From: Laurie Fiore Date: Mon, 24 Jul 2000 05:58:29 -0400 Subject: RE: WHAT I WANT (1/2) By LaurieAF Source: direct WHAT I WANT BY: LaurieAF EMAIL: danamulder@juno.com RATING: mild NC-17 for language, violence and some sexual content SPOILERS: Just about everything but the latter half of Season Seven. CLASSIFICATION: If I have to classify, I guess Romance. KEYWORDS: Scully/Other, M/S UST DISCLAIMERS: Scully, Mulder, Skinner etc. belong to CC and 1013 productions. No infringement is intended as this is for fun. The character of Michael Anzotti is mine, however. And Scully most certainly belongs to GA in my mind as both of them are amazing to me. ARCHIVE: I'd be honored but please let me know first. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, people, I'm a Shipper first and foremost. I wanted to make that clear because I know I'm severely limiting my readership with what I've done here. But the reason I've done this is that I'm also a Scullyist; and I wanted Scully to get laid! Well, that's not the only reason. I guess I'm tired of Mulder getting all the attention from the opposite sex and Scully always being the jealous one. My main objective here was to see if I could create a sympathetic, likeable love interest for Scully that was three- dimensional, not just a plot device or a way to make Mulder jealous. So, all I can say is even if you're a shipper, take a chance on this one if you love Scully as much as I do. Also, I started this fic over a year ago because of the above and pissed off feelings about Mulder and Scully's relationship or NON relationship so it were. With the revelations of Season Seven's "all things" and "Requiem," I probably wouldn't have even wrote this; but it's too late now and I worked too hard on it. So, here it is. SUMMARY: After the events of "Two Fathers/One Son," an emotionally ruptured Scully begins an intense romantic relationship with a fellow agent. Can she embrace the relationship or will she unwittingly sabotage it? When the problems of her past are revealed (abduction) and converge with her lover's own problems can they come together or will it tear them apart? And what of her feelings for Mulder? In our six years together, I don't think we've ever been more emotionally distant than we are right now. How ironic since it wasn't very long ago that Mulder made those declarations to me in his hallway where we came so close to liplocking and then he went to the ends of the earth to find me. I thought things were going to change. Yeah, things changed all right but they'd only gotten worse. And believe it or not we even touched upon the momentous hallway encounter. He tried to assure me that he hadn't just said it under duress, that it wasn't just a ploy to get me to stay. Somehow, we agreed in that weird way we have of communicating that we were very attracted to each other and wanted more but, of course, neither one of us said it with words. We wouldn't want to behave like NORMAL people. Normal people have lives and relationships. Normal people fuck. Then again, Mulder & I are most definitely not and have never been normal. Why start now? I don't know what I was thinking, but, as I said, somehow we came to the agreement that it wasn't the right time for us to move our relationship forward. There was too much for us to do, too many lives to worry about saving from a possible alien plague for us to enjoy . . . what? Sex? Love? But now that I think back on it, why the hell did I somehow agree that my personal life, my happiness was worth sacrificing over others? In the last six years we've been to hell and back and apparently it's only going to get worse. Don't I deserve some degree of happiness or fulfillment? Doesn't he? I've almost died too many times to count, been experimented on . . . Loneliness is a choice I made six years ago unconsciously, I think, at first. Maybe two years to three years into the partnership it became a conscious choice. I felt like if my time was the least bit divided by more trivial things I was betraying the work, betraying him. But is living life, having relationships trivial? I want that; I'm only human. I'm not some saint or martyr. Last time I checked my name was not Dana of Arc. I'm at the point we're I'm wondering if I can truly believe Mulder's words that day in his apartment hallway, and I'm really beginning to wonder how our partnership can survive. He seems like he's walking on eggshells around me and I feel hurt and betrayed when I'm around him. He ditches me still. He metes out information in little crumbs when he deems it necessary or okay. My time, my body, and my sister have all been stolen away from me on this. . . whatever the hell you want to call what we've been doing and he tells me he met up with Samantha weeks after the fact. What the fuck is that? He mentioned it casually like it was something that could happen any day or every day. God only knows how I forgave him for keeping that secret about my ova--MY own body-- from me and then revealing it in front of a total stranger. I must have looked like a complete jack ass. Yeah, I know that he did it to protect me. Whatever. I forgave him, but I'll never forget. Now, after the latest fiasco with Diana Fowley, I've just about given up. All the hurts that I've categorized into the "don't think about" compartment of my brain have reared their ugly head, and I can't put them aside. It's bad enough she waltzed back into his life, hell, our lives five years after we'd been partnered; and he never said a word. Lord knows that the case may have turned out differently if I had known what the hell was going on-maybe she wouldn't have gotten shot for Christ's sake. Again, I seem to always be in the dark. Then when I try to show him the writing on the wall about her duplicitous ways he ridicules me in front of The Gunmen. It isn't even that fact that that he made fun of me which was mean and cruel. It's that he chose to believe her again over me. The man who says 'trust no one" trusts every one but me even when I hold up the goddamn evidence to his blind eyes. I really thought there would be a place for us together when this was all over. I probably love him, but I don't know in what context any more. Definitely as a partner, a friend but maybe that's all. I want something, someone. Since Fellig and my shooting, I've been thinking about this a lot, longing for it. And that brings me to Michael Anzotti, a special agent Mulder had worked with briefly in his profiling days when Michael was "green." About eight months ago, Michael had transferred back to the DC field office. The three of us had gone to lunch a few times; and when Michael and I would run into each other here and there, we would take a few minutes out of our busy days to chat. "A good man" I remember Mulder had called him on more than one occasion. Yeah, he was good all right. Now I'm not one to notice a man's looks outright above everything else, but the man was a specimen. A walking GQ ad with an athlete's well muscled body. And I know a little something about specimens. Tall, about 5'11"-6'0"; dark, an olive complexion with dark brown hair and blue eyes; and handsome, classic Italian features forming an extremely good looking man. No two ways about it, I liked him. What was there not to like? He certainly seemed to like me, too, as he had casually asked me out twice before in those eight months. And when a man like Michael Anzotti is practically asking you out for the =third time=, you don't turn him down a third time. XXXXXX At 4 pm on a Monday, I sit in my area of the office working on some backed up paperwork while Mulder rearranges the messy pile of work on his desk into another pile. I can't really concentrate on what I am doing as our day has not gone that well; we have been stuck in the office all day and have barely said five words to each other. Then before I know what's happening, Mulder is moving towards the door to grab his coat. I look up at him in surprise because I thought we were both going to stay to get the backlog of paperwork finished. "Everything okay?" I try to ask nonchalantly. "Yeah," he mumbles without even looking at me. "I just have to be somewhere." He pauses to slip on his coat and then is out the door. "Goodnight, Mulder," I call out to him really more for myself than for his benefit. I hear his reply faintly echo in the hallway. "Goodnight." Like the fool that I am, I sit there wondering what the hell kind of trouble he is probably getting himself into or what untrustworthy informant he is going to believe now. I waste at least 15-20 minutes contemplating this. Four hours later, I'm still sitting at my desk, er, area working on expense reports. Even though we have the X-Files back, all we need is for Skinner to pick up where Kersch left off. Suddenly, I hear a light tapping at the door followed by, "Hey, you." It is said warmly and with familiarity. I look up to see Special Agent Michael Anzotti standing in front of me. His tie is nearly undone, and he looks gorgeous but tired, weary in a way that I haven't seen before. I offer a slight smile and greet him. "Hey. What brings you all the way down to our hallowed basement halls?" He chuckles. I made Michael chuckle; I like that. "I was looking for Mulder, actually. We shoot some hoops after work once in a while, and I wanted to see if he was up for that one night this week." "Um, Mulder's been gone since 4; he had . . . an appointment." "Mulder skipped out on you four hours ago, and you're still here doing paperwork? That bum. Remind me to kick his butt in B-ball," he teases. I have to smile at that but don't comment. "So, Michael, what's going on? Excuse me for saying but you look a little beat, my friend." "We've just been working some crazy hours," he sighed as he attempted to massage the crink in the back of his neck with his hand. "I'm helping the guys with a case, probably serial." "Lovely," I murmur. "If you think I can help in any way just let me know. And I'm sure Mulder would be glad to give you guys a hand." "Believe me, your offer is much appreciated." Just then, Michael's stomach rumbles loud enough for both of us to hear; and we smirk at one other in amusement. "Listen, Dana, as you no doubt heard from my unruly stomach here, I'm starving. I haven't eaten anything since lunch, and I'm sure you haven't either. Why don't we get out of here and grab a bite at that little restaurant around the corner?" "Michael . . ." I whine automatically. We've done this before. Me, refusing to go out with this man. What an ass I was. "C'mon, Dana," he jokingly whines back. "Are you going to turn me down again? You're murder on my ego. No pressure, no strings, I promise." "You don't call this pressure?" I laugh and rise from my chair. "No, this is . . . friendly persuasion," he offers with an earnest look on his face that I can't resist. "Ohhh, that's what you call it. Okay, okay," I reply, giving in. "Honestly, though, I'd really like to." It is the truth. I'm not about to let this opportunity slip away again in light of the way I've been feeling lately. "Great. Let me just go straighten up that mess I call a desk and grab my coat. I'll meet you back down here in 15 minutes?" he questions to make sure it's all right with me. "Okay, see you in 15." He nods and I watch him rush out of the office not unlike my partner had a few hours earlier. I fall back into my chair with a sigh and a big smile plastered on my face. XXXXXX We walk quickly to The Capitol restaurant as, by this time, we are both starving. It's a small but cozy place with pictures of our presidents adorning the walls as well as notable places in and around the DC area including the Hoover Building. Even though I've worked in the area for approximately seven years, I've never been to the restaurant. Michael has and is recognized immediately. A middle-aged man walks right up to us as we enter the door. "Mike, it's been a while. How have you been?" "Well, Peter," Michael replied as they shook hands. "You?" "Business is good, so I'm not complaining. It's good to see you again." "You, too." We all smile, and Michael places his hand at the small of my back to nudge me forward and introduce me. "Peter, this is a friend, Dana Scully. Dana, this is Peter Smith, the owner." Peter has that look of recognition on his face that sometimes comes when a famous person shares your surname. "Scully, like Vin Scully, the baseball announcer?" he asks, excited. "Yeah," I reply slightly amused. I can see the unspoken question forming his head, so I add, "No relation, though." "Ah, that's okay; he can be annoying." Peter begins walking towards the back of the restaurant, and we follow him to a nice booth in the corner. "This table okay?" "Great. Thanks, Peter," Michael replies. "If you two need anything at all, let me know and nice meeting you," he says directed at me. I nod. They shake hands again, and Peter departs. Michael waits for me to sit, and then settles into our booth on the opposite side of me. As we wait for the food, he starts off the conversation with Mulder of all things. Though I was curious about what kind of agent Mulder had been quite a few years ago, I don't want to think of him tonight much less talk about him. I can't blame Michael though. Most people would think you'd want to hear an old story about your partner and ordinarily I would have. But not these days. Our conversation gets into high gear when we talk warmly of our mutual experience of growing up in rather large families. He relates several genuinely funny stories about he and his brothers and sister when they were young; and I share some of the Scully family follies. It's wonderful to talk to him this way; I feel extremely comfortable and, dare I say it, happy. His sense of humor and ability to laugh at himself is admirable. We also have something else in common. He loves the water as much as I do and escapes the trials and tribulations of daily living by going out on his boat. I tell him a couple of my father's naval stories, and he seems to get a kick out of them. One story is a little colorful, but I don't play editor for Michael's benefit. After all, I'm still my father's daughter. While we are sipping some coffee after dinner, he becomes quiet, thoughtful almost; and I wonder what is going on inside his head. Then he tells me. "You know, Dana, this is going to sound like a come on; but it's not and I have to say it." I look at him surprised, again wondering what he is thinking and what he could possibly be going to say. "Yeah, go ahead," I wince, my voice small. "This is something good," he assures me, smiles, and