Notes: I thought I'd do a little Sort-Of-Smut. It's weird, I know.

Chapter 1: Apparitions I - Spirit

I'm bored. If being bored had this much in it, I have overflowed into this much. It's that bad.

I'm at home. On my couch. Doing nothing. Staring at the wall. That considered doing something? Breathing. Stuff like that. god, I'm hardly even thinking. All that's in my mind is the fact that I have nothing to do. All my work, all the tedious, boring paperwork, is done.

So... I'm kind of doing... nothing.

The past few weeks have been quite hectic. Mulder and I getting back the X-Files and everything. My soul needs to get out. It's been trapped too long in the cage my brain has set up for it. Too much paperwork, too much take-out Chinese food, too much Mulder...

Mulder. It always comes right back to him... doesn't it?

How sick is that?

Suddenly, I feel all the parts of my body mold together, then come apart.

And then I am sitting across myself.

The real me is sitting on the couch. The other me is on the coffee table, staring at me quite irritated look on her face.

"Why did you think that?" it says.

"Think what?" I ask myself oddly. "I didn't think anything bad."

The Scully sitting on the coffee table spreads her arms wide, a look of disgust on her face. "Yeah right, you didn't think anything bad. Just rude, spiteful and hateful."

I am indignant. "What did I think?"

My doppelganger sighs impatiently. Totally Un-Scully. I would never sigh like that. I'm not one to outwardly show rudeness. Always inwardly.

Maybe my inward is striking back.

"That it was sick to think of Mulder. You know it's not. He's a very pleasant thought." She says almost sadly. "My god, if it weren't for Mulder, you'd be rotting somewhere... bored to death."

I suppose that' true. I wrack my brains for a response. Is this what Mulder feels like when he's conversing with me? God, I'm annoying.

"I never thought that I didn't like thinking of Mulder. And I already am bored to death. Out of my mind, even. How would being without Mulder be any different?

"And before you begin even asking me such nosy questions, who are you?"

The me on my coffee table laughs. "Don't pretend you don't know who I am. You expressed will to let your soul out. And here I am."

This puzzles me. What? "If you're my soul, why am I not dead yet?"

She smiles sympathetically at me, a smile that I think I've given to Mulder every now and then... when he's acting real stupid. Running off to the Bermuda, crap like that. I don't think I'll ever give it to him again; it makes me feel *this* small. May be the same for him.

And he isn't that small.

"I'm your soul, not your spirit. Your spirit is what keeps you alive... it's mixed with your character. I'm your soul; I'm mixed with your thoughts and your memory." She explains in a scientific tone.

"Then what am I?"

"The Being."

If I believed in such drivel, I'd probably be bawling my eyes out and calling 911 to confine me into a mental institute. But I don't believe you can talk to your soul outside yourself; physically. Maybe I subconsciously think this is just a dream.

But consciously? I'm worried. If this being carries all my innermost thoughts, I'm afraid it will get loose and begin spilling all my secrets, especially my *secrets*.

"Don't worry," my Soul reassures me. "Only you can see me."

"Oh, so not only do you carry information vital to my reputation, you can read my mind, too?" I snap sarcastically at it. I never realized I was so cold.

"Sorry." I apologize immediately, hanging my head a little.

My Soul grits her teeth, a gesture I know does not mean anger, but signifies thought. "Gotta work on your temper. Temper, temper, temper."

I raise my hands defensively. "I know, I know."

"So where were we?" she asks thoughtfully. "Right. Mulder. You know you're nothing without him."

I squint at her and get up, strutting to the kitchen to fetch myself a glass of water. She is already there, holding a glass out to me. "Here." She says, handing it to me. I graciously take it from her and sip. Aaah.

"Am I really that pathetic?" I ask, suddenly realizing that the kitchen floor is quite cold when I'm barefoot. She's leaning against my counter, lost in thought.

"No. It's me."

"You? But you're me!"

Her forehead wrinkles. She's thinking again. "That's right... so I guess... maybe you are that pathetic."

I raise an eyebrow at her and lean against the counter next to her. I finish the water and set it in the sink next to me. "That's stupid. That'd make two of us."

She makes a face at me and sidesteps me to the sink. She begins washing the glass. "You know what, you're right. We are both so pathetic, it's sick. So here's my question: does he need to know?"

