"Fate, Chance, Kings & Desperate Men"
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch

CATEGORY:  SRA

RATING:  PG-13 (at best)

SUMMARY:  Our heroes have found their way back to 
civilization (of a sort).  Now, they just need to figure out
the way home from there.  Flickfic.  All the cool kids are
doing it.  I just couldn't help myself.

DISCLAIMER:  They still aren't mine.  They belong instead
to Fox, 1013, and Chris Carter.  I'm not writing this for profit, 
so for pity sake, don't hit me up for the green stuff.  Anyone 
who knows me will tell you how infrequently I have any.

NOTE:  You know, I'm trying to work on other stuff, but I
can't get the danged movie out of my mind.  I've seen it more
times than is reasonably healthy, so while I can't go back
and review scenes on my VCR, I figure I'm familiar enough
with the plot and characterization to attempt a missing scene
story.  This one is set between Mulder & Scully huddling on
the ice and Scully's testimony before the panel back in 
Washington.  I've been wondering what they would have to
say to each other in the wake of their escape, so I figured 
someone else might be curious too.  Enjoy!  Archive where
you will as long as my name remains attached.  Seeing as
"Travelers" is on tonight, I plan on doing a little work on 
my page.  If you would like this story in one simple, easy to 
store file, stop by in a couple of hours.  It should be ready and 
waiting for you.

**************************************************
"Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men"
- John Donne, "Holy Sonnets"
**************************************************

A large man with an automatic riding on his hip barred Fox
Mulder's way.

"I don't know if now is such a good time, sir.  I think she's 
asleep."

"I won't wake her.  I promise."

Not waiting for permission, Mulder gave the armed 
gatekeeper his most earnest Boy Scout face, and stepped 
past him and his gun and into the hushed, darkened cell 
whose entrance the sentry so vigilantly patrolled.

Taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, 
Mulder glanced over his shoulder at the man pacing with
slow, deliberate step across the open doorway.  No doubt
about it--the guy didn't have an extra ounce of fat on him.  
His white-blond hair buzzed close to the scalp, he was tall 
and rangy with broad shoulders and wind-carved grooves 
lining the skin around his mouth and eyes.  Rumor had it the 
guard had been hand-picked for his assignment by the top 
brass back in D.C.  Mulder wondered if there was any specific 
reason the man he knew only as Sunderland had been named 
both his and Scully's protector.  Some special skill he possessed, 
some important favor he owed.  The agent had a feeling the 
explanation was something along those lines.  His friend with 
the side arm performed his duty with far too much authority 
to be a novice.  Which suited Mulder just fine.  If he wasn't 
in a position to defend his partner, he damned well wanted 
a surrogate who would approach the task with the same 
dedication as he would himself.

And try though he might, Mulder couldn't fault the man there.
No matter what time of the day or night, it seemed Sunderland 
was on the job.  In a uniform of jeans and one plaid flannel 
shirt after another, he stalked the infirmary's corridors, eyes 
narrowed like a particularly vicious Doberman.  Logic
dictated he had to have a relief-man, someone who would 
allow him to catch some shut-eye and the occasional meal.  
But, if that was the case, Mulder had never seen the phantom 
assistant.  Of course, he hadn't been on his feet all that long 
himself.  Which was why he was so thankful for Sunderland's 
watchfulness.  Every time Mulder had shuffled down the hall 
from his own small, lonely room to this one, pj-clad and bruised 
like an over-fondled tomato, the big man had been ready with 
an update on the facility's other visitor from the north.

"Her body temperature is up to nearly 97 degrees."

"She was awake for a few minutes this morning and able to 
respond to some simple questions.  The docs say that's a good 
sign."

"Turns out the frostbite on her face and feet wasn't nearly as 
bad as they'd feared.  They say she's likely to heal without 
scarring."

