Fade, by Ann K

For summary, disclaimers, etc., see chapter one. Author's notes at 
the end of chapter 6.

www.geocities.com/annhkus

4/6 

Chapter Four


I.

"I'm a little worried about all this, Lyon. How often do you go 
around wining and dining women?" They sat together on a plaid 
blanket he grabbed from the cab of his truck near the large lake. 
It was late afternoon, and Scully smiled at the handful of children 
who played near the water, their parents sitting a discreet 
distance behind them. It was all so normal, and idyllic, that it 
made her forgot about the uncertainty, the turmoil she felt as she 
glanced at Lyon out of the corner of her eye. At Mulder.

He wrinkled his brow and sighed loudly, making a show of seriously 
considering her question. She couldn't help her laughter at his 
antics. While he was quiet and thoughtful at times, he could also 
be quick-witted and sarcastic. So many of his qualities were the 
same. He made her smile, and she needed someone to do that for her. 
"You might just be the first," he answered, taking the last bite of 
his sandwich and turning to prop himself up on one elbow, looking 
at her with a grin. "Why? Am I doing okay?"

He was doing more than okay. After a few awkward moments when they 
left the motel, when Scully suggested they stop for sandwiches and 
Mulder ordered for her, leaving off the onions and mustard, just 
the way she always liked it, they had settled into a comfortable 
companionship, one where they simply didn't ask awkward questions. 
As they bounced along the road to the town lake, Scully 
unconsciously slid closer to Lyon on the seat. He drove with a 
tranquil assurance, navigating the roads with simple ease, and she 
half-expected him to drape his arm over the seat behind her, like 
they were high school sweethearts without a care in the world. She 
was not surprised to find that she was pressed up against his thigh 
by the time they arrived.

"You are doing quite well, Lyon. That makes me wonder where you 
have gotten to be so good at this, or if I'm just getting lucky." 
The unintentional double meaning of her words caused her to blush, 
and Lyon watched her with a widening grin. "Maybe we are both 
getting lucky," he said, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of 
hair behind her ear. 

Without thinking, she reached for his hand as he pulled away, 
bringing it to her lips and kissing it softly.

He cleared his throat, and sat with his fingers lightly touching 
her cheek for another few seconds before he got to his feet. 
"Actually, I've got one more surprise for you," he said, pulling 
her up to stand next to him. Folding up the blanket as he walked to 
the truck, she laughed to see him turn around with two melting ice 
cream cones in his hand. "I got them at the café on our way out. 
They are a little soft, but I think we can manage."

Who was this person, who remembered the way she ate her turkey 
sandwiches, but did not remember her name? Who accepted her kisses, 
but could not recall their first embrace? She was confused, and 
felt a little lost in front of this man, who had always been 
complicated and somewhat difficult, but now was even more shrouded 
in mystery.

But rediscovering Mulder as Will Lyon was an emotional journey as 
well. She wondered vaguely about testing his blood, matching his 
fingerprints, doing something so that she could wave hard proof in 
front of his face, evidence that she was right. It didn't seem 
important. She knew, and she clung to that, just as she fell in 
love all over again.

She accepted the outstretched offering of melting vanilla, and they 
began to walk around the lake, settling into an easy stride. Mulder 
had always seemed one step ahead of her, his lanky legs covering 
more ground than she could manage in a single step. It seemed that 
either her legs had gotten longer, or he was simply moving a little 
slower. Life in general seemed to be moving slower. She decided she 
liked it that way.

The landscape was startling in its beauty, even seen with the 
fading afternoon sunlight. The lake was surrounded by fields of 
green, tinged with gold, and beyond them, a scattering of pine 
trees and undergrowth. A barbwire fence marked the property to her 
left, and, beyond that, she saw a crumbling home and the remnants 
of a few small houses.

As they walked further away from the laughter and splashing of the 
children at the lake, Scully became aware of a deceptive stillness, 
a quiet that masked the sounds of nature that surrounded them. She 
decided she liked it here, the easy ambience, the fact that there 
was so little between her and the sky. And the fact that Mulder was 
here to share it with her.

