Book II: Pre-apocalyptic romance on a per diem
  
  ****
  
  The thing about the Midwest: there's a hell of a lot of it.  America's
  breadbasket, the Bible belt, amber waves of grain and all that.  Good
  people, honest living, and corn as far as the eye can see.  
  
  But right in the middle of a long drive was an oasis they'd dubbed the
  Mystic Pizza Hut, though neither of them had seen the movie.  It was
  eternally empty except for an old woman who resembled Dr. Zaius, the
  blonde ape in Planet of the Apes.  She served as a combination waitress,
  cook, and cashier -- the sole proprietor of what seemed to be the
  restaurant at the far edge of the known universe.  There were no cars in
  the parking lot, no other customers in the restaurant, and nothing but
  corn fields for fifty miles in any direction.
  
  Corn, corn, corn, Pizza Hut, corn, corn, corn.
  
  "Some view," Scully had commented the first time they'd driven through,
  belted into the front seat of their government-issue blue Ford Taurus
  and on their way to the wonders of Lake Okabogee.  
  
  August 1993.  She'd still been wearing her "look, I bought my first real
  suit" suits and her hair had still been its original shade of red. It
  was Before.  Before her abduction.  Before her father's and sister's
  deaths.  Before his father's death.  They were newly-minted partners,
  and he hadn't quite decided if she liked him or not.  She tolerated him,
  watched his back, and seemed to think he was more than a little crazy,
  but he hadn't decided if she liked him or not.
  
  He hadn't quite decided if he'd liked her or not, either.
  
  "Keep an eye out for crop circles," he'd responded, chewing a toothpick
  into wet splinters as he drove and savoring his role as chief weirdo. 
  If he was going to be laughed at, he preferred to be the one making the
  jokes. "We can always make a side trip."
  
  "Didn't Kevin Costner build a baseball field here?  'I see great things
  in baseball'?  Or is that Bull Durham?  All his baseball movies tend to
  run together for me."
  
  He'd slowed the car, turning his head toward her. "Do not mock the
  acting talent that is Kevin Michael Costner," he'd cautioned her,
  sounding haughty. "Remember JFK."
  
  "I'm not mocking him," she responded earnestly. "I revere him.  I have a
  shrine to him in my bedroom. His autographed glossy photo is right
  beside my life-sized cutout of Keanu Reeves."
  
  She toyed with the little gold cross on her necklace, looking out the
  window as if she was bored.
  
  He turned his toothpick around and gnawed the other end for a while.
  
  "You don't really have a shrine, do you, Scully?"
  
  "Of course I do," she insisted, her lips twitching suspiciously.
  
  "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves?"
  
  "Raw, misunderstood genius.  Look -- a Pizza Hut." 
  
  He chewed his toothpick, hit his blinker, and grudgingly decided he
  liked her.
  
  Then another blue Ford Taurus, another case: April 20, 1997.  She was a
  few years and a world away from the Dana Scully who'd first intruded
  into his basement lair armed with science and a scornful eyebrow.  She
  was more severe, more guarded, honed as delicate and dangerous as the
  edge of a sword.  She'd lost her sister and innocence, and his quest had
  become hers.  Friends fell away as X-files consumed her life just as
  they had consumed his.  She was his ally and polar opposite, and he
  couldn't imagine the journey without her. They were partners, friends,
  occasional opponents, and an elusive something more he hadn't been able
  to characterize.  
  
  Then a small mass appeared between her sinus and cerebrum, and his world
  came crashing down.  Those were the Cancer Days.
  
  She'd cut her hair shorter, blow-dried it straight, and dyed it a little
  too bright.  She'd lost weight until he could see the outline of her
  ribs through her blouses.  She'd worn black exclusively, as if already
  mourning the end of her own life.  She'd demanded a desk.  Refused an
  assignment.  Refused him.  Slept with a dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger
  and gotten a tattoo and said it was her life to live as she pleased.  Or
  die as she pleased.  As an Oxford-educated shrink and FBI profiler, it
  had only taken until 1999 for him to realize there might have been a
  connection.
  
  "You want the usual?" Dr. Zaius had asked as he'd settled into the first
  of a dozen empty booths.
  
  He hadn't realized they had a "usual." Though it violated all laws of
  franchise economics, it was possible they'd been her only customers in
  the last three and a half years.
  
  "What'd we have last time?"
  
  "Medium pan with extra cheese, onions, green peppers, banana peppers,
  black olives, and double mushrooms," Dr. Zaius had responded
  impassively, then added, "And two diet sodas."
  
  He'd blinked and said that was fine.
  
  Scully was taking one of her many trips to the bathroom that he wasn't
  supposed to notice.  He had to stop the car earlier so she could vomit
  into a ditch: one of the side effects of the chemo.  He wasn't supposed
  to notice that, either.  It was the topic they did not talk about. 
  Cancer: the other C word.
  
  She'd seemed to have no idea that he had a stake in her life: that he
  valued her beyond her ability to put in sutures, run a tox screen, and
  shoot a perpetrator dead center-of-mass.   She made him normal. 
  Anchored him, centered him.  She was his lifeline to the rest of
  humanity, and he could feel the dark undercurrent pulling her away, one
  day, one nosebleed at a time.
  
  "Dance with me, Scully," he'd requested when she returned, dropping his
  quarters into the old jukebox and summoning Jim Morrison.  He dreamed of
  dancing with her sometimes: finding a dim corner in a smoky dive and
  dancing the night away to the gods of rock-n-roll.  Buying her a beer
  and talking about all things terrestrial and non-mutant like two normal
  human beings.  Laughing.  Embracing, maybe.  Living.  
  
  Scully shook her head and slid into the booth, swallowing against the
  bad taste in her mouth.
  
  "Come on: dance with me.  He is the lizard king," he tried, moving in
  time to the haunting, psychedelic beat. "Riders on the storm..." he
  started.
  
  Ignoring him, she'd asked, "May I have water?" as Dr. Zaius brought the
  sodas.
  
  "He ordered diet."
  
  "I'm sorry.  I'd like some ice water and a salad, please."
  
  "And breadsticks," Mulder had suggested, abandoning his singing career
  and wandering over to the table.
  
  Scully shook her head again, massaging her temples.
  
  "I can get the case file from the car.  We can talk about it," he
  offered, as if they couldn't talk about it for the rest of their three-
  hour drive from nowhere to nowhere.
  
  Yet another terse, "No."
  
