From: All4Mulder@aol.com
Date: 11 Jun 1999 23:02:51 -0700
Subject: xfc New: One Ordinary Day by Diana Battis (01/01) NC-17

Title: One Ordinary Day (01/01)
Author: Diana Battis (All4Mulder@aol.com)
Distribution: OK for Gossamer & Xemplary. Anywhere else, just keep my name 
attached to it, make sure it's archived in its entirety, and let me know 
where. I like to visit my offspring! ;> 
Classification: MSR
Rating: NC-17 
Spoilers: Slight one for Three of a Kind 
Summary: One ordinary day, with fortune cookies.
Disclaimer: In the beginning there was Chris Carter and the word, and the 
word was made flesh, courtesy of David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, and 
dwelt among us. The characters belong to them, as well as to 1013 and Fox 
Broadcasting. I make no claim on them, and I make no money from them! 
Author's Comments: A big thank you to Kristy, whose memory rivals Mulder's. 
You give good beta!
Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback! E-mail me -- 
All4Mulder@aol.com


*****

It's a little after ten on a Friday night. We're in the midst of our weekly 
paperwork routine, sitting on my couch, surrounded by files and half empty 
food cartons. I am rereading a report for the
third straight time, but I can't focus on it. I'm too busy watching Mulder. I 
seem to spend an inordinate amount of time doing that, and I wonder if he is 
the tiniest bit aware of the fact that I want him.

"Hey Scully, listen to this." Mulder starts to read something from one of the 
files. I hear his words, but they don't penetrate. I am still looking at him.

Though I've changed into jeans and a sweater, Mulder still wears his work 
clothes. His tie hangs loose, and the first three buttons of his shirt are 
undone. Shifting my gaze to his face, I note his hair is mussed, from 
impatient fingers thrusting through its luxurious darkness. Those sexy 
glasses are perched precariously on the edge of his strong nose. I move my 
eyes to his mouth, watching it as it forms the words with those sensuous lips 
. . .

I really should be paying attention to what Mulder is saying. I watch his arm 
as it waves a half-eaten egg roll he holds for emphasis. Looking at the 
elegant hand holding the egg roll, with its long, sensitive fingers. My eyes 
follow the fingers as they move to his mouth, popping the remnant of food 
into it. His tongue comes out to lick a spot of something, probably duck 
sauce, from his thumb. Lucky thumb . . .

"Scully? Scully! Have you heard a word I said?" I start, and can feel the 
color flood my cheeks. Hopefully he won't notice.

"Sorry, Mulder. I was miles away. Guess I'm just tired." I feign a yawn, 
hoping that will fool my normally astute partner.

"You should have said something." Tossing the file aside, he steals a glance 
at his watch. "I didn't realize what time it was."

"That's okay. I wasn't paying attention to the time either." Standing, I move 
away from him, picking up the cartons and taking them into the kitchen.

I work hard to maintain the fiction that I am all business. It isn't easy, 
especially when you work with a tall, intense, and extremely attractive 
partner like Mulder. The really funny thing? He doesn't know just how 
attractive he is. His ego is centered in other areas. 

"Do you think I could have some of that to take with me?" He has followed me, 
and is standing in the kitchen doorway, stretching, flexing his muscles that 
are stiff from prolonged inactivity.  

I hear the hopeful note in his voice, and can't help smiling. "Mulder, I'm 
sending it all home with you. God knows what garbage you'll put in your mouth 
otherwise."

I am searching for those disposable plastic containers I'd purchased with 
just this in mind. I can't seem to find them anywhere. Opening and slamming 
cabinet doors, I finally locate them, at the topmost shelf in the far 
cabinet, of course. Hitching myself onto the counter, I turn onto my knees, 
then start to stand. 

"Scully, what the hell do you think you're doing?" I hear him move from the 
doorway, coming towards me, but I don't stop. I've gotten things from top 
shelves in the kitchen this way many times before, without mishap. But this 
time the countertop is wet, my foot slips on its damp surface and I lose my 
balance. Reaching out for the cabinet door, I try to regain my footing, but 
it's too late. I hear myself call Mulder's name as I start to tumble head 
first off the counter.

It happens so quickly. My body arcs forward, sailing into space. But instead 
of hitting the cold tiles, I hit the hard warmth of Mulder. He's managed to 
catch me, his face pressed against my breast as his arms encircle my waist. 
My hands grasp his shoulders for balance, as my body slides down his until my 
feet reach the floor. His hands move over me, comforting me as I rest my 
cheek over his heart. 

