thea made an ostentatious gagging noise. "He's awesome..." "He's bogus," countered her sister. "Jeez, Lace, I thought you had better taste," and Lacy glared at her hotly. Before it could deteriorate into an argument, Skinner spoke. "I want to meet this young man," he declared ominously. Lacy's face fell. "Oh, *no*," she groaned. "Daddy..." "Don't look to me for support," said her father mildly. "I want to meet him, too." His eyes met Skinner's across the table, in silent conspiracy. "We have to make sure he's good enough for you, after all." Caught between outrage and desperation, Lacy turned to her mother. "Mom..." "You can have him pick you up here," Scully said placidly, "and we'll put him through the usual third degree, and then you can go out." "Oh, please, *please*, don't scare him off," their daughter begged. "They won't do that," Byers consoled her. "They'll just make sure he knows that both of your parents *and* your protective Uncle Skinner are licensed to carry concealed weapons, that's all." Thea snickered; and Lacy moaned and buried her face in her hands. "Laugh it up, Thea," Kelly said to her namesake, vastly amused, "you'll be dating, next." "You're getting your hair in your stew, Lace," one of the twins pointed out. "I don't *care*. My life is ruined!" Lacy declared dramatically; she left the table and stormed off. "Melissa!" her father called after her, annoyed; but Lacy was in one of her moods, and moments later, there came the sound of a bedroom door slamming ostentatiously. "Why is Lacy mad?" Emmy wondered querulously. "Because she's a teenager, honey," said Langly, wiping the little girl's mouth with the corner of a napkin. As a baby, Emmy had been infinitely fascinated with his eyeglasses; and ever since then, they'd been fast friends. "It's hormones," said the other twin, with a self-satisfied grin. "Girls have too many *hormones*." "You'll be glad of that, someday," Sunflower told him, with gleeful certainty. "No way!" disputed one twin, and "Girls are *gross*," said the other, provoking smiles from the adults, who knew what sort of attitude-adjustments the years would bring. "You want me to go talk to her?" Callahan asked, rising from the table. "Well, someone should," Scully sighed, "and I'm tired," and the younger woman nodded and exited, in the same direction Lacy had gone. She looked up, to find Mulder's eyes resting on hers. "You had that little talk with her, I take it," he probed gently. Scully nodded. "I did," she said, "and I think she may have even listened." "Good," said Mulder, who had *not* been happy to hear that his 'little girl' had asked to go on the Pill; no, not happy at all. "What talk?" Thea wanted to know. "You'll find out in a year or two," Scully told her. "Or five, or ten," Mulder added, "I hope." Dinner continued, marred only slightly by the soda one of the twins spilled on the table ("You clean that up, William, and you apologize," directed Skinner, who somehow could *always* tell them apart, even when no one else could) and Lacy and Callahan returned in time for dessert: a sinfully rich chocolate cake that the Gunclan had contributed to the feast. Afterwards, it was homework time ("I can't wait for winter recess," was the general consensus among the younger set) and the kids clustered at the kitchen table while their elders headed off for the living room, and a semblance of peace and quiet. Skinner settled comfortably into the easy chair that had been designated as his, and the Lone Gunclan took over the sofa, while the two FBI agents took the loveseat, resuming the dinner-table conversation -- and Mulder caught Scully's eye, snatched up the afghan from the arm of the couch, took his wife's hand with the other; and they slipped through the front door and outside, together. It was cold out, but not too cold; tiny snowflakes fluttered through the air, though not enough to stick. She waited while Mulder settled himself into the porch swing, then took her usual place in his arms, and snuggled close as he drew the afghan over both of them. The porch swing had been a housewarming gift from her brother; she'd nursed all five of her kids in it, had spent evenings there waiting for Mulder to come home from one wild-goose-chase or another, had come home late to find him waiting there for her, and had spent uncountable hours just as she was now, enfolded in his arms... It wasn't the most comfortable spot in the world, but it was one of her favorites. His arm extended, pointed upwards. "Look, Scully," he said, "it's a UFO." She looked. "Mulder," she said, in the second half of the longtime ritual, "it's a helicopter," and he grinned and kissed the top of her head. "What're we having for Christmas dinner?" she murmured, idly curious; feeling the fatigue of her day washing over her, feeling the utter contentment that always swept over her whenever they were this close. "The usual five-ton turkey, I think, and the usual trimmings. Think I can impose on you to make that sweet- potato thing with the marshmallows?" "Sure," Scully said sleepily, "I can cook once in a while." She yawned, and felt his hand come up to stroke her hair soothingly. "What about the Solstice?" "It's Lacy's holiday; *she* can cook. And Kel's volunteered to cook for us over Hanukkah, matzoh-ball soup and the whole deal." "That means eight days of Gun-folk underfoot," she pointed out. "Eight days of live-in babysitters," he countered. "Just keep 'em out of my computer," Scully acceded, "they screwed up all my files, last time," and yawned again. "Sleepy, love?" and she felt herself go all warm and fuzzy at the tenderness in his voice. "You've had a long day; I should take you up to bed." "You should," she agreed, letting her voice drop to a lower register, the sultry tone that never failed to turn him on. She felt his lips brush against his forehead. "You're tired..." "Not that tired," Scully said, and felt him smile without having to look. Fifteen years, and nothing had changed; nothing important, anyway. Fifteen years, and it just kept getting better, with every passing day. Fifteen years... "I love you, Mulder," she said softly. "I love you, Scully." Such simple words, that meant so much. The front door opened. "Hate to intrude," Frohike's voice penetrated the darkness, "but I thought you might want to know that your boys just broke the cordless phone, and Lacy is threatening to rip out their intestines and strangle them with 'em. Just in case you're interested." Scully blinked up at her husband; their eyes met, with a mixture of amusement, dismay and resignation. "Time to go back to work, partner," said Mulder. "I guess so," she said, smiling despite herself. And together, they went inside, to deal with their family. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- ...and they lived happily ever after. The End. -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- ========================================================== == == The Fifteen Family Commandments of the Scully-Mulder Household ========================================================== == == Thou Shalt Not Enter Mommy And Daddy's Bedroom Without Knocking, EVER. Thou Shalt Not Meddle With Daddy's Radio Thou Shalt Not Force-Feed Crayons To Thy Sibling Thou Shalt Not Obtain Tattoos Before Thy Eighteenth Birthday Thou Shalt Not Use Bladed Weapons In Food Fights Thou Shalt Not Play "Lightsabers" With Lit Candles Thou Shalt Not Use Mommy's Laptop Computer As A Hammer Thou Shalt Not Cross State Lines When Running Away From Home Thou Shalt Not Drive Without A License Thou Shalt Not Utilize Matzoh Balls As Projectile Weapons Thou Shalt Not Paint Thy Face With Indelible Ink Thou Shalt Not Interrupt Dinner For Anything Short Of Nuclear War Thou Shalt Not Store Live Tadpoles In Mommy's Dress Shoes Thou Shalt Not Cut Thy Sibling's Hair, With Or Without Permission Thou Shalt Not Perform Science Experiments In The Toaster Oven ------- Imajiru F. Randazzo-Mackenzie imajiru@mindspring.com http://imajiru.home.mindspring.com/ Practice Safe Sex - Read Erotica ******* "You know, I bet you are just hell on wheels in an intellectual debate." -- DenMom