From bower2@juno.com Fri Dec 13 09:46:08 1996 Hi gang! I guess it was inevitable. :) I didn't tape Pusher the first time around so it was kind of tough to remember all the details. Well, it's now on tape and has been watched many times, and of course it inspired a follow-up story in me. I read quite a lot of the post-ep stories but didn't find any that addressed my nagging questions about the stand-off in the hospital room. This one is heavy on the Mulderangst. I had a lot of trouble deciding how to classify this one. It's not really a MSR because there *is* no romace in this one. But it does address the unspoken feelings that exist between our favorite FBI agents, so it's up to you to decide if you want to read it or not. Rated PG-13 for language and subject matter. Feedback is welcome *and* expected. :) Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully don't belong to me and they never will. I'm gratefully borrowing them from CC, the gang at 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I promise to take good care of them. For the archives: Anchored by Lydia Bower S, R, Angst Rated PG-13 for language and subject matter. Summary: Immediately following the events in Pusher, Scully's questions force Mulder to confront some of his own demons. Anchored Part 1/2 by Lydia Bower "I say we don't let him take up another minute of our time," Dana Scully proclaimed. She slipped her hand from his and walked out of Robert Patrick Modell's hospital room. Fox Mulder took one more good look at the man and followed her out. Scully was stopped halfway down the hall, patiently waiting for him to catch up. She started walking again as soon as he reached her and they made their way out of Fairfax Mercy hospital and to the car without another word passing between them. Mulder forced his eyes to stay focused straight ahead instead of wandering over to study his partner. He envied Scully her cool composure in the face of what had happened--and what had almost happened--this afternoon. Mulder still didn't understand how he'd kept from putting a bullet into her. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to turn the gun away from her and onto Modell, while the voice in his head that wasn't his own was forcing him to keep Scully in the sights of his gun. A high shot. Aim above the vest. All the chambers of the gun empty but for the one bullet lined up in the barrel. Aimed at her head. He shut the car door behind him and pictured Scully's brains and blood splattered on the hospital wall. Pictured himself alone. Again. He sighed and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. "Mulder, do you want me to drive?" She spoke quietly, slowly. Almost like she was afraid she'd spook him. <'Spooky' Mulder.> "No. Just give me a minute." She stayed quiet. Just as she always did when she sensed he needed her silence. Her unspoken support was one of the few things he could rely on when the waves of anger and regret and pain would wash over him. Scully was his anchor. He lifted his head and turned the key. The motor roared into life. Mulder pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the street, not sure where he was or where he was going. Didn't care, either. He caught a faint whiff of Scully's perfume as she turned her head to look out the passenger-side window. Her face still turned away Scully said, "I talked to Skinner before I came for you. He said tomorrow morning would be soon enough to start on the paperwork. He'll let you know when the review board is scheduled." Mulder pictured the meeting in his mind. Yes, sir, I shot an unarmed man. Why? Well, sir, because it was the only thing I could do to stop him. And because he really deserved it, the bastard. How do I feel? I'm fine, sir. Do I think some short-term counseling might be in order? No, sir. That won't be necessary. "So, should I drop you off at your place?" he asked Scully. She slowly turned her head and met his eyes. Mulder looked away. He couldn't let her see. It had been hard enough to look into her eyes when they'd been in Modell's room, keeping company with the machines hooked up to the dying man. He couldn't afford a repeat of all that had passed between them in those moments. "No. I'm going home with you, Mulder." Delivered in that pissy, no-nonsense tone that alternately amused and irritated him. Doctor's orders. "Are you making a pass at me, Scully?" "In your dreams." He snorted an involuntary laugh. "I'm fine," he protested. "No, you're not, Mulder. Neither am I. What happened today.... What Modell did to you, to us...." "We're not gonna talk about it right now, Scully." "That's fine," she retorted. "We don't have to talk about it. But you're not going home alone." "I'm a big boy," he snapped, surprised to find himself on the skinny edge of anger. "I don't need a babysitter." She twisted around on the seat, facing him as best she could, her nerves evidently as raw as his: he could see the flash of her eyes. "Would it make any difference to you if I told you that maybe I was the one who needed the babysitter, Mulder? You weren't in that room by yourself, you know." He gaped at her, shocked by her