forges ahead. "You have the cutest laugh, giggle, whatever you want to call it. It's infectious. And I swear, your smile could light up this room." I give him a broad smile back as if to prove the point. "That's a nice compliment. I have to say you've given me plenty to laugh about tonight, and I want to thank you. I haven't done enough of it." "Can I ask you something?" His voice is serious, and mine light and giggly when I reply. "Go for it. We're on a roll." "When I asked you out a few months ago, you turned me down; but I got the feeling that you wanted to say yes. Am I totally offbase?" I look down and start to play with the rim of my wine glass, in a sense acknowledging his astuteness. I then fix him with my gaze. "I'm not going to lie to you; I'm a bad liar. I wanted to say yes, but to be honest, I thought I had . . . Actually, it doesn't matter. It didn't work out and isn't going to." "That's unfortunate." I shrug. "It wasn't meant to be and that's how I look at it." "So, what would you say if we did something like this again." "Michael, I'm . . . I've got things I need to . . ." Here I am doing it again. Making excuses and I don't know why. Habit maybe? He interrupts me, his voice gentle. "Dana, stop. Just yes or no." "Uh, I know you probably realize this; but I'm going to stroke your ego here. Michael, you're successful, funny, intelligent, charming, not to mention drop dead gorgeous. You could have any woman you want . . ." I trailed off. "I want =you= to go out with me." I hesitate, and he prods me in an encouraging way. "C'mon, yes or no?" "All right then. Yes," I say firmly. I'm sure I want this. And both our smiles light up the room this time. XXXXXX Eleven pm. I'm wired. My body should be ready for sleep, but I'm full of nervous energy. But it's a good kind of energy, the kind that reminds you your'e alive. I've needed that. Usually I come home and fall into bed, my body and mind tired from the latest case; and I have no desire to take care of all the little things that go with everyday living and owning a house. Right now, though I'm taking out the garbage, checking my e-mail, washing dishes. All because of a woman named Dana Scully. I haven't felt this good since . . . a long time. After dinner tonight, I walked Dana back to her car in the parking garage of the Hoover Building. We shared a mutual hug that lasted longer than probably she wanted, and she seemed to be holding on to me like she needed something. I never realized how petite she actually was until I was holding her in my arms, towering over her. Petite but strong, solid, real. Her head rested against my chest; and the smell of her glorious red hair, her perfume, =her= alone assaulted my senses. I didn't want to leave that place. When she let go of me, I followed her lead, reluctantly so. She then pulled out her business card and a pen, wrote her home number on the back, and slipped it into the pocket of my coat. I kissed her on the cheek, and she got into her car. When she was settled, I closed the door for her, rapped on the window, and waved goodbye. As I chug from a bottle of cold beer and rummage through a four day pile of mail, the phone rings. With Caller ID, I already know who it is and probably should be worried as calls at this time of night are usually bad news. But I can't contain the energy and happiness emanating from my voice as I answer. "Hey there, Gina." "Mike, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for over two hours." "I just got in," I say innocently, continuing the perusal of my mail. "Oooh. Case or, dare I say, date?" "You choose." "By the sound of your voice, a date." "mmm . . . maybe." "With that woman?" "What woman?" "The one you always tell me about when you see her or have lunch. The FBI woman." "Who? Oh, yeah, yeah." I play with her; we do this all the time. "Yeah, you know who I'm talking about or yeah, you went on a date with her?" "Uh, date." "How'd it go?" "How'd what go?" "Really, Michael, your'e a pain in the ass!" I ignore her. "It went well, but I'm not sayin' anymore or I'll probably jinx it." "Good for you. You deserve some happiness." "I think I do," I say wistfully. "Is everything all right, hubby, kids? You said you were tryin' to reach me for two hours." "Everything's fine. I just hadn't spoken to my brother in awhile and I finally got a few moments to myself tonight. I wanted to know if you were all right." "I am, not to worry. Listen, G, I'm gonna go; We've got a big case brewin' and I wanna get some rest. I promise to call you soon. Say hello for me?" "Will do. Bye, Mike." "Ciao, G." XXXXXX When Michael had walked me back to my car that Monday night, we hadn't discussed when we would next speak to or see each other. Mulder and I had gone out of town on a case the following day and likely wouldn't be returning for a couple of days, probably Friday. I didn't hear from Michael immediately so I figured he was probably out of town on a case as well. When another two days went by, my insecurities started to kick in that he had probably thought dinner was nice but that Dana Scully just didn't do it for him. Hey, the man was model material; and I . . . I was quite rusty, to the say the least, in the dating game. It surprised me how much I really wanted to hear from him and how disappointed I was feeling that I hadn't. I was even snippy with Mulder, and I try not be, really. Then again, things with us weren't that great anyway no matter what I did lately. On Thursday morning, I called my machine at home yet again to check for messages. Much to my delight, Michael had called and told me to leave a phone number where I could be reached on his voicemail at work. Hastily, I did as he asked. Mulder and I finished up our case early that afternoon and made tentative plans to have dinner together that evening to compare notes; but honestly, my heart wasn't in it. We could compare notes on the plane; we didn't need to fumble through awkward dinner conversation to get our reports finalized. By 3 pm, I'm back in my motel room with a cup of coffee and chicken salad on a bagel. Since it's early, I have a couple of hours to eat, type up my notes, and maybe even relax before the supposed dinner "date." As I type at the desk on my laptop, the motel phone rings loudly and unexpectedly. It startles me and the peacefulness of the room. Lucky me, I think. It's probably Mulder, although why he can't just knock on my door is beyond me. "Hold your horses," I mutter to myself as the pesky phone rings five times before I get to it. "Scully," I utter unenthusiastically. "Hi, it's Michael. Catch you at a bad time?" "No, no. I was just typing up a report in my motel." My voice and my mood immediately brighten. "How are you?" "A little tired but fine." "What city are you in? I couldn't tell by the area code." "Would you believe Kalamazoo?" I phrase it that way because =I= can't believe it. =Another= boring ass town. I think we've hit every friggin' one. "Ah, sounds positively boring," he says, echoing my thoughts. "Listen, I'm glad you got my message. I thought you might not call back right away, that maybe I was pushing." "You're not, don't be ridiculous. Where are you?" "The Lone Star State, good ole Chaney, Texas." "You've got to be kidding," I say quite amused. "No, why?" "I was there about a year ago on a case. Where are you staying? No, wait, let me guess. The Sam Houston Motor Lodge?" "Yeah, that's it." His voice is just as amused as mine now. "I think it must be the only place around. God, it . . . sucks here." "More than you know," I say low and almost chuckling to myself, still amused at this little conversation as well as his unintended pun. "Remind me to tell you about it sometime. So, what's up?" "Are you free Saturday? All day?" "All day? What did you have in mind?" "I can get tickets to a matinee performance of 'Phantom of the Opera' in New York City. After that, we can do an early dinner, Italian, French, Japanese, whatever you like. I know it's a little last minute but how does that sound?" "I like it." I respond enthusiastically. I truly do. Besides, how appropriate is 'Phantom?' I even get monsters in my entertainment. He's pleased that I'm pleased. I can hear it in his voice. "Great. I'll call you at home Friday night? You can give me directions to you and we'll finalize our plans." Michael's end of the line then breaks out into a little commotion. Someone is calling for him, and he's trying to explain that he's on the phone. "Sorry about that. My partner's waiting for me. I gotta get going." "Sure," I say a little sadly. I don't want him to go. "I'm looking forward to Saturday, Michael." "Same here, Dana. Talk to you tomorrow." XXXXXX Friday night came, and Michael called just as he said he would. We engaged in some lighthearted conversation and talked a bit about our respective cases, he wanting my "expertise" (his words, not mine)on a pathology report. We then finalized our plans for Saturday. It was only about twelve hours away, but Saturday couldn't come quite fast enough for me because of the way I was feeling. The way =he= made me feel by just talking to him. By 8 am the next morning, all I had to do was pick out what I was going to wear. But it wasn't as easy as it sounded. I hadn't been on a real date in what, five years? The last time I flitted around my bedroom spending an exorbitant amount of time looking for just the right outfit for a man was in college. Dressing to impress was my main objective, and I ended up choosing a wine colored pantsuit that was too fancy for field work. The top was low cut enough to be sexy but not overly so. I didn't need it to be because it wasn't me. And besides, what had I said once before? Smart was sexy? I topped off the outfit with a hip length black leather jacket and a new pair of heels. By 9 am, I was waiting for Michael in the front of my apartment building as nervous as could be. On the outside, I was my usual cool as a cucumber persona. He pulls up to the curb in his red Ford Explorer right on time and hops out of the driver side to greet me, flowers in hand. At one time, I probably would have been turned off by such a sweet gesture. I'm not a flowers type of girl. Too common, too predictable. But now at 35, contemplating my life and the way it had gone the past six years, I crave some sweet sentimentality. He holds out the flowers for me; and as he kisses my cheek, he murmurs that I look beautiful. I joke with him that he cleaned up well himself. And, oh, Lord, did he ever. Black dress pants with a white dress shirt open at the neck and a black sport jacket. He looks like he should have been modeling cologne, his clothes, his Ford, the flowers. Anything. I'm in trouble. Definitely in way over my head. When we finish the mutual admiration thing we have going, he opens the door for me and holds my hand as I step up into the truck. The flowers are a beautiful, delicate peach and smell heavenly. There are only five of them, and I have to ask him the significance of that number. Why not an even half dozen? He tells me that it had been five days since he'd last seen me, and he had been thinking of me everyone of those days. Conversation is again easy and plentiful. We talk more about our families and realize we had both lost parents. My father, of course, and his mother over 10 years ago in an accident. It's obvious from the way he speaks of her that they were close, and he still misses her. I even tell him about Melissa. Not all of it, but it's significant because I never volunteer this information to just anyone. He doesn't speak much of his older brother or father in his teen years or presently, and I sense something more going on there. But I had my own problems with siblings (Bill, of course, and Melissa here and there) and my father sometimes, so I'm not about to pry. He remains very close to his sister, Gina, and brother, Tony, who both still reside in his hometown of Howard Beach, NY. The 2 pm performance of "Phantom of the Opera" is packed. During the show, I take the luxury of entwining my fingers with Michael's and then holding his hand in the two of mine near my lap. Even in the dark, I can see that he smiles at the gesture; and I can't help smiling back. I find "Phantom" to be beautiful, touching and romantic, much, it seems, like the man sitting beside me. About two hours later, we dine at one of Michael's favorite Italian restaurants, La Cisterna. It has a wonderfully authentic Italian atmosphere with paintings, sculpture and music creating a romantic setting. Over a dry white wine, a hot antipasto for two, Shrimp Scampi, and Mussels Marinara, we talk of anything and everything. Even touchy subjects like politics, religion and law enforcement. We don't always share the same viewpoint, but we are able to glean a respect for the opposing opinion based on what we already know of each other and the intelligence we both present in our arguments. He excites me, stimulates me, and challenges me like no one has before or since, you guessed it, Mulder. I instantly think back to that date I had gone on early in our partnership. When Mulder was chasing his "bigfoot" in New Jersey. That man couldn't hold a candle to Mulder was all I kept thinking at the time. But if I had met Michael then or if the date had been with Michael, I know I wouldn't have been stuck in the malaise that had engulfed me for the past six years. I would have had the normal life I kept proclaiming I wanted. And if I had had this relationship with Michael, I think my partnership with Mulder would have been much healthier instead of the way I viewed it a lot of late--almost destructive. After coffee and a sinful piece of Tiramasu that we share, we're back on the road by 6:30 pm. Thankfully, traffic going back south is light. Much later on, I awake to Michael lightly shaking my shoulder. "Dana, wake up. You're home." My eyes struggle to open and focus on him. "Sorry, I must have dozed off," my sleepy voice explains. I can't believe I did this to him. Hopefully, I haven't drooled. "Yeah, my company was that stimulating, huh?" he jokes. "No, Michael. I'm sorry. It's just been a long week coupled with a long but wonderful day." "I know," he agrees. "You wanna come up? For coffee," I add, not wanting to give him the wrong impression. "No, not tonight. It =has= been a long day. But I'll walk you up." Ever the gentleman, he comes around the passenger side to help me out, and we walk arm in arm up the walk and to my floor. I feel like we exist on a different plane than everyone else, just the two of us and this massive thing growing between us. At my door, he