"How long have you lived here, Lyon?" she asked tentatively. The 
question seemed safe, and normal, but she was hoping he would give 
her the answers she was looking for, somehow. She was also hoping 
his voice would distract her from the way he was licking the 
melting ice cream from the cone.

"Only a few months," he answered, reaching with his tongue to snag 
a stray wisp of cream on his upper lip. Her eyes darted to his 
lips, and then she forced them ahead, watching the path in front of 
them. Pay attention, Scully. "I came here to work for the Wilkins. 
They have been very good to me." He looked like he wanted to say 
more, and finally offered, "I'm not a very easy man to get along 
with. I wish I were, but I'm not. For some reason, even when I try, 
I always assume the worst about people."

His statement was stark in its sadness, and she frowned, reaching 
out to hold his free hand with her own. "And what about me, Lyon? 
What did you assume about me?" She was touched by his 
embarrassment, but he admirably stumbled ahead, trying to choose 
the right words. 

"I didn't know what to assume about you, Scully. Maybe that's what 
made you so damn appealing."

God, he was beautiful. How had she lived for the past nine years 
without his companionship? 

"This all used to be part of a ranch," Lyon said, watching as she 
gazed out upon the fields. "That was the main house there, and the 
cabins behind it were for the farmhands." There was an unexpected 
melancholy in his voice, and he saw the question in her eyes. "I 
like the way things are here, Scully. Simple and uncomplicated. 
It's a give and take relationship with the land. You only take so 
much, and then you give back. People can make their lives so 
complicated, searching for an answer, something that doesn't exist, 
when they don't have to." 

She didn't know what to say in response to those words. The Mulder 
she once knew and loved would have argued that the search was all 
that mattered, that the truth defined us. He would never have said 
that a search for the truth was useless. This Mulder, older and 
more disillusioned, if that were possible, was different, wiser, 
wary. She filed the fact away for future use, along with the 
growing stockpile of things she was learning about this new Mulder.

She worried, anxious that the changes in Mulder, however they came 
about, were too great to overcome, that he could never accept her 
and their past. Although he may have forgotten, she remembered 
everything, every single moment they were together. Yet, as she 
stood next to him, holding in his hand in an unstated moment of 
trust, she knew none of it mattered. Not enough to change how much 
she loved him.

"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Scully," he 
said gently. "You shouldn't be unhappy." 

She shook her head, wanting him to understand. "Not unhappy, Lyon," 
she confessed. "Just overwhelmed. I am just trying to reconcile my 
past with my present. And my future." He watched her, his eyes 
patient, revealing nothing. "It's funny that, in some version, you 
are in all three."

That brought a smile from him, and they continued their walk, 
ambling slowly back towards the truck. She called him Lyon, the 
name he swore by, but in her heart, he was always Mulder. More than 
once during the day, she started to tell him something, stopping 
herself when she realized what name she was about to use. He said 
he was Lyon, and for now, she would bide her time, calling him 
whatever he wished. 

"Tell me about your son, Scully." Her breath caught in her chest, 
and she prayed for guidance, to chose the right words. Will wasn't 
just her son. He was their son. Even if Lyon didn't know it. She 
was struck again by the irony, how this man had a young son miles 
away, a boy that he never knew existed, a boy who adored his 
memory. She vaguely wondered how Will would react to the real 
person, if he would even get the opportunity to find out. She had 
to make sure he did, for both Mulder and Will. 

"William is a wonderful boy," she began. "Smart, curious, 
inquisitive. Respectful, for the time being. He would be in heaven 
here. He loves to ride horses. He's got horse pictures all over his 
wall, and gallops down the hallway to breakfast in the morning. I 
think he would live in a barn if I would let him." The thoughts of 
Will made her sad, and she stopped, picturing him miles away, 
wondering why his mother was traipsing over the country looking for 
his father. He deserved better.

"Is he like his father?" Lyon's question was unexpected, and, as 
she peeked up at his face, he looked away, intently studying the 
tree line in the distance. The question was a weighted one, and she 
didn't know how to respond. He has your eyes, she thought, and your 
pensive stare when he was contemplating a problem. He has your long 
fingers, and your sarcastic wit. He is your son in every way. 

"Yes," she answered instead. "Very much so."   

