Title: Full of Grace
Author: Trixie:scullymulder1121@hotmail.com
Category: Uh. . . Romance/Angst? Yea. Yea, that's the ticket.
Rating: PG - PG-13ish.
Summary: Thoughts. Lots and lots of thoughts. :) Just read it. . .

Author's Insane Ramblings: Okay. . . this is something I've been typing off and on for about five days now. . . I actually wrote it with chapter separations, which I'm just so proud of. . . yes, Full of Grace references the Sarah McLachlan song. . . Yes, the song is featured in the story. . . sort of. . . the words are. . . but Mulder and Scully never hear them. . . well wait I don't know that. . . maybe somewhere, somehow, the song was on the radio in a scene I didn't write. . . but as far as *I* know, Mulder & Scully have never heard the song. :)

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully not mine. Mulder and Scully belong Chris Dave and Gil. And I think Piper, but I'm not sure. ;-) Just to let you know, Evil Fox Lawyers, I am not worth suing. I am insane. If you try to sue me, I will merely use the above Author's Insane Rambling's as proof of my insanity before calling a series of reliable (and still minorly shaken up) character witnesses testifying under oathe to my utter state of bonkerness.

And now, on with the tale!

~~~~

Full of Grace 1/5

~~~~

The Winter here is cold
And bitter
It chills us to the bone
We haven't seen the sun for weeks
Too long too far from home
I feel just like I'm sinking
And I claw for solid ground
I'm pulled down by the undertow
I never thought I could feel so low
And oh darkness I feel like letting go

~~~~

They say that every moment in life, whether born of joy or born of sorrow, has the potential for grace realized.

I used to believe that. Even in my most self-loathing, morose reflections I have always believed there is a reason. A light, a moral, a truth, a purpose, if you will.

Potential.

Potential is a funny thing. All your life you're told to live up to it, to strive for it. Guidance counselors and concerned employers say you're not living up to it again and again until you start believing them. And then at the end of it all, if you're able to walk away with a Pension plan and a few colorful stories to tell, you've lived up to your potential. You may be too senile to remember your mother's name, but you've lived up to your potential.

What about when there is nothing but sorrow? When there is no joy to give balance to your life? What happens when demons and monsters steal your light, your moral, your purpose, your truth?

What happens when your passion and potential are snuffed out, like the butt of a cigarette?

Cigarette smoke waifs from the still burning butt at my feet. My nostrils flare, then contract at the noxious odor. My potential has been reached. But I do not believe I have realized grace, or even a mild case of ease. I am what they have made me. What, in the end, I had no choice but to become.

I am soulless.

~~~~

Thirty-six hours Earlier
J. Edgar Hoover Building
A.D. Skinner's office

Walter Skinner taps nerveless fingers against his desk. Waiting. He despises waiting. It always reminds him too much of war. There was more waiting in war than anyone realized. Waiting to attack, waiting to lose more friends, waiting to die.

Waiting to deliver the death blow.


*Buzz*

"Sir, Agents Mulder and Scully are here."

"Thank you Judith," he says into the intercom. "Send them in."

The door opens and two wary faces greet him. He offers no smile of reassurance. "Agents," Skinner says brusquely, in lieu of greeting.

"Sir," Dana Scully replies respectfully, taking her usual seat in front of his desk.

Mulder is silent, taking his place beside her, his entire body coiled, like a child preparing for a blow. Skinner internally winces, wishing he wasn't about to give Mulder exactly what he was expecting. "I have two pieces of news," he begins slowly. "One, is that it has been brought to my attention this morning that The X-Files have been re-opened."

Scully's only reaction is a slight widening of her eyes. Before she can render a vocal response, Mulder speaks. "Under whose authority?" he asks slowly, eyes still wary, but lit with something Skinner'd thought never to see in Fox Mulder's eyes. Hope. Wary hope, but hope nonetheless.

Skinner felt like the villain in some really bad children's movie. "OPR has ruled the X-Files a 'vital entity within the Bureau'," he quotes from the memo that had landed across his desk a few hours ago.

"So what, the X-Files has gone from the laughing stock of the FBI to. . . . The little Division that could?" Mulder asks audaciously.