  "You want some Tylenol?"
  
  "No, I want you to turn that noise off," she said irritably.
  
  He slouched back to the jukebox and, unable to find an off button, used
  his mechanical expertise to reach behind it and jerk the plug out of the
  outlet. Jim Morrison's hypnotic voice slowed and died, and the purple
  and red lights faded away.
  
  As he returned to their booth, hands shoved in his pockets, Scully
  looked at the tall plastic cup the waitress had brought, but didn't
  trust her stomach enough to take a sip.  
  
  "Scully..." he started, but she didn't look up.
  
  It shouldn't be like this.  She was a young woman with her whole life in
  front of her.  She should have a home and kids and a dog and a minivan
  and a white picket fence.  She should have everything that she dreamed
  of.
  
  He realized he had no idea what she dreamed of, but it probably wasn't
  mutants and UFO's.
  
  "Scully, you're sick.  We're going home.  I'll call the airport and get
  a flight back to DC."
  
  "No.  We're on a case.  I'm fine."
  
  "You're not fine," he insisted. "You're sick."
  
  She peeled her straw from its paper wrapper and stabbed it into the cup.
  "I'm too sick to cover your back?  Is that what you're saying?"
  
  He knew this sport: Mulder-baiting.  She was terse and defensive, he was
  brusque and bulletproof, and then they retreated to their separate
  corners, licking their wounds and waiting for the next round.  And as
  good as they were at it, he wasn't sure how many more days they had left
  as sparing partners.
  
  "No, that's not what I'm saying."
  
  "Then what, Mulder?"
  
  She stopped punishing her ice water and stared at him coolly, waiting
  for him to say something so she could pounce on it.
  
  "I don't want to do this, Scully -  have this argument.  I'm saying I
  haven't seen you really eat in days.  You take handfuls of pills.  You
  always look tired. You shake.  You have nosebleeds.  You're too skinny. 
  And you won't talk to me.  I don't know if your cancer is getting better
  or worse-"
  
  "It's getting worse," she said simply, and he felt his stomach turn
  inside out. "The tumor is growing."
  
  He'd moved his lips soundlessly, fear settling over him like a cold
  mist.
  
  "The headaches are worsening.  The ringing in my ears.  The nosebleeds. 
  I'll begin having vision problems as the tumor presses against the optic
  nerve.  Seizures or tics are likely.  There will be mental status
  changes: confusion, problems with short-term memory, judgment, speech,"
  she listed clinically. "And you're right: I won't be able to do
  fieldwork much longer.  It won't be safe for either of us.  Deskwork,
  maybe, but you'll need another agent with you in the field."
  
  He shook his head, refusing to listen. "So what are your doctors doing
  about it?" he demanded.
  
  "Everything they can.  I have some tests scheduled next week," she
  continued. "I'll know more then."
  
  "About your prognosis?"
  
  "My prognosis is terminal, Mulder.  It's just a matter of how long."
  
  He exhaled a painful breath that had been stuck in his throat. "How
  long?" he asked in a voice that sounded too calm to be his.
  
  "At best: few months, maybe.  I want to work as long as I can.  I need
  to.  This is, this is all I have."    
  
  "No, it's not," he'd assured her, putting his hand over hers on the
  smooth tabletop. "Scully... You can't talk like that.  You said you have
  things to finish, and you do.  You have your whole life ahead of you. 
  And I need you.  You can't leave me.  I'm still a work-in-progress.  An
  early draft, at best."
  
  She'd stared at their hands, watching his fingertips stroking hers. 
  
  "Are you Eddie Van Blundht again?" she asked, as though it wouldn't make
  much difference if he was.
  
  He shook his head. "No.  Let's go home.  Okay?"
  
  And she'd finally agreed.  On the plane, she'd slept against his
  shoulder all the way to DC.  She'd drooled on his suit in-flight, and
  held his hand during the rough landing, and he'd let her.
  
  October 13, 1999.  After.  After in vitro.  After cancer and Antarctica. 
  After Emily.  After Diana.  His hair was still growing back after a
  haircut courtesy of C.G.B. Spender's doctors, but the scars were
  beginning to fade.  Scully was still in black, but softer: silk and
  cashmere and things that felt nice when he brushed against her.  Her
  smiles were rare but honest, and she'd cared enough to threaten to hurt
  him when he annoyed her.
  
  He leaned over the Mystic Pizza Hut's jukebox, surveying the choices.
  "They have the Goo Goo Dolls, Scully.  They're the voice of a
  generation.  They said so in Newsweek."
  
  She'd rolled her neck tiredly. "Not our generation."
  
  "Are you saying we're out of touch?"
  
  "Name one Goo Goo Doll's song, Mulder."
  
  He'd grinned, assumed his best Beastie Boy pose, and began, "Some...
  Body once told me the world was gonna roll me-"
  
  "Smash Mouth; my nephew has the single." He must have looked
  crestfallen, because she added, "It's the only single he owns and he
  plays it on a twenty-four loop.  It's grotesquely hypnotic.  I think
  it's a form of mind control urging teenagers to buy baggy pants and knit
  ski caps.  It's probably designed to replace alien implants.  You should
  open an X-file."
  
  "Smash Mouth," he repeated thoughtfully. "I looked cool, though - 
  right?"
  
  "Very cool.  For a thirty-eight year old white boy in a designer suit
  and tie trying to rap outside the Pizza Hut men's room."
  
  "You gotta dance with me, Scully. It's my birthday."
  
  "I thought that meant I had to spank you."
  
  "Kinky."
  
  She smiled in faux-embarrassment: he was Mulder, king of innuendo, and
  she was Scully, his rational, practical, Oedipal figure, and she wasn't
  supposed to think he was funny.  
  
  He dropped his quarters in the slot, pushed a few buttons, and the
  jukebox whirred as its mechanical innards slid into place.  Red and
  violet lights began to flash, and electricity hummed through the old
  speakers.  Metal pans clanked at the back of the restaurant as Dr. Zaius
  made their pizza.  Joe Cocker's digital fingers slid over the strings of
  his guitar as a keyboard player played the melody.
  
  Scully leaned against the side of the jukebox, the multi-colored light
  show reflecting off her face and in her eyes.  From the speakers, a
  gravely voice urged someone to hold on; I'll be back for you; it won't
  be long.  When the night comes.
  
  She exhaled and rolled her neck from side to side, then shifted her
  high-heeled boots.  He probably wasn't supposed to see her fingers
  gently bouncing against the jukebox in time to the music.  She was his
  rational, practical Scully, and he wasn't supposed to be in love with
  her.
  