admission. She wasn't so calm and composed after all. And then Scully gasped and grabbed the dashboard at the same time the sound of a horn blasted through Mulder's mental fog and he dragged his eyes from her face to the windshield, finding their car on the wrong side of the road and another car heading straight for them. "Fuck!" He twisted the steering wheel to the right and jumped the curb, ending up in the parking lot of a furniture store. He slammed on the brakes and jammed the car into park, frantically unbuckling his seat belt and lunging out the door. He made it three steps before he bent at the waist and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the asphalt. He gagged and retched until there was nothing left of the sick but dry heaves and sore muscles. He absently noticed the creak of Scully's door as she opened it. Mulder stayed where he was, bent over, hands grasping his knees, spitting out long strings of saliva. "Ah God," he sighed. He hated to puke, hated to even think about it. The worst part of it was, unlike most bouts of vomiting this one had done nothing to make him feel better. This was a poison he couldn't expel. A clean, white, sweet-smelling handkerchief appeared in front of his face. He gratefully took it and wiped his eyes and nose, then his mouth. "What a bitch, eh, Scully?" he choked out. "That's the second time I've almost killed you today." And then her hand came down on his back. He could feel the calming effect of her touch, even through suit and coat. "Let's go home, Mulder." She turned on her heel and walked back to the car. He took a few deep breaths and straightened up. Noticed Scully had taken over the driver's seat. He stuffed her handkerchief in his pocket and got in the car. He buckled up and closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the headrest and spent the rest of the drive to his apartment in the silent dark. Once they got there Mulder stood by passively as Scully dug out her keys and unlocked the door. She stepped in first and then turned to wait for him. Mulder kept his eyes on the floor and followed her in, heading straight for the bathroom and his toothbrush. He scrubbed his teeth clean and washed his face, pulling his wet hands through his hair. Mulder looked up and studied his reflection. His face was pale, his eyes darkly circled and haunted; empty. Just a little man. Who wanted to go out with a bang instead of a whimper. And wanted to take him and Scully with him. Bastard. He stared himself down in the mirror until his reflection began to ripple and fade, replaced by the image of Scully's face as he'd turned the gun on her. He remembered his breath escaping him in a grunt as Modell had pushed him to swing his gun arm around. He remembered the tight grip he'd taken on Scully's arm; so tight he was certain he'd left bruises. And her eyes. What was it he'd seen in her eyes? Not just fear. Something else, too. He remembered the single tear that'd slipped down her face and mimicked it with one of his own. And then another one and another one. Mulder watched himself silently weep. Suddenly he reached up and savagely yanked at his tie, pulling out the knot and ripping it from his shirt. He stunk of hospital and illness and death and fearful sweat. He shed trench coat, suit jacket and shoes. His pants were hurriedly pulled off and then his shirt, losing several buttons in his haste. He shoved his boxers down over his hips and shed his t-shirt and socks, stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as he could stand. Mulder grabbed the soap and scrubbed at his arms, his hands, his calves and chest and thighs. He soaped his stomach and roughly washed his genitals, savoring the pain as he took his balls in one hand and squeezed them tightly. He relished the pain. Anything to get his mind off what he'd almost done. He knew what he would have done then, as soon as the sharp report from the gun had broken Modell's hold on him. He would have killed Modell with his bare hands, snuffed the evil right out of him and then gone searching for another bullet. He'd only need one. And that bullet would most surely have had his name on it. Piece of cake. Slip it into the chamber and press the cold barrel of the gun to his temple. It was a sensation Mulder was familiar with. Comfortable with. And then all he'd have to do would be to pull the trigger. Follow her. Anywhere. Even into death. He squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his hand and lathered his head, fingers digging deeply into his scalp, wondering if he scrubbed hard enough if he'd be able to clean his brain. Just wash it away. Wash it all away. Mulder washed and rinsed, washed and rinsed, washed and rinsed until he lost count of how many times he'd done it. Long enough for the hot water to fade into a cool shadow of what it'd been. He killed the flow from the shower head and stepped from the tub, dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist before leaving the bathroom and going into his bedroom. He pulled on a pair of gray sweats and clean white t-shirt, rubbed the towel across his head and combed his hair with his fingers. He