Title:  Facing the Pitfalls of the New Millennium
Author:  Vickie Moseley
Summary:  Continuation of the New Millennium series by myself and Ten.
Mulder and Scully finally make it back to Scully's apartment after telling
Maggie the good news.  Oh, and Skinner makes a brief appearance here, too.
Spoiler:  In passing for 'Millennium'
Rating:  PG-13 and yes, there is a love scene so if you're not a shipper
and you're still reading this, you're just torturing yourself and it's not
our fault.
Category:  Duh.  MSR.  But for all my fans, there's MT involved in this
one, too.
Disclaimer:  Chris, for your own sanity, don't read this one.  You will
only go out and do something stupid, like write an episode where Mulder
runs off and marries Cancer Man (and yes that would be incest, I guess)
just to get back at me.  So I won't make any money and you don't get all
wiggy on me, OK?
Comments:  Hey, Brandon, is my shipper license still intact?  And Susan,
there is a part in here just for you.  And Ten, I'm sorry, sweetie, I just
had to do it <VEG>
Read the rest of these wonderful stories at Ten's web site
http://tenxffic.iwarp.com
This one comes after Night After the New Millennium

Facing the Pitfalls of the New Millennium
By Vickie Moseley

I swear on a stack of expense reports, I thought it was nerves.

What else was I supposed to think?  Here I was, a newlywed for all of 24
hours, and I was sitting in a Catholic Church, my wife and mother-in-law
flanking me, and I had butterflies in my stomach.

Perfectly natural.  Normal.  Nothing to be concerned about.

I thought it was the ring blessing thing at the time.  Scully had
explained, in her own empirical style, that there was nothing to it.  The
priest, Father McCue, would simply take our rings and bless them.  Five
minutes, tops.

But see, I've never been real good around religious observances.  I mean, I
know there is a God, on some levels I could even be convinced that He's a
fairly benevolent entity, but we're just not on the best of terms, most of
the time.  It's sort of a 'live and let live' truce we've come to.  Oh,
I've called upon Him enough times that I don't go out of my way to piss Him
off.  But I don't think He's put me on the top of His list of people to
call upon in case of a major emergency.  

So I sort of worried that the whole 'blessing thing' might stir the
hornet's nest.  

Not that I think God has it out for Scully.  No, no on the contrary, I
think they have a special arrangement going.  I think whatever good has
happened in my sorry existence is a direct result of the fact that Scully
considers herself a 'child of God' and the Big Guy upstairs feels the same
about her.  So it's beneficial for me, by way of association.  

I just wasn't sure what He'd think about me, well, doing the naked pretzel
with one of His kids.

But I'm wandering.  

Mass wasn't that bad, actually.  Not that it was that good.  I could almost
figure out what was going on by watching the rather 'well-endowed' woman at
the right of the altar who kept waving her hands and smiling and then
breaking into either a song or some prayer.  I recognized some of the
prayers from the years of church services I'd been dragged to as a small
child and later when I was at Oxford.  I made it through the 'Our Father'
without having to resort to the book Mom handed me when we sat down.  And I
knew all the songs, well, most of them.

Then, everyone got up and left.  

Maggie had gone over to the right side of the Church, to a little alcove
with a statue and lots of candles.  The statue was dressed in green flowing
robes and had a clover in his hand.  Didn't take years of Catholicism to
figure out the guy was supposed to be St. Patrick.  Maggie lit a candle and
knelt down.  Scully followed suit.  I stood there and wondered if the guy
got a commission on the money that was sitting in the basket by a pack of
matches.

And then, Father McCue joined us.

He really is a good man, this priest of Scully's.  He smiled and shook my
hand like we'd known each other for years.  Actually, I met him once, in
Scully's hospital room.  It wasn't a meeting I care to recall.  She was on
her deathbed, or so we all thought.  She told me about the sacrament she'd
be receiving when he came, the anointing of the sick.  I'd heard it called
by another name years ago in England.  The Last Rites.  When I left her
room after meeting Father McCue that first and only time, I got as far as
the men's room on the first floor of the hospital before I tossed up
everything I'd eaten in a week and then some.

For some reason, that same feeling of queasiness was coming over me again.

Father McCue hugged Scully, which was nice to see.  She's very comfortable
with him and I think that's a good thing.  She needs someone to talk to
sometimes.  Of all the concepts of religion, I've got the least problem
with the idea of Confession.  Sometimes it's good to say 'I'm sorry' and
it's even better to hear someone say 'you're forgiven'.  I know I wish I
had that.  I'm glad Scully does.

And when all was said and done, the ring thing was really over that quick.
I took my, or rather, Captain Scully's ring off, handed it to Father.
Scully tugged a bit and got her's off and handed it to him, too.  He said a
prayer, and handed the rings back to us.  I did a repeat of the night
before and placed her ring on her finger, and she did the same to me.

