From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* Words Interlude:  "Early Morning Words" NC-17 (1/1)
Date: Mon, 17 Jun 96 00:56:13 -0500


A Words Interlude:  Early Morning Words NC-17 (1/1)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Hey!  This piece was written as a birthday present for my good 
friend, Connie, a fan of NC-17stories and fan fic in general.  
As she is a sweetheart, Con has been kind enough to give her 
permission for me to post this.  After all, it =is= her story. :)  
The disclaimer is your usual rock and roll.  I don't own either of 
these characters.  CC, 1013 and Fox do.  No money is being made.
This is fun.  Nothing more.  Erotica warning ahead.  No plot.  (I
think "No Greater Love" cured me of that urge for awhile.)
Enjoy!  Comments appreciated at the above address.  Those of
you who wrote regarding "NGL", please be patient.  I'm digging
out from under an overloaded mailbox.  Thanks. :)
=================================================

	Dana Scully awoke to find a man's hand on her breast.
	Now, like any young woman who lived alone, she 
might have found this turn of events a trifle alarming, especially 
given the recent state of her love life.
	But not the *current* state of her love life.
	Not for the past several months.
	Not since she and her partner had decided to finally 
do something about the attraction each of them had sensed 
simmering just below the surface of their professional 
relationship.  Had, in fact, been maddeningly aware of ever 
since the first moment they had met.  When Fox Mulder had 
looked up from his desktop full of slides upon her initial 
entrance into his basement sanctuary, taken her outstretched 
hand in greeting, given her his very best mocking smile and 
murmured, "Well, isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded."
	Isn't it nice, indeed?
	She stirred ever so slightly, arching her back, offering 
herself up to the hand that continued to glide teasingly over her.  
Circling.  Fingertips tracing her gently rounded curves with a 
frankly proprietary relish.  Warming her through the cotton 
jersey she had pulled on the night before in deference to the 
slight draft that had prevailed, the shirt that now lay bunched 
on the swell of her hip.  The one that bore the insignia of 
Mulder's beloved Knicks.  The one she had donned because 
it belonged to him, smelled of him, and settled over her as 
softly as did his arms, his hands.
	They were lying in her bed, she and Mulder, on their 
sides, her back to his chest, his arm tossed possessively over 
her slender form, indulging in a bit of the taboo.  Mulder had 
spent the night.  With her.  For the first time since they had 
consummated their relationship.  Now, for most couples this 
would not be considered particularly unusual, let alone daring.
	And yet, for them, it was both.
	After all, they were not supposed to be doing this.  
Any of it.  They were partners.  Their profession strictly 
prohibited any sort of fraternization.  Especially of the sort in 
which she and the man who was at present pressing soft wet 
kisses in a line from just below her ear to the juncture of her 
neck and shoulder were reveling.  Not only did they risk the 
displeasure of their superiors, and the very real danger of 
separation.  But, should their liaison be made known, they both 
faced the threat of having each of them used against the other.  
To control them.  To distract them from their work, their respective 
quests.
	As someone somewhere had tried to do when they had 
ripped her from Mulder's side for all those long, lonely months, 
nearly killing her.
	And him.
	If the shadowy forces they struggled against had opted 
to be that cruel, that heartless when they had believed she and 
Mulder to be merely good friends, what more would they dare if 
they knew she and the man who laid curled around her, his breath 
blowing warmly and evenly through her tousled hair, to be 
intimately involved?  The question sent a shiver shimmering 
through her.  Not the pleasant kind.  The wonderfully thrilling 
kind.  The kind Mulder could induce with merely a long lingering 
look and the promise of passion shining heatedly in his hazel 
eyes.  No.  This sort brought to mind the old saying "Someone 
just walked across my grave."
	Not something she particularly wanted to contemplate 
right at the moment.
	Not when it was early on a Saturday morning in March, 
and she lie wrapped in her lover's arms, lazy and replete after a 
night spent pleasing and being pleased.
	And knowing with almost smug satisfaction, that should 
she so desire, they could spend the entire day in just this fashion.  
In bed.  Together.  Refusing to be lured away from their cozy 
haven by anything so mundane as what the world might have to 
offer.  Knowing that all they were looking for, all that they really 
needed was right there beside them.
