"Of Cabbages and Kings" by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
krasch3251@aol.com

I find myself fascinated with telephone calls these days.  I'm not sure why.  
I guess it must have something to do with the fact that Mulder and Scully 
have always given good phone, and I love writing dialogue almost better 
than anything.  I had started a piece of NC-17 fluff about three weeks 
ago, and discovered that with the revelations of the cancer arc episodes, 
anything quite as light-hearted as I had in mind seemed grossly out of 
place.  I'm sure I'll return to that story line one day.  But in the meantime, 
this is a little something that's been running around inside my head since 
"Memento Mori."  I don't know if I've ever seen an episode that 
*screamed* for follow-up fanfic more than that fine hour of television.  
So, this is my contribution to what is shaping up to be a veritable treasure 
trove of XF post-ep literature.  It's an SHA with a dash of UST.  PG 
for language.  Nothing more.  (My goal one day is to use every single
letter of the alphabet when categorizing my stories for the archives. <g>)

As fond of them as I am, these characters aren't mine.  They belong
to CC, 1013, and Fox.  I'm indulging my fantasies for them without
hope of profit or gain.  If you pass this story around, please keep my
name on it.

By the way, I've been in e-mail hell for the past month or more.  Suffice
it to say that if you've written to me and haven't heard back, chances 
are the reason why is that your letter got blown up or bounced back or
eaten alive--or whatever--in one of my many Delphi purges.  I'm 
terribly sorry.  I try to be a decent correspondent.  And all comments
are appreciated.  I've got two non-Delphi addys now (which are listed
above).  Perhaps I'll have better luck with these.  Thanks.

This is for my two best long distance XF buddies, Nic and Connie.  I 
love you both.

*********************************************************
SUMMARY:  Mulder gives Scully a late night jingle.  They talk of
many things.  Post Cancer Arc.
*********************************************************

              "Hello?"  The feminine voice murmuring its way down the 
telephone wire was soft.  Husky.  But untouched by sleep.  Good.  He 
had guessed right.
              "Scully?"
	"*Mulder*?  It's nearly 1:00 in the morning.  What are you 
still doing up?"
	Well, that was the question now, wasn't it.
	"Oh. . . .  Same old, same old.  Couldn't sleep.  And you know
what they say--misery loves company."
	Hearing her low answering chuckle, Mulder tipped his head 
back against the couch cushion and smiled in reply, the tension that had 
squeezed his heart since nightfall easing just a notch.  Funny how a small
dose of innocuous banter between a certain redhead and himself tended 
to have that effect on him.  "I sometimes think that my internal clock 
must be set to a different time zone.  You know?  But hey--we get to sleep 
in tomorrow morning, so this late-night thing is no big deal.  Of course, I 
could ask the same of you."
	"What?"
	"Why are you still awake?"
	"Are you telling me that you called me in the middle of the 
night to make certain I was asleep?"
	"What--is there a problem with my logic?"
	She chuckled once more.  "I'd say that logic is the least of your 
problems."
	No arguing with that.
	"So why *are* you up?" he persisted, that niggling little fear 
that clung to his soul nowadays like a parasite urging him to press the 
issue.
	Scully paused for a moment, her hesitation fueling another 
surge of worry.  One that rose up Mulder's throat like sewer water.  In 
the end, however, she relented and answered, the words suspiciously
casual.  "No reason.  I was reading, that's all.  I got caught up and lost 
track of the time."
	Now, it wasn't that he didn't trust his partner.  Not by a long
shot.  But Dana Katherine Scully had never been able to lie to him.
	Tonight was no exception.  
              Something had been left unsaid.  Mulder felt it as surely as 
the ground beneath his feet.
	And thus, secure in that belief, he began to probe.  Like a 
surgeon cautiously examining a fresh wound.
	"So . . . reading, huh?  Anything good?"
	"Define 'good'."
	"Come on, Scully.  You know what I like."
	She laughed quietly yet again.  "This from a man who has 
Doctors Seuss =and= Freud on his bookshelf."
	"Yes.  But not side by side."
	"I'm sure Sigmund is relieved."
	"No more so than Theodor."
	All right.  This banter stuff is all well and good, Mulder
silently fumed, but there comes a time, Scully, when a guy appreciates 
a direct answer.  
              Like now. 
	And yet, despite that need, that concern that was fast blossoming
into something entirely out of proportion to what had prompted it in the
first place, he said nothing.  Instead he sat, cool black leather pillowing
his back, his lips thinned in frustration, absolutely stymied as to how he 
should proceed.
	He didn't mean to intrude upon her privacy like one of those
tabloid reporters.  Honestly, he didn't.  It was only that he was worried. 
Had been since just after dinner.  Eerie though he acknowledged it was, 
he had somehow felt that evening a certain wrongness when his thoughts 
had drifted in the direction of his partner.  All through the loads of 
laundry he had hefted from his apartment to the basement and back again, 
all during that truly wretched cable film he had watched because there 
hadn't been anything else on television, he had for some reason gotten 
the impression that something wasn't quite as it should be in the world 
of Dana Scully.  
              Something besides the obvious.  
              An indefinable longing or need had seemed to emanate from 
her throughout that lonely Saturday night, calling out to him.  A kind of 
disquiet so potent, so vivid, that he had finally been forced to answer.  
              Or rather, return the call.
	 "So come on, Scully.  Give," Mulder said, doing his damnedest 
to mask his escalating alarm as he stretched out his legs before him on his 
coffee table and crossed his ankles.  "What are you so afraid of?  Unless . . . 
Don't tell me it's one of those paperbacks with a guy on the cover whose 
chest is more developed than the book's plot."
	He could almost hear her eyebrow raise.
	"Since when is a romance hero's chest of more interest to you
than the heroine's, Mulder?" Scully purred.
	 He threw as much wounded dignity into his voice as he could
manage.  "Anything else would sexist."
	"The feminists of the world thank you."
	He smiled in spite of himself, and quickly changed gears to full 
leer mode.  "Oooh.  *How* exactly?"
	She sighed.  The sound so overdone that Mulder knew without
question her annoyance was feigned.
	He grinned once more into the receiver in appreciation of her
tolerance.
	Yes.  Despite his misgivings, there was definitely still comfort 
to be found in so simple a thing as a phone call.  Still pleasure to be had 
just by listening to the sound of her voice; fond amusement in the 
way this woman managed, as she always did, to return his quips as 
effortlessly as Steffi Graf returns serve.  It was funny.  Every once and 
awhile, the ease of their relationship made him feel strangely guilty.  
As if the lack of exertion somehow made the happiness he received from 
their interaction unearned.  Without merit.
	Then he would remember where they stood.  What it had taken 
to get them to that point.
	And what they had each given up along the way.
	And he knew that whatever tenuous joy they managed to steal 
for themselves every so often had been bought and paid for many times 
over.
	"Well?" he prodded at last.  "Exactly how do you foresee this 
as yet unnamed feminist thanking me, Scully?  And please--don't be 
afraid to be specific."
	Inappropriate though he knew it was, he couldn't help but
muse over how he would like one particular feminist physician to show 
her gratitude.  
	Even if he were hard-pressed to come up with something for
which she ought to be thanking him.
	"Use your imagination."
	"I'm going to *have* to.  If not for that, then at least for coming 
up with the name of that damned book you're pulling an all-nighter to 
finish."  Oh God, Mulder, you're pathetic, he silently groaned not an 
instant after replaying his words inside his head.  Would you like a 
little cheese with that whine, sir?
	And yet, Scully didn't call him on it.  Instead, it seemed as if 
perhaps his dogged determination had finally paid off.  She hesitated for 
an instant.  Then spoke, a touch of embarrassment creeping into her voice.  
"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that I'm willing to forego sleep over these 
books, Mulder. . . ."
	What do you know?
	Scully was a sucker for the aural equivalent of his patented puppy-
dog face.
	He would do well to file that information away for future reference.
	"Books =plural=?" Mulder queried in a carefully neutral voice, not 
wanting to spook her now that he was so very close to at long last getting 
the answer to his question.  
	"Books plural," she confirmed, her voice just as neutral as his.
	He whistled, striving hard to keep up the pretense of nonchalance.  
"Scully, I'm impressed.  And exactly when did you find time to earn 
your diploma from Evelyn Woods?"
	That urged from her a weak chuckle.  "It's easy when what 
you're reading is more pictures than anything else."
	"So what are we talking here--the collected works of Gary
Larson?"
	Scully sighed, her smoke screen finally dissipating.  "If you 
really must know, Mulder, I was looking at my high school yearbooks."
	She couldn't have surprised him more if she had told him she
had been perusing that month's issue of "Hustler."
	Which would have been his next guess.
	"Your yearbooks?"
	"Yes."
	"Um . . . *why*?"
	Her tone bordered on disgruntled.  "No reason really.  I had
been doing a little cleaning this afternoon.  You know?  Rummaged
through my closets.  And I found them.  They were in a box, buried
under some sweaters."
	Okay.  So, perhaps his little Scully radar had been on the fritz.  
It wouldn't be the first time.  Especially not lately.  Mulder was among 
the first to admit that, where his partner was concerned, his protective 
instincts had been operating on full throttle the past several months.  
Maybe tonight he had merely been overreacting.  He certainly had to 
concede that he had been expecting something far more dire.  After all, 
what harm could there be in a box full of memories?
	"Reliving past glories?" he asked mildly.
	Her little snort of laughter sounded oddly devoid of humor.
"I don't recall those years as being particularly glorious."
	He could sympathize.  "Not exactly Beverly Hills 90210, huh?"
	"Not exactly."
	They both fell silent for a second or two.
	"Mulder, did you know that I have yearbooks from three 
different schools?" she murmured at last.
	Now they were getting somewhere.
	"The family was moving around a lot back then?" he asked
in as offhanded a tone as he could muster.
	"Yeah."
	He knew she didn't mean for him to hear it, but he could detect
a subtle note of melancholy underlying that simple word.  Her gentle 
sadness prompted a similar response in him.
	"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Scully, my yearbooks all
came from the same place," he offered softly.  "But believe me, that
whole 'familiarity breeds contempt' thing--it ain't all talk."
	"Not a lot of fond memories?"
	"Not particularly."
	They each sat quietly for a time.
	"What were you into, Mulder?"
	"Into?"
	"Yeah.  I mean . . . did you just go to class and come home?
Or were you a joiner?"
	"A joiner?"
	"Yeah.  You know--clubs, teams.  That kind of thing."
	He grimaced, and ran a hand over his stubbled cheek.  Oh
God, Scully.  Why are you feeling the urge to pick at old wounds?  Well,
'wounds' was probably a bit strong.  And yet, he hadn't been straying 
too far into melodrama when he had stated that high school hadn't 
exactly been what he'd call a barrel of laughs.  After all, Chilmark wasn't 
especially large.  People had known him.  Known his family.  Known 
about Samantha.  And what had happened to her.  Or what *might* 
have happened to her.
	Hell, he had grown up surrounded by the gossip, the theories, 
the speculation.  
              The accusations.
	Not that he had really blamed the curious.  He had understood 
the attraction.  Domestic tragedy is juicy stuff.
	He had just =really= hated being at the heart of the whole thing.
	No, his formative years hadn't been like Beverly Hills 90210.
More like Unsolved Mysteries.
	Or the Fall of the House of Atreus.
	But, he had wanted Scully to talk.  And she was.  Finally.  Of
course, at present the discourse more closely resembled Meet the Press
than anything else.  With him as that week's featured guest.  And yet, 
if spending a few minutes in the hot seat was what it was going to take 
to lend his partner ease he figured he could bear it easily enough.
	The good Lord knew he would have withstood a great deal
more if she had required it of him.
	"I played basketball," he said all at once.
	She paused for just a split second before speaking, almost as
if his willingness to venture down this road with her had somehow
caught her by surprise.  "Basketball?"
	"Yeah.  Made the team my sophomore year and stayed with
it till graduation."
	"What position?"
	"Guard.  Too short for anything else."
	She chuckled ruefully.  And Mulder knew without asking that 
his casual remark about height had set her off.  He wondered if Scully's
two brothers had ever included their vertically challenged sibling in
their pick-up games.  
              "Were you any good?" she queried lightly.
	"Define good," he retorted, blithely echoing her earlier comment.
	She laughed softly once more.
	"I held my own," he drawled after a beat, remembering for the 
first time in a long time the hours spent dribbling and shooting.  The 
exhaustive drills and sprints.  The smell of the locker room.  The way the 
shafts of sunlight pouring through the high gymnasium windows would 
catch the tiny specks of dust peppering the air so that they sparkled like a 
miniature band of renegade angels.  The sense of exhilaration and pride he 
would feel when the ball would catapult from his fingertips and swoosh 
through the basket.
	Nothing but net. 
	"What about the team as a whole--how good were they?"
	Mulder snapped out of his reverie.  "Scully, I lived on an 
=island=," he said with a certain dry humor.  "An island populated with 
pampered white rich kids.  Believe me, the talent pool wasn't very deep." 
	"That bad, huh?"
	He grinned at the sympathy in his partner's voice.  "I'll have 
you know we broke .500 my senior year."
	"Way to go."
	His smile broadened.
	"What else?" she asked.
	"What else what?"
	"What else did you do when you weren't hitting the books?"
	How did she know, he mused.  How had she deduced that he
had been one of those kids just looking for an excuse to be out of the 
house?  Away from the silence, and the sorrow, and the questions that 
would never be answered.
	"I ran," he said quietly, well aware of the irony embedded in 
those words.  "Cross country.  Wasn't much good at it, though.  Did it 
more for myself than anything else."
	"You have to do that sometimes," she murmured in reply.
	"Yeah.  Yeah, you do," he agreed with a nod, wondering what
exactly his partner had once done only for herself.  "Oh, . . . and debate.  
I was on the debate team for . . . a few weeks, junior year."
	"A few *weeks*?"
	"Yeah," he acknowledged with a wry quirk of his lips.  "I . .
um . . I had a disagreement with one of my teammates."
	"What kind of disagreement?" Scully asked in a decidedly 
curious voice.  
	Mulder grimaced once more.  "We were . . uh, doing mock
debates as practice.  And one of the other guys on the team . . .  well, 
he slugged me."
	"Why?"  It sounded as if she were trying valiantly to hide it, 
but he thought he could detect a faint tinge of laughter coloring her
question.
	"I disagreed with his opinion on the subject.  Kind of strongly.  
He didn't appreciate my point of view or . . . *me*.  And um . . . , he got 
upset.  I guess he must have decided that the time for talk had come to 
an end."
	"I see."
	"Hey, all I was doing was speaking my mind, Scully," he said 
a tad defensively.  "Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you
debate?  But some people don't want to hear anything that contradicts
their cozy little world view.  That kid--his name was Jerry Westerphal--
he was like that.  A real jerk.  But to this day, I'm sure that at least half 
the reason he'd gotten that way was because no one had ever bothered 
to stand up to him.  So, when he challenged me, I figured what the hell.  
You know?  Maybe the time had come."
	Silence.
	"I just wish I had hit him back," he admitted ruefully at last.
	Scully chuckled.
              "What was your topic?" she queried softly after a time.
	"Gun control."
	"For or against?"
	"For."
	"Ironic that you make your living nowadays carrying a gun.
Don't you think?"
	"Life is full of ironies."
	"True."
	"So what about you?" Mulder asked at last, thankful to finally 
be edging out of the spotlight.
	"What about me?" 
	"Hey, if we're playing High School Confidential here, Scully, I 
think it's time you 'fessed up," he said lightly, hoping she would indeed
confide in him, but silently promising both the woman on the other end
of the line and himself that he wouldn't pry if she chose not to.  "After all, 
I showed you mine.  Don't you think it's only fair you show me yours?"
	"Seems to me I showed you mine rather early in our partnership,
Mulder," Scully murmured dryly.
	A slight flush of heat swept over Mulder at the memory of his 
attractive partner dropping her robe before his astonished eyes on that 
night in Oregon.
	Pale soft skin.
	Flickering candlelight.
	Gentle curves covered with little more than scraps of fabric.  
Cloth which, in the end, revealed far more than it concealed . . .
	"Trust me, Scully.  The moment is imprinted on my soul."
	He had meant the remark playfully.  As a tease.
	It hadn't quite come out that way.
	As a result, he sat wordlessly yet again, awkwardly awaiting 
her riposte.
	"I think about it too sometimes, you know," she whispered, her 
voice both smoky and shy.
	And Mulder wondered how in the world he was ever going to 
come up with a reply to that.
	Thankfully, he didn't need to.
	Because Scully spoke once more.
	"First impressions," she murmured after a beat.  "They're a 
bitch, Mulder."
	He cleared his throat, and somehow found his voice.  "I don't 
know, . . .  that night . . . in my hotel room . . that wasn't really a *first* 
impression, per se."
	"Close enough," she said, the words sounding as if they might
have been accompanied by a small shrug.  "It was our first case, after all.  
But, I'm not so sure I'm really even talking about that night specifically."
	"What then?"
	"I don't know.  The stuff these yearbooks remind me of.  School.  
Moving around from place to place.  All of that."
	He smiled tenderly at the wistful quality of her words.  "Tough
going?"
	She sighed.  The sound more one of frustration than anything 
else.  "I guess.  I don't know.  In a way . . . I =liked= the traveling.  You
know?  The variety.  The excitement.  I saw more of the country by 
the time I went away to college than most people ever do."
	"But . . .?" Mulder queried, instinctively knowing that his partner 
had more to say on the subject.
	"But it's hard to know who you are when you're always starting
over."
	His brow furrowed.  "What do you mean?"
	She hesitated again.  But this time, he sensed that her pause
was fueled more by a need to get her thoughts in order rather than any 
sort of reticence.  "It's like . . . it's like you're climbing a mountain,
Mulder.  You start up.  But you only get a little ways, when someone
calls up to tell you that you're on the wrong mountain.  You know?  
You're not supposed to be hiking up Pike's Peak.  You're supposed to
be scaling Mount Rainier instead.  So, you head back down and you start 
from scratch.  The only thing is that the same thing happens again.  And 
again.  And pretty soon, you get really good with that first part of the 
climb.  You know it like the back of your hand.  It's comfortable.  It's
familiar.  And  somewhere along the line, you wonder if you were really 
ever even meant to make it all the way to the top.  If maybe instead
it's that first few hundred feet that define you."
	Mulder gnawed on his lower lip, considering her words.  "What 
are your first few hundred feet, Scully?"
	 To his surprise, she softly chuckled.  "You tell me, Mulder."
	"Tell you what?"
	"What was your initial impression of me?"
	"What--you mean when we first met?"
	"Yeah.  That day in your office.  What did you think of me?"
	Oh boy.  This was dangerous territory.  Just how honest could
he afford to be?  Did he admit to the secret satisfaction he had felt upon
seeing that the woman responsible for a thesis challenging Einstein
looked far more like one of ol' Albert's students than one of his 
contemporaries?  Confess that after he had gotten a gander at the way 
her prim tailored suit had hugged her curves, had noted the way her 
curtain of auburn hair had slid along her cheekbone like silk over 
silk he had suddenly decided that his predilection for leggy brunettes 
had come to an end.
	Intense, brainy little redheads.
	Oh yes.  That was much more his type.
	Not that he could tell her that.
	"What did I think of you, Scully?" Mulder mused aloud,
fully acknowledging that he was about to take the coward's way out.  
But believing, at that moment, that discretion was indeed the better part 
of valor.  "I thought . . . that you were frighteningly intelligent."
	He heard a little puff of laughter bounce against the receiver.
	"That right?"
	"Absolutely," he confirmed fearlessly.  "A whole hell of a lot 
smarter than the men who had paired you up with me."
	"Then you prove my point."
	"Which is?"
	"Which is that for as long as I can remember I have been 
defined by my intelligence."
	Mulder pondered that for a moment.  "I would think that there
could be worse ways to be defined, Scully."
	"Oh, there =are=, Mulder.  Believe me, I know that there are," 
she hastened to agree.  "And the last thing I want to do is to have what I 
know--my education, my background--belittled or undervalued."
	"I don't think you have to worry about that," he murmured,
thinking to himself that damned few women could lay claim to the kind
of knowledge Dana Scully possessed.
	Damned few men as well.
	"But at the same time, that very thing that I've worked so hard
to achieve is limiting."
	Now it was Mulder's turn to sigh in frustration.  "I'm not sure
I understand."
	"You establish yourself as something," she explained, her voice
low and calm.  "In my case--in school anyway--as a good student.  And
then, because that's now what you're known as, you feel the need to play
that role."
	"But why is that bad?"
	"It's not.  It's not," she quickly said, the words clipped, their
rhythm nearly staccato.  "But, you start to ask yourself questions.  Almost
doubting yourself and what you want.  Especially when you're young.  You 
wonder . . . would someone on the honor roll break curfew?  Would 
someone who cared so much about grades ditch class on the first really 
nice day of spring?"
	Something about Scully as a rebel without a cause tickled
Mulder's fancy.  He smiled at the image forming in his head.  "Are
you telling me that you were a stereotypical bad girl waiting to happen, 
Scully?"
	She laughed, the sound doing his heart good.  "No.  Not really.  
I had too many other considerations that kind of threw a wrench into that 
whole idea.  Mom and the Church.  Ahab and his expectations."
	"Hmm.  I don't know.  It seems to me that it could have gone
either way.  With that kind of pressure, you could either have opted for 
medical school or climbed on the back of a Harley with some guy 
named Deek."
	"Deek?"
	"It's late, Scully.  Cut me a break."
	They sat quietly for a breath or two, comfortable with the 
silence.  "No.  *Deek* was never really an option for me, Mulder,"
Scully murmured quietly at last.  "You know?  Maybe for Missy, but
never for me.  Every time we'd pack up for a new base, enroll in a new 
school, I'd play my part.  I'd go to class.  Study like crazy.  Get good 
grades.  Everyone was happy."
	"Everyone?" he queried gently.
	"Yeah.  I was," she replied just as softly.  "I really was.  I liked
the challenge.  I know it sounds . . . well, kinda dorky, but I enjoyed 
school.  I always did.  Believe me, I would never have tackled medical 
school otherwise.  And besides, there's something to be said for knowing 
what's expected of you.  For understanding the rules and just exactly how 
to follow them."
	"For having memorized the terrain on your part of the mountain?"
	"Yeah."
	Mulder chuckled ruefully.  "Bet you discovered some unexpected
twists in the trail the past few years then."
	Since you had signed on with the X-Files.
	"Oh, Mulder.  That's just it."
	What was?
	"What do you mean?"
	"Ever since I've been partnered with you, I've managed to climb 
a little bit higher up that mountain."
	"You have?"
	"Yeah.  I have.  All that other stuff--the stuff I know, the stuff 
I've learned--that's all still there.  Only now there's more.  More to who
I am."
	Mulder found himself fascinated.  "More of what exactly?"
	Humor wrapped around her words like a cat's tail around its
owner's leg.  "Good question.  Um . . . I don't know really.  More 
challenge, I guess.  More things that make me ask questions.  Of myself.  
Of life."
	"And you don't mind that?" he asked quietly, surprised by her
confession.
	"Why would I mind?" she queried back.
	He shook his head, even though he knew she couldn't see him
do so.  "I don't know.  It's just . . . does it make you happy, Scully?"
	"Does what make me happy?"
	"The questions," he said, frustrated that he couldn't quite word
his own question as succinctly as he would have liked.  "The climb."
	"Yes, Mulder.  It makes me very happy."
	Why did it suddenly feel as if their topic of conversation had
somehow shifted when he wasn't looking?
	And more importantly, why did her assurance make him want
to grin like an idiot?
	Yet, he wouldn't be her friend if he didn't point out the obvious.
	"Funny thing is, Scully . . . you just don't sound all that happy
to me."
	Silence.
	Try again, Mulder.
	"You want to tell me why?" he asked gently, nearly holding his
breath as he waited to see if she would indeed say more.
	It took some time, but finally she spoke, her voice low and 
gruff.  "It's just that I . . . I'm being called back down again."
	"What?"
	She sighed, the flow of her breath a trifle ragged.  "I won't . . . 
I'm not going to be able to finish, Mulder."
	His jaw clenched almost reflexively as her meaning became
clear.  "Says who?"
	Her voice was diminishing to little more than a whisper.  "Well
 . . . I guess you could say . . says me."
	Damn it.
	God damn it.
	"Say otherwise, Scully," he urged her, his tone crumpled like
a discarded tissue.
	"I would, Mulder," she told him gently.  "You know I would.
But I'm not certain I've been given a choice in the matter."
	He could feel the center of his chest clenching, tightening like 
a fist.  And his mouth had gone dry; so arid that he very nearly couldn't 
find the moisture necessary to swallow at all.  It was almost as if his body
was trying to physically protect him from his fears.  As if it thought that 
it could actually hold back his pain by closing off his heart, erecting 
makeshift barricades; end this very conversation by simply holding back 
his words.
	Not a bad plan, he supposed.
	But Mulder still had one last thing to say.
	"I'll tell you what," he said, struggling to speak past the stinging
in his eyes, his nose, the back of his throat.  "When you hear that voice
calling you back down, Scully, I want you to promise me something."
	"What?" she inquired softly.
	"I want you to take hold of my hand.  And no matter what the
voice says, no matter how loudly it yells, don't let go."
	"Mulder . . ."
	"Because you see, I'm up there with you, Scully," he told her 
quietly.  "I'm right there beside you."
	"I know that, Mulder.  I do," she said, her voice like frayed
velvet.
	But do you know the rest of it, Scully, he longed to ask her.
Can you make sense of all that stuff that always seems to get so tangled
up between us?  Do you understand it?  Recognize what it is.  What it
means.
	Do you know?  Really know.
	Or do you even want it?
	Want me.
	"Bet you don't know this," he challenged softly after they had
each taken a moment for themselves.
	"What?"
	"I've got a strong grip, Scully.  Maybe it's all those hours
handling a basketball.  I don't know.  But whatever it is, I don't let go."
	"I don't want you to."
	"I won't," he said, the words a vow.  "I can't."
	"Why not?"
	He considered for less than a heartbeat.  "Because I'm no good
at mountains."
	She was smiling--in confusion, no doubt.  But smiling 
nonetheless.  He was certain of it.  "What do you mean?"
	"They're too big," he said.  "Too many trails.  Too many ways to
get lost."
	She didn't say anything.
	"And they're lonely."
	"Mountains are?"
	"Yeah.  They're kinda bleak.  Don't you think?"
	"They can be, I suppose," she allowed, the smile creeping through
again.  "But the view is something else."
	"Only if you have someone to share it with."
	Pause.
	"I'd like to share that with you, Mulder," she softly said.
	"Good," he murmured, fighting the urge to sigh with relief.
"So you see . . . I need you up there with me, Scully.  To show me the 
way.  Keep me on the trail."
	"Holding your hand?"
	"I'd hold hands with you anytime, Scully."
	"I'll remember that."
	He took a deep breath.  "You do that.  And I'll even make it 
easy for you.  You won't have to do a thing.  Nothing at all.  Just hang 
on."
	His partner hesitated only an instant.
	"I'm trying, Mulder.  I swear to God, I'm trying."
*********************************************************

