She is squirming and moaning on her side of the bed. I am trying not to
notice, trying to avoid even looking at her, but that's like asking a man
dying of thirst not to drink from a clear cold stream right in front of him.

"Mmm...so...good."

So this must be how Henry Weems, luckiest man in the universe, feels
when confronted with a tremendous stroke of good fortune. I asked
Henry about it today. He told me that sometimes to be so lucky was a
nightmare.

I caught myself staring at her sleeping form with a mixture of
fascination and abject terror. She was subtly rubbing her thighs together
and mumbling what sounds like my name.

Or maybe not. I could be projecting. To take a perfectly ambiguous
moan and assume it's my name on her lips is absurd, even if the first
syllable of my name does sort of sound like a moan.

"Mmmul..."

Christ! There is no mercy.

I'm staring up at the ceiling, holding myself very, very still. And
praying.

"To what deity?" you might ask. Who the hell cares? I am praying to
anyone that will listen, because it's the only viable alternative to jumping
out of my skin at the moment.

Damn it, I knew this was bound to happen. With all the time we spend
on the road, all the nights we spend in cheesy government per diem rate
motels, the statistical probability of a screw-up of this magnitude was
astronomical.

So here we are: a statistical probability that has come to fruition.

A mix-up in the reservations, all of Chicago packed with dentists for an
ADA convention, no other rooms - not even a room with two beds
instead of one. And now she's dreaming about something that sounds a
lot like sex, although it may very well be just chocolate-chip cookies,
cute little kittens, or even a particularly good shoe sale. There are a lot
of pleasant things that might account for how great she was feeling in
this dream, I tell myself.

Right.

This is my most potent fantasy and my worst nightmare all rolled up in
one.

And, you know, this could NOT have come at a worse time.
I've been doing everything humanly possible to stay in her good graces,
ever since the Pittsfield, Virginia vortex case, and she has been
responding in kind. The great wall of my defenses has been crumbling,
one brick at a time.

Every smile or kind word of hers shakes me to my very foundations,
weakening the mortar that holds my playful facade of bravado together.
When she looks into my eyes, pebbles loosen and fall. When she
touches me, tiny avalanches start, threatening to take down my entire
world.


And now she is lying in bed with me, moaning pleasurably in her sleep.

Fucking dentists! I knew there was a reason I hated them.

I've never minded dentists before. Cleanings, scalings, root canals, who
cares? I'm no wuss. But since they took up every hotel room, motel
room, B & B, guesthouse, outhouse, cathouse and doghouse in this city, I
am royally pissed at the entire profession. I hold each and every one of
them personally responsible for my imminent downfall.

Just as I was pondering various methods of dentist torture, Scully turned
and snuggled up against me. Holy Mother of God! She had kicked the
covers off, revealing her bare leg under the blue cotton nightshirt she was
wearing. I say "was" because the night shirt had ridden up to her waist,
revealing matching blue cotton panties. Those panties are currently in
very close proximity to my boxer-clad hip.

I bite my lip and look away, like a good boy.

And I immediately start praying again.

"She is definitely going to kill me," I mumble under my breath, as my
body reacts involuntarily to her snuggling.

Yes, you heard me right. I'm officially sporting wood. Kill me now!

She is cuddled up against me, one arm around my chest, face nuzzling at
my collarbone, with a smooth, bare leg thrown carelessly over mine. My
right forearm somehow wound up under her head, masquerading as a
pillow. I'm in reasonably good shape, so I know it can't be very soft, but
she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she doesn't seem to be feeling
anything but pleasure at the moment. I tentatively caress her back, then
immediately stop when I notice this movement causes my bicep to flex
beneath her neck. Rather than wake her as I feared, the ripple of my
muscles elicited a most impressive reaction in her sleep. Her head fell
back and her back arched, thrusting her breasts against my torso as she
strained for more contact.

How is it that she can derive so much comfort from our current position,
in her sleep, while I lay here awake and suffering? There is no justice, I
tell you.

Her bare knee is in a perilous position, whichever way you look at it.
She is within a few inches of either rubbing against my erection or
permanently damaging my manhood. If she wakes up and finds me in
this state, it's hard to tell which she course of action would choose. One
glance at the tent formerly known as my boxers and she'll probably freak.

I decide to take a deep breath and try to relax.

She looks so sweet and yielding in her slumber. This doesn't fool me for
a second. From the very first moment I laid eyes on Dana Katherine
Scully, despite her youth and her unclear loyalties, I knew she was not
one to be messed with. I freely admit she scares the hell out of me. It is
a fear born out of respect, instead of the other way around. I don't
respect her because I fear her. Rather, I respect her so much that I fear
the consequences of screwing up when it comes to her. Does that make
sense? If it doesn't make any sense, can you blame me? As if anyone
can be expected to make sense when the love of his life is wrapped
around him like a blanket, making those distracting little moaning
sounds. Jesus!

