Title: Self Complete Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery Category: SAR - character exploration Spoilers: none Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please! Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den Http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113 Summary: With Priest defeated, Mulder and Scully move forward. Part of the Self Serial. Series in order is: Self Lost Self Unknown Self Revealed Self Torment Self Complete Self Complete 01/02 He didn't have long. He figured the longest Mulder would stay in the shower was 15 minutes. But still, a 15 minute run would be better than nothing. He was strung tighter than a bow. Fear, rage, concern all swirled about with no good outlet. He couldn't very well go around hitting people because they couldn't find Scully -- but he wanted to. He stripped off his shirt and tie, removed his undershirt, and stepped out of his shoes. He looked down at his trousers and decided it would be his turn for the shower next -- he'd change then. What he really wanted was a good go-round with the heavy bag, but that was sorely lacking from this yuppie version of a gym. Weights, a leg press, ab cruncher, and a stair machine were all present along with the treadmill he planned to use. He climbed on the treadmill, starting slow but rapidly increasing speed until he finally set the machine for a 5 minute mile -- fast even for him. He usually preferred to run a little slower but go for distance. This time, however, he was looking for maximum expenditure of energy in minimum time. He was moving smoothly now, well within his comfort zone, and the pressure of the past few days began to slowly slide away. This was how he coped. Physical activity -- running, boxing, lifting weights -- it was his survival mechanism. If he could just work out the kinks physically, he could usually wrap his brain around a problem and come up with a viable solution. He rolled his shoulders again, then lifted a hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that were forming on his forehead. Mulder and Scully. There was a situation. All those years of working together and it took someone like Priest to get them to acknowledge they were in love. No one had been more surprised than he when those words had popped out of Scully's mouth four months ago. Well, he amended, maybe Mulder had been more surprised. They had a hard row to hoe. A romantic relationship between partners was frowned upon at the Bureau. If they kept the relationship low key, kept it away from the work, he might be able to keep them together. But if they wanted to get married, start a family, he'd have no choice but to split them up. And then what would he do? Scully had dozens of options. She could go anywhere, work in any office with a pathology department. She could teach at the Academy; travel on a lecture circuit. The possibilities were endless for Scully. But what would he do with Mulder? Mulder couldn't work the X files alone -- he'd never survive without Scully to save his butt when he ran off half-cocked, racing into situations that were far too unpredictable for a single person to face alone. He didn't think the man would accept a new partner -- and he wasn't sure he'd trust anyone else with Mulder. And he wasn't going to send his best agent back to VCS -- no matter how talented he was in that area. Now that he had seen what it cost Mulder to look into the mind of a killer, he'd have no part in returning him to that world. And he certainly wasn't going to consign the man to listening to bullshit tapes on bullshit operations to solve bullshit crimes. As brilliant as Mulder was, he'd go crazy if he had to do that day after day. No, Mulder was going to be a problem and there was just one thing to do. He was going to have to find a way to promote the man. He had a good mind -- he could be organized when he wanted to. And he had the ability to read people. He'd make a good SAC. Removed enough from the actual crimes to keep him safe -- and sane -- and yet still involved enough to satisfy that need of his to be the protector, slay the dragons, kill the bad guys. Skinner smiled to himself. Well, wasn't that just the end of it all? Who'd have thought that Mulder and Scully falling in love would result in Mulder getting promoted? It'd drive Mulder crazy when he told him. Skinner laughed now, imagining the look on Mulder's face. The man would be in absolute shock. He'd never believe it. He'd protest at first, try and wriggle out of it. But once Skinner explained that it was the only way he was going to be able to still work with Scully, well, he'd settle down and accept. Mulder could still dabble with the unusual cases. As AD, he could assign Scully to wherever he put Mulder. She'd keep an eye on him, make him toe the line. It wouldn't