The Book of Acts

by Brandon D. Ray


Rating:  NC-17

Keywords:  MSR.  ScullyAngst, MulderAngst.  Smut.

Category:  SRA

Summary:  Four loosely connected stories in which Our Heroes explore some
extreme possibilities .... ;)

Feeback:  Oh, come on -- you know you want to!

Distribution:  Anywhere is fine.

AUTHOR'S NOTES on Part 4:  I am indebted to the following fine fanfic
authors for inspiration in putting together the fourth chapter of this
story:

Laura Blaurosen, for her beautiful, funny story, "Oh, I Forgot to Tell
You, Mulder Called", in which she reminds us all of just how much fun
sexual frustration can be (as long as it's happening to someone else);

Vickie Moseley, whose ongoing series, "By Her Side", especially "The
Edict", always brings a shit-eating grin to my face;

Susan Proto, for the wonderful Barbecue Series, especially "Holiday on
Ice"; and

Heathers and Nicole van Dam, whose delightfully funny tale, "Carpe Felis
Mortuus" also contributed to the madness.



==================

1:  ACT OF FAITH.  Scully has given Mulder everything -- except her
precious control.

==================


I'm humming.

There's really no point in denying it; I really am humming, and I've been
humming all day long.  Occasionally I would catch myself at it, and force
myself to stop, but within minutes I would start up again.  And now I'm
humming yet again, and I'm damned i f I'm going to make myself stop
anymore.  I just feel too good NOT to hum.

I take the lid off the pan holding the spaghetti sauce and give the
bubbling mixture a quick stir.  It's pretty much done; all I need to do is
let it simmer until I'm ready to serve it, and stir it occasionally to
keep it from burning on the bottom.  I re place the lid, fill another pot
with water and turn on the burner, and wander out of the kitchen and into
the living room of my apartment.  Still humming.

It isn't as if there's actually anything wrong with humming.  A lot of
people hum.  It's perfectly normal to hum.  Perfectly natural.  Humming is
a sign of happiness.  A sign of contentment.

A sign of joy.

None of which are emotions I've had a lot of experience with in the recent
past, but three months ago all that changed, and now I find myself
humming.  A lot.

It was October 13 when it changed -- Mulder's birthday.  I'd been hinting
around for days, trying to find out if he had plans for that evening.
What those plans might be, I had no idea; other than the Lone Gunmen, I'm
just about his only friend, and he d oesn't get along with his mother.  So
I really didn't think he'd be doing anything that day, but I hadn't had a
lot of success in getting him to come right out and admit it.

I finally gave up on the subtle approach and asked him, point blank, if I
could take him out to dinner for his birthday.  And much to my surprise he
didn't give me any doubletalk -- he just said yes.

I took him to a quiet little Italian place over in Arlington that I'd
heard about from one of my mother's friends.  It turned out to be a little
more romantic than I'd had in mind -- candles, checked red-and-white
tablecloths, and so on -- but that was ok ay.  Mulder and I understood
each other, and romance just wasn't on the agenda for either of us.  Work
was what we lived for; it filled us and it fulfilled us.  We didn't need
anything else.

If you think it sounds like we were both suffering from a severe case of
denial, you are absolutely right.

It was a pleasant evening all around.  The food was good, and of course
the company was good.  Even then, even in the time I have come to think of
as Before, there was no one I would rather have spent time with than Fox
Mulder.  There still isn't, but now
 I'm allowed to admit that to myself.

Finally, though, the evening drew to a close, and we found ourselves
sitting in my car, parked in front of his apartment building.  For a few
minutes we just sat there, neither of us saying anything, neither of us
wanting the night to end.

To my surprise, it was Mulder who broke the silence.  "Scully," he said,
"I want to thank you for taking me out tonight.  It was really special."
And then he turned in his seat to face me, and gave me a look which I can
only describe as enigmatic, if you 'll excuse the expression.

I smirked slightly.  "Does that mean I get a goodnight kiss?"

And he said, "Sure," and slipped one arm around my shoulders and the other
around my waist and drew me in to him and kissed me.

And as of that moment I was a fallen woman, and I've been falling ever
since.

It's wonderful.

I am torn between saying that the last three months have been a blur, and
saying that every golden moment is etched indelibly in my memory --
including the one that occurred at five o'clock this morning, before
Mulder finally, reluctantly, climbed out of my bed and went home to shower
and change before going to work.

The funny thing is, both statements are true:  It HAS all been a blur, and
I DO remember every single moment.  I think this may be an indication that
time is not a universal invariant after all, but I'm not too concerned
about trying to explain this parti cular extreme possibility.  I'm having
too much fun experiencing it to want to pick it apart.

Which brings me up to tonight.  January 13.  Our three month anniversary.
And we're going to celebrate it, just like a couple of teenagers
celebrating the three month anniversary of deciding to go steady.  And I'm
sitting on the sofa in my living room, m y head thrown back and my legs
stretched out, thinking happy thoughts and waiting for Mulder to get here.
And I'm humming.

Finally I hear his key in the lock, and I rise to meet him.  He's
beautiful, as always, even wrapped in his heavy winter coat and stocking
cap, and as I step into his arms I am amazed all over again that this man
is mine.  All mine.  I feel like Ebeneezer
 Scrooge at the end of "A Christmas Carol":  I don't deserve to be this
happy, but since I am, I'll take it.  And Mulder leans down and kisses me
and for a timeless interval I just stop thinking entirely.

Finally our lips part, and we just stand there in the doorway, wrapped in
each other's arms and looking at each other for a pair of minutes.  I
can't get enough of looking at Mulder these days, and the best part of it
is that he can't seem to get enough o f looking at me.  And so we spend a
fair amount of our private time just looking at each other.  Looking is a
vastly underrated activity in my opinion.

At last Mulder releases me, and we move into my apartment and shut and
lock the door.  Then we stand there looking at each other for another
minute, and a slow, affectionate smile spreads across Mulder's face.

"Scully," he says, "you're humming again."

I smile back at him, and just say, "Yup."  And I turn away and go back
into the kitchen.

He follows me, of course, and as I dump the spaghetti noodles into the pot
of boiling water, he slips his arms around my waist from behind, and
murmurs in my ear, "Funny isn't it, how cooking imitates life sometimes?"
I smile, not knowing what's coming, but knowing that it's going to be
good.  He goes on, "I mean, think about it.  Those noodles are so firm and
hard." He strokes my hipbones with his hands and I shiver slightly.  "But
after they've been in a warm, wet place for awhile, they get soft."  An d
he squeezes my hips and I press myself back against him and sigh, and for
a moment I close my eyes and just lean against him as he continues to
caress my hips and sides.

Mulder knows the way to my heart, and it isn't through my stomach.

Finally he lets me go again, and he goes back out to the living room while
I finish putting dinner together.  The whole scene is rather alarmingly
domestic, but I know better than to be too worried by it.  There is no
possible way that Mulder and I could ever fall into a cliche-ridden trap;
we'd both die of boredom the first afternoon.

At last the spaghetti is done.  I take the two salads I prepared earlier
from the refrigerator, load two plates with spaghetti and sauce, and head
out to the living room and Mulder.

# # #

It's later.  Supper is behind us now, and we're cuddled on the couch
watching one of Mulder's favorite classic monster movies.  Truth be told,
I've acquired a taste for them myself, a consequence of being persistently
exposed to them for the last five yea rs.

This one's pretty good:  "The Thing".  Not the remake from the 1980s, but
the really good one from the early 50s, the one with James Arness playing
the part of the monster.  I hadn't realized it was Sheriff Dillon in that
suit until Mulder pointed it out to me, but now that he has I can see it
in the way the creature walks, and it's all I can do to keep from laughing
everytime it comes on the screen.

At last the movie is over.  Mulder picks up the remote and clicks off the
television, and for awhile the room is quiet as we just enjoy each other's
presence.

In some ways these are the times that I enjoy most of all:  the quiet
times when we are just together, holding each other, touching each other,
feeling each other.  I've never been like this with a man, and it's so
incredibly intimate that sometimes I can
 barely stand it.  I didn't know that this was even possible; certainly
nothing in my previous relationships led me to expect it.  It's almost
better than sex, and if I had to choose one or the other, I don't know
what I'd do.  Fortunately, I don't have t o make that choice; I get to
have it all.

I get to have Mulder in all the ways there are to have him.

At length I decide that I've had enough cuddling, and I turn in his arms
and plant a soft kiss at the base of his neck.  He moans slightly, and his
grip around my waist tightens as I trace the outline of his jaw with my
tongue.  His skin is warm and salty
 and uniquely Mulder in flavor, and I can't resist stopping and nipping
lightly at the tip of his chin.

He chuckles at that, and says, "Are you coming on to me, Agent Scully?"

That makes me chuckle, too, and I push him down onto his back and crawl up
on top of him, rotating my hips so that my soft center rubs against the
hardness of his erection.  "I don't know," I reply.  "I haven't decided
yet."  And at that he laughs out lou d, and I start laughing too, and for
a long moment we hug each other tightly, laughing like a pair of hyenas.

And this is another thing I never experienced Before:  I've never had a
lover I could laugh with.  Sex always seemed so sober and serious; I
hadn't realized that it could also be fun.  Laughter, too, is a form of
intimacy, as overwhelming in its own way a s the gentle communion we were
sharing a few moments ago.

Without warning, I swoop down and capture his mouth with mine.  Boldly, I
plunge my tongue into his mouth, probing and licking and caressing, and
moaning with sudden urgency.  My hands roam over his chest and shoulders,
exploring once again the territory I have come to know so very well, and
his hands are on me, too, touching, stroking, tickling.

Finally I break the kiss, and I close my eyes and lay my head down on his
chest to rest and catch my breath for a moment.  I am aware of the warmth
of his body underneath mine, and of the precious hardness pressing up
against my abdomen.  I shift my posit ion slightly, trying to bring more
of my body into contact with his, and he groans and nuzzles his nose
through my hair.

"God, Scully," he says.  'Oh, god."  His hands are gently stroking my
back, warming me all the way through.  "I love you so much."  His words
are low and gravelly, and send tingles of electricity racing through my
body.

"I love you, too, Mulder," I say, and I move my hips against him again.

"Scully, you have no idea what that does to me," he whispers.  "You have
no idea."  And he returns the favor, arching and swiveling his own hips so
that his erection moves against my center, and now it is my turn to groan.

Then for a little while we lie there on the sofa together, limbs
intertwined, breathing softly, neither of us speaking.  This is different
from our earlier cuddling; different, but equally good, equally intimate.
It is profoundly erotic, and my desire fo r him slowly builds within me as
I feel the heat of his body beneath me and inhale his scent with every
breath I take.

I feel him moving slightly beneath me, and he brings his lips to my ear
and whispers, "Scully, I want to make this special for you.  I want this
to be a night you'll never forget -- a night that neither of us will ever
forget."  His words send shudders ra cing through me, and the feel of his
hot, moist breath against my neck and ear is almost overwhelming.

He nips lightly at my earlobe, sending a cascade of pleasure crashing
through my body.  "Tell me, Scully," he continues.  "Tell me what you
want.  Tell me your secret fantasy, something you've never told to anyone.
Tell me what you think about when you t ouch yourself, the thing you never
thought you could have.  Tell me so that I can give it to you."

I raise my head up off his chest and look down at him, suddenly feeling
very nervous, even slightly afraid, and not quite sure why.  "What -- what
do you mean?"

"Just what I said," he replies, and slips his hand behind my head and
draws me down to him for a soft, erotic kiss.  "I want to give you
something special," he murmurs against my lips.  "I want to give you
something no one else has ever given you, somethi ng that you've never
even told anyone you want."  Again he kisses me, and I feel my body start
to tremble.  "Please, Scully.  Let me give this to you."

I am suddenly short of breath, and my mind is whirling, whirling.  I don't
know what to say, I don't know what to do.  What he's asking of me is so
far beyond anywhere I've ever been with a man, so far beyond anything I've
even considered.  I've opened my
 body to men, and twice now I've even opened my heart, but now he's asking
me to open my soul, as well.  He is asking for an act of supreme intimacy,
an act of ultimate trust.  He's asking for something I've never been able
to do with anyone, FOR anyone, and the very thought of it is terrifying.

He's asking me for an act of faith.

And I am considering it.

