TITLE: Purpose
AUTHOR: Dreamshaper
FEEDBACK: I'd really appreciate it ;) Send to dreamshpr@aol.com, please.
ARCHIVING: If you so desire, go right ahead. But you all know the drill--ask 
first, please, if we haven't spoken before.
CATEGORY: MSR
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Tithonius (which I have a fixation on, I think) Triangle
SUMMARY: We got grimy motel sheets, reasons, promises, answers, and 
apparently random questions--but it's all about fulfilling a purpose.
DISCLAIMER: How much longer is hiatus? 
NOTES: Another half-developed scene that deserved better than to be lost 
forever on my hard drive, so I reworked and finished it. I really like it, 
and hope you do too. Go read, then drop me a line ;)


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"You're my reason, you know."

"Mulder...reason for what."

"Reasoning."

A snort, caught in her chest, is her answer. He wonders if the sharp sound 
cut her, slices like razors. But he continues. He has a purpose.

"You're an answer too."

"I hate to ask..."

"But you *have* to."

"Of course. What fun would this be for you if I didn't play along? So, if I'm 
the answer, what's the question?"

"I didn't say you were *the* answer. You're just *an* answer. Besides, there 
are too many questions that you're an answer to."

"Ah."

He grins, like the Cheshire cat, stretched out on the surface of her bed and 
damp from a jog in a sudden downpour. He's playing a game, she can see that 
much in his eyes. But what she can't see is that he's very, very serious 
under the grin.

But still, she sighs. She's resigned to wet Mulder scented sheets, though she 
tosses him a towel to dry off with. After all, it's a motel. She doesn't 
really want to *think* about what the sheets smell like under the Mulder 
smell.

At least she knows where *he's* been, she decides as he toes off his soggy 
running shoes. Unlike the last body that laid in that bed--she's certain the 
sheets haven't been washed since the last customer. 

A shudder etches its way down her spine--an image of a fat, hairy man 
ravaging a fat, hairy wife invades her mind. And she resolves to sleep 
outside the covers for as long as they stay in their newest dump. Maybe 
she'll sleep on a tarp, if she can find one.

She turns to finish unpacking, but her partner chooses that moment to toss 
another comment into the mix. His timing has always been impeccable.

"I remember..."

She sighs, drops her head down onto the wood of the wall beside the narrow 
closet space. And still he grins, enjoying her exasperation and the fluidity 
of her body as the sigh runs through her.

"What do you remember, Mulder?" She finally asks, begrudgingly giving him 
what he wants.

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to make the grin stay stable. He just 
wants it to explode across his face. This is fun, he thinks, I should have 
done it years ago.

But sometimes it's not that easy, he wants to tell her. You have to play too, 
this time around.

"Doesn't sound like you really want the answer, Scully."

What she *wants* is to take off her shoe and heave it at his head. He can see 
it in her eyes, in his mind, a slide show for his enjoyment. But it's a 
facade. Part of her likes to play his games. That's the only reason she lets 
him play them. It's the only reason she sometimes plays along.

Of course it's also the reason that she hasn't fed him his balls as a snack, 
for some of the things he's done with his games in mind.

Tom Colton tried to play games with her, he thinks as she eyes him 
deliberately. She fed Colton his balls, and his dick too if his weak-assed 
behavior was any indicator. 

He dabs idly at the rainwater on his skin, the Cheshire grin ever wider on 
his face. He's enjoying the image of tiny, elegant Scully feeding that jerk...

She raises a brow, deciding quite obviously t p[lay along with him, for the 
moment, and drags him from his pleasant musings.

"What do remember, oh mighty Mulder?" She asks with dry, pointed sarcasm.

"That's better." He says as he sighs and smiles more benevolently. But he 
still doesn't answer.

"Come *on*, Mulder. This is your game. Keep up here."

"Ooh, Scully--gonna tie me down to the bed and *drag* the answers out of me?" 
He asks the question with a leer, a little waggle of his eyebrows, and tries 
not to imagine that image too well--it's *defnitely an image to destroy his 
game.