THE END

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things:  Of shoes
--and ships--and sealing wax--of cabbages--and kings."

--"The Walrus and the Carpenter" by Lewis Carroll

"Impossible Things" (1/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch
	
	I guess I'm playing around with a new series here.   
	I've had little choice.
	Somebody needs to tap CC on the shoulder and say, "You 
know, big guy, you really can't drop a bombshell like giving a beloved
character terminal cancer, and then expect your viewers to sit back
and be enthralled by an episode guest-starring a marching band."
	It ain't gonna happen.
	*sigh*
	Is it any wonder that people such as myself are going 
through withdrawal?
	Thankfully, while waiting for CC and company to get back 
to what is quite possibly the most exciting plot development to hit XF 
in years, talented folk such as Lydia Bower, Ms. Parrotfish and the 
rest have managed to keep us entertained with tales featuring Mulder, 
Scully, and a nasty little thing known as mortality.
	Well, just like back in the days of those WWII bond drives, 
I'm pitching in here to do my part. :)
	And no, these characters aren't mine, so how dare I
complain.  They belong to the aforementioned Big Guy, 1013, and 
Fox.  And yes, I like to believe they belong to GA and DD as well.
Lord knows I don't want to see anyone else portraying these roles.  
I'm playin' is all.  Havin' some fun.  Send this story where you will.
Just please keep my name attached to it.  Thanks.
***************************************************
ARCHIVE STUFF: This is a MSRA, although still landing firmly 
on the platonic side of the fence.  Rated R for language, sexual 
innuendo and imagery.  It follows "Of Cabbages & Kings" and 
makes references to said story.  But, I wouldn't consider either story
part of a serial.  I'm no Charles Dickens.

SUMMARY:  This time it's Scully calling her partner.  The night 
is closing in.  Can Mulder help her breathe?
***************************************************
This is for the Cafe Kids and their upcoming rendezvous in NYC.
Talk about believing in the impossible. . . .

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Fox Mulder was dreaming.
	At first, he hadn't been certain he actually was.  Hadn't 
recognized the images threading their way through his unconscious 
as being slumber induced.  After all, none of the usual signposts 
were there to guide him.  To explain what precisely was his role in 
this strange otherworld.  He found no glowing doorway silhouetting 
a tall slender alien form.  No younger sister screaming his name in
terror.  No faraway shattering of glass.  No husky, fear-filled voice 
telling him his help was needed.  Now.  Desperately.
	No.
	This dream was different.  
	Well, perhaps not so different.  He had to confess that he had, 
from time to time, indulged in such reveries in the past.
	Sometimes whilst being wide awake.
	But never with quite this degree of realism.
	He was lying on his back.  In this dream of his.  Naked.  
On something lushly cushioned.  It might have been a bed.  Yet, then 
again, maybe not.  It was hard to tell.  This place where he lay was 
dark, shadow dappled.  The pools of light separating the darkness as 
soft as the thing upon which he rested.  The resulting mood was 
wonderfully sensual.  Mysterious.  But, hardly illuminating.  No matter 
how pointedly he looked or how mightily he concentrated, his vision 
remained limited at best.
	However, that realization didn't bother him overmuch.  Who 
the hell cared about sight when you could feel like this?
	Every single pore his body possessed tingled.  All his nerve 
endings hummed as if charged; their sensitivity so acute, it bordered
upon pain.  Blood shot through his veins like mountain streams 
through high country canyons after the spring thaw.  His insides were 
nearly buzzing with life.  
	Searching for an outlet for all that energy, he found himself 
flexing his phantom fingers and toes; curling, then stretching them.  
The action as much a comfort as a sign of his agitation.  
	His impatience.  
	He was primed.  Ready.  Waiting.
	He just didn't know what for.
	And yet, this interlude wasn't unpleasant.  Far from it.  A 
light scented breeze blew in, seemingly from one of the deepest pools 
of black, warm and gentle, kissing his skin.  Gliding over him with 
fingers of its own, dawdling over the most tender patches.  The 
arch of his throat.  The inside of his thigh.  The curve of his lower 
belly.  The hard heavy muscle jutting from the cradle of his hips.
             God, it felt fantastic.  
	He swallowed the urge to moan, fearing that the rough 
urgent sound of his voice would somehow destroy the illusion of 
peace.  Of calm.  Tear him from this most enjoyable of respites.  
	After all, this place where he lay was infinitely quiet.  
Like a church or a temple.  The silence bringing with it the same 
sense of reverence such places of worship inspired.  The same 
solemnity.  The oddly weighty hush suggesting that this time, this 
nothingness, was a prelude to something of vast importance.  Of 
grandeur.  Of majesty. 
	And yet, this promise of the sublime did nothing to ease his 
turmoil, his longing.  If anything, it increased it.  Even at his best, 
Mulder recognized that he wasn't exactly what one would call a 
patient man.  He needed answers.  
	Always.
	What is this, he yearned to know.  Why am I here?  Where
is this place?  And yet, the faint, whispery sound of that ghostly 
wind was the only reply he received.  Soft and tranquil, it whistled
over him.  Through him.  Slowly lulling him.  Quelling his disquiet.  
Easing him even deeper into sleep.  For a time, he fought the nearly
hypnotic effect of that soothing flow of air.  Then finally, no longer 
able to resist, he reluctantly closed his dream eyes, giving into it. 
To the pleasure.  The stillness.
	And resigned himself to wait.
	"Mulder?"
	He would know that voice anywhere.
	Even in dreams.
	His eyelids had grown heavy during the short while they had
been lowered, and he found it surprisingly difficult to lift them.  What 
he saw when he had accomplished the task, however, made the effort 
well worth it.
	Dana Scully.
	As he had never seen her before.
	This wasn't the buttoned-down professional with whom he
had worked side by side for the past several years.  This slender woman
with the tumble of auburn hair and the bluest eyes this side of heaven
looked as if she were meant never to leave the boudoir.  Garbed in a
sheer pale confection of a nightgown, she stood over him, her posture
thoughtful; almost languid.  Her hair curled in a riot of waves around 
her flushed face, behaving as if the only order it had ever known had 
come courtesy of a pair of impatient hands raking roughly through its 
strands.  Her eyes shone smoky with arousal.  And her mouth appeared 
swollen by kisses.  Soft and full and ripe.
	"Scully?" he croaked, wondering just what the hell he had
done to merit a dream like this.
	His fantasy Scully said nothing.  Instead, she slowly sauntered
around his resting place, regarding him intently.  The force of that
gaze affecting him like a caress.
	"What . . .?" he began in a rough voice, unable to take his
eyes off her.  
	"Shhh," she crooned, a small secret smile curving her lips.
	He tried to comply.  But it was all he could do to keep from
whimpering when she stopped at his hip, and stretched out her slim 
cool hand to rest it upon his thigh, her fingers curled loosely around 
the inside of his leg.  Still, he managed it.
	Until that small devilish hand strayed upwards to brush the
backs of her fingers against his balls.
	"Ohhhh," he groaned, lifting his hips upwards, arching 
helplessly.  His eyes slid shut once more in ecstasy, his hands fisting 
to keep from grabbing her and pulling her down on top of him.  
	"Is this what you want?" the dream Scully asked him in a
hushed voice, her fingertips gliding up and down his length now, 
rubbing along him so gently, so perfectly, that he thought he might 
weep from it.
	"Yes.  Oh *God*, please . . . yes."
	Regarding him gravely for a moment, she then carefully 
climbed atop him, straddling his hips, that fragile bit of lingerie 
she wore masking the sight of her center, her heat, hovering over 
him.  But he didn't need to see it in order to feel it.  Feel her.  Not
in this world.
	Not in this lifetime.  
	No.  All he needed was the mere thought of it, and his control 
unraveled, like a strand of yarn being gently pulled free from a knitted 
scarf.  The notion that this woman knelt poised above him, ready
and willing to be joined with him in the most intimate of couplings
was almost more than he could bear.  He could feel himself twitching
to complete the bond.  Yearning to dig his fingers into the soft flesh
of her thighs and pull her down.  To sheathe himself inside the hot
depths of her small body.  
	And yet, for some reason, Mulder remained motionless.  He
didn't know where the hell his dream self was finding his restraint,
but he utterly refrained from helping his partner complete what she
had begun.  Instead, he only allowed his hands to set lightly on her 
waist, the gossamer fabric clothing her cool and slippery beneath his
fingertips.
	"Are you sure, Mulder?" inquired the woman astride him.
The look in her midnight gaze whispering to him of tangled sweaty
sheets, and sweet murmured endearments.  "You know what this 
means."
	"Yes," he said, his tone guttural and strangled with need, 
his fingers flexing on her softness just a tad.
	"You know there's no going back," she warned, leaning 
forward a bit, her palms balanced against his chest so that she was 
able to look down clearly into his eyes.
	"I know," he told her quietly, his breathing rapid and
ragged.  His heart threatening to beat its way through his breast, 
almost as if it were physically trying to reach the woman whose
hand rested atop it.
	Scully paused for just an instant more.  Then, nodded.
	"I've think we've both always known," she murmured with 
a smile, her face blossoming into radiance.  And with a sigh, she 
melted into his arms.
	Mulder's own lips curved in thanksgiving, and his hands
slid from her waist up the gentle incline of her back.
	Only when he tried to draw the woman above him into his 
embrace, he came up empty.
	Instead, she slowly disappeared.  Right before his bewildered, 
horrified eyes.  Fading gradually away, like a photograph developing in 
reverse.
	Yet, he refused to believe the evidence disclosed by his own
eyes.  Wildly, he scrambled up to a sitting position, grasping furiously 
for her.  
	And coming up with nothing.
	But the memory of her smile.
	"=God!="
	Forehead cold and clammy with sweat, Mulder flew upright
upon his couch, his hands shaking, his mouth dry, his heart hammering 
like a fire alarm.  Ringing with that sort of speed.  That sort of
urgency.
	Ringing, hell.
	That wasn't his heart.
	That was the telephone.
	God.  Oh God.  Christ.  Yet another addition to his very
own personal Chamber of Horrors, he thought with a kind of sickly
revulsion.  The old ones weren't good enough, eh, Mulder, he 
grimly mused as he fumbled around in the darkness, searching for 
the phone.  Had to come up with a brand spankin' new way to 
torture yourself.
	And that nightmare really and truly had been a form of 
punishment those nuts from the Inquisition would have loved.  What
better way to suffer than to take what you most long for and corrupt
it into your greatest fear?
	Way to go, Ace.
	Finally.  His cordless.  What time was it, anyway?
	"Mulder," he mumbled into the mouthpiece.
	"Oh.  Mulder. . . .  Sorry.  You were asleep."
	Scully.
	"No!" he barked with a bit too much gusto for his taste.  Pull 
it together, Mulder, he silently instructed himself.  It was a dream.  
That's all.  Everything's okay.  Here's Scully now.  She's on the other 
end of the line.  She's fine.
	Or as fine as anyone can be who has been left sterile and 
dying of cancer after a possible alien abduction.
	Fuck.
	Deep breath.  Clear the throat.
	"Scully.  Hey," he murmured with as much aplomb as he 
could muster.  "You didn't wake me.  I was, um . . . I was just . .
zoning.  You know.  Doing some stuff on the computer."
	"What kind of stuff?"
	He couldn't tell if she was buying it, but decided to go with 
this tack just the same.  "Oh, the usual.  Hacking into the Defense 
Department.  Checking out Celebrity Nudes.  You know."
	That earned him a small chuckle.
	Then nothing.
	"What's going on with you?" he asked in a determinedly
off-handed tone, checking the watch he had left on the coffee table as
he did so.  The faint light seeping into his apartment from outside made
the simple task harder than it should have been.  Yet, in the end he
succeeded.
	12:03.  
	The Witching Hour.
	What was up with that?   
	"So, are you waiting up for the late show or something?" he 
continued mildly after she had failed to immediately answer his initial 
question.  "I think I read somewhere that one of those Turner stations 
is running a 'Thin Man' marathon.  You know, the later installments in 
the series may lose some of the zing of the original.  But there's
always Asta to look forward to.  And Myrna Loy.  Gotta love a redhead 
who can banter."
	"Sounds great, Mulder.  Maybe I'll give it a try."
	But she didn't really sound as if she would.
	"Scully," Mulder cautiously began, feeling his way with the
care of a tightrope walker.  "Are you okay?"
	No reply.
	He tried for a chuckle.  The effort was feeble at best.  "I
mean, =I'm= usually the one doing this middle-of-the-night-telephone-
thing."
	Small sigh.  "Don't worry, Mulder.  It's no big deal.  I just
can't sleep.  That's all."
	"And you thought maybe talking to me would knock you
right out?" he teased as delicately as he could, not quite ready to
decide whether her words comforted or concerned him.
	She responded the way he had hoped she would.  She shared
with him a small soft laugh.  "Oh, I don't know, Mulder.  Somehow
talking to you has never exactly put me to sleep."
	He smiled at the fond yet rueful tone of her voice.  "Glad to 
hear it."
	"Actually, I was kinda hoping you might be able to take my
mind off of sleep.  You know?  I mean, sometimes it's best when you 
let that sort of thing just sneak up on you." 
	Something in her voice was setting off warning bells again.
And yet, he was damned if he could figure out what precisely was 
wrong.
	"You been working hard at this whole sleep issue, Scully?"
he ventured quietly, back up on the tightrope once more.
	"Yeah."  The hushed, wounded note in that single word spoke
volumes.  Mulder felt his insides clench in sympathy.
	"You want to tell me what the problem is?" he finally asked,
realizing that she might balk at his direct query, and yet deciding that 
the situation warranted such an intrusion just the same.  What the hell.  
She had let him get away with asking if she was okay.  Of course, that 
was a familiar enough question.  Especially these days.  The good Lord 
knew that if he didn't make that sort of inquiry every once and awhile, 
he'd never learn anything of any use.  Certainly not about anything as 
touchy as the state of her health.  For a woman who was known for 
being fearlessly forthright when dealing with matters of business or 
even other people's emotional states, Dana Scully could be dizzyingly 
circumspect when the focus fell on her.
	"It's nothing, Mulder," she murmured with what sounded
like a touch of embarrassment.  "Really.  It's just . . . have you ever
had one of those nights where the walls feel like they're closing in?"
	Hmm.
	"You suddenly claustrophobic, Scully?" he asked lightly,
hoping that by his not grilling her for information she might, in fact, 
find it easier to confide in him.
	"No," she said with a single grunt of humorless laughter.
"At least, I never have been.  It's just . . . the air feels heavy
tonight.  You know?"
	He did know.  And yes, the atmosphere was weighty.  Spring
had descended upon the capital that Friday as if it had a vendetta 
against winter.  Temperatures had soared, humidity coming right 
along for the ride.  By afternoon, bureaucrats and pages alike had 
strolled the Mall in their shirtsleeves.  Impromptu Frisbee games had 
sprung up on seemingly every available square of lawn.  It might only 
have been late March, but D.C.'s citizens were convinced that at long 
last the days of sub-freezing weather were behind them.
	Spring already.  Jesus.  Where had the time gone?  It seemed 
like only yesterday that he had stood, huddled against the cold, outside
the house in which Leonard Betts had grown up.  His breath puffing
in smoky little clouds of steam, he had held his cell phone to his ear,
struggling valiantly against the layers of background noise, straining
to hear his partner whisper, "Mulder, get over here right now."
	How many minutes away had you been from having your
life turned upside down, Scully, he silently queried now, another phone
pressed firmly to the side of his head.
	How many minutes had ticked away since that fateful instant?	
	How many more minutes do you have left?
	Battling against an almost drowning sorrow, Mulder conjured
up whatever slight acting ability he had, and continued on with the
conversation at hand.
	"The air probably feels heavy, Scully, because we're supposed
to get hit with a front that's blowing up the coast," he explained 
reasonably, thankful that at that moment he didn't have to look his 
partner in the eye.  Didn't have to try and carry off the ruse of calm
and control face-to-face.  That's right, Mulder.  Discuss the weather with 
her.  That should be safe.  Why mess with the other stuff?
	Christ.
	"Is it supposed to rain?" Scully asked, recalling him back to
himself.  "I didn't have the T.V. on tonight."
	"Yeah.  This whole weather system is some leftover remnant 
of that tropical storm in the Caribbean.  The rain is supposed to begin 
either late tonight or sometime tomorrow," he said, gradually 
gaining mastery over his emotions.  Stretching, he rose and crossed to 
peer out his window, almost as if checking to see the accuracy of his 
forecast.  The air trickling in through the raised casement was very 
nearly as warm as what the capital had basked in that afternoon.  
Perhaps that was where the phantom breeze in his dream had originated 
from, he mused.  But, even as he enjoyed the gentle wind, Mulder had 
to acknowledge that the approaching rain had added a density to the 
atmosphere that had been missing earlier.  A promise of things to come.
	It just hadn't reached them yet.
	"I don't know though, Scully," he murmured thoughtfully,
his brow furrowed in consideration as he took in the ebony canopy 
above.  "Maybe that guy on the news is wrong.  The moon is shining 
pretty brightly.  Doesn't appear to be a cloud in the sky."
	"Really?  I hadn't even looked outside. . . . I can't see from 
this window . . . . is the moon full?"
	"Almost.  I guess that explains why I can't quite keep that
five o'clock shadow at bay."
	She chuckled.  "I guess."
	Mulder just stood at his living room window for a beat, 
eyeing the moon bright sky and enjoying the play of the unseasonably 
sultry air over his skin.
	A notion took shape in his mind.  "Hey, Scully--can you be
ready in . . say, . . a half hour, 45 minutes?"
	His shift in topic apparently took her by surprise.  "Ready
for what?"
	"Trust me, Scully," he feinted, not wanting to divulge his
plan, thus inviting her refusal.  "I've got an idea."
	"Always a dangerous thing."
	He laughed shortly.  "Ha-ha.  Just get dressed.  Wear 
something comfortable.  And I'll be by in a little bit."
	"What is this about, Mulder?" she asked a bit warily.
	"Uh-uh," he blithely replied.  "No fair asking questions."
	"Mulder . . . .," she drawled.
	"Scully, are you thinking about sleep?"
	She hesitated, clearly confused by the manner in which
their conversation had suddenly begun bouncing all over the map.
"Um . . . no."
	"Well, there you have it," he said with a degree of satisfaction.
"Our first objective has been achieved."
	She chuckled.  "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
	He sobered for just an instant.  "I think the more important
question here is:  Are you?"
	She paused for less than a breath.  When she spoke, her voice
was low and hushed, as if she were confessing a secret.  "Yes, Mulder.  
I am."
	He smiled into the receiver, the satisfaction he had first 
enjoyed only seconds before doubling.  "Well then--hold on to your hat, 
Scully.  'Cause you ain't seen nothing yet."

