STARRY NIGHT by Blackwood entreamis@yahoo.com RATING: NC17 CATEGORY: MSR, Story, RST, Sequel to Ten Reasons SPOILERS: A scattering through US Seasons 1-6 and FTF, disregarding Field Trip and Biogenesis. ARCHIVE: With intact header and a note to me. SUMMARY: Mulder makes good on a promise. DISCLAIMER: Gerald & Jenny belong to me. Mulder & Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. I earn nothing but personal pleasure from doing this. No infringement intended. *~*~*~* Albert Schweitzer once said that happiness is nothing more than good health and a poor memory. I'll buy that. Good health I got. Chalk it up to a fortuitous blend of genes, decent medical coverage or fate, but the Mulders are a hardy lot. That is, when they aren't being abducted by aliens, shot by double-crossing FBI agents or manipulated by cigarette smoking bastards. Like I said to Scully once, we Mulders pass genetic muster. We're what psychologists are fond of calling "survivors." As for the memory thing, I'm sorry to say my memory is too good. Eidetic. Photographic. A pain-in-the-ass. I remember things I'd just as soon forget and far too well. Which is fine if your reminiscence is of a recovered alien corpse or a beautiful Scully giving you the once over when she thinks you aren't looking. It's quite another when you're remembering being trapped in a Russian gulag or an unconscious Scully pale on the floor outside your apartment. Either way, you're a victim of your own devices in vivid detail. Right now, I'm in memory re-run Hell. Scully and I have just finished up a case in Kennings, Vermont -- ski country in springtime; lots of pretty hills and antique fairs. Only for the residents of Kennings, springtime brought more than April showers and May flowers. For the last six weeks, Kennings has harbored a peculiar brand of spring fever, one that's caused the general population to go slightly mad: making wild accusations of one another from grand larceny to demon possession, e-mailing a variety of threats to known government agencies from the FBI to the FDA and generally behaving like an asylum gone amok. The final straw was the mayor driving into Montpelier, demanding access to the governor's mansion while brandishing a pitchfork, claiming independence for Kennings. We were sent at A.D. Skinner's request. After a day of interviews and site checks, we effectively isolated the source of the problem -- mushrooms. Seems the town's resident celebrity is a gourmet chef who was cultivating an unidentified hybrid and using them in his locally renowned quiche. The tox screen revealed high levels of hallucinogenic material being ingested by the affected population. Shades of Lewis Carroll, I thought. You know, Alice in Wonderland meets Paul Prudhomme. All pretty routine until we realized that I had eaten some of the aforementioned mushrooms for dinner the night before. Now I understand why they say, "Men--don't eat quiche." That is what they say, isn't it? Sounds funny, but what followed, unfortunately, wasn't. The hallucinogens kicked in and I ended up pulling my weapon on an eighty-year-old grandmother of seven and shooting her dog. Ouch. Grandma Plunkett is fine, but my ass is grass with Skinner and the kids hate me because I shot BigBoy. Standard operating bullshit. The one nice thing that's happened is that Scully and I got to stay at one of those bed-and-breakfast places, instead of a lousy motel. It's quiet in the off-season. Nobody here but us feds and the owners, an older couple named Dorset. They're curious, but they respect our privacy. Good. We do our paperwork here because Scully insists I rest before we attempt the long drive back to D.C. It's a nice old house with a covered porch that wraps itself all the way round. Reminds me of Chilmarc. I'm sitting at the top of the stone steps after dinner, just like I did when I was a kid, watching night fall midst the pine and hemlocks that surround the place. The moon hasn't risen yet and stars emerge in a black sky. Living in D.C., you forget what the night sky is supposed to look like, lit with distant fire. I'm sorry to say I've lost the ability to view it with innocent wonder, but it's still impressive. Moths flutter against a dim lantern beside the doorway, while the rest of the porch lies in deepening shadow. The air is still cool at this time of year and thick with the scent of flowers. Scully follows me outside and stands at the bottom of the stairs, breathing in the lilacs. Their fragrance is strong as they bloom so fiercely purple and white. It's a melancholy scent for me, conjuring up memories of long ago. In memory, I see Sam and me in our yard, where I'm pitching softballs to her as she does her best to crack the bat just right. "How'm I doin, Fox?" she always yells at me and my reply is a standard "Don't quit yer day job." My mother comes to the back door with a basket on her arm, pruning shears in hand. She clips tulips and hyacinths while we play, adding them to her basket before turning to the lilac hedge that engulfs the side yard, trimming off large sprays to bring indoors. Contentment prickles like a woolen sweater, uncomfortable but warming nonetheless. Scully turns and looks at me quietly. Nothing of import in her eyes, just a moment between us, a familiar reflexive action. She's wearing dark silk trousers with a black knit tunic that hangs long and loose on her small frame. She almost always wears black, now. Mourning becomes Scully. I remember when she wore colors and the changes in her wardrobe haven't been lost on me. She still grieves in spite of her assurances to the contrary, so it's nice to see her soften, like the vernal wilds of New England after long winter. It's even nicer to watch her in clothes that highlight her femininity, like the wide neck of the sweater that slips off her shoulder, revealing clavicle, bare skin and the strap of a top underneath. It's a quiet moment in a hectic world and I start thinking back on the events of the last few days. Shit. Contentment barely gains a foothold before I remind myself that I can screw up with the best of them. The scent of lilacs is no longer a comfort, but an indictment and I'm overcome by feelings of loss. Running both hands over my face, I pull my eyelids taut as I lean into the arch created by my hands. The first indication of her presence is her perfume. She sits on the step below me, one of her hands resting on my knee. Her face is angled towards mine. "Are you okay?" she asks. My hands drop. She's observing me and her features are all concern and care. Under cover of starry night, I allow myself to be seen. Being the subject of a Scully scrutiny is never easy. I've seen her turn those discerning eyes of hers on a suspect with a ferocity that made *me* wither. I've seen them flash with anger and with humor, both at me; and it never fails to impair my autonomic functions when she turns them on me, soft and tender; like they are right now. The impulse to draw her up into my arms and taste her pretty mouth is powerful, but I resist. I stand, crossing the porch until I turn the corner onto a secluded niche on the windowless side of the house. A heavy, wicker divan is set against the wall and I drop into its cushions with a sigh, head thrown back, eyes closed. I hear Scully approach. I open my eyes and she's standing before me, arms crossed. "Hey, Scully. Think I should turn myself in now or wait until morning?" She arches a perfect brow at me. "Just seems anti- climactic for Spooky Mulder to go to prison for murdering a Great Dane." "No one is going to prison. The vet said BigBoy was 15 years old with a heart condition and a bad habit of rummaging through garbage. They found undigested quiche in