It's almost academic. She pauses, considers, and smiles as slowly and 
wickedly as he had. "That's your sick fantasy, Mulder, not mine." 

He forces a disapproving, but interested look onto his face--it's his only 
defense against the images that *flood* his mind when her eyes peruse him 
leisurely. "So, what are your sick fantasies, Scully?"

She rolls her eye, taps her foot. Impatience personified. "What do you 
*remember*, Mulder?"

He judges the atmosphere for a second, her air, and moves on with the game. 

"I remember...what it was like to kiss you, Scully."

That stops her in her tracks. She looks over at him, at how he's curled 
around one of her thin motel pillows and looking back at her with deceptively 
lazy eyes. And she wishes--just for a second, all the time she has allotted 
for wishing--that she could remember it too. She wishes it has happened, that 
there is a memory *to* remember.

"It was sweet."

"Mulder, it didn't *happen*. I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"Well, it wasn't really you I kissed. It was 1939 Uber-Scully."

"Ah."

"That's a good look for you, partner. That half-assed sarcastic one."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now back to the kiss. It was sweet."

She sighs again and he mimics it. He *hates* that sigh. For six years he's 
listened to it, and it makes him wonder if she moans.

"You already said that, Mulder."

For a moment he panics. What has he already said? He's pretty damned sure 
it's not the moaning thing, she'd have peeled out her gun and shot him in a 
heart beat if he posed that particular pondering. But then he realizes that 
even he with his runaway mouth wasn't that stupid, and recalls with relief 
that he was talking about the kiss.

"Well, it *was* sweet, Scully. Sweet and pretty damned hot. At least until 
you punched me."

She looks pleased with herself, he sees, and doesn't try to hold back the 
chuckle. And it feels good to him, like ice cream did when he was a kid and 
the night was hot. When it slid like cool magic.

"That sounds like one of those videos, Mulder, the ones that aren't yours."

"Nah. Although--they dress you were wearing...I wonder if they make them like 
that anymore. Pretty snazzy."

"So 1939 me had good taste?"

"Impeccable. Lots of red, lots of cleavage." And it had made him feel good to 
see her like that, though she hasn't been his Scully. He liked the image of 
her without her mask of mourning, raven black and stark blouses.

She snorts again, looking down at the bare hint of cleavage revealed but one 
of the blouses in question, but this tie the sound is wry, not sharp. That 
pleases him almost as much as Scully in a dress the color of a phoenix had.

"Don't worry. If 1999 Scully had been wearing that dress, she'd have cleavage 
too."

He's ready to dodge a flying pump, but she just shoots him an oblique glance 
and sits down at the small desk the motel provides, ready and willing to 
ignore him.

That suits him fine. She's pretty much a captive audience, at least until the 
ran lets up a bit. 

And it makes the game more fun.

So he lets her sit, and he wonders what color her skin flushes when she 
comes. It's something he's wondered for a long time, as long as he's wondered 
what she sounds like when she moans. And it's something he plans on knowing 
before the night is out. Maybe even before the rain stops providing musical 
accompaniment.

It's part of his purpose.

"Did you ever know all the answers, Scully?" He asks, once it seems like 
she's more entranced by the rain than deliberately ignoring him.

For a moment she doesn't answer, and he wonders if he's finally thrown her 
off with one of his apparently randomly directed questions. She just sits 
with the elegant line of her back to him, her chin cupped in her hand. But 
then she stirs, and he realizes she was just formulating an answer. She had 
taken the question seriously, and in stride.

That's something he really appreciates in her. That no matter how many of his 
theories she tries to knock down, there is always a part of her that listens 
to him. That takes him seriously. Before her, very few people had done that. 
And there were fewer after her...

"I thought I knew all the answers. A long time ago."

"So did I."

"But you didn't?"

"I couldn't, no more than you could, Scully."

"Why not?"

"Because I did what you still sometimes do. I looked at the answers I had 
gathered, and I closed my fist around them. I decided that that was it, all 
the answers in the palm of my hand. And the ones I couldn't hold, the ones 
that overflowed my grip...well, I decided that they had never been answers at 
all. Just more questions."

