By Audrey Roget
audrey_roget@yahoo.com

DISTRIBUTION:  Please forward to ATXC; archive at
Gossamer; others please flatter me by requesting
permission first.
SPOILERS:  Various; most significantly, Pine Bluff
Variant, Elegy, Ascension
RATING:  Varies from PG to NC-17
CLASSIFICATION:  SRA
KEYWORDS:  MSR, M/S/Sk friendship
SUMMARY:  Set between Pine Bluff Variant and The
End.  The traditional toss of a bridal bouquet at the
wedding of a colleague (yes, a cheesey situation, but
work with me here) sets Mulder and Scully on a
relationship slalom which causes them to question the
nature of truth in their lives.
DISCLAIMER: Indulge me a moment.  The principal
characters portrayed herein are ultimately owned by
Rupert Murdoch, spawn of Satan.  I thank Chris Carter
and company for bringing them to life and continuing to
oversee their development and ongoing existence.  At
the same time, Fox Television and 1013 Productions
would do well to acknowledge that, in the larger sense,
these characters belong to all of us, for without us,
there is no they.  With that in mind, I declare a
complete lack of intent to derive profit from the
production/distribution of the following material or to
infringe upon the ownership of the personages not
created from my own imagination.
DISCLAIMER OF A DIFFERENT STRIPE:  Humor me.
Scientific, geographical, historical and institutional
inaccuracies are most gratefully overlooked.
 
 

THE SHIRT
by Audrey Roget

Part 1/10

I check my watch for the third time in four minutes, but I
have no idea what time it is.  I hate these kinds of
functions.  Don't mind putting on a tux though.  It's one
of the few times I feel like I'm living up to the 007
image people tend to associate with the work I do.  I
just wish the occasion didn't call for a fun-filled evening
in the company of my fellow agents, most of whom are
also stylishly dressed, milling around the lobby of this
swanky Georgetown hotel.

I've never been particularly comfortable at large social
gatherings where one is obliged to feel festive.  If I had
any choice, I'd have made my excuses long ago, but a
request was made of me I couldn't refuse.  So I
concentrate on my duty to a friend this evening,
genuinely pleased at his good fortune and, knowing
the difficulty he has making personal requests of any
kind, honored that he has asked me to be here tonight.

Absently, I finger the chunky gold band in my vest
pocket, a little tempted to try it on for size.  But I'd
rather not relive any moments from the distant time
when I wore a ring like this one for real and - I thought
then - forever.  I think of the matching one Scully must
have on her somewhere and what these rings mean to
their owners.  Where the hell is Scully anyway? Not
like her to run late.

It was just like Skinner to say nothing about this
impending celebration until just a couple of weeks ago.
One morning like any other, he called us into his office,
but instead of briefing us on a new case, he gave us
the news that he and Sharon had reconciled and
decided to reaffirm their wedding vows.  I actually felt a
little surge of hope hearing this, for him and for me.

He delivered the information is his usual no-nonsense
way, so it took a minute to process that what he was
telling us had nothing to do with serial murders or
government conspiracies.  He was issuing an invitation
and a request - though it still managed to sound like an
order - that we, Scully and I together, stand up for him
at the ceremony as his "Best Agents."  Scully was
particularly flattered, going so far as to plant a kiss on
the  SOB's right cheek.  I swear he blushed.  I'm afraid
I blushed a bit myself, mostly in relief that there would
be one fewer in the pool of competitors for Scully's
attention.

Since her remission, the two of them have shared
some sort of quiet understanding, which I found
unsettling somehow. Standing in the AD's office that
day, offering a hearty congratulations, I knew that the
joy I felt was as much for me as it was for him.

Finally, across the room, I spot Scully by the coat
check.  She's late, but damn was it worth the wait.  I
start to rise to go meet her, but am pinned to my seat
as I watch her shed her black coat, revealing a fitted,
sleeveless evening gown, midnight blue, cut low
enough in the back to bare half of her creamy shoulder
blades and spine.  Before I know it, I'm on my feet,
striding over,  probably grinning like a fool, and trying
to come up with an appropriate opener.

"Hey Scully.  Nice threads," is the best I can come up
with.

"You clean up pretty nice yourself, Mulder," she
replies, then dips her head to hide the smile creeping
at the corners of her lips.  They look dark and sweet,
as if she's been eating fresh berries.  Her hair is a little
different tonight, too, falling in soft waves around her
face.  I stifle an intense desire to run my lips over the
gleaming crown of her head.

###

Mulder seems to be in good shape, though I can
practically smell the tension I know courses through
him when he's feeling awkward or out-of-place.  He's in
especially good condition, considering what I've been
overhearing in the lobby concerning last night's
bachelor party.  Let's just say the Bureau has made
many strides to officially welcome women into the
ranks, but sometimes you'd never know it from
listening to certain agents recount their weekends.

"Some shin-dig, huh?" observes Mulder, glancing
around the lobby.  Then, as if reading my thoughts,
leans in to add, "I'm surprised some of those guys can
even walk today."  An evil glimmer lights his eyes.

"Well, I guess Skinner knew what he was doing when
he chose you as Best Man," I reply lightly, fixing him
with a practiced look.

"Hey - I only provided the entertainment.  It was
actually a pretty tame evening while I was there," he
says somewhat defensively.  "Some Best Agent you
are. You didn't even show up."

"Thanks for the invitation, but I was sure you'd try to
talk me into jumping out of a cake, " I quip, and start
moving toward the ballroom.

Our familiar banter eases his edginess.  He trails me to
the head table, asking, "Just out of curiosity, Scully,
how hard would it be to talk you into that?"  Luckily, my
back is to him so he can't see the stupid grin spreading
across my face.  I refrain from mentioning that it would
take very little persuasion if it were for a certain
audience of one.

I am rescued from having to make a comeback as
someone steps to the microphone underneath a
canopy set up  on the dance floor, and asks the
members of the wedding to take their places.  Skinner
spots us from the far end of the table, and flags us
over.  We troop to the right side of the canopy, where
Sharon Skinner, her parents and the rabbi are already
waiting.

Mulder suddenly notices that I'm wearing the bride's
ring on the chain with my cross and reaches out to
examine it.  "Aw, gee, I thought you said you'd by /my/
date for the prom, " he cracks.

"They don't design women's formal wear with pockets
in mind," I complain.

"Where would they put them?" he teases, giving me
the once-over. My stomach flips as his gaze travels
over me, lingering just a moment longer than
necessary to prove his point.

I give him a disgusted sigh an start to remove my
necklace, when he steps behind me, saying, "Allow
me." He undoes the clasp, slips the ring off and
re-fastens it almost entirely without touching me.  A
little disappointed, I turn around to be confronted by a
glare from Skinner.

"If you're ready, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, may we
proceed?"  I have seen Skinner's human side just often
enough to know of its existence.  I have to assume his
wife sees a good deal more of it, though I have my
doubts.  In my experience, even at his most sincere
and good-natured, Skinner's behavior is always closely
guarded.  His personal defenses make my own
substantial ones look like 3-foot chain link. Lately, I've
come to appreciate the respect we have for the other's
boundaries.

The Skinners' vows are simple and to the point,
naturally. Though I have never cried at a wedding in
my life, a hard lump rises in my throat when Mulder
and I hand over the rings.  I actually have to blink back
tears hearing them recite, "I am my beloved's, my
beloved is mine."

I steal a glance at Mulder, who is smiling gently to
himself, not altogether present. This is one of those
rare moments I choose not to speculate what is going
on in the complicated labyrinth of his mind.  Standing
close to him, I shift slightly to feel the soft wool of his
jacket against my bare arm and his warm breath on my
shoulder.

After the ceremony, the chuppa is cleared away and an
army of caterers hustle around serving dinner and
pouring champagne.  Reluctantly agreeing that Mulder
could speak for both of us when making the ceremonial
first toast, I stressed, perhaps a bit to strenuously, that
it should be short, sweet and sincere.  I reminded him
that attempts at humor could easily backfire, since
Mulder's wit is often razor-edged and not universally
accepted as funny.

"Here's to the happy couple," he addresses the fifty or
so guests. "Two people who have proved that, though
the course of true love never did run smooth, the truest
of loves never lose each other entirely."  He turns
directly to Skinner and continues, "Sir, on behalf of
Agent Scully and the rest of these good people, I'd like
to impart my best wishes to you and Mrs. Skinner for a
long, happy, healthy life together.  I can only hope
someday to count myself as lucky a man as you are
tonight." Raising his glass, he turns back to the other
tables.  "To Walter and Sharon."

As the guests echo his sentiment and raise their
glasses, I register what he has said.  Mulder wants to
settle down someday?  I never really thought of him as
the marrying type.  I imagine a scene like this
sometime in the not-too-distant future.  Mulder in a
morning coat, facing his glowing lace-bound
bride....and me to his right, in this same fucking dress.
Why does this image send a searing hot pain knifing
through my abdomen?  It's not just a case of `always
the best man, never the bride.'

Mulder takes his seat next to mine and leans in to
whisper, "How was that?  Did I work in all three /S's/?"
There's a faint gleam in his eyes, casting them a deep
green.

"Short, sweet, sincere. Works every time. "  I take
another sip of champagne to banish my waking
nightmare.

"Snappy Scully.  You could have your own
infomercial."

"Just so long as I don't have to demonstrate surgical
instruments on alien corpses."

After dinner, a little swing combo gets set up and the
lead singer announces the first dance.  The Skinners
take the floor.  He is surprisingly graceful as they
fluidly turn around the floor to `Our Love is Here to
Stay.'  Halfway through the song, Sharon's father cuts
in, while Skinner dances with her mother, and soon
other couples drift into the fray.

Mulder and I are standing well off to the side.  He
hasn't asked me to dance, even out of courtesy.  I
glance up at him several times and clear my throat,
waiting for him to take the hint.

The song ends and he finally says, "Well Scully, I
guess that's my cue."  I turn to him, holding out my
hand, already humming the strains of the next song,
`Cheek to Cheek.' More like cheek to sternum in our
case, which is fine with me.  He grabs my hand, gives
it a squeeze.  "Night Scully.  Don't stay up too late.
See you in the morning."

He's well on his way toward the door before it sinks in.
As soon as it does, I'm skittering after him in this damn
narrow skirt, vainly trying to catch up with him, as
usual.

"Mulder - where the hell are you going?"  I almost have
to shout to be heard and I'm not bothering to hide my
disappointment.  He looks surprised by my question,
my attitude.

"My work here is done, Scully," he tells me as if he's
wrapped up a cut and dried case.  "Vows, rings, toast.
What else is there?"  He shrugs.  Maybe it's the
lighting, but I can't tell if his nonchalance is genuine or
smartly contrived.

"It's only 8:30, " I sputter.  "I can't believe you're
leaving already, just like that."

"What am I, your date?" He almost looks amused. I feel
like I've been slapped.

"Oh.  Excuse me.  I didn't realize you had something
more important to attend to."  Angry, embarrassed heat
rises in my cheeks.  "What?  Did Langley pick up the
latest issue of Licanthropy Enthusiast?  I hear Miss
May is a real dog."

He's a bit chagrined, but continues in full retreat,
completely blowing me off.  I bring down the volume
but sharpen the tone.  "But how could I expect you to
endure something as mundanely enjoyable as a
party?"  I turn heel and head back toward the dance
floor, not waiting for an answer, and not really
expecting one.  Still, it stings when I realize he's not
going to follow me.

Once my anger has cooled a bit, I find myself inwardly
reciting one of Mulder's own admonitions: /Go with it
Scully/.  But it's been quite a while since I've faced
down a big, loud party. Or any party, for that matter.
I'm still mulling over my options when a nice-looking
fair-haired man around 35 approaches me.

"Doctor Scully?"  Doctor.  Not Agent.  Must not be with
the Bureau.  Actually, I've noticed that the great
majority of guests seem not to be connected to work.  I
nod in the affirmative.

"David Rosen."  He sticks out a hand. "Sharon's
brother? Walter has told me a bit about your work," he
says.

"Don't hold it against me," I reply dryly.  He looks
puzzled by my remark, but asks for a dance anyway.

"I've, uh, always been fascinated by the paranormal,"
he tells me.

"You'd probably rather be dancing with my partner,
then," I quip, which elicits another perplexed face.
"Not that it isn't fascinating, of course," I feel compelled
to add, "and challenging.  But even after all this time,
I'm still a die-hard skeptic."  I try changing the subject.
"What do you do?"

"Real estate risk management," he answers, without
much enthusiasm.

I nod vaguely in response, causing him to grin
self-consciously and explain, "Which may tell you why I
have a hobby like freaky phenomena."  We chat
politely through the next song.  He asks me about
memorably bizarre cases, and I pull out a few
anecdotes, steering clear of any mention of shadow
governments or alien colonization.

It's a pleasant fifteen minutes or so, but I can't help
feeling like something's missing.  David seems
perfectly nice.  What is wrong with me that that isn't
enough?  When did tall, paranoid and oral retentive
become my criteria for attractiveness?  And there's
something else.  Given David's relationship to Skinner,
I'm getting the feeling I've been set up.  Christ, I'm
beginning to subscribe to conspiracy theories in social
situations. Where will it end?

As the song winds down, I hear a familiar throat clear
itself.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see one lanky arm
tap David on the shoulder.  "May I?" Mulder asks.

I thank David for the dance and, almost without
missing a beat, a new song has begun.  "How High the
Moon."  My right hand rests in his left, my left on his
shoulder, his right rides cautiously at my waist, and
even though we've only done this once before, it feels
like coming home.
 

END PART 1/10

The Shirt - 2/10

DISCLAIMER, etc: See part 1
 

It's rare nights like these when I wish I'd let Mom
push me into going to those cotillion dances
Sundays on the Vineyard.  But I didn't stop to
consider the fact that I'm probably the worst dancer
in this or any other galaxy until now.  I wouldn't
even be thinking of it now if something hadn't
caught my eye after Scully stomped off and I
turned back toward the door.

Two men were following her progress across the
room.  Damn that dress.  One was a blond, wiry
guy who looked about 17 but must be at least forty.
The other was Skinner, hunched over, whispering
something in the guy's ear to send him scurrying in
Scully's direction.  For the second time tonight, I
was rooted to the spot, watching my partner.
/What did you expect, asshole?/ a voice says from
somewhere behind my eyes.  Once freed of my
temporary paralysis, my legs carried me here of
their own will.  There must be something in the
files about involuntary movements of limbs or
digits.

OK.  I came of age in the dark, overlapping days of
disco and punk.  With one memorable exception, I
haven't been near a dance floor - or a mosh pit, for
that matter - in I don't know how long.  But I strode
down here like Fred Fucking Astaire, and here I
am, barely lifting my feet for fear I'll crush Scully's
toes.  And lovely toes they are, painted a delicate
pink, peeking out of her high heels.  Staring at our
feet gives me a few seconds to figure out what to
say.  She beats me to it.

"I thought there was somewhere you had to be?"
she asks guilelessly.

"Yeah - uh," I pat the jacket pocket where I usually
keep the phone.  "Byers called.  The boys are all
down with the flu.  Very contagious.  They didn't
want to infect me, too."

"Mmmhmm...that's a shame."  She cocks her head.
"Maybe we should go by there, see if they need
anything from the pharmacy.  This new South
American strain of influenza can be lethal.  Here -"
she reaches for my breast pocket "-let's call them,
make sure they're all right."

I quickly bring my hand down over hers, over the
empty pocket.  "Can't.  Battery's low - I lost the
connection talking to Byers."  I call her bluff.  "Why
don't you use yours?"

She shrugs innocently, enjoying every second of
my squirming like a live specimen under her
microscope.  "I left it in the car, Mulder.  I told you -
no pockets.  Besides, who brings a phone to a
wedding?"  She can't resist a victorious little
half-smile.  Seeing that smile, I don't even care.

This little exchange lets Scully put me in my place
while simultaneously letting me off the hook.  How
does she do that with such grace?  And why?  It
has also distracted her enough to allow herself to
relax a little in my arms.  She leaves her hand on
my chest, with my fingers curled around it.
Meanwhile, the band has shifted into a
down-tempo number.

With the speed of a glacier, I slide my hand around
to the small of Scully's back and pull her an inch or
two closer.  We're still dancing at a respectable
distance.  A prom chaperone would approve.
Something about her posture and sudden
quietness tells me she wants to be even nearer,
but the situation and her own sense of space hold
her back.

I can't help thinking, that though I've held her
closer on more than one occasion, there is
something slightly unsettling about the way we
cling to each other now.  It's as if our bodies exert
a gravitational pull on each other and only our own
inhibitions keep us from colliding and erupting in
flames.  We feel the heat of these flames, even as
we chastely sway on a crowded dance floor, our
easy conversation dissolved into a heavy silence,
and neither of us daring to look the other in the
eye.

Still, now that an opportunity to be this close to
Scully has presented itself, I'm sure as hell going
to enjoy it.  I lean imperceptibly closer, breathing
her in.  Her scent is warm, sweet and a little
earthy, like sun-ripened apricots.  Her bare arms
and shoulders glow under the soft light, her skin
supple and soft-looking.  I ache to slide my hands
along the length of those arms, following with my
lips and tongue, tasting every inch, fingertips to
collarbone.

I picture Scully getting ready for tonight, stepping
out of the shower, smoothing a fragrant lotion over
her arms, shoulders, neck, belly, breasts.  /Whoa,
whoa whoa/.  Too much.  Too far.  I shake my
head slightly to clear the steam from between my
ears.

Scully gives me a confused look.  "No, what,
Mulder?  Are you feeling all right?"

There's genuine concern in her voice.  I smile
sheepishly and in a thick voice assure her I'm fine.
She doesn't know what to make of the expression
that must still hang on my features, probably
somewhere between dazed and confused.

"Are you sure?  You look flushed.  Do you have a
fever?"  The hand I'm not holding presses against
my forehead.  She can't be taking the Lone Gun flu
seriously, can she?  Maybe she's starting to buy it.
That would be typical Scully procedure:
Immediately dismiss anything implausible I throw
out, then chew on it for a while and reconsider if
any hard evidence turns up. I've come to rely on
that process, to need it.  Need her.

"Seriously. I'm great," I say a little too loudly, then
confess into her waiting ear, "I - I'm glad I decided
to hang around for a while."

Her answer is a smug, mildly surprised grin.  But it
does bring her eyes up to mine.  Looking down into
her face, I'm picturing that fogged-up bathroom
again.  But this time, I'm there too, spreading lotion
across her shoulder blades, kissing my way down
the curve of her spine.  I'm on the verge of circling
my tongue around the tiny dimples above her ass
when I suddenly feel a pang of uneasiness.

A familiar hot swelling between my legs comes as
no surprise.  But I realize all at once that while I've
immersed myself in a fantasy, the real live subject
is directly before me, rocking side to side, her hand
over my heart.  A cool flood of shame washes over
me.  I've fantasized about Scully plenty - and with
increasing frequency as the years have passed -
but never while she was physically this close.  Yet,
for some reason, instead of backing away, I am
emboldened.

I have touched Scully in comfort, in friendship, and
now, in a way that could be called social
obligation.  But never without an excuse, never in
any way that couldn't be innocently explained
away, even as that contact later launched any
number of uninnocent daydreams. And, I should
add, that though touching her and having her
touch me is always pleasant, I have never touched
her sheerly for pleasure.

The hand that has been resting at the small of her
back begins to slide slowly upward, along the
zipper of her dress, resisting a passing but
powerful urge to grasp it and pull for all I'm worth.
Instead, I trace the edging lightly with one finger
before slipping the whole of my splayed hand
further up and across the silky expanse of her bare
back.  I let it wander in a wide, lazy circle, over one
shoulder blade, to the nape of her neck, then down
along the other side, slowly, so slowly, and back to
the center, where my thumb draws tiny
figure-eights over her spine.  I know I'm crossing a
line here.  A line so deeply ingrained, so
long-standing, that the sands of time have all but
covered over it, erased it completely.  I'm trying to
work out a way to say all of this to Scully when she
breathes in sharply, blinks hard, and tries to
suppress a tiny shudder.

###

"Mulder."  It takes a moment to get his attention.
Almost the entire time we are dancing, he looks
like he is a million miles away, off in another solar
system or a black hole.  What is going on in that
skull of yours, Mulder?  Where is it you want to be
instead of here, dancing with me?  Who is there
with you?  What is putting the beginnings of a
self-satisfied smile on your lips?

"Mulder," I repeat, "the music has stopped."

He resurfaces, stops shuffling, and offers a
half-shrug.  "Oops.  Forgive my faux-pas.  What
can I say - I'm a dancin' fool."  From the slow, soft
delivery of these words, if I didn't know better, I'd
say he was stoned.  But his eyes are clear and
focused.

On me.

All at once, the answers to my questions gather on
the horizon.  It's me.  We've been right here on a
dim dance floor the whole the time, volleying little
electric sparks back and forth, with him absently
caressing my back, sending arctic grade shivers
down my spine.  But in some well-lighted room in
Mulder's mind, we were somewhere else entirely.
And I get the impression now that we weren't
chasing down a band of extraterrestrial bovine
exsanguinators.

I'm suddenly overly aware of every point where our
bodies are touching, especially where my hand
rests over his heart, feeling its strong, steady beat
and the smooth muscles under his clothes.
Glancing down, I notice one of my sandals planted
squarely on Mulder's toes.  He doesn't seem to
notice.

"Scully - uh - I'm kind of particular about these
shoes.  And you're about to crush two of my
favorite toes. "

I mumble an apology, dropping my arms away from
him, somehow embarrassed now that the song is
over.  Within seconds, the band is onto another
tune, this one bouncy and oddly familiar.  Mulder's
broad hand is against my back, stilled, but
unmistakably there.  I must be wearing a
too-serious expression, because he pushes out a
short laugh and asks, "What's the matter?  Not up
for the Hokey Pokey?"

"I'm up for just about anything," I challenge.  I know
he's caught my tone, but looks as if he hasn't
heard correctly, and gives a strange little cough.

"You want me to put an end to all the speculation?"
he furrows his brow, realizing how that must
sound.

