Title:  Wild Places  
Author:  Missy Pennington  
Rating:  NC-17  
Classification:  S, MSR  
Archive:  Gossamer yes.  Others please ask.  
  
Summary:  Sequel to "Tempest" and "Distance"  
  
  
Wild Places  
by Missy Pennington  
  
"The mind that I love must have wild places."  
--Katherine Mansfield  
  
  
Fox Mulder did his best thinking on the road.  It was  
surprising, really, how  easily the mysteries of the  
universe opened up to him when he settled in to yet  
another unfamiliar room for the night.  Of course  
some rooms were more unfamiliar than others; this  
one was downright foreign, not  even in the same  
universe as the dingy, roadside accommodations that  
usually served as shelter when he and Scully were on  
a case.  This one had foil-wrapped chocolates on the  
pillows and a fully stocked minibar in the corner -- at  
least it had been fully stocked when he arrived.    
Sprawled across the rumpled king sized bed, Mulder  
drained the last few drops out of the miniscule, seven- 
dollar bottle of club soda and dropped the empty  
container onto the floor with the other remains.   
 
It wasn't pretty, and he didn't give a damn.  If ever  
there was a night he deserved to feel sorry for himself,  
this was it; and since the Bulls' game was blacked out,  
he had turned to his second choice of mundane  
entertainment: snack food.  
 
 The Snickers Bars had been the first to go.  Food of  
the gods, ritually sacrificed for the sake of the greater  
good.  When that failed to appease the Furies, he'd  
moved on to the rest of the food.  The revelations  
began in earnest when he finished the six-dollar  
container of blueberry yogurt.  Halfway through the  
eighteen-dollar jar of olives, he was putting the  
finishing touches on his fool-proof plan for peace in  
the middle east.  By the time the four-dollar, Chicklet- 
sized box of raisins was gone, he'd rationalized the  
existence of several parallel universes and managed to  
come to grips with the fact that he was probably  
nothing more than a brain in a vat reacting to  
electrical impulses from an unknown source.    
 
It was the Milk Duds that finally brought  
enlightenment.  The little flattened balls of chocolate- 
covered caramel had ultimately proved the catalyst for  
insight, provoking a moment of perfect clarity,  
condensing all the knowledge of the universe into a  
single statement that Fox Mulder understood all too  
well:  fate loved a good laugh.  Usually at his expense.  
 
Mulder looked around the luxury accommodations, so  
far removed from the dives he and Scully were used  
to.  Forget the good laugh -- fate must have been  
absolutely hysterical over this one, he thought.  The  
one time in their history that his partner would have  
enjoyed the accommodations, and she wasn't there to  
share it.  
 
He cast a discerning eye around the room, half- 
heartedly cataloguing its contents from the pair of  
plush white complimentary robes in the closet to the  
miniature glass bottles of expensive shampoo and  
lotion.    
 
Enjoyed?  No.  Scully would have *loved* this.  
 
"Damn it."  He groaned in frustration as his body  
automatically went rigid on ScullyAlert.  Years of  
dancing around the subject.  Years worth of  
unfulfilled longing, restless nights and endless  
rationalization of the pros and cons of crossing that  
taboo, non-professional line with your partner.  And  
tonight, finally, they'd planned to put the matter to  
bed.  
 
Literally.  
 
Tonight, he should have been in Scully's arms, in her  
bed.  Instead he was lying alone on a mattress built for  
two, wallowing in self-pity, sporting a persistent  
erection that he resentfully refused to indulge, cursing  
the day nine years ago when FBI cadet Damon Wiles  
had saved his worthless hide.  
 
It was Wiles' fault he was here in this god-forsaken,  
luxury hotel.  Eight years without so much as a  
Christmas card, and the son of a bitch picked this day  
to call in his marker.  Bad timing or not, there had  
been no way Mulder could refuse.  Not after  
Baltimore...  
 
The shadows overhead began to move against the  
ceiling, phantom images projected from nowhere,  
playing out a scene in silhouette form.  A silent movie  
with a cast of young unknowns that looked eerily  
familiar to the audience of one below.  Mulder had the  
scene memorized, but he watched it again as it played  
through his mind.  
 