his stomach. The dog attacked you, remember? You did nothing wrong." "Let's face it. I'm poison," I mumble, averting my eyes. Playing on Scully's sympathy is pathetic. Her eyes narrow as they study my face. She'll either console or skewer me, but I'll take my chances on the former. To my surprise, she steps in and runs the fingers of her right hand through my hair, soothing me, like I was a child. I know I shouldn't, but I reach for her other hand and clasp her fingers. Positioning herself between my legs, she leans her head towards mine. Her voice drops in volume and she speaks in that calm, collected way of hers that runs like cool water across my fevered mind. "No, Mulder. You can't think that way." We're closer now than we've been in some time and I'm pushing the envelope of familiarity, hoping for a way back to Scully's warm approval. Diana's presence doesn't help matters, but this 'professionalism prevails' dynamic between Scully and me is getting stale. When *did* the comfortable banter and bodily contact become so laced with meaning? After the Bermuda Triangle mess or when she was wounded by that jackass, Ritter? I dunno, but something's changed and I know we'll never be able to go back to the easy flirting again. Scully's hand is threading through my hair and I sigh from sheer comfort, closing my eyes. Her left hand joins the right, fingers stroking against the scalp. One of her hands slides to the back of my neck, where it lulls and arouses my sensibilities. I'm not complaining, but this is atypical. I wonder what she would do if I tried to kiss her again. Probably deck me. She'd have good reason, too -- ten, actually. Ten reasons why we should keep things just the way they are. She listed them on her laptop one fateful airplane flight when she thought I was asleep. Truth is, I woke up right after she began. Thought she was filing routine paperwork. That is, until 'Mrs. Spooky' caught my eye. I focused then, reading the private thoughts of the eminently logical Dr. Scully with only a niggle of guilt. It was all there -- her hopes, her fears, her needs; and I was full of wonder and desire. She loved me? She wanted me? Damn the FBI, the Consortium and the fucking bees combined. She had ten reasons why we shouldn't be involved and the only one that mattered was if she didn't want to be. But she did. She said so. Scully was flustered when I made my presense known, but also aroused by her secret revealed. Or was she flustered because she was aroused? Interesting hypothesis and one I relished testing. Yet, even as her resistance weakened, she steered us into a conversation about Diana. Just how do women do that? I didn't intend on telling her much, but she was so there and after days of sharing that damned house in Arcadia, I blathered. And, in spite of my own good self-advice, I kissed her -- once, twice, three times before she shut me down. It was better than I'd imagined, Dana Scully's passion, the stuff she keeps stowed away. Certifiably dangerous. I hate every man she's ever been with, especially Willis for hurting her and even Jerse, the one she never talks about. She said it was too risky. Hey, I don't want to venture losing what we've got, either. But I want more, even if I can't commit to anything beyond our day-to-day. I meant it when I told her I loved her, yet the days roll on. Maybe it's the work. We're different than when we met six years ago -- older, wiser, warier and worn. And yet, the last few years have been good. The howl of the demon gnawing at my soul has become a drone and my routine self-flagellation is cut short under Scullywatch. I *can't* do this alone, but I did try to send her away from me. She refused. Refused. And now, here, after months of work-only communiques and a self-admitted piss-poor attitude, she's stroking, comforting, loving. Loving? Hold it. I open my eyes and look up. Her eyes are transfixed, sight turned inward on some inner vignette. Her fine features are familiar, yet a stranger's. We are so different in temperament, beliefs, style. How could she love me? We're partners, friends. I mean, yeah, she loves me even if she doesn't say so. Unlike myself who's prone to speaking without thinking, touching without asking and generally wearing my heart on my sleeve, Scully is the cool hands/warm heart type. She brakes for animals and watches the road when school begins in September. She even has an honest-to-goodness family she visits. She's noble and generous and I'll take whatever I can get whenever I can get it. Bill was right when he called me a sorry son-of-a-bitch. But hoping Dana Scully could be "in love" with me would be too much to ask. I'm not what a woman like her would consider "a good prospect." But she wants me. At least she said she did. As for me, I've wanted Scully from the outset. A let's-get-this- out-of-our-systems-fuck? Fine. Booty call? No problem. What I can't figure is when simple want became undeniable need. She's deep in thought, even as her hands continue to caress. Her breathing has gone shallow and quick, as she contemplates some singular thought that stirs her. Her tongue darts against her upper lip and she twitches. My breath catches with hers and our sudden movements jar her from reverie. Her hands come to rest on my shoulders and looks at me. Questions fly without words. . We read each other well. Nothing supernatural about it. Just the culmination of shared experience, keen observation and self-created code. Only, sometimes I need to hear the words. "Earth to Scully. Where've you been?" A small smile tugs at one side of my mouth. "Oh, no place significant." "All by your lonesome?" "You were there." "Now there's an interesting thought." She grants me half a smile. "Anything you'd like to share?" She pulls away, but I place my hands at her waist to keep her close. "Mom always says that it's good to share," she volunteers. "I like Maggie. What exactly were you and I sharing?" "A kiss," she breathes. Oh. I draw in a breath as my pulse jumps a notch "Several, actually," she continues. She wets her lips, teeth gently drawing on her lower lip. "On the plane..." I nod, recollecting the brief, seductive exchange we shared a few months ago. Even now I can recall how she looked, how she felt, how she tasted. Only it wasn't meant to be. Scully's rebuff left me backpedaling, leaving her with an ambiguous promise of an encore. Just male macho bullshit because I wasn't going to be the one to raise the issue again. Don't misunderstand. I've thought about Scully's airplane list a lot. A lot a lot a lot. It's not entirely committed to memory, but the important lines are, especially the ones about her thinking about me in the dark with her hands on herself. Now there's an image I've spent time detailing. "You've been thinking about that night?" I try to keep my tone noncommittal, but interested. I sound like Jack Webb on Prozac. "You could say that." "And what, exactly, are your thoughts on the issue?" "Is this a poll, Mulder?" She tilts her head at me, brow raised, a slight smile on her lips. "If you like." I smile back. Can't help it. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine." "You first." She's shadow boxing, emotionally speaking. "Sorry," I tell her. "Mom always said, 'Ladies First.'" "I thought you weren't the obedient type." "Does it involve black leather?" I wait for the killer stare. Instead, I watch her eyes blink while a pink flush rises across the dusting of freckles on her cheeks. I can't take my eyes off her. "I've been thinking" she murmurs, fingers playing along my shoulders. "I may have overreacted." Her tongue darts against her upper lip a second time and my eyes drop to that mouth. I inhale and my body rises to the occasion. "Oh?" "Um-hmm." Her face nears until inches alone separate us. "And?" I've gone senile before forty. At least I know enough to stay still. "I've been wondering..." her eyes are on mine, pupils wide. "Wondering?" whispered. "How you'd feel... about...?" She pauses, eyes bright with query. I want to pull her head down to me and plant a SOLD sign on her mouth with mine, but I wait and wait and wait. There *is* the possibility that I'm wrong about this. Hell, I just want to kiss her before she changes her mind; so I say the one word that says it all. "Yes." I feel her sigh a split second before her lips brush mine. "Kiss me," she urges and I don't need a reminder. I pull her into my lap, into my arms, pressing my lips against hers, softly at first, but with growing ardor. A whimper escapes her and it is the sound of an angel. My mouth languishes on hers, slanting against her lips from one direction and then another, in open kisses she responds to with eagerness. Her mouth is soft, compliant. I am conscious of every inch of her pressed against me, yielding and fragrant. She shifts position until her face is below mine. One of her arms wraps around my waist, while her free hand grabs the front of my sweater. I've held Dana Scully in my arms before, usually in my fantasies and occasionally in my dreams. In reality, I've had far less opportunity and it's usually a signal that something is definitely wrong. A warm and responsive Scully is altogether different and that difference is about to undo me. She leans into me, resting against the cradle of my arm. My tongue plays against her lips, until they part, allowing entry. I could say that she tastes like heaven, but I don't believe in heaven, unless it's this, and there is nothing saintly about the way her tongue is sliding against mine. Truth is, she tastes like the chocolate ice cream we had at dinner: cool and sweet. She tastes like a goddamned box of candy and I want every piece. We continue like that for precious minutes: lips venturing, tongues exploring unchecked. I hear my sighs echoed in hers and see my desire reflected in her eyes. Every reason we shouldn't do this incinerates in the fire that flares. Her hand trails down my arm as our mouths refuse to part, unwilling to separate after too-long denial of our deepest desires. I maneuver her onto the cushions until she is lying on her back half-beneath me. Our legs are entwined and I feel like a kid again, necking on the family sofa. Her touch is feather light on my skin. My heart races and my skin flushes as I struggle to stay in control of emotions haring off in opposite directions. Intimacy has always been difficult for me; my natural desire thwarted by my fear of abandonment. This accounts for my lack of -- live dates, shall we say? Relationships are complicated and sexual intimacy a rare, if exquisite, journey. Nothing ventured, nothing lost. Scully, however, has crept under my skin in ways I didn't expect. I trust her. I love her. And now, she is here, beneath me and I want all of her. Possessing her is a pilgrimage to a better version of myself. I pull back to catch my breath and the moment in my mind. Her hair is mussed, color high, with lips wet and swollen. She's panting softly. Her eyes are dark with need, but as they register with mine, they alight with such tenderness, I'm stunned. She can't see it, but I'm afraid. Oh, not of the world's machinations. Those we can handle. What terrifies me is that I may be the one to hurt her. Her eyes dim and I see the question, 'Is everything all right?' I can't answer her, not with her body pressing up against mine and her fingers tracing my mouth. I kiss those digits, teeth running lightly along the index finger, sucking lightly as she draws it out. "You taste good," I tease. A playful smile twitches her lips. "You don't want to get hooked, do you?" "Fait accompli," I admit with a frankness born of passion. Affection and something more shine in her eyes. I'm captive to my emotions and the warmth of her gaze feels like sunlight on a heart kept in the shadows too long. She places each finger against my lower lip so I can repeat the process. By the time we get to her pinky, I'm intoxicated on the taste of her. She holds my face and whispers, "We'll see," before pressing her mouth to mine, still and open, while her tongue slips along my upper lip. Her kiss robs me of breath, sight and prudence; and I'm overcome by the awareness that this is actually happening. With Scully. Sensations flood me, ripples of pleasure pulsing through every fiber of my being demanding more. I rise above her, resting on a forearm as my free hand moves of its own accord, making its way along her gently heaving sides to discover she's not wearing a bra. Hey, sometimes you just get lucky. Her hand moves down along my neck and shoulder and my fingers pass over the nipple of her breast. I caresses the soft swell that presses into my touch. I'm surprised, but pleased. Then, without warning, I see a flare of panic in Scully's eyes. "We shouldn't," she frets. I pinch the nipple through the fabric. "You started this," I remind her with a grin, gathering the fabric to reach bare skin. She's beautiful and with her body pressed to mine, I'm caught in the delicious rush of arousal heightened by the fact that this is no illusion, but the flesh-and-blood woman I've desired and loved for more years than I care to admit. "I wasn't thinking." I read both hesitation and want in her eyes while my thumb teases and my fingers memorize this intimate terrain. "No, you were feeling. It's okay, Scully." "Is it?" My hand moves until it lays in repose over her heart. "It's a human response," I soothe. "We are only human after all, remember?" She turns her face from me and I spy a single tear slipping across the bridge of her nose. I kiss her brow. "Or is Doctor Scully not allowed?" Crickets serenade the darkness beyond and a gibbous moon rides low, its light creeping across the floorboards beneath the divan. Scully's heart is racing and her expression reveals inward dialogue. At last, she speaks in a hushed voice. "Ever since I was a little girl, I've tried to hide my feelings. It just made me feel stronger as we moved from place to place. Dad always expected me to take it on the chin. I wanted to, wanted wanted to be like my brothers -- a little sailor. But, every new school meant starting over again. I hated it." She pauses and I watch her sad, bright eyes. "Every birthday, I'd wish on my candles for the same thing." "What was that?" I coax. "To just stay put, to have a relationship I wouldn't have to leave behind. I just wanted to be a regular kid." "One of the crowd." Her eyes return to mine and I know I've tapped into something. "But I always stood out. Academics." I nod, acknowledging the validity of her words. "Everyone said I was so well-adjusted. Truth is, I was afraid people would notice how inadequate I was." She pauses, before adding, "I still worry about that." "With me?" "Especially with you." I'm not altogether surprised. "Mulder, I don't want you to feel that I'm some fragile female you have to protect." I have to smile at that one. "Fragile? I've seen you take down guys twice your size. In fact, if memory serves, I'm usually the one who gets an ass-kicking." That eases a small smile from her. Her eyes soften and my hand begins to caress again. "Unfortunately," I begin, planting small kisses under her chin, moving towards her earlobe, "Thinking of you as something other than female is not possible." She hums softly. "Not right now, anyway." "And you won't think me weak?" I look up and meet her eyes. "Is this your version of 'will you respect me in the morning'? You're one of