I'm confused. "Need to know what?"

"That we need him. A lot." The glass is rinsed and she puts it in the dishwasher.

I walk back to the sofa and sit down. She is already there. Man, she moves fast. We sit in silence for a while. I try not to think too much, but I do. Of him, of her, of me.

Maybe I should, I think. Tell him.

"What good would it do?" I ask her a little while later.

A breath is expelled from between her lips. She is thinking. Why can't I read her mind? I guess because what she thinks is what I think. How weird is that? maybe Mulder and should be investigating her.

"Hilarious." She comments at my thought. She goes back to thinking. "Girl, a lot of good can come from it, as well as bad."

"What good could happen?" I ask. Suddenly, I already know. I purse my lips. Sex. The raw, mad sweet kind. She grins evilly at me. God, my soul is a sick, sick, woman.

"I heard that!" she squeals, tossing a throw pillow at me. I catch it with ease. I set it aside. She bites her lip. "C'mon, Dana. What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could... hear me." I reply shortly. Which is true; he could hear me and he could *not* return the feeling. Or he could... which would be... weird.

"Yeah, yeah. But the thing!" she whines irritatingly. "The good thing! When was the last time you had the good thing, anyway? What.. two, three years? That's even sicker than being completely under his will--"

"Hey!" I interrupt her ramblings. Is that how I sound when trying to convince Mulder of scientific realities? Eesh. "I am not completely under his will; I am not even *under* him--"

She interrupts me. We're in an interruption match. "Even if that's where you want to be."

I sigh, defeated. "Maybe." I say weakly, my control dying. "But it's an irrational want."

She smiles and shakes her head. "It's not a want, Dana. It's a need."

A knock at the door snaps my soul back into me. She enters me again with such force that I am knocked off the couch. If only she were here to see that...

There is another knock.

A quick glance at my watch tells me who it is. A late Saturday afternoon, I wonder who else it could be.

I stand to open the door. But before I do so, I peep through the hole. You can never be too careful.

It's him... and he looks a bit pale. Pale, was it. Pale. And worried. Why? I wonder, opening the door swiftly to let him in. He comes in quickly and brushes past me into my living room. He still looks a bit worried.

"Mulder?" I say cautiously. "What's wrong?"

He spins around from staring at my couch and grabs me at the waist eagerly. All I notice is him... his presence... and my soul. He smells sweaty, like after a run. I feel it bouncing for joy.

And imagine what I feel when he roughly kisses my mouth, pushing his tongue down my throat like some boa constrictor trying to consume my face. I try to respond with as much vigor an enthusiasm.

This is crazy.

But my soul is laughing.

Chapter 2: Appartions II- Thought

"For me, Saturday is the most annoying day of the week.

"First of all, there's no work. Work is over. There's stuff I bring home, but my insomnia takes care of that. at three in the morning, everything's done. So I surf the Internet. Until about 5 AM. It's sick. I think I have seen every model available. And you will not believe how much junk I send Scully.

"Short, succinct, three-to-five word messages.

"S- I'm up late. Just checking. CU on Mon. -M

"So maybe that was a little more than five words. But I sometimes I think I send her more signals than I intend to. It's because I don't intend to send her signals. It is only incidental. What I really am set out to do is push her away.

"And by pushing her away, I am saving myself from a lifetime of heartbreak.

"Okay?" I say indignantly to the little boy on my desk. The little boy is me. That's what I looked like when I was ten.

He nods at me, knowingly. "I know."

I glare at him and stand from where I was seated on the couch. I enter my bedroom and begin to change into running clothes. The little kid follows me.

"Jogging pants, gray shirt and jacket, right?" he says, entering my closet and my thoughts. He throws out the said items of clothing and tells me to put them on.

I am a profiler. Why don't I understand this guy?

I don the clothes and tell him sharply: "You don't think you're going jogging like that, do you?"

The kid shakes his head... and pulls a set of clothes just like mine out of the closet. I laugh bitterly at him, quietly.

"Don't laugh," he says.

"What?" I ask him quietly. "You think you're going to fit into that? I didn't even know that I had another pair of jogging pants."

