TITLE: THE LONG WAY HOME AUTHOR: Blackwood E-MAIL: entreamis@yahoo.com URL: http://tripod.members.com/black.wood/index.html CATEGORY: MSR, Angst, UST, Story, Fill-in for "Three Words" RATING: R ARCHIVE: I'm honored. Just tell me where. FEEDBACK: Restores my faith. SPOILERS: Duane Barry, Irresistible, Fight the Future, Rain King, Amor Fati, Millennium, Orison, Sein Und Zeist, Closure, En Ami, all things, Requiem, Within, Per Manum, This is Not Happening, DeadAlive, Three Words. SUMMARY: She is trying to be patient, to be understanding, to be kind. He is trying to be smart, to be in control, to be brave. DISCLAIMER: Alas, these characters are not mine. AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm not surprised that CC spends little time explaining huge shifts of attitude between his major characters ep to ep. Me? I prefer a little more continuity. Hence, this story, set between Mulder's reunion with the Gunmen and Scully meeting Doggett outside of her apartment later that evening. Thank you, Museans, for the sterling beta and boundless support. One year ago, eight very different women from diverse parts of the U.S. got together in cyberspace to share beta skills and stories. It's been a wonderful experience and the result has been a steady flow of fanfic that we hope has pleased our readers. It's definitely been fun watching it all unfold. Happy First Anniversary, Musea! Love to you all. THE LONG WAY HOME by Blackwood The rain ceases its patter on the windows and the stillness that descends between them is more unsettling than serene. The stiff set of her shoulders tells him of her distress as she washes glassware and dishes at the sink. Standing alongside her, he towels the items she places into the drain rack. He rubs dry an earthenware plate and opens the cabinet where he thinks it belongs. "No, Mulder. Over here," she says with a lift of her chin towards the cupboard in front of her. Odd, he thinks as he swings open the door and sets the plate atop the small stack that resides there. He used to know every inch of her apartment, and her, before he left. Now he finds stray pockets of his incomparable memory gone absent without leave. It's disconcerting. The Gunmen left sooner than he wanted, uncomfortable no doubt, with the heaviness that settled over what began as a happy reunion. The boys were their inimitable selves and he enjoyed the comfort of catching up with old friends. That is, until the subject of John Doggett came up. "He seems all right," Byers stated with some caution. "Yeah," Langly added with a cast of his eyes towards Scully. "Solicitous." "Shut up, Langly," Frohike admonished before looking Mulder in the eye. "He's by-the-book FBI standard. You know the type. Fast track material." "That's not entirely fair," Scully interjects and four heads turn as one. Her tongue touches her upper lip as she looks from one to the other, meeting Mulder's eyes last. His icy stare pins her as he inquires, "And since when has anyone from Kersh's hand-picked litter been interested in anything but the politically correct agenda?" "Maybe at first, Mulder, but he's been straight with me." "Really? Guess our definitions of the word vary." The party went downhill from there. Now they stand side by side, finishing their task with efficiency. When she reaches for the towel clutched in his hands to dry her own, he hangs onto it. "Hey," he calls softly. "I'm up here." She looks at him and he sees the worry in her eyes. He's tired of it. The low-grade apprehension coming off her is contagious, eroding the thin veneer of confidence he hangs onto with tenacity. The seconds slip past them, irretrievable as the six long months he was among the missing and the dead. He can't afford to lose any more time. "Is it something I said?" "Oh, I don't know. Do you consider disparaging my instincts about a fellow agent pleasant conversation?" "It was an off-the-cuff comment." Her chin lifts another inch and a brow arches as she considers his defense. "He's given me no reason to mistrust him, Mulder. He's done his job and he's watched my back." "You may trust him, Scully, but I don't know the man except what I've seen. I haven't been impressed. Even Skinner admits his approach to solving X-Files has been routine police work." "We've had success--" "We've?" His emphasis on the word bristles with sarcasm. There's remorse in her eyes, but not on her lips. "I'm suggesting you give him a chance." "I should think you'd understand my reservations about that." "I do, but I'm asking you to trust my judgment here." "Does that include you conferencing with the Gunmen on what I can handle for my own good?" She drops her head and purses her mouth as she turns from him and rests her hands on the counter edge. "I didn't mean to imply you're not capable of making your own decisions." He nods. "Interesting what you chose to share with them," he adds, a pointed look directed to her abdomen. "Or not, as the case may be." "I'm sorry about the innuendo." "Innuendo? What innuendo?" His bantering tone becomes strident. "I guess if you didn't want to tell anyone about my involvement in the *blessed event,* you had your reasons, especially after I was out of the picture." "Mulder--" She turns to face him. "Of course," he adds, "if you're having a change of heart we can always pick out birth announcements this weekend, huh? Maybe we can get