	Considering that delicious and decidedly decadent 
proposition, Scully sighed.  Low.  A whisper of a moan rumbling 
beneath the sound, adding depth to it.  Complexity.  Like a pinch 
of spice being added to an already tasty sauce.  Mulder heard 
the languid rush of air.  And the longing fueling it.  Almost as if 
in silent answer to her plea, he slipped one arm beneath her, 
between the mattress and her waist, and pulled her closer.  The 
hand on that arm continued the enjoyable work begun by 
Mulder's other hand.  The complete and utter seduction of her 
breast.  Seemingly discontent to merely lavish attention on one 
portion of her body, he tugged Scully's nightshirt away from her 
shoulder, allowing him to nibble carefully there on the newly 
revealed ridge of muscle.  Nipping, than laving the soft skin with 
his tongue.
	Restlessly, her legs rubbed slowly against each other, 
over each other, like a cricket's.  His longer limbs tangled with 
hers, his knee slipping between her thighs, opening her to him, 
the coarse hair on his legs tickling just a bit.  Not wanting to be 
outdone, she took the back of her foot and glided it along his 
calf.  Almost instantaneously, she heard his breath change.  
Catch.  Then, unravel.  And smiled with the knowledge.  
	Even as she slowly roused, she kept her eyes closed, 
not quite ready to wholly relinquish sleep.  The potent mingling 
of slumber and Mulder's gentle caresses having woven a spell, 
a lovely sort of never-never land she found difficult to leave.  
Besides, she couldn't really see him from their current positions 
anyway.  And with her sight disengaged she was able to 
concentrate more fully on her other senses.
	On the muted musky smell of him.  Sweet and familiar.  
The scent of them.  Of what they had done together in that bed 
not so many hours before.
	On the sound of his lips as they met her skin.  The 
faint moist smack as they pressed against her, shielding his 
teeth as they went about their infinitely pleasurable endeavor.  
	And his touch.  Most of all his touch.  Easy.  Light, 
yet sure.  Flowing with the speed of molasses over a body so 
attuned to the sweep of his fingers, so yearning for that 
quicksilver flash of arousal only he could spark, that even 
upon first contact, her nipples had instantly hardened, her 
core liquefied.  Grown hot.  Engorged.  Needy.  As if her very 
physical being had somehow become addicted to him.  As if 
once she had tasted him, his lips, his chest.  The strong planes 
of his back.  The tender column of his throat.  That part of his 
anatomy that was so very different from her own decidedly 
feminine form.  Buried inside her.  Filling the void there.  
Moving.   Slowly at first.  The tempo building.  A sheen of 
sweat misting over them.  Their pulses pounding one after 
the other, like a drum roll.  Until she and Mulder were racing 
each other for oblivion.  .  .  .  
	Oh yes, she was definitely hooked.
	And the funny thing was, it was almost as if he knew.  
Recognized the power he held over her.  Because as cautious 
as he was about expressing feelings of affection or need, even 
from the beginning Mulder had never been afraid to physically 
reach out to her.  And always, right from the start, the sensation 
of his hands on her body had wrought a kind of magic.  A 
wizardry that stole from her all her formidable restraint, her 
reason, and at times it seemed, her very identity.  The man she 
loved had without knowing it changed her.  Not for better or for 
worse.  Just . . . different.  Had challenged her.  Made her view 
the world and herself in a new and, without question,  more 
expansive way.  Had urged her to lay everything--her trust, her 
beliefs, her safety, her sanity, her heart--in his capable hands.  
He had won these concessions from her not by force or coercion.  
But by offering to her the very same thing.
	Everything he was.
	Knowing that she wouldn't laugh or scoff or regard the 
gift cheaply.
	But instead treasure it, guarding it like gold.
	Being given that kind of responsibility, that sort of 
sway, was a heady venture.  And a duty Dana Scully did not 
take lightly.  She understood that Mulder had made her the 
custodian of his heart, its caretaker.  And she promised herself 
and him that she would strive to be worthy of the honor.  That 
she would always be the one he could depend upon for comfort, 
for support, for laughter.
	And--be it physical or emotional--for love.
	"Make love to me, Mulder," she whispered, nuzzling 
her cheek against his; her voice, a breathy rendition of its usual 
husky alto.
	He answered her by capturing her ear with his teeth 
and tugging on it, before ultimately closing his lips over its lobe 
and suckling.  She gasped, her hips twitching in response.  
	Continuing his silence, Mulder tenderly brushed her 
rumpled hair back from her face, away from her ear so as to give 
him better access.  Carefully, he traced its intricate whorls, his 
breath igniting the moisture left behind by his tongue, setting 
off a string of tiny little fireworks that rippled through her.  All 
the way down to her toes.