It's odd, the way he looks at me. A bit guiltily, a bit sadly, a bit amused. He dons the clothes. They don't fit. He looks at me. "Excuse me," he slurs through his braces. God, I hated those.

He enters the bathroom... and later emerges looking just like me. As tall as me, as wide as me, but sans the braces.

"Ready, Fox?"

Ick. Fox. "You know I hate that name. Why do you still call me that?" I ask him. He just grins.

"Okay. I'll call you Mulder."

This puzzles me a bit. "Then what should I call you? And you haven't answered my question, yet. Who or what are you?"

The man sighs like a gay horse. But if this guy is me, does this mean I sigh like a gay horse? I listen to myself sigh. Nope, nope, it's definitely just him.

"That was mean." He tells me.

"What was mean?"

He snorts at me. God, maybe this was me in the past life: a horse. "I am not a horse."

"How did you--"

We sit on my bed and he morphs- amazingly -back into a little boy wearing my outfit. He raises his eyes to mine, and begins to speak in a high, squeaky little-boy voice. "I am your Thoughts, Fox Mulder. Whatever you think of, I think of first."

That *is* funny.

"That must mean you thought up the gay horse thing, then."

He smiles forcedly at me. "Yes, I did. I'm the profiler, you know. And I'm responsible for all your quips, innuendoes and ScullyFantasies."

My mouth drops open. "You? A ten-year-old makes all those up?"

He snorts. "I'm not ten. I'm not even thirty-seven, or however the hell old you are. But it's the nineteen year old who makes up the fantasies."

"Do you know about them?"

His teeth (enclosed in metal) are exposed with his grin. He rubs my forehead lightly, then draws his hand away. "I know everything you know, Mulder."

We exit my house and we jog to the park. We round the rotunda in the center a few times before he leads me off. I follow him.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

He is silent. We jog a few minutes until he stops in the middle of the park, at a secluded bench. We sit at the bench and he produces a bag of sunflower seeds. We consume them quietly.

Finally, he speaks.

"I need to ask you something, Mulder."

I spit a shell into the wastebasket beside me. "If you know what I'm thinking before I think it, why do you still need to ask me?"

"I anticipated this response."

"Bet you did."

My Thought sighs. He spits a seed husk over my head and into the bin without getting a drop of spit on me. I guess now I know why I'm so great at basketball, even when I was ten, I was a good shot.

"I'm not you when you were ten."

"Okay. What were you going to ask me?"

Taking in a deep breath, he regards me. "Listen. I'm not going to ask you. I'm going to ask your soul."

"What?"

A tiny growl emits from between his puny lips. "Mulder," he begins slowly.

"Yes?"

"Don't interrupt. Mulder," he begins again. "I want to ask you why you haven't told her."

I frown. But I don't interrupt.

"You can answer." He tells me. And I do.

"Because it isn't important. I'm headed for more pain that way, and so is she. And we don't need that. Not right now. Not ever. It isn't important."

I see his forehead wrinkle again. "Why is it not important, you're talking about your destiny here, Mulder. Your soulmate. Your soul is lonely. It needs a playmate." He explains quietly.

I wrinkle my nose. "Scully... is my soulmate?" I'm not disgusted. I'm actually quite happy about this revelation. I'm just a little confused. I mean, how can somebody so smart, so loving, so beautiful, so perfect, so deserving of so much more... possibly need a screw-up like me?

My Thought rolls his eyes. I don't roll my eyes... that's Scully's job. But I guess I used to roll them. I don't think I know how to anymore. "Don't you remember? Don't you understand?"

I glare at him again. "Well, if I don't remember and I don't understand, that must mean that you don't either, right?"

He just smiles at me. "Sometimes I prevent you from accessing such thoughts. But here, I'll give you something."

And it begins, like an old 45 in my head.

All the times, ever, that Scully has risked her ass for mine, has shown me respect and love and that I have just thrown back or given a rude quip or response to, all the times I have treated he like dirt... but unlike dirt that washes away with good detergent, she stuck to me...

I open the eyes I never realized closed. My Thought is gone. Maybe he merged back into me, like he unmerged from me half an hour ago in my apartment. I think he did.

He thinks he did, too.

And now, there is only one thing left to do.