"Well, that was close." I try to make light of the situation, but it falls 
flat. 

"Too close. Damn it, Scully!" His arms tighten, and I hear the words, muffled 
against my hair. I am trembling, though not from my fall. And breathless, as 
though all the oxygen in the room is gone. 

I want to stay like this, to cling to his strength and lose myself in his 
arms. I long to kiss him, to make this man tremble as he makes me. But I 
banish those thoughts from my mind.

"I'm okay, just a little shaken. See?" I push away, to look in his eyes. They 
examine me, gauging the truth of my words, before his arms release me. 

"Christ, Scully! What were you trying to do?" He's leaning against the 
counter, his arms folded as his eyes bore into me, waiting for my answer.

"I was trying to pack up the leftovers for you." I gesture to the cabinet. 
"Top shelf, disposable containers. Microwave safe and you can just throw them 
away when you're done."

"Why don't you get a stool?" He turns and opens the door, easily reaching the 
containers, and placing them on the counter for me.

"God, you sound like my mother, Mulder! For your information, I have a stool. 
It's just a pain to get to, so I usually . . ." I start to hitch myself onto 
the counter again, wanting to show him that I'm not normally so clumsy, when 
he moves to stand before me. My breath catches in my throat as his hands 
grasp my waist and lift me, placing me back on the floor.

"Don't Scully, just . . . don't." His face is close to mine, and he looks so 
anxious. I want to reach up and smooth the slight frown that wrinkles his 
brow, but instead I turn in his arms, moving away to put the leftovers in the 
containers he handed me.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. Go sit down. Let me finish putting the food away and then 
I'll make the tea. We do have fortune cookies . . .?"

He smiles. "That's the most important part of a Chinese dinner, Scully. Of 
course we do."

Fifteen minutes later we are sipping tea from the little cups my brother 
brought back from Japan. I like this part of the night best, when all work is 
put away and I can pretend, for a little while, that my evenings always end 
like this -- Mulder, relaxed and slightly sleepy, his hunger appeased, 
sipping tea and sharing his thoughts on life.

"So, Mulder, where's my dessert?" I've put my feet up, and my head is resting 
against the back of the chair.

"Catch!" I look up in time to see a cellophane wrapped cookie fly through the 
air to land in my lap. 

Unwrapping the cookie, I am reminded of a game that Missy and I used to play. 
The fortune cookie game. At the end of every Chinese meal we would solemnly 
sit and read our fortunes, always adding the words "in bed" to the end of the 
phrase. Juvenile, but fun. Just thinking about it, I smile.

"So, Scully, what's your future hold?" Mulder is looking at me expectantly, 
and I open the wrapping. Breaking the cookie in two, I remove the strip of 
paper and read: 'A friend will tell you the truth -- in bed.' 

I gasp, afraid for a second that I've said the words aloud, but a quick look 
at Mulder's face reveals nothing amiss. I pop a piece of the cookie into my 
mouth, chewing slowly. The cookie tastes like cardboard, but eating it gives 
me time to compose myself.

"Bad news? What, you're not going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger and 
live happily ever after?" He leans back on my couch, arms stretched along the 
top of it, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. Mocking me.

Taking a deep breath I read aloud the words printed on the tiny slip of 
paper. "It says, 'A friend will tell you the truth'."

I notice the change in him almost immediately. He's very still, and there's a 
certain wariness in his posture now. These differences may not be noticeable 
to others, but I've made a case of studying Mulder, and am instantly on the 
alert. He's hiding something! "So, Mulder, what 'truth' aren't you telling 
me?"
 
He leans forward, brushing the hair from his brow, his hand moving to rub the 
back of his neck. He doesn't meet my eyes. "You know all there is to know, 
Scully. I'm not a complicated man."

I snort in derision. "Yeah, and Watergate was just a simple little burglary. 
Mulder, you are *the* most complicated person I've ever met. I have an easier 
time understanding your global conspiracy theories than I do you! Tell me the 
truth, you really were in Las Vegas with the Gunmen, weren't you?"

"In Vegas? With the Gunmen? Sorry, Scully, but I wasn't there. Looking up bad 
Elvis impersonators ain't high on my to-do list."