still felt dirty. There was dim light coming from the living room, and soft music. He came around the corner and found Scully at his stereo, fiddling with the CD player. She sensed his presence and turned to him. "Hi," she murmured. "Hi yourself." "I found this CD hidden behind all your other ones. Is it okay?" Beethoven. Piano concertos. Given to him by his mother. It wasn't the Kinks, but it would do. If Scully liked it, well, that was good enough for him. "Yeah. That's fine." Mulder stood the middle of his living room feeling like a stranger in his own home. In his own skin. Scully had taken off her coat and jacket and slipped off her shoes, apparently making herself at home. At least one of them was comfortable. She glanced away from him and gestured toward the kitchen. "I thought you might be hungry. I'm heating up some soup. Looks like I could throw together some grilled cheese sandwiches, too, if you....?" "Soup's fine. Look, Scully, you don't have to stay. I mean, unless you want to. In that case, well, you know you're welcome." She lifted her eyes to his. "I'm staying," she declared. He nodded, more relieved than he might have thought possible. "Okay." He sank onto the couch and sat with elbows braced on knees, his hands together and forming an upside-down V that covered his mouth and nose. He knew Scully was watching him but he couldn't find the strength to look at her. 'You weren't in that room alone, you know.' He knew he ought to say something to her, try to help her sort through her feelings about Modell and the stand-off in the hospital room, but in order to do that he'd have to share his own thoughts with her. He couldn't do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He ended up not being able to eat the soup that Scully brought him minutes later. It probably didn't help that it was cream of tomato--the only kind he had in the house. He looked down into the pale red soup and saw nothing but blood and brains. All he could do was give Scully an apologetic look and hope for the best. She didn't prod him to eat it. She just sat beside him and sipped her soup. It wasn't until she reached for his mug that he saw the bruises around her wrist--the faint, purplish imprints of his fingers. Mulder blinked and reached out to take her arm in his hand. Scully said nothing as he turned her wrist, examining the marks. He shut his eyes for a long moment before he dared look at her. "It's nothing, Mulder. It could have been worse." "Yeah, I could've blown your head off," he whispered. "But you didn't." Scully pulled her wrist free and disappeared into the kitchen. He sat there for another couple of seconds before getting up and stopping in the doorway. Scully was standing in the middle of the kitchen, her back to him. Just standing there. "Scully...?" He watched her shoulders lift and fall in a sigh. There was a long silence. And then when she spoke it was if she were discussing the weather, but he could see the rigid set her shoulders had taken: Scully does steel. "It could have been you, Mulder." "Yeah." Couldn't argue with that. She swung around to him, soup mugs still in her hands. "Why?" She lifted a hand and looked down at the mug it was holding like it was a foreign object that had no business being where it was. She deposited the mugs in the sink and turned back to him. Mulder stood patiently, waiting for the rest of the question. Scully rarely asked one word questions. "Why was it so easy to put the gun to your own head and pull the trigger?" Not a question he'd been expecting. "Why did Collins set himself on fire, Scully? Why did Frank Burst talk himself into a heart attack?" "It's not the same thing, dammit!" she snapped. A grunt of surprise escaped him. "How is it not the same thing? Are you trying to tell me now that you don't believe Modell was somehow able to push people to do things against their will? Were you or were you not in that hospital room, Scully?" Scully pushed by him and he stayed right behind her, tracking her to the couch. She sat down while he stayed on his feet, feeling the anger bubbling up again, so close to the surface tonight. Everything was raw, all his nerves scraped bloody. Goddamn her and her science, that blinded her to things she still wasn't fully able to accept even after all she'd seen. "That's not what I mean, Mulder!" Her eyes were wide and scared and he still didn't know what she was asking him. "Then just what the fuck *do* you mean, Scully? You're gonna have stop talking in circles here. My brain's a little fried right now. Can you be more specific?" She glared at him and threw up her hands in frustration. "It was just-- It was just too familiar! Too easy for you, Mulder! I want to know how many times you've put a gun to your head." End Part 1/2 From bower2@juno.com Fri Dec 13 09:46:09 1996 Summary: Immediately following the events in Pusher, Scully's questions force Mulder to confront some of his own demons. Rated PG-13 for language and subject matter. Disclaimer can be found in Part 1. Anchored Part 2/2 by Lydia Bower He barked a startled laugh. Stretched his mouth in a smile he didn't feel. Asked, "What's