I have to do something or I'll go mad.

Of course, I choose the wrong thing to do. This is me, after all. I am a
self-described horse's ass.

I reach up with my free arm and take her hand in mine. Then I drag it
down from my chest, across my abs, and lightly rest it on my groin. Her
hand is warm and soft. I firmly resist the urge to moan out loud.
Instead, I bite my bottom lip and barely suppress a grunt. I am totally
shocked when her fingers suddenly curl around my hardness. I tell
myself, "This is not a sexual thing, it's just the grasp reflex, like in
babies."

Only Scully is not a baby. And the presence of the palmar grasp reflex
after the age of one is supposed to indicate brain injury. Details, details.

When she slowly reaches into the gaping fly of my boxers to free my
rigid member, I throw my free arm over my eyes and beg for a swift
death. I'm in agony. She is rubbing her hot center against my hip. Her
panties feel soaked.

Scully is having a sex dream, no denying that fact now.

And she is using me as her living, breathing, completely willing toy.

My hands curl into fists, valiantly fighting the urge to touch her. I want
to rip off those panties and taste her. It's driving me crazy that she can
take me to this edge, and even push me over it, yet for all the important
reasons, I dare not touch her.

I feel her thumb and forefinger wrapping around the middle of my shaft,
which causes my hips to jerk involuntarily off the bed. This pushes her
fingers down to my base, then up again, where she keeps them and
gently massages my frenulum. My mind shut down at that point. You
know that sound Windows makes when you shut down your computer?
My brain is making that sound now.

When I feel her thumb ascending, then slowly rolling over the glans,
spreading the single glistening drop of fluid that had gathered there, I
buck again -- this time harder.

"Oh God, please stop!" I gasped aloud, begging my body to quit reacting
so violently before I wake her up.

Too late.

She woke up with a start, with her hand on my erection, and heard my
tortured plea.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she recoiled in horror. "I am so sorry, Mulder. I
am so sorry."

I am gritting my teeth and counting to five silently in my head, trying to
get myself back under control. When I finally feel able to open my eyes,
I see that she is kneeling on the bed, with her arms wrapped around her
middle, and a look of regret in her eyes. A single tear is resting on her
cheek, suspended by gravity, giving the impression that time had stilled.
I can hear my own heartbeat.

She would only meet my eyes for a split-second before looking down,
mumbling a heartfelt apology. The action sets the single tear in motion.
As it falls, time restarts and reality comes crashing in.

"I am so sorry," she repeats.

I sit up in surprise when her words finally penetrate the fog surrounding
my brain. "What? I'm the one who should apologize. Please..." I reach
out to touch her arm, but she moves it away.


"No, you were begging me to stop. I was r --" She pauses and sucks in a
breath. "I was, for all intents and purposes, raping you."

"Huh? No way. You have it all wrong."

"All I can say in my own defense is I was asleep, I didn't know what I
was doing. And then, when I woke up, you were pushing my hand
down. I thought, I guess, I mean..." As she struggles for words, I'm
speechless in shock. My mind is going a mile a minute. She was
awake? And she thinks she took advantage of me?


"I couldn't stop myself. I don't know what came over me. Please forgive
me, Mulder." She buried her face in her hands and shook her head.

I pulled her hands away and leaned down to look her in the eye upon
hearing this. "You mean...you mean you were awake through all of
that?"

A silent nod.

"I was awake the whole time, too, hoping you wouldn't stop. I was so
turned on, Scully. It was all I could do to keep still."

"Well, you weren't exactly still..." she says, as she wipes tears from her
face. "And I know you were physically aroused. It was pretty obvious."
She discreetly glances, out of the corner of her eye, at the still-raging
hard-on sticking out of my boxers. Oops. I try to tuck away the
evidence nonchalantly, but find myself chuckling in embarrassment. A
tiny smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she watches
me fumble like a dork.

"Well, at least I got a smile out of you," I said softly, as I raised her chin
with a finger.

She still won't look me in the eye. "The fact that you were physically
aroused means nothing. I abused your trust, while you were asleep."

"You did no such thing."

"You were begging me to stop." She cringed, bending over at the waist
in misery again. It broke my heart.

"It wasn't like that at all." My voice rose in frustration. "I wasn't asking
you to stop what you were doing. I was pleading with my body for self-
control." I am such a fucking cad, I berate myself, seeing fresh tears
welling in her eyes.

"You misunderstood my exclamation," I tried to explain, as I stood up to
grab some tissues from the dresser and turned on the lamp. Somehow I
suspect she is too caught up in the embarrassment of the moment to
comprehend what I am saying. She is always so proper, so composed.
This must really be throwing her for a loop.