I run all the way to Scully's building and race up the stairs. No time for waiting around in elevator, I might change my mind. I need motion, motion to concentrate on, motion to distract me from my thoughts.

I reach her door and my knock resembles a convulsive hand disorder.

She opens the door, looking a bit disgruntled, like she just woke up from a long nap. Her eyes are hooded and she gives me a soft smile. It morphs into worry. "Mulder? What's wrong?"

I enter her apartment and walk a few paces. I breathe in the last air that will enter my lungs before I express to Scully... whatever.

Wait a minute. What am I going to say?

Instead of words, I opt for action. I spin around, grab her roughly and kiss her for heavenly minutes. The kiss is magical, real, almost tangible in a way I have only ever imagined.

She is the one to break away. I look deep into her eyes, and feel her legs wound around mine, her heat throbbing against me, her breath in my face and her hands massaging the base of my neck. She is smiling... a little, soft ScullySmile that melts my insides, turns my brain into green Jell-O and my dick into steel.

"I knew you'd come..." she whispers and kisses my lightly again.

So did I, the ten-year-old says. So did I.

Chapter 3: Apparitions III - Being

It's late when they awake, stepping out of their beings to converse for a while. Mulder and Scully have been up all night, doing the wild thing until they both collapsed. And there they are: collapsed, satisfied, naked and asleep. The Beings are tired, but the souls are not.

The Soul and the Thought unmesh from each other's Beings and stare at each other, happy looks on their faces. Both share the attractive looks and physical bearings of their beings. This being so, they are both equally nude at the moment, but they don't care. They take a seat at the end of the bed and begin giggling.

"How'd you get him to do it?" the Soul asks the Thought. The Thought give the Soul a saucy grin and touches her hand playfully.

"You know how I did it." He replies, standing up and walking over to his Being, sleeping in the arms of his lover. "I got him to see how much you loved him... me." He strokes his Being's face.

The Soul grins and steps over to her Being. She brushes away a stray strand of her stubborn hair. "I hate her hair. Tell him to tell her to have it shaved off." She tells the Thought.

The Thought looks at her with a strange expression. "Are you nuts?" he asks, almost too loudly. "Do you know what look she'd throw at him? It would melt him. He becomes even less of a man than... Barney the Purple Monstrosity."

She smiles warmly at him and raises an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Yesss, I'm sure." The male hisses.

His hiss is loud enough to make Mulder stir a little in the arms of his new lover. But instead of awakening, he snuggles closer, and tightens his arms around the woman he loves most in the world. She, in turn, curves her lips slightly.

Both of them exchange relieved sighs. The female Soul motions for them to leave the room. to leave the room. But before they do, the Soul, motivated by her innate modesty, dons the shirt Mulder ripped off himself earlier.

The Thought looks a little disgruntled. Now, he lacks a shirt. Thinking quickly, he strides over to Scully's couch and wraps the Indian blanket tossed over the side around him like a toga. He smiles triumphantly, and the both of them collapse onto the couch in the dark living room, grinning like fools. The Soul crosses her legs and snuggles into the embrace of the Thought.

"So." She begins. "What do I call you, anyway?"

This provokes serious thought within the Thought. "Um... I think you'd better just call me Mulder."

"Won't that confuse me? I'm already calling your Being Mulder. Maybe I'll just call you Jim or something."

A set of eyebrows rise. "Who is Jim?"

The Soul shakes her head, a small smile emerging on her face. She hadn't smiled this much since the fourth grade.

That was a long time ago.

"No one. No one." She mumbles. It was comfortable here, in his warm hug. She'd never been hugged like this before, especially after having *so* much fun. That could be construed as fun... right?

Right?

"What's wrong?," he asks. It seems that since their physical connection a few hours earlier, he's been able to read her clearer than before. It was just as soothing as it was annoying.

"Nothing's wrong. I was just wondering."

"About?"

"Things. Lots of things."

The Thought decides to leave it at that. "So... what do you think will happen in the morning? Do we have to plan it or go for spontaneity?"

The Soul is having serious doubts. She is unsure of whether to proceed into this whirlwind of emotions and risk overwhelming her Being, or to stop... which would, elementally, cause more pain than the first option.

"You'll have to help me," she decides to say. "I mean... this isn't a decision meant to be made by a Soul alone. It requires... Thought. And that's you."