"What speculation, exactly?" I push the parallel
conversations one degree further.

"The speculation that Spooky Mulder has no sense
of humor.  Especially when it comes to himself."
He grins - in relief? - and leads me to place in a
wide semi-circle just as the bandleader begins to
croon, "You put your right foot in, you put your right
foot out..."

This is absolutely surreal.  Far rarer than a
hundred Human Blockheads.  I laugh almost
without break at the sight of Walter Skinner, an
Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation and a few fellow Fibbies wriggling
their ankles like seven year-olds.  I laugh to see
Mulder, too, watching his long, beautiful limbs
flailing loosely about, an open-mouthed, all-out
smile having taken over his entire face; at myself,
thoroughly and utterly silly and un-self-conscious,
for the first time in far too long.  It feels so good to
let go like this.  I am momentarily...liberated.

I am unbelievably turned on.

The game ends, Mulder and I still grinning like
fools.  This is one of those moments in
overwrought, idealistic  romance novels - okay, I'm
not proud to admit I've read one or two - where the
hero and heroine give each other a meaningful
look, draw each other into a fierce embrace and
finally confess their mutual love and admiration.
Which, if they'd simply done two hundred pages
earlier, would have ended the story right there.

As if I need reminding, my life is most definitely
/not/ a romance novel.  And, as if to prove it to me
yet again, Mulder claps a hand lightly on my
shoulder, laughing, "Look at you Special Agent
Scully - who knew you could Hokey like a pro!  I
don't think I've seen you smile so much since they
doubled the number of women's toilets in the
Hoover Building."  Oh Mulder, you hopeless
romantic.  Nevertheless, my spirits remain high
until the bandleader calls out, "All right, all you
unattached fillies out there - it's that time.  Come
on up to the bandstand and let's see which one of
you lucky gals will be the next to hire Big Bob and
the Boppers!"

Absolutely not.  My shoulders slump and I make a
face of pure disdain.  Mulder gives me a look of
mild, mocking surprise.  "What? Don't tell me
you're not going to take a shot at the coveted
bridal bouquet?"

I cross my arms before me.  "I'm certainly not going
to line up like a piece of chattel hoping I'll get lucky
enough to be the next one harnessed to the yoke."
Wow. All-time land speed record for breaking the
mood.  Way to go, Dana.

It gets a laugh from Mulder, though.  He puts his
hands on my shoulders and turns me around,
ushering me over to where a tight knot of a dozen
or so women, presumably unattached, are waiting
for Sharon Skinner to fling her flowers over her
shoulder.

"Mulder..." I offer a feeble, whiny protest.  I am
already attached, I want to say.  More married than
half of the wives I know.  Or so it seems for the
moment.

"Listen Scully, there's somewhere else I have to
be.  You can get yourself home?"

"Of course, but -"

He looks apologetic and relieved all at once.
"Good luck.  I'll see you in the morning."

Having delivered me into this crowd, he gives me a
little wave and turns toward the door.  I'll be
damned if I'm going to chase after him a second
time tonight. And I know with a sinking surety that
this time, he's not coming back.

I'm still fuming when a forest of arms rises up
around me, my own among them.
 

END 2/10

The Shirt - 3/10
DISCLAIMER:  See part 1
 

I glance back toward the dance floor just before
pushing through the ballroom's double doors.  I spot
Scully with her arms waving in the air, giving in to the
competition of the moment because she just can't
resist the pull to best anyone in any situation.  There
is a look of pure determination on that gorgeous face,
ignited, no doubt, by her fury with me and my abrupt
exit.  I hang by the door just long enough to watch her
spring off the floor, arms reaching high, higher,
snatching the flowers out of the air, thwarting the
attempts of the statuesque dark-haired woman
directly behind her.  Back on terra firma, a 1000-watt
smile of triumph flashes across Scully's face, and she
high-fives the tall colleague, who has at least six
inches on her.  Spontaneously, I raise my fist to her
victory, chuckling to myself as I head out into the
chilly spring evening.

It's not as if I don't feel like a real shit for bailing on
Scully.  But feeling shitty is virtually second nature to
me.  Most of the time, I take little notice of it, letting it
run its course through me like a low-grade fever.  And
if I don't exactly enjoy it, at least it's familiar.  Scully's
ire, though unpleasant, will pass.  I don't look forward
to the day when she finally decides not to forgive me
for one of these little stunts.

She doesn't know the favor I'm doing her by getting
the hell out of Dodge while I had the chance.  I
completely let my guard down tonight, starting with
that moronic fantasy and working up to the Hokey
Pokey.  At some point in between, I noticed that the
shitty feeling had disappeared.  That was a red flare,
because it's whenever I feel unburdened of that
constant weight that I know the sky is about to cave
in.  Happens time and time again.  I usually get just
enough time to let the lightness settle over me before
the mushroom cloud erupts.  This time, I didn't want
Scully standing in the bull's-eye.

Not to sound too cocky, but I could see where the
night was headed. One more slow dance like that last
one and I would've been leading Scully to a room
upstairs where I would have devoured her with teeth
sharpened on five years' attraction and denial.  And
then....what?

Even assuming the fair Dana would have let down
her own inhibitions and allowed herself to act out of
pure, untempered instinct - and I pause here to
consider that assumption fully - I repeat: Then what?
Watch the Bureau separate us again?  Let the men
who took her from me and nearly let her die an early,
agonizing death pit us against one another?  Not to
mention what substantiated rumors of fraternization
with her partner would do to her career.  The Bureau
is brutal on its female agents who don't play by the
book.  Scully has already put her reputation on the
line more times than can possibly be healthy.
Because of me.  As I walk the six blocks to an
appointment at a bar in another hotel, I predict the
entire meteoric rise and crash of our phantom love
affair, knowing that our friendship, our jobs and our
lives would inevitably follow. I set this meeting for
tonight on purpose, to give me a marginally justifiable
reason to make an early exit, should anyone have
asked, before things could progress too far to turn
back.

Jesus.  I can't believe I let him get to me.  That
bastard, Skinner.  He has to make sure everyone's
following the rules.  After making his little
announcement two weeks ago, he dismissed Scully
and asked me to stay back.

"So," I rubbed my hands together, "I know
strip-o-grams are popular these days, but I think I can
find something much more interesting in the celluloid
vault."

Skinner was wholly unamused. "Agent Mulder, what
in the hell are you talking about?"

"Planning the bachelor party?"

He regarded me stonily.  "Later."  His tone softened
slightly.  "You understand now why I've been
somewhat distracted lately.  I haven't been tracking
your work closely since your infiltration of the militia
group.  Anything new to report on that front?"

"You tell me, sir," I reply.  Immediately regretting the
flippancy in my tone, I scramble to add, "You heard,
of course, of the untimely and unnatural demise of
Jacob Haley."  He nods.  "Scully has been
researching every pathogen she can identify that
shares characteristics with the bio-weapon tested in
Ohio.  Through unofficial sources, we've had reports
of similar-sounding agents in California and Alabama,
but we've only been able to obtain microscopic tissue
samples from the bodies.  Agent Scully continues to
carry out further lab analysis, but I don't really see the
point."  My voice takes on a bitterer edge.  "We know
who was responsible for the deaths in Ohio and
Folger Park and there's not a goddamn thing we can
do about it."  Recalling my own role as patsy in that
scam brought a fresh rush of shame up my spine.
"Other than that, we've just been working background
on some stalled projects."

"And Agent Scully.  How is she dealing with Dara
Kernoff's death and the subsequent...events?"

I shrugged, noting the concern in his voice,
wondering what brought that up.  "She seems to be
holding her own well enough.  She took a couple of
personal days, but you know her.  She says she
needs work to feel whole."

"Is she still taking advantage of the Bureau's
counseling services?"

"I think so, but I haven't asked how regularly."  This
little rap session was beginning to feel familiar, like
the regular updates I used to give him during Scully's
illness.  It was oddly comforting then to have
someone to discuss her condition with.  No matter
how deep his concern, and how deeply sublimated,
that stoic exterior let me deal with the turmoil a little
more calmly.  Scully didn't like discussing the
particulars much and worked hard at protecting both
me and herself from careening out of control on that
narrow, twisting emotional highway.  Near the end of
the ordeal, when push literally came to shove,
Skinner forced me to find a solution, instead of letting
my anger and grief consume me.  But I could tell he
had an agenda that morning, was heading
somewhere I didn't want to go.

"Sir, shouldn't you be asking Agent Scully all this?"

"If I wanted to ascertain Agent Scully's physical or
psychological state, I /could/ ask her, or simply
consult her personnel record.  What I've been trying
to determine, Agent Mulder, is /your/ level of
communication with your partner and /your/
impression of her well-being" he explained, as if to a
developmentally disabled six year-old.

The son of a bitch wanted to know how we were
getting along, probably whether we were sleeping
together, as there are certainly rumors to that effect in
circulation.  Of all people, he knew how it tore me
apart to keep my involvement in the Bremer
investigation a secret from Scully.  He could damn
well have taken some responsibility for any lapse in
trust that might have engendered.

Even though I knew the answer before asking, I
decided to force the point.  "With all due respect, sir,
may ask where you're going with this line of
interrogation?"

He registered my sarcasm, chewed on his options
and finally said,  "I'll be frank with you, Mulder.  I'm
concerned about the path I see your relationship with
Scully taking.  I've fought tooth and nail to keep you
partnered up in the X-files, because you make one
hell of a team.  Your devotion to  the work and to
each other is admirable, but potentially extremely
dangerous.  Given the losses and near-misses you've
both already sustained since you became partners,
I'm sure you're all too aware of the peril to which you
subject each other."  Then he used the phrases I've
been trying to get out of my head ever since.
Fraternization.  Protocol.  Policy.  Sexual harassment.
Lack of propriety.  Objectivity.  Reputation.
Departmental integrity.  And my personal favorite:
Self-Preservation.  Mine.  Hers.  His.

I listened as politely and coolly as I could, for as long
as I could before interrupting.  "A.D. Skinner, not that
I should have to tell you this, but let me assure you I
have considered all of these issues."  I fought to
retain my composure.

"And Agent Scully?" he asked, glaring at me narrowly.

"I have no doubt that, if she feels they are relevant to
her, she has thought them through."

"'If relevant?'  So you are saying these issues do hold
relevance for you, Agent Mulder?"  And when did you
stop beating your wife?

I have no reply, so he answers for me.  "From what
I've observed, they do.  For both of you."  He paused
and took on a confessional tone.  "I'm a man who has
finally made some peace in his personal life, Mulder,
set some priorities straight, so maybe these things
are foremost in my mind and are making me go out of
my way to see situations, connections, that don't
exist."  He paused for a moment, considering his own
doubts.

"I've given the two of you a lot of leeway to pursue
investigations as you've seen fit.  Your results have
been consistently above Bureau standards, and when
they're not, it has been sufficient in my mind that
you've raised necessary questions, even when the
answers have eluded you.  For that reason, I'm
generally reluctant to interfere with your methods or
question the dynamics of your partnership.  It is
imperative you understand that I personally am not
interested in what you - either of you - do off duty.
But I must ask you directly:  What is the nature of
your relationship with Agent Scully?"

A thousand replies sprang to mind.  Lust.  Ache.
Unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger.  Safe
harbor.  Love.  Truth.  Redemption.  I voiced none of
these things, said nothing at all.

Gingerly, and with visible discomfort, he finally
reached ground zero and dropped the bomb:  "Are
you in love with her?"

In a tight voice, and without raising my eyes to his, I
answered as simply and truthfully as I could.  "I
respect Agent Scully.  I trust her.  I care about what
happens to her."  My control began a long slide down
a slippery slope.  "She is the finest agent I've worked
with, one of the sharpest minds I've ever
encountered, and probably - no, definitely - the best
friend I've ever had.  I can't imagine ever doing
something stupid enough to jeopardize that."  Shakily,
I stood and made for the door to the outer office.

"That's what I thought," he said quietly, then handed
me a parting shot.  "Back during Watergate, we called
that a non-denial denial."

I refused to turn around, to give him the satisfaction
of my anguish, even though I knew perfectly well that
my own interests were foremost among his concerns.
"Call it what you want," I said quietly, striding across
the floor and closing the door behind me with a quiet
click.

Leaving Skinner's office, I didn't feel like going back
to the basement, couldn't face Scully given the denial
I'd just endured.  Instead, I made my way through the
bullpen and leaned into the glass double doors,
heading out without direction, just needing to move.

Story of my life.  Keep moving.  Don't stop, don't even
slow down, or you're dead.  But the joke's on me,
because for all of this motion, I'm not getting
anywhere.  At least I didn't give Skinner an opening
to ask what would surely have been his next
question.  `Does she love you?'  Well, does she?
How would I have answered, without sounding cocky
or deluded, or both?

`Of course she does, sir.  Haven't you seen the looks
she gives me, especially when she thinks I'm not
paying attention?  But you have to watch carefully, sir
because we're the only two who can feel it, and the
really high-voltage stares only happen when no one
else is around.  Scully's not one for lavish displays of
affection so you'll almost never catch her groping my
ass.'  Unspoken sarcasm is the bitterest kind.  `No,
Mr. Skinner, she hasn't told me in so many words, but
we share this quasi-telepathic means of
communication.  If we didn't love each other, how
else on earth could we have put up with each other
this long?'

I walked around the city for nearly two hours that
afternoon before returning to my office.  At one point,
I collapsed on a park bench, reliving moments I could
point to as proof of the depth of our connection,
knowing that, even if she truly wanted it, openly
giving Scully my love would be, at best, a dubious
gift.

I thought back to the night Scully poured out all of the
reasons she was bound and determined to fight her
cancer.  Among them all, she didn't list the sheer
delight of being with me.  She didn't have to.  I saw it.
I felt it when her arms encircled my waist, under my
jacket, not just resting her head on my chest, but
burrowing into it.  Or maybe I am delusional.  Maybe
she just needed someone - anyone. If Frohike had
held vigil outside Penny Northern's room that night,
would she still have been momentarily mollified by
platitudes about truth and salvation?

Scully's brother was right.  I am one sorry son of a
bitch.  He flattered me.  I'm not just sorry, but sick.
One sick bastard, that's me.  Because in that empty
hallway, exhausted and scared, and clutching at my
partner, I was unbearably aroused.  That's right, tell
me you have a terminal disease and I'm poppin'
wood.

No.  Her show of strength and vulnerability all
wrapped up together was what did me in.  I wanted to
take her home, into my bed, as if fucking her with my
whole body, my whole soul, would make it all go
away.  As if I could make love to her with such
passion, give her such pleasure, and finally confess
how completely I love her, there wouldn't be room for
anything else.

It was an rare instance where we were able to open
up to each other at the same time.  Normally, in terms
of emotional disclosure, Scully and I have
spectacularly lousy timing.  She risks laying herself
open to me and I'll crack a joke or pretend I haven't
heard; I somehow know to reach out to her just as
she's looking for the nearest exit.  We put physical
and emotional distance between ourselves in the
belief that it will keep our partnership untainted.  And
how else to define love than by the ache that comes
with separation, voluntary or enforced?  I know.  Sick.
Sorry.

So I'm sitting here in the hotel bar, nursing an iced
tea, catching the odd glance from the bartender,
probably wondering who the freak who just left was.
No.  Freak is too harsh.  Deranged, deluded even.
Probably in need of serious psychiatric intervention.

We sat here for two hours while he gave me
"information" so fantastical, and more importantly, so
illogical, ill-conceived and patently disprovable that
even I couldn't take it seriously.  Funny how people
who can sound so reasonable and credible in an
e-mail message can turn out to have only a passing
acquaintance with reality.  The icing on the cake was
when he asked me to autograph an article that
appeared several years ago in a MUFON journal.  It
wasn't even my article.

So now I've proved myself a schmuck twice in one
night.  I hang my head, letting the tip of my nose
touch the glossy wood of the bar.  I consider ordering
something stronger than tea, thinking the burn of
whisky in my throat might bring me some clarity.
Instead, I opt for the thudding ache of self-pity.

I contemplate the span of my life for a moment, which
I tend to do when I've just had a fresh reminder of
how far removed it is from...normalcy, I guess.  Was
Neil Young right?  Is it better to burn out than to fade
away?

Am I going to be doing this when I'm seventy years
old?  Waiting in bars and back alleys and deserted
parking garages for some shadowy figure to leak the
one crucial piece of information that will finally bring
this quest to an end?  If I were to meet the individual
tomorrow who could give me definitive proof of
exactly what happened to Samantha - why she was
abducted and how she came to call Cancer Man her
father - what would I do then?  After everything I've
seen, knowing how wide the net of obfuscation and
injustice is spread, how complicated this web we're
caught in is, would I be satisfied with that?  With
finding the answers to just one of a hundred-thousand
mysteries?  Could I just walk away - put away
everything I've experienced?

Let's dream big for a minute.  Let's say, thirty years
down the line, the Bureau finally acknowledges the
legitimacy of the work we're doing - that feels so
oddly right to say "we" in terms of the far-off future,
but I'll consider Scully separately - and they give me
autonomy over the X-Files division.  I'm 67 years old.
I've got a whole staff of young, brave investigators.
Do I become the Matlock of the paranormal?  Creep
around suspicious DOD facilities with my flashlight in
one hand and my oxygen stroller in the other?

And what about Scully?  If we were somehow ever to
pinpoint the criminals responsible for her abduction,
her cancer and the tragedy of Emily's life and death,
then bring them all to justice, would this all end for
her?  Will she leave me when her own mysteries are
solved?  Will she need me then?  And do I believe
any longer that we can ever achieve those aims?  I
want to believe we can...or do I, if it means facing the
possibility of losing Scully to a `mundanely enjoyable'
life?  Better that than to lose her irrevocably when her
nine lives eventually run out.

My tea is long gone.  I've even chewed through the
last of the ice, my tongue numb.  I raise my head from
the bar top and glance around.  The place has mostly
cleared out, save for a huddle of post-grad policy
wonks in their power ties over in the corner.  Nothing
like asking yourself the big questions after midnight
on a Monday morning.  I suddenly feel exhausted.  I
pay my tab, slide off the stool and go off toward the
Metro stop and the Alexandria station.  I climb on the
train, hoping that, once home, sleep can claim me for
a few hours, that blackness can absorb some of this
loathing.
 

END 3/10

The Shirt 4/10
DISCLAIMER: See part 1
 

It was an early night, sort of.

I politely waited around for the garter toss, with its
accompanying striptease soundtrack and
testosterone-induced hooting.  Actually, none but the
drunkest had the guts to make cat-calls over
Skinner's round of territorial glares.  That, at least,
was entertaining.  Mental note:  Demand and destroy
all copies and negatives of the traditional
bouquet/garter-catcher photo.

I was home by eleven and in bed a half-hour later.  It
was difficult to let go of the anger I still harbored over
Mulder's abrupt departure and couldn't stop trying to
imagine where he had taken off to, whom he had to
see.  Around midnight, I broke down and tried calling
his apartment, and got the machine.  I didn't leave a
message.  I managed to convince myself I had too
much self-respect to try reaching him on his cel
phone.  Besides, I don't think I really want to know
where he was or with whom.  Unable to settle down, I
found myself channel surfing and finally drifted off
during a Discovery Channel documentary on the
mating habits of the praying mantis.

I made a point of rising a little before usual this
morning so I could hit the lap pool in the gym before
the early crowd amassed.  There's something about
the rhythm of moving through water when I have the
pool all to myself that lets me focus my thoughts.  The
soothing sounds of lapping water and my own
breathing let me sink into a meditative state.  Even
when, like today, I don't arrive at any conclusions, I
still come out thinking straighter that when I went in.

A little later,  Mulder looks surprised that I've beaten
him into the office (arriving first being precisely my
other reason for getting up at the crack of dawn),
though he is apparently eager to get a jump on the
day as well.

"Morning," he nods, hanging up his coat.

"Morning," I reply, turning back to my computer
screen.

I can't, I won't be the one to open for discussion the
events of last night.  The air is alive with tension.  He
wants to say something, I can feel it.  He's afraid to
ask outright how the rest of the reception turned out,
and he's certainly not going to apologize for taking
off, let alone tell me where he went.  At least, not
without a hell of a lot of prodding. I'm not in the mood
to play Spanish Inquisition.

Besides, the sight of him in my favorite shirt is
distracting.  I wonder if he knows I have favorites
among the items of his wardrobe.  I doubt it.  I don't
imagine he has his clothing categorized according to
What Drives Scully To Distraction.  That shirt would
always be at the top of the laundry rotation, if such
things were up to me.  It fits him like nothing else I've
ever seen him wear.  The fabric is fine cotton and
drapes his body as if his muscled shoulders were
doing it a favor by allowing it to grace him.  But it's
the color that makes it remarkable.  A deep
blue-gray-green, it is exactly the hue his hazel eyes
take on when he's lost in thought, rolling a complex
riddle around in his head, making connections,
looking like he's about to coax the secrets of the
universe out of the Sphinx.  It's a pleasure to watch
him in that state, even when I'm shooting down
whatever theory results from it.  Not often, but every
once in a while, I catch him fixing me with that dusky
gaze, as if he's processing some piece of information
that will finally unravel the enigma that is Special
Agent Doctor Dana Katherine Scully.  Good luck, pal.

The casters of his chair squeak painfully when he
collapses into it, breaking my reverie.  He starts rifling
through the piles of paper on his desk.  Collecting a
stack of files, he catches me watching him on his way
to the file cabinet.  He twitches his eyebrows as if to
say `What are you looking at?'

"You look like hell, Mulder," I toss off, peering over
the tops of my glasses.  He does.  It hurts to look at
him.  Hurts more to consider the possible reasons for
his unfocused state.  Wherever he escaped to last
night must not have turned out according to plan.

He lets out a squeaky, self-deprecating laugh.  "Not
all of us can look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on
so little sleep."

"Strange words from a man whose personal definition
of R.E.M. is `Ready Ever Mulder," I try to inflect a
casual tone.  "And why do you assume I didn't get
much sleep last night?"  I pause for a second.
"Because to told me not to stay out too late?"  Damn.
I didn't mean to go there.  I'm going to be sorry for
that.  But he doesn't zing back, despite a perfect
opening.