Continued in Part II
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
              "There's no use trying," she said:  "one can't believe 
impossible things."  
	"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the 
Queen.  "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour 
a day.  Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible 
things before breakfast."

"Through the Looking-Glass" by Lewis Carroll

"Impossible Things" (2/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch

Please see Part I for all the intro/disclaimer stuff.  Thanks.
*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"So where exactly is it that we're headed?" inquired the
petite redhead gazing out the window of the swiftly moving Taurus.
	"Go ahead, copper.  Do your worst.  But you ain't
gonna sweat it out of me," playfully replied her companion as he 
guided the sedan down a deserted county road somewhere in rural 
Virginia.
	Geez, Mulder, don't quit your day job, that same driver mused 
not a moment after.  If that truly wretched attempt at a Jimmy Cagney 
impression was any indication, a career in Vegas as the heir apparent 
to Rich Little's throne looked to be a pipe dream at best.  Still, his
silliness had garnered him the desired response.  The corners of
Scully's lips were raised indulgently.
	"It's a good thing I trust you, Mulder," she murmured, the
smile lingering still as she scanned the darkened scenery whizzing by.
"Because to be quite honest, I have absolutely no idea where we are."
	No.  He didn't suppose that she did.  After all, he had 
never shared this place with her before.  And it was a little off the 
beaten path for her to have run across on her own.
	"It's not much further," he said with a glance in her direction.
	She nodded as she watched the blacktop unspool before
them like an ebony ribbon in the unwavering glow of the car's 
headlights.
	Mulder checked the dashboard clock.  Just shy of 1:45.  And
yet, thankfully, he had shed whatever stubborn fatigue had initially 
clung to him upon waking.  He had momentarily questioned the 
wisdom of this plan of his while sleepily shrugging his way into the 
jeans and heathered gray henley he currently wore.  After all, it was 
late, the forecast said rain, he had no idea if Scully would really even 
appreciate being dragged from her home in the middle of the night.  
However, now that they were on their way together, it seemed as if
despite those considerations, he had made the right decision.  The late 
hour certainly didn't seem to be a hindrance.  He felt awake.  Alert.  
Raring to go.
	And apparently, Scully felt the same.  When she had answered
her door clad in a long-sleeved beige cotton sweater and jeans, her 
eyes had looked up at him with the same intensity, the same sharp
intelligence they always held.  
	And yet, he thought he might have detected shadows beneath 
those expressive baby blues.  Faint crescents, the color of bruises, in 
the hollows beneath her eyes which lent a certain fragility to her 
countenance, a certain poignancy to her beauty.  A vulnerability that 
made him very glad that this woman had gone ahead and picked up the
telephone, regardless of the hour.
	"Come on, little girl," he had murmured affectionately as he 
had draped his arm around her shoulder, and guided her out of the
building and into the auto.  "We're goin' on a field trip."
	Fondly remembering the sweet sensation of her small soft 
body tucked firmly alongside his own, Mulder spied the landmark he 
had been searching for.  In the distance, a wide gnarled tree stump with 
a battered enameled milk jug atop it shimmered into view.
	"Ah.  Here we are."
	Putting on his turn signal out of habit, he pulled off the two 
lane county road and onto a narrower gravel drive.  Not a half mile later, 
he turned again.  This time the way was paved simply with packed earth, 
looking to be more a footpath than any sort of actual road.  Trees 
and bushes hugged the trail, slapping at the automobile as it forged 
through the brush, almost as if the vegetation viewed the car and its 
occupants as some sort of pesky annoyance.  The mechanical equivalent
of a mosquito or gnat. 
	"We're paying someone a visit at this hour?" Scully said with
a measure of surprise as she sat up a bit straighter in her seat, craning 
her neck as if she somehow hoped to catch a glimpse of their 
destination in the heart of the velvet blackness.
	"Nah," Mulder replied as he clung tightly to the now jittery
steering wheel, his eyes narrowed against the darkness the same way
they would have been against the noonday sun.  "Henry's not around 
this time of year.  He won't be for a few weeks yet."
	"Henry?"
	"Henry Thorpe.  The guy who owns this place."
	Scully turned her eyes to him once more, as if expecting he 
would continue.  He didn't.  She pursed her lips with frustration.  He 
had to struggle not to smile at her impatience.
	Finally, they bumped and bounced their way free of the 
encroaching forest.  The greenery that had impeded their progress 
thinned at first, then gave way completely to a grassy meadow
dotted with butter yellow crocuses.  The clearing wasn't large.  
Bordered on three sides by staggered rows of trees, its remaining face 
was actually the apex of a rather steep hill.  But, the expanse was
lovely.   Private.  Below them stretched a valley, its terrain rolling and
gentle.  In the moonlight, a narrow silvery trickle of a stream glittered, 
bisecting the field's plane.  Still more trees, serene and tall, stood like 
silent fishermen along the waterway's banks.
	"Yeah," Mulder murmured with satisfaction, a small smile
softening his features.  "This is the place."  And carefully guiding the 
automobile to just short of the incline's edge, he cut the engine, set 
the emergency brake, and exited the vehicle.
	Leaving his partner to sit, pondering just what the hell
he had gotten her into this time.
	That rumination lasted just long enough for him to get
to the rear of the Taurus and open the trunk.
	"You want to tell me what we're doing here, Mulder?"
Scully inquired dryly after she too had stepped out of the car and
crossed around to behind it.  "I mean--correct me if I'm wrong--but
isn't what we're doing commonly known as trespassing?"
	"It's not trespassing if you have an invitation," he said, 
leaning into her with a sly smile as he retrieved what he had been 
searching for and slammed shut the trunk's lid once more.
	She folded her arms across her chest and arched a brow.  
"And you obtained this invitation sometime *after* I'd called you and
*before* you came to pick me up?  This Henry Thorpe fellow must be 
some kind of a night owl."
	"Nah," he said as he tromped across the ankle high grass and 
back to the front of the car, his arms full.  Scully followed behind
him, trailing him like a shadow.  "It's a standing sort of invitation."
	Even in the muted light afforded them by the still softly
glowing moon, he could see the exasperation tightening his partner's
features.  Hmm.  Maybe it was time to come clean.
	"Henry Thorpe is a farmer," he explained, dropping his 
burden on the ground, then laying his palm against the car's hood 
to test the temperature.  A little warm.  But, not too uncomfortable.
And besides, it should cool down quickly enough.  "Well, that's 
not true.  Not really.  Not anymore.  He doesn't actually own a 'farm' 
these days.  He sold off the really productive parcels of his land a few 
years back.  All he held on to was the house and this portion of the 
property."
	Scully's hands had dropped to her hips as she surveyed first 
him, then the landscape below them, her lips pursed thoughtfully.  
"Well, even in the dark, I can see why.  It's beautiful."
	Mulder nodded as he bent down and began unfolding his 
mysterious bundle.  Shaking it out before him with a snap of his wrists, 
he stood upright with a sleeping bag, unzipped to lay flat like a blanket.  
One more fluid flip, and the quilted expanse of navy blue plaid neatly 
covered the Taurus' sloping hood.
	"Yeah.  It is nice out here," he softly agreed, glancing over his
shoulder at her while he worked.  "I thought so the very first time I 
laid eyes on it."
	"Which was?" Scully drawled dryly.
	"Which was," he said while tossing a pair of pillows on top 
of his makeshift nest so that they landed mid-windshield.  "When 
Henry called the Bureau about the aliens that kept landing in his
cornfield."
	"I see," said the small woman standing beside him, nodding
her head as if she heard this sort of thing everyday.
	Which, come to think of it, she did.
	Mulder chuckled.  "Henry is a great old guy.  But he is . . .
well . . . an *old* guy.  Very old now.  And even then, he just wasn't 
quite as sharp as he'd once been.  He'd get confused.  You know?  Some 
of the local kids had been using his fields as a kind of secret meeting 
place.  From what I could gather, not much had gone on past a few 
small campfires and a little illicit pot smoking.  Still, when Henry had 
gone out and found trampled stalks of corn and burn marks on the 
ground, he had immediately thought--"
	"Aliens," Scully finished succinctly with a bemused tilt of her 
lips.
	"Aliens," Mulder confirmed with an answering smile.
	"I see why you two hit it off," she murmured, dipping her head
to look up at him through her lashes.
	"Hey, go easy on Henry now," he said, laughing at her barb.  
"And on me too, for that matter.  The poor guy had just watched a few 
too many hours of 'Sightings' is all.  It could've happened to anyone."
	It looked as if Scully were nibbling on the inside of her cheek
in an effort to hold back what was sure to be a particularly withering 
retort.  In the end, she apparently succeeded.  "I'm not saying a word."
	He just smiled.
	"So when did you and Henry meet up, anyway?" she queried
at last, hands now slipping into the front pockets of her jeans.
	He rested his behind against the car and considered her 
question; his hands braced against the hood as well.  "Oh, it's been 
years now.  Probably before you had even graduated Quantico.  It 
was right after I had discovered the X-Files.  But, before I had 
really begun investigating them in earnest.  Henry had repeatedly 
called the local authorities about his . . . 'problem'.  They didn't know 
what to do with him, so they pointed him the direction of the Bureau.  
There had been some kind of a study on crop circles that the government 
had been participating in at the time.  It had been in all the papers. 
So I guess that seemed to the local p.d. like the best solution under the 
circumstances."
	"And it eventually wound up in your lap?" she surmised softly.
	"Yeah," he confirmed with a lop-sided grin.  "The trickle down 
theory."
	He shook his head, remembering.  "I didn't mind though.  You
know?  Henry was harmless.  He was just looking for a little bit of 
reassurance.  I think he was lonely more than anything.  After all, he 
was out here all on his own.  No family.  And then . . . of course, the 
whole thing was pretty exciting to me."
	"It was?" she asked, her brow wrinkled with surprise.
	"Yeah," he said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders.  "At 
the time, it was.  I mean . . . I had been profiling serial killers, Scully.   
Madmen.  Monsters.  The only thing was that they were monsters of 
an all too human variety.  It could wear you down sometimes.  You
know?  While what Henry was reporting . . . that was like something 
out of 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind'."
	"That's right," she murmured fondly, the breeze lifting her 
hair to flutter lightly around her cheeks.  "You always were a Spielberg 
fan."
	Mulder thought back to their first case together and smiled.
Whaddya know?  She remembered.
	"Everything but '1941'."
	"What about 'Hook'?"
	"Eww.  That too."
	She smiled, lazily shifting her weight from hip to hip.  "So, 
you and Henry have remained friends?"
	He shook his head, and scratched at the ground with his toe.  
"Not friends, really.  But we keep in touch.  I'll swing out this way 
from time to time.  Keep an eye on things.  His house is just past that 
far stand of trees there on the other side of the stream.  You can almost 
make it out from here.  Of course, you can't really get to it by car coming 
this way.  The more direct route is about three miles further down that 
county road we were on.  Anyway, I don't mind.  Henry doesn't seem to 
either.  Hell, he's not even here half the year.  He winters in Florida.  
And this place just stands vacant."
	Scully nodded thoughtfully, and looked out over the valley
below.  "Well, I can understand what attracts you easily enough.  It's 
awfully quiet, isn't it?  Peaceful.  I like it."
	The edges of his mouth curled as he took in the sight of her
profile lit by moonlight.  "Yeah.  But you haven't even really gotten 
a good look at the best part."
	"What do you mean?"
	"You keep looking down, Scully."
	"We're on a hill, Mulder.  I thought you wanted me to see
the view."
	"I do.  But I think maybe it's time for a little change in your
perspective.  Come here."
	She eyed him a bit uncertainly, no doubt reacting to the
husky, teasing tone in his voice, and wondering precisely what sort
of mischief was afoot.
	"Come on," he coaxed, with a gentle smile.  And standing 
squarely on his feet once more, he held out his hand in invitation.
	She hesitated just a second more.  Then, her mouth turning
up in an answering smile, she clasped her hand in his and took a step
forward.
	And with a gentle tug, Mulder pulled her still closer to him, 
settled his hands on the curve of her waist, and turning, deposited her 
lightly on the hood of the car.
	"What is this?" she asked, her laughter turning the simple
question musical.
	Mulder leaned his elbows on the car near her hip, his face 
hovering close to hers, his eyes gleaming in the darkness like polished 
onyx.  "Lay back."
	She looked at him for a beat.  Then, cocking a brow, she 
swiveled and shifted so that her head rested upon one of the pillows 
he had placed against the windshield earlier.
	"Wow," she whispered not soon after.  "It's been a long time.  
I had forgotten how amazing this kind of thing can be when you get 
out of the city."
	"It's something.  Isn't it?"
	"Yeah.  It really is."
	Mulder tilted back his own head and took in the sight that so
enthralled his partner.
	The night sky, unhindered by buildings or envious electricity 
sparkled with all the dazzle of Liz Taylor's jewelry box.  Sprinkled
like grains of salt against a black silk tablecloth, the stars and planets 
twinkled and shone with very nearly an exhibitionist's glee, almost as 
if they were putting on a show solely for the entertainment of the man 
and woman below.
	The pair who made up this audience said nothing, content for 
a time merely to contemplate the heavens.  Then, Mulder murmured, 
"Scoot over."
	Scully complied.  
	And he joined her atop the Ford.
	"So this is what you wanted to show me, huh, Mulder?" she 
queried softly after awhile.
	"Yeah.  Do you like it?"
	"Yes," she said simply.
	They said nothing after that for the span of several minutes.  
Instead they each lay quietly, their bodies flush against one another
from shoulder to thigh, their upper backs elevated by the slope of the car's 
windshield.  Without knowing exactly why, Mulder found it difficult to 
wipe a small stubborn smile from his face.  The subtle upturn of his
lips that had formed the moment he had settled himself next to the 
woman beside him.
	It was nice, this closeness.  Uncomplicated, yet densely textured.  
He could enjoy it simply for the sensual pleasures to be had.  The softness 
and the warmth pressed against him.  The sharp pinpricks of brilliance
above.  The freshness of the air, untainted by city smells and city noises.  
The faint chirp of crickets and the distant cries of night hunting birds.
	But there was more to the peace he felt enveloping him in its
embrace.  A deeper cause.  A more visceral need being fulfilled.  And
yet he didn't have a name for it.  This thing.  Didn't even fully 
understand it.  He thought about it, though.  All the time, it seemed, 
these days.  He had discovered, much to his dismay, that he couldn't 
escape it.  Not even if he tried.  It colored everything he did. Everything 
he thought or said.  It intruded when he least expected it.  Distracted 
him.  Teased him.  Taunted him.
	He should have minded.
	But, he didn't.
	Because he had found that he liked thinking about it.  About 
her.
	In that way. 
	And besides, this train of thought seemed to be pointing to
something.  A breakthrough of sorts.  A discovery.  The kind of 
epiphany he had read about pilgrims experiencing at holy shrines.
	Scully as his very own personal religion.
	Yeah.  There was a kind of sense in that.
	Just as long as she didn't somehow transmute from deity into  
martyr.
	"Did you ever have a telescope when you were growing up?"
	Her voice was soft, almost dreamy.  He rolled onto his side,
propped his upper body on his elbow, his cheek on his fist, and looked 
down at her.  She met his gaze, her eyes liquid and wide, her hair 
spread on the pillow beneath her head like strands of molten copper, 
wisps of it lifting now and again to kiss both their cheeks.
	"Remember who you're talking to here, Scully," he murmured
wryly, his voice sounding oddly gruff to his ears.
	She smiled, a full toothy sort of grin.  "Sorry.  I don't know 
what I was thinking."
	He smiled back.
	"We had one too.  You know?  My dad had bought one for the
whole family one Christmas.  He was always looking for ways to spend 
time with us when he was on leave.  Activities we could all do together.  
That sort of thing."
	"Sounds like a good time was had by all," Mulder said lightly,
grimly musing over the differences between his own childhood and that 
of his partner.
	"You wouldn't say that if you could have seen four pairs of eyes
all trying to steal a look through the eyepiece at the same time," Scully 
retorted dryly.
	He chuckled.  "What did you have to do--take a number?"
	"Just about."
	"So what did you look at when it was your turn?" he asked with
affection, gazing down at this woman whose low husky voice fit in so
perfectly with the almost clandestine mood of the evening, the intimate
stolen quality of their time together.
	"Oh, I don't know.  Lots of things."
	"What was your favorite, though?"
	She thought about his question before answering.  "Cassiopeia, 
I suppose."
	He arched a brow.  "Cassiopeia?  The 'Queen of Heaven'.  Why?"
	She shrugged, just a little lift of her shoulders.  "I don't know.
Probably because it was easy to see."
	Mulder smiled.  "Looking for an easy way out, Scully?"
	She grinned up at him.  "You know me."
	Yes, he did.  And the woman didn't have an easy bone in her
body.
	"No, really.  It was always so easy to spot the throne.  That
crooked little W.  You didn't even need the telescope.  And I liked how 
it was always there."
	"Cassiopeia was?"
	"Yeah.  It seemed as if no matter where you were or what time 
of the year it was, you could find those stars."
	Her eyes dipped away from his then, a sheepish little smile 
shaping her mouth.  "I liked that, what with my dad being gone so much.
It kinda seemed like if I could always see those stars, then he could
too.  You know?  I liked that connection.  It made me feel as if I were with 
him."
	Mulder nodded.  And despite the sweet sincerity with which
she had shared her story, he just couldn't resist teasing his partner a
bit.  "Wasn't that Linda Ronstandt song from a few years back about 
something like that?"
	"Something like what?"
	"You know, the song from the cartoon about the little lost 
mouse."
	It was just bright enough for him to make out the threatening 
arch of her brow.  "Leave it to you, Mulder, to ruin a perfectly good
childhood memory," she grumbled good-naturedly.
	He grinned, feeling like a kid who had just dipped the pigtails
of that little girl he liked into the inkwell behind her.
	And she smiled back at him, all her supposed pique vanishing
in an instant.		
	God, it would be so easy to touch her, he thought, losing 
himself for a moment in that smile.  To lay his palm atop her own 
hands, folded and resting upon her abdomen.  To trail a finger down 
her arm.  Thread his fingertips through the hair fluttering at her
temple.  Trace the shape of her tender mouth.  
	So simple.  So tempting.
	So utterly off limits.
	Get a grip, Mulder.
	Swallowing a sigh, he flopped over onto his back once more.
Much as he enjoyed the view, he simply couldn't continue to look down 
at her that way.  Not when they lay so closely together.  Not when he 
needed to reach out to her as badly as he did.  Taking a deep breath, he 
plunged his hands into the pockets of his jeans to help control the 
impulse.
	"There it is now."
	He followed the slim line of her index finger with his eyes.
She pointed low on the horizon, almost directly in front of them.  
"Cassiopeia?"
	"Hm-mmm."
	"With Andromeda and Perseus and the rest of the gang?"
	"You know the story?"
	"I know lots of stories."
	"Tell me one."
	Mulder hesitated.  Her request had surprised him, and it took 
him several minutes to think of an appropriate tale.  Finally, he looked 
to the stars for inspiration.
	"Do you know the myth behind the Pleiades?"
	"The Seven Sisters?"
	"Yeah.  Do you know it?"
	"Not well.  Tell it to me."
	Mulder cleared his throat.  "Well, . . . to begin at the beginning
 . . . once upon a time there were seven sisters."
	"Is this the Brothers Grimm or Greek mythology?"
	"Sheesh," he groused affably.   "Everybody's a critic."
	"This from the man who compared my story to that of an
animated rodent," she muttered silkily.
	He laughed.  "Okay.  Okay.  Let me try again."
	And he did.
	"These seven women . . . they were beautiful.  They were the
daughters of Atlas and . . . Pleione, two of the old gods."
	"Did that give them special privileges?"
	"No more so than if they had been the daughters of any other
gods," he said with a shrug.  "But, they ran with a fast crowd."
	"Made up of whom?"
	"Oh, the usual. . . . Zeus, Poseidon, Ares.  All the sisters had
various gods for lovers.  All but one."
	"What was wrong with her?"
	"Nothing.  But those gods had a tendency to be fickle.  She
opted for a mortal instead.  Less chance of him turning into some
sort of animal and sneaking into an unsuspecting virgin's bedchamber."
	"Smart girl," she commented dryly.
	"Only to a point.  The gods had the last laugh."
	"How so?"
	"She's the one star you can't see with the naked eye."
	"Bastards," she murmured.
	"Absolutely," he agreed, struggling not to laugh.   "So anyway, 
one day these seven are out doing whatever it is that women did in those 
days, when Orion stumbles across them."
	"The Hunter?"
	"I thought you didn't know this one?"
	"I don't.  Go on."
	"Well, suffice it to say, he likes what he sees.  And he makes a
play for them."
	"All seven?"
	"He was a giant."
	"Mulder, that makes no sense."
	"Scully, sometimes you just have to go with it."
	Silence while she thought that one over.
	"All right."  She didn't sound convinced.
	He decided to forge ahead anyway.
	"So, they take off.  The women are terrified.  Running for all 
they're worth.  But it's no use.  Orion is gaining on them."
	"Well, he *is* a giant," she murmured.
	"Do you want me to finish?" he asked in mock exasperation.
	"Please."
	"So, they call out to the heavens for deliverance.  The sister
who was shagging Zeus putting in a plea specifically to him.  He hears 
her cry, and saves them all."
	"How?"
	"By turning them into doves.  They flew off into the heavens
where Orion couldn't reach them."
	"Hmm. . . . Wouldn't it have been easier for Zeus to just smite
Orion down?"
	"*Smite* him down?"
	"Yeah.  With a thunderbolt or whatever."
	Once again, he fought the urge to chuckle.  "I suppose.  But 
then the Greeks would have had no explanation for the Pleiades."
	She considered this for a breath or two.
	"I don't know, Mulder," she mumbled dryly at last, her voice 
rumbling low in her register.  "It sounds like the old boy's network at 
work to me."
	"You've lost me."
	Now, Scully propped herself up so she could look him in the 
eye.  From where he lay, Mulder could see a certain amount of merriment
dancing in her gaze.  "You know what I mean," she said with a small
hint of a smile.  "This whole story reminds me of nothing so much as a
Golden Age tale of sexual harassment."
	"Excuse me?" he squeaked, wondering just where the hell she
was going with this.
	"Think about it," she urged.  "Orion was the one at fault.  But,
was he punished?  No.  He faced no consequences whatsoever for his 
actions.  None.  Those poor women were the ones who had to pick up 
and move.  Start all over again, so to speak.  Talk about your relocation 
programs."
	Mulder was only able to keep a straight face for all of about
two seconds before he finally gave in to laughter, Scully joined in right 
after him.
	"The more things change, the more they stay the same?" he
queried through his chuckles.
	"Think of my take on things as a new feminist interpretation," 
she retorted, her smile wide, her eyes shining.
	They just grinned at each other for a time.  Then, Scully
spoke.
	"Thank you," she said, her eyes nearly as soft as her voice.
	Oh God, there was danger here, Mulder recognized ruefully.
Risk at seeing his usually oh-so-serious partner in this relaxed and 
playful a mood.  Peril in the way she was looking at him, approval 
and affection swimming in her gaze.
	"For what?" he mumbled.
	"For sharing this place with me," she whispered.  "For being
the one I can call in the middle of the night."
	"You can call me anytime, Scully.  You know that."
	She nodded solemnly.  "I do."
	He studied her face for a moment, striving to discern just what
precisely was going on in that wonderfully complicated brain of hers.
	Only Scully wasn't giving up her secrets all that easily.
	So, he decided to try a direct approach.  After all, it had
worked before.
	"Why =did= you call me tonight?" he asked quietly at last.
	He could see Scully almost physically retreat.
	"I told you," she said, her voice carefully neutral.
	"You told me that you felt as if the walls were closing in," 
he said, replaying their earlier conversation in his head.
	"That's right."
	"Why do think that was?"
	She sighed and, collapsing her arm, lay on her back once
more beside him.  "Mulder, please don't play shrink.  Not tonight."
	He pushed himself to a sitting position and turned to face her.
He had been right.  There was something here.  And at that moment, 
he felt a hell of a lot more comfortable trying to discern precisely what
that something might be than he did looking up into her laughing eyes.
	"I'm not playing shrink, Scully," he said calmly, trying to
capture her gaze.  She wouldn't let him.  "I'm not playing anything.
I'm trying to be your friend."
	Her eyes flickered to his.  "It's nothing.  All right?  I know
that now."
	"What's nothing?"
	"Leave it alone," she warned, although her words came out
more weary than threatening.
	And, at last, he finally did touch her.  He laid his hand upon 
hers.  Let it rest there, warming her.  Then, gave her a little squeeze.  
"I want to help."
	Her lips twisted.  "There's nothing you can do about this."
	"Try me."
	She took a deep breath.  Then, looked him in the eye.  "I
had a headache, Mulder."
	Those five simple words sent a chill crackling through him.  
Its bite hitting him so hard that he imagined he could actually feel 
icicles forming on his insides.  "A what?"
	"A headache.  The first I've had . . . in awhile."
	He shook his head, still not wanting to believe what her 
innocent confession suggested.  "I don't . . ."
	"It started pounding," she explained, "right here."
	She pointed to a spot in the center of her forehead, just above
her eyebrows.
	She looked at him for a moment.  Hard.  Letting what she had 
said sink in.  Then, she dropped her eyes and gave a little shrug.  "It
got me thinking."
	And now, dread beginning to fill him from the bottom up, 
Mulder found himself thinking as well.