"Come on, Mulder. Those guys pass on to you every bit of information they 
acquire. You know something about the trip that you're not telling . . ."

"No, no I don't, Scully. That's not what I'm holding back . . . I mean I'm 
not holding anything back."

"Mulder, you fraud! There *is* something you haven't told me!" I don't know 
why I push him. Why it is suddenly so important to hear from him on the 
subject. Some imp of devilment prods me forward, and I leave my chair to sit 
beside him. Turning to face him, I repeat, "What is it? Tell me the truth."

There is a change in the atmosphere of the room. The air is thick with 
tension, so thick that I almost think I see it hanging there, permeating 
every corner. I sit there, one leg tucked beneath me, my body turned toward 
him, waiting . . .

*****

I don't know why a simple cookie should suddenly turn into a gauntlet, but it 
has, and Scully has dropped it right into my lap.

How do I tell her what I've been hiding? That what she seeks has become *the* 
principal truth in my life, the most significant thing in the world to me.

I don't remember who first suggested these weekly work sessions. We just sort 
of drifted into it. Now I spend the week looking forward to these few hours 
when I get to share a small bit of Scully's life. I don't really get much 
work done. She's just too much of a distraction, and I'm usually too busy 
finding opportunities to gaze at her as she works.

Tonight's no different. I've been watching her and fighting the arousal that 
this woman provokes. Watching her body, usually encased in very businesslike 
suits, but now in jeans and a sweater that gently hug the curves those suits 
hide. Watching her full mouth, lips lush and slightly wet, eating, speaking, 
smiling. Watching eyes, sometimes soft and luminous, sometimes flashing with 
anger, but always expressive. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, 
and in Scully's case, I think that's true.

She scared me tonight. When I first saw her performing her acrobatic routine, 
I wasn't sure what she was trying to do. By the time I realized her intent, 
she was already slipping. I don't know how I managed to catch her before she 
hit the floor, but I did. 

I can't forget the emotions I felt -- fear, relief, desire. My face, brushing 
against her breasts after I caught her. Her body, warm and trembling, sliding 
against mine as I lowered her to the floor. It was only sheer force of will 
that kept my body from trembling with her. Taking a chance to press a light, 
secret kiss into her hair. And trying hard to control the desire this 
accident triggered. 

Her words and her eyes assured me she was fine and I let her go, only to have 
her try and repeat the performance. This time, I stopped her.

Looking at her now, I see her eyes, once sparkling with mischief, change.  
She's aware of the undercurrent in the room, can sense the sudden tension, 
and I see that in her eyes as well.

She's leaning toward me, waiting for my answer. Expecting it. And suddenly 
all the evasive responses and smart-ass remarks I've been concocting are 
forgotten. I want to answer her question. I do. But what will she say if I 
tell her what I've been holding back? What will she say if I tell her I love 
her . . .?
 
I'm scared of loving Scully. It's just another chance to get hurt, and I've 
been hurt before. But now I suddenly realize that sometimes you just have to 
risk it, and to hell with the consequences. 

My hand reaches out to cup her cheek, my thumb moving slowly over her soft 
lips. I lean closer to her, breathing in the delightful fragrance of her 
perfume as I whisper in her ear, "You really want to know, Scully? You want 
to discover what I've kept from you? I can tell you, but are you prepared to 
hear it?"

I've startled her, I can see the surprise in her face. She may not grasp what 
I've said, but I have no doubt my actions will be understood. My lips gently 
caress the lobe of her ear, suckling it lightly. Her head falls back, her 
neck seemingly unable to bear its weight, and my lips seek this newly 
displayed territory. Her skin is like silk, soft and smooth, and my lips move 
over her, tasting her sweetness. I move them over her shoulder, nipping 
lightly before discovering the line of her throat. My tongue laps lightly 
along her neck, moving upward to explore the hollow behind her other ear.

Lifting my head, I wonder if I've made a mistake. "Do you want to learn 
more?" My voice is husky. I look at her, awaiting her response.

"Yes . . ."

She's soft and yielding as I place light, teasing kisses across her face. 
Pressing my lips every place but where I most want to -- her mouth. "No," 
Scully moans the word, and I pull away to look at her.

I am unprepared for the way her expression changes as anger flares in her 
eyes, hardening them to an icy blue. But as quickly as it appeared, the anger 
is gone and I watch as other emotions tinge the canvas of her face -- fear, 
doubt, uncertainty.
 