< EVERYBODY DOWN!  DON'T MOVE! >  
 
 <You too, asshole.  Hands behind your head!>  
 
 < AGH! >  
 
 < WILES! >  
 
 <The son of a bitch cut me! He's got a knife-- >  
 
 < I'm on him -- stay here! >  
 
 < MULDER!  BEHIND YOU! >  
 
 < BAM! >  
 
 The sound effects faded, and the shadows took a  
bow.  
 
Case closed.  
 
It was a classic tale of happily ever after, Mulder  
mused.  Bad guys lost, good guys won.  But one thing  
kept the story from being perfect.  For the past nine  
years, he'd owed Damon Wiles the ultimate debt of  
gratitude, and if there was any sort of creed  by which  
Fox Mulder lived, it was the idea that indebtedness  
sucked. It was the ultimate double-edged sword, a  
constant reminder that you were living in a state of  
grace bestowed upon you by the good will of another.   
Sure, it spoke of reprieve...but it also spoke of  
repayment.  And repayment, Mulder knew, was a  
bitch.  An ill-timed one at that.  
 
He looked at the clock.  It was 9:30.  Scully should be  
home by now, he thought.  He'd barely had two  
minutes to call her this morning with the news that he  
was on his way to Chicago, before he'd had to hang  
up and rush to make his flight.  After that, it seemed  
every minute had been filled with planes, meetings,  
and debriefings.  When he found time to call again,  
she hadn't been home.    
 
He didn't think she was angry. She'd seemed to take it  
pretty well, all things considered, though her  
disappointment was obvious.  He looked toward the  
plush white Hyatt Regency robes.  She'd be even  
more disappointed if she knew where Wiles had put  
him up for the night.  No, not disappointed, he  
amended silently.  She'd be on the next flight to  
Chicago, that's what she would be.  
 
On the next flight to Chicago?  
 
Mulder sat up and grabbed for the phone, his fingers  
moving automatically over the keypad.  The grating  
sound of a busy signal blared in his ear, and he  
slammed the phone down.  "Damn it."    
 
Maybe she *had* been upset and he just hadn't picked  
up on it.    
 
No, he would have known.  The few times Scully had  
been deeply, genuinely angry at him were burned into  
his brain, filed under "never do again."  But he was  
flying blind on this one, and he didn't know what the  
hell he was going to do if he'd really screwed things  
up.  They were in totally foreign territory, and  
evidently, Scully was in the lead.  
  
Scully...   His mind took the increasingly familiar path  
that started three weeks before, in the wake of a plane  
crash.  
 
Scully dangling helplessly over the side of a mountain,  
clinging to a makeshift rope of clothing.  He and  
Scully hiking endlessly through the Appalachians.   
Going to sleep with Scully curled up against his back  
in the glow of a campfire, and waking up with Scully  
stretched out fully on top of him in the light of early  
morning.  Scully in a ranger's watchtower, flirting  
unabashedly under the effects of a pain killer.  Scully  
wet and half dressed, sitting by the river.  Scully  
seated between his legs, her head tilted back in  
pleasure as he carefully worked the tangles from her  
clean, damp hair.  Scully kissing him, her soft cries  
urging him on.  Scully underneath him, moaning his  
name...  
 
His body was aching for release, his cock throbbing  
incessantly. And every time he closed his eyes, he  
could feel the lingering softness of Dana Scully's  
beautiful mouth as if their last kiss had been this  
morning instead of three weeks ago in the Tennessee  
wilderness.  
 
Unable to relax, he tried pacing, but the room was too  
small.  He doubled back and forth twice with the pent  
up energy of a caged animal, and then the minibar  
caught his eye again.  Was there anything left?  He  
padded barefoot to the corner and opened the small  
storage unit for the fiftieth time.  
 
One can of V-8 and a small red apple.  
 
Shit.  
 
Served Wiles right, he thought, reaching for the apple;  
he hoped the bill was enormous. 
 
His mouth closed over the small red fruit.    
Small...red. Fitting, he thought.  He couldn't even  
taste it.   Whoever said food was a substitute for sex  
had obviously never made plans to explore the  
delights of Special Agent Dana Scully; there was no  
comparison.  His stomach rebelled against any further  
snacking, and he tossed the uneaten apple over his  
shoulder with disgust, ignoring the fact that it rolled  
under the dresser.    
 
