By Flynn
flyn121@yahoo.com
 

CLASSIFICATION: RST, at least for M/S
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
All my work can be found at my Website:
www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
FIRST POSTED: 12-9-00
REPOSTED: 7-27-03
DISTRIBUTION: Just lemme know where so I can visit.
SPOILER WARNING: passing references to Brand X,
all things
RATING: NC-17
FEEDBACK: If you like it, all I ask is that you let me
know.
SUMMARY: How many people make all the right sounds
but leave out the feelings behind them?
 
DISCLAIMER: His characters, his money, my fun. He can
always get me at my address, listed above.
 
To my sister, who happened to be born to another
family in another state.
 
 
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finding Words
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
It was Sunday. Her day.
 
No meetings. No commuting or last minute flights. No
autopsies. The coffee wasn't vile. There was no
arguing over hypotheses and case solutions. In fact,
work was little more than a vague notion out on the
horizon.

She lay peacefully in bed until the sun was well up,
then lounged in her robe and slippers and watched TV
until it felt like it was time to be dressed. Then it
was faded levis and an old sweater. It had been an old
favorite in college, though the intervening years had
not been necessarily kind to it. A few buttons had
long ago been lost, and the hem was beginning to fray.
She scowled as she studied her reflection in the
mirror. Well, so be it. She didn't have anywhere she
had to be, did she? She didn't *have* to get dressed
at all.
 
Breakfast. Not the standard cold bagel and cream
cheese, but real food. Eggs and toast with jam, and
with it a leisurely second cup of coffee. She stirred
it absently as she worked her way through the Sunday
Times. Steam rose up around her face, touching her
skin in a warm caress. She closed her eyes and
breathed in the scent.
 
There were other things she could and probably should
be doing, she mused. There were always things that
needed doing at the office. And Mom would never turn
aside a chance to share her pew. It'd been too long
since she'd seen her mother, and far too long since
she'd spoken to Father McCue. But church? On a day
like this? A fine rain was feathering her windows with
diamonds of moisture. A cold spring shower, a pot of
French-roast, the Times, and on her coffee table, the
new JAMA.
 
No, church could not compare.
 
She wondered what her partner was doing. Hopefully,
not
much of anything; after all, it hadn't been too many
weeks ago that he had been in the hospital. Again. The
thought of him produced a little flutter in her chest,
and she found herself smiling. She wished he was there
with her. Yeah, that would just about be perfect,
wouldn't it? Mulder stretched out on her couch, dozing
or reading ....or more probably pacing restlessly and
yammering on about Big Foot or Elvis or whatever his
current passion was. Working on *her* coffee as he
waited for her to figure out what to wear so she
could run out into the elements with him. How did he
do it? How could he talk her into half the stuff he
did? She was more than passingly intelligent. She
didn't believe in the bogeyman. She didn't believe in
magic. She certainly didn't believe in fairy tales.
 
Except those that he could spin. Ghost-busting on
Christmas Eve? A TV weatherman whose unrequited love
could bring about climatic changes? No problem ....
just so long as she was there to back up her partner.
 
Stop it, she told herself firmly. Enjoy the moment.
Coffee cup on the coaster; newspaper at the ready,
phone within easy reach .... just in case anyone
should happen to call. Now sit down and enjoy the
quiet.
 
She did sit back. She squirmed around until she was
stretched out across the cushions, her back braced
against the padded arm. Her left hand caressed the
back of the couch, her finger tapping absently against
the smooth material. Wet sunlight peered in over her
shoulder.
 
Though her mind was occupied, her senses were
wandering.
 
The slow, steady beat of her heart. The whisper of
rain on the windows. The rustle of the newspaper.
 
The trilling of the phone.
 
How did he do it? Spooky, indeed. She smiled as she
glanced at the wall clock. Sunday morning, just past
ten . . . not hard guessing who it was.
 
A burst of static told her he was already on the move,
and by the weakness of his signal, she judged he was
either out of the state or had forgotten to charge the
battery again. "Hey, Scully. Nice weather we're
having. What're you doin'?"
 
Her heart fluttered again at the sound of his voice.
It had been a month since her epiphany regarding her
past in that drab hospital room  a month since she'd
stripped bare, both physically and emotionally, and
slipped into bed with this man. Her partner. Too bad
that month had offered no opportunities for a repeat
performance. Quite the contrary - the intervening
weeks had witnessed yet another dramatic turn; another
brush with death. She'd never liked bugs much.
Forensic entomology left her cold. Almost losing her
partner, her best friend - her lover - to a chestful
of larvae went a long way in sealing that mindset.
 
The careful, casual manner of his question actually
made her smile. This was not a
get-dressed-we-have-a-new-case phone call. His voice
was level and soft, and untouched by the tension that
usually accompanied calls about work. No, he was out
and about, no doubt restless from the weather and a
protracted illness and recovery - thank God, a full
recovery - and probably sniffing around for a little
company.
 
She smiled and closed her eyes for a moment. A night
spent together, feelings acknowledged if never quite
declared aloud .... and still he felt he had to invent
a reason to see her. "Mulder, where are you?"
 
She heard the soft, rhythmic slap of his wipers. "I'm
on the 95. Had to get out of that apartment. I thought
I'd go in to work for a while. Just wanted to see what
you're up to this morning."
 
She dropped the newspaper in her lap. "You're kidding
me, right? Mulder, don't go in now. It's Sunday, *and*
it's your last day off! Tomorrow's going to be here
soon enough. Leave it be, okay? Do it as a personal
favor to me?"
 
He gave a harried sigh, and when he spoke, his voice
was dangerously close to a whine. "God, Scully, I'm
bored out of my mind. The doctors won't let me run
yet. Nothing to do at home but watch TV, nothing open
around here but churches and restaurants and diners
..... hey, have you eaten? You want some breakfast? I
can be there in about twenty minutes."
 
She caught herself smiling again. "Sorry, Mulder. Just
finished."
 
He didn't even try to mask his disappointment. "Oh.
Um.
Well, you want to do lunch? I can go in for a couple
hours, review some cases, then pick you up and ...."

"Mulder, what is it with you and food today?"
 
She could almost hear his mouth open and close
futilely. Wheels were turning, thoughts were racing.
Deflect deflect deflect. "Um, nothing. Like I said,
I'm just bored."
 
Oh, it was too tempting; she couldn't resist a little
dig at his ego. "Yeah? Well, I'm not. In fact, I was
just sitting down with another cup of Starbucks and a
new medical journal. Enjoying the rain and the quiet.
Oh, and the Times. And before you ask, I only have a
pencil, so if I screw up the crossword, you'll never
be the wiser."
 
He groaned softly and her grin broadened. "Pencil?
Have I taught you nothing? Anyone with balls uses a
pen. A *pen,* Scully. C'mon, have a little faith in
your puzzle-solving talents. Prove your mettle."
 
She snorted. "Well, seeing as I haven't got any balls,
literally or otherwise, I really don't think I have to
worry about proving anything."
 
He saw the opening and, just as she'd hoped, he jumped
at it. "By happy coincidence, this Mulder model comes
fully equipped. I would be pleased and honored to lend
myself toward the proper completion of your Times
crossword."
 
She pursed her lips and made soft kissing sounds as
she
pretended to consider his offer. "I don't know,
Mulder. I'm not really dressed for company."
 
There was a soft snort. "Since when am *I* company?"
 
She toyed with a loose string dangling from the hem of
her top. "I'm just lying around in jeans and a
sweater. I'm not even wearing shoes. No makeup, not
even a shower yet, and my hair's a mess ...."
 
"Which sweater?"
 
She looked down at herself. "The blue V-neck."
 
His swallow was perceptible even over the screech and
fade of the weak signal. "The one with the missing
buttons?"
 
She tried for outraged disbelief, but succeeded only
in
producing a girlish laugh. "Mulder, I don't believe
you
sometimes! May I ask how long you've been studying my
sweaters?"
 
"*Is* it the one with the buttons missing? And the
bottom that's started to unravel?"
 
She grinned as she arched back over the arm of the
couch. Oh, how she wished he was here to study and
maybe pay a little attention to what was *in* that
sweater. That wasn't a bad thing, was it? Maybe it was
time for her to push the envelope a little. See if he
really was as cool as he pretended to be. "As if it's
any business of yours, Mulder, yes. And .... rats,
another button just fell between .... oh, wait, lemme
see if I can get it .... Damn, this is one of my
favorites. I lose too many more of these and there
won't be any keeping this thing on."
 
Was it possible to actually hear someone sweat? She
knew her partner. He was being too damned quiet - her
remarks were definitely having an impact. "Mulder, are
you there? Where are you?"
 
It took him a few seconds to find his voice. "I'm at,
uh, Stonebrook. No, make that Foster."
 
Foster. Not heading in to town at all, the little
faker. In fact, he'd probably been heading for
Georgetown all along, hoping she'd set aside whatever
she was working on and take him in - his proverbial
port in the storm.

It was tempting to continue this torture, but it just
didn't seem practical. It was Sunday. They weren't
working. They weren't injured. When might such an
opportunity present itself again? She affected a loud,
put-upon sigh. "Well, you're almost here anyway. Come
on. I'll put on a fresh pot."
 
This time there was no hesitation. "I'll be right
there."
 

 
He wasn't kidding - it wasn't very long before she
heard the pound of footsteps on the old wooden stoop.
There was a pause and soft rattle as he used the key
she'd given him - how many years ago? - to open the
foyer door. Another pause .... an attempt to call for
the elevator, perhaps .... and then faint, erratic
thumps as he took the stairs two at a time. She
really had to talk to him about that. There was no
reason to push himself so hard so fast; it would only
set him back, render him unable to work .... or to
play.
 
Footsteps in the hall, and then hesitation. A slow,
almost timid knock.
 
She didn't stir from her nest on the couch. "Use your
key," she called. A little thrill made her shiver.
Would he recognize the intimacy of such a request?
That she was not only granting him access, but *free*
access? Oh, surely he would. After all, *he* was the
profiler. What would he think about the development?
Would he say something, or just hold his silence and
try to read her through hers?
 
What would he do?
 