hurt to have her around to help until Mulder got the knack of all the increased paperwork he was going to be doing. But, he mused to himself, if he was going to rely on Scully to get Mulder through as SAC, she was going to need a raise as well. Well, hell! He could do that. He was the god damned Assistant Director after all. He did have some discretion in these things. And it was about time he started using it. No more sitting on the fence. No more trying to play both sides in an effort to keep his people safe. No more deals with the devil on his part. It was time to take a stand. It was odd how seeing Mulder and Scully take a stand on their own relationship was pushing him to redefine his own standards and values. There was definitely something going on with the X files. Some sort of conspiracy or government cover-up. Did it involve aliens? Who knew? And did it really matter? If aliens were going to waste all that time and energy abducting humans, why the hell weren't they using that famous anal probe on world leaders instead of any idiot with a pickup? Skinner shook his head. There were things going on in the shadows, that much was sure. Some possibly extra-terrestrial -- but certainly there was enough political maneuvering amongst the key players right here on terra firma to keep things interesting. He could dangle an opportunity to focus on that before Mulder -- that ought to help make the promotion a little easier to swallow. He liked the man. He had to admit it. He liked and respected the man. There was a level of commitment, a purity of purpose about him that was appealing. If he didn't drive you crazy first, of course. He'd been touched when Mulder called him by his first name. It was something new. He didn't admit it, but he'd been called by his last name probably longer than Mulder had. Eighteen years old -- in the Army. Somehow, Walter had vanished over in Vietnam, and some new person, harder, colder, and stronger in many ways, had emerged. Sharon had been the only one to still call him Walter. And she had died with that name on her lips. He'd not thought to hear it again. And then Mulder had said it -- Walter. It was a small thing, but it touched him deeply. He didn't have friends -- he worked too hard and too long, and he couldn't very well talk to people about what he did. Women were available to him since Sharon died, but he didn't understand these women. They reminded him of the boys he grew up with, only after one thing. And while he enjoyed that one thing, it wasn't enough. But, if he could have friends, he wanted real friends like Mulder and Scully. Friends who understood the work, understood the hours, understood him, then life became just a bit more worth living. But the first step in all of this -- promotions, reassignments, friendships -- was to find Scully. None of it would mean anything if they didn't find her, get her away from Priest, and put an end to this god awful case. He glanced at his watch, startled when he realized he'd been on the treadmill for 20 minutes. He glanced over at the closed door to the workout room, wondering why no one had come to find him. He slowed the machine, winding down until he was jogging, and then walking briskly, and then finally, stopping. Climbing down, he began to towel off. He slipped on his shoes and T-shirt and went directly back to the room where he'd left Mulder, but the man was not there. Frowning, he hurried to the command center. The agent he had appointed as Mulder-watcher was in the room, busily scanning through sheets of an MLS printout. "Where is Agent Mulder, Dexter?" he demanded. "Oh, uh, I, uh, missed him, Sir." The young man was blushing to the tips of his toes as he stood to face the AD. "What do you mean, you missed him?" Skinner could feel a vein in his temple begin to throb. "I was, uh ..." Dexter looked around for help, found none, and swallowed hard. "I, uh, had to go to the bathroom, Sir." "I am not interested in your toilet training, Agent." Skinner towered over the other man, fighting for self- control. "Where is Agent Mulder?" "I, uh, think he went to get something to eat." Dexter blurted the words out, then took two steps back as Skinner advanced on him, hands fisted at this side. "Mulder doesn't eat, you idiot. I told you to watch him and come get me when he got out of the shower." Skinner shook his head in disgust. "What was so hard about that?" He turned and grabbed a woman in an NYPD uniform. "Find Detective Nowak. Have him report to me." "Yes, Sir," the woman replied sharply as she turned and left the room. Skinner went back to the hotel room. He stood in the doorway and studied it. The bed was still made -- slightly mussed from where Mulder had sat on it, but still, nothing unusual in that. He peered into the bathroom. The steam on the mirror was gone; there