takes hold of my hand. "Dana, I want to know what you want." "What do you mean?" is all I can manage. I'm having trouble thinking clearly. "I haven't done this in a long time, and I don't even know how to say it the right way. These past few days I have been happier than I've been. You make me feel that way. I wanna keep seeing you." His voice is soft and tender, his eyes intense and burning into mine. "I want that, too." Do I ever. Heaven help me because I can't help myself. He leans in, touches his generous lips to mine tenderly. My body, specifically my groin, is lit on fire with just the brush of his lips. Imagine what he can do with other, more potent parts of his anatomy. I want him. Want him to deepen our kiss so I do. My tongue begs entrance into his mouth, and he immediately responds, our tongues dueling deliciously and ferociously. I had wanted to do that all day. But it's me who finally broke our raging kiss. "You sure you don't want to come in?" I ask throaty and low, my voice flushed with desire. But my invitation is still for coffee and conversation. "No, get some rest," he responds and traces the outline of my lips with his thumb. "I'll call you. You can count on it." A full smile graces his features. "Michael, thank you for today. I had a wonderful time." "So did I, and I'm the one that should be thanking you. G'night, Dana." He kisses my forehead and turns to leave. I watch him go, sadness filling pieces of my heart. XXXXXX With our crazy schedules, the next time Michael and I are able to spend some time together is about two weeks later. On the weeknights prior, either one or both of us were out of town or ended up staying late at the office. Yes, your tax dollars were hard at work, my newly jumpstarted love life the casualty. On one weekend, I had plans with my neglected mother; and on the other, Michael promised to help paint his partner's new house. But we did begin almost regular nightly phone calls when possible to talk (and I mean really talk, not just shoot the shit), unwind, laugh. We knew more about each other in a couple of weeks than I knew about Mulder in six years of working together. I really began to miss his company until finally we spent a Saturday sailing out on his boat. I can't express how wonderful it was to experience that again. Fresh air, salty sea water, sandy beaches. I felt like I was home. We sailed out of the Indian River Marina in Delaware Seashore State Park, and Michael bought some fresh crabs from the fish store on the pier there. We had planned a mini feast of crabs and spaghetti to cook on board while I brought along a picnic basket packed full of assorted cheeses and crackers and fresh fruit. A bottle of dry white wine would cap off our meal. Cooking with Michael was a pleasure as he knew his way around the kitchen like a pro. I felt inadequate in comparison but helped as much as possible. We worked in perfect harmony and companionable silence. The only sound that emanated from the quaint kitchenette was the pleasing jazz music playing on the radio overhead. That was until my cell phone rang insistently. I checked that annoying piece of plastic hoping it was my mother; but unfortunately, it was Mulder. Michael looked up from his chore at my actions but did not comment. Neither did I since I decided not to answer it. Settling on the couch after dinner, we laughed, talked and kissed. Things heated up when we were feeding each other strawberries dipped in whipped cream, dabbing the cream on different body parts and licking the sweetness off with eager tongues. My neck had been the lucky recipient of some major cream and Michael tongue. I cannot express how much that had turned me on. And just as he was about to reach there, yeah, right . . . there for the blob just above the valley of my breasts, my cell phone trilled again. Immediately, Michael paused and then pulled away as the annoying chirping continued. Mild frustration was evident on his face. Again, I checked the caller. This time, I told him flat out it was my partner who had the terrible timing. The mood effectively spoiled, the rest of the evening was spent talking and laughing. Much to my disappointment, we did not get close again save for a goodnight kiss. XXXXXX Mike looks like a rich man, richer than I've ever seen the kid. I don't mean in the monetary sense--I'm sure fibbie jobs don't pay that well. I don't ordinarily notice things like this with people, but it's something I can tell because I've watched him for a long time. It's his state of being, his state of mind, his happiness. And the only thing I can attribute it to is the woman he's with. The woman he's been with on numerous occasions. At first, I thought she was some passing fancy even though I haven't seen him with another woman in a long time; but there's something about her. Oh, she's good lookin' enough for sure. But there's an air about her. An air of fire and passion that's incomparable. My groin twitches in response to her even though the two are doing nothing more than carrying groceries into the house. I guess it's time to report this development. I dial my boss knowing he'll be pleased. "It's me . . . Yeah, I'm by his house now. He just got in . . . Looks like Mikey's got a play-mate. . . Some hot little red-head. . . He's with her now and I've seen 'em together before . . . Yeah, I know what to do." XXXXXX Dana and I grab the next available Saturday afternoon to spend together. All the traveling and on-the-run meals associated with being a field agent take their toll, so I want to cook dinner for her and spend a quiet evening at home doing whatever she wants. Regular people don't realize that spending time at home is an overlooked and under appreciated luxury. My mother had taught her children to be self sufficient, able to cook, do laundry, clean--whatever it took so we wouldn't have to depend on anyone else. Cooking was a hobby I loved but hadn't done much of late; I hadn't had the desire to do it when it was only for myself. After a long day or at the conclusion of a difficult case, it was much easier and faster to pop a TV dinner in the microwave for dinner. So I offer to cook her a home made meal, but she insists on helping me as I thought she might. That's just fine by me; the more time I spend in her radiant presence the better. Everything is going along perfect with the lasagna in the oven and the gravy heating up on the stove. All that's left to do is prepare the salad and slice vegetables for it; but unfortunately, I end up embarrassing myself. Instead of cutting a carrot, I slice right into my index finger. "Damn," I mutter more to myself but inadvertently loud enough for Dana to hear. The blood starts to seep out of the wound, and I suck at the irony liquid. "What did you do?" she turns and smirks at me. "Cut myself. No big deal." The doctor in her can't leave it at that. "Let me see." Well, if this goddess of a doctor wants to fuss over me, who am I to refuse? "What do you think, doc?" I query, holding my finger out for her inspection. Typical doctor, she gives it a cursory examination. "You'll live." "You sure?" I prod playfully. "If I have anything to say about it." And boy does she. Well, not with words. Her eyes bore into mine as she takes my cut finger in her mouth, seductively licking and sucking at it like it's my cock. And how I wished to God it was. I want it so bad. I have to experience that exquisite mouth and those sweet lips sheathing me in their warmth, stroking me till I come with the force of an explosion. My groin becomes painfully hard as she mercilessly teases me, and I think the faint ringing I can hear is a result of my daydreaming. I wished it was my daydreaming. Some damn phone somewhere always seems to be interrupting us. Dana pulls away as we then both try to ascertain where the ringing is originating from. She realizes it's her cell, goes to check it, but doesn't answer it. God damn. It has to be Mulder. She knows it. And I know it, too. But I don't say anything to her; I have no right. Even so, jealousy is starting to build within me, and if I say something, it has the potential to turn into a scene. So, yeah, the moment is definitely ruined; but I have to say that Mulder is forgotten about rather quickly. After a nice, romantic dinner, we settle on the couch to watch a DVD movie we had rented. We sit close, my arm around her shoulder and my body on a slight angle towards her. It's too close because I know I won't be able to pay attention to the movie. I can't help it. She looks and smells so good, and I'm only human for God's sake. I begin kissing and nibbling on her ear and the side of her neck. It's all very innocent on my part as I hadn't really meant to start things up between us. Well, that might not be entirely true as you could imagine, but I'm just having a little fun and enjoying her. "What are you doing?" she asks with a hint of amusement as well as desire. "Nothing. Just watch the movie." "How . . . how can I watch the movie when you're doing . . . =that=?" "=What=? What am I doing?" She quirks an eyebrow at me. "This," she announces and performs the same act with much enthusiasm on my own ear and neck. Very soft moans accentuate her progress. "mmm. I see what you mean" I groan, fully aroused as she continues her assault. Our lips finally meet in a fury. We kiss hungrily again and again, the only sounds in my ears our ragged breaths, not the loud TV that drones on in the background. We fall back onto the cushions, our bodies entwined, necking and groping uncontrollably. Our passion is quickly careening out of control. Every fiber of =my= control is just about frayed, the ancient dance seeming inevitable. But this dance with this woman would be the single most defining moment of my life. I know this without doubt. She had had my number the minute she opened her mouth that first time at lunch in the verbal/mental battle that Mulder had summoned me to oversee. Now, I knew he was supposedly brilliant. But Dana had matched him point for point masterfully. Her intelligence knocked me flat on my ass. As I said, Dana had flirted with me. Not overtly with her physical attributes like every other woman I came into contact with. Instead, she had used her mind. Her mind had ignited my mind and my body. I had been completely and utterly mind-fucked. The fact that she was gorgeous just heightened the mind-fuck to the nth degree. I desperately want to move us to the bedroom, but I can't tear myself away from her for a second. Then something changes. One minute we're fumbling to remove clothes and the next, she becomes unresponsive to my kisses, almost dead, for lack of a better word. "Michael, stop. Stop," she cries and pushes me away. "What is it? What's wrong?" I ask, extricating myself from her, a little confused and certainly disappointed. "I'm just . . . I'm just not ready for this . . . I want you. There's no doubt about that. I'm just not ready to make love yet. It's been a long time, and I want to take things slow. I'm sorry." "No, it's okay. Whatever you want. Don't be sorry." It truly will be okay. My body might argue, but I will do anything for this woman. Whatever she wants. "I am sorry. You must think I'm the biggest tease." "No. Just the most fascinating mystery I've ever had the good fortune to investigate. Tell you what, you can set the pace. We'll take things as slow as you want." I smile at her and take her hand in mine. She squeezes my hand in return, and I almost manage to coax a smile out of her until her cell phone interrupts us yet again. A look of apology is plainly written on her face. I'm not sure if it's because of what had just transpired between us or because it's the umpteenth phone call from Mulder. "Let me just get rid of whoever this is. . . Scully . . ." While Dana is talking, I kind of drift off, lost in my own thoughts. I never truly understood the dynamics of male-female partnerships. I never had a female partner, and I never wanted one. But not because I thought they were inferior to their male counter- parts. On the contrary, they were equal to us in many ways and even surpassed us in many other ways. I just never understood how opposite sex partners were not supposed to develop romantic feelings, especially when neither had romantic interests outside the partnership. People argued that you wouldn't have those type of feelings for a partner of the same sex. But who's to say? What if you were gay or bisexual? All partners shared extremely powerful and ripe emotional ties that were a feeding ground for feelings. Obviously, Dana and Mulder were paramount in my mind as a prime example of this. The thought of their possible feelings for one another brings me back to the moment at hand, Dana's voice rising with frustration as her conversation with Mulder continues. " . . . no, Mulder, I can't. . . I just can't, I' m sorry . . . No, I'm not home . . . I'm not going to be home anytime soon. . . Mulder, =no= . . . I'm sorry, I'll see you Monday." Dana ends the call and turns off her phone. She seems perturbed at Mulder's call as well as a little guilty. What she can possibly feel guilty about I cannot gauge. "Everything all right?" I dare ask. "As all right as it can be where Mulder's concerned." "What did he want?" "Me. To go traipsing off at this late hour to who knows where on a tip from who knows who. And I'm not going to. Not anymore. Not with you sitting there like that waiting for me." "Come here," I command softly. She obeys and climbs up into my lap, straddling me. "I missed you," I inform her if she didn't already know. "I was only gone for two minutes." "Two minutes too long." I place a chaste kiss on her lips, and she immediately deepens it, begging entrance into my mouth which I happily oblige. Her hand then snakes down between us into my lap to stroke me. Oh, Lord, she is driving my crazy. I hope I can make good on my promise not to move things forward when she is doing things like this. Practically of its own accord, my hand eases up under the front of her sweater and cups her breast. When I realize what I'm doing, I look in her eyes only to see acceptance and desire there. I gently massage her breasts, tweaking the nipples until she is moaning low in her throat. It's really getting hot and heavy between us, and I'm not sure we can continue this much longer without taking things to the next level. And since I never broke my promises, I have to pull away from her as much as I hate the thought. She's a bit confused and disappointed but explains that she hadn't meant for things to get out of hand--it just happened, and she hadn't