TITLE:  TWICE-TOLD TALE
AUTHORS: Blackwood and Audrey Roget
E-MAIL: entreamis@yahoo.com, audrey_roget@yahoo.com
URL: members.tripod.com/black.wood/index.html
CATEGORY: MSR, Story, Angst, Humor, UST/RST
SPOILERS: Nothing you can't ignore.
RATING: NC17
FEEDBACK: Surest way to guarantee another round.
ARCHIVE: Just tell us where.
DISCLAIMER:  We humbly admit we don't own or make a cent off them.  
We do, however, reserve the fanatic's right to perpetuate wildly 
romantic versions of M&S; especially since their rightful owner, 
Chris Carter, can only indulge a tiny portion of our fevered
imaginations in granting our heroes respite.  Hey, we'll take what we
can get.
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully come to terms with issues of sexual 
fantasy and emotional truth.
AUTHORS' NOTES: This was born out of two phile-obsessed minds and as 
such, we take no responsibility for its effect on the reader unless 
you like it, of course; then, we take full credit.  If you are under 
17, leave now.  Sorry.  Gratitude to Jintian and Mish for the beta 
and support.  And to those of you who have waited oh-so patiently for
this story to appear (you know who you are), we hope we don't 
disappoint.


TWICE-TOLD TALE 

DC's pubescent spring weather is capricious.  Temperatures soar into
the 70's, then plummet below freezing overnight, like last night. 
Scully awakens, poking her nose from the warmth of a comforter cocoon
to brave the chill air of her apartment.  She groans to herself, then
throws back the covers, pulling on her robe with a shiver.  She hates
the cold.  Too many disquieting memories are attached to it: cold
places, cold bodies, cold people.  Padding over to the bedroom
thermostat, she pushes the temperature up a few notches while
glancing out the window to discover several inches of soft powder
gracing the red-budding trees and barren ground.

As a child, she'd often wished she lived in a snowy climate. 
Sledding and building snowmen sounded dreamy.  Mulder has told her
stories about snowball fights with Samantha and ice skating on a
frozen pond.  The closest the Scully family ever came to a northern
clime was Maryland, where snowfall was irregular, with no significant
accumulation.  Even her favorite childhood book, "Little Women,"
began in winter.  Scully always pictured herself in the role of Jo to
Missy's Meg, preparing to celebrate a white Christmas while waiting
for their father who was off serving his country (ditto) while mom
kept everyone safe and warm (ditto, again, Louisa May).  

Funny how things change when you grow up.  Now, the cold holds
different meaning for her, with associations she dismisses from her
mind as she prepares for work.  After her terrifying re-encounter
with Donnie Pfaster, Mom had suggested she move to a new apartment,
but Scully refused.  To do so would be tantamount to admitting that
he had, indeed, won his victory over her.  Evil has come creeping
into her home before and each time, she's driven it away.  She's come
to terms with her actions of that night, taking solace in her faith's
healing sacraments, the Bureau's mandated counseling sessions and
Mulder's fixed devotion.

Scully holsters her weapon at her waist, its comforting heft a
reminder that she lives in a world unlike that of the March women. 
Yet, in spite of her hard-won place within the FBI, each day she
fights a continuous, subtle battle to be taken seriously.  She
wonders if it's because she is a woman or, as is more likely, if her
fate is determined by her choice to stand with instead of against Fox
Mulder as he confronts the Powers That Be.  Yet, even he, in his
inimitable style, has ignored or discounted her from time to time. 
She forgives *him,* understanding that his slights have nothing to do
with gender and everything to do with being Mulder.

She dons her heavier topcoat instead of her trench, appreciating the
woolen weight that warms her small frame.  She exits her apartment
building, contemplating the white splendor at her feet with a mixture
of delight and horror.  Snow--a delight to see and a horror to
commute, at least in Washington.

Traffic inbound is abominable as a disgruntled populace deals with
Jack Frost's last, best shot.  Her patience is long gone before she
even reaches the Hoover Building.  Thrusting her car keys into her
pocket, she grabs her ID from her bag and flashes it at the guard
before passing through the agents' entrance. 

An uneventful morning at her desk passes.  Jean Dougherty comes by
and Scully begs off a blind date suggested by the sociable agent. 
She treats herself to a non-fat double latte from the vending cart
and plans a lunch date with Holly.  With no autopsies on her
calendar, she finds herself in the basement, staring at the nameplate
on the closed door.  Mulder is on assignment.  Unlocking the door,
she steps inside.

Coming here while Mulder is away leaves her restless.  Her eyes
adjust to the gloom and they flit over the scattered evidence of his
passions.  Of course, there are files--lots of them.  There's his
replacement UFO poster, a posthumous gift from Karin Berquist.  A
basketball and a baseball sit atop a file cabinet, and an unopened
bag of sunflower seeds is on the desk.  She wonders why she hasn't
yet heard from him today.  It's atypical.  He usually calls several
times a day while he's working as a loan-out.

She pushes a twinge of worry away and locks the door behind her.  She
spends the remaining hour before lunch in the Forensics Library doing
research into the effects of hallucinogenic pharmacology on pathology
in relation to autopsy procedure.  Routine.  At five past noon, she
makes her way to the employee cafeteria.  Holly is already waiting. 
She smiles as Scully approaches, tray in hand.  Scully's smile is
somewhat forced as she slides onto the molded plastic bench across
from the pert brunette.

"So, how's life without the infamous Agent Mulder by your side?"
Holly asks.

Scully's surprise at the question is well-masked as she gives her
standard reply of, "Fine."

"That's why you look so cheery, huh?"  Scully opens her mouth to
respond, but finds herself without words, wondering if her emotions
are truly so easy to read.  "It's in your eyes, you know," Holly
advises.  "Don't worry.  I'm not one to pry.  You know that.  And I
always keep your line secure, Dana."

Scully knows she's referring to the calls Mulder's been placing to
her extension during his leave of absence.  Holly's position as a
telcom security supervisor grants her access to all calls routed
through the Hoover on regular phone lines.  Tracking the phone
sessions between Mulder and herself must look suspicious, indeed,
Scully imagines.  Mulder has heretofore been quite dogged in reaching
her, just to share idle bits about his current case, anecdotes about
the Seattle bureau or just to pass the time.  His lack of contact
today concerns her and she realizes, with a start, that she misses
him.

"What are you talking about?" Scully states, stabbing at her salad,
avoiding the younger woman's gaze.

Holly shakes her head, unruffled by the auburn-haired agent's
attitude.  "Whatever you say, Dana.  Just be honest with yourself,
okay?"
 
Scully raises blue eyes to brown.  "I'm fine, really.  Mulder's on
loan to the VCS, as a favor from A.D. Skinner.  He's been in Seattle
since last Wednesday and I can't discuss the particulars of the case.
 It's just that I haven't heard from him today."

"I understand."  Scully's defensiveness abates under Holly's sweet
disposition and she nods in silence as the conversation shifts to the
latest movie release.

The afternoon passes without event or word from her partner, and she
drives home in worse traffic than the morning, courtesy of another
two inches of fresh snowfall.  As her car inches its way to
Georgetown, Scully considers Holly's assumptions regarding Mulder and
herself.  While hers are supportive in nature, most are not.

Conjecture about her relationship with her wayward partner had
reached an all-time high following his medical leave in the fall. 
Whispered phrases like "sleeping with that freak" and "wasting
taxpayers' money chasing aliens" wend with unerring accuracy to the
softest places in her heart.  Outwardly, she upholds a professional
demeanor.  Inside, however, her ire mounts against those who continue
to exaggerate their private behavior, while diminishing their public
efforts.  If they only knew.

It's twilight by the time she gets home.  Scanning her mail, she goes
through bills, donation requests and junk mail until finding a letter
from Tara.  Setting it aside for later, she takes her run.

After a shower and a light supper, Scully settles in to read her
sister-in-law's handwritten note.  Tara still believes in
old-fashioned customs, refusing to e-mail.  It's a nice change of
pace and Scully savors reading about life in San Diego and her
nephew's latest exploits.

Personal business aside, she props open her laptop on the dining room
table and goes on-line, continuing research for her Quantico lecture.
 Her computer indicates 8:13 p.m.  Her affect is serene, as she will
not acknowledge the ache in the middle of her chest created by
Mulder's silence.

In the midst of an article, she hears the heralding chime of an
Instant Message.  There is only one person she wants to hear from
right now.  The screen name FWMulder shows itself and she smiles. 
She hits Respond and his opening message is revealed.  The tension
she's been harboring all day releases itself in a sigh and a soft
chuckle as she reads:

FWMulder: Hey there - looking at triple-X sites again, Agent Scully?

Minimizing the open screen, she maxes the IM display and sets her
fingers to keyboard.  Scully finds IM intriguing: no visual cues, no
voice inflection to guide her as she deciphers Mulder's comments. 
The time-lagged messages are often direct, but sometimes off beat,
with messages crossing in time; so like them.  And then there's the
quietness of it.  No voice, although she can always hear him in her
mind.

D_Scully: Nice to finally hear from you, stranger. 

FWMulder: Stranger and stranger all the time. 

D_Scully: <g> Where are you?  And where've you been all day?

FWMulder: Miss me?  At the moment, I'm in the children's section of
the Sea-Tac Central Library...I hate these tiny chairs.

D_Scully: What's so intriguing at the library? 

FWMulder: The Internet link-ups were down at the field office, so I'm
at the library just down the street.  The only free computer here is
right next to the Maurice Sendak shelf.

D_Scully: And you're searching for the Wild Things?

FWMulder: They come searching for me nowadays and in Seattle, they're
called punks.  Hey, Scully, how is it I stay the same age, but the
punks keep getting younger?

D_Scully: Sounds like an X-File to me.

FWMulder: ;)

D_Scully: You're funny.  How's your case going?

FWMulder: We're making an arrest tonight.  Remember the sex therapist
I told you about?

D_Scully: The professor at the University of Washington?

FWMulder: The one and only Dr. Imogene Myrick.

D_Scully: You told me the police had her under suspicion.

FWMulder: Seems the profile I worked up in DC fit like a latex
condom.

D_Scully: They suspected working girls, at first.

FWMulder: Yeah, but it didn't fit the level of detail the UNSUB used
to customize the kill.  Seems the good doctor got her victims to
reveal their fantasies to her with the idea that she could help their
sex lives by playing them out.  

D_Scully: As a surrogate?  Using the fantasy as script?

FWMulder: Yup.  Only after she satisfied them, she killed them.

D_Scully: Using details of the fantasy to determine method?

FWMulder: Ahh, Scully.  You read my profile. :)

D_Scully: Always.  You're good at what you do, Mulder.  What secured
the warrant?

FWMulder: Seems the latest attempt was on a college kid.  He came in
this afternoon saying Myrick seduced him, then tried to strangle him.
 He escaped and told the local PD.  We're corroborating his story,
but it looks solid.  Hey Scully, I think the librarian likes me.  She
keeps looking my way.
 
D_Scully: That's probably because your history trail proves you're
looking for triple-X sites at a public access.

FWMulder: Now would I use a public resource for mere titillation? 

D_Scully: Would you? 

FWMulder: Yes, I would, but only in the privacy of my own office and
I always purge the cache.

D_Scully: Not always.  Doesn't bother me, but what exactly do you get
from those sites? 

FWMulder: You've scoped my cache?
 
D_Scully: <lol>

FWMulder: Ummm...What do I *get* from them?? !

D_Scully: Go with me here, Mulder.  I do understand how the male mind
works.  It's just that men always seem so preoccupied by sex.  I
mean, most guys could turn any conceivable topic to sex on a dime.

FWMulder: Sex on a dime?  Wouldn't that leave a little presidential
imprint on someone's ass?

D_Scully: Not if they were buff.

FWMulder: Point taken.

----- 

FWMulder: Scully?  You there?

D_Scully: Sorry...just thinking...

FWMulder: Give it up, girlfriend.

D_Scully: Oh, you've been hanging out with Charlene at the Auto Pool
too long, my friend.

FWMulder: <G> Charlene's great - always gives us the cleanest Taurus
available, doesn't she?

D_Scully: That's only because you sweet-talk her to death.

FWMulder: Hey, I don't see her keeling over from sugar shock and
you're one to talk!  Don't think I haven't noticed the way you smile
'just so' at that intern what's-his-name up in the Crime lab.  You've
scoped my cache?

D_Scully: Scotty?  I never...well, maybe.  Scott Morris is definitely
cute.  And I might have peeked at a site...or two.

FWMulder: Oh yeah...Little Miss Innocent.  Even *you* probably know
the name Candida Royalle.

D_Scully: Candida who?

FWMulder: Morris is definitely cute?  I thought I was the only man in
your life, Scully.

D_Scully: Right.  You and Mr. Bubbles.  You know, I am a healthy,
normal woman.  I have normal...urges.

FWMulder: Tell me more.

D_Scully: In your dreams.

FWMulder: Absolutely.  And don't deny that "femme porn" is a huge
growing market.

D_Scully: Femme porn?

FWMulder: You know - all the sex, with some romance thrown in so
women can rationalize enjoying watching two people... uhhh... make
love.

