TITLE:		Risk (1/1)
AUTHOR:		Avalon 
EMAIL:		avalon@fuse.net	
RATING:		very light PG
SPOILERS:	nothing, really...this story takes place
		somewhere between Orison and Sein Und Zeit
		in Season 7
CATEGORY:	S, MSR, a little UST and RST, too
DISCLAIMER:	No, they're not mine.  They are Chris'.  
		If they were mine, we'd see a few more glipses
		like this on the actual show, instead of
		having to guess: "Did they or didn't they?"
		C'mon, Chris, we know they did!  No infringement
		intended.
FEEDBACK:	Always welcomed and answered, thanks.
ARCHIVES:	Spooky's, Gossamer, Ephemeral, anywhere, really,
		but if you're not one of those, please tell me
		so I can come visit.
SUMMARY:	Scully makes a decision to take a few risks in
		her personal life.
AUTHOR'S
NOTES:		At the end, please.



The smell of mildew hangs heavy in the cool basement air 
of her apartment building.  A light from the open door of 
the storage space slices a wedge onto the slate floor, 
spilling onto my track shoes as I stand at the bottom of the 
stairs.  She is kneeling, illuminated in the triangular beam 
from the single bulb that hangs above her head, and, for a 
moment, I think she might be praying.  Her hair shines in 
the harsh light, radiating a hazy halo around her.  It covers 
her face as she bows forward, her head nearly touching her 
knees.  She reminds me of the painted icons I remember 
from my years in England, and I swallow, pondering not 
for the first time how rich and vibrant the color red must 
look on her.  I wish I could see her hair as everyone else 
does, instead of in the faint shade of grey my eyes register. 

I wonder, too, how many angels and saints have red hair 
like Scully's.

I feel suddenly like I am intruding, and I turn to leave.  The 
nylon of my warmup jacket slides as I move, and she looks 
up, startled, at the rustling noise.  Her blue eyes shine 
brightly against the shadows behind her, and above them, 
her brow furrows.

"Hi," I say, my voice sounding foreign to my ears. "I just 
stopped by to drop off the forensics report you were 
looking for last night.  Your neighbor saw me in the hall 
and told me you were down here, so..." I stop and blink at 
her.  "I can just leave it under your door upstairs--"

"No, it's OK, Mulder."  I sigh inwardly, relieved that she is 
not upset with me.  She has been distant this week at work, 
almost robotic in the way she has gone through the motions 
of typing up reports, organizing the files, and sitting in 
meetings.  But the entire time, I have noticed a faraway 
look in her eyes, as if Scully is somewhere else while her 
body is on autopilot.

Some people might think I would find this suspicious, an 
X-File all its own. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not that 
paranoid.  Usually.  

I take a step forward, still feeling like I need to apologize.  
"I should've called first.  I don't know why I would even 
expect you to be home on a Saturday."

"I'm always home on Saturdays, Mulder."  This comes out 
sounding mildly annoyed.  There is something underneath 
this statement, I am sure, but I can't say what.  I decide to 
leave it alone.

An awkward silence follows, and I shift my weight to my 
other hip.  She is not looking at me, her gaze held instead 
by something on the floor in front of her.  I know I 
shouldn't press my luck, but I can't help myself.  My 
mother used to say, "Curiosity killed the cat, Fox. You 
should hope you were blessed with nine lives instead of just 
one."

I think my mother was right about me needing nine lives.  
After all the scrapes and brushes with death I have had in 
my years with the Bureau, I'm pretty sure I have used most 
of them up by now.  Something tells me, though, that Dana 
Scully won't be the death of me, at least not directly, and at 
least not today.

"What're you looking at, Scully?" 

She lets out a puff of breath, as if she has been holding it 
since I walked in.  "Pictures," she answers, and she amazes 
me by reaching out one of her tiny white hands to me.  At 
the same time, she turns her head, and there is the smallest 
of smiles on her lips.  "Come see."

I try not to look confounded as I take her hand and fold 
myself into a crouch next to her on the basement floor.  
Scully is sharing a piece of herself with me, and I am 
nothing short of stunned.  This doesn't happen very often.  
I consider briefly that I may be asleep and dreaming on the 
couch in my apartment, dismissing this idea as I feel the 
burn the touch of her skin causes in my own.  