While all of this was excellent news, Mulder couldn't help 
but wish he had been the one monitoring Dana Scully's 
progress.  Instead, under threat of restraint, he had been 
all but wholly confined to bed, his recovery being supervised 
by a woman who, had it been up to him, would have been
renamed Ratchet of Antarctica.  Nurse Evelyn Kowalchik 
obviously knew her stuff, and seemed to genuinely have his 
best interests at heart.  Yet she stubbornly refused him even 
a lick of freedom.  Chafing under her care, Mulder had 
outwardly kowtowed to the nurse's demands.  But whenever
possible, he had made his escape, sneaking to Scully's bedside 
to steal a few moments with her, the interludes never lasting
long enough to satisfy his yearnings. 

Oh well, that's what you get for visiting Antarctica out of
season, he now silently mused as he padded stiffly across 
the tiled floor towards his partner, treading as quietly as he 
was able.  Way too much unwanted attention.  As far as he 
could tell, Scully and he were the only two full-time patients 
the facility had.  So, together, they bore the brunt of the 
staff's zeal.  Much to Mulder's dismay.  He had repeatedly 
assured the medical personnel attending to his wellbeing.  I'm 
fine, he told them.  A little tired.  A little crispy around the 
edges.  But once you got past that and the assorted aches and 
pains throbbing along the length of his battered form, he really
didn't have much to complain about.  Nothing that a few
hundred ibuprofen couldn't cure.

He wished he could say the same about Scully.

He drew alongside her bed, and paused a moment to take 
inventory of her condition.  Thank God that tent thing had
finally been removed.  When he had first visited her not long
after coming to, he had discovered her covered by what had 
looked to him to be a clear plastic bubble.  An oxygen tent, he 
had been told, necessary for administering warm, moist air in 
an effort to heal some of the damage done to her lungs.  The 
gunk that had nearly suffocated her had irritated the tissue 
lining her breathing passages.  That, coupled with the frigid 
air she had been forced to take in while trapped out-of-doors, 
had made respiration painful.  The treatment, the doctors had 
hoped, would ease her recovery.  Mulder had hoped so as well, 
even though the image of her encased in that way, imprisoned, 
visible yet untouchable, frightened him at some deep, visceral 
level.

That evening, however, she was unencumbered by such 
trappings.  Rather, covered only by a warming blanket and a 
few other layers of bedclothes, she lay vulnerable and small, 
a slender IV line attached to her left hand, an equally narrow 
oxygen tube resting just above her upper lip.  Dainty looking 
electrodes were placed just below her collarbones to measure 
her heartbeat and respiration.  None of these would have
hindered his touch.  

Yet, Mulder refrained.

He had promised Sunderland.

Sighing over his unappreciated nobility, Mulder snagged 
one of the room's two chairs, and settled it and himself beside 
Scully's mattress.  He was only going to sit with her for a minute 
or two, he told himself.  That's all.  Just sit and share her space, 
her air.  Watch her breathe.  Breathing was good.  And vastly 
undervalued.  This, he now knew without question.  All it had 
taken was an instant of Dana Scully lying beneath him, still as 
death, her lips soft and parted, but no air flowing between them, 
and he had come to realize how very much he had taken such 
things for granted.

Way too many things for granted.  For far too long.

Never again, he vowed to himself, pulling his borrowed 
checkered robe more tightly closed, then folding his arms
across the overlap to seal it.  As soon as Scully and he 
got back to Washington, things were going to change.
They had to.  The alternative was a version of the
nightmare projecting each evening on his lowered lids 
like some ghoulish late show.

Let's see what's playing tonight, shall we?

Will our not so willing audience get to see Dana Scully
ripped to shreds by that "Alien" reject?  Will she choke to
death on the thick, viscous goo in which she had been stored 
like a mermaid on ice?  Maybe she'll be crushed by an
avalanche of snow and debris, buried in a frigid, unmarked 
grave.  Or perhaps what little heat her slight body possessed 
will be leeched away on a frozen plain, the brilliant sun above 
blinding but in no way warming.

The possibilities were endless.

And nauseating, he thought, slicking his chapped, swollen
lips with his tongue.  God, was it any wonder why his
sleep had been interrupted of late?  He knew he had to be
making noise, crying out his terror for all to hear.  Thankfully, 
none of his attendants had caught on to his distress.  Or, at 
least, none had confronted him with their knowledge of it.