I draw back from him, just a bit, and I stare down into his eyes,
searching for some clue.  Searching for some sign, some hint of...of
something.  And he is looking back up at me just as intently, and I know
that he can read the fear and uncertainty in my
 own gaze, but he isn't pushing, he isn't insisting, he is simply waiting.
He has asked me for this, and now he is simply holding me and waiting for
my reply.

And abruptly my final walls collapse, and the last remaining barrier
between us comes tumbling down.  I cannot refuse him this; I cannot refuse
him anything, and suddenly I am shaking, and my breath is coming in short,
ragged gasps, and I bury my face in his chest and clutch at his shoulders
as his strong, comforting arms tighten around me, holding me, protecting
me.

"It's okay, Scully," he says, very softly.  "It's okay."  And he rocks me
gently back and forth while I try to get my breathing back under control.
"You can tell me anything," he says.  "You can trust me with anything.
You know I'll never hurt you."

And I do know that, but I'm still so scared, so afraid -- afraid of what
will happen if I tell him, but also afraid of what will happen if I DON'T
tell him.  I don't know why this has suddenly become so important; I
haven't even consciously thought about this in years, although I've always
been aware of it, lurking in the back of my mind.  This is the feeling
that makes me wake up sweating in the middle of the night; this is the
feeling that feeds my most intense dreams and my worst nightmares; this is
th e feeling that drove me to Ed Jerse's bed....

It is that last thought which finally sends me over the edge, and makes me
realize that I have to tell him.  I have to share this with Mulder; I have
to correct the terrible mistake I made in Philadelphia so long ago.  If I
had turned to Mulder then, and shared this with him instead of running
from him, things would have been so very different, so very much better.
An irrational part of me even thinks that perhaps the cancer would not
have come, but I know better than THAT, at least in my mind.

I have to tell him, and I have to tell him now.  Already I can feel the
barriers starting to re-form, and in a few more seconds they will be back
in place, high and strong and impenetrable once again.  I have to tell
him.  I have to.  I have to.  My face is still buried in his chest, but I
can't seem to move, I can't raise my head and look him in the eyes, but I
have to say it, and I have to say it now.  And when I speak it is barely
above a whisper. "I want to lose control."

He continues to rock me in silence for a moment, his hands gently stroking
my back and my hair, and I begin to wonder if perhaps he didn't hear me.
A dark, distant corner of my mind, the part which has been cowering in
fear since I first started consider ing this, begins to exult.  If he
didn't hear me, then it doesn't count, i don't have to be responsible for
it, I don't have to let it be real.  I can just pretend it didn't happen.

Just as I did after Philadelphia.

No.  I can't do this; I can't deny this.  Mulder deserves better than that
-- *I* deserve better than that.  I raise my head off his chest and with
all the will I can muster I open my eyes and look down at him, and I say,
in shaky, uncertain tones, "I wan t to lose control, Mulder.  I need to
lose control.  I need to be helpless."

The words hang between us, heavy and meaningful and threatening.  I know I
have put a lot on the line with those words; so much depends on how he
responds, what he says, how he says it.  The wrong words, even the wrong
tone of voice, and I will go skitter ing back into my shell and the walls
will be rebuilt, stronger, perhaps, than they were before.  We will still
be friends, we will still be lovers, but this opportunity for even greater
closeness will be gone, perhaps forever.

Finally he nods, ever so slightly, and says, "Okay, Scully.  Okay.  I'll
help you lose control."  And he draws me down to him and kisses me again,
a long, lingering passionate kiss.

After a moment I feel myself start to relax in his arms.  This is Mulder,
my Mulder, the one I have come to trust as no other, and I know that he
would never hurt me.  I more than just know it; I feel it.  I can share
this with him; I can share anything with him, and it will just make us
closer, more intimate, more nearly one.  Another part of me, the part in
that dark, distant corner that didn't want me to tell him in the first
place, is absolutely terrified, but at least for the moment that part of
me is not in control, and I melt down against Mulder, almost flowing
against him as he continues to kiss me and hold me and rock me in his
embrace.

Finally he ends the kiss and carefully pulls himself to a sitting
position.  I don't know quite how he does it, but somehow he accomplishes
this without pushing me off of him, and now I'm curled up in his lap,
still encircled by his warm, loving embrace, feeling wanted and cherished
and very, very safe.  I know that this feeling is not going to last; I
know that if Mulder does give me what I've asked him to give me, it is
going to be a very difficult and frightening experience, but I'm not
dwelling on tha t right now.  Right now all I want to feel are his warmth
and love surrounding me.

He rises from the sofa, still holding me in his arms, and gently sets me
on my feet.  His arms are still around me, and I cling to him for just a
moment, feeling his body against mine and breathing in his scent, before I
finally allow him to lead me towar ds the bedroom.

Now the fear is back, and with every step we take towards the bedroom it
grows stronger.  It fills me, it pervades me, it surrounds me, and only
Mulder's arm around my shoulders, tender and firm and loving, allows me to
continue walking.  My knees are wea k, and I lean against him slightly,
letting him take some of my weight as we move together down the hallway.

At last we are in the bedroom, standing before my bed.  Mulder's arm is
still around me, and that is all that keeps me from bolting from the room.
On one level I don't understand this rising sense of panic that I feel:
Mulder and I have lain in this bed
 so many times in the past three months; he was even in this bed once
Before, that time when I shot him.  Being here with him should be
comfortable and familiar, but it is not.

On another level I understand all too well why I feel the way I do.  The
other times I've been here with Mulder have been special and intimate, but
even when I opened my body to him, even when I allowed him to penetrate me
physically and willingly gave hi m my heart, still I was holding back from
him, and not allowing him into the secret place at my very center.  And
now I am about to do just that, and it terrifies me.

I feel my body start to tremble again.  I want so much to back away from
this; I want to turn to him and fling my arms around his neck, and tell
him I've changed my mind.  I want him simply to hold me and touch me and
make love to me in the way we've beco me accustomed.  It would be good, so
very, very good; it would be wonderful.  It's always wonderful with
Mulder, more wonderful than it has ever been with anyone, and I want to
have that again.

But I cannot speak the words.  I cannot say, "Mulder, I want to stop, I
want to go back."  I struggle within myself, I try to articulate what I'm
feeling, but nothing comes, and finally I give up and close my eyes and
lean against him.

It seems that he has been waiting for me to decide, because now he turns
to me and circles both his arms around me once again in a loving embrace.
For just a moment we stand there together, Mulder holding me while I
listen to his heartbeat and his breath ing.  Then he releases me and steps
away, and I am alone.

So alone.

I open my eyes and turn to look at him.  He is standing across the bed
from me, watching me, and as I search his eyes I see nothing but love and
caring.  He nods to me slightly, and as I continue to look at him he
slowly begins to take off his clothes.

I have seen Mulder naked before, many times, yet somehow this time it is
different.  It is revealing and sensuous and erotic, and it makes my pulse
pound in my groin as I watch him slip out of first his shirt and then his
trousers.  He slides his thumbs i nto the waistband of his boxers, his
eyes fixed on me, and now once again my breathing is harsh and ragged.

He slides the garment down off his hips, allowing his erection to spring
free, and for just a moment I can't see anything but his penis, long and
hard and thick and waiting for me.  I want to reach out and touch it, but
he is out of my reach, on the other
 side of the bed, and I don't think I would be able to move my arm in any
case.

Now he stands before me, completely naked, and for another moment I simply
stand there, looking at his erection.  At last I move my gaze upwards,
across his well-muscled abdomen, across the sparse hair of his chest,
across his beautiful shoulders and neck , finally reaching his face, and
his eyes, and what I see there is almost indescribable:  A complex mix of
love and lust and uncertainty, even of fear.  Yes, fear.  Mulder is
afraid, and I realize with a sudden rush of emotion that he is not only
afraid f or me, but he is afraid OF me, and of himself.  He is afraid that
he is doing the wrong thing, and that I am about to turn on him -- or,
worse, that I am about to turn away from him.

I want to reach out to him, I want to reassure him, but still I am unable
to speak, still I am unable to move, and so I try desperately to send the
message with my eyes, begging him to read my true feelings there.  Wanting
him to know how deeply I need th is, how much I need to have it from him,
no matter how much it frightens me.

I must have succeeded, because suddenly his eyes clear, and he smiles
slightly and nods again, and then he is moving around the bed and back to
my side, pausing only to give me a brief kiss before stepping behind me,
out of my range of vision.

He waits for just a few seconds, allowing me a moment of anticipation
before he begins to remove my clothes, slowly and methodically.  His hands
brush lightly against me in an irregular, unpredictable rhythm as he works
buttons and zippers and clasps.  My
 skin burns wherever he touches me, and every nerve ending in my body is
completely alive and on full alert.  I have never been this aroused in my
life, and yet we have only just begun.

Finally I am naked, too, except for my plain cotton briefs.  Mulder pauses
in undressing me and rests his hands on my hips, as he did earlier in the
kitchen, gently and tenderly massaging my pelvis through the thin material
of my panties, and I feel a shu dder race through my body.

He slips his hands under the waistband and gently pushes the garment down
past my hips before finally allowing it to fall softly to the floor.  He
then tightens his grip on my hips and draws me to him, pressing his body
against mine and wrapping his arms around my waist.  I can feel his
erection probing against my lower back, hard and hot and insistent, and
again I start to tremble.

For a pair of minutes we just stand there like that, Mulder's arms around
me, embracing me from behind, and his body is so warm and his scent is so
intoxicating.  I feel dizzy, exhilarated, and my eyes slide shut and my
head lolls to one side, exposing my
 neck to him.

In another moment I feel his breath against my neck and ear, and it is
warm and moist, and he whispers, "Scully, I love you.  I know you know
that, but I want to remind you.  I love you more than anything.  I would
never do anything to hurt you, and I wou ld never allow you to be hurt."

I moan softly, as much from the sensations coursing through my body as
from the tender caress of his words.  I am simultaneously aroused and
afraid, and the combination of emotions is assaulting my mind, sending me
to places I've never been before.  I hav e never felt like this; never.
And while part of me just wants it to go on and on, another part of me
crouches in that dark, dark corner, waiting for a chance to escape.

"Scully," Mulder continues, his voice still very, very soft.  "I'm going
to give you what you asked for.  I'm going to give you this gift.  I want
you to know that I understand how hard it was for you to ask for this, and
I am awed and humbled that you ar e so sure of me that you were able to
ask for it.  This is not something lightly given, Scully, and I know that,
and I want you to know that I know that."

God, he understands.  This is all so incredible; it is so unbelievable
that anyone, any man, could possibly be so gentle and understanding, and
my arousal grows still stronger at the knowledge of it, but the fear
grows, too.  If he can look that far insid e me, if he can understand me
that well, then he is a threat, and part of me insists that I must be on
guard against him.

Now Mulder moves away from me again, and again I feel lost and alone.  I
hear him opening and shutting the drawers in my bureau, and then he is
moving up behind me again, letting his body come once again into contact
with mine.  Warm.  Comforting.  Safe.

His arms move up and around and past my shoulders, and suddenly I cannot
see, and for an instant I try to jerk away from him, but he has
anticipated this and with one hand he holds my upper body still while with
the other he wraps a cloth around my head, covering my eyes as if with a
blindfold.  I suck in my breath as the fear comes racing to the
foreground, and I have to make a conscious effort not to struggle against
him.

He finishes tying the cloth in place -- it is a scarf, I realize, one of
my own scarves, and somehow that knowledge makes me relax, just a little
-- and once again he wraps his arms around me from behind and holds me
close while I gradually adjust to the fact that I cannot see.

In a strange way, it is actually rather pleasant.  There is no sound in
the room, other than our breathing, and with my vision restricted I am
able to focus my attention on my other senses:  On the feel of Mulder's
body pressing gently against mine, and o n the musky, male scent of his
arousal mingling with my own.  These sensations are familiar to me, and
comforting, and slowly I feel myself start to relax in his arms once
again.

After a timeless interval he releases me again, and now he takes my left
hand in one of his, and places his other hand on his spot on the small of
my back, and he gently leads me forward, and says, very softly, "Step
carefully, Scully.  Three steps and yo u'll be there....that's it."  His
gentle guidance brings me to a halt as my knees touch the edge of the bed,
and then he is turning me around and helping me sit down.