was no residual heat to show the shower had been used. Mulder had been gone awhile. "You wanted to see me?" Nowak stood in the door behind him. "Mulder's missing." He looked at clothes Mulder had left on the floor, and then went to his bag and tried to take inventory. "I think he's in jeans. Not sure what kind of shirt." He looked back at the open closet. "Didn't take his coat." "He wouldn't have gone out in this weather without his coat." Nowak nodded as he spoke. "Surely that's a good sign; he didn't go far." "It just means Mulder didn't think about it. He doesn't always remember mundane things like eating, and sleeping, and wearing a coat in the snow. They're too -- ordinary. He, uh -- gets focused on something and the rest just disappears." Skinner closed Mulder's bag, his eyes darting around the room again. He was beginning to panic. Something had triggered Mulder's hasty disappearance; he had to have found something new. His eyes lighted on the laptop. For close to 24 hours it had been open, connected to the internet and running searches on MLS. Emails had been rocketing back and forth between members of the search team, LEOs who weren't on site, and Mulder's special unofficial sources. Now it was closed. He moved smoothly across the room, opening the laptop and booting it up in one quick move. His foot tapped impatiently as he waited for the dial up modem to connect. A few keystrokes and he was in. Good thing he'd already hacked Mulder's email once -- it saved time this go round. And there it was. Old house. On the river. Underground tunnels and storage areas. Not listed as vacant because it was owned by the government. Skinner jotted down the address, leapt to his feet and headed out. "Get 'em rolling, Nowak. I know where he went." ************************************************** She got another glimpse of Mulder's face as he tumbled into the bedroom, grappling with Priest. She followed as swiftly as she could, making it to the door in time to see the two men crash against the dresser, fighting and struggling in a silent choreography. Mulder swung violently at Priest, his face contorted in rage. Priest broke free and swung at Mulder, striking him on the cheek, drawing instant blood and knocking him back against the bed. Scully pulled herself to her feet, and launched herself at Priest. He was insane; he may have wanted Mulder back, wanted his 'brother' to help him, but when Mulder had attacked him, all that changed. She could see it in Priest's face. He would kill Mulder, if he could. Scully was strong, but she was small; she was normally quick, but she was hurt. Priest was neither small nor hurt, and he brought up a forearm, slamming it into Scully's chest, knocking her backward. She fell against the wall, lights exploding in her head. She crumpled to the floor as Priest leapt past her and went out the bedroom door. She felt rather than saw Mulder launch his body over hers, yelling, trying to reach Priest as he ran out of the room. Use your gun, idiot, she thought, but she had no energy to call out. Scully shook her head as she heard a crash in the living room. She listened to the struggle, still trying to gather herself and climb back to her feet. She heard yelling, echoing down the hall. "Gonna kill you." The voice was so matter-of-fact, yet it was the voice of hatred. The chilling thought ran through her mind that she might lose Mulder -- here, today -- and they'd never really had a chance to act on the love they shared. She pushed herself up and got her knees under her, then stood, holding onto the bed, swaying on her feet. As she lurched out the door and into the hallway, she heard what sounded like a chair slam into a wall in the living room. This can't be real. Why won't this end? For an insane moment, she wanted nothing more than to run to the bathroom, lock the door, and hide. But while hiding might avoid Priest, Mulder would be deserted, and she could never do that. She entered the living room and put her hand out to the wall to steady herself. The door was open, splintered doorframe lying on the bare floorboards. Two dark figures struggled, swinging wildly, throwing punches faster than her eyes could follow. She lunged for Mulder, yanking him backward. They both fell as she scrambled for his gun holster. She tore the flap open, jerked the pistol out in one motion, and then she was up from the floor, holding the Sig in a two-handed grip. She saw Priest now, moving along the wall toward her. Her aim wavered, her vision blurred, but she fired three shots in quick succession. A shot hit a lamp and the ceramic exploded in a white shower. The shade bounced crazily across the floor and then Priest lunged for her, knocking the gun from her hand. Oblivious to Mulder's roar, he locked his hands around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing ... Her vision was fading as Mulder threw himself onto Priest's back, hands working furiously to remove Priest's fingers from around her throat. She vaguely heard Skinner yell, "Freeze!" and thought it was about time backup arrived. There were several more shots, but the hands were still around her throat, and she couldn't see, she couldn't hear, and then, she couldn't breathe. ************************************************ She woke in the hospital. One arm was strapped to a board and an IV pumped fluids into her. Her ankle had been bound, and was elevated. Her ribs had been taped as well, making her wonder if she'd cracked one or two. But it was her throat that hurt. She tried to speak, just an experimental little sound, but hardly anything came out. She furrowed her brow and looked around. Mulder was sitting in a chair, bent over the bed with his head resting against her leg. One arm curled protectively across her thighs. He was sound asleep. Her eyes found Skinner next. He was slumped in a chair, long legs stretched out before him, studying her as she took her silent inventory and became oriented. "Better, Dana?" he asked quietly. She nodded, then pointed to her throat with her free hand. "Are you thirsty?" Skinner was on his feet in an instant and holding a cup to her lips. She swallowed carefully, then asked in a soft, hoarse voice, "Did we get him?" "Oh, yeah," Skinner nodded. "Mulder had pretty much beaten the shit out of him, then you got him with Mulder's gun. We're still not sure which bullet actually killed him -- yours, mine, or Nowak's. Skinner smiled grimly. "But we are sure of one thing -- he is one dead fucker." "How's Mulder?" "Awake." She turned to find her partner smiling up at her, looking for all the world like a kid who'd just been given his Christmas, Easter, and birthday presents all rolled up into one. "You got him, partner," she whispered hoarsely. "We did." Mulder waved at the room, including Skinner in the gesture. "I'm going to leave you two now," Skinner said, smiling. He leaned down, surprising both his agents when he kissed Scully on the cheek. "I'm very pleased you're still with us, Dana, and if you ever go off alone again like that, I'll hold you while Mulder beats you. Got it?" He turned and left the room, chuckling quietly at the astonished expressions on both their faces. "Well, Scully -- since Walter did bring it up..." Mulder drew back in the chair and tried to look sternly at the love of his life. "What the hell were you thinking when you went in that house alone?" "Probably the same thing you think every time you take off on one of your little jaunts, Agent Mulder," she replied smartly, although faintly. "That's different," he said, and she could hear the hurt and confusion in his voice. "How?" Mulder shrugged. "It just is." "Well, there's a valid argument if ever I heard one. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury -- it just is." She tried to cross her arms, but it was difficult with the board and IV. "Scully," Mulder began, and his voice broke. He paused a moment, then tried again. "Scully -- I know it's not fair, but you can't put yourself at risk. I can't stand it. I couldn't stand it again. I don't think I could go on if something happened to you." All the anger that had been building at his double standard seeped away as she listened to the pain in his voice, saw the tears in his eyes. "Mulder," she said softly, reaching out to pull him toward her. "I'm not going anywhere." He was leaning over her, bending closer, and then, like magic, his mouth touched hers. Just the lightest touch, his lips grazing across hers. His tongue peeked out briefly, almost as if he were tasting her, or marking her, making her his own. "I love you, Dana Scully," he whispered. She drew his head down until it rested against her breast. Her hand stroked his hair, soothing, calming, promising. "And I love you, Fox Mulder." It was her turn on the range at Quantico. The gun made rapid little sounds -- pop, pop, pop -- the bullets hitting the target almost before the sounds registered. She stood with her legs spread, the gun held before her in both hands, totally focused on the cardboard man at the end of the range. He felt himself begin to harden. What was it about death and sex? Well, it had been near death this last time, and it had been near sex for far too long. He looked at the target. A cluster of nine holes were centered on the chest. She lowered the weapon and turned to look at him. "Nice shooting, Scully," he commented. "Gonna fire the last round?" With a look that couldn't be described as anything but saucy, she eyed the target, then brought her gun up and fired in a single smooth move. He looked at the target, watched as a hole bloomed on the left shoulder. "Trying to tell me