  He was.  And she was with him.  He'd been inside her mind and heard her
  thoughts as Spender's doctors sliced into his brain.  Diana till-death-
  us-do-part held his hand sympathetically, but did nothing to stop the
  scalpels.  Unlike Diana, there was nothing manipulative in Scully's
  love, nor was there white-hot passion.  It was flannel pajamas love:
  easy to slide into, enjoy, and take for granted.  It was talking late at
  night on the phone, sharing a soda without wiping off the rim love, and
  it was such a foreign emotion that he'd almost passed it without
  recognizing it.
  
  "Mulder, just out of curiosity, do all your informants have to be
  paranoid schizophrenic UFO zealots who are probably hiding straight
  razors in their socks?  Is it some sort of prerequisite?  Next time,
  before we spend six hours on a plane and four hours in a car, could 
  you-"
  
  "Dance with me, Scully," he interrupted.
  
  "No," she said, but shook her head like a woman who wanted to be asked
  again.
  
  "Come on; it's my birthday.  Just dance with me." He gave her his
  homeless puppy eyes and pushed out his lower lip a little. "You don't
  have to enjoy it; you can claim you're doing it out of pity."
  
  She looked like she was going to refuse, then pushed off the jukebox and
  into his arms, moving in cramped circles on the five square feet of
  dance floor outside the Mystic Pizza Hut's men's room.
  
  "Only out of pity," she reminded him, laying her head against his
  shoulder.  He slid his hand around her waist, negotiating with her gun
  for a place to rest.
  
  He wanted to be inside her mind again, just for a few seconds.  He
  wanted to know if she realized how much it had hurt: she wanted his
  baby, but not him.  His genetics in a specimen cup.  He'd told her he
  was a gentleman and offered to buy her dinner before the first in vitro
  attempt, and to drive her home afterward.  He'd quipped that it would be
  the best date he'd had in six years.  Scully had laughed nervously and
  said her mother was going to the doctor's appointment with her.
  
  She hadn't gotten her baby, but she was still welcome to him, if she
  wanted him.  When he'd tried to put it into words three weeks earlier  -
  that she completed him  - she'd smiled sadly, looked at his lips, and
  kissed his forehead.
  
  "I just wanna be there beside you," he murmured as they moved, more lip-
  synching with breath than singing. "When the night comes."
  
  He put his face beside hers, closing his eyes.  His lips brushed her
  cheek in a way that could easily be excused as accidental.  Repeatedly.
  He had big hands and she had a small waist: it was understandable that
  his fingers rested more at the top of her hips than the bottom of her
  ribcage.
  
  The oven door squeaked, and the soda machine gurgled as Dr. Zaius fixed
  two diet sodas.  
  
  "I think that's lunch," Scully whispered, her head still against his
  shoulder.
  
  "Um-hum," he responded, still swaying as the song ended.  On the other
  side of the restaurant, Dr. Zaius carried their food to the table, left
  plates, forks, and a stack of napkins, then vanished into the kitchen
  again.  
  
  Scully stepped back, waiting for him to let go of her.  
  
  On the jukebox, Joe Cocker's guitar and keyboard faded, then immediately
  restarted in time to the lights and smooth backbeat. "Hold on," Joe's
  leathery voice requested, then promised, "I'll be back for you; it won't
  be long."
  
  "Again?"
  
  "It is my birthday," he answered, pulling her back to him.  The old
  wooden floor was rough and uneven under their feet, and the air smelled
  of uncooked pizza dough and liquid hand soap.  Pre-apocalyptic romance
  on a per diem: one takes what one can get.
  
  "How many times are you going to play this song?"
  
  "How long are you gonna keep dancing with me?" he countered.
  
  She sighed and leaned into him.  
  
  "Five," he admitted. "Five times."
  
  She was so close; if he used his imagination, he could feel the outline
  of her breasts against his chest, separated only by his t-shirt, shirt,
  and suit coat, and her blazer, shirt, and bra.  If he used his
  imagination, he could believe she wasn't dancing with him because it was
  his birthday.  She loved him.  She did.  Not the way he wanted her to
  love him or the way he loved her, but she did.  She loved and he was in
  love, and that was a painful combination. 
  
  "She was my ex-wife," he said quietly as Joe got to the part about
  nothing left to lose and nothing left to fear. "Diana was.  We
  discovered the X-files together, we lived together, and we were married
  for six months before she left."
  
  "Why did she leave?"
  
  "According to our marriage counselor, because I was relentlessly
  preoccupied with work and emotionally inaccessible.  I think that's the
  two-hundred dollar an hour way of saying I was an ass."
  
  "You're not an ass," she assured him. "You're challenging."
  
  He smirked. "No, I'm an ass.  I'm surprised she stayed as long as she
  did.  Can you imagine being married to me?"
  
  He felt his heart skip a beat when she didn't answer.  Her head was
  against his shoulder, so he couldn't see her face.  He cleared his
  throat, then mumbled something about their food getting cold.
  
  "I didn't ask you to be the- To donate," Scully said, as always avoiding
  the word 'father.' "Because of Diana.  It had nothing to do with her.  I
  just couldn't imagine anyone else."
  
  "It's just DNA, Scully.  You could have asked a thousand other healthy
  adult males and had it be a lot simpler."
  
  "But I know you.  I wanted a child with the characteristics I value in
  you: intelligence, passion, courage, honesty-"
  
  "But you didn't want me," he whispered, then exhaled and buried his face
  in her hair.
  
  The baby they hadn't made was only their newest unmentionable topic. 
  There was her abduction.  Her cancer and the delicate chip in the back
  of her neck that kept it at bay.  There was Diana and Diana's wake,
  which rivaled the parting of the Red Sea.  Ed Jerse and Philadelphia. 
  Emily.  Philip Padgett.  The almost-kiss before Antarctica.  And so many
  other unmentionable topics they pretended they didn't think about.
  
  "Did you want me to want you?" she asked softly, finally.  He could feel
  the tension in her body and sense her wanting to pull away.
  
  "That came out wrong," he lied. "I- Shit.  Never mind." He exhaled and
  retreated to the emotional shallow end for a few verses. 
  
  "I'm glad it didn't work," he said after a long pause.  The song ended,
  and the CD whirred as it restarted. "With me.  I wanted it for you, but
  knowing what I know now: whatever Spender wanted with my brain tissue,
  whatever happened with that artifact  I'm glad in vitro didn't happen."
    