Fuck it, he thought.  Fuck everything.  
 
Everything, that is, except the beautiful redhead  
waiting for you in Georgetown.  
 
There was no justice in the world.  None at all.  
 
The shrillness of the phone interrupted his private pity  
 
party and he answered it with no thought to etiquette,  
grabbing the receiver as though he wanted to choke it.   
"Mulder," he growled.  
 
"My," the female voice on the other end replied.  "A  
little on edge tonight, Mulder?"  
 
His heart skipped a beat. "Scully?"  
 
Her low, quiet voice sent another surge of desire  
through him.  "Yeah," she confirmed.  "It's me."  
 
God, that voice.  He lived for the sound of that voice.    
He stood beside the night table, thumb hooked  
casually in the pocket of his jeans, letting the tension  
ebb from his body as if a release valve had just been  
opened.  There was light in his dark world once more.   
He breathed deeply, imagining he could detect the  
slightest trace of fragrance.  
 
"How are things in Chicago?"  
 
"Noisy.  How'd you know where to find me?" he  
asked.  
 
"I'm a resourceful woman, didn't you know?"  
 
"I do know.  But you still surprise me sometimes."  
 
"Only sometimes?" He could hear the smile in her  
voice. "I'll have to work on that.  I'd hate to think the  
mystery's gone already. "By the way..." she drawled,  
"Agent Wiles asked me to pass along his heartfelt  
apology for causing you to miss out on your chance  
to have long-overdue sex tonight."   
 
Wha...?  He froze.  
 
?I'm kidding!  Mulder, I'm kidding," she laughed. "I  
told him I was your partner and I needed to get in  
touch with you.  That's all."  
 
He could hear her still chuckling on the other end of  
the line, and he made a mental note to retaliate.   
Laugh it up, Scully.  Remind me to call your mother  
for a verbal okay before we reschedule our plans.  
 
"You really *are* on edge tonight."  
 
"Aren't you?"  
 
"Yes, but I'm trying not to be."  
 
"Me too, it's just not working."  He sat down on the  
edge of the bed and scooted back against the  
headboard to get comfortable.   
 
Comfortable...that was a laugh.  Sitting alone on a  
bed that screamed for wild, abandoned sex, listening  
to the incredibly erotic voice of the woman he should  
have been having wild, abandoned sex *with*, and  
wearing jeans that were becoming more and more  
constricting by the second.  Comfortable was not an  
option.  
 
Oblivious to his predicament, Scully was continuing  
the conversation.  "How is your profile coming?"  
 
"It's not," he sighed, his mind reluctantly turning back  
toward the disturbed psyche he'd spent the day  
exploring.  "I had a preliminary done, based on the  
case files that Wiles faxed me at the airport.  I worked  
it up on the plane.  Real gut-wrenching stuff; I can see  
why they're desperate to catch this guy.  He's  
definitely escalating."  
 
"Bad case?"  
 
"Yeah.  Three victims in three weeks now.   
Kids...boys.  I'll spare you the details."  
 
"Thank you."  
 
"Anyway, when I got to the office, everything was in  
chaos...a fax from Dallas about the MO that may tie in  
two previously unrelated cases in Texas."  
 
"When will you know?"  
 
"Lab results are supposed to come FedEx in the  
morning; hopefully they won't be a match.  If they are,  
I'll have to start over from page one--timing, age,  
background, territoriality...it's all gonna change.  The  
Texas victims are both females.  Teenage.  Killed in  
`87.  Totally at odds with the suspect I've worked up  
on paper.  But I gotta admit from the coroner's report,  
it looks like the same sick bastard."  
 
"I'm sorry."  
 
He frowned.  "For what?"  
 
"For bringing it up.  Must be hard to stop thinking  
about it."  
 
"Today it's been hard to stop thinking about a lot of  
things."  You.  Naked.  Wrapped around me.  Eyes  
closed in ecstasy.  That sound you make in the back  
of your throat when you're crazy with passion.  
 
"Bad day huh?"  
 
He snapped back to reality.  "Yeah, well...I've had  
better."  
 
