One thing I have learned in my years-long search for the truth is that there are very few immutable truths in the universe.

The first, and the most important, is that as soon as you think you've discovered an immutable truth, life almost always steps up to prove you wrong.

But I have found one immutable truth: That as much as my partner loves me, as logical and scientific as she is, sometimes she just baffles the hell out of me.

Take the conversation we had the other evening at work. It was a Tuesday; we'd returned a couple of days earlier from a field investigation in Traverse City, Michigan, chasing down one of the strangest killers I've ever encountered in or out of Behavioral Sciences.

And that investigation had been a bad one -- really bad. Thanks to Gerry Schnauz and his ice-pick lobotomies, I almost lost Scully to death or, almost worse, to irreparable brain damage. If I'd been five minutes later getting to her -- hell, thirty seconds later -- she would have been gone.

It was so close it damn near devastated me.

Don't get me wrong: I didn't then and don't now feel guilty about having killed Schnauz to save Scully. I can take a human life if I have to, and when I have to, I do. But it always shakes me to the very core of my being. I remember every one of them: I remember their faces, and their names, and the day they died by my hand, and I remember that someone, somewhere, loved them once.

Yeah, it shakes me. I try not to let that show. But I can't keep anything from Scully. She always knows.

Anyway, we were trying to take it easy for a few days, give ourselves time to decompress before going out there again. We were working late, but we weren't doing anything really important; just updating paperwork and reviewing a few leads which might, or might not, lead to opening a new X File.

That last one sometimes translates to reading the tabloid newspapers, but you never know ... there might really be an animal that's a cross between a salamander and a Yeti living in the storm drains of New Brunswick and attacking pedestrians.

But all I thought then was that it was just the kind of evening I needed; the kind on which we could work for a while, then relax and start talking together as friends.

And I needed a friend that night. Daniel had been busier than hell the past several days, and I hadn't seen him for -- shit, it was almost two weeks, and to all appearances, I wasn't going to see him that night, either.

Not more than an hour earlier, he'd called to tell me he wouldn't be able to leave at the end of his shift -- some midshipman from Annapolis had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken the crap out of his leg. Theyd choppered the kid to Bethesda specifically so Daniel could do the surgery that might put the leg back together and save the kids Navy career.

Sometimes when he had to work late, Daniel would spend the night at my apartment instead of driving all the way back to Baltimore, but that was rare: We usually tried to avoid being seen together anywhere near Washington or Bethesda, and wed taken that chance more often lately than we should have.

The need for secrecy was why Daniel had settled in Baltimore in the first place -- so he could have some kind of social life without being seen, reported to his commanding officer and discharged for engaging in homosexual acts. Now that we were together, Daniel had even more reason for living as far from Bethesda as it was practical to do.

Still, the distance added to the difficulty of seeing each other when time was short, and this weekend didn't look too promising in that regard, either: Daniel was on call Thursday and Friday nights, and Scully and I were probably going to be out of town for most of Saturday and Sunday, which were his days off that week.

So I was more than ready to stay in the office and be with Scully; actually, I was almost abysmally grateful for her company that evening.

I just wasn't prepared for the topic she chose.

As we were both reading, Scully set down her copy of "The National Enquirer," looked at me over her reading glasses and said, in the most everyday tone of voice, "Mulder, do you ever think about getting married?"

"Getting married?" I repeated, both my eyebrows flying upward in surprise. "Scully, are we forgetting something important about our partner here?"

She wrinkled her nose at that, the way she does when she's slightly annoyed but not annoyed enough to let me start an argument.

"I'm not forgetting anything, Mulder," she said. "And I didn't ask you if you wanted a wife -- I asked you if you ever thought about getting married."

"Well, since I don't want to marry a woman, and I can't marry Daniel, the answer is no, I don't think about it," I said, a little brusquely, and I turned my attention back to the files.

Scully -- probably because she knows she has nothing to fear from my anger -- didn't back off an inch. "You don't have to get all touchy about it," she said, still calmly. "I was just reading this article about a same-sex marriage case that's before the courts in Hawaii, and I was wondering if -- should it become a possibility -- you'd ever think about it."

I shook my head. "Not as long as Daniel's still a Navy doctor," I said. "I can't think of a more blatant way for us to come out than to get married, unless it's marching with the 'All-Dorothy Over-the-Rainbow Band' in a Gay Pride Day parade."

"God forbid," she said, with a wry little smile. "You'd look like hell in a pinafore. But I think legalized marriage more or less presumes legal protection from discrimination."

"Technically, maybe," I said, with a shrug. "But that doesn't change how our macho men in the FBI feel about it. My once-brilliant career may not be going anywhere these days, but it does pay the bills."

"I think they'd eventually deal with it, all but a few extremists, and you're never going to change those people's minds, anyway," Scully said. "At the very least, the existence of a legal marriage statute might nullify some of the sodomy laws still on the books."