the most self-reliant people I know. I depend on it." My thumbnail flicks against her taut nipple and she shivers, eyes closing. Dropping my head, I nudge the hair away from her ear with my nose. She smells like jasmine and Ivory soap. "That's just it...I'm not strong at all..." she states between jagged breaths. "I do everything but face up to my feelings." "Tell me about it," I whisper in her ear before running my tongue along its outer rim, pulling the lobe into my mouth and gently giving a tug. No, facing feelings is not something the rational Agent Scully does, even when faced with with her own mortality. I still recall her clinical detachment as she described her cancer to me. I was desperate to reach into that stoic facade while she held everyone at arm's length. But now I sense that coolness dissipating into something infinitely warmer. I want more. My lips find their way to the tender place just behind her ear, the pulse strong and steady as she continues. "Always have... high school, college, even Quantico... Hmm... Just went with what I knew best...my job...Mulder, what are you doing to me?" It's a curious dance of seduction. With each step towards deeper candor, she allows me physcially closer. Maybe Scully likes to talk during sex. Hell, I don't care if she wants to recite the Gettysburg Address, as long as I get the chance to find out. Which isn't to say that I'm not listening, because I am and tell her so. I feel the loneliness of adolescence resonate within, kissing her forehead as she reveals herself. "I became a glorious overachiever..." Her eyelid... "I always got noticed for my mind..." Beside her mouth... "And they forgot to notice the pretty woman?" I ask and her eyes flutter open. "I'm pretty?" Doesn't she notice the looks from the male agents, and some of the female, as well? I do. "You are more beautiful than I can say," I tell her, my hands still. "I suppose there are a lot of things I should have said before. It just never seemed right. Dales tried to tell me." "Told you...?" "To let you know how special you are to me. I think I've done that, haven't I? And he told me not to give up. I'm not." Until a few months ago, I was convinced that my less-than-brotherly feelings were a one-way street; but Scully's laptop revelations have carved themselves a wide, deep channel in my gray matter. She's brought us to this and I'll stop if she asks, only... only... my hands are worshipping the contours of her body. Sue me. Fingertips trail against her stomach, pausing at the top of her trousers where I finger the silken ribbon that gathers at her waist. Our eyes hold steady as I ask, "Afraid?" An imperceptible nod follows. "Of me." It is half statement, half question. "No, not of you, " she says softly. "Never you." "Then what?" I question on a sigh. "There's so much working against us." "I'll take it all on, if it means I can have you." "You already have me," she says with a wry smile. "Not completely. I told you I was a patient man, Scully, but my patience is worn thin." I look down to where my hand is slowly pulling at the tail of the bow that unravels easily under my fingers. "Well, happy birthday to me." "Mulder--" Scully rebukes, but her eyes are glowing. Our gaze holds steady as my hand inches beneath to slide against smooth satin panties. My breathing has gone shallow and I'm aware of my body's response pressing against her legs. "It's been awhile," she notes. I'm not sure if she means me or her. "Yeah, but I hear it's like rollerblading. Once you learn..." I trail off with a wag of my brows. "You mean riding a bicycle." "It's the nineties," I shrug. Scully chuffs at me and the irony of the moment hits us. We've argued scientific theory and method and contemplated the world's fate, but we've never talked about sex. We're not about to start, either. As Jim Morrison so wisely admonished, "The time to hesitate is through." She is suddenly serious as my hand slips under the thin elastic, fingers moving through the curls that delineate her sex. A shift of her hips allows access to intimate flesh. My groin tightens and my focus narrows. "I want you," I tell her. She closes her eyes, laying a hand on my chest. She has reservations about this. Well, so do I. Still, this truth is closer than ever and I need to know. "Tell me you don't want this," I sough against her ear, voice thick as my middle finger seeks her opening and enters her part way. Our eyes lock as I withdraw and penetrate again. She is still, poised between resistance and surrender and behind it all, a flicker of pleasure in her eyes. I feel illicitly pleased with myself. I enter her time and again with unhurried, deliberate actions, the palm of my hand grazing her folds as I move within the confines of her clothing. It's awkward, but a deep sigh comes from her as her back arches and her head falls back. Her sweater falls to one side and I nuzzle the tender place between her throat and her shoulder, drawing her flesh into my mouth. She moves beneath me, setting in motion an entirely different set of sensations where her hips rock against my lower body. "Should I stop?" I ask. Her response is a clear shake of her head. I respond in kind, a slight smile on my lips. "I need the words." She seems puzzled. "The words," I repeat, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me what you want." "I can't," she responds, her pitch matching mine. Scully wordless? I don't think so. "Yeah, you can." "Mulder--" "Say it." She reaches up and kisses me, her tongue sliding against my own. We claim one another until she pulls away slightly and against my open mouth murmurs, "Touch me," before returning to our kiss. Blood pounds in my ears, passions inflamed. We part and I raise myself to nearly a sitting position, running my hands over her hips. Her legs are still entwined with mine as I tug the flimsy trousers down her thighs. My hand covers the blue satin triangle that conceals her most choice asset. What I want to do is tear the lacy scrap of cloth off and put my mouth to her, but I move slowly. This is Scully: not Diana, who only liked it rough; or Phoebe, who played elaborate sex games; or Sally Corrigan, my lab partner at Franklin High, who taught me basic female anatomy. Everything pales compared to the depth of feeling I bear for *this* woman and if I screw up now, I'll lose her for good. I slide back down beside Scully, my arm snaking around her to hold her close to me while my fingers seek their way through damp curls to find the sensitive flesh that is the center of her pleasure and begin a slow, circular rhythm against her. Patient, yes. Persistent, absolutely. She is uttering small sounds, her breath warm against my neck, as I watch my hand move between us. I want to take her out of herself, if only for a few stolen moments, away from the daily grind of self-discipline and denied emotion. I turn to see her expression of carnal delight. Her hands trace fire on me as they move under my sweater, against my tee, to rest against my chest. "Mulder," she sighs, hands winding around to embrace me as our mouths meet again. It's a gesture of surrender and I recognize what she's offering: not just her body, but her need to hide herself from me as well. Her hips rise against my hand in a slow roll. She does it again, seeking just the right angle and pressure, using me as a point of resistance. She's finding her own pleasure now and granting me mine in her abandon. I feel her breath and, to my surprise, a nip at my throat as she establishes a lazy rhythm against my hand. I press my groin against her gyrating hip, loving the friction generated there. It is sweet madness. I push aside all extraneous thought from my mind save Scully and