"What Agent Mulder means," Scully cuts in, sending a reproachfully tender look toward her partner, "is the complete turn around in position on OPR's - not to mention the Attorney General's - part is somewhat. . . ."

"Bizarre," Mulder mutters under his breathe, barely audible.

"Dubious," Scully supplies, a bit louder.

"I whole-heartedly agree, Agent Scully," Skinner allows. "However it's a decision that comes from high up, and one I'd just as soon not argue with." He takes a deep breath. "However, yourself and Agent Mulder will not be heading up the X-Files division."

"What?" Mulder asks, his voice taking on total disbelief and outrage at the same time.

"Sir, with all due respect, those files only still exist now because of Agent Mulder," Scully cuts in, using her most neutral voice.

"I am aware of the duplicate files Agent Mulder stored on his home computer," Skinner says slowly. "However, it makes no difference to the institution that is re-assigning the X-Files to other agents."

"Meaning they win," Mulder says bitterly.

Scully glances at him briefly before looking back to Skinner. "Will Agent Mulder and I be permanently re-assigned elsewhere?" she asks softly, knowing when to argue and when it's futile.

Skinner does smile now, if you could call the slight curving of his lips a smile. "You and Agent Mulder are now officially re-assigned to the VCS." Skinner glances between the two for a moment. "I spoke to Jana Cassidy on your behalf. I convinced her that in all my years at the Bureau, I had never seen partners as worthy of the word as the two of you. Furthermore, I informed her that to split you up would be to lose two of our best and brightest."

"Thank you, Sir," Mulder finally answers grudgingly, dredging up all the respect he can for this man who deserves it.

Skinner begins shuffling papers around on his desk, signaling the end of the meeting. "Take the rest of today off. I expect the two of you to report to SAC Daniel Kersh bright and early tomorrow morning."

Nodding once, Mulder and Scully rise, making their way slowly out of Skinner's office, making sure to offer the most perfunctory of nods to Judith. They do not speak until they reach the elevator, and are enclosed safely inside.

"Kersh," Mulder says aloud, staring straight in front of him, not looking at Scully, hands folded neatly just above his crotch. The only visible sign to betray his anger is the slight muscle the twitches at his jaw.

"SAC Daniel Kersh," Scully says slowly. "49, has been an outstanding Agent for the last 15 years. He was recruited out of the Police Academy when he showed abnormally high intelligence on his tests." She raises an eyebrow, staring at the same patch of elevator Mulder is. "As trustworthy as they get," she murmurs, and no one but Mulder would ever be able to detect the slight mocking in her voice.

"Hmm," Mulder murmurs non-committally as the elevator reaches the parking garage, dinging open. "Hey Scully," he begins, his entire mood shifting, "you wanna get some Chinese?"

"You buying Mulder?" she asks playfully.

Narrowing his eyes at her, Mulder takes in the 'bad case of freezer burn,' as she calls it that isn't quite healed over her cheeks. "No way," he declares. "It's your turn," he reminds her, walking backwards toward his parked car.

Scully rolls her eyes in mock aggrievement. "Okay, okay, I'm buying. My place or yours?"

"Yours," he says quietly. "Less chance of auditorally enhanced walls," he says simply, in explanation.

