TITLE: After Midnight
AUTHORS: Jenna Tooms and Kelly C.
EMAIL: jenna@exeter.simplenet.com
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully move through the events of season six,
carefully changing from friends to lovers.
RATING: NC-17
KEYWORDS: post-episode, MSR
SPOILERS: season six post-One Son
DISCLAIMER: Not ours.


After Midnight

1. 3:33 A.M.

Mulder:

	Scully? All I'm asking is five minutes, Scully. I know it's late,
but I need to talk to you. Please. I brought a peace offering. C'mon.
Godiva Chocolates. You love these. Open the door, Scully, before your
neighbors call the police. Scully? Are you okay?

	Scully. Please, Scully. I just want to talk to you. I didn't mean
to scare you. I didn't mean to--to say those things. It was wrong,
and insensitive, and I'm a dope. I admit it. I can admit things like
that. Scully, I didn't mean to get angry, I didn't want to get angry.
I'm not angry now. I don't know what's with me--no, that's not true.
I know what's going on. It's the same thing with you, isn't it, we're
frustrated and tired and our hands are tied. We can't do what we need
to be doing so we take it out on each other. Scully? Are you
listening to me? I'm pouring my heart out, here, I'm just trying to
tell you--

	I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. And I just--I love you so much.
I don't want you to be angry with me. Just open the door for a
minute, okay? Tell me to get lost, tell me you hate me, tell me
anything, just let me know you're okay in there. Okay? Scully?

	You know when it all started, Scully? You want to know when I knew
you were the one for me? It was silly, really, I don't know why it
worked for me. But do you remember that case with the circus people?
And the guy offered you some bugs to eat? And you took one and put it
in your mouth--or pretended to, anyway. God, Scully. You were utterly
fearless. So calm. Not letting that guy intimidate you with his
weirdness. I was so proud of you, so amazed by you, I wanted to just
hug you right then and there and tell you how perfect you are.

	But it goes back further than that. When you were missing, oh, God,
Scully, I was in hell. I was so scared and lost. I wanted you so
much, I would have sold my soul just to see you smile at me again.
And when they brought you back I thought maybe it was another chance
for me, to protect you and cherish you the way you deserve, and I
tried, Scully, I've really tried. I've tried to keep you safe. I've
done everything in my power. You know that. You know that, Scully.

	And then when everything gets all tangled and confused you're there
to straighten it out again. Only I don't know how we can straighten
this one out. I just love you. I know it's not convenient and I know
it's probably not even comfortable, but it's real and it's there and
I can't hide it from you anymore. I don't want to hide it anymore. I
want to kiss you, Scully. I want to kiss your perfect mouth and your
pretty eyes and your sweet face. I want to hold you in my arms. I
want to touch you and love you and tell you how beautiful you are. I
want to make you laugh and I want to comfort you when you cry, and I
want to hold you when you're scared and I want to be held by you when
you're strong. I want to make you smile every day. There's so much
that I want to do with you and for you and to you, I don't even know
where to start.

	But Scully, if you can't, if you really can't love me or let me
love you, just tell me. I won't bring it up again. I promise. I swear
I won't do anything to make you feel uncomfortable or guilty or
whatever. I'll manage. I just need to know, Scully. Just tell me.

	I know this probably isn't the best time--actually, you know what,
this probably is the best time. If you can be angry with me and still
say you love me then it must be true, right? Look into your heart,
Scully. Ask it honestly what you fell about me. If, at this moment,
when you're pissed off and tired and everything and you can honestly
say that you love me, then it must be true. It must be real. Whatever
you're feeling right now, I'll accept it. But please, don't leave me
hanging out here. Tell me. Tell me yes or no. And whatever you say,
whatever you want, I'll do it. I'll go if you want me to. Or . . .
I'll stay. If you want me to.

	Scully? Are you listening to me? Please give me an answer. Just one
word, Scully. One word is all I need. Scully? Scully?

*****

Scully:

	"Scully?"

	Mulder.

	I glance at the clock on my bed table.

	3:33 A.M.

	I groan.

	"...five minutes, Scully. I know it's late...."

	Late? Not by Mulder standards, which have absolutely nothing to do
with the standards of most human beings. He sounds desperate, child-
like, too much like the lost little boy I left in Skinner's office
this morning who couldn't believe he'd gotten spanked for sleeping
with the enemy, or worse yet that Spender had stepped up to the plate
to save his butt.

	"...C'mon. Godiva Chocolates. You love these. Open the door,
Scully, before your neighbors call the police. Scully? Are you okay?"

	Am I okay? Were he standing in front of me at this moment instead
of behind my dead-bolted door, I'd tell him I'm fine. He'd know it
wasn't the truth and more power to him, because I'm not fine. I
haven't been fine. I'm as far from fine as a sane woman can get, and
I have no idea what to do about it.

	I roll over on my back, listening to the pounding going on in the
foyer and knowing that within five minutes the police will come to
haul him off. And I'll let them. Not that he deserves it,
particularly, since one night in a cold city cell isn't going to
change what he's done, or what's happened between us. Nothing will
ever change or correct that damage, but it's just as well.

	We've gone on now. There's no going back.

	Events of the past few days have pushed us beyond the status quo,
not that there's ever been much of a status quo between us. Still, we
had our comfort levels, our safe places and our boundaries. Some of
those I'll miss. But I'm a pragmatist at heart. I know the difference
between resistance and beating a dead horse. Seems the harder we try
to pretend nothing's there, the faster fate intervenes with Mulder's
famous whammy, and we get forced into facing things we'd both rather
deny.

	"...I'm pouring my heart out here, I'm just trying to tell you--I'm
sorry."

	So am I.

	"...so sorry. And I just--I love you so much."

	I love you, too, Mulder.

	"...the door for a minute, okay? Tell me to get lost, tell me you
hate me, tell me anything, just--"

	I can't talk to you right now, Mulder. Go home.

	But he doesn't. He just keeps on talking, like its his life's work
to keep me awake and thinking tonight. Going on and on as if I've
overdosed and his voice is the only thing keeping me from walking
into the light. I smile at the revelation. He has done that for me,
more than once. Kept me from going, and by sheer force of will, if
you ask me. His will is strong. Stronger than any I've ever known, at
least where I'm concerned.

	That is the problem, isn't it? That's why I can't answer him now,
while he's being sentimental and darling and talking to me about
knowing he loved me the minute I ate a bug. I think there's a car
salesman in northern California who offers to eat a bug if you buy a
car from him, so if that's the only attraction, Mulder--

	I smile again, knowing it isn't. Knowing the truth, even if it
hurts to know it. And it does hurt. Because that's Mulder out there,
and I'm in here, and I have absolutely no intention of opening that
door. Too many things that could and should be said between us bubble
up inside me like an emotional spring, cajoling voices threatening to
override my resolve. I cover my ears and bury my head under the
pillow, refusing to listen.

	Still, I hear him.

	"...don't want to hide it anymore. I want to kiss you, Scully. I
want to kiss your perfect mouth..."

	Oh, God.

	"...and your sweet face. I want to hold you in my arms..."

	Enough. Enough, already, Mulder. I get up from the bed clad in my
comfy pajamas, garish plaid leggings and a worn, thin tee shirt that
hangs to my knees. More from shiver factor than vanity, I grab my
terry robe off the closet hook and drag it on.

	"...touch you and love you and tell you how beautiful you are. I
want to make you laugh and I want to comfort you when you cry, and I
want to hold you when you're scared--"

	Good God, Mulder, get a hold of yourself. Every girl in Georgetown
is gonna be beating a path to this door if I don't get there first.
Damn him, anyway. Does he know what he's capable of with words like
that, whispered soft in that shameless, sexy, incredible voice of
his? He must. Manipulative bastard.

	But at the moment, I don't care. At the moment, a familiar warmth
squeezes my chest and the sensitive region directly south, just at
the sound of him. He's making promises with that voice and tone, and
God help me, I want to believe. I stumble into the foyer, snagging
the robe tight around my waist.

	"...angry with me and still say you love me then it must be true,
right?"

	Unfailing logic. My bare feet hit the icy tile in front of the
door. I hiss in a breath, wondering if he heard me.

	"...leave me hanging out here. Tell me. Tell me yes or no. And
whatever you say, whatever you want, I'll do it. I'll go if you want
me to. Or..."

	No, Mulder, I don't want you to. Still, I'm standing freezing my
ass off in my foyer with my hand on the knob and I can't make it
move. Why can't I make my hand move? It's such a simple thing to turn
a knob. Just inches to the right, an easy twist of my wrist. And yet-
-

	"...listening to me? Please give me an answer. Just one word,
Scully. One word is all I need. Scully? Scully?"

	"Wait," I say.

	One word was all he asked for.

	Right?

	Silence falls outside the door. The sound is deafening in the
foyer. Somewhere in the distance I hear a siren wail. I've got one of
two choices here, and less than a minute to decide.

	I close my eyes, my hand still on the knob, and lean my forehead
against the cool, solid wood, cursing this thing inside me. This
Mulder thing. I'm like a woman possessed. He has hurt me and filled
me and tested me and loved me more deeply than any person in my life,
yet I can't let him in. I can't let him out. Sometimes I feel like
I'm standing on the edge of any abyss, nothing but vast darkness
yawning out in front of me, but ready to take that leap of faith and
fall, if Mulder is falling with me. But is he? Will he?

	Only one way to find out.

	I draw a deep, centering breath. My wrist turns, the motor action
committing me before logic and better judgement have a chance to win
out. He's leaning against the door on the other side. I feel him.
Listening. Waiting. Watching the knob. I can hear him breathe. A
comforting sound.

	The door opens at my will, just a crack. To his credit he doesn't
push his way inside, simply waits with the slight pressure of his
palm against the wood. I stick my hand out into the cold night air to
issue my demand while steadfastly offering nothing.

	"Chocolate first, Mulder. Then we'll talk."

2. 4:02 A.M.

	Scully has chocolate on her lips. I'd be lying if I said she's
never been more beautiful, but she looks really good right now. Her
hair is mussed and her face is clean and scrubbed, and despite the
hour her eyes are bright. This is going in the top ten of memories,
at least. Maybe even the top five.

	And she has chocolate on her lips like a little girl on Easter
morning.

	It's taking all of my willpower not to lean over and kiss the
chocolate away. Scully has great lips. Beautiful lips, full and soft,
pink as a rosebud. I want to kiss her every day for the rest of her
life.

	But first I have to convince her it's a good idea.

	She spent a good fifteen minutes assuring the police I was not a
threat to her or her neighbors, this was not a domestic dispute, and
that I was not drunk or high. "At least," the love of my life said
while tossing me a disdainful glance, "I don't think he is."

	Once the police were gone I thought we'd talk, but she was true to
her word. Chocolate first. So for several minutes now we've sat in
silence on her couch while she ate chocolate. Just four rich,
delicate pieces, slowly, taking her time, savoring each piece. The
slurping on the tips of her fingers hasn't helped matters much. She
hasn't looked at me very often, either, mostly her eyes have been
closed in Godiva-induced ecstasy.

	Finally she fits the lid back onto the top of the box, and looks at
me. "So," she says. "You love me, eh?"

	That's my Scully. Getting right to the heart of things. "Yes," I
say, deciding to follow her lead. Bluntness seems to be the order of
the day.

	"You love me, but you don't trust me."

	"Scully, that's not true."

	"You don't believe in me. And that makes me less inclined to
believe in you. And *that* is not a good environment for a trusting,
healthy relationship."

	I have to absorb this for a moment. "You've thought about this," I
say at last.

	"Long and hard." She gives me a tiny smile, and then says briskly,
"It's not that I don't want to be in love with you, Mulder, it's just
very, very difficult."

	I could swear there's a good thing in what she just said, and I
snatch it up. "But you are in love with me."

	"Against my better judgement," she says mildly. "If I were a saner
person or this were a saner world I would run away from you so fast.
But I need you," she says, looking disgusted with herself. She sighs.
"It drives me absolutely crazy."

	"But at least it's out in the open now," I say cautiously. "And
that's good, right?"

	"I wonder."

	Touching her right now seems like a very bad idea. She's drawn up
in the corner of her couch, her arms folded over her stomach and her
legs curled up in front of her, another barrier between us. Even in
her flannel pajamas and ratty bathrobe, she's the sexiest woman I've
ever seen. I want to rub her tightly-clenched toes, kiss the bottoms
of her little feet. And she's still got chocolate on her lips. Just a
tiny brown smear, like she's been kissed by a dirty angel.

	I say, trying to choose my words carefully, "So what do you want me
to do, to make you believe in me again?"

	"I'm not sure there's anything you can do. I mean, bringing
chocolates to my door and waking up my neighbors at three in the
morning is an . . . interesting choice, but then on the other hand,
there's that whole Antarctica thing."

	Ah, yes. The Antarctica thing we don't talk about.