realized what she was doing. That made the two of us. Things just seemed to progress out of control when we connected. Despite this let down, I know we can still enjoy the evening. Dana finds a nice, romantic radio station on the stereo while I build a roaring fire. She then lays out the throw from the couch onto the floor with an assortment of pillows. I retrieve a bottle of red wine and two glasses, and we sprawl out in front of the fire to talk, laugh, kiss, and touch. It's one of the most amazing nights of my life. XXXXXX Things are progressing relatively well between us. Probably too well if I'm honest with myself. I haven't been in a relationship in a long time; and with all the insecurities associated with my abduction, I'm not even sure I want one or can function in one. The problem is I want Michael more than I can remember wanting anyone or anything in a long time. I want to spend time with him, and we end up bending over backwards to spend our free time together which, because of our jobs, doesn't amount to very much. In the back of my mind, I know things are not and can never work out. I had already committed a type of mental sabotage that night at his house through no premeditation on my part. I had desperately wanted to make love to him; but for some reason, I couldn't go through with it. My head and my heart are at war--my head telling me to break it off with him, my heart telling me it's already too late for that, that he already means too much to me. Eventually, I know what part of me will win out though Michael and I keep seeing each other. Tonight, he is supposed to meet me at my apartment at 5:30; but I arrive home to a blinking red light and a message that he'll be a little late. A little? It's now 8 pm. Three light knocks at my door rouse me from the issue of JAMA I'm thumbing through as I wait and worry. When I open the door, Michael is leaning against the door jamb looking scrumptious in black jeans, a copper work shirt, and a black motorcycle leather jacket. "Hi?" he winces because of his tardiness. "I know I'm =really= late, I'm sorry." "Don't be. It's not your fault." He produces a bouquet of my peach roses from behind his back. "Here, I brought you a dozen this time." I can't help but laugh. "Thank you. You're too much." I move to wrap myself in his waiting embrace, and then I begin nipping at his neck with my teeth, lips and tongue. He molds us together in his arms. With the attention I lavish on his neck, I can't help but notice the smell of him; it makes my knees weak. All man, cologne, leather. God, the combination has me completely wet; and we haven't even done anything yet. I continue kissing his neck and murmur, "You smell so wonderful, do you know that?" He finally pulls my face to his and crushes my lips with his own. Our exuberance for each other's warm, inviting mouths quickly turns into a frenzy of tongues, teeth, and soft moans. Regrettably, our fervor is dashed as we hear multiple pairs of footsteps approaching in the hallway. It's damn near impossible to pull away when our bodies seem electrically charged in each other's presence. I tug on his jacket collar. "Get in here or my neighbors will probably call the cops on us for public displays." "I thought we were the cops." "We are but that wouldn't matter, believe me." "Are you implying, Agent Scully, that you've been caught in compromising positions before with men that were, unfortunately, not me?" he teased. "No, unfortunately, I haven't been in any compromising positions in a long time, only dangerous ones. So where have you been the last, oh, seven years of my life?" I'm only half joking. "Nowhere except as lonely as you apparently." "=You=? How come I find that hard to believe?" I ask incredulously. "Believe it, baby," he jokes and brings me into another brief embrace. "It's very true." And I believe it is. His voice has turned serious and tinged with sadness. He lets go and sheds his jacket while his eyes dart about the living room to take in my surroundings. "You got the message I left on your machine?" "Yeah, but I figured you'd be here by 7 the latest. I was really starting to worry." I head for the kitchen, leaving him to look around. "You were worried?" he asks, amused and apparently delighted by this development. "So sue me," I call out over my shoulder, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. "I'm going to go put these flowers in some water and call for a pizza." After a few moments, Michael appears in the kitchen while I'm on the phone ordering our dinner. My eyes focus on him and his apparent weariness as he rubs at his face and buries the heels of his hands in his eyes. Beard stubble thickly coats his face. Once the call is completed, I come up behind him and attempt to massage his shoulders. "Ah, Dana, that feels really good." He was wound so tight I thought he might snap. "Jesus, Michael, you've got knots on top of your knots," I exclaim trying to work on him. Trying is the operative word. His work shirt is too thick and he too tall for me to do it properly. "Come with me" I command, leading him by the hand to my couch. "Let's get this shirt off," I say as we plop down and I begin unbuttoning the obstruction. "My, my, my," I breath once his shirt is completely open and I get a look at the gift that lie previously hidden beneath his shirt. That gift being Special Agent Michael Anzotti sitting before me in all his well cut, well muscled, bare-chested glory. And I love it. Ache to touch it. Touch him. Every single inch of him. Now I've never been much of a fan of bodybuilders or bodybuilding as a sport. To me, it's ugly, overkill. But I can and do appreciate a man who spends countless hours in a gym sculpting and molding his body into hard, lean muscle. It's a gorgeous sight to behold. It's art. The only thing marring his perfect body is an obvious bullet wound and surgical scar towards the upper right of his chest. It appears old, and I surmise he had sustained the gunshot in the line of duty like Mulder and myself. I wonder what terrible thing had happened and who had cared for him and eased his pain. I feel so much compassion for him in that moment as my eyes inadvertently fixate on the scar. All I want is to hold him and comfort him. Michael senses my distraction and brings me back into the present by placing his fingers beneath my chin and tilting it towards him so our eyes meet. "It's just a flesh wound," he says blandly. I do not respond. His words aren't meant to convince me but rather ease my mind. "So, you like?" he asks, obviously pleased with himself and my reaction to him before I was distracted. Before I realized this exceptional man was mortal and could die on me. "Maybe," I murmur, back in the moment and trying to get a hold of myself. I don't want to give him anymore satisfaction than he's already gotten. I slide to the other side of him, edge up on my knees to get the right leverage, and begin kneading and massaging his strong, muscular shoulders. "Just relax, don't think, don't talk," I soothe. I continue my ministrations on his shoulders and down his back for quite awhile until my fingers and hands begin to burn. It seems I have lulled him into a very relaxed state. =I= am far from relaxed. Those feelings I'd quelled on wanting to touch every inch of him resurface with a vengeance, and I can't resist any longer. My hands caress up and down his back, along both shoulders, down his biceps, around to his triceps, and down his forearms, the fingers of my right hand twining with his. I am so hot for him. "You're beautiful," I whisper in his ear. "You've got that backwards," he says real low, the words barely able to escape his throat. He's as turned on as I am. I reach around to lay my other hand on the pecs of his chest, but he snatches my arm away roughly and positions me in his lap. There is a moment where we just stare at each other, the sexual tension thick and dense. We tongue deeply as I caress the bulge in his pants and fumble for the zipper. Reluctantly, I pull myself away from our sweet kiss and slide down to the floor, my mouth poised for his lap, eager for his long, hard shaft. I tug at Michael's pants, my intentions clear. "You don't have to do this," he assures me, holding my face gently in his two hands. "I want to. Let me do this for you." After a long look in my eyes, he eases out of his pants, then his boxers. Oh, my, my, my. I lick my lips and then tease the head of his cock with my tongue. I swirl it around and around the head, already taking him to the brink of his control. His eyes squeeze shut, his hand clutching the arm of the sofa, moaning low in his throat. Finally, I take all of him into my mouth, licking and sucking with the perfect rhythm, my hand jerking him as my mouth works its magic. It doesn't take long for him to orgasm, coming into my mouth with a forceful stream, calling out my name. I lick him softly, keeping him warm until he starts to recover. "Was that as good for you as it was for me?" I ask a bit smugly. I have to. I know I've outdone myself. "Oh, Dana . . . Jesus . . ." is all he can manage still slumped into my sofa, his eyes half closed. The knock on my door is our pizza. "C'mon, baby. Get dressed. I'm starving." He looks at me in disbelief. What can I say? I can multitask; I can go from performing an amazing sexual act to worrying about my stomach. Men shouldn't be so singular minded. We manage to make a meal out of the pizza and a green salad I haphazardly put together. Beer, which I often have on hand now because of Michael, complemented the pizza perfectly but left me a bit drowsy. I just want to relax, and Michael looks like he can use some real down time, too, even after the massage I'd given him. "Come lie down with me," I say as I take his two hands in mine and lead him from the table to my bedroom. My room is somewhat dark, the light from the lamp post outside illuminating it enough for us to see. There is a steady rain falling outside, and a slight breeze fills the room with cool air through the open window. We lie down on our right sides spooning together. His left hand drifts beneath my sweater to lightly rub and draw circles on my abdomen. It drifts a little lower, underneath the elastic waist of my leggings and comes into contact with my recent surgical scar. I jerk at the contact, the area still somewhat sensitive and causing twinges of pain especially when the weather is lousy. "I'm sorry," he whispers and kisses my head. "You okay?" "Fine," I murmur. I'm unconvincing even to my own ears, and Michael is quiet for a long while. "Dana, I want you to be able to talk to me. What happened? Who did that to you?" he asks softly, his voice comforting. "It's just a flesh wound," I respond, echoing his words from earlier in the evening. "Touche," he says mildly. I can tell he's disappointed I chose his tactic, but I decide I'm willing to meet him half way. "Tell you what. You tell me about yours and I'll tell you about mine." Tit for tat. It's only fair. Honestly, I really don't want to discuss it; but I had realized in my short time with this man that he deserved this from me. That's what having a relationship is about---sharing yourself and your experiences, however unpleasant, with the person you care for. Yes, my relationship skills have been very under utilized; but I will try. For him. "Deal but bear with me here. I had this friend since childhood. A best friend . . . Chris was his name. We were inseparable, and he was more like a brother to me than my own flesh and blood, especially my older brother. At 13, we became blood brothers doing that ritual thing that young boys sometimes do and putting tattoos on our arms." He laughs lightly as he obviously remembers it fondly. And that explains the small, crude tattoo, definitely a homemade job, that I noticed on his left arm. The word brother is written horizontally in black with the letter "o" replaced by what looks to be a drop of blood, deep red in color. "At 16, I began dealing drugs." Shocked, I turn to look at him, look in his eyes; and I can see the deep regret there. I lay my hand on his forearm, rubbing it lightly to relay to him to continue because I'm not judging him. "I know, it's hard to believe. Chris was already doing it and then I got into it through him. He was my contact; I had no dealings with who he was doing it for. At first, I did it for the money. I didn't care; I was only 16. Then Chris's father ran out on the family, leaving a wife with no job or skills as well as Chris and his two young sisters. So, we began skimming money from our takes so his family could eat, pay the bills, pay the mortgage. One night, I was waiting for him in a back alley where he was dropping off the money. He came out of the building, and we started walking away but someone came after us. We ran and they . . . shot Chris in the back. I froze, and he fell to the ground. I knew they were going to shoot me, too, so I moved to try and help Chris, try to . . . stop the blood and the . . . guy just shot me in the chest as I leaned over him," he explains, his voice low and detached. "Michael, . . . Oh, God . . . That's a horrible . . ." I murmur. "It was a long time ago, though, and I've been able to come to terms with it." "What happened after that?" "Chris died at the scene. I wasn't expected to recover, but I made it. The whole thing was cleaned up quietly, so nothing happened to me." "What about the shooter?" "Never found." "I'm so sorry." "I try not to dwell on it anymore." We are both quiet for awhile until he says, "Dana, you don't have to tell me anything that you're uncomfortable with, but I'm here if you want to talk." Unbelievable. He trusts me enough to tell me about a profound time in his life without me having to lay myself bare at all. Now, I have to tell him. I want to. I need to. I relate everything about Alfred Fellig and Agent Payton Ritter. Even the details that bothered me about the case, things I never thought I'd share with anyone. "I made my peace with Ritter, and he has since faced disciplinary action. But the case was so disconcerting to me but not because of all that. Michael, this is going to sound crazy but Fellig couldn't . . . he couldn't die; he had missed his time. He told me he couldn't die, and then I ended up witnessing it. Ritter fired at him, but the bullet . . . passed right through him and struck me. I collapsed, and I knew it was over. I knew I was going to die. I could =feel= it. I could =see= it. Death was coming for me but Fellig . . . Fellig took my place. Death was coming for me and . . . he told me to look away. I