D_Scully: Thank you for rephrasing that.  And why not?  Guys have
enjoyed the liberties of sexual freedom since forever.  Maybe it's
time for the gals to play catch up.

FWMulder: <vbg> 'Catchup?'  Isn't that a condom-ent?

D_Scully: Mulder...

FWMulder: Hmmm...'catch up.' Never heard it called *that* before. 
Hang on a sec, Scully.
        
-----

FWMulder: Uhhhh...Scully, I gotta sign off now - there's a kid and
his mommy just behind me, and I don't think Mom likes what she's
reading over my shoulder.

D_Scully: Better go, then.  I wouldn't want a Federal Agent arrested
for lewd behavior.

FWMulder: Even with my record, that wouldn't go unnoticed.  Talk to
you, later.  <sign off>

D_Scully: Soon.

The window box disappears and she sends her final message, not
knowing if he will see it.  Scully reaches out her hand to touch the
warm corner of the screen where Mulder's words have just been.  She
can picture him in her mind, all legs and arms sitting in the middle
of the kids' section of a library far too far away from her, doing
what?  She knows this case has been difficult for him; he was out of
touch all day and tonight, he was waggish to a fault.  The twinge of
worry from this afternoon nips at her again.

~*~*~*~

Comforter and sheets rumple as Scully tosses in bed.  The clock on
her night stand glows 1:57 a.m. at her, reminding her that she's been
lying here, eyes unable to close, for over an hour.  She forced
herself to keep busy the remainder of the evening, hoping to hear
from him again, at some point.  She hasn't and the anxiety that's
been simmering all day finally reaches a boil.  She needs to hear his
voice.  Leaving the bedside light off, she props up two pillows and
picks up the portable handset, speed dialing Mulder's cell number. 
It rings five times and she nearly hangs up.  Finally, she hears the
click of an open line and a familiar baritone answers.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me."

"You still up?"  He sounds tired.

"I couldn't sleep.  How'd your collar go?"

"It went."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah... Yeah..." There's something odd about his tone.

"Mulder?  You don't sound right."

"I...after the first arrest, I stayed back at Myrick’s office to help
out with the evidence search."

"What do you mean, *first* arrest?"

A short, hacking laugh erupts from the receiver and she pictures his
mouth twisting in sarcasm.  "I'll tell you this, Scully--the good
doctor's therapeutic video library makes mine look like the collected
works of Franklin W. Dixon."

"The Hardy Boys?" Scully puzzles aloud.  She shakes her head and
repeats, "Mulder, what do you mean by first arrest?"

Ignoring her, he continues, "Anyway, the *evidence* was moot.  Dr.
Strangelove confessed."

"She did."  Hearing the edge in his voice, she eases off the
question, allowing him to detail events as he sees fit.  For now.

"Yeah, and after what happened, I didn't think she'd crack so
easily."

"After what happened..." she mirrors, hoping he will elaborate.

"Ummm... There was a little change in plans..." His voice is fading,
his hesitancy clear.

"And..."

"The kid I told you about?  His parents made him drop the
charges...didn't want the publicity."

"Damn."

"Yeah...and the cops had nothing else to hold Myrick.  That's when
the SAC suggested that I wear a wire and drive her back to campus.  I
could play up to her, pretend I'm convinced of her innocence, see if
I couldn't get her to reveal something tying her to the murders.  As
the profiler, I was the obvious choice."

"Wait a minute.  You were a decoy?"

"That's one way of putting it, yes."

"Well, how else would *you* put it?"

"I was just helping out, trying to nail a serial murderer."

"Helping out," she repeats.  "Just feeling *helpful*?"  She hears the
tension in her voice, but doesn’t want to think about what might be
causing it.

"Look," he exhales, "I'm not going to say the fact that the suspect
was female didn't intrigue me.  Sex-related crimes by women are rare,
especially such calculated ones."

"So you made nice, 'shared the fantasy,' to see if she would act on
it?"  Her voice bespeaks the uneasiness she feels with the idea of
Mulder trading intimate secrets with some faceless criminal.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

Recalling his profile, worry rears its head alongside her growing
irritation.  "How far did this go, Mulder?  Did she hurt you?"

"No, I'm okay.  We got the confession."  There's an odd tone in his
voice and she waits, her silence granting him time and space to
collect his thoughts and continue.  "It was just...odd."  The hitch
in his voice tells her that he's troubled and uncomfortable telling
her what it is.

"What was?"  She's frustrated, but holds her questions in check,
knowing that pressing him serves only herself.

"It's no secret that I get along well with women, right?"  
Scully arches a brow before murmuring assent.  "But instead of doing
the charming, I felt like *I* was the one being charmed."

"What aren't you telling me?" she asks gently, knowing that he's
hedging, selecting words with care.  

"Not that I *was* charmed by her, but I could feel...I don't know. 
She gave off this weird vibe."  She hears his deep sigh.  "I mean,
I'm the one who's supposed to use psychological tactics on others;
and even as I recognized what she was doing, it was like I couldn't
stop myself." 

"Tell me what happened."

"I probably shouldn't."

It's her turn to sigh.  "Mulder, I'm your partner.  And your friend. 
Just tell me...please."

"That's the problem, Scully.  You're my partner and my friend, see? 
I-- I don't know how it happened, but I found myself... telling her
about *real* things, *real* feelings." 

"Oh."

"But I didn't give a lot of specifics.  I was wired.  The other cops
thought I was improvising."

"Mulder, I don't--"

"I just...started talking in general about women...*A* woman.  She
kept pushing me to tell her my fantasies."

"Your fantasies...about a woman you know."

"She kept asking about my history with lovers."  She hears his soft
snort.  "I told her that I haven't been... *involved* with anyone for
a while."

The longing in his candid admission reflects her own.  She feels
compelled to ease his, and her, discomfort.  "Your life is busy," she
says.  "Your work is important to you."

"The President is busy...He doesn't seem to let it get in the way."

His smart-assed remark prompts her to toss back, "He's got staff. 
You've got me."

His voice drops in volume and he is earnest, once again.  "Yeah," he
says, "I've got you."  The tender emphasis he places on the final
word sends a shiver down her arms.

They have shared pieces of themselves, but never anything intimate. 
As the possibility of such revelations gains momentum, the room
around her fades and awareness focuses on the silken sound of his
voice, the rise and fall of her breath and a sharp, rising curiosity
about the woman Mulder sees in his mind's eye.  

She can imagine any number of candidates who might fill the role of
'mystery woman' for her partner: Phoebe Green, Angela White, Bambi
Berenbaum, Diana Fowley, even a certain Jade Blue Afterglow might fit
the bill.  The idea of any of them sharing deep kisses and heated
caresses with Mulder triggers a sudden and intense flare of jealousy
and she is forced to admit that beneath her serene façade, she is
hoping the vaporous vixen of his dreams is one petite, auburn-haired
federal employee.

Her voice betrays nothing as she asks, "This woman you fantasize
about...do I know her?" 

"Not as well as you think you do."  His answer is a puzzlement and
she's suddenly uncertain if he's being up front with her.

"Mulder..."

"I don't want to give you the wrong idea, here.  My fantasies are
pretty tame.  'Vanilla sex' as Larry Flynt might call it."

At that, Scully sits up in bed with a roll of her eyes.  "Oh,
puh-leeze.  Do not mention that man's name in my presence."

Mulder is nonplused.  "Jeez, Scully, for someone who does the New
York Times Sunday crossword in ink, you don't have a clue.  And hey, 
Larry Flynt, for all his faults, is a staunch defender of the First
Amendment."

He's veered off topic, as usual.  It's also obvious that he's
recovered from his earlier discomfort to challenge her sensibilities
on two different levels.  Scully is confronted with the not-uncommon
conflict of wanting to slap him or kiss him.  "What do you mean?  And
not about Larry--about my not having a clue?"

"Forget it."

"You put it out there.  Now, give."

"Did you know Hugh Hefner gives millions of dollars to shelters and
treatment programs for young runaways?  And remember the science
magazine I sent my M. Luder article to: Omni, right?  Guess who
publishes it?  Bob Guccione, publisher of Penthouse."

Since it's clear he isn't about to be directed by her, she decides to
play along.  "They're regular Boy Scouts," she begins.  "Honestly,
Mulder, these men think they're heroes because they depict female
anatomy in full-color glossy print.  That's not even vaguely
interesting to the average woman."

"It's not supposed to be interesting to women.  Isn't that what
Playgirl is for?"

Scully chuckles under her breath.  "Playgirl?  Now there's a real
waste of paper, but let me tell you why.  Pretty much, men buy these
magazines to see naked women, right?" 

"And?"  Mulder's tone shifts into genuine curiosity.

Scully slows down the pace to emphasize her words.  "Well, I'd say
that on the average, if a woman wants to see a man naked, all she has
to do is...ask."  At that, a spontaneous giggle erupts from her and
she can hear his soft chortle of agreement.

"It's too bad I'm 3,000 miles away, Scully, or I'd be happy to
oblige."  A rush of warmth sweeps through her and she falls back into
her pillows with a deep breath.  "So," he continues, his voice
dropping in timbre, "What *is* interesting to the average woman,
Scully?"  The unexpected shift of tone in his voice and the enticing
nature of his question is nearly enough to have her drop her guard
and whisper, "you."  Instead, her right hand cradles the phone to her
inclined ear, while her left rakes through her hair.

"Let's not go there," she says, her hand tracing down her neck to
finger the chain and cross that lies there.

She can fairly see the pout of his lower lip as he gripes, "Come on,
Scully, enlighten me.  How can you complain about the Neanderthal
tendencies of us poor men, and then refuse to help us evolve?"  His
tone is both petulant and cajoling and she congratulates herself on
her self-discipline and the turnabout she's achieved.

"Actually," she replies maintaining her advantage, "I'm more
interested in this mystery woman of yours."

Mulder recovers, saying, "Mystery woman is right.  She's a complete
mystery to me."

The sudden thought that this woman may not exist at all, except in
Mulder's head, sparks in her mind.  Chagrined at this very real
possibility, she follows his statement with a direct "How so?"

"Well...she's beautiful, intelligent, loyal--but she won't let me get
too close."

Something in his voice tells her he's not bluffing.  Scully wets her
lips and presses on.  "How often do you fantasize about her?"

"Often."  Mulder's voice drops to a murmur.  "I think about her all
the time.  I don't know how she did it, but she's managed to get into
my files and under my skin.  I can't do without her.  Not any more."

Her breathing has become shallow and her skin feels ice cold and
burning hot all at the same time as the identity of his dream lover
becomes apparent.  The truth of it arcs like a pebble from her mind
into the warm pool of desire at her center, spreading slow,
ever-widening circles of pleasure and distress through her.  Part of
her seeks to flee his ever-tightening hold on her, while the rest of
her draws closer to him, like moth to flame.  She leans into the
phone, closes her eyes and hears herself ask, "Mulder...who are we
talking about?"

His voice drops another notch.  "The woman I was referring to when I
spoke with Myrick?"

"...Yes..." she matches his intensity, nestling the phone to her ear.

"...was you."

His words brand her like physical touch, reaching into her and like
the psychic surgeon Philip Padgett had evoked, exposes her heart
without her consent.  She knows he cannot see her, but still she
feels flushed from cover, exposed in his sight.  No matter how
liberated she believes herself to be, or how sophisticated her
handling of their complex relationship, his voiced expression of such
intimate thought startles her on the one hand and arouses her, on the
other.

Under his breath, she hears him mutter, "Shit."

Before she can think, she responds, "It's all right.  I'm just..." 
Just what, she wonders to herself.  What is she feeling?  Fear? 
Longing?  Desire?  All three, she realizes, but there is no word in
the English language to encompass that trio of emotions.  Mulder,
meanwhile, is saying something, only she isn't paying attention.

She refocuses and hears, "...I've told you I love you.  I've told you
I need you more times than I can count.  I thought you knew that when
we stood under the arch in my doorway and basically exchanged vows. 
What more...I'm sorry...I..."

He's yanked her emotions to the surface and her knee-jerk  reaction
is to back off. "Mulder...I, I don't know what to say."

"I guess there isn't anything to say...is there?"

Knowing that her voice will betray her, she whispers "I need to think
about this.  If you don't mind, I need to go...now."

"Sure.  Scully, I didn't mean to..."

"I'll see you when you get back, okay?"

"I thought you were ready for this.  After Africa...after
Pfaster...after everything we've been through..."  

"Please, Mulder.  Another time.  I can't... G'night."  She drops the
handset into the cradle and draws her comforter tight round her, her
body shivering against the onslaught of emotion she has feared
surrendering to for too long.  How will she face him when he returns?

Friday afternoons at the Hoover are quiet.  Agents, lab personnel and
clerical staff maintain a low profile to avoid being conscripted into
any last-minute assignments before a weekend of necessary R&R. 
That's the normal order of things which means that the X-Files
Division was open for business and fully operational.  Scully is
accustomed to Mulder's work habits and has left him behind many a
Friday to pursue what she called her "Life Outside the Car." 