Krycek to agree to be the godfather. I'm sure he'll make us an offer we can't refuse." The scathing look she flashes him stings like a hard slap to his cheek. "I'm sorry," he mollifies, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She shakes her head at him and turns on her heel. "Forget it," she says in a monotone. Picking up her keys from the counter, she moves away from him. "I understand, Mulder. Really, I do." She heads towards the door and he doesn't know whether he wants her to go or to stay. He calls her name before he knows what he wants to tell her and she pauses at the entry without turning. "I can't be anyone other than who I am, Scully, and I'm not sure who that is right now. Okay?" She turns her head, hurt still lingering in her eyes. "I won't be long," she murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm fine." The irony of his words isn't lost on either one of them. She snicks the door behind her and he crosses the room to stand by the open window overlooking the street. His eyes follow her car until it turns the corner and he's left alone. Afternoon sunlight cuts through the budding trees, casting lacy shadows onto the pavement. He breathes in the sweet spring air and observes everyday life going by: traffic, joggers, dog-walkers, deliveries being made. He takes it all in -- the red bandanna on a runner's head, the crunch and grind of a chocolate-brown parcel truck that stops in front of her building, the irrepressible wag of a dog's tail. He commits it all to memory, willing the less palatable images away. He stares at the sidewalk and remembers the night he stood just *there,* looking up at this window. It was broken then. Duane Barry, he thinks, and an involuntary tremor begins in his hands. He grips the window frame on either side to still them. His heart races. He will not go mad. They have come for him once; they may come again. He will not go back. Never go back. PTSD. That's what she told him might happen -- Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder. Oh, he knows all about it. He looks over to the spot where he stood answering the officer who questioned them after Pfaster's shooting. He remembers how fragile she was for weeks in its aftermath. Now he is the fragile one, even if his body is in perfect health. His condition is even more remarkable than anyone suspects. And troubling. The brain deterioration that was killing him prior to his abduction is non-existent. Meanwhile, current wounds heal at breakneck speed. Even more remarkable are the older scars that have disappeared. His appendix and the adenoids he had removed as a child are back and his stamina and strength are far better than they were before he was taken. Physically, he's sound. The psychological is another matter. For so long he's wondered what it might be like to be an alien abductee, craved it on an unconscious level. Now he understands: the terror, the paranoia, the disorienting miasma left in its wake. He can't bear to be alone for more than a few hours, though he's getting better about it. He still feels a stranger in his own home. Scully told him the day of his release that she'd pre-paid his rent for a year out of his estate. He couldn't bring himself to ask why and then, once inside his apartment, he noted trivial issues. Truth is, he doesn't know many people who can discuss the probate of their will as a past fact while still drawing breath. Her need for him was palpable that day. There, in the privacy of his apartment, he wanted to hold her the way he knew she wanted him to -- the way he could now. But it all too strange, too new. His apology sounded hollow, even to him. He is just so angry. So very, very angry. He tears himself away with a heavy heart and crosses to the sofa. Sitting down with a deep sigh, he glances at the end table and picks up the dog-eared paperback edition of "The First Nine Months." The penned inscription on the inside cover reads: 'Tara, You're everything to me. Billy.' Below is attached a smiley-faced post-it note with the message: 'Dana -- You can return this at Christmas. So excited for you! Love, Tara.' Damn. He must really be in the doghouse now, especially with her hard-ass brother, Bill. That is, *if* she's told them about his role in her pregnancy. He opens the book to a page marked by a pale blue business card. It drops to the carpet. Holding his place with his thumb, he leans over to pick it up. Ornate script announces: RAIN KING "It's good to be King" Daryl Mootz (754) 788-8963. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he remembers Kroner, Kansas... "A cow crashed your room? You're kidding, right?" "Don't sweat it, Scully. I can sleep in the car." "Don't be ridiculous. We'll share my room." "Is that an invitation?" he says with a wag of his brow. "To sleep, Mulder. Perchance to dream." "Ah, therein lies the rub." "Take it or leave it." "Sold." And so, he watched her settle in the lumpy double bed from the oubliette of a rollaway cot. In the middle of the night, he rose to use the bathroom, then paused bedside just to watch her. The covers were askew, her pajama top riding up the sculpted curve of her stomach, the puckered scar that marked her brush with death marring the pale skin that beckoned for his touch. He didn't sleep well that night. He slips the card back in place. He's about to close the text when he catches the