the conscious experience of what is happening, to be cached in my personal hard drive. My finger teases her clit before delving the folds below. Each penetration draws a muted moan from her. "Mmorre," she sighs and I oblige, increasing tempo at a steady pace. A soft, intermittent hum emanates from her and I feel the rising tension in her body through the pressure of her hands on my back. The pads of my fingers thrum against her until I hear her breathe, "Yes. God, yes," with hardly a sound. All at once she stills, a series of shuddered gasps escapes her as she trembles, hands clutching me, and succumbs to the orgasm that rocks her against me. My fingers continue to gently tease as she writhes beneath me, extending her climax. As her shudders subside, I cease, my hand laying still and wet against her. She is a long time coming back to herself. When she meets my eyes again, there is passion and pleasure in her half- lidded eyes. I note a feral quality there, one I don't quite recognize as Scully. I like it. It reminds me that there is still much to learn about this woman and I intend to learn chapter and verse. We read each other's eyes and our wordless generates a smile from us both. We disentangle and rise from the divan. She barely has time to put herself in order before I pull her up against me, eager to feel the length of her again. She pushes me backwards until we stumble against the wall of the house. "Turnabout is fair play," she informs, grabbing for the buttons on my jeans. My sentiments exactly, but I'm looking for the long haul and not the short run. So, before I'm rendered brainless, I grab her hand and propel us towards the door. Her hand feels small in mine, but she clasps it tightly, signaling her agreement with this decision. We've come a long way, against daunting odds, and I've decided that short of alien colonists landing in the front yard, this *will* happen. We round the corner of the house and take several steps further before I realize that the Dorsets are coming up the walkway in front of the house. Shit. I stop short and Scully collides into my back. She doesn't see them, yet, and I begin to weigh options. I could ignore the Dorsets and just keep going, but somehow I know that won't fly. "I thought you said we had the house to ourselves," she says, catching sight of the elderly couple. I exhale in frustration, running a hand over my mouth. Scully's chagrin is revealed in the small sigh she emits with a whimper. I gaze down at her, shaking my head with more than disappointment. She must see it because she takes a step ahead and turns back to face me, eyes radiant and glowing, a smile playing on her lips. Okay, so she still wants me and I feel better, but not a lot. She drops my hand and walks to the top of the steps, just as Jenny Dorset reaches the bottom. "Let me get that for you," Scully offers, taking the brown grocery bag from the plump, gray-haired woman. She tosses me a look. Guess I better play nice or Scully won't play at all. "Well, thank you, Ms. Scully. That certainly is kind of you. Such nice manners. Don't you think, Gerald?" She turns to her husband, a reedy man sporting a salt-and-pepper shock of hair and trim beard. He follows with two more bags. I descend the steps. "I've got it," I say with a saccharine smile. I take both bags, which he relinquishes immediately. Jeez. Just what the hell did they buy? The sacks weigh a ton apiece. Taking a quick peek, I notice not groceries, but books. The worn, red leather volume stashed at the top of the bag is "The Origin of Species" by Darwin. Hmph. A quick appraisal of the second bag reveals "The Virtue of Selfishness" by Ayn Rand. I'm begrudgingly impressed. We carry the bags into the living room and set them on a low table that sits between the paired loveseats. Gerald stacks kindling onto the fireplace grate while Jenny excuses herself to prepare tea. "Tea?" I mouth with exaggerated emphasis to Scully who stands at the opposite end of the sofa between us. She shrugs her shoulders with a wistful look on her face. I draw in a deep breath to calm myself, exhaling through pursed lips. I'm in control, although the images of the previous hour are replaying themselves a little too vividly in my mind. I can't help but allow my eyes a luxurious perusal of Scully, noting the manicured fingers that tap against her thighs, the quicker than usual rise and fall of her chest, the parted lips and finally, her eyes, wide with desire. I'll never make it. "Damn fools," Gerald calls his Kennings neighbors. We all sit and make polite conversation about our work with the FBI, skirting the more intrusive questions. Jenny emerges with a china tea service on a silver tray, a plate full of warm scones and homemade apricot jam. I rationalize that if I can't satisfy one sensual pleasure, I'll indulge another. I sit beside her and down three scones in record time -- no jam, no tea. "Just a little hungry, aren't we?" Scully chides in a playful tone, throwing me a lazy smile from her perch in the corner of the sofa across from me. "I've always had a good appetite," I retort. She lets it go, but a faint flush rises to her cheeks. Gerald downs a scone in two massive bites and begins emptying the bags of their contents, one by one. He admits to being a hopeless bibliophile. "The books just get to me." Jenny smiles at her husband, adding, "We planned on using the evening to shop for a new car over in Brigham Falls, but we got sidetracked by a used book fair at the town hall. Gerald just can not resist the smell of old paper. He goes positively loony." Jenny, apparently, is used to such fanciful changes of plan. "And damn worth it, woman," Gerald scolds with affection. "Just look." He rises and walks to the bookcases flanking the mantle. Most of the books are just old editions of classics and specialty pieces; but he also owns several impressive items. He points out his more treasured possessions: a first edition of "Tom Sawyer," an original folio by Audubon and his favorite, a signed copy of Miller's "Tropic of Cancer." "It doesn't get better than this," he says. Jenny rolls her eyes, covers her mouth with two fingers and blushes. Scully and I exchange a glance. The conversation and the hour wears on. Scully is polite, but I get the feeling that her mind is elsewhere. From time to time, she grows pensive, staring into the fire. It's nothing any one but me would notice and I attempt to catch her attention. She refuses to meet my glance and a shiver of fear steals over me. With the heat of the moment passed, I'm sure she's changed her mind about the remainder of the evening. I feel the familiar pull of emotional distancing and begin to think of ways to politely disengage. I wonder how the Dorsets manage to stay connected after so many years. My parents divorced, bitter and estraged, unable to deal with each other in civil fashion for more than a few hours. Growing up with their example, could I do any better? I look at Scully, who sits staring at her hands in her lap. I can't offer Scully normalcy and I don't know if our partnership, our friendship, could withstand the pressures of sexual intimacy. The mantle clock chimes eleven. Gerald rises and stretches. "Well, Jenny, it's time for us old folk to leave the young folk to their wiles." "Gerald, behave." "Behave, my foot, woman. It's time to go." He casts her a wink and she begins to take her leave. It's a complete turn of events, but I'm suddenly anxious about being alone with Scully. "You know," I begin, standing up, "there's no need to retire on our account. We're just--" I catch Scully's eyes on me, "--partners." The word sticks in my throat even as I say it. Jenny looks at Scully and back to me. She