"Should've taken my own advice," he replies quietly,
sitting down again.

I don't know how to respond. I came out punching but
he just threw up his hands and collapsed against the
ropes.  God, I feel like a bully.

###

So Scully had a late night, did she?  I'm not even
going to ask myself, let alone her.

Paper.  I'm drowning in it.  If I weren't so paranoid, I'd
requisition a file clerk to put all this crap in order.  My
inability to focus this morning exists in sharp relief to
Scully's even cooler, calmer and more-collected self.
I'm making all kinds of conspicuous busy-work
noises:  Slamming drawers, feeding outdated files
into the shredder, shuffling and re-shuffling piles of
paper.  No remark from Scully, just a sideways glance
or two.

After a couple of hours of uncomfortable near-silence,
I decide to venture what should sound like a little light
conversation, but quickly turns into something else
entirely.

"So...," I start, "didja catch the bouquet?" That's
mistake number 1, pulling up the thread of a
conversation she obviously didn't want to continue in
the first place.

She makes that little noise in her throat that means
I've caught her off guard and she isn't sure how to
answer, if at all.  "No." She sips at her coffee and
won't meet my eyes.  "Cindy Duran. Over in Hate
Crimes?"

My turn to be unprepared.  "Well, don't feel bad.
She's...uh...pretty tall, isn't she?"

"She's got quite a reach," Scully agrees too readily.

"She could play for the Sparks," I add lamely.

"Three-time All-American at UCLA, I believe she
said."

"There you go," I say, trying to sound casual, but
getting more and more pissed off by the second.
What the hell is going on with you, Scully?  Why lie
about something so inconsequential?  Then, and
epiphany.  I pushed her to into it, and she's refusing
me the satisfaction of having won.  What the hell,
let's see how far I can go down this road.  "How `bout
the garter?"

"Huh? Oh...uh...David Rosen, I think - Sharon's
brother."

I nod. "That the guy you were dancing with?"

"Yep."

"I'll have to stop over by Duran's desk, see if she's
got the photo of her and Rosen.  They'd make quite a
couple, with the height difference and all..."  Her eyes
widen almost imperceptibly, then narrow to shoot me
a sideways look that would shrivel cactus.  Finally a
response. The last five years have given me a certain
amount of practice in cracking that shell, but it is
amazingly durable.

She arches one eyebrow and responds dryly, "Don't
laugh, I saw them catching a cab together as I was
leaving."

Is that it? Was she getting her hopes up for /him?/

"Well, I hope they find a better band for their wedding
that Bob and the Boppers," I say, immediately
regretting it.

Scully rolls her head back on her shoulders, then
finally faces me head on. "Is there a point to this
conversation?" she asks.

I purse my lips and start to shake my head.  But the
words come out before I can stop them.  "Just
wondering what's got you so freaked out about a
bunch of flowers that you'd have to lie about it."

###

My blood turns to ice water.  My turn to go to the mat.
I'm trapped in his accusatory glare, his eyes nearly
black with anger and - what - pain, betrayal? Over
something so pointless?  So pointless I had to
fabricate a goddamn story.  I sigh and turn away,
rising out of my chair.  I pull off my glasses, rub at my
eyes.

"Forget it," he says, not meaning it.  I hear him wheel
his chair around and push out of it.

"So you do have eyes in the back of your head," I
say, turning around, sounding colder and more
accusatory than I intend.

That gets him to face me.  "I'm sorry," he offers
angrily.

"For what?" I counter, "I'm the grown woman who
made of spectacle of herself participating in a ritual I
don't even like.  A supposed adult acting like a damn
fifteen year-old who couldn't handle her best friend
leaving the party for a better offer.  I'm the one who
should be sorry." My throat begins to constrict.

At the words `better offer,' Mulder lets out a short
bitter laugh and shakes his head.  After a moment he
ventures, "The Church teaches that there are sins of
omission as well as commission, isn't that right?"

I nod, sensing I've missed a segue somewhere.

"If I were to let you assume I had done one thing, but
really done another, and avoided telling you the truth,
that's just the same as lying, isn't it?"

Searing cold flashes through me.  What does he think
I did last night, anyway? "Yes, but, I'm telling you
now, I admit caught the stupid thing, and I went home
by myself twenty minutes later.  I didn't mean to
suggest that I was out all night with David Rosen or
anyone else.  And it's debatable that leaving out the
details of the rest of my evening is even relevant
here.  How is it that even a discussion of my personal
life turns into a philosophical discourse?"  Only after
the words tumble out do I realize I've said far too
much.

He flinches at the words, `my personal life' as if I don't
have any business having one.  Truth be told, I don't
really have one, anyway.  Mulder heaves another
sigh, as if trying to explain something to a two
year-old, his patience evaporated.  "I didn't mean to
parade the sacred cow of /your personal life/ before
the USDA, Scully, and it /is/ beside the point.  I'm
trying to apologize for last night."

Last night.  I wanted to avoid this at all costs, but
we're already in too deep.  I must still look perplexed.
"You weren't talking about me just now?"

He shakes his head.  "I had an appointment with a
potential source last night in Georgetown and it was a
fiasco," he says quietly.

"And you didn't want to tell me about it because you
knew it was a specious lead to begin with."
Momentary relief sweeps over me, replaced in quick
succession by anger, annoyance and frustration.

"I had my suspicions, yes."

"And because you knew how I'd react if you'd just told
me that up front."  My own voice has become softer
now, too.

He nods, still angry with himself and me.  Despite the
quieter tone our discussion has taken, I feel anger
again bubbling below my skin, though I'm not sure I'm
entitled to it.  Neither of us says anything for several
moments.

Finally, he asks with wrenching sincerity, "How do we
keep ending up back here, Scully? Selectively
wounding each other with what we hold back?"  This
question runs much deeper that the trivial issues we
have ostensibly been arguing.  A bridal bouquet, a
fruitless meeting.  He's venturing into uncharted
territory, here.  As usual, I'm reluctant to follow
without knowing the lay of the land first.  I can't take
the intensity of his eyes on mine, so I drop my head
to my chest, choosing the road more traveled.

"Mulder, is it logical or fair to compare what we do in
our off-hours to what goes on in relation to our work?
Do you honestly see our lives as being that closely
intertwined?"  Posing this last question feels like
leaping from a cliff.

His only answer is to turn his back to me and snort,
"Logic..."

That does it.

###

I can feel her stare shooting through my back.  That
was mistake number 2...or number 37, I've lost count
now...deriding her precious logic.  There's nothing
logical about how we operate, surely it can't have
escaped her notice.  I thought, deep down, she had
come to terms with the randomness of our lives -
excuse me, /my life/.  I've reached something far
beyond that inside of her, and she's hanging on for
dear life to the rock she knows best:  Reason.

"Mulder you become frustrated with me for keeping
things to myself that you perceive as essential to our
partnership."  I turn to face her.  "And for those
instances where our work has suffered because of it -
and I could count those instances on one hand - I
apologize.  But don't come after me with platitudes
about honesty unless you're willing to live up to them
yourself."

Pulling the sword from my gut, I try to explain.
"Scully, this guy I met with last night sounded so
promising on paper, but he was out of his mind -"

"I'm not just talking about last night," she cuts me off,
exasperated and humming with ire, "or even
instances where you feel the need to remain
secretive because of some misguided, albeit noble,
desire to protect me.  Here's a little honesty for you:
You can't." She immediately looks like she would like
to take it back, if she could.  If it weren't true.  Her lips
move soundlessly, searching for words.  Getting past
it, her forehead creasing, she adds more gently, "And
even if you could, that's not what I expect of or even
want from you.  That's not your job."

Oh, but it is.  And not just a job, but an adventure.  "I
expect you to protect /me/ on occasion," I manage to
slip in.

"But then you're talking about very specific,
immediately life-threatening situations."  She shakes
her head and sighs.  "I'm only trying to point out that
you say you want absolute truth, but the reality is that
there are things we /never talk about/, either because
we can't find the words to use or because we know
we can't deal with them honestly."

Red-hot warning signals go off before my eyes.
Where is she going with this? "Are you calling me a
hypocrite?"  I ask, barely controlling my temper.

"No. Never," she answers emphatically, then softly
adds, "just...human."

I'm caught off guard by the melancholy in her tone,
which causes my heart to clench.  Oh God, I want
nothing more at this moment than to erase the space
that separates us, to throw my arms around her, plant
a kiss on the mouth that can't tell me these truths and
make her show them to me instead.

The alarm on Scully's watch goes off.  She lets out a
frustrated groan and throws her head back.  "I have to
go," she says, gathering up her coat and keys.

I can't let her leave with all of this so up in the air.  I
make it to the door just as she's about to got through
it.  "Scully," I say, barely above a whisper, laying a
hand on her shoulder.  She turns her head, reads my
expression, and nods.  We'll finish this later.  I
manage a small smile as I reach down to squeeze her
hand.  She surprises me by leaning up to lay a fast
kiss on my cheek before closing the door behind her.
 

END 4/10

The Shirt - 5/10
DISLCAIMER: See part 1
 

Karen Kosseff knows me well.  An odd thing to say
about someone with whom I've held perhaps a dozen
or so conversations in five years' time.  But she
knows things about me that no other single person on
the planet does.  This doesn't disturb me because I
know it's her job.  She's a keeper of secrets, harborer
of other peoples' fears and angst, like a confessor
without a collar.  Her office is a safe place to voice
the thoughts that won't emerge in front of other
people.  People like Mulder and my mother, who have
a personal stake in these thoughts.  I have been
recounting the events of last night and this morning.

At one point, she asks, "We've talked in previous
sessions about your concerns that your partner feels
that you are his responsibility, that he may perceive it
his role to look after you, somehow.  But let me pose
this to you:  Would you say that censoring what you
tell your partner and others about your anxieties or
desires is a way of protecting them, as well as
yourself?"

"I suppose so," I say slowly, trying to absorb exactly
what she's getting at.  "To keep them from worrying
about my well-being, for instance."

"That's one example.  Or to avoid upsetting the
balance of the relationship, or altering its dynamic,"
she offers.

I pull in a deep breath at her acuity.  "Yes, though I
think my motivation in the latter examples is spurred
as much by a egotistical need to control certain
aspects of my life as by a concern for others."

"Of course," she agrees, "but often, so are the
motivations of others."

"You're saying that my partner, besides wanting to
protect me from possible injury or anxiety, may also
want to simply avoid getting into an argument, or
dealing with the consequences of having told me
something that might alter my own perceptions or
actions."

"Sounds like that's what you're saying."

"Got me." I smile a little to myself.  But something she
said about not being able to express my desires has
me perplexed.  I tend to be pretty upfront about my
goals and ambitions. They don't shame me like fear.
"When you suggested that I'm not forthcoming about
my desires, what did you mean?"

"Why don't you tell me?  Does the risk of expressing
what you want, or of pursuing it seem too great?" she
asks in her ultra-rational but sincere way.

"I never used to think so," I mumble.

"What's changed?" she asks gently.

I think hard on this before responding.  "The goals I
want to achieve. The person I want to be once I get
there." I say, and quietly add, "who I want with me."

"Tell me about that, Dana."

"It's funny.  On one hand, self-determination has
always been my guiding principle, despite, or maybe
because of, the presence of major players in my life
who hold substantial influence over me.  And part of
me seems to need that - it's part of how I define
myself - even as the other side demands total
autonomy.  Until a few years ago, that was my father,
and our relationship was pretty typical.  He was strict
but loving; I was eager-to-please but with a rebellious
streak.  After his death, I thought I had transferred
this dynamic to the relationship with my partner.  But
this man - whose opinion carries more weight with me
than I care to admit, by whom I measure myself, who
demands so much and needs so much I wonder
whether I can ever possibly be enough - is constantly
asking me to shake loose the ties that bind me."  A
notion that's been forming in my head for some time
now suddenly coalesces.  "Here's the paradox:  He
acts as if he wants me to let down my guard, be less
rigid in my standards, more open to `extreme
possibilities.'  But what he truly needs from me is
structure and stability.  So when I rebel against his
ideas, his plans, am I doing it to assert myself in the
face of his expectations, or out of a desire to fulfill
them?"

"Where your partner is concerned, is your desire to
meet his expectations one that you've had trouble
expressing?"

I take another deep breath, giving myself time to
think.  "Among others."  An encouraging look from
Karen prods me forward.  "It's hard to explain, but
one of the ways I've changed is that, deep down, I
like being challenged to push my limits, to push the
boundaries of my world-view.  I like the way my
partner, in particular, does the pushing.  I...I think I've
come to depend on it."

"You've spoken before about coming to terms with
relying on your partner's strength, his drive, and now
about he ways he motivates you to stretch yourself.
Your growing ability to accept these things seems to
me to reflect that you're becoming more comfortable
with a certain level of intimacy in your relationship."

I consider her words carefully and recognize the
essential, if fluctuating, truth of them.  I shrug, then
nod.  "It varies.  There are times when I feel so close
to him that words aren't even necessary.  Other
times, he's an utter mystery, and language isn't
sufficient to bridge the chasm that separates us."

"Is there a constant across that spectrum?  A
common thread woven into all of those perceptions?"

Karen is fond of saying that each of us knows how to
solve our own problems, that whatever truth we seek
is already deep within us, and just needs to be
allowed to come into the open.  When I nod and open
my mouth to answer her question, I realize how right
she has been all along.  "Love," I whisper.  She
smiles slightly.  She knew it was coming down to this.
"I love him."  I finally say aloud what I have known to
be true for a very long time.  And it feels good to say
it.

Right.

"I would like you to do something for me, Dana."  I
look up at her.  "The next time you're sharing one of
those intimate-feeling moments with your partner, do
your best to put into words the things we've been
discussing here today.  It isn't always best to rely on
silence to convey what you're thinking."

"Which part?" I feel it necessary to ask.

"Any of it," she smiles warmly.  "All of it."

###

I find Scully in an otherwise vacant lab spooning
cheesecake yogurt and peering into a microscope.
Her back is to me and she doesn't hear me come in.
For a long minute I admire the straight line of her
shoulders, the casual way she hooks her heels on the
rungs of the work stool, since her feet don't touch the
floor.  She brings her hands around low on her back,
stretches her spine, then slowly rotates her head a
few times.

I wonder if she knows how often I've taken to doing
this very thing.  Roaming the miles of Federal
Building corridors, hoping to spy the gloss of her
head bent over a specimen.  Seeing her like that, hair
tucked behind her ears, totally focused on a puzzle
always undoes me a little.  I feel a pounding in my
chest, then hear it in my ears.

Without warning, Scully wheels around to find me
looking at her, not quite managing to hide her
surprise at finding me here, watching her.  "Hi," she
says in a small voice.

Today, fortunately, I have a legitimate reason for
tracking her down.  "Hey," I answer, taking my cue to
move toward her on my suddenly rubbery knees,
unsure of whether my appearance is welcome.  "You
get cable on that thing?" I ask, indicating the
microscope, lobbing a soft one her way and getting a
little grin in return, a minor victory.

"Fifty-seven channels and nothin' on," she quips
back.  Any conversation where the Boss is quoted
can't turn out badly.

"I take that to mean the sample isn't yielding any
clues about the specific nature of the pathogen?"  I
segue into professional mode.

"Only that the decay was swift - we already knew that.
I just wish we had access to larger samples.  I
appreciate the trouble your contact took to get these
for us, but these cells just don't let me draw any
conclusions." She looks dejected, but I think I can
cheer her up.

"Well then today is your lucky day.  Larger sample,
you say? How about an entire body?"

Her eyes brighten at the prospect.  How can I be so
turned on by a woman who thrills to cutting open
corpses?  She's still pissed over not being able to get
her hands on any of the bodies from California or
Alabama before they were destroyed.  There was no
way for her to confirm that the substance that killed
another 11 people was the same as the one
unleashed in a small-town movie theater in Ohio.
Even though I have my doubts about being able to
unravel the covert government operation that has
continued to develop these bio-weapons, it still
seems crucial that we track their progress, learn what
they know, try to bring them into the light.  And the
renewed fire in Scully's eyes is all worth it.

"Up in rural Pennsylvania.  I got tipped to a body
found this morning by state troopers displaying what
sounds like remarkably similar indications of tissue
decay."

"Oh my God.  Did you warn them about how easily we
think it might be spread in its active state?"

"According to the troopers, they took one look, called
the medical examiner, and he went out in full
bio-hazard gear."

"And the M.E. hasn't alerted the CDD?"

"Not yet.  I convinced them to keep the body warm -
cold - just for you.  But we have to get down there this
afternoon."

A look of frustration passes over her.  "I'm still waiting
for the computer to finish running my data.  Will we
have time to stop at my apartment for my overnight
bag?"

"I hate to waste any more time than necessary.  I
don't think you're going to need it, anyway.  It'll only
take an hour and a half to get down there.  You can
look at the body, take some more substantive
samples, and we're outta there.  We'll be back
tonight."

She considers my timeline for a moment before
agreeing.  She gets that look in her eyes that tells me
she's excited about the potential of this little road trip.
I haven't seen that look in far too long.  It makes my
heart swell a little and I smile down at her.  She takes
it in for a second, acknowledging that the bond we
share is intact, if a bit mangled.

"So, why don't we meet up in the basement in an
hour?" she suggests.

"Sounds like a plan," I reply.  She goes back to her
scope, and I turn to leave, but am wrenched
backward by a loud, sharp "CHRIIIIIIIIST!"  I spin
back.  Scully's face is contorted in pain and she's got
one elbow pointed up behind her head as if trying to
work a cramp out of her neck.

A shot of sympathetic pain rings through me.  "Jesus,
Scully, what did you do?"

"Too much time spent hunching over stiffs," she tries
to joke, panting, her voice tight.

I try to say something soothing and figure out how to
ease her discomfort.  Slowly lowering her arm, I guide
her back to the stool.  "OK. Easy does it."  I lay my
hands on her shoulders, feeling the ache of her
tension in my own fingers.  I press them deeply
against her muscles, trying to get her to let go a little.
"Just take a few deep breaths," I croon, exerting more
pressure, really digging in with the heels of my hands.
I see her wince at the strength with which I knead at
her muscles, but in typical Scully fashion, she sucks it
up and doesn't make a peep of protestation.

I do my best not to notice that, at this angle, I can
look directly down the front of Scully's shirt, the little
bow at the top of her bra peeking out, the creamy
swells of her breasts just barely in view.  "Just think of
going limp," I murmur calmly, wondering which of us
I'm trying to convince.

Soon, the tightened muscles unknot, becoming softer
and more pliable.  Her shoulders lower in relief, and
her head bobs forward, revealing the tiny, raised
white scar at the nape of her neck.  My insides lurch
and unconsciously, I begin to lower my head to press
my lips against it.

###

The pressure of Mulder's large, warm hands through
the thin fabric of my blouse slowly but surely eases
the muscle spasms in my back and dispels the
accompanying panic.  Though my breathing returns
to normal, my heart is racing.  I worry that he can feel
it under my skin.

I'm facing a wall lined by glass-doored storage
cabinets.  In them, I can clearly see our reflection.
The determination on Mulder's face as he labors over
me is almost unbearable to watch.  I can't help
imagining what it would be like to feel him caress me
this way all over.  My center turns to liquid at the
prospect.

My head begins to pound and I lower it to my chest,
but I can't take my eyes off of the reflection before
me.  At this, Mulder's pace slows and lightens, his
hands moving slowly up the center of my back.  Then
I realize what has distracted him.  I forget it's there
myself, sometimes.  His head dips toward me as if to
get a better look, then snaps back.  I watch in
astonishment as he raises one hand to his mouth,
kisses the fingertips, then smoothes them over my
nape with such inexpressible tenderness, sudden
tears spring to my eyes and threaten to fall.

I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out.
Mulder catches me wiping the dampness from the
corners of my eyes.  He leans down, and in voice
filled with a matching tenderness says, "Scully, I'm
sorry.  Did I hurt you?"

I can't turn to face him yet.  I can only shake my head,
and say thickly, "No, no.  Really.  You helped.
Thanks."

He's silent for a second or two, perhaps arguing with
himself whether he should say out loud what comes
next.  He swivels the stool around so that we face
each other, almost eye-to-eye.  "Scully, if I did
something to hurt you, I wish you'd tell me.  I won't
think you're weak."

My heart stops altogether now as I consider his
meaning.  He isn't talking about a too-vigorous
massage, is he?  Taking courage from his last words,
I begin, "Mulder, thank you for getting rid of my back
spasm. you didn't hurt me just now, and I feel better."

I'm not finished yet, but he can't resist prodding me a
little.  "Just now?" he repeats softly.

This second, right now, is one of those moments I
told Karen about.  I can feel its current as if I were
wading in it.  It would be so easy to verbalize only a
vague remark and let the ocean of unspoken
meaning wash the tension out to sea, as we so often
do.  I let my eyes rest in his a few seconds longer
before looking away.

"You did hurt me last night."  I shift my gaze back to
his face.  It's his turn to stare off into space.  I
continue, "When you left last night, it stung to
recognize that there might be someplace else you'd
rather be."  Especially after the looks and caresses
you bestowed on me, I think, but decide against going
so far as to say out loud.  He brings his eyes back
into focus as if to protest, but I go on.  "Maybe if I
were less skeptical of your sources, you would have
been more comfortable being up front about where
you were going."  His expression clouds, and I clarify,
"I say this as a statement of fact, not as apology."

"That's not why, Scully," he says quickly.  " I wait
while he scrubs his face with both hands and lets out
a quiet, guilt-ridden sigh.  Letting his hands drop, one
of them comes to rest comfortably on my knee.  "I
purposely set the time and date for the meeting so
that I would have an excuse to get out of there."

I should have known.  And he must've shown up late
to meet his "source," since he came back to dance
with me.  "I know those kinds of affairs aren't easy for
you.  But I think we did Skinner proud."  I manage to
smile a little, savoring the word `we.'

"And I suppose the disastrous result of that meeting
could be my penance for a sin of omission?"  He
allows himself a small relieved grin.

Back to secrets and lies.