did and . . ." I trailed off, shuddering. "I can't tell you how often I've gone over it in my head trying to explain it rationally, =sanely=. But there's no other explanation . . . As I hear myself say it out loud, I wonder how it sounds, how it makes =me= sound." Tears start to gather in my eyes. "You sound fine. You sound like someone who experienced something incredible, something no one else has the right to criticize. Don't doubt the experience, your integrity or yourself." I am dumbstruck for a moment. I don't know what I expected him to say, but it is so much more than I'd hoped for. "Thank you," I say finally. "I needed to hear that." In response, Michael pulls us a little closer. A tear escapes my eye, falling silently into the pillow. Michael's sincere and kind words have allowed me to finally accept the experience and let it rest. It was something I could not do previously no matter what I told myself or what Mulder had said to me in the hospital in NYC. We lapse into a peaceful slumber in each other's arms. Nearing 11:30 pm, he wakes me gently. It's getting late, and he has to get on the road. Slowly, we walk to the door arm in arm and share a deep, lingering goodbye kiss. Full of promise. Full of everything I have ever imagined wanting. I'm so happy that I'm miserable at the same time. I can't help feeling that darker days loom ahead. XXXXXX I don't understand it. I don't get it. I don't get =her=. It's been two weeks since our wonderful date back at her apartment, and I haven't seen or heard from her. She's been avoiding me, ignoring my phone calls and messages. For the life of me, I cannot understand it. I've wracked my brain trying to figure out what went wrong, what I did wrong. But the answers are elusive; there is nothing. Except for maybe pushing her bit on the Fellig thing. But why would she react like this? I shared a piece of my past with her, so I thought we were on equal footing, no matter how painful her experience was. Maybe I'm thickheaded or foolish or the biggest whipped puppy, but I cannot give up on her. I'm already falling for her hard . . . hell, who am I kidding? I had fallen for her a long time before we ever shared dinner that one late night after work. Obviously, it looks like she wants to end this, whatever it is we've begun, but I can't let her go. My head is telling me something more is going on. If she just wants to end it, then I deserve and expect to be told to my face. We're not teenagers here. I've called and left messages for her just about every other day, and there's been no response or acknowledgment. I keep hoping she's going to pick up her phone while she's screening her calls or tell me that she's been out of town unexpectedly on a case. The messages I leave are warm and genuine, wondering how she's been, what she's been up to. After the third week, she finally answers one of my early evening phone calls. I guess she started to feel guilty and decided to grant me at least one. But she's distant and disinterested in me, the emotional case I am working on in Chicago, and things in general. She speaks to me like we are complete strangers, not lovers, and she couldn't have hurt me anymore than if she'd plunged a knife in my heart. I can't take this much longer. I have to get her to talk to me, to be honest and tell me what in the hell is going on. I vow to myself that I will not allow this to continue much longer. XXXXXX Bang. Bang. Bang. I pound on Dana's apartment door with impatience. About a beat or two later, she pulls the door open. "Surprise," I exclaim. "Some surprise. I think the whole building heard you. I thought you said you would be in Chicago for the weekend finishing up your case." Well, what do you know. My dear Dana =had= been listening to a word I'd said. I wouldn't have known it otherwise. And it's good to see you, too, baby. "Turns out most of it was paperwork. I realized I had much more important things to take care of." The implication of my words barely registers on her face. She turns and leaves me standing in the doorway. "Well, are you Going to come in or stand there all day?" she calls out. "No, I'm not coming in. Get your jacket. We're going for a ride." It is =not= a request, and her blue eyes curse my brown as she stares me down. "Michael, I'm not going anywhere. If you hadn't noticed, I'm in the middle of something here," she announces, her voice exasperated. How dare she. How dare she take that tone with me when I've done nothing to warrant her attitude or the attempted murder of our relationship. It's ultimatum time. I pray that I haven't figured this wrong. "I'm tired of these bullshit games, Dana. I'm going outside, and I'll wait five minutes. If you care about me, then you'll meet me downstairs before time's up. If not, then I'm gone. Tick, tick, Dana," I practically taunt her, confusion and then realization furrowing her brow. I stalk away. Forty-five. Fifty. Fifty-five excruciating seconds pass. But I don't have to count to 60 for her to come to me. ##### Glowing orb of light. Streaks of red-orange and purple pink. Brilliant, intense, eccentric. It is the beautiful sun setting on the horizon this night that has captured my vision, but it is Michael occupying my thoughts. His eyes aglow with life, streaking into my being, and awakening my heart, my mind, my feelings and desires. The wind steadily whips my hair around my face, my tongue snaking out to taste the salt deposited on my lips from the sea air. I wait, leaning against the rail on the bow of the boat. Wait for him to come to me. Get the inevitable started as silence had pervaded on the drive here. He had come to my apartment straight from Dulles, his obscenely handsome face weary and yet persistent. Intent on breaking through my walls. Would I let him? I hear him approach, his sneakers lightly tapping on the deck. He comes up from behind, leaning out on the rail with me like my shadow, like an extension of myself, his large hands grasping my small ones. I don't dare look at him. One look in his loving blue depths, and I will cave. "What're you thinking about, beautiful?" he asks quietly, almost shyly. "A lot of things." "Am I anywhere in there? Do you think about me?" "All the time," I admit. Indeed. That's the problem. "Then why are you running away from me?" "I'm not." "You =are=." I don't say anything. "Ever since that night in your apartment when you gave me the most amazing . . . oral sex you've been avoiding me. Is it me? Did I do something wrong?" "No, it's not you. Never you. It's me." "Tell me," he implores. "Please." I sigh, resigned. "Michael, we both work too hard and too long, mustering what little free time we have to spend together for our relationship to be just a casual thing. At least for me." "I agree. It's not casual for me either." "Please, let me finish. That night in my apartment, I loved pleasing you almost as much as you seemed to enjoy it. And it's never been like that for me. Oral sex was always like a chore I had to get through. But with you, it's different. =Everything= is different. I loved seeing you writhe in pleasure with my name on your lips as you came . . . but the bottom line is that after that night I felt myself falling for you very hard, and I can't allow that." Anger laces his words. "You can't =allow= it? Dana, feelings just happen whether you want them to or not." "No. Not with me they don't. They can't," I say, my voice pained. The look on his face is a plain as day. He cannot fathom what I am saying. He pulls away and turns me to him. "=What=?" "Michael, you said this was more than casual, right? What exactly do you want from this relationship?" "A commitment. Of some kind. It doesn't have to be right now but in the future." I avert my eyes. "That's what I thought," I sigh. "You don't sound too happy about it. From what you said earlier, I thought that was what you wanted." "It is." "Dana, look at me." He turns my face to his with a gentle hand. "It is, but it isn't at the same time?" He has read my mind. "Yeah, something like that." "Dana, help me out here. I'm having a hard time trying to understand." "I know, I'm sorry. Michael, I tried to tell you I . . . had problems before we started seeing each other, but you didn't want to hear it. If we're going to be together, I can't give you what you want or need." "What is it that you think I want or need besides you?" "I don't know . . . a family someday. . . . Something was done to me about five years ago. I'm sterile. I can't have children." My eyes meet his, my voice strong and proud. I am not ashamed. Just very deeply disappointed that I cannot share the joy of children with him or anyone. "So you decided on your own that we can't have a future because of this?" I do not respond. My eyes search his for understanding, but none is to be found. "Dana, God knows I'm very sorry for whatever happened to you, you know that; but I don't understand how you can make decisions for us when I don't even know what we're deciding about." He's right, but I dig in my heels. "I'm doing what's best for you. Can't you see that?" "No, I can't. Thanks for the gracious offer," he says sarcastically. "I'm telling you right now that it does not matter to me. If we wanted children someday, there are other ways. I won't accept this excuse. But if you're using this as a way to let me down easy then just tell me." "No, that's not it," I reply shaking my head emphatically. "I care for you so very, very much it scares the shit out of me. I just want your happiness. Why would I want to let you go without a valid reason?" "I don't know, why would you? But it certainly seems like that's what you're doing; the fact that you can't have children is not a valid reason to me. I won't accept it," he said firmly. Before he turns to go below deck, he takes hold of my hands, offering reassuring squeezes. "I'm right," he says smiling at me. "Think about what I've said." It had turned quite dark since our conversation had begun. The steady breeze combined with the cold of the night chills me thoroughly, so I zip up my thin jacket and stuff my hands into its pockets. Again, I gaze out over the side of the boat, my mind whirling happily this time. Focusing on that smile. That disarming smile that has my insides all jiggly like some damn schoolgirl. There is no doubt about it. I had been defeated. But for once, it's okay. It's wonderful in fact. It's what I want. Michael is what I want and hopefully I won't fuck it up anymore. Though the doubts about my past are still warring within me, I think maybe, just maybe this thing can work. About 10 minutes later, he returns to drape a blanket over my shoulders and present me with a steaming cup of hot chocolate that I accept gratefully. It's the little things like this, the little thoughtful things he always does that never cease to amaze me and warm my heart. I apologize for my childish behavior and promise to try to be more open about what is going on in my head. Scary thought, huh? My head that is, not the prospect of opening up. Michael gently inquires about discussing what had been done to me to cause my sterility, but I decline. Tonight, anyway. I don't want anymore sorrow tonight. But I would tell him soon. Ever since I had opened myself up to him regarding Fellig, I wanted to share my demons, share everything with him. He would be the one to understand. In his arms I stand as we admire the abundant stars shining brightly this night. Moonlight bathes us in its glow, lighting the way home. Together. For there is no more talk of ending us and what we had begun. ##### The next week, Mulder and I were out of town but that didn't stop me from making big plans for the coming weekend. I called in a few favors, made a reservation; and Michael and I were set. After forcing down some crappy vegetable lo mein for dinner, I'm restless. Could have been the MSG I forgot to tell the Chinese place to leave out of my take out order or my anticipation over this weekend. I don't know what to do with myself. There is nothing on TV, and I'm not about to open up that laptop and do anymore work today. I'm not sure what time I will be able to reach Michael, so I take a long, hot, relaxing shower and then gave him a try at home. He picks up on the third ring. "Hi," I say simply. "Hi, yourself. What are you up to?" "Just getting out of the shower." "mmm. What are you wearing?" he asks suggestively. "Wouldn't you like to know what I'm =not= wearing," I tease. "Listen, I've been doing some wheelin' and dealin'." "Yeah, what are you in the market for?" "You." I breathe simply and hear a slight intake of his breath. "So what would you say to you and me, two tickets on the third baseline, Orioles and Yankees at Camden Yards this Saturday. I reserved a room near the park for the weekend starting Friday night. It's nothing fancy, but the only thing we're going to need is that bed," I promise, playfully. "Uh, I'm not sure what to say to that," he stammers and laughs, probably not wanting to assume anything from what I'm obviously suggesting. "Say that you want me." "I want you with every fiber of my being. You know that." "Well, I'm going to give you the work out of your life. What do you say?" "To Yankees baseball? I'm there." "You rotten, little. . ." I joke and trail off. "Some investi- gator you are. Do I have to spell it out for you, Agent Anzotti? I'm gonna fuck your brains out this weekend." "Promises, promises, Agent Scully," he teases. "But I keep all of my promises. You should know that about me by now." "Oh, I do. And you should know you needn't ask. Anywhere you are I'll be there." XXXXX I'd fucked up royally. Ever since then, things have been more tense and awkward between Scully and me than usual. She seems restless, like she's searching for something, though it has nothing to do with work or truths. Whatever it is, I think she found it because in the ensuing weeks she's actually seemed happy. Happier than I've seen her since she first started working with me. And if you knew Scully the way I did, the differences between her now and then are like night and day. Of course, I wonder what was been up with her, but we've been incommunicado too long; the walls built between us too high to be breached or scaled without major breakdowns or damage. Especially after the latest incident. I'm referring to the meeting at the Lone Gunmen's where I challenged Scully's findings about Diana. After that, I knew we were in serious trouble. That line about taking things personal was a Mulder classic fuck up. What can I say? I know I was a little cruel to her; but how are you supposed to