	He then found the row of buttons holding closed the 
oversized jersey that served as her night wear.  Slowly yet  
steadily, he loosed each of them from their holes.  One by one 
they slipped free, gradually exposing more of her chest to the bite 
of the cool morning air.  Then, as smoothly as the little closures 
had eased free of their constraints, his hand, warm and slightly 
rough against her satiny skin, slipped inside the shirt to erase 
that chill.  To cup her breast, almost as if weighing it in his palm, 
his index finger and thumb carefully restraining her swollen nipple 
between them.
	She cried out with the caress, her throaty sound of 
surrender a feeble expression of just how amazing it felt to be 
held so delicately, so beautifully in his hands.  He squeezed 
carefully, exerting just the right pressure on the tiny nubbin.  
She writhed once more.  Powerless.  And yet, never feeling 
more alive, more utterly invincible than she did at moments 
such as these.  When all the sometimes confusing, oftentimes 
frightening, and always overpowering emotions she had for the 
man beside her were distilled down to their essence.  When all 
they felt for each other, all of it, every layer, every nuance was 
expressed through their bodies, much the same way that 
dancers use their craft to give life to their choreographer's 
vision or their composer's scope.  
	Scully found she liked the idea of she and her partner as 
participants in a dance, even if their "steps" had decidedly less 
vertical range than say a Baryshnikov's or a Fonteyn's, and smiled 
yet again.  As she did so, she tipped back her head so that the 
top of it rested against Mulder's shoulder, exposing her slender 
throat, like a cat begging to be petted there.  He obliged her, 
nuzzling against her pale soft skin with the bridge of his nose, 
dragging his lips over the area as well, almost as if he couldn't 
bear to lift his mouth from her, couldn't stand even that smallest 
of separations.  
	She understood his reluctance.  And her teeth closed 
over her bottom lip to hold back yet another wordless groan.  
It escaped just the same, a broken, tortured-sounding murmur 
that she almost couldn't identify as belonging to her, as coming 
from her lips; the outburst sounding that foreign to her.
	With a kind of scarcely controlled vehemence, Mulder's 
hand slipped beneath the covers, and trembling, stroked the 
length of her thigh.  It had gotten to the point where she was 
having difficulty keeping still.  She thought to turn, to roll over 
into his embrace, to face him.  But Mulder wasn't letting her.  
He kept her pinned against him, his hold gentle, yet implacable.  
And truth be known, she wasn't in all that big a hurry to alter 
their positions.  She liked the feeling of being covered by him, 
of wearing him like an exotic sort of overcoat.  She just wanted 
more.  More of him.  His caress.  His kiss.  Everything.
	Once again, with that strange intuitive sense they both 
shared, he reacted as if reading her mind.  And after smoothing 
his hand a half dozen times softly down her leg and back again, 
he hooked his thumb over the waistband of the little wisp of 
bikinis she was wearing, and yanked them down and away.
	"You won't be needing these," he assured her in a 
sleep roughened voice from right at her ear, finally speaking his 
first words to her since waking.  She felt the mattress shift, heard 
the scratchy whisper of cloth against cloth, and realized that he 
had also gotten rid of the boxers he had worn to bed.  "And for 
some reason, these are feeling tight all of a sudden."
	He then reached down and carefully pulled her top leg 
up and over his hips, so that she rested more fully against him.  
And was suddenly far more available to him.  Vulnerable to him.  
And his very talented fingers.
	She sucked in a quick harsh hiss of air when he found 
her, combing through the crisp curls where her legs met, and 
encountering incontrovertible evidence of just how badly she 
wanted him.  Wanted this.  
	He glided over the soft slick folds marking the entrance 
to her body, his gentleness devastating.  His touch, slow.  
Lingering.  Exploratory.  As if they had all the time in the world.  
As if it wasn't already taking every last drop of her composure 
just to keep from flying apart at his touch.  As if she wasn't ready 
to crawl across broken glass to feel him inside her.  
	Stroking. 
	His steel to her flint.  
	Throwing sparks.  
	Creating fire.
	As if he thought she could wait.
	As if he thought she actually would.
	But, Dana Scully had never been a pushover where Fox 
Mulder was concerned.  And she wasn't about to start now.
	So she tilted her pelvis just a bit.  Arched the small of 
her back.  Nudged against the hard, yet velvety soft length of him, 
where it lay nestled in the crease of her buttocks.  Reached back 
with her hand to hold his hips to her while she repeated the motion, 
the caress.  Until they were both moaning with it.