My breathing is now slow, steady and even.  The fear has receded somewhat,
having been overwhelmed at least for the moment by arousal, but still the
fear is there, hovering in that dark corner, waiting for an opening.

The mattress sags as Mulder sits down next to me, his warm, bare thigh
brushing against mine as he does so.  He slips an arm around my shoulders
and again he simply holds me for a moment, cuddling me protectively
against his side.  Then, slowly, gently, l ovingly, he urges me down until
I'm lying flat on my back.

I'm pretty sure I know what's coming next, and again I feel the fear
rising within me, battling with my arousal for ascendancy.  I am
struggling to control my breathing, and my pulse is hammering in my ears,
while at the same time there is a hot, needy ac he in my very center.
God, I want him so much, and at the same time I am so afraid....

Now Mulder is adjusting my position on the bed, arranging me with my head
lying on a pillow and my arms straight down at my sides.  Suddenly he
leans over me and presses his lips against mine, and I shudder as his
tongue swishes briefly into my mouth and then is gone again.  And then I
feel the mattress shifting once more as he rises from the bed, and I hear
one of my bureau drawers open and then close again.

Mulder is back, his weight once again moving the mattress as he settles
next to me.  He takes my right wrist, and a moment later I feel his
fingers wrapping a cloth -- presumably another my scarves -- around my
wrist, and then he is tying a knot, yanking on it gently but firmly to
ensure that it will not come undone.  And he stretches my arm up over my
head and releases it, and I feel a few sharp tugs on the scarf around my
wrist, and I know he must be tying the other end to the bedpost.

I have never done anything like this.  I have never even imagined that I
might want to.  This is not even what I envisioned when I told Mulder that
I needed to lose control, that I needed to be helpless.  But now that I'm
here, now that it is happening, i t seems right, and the only reason for
that is that it is Mulder who is doing it.  I have to keep reminding
myself of that:  This is Mulder.  My Mulder.  Only Mulder.  No one else,
never anyone else.  The only one in all the world whom I trust enough to a
llow this to happen.

Mulder.

Now he is rising from the bed, and from the small incidental sounds I know
that he is moving around to the other side, and a moment later this is
confirmed as once again his weight causes the mattress to sag.  And
another moment after that another scarf h as been wrapped around my left
wrist, and then tied to the bedpost.  And amazingly, at least for the
moment, I am feeling very little fear, although I know that it is still
there in the back of my mind, as strong as ever.  Waiting.

I know that my ankles will be next, but before he moves on to them Mulder
lies down on the bed next to me, letting me once again feel the comforting
warmth of his body against mine.  "Scully," he whispers.  "Oh, Scully, I
love you so much.  You're so very
 beautiful."  I feel his lips brush against my cheek, as delicate as a
butterfly's wing.  "I want you to know that this can stop at any time.
You can trust me; whenever you need to stop, all you have to do is tell
me, and it will stop."

He pauses for just a moment, and I'm thinking that what he's saying can't
work.  I know how afraid I am, and I know that in order to overcome that
fear and work past it I need to be completely out of control, and what he
has just told me will rob me of th at.  I need to be able to ask him to
release me, I need to be able to beg it of him, demand it of him, and have
him not respond.  If he is going to let me go the first time I ask him to,
this will all be for nothing.  And back in that dark corner the fear ful
part of me is again rejoicing, relieved at the escape hatch Mulder has
just provided.

But it seems that he is reading my mind.  "It won't be simple and
straightforward, Scully," he says.  "It can't be simple and
straightforward.  You can't just ask and be let go; you have to ask in the
right way -- in just the right way.  You have to use t he code word."  And
he pauses for just an instant, and then he says, "'Spooky.' You have to
say 'spooky'."

He repeats the word to me, as if he wants to make sure that I heard him
and will remember.  "'Spooky'.  You have to say 'spooky'.  That's the code
word, Scully.  If you say anything else, I'll ignore what you're telling
me, and we'll keep going.  But if y ou say 'spooky' I'll turn you loose
immediately.  No hesitation, Scully.  No uncertainty.  No
second-guessing."  And again I feel his lips against my cheek, very gentle
and loving.  "If you say 'spooky', you will be free within seconds.  I
promise."

Unexpectedly, I feel my eyes filling with tears.  I don't know how I got
so lucky as to find this man.  He is so kind, so thoughtful and so loving,
and for a moment I feel as if my heart is going to burst from the love I
feel for him.  I want to reach out
 to him and hold him in my arms and touch and caress him, but then I try
to move my arms and I can't, and the fear comes rushing back.

But I don't need to be afraid, I tell myself as firmly as I'm able.  There
is nothing to be afraid of.  Mulder will not hurt me, and he will let me
go immediately if I need him to.  He promised me, and he would not break a
promise like that.  'Spooky.' A ll I have to do is say 'spooky' and he'll
let me go.  'Spooky.'

'Spooky.'

And again the fear recedes, just a little.

Mulder sits up again, and then moves down to the foot of the bed, and in
less than a minute both of my ankles have also been bound to the bedposts.

And now I am ready.  Now WE are ready.  I am lying on my back,
spread-eagled on my bed, my wrists and ankles bound.  I can move my hips,
a little.  I can move my shoulders, a little.  I can turn my head and lift
it off the pillow, a little.  But beyond th at I cannot move.  I am
powerless.  I am helpless.

I am trapped.

Now the fear is suddenly swooping into the foreground, taking me over,
submerging everything else as the panic rapidly builds in my chest.  I
start to struggle, trying to pull free, trying to escape.  If I can free
even one limb, I'll be able to free the
 others, it will give me the necessary mobility.  But it's no good,
Mulder's done too good a job, the knots are too professional, too tight.
I choke back a sob....

And very distantly, I become aware of Mulder again.  Once more he is lying
next to me, gently touching me, stroking my arms and shoulders, talking
gently to me, the soft murmur of his voice like a lullaby, reaching out to
me, calming me, soothing me.  And
 slowly, gradually, my struggles cease, and my body starts to relax again.

"It's okay, Scully," he's saying to me, his voice lilting and soft and
loving.  "It's okay.  It's okay to let go a little; it's okay to be afraid
a little.  That's what this is for; that's why we're doing this.  So that
you can face your fear, and let you rself go.  So that you can be wild and
free."  He stops speaking for a moment, but he continues to stroke me and
touch me, running his fingers over my skin. He is not seeking a sexual
response -- not yet.  He is simply petting me and being near to me, pai
nting my body with his fingertips, covering me with love and affection.

Now his voice changes, dropping into a lower register, and immediately my
body starts to tingle.  "I love looking at you, Scully.  You're so very
beautiful.  So very, very beautiful."  His hand continues to stroke me,
pet me, love me.  "I could look at yo u all day, and sometimes I do.  Did
you know that?"

Yes, Mulder, I do know that.  I know that because I look at you, too.  I
look at you and think about you and --

"I've always enjoyed looking at you, Scully.  Always."  He moves a little
closer on the bed, and now his fingers stray across my breasts, not
touching the nipples, but circling around them.  Circling, circling,
circling.  "Looking at you has always arouse d me," he continued.  "It
makes me so hard, sometimes, just looking at you.  Even before we were
together, it used to make me hard sometimes.  I would sit there across the
office....or sit next to you on a plane....or in the passenger seat of a
car....and
 I would try to imagine what you would look like under your clothes, and
I'd get hard."

He moves closer again, and now I can feel the heat from his skin radiating
against mine.  His fingers are continuing their explorations, seeking,
probing, testing, and everywhere he touches me he leaves a trail of fire.
This is so arousing....I cannot be lieve how arousing it is, just to have
him touching me, just to hear his voice talking to me.  For a moment I am
almost able to forget the fear....

"I wondered what you looked like under your clothes, Scully," he
continues, and his hand snakes up to cup my left breast.  "I wondered what
color your nipples were."  He caresses my breast, his fingers dancing up
to the nipple and then dancing away withou t quite touching it, and I moan
a little in frustration.  "Were they brown?  Were they tan?"  His voice
drops to a whisper, and he says, "Were they pink?" And finally he pinches
my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Frantic signals go racing through my body, and another groan escapes my
lips as I arch my torso, trying desperately for more contact.  I want his
touch, I need his touch, but I'm tied down, I can barely move, and despite
my best efforts his fingers dance away from my nipple, finally arriving on
my shoulder, and I am left gasping and moaning in frustration.

"I wondered about other things, too, Scully," he says, not giving me any
time at all to calm down and relax again.  "Sometimes at night I would lie
awake and think about your body.  I wondered about your body; I would
think about it all the time.  I would
 lie on my couch at night and think about it, and I would touch myself."

His hand starts sliding down my breasts again, and in passing he gives my
right nipple a gentle squeeze, and again I moan and thrash for a minute at
the stimulation.  Then his hand moves on to my abdomen, and starts moving
in ever-widening circles, coming
 closer and closer to my center.

"I would touch myself, Scully," he repeated.  "I would touch myself and
think about you.  Did you ever do that?  Did you ever touch yourself and
think about me?"

Yes, I did, Mulder.  I would touch myself and pretend that it was you
touching me, and sometimes I would cry out your name as I reached orgasm.
God, if only it HAD been you.  If only it HAD been...

"Sometimes I would do it when we were out on a case," he continued, his
voice still soft and seductive.  "I would lie in bed in my hotel room,
thinking about you and touching myself."  His fingers brush lightly
against my pubic hair, and I arch my hips as
 best I can, but it isn't enough, and his fingers are dancing away again,
moving back up onto my belly.

"I would think about you," he said.  "I would think about you lying in
your own bed, only a foot or two away on the other side of the wall.  And
I would close my eyes and touch myself, and pretend that you had come to
my room through the connecting door, and that it was you who was touching
me, stroking me, feeling me."

God, Mulder; you have no idea how often I wanted to do just exactly that.
You have no idea.  And I came so close once...I actually was standing in
front of the door, and I almost reached out to push it open.  I was so
close...so close....

He moves still closer, and now his body is touching mine, ever so lightly,
and his warm, moist breath is teasing my neck and ear.  And he must be
reading my mind again, because he says, "I know about that time in Duluth,
Scully."

Oh, Jesus!  How can he know about it?  How could he possibly --

"I know about the time in Duluth because I saw you," he says.  "My room
was dark, but you'd left the light on in yours, and I saw the shadows of
your feet under the door."  He leans down closer until his lips are
brushing lightly against my ear as he spea ks.  "I saw you, Scully.  I
knew you were there.  And I touched myself, keeping myself hard and ready,
just in case you decided to come to me.  Just in case, Scully.  The whole
time you were standing there, trying to decide, I was touching myself,
thinkin g about you, thinking about your hand on my cock."  His tongue
runs along the rim of my ear, bringing another groan from my lips, and I
turn my head, trying to catch his mouth with mine, but again he is too
fast for me, and pulls away.

My arousal is now at a fever pitch.  Mulder's hand continues to stroke and
touch my abdomen, occasionally moving up to caress my breasts, and
sometimes dipping down to brush against my center.  I want so desperately
for him to pick a spot and just stay th ere, but he won't do it, dammit.
His hand keeps moving, leaving a trail of fire wherever it pauses, but
never staying in one place long enough to offer me any relief.  I feel a
growl of frustration rising in my throat, and I toss my head from side to
sid e, because it's all I can do.

"God, I'm so hard tonight, Scully," he says.  "So very, very hard.  I -- I
think I need to touch myself.  I really think I need to."  And his hand
lifts off of my body and is gone.

Oh, God, Mulder...no.  Don't do this to me.  Don't take your hand away,
and don't put it on yourself.  I want to be touching you, I want to touch
you while you touch me.  I want it.  I want it.  I want it.  I need it.
Please....

I hear him groan, and the sound sends a spasm through my body.  My hips
buck once, then twice, just from hearing his pleasure noise.  "Scully," he
says, and now his voice is choked with desire.  "Oh, God, Scully, it feels
so good."  Again my hips buck, an d now I'm breathing in short, ragged
gasps.  "It feels so good, Scully.  I can barely stand it.  I'm so hard
tonight...I'm so hard it almost hurts."  And again I hear him groan, and
again my body shudders in response.