Continued in Part III
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
	"There's no use trying," she said:  "one can't believe 
impossible things."  
	"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the 
Queen.  "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour 
a day.  Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible 
things before breakfast."

"Through the Looking-Glass" by Lewis Carroll

"Impossible Things" (3/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch

Please see Part I for all the intro/disclaimer stuff.  Thanks.
*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"You don't think--?" Mulder began, hating the way his voice
crinkled when he spoke, creeping dry and weak from between his lips.
	"No," Scully said firmly, sitting up as well so that the two of
them were now very nearly huddled together in the center of the 
Taurus' hood.  "No, I don't."
	He nodded a bit hesitantly, not quite daring to believe that
all she had suffered was a false alarm.
	"It was a sinus headache, Mulder.  Pure and simple.  Probably 
brought on by that front you were telling me about earlier," she assured 
him calmly, her gaze unwavering and true.  "I took a couple of 
antihistamines and it was gone a few hours later."
	He nodded again, with a bit more certainty this time.  Although 
his hazel eyes remained troubled.
	"But, I won't lie to you," she said softly, her own eyes dipping 
all at once from his.  "It scared me, Mulder.  You know?"
	He wet his lips before replying as if taking time to gather 
strength.  Yet, when at last he spoke, his voice still sounded feeble to 
his ears.  "Yeah.  I know."
	After that, they just sat wordlessly for a time.  Scully, legs 
curled around her, the bulk of her slight weight leaning on one hand 
while the index finger of the other traced the lines of the flannel plaid 
upon which the agents rested.  Head bowed, she studied the pattern 
with her trademarked intensity, brow furrowed in concentration.  For 
his part, Mulder searched the star speckled sky.  Feet flat on the hood, 
his arms looped around his bent legs, he surveyed the heavens, looking 
for answers there, just as he always did.  
	The silence stretched between them.  Not uncomfortable.  Just
heavy.  Almost as if sensing their disquiet, the warm moist wind breathed 
over them, rippling their clothes, lovingly tousling their hair.  Fondly.  
As if they were both children again.  With little need for keeping combed 
and pressed and polished.
	Then, Scully peered up at her partner from beneath her lashes.  
He sensed her gaze immediately, and turning to regard her once more, 
ceased his reverie.  Even with night as a filter, Mulder could still make 
out her eyes' vivid jewel tone hue.  She smiled a sad little smile.  "You 
know, most of the time, I can forget about it."
	He looked at her questioningly.
	The smile strengthened.  "The cancer.  I can.  I mean . . I still 
don't feel sick.  My energy is good.   The nosebleeds are more nuisances 
than anything else.  And besides, I haven't even had one in awhile.  
Physically, I just don't detect many changes.  I don't . . . I don't know--
do . . do I look sick to you?"
	His eyes swept over her familiar features.  The delicate
construct of bone and muscle and cartilage and skin that comprised 
this most beloved of faces.  A face he knew better than his own.
	"No," he told her softly.  Yet, even as he said the words he
wondered if perhaps he might be lying to her.  If he truly could, in fact, 
ascribe to fancy rather than fact the subtle hollowing of her cheeks.  
The slight pallor he had often feared he spied there.
	Then, he decided to tell her the one thing he absolutely,
positively knew as truth.
	"You look beautiful, Scully."
	And for just a moment, neither of them even drew a breath.
Rather, they sat, each turned towards the other, shoulders touching,
his mouth level with her temple, and looked at each other.
	At first, he had to struggle against the almost overwhelming
urge to turn away.  What were you thinking, Mulder, wailed a small
frantic voice inside his head.  A little moonlight, a little intimacy, a
little scare, and your brain turns to mush?  What the hell kind of good 
do you think that sort of thing is going to do?  Christ.  As if things 
weren't already complicated enough.
	Yet, he couldn't avert his eyes.  Couldn't relinquish their hold 
on hers.  Because to do so would be to admit doubt.  Embarrassment.
	And despite the discomfort he suffered, he flatly refused to
let Scully believe he felt either where she was concerned.
	At this point in their relationship there just wasn't room for
such things.
	Nor time for them either.
	And so, they took a moment and simply gazed at each other.
It seemed to Mulder that they did so not because either of them was
unfamiliar with what they would see.  He knew without question that
Scully was as acquainted with his countenance as he was with hers.
But rather, each appeared to be trying to tell the other something.
Something that mere words were too clumsy, too limited to express.
	Then it struck him, as he mused with a touch of wonder over 
the way moonlight reflected in his partner's lovely eyes, that this 
something was the exact same nameless sensation that had been 
plaguing him for weeks.  The one haunting him as surely as the scent 
of her skin or the sweet shape of her lips.
	Oh my God.
	Scully felt the same.
	He had always hoped that she might, of course.  Had, every 
so often, suspected that she did.  But, he had never known for certain.
Never possessed the proof, tangible and immutable.  And although he
had no camera to record the moment, no witness to support his theory,
Mulder was no fool.  He might believe in extreme possibilities, but that
didn't mean he was delusional.  After all, he made his living looking for 
clues, searching for evidence.  Observation and analysis were his stock
and trade.
	Besides, it wasn't as if Scully was making it difficult for him.
The honesty that was as much a part of her as her vibrant hair shone 
there in her eyes as brightly as a whole sky full of stars.
	"Scully . . . ," he said softly, his voice rough and unsure.
	"I don't like being afraid, Mulder," she murmured with a lift
of her brows, the smallest hint of a smile flitting around the corners 
of her mouth.
	And he knew as certainly as he knew his own name that at 
that moment she wasn't only referring to her illness.
	"No one does," he told her just as quietly, his hand stretching 
out to gently smooth away a fall of auburn strands.  A few shiny pieces
had been ruffled forward by the wind to lay across her pale cool cheek,  
and he found he couldn't resist taking advantage of their waywardness.  
His fingertips slid almost like a phantom along her velvety skin.  "But 
sometimes fear is understandable."
	She moistened her lips, gravely regarding him.
	"That doesn't make it any easier," she finally said in a husky 
voice.
	"No," he sadly agreed, his hand returning to his lap.  "It 
doesn't."
	Silence.
	She nodded a bit tiredly, her shoulders drooping.  "So what
do you do when it all seems to be too much?" she whispered ruefully.  
"When you worry that if you close your eyes you won't ever open them 
again."
	Mulder hesitated.  Psychologist or no, he was sorely out
of his depth here.  How the hell was he supposed to offer comfort
and reassurance when he was as gravely in need of them as she?  Try 
though he might to banish it, the saying 'Physician, Heal Thyself' 
kept rolling around inside his head like a Barry Manilow refrain.
	Suddenly, he seized upon something.  Something that he 
thought might just get them through this.  This night.  And perhaps 
other such nights as well.
	He reached down and grabbed hold of the hand that had earlier 
been trailing restlessly over the sleeping bag.  Hooking his thumb 
around hers, he lifted their joined hands to his mouth, and pressed a 
soft kiss to the back of hers.  
	He felt a tiny shiver trickle through her in response.
	Still saying nothing, he then took his other hand and 
sandwiched hers between his own so that it lay there, small and warm 
and safe.  And waited, holding her hand.
	"What are we doing?" she quietly asked, her eyes large and
liquid as they searched his for the answer to her question.
	"We are hanging on," he said with a tender smile and a gentle
squeeze of his hand.  "Riding it out.  Doing what we need to in order to
survive."
	She considered him.  His words.  For a beat or two.  Then,
within his grasp, her hand shifted.  Her fingers threaded through his,
smoothly.  Fitting perfectly.  Like a puzzle piece that had happily found 
its mate.
	"You know, this may not be exactly a 'mountain', Mulder,"
she murmured wryly, her eyes aimed at their linked hands.  "But it is 
a hill of sorts."
	He slowly nodded, recognizing at once her reference.  "I know.  
It is.  Are you saying that you feel like someone might be trying to lure 
you down?"
	Her gaze flickered to his.  Her head bobbed once.
	He took their hands from where they rested against his leg,
and held them up, displaying them as if to illustrate the firmness of
his grip.  "It's okay, Scully.  I've got you."
	It took a minute, but the corners of her lips finally raised.  
"You won't let go now, Mulder, will you?" she asked lightly.
  	"I won't.  I told you.  I promise."
	Her smile widened upon hearing the fervent sincerity in his 
voice.
	Their eyes clung.  And a slow sweet smile spread over his face
as well.
	And with one more slight tightening of his fingers around 
hers, he lowered their hands once more so that they rested between them. 
Another idea had taken root within his brain's fertile soil.  One he hoped
might entertain her.  Take her mind off the fears that he recognized 
would not simply vanish that night.  No matter how dearly he wished it
might be so.  "In fact, I'll even go you one better," he boasted then with 
an arch of his brow.
	"How's that?"
	"I'll drown out that voice."
	"The one that's always trying to tell me what to do?"
	"That's the one."
	She chuckled.  "I see.  And exactly how do you plan on doing 
that?"
	His smile turned playful.  "By talking, of course."
	Her smile mirrored his.  "And what are you going to tell me, 
Mulder?"  
	"I don't know, Scully.  What do you want to hear?"
	She hesitated for just an instant, her lips twisting in a curious
sort of way.  Then, laying back against the pillows once more, she 
whispered, "Tell me another story."
	And he did.
	Hands still intertwined, he rested there beside her and in a 
hushed tone told her all he knew about the stars.  He shared with her 
tales of Castor and Pollux, the Gemini twins, and their voyage on the 
Argo.  He spoke of Draco.  And of Dionysus' crown, the Corona Borealis.  
He told her how the God of Pleasure had cavalierly tossed it up into the 
heavens to prove to his beloved, Ariadne, that he was indeed divine.  
Mulder described for her how jealous Hera had turned Callisto, one of 
Zeus' many lovers, into an angry she-bear.  And how, unknowing of her 
transformation, the confused creature had attacked her own son, Bootes, 
a shepherd.  Then, he showed Scully where in the firmament Zeus had 
placed these two unfortunates after their rescue.  Pointed out the stars 
that comprise Ursa Major and the Herdsman.
	Mulder even wracked his brain trying to remember all twelve 
of Hercules' Labors.  Yet, in the end, he wound up filling in the blanks 
with scenes stolen from episodes of the syndicated series.  Scully didn't
seem to notice.  She didn't interrupt him with questions and commentary
as she had before.  This time, she seemed content to listen, lying quietly,
a suggestion of a smile softening her lips.  Mulder would feel her eyes
on him from time to time as he spoke.  And from time to time, his
gaze would find hers in the windswept night.  And that still unnamed 
something he saw there drove him to continue; long after faint trails 
of clouds had begun hiding the stars that were featured in his yarns.  
Way past the point where his voice had turned gravel rough from effort 
and from the hour.
	And there were only two stories captured in that starry night 
that he couldn't relate to her.  Two constellations he refused to name or
explain.
	Cancer.
	He would not allow that word to leave his lips that night.
	And Lyra.  The lyre which had supposedly belonged to that
most gifted yet cursed of musicians, Orpheus.
	Mulder just didn't feel up to telling this woman the story of 
a man who was desperate enough and foolishly brave enough to 
descend into the underworld in search of his beloved.  Didn't think
he could bear to speak to her of a tale that seemed to promise its listener 
a happy ending, only to turn at the last minute, plunging its hero into 
madness and thrusting its heroine back into the arms of death.  
	No.  He felt quite certain that trying to relate the tragedy of 
Orpheus and Eurydice would only strangle him.
	Still, he talked unceasingly, one story melting into another. 
Until at last, dawn just over the horizon, a faint prickle of rain dotted 
their cheeks.  Grimacing, he and Scully slid stiffly off the Taurus' hood, 
grabbed the bedding, and ducked inside the car.  Just missing the worst
of the deluge.
	"Are you all right to drive?" Scully asked quietly as she
buckled herself into her seat and ran her fingers through her dampened
hair.
	Mulder turned the key in the ignition.  The engine rumbled
to life.  "Yeah.  Don't worry about it.  I'm fine."
	Drops tapped against the windshield like a chorus line of
dancers at a Busby Berkeley audition.  "You sure?" she murmured, 
her hand coming up to capture a yawn.  "It's late."
	He smiled.  It appeared as if his partner was the one who was
finally fading.  Her features had taken on that wonderfully soft blurry
quality that so often proceeds slumber.  Her cheeks were flushed from 
their sudden dash to avoid the downpour.  Her eyes regarded him from
beneath heavy lids and lashes.  Her hair sat mussed atop her head, its 
disarray fetching in the extreme.
	"Actually, it's early," he said softly, his voice a bit raw, as he
flipped on the car's wiper blades and defogger.  "But that's okay.  I feel 
good.  Why don't you go ahead though, and see if you can grab a few z's?  
I mean, after all . . . that was the point of this, right?"  
	At first it seemed as if she might protest.  But after one more
yawn escaped her, she relented.  "Just don't drive us into a ditch, 
Mulder," she whispered as, sinking down a bit in her seat, she closed 
her eyes.  "The roads are probably slippery."
	"I'll be careful," he quietly assured her as he gazed in her
direction.  She sat slouched, turned slightly towards him, her neck 
bent and arched as she searched for the most comfortable angle at which 
to rest her head.  Her small hands rubbed restlessly over her arms as if
seeking to erase a chill.  And yet, despite her apparent discomfort, he 
could already see her body relaxing, slowly easing its way into sleep.
	Swiveling around, he rummaged behind him and dragged his
leather jacket out from under the dampened bedding they had brought
with them from outside.  He hadn't worn the coat; only brought it along 
in case the weather changed.
	Which, of course, it had.
	"Here," he said, and gently settled it over her, tucking its edges
around her.  "This'll help warm you up."
	Her eyes blinked up at him sleepily.  "Thanks."
	He nodded, and took one last look at her.  Then flipping on the 
car's lights, he put the auto in reverse and went about getting them safely 
down that hill.
	In the end, it didn't prove all that difficult.  He hadn't been lying
earlier.  He actually did feel amazingly alert.  One of the advantages of a
being a lifelong insomniac, he wryly recognized as the Taurus flew 
through the Virginia countryside.  You get used to functioning with
little to no sleep.
	Somewhere along the way, much to his delight, he found a 
soulful little jazz station high on the FM dial.  He had never run across