	"I can't dismiss that," Scully says. "I'm not sure how to interpret
it, either. You're very good at the grand gesture. It's the everyday
things that worry me."

	"Like . . ?"

	Her eyes drift aside and she says, "Oh, I don't know . . . I would
like to be sure you don't shut your feelings on and off depending on
how inconvenient they are."

	"I never do that."

	She raises her eyebrows at this and taps her chin thoughtfully.

	"Okay. Maybe I'm not very good at being in love from day to day.
But do you think it's any easier to love you?"

	Her eyebrows rise even further.

	"Sometimes you don't even like me very much."

	"Oh, Mulder . . . I do like you. Most of the time."

	"You're not the most forth-coming person, Scully."

	"I'm aware of that," she says softly, and her forefinger plays with
the ribbon on the box of chocolates.

	"Would it kill you to . . . to say it? To say that you love me?
Without qualification?"

	"It probably wouldn't kill me, no," she says even more softly.

	But she doesn't say anything more, and finally I sigh and say, "Do
you love me, Scully?"

	"We're not talking about me," she says quickly.

	"Yes, we are. We're talking about us, and you're half of that us."
Her chin sinks further into her chest, and I sigh and run my hand
over my face. I'm not sure how long it's been since I've slept. Days,
it seems like. "It's no fun being in love by yourself. I've done it.
It makes you ache everywhere, disturbs your dreams, ruins your
appetite. It's no fun, Scully."

	"I know, Mulder," she says, and the look she gives me breaks my
heart.

	"Do you love me?" I say again, more gently this time, but still she
closes her eyes like it hurts to think about it. Her hand is resting
on the back of the couch, and I put my hand beside it and lace my
fingers through hers. "One word, Scully. That's all I'm saying.
That's all I've been saying. Give me one word to live on."

	"What if it's not the word you want to hear?"

	"I'll live. Not happily, but I'll live."

	She looks at our joined hands, and frowns. "I don't know, Mulder,"
she whispers, and as stunned as I am by her words I'm even more
stunned to see that there's one perfect, crystalline tear running
down her cheek.

	Well, shit. Now I've made Scully cry.

	"Maybe I should go," I say, but she doesn't let go of my hand.

*****

	I feel so stupid. Pathetic stupid, in a way I haven't felt since I
was ten years old, and I have no one to blame but myself.

	Tears. How ridiculous. How utterly ridiculous. Still, I can't stop
them. Would it help if I could look at Mulder, mutter "it's your
fault" and let him leave with that thought on his mind? Sure it would.

	But I can't. Not only would I devastate him, but the words would be
a lie. This isn't his fault. The fault is mine entirely. I'm a grown
woman. In control. I have a choice here that is mine alone, and I
can't move on until I make it. I'm in some sort of weird limbo box,
four square walls and the ceiling seems to be collapsing like a
mime's worst nightmare. What the hell is the matter with me? I'm
tired. I'm afraid. I want my mother. I want Mulder to go away and
leave me alone, yet I can't seem to let go of his hand.

	He's warm. Alive. So vital and unafraid, and I'm clinging to him
for dear life. What else can I do? God, I want to scream. Should I
scream, or should I pray? Should I send him away or open my robe and
offer him my body, as if that would assuage this fierce fire in my
soul?

	Somehow I know it wouldn't, that it wouldn't be enough and that the
fire will never be quenched as long as Mulder is here to stoke it.
And the thought terrifies me. I think it terrifies me more than the
alternative, more than always, forever being alone.

	I look at Mulder. He's looking at me. Tense, worried, like he knows
he put the tears there and doesn't quite know how to take them. Of
course he doesn't know. How could he? I can't take them, for God's
sake, and this is me inside. I can hear my voices now, telling me to
calm down, get a grip, it doesn't have to be this way.

	"I'm sorry," I hear myself say. My voice is husky, like cold
morning fog. Other words stick in my throat and I open my mouth to
speak them, thinking they'll pour out and Mulder will know beyond a
doubt what my struggle is. But nothing emerges, just the silent
working of my mouth. Mulder shifts his stare to my lips, as if he
might read them.

	He shakes his head. "I don't--I don't know what I'm supposed to
say."

	Honest to a fault. Somehow that releases me. "Nothing, Mulder," I
clearly state. "I've got a decision to make. That's all."

	"About--us. About--about what happens from here?" He looks
appropriately uncertain. Even insecure. An interesting first.

	"Yes."

	The man isn't stupid. He's aware and fragile, and emotionally
crippled in a way that's easy for me to understand. Look where he
came from. I have no such excuse, yet he can't know everything there
is to know about me. He doesn't know everything there is to know
about me. If he did, we wouldn't be here.

	"Scully, I'll go. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have forced
the issue tonight--not like this."
I nod. It's the only thing I can do. Hindsight is 20/20, Mulder, I
want to snap. That'd get rid of him in a hurry. But the words don't
come and he remains, and I'm still holding his hand like it's the
only thing keeping me tethered here, like he possesses the secret
balm for the emotions blistering me inside. I feel weak. I feel lost.
Mulder can't save me. Mulder can't cure me or enlighten me or even
make me whole. But he'll try.

	"I'm--do you know I'd do anything for you, Scully? Do you
understand that there isn't anything--I wouldn't do for you?"

	Of course I do. He's gone to battle for me more times than I can
count. He's defied the elements, the fates, the powers that be, he's
roamed the far corners of the earth and brought me back repeatedly
from the brink of hell. He's brought me Godiva chocolates at 3:33 in
the morning, risked rejection and a night in jail to pound on my door
and beg for a forgiveness that isn't forthcoming. Good at the grand
gesture, like I said.

	Almost too good. "I know you love me, Mulder," I whisper, feeling
like an ingrate for knowing that isn't the be all and end all for me.
Nowhere near. I give a shrug, not wanting to seem removed or
uninterested in his declarations, but feeling that way nevertheless.
"I wish I could say that's all that matters. I wish I could tell you
what you want to hear. But I can't. I'm not sure I even know how."

	He looks puzzled. "How what, Scully?"

	My lips twitch in a sad, weird smile. I'm thinking of that song
from "Jesus Christ Superstar"--what was it called? The one Mary
Magdalene sang about Jesus, how she didn't know how to love him.
That's it. The song was popular when I was seven or so, always on the
radio. I liked it and thought it was appropriate to learn, being
about Jesus and all. Something about the song touched me anyway.
After repeated scoldings my mom gave up trying to stop me from
singing it, and simply begged me not to sing it in church. Though I
didn't understand the logic of her plea, I obeyed.

	It wasn't until years later that I saw the play and understood what
I'd put my mom through. She wouldn't be pleased to know something
about the song still touches me tonight, even when I should know
better.
*I don't know how to love him, what to do, how to move him. I've
been changed, yes really changed. In these past few days when I've
seen myself, I seem like someone else--*

	Oh, brother. I remember the words. All of them. Worse yet is that
achingly tender tune, speaking of want and need and a love that
certainly is not meant to be. It's humming around in my head right
now-- *I don't know how to take this, I don't see why he moves me.
He's a man. He's just a man--*

	Come on, Dana. Focus here. Mulder is staring at you, waiting for an
answer and you're-
*Should I bring him down, should I scream and shout, should I speak
of love, let me feelings out? I never thought I'd come to this--
what's it all about?*

	Him. For God's sake. What else? And I had the nerve to tell him
once not everything was about him.... Nice try, G-woman. Better
rethink that philosophy.

	*Don't you think it's rather funny I should be in this position?
I'm the one who's always been so calm, so cool--no lover's fool--
running every show. He scares me so--*

	Running every show? Oh, please. Enough is enough, I tell myself,
but the damned song won't go away. It's sluicing my brain, reasoning,
rhyming. Some of the words actually ring true, and now I'm irritated.
I stare at Mulder--thinking love, thinking scared, and I know that
even if he could see inside me this minute he still wouldn't have one
damn clue.

	Poor guy. He should have left before I ever opened that door. But
maybe the song has served its purpose. Irritation gives me strength
as it always does, and I'm no longer crying. I let go of Mulder's
hand. Can he hear the music still buzzing through me? Maybe he'll
think I'm receiving it through the chip in my neck. I frown at the
thought and rub the back of my neck self-consciously.

	Still, Mulder doesn't move. We're side by side on the couch, inches
away but miles apart. I'm afraid he'll touch me again. That I'll
embarrass myself beyond tears and burst into song. So I stand.

	He knows. I'm certain of it. He draws a deep breath, looks down at
his now empty hands. Strong hands. Elegant hands. A surgeon's hands,
or a musician's. They've comforted me before, not with patronizing
pats but with soulful strokes. When he touches me I know the truth.
Not the one hidden in the song, or the truth that's out there--the
one we've been searching for the past six years. Those truths are
mutable. Nebulous.

	Mine is something different. Trite as it sounds, the truth I know
when our hands lace is the truth of existence. I don't need anything
when Mulder is touching me--not words, not rationale or explanations
or God help me the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Everything seems to
stop when Mulder and I touch--at least for one perfect, breathless
second. Before I start to think. Before analysis creeps in. Before
I'm aware of the need he awakens in me with every single beat of my
heart.

	God, enough. I'm wrung out. I feel twisted and scarred, wondering
when it was I decided I didn't need anything or anybody, and why if I
ever chose to change it would be such a bad thing. Why can't I accept
this? Why can't I give Mulder the simple answer he so desperately
wants to hear?

	I do love him. I don't know how or why, but I do. I need him, too.
Not the need of security or validation, or even of sex, but the need
of him. Of us. Of who we are together, what we are as one and the way
we instinctively sustain each other. It's energy balancing and energy
draining all at once, which is a good thing.

	I think.

	Mulder looks up at me, his hazel eyes green-amber in the low light.
"Why can't we do this, Scully?" he asks.

	Reading my thoughts. Reading me. God, can he hear me thinking?
Singing? I shake my head. "Mulder, it's late."

	He stands. But he doesn't go. He moves closer, into my space. I
bite my lip, so tempted to move backward but afraid if I do I'll jump
and run, and this thing will never be resolved between us. If I could
live without resolution, I'd do it. I'd run, damn straight, and by
God I'd never stop. But I can't. I won't. It's unfinished business
and that's just plain sloppy.

	I can't stand sloppy.

	Mulder swallows hard. Slowly, like the darkness that gives way with
peace to early morning light, he lowers his arms around me. I go
against his chest, my cheek resting over his heart. I listen to the
beat, feeling stiff and uncomfortable in my partner's arms. But I fit
there. I always have, even from the beginning, and what's worse is I
know it. Before long I'm easing like I always do, sinking soft into
the solid strength that is him. Maybe I am weak. Maybe I am lost.
Maybe Mulder will swallow me whole and I will disappear.

	"I won't hurt you," he whispers. His voice breaks. My heart dips.
"I would never hurt you."

	"I know, Mulder." I do. So go, Scully. Jump. The abyss is dark and
deep but Mulder is with you. I close my eyes, I hold my breath--

	"Mulder," I utter into the neutral span of his chest. Blaring
alarms go off in my head, warning me I'm too close to the edge. I
feel Mulder soak into me and me into him, I curse him, I bless him, I
pray for God to intervene. Skinner, Diana, Frohike--stop me!-- "I
love you."

	Oh, no.

	Oh, God, Mulder, wait.

	I take it back.

	Can I take it back?


3. 4:11 A.M.

	Oh. My. God.

	Did I just hear what I think I heard?

	I don't dare move, I don't dare look at her, I hardly even dare to
breathe. Maybe if I don't move or speak this magic will continue, and
I'll have one perfect moment to hang onto for the rest of my life.

	Scully has gone stiff in my arms, and her fingers grip my shirt
tightly. I should say something. Endless silence is not a good
response the first time someone tells you they love you. I'd know.

	I lick my lips, and press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "I
love you too, Scully," I say cautiously, and wait for her reaction.
She takes this funny little hitching breath, and still doesn't look
up. But her hands ease their grip a little on my shirt.

	This could be a good sign. I decide to treat it like one, and run
one hand gently through her hair and kiss her temple. Still nothing,
neither a 'go' nor a 'go on', and I am truly at a loss as to what to
do next.
So I keep on with what seems to be working--I touch her and kiss her
gently and lightly. I kiss her forehead, her neck, her nose; I touch
her back, her hair, her arms. She doesn't open her eyes, but the more
I touch her the more she relaxes. And she lets out another funny
little breath again, one that shudders through her and ends in what
sounds wonderfully like a whimper. I go on stroking her back and her
hair, hand over hand, and soon she is whimpering softly, still
clinging to me, her eyes squeezed shut.

	This is really happening, I realize in a delirium of joy. I'm
touching her, in a moment I'm going to kiss her, really kiss her, and
soon I'm going to do what I've wanted to do for years: pick her up
and carry her to her bed, and make love to her. Oh, God, we're going
to make love.