Then his mouth is on my ear again, and he's licking and suckling on me,
and he's whispering to me, "Scully, it's so good, it feels so good.  God,
it's so good."  I feel his body quivering where it touches mine, and his
hips jerk against me.  He's not fak ing this; thank God he's not faking
this.  He's as aroused as I am, I can feel it.  I can feel the electricity
sparking between us.  God, I need him....I need him.  My body has never
been more ready, and I need him now....

And suddenly I turn my head again, and this time I am successful, and my
mouth closes over his.  My tongue swirls into his mouth, exploring,
caressing, stroking, and then his tongue is returning the favor, and my
body is shuddering again in a premonition of intercourse as his tongue
penetrates my mouth.

And then his hand is on me again, and thank God he's no longer teasing me.
His fingers are exploring my center, pushing through the folds, finding
the hot bundle of nerves and making my hips jerk and buck spasmodically.
And he's saying, "Oh, God, Scully ...you're so wet.  I've never felt you
this wet before.  I've never felt anyone this wet before."  And his words
are spurring me on, and my arousal is building and building and
building....

And without even knowing how it happened or why it changed I am suddenly
in full panic.  I'm struggling against the bindings on my wrists and
ankles, trying desperately to pull loose.  Mulder doesn't seem to get it
right away, or maybe he does, I can't te ll, but he's continuing to stroke
and caress my center, touching and rubbing me, but it's not good anymore,
it's not arousing me, it's terrifying me.  My hips continue to jerk, but
now I'm trying to escape, I'm trying to get away, I have to get away, I ha
ve to be in control.  I can't take this any longer.  Oh, God, Mulder, I'm
so sorry; I thought I could do this, I wanted to do this, I wanted to
share this with you, but I just can't, I just can't.  And I'm sobbing now,
crying in fear and frustration and s orrow....

And suddenly I'm being pressed down into the mattress by a heavy weight,
and I'm so far gone in my terror that I don't know where it came from or
what caused it, but whatever it is it's making me feel even more trapped,
even more vulnerable.  And now I'm crying Mulder's name, and I'm begging
him to let me free, and he's not doing it, he's not untying me, and I'm
going to have to use that special word, I'm going to have to say it, and
then everything will be ruined, but I have to I have to I have to I'm so
 scared I have to and God Mulder please forgive me, and I draw in my
breath, ready to say the word --

-- and I draw in my breath, and the smell of Mulder's arousal hits me like
a hammer blow.  It's stunning, it's incredible, and I don't know how or
when I stopped noticing it, but now it has my full attention, and it's the
most beautiful thing I've ever sm elled in my life.  And I suddenly
realize that the weight on top of me is also Mulder, it's his body, and he
hasn't trapped me, he's covered me, he's all over me, like a warm,
comforting blanket, protecting me and keeping me safe, and suddenly the
fear is
 gone, it's simply gone, and all I feel is love and desire....

....and then he's entering me, and he's inside me, and time seems to stop,
and he's filling me completely and he's all that there is I'm totally
engulfed in him and I want to wrap myself around him and I still can't
move but that's okay too because Mulder
 is everywhere, he's on top of me he's inside of me he's all around me....

....and he starts to move against me in a strong, steady rhythm, and with
every stroke I climb higher and higher and higher and he just goes on and
on and on and the feelings go on and on and on....

....and there's a bright white light all around us and its surrounding us
and lifting us up and there's nothing in the universe but Mulder and me
and he's inside me, God he's inside me he's inside me he's inside....

                        ....me....

# # #

Warmth.  Suffusing.  Surrounding.  Blanketing.  Radiating.

Weight.  Pressing.  Pushing.  Squeezing.  Grounding.

Touch.  Feeling.  Embracing.  Hugging.  Caressing.

Mulder.  Holding.  Caring.  Cherishing.  Loving.

I slowly open my eyes.  The blindfold is gone.  Mulder is lying on top of
me, looking down at me with an expression of awe and wonder on his face.
He leans down and kisses me, and I realize that we are still joined, and
he is still hard, or perhaps he is
 hard again.  And my wrists and ankles are no longer restrained, and I
wrap my arms and legs around him, drawing him down onto me, and I'm
hugging him, loving him, trying to get closer to him.  And still he is
kissing me, loving me, worshiping me, and I c an feel him inside me, and I
want more, I want so much more.

And he starts to thrust, and I moan and thrust back, and then we are
making love once again, our hips moving together in perfect unison.

And I'm humming.




==================

2.  ACT OF ACCEPTANCE.  Mulder has failed his partner.  She can forgive
him, but can he forgive himself?

==================

I've failed her.

I'm her partner.  I'm supposed to watch her and cover her back.  She's
supposed to be able to trust me, she's supposed to be able to depend on me
to guard her and keep her safe.  And I've failed her.

Again.

I draw my knees up a little closer to my chest.  I am curled in a tight
ball on the bed in our motel room.  The lights are out, and it's night, so
the room is totally black.  Nothing to see.  Nothing to interfere with the
images the continue to flash with in my mind.

It was supposed to be a routine investigation.  Another serial killer,
this one stalking the streets of Des Moines.  Seven deaths in as many
months, and always at the full moon.  We had been requested by the VCU --
me for my alleged profiling skills, and Scully for a reason which those
bastards chose not to disclose to us.  Not that we would have refused if
they had told us.  Scully's professional pride would not have allowed it.

We arrived in Des Moines in late afternoon, and to save a little time we
separated:  Scully to the motel to get us checked in, and me to the local
sheriff's office, where the Bureau had established a temporary office.

I remember exactly when I realized what they had done to us.  I was
sitting in a rickety folding chair in the conference room which had been
appropriated for our use, reviewing the case file.  I wasn't supposed to
meet Scully for dinner for another hour y et, and so I had plenty of time.
I remember wondering for perhaps the hundredth time why they hadn't faxed
this to us, or emailed it, but then I turned a page, and suddenly I knew.

The son of a bitch liked redheads.  Petite, female redheads in their late
20s or early 30s.  I sat in that chair looking at the photographs of his
seven victims, and every last one of them....

I felt my gut churning as I stared at the file, and I felt the panic
rising in my chest.  Those motherfucking sons of bitches had really done
it this time.  It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what their
plan was:  They wanted to use Scully as
 bait.  They wanted to put her on the street, apparently alone and
unguarded, and wait for the next full moon.

Which was tonight.

The next thing I remember is holding my cell phone to my ear and listening
to the ring ring ring at the other end.  Come on, Scully, pick up.  Pick
up, dammit!  I have to talk to you, I have to hear your voice, I have to
know you're okay.  Scully!  Pick u p!

Fuck!

She could have been in the shower.  Her phone's battery could have died.
She could have been stuck in heavy traffic, unable to take her attention
from the road.

But in my heart, I knew.

The drive to the motel is a blank to me.  I remember nothing, and I mean
nothing -- that twenty minutes has simply been excised from my life.  One
moment I was sitting in the conference room, listening to the ringing of
her phone, and the next I was jammi ng on my brakes in the parking lot of
the motel, hurling myself from the car, diving across the parking lot,
slamming my shoulder against the door to our room, falling to my knees as
it burst open....

And Scully was there.  Her clothes were torn, her beautiful face was
bruised and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she lowered her
weapon away from me.

And for a timeless interval all that registered with me was that she was
alive.  She was alive.  She was alive.

And the suspect was lying dead on the floor at her feet.

The bastards' plan had worked.  It had almost worked too well.  Somehow
the motherfucker had known we were coming.  He must have known.  He had
picked us up at the airport and followed her here, and when she was alone
he moved in....

And I failed her.

I should have been there.  I should have been watching her, guarding her,
doing my job as her partner, her friend, her lover.

But I failed her.

It's cold in this room.  So very, very cold.  So dark.  So lonely.  Like a
morgue.

I left her at the emergency room.  I couldn't stay; I couldn't stand it.
I couldn't be there while they examined her and treated her injuries,
knowing that I was to blame for them.  And I knew I didn't dare be present
when the ASAC finally caught up with
 us.  I knew that if I saw that man in my current state of mind, I would
try to kill him.

So I left her.  And yes, in so doing I failed her yet again.

I hear the door to the outside open and close -- the door which through
some miracle was not damaged when I forced it open two hours ago.  The
door opens and closes, and I know she must be here.  My body tenses, lying
there on the bed, and I wait in silen t agony to see what she will do and
say.  She has every right to be angry; she has every right to be furious
and hurt and disappointed.  I have done nothing right today, and I deserve
only her rage and her contempt and her pity.

"Mulder?"  I hear a soft rustling noise, and then the bed creaks as she
sits down on it next to me.  "Mulder?  It's me.  It's Scully."  Her voice
is very soft, and if I were not so sure that she must hate me for what
I've done, I might think that it was g entle.  But I know better.  I know
better.

"Mulder.  Mulder, please come out."  Come out and face the music.  Come
out and accept your punishment.  Come out and take what you deserve.

Something touches my cheek, soft as a feather, and I realize it's her
hand.  I jerk my head away, rejecting her touch.  I am unclean, dirty, and
I will not allow it to soil her.  I've done enough to her already.

Silence falls in the darkened motel room.  If I listen carefully I can
hear her breathing as she sits on the bed next to me.  I wish that she
would yell at me; I wish that she would scream at me; I wish that she
would punish me and hurt me.  But still she
 sits there, quietly breathing, not saying anything.  And so I wait.

Her voice, when it comes, is still soft and gentle, and her words make my
heart ache, even though I know that they're true.  "Mulder, this isn't
going to work."

I know that, Scully.  I know it isn't going to work.  I figured that out
while I was lying here waiting for you to return.  It isn't going to work,
and that's okay.  I thought I could be more than your partner, more than
your friend.  I thought I could lo ve you and let you love me.  But I
should have known better.  I shouldn't have exposed you to that.  Everyone
who I have ever loved has wound up getting hurt, and now it's happened to
you.  God, as if Duane Barry and Donnie Pfaster and all the others were
n't enough of a warning....

She moves a little closer to me on the bed.  "No, Mulder.  I know what
you're thinking, but that's not what I meant.  You are the only stability
in my life; the only thing that keeps me going.  I love you, and I know
you love me, and I'm not going to let you use this to hurt yourself.
That's what isn't going to work, Mulder.  That's what I meant."

Dammit, Scully, don't do this to me!  Why can't you take the warning,
accept the wake up call, and get out?  All I've ever brought you are fear
and suffering and pain.  You've nearly died so many times in the past five
years, and always because of me.  Al ways because of me.  Get out, Scully.
Get out and get the hell away:  Away from the Bureau, away from the fear,
away from me.  Get out.

I feel the mattress shift again, and now she's lying next to me and
spooning herself around me from behind as she whispers softly in my ear.
"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder.  You're not getting rid of me this
easily.  We've both been through too much, an d we've waited too long to
allow something like this to come between us.  I won't let you go, no
matter what."

I want to pull away from her, I want to keep my distance so my filth won't
get on her, but somehow I'm unable to move.  Her arms are wrapped around
me, and she's gently stroking me, touching me, petting me.  I feel her
breath against my neck, and it's fam iliar and friendly and comforting.
And slowly, so very slowly and gradually, I begin to relax, just a little.

"That's right, Mulder," she says.  "That's right.  You need to relax.  You
need to come down a little.  Just come down, Mulder; just come back to me.
Just let the tension go, just let me hold you for a little while.  Just
for a little while, Mulder.  Jus t for a little while."  And her hands
continue to stroke me, touch me, pet me, and I feel myself relaxing just a
little bit more.

And then without warning things just start bubbling up inside me.  All the
pain, all the fear, all the guilt, everything I've been holding tightly
down inside since I realized this afternoon what those bastards had done
to us, everything just comes pourin g up and out, and my body is wracked
with sobs and spasms, and I'm jerking and heaving and cramping, and I
can't stop it I can't stop it I can't stop it and the tears are hot, so
hot they burn my eyes and my cheeks....

And Scully is still there, still holding on to me, even as my body spasms
in her arms.  And she's talking to me, and her voice is so low, so soft,
so loving.  I don't even hear the words, I don't know what she's saying,
but the words don't matter, all tha t matters is the delicate, gentle
tone, the warmth of her body, the comfort of her arms around my waist,
holding me, loving me, grounding me....

Finally I run down.  I don't know how long that lasted; I have no concept
of the passage of time.  But it doesn't really matter, because it's over
now.  It's over, and Scully is still here with me, still holding me, still
touching me, still talking to me.