react when the most important person in your life won't let go of a notion she has? A notion that even turns your best friends against you. How Scully, the strongest, most self assured person I know, can feel insecure around Diana is beyond me. Granted, I have told her nothing of the time Diana and I spent together. The reason being there is nothing to tell her that bears any importance to my life now or our partnership. Diana can try to undermine us and insinuate herself into our exclusive club of two all she wants, but there is no contest. Scully is my everything. My life, my soul, my love, my future. Or, at least, I used to think so. I may have to admit another member to our exclusive club and call it a threesome. Anzotti's his name. Stealing Scully's his game. And I hate him. I hate him because he's a good guy, a good agent. I knew that when we worked together almost ten years ago, and I know it now. More than likely I'd be friends with him if I had the time and the inclination for friends other than Scully and the LGM. At my insistence, the Gunmen had checked Mike out thoroughly. Found only his family's mob connections of which he had no involvement and recent knowledge as well as a juvie arrest for drug dealing. For my sake, I had hoped they would find something damning, something to plead my case after I'd begun to suspect. I'd begun to suspect that there was more going on between Scully and Mike than just friendship after I'd spied them together at lunch, bodies unable to stop touching, laughter echoing from their private corner, eyes twinkling with something unnamable but tangible. It was certainly not the body language of casual acquaintances or colleagues, which is what they had been when the three of us had dined together in the past. On those occasions, I could tell Mike was enthralled with her competence, intelligence and beauty; it was written all over his face. He'd listen to our banter with rapt attention and even participate, all the while marveling at her. But he never did or said anything that overtly announced his interest in her. And vice versa. Someone seemed to be answering my prayers on both counts, and I didn't think any more of it. Afterall, Mike had women chasing after him all the time (through no encouragement on his part) and Scully . . . Scully was mine. Until that intimate lunch gave me a clue in that thick head of mine. My heart was in my mouth over these apparent developments, and I debated and debated about the best course of action. Obviously, I had to tell her how I felt; but there never seemed to be an appropriate time. As I said, things between us had deteriorated to a point that would require major repair. And, Scully was =very= preoccupied. It took me awhile to gather the strength and courage, but I realized the more time I wasted, chances were that Scully was growing closer and closer to the Italian Stallion with each passing day. Today was Friday, and I hoped to pin her down for a couple of hours this weekend to sort through our feelings and this mess we found ourselves in. So nearing 4 pm, I head back to the basement office where I'd left her about an hour a ago dutifully filling out her expense reports. To my surprise and (if I must admit) my heartbreak, I find a Post It note stuck to the center of my computer monitor with Scully's neat, familiar scrawl. The message is short and sweet just like the woman herself. Mulder, I took off early for the weekend. See you Monday. S No. Damn it. How could this be? Skinner told me he just spoke with her not fifteen minutes ago. But now she's gone and apparently left in a hurry, her coffee mug still half full and warm and her laptop still atop the desk. Since when did she go anywhere without that thing? I have to do this now or I probably never will, so I run out after her, hoping to catch her. What I end up doing I don't even want to admit. It's low. Despicable. Beneath me. I follow her. All the way to Maryland. Baltimore to be exact. With one stop in between. She's in a rental car, and I can't figure out where she is going or why unless she's just trying "to get out of her head" for the weekend. When she turns into the parking lot of a Best Western motel, I think I start to get it. Car running, she jogs to the reception desk and soon returns to maneuver the car to the front of her room. She gets out of the car and knocks on the door. KNOCKS. Oh, yes, I get it. But I don't want to believe it. That sounds so ridiculous coming from me. For once in my sorry life I don't want to believe, but it's true. And as much as it hurts, I have to see it with my own eyes. As my instincts had conveyed, Mike Anzotti opens the door and pulls Scully close, reigning passionate kisses all over her that she returns in kind. Once they're done with . . . that, they head to the car to retrieve her bags from the trunk. Then they disappear into the room, Scully shutting the door decisively with a kick of her leg. My heart has just been ripped from my chest and trampled over. That is it. She is literally shutting the door on us and any possibility of a romantic relationship. But I will not let it go at this. She cannot be with him every God damn minute. I will get my chance to talk to her when she returns. XXXXX I drop Dana's overnight bag onto the floor while she closes the curtains to our room. She begins fiddling with one of the bags on the table near the window, but I come up from behind and wrap my arms around her slim waist. She stops what she is doing when she feels my touch. "You hungry?" I ask. I'm referring to the food even though it's the furthest thing from my mind. "I'm starving," she sighs, drawing out the syllables in starving. She skips a beat and then adds, "For you, most definitely," in a low, husky voice. All the blood in my body rushes to my groin. "Are you sure about this?" I ask; I have to, it's just the kind of man that I am. She turns around in my embrace, looks me clear in the eyes. "I've never been more certain about anything. I'm gonna go change." She winkd, and I watch her every move as she glides to the bathroom. Yowza. My nerves are all out of whack. I pull out a cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket of my shirt; the first pack I had bought since I was a teenager. I light it with slightly shaking hands and inhale deeply again and again. There is nothing of much interest outside our room as I poke through the curtains, trying to concentrate on something, anything but that delectable red-head in the bathroom. Really, I have to get a hold of myself. You'd think I'd never had sex before. "I thought cigarettes were for =after= sex," Dana says, amusement creeping into her voice. Surprised by her quiet re-emergence, I turn and marvel at her one-of-a kind beauty as she stands there with her hand on her hip. Lord, I am a lucky man. An elegant and feminine satin emerald robe barely covers her. The teddy that obviously accompanies it is MIA. The swell of her perfect breasts peeks out between the open robe as does a thin patch of red pubic hair at the apex of her legs. I smile from ear to ear at the sight of her. "What can I say? I'm trying to calm my nerves. You make me nervous." "Lil' ol me?" she drawls in her best southern accent as she makes her way over to me and slowly unzips my dress pants with a deadly smile on her face. My pants fall to the floor, pooling around my ankles. "Michael, you still have way too many clothes on. I'll have to remedy that." She begins to undo the buttons on my shirt and steals the cigarette from my mouth for a drag. She reaches to put the smoke back to my lips, but I don't want it anymore. Everything I ever desired is standing in front of me, undressing me, wanting me as much. "No, put it out. I can think of much more enjoyable ways to use my mouth and my hands as well as another part of my anatomy." "Could this be the part of your anatomy you're referring to?" she teases as she trails her hand down my boxers and deftly strokes my engorged shaft. "That'd be the one," I practically guffaw with surprise and delight. If I'm not careful, I'm going to lose it already. "Then why don't you show me just what it can do," she said breathlessly as she pulled me to the bed. What a wicked, wicked woman. There is no way on earth she'll have to make that kind of request twice. I pull my body up alongside hers, and we began necking like teenagers. I caress and tease her lovely breasts with my hand, my straining erection bobbing against her thigh. Her pleased moans and sighs in between kisses spur me on, my hand traveling south for the crown jewel between her legs. My fingers find her folds slick and wet with her desire for me. I stroke and caress her, and she does the same to me with those amazing doctor's hands. I slide down her body, my lips headed for the area between her legs. She stills me with her hand, saying, "No, Michael. There's plenty of time for that. I want to feel you inside me. Right now." Whatever she wants will be granted. I am here to please her. As neither of us have had intimate relations in awhile, I enter her slowly in three successive thrusts. Moans of pleasure/pain fill the room. The pleasure. Oh, God in heaven. Being buried inside Dana is sheer ecstasy. I am too stunned by the sensation to start moving. "You okay?" she inquires. "Yeah, just savoring this moment, savoring the feel of you." "It's incredible, I know," she agrees as she caresses the side of my face with her hand. I angle my head to kiss her perfect lips, but the cross and chain around my neck, a gift of my mother's, falls down between us like an obstacle. I take the annoyance off, place it on the table beside the bed, and get back to loving Dana Scully. I start a slow rhythm so we can gauge what the other likes and Doesn't. She matches me stroke for stroke, her legs wrapping around my waist to drive me deeper. Our lovemaking reaches a fever pitch, our bodies slapping together. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. Sheer ecstasy overtakes us as she comes, and I follow right after, off the precipice. After the most amazing sexual experience of my life, we lie in each other's arms, sated and content. I couldn't have been happier, and she seems happier than I've ever seen her. I'm glad I seem to play a role in that and hope to do so for a long time to come. Though the Chinese food has icicles on it by this time, we indulge in that and even share a post coital cigarette. We are gleeful and giddy like we're drunk with love or experiencing love for the first time. Maybe I am. I had been or thought I'd been in love before, but it never felt anything like this. She is totally intoxicating. Later on, we are able to tear ourselves away from the beckoning bed to take an evening stroll and gaze at the stars. I know basic astrology, but Dana points out the more obscure stars that her father had taught her when she was a young girl. We toy with the idea of getting some dinner but ultimately decide that we are more hungry for each other than anything resembling food. We indulge in each other for the second time that day, and I fall asleep deliriously happy with Dana in my arms. Saturday morning I serve her breakfast in bed, and she is still as happy as she was the night before. I am too. The baseball game on Saturday afternoon is great fun although I find myself watching Dana more than the game itself. She's more into it than I am and looks adorable with my Yankees hat perched backwards atop her head. She's so funny and bubbly that I have to remind myself that this woman is a trained federal agent who can probably take down most of the men in the stadium. I love the way that she can lose that professional part of herself with me, let loose and relax. Though the time I spent with both her and Mulder was limited, I never sensed that she could let go with him. All in all, the weekend has been wonderful and amazing. One thing, however, is gnawing away at me; and I can't quite banish it from my thoughts. It scares me, and I'm worried about Dana. As I said, after our second round of lovemaking, we fell asleep. Or at least I did. I awoke in the early morning hours sensing something was different. Something seemed wrong. Dana was out of my arms and sitting in the motel chair by the window, staring out at the night sky. I looked over at her and asked her to come back to bed, but she didn't respond. I said her name, and, again, there was no response. Pulling back the covers of the bed, I rose and went to her, touching her gently without any response. Obviously, I was getting a little nervous. Saying her name over and over and shaking her gently had not had much of an effect, and I started to panic. She seemed totally unreachable and out of it. I scooped her up in my arms and carried her over to the sink, forcing her to stand and splashing cold water on her face and neck. After about a minute, she finally came out of her . . . her trance. I don't know what else to call it. Thank God she came out of it because the shower was next and the hospital after that. I gave her a glass of water and smoothed back the wet ends of her hair away from her face. She seemed okay now. Calm and back with me. I supported her weight with my body, afraid that she might be weak on her feet. When I asked her if she was all right, she murmured that she was fine but had the saddest look on her face and in her gorgeous blue eyes. Tears started to well there, and I felt like my heart might break. When I gently asked her what was happening, what was going on with her, she just pulled me into her arms, holding me as tight as possible. As if her life depended on it. I also held her tight, kissing and murmuring assurances onto the crown of her head, stroking the red strands of her hair softly with my hand. I let my question pass unanswered for I would not press her about it, not when she was hurting this much. She started to gently cry in my arms for a long time. Without another word, I took her back to bed and held her the rest of the night into the morning. Thankfully, she was able to sleep a little bit although I could not. I would not. I just watched over her, wondering what had happened, wondering if she was really okay. ##### Nearing 8 pm on Sunday, we arrive home to my apartment. Michael immediately leads me to my bedroom, and I follow eagerly; we can't get enough of each other. It's funny. I'd survived basically a sexless life except for my own hand for almost seven years; but now I've had sex five times, soon to be six, in the last three days. And it's not enough. With Michael, I don't think I can ever get enough. He fills me