Today, however, she stays.  Mulder's work as a loan-out always 
results in a backlog of work and overtime.  Hearing a sigh, Scully
lifts her head from the file she's perusing and looks his way. 
Mulder's sleeves are turned up twice against the possibility of being
smudged by the newsprint spread before him.  His wire-rims perch on
his nose as he reads, his mouth working its way around the occasional
sunflower seed pilfered from a torn bag beside the paper.

His familiar movements capture her attention and she indulges 
herself, considering him through the soft-focus lens of personal
attachment.  She notes the lean, muscled strength of his forearms;
the line of his jaw as it cracks the soft hull of a seed; the way his
eyes catch the light of his desk lamp.  As if feeling her stare, his
mouth stops moving and Scully drops her head, anticipating his return
gaze.

It's been two days since he returned from Seattle.  Three, since the
phone conversation she has been unsuccessful in putting out of her
mind.  In many ways, their late night conversation was like any
number of talks they’ve had over the years, oddly vague yet starkly
intimate all at the same time.  On the surface, she goes about her
business as usual when they are between cases, with a cool
step-by-step efficiency.  However, after slamming down the lid on the
Pandora's box of Mulder's declarations, she finds herself unable to
dismiss his words, his tone of voice or his want.  

His behavior, on the other hand, betrays only restlessness with the
lull in their workload and disappointment that nothing compelling
surfaced while he was away.  Over the last three days, he's begun
writing his case report for the VCS, taken breaks to surf the net and
sorted through the bizarre scraps gathered by his clipping service
during his absence.  They've discussed a few case possibilities and
eaten lunch in the cafeteria together, just like other working
partners.

Scully stands and crosses the room to a lightbox where she eyes a 
series of slides displaying images of goat mutilations in Lynd
County, Kentucky.  She bends to examine the pictures, pushing a stray
lock of auburn hair behind her ear.  Disinterested as she may seem, a
crucial fraction of her brain has dedicated itself to reliving the
connection they made in the wee hours of Tuesday morning.  She turns
Mulder's words in her mind over and again, resisting the urge to
broach the subject he raised that night, aware that he will not.

Scully pretends not to notice his frequent and furtive glances, 
wishing she could overcome her inhibitions and reopen the discussion
herself.  A nagging voice inside her tells her that Mulder probably
packed it all away when he hung up the phone; her evidence being his
cool, detached manner in discussing his report with her, sharing
details without ever mentioning their exchange.  He's also kept to
"safer" ground in keeping his comments related to technicalities,
asking for help with spelling or structuring a sentence.

She's read the transcript of the wired exchange.  The therapist/
murderer had probed Mulder's sexual nature, drawing from him thoughts
and wishes Scully has only surmised.  Mulder, it seems, is as average
as the next guy, sharing his discontent with relationships gone sour,
his current loneliness and several standard male fantasies, a number
of which take place in the car.  Myrick had solicited him in the
campus parking lot, with Mulder playing along, provoking her with
skill into an admission of guilt for harming the boy, as well as
several of the murders.  When he rebuffed her sexual advances, she
pulled a pistol on him, at which point back-up arrived to take Dr.
Myrick into custody, their case in the bag.

It was brilliant work on Mulder's part, of course.  What fascinated
Scully most, however, was his persistence in casting his varied
fantasies with the same woman: a person he described as
extraordinarily bright, emotionally stable, capable, loyal and yes,
she was stunning.  Is this how he sees her?  Her curiosity is piqued,
yet her disciplined nature resists.  She craves the spontaneity
Mulder embraces with ease, knowing it to be one of his most seductive
qualities, but disallows herself similar license.

Today, however, his queries have turned quirkier, drawing her back
into the sexually-themed case.  He's poring over newspapers forwarded
from the Seattle field office, following the prurient headlines
generated by a dark tale of academia, perversion and murder.  She
watches from an oblique angle as he removes his glasses, setting them
down before rubbing his eyes with his fingers, sliding them upwards
to press against his temples.

"So, what do you think, Scully?  Did the victims' fantasies provide
Myrick with the method or did she seek out victims whose fantasies
meshed with the murder she wanted to commit?"
 
"Does it matter?" she responds, pretending to study a particular 
slide with great interest.
 
"I think it speaks to motivation.  Some would argue that she actually
fulfilled some unspoken, dark urge the victim harbored in secret."
 
She faces him then.  "That's called 'blame the victim,' Mulder; and
no, I don't believe these men wanted to die."

"Not die, just come damned close to it.  There are groups that cater
to more bizarre tastes: near-death experiences, sado-masochism,
bestiality."
 
"And you're suggesting that the victims wanted to try these things,
but were too conservative to admit it?"
 
"Why not?  Maybe Dr. Myrick made them feel safe enough to share those
darker ideas with her."

She dwells for a moment on the images he had described for Myrick, 
wondering if he isn't manipulating her even as they speak.  She
doesn't voice her suspicion and instead remarks, "Too bad she had
some dark ideas of her own."

"Granted," he replies, turning his attention back to the newspaper
and pointing to an article.  "But look at the profiles of the men:
all in their thirties, solid citizens, some of them family men.  They
weren't looking for street action; they just wanted to spice up their
sex lives."

"Couldn't they just fantasize in private, like the rest of us?" Her
question reveals her unexpressed anxiety about the issues that sit
unresolved between them.

Mulder's head lifts and turns towards her in one slow, fluid motion,
a small smile at the corners of his mouth, a sure sign he can't stop
the next question from flying out of his mouth, even if he wanted to.
"And what, exactly, do 'the rest of us' fantasize about?"  
 
She is annoyed at her involuntary self-disclosure.  "I wouldn't count
yourself in there with 'us,' Mulder," Scully tosses at him as she
moves to the file cabinet and opens the middle drawer to straighten a
beeline of files.  "Seems to me you came back from Seattle with a
curious definition of 'oral sex.'"  When she turns back, Mulder's
face has frozen in mid-smirk, surprised by the frank quip.  "Sorry,"
she says under her breath, hoping he doesn't notice the color rising
in her cheeks.  What was she thinking?

"Don't apologize," he mumbles, a confused, amused light in his eyes,
"and don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

She could pretend she didn't hear that last remark.  Just let it go. 
It's not as if she doesn't disregard a thousand little Mulderquips on
a weekly basis.  Without realizing it, she shakes her head in
frustration.

They are so quick to disregard emotional outpourings of any kind.  He
can tell her he loves her, and never mention it again; kiss her at
the dawn of the last year of the 20th century and in three months'
time, neither speak of it nor try to repeat it.  Doesn't it stand to
reason, then, that his indiscreet confession should be relegated to
the ashbin of their ever more complicated personal history?  But, he
is refusing to play along this time.  It's so Mulder to change the
rules of the game whenever it suits him.

"C'mon Scully..." he ventures in his most coaxing voice. "Tell me 
your fantasy."  Her answering look of disbelief doesn't seem to phase
him, and that doesn't bode well.  "I feel like we're on uneven ground
here," he continues.  "Whatever happened to 'I'll show you mine. You
show me yours?'"  She maintains eye contact, her visage serene in
spite of the way her pulse has quickened.  "Look, you're already two
up on me.  How about this?  You wouldn't have to tell me who--"

"I don't have to tell you anything," Scully asserts in her best 
monotone, returning her sights to the files under her hands which
have suddenly become all engrossing.
 
Mulder nods and seems to acquiesce.  "Fair enough," he accedes, 
adding, "I understand if you're sensitive about the subject matter--"
 
"I'm fine with it," she pronounces, exasperated.  She rues the words
the moment they leave her lips.  Mulder loves challenging her and she
has, once again, risen to the bait. She slides the drawer closed and
turns, leaning backward against the cabinet, arms crossed over her
chest.  She stares at her fingernails as they drum her sleeve,
bringing her temper and her racing pulse under control.  Much as she
wants this topic in the open, she won't be manipulated into it.  "But
I won't tell you that," she says in a small voice.
 
"Why not?"

"It's personal."
 
His eyes betray the sting of her words, even if he manages to keep
his tone even.  "So?"  Mulder's gaze is insistent while the pencil in
his hand taps steadily against the desk, his unwitting message clear:
Tell me.

"So, I'm not comfortable sharing that."
 
"With me?"
 
"I'm not comfortable telling anyone about them."
 
"Them?"  The pencil stops and he leans forward.  His change of mood
is sudden and his delight, obvious.  He looks at her as if she's just
told him she's discovered the URL to the Reticulans' webpage.  She
can't help but suppress a grin at the sudden, intense look that comes
over his face.  He collects himself, trying to sound nonchalant. 
"Look, Scully, it's me.  We're friends and we've shared a lot more
than most people."
 
"That's true," she says with a nod.  "About some things, anyway."

Mulder ignores her comment and forges ahead.  "Besides, there's 
nothing you could say that would make me think less of you.  You know
that, don't you?"

"Um-hmmm," she replies, savoring his barely concealed curiosity.  
Having Mulder as rapt audience is a novelty and she is enjoying the
all-too-rare occurrence.  She could gift him with a bon mot, she
thinks, without revealing the identity of the object of her
affections, right?  The prospect is both thrilling and terrifying. 

"Well?" he presses.

She reflects on her reticence.  It isn't the subject matter, but 
rather, just the subject that gives her reason to pause.  Her
fantasies were scenarios involving the two of them in the most
compromising, unprofessional positions she could imagine.  With her
back to him, she asks, "Why do you need to know?"

"Call it a validation of trust."
 
His answer catches her by surprise and a weak stream of cold anger 
begins to percolate deep inside.  A validation of trust?  He can't be
serious.  After more than six years of planting themselves in harm's
way for each other, following each other's hunches, solving and
surviving cases by depending solely on themselves, she wonders how it
all comes down to spilling the details of her desire.  Keeping her
back to him, she replies with equal earnestness, "I trust you,
Mulder.  You know that."

"But I don't know, Scully.  I mean, either you trust me completely or
you don't."  Disingenuous as his words may be, she can hear that his
tone is sincere.  Turning to face him, she finds his eyes on her,
pencil poised between two hands.  She meets his gaze without response
and a few, silent seconds pass.  Mulder tosses the pencil to the
desk, breaking the stillness.

He's daring me, she thinks.  He knows trust doesn't preclude privacy.
It's just as likely a bluff.  He never imagines that she'll actually
tell him anything; perhaps he just wants her to fold first.  But even
if she's wrong, there's something tempting about the idea of
describing her fantasies to him, knowing that in his mind's eye,
he'll be seeing the two of them.  As would she.

Like a scene from a slick music video, images flash-fire before her
eyes and she shivers.  Which is the bigger turn on?  The idea of
sharing these visions with Mulder, or the blatant impropriety of it? 
When Scully’s vision refocuses, she notes that his expression borders
on smug, as if her silence has already proven his point.

She isn’t about to let him get the best of her.  She wouldn’t have to
tell him *who*...  Smiling her sweetest smile at him she murmurs, "I
do have one fantasy that I indulge in from time to time."
 
"Time to time..." he repeats, his voice and his expression neutral,
keeping his cool and her talking.
 
"On occasion..."
 
"Which occasion?"
 
"Mulder, are you going to ask questions or are you going to listen?"

A deliberate loosening of his tie follows his formal "I'm sorry."  He
pushes back in his chair, his long legs extended, one crossed over
the other, hands locked behind his head.  "I'm all ears, Scully."

Tilting her head, she glances at him from the corner of her eye.  
"That's what I'm afraid of," she replies, all the while making mental
notes of the man's obvious charms, from his size 14 Nunn Bush oxfords
to his shorn, chestnut locks; knowing full well that the sexiest
thing about Mulder is what goes on under that ridiculous haircut. 
His mind is what had first intrigued her, later inspired her loyalty
and ultimately, claimed her completely.  She sighs.

Mulder misreads her gesture as discomfort.  Placing a hand over his
heart, he says, "Scully, I'm sorry if I've made you feel 
uncomfortable.  But, I am a psychologist, remember?  Sexual fantasy
is a normal human activity.  It's natural for you to fantasize as a
means of sublimating any sexual tension you might be experiencing in
reality."  Her eyes widen as her nails dig into her upper arm. 
Realizing what he has just implied, he sits forward and quickly adds,
"Which is not to say that you are experiencing any... um... "sexual"
tension.  You are a fully functioning sexual being, correct?"
 
She can't quite make up her mind how to murder him, although the 
scathing look she directs his way should be enough to incinerate him
where he sits.  The bigger problem, however, are her own traitorous
thoughts.  During his speech, she watches his hands gesture.  She
imagines those same hands on her: ruffling through her hair as he
kisses her, caressing her back in an embrace, touching her face, her
breasts, finally moving to where she most wants them to be.  "You
are, aren't you?" he asks again.
 
"What?" she replies, distracted; her reverie ended.
 
He indulges her with a lazy smile and repeats, "I asked: Are you a
sexual being?"  Why did it sound like he was asking her if she'd like
to be fucked?
 
"Yes," she answers to both the spoken and unspoken questions, with as
much calm as she can muster, adding, "if you must know."  The images
of them, together, remain vivid in her mind.
 