With her free hand, she picks up a framed photo and brings 
it forward for closer examination.  I glance at it and almost 
immediately burst into laughter.  I have seen these kinds of 
pictures before, displayed in kiosks at the malls around 
town.  There are two young women in this one, sitting back 
to back on a wooden bar, a bottle of Jack Daniels centered 
in front of them.  Both are wearing corsets and stockings, 
their heads thrown back and touching as they grin for the 
camera.  One raises a shot glass in a mock salute, while the 
other brandishes a six-shooter, her weapon arm slung 
across the leg she has hiked up on the counter.  The photo 
is treated to look like tintype, the sepia tone of the picture 
mimicking an age long gone.

"Scully!" I exclaim, attempting to sound shocked through 
my laughter.  "That's you!"

She is laughing, too, another rarity, and the air between us 
seems to lift and expand. She touches the glass, indicating 
the girl with the gun.  "Yep, that's me, partner.  Even then, 
I must've known I would end up as a G-woman."  Her 
finger moves across the frame, stopping on the other girl.  
"And that's Missy."

I take the photo from her and tip it into the light to get a 
better look.  The resemblance between Scully and her sister 
has never been exceptionally striking, but here, it is easy to 
see the shared genes.  Scully's hair is much longer, trailing 
over her shoulders, and my mind wanders to how nice it 
would be to see her hair that long again.  To run my hands 
through it as it falls past her neck...

I clear my throat.  "How old were you here?"  Good 
recovery, Mulder.

"Um, fourteen or fifteen, I guess.  I think that's the year 
Missy graduated from high school, so..." Her voice trails 
off, and I can see that her eyes are clouded with memory.  
It has been a long time since Melissa was murdered, but 
Scully's grief for her sister is something that she has never 
been able to bury as deeply as her other emotions.  I know 
that she still feels the sting of that pain, and the guilt that 
goes with thinking that her sister died because of her.  That 
kind of agony doesn't disappear overnight.

I should know.  I've got my own ghosts to deal with.  Their 
names are Bill and Samantha Mulder.

I attempt to inject the patented Mulder humor into the 
pregnant pause.  "So, this is what Scully looks like in 
lingerie."  I pass the photo back to her, trying out a huge 
grin.  "It suits you."

She arches her patented Scully brow at me, but the corners 
of her lips are still turned up into a smile.  "It was Missy's 
idea, of course," she says.  "Missy always wanted to do the 
fun stuff, the wild stuff I would only dream of doing with 
her."  She brushes a manicured nail across the top of the 
frame, checking for dust.  "This was taken at an amusement 
park near where we lived in California.  She loved going to 
those, too."

"Well, c'mon, Scully.  Who doesn't like a good amusement 
park?"

She shakes her head.  "I never went to them, unless it was 
with Melissa.  I just never had any fun."

I am dumbfounded.  "You're kidding!  You never had any 
fun at amusement parks?"  She shrugs a little, folding the 
top of a nearby box to close it. "Scully, you're un-
American!"

"With Missy, it was different," she continues, settling the 
picture on top of the cardboard carton.  "She would make 
me go on every ride in the park, no matter what it did.  The 
Scrambler, the Ferris Wheel, those ones that spun around 
and tilted--"

"Haley's Comet," I interject.  "You wouldn't expect me to 
forget the name of that ride, would you?"

I get some teeth with this smile.  "And the roller coasters.  
We had to ride every roller coaster, at least a half dozen 
times each.  Those were Missy's favorites. No matter how 
sick I got, she made me ride every one."

"You didn't really get sick, did you?"

"Well, I probably wouldn't have if she didn't force me to 
eat ice cream and cotton candy and hot dogs all day long!"  
She touches her stomach briefly.  "I'm a little queasy just 
thinking about it.  And we would laugh so hard I was sure 
everything was going to come up.  By the end of those 
days, my sides would hurt from laughing so much."

"It sounds really great, Scully."  She gives the box in front 
of her a small shove, and I notice the word "Missy" written 
on the side of it in permanent black marker.  "So this is 
Melissa's stuff?"  I gesture to the collection of cartons 
surrounding us.