  If the last attempt had succeeded, she'd have been pregnant at that
  moment.  He shifted his hand on her waist, bringing it closer to her
  flat stomach.
  
  "What if things were different?  Between us?  Would you still feel that
  way?"
  
  "You mean what if we were lovers?" he asked huskily, and her head nodded
  against him. "We're not," he said. "You're my best friend.  You're the
  only woman in the world who takes pity on me and dances with me on my
  birthday.  And you smell nice."
  
  "Thank you," she answered politely.
  
  "Three more," he'd reminded her as Joe Cocker's weathered voice promised
  he'd be back again, it won't be long.  When the night comes.
   
  ****
  
  The first time, it was the way he'd never wanted it to be: out of
  darkness and grief and pity.  On his unforgiving living room rug,
  beneath the blue light from the fish tank, without the pretense of a
  kiss or a pillow, and in a blur of sensations he barely remembered.
  
  She'd come to him, calmly trying to explain why his mother chose to end
  her own life.  There was no conspiracy, no murder, no hidden message,
  and no answers, just a disfiguring cancer slowly destroying the body
  that had given him life.  Scully kept saying words he couldn't fathom,
  and he'd fought them, making accusations and taking pot shots at the
  fog.  And then the dam inside him broke, and all the hurt and anger and
  fear poured out, soaking the shoulder of her blouse with tears.
   
  The world was too black to navigate, but he could feel her warm body
  against his and hear her whispering to him as he clung to her like a
  lost, frightened child.  He knew what he was saying wasn't making sense,
  but it didn't matter.  Her answers didn't make sense, either.  Nothing
  made sense except his arms around her and her arms around him as he
  sobbed.  She kept him steady as the world crumbled.
  
  The collar of her blouse was damp as he nudged it aside, pressing his
  lips against her skin.  She let him stay like that a long time, stroking
  his back as she tried to soothe him.  The sky outside threatened snow,
  and the apartment was cold and shadowed.  Her skin tasted like the
  ocean, and he smelled fabric softener, shampoo, and hints of starch and
  makeup and perfume.  And sweat.  Honest, familiar, everyday smells.  He
  kissed a soft place under her ear, feeling her pulse against his lips.
  
  She pulled back, gently trying to untangle their bodies.  They'd slid
  out of the chair, to the floor, with her arms draped around him like a
  blanket. 
  
  "I'm sorry," he mumbled, not looking at her as she moved away.
  
  "Let's get you to bed," she said softly. "I'll check your medicine
  cabinet.  There's probably something that will help you sleep."
  
  He shook his head, refusing.  He didn't want a pill that would numb him,
  pull him farther from the conscious world and into nightmares.
  
  "Then tell me what you want," she whispered, pushing his hair back from
  his face. "What, Mulder?"
  
  "I don't want to be alone," he managed.  He kept trying to catch his
  breath, but couldn't, like there wasn't enough air in the world.
  
  "I won't let you be alone," she promised immediately, probably thinking
  he was about to put a gun to his head. 
  
  "You won't leave?" he asked, not caring how pitiful he sounded.
  
  She kissed his forehead and wiped the tears from his cheeks. "No, I
  won't leave."
  
  He looked up at her, trying to get his emotions under control and
  maintain some sense of dignity, but he couldn't.  There were too many
  thoughts in his head, and he wanted to bang it against something until
  his skull split to make them stop.  He pressed his palms against his
  temples, starting to squeeze.
  
  Scully's hands were on his, pulling them away and telling him to stop,
  not to hurt himself.  He struggled but she held on.  It didn't take long
  for her to win.  His strength was gone, wrung out, and he just sat,
  slouched against the front of his creaky leather sofa.
  
  "I'm frightening you," he said hoarsely. 
  
  "No," she assured him, kneeling on the floor beside him. "No, you don't
  frighten me."
  
  He looked at her helplessly, then reached out, touching the gold cross
  at the base of her throat.  Except for the rise and fall of her chest,
  she was still.  His hand moved to her heart, feeling the pulse beneath
  her breast.  He leaned forward and put his lips over the beat, thanking
  God it was still there.  He could stand everything else, but not losing
  her.  He'd lost his mind, but she was still there.  When the world was
  upside down and the Heavens were falling, there was still Scully.
  
  "Is this what you want?  What you meant?"
  
  He nodded dumbly, though he had no idea what he'd meant or even what the
  question had been.
  
  She unfastened the buttons of her shirt, letting it slip from her
  shoulders.  Fascinated, he watched his fingertips as they slid over the
  silky fabric of her bra.  A nipple rose, pressing against his thumb, and
  chill bumps formed on her chest.
  
  He felt clumsy and drunk, as though he were as teenage boy again,
  groping his girlfriend in the back of his father's Buick.  Instead of
  unfastening her bra, he pushed the straps down from her shoulders,
  getting them twisted with her shirt.  As she tried to untangle it and
  undress, he pulled her nipple into his mouth hungrily.  Her back arched,
  and her head fell back, her eyes closed.
  
  Instinct took over: a visceral, unthinking insistence.  She was
  underneath him, smooth and soft and tasting of copper.  Her hips rose,
  her slacks slipped down, and then her legs parted as her arms went
  around his neck.
  
  No, this wasn't what he wanted: her giving herself to him out of
  kindness or sympathy, the way she'd donate blood or write a check to
  save the whales.
  
  Jeans open, boxers shoved down, he paused over her, trying to think. 
  She waited, watching him.  Outside, the cold wind whispered between the
  bare tree branches, and he shivered.  She ran her fingers through his
  hair, then cupped his face with her palm.
  
  "Is this real?" he asked hoarsely, not certain.  
  
  She nodded that it was.
  
  All the tears had poured out, and he was so dry inside.  If she let go
  of him, he might dissolve into dust and blow away.
  
  "I don't want it to be," he mumbled, burying his face in her tangled
  hair and himself, slowly, inch by inch, in her.
  
  She inhaled, then blew out slowly, trying to relax as he penetrated.  
  
  "...hurting you?" he panted, as white-hot pinpricks exploded throughout
  his body, the agonizing pleasure making him shudder.
  
  "No," she answered, though she wouldn't have told him if he was.
  