gives me a long look from under raised brows. "Gerald and I always retire at a reasonable hour, together. It's a habit we got into after our children finally left and went off on their own. Marriage is like a plant-- needs tending, you know. Most relationships do." "Yup," Gerald pipes in. "And now that the little bratties are gone, I've got Jenny all to myself again." He gives his wife a squeeze and she chortles in mock surprise. Scully watches them with an unreadable look on her face. She glances down at the carpet for a moment and then, me. A sudden uncomfortable silence hangs between us. The Dorsets seem not to notice as they carry the tray into the kitchen. There is the sound of scuffling from behind the swinging door and a flushed Jenny emerges, fixing her hair. Gerald is smiling. "Well, g'night, young folk. Don't do anything we wouldn't do," he states with a wave of his hand. I nod and Scully gives a low, "Good night." Jenny heads down the darkened corridor while Gerald lags behind. "By the way," he adds, "Our room is at the back of the house and we *never* sleepwalk." Then he's gone. The room is deadly quiet. Scully is staring into the fire which is a mound of smoldering embers, rapidly growing colder. Like us. I walk over to the fireplace and grabbing the poker, try to rekindle the flame that roared only a short time ago. My efforts have limited success, as the flame that bursts is quickly gone. "It needs more kindling," Scully says. I want to face her, but I can't. I want to say I'm sorry for being an inconsiderate ass, but I don't. Just partners? I *am* a horse's ass. I love her, but I don't deserve her. Never did, Fox. Only the heartless ones survive with you, boy. And then they leave. Appropriate. "Mulder?" I'm brought back into real time by the realization that Scully is standing beside me, taking the poker from my hand. She kneels down and begins placing wood from the kindling stack onto the existing embers. Removing the bellows from its hook beside the hearth, she forces air under the crisscrossing structure. Her features are intent, as they always are when she is on task, and she restores the flames to a decent burn. It's not a roaring fire, but it's generating heat. She looks up at me from where she is kneeling and I meet her eyes. I expect to find anger or hurt or disappointment. There is none. "Go and sit down," she says low. I'm not good with direct instruction, but I'm feeling contrite, so I obey. She stares into the flickering light for a long minute before turning. Crossing the floor, she heel-toes the Chinese slippers from her feet as she approaches. At the edge of the braided carpet, she detours and begins making a tour of the room. My eyes never leave her as she pauses to admire a book or trinkets that hold meaning for the couple who went to their shared bed some time ago. Pausing at a side table that holds framed photographs, she picks up a frame of a picture that captures her attention. Setting it down, she continues her circuit, extinguishing lights as she goes, until the room lay shadowed and firelit. She comes to stand beside where I sit, facing the fire. Her face is in shadow, but her eyes are gleaming. Without a sound, she climbs into my lap, straddling my legs. My heart is beating foolishly fast and I am breathing harder. Her eyes never leave mine as she pulls her sweater over her head and tosses it aside. I fight the urge to reach out for her. Trust me, I'm not that much of a gentleman. I just need to know, after six years of imagining this moment, just how much she wants this, wants me. She reaches beneath my sweater with both hands and begins to pull at my tee-shirt. I want this so badly I can taste it. But, suddenly, I can't. Somehow it feels wrong. I place my hands over hers, where they lay against my stomach, my shirt bunched in her hands. "What's wrong?" she whispers, bafflement clear on her features. "We had an arrangement, didn't we? You show me yours, I'll show you mine?" She leans in with half-lidded eyes and kisses me, her tongue darting out to lap against my upper lip. Still, I don't move. I realize that unless we go into this on equal ground, it will never be right. If I take her now, like this, it will be dishonest. The slippery slope we stand on is not what I want for us. She pulls back and my hands slide along her thighs, then under her top until they encircle her waist. Eyes meet. "This isn't about an arrangement. It's just you and me. There's nothing you have to do; nothing more you need to give." "I want--" "I want it, too. But I won't use you." "You couldn't." "Never overestimate the intentions of a man sitting with a sexy redhead in his lap." I glance down, noting the peaks of her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her top. I lift my eyes to find her mouth set in a small smile. "Mulder, I know you better than that." I bite my lower lip, a dead giveaway that I'm anxious, and my passion chills. "What do you know about me, really? We discuss work. We skim personal issues. And we never talk about us. It's not your fault, it's just fact. I talk a good game, but in the end, I keep my distance. It's why I became a psychologist -- safer to get into somebody else's head than let them into mine." The look on her face says "tell me something I don't know." We watch one another's eyes for a sign of what's to come next in this drama. My confidence of early evening has dissipated into thin air, even as the feel of her skin under my hand invites further exploration. Why is this so hard for us? Other people feel attraction and act on it. *We* parse, overanalyze and dissect every nuance of word, voice and gesture in spite of our obvious need for each other. Like twin stars, we encircle but never join, fearful of cataclysm. Scully closes her eyes and exhaling a long sigh, begins to pull away. We've gone further over the line than ever, but it's still a familiar routine. The cool rush of air that invades our space hits me like a physical slash. And perhaps it's cut into a portion of my mind that's lain dormant for too long because my reaction is involuntary. My hands rest at her hips and as she rises, my grip on her strengthens. "Don't go," I plead. Scully looks down at me, coppery locks falling forward over one ear. I pull her back down to me until she is nestled against me once again and we are face to face. I begin. "I'm sorry would probably be a good start, right?" "It wouldn't hurt." "So... I'm sorry. Without me in your life, you'd be in a nice, normal relationship with a nice, safe man who could give you everything you deserve. Much as I want you, Scully, you deserve better." She is thoughtful and it's quiet but for the hiss and crackle of the fire. "You may think so, Mulder, but I know better than that." "I pushed you aside tonight. Scully-- you're so much more than just my partner." "But I *am* your partner," she states, pausing to look away and collect her thoughts before bringing her eyes back to mine. "I walk at your side by choice. I hope you can accept that, believe that, because it's true. Being "just partners" isn't so bad. I'm proud of our -- distinction -- in the Bureau. We're good, so good together." Her hands rest on my chest. "And, yes, we're friends. No one else has my key or my complete trust. And no other living soul would have risked their life for me, but you. My God, Mulder, you redefine the word 'friend.'" "And lovers?" I can't help but look down at our relative positions and give a wry smile. When I look back, she's doing likewise. Our eyes meet and once again, I spy a feral glint lurking in their blue depths. All at once I feel like the canary being watched by the cat. I wet my lips and watch in fascination as Scully