	Finally, Mulder gasped.  Then, chuckled.  The sound 
shaky.  Rueful.
	"God, Scully," he groaned, his voice vibrating roughly in 
the back of his throat.  "What are you trying to do--kill me?"
	"You're the one taking your own sweet time," she retorted 
lightly, the words little more than a whisper, her eyes still tightly 
shut, her hips undulating slowly in response to his continued 
fondling.  His fingers eased into her body and out again, the 
leisurely rhythm utterly bewitching her .
	"Ah, Scully, you never should rush the good stuff," 
Mulder murmured as he pressed a kiss to the corner of her eye.  
"And believe me, this. . . . you . . . . as much as I want it--all of it--
I'm in no hurry for any of it to end."
	She had more to say to him.  Arguments regarding need 
and the potency of desire.  But just then, his two fingers slipped 
slowly out of her, and drifting, glanced over the small knot of 
nerves which lie hidden in her body's nether region.  Damp from 
their foray inside her, they circled over her.
	God. . . . !
	She jerked.
	Crying out.  Her hips suddenly pumping with more 
urgency, reaching for that thing, that promise of ecstasy.  That 
shattering rush he had granted her so many times before.
	And as he moved to finally sheathe himself inside her, 
she knew with a kind of giddy joy, it was a rush that she would 
soon share with him again.
	Carefully, he pushed inside her.  Past the initial resistance 
of her body, and into its hot, wet confines.  Mulder's hand spread 
wide on her pelvic bone, pressing her to him, controlling their 
joining.  His other hand still played over her breasts, tracing their 
peaks, kneading the soft mounds, squeezing the exquisitely 
sensitive flesh with finely measured force.  At last, he was 
embedded in her.  Buried to his hilt.  
	"Yes," he groaned into her hair.
	And then slowly began to move.
	Scully couldn't get any leverage, not from where she 
lie sideways on her hip.  She had to allow Mulder to take the 
lead, to decide at just what pace their passion was to unfold.  
Judging by the speed at which he was currently driving into her, 
his groin meeting her buttocks, he was still disinclined to rush.  
He thrust at her gently from behind, his hand splayed low on 
her belly, holding her to him.  Coaxing her to rock with him.  
Urging her closer.
	His breath fanned her hair, hot and harsh.  With all his 
concentration centered on the lower half of his body--their 
bodies--on the increasingly demanding way in which his hips 
came into contact with hers, his hand had ceased its movement 
on her breasts.  It was almost as if the split in focus was too much 
for him.  As if everything he had was being poured into their 
actual union.  And so the best he could do was to merely place 
his palm over her one breast, lifting it slightly, cradling it carefully.  
In a manner that encouraged Scully to whimsically muse that 
Mulder was, at that moment, somehow guarding her heart.
	"I love this," he muttered heatedly from near her ear, 
need stripping his voice of its accustomed tenderness.  Instead, 
leaving it raw.  "I love the way you want me. . . . How you respond 
to me.  Those little gasps you make when I move inside of you.  
The feel of you taking me in, holding me . . . ."
	"I love you," she told him simply, softly.  One hand 
grabbing hold of his hair, the other running slowly up his flank, 
reveling in the play of muscle there.
	He groaned once more.  "Oh God, Dana . . . my God . . ."
	The hand that had rested below her navel, its fingers 
pointing downward, inched towards where their bodies were 
joined.  With an unerring sort of surety, it searched for that most 
sensitive point of her anatomy.  That tiny little bud that when 
manipulated by this man had the power to turn her into a mindless 
creature.  One consumed by sensation.  Divested of thought, 
language, reason, and pride.  A woman who craved release like a 
wild thing.  And who hungered with a kind of desperation for 
that same mind-blowing conclusion for her partner.
	He found her.  His fingers, slicked with her own body's 
moisture, gliding over her.  Swirling.  Sliding.  Upping her need.  
Driving her to that place where she felt she simply had to split 
right through her skin.  Her physical body incapable of containing 
all the tumult, the nearly violent desire roiling around inside her.
	Patiently, Mulder continued his loving assault.  The 
pressure he exerted over her feverishly tender skin never bruising 
or frightening.
	Merely relentless.
	Her head twisted fitfully on the pillow, her hair tangling 
over her face, tickling her nose, catching in the corner of her 
mouth.  Her eyes remained squeezed shut.
	"Let it happen," Mulder crooned in a hoarse whisper as 
he nuzzled her face, finding her temple, her cheek, through the 
coppery fringe surrounding them.  His hand and his hips unceasing 
in their efforts to totally and utterly disassemble her.  "Just let it 
come."