"Wanna talk about it?"  
 
"Well for starters, my head is throbbing."  
 
"Mmm.  Have you taken anything?"  
 
"For what?"  
 
"For the headache."  
 
"Who said I have a headache?"  
 
She was quiet for a moment, then responded dryly, "If  
you're looking for sympathy, Mulder, you're looking  
in the wrong place.  I'm the one who got stood up  
when you decided to head to Chicago, you know."  
 
There was no malice in her words, only teasing, but  
he felt the urge to apologize anyway.  "I know.  I'm  
sorry."  He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then trailed his  
hand over his jaw, rubbing across the stubble he  
hadn't bothered to shave.  "I had to.  I've known Wiles  
since we were in the Academy together.  And I owed  
him."  
 
"I know," she told him, her words softer this time.   
 
"You told me.  And it's okay.  If he saved your life  
once, then I owe him too."  
 
Her words washed over him like a cleansing rain, and  
he leaned his head against the wall, shutting his eyes  
to everything, concentrating only on the sound of her  
voice.  It was one of the countless things he loved  
about her.  Dana Scully had the most amazing voice.   
Just the sound of it over a telephone wire was enough  
to make him feel her presence keenly.  It was low and  
soft.  Steady.  Calm.  Listening to Scully -- *really*  
listening to her -- was like losing himself in the heady  
seduction of a well-sung torch song.  
 
Dancing.  Bodies pressed tightly against each other.   
The slow, easy movement of quiet passion and the  
exquisite promise of so much to follow...  
 
"Besides," she continued, "as it turns out, I have  
something important to do this weekend anyway."  
 
That got his attention.  His eyes snapped open.  "Oh?   
More important than long-overdue sex?"  
 
She chuckled.  "I didn't say *more* important.  Just  
important.  Since you're not going to be here, it's a  
moot point anyway, don't you think?"  
 
"Okay, I'll bite.  What's up?  Do I get to know?"  
 
"As a matter of fact," she said coyly, "it concerns  
you."  
 
"Oh?" he asked, genuinely intrigued by her buoyed  
enthusiasm.  
 
"Well...I had a doctor's appointment today, and my  
leg has healed faster than anyone expected."  
 
He waited for her to continue, even though he knew  
where this was leading, and a feeling of dread began  
to pool in his stomach.  
 
"I got a green light from my doctor to return to active  
duty on Monday."  
 
Back.  She was coming back already.  So much  
sooner than he expected...too soon.  She wasn't ready.   
 
Or maybe she was.   But he wasn't.  
 
"That's great," he told her, summoning up as much  
enthusiasm as he could.  He couldn't suppress the  
memory of the savage cut that had nearly cost his  
partner her leg.   The cut that had nearly cost him  
everything.  
 
"It's great, but...?" she prompted.  
 
"But what," he asked, knowing already that she had  
picked up on his hesitation.  
 
"Mulder, I can read you like a book.  Let's have it."  
 
Damn, she was good.   I'll take lying through my teeth  
for five hundred, Alex.  "No buts, Scully...I'm thrilled  
you're coming back to work.  It's weird out here  
without someone to second guess me on a regular  
basis."  
 
"But?"  
 
She didn't bite.  Did she ever?  "Okay.  But..."  He  
took a deep breath.  "It just seems awfully soon.  I  
mean...I saw that cut.  I dressed it.  You couldn't even  
walk, Scully; I carried you into your apartment when  
we got home.  Now it's only been three weeks.  Are  
the doctors really sure you're ready?"  
 
"Almost four weeks," she corrected.  "And yes,  
they're really sure.  Well...a few of them were *really*  
sure.  The others were eventually...convinced."  
 
"And you were the one who convinced them?" he  
pressed.   "I had a valid professional medical opinion  
on the matter."  
 
He didn't let her off the hook.  "And?"  
 
"And...ultimately they were unanimous in signing off  
on the paperwork."  
 
"Okay," he conceded.  "So you were like a dog with a  
bone until they were all unanimous.  I'm still not  
convinced, but okay.  What does that have to do with  
your plans for weekend?"  
 