body, mind and soul. And with Michael due to leave right away on Monday morning on a case, I desperately want to be with him in my bed. Christen the sheets with our sweat, our scent, our lovemaking. I would allow the smell of us to linger in the fabric a couple of days and take comfort in it while he is gone. When I am alone again. We undress in haste, clothes strewn wherever; we don't care. We fall onto the bed, and I take control. I love that about him. He is as comfortable with me taking the lead as when he takes it. It's a frantic coupling. I impale myself on top of him and ride him fast and furious. He steadies us with one hand against my back while the other does the most wonderful things to my breasts and nipples. The angle and position we are in affords the deepest penetration yet, even better than when we had done it on the chair in the motel room. We are both gone not long after, and the intensity of my orgasm rocks me to core. We cling to each other, breathing hard, almost panting from the strength of our exertions. Then the telephone on my nightstand rings, disturbing us and the orgasmic oblivion we enjoy. Michael's mood will soon follow the disturbed path when he finds out who is on the other end of the line. I kiss Michael's chest and reluctantly pull myself off of him, immediately regretting the emptiness in my womb and the cold plaguing my skin when I'm out of his arms. He seems to feel the same, grimacing with displeasure and disappointment at the swift and abrupt disjoining of our bodies. I reach for the offending device, still breathless. " . . .Hello? . . . I was just . . . No, Mulder, wait . . . " Needless to say, he doesn't. I hang up the phone and dare a look at Michael. He is not pleased. "You haven't told him about us, have you?" he asks, disgust in his voice. "No," I reply low, not meeting his eyes. "Is it going to a problem for him?" I don't know the answer, and he guesses that my delay in responding is an answer to the affirmative. But how the hell do I know? I haven't the slightest idea what is going through Mulder's head these days other than his unfounded loyalty towards Diana Fowley. He erupts from our bed like a shot from a gun and searches the floor for his boxers and jeans, donning them in a hurry. Instead of storming out of the room like I feared he might, he retreats into the bathroom adjoining my room to splash cold water on his face. He then finishes dressing and sinks heavily onto the bed to tie his workboots. "Why haven't you told him?" comes the question a beat or two later, his back to me. "He's my partner, a coworker. I don't tell him everything that goes on in my personal life. Did you tell your partner?" I ask derisively. "Yeah, I did actually. I can't stop thinking about you or talking about you. And let's not play that game. We both know partners are a helluva lot more than just coworkers. Especially in your case." "I'm not sure I know what you mean by that," I say, my anger flaring. "What do you want from me?" "Honesty. With me and with yourself. That's all I ask." "I have been honest. Mulder and I are close in many ways, but we are strangers in many other ways." He turns to face me, his hand skimming through his hair again and again in an act of frustration. "Is there something between you and Mulder?" "Where is this coming from?" "=C'mon, Dana=. I've seen the two of you interact. He calls you at all hours of the day and night and apparently you've gone running whenever he called you in the past. I think there's more than your letting on." "I can't believe that you of all people sound like a jealous lover," I say shaking my head. "Why because, according to you, I can have anyone I want? I want =you=. Only you. I want to know where he stands and what I'm up against." "You're not up against anything. Look, he's my partner. We've been through the most unimaginable things together. I care for him and respect him deeply. But we are not and have never been involved." Seeming not to have heard my words, he begins searching for his leather jacket, misplaced in our haste to get naked. Once he finds it, he mumbles, "I'm not sure you answered my question, but I guess that will have to do." So, he did hear them; he just didn't like them. He begins to retreat out of the bedroom. So preoccupied am I with his reaction to Mulder's phone call, I realize I am carrying on our little tiff stark naked. That's how comfortable I am with this man. I grab for my robe in the closet, snatch his magnificent cross and chain(given to him by his mother when he had been shot) off the nightstand, and hurry after him. "You're leaving? It's still early," I call out. "You know I have an early flight." We stop at the door, facing each other. "So, what? Are you going to leave here upset or angry with me?" I ask, my arms crossed in my typical defensive posture. He shakes his head. "No, I'm not angry. I just . . . wonder sometimes." "About me and Mulder," I sigh. "Forget it." He says, shaking his head again, but from the worry in his eyes I know he will not be forgetting anytime soon. Obviously, he has contemplated the concept before. I take hold of his hand, bring it to my cheek to have him feel me, feel how much I burn for him. Try to sear it into his soul with my eyes because my words haven't had the desired effect. I turn his hand in mine, examining its strength, its capacity for making me feel like the most loved woman in the world just as his body has. I kiss his palm, place his cross and chain within it, and close his hand over the precious metal. He kisses me then, so deep and thorough, so soul shattering as if to imprint himself and his touch on me. Like he doesn't want me to forget him or us. Like I ever could. "I'm sorry, D. I'll call you tomorrow as soon as I get a minute alone. Sweet dreams." He caresses my cheek and then he's gone, off on the next case for who knows how long. Life is so unfair sometimes. Especially my life and the new dilemma I face. Despite the difficulty involved, I know what I have to do. Time to own up for the sake of Michael's sanity and before the doubts undercut us too deep. ##### Arriving promptly to the basement office at 9 am on the pretense of finishing up paperwork has not eased my nerves over having my little talk with Mulder. As always, files are spread out on his desk; but cracking seeds seems to be his main objective this morning. He eyes me as I hang up my coat and fix my morning cup of caffeine. I notice that he looks like shit; he needs a shave and some sleep badly. "Mornin'," he mumbles as I near my area. "Hi," I return. I sit my coffee cup down and then plant myself into my chair. I begin to speak as I flip through my neat stack of papers, purposefully avoiding eye contact. I state the obvious. "You called last night. What was on your mind?" "Nothing really. I just wanted to touch base. Things . . . haven't been right between us." No shit and they are only going to get worse with the news I have for him. I know I'll hurt him, but why should I feel guilty about caring for someone else? And, damn it, I don't feel guilty. Still, I can't look in his eyes; and I speak to him with my eyes fixed on my work. "I've been wanting to talk to you myself. I wanted you to hear this from me. Um, . . . I've been seeing Agent Anzotti for awhile, and I wanted to ask that you not call me at odd hours of the night or on weekends about work related stuff," I say as delicately as I can, the words coming out in a rush. When I finally have the courage to meet his eyes, he does not appear surprised though he can't mask the deep hurt and feelings of betrayal. All along, our voices have been low and hushed in case of prying ears and then he signals me over to the corner of the room. We are really going to get into this. "That's all you have to say? Why? I thought we talked about it. What about =us=?" "What =about= us? And we never really talked. That's the problem." "I thought we had an understanding to wait. An understanding that once this was over we wanted more. The two of us. Together. Celebrating what we both know exists between us." But waiting had left too many uncertainties, too many tough questions that needed to be answered. "Mulder, I'm not sure what exists between us anymore. And once this is over? Will it ever be over? Will we survive? Will my cancer stay in remission? Will sheer will be enough to ward off the impulses calling me to the next massacre or abduction? . . . It's not enough. Promises of what may be are not enough for me anymore." He grabs my arm, clamping onto it like a vice. "Then how about now? No more waiting, Scully. I told you I loved you, and I meant it," he says fiercely. My head is spinning. The selfish bastard. Why now? God damn him for doing this to me now after I've just about given my heart and most certainly my body to another man. But there is no turning back. Not now no matter how much I've wanted Mulder and probably always would. Not after I'd spent all weekend in Michael's arms, the two of us making mad, passionate, mind-blowing love to one another. I don't think; I let my heart speak the words for me. "No, Mulder. It's too late. It involves more than just you and me now, and I won't leave him." I should say more, tell him how I feel about Michael; but I'm not even sure myself. I want Mulder to know that turning him down is not meant to hurt or punish him for anything that transpired between us in the past. But I don't get the chance. My mouth goes dry at his reaction. Tears well in his eyes at the realization of what I'm saying, and he drops my hand instantly like I've burned him. He blinks back the tears of surprise and anguish. Maybe I have burned him. Even after everything that had happened with Fowley and my relationship with Michael, I think he believed he'd always be my first priority, my first choice. Hell, =I= always thought he would be. Things have changed drastically. It's time I figure out what Michael Anzotti means to me. He steps back to clear himself of the space I inhabit, his back bumping up against the wall. "Skinner's waiting for us," he croaks pitifully and flees. I blink back my own tears. ##### Being away for two and a half weeks without seeing Dana felt like one long, grueling month. Hearing her voice almost every night, however, kept me sane on this dead end case. When I finally arrive back in DC, it is still relatively early enough to have stopped by Dana's on the way home. Unfortunately, I am dead tired and wouldn't have been any use to her anyway--at least not for what I wanted us to do. The thoughts of our bodies writhing together as they had done that one amazing weekend sustained me through the hellish time away. I call her briefly to let her know I'm safe and sound. No matter how much flying being a field agent requires, she's still uncomfortable with it and tends to worry a bit. Her voice had been thick with sleep as she must have dozed off; that was why I let her go so easily, her protests aside. Usually, we talk for a good half hour or so. I shuck off my shoes and the jacket of my suit, pull the shirt open and out of my pants and detach that strangling piece of fabric we call a tie. At least I've made myself somewhat comfortable for the coming blow. I settle down with the pile of mail my elderly neighbor is kind enough to collect for me whenever I'm out of town. It's a lot easier to have her retrieve it and leave it in a bin in my backyard than to get ahold of the post office to stop delivery every time I'm gone. I flip through it, disinterested. Bill. Bill. Junk. Bill. Junk. Junk. Junk. A thick manila envelope catches my attention, but I don't know what it is or who it's from since there's no return address or post mark. What I see when I open that particular piece of mail shocks and horrifies me. Not what it is exactly. But what's described on its pages. What's been done. What's been endured. My hands gently tremble as I scan page after page trying to make some sense of it. I feel sick and weak, like someone has crushed in my chest with a two ton weight. Anger shoots through me thinking about the appearance of this information on my doorstep. I have no right to see it. Whoever sent it had no right. Highly confidential and sensitive material like this is not easily accessible. Highly confidential. Not easily accessible. Nearly impossible to obtain. The possibilities of this churn in my head. Could it be? Would he dare? That motherfucker if he did. I launch myself at the nearest phone. "Gina, it's me," I practically growl. "Little brother, what a pleasant surprise." "Unfortunately, this isn't a social call." "Yeah, you sound agitated. What's up?" "Think back. Did you tell Tony I was seeing someone?" "Uh, probably. Why?" "Did you tell him her name? Do you think he told Sal?" "No, I didn't tell Tony her name. I just mentioned you were seeing someone in passing, in casual conversation. And I doubt he would mention it to Sal; we try not to say too much about you with him around. Besides, he has other ways, you know that." "I know," I confirm. "I swear, Gina. If he did what I think he may have done, I'll rip his fuckin' head off," I threaten, my words laced with hatred. "Mike, calm down. What's this about?" "I can't get into it right now. Especially when I don't have any proof." "Mike, whatever you do, don't start with him." I don't respond. "=Michael,=" she warns. "I won't start unless he does. I can't make any other promises." It sounds childish, but I can't help it. Quickly, I change the subject, not wanting to let on how enraged I feel. We exchange some niceties and then I manage to get her off the phone without her prodding me any further. Now, the only thing I want is to hear Dana's honeyed voice. Hear her assurances that she is fine. Really fine, not just her practiced litany. Well, so much for being home. I'm back where I want to be but trapped in a new kind of hell. ##### 2:38 am. 3:02 am. 3:28 am. I'm hoping my eyes are playing tricks on me with the time as I stare at those annoyingly bright red digits of the alarm clock yet again. For the life of me, sleep will not come this night. I try desperately to shut my entire body down but my mind has other ideas. The things I had seen in that file played over and over in my head though I had willed them to stop. It is maddening, like I have no control over my own thoughts. Aside from the insomnia, I feel miserable--the not knowing is eating away at me, festering in my brain and in my stomach. I had never had a problem with ulcers before, but I think that time had passed. Canceling a date with Dana the next day is the absolute last thing I