There was a series of clicks, and then the door slowly
swung open. She schooled her expression into a neutral
mask. Hell, the effort it took not to turn and gaze
hungrily at him, not to allow him to see in her eyes
just how much she admired him, and not only for his
intellect. Then again, such outward displays just
weren't her style, were they? He'd be expecting his
calm, rational partner, not some quivering bundle of
pent-up sexual energy. And even if he wasn't -
after so many years of presenting the world her cool
mask of composure .... well, it wasn't an easy habit
to break.
 
She raised a hand in greeting without looking up. He
hesitated for just a second before stepping in and
closing the door behind him. "Hey, Scully." She
tracked him intently with her peripheral vision. He
glanced around as he shrugged out of his jacket, which
bore dark blotches across the shoulders. Hmm, the
light sprinkles must have given way to serious
rainfall. Again he looked at her uncertainly, and
this time she allowed herself a lingering glance. Oh,
hell - he was wearing his glasses. Did he have any
idea how much she loved seeing him in them? How did
one ask one's partner to please wear the charcoal
Armani with the blood-red tie, that cologne she can't
name other than to say it's the one that smells like
musk and wood smoke, and oh by the way, can
you slip the specs on while you're at it because I
have a thing for you in your wire-rims? Nope, couldn't
do that. She dropped her gaze to the paper in her lap.
His own expression was carefully blank - she couldn't
tell if he'd noticed her stare. "Coffee ready?" he
asked.
 
She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen.
"Help
yourself."
 
Another gesture. Another subtle invitation. Well, it
was time for such intimacies, wasn't it? A key, a
coffee cup, the freedom to search her refrigerator for
the half-and-half .... wasn't that what lovers did?
She smiled behind her hand as she feigned interest in
the crossword. They'd waited long enough for this.
Almost too long. This last incident - if it did
nothing else, it spelled out to her the fact that, all
this time, they could have had more. Much more.
 
And not just sex. Although, she reminded herself as
she
admired the lines of his lean frame, there was
definitely something to be said for *that.* That
night, the sex had been slow and intense and
delicious. Holding him in a four-limbed embrace,
reveling in the feel of his skin, his warmth. The
firmness of his body standing in marked contrast to
her own deep softness ....
 
She actually shivered. Shit, Dana, chill out. He
doesn't need you running over and throwing yourself at
him. She smiled inwardly at the notion. Actually,
that's something he might not mind at all. What would
he do? Urgh! Be patient. It doesn't look like he's
going anywhere too soon.
 
She heard him moving around in the kitchen. Carefully
she propped her glasses on the end of her nose and
studied him over the frames. Typical weekend attire.
Blue jeans. Battered runners. A dark T-shirt. He
looked like he might have shaved, though at this
distance she couldn't be sure. His hair was
delightfully tousled. Clearly he, too, had missed his
morning shower. She felt a delicious warmth creep up
her neck. Mmm, essence of Mulder. The thought of it
was
actually making her mouth water. More notably, it was
also making other places feel .... rather warm. She
remembered a time when such thoughts would have
embarrassed the hell out of her, but now she shrugged
it away with an impatient grunt. Christian puritanism
be damned. Was it such a bad thing if they enjoyed one
another? She loved him. He was her friend. He was her
partner.
 
She smiled behind her hand. And he was snooping. <Keep
it up, buddy, and you're going to stumble across ....>
 
"Hey, Scully! You got pop-tarts!" He whirled, a wide
grin splitting his face. "My favorite kind, too. How'd
you know?"
 
That the box had been sitting in her cupboard since
the
impulse hit her three weeks ago didn't seem worth
mentioning. He had to know they were for him - she
hated those things. She regarded him placidly as she
considered her response. "Well, let me think. A
sugar-filled product with lavender icing and electric
blue stripes. Gee, I don't know. Call it a lucky
guess."
 
He already had the box open and was tearing into one
of the packets. "God, this is so great. You want one?
I normally don't share these babies, but I can make an
exception in your case."
 
She smiled half-heartedly and held up a hand. "Pass.
But thank you."
 
He chuckled as he filled a coffee cup, then added
enough sugar and cream to rival any high-priced latte.
He balanced the pastries over the top of his cup and
made his way to the living room, where he carefully
bent over the back of the couch and kissed her cheek.
"Thanks, Scully. Mm, you smell good."
 
She caught a hand around the back of his neck and
leaned into the caress, for just that brief moment
savoring everything about him. Damn, if he thought
*she* smelled good ....
 
She forced herself to release him and turned back to
the puzzle. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like them."
She shot the pastries an uneasy look. "I just don't
want to hear one more crack about my choice of frozen
dessert products. I think this one makes us just about
even."
 
He laughed lightly as he rounded the couch and
squatted
beside her. "I reserve the right to disparage anything
you eat, Scully, and I expect no less from you. I see
you took my advice and found a pen. Twelve across is
Anton. Anton Chekhov, the Russian novelist. He - "
 
"Mulder, shush." She waved a hand impatiently at him,
glad for the opportunity to distance herself if even a
little. She could see now, he'd done at least a
slap-dash job of shaving. Soap and Mulder. The thought
made her shiver. Oh, how she wanted to bite that
earlobe. Not hard - just enough to make him groan.
Self-denial made her just as testy as temptation did,
of course, and it always had. "Jeez, back off a
little. Go sit down somewhere and eat those things.
And don't get crumbs everywhere."
 
He broke off a large piece and stuffed it in his
mouth. "Sic down i' lihen," he said, his words badly
slurred. "Sic le'er word for moth."
 
Her stony Don't-mess-with-me glare was evidently lost
on him. "I assume you mean *lichen* and *moss.* Thank
you, I know. Dammit, you want to eat those or pick
them out of your hair? Get away from me with them!"
 
He grinned as he pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah,
okay. I can take a hint."
 
She snorted softly. "No, but you are getting better at
it," she muttered.
 
He moved quietly around the room for a few minutes,
studying photos, reading book titles. His attention
finally settled on the medical journal on the coffee
table beside her. The last bite disappeared into his
mouth as he settled on the couch. She silently drew
her legs up, making room. "Lemme know if you need any
help," he said, his tone quietly seductive. He wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand and then opened
the magazine with a flick of his wrist.
 
It required considerable effort, but she managed to
focus at least a portion of her attention on the task
at hand. The puzzle wasn't difficult so much as it was
just damn complex. *Gideon. Lucretia. Manifesto.* It
didn't help that she was more than passingly aware of
him. The tiny movements of his breathing, the flutter
of his eyelids. Even from here she could smell him.
Damn. Focus, Dana. Focus.
 
<Focus, hell. You're focusing on the wrong damn thing.
Look at him! Sitting there chewing that nail, sucking
on his thumb . . . hell, now drawing that lip into his
mouth . . . oh, the bastard. Remember what it was like
to have that mouth all to yourself? And how surprised
he'd been when you went to him and kissed him that
first time?>
 
She remembered everything. She remembered the wet heat
of his mouth under hers, his silken tongue greeting
hers as if it were an old friend. She remembered the
precise moment when she'd taken his weight for the
first time. The feel of his belly pressing into hers,
of their breath mingling. His hushed words. And his
hands finally, *finally* touching her some place other
than the small of her back. The bare skin of her
neck. Her breasts. Her thighs.
 
She remembered making love to him there in that big
bed of his. The stark emotion in his eyes, the lust
and the love that found acceptance and ultimately
release in her own body. How willingly she'd taken him
in. How she'd clutched at him as she let slip her hold
on the Here And Now and rode out one frenzied storm
after another, first coaxed and cajoled and then
demanded by his seemingly tireless body. Holding him
in the cocoon of her warmth as he, too, succumbed to
the sweet inevitable. She remembered touching him as
he drifted toward sleep, unable to look at him for
fear he'd see something unguarded in her eyes, yet
unwilling to completely distance herself. She
remembered the warmth of his flesh beneath her hand.
Hair dampened with sweat, like brown silk between her
fingers. His eyes closing, his respirations growing
longer and slower and deeper, and she knew he was so
profoundly asleep that he would never hear her leave.
 
She had left. It was a temptation, of course, to
remain there, to sleep at his side and perhaps in his
arms, and wake to his gentle touches. It *was*
tempting .... but it was also impossible.
 
At least, it was then. Reality had been beckoning to
her, and with it responsibility for more than her own
desires.
 
Only days later they were in North Carolina. A strange
and gruesome series of deaths, and another fight in
yet another hospital, a fight for a life that she now
knew meant more to her than her faith and even her
family. And she was losing. He was going to die,
ravaged from the inside out just like  those anonymous
corpses she'd worked on, and there was nothing she
could do about it. She was helpless.
 
And then something had happened. Science and luck
conspired in her favor. The treatment was terrible,
was
almost as devastating as the condition it was intended
to treat .... but he pulled through. He would be all
right.
 
And so, by extension, would she. This time.
 
But had she changed? Had *they* changed? Talking had
never been their strong suit, so they didn't try. Oh,
they could play off each other over just about
anything else. They could argue and defend the merits
of a case or their own unique belief systems. They
could disagree over the weather until the seasons
changed. But the intimacies eluded them. They did not,
they could not, express what they meant to each other.
 
At least, she couldn't.
 
She worried her lip anxiously, the words on the page
before her lost in a vague blur. Feelings acknowledged
though not declared. Was it time to change that? Oh,
he'd expressed himself pretty damn eloquently during
that last frenzied climax, fairly raining her with
*God, I love yous.* She knew he did; in fact, she'd
known for quite some time. But it was easy to
disregard the words, to put them down to the passion
of the moment and not seek a deeper significance. It
only made sense, after all. But was that fair to him?
Was he merely blurting out something in a moment of
supreme passion? Or was he, for just that sublime
moment, capable of expressing something deeper,
something that could not be expressed any other way?
 
If saying the words at all made the feeling more
tangible, then saying them at that instant should not
detract from the depth of those feelings .... should
it?
 
"You know, it works much better if you actually touch
the pen to the paper every so often." The rumble of
his voice, soft and light, startled her, and her eyes
focused on him with a snap. He was grinning. "It's
been a good five minutes. Come across a hard one? I'm
here to help."
 
She sighed and forced herself to relax, smiling a
little as she stretched her legs out. She wondered if
he had any idea of the thoughts he'd interrupted. "Not
exactly difficult, no. It's asking for a synonym. To
prevaricate." She pressed one of her bare feet into
the side of his thigh and nudged gently. "Any
suggestions?"
 
He pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his
nose, then dropped his right hand around her ankle.
The touch was easy and familiar, the gentle squeeze
verging on something more intimate. "Gimme some
landmarks."
 
She smiled impishly. "No. C'mon, brainstorm for me.
You
should be able to come up with some whammies."
 
He shot her a look out the corner of his eye. "Well,
let me think," he said softly, lifting his feet and
planting them on the coffee table before him.
"Prevaricate: to lie. To fabricate. To deceive."
 
She cleared her throat, cutting him off. "Mulder, I'm
glad to see you relaxing, but I'm really not wild
about what your shoes are going to do to that glass
....."
 
He droned on, uninterrupted. ".... to falsify ..... to
adulterate ...." Without breaking the slow tempo of
his words, he lifted his feet, loosened the laces, and
then slipped the shoes off. "To exagerate .... to
omit."  His socks joined the discarded runners, and
with a soft grunt he shifted his weight, settling
back in a pose that mirrored her own: back pressed to
the padded arm rest, legs stretched out over the
overstuffed cushions. Gently he edged his right leg
between the backrest and her left hip. "To distort. To
equivocate." He gestured vaguely with the magazine as
his right hand settled on her ankle again. "If you
were to provide me with just a few clues, like a first
or last and maybe a middle letter, I might actually
have a chance here."
 
She rolled her foot around under his loose grasp.
Vaguely she wondered if this intimate contact had been
his goal in the first place, why he'd even thought to
grind those shoes all over her coffee table. She
smiled as he nestled his foot securely under her
thigh. Hell, she could really get used to this.
Sharing the quiet on a rainy day, doing nothing more
than enjoying the company - to say nothing of
contemplating what the future might hold. Especially
the *immediate* future.
 
She stared at him blankly and gave her head a shake
when he chuckled. She'd missed something. A question
about .... something. "Letters? Oh, um ...." She
forced her eyes to focus on the words. "Well, sure.
There's a 'y' and it looks like there's a 'z'. I'm not
saying where they are, or how many letters the word
has -"
 
"Hyperbolize." He smiled at her stunned expression,
and the hand on her leg squeezed gently. "Scully, you
of all people should know, all it takes is the right
clue." His thumb brushed the tender skin of her
instep, almost but not quite enough to make her flinch
away. "Lemme know if you get stuck on another one."
 
She pursed her lips as she filled in the squares.
"Fair
enough," she murmured, and thought, <two can
definitely
play at this game.> Her free hand settled gently on
his foot as if of its own accord. Slowly she played
her thumb up and around the sharp point of his
anklebone, then back down to the high arch and the pad
at the large ball. <Hmm, anatomy was never this
appealing in college,> she mused as her
fingertips moved and explored. She felt his slight
jerk, heard his breath catch just a bit first on
inhalation and then release. She repeated the move,
this time more firmly, and was rewarded by his soft
grunt. <Yeah, you like that, don't you?>
 
She didn't have to ask. His expression lost its
playfulness with amazing speed and took on a marked
blankness. A slight tic appeared under his left eye as
she gave his ankle a careful squeeze. "You're awfully
quiet. What are you reading about?"
 
His free hand resumed its slow seduction of her own
leg. "Actually, I don't have the faintest idea." He
held up the journal. "Not a lot on psych disorders in
*this* issue. Aphasia, nosocomial infections, various
non-invasive therapies for long-term cardiac patients,
whether it's ethical to ask entire surgical teams to
pray together before operating or if they should do it
separately and by their respective faiths ...." He
sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, Scully, Ijust don't
see what you get out of this rag."
 
She held his gaze, unwavering. "Well, I'll grant it
certainly isn't as entertaining as, say, the Forum
section of your favorite publication, but then this
one is for grown-ups."
 
His eyes narrowed minutely. "You read Forum? Scully,
you live to surprise me, don't you?"
 
Laughter threatened, but she willed it away. "Well, it
must have its appeal, or you wouldn't read it." Oh, a
definite gleam in his eyes. "As a matter of fact, I
tried to peruse the issue in your bathroom when I was
at your place last week." Her lips twitched, but she
refused to give in and smile. "I couldn't get the
pages apart. I think something must have .... spilled
..... on them."
 
Oh, hell. Message received; challenge accepted.
Something flashed in those gray-green eyes, something
equal parts irritation and excitement. He was
dangerous in this mood. She smirked as she raised the
newspaper again. It was an overt challenge in itself;
a barrier, albeit a flimsy one. She heard the magazine
hit the floor, and she bit her lips behind her paper
shield. If she lost her composure now, she'd never
get it back. He was on the move, she could feel it in
the dip and roll of the cushions. A hand slipped up
her leg, squeezing gently as it went. In a mock
display of impatience, she slapped it away. It
returned almost immediately. The couch creaked softly,
and she knew he was close .... A few seconds ....just
a few seconds ....
 
The paper wall abruptly crumpled beneath his hand and
she found herself nose to nose with him, braced on all
fours and all but straddling her lap. "Agent Scully,"
he whispered, "are you implying something about my
tastes in reading materials?"
 
She held his gaze, her expression stoic. "Me? I would
never do that."
 
He was so close, his face was beginning to blur. "Then
are you saying I have unusual bathroom habits?"
 
She had to bite her cheek to prevent a snort of
laughter. "I don't know anything about your conduct in
the bathroom, Mulder."
 
His gaze dropped, and she knew he was looking at her
mouth. She could smell coffee on his breath and the
faint aroma of shaving cream. Just the tiniest of
movements and he'd be hers .... she'd have hold of
that lower lip and there was no way she'd let go ....
 
Except that he moved first. She froze as that mouth
brushed her cheek, hovered at the corner of her lips,
then meandered along the line of her jaw toward her
ear. The contact, or lack thereof, was maddening - it
was all she could do to keep her hands in her lap, to
accept what he was doing and not force the issue. "So
what you're saying then," he murmured between
torturous near-kisses, "is that I've been whacking
off?"
 
She swallowed hard. He was in soft-focus; there was no
way her eyes were going to cooperate, not as long as
he was doing .... that .... to her. She  shivered.
"Uh .... did I .... did I say that?" she managed to
ask. She dipped her head a little and groaned a soft
protest when he drew back, denying her anything beyond
the barest of contacts. "I didn't say *you* had .... I
just meant something must have .... gotten .... on
the pages ...."
 
"Because you might have something there," he murmured,
nuzzling the curve of her ear and feathering kisses
down her neck. Carefully he drew her glasses off and
set them on the table beside them. "I can't help it,
Scully. First we were so damned busy with cases, and
then those hideous beetles .... it's a good thing
everyone at the hospital was so concerned with my
lungs, because if they'd thought to look just a little
lower ...." He kissed her cheek again, and she
shivered when the warmth of his breath moved to her
mouth. "These past few weeks have been hell. Sitting
on my ass for days on end .... nothing to do but watch
TV and reflect. I have to admit, since that night ....
since our first time ...." Another nuzzle.
".... certain solitary activities have definitely lost
their charm."
 
She stared at him, bleary-eyed. "Tell me about it."
 
Oh, shit. The words were out before she could begin to
audit the thought behind them. She felt herself blush
furiously. Dammit, why did the whole idea have to be
so
embarrassing? Human beings were sexual creatures,
after all, and she'd been alone a long damn time. And
it wasn't like she was confessing to overt
perversions. Hadn't he just admitted to doing the same
thing? Yes, she'd tried numerous times to reproduce
the feel of his hands and his mouth and his body on
hers. Each time had been stirring, at least at the
outset, but ultimately proved to be woefully
unsatisfying. Shit, all that and Catholic guilt, too.
How'd she get so lucky?
 
His smile was growing by the second. "You, Scully?" he
murmured, advancing and withdrawing, almost but not
quite kissing her. She shadowed him persistently,
seeking his mouth as he moved. "I'm shocked. I thought
that kind of thing was frowned upon by the - "
 
"Shut up, Mulder," she muttered. Dammit, would he just
sit still? "I suppose it's okay for you, being a pagan
and an infidel."
 
He leaned close again, and his lashes licked at her
temple as he breathed, "So does this mean I won't get
the seat next to you in Purgatory? Damn, I was
counting on breaking a few precedents while I'm
there."
 
To hell with it - he wasn't going to cooperate? Her
hands abruptly rose and caught themselves around his
face, and he gave a soft, surprised grunt as contact
was made. *Firm* contact. For a moment his mouth was
still against hers. Warm. Steady. Then a gentle
side-to-side movement started, and his lips slowly
opened. Another sound as his tongue made a tentative
foray toward her - a groan, this one longer and much
deeper. His. Her hands delved into his hair. Her legs
twined around his, and she groaned as she caressed his
calves with her bare feet. There were just too damn
many layers of clothing between them. That was
something they'd have to remedy .... but that would
mean breaking the clinch they were in, and that just
wasn't something she felt disposed to do at the
moment.
 
Clothed or not, the immediacy of his reaction was no
mystery. He collapsed slowly over her, moving his
hips,
nudging and caressing her with the rapidly-forming
bulge in his crotch. The kiss broke off with an
audible smack when she responded in kind. "I hope you
won't be offended by what I'm about to say, Agent
Scully," he whispered, "but you're causing me
considerable discomfort here. I can only think of one
remedy, and it entails you and me getting naked and
making each other scream."
 
She smiled as she eyed his throat hungrily. "You're
kidding me, right?" A fevered kiss under his ear
raised goosebumps on his neck and arms. "Get naked?
That means I have to let go of you." Another kiss,
this one encompassing his smooth chin. "It's been too
long, Mulder, and I just got my hands on you. I don't
know if I can let go."
 
He kissed her again, but ended it before she could
gain
serious purchase on him. "C'mon, it'll be worth it."
She moaned her frustration when he lunged upward,
bracing himself on an arm as he struggled, one-handed,
with his shirt. She helped him, and the garment went
sailing. His skin was delightfully warm, and she
purred her appreciation as she stroked his smooth
back. He shivered as he turned his attention to the
remaining buttons on her sweater. "Help me here," he
whispered, "or kiss this thing good-bye."
 