She paused, and he could picture her searching for the  
right words, her forehead wrinkled, her bottom lip  
between her teeth.  She was searching for a way to  
tell him something he wasn't going to like.  It was a  
strategy on her part:  how to phrase it to elicit the  
least vehement response from him. Damn, she was  
frustrating.  It was like pulling information out of a  
recalcitrant child.  
 
"Well...the Bureau, isn't quite convinced I'm ready for  
field work."  
 
Score one for the Bureau, he mentally noted.  A first  
in his book.  "Well that's no big surprise there," he  
cracked.  "How many times have you and I been  
injured in the line of duty, Scully?  And how many  
times have they made coming back to work easy and  
pleasant?  Every paper-pushing asshole in personnel  
lives for red tape; that can't be a surprise to you."    
 
"No, it's not," she conceded.  "But because of the  
depth of the cut and the threat of serious muscle  
damage, they want to be certain that I didn't suffer  
any permanent physical impairment."  
 
"What does that mean?" he asked.  
 
"They're making me pass a physical and a strength test  
before personnel will change my status."  
 
"A strength test?"  That was a new one.  
  
"Flexibility.  Stamina.  Self defense.  That sort of  
thing.  God knows the Bureau isn't about to clear an  
agent for field work with the slightest doubt as to  
whether or not they're fit for duty.  `That, Agent  
Scully,'" she deadpanned, sounding for all the world  
like a mindless, bureaucratic desk jockey, "`...would  
open up the Bureau to the threat of legal action,  
should a field agent not be able to react quickly  
enough to defend himself in a hazardous situation.'"  
 
He snorted appreciatively.  "Did you have a translator  
with you?"  
 
"Bottom line: I don't pass a physical, I don't come  
back to work.  It sounded more life-threatening  when  
they said it."  
 
"So that's the important thing you have planned this  
weekend?"  
 
"Yes," she told him, sounding reluctant.  "I'll be at the  
gym all day Saturday and Sunday."  
 
His mind detoured.  Scully in work out clothes,  
glistening with perspiration, muscles moving  
sensuously in repetitive motion...  
 
His aroused body hardened even more, causing him to  
grit his teeth.  God, he was desperate.  He wanted to  
hit something.  
 
No.  That wasn't what he wanted.  He wanted Scully.   
Hitting something would have just been an added  
bonus.  This entire night was torment.  He was here,  
she was there.  Just the sound of her breath reaching  
him through the receiver was driving him toward  
orgasm.  
 
He had to make it home this weekend.  "You know,  
Scully," he said, purposely lowering his voice, "if I  
can make it home tomorrow night we could spend the  
weekend working out together."  
 
She processed the statement silently before replying,  
"I don't know, Mulder.  How long has it been since  
you were on the mat?  I may need someone with  
more...recent...experience under their belt."  
 
He closed his eyes and counted to ten.  His lower  
body continued to throb uncomfortably.  Finally, he  
reached his hand downward, desperate to ease the  
ache.  "I can tell you for a fact, Scully," he said,  
catching his breath slightly at the feel of his own  
undeniable need.  "I have plenty of experience under  
my belt."  
 
His hand rubbed lightly against his erection through  
the worn denim fabric of his jeans.  Had he ever been  
this desperate for sex?  Three weeks without just her  
*presence,* and he felt like a soldier on wartime  
deployment.  His palm pressed a little harder,  
increasing the friction, and he bit his bottom lip.  
 
He could come so easily.  His hand...Scully's low  
seductive voice.  He was dangerously close.  And if  
she knew what she was doing to him...what he was  
doing to himself, while talking to her, the implication  
of a cheap, phone-sex thrill would be unforgivable.   
He shifted his position on the mattress, trying half- 
heartedly to gain control of himself, but the movement  
only brought his crotch into tighter contact with the  
inseam of his Levi's.  Nearly breathless, he tried for  
small talk.  "So...how are things in DC?"  
 
He winced the second the words were out.  Okay,  
how lame was that?  Lying here with a monumental  
erection, talking to Dana Scully about the weather.  
 
Scully didn't laugh.  He could hear her settling in for  
comfort against the sound of creaking wood.  She  
was in bed, he realized  God, did he really need to  
know that?   She made a few indecipherable noises  
before she finally answered him, sounding strangely  
short of breath.   "Things in...DC, Mulder, are...kind  
of wet at the moment."  
 