  Her fingertips pushed his t-shirt up, stroking the small of his back. 
  He could hear her panting, feel her tight body around his, each stroke
  taking him deeper inside her. He was never going to leave. He'd stay
  there, blocking everything out.  Deeper and deeper, until there was
  nothing else.  He heard her tell him it was all right, and it was: for a
  few precious seconds, everything was all right.
  
  It was over too soon and reality rushed back, overwhelming him.  Scully
  was holding him, not complaining about his weight, or the cold, hard
  floor, or being wedged in the narrow space between the sofa and the
  coffee table.
  
  He listened to the wind for a long time, keeping his eyes closed. 
  
  "Are you okay?" she asked softly.
  
  He nodded that he was, though he wasn't, and sat back, tucking in and
  pulling the front of his jeans together.  Her hair was tousled, and her
  face and chest were flushed.  She'd managed to get her shirt off, but
  her bra was still around her torso, pushed down and turned inside out. 
  Her slacks and panties were bunched around her ankles, and she still had
  her boots on.  No, she hadn't come.  She hadn't even come close. He was
  a big boy; he didn't need to ask.   
  
  When he had flights of fancy about "consummating their love," this
  wasn't the scenario his mind conjured up.
  
  He offered his shaking hand, helping her sit up.  He started to help her
  pull her blouse closed but she stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he
  realized she'd rather do it herself.  Fucking her was impersonal;
  helping her dress afterward could be construed as intimate.
  
  "Do I say I'm sorry?" he'd asked, avoiding her eyes.
  
  "No," she'd answered quietly.
   
  ****
  
  The second time, she came to him, because he never would have come to
  her.  He'd tossed and turned for an hour, thinking about old loves and
  new ones and fate and doctors named Waterston.  He'd turned his bedroom
  television on, muting the volume, and watched infomercials with
  captions.  He decided he desperately needed a juicer, a NordicTrack, and
  a food dehydrator, but probably wouldn't by morning.  He checked on
  Scully, making sure she was still asleep on the couch.  He beat his
  pillow into submission, shucked off his t-shirt, and finally found the
  uneasy edges of sleep.  When he woke, she was standing beside his bed,
  backlit by the test pattern on the television screen.
  
  "Hey," he mumbled sleepily, scratching the center of his chest. "I know:
  I'm a bad host.  Sorry." He stretched and sat up, grumbling placidly.
  "Okay.  I'm moving.  Bed's all yours."
  
  "No, stay," she whispered. "I didn't want you to move."
  
  "You need a pillow?" he guessed, swinging his legs over the edge of the
  mattress. "Or are you heading home?" 
  
  "No, Mulder, I-" she started, then trailed off.
  
  "Is something wrong?"
  
  "No.  Nothing.  I was just watching you," she said softly, and her chest
  rose as she took a deep breath. "You love me, don't you?" she asked, as
  though she just woke up and wanted to check.
  
  He looked up at her. "You know I do."
  
  "If I said I wanted to be with you tonight, what would you do?"
  
  His rational Scully: testing their null hypothesis.
  
  "This." He pulled her down to him, pressing his mouth lightly to hers.
  
  He'd kissed her before: giving in to an impulse at the edge of the new
  millennium.  This time, there was no resistance, and she seemed to melt
  into him like ice into iced tea.
  
  "Mulder..." she whispered, caressing his name.
  
  "Was that not the right answer?  Do I stop?" he murmured, kissing down
  her neck. "Do we?  What are we doing, Scully?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  He moved back, looking into her eyes. "I love you."
  
  "I know."
  
  "No, you don't," he whispered to her. "You can't even imagine."
  
  "I-" she started as his fingertips outlined the curve of her backside. 
  She inhaled sharply, muscles tightening.
  
  "Do you want me to stop?"
  
  His heart beat twice.
   
  "No," she exhaled, and he surged forward, urging her lips apart and
  mapping her body with his hands.  As he kissed her, he felt her skin
  growing hot, her breath coming faster, and her fingers in his hair.  His
  every neuron was alive: hungry with want and pulsing with fear that she
  might pull away at any second.  The two -- passion and fear -- collided
  like thunderclouds tumbling together as the storm rolled in.  Every kiss
  and caress had a dangerous edge, and the more he had, the more he
  wanted.  He was a junkie, and she was his drug: crack in DKNY.
  
  "Take off your clothes," he requested hoarsely, his lips swollen and
  stinging.
  
  She skinned her green sweater over her head, then twisted to unzip her
  skirt.  Her nylons came off along with the skirt and slip, and she stood
  beside his bed in her matching bra and panties, a beautiful ivory
  silhouette against the television screen.
  
  "All your clothes." 
  
  He was still half-certain he was dreaming.
  
  She unfastened the satin bra, sliding it off her shoulders and letting
  it fall to the floor.  Her breasts were small, soft, like the rest of
  her, and the nipples were erect from arousal rather than cold.  She slid
  the panties down from her hips, then stepped out of them and stood
  before him, shoulders back and hair tousled wantonly.  Mesmerized, he
  drew his finger down the pale profile of her breast before he moved
  back, pushing the covers down and making a place for her on the rumpled
  bed. 
  
  "You don't get to control this," he whispered. "If you want this, you
  don't get to control it.  I'm not gonna love you on your terms."
  
  That was a lie.  He'd be with her if her terms were a bullwhip and a
  branding iron.  He needed the feel of her breasts against his bare
  chest.  He needed the smell of her becoming aroused and the rough sound
  his skin made as it slid against hers.  He needed to hear her moan and
  gasp as he touched her, to feel her thighs tremble and her back arch.
  
  He filled both hands with her breasts, squeezing, massaging, thumbing
  the nipples.  He sucked, he bit gently, he rolled them between his teeth
  and tongue, making her whimper. He slid his tongue to her navel, tasting
  the salt and forbidden fruit of her skin, then pushed her thighs farther
  apart, kneeling between them.  She was flushed, and her lower lip was
  pulled tight over her bottom teeth.
  
  She was exquisite: the borderland of her chest as it sloped into the
  twin peaks of her breasts, and then down to pale plane of her stomach. 
  The undiscovered country of her lay before him, waiting.
  
  "What?" she asked breathlessly, opening her eyes. 
   
  "Nothing.  I- I was just looking at you.  You're so beautiful."
  
  "Mulder," she requested in a voice like an uncommitted sin.  
  
  The night breathed fire, lawless and passionate. Her lips and teeth
  found his nipples, his earlobes, and her nails grazed his back as she
  spoke to him in a language of pants and moans and desperate whimpers. 
  He was inside her, on top of her, then underneath her, his head thrown
  back in ecstasy and fists grasping desperately at the sheets.
  