"You want me to stop?" My voice is gentle, and I carefully brush back a lock 
of her hair. Her body tightens like a bowstring, pulled taut by her inner 
conflict. 

"No, don't stop. I want more." She sighs deeply, her tension draining. "I 
want you . . ."

*****

I can't believe this is happening. This is Mulder. My partner, my friend.  
And something more, I can see it in his eyes, and I'm both thrilled and 
terrified.

The seconds tick away, as we gaze at one another until finally, he kisses me. 
Softly at first, his tongue tracing the outline of my lips. I've dreamt of 
this kiss, wanted it for so long. I don't know if I'm making a mistake, and I 
don't care -- we've come too far for regrets. One way or another, whatever 
else happens tonight, I'll have this to remember. I open my mouth slightly, 
inviting his possession, but he ignores the invitation, content to keep the 
kiss gentle.

His kiss is sweet, almost reverent. Not at all as I'd imagined our first kiss 
would be. He's a passionate man, and somehow I'd expected him to be 
provocative and dangerous. Expected his dark side to control his desires. His 
gentleness is a surprise. He is taking it slow, giving me a chance to learn 
the taste and texture of him.

I reach up and thread my fingers through his hair, and drag his mouth down to 
mine, deepening the kiss. His tongue enters, sliding erotically into my 
mouth, hot and probing, enticing mine to swirl seductively around it. This is 
how I'd imagined kissing him . . .

Mulder has made kissing into an art. He is soft lips and darting tongue. I 
wonder for a second how he got so good at this, before all rational thought 
ceases.

He pulls away, his chest heaving. I feel his hands, smoothing my hair as my 
head comes to rest against his heart. I can't believe this is happening, that 
he seems to want me as much as I want him.

"Scully, we can stop now. It's not too late." His voice is low and deep and I 
realize the effort it has taken him to say this. But it *is* too late. I love 
him, and I don't know if we will ever reach this point again.

I shift into his lap, my hands clasped behind his neck, and kiss him. All my 
pent-up feelings are in this kiss, the longings I've disregarded, the need 
I've so carefully hidden. The love . . .

His arm encircles me and in one fluid movement I am lifted and cradled 
against him. He holds me easily, resting his head against mine. Turning, he 
carries me to the bedroom.

Setting me on the bed, I watch him as he yanks the tie from his neck, 
dropping it carelessly to the floor. His hands move to the belt of his 
trousers, unbuckling it, his eyes never leaving me.

I reach for the buttons on my sweater, pulling the first one open, and he 
kneels before me, his hands joining mine in working each one free until the 
sweater hangs open. He slowly separates the sides, exposing my lace covered 
breasts. I pull one arm free, then the other, and the sweater is off, joining 
his tie on the floor. 

My hands move toward my breasts, the tight nipples visible through the sheer 
material. I cup my hands under them, lifting them, before bringing my fingers 
to rub over the distended fabric. I slip my fingers inside the cup, and run 
them over my skin, stopping to stroke the hard nubbins of flesh. I hear his 
groan, and my eyes close, imagining his fingers there instead.

"Take it off." His voice is deep and rough, grating across my already 
inflamed senses. I comply, moving my hands to the front clasp, releasing it 
to pull the scrap of silk from my body. His fingers instantly replace the 
silk, rolling the flesh, brushing his thumbs over the engorged peaks. I watch 
his hands, dark against my pale flesh, as they caress my body, and feel my 
senses spiraling out of control.

His lips replace his fingers, suckling the tip before grazing it with his 
teeth. My nipple tightens further as his tongue licks at the pebbled flesh, 
and I feel the sensations in other places, too. Back and forth, tongue and 
lips and teeth, playing against the heated tips, arousing me to fever pitch. 

My hands stretch out to him, separating the few still fastened buttons of his 
shirt. He shrugs out of it, and I reach forward to touch him. He is all heat, 
and his skin is like silk over the steel of muscle and bone. I feel him 
shudder as my hands move over his ribs to his back to play over that smooth 
expanse. 

My mouth is busy, kissing the taut strength of his chest, moving slowly 
upward. My lips find his nipples, and I lavish attention upon them, using my 
teeth and tongue to tease them. I hear him groan, feel it as it rumbles in 
his chest, then his arms are pushing me away.