"I've always known, Scully."  His voice is liquid gold and his words
filter through her, a moist warmth rising between her legs.  She
feels her cheeks stain, certain he can read her mind.  "I just wanted
to hear you say it."  He leans back again, arms crossed over his
chest, head tilted to one side.  He's waiting, allowing her space to
decide a course of action. 

She takes a deep breath.  "Well," she exhales, "the person in my 
fantasy..."

"Anybody I know?" he interrupts.
 
Changing the rules again, not five minutes after proposing them.  His
audacity is familiar, if unsettling.  "I'm not about to tell you
that."

"Someone in the Bureau, then?"
 
"Mulder--"
 
"Is it a man?"
 
"Of course, it's a man.  I’m a heterosexual woman."
 
"Do tell."
 
"Mulder, I'm in my thirties.  I'm hardly a virgin.  You know I went
out with Jack and--there were others."
 
"Is the fantasy about him?"  
 
"No," she states with quiet emphasis.

Her tone chastens him, but still he queries, "Do I take that comment
to mean that Jack Willis was less than successful in the sexual
satisfaction of Dana Scully?"
 
"You can take it any way you want, but that's none of your business. 
Jack was a fine agent and a good friend." 

"You're right, Scully.  I'm sorry.  So, your fantasy man isn't 
Willis," he states, easing off on the banter for a moment before his
eyes squint in an exaggerated pose of thought.  He thinks, running a
hand over his mouth.  She sees the twinkle in his eyes just before he
looks at her as if an idea has just struck him.  "Skinner?"  Planting
fists on hips, she slowly shakes her head.  He shakes his own head
and puts up a hand, saying, "Nope.  Not a good idea."  He shifts,
leaning forward in the chair, forearms balanced on his thighs,
fingers tapping against one another as he thinks again.  His eyes
grow serious as he says a single word: "Jerse?"

Ed Jerse is a symbol who stands for any man Mulder doesn’t know 
about, an X-factor, so to speak.  They never speak of him, but Scully
feels a need to reassure Mulder without speaking directly to his
unspoken question.  Looking him straight in the eye, she says, "Ed
Jerse was a mistake of mythic proportions."
 
Fingers still and eyes soften.  "Glad to hear it."  She dismisses the
way her heart skips at the relief in his voice.

"Anyway, I'm not going to tell you who it is, Mulder, so stop fishing
or I won't do this at all."
 
"Yes, ma'am."  He waits, eyes steady on her.
 
She looks away from him, then.  Could she do this?  She has always
met his challenges as an equal.  Yet, she is such a reticent person. 
She trusts Mulder with her life, but not her thoughts?  Taking this
step will alter the dynamic of their relationship and the
consequences of such a shift weigh on her mind.  Still, his words
echo in her mind, and maybe there is a part of her that wants this,
too.  She's tired of playing gatekeeper, diffusing emotion for the
good of the partnership, the work -- Jesus, for the good of humanity.
 When would they just *be*?
 
Her right foot traces circles into the floor tiles while the images
come to mind.  She has envisioned one scenario hundreds of times,
ever since their near-kiss outside his apartment had skewed into a
horrific chain of events she is loathe to recall.  Their sweet
exchange on New Year's Eve, having taken them no further, has merely
changed the time of year in her imagination.  In her fantasy, their
kiss is a symbol of friendship from which she pulls away after only
seconds, leaving Mulder behind in silence.  Afternoon becomes evening
and she is at home; a cold, dark winter night without, warmth and
light within.

Inner thoughts take verbal form and she continues, saying aloud, 
"It's late... a Saturday night, so... I'm not working."  She
hesitates, her inhibitions nagging on her.  

"What are you wearing?"
 
It's an innocent question, but it sounds dangerous in her ears.  His
voice is dark, soft, soothing; altogether hazardous to her health. 
She pictures herself in jeans and a sweater, but for some unknown
reason she says, "Silk pajamas," and watches as his chest rises and
falls with a deep intake of breath.  He blinks once, slowly, eyes
sweeping her in a slow take from her toes upwards.  She is quiet
under his slow scrutiny, her breath shallow as his eyes rise to meet
hers.  Warm approval is in his gaze and she feels her resistance
weakening under his hazel regard.

"Are you alone?" he asks.
 
"For the moment, but... there's a knock at the door."
 
"And?"
 
She closes her eyes, now, letting the scene play in her mind, aware
that Mulder is watching her.  "He's on the other side when I open
it."  She cannot bring herself to look at him, and draws on her
bottom lip.  The tick of the office clock sounds much too loud and
time takes on a measureless quality.
 
"Do you ask him in?"  Again, it is the same, quiet, nonjudgmental 
tone that calms her nerves, granting her permission to continue.

Each sentence takes her another step into a circle of intimacy she
both craves and fears.  "No, but he comes in anyway.  I can't send
him away."
 
"Then what?"
 
She breathes, lips parted, her breath shallow with a nervousness she
chooses to ignore.  Blurred images at the edges of her mind come into
crystalline focus.  "He steps towards me and..."  She pauses, her
voice dropping to a whisper, "takes me in his arms.  I don't protest.
 I can't."

"Why not?"
 
She touches her tongue to her lips, seeing herself in Mulder's 
embrace, like a video playback: his arms enfolding her, his head
dropped to hers, her slight frame cleaving to his lank one.  Perhaps,
she thinks to herself, if I just describe what I see...  "He's
kissing me, pulling me against him."
 
"Do you want to protest?"  There is concern in his voice.

"Part of me thinks that I should, but no, I don't.  I love the way
his mouth...feels...on mine."  Each word is pulled from her with a
mixture of arousal and fear.  They explore uncharted territory, now.

"You want this."  His words are more statement than inquiry, spoken
low, but with assurance.
 
"Yes," she replies, feeling reckless and exposed.  She is certain her
cheeks are flushed.  No matter.  She inhales and exhales the breath
with a rush.  "We turn.  I'm up against the armoire...by the door. 
He's pushing at me, supporting me.  I feel..."  She hesitates for
several, long seconds. 

"What are you feeling?" Mulder's impatience underpins his query, 
compelling her to respond.

She withholds answering, expert at emotional subterfuge, her feelings
for him cloistered deep within, but surfacing with rapidity.  Still,
she is only telling a story, a fantasy, a figment of desire.  Yes? 
"I want him," she breathes, in spite of herself.

"What happens next?" he asks, followed by the noisy creak of his 
chair.  She dare not open her eyes.  A rush of blood pulses through
her.  This is inappropriate and yet, more than right.  He wants to
know and she wants to tell him.  

So...

Wrapping her arms about herself in an unconscious embrace, she takes
in a slow breath and releases it.  Her voice is steady, pitched low,
beyond the range of any surveillance device.  She speaks in the
hushed tones of the penitent at confessional, prepared to accept
whatever might follow her intimate disclosures.

"We slide to the floor," she begins, her hesitancy slowing her words.
 "It's cool, hard... doesn't matter.  He takes off his jacket and
I...I slip my top over my head."  She touches her tongue to her upper
lip.  "He... lays me back, pins my arms over my head.  He kisses
me... my mouth... my breast."
 
She hears his sough of breath.  "I look into his eyes.  I say--'not
here.'  He asks, 'where?'"

She pauses and he repeats "Where?", his voice a roughened whisper.  

She hesitates a moment, "The table... in the dining room." The image
plays in her mind, tendrils of pleasure stroking at her center. 

"Keep going, G-woman."  His honeyed baritone is pure temptation as it
glides over her, impossible to resist.  He is close by, the warmth of
his physical presence invading her space, making it difficult for her
to concentrate, to breathe, to ignore him.  The fragrance of her
arousal mixes with the spicy scent of his cologne as he stands so
near.  Her tongue moistens lips dry from internal heat and the rapid
passage of air across them.
 
"He slides my trousers down my legs.  His hair is soft against me. 
His hand, um... rises... climbing until he touches me, there."  Her
breathing is shallow, her imagery enhanced by a thousand points of
random tactile memory converging to create the illusion that now
plays within.
 
She hears Mulder's shallow breathing blending with her own, his voice
close by when he says, "Go on."

"He stops...lifts me up.  And then he is there... before me, my legs
around him.  He pulls off his shirt and... I touch him.  Our mouths
meet again and nothing else exists."

She can feel Mulder's body heat beside her and finds herself 
*needing* to know what he is doing.  Half opening her eyes, she
discovers him as suspected; beside her, one arm braced against the
file cabinet, his head resting on his outstretched limb, face bent
towards her.  His cheeks are flushed, his eyes closed.  His lips are
slightly parted, his breath shortened like her own.  At eye level,
she watches the rapid, steady pulse of an artery under his open shirt
collar.  She restrains herself from moving close to kiss him there.
 
"Scully?" he murmurs, eyes still closed.  He sounds desperate for her
to continue.  His arousal is powerful and her own desire blossoms in
return, the shimmer of passion enfolding her in its warmth.  She has
never revealed such a fantasy to anyone and the closeness she feels
in sharing this oh-so private part of herself fills her with a deep
yearning.  After years of self-denial, she longs to reach for him, to
caress him, love him, to make love with him; but, they are here, in a
basement office of the Hoover Building.  Only like this can she
reveal her need for him.  She tilts her head towards him, directing
her words to his ears alone; her voice laden with the passion she
feels.
 
"We pause... but I can't stop.  I kiss his face... his neck... his
chest.  It's not enough.  I touch him.  I've wanted to touch
him...this way...for so long.  I won't be denied."  She watches the
emotions that play on his features while she speaks, his tongue
darting out to wet his lips, his long lashes fluttering with minute
vibrations as the scene plays in his mind.  She doesn't doubt the
identity of the lovers he watches behind his eyelids, and that
certainty sends another wave of heat breaking over her.

"Make love to me' I tell him.  He sheds his clothes... climbs onto
the table, taking me with him."  The image unfolds in slow motion,
files and papers scattering from tabletop to floor as they push along
its length.  "We stop and... I guide him to me.  He murmurs my name,
like a prayer.  He enters me... and I am undone, his name on my
lips...Mulder."

Hearing his name, Mulder's eyes snap open.  "What?" he rasps, anxious
to show he's still paying attention.
 
"What, what?" she repeats, staring up at him, thrown off balance by
his non-reaction to hearing her call his name.  This is not what she
expected.

Mulder, apparently having misunderstood her intent, lifts his head,
shrugs and asks, "Why'd you stop, Scully?  It was just getting good."
 
Still feeling the effects of their intimacy, her bewilderment is 
clear.  She stares at him, dumbstruck, unable to reconcile her
feelings, both physical and emotional, to his obliviousness.  How
much clearer could she be?  She has already crossed a line she
promised herself would always stand firm.  "Oh God," she whispers to
herself, eyes closing against sudden tears, as humiliation courses
through her.  Mulder, meanwhile, is looking at her, concern written
on his face at her sudden change of demeanor.
 
"Scully, what's the matter?  Are you okay?"
 
She composes herself, swallowing her pride and her hurt in one fast,
hard gulp.  Her anger, however, is not so easily dismissed.  "I'm
fine, Mulder," she manages to say as she pushes past him.

"Hey, watch it!"
 
She is fuming over her own stupidity for letting him coax her into
doing this.  It was just like that crazy conversation on the
telephone.  She'd jumped to conclusions and cut him off before he
could explain or make light of things.  And now he's done it again
with those eyes, that mouth, that voice... Dammit!

She grabs her coat, plunging her arms into the sleeves.  What an 
absolute fool she is.  They've spent seven years developing a 
partnership, a friendship based on mutual trust and respect.  And
now, now she practically says "take me," like some femme fatale in a
foreign film.  No wonder he's misunderstood her.  She huffs her
disgust, gathering papers and shoving them into her briefcase.  It's
too much to consider.  Not here.  Not now.  She has to leave.

Mulder walks to the middle of the room, hands on hips, and observes
her agitation.  "It's clear you're not fine, Scully.  So, what's
going on?"
 
She pauses mid-stride, briefcase in hand and attempts to move past
him.  He reaches out, his hand catching her coat sleeve.  Pulling
herself up to her full height plus four-inch heels, she stares up at
him.  "What's going on?" she repeats.  "Nothing, Mulder," she answers
herself, sarcasm dripping off her voice.  "Absolutely, nothing." 
With her final word she pushes her hand against him, hard.  Caught
unawares, he stumbles backwards.  He recovers quickly, a mixture of
surprise, confusion and hurt on his face as she storms out of the
office, slamming the door behind her.

For the past several hours, Scully has been trying to keep her mind
off the afternoon's events.  She's hungry, but can't eat.  Her daily,
three-mile run extends to five, leaving her weary and feeling only
marginally better.  

Finally, she runs a bath.  She sighs as she sinks into the blessed
heat that reddens her skin, while she traces the familiar contours of
her body.  In vivo desensitization.  That's what Karen Kossoff called
it; a way to reclaim the things that had comforted her in the past,
but which now trigger anxiety.  She refuses to allow this luxury to
be taken from her.  She has lost too much already at the hands of
madmen.

The sensations are lulling and her thoughts wander until she begins
to think about the other men in her life whom she has allowed to
claim a piece of her.  Nice, normal men.  To her father and brothers
she has given admiration and familial love; to her friends, loyalty
and camaraderie; to her peers, respect and professionalism.