"It's okay, Mulder; it's okay.  It's over now, and I'm still here.  I'm
not going anywhere; I think you know that by now.  I'll always be here;
I'll always be with you.  Forever, Mulder.  Forever."  And her hands are
still touching me, and her arms are st ill around me, and her breath is
still soft and warm against the back of my neck as she whispers my name
over and over and over.  And finally, at long, long last, I feel my body
truly and completely relax, as I give up my battle against Scully, and
allow her to begin to care for me and comfort me.

"That's right, Mulder."  Her voice; her touch; her warmth.  "That's right.
Just relax and let me help you.  I want to help you; I want to take care
of you, and make you better.  That's right.  Relax."  And now she's
shifting her position on the bed, and with gentle, loving hands she's
arranging my body, drawing me out of that tight little ball, stretching
out my legs, rolling me onto my back, uncrossing my arms and laying them
straight down at my sides.  And then she stretches out on top of me and
rests her head against my chest, covering me like a warm, living blanket.

# # #

I must have drifted off for awhile, but whether it was to sleep or to some
sort of fugue is impossible to say.  Now I am awake again, gradually
becoming aware of my surroundings, and the first thing that impinges on my
consciousness is that something has changed.  Something is different.
Something is missing.  I don't know what it is, but something is missing.

Scully.

My eyes fly open, and I struggle into a sitting position and look wildly
around the room, but it's still dark and I'm unable to make out much of my
surroundings.  The lost and terrified part of my mind, the part that knows
how horribly pathetic and unwort hy I truly am, is certain that she has
finally come to her senses and has gone, and takes satisfaction in the
fact that her apparent loving gentleness was only a ruse, a trick.  Now
she's gone, gone for good, and at last I can be alone with myself, alone
with the only person who deserves all the pain and suffering that seems to
follow me everywhere I go.

Alone.

I'm finally alone.

My body starts to shake, and even as the lost and terrified part of me
exults in this new desolation, the other part of me, the part that always
reaches out to Scully, is crushed and wounded and in despair.  Did I
really think she loved me?  Did I really think she would stay with me, be
with me, care for me?  Did I think she would even be able to stand the
sight of me after all the things I've done to her?  Could I really have
been that stupid and gullible?  And I draw my knees up and bury my face
against
 them, but I don't allow myself to cry.  Crying might be cathartic.
Crying might ease my pain, and I cannot allow that to happen.  I cannot.

And then I feel the bed shift, and once again her arms are sliding around
my waist, and I suddenly realize that I'm no longer wearing any clothes,
Scully must have undressed me while I was asleep, and now I feel the
warmth of her bare skin against mine as
 she gently guides me back down onto the bed, all the while whispering to
me as her hands stroke and caress and touch my arms and chest and
shoulders.

"It's okay, Mulder; it's okay.  I'm still here.  I didn't leave you; I
would never leave you.  You were asleep, you were resting, and I just
needed to get up for a minute and use the bathroom.  It was just for a
minute, but I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have do ne it.  I should have realized
that you'd notice I was gone and wake up again.  I'm sorry, Mulder; I'm so
sorry."  And her hands continue to touch and stroke and pet me, but even
as I feel my body start to relax again, even as the warmth of her body
start s to seep into mine, the other part of me, the haunted part, is
watching her, wary and defensive, waiting for the next sign of her true
feelings.

"We'll take all the time we need, Mulder," she says.  "We'll take all the
time we need.  I'm here, and I'm not going to leave you.  I know I made a
mistake just now, I know I hurt you by not being here when you woke up,
but that's all it was -- a mistake.
  Just a mistake, Mulder; just a mistake.  I love you and I'm committed to
you.  I made that decision a long time ago, and nothing can make me take
it back.  Not even you can make me take it back, Mulder; not even you."

I feel myself -- not just my body, but myself -- relaxing further, as she
continues to touch and caress me with her hands and her words and her
presence.  And Scully moves closer to me on the bed, and now her body is
pressed against mine from head to toe,
 bare skin to bare skin.  She's so soft and warm, and her hands tracing
patterns across my chest and shoulders are so gentle and tender.

I can't believe this is happening; no one has ever been like this to me;
the mere presence of another human being has never been this comforting,
this calming.  Scully has cast a spell over me; she truly has.  And
although a small part of me continues to quake in terror at the
implications of that, the rest of me is reveling in it, bathing in her
warmth and love and concern.  If I can just surround myself by her, if I
can just get all the way inside her, then maybe I can finally be clean.
Maybe I can fin ally wash off all the accumulated filth and grime.
Maybe...maybe...maybe....

"Mulder," she says, and her voice is still so very soft.  "Mulder, I'd
like to do something for you.  I'd like to do something that will make you
feel better.  I'd like to bathe you.  Will you let me do that for you?
Will you allow me to do that?"

I feel tears forming in my eyes as the meaning of her words filters
through.  She wants to care for me.  She really, really wants to care for
me.  I don't know if I can accept that, although dear God I want to.  I've
wanted this, needed this, needed someo ne to care for me for so very long.
So very long.  But I don't dare accept it; I can't possibly accept it.  I
don't deserve it; I'm not worth it.  I'm broken, and all the care in the
world can't fix me.  Nothing can fix me.  But I'm so selfish, so very s
elfish, that I want her to try.  Please, God, let her try.

She must be reading my emotions on my face; somehow, even in the dark, she
can tell what I'm thinking.  Because the next thing she says is, "Okay,
Mulder.  Okay.  I have to get up for just a minute, but I'm only going to
get the things I need for your bat h.  I'll be right back."  And she moves
on top of me for a moment and presses her lips against mine in a chaste,
gentle kiss.

And then she's gone, but somehow I'm not quite so alone as I was before.
I'm distantly aware of the light coming on in the bathroom, and then I
hear water running, and before I really have time to miss her she's back,
and she's sitting down on the edge o f the bed next to me again.  And for
just a moment the room is quiet, still and dark.

And then I feel something warm and wet touch my shoulder.  I jerk
reflexively, but then I realize it's just Scully.  Just Scully and a
washcloth.  Just Scully.  And the washcloth begins to move, tenderly,
gently, methodically, grazing across my shoulders,
 working first down one arm and then up the other one.  Moving between my
fingers, caressing my wrists and elbows, and finally coming back to my
shoulders again.

Then it's gone, and I hear a gentle splashing noise.  And then the
washcloth returns, and this time it's caressing my chest, and it's neither
too damp nor too dry, neither too warm nor too cold.  It's perfect;
everything is perfect.  It's just what I need , and somehow Scully knew.
Somehow she knew.

The washcloth moves down onto my abdomen, moving in soft, gentle circles,
going lower and lower with each pass, and despite myself I feel my muscles
tense.  This is not about sex; it can't be about sex.  God, Scully, don't
let it be about sex; I couldn't take a pity fuck, not from you.  Please,
Scully, not from you.

But I should have realized she would know better than that.  The washcloth
continues on its downward spiral, and finally reaches my groin.  This is
where it could go bad; this is where everything could fall apart, and
trying to do too little is just as da ngerous as trying to do too much.
But Scully knows what she's doing, and she washes my thighs and penis and
testicles carefully and thoroughly, and then moves on down my legs.  I
never thought it would be a relief to have a woman touch me there and not
b ecome erect, but as she moves away I feel myself sag down into the
mattress giving silent thanks to God and to Scully that we've passed that
hurdle successfully.

The washcloth moves on down my legs, bathing my knees and shins and
finally arriving at my feet.  She spends a great deal of time on my feet,
working the washcloth between my toes and drawing it across my soles,
using just enough pressure so that it doesn 't tickle.  And then at last
she's done, and the washcloth is gone and she's moving up against me
again, wrapping her arms around me and pressing her body against mine.

And I'm clean.  I'm really clean.  For the first time in years, I'm
really, truly clean.

The knowledge hits me like a hammer blow, and suddenly I find myself short
of breath.  This is impossible; this can't be happening.  I don't get
clean; it just isn't something that's possible for me.  I shower and wash
off the sweat and dirt of the day, b ut nothing can remove the stains that
cover me, permeate me, pervade me.  Nothing can do that.

But something has.  Someone has.  Scully has.  Scully.

Scully.

And again she's been reading my thoughts.  "Mulder, I love you so.  I've
wanted to do that for you for so long, but I've never known how to start.
And now that I've done it for you, I want to do it again, and again, every
day, for the rest of both our li ves.  I want to bathe you and care for
you and keep you clean.  I want you to know that you're clean and loved
and cared for.  I want you always to know that, Mulder.  Always."  And she
moves up slightly on the bed, and now her face is hovering above mine ,
and I can feel her gaze in the darkness as she looks down at me and
whispers, "But I'm not quite done.  I haven't washed your face yet."

And then I feel something warm and wet rasping against my forehead, and a
shudder ripples through my body as I realize it's her tongue.  Scully's
tongue.  She's licking me and caressing me, she's bathing my face, working
across my forehead to my temple, t hen slowly and thoroughly starting on
my cheek.

If the washcloth was intense and intimate, this is just off the scale.  No
one has ever done anything remotely like this for me.  No one.  Ever.  I
have never even dreamed that something like this might happen to me, that
anyone would care enough to give me this.  I'm stunned, in shock; it's
just not part of my world, but it's so right, so perfect, and she's still
doing it, she's going on and on and on, and dear God I love her so much.

And now she's working on my chin and moving down my jaw to my ears and
neck, licking me gently but firmly, cleaning every square centimeter of my
flesh.  This is so like the touch of a lover, but so different as well.
In another context it would be incre dibly arousing, but Scully seems to
know just how to do it, just how to apply each stroke of her tongue so as
to convey comfort and only comfort.

Now she's down to the base of my neck, and I think finally it's over, the
bath is finally finished.  I'm so totally calm and relaxed now, and so
totally comfortable, just having her hold me in her arms.  And Scully
raises her head from my neck and looks d own into my eyes, and for a
moment she just looks at me and strokes my hair gently with her hand.  I
can tell that she's thinking about something, but I have no idea what it
might be.  And so I just wait for her to decide what to say.

"Mulder," she says at last, with just the slightest bit of doubt in her
voice.  "I have one more thing I'd like for you to let me give you.  Just
one more thing.  Can you accept one more gift from me tonight?  Just one
more?"  She searches my face, and th ere are question marks in her eyes.

I want to speak, I want to tell her that what she's already given me is
more than enough; it's enough to last me a lifetime, and I intend to do
whatever I have to do to make it happen again and again and again.  I want
to tell her how much I love her, and
 that I'll accept anything she wants to give me.  But I can't speak; I
just can find any words, and so I try to project my feelings with my eyes.

Finally she smiles, and then she nods, very slightly.  "Okay, Mulder.
Okay.  I have one more gift for you, but I don't want you to
misunderstand."  And she leans down and kisses me gently on the mouth,
briefly but thoroughly, and a premonition of what ma y lie ahead sweeps
through me.  This could be very, very good, or it could be very, very bad.
If she's going to do what I think she's going to do, it would be so easy
to make a mistake, so easy to step on one of the many, many unexploded
bombs which lie hidden in my mind.

All in an instant my anxiety comes charging back.  I want to warn her; I
want to tell her no; I want to protect her.  Please, Scully, don't do
this; everything is so nice, so comfortable, but if you try to do this
I'll screw it up, I know I will.  I just can't avoid screwing up, it's
part of who I am, and you know that.  Surely you know that.  You're the
only one who really knows me, the only one, and you must know that I can't
do this.

"Shhh."  Another kiss on my lips.  "Shhh.  It's okay, Mulder; it's okay."
And for just one relieved moment I think maybe she's changed her mind,
come to her senses.  "It's really, really okay.  We can do this; we can
make it work.  You know I don't do pi ty sex, Mulder; I know you know
that.  I have too much self-respect for that; I respect YOU too much for
that.  I would never, ever make love to you because I felt sorry for you.
You know that."

Another kiss, this one longer and more intimate than the others, and her
tongue swirls briefly into my mouth and then is gone again.  "But this
isn't pity sex, Mulder; it just isn't.  It's comfort sex.  It's comfort
sex, Mulder, and that's completely and totally different.  We can do this,
Mulder; I know we can.  Because I love you, and I know that you love me."
And she kisses me again, and I finally feel myself begin to respond.