Like it would matter if they had, he silently groused, his
eyes trained on the slow, steady rise and fall of Scully's
chest, mesmerized by the sight.  Soothed by it.  Like he 
cared one iota that those around him might learn of the 
demons which haunted him.  Who gave a rat's ass?  The 
one person whose opinion meant anything to him rested 
before him, oblivious to him and his petty problems, mottled 
patches of red on her cheeks, nose and brow, circles beneath 
her eyes, her lips dried and cracked.

She looked wonderful, he decided with a sudden flash of 
insight, the tender, whimsical kind that threatened to make 
his eyes swim and his throat clench.  Exquisite.  Positively 
radiant.

God, how she would laugh if she could hear him going on,
he acknowledged with a wry tilt of his lips.  Or actually, no.
Scully wouldn't stoop to laughing at such nonsense.  She'd 
lift that brow, the one she used as an all-purpose punctuation
mark . . .

Period--No more, Mulder.  Subject closed.

Exclamation point--Mulder, you're crazy!

Question mark--Oh really?

She'd raise that finely arched auburn bow as high as it would
go, but would ultimately keep the corresponding verbal missile 
in check.  Unleashing it would only be overkill.  Utterly 
refraining from speech, she would tell him quite eloquently 
just how full of shit she thought he was.

And he would smile.  Take it.  And hang tough.  Refusing
to budge from his stance. 

You're beautiful, Scully.  Get used to it.

Because you're alive, and soon will be well.  And with me.

For a little while longer, at least.

Christ, he'd give anything to touch her.

Lips pressed tightly together, he compromised his desire by 
laying his hand atop the blanket, close to her arm, yet not 
resting directly on it.  That was better, he decided.  Well . . . 
nearer anyway.  If he closed his eyes, he almost believed 
he could feel the warmth of her body seeping through the 
layers meant to hold in such heat.

Blessedly, Scully wasn't privy to such ridiculous musings.
Instead, she slept on, oblivious to everything but her body's
demands.

Sleep.  She needed sleep, he thought, chastising himself for
even contemplating rousing her.  When had she last spent 
a night in her own bed?  They had been here at McMurdo 
Station for over 48 hours, and prior to that, she had been 
48 more beneath the ice.

Four days.

The night previous to that, there had been the sunrise flight 
back from Dallas.  They had each snatched a few winks
then, shoulders pressed firmly against each other as the jet 
headed home to National, Scully wedged alongside the 
window, he, sprawled, with his legs half in the aisle.

Five days.

The night before that, she had begun the evening tucked away
beneath familiar bedclothes, only to be roused pre-dawn by
his pounding.  Well, that wasn't true.  Scully had been awake
when he had arrived.  Or had claimed to be.

Six days.  Almost a week.

That had been odd.  Awkward, really.  That night.  To show 
up at her door unannounced, tequila fumes wafting like a 
noxious cloud off his rumpled form.  What must she have 
thought?  Not that he hadn't done that before, called or 
visited at some ungodly hour.  But this had been different, 
felt different.  Scully had seemed to expect something more 
from him when she had first witnessed him darkening her 
doorstep.  Something besides a picturesque drive to Maryland 
and a quick trip to the morgue.

What would she have done if he had taken another tack?  If 
he had pushed his way across her threshold, wrapped his arms
around her and lowered his lips to hers.  If he had used 
something other than their work to try and bind her to him.

Jesus.  It had been raining that night.  With their luck, 
lightning would probably have somehow zapped its way 
through her living room window, frying them both on the 
spot.

Soundlessly, he chuckled, shaking his head.  Who was he
kidding?  For a kiss from Dana Scully, he would be willing 
to chance death by electrocution.  And by any of a number 
of other odious means.  Even if the unthinkable did occur, 
he'd die with a smile on his face.

And the taste of her on his lips.

They had been so close . . .

That was it.  He had to touch her.

He scooted his fingertips carefully along the blanket's scratchy 
weave, inching them forward until they rested with the weight
of cobwebs atop her forearm, their skin separated by bedding.  
He anxiously watched her face to see if she had somehow 
sensed the shift, the intrusion.  Yet, Scully seemed unaware 
of his delicate caress.  She didn't stir.  