Her thoughts persist to consider the men that have aroused her sexual
nature: high school crushes, college beaus and the few lovers she has
known since.  To each, she has given only fragments of herself in her
autonomy, never wholly trusting any man not to leave her behind.

She concedes the origins of her circumspection to childhood,
recalling family scenes of watching her father ship out on various
assignments.  How she would cling to his pants leg, begging him not
to go, tears staining her pale face.  His burly arms would pick her
up, hoisting her to eye level where he would say, "Chin up, Starbuck.
 I'll be home soon."  A kiss on the cheek, a hand off to Mom and he'd
be gone for weeks, sometimes months.  As she grew older, she numbed
herself against the fears of abandonment that seemed to affect all of
her relationships, but especially her romantic attachments, so that
despite physical intimacy, no man has ever truly touched her.

Until Mulder.

Mulder is the enigma of her life.  Somehow, he has settled himself
deep within her, although she can't recall exactly when he breached
the wall around her heart.  On the surface, he is everything she
never wanted: eccentric, unpredictable, willful.  Yet, he commands
her respect and loyalty by virtue of his personal integrity and
character.  He challenges her definition of reality, forcing her to
move beyond conventional thinking to consider extreme possibilities. 
He proffers friendship with a frightening intensity, fully expecting
as good as he gives which is all of himself, unadorned.  But there is
more.

Mulder sets alight in her an untamed aspect of herself that seeks
expression over the more pragmatic, dogmatic and mundane trappings of
her life.  His outrageousness is her secret delight.  His views and
his demeanor are compelling.  And she knows, deep in her heart, that
he alone has the ability to strip away her cool façade and see into
her fiery soul, to separate her from her most deeply held notions
regarding self-sufficiency and bind her to him.  

Her feelings for him go beyond platonic, beyond chemistry, beyond
anything that makes sense in her rational world.  After endless
arguments, conversations, meals, jokes and tears, she knows it for a
fact: she is in love with him.  There's no point in denying it,
although she continues to fight his seductive pull, struggling to
maintain her balance in his whirlwind.

If only he weren't so damned attractive.

Her hands move over her body as she closes her eyes and muses on her
partner. In her mind's eye, she sees him, images in her mind that
mark their tenure together and the history of her desire.  Mulder in
Armani wool, crisp cotton and pure silk is her favorite.  She has
always been charmed by his good looks and always resisted them,
stowing his effect on her pulse, her heart rate and her skin
temperature in the recesses of her mind.  For the most part...

Fingers slide beneath the scented water, along her inner thigh to the
place of her own guilty pleasure, where she explores the edges of her
intimate need.  If she continues, she will trigger the spiral into
her desires; but now, especially after today, she denies herself
release.

She exits the tub, irritated and unsatisfied, and makes her way to
her bedroom.  She slips into nothing more than panties, worn jeans
and her softest gray, chenille sweater.  An evening with Satie and
Faulkner requires no more effort than that.

She lights the wick of a scented votive sitting inside a
shell-studded lantern candle on the side table, watching the flame
kindle, its soft glow radiating through translucent blue walls. 
Another Scully reclamation project.  She stares at the flickering
light for a moment, then sighs.  Picking up the soft-cover novel she
purchased on the way home, she inserts a CD and slumps into the sofa,
flicking on the lamp sitting on the side table.  The haunting lilt of
Gymnopedie No. 1 fills the space around her and within minutes, she
is asleep.

                             ~*~*~*~

It's late evening when a knock on the door breaks the thick silence
that surrounds her, waking her with its insistence.  She opens her
eyes, already knowing who is waiting on the other side.  She knew it
would only be a matter of time before he came.  The heavy sound of
knuckles on wood resounds again, and she realizes she has no idea
what to do.  She could remain silent, let Mulder think she’s out or
still asleep or still too angry to face him, none of which is the
case.  Her anger toward him had boiled away into steam some hours
ago, dissipating into the atmosphere and leaving only melancholy and
self-directed disgust in its wake.

A third set of knocks sets off a pounding in her temples.  He’ll
either leave soon or let himself in.  She isn't sure which
possibility would make things worse, as if the situation could be
worse.  A shadow is just visible beneath the crack of the door.  It
remains immobile, and finally she rises with a sigh.  Scully rakes
her hair behind her ears before opening the door.

Mulder's figure looms darker than usual as he pushes past her without
a word.  "Come on in, make yourself at home," she thinks with
sarcasm, but does not utter aloud.  Aligning her shoulders, she
pushes the door closed and turns to find him leaning against the arch
between the kitchen and living room.

This may not be pretty, she decides, but it will be quick.  "What are
you doing here, Mulder?" she asks in a low, unwavering tone.  He says
nothing, but the look in his eyes is one she has seen only when his
mind was wrapped around a singular idea with attainment of his goal
in sight: predatory, dangerous and now, trained on her.  Her
instincts signal threat, but her conscious mind argues that this is
Mulder, her partner and her friend.  Isn’t it?

Without warning, he pulls away from the wall and starts towards her. 
She falls back at his approach, her senses attuned to every nuance of
his movements and her own bodily reactions.  Her heart rate is up,
but she stands her ground.

Without hesitation, he steps into her, one arm encircling her waist
while he presses her against the door, his body heavy against hers. 
She is barefoot, more aware than ever of his dominating stature, her
head at the level of his chest so that she must look up to see his
face looming close above hers.  His leather jacket is cold from
outside, but his breath warms her face.  The scent of Polo mingles
with the scent of Mulder, while the sound of their ragged breathing
slices the dark.

He moves impossibly closer, jamming his body against hers.  This
boldness catches her by surprise, and in her hyper-vigilant state of
mind, she grabs his free wrist, counters against his weight, and
sweeps his leg with her own, throwing him off balance.  "What the--"
she hears, just before she takes him down to the floor.  His head
hits the hardwood with a resounding crack. 

"Ow!  Damn it!" he gasps, flat on his back and unmoving.  She stands
beside him for a moment realizing he is, indeed, Mulder.  Her hand
covers her mouth as she realizes what she has done.  "Why'd you do
that?" he asks in a confused voice, rising up on one elbow, his free
hand rubbing the back of his head.  She drops to her knees beside
him, helping him sit up.  Her brows knit together as she watches the
parade of emotions that crosses his face.  Finally, his eyes meet
hers.

"Mulder, what was that all about?" she finally asks.

He inhales, his expression one of bewilderment, before releasing his
breath with a rush of air, shaking his head to himself.  He gathers
himself and rises, then reaches out a hand to help Scully to her
feet, as well.  Dropping her hand, he moves to sit on the sofa, his
hand rubbing the back of his head.  She follows and runs her hand
under his to assess the growing lump there.  "I'll get ice," she
says.

She flicks on the lights beneath her kitchen cabinets and grabs a
sleeved cold pack from the freezer.  Returning to the dimly lit
living room, she hands Mulder the compress.  "Hold this here," she
instructs.  He cooperates in silence, still unwilling to look at her.
 He faces forward while she sits beside him, her body angled towards
his while she waits for an answer to her question.  They sit like
that for a minute or so, their breathing synchronizing in the
obscurity that cloaks them, a comfortable familiarity overcoming the
events just past.  Finally, Scully breaks the silence, her voice
laden with concern and curiosity.  "Want to clue me in?"

His eyes close as he leans back into the cushions, one hand holding
the cold pack to his head, the other lying next to hers.  "I
thought," he says with deliberate slowness, "it was what you wanted."

Her eyes widen at his words.  "What I wanted?" she breathes.

Mulder leans forward to lay the cold pack on the table in front of
him and without looking at her, states, "Your... fantasy." Scully is
grateful for the low lighting.  It prevents him from seeing the flush
that burns her cheeks or the way her breathing has quickened at his
words.  She begins to rise, but his hand grabs hers, forcing her to
stay.

He turns towards her then, his voice hardly audible, yet resonant. 
"I've spent the last two hours driving around the city, Scully,
trying to figure out how to tell you...I'm a complete idiot."  She
hears his soft self-deprecation while his thumb strokes back and
forth against the back of her hand, a low-level thrum starting deep
within her.

In the emotion-laden exchange they shared earlier, she had been
prepared to accept any resultant actions without reproach.  But now,
with hours spent berating herself for lack of self-discipline, she is
less than eager to act on impulse.  Still, her mind keeps returning
to the memory of his arm around her waist, of his drawing her closer,
the heady feeling of his masculinity pressing close.  He would have
kissed her, had she not reacted as she did, yes?  And more.  Did she
want more?  She quavers at the intensity of the 'yes' that echoes in
her mind.

Thoughts free form as she sits in silence beside him, her
ever-logical mind battling for dominance one last time.  "Mulder,"
she begins, eyes still averted.  "This afternoon...  I don't think...
 I shouldn't have."  She falters, uncertain not only of what to say,
but how to say it. "I apologize for losing my temper.  I misread your
intentions and I just want you to know that after due consideration,
I think...that is, it would be ill-advised if we...  What I mean
is...maybe it isn't a good idea to pursue this further."

He leans close to her.  "You're thinking too much," he says, voice
low.

She considers his words, knowing them to be true, yet unable to stop
herself from questioning their next move.  There's validity, after
all, in the quest-taking-precedence-over-sex argument; although, with
Samantha's spirit laid to rest and the work of the Consortium in
tatters, they are freer than ever to explore a physical relationship.
 Still, given the emotional baggage they both carry, the odds of a
romantic entanglement ending badly are great. Then there's the issue
of friendship and she knows, beyond question, that she will sacrifice
physical gratification rather than jeopardize the trust and closeness
they share.

Holding herself straight in an effort to combat his growing effect on
her, she speaks with a detachment she doesn't feel.  "It's not
uncommon for people who work closely together...especially people who
put their lives on the line the way we do...to have strong feelings
for each other."  Her eyes lift to his, then.  His expression is
unreadable as he shifts back, releasing her hand to lay his arm along
the back of the sofa, outstretched towards her.  He nods as she
continues, "It doesn't mean we should act on them.  Partnerships are
subject to a lot of stress and...umm...personal involvement might
affect the work, making it less efficacious."  They both know the
words by heart, the FBI mantra of partner decorum.

"So, you see me as a co-worker, a friend, a brotherly figure, even." 
His tone is straightforward, while his eyes hold hers, trying to
discern the emotional truth lurking behind her deceptive shield of
words.

"Something like that," she replies, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
 "And while we've always maintained a certain... familiarity, it's
just a by-product of the natural attraction in a male/female
friendship."  She regrets her choice of words as she notes his gentle
smirk and the sudden, soft humor in his eyes that asks 'is that so?'

"Is there a natural attraction between us?" he asks, his fingertips
brushing her upper arm as he lays his hand on her shoulder. It's a
rhetorical question and they both know it.

How to answer?  There *are* legitimate reasons not to turn a
friendship into a romance and he'll know if she isn't honest with
him.  And so, she is sincere when she says, "Mulder--we've been
friends a long time.  I would hate for anything to endanger that. 
We've both said and done things that might be construed as foolish,
but..." She pauses, her voice taking on her best Quantico tutorial
tone, "I think if we just handle ourselves like professionals, we can
put this all behind us."

Scully hears herself saying the right words, but is only too aware of
the way Mulder is looking at her; a small, secretive smile tugging at
his mouth.  He isn't buying her "friendship above all" speech for a
moment.  Meanwhile, his fingers are threading through the hair behind
her ear, his touch barely tracing along its edge, trailing down the
curve of her neck and back again, maddening in its non-presence
presence, raising her temperature without effort.  It tickles a
little and she fights the urge to lean into the caress he offers.

"Then, what I'm doing right now has absolutely no effect, right?" he
questions, his eyes moving from hers to make a slow sweep down her
body and back again, before rising to meet hers again, his hungry
intentions unmistakable in their clear, hazel depths.

She fights to keep breathing, even as she feels a twitch between her
thighs and the sticky warmth of arousal that follows.  "Right," she
replies, her voice sounding thin.

"I could move closer and it wouldn't make any difference."  His
actions parallel his words as he shifts nearer to her.  She allows
him to close the gap between them.  She feels his breath on her face,
the pressure of his hand on her thigh, while the fingers at her
collarbone slide behind her neck.  She is helpless to control the
delicate tremble that overtakes her.

Fearful that her voice or her words will betray her, she merely
shakes her head.  She can read the challenge in his eyes.  "I want to
kiss you," he whispers, "but I won't unless you want it, too."  They
maintain their positions for several, silent moments and she hates
herself for her indecision.  His hands are on her and her body aches
for him, but her infernal brain won't let go.

Why?  They both know her recitation of protocol is little more than
smoke screen.  His eyes are full of question and tenderness, yet she
remains in stasis.  Has she become so stoical, so unyielding, so cut
off from her own femininity that she is unable to respond to the most
basic interplay of man and woman?  Especially with this man, who
knows her so well and accepts her so completely.  Is she the Ice
Maiden, after all?  She is stopped in her internal reverie by his
pulling away from her.

"Maybe you’re right, Scully," he says without warning.  Mulder's
voice is crisp, clear; as if he has suddenly ditched the entire idea
of their being together.  Was it her silence?  Removing his hands
from her, he rises, then turns to look down at her, his face
impassive.  "Maybe this *isn't* a good idea."