Silence falls over them, more complete than the blackness he imagines resides 
within a grave. And he fears that he hurt her, or his words struck too close 
to home. He worries about a lot of things in the silence. That's always been 
his way.

"Do you really see me like that?" She asks, and her voice is pensive, but 
unoffended.

"No." He murmurs, apologetic. "No, not anymore."

She nods, accepting that. "Well, you're right. I used to be like that. Just 
my luck, I got partnered with you and all my answers were useless."

"Why useless?"

"Because all the questions changed, overnight."

"They have a damnable talent for doing that."

"Yeah. Just my luck."

"You have luck, Scully? I didn't think you believed in it."

"We all have luck, Mulder. It's just that sometimes we parade it around like 
it was Fate or Destiny. But most of the time, it's luck."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Sure. I still have *some* of the answers. Not all the questions changed. Up 
is still up, most of the time. And the sky is still blue."

He smiles at her back, for a moment feeling so much that he's glad she isn't 
looking at him. He doubts he could keep talking if she was looking into his 
eyes.

"The sky, Scully, is grey. At least right now, though I hate to burst your 
bubble."

"Mulder, the clouds are grey, not the sky--and why am I arguing this with 
you?"

"I don't know. Pretty futile, huh?"

She doesn't have an answer for that, but she does have a look for it, which 
she favors him with. He takes it in good grace--it's not too ill humored, 
after all. And with her, he's always figured it wiser to take what he can 
get. So he smiles his smuggest smile, for her benefit, and watches the glare 
die a prolonged death.

She decides she's had enough. They drove for seven hours to get to this 
backwater town--she doubts any of the locals had ever *seen* a plane, much 
less thought of building an airport. Or decent roads. Or a motel with sheets 
that weren't...

That's not a good line of thought. She does, after all, have to sleep with 
those sheets. 

She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose, sighs, and tries to deal 
with the exasperation he has so thoughtfully provoked in her. "Mulder. I'm 
tired. It's been a *really* long day. You are only making it longer. Go 
away--I need to sleep before we start building an ark."

"Ooo, an ark. Does that mean you're thinking that you will be the last woman 
and I the last man alive? Will we have to repop--"

He winces, pales, she can see it instantaneously. And she knows what he's 
thinking of, how cruel Fate--or Luck--can be, and how cruel *he* can be. She 
can see it in his eyes, in the shame they openly admit to. But she thinks 
it's ok. There's a tingle in her chest, a little pain, but that's always 
there. She does not forget. But she's glad he does. It means he doesn't dwell 
on her imperfections, doesn't tear himself apart with them the way she does. 

It's comforting. She really hates the guilt he places on himself for every 
little thing...

She wishes he could teach her how to forget it. It'd be nice to be whole for 
a while. 

He can tell he is forgiven, or perhaps not even blamed if he is lucky. Her 
eyes are not cold and hard the way he has seen them when he has hurt her. 
They are soft with melancholy, with memories and knowledge, but he doesn't 
see flaring pain either. But he *does* see weariness.

He has a *purpose* though. A little weariness isn't dissuasion enough. It 
could even become part of the game, if he plays his cards right.

He never was good at card games. But this is important, enough that he'll try 
to bluff his way past the woman who learned to play poker when she was three, 
with her dad and his cronies. Who learned to keep that poker face up all the 
time, and keep every card she's got very close to her chest.

He challenges her with a look, a quickly quirked smile and a hand that pats 
the bed gently. Invitingly. "Well, Scully," he drawls, "If you're *tired*..."

His tone is pure persuasion, perhaps even seduction. But his smile is a taunt.

She is not one to back down from a dare. People have been daring her her 
entire life. Daring her, and betting against her. But their challenges have 
always made her want to be tougher than she looks. And she has been tougher, 
for a long time. Maybe too tough, sometimes, but that's the flip side of 
being strong enough to handle the things in her life that might have driven 
her insane. 