title of the chapter she's reading: "Complications of Pregnancy." Brows furrow as he leans forward to scan the pages -- miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies, x-ray hazards, malformation of the baby, death of the fetus. He slams the book closed and does the mental math. She's pregnant and he's loath to shatter any illusions she might harbor about the paternity or the nature of the baby growing within her. Did she suspect when she came to his room that night in Bellefleur? Is that why she didn't argue with him when he told her he was drawing the line for her? There are so many questions. He stares at the cover photo of mother and child -- a healthy human child. It taunts him with its illusory promise of normalcy. Tossing it aside, he stands and runs a hand over his mouth. All at once, the walls are closing in and he just needs out. He scribbles a note on a paper napkin and leaves it on the counter. He pauses only for a moment at the bottom of the exterior stairs to her building before he sets off, thoughts whirling. She is trying to be patient, to be understanding, to be kind. He is trying to be smart, to be in control, to be brave. And it's killing him because nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing fits. Nothing feels right. Nothing and no one. "Left!" someone shouts behind him and he snaps out of his reverie just in time to sidestep a neon-helmeted bicyclist. Regaining his bearings he finds himself staring at the entrance to Georgetown University. The sight of the brick buildings and wide lawns calms him. Ivory towers aren't his style, but right now they hold a certain appeal. He crosses the street and ambles the grounds listening to the sounds of youth and promise. Students mill about the commons. An empty bench beckons and he succumbs to the urge to stop and observe for a while. Settling himself, he lifts his face to the sun, warmth soaking into his body. Opening his eyes, he looks across the lawn to where an impassioned couple is making out on a worn comforter. It was all so damned unfair. He'd been patient and faithful, in his fashion. His first kiss with Scully was innocent enough but it led to others, less chaste. He'd long fantasized about making love to her, but he never expected The Mysterious Madame Zelda to clinch the deal. Yet, there she was on the Santa Monica pier -- an electronic fortuneteller Scully insisted on plugging four good quarters into as a lark. "Does it say you'll meet a tall, dark handsome stranger?" he asked when the curling card ejected from the vending machine. "I think I've got that covered." "No doubt about it, Mulder, but..." her sultry voice trailed off as she stared at the card. "What is it?" She looked up then and he smiled as he snatched the card from her hand. The message was simple and direct: Make your move. When he looked back into her eyes they said exactly the same thing. "Is this meant for you or me?" he teased, expecting nothing more than a kiss. "Does it matter?" Then she smiled at him and stepped closer, clasping his hand still clutching the card while she stood on tiptoe to meet his lowering head. There was no doubting her intentions in the kiss she gave him. "It's now or never," she whispered in his ear. It was a short trip back to the Motel 6 and this time, the only thing that rolled away was seven years of wondering and longing. She was quiet under his touch, reserved. Well, it was her nature. He didn't expect her to scream out his name in wild passion. Her skin to be as soft as he'd imagined and familiar somehow. Hell, everything about that night was indelibly imprinted on his brain: the glowing pink neon sign outside the window, the tacky bedspread and retro-60's decor, the street noise and Scully. Always Scully. Scully in a million moments he will never forget no matter how long he lives until he dies. Again. They were friends making love, but not lovers. The distinction was significant to no one else but them. To the world at large they'd been Spooky and the Missus for years, partners doing the wild thing behind closed doors like so many others; but they were so much more. He can't say with any certainty just what they are but he knows what they are not. They are not teenagers grappling in the back seat of a car, or newlyweds consumed with starry-eyed bliss, or even proverbial fuck-buddies who find sexual release in one another without any notion of further commitment. No, they're none of those things. They're friends, the best of friends, the most trusted of friends. And in his heart he knows that to be trusted is a greater gift than to be loved. But he does love her. He just doesn't want romance. He's been down that road with other women and it's always, always ended badly. He won't risk losing *this* woman to his sheer and utter ineptitude when it comes to relationships -- too work- absorbed, too used to living alone, too frightened of screwing things up. Turns out, Dana Scully was an acquired taste, like vintage wine; one he'd learned to appreciate on so many other levels before experiencing the physical pleasure of her. His fears about professional efficacy being spoiled were for naught. If anything, they were sharper than ever as the endorphin-fed high of burgeoning sexuality gained foothold. They were discreet and they were careful. He'd never needed her more than when his mother died. Suicide or