	I kiss her forehead again, and she lifts her face enough for me to
kiss her eyes and her nose, and I plant soft gentle kisses on her
face. I pull back from her a little and study her, and her eyes
slowly open. I'm not going to do anything more until she says it's
okay, and I want her to know that. I'm not totally sure how to say
this, though.

	Her hands knead my back for a moment, and then they slide up my
back to my neck. She strokes my neck, and her hand twines into my
hair. She licks her lips slowly, and then she nods and brings my head
low enough for me to kiss her as she rises up on her toes.

	We kiss.

*****

	Kissing. We're kissing. Me and Mulder. Mulder and me. What's the
proper English? What the hell do I care? Good grammar has escaped me,
along with coherent thought. All I know is that we are kissing, his
lips are firm and full and--I don't know what word I'm looking for.
Luscious. Delectable. Masterful. Intense.

	God, he tastes good.

	"Mulder," I whisper against his mouth.

	He sighs, his lips lingering on mine, his breath becoming my
breath, the sweetest mingling of scents and flavor, mint and Godiva
chocolate. I swallow, and tremble a smile. Instinctively I lick my
lips, wanting a taste of us. The slip of Mulder's tongue against my
own startles me, then makes me groan.

	"Scully," he says.

	I feel his smile against my mouth. Sweet. Amazing. We've waited so
long I knew it would be like this--soft, hard, open, closed, gentle,
passionate--everything that we are and have always been to and for
each other. In a moment I'm smiling, too, no longer from
embarrassment or fear. I'm smiling because I like what we're doing. I
like it a lot.

	I think Mulder does, too.

	He's hard against me, hard everywhere--chest, abdomen, cock. God,
am I feeling that? I must be. He wants me to feel it. He's pushing
into me, rubbing and rhythmic. It feels good--too damn good, mixed
with soul and kissing and chocolate. My body aches for him, not a new
sensation, though his fine form cleaved to mine is. I run my hands up
his arms, feeling the tight strain of his forearms below the short
sleeves of his gray tee shirt. His skin is warm, his muscles smooth
and flexing under my caress. He leans full into me, his chest gently
crushing my breasts, an act of dominion I gladly succumb to.

	It feels so damn good. I want it. I really want it. More than
sanity, I guess, because by no stretch of the imagination can this be
considered sane.

	It isn't. We aren't. We're partners, for God's sake, with so much
at stake. This step, our friendship, the future, our jobs--precious
things we've fought so hard to forge and preserve. I should be
concerned. I should care. I arch my back instead, so natural a
posture I haven't indulged in for--I can't remember how long. My
nipples harden under my shirt and tease against him, physical,
irrefutable evidence that my body has come alive. For him. With him.
I never knew--

	"Jesus, Mulder, what--"

	Head bent, he's trailing kisses along the side of my neck, over my
throat, down to the place where my nipples peak against my shirt.
Instinctively my hands move up. I thread my fingers through his
tousled hair.

	He responds with sweet attention. His mouth covers the thin fabric
over my breasts, wet and warm, his teeth nipping at me until my tits
are hard and full, and aching to be touched.

	I breathe his breath, taste his essence, feel his lips on mine
again. His hand comes between us, up under my shirt, firm in its
assault. He palms my breast, kneads it with his fingers and mutters
something profound along with "Scully" into our kiss. He mutters it
again, and again. My name, and something else. Something I can't
quite make out.

	And then I hear him. Then I know.

	Perfect. He's saying perfect.

	And we are.

	Oh, God, how? I don't know! I can't think! All I know is I said-- I
know what I said, then I tried to take it back. I couldn't. But he
was so good with me. Silent, still, while he soared inside. I could
feel him. Blissful and light and full of future plans, like a little
kid at Christmas with his first red trike. I wasn't so sure. I'm
still not sure. But he didn't push. He just held me, said the words
softly back and let me lead the way. Is that how we got here? Because
of me? What the hell do I do now?

	My body tries to tell me--fuck. You need to fuck. Making love will
come later. Tonight, you fuck. You love him--so fuck him. Get it out
of your system, Dana, and then you can get down to business. Talking,
connecting, the whole damn thing. You'll find a way--the two of you
always have--only after, later--once you've f--

	No! my heart cries. It's too soon. I'm not ready!

	The hell you aren't, my baser self replies.

	Okay, I am. Where it throbs, I am. But everywhere else, where I
don't ache, I'm afraid. It occurs to me I should be. It occurs to me
I should stop this, and stop it now. A minute ago I would have. A
minute ago I could have stepped away, told him the kiss was nice but
that it was time for him to go.

	A minute ago he hadn't kissed my tits or touched me with reverence,
and we weren't standing like this, mouth to mouth, chest to chest,
hip to hip, practically merged--

	Stop, my brain insists, effectively ending the debate my heart was
about to lose. My fingers tighten on Mulder's arms. I try to step
away. He draws me back, kissing my mouth as though my lips are bread
and my tongue sweet wine. For the longest time he sweeps me along. I
can't help it. I want it. I want him, his kisses, his hands on my
body, his cock deep inside.

	Kill the mood! my logical brain counters. Look at him. Whenever I
look at a guy kissing me, I somehow manage to distance myself, or at
the very least I start to giggle. It's like a defense mechanism or
something, always preventing me from getting too close. Whatever the
psychology, it works every time. So I open my eyes to watch our
kissing.

	Oh, God. Oh, no. Don't watch. It's not working. This kissing feels
too good and looks so damn erotic, and Mulder-- Sweet Jesus, Mulder,
you're sexy. The simple fact banishes all thought of resistance,
sending a streak of heat straight to my-- "Oh, Mulder...." I moan.

	He touches me. Everywhere. His hands-- God, those hands. I've
fantasized about them too many times to count, imagined them on me as
they're on me now, stroking up my back, sometimes over my night
shirt, sometimes sliding underneath. He's teasing me and enjoying the
feel, enjoying my response. God, if he only knew....

	My hand slides down with a will of its own, leaving the safe sexy
zone of his arms for the danger of the heat at the front of his
jeans. I mold my hand around him, trying to take back the control I
have so completely lost. He moans as I cup his bulge with my fingers,
sliding my palm along the rigid length of his dick. Oh, God. Oh,
Mulder.

	"Scu--ully--"

	His ragged voice sends me. My lids flutter closed. His face presses
the curve between my neck and shoulder, his mouth moist and hot
against my skin. He's breathing fast, holding tight to me. Bliss. Oh,
Christ. I can't stop rubbing.

	"Scully-- Scully, I'm gonna--I'm gonna--" His hand covers mine. For
a minute his grip is tight and hard, his fingers digging into mine
like he'll hold on and press until it's done. Then slowly,
deliberately, he's moving my hand away. Holding it still, but holding
it down, near his thigh. I push a little, moving around and back to
squeeze his ass. He arches into me. I tighten inside and resist the
urge to arch back. If I do, I'll come. I swear. Right here, right
now--

	He hangs on. Barely. I feel him fight to, holding me tight but not
daring to move. I am, unfortunately, in the same position. My body
taunts me. I want to give in. We need to fuck. We both need to fuck.
Down on the floor, right here in my living room, and we both know it.

	But we don't move.


4. 4:15 A.M.

	It's good. It's so good. It's warm and wet and deep and sweet. She
still tastes like chocolate, and beneath that is a subtle, tender
flavor that is deliciously and simply Scully.

	And then there's her soft perfect breasts and her moans and her
little light caresses, and then there's the way her hands are
gripping my ass and the way her body arched into mine-and her perfect
little hand cupping my cock, the way she purred as she rubbed me--I
don't think she even realized it--

	"Scully," I rasp into her neck, and she shivers. "Tell me--you need
to tell me--" I have to clear my throat--"tell me what's next,
Scully." Please say it's sex, please say I can kiss your sweet skin,
please say I can taste you, please say I can come inside you, please
please please Scully--

	"Mulder." Her hand combs through my hair. She kisses my forehead
and strokes my neck. "I think . . . it's late . . ."

	I tighten my arms around her. I don't like the sound of this.

	"We need to sleep. Before we make an irrevokable-"

	I jerk up my head. "Mistake?"

	"Decision," she says quietly, looking into my eyes. She rubs my
chest with her palms and leans her cheek against my chest. I take a
deep breath, trying to calm down.

	I should go. It's not going to happen tonight, and I want to get
out of here before I embarrass myself further. But I don't want to
let her go, either. She smells so good--she smells like soap and
chocolate, and her eyes are the brightest thing in this dark
apartment.

	I should go. I really should go. But how can I leave this? I
forget, most of the time, that's she's really a teeny tiny little
thing, but when I hold her she seems so fragile, so easily broken. I
don't want to leave her like this, not with everything so unsettled
and unresolved.

	"We'll talk in the morning," she whispers, but her head is still
pressed against my chest.

	"I guess I should leave, then," I say, and kiss the top of her
head. We stay there, caressing each other lightly, for a long time,
neither of us moving away from where we've been standing since she
said she loves me. I feel like if we move, it will end, we'll go back
to who we were this morning and we'll never be who we are now again.

	"Mulder?" she says softly. "Mulder, this is going to sound really
strange."

	I chuckle. "I don't think anything could shock me tonight, Scully."

	"I want you to stay."

	Well. I was wrong. I cup her cheek in my hand and she smiles at me
tremulously. "I want you to stay with me," she whispers, and turns
her head a little to kiss my hand. Her eyes stay on mine. "I want you
to stay, Mulder."

	I feel breathless, almost light-headed. "Are you sure?" I whisper,
rubbing her cheek.

	"I think so. Yes. I want you to stay."

	"Okay." Sure, I can spend the night with the woman I love and not
do anything else to screw this up. Sure, I can do this. We've shared
a hotel room, slept beside each other in a parked car. I've fallen
asleep on her couch a hundred times.

	"And I want you to sleep with me," Scully says, and all my fine
thoughts go flying out the window. "I want you to hold me, okay? Is
that okay, Mulder?"

	Somehow I find the mental capacity to nod. "That's okay."

	"I want you nearby but I just . . . I'm not up to anything more.
Especially no more talking. Okay?"

	"Okay." Hold you. I can do that.

	"It's not too much to ask?"

	I smile at her. "No. It's not too much to ask."

	She nods, relieved. We stand there for a moment more, holding each
other, and then she leads me by the hand back to her bedroom, and
takes off her bathrobe. I try not to stare as she gets into bed,
where she seems as fragile and perfect as an egg. A Fabrege egg, I
think, smiling, and take off my shirt and shoes.

	Scully has no compunction about staring, though, and watches me as
I strip down to my jeans. That seems far enough, and I get into bed
beside her. We settle together side-by-side, her head on my shoulder
and her hand resting lightly in the center of my chest, as natural as
if we do this every night.

	"Mulder?"

	"Hm?"

	"Thanks for the chocolate."

	I smile and kiss her forehead. "Anything for you, Scully," I
whisper, and get a slight pressure from her hand on my chest in
answer.

	Okay. Sleep. Sure. Time to sleep. I close my eyes and listen to
Scully breathe, and I have to wonder how she can sleep so quickly and
so soundly while I lie here awake and aching for her.

	Here's a plan. I'll lie here for the next two hours or so and when
she wakes up I'll take a cold shower and go home. I'll nap for an
hour or so and get up in time to get our first meeting in the
morning. So for now I'll lie here and hold her, and one of us will
get a good night's sleep, anyway.

	I start reciting poems from English lit classes of long ago to pass
the time. I'm testing the theory that any of Emily Dickenson's poems
can be sung to "The Yellow Rose of Texas" yet again when Scully stirs
and says softly, "Mulder, are you still awake?"

	"Yeah."

	"Can't sleep?" She props herself up on her elbow and gently runs
her other hand down my face.

	"I'm okay, Scully."

	"No, you're not. You're not okay." Her hand continues its journey
down my body, and lingers over my stomach.

	"Is there anything I can do?" she whispers.

	I grab her hand. "I'm okay, Scully. Go back to sleep."

	"Mulder . . ." She moves again, so that she's draped over my body,
and she starts kissing my chest. "Just let me take care of you,
Mulder."

	"But you said--I thought--"

	She presses her fingers to my lips to shush me, and I kiss them and
shush. Well, now that you've twisted my arm, Scully . . .

	She kisses my stomach as she unbuttons my jeans, and she eases my
jeans and my boxers down my hips. I run my hand through her hair and
caress her cheek, and she pauses for a moment to smile at me, before
moving to kneel between my sprawled legs. She takes a deep breath and
lets it out slowly, and her breath wafts over my cock. My own breath
comes out in a woosh at the feeling, and my cock, already much abused
this evening, throbs almost to the point of pain.

	Anything, Scully, anything, your hands, your mouth, between your
breasts, do anything you want, just please--

	The tip of her tongue dances around the head of my cock and I try
not to whimper. She leans on her hands, planted on either side of my
body, and opens her mouth to take me slowly in, caressing me with her
tongue as she goes.