  He opened his eyes, watching her, mesmerized as his body slid in and out
  of hers.  He put his hands on her hips, guiding her up and down. "Come
  on," he urged, but she shook her head that it wasn't going to happen. 
  
  "Can't," she panted, collapsing on his chest.
  
  "Yeah, you can, baby." In one motion, he flipped her onto her back, her
  legs apart, and her hands above her head. He covered her palms with his,
  interlacing their fingers.
  
  Her eyes flashed defiantly as she stared up at him, and her body
  crackled like a cat coming in from a cold night.  She could have stopped
  him with one syllable, one hint of distress, but she didn't.
  
  "You don't get to control this," he whispered as he penetrated again,
  hard enough to leave her sore the next morning.  Her legs parted
  farther, her hips rose to meet his, and her teeth sank into his shoulder
  as he thrust into her, over and over.  
  
  He heard her telling him not to stop, and he didn't.  Faster, harder,
  deeper, until she cried out, saying his name as she came.
  
  "It's just Mulder," he panted, kissing her sweaty forehead.  He withdrew
  and pushed up on his elbows, letting go of her hands and looking down at
  her. "You don't need to address me as a deity."
  
  "Okay," she agreed, nodding, still trying to catch her breath.
  
  "I love you."
  
  Another dazed, wordless nod.
  
  She moaned and shivered as he penetrated again, this time slower,
  setting an easy, lazy pace. She wrapped her legs around his waist and
  arms around his neck, surrounding him.  He wanted the night to last for
  eternity: to defy the laws of time and space and human endurance and
  never end.  Two bodies, but one flesh, joined forever.
  
  "I love you," he repeated, and she kissed his shoulder, pressing her
  lips against the place she'd bitten a moment earlier.
  
  He'd find the marks on his skin the next morning, when he woke up alone
  to the sun shining through his bedroom window and the television
  weatherman saying it was going to be a great day.  
  
  ****
  
  The cigar-puffing, salsa-dancing, blue martini-drinking craze hadn't
  made it to Rick's, which was why the regulars liked it.  Atop its wobbly
  stools, men still referred to John "Cougar" Mellencamp, and the Hotel
  California/Born to Run debate continued, with the liberals holding out
  for Layla.  The bartender served any drink as long as it was light beer,
  beer, or whiskey, and there really wasn't a nonsmoking section.  The
  ladies' room didn't get much use, and when it did, the darts area
  overlapped with the dance floor, adding an element of danger to anyone
  unmanly or drunk enough to want to dance.  Every Bob Seger album ever
  made was in the jukebox, and the Silver Bullet Band was just sliding
  into "Against the Wind" as Scully blew in.
  
  She came through the door like a force of nature, her trench coat
  billowing and her oversized umbrella straining against the storm.  Every
  head in the place turned toward her, but most of the men did the mental
  odds, decided "no chance in Hell," and went back to their drinks.
  
  "This place just got some class," the man sitting beside Mulder observed
  appreciatively. "Who-rah."
  
  Without comment, Mulder left his second beer sitting on the bar and went
  to greet her, shoving his hands in the pockets of his old blue jeans.
  
  "Hi," he said softly, keeping a safe distance as she shook out her wet
  umbrella.
  
  "Oh my God, Mulder," Scully responded, unfastening her trench coat and
  pushing her hair back from her face.  The humidity made it curl, framing
  her face in wild auburn waves.  Her cheeks were flushed, making her eyes
  look sapphire blue in the dim light. 
  
  He remembered to breathe.
  
  "I told you: 'Mulder' is fine," he reminded her. "'My God Mulder' isn't
  really necessary."
  
  "No, I meant the storm."
  
  He leaned down, just grazing her cool cheek with his lips. "I think I
  saw Noah and some giraffes heading for the ark."
  
  She exhaled in frustration, vainly trying to get her hair to stay tucked
  behind her ears. "Maybe we should join them.  All right; I'm here. 
  What's so important?"
  
  "I'm-I'm glad you came.  I really didn't expect you to.  Do you want a
  beer?"
  
  "A beer?"
  
  He glanced over his shoulder, and the row of men at the bar quickly
  focused on anything besides Scully.
  
  "They have Michelob.  Or Michelob light?"
  
  "Mulder, it's pouring rain.  I just drove all the way over here at
  eleven o'clock at night, and now you're asking if I want a beer?  Your
  message said something was wrong.  What's the emergency?"
  
  He leaned against a scarred table beside the door, slouching a little,
  and shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "I don't think I
  specifically said there was an emergency."
  
  She frowned. "How much have you had to drink?"
  
  He held up two fingers for her inspection. "I said I was afraid
  something was wrong.  I was beginning to think something happened to
  you.  Or to your cell phone.  I left messages inviting you to dinner, to
  a late dinner, to my place for a really late dinner... I would have left
  one inviting you to breakfast tomorrow morning, but four unanswered
  messages is needy; five is stalking."
  
  "I told you I'd be at Quantico all afternoon."
  
  "I know.  And if I forget, I have the skid marks you left outside our
  office this morning to remind me."
  
  "You've had me do four autopsies since Thursday," she responded
  irritably. "Just because I didn't find your 'ectoplasm' doesn't mean all
  the paperwork vanishes, Mulder.  I still have your Blair Witch buddies
  to write up, and-"
  
  He glanced at her from underneath his eyebrows, giving her his "who do
  you think you're kidding" face. "It's me, Scully.  I know this routine. 
  What's wrong?  You having second thoughts?"
  
  He stepped forward and she stepped back.
  
  "Scully..."
  
  "I can't do this.  I'll, I'll see you tomorrow," she said, then bolted
  out the door.
  
  There was a male chorus of ominous monosyllables from the bar as Mulder
  grabbed his jacket and followed Scully outside.
  
  She was huddled under her umbrella, making for her car parked down the
  block.  She hit the remote, and the headlights flashed as the doors
  unlocked.
  
  "You didn't say goodbye," he called after her, and the umbrella stopped.
  "This morning -- last night: you just left."
  
  She turned, her chest rising and falling rapidly and her eyes taking up
  her entire face.
  
  He remembered to breathe.
  
  "You don't call, you don't write..." He took a step toward her. "Makes a
  guy feel kinda unloved.  Kinda unwanted.  Kinda used."
  
  She came back, joining him under the flapping awning outside the bar.
  "No, Mulder."
  