He lurches to his feet, his hands unfastening his trousers. I hear the rasp 
of the zipper and watch as he steps out of the them and stands in his boxers. 
I can't seem to stop staring at him, specifically at the bulge that strains 
against the silky material. My throat is suddenly dry, and I swallow hard, 
imagining what the fabric conceals. I don't have to imagine long, for his 
thumbs hook in the waistband and drag the boxers off, kicking them away.

I am so wet. I can feel the moisture pooling within me, and I ache to replace 
the clothes covering my lower half with him. I unfasten my jeans, and stand 
to thrust the offending clothing down, taking my panties with them, before 
turning to face him.

His body is lean and lightly muscled. The skin, so firm and tanned, feeling 
like silk beneath my hands. The light covering of hair on his chest, hair 
that thickens below his navel, arrowing down to the impressive erection. So 
big . . .

"Oh, my." I breathe the words, and it seems to grow bigger still as I watch 
in awe.

"Right back at you, Red." A small smile touches his face. His eyes sweep 
across my body, and I feel his glance as surely as if it were his hands 
touching me.

Sinking back on to the bed, I reach out for him, pulling him down to the cool 
sheets. He leans over me, his eyes clouded with passion. His skin is hot and 
slick, the sheen of sweat visible on his chest as it moves to graze my 
breasts. He kisses me again, his teeth lightly nipping my lower lip before 
the swipe of his tongue eases the slight ache. I open my mouth, letting my 
tongue play against his, before exploring the texture of his mouth.

I feel him, pressing against me. He's so big, so hard. My hand reaches down 
between us, claiming his arousal. It is silky and hot in my hand, and I 
explore the hardness, feeling it throb, enjoying the smooth texture of him 
beneath my fingers. 

He lays back, pulling me above him, my hand never leaving him. I vary my 
strokes, from soft to hard, slow to fast. His hips rise from the bed as I 
continue the movements, running my hand from root to tip and back again. He 
seems to grow larger and hotter with each sweep. I hear his moans, deep and 
passionate. I can tell by the tenor of his breathing that he is losing what 
little control he has left. He's on the edge, and I am ready to take him over 
it.

Mulder has other ideas. His hands grab my waist, flipping me onto my back in 
one smooth movement. My hips are raised, seeking him, looking for him to ease 
the ache. I am ready for him. These past six years have been nothing but 
foreplay, as we danced around any feelings we might have.

I guide him to me, the look in my eyes conveying my readiness. He is poised 
above me, his arousal parting the curls, and with one push is sheathed deep 
within me.

He fills me, I can feel the heat of him deep within me, my muscles protesting 
as they shift to accommodate him. We stay that way, joined but not moving, 
savoring the feeling of oneness. And then he begins to move, slowly at first, 
pulling out almost completely. I groan in protest until he slides back into 
me, finding his rhythm as he moves faster. I move with him, pushing up to 
meet each thrust. His face is tense with effort, I can see that as it dips 
toward to capture my lips again. 

The pressure is building, and I urge him on, raising my legs to lock them 
around him as he plunges into me. Low moans issue from his lips, punctuated 
by the sound of flesh meeting flesh. My hands slip along his ribs to settle 
on his hips, forcing him deeper. I am groaning into his shoulder, my lips 
open, tasting the salty tang of his sweat soaked skin as he continues to 
drive me to the peak. I am so close, so close, and suddenly I have reached 
it, crying out his name as ripples of pleasure engulf me. He continues 
thrusting, intensifying the sensations flowing through me.

His movements are erratic now, less controlled.  His back arches and with one 
last plunge, I feel him pulsing deep within. My muscles clench around him, 
holding him in me as he, too, climaxes.

*****

"I love you, Scully. That's not a truth, that's *the* truth." My voice is 
ragged, husky with emotion as I whisper the words against her neck. She is 
already asleep, exhausted by our lovemaking. I know she doesn't hear me, but 
I still can't seem to stop saying the words.

This must be a dream. Yet I'm not asleep. I don't want to sleep. If I close 
my eyes, she might disappear, fade away like a ghostly illusion. And I'll 
awaken on my couch, alone. It's happened before. But not tonight. This time I 
can feel her, lying against me, hear her breathe. It *is* real, she's real.