it before, but made a mental note of its number and call letters, because
this particular DJ was playing the brand of jazz he liked.  Not that loud, 
brassy Dixieland stuff.  But mellow, smoky sounds reminiscent of dimly 
lit after hour dives and really smooth scotch on the rocks.  Of people 
who have lived life, know its beauty and its sorrow, and who aren't afraid 
to express that experience in their music.
	At first, he had worried that the radio might waken Scully.  But 
then, he had decided to chance it just the same.  Sharp though he felt as 
if he were, it didn't pay to take that sort of thing for granted.  And the 
soft, even sound of her breath coupled with the soothing thrum of the 
rain threatened to lull him into dreamland right along with her.
	Before turning on the radio, he had found himself listening to 
her.  To her rhythms.  Her rustles.  They had slept beside each other in 
the past, on stakeouts, or on other assignments that had forced them to 
share accommodations.  It wasn't as if the intimacy of it should surprise 
him, or even fascinate him.
	But it did.
	Maybe it was because he had nothing else to focus on.  Nothing
else to dream about, muse about, worry about.  But her.  While he freely
recognized it as obsessive, he not only found himself regulating his 
breathing so that it matched hers, but his eyes kept straying to her as
well.
	Talk about dangerous.
	After all, it might be the remnants of a tropical storm they
were traveling through and not a hurricane itself, but conditions were 
such that vigilance was imperative.  He needed to pay attention to the 
slick rolling blacktop.  Not to his gently slumbering partner.
	Yet he found it almost impossible to do anything else.
	She had finally settled on her side, facing him, nestled beneath 
his coat.  Her nose peeked out over the black leather, her fingers curved 
loosely around its collar.  She had adjusted the seat before she had 
nodded off, lowered it as far as it would go.  With its nearly bed-like 
angle, she had been able to bring her legs up beneath her, bending them 
at the knees, almost as if she were trying to curl into a tight little ball 
made of nothing but warm soft woman.
	Mulder wished he could just curl up right alongside of her.
	Impossible.
	Just drive, Mulder.  Keep your eyes on the road and drive.
	Even with the weather, it didn't take them long to return to D.C.
Yet, once he was there he didn't know what exactly to do.  Scully had
slipped into a deep and soothing slumber, and he hated the idea of 
waking her.  Even if to do so would mean that she would actually get 
to sleep in a bed and not in a Bureau motor pool car.
	So, he kept on driving.  Winding through Georgetown's streets
like a tourist.  Circling the White House and the various monuments. 
Rolling slowly down narrow side streets.  Listening to the radio, the 
thwap of the windshield wipers, the rain, and Scully.
	Always Scully.
	But at last, he glanced down at the gas gauge.  Hmm.  That
little needle looked to be bouncing awfully close to the big red E.  Oh 
great.  All he needed to do was run out of gas while indulging in this bit
of nonsense and Scully would have his head.  Like it or not, time was up.  
Their idyll was at an end.  He needed to take her home.
	Reluctantly, he at last pulled up outside her apartment building.  
Daybreak was probably less than an hour away, and yet with the thick
clouds overhead, the sky remained as dark as it had been before they
had left this spot seemingly an eternity ago.  The rain fell steadily,
as had the temperature.
	Scully didn't stir when the car was put into park.  Mulder had
thought the cessation of movement would rouse her.  But it didn't
appear that would be the case.  Nibbling on his lower lip while 
considering his options, he came to a decision.
	He just hoped it was the right one.  And that he didn't make a 
fool of himself.
	Getting out and carefully closing the driver's side door behind
him, he jogged around to the curb and unlocked the passenger side.
Taking care not to jostle his partner unnecessarily, he unhooked her
seat belt, slipped his hands beneath her back and knees and stood,
keeping her head covered as best he could with his jacket.
	"Mulder . . . .  what?" she mumbled, starting in his arms, her
limbs going stiff.
	"Shh, it's okay, Scully," he murmured soothingly.  "We're home
is all."
	"You can put me down," she whispered, one hand coming up
to rub wearily against her cheek.
	Mulder turned and kicked closed the car door.
	"What--and ruin all my hard work?" he teased as he began 
walking smoothly towards her building.  "Just relax.  You'll be in bed
in a matter of minutes.  Then you can go back to sleep."
	"Mulder . . . ."  The single word flowed past her lips as a long 
drawn out rush of a sigh.
	Hearing his name spoken in such a way by her honeyed voice
was almost enough to make him drop the woman in his arms.
	Or crush her to him.  Right there in the pouring rain.
	"Scully, I'd really love to argue this with you," he said gruffly
as he climbed the stairs leading to her front door.  "But, I'm getting 
soaked here.  Let's do this inside."
	Whether it was her own fatigue or pity for his condition, she
said no more.  Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder and let
him carry her the rest of the way.
	The only snag in the whole thing was fitting the key into her
apartment door without tumbling Scully onto the hallway floor.  She
did what she could, draping her arm around his neck to help support
her own weight.  That, of course, brought her head upright.
	And her face dangerously close to his.
	Still, they managed it.  Mulder maneuvered them into her
darkened apartment, shut the door behind them, and draped his
now nearly sodden jacket over a hallway chair.
	They just paused there for a moment in the entryway, letting 
their eyes adjust after the relative brightness of the corridor's fluorescents.  
It didn't occur to him to set her down.  And she seemed to have somehow 
come to terms with being cradled against his chest.
	So they stood, her head nestled in the crook of his neck.  And
enjoyed the faint heat of each other's bodies.
	"Um . . . do you want to get changed or anything?" he asked
a bit diffidently, shy now that she was indeed awake and yet strangely 
unresisting of this closeness.
	"No," she said quietly, her breath puffing against his throat, 
her arm still wrapped around his neck.  "It's okay.  I'm really too tired
to care, you know?"
	He nodded.
	And began walking towards her bedroom.
	The bed's covers were pulled down and rumpled.  Their disarray
a reminder of Scully's earlier attempt at sleep.  Setting her gently on the 
edge of the mattress, Mulder thought that the woman before him just
might have a bit more luck with the endeavor this time around.  She
sat looking at him, positively wilting with weariness, and allowed him
to remove her shoes and guide her beneath the comforter.
	"Good night, Scully," he said softly, reaching out to brush a few
errant strands of hair from her brow.  "Sweet dreams."
	He had turned and almost reached the door when he heard her
speak, her voice hushed and throaty.
	"Mulder?"
	She lay on her back, her face turned towards him, her eyes
luminous in the inky dawn.
	"Hmm?"
	"Stay."
	An almost violent shiver rippling through him, Mulder 
searched those eyes, wondering if what he thought she meant could 
possibly be what she had intended.
	She looked right back at him, longing unmistakable in her 
gaze.
	And he knew that at that moment he could choose to interpret 
her simple entreaty in whatever way he liked.  Assign it any meaning.  
Act upon it as he desired.
	And Scully would approve.
	He took a deep breath and answered her with his ruined
voice.  The one that had spun fantastic tales beneath a moonlit March
sky.  "Go to sleep, Scully.  I'll be here.  I'm not going anywhere."
	He thought he might have spied something akin to 
disappointment flickering across her features.  Then, she nodded, and 
closing her eyes, whispered, "Thank you, Mulder.  For everything."
	And he crossed out of her bedroom and into her living room.
Sitting heavily on her couch, he clutched a throw pillow to his stomach,
and laid his head back against the sofa's back.  Sighing, he closed his 
own eyes.
	And dreamed about the impossible.

THE END
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
	"There's no use trying," she said:  "one can't believe 
impossible things."  
	"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the 
Queen.  "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour 
a day.  Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible 
things before breakfast."

"Through the Looking-Glass" by Lewis Carroll

Wonderland III
"More Than Nothing" (1/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch

This is another installment in what I've decided to call my Wonderland 
series.  For those of you who aren't familiar with these stories, they 
are basically platonic MSRs focusing on the evolution of Scully and 
Mulder's relationship as they face together the threat of her cancer.  
The earlier tales in this universe are "Of Cabbages & Kings" and
"Impossible Things."  Both can be found at any of the Gossamer
Project archives.

CLASSIFICATION:  SRA

RATING:  PG (for language and theme)

SUMMARY:  Scully reaches out to Mulder.  Things are changing 
between them.  But are either of them ready for it?

DISCLAIMER:  Don't own 'em.  Never have.  Wish I did.  Not 
holding my breath.  ;)

As always, comments, questions, & criticism are welcome at krasch@
earthlink.net.  Archive & discuss, I promise I won't cry foul.

This is for all my on-line friends in transition.  You know who you are.

*********************************************************

	His telephone began ringing when Fox Mulder was two doors
down from the one leading to his apartment.  Digging in his sweat
pants pocket for his key, he urged his mutinous legs into an weary lope.
It was all he could do not to wince at what the increase in effort did to 
his thigh muscles.  Jesus, all that time on the road was wreaking havoc 
with his physical fitness.  Certainly, while running that morning, the 
crisp April air had tasted fresh as it had slipped past his lips and into 
his hungry lungs.  But by the end, his five mile jog had felt more like 
fifty.  It had taken every last ounce of energy he could muster just 
to make it across the imaginary finish line.  You're getting old, 
Mulder, he silently razzed himself as he struggled to open the portal 
separating him from his madly jangling phone.  Soon, the word 
'workout' will mean you scooting your walker ahead of you as you 
hobble to the corner for a paper.
	"Hang on, hang on, hang on," he chanted under his breath 
as he finally turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and
half shuffled, half trotted to his window-side desk.
	"Mulder," he barked as he brought the handset to his ear, 
beating his answering machine to the punch by the scarcest of margins.
	"Oh!  Mulder . . . I didn't think you were there."
	Scully.
	Mulder smiled into the mouthpiece and, pivoting, gingerly 
collapsed into the chair opposite his sofa.  "So naturally that's when 
you would choose to call me."
	She chuckled.  "No.  What I meant was it had rung so many 
times I'd expected your machine to pick up."
	"Yeah.  Well, it was touch and go there for a minute.  But in 
the end, man won out over technology," he retorted, toeing off his 
Nikes, and curling then flexing his aching feet.
	She chose not to laugh this time.  Yet even so, Mulder 
whimsically imagined he could detect amusement in her silence.
	"So, what are you doing?" she asked after a beat.
	He grimaced and looked down with a measure of distaste at
his distinctly moist running clothes.  "Sweating."
	Pause.
	"And that's taking all your concentration, is it, Mulder?"
	His lips curved upwards once more.  "Well, Scully, you know 
how I get when I focus."
	This time she did stoop to laugh quietly at his quip.  "Dare 
I ask what you did to work up this sweat?"
	"Dare away," he replied as, coming to a decision, he slipped 
first one arm, then the other free from his sweatshirt.  Holding the 
phone away from his face for just an instant, he tugged the garment 
over his head before continuing.  "The explanation is strictly G-rated."
	"Ah," Scully murmured into his ear.  "You were running."
	"You know me so well," he murmured in reply as he pressed 
his discarded piece of clothing into service as a towel and swabbed his 
chest and belly with it.
	"Lucky guess."
	"So, what's going on?" he asked, rolling the rumpled 
sweatshirt into a ball and tossing it with a high, curving arc so it 
landed in a heap on the far side of the couch.
	She hesitated for a quarter of a second.  "Well, that depends."
	"On what?" he queried, playing along.
	"On your answer to the following question."
	Mulder raised his brows in surprise.  Hmm.  What have we
here?  "Shoot."
	"How would you feel about driving out to the coast with me?"
Her voice sounded hesitant, almost shy.
	His eyebrows crept a bit higher.  "Which coast?"
	Some of the tension he had felt building between them, rising
like bread dough, dissipated just a touch.  "Well, seeing as we've only 
got the weekend, I thought it might be better to confine our travel to 
the eastern half of the nation," she muttered dryly.
	"Good idea," he said, still scrambling to figure out what 
might have prompted this decidedly un-Scullyish invitation.  "That 
cross-country stuff is murder on a car's chassis."
	"Not to mention the driver's."
	"There's not a thing in the world wrong with your chassis, 
Scully," he assured her, his voice strictly matter-of-fact.
	"You start rating my fenders and headlights, Mulder, and
you're going to wish you were road kill," she purred, the sound 
reverberating in the pit of his stomach.
	"Ouch!" he yelped in comic distress, his head tipped back 
against the cushion of the chair as if he had suffered a blow.  "Okay.  
No more car analogies.  I promise."
	"Thank you."
	"So where are we going?"
	"Is that a yes?"
	Mulder considered for less than a moment.  What other 
options were open to him that weekend?  Laundry, some Internet 
surfing, he was supposed to stop by and pick up those books he had 
loaned Frohike, the Knicks were playing the Magic . . . . .
	Or he could spend the day surf-side with the very pretty 
redhead on the other end of the telephone line.
	"Sure," he confirmed, wondering why he had even bothered 
hesitating at all, "I'll tag along."
	He thought he might have heard a small sigh of relief exhaled
softly into the receiver.  "Good."
	"So, now are you going to let me in on our destination?" he 
inquired, probing just a bit.
	"Would it affect your decision?" she parried in return.
	"No," Mulder admitted with a rueful lift of his lips.  He was 
way too intrigued by Scully's mysterious request to back out now.
	"Then, let's just leave it for the time being," she said evasively.
"I'd . . . . I'd like it to be a surprise."
	Perplexed by his partner's continued reticence, Mulder felt 
something niggle annoyingly at his peace of mind.  "Scully . . . 
everything is okay, isn't it?"
	"Everything is fine, Mulder," she said swiftly.  "Don't worry."
	Easier said than done, he silently groused.  Especially these
days.  "Okay, then," he said aloud, bowing to her wishes.  For the 
time being.  "You're the boss.  So, what's the plan?"
	"Well, it's what . . . nine?  How much time do you need to get 
ready?"
	He glanced at his watch.  "I don't know.  Forty-five minutes
. . . . an hour.  Can you pick me up at ten?"
	"No problem," she agreed smoothly.  "Oh, and . . um . . 
Mulder?  Wear something comfortable."
	"That sounds promising," he murmured in his very best 
Lounge Lizard voice.
	Scully ignored him.  "And hiking boots.  We're going to be
doing some walking."
	He nodded, considering.  Oh yippee.  Precisely what his 
tortured limbs needed.  What had he just agreed to?  "Thanks for the 
warning.  I'll see you in a bit."
	"I'll be there." 