He turns, his back straight, and moves towards her doorway.  She
watches him cross, already addicted to his touch, the words to stop
him caught in her throat even as she recognizes that if he leaves,
the issue will never be raised again.  They will remain partners,
allies in their search for the truth, but nothing more.  The tender
kiss they shared not so long ago will be relegated to the category of
Friendship and she will go back to telling herself it doesn't matter,
her dreams and her fantasies to remain as such.

Mulder's hand is already on the doorknob and the door already open
when he turns back towards her.  She realizes, with some surprise,
that she has called his name.  Standing to face him, their eyes meet.
 She steps around the end of the sofa, clearing the space that lies
between them, full of meaning.

Scully reaches over and flicks off the table lamp, weak light
spilling from the kitchen, muting colors into a palette of neutrals,
grays and blacks.  Her breath comes quickly; shallow but steady as
she makes a slow approach towards Mulder.  He stands motionless.  She
holds his eyes with her own, telling herself with each step that it's
not too late to end this and already too late; that this is crazy,
but finally sane; and that she needs nothing from him, yet
everything.  She nears until they are but inches apart.  Lifting her
head, her chin juts out, challenging his pretense of dispassion.  His
shoulders rise and fall with an inward sigh that reveals his inner
nerves.

Without turning, he pushes the door to the frame with a soft thud,
shutting out the world.  Without turning, she reaches for the
deadbolt and throws it shut, the clack of the lock signaling privacy.
 At that, he gives her a slow grin and she knows what he's thinking:
Give and take, equity, partnership.  It's how they have always worked
and here, now, will be no different.  She returns a shy smile, the
thought of what lies ahead sending a shiver of anticipation through
her.

They stand in tableau, frozen, waiting.  And then, her hand drops
from the lock onto his, where it rests on the knob of the door.  Like
a spark, her touch ignites a flame that flares, its heat white-hot
between them.  Mulder's hands are on her and he gathers her to him,
all remaining distance between them dissolved as they embrace in the
shadows.

Their kiss is rough, unbridled.  Mulder's mouth is demanding,
refusing her quarter or breath.  Scully struggles to maintain her
bearings, but is overwhelmed by his presence and the feel of his lips
on her own. It is nothing like the boyish kiss he gifted her with at
New Year's.  It is nothing like anything she has dreamed or imagined
in her mind.  It is better.

They are clumsy as only new lovers can be, the novelty of their
passion a startling revelation.  They pull back from one another,
panting, dazed by the emotions flooding them.  He takes her face
between his hands and looking into her eyes, gruffly asks, "Do you
want this?"

It is not merely permission to touch her that he seeks.  His question
begs an answer regarding her need for him, for them.  Even now, he
will stop.  He has said the words 'I love you' only once and yet
thousands of times in glances, in gestures, in so many ways.  She
knows his faults and his strengths as he knows hers.  And like her,
he understands the bittersweet nature of their union, its danger and
its joy.

Her blood is pounding through her.  They have stood at this threshold
before and yet, not like this.  She has never been this honest with
herself or any man before and she is past due.  In crossing this
final barrier between them, she opens herself to the possibilities
she has held in check for so long.  They may never share a "normal"
life, but they *will* take this step into hope, together.  "I want
this," she states, her voice steady.  "All of it.  All of you."

His face nears hers again and she braces for another rush, clutching
the sleeves of his jacket.  Instead, his lips meet hers with
tenderness, with reverence, once, then twice.  Over and again he
comes at her, each time deepening and lengthening their kiss.  He
turns her until she is backed up against the door, her arms twining
around his neck.  She is left more vulnerable than before, trembling
with a sudden abandon that overtakes her as consequence to her
admission.  She slides her tongue against his soft mouth and his lips
part with a groan, granting license.  She feels the drag of his hands
at her waist and they slide to the floor together.

He is giving her fantasy to her.

They are tangled on the Persian carpet in her entryway, his body
covering hers.  It is harder and colder than she thought it would be,
the rug providing little comfort, but Mulder is kissing her senseless
and she isn't about to complain.  Instead, she weaves her fingers
through his hair, seeking to gain a measure of control over herself
and him.  It's futile.  He nuzzles her neck and the tender place
behind her ear, sending her pulse soaring.  She pushes at his
shoulders until he is forced to lift his head to look at her.

"What?" he exhales.  His mouth is wet from their kisses and she has
never seen this expression on his face.  His eyes are half closed and
the way they watch her sends a sprinkling of shivers over her skin
like sea spray.  She gently runs her hand across his cheek.

"I just want to see you," she says.

A small, sudden smile quirks his mouth.  He rises up onto his knees,
then sloughs off his jacket, tossing it aside.  His tee shirt is next
and as he pulls it over his head, she finds herself staring.  Mulder
is muscular without exaggeration, the sinewy strength of his
shoulders and arms in proportion to his frame.  She decides that
long-sleeved dress shirts should be outlawed.  She lifts her eyes and
meets his amused gaze.  "Better?" he asks, his elfin smile reaching
into his eyes.

"For now," she replies.  He leans back over her, while her fingers
run over his chest.

Resting a forearm on either side of her head, he dips down to whisper
into her ear, "Your turn," before planting kisses along her neck. 
She is just savoring the feel of his lips against the base of her
throat when he turns the both of them, reversing their positions. 
She is unexpectedly self-conscious sitting astride him and his eyes
glow with a soft light.  "What's the matter, Scully?  You can't be
shy.  I've seen every inch of you already.  More than once."

He lifts his hips towards her, his erection straining upwards against
her.  She inhales with a slow blink of her eyes, the ragged edge of
her desire laid bare.  She closes her eyes and whispers, "My turn." 
His hands are at her waist as she crosses her arms in front of her,
slowly pulling the sweater over her head.  She hears his delight in
the soft exhalation that escapes him as she reveals herself to him.

The air in her apartment is cool in spite of her personal heat. 
Gooseflesh rises along her arms and brings her nipples to attention. 
His hands rise along her sides, then move to cup her breasts, his
thumbs brushing the tips, eliciting an involuntary sigh from her. 
She leans over him, as he had before, and kisses him, delighting in
the feel of his bare chest against hers.  She grinds her hips against
him, sensation running through her like quicksilver.  His soft groan
accompanies her own.  She has dreamed of this and still the reality
is sweeter than anything she has imagined.

She cannot get enough of him as lips and tongues and teeth enjoin in
a playful dance.  The sudden elation that grips her comes as a
surprise.  They part for breath, dizzy, and she spies a similar,
dazed look on Mulder's face.  He gifts her with that damned sexy
smile she's steeled herself against in the past, but no longer.  His
hands are caressing every inch of her that he can reach.  Whatever
misgivings she held before are gone in the consciousness that this
is, indeed, happening.

Reality is the greatest aphrodisiac and she craves more.  It's been a
long time since she's had a man beneath her, but she hasn't forgotten
how it all works.  Raising herself back up until she is again
straddling his hips, she shimmies back until she is poised on his
thighs.  She drops her eyes and with a knowing smile, begins to
unbuckle his belt.  Her confusion is evident when his hand covers
hers to stop her, her arched brows indicating her bafflement.  "Not
here," Mulder states in a low tone.

The words from her fantasy rush back to her and she is taken aback,
wondering if he is suggesting a further playing out of her scenario
on her dining room table.  Scully isn’t sure if she's ready for that
or if that is really how she wants this to continue.

As if reading her mind, he sits up, his arms loosely encircling her. 
Scully is nestled in his lap with her legs folded under themselves on
either side of him.  They meet, open-mouthed, tongues sharing an
intimate caress.  He pulls her against him in a close embrace, his
hands sliding across her back.  Her arms are wrapped about him and
she rests her head on his shoulder, her face turned into his neck. 
She presses her mouth to the place she only imagined kissing before,
the artery pulsing against her lips.  She breathes him in and she
smells the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with a scent like
earth and maleness.

Leaning his face towards hers, he whispers, "I want to make love to
you."

"Where?" she asks, ready to grant his request.

"Your bed, all night."

She lifts her face to his, eyes bright, while she kisses the corner
of his mouth and repeats, "*All* night, Mulder."

Scully clasps his hand as she leads him to her bedroom, pausing at
the entrance.  In that brief space, Mulder presses her against the
doorjamb, pushing against her as he drops his head to capture her
mouth under his.  She has always suspected that the focus and drive
he exhibits toward his work would be likewise found in his
lovemaking.  She is right.  Mulder's kisses are singularly arousing
in their creativity.  His mouth plies hers in a variety of caresses,
as if he has thought about this for far too long and is impatient to
discover if reality bests fantasy.

Within, she wages a fierce battle.  Part of her still resists the tug
of her physical want, unsettled by her own waywardness and surrender
to the heady whirlwind of emotion and tactile sensation buffeting
her, while another part of her mind leaps ahead to what this night
may bring.  Rapid-fire images of Mulder and herself visualized only
in dream-states, both nocturnal and waking, suddenly contain
potential for reality, and the awareness sends another quiver through
her already thrumming body.

She manages to push him away from her, lowering her face from his and
turning to enter the room.  His groan of frustration is sweet music
to her ears.  Keeping her back to him, she heads towards the bed at a
slow pace.  She feels intoxicated, scandalous, wanton.  She shoves
the weakening cries of inner protest into the back of her mind. 
Mulder wants to make love to her all night and she has every
intention of making him keep his promise.  Besides, she has some
promises of her own to keep.  To him and to herself.

Her hands undo the closure on her jeans and she pushes them over her
hips, allowing them to drop around her legs before toeing them off
and kicking them aside.  She senses Mulder's approach behind her and
waits, anticipating his touch, wondering how he will begin.  Gentle
or rough?  Quick or slow?  Her reflection is cut short by her own
soft gasp as she feels his hands at her hips, his fingers splayed at
the tops of her thighs.  She looks down and notes his large, bare
feet on either side of her own.  The axiom about the size of a man's
feet being relative to the rest of his anatomy springs to mind.  She
smiles, the warmth of his skin radiating towards her, while relishing
the knowledge, as any good scientist would, that her theory will soon
be grounded in fact.

His mouth claims her left shoulder, kisses sliding their way towards
her neck.  Her head lolls to the opposite side, like a rag doll in
his hands, as his tongue finds it way to her ear.  She reaches up an
arm behind them to caress the back of his head, the silky hairs
gliding against her fingers.  His left hand fondles her breasts,
taking first one, then the other into his grasp, softly kneading the
smooth flesh before gently pinching the tender nipple between his
thumb and the side of his index finger, drawing from her soft moans. 


Sensation floods her and awareness heightens.  Mulder drops his arm
across her and wraps it round her waist, pinning her to him, his
confined erection nudging her lower back.  His free hand inches
downward across her belly, beneath the edge of her cotton panties. 
She is dizzy, short of breath.  Bringing her knee up, she rests it at
the edge of the bed for support.  Her mind can think of nothing else
save the awareness of his hand as it slips across her hyper-sensitive
flesh, a rising heat engulfing her from head to toe.

At his first, tentative brush against her folds, she jumps, his touch
like fire.  He hesitates and she worries he will misinterpret her
response as indecision or timidity.  Placing her free hand over his,
she urges him without words to continue.  His breath is hot on her
ear as his fingers descend through curls sticky with her readiness
for him.  Gently spreading her, he allows just his center fingertip
to ride against her clit in an easy, rocking motion that propels
cascading ribbons of pleasure through her.  A soft moan escapes her
and the slide into her desire is warm and quick as her hand rides
with his, the tension in her body both releasing and mounting.

"Do you see us like this?" he whispers into her ear, his fingers
playing upon her in lazy circles.  "In your mind, Scully, do you see
me touching you like this?"

"Yes," she rasps, her eyes closing as she surrenders to the honeyed
baritone of his voice and his hand upon her.

"How long?"

"How long?" she parrots.

"How long have you fantasized about me?"  It is a question she
doesn't expect and for a few, disoriented seconds her mind scrambles,
the more logical hemisphere discerning a very serious probe into her
emotional depths, completely at odds with the sensuality they are
exploring. 

"I-- I don't know," she stammers in a whisper.  His hands stop.  She
is irked by his inaction and like a spoiled child, mewls, "Mulder,"
her head tilted towards his, "don't stop."

His voice dips in timbre, a caress laced with mirth, as he gently
remands,  "Come on, Scully.  You know better than that.  I need an
answer to the question.  It's only fair, don't you think?"  He turns
her in his arms, then, and his eyes hold her in his gaze, as if he
can see into her, willing her to reveal her secrets to him.  "I told
you that night on the telephone how often I've thought about you. 
Don't you think I need to know how many times you've thought about
me, us, doing this?"

Scully’s eyes narrow to luminous slits as she struggles to peer
through the fog clouding her forebrain.  He wants to talk now?  Of
course.  Of course Mulder wants to talk.  The man is verbal fetishism
personified.  But what he’s demanding now isn’t mere dirty talk. 
That, requiring little thought or introspection, she could handle. 
But to answer this particular question is to relinquish another piece
of herself to his care.  It will not be enough for her to give her
body to him, without also committing her soul.  She has always known
this.  It is, in part, what has kept them at their prescribed
distance for so long.  But now, here in the shelter of his arms, she
finds herself wanting to take that final step. 