Scully nods and leans forward, stretching her spine.  Her 
short blue tank rides up in the back, exposing a strip of 
ivory skin.  At this moment, I think it must be one of the 
most beautiful things I have ever seen.  "Most of it went 
into storage in my mother's basement, but somehow, these 
boxes ended up here.  I've never opened them."  She sighs.  
"I've been meaning to, all this time, but I could never bring 
myself to do it.  So I swore this week that I would clean it 
all out today."

I sit back on my heels, my legs starting to ache from their 
cramped position.  After a minute, I lean closer to her.  
"Well, I can stay and help you, if you want."

Another sigh escapes her as she glances at me.  "Thanks, 
Mulder, but you don't have to do that.  I'm sure you have 
better things to do on a Saturday than help me clean out my 
storage space."

"Oh, yeah, there's that really pressing pick-up game of 
basketball today," I answer, bobbing my head up and down 
in what I hope is comedic exaggeration.  "And then, later 
on, there's my hot date with the ex-porn star."  Scully emits 
a short bark of laughter, which is just the reaction I was 
hoping for.  "C'mon, Scully, you never know...you might 
need a big macho guy like me to help you move these 
boxes."

"Yeah?  Well, Melissa used to say that men were good for 
two things, and one of them was moving furniture."  

I chuckle at this and pull an unopened box toward me.  
"What other magnificent words of wisdom did Melissa 
Scully share?"

Scully doesn't answer, engrossed instead in rummaging 
through a stack of old magazines she has found.  I slide my 
hand under the top of the carton in front of me and lift out a 
huge scrapbook.  The cover is made of heavy cardboard, 
and it is decorated in curlicues and flowers.  Each is hand-
drawn, intricate and beautiful, and I am struck by the 
artistry of the work.  I can tell that the art is in color, and I 
run my fingers over it, imagining the hues that must have 
been used.  My eyes don't register any blues or earth tones, 
so I know that the piece must be done in reds and pinks and 
greens, all the shades I cannot see.  My mind tells me that 
this is Melissa's work, and I pull my sight away from the 
book cover and allow it to drift over to Scully.  I wonder 
how Melissa saw her, what pigments she would have used 
to capture the essence of her younger sister.  

I notice abruptly that my partner is looking at me, a 
question on her china doll face.  "Mulder," she says, her 
tone wary.  "Are you OK?"

"Yeah," I reply, and I scoot closer to her so she can see the 
scrapbook.  "I was just admiring your sister's artwork."

A dreamy smile touches Scully's lips.  "She was really 
good, wasn't she?"  I nod, even though I know she doesn't 
notice it.  "She won all kinds of awards in school, and 
scholarships to every great art academy in America.  But 
she didn't want to go to school.  She wanted to experience 
life.  That's what she said, anyway.  So she drifted around, 
making money here and there with her paintings and her 
sketches.  She told me it gave her work a flavor that she 
could never have learned in school."

"So what's in this book?" I ask, my interest piqued again.  
"Is it perhaps where she recorded more of those pearls of 
wisdom of hers?"

"No," Scully answers, leaning across me to open the 
scrapbook.  The top of her head pauses mere inches from 
my nose, and I am keenly aware that her breasts are grazing 
my thigh.  I am glad for the expanse of the book in my lap.  
She pulls the cover back and lets it fall against me, taking 
the heavier pages on her own legs.  "This is what Missy 
called her Big Black Book.  It was where she kept the 
pictures of all her old boyfriends."

I eye the bulk of the pages that Scully is supporting and 
whistle.  "She must have had quite a few."

"More flavor for her work.  Missy's 31 Flavors, " she 
murmurs, her tone mildly amused.  "I used to tease her 
about that.  She always said men were just one more thing 
in life to sample."

"And what would you say, Scully?  Do you subscribe to 
that attitude?"  

I catch her flicking her eyes to glance at me, moving them 
quickly back to the photos taped on the pages before her.  
"No, Mulder, I don't."  She flips through the book quickly, 
rifling through the images of smiling young men and 
Melissa.  She is silent for a moment, and her voice is 
contemplative when she speaks again.  "I don't know if 
Missy was ever really in love." 