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	And true to her word, she was.
	At ten sharp, Dana Scully rapped on his door, dressed in faded
jeans, low boots, and a bulky wheat-colored fisherman's sweater.  
	"This all right?" Mulder queried in greeting, gesturing at his 
jeans, T-shirt and chocolate brown v-neck.
	She made a show of giving him the once over.  "Yeah.  You
should be okay like that.  Although you may want to bring a jacket.  
The wind can get pretty brutal." 
	He grimaced.  "I'm going to be hiking in brutal winds?"
	She shook her head, indulgent good humor softening her 
features.  "You're going to be *walking* along the ocean.  Wind goes 
with the territory."
	"Should I be worried about chapping?"
	She glared at him with mock annoyance, and folded her arms
firmly across her chest.
	"All right," he muttered, the amusement twinkling in his 
eyes belying his disgruntled tone.  "I'm goin', I'm goin'."  Catching a 
glimpse at what he thought might be an echo of that same amusement 
in his partner's gaze, he grabbed his leather jacket from the hall tree, 
and trailed after her into the corridor.
	And saying little else, they made their way to Scully's waiting
Taurus.
	"So now what?" Mulder asked dryly as he buckled himself 
into his seat.  "Are you going to blindfold me or something?"
	"Keep it up and I might consider gagging you," she retorted
with a threatening arch of her brow.
	"Who says dreams don't come true?" he mumbled, his face 
utterly deadpan.  
	She shook her head as, with a twist of her wrist, the car's 
engine rumbled to life.  "I always knew you were a fraud, Mulder."
	"I beg your pardon?"
	With a quick peek over her shoulder, she pulled the sedan 
away from the curb and smoothly merged into traffic.  "You can dish it 
out, but you can't take it."
	His forehead furrowed with confusion.  "All right.  I admit it.  
You've completely lost me."
	A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.  "You think 
nothing of dropping by in the middle of the night and driving *me* 
God only knows where.  You consider it perfectly natural for *me* to 
just follow along without having any idea where we're headed--"
	"I thought you liked Henry's place," he challenged, wishing 
as he did so that he had somehow managed to extract the wounded 
tone from his voice.  God.  He hadn't meant to sound quite so pathetic.  
It was just that the night they had spent stargazing on the hood of his 
car had meant something to him.  Something special.  And at the time, 
he could have sworn the woman beside him had felt the same.
	"I did, Mulder," she told him quietly, her eyes stealing a 
sideways glance at him.  "I liked it very much."
	He slowly nodded, gnawing absent-mindedly on the corner of 
his lower lip.  "So, then this--?"
	 "You shared that place with me . . . Henry's place," she 
explained as she pointed the Ford in the direction of the interstate, 
her gaze focused stubbornly on the road, her voice dipping low in its 
register.  "Well . . . now, it's my turn." 
	For a moment, Mulder sat there stunned.  It was so unlike this
woman to freely offer anything like this.  She was usually so guarded, 
so careful about what bits of her personality she allowed him to see.  
He knew, on the one hand, that he should feel grateful she wanted to 
spend this time with him.  Especially now, when they had both begun 
to recognize that their hours together weren't without limits.  But, by 
the same token, he couldn't help but question his supposed good fortune.  
Perhaps it was a lifetime of being set up for disappointment, but for 
some reason he couldn't escape the notion that Dana Scully had had 
something else in mind when she had called him that spring morning.  
Something besides a carefree stroll on a still anonymous beach.
	"So, am I going to like where we're headed?" he queried
softly after a time.
	Scully pondered for just an instant before answering.  "I 
hope so."
	He nodded once more.  All the while wondering why it felt 
as if he and Scully were talking about something far more important 
than the setting for that afternoon's outing.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
	
	"Assateague Island?" Mulder murmured thoughtfully a little 
over three hours later.  "Isn't that where the wild horses are?"
	Smiling, Scully nodded as she pulled through the gates 
leading to Assateague Island National Seashore and began searching 
for a place to park.  "Yeah.  That's right.  Chincoteague may be slightly  
better known for them, but a couple small herds make their home on 
Assateague."
	"Is that why we're here?"
	"Partly."
	Chuckling ruefully at his partner's continued equivocation, 
Mulder watched as she expertly steered the Taurus towards the 
parking lot on Assateague State Park's northernmost edge.  Well, 
Scully had said she wanted their destination to be a surprise.  And she 
had certainly succeeded.  Having grown up on the east coast, he was 
vaguely familiar with this long narrow barrier island straddling the 
Maryland and Virginia state lines.  But he had never visited it.  
	First time for everything.
	With it being rather early in the season, the woman behind 
the wheel didn't have to work too hard to weave through traffic, both 
vehicular and pedestrian.  Folks milled about, true; fishermen, hikers, 
bird watchers and the like.  But the crush of humanity was nowhere 
near what he knew it undoubtedly would be during the height of 
summer.  It took them little time to find a parking space.  With a 
small smile of satisfaction,  Scully slid their Ford between a boxy 
four-wheeler and a rusting VW Bug.
	"Well, here we are," she said with a small, self-conscious
shrug as, turning the key, she killed the engine.
	He nodded, noting the sparkle of anticipation in her wide
blue eyes, the faintly nervous manner in which her hands tightened, 
then released on the steering wheel.
	Almost as if sensing his scrutiny, she dropped her gaze, 
and turned her attention instead to her seat belt.  "Come on," she 
murmured, slipping the buckle free.  And without checking to see if 
he would follow, Scully pushed open the driver side door and exited 
the car.
	His sore legs stiff after the long ride, Mulder found it difficult 
to move with the quickness shown by his companion.  She didn't seem 
to notice his sluggishness.  Indeed, after crossing around to the back 
of the auto, she had popped the trunk and had set about rummaging 
around its interior, seemingly uncaring that he had not yet joined her.  
So, as the woman leading their expedition appeared to be in no great 
rush, Mulder took his time as well, stretching out the kinks and 
considering both the place he had journeyed to and the friend who 
had brought him there.
	They were parked facing the ocean.  While the parking lot 
itself was gravel paved, a low, flat valley of sand stretched before 
them to the water.  Sprinkled with golden sea grass and studded with 
seashells, the pale beige expanse rolled like a carpet to the Atlantic, 
whose waves crashed noisily in greeting against the shore.  Green-gray 
in color, the ocean lapped and receded, bubbling white foam stretching 
towards the land-dwellers like fingers.
	Yet, opposite the sea view lie one far different.  The bay-side 
island coast looked to be rimmed with forest and marsh, with knobby 
pines and lush ferns budding with spring growth.  With nearly secluded 
mudflats the agent suspected were teeming with bird and animal life.
	Shaking his head with bemusement, Mulder wondered which
of the two worlds had called to Scully, drawing her as surely as a 
magnet attracts steel.
	Ambling around at last to the Taurus' rear bumper he glanced 
over his partner's shoulder.  She was pulling what he recognized was 
her blue nylon windbreaker from a battered canvas duffel bag.  The 
going wasn't easy, the small sack looked to be stuffed to capacity.
	"So now where to?" he asked mildly, slipping his hands into
his jeans' front pockets.
	With a final tug, the jacket popped free.  Shaking it out, she
quickly donned it, leaving its zipper undone.  Her lips stretched in a 
thin smile, Scully glanced up at him, her eyes squinting against 
the cloud bright sky.  "Well, most of the island lies in that direction," 
she said, pointing south, the way they had just come.  The way most 
of the people in the car park were headed. 
	Mulder nodded, instinctively knowing that he and Scully 
would not be following the crowd.
	"But the best part," she continued, slamming the trunk lid 
shut, "the part I wanted to show you . . . . is that way."
	She turned and, with a little lift of  her chin, indicated the
far more barren stretch of beach to the north.
	The corner of his mouth raised just a fraction.  "The road 
less traveled, Scully?" he queried softly.
	"By most, I suppose," she allowed, her voice pitched as 
quietly as his.
	"Then it's a good thing I have with me an experienced guide,"
Mulder said, his smile broadening.  And they fell in step together, 
side by side.
	Returning his smile, she mumbled, "I doubt even you could
get lost on this island, Mulder."
	He shook his head as their feet left the parking lot's rocky 
foundation, and sunk into the sand beyond.  "Don't underestimate my 
determination."
	She chuckled.  But said nothing more.  Mulder mimicked her 
restraint.  For a long, lazy time, they tromped along, arms brushing, 
faces lifted to the cool April air, journeying in companionable silence.
	They had been doing a lot of that lately, Mulder realized, 
tramping beside the woman monopolizing his musings.  Spending 
time, each near the other, neither feeling the need to say a word.  It 
wasn't just today, in the car on the way there; but in the weeks 
previous, in the office and even on the road.  
	This admittedly odd behavior hadn't struck him before.  After 
all, since entering his life so many years before, this woman had 
seemingly been more by his side than away from it.  But nowadays, it 
felt as if they each looked for reasons to keep close to one another.  
Excuses to remain together rather than be drawn apart.  
	Recently, Scully had begun bringing more lab paperwork down 
to their basement office than she ever had before.  Of course, he had 
never taken offense when she had chosen to do otherwise in the past, 
reasoning it made sense for her to do whatever documenting necessary 
with the subject of her study nearby.  Still, he had to admit, he applauded 
the switch.  And during their out-of-town cases, had begun reciprocating 
with his own version of it.  Rather than winding down for the day in his 
own room, he had begun knocking on her door, junk food and case notes 
in hand.  At first, Scully had looked at him a trifle bewilderedly.  But 
she had never turned him away.  Instead, she had smiled that gentle, 
knowing smile of hers, and cleared a place for him atop what was 
invariably the room's only table.  Graciously making space for him in 
her lodgings just as she had in her life. 
	Try though he might, Mulder couldn't remember what had 
instigated such behavior on his part; why he had decided one day that 
he could get infinitely more work done sprawled in the table-side chair 
in Scully's room rather than in the one waiting for him in his own.
	And yet, he knew the true draw, the real reason why he had
left the relative comfort of his own accommodations and sought out 
hers instead.
	After all, their rooms might have been identical.  
	But his didn't have Scully in it.  
	He liked having her nearby.  Liked watching her work,
hunched over her laptop, her hair swinging forward to brush against 
her cheeks like bright auburn wings.  He enjoyed having her there to 
bounce a theory off of, or read back a passage to.  He didn't even care 
that more often than not she wound up shooting down his newest 
plausible yet decidedly unlikely explanation.  That, when all was said
and done, was half the fun.
	But, he lived for those times when he would feel her eyes on 
him, watching without judgment or censure.  When he would lift his 
own gaze and look back at her, memorizing the delicate curves of her 
face, the way her Maker had somehow managed to combine both 
strength and vulnerability when constructing her features.  He would 
admire the intelligence burning in her sky blue eyes, and wait for that 
comment, that zinger that would end their silent stalemate and thrust 
them both back to the world of Mulder and Scully, FBI.  Not that of a 
man and a woman alone together in a motel room miles and miles from 
home.  Both weary.  Both in need of comfort.  Both unwilling to look 
elsewhere for that solace than in the company of the person sitting 
across from them.  A well-used motel bed, the only thing separating 
them.
	And yet, that was a lie.  Wasn't it?
	So many other things stood in their way.
	"Here," Scully murmured at last, coming to a halt a step or two
ahead of him, and pointing to a huge slate gray rock perhaps a half a
city block away.  Poised half-in, half-out of the water, its size and color 
reminded Mulder of a beached baby whale.  "This is the place."
	"And what place would that be?" he inquired with a gentle,
quizzical smile.
	"My favorite," she replied, looking at him over her shoulder, 
the sea breeze whipping her hair into a froth, the overcast sky filtering 
the mid-afternoon sun so that her upturned face was bathed in soft, 
muted light.
	Her favorite place, he repeated silently to himself as they 
approached the locale in question.  In all the world, this was the spot 
Dana Scully preferred.  He looked around, searching for the reason for 
her fondness.  The first thing that impacted him was how truly isolated 
the promontory was.  He had already noted how few people they had 
encountered as they had trekked north.  A handful of folks had been 
enjoying the day when he and Scully had first set out; exploring the 
beach, dodging the shorebirds, and breathing in the tangy salt-tinged 
air.  But that number had dwindled the further they had ventured from 
their car.  Until now, at the foot of their destination, not another soul 
was in earshot.
	"Come on," Scully urged as she began clambering up the 
massive stone.  "But be careful, the spray can make some of the 
footholds slippery."
	He followed along closely after her, his aching legs protesting
this latest indignity.  Bent slightly at the waist as she stretched for 
purchase on the smooth, slick-looking rock, Scully moved with the 
assurance of one who had made many such climbs in the past.  Mulder 
couldn't boast such expertise.  Still, he didn't mind.  Their positions 
meant that his partner's rounded little bottom swayed enticingly inches 
from his face.
	Much to his disappointment, he couldn't long enjoy the view.  
Their climb just wasn't that challenging.  Within seconds they reached 
the summit.  
	For a moment, neither said anything.  Instead, they each 
stood, legs braced against the wind, and took in the panorama.  The 
hues surrounding them were as cool as the air; pale blues and grays 
and greens and beiges.  It seemed to Mulder a subtle palette.  Delicate 
in texture.  Dreamlike in atmosphere. 
	And yet, the watercolor backdrop was not without touches of
pure pigment.  The snowy white wings of the gulls circling overhead,
the deep emerald of the pines at their backs, the brilliant copper of
Scully's hair.  All of it accented the neutral canvas like exclamations 
of color.
	"You have everything here," Scully murmured, her hands at
her sides, her gaze trained on the roiling sea, her voice pitched so
intimately that Mulder wondered whether the words were even meant
for his ears.  "Wind and sea and earth and sky."
	He nodded, watching her rather than the scenery.  "It's nice.
Kinda wild."
	"Yeah," she quietly agreed, her eyes still focused out over the
water, although Mulder would have sworn her thoughts had turned 
inward.  "I like that.  You know?  The way this place feels removed.  
Out of time, almost."
	"Bet it doesn't feel that way come mid-June," he murmured 
dryly.  "This beach has got to be overrun with tourists once the weather
turns warmer."
	"I don't come here then.  Not anymore," she said quietly, her 
lips curved ever so slightly.  Then, she chuckled, the sound small and 
strangely sad.  "I don't come here very often at all."
	"Why are we here today?" he finally asked, the question 
having been echoing inside his head ever since they had arrived.
	She turned at last to look at him, her blue eyes clear and 
unflinching.  "I told you, Mulder.  I love this place.  And I wanted 
someone to know that about me before I die."

Continued in Part II

*********************************************************
	"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very 
earnestly.
	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone:  
"so I can't take more."
	"You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter:  "it's very 
easy to take more than nothing."

--"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll

Wonderland III
"More Than Nothing" (2/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
www.earthlink.net/~krasch

Check out chapter one for non-story stuff.