Good.  At least Sunderland wouldn't be on his case.  That's
all he'd need, to be chased back to his bed by their hulking
bodyguard.  Yet, the big guy was being discreet with his 
watch.  He wasn't trying to play voyeur.  Instead, he had at
long last stationed himself just to the right of the doorframe, 
almost entirely out of sight.  

Maybe the oversized lug was a romantic.

Amusing himself by imagining their sentry adorned with
tiny wings and a quiver full of heart-tipped arrows, Mulder
smiled and returned his focus to the bed, his gaze settling 
after a second or two on the sight of his hand touching his 
partner.  It was a simple connection really.  Not terribly daring 
or even particularly intimate.  Yet, for some reason, he suddenly 
couldn't tear his eyes away.

Here was where frostbite had done its number on him.  He had 
lost his gloves somewhere during his knight-in-shining-armor
routine, and had paid the price for his carelessness.  The backs 
of his hands were peppered with the stuff.  Small blotches, 
irregular in shape. Rose-hued and itchy.  He glanced at Scully's 
left hand, the one with the IV rising from its center vein. It lay 
smooth and white against her middle, free of the irritation 
marking his own.

Must have been the parka that saved her, he ruefully realized.
Its over-long sleeves had no doubt served as a sort of makeshift 
muff, shielding from the elements not only her arms but her 
hands as well.  

Thank God.

When he had found her, he hadn't been sure at first what to 
do.  He had known where her own clothes were, of course; but 
he couldn't go back for them.  Time had been of the essence.  
And besides, the suit she had been grabbed in had in no way 
been appropriate for the arctic.  Or Antarctic.  It wouldn't have
offered her nearly enough protection.  He had been the one who 
had been properly garbed.

And his mother had always taught him to share.

Funny.  If someone had told him that the first time he saw 
Dana Scully in the all-together he would be more concerned 
with getting her clothed than he would in savoring the 
moment, he would have asked them what they had been sniffing.
But when the time had come, that was exactly the way it had 
played out.  Yes, he had seen her naked.  And no, he had not 
enjoyed it.  How could he?

Other things had claimed his attention:

Her skin had felt so cold, it had nearly burned the pads of his 
fingers.

They had been miles away from daylight, and the place had
started shaking as if it were coming down around them.

Hideous alien embryos had encircled them, seemingly 
moments from hatching, their intent unknown, their visages 
sinister.

With all of that clamoring for his regard, was it any wonder 
why such soft, simple things as breasts and hips and thighs 
had failed to make much of an impact?

Her feet, on the other hand . . . 

Maybe it was their size.  Or the way her toes had peeked out
almost shyly from beneath the snowsuit he had so roughly 
swaddled her in.  But, the sight of Scully's naked feet had 
nearly done Mulder in.  Not in any erotic sense.  Rather it had
been the all but overwhelming tenderness that had poured 
over him at seeing them, so pale as to border on translucent, 
fine-boned and small.  He could remember reaching out to 
surround one with his hand, the chill numbing his palm, 
and thinking, like a parent might with a young child, 'She 
can't go outside like this.'  Then, without further thought, 
he had plopped himself down on his behind, yanked off his 
boots, stripped off his thick woolen socks and slipped Dana's 
Scully's feet into them.

Naturally, they had looked ridiculous on her, flopping about 
on her toes, sagging at the heels.  Yet, fashion faux pas aside, 
they had succeeded in keeping her warm.  Her feet might have 
suffered some of the same damage as her face, but at least she 
hadn't wound up losing them. 

Cold comfort, declared the glass-half-empty side of his brain.

No pun intended, derisively countered the other.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head.  He should
go back to bed.  If his recent internal argument was any 
indication, he was losing it.  What time was it, anyway?  The 
room's high, narrow windows let in through the blinds a thin, 
grayish light.  Its source might have been the South Pole's 
version of afternoon, or may simply have been what passed for 
streetlights in the tiny community.  Nights were forever this 
time of year.  Scully and he had been fortunate to time their 
escape the way they had.