"I hope the penalties are never more severe than
that, "I reply more seriously than intended.

He catches my tone, gives me a quizzical look.  I let
my head drop to one side

"It's not as if I have a spotless record," I admit, almost
to myself.

His hand leaves my knee and comes up under my
jaw, caressing it gently and bringing our eyes to meet
again.  "What are you not telling me?" he asks, again
in that same tender voice which moves me so deeply.

/Any of it./

I find a place to start.

"A while back - it must be over a year ago now - we
had an argument because of something I'd held back
from you."  I watch him search his vast memory for a
bit before continuing.  "You were angry because you
thought I didn't trust you enough to tell you what I'd
seen, to admit I doubted my own perceptions."  He's
remembering  a late-night conversation in the sloping
hallway of a psychiatric hospital.  He doesn't see yet
why I've dredged up this, of countless arguments
debating faith and belief we've engaged in over the
last five years.

I continue, "To strengthen my trust - which you
already had, by the way -" at this he nods, "you told
me you knew what I was afraid of, and that you were
afraid of the same thing."  He doesn't like my bringing
this up, I know.  Doesn't like to be reminded of how
close death hovered, and how helpless he felt in the
face of the cancer.  His eyes grow deep green with
buried sadness.  I hope saying what comes next can
wash some of that away.

"You thought I was afraid of what the visions of those
girls meant - that the end of my life was imminent,
that the cancer was working faster that we thought it
would.  And that did scare me, but I let you assume
that was all there was.  I couldn't let myself admit that
what you were saying to me was the essence of much
greater fears.  Fears that predated the cancer, the
abduction, that go back almost to the beginning of our
partnership."  I am careful not to sound accusatory, to
inflect these words with kindness . Above all, I don't
want him to make himself responsible for my fears.

This time, he breaks our gaze.  I reach for his hand
and twine my fingers with his.  Even this minor
contact makes me tingle uncontrollably.  But it's this
contact that lets me finally get to the point.  "When
you said that by keeping information from you, I was
effectively working against you, I felt everything
slipping away.  Among my greatest fears is that of
disappointing you, of somehow failing you.  Of failing
myself in the process by proving that I'm not tough
enough or fast enough or smart enough to keep up
with you.  Of losing you."

At this last, Mulder's eyes slam shut and he shakes
his head violently.  "No no no no..."  He repeats the
word over and over, then takes my face in his hands.
"I was right then, and I didn't even know it," he says
tightly.  "We /are/ afraid of the same things."  He pulls
me against him in a fierce embrace.  This is sensory
and information overload.  I can't process it all at
once, so I bring my arms around his waist, reveling in
the lifting of this great psychic weight.

After a moment, I pull back, and ask the inevitable.
"The $64,000 question, Mulder, is why are we so
afraid of losing each other?"

He answers with another question, my own.  "Do you
see our lives as being so closely intertwined?"

Before I can formulate an answer, the ancient
dot-matrix printer on the counter across the room
explodes to life, noisily spewing out page after page.
We both erupt in nervous, relieved laughter.

"I think your data's up," Mulder croaks.

"Yeah, I guess," I snort.  "I'll get this and meet you the
basement, OK?"

END 5/10
 

The Shirt 6/10
DISCLAIMER:  see part 1

The ride up to Nicodemus, Pee-Ayy is quiet, partly
because Scully takes the opportunity to catch up on
lost sleep.  I take the opportunity to let the gray cells
catch up with what's happened in the last 18 hours.  I
glance over at her dozing form, curled up against the
door.  She deserves to rest.  She's had quite a day,
had some close call.  I have come as close as I ever
have to telling Scully that I love her.  But at the first
distraction, I lost my nerve.  Then again, she seemed
as relieved as I was.  Can't blame her there.  That's
quite a burden to saddle anyone with.  I'm still reeling
from the stream of epiphanies that flowed out of her.
I don't know whether to feel elation or relief or dread.

"Municipal" is a figurative term in this part of
Pennsylvania.  Kind of the reverse of calling Chicago
a "toddlin' town."  The Nicodemus Municipal hospital
looks more like the Baltimore City College student
health center.  Scully catches the attention of the
desk clerk and asks directions for the morgue.

"Morgue?" he asks between snaps of gum. "Like for
stiffs?"

My partner and I exchange one of those looks.  "May
I speak with the attending physician who was on duty
yesterday evening?" Scully inquires frostily.

The clerk's eyes roll back in deep concentration.
"Ummm...that would be...Arnold.  Yeah, Arnold.
Lemmee see if I can get him up here for ya."

Several minutes later, a bespectacled guy around 30
appears at the desk.  "Hi.  Can I help you folks?"

"Special Agents Mulder and Scully, Federal Bureau of
Investigation," I answer for both of us.  "I spoke with
Sheriff Alberts this morning about a body that was
brought in late yesterday afternoon."

"It would have shown signs of extreme decay,
perhaps appearing as a fungal intrusion," Scully
adds.

He appears reluctant to answer for a moment, then
bursts out, "Oh, wait - yeah.  /Yeah/.  Sheriff said they
found the guy in the woods two, three miles from
here.  Probably been out there at least 48 hours.
Most of the guy's face was just eaten away.  Gnarly.  I
called the biohazard team from down in Hagerstown?
That's the closest authority for this kind of thing.  I
mean, it's not like we could keep the body here," he
says, sweeping his arms out, "this is pretty much it.  1
ER bay, 1 OR, 1 birthing room, a coupla rooms for
the occasional overnighter."  Arnold shrugs.  "I'm not
sure why the Sheriff thought we'd be holding the body
here."

"So the biohazard team took it back to Hagerstown?"
Scully interjects, sounding a little impatient - with
Arnold, the Sheriff and, I suspect, me.

"Uh - no.  They said they couldn't transport
unidentified biological hazards across state lines.  I
mean," he gestures at us, "I don't have to tell /you/ all
about that."

Scully shoots me a sharply arched brow, which tells
me - Well?  You got me into this.  She turns her
attention back to Doc McCoy of the Starship
Hicksville.  "So where /would/ it have ended up?"

He puffs his cheeks out, befuddled.  "Look, Sheriff
Alberts said he was gonna call some folks up from
D.C. he'd heard of who might have some expertise
with this kind of thing, and that I should let them
inspect the body when they got here."

"That would be us," I point out.  When I finally got
around to checking my voice mail at the Bureau this
morning, I heard Arnold's message and called him
right back.  "I talked to the Sheriff this morning.  He
said, as far as he knew, the body was still here."

The doc actually scratches his head in confusion.
"Well, but the crew from D.C. was here before lunch.
The Sheriff ordered me to release the body to them."

Shit.

"Do you have any idea where they might've taken it?"
Scully demands.

He looks at us warily, but decides it might just be in
his best interest to be helpful.  "It might take a while
for me to look up the paperwork, track it down.  Mind
waiting?"

"Do we have a choice?"  Scully's voice slashes the air
like a finely-honed scythe.  I love that no-bullshit tone
when it's directed at somebody else.

The guy smiles feebly, offering an apologetic, "I'll do
my best."

I steer Scully over to the plastic chair waiting area.
But waiting is not my strong suit, so I tell Scully that
I'm heading over to the Sheriff's office to see if he has
any information.  I ask her to call as soon as the ER
doctor has anything.

When I get to the Sheriff's station, which is in the next
town over,  he refuses to see me.  After a few vague
threats to the desk officer about the possible career
implications of  impeding a federal investigation,
Alberts peeks his head out of his office door.  And
turns into Andy Taylor.  The one from TV.

"Well, now...I sure am sorry I didn't get a chance to
give y'all a ring after they came to get the body.  But I
kinda assumed you guys had sent `em.  I tell ya, I
can't tell one federal agency from th'other these
days."  He didn't drawl when we spoke this morning.
And he didn't seem to have any trouble picking out
`FBI' in the phone book last night.

In the car on the way back to the hospital, I check in
with Scully.  Still nothing.  She's been paging through
the Jurassic-era magazines in the waiting room.

"Well it's been nice catching up on Twin Peaks," she
says tartly.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a Peaks fan, Scully."

"Oh, yeah. I got totally caught up in it when I was a
resident.  I used to tell my colleagues I joined the FBI
so I could meet a guy like Dale Cooper."

"You're saying David Lynch determined the course of
your life?"

I hear her crack a half-grin through the phone.  "Know
what ruined it for me?"

"Finding out Bob was a spiritual manifestation who
could be seen in his true form only by his victims, and
entered unwitting physical bodies to commit murder?"

"Nope.  The whole thing with the cross-dressing Fed.
Completely unrealistic and inane."

###

Mulder comes through the hospital door just as
Marcus Welby finally reappears.  The expression on
the doctor's face signals that we're not going to like
what's coming.  Nervously, he appeals to Mulder.
"Gee - I'm sorry it's taken so long.  I had one heck of
a time getting through all the bureaucratic crud."

"But you don't have to tell /us/ about /that/," smirks
Mulder.  Playing good agent/bad agent with Mulder is
always fun, since we tend to switch off without
warning.

"But you did get through to someone who knows
where the body is?" I demand sweetly.

"Oh - oh yeah.  Finally got through to some clerk at
the Pentagon."

My partner and I exchange an apprehensive look.

"The body's back in DC?" I ask, incredulous.

"No ma'am," Arnold shakes his head, "It seems to be
at an Air Force facility near Fort Washington.  They're
still working on a positive ID?  But figured they'd
probably get a match on the dental records by day's
end."

Dammit.  I've got to get a look at this corpse.  But if
the DOD is involved, there's no way they're going to
admit me.

The afternoon has grown a little warm and sticky, and
on the way out to the car, I slip off my trench as
Mulder fills me in on his visit to Sheriff Alberts.
"There's something rotten in Denmark, Scully.
Alberts sounded pretty reasonable on the phone this
morning -"

"Yeah, well a lot of idiots seem helpful until you
actually meet them," I say, frustrated and feeling the
effects of little sleep.

Clearly stung by my remark, Mulder continues
anyway, " - and turned into a know-nothing bumpkin
by this afternoon.  They got to him, Scully, I'm sure of
it."  He ignores my rolling eyes.  "He admitted that,
once he mentioned having contacted us, he was
ordered to give out no information about the condition
or collection of the body.  They wouldn't even tell him
where they were taking it.  It's a miracle Doogie
Houser in there was able to track it down."

"Regardless.  This is something we are not meant to
see," I tell him.

He's already pissed off, and takes my words more
fatalistically than I mean them.  Still, I'm stunned by
his reply. "That's a load of crap, Scully.  If you want to
go home, take the car and I'll find a way up to Fort
Washington."

"Hey - just because I'm not /supposed/ to see it," I
clarify, "doesn't mean I don't /intend/ to see it for
myself.  But if you're going to behave like this, you
can sure as hell find another ride."  I grab for the keys
in my coat pocket, fingering the one on the Apollo 11
ring next to the key for Mulder's apartment.  Worked
into a pissy lather myself, I push him away from the
driver's side.  He looks amazed, though somehow
satisfied, by my reaction.  I want to shove him again,
harder, to wipe that damn smirk off his face. The one
that says `Scrappy Scully's so cute when she gets all
worked up.'  If he says one word, I'm prepared to hit
the auto locks and peel out.  Fortunately, he trots
over to the passenger side and slips in without so
much as a mutter under his breath.  Actually, he is to
be applauded for remaining studiously poker-faced as
I fling my coat into the back seat and adjust the seat
and mirrors.

###

I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut for a while
when we get back on the road.  Scully's driving faster
than usual but taking the curves of this winding rural
route well.  I don't say a word about the speed.  Or
the bank of dark clouds moving in on the eastern
horizon. I don't have to.

"I'm trying to out run that storm," she says nodding
toward the window.  And I've slept more recently than
you have."

I don't point out that I am more accustomed to not
sleeping than she is.  In fact, a wave of exhaustion
breaks over me, and I recline the seat, intending just
to rest my eyes for a few minutes.

Not too much later, a deafening clap of thunder
rouses me.  "Christ," I mutter, shaking off the
remnants of sleep.

"You've been missing quite a show out there," she
says unflappably.  But her knuckles are white as they
grip the wheel, and our pace is significantly more
cautious.  I sit back up in time to see a purple-silver
thunderbolt spike the horizon.  The asphalt beneath
us rumbles with a close-following explosion of
thunder.  Scully's eyes widen slightly, remaining
frozen on the road before us. I reach for my seatbelt
just as a torrential rain begins to slam against the car.

The wipers are going at full speed, barely keeping up
with the streaming water.  When pea-sized hail starts
bouncing off the pavement, we slow to a crawl.

"Dammit!" she yells, releasing the day's pent-up
anger.

"Why don't you pull over at that turnout up there?" I
suggest in what I hope is a soothing tone.

Her jaw tight, she nods in agreements. But before we
reach the indentation at the curve of the road,
another blinding bolt flashes not a hundred yards in
front of the car, instantaneously felling an enormous
pine tree, which bounces when it hits the highway.
Luckily, we are going slowly, and Scully reacts
quickly, but the road is too slick.  The car spins twice,
missing the tree, and comes to rest in the roadside
ditch, which is already at least a foot deep in mud.
Amazingly, the car doesn't go head-first into the ditch,
just lands there intact, without so much as an airbag
inflated.

After a short, stunned silence, we turn to look at each
other, jaws agape.  Within another second, we are a
tangle of arms and lips.  Only the bucket seats keep
us from getting horizontal.  My fingers tangle through
the fire of her hair.  Her arms are tight around my
neck, fiercely gripping my coat collar.  Her mouth is
hot, pulling greedily at mine.  A purple shock of
lightning flashes through /me/, slamming into my
groin.  Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over, and
we are in the furthest corners of our respective seats,
mute, the only sounds the wind and rain pounding
into the roof.

"Dammit!"  Scully explodes again, punching the wheel
and flinging the door out.  Actually, the door only
opens about a foot before digging into the muddy
slope of the wash.  She mutters a few more select
curses and begins to clamber out of the car.  Looking
down at the light gray silk of her jacket as she is
about to climb out, she rolls her eyes and pulls it off,
flinging it into the back.  Sinking knee-deep into the
muddy water, she inspects the car for damage, and is
quickly soaked to the skin.  I reach under the seat for
the umbrella she stashed there months ago.

Pulling my coat collar up around my ears, I follow her
out of the car, shouting to be heard above the storm.
"Scully! Let's get over to that shelter."  I gesture
toward the rest area fifty yards up the road.  She
stands stock-still staring at the Taurus, anger and
shock and disgust written large on her features.  All at
once it occurs to me that the expression and her state
are as likely the product of our actions in crash's
aftermath as of the crash itself.

Slogging toward her, I reach for her elbow.  She
wrenches away, scrambling out of the ditch and
heading for the shelter.  I follow behind, pulling out
my cell phone to call the highway patrol.

END 6/10

The Shirt 7/10
DISCLAIMER:  see part 1

I'm freezing, trying to hide the fact I'm openly
shivering, soaked to the bone.  It's not working.
Goosebumps appear up and down my arms.  And
they're not the most prominent things popping up.  My
silk tee-shirt is almost transparent and clinging to my
skin.  Embarrassed, I fold my arms across my chest
and sit on top of the sheltered picnic table.  My
favorite shoes are a total loss.  Oh, they're definitely
going on the expense report.

Mulder tries to offer his coat, but I shoot him a look
that would stop a stampeding elephant.  I'm not angry
at him.  I am furious with myself.  First for the
accident.  I've never been at the wheel in a collision.
That's usually Mulder's prerogative.  What possessed
me to keep going even as the spring shower became
a monsoon?  Then, losing control.  Twice.  Three
times.  Yelling and screaming like.../a hysterical
woman/.  As if that were going to solve anything.  And
then.  My stomach is still in knots.  Despite a violent
case of the chills, I can feel the red flush that lingers
on my chest and cheeks.

I could be injured, in shock, but I won't let Mulder
near enough to check for signs of disorientation or
bruises.  I'm sure as hell not up to doing my doctorly
duty to examine him.  We got a pretty close
inspection of each others' tongues a minute ago.  I
felt great for a few seconds there.  He felt pretty
good, too.  But I can't take comfort in his coat.  I need
some distance.  Being wrapped in his residual body
heat, his scent, allowing myself the luxury of his
concern - these are not things I can handle right now.
He doesn't get it.  Just sits there looking pouty, like
I'm pissed at him and stubborn for no reason.  After a
few minutes of frigid silence interrupted only by the
occasional chattering of teeth, he pushes out a
disgruntled sigh, hops off of the table and jogs back
to the car to retrieve my coat.

Before long, the storm has almost let up entirely, and
evening begins to settle in.  The gushing stream that
was merely a drainage ditch is dropping in volume.
The highway patrol apparently told Mulder that there
is a power outage and a number of serious road
mishaps due to the storm.  It might be a while before
they can get to us.

There's no place I'd rather be than a goddamn rest
area in the middle of nowhere, courting pneumonia,
with a man I love desperately but to whom I can't bear
to say more than two words in succession, without
even an historic archive of People magazine to keep
my over-active mind occupied.  And the
aforementioned man, my partner, probably thinking
my nasty attitude is directed at him - for jumping me?
- when the reality is I was on him like wet on water.
Mostly, I'm scared to death it will never happen again,
that I've kissed my soulmate for the first and only
time, and I didn't even have a chance to enjoy it.
God.  Five seconds of pure heaven.  That sexy curve
of a mouth on mine, electric.  One hand tilting my
head up to his, the other pressed over my left breast,
like it knew instinctively where to go, how hard to
squeeze.

###

All in all, not the most congenial two hours I've ever
spent in Scully's presence.  Anger and shame fairly
seeped out of her pores.  She refused to look at me.
Just grunted when I told her the tow-truck would be
delayed, and again when I flung her coat at her.  It's
nearly dark by the time the rain clouds clear out.
Another hour after that, we finally see headlights.

The driver pulls up alongside the ditch, climbs out,
and shakes his head in disgust.  Scully leaves her
perch on the picnic table, pulling her coat tightly
around her.  She turns back to me and says quickly,
"I'm sorry I lost it back there."  Back to the Scully cool.
She trots over to the truck to converse with the driver.

I'm dragging my heels, feeling defeated.  Not only
have we wasted half a day chasing down a corpse
we'll probably never get to examine - another piece of
the puzzle hidden from us - but I've proved my own
lunacy yet again by jumping my partner.

It's not like she was squirming to get away,
but...Jesus.  Practically all I've been thinking about
for the last two hours is how her body felt pressed
against mine.  The silkiness of her hair, softness of
her lips, yielding and demanding all at the same time.
The sensual weight of her breast as I lifted and
kneaded it.  And /she/ apologized for losing it.  Do I
take that to mean she's sorry for the clinch or the
blow-up afterwards, or - and this just occurs to me
now - for creating an awkward situation?  Only sorry,
maybe, for bad timing? - my heart starts making like
Ringo - sorry that, given the immediate
circumstances, we weren't in the ideal setting to take
things to their logical conclusion?  She`s sure as hell
not giving anything away now, having securely
re-installed the Special Agent Scully public interface
to give the tow-truck driver her AAA number.

The driver is making small talk while the car gets
dragged up out of the muck.  "...sure are lucky! Must
notta been goin' too fast, huh?"

"No," Scully replies, "the hail was really starting to
come down, so we were crawling.  But I didn't even
think about the car sliding on it."

"Yeah, yeah.  Dangerous stuff alright."  The driver,
whose uniform has "Buck" sewn over the pocket,
looks up as I approach.  "Alrighty, y'all can ride in the
cab with me into town.  Ready?"

/Town/ is a farming village of fewer than 1,000 souls.
There is one mechanic, whose shop is closed up for
the night.  Buck Elam, the truck driver, swears the
garage will be open by six a.m. to check the car out,
make sure it will be safe to drive back to DC.  There
is one motel, the Hi-Hill Motor Inn, owned by Elam's
sister-in-law.  The motel is a group of stucco
bungalows scattered in a wooded area, connected by
a winding gravel driveway.

In this one-mechanic, one-motel town, there is but
one motel room available.  With one bed.  The rest
have been rented to a band of 4-H kids in town to
show their livestock.  Fortunately, the cottage given to
us is upwind from the animal trailers.

Scully wraps up details with Buck while I check us in.
Nell Elam apologizes for the lack of space, offering us
the government rate for her best - and only - room
available.  She apologizes that there are no roll-away
beds to offer.  She's sure, though, we'll be very
comfortable.  In the Elvis Fantasy Honeymoon Suite.
I think I actually blush as I sign the register, tempted
as hell to put down "Mr. and Mrs. Spooky," but
remember that this little ditty gets handed in with our
expense report.  I grin slightly, picturing the reactions
that might get in accounting.  That image is replaced
by Scully's reaction to my registering the two of us
into a honeymoon suite as Mr. and Mrs. anybody.
Hell, I'm afraid just to tell her about our
accommodations.

When she asks about them as I step out of the office
door, I just point up the hill.  She's rescued our
laptops and briefcases from the car before the truck
dragged the pathetic thing away.  Slinging hers over
her shoulder, she mutters, "No time to stop for your
overnight bag, Scully.  We'll be back before dark..."

"Hey, I don't even carry a toothbrush in my case, like
some people I know.  Besides, the lady at the desk
said we'd find everything we need in
the...our...rooms."

###

We reach the last cottage on the path, the largest
and spiffiest of the dilapidated bunch of them, before
Mulder pulls out his room key.  I'm catching a weird
vibe from him and my stomach flops to and fro.
"Uh...Mulder...can I have my key, please?  I'm beat."
Last night's sleeplessness is catching up with me.
I'm hungry, too, but have absolutely no appetite.

He stops, glances at me quickly, then fixates on the
key in his hand.  "It turns out this is the only cottage
available.  The Future Farmers of America here have
everything else booked."  He finally turns his face to
mine, holding up a hand to silence the complaint he
knows is coming.  "But I'm sure you'll appreciate the
historic status of this particular motel."

"I don't see any signs saying George Washington
slept here."

"Oh, no presidents, Scully.  But I understand this
particular room is fit for the King."  With that, he flings
open the door and flicks on the overhead light.