  "Then what's wrong?" he repeated, reaching up to stroke her cheek.
  
  "I've started to call you a dozen times today," she said shakily. "I
  didn't know what to say."
  
  "Well, I'm here now.  Just talk to me."
  
  "This isn't the right time."
  
  His fingertips slid down the line of her neck, then along the open neck
  of her blouse. "Please."
  
  She inhaled and moved back a millimeter. "Mulder..." she started in that
  overly gentle breakup voice.
  
  "Oh shit," he mumbled, dropping his hand and looking away. "Scully..."
  
  "Last night-"
  
  "No," he interrupted. "Last night was real.  Don't you dare try to
  convince yourself otherwise."
  
  "It was real.  Last night was wild and passionate and..." She paused,
  looking up at him with those infinite blue eyes. "And perhaps ill-
  considered," she finished.
  
  He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly from side to side.  This
  wasn't happening.
  
  "That doesn't mean it wasn't wonderful, Mulder."
  
  "Right," he said tightly.  Ill-considered.  She'd had seven years to
  consider it.  And she'd come to him, not the other way around.  They
  were two intelligent, sober, reasonably sane adults who'd committed a
  very consensual act.  Twice.
  
  "I'm not sorry it happened."
  
  "Right," he repeated, stepping back.  The cold March rain leaked through
  the old awning and dripped on the shoulders of his leather jacket.
  
  Yes, he and Scully belonged in the relationship scratch-and-dent bin:
  offered to the dating public only at a steep discount and with all their
  warning labels intact.  They were both seriously fucked up individuals,
  but he saw no reason for emotional dysfunction to stand in the way of
  true love. 
  
  He gritted his teeth, staring past her and watching the storm punish the
  dark street.  The B in the neon sign above Lou's Bar had burned out, and
  was now glowing LOU'S AR, which, normally, he would have found highly
  amusing.
  
  "Mulder-" she started. "Please look at me.  Do you understand how hard
  this is?"
  
  "What's hard about it?  I love you.  After all we've been through... You
  either want this with me or you don't." He balled his hands into fists,
  shoving them in his coat pockets. "And you don't.  You want baby seats
  and white picket fences, and you know you'll never have that with me. 
  Last night, you thought you could let that dream go, but you can't."
  
  The FBI hadn't paid him the big profiler bucks for nothing.
  
  She bit her bottom lip white, and a pained crease appeared on her
  forehead. "You're my best friend-" 
  
  "And you're mine.  But I don't wanna be your consolation prize. That's
  not fair to either of us."
  
  "I know it's not," she said hoarsely. She stepped forward, tiptoeing to
  kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry.  I'll see you tomorrow," she added, then
  turned, raised her umbrella, and walked away, her high heels splashing
  against the sidewalk and her dark trench coat blowing against her legs.
  
  He stood under the failing awning, watching her make her way through the
  stormy night.  The cold rain found its way down his collar, soaking the
  back of his t-shirt.
  
  "Scully..." he called again, ready to lie, but too quietly for her to
  hear.
  
  He watched her sit in her car for a few seconds, then wipe her eyes and
  start the engine.  The tires squealed as she pulled away from the curb.  
  
  ****
  
  She picked up the phone half a ring before the answering machine would
  have, but there was a long pause before she said "Hello."
  
  "It's me," he said, as though she didn't already know that. "Did I wake
  you?"
  
  He sat on his sofa in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, listening to the
  rain punish his living room windows.  His bed was more comfortable, but
  it smelled like her.  Correction: it smelled like them.  There had been
  two bodies, not just one.  
  
  "Scully?" he asked when there was no response.
  
  She exhaled. "It's four in the morning, Mulder."
  
  "I know.  I hate to bother you, but-"
  
  "Please don't do this," she said unsteadily. "Be relentless.  I need
  some time."
  
  "Scully-"
  
  "It's like falling," she interrupted, her words tumbling over each
  other. "Being with you. It's like falling, and it's this thrilling,
  overwhelming feeling and I don't ever want it to end, but it's still
  falling and eventually, logically, I'm going to hit the ground."
  
  "Scully-"
  
  "What I feel for you -- it's real.  I know it is. But it isn't enough,
  Mulder.  We need a foundation.  A direction.  I don't want to spend my
  life falling, and, and I think you do."
  
  He picked at the leg of his pajamas and looked down at his bare feet,
  his stomach quaking.  His head pounded, and his neck ached.  He was sick
  with her, but she didn't want him.  She wanted things he couldn't give
  her.  Like a child.  A life.
  
  "Mulder?"
  
  "Skinner just called," he said, keeping his voice carefully even. "A
  Morley Tobacco executive was found dead in his home in Winston-Salem,
  North Carolina.  Skinner wants us on the next flight."
  
  He heard her take a slow, deep breath, putting her Agent Scully persona
  on, buttoning it all the way to the top. "I can be ready in forty-five
  minutes."
  
  "I'll pick you up," he said.
  
  "I'll see you then," she responded.
  
  "See you then," he said, before he hung up.
  
  ****
  
  Against all odds, he'd turn thirty-nine that year.
  
  He sat on the park bench, alone, looking back at the path of his life.
  
  It had been twenty-seven years since he'd watched Samantha being
  abducted from their living room, and in many ways, he was still that
  twelve-year old boy.  A little war-worn and battle-scarred, but just as
  solitary, just as frightened, and just as driven and single-minded. As
  Scully said, he was always chasing "the next big thing," like a tiger
  after its tail.
  
  He'd told Scully early on what his priorities were: there was nothing --
  and no one -- except the search for his sister.  And the Truth.
  
  He'd found Samantha, forever fourteen-years old and far from the
  clutches of the men who'd hurt her.  And he'd found the Truth, or at
  least some version of it.  He'd found his answers, only to discover
  there was no one who cared to hear them.
  
  It seemed like an anticlimactic way to round out the millennium, and his
  first forty years on this Earth.
  
  Then again, so were tobacco beetles. 
  
  Mulder sat near the Jefferson Memorial, listening to the water lap at
  the south edge of the basin and the sightseers chatter as they posed for
  photos.  One more week and the cherry trees would be in full bloom,
  surrounding the Tidal Basin with a sea of pink and white petals.  The
  crowds were beginning to thin, but tour buses still brought a few
  glowing newlyweds, families with young children, and old couples,
  walking slowly, hand in hand.
  