Five minutes was more like three.  Such a simple thing, but Maggie, er, Mom
was grinning ear to ear and I'm pretty sure Scully had tears in her eyes.
Happy tears.  Good tears.  I didn't begrudge her. 

That was it.  In celebration, or more to just avoid going back to the house
and having to face Bill again, Mom decided we should have brunch out.  We
went to a little restaurant not far from the Church.  It sported a huge
buffet for such a small dining room, and the food smelled delicious.  I
know Scully was frowning when I took some melon and a waffle with no syrup.
 I wasn't going to tell her I was feeling sort of off.  I mean, I was still
certain it was nerves.  Or the aftermath of nerves.  Flight or fight,
adrenaline rush and the after effects.  Nothing to worry her about.   And I
drank lots of orange juice to make up for the lack of food.

It was already 11:00 when we got back to Mom's.  Not surprisingly, Bill was
still asleep on the sofa.  We tiptoed upstairs, gathered our things and
kissed Mom good bye.  Then we climbed back into the car.

We were finally on the way home.

Halfway to DC on the BW Parkway, we determined that 'home', at least for
the rest of the day and the night, would be Scully's place.  It was a
matter of efficiency.  She had food in her refrigerator, I didn't.
Decision made.  Not long after this momentous consensus, I fell fast asleep
and had to be shaken awake by my slightly perturbed wife upon our arrival.
Well, she had given me quite a workout during the preceding 24 hours.

Now here's where the whole story takes a horrible turn for the worse.

See, I've had this one particular fantasy a long time.  Five years, if I
think back on it.  I can remember the exact night, almost to the hour, when
it first occurred in my filing cabinet of things I really want to do before
I die.  I want to make love to my partner on her bed.

First, let me wax a little poetic about Scully's bed.  It not a little
double mattress job.  It's a queen-sized bed.  I often wondered why a
single woman who seems to have about as much of a sex life as I do and
that's not saying much had such a nice, big bed.  But then a king-sized
waterbed magically appeared in my bedroom and I squelched any questions I
had.  I mean, maybe it's because in a good nightmare, you can really do
some damage throwing yourself out of bed.  Been there, done that.  Coffee
tables placed next to couches can break your fall, but a nightstand can
cause a concussion.  Anyway, it's a great bed.

I know all about that bed, personally, too.  The night my father was
murdered by Krycek, I slept in that bed.  I was sicker than a dog, drugged
to the gills, but I remember thinking with the selfish part of my brain
that I had died and gone to heaven.  Well, almost.  I mean, the mattress
was soft, but firm, the pillow was just the right height for my neck, the
comforter, which got too hot later in the night, but at the beginning was
the perfect weight and its warmth lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

Almost dreamless.  Sometime in that long and torturous night I dreamt that
Scully came back into the room.  That she sat on the edge of the bed, just
watching me.  That I reached out for her hand and she let me take it.  That
I pulled her down to lie next to me on that soft, but firm mattress, and
her hair was spread over that pillow that was just the right height.  That
the comforter shielded her nakedness from the moonlight spilling through
the window.  And that we made love, gently, tenderly, with all the passion
I knew was in us and all the ecstasy I knew we could attain.

Suffice it to say, I had big plans for that bed.  Plans that could keep us
in the bedroom for the rest of the day and maybe pretty far into the next
morning.  Plans that didn't include English Muffin crumbs, but I could
squeeze those in if we both got hungry enough.  Hungry for food, that is.

We got into the apartment and I was all set to drag my wife (Jeez, I love
just saying that) into 'our' bed and having my wicked way with her.  My
wife had other plans.

"We have to call Skinner.  I never called him back."

I wanted to point out that our illustrious AD was in all likelihood sitting
in his underwear watching the Orange Bowl with a bag of pretzels and a six
pack beside him.  Better still, I would imagine the man would fancy just
one Sunday when he didn't have to see, hear, or speak with his 'X Files
Division', because I know for a fact, even VCS doesn't keep him as occupied
as we do on the weekends.  And for cripes sakes, it was still New Years
Weekend and didn't the guy deserve to start the New Year without us for once?

I didn't mange to get any of this out because she was already off the phone.

"He wants us to meet him in the office in an hour."

I glanced back at the bedroom door.  Disappointment poured into my heart,
and a little spilled over into my stomach.  Or that's what I thought.