I want to ask her the question that is burning in my throat.  
How about you, Scully?  Have you ever been in love?  I 
imagine that she has been.  I don't kid myself into thinking 
that I am the only man who has ever been in love with 
Dana Scully.  And in my experience, no one becomes as 
guarded as she is without having had her heart broken at 
least once.  

Again, I should know.  I have those kinds of ghosts, too.  
One named Phoebe, and one named Diana.  I bite the 
question back, letting Scully take the lead.

The scrapbook closes with a slap, and it seems to punctuate 
the moment.  Scully nudges it off our laps and onto the 
floor next to her.  Her next question is abrupt, and the tone 
of resignation in it surprises me.  "Don't you ever wonder, 
Mulder, why we do the things we do?"

"Do you mean you and I, Scully, or people in general?"

She shakes her head slightly, the strands of her hair moving 
like a sheer curtain blowing in a light summer breeze.  "I 
look at her stuff, and it just seems so senseless.  I don't 
understand her, and--" She stops, as if the words have 
caught in her throat, and after a moment she continues, her 
voice altogether different, the painful echo of fingernails on 
a chalkboard.  "And now I never will."

"Do you really need to understand her, Scully?"  I press my 
hand onto her knee, hoping it is comforting to her.  She 
doesn't pull away, and I leave it there, aware in the back of 
my mind that I need to touch her as much as she could 
possibly need to be consoled.  "Isn't it enough just to love 
her for who she was?"

She fingers the scrapbook beside her, perhaps hoping to 
find some strength there.  "Maybe I was hoping that by 
figuring her out, I could understand myself."

I swallow, my profiler mind clicking, putting the hints of 
what I know of Scully together like a human jigsaw puzzle.  
"You know who you are, Scully.  You're one of the most 
confident people I know.  Why are you questioning that 
now?"

"I thought I knew who I was.  Now, I'm not so sure."

"Why the sudden change?  Why uncertainty now?"

She turns her eyes to me, and I can feel the intensity of her 
gaze radiating onto my skin.  I try to disguise the 
unexpected racing of my heart by keeping my face blank, 
somehow sure that she must be able to hear my breath 
speeding up and rattling through my lungs.  Once again, 
what she says takes me off-guard.  "Why did you become 
an F.B.I. agent, Mulder?"

"I was recruited, just like you.  I guess I thought that, with 
government access, it would be easier to find Samantha."  I 
am pleased that my voice doesn't betray the wildness her 
closeness is causing in my cardiovascular system.

She pulls her knees up under her chin, curling her arms 
around the denim on her shins and hugging her elbows.  
This makes her look younger somehow, vulnerable, a 
child's conciliatory action made in an effort to soothe 
herself.  I long to wrap her in my embrace instead, knowing 
that this would be inappropriate right now, the squelching 
of the urge to grab her causing a light sheen of perspiration 
to break out on my forehead.  She continues the 
conversation, unaware as I surreptitiously blot it away with 
the heel of my hand.

"I think I was running away when I joined the Bureau."

"Running away from what?"

"A lot of things.  People, mostly...but I also realize now 
that I was running away from myself."  She shifts, laying 
her cheek on her knees and gazing at me.  "I think I wanted 
to be someone new, someone else.  All my life, I had been 
the safe one, the dutiful daughter.  I think I was always 
trying to make up for Missy somehow, serving a penance 
for a sin I didn't commit.  I admired her so much, the way 
she could just tell everyone to go to hell, smiling when she 
said it, and never losing their love for a second.  That was 
who she was.  She took risks.  I never did."  She reaches 
over to the first box and lifts the tintype photo again.  "So 
maybe I chose a profession where all I do is take risks, 
simply because I can't in any other part of my life."

The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, 
hushed yet piercing.  "You can't, or you won't?"

She stares at me, a current as high-voltage as electricity 
passing between us.  "It is a choice, isn't it?"  The question 
is almost a whisper, and I'm not sure if she is addressing 
me or herself.  The friction of blood in my ears is so loud I 
can barely hear her, and I realize that she is inclining 
toward me, her face mere inches from my own.  The 
cornflower blue of her eyes has darkened into azure, and I 
watch as she touches the tip of her tongue to the corner of 
her mouth, the gesture that I have seen countless times, the 
one that tells me that Scully is considering.  I keep my eyes 
locked on hers, maintaining every ounce of self-control I 
must possibly possess.