Speechless.  I was prepared to be pissed off all over
again, but I can't sustain it in light of the sight before
me.  I manage to suppress a smile until we're inside.
As soon as the door clicks behind us, a silly-sounding
giggle bubbles its way up from somewhere deep
under my ribs.  Mulder, for his part, breathes a sigh
that is equal parts relief and awe.  Like a pilgrim at
Mecca.

Larger than it seemed from the outside, the room
seems to be almost half bed.  It must be two queen or
king-sizers shoved together, made up with black satin
sheets and animal print spreads and pillows.  There
is a curved bar near the door, circled by high leather
stools.  On the other side of the room sits a long
white leather couch, replete with silver-studs along
the edges.  And the pice de rsistance:  A portrait of
the King himself - on black velvet - in a heart-shaped
frame hangs just above the headboard, as if blessing
the union of whoever might inhabit it.

"Ho Mama," Mulder breathes in his best Memphis
drawl.

I snort out another stunned laugh.  "What the hell...?"

His lips twitch before speaking.  "Legend has it Elvis
slept here some time in the early fifties.  When he hit
the big time, the owners cashed in by calling this
place Elvis' home away from home, and kept a room
open for him at all times."  He begins strolling around
the room, inspecting things.  Checks out the
wide-screen TV, sticks his nose into the
complimentary fruit basket.

"Let me guess the rest," I venture, laying my case on
the gold-record coffee table.  "After his death -" a
teasing glare from Mulder makes me hedge -
"supposed death - the owners turned the room into a
shrine.  They get much demand for such a room in
this part of Pennsylvania?"

"Desk attendant said there was a wedding in town on
Saturday.  Guess where the happy couple chose to
launch their life of love?" he muses lecherously.

A spirit of fresh consummation lingers in the air.  "I
trust they've laundered the sheets since then?" I feel
compelled to ask.

He shrugs, takes off his coat and hangs it on a
guitar-shaped coat rack.  Somehow, the absolute
absurdity of our surroundings has broken the tension.
I shrug out of my trench and hang it next to his.  I
bend down to slip off my shoes, grieving their loss. All
at once, fatigue covers me like a canopy and as I
lean over, I feel light-headed, lose my balance and
wind up on my ass.

Mulder hears me thunk down to the floor, drawing his
attention away from the montage of photographs and
memorabilia along the opposite wall.  He sees me
press my head between my knees and rushes over.
"Scully?" He rests a hand on my shoulder.

The ocean roars between my ears.

###

Shit.

My heart is slamming into my ribs.

Maintain, boy.

Focus.

Fuck.

She was injured and it's just now hitting her.  God
dammit, why didn't I demand she see a doctor?

"Scully, are you going to throw up?  Is your vision
blurry?"  I palm her forehead anxiously.

She raises her head and I slide my hand down to the
nape of her neck to cradle it.  Her hair is still damp
underneath.

"I'm okay...I'm okay...," she says foggily.

"And yet you choose the zebra skin rug to collapse on
instead of the nice comfy couch," I mumble.

"I just - lost my balance, I guess.  I felt a little
light-headed."

I think back over the afternoon.  Neither of us has
eaten since before leaving D.C.  I jump up to grab a
banana out of the basket on the bar.  As an
afterthought, I take an apple for myself.

"Good choice."  She curves her lips slightly when I
hand her the fruit and settle on the floor next to her.
"I probably just need the potassium."

We eat in silence, her focus and my heartrate
normalizing with every bite.  Inwardly, I applaud
myself for not gawking at Scully as she devours the
banana.  After this afternoon, the old self-control
mechanism is clipping along as it should.  Don't look
at her for too long.  Don't touch her unless absolutely
necessary.  Don't think about the shape of the fruit as
she wraps her full lips around it, looking like she's
consuming manna from the heavens.  We finish our
little picnic and I toss the remains into the trash.
Getting to my feet, I offer a hand to Scully, which she
ignores as she struggles stiffly to stand. She's
exceeded her daily capacity for allowing herself to
need anyone's help.  Especially mine.

Looking down at her still-damp and stained trousers,
she announces, "Shower.  What I need is a shower.
And sleep.  Mind if I go first?"  I shake my head in
answer, and she turns toward the bathroom.  She
starts to slip off her jacket, and stops midway.  "Crap,"
she lets out an exasperated sigh.

"What?"

Her back still to me, in a small voice, she says, "I just
remembered I don't have any other clothes."

My mind races at the implications.  And the heat of
our embrace hits me all over again, flashes through
me, making /me/ momentarily light-headed.  There's
only one answer.  I lose my jacket and tie, and free
my shirt from my trousers, glad I thought to pull on a
tee-shirt this morning.  "Here."  I come up behind her,
holding out the dress shirt on one hooked finger.  "I
can't guarantee springtime freshness, but at least it's
dry."

She swivels her head back to offer a subdued
"thanks" and shuts the door behind her.

###

The bathroom is every bit as outrageous as the main
room.  Interesting, considering Elvis bought it in the
bathroom.  Oversized (naturally) bathtub with dual
showerheads and built-in water jets, huge fluffy
towels, bright, tropical-themed frescoes on the walls
and ceiling.  Blue Bayou, I think.  Or Blue Hawaii.
Anyway, there's a lot of blue.  Another goodie basket
sits on the counter, this one filled with tubes of bath
gel and shampoo, loofahs, even toothbrushes and
paste.  This is quite a leap up from our usual
accommodations. Normally, we're lucky to get the
little strip around the bowl that says "sanitized for
your protection."

I go to hang Mulder's shirt on the doorknob, but first
close my eyes and hold it to my nose.  It's not
laundry-fresh, but infinitely better.  It smells of him, a
faint, warm mix of soap, after-shave, detergent, the
burnt-pop-tart-and-coffee smell of his apartment, the
slight dankness of the FBI basement...and...whatever
indefinable Mulderness that lurks inside his cells. I
open my eyes to the sight of myself in the mirror and
am immediately humbled by the sorry-assed vision:
smudged eye-makeup, frizzy-damp hair, filthy, limp
clothes, my face buried in Mulder's shirt, as if I were
an Elvis groupie with one of his jumpsuits.

With a sigh of disgust, I ditch the shirt and begin
peeling off my own clothes. Though I had the
foresight to protect my jacket, my tee-shirt is still
damp and sticking to my skin.  Same goes for the bra
and briefs underneath.  It feels sinfully good to step
out of them and into the hot bathwater.  Without
hesitation, I flip the switch on the wall which activates
the bubble jets.

Finally allowing myself to relax, my brain throwing off
alpha waves, my mind wanders.  Guess where it
winds up.  If I hold my breath, I can feel the electricity
that was in the air around us and passing between
our bodies.  Part of me would like to write off that kiss
as spontaneous combustion resulting from our years
of mutual attraction, kindled by the events of a
particularly frustrating day and sparked by a
potentially life-threatening incident.  It only makes
sense that, rattled, partners - friends - would grasp
blindly for each other.

Right.

That all sounds logical, until I remember that the car
just wasn't going that fast.  And how many scores of
real traumas have we suffered or narrowly averted
and yet never reacted that way?  Our argument this
morning and reconciliation this afternoon must have
affected us more deeply than either of us realized.

There are few, if any places, on earth I feel more
welcomed, more secure, than in Mulder's embrace.
Some combination of his natural empathy and his
own profound loneliness allows him to open his arms
to me so easily, seeking my warmth even as he offers
his to share.  And then there are times, instances
where the chemistry turns on a dime.  When the hand
at the small of my back, guiding me through a
doorway glances lower than expected, leaving a trail
of sparks down my spine.  Or an unassuming,
comforting hug that should last a few seconds goes
on for a minute or more, causing us to become quiet
and too-aware of our bodies.  Then we part, feeling
either that we've left something unfinished or as if
we've escaped one more treacherous situation by the
skins of our teeth.

I think of today's session with Karen.  How do I
reconcile these internal conflicts?  When I'm feeling
loose from the moorings, lost or alone, it's always
Mulder I want with me.  Why am I afraid to ask him for
what he so badly wants to give me?  I curse my
neediness, yet don't much begrudge Mulder his
insecurities.  I suppose the tragedies that were visited
upon him so early in life provide obvious explanation,
justification, for them.  By contrast, it seems that the
close-knit family life I enjoyed as a child, my parents'
unquestioned, unconditional love, my siblings' loyalty
which I always took for granted, should have sealed
my security.  Not that my family could measure up to
the Nelsons or the Bradys, as Mulder seems to think
it did.  For better or worse, I know my determination
to keep even those closest to me from suspecting my
own human fragility is as much a product of genetics
as early training.  You don't have to look any further
than Ahab to confirm that.  Or my mother.  As warm
and loving as she was and is, it was her nerves of
steel and inner strength kept us together, made us a
family, when Ahab was at sea for months at a time.

Besides, I always had to be tough for Bill and Charlie
to let me tag along.  One tear, one shriek of alarm or
any misgivings about our little adventures was all the
excuse they needed to leave me behind.  To be
called a crybaby was the ultimate humiliation, second
only to hearing my mother's voice cautioning them,
"Boys, you play nicely with Dana and don't be too
rough.  Remember, she's a /girl/."  God, those words
and their implications have haunted me my whole life.
I wonder sometimes if I chose pathology sheerly for
the shock value.  Secretly, I love the looks of disgust
and surprise I still get from people when I tell them
what I do, knowing they're thinking - `but you're a girl!'

It occurs to me that this journey Mulder and I are on
has flung open those secure-seeming gates, leaving
me vulnerable, making me needy.  But the idea of
returning to some other, idealized existence, where
safety, security and blind rationalism are the walls
that hold out evidence of deeper and darker truths, of
miracles and secrets of the soul, no longer holds
much appeal for me.  I'm a richer person for traveling
this road, that is a certainty, though one I am often
hard-pressed to argue or explain, sometimes even to
myself.  I only wish that those I hold most dear
weren't subject to the grief that befalls me.  It just
seems horribly selfish to feel I've profited somehow
from the pain of others, even if the pain is mine, too.
Perhaps, ultimately, this is what keeps Mulder and
me from becoming lovers.  Ironic, isn't it, that the fear
of harming each other surpasses even the fear of our
own heartache?

Any of it.

All of it.

On some level, I'm fairly certain that Mulder knows I
love him, and that he loves me.  But if we say
nothing, we don't have to deal with those feelings in
the open.  Neither of us has to risk being wrong.

Despite the continued internal conflict, my body has
responded to the magic of the warm, frothing water.
Groggily, I haul myself out of the tub and dry off, then
slip on Mulder's shirt.  It's comically oversized, the
tails practically touching my knees.  A little thrill goes
through me, feeling the softness of the fabric.
Allowing myself the comfort of being surrounded by
Mulder that I denied earlier, I try to convince myself
that our kiss meant nothing.  I rub my hair with
another towel and rinse out my underwear in the sink,
hanging them out of the way on the top rung of the
towel rack to dry.  Mental note:  From now on,
/always/ carry spares in the briefcase.

When I come out of the bathroom, Mulder is sprawled
on the sofa, channel surfing, the remains of another
banana and some grapes on the coffee table.  He
glances up at me, watches my progress across the
room for a few seconds before going back to the TV.

"All yours," I announce.

"Thanks," he mumbles, then addresses the tube,
"fucking Yankees. They're gonna break my heart this
year.  I know it already."

###

A cloud of steam precedes Scully out of the
bathroom.  She shakes out her hair, looking scrubbed
and refreshed.  Seeing her in  the shirt I offered to
her makes me buzz pleasantly all over, though it
reveals just a tiny glimpse of carved ivory thigh.

"All yours," she tells me, meaning the bathroom, but
given that I'm trying not to think about her bare legs, I
am momentarily confused.

"Thanks," I finally say.

I wonder if she knows that's my favorite shirt.  I
wouldn't give it up to anyone but her.  But then, it
achieved favored status only because she once said
she liked it.  Actually, what she said was, "Nice shirt,
Mulder," giving me one of those analytical appraisals
over the rims of her glasses.  It was clear she was
thinking a lot more than she'd ever say.  And that one
phrase was enough to spark a month's worth of
fantasies, most of which started with that phrase and
progressed to one or the other of us destroying it in a
frenzy to rip it off me.  In any case, I wear it an
average of 1.48 times per week, depending on how
often the laundry gets done.  Good thing I did a load
on Saturday, or I wouldn't be gawking at the way
Scully's auburn hair glows against the collar.

I roll off the sofa and lope into the can.  As I open my
fly, I remember sickly that I didn't think to throw in any
boxers when I washed the shirts.  This morning, the
red Speedos seemed a better solution than running
shorts.  Now I'm glad I didn't go with option three:
free and breezy.  If my tee-shirt were a little longer, or
the trunks any color but red...fuck it.  I'll sleep in my
pants.  Not like it's the first time.

When I come out, Scully is checking out the
memorabilia wall.

"Do you think they'd miss this picture of Presley and
Nixon?" I ask, pointing over her shoulder.

"Thinking of taking home a souvenir?" she arches a
brow at me.

"Well, I was thinking it would look great on the
bulletin board alongside the photo of Carter shaking
hands with an alien," I reply.

She chuckles softly.  "I must be tired," she says
glancing up at me, "I thought that was funny."  She
punches me lightly on the shoulder and walks around
to the far side of the bed.  Scully pulls back the
covers and makes herself comfortable.  I envy those
satin sheets as she slides her body in against them.
"I hate to admit it, but this place keeps getting better
and better.  Almost worth explaining it on our expense
report."  She is suddenly silent, then utters, "Oh My
God.  Mulder...did you see this?" she demands.

"Huh?" I swivel my head around to her, then follow
her gaze upward.

"There is a mirror.  Over the bed."  She sounds
amused behind the shock.  It's centered over the bed,
outlined with two rows of tiny stage lights.  I spy what
looks to be a dimmer switch on the end table.  Sure
enough, the brightness can be adjusted from low and
smoky to Disneyland Main Street Parade.

"Come on, Scully, tell me this doesn't turn you on,"  I
tease, then flop down to get the full effect.  We
haven't talked about sleeping arrangements.  The
bed is gigantic, there isn't much danger in sharing it.
Or there wouldn't be, if that little scene in the car had
never happened.

Fatigue suddenly washes over me.  Unconsciously,
my lungs let go a weary sigh.

"See what I mean about this place?  The bed alone is
worth it," Scully murmurs, near sleep.

"Yeah," I grunt, pulling myself up, "but the couch feels
just like home."

"You can't be serious," she says, her eyes flying
open.

"It's all yours, Scully."

"Mulder, don't be ridiculous. You need to get some
real sleep.  I promise to keep to my acre."

"I was afraid you'd say that."  What else can I do, but
offer weak innuendo?  "Seriously, I'll sleep better on
the sofa."  My body practically rebels at the words,
crying out for the sleek sheets, soft pillows and cozy
blankets, and...the possibility of...Scully's warm figure
alongside mine.

I resume my place on the couch, and soon I hear
Scully's breathing deepen.  Lazily flipping channels, I
come across some soft porn on the cable.  Not with
Scully in the same room.  Shit.  Maybe there's a
`Lassie' rerun somewhere.  Women's beach volleyball
championship.  Aerosmith video.  Baywatch.
Partridge Family.  God, I used to lust after Lori.  Her
and the short-skirted Brady girls.  Larry King
interviewing Julianne Moore.  The resemblance is too
much.  I could hardly sit all the way through that last
movie of hers without running to the men's room.
She really should have gotten the Oscar for that one.
Jesus.  Needless to say, I bought the video the first
day it was out.  Even Emeril's against me tonight.
Romantic dinner for two - oysters and chocolate
mousse.  Scully loves chocolate mousse.  I give up.  I
flip the TV off and scooch down, trying to get
comfortable.

Wherever the King is, I know he wouldn't approve of
this sofa.  For one thing, it obviously doesn't get used
much - the leather is stiff and cracked in places,
scraping my bare arms when I roll over.  I close my
eyes, but the lingering TV teases are nothing
compared to what my mind's own screening room
spools out behind my eyelids.  The frenzied clinch in
the car.  The sight of her in /my/ shirt.  The simple but
scorching peck on the cheek she bestowed on me
this morning before rushing out of our office.  Strong,
soft, bare arms emerging from her coat.  Confident
hands snatching at a bunch of flowers mid-air.  Those
same hands on my shoulder, over my heart.  Rather
than getting me worked up, however, these visions
somehow relax me, bring her essence closer.  I start
to doze, but jerk awake at the unbidden memory of
last night's shower fantasy.  Crap.  I have to get past
this.  Eventually, the kids at the Academy will stop
referring to me as `Spooky' and give me a new
nickname:  `Blue Balls.'

Scully shifts around in her sleep.  It's kind of chilly in
here.  Maybe I should pull a quilt off the bed.  The
bed.  It looked so comfy.  I get up slowly and pad
silently over to the side opposite Scully.  She's facing
the other way.  It's dark, but I can see how
possessively she pulls the covers up around her.
Well, who wants a blanket hog anyway?  I do.  So
much it hurts.  There's no way to slip a blanket off
without waking her up.  The pillows call my name.
She groans delicately in her sleep and rolls back
toward me.  I freeze until she settles down again.
God, she is lovely.  When she sleeps, her face takes
on an ethereal quality, as if she were roaming the
heavens in her dreams.

Hell, I'm going to be thinking about her whether I'm
on the couch, on the bed, or curled up on the porch.
Maybe I'll just lie down here and watch her sleep for a
little while.  I'll go back to the couch before she wakes
up.  Staying close to the edge of the mattress, I
carefully inch my way under the top spread, sinking
quietly into the pillows.  Scully is a good three feet
away.  A safe distance from which to admire her.
/She is so beautiful/ is my last conscious thought.

I come awake with a start a couple of hours later.  I
don't know if I have been dreaming.  But what I
awake to is more surreal than anything my
subconscious could have created.  We are side by
side, facing, in the middle of the bed.  Scully's
forehead rests against my chest, her hair obscuring
her face.  My arm is closed around her, our legs
entwined.

END 7/10

The Shirt 8/10
DISCLAIMER:  see part 1

I come awake slowly.  It's still dark outside, I think,
and the only light in the room is coming from the dim
glow of the mirror bulbs above me, so I can't have
been asleep for very long.  I am nestled in the warmth
of Mulder's body, aware of this fact before I'm fully
conscious.  Aware of the measured rise and fall of his
chest, of a cocoon of security and sweetness that
envelops us.  And something else.  My whole body is
buzzing.  If I were to look up into that mirror right now,
I think I would see myself glowing like a firefly,
radiant.  I am savoring these sensations when I feel
Mulder waken.  He breathes in sharply and makes a
little sound of surprise.  I don't open my eyes yet,
wanting to hold onto this moment for as long as
possible.

Mulder's arm leaves my waist, his hand stealthily
brushing the hair away from my face.  I open my eyes
and tilt my head up to meet his gaze. Softer than a
whisper, his fingers graze my face and linger there.
He holds my gaze for a few seconds before giving an
embarrassed, even apologetic, little smile, and starts
to pull away.

Instinctively, I grab his shirt.  My voice is thick. "Don't
go," I manage.  "Stay."  A dozen reactions flash
through his eyes in a matter of seconds, colors
shifting like a gold-green-blue-gray kaleidoscope.  I
am mesmerized.  That must be it.  It is the only
rational explanation for what I do next.  I lift one hand
to mimic his gesture, my fingertips grazing over his
stubbled jaw.  Hesitantly, I slide up, never losing
contact with his gaze, neither of us closing our eyes
even as our noses brush, even when I breathe in as if
preparing to swim an Olympic length under water.  I
am breathing him in, inclining closer, so close, until
our mouths find one another.  This accomplished, my
eyelids finally drop, surrendering to the light.

###

I have forgotten how to breathe.  I don't really care.  I
would gladly go without air as long as Scully keeps
her mouth sealed over mine.  So warm.  So liquid.  So
trusting and so worthy of trust.

Oh God.

She nibbles gingerly at the edges of my lips, then
salves them sensitively with the tip of her tongue.
Her curious mouth explores the underside of my chin,
my jaw, then wanders to the side of my face.  When
her tongue probes at my ear, I discover I apparently
am able to breathe.  Involuntarily, I suck in a deep,
dizzying chestful of air, and let out a long, shuddering
sigh.

Easy, boy.  That's it.  Don't want to pass out now and
miss everything.

Even after this short absence, my mouth misses hers.
It occurs to me that I haven't returned her kisses, only
accepted them.  Lacing my fingers through her
sleep-tousled hair, I glide my lips over the burnished
strands, then drag them in a direct route over her
forehead, nose, at last finding the pink-petal softness
of her mouth.  Sweet, infinitely edible, returning my
attention with ever-increasing ardor.

One of us groans infinitesimally.  I think it's Scully.
Her small, strong hands roam over my back,
kneading at my shoulders.  She rolls onto her back,
tugging me on top of her in the process.  She must be
able to feel my hard-on pressing against her - she's a
doctor, for godsakes.  Not that it takes some sort of
special training to detect the lump of coal in my
stocking...in fact, she squirms a little underneath me,
building the friction in fits and starts.  Then she says
it.  Out loud.  "Make love with me Mulder."  Her voice
is all rock salt and molasses, those startling eyes
fixed squarely on mine.

Scully has always been one to choose her words
carefully.  She doesn't use that particular phrase
off-handedly.  It's the closest she can come to giving
voice to what we already know to be the truth.  And it
scares the living hell out of me.  A tornado
materializes in my chest, churning my stomach,
ripping my anxieties from their moorings and
whipping them about, clogging my nose and throat,
blinding me in its dark whirlwind.

"S-S-Scully," I stutter, not at all sure the contents of
the fruit basket will stay down.  "What are we doing
here?"

She must think I'm putting her on, because she sighs
good-naturedly and croons, "I thought that was fairly
obvious."  One hand snakes through my hair and tries
to pull me down for another kiss.

Without explanation, I resist.  I break into a cold
sweat, flight instinct in overdrive.  I rest my forehead
against hers long enough to whisper, "I'm sorry."
Sickly, I disentangle myself from the bedclothes, from
her, and escape to the bathroom.  I do not pass GO, I
do not collect $200.  I do slam the door and lock it
behind me.