wrong, Scully, you think I'm suicidal or something?" She wasn't buying it. Her eyes continued to bore holes in him. "How many times?" she asked again. He could feel his face settle into its protective deadpan expression. Felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. "More times than I've put one to yours. Okay?" "When was the last time?" He glanced away. This was absolutely not where he wanted to go. He looked at his watch. "About four hours ago." "Knock it off, Mulder!" She came off the couch like somebody had goosed her. "You know damn good and well what I'm asking!" She was standing toe to toe with him and it didn't really matter that he had almost a foot on her. Scully in a royal snit was a force to be reckoned with. Mulder was really good at staring someone down--unfortunately, so was Scully. And she had the upper-hand. Here he'd been, all this time, thinking that what was bothering Scully the most was the fact that he'd almost shot her. It was apparent from her questions that his emotional state, now and in the past, was what had her so bent out of shape. He didn't know if that was a good thing or not. He stared into those baby blues and felt his resolve crumbling. He knew Scully like the back of his hand. If he didn't fess up now, she'd just keep bringing it up until he did. "Christ, Scully." He dropped his eyes, heaved a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. "What difference does it make?" "Maybe none," she replied and he forced his eyes back to hers. "Or maybe it makes all the difference in the world." She was too close to him. Too close. He stepped past her and planted himself on the couch. Mulder stared at a spot on the wall. Took his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard. He damned himself for thinking it, but the words came out of his mouth anyway: "It goes no further than this room." "Of course not." Scully stayed where he'd left her, her arms folded protectively across her chest. He tried to ignore the wounded tone of her voice. Mulder scrubbed his face and fisted a hand beneath his nose. "The first time was the New Year's Eve after Samantha was taken." It wasn't what she'd asked but he knew he had to start at the beginning. "It was so fucked up, Scully. Nobody talked to anybody else. The house was like a goddamn funeral home. Everything quiet, everything said in whispers. Did I ever tell you that up until the time Samantha was taken my mom used to come in and kiss me goodnight? Every night. I was probably too old for it but she did it anyway. And I liked it. That stopped too, after Samantha was gone. It was like the sole reason my parents had for loving me was lost with my sister. And once she was gone there was no reason to keep up the charade." He waited as Scully settled in beside him. They were close enough that their knees touched, their shoulders. He didn't question that now it was all right that she was this close. It just was--and Mulder accepted it. "They went out that night. Plans the old man couldn't break or make polite excuses for; I dunno. They left me there alone and I knew where the gun was. I remember thinking it would be so easy. Nothing to it. Pull the trigger and end the pain." "But you didn't." He jerked a sad smile. "No. I couldn't. I didn't have the balls for it. And I kept thinking that maybe Samantha would come back soon and how pissed off and hurt she'd be when she found out what I'd done. I think I realized for the first time that night that I was going to have to be the strong one for Samantha, the one who'd stand up for her. There was nobody else who would do it." "I can't even begin to imagine what that must have been like for you, Mulder. How hard--" He raised his hand to stop her words. "No, Scully. Don't try to give me credit I don't deserve. We all have to do what we have to do. And at that point I had to stay alive. I didn't have any choice." Scully reached up and grasped his shoulder then and he involuntarily winced. "My God, Mulder," she said. "Your muscles are so tense they're like rocks." He tried to pass it off. "Nah, that's just the results of hours at the gym getting buff so I can impress you, Scully." "Bullshit," she retorted. "If you're trying to impress anybody it's that cute little file clerk who's always making goo-goo eyes at you." "Cheryl?" "I guess. Is there more than one?" He chuckled. "Hell, I've got a whole slew of 'em trying to get in my pants." "You wish." Mulder looked over at her and they smiled at each other, some of the tension between them fading away. Mulder knew he wasn't off the hook yet, but Scully's warm smile somehow made it easier to open up. "Here," she said. "Sit down on the floor and I'll rub your shoulders for you, try to work out some of the kinks." "I thought you liked me kinky, Scully." "Shut up, Mulder." He chuckled and slipped down to the floor. Scully slid over on the couch and positioned her legs so that he was sitting between them. Her hands came down on his shoulders and started to dig in, working their magic. Mulder bowed his head and groaned at the combination of pleasure and pain her strong fingers inflicted on his stiff muscles. Truth be told, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck. He ached all over; in no small part because of Modell. It wasn't just his head that'd been invaded, but his entire body. His right arm and shoulder were so weak from trying to fight off Modell's push to turn the gun on Scully that he wondered if he hadn't actually pulled several muscles in the process. They were silent for a long time as Scully worked on him and Mulder couldn't help but imagine what it might feel like to have those hands touching him in other more intimate ways. "That better?" she asked as she lifted her hands. "Oh God, don't stop now," he moaned. "This is too good. This should be illegal, Scully." He heard her soft chuckle. "I'll make you a deal, Mulder. I'll keep massaging if you keep talking." His head came up and he twisted around to look at her. "Are you bribing me? Because you know it's against the law to bribe a federal agent." "It's not a bribe, it's an even trade. And I still haven't heard all of it, have I?" Mulder couldn't think of an adequate response so he just turned back around. He took a deep breath and continued where he'd left off. "The next time was in England. After Phoebe. I don't have to elaborate on that one, do I?" Her response was a gentle squeeze of his shoulders and a simple, "No. Enough said." He nodded his agreement. "There were one or two times when I was working VCS that I thought about it. After the really bad ones. But it never went beyond the thought. And then everything was good for awhile. I found the X-Files and you showed up. I didn't want to like you, Scully. I didn't want to trust you either. It's funny sometimes, the way life can throw things at you that you don't think you want and then you find out it's exactly what you needed. You know?" "Yeah, I know." "You remember the night I called to tell you they were shutting us down?" "Ahuh." "That night, too." "Before or after you called me?" "Oh, before. By the time I called you I'd already decided that I wasn't gonna give the sonsabitches what they wanted. And it wasn't just about me anymore, either. I had you to consider. And Samantha. It's probably a good thing I'm such a stubborn bastard." Scully's hands had stopped moving but he didn't say anything about it. It was enough to have them resting on his shoulders. "And the last time...." He took a deep breath. "The last time was when you were taken. I didn't know what to do anymore, Scully. I was lost. Nothing seemed to matter. Samantha was gone, you were gone. I didn't think there was any reason to...." He couldn't finish the thought. Didn't need to. Scully would know without his having to say anything. Scully always knew. And then he felt her slide up to the edge of the couch, felt her arms come up around his shoulders to drape over him. And then she rested her forehead on his shoulder. He lifted one hand to cup it around the back of her head as his other hand came up hold her arms against his chest. He heard himself whisper, "I almost killed you today." They stayed that was for a long time before Scully said anything. Her voice was muffled against his back. "Mulder... If you hadn't been strong enough to give me the time to get out of that room, if--" "No," he muttered, trying to cut her off. "No no no no no." But Scully just keep talking right over his protests. "If the worst had happened and you'd shot me, you'd have found a way to put a bullet in your head, wouldn't you? And all the work we've done, all the things we've accomplished would have been lost. It would have all been for nothing." He leapt up from the floor and swung around to face her, knocking the coffee table over on its side. Mulder unthinkingly kicked it out of his way. "It wouldn't have mattered anymore, Scully, don't you see that?! If you were dead none of it would have mattered! I stopped doing this only for myself a long time ago. It was bad enough that I couldn't help Samantha when she was crying out for me; how the hell could I have lived with myself if I'd killed you?" "It wouldn't have been you doing it, Mulder!" "The hell it wouldn't! It was my finger on that trigger, Scully!" "Mulder, you've got to stop blaming yourself for something you couldn't prevent. Don't you know that I know that? What happened was not your fault!" She stopped and looked aside before raising her eyes and pinning him with a look he instantly recognized. It was the same expression she'd had when he'd pointed the gun at her head. "Do you know what frightened me most of all? It was knowing that you would have been eaten up with guilt if things had turned out differently. I looked into your eyes, Mulder, and I knew you'd never be able to forgive yourself and that the guilt would end up destroying you. And I couldn't let Modell turn me into the instrument of your death. I couldn't!" "Neither could I," he whispered and watched, transfixed, as a tear slipped down her cheek. It was the scene in the hospital played out all over again. And his heart felt like it might burst in his chest. He desperately wanted to go to her, take her in his arms and hold her tightly against him. He wanted to kiss away her tears and