This makes the Thought grin like mad and plant a kiss on the Soul's red hair, which is giving off quite a nice glow, even in the dark. It's nice, this. Sitting with the Soul meant to be with him forever, it sends a small tingle down his spine. She shifts slightly in his arms.

"Do you know what this is?" she asks him after a few minutes of snuggling. "Have you felt it before? Is it love?"

He considers this a second. "Love is like plumbing--"

"Why?"

"--it's messy, complicated and best left to the experts."

It is her turn to consider. She shifts again and regards him with soulful eyes. Of course, why wouldn't they be? "We *are* the experts."

"Why do you say that?" he kisses her head again.

After clearing her throat to get his attention away from her fiery strands, she struggles to make her point. "Don't you think we're already experts? From the strength of his mind to the strength of her soul... the going to the ends of the earth thing? The strength of the Beings... don't you think we've mastered the art yet?"

"The art of...?"

"You know it. The art of love."

This statement elicits a full-blown toothy smile on the face of the Thought. "The Beings have only made love once... and you expect them to be experts?

"Ow." He mumbles, after she slaps him playfully on the arm.

"I'm serious. Should we tell them they're in love? I mean, if that would be rushing things..."

The Thought moved his hand from the Soul's shoulder to her nipple and began circling the soft flesh with his thumb until it became a hardened peak. "Rushing things? How long has she known that she felt that way?"

She looks at the dark ceiling, trying to ignore his hands and how they were driving her to insanity. "I think... six years."

This takes the Thought by surprise. He never expected this. "Six years?"

"Two thousand, one hundred and ninety days, give or take a few."

The Thought hangs his head slightly. "Wow," his voice is breathy with amazement. "I have a confession, though."

"What's that?"

"He hated you at first."

This causes her to stir uncomfortably in his arms. He tightens his arms around her, but to no avail. She is scared. Scared that he might not feel what she does. Scared that her feelings may not be returned the way she wants them to be. Scared that his feelings might fade away fast.

The Thought tries desperately to calm her. "Wait! Oh c'mon. Wait a minute. Please listen. I didn't mean *hate* by hate. I meant that he hated the fact that you somehow managed to deceive him. He hated the fact that he knew he was falling for you and a worldwide Apocalypse couldn't stop him."

She stops struggling and he once again kisses her head. She sighs. Not a sigh of regret or of patience, but one of relief. This could work. Maybe.

"Listen to me." A deep voice says. "Whatever happens, please don't let her doubt his love for her. It's something real, something unstoppable. Please don't doubt it, him or me."

They remain silent for a while.

"I'm sorry," she begins, snuggling up to him again. She forcibly moves his hands to her hips so she can think straight.

There. Better.

"I'm sorry," she says again. "It's just that all this is new to me... I've never been in a relationship this serious. I've never even come out to talk to anyone but Dana before."

He rests his chin on her head. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

She moves from beside him to straddle his lap. His eyes widen and his cock hardens. "Are you sure?"

"Of what?," she asks, as she begins kissing his neck. His hands cradle her face, as he slowly moves away to look at her. His eyes contain not regret or anger, but, surprisingly, worry.

"If we make love, you know she could get pregnant."

The Soul's eyes widen. "I thought she couldn't get pregnant."

But his eyes aren't joking, nor do they hold any sign of him being un-serious. "I'm not kidding. If we ever, ever make love she will get pregnant. With or without her ova."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Oh, for the love of God, it's impossible."

He smiles a bit at that. Even her soul is scientific.

"No, it's not. It's not science that makes a baby, love. It's love."

This worries her, again. She tenses on his lap. "Does that mean--"

He cuts her off with his hands squeezing her hips. "No. It's just too early in the relationship to get her pregnant, you think?"

She nods in agreement and lets her head fall down onto his chest, luxuriating in his warmness, his presence. Luxuriating in him.

From the bedroom, two heads are peeping out the door, watching every move of the couple on the couch.

Hearing the signal that ended the conversation, they both smile at each other.

And head back the bed, arm in arm, confident that their relationship has Not been rotting in a corner, but has been blossoming for a long time.

With that in mind, they fall back into the sheets to sleep.

end.

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