**********************************************************

	Mulder's heart surged upwards to lodge squarely in the back 
of his throat, choking him.  Dulling his words, his wits.  "Scully . . . ."
	Slipping her hands into her jeans pockets,  the woman in 
question ducked her head, a tiny moue of chagrin pursing her lips.  "I'm 
sorry.  I . . um . . . . I hadn't meant to tell you like that."
	"Tell me =what=?" he asked, the words shooting from his 
mouth more harshly than he had intended.
	Her lips twisted, her brow crinkled.  Mulder waited, the need 
to throttle the answer out of her warring with his desire to at long last 
enfold her in his arms and silence all questions between them.  Now 
and forever.  Finally, she peeked up at him through her lashes.  "You 
know how I first found this place, Mulder?"
	Utterly lost, he shook his head.
	She smiled softly and looked out once more at the ocean, 
returning to it time and again like a reference point.  "It was a long 
time ago.  Before I'd joined the FBI.  Before I'd graduated school even."
	He remained mute, intrigued as always by any glimpse into his 
partner's personal life, and hoping that by keeping his mouth shut he 
might encourage her to continue.
	She swung her eyes to his for a moment, as if questioning just 
how much she should divulge.  Then, apparently coming to a decision, 
she motioned slightly with her head, indicating that he should join her.  
Turning, she stepped to the seaside face of the rock, and eased herself 
down so that her derriere perched on its edge and her legs dangled 
over the side.  After a beat or two, Mulder responded to her wordless 
invitation.  And with the smallest of nods, he crossed to sit beside her.  
	Yet, even after they were both situated comfortably, she still 
didn't immediately speak.  He knew she had more to say, could see the 
gears turning inside her head.  However, in typical Scully fashion, the 
woman by his side didn't just blindly launch into her story.  Instead, 
she took her time, her focus on the waves cresting silver before and 
beneath them.  Mulder kept his eyes on her, waiting, willing his heart 
to settle back to its proper place and pace.
	"The first time I came to Assateague I was with a group of 
friends," she began quietly, her lips curving at the memory, her hair 
rippling in the wind like a scarlet pennant.  "It was the summer 
between my freshman and sophomore years at Maryland, and a bunch 
of us had gotten together to go coed camping."
	Mulder smiled gently at the wry tone of her voice.  He might 
not be certain where her story was headed, but he had a feeling it had 
one hell of a punchline.
	"My family was living in Annapolis at the time," she continued.  
"So the trip wouldn't have taken me all that far from home."
	She paused for dramatic effect, and shot him a sideways 
glance.
	"But there were boys involved," she murmured dryly.  "And 
beer.  And no chaperone.  So the chances of my getting permission from 
my father were about as great as my getting elected Homecoming Queen."
	"I would have voted for you, Scully," he teased.
	She smiled.  "Bearing this in mind, I did what any other red-
blooded American college girl would have done."
	Mulder raised his brows in silent query.
	"I lied," she muttered with a self-deprecating lift of her 
shoulders.  "I told my parents that I was spending the weekend at my 
best friend, Susan's, summerhouse with her and her family."
	He chuckled.
	"There were, of course, truths embedded in the lie," she 
drawled.  "Susan was indeed one of the people going.  And her parents
did own a summerhouse not all that far from Assateague."
	She took a long, slow breath before proceeding with her tale. 
"It was the first time I had ever done anything like that.  You know?  
The first time I had ever out and out lied to my parents.  It felt . . . 
weird.  It felt like . . in that moment I had somehow become someone 
else.  Like I wasn't my father and mother's little girl anymore.  Like 
for the first time I was really on my own."
	Mulder nodded his understanding.  "Sounds to me like your 
decision to sneak away for a wild weekend with your friends was a rite 
of passage.  Like puffing on your first cigarette or taking your first drink.  
All kids go through something similar."
	The corner of her mouth pulled up.  "I know.  I've thought 
of that."
	Once more, he waited.
	"But I wonder if most kids feel the way I did."
	"And how was that?"
	She thought about it for a moment, searching for the proper 
word.  "I don't know.  Bad?  Dishonorable?  Like I was betraying a 
sacred trust or something.  I mean . . . they never even really questioned 
me--my parents.  You know?  They just . . . let me go."
	He smiled.  Why did it not surprise him that this woman would
find it difficult to lie to someone she loved?  "Hey, go easy on yourself, 
Scully.  Although it may not have felt like it at the time, it sounds to me 
as if your lie was of the 'little and white' variety.  After all . . . it's not 
like you were dealing drugs or turning tricks."
	She shrugged, seemingly unconvinced.
	"You =weren't= turning tricks, were you?" he asked in mock 
concern.
	She bumped shoulders with him, her nose wrinkling with comic
disdain.
	His smile broadened.  "In fact, I'll bet what really turned up the
guilt for you was that not only did you get away with it, but you enjoyed
yourself.  And no one was ever the wiser."
	With that, she laughed.  Outright.  Although the sound was 
marbled with rue.  Mulder startled at her outburst, finding it welcome
but unexpected.  "Mulder, you have no career ahead of you as a psychic."		"What?  You were caught?"
	"I turned myself in."
	Now, he was confused.  "So, you ended up not going after all?"
	"No, no, no," she murmured, a smile pulling on her lips still.
"I went, all right.  The only thing was . . . I wound up wishing that I 
hadn't."
	"Spill," he demanded, leaning back to balance his weight on 
his palms while he listened.
	She turned slightly to better face him.  "Well, one of the reasons
I'd wanted to go so badly in the first place was Susan's cousin, Mark."
	"Mark?" he asked with exaggerated interest.
	"Mm-hmm," she confirmed with a small nod.  "I'd met him 
briefly at Susan's high school graduation party.  He'd been getting 
ready to enter law school at Harvard.  Tall, blond hair, blue eyes, Ivy 
League.  To say I developed a crush would be putting it mildly."
	Wondering why Scully's listing of Mark's physical attributes 
was leaving him vaguely depressed, Mulder nonetheless murmured his 
understanding.  "I see."
	"Anyway," she continued, glancing out once more at the sea,
"when we were planning this camping trip, Susan got the idea of 
inviting him, thinking this would be the perfect opportunity for the 
two of us to get to know one another."
	He grimaced with sympathy.  "And you guys didn't hit it off?"
	She laughed, the sound tinged with self-directed amusement.
"Oh, no.  We did."
	"So what was the problem?"
	"The problem was that Mark wouldn't take no for an answer."
	"Sounds like he has what it takes to make a terrific lawyer,"
Mulder ventured dryly.
	Scully tilted her head to the side in apparent agreement.  "I 
suppose.  We sort of lost touch after that weekend."
	He sat forward so that he and his partner were again side by
side.  "So, what exactly happened?"
	She tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, and kept
her eyes trained away from his.  "There were eight of us total.  Four 
girls, four boys.  The other three couples had all been going out for 
awhile.  So, as odd man and woman out, Mark and I paired off as well."
	"As you and Susan had planned."
	"Right," she said with a small nod.  "He didn't seem to mind, 
and I . . . well, . . I was thrilled."  
	"Who wouldn't have been?" Mulder muttered darkly.
	Scully didn't appear to notice.  "We had driven up late 
afternoon on Friday, went straight to our campsite, pitched our tents, 
and settled in."
	"Settled in?" he echoed.
	"Started drinking," she clarified.
	His lips quirked.  
	"Everything was going great," she continued.  "We built a 
huge bonfire, roasted hot-dogs, the stars were out.  It was a gorgeous 
night."
	"Sounds like a scene out of 'Beach Blanket Bingo'," he
commented.
	She tossed a sideways glance in his direction. 
	He caught it and lobbed it right back at her.  "What can I say?
I've always had a thing for Annette."
	Seemingly against her better judgment, Scully cracked a small 
smile. 
	Mulder grinned back unabashedly.
	"Anyway," she murmured after a beat, "gradually, everyone 
began to sort of divide up into couples."
	"Per your plan."
	"Per our plan," Scully agreed.  "Mark and I were feeling a bit 
awkward at first, so we decided to take a walk along the beach.  We 
were camped south of here about a mile or two from the car park.  And 
in our . . . . quest for privacy . . we headed even further south along the 
island."
	He nodded.
	"We lost track of everyone else," she continued, her eyes 
narrowed against the light reflecting off the ocean.  "Not that I was 
worried.  I assumed that they were doing what we were doing."
	"Looking for a place to make out?" Mulder queried lightly.
	She chuckled.  "More or less."
	She then paused for a time, lifting her face skyward, a tiny 
smile tilting the corners of her lips.  "You know . . . in retrospect, 
I don't know what made me decide to call a halt to things.  I mean . . . 
our scheme had worked.  There I was, alone on a moonlit beach with 
this guy I had been interested in for over a year.  And yet, the minute 
he made a serious play for me, I stopped him."
	"You did?"
	"Yeah."
	He winced slightly.  "How did that go over?"
	She lifted a brow as if to say, 'How do you think?'
	He nodded once more.  "That well, huh?"
	She shook her head, her smile turning pained.  "It was awful. 
I was in over my head.  Mark's pride was wounded.  We both said 
some things we probably didn't mean.  And I didn't know what to do 
to make it all right."  
	"So--what happened?" Mulder queried gently.
	She shrugged.  "Well, at first I wasn't sure *what* to do.
I just sort of stood there.  Alone."
	"Alone?"
	"Yeah," she said.  "After realizing that no amount of sweet-
talking was going to get me to change my mind, Mark took off down 
the beach to blow off a little steam."
	"Sounds like a real prince," he muttered.
	"Oh, I don't know, Mulder" she murmured.  "I did lead him 
on.  I didn't mean to, but I did.  After all, he might have been a little 
more experienced than me, but we both knew what we were out there 
for." 
	Mulder just looked at her, wondering at her insistence in 
defending Mr. Harvard Law.
	"And so there I was.  On the beach.  It had to have been close 
to midnight.  Not knowing what I should say to Susan and the rest of 
my friends. . . "
	She trailed off for a moment, a bemused smile flitting across
her generous mouth.
	"And I just started walking."
	"Walking?" he echoed.  "Walking where?"
	"Nowhere really," she said, stealing a glance in his direction.  
"I had no particular destination in mind.  I just knew I wanted to put 
as much sand between Mark and I as possible."
	He nodded, approving of that particular decision.
	"He had headed further south, so I started walking back the 
way we had come."
	"Didn't you run in to any of your friends?" he asked.
	She shook her head.  "No.  It was late.  I didn't have a 
flashlight.  And besides, I really don't think any of my friends *wanted* 
to be found.  You know?"
	He chuckled.  She smiled at the sound.
	"I marched right past our campsite without seeing anyone I 
knew."
	"You walked *past* your campsite?" Mulder queried, his brow
wrinkled in confusion.  "Well, then where did you . . . ."
	Scully looked at him.
	"You wound up here," he said with sudden surety.
	She nodded.  "I did.  I just walked and walked until I got tired.
Which conveniently enough happened to be when I reached this place.  
So, I climbed up on this rock, looked out at the moon shining on the 
water, and took stock of my life."
	Try though he might to banish it from his mind, all Fox 
Mulder could think of when imagining the scene his partner had 
described was mermaids.
	But then he had always considered Scully a bit of a siren.
	"And did you come to any great conclusions?" he asked, 
attempting to shake off his whimsy.
	She hesitated again, a faintly sheepish cast to her eyes.  "Yeah.  
I concluded that I needed to listen more closely to that little voice." 
	He frowned.  "What little voice?"
	"The one some people call intuition," she said with a small 
shrug.  "Or conscience maybe.  Instinct.  It goes by a lot of different 
names."
	He nodded a bit uncertainly.
	Their eyes held for a moment before Scully turned away.
	Her lips stretched tight, her expression more grimace than 
smile.  "You know . . . I feel kind of silly telling you this."
	"Why?" he asked, all at once fearing she might somehow have
become privy to his mermaid musings. 
	Her eyebrow bounced skyward.  "I don't know.  It's just . . . 
you and I have certain roles we play, Mulder."
	"Roles?"
	"You're determined to argue semantics with me today, aren't 
you?" she murmured.
	"I'm just trying to understand here, Scully," he said, protesting
his innocence.  "Help me out."
	"The point I'm trying to make is that 'feelings', whether they
be about a criminal's motive or whether Patrick Ewing is going to make 
his free throw, have always been more your area of expertise than mine."
	"You get hunches," he argued.
	"Not like yours," she countered dryly.
	Mulder pondered that for a time.
	"Sometimes, I get jealous of you.  You know?  Jealous of how 
well you listen to that voice inside your head," she admitted quietly.
	He chuckled, the sound rusty with rue.  "Jealous of a man who
hears voices in his head?  Oh, come on, Scully.  Aim a little higher than
that."
	"I'm serious, Mulder," she said, her voice lifting in tandem 
with her chin.  "I mean . . . . I knew before I had ever set foot on this 
beach, that our camping trip was going to be a bust."
	"You did?" he asked in surprise.
	"Yes," she said firmly.
	"But, Scully . . . .," he began a trifle hesitantly, not wanting 
to offend her, but feeling it necessary to point out something.  "If what 
you told me is true, your weekend only wound up being a bust because 
you chose to make it one."
	Gently, she smiled.  "No, I didn't."
	"You didn't?" he challenged.
	She shook her head.  "I didn't choose to ruin our trip, Mulder.  
I just finally chose to listen to the voice."
	Mulder stared at her, befuddled.
	His scrutiny seemed to amuse her.  "I gave it my best shot, 
but I just couldn't enjoy something I had to lie to get." 
	He inclined his head just a touch, her reasoning slowly 
beginning to come clear.
	"My looking my father and mother in the eye and telling them 
one thing while having every intention of doing something else . . . ."
she trailed off once more, her mouth pursed as she struggled to explain.
"That tainted it.  The weekend.  Do you understand?"
	He nodded.  Yes, he did understand.  Ethics sometimes seemed 
more trouble than they were worth.  "Okay, Scully.  I guess I can see
that.  But what about what happened with that Mark guy?  I mean . . . 
you didn't need to lie to get him interested in you."
	"He wasn't interested in me."
	"You know that for a fact?"
	"I know that I was handy," she said dryly.  "Convenient.  That 
the only reason he and I had ended up together because I'd made the 
mistake of mentioning to his cousin that I thought he had nice eyes."
	He cocked a brow at her admission.
	"It's true.  Believe me, it wasn't because we really had much of 
anything in common," she continued, oblivious to his reaction, "or even 
because Mark himself was particularly attracted to me."
	"He didn't have to be there," Mulder reminded her.
	"Maybe not," she allowed with a shrug.  "Maybe we would 
have had a good time if I had just gone with the flow."
	He nodded in agreement.
	"But that's all it would have been, Mulder.  A good time."
	He chuckled.  "A lot of guys will tell you that's all they hope 
for, Scully."
	She dipped her head in wry acknowledgment.  "A lot of 
women will too."
	 They simply looked at each other for a moment or two.
	"But not me," she said quietly at last.  "I don't . . . I'm not 
good with 'casual'."
	He gravely regarded her, no surprise registering at her 
confession.
	In the end, he smiled fondly at her.  "So, what did that voice
of yours tell you to do?"
	"That night?" she asked.
	"Yeah.  That night," he confirmed, wondering what else she
thought he might be referring to.
	"Well, first it told me to just sit and enjoy the evening," she
said with a grin.  "It was beautiful out.  Warm, with a breeze off the
ocean.  The stars were so bright.  Almost like that night you took me 
out to Henry's.  I felt as if I could almost reach out my hand and pluck 
one from the sky."
	He smiled.
	"So, for the longest time, I didn't do anything.  I knew that 
sooner or later I was going to have to face Mark and the others.  But 
there wasn't any rush.  They would all still be there when the sun came 
up."
	She paused again, and took in a great big lung full of sea air.  
"I think sunrises are always most beautiful when they appear over
the ocean.  There's just something about that light shimmering against
the water."
	Mulder nodded, enjoying the way Scully's face came to life
at the mere mention of such a thing, the corner of his mouth raised.  
"So, what--are you telling me you sat here all night?" 
	"Pretty much.  And, in the morning--after I had watched the
sun come up--I climbed down, went back to camp to get my things, 
and called my dad to pick me up."
	He chuckled a tad incredulously.  "You called your =dad=?"
	With a shadow of a smile adding dimension to her lips, Scully 
nodded.  "I don't think I was allowed to set foot outside the house until 
it was time for me to go back to school in August."
	"Harsh."
	She smiled.  "Yeah.  Ahab was tough."
	They were quiet for a time, sitting shoulder to shoulder.
	"After that weekend I would come back here every once and 
awhile," she said quietly after a bit, keeping her gaze averted from his. 
"Not very often.  Maybe every couple of years or so."
	She turned to look at him, her face suddenly rather close to 
his own.  "I'd always come alone.  You know?  I mean . . . I know this
probably sounds strange, especially as this whole island is like a 
national park or something, but I've always thought of this as my place."
	He nodded his understanding.
	Her eyes dipped for a beat.  "And even though I know it's 
selfish, I've always had trouble sharing the things I consider mine."
	Scully lifted her eyes again to his.  Their gazes locked.  And 
Mulder felt her claim as surely as if he had been branded.
	He cleared his suddenly cottony throat.  "Well, in that case, . . . 
I guess I should thank you again for bringing me here."
	"You're welcome."
	 Then, because he could hear that little voice Scully had talked
about earlier screaming in his ear, he went ahead and asked once more 
the question he had asked earlier.
	The one whose answer had seemingly rearranged his bodily 
organs and deadened his reason.
	"I'm still not sure I understand why you chose today though, 
Scully," he admitted quietly.  "Why, after all the years we've been 
together, you decided to bring me here now.  I don't . . .  I'm not 
complaining.  I just . . .  I wonder.  That's all."
	She regarded him thoughtfully, her head cocked, her lips 
curved ever so slightly.  They simply looked at each other for a time, 
for the span of a minute or so.  Then, at last, she spoke.  "Usually 
when I come here, it's because I need to do some thinking."
	He briefly nodded.
	"It's a good place for that," she said.
	"It is," he agreed.
	"That little voice seems to speak more loudly here."
	"It does?"
	"To me, it does."	
	He gazed at her, trying to read the currents eddying in the  
sea blue depths of her eyes.  And failing.  Scully was being stingy with 
her secrets.  He would have to be direct.  "So, what's it telling you
this time, Scully?"
	She sighed, and sat forward a bit so that her elbows rested on 
her thighs and her hands hung limply between her legs.  From this 
angle, all Mulder could see of her face was her cheek's pale curve.  
That bothered him.  It seemed to him as if the woman beside him were 
curled over in almost a defensive posture.  He wondered what had made 
her feel threatened.  
	Then he found out.
	"It's reminding me that time is short."
	Shit.  "Scully--"
	"It's advising me to quit thinking so much."
	She chuckled softly at the notion, but refrained from looking 
at him to see if he were similarly amused.  "To stop worrying about 
things like control and pride and appearances."
	"It thinks I should be honest," she continued quietly, her eyes
now studying her hands.  "As honest as I was when I called my dad 
that day and asked him to come take me home."
	Mulder just sat there, shaking his head.
	"Because you and I can talk all day about 'hanging on' and 
'keeping strong'.  But in the end . . . . in the end, it doesn't mean 
anything, Mulder."
	She looked over her shoulder at him then.  "It doesn't leave 
you anything to hold on to when I'm gone."
	Fuck.
	Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
	"And it doesn't let me be for you the person I want to be.
The person I know I can be."
	She twisted slightly and laid her slender hand on his 
forearm.  He stared at it dumbly, as if he had never seen it before.	
	"It's telling me that I shouldn't be afraid.  That I can't afford 
to be.  I don't have that luxury anymore."
	Afraid?  Scully, afraid?  Stupid voice.  Didn't it know that 
she was the most courageous person he had ever known?
	"I came here today . . . with you . . . because I needed to 
figure out a way to be brave, Mulder," she whispered, her voice nearly 
too fragile to carry over the ocean wind, her fingers tightening on his 
jacket.  "Honesty is hard.  If that ridiculous camping trip taught me 
nothing else, it taught me that."
	She lifted her eyes to his, and smiled a small, bittersweet smile.
	"And that's what I would like to be," she told him simply.
"For you.  What I need to be.  While I'm still able to tell you--"
	"Scully, you don't have to say--"
	"Yes, I do," she said, cutting him off.  "I do have some things 
I have to say to you.  And you, Mulder, . . . you have got to listen to me."

Continued in Part III
*********************************************************
	"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very 
earnestly.
	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone:  
"so I can't take more."
	"You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter:  "it's very 
easy to take more than nothing."

--"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll

Wonderland III
"More Than Nothing" (3/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
www.earthlink.net/~krasch

All non-story related info can be found prior to chapter one.