She groaned as they struggled with the tiny pearls.
Unsteady fingers did not help. After a moment of
awkward fumbling the sweater fell open around her, and
he gave a soft gasp. "Jesus, Scully." He ran a hand
lovingly down the bare skin of her breastbone. His
eyes met hers again, and his playful smile returned.
"If I'd had any idea you weren't wearing a
bra, I wouldn't have wasted a single damn minute on
praying doctors - we'd just be *playing* doctor."
 
She shivered under his careful touch. "Always did have
you pegged as a breast man, Mulder." His hand curled
around her, and she gasped as a thumb caressed her
hard nipple. "Oh, that feels good . . . Mulder, please
don't tell me you plan to stare at them all day.
Please don't tell me that."
 
His eyes gleamed. "Did you have something else in
mind,
Agent Scully?"
 
She groaned as she plied her fingers through his hair,
scratching gently at his scalp and pressing his head
steadily downward. "Yeah, I do."
 
Obediently he nuzzled her breast, and she smiled at
his
delighted groan. Then she was aware only of the
sensations of his talented mouth, the gentle tug of
his teeth and lips on her nipple, of his fingers
kneading and rolling its twin in perfect unison. Of
the twitch and ache deep inside that was building with
every damn beat of her heart ....
 
She remembered how he had looked that night in April;
how he'd lain there beside her in all his swollen
glory and silently borne her heated scrutiny. True, it
was not the first time they had seen one another nude
- that had been witnessed numerous times by then - but
to see him like that, engorged and rigid .... and what
was more, to know it was on account of *her* .... How
she'd admired the low hips and nearly flat belly, and
oh, God, what she'd felt when he began to touch and
stroke himself, slow and unabashed, and the look on
his face as he reached for her hand. His soft groan
as she found just the right tempo. Then slowly rolling
with him, floating and rolling  and floating some
more, until she found herself beneath him, her legs
opening of their own accord, not just accepting him
but beckoning .... The sensation of that first
penetration, the breadth of him stretching her to the
point of pain. <Does it hurt .... am I hurting you,>
he'd asked through clenched teeth and tight
lips, with that sweet frown hovering over his brow,
and her muted <No .... yes .... no> as she clung to
him. How he'd gone so still, needing so badly to move
and yet afraid to lest he hurt her even more, until
her whispered encouragements persuaded him to take up
the rhythm again, slowly invading and withdrawing
until a deep-rooted pleasure replaced any memory of
pain. The slick heat of his body, on her and in
her, his mouth against hers, kissing and suckling, his
groans and labored grunts mingling with her own
sounds. The feel of his muscles tensing and quivering
beneath her hands, his back and shoulders and his ass,
all responding to her .... <hurry .... faster, Mulder,
please God, harder .... >
 
And the blinding whiteness of her orgasm, choked sobs
andthe pressure of his mouth on her neck as he
followed her lead and lost all semblance of control,
flowing into her hot and wet and <God, Scully, I love
you I love you I love you ....>
 
Not enough. This gentle suckling, this foreplay, was
definitely not enough. Almost roughly she pushed him
away from her. He raised his head and looked at her,
clearly confused. "Sc .... what is it? I didn't -"
 
She clapped a hand over his mouth. "No, you didn't
hurt
me." Her hand slipped down his torso as she spoke, and
she plucked impatiently at his waist. Evidently
comprehending, he rolled back onto one arm and fumbled
with the buttons on his fly. She arched beneath him,
unzipping her own jeans and then sliding them down and
off, taking her modest underwear with them. His levis
hit the chair across the room.
 
Contact. Naked body to naked body, skin and hair
meeting in counterpoint so perfect that it robbed her
of breath. God, the warmth of his body actually made
her light-headed. Did he understand the urgency? She
could see from his eyes, he did not. He wanted to take
his time, wanted to savor each moment, each lingering
taste. Still, he was willing to accept her pace, bless
the man. She caught a hand around his neck and nuzzled
his cheek. "We'll go slow next time," she whispered.
"You just make me feel so .... so ...." She groaned
softly. "I want to come with you inside me. Is that
okay?"
 
He drew back a little and stared at her incredulously.
Stunned that she had said the words, probably stunned
that she felt she even needed to ask. Then his eyes
fell to her lips, and he nodded. "Sure, Scully."
 
She closed her eyes as he settled between her thighs.
Her heart was racing out of control, beating so hard
that her whole body was shaking.
 
He slid into her, slowly, carefully, like a bolt
sliding home ....
 
<.... home. Welcome home, Mulder ....>
 
..... and then set a sensuous rhythm, driving into her
hard and fast and then withdrawing slowly, so slowly
she thought she would scream, and then a soft grunt as
he sank into her again, bottoming out in her, so deep
inside her that she could feel him in her heart. Her
legs tangled and knotted with his.
 
<Faster, Mulder. Faster.>
 
He groaned, his stroke growing rapid and even deeper,
and she knew he could sense it, he could feel the
tension building in her, could probably see it in her
expression. So long; it had been so long for both of
them, endurance was not an issue. She moaned long and
low in her throat as she let herself go. He rode the
firestorm out, and she knew he was staring at her,
staring and glorying in the feel of her body's
reaction to him.
 
"Don't stop," she gasped when the squall had passed.
He
groaned again as he kept up the rhythm, and she
wondered if at that moment he was even capable of
stopping. He was close, so close; she could feel it in
his size, sense it in the intense push-and-pull of
what he was doing to her. His lip curled as his eyes
fell shut.
 
"Sc ....can't hold it ...."
 
Her arms gripped his slim torso with renewed strength.
"Don't try. Let it go. Come for me, Mulder .... let it
happen ...."
 
His eyes snapped open and he looked at her intently.
"Inside .... you ...."
 
<Oh, God. Yes. Inside me. >
 
His hands closed into fists in her hair. Holding her.
Binding her. The feeling was  intoxicating.
"Inside .... you?" This time it came out as a
question.
 
She nodded frantically, no longer able to speak. He
was
close, he was on the verge and he was dragging her
with him. She felt the explosion of sweet, white-hot
insanity, and her back arched as it turned her inside
out and set her ablaze all over again. <Yes. Yes. Oh,
God ....>
 
Did she cry it aloud, or did he? He stiffened,
panting, his stroke growing erratic. His face screwed
up into an agonized grimace, and through the haze of
her own climax, she felt the heat of his begin. He
reared up over her, thrashing helplessly. "*Now ....
Ugh, Jesus ....*"
 
Minds and bodies exploded outward and inward, chaos
and
order meeting and shattering in those few heated
seconds, and through it all the sound of his voice as
he cried her name, or tried to.
 
With a last coughing grunt he collapsed, and she was
sure he would have rolled off and fallen to the floor
if she'd given him the chance. He resisted her
briefly. "Crushing you," he panted. "Lemme go."
 
She held onto him fiercely, pressing her face into his
throat and inhaling the heady scent drifting up
between them. "I want you to crush me." She kissed his
neck, then licked her lips and tasted salt. It, too,
was intoxicating.
 
Resigned, panting, he slumped over her, his head
caught
awkwardly on a raised arm. They didn't move for a long
time. Her hand traced a path slowly up his back, then
down to the dip at his waist as she listened to the
soft wheeze of his breathing. She could feel his heart
racing insanely. Two weeks ago he could barely walk up
a flight of stairs without the pain in his chest
stopping him. This had been a real test for him.
 
She felt a bitter twinge of guilt. Maybe she shouldn't
have allowed this today. Maybe it was still too soon.
He needed more time to recuperate. Get back to work,
get a few days under his belt and see how he felt
wouldn't that have been wiser? She nuzzled and then
kissed his shoulder as she silently berated herself.
"Are you all right?" she murmured. He grunted softly.
"You sound terrible. I wish we hadn't done this now."
She brushed a hand tenderly across his forehead. "Are
you okay? Talk to me."
 
He smiled drowsily. "Mmm." His breathing hitched a
little and he gave a few deep, racking coughs. "Ugh,
ow." He grunted as he shifted and moved, breaking
their delicate connection, edging himself downward and
nestling his cheek comfortably on her chest. "Mmm, I'm
fine. Bit tired." He nuzzled the pale curve of her
breast. "Do me a favor and don't tell my doctor we did
this though, okay? She's kind of a worrier. I don't
want her ragging on me like she does sometimes."
 
Scully smiled as she stroked the soft, damp hair under
her chin. "Don't you suppose she just has your best
interest at heart?"
 
He released a deep, quivering breath and tried without
much success to quell another coughing spasm. "Mmm,
she's wonderful," he replied breathlessly. "I love
her. She just worries too much."
 
She shifted uneasily beneath him. Feelings undeclared
..... Maybe it was time she put words to those
feelings. Maybe it was past time. She bit her lip
anxiously. "Mulder ...."
 
He tilted his head and looked up at her expectantly.
His glasses were askew, and she found it strange that
he had even managed to keep them on during that last
session. Gently she slid them off and placed them on
the coffee table beside her own. "Thanks," he said
quietly.
 
She stroked his face again and let her fingers play
for a moment around his mouth. "Mulder, listen ....
you know I'm better with facts than .... well, than
f-feelings, or expressing myself. I, uh .... There's
something I want to tell you." <Oh, God, Dana. How
lame. And you're frightening him. Look at his
expression - he's expecting the ax to drop. He thinks
you're going to end this thing between you.> She
managed a shaky smiled and held onto him firmly when
he
started to pull away. "Breathe, Mulder. It isn't bad,
what I have to say." He nodded, but his eyes retained
a tense, pinched look, one that she desperately wanted
to smooth away. She kissed his brow gently and then
plowed on. "I just .... I want .... I realize you
probably already know how I feel about .... this ....
and you .... and I'm sure you know *why* I haven't
said anything before this, because after all, *you're*
the intuitive one. I've wanted to say .... things.
Many times. But .... um ...." She licked her lips,
then sighed deeply. Dammit, she was making it more
difficult than it had to be, she knew she was. How did
he make it look so effortless?
 
