Title: "The Morning After"
Author: Angela W.
Summary: Mulder and Scully cross a line in their
relationship. Told in first person, Mulder's POV.
Category: MSR
Rating: R
Timespan/Spoilers: Set immediately after "all
things". Major spoilers for that episode and for
"Closure". Minor mention of other events through the
middle of Season Seven.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
They are the property of Chris Carter and 1013
Archive: Feel free to archive anywhere!
Feedback: If it's nice or contains *CONSTRUCTIVE*
criticism, feedback is valued. If you just hate it, I
don't want to hear about it.

Author's notes: For those of you who are used to
reading my "married" series of fanfics - this is not
one of them. Also, some of the events mentioned were
not actually shown in previous episodes, but I either
felt they were implied in the storyline or I worked
them into previous postep fanfics.


I tuck the blanket more snuggly around her and switch
off the lamp. What amazes me most about the past few
days is not so much all that happened to Scully as the fact that she was willing, even eager, to share it with me. I'd gladly let her have my bed while I took the couch, but she looks so comfortable and I'm afraid she'd wake up if I tried to move her. So I tiptoe into my darkened bedroom, strip down to my boxer-briefs and tumble into bed, secure in the knowledge that the woman I love is only a few feet away, on the other side of an open doorway.

I've been in bed just a minute or two when I hear her
rise from the couch. I think, with a sinking feeling,
that she'll move quietly out of my apartment and go
back to hers now. Instead, she walks to the doorway of my bedroom and whispers my name. "Mulder? Are you

"No, Scully. Did you want to talk to some more?"

"Not really. But can I come and sleep in your bed with you?"

"Of course, Scully."

I watch in fascination as she undresses in the dim
moonlight seeping in through the curtains. When she's
down to just a bra and panties, she slips into bed
beside me. Scully rolls onto her side, facing away
from me. I face the same way and spoon her, dragging
her slight form against my larger one with an arm
around her waist. It is our preferred way of sleeping

I let out a silent chuckle at that, my breath stirring the hair at the nape of Scully's neck. For a couple who is not a couple in the widely accepted meaning of the term, for two people who don't sleep together in the widely accepted meaning of *THAT* term, we have begun sharing a bed, sleeping together in the strictly literal sense of the words, on a disturbingly frequent basis.

It began slowly, almost imperceptibly. First, we took
turns falling asleep next to each other on stakeouts.
One of us remaining awake while the other dozed. Her
head propped against my shoulder or mine against her
thigh. Then we snuggled up and slept together one
night in the forest. . . to conserve body heat, I
explained to Scully, although I've honestly never
heard of anyone freezing to death in Florida.

About a year ago, we graduated to actual beds. Hers
first. One night when she'd just escaped from the
clutches of a madman who wanted to steal her heart in
more ways than one. Months later, she returned the
favor by keeping me warm and safe on my first night
home from the psychiatric unit of a hospital. Not long after that, we shared my bed for the first time, after she'd used deadly force to deal with another psycho intent on harming her. She joined me here again on the night after my mother died. Most recently, we shared a hotel bed in California, having solved a voodoo killing case that left her more shaken than she cared to admit.

The intervals are becoming more frequent. There were
six months between the first night we shared a bed and the second time. Barely three months between the
second incident and the third. This, however, is the
third time we've slept together in the past three
months. It's beginning to become a habit with us, one
that both delights me and pushes me right to the brink of insanity.

It occurs to me that, for the first time, it hasn't
taken a near-death experience on either my part or
Scully's - or the death of one of our immediate family members - to bring us to this point. We have no real excuse, this time around, for sharing the same bed. We are cuddling simply because we want to, not to keep the demons at bay.

Scully rolls over and faces me, hooking one of her
legs over the top of my thighs. Uh, you might not want to do that, Scully.

"Mulder, there's something else I wanted to tell you.
I meant to tell you earlier tonight but. . .well, I
guess I was a little worried about how you'd respond."

"Something else you learned in your odyssey of
self-discovery this weekend, Scully?" I ask gently.

"No," she says slowly. "It's something I've known for
quite a while. I just. . .I never could figure out how to tell you, that's all. But I guess, all the stuff I went through this weekend. . .maybe it helped me to realize that holding it in wasn't doing either of us any good."

"Is this something I want to hear, Scully?"

"I hope so, Mulder, but I don't really know for sure."

"Why don't you just go ahead and tell me, Scully. The
suspense is killing me."

She's quiet for a moment, stroking my hair and my
face, looking into my eyes. Our faces are only inches
away from each other on side-by-side pillows.

Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, "I love you, Mulder."

"I love you, too, Scully," I say with a sigh of
relief, moving my mouth towards hers.

She stops me with her fingers pressed gently against
my lips. "How, Mulder?"


"How do you love me, Mulder? As a substitute for the
little sister you lost so long ago?"

"No, Scully, not like that. I love you. . .the way a
man loves a woman. The woman who's the other half of
his own soul. The one who's his one in five billion.
The one who's saved him and made him a whole person."