She flicks a brow up, sends it winging in the way he's always admired--he 
picked up the habit too after a few months working with her, but his arched 
brow is no comparison for her own. And when he just continues the smile, she 
pushes herself out of her seat, across the carpet.

She stops by the bed, just watching him as he watches her, the gauntlet 
thrown between them though he doesn't think she fully know *why*.

*He* knows why, and waits with bated breath.

And then the bed dips under her weight--slight as *that* is. He likes the 
feeling, it's homey, comfortable. Something he was bound to enjoy.

She toes of her own shoes, letting them thunk onto the thinly carpeted floor. 
Then she rolls onto her side, cradling her hair with an arm, the other 
wrapping around her stomach. He smiles, delighted with her and with life in a 
way that is rare enough to savor.

And he remembers the last time they had been so close, contrasting this with 
that. She had been shot, it had seemed impossible for him *not* to crawl up 
beside her as she recovered, mindful of tubes and wires, but ignoring 
inquiring eyes. Kersh had had no right to deny him that comfort, not after he 
had sent Scully out to fight with a rookie who was plainly, painfully, 
inadequate. And Ritter, with his half dead, half angry eyes...it was only the 
fact that she was alive and he could her that kept Ritter from a painful 
death.

He remembers wondering as he lay beside her, eyes on hers for hours, how 
anything could be that blue. How her skin could be so white and so fine that 
he could practically see beneath it...

He wondered how any one person on the planet could be so vital to another. If 
her lungs had stopped drawing air, if her heart had stopped beating...his 
would have lasted only long enough to make someone pay. 

Remembering, he lets the smile slip from his face. And he doesn't even think 
to keep it alive in his eyes. He just shows her a little of what he is 
feeling.

"You think too much." He whispers as he watches her eyes calculate like mad.

"You react too much."

"Always the quick answer, Scully." His eyes crinkle as he says the words, 
humor spilling over. He's so close and he's waited so long, no quick, blunt 
response is dissuasion enough.

"You still react too much, Mulder."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Isn't it a rough way to spend your life?"

"No. My heart can take it."

"I'm duly amazed. But I still think--"

"Think thinking is better?"

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and watching warily as he 
slides closer to her, under the guise of sprawling out more comfortably.

"I still think you think too much." He tells her, and then he moves, fast, so 
she doesn't have a chance to hurt him.

Lips collide, awkward thanks to the way the owners lay on the bed, but it's 
soft and warm and they cling like velvet. And then it's easy and they taste 
and are tasted and it's sweeter than he remembers. He hopes they will both 
remember, forever.

And then the kiss is done, but nothing is over. He moves down to her jaw, her 
neck, nibbling his way down to her collarbone. She is shuddering lightly, 
ticklish under the brush of his lips, and trying to fight off the feeling. To 
think up a convincing argument against this--which is hard when it's 
something she wants, and something she knows he's been wanting too. Something 
they've waited a long time for.

All she manages to do is talk herself out of talking him out of it. 

She swallows convulsively, and he purrs with pleasure--that's the only way 
she can think of it, a large cat's purr of smug satisfaction.

"This isn't Fate or anything, is it?" She asks, a last ditch effort to stop 
something that might be a mistake--that probably is. But he is pouring his 
heart out to her through his lips on her skin and his hands, and his breath 
and his *pores* so the effort is wasted.

"It's luck. Pure luck." He whispers back, and she lets his voice seep into 
her. "It only would have been Fate if you had had an ice tea with you, 
Scully."

She laughs silently before shuddering under his touch, and he realizes that 
he's waited a lifetime for her to do just that. And he'll wait another in 
hopes of it happening again--but he doesn't think he'll have to.

He closes his lips over her, sucking gently through layers of cloth that she 
promptly and hastily decides to discard. He smiles as he watches, and then 
absorbs the taste of her skin. *All* of her skin. And he gathers her sounds 
too, the beat of her heart, the quiet rush of her breath, the faint, 
shimmying sighs and the moans he just *knew* she had rarely ever given. 

Her skin flushes pink, he thinks absently, as pink as a shell. Except where 
its dyed red by blood that burns deeply, hotly. 