"And you, Scully? If you don't gallop horses alongside Will for a 
living, what do you do?" He was so curious, and she wanted to 
answer every question for him, so she tried to ignore the surreal 
nature of the moment, telling Mulder all these things he should 
already know.

In truth, she prayed to see a flicker of recognition in his eyes 
after her response.

"Pre-FBI, I was a doctor. Post-FBI, I am a doctor. When I was with 
the Bureau, I carried a gun and chased bad guys." With you by my 
side.

He nodded knowingly. "I can see you as both. Healing the sick, 
righting the wrong. I just—" He shook his head, searching for the 
truck keys in his pocket. 

"What, Lyon?" she urged. Tell me. Say the words I need to hear. 

"I'm trying to imagine being alongside you," he ultimately offered, 
"chasing monsters in the darkness."

Oh, Mulder. You were always by my side.

There was nothing else to say as he opened the door for her, and 
Scully slid into the truck. As he sat beside her, closing the door 
against the darkness, she felt safe. She had the missing piece of 
the puzzle beside her, the one person she needed to make everything 
right. Even if the looks had changed, even if the edges were worn, 
it was still the crucial link.

So she kissed him, and stopped running. Stopped running towards the 
truth, and stopped running away from the loneliness. She found what 
she needed.

"Scully?" he asked, pulling away from her. "Do you trust me?" 

She nodded in response. "Of course I do, Lyon." 

He was pleased with her answer, and turned the key in the ignition. 
"Good. Then let's go riding."


II.

He could tell by the apprehension in her eyes that Scully was 
having second thoughts about her decision. He led Beau out of the 
stall, and tried to see the dapple-grey gelding through Scully's 
eyes. He could imagine the horse looked huge. But she bit her lip 
as the horse walked up beside her, and reached up to stroke the 
short mane. "Big horse," she finally said, and he smiled. How could 
he keep falling more and more in love with this woman at each 
passing moment?

"Hey, Scully," he said, leaning down to kiss her as he led Beau 
outside. Her lips were so soft, and he could have stayed there, 
kissing her for hours, if Beau hadn't thrown his head up and 
snorted into the evening air. "It'll all turn out okay," he finally 
murmured as he pulled away. "I know," she said, and he was amazed. 
That he was loved, that he was trusted, that he had found this 
beautiful woman who cared for him so much.

"How did Will get started riding?" he asked, pulling the saddle and 
blanket off the rack near the front of the barn and tossing them on 
Beau's broad back. "Seems a little unusual for the urban wilderness 
of the East Coast." Scully's expression softened at the mention of 
her son, and he was touched again by her devotion to Will. He 
imagined her as a mother, caring and loving. It wasn't hard to do. 

"It's a long story," she said. "I had no idea what I was getting us 
all into with a five-dollar pony ride."

Scully was a fascinating mixture of power and frailty. It was what 
drew him to her from the moment he first saw her, at Joe's. The 
more time he spent with her that day, time that he savored as 
precious, the more he became aware of a worn quality about her, a 
weariness with the world and its games. He recognized it easily, 
because he wore the same face, the same mask of disinterest in the 
name of self-preservation. 

Had she always been like this, this controlling, this hard, this 
sad? He didn't want to imagine what had caused this change in her, 
because he instinctively knew that Mulder had been a part of it. 
And, although she hadn't said the words, Scully still believed he 
was Mulder. He wasn't Mulder. He simply couldn't be Mulder. But 
there was such a natural connection between he and Scully, things 
that he instinctively knew she liked and that she didn't, phrases 
that she said which caused him to rack his brain, trying to figure 
out when he heard the words before. He never believed in soulmates, 
or reincarnation, or karma. Life was what you saw. 

Scully was beginning to change his outlook, all of it, and that 
frightened him.

"Are you the only one riding tonight, Lyon?" she asked, reining in 
his wavering thoughts. She had an impish smile, one that had 
bestowed upon him often that day. But he had a feeling her smiles 
were rare, probably only reserved for her son. He felt blessed 
everytime she conferred one upon him. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Scully?" he teased, reaching under 
the horse to grab the loose end of the cinch. "Actually, I thought 
you and I would ride together. You might feel safer that way."