###

The sucking sound you hear is my heart, being
siphoned out of my chest through a half-centimeter
drinking straw.  I lie on the bed, stunned, too stunned
to let sobs or screams form in my chest or erupt from
my throat.  Never, not once did I stop to consider that
Mulder might react this way.

One thing is for certain.  I've got to get out of here.  I
fling myself off the bed and retrieve my slacks from
the clothes rack next to the bathroom.  Twin bolts of
worry and humiliation streak through me as I pass the
door and consider knocking.  But what would I say,
what could I?  Gee, sorry I jumped you for the second
time today, /partner/.  Five years of meaningful looks,
chemistry that would dissolve Madame Curie's
beakers, double entendres to shame Benny Hill, trust
and respect and friendship, and always, always the
suggestion of something more, waiting, just beneath
the surface.  I pull on my ruined shoes, rough and
misshapen from my journey through the Trenches,
and grab my coat.

All this time, I have more or less assumed that Mulder
was waiting for me to make a move.  Waiting until I
was sure of my feelings, sure of his, or at least sure
enough to risk our partnership.  How could I have
fallen for such an obvious clich?  Ice maiden finally
melts and expects her hero to swoon with relief and
gratitude, perpetually ready to ravish and be
ravished.  Now I know why ice maidens stay maidens.
Once they've sweated the heat of the day, they
eventually realize the sun is an aloof, unreachable
star.  To salvage what's left of themselves, they never
brave the light again.

I check the closet for extra blankets, finding none.  I'll
have to be satisfied with my coat and a pillow, which I
snatch angrily from the bed.  Just as I get to the door,
my hand turning the knob, Mulder scuffs out of the
bathroom.

###

OhshitOhshitOhshit.

Every daydream and every nightmare collide and
manifest themselves in one night.  Half of my brain is
still ringing with sheer elation.  The other half is
envisioning my own personal Armageddon.

God.  The feel of her in my arms.  Lithe and cuddly as
a kitten.  She'd crack my nuts to hear me say
something like that, but I'd swear she was purring.
Without saying a word, she poured everything out to
me, completely laid herself open.  Showed me her
doubts, fears, desires. And like Pandora's box, once
all of these things rose up from her eyes, I looked into
the clear blue depths and I'll be damned if at the
bottom of it all I didn't see hope.  Hope.  The very
essence of the human condition.  The single word
that defines what Scully and I have.  But we are
all-too-familiar with the dark side of hope:
disappointment and despair.  Though I'm not known
for weighing consequences in emotional matters,
even I can't blind myself to the very real dangers of
trying to make my fantasies real.

I turn on the cold water faucet and splash it over my
still-flushed face.  Blindly, I grope for the towel rack.
What I grab and swab across my face is most
definitely not a towel.  They're light blue, stretchy
cotton.  Tiny but modest.  Practical, even.  My
erection, which sagged along with my spirits when I
tore myself from Scully's embrace, makes a stunning
return, enlivened by two nearly simultaneous
realizations.  One:  These are Scully's panties.  That
in itself is enough to warrant fresh arousal.  Two, and
more earth-shattering:  If I'm in here holding her
underwear with all the reverence I would a Mickey
Mantle rookie card, then she's...out there without
them.  Hasn't had them on since - when - changing
her clothes, changing into /my shirt/?  Which means
she went to bed in my shirt and /nothing else/.
Offered to share the bed with me, even.  And then we
slept and woke in each others' arms, all the while her
bare ass and...everything...caressing the fabric of my
favorite shirt.  I'll have to burn it now.  Or else frame it
and hang it on my apartment wall, like a retired
basketball jersey.

All of this leads to two possible conclusions, each
equally intriguing.  The thirteen year-old Mulder likes
the idea she consciously or unconsciously wanted to
seduce me all along.  But the remnants of my psyche
that claim adult maturity know that Scully doesn't go
in much for passive-aggressive game playing.  If
seduction had been her original goal, we might still
be in the Taurus, in a ditch on a mud-slicked rural
highway.  More simply, Scully trusted me.  Felt
comfortable enough with me to unselfconsciously
slide my shirt over her nakedness, climb into bed and
show only concern for my comfort and well-being.
Dutifully trailing after me when I strike out headlong
after one promise of "truth" or another, Scully is the
one who shows me what's important.  She teaches
me lessons everyday about living life, most delivered
without a single word.

Hope.  Trust.  Love.

Why did I balk at following her lead on this one?  The
single most erotic kiss of my life, and I ran.
"I'm-sorry-you-were-right" won't be enough, though
hearing it come from my mouth ought to shock her
senseless.  But maybe I can start there.  And then,
maybe, start over.

I swing open the bathroom door to find a fully-clothed
Scully on the verge of escape.

"Scully?" I cry, trying to keep the panic out of my
voice, "where the hell are you going?"

###

He reaches for my shoulder and I wrench away out of
his grasp.  I could almost laugh bitterly at the look on
his face. He has the nerve to appear aghast and hurt.

"Don't go," he whispers earnestly, "stay."

"Mulder," I begin, drawing on every ounce of strength
to keep my voice from shaking.  I look down at my
shoes, the floor, anywhere but at him,  "I can't spend
the rest of the night in this room."

"Where you going to go, Scully? This is the only
motel for miles, and it's pouring again."  The
explosion between my ears must have deafened me
to the bullets of new rain assaulting the roof of the
cottage.

"I'll sleep in the car," I bite off and yank open the
door.  He slams it.  Hard.  Then I remember.  Shit.
"The lobby, then. I don't care.  Anywhere but here
with-"

Before I can finish the sentence or even the thought,
he swoops down to capture my mouth with his.  This
is not like the soft, searching kisses from before.  It is
hard, desperate, and aching.  After shock, my first
reaction is outrage.  How dare he so cavalierly play
with my emotions like this?  I'm about to push him
angrily off of me when I feel that the huge hands
cupping my face are trembling.  This small betrayal of
his state loosens the hold of my fury.  He closes the
gap between us, hands sliding down my throat,
pressing the full length of his body against mine.  I
moan softly into his mouth, my anger melting into
something else entirely.  My neck arches back further
than humanly possible, so that Mulder is bent over
me, his mouth literally on top of mine, as if we're
acting out `The Kiss.'

His tongue strains against my lips, imploring them to
part, like Ali Baba crying `open sesame!'  I guess that
makes me Scheherazade.  This story is just
beginning, and I have to open my mouth to tell it.  Our
tongues move over each other with hypnotic grace,
reading in a sensuous sort of Braille of the starvation
each has suffered.  Dipping and sliding through the
silk and stone caverns, seeking light in their
darkness.  He draws away slightly, his eyes tracing
over my face with blistering intensity, searching my
own eyes, my heart.  Let him see how he resides
there.

I draw one hand through his hair and bury my head in
the curve of his neck.  His pulse races under my lips.
He murmurs my name and the vibrations from his
throat echo through me.  Gently, I kiss the hollow of
his throat, then trace the shape of his adam's apple
with lips and tongue, nipping softly there with teeth.
He is still for a second, then lets out a low, growlish
moan and whispers my name again.  The realization
of what we have begun here is just now hitting him.  I
wait out the interminable pause as its sinks all the
way through to his bones.  Finally, Mulder nudges at
my temple with his full, warm lips.  He gingerly grazes
them across my forehead and over each eyelid. his
arm slips under my coat, fingers exploring my ribs,
the curve of my hip.  His mouth and hands rain over
me in a hot shower.  Invigorating.  Soothing.
Cleansing.  Each stroke of his lips or tongue or
fingers spurs a heightened awareness of my own
want of him.

###

When my mind finally wraps itself around the reality
of what is happening between Scully and me, a brief
state of suspended animation engulfs me.  I could
almost giggle if I had any voice.  Oh sweet Jesus, I
just want to savor this as fully as possible, to know
what fortune has found me, to treasure it as I do the
woman in my arms. She is nibbling on my neck,
fluttering her fingers over my chest, counting each rib.
I am drawn back to Scully's smooth, fair face, her
cheeks and throat a deep rosy pink, eyes bluer than
the Aegean and twice as deep.  Slowly, I deliver
kisses everywhere over this exquisite surface, a
glorious exterior which houses a heart courageous
enough to love me, a soul for whose love I can only
offer my own impoverished one in exchange.

My hands itch to touch every part of her, and they
travel restlessly over her small form.  I slip her coat
off of one shoulder, but have some trouble on the
other side.  She is still clutching a pillow in her left
hand.  I pry it from her, allowing the coat to fall to the
floor, and toss the pillow aside.  The sound of
something breakable hitting the floor doesn't distract
her from sliding those quick little hands around to my
back and under the waistband of my pants, teasingly
stroking just above my bare ass.  I love a woman who
can stay focused.

She pulls the resistant fabric of the trunks away from
my skin, lets it snap back.  Cocking her head back,
she gives me a playful look.  "What are these?"  Not
waiting for an answer, she fumbles for my fly,
unfastens it in record speed, and skims the trousers
down around my hips.

When she sees what they are, I roll my eyes and
grimace.  "What with the wedding and all...I only had
time to do one load of laundry this weekend..."

"They're not what I expected, Mulder."  She peeks up
through her lashes, one side of her mouth curling up
evilly,  "But I like `em."

She was expecting something?  What /was/ she
expecting? "Oh yeah?....I....don't think this place has
a swimming pool..."  I'm having trouble stringing any
kind of coherent sentence together because she is
gliding one determined finger over the bulge, tracing
along my length, creating an intense friction through
the fabric.  It may seem as though she is my captive,
trapped against the wall between my outstretched
arms, but there is really no question about who is in
control at this moment.

She peers downward again, trying to judge my heft
through the increasingly constrictive trunks.  She
thinks I can't see the upward turn of her mouth when
she tilts her head down like that.  The gleam in her
eyes, along with the smile she finally decides to share
sends a white-hot current from the tip of my penis all
the way to my brain stem and back again.  I plant
another hard, deep kiss on her mouth and am again
rocked by the urgency in her response.  Having
successfully distracted /me/, she takes the
opportunity to spin me around and pin me against the
bar, knocking over one of the stools in the process.
Again, she seems not to notice the havoc we are
wreaking, and before I can comment, she reaches up
and pulls the tee-shirt over my head.  In answer, I cup
her bottom in both hands and hoist her up so that we
are hip-to-hip.  She lets out a peep of surprise,
gripping my shoulders and hooking her ankles around
the backs of my thighs.  I turn us halfway to deposit
her on a barstool.  She pulls me down for another
hungry, breath-stealing kiss.  I have been imagining
what those lips would feel like for so long, I can't get
over how paltry the fantasy was compared to reality.

My hands drift to the waist of her slacks.  Carefully, I
undo the button and slip the zipper down, already
knowing that there is no further barrier between my
hands and her velvety skin.  When my hand makes
contact with her unbearably soft belly, she gasps
loudly, "Oh God, Mulder," and helps me slip them
over her rear and off, taking her shoes with them.
Trailing under the hem of the shirt, my fingers graze
lightly over her bare legs, hips, sidestepping that dark
corner where we both want them to go.

"Scully, Scully," I croak.  It's the only word I have.  I
have imagined revealing my love for her a hundred
thousand times.  But the eloquence which comes so
easily in daydreams eludes me now.  At the moment,
I am utterly out of reach of the spoken word.  I'll have
to let my body do the talking.

I wrap both arms tightly around her, sealing our
bodies against each other.
/I love you./

I stroke her hair away from her face, tangling my
hands through its soft thickness.
/I need you./

I tuck my head under her chin, sucking wetly at the
base of her throat.
/Please tell me you love me, too./

I work the buttons on her - my - shirt.
/I want to become part of you just as you have
become so much a part of me, that I can never be
whole again without you./

###

Mulder's fingers dancing over the sensitive skin of my
tummy and hips and breasts stokes the fire already
blazing through my body.  But before he can pull the
shirt from my shoulders, I ease off of the chair.  He
doesn't back up to give me space, and the friction of
our bodies sliding against one another is like the
movement of tectonic plates.  We quake and burn
and threaten to erupt.  I let my hands roam over his
bare chest and shoulders, taking simple pleasure in
caressing the muscular planes clothed in supple skin
and silky hair.  I trace his nipples with my tongue,
nipping at them gently, and draw my mouth over his
taut abdomen.  I nuzzle the swelling below.  The
trunks are stretched tight, barely containing him.  He
moves his hips against me slightly and sighs heavily.

It's time to end the torture.  Or begin it.  He helps me
strip his trousers off, then we tug at the trunks, rolling
them slowly down over the tender flesh.  His erection
springs loose as a guttural noise rumbles out of his
chest.  Mulder stands perfectly still as I slide the
garment down his long legs.  From my crouched
position, I frankly ogle the towering nakedness before
me.  /See anything you like, Dana?/  If I knew how to
wolf-whistle, this would be the time for one.  I'm not
entirely surprised by his size when erect.  Well, okay,
he's every hope I've held dear in that dark little
cavern of my libido. Big feet, big hands, big nose.
I've never paid much attention to old wives' tales.  But
those old wives surely raised enough sons to know
something about proportional anatomy.

He surprises me by asking hoarsely, "Your opinion,
Dr. Scully?"

I muster every ounce of control and in my best clinical
tones reply, "Healthy male specimen, 30-40 years of
age.  Excellent blood flow, hearty red cells, superior
skin elasticity.  Obviously athletic, though perhaps...a
bit out of practice?"  He nods in confirmation and I
continue.  "Still, impressive muscle tone and
definition."

"Good thing I've adhered to a strict training regimen,"
he cracks, adding quietly, "curling free weights."

"I see your forearms are highly developed," I note.

"How about yours, Doc?" he asks, taking me by the
wrists and examining my arms.

My heart stops for a moment, my mouth goes dry, but
I manage to answer, "According to Masters and
Johnson, I'm about to reach my peak as a woman.
But for the last few years, I've been concentrating on
small muscle groups."  That gets a genuine,
full-throated laugh out of him, which quickly turns into
a deep-seated moan as I glide my mouth along the
hard length of him.  I run my tongue from root to tip
along the underside, feeling him harden and expand
even further.  Trembling again, he collapses against
the barstool, throwing his head back as I wrap one
hand around the base of his cock and stroke slowly
upward, then down.  His hand cradles my face
sweetly as an intense grimace of pleasure-pain
contorts his features.  I can feel how much he wants
this, needs this, but also how difficult it is for him to
accept it.  I gaze up into the unfathomable blue-black
depths of his eyes, losing myself in his hunger.

###

We men claim our dicks have minds of their own.
The proof of that can be seen in the way mine
twitches and throbs in response to Scully's loving
touch.  Finally, she swoops down over me, taking me
in so deeply it seems as if she'll swallow me whole.  I
stand on the very edge of oblivion, calling her name
over and over.  The sight of her fiery halo moving
rhythmically between my thighs is nearly as thrilling
as the steamy hot pull of her lips.  Hollow-cheeked
with the force of her sucking, she makes little
groaning and grunting noises deep in her throat,
compounding the pleasure even more.

With immense difficulty, I limit my movements to slow,
shallow thrusts.  But she senses how I hold myself
back.  Reaching for my hand, she guides it to my
balls and, covering my hand with hers, wraps my
fingers around them, squeezing lightly at first, then
increasing the pressure until my entire groin is on fire.
Her hand leaves mine to its own devices, wandering
between my thighs and over my hips before clamping
onto my buttocks, drawing me harder into her and
faster.  She wants to bring me to completion like this.
I am so close and I ache to remain balanced on this
razor's edge for as long as possible.

"Scully..." I whisper raggedly.  "Not yet, not yet...." I
smooth a hand over her head to slow her intensity.
"Inside you. I want to be part of you when I come.  I
want to be able to kiss you."

###

His tender words, feverishly uttered, cause me to
shiver.  Carefully, I back away from him.  He pulls me
up into his embrace, his cock wet and hot pulsing
between us.  Not for long.  He swings me off of the
floor and we somehow make it to the couch,
managing to topple only a lamp and the magazine
rack.  We collapse, the leather squeaking beneath
us.  I maneuver myself to straddle him and grasp his
cock, guiding him to my flooded, waiting entrance.
With excruciating care, I sink my full weight onto him.
My eyes slam shut from the sheer intensity of
sensation.  He is like iron, even fatter than he looked
before, and hot as a firebrand against my
hypersensitive flesh.  Loud moans flow from me,
exultant cries rejoicing in our union.  His own sighs
and groans harmonize with them.

I spread my knees wide, digging them into the
cushions, and arch backward to receive as much of
him as I can.  His hands slide up my back to balance
me and draw me close.  "Don't go away," he pleads,
"come back.  Open your eyes.  I need you with me.
Stay with me, Scully."

Reluctantly, I force my eyes open and lean into his
body, only to discover that by looking into his eyes,
these sensations become even more powerful.
Taking in the strong lines of his face, I am hit with an
astounding revelation.  It's really you, Mulder.  This is
real.  This is no dream, it's truly happening and you
are here with me in all your mortal glory.  I fling
myself at him like a starving man at a feast table.  It's
you, exactly what I've been yearning for, for so many
years now.  It's really you.  It's you it's you it's you, I
chant to myself like a mantra, letting the words sink
into my brain as I cover his neck, shoulders, face and
chest with kisses.  Holding his head in my hands,
looking down at him for a change, I move my hips
slowly.  We begin the ancient ritual dance.  Survival
of the tribe is not at stake.  Survival of our souls is.
Survival of our sanity, even as we plunge headlong,
eyes wide shut into a sort of madness.

I never would have called myself `incomplete.'  But I
must have been without ever knowing it, because
now, with him inside of me, a wholeness I have never
known overwhelms me.

It's you. It's finally you.

END 8/10

The Shirt  9a/10  (This chapter is a little too long to send in one
part, so I divided it into two.)
DISCLAIMER: see part 1
 

I watch my new lover's - my old friend's - face
carefully as she lowers herself onto me, so slowly,
sliding down.  Neither of us dares breathe for fear of
breaking the spell.  I want to raise my hips up to greet
her, but sense how badly she needs to control this
moment.  And relinquishing power has certain
benefits.  Like feeling her slippery heat surround me
one sweet quarter-inch at a time, until I am
completely ensconced.  Like watching as she
squeezes her eyes shut, wincing, grinning, beaming
all at the same time.  That in itself nearly sends me
over the edge.  I catch her just as she seems to lose
her balance, arching back, and I beg her for contact,
draw her close.  Opening her eyes, she emits a deep,
breathy "ohhh..." as if really seeing me for the first
time.  Scully is glowing, and the look of pure love she
radiates makes the blood expand in my veins.  She
drops kisses on me everywhere, letting out little
giggles, and pulling back every few seconds to
search my eyes.

She is stroking up and down and around, agonizingly
slowly at first, then a little faster, finding the rhythm
that elicits growls from deep in my throat.  And I pull
her even closer.  Up and down and around.  We're
practically struggling against each other now, almost
as fiercely as we did in the car, not to free ourselves,
but to fuse ourselves, and with such ferocity that I will
find bruises in unusual locations for days to come.  If
we come at each other hard enough, connect in just
the right place, we will be joined seamlessly and
irrevocably, like magic linking rings.

"It's you," she whispers, "it's you."  My shirt drapes off
of her shoulders, baring her sumptuous, coral-capped
breasts.  She brushes them across my chest and I try
to finish undressing her, but she stops me.  "Leave it,"
she murmurs, "I want to feel you surrounding me."

###

Gazing at Mulder like this, it becomes clear that he
was absolutely sincere when he claimed he'd feared
disappointing me, only in no way I'd ever have
expected him to fail me.  But as I ride him, pulling at
him inwardly, filled with him - physically with his sex
and spiritually with his passion - I see an uncertainty
in his eyes, even as muffled sounds of nearing
ecstasy rumble out of his throat.  He caresses my
check tenderly and I press into the warmth of his
hand.  I suck at his fingers one by one, reliving the
unbelievable minutes when his cock filled my mouth,
and all of my senses were suffused with him:  his
salty taste, his earthy smell, the feel of his throbbing
hard shaft on my tongue, the sound of his
whimpering, the looks of longing, then surprise, then
surrender crossing his face.  His dampened fingers
trail over my breasts, followed by sweet, hot lips.  He
smoothes the same hand low over my belly, just
above where we conjoin.  He rocks his hips in time in
with me.  Looking down at his hand, then up at me,
he says breathlessly, "Show me."

I can't help but smile widely.  At this point, orgasm is
almost an afterthought.  But I can see how he wants
to do this for me, wants me to feel the kind of release
creeping up on him.  And I feel my body responding
to his touch already as he lightly strokes the tangle of
dark red hair moving up and down and around
against him.  Another thought occurs to me.  "Are you
close?" I whisper gently, slowing our pace a little.

He gulps hard and nods once.  "Almost gone," he
croaks.

A wave of headiness comes over me as I cover his
hand with mine and guide it lower.  He slips two
fingers into the folds of skin just above where we are
joined.  They are larger than mine, of course, his
touch stronger, even a little rough.  My breath
catches when he finds the perfect spot with little
direction and modulates the pressure in exactly the
right way.  We retake our earlier tempo, panting and
drinking the sweat from each others' bodies.  Mulder
bucks against me with more force, coming off the
couch, thrusting up into me and humming nonsense.
My wetness is everywhere, his fingers glide over me
faster and harder.  Any second now, I will be crying to
the holy trinity.

I can tell he's holding back, waiting for me, but I am
impatient to see him utterly rhapsodic, and decide to
bring it to a close.  I lean my mouth to his ear.  "Fox,"
I breathe softly.  "Fox."  It is a risk, but one that pays
big.  The first  groan of his release is enough to fling
me over the top.  50,000 volts pass between us as he
spends into me and I clench around him in exquisite
orgasm.  I begin to wail and, as promised, he is
kissing me, pulling me into him with his lips, nipping
at me and sighing my name into my mouth.