And then, her lips are on mine, kissing me, her hands 
moving across my chest and around my neck, leaving a 
trail of heat behind them.  It is a wholly different kiss than 
the one I initiated on New Year's Eve when we stood in the 
hospital, recovering from our encounter with the undead.  
That was the careful kiss of old friends, partners who had 
suffered and bled next to each other and simply wanted to 
relish the life left between and in front of them.  Scully's 
kiss now is softer than any I could ever dream of, all plush 
satin and pliant silk.  Yet there is an urgency underneath it 
that gently pushes our mouths open to explore each other, 
to share an intimacy we never have before.  Something in 
my mind explodes, sending showers of glittering tints and 
streaks of color slicing through the darkness there.  A 
racing thought flashes, and I wonder fleetingly if the colors 
of the world could possibly be as beautiful as the brightness 
that Scully has ignited inside my brain.  It seems to last for 
hours, spiraling up and out of us, tying us up into a vortex 
of gentle power and potent fever.

When it ends, her intense gaze does not, and I use all of 
what is left of my motor function capacities to smile at her.  
"I told you I was really good at moving furniture," I quip, 
slowing my breathing so I don't sound like a schoolgirl.  

Her smile forms slowly, like melting chocolate, looking 
lopsided and lazy on her flushed face.  "Well, maybe 
sometime soon, we can find out if you're any good at that 
other thing Melissa referred to."  I cough out a laugh, one 
that teeters precariously between disbelief and surging 
hope.  Her grin dissolves into seriousness, and she nods her 
head once decisively.  "I think I'm finally ready to take a 
chance."

I touch her cheek with the pads of my fingers, amazed to be 
given this gift.  "I won't let you down, Scully."  It is all I 
can do to squeeze the words out of my constricted throat.

"I know you, Mulder.  I know you won't."

Elation washes over me, and I scramble to my feet, pulling 
her up beside me.  I start pushing the boxes around us back 
into the storage closet as fast as possible, and Scully 
watches me, confused.  "Mulder, what are you doing?"

"It's too nice outside to do this today, Scully.  I have a 
great idea."

"Mulder, no.  I need to get this done."

I look over my shoulder at her, stacking cartons so that they 
fit just inside the door.  "Come on, Scully.  You just told 
me you are ready to live a little again."

She sighs, but her eyes jump mischievously.  "OK, OK.  
Where are we going?"

I shut the door and snap the padlock into place.  I slip my 
arm around her tiny waist and relish the feel of her so close 
to me, right where I have always known she belongs.  "I'll 
buy you some cotton candy at the church festival down the 
block.  If we get lucky, maybe we can ride Haley's Comet, 
too."

Her laugh bounces off the concrete walls and joins with 
mine.  It is a sound as delicious as bubbles in a champagne 
glass, and I am ready to celebrate, willing and determined 
to help this woman, the one that I have loved so much for 
so long, to love me in return.


***END***


AUTHOR'S NOTES:  I started this story a while ago, then got
wrapped up in other projects.  When I finished The Letting Go
earlier this week, I found this in my folder and had a sudden
inspiration about how to finish it.  Love it when the Muse 
works like that!

I am personally of the mind that, after seven years of yearning
and tension, Mulder and Scully would not simply fall into bed
one night.  I think that they are too intelligent and guarded
to not make some kind of conscious decision about where their
relationship would go.  This little piece just popped into 
my brain and wouldn't be silenced, so I went where it took me.  
After spending a fair amount of recent time in angst hell, I am
glad that this story came out a little lighter.  I hope you 
enjoy it.

Also, please give me a little room on the time frame of this 
story.  I wanted to set it in the early spring, so that they 
could do something outside, but I can't seem to see the time 
stamps on my videotaped copies of Sein Und Zeit and Closure.  
I wanted this set before them, so I hope that was early spring.

Feedback is always welcomed and answered.  avalon@fuse.net
Hope to see you all again soon...with my own fanfic website!