Not what he expected.  He fumbled for the button of  
his jeans, trying to formulate a coherent reply.   
"Well...we were due for the rain, I guess."  
 
"I didn't say it was raining."   

He heard the small catch of breath that punctuated 
her statement, and it pushed him over the edge.  His 
hand moved slowly back and forth against his aching 
cock, and he could barely suppress a groan.  Fuck it.  
He was too far gone.  
  
Ten seconds of experienced maneuvering, and he was  
free, kicking jeans and boxers both to the foot of the  
bed in a pile of constricting cloth.  He leaned back,  
naked, and tucked the phone into the crook of his  
neck, his hands free to roam his body.  
  
He shouldn't do this, his conscience chided him.  The  
mere idea of Scully conversing casually, keeping him  
company long-distance, oblivious to the fact that he  
was getting off, should have kept him from going  
through with it.    
 
He was lost at the first touch of his own hand.  He  
had no willpower, he told himself; he was a man.  Not  
that the argument was valid, but he was desperate  
enough grasp the easy out.  Scully didn't have to  
know.  Surely he could do this...quietly?  
  
Inconspicuously?  
  
Hell, it wasn't like they were going to discuss it, right?  
 
He pushed aside the niggling guilt and concentrated  
more intently on the sound of her voice, trailing his  
fingers up his stomach to his chest, tracing small  
circles around one nipple, imaging it was her hand  
that carressed him.  
  
He didn't know how much time had passed before he  
realized she had stopped speaking.  
  
Oh God.  
  
She knew.  Did she know?  Why was she so quiet?  
  
He cleared his throat half heartedly, so she would  
know he was still there.  From her end of the line, he  
could hear movement, but nothing else.    
"Everything okay?" he asked finally.  
  
"Yes!" she responded quickly, almost as if she'd been  
startled.  "I'm here.  Everything's...fine. 
So... Mulder..."  
  
"...Yeah?" he answered, praying he could keep up a  
pretense of coherent conversation.  
  
Scully's voice was suspiciously shaky.  "How is it for  
you out there, going it alone?"  
 
He opened his eyes in surprise.  Was that an obvious  
sexual comment, or was he only imagining her play on  
words?  Surely Scully wouldn't...   
 
Would she?  
  
His fingers reached downward again, grazing lightly  
across his penis.  His eyes closed heavily again and he  
forced himself to respond casually.  "It's...hard.   
Harder than I expected, but I'm...managing it."     
 
God, he couldn't believe he just said that.  What if he  
was wrong?  What if he offended her with his blatent  
innuendo.  He tried to backtrack.  "Um...how is it for  
you?"  
  
"It's been...repetitive, mostly," she almost whispered.   
"I feel like I've just been going through the motions."  
 
Jesus Christ.  He was right.  She was right here with  
him.  
 
"In fact," she continued, "it's really almost mindless at  
times...things I can do in my sleep."  
 
The game was in full swing.  He grazed his thumb  
across the tip of his penis, feeling the moisture.   
"Well," he ground out, "sometimes a...slow and  
steady... pace can be...good.  It's easier to...keep  
things in hand."  
 
Her breath caught, and she didn't reply for a few  
seconds, allowing his imagination to roam freely into  
an erotic Scully playland.  "Maybe," she admitted  
finally.  "But after a while...trust me, you're...more  
than...ready for..."   She gasped.  "Fast and furious."  
  
He wanted to touch her.  He could hear the soft,  
private sounds of her passion, and he ached to trail his  
fingers across her soft, pale skin.  Down the  
smoothness of her back, across the contour of her  
bottom, over the rising curve of her hip and around  
her pelvic bone...down lower until his hand was at the  
apex of  her thighs.   
 
Mulder's hand moved lower still, seeking her core, his  
fingers slipping inside her body to find the warm, wet  
evidence of her arousal, finding his own instead.   The  
fantasy blended seamlessly.  Her hand, his own, her  
touch evoking the shivers that expelled his ragged  
breath into the phone for her to hear. He heard her  
moan softly, not knowing, not caring anymore if she  
was responding to him or to herself.  It ceased to  
matter.  She moaned again, and he repeated his  
movements, urging her on through his mounting  
passion, enticing his own body as she responded  
hundreds of miles away.  
  