After a timeless interval our lips separate, and she continues, her voice
barely above a whisper, "This is for you, Mulder.  Tonight is for you;
just for you.  Just this once, you need to accept without giving."  And
then she smiles, and there's mischief in her eyes.  "Tomorrow morning,
though, I fully expect you to fuck my brains out, okay?"

Incredibly, I'm able to nod, just a little bit, and even smile.  I'm
actually able to give consent for this.  And she kisses me one more time,
and then starts to trace a path down my chest with her tongue, and the
full force of my anxiety comes racing bac k once again.

God, I didn't realize this was what she meant.  I've never let her do this
to me; I've never allowed her to put her mouth on me.  I never even
imagined that she would really want to, I can't imagine that ANY woman
would ever want to.  It's always seemed s o impersonal; so degrading, and
as her tongue continues to move down my chest and onto my abdomen, I flash
back and recall:

Erica Matthess, my high school sweetheart, who did this because it was a
way to avoid fucking me;

Phoebe Greene, who did this to keep her distance while maintaining the
fiction that she cared for me;

Diana Fowley, who did this and pretended to like it because she thought it
would keep me from leaving her;

The one prostitute I hired, all those years ago in Miami, who did this
because it was a quick way to make fifty dollars;

All those women in my videos, who did this because it was in a script and
someone was paying them.

And then her lips are closing around me, and I swear I hadn't even noticed
that I'd become erect.  And her mouth slides down over me, down and down
and down, and finally I'm all the way in, and she just rests there for a
moment, holding me in her mouth, a nd her tongue is licking and swirling
around me.

I feel a shudder race through my body, and then another, and I am shocked
to discover that I am actually enjoying this.  This is good, so very, very
good, and even as the thought forms in my mind it gets better, as Scully's
head starts to bob up and down,
 up and down, up and down, her lips sliding gently along my shaft, her
teeth scraping ever so gently, and her tongue licking, caressing,
exploring.

God....this is so intimate; it's so wonderful.  How could I ever have
thought that this was degrading and impersonal?  But I already know the
answer to that question:  It's because this is Scully who's doing this;
that's why it's special.  Because it's Sc ully; only Scully; never anyone
but Scully.  Scully who loves me and cares for me and would never hurt me
or leave me.  She's not like the others; she's not someone outside, not
someone with her own agenda.  She's part of me, she's essential to me, she
co mpletes me and makes me a whole person.

She's Scully.

She continues to minister to me, and now she adjusts her position
slightly, and increases her pace, sliding her arms around my thighs and
clutching my buttocks, touching and squeezing and caressing them.  This is
not going to last very long; already I can
 feel my orgasm building in my groin, growing stronger and stronger,
escalating towards the inevitable explosion....

....and she's still going, she's still moving her lips over me, taking my
cock in her mouth, making love to me with her lips and tongue, and I just
don't believe this, my breath is coming now in short, sharp gasps, and my
pulse is pounding in my cock, thr obbing and pulsing, and every nerve
ending in my body is totally alive, totally aware....

....and now she's brought one hand back around and she's cupping my balls,
holding them, touching them, caressing them, and rubbing one finger gently
against my perineum, while her other hand continues to squeeze and caress
my buttocks, and dear God what she's continuing to do to me with her mouth
I can't believe it I can't believe it I can't believe it....

....and it's building and building and building, only a few more seconds
now, only a few more strokes, and she seems to know it and it's affecting
her, too, because she's moaning and growling but never once stopping or
even slowing down and I hear someone
 calling her name, yelling her name, screaming her name, and I realize
it's me....

....and then I'm there and it's happening and I'm coming and oh God it's
so good so damned good and she's staying with me as my hips jerk and buck
uncontrollably she's staying with me and still holding me in her mouth and
now she's sucking and sucking and
 sucking, taking it all, draining me dry....

....and I collapse on the bed, spent, exhausted, and for another moment
Scully continues to suck on my cock as it rapidly softens, licking it,
caressing it, cleaning it....

                                                 ....cleaning me....

# # #

I gradually return to full awareness.  It's dark, but I'm not cold
anymore.  I'm lying in the bed, and Scully is with me, her arms around my
waist from behind, spooning me and holding me and loving me.  At some
point she pulled the blankets up over us, an d now its as if we were
wrapped up together in a warm, intimate cocoon.

I want to tell her how much that meant to me; I want to tell her how good
it was and how much I love her.  And I will; I swear I will.  But right
this moment I'm feeling just too damned content and comfortable to move or
speak or even think very much.

God, I love her so much.  So very, very much.

And she loves me.  There is no longer any possible doubt about that.

And she's humming.



==================

3.  ACT OF INDISCRETION.  Any relationship can get boring, and it's nice
to spice things up a bit.  But has Scully gone too far this time?

==================



I sit at my table in the bar, and try to tune out the blather coming from
the man sitting next to me.  I've already forgotten what his name is, and
I don't really care.  I knew as soon as I saw him walking towards me that
he wouldn't be the one.  Not toni ght, at any rate.

There was a time when I would have let him down gently.  In fact, most of
the time I still would.  But right now I'm not in the mood.  I've got
things to do, and so does he, and quite frankly we aren't going to do them
together.  Not tonight, at any rate.


"I'm sorry," I say, cutting him off in mid-sentence.  "I'm just not
interested."  I nod in the general direction of the blonde sitting by
herself at the bar.  "Why don't you try her?  I've seen her in here a few
times before, and I think she might have lo wer standards than I do."

A dangerous thing to say; dangerous and indiscreet.  For a moment he
stares at me in shock and growing anger, and I feel myself tense slightly
as I wait in anticipation of his reaction.  But finally he simply mutters
an obscenity at me, picks up his drink
 and leaves.

Thank god he's gone.  Now I can hunt for a good one.

I turn in my chair and allow my gaze to drift around the room.  The music
is loud and metallic; the air is filled with smoke and pheromones.  On the
small dance floor half a dozen couples gyrate wildly to the music, and for
a moment I study each in turn, trying to divine their futures.  They are
all here for the same thing of course; they are all here for the same
thing I am here for.  But they aren't all going to get it.  Not tonight,
at any rate.

The blond man with his hands all over the brunette -- he thinks he's going
to get lucky tonight, but I know better.  I've seen her in here before, as
well, and I know she's just a tease.  She dresses the part and she plays
the part and the men are attract ed to her like bees to honey, but in the
end her boyfriend or husband or whatever he is will come into the bar and
"rescue" her.  It's a game they seem to like to play, and they're really
good at it.  Not my scene, though.  I play for keeps.

The next couple on the dance floor shows more promise.  I don't remember
seeing either of them in here before, but that doesn't mean much; I don't
come here all that often.  She is short, almost as short as I am, with
long ash-blonde hair and a well-propo rtioned body.  I'm not usually
attracted to women, but I think I could become interested in her.  He is
medium height with jet black hair and dark, piercing eyes.  The way they
are rubbing against each other and grazing each other's bodies with their
hand s, I suspect that they have already come to an understanding and are
deliberately prolonging the anticipation.  I catch myself licking my lips
as I watch them move against each other.  I've never been part of a
threesome before, and for just a moment I am
 tempted....

Then I see him, standing by the door that leads outside.  He is tall and
dark, and dressed all in black:  black leather jacket, black t-shirt,
tight black jeans, black boots.  His face is interesting rather than
handsome, with a nose just slightly too big
 and lush, sensuous lips.  He is a dark angel, and as my pulse increases
and the arousal starts to spread in my belly I know that he is the one.

He pauses just inside the doorway and surveys the room, and I wait for his
gaze to fall on me.  I watch as he glances first at the couples on the
dance floor, and my arousal intensifies as I realize that he is admiring
the same couple that I was looking a t only a moment before.  Then his
eyes travel on as he catalogues the other women in the room:  the blonde
sitting at the bar, fending off my erstwhile companion; the two college
girls in the corner booth; the slightly too-plump brunette with the big
tits
 leaning against the wall by the jukebox.  And finally he looks at me.

Immediately our gazes lock, and electricity seems to crackle in the air
between us, even from across the room.  A slight smile of appreciation
appears on his face, and I feel an almost physical compulsion to rise from
my seat and go to him, but I fight do wn the urge.  That would be giving
him too much power; he must come to me.  That's how the game is played.

He breaks eye contact and moves over to the bar, and I watch as he chats
with the bartender for a moment.  The bartender glances over at me and
nods, and a moment later my dark angel is walking towards me, two drinks
in his hands.

He slides into the seat next to me without asking permission and places
one of the drinks in front of me.  I pick it up and take a sip:  Jack
Daniels, straight up, and it burns all the way down.  He takes a sip from
his own drink, and for a minute or two we sit together without speaking,
just listening to the music and watching the action on the floor.

When he finally speaks I can barely hear him over the pounding music:
"I've always liked the color red."

I turn to look at him, and arch one eyebrow in challenge.

He nods, accepting the challenge.  "Red," he repeats.  "It's my favorite
color for a woman's hair."  Without leave he reaches out and gently
strokes my hair, and I allow myself to lean into his touch, just a little.
His eyes are boring into mine, dark an d mysterious; his voice is low and
rough and silky, like honey poured over gravel; the gentle touch of his
hand at the side of my head is profoundly erotic.

It is all I can do to remain sitting calmly at the table, my hands clasped
around my drink.  But I can't let him win this easily.  If he wants to
have me, he's going to have to work for it.  And so finally I draw
slightly away and take another drink.  His
 hand follows my head, and he continues caressing my hair.  He is
aggressive, and I like that.

"I can always tell whether red hair is real or fake," he remarks after
another moment.  His fingers now are sliding against my scalp, burying
themselves in my hair, tangling and teasing it.  For a moment his touch
feels strangely familiar, but I push the thought away.  Not tonight;
tonight I have sworn not to think about HIM.  Tonight there will just be
me and my dark angel.

"Red hair -- genuine red hair -- has a different texture," he continues,
sipping from his own drink.  "It's not like the other colors.  It's rough
and unfinished, like raw silk, and like raw silk it is beyond price."  His
fingers continue to browse agains t my scalp, and I sit looking at him,
waiting, and finally he delivers his verdict:  "I think yours is real."
He takes another sip of his drink and looks at me speculatively, and now
for the first time I see open desire in his eyes.  "But I'm not sure."

There is only one way he can be really sure, and we both know it, and
after a moment I shift slightly in my chair, turning towards him.  He
looks into my eyes, and for a minute longer he continues to play with my
hair before at last withdrawing his hand.
 He pauses and seems to search my face for just an instant, before finally
settling his hand on my knee.

I feel a jolt of electricity at his touch, and from the flaring of his
nostrils and the slight widening of his eyes it is clear that he feels it
too.  The stakes have just been raised, and we both know it, but for
another moment his hand simply lingers on
 my knee, his fingers lightly caressing and exploring.  I allow my tongue
to flick briefly against my lower lip, which brings a quirk of amusement
to his lips, and then his hand begins its slow journey up my thigh.

Without turning my head I glance quickly around the room to see if anyone
has noticed, but the rest of the customers seem to be completely absorbed
in themselves or in each other.  Not that I would stop him in any case;
this is his play, and I want to fin d out just how far he is going to push
this.  I want to know just how bold he will be.

His hand is now under my skirt, and I see his eyebrows arch in pleased
surprise as he reaches the top of my stocking and encounters nothing but
warm flesh.  He pauses for a moment, but I ease my legs slightly farther
apart, and again I see the amusement c ome and go on his lips as his hand
continues its explorations.

At last he reaches his goal, and I shudder slightly as his fingers trail
through my nest of curls.  In seconds his fingers are slick with my
arousal, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning, but I can see
from the mischief dancing in his eyes that he knows why I'm doing it.  I
allow a small smile, acknowledging to him that he has won this point, and
I pick up my drink and take another sip.

"Texture doesn't lie," he says, as his fingers push gently between my
folds, exploring my most intimate secrets.  "I can almost always tell from
texture."  His fingers glide briefly across the bundle of nerve endings at
my very center, but this time I am prepared and manage to control my
reaction.  He nods slightly in acknowledgement of my victory, and
continues speaking.  "Almost always.  But sometimes a more sensitive
instrument must be used."

Enough of this; we have both won a point, and it is time to move on.  I
pick up my shot glass and finish its contents, and without speaking I hold
it out to him.  He looks me in the eyes for just a moment, and then, at
last, his hand is withdrawn from bet ween my thighs.  I feel momentarily
bereft at the sudden absence of his touch, but I struggle to keep this
feeling from showing on my face.