slowly inhales, her tongue running the length of her upper lip, her eyes watching my mouth. Being the focus of her intense perusal is unsettling and arousing as hell. The realization that this may yet turn out well sparks in my muzzy brain. "I'm tired of running scared. I can't predict the future and I don't know if this," she says with a glance between us, "is wise. But I don't want to reach the end of my life wondering 'what if,' either. Do you?" "Like you said before, the odds are against us." She tips her head towards the corridor. "*They* seem happy. It's possible." "I can't make any promises to you." "Then don't. I know what I don't want and what I do, finally." Her devil-may-care attitude knocks me on my ass and I probably look as surprised as I feel because she shakes her head and smiles at me just before her lips brush mine. Taking my face in both of her hands, she begins to make love to my mouth with hers, the tip of her tongue reaching out to caress my lip or to meet my own. She comes at me over and again with kisses against my mouth, my face and along my neck to just behind the earlobe. Fire runs in my veins. She pulls back and when she reaches for my sweater, I don't stop her. The tee goes and I lean back into the corner of the sofa, running my knuckles against her flushed cheek. Laying her hands flat against my stomach, they slowly inch upwards along flesh and muscle, threading through the short hairs and making me shiver with desire. She runs the tips of her fingers over erect nipples, evoking a sudden sough of breath from me. She lingers there for a few moments before continuing her sweep upwards, along my shoulders. Placing her arms on either side of my head, she clasps her hands behind my head. Her breasts, unfettered under the tank top she's wearing, rub against me sinuously. I want to touch them, see them, see her, all of her. Her face is near and I smell her perfume, along with the heady scent of her arousal as she bandies her nose against mine. Logical thought is rapidly deteriorating under her assault. "You know, Scully," I manage to croak out, "You seemed preoccupied earlier tonight and I, uh, thought you might have changed--" She pulls back until her face is even with mine. "Shut up, Mulder," she chides, looking into my eyes. "I love you, okay?" "Okay," I breathe, not quite comprehending. Her smile and the way she's grinding her hips against me signals that I haven't misread her and from the way my cock is twitching from its denim-confined prison, she can't be misreading my intentions either. "Enough," I rasp, propelling myself forward and Scully backwards until she's pinned beneath me. There's no hesitation as I pull the tank over her head. Her breasts are round and firm, with rosy aureoles surrounding dusky pink nipples. I admire their perfection for about three seconds before latching onto one. Her moans are sweet music. My hand teases the other, rolling the nipple between my fingers until she gasps. Her hands rake through my hair and down my back with nails just long enough to hurt so good. I rise up and kiss her deeply, my tongue swiping through her mouth before I move to kneel beside the sofa, dragging her panties down with her trousers. She is prone and naked, arms raised above her head. And there I stop as I'm granted the sight of a beautiful, naked Scully panting with desire -- eyes wild, hair splayed beneath her. Her inside leg is bent while the leg nearest me falls open, trailing her foot to the floor. It is a wanton pose struck without guile and I'm left breathless knowing that I can touch her, taste her, take her. "Scully, you're..." She is watching me curiously, confused by my loss of vocabulary. "What?" she queries in a soft voice. Taking my index finger and placing it at the base of her throat, I run it slowly down between her breasts and over her midsection, my other fingers trailing with it. All the while my eyes follow the same path until I reach the apex of dark auburn curls. I look back into her eyes. "What?" she repeats in a breathy whisper, eyes dark. "Mine. " Her eyes close and she visibly trembles. "All mine," I repeat with mischief as I pull her towards me and make myself comfortable between her legs. The view of Scully from this particular perspective is one I'm definitely adding to the Mulder erotica permanent collection, seeing as it tops any and all possible videos I own, with the exception of one we'd make ourselves. Hmm. Catalog for future investigation. There are advantages to having a large nose and I nudge the swollen bundle of nerves at her core. She moans as I forestall the inevitable, my mouth hovering until I hear a plaintive, "Do it." She says it so pretty, I'd like to hear it again. "What's that, Scully? I can't hear you." "Oh, you're impossible", she scolds and I smile more broadly. Agent Scully is having a temper tantrum because I won't go down on her. Who'da thought? I blow a delicate stream of air across her and she twitches. "Mulder," she breathes. Her voice commands, "Now-" followed by a plaintive, "Please." I can't argue with that, so I submit, kissing those other lips and delighting in the jolt that runs through me at taste of her in my mouth. We both moan as her hips thrust and my tongue samples her sweetness. I pleasure her, alternating the pressure and timing of my tongue's strokes, my fingers invading her in rhythmic imitation of what I still want to do to her with parts of me yet uninvolved. She squirms wickedly, an occasional epithet escaping her lips. Tough little sailor, indeed. My hands grab her ass and she grabs my hair with one hand. I feel her muscles contracting around my slick fingers as I glance upwards at her. She is biting down on her free hand to stifle the moan she can not suppresss in her ecstasy. She is all around me and in me and the time has come for the main event. I kiss the flat of her stomach before standing. She is moving with some lethargy and sighing to herself. Picking up the sweater she tossed earlier, she slips it over her head and pulls her legs up around her, arms clasped around her knees. She looks up at me with content. I can't resist remarking, "What, no comments? No counterarguments, scientific analysis or general objections?" She says nothing, but unwinds from the sofa like a sleek tabby, a mysterious smile on her face. She rises and her sweater falls mid-thigh. She gathers her garments and clutches them to her. I've already thown on my stuff. "All set" she whispers, placing a finger to her lips and tiptoeing past me. I reach for her, dragging her backwards into a quick embrace. "Mulder, we are never going to get upstairs at this rate." "I know, but it's fucking fun." "Now that is something we have yet to attend to," she states while she tilts her head back at me. Right. Just like Scully to get the heart of the matter. She takes my hand and leads me towards the stairs. I'm right behind her, which is the perfect vantage point from which to watch her hips sway under the sweater that reveals nothing and everything to me. At the top of the stairs, we head to the end of the corridor. Our rooms sit opposite one another and although Scully attempts to enter hers, I steer her towards mine. We enter the room and I turn, closing the door behind us and throwing the latch. Scully drops her things into a chintz-covered chair and pads over to the open window where pale gauzy curtains flutter in the night breeze. Moonlight streams through, bathing the room in its argent glow. I undress and go to where she stands so still and quiet. Approaching from behind, I place my hands on her shoulders and kiss the nape of her neck. She raises her arms and I lift the sweater from her. She leans back against