He eyed her thoughtfully as she struggled for words,
then slowly shook his head. The frown eased into a
gentle smile. "I do know," he murmured, touching a
finger to her chin. "And you're wrong, Scully. You
tell me all the time. You told me in April when you
came to me in the middle of the night. You told me
there in the hospital in Raleigh when I woke up and
found you holding my hand. You tell me every time you
want me to believe you're just checking me for head
trauma. I swear I even heard it when I walked in this
morning." He kissed her briefly, and then the gentle
smile became a grin. "Using my very own key, no less.
And you bought me pop-tarts and then put them
someplace you knew I'd find them. That's gotta be
love." At that, she couldn't help but smile. "Don't
you know, Scully? All you have to do is look at me
sometimes and I can hear it. Didn't you know that?"
 
She gnawed her lip thoughtfully. "But I can't say it,
Mulder. You never have any trouble finding words. In
Florida last year, and then after England ...." She
touched a finger to his lips, staving off his
response. "Yeah, I know. You're never at a loss for
words. Or you were heavily medicated. Or it was
blurted out in the throes of passion. I just don't
know why I can't . . . lose myself in the moment like
that. If saying the words makes the feelings more
immediate, more real, then what does *not* saying them
do?"
 
His kiss silenced her. "Stop it," he murmured, shaking
his head again. "Scully, sometimes they're just words.
How many people make all the right sounds but leave
out the feeling? *They* find the words, but they
forget about the emotions those words are supposed to
convey. I got it all the time from Diana, and that guy
Waterston did it to you ...." He paused, and his tone
softened a little. "Don't .... don't try to force
anything out. Some things .... they just aren't *you.*
Your passion is quiet and intense, just like *you*
are, and I never, ever want that to change. You've
been telling me for years how you feel. Believe me,
I've been listening." She said nothing, merely held
his gaze. The depth of his conviction was staggering.
He truly did know, somehow. He sighed, and his eyes
grew distant as his gaze shifted to one of the
rain-spattered windows. "Words .... they're fine to a
point,
but I think maybe they should be left to those
unfortunate souls in the world who have nothing better
available to them." The finger played up and down the
line of her jaw, then dragged slowly over her lips as
he looked at her again. "We don't need them, Scully.
Not when it's just the two of us. Not for some
things." He kissed her again, slow and light and
lingering. "Not for this."
 
She said nothing. His words would bear closer
examination. Later. For now she would take them for
what they were: his unswerving acceptance of her,
self-perceived warts and all. Without another word he
dropped his head and nuzzled her breast with a
contented sigh. She crossed her arms around him,
enfolding him, drawing him close. Emotion swelled
within her, silent and intense. One hand swept gently
across his shoulder and then through his hair,
brushing it back. The faint scar on his scalp caught
her eye. Her eyes sagged shut as she kissed it. How
close they'd come, time and again, to losing one
another. They both had so many scars now, both
physical and emotional. They had both inflicted so
many. But they were stronger now. This bond - maybe it
was better for all they had been through. She smiled
as she kissed him again, his forehead and brow bone
and then the impossibly soft skin of his eyelid. The
words were in her heart. They didn't have to be
declared.
 
He smiled, and she felt him twitch as sleep reached
out for him. His lips parted on a sigh, and he
whispered, "Love you, too, Scully."
 
Outside, a rising wind spattered rain on the windows.
She heard it distantly over the soft rhythms of their
breathing, of their heartbeats.
 
She found herself smiling.
 
Words?
 
Who needs them?

~~~~~
end
~~~~~
 

Finding Words II - Speech Lessons

Flynn
flyn121@yahoo.com
 

Class: V, MSR, mild MulderAngst
Date: July 27, 2003
E-Mail:  flyn121@yahoo.com
Archive: Do with it as you like.
    Please keep author and headers attached,
    and let me know where to visit.
Website:   www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
Feedback:  Warms the cockles of my heart.
Rating:    PG-13 w/adult images
Spoilers:  all things, Brand X

Summary:   .... helping her say the words ....

Note: takes place immediately following events of
Finding Words.

Hugs go out to Blackwood and Cratkinson for poking,
prodding, pointing out redundancies, and patiently
tolerating authorís moodiness.
 
 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finding Words II:
Speech Lessons
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 

Okay, this was different.

Actually, it was something straight out of a dream. He
knew at once, though, that he was not asleep. Dreams,
strictly speaking, were not warm like this. They
didn't mold themselves to the contours of his body, or
press and scratch in all the right places. They didn't
ruffle his hair with their slow, rhythmic breathing. A
dream might occasionally involve a naked body,
possibly even that of his partner; but never did even
the most convincing ones leave him with this drained,
deliciously aching feeling. And the smell that clung
to him .... well, only one person on earth smelled
like this.

Oh, this was real. This was good.

He opened his eyes and, without moving his head,
looked around. A wall with framed pictures. A
bookcase, neatly organized. A fireplace, dark and
cold. Windows dotted with raindrops.

He smiled. Scully's apartment. Or more accurately, her
living room.
 
He dropped his gaze to the pale expanse just beyond
the end of his nose. Soft. Warm. Beneath his cheek,
the gentle rhythm of rise and fall; and in his ear,
the slow, steady beat of her heart. He listened for a
while, entranced. His eyes settled on a freckle on her
shoulder, just below the fragile-looking clavicle. Or
was it a mole? He couldn't tell from this angle.

Slowly, oh so carefully, he raised his head from its
very comfortable resting place on her breast. She
didn't move. Her breathing continued, unbroken.
Cautiously he lifted himself higher and propped a hand
under his head. A mole - he could see it more clearly
now. And by straining his eyes, he could see the spray
of tiny, nearly-invisible hairs feathering her skin.
Her shoulder. Her cheek.

Her face was turned away, affording him a clear view
of her profile. Bereft of make-up, her features were
utterly smooth in repose. He studied her, rapt. Her
lashes, her eyebrows .... cinnamon in the soft, wet
sunlight. The dark filigree of veins in her eyelids.
The gentle convexity of her nose, and the mole beneath
it, the one she always took such care to cover.

The mouth he saved until last because it had to be
savored. The full lips. That sweet little dip just
above them, the one that smoothed away into
nothingness when she smiled - which, he'd been pleased
to note, was happening more frequently these days.
She'd certainly smiled a little while ago. Smiled,
laughed, panted, pleaded ....

Oh, he knew exactly where he was heading when he set
out that morning. Guilt had stymied him at first, of
course. After all, it was her day off, too. Besides,
she hadn't just spent the past three-plus weeks
sitting around like he had. Quite the contrary: during
his long recuperation, it had been an endless
succession of autopsies for her, what with Skinner
generously loaning her out to the labs at Quantico.
This, after she'd had to watch him there in that
Raleigh hospital - watch his panic and pain and know
there was precious little she could do about either of
them. And as if slicing and dicing a plethora of
stiffs hadn't been enough, since his release from the
hospital she'd also had to put up with his silent
whinings - if it was possible for anyone to whine
silently, Mulder would be the one to do it - and
answer all his written queries about why he couldn't
just suck the salt off the seeds, and why he couldn't
have just a *little* coffee, and why she wouldn't
permit him to speak even though he knew full well his
throat had been compromised by the larvae in his
airways. And what about work; couldn't she please at
*least tell him about the cases piling up on his desk
- or better yet, bring some home for him to peruse
.....

Yeah, he'd hesitated before calling her .... for about
a half a second. The boredom had just been too
grinding. Only it wasn't just the boredom. He could
have occupied himself wandering around the Internet or
watching one of the dozen or so movies she'd picked up
for him in the past week. He could have sneaked in a
short run despite the doctors' prohibitions. Hell, he
could even have ducked into any number of eating
places and buried his sorrows in a pile of hotcakes
and sausages.

The fact was, he was an addict in need of a fix. Well,
*two* fixes, although he really was fighting the urge
for a damned cigarette. No, his true weakness was not
for a poisonous substance, but for his partner. He
*needed* to see her. It had been four long weeks since
they'd had any down time together. He couldn't stay
away. Oh, there was the chance that she'd have stepped
out, maybe for church with her mother, or to pick
something up from the grocery store, or maybe just for
a run. And if that had been the case, he'd have parked
in an obscure turn in her street and waited her out.
Sitting in his car and staring at her building was
better than anything he could do in his own apartment.
It brought her closer.

But she hadn't been away. In fact, now he was
wondering if she hadn't actually been expecting him to
call.

He *had* been a little nervous at first. She may have
picked up the phone on the second ring, but his
partner wasn't the easiest person in the world to
read. Sitting there on her couch like Cleopatra on her
Nile barge, the newspaper in pieces around her, those
glasses perched on her nose .... he wondered at first
if he'd maybe pushed a little too hard. He was in need
of a fix, true, but maybe she needed her quiet time
just a little bit more. Her expression certainly
hadn't helped his nerves much. Quiet, collected, just
like it was when they were being debriefed on a case -
or, as it happened so often, reamed by a superior.
Certainly not serene, which he'd been lucky enough to
see maybe a half-dozen times in all their years
together; but gathered. Composed.

Then he'd caught her staring. It wasn't a leer or
anything - that *really* wasn't her style - but the
intensity of her gaze told him a lot about what she
was thinking. She was glad he was there. She'd
probably been thinking about him herself. And she
seemed to like the glasses. He hadn't worn them for
any ulterior purpose - in fact, he hadn't intended to
wear them at all, but an empty bottle of cleaning
solution effectively gave his contacts the day off.
She'd never said anything about the frames, and he
wasn't sure just how he knew. Something in her
carefully blank expression, maybe. Funny. Most people
tended to regard the presence of eyeglasses as a
subtle barrier. Sometimes not so subtle. God knows
Skinner certainly used his as a veritable fortress to
shield himself from .... well, everything.

He and Scully weren't most people. They had their
defenses, from the world and from each other, but
glasses weren't among them. Anger, feigned
indifference, sarcasm, hard-headed adherence to fact
or mere opinion .... *those* were the walls they hid
behind.

Not that those defenses had been too apparent earlier
that morning.

He smiled, recalling her half-shouted response that
was part friendly greeting, part veiled command.

*Use your key.* Those words granted him permission to
enter her apartment and her life whenever the need or
desire arose. Was she aware of it, he wondered. Did
she have any idea just how much that simple phrase had
given him? He suspected she did.

*Help yourself.* Well, that didn't need much in the
way of deconstructing, did it?