As her name scrawled bold across his consciousness, Mulder's 
hand tightened a fraction just above her wrist.  The action was 
over before he realized he had undertaken it.  Almost as if in 
answer, he felt the muscles beneath his palm bunch, then release.  
Stealing a glance at her face, he saw her lashes flutter, her lids 
blink, then lift ever so slightly.

His heart began thumping madly.

And exhaustion evaporated like frost before a fire.

Leaning forward, he whispered, "Scully?"

Wearily, she turned her head towards him, her hair tangling 
on the pillow.  Her lips moved as if to form his name, but no 
sound issued forth.

"Yeah," he answered, not needing her words.  "I'm here."

She smiled, just the corners of her lips contributing to the
effort.

By contrast, Mulder's grin was a great deal wider.

"Water," she murmured, the sound husky and rough. 

Pushing from his chair, he turned towards the carafe and 
glass stationed on the bedside table.  But before he could
complete his task, a voice interrupted.

"Sir?"

Pivoting, Mulder was confronted by a most disapproving
Sunderland.  

"Um . . . she's awake," the FBI agent said, gesturing rather
feebly towards his partner.

"I see that," replied the big man, censure dripping from each 
and every syllable.

"I didn't do it!" Mulder protested, all at once feeling as if he 
had been thrust back into grammar school.

And whoever the heck Sunderland was, he made one hell of
a scary principal.

The bodyguard just stood there for a beat, hands on his 
denim-covered hips, staring at his two charges.  Finally, his 
expression softened just a bit as he studied the female half of 
the team.

"How are you feeling, Agent Scully?" he asked, all courtesy
and polite regard.  

It really wasn't fair, the ability she had to turn a man from
a pit bull to a lapdog with little more than a glance.  

On the other hand, Mulder silently allowed, from time to time, 
her skill had come in handy when dealing with Skinner.

"Better," she said quietly, looking to Mulder as if to ask just
whom this interested party might be.

"I should go tell the docs you're awake," Sunderland said a 
trifle apologetically.  "I know they'll want to stop by and
see how you're doing."

"No," Scully said with more volume than she had been able
to muster to that point, her swift response beating Mulder to 
the punch.

In support, Mulder's fingers found the slope of Scully's 
shoulder; lightly, they stroked there, just inside the neckline
of her gown, smoothing gently over her soft, warm skin.  "Just 
give us a couple minutes," he said to Sunderland, wondering if 
the pleading tone of his voice was as evident to the other man 
as it was to him.  "Okay?  We haven't had much time since . . . 
since we got here.  I need to talk to her.  Just for a little while."

The agents waited while Sunderland weighed his choices.

Finally, he acquiesced.  "All right.  But only for a few minutes.
I'll check back."

"Thank you," Scully whispered, favoring him with a faint smile.

 Sunderland mirrored her expression and, dipping his head in
farewell, silently exited the room.

Scully immediately looked up at Mulder, a question in her
wide, blue eyes.

"His name is Sunderland," Mulder said, turning back to pour 
a bit of lukewarm water into a paper cup.  "I don't know what 
he does or where he comes from, but for some reason he was
elected our watchdog."

"Do you trust him?" she asked as she shakily tried to hoist 
herself into sitting position.

Coming to perch beside her on the bed, Mulder quickly nixed 
that idea.  "Hang on a minute."  Arms once more at her 
sides, Scully did as she was told.  Then, slipping his arm 
beneath her shoulders, Mulder lifted her slightly from the 
pillows.  Supporting her in that fashion, he brought the cup 
to her lips and slowly tipped it.  Eyes drifting shut, she 
swallowed.

"Yeah, I do," he murmured, absently answering her question,
his attention fastened on the workings of her throat rather than
on their protector.  "I don't know why.  But I think the guy's 
legit."

Scully didn't comment on his observation.  Instead, she began
to quietly cough, her head turned to the side, her slender frame
straining to control the spasms.

"You okay?" Mulder queried, worriedly looking to the door,
certain at any second Sunderland was going to storm in and 
demand that he quit making matters worse.  Luckily for him, 
the guard was nowhere to be seen.