homicide, it tore at him. Solace was found in Scully's arms and in the answers he learned about his long- lost sister. Their newfound joy was embroidered with grief and he didn't think he could handle another loss. He thought she understood that until she disappeared with Cancerman without so much as a phone call. Sure, payback's a bitch, but how could she be so reckless? Her atypical silence in the wake of his outrage revealed her chagrin and her fear, though not of Spender, but of him. Him. And he enjoyed saying, "I told you so," even as it broke his heart. "Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?" he'd demanded, teeth clenched at the thought of the smoker's tainted hands on her. "I don't think so," she replied, perched on the edge of his sofa, her body tight like an obedient child waiting for reprimand. "How do you know? Did you go to the hospital?" "I'm a doctor. There was no evidence of penetration or any other manipulation." She kept her cool, but he heard the trembling undertone. He sat beside her and laid a hand on her thigh, withdrawing it the moment she jumped. "I'm sorry," he whispered, watching her face as she tried to blink back remorse without success so that it tracked down her cheeks in slow time. "You don't deserve this." That's when her eyes closed and she turned to him. His arms were around her without thinking, her sighs muffled against the softness of his sweater. "I wanted to believe him," she offered. "I thought I could make things right. I wanted-" She pulled away then, lifting her face to his. "What is it?" For several moments they were in stasis, mouths so close they could feel each other's breath. "He said the chip could cure all illness and I thought-" Shock stole over her features then and she stood, striding towards his desk her arms wrapped around herself. An internal argument kept her treading his carpet for a long minute. And in so doing, he recognized someone he knew -- himself. Hadn't he been duped by the bastard as well and more than once? Anger dissipated into concern. She didn't look at him when she said without any trace of irony, "I'm a fool." She stalled in the space in front of him, eyes full of pain. "Isn't that what you really want to say to me?" He had no response to her escalating tirade. "I thought he could change. For me, the potential Nobel Peace Prize Laureate." She headed towards the doorway, running her hands over her face and through her hair. "Don't do this to yourself." She spun on her heels and took a step back towards him. "What? Face facts? Isn't that my forte?" Her words were bitter pronouncement. "I wasn't acting as a noble doctor, Mulder. The truth is--" she paused and took a breath while he waited. She drops her voice and says matter-of- factly, "I was thinking of myself. I wanted a cure for the cancer, the infertility, for everything I've suffered because of him. I just wanted to be me again, like I used to be before--" "You met me," he finished. Sorrow bled from the dark truth into the space between them spattering the floor in uneven puddles of blame while guilt leached away hope. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the arch. Her voice was so low he could hardly hear her murmured, "No. I choose to stay with you. I think you know why." She lifted her head and looked to where he sat unmoving, his fragile faith shaken but not destroyed. "I hoped I might be able to conceive again." Of course. This is what had so beguiled her. Her candor was born of profound and humbling disillusionment, but he could not fault her dreams. "There are other ways," he informed her in a quiet voice. "I don't think I'll be allowed to adopt, Mulder. My medical history..." "You're a doctor. Think about it." And she had. Still, he wondered if she didn't just feel sorry for him when she approached him about the possibility of an in-vitro procedure. Surely, there were better genetic candidates than his messed up family. But she asked and he could not refuse her. The night they learned the last egg had failed to thrive, comfort was administered with soft words and an embrace that evolved into a night of tender lovemaking. God, she'd been sweet in her vulnerability. Cradled in his arms, she told him she loved him and he thought maybe, just maybe, he deserved it. He's no stranger to leaps of faith and the vagaries of karma, and surely it was destiny that sent him to England and Scully on a collision course with her less-than-perfect past with Daniel Waterston. He understood that implicitly while they sat on his sofa and shared tea and long-held secrets, but to have *her* understand that fact was wondrous. Questions still eddy and swirl in his mind, especially about what happened to her when she was unconscious and in Spender's custody. He wants to believe with all his heart that it was nature, not some scientific machination, that allowed them to conceive the child she carries; but no one can adequately reassure him that it is, or even that it's human. Duane Barry's prophetic words echo in his mind: 'Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.' He sighs. He sits in silence for a minute longer, then rises, heading back the way he came. Her apartment is just as he left it. Funny, he feels more at home here than in his own place. He unknots his tie and slips off his suit jacket, hanging both on the back of a dining room chair before