Neither did the pastries. Top shelf, right over the
cooking spices, and well within his line of vision.
He'd never seen so many preservatives in one product
around here, ever. She never ate them. She liked those
disgusting frozen tofutti things. She might sneak the
occasional candy bar when she thought he wasn't aware
of it - no doubt all the while quoting to herself the
subtle benefits derived from consuming chocolate - but
God forbid if she should ever ingest pure,
unadulterated junk food, with its bonanza of sugar,
fats, and sundry chemicals, for no other reason than
puerile self-indulgence.

Staring at the box, he couldn't help grinning like the
proverbial idiot. Here it was, he'd wanted to crow:
proof positive that she *did* think about him when
they weren't together, when they weren't working on a
case or licking their respective wounds after getting
their asses kicked for once again overstepping their
bounds or their budgets. It really hadn't been a
fluke, what happened after England. Not that he
figured there was really much chance of *that* ....
after all, she wouldn't have slept with him - hell,
she wouldn't even have *approached* him if she'd had
much in the way of doubts. But a lot of time has
passed since then, and he didn't want to take her for
granted. Unlike any other woman he'd known and worked
beside - or done anything else with, for that matter -
she didn't seem to feel the need to verbally autopsy
her feelings, about him or anything else. In that
void, oftentimes he could only go on her actions.
Yeah, those pop-tarts told him a lot. The pop-tarts,
and the words she'd tried so hard to utter a little
while ago.

It didn't surprise him that it bothered her, this
inability to express herself to her own satisfaction.
It did trouble him, though, that she saw it as a
weakness. His partner did not like failing at
anything. But she did love him. She loved him, and she
trusted him. Enough to go to him that cool April night
and slide into bed beside him. Enough to let him see
her concern and affection for him as he lay there in
that wretched hospital in Raleigh.

Enough to lay aside the bulk of her inhibitions and
tell him just what it was she really needed. *I want
you inside me .... is that okay?*

Was it okay? He shivered as he watched her sleep.
After so long together; after seven years of careful
distance and polite affection, was it okay, her
feeling safe enough to ask him something so incredibly
intimate?

Ask me again, Scully. Ask me anything. Whatever you
need.

He'd awakened that spring night to find her standing
at the foot of his bed. Awakened to the sound of satin
and lamb's wool shimmying down and up and off. A hand
on his mouth silenced his sleepy, confused query. A
slow, deep kiss, far different from that pathetic New
Year's gesture of his, the warm pressure of her mouth
asking and offering as only Dana Scully could. A hand
on his neck, his shoulder, his abdomen, revealed her
true intent at that late hour.

She wasn't there to say good night.
 
What followed was a gift, plain and simple. He
recalled each instant, as if the memories were an hour
old and not a month. Hot, wet kisses. Hushed words and
gentle touches. Smooth hands caressing his back, his
shoulders, his ass; and his hands exploring her,
touching where he'd always wanted but never dared.
Throat. Breasts. The tender flesh of her belly. Her
navel. He remembered kissing the curve of her back,
where once a snake had chased its tail. Even in the
darkness, he could see that the tattoo was gone.
*When,* he had wondered. *When did you have it
removed, and where was I?* He hoped it hadn't been too
painful. Certainly not as painful as the turmoil
responsible for putting it there in the first place.
 
More kisses. The feel of her mouth on him, suckling
his flat nipple, gently biting his chin and stubbled
throat. He didn't ask, he didn't *care* what had
brought them to that moment, he merely accepted that
it was real and good. He felt her hold her breath as
he slowly pushed inward for the first time. Oh jeez,
the liquid heat of her body was almost too much to
bear. *Am I hurting you?* he'd asked, his lips
brushing the crest of her brow. The thought of causing
her pain, especially now, was almost unbearable. Her
whispered *No .... yes .... no ....* had stopped him
dead, and he would have willingly pulled out and ended
it there if she'd indicated that was what she wanted.
But no. Her arms tightened around him and then went
soft again as the discomfort passed, profound
stillness giving way to whispers and subtle movements
as her hips moved this way or that, guiding and
directing; the sounds of her breath catching and
flowing and then catching again -

What those sounds had done to him.

Movements and rhythms as old as time itself. Soft
grunts, hers as well as his, as he struggled to
contain his body's reaction, as she sought to free
hers. The ache in his back; his arms taking the brunt
of his weight, beginning to burn and tremble. How he
wished he could see her expression. Too close - even
if they had left a light on, his cheek was pressed to
her temple. Pressure in his head, in his balls, the
sweet agony of battling his orgasm until he felt hers
ripple and quake around him, her voice low and breathy
as she moaned his name; and then his own barely
restrained bellow as he finally, finally, finally gave
in and bathed them both with his warm, fertile
wetness.
 
 

His sweet reverie abruptly ended when she shifted a
little beside him, and he winced at her gentle sigh.
She'd be waking up soon. How long had they been there?
He wondered if she would want time alone with her
thoughts, like she had before. Maybe he should make an
excuse and take off. Leave her to her peace and quiet,
to her crossword and her pot of coffee. Solitude was
important to them both, but especially to her. He
wasn't the easiest person to have around. By turns
peevishly independent and compulsively needy, he was a
test to her patience on a regular basis and he knew
it. Maybe it would be best if he *did* leave. After
all, he'd had his fix. He couldn't assume that she'd
want to spend the whole day the way he did - limbs
entwined, touching and exploring with hands and
mouths, making each other smile and moan and gasp ....

Suddenly anxious, he carefully shifted his legs,
untangling them from hers as he caught a hand on the
arm of the couch and gently angled himself away from
her. A rush of cool air filled the gap between them,
and he gasped as tickling gooseflesh rose in protest
on his arms and neck. He'd have to find her a blanket;
couldn't have her lying there naked and freezing ....

"Where do you think you're going?"

He froze. Damn. Busted. What should he say? Go back to
sleep? See you at the office? Don't get up, I can let
myself out? He struggled with his thoughts. Well, he
did have to pee. Big-time. Would she think it a
subterfuge, or take him at his word? Jesus, just say
something! "Uh .... I just .... I was going ...."

Slowly her eyes opened and she turned to look at him.
"Going where? I'm not finished with you yet."

He felt a smile start as he hovered over her. She
wasn't exactly grinning, but there was a definite
gleam in her eyes, one that he'd seen in the past for
moments so fleeting that he could never be sure it'd
been there at all. Not predatory so much as ....
proprietary. Hot damn. Insecurities abruptly vanished.
Hey, he'd tried to give her space. Was it his fault if
she didn't take him up on it? She really did want him
there. Now, if only the thought hadn't left him
tongue-tied. "Sorry, I sort of .... I mean, I have to,
uh ...."

Her lips quirked. "Are you always so eloquent after
sex?" Her arms slid back up around him, her fingers
lacing behind his back. Okay, message received: he
wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. He sighed
softly as he let himself relax again. It was
impossible not to give a little moan when she nuzzled
into his throat like a kitten. "Mm, what time is it?"
she murmured.

He shuddered when he felt her teeth on him, playing
lightly up the length of his windpipe. "Uh, can't say
that I know right now." Jesus, was that really his
voice? It sounded like it belonged to a stranger,
maybe someone who'd recently gargled with battery
acid. Did he really sound that bad to her? How could
he not have noticed it before this? Time? He could
barely concentrate on breathing with her doing that,
and breathing was supposed to be something that just
happened without a guy having to think about it. He
couldn't remember where the nearest clock was for the
life of him. Besides, he couldn't seem to get his eyes
to open. "God, Scully, that feels good. What is that,
some secret doctor thing?"

He felt her smile. "Yeah, I took a course on it in med
school," she murmured, tipping her head back and
granting him access to her own throat. He fought back
the urge to guzzle the sweetness she was offering.
Take it slow, buddy. Enjoy what's happening right now
- don't just leap on to the next course of the Scully
banquet. He groaned softly as he kissed the pulse
point beneath her ear. Oh, he could really get used to
this. Her hands stroking his face, and those soft
little breasts that were pressed up into his chest, to
say nothing of that magic place down below that was so
warm and moist and pliant .... She'd laugh and say
there was no such thing as magic, of course, but he
knew otherwise. Yeah, it was probably a safe bet he
could wake up like this every morning for the rest of
his life and never, ever get tired of it. The hand
that stroked through his hair did nothing to alter
that conviction. Neither did the sweet, gentle concern
in her tone. "Sounds like you're breathing easier.
How're you feeling?"

He leered at her playfully. "Can't you tell? That
isn't my gun, you know." Another nuzzle of her pale,
perfect throat.

The hand in his hair tightened just enough to
encourage a little head-lift. "Come on, I'm being
serious here."

He rocked back onto one elbow and scowled at her.
"Thanks for asking. I'm fine." He traced the outline
of her mouth with a fingertip. "Scully, I'm *fine.*
You gotta quit worrying so much about me."

Her hands settled on his shoulders, and her voice was
soft as she replied, "Sorry, Mulder. That isn't going
to happen."

He groaned softly as he melted back into her embrace.
Good .... this was so damn good .... he was kissing
his partner and she was kissing him back. He was here
and she was here and they weren't going anywhere,
either of them. Her tongue swept into and around his
mouth like a soft, warm breeze, and for a second time
he found he'd forgotten to breathe. Another kiss like
that and he'd forget his name. Hell, another one like
that and he wouldn't care. She rounded it off with a
delicate tug on his bottom lip, and when he could
finally get his eyes open, he saw a definite twinkle
in her eye.

"Something to smile about, Agent Scully?" he
whispered.

Her eyes narrowed contemplatively. "Mmm, yeah."
 
It just seemed the thing to do, giving a little more
lip service to that delicious mouth. Trouble was, his
bladder was beginning to seriously demand some
attention of its own. Dammit. Two big cups of coffee
at home, another one here .... maybe that had been too
much of a good thing. He groaned as he peeled himself
away from her. "Bathroom," he grunted. "Sorry. Now."
She released him, but not without a soft protest of
her own. He reached for his glasses as he stood up. Oh
shit - something was certainly interested in recent
developments. Looked like the old boy was about ready
to dance, and the band hadn't even warmed up. Didn't
take long, did it? Who said there was no such thing as
magic? What else could it be, this power she could
wield over him? He looked from his burgeoning erection
to her face and back again. "Okay, this might make
things difficult. Any suggestions, Doc?"