Sighing, Scully raises a fingertip to outline his mouth. Unlike
Mulder, spontaneous self-revelation does not come naturally to her. 
When she gives Mulder an answer, she will choose each word for
maximum impact, but her current state of arousal makes that an
impossible task. Deferring an explanation until she is once again
fully lucid, Scully determines that the best she can do now is
demonstrate *what* she feels, if not the long history of her desire.

She stretches up on her toes and pulling his head down towards hers,
she kisses him, delicately drawing the fullness of his lower lip
between her teeth.  "Come to bed, Mulder," she murmurs against his
mouth, as if she has said this to him hundreds of times; and she has,
if only in her mind.  His eyes are on hers, a soft light shining
there while a quizzical smile plays on his lips.

"Scully--" he begins, but she places two fingers over his mouth,
silencing him with a look.  She is surprised, though not displeased,
at his quiescence as she undoes the button and zipper on his jeans
and divests him of his remaining clothing, her hands skimming the
surface of his lean, muscular legs.  He rests a hand on her shoulder
as she kneels beside him, eye level with the impressive evidence of
his arousal.  Her physician eyes have viewed her partner's anatomy
before with cool detachment, critical judgments being made for his
well being.  Mulder--the man, up close and personal, brought to peak
because of her is altogether different.

"It's only me."  She hears the tease in his voice as it hovers above
her and she realizes she's been staring.  She'd blush if she weren't
so damned aroused.

"Oh, I can see that, Mulder.  It's just...umm...different from our
previous encounters."  His gentle laugh rings through her as his hand
ruffles her hair.  A soft chuckle escapes her, relaxing and
emboldening her.  As she rises, one hand strokes lightly along his
cock as hint of what she is planning.  His sough of breath pleases
her as her hand trails upward along the sleek definition of his
chest.  It is heaven to be able to touch him, to see and hear the
effect of her hands on him, to seduce him as he does her.

She hesitates for a moment before lifting her eyes to his, knowing
what she will find there.  She cheats, lifting her face to his with
eyes closed.  When she opens them, his lust-filled gaze is centered
on her, hazel-turned-smoke in the uneven light of her shadowed
bedroom.

His thumbs hook the sides of her panties, drawing them part way down
her legs until they drop to the floor.  She steps out, the fabric
covering the well-toned curve of her ass replaced by Mulder's hands
pulling her towards him.  She isn't certain what to expect next. 
Other lovers she's known would have already taken her to bed, intent
on satisfying their own needs or hers quickly enough so theirs could
be met with equal rapidity.  Mulder, however, seems in no particular
hurry, without objection to her lead as his hands slide upwards to
the small of her back.  She sighs at the familiar pressure, as well
as the novelty of how it feels against bare skin.  She realizes that
making love with Mulder will be both old and new in so many ways.

She slips out of the circle of his arms to fold back the covers on
the bed.  Turning back to him, she takes his hand and pulls him over
to sit on the edge of the mattress.  Standing between the open vee of
his legs, Scully strokes his hair, raining softest kisses over his
forehead, nose, eyelids and the corners of his mouth.  "You
know...I've seen us like this, too," she breathes.  She sinks to her
knees on the carpet.  He inclines his body towards her and she
nuzzles his throat.  "And like this..."  Her mouth slithers across
the solidity of his chest as her hands trail down over his shoulders,
boneless fingers shaping themselves to the contours of his biceps.

Mulder’s hands rise from where they have been resting on his knees to
cradle her face.  He looks into her eyes as if his palms hold
unimaginable riches.  Scully knows he's still waiting for her answer,
knows that he believes he might discern it if he only looks deep
enough.  She blinks hard once and tacitly assures him that she hasn't
forgotten, isn't simply trying to distract him.  "Later," she swears.
He nods and covers her mouth with his, sealing the pact.

Rational thought, ever her companion, slips away as feral desire
claims her.  She has repressed this aspect of herself for years,
keeping it on a short leash as defense against her partner's earthier
nature.  Mulder's tongue dives between her lips.  Her questions
regarding his use of pornography and innuendo as a bluff for
non-function dissolve in the heat generated by his exquisite mouth
and the prod of his erect cock between them.  A weak cry from the
back of her fevered brain battles to remind her that this is her
partner robbing her of all breath and reason.  She doesn't care. 
Moreover, she knows exactly what she wants to do next.

She pulls back from his hungry mouth.  He follows, trying to sustain
contact, but she lays her hand against his cheek to calm him.  Things
are likely to finish before they've begun if they don't slow down and
she fully intends to make this night an indelible memory in his mind,
and hers.  

Reaching between them, she slides cool fingers over his warm, stiff
cock in a gentle clasp.  His erection twitches as she gently pulls
along his substantial length, her thumb sliding up the underside
until it circles the place just behind the head.  If watching
Mulder's face this afternoon as she spun her fantasy in his office
bathed Scully in a warm golden glow, seeing her partner's expression
now sets her skin aflame.  His head is thrown back, luscious lips
parting to emit a rattled sigh of intense pleasure as she slowly
moves her hand.

"I can't tell you how many times I've seen us like this," she says
huskily, a hint of a smile curving her lips as she bows her head to
take the tip between her lips.  Despite Scully’s affinity for detail,
she realizes that in the countless times she has imagined this act,
she has never wondered about his taste.  The dark, unique flavor of
Mulder now on her tongue sends an almost surreal jolt of eroticism
through her.  She has never felt so freely sexual, so comfortable as
an aggressor; and telling Mulder that she has pictured them like this
only intensifies the thrill.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his hands tense with
fistfuls of pillow and comforter.  The muscles in his forearms flex
and relax as wave after wave of sensation roll over him.  With
amusement and affection, Scully notes that his unconscious movements
speed up when she increases her pace and the length of her strokes,
slow when she backs off a bit.  Call it intuition or soul reading or
simple good timing, but Scully knows just when Mulder verges upon the
point of no return.

In her fantasies, she doesn't always pull away at this point.  In her
mind's ear, she has often heard Mulder’s cry of release explode from
somewhere above just as a warm gush of ejaculate issues down her
throat.  Ever one for closure, even her nighttime dreams find her
tenderly laving him clean.  But that particular scenario is for
another time.  With a final flick to the sensitive rim, she releases
him.  Her eyes find his again, dark but glittering even in the dim
light cutting in from the hall.  With a single fingertip pressed to
his sternum, Scully fells Mulder like an old-growth redwood and,
groaning, he collapses on his back, arms flayed, chest heaving.

Suddenly, he rises halfway, demanding throatily, "C’mere woman."  He
grabs her under the arms and pulls her roughly up over the length of
his body.  Swaying against Mulder, her knees and elbows sink into the
mattress as she straddles him.  He reaches for her luscious breasts,
which hang like rich, ripened fruit.  Taking one in his mouth, he
circles an aureole with the tip of his tongue, nipping at the hard
tips.

She gasps his name and arches her back, sleek and feline, her mons
brushing against the taut-stretched skin of his cock.  Still slick
from his earlier ministrations, she glides sinuously back and forth
over the hot, utterly masculine flesh.  She can feel the vibrations
rise up from his throat, his lips trembling against her.  As he
feasts on Scully’s breasts, Mulder glides his tapered hands down her
sides, dipping in along the curve of her waist, until his fingertips
meet at her spine, just above the swell of her ass.  His long fingers
reach lower still, until they cup the succulent round cheeks. 
Squeezing gently but insistently, he nudges her further, pulling her
up...up...until her sex is poised just above his waiting mouth.  The
glint in his eye tells her, oh yeah, he likes this view.

Clearly, Mulder has intuited that this, too, is stock footage from
Scully's own private vault.  They are enacting a frequently played
out vista, and, if not for the overwhelming desire she now feels, she
might be ashamed that he has so easily become fluent in the language
of her innermost cravings.  The tender bliss gracing his features
reveals that the idea of coupling like this has crossed his mind as
well, and not just a few times.  As his tongue snakes out to moisten
his lips, the gauzy veil of want that surrounds her disintegrates. 
Her vision, outer and inner, sharpens into hyper-awareness.  The
biting scent of their bodies fills her nostrils.  His mouth is a
furnace; beads of sweat pepper her forehead from the feel of his
breath right... *there*....  

Her thigh muscles tense and trembling, she lowers herself gingerly,
leaning back into the strength of Mulder's open hands.  His head
inclines slightly, and Scully's head drops back onto her shoulders as
she feels the first wet caress of his tongue.  Her lips form his
name, but only a shuddering moan-sigh escapes her.  With infinite
patience, he traces her, deepening his strokes a little at a time.  A
geologic age passes before his searching mouth finally brushes across
the edge of her clit.  The high-pitched cry that escapes her is
unexpected and she glances down through heavy-lidded eyes at the
source of her fierce pleasure.  Mulder's features are soft with
passion, his eyes closed, his mouth upon her.  At his next stroke,
she cries out again.  A broad grin reveals his self-satisfaction at
drawing this from her and for once, and perhaps the only time in
their time together, she welcomes his arrogance.  He repeats the
motion again and again and again.

"Jeeesus, Mulder!" Scully exhales.

Mulder's fingers tighten their grip, massaging her lower back and
holding her to him as she rocks in rhythm with his dancing tongue. 
Her eyes closed once more, she might seem to be lost in her own whorl
of pleasure, save for the colors twisting before and the slick source
of indulgence below.  In truth, she feels more deeply connected to
her partner than ever, knowing without a doubt that he alone could
bring out this side of her, and knowing that the greatest joy springs
from the fact that he is in her bed at last.  The warm spring of
excitement pooling in her belly rises higher and higher, until orgasm
overtakes her in a hot outpouring of rapture.  Her breath catches in
her throat as her body tenses in a supple arc, every nerve sparking
at once. 

Muscles unclenching, bones dissolving, Scully sags slightly, and
Mulder eases her back to rest against his bent knees.  He beams up at
her, no doubt proud of his own achievement, but mostly reflecting the
boundless affection radiating from her countenance.  She feels like
she ought to say something, find some wry piece of wisdom to sum up
the experience before moving on.  But what can she say to the man who
knows her better than she knows herself?  A simple "thank you" would
probably be appropriate, but seems inadequate, not only for sharing a
deep part of his being, but for giving Scully herself, or at least,
restoring a part of herself she was nearly convinced she could live
without.

Scully has always found intimate words to be troublesome and inexact,
and ultimately decides to do without them for the moment.  Instead,
she wriggles her bottom lightly in the seat of her Mulderchair.  His
answering gasp brings a sultry smile to her lips.  So she does it
again, eliciting a drawn-out whimper from her captive audience of
one.  Grinning broadly now, she bends forward to pile up several
pillows against the headboard.  She brushes her fingers through his
hair, and leans in to lay a trail of kisses along his jaw, flicking
her tongue lightly into the dimple at his chin.  Nudging his
shoulder, she tilts her head at the nest she's laid, and Mulder
settles his back against it.  He draws her into his lap, his erection
angling up between them.  They find themselves looking down into the
narrow space between their bodies, then back into each other's eyes.

"The moment has arrived," Mulder mumbles, smirking at his own
melodramatic delivery.

"I was counting on it lasting a bit longer than that," Scully
responds with a little grin of her own.  She takes him in her small,
capable hand, stroking up once, then down, trying to gauge how he
will feel inside her body.  
 
Still smiling, Mulder kisses her mouth, murmuring against her lips,
"We'll take it slow...at first."

Scully nods and returns his kiss, catching his lower lip between her
teeth.  With hands braced on his shoulders, she rises on her knees,
then lowers herself easily as she takes his cock all the way in. She
marvels at the fullness of him inside her, joined to her in such
intimate fashion.Working in perfect synchrony, like two integral
parts of a miraculous machine, they begin to move together, back and
forth, up and down, in and out, tunelessly humming the world's oldest
song.

As they explore this new aspect of their partnership, Mulder watches
her, eyes filled with tenderness and lust. One of her hands strokes
smooth circles between his shoulder blades, while the other five
fingers wrap themselves around the curved slats of the headboard
behind him, knuckles white with tension.  She breathes deeply,
imagining that her lungs rush the oxygen-rich blood to where it is
needed, intensifying the sensations with each intake of air. 
Remembering how she criticized Mulder's choices in erotic
entertainment, disdaining pornographers' obsession with mere body
parts, Scully now wishes she could watch up close his hard, hard cock
rubbing against her swollen clit.

For endless blissful minutes, Scully ignores the burning muscles in
her legs.  She rises and falls, feeling only the pleasure of sliding
down his thick shaft and gripping him inwardly as the strong arms
cradling her ass lift her up again.  Soon, her knees begin to ache,
and embarrassingly, to crack.  Mulder, who has seemed oblivious to
all outside stimuli, chuckles softly. 

"Gettin' old," he mumbles against the underside of her breast.

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Jagger," she retorts breathlessly.

"Feeling pretty limber, huh, Nadia?" he challenges.

"Bring it on, Barishnikov."