	She wanted to.  God.  Didn't he understand that?  It was 
just that it was so much.  What he was able to draw from her was 
often so overwhelming.  She wondered sometimes if when she was 
caught in the wave of emotions she associated with this man, if 
when she was trapped in their surge like some overly confident 
surfer clinging to her board, she might not get washed away 
completely.  If when the foam cleared, and the surf settled, she 
would cease to be altogether.  Having been sucked down, 
swallowed into the bottomless ocean that was this man.  Drowned 
by his needs, his demons, his desires.
	But, no.  This was Mulder.  A man who loved her more 
than his own life.  A man who would invite any manner of heartache 
upon himself if it meant that she would be spared even the slightest 
discomfort or sorrow.   Much as it pained her, she ruefully recognized 
this about her partner.  Understood his tendency towards self-
sacrifice.  Especially where she was concerned.    
	Certainly, he wanted her surrender.  Wanted to watch as she 
tumbled headlong into rapture.  But not to prove his power over her.  
Not to control or master her.  But instead, by giving her such a gift, 
by placing her own pleasure, her own fulfillment before his, he 
hoped to prove to her and to himself that he was worthy of her.  
That in some bizarre way  he deserved the happiness, the peace, 
the fragile sort of joy she knew without a doubt he had discovered 
as a result of their relationship.
	And with that as a motivation, how could she deny him?
	Her breath coming in frantic little gasps, she whispered, 
"Catch me, Mulder."  
	And burst into flames.
	Her mouth opened on a cry.  Her neck arched.  One small 
hand tightened on his buttocks.  Digging in to the resilient flesh 
there.  The other tugged on Mulder's hair with a force she feared 
might injure him.  Her hips shimmied helplessly as the convulsions 
cascaded through her.  
	God.  Dear God.
	The feeling was incandescent.  She was soaring.  Blazing 
across consciousness.  Her skin flushed.  Going hot, then 
surprisingly cold.  She was vaguely aware that her body was now 
dewed with sweat.  And, as if she had been hit with a bolt of 
lightning, the hair on her arms stood literally on end.  For a 
moment, she couldn't catch her breath.  Her chest heaved.
	Then, gradually, like a feather tossed on the wind, she 
floated down to earth.
	And into Mulder's arms.
	Safe.
	Secure.  
	Cherished.
	They lay there.  Still.  Mulder's hand finally ceasing its 
gentle torment, and now just holding her to him, her buttocks 
nestled in the bend of his hips.  She could sense the almost 
ferocious tension vibrating through the man beside her, the 
extent of the need he had yet to quench.  She was more than 
aware of the hard hot length of him still buried inside her.  
Longing for release.  And yet, he refrained from pumping into 
her.  From bringing himself to that same sweet peak of pleasure 
he had shown her.
	He traced her hairline with his kisses.  Trembling now.  
Like she was.
	"I love you, Dana Katherine Scully," he told her in a 
low ragged voice.  "It's never been like this for me.  Never."
	Licking her lips, she murmured, "Show me, Mulder.  Show 
me how much you love me. . . . how much you want me.  Share it 
with me.  I want you to feel the way I do right now.  I want to hear 
you moan with it.  With me.  Because of me."
	His arms tightened with nearly painful intensity around 
her.  
	Then, tucking his head against the nape of her neck, he 
began to stroke in and out of her once more.  
	This time, the finesse he had shown, the restraint, was 
sorely missing.  It was simply beyond him at that point.  He 
couldn't think, couldn't move, save to at long last strive for 
completion.  His thrusts were short.  Sharp.  Desperate.  And 
Scully wondered if despite the care he had taken with her, she 
might not be sore when all was said and done.
	 Rapidly, Mulder picked up speed.  He pounded into 
her urgently.  His breath came in harsh little pants against her 
shoulder.  His body threw heat like a bonfire.  Both her arms were 
outstretched now, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair.  
She gave herself over to him, to be used for his enjoyment, his 
ease.  He slapped against her, his arm keeping her tired legs 
spread, one still thrown over his hips.  And she knew, with the 
sort of knowledge only longtime lovers had, that he wasn't going 
to last much longer.
	Then, he stiffened.
	"Christ!"
	His muffled shout dissolved into a deep, wrenching 
groan.  Scully couldn't tell if Mulder meant the single word as a 
prayer or an oath.  But the force of the emotion itself was without 
question.  He quivered against her, his body emptying.  His arms 
crushing her to him.