moving through the kitchen to stand at her bedroom door. Memories of nights spent together rise in his mind, tactile memory flooding him with its warmth. How often had those memories sustained him in his darkest hours? He'd kept her image in his mind like a mantra during the torture. And now he's back and she isn't the same. He crosses through the room until he stands before her closet. Opening the door he takes note of the looser jackets and tops hanging there. He closes the door. When he turns, he notices the black hooded sweater casually tossed atop the comforter. Moving to the bed, he lifts the fuzzy garment, feeling its heft and weight between his hands as if seeking forensic evidence of the woman who owns it. It drapes, larger in size than she usually wears, open and loose to accommodate her changing form. He inhales a deep breath and feels his heart beating faster. She's with child. He's known it for a week now, but he still can't fathom it in spite of the fact that she's most definitely gotten bigger than a breadbox. She was always angles and bright light -- strong, independent, indomitable -- not soft and round and full of shadows he can't read. His gaze shifts to the framed photograph on her bedstand. He sets the sweater down and picks up the image, staring with intent at the familiar figure in black that nestles against him, her expression clear and composed. He hears his name and lifts his head to see Scully standing at the doorway. "What are you doing?" she asks in a low voice. "Looking for someone I remember," he replies, a thin edge coloring his voice as he glances back to the photo. She approaches and when he faces her again, he can't help but stare at her swollen stomach beneath the gray turtleneck. "Anyone I know?" She's standing so close her feet have disappeared. It's disquieting and he looks past her through the doorway, into the kitchen. "Could be. I'm not sure anymore." "What do you remember?" Her voice is gentle and he recognizes the cadence of her kindly-but-professional interrogation mode. "Don't do that," he says in an abrupt, cool tone. He moves past her, getting halfway to the door before her voice hits the square of his back. "Coward." The word cuts the air like a knife, halting him mid-step. Hostility coils inside his chest and he turns with deliberation. "I'm sorry if this is difficult for you," she begins. "But it's been difficult for me, too. For all of us. I don't presume to know what it was like for you, but I do know how it feels to be taken against my will, used as a specimen and discarded; to have my body probed and altered in ways I still don't fully understand; to be manipulated so subtly I'm never quite sure if my actions are ever truly my own. Even this," she says splaying a hand across her womb, "is suspect, though I pray every night that he is safe and whole." "He?" The question is nearly a whisper. "Yes," she says with a slow blink. "The sonogram confirms it." Her eyes are bright with happiness and trepidation. "I'm carrying a son, Mulder. Yours. And mine." Her words settle with unerring accuracy in the deepest recesses of his battered heart. Speech eludes him and for a fleeting moment he is consumed by the overwhelming joy of a miraculous truth. Then it is gone, anger returned like the blind side of a hurricane, though not at her. His pain and ambivalence has been refocused into vengeance. He closes the space between them and she stands solid in his path, chin lifted to deal with whatever madness he is about to hurl at her. He can't help but admire her. Her eyes drop for a moment and he sees a momentary flash of recognition there. "Your shirt," she says softly. He looks down at the blue and white pinstripes, then lifts his eyes in inquiry. "After you were gone," she begins then stops as a deep sigh overtakes her. So. "Tell me." She takes her time in answering. "I went to your apartment when you were first taken. I wanted to check your messages, to see if there was any sign of you, to--." "Feed the fish?" His jest elicits a small smile and a knowing glance. "Yes. That, too." She looks away. "Those early weeks... I thought if I only looked hard enough, I'd find you. If I had *your* faith, it would all make sense." She looks back to him. "Skinner nearly lost his job trying to explain what he saw in Bellefleur." Her voice drops. "Then Agent Doggett showed us your medical files." Guilt washes over him in a wave. He'd kept his illness from her, like her ova, hoping to find way to reverse things. He'd lost on both counts. "Hindsight is always 20/20," he proffers as defense. Her frustration is evident in her voice. "Mulder, you once told me you never wanted me to keep anything from you. But you've kept things from *me.