"Yeah," Scully muttered hoarsely, her head bowed so that her 
hair hid her face from view.  "I'm all right."

"You know, you might have an easier time with ice chips,"
he began hesitantly, his arm still propping her up.

At that, she looked up at him through her hair, her eyes
watery, her expression clearly amused.  "No ice," she croaked.

Delighted that after all she had been through, this woman still 
had the ability to crack wise, Mulder chuckled.  And tightening 
his embrace, pressed his lips to her tousled hair.  "No ice."

After she had swallowed a few more small sips of water, he 
carefully lowered her to the mattress, adjusting her bedclothes,
and brushing a fall of auburn from her brow.  All the while, 
her eyes remained locked on his.

"Where are we?" she asked softly after a time.

"McMurdo Station," he replied just as quietly.  "From what 
I've been able to gather, it's a settlement made up almost 
exclusively of scientists and researchers.  Not a bad place to 
wind up if you're in need of medical attention.  Even though 
it's still technically winter down here, there's a fair number 
of people around.  We were lucky."

Scully wet her lips with her tongue.  "How'd we get here?"

Mulder shifted to sit facing her, even with her hip.  "You 
don't remember?"

She shook her head.

"You rescued me," he said softly, his thumb rubbing gently
across the knuckles of her right hand.

"Don't you have that backwards?" she whispered with a hint 
of a smile.

"Uh-uh," he said, smiling back at her, his tone hushed but
firm.  "You hauled my ass off that glacier."

She frowned as if trying to recall.

"After we got out," he began, trying to decide how best to
distill the tale of their deliverance.  "Out of the hole . . . I
just . . . I was exhausted.  I'd been running on adrenaline for 
so long that once the immediate threat had been removed,
my body just gave out."

Even though her eyelashes drooped, Scully appeared to be
listening intently, her hand tightening on his in mute
support.

"I don't know how long I was unconscious.  But after awhile,
I could hear you, talking to me, saying my name.  It was like
you were miles away.  But still, I recognized your voice."

"I remember that," she said, the words slow and slurred.  "I
was afraid.  I couldn't wake you."

Mulder grimaced with chagrin, and skimmed his fingers 
along the curve of her cheek.  "Sorry about that," he mumbled.  
"Some fucking cavalry I turned out to be."

"You did all right," she assured him, smiling fondly.

"Yeah, well . . . the story wouldn't have had such a happy 
ending if it hadn't been for you," he retorted grimly. 

He could recall quite plainly hearing her voice, throaty and 
broken, whispering from somewhere near his ear.  "Mulder, 
wake up.  We can't stay here," she had pleaded.  At first, the 
words hadn't made any sense; he couldn't discern their meaning. 
But he had sure liked hearing her speak.  It seemed like such a 
long time since they had held a conversation, Scully and he.  
Why hadn't they talked?

Because she had been taken from him.

Bits and pieces of memory had swirled together inside his
mind, bouncing off each other, their jagged edges pricking 
at his consciousness, begging him to reassemble the parts 
into a whole.  To remember.  Awaken.  Because neither of 
them were yet safe.

And so he had come to, clumsy and disoriented, cradled in 
Scully's arms, his head resting against her chest.

"Mulder, we've got to get out of the cold," she had said, her 
eyes tearing from the wind, patches of frostbite already 
forming on her face.  "How did you get here?"

"Sno-Cat," he had mumbled, squinting against the unforgiving
sun, the frigid temperature seemingly freezing his brain the 
same way it was his extremities.  It had been so damned 
difficult to hold a thought for more than a second or two.

"Where?" Scully had demanded, shuddering now beneath
the parka, her tremors rippling their way through them
both.

He had looked around, blearily struggling to get his bearings.

"There," he had said, not at all certain about the direction.  
"Over that rise, I think."

"Come on," she had said, urging him to his feet.

And supporting each other, like two drunks weaving their 
way home from a party, they had tramped and stumbled 
towards their target, Mulder praying like he hadn't prayed 
since childhood that he wasn't leading them astray.

"You half dragged me back to the Sno-Cat," he told her now,
his expression wry.  "Had it been up to me, I'm sure I would 
have been perfectly happy to make that snowfield my final 
resting place."