I can still hear her softly murmuring "I want you." See her slowly removing 
her clothes, an erotic memory that will stay with me for a long time. I still 
feel her body moving against mine, and hear her moaning my name as she comes. 
I've had a glimpse of Paradise tonight. I've tasted the forbidden fruit, 
savored its sweetness and I want more. I want it all.

I look down at the woman cradled in my arms, her hair spreading softly across 
my chest. Her skin is like alabaster, smooth and translucent. I want her to 
wake up, so I can touch that skin, to leave my mark on it. To brand her as 
mine.

Many times I've imagined us this way. In the darkest hours of the night, with 
loneliness my only companion, I dared to envision a time when she would be 
mine. Fate, tantalizing me with illusions of what could be. Those dreams were 
bittersweet ones, reflections of a man who knows that what he most wants is 
unattainable, always just out of reach. 

And yet, here we are.

She loves me. She hasn't said so, not in so many words, but I'm not really 
worried. I know Scully too well to think that she would treat the intimacies 
we shared lightly. I've seen a number of men shot down with a glance in the 
years I've known her. One look from those wintry blue eyes, and they turn and 
run with their tails tucked between their legs.

Those beautiful eyes are looking at me now, filled with a warmth that sets my 
pulse racing.  Scully is awake, and a sweet, languorous smile touches her 
mouth. "Mulder." 

"Hey, how are you feeling?" I'm almost afraid to hear her answer. What if she 
regrets this? Fighting back a touch of dread, I press a kiss into the soft 
hair tickling my chin, inhaling the clean scent of it. 

"Sore, sated, sublime." She stretches, shifting her body, moving closer to 
me. "You're a little more than I expected for dessert." I hear the humor in 
her voice, and feel an instant sense of relief.

"I'm low-cal, too. You could have seconds. . ." And thirds, and . . . well, 
at my age seconds is probably the best I can hope for, but if Scully's the 
woman, I'm willing to explore the issue. "You know, speaking of dessert, 
Scully . . ."

Her mouth is moving along my chest, pressing light kisses into the skin, and 
I feel my body responding to her touch. She nibbles her way to my mouth, 
tracing my lips with her tongue. "Mmmm, a low-cal dessert that tastes great. 
What a combination."

"Scully, what are you doing."

"Seems pretty obvious, Mulder. I'm having more -- you *did* offer seconds, 
remember?" She raises up on her elbow, brushing her hair behind her ear, to 
look at me questioningly.

"Yeah, I know. But I never got *my* fortune cookie."

"You didn't get a cookie, Mulder?" I hear the amusement in her voice. "You 
poor baby! I'll have to see what I can do about that." She is out of bed in a 
flash, unselfconscious in her nakedness, to retrieve my dessert.

Returning seconds later, I hear her call out to me. "Catch."

A cellophane wrapped cookie lands on my chest. She moves to sit on the bed as 
I open the wrapping, extracting the cookie and my fortune. The piece of paper 
is in my hand, and I read it silently. Again I read it, this time aloud. "It 
says 'The impossible is often the untried'."
 
"I liked mine better." She stretches, reminding me of a sleepy cat, moving 
each limb slowly, arching her back, before curling up beside me. "Though 
yours does present some interesting possibilities . . . Tell me Mulder, did 
you ever play the fortune cookie game?"

"No. How do you play?" It's difficult for me to concentrate on anything else 
when I'm holding a very warm, very soft, and very sexy Scully. My fingers are 
involved in a little game of their own, playing tag along her luscious curves.

"Oh, it's easy, really. Nothing too complicated for a simple guy like you, 
Mulder. You just read your fortune, out loud of course, and add the words 'in 
bed' to the end of it."

Ah, that kind of game. Suppressing a smile, I reread my fortune, following 
the rules. "'The impossible is often the untried -- in bed'. You're right, 
Scully, it does sound intriguing, put that way." She does that eyebrow thing, 
but I can see she's pleased I've decided to play along. "I think I'm going to 
like this game. Tell me, are there many cookies left?"

Scully rolls away from me to reach down beside the bed. I hear the crinkle of 
paper, then see the triumphant grin on her face. "There's over a dozen left. 
Do you think that's enough?"

I grin back at her. Enough? When it comes to her, it'll never be enough for 
me. "It'll do . . . for tonight."

 
The End
Diana Battis
Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback! E-mail me -- 
All4Mulder@aol.com