Offering a small smile, Scully nods in acquiescence, making her way to her own car and sliding behind the wheel. Whistling an old Led Zeppelin tune under his breath, Mulder does the same, heading home to change before joining Scully at her apartment.

~~~~

I slip a black turtleneck over my head, taking a moment to look at myself in the mirror. I trace delicate fingertips over my cheeks, glad that they're no longer as sensitive as when we'd first returned from Antarctica. I shudder unconsciously at the memories flooding my brain. I swear, sometimes I wonder if I have picked up Mulder's eidetic memory over our years together. I remember things so clearly now.

I remember what it smelled like in the office the first time I met him. I remember the exact shade of orange the damn X that was supposed to frighten me away was painted in, and I remember the timber of his voice the first time he said his sister's name to me. I can recall with crystal clarity the ache that filled my entire body when he returned a small gold cross to me after my having been away from him for so long. I remember the sudden jolt of pleasure it had given me when he'd returned that night, after Missy and Mom had left, inserting 'Super Heroes of the Super Bowl' into my hospital room VCR and sitting beside my bed, holding my hand and watching with me, inserting a few choice comments.

"I've hit my head harder then that and never even lost consciousness."

I remember smiling so impishly at him. "That's because you have such a hard skull Mulder," I'd murmured.

I remember the look in his eyes when he'd finally turned them upon me. A peace, a joy mixed with such utter anguish and despair looked back at me that night. "Your Mother missed you very much," he'd finally managed to get out roughly. And again, I saw it in his eyes. Just in case I hadn't, he said it out loud. "I missed you Scully."

Rather then sharing some sentiment he'd no doubt disbelieve anyway, I'd instead chosen to pull his hand to my mouth, brushing his knuckles with my lips lightly, then setting his hand against my leg, holding it there and returning my attention to the video. He'd done the same. I never thanked him for saving my life that other night he held my hand, telling me simply that he was there. He was waiting for me. Waiting for me to come back to him.

Just as I realize, staring at myself in the mirror, at the sad, nostalgic look in my eyes, I never thanked him for traveling halfway across the world to save my life this last time. The evidence of his risk, of his dangerous gamble for my life hasn't even completely healed yet.

How could I have not thanked him?

Because he wouldn't accept my thanks. Because it's not Mulder's style. Because he feels he owes me everything. He owes me my life, even if it meant sacrificing his own.

Damned, stubborn, beautiful man. . . . .

"Hey Scully? You in there?" The knocking on the door finally penetrates. I hope he hasn't been there long.

"Coming Mulder."

~~~~

I shuffle my feet nervously in front of Scully's door. After what seems like forever, she opens it, smiling slightly. "Sorry," she murmurs, not offering an explanation. I do not ask for one, assuming if she wanted to tell me, she would.

"S'Okay," I reply, walking inside and plopping heavily on her couch. I lean my head back, eyes closed. "So. Uncle Chang's or Mr. Benny's?"

"After our last incident with Mr. Benny, I'd have to go with Uncle Chang," she observes dryly, sitting beside me, grabbing the phone on her way down.

"That delivery guy looked like the bounty hunter Scully," I reply for what I'm sure is the sixth time we've had this discussion.

"Mmhhmm," she murmurs in that imperious little 'of course Mulder, whatever you say Mulder,' tone of hers. Cradling the phone in the crook of her neck, she raises an eyebrow at me. "What are you in the mood for Mulder?"

You?

The temptation to say it out loud is almost irresistible. I somehow refrain, telling her with my eyes instead. I've been telling her a lot of things with my eyes lately. Ever since that night in my hallway. I'd finally said a few things out loud, things that had been on my mind, weighing my heart down for far too long. I've made several mental notes to tell her what she means to me, in one way or another, every single day. I can't do it in the conventional way most men do - I can't simply whisper 'I love you honey'. Though even if I could, I doubt I would. It isn't us. It's too simplistic a term. I love you.

Love is nothing compared to what I feel for her.

Not to mention the fact that I will never be able to bring myself to call Scully 'honey'. Maybe Sweetheart someday, but I'm not holding my breath. Even if we were lovers I doubt I could call her anything but Scully. I wonder if she'd mind. I wonder if she'd want me to call her Dana.

I wonder if she'd want to call me Fox.

Repressing a slight shudder, never wanting to hear anything but 'Mulder' from her lips I try to remember what the hell she'd just asked me. A mental circuit crosses and I come up with a Chinese food order. "Fried Wonton and some Beef and Broccoli," I murmur, keeping my eyes closed, my head still laid back against her couch.

I listen to the timber and tone of her voice as she speaks with the man at the restaurant, placing our order. It's such a soothing voice, my Scully's. I could listen to her speak for hours. I have. I've listened to her recite the most mundane and scientifically explicit explanations and been absolutely captivated by the passion, the pride in her voice. The only other time I hear her speak with such emotion is when she's speaking of me to others, be it in anger or fierce defense.

That voice has led me home from death, brought me back from the brink and kept me warm from the bitter cold. Sometimes a literal cold, sometimes a more metaphorical. Either way, things have been happening inside my own head. Gears turning, pathways being connected with the circuits of my heart.