something, Scully?" "Yeah. You put yourself on the line like that again -- for any reason -- and it won't just be your shoulder I put a bullet in." He stepped closer, skimmed his fingers over her hair. "If it's for you, you'll have to shoot me to stop me." She reached out and pulled his hand into her own. His ring finger was crooked, a lasting reminder of the damage Priest had done. "You can't do that," she murmured. "You can't protect me and keep me safe." When she started to step back, he tightened his fingers. "I'm tired of you telling me what I can and cannot do. Don't you know you are more important to me than anything?" He didn't mind the accusation in her eyes, or the anger. He preferred it to acceptance or disinterest. After all, this was his Scully. "Mulder, you have to let me do my job. You can't always protect me. My job is who I am -- I have to be able to function." "So function." He shrugged. "I don't interfere with you doing your job. You know that." He turned her hand in his, his thumb gently stroking hers. "You can't protect me," she insisted. "I'm not some fragile flower that can't take care of herself. I'm strong and capable, and I can do what it takes to get the job done. As nice as it might be to imagine a white knight -- I can handle myself in the field. You have to take me as I am." His eyes darkened with impatient desire. "And that's what I want. You're strong, Scully -- stronger than me. I need your strength." The frustration he was feeling now was with himself, for being so impossibly driven that he might, at any moment, begin to beg. "I need you, Scully," he murmured, stepping closer, curling his hands on the collar of her shirt. She gripped his arms, and he wasn't sure if she intended to move in or away. "Are you sure?" "Am I sure, she asks?" he muttered, before his mouth captured hers and she moved in. Her arms went around him, fingers diving into his hair. Her body slammed into his, vibrating as the kiss grew rough, then nearly brutal. His mouth was hot, almost vicious. The shock of it sent flares of reaction straight to her center. Already, his fast, impatient hands, with those long elegant, though slightly crooked, fingers were tugging her shirt from her jeans, finding her skin. In response, she pulled at his shirt, desperate to get through cotton and touch flesh. He had a vision of himself dragging her to the floor, pounding himself into her until her screams echoed like gunshots, and his release erupted like blood. It would be quick and fierce. And over. With the breath shuddering in his lungs, he jerked back. Her face was flushed, her mouth already swollen. He'd torn her shirt at the shoulder. He pulled back, looked around at the room filled with violence, the smell of gun smoke still stinking in the air -- weapons still within reach. He scooped up her gun, shoved it into her holster, and began to tug. "Not here." He half-carried, half-dragged her to the door, then out of the firing range and across the green lawn toward the student dormitories. "Mulder," she hissed, trying uselessly to stuff her shirt into her pants with one hand. He let her go, did something to the door, and they slipped in. He pulled her to the elevator, pushing furiously at the button. "Are you nuts, Mulder? Have you completely lost your mind?" "There's not a class in session -- the dorms are empty." The elevator opened and he dragged her inside, the torn sleeve of her shirt a mere memory. He shoved her against the back wall as the doors closed them in, and fumbled with her holster. "Take this damn thing off. Take it off." "Mulder. Do you realize where we are?" "Are you afraid? Of me?" His eyes narrowed with barely contained passion. "We've waited long enough, Scully." He could see her shudder, feel the tension that engulfed her. "Are you afraid to step over the line?" "It's a line we've been very careful to avoid. It's sex, Mulder. It always changes things. And we still have to work together." She pushed him away, then pushed at her shirt. "It could be distracting." The darkness in his eyes lightened to a laugh. "Damn right it could. Especially when it's done right." He reached out and took her hand. "Isn't it time for us?" The elevator opened on the third floor of the empty dorm, and he tugged her down the hall to a room. Another quick fumble at the door, and it opened beneath his fingers. He pulled her in, then crushed her against the door. "I surrender," she gasped, pressing hard against him as her hands roamed the planes and angles of his body. She hit the release on the holster and let it dangle from one hand as she fought to open his buttons with the other. "Why do you have on more clothes than me?" "I can fix that." He pulled his shirt off, tossed it away and then ripped her tattered blouse aside. Beneath it she wore a thin, nearly transparent undershirt