want to do, but I can't handle this. So I made plans to shoot hoops with Mulder. With no intention of playing, mind you. I figure I'll just meet him on the courts and then drag him to the local watering hole to spill his guts. If anyone knows the information I am seeking, it's him. I'm not even sure why he agreed because I'm positive he's not too happy with me these days. I'm thankful for small favors though as I didn't know how else to go about finding out and easing my mind. And, I have nothing to apologize for. It is not my fault it took him six years and me to wake him up and get it right. I know the score with Mulder no matter how much Dana denies it. I enter the doors to the B-ball courts and see him already practicing for our one-on-one. He notices me standing here in my suit and tie but continues his ritual. I edge closer to the court thinking he would meet me half way, but he continues his show, not missing a shot. I call his name but get nothing. Nothing but dribble, shoot, swish. Another basket. Now I'm aggravated, and I stalk over to him with an attitude. "You saw me, and I called you. Do you think I'm standin' here for my health?" His NY Knicks impression again. Dribble. Shoot. Swish. "I thought we were playing tonight," he trys all innocent. Another perfect shot. That underachieving team should sign him up. "I can't. Something's come up, and I need to talk to you about it." The words spill out of my mouth sounding more troubling than I intend. It then starts to dawn on him what this is most likely concerning. =Who= it's concerning. He dribbles a few more times and manages another shot, albeit feeble. This is the only shot he misses as the ball bounces sharply off the rim, landing with a thudding bounce and then a series of trickling bounces. Now forgotten about, the ball rolls to the opposite end of the court. He turns to me intense, worried. "Scully's all right, isn't she?" "She's fine," my voice falters a bit, although I try to be convincing. Was she all right? I was afraid I didn't have a clue. ##### The local bar/restaurant is hopping with people left over from happy hour. Luckily, some young women are vacating a booth as I walk to the back looking for some place to talk this thing out. They eye Mulder and myself with interest though neither of us can really other to be flattered or react. Not when Dana Scully is on the brain. Not to mention in the heart and in the soul. In our very being. Mulder calls out to the barmaid when we sit down. "Yeah, can I get a couple of beers over here? . . . On tap. . . thanks." He then turns to me. "Now, what's this all about, Mike?" I slide the manila envelope across the table. "I need to know if this is for real." "What is it?" "Just open it." His brow furrows in confusion and disturbance as he flips through the contents of the envelope. "Where did you get this?" The barmaid arrives with a pitcher of beer and two iced mugs. When he realizes my answer is not forthcoming, he repeats himself. "I asked you where you got this." "It doesn't matter." "It =does matter=. These are Scully's medical records. =Confidential= records that are not easily attainable . . . this is illegal, not to mention an invasion of her privacy." Like the Oxford pseudo psychologist is telling me something I don't know. "Mulder, I can't worry about that right now. I need to know if those records are real." I began to wonder if Sal had faked the documents just to fuck with my head. I wouldn't put anything past him especially when it came to ruining my life. "What are you getting at? Do you have reason to believe that they were fabricated?" My silence annoys Mulder, but I'm not about to volunteer any personal information. The waitress brings over another pitcher full of beer. "Look, Mike, the fact that you won't give me anything here is pissing me off; but I believe you care about her and only have her best interests at heart. I wish to a God I don't believe in that none of this was true, but it is. She hasn't shared any of this with you?" "No, just that she can't bear children because of something that was done to her." "Well, I'm really not the one you should be talking to about this." "Mulder, you know as well as I do how she'd react if I brought this up to her." "Then wait. She'll tell you when she's ready." "I can't do that. It's like torture knowing that the person you love has been hurt like this and you can't do anything, can't help them, don't even know a thing about it. I =need= you to tell me, Mulder. Please. I need to reconcile it in my own head." I'm begging, and I don't give a fuck. Love. Mulder visibly flinched when I'd had said the "L" word; he didn't want anyone to love her but him, I could tell. She was his in his mind. Not Dana when you talked about her. Scully. His Scully. It's like talking about two different people. But he can have that part of her, that 50%, as long as I get =all= of her. Finally, Mulder gives in to the desperation in my pleading. It is excruciatingly hard for him to get it out, having obviously dredged up painful memories he would rather soon forget. The feelings of betrayal by sharing this very personal information with me are etched all over his face. He talks of her missing time of three months, her distant memories of being experimented upon, and a resulting cancer. I don't get intricate details out of him, and he will not answer any of my questions save for my inquiry about the scary trance-like behavior I had witnessed back in Maryland. He doesn't answer the why of it, only that it was a result of what had been done to her. He's also nice enough to mention that the cancer is in remission when I ask about it, stunned and agonizing over her plight. As the news fully impacts me, my heart is sinking, my head pounding, my hopes and dreams crashing. Ironically, I'm not so sure that knowing the truth is better than not knowing. Be careful what you wish for as they say. How the hell does Dana handle all this? I don't think I even know the half of it, and I'm a wreck. Why can't she confide in me? Share the burden. I knew she's a trooper, but these are things you can't keep to yourself forever. They have already started to affect us with her willingness to just let our relationship fall by the wayside in evidence. If I hadn't practically dragged her to the boat that one night, we would have been kaput without my receiving any explanation. Mulder rises to leave and noticing my distress all along tries to offer a measure of comfort. "Relax, she's all right. Goes for check ups every three months," he says as he squeezes my shoulder. "I know it's scary shit and a lot to take in, but don't hurt her. She's been hurt enough for two lifetimes." In response, I manage a pathetic smile. "And if you do hurt her, I'll have to fuck you up," he adds with a smirk and a laugh. But I know he's dead serious. We're talking about the love of both our lives. He leaves me alone to drown my sorrows in a full pitcher of beer. I don't disappoint. ##### Saturday comes and Michael and I finally get together after he has avoided me for two whole days. First, he cancels to shoot baskets with Mulder of all things and then it's some lame excuse about taking care of errands and laundry. On a Friday night no less. Something is most definitely up. Despite my suspicions, I act as if everything is hunky-dory. Well, it is with me. I leveled with Mulder, and, now, my hunk of a man is back in town. What else can a girl ask for? No more guilt pangs and hot sex with a great man I care deeply for. Now, if I could just figure out what is bugging him, why he's avoiding spending time with me. And why is he being overly sweet on the phone? Don't get me wrong; he's always that way. But now it's to the nth degree and nauseating. I don the skimpiest, sexiest thing I own for him and our night in DC for an extra special dinner and a little dancing. By the look on his face, he appreciates my efforts but is quiet, almost subdued throughout our meal, watching me with worried, concerned eyes. When he isn't asking me if I'm okay, we speak of trivial things when I can get him to talk at all. Unlike my past mistakes with Mulder, I am determined to keep the lines of communication open with us just like Michael had told me to, just like he had proven could work. Therefore, I tell him I know something is wrong and I out and out ask him what it is. He lies, of course, saying I'm imagining things. Whatever. I'm not imagining how he seems to be in a dilemma trying to decide how to hold me as we dance. It is alternately close and tight like he is trying to prevent me from bolting out of his arms (out of his life?) or the opposite, like I'm a fragile porcelain doll. That night, he makes love to me tenderly, gently. Reverently. Like I'm to be worshipped, cherished, adored. It is what I need at this time, and he seems to know it instinctively. He always seems to know exactly how or where I want to be touched, the force and pressure with which to do it to bring me the utmost pleasure and satisfaction. Sexually sated, we lie spooned in our bed on the edge of sleep. Well, I'm on the edge for awhile until I gradually became aware of his hand washing over my skin, slowly and softly rubbing me. With each loving stroke over my ass and my back, he begins to spark the flame of my never ending desire and arousal for him although I won't let him know it. I bite my lip to control my libido, to just lie back and enjoy his ministrations. He gives the serpent on my back a thorough going over, apparently fascinated by it, tracing the brilliant inked circle over and over with his fingertips. I hope he won't ask me about it; it's just a tattoo, nothing more, nothing less. Basically, it was a strange instance in my life that I regret because of Ed Jerse himself, not because of the way I acted or that I permanently marked my flesh. I think he wants to ask me but isn't sure whether I am asleep or not. I play along like I am, still enjoying the feel of his beautiful hand travelling up my back. Then, his fingers begin to trail the nape of my neck, and I think my heart has stopped in trepidation. I will his hand to disappear, not wanting him to feel that rough patch of skin under his soft fingertips. But he does. And I don't know how I stop myself from flinching at the contact. His fingers skim the area several times in such a way that it's like he knows something is there. Like he's looking for it. Searching. Confirming. Cataloguing. No, I scream to myself. It's just my imagination. This is Michael we are talking about for heaven's sake. The man who has done nothing but love me. Comfort me. Encourage me. He is just exploring my body as any lover would. My solitary, untrusting, paranoid life has caused me to doubt everyone and their intentions. Everyone but Mulder. And it isn't fair. It isn't right. I hate it, hate thinking of Michael that way. Somehow, I prevent myself from taking most likely an innocent situation and turning it into something else, something negative, something that will scar us(no pun intended). I continue to feign sleep although I don't know how Michael doesn't hear my heart hammering away hard and fast in my chest, my nerves stretched to the limit, contemplating what is happening. Once again, his hand skims the base of my neck; and his warm, soft lips press into the scarred area. Then the words I both long for and dread escape his mouth, soft but certain, assured, positive of his feelings. "I love you, Dana." Three little words that he practically whispers to me, tickling my neck, sending chills down my entire body. Words that have the ultimate power to break us, to change everything. Three little words that I know were inevitable for him since that night on his boat. Three words that have been inevitable for me since . . . hell, since the moment I laid eyes on him. I love you, too, I say to myself but not to him. No, never to him. I'm supposed to be asleep, right? Yes, I will deny him this truth for as long as possible, keep it to myself and not risk getting hurt. He pulls us closer, and he sleeps well into the night. I, on the other hand, lie awake for quite some time, unable to get past the lump in my throat and some silent tears that have spilled from my eyes. I guess I must have finally fallen asleep because at around 2:45 am, one of our cell phone sounds, scaring both of us half to death. Michael fumbles around in the dark to get to it. Turns out it's his partner's wife, Leigh, who is going into early labor. Her husband is out of town, and she has no family living near by. That leaves it to Michael to help her and be there for her; it's his responsibility. That's what partners are for. Michael hurriedly dresses and comes over to my side of the bed when he notices me trying to untangle myself from the covers to rise. "Don't get up," he urges and smooths my unruly hair away from my face and eyes. "I'll go with you." "No, it's late, go back to bed. I'm sorry this woke you. I'll help her out and be back here before you know it." "Who are you kidding? You're going to be there awhile," I inform him and rise from the bed. I slip on my robe and flip on a small lamp so he can navigate in my relatively unfamiliar room. "I'll meet you back here in the morning then," he suggests with a shrug. He grabs his leather jacket and then my hand, leading us out of the bedroom towards my apartment door. "So, I'll meet you back here?" he queries as we face each other, his hands smoothing up and down my arms. "No, I'll come by you. Maybe you can manage an hour or two of sleep before I get there. I'll even buy you breakfast." "Just because you're buying don't think you can have your way with me," he teases. "Oh, I don't =think= I can have my way with you, I =know= I can," I tease back, my hand deftly finding his cock and stroking him through his jeans. A moan of pleasure sounds from him. "Yeah, you can," he sheepishly admits, both of us knowing exactly what my touch does to him. He pulls me into a tight embrace, and we just hold onto one another for a long moment in silence. We reluctantly disentangle ourselves, and he takes hold of my face, caressing my cheek with his fingers. "I love you." "I know," I say and smile one of my 1,000 watters, those three little words still caught in my throat. "Now, get out of here, baby." I swatt and squeeze his perfect ass for emphasis. "Careful driving at this hour." He pecks me on the mouth, and we linger there, wanting more contact. But he has work to do, and I push him away lightly. "Get going," I urge as I straighten the collar of his jacket. "Bye, D. I'll see you in the morning." XXXXXX