Who'd of thunk it? Fox Mulder's head was finally starting to listen to his heart.

It had been a mistake to try and kiss her.

"Food will be here in twenty minutes." Her voice once again cuts into my thoughts.

I turn my head against the couch, sending her a small smile. "Good. I'm starved."

We lapse into silence again as she flips on the television, finding an episode of 'Red Shoe Diaries', a show I hadn't realized she enjoyed. I raise a single eyebrow at her in question, mimicking a look she's given me a thousand times. And her response absolutely delights me. She curves one corner of her mouth upward and sends me one of her enigmatic little smiles, with just a touch of the playful Scully I haven't seen since a rooftop in the middle of Hell, downtown Dallas. I've missed her. She leans her head against my shoulder, settling in to watch an episode entitled 'Jake's Story'.

This is why I shouldn't have tried to kiss her. Not then. Not yet. Not like that.

I was desperate to keep her with me. Desperate to keep her from walking out of my apartment, my life forever. So I'd talked faster and more passionately then I ever have before, then I ever thought myself capable of. And I was sincere. In everything I said. Even though the words seemed erroneously inadequate to describe what it means to have her presence, her solace from the storms in my life.

The first kiss shouldn't have been in a hallway. Shouldn't have been after the days of hell we'd endured before, shouldn't have prefaced the days of hell to follow. It shouldn't have been the act of two lost and desperate souls, clinging together because they needed *something* good and pure to hold onto in the dark and the cold. Hell, our first kiss shouldn't have been interrupted by a damn bee.

I hate bees. Always have. Since I was 6 and one stung Sam. She was crying, and started running around the ground, arms flailing. She knocked over the hive and dozens of them were swarming. I was stung eight times, due mostly to the fact that I'd pulled Sam underneath me to keep her from being stung.

The time when I'd been *able* to keep my sister safe.

And I have hated bees ever since. It seems oddly poetic that one should destroy what should've been - what would be - one of the single most profound and memorable experiences of my life.

The first time I kiss Dana Scully.

Which would, of course, only be superseded by the next most memorable, profound experience of my life.

The first time Dana Scully kisses me.

Jesus, would I stop breathing if we actually kissed each other?

"Hey, where are you?" Scully asks me in a soft cajoling tone.

I blink, focusing down at her face. "Right here," I say, slinging my arm around her shoulders, squeezing her against me once for emphasis.

"In body, maybe," she mumbles, leaning her cheek against my shoulder again, eyes once again focusing on the screen.

'Jake' was making out with. . . . so sorry. Making *love* with a blonde, bouncing Sherilyn Fenn. I turn my head to the side. So this is soft core. I'd heard about it. Just never understood why anyone would go for less when they could have more.

I think I get it now. Sometimes. . . . sometimes less is more. For instance - some people might say 'more' would be my having taken 'Ashley' from payroll up on her offer of a weekend at her parent's cabin. Those same people might infer that 'less' would be spending a platonic evening with my partner, watching soft core porn and eating Chinese food while discussing our current professional situation sometime after we've both gotten a few more things straight in our own heads.

I maintain that I'd rather read the phone book with Scully, then Shakespeare with another living person.

Especially if Scully was reading it to me. Then I'd be listening to her voice as well.

I'm beginning to believe whoever said less was more is right.

The doorbell rings. "I'll get it," Scully mumbles from my left, disengaging herself from my arms. I miss her warmth the second she's gone, the shift of her body against my arm as she breathes in and out. I miss feeling her breathe, knowing for certain that she is. I am so consumed by her.

No, that's not right. I want to be consumed by her, body and soul. Well, body. She's had my soul for years.

Hey Scully? I wonder, in some recess of my mind if she can hear my plaintiff pleading.

Hand on the door knob, she turns her head to look at me, a speculative look on her face. I'm speechless for a moment, wondering if maybe my Scully the skeptic is finally beginning to tap into that latent ESP I'm almost positive she possesses. But I see her shake it off, forcibly clearing her thoughts, injecting a thousand rational, scientific arguments at whatever part of her thinks she heard me.

I smile widely, watching as she opens the door, collecting our dinner.

I smile and feel some of the cold abate.

~~~~

End 1/5

Email: emily_scully@angelfire.com