He felt the image of her body shudder, felt it as his  
own orgasm overwhelmed him.  For a long moment,  
there was only the sound of labored breathing from  
the receiver, then her voice, as she sought his  
presence.    
 
"Mulder?" Her voice was hoarse.  
 
"Jesus," he murmured, settling further into the bed,  
cradling the receiver against his neck.  
 
"I know."  
 
There was no mention of the shared intimacy.  No  
denial or affirmation of things that were thought and  
done.  Just quiet acceptance of the moment, and  
reverence for the barrier that shattered in the wake of  
shared privacy.  
 
They were silent for another moment, content with  
nothing more than the awareness of each other's  
company.  He had no idea what to say.  It was one of  
the most erotic encounters he'd ever had.  And it  
wasn't nearly enough.   
 
It wasn't in the same ball park as nearly enough. Not  
in the same universe.  And it never would be until he  
could hold her. Until he could make love to her while  
they were actually in the same city.  
 
"Mulder?" Scully asked finally.  
 
"Hmm?"  The sound of her voice, still thick with  
passion, saying his name made him ache with the  
loneliness of what had just transpired.  
 
"What side of the bed are you on?"  
 
He had to look to be sure.  "Right.  You?"  
 
"Left."   Neither of them commented, and he  
contemplated the mental picture they presented.  She  
yawned quietly.  
 
"Want to sleep?" he asked.  
 
"I should," she whispered, suddenly sounding as  
lonely has he felt.  
 
"Me too."  
 
"So...I guess I'll look for you on Monday?"  
 
He nodded, as if she could see him.  "I'll be home  
sooner if I can."  
 
He felt, rather than saw, her nod in reply.  "I'll see you  
Monday."  
 
Don't hang up.  Don't hang up.  I need to say...  
 
"Scully?"  
 
Silence.  "Yeah?"  
 
"Goodnight."   You coward.  
 
"Goodnight, Mulder."  
 
He heard the soft snick of the line disconnecting, and  
then the harsh, offending drone of the dial tone,  
severing the last of his contentment.  He placed the  
receiver in the cradle and turned off the nearest lamp,  
sliding over to the clean, unwrinkled side of the bed,  
away from the light of the  remaining lamp in the  
corner.  He didn't feeling like walking over to turn it  
off.  
 
His mind raced through the countless possibilities that  
tomorrow might hold.  Maybe, if he was lucky, he  
could get back to DC by Sunday.  Maybe he could  
make it.  Maybe...if it all came together...if there were  
no surprises, his preliminary profile would stand up.   
He could hand the paperwork over to Wiles and head  
for the airport.  Home by 6:00.  In Scully's arms by  
7:00.   So simple.  
 
So simple if not for the souls of two dead girls in  
Texas, crying out for justice, and two shattered  
families he didn't know looking to him for closure.  
There was no decision to be made; he would do what  
had to be done.  He always did.  The fact that he was  
in Chicago at all was proof of that.  
 
It was never simple.  
  
He raised his arm over his eyes, shielding himself from  
the offending light of the lamp, cursing the fact that  
there was no way in hell he would be back in DC  
before Monday.  It wasn't pessimistic; it was realistic.   
The way his luck had been running lately, the whole  
idea of something going right at this point was utterly  
laughable.  
 
Yet luckily, at that moment, Fox Mulder -- profiler,  
psychologist, and part-time philosopher -- forgot one  
very important fact that had the ability to tilt his world  
on its axis:  fate loved a good laugh.  
 
Usually at his expense.  
 
 <end>   
  
  
Author's note:  Yes, I know I said this would be the  
final gratification story to wrap up "Tempest" and  
"Distance."  What can I tell you...I got sidetracked by  
the idea of a fourth story.  The good news is that the  
fourth story is WELL underway and there is a 100%  
chance that Mulder and Scully will at LAST be  
successful in their efforts to get it together.  Any  
encouragement sent to Joseechung@aol.com will  
definitely help speed things along.   Thanks for  
reading.  :)