I know we play this unspoken game of martyrdom - she plays the saint, I
play the tormentor - as a means to help us resist the tension that was
present from day one. She and I stick to these roles, which are hardly the
"real" us, because it is the best thing we can think of to stem the tide of
attraction that threatens to drag us under and drown us both. I know she
isn't really an ice queen, just as she knows that my teasing is mostly
bravado. We act according to each other's expectations out of self-
preservation. But does she think I have forgotten there is a flesh and
blood woman underneath that perfect facade?

I handed her the Kleenex, waited for her to sneeze, then held my hand
out for the used tissues. She looked up at me, reluctant to give me her
trash. I just stood there, waiting until she gave it up. There was a point I
was trying to make about unconditional acceptance of every aspect of her
being, every little thing that made her human, like carnal desire, blood,
sweat, and yes - even snot.

Mulder, you are a fucking romantic genius, I chide myself. Note to self:
never think of snot in sexual context again.

I turn around and shoot the used tissues into the wastebasket. Made it
from three-point territory! Luck or no luck, this has to be a good sign.

Kneeling on the floor by the bed, I take her hands in mine and gently
plant little kisses all over them. Her knuckles, her finger tips, her palms,
the pulse points at her wrists. Time stills again as I realize the
significance of these kisses: they are the first unequivocally non-platonic
gestures I have ever made towards her. I hear her breath catch. I think
it's time to come clean.

"I have been in love with you for years - wanting you, needing you from
afar. I have never desired anyone or anything as much as I wanted to
make love to you a few minutes ago. What happened in this bed was the
farthest thing from non-consensual sex as you can possibly imagine. I
don't know what I can say or do to make you believe that. I am only
sorry I made you doubt your own honor."

Looking down, I decide upon the hardest act of self-denial I have ever
done in my life. I reluctantly let go of her hands to grab a pillow. "I'm
going to sleep down here for the rest of the night, only because I don't
trust myself around you. We're both feeling very emotional right now.
I don't want to rush into this. One thing leads to another, and as much as
I want you..."

She looks stricken. I close my eyes and sigh.

"I don't want to mess it up by rushing in because of some dentists'
convention, which caused all the hotels to book up, and a clerical error,
and a queen bed instead of two twin beds, and a case which happened
this week instead of next, in Chicago instead of New York, and all of the
various factors that acted in confluence, and coincidence compounded by
concomitance - all of which forms one great big Goldberg contraption!"

Throwing down the pillow, I am in full rant mode now.

"I'm picturing marbles rolling down train tracks, light bulbs going off,
toy monkeys throwing mallets, popcorn poppers popping projectile
kernels, and "As Seen On TV!" juicers squeezing the marrow out of life
for us to suck, but this isn't living deliberately, Scully - this is living fast
and by fortuitous accident. I don't want our first time to be a candidate
for winning the National Rube Goldberg Machine Contest at Purdue."

She's looking at me with one eyebrow raised.

"I know that didn't make any sense to anyone but me. And perhaps
Thoreau."

"I think I know what you're getting at, Mulder..." she said hesitantly. But
her voice was hoarse and need was shining nakedly in her eyes. God
help me.

"I hope so. You always get me, even when nobody else does. It's part of
what I love about you."

I could get used to telling this woman I love her.

"Anyway, what I am trying to say is, some things are worth the wait.
You, us, this..." My voice dropped down to a whisper. "... worth the
wait."

I turn away from the sudden softness in her eyes, which melts something
deep inside of me, making me question my resolve. Who knew I had this
kind of willpower?

I'm trying to make myself comfortable on the very hard, very
uncomfortable floor. One arm flung over my eyes, I am on my back. No
use trying to pretend I'm asleep. I can feel her eyes on me. I know she
can see how my body is still wide awake, and still very much aroused.

Long minutes pass. I can almost taste the honey-like sweetness and
texture her internal struggle. She wants to touch me. And I want nothing
more than to let her, despite my lengthy rambling diatribe to the
contrary. I am a man, after all. Not to mention, a horse's ass. Have I
mentioned that part yet?

Then, as if resigned to fate, she finally flicks off the lamp and settles into
bed. I let out a long sigh of relief. In the darkness, under her breath, I
hear her mutter.

"Fucking dentists. I knew there was a reason I hated them."

------------

ADDITIONAL NOTE ON: "...juicers squeezing the marrow out of life
for us to suck, but this isn't living deliberately, Scully..."

"Walden" (excerpt)
by Henry David Thoreau


I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to put to rout all
that was not life, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not
lived.

(Thank you S -- for showing me that sucking the marrow out of life
doesn't mean leaping indiscriminately at every opportunity.)