He moans too, when her hands and mouth explore him, when they join in tandem 
with his to draw his body deeply inside hers, when their mouths join for one 
last sweet, smoky kiss...

After, he draws her closer, rolls over so that she is mostly over his chest 
and in his arms, and he smiles into the dancing, faded shadows on the ceiling.

"Love is an answer." He tells her abruptly, teasingly, as if he's ignoring 
what happened between them--which he couldn't ever have done, not with every 
fiber of his being imprinted with the memory of her touch. The memory of her 
scent, the taste of her that reminds him of 1939 Scully but is better because 
it belongs to *his* Scully.

"To what question?" She murmurs against his skin, sleepy, sated and really 
not paying attention.

"The most important."

"What is the meaning of life?" She teases and he kisses the top of her head, 
smiling down at her closed eyes and swollen mouth.

"What is the meaning of *my* life, actually."

She is silent so long that he thinks she is asleep--and he gets ready to 
shake her, to wake her up. He's not done yet...

He *still* has a purpose and even the fulfillment of a dream isn't going to 
stop him.

But then she stirs, yawns blearily, and cracks one eye to gaze up at him. 
"The meaning of your life is love?" She says sardonically. "When did you 
become a saint?"

"That's a laugh."

"Yeah, I crack myself up, Mulder. Now really, say it straight."

He takes a deep, settling breath--this is the big moment. Make or break, he 
thinks, and then dives in. 

"You've become the whole purpose of my life, Scully." He tells her, drawing 
her chin u with his finger so she looks at him fully. "There used to be 
Samantha, and the Truth as my answer for everything I asked myself. Like, why 
do I go on. Why do I fight. What the Hell am I really looking for? But then 
you came along, and now mostly there's you."

She seems to hold her breath, waiting, he's sure, for the punch line. So he 
takes another deep gulp of air and forces a slight smile. "And I love you, 
Scully. So...it all adds up to Love is the purpose of my life."

She doesn't answer, and the smile fades from his lips, the sense of deep 
certainty trembling in his chest with his heart. She just looks at him with 
eyes that betray nothing anymore, not even satisfaction. The poker player's 
eyes, and he thinks wildly that this is the most important gamble of his life.

"Are you medicated?" She finally asks, nothing untoward in her voice, and he 
just stares at her. Whatever he was expecting...that's not it. Not nearly.

"No." He finally manages to growl as his arms around her loosen and he starts 
to feel chilled.

She nods, and smiles, and her eyes suddenly show everything in shades of 
electric blue. "Good." She murmurs as he tries to catch his breath from the 
shock of it. Then she presses a very fierce kiss to his scarred shoulder, 
sighs, and closes her eyes again.

He is still trying to recover when he realizes that she is asleep, completely 
this time. He wildly contemplates waking her, making her explain, making her 
tell him, give him the words...

But she sleeps so deeply, and he knows that isn't a normal occurrence in her 
life of late. So he restrains himself--he's had a lot of practice at 
restraint, he thinks wryly. Six long years of practice. He brushes her hair 
back with his hands, smoothing it back into its customary sleekness, and 
supposes that he can wait a little while longer for his answer. 

And it's easier because a part of him knows, deep down, that she never would 
have given him the intimacy of her touch if it hadn't meant something to her. 
Something deep, and lasting, and something he's been craving. He doesn't 
really *need* the words, he decides as he closes his eyes and draws her 
closer again.  

He has the promise in her eyes, and that will hold him. At least until 
morning.
 
                         END
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Ahh...happy endings. I love 'em. ;) I also need them--I just saw the Blair 
Witch Project last night, went to the midnight show with a friend. And then 
we came home to my little house in the middle of a three acre wooded lot, in 
a neighborhood where only one other family lives full time. I recommend that 
movie to everyone who loves a good scare...but advise that you do *not* see 
it at night, or walk *near* trees after. ;)

Anyway--send feedback. Make my little hurt leap with something other than 
                              fear. ;)      Dreamshaper     dreamshpr@aol.com