Title: Cheating Death

Author: Meg Brown

Distribution: Archive anywhere, just keep my name and addy on it, and please let me know where it's going

Spoilers: Season six, I suppose

Rating: Strong PG-13

Classification: VA, RST

Summary: None

Disclaimer: Let's see, do I own any characters on "The X-Files," hrm...uh, NO!

Author's Notes: Feedback massively appreciated, but flames will be used to toast marshmallows for S'mores. Here goes...

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Cheating Death

By: Meg Brown

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He comes to me for comfort. Never saying anything, never meeting my eyes fully.

He is ashamed. I can sense that. Even with his head thrown back in the throes of ecstasy, I can see the guilt written all over his face. Especially in his eyes.

It's not about love. It never was. Though I do not doubt my love for him for a second, or his for me. But it's not about that. It is a matter of necessity. An act of desperation. A profession of humanity.

He hates himself for what he does with his life and to the people in his life. He hates dragging himself in front of the firing squad for yet another daring escape. He and I both know that one day, one of us won't escape.

That is why he comes to me. To know that for one more day, we have cheated death.

The first time he came in this way, I was bewildered. Suddenly, there he was at my door, with tears running down his face, dripping from his chin to his shirt. Not a sound. He stumbled blindly into my apartment, face buried into the crook of my neck.

Then he was kissing me. Hard.

And then my clothes melted off my body. His behaved in turn.

At the time, I knew what I was doing. I knew we were saving ourselves, escaping from the grim reality that daily forces us closer to the brink of insanity. We are very good at skating that thin edge.

It is just another manifestation of that act. When he buries himself deep inside me, I know that we are just cheating death yet again.

It is always just that. Cheating death. Funny that the deed that is supposed to bring pentultimate pleasure is for us merely a way to escape life. We take no pleasure other than the physical necessity of it. The involuntary quivers of flesh. He never comes to me when he is happy or seeking happiness, for himself or for me.

And there is no sound. Only a few loud, unintelligible moans that under different circumstances might be a name. That should bother me. But somehow, it doesn't. The silence is almost comforting. Certainly it is fitting. The irony is appropriate: we speak so much outside of this that the silence is definitely intended. We have never commented on it.

I am no fool--I was fully aware at the time that we had used no protection, an act that should, in modern times, be construed as complete stupidity. But over time, we have come to an unspoken agreement that protection of any variety is unnecessary. Diseases are no problem--they would have been detected during any number of medical tests conducted over the years. And if by some cruel twist of fate I happen to find myself pregnant, I will not protest. It would be fitting for him to give me what They took away.

That bothers me. A child. His child. What would I do? Acknowledge the father to some, deny him to most. Denial is policy these days.

But would I tell him? I would have to. He would probably notice me ballooning up before his eyes. And it would please him. That way, he could have a little piece of me when I am gone. Just as I could have a part of him.

It hurts, seeing him like this. It hurts even more knowing that I am the same way. We cannot continue much longer. He knows this.

Tonight he comes to me, in silence as before. He and I rocket off into oblivion simultaneously--another of our unspoken agreements is that what we do, we do together. But tonight is different. Tonight we are not merely together, but in total synchronicity.

I drift off into sleep, knowing he will be gone by the time I wake. He always is. I see no need to vary our pattern.

But sometime in the night, I open my eyes with him standing, half-dressed, over me.

"Let's go," he tells me.

"What? Where?" I mumble, coming fully awake.

"I don't care. But I can't do this any more. Let's leave." He looks sorrowfully into my eyes.

"We can't. You know that. They would know then."

"Damn Them!" he shouts. Then, in a quieter voice, "I'm sick of having to do what They think we ought to do. We're working against Them and They still control us." He puts his head in his hands.

I do the only thing I can think to do, still being in shock from his outburst. I pull him into my arms. "Shh," I whisper and press my lips to the top of his head.

He surprises me by burying his head between my bare breasts, an act he has never permitted himself. "I just can't face it. We're gonna...gonna..." He can't finish the thought.

I know. I can't finish it either.

"Don't think about it," I whisper. "If you think about it, it'll make you crazy."

"I thought you said I already was," he answers, smiling tentatively.

My reply is to kiss his forehead warmly.

He wraps his arms tightly around my waist. "Thank you," he says to my chest. "Thank you."

"Any time."

His previous smile widens. "I love you, Scully."

I am frozen. He has said it. He has broken our pact.

He sees the hesitation in my eyes. "I know we haven't said it. And you don't have to answer. But for all it's worth, I love you."

I smile. That is enough for him. He stands to leave. But my voice stops him.

"I'll go with you."

It is his turn to freeze. "Do you mean it?"

I nod. "Anywhere. Any time. If we went now, would They be able to track us?"

He shrugs. "Does it matter much if They can? We don't know much of anything that could make Them want to come after us if They haven't yet. But I'm sick of the Questing Beast for now."

I nod again. "Well, come on then, Sir Pellinore." I dress quickly and quietly. He watches without movement.

As we leave what was once my apartment, I turn to him suddenly. "Oh, Mulder? I love you, too."

FINIS

<insert another gratuitous plea for feedback>

Meg