In a heartbeat, he flips her across the bed and nearly halfway off of
it.  In her surprise, she grasps blindly, snagging a pillow and
flinging it to the floor, a second tumbling alongside with it.  

"Think Mikhail knows *this* position?" Mulder huffs.

"I'll say this...he could never fill your tights, Mulder," she gasps.

His strong hands support her arching back, and her hair hangs almost
to the floor in a fiery curtain.  Wrapping her legs tight and high
around his torso, Mulder drives into her with an incendiary passion.

"'Sides...getting older...isn't so bad...ohh" Scully pants.

"Mmmm...Why?...God, Scully...does...Good Vibrations...have a...
senior discount?"

A fresh flush heats her cheeks, equal parts pleasure and chagrin. 
"No..." she chuckles breathlessly, "but...the health plan...covers
Viagra."    

"Sss-something...we’ll both be grateful for..."

Their verbal sparring eventually melts into seamless moans.  With
each electrifying, pistoning thrust, Mulder drives her to the edge,
figuratively and literally.  Scully's arms stretch over her head, her
palms braced against the floor, giving her leverage to match Mulder's
deep, insistent strokes.  A natural mathematician, a small sector of
her brain actually manages to calculate the number of lunges they
have left before he launches them over the side.

"Mul--" she wheezes.

"Scully... Scully..." he echoes, seemingly unaware of their ever more
tenuous position.

"MULDER--" she yells, this time not in passion.

His head snaps up.  Eyes wild and unfocused, face shining with sweat,
this vision of him is the one she sees in her most unrestrained
reveries.  His undulating stops and she reads the indecision in his
eyes.  Hesitating for only a split-second, he pulls out of her, and
grasping her by the hips, scrambles backward, off of the bed,
dragging her to the mattress edge.

Mulder crouches on one knee and positions himself again at her core. 
With a wry grin, she grabs a pillow for his knee and tosses it at
him.  It misses by a mile and he shakes his head at her.  "Focus,
aim, release," he lectures.

"Hot shot," she retorts.

Mulder gnaws at his lower lip, then hooks his arms under Scully's
knees, penetrating her even more deeply.  Awed by the sheer rightness
of their joining, Scully revels at the very last shred of her
restraint fluttering away.

When was the last time she felt this good?  That she can't remember
means one of two things:  It's been far too long since she's found
herself...well, not exactly in this position...or--and she strongly
believes this to be the case--no man has ever focused so intently on
giving her pleasure.  No one but Mulder has ever known or loved her
so deeply that their act of physical mating was transformed into a
true joining of spirits.  Without a doubt, no one but Mulder ever
could. 

He rips into her for a giddy eternity, tenderly kissing the sensitive
spots behind her knees, inside her thighs, the instep of her foot. He
calls her name as if she were a half-mile away, instead of all around
him.  And she calls back, pouring words of joy and love into his
soul.  She hears herself chanting, "yes, again...yes, again...yes,
again..." As her cries become more intense, she feels Mulder’s cock
swelling with every thrust; but instead of assuming a frantic speed,
as she expects, he slows, plunging into her with three deliberate,
teeth-rattling strokes.

"Feel it all, Scully," he grunts between tight lips.  "Feel.  Us."  

On the fourth, she anchors him inside her body with vise-like muscle,
drawing from him a long, loud bellow, followed by the hot flow of his
release.  She responds instantaneously, joy ribboning through her
like film spilling off of a wayward projection reel.

A surreal sense of timelessness envelops her as the red-gold hum of
her orgasm pulsates in slow-fading ripples throughout her body,
passing through bone, blood and sinew.  This, she realizes in a
dreamy state, is the heart of life:  this sharing of breath and fluid
and feeling.  She has faced Death so many times, its icy grip only
millimeters away from clutching her, that she had almost forgotten
what Life felt like.  Now, she remembers.  She can't imagine how
anything bad can come of this and she allows herself to again
believe, if only in the safety of this space, that hope sustains and
love surpasses evil and death.

Mulder withdraws from her and his vacancy leaves her yearning.  She
opens her eyes to find him poised above her, contemplating her with a
sweet, sheepish smile.  He looks almost boyish.  She smiles back at
him, a deep sigh gripping her without warning.

His expression grows increasingly amused and she finally asks,
"What?" a tinge of impatience coloring her question.

"Nothing.  I just never realized that 'God-damn-fuck-me-Mulder' was a
real word."  With that, Scully reaches back and, grabbing the last
pillow on the bed, throws it at his head.  Mulder dodges the fluffy
projectile with ease.  "Just checking," he teases, his eyes warm.

A spasm of laughter bubbles to her surface of its own accord.  She
feels sated, indolent.  She can't recall the last time she'd felt so
peaceful.  That she could ever feel this way with Mulder is an
amazement to her, although she has always suspected that given the
chance, they could indeed find happiness.  After so much darkness and
despair, to find a haven of simple bliss in one another is precious
bounty.
 
Pushing against his chest with one foot, Scully shifts back until
she's centered on the bed.  She rolls onto her stomach and leans over
the side, grabbing the pillows that have found their way to the
floor.  Their gymnastics have totally disordered her usually neat
linens.  "Damned bed needed messing," she thinks to herself, with
contentment.

Mulder sinks to the mattress on his knees, straddling and hovering
over her while she twists beneath him.  She turns, a pillow
strategically positioned between them.  Mulder grabs it and plants it
beside its mate at the headboard before turning back to her.  He
shakes his head at her, pinning her with his eyes, and runs his
fingertips from the delicate impression at the base of her throat to
the one at her abdomen.  "Nothing comes between us any more, Scully,"
he says, his voice low and tender.  She shakes her head to indicate
agreement with his declaration, her heart too full to allow her
speech.  

He leans down towards her and as his face nears hers, she wonders how
she ever lived without this beautiful, tortured man in her life.  He
plants a soft kiss on her mouth, then straightens and leaves the bed,
tossing back the pillow at her from the other side.  A minute passes
and she hears the sound of her refrigerator being opened and closed. 
She's tempted to call out "Use a glass, Mulder," but thinks better of
it.  After every place his mouth has been tonight, a milk carton is
the least of her concerns.

The muffled sounds of his navigating the darkness of her home fill
her with deep satisfaction.  It has been a long time since...no, she
corrects herself.  She has never felt this way before, never allowed
herself to be so completely overcome by a man's presence in her life.
 A rush of emotion grips her heart and radiates outward to her
fingertips, her fears dispersed in the warmth that suffuses her.  

He reappears and saunters across the carpeting, into the bathroom,
closing the door behind him.  He's spent an occasional night on her
sofa, for convenience sake, but his unself-conscious meandering in
the buff is new-sprung.  His comfort level strikes her and she
realizes that Mulder already considers himself home.  She turns
towards the bathroom door with a sigh just as he opens it, the light
silhouetting his lanky form.  "Hey, Scully," he calls across the
softly lit space between them as he leans against the frame, "I've
never said anything before, but what's with the natural toothpaste? 
You know, if you expect me to come back as more than just a guest, we
better talk."

"Complaints already?" she tosses back at him with an arch of her
brow.  He flicks off the light and returns to bed, slipping under the
comforter and wrapping his chilled body around her, eliciting a small
gasp from her.

"No, ma'am. Not a bit," he murmurs into her hair.  She turns in his
arms and finds herself nose to nose with him, a wry expression on his
face.  "Do you have any idea how amazed I am you didn't kick my ass
when I showed up?"

"Oh, I was definitely tempted, but it's such a nice ass", she teases,
running her hand over the firm muscle there and relishing the grin
she evokes from him.  "Besides," she continues, "you should really be
amazed that I didn't call your bluff altogether."

"Bluff?" Mulder feigns post-coital amnesia.

Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, she slaps at his chest.  "Mulder...I
was there, remember?  I saw the way you looked at me.  I know you,
and I know how you get when you’re in pursuit."  Fixing her eyes on
his, she enunciates, "You were *not* going through that door."

He sidesteps Scully’s charge with a crinkly-eyed smirk.  "I had you
big time."

"You had *nothing*," she assures him with a smug smile of her own. 
Her tone abruptly softens and she runs her hand up his back.  "My
beautiful Quixote," she says in an undertone, "always tilting at
windmills." 

"Or aliens?"
 
"Or aliens," she agrees with a soft chuckle.

Mulder shifts position until he is cradled in her arms, his cheek
against her chest.  They lie in silence, each caressing the other
with drowsy strokes.  He hasn’t brought up the question that still
lies unanswered between them.  Scully is certain his need to know
hasn’t simply evaporated, and so she decides to answer him with as
little drama as possible.

"Since New Year's," she murmurs into his damp, sweat-slicked hair.

Is it possible to *feel* another person’s expression change, rather
than see it?  At the very least, she feels his heart stop, feels his
breathing hitch for just an instant before he croaks in
disappointment, "New Year’s?"

Scully smiles, feeling a guilty gratification in his reaction.
Pausing to press a kiss to his brow, she stammers a bit as she
qualifies her answer.  "Well...technically...that is...let's just say
that since New Year's, I've been thinking in terms of 'when' instead
of 'what if.'"  She pauses, pleased she’s given him a honest answer,
yet not given too much away.

Mulder pulls away and raises his face to hers.  But, rather than the
beaming countenance she expects to see, his expression is distant. 
It is an expression that confirms her greatest fear: Mulder has
always been able to see through her.  Every time she's held back the
truth during the last seven years, assuring him she was okay, wasn't
afraid, wasn't tired, could handle any situation they found
themselves in, he's known it.  He's known and buried that knowledge,
stepped back from the electrified force field of aloofness within
which she imprisons herself.

He rolls onto his back, away from her, and a fist of anxiety tightens
in her abdomen.  She sighs and props herself up on her elbow,
chastizing herself for her reserve.  What possible damage can come
from opening her heart--busting it wide open for the one person who
truly wants to know what it holds?  She *will* make this right.

"There's more..." she begins, feeling as if he is miles away from
her, instead of just beside her.  Why must everything be so hard?

"I'm listening," he whispers, the muscle in his jaw giving one, small
tic.

She takes a deep breath and reaches out a hand to touch his arm.  "Do
you remember the first time we encountered the black oil?" 

"Scully," his tone is still deadpan but lighter, "if you're going to
tell me the black oil is actually an aphrodisiac..." 

Recognizing *his* defense mechanism makes her feel better, somehow,
understanding that at bottom, he is as nervous about hearing what she
will tell him as she is to tell it. "Don't try slipping any into my
coffee," she responds.  The corner of his mouth quirks and she knows
she's leveled the playing field.  "We were searching that French
salvage ship...and you were looking at video they'd taken of the
fighter plane they had tried to bring up."

"R-r-r-r-red Hot Red," he rumbles suggestively.

At Mulder's mention of the plane’s signature, Scully's face burns,
just as it did then.  "Yes.  And when I identified the model of the
aircraft, you said..." she trails off for a moment, reliving the
memory and hearing his voice ring in her head across four years. "'I
just got very turned on,'" she mimics Mulder's tone perfectly.  She
chuffs at her own silliness.

"*That* line, Scully?  You've got to be yanking my chain...I’ve said
much better stuff than that over the last seven years.  For
chrissakes, give me a couple of minutes and I'll come up with
something that'll really blow you away."

"I trust you'll come up with more than that."  She moves closer to
him, her leg slung over his hip, her chest leaning against his arm. 
Her fingers trace indiscriminate patterns on his chest.  "You did say
all night," she reminds him in a soft voice.  She taps on his chest
several times, her voice still lilting, but carrying just enough
weight to show she’s serious.

He turns back towards her then, his attention refocused.  "So I
did..." he agrees.  Their eyes hold and as is their wont, they say
nothing of the deeper feelings that run between them, knowing that
step will be taken in due course.  It is simply a matter of time. 
His hand cradles her cheek and she leans into the caress she denied
herself earlier tonight.  "So," Mulder finally says, a glint in his
eye, "about the plane... *Red Hot Red*..."

"Well...that was the first time a man made me feel sexy *because* of
my intelligence, rather than despite it."  She shakes her head.  "Men
can't comprehend what it's like to have to choose between being
respected and being desired."

"Scully, as beautiful as you are", he begins, sweeping a hand from
her shoulder to her hip for emphasis, "all of my fantasies start
here."  He kisses one temple, then the other, placing a third at the
center of her forehead.

Reflexively, she retorts, "*All* of them?  Seems your chat with Dr.
Myrick revealed another side of you, Mulder."

Snorting softly, he adds, "Okay, so maybe I am a little obsessed with
a certain blue-eyed red-head with great..."assets."  His hand dips to
cup her ass, squeezing gently.

"And cars, Mulder.  Let's not forget that you're also obsessed with
cars," she teases with a grin.
 
"I'll grant you that.  But I am *not* above experimentation. 
Speaking of which...let's talk about the dining room table..."

END 
TWICE-TOLD TALE
by Blackwood and Audrey Roget
entreamis@yahoo.com, audrey_roget@yahoo.com








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"...you start throwing terms like 'inversion layer' and 'free-floating particulates' around and I can't be held responsible for what happens next."

                  --Mulder to Scully in "Inversion Layer"

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