Well, I was going to be damned if I was going back to my apartment and put
on a clean suit for a one hour meeting with our boss.  On the other hand,
the jeans Scully bought were just a little too formfitting to go strutting
my stuff in front of Skinner.  I know there's an office pool on that
happening and the stakes are almost as high as me and Scully doing the
nasty, er, making love.  So, she's always complaining that my stuff gets
mixed up with her stuff and she has a bag of my stuff in her closet.  I go
there, pull out some reasonable pants and a decent pullover and change so
we can head over to the Hoover Building.

We're in the parking garage, walking to the elevator, when Scully grabs my
hand and about pulls it off.

"Your ring!" she hissed and starts tugging my ring off my finger.

"You, too," I pointed out and she dropped my hand like a hot rock and
started tugging on her own finger.  Somewhere along the line, my finger had
swollen since the morning and it took some pulling to get the thing off.
Scully suggested going into the bathroom and using the soap, but I knew
there wasn't a sink in the Hoover Building that had a drain catcher thingy
and there was no way I was risking that ring in the plumbing.  After
considerable force, the ring popped free and I think I sprained my finger.
She didn't seem to notice my discomfort, just pocketed both rings in her
jacket and we were off to see the boss again.

I never realized how hot Skinner kept his office.  Well, actually, I have
noticed in the past, but I always thought it had more to do with the
burning at the stake part than the temperature.  It was a furnace that
afternoon.  The winter sun was blazing through those miniblinds behind him,
the whole place was stuffy and smelled of leather, which for some reason
was making my stomach turn.

Then I made the connection.  Nerves, again.  It was the first time we'd had
to stand before our boss as husband and wife.  Not to mention, we were
hiding that little fact from him.  

Let me get one thing straight.  I like Walter Skinner.  I respect Walter
Skinner.  I know sometimes Scully gets mad at him because he seems to ride
the fence a lot and sometimes he's been forced to do things he doesn't like
because to throw in with us completely would only hurt us in the long run.
We need someone on the other side.  That's apparent about every fifteen
minutes.  And I trust Skinner, probably more than even he thinks I do.  I
don't like lying to the man.  It's become an occupational necessity at
times, but I still do not like to do it.

But what was there to do?  Giving him the information that we were newly
married would be opening up a can of worms the size of Detroit.  And
getting all those little squirmy things back in that can once opened would
be a monumental task.  So, we had decided, after more than one discussion
over the past few hours, not to tell him about the wedding.

But the rings were not the only evidence we had on us.

I'm an oral kind of guy.  Maybe my mother didn't let me suck my thumb as a
child, I don't know, but I have been accused of being a Eureka vacuum when
it comes to my lovers necks.  I don't mean to make bruises, they just
happen.  And as I sat down next to my partner, I noticed a few little
'Marks of Mulder' just under her jaw.  Fortunately (and I never thought I'd
be saying this), the zombie scratches were in the same general area.
Disaster averted, in more ways than one.

I didn't really pay much attention to the meeting.  Scully had insisted
that I wear that damned sling, just so that Skinner would see how
'incapacitated' I was.  And we handed in our weapons for the ballistics
test.  I still want to see the face of the OPR grunt who has to write up
how we fired upon already deceased bodies and file it, but hey, I get so
few jollies in life.  Skinner seemed to stare for quite sometime at
Scully's neck, but I think that was just because he saw those scratches
fresh after they happened.  I know my boss has a minor thing for my
partner.  I am also secure enough to know I have nothing to be jealous
about.  But it's comforting to know he'll be there to look after her if
anything ever happened to me.

And finally, we were free.  I wanted to check a couple of things in the
office.   OK, I'm compulsive.  I can't get twenty feet into the building
without going down and making sure no fires have started in the last three
hours.  But I didn't stay long, I just put away some stuff and Scully
fiddled with the computer and we changed the message on the voice mail to
inform callers that we were on administrative leave and would be back in a
week.  Anybody in the building would know that was standard and for those
outside the building, who gives a rat's ass?

I was really starting to drag as we made it back to the car.  The stupid
arm was starting to throb again, too.  I felt like a jerk, making Scully
drive all the time.  Not that she minded.  I think she liked the control.
I mean, look what happened when she let me drive just the other night?  But
I knew she was tired, too.  Maybe we'd take a nap on the soft and firm
mattress before I made my fantasy a reality.

Scully liked that idea a whole lot.  When we got back to the apartment, we
had fun racing into the bedroom, tossing our clothes in a heap next to her,
well, our hamper and jumping under the covers.  And to my surprise, taking
my wife into my 'good' arm and falling asleep was almost as good as the
other things I've fantasized about that bed.  I drifted off, smelling her
hair, feeling its silky strands across my shoulder, having her little
whiffs of breath brush against the hairs on my chest.  I knew that for once
in my life, I'd truly found contentment.