  A man on a journey owns nothing except the essentials -- air, sleep,
  dreams, the sea, and the sky.  Anything else he might stumble onto is
  providence and should be appreciated as such. 
  
  In other words: one takes what one can get.
  
  Mulder watched Scully walking toward him, every movement planned and
  gracefully purposeful.  The light from the lowering sun glistened
  against her auburn hair, and, as she pulled off the lid, steam rose from
  the Styrofoam cup in her hand, drifting with the breeze.
  
  "I was just on my way to see you.  Did the hospital release you?" she
  asked, stopping in front of him.  She'd come directly from the office,
  still in her tailored suit and high heels: designer body armor to
  protect a woundable soul. "Or are you AWOL?  Should I call the Orkin
  Army?"
  
  "Bug free," he whispered hoarsely, giving her a thumbs up sign, then
  nodded to her cup. "Coffee?" 
  
  "Tea.  I'm trying to get my stomach to settle down."
  
  "Sick?" he rasped painfully.
  
  "I'm fine.  Just a little queasy."
  
  He made a sympathetic face, then leaned forward as she offered him a
  sip.
  
  "You look tired," she observed, and he nodded. Going ten rounds with the
  Dust Buster of Death could do a fellow in. "You should be home, resting. 
  What are you doing here, Mulder?  Your note said you wanted me to see
  something."
  
  He gestured to the horizon. "Sunset.  Stay?"
  
  She nodded and sat beside him, holding the cup on her lap.  The sky
  reflected crimson in the Tidal Basin and spread out like a vast
  watercolor behind the cherry blossoms.  Shadows lengthened as night
  approached, gliding over the edge of east.  The first stars rose,
  watching from above as the city descended into evening.
  
  "It's pretty," Scully said softly. "It's been a long time since we sat
  here and watched the sunset.  This is nice."
  
  "Yeah," he answered, and interlaced his fingers with hers.  Her palm was
  warm from the Styrofoam cup and seemed so small against his.
  
  She looked at their hands, but didn't pull away.  
  
  She'd held his hand in the hospital, as if believing if she just held
  tightly enough, Death couldn't take him from her.  Each time he'd opened
  his eyes, she'd been beside his bed, but he could only stare at her,
  unable to speak. He'd heard the things she'd said to him, though:
  pleading for him to hold on, to keep breathing, to come back.
  
  "From the other side of the universe, Scully," he'd wanted to promise
  melodramatically. "I'd come back from the gates of Hell for you.  If you
  want me, Death couldn't keep me from you."
  
  Weeks had passed since they'd spent one night together: colliding like
  two primal forces with no thought of morning.  But morning had come,
  with all its repercussions, and he understood her reasons for pulling
  back. He didn't like them, but he understood and respected them.  At
  least, he kept trying to convince himself that he did. 
  
  "I'm glad you're still here to see another sunset with me," she said
  eventually. "Very glad."
  
  "Me too," he rasped, toying with her soft fingers. "Scully, I-" he
  started, then stopped.  He wanted to say all the perfect things he'd
  rehearsed in his head -- the things that would fix everything -- but
  each syllable was a painful effort.
  
  "I know; so do I," she answered softly, completing the conversation.
  
  He gave her hand a squeeze, then let go, resting his arm along the back
  of the bench.  She resumed her two-handed grip on her tea.
  
  "Venus," he said, pointing up at the blue-black sky.
  
  "That's right.  The early Greeks didn't realize Venus was a planet, or
  that the Evening Star and the Morning Star were one in the same.  To
  them, Venus was both Athena, the virgin Morning goddess of battle and
  reason, and Aphrodite, the Evening goddess of physical love and beauty."
  
  "I think I know her," he whispered, stroking the shoulder of her suit
  coat.
  
  She gave him an eyebrow, but shook her head and laughed softly.  And
  didn't pull away.
  
  "Walk?" he invited after a few minutes, gesturing to the path that
  curved around the Tidal Basin.
  
  "Are you up to walking that far?"
  
  He stood, then made a muscle for her, pulling the fabric of his
  sweatshirt taut to show off his bicep.
  
  "My hero," she deadpanned, getting up.
  
  She walked beside him, still holding her Styrofoam cup rather than his
  hand.  
   
  The lights came on inside the Jefferson Memorial, radiating between the
  classical columns.  The stone monument sat above the Tidal Basin like
  the Pantheon of Rome, looking down on the rippling water.
  
  "This is nice," she repeated as they reached the base of the memorial,
  stepping up one step and turning to look at the building's reflection
  across the water.
  
  "Tummy?" he asked, tugging gently at the front of her blazer.
  
  "I'm fine.  Better."
  
  The breeze rustled her hair slightly, and her skin glowed like pale
  marble.  As much as he loved her mind and spirit, they were housed in
  the body of a woman who could have brought Rome to its knees.
  
  Without thinking, Mulder closed his eyes and pressed his mouth lightly
  to hers.  Her warm lips tasted like peppermint, and as he moved back a
  few inches, the space between them had an unfinished feel.  She stepped
  closer, and he felt the change in her as subtly as a sailor sensed the
  tides.  And then she stepped back, uncertain.  Debating.  Teetering. 
  
  "Can't be something I'm not, Scully," his tortured throat scratched out.
  
  "I know that.  I don't want you to be," she answered, then swallowed and
  looked past him, focusing on the darkening April sky.
  
  He waited.  He'd laid his cards on the table a long time ago; the next
  move was up to her.  
  
  People do not remember days, they remember moments.  This was one of
  those moments; he could feel it being etched into his soul.  It was a
  turning point, a high water mark, a bend in the road, and there was no
  going back.  Only forward, to whatever was on the horizon.   
  
  "Where do we go from here?" she asked finally, looking into his eyes and
  fitting a thousand questions into six words.  
  
  The cool breeze blew her hair over her face, and he reached up, tucking
  it back behind her ear. "Metro station," he rasped slowly. "Outer Limits
  marathon.  Sci-Fi Channel.  Starts at eight."
  
  She blinked, and then laughed self-consciously.
  
  "We should go slow," she said. "If you're going to walk that far, we
  should go slowly.  You're still recovering; you're at risk for pneumonia
  and-"  
  
  "I can do slow," he whispered hoarsely before she could launch into
  doctor-mode.
  
  She glanced up. "Can you?" 
   
  He nodded. "We have all the time in the world," he promised, his voice
  fading to only rough breath.  He took the cup of tea from her,
  interlaced their fingers again, and continued walking.
  
  ****
  
  End: Book II