She followed his gaze, a smile starting. "Yes. I
suggest you use both hands. Or I could get an ice pack
....."

Just the thought made him wilt a little. He cupped his
hands over his crotch. "Ooo, youíre a cruel woman, Dr.
Scully."

Where were his pants? Clear over there, tangled with
his boxers. He scooped them up and shook them out,
praying as he stepped into them that he didn't have
pimples on his ass because he could feel her eyes on
him, devouring him across the living room. He turned
back as he tugged them on over his hips. Yep, she was
watching him. Ogling him.

Damn, it felt good.

It took a few minutes to take care of things in the
bathroom. His bladder may well have been maxed out,
but his dick wasn't much interested in anything so
mundane as evacuation. That last kiss did not help
matters. After what felt like an hour, his tensed
muscles finally relaxed enough to let gravity work its
own magic on him, and he bit his lip to stifle an
appreciative groan. Oh, yeah .... sometimes it's the
little victories ....

He looked around the neat room as he buttoned his fly.
He'd been in there before from time to time, of
course, but never had he really taken the time to
appreciate the details. A stall shower and a bathtub -
a *big* one at that. On a shelf within easy reach
stood a line of bottles, each a different shape and
each containing a different colored fluid. A thin
layer of dust coated them all. Clearly she hadn't used
the tub much lately; or if she did, she hadn't taken
the time for a good soak. Curious, he picked up one of
the bottles, loosened the cap, and took a cautious
sniff. Mmm, not bad. Sort of almondy. He returned it
and tried another one. Some sort of musky vanilla. A
third. Creamy peaches. He smiled as he carefully
returned them. He wondered which was her favorite, and
why she didn't use them more often.

He looked at the tub again. An idea stirred. Hmm.
 
He found her in the kitchen, washing their cups in the
sink. She'd donned her underwear beneath the sweater,
but hadn't bothered with her jeans. He eyed her bare
legs appreciatively as he approached. Pale and smooth.
Nice muscles in the calves, but Jesus, bare-footed
like she was made her damn short. No wonder she always
wore those killer heels.

 She looked up at his quiet footfall, a smile
starting. "There you are. Hungry?"

He folded his arms, eyeing the sweater as he lounged
comfortably beside her. She'd re-buttoned the old
thing, of course, but it still gapped jauntily. "For
you? Always."

A pink flush touched her cheeks, and she dipped her
chin to hide her smile. "That's not quite what I
meant." Her hands fussed with the sponge under the
tap, squeezing and rinsing and then squeezing it
again. "It's almost noon. You don't have to rush right
out, do you? I mean, do you have time for lunch? You
seemed so intent on food earlier ...."

He smiled at her discomfiture. Guess she really
doesn't want me to go. The realization caused a
delicious flip and flutter in his belly. No files to
read, no case to discuss or theories to punch full of
holes .... nothing but each other. This was all but
uncharted territory for them. Slowly he swept a lock
of hair away from her right eye, then let his hand
fall. "You know me, Scully. I'm always hungry. What'd
you have in mind?"

She turned and glanced around the kitchen
contemplatively. "There's some lasagna in the
freezer."

He allowed his expression to darken. "Vegetarian or
that soy stuff?" he asked, his lip curling.

"Vegetarian. Don't worry, I know how you feel about
tofu. I made it last weekend after the Nimzici
postmortem."

He held her gaze, deadpan. "I hope you remembered to
wash your hands first." An eyebrow twitched up at
that, and he snorted softly as he reached past her and
turned off the water. "Yeah, it was nice of Skinner to
consign you to the morgue while I was down for the
count. Remind me to send him a thank-you card. Must be
some kind of payback for all the medical paperwork
we've generated for him this year."

She eyed him as she dried her hands, a smile lifting
one corner of her mouth. "You'd rather he sent me out
into the field alone? Or better yet, assign someone to
work with me until you were back on your feet? That
didn't end too well the last time they tried that, if
memory serves."

If memory serves. Boy, did it ever. Mulder shook his
head firmly, his jaw set. "Skinner ever tries to pull
a Kirsch on us and .... well, forget insubordination -
I'll be up on attempted murder."

Her fingers laced with his. "I don't find that comment
especially comforting." She tipped her head playfully
to one side. "C'mon. We're talking about food here.
Lasagna. Big chunks of garlic, buttered bread, the
works."
 
He sighed, smiling. She really did have a knack for
getting to him. He turned her hand so he could kiss
her palm, which was warm and damp. Her fingertips
caressed his mouth, the touch light and tentative, and
an answering rush of heat arced deliciously through
his body. "Mmm, sounds good. Then after we eat, maybe
we can get back to that slow touch-and-feel thing." He
kissed her fingertips. "*Slow*, this time. A promise
is a promise."

That earned him a smile. Ooo, more than that, even - a
real, honest to God grin. "Going to hold me to it,
Mulder?" she quipped, gently pulling her hand free.
She turned away, but not before copping a feel through
his jeans. He stood up a little straighter and made a
grab for her wrist. She evaded him, but the smile
didn't go anywhere. "Mmm, I certainly hope you do."

Why was meaningful speech suddenly so difficult? His
mind feebly groped for a suitable comeback. Distantly
he figured that blood was the problem. It was heading
south in a hurry, and it was taking a good portion of
his intellect with it. He blinked twice, and caught
her smirk as she tugged on the refrigerator door.
"Hold you to it ...." he replied. "Hold *it* to *you*
..... one is as good as the other. What would be even
better, though, involves more of a, uh .... an
insertion sorta thing ...."

She grinned so wide that dimples actually appeared.
"Really." She glanced at the clock over her stove.
"The lasagna's going in the oven to warm, and then I'm
taking a shower. Lunch'll be in half an hour. Can you
stay out of trouble for that long?"