He lightly kneed Beau near the cinch, as the stubborn gelding had a 
habit of holding his breath whenever he was saddled, causing the 
saddle to be loose when a rider mounted. Lyon was so focused on his 
task that he missed Scully's response to his words, the way she 
squeezed her eyes shut as he told her he wanted her to feel safe. 
Little did he know that simply by being around her, she was.

"It's easier if you mount first," he said, looping Beau's reins 
over the fence and crouching down, holding his fingers laced 
together for her. Her shoes were practical, but not riding boots. 
They looked like something she would choose: a medium heel, sturdy, 
but somehow still sexy and appealing. He had never given women's 
footwear much thought, but, as Scully placed one shoe in his hand 
and hoisted herself up in the air, swinging her other leg over the 
saddle, he thought he might have been missing out. 

She didn't look frightened alone on top of the horse, nor anxious. 
Not even uncomfortable. Instead, she in some way managed to look 
alluring, peering down at him in the dusk, waiting for him to join 
her. As he did, settling easy into the worn leather, he realized 
this might have been a very bad idea. Not the riding, as he wanted 
to show Scully parts of the land that were best accessed by 
horseback.

While it may have been easier for them both to ride one horse, 
rather than worrying about her on another, her weight pressing 
against his groin was instantly arousing, and he closed his eyes, 
trying to regain control of the moment. As she moved against him in 
an attempt to get comfortable, he almost lost control. "Hold still 
for a minute," he said, his voice short. But it betrayed him, as he 
heard the tone of arousal and need, and knew that she did, too.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked, hesitant, and distinctively 
amused. 

He barked a short laugh. "Damn, Scully, you make a man think some 
very improper thoughts." That seemed please her, even though it was 
nothing but the truth.

Beau walked easy down the dirt road, leading past the Wilkins' 
house and the barn and towards the open fields. The cattle were 
quiet tonight, standing motionless in the darkness, and he saw 
their dark shadows looming on either side of them. He knew they 
were an audience to something very significant, whatever it was 
that was happening between he and Scully. 

Scully's body shifted vaguely in rhythm with the horse's gait, and 
he allowed his hips to rotate slightly against her. "Will would be 
incredibly impressed if he could see me now," she announced. 

"You've ridden with him?" he asked, curious about her son and how 
Scully interacted with him. He was a student of human nature, and 
saw all sorts of mothers, from overprotective and smothering to 
those who simply didn't care. He imagined Scully somewhere in the 
middle, with definite smothering tendencies. 

"Only once," she said, sighing as she moved further against him, 
resting her head against his chest. "I think I held him back, 
because he never asked me to ride with him again." God, could this 
woman be any more spirited? He visualized the determined set of her 
jaw as she rode beside her son, intent on keeping up with him, 
making him happy. 

"I'm sure he was proud of you for trying," he concluded. Lyon 
wondered how hard it had been for her, being a single-mother. He 
imagined that the sacrifices were those that she made willingly.

She thought he was the father.

That idea gave him pause, and for the first time, he allowed 
himself to imagine life as a father, having a son who adored him, 
who respected him. It was a bit unnerving, but not in a frightening 
way. It was much the same as he felt from the moment he met Scully. 
It was a life he did not choose, but was now being offered 
tantalizing glimpses.

A life with a woman who loved him, and who he adored. A son who 
loved to ride, whose sparkling eyes reflected an enchantment with 
the world that Lyon had long ago lost. A permanent, secure home, 
not the transient lifestyle he had known for years. He wasn't sure 
he would fit in.

But it was far away, the house and the little boy, and Scully was 
here with him now, pressed against him in the darkness, and he 
inhaled deeply of her perfume and the saddle leather and the summer 
air. "This is beautiful, Lyon," she said, and he pressed his face 
against her cheek, murmuring into her hair, 

"It is," he thought aloud. "I love it out here. It's quiet. Just 
you and the horse."

They entered one of the pastures now, and he instinctively looked 
up into the stars. "You see that grouping of stars over there?" he 
asked her, pointing one finger into the heavens. The sky was 
impossibly clear, and it looked as if a thousand diamonds had been 
spread across the dark night sky.