Her brow wrinkled in disapproval.  "Don't even say that."

He shrugged, not as bothered by the notion as he probably 
should have been.  "It's the truth.  I owe you my life."

"I was only repaying a debt," she said, her voice quite small.

He smiled at her, all the affection he held for this woman
evident in the slight curving of his lips.  "I told you back in 
D.C., Scully.  You owe me nothing."

She reached out her hand and wrapped her fingers around
his wrist, gripping him tightly.  He pressed his own hand
around hers, completing the bond.  For a time, neither said 
anything, each content to simply hold on to the other.  
Finally, Scully murmured sleepily, "Are we going to be okay?"

Mulder chose the safer interpretation of her question.  "With 
the spare tank of gas, we were able to run the Sno-Cat's heater.  
But, neither of us were in any condition to drive.  We were 
found when crews went out to investigate the unusual seismic 
activity in the area.  Thankfully, they were quick to respond.  
When we were brought in, the doctors diagnosed us with joint 
cases of hypothermia and frostbite.  With the treatment we've
had the past few days, the worst seems to be over."

She nodded, her lashes hanging low.  

"They were concerned about the unidentified fluid they'd 
found in your respiratory and digestive tracks," he continued,
recognizing this matter was undoubtedly her deepest concern.
"Some inflammation had occurred, so they flushed your 
system."

Her eyes blinked open, wider than before.  "And?"

"And you're going to be fine," he said soothingly.  "They 
don't believe any permanent damage was done."

She nodded once more.

"They asked me if I had any idea what that stuff might have 
been," he admitted quietly, his gaze drifting away from hers.  
"I told them I didn't know.  They couldn't identify it, and I 
didn't want them looking at you as some kind of a lab rat, an
experiment to work on during those slow winter months.  I
figured we can wait until we're back in Washington before 
telling our story.  It's not as if anyone's likely to believe us
anyway."

Scully seemed to agree with his plan.  Or maybe she was simply
too tired to argue.  "Okay."

Her eyes were all but closed.  Stretching forward, Mulder pressed
his lips to her forehead, his hand cupping her cheek.  "I should
get out of here.  You need your rest."

As he stood, her eyes flickered open.  "Mulder?"

He leaned down so she wouldn't have to strain.  Their faces 
were close.  It was tempting, his lips so near hers.  "Hmm?"

She reached up and softly stroked her fingertips along his jaw
line.  "I won't leave you."

Without warning, his eyes began to moisten and sting.  Don't
make promises you can't keep, Scully, a vicious little part
of him warned.  Clearing his throat and, as best he could, 
his mind, he whispered, "You won't?"

"No," she said, the word very like a sigh.  "I'm staying."

"We'll talk about this when we get back," he said, straightening,
dodging like a rollerblader during rush hour.  "Once you're well 
again."

"Nothing to talk about," she murmured, her hand falling away,
her eyes clinging to his.  "Can't go.  Not now."

He really couldn't have this conversation.  Not when she wasn't
even able to focus on his face.  "That's right," he mumbled, 
combing lightly through her hair, uncertain whether she was 
even still following him, not hovering between sleep and 
wakefulness like she was.  "You're not going anywhere.  You're 
going to stay right here, in this bed, and get better."

Yet, despite his evasion, Scully wouldn't let the matter drop.  
As he turned to go, she reached out blindly, searching for his 
hand.  Finding it, she latched on, her grip surprisingly strong.  
Her hold pulled him back towards the bed; so he sat, his hip 
neatly filling in the curve of her waist.  As she looked up at 
him, some of the clouds seemed to have lifted from her gaze.  
All at once, eyes the color of sapphires held him captive, daring 
him to try and glance away.  He surrendered almost immediately, 
far too willing to be her prisoner.

"We're good together, you and I," she whispered, the words
breathy and quick, as if she were desperately trying to get this 
all out, to unburden herself before sleep claimed her as its own.  
"Better than we are on our own."

God, Scully.  Like I don't know that already.  Like I'm not
aware what a sham of a human being I am without you to
fill in the gaps.  I'm the one who told you how you complete 
me, Mulder thought.  Yet, "I know," was all he said in reply.