She smiles softly in the darkness as she hears the
familiar phrases. "Mulder?" she murmurs, but her tone
has a husky, sensual quality I've never heard in it


"Show me."

I roll her onto her back and loom above her, then
pause for just a moment, my eyes asking a question.
Making sure she's ready to cross the final line in our relationship. She smiles at me and slowly,
deliberately, runs her tongue along her lips. That's
all the encouragement I need.

I lower my lips to hers and slide my tongue inside her mouth. She returns the favor. Simply having Scully's tongue inside my mouth is enough, in and of itself, to drive me crazy. But she's also making this
inarticulate, barely audible, whimpering sound in the
back of her throat. I've never heard Scully - or any
woman, for that matter - make a sound like that
before, but apparently my reproductive organs are
capable of recognizing it even if my ears aren't. I
was pretty much aroused even before this point, but
now I'm instantly on full alert status.

I slide my hand down to her breasts and fumble briefly with the clasp of her bra, then toss the offending scrap of material to the floor. I trace the outlines of her breasts, drawing tiny, concentric circles spiraling in toward her nipples. When I reach them, I brush my fingers lightly across the tight buds, then repeat the process with my mouth. As my tongue flickers against her, Scully makes that *sound* again and I open my mouth wider to suck first one breast, then the other.

I start to move my mouth lower, wanting to taste her
more fully, but she stops me. "No, Mulder."

I'm startled. Then I remember that Scully is Catholic
and maybe she has a hang-up about this. And the only
two previous lovers she's ever had, to the best of my
knowledge, have been significantly older than she was
and might have had hang-ups of their own about this
act; of a generational, rather than religious, nature.

"You don't want me to?"

"I want to be able to see you, to look into your eyes
and kiss your face," she explains softly. "We can save that for next time."

Next time. It finally dawns on me that there is going
to be a next time. This isn't a one-night stand. For
years, I fantasized about getting to this point in my
relationship with Scully. But I always figured it
would take an "end of the world" type scenario to get
us here. That aliens would be invading, that
werewolves would be howling outside our window, that
I'd be on the brink of death, or she would.

"Okay," I say softly, bringing my mouth up to hers for another lingering kiss and sliding my fingertips
between her legs. She gasps and whimpers again as I
gently massage her.

"Mulder . .if you do that anymore, I'll come. And I
want you in me when that happens. Please!"

I nod and yank off my shorts, then do the same to her
panties. She spreads her legs and I kneel between her
thighs, slowly easing my cock into her wet, warm

"God, Scully, you're so tight!" I murmur as I push
gently in, groaning with pleasure.

"It's been. . .a long time, Mulder."

"If I'm hurting you, I'll stop."

"No, it's fine. Just keep it slow like this."

After a few more thrusts I find a soft, steady rhythm
that seems to work for both of us. Scully is smiling
at me, but she's also letting her hands and mouth go
wild. Stroking my face, my arms, my shoulders, my
back, my chest, my ass, my thighs. Kissing and
nibbling on the parts she can reach.

It occurs to me that there's no reason she should get
to have even more fun than I'm having, so I roll onto
my back without pulling out. She can be on top for a
while, I think, while my hands touch all those
previously forbidden zones. This nets me an unexpected response. As soon as I land on my back, I give one gentle thrust and Scully comes.

My God, does she come! Squeezing and pulsating around
me, soaking my cock and screaming my name. When she
finally winds down and is breathing somewhat normally
again, she stares at me with wide-eyed wonder. "Good
Lord, Mulder! That was incredible."

Getting Scully to say these words has been my goal for nearly seven years. Alien spaceships and bigfoot
sightings are incapable of wringing such a response
from her. My lovemaking, on the other hand, apparently is.

I grin, and thrust again, and the same phenomenon
happens in reverse. This time it's my own orgasm that
hits me like a freight train. When I'm once again
capable of rational thought - for all I know, hours
have passed - Scully smiles at me. Then she whispers,
"I love you," again and snuggles down for sleep
against my chest.

I want desperately to stay awake, indulge in some
afterglow cuddling and pillow talk, but I barely
manage to reply, "I love you, too," before I'm out
like a light.

The next morning I wake up with a feeling of euphoric
well-being unlike anything I have previously
experienced. I smile at the reason and reach for
Scully, only to find she's not there.

"Scully?" I call, peeking into the bathroom and then
going out into the living room. There's no answer, but a note with my name on it is propped up next to our teacups from last night.

I open it and read: "You looked so peaceful, I didn't
have the heart to wake you up. I went on into work.
See you there. Love, Scully."

It's not exactly what I would have hoped for -  I
would have preferred waking up with her beside me -
but it's not what I first feared when found her gone.
There's no indication that she views last night as a
mistake. She signs her name with love, which I take as a good sign.
It's mid-morning when I finally make it to our office; I had a stop to make on the way. Scully is sitting at her desk, sifting through some files. "Hi," she says with a smile that is sweet and almost shy.

"Good morning," I reply in my normal voice. Then,
stepping closer in case we are being spied on, I
whisper, "Why didn't you wake me up before you left?"