that revealed small, firm breasts and hardened nipples. He closed his hands over them, watched her eyes glaze. "Where do you like to be touched?" "You're doing fine," she murmured. She had one hand on the side wall to keep her knees from buckling. She let the holster drop to the floor and began to circle around him, his teeth nipping and scraping along her throat. She was fumbling to release his slacks when he tumbled her onto the bed. With a half laugh, she rolled on top of him and fastened her mouth to his. Wild, reckless energy was bursting inside -- he couldn't move quickly enough, his hands weren't fast enough to satisfy his craving. She kicked off her shoes, letting him peel her jeans over her hips. He groaned, and felt her tremble against him. The need for release was driving and fierce. The moment they were naked, she tried to straddle him, but he flipped their positions, muffled her edgy protests with a long, rough kiss. "What's your hurry?" he murmured, sliding a hand down to take her breast and watching her face while his thumb quietly tortured her nipple. "I haven't even really looked at you." "I want you." The words were gasped out, torn from her throat. "I know." He levered back, running a hand from her shoulder to her thigh while his gaze followed the movement. The blood was pounding in his loins. "Soft, smooth ..." His hand squeezed lightly on her breast. "Small. Very nearly delicate. Who would have guessed?" "I want you inside me." The order was almost petulant. He smiled. "Patience. Anything worth doing is worth doing right." "God damn it," she began, then groaned when he dipped his head and took her breast into his mouth. She writhed against him, against herself as he suckled, so gently at first it was torture, then harder, faster until she was biting back a scream. His hands, those clever hands, continued to skim over her, kindling exotic little fires of need. She struggled to get a hand between them, to reach him where he lay hard and heavy against her. He grabbed her wrists, one large hand holding them both as he pushed them up over her head. "Mulder ..." "You can't always be in control, Scully. Sometimes, you just have to give in." As he spoke he ran his free hand over her thigh. "Trust me." She trembled and her eyes lost focus when his fingers brushed the back of her knee. "Mulder ..." she moaned again, struggling for air. Experimentally, he caressed that sensitive skin, tracing his fingers up toward the heat, then back again. Her breath was coming in gasps now as she fought to roll away from him, to roll him under her so that she could quench her terrible need. "Slow," he whispered, "slow..." He began a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses at the base of her throat, working his way down while her body quivered like a plucked violin string beneath his. She strained against him, bucked, but each frantic movement brought only a new and devastating sensation. "I can't wait, Mulder. Now. In me." He was mad to have her, but her struggle to set the pace both challenged and infuriated him "I'm going to make you let go, and I'm going to watch it happen." He slid back up her, feeling every tremble and quake, until his face was close to hers again. He pressed his palm firmly on the mound between her thighs. Her breath hissed out. "Mulder ... Don't ..." "Shhh," he soothed, sliding a finger down, over her, into her. His groan melded with hers as he found her tight, hot, wet center. Clinging to control, he focused on her face, the change from panic to shock, from shock to glazed helplessness. He could tell when she began to slip, watched her eyes as she fell over the edge, a wild cry pulled from her throat. One moment the tension was vicious, then the wave of pleasure washed over her, hot and deep. Dazed and disoriented, she went limp in his arms. And he went mad. He dragged her up so she was kneeling, her head heavy on his shoulder. "Again," he demanded, dragging her head back by the hair and plundering her mouth. "Again, god damn it." "Yesssss," she hissed. It was building again, so quickly. The need grinding at her insides. Free now, her hands raced over him and her body arched fluidly back so that his lips could taste where and how they liked. Her next climax ripped against him like claws. With something like a snarl, he shoved her onto her back, levered her hips high, and drove himself inside her. She closed around him like a hot, greedy fist. He nipped at her throat, murmuring beneath her ear. "What?" she gasped. "What did you say?" Her nails scraped at his back, her hips pistoned as he plunged. She came again, shuddering beneath his touch. Her hands slid weakly from his sweat-slicked shoulders as he emptied himself into her. "Complete," he groaned. "I'm finally complete." End of Self Hope you enjoyed the ride!