The Shirt 6/10
DISCLAIMER: see part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

My partner and I exchange an apprehensive look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END 6/10

The Shirt 7/10 DISCLAIMER: see part 1

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ocean roars between my ears.

###

Shit.

My heart is slamming into my ribs.

Maintain, boy.

Focus.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

Any of it.

All of it.

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

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

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

"All yours," I announce.

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

###

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

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

"Thanks," I finally say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's all yours, Scully."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END 7/10

The Shirt 8/10 DISCLAIMER: see part 1

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

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

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

###

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

Oh God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

###

OhshitOhshitOhshit.

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

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

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

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

Hope. Trust. Love.

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

It's you. It's finally you.

END 8/10

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

Oh God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I just admit to fantasizing about Scully last night?

Hell yes.

Hallelujah.

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long?" he demands impatiently.

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

"Sculllyyy..." he whines.

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

###

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He only grins and nods again, "Yup."

###

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

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

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

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

"Yes, yes," she grunts.

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

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

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

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

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

END 9a/10

The Shirt 9b/10 DISCLAIMER: see part 1

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

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

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

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

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

"What song is that?" I ask.

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

"How does it go?"

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

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

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

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

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

"/A thousand?/" she chides me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

First things first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

"C'mere." I reach for her.

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know...Scully, I -"

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

END 9b/10

The Shirt 10/10 DISCLAIMER: see part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exactly.

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, exactly, did he say?"

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

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

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

"After eight."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Scully, are you coming on to me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END

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

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