She turned, gazing upward and nodded. "I do."
 
"It's the Virgo constellation," he said, bringing Beau to a halt 
near the trees and sliding to the ground, his hand resting on 
Scully's knee. "The brightest star, the one there on top, is Spica. 
It's the alpha star. Two hundred and sixty light years away." She 
stroked his fingers with her own, listening to his words. "It's 
deceiving, though. It looks like one bright star, although it's 
actually two. And it's dying. Even though it is so bright, it's a 
dying giant, slowly burning itself out."

He wasn't sure what he was trying to tell her. That appearances 
could be deceiving, that what we perceive to be true can be a hoax, 
that our hearts and minds can see something that really isn't that.

That he wasn't Mulder, but he loved her, and never wanted her to 
leave his side.    

"You spend a lot of time under the stars, don't you, Lyon?" She 
added a special emphasis to his name, and he knew she understood. 
He began to walk, holding Beau by the reins as they approached a 
small stream. It divided the Wilkins' property from the north, and 
was hidden from view by a low line of brush and trees. 

The sound of the gurgling water in the darkness gave him pause, and 
he prayed to whatever deity might exist to make this moment last. 

Let me be enough for her, he fervently thought. 

He told her the truth, that he could offer her nothing more. Scully 
took his hand, dismounting, and they sat together on the remains of 
a fallen tree near the stream. "I find my horse and the evening sky 
to be better companions than most of the humans I know." One side 
of her mouth twisted upwards as he hastily added, "Present company 
excluded, of course."

"Where are you staying tonight, Lyon?" she asked, startling him. He 
hadn't thought that far ahead, but knew that he wanted to stay with 
her. He couldn't find the words to tell her. "I mean," she said, 
flustered at his silence, "it's late, and after you drive me back 
to the motel, it will be even later." 

Her uncertainty was gently amusing. "Where would you like me to 
stay, Scully?"

Say it, Scully, he willed. I can't, but I'll stay with you if you 
ask. There's no place I'd rather be. 

"C'mon, Lyon. Give me a straight answer," she said, staring 
intently into the water. 

"Ask me a straight question," he responded.

And the distant call of the bird grew quiet, and a cloud crossed 
over the moon, and he swore even the creek became still. She was 
illuminated with the most slender beam of light, and he wanted the 
moment to last forever, just he and Scully, together, away from the 
craziness of the world.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" she asked, in a tiny, hopeful voice. 
And he had never loved a person more than he did this woman at that 
moment. He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes, and 
kissed her gently before answering. "I'd never let you go," he 
responded, and it was the truth.


III.

"I think you're going to have to help me off here," she managed in 
a shaky voice, and Lyon fought back a smile as he dismounted and 
grabbed Beau by the reins, holding his hat in the opposite hand. It 
was dark now, the only light coming from the barn up ahead and the 
stars above them, beacons in the darkness. Yet he could see her 
smile clearly, and the way her cheeks were flushed, and how her 
hair was gently tousled from the breeze.

He had fallen in love with this woman, and he didn't give a damn 
about the consequences.

"Grab onto my shoulders," he said as he walked up closer to her. He 
let the reins drop as she leaned over slightly, putting both hands 
out to him. So trusting, and he vowed he would never do anything to 
harm her. Of all the things he had learned about Scully, he knew 
instinctively that her trust was not given easily. For some reason, 
Lyon had it, and he treasured it, knowing its immeasurable value.

He pulled her off the horse, and felt her press up against him in 
the darkness, her hands tangled behind his head. Oh, god. He hadn't 
thought of this when he reached up to help her dismount, and he was 
unprepared for the sensations that ran through his body. Scully's 
full length was against his, and he couldn't help the groan that 
escaped from his lips. It was so unexpectedly erotic and intimate 
that he felt her shiver, and he held her even tighter, anchoring 
himself to that moment with her touch.

If he had any doubts, any doubts that he was immersed far over his 
head, that moment confirmed it for him. Scully felt it, too, he 
knew, by the way she stood on her toes to whisper in his ear. 
"Thank you," she sighed, her voice light and airy and full of want. 