me, then, and sighs. My hands trace her shoulders and down the smoothness of her arms, drawing hers along with mine as they cross over her chest, holding her there, my chin resting just atop her head, drawing in the scent of her hair. Like I said before, sometimes I need to hear the words and sometimes I don't. Right now, there is nothing left to say. She turns in my arms and our height difference puts her at a disadvantage. "C'mere," I murmur. With sure hands I grasp her by the waist and lift her to me. She throws her arms around my neck and wraps her legs around me. I feel her heat slide against my stomach as we kiss. I turn with her and take the few steps towards the bed. She scoots back when she hits the mattress, into the pile of down pillows angled against a massive brass headboard. Propping herself up on her elbows, she takes a long look at me as I stand there. I allow her time to study me, a priori, appreciating the want in her eyes and committing to memory this moment as we stand at the threshold between what we were and what we will be, ad finem. After years of anticipation, I'd have figured on being nervous. I'm not. In fact, I'm perfectly calm as I mount the bed and make my way towards the gorgeous redhead who beckons me with azure eyes, parting her legs to welcome me while a brilliant smile flashes at me. It's an extraordinary sight, even with everything I've witnessed. She reaches down between us to take me in hand, running cool fingers around me and I'm at her mercy. We kiss, pausing only for an occasional breath of air. All the while she is stroking me, running her fingers along the underside of me and back to cup my balls in her hand. We part, breathless. "That's it," I exhale as her hand sweeps back to the head, taking the pearl of moisture that emerges from the tip and smoothing it back along my length. I groan, intoning her name. She pushes at me, scrambling until I'm on my back and she's alongside, one leg casually slung across mine. A grin twitches the corner of her mouth. And then she decends, tasting and teasing, tongue trailing down my chest. Tactile sensation shimmers through me. Her lips are hot and moist against the tautness of my abdomen and for one brief moment, she stops to turn her head at me, casting me a frisky look. The sight of that auburn head slithering southward, trailing small kisses as she goes, nearly finishes me then and there. I place my hands on her shoulders to gain just a moment to recover myself. She glances upwards through thick lashes. "Feeling shy?" she questions impishly. I open my mouth to tell her that she doesn't have to do this, but nothing comes out but a soundless "oh" having preempted my speech with her mouth on my dick. My eyes close, savoring the sensations as she kisses, licks, sucks and generally makes me crazy. Finally, the urge to bury myself in her is more than I can stand. I move from below her, pulling her upwards and rolling her under me. A sudden, bizarre memory of Scully in full martial arts mode blazes across my mind. The fact that she could immobilize me in ten seconds flat and outright kill me is a sobering thought. It's also a wondrous one because she is completely relaxed and supple, my hands large against her small frame, trusting me completely as I situate her where I want her to be. I guide myself to her and part her folds with just the tip of my cock, running it along the length of her sex before entry. "Ready?" I ask roughly. "Since forever," she responds. Her words trigger a rush of emotion that startle and enfold me in their meaning. I go slow, filling her gradually until I am deep inside. With every inch, I feel a tightening in my chest that has nothing to do with cardiac muscle and everything to do with my heart. "Love you," I whisper before I'm even aware of the words. "Know that," she returns, eyes shining. I move within her, stroking long and slow. "Ah, Scully," I sigh, "So beautiful...wanted you...so long. God, you feel incredible." She is hot and wet and tight around me. It's been forever since I've done this and frankly, I've never been intimate with a woman who even came close to reaching into my psyche like Dana Scully. It's better than anything I have imagined or can actually remember and, believe me, I'm a pro at both. I'm not sure how long we engage in our passionate duet. I feel buzzed, drunk on the meade that is her wanton beauty, her unique fragrance, the soft longing in her pleasured sighs. I spy a shimmer of gold as her cross slips along the chain at her slender neck. Wonder if we've broken any of her commandments because this feels sinfully good. She rocks against my rhythm, pushing me harder against her as her legs wrap around me. I grab a pillow and lifting her hips, settle it beneath her. Her hands move across her breasts and stomach. "Don't stop," I whisper, certain that the lust flickering in her eyes reflects my own. Her hand trails downward until her fingers are between us, gently moving against where we join. The sight of what I have imagined is intensely erotic and self-control begins to slip. I want this to last, but I can't hold out. I'm 38, after all -- young enough to appreciate the appetites of the flesh, but old enough to know that nothing lasts forever. "Scully?" I question, strokes gaining momentum, breath uneven, sweat breaking over my skin. Her eyes meet mine and she says, "Let go, Mulder. I'll catch you." A flurry of strong thrusts take me to the brink. A groan from deep within crosses my lips as I climax, flying over the precipice where I fall. And fall. And fall...into a sightless vortex: red and black swirling behind my eyelids, heart pounding, lungs gasping for life's breath as my body capitulates to the waves of pleasure that spasm over me and propel the essence of all that I am to her. I slump down onto her for one spent moment before rolling onto my back beside her. For several minutes we lay silent, unmoving, unwilling to break the spell we have cast. A cool breath of air gusts over us, raising goosebumps on my superheated flesh. I feel Scully shiver as she reaches down to draw up the cotton coverlet that lays at the foot of the bed. Turning towards her, she arranges it around me and settles her back against my chest. I hold her tight, encircling her in my arms, her feet brushing against my calves, my face buried in her neck. That this woman -- so good, so strong, so kind should give me herself and her love is something I never thought possible. It has saved me and there is nothing I would not do for her. I fight back the sting of tears as I savor the joy and sorrow of our coupling; lovemaking that unites us, but can never bring her the child she craves, the child she deserves, the child that deserves her. Scully talked about tempting the Fates once, and I understand her apprehensions. We are poised on the brink of something and we *should* consider the consequents. Only, not right now. I'm warm and sated and comfortable right now, holding a beautiful woman in my arms. I don't want to think about horror: either via the scattered Consortium or personal hangups. It's been a long time since I've felt so utterly at peace. Let the world spare us an hour, please. "Mulder?" Scully's voice is softly muffled beneath the covers. She sounds younger, a sweet throwback to our earliest days together. "Um-hm?" I murmur, kissing her shoulder, my eyes closing as deep drowsiness envelops me. "Could we do this again, some time?" "I certainly hope so." "Good. I liked it." Her open vulnerability, rare as it is in our relationship, stirs me and in spite of her clear protestations, I know that I will spend the rest of my life trying to keep her safe from harm. I will never tell her. END July 1999