	"Ohhhhh . . . gawwwwd," I moan, or something like it, and press my
hands to my eyes. It's been a long time--a really long time--since
another person has touched me, and longer still when someone has
touched me with this kind of tenderness. I move my hands from my eyes
and flail my arm at the side of the bed to turn on the light. She
looks up at me for a moment, and I whisper, "I want to see you. Is
that okay?"

	She smiles around her mouthful of flesh and lowers her head
further. I run my hand over her face again, and she moves her head so
that I'm rubbing her cheek as her mouth bobs on my cock. God . . .
deep-throating. Scully is actually deep-throating me. She plays with
my balls with one hand, drawing her fingernails delicately over my
skin.

	Don't thrust, I chant silently, can't push, don't thrust, just let
her do it, but my back arches and my hips rise and I moan again, "Oh,
god . . . Scully . . . god . . ." And she rides each thrust with me,
increasing her pace with me. She's got me so deep I can feel her
throat around me, she's moaning and humming in such a way I can feel
it all the way through my spine.

	"Scuh-lee . . . gonna come, Scuh-scuhleee . . ." I let go of her
face so she can move away. But she doesn't, she just sucks on me
harder, riding each thrust of my hips as if we are the same body. I
try again anyway: "Scully--Scuh--gonna--can't--"

	She pulls back but doesn't let my cock out of her mouth, and her
tongue circles and laves over the head, and though I try not jerk I
can't stop, I hold onto her shoulders and groan and thrust and come
for what feels like an hour.

	Scully lifts her head and smiles at me, and crawls up my body and
kisses the tip of my nose. "Feel better?"

	"Uh, yeah," I say, and manage to not chortle moronically. Scully
kisses me again and reaches over me turn off the light, and settles
down on top of me, her head in the crook of my neck and her hand over
my heart again. It's a strange sensation, being completely naked in
bed with a completely dressed woman, but it's not unpleasant. Nope.
Not unpleasant at all. "Are you okay?"

	"I'm fine, Mulder. Go to sleep."

	"Are you sure? There isn't anything I can do for you?"

	"Mulder, I have to get up in an hour. Go to sleep."

	I kiss her hair, holding her tight. I close my eyes. Sleep sounds
good. Sleep . . . yes . . .

*****

	His soft snore and slow, even breathing warn me even before his
kiss leaves my hair. I've given him an order and he's obeyed. Mulder
is asleep. He's asleep.

	Already.

	Lying on my back in bed in that strange dark hour between night and
daylight, Mulder's arms around me and mine loose around him, I want
to laugh. I almost do, but there's no humor in my body at the moment.
There isn't a lot of anything, except an overwhelming tiredness, and
a glimmer of frustration deep in my abdomen. Mulder, I want to
whisper, in the hopes that he will hear and--

	And what? I don't know. He would have released this tension, had I
asked, using his mouth or his fingers, whatever it took. I'm as sure
of that as I am of anything. He isn't selfish that way, I've learned
that tonight. Even now he's doing what he can for me, giving what he
can, or at least all that I'll allow him. His hold on me is tight
even in sleep, his long, lean body cleaved to mine, traveling and
surpassing the length of me. He shelters me somehow.

	I should be satisfied with that. I want to be. He's resting
peacefully for probably the first time in a great while. I want him
to have that. I don't want to resent it. I told him to sleep, and he
did. He is. Why can't I let go and do the same?

	Something shivers inside me, an emotion I can't define. I feel
alone lying here next to him, ridiculously abandoned. There is no
logic in this feeling and I tell myself that, but more emotion wells
in response, like all the things I told Mulder I was too tired to
talk about suddenly want to be discussed. Now. This instant.

	Damn it, anyway. This is one hell of a time. It's an hour before
dawn and I've got a long day ahead of me. I don't want to be thinking
about this right now. I want to be sleeping. Peaceful.

	Like Mulder.

	His breath is soft, a minty rhythm in my ear and against my cheek.
I treasure that. I do. Sentimental goof that I am, no matter how I
fight to hide it. I have always fought to hide it, even from my mom,
especially from my dad. I've erected huge walls, impenetrable, I
thought. But Mulder slides through. He always has--always will. I
think that's what I love the most about him.

	I know that's what I fear.

	My eyes drift closed. I don't want to think about this. Not now.
Not after what I've--we've--just done here on my bed. Images wash
over me. The hard, muscled plane of his chest, the fine dark hair I
traced with my finger, and then with my tongue, down from his chest
to the waistband of his jeans. The fly of those jeans, unbuttoned
slowly and drawn down off his narrow hips. His hand in my hair as I
knelt between his legs....

	Breathe, Dana. In three hours we'll be sitting side by side in the
bull pen, dressed in our business attire, Mulder in suit jacket and
shirt, funky tie, and crisply pleated pants, and me in my--I'll wear
my navy suit with the skirt he likes. We'll see how he does with that.

	I look down at Mulder, sleeping solid and naked in my arms, sweet
and sexy and tangled in my cool, white sheets. I imagine him removing
the suit jacket and getting down to business, sleeves rolled up,
glasses on. My turn to keep functioning. Make calls. File reports.
Business as usual.

	Yeah, right.

	We'll spend the first part of the morning dealing with our "jag-off
shoeshine tip" background checks until our meeting with Spender at
ten, where we'll find out what happens next. Where we go from here. I
want to know, but I don't. I want to think of myself facing the
unknown with Mulder, receiving good news about the X-Files and our
bid to fight the future. I want to think of myself calm and in
control, capable of separating my professional life from the private
way I think about my partner. Exuding a sophisticated, typically
reserved exterior.

	While I think about unzipping his crisply pleated pants and sucking
his cock.

	His gorgeous cock. His engorged, gorgeous cock, thick and hot and
rigid as bone. For me. For my tongue, for my fingers, for the moist
squeeze of my mouth. I don't know exactly what I'd planned when I
took his boxers down tonight, maybe a quick hand job to relieve the
tension, or taking him hard between my tits. But I started licking. I
started sucking. And God help me, I couldn't stop.

	I didn't want to stop. I wanted him to groan and buck and surge and
come, and I wanted to be the one to make him do it. He did. I was.
I'm glad. I guess the fact that I can't sleep now is a small price to
pay, but I'm not sure. The cost may be high indeed if I lose my
composure in our ten o'clock meeting due to lack of sleep and over-
stimulation and go down on him in front of Spender.

	Sleep, Dana. You had your chance to fuck.

	I sure as hell did.

	Am I some kind of masochist, or what?

	I let go of Mulder and slip a hand down between us, feeling the
soft flesh of his cock against my knuckles as I touch the place where
I still burn. Even over my thin leggings and panties, I'm hot. Damp.
I close my eyes, curl my legs around my hand and feel the throbbing
against my fingers. I could do it. Here. Now. Fast. Really fast.

	Mulder's breath fans my face. I open my eyes and look at him, his
rugged features so beloved. So trusting. No demons haunt this sleep.
At the moment I've got demons enough for the both of us, most of them
of the baser kind. Do it, they tell me. You'll feel better.

	No doubt.
But I
	don't want it like this. I move my hand back up, smell a trace of
my scent on my fingers, and gently touch his full, perfect mouth. A
slight smile grazes his lips.

	I smile, too. I may jerk my skirt up and straddle him at our ten
o'clock meeting with Spender, but when this ache in me goes away,
Mulder will be the one to send it.

	I lean forward and kiss him. He sighs and I turn in his arms,
lacing my hands in his, molding my back against his front, thinking
how perfect we fit. In the dark, in my bed, under my cool, white
sheets. Will we still fit in the morning, at the office, at our
desks, at our meeting with Spender in our professional suits? I don't
know. I don't know....

	"Mulder," I whisper, feeling myself drift. "What the hell have we
done?"

5. 6:00 a.m.

	I awake to a gentle chiming. It takes me a moment to figure out
where I am, what day this is, that the alarm clock is closer to her
than it is to me . . . and to remember exactly whose alarm clock this
is.

	Scully. My eyes widen as I remember exactly everything that
happened last night--this morning--the chocolate and the kisses and
the sheer pleasure of Scully's mouth. And she's still in my arms,
warm and soft, her back pressed to my chest and her hand laced
through mine that rests on her stomach. This is her hair tickling my
face, her skin that smells of that minty stuff she uses to wash her
face, her feet between my knees to keep them warm.

	She's still sleeping deeply, too. Poor kid. I shouldn't have come
over in the middle of the night last night--I should have waited
until a civilized hour, so we could talk like adults instead of
clinging and crying and in the end being really too tired to talk.

	But if I'd waited, I would have lost my nerve. And we'd never talk.
And I wouldn't be lying naked in Scully's bed right now, holding her
and debating whether to kiss her neck first or her ear.

	Finally her arm snakes out and her hand slams on top of the alarm
clock, silencing it. She burrows back against me, making a
complaining "mmm" that says it's too early and too cold and she's not
going to get up until she's good and ready.

	I'm fully awake, though, and I have a debt to repay. I move
carefully behind her, up a little onto my elbow so I can look at her
face. I smooth back her hair, and ease my arm around her waist again.
She makes another "mmm", a happier-sounding one this time, and I have
to smile.

	She's pretty. She's so pretty. I love her every freckle, the beauty
spot above her mouth, her auburn brows and lashes, the blue veins in
her eyelids, the way her hair curls at the back of her neck--I love
her like this, natural and unguarded, as much as I love her put-
together and smooth, professional, her hair tamed and her face made
up. I love her awake and I love her sleeping, I love her sick and I
love her healthy, I love her laughter and I love her tears. And now I
know that kissing her is the sweetest thing in the world, and I want
to do it more, every day.

	I don't know how to prove this to her, though, that I can and do
love her no matter what happens, no matter what she's feeling. She
let me stay, I'm sure, only because it was easier than making me go,
and there's no guarantee that when she wakes up she's going to be
happy to see I'm still here.

	Well, there's only one thing for me to do about that, isn't there.

	I lick behind her ear and gently tug on her earlobe with my teeth.
"Scully," I croon softly, "Scully, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart. It's
morning-time. Wakey-wakey, Scully."

	She gives a low chuckle and says softly, "Mm, Mulder . . ." Then
abruptly she sits up and whirls, as well as you can whirl in a bed
with someone's arms around you, exclaiming, "Mulder!"

	"Hi," I say as mildly as I can. I play with a lock of hair by her
face as she stares at me, and she shakes her head slowly.

	"Sorry. I forgot you were here. I mean, I didn't forget, I just
thought--I mean--"

	"You thought you dreamed it."

	"Something like that." She looks down at me with an unreadable
expression, then says, "I'm going to start some coffee. You should
probably get going, you don't want to be late."

	"Scully . . ." She makes no move to get out of bed, and when I draw
her back down against me she comes willingly. "Let's play hooky," I
whisper, and kiss her forehead.

	"Mulder . . . we need to start getting our office ready . . . we
have that meeting with Spender . . . "

	"That's not until ten. We can stay here a while. Whaddya say, wanna
fool around?"

	"Mulderrrr . . ."

	Oh, when she says my name like that it goes straight to my cock,
and I shift my hips away from her a little. This isn't about me, this
is for her. I can tend to myself later, if it comes to that.

	"I want to make you feel good, Scully," I whisper. "Anything you
want me to do. Let me make you feel good."

	"Mulder, no--we need--I have to--"

	"Do you want me to go down on you, Scully? Would you like that?
Would you like me to lick you, and taste you, and fuck you with my
tongue? Would that make you feel good?"

	"Mm, Mulder . . ."

	"Or would you like me to use my hands, Scully? I know you like my
hands. I catch you watching them, you know. I know when you're not
listening to me, and you're just imagining what it would feel like
for these hands to touch you, just like this." All this while I've
been stroking her back, slowly and gently, hand over hand like I did
last night--but now I move one hand to her front and stroke the side
of her breast. She shivers deeply and presses her face against my
neck.

	"Mulder, I told you, I'm not ready to have sex with you yet--"

	"Oh, honey, it's not having sex. When you were a kid and fooling
around with What'shisname--"

	"Marcus."

	"Marcus--did you consider that having sex?"

	"You're--making--assumptions," she gasps.

	"Did you let him touch you, Scully? I think you did. I think the
two of you necked your parents' couch, scared to death someone would
come downstairs and discover you, but so excited because kissing felt
so good. I bet he loved kissing you. I bet he loved touching you. I
bet the first time he touched you, you were sure you were just going
to die from the excitement of it. Was he gentle, Scully? Was he slow
with you, taking you one step at a time?"

	"He was--he was gentle."

	Ahh . . . I knew she'd play along. "Good," I whisper. "Good. He
should be. Anyone who touches you should be gentle. I'll always be
gentle, Scully." I pause, and whisper, "Except when you want me to be
rough."

	Now she just moans, gripping my shoulders tightly. Her eyes are
squeezed shut and she keeps licking her lips and breathing through
her mouth. She's panting and all I've done is touch her.