	The silence that followed proved almost deafening by 
contrast to what had come before.  As if by tacit agreement, they 
each said nothing.  Scully could hear her pulse pounding in her 
temple, could sense her heart's tempo downshifting, slowing as her 
excitement ebbed.  Behind her, Mulder's uneven breath rustled her 
hair.  His embrace continued with all its fierce might.
	Finally, he withdrew from her.  And although he pulled 
from her with utmost gentleness she couldn't help but wince.  Oh, 
yes.  She was going to be doing an inspired John Wayne for the 
next several hours.  Smiling at the absurdity of the thought, she 
rolled onto her back, and opened her eyes.
	And found her partner staring down at her, a shattering 
sort of vulnerability shining in his gaze.
	How odd, she realized with a start.  She and Mulder had 
just shared the most fearsomely intimate of acts, and yet she had 
never once looked at him.  Never born witness to the emotions 
swimming in those expressive hazel eyes.  The ones that now 
poured over her, drenching her with their intensity.
	He lay sprawled half over her, his legs tangled with hers, 
his elbows planted on either side of her head, caging her with his 
body.  For the longest time, he refrained from speech.  Instead, he 
took his hand and lightly combed through her hair, lifting only a 
few of the silky strands at a time while he looked at her.  Only 
looked.  As if he hoped to catch a glimpse of something in her 
face.  Some mystery he aspired to solve.  Some truth only she 
held.
	"Do you have any idea what you mean to me?" he 
finally asked her, his voice hushed, his eyes intent.
	She reached up and traced his lips with her fingertip, 
lingering on the full curve of his lower one.  After a time, she 
nodded, her own eyes glistening.
	"Everything," Mulder told her with the faintest of smiles 
and helpless sort of shrug.
	"Not everything, Mulder," she protested, her brow 
creasing just a bit, her palm resting now against his cheek.
	"Everything," he assured her.  Then bent his head to 
press his lips to hers for a long lingering kiss, as if he thought
to end the argument in just that way.
	How had they come to this point, she wondered with a 
touch of awe as his tongue softly explored her mouth.  How 
had they gone from being two strangers, both distrustful.  
Each, miles apart in their views, their ambitions.  To this.  
This mingling of two souls, two identities.
	When had it happened?
	When did that aggravating man she worked with become 
the heart that beat inside her?  The air she needed to live.
	"Don't give me that kind of power, Mulder," she instructed 
quietly when their lips had parted, her fingers trailing over his brow.  
"I don't deserve it."
	He smiled down at her ruefully.  "It's too late.  You 
already have it.  I can't do anything about it.  It's out of my hands."	
	She smiled wanly, still troubled just a tad by the notion.
	"Besides," Mulder murmured as he leaned down to 
sprinkle kisses on her nose, her cheek, her forehead, her chin.  
"If you don't deserve it, I don't know who does."
	"That's true," she murmured back, her tone dry, her eyes 
sliding shut once more as his lips got reacquainted with her 
features.  "After all, who else would put up with you?" 
	He stopped then.
	"Hey!"
	But, she only grinned.  And, framing his face with her 
hands, she whispered, "Just know this, Agent Mulder--I am ready 
to put up with you for as long as you want me."
	"As long as all that?" he asked tenderly.
	She nodded solemnly.  "As long as all that."
	He gathered her to him once more, cradling her against
him.  "Then you better be prepared for the long haul, Scully.  
Because I don't see any end to my wanting you."
	"Good," she said with a small sigh as she burrowed 
against him, a delicious variety of lassitude washing over her.  
"I'd hate for the guy I love to get tired of me."
	"Not a chance.  Not any at all."
	She kissed him softly, just above his collarbone, in the 
hollow there.  "Hmm.  That's what I had hoped you'd say.   
'Cause, to be honest, Mulder. . . .  I'm just don't see how I could 
bear to let you go."
	"That a fact?" he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest, 
beneath her ear.
	"Mm-hmm," she told him a bit sleepily.  "Don't forget
 . . . I shot you once, and I can do it again."
	"Ouch," he chuckled, kissing the top of her head as his 
hands smoothed over her shoulders, her back.   "You've got me 
shaking now, Scully."
	"No, I don't," she said with a hint of mischief, as her fingers
trailed lightly over his chest.  "But give me a few minutes to recover, 
and I'll see what I can do."
	And as he hugged her tightly to him in response, she 
began to formulate a plan to accomplish just that.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

THE END