As the waves subside, we slow our motions and
finally still altogether.  Mulder shifts beneath me to
withdraw.  I hold him fast, resting my cheek against
his.  "Can we just stay like this for a little while?" my
voice is ragged.  He responds by tightening his arms
around me.

Eventually, I climb off of him, my legs weak and sticky
in between, and finally let his shirt fall from my
shoulders.  Playfully, I ruffle his hair and hold out a
hand to pull him over to the bed.  We stumble over to
it and flop down on our backs.  The image reflected
above me seems almost foreign.  Who is that smiling
woman with the wild hair and flushed skin?  There's
no mistaking the identity of the beautiful,
dazed-looking man next to her.  It's as if we've been
granted a glimpse of an alternate universe.

With a self-conscious giggle, I flop over onto my
stomach, turning my head Mulder's way.  He
continues to gaze upward, releasing an amused sigh.
Rolling onto his side, he reaches out to tuck an unruly
piece of hair behind my ear.  My eyes take up
residence in his, and his in mine.  Time has all but
ground to a halt, and I feel weightless.  Mulder's
theories about "lost time" suddenly make sense to me
in a very tangible way.  This is how he's finally proven
it to me.  At that realization, I giggle again.

Mulder grins widely at me.  "What?" he demands.

"Everything," is my explanation.  "Just...everything."
And there is no need to explain further.

He lets his hand slide down to my shoulder, then to
my back.  His touch is whisper-soft, raising
goose-bumps on my still-warm skin.

"Mmmm," I groan lightly.  I am rocketed back to...was
it only last night?  I recognize the gleam in Mulder's
eyes and my suspicions about what he was thinking
while we danced are solidly confirmed.  But now he is
not merely tracing infinite circles.  With a single
finger, he is drawing a definite a pattern of shapes.
Slowly, I make them out:
M...heart....S...heart...M...heart...S...He waits for me
to figure it out.  When I do, he is rewarded with a
richly-deserved and decisive kiss.  I whisper in his
ear, "I do.  I do.  So much."

###
 

Oh God.

I must have warped straight into another dimension.
My soul feels like pure light.  The term `afterglow' is
woefully inadequate.  I could power a night game at
the Yard during a blackout.  I know it's been a while,
but I can't recall ever experiencing post-coital
euphoria of this magnitude.  And if I'm not mistaken,
this beautiful woman I've loved for so long has just
told me she loves me, too.  Her fervent whispers ring
in my ears.

Giving me a teasingly quizzical look, she asks softly,
"Mulder?  Last night, when we were dancing, and you
seemed a million miles away...what was going on up
here?"  She taps my temple, letting her palm rest
against my cheek.

I emit a low groan of embarrassment and cast my
eyes down.  She props herself up on one elbow.
"Mulder - it's okay.  You don't have to tell me right
now," she assures me, delicately kissing the place
her fingers touched.

"I want to, Scully...Let me show you."

Her eyes brighten considerably when I meet them
again, sliding her fingertips, then her palm against my
mouth.  Slowly, I plant a series of tender-hot kisses
along the length of each arm, ending only when I
reach the hollow at the base of her neck.  The look on
her face is of pure rapture.

"Oh God," she sighs, "Gomez Addams has nothing on
you."

I give her my best lecherous leer.  "But Morticia, I'm
not through yet."

She chuckles low in her throat as I ease her back
onto her tummy to continue the journey this dirty little
mind of mine began last night.  Damn.  Almost forgot.
I hop off of the bed, answering Scully's forlorn cry of,
"Where do you think you're going?  You said you
weren't finished!" with, "Patience.  Turning fantasy
into reality isn't so easy for all of us."

Did I just admit to fantasizing about Scully last night?

Hell yes.

Hallelujah.

In the bathroom - I leave the door wide open this time
- I rummage through the goodie basket, pulling out
something called `The King's Favorite Coco Butter
Lotion.'  I bound back to the bed, only slightly
humbled by the bouncing motion of my swiftly forming
erection. Scully's eyes have been following my - its -
course all the way back.  I dive onto the bed, landing
on my elbows. She's sporting a leer of her own.  God
help me.

"I didn't mention it earlier...but you and the President
appear to have more in common than just an abiding
admiration for the King," she smirks, her eyes
traveling from the velvet oil painting above the bed
down to the slight bend in my half-masted cock.

I try, but fail, to suppress an imbecilic smile.  "You
been talking to Paula Jones?  `Cause I was nowhere
/near/ Arkansas in the early 80s."

I spill a little lotion into the palm of my hand and rub
them together.  I rise up on my knees and throw one
leg over Scully's perfect round ass.  She pillows her
forehead on her arms below her as I apply the cream
in languid strokes over her shoulders, ribs and spine.
When I return to trailing kisses over her body, I start
with the scar at the nape of her neck, lingering there
a moment so that she feels every nuance,
understands my full meaning.  I hesitate only when I
reach her lower back, to take a careful look at the
symbol she chose to brand herself with.  At the time, I
burned to know exactly what had led up to and
followed its appearance.  I study it for a moment,
deciding that its importance is, first and foremost, her
knowledge to keep.  What matters is the fact of her
presence here and now.

###

This is not the athletic, tension-relieving  work-over
from this morning.  Right now, I don't think I could so
much as make a fist to save my life.  I feel like rubber,
like moldable plastic.  His lips and tongue are hot and
firm enough to leave imprints along my spine.  The
first slow one just below my hairline makes me shiver
to my toes.  He imbues it with regret and hope all at
the same time.  Lower down, I feel the question
hanging in the air.  He circles a finger around the
tattoo with the same aching delicacy he stroked my
scar this morning.  I need to look him in the eye, to
see his face, and roll over gently beneath him.

"It symbolizes eternal life," I tell him.  "Even before I
knew for sure, I /knew/."

"Scully - it doesn't matter," he tries to give me a
graceful way out, but - what was it I said to him then?
The progress of my life felt like two steps forward and
three back.  I've left that in the dust in the last year -
hell, in the last twenty-four hours.  I don't want to start
slipping now.

"No, Mulder, it /does/.  At least, some of it does.  If
that symbol marks a time when I doubted mightily
what I was doing with my life, it's also a reminder of a
time when things started to change - when the
darkness deepened, but out of that, certain things
became so much clearer.  It wasn't long after that that
I finally admitted to myself how much I needed - need
- you, and allowed myself to see how you might need
me, too, even though I couldn't admit that to you
then."

He is lost in thought for a moment, digesting in this
latest confession.  "Thank you for explaining all that
to me." He shakes his head and adds, "But,
ultimately, what matters to me is that you're here.
Now.  For as long as that snake keeps swallowing its
ass, if you want."

"Even when it starts to sag and get dimpled?" I tease.

"Especially then," he whispers.  He pulls away
slightly, a totally new thought lighting him from within.
"You've...loved me...since way back then?"  His face
glows with what seems to be disbelief.

"Oh, Mulder, no.  I'm sorry, I wasn't being clear," a
dark cloud flashes through his eyes, so I rush to
complete the sentence, "it's been much longer than
that."

He can't stand it.  I've got him big time.

"How long?" he demands impatiently.

I take a deep breath.  "Weren't you in the middle of
something?" I remind him innocently.

"Sculllyyy..." he whines.

I can't resist laughing softly as I pull his face down to
mine so I can plant little kisses along his hairline,
behind each ear, and then fully again on his lush,
waiting mouth.  Raking my fingers through his hair, I
break the kiss and guide his head to my neck,
clavicle and lower, whispering, "There's plenty of time
to play Confessional Booth later."

###

Scully's words thunder through me as they come
tumbling out.  I am awestruck by her newfound
openness, and by the wave of emotion that comes
over me as I register her meaning.  The sudden
reticence that follows almost blinds me.  But the
frustration spurs my determination to prove myself
worthy of an answer.  I drop kisses along her
collarbone just the like ones I tracked down her spine.
The texture of her skin - its softness, pliability, scent -
is a constant revelation.

I dip my head lower, circling my tongue firmly over
her aureolae, first one, then the other.  I gently nibble
and tease the sweet, tight nipples, letting my teeth
glide over them until Scully gasps and moans to my
satisfaction.

"Had we but world enough and time, This coyness,
lady, were no crime," I recite between mouthfuls of
firm, yielding flesh.  When I get to, "An hundred years
should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead
gaze, Two hundred to adore each breast, but thirty
thousand to the rest," her delighted giggle rings in my
ears.  "An age at least to every part, And the last age
should show your heart.  For, lady, you deserve this
state, Nor would I love at a lower rate."

By the time I reach the wiry reddish curls between her
thighs, she hurries me along, breaking in to breathe
the final lines in lusty tones, "Thus, though we cannot
make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run..."
With half-lidded eyes, she grins down at me, cheeks
flushed with pleasure and desire, chest heaving as if
she's just run a 10-K.  I smooth my hands over her
belly, and she grabs one of them, hanging on tight for
the ride.  As I bury my nose in her damp, hot center, I
gently spread her thighs further apart.  With soft but
insistent strokes of my tongue along her labia, she
draws her legs up slightly, then hooks her bent knees
over my shoulders.  I slip my hands under the twin
mounds of her rump, drawing her closer to my hungry
mouth.  She tastes of all the flavors of the palate:
sweet as honey, salty as the ocean, sour as lime,
bitter as ash.

###

Mulder's tongue is a frailing of fire passing over my
mons, inner thighs and outer lips.  He pulls my sex
directly into his face, freeing a hand from under my
backside to part my swollen lips.  At even this
preliminary sensation, my hips levitate off of the
mattress, rising to greet Mulder's probing.  His tongue
is firm and flexible, tracing my opening with the tip,
then slipping amazingly deep inside me, exploring
this orifice with the same thoroughness as his kisses
did my mouth.  Again and again, my pelvis rises to
greet him.

"Oh my God, Oh my God," I gasp-whimper-sigh.  I'm
freshly awed by the fact that this is happening.  Most
lovers learn each other's bodies and tastes gradually,
become more daring only as they map out the
intersection of their lives.  But with Mulder and me,
it's as if, with our first real kiss, a door was flung
open.  All at once, we've been granted license to see,
feel, touch, say, ask for /know/ everything and
anything.  Is this what eating the forbidden fruit was
like?  If so, like Eve, I am utterly baffled as to why it
was forbidden to begin with.  But unlike the mother of
us all, I feel no shame whatsoever.  And so, when
something I've wondered about my entire adult life
comes creeping through the sensual fog which
gauzes my brain, I don't hesitate to speak up.

"Mulder...unnhhh.." I try feebly to get his attention.

"Hmm?" he continues to work his oral sorcery.

"Tell me...show me...is it like this for men?  Ohhh!"  I
gasp as the tip of his tongue circles my entrance
again.  His eyebrows arch, signaling for an
explanation.  "How did it feel when I took you into my
mouth?"

The look on his face remains pleased, but turns
wicked.  Oh God, what have I done?

"Well, what's it gonna be?" he smirks, "tell you or
show you?  I'm good, but even I can't do both at the
same time."  His arrogance would be insufferable, but
at this moment, he is sexy as can be.

"Get busy, Mulder.  I'll provide the color commentary."

He snickers at my phraseology, then looks pensive
for a moment before starting in again.  This time, both
hands push my legs wide, wide apart.  He uses his
long fingers to gently flatten my outer lips, exposing
the sensitive inner folds and my already-throbbing
clit.

With the very tip of his tongue, he teases at the
edges of the tiny nerve center.  I am breathless at the
pure sensation.  Gingerly, he takes the swelling nub
between his thumb and forefinger, stroking slowly,
agonizingly slowly.  Then, gripping it more firmly at
the base, he brushes his lips across the top.  He
begins to stroke it with his tongue again, tauntingly at
first, then a bit harder, circling and, finally, to suck at
me in earnest.  Suddenly, it dawns on me.  He is
re-creating my exact actions and rhythms from
before, to allow me to feel what he felt.  Immitation /is/
the sincerest form of flattery.  Except I have no
intention of telling him to stop.  The overpowering
pleasure shooting up my spine is fueling the
nonsensical stream of words running from my mouth.
I never promised to be coherent.

"I'm so...hard," I moan.  Watching Mulder's head bob
up and down between my thighs, I can't resist
slipping my hands over his head, along the back of
his neck. "Oh, God...I feel...I feel like I have a cock,
like I want to plunge it inside of you..."  My hips pump
against him in short thrusts.  He takes one of my
hands and guides it to my sex to I can feel just how
huge - how erect - I have become.  He returns to his
sucking, varying pressure and speed now, slowing
and lightening each time my body tenses, signaling
that climax is near.  Just as I closed his fist around
his own scrotum, he guides two of my fingers to my
opening and begins thrusting them deeply.  Not only
am I hard, but I'm also very wet.  A virtual puddle
collects on the mattress beneath me and my fingers
make lascivious smacking sounds as they slide in
and out.

I have no awareness, no thoughts or emotions other
than these.  This is my universe.  The cries escaping
my throat are completely uncontrolled and emanate
from a dark, primal place.  As I approach the
inevitable, I feel lightheaded, and I think tears are
streaming down my cheeks.  I've cast my gaze down
again, Mulder's head and shoulders straining to bring
me to this.  And it comes like lightning:  a moment of
blinding stillness followed by violent, quaking
thunder, my neck arching back with such force that I
hear several vertebrae crack.  That sound is drowned
out by cries of unbearable ecstasy.  Every muscle at
my core contracts again and again, heat and pure
intensity tears through me, rippling out from the
center.  Gradually, Mulder slows his motions, extracts
my hand, then licks away the sticky residue.

When I catch my breath enough to ask, "That's what
it was like for you?" he nods proudly.  Wobbily, I pull
myself up against the mountain of pillows, then curl
up on my side.  I sigh contentedly, then chuckle.  "I
didn't know I was that good."

He only grins and nods again, "Yup."

###

I swear to God, as I creep up Scully's body, all glowy
and warm, I only mean to spoon against her.  But
there's a question mark in her eyes.  She turns her
head back over her shoulder as if to say, "Well?"
Naturally, the previous activity sent my blood rushing
south.  And lying with my hips to the bed all that time
did create some unalleviated friction, bringing my
cock, which is now pressed firmly into the cleft
between her buttocks, to a new and surprising
hardness. But I did it entirely for Scully's pleasure,
without thought of any immediate reciprocation - I
swear.  The look on her face, though, is clearly an
invitation, and not one of obligation.  The simple
grace in that expression is undeniable.  I press a row
of kisses along her shoulder, gently turn her chin
toward me to cover her mouth.

As her tongue traces my lips, she lifts her top leg,
hooking her foot behind my knee.  She grinds her ass
against me, then reaches behind for my cock.
Stroking it firmly, languorously, she shifts her hips
around to find the best angle.  And somehow, there I
am, laid along her folds.  She holds me to her,
maddeningly stroking me with a sure hand.  Still
swollen and moist, she carefully glides the head
toward her entrance.  And stops.  She's left the rest
up to me.

With a quick, decisive thrust, I am buried up to my
balls in her.  Reflexively, her walls tighten and my
name flies out of her throat on a gasp.  With
excruciating slowness, I withdraw almost entirely,
then ram deeply again, accompanying it with a feral
grunt.  Scully grips me again and swivels her hips in a
slow half-circle.  I repeat these slow withdrawals and
hard, fast returns again and again.  With one arm, I
encircle her low around the belly, the other just under
her throat.  "How does it feel to have me surrounding
you now?" I whisper gutturally.

"G-g-good," she stutters, grasping my arms tightly,
"more."  I am secretly thrilled to have reduced the
formidable Scully intellect to such inarticulacy.  I
hasten my rhythm and she answers by driving back
against me, until we are pounding against each other,
careening out of control.  I feel as if we are about to
take flight.

"Yes, yes," she grunts.

"So beautiful," I tell her.  "Look up there, Scully.
Watch us."  The sight in the mirror is incredibly erotic.
The two of us twined together, moving in rhythm,
sweet bliss on our faces.  I move my hand lower over
her torso, ready and willing for a repeat of the
performance on the couch.

She deflects my hand tenderly.  "Too much, too
soon," she breathes, continuing to slap backward
against my balls.  "Oh God.  Yes, there....faster,
Mulder.  Faster."

I kindly oblige.  Instinct crowds out all other
processes of the mind.
Thrustthrustthrustthrustthrusthrustthrustthrustthrustthr
uhhh - a high-pitched keening cry peals from her
soul.  I ride out her latest orgasm
thrustingthrustingthrusting, fresh warmth flooding my
veins and a coil tightening at the base of my cock.  As
I feel her waves begin to subside, I expand and
harden even further, sliding roughly in and out of her
slackening folds.  Unexpectedly and uncontrollably, I
am soaring, my entire body stiff in the fierce embrace,
my voice raw as it lets loose a river of nonsense
syllables ending with, "oh god, oh god, oh god..."

Half a minute later, I resurface to hear Scully giggling.
"Orgasmic babble must be universal, or did you find
religion suddenly?" she quips.

"If anything could convert me..." I wheeze, stroking
the damp hair back from her forehead.  Our bodies
are both slicked with sweat and other bodily fluids,
but neither of us makes a move to separate for a long
while.

END 9a/10

The Shirt 9b/10
DISCLAIMER:  see part 1
 

Sometime later, she turns out of my embrace and
hauls herself up to recline against the headboard.
Re-settled, she holds out her arms to me, gathers me
in, both of us full in the sudden silence.  I crawl over
her, curling my arms around her waist, resting my
head on her tummy and pulling the sheet up over us.

I'm not a Freudian, so I've always had big problems
with the whole notion of the Oedipal complex.  One
person I sure as hell never wanted to be was my
father, though I did harbor violent urges against him
more than once.  As for my mother...let's not even get
into that.  Now, nestled against Scully's womb, I feel
secure and unconditionally loved in a way I haven't
since I was very young.  The quiet calm of hers that
so often infuriates me in other circumstances has
settled over both of us.  Soon, I am sleeping the
sleep of the righteous.

Not too much later, I awaken to a soft, tuneful
humming.  At first, I think I'm having a lucid-dream
flashback to a night almost six months ago, another
night when I curled up in Scully's lap like a little boy
and she sang as she kept guard over my sleep.  But
then I realize it's not "Joy to the World" I hear.  And,
fortunately, this time I'm not bleeding or scared or
wishing I were building a tower of office furniture.  As
she hums, she plays with my hair, tracing her
fingertips soothingly over my forehead.

"Do you always sing after sex?" I mumble.

Her lips curve up at the corners, her sea-blue eyes
glowing down at me.  "I gave up smoking in college,"
she replies softly.

"What song is that?" I ask.

"Just something I've had stuck in my head lately."

"How does it go?"

She rolls her eyes.  "I think I've subjected you to
enough of my voice for one night."

I have to tread carefully here.  It's true, no one would
mistake Scully for Joni Mitchell - maybe Lou Reed -
but I don't care about that.  And, maybe because
she's more relaxed now than she was that night in the
Florida rain forest, her voice has taken on a sweeter,
sexier quality.  As before, her reluctance inspires me
to convince her.

"Come on," I coax, trailing my mouth over the
delectable skin of her lower abdomen.  "I'll sing for
you..."

"That's supposed to encourage me?"  She gives an
embarrassed little snort and covers her face with one
hand.  "I can't now," she whines, shyly peeking out
through her fingers.

I feign disbelief.  "Can this be the same lust-addled
woman whose voice rang with a thousand hallelujahs
and amens as she ground her body against my
tongue just a little while ago?"

"/A thousand?/" she chides me.

I gently take the hand away from her face and kiss it.
"Please," I say, realizing how rarely that word passes
between us.  "For me...if not for me, for the King,"  I
chuff, glancing up at the portrait above the bed.
Bingo.  She doubles over, giggling, a sound musical
enough all on its own.  She recovers and leans back
again.  Her eyes rest on our entwined hands.
Without raising them to meet my gaze, she begins to
sing so softly I have to strain at first to make out the
words.

 "Can you fix this? It's a broken heart.
  It was fine, but it just fell apart.
  It was mine, but now I give it to you,
 `Cause you can fix it, you know what to do."

Her sound is warm and husky on the lower notes,
then sexy and breathy as the melody rises.

 "Let your love cover me
  Like a pair of angel wings.
  You are my family.
  You are my family."

Repeating the last two lines of the chorus, she finally
lets her eyes seek mine, which are blurred by tears.
She shrugs with a small, sheepish grin.  "I can only
remember the words to the first verse."

I try to smile in an effort to hold back a display of any
emotion other than gratitude.  When that fails, I
grimace and bury my head against her body.

"Remember, you asked for it.  It couldn't have been
/that/ bad," she quips, trying but unable to bring me
around.  "Mulder?"  There is genuine concern in her
voice now.  She strokes the back of my head with
heart-breaking tenderness, which further loosens my
control.  "Shhhh...It's okay."  Her arms go around my
shoulders, rocking me gently.  "My emotions are
close to the surface, too, sweetheart, it's okay..."

This new, old-fashioned term of intimacy which has
slipped from her lips nearly rips my chest apart.  It
speaks of deep-seated, long-held, long-shared
closeness.  How can I explain that though I relish
hearing her speak it, have waited an eternity to hear
words like this from her, I hardly feel capable of living
up to their implications.  The idea that I'm the man to
heal her brokenness, when I'm the one responsible
for so much of it sends a fresh wave of regret over
me, and I shudder again.  Not regret for sealing our
partnership this way.  Never for that.  But I can't help
but anticipate the pain that seems virtually
inescapable in the wake of our actions here tonight.

###

From such heights to such depths in so short a span.
Mulder is the only man I know open enough to life to
allow himself to experience that range.  I think I know
what has prompted this nose-dive.  Still, I need an
explanation.  I need him to tell me, and he needs to
do the telling.

After several minutes of cradling him against me,
slowly swaying back and forth, I find my voice.
"Mulder.  You don't have to say anything until you're
ready....but is this related to what happened earlier?
When we first woke up..."  He nods, his lower lip
curled under.  How did the songwriter put it?  You
beautiful fucked-up man.

I fight to keep my throat from constricting.  I can feel
in his embrace how he clings to my strength.  I may
be strong, but I'm also terrified of what he might say
to me.  Will I find the right words to deflate his fears,
just as I use words like armor and ammunition when
we argue?