"Jesus," he managed, just before he roughly pulled her head back 
and kissed her.

It was not the sweet, gentle caress of the kisses they shared 
earlier in the day. Instead, it was a hard, demanding kiss, one 
that screamed unequivocally of how much he wanted her, of how much 
his body and spirit desired her. Scully never flinched, never 
retreated from his kiss. She parted her mouth under him, touching 
his tongue fleetingly with the tip of her own. He groaned again, 
tightening his hold on her, and he grew bolder, tracing his hands 
down her back and lifting her just slightly, so her body pressed 
against the junction of his thighs.

"Lyon, I want—" He knew what she wanted, for he wanted the same 
thing. He kissed her again, and then let her slide abruptly against 
his body to the ground, setting her on her feet. 

"I do too, Scully," he managed, his voice raw. "Just not right 
here."

He was ready to take her in the middle of the Wilkins' driveway, 
for god's sakes. She deserved better, he thought, looking at her 
guiltily in the hazy twilight. She deserved the best he could give 
her, and he wanted to give her everything. Lyon was ashamed that he 
had so little to offer, but he could certainly do better than the 
hard Texas soil.

It was lust, but it was more. He wanted the best for Scully because 
he loved her. He met her only a day ago, yet he knew with agonizing 
certainty that he loved her. 

The horse gave a low snort, shaking his head, causing both he and 
Scully to jump. "Guess we forgot we had an audience," Scully said, 
and he could tell by the tone of her voice that she was a little 
embarrassed. He kissed her again, lightly, on the forehead, and 
then held on to her hand, perching his hat on top of her head. She 
looked good in his clothes. She would look better without them, 
without any at all.

"I guess we did," he answered her, and they began to walk, slowly, 
letting the gelding cool off and giving them both a moment to 
regain their senses. "I think you could be a good rider, Scully," 
he said, making small talk, trying to bring them back to an even 
keel. 

She rolled her eyes at him. "I don't think so. Will inherited his 
riding abilities from someone other than me."

Her words were unintentionally poignant, and he had a fleeting 
glimpse of a redheaded boy with his own dark eyes, cantering beside 
him in an open field.

"It's not rocket science," he answered, shaking the image away. 
"It's all about balance, a give and take, an understanding of the 
horse." As they started walking, her initial steps had been 
unsteady, and he wanted to think it was due to his kisses, for it 
certainly made his own legs weak. But he knew their brief ride must 
have had some effect, given her admitted lack of riding experience. 

"How long have you ridden, Lyon?" she asked him as they stopped by 
the barn and he began to unsaddle their mount.

He stopped midway through unbuckling the cinch. He couldn't 
remember. "I don't know," he slowly admitted, trying to recall the 
first time his father set him on a pony or how often he rode as a 
child. The memory wasn't there. "I suppose forever, since I can't 
remember ever starting."

She gazed at him steadily, her eyes speaking volumes that she was 
afraid to put into words. They both were, so they let the moment 
escape.

"C'mere," he said as he led the horse into the stall, shutting the 
gate behind him and grabbing her by the hand. "I want to show you 
something." She followed him willingly, only hesitating for a 
moment as he gestured at the ladder up into the hayloft. She 
climbed up first, and he pointedly looked at the gate, the walls, 
the horses, anything to avoid looking at Scully's shapely legs as 
she climbed up the ladder.

He tried to remember that, beneath the rough exterior of a cowboy, 
he was a gentleman. But Scully made it damn hard to keep that fact 
in mind.

She had already settled into the space overlooking the pasture by 
the time he followed her into the loft. "This is beautiful, Lyon," 
she breathed, and he agreed. The loft overlooked the back of the 
Wilkins' land, and, with the sparse trees and the straight line of 
the fence, there was precious little between their bodies and the 
stars.

"I know," he answered, sitting beside her, naturally drawing her 
body to his. He pulled a few blankets from the stack near the wall, 
and spread them out over the hay. "I come up here a lot at night, 
to be by myself, and to look at the stars. To think."

"Why are you such a private man, Lyon? Who hurt you so?" It was the 
unspoken question she had been mulling most of the day, and she 
spoke it so softly, so easily, that he almost missed it beneath the 
quiet summer breeze. "No one," he finally answered. "Everyone. I 
don't know, Scully. I really don't. I only know that I never felt 
like I could trust anyone. I never wanted to."