	"I bet at first you were a strictly above-the-neck girl, weren't
you, Scully," I whisper, stroking her neck and playing with her
earlobes. "You believed everything they told you, didn't you--only
sit on a boy's lap with a phone book between you, never dance closer
than six inches, no hands below the neck. And never *never* below the
waist. But he was cute, wasn't he, Scully, and so gentle and sweet,
you decided to let him go . . . lower." With this I close my hand
around her breast and she moans again. "Your heart is racing," I
whisper, and move to kiss her chest. "Any second now someone could
come in and catch you, but you'd rather die than have him stop,
wouldn't you. It feels so good, someone else's hands on your body.
And you want more. You want him to touch you more."

	"Mulder . . ."

	"Sh, baby, sh. You're okay. You're safe here." Her nipples are
erect, hard as nails, and she shivers when I pass my fingers over
them. "You want his hands on your skin, don't you, not just through
your clothes. Are you scared, Scully? Are you scared for him to touch
you like that?"

	"No."

	"That's my girl. My pretty, pretty girl." I slide my hand down her
chest to the hem of her t-shirt, and then up again, under her shirt
to her warm silky stomach, then--oh, god--to close around her breast
again. Her nipple is firm and her breast is soft, and it's getting
harder and harder for me to keep up my monologue. I say, my voice
ragged, "Do you let him kiss you, Scully? Do you let him kiss you on
your breast, suck on your nipple? Does he tell you how beautiful your
breasts are, how perfect? Do you let him suck on your breasts,
Scully?"

	"Yes," she almost sobs, her hands in my hair. "Yes."

	I shove up her t-shirt to her armpits and latch my mouth onto her
perfect pink nipple. Her entire body arches towards mine and she
cries out, almost a shout. She writhes beneath me as I suckle her,
lithe as a snake and as hard to hold, and she moans continuously and
tugs on my hair.

	I glance up at her--her head is thrown back and her lips are
parted, but her eyes are still closed, dammit. I tug on her breast
with my lips a few times more but when she still doesn't open her
eyes I let it fall out of my mouth. "Scully."

	"Don't stop--" She pulls on my hair. "Please don't stop-"

	"Say my name, Scully, open your eyes. Look at me, Scully."

	"Mulder," she says in a frustrated tone, but her eyes open and
focus reluctantly on me. "What is it?"

	"Just making sure we both know who's here, Scully."

	"You were talking about us the whole time, Mulder," she says,
pushing her breast against my mouth again.
"Nothing like this ever happened to me in high school."

	"I find that hard to believe."

	"I was a pudgy science geek," she says. "I was eighteen before I
even had my first kiss."

	"Oh, Scully . . ." I hold her face in my hands and kiss her.
"You're beautiful, my wonderful science geek."

	This has the effect I was hoping for, and she starts chuckling even
while I'm kissing her. "You never would have looked at me twice," she
mutters, pushing me onto my back. "I had friends you might have
dated, but you never would gone out with me."

	"How do you know that? Now you're the one making assumptions." A
bare-chested Scully grinding her hips on my crotch is not conducive
to cohesive thought. But that should be obvious.

	"I wasn't your type. It's iffy if I even am now."

	"Scully--sweetheart--" I try to grab her shoulders but only succeed
in grabbing her breasts. Well, it gets her attention, anyway. I knead
her breasts with my hands and she strokes my arms with her
fingertips. "I don't have a type. I love you. Period."

	"Phoebe and Diana could be sisters, you know."

	I sigh heavily and sit up, moving her to a less sensitive part of
my lap. "Or hadn't you noticed?" she says, looking up at me with her
big, honest eyes.

	"I hadn't noticed. I don't think about it. That's the past, Scully,
parts of my life that I'm not particularly proud of but that I had to
go through to be here, with you, now. Can't you be here now with me,
Scully, instead of being preoccupied with my past? I'm not
preoccupied with yours."

	"Except when it gets me naked," she says tartly, tugging down her t-
shirt to cover herself. Damn it. "I'm going to make some coffee. You
can stay for some if you want it but you'd probably better go if
you're going to get to work on time." She clambers out of bed, not
bothering with her bathrobe again, and pads down the hallway to her
kitchen.

	She felt something, she wanted me--I know she did--but she's
ignoring it. I, unfortunately, don't have quite the same option. I
don't want to walk out of here with a woody but I'm not too crazy
about the idea of jerking off in Scully's bathroom. Something tells
me she wouldn't like that very much, either.

	The lesser of the two evils appears to be getting home and taking
care of myself there. I get up and hunt around her bedroom for my
clothes. My jacket is still in the front room. I leave my shirt
untucked and go out into her living room.

	Oh, fuck. Oh, everlasting hell and damnation.

	Scully stands at her sink, her hands tightly gripping the counter
edge, and she's crying. Muffled, like she's trying to hide it from
me, and hard, like she can't stop herself.

	Okay. I can stay and try to comfort her, and probably make her more
upset than she is now. I can go, and she'll think I'm an insensitive
jerk who can't handle crying women. I know there's nothing I can say--
I'm not even entirely sure what's wrong--but I can't just stand here.

	I go into the kitchen. I take a deep breath. I step up behind her
and embrace her, tight.

*****

6. 6:15 a.m.

	I stiffen as his arms fold around me, and then I relax. I relax
back against him because this is what I want, this is what I need.
His chest is hard and curves around me, comforting, and I cry. I cry
because this is what I want, this is what I need--and I hate myself
for it.

	Want. Weakness. They start with the same letter, and mean the same
thing. At least they did when my father was alive, when he used to
tell me "Never compromise, Dana Katherine." Never let them see you
sweat. Never compromise? Never sweat? My father never met Mulder. In
retrospect, I suppose that's a good thing.

	But how do I do this? How do I get through this? How do I love
Mulder, and let him love me, without letting my fears get in the way?
I didn't seem to have a problem last night, except with the fucking
part. Is that an intimacy issue? I went down on him, didn't I? How
intimate is that?

	Yeah, you went down on him, but you lost it when he tried to do the
same to you this morning.

	Oh, God, why did I ask? I knew I would answer, and it wouldn't the
answer I wanted to hear. Because it's the truth, and where Mulder and
I are concerned right now I don't want the truth. I say I do, but I
don't. I can't handle the truth, not with his body pressed to mine
with love, concern, and the ever-present-in-this-position Mulder
erection.

	That part feels so good, snug and hard against my ass, letting me
know what I do to him even when I'm not doing anything at all.
Touching him-wise, I mean. I'm enjoying the warm, tight shelter of
his arms, but I'm crying, for God's sake. What the hell is attractive
about that? I know what my face looks like when I cry, all scrunched
up and pained-looking, and the tip of my nose turns red. I hate the
way I look when I cry.

	I hate the way I feel when I cry, vulnerable and afraid and in need
of--what? In need of this, of Mulder, of his strength and devotion
and unending idealism. We will be all right, he's telling me. We have
nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of....

	"Scully." His voice is low and soft, the sweetest of sighs on my
neck. "Talk to me," he says.

	My eyes closed, my head back against his chest, I whisper, "No."

	He doesn't press me. Not really. His arms tighten around me a
little, letting me know he's still here with me, even when my tears
and one-syllable response should have pushed him away. They would
have, if he were a lesser man. They would have if he didn't care, if
he didn't love me more than any woman on Earth has a right to be
loved.

	I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed of this weakness that reduced me
to tears at my kitchen sink, even before I'd put the coffee on. Ahab
would be ashamed of me, too, wouldn't he? He always wanted the best
for me--best values, best discipline, best education, best career.
Perfection wasn't a goal, it was a pre-ordained right for the
offspring of William Scully.

	For the longest time I bought into that. Right up until the day I
walked into Fox Mulder's office and started living my own life,
making choices that no one understood but me. And maybe Mulder, but
even he didn't know everything there was to know about my being there.

	I had no clandestine agenda, of course he came to understand that,
but the path I'd chosen, going to work for the FBI, was only the
beginning of what would become my soul's journey. Not a career, as my
father would have preferred it, but a life lesson. Something I'd come
to this world with unknown purpose to achieve.

	We aren't there yet, Mulder and I. We still have a long way to go.
I don't know how I know that. I just do. I've never told Mulder
because Dana Scully admitting her intuition to her complete believer
partner almost seems too twisted for words. But I do feel things
about us. I do have ideas about fate and God and the way all things,
in the end, somehow come to fit.

	Like we do.

	I sigh against him, wishing I could share with him the turmoil
inside me. It has nothing to do with sex--or maybe it has everything
to do with sex, and I'm too Catholically inhibited to admit it. Sex
is about partnership, about joining, touching, and not just of the
physical. Especially not with me and Mulder. Especially not in light
of all that we don't know, and all that we will face beginning this
morning at ten.

	What can happen? I ask myself, looking down at the fold of Mulder's
hands under my breasts. I blink, staring at his strong, lean fingers.
His hands are so perfect. I trace the veins that show against the
back of his hand, wiring down from his knuckles in an intricate web,
carrying blood and life into his wrists, up his arms, through his
body, to his heart. Back again, around, a cosmic, life force circle.
Perfect, like I said.

	"Scully," he mutters, inclining his head a little to look at me. He
watches me touch him for a long moment, then draws a deep breath. I
feel the air go in him, filling his chest. I feel the air go out, and
pray I'll never stop feeling that rhythm in his body. "I know you're
afraid," he tells me. "I'm afraid, too, but not of this. Not of you.
Look at us, Scully. We were meant for this. This is our truth.
Partnership. Why can't you believe that?"

	The problem is, I do. In my nightmares we have been put here,
together, to save mankind. In my dreams, we have been put here,
together, to push and challenge and torture the hell out of each
other. See, it works for me on every level. Why can't I accept that?
Why can't I turn and face him, and just surrender?

	I turn and face him. His arms loosen to accommodate me. He looks a
little surprised. I rise on tiptoe, startling him further, and kiss
his mouth.

	"I love you, Mulder," I say, watching that wonderful spark light
his eyes, and his fine smile turn boyish and doofy. I kiss him again,
liking the doofy but wanting the pout back in his lips. I love the
pout. It returns, along with the deep, sensual forest green that
darkens his eyes. I watch his eyes slide closed and feel my body melt
against him. What a cliche. Melt. But that's what I do.

	His mouth moves over mine, soft and firm and oh, so sexy. Sheila in
Kansas was the one who told me this man could kiss, but Sheila in
Kansas never knew the half of it. A sigh parts my lips. He takes
smooth advantage, his tongue slipping into my mouth with the ease of
a morning hello. We kiss. And kiss. Oh, God, it's wonderful, and it
seems to go on forever.

	The fire builds inside me, not slow or fast, just there one moment
when before there had been nothing but confusion and fear. I shift
into him, feeling him hot and hard against me, but he doesn't make
any other move. My hands leave his muscled back and find his shirt
front, buttons to his chest that slowly come undone. I part the tails
of his shirt, exposing his chest to my wandering fingers. I angle
down, curve my hands around his sculpted abdomen, caress his hips,
cup his ass. He groans. His hands start up, toward my breasts. He
seems to hesitate, and squeezes his warm palms around my waist.

	Through the tears drying on my lashes and cheeks, I smile. Without
thought I take his hands and guide them up to me, over my breasts.
"Touch me, Mulder," I whisper into his mouth. His hands begin the
motion without further prompting, slow, achingly slow, with my
fingers a sinful accompaniment. I let go and resume exploring him,
touching him the way I touched him last night. Rubbing him. My
obsession. Aside from his hands.

	They're on me now, up inside my shirt until the shirt is off and on
the floor. Before I can process the expertise of that move he's
bending his head, laving the flesh of my tits with his tongue,
teasing my nipples into rigid peaks. He whispers as he suckles me,
sweet, sexual tongue-talk I can't quite make out but fully understand.

	And appreciate.

	I'm hot. So damn fucking hot, like he had me in bed a few minutes
ago. Before I got mad. Or scared. Or both. I'm not mad, now. I'm hot.
Fuck me, Mulder, my body cries, rubbing up against him. I feel his
cock through his jeans and want to feel it against my skin. Breathing
heavy, panting like a pirate, actually, I jerk at his fly. The
buttons pop in symphony and his dick springs free. I shove his Levi's
and his boxers down to his knees, then touch him, hold him, his
perfect cock like velvet bone inside my hand.

	He groans and goes with it a moment, maybe two, before he gently
pushes my hand away. He looks into my eyes, stares into my soul, then
gives me a sultry smile. He kisses my mouth, then my chin. He kisses
my throat, my breasts, my stomach, and I feel myself begin to writhe.
He continues slowly down, pressing kisses as he goes, taking my
leggings and panties with him. I spread my legs at his command, feel
his breath against my most intimate place, my center, my heat, my
pulsing, wet--

	"My turn, Scully," he utters as his tongue glides inside.