taste the salty warmth of them on his tongue. But he didn't. "Scully, you have to know that I--" "Don't, Mulder," she pleaded. "Don't. You don't have to say it, okay? Just don't." She pulled her eyes from his and focused on a spot above the window. She wouldn't let him say it. Even after all they'd been through, even after he must have told her in a million different unspoken ways, she wouldn't let him say the words. And it occurred to Mulder that aside from her fear of what might have happened to him had Modell gotten his way, the one thing Scully was most afraid of was his love for her. If he'd been forced to answer the question of whether she loved him back or not, he'd have to say yes. But what he still didn't know was what kind of love it was. Maybe he was better off not knowing. Maybe it was easier for both of them this way. He absently scratched the back of his neck. A long time passed before he felt centered enough to speak. Scully, meanwhile, had managed to study every square inch of the outside wall. He quietly cleared his throat as a prelude. "Well, since it looks like I haven't managed to scare you off, what do you say we watch a movie, Scully? 'Plan Nine From Outer Space' is on tonight." He was pleasantly surprised when Scully started to laugh. She turned her head to look at him, a wide smile on her face. The smile turned into giggles, which gave way to true belly laughs. Scully buried her face in her hands and gave herself over to them. Mulder just stood there and listened to her, a bemused smile on his face. She finally composed herself, her laughter dying down to small hiccups. "Mulder," she said. "I swear I don't know what I'm going to do with you." "Are you open to suggestions, Scully? 'Cause I've got a few things in mind." "I'm sure you do. But I'm not going to touch that with a ten foot pole." "Where's your sense of adventure?" "Staying here with you and watching the worst movie ever made is about all the adventure I can handle tonight." "Cool. I'll make popcorn." Mulder fell asleep halfway through the movie, his head pillowed on Scully's thigh, his legs stretched out and hanging over the end of the couch. The last thing he remembered was the sensation of her fingers combing through his hair. He woke up alone in the absolute dark, dragging himself out of a nightmare about Samantha and Scully. He'd been back in the hospital room and this time Modell had won. He'd watched himself pull the trigger, watched the bullet leave the chamber in slow motion. Watched as it struck Scully in the head, knocking her backwards, blood and brain matter spraying the wall behind her. He screamed, though no sound left his throat. He slowly left his chair and could hear Modell laughing as he bent over Scully's body. Only it wasn't Scully anymore. It was Samantha. Then Scully again. The faces of the two people he loved most in the world kept shifting back and forth until it was no longer two faces but one. A Scully/Samantha metamorphosis that combined everything he most loved and feared in his life. Mulder placed a hand over his chest and tried to calm his ragged breathing. Took several gulps of air deep into his lungs. His mouth was dry as cotton and his bladder was uncomfortably full. He stumbled into the kitchen and opened the fridge, squinting against the bright light. He drank straight from a bottle of orange juice, swallowing half of it down before returning it. He closed the door and walked out of the kitchen, heading for the bathroom. And then he remembered Scully and tried not to be too disappointed that she'd left without waking him. He walked past the front door and was halfway down the hall before it dawned on him that Scully's coat and briefcase were still sitting in the wooden chair by the door. He made it to his bedroom and peeked inside. Yep, she was there. Curled up on her side and sound asleep in his bed. He stepped into the bathroom and quietly shut the door, took care of his business. And then spent several long moments deciding what his next course of action should be. The couch or the bed? The bed won out. He padded across the floor and carefully pulled back the comforter. Scully had obviously been digging in his dresser. Her work clothes had been exchanged for a pair of his shorts and an old shirt he kept around for cleaning day. He smiled at her back as he slowly eased himself down beside her. Mulder lay perfectly still for several minutes, almost terrified by the thought that she might wake up and kick him out of his own bed. But Scully didn't move and all he could hear was the soft sound of her slow, even breathing. He took a chance then and rolled over onto his side, carefully draping an arm around her waist and pulling her to him until they were laying like two spoons in a drawer. Scully stirred and mumbled something under her breath. He lifted his head to better hear her. "Stay with me, Mulder," she murmured. "Don't ever leave me." He kissed the top of her shoulder and snuggled in closer against her, whispered in her ear, "I'm not going anywhere, Scully." He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep, holding tightly to his anchor. THE END