"I didn't realize . . ." she murmured, her phrasing languid
and low.  "I thought . . . you didn't want . . . didn't need . . . "

Oh, he wanted.  And needed.  More than she could ever
imagine.  "But you know better now," he reminded her 
instead, taking her small hand in both of his and raising it 
to his lips.  Gently, he pressed a kiss to the back of it.  "Now
you know the truth."

"I do," she softly agreed, the corners of her mouth quirking
as if she thought to smile.  "I do now."

He nodded, their hands yet entwined, watching as her lids
grew heavier still, closing despite her best efforts to keep alert.
I'll just sit here until she falls back asleep, he decided.  After 
all, he wasn't really in any hurry to leave her side.  All he
wanted was what was best for her. 

But Scully wasn't ready to nod off just yet.

"Mulder, do you believe in fate?" she asked, her eyes closed,
her voice little more than a ghost of sound.

"You know I do," he answered, his volume keeping with hers.

"I believe you and I . . . we were brought together . . ." She 
was drifting off, speaking in fragments rather than in sentences, 
her hand going lax in his.  "Not by chance . . . for a purpose."

"By Blevins, you mean?" he queried as he took his thumb
and traced the shape of her face, using her hairline as his
guide.

"No," she whispered, her tongue easing out to moisten her
mouth.  "Someone else . . . some =thing=."

He smiled indulgently, his hand now curled loosely around
her neck, half hidden in her hair.  Slowly and rhythmically,
her pulse beat against his palm.  "Are you thinking 'divine
intervention', Scully?"

"Hmm," she hummed in apparent agreement, her lips
opening just a sliver when she spoke, the words slipping
out mumbled and dreamy.  "Feels like it . . .  sometimes.  
Like destiny."

He couldn't argue with that.  Couldn't take issue with the
idea of being created solely to stand at this woman's side.  
Not when there was the only place he ever felt whole.  

"Go to sleep."

He didn't know if he believed in God.  As a man who was
used to searching for the miraculous in the mundane, it 
wasn't something he often thought about.  Mulder saw the
spiritual everywhere, in the flickering of the stars overhead,
in the questions that couldn't be answered in rational terms.
The existence of a benevolent being who ruled the universe 
and all its creatures seemed somehow old-fashioned to him,
archaic.  But Scully believed.  The tiny cross currently 
squirreled away next door with his personal belongings a 
symbol of her faith.  And if someone as wise as she believed 
there was something sacred in their pairing, then who was he 
to disagree?

She was finally out, her respiration once more measured and 
deep, her body utterly relaxed.  He sat, studying her, her hand 
again nestled between his, wordlessly thanking whomever 
or whatever had granted him this.  The opportunity to watch 
Dana Scully breathe.

Unbidden, a small snippet of a prayer slipped to the forefront 
of his thoughts, one he had heard countless times on television 
and in the movies, but one which he had never thought he 
would hear voiced on his own behalf.

"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put
asunder," Mulder whispered to her like a lullaby.  

Scully slumbered unawares.

Normally after such a vow, a kiss was shared to seal it, he
mused.  But not them.  Not now.  Their last attempt hadn't 
gone too smoothly.  And besides, if their lips were to ever 
meet again, he damned well wanted her awake for it.  

But, beyond that, Mulder didn't know if he could keep such
a promise.  Not if he also hoped to keep Dana Scully alive.

Wasn't there some sort of sappy greeting card sentiment about
loving something enough to let it go?  Did he care for Scully
enough to spend the rest of his life apart from her?  Could he
envision a future without her in it?

Yes.  He even had a pet name for it.

Hell on Earth.

But that didn't mean he wasn't willing to face it.  Not if it 
meant Scully living a long and healthy life.  Even remembering 
how lost he had been during the time she had been missing, 
how empty and joyless his life had seemed, he knew he could 
bear it, every last agonizing second of it.  If he knew she was 
safe.

The question was, given what she had just told him, would 
Scully ever agree to walk away?

And if he did somehow convince her, would their first real kiss 
be one of farewell?

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

THE END