He lifts his hands to my face and traces his fingers along the outline of
my lips, allowing me to taste my own arousal mingled with the flavor of
his skin.  My tongue flicks briefly against his fingers, and I have to
fight the temptation to draw them into
 my mouth.  Too soon; too soon.

He laughs lightly, and takes the glass from my hand, and rises from his
seat and walks to the bar for a refill.  I watch him through slitted eyes
as he leans against the bar, studying his shape, his form, and imagining
what he will look like when I finall y strip him bare.  He is lean and
well-muscled, and his tight, black jeans leave nothing to the imagination.
I feel a warm glow suffusing me as I imagine him on top of me, filling me,
dominating me....

And now my dark angel is back, sliding into his seat once again and
handing me my drink.  I thank him with my eyes and toss it back in one
swallow.  No more tasting.  No more sipping.  I am ready to take the
plunge.

His eyes widen slightly, but he quickly follows suit, slamming his empty
glass down on the table next to mine and taking my hand.  He tries to drag
me from the table, but I am too quick for him and bounce to my feet, and
then we are both standing and faci ng each other, our bodies only
centimeters apart.  And we begin to dance.

My dark angel can dance.  Oh, how he can dance.  He moves easily to the
throbbing beat of the music, his hips sliding bonelessly, his shoulders
moving in perfect counterpoint, his hands and his long, delicate fingers
touching me briefly in all the right p laces.  I fall quickly into his
rhythm, and I slide my hands up his chest to his shoulders and close my
eyes.  I move closer, then closer still, until our bodies are lightly
touching, and our hips now move together erotically in perfect unison.

Too soon the song ends, but then another begins, not even giving us a
chance to catch our breath.  Which is good, because I don't want to catch
my breath; I want to be breathless.  His hands are now on my hips and mine
are are resting lightly on his shoul ders, and I open my eyes to see his
face and neck, slick with perspiration, floating above me.  I can no
longer resist; I want this, and I'm going to have it.  I allow my tongue
to flick out and taste his sweat, drawing a brief, featherlight pattern
acros s his skin, and now it is his turn to groan.  And so I do it again.

His grip tightens on my hips, and at last he draws my body roughly against
his, grinding his erection against my belly.  Bolts of lightning ripple
though me, starting where his manhood is touching me and spreading outward
at the speed of light.  His thumb s massage my hipbones, and without even
thinking I rise up on my toes and press my crotch against his, and the
music pounds on and on and on.  He slips his hands around and clutches at
my buttocks, and I bury my face in his shirt and gasp, breathing in hi s
scent as I do so.

The music changes again, and then again, and my dark angel continues to
dance with me.  A sheen of perspiration covers my body, dripping off my
face and neck, with rivulets running down between my breasts.  This is
good; this is so good.  I am growing mor e aroused with each passing
moment, and I know that he is, too.  I am now feeling what the other
couple I was watching earlier must have been feeling:  The sure knowledge
that tonight he will be mine.

At last it is time, and we both know it.  Without speaking a word, my dark
angel takes me by the hand and leads me to the door.  It is a cool night,
and my skin tingles as my perspiration begins to evaporate from my arms
and face.  His arm is around my sh oulder, his fingers lightly cupping my
breast as we walk to his car.

It is only a short drive to the motel he has selected, but it seems to
take forever.  I can see him watching me out of the corner of his eye and
he guides the vehicle through the late evening traffic, and at the second
stop light I turn slightly towards h im and slide one hand up under my
skirt and begin lightly teasing and caressing my center.  Despite my
attempt at self-control, my body shudders slightly as my fingers brush
against my clit, and he turns and glances down at me in erotic
appreciation.

My own gaze travels to the bulge in his jeans, and as he returns his
attention to the road and we accelerate through the intersection I reach
out with my free hand and lightly brush his trapped erection once, twice,
three times.  His hips twitch with each
 contact, and each time I feel a spasm of arousal speed through me in
response.

At last we reach the motel.  My dark angel was so confident of his success
tonight that he has already made a reservation, and so we go directly from
his car to the room.  I lean against him, quivering with excitement and
anticipation as he fumbles with t he key, his task made more difficult by
the fact that now I am openly stroking and squeezing his cock within its
denim prison.

Finally we are inside, and even before he can close the door I have
dropped to my knees and am struggling with his belt and zipper, finally
pushing his jeans and boxer shorts down off his hips and letting them fall
to the floor.  His cock is even better t han I had hoped:  Long and hard
and very, very hot.  Eagerly, I slide my lips over it and take as much of
it in as I can as he closes the door and fastens the safety chain.  And he
leans against the door and groans.

For a moment I simply hold him in my mouth, luxuriating in the taste and
scent of his arousal; then slowly, gradually I withdraw from him, until my
lips are barely touching him, and I swirl my tongue around the very tip
before suddenly engulfing his full length once again.  And this time he
whimpers.

I repeat the process, and then repeat it again, and each time my action
produces a new pleasure sound from his throat, and each noise only serves
to heighten my own arousal.  I bring one hand up and cup his balls, and
with the other I resume ministering t o my own needs, and as I stroke my
clit I feel a jolt of electricity pass from my mouth through his cock to
his body and then reflect back to me again, and I moan as I continue to
suckle on his shaft.

His body trembles under my attention, and the knowledge of the power I
hold over him is intoxicating.  I quicken the speed with which I move my
mouth over him, and now he buries his hands in my hair, tangling his
fingers in it and clutching at my head.  I
 continue to fondle his balls, and now I extend one finger to gently
stroke his perineum.

He groans again, and abruptly his hips begin to buck, and I cease bobbing
my head as he begins to fuck my mouth.  This is so different from the
style of lovemaking to which I am accustomed, and I am amazed and thrilled
to find that I like it; I really, re ally like it.  My dark angel is so
rough and naked in his need and desire for me, so animalistic in his
manner.  I don't know when I have been this aroused, and it just seems to
go on and on and on....

Suddenly he withdraws his cock from my mouth.  I attempt to follow and
reestablish contact, but he tightens his grip on my hair and prevents me
from doing so.  He yanks gently on my hair, causing just the slightest
pain as he urges me to my feet.  He then
 guides me to the bed and pushes me down on it, and in another moment he
has hiked my skirt up around my waist and for just an instant he stands
over me, looking down.  I am revealed before him, and I shudder as I see
the raw lust in his eyes....

Then he is on top of me and his cock is sliding into me.  I cannot recall
when I have been as ready to receive a man as I am to receive my dark
angel.  He plunges all the way in on the first stroke, allowing me to
completely engulf him, and without any pa use he proceeds to fuck me....

Automatically I return his motions, bringing my legs up and wrapping them
around his waist even as my arms go around his shoulders.  I am distantly
aware of my blouse and his shirt rapidly becoming soaked with our sweat,
but that seems to be in another re ality, one that is far, far less
important than the pleasure we are giving ourselves and each other....

Each stroke seems harder than the last, rougher, more animalistic, and now
I can feel his balls slapping against my ass in time to our rhythm.  I
realize that I have closed my eyes, and now I force them open, and I look
up to see his face twisted in a gri mace of ecstasy as he continues to
pound into me, grunting harshly with each stroke.  It is a lovely sight, a
beautiful sight, a supremely erotic sight, and I tighten my grip with my
arms and legs, and I together we move to increase the tempo of our fucki
ng....

My breath is now coming in short, sharp gasps, and my vision is blurring.
We seem to be surrounded by an intense, white light, and I feel as if
we're being lifted up, up, up off the bed, and the very air itself seems
to be pulsing in time to the movement s of our hips.  My heart is racing
and my blood is pounding in my veins.  It won't be long now....

And then I'm there, I'm coming, I'm exploding, and I'm crying out and
screaming and crushing him too me.  My orgasm just goes on and on and on,
and still he continues fucking me, sending me to ever greater heights, and
in the back of my mind I wonder if i t is possible to die from
pleasure....

And then he explodes inside of me, filling me with his precious, hot
essence.  I concentrate on his face, concentrate on watching him as his
jaw slackens and his eyes roll up in their sockets and his entire body
shudders again and again and again with the
 force of his climax....

And then we are drifting down together, still wrapped in each other's
arms, his cock still semi-erect and buried deep within my body.  We are
floating down, drifting down, completely exhausted and sated, and my last
thought as my consciousness leaves me i s that in the morning my dark
angel will be gone....

# # #

I awake in the predawn darkness.  For a moment I simply lay there, not
moving, barely breathing.  I feel the warmth of Mulder's body curled
protectively around me, holding me, spooning me.  His arms are wrapped
loosely around my waist, and although he doe sn't move I can tell that he
is awake.

Finally I open my eyes and turn in his arms.  He whispers a greeting to
me, and I whisper one back to him before sharing a soft, loving kiss.  He
draws me to him and I go willingly, and for a moment we just hold each
other, breathing together, each of us listening to the other's heartbeat.
Then I push him gently onto his back and move on top of him.  For a moment
I hold his erection in my hand and gently stroke it, knowing it to be a
treasure beyond price, and then I arch my hips and admit him to my cent
er.

For another moment we simply lay like that, his hardness resting in my
soft embrace.  The first lovemaking of the day is always the best, and we
want to savor this.  Then, slowly and tenderly, our hips begin to move,
rocking back and forth in the ancient rhythm as we prepare to meet the new
day together.



==================

4.  ACT OF DESPERATION.  Mulder and Scully survived five years of
abstinence.  But can they make it through a three day weekend?

==================

I blame myself.  It was my idea that Mulder come with me on my latest
visit to San Diego.

Not that he put up that much of a fight.  In fact, he didn't put up any
fight at all, which kind of surprised me.  Spending time in the presence
of my older brother is not high on Mulder's list of favorite pastimes, but
apparently when given the choice be tween spending a three day weekend
with me in my brother's home, or spending that same three day weekend
alone in his own apartment, he chose me.  This is actually a little
breathtaking when you stop to consider the depth of dislike he and Bill
have for e ach other, and also tells you something about how far our
relationship has progressed in the last seven months, sixteen days, twenty
hours and eighteen minutes.

Not that I'm counting or anything -- anymore than I've been counting the
two days, twelve hours and thirty-one minutes since Mulder reluctantly
climbed out of my bed and went back to his own apartment to pack, or the
approximately twenty-nine hours and fo urteen minutes (allowing forty-five
minutes to fight our way through the traffic from Washington National to
my apartment, and God help Delta Airlines if that flight is delayed)
until...well, you get the picture.

I didn't used to be this pathetic.  I honestly, truly didn't.  I was never
this way over Jack, or any of the other men I've been with in the past.
But somehow Fox Mulder has the power to reduce me to a blithering,
hormone-drenched idiot, just by chewing on his lower lip, or by raising
his eyebrow at me just so, or God forbid he should touch the small of my
back....

Let's not think about that, shall we?

It all started about two weeks ago when I got a phone call from Bill.
Mulder and I had just got back from a case in Sigourney, Iowa, of all the
Godforsaken places, and he'd gone off to see if any of his fish were still
alive.  I'd just shut the door to m y apartment and dropped my bag by the
sofa when the phone rang.  My brother has always had good timing.

In the back of my mind I'd actually been expecting the call.  Our family
had kind of drifted apart since Dad died, but starting two Christmases ago
Bill had started trying to put things back together, and resurrecting the
old Scully Family Memorial Day Pi cnic was the next logical step.  And of
course it was perfectly in character for him to leave the invitations
until the last minute and then expect the rest of us to drop everything
and fly to San Diego.

"So how about it, Dana?" he said, as I lay sprawled on the sofa, staring
at the ceiling.  I'd only been half listening, the bulk of my attention
being focused on the question of how soon Mulder would be back, and
whether he'd have the common decency to br ing food with him, and maybe a
six pack of Rolling Rock.

"Memorial Day weekend?" I replied.  "Sure, I can probably make it -- if a
case doesn't come up between now and then, of course."

"Dana --"

I could hear the tone of exasperation in his voice, and I cut him off
before he could really annoy me.  "Just let it be, Bill.  My job is just
as important to me as yours is to you.  Would you go AWOL just to spend a
weekend with the family?"

"Dana, the two situations are miles apart."