	My knees buckle. He catches me around the waist. I lean my head
back, unable to think beyond what he's doing, what he's done--

	"Mmmmm," he says, part yummy sound, part growl.

	"Oh--oh, Mulder-- Oh, God, I'm--"

	"Sweet," he whispers, licking and smiling. "Perfect, love. Perfect."

	I'm gone. The me inside I know so well, the heart of me who
questions everything cannot question this. My body surrenders to his
mouth, his words, to the love and intimacy he is offering without
expectation of return. I can't do this, I know it, but I'm doing it
anyway. Fear and tears and the unknown will have to wait. Right now,
I'm about to come.

	Everything in me presses down to that point, until I am throbbing
and full, and ready to explode. I'm up against my kitchen counter,
breasts bared, legs spread, hot and undignified and free as I've ever
been. His tongue pierces me, brands me, makes me tight and loose,
chilled and blanketed all at the same time. I shiver uncontrollably,
tangling my fingers in his hair.

	His tongue teases my ridges and folds, instinctual, anticipating,
knowing what I need even before I do. Of course he can't, I tell
myself. But he does. He does. He mutters against me, urging me on.

	"Come for me, Scully," he breathes into my heat. "Come, baby.
Come...."

	Pounding. I'm--My--Oh, God, Mulder. I want--I want you to--

	He knows. He breathes into me, slides his fingers inside. One, then
two, and he's standing in front of me with his kees half-bent, his
shirt open wide, his raging cock pressed into my abdomen. My hand
closes around him, smooth, tight caress. Yes. Now, Mulder. Now. He
raises his knee against me, stroking up between my legs, driving his
fingers deeper. He is into me, so far into me, his face and hair
caressing my neck, so close my nipples roughen against his chest. I
stroke harder. He sinks his teeth into my skin. Now. Now--

	His thumb flicks my swollen clit, once, twice-- "Mulder!" I gasp,
and I'm shattering, shattering and stroking, feeling him build even
as I combust. "Oh, God-- Oh, Mulder...." Release. Bliss. I feel like
I'm flying, and slowly float down.

	"Scuh--" he grunts. His body tightens. He goes still, still in my
hands with one arm gripping my waist, his fingers buried inside me.
"Uh--" He jerks and shudders, and he is coming. Hard. Quiet. Intense.
I won't let him go.

	Mulder slumps against me. Spent. Powerless. But I'm here. I feel
him, hold him, know the graze of his lashes across my skin, the
warmth of his seed in my hand, and the truth that burns behind his
closed eyes.

	One. We fit. We always have. Perfect, inseparable, like jagged
pieces of soul.

	I know, Mulder. I know.

7. 6:36 A.M.

	Well. That's one more thing I never would have guessed about Dana
Scully. Here we stand, in her kitchen, of all places, flushed and
sweaty and sticky, my come all over her stomach and my fingers still
buried inside her pulsing mound. And damn if she's not the sexiest
thing I've ever seen, her breasts heaving as she gets her breath
back, her hand stroking my back as if breast-to-breast and belly-to-
belly isn't touching enough.

	I bit her. Here, on her shoulder. I didn't break the skin but there
are red tooth marks. Good thing she doesn't wear low-shouldered
things . . . though I'd love to see her in something backless,
strapless, something to show off her tiny waist and luscious hips and
breasts . . . Anyway, I lick the bite mark gently and kiss it, and
she hums softly, her head lolling on my shoulder.

	"Sorry about that," I whisper.

	"No, 's good, Mulder," she slurs, and kisses my chest lightly.
"Felt really good."

	"No, I mean the bite." I run my fingers over the bite and kiss it
again.

	"Oh . . . hardly felt it. Too busy with other things." She smiles
and rubs her fingers along my jaw.
"You okay?"

	"I'm okay." I reach behind her and turn on the faucet, and rinse
off my hand. She watches me through her lashes as I get a paper towel
and start to mop up my come from her skin. I keep one arm around her
and kiss her gently as I do so, especially where goosebumps rise from
the cold water. She stretches out her head on her neck and hums
again, low and purring.

	All cleaned up now, I gently raise her panties and her pajama
bottoms, and find her t-shirt from where I tossed it aside. She holds
up her arms docilely so I can lower it over her, and I smooth the
shirt over her shoulders and her stomach. "There," I say softly.
"Decent."

	"Am I?" she says, and I do have to admit, there is something erotic
about the flush to her cheeks and the glow in her eyes. When she
walks into the office today with that "I got lucky" glow, the rumors
are going to just fly.

	I start to step away but she keeps her hand on my waist and pulls
me back. She kisses my chest gently as she kneels down, and she pulls
my jeans and boxers back up to my waist. She pauses, and smiles up at
me shyly. "I really don't know what to do here," she says softly.

	I chuckle and say, "I dress to the left," as I show her. She
buttons up my shirt and I tuck it in, and she strokes her hands over
my chest for a moment. She sighs and embraces me around the waist,
pressing her cheek to my chest.

	"Have I ever told you," she says, "how good you look in a dress
shirt and jeans?"

	"No," I whisper into her hair.

	"You look good enough to eat," she says, giving me a mischievous
flick of her eyes, and for that I have to kiss her. She laughs into
my mouth, and then gasps as I breathe in her breath. She eases
herself further into my arms and parts her lips, and her tongue darts
out to tease mine.

	"You sure you don't want to take a personal day today?" I whisper,
and she rubs her cheek against my hand for a moment before resolutely
stepping away.

	"We have important things to do today," she says, turning from
lover-Scully into partner-Scully like a Porsche taking a corner. "We
have responsibilities we can't just push aside."

	"I know. All right. But later--like after work--I think we should
take some time for ourselves. We really should, you know, talk."

	"Later," she says, nodding, and she takes me by the hand to lead me
to the front door. I pause only to pick up my jacket and slip it on,
and we stand in front of her door, holding hands, still not entirely
ready to part.

	"You know, Scully," I say, rubbing the inside of her wrist with my
thumb, "maybe we ought to look at this from a relationship point of
view."

	"What do you mean?"

	"Well, maybe we ought to . . . date."

	Her eyebrow raises at this, and her smile is uncertain. "Date?" she
repeats.

	"Yeah. Date. Like regular people. Like, I call you up and we
arrange a time and I pick you up and we go somewhere to eat, and
maybe to a movie or something--and, oo, Scully, we can hold hands in
the theater."

	"Mulder, I don't think we could be like regular people even if we
tried."

	"But will you think about it?"

	She smiles and leans her head forward, in a way that used to hide
her eyes when her hair was longer. "You can hold my hand in any
theater, any time," she says softly, then adds in a more businesslike
tone, "Go home, Mulder. I'll see you in a few hours." She unlocks her
door and opens it, but still doesn't let go of my hand.

	I raise her hand to my lips and kiss the back. "I love you," I say,
and she makes a funny, aching kind of sigh, working her hand free of
mine.

	"Go home, Mulder," she says again, more gently this time, and adds
as she's shutting the door, "Love you too."

	I smile at her closed door for a minute or two, then take my car
keys out of my jacket pocket and go out to my car. I feel euphoric,
joyous. Scully loves me. Scully, who could have any man she wanted,
wants me. She's a little scared still, a little worried, but I
understand that. I've got to show her I can do more than the grand
gesture.

	But what, though? She didn't sound too enthused about us dating--
and the truth is, I always find dating a little sophomoric, myself.
After everything we've done already in the last six years, dinner-and-
a-movie isn't going to bring us closer together. I rub my chin as I
wait at a stoplight, thinking. If a date isn't the answer, maybe
something less conventional is. Maybe I need to find an adventure,
tailor-made for the two of us, just something silly and safe. I was
hoping our Christmas outing would be along those lines, but it didn't
quite turn out that way. Well, except for afterwards. Christmas
morning together was, for all its unconventional trappings, just like
how a Christmas morning ought to be.

	As I pull my car into my parking space, it occurs to me I really
don't know what to do. Scully will come almost anywhere with me, if I
ask her, but I also know how much she dislikes a wild-goose chase.
The field probably isn't the ideal place for me to prove my love.
Striking out on our own only gets us in trouble--although, we may
have a new boss today, after we hammer out with Spender what's going
to happen to the X-Files.

	My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I will not think about
Diana. Her duplicity stung but in a way didn't surprise me. My
mistake was trusting her too long, I suppose, trusting in our history
instead of her present. And my own.

	Scully comes first now, in all things, always. I know it's going to
take more than an apology and a orgasm in her kitchen for her to
completely trust me again. I'll find what it is, somehow. I'll prove
how true I can be.

	Finally I get out of the car and go up to my apartment, which seems
even more cheerless and lonely than usual. When Scully and I live
together I'll make sure she does the place any way she likes, her
apartment always is so cozy and comforting--

	I stop this line of thought, and smile and sigh. No sense in
planning that far ahead. It may never come to that point. As nice as
it would be to see her first every morning and last every night, I do
have to be realistic.

	The message light is blinking on my machine. Considering that the
guys are still not speaking to me--and won't be until I apologize to
them too--I figure at best is Kersh's secretary with a message I
don't want to hear. I stab the Play button nonetheless--best to get
it out of the way quickly.

	But it's not Kersh's secretary, nor Skinner's, nor the man himself
nor any voice I was expecting to hear this morning. It's a former--
associate, I guess, is the best word--of my father's, Arthur Dales.
"Agent Mulder, this is Arthur Dales, calling from Florida. I don't
know if you're watching the news but we're in for a hell of a blow in
the next 12 to 24. I've been through hurricanes, Agent Mulder, been
through the alphabet. But I just got a distress call from my neighbor
down the road that set my teeth on edge. You don't have much time to
get the airport, but if you're the X-Files man you say you are, you'd
better get your butt in gear."

	That's it. No explanation but a nervous neighbor in a hurricane.
No, no, no, I am not going to drag Scully to Florida in the middle of
a hurricane.

	But I have to know what's going on. Arthur Dales doesn't call me
often, and certainly never for frivolous reasons. I get my address
book out of the desk drawer and dial the last number I have for him,
in Goodland, Florida. I know as I'm dialing that Scully is not going
to like this. But I know, too, she won't be satisfied until whatever
mystery that's worrying Dales is solved, either.

	This is not going to win me any points. Unless it turns into an
impromptu Florida vacation, which I'm not counting on either.

	The other end of the line picks up after several rings. "Mr. Dales?
It's Fox Mulder. I understand you've got a case for me."

8. 10:15 a.m.

	Mulder is staring at my legs. Smiling, and staring.

	I know what he's thinking. Spender is late, we're alone in his
office. Come on, Scully. Wanna give it a go?

	Actually, yes. But no, Mulder. No.

	I asked for this. I did. God, I need help.

	Navy suit. Sheer stockings. Four inch heels. More leg than I
customarily show, except in this skirt, which is why I chose it, of
course. To make him crazy. Crazier. For me. He liked this outfit a
lot the first time he saw me in it, at the gym where he was playing
basketball and neglecting his j-o-b. Something tells me he likes the
outfit even more now, knowing what's underneath.

	I like his outfit, too.

	He's wearing the charcoal gray jacket that hugs his shoulders so
nicely, and shows just enough when he moves. He held the door of
Spender's office open for me this morning, revealing the white dress
shirt under his coat, and the fine cut of his pressed and pleated
herringbone slacks. I had to force myself not to fixate on their
hang, and instead studied the thin black belt at his waist, noticing
how it matched his black and silver tie (the one with the green and
blue swirls), and the gun holstered over his shoulder--

	Oh, enough already. I'm thinking of his gun? And getting hot? Good
God. This is work, Dana, I tell myself, folding my arms across my
chest. No matter what amazing things Mulder has done to my body or
how incredible he looks with and without his clothes, this is work.
I'm adamant about us not bringing sex into the work place--at least,
I am in my head. And in my head I know that wearing this navy suit
with the short, tight skirt and my new fuck-me-Mulder shoes was a
mistake.

	A mistake Mulder appreciates, I'm certain. But I can't do this. I
can't have him look at me this way, and keep myself sane and dry.
It's impossible. All the wonders recently discovered between us must
be kept in their place, I tell myself. I glance sideways, see the
slow-sexy look in Mulder's half-closed eyes and can't help but think--
yeah, right.

	Keeping my legs demurely crossed at the thigh I shift slightly, the
tender pang in my center sharper than ever. I suppress a groan right
here in Spender's office, wondering how much longer we'll have to
wait. I'm getting irritated. Antsy.

	Mulder passed antsy ten minutes ago.

	Not that I blame him. I know what he wants. I know what I want.
Damn it, where in the hell is Spender? I steel myself, refusing to
look at Mulder again, as if that might help. Still I can see him out
of the corner of my eye. He looks good. Too good. Lanky and smooth,
his fine hands folded across his flat abdomen, his expression hooded
and sleepy, like a lean, lazy cat.

	Lazy, my ass. He's getting ready to pounce.