Oh, god. He was desperately clutching his self-control, hanging 
about him in tatters. "Until you, Scully. I want to trust you." He 
couldn't take back the words when he uttered them, so they hung 
between them, dancing, tantalizing them both. He couldn't move, but 
only watched her as she moved, stopping inches from his lips. 
"Trust me, Lyon."

It didn't matter what she called him. It all felt so right, so 
natural, that the issue of his name was no longer important. 
Reaching down to pull her shirt up from her slacks, he vowed to 
show her with his body what there weren't enough words to express. 
That he trusted her, that he loved her, that he would do most 
anything for her.

As he lifted her shirt up over her head, he stopped, staring at the 
exquisite sight of the moonlight on her pale skin. Her breasts were 
revealed with the single twist of the bra clasp, and she pulled off 
her slacks on her own. It was not her naked body that aroused him 
the most, although the curve of her hips and the dark curls between 
her legs took his breath away.

It was the look on her face, the open, simple expression of a woman 
who loved him. He felt unworthy, and joyous, and wanted to weep and 
shout at the same moment.

"Let me see you," she said, and he could not refuse her gentle 
request. He couldn't refuse her much of anything, he realized, as 
he stood in front of her, facing her, watching as she lay on her 
back on the soft blanket, naked, never taking her eyes from him. 
Her eyes were the color of a turbulent sea, and his last clear 
thought was that they were both far past the point of tangible 
reason.

Scully looked at him, cataloguing him with a lover's eye. But 
instead of making him feel awkward, he was incredibly aroused. He 
was also making a sacrifice for her. Because instead of loving her 
with just his body, as he had other women before, he was loving her 
with his heart.

"You feel exactly like I dreamed you would," she said, as he laid 
next to her, bringing his hand up to the warmth between her thighs, 
the burnished curls tickling his fingertips. "You've dreamt about 
us, Scully?" he asked her, tracing the outline of her nipple with 
the tip of his tongue. She arched her back and purred. "God, yes. 
I've dreamt of you."

Then he was on his back, and she straddled his hips, and he was 
inside of her. And he knew, as long as he would breathe, this 
moment would remain etched in his memory as perfect. Scully above 
him, nude, her head thrown back and her red hair teasing her 
shoulders, and the full Texas moon rising above her, bathing them 
both in twilight.

"Yes, baby," he murmured, urging her on as she settled her body 
into an easy rhythm. He wanted this moment to last forever, he 
realized, and thrust his hips against her, dragging her closer to 
him, slowing the rhythm to a more manageable pace. "Jesus, Scully," 
he whispered, unsure of what he wanted to say, and not able to find 
the words in any case.

She whimpered, and moved just slightly, rotating her hips so the 
friction changed, and he shuddered. He wanted to tell her that this 
was about so much more, so much more than just sex. That he had 
never felt this way, and it frightened him. But that he wanted her 
to know he would never hurt her, and that he would always do his 
best to protect her. 

Scully knew, by the way she brought her hands up to his face, 
lovingly resting them on his shoulders, using the leverage to 
increase her motions above him. She knew, as they both came, and 
the name he cried was hers, and it was said with as much reverence 
and tenderness as the moment would allow. She knew, for as she fell 
on top of him, her body quivering, she let her breathing fall into 
a pattern echoing his own, and they were complete.

The minutes passed, and he could tell Scully was asleep, her body 
limp on top of him, her breathing finally slow and even. He didn't 
want to move, to ever feel her weight leave him, so he reached over 
to one side, stretching as he grabbed a spare blanket with his 
fingertips and pulled it over them. They lay there, cocooned.  

Just as his eyes began to close, and he felt the hazy twinges of 
sleep pass over him, he heard a voice, his own. "You made me a 
whole person, Scully. I owe you everything, and you, you owe me 
nothing." He had never spoken those words to her, not during the 
day they spent together. But they were true, and, as he drifted to 
sleep, the voice continued to echo in his mind. "You saved me, 
Scully. You saved me."