"Not to me, they aren't.  I'm in law enforcement, Bill, and I took the
exact same oath of federal service you did."  I sighed; he was really
starting to aggravate me, and I didn't want that to happen, so I decided
to bring up the other subject I'd been th inking about ever since I'd
realized this invitation was probably going to be coming.  "Look, can we
just drop it?  I'll be there if I can, and anyway, I have something else I
want to ask you about."

There was a moment of silence.  Finally, in a grudging tone, he said,
"Sure.  What is it?"

I drew in a deep breath, then took the plunge.  "I was wondering if I
could bring someone with me.  It's kind of important."

There was another moment of silence, even longer than the first.  "Sure, I
guess so."  He hesitated, and I could almost hear the wheels spinning in
his head.  "I didn't realize you were seeing someone."

"Well I am.  I have been for awhile.  So it's really alright?"  Okay, so I
was doing this under false pretenses, obtaining his consent before he knew
who it was.  You know what they say about love and war.

"Of course," he said, and I could hear him settling firmly into Big
Brother Mode.  "I'll look forward to meeting him."

That was a hint; definitely a hint.  Not that I'd been planning on keeping
it from him; I knew it would be better all around if he had a little time
to adjust to the idea.  "Actually, you already have met him," I said.
"It's Fox Mulder."

This time the silence went on for so long that I was beginning to wonder
if the connection had been broken.  Finally, in flat, unemotional tones,
he said, "You're joking."

"No, Bill, I'm not joking," I replied.  "Mulder and I have been seeing
each other socially for quite awhile now."  I paused, but he didn't say
anything.  "Bill?  This is really important to me."  Still nothing.
"Bill, I love him.  I know you don't care f or him very much, but --"

"We'll look forward to seeing you both on the 28th," he said flatly.  And
with that he hung up.

# # #

So it was a dirty, rotten trick I pulled on my big brother.  I'll be the
first to admit it.  But in my own defense I'll point out that no matter
how awkward and uncomfortable the weekend turned out to be -- and we'll be
coming to that shortly -- it would have been even more awkward and
uncomfortable for the entire family had Bill and I had a showdown when he
refused to invite Mulder to come along, which I'm pretty sure is what he'd
have done if he had known.

In any case, this is how it came to pass that Mulder and I are spending
the weekend in San Diego together.  The long holiday weekend.  At my
brother's house.  In celibacy.

You wouldn't think it would be that big a deal to go three days without.
I mean, Mulder and I went five YEARS without more than the occasional hug
or the even more occasional kiss on the cheek or forehead.  So what's
three days?

Eternity, that's what it is.  I have peeled the labels off of more beer
bottles in the past 48 hours....

But I digress.

Bill picked us up at the airport, and much to my surprise he was actually
affable, even insisting that Mulder take the front passenger seat and
relegating me to the back.  And we had barely pulled out of the airport
parking lot before he started chatting.
  About old times.  My old times.  My romantic old times.

Specifically, he proceeded to regale Mulder with stories of every love
affair that I have ever had (at least, the ones that Bill knows about),
requited or not, with special attention to that fling I had with one of
Bill's Academy buddies the summer after I graduated from high school.  To
my pride, relief and, yes, surprise, Mulder took it all in stride, nodding
in the right places and making the occasional token comment, and most of
all not letting Bill get his goat.

Eventually we arrived at Miramar.  Bill grabbed our bags and led the way
into the house, and Mulder and I wound up sitting on the living room sofa
while my brother went upstairs to look for Mom and Tara and Matthew.  I
turned to look at Mulder; I wanted t o tell him how much of an ass I
thought Bill was being, and how proud I was of Mulder's own self-restraint
-- a quality he does not normally have in great abundance.

And so I turned to him, wanting to thank him for staying above it all,
wanting to express my gratitude that he hadn't let my idiot of a big
brother pick a fight with him.  And wanting to encourage more of the same.

That was my first mistake.  Again, I blame myself.  I should never have
looked at Mulder.

He was sitting there next to me, perhaps two inches separating us on the
sofa, and he was looking at me with that curious, thoughtful look he gets
when something really has him intrigued.  And he was chewing on his lower
lip.

Let me explain something:  That lower lip of Mulder's belongs to me.  It's
my property, and I don't share it with anyone, including the man it
happens to be attached to.  And if anyone was going to be chewing on that
lip, it was going to be me, it's right ful owner.  All I would have to do
would be to lean forward and stretch my neck slightly, and I could take it
away from him.  Just a few inches....

I really didn't intend for things to get quite as far out of hand as they
did, but Mulder and I are both passionate people, and it shows up in our
personal relationship just as much as it does in our work relationship.
The next thing I remember is lying on top of Mulder on the sofa, grinding
my hips against him and exploring his mouth with my tongue and most
especially reestablishing my claim on that damned lower lip, while he
tightly gripped the back of my head with one hand and caressed the small
of my
 back with the other.

I think I've already mentioned what it does to me when he touches me
there.

"Ahem."  I'd never actually heard anyone say that before; trust Bill to be
the first.  I reluctantly pulled out of Mulder's embrace, mouthing "later"
at him before struggling to a sitting position and looking across the room
at my brother, who was standin g at the foot of the stairs with his son in
his arms and a disapproving look on his face.  I felt just slightly woozy
from all that kissing, and had to shake my head slightly to clear it.

"S-sorry," I said, and instantly regretted it.  I'd sworn to myself that I
was not going to apologize to Bill for my relationship with Mulder; it
would give him too much leverage, and it was none of his damned business
anyway.  And while this wasn't exact ly an apology for the relationship,
it was close enough to make me uncomfortable.

I think Bill might have said something biting in return, probably some
dreck about exposing his tender child -- my nephew, Goddammit! -- to such
a tawdry scene.  But just at that moment Mom and Tara appeared at the head
of the stairs, and by the time all the hellos had been said and greetings
exchanged the situation had been pretty well defused, and Tara was leading
us all into the dining room.

Dinner.  I don't even want to think about that dinner.  Bill immediately
assumed his prerogative as head of the household (but ask Tara about that
sometime -- in private) by launching off into more amusing tales and
anecdotes from our family history -- an d every single one of them was
something the rest of us had fond memories of, while Mulder, of course,
had not been involved at all.

Give me some credit:  I attempted several times to steer the conversation
to other topics.  I tried to bring the family up to date on the cases
Mulder and I had been working on (although there's only so much of our
work that can be decently discussed at t he dinner table); I tried to
start a discussion of the new baseball season; I even tried to draw Mulder
out concerning his most recent trip to Graceland.  Anything to give Mulder
something to talk about, so that he wouldn't feel quite so much like a
compl ete outsider.

Unfortunately, Bill was having none of it.  He just sat there, nodding
impatiently everytime I tried to change the subject, and as soon as I
paused for breath he was off again, remembering this incident, chuckling
over that one, and making knowing, unexpl ained inside references.

To my surprise it was Tara who finally saved the situation.  I don't know
WHY I was surprised -- my sister-in-law is one of the most polite, decent
human beings it has ever been my pleasure to know.  I think she would find
it possible to be gracious to a serial killer, as long as Matthew wasn't
his next intended victim, and even then I think she'd be trying to put him
at his ease as she ripped his lungs out.  In any case, there came a lull
in the conversation, and I was trying desperately to think up a ne w
conversational ploy to steer things away from Bill's agenda, when suddenly
Tara spoke up.

"You know," she said softly, looking at Mom with a fond smile on her face,
"all this reminiscing has really got me thinking.  And Mother Scully, I
don't believe I have ever adequately thanked you for how well I've been
treated by this family."  Mom smiled
 at this, and I could see Bill starting to tense up as Tara reached across
the table and put one of her hands over one of Mom's.  "So many times you
see situations where the in-laws don't really make the new family member
feel welcome.  But you and the Ca ptain always made me feel welcome, right
from day one."

Then she turned and looked at me, that affectionate smile still on her
face.  "And that goes for you, too, Dana.  I already knew I was lucky to
be getting Bill, but when I discovered how loving and accepting the entire
Scully family is....well, I just tha nk my lucky stars that I've been
privileged to be a part of it."

Tara did not wink at me as she delivered this last line, and I swear to
high heaven that her gaze did not flicker to Mulder and then away again.
But no one at the table could have missed the subtext of what she'd just
said, and her husband had a look on his face that said he knew he'd just
been hauled before the Captain's Mast, remanded to courts-martial, tried,
convicted, sentenced, executed, and left hanging from the yard arm to
serve as an example for others.

The rest of the meal passed quietly.

# # #

Tara's intervention got us through dinner, and even carried us through the
rest of the evening.  Bill was quiet, presumably biding his time, while
the rest of us fell into a sort of calm, happy, companionship.  Mulder and
I, of course, were still on Washi ngton time, and so it wasn't too long
before we found ourselves stifling yawns and thinking about bed.

I'd known from the outset that it was wishful thinking to hope that Bill
might actually assign Mulder and me to share a room -- although given the
shortage of bedrooms he was going to be facing after Charlie and his wife
and kids arrived on Saturday morni ng, it would have made a certain amount
of logistical sense.  And so I took the matter in stride when I was
informed that I would be using the daybed in Matthew's room, while Mulder
would have the sofa in Bill's downstairs study.

And that was my second mistake.  And once again, I have only myself to
blame, although I do plead the extenuating circumstance of ignorance for
this one.

You see, I have never before in my life been in a relationship with a man
which involved actually sleeping in the same bed on a regular basis.  Not
even with Jack.  And while Mulder and I continue to maintain separate
apartments, the honest truth is that it's been at least two months since
I've had to sleep alone.

No big deal, though, right?  I've been sleeping alone my entire life;
what's two or three nights, right?

Wrong.

I hadn't been curled up on that hard, lumpy mattress for more than fifteen
minutes before I came to realize just how pathetically mistaken that
blithe assumption was.  I tried to rationalize my sudden wakefulness; I
tried to attribute it to having had one
 too many cups of coffee after dinner, or to the stress of flying across
the country.  I even briefly considered blaming Cancerman or those damned
little gray men from Reticula.

But the simple fact of the matter is that I missed having Mulder's body
next to mine.  I missed having him spooned behind me.  I missed having his
arms wrapped protectively around my waist.  I missed his body heat, and I
missed the way he gently cups my b reasts in his hands, stroking my
nipples with his thumbs....

Stop it.

It was only with considerable effort that I was able to shut down that
particular train of thought, and of course that did nothing to change the
fact that I was lying there in a strange bed, all alone, feeling horny and
lonely and more than a little depre ssed.  And with my nephew sleeping
peacefully about three feet away, I couldn't even avail myself of the
obvious remedy for the first of those three conditions.

Inevitably, my thoughts turned back to Mulder again.  He was downstairs,
not fifteen feet away as the crow plummets, most likely chewing on MY
lower lip again, and if I knew my Mulders -- and I like to think that I do
-- he probably wasn't sleeping any be tter than I was.  It would have been
so easy just to slip out of bed and go downstairs...and I KNEW he would be
glad to see me.  There was no doubt about that at all.

But I couldn't do it.  It would be just a little too much like sneaking
around behind my father's back, like a guilty teenager, and my pride just
wouldn't let me do that.

Not that I really think Bill has any right to dictate my sex life to me,
but I knew in my heart that the dignified solution to my problem would
have been to stand up to my brother in the first place, and tell him I was
by God going to sleep with Mulder wh ether Bill liked it or not.  And the
really, REALLY dignified thing to do would have been for me and Mulder to
have rented a car and gotten a hotel room -- although the way our luck
usually runs, a tree probably would have fallen on our rental car as it s
at in Bill's driveway, and we would have been trapped here anyway.

Finally, after much tossing and turning, I was able to drift off to sleep.

Eventually morning came, and between having breakfast and helping Mom and
Tara put together the picnic lunch and greeting Charlie and Betty and
their brood, I didn't really have time to fret about my problems of the
day before.  Bill seemed to be on his b est behavior, too; he was chatty
and cheerful and friendly, and even treated Mulder semi-decently, which
was a big step for my older brother.  I guess I wasn't TOO surprised at
that; no one crosses Tara Scully twice.

The site Bill had selected for the picnic was Torrey Pines Park, about
seven or eight miles west of Miramar, and whatever other failings my
brother may have, this was a good choice.  It's a lovely natural area,
covered with pine tr