	One heartbeat, another--I wait. I don't wait long. As if I've
willed it his hand slides sideways, slow. His concentration is
absolute, his focus unerring. I'm fascinated. Almost lulled as he
steadily reaches for the forbidden--the slightly bared curve of my
thigh below the hem of my short-for-Scully skirt. Nearing his goal
now, one stroke, one squeeze--

	I seize his wrist, stopping him cold. "Uh-uh, Mulder." His skin is
warm. I can't resist a squeeze of my own as I firmly guide his hand
away from me, back to its resting place below his stomach. He doesn't
protest as I draw this professional line between us. I wonder why,
but as my fingers unintentionally graze him where he's rigid in his
slacks, I have my answer. My heart thumps wildly. "Don't do this to
me," I say, too breathless a statement. I clear my throat and declare
more forcefully: "Not here."

	He's still smiling. I let go of his hand, which dutifully remains
where I placed it, and start to draw away. His other hand shoots out,
grabs hold of my wrist and turn it slightly to read my watch--holding
my palm over his erection in the process.

	"Mulder!" I hiss.

	"10:20, Scully," he says, as if either of us is presently concerned
with the time of day. "Spender's late."

	I yank my hand free. "We'll wait," I tell him.

	Hazel eyes glaze over me, possessive and promising, shadowed by a
sweep of thick black lashes. My body begins to hum. Mulder leans
broadly back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of
him, the tent in his trousers more obvious by the minute. "You
think?" he says.

	Sexy sonofabitch. I want to kill him.

	"I *know*."

	"Oh." He's heard this tone of voice before. He understands the game
is over. He looks at me another minute, as if considering the risk
involved in pushing this any further, and makes the right choice.
Mulder sighs. No more game. Now he's bored. He puts his head back and
stares up at the ceiling, maybe contemplating sharpened pencils or
spit balls. I glance up, letting him know I'll put an end to that,
too. He shakes his head and closes his eyes.

	Anxious for something to do myself I look around. The place is
darker, it seems. Perhaps it's gotten that way under the auras of
Diana and Jeffrey. I tell myself that's a ridiculous deduction, and I
wonder where they are. I wonder why Kersh hasn't come down here to
interrupt a meeting that was supposed to begin at ten to force us
back to the manure piles and background checks. Something isn't right
here.

	The thought startles me, though the uneasy feeling it stirs is
accurate. Disturbingly logical. We've been left here alone for nearly
half an hour now, sitting side by side in our once and hopefully
future office, awaiting a meeting that seems less likely by the
minute. No one's called. No one's come to find us. There's a
Mulder/Scully tracking system in this building and no one has
bothered to utilize it this morning. What the hell is going on?

	"It's 10:30, Scully, " Mulder observes, eyes still closed. I glance
at my watch and note the time. I don't even wonder anymore how he
knows. He just does. "Spender isn't coming."

	His lips curve in another playful smile, as if he's waiting for me
to comment on his double entendre. I bite my tongue and opt for the
professional tack I've been striving to take since we walked into
this room.

	"You don't know that, Mulder," I tell him, choosing not to voice my
concerns. I don't need to. He knows. I can see it in his posture,
outwardly relaxed but inwardly alert. He fools everyone else. He
doesn't fool me. "Spender must be--held up somewhere."

	"Held up--or tied up?"

	"Held up, Mulder. It's strange that he hasn't called, though."

	"Hard to dial wearing handcuffs."

	"I wouldn't know."

	He opens his eyes and looks at me. "No?"

	"No."

	Mulder shrugs. "Who knows, Scully. Maybe he's out looking for
Diana. Skinner said she hasn't been to work since the big barbecue."

	I give him the look.

	He shuts up. Looks down. Starts staring again, and the lazy smile
is back. At least he's found something to do.

	I shift uncomfortably, feeling as though I'm being watched by
someone other than Mulder. "I'll give Skinner a call. Maybe he's
heard--"

	"We saw him on the way in, Scully," Mulder reminds me. "You know,
the tall, bifocaled guy you practically knocked over on your run down
the hallway?"

	"I didn't run, Mulder."

	"You walked. Fast. He wondered why you didn't stop to say hey.
Afraid he'd notice your brand new glow?"

	"I was late."

	"You were blushing."

	"I most certainly was n--"

	"Are those new shoes, Scully?"

	I ignore him. "Something must have happened," I say. "Spender
wouldn't leave us hanging like this, Mulder. Not after yesterday."

	He says nothing. Still staring. He either didn't hear me or he
agrees. There's no point in waiting any longer, either way. Abruptly
I stand and reach for the phone on Spender's clean desk. I look at
Mulder. He's studying my shoes. I roll my eyes and punch in Skinner's
extension. After four rings, his secretary answers.

	"Hi--good morning. Yes. Uh-- We-- Mulder and I had an appointment
with--" I watch, unbelieving, as Mulder slides out of his chair and
onto the floor, onto his hands and knees in front of my feet. "--Um--
We scheduled a meeting with Agent Spender for this morning at ten,
and he hasn't shown up yet. Have you--" I kick at Mulder as his long
fingers tap the side of my shoe, gently urging my feet to the right.
I adjust and kick again, this time harder, prepared to some damage to
the fine ass outlined by the fabric of his trousers. He grabs my
ankle, stopping me short. He doesn't let go. "--seen him?" I bite
out, struggling now for balance. I pull away, shaking Mulder loose.
"Oh--oh, okay. No, that's all right. Thank you."

	I jam my finger down to disconnect the call, get another dial tone
and try to reach Kersh. "Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" I
demand, the waspish tone of voice as much for the growing mystery of
Spender as for my shoe-stroking partner on the floor. "Spender didn't
show up for work today. No one's seen him since yesterday, and
apparently there's no answer at his--"

	A tap on my shoe. "Scully, get down here."

	The line is ringing. Another tap on my shoe, this one more
insistent. I glare down at Mulder. He's in front of the desk, peering
underneath it, a look of intense concentration on his handsome,
boyish face. He looks up at me and points at the floor.

	"Look," he says.

	Kersh's secretary picks up. I hang up the phone without speaking
and kneel down beside Mulder. "What?" I ask, squinting into the
darkness that exists beneath Spender's desk. Then I see what Mulder
is seeing. Three imperfect spots, almost the color of the floor. Dark
and rusty. Already dry. "Mulder, that--" I reach forward, brush the
too-familiar looking stain with my fingers. "It looks like blood."

	Mulder nods. He straightens and stands. "Spender isn't coming," he
says, but the tease is gone from his voice.

	So Spender is late. So there's a little blood on the floor. Mulder
is making an awfully big leap here and I have no intention of
following. "Mulder," I say in my best unbudging Agent Scully voice.
"That blood could have come from anywhere. Maintenance, the janitor,
the guy who programs the phone. It is not necessarily Spender's."
Mulder continues to stare at the spots. He doesn't reply. "And if it
did come from Spender, Mulder, he could have--he could have cut
himself. Scissors, stapler, letter opener, paper--"

	"A paper cut, Scully?"

	"Or maybe he was shaving."

	"Now that's even better."

	"Mulder, I don't know! You have an electric razor here at work, and
on occasion you use it--"

	"Not under a desk."

	"All right! Okay! It's strange, Mulder. But three drops of blood on
the floor under his desk do not equate to a murdered Agent Spender.
If he's dead, where's the body?"

	"I didn't say he was dead."

	"Wounded, then? Where? What hospital? No one's heard from him! And
where's the rest of the blood, Mulder? We're talking three drops
here."

	"Three drops they missed."

	They? "Who?"

	"Whoever cleaned up, Scully."

	"You can't be--" serious. But he is. I know he is because I'm
watching him walk to the supply cabinet with a look of purpose on his
face. I open my mouth and try to speak, try to say something logical
and cohesive that will get him off this bend. He retrieves what he
needs from the file drawer, a plastic bag, a thin scraper and a set
of gloves. He snaps the gloves on. I don't ask how he knew where to
find them.

	"This will only take a minute," Mulder says. "We'll get the blood
analyzed and go from there."

	"This isn't an X-File, Mulder," I tell him. "Spender not keeping a
meeting with us and three drops of blood on the floor in his office
isn't an X-File."

	"I've started files for less."

	I shake my head. How in the hell do I get through to this man?
"We'll find him," I say. "And he'll tell you the same thing. This
isn't an X-File."

	"Fine. Until then we'll go with it. And consider ourselves between
A.D.'s, Scully. Have you noticed that no one's come to find us and
put us back in the corner?"

	Yes, I've noticed. But I say nothing.

	"Don't you feel like an orphan?" he asks, sounding happier and more
excited than any orphan I've ever known.

	"No," I reply, but I sound sullen. I sort of do. Feel like an
orphan, I mean. With no word from Spender, an obvious lack of
interest from Kersh and no commitment as yet from Skinner, nothing is
settled. Nothing is done. I can't stand undone. "All right," I say.
"We'll look for Spender. Then what?"

	Mulder scrapes the blood from the floor into the bag and glances up
at me. He gives me a smile, one I've seen so many times before I
know, I just know, and I could shoot myself for asking. I cross my
arms and close my eyes--

	"Ever been to Florida, Scully?"


After Midnight: Something in the Water

	This is it.

	I'm going to die.

	In a matter of minutes I am going to dissolve into a puddle of
seawater and wash out to sea. All because of curiosity and Arthur
Dales and a sea creature that looks like one of those glow-in-the-
dark bracelets they give out at amusement parks.

	I'm going to die.

	At least I haven't seen the creature in the light fixtures in the
last few minutes. I did manage to get a few shots off at it when it
attacked me. Maybe it's gone away. Oh, God, maybe it's gone after
Scully--

	Maybe shining my flashlight up at the light fixture wasn't the
smartest thing I've done lately. Maybe I should have run as soon as I
saw the tentacle. Maybe I shouldn't have left Scully. Maybe I
shouldn't have come here at all.

	Scully, this is not what I wanted for us. I was even thinking about
getting a hotel room for us so we could have a little time for
ourselves. Florida vacation, Scully. Could have been sun and sand and
ocean . . . but instead I'm going to die.

	It's not the barely-able-to-breathe part that's so terrible. Or
even the life-flashing-before-my-eyes part. It's not the past that's
killing me now, Scully, it's the future that we're going to miss. I
wanted this future, our future. Oh, Scully, there was so much I
wanted for you.

	The door to the apartment building is open, and I hear a soft
sound, a cat's meow. I laboriously turn over and look out the doorway.

	The Shipleys' cat is sitting out in the rain. Licking its paw as if
it didn't have a care, as if it weren't sitting in a post-hurricane
downpour, calm as you please.

	The cat and I stare at each other.

	How, if the Shipley family were all reduced to saltwater, did the
cat escape? Why was it hiding in the washing machine? Why is it
sitting in the rain now? I thought cats hated getting wet.

	I feel like I'm missing something terribly important but I can't
make the pieces fit together. I can't think clearly, the world is
starting to grey out, I can't take a deep breath. Scully--if I had
five more minutes you know I'd spend it with you--

	A door slams open down the hallway. "Mulder!" I hear her footsteps
coming towards me, and she kneels down at my side. Her hand flits
over my face. "Mulder, it's the water--come on, we have to get you
out into the rain."

	I can't say anything, and even though I try to focus on her I can't
see her. I grab her hand and gurgle something, and I feel a brush on
my mouth like an angel's kiss. "Come on, Mulder," she says, and her
hands grip me under my arms. "Give me a little hand here, okay? It's
the water, Mulder." I try to shove with my feet against the floor,
and my shoes scrape against the concrete. Scully grunts with the
effort of hauling me outside. "It has to--oof--be in a large amount
of water--Mulder--to maintain cohesion." She pauses and smacks my
cheek, not too lightly, I might add. "Mulder, stay with me, can you
hear me?"

	I gurgle again and she makes a sound caught between a sob and a
chuckle. "Good enough. Can you stand?"

	I don't think I can, but Scully hangs my arm around her shoulders
and hauls me to my feet. My head whirls and my knees buckle and my
feet tangle together, and we both tumble face-first onto the grass. I
press my face against the cool, wet grass gratefully. Scully
untangles herself from me and sits up, and pulls me into her lap so
that my head rests in the crook of her arm and my body is sprawled
over her legs. She strokes my forehead gently.

	"You're going to be okay, Mulder," she whispers. "You're going to
be fine." I open my eyes to look at her and she shields them from the
rain with her hand. "Are you still with me, Mulder?"

	I nod and take hold of her hand and squeeze it, hard. She raises
her arm to lift up my head, and she kisses my temple.

	"I'm scared, Mulder," she says, and I open my eyes again in
surprise. "I don't know what's going to happen, exactly. I just--"
She sighs. "I don't want you to hurt anymore."

	That would be nice, I think, and squeeze her hand again. Her
fingers are wrinkled and waterlogged. I don't think either of us have
been dry since we arrived in Florida. We both have suitcases in the
rental car, but who knows when we'll get a chance to dry off and
change.