When I woke up, it was dark outside again.  Moonlight was spilling through
the window.  The comforter was covering Scully's naked body, pressed warm
and secure against me.  As the song says, 'the time was right, the moon was
yellow.'  Time to top a fantasy.  For once in my life, I thank that God I
met briefly with that morning that He gave me a photographic memory,
because I memorized every single detail of our time in that bed.

I kissed her on the top of her head, first.  I've done that a few hundred
times, I think.  It had to tide me over until, well, until I finally got
the courage to force us into taking our relationship to the next level.
There have been times in the past when kissing the crown of her head was
the closest I thought I'd come to making love to my partner.  So it seemed
like the perfect place to start.

She woke up slowly.  As she woke up, she tilted her head up, keeping her
eyes closed.  I know why she did that.  It was so I could rain kisses over
her eyelids and down that perfectly straight nose of hers.  So I did.  And
I must say, I took great pride in my work.

She was no lazy-bones, mind you.  Her little hands were hard at work,
waking up parts of me that were getting there, but not quite.  By the time,
I'd reached her lips, I knew I was ready.  The way she opened her mouth to
kiss me, I got the impression, she was ready to play, too.

I refuse to go into details.  Save that for the locker room jocks who make
a new conquest every night.  This is my wife, for cripes sakes!  But
suffice it to say, the earth shook, the angels wept and the bed frame,
which is very high quality I'm happy to say, definitely got a work out.
This time, I knew I'd died and gone to heaven.  And heaven is as beautiful
as they say.

But even in heaven, there are bathroom breaks.  And that's when all hell
broke loose, even in heaven.  

I was always taught 'ladies first' and I've discovered that I can be
forgiven for hickeys if I let the lady have the bathroom before me.  I was
lying in the bed, feeling that nice kind of exhausted that only comes after
sex with someone you really love and who really loves you back.  It's not
just physical, it's emotional and spiritual and so close to perfection that
it darn well makes me weep.  Anyway, if nature hadn't been calling, I would
have stayed there for the rest of the new millennium.   But Scully's pert
little ass bounded back from the bathroom and she jumped up on the bed and
scurried under the covers, so I knew it was my turn.

I managed to sneak a couple more kisses before taking my leave.  Which was
a good thing, because they were the last things I remember.

I woke up to find my wife straddling my chest with the cordless phone in
her hand.  She was still naked, and I was about to tell her that this was
yet another fantasy of mine, when I realized she was calling for an ambulance.

I wasn't that bad, was I?

Then I realized, I was lying on the floor with no clothes on and there was
a towel with ice in it under my head.  I managed to find the ability, not
to mention strength, to grab Scully's hand and pull the phone away from her
ear.  That got her attention and I calmly demanded to know what was going on.

"Mulder, you passed out."

Wow.  That was better than good sex.  That was GREAT sex!

But my wife was still speaking.  "You have a fever.  And I'm pretty sure
you now have a concussion.  You hit the nightstand on the way to the floor.
 I didn't realize you were even dizzy till I heard your head crack against
the corner."

See what I told you about nightstands?

I took the phone away from her, assured the nice dispatcher on the other
end that an ambulance was no longer necessary, I was alert and my wife
could drive me to the hospital, and disconnected the call.  Scully hopped
off my chest and helped me to my feet, but not for long.  I ended up
sitting on the bed, against the headboard.  The nausea hit full force and I
discovered that everyone should keep a wastebasket next to their bed, like
my wife, for just such emergencies as these.

We just got back from the hospital.  Seems I can't stay out of one for more
than 48 hours.  Anyway, I don't have a concussion, just a nasty bump on the
noggin.  That means Scully doesn't have to wake me up every couple of
hours.  That's not to say she won't be busy, mind you.  The doctor informed
me that I haven't be plagued by nerves all day.  See, I have the flu.  The
nasty Y2K bug that has been making the rounds this holiday season.  He said
I probably had it hanging in the wings for some time.  My resistance was
lowered the other night when I had my run in with the zombies.  And now,
I'm supposed to stay in bed, drink plenty of liquids and sleep.

I have tried to convince Scully to sleep in the other room, but as she
rightly points out, if she's gonna get it, she's gonna get it.  Making love
is probably the best way to pass a flu bug from one person to another.
Sure is a lot more fun than sneezing on her, I would have to say.  I feel
guilty and feverish and sick to my stomach.  And for once, my partner is
not holding back on her emotions around me.  I've been cuddled when I was
hurting and she's sung me to sleep before but she this time she's kept up a
steady stream of tender loving care.  If heaven has a sick ward, I've found
it.

But the best part is, when I'm feeling better in a couple of days and
Scully gets this bug, I get to do all of this for her.  And for once, I
think she'll let me.

The end.

Vickie

"Lifesaver?"

CSM to Scully, En Ami