"Look, Scully, this is pointless," I said, a little more sharply than I intended. "Hawaii's not going to legalize same-sex marriage, and neither is any other state, and at this point I don't even give a good goddamn whether they do or not. Marriage is just a piece of paper, anyway; what difference does a piece of paper make?"

I was a little short with her, I know, but the fact that my relationship with Daniel -- the caring, supportive, loving relationship I had been craving all my life without knowing it -- is not only unsanctioned by society but technically constitutes a crime has a tendency to bring my ever-simmering rage against the world to a boiling point.

I mean, it's so fucking hypocritical: If you're gay and you're not in a relationship, the straight world calls you promiscuous. If you try to form a committed relationship, they say you're "mocking the sacred institution of marriage."

Make up your fucking minds, will you?

"To paraphrase Miss Manners, Mulder, I have a safe-deposit box containing several pieces of paper that make a great deal of difference," Scully said, lifting an eyebrow. "They're called stock certificates."

"Ha, ha," I said, sarcastically. "A nice point, Dr. Scully -- perhaps a shade too nice? Marriage has no monetary value that I'm aware of."

Okay, so I was overreacting, but I was really getting annoyed now. I know good and goddamn well what the benefits of marriage are, and I know that Daniel and I will never have them. Why couldn't she see that I didn't want to torture myself with that?

Still, I'd gone too far, and Scully let me know it ... gently.

"I wasn't trying to start an argument, Mulder," she said, still very calm. "I just wondered how you felt about it, that's all. Don't be angry at me, please."

She was calm, but there was a note -- a grace note, almost -- of sincere pleading in her voice, and it made me ashamed of myself for snapping at her.

"I'm not angry at you, Scully," I said, more quietly. "But you're forcing me to think about things that are really too painful to contemplate, and I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

"Consider the subject permanently dropped," she said, and then gave me that loving little smile of hers, the one I'd walk barefoot over shards of glass to see.

We read a while longer in silence, but I couldn't concentrate. I was feeling really guilty about having bitten her head off like that. I knew, even if she tried not to let it show, that she was still feeling vulnerable and unsure after her narrow escape from Schnauz, and she didn't deserve my anger at her.

But I was still mad at the whole damn world, even if I wasn't mad at her, and I couldn't think how to offer a better apology without reopening the whole unpleasant subject. I was afraid I might lash out at her again.

I sure as hell didn't want that to happen. I mean, we argue over work sometimes, and we can be downright chilly with each other when we're working, but this -- these late-night conversations -- let's say these times come as close to being sacred as anything in my agnostic soul can be.

After a few minutes, Scully got up and started to put on her coat, without even saying anything. That's a pretty good sign that I've hurt her feelings. I had to do something right then, even if it was wrong, because I just couldn't let her leave thinking that I was still angry at her.

I put down my files, walked around the desk and took her in my arms.

She nestled against me so trustingly that it nearly broke my heart. "I really am sorry, Mulder," she whispered, laying her head against my shoulder. "I never wanted to make things any worse for you than they already are."

"You didn't," I said, and I kissed her. "You never have. I don't know what I'd do without you, and I never want to find out."

"You never will," she said. "Not as long as you live."

************
************

I left about an hour later, but when I got home, no matter how I tried, I couldn't sleep. I was tired as hell -- damn near worn out, in fact -- but I was also lonely, and I wanted to be with Daniel, not here on this cold leather couch all alone.

The unfairness of the whole goddamn situation gnawed at my guts until I was nearly sick with it.

I looked at my watch. Daniel would be home by now, although he would almost certainly either be asleep or so tired he could barely see -- orthopedic surgery, I have learned, can be a fairly athletic endeavor.

I thought about calling him, just to say good night, but I knew he needed to sleep.

But, God, I wanted to be with him, even if he was asleep. I mean, forget marriage -- that was an unattainable goal. I'd have been happy just to live with him, to sleep next to him at night, to know that no matter how late it was or how tired he was when he came home, he'd be coming home to me.

After an hour or so of tossing and turning, I knew I couldn't stay in that fucking apartment by myself for one more minute without going completely batshit. I got up, threw on my leather jacket, grabbed my keys and headed out.

I was halfway to Baltimore before I admitted to myself where I was going.

I decided to keep going and just drive past his apartment building. I felt completely pathetic, but the truth was I just wanted to be just that little bit closer to him, even if I couldn't see him.

And so help me God, the closest thing to a miracle happened: there was a parking space only two doors down from Daniel's building. An empty parking space in that part of Baltimore -- at any hour of the day -- has got to be an omen. I parked, got out, and walked straight up three flights of stairs to his apartment, letting myself in with my key.

And he was there, stretched out across the bed on his back, sound asleep. His clothes were strewn all over the floor -- a pretty good sign of how exhausted he was, because those uniforms aren't cheap, and he usually takes better care of them.