First things first.

"Mulder, can I tell you something?  I'm sorry if my
timing is off, but - "

"You're hungry," he says, sounding only a little
ragged.

I let out a sigh of tremendous relief and nod in the
affirmative.  "How did you know?"  I smile gently.

"I can hear your stomach growling."  The beginnings
of a smile flicker across his lips and disappear.

I bend down to graze my lips against his ear and
whisper, "Some place called the Elvis Fantasy Suite
has got to have one hell of a minibar."

I'm right.  Maxibar is more like it.  Thank God.  I tend
to get.../cranky/ is a nice way to put it...when I go for
too long without eating.  Mulder's been on the
receiving end of that phenomenon, so beating me to
the punch was as much self-preservation on his part
as a delaying tactic.  Besides, this will give him a little
time to collect his thoughts, construct a narrative, in
Bureau parlance.

I've slipped Mulder's shirt back on and buttoned it
half-way up.  I go around the room, righting some of
the damage we caused in the wake of our impatience,
our passion.  Standing one of the barstools up on its
legs, I toss a bemused glance toward the bed, where
Mulder lies watching me.

###

"Do you expect me to feed you in bed?" she asks,
hands on hips.  Gorgeous, soft-skinned, curvy hips.
My immediate retort, "I just ate, thanks," dies in my
throat.  I don't feel much like food and tell her so.

"Well, come sit with me anyway," she says, patting a
barstool.

I don't feel like moving from this bed, either.  "I don't
know...I bet it'll sting like a son-of-a-bitch when my
butt cheeks stick to that stool."  She rolls her eyes at
this poor excuse.

"I seem to remember seeing something earlier that
might change your mind..." she says, reaching into
the closet by the bathroom.  She pulls out an
enormous black satin bathrobe with Elvis' likeness
screen-printed on the back.  She knows I won't resist.
I roll out from under the covers.  Anyway, the
conversation we're going to have shouldn't happen in
bed.

Scully rummages through the mini-bar, oohing and
ahhing as she digs out various delicacies:  peanut
butter crackers, microwaveable burritos, yoo-hoo,
moonpies and little tins of cocktail wieners.  She
spreads a feast before us, pouring soda into
champagne flutes and handing me a red-checked
napkin, and sliding onto the stool next to mine.

"C'mere."  I reach for her.

"What?"

With a flick of the wrist, I unfurl the other napkin and
tuck it into the neck of the shirt.

"Ah," she says, "wouldn't want to stain anything."

I take the can of cheez whiz and spray a line directly
onto my tongue, the salty goo raking up memories of
late-afternoon picnics on the beach thirty years
forgotten.

Scully wrinkles her nose at my uncouth manners.  "I
think that's what these are for," she scoffs
affectionately, passing me a pack of saltines.

"Didn't know there were rules for the consumption of
pressurized process cheese food," I shrug, coating a
mini-wiener with the improbably orange substance.
"Here, you gotta try this."  I offer it up to her mouth
and she sucks it in through rounded lips.

Scully makes a little noise indicating it meets with her
approval, then deadpans, "That wasn't much of a
challenge."

My jaw drops.  Unbelievable.  The woman could beat
me in an innuendo match any day of the week.  She
looks pleased to have rendered me speechless.
When she pops open the jar of marshmallow fluff and
scoops some out, I intercept as it travels to her
mouth, rerouting it so that I can slowly suck the sticky
sauce from her finger.

She twitches as eyebrow sinfully.  "Missed some,"
she murmurs and flicks her tongue out to circle the
base of her finger, lapping up a bit of fluff.

"So did you," I counter, leaning forward to lick a
smear of cheese from the corner of her mouth.  It
takes a few minutes to clear it all away.

When we part, Scully sighs.  "Never knew cheez whiz
was an aphrodisiac," she hums, almost to herself.

"Must've been one of Elvis' many love secrets," I say,
munching on a cracker.  We chew in silence for a
little while.

Out of the blue, almost matter-of-factly, Scully says, "I
love you.  Did I tell you that yet?"

"Yeah," I say, taken a little by surprise, and grinning
through a mouthful of moonpie.  I wash it down with
some soda before continuing, "Not exactly in those
words, but in other ways."  I pause before adding,
"And not just tonight."

Her turn to look surprised.  Then she nods,
recognizing this fact.  She smiles warmly at me then,
as if remembering some other time, some other way
she conveyed the sentiment.  "Just the same, I
wanted to make sure you knew."

"I know...Scully, I -"

She puts her hand to my mouth to stop my words.
"Don't.  Don't say it because that's what's supposed
to come next."  She drops her eyes to the floor.

"I wouldn't," I insist.  "I only want to say it now
because...I...because...."

"Because you can?" she finishes the thought for me.

I nod.  "I didn't think I should for the longest time.
Even in a completely innocent way, because I knew
you'd be able to tell how deeply it ran.  Maybe I still
shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd never be able to take it back."
 

END 9b/10

The Shirt   10/10
DISCLAIMER: see part 1
 

My head snaps to attention.  Take it back?  What the
hell is that supposed to mean?  Now Mulder won't
meet my eyes.  "Mulder?  Help me out here," I say
hesitantly, suddenly not sure I want to hear his
explanation.

He draws a deep breath and holds it a moment before
letting go.  "I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I don't mean to
be cryptic."

That's new.  He usually delights in mystifying me.
He's dropped my hand, so I bring it to his chest.
"Forget what I said before.  Say anything you want to,
any way you can."  I inch closer to him.  "Tell me
whatever is in your heart."

At this, he raises his face mine and confesses all, the
same way I did.  With his eyes.  Then he kisses me
so sweetly as to make angels weep.

When he says the words aloud, I can't stop the silly
grin spreading across my features.  I don't want to.
Hearing these words induces such unalloyed joy, I'm
immediately ashamed of having tried to dictate how
and when he should say them.  For no good reason, I
decide to press my luck.  "I don't see the Four
Horsemen.  Still want to take it back?" I ask gently.

"Told ya. I can't," he answers decisively, the merest
hint of a smile forming on his lips.  Oh, those lips.  I
want to spend two lifetimes feeling those lips on mine.
He interrupts my silent homage to his mouth.  "Scully,
have you ever wanted something so much for so long
that, to save your sanity, you banished all hopes of
ever having it, so that eventually, the idea of having it
scared you shitless?"

I nod hesitantly, knowing he means this.  Us.  He's
described my worries to the letter.

"I'm not used to getting what I want," Mulder
continues.  "I'm used to the pursuit, the obsession of
wanting but never being fully satisfied."  The idea that
I've `fully satisfied' Mulder lights an ember low in my
body.  "I wasn't looking for this, you know, when we
first became partners.  I'd pretty much put away
illusions of finding a living, breathing woman who
would try to understand my demons, much less
accept them.  Accept me.  But you have.  I doubted
I'd ever be able to place my trust - my ideas, my life -
in anyone.  But I have.  I do."  He pauses a moment
and takes my hand again.  "When we took each other
on as partners, I didn't expect us even to become
friends.  But there was always this unspoken,
inherent attraction between us.  At some point, I
looked up and realized I was carrying on a more
intimate, loving relationship than I ever thought
possible, without even knowing it.  And the thought of
ruining it in any way was as frightening as the idea
that there could be more, if I were willing to risk it.
So, step by step, it seemed less and less likely that
I'd have to be alone for the rest of my life.  And the
more inevitable /this/ seemed," he squeezes my
hand, "the more I looked for reasons it couldn't
happen."

"So you're saying if I'd slept with you in 1993, we'd be
past this by now?"  I try for levity.

He snickers.  "Something like that.  I guess at that
point, I wasn't counting on you sticking around."

"And now that you're counting on it - on me - you
think I won't stay?" I ask incredulously.

Mulder quirks his face into a twist and sighs.  "All of
the emotional baggage that goes with any
relationship - fears of abandonment, disappointment,
boredom - is magnified by a thousand here, Scully.
Don't tell me all of this hasn't occurred to you."

"Of course it has.  But it has also occurred to me that
we've already wasted too much energy and time
working so hard to stay apart and only made
ourselves miserable in the process.  I'm beginning to
believe that being together is the only way to hold on
to our strength."  Coming from my mouth, a statement
like this last sounds awfully flimsy.  "It's just a theory,
of course.  I'll need evidence to back it up."  I flash a
quick grin his direction.  "And you know how thorough
I like to be."  I let my other hand wander under the
fold in his robe, tracing circles around his knee.  Try
as I might, he won't be lifted out of this whirlpool of
despair.

"What if, once you turn up this evidence, Scully -
what if what you find changes your mind?"

Oh, Mulder, who taught you to look for a cloud behind
every silver lining?  I start with the simple things first.
"Mulder, I already know your less-charming side, your
peculiarities, your more unhygienic habits.  They
haven't scared me off yet."  He swallows hard, but
doesn't make any reply.  "And thank you, by the way,
for overlooking the same in me."

He tilts his head and remarks, "Unhygienic, Scully?
Remind me not to let you dress my wounds anymore."
That's my boy.

"You know," I begin slowly, playing with the remains
of a burrito littering my plate.  "I used to worry that, if
we ever got involved, it would be like giving bullets to
the opposition.  That it would make it easier,
somehow, to play us one against the other."

"They've already done that," he sighs.

Exactly.

"Mulder, the fact is, we've been taking risks for each
other, putting ourselves on the line for each other,
almost since the beginning.  I can't put my finger on
the exact date, but somewhere along the line, it
became clear to me that those risks were part of
loving you."

His head snaps up and he asks earnestly,
"Somewhere along the line?  How far back does the
line stretch, Scully?"

I should've known he wouldn't let that one go.

###

She smiles shyly, but steadfastly holds my gaze.
Discussing this must be akin to torture for her.  It sure
as hell is for me.  Even after such demonstrations of
her feelings, I anticipate rejection, or its first-cousin
disillusionment.  But the masochist in me has to
know.  How long?  Has she been suppressing her
emotions as long as I have?

Scully opens her mouth to speak, then drops her
eyes.  "As far back as `94, I guess," she finally says
quietly.

Four years?  Jesus.  We've been loving each other
all this time and neither of us got around to
mentioning it.  I lay my hand over the one resting on
my knee, encouraging her to go on.

She takes a deep, ragged breath.  "When they shut
us down that summer, separated us, I worried
constantly about what it was doing to you.  And when
Krycek was assigned to partner with you, I
was...jealous."  She glances fleetingly upward.
"Whenever we would meet, there was heat, electricity
surrounding us."  She looks to me for confirmation,
which I readily and silently give.  "At the time, I wrote
it off as frustration, anger, an illicit thrill at the thought
of defying those who had separated us.  But after
I...was....disappeared, after I was returned, I read the
files."  Her eyes darken.  Through thin lips, she utters,
"Furious doesn't begin to describe what I felt when I
learned about Krycek's role in it.  And not just for
what happened to me, but for what he did to you."

"Tried to do, you mean," I remark.  "Though I still
can't face the tram ride at Disneyland."

My attempt at humor snaps her eyes back into focus
and she glares up at me.  "I'm not just talking about
his trying to kill you.  What he did was infinitely more
insidious.  He had started to earn your trust, Mulder,
only to pulverize it.  God, reading through those
reports, I felt that betrayal and it sickened me, almost
to the point of irrationalism."  Her voice lowers and
becomes rough.  "I wanted to hunt him down and
make him /pay/."  Though she's hinted at it more than
once, Scully's dark side is rarely seen.  I am sickly
delighted that she's revealed it.  I know it's triggered
by an instinctual protectiveness for those she loves,
and it makes me dizzy to realize that I am among
them, that I have been for longer than I ever knew.

###

Enough.  I get too worked up when I take the time to
remember these things clearly.  I do feel lightened,
somehow, to have finally explained to Mulder how he
happened to me.  I've been spilling my guts for the
last half hour.  It's surely his turn by now.  His
insistence on knowing precisely how and when I fell
in love with him has piqued my curiosity.  Was it
sudden for him, the realization that he loved me?  I
search his face, wondering if I can divine this
information without actually having to ask.

"About the same time," he reads my mind.  A
trademarked arched eyebrow forces him to elaborate.
"I was so wrapped up in anger, it took me a while to
recognize what I felt.  You kept proving your loyalty,
following me to Puerto Rico, breaking protocol time
and again to help me keep searching for the truth, but
I never really considered your reasons for doing it.  I
was so blind to everything except every move that
seemed to be directed against me - closing the
X-files, sending me out on shitty assignments,
reducing me to a goddamn stenographer - and then,
you were gone.  At first, I saw it as just another way
they were trying to keep me in check-"

"It was, Mulder--" I try to interject.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  But I also came to see it as a sort
of karmic retribution.  I ignored the well-being of the
one person I had come to trust, I played fast and
loose with your safety, and that made me culpable."  I
try to contradict him again, but he gestures for me to
let him finish.  "Finally, when you showed up in the
hospital, I realized that, up until that point, the whole
situation had existed for me solely in the first person:
Crimes Perpetrated Against Spooky Mulder.  But I
saw you lying there, with the fucking tape over your
eyes and it hit me.  The gnawing in my stomach, the
months of waking nightmares, the chasm where my
heart once was, was about you.  I put it aside,
though, chalked it up as selfish, sniveling self-pity."

I wince at these vestiges of his anger.  I knew it must
have been awful.  My mother and Melissa both told
me about Mulder's outbursts, his self-destructive
quest for revenge.  He swallows hard and comes to
the crux.  "But then you woke up.  You got better, you
came back to work, that's all that seemed to matter,
and everything should've gone back to normal.  I kept
expecting the feelings I had pushed down to just go
away.  They didn't.  They got stronger, so much so
that eventually, I admitted that love - the real,
honest-to-christ thing - was the only possible
explanation."

I have to smile at that.  "Did it seem like such an
extreme possibility?"

His head sinks to one side and he looks at me from
the corners of his eyes.  "Again, for too long,  I was
only considering my experience.  I didn't imagine you
ever feeling the same way.  But in the last year or so,
it slowly seemed more and more plausible, so, in
self-defense, in my own mind, I turned this thing
between us into one more prize that would remain
just out of my grasp."

My stomach churns at this description.  "Is that what
this is to you?  A fight to be won and forgotten once
the next battle is engaged?"  I purposely avoid using
the word `conquest' because I'm pretty sure that isn't
what he means.  But it suddenly seems inordinately
important that he explain himself.

To his credit, he looks shocked that I could couch it
so crudely.  His mouth works open and shut like a fish
out of water, desperately casting about for words of
reassurance.  Apparently finding none, he seemingly
jumps to another topic entirely.

"That song, Scully...I guess, I...I don't understand why
you sang it to me.  I'm not sure anymore how to be a
family - to anybody.  You're the closest thing I have to
it, but you already have one."  His voice is small,
defeated.

Uncertain of how we got here, I slide my hand up
against his cheek and assure him,  "Mulder, as close
as I am to the family I was born into, I'm also a firm
believer that family is what you make of it."  And
suddenly I understand, an odd relief flushing through
me.  To someone who has spent the greater part of
his life searching for the remains of his family,
seeking to reconstruct the wreckage of his childhood,
love must seem like a reward for diligence, not a
birthright.  Something to be won.  I continue, stroking
his face gently, "If the situation were reversed,
Mulder, would you love me any less because you had
supportive parents and siblings?  Would you still
need me in your life?  Wouldn't you welcome me in?
I know you would."

Nodding slowy, he brings his head up and whispers,
"Be my family, Scully."

"I already am.  I have been for a long time now," I
reply, my voice catching in my throat.

He draws me close.  "Speaking of which, what are
you going to tell yours?" Mulder asks with some
trepidation.

I pull away a bit and smile.  "Nothing."  A quirk of his
eyebrows begs explanation.  "Charlie and I keep in
touch pretty regularly, so he umm...kind of...already
knows all about you and what you mean to me.  I
don't give a crap what Bill will have to say on the
matter, and Mom thinks we've been a hot item for
ages but that we're just being discreet.  Now, she'll be
right.  But I think it would be okay if we held hands
when she's around from now on."

"Ironic, isn't it, that so many other people have
assumed we've been going at it for years?" he smiles
uncertainly.

I snicker a little, "I can't tell you many times people
have assumed we were a couple.  Suspects,
witnesses, everyone from ASACs to Hoover Building
janitors."

"Don't forget Skinner," he adds wryly, "he saw this
coming a mile away."

"You've talked to /Skinner/ about this?" I feel myself
blushing violently.

"More like he talked to me..." he backpedals in vain.

"What, exactly, did he say?"

He tries to shrug off my question, but sees I'm not
about to let it pass.  "He sat me down for a little
man-to-man a couple of weeks ago," Mulder admits.

"And?"

"He knows how we feel about each other.  Probably
has known longer than we have.  I think he was
fishing around to find out if we were involved.
Warned me about possible repercussions."

Oh shit.  I feel the blood draining from my face.
"What did you tell him?"

"I tried to sell him a lovely speech about our mutual
respect and my reluctance to tinker with a proven
formula.  He wasn't in a buying mood."  He curls his
lip as if by admitting this, he's ruined everything.

"Why now, Mulder?  After all this time?"  Has Skinner
held us under suspicion for the last five years and
only now decided not to turn a blind eye?

"I don't know.  Something about that whole
conversation didn't quite sit right.  He didn't seem to
care what we were up to so much as he wanted me to
own up to it."

I shake my head in wonder and doubt, the inner
wheels spinning.  "Is it possible he just wanted -"

"- a progress report?"  Mulder's eyes brighten as he
finishes my thought.  "And all the warnings amounted
to...what?...'be good to her or I'll break your legs'?"

"Why else would he confront you alone, without me
there, or even pull me aside separately?" I realize all
of a sudden.  "Skinner has always respected me
enough to chew me out when I've deserved it.  Why
would this be any different?"

"Son of a bitch," chuckles Mulder.  "That jarhead
really knows how to push my buttons.  I think he was
telling me to make a move on you."

"Let's not get carried away," I say, arching a brow at
him.

"Think about it, Scully.  What's the proven method for
spurring me to action?"

That's easy.  I don't even have to answer out loud.
Just tell Mulder something is impossible or
unallowed, and he'll be the first in line to prove it can
- and must - be done.  We smile broadly at each
other.

"We owe Skinner big," I say, relieved but still a bit
wary.  There's already enough pressure on us to
make this work.

Reading my mind yet again, he says, "I'll draw the
line if he tries to sign us up for couples' therapy."

"I'd hate for us to disappoint him."

He leans his forehead against mine.  "I love your
sense of altruism," he murmurs distractedly, sliding a
hand up my thigh.

I catch it just in time, hop off my perch and pull him
back toward the bed.  As an afterthought, I reach
around behind him to pick up the jar of marshmallow
fluff and smile wickedly into my lover's eyes.

###

A warm yellow light filters through the curtain.  A
glance at the clock on the bedside table tells me it's
later than I would've guessed. 8:14 a.m.  The roads
must be dry and clear by now.  I find myself hoping
that the mechanic won't get around to checking out
the car until late this afternoon, necessitating another
night's stay.

The copper-clad head laying on my chest lolls left
and right, muffled waking-up noises escaping full,
pink lips.  "What time is it?" Scully rasps, opening one
sleepy eye.

"After eight."

She breathes in sharply, popping her head up.
"Damn.  We should be on the road by now."

"You conveniently keep forgetting we're without
wheels," I remind her.

"But weren't we supposed to go to the garage to meet
what's-his-face?"

"I'm sure he'll call when the car's ready,"  I say,
stroking her head softly.  She sprinkles a row of dry
kisses over my pecs.  A sticky white substance is
matted to my chest and little flecks of it dot Scully's
mussed but shining red hair.

"I think I got a little carried away with the fluff," she
snorts quietly.

"Hey hey hey!" I protest, when she rips out a clump of
hair trying to pick away the now-hardened sauce.

"Sorry," she coos, and kisses it better.

I pull her up for a real kiss.  The first kiss of the day.
The first kiss of the rest of my life.

"We need a bath," she hums in that sleep-slurred
voice that started this whole thing last night.

"Scully, are you coming on to me?"

Her eyes pop open and she stares at me glassily
before collapsing into full-throated laughter.  "No...no,
not at all..."  Her body continues to convulse
quasi-orgasmically.

I pull my arms tightly around her.  "That's a relief.  I
wouldn't want to have to file charges."  We rock
against each other, reeling with the absurdity of the
conversation.

Once we have quieted down a bit, she rolls (and rolls
and rolls) to the edge of the bed, telling me with a
single glance to follow or else.  I hesitate a bit, to ogle
her backside on its way to the bathroom.  I could
watch her walk around naked all day.  Maybe for my
birthday or Chanukah she'd -

"What are you doing out there?" she calls over the
sound of running water.

"Coming, dear," I mutter under my breath, sporting a
grin wide enough to crack my face in two.

I make a quick call to Skinner's office and, mercifully,
he's in a meeting.  I tell Kimberly to let him know we
got delayed in Pennsylvania and will be in this
afternoon.  His progress report will have to wait.

When I come through the bathroom door, Scully's
dumping sweet-smelling bubble bath into the tub.
"I'm not gonna smell girly after this, am I?" I
mock-whine.

"Shut up and get in," she commands, "you'll love it."

I dip a toe into the rising water, then settle in at one
end.  Scully turns off the faucet, flicks on the bubble
jets and climbs in after me.  Although there is more
than enough room for us to stretch out side-by-side,
or even toe-to-toe, she happily chooses to nestle
down between my legs.

I let out a long, contented sigh and drape my arms
around her shoulders.  And then I do something I
haven't done since before my voice changed.  I lay
my head back against the tile and cast my gaze
upward, silently calling on Yaweh or Allah or Krishna
or whichever lesser deities might be listening.

/Thank you/ I mouth.  Then, looking down at Scully
resting against me, her arms curled around my
thighs, /Please/.
 

END
 

Quotes from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell
and stanzas from "Family" by Dar Williams (Razor
and Tie records) used without permission.

Flames and praise accepted with equal welcome:
audrey_roget@yahoo. com