"I didn't have an atomic bomb handy, Mulder. You were
practically in a coma. Must have been jet lag."

"It wasn't jet lag, Doctor Scully, it was
post-orgasmic stupor."

She blushes at that then murmurs, "There was another
reason, too."

"Something you want to tell me?" I ask.

"Yes, but not here. Let's go out for a bit."

I nod. I just walked in the door five minutes ago, but dashing back out again won't be considered any more abnormal than the way I usually behave.

We walk for a while, then sit down on a park bench.
I'm beginning to get a little worried here.

"Scully, is something wrong?" I ask. Please, please
don't let her tell me last night is a mistake, I pray. I'm not sure who I'm praying to. . .Jesus, Buddha. . .anybody who's listening, I suppose.

"I'm not sure, Mulder," she says softly. "When I woke
up this morning I was feeling. . .strange."

"My God, Scully, did I hurt you?"

"No," she says softly, shaking her head. "At first, I
thought that's what it was. That I was just. . .sore
from our evening's activities. Like I said last night, it had been a long time for me. And you're a big boy, Mulder."

I give a quick smile at the compliment, but return to
more serious matters. "What is it then, Scully?"

"Mulder, do you know what mittleserch means?"

I'm quiet for a moment, searching my memory. It has
something to do with the female reproductive organs,
but I'm not quite sure. . ."Is it another word for
ovulation?" I ask.

"Not exactly," she says slowly. "It means 'middle
pain'; it's a feeling of brief but intense pain that
some women feel when they ovulate. It almost always
occurs first thing in the morning.  Most women don't
experience it, but I always used to. Ever since my
abduction, it hasn't happened; during that time, my
periods have been irregular -  most likely anovulatory cycles. This morning, for the first time in five years. . .I felt it."

"Scully, is that even possible? For you to regain your fertility?"

She sighs and smiles slightly. "A week ago, I would
have said no, Mulder. But, after all that's happened
these past few days. . .I don't know. Would you want
it to be?"

I take a deep breath and give what I hope is the right answer. "Scully, we've had some awful experiences over the years. More than our fair share of pain and disappointment. I lost my sister, years before we ever met. During our time together, you've lost your sister and father, I've lost both my parents, and we've nearly lost each other more than once. But if I could change one thing about our lives  - just one - it would be for you to regain your fertility. Because when those bastards stole my sister and killed my father and killed Melissa, they cut off our connections to our past. And that was bad enough. But when they stole your fertility they cut off our connections to the future; our ability to have children, the normal life you want so desperately for us to lead.  So, yes, I'd want it to be true. More than anything."

Scully is crying now, but smiling through her tears.
She doesn't say anything, just moves into my arms and
kisses me gently on the mouth. Guess it was the right
answer, after all.

When she finally regains control of herself I pull
something out of my pocket.

"What's that?" she asks.

"Something I stopped and picked up on the way into
work this morning. It's for you, but have to listen to the story behind it first."

"Is it another key chain? The box is about the right
size," she says with a smile.

"No, Scully, it's not a key chain. Now are you going
to listen to my story?"

"Yes, Mulder."

I grin and begin. "When I was a kid, I was always
close to my grandparents. Samantha and I both were. We got a lot more love and attention from them than we ever got from our mother and father. My grandfather died the summer before Samantha. . .disappeared. Nothing supernatural; he was an old man, his heart just gave out. That Christmas, when Samantha and Grandpa were both gone, we didn't have any kind of holiday celebration. But Grandma came to our house anyway. On Christmas morning, she told me that she and I had both lost the person we loved most in the world. She took the engagement ring my grandfather had given her off her finger and put it in my hand. She said I was to give it to Samantha if she ever came back; if she never did come back, I was to give to the person who I loved even more than Samantha."

"An old lady's engagement ring. Hardly a suitable
present for a 12-year-old boy," Scully murmurs.

"That was kind of what I thought," I admit. "I stuck
the ring in one of my dresser drawers, and forgot
about it for years. One summer, when I was home from
Oxford, it occurred to me that it was valuable, so I
rented a safe deposit box at my parents bank and left
the ring there. I didn't think about it much, just
paid the deposit fee on an annual basis and went about my business.  A few weeks ago, I went up to my
mother's house to clear it out so it could be sold. I
realized that, finally, I didn't have to hold onto the ring for Samantha anymore. I could go ahead and give it to you. Then I kind of chickened out, took it to my bank here and put it in a safe deposit box, waiting for the right time. This morning, I went by to pick it up.'

"Mulder, are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Scully asks softly.

"If you don't want to wear it on your left hand yet. . .if you think I'm rushing things. . .you can just wear it on your right hand for now. Or, heck, you can take it home and put it in *YOUR* dresser drawer. But the ring belongs to you, Scully. It wasn't ever really mine. My grandmother just wanted me to hold onto it, until we knew for sure who it belonged to, Samantha or someone else. Now that we know Samantha won't be claiming it. . .it's yours."

"Mulder," she says, "put the damned ring where it

I glance down to see she is holding out her hand. Her
left hand.