As quietly as I could, I sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, watching him sleep, letting my eyes drink in the sight of him. I knew I shouldn't, but I wanted so badly to wake him up, or just to touch him one time, just to reassure myself that he was still real ...

Shit. There was no point in pretending; I hadn't come all the way up here just so I could watch him sleep, and I knew it.

I reached out and touched his hair, gently. His eyes opened slowly, and for a minute he didn't say anything. He was confused, and I don't blame him. We'd been lovers for years, but I'd never showed up without calling him before.

"Fox?" he said, sitting up. "What're you doing here? Is something wrong?"

I shook my head. "Not really," I said. "Not anymore, anyway." And I bent forward, and I kissed him.

Oh, God, I'd missed this. Daniel's mouth was so warm, and his lips molded perfectly into mine. Kissing him again after so long was like coming home.

Or maybe ... maybe more like remembering that you actually have a home.

"Then what brings you here at ..." he said, as I moved away. He looked at his alarm clock. "It's after 2 a.m., Fox," he said. "You want to tell me what's up?"

I shrugged. "I missed you," I said. "I know I should have called first ..."

Daniel smiled and shook his head. "After all this time, you still insist on acting as though you're a guest in my home," he said, with a little laugh. "What the hell do I have to do to make you believe that you're not -- marry you?"

I flinched at that, but I couldn't help it -- it startled the hell out of me. What was this, some kind of cosmic conspiracy to cause Fox Mulder infinite emotional pain?

"Daniel," I began, but my voice was a little shaky. I couldn't finish.

He looked at me more closely then, and I could see the concern in his eyes, but he didn't say anything -- he just took my hand.

That's one big advantage in having a relationship with another man. No man, gay or straight, likes to lose control of his emotions, and especially not in front of another man. Men understand that. Women -- with the possible exception of Scully -- always seem to think we'll feel better after we let it all out.

Trust me -- we don't.

Daniel knew that, of course. He knew something was really wrong, but he didn't demand to know what it was; he just waited, saying nothing, until he could tell that I wasn't going to break down, and then he put his hand on the back of my neck.

"Come here," he said, and pulled me into a long, lingering kiss.

I knew I should stop him and tell him that he didn't have to do this; it was late, he was exhausted and we both had to get to work in just a few short hours. The only intelligent thing to do was to get back in the car, go home and wait until some more sensible opportunity presented itself ...

Only I didn't want to wait, not one more minute. It had been too damn long, and I wanted him -- I needed him -- too damn badly to tear myself away from him now.

I opened my mouth, and I let him in.

I felt his tongue slip between my lips, slowly, filling me with an overwhelming sensation of warmth, of safety, and of love -- the taste of Daniel, of the gift that he is to me.

And then his hands were on me, and I almost forgot how to breathe.

It's almost impossible for me to describe what Daniel's hands do to me. Daniel has the hands of a healer: strong hands, skillful hands, with a sure, deliberate touch. He knows from experience where and how to touch me, how to make me respond to him, and I do respond, believe me. I could be frozen in a block of ice and those hands would still have the power to set me on fire -- and to heal me.

I wanted to be patient, to let him take his time with me and touch me the way he likes to, without hurrying, but I couldn't. I needed more. I needed all of him.

And I needed him now.

I let go of his mouth, put my hands on either side of his face and rested my forehead against his. I was breathing so hard that it was a few seconds before I could say anything coherent, but Daniel waited patiently, his hands resting gently on my shoulders.

When I finally could speak, though, it was nothing more complicated than, "Please ... Daniel, please."

Whereupon Daniel took me in his arms, laid me down carefully on the bed beside him and made love to me with more skill, more tenderness and more understanding than I had ever thought I would know with any man.

And afterward, I slept.

***********

We were up and moving around before sunrise the next morning; Daniel had an early morning staff meeting and I had to get back to my place and get dressed for work.

We were both in a little bit of a hurry, but not so much that Daniel didn't lean down to give me one more kiss as I sat on the couch putting on my shoes.

"Next time, don't wait so long to come over," he said, ruffling my hair the way you might a small child's. I didn't mind; I know that part of what Daniel does for me is to give me some of the unconditional, nurturing love that my parents couldn't, or wouldn't, give me.

And fuck Sigmund Freud and his discredited theories -- there's not a damn thing wrong with wanting your lover to take care of you sometimes.

Being a guy, of course, I couldn't tell him that. I just laid my head briefly against his stomach, and then I looked up and told him he was being an overbearing, militaristic asshole. That made him smile.

And then I stood up, put on my jacket, kissed Daniel one more time, and left.

If I'd known then what we'd both have to go through before I saw him again, I would have stayed longer.

God, what am I saying?

I never would have left.

I didn't have a clue. There was not a single shadow on my soul as I left Baltimore that morning. I went home, showered, dressed and drove to work with a light heart, thinking that -- no matter what the rest of the world might think -- I was about the luckiest guy on the whole fucking planet.

What the fuck did I know.