	And here my sweet Scully sits on the wet grass, her butt getting as
soaked as the rest of her, waiting to see if I'm going to die or not.

	I'm hoping for not. There's a warm fluffy quilt on a big comfy bed
in a St. Augustine B&B with our names on it, if we get out of this.
Oh, Scully, if we get out of this I'm never going to get you into
something like this again. I promise. No more, Scully, I can't put
your life in danger like this. You're too precious to risk.

	She continues stroking my face slowly, with her whole hand. It's
soothing. Her hand moves slowly over the entirety of my face, from my
forehead to my chin and back up again. I don't know where Scully
picked this up, but it's exactly right.

	I still can't get a deep breath, though. I'm gasping like a landed
fish. I don't know exactly what is inside me or where it is, but I
can feel something wriggling at the base of my esophagus. I turn away
from Scully onto my side, and her arm grips over my chest. She kneels
behind me and her other hand rubs my back, between my shoulder
blades. "Mulder? What is it? Oh, God, Mulder, you're choking--"

	Yes, dear, very astute of you, I think vaguely, and hurl up what
feels like a gallon of salt water. Scully holds onto me, rubbing my
back, and she chants into my ear, "You're going to be okay, you're
going to be okay." Between the cold drops of rain I feel something
warm and wet on my neck. Scully's tears.

	When finally my lungs are empty, I lie panting in her arms. I want
to curl up here and go to sleep, but the ground is cold and I'm
soaked through to the bone. Scully's hand continues to smooth over my
face, but I can feel her trembling still. "Mulder," she whispers.
"Mulder, can you talk? You neck looks terrible. I want to get that
bandaged as quickly as possible. The last thing you need is an
infection."

	"I want a breath mint," I croak, and she makes that sad half-laugh
again.

	"I think I have Tic-Tacs in the car. Orange ones, though."

	"I like the orange ones."

	"Can you stand up?"

	The prospect is less than thrilling, but with Scully's supporting
arms I manage to get to my feet. I have no desire to rejoin the
others, though, so when she tries to steer me towards the door to the
apartment building I stop. "Car," I croak.

	"We can't just abandon the others, Mulder. Angela had her baby and
George was attacked. We can wait for an ambulance in the manager's
apartment. I'll get on the radio again and see when they can send a
rescue vehicle out to us."

	I'm in no hurry for George to point a gun at me again, but she's
right, of course. We can't just leave. She guides me into the
building and down the hall, and into the manager's apartment again.
Walter and Angela are on the floor, and there's a bloody squalling
mess of a baby is in her arms, wrapped up in kitchen towels. George
is on the floor as well, a bucket near his head. He looks as worn out
as I feel. Scully lowers me to the floor as well and gets a cushion
off the couch to put under my head. What amazes me, though, is that
even though she's so stressed out that her hands are shaking, she
still takes a moment to caress my face. It's a simple, brief touch,
but it speaks volumes to me. Rest. You're safe. I'm here.

	I watch her move around the apartment, soothing everybody, and when
she sits down at my side and gets out her cell phone I close my eyes.
So tired. And Scully's here.

*****

	Mulder's neck looks awful.

	I watch him fiddle with the gauze as we wait for Dales to open his
front door. We don't wait long--Mulder nods as Dales waves us in. I
start across the threshold and my cell phone rings. Both Dales and
Mulder turn to look at me. "Go ahead," I tell them. "I'll join you in
a minute."

	So Mulder goes in without me, no doubt eager to share his war wound
with Dales, the pattern of holes in his neck that looks like he got
on the wrong side of an aerator. It's just as well, I think, as I
snap my phone open. I've seen enough of Mulder's wounded neck in the
past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime.

	"Scully," I say into the phone. Someone stutters on the other end
as if they aren't quite sure they have the right person. "Agent
Scully," I repeat, and now they start talking. I nod, take in the
information and thank them for calling. I click the phone off and
start to go back inside, but I'm moving slow. I'm not ready. Not yet.
If Mulder is still showing his neck, I don't want to see it.

	Over night the tentacle wounds went from bruised and bloated to
bruised and simply swollen. I treated the area with antibiotic cream
every two hours, but had no idea what else to do. The toxins left by
the creature simply had to run their course, I assumed, the best
theory I could come up with given the facts at hand. The only
experience I'd had thus far with the victims of the sea creature
weren't exactly positive, and since the local hospital was packed
with victims of the storm and dead-on-their-feet doctors, my theory
and my first aid kit were all we had.

	We made the best of it. Mulder didn't sleep well. I didn't sleep at
all. Not that I expected to. Though I had no reason to believe the
fresh water hadn't completely killed the organism in Mulder as it had
the creature in the manager's apartment, I didn't know for certain.
And I was worried.

	So I treated him and sat beside him, holding his hand every now and
then, but mostly just watching him for signs. Mulder was nauseous and
feverish, alternately wracked with dry heaves and uncontrollable
shivering. I'd hold him during the spells, keeping him covered until
he drifted off to sleep. He'd start talking then.

	He talked a lot.

	Normally I don't give much credence to the ramblings of semi-
delirious patients, especially not when they're semi-delirious
Mulder. But this was different. We were different. I don't think I
realized how much our partnership had changed until, in that still
moment before dawn, Mulder rolled toward me and uttered "I'm sorry".

	The words don't come from him often. Ever. I wasn't sure how to
react to them when they did. This wasn't an apology for bad behavior
or misplaced faith where Diana Fowley is concerned. This was
something different. Something deeper. An "I'm sorry" between the two
of us that I still don't know how to take.

	"I'm sorry" I put you through this.

	"I'm sorry" I wasn't more careful.

	"I'm sorry" I almost died.

	"I'm sorry" I brought you into this and put your life at risk.

	Sorry.

	There was more. Mulder wasn't quite lucid and I knew it. Still, the
words stung. I pulled him to me and stroked his hair while he rasped
and mumbled and clung to me. I don't remember all the words exactly.
I couldn't understand half of them. But I understood that he was
sorry.

	I understood that he was afraid.

	I've known the same fear through the six years of our partnership,
but I've never been sorry for it. Not once. How could I be? This is
our job, what we know, what we've been trained to do. Danger is an
obvious element--violent death a strong possibility-- we both know
the risks. We've always known the risks. And while I'm afraid of
losing Mulder, and know that losing him now would feel something akin
to having my heart summarily ripped from my chest, I still want him
with me. My partner. Beside me.

	His apology told me he doesn't feel the same.

	We need to talk about this. Intellectually, I know this problem can
be solved. Emotionally, I'm not so sure. While I can't stop Mulder
from feeling protective of me, I can't have him hovering. I can't
have him distracted. I can't have him deciding which cases I
participate in based on their safety factor. I'm his partner, damn
it. His partner first. His lover second. His lifemate only if he'll
accept me on my terms. On the terms we set six years ago--terms that
a budding sexual relationship have no bearing on.

	I walk up onto Dales' porch, pocketing my cell phone and the car
keys. My resolve is strong, but Mulder is still weak. He'll need time
to recover. Now is not the time to show him distance, or even
concern. I draw a deep breath, open the door and step inside.

	Dales is in his chair. Mulder sits on the couch close to him and is
just letting go of the white gauze above his gray crewcut tee-shirt
when I walk in the door. I catch a glimpse of the wound and find
myself thinking, not for the first time since yesterday--too bad
Mulder didn't bring a turtleneck. Both men look up at me as I enter.

	"Well, it's official," I say. "Ten pounds, ten ounces of piss and
vinegar. El nino grande. Leroy Walter Villa Real Suarez, Jr."

	"Oh, no," Mulder chuckles.

	"Oh, yes," I state.

	Arthur Dales is beaming. "Oh, it's amazing," he says. "It's truly
amazing."

	"What's that?" I ask, settling onto the couch beside Mulder.

	Dales looks at me, blatant admiration in his eyes. "That you could
come here in the face of a hurricane, chasing a sea monster yet, and
end up bringing a new life into the world."

	Mulder glances sideways at me, a hint of pride in his gaze. We
exchange a smile, however fleeting; I can't maintain eye contact for
long and look away.

	"And then--" Dales declares with dramatic flair, "--slaying the
monster and saving this one's life as he was quite literally circling
down the drain."

	I clear my throat.

	Mulder blinks. "She--didn't save my life, really."

	"Oh, yes. Yes, she did," Dales tells him. "With a gun to her head
no less."

	I think about the scene Dales is describing and realize that yeah,
I did do a pretty good job. Woman in final stages of labor, sea
creature thrashing through the ceiling, latching onto Crazy George,
untrained civilian wielding a gun at my insistence and shooting out
the fire sprinklers to kill the creature just in time. Mass chaos. I
ran out into the hallway then, out to Mulder--

	"Well--" he's saying, and I realize he has a different perception
of events. I look at him, compelled to interrupt.

	"Well," I tell him, "you wouldn't have known to go out in the rain
if I hadn't pointed it out to you, and it was the fresh water that
killed the organism."

	"No--no--no, I--I saw the Shipleys' cat."

	What?

	"Oh, I can't swallow that," Dales replies, echoing my sentiments
exactly. Mulder was still lying in the hallway staring at the cat
when I found him.

	"No--I--" Mulder continues to protest, obviously suffering from
masculine pride syndrome, which has nothing whatsoever to do with the
tire track tentacle holes circling his neck. "I saw the cat which--uh-
-had been saved, which had been in the washing machine. And the
Shipley's had boarded up their house which means that the only way
they could have vanished was if the creature came up through the
plumbing--"

	Mulder looks at me. I'm thinking, nice try, Mulder. Keep going.
Maybe you'll manage to convince yourself.

	"--in a back wash of sea water," he says, and now he looks at
Dales, still trying. "Sea water--" he repeats, and Dales makes a
face. Completely unconvinced. Mulder looks incredulous. Still, he
pushes on. "And then the deputy who vanished in a bathtub full of
epsom salts."

	"If Agent Scully had not been there with you," Dales adamantly
declares, jabbing his finger rigidly at Mulder. "I shudder to think
what might have happened to you. Obviously, you owe her your life."

	I nod, thinking--yes, Mr. Dales, I do believe you have a point.
Agent Scully is capable. Agent Scully is dependable. Agent Scully can
save her own ass, and her partner's ass as well. But I don't dare
speak. I keep my mouth pursed, watching Mulder in profile. Poor guy.
Still fighting it. I almost feel sorry for him.

	Almost.

	Mulder opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it. He gives
an almost imperceptible shrug, which I interpret as surrender. To
arguing further with Dales, at least.

	Dales is rubbing his hands gleefully together. "It takes a big man
to admit this, but--if I had had someone as savvy as her by my side--
" Mulder glances at me again, then looks back at Dales. "--all those
years ago on the X-Files, I might not have retired."

	Mulder doesn't look at me again. I can't believe this. Whatever has
made Arthur Dales my sudden champion, I want to stand up and give the
man a kiss. Mulder needs to hear this. He needs to know I can take
care of myself--no matter what the circumstances. I look at him. I
wish he'd say something, but he doesn't. He just nods briefly and
smiles, his expression thoughtful--as if he remembers the things he
said last night, and wonders if I remember them, too.

	And I do.

	Dales pats Mulder soundly on the back. The old man stands,
apparently pleased. "I suggest we have a toast to your good fortune,"
he says, walking toward his stash of liquor. "I insist that we have
it. So what will it be?"

	Mulder is staring forward, still thinking. He mutters something
unintelligible.

	"Oh--uh--anyone for water?" Dales asks.

	Mulder and I look over at him and yelp in unison-- "No!"

	We look at each other. I laugh. I can't help it. We're so in sync,
Mulder and I, and he's a fool not to have faith in that. A fool to
think of me differently just because I've bared my body to him and
come in his arms. I look into his eyes and see the struggle there,
and know the real storm hasn't even begun.

	My laughter quickly fades as we look away from each other, once
more uncomfortable. Dales comes with the drinks--stiff ones, I'm
certain, and I couldn't be more glad. We raise our glasses as Dales
makes the toast--

	"To partners," he says, with sincerity and style. He drinks without
waiting for us. I'm glad for that, too.

	"To partners," I repeat, looking back at Mulder, willing him to
look at me, willing him to hear.

	Mulder stares straight ahead. He doesn't take a drink. Without a
word he sets his glass down on the table beside the couch and gets to
his feet. He runs his hands down the front of his jeans, feeling for
the car keys. Time to go, he's telling me. But I haven't finished my
drink. Dales starts on his second and squeezes in next to me on the
couch. I make room for him, taking up some of the space Mulder has
just vacated.

	My partner stares down at me, his intent clear. But I'm not in the
mood to be pushed. After a time Mulder reaches that conclusion and
heads out the door. The screen slams with his exit, the stomp of his
boots on the old wood porch declaring his displeasure and absolute
intent to leave. But I'm not worried. He won't go far. I'm his
partner, after all.

Besides, I've got the car keys.