* You chastise me for trying to protect you without your consent, but--." She pauses. "You've done that to me for years." "What can I say?" "Just be honest with me." The veracity of her words stings his conscience. He wants to say something profound, but all he can think to ask is, "And the shirt?" Gear shift, but she keeps pace. "It was in your bedroom, tossed off as if you'd be home any moment. It was something tangible. Even when I thought it was finished, I couldn't let you go. And now..." She's hesitant, treading lightly around him as if he were a ghost prone to dematerialize without warning. No, he thinks to himself. He is flesh and bone and breath and sweat. And she is his heart and soul. He steps towards her and she holds her ground. "I won't cower while the wolf howls at the door, Scully, and I won't play it safe. The stakes are too high." He places a hand on her shoulder. "You taught me that." He watches the slow shift of perspective in her eyes as worry eases into acceptance. "I'm here and I'm not leaving -- not voluntarily, anyway. Kersh is going to have to can my ass if he wants me out of the Bureau." She shakes her head and chuffs at him. "You haven't changed, Mulder. Maybe *I* have. I don't know." She scans his eyes for the answer to her unvoiced question. "Do you really want to know what I remember?" he asks. She is calm and steadfast when she assures him, "Yes." He nods and molecules shift around them, reorganizing the universe, electrons shimmering in tiny orbit. He moves slowly so as not to startle her. Lifting his hand, he runs unsteady fingers through burnished tresses. He stares at the fiery strands as if recalling some other place and time. "This, I remember," he says. His hand moves to rest along her jaw and she can't help but lean into his caress. He sighs at the downy softness of her cheek, his thumb coming to rest against full lips. Her eyes close, tears spilling at his quietest, "And this, I remember." His free hand lifts and he ensconces her face, tilting it upwards as he slowly lowers his mouth to hers. Her breath catches beneath him at the first touch of his lips and then she is responding to his tentative embrace, her hands gripping his forearms as she parts her mouth to taste more of him. He'd forgotten. Oh, he'd forgotten how sweet she is. He recalls with each passing second, each moment of warmth and sensation and love that she communicates to him. He kisses her over and over, murmuring his apologies into her hair, bending his back to press his nose into her ear, his mouth to her throat. Her arms slide around his neck and she strains to get closer. The difference in their heights has always made standing embraces awkward and now, given her girth, next to impossible. They separate and she makes a small sound of disappointment. Taking her hand, he tugs her along until he drops down to sit at the edge of her bed. They're eye to very swollen belly. He contemplates the woman standing before him, looking down at him with a mixture of happiness and concern. Looking up with a bemused expression he asks, "Did I really do this?" "You *would* think of it that way wouldn't you?" she chides. "Whadya mean?" "No, Mulder, *you* didn't do this. We did," she corrects with a wry smile. "Damn straight," he concurs before clasping her hand and drawing her down beside him. He eases her back until her body is fitted against his, her rounded stomach oblique to his midsection. He props himself up on an elbow to reacquaint himself with her in slow time. His eyes wander from her face to the swell of her breasts and the fullness of her womb. She's breathtaking to him, more beautiful than he's ever known her; filled with the life they created together. He's diffident, but ever curious. She must sense his conflict because she takes his hand in hers and lays it on her stomach. Long fingers skim the covered circumference of her belly. All at once, he stops. "What the--" he wonders, while beneath his hand a small knob emerges, bumping up against his palm. He arches his hand, stunned into silence while he feels the slow left to right track of the protrusion across the lower curve of her abdomen before it recedes. He looks up into her face and sees her watching him with liquid eyes. "Scully--" "Don't talk, Mulder," she murmurs. "Just kiss me again." As his mouth captures hers, he reminds himself to be gentle. A whimper rises at the back of her throat and she demonstrates her dissatisfaction with his timidity with a hand wrapped around the back of his head. He presses her into the mattress, growing dizzy with the way her tongue sweeps against his. He isn't sure how either of them is breathing, but it's not important. Not right now. Not...right...now. They come up for air at last, his lips still lingering against hers. "Not sure what I can deliver right now." She smiles against his mouth, her hand sliding downwards to caress his mounting erection. She pulls back to watch his expression through half-lidded eyes as a heated rush of adrenaline flushes through him. "Doesn't appear to be any problem here," she smiles. "And if we're careful..." "I'm sure we can figure something out," he reassures with a sensual drawl, his hand curving over her hip to caress her bottom. He's pleased with the pink that rises in her cheeks and the way her breath quickens. He isn't sure what's safe at this stage of pregnancy, but he's certain his partner will tell him what works. The road ahead will be difficult. There is work to be done, plans to be made, liberties to be protected. It's a serious business, this thing called Life. Still, every now and again it *is* good to pause in one's pursuit of happiness and just be happy. He still doesn't know what to make of Skinner's situation with Krycek or Agent Doggett, but at least there is one thing that feels familiar to him again. In spite of everything, she is still the only thing he can count on -- the beacon that will guide him home. It is something that fits. Something that feels right. Something and someone. Or two. END