He thought suddenly of all those bottles in her
bathroom, lined up like little soldiers on their
little shelf, and smiled. Sometimes things just turned
out right, without any effort on his part. "Actually,
Scully .... I have something else in mind." He raised
her hand to his mouth and pressed another kiss to the
warmth of her palm. Her eyes, cobalt blue and aglow
with mirth, held his without effort. "You might want
to turn the oven down a little. I think this is going
to take some time."

~~~~~~

They didn't light candles. Watery afternoon sunlight
spilled in through the half-drawn shades, rendering
any other light redundant and unwelcome. She led the
way and then turned to him, and he saw a tinge of pink
suffusing her cheeks. "I, uh .... " Her voice trailed
off uncertainly, and she darted a glance at the tub.
He found himself frowning. Was she still plagued by
images of what might have happened that terrible night
last winter? God, he hoped not.

After a pause of a heartbeat - or one that encompassed
a dozen - she looked up at him again. "I haven't done
this in two decades," she said, her tone so soft he
could barely hear. He held her gaze as he bent lower,
straining to catch the words. She must have seen the
confusion in his eyes, because she gestured to the tub
with a turn of her head. "This. Bathing with someone.
I haven't don't that since I was a kid. Missy used to
help me wash my hair."

He followed her glance, a smile starting. "Well,
you're years ahead of me," he replied, reaching out
and taking her hand. "I've been doing my own hair
since I was ....." He let the sentence trail off. It
wouldn't do to delve into his childhood, especially
now. There be dragons. He kissed her to cover his
lapse. "Since I turned thirty, at least."

He saw another flash of uncertainty in her eyes.
"Would you rather use the shower? I don't mind. I
mean, I usually take showers myself anyway .... that
way we won't have to, um ..... I mean, you're tall
enough, you might not find the tub all that
comfortable ...."

He gave her hand a squeeze. She fell silent as she
looked up at him. He nodded to the shelf of plastic
bottles. "I can't decide which I like the best. Which
is your favorite?"

Her shoulders rose and fell as she sighed, and he saw
some of the tension leave her expression. Good. This
was supposed to be fun. She slipped past him, brushing
her hands along his bare sides, and picked up one of
the bottles. She uncapped it and held it up to him.
"This one."

His eyes held hers as he bent closer and gently
inhaled. God, he knew that fragrance. He could pick it
out in a crowd - hell, he could find her in a packed
stadium, blindfolded. He loved that smell. Sweet, but
not too. A little musk. A little pine. A little of a
whole lot of things - he never had excelled at the
smaller details in a woman's life. Never really had
the chance. Never really wanted to, before now.

She ran water until it was warm, then stopped the
drain and sat back on the edge of the tub. He watched
as she carefully tipped some of the lotion into the
stream. Bubbles immediately boiled into a froth, and
the tangy aroma began to waft around them in the
rising steam. He closed his eyes and inhaled again,
deeply this time. He opened his eyes to find her
regarding him curiously. "What is it?" she asked.

He slowly blinked, then gave his head a shake. She
kicked her underwear aside as she stood up. Without a
word, he raised a hand and stroked her bare
breastbone. A smattering of gooseflesh rose in his
wake, and she couldn't repress a shiver. Slowly his
hand trailed down to the tender flesh between her
breasts almost but not quite covered by the old, worn
sweater. He resisted the impulse to kiss her, because
to start and not finish would be impossible. This
wasn't just another opportunity to make love. That
would come later. He wanted to touch her. He wanted
her to touch him. Not a touch of arousal, but of
familiarity.

He stopped her when she started to shrug the sweater
off. "No, let me." Her hands fell away. Carefully he
grasped the hem and gently lifted it straight up and
tossed it aside. For a long moment he didn't move,
just let his eyes have their fill. She bore his
scrutiny for as long as she could - ten seconds, maybe
- and then she tipped her head back and gave a low
chuckle. "Mulder, if you don't touch me soon, I'm
going to go crazy."

His gaze met hers again. Without a word he grasped her
hands and pressed them into his chest. Her fingers
stroked him gently. He caressed her wrists, her
forearms, biceps and triceps, and allowed his fingers
to linger at the inner curves of her elbows. The flesh
was thin and tender, and she shivered as he dragged
his thumbnails oh, so lightly over the creases there.
Her breasts tightened and became pebbled, and it was
all he could do not to drop to his knees before her
and drag them, one after the other, into his eager
mouth. She wanted him to do that. He could see it in
her eyes, but he steeled himself against the
temptation. Not yet. Not yet.

When he'd acquainted himself with the soft smoothness
of her arms, he made his way down her torso, pausing
to brush his fingertips over her shoulders. Scapulae.
Sternum. Ribcage. Her own hands were not still, but
were traveling the breadth of his own chest, skimming
and exploring the ridge of his collarbones, the planes
of his abdomen. The line of dark hair that ran down
his belly and disappeared into the depths of his
jeans.

"Water," she breathed, turning away and breaking the
spell. A jerk of her wrists and the taps were closed.
She looked at him again, and he saw a sweet, hot fire
in her eyes. "Careful getting in," she whispered,
grasping him by the waist and expertly flicking the
buttons open down his fly. The jersey boxers were
beginning to strain against the bulge rising in his
crotch. A smile tugged at her lips, and he knew
without asking that, left to her own devices, it was
not her tub that she wanted him to slide into.

"Get in," she directed in the same soft tone. He
obediently shimmied his pants down and off, tossing
them in the corner with her sweater. Turning, he saw
her eyes were on him. No hiding it now: he was
aroused. Not yet rigid, but heavy and just beginning
to lift. Well, of course he was aroused; she was as
nude as he was, and nothing got the attention of a
heterosexual male like a nude female. But he could
wait. He wasn't an adolescent. No more racing in the
showers. The true victory now was not in being the
first, but the last.

He folded his glasses and laid them on the sink, then
turned away and stepped into the tub. The water was
deliciously hot. He swallowed a yelp as he carefully
sat down - damn, that was really warm - and then
relaxed against the angled back, arms resting
comfortably on the sides of the tub, and looked up at
her. She was watching him appraisingly, and from the
look in her eyes and the smile just touching the
corners of her mouth, he figured she liked what she
saw. Her gaze lingered over his crotch, and he felt
his own smile grow. His penis bobbed against his
abdomen, to all appearances erect. She'd know that
wasn't entirely the case, but it didn't stop her from
admiring it. That she could be so comfortable, with
herself and with him, pleased him.

"Come here," he beckoned. She immediately complied,
but he stopped her when she would have straddled him.
"Wait, not like that .... turn around." She hesitated,
pouting a little; then with a resigned sigh, she
stepped over the side and settled between his legs. He
guided her with his hands on her hips. "Yeah, like
that."

She grunted softly as she situated her legs around
his. "It's crowded. Are you all right? I'm not hurting
you, am I?"

That made him smile all over. "Get back here, Scully."
Gently he grasped her shoulders and nestled her
comfortably against him. His arms crossed around her
and held her fast. The pressure of her back against
his erection was enticing, and for a moment he allowed
his mind to dwell on how good it would feel if she
could just ....

No, he reminded himself, that wasn't what this was
about. Be patient.

She sighed deeply - he felt his arms rise and fall
along with her chest. "Mmm, this is nice."

He allowed his lips to trail along her temple, down to
her brow bone and then back up to her hairline. Sweat
was beginning to pearl on her skin, and when he licked
his lips, he tasted salt. "Yeah," he breathed against
her skin. Surrounded by the hot, heavy aroma of Scully
...... it couldn't get better than this.

He kissed her temple again. Water lapped around them
and between them, and in the half-darkness he saw the
pale-on-pale line of the laparotomy scar that marred
her belly. There was a corresponding one on her back,
now hidden against his own middle. He swallowed the
sudden rush of bitter anger. Let it go. It wouldn't
have happened if you'd been there, true, but the fact
is, you weren't there. What's done is done. We're here
now.

He groaned softly. Just another scar. Something else
that had been taken away from her. He spread his hand
wide over her abdomen, the span of his fingers almost
enough to cover her belly. What was left there beneath
his hand, he wondered. Why had her ova been taken?
He'd like to think the bastards heading the Project
had wanted the very best genetic material they could
get their leprous hands on. That didn't ease the
grief, though. She had been medically raped. She had
been denied a son. A daughter. That was what galled
him so badly. If the decision had been hers - if she
had decided that motherhood was something she had no
interest in .... But no. They had taken the decision
away from her. They had taken it away from *him.*
There was no one else he would ever want to have a
child with.

Slowly his hand closed into a fist and pressed gently
into her belly, just below her navel. Empty. She was
empty, and so was he. No one would follow them. They
would each end their respective lines with their
deaths. Not fair. Not fair.

He swallowed hard to dispel the hard lump suddenly
forming in his throat. "What do you think she'd have
looked like?" he whispered.

It was dangerous, that kind of question. For a moment
she didn't respond, and he wondered if perhaps she'd
drifted off in the wet heat of his embrace. Scully
could fall asleep just about anywhere. Then her head
jerked slightly to the side, and though he couldn't
see her face, he knew she was frowning. "Who?"

He didn't reply, just pressed his hand a little more
firmly into her belly. Over her empty uterus. A barren
womb. Not fair. Her head turned again, and he could
imagine the look in her eyes as she stared into the
distance.

Her chest rose and fell gently on a sigh, and her
hands crossed with his over her abdomen. "Not the
hair," she murmured.

His smile would not be denied. She knew. She knew
exactly what he'd meant. What was more, she was
willing to play the game. *What if?* But to have a
child with her that did not have the pale skin and
fiery red hair of the ancient Celts .... the thought
was heretical. At least it was in the Church of
Scully, where he would willingly worship every day for
the rest of his life. He kissed her temple again. "Not
the hair? You're kidding me, right?"

Her answer was firm despite the velvety softness of
her voice. "Not the hair, Mulder. I wouldn't want
another kid to be teased and ridiculed for something
they had no control over."

He smiled into her hair. "You mean, like this nose?"

She glanced at him again, and he heard the soft sound
that always accompanied her smiles. "It's a nose. So
what that it's a little ..... generous. I happen to
like it."

He nuzzled her again. "And I like the hair."

They were silent for a long time. Then she moved a
little in his arms, shifting a little in the close
confines of the tub. "Okay, so you want red hair and I
want the nose. Freckles too, I suppose, on that nose."

"Of course."

She feigned a dispirited sigh. "Fine, if she has to
have the hair and the freckles, the poor kid gets your
eyes. I'm not arguing this point."

He chuckled. "Suits me. I have a kid that looks *too*
much like you, she's not leaving the house until she's
drawing Social Security."

She chuckled a little at that. "You'd let her go,
Mulder. You'd do it because it'd be the right thing to
do. I know you." She turned her head and nuzzled her
face into his throat. "Besides, the music'd drive you
crazy. You've heard some of the crap they listen to
these days."

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger
and kissed her. "Just think about all the stuff we'll
have to teach her. How to walk, how to dress."

"How to do math."

He snorted softly. "That's your department. Besides,
you're kind of jumping the gun, aren't you? I'm
thinking walking and talking, you're skipping straight
ahead to homework. Jeez, not everyone's the
over-achiever *you* are, you know."

She giggled. "I am not an over-achiever."

"Oh, yeah. Right. You only rewrote Einstein."

She pretended to sniff haughtily. "Fine, we'll back up
a little. Walking. Baby steps. We're both good at
that." She kissed him gently. "Holding her steady for
her first steps. Dressing her in runners and tiny
little scrubs."

"In your dreams, Dr. Scully." Gentle kiss. "Teaching
her the difference between a Freudian and a Jungian."
Kiss. "A phobia and an archetype."

A delicate Scully snort. "Just so she can express
herself. I don't want any kid growing up having the
same hang-ups I have. And keep her away from Freud,
will you please? All that Oedipal and Electra shit
....."

He smiled against her cheek. "Scully, please! That's
not the kind of language we want her to pick up."

She chuckled again as she let her head fall back
against his shoulder. Slowly he raised his arm from
the warm water and held it out before them. After a
moment she followed suit, and their fingers merged
into a single form. "Hand," he whispered, praying that
she would follow along, that by playing his game, she
might banish at least this one self-perceived
character flaw once and for all.

"Hand," she repeated, little more than a breath.

His finger stroked her knee tenderly. "Leg."

The smile sound. "Leg."

A touch to her nose. "Scully."

A giggle as she repeated, "Scully."

He pressed her hand to his cheek. "Mulder."

A soft sigh. "Mulder."

He touched his lips to her lashes. "Eye.

Her breath caught in her throat. "Eye."

He opened his hand on her chest, just below her left
collarbone. "Love."

She hesitated. When she spoke, it was so soft that he
could barely hear her. "Love."

He touched a finger to the rounded point of her chin,
and his voice all but failed him on the last syllable.
"You."

A sound similar to a smile sound and yet different,
and then the sound of a choked swallow. She pressed
her face into his throat again, and he felt the quiver
that passed through her. Would she say it? *Could*
she?

She remained silent, and he felt a bitter twinge of
disappointment. Not in her, but *for* her. He held her
just a little closer, willing her to feel in his
heartbeat the depth of his emotions. She was strong.
She was tenacious. He knew there was nothing she
couldn't do.

Well, almost nothing.

Give it time, he chastened himself. Some day it would
happen.

Some day.

In the silence broken by the soft lap of water and the
gentle rhythm of their heartbeats, he heard the
whisper of rain. Glancing at the window, he saw drops
once again feathering the glass.

She clasped his hand and held it between her breasts,
sighing as she followed his gaze. He could just
imagine her, eyes at half-mast, face utterly relaxed.
She was smart, sexy, and beautiful. And she loved him.
So what that she couldn't say it? He was a lucky man.
No words, whether spoken or not, would change that.

"I love you, Mulder."

Carried on a breath, the words were so soft that he
thought he might have imagined them. She pressed her
face more firmly into the side of his throat. "I do. I
love you."

Warmth bloomed in his chest, and his arms tightened
ever-so slightly around her. Emotion tugged at his
heart and robbed him of voice. His mouth opened and
then closed futily. His eyes closed, and he sighed
contentedly as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. I
know you do, Scully. I know.

Later there would be more. He would hold her there in
her big, soft bed; he'd watch her expression change as
he moved over her and in her, feel her run hot and
liquid around him as she took flight and dragged him
with her. He'd say the words even as he made good on
them. He'd see the love in her eyes, would taste it in
her kisses. If he was very lucky, she would say the
words again, too.

But for now they didn't speak, merely sat with tangled
limbs and watched the rain fall silently beyond the
window. For now, they needed no words.
 
 
 

~~~~~
end
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