**********************************************************

	Fox Mulder didn't know why his partner's announcement 
frightened him so.  After all, he had a pretty good idea what she was 
going to say.   Or at least he flattered himself that he did.  Yet ego 
notwithstanding, he honestly believed that his chances at being right 
were better than even money.  And not just because of that voice 
Scully supposedly envied him hearing.  
	Rather, he could see it, sense it.  
	In her eyes.  In the husky, intimate timbre of her voice.  In 
the way she was touching him; worrying his coat between her slim 
fingers, sitting flush against him, the slight roundness of her hip 
pressing firmly against his. 
	Christ.  Scully didn't need to tell him her feelings.
	He already knew them.
	And was humbled by the knowledge.
	"Mulder, way back when--when Blevins first told me I was 
to be assigned to the X-Files--I didn't know what to think," she began 
quietly, her hand lifting from his arm to push back a few strands of
wind-tossed auburn hair.
	"What--the words 'what did I do to deserve this' never crossed
your mind?" he murmured dryly in reply, his eyes focusing on the 
horizon rather than on her face.
	She ignored his feeble attempt at humor.  "On the one hand, 
I liked the fact that I would finally be allowed to put into practice some 
of what I had learned at the Academy."
	He said nothing this time, dwelling instead on the manic 
butterfly that had taken to fluttering in the pit of his stomach.  Wildly, 
the imaginary creature seemed to flap, as if desperate to escape.
	Mulder could sympathize with the urge.
	"On the other hand, I had visions of being swallowed whole 
by the mad genius in the basement," the woman seated next to him 
continued, oblivious to his musings.
	He grunted out a laugh.  
	Mad genius.  
	Shit.  
	Scully made him sound like he should be living in the Hoover 
Building's catacombs and warbling out Andrew Lloyd Webber.
	Hmm.
	Good thing he couldn't carry a tune.
	"Then I met you," she said, the tiniest hint of a smile curling 
the edges of her mouth.  "And while you weren't mad, you =were= 
arrogant . . . and condescending, and I could see you laughing at me--"
	"I never laughed at you," he argued, his gaze flying to meet
hers.
	"I amused the hell out of you, Mulder" she stated flatly, no 
rancor accompanying the declaration.  "It was all you could do to 
keep a straight face."
	He pondered that, his eyes averted once more, striving to 
remember if there had actually been a time when he had looked at the 
woman he worked beside with anything other than respect and 
affection.
	And ruefully recognized that there had indeed been a period
when he had been that dense.
	"I suppose I should have taken offense," she said lightly, her
head cocked to the side as she eyed his profile.  "Should have told you 
what you could do with your UFOs and your extraterrestrials and 
your conspiracies."
	Yes, you should have, Mulder solemnly, yet silently, 
acknowledged.  You really should have, Scully.  You would have 
been a whole hell of a lot better off.
	She paused just half a second, then gave a small apologetic 
shrug.  "But I couldn't."
	He looked at her then.  Turned to regard her fully.  Her face 
had drawn so near to his that their breath now mingled, the gentle 
heated air sliding from her lips into his lungs and back again.  Her 
hair teased his cheek, tangled in his lashes, caressed his skin like 
silken fingertips.  It felt good.  So very, very good.  He wanted nothing 
more than to simply close his eyes and lean into her, relax against her 
strong, soft frame.  Absorb the smell of her, the feel of her.  Rub his 
chin against her fragrant hair.  Drag his hungry mouth across her 
brow, down the slim column of her throat.  Open his arms and enfold 
her within, pulling her closer and closer to him until their bodies 
merged, became one, and she came to rest inside him.  Safe.  Secure.  
Living forever in his heart, where she had already dwelt for years.  
	But he did none of this.  Old habits were hard to break.
Instead, he asked the question he had longed to ask from the start.
	"Why?"
	Why stay?  Why care?  Why me?
	Her eyes traveled his face, lingering longest on his own hazel
orbs before drifting down to zero in on his lips.  "You needed me."
	He nodded, having made his peace with that particular 
revelation eons ago.
	"And somewhere along the line, I began to need you too."
	He nodded again, yet with far less surety.
	"I needed to be there with you, searching for the truth," she
told him quietly, her mouth floating inches from his ear.
	Mulder felt a shiver trickle down his spine.  The chilly ocean 
breeze was not to blame.
	"I needed to see you every morning.  To walk into that damp, 
dark office and know that you would be waiting for me."
	He tried to swallow, only to discover that his mouth had gone 
absurdly dry.
	"I needed to talk with you," she said, her eyes pointed down 
and away from his face.  "It didn't even matter to me what the subject 
was, Mulder.  I just . . . . I wanted to hear your voice."
	With that, Scully touched him.  Tentatively.  Her cool fingers 
settling on the back of his hand.  Not gripping.  Instead, they simply 
laid there, as if she were unsure of her welcome.
	"It was your voice that brought me back that time," she 
whispered, her words puffing like tiny little explosions against his 
suddenly fiery cheek.  And as he sat there, listening, Mulder was
positive those same miniature firecrackers were going off inside him 
as well.  Good.  With any luck they'd kill that damn butterfly.  "In the 
hospital.  You know that, don't you?"
	He couldn't be certain, but he thought he might be blushing.
"Scully--"
	"It's true, Mulder," she insisted quietly.  "I don't know how 
exactly.  But, I heard you.  That night.  And it was you I came back 
for."
	He had known that.  Well, maybe not known.  Suspected.  
After all, when he had first visited her in the hospital after she had 
awakened, she had parroted his words back to him.  'I had the strength 
of your beliefs,' she had told him.  
	Still . . . .
	Pushing unsteadily to his feet, he stood.  And turning, strode 
a bit drunkenly away from her, battling the wind and his oddly 
wobbly legs for balance.
	"Mulder?"
	He heard her shift; cloth scraped against stone, pebbles 
ground beneath her boots, bounced down from atop their rocky perch.  
Judging by the sounds, he guessed his partner now also stood.  But 
he did not check to see if he had surmised correctly.	  
	"What's wrong?"
	What could he say?  How could he answer her?
	When he didn't even know himself?
	"Are you thinking that maybe it would have been better if
I hadn't made the trip back?"
	That wheeled him around to face her, the movement graceless 
and violent in its execution.
	"God, Scully . . . ," he gasped, swaying as if with vertigo.
Or maybe nausea.  The thought of her never having awakened from 
her coma was threatening to make him physically ill.
	Yet Scully didn't seem especially sensitive to his distress.  She 
stood, small and pale, her legs stiffened against the sea wind, her hands
dug deep into her jacket pockets.
	"It might have been easier if I had never regained 
consciousness," she offered calmly, her eyes unblinking and 
blindingly blue.  Mulder tried, but could not look away.
	"You see . . . I don't think you loved me then."
	His mouth was moving, but no sound--not a word in his 
defense--issued forth.
	"But I believe you do now," she said, the simple honesty with 
which she phrased her statement erasing from his mind any comment, 
any protest he might have made.
	Then, almost as if she feared she might have somehow 
assumed incorrectly, she gave him an out.  "Am I wrong?"
	He looked at her, his heart thudding wildly, a fine, almost
invisible trembling coursing through his tall, lean form.  He wet his 
lips, and whispered, "No."
	She nodded ever so slightly, no triumph evidenced in her 
expression, no gloating.  Just acknowledgment of a truth long 
suspected.  "Need and love are a lot alike."
	"Oh, I don't know, Scully" he protested weakly, cringing 
inwardly, but unable to stop himself from attempting to lighten the 
mood.  "I've gotta have mustard on my chili-dogs, but that doesn't 
mean I love the stuff."
	"I love you," she told him softly.
	Mulder could do nothing but stare back at her in amazement.
	Leave it to Scully to profess her love directly after he had 
mentioned the same emotion in conjunction with condiments.
	His heart plummeted to just about even with his anklebones,  
the sensations assaulting him not unlike what he had always imagined 
skydivers must experience.  Surely the heady combination of terror and 
exhilaration must be comparable, he supposed a trifle dazedly.
	"I wanted you to know that, Mulder," she continued, blessedly
unaware that thoughts of free fall and ripcords were careening around
inside his head.  "I wanted to be able to tell you while I'm still healthy.  
While I'm still . . . . me.  I didn't want you to hear it as some sort of 
deathbed confession."
	And all at once, it was as if Mulder's chute had jammed, 
leaving him to plunge mercilessly to Earth with the speed of Icarus 
dropping before the sun.
	"Don't", he muttered harshly, pacing away from her, his arms 
folded protectively across his middle.
	"Don't what?" she queried from somewhere behind him.
	"Don't . . ." he began hoarsely, shifting his weight from hip 
to hip as he looked down longingly at the sand.  Damn it.  What he 
wouldn't give to be on the beach below.  There just wasn't enough 
room on that fucking rock.  "Just stop talking like that, okay?"
	"Like what?"
	He whirled on her.  "Like you're going to die."
	A fragile smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.  "But I am."
	"Scully--"
	"Months have gone by.  And we've got nothing.  We're no
closer to understanding how I became sick than we were at the start."
	In three quick strides, he stood before her.  Without conscious
thought, his hands wrapped themselves around her upper arms, their 
hold tight, but not bruising.  Looming over the woman before him, 
Mulder thrust his countenance close to hers, forcing her to look him 
in the eye.  "Don't you give up on me," he ordered, giving her a little 
shake for emphasis.  "Don't you dare give up on me, Scully."
	She gazed up at him, utterly unafraid in the face of his 
aggression.  If anything, her expression was gentle, almost serene.
Softly, she lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips against his cheek.
"Mulder, the tumor has started to metastasize."
	At first, he didn't move, didn't speak.  Then, slowly his hands
fell away from her.  "What?" he whispered numbly.
	"It's moving," she said, her voice low, yet not quite as 
controlled as before.  "Spreading to other organs, to my bloodstream.  
It's begun, Mulder." 
	Stumbling just a bit, he pivoted away from her and shuffled
yet again to the edge of the rock, unable to discern at that point 
whether the infirmity he detected in his limbs had developed as a 
result of exertion or emotion.
	"And you can't even look at me."
	Moving deliberately, he turned to regard her once more.  She 
stood, buffeted by the wind, her hands at her sides, her coppery hair 
dancing with abandon about her pinkened cheeks.  She gazed back at 
him, her lips parted just a fraction, her eyes large and glistening in the 
fading afternoon light, waiting.  Daring him to prove her wrong.
	"I can look at you, Scully," he murmured hoarsely, accepting 
her challenge.  "I could look at you all day."
	 "Then do it," she entreated, her hands rising ever so slightly, 
as if she thought to reach out to him.  "Face me.  Be there for me.  
Don't turn away."
	"You know I'm there for you," he countered almost angrily, 
trying and failing not to be hurt by her demands.  "You know that."
	She nodded.  "Yes, you are."
	He nodded in reply, still vaguely bothered by something he 
thought he saw in her gaze.
	"To a point," she finished quietly.
	"=What=?" he rasped in disbelief.
	She didn't flinch.  "You're there for me, Mulder.  You are.  
I haven't forgotten all those late night phone calls.  Or the times 
you've gone easy on me because you saw I was tired or hurting."  
	She gained strength as she spoke, her voice rose in volume, 
deepened in tone.  "I know that you're willing to hack into top secret 
mainframes for me, to break into armed government installations.  
My God, you . . . you drilled =holes= in your head because you thought 
the procedure might somehow help bring to light information that 
would make sense of this thing."
	"Enough, Scully," he muttered, ducking his head and running 
his hand through his unruly hair.
	"It's true," she said, taking a step towards him.  "You know 
it as well as I do.  You're terrific when it comes to the grand heroic 
gesture, Mulder.  There's no one better.  But that's not what I need 
from you now."
	"Fine," he spat, panic and embarrassment and a half a dozen
similarly unsettling emotions driving him to stalk like a caged animal 
once more.  "Great.  Well then, =tell me= what you need.  'Cause, you 
know, Scully--I haven't been getting a whole hell of a lot guidance in 
that area.  I've been trying, but you aren't exactly what I'd call easy to 
read.  I've been flying blind now for months.  So maybe . . . =maybe= 
it would be easier on the both of us if you just came right out and told 
me what it is you want from me."
	She took a moment to consider before answering, her eyes
never straying from his.  Then, slicking her lips with her tongue, she 
softly confessed, "I don't want to go to my grave wondering what might 
have been."
	Mulder rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, feeling
the faint stubble he encountered there prickling against his palm like 
sandpaper.  Oh God, much more of this and he'd be the one headed six 
feet under.  He couldn't do this.  This calm and reasonable discussion 
of Dana Scully's impending death.  Not if he thought to hold it all 
together.
	Not if he had any hope in heaven of clinging to his sanity.
	And yet, this wasn't about him, was it? that nagging little voice 
inside his head reminded him.  What had Scully said after the whole 
talking tattoo debacle?  'Not everything is about you, Mulder.  This is 
my life.'  She had known even then, he had realized not long afterwards.  
She had understood that her life would in all probability fail to run its 
full course.
	Because of him.  And his quest.
	And so, for the first time since he had known her, she had 
looked elsewhere for companionship, for comfort.  She had turned her 
back on him and the X-Files, and searched for something outside of 
their often stifling confines.  Something that would give the time she 
had left meaning and substance.  Yet, in the end, she had discovered 
what he had already learned.  What had been driven ruthlessly home 
for him when she had been taken that first time.
	There was no life for her outside of that which she shared 
with him.
	Just as without her, his life had lost all purpose.
	Poor Scully.
	Mulder wouldn't have wished such a fate on his most despised 
enemy.  Certainly not on her.  Definitely not with him. 
	But at the same time, he couldn't help but rejoice over 
her plight.  To be thankful that she had by some miracle grown as 
dependent on him as he was on her.  As needy.  As committed to 
the partnership, in all its forms and incarnations.
	And if Scully was the only woman in the world for him, if he
loved her more than his life, his soul, why wouldn't he want what she
now asked of him?  Why was he so afraid to at last achieve his heart's
desire?
	"I want more from you, Mulder," she told him, her velvety 
alto intruding upon his reverie.  "You admit that you love me, and I 
tell you the same.  Yet . . . we've never even done so much as kiss."
	He swallowed hard and, looking around, noted with surprise 
that they had once again drawn close.  That stupid rock must be even 
smaller than he had thought.  "And that would make a difference?"
	She hesitated for a breath, then nodded.
	"Scully, . . . I couldn't possibly love you anymore than I do 
already," he confided haltingly, his shoulders rising and falling with 
a helpless sort of shrug.
	She smiled at that, only the corners of her lips engaged. 
"Show me."
	Still he waited, wondering at the nameless, faceless fear yet 
holding him back.
	Scully's brow creased with confusion.  "What is it?"
	He shook his head.
	"Don't you want to, Mulder?"
	He glanced at her lush mouth, at the lips that promised to be 
as warm and soft as summer roses.  "I want to."
	God, did he want to.
	She tilted her head to the side, and gave a little shrug.  "Then 
what are we waiting for?"
	Well that was the question now, wasn't it.  After all, in this 
time and in this place the usual arguments just didn't apply.  Who 
cared what their enemies might do to them if they should learn of 
their transgression?  What did it matter what Skinner might think?  
Or their families.  Or even heaven above.  At this moment, the only 
thing that counted was them.  The two of them, together.  With no 
other witness to this long anticipated act than the sea.
	Mulder took a step closer to her.  Stretching out his hand,
he tried to tame the renegade bits of hair fluttering at the edges of 
her face.  But they refused to cooperate, to bow to his will.  Just like
Scully, he mused with a touch of whimsy.  People might wonder at 
times why she seemingly followed him without question.  Why she
apparently went along with every outlandish theory he concocted.
But they didn't know.  Didn't understand.  She may have supported 
him through what looked to the casual observer to be an endless series 
of ill-advised investigations, stood by his side as together they 
ventured into realms that were probably best left unexplored.  But she 
never did so blindly, or without due consideration.  She never lost her 
integrity, never compromised her values or her sense of honor.
	Never hesitated to remind him just how flaky he was 
being.
	Which was one of the things he loved most about her.  How 
ridiculous was that?
	He smiled as he stood before her, cradling her face in his 
palms, amused by the notion.
	"What's so funny?" she asked quietly, her eyes searching his
as she gazed up at him, her hands setting lightly on his forearms.
	His thumbs moved gently over her cheekbones' graceful lines. 
Had their arch always been that pronounced? he silently wondered.  
They seemed sharp to him, almost slashed into the delicate oval of 
her face.  Or was this something new?  Some subtle yet insidious 
indication of her illness' progression.  Slowly, his smile died, his 
eyes darkened.  "Nothing.  It's nothing."
	She didn't believe him.  He could see it in her expression.  
But she let the lie go unchallenged.  She simply held his gaze.  And 
waited.  Mulder took a deep breath.
	And lowered his mouth to hers.
	Her lips were tender, yet firm.  Cool from the swirling air 
around them, they warmed quickly, drawing heat from his own.  
	At its birth, their kiss was innocent.  Passionless.  The sort 
of sweet buss relatives or even casual friends might exchange.
	Then Scully pulled back just a bit and sighed; a soft, wistful 
rush of air that bathed his mouth in moist fire.  Her eyes were shut, 
when he opened his to look at her, her lashes resting like feathery 
crescent moons upon her cheeks.  By contrast, her lips were open 
ever so slightly as if inviting him inside.
	Mulder decided to take her up on the offer.
	Tilting her head in his hands, he fit his mouth to hers once
more, deepening the contact.  Clinging, then reluctantly releasing.  
Only to connect once more, drinking from her delicious lips.  Sipping.  
Nipping.  Moving against her with increasing urgency until the only 
thing left to do was explore the interior of her mouth as thoroughly 
as he had its entrance.
	Scully seemed to agree with his course of action.  Her small
hands gripped the front of his leather jacket fiercely, as if she feared 
something or someone might dare try to tear them apart.  Leaning in 
to him, she rubbed her tongue along his in greeting, welcoming him 
into her mouth, her body.  
	In response, Mulder groaned deeply in the back of his throat.   
God.  He had never before fully appreciated the erotic aspects of this 
sort of kissing; how the gentle thrusts of his tongue, moving slowly  
yet steadily within the hot, damp cavern of her mouth was not unlike 
intercourse.  How both involved the same kind of friction, the same 
measured advance and withdrawal.
	The same indescribable pleasure humming through his 
veins, thickening his groin.
	Expanding his heart.
	Until he thought he might burst from it.
	Both above and below.
	Whimpering with a kind of regret as he dragged his mouth 
from hers, he yanked her into his arms, pulling her so abruptly that 
she stumbled into him, grabbing at his jacket for balance.  Somehow, 
he found the strength to hold them both upright.
	"Mulder?" she whispered against his chest, her arms twined 
about his waist, her head tucked beneath his chin.
	He didn't answer her.  Instead he hugged her tightly, one arm
locked across her slender back, one hand buried in her hair.  She rested
against him from his collarbone to his knees, her body soft and pliant,
like a living, breathing blanket.  He knew she must be able to feel his 
erection pushing insistently against her belly, a part of him vaguely 
embarrassed that his physiology would so readily betray his need.
	Yet he didn't draw back.  Couldn't.  Not now.  
	Not ever.  
	And so he held her, rocked her tenderly in his embrace.  
Gradually, with his body enfolding hers as it was, he grew aware of 
her pulse, of her heartbeat throbbing against his torso, its rhythm 
strong and steady.  Like her.  
	In the beginning, its faint thump soothed him, assured him 
of her presence, her vitality.  But the longer they stood there, wrapped 
in each other's arms, the more apparent it became to him just how 
simple it would be to silence that gentle beat.  How eventually, despite 
all efforts to the contrary, her heart would one day cease to do its job.  
It might not happen tomorrow.  But given what he now knew of her
condition, it seemed likely that her time would come sooner rather 
than later.
	Struggling to control the sudden tremors rippling through
him, Mulder bent his head so that his face was hidden in Scully's 
tousled hair.  Searching for some small measure of her calm, of her
acceptance, he closed his eyes and burrowed against her, his cheek 
to hers, his fingers flexing against her flesh.  God, she smelled so 
good.  Clean and fresh.  Honest.  Not perfumed.  She didn't need that 
stuff.  She was beautiful all on her own.  
	And that was what he didn't understand.
	How could anyone so lovely be so terribly ill?
	Clutching at her now with a despair he could no longer 
entirely mask, he pressed his lips to the top of her head, kissed her 
ear.  Then her temple, her brow.
	"Mulder, what's wrong?"
	It was comical.  Even without looking at him, Scully could 
distinguish distress from passion.  He would have chuckled at the 
acuity of her intuition, but at that moment he didn't trust that his 
laughter wouldn't dissolve into tears.
	"It's nothing," he mumbled into her hair.
	"No.  Not this time.  It's more than that.  I can tell."
	He took a slow, deep breath and tried again.  "It's just . . . 
this is real, Scully.  You know?"
	And much to his surprise, upon hearing his observation, she 
was the one who laughed.  Her amusement rumbled soft and low, her 
chest vibrating with it against his rib cage.  "Well, it's about time.  
Don't you think?"
	He nodded, not trusting his voice.  Not just then, when the 
landscape of his soul seemed not unlike Scully's beloved beach.  
Windswept and rocky, fecund and rich.  How this duality could 
exist simultaneously he didn't entirely understand.  Perhaps it was 
just a function of life.
	Of reality.
	And maybe that's what he had feared from the start.
	The actuality of it all.
	Because to have what Scully and he felt for one another
acknowledged, made real, he had to accept what came with it.  What
had brought their shared revelations to light.
	He had to pay the price.
	Things weren't as they had been.  He had permission now to
embrace the woman he loved, to mold his lips to hers, to tell her how 
beautiful she was, how much he wanted her.  He knew without asking
that at last she would allow him to take her to his bed, to unravel in her 
arms.  To stare into her eyes as his body ignited hers, as she caught 
flame around him; blazed, all control lost.  That she would consent to
let him hold her as that fire ebbed, as she smoldered, burned down, to 
at last lie still and sated, her pale skin glowing like embers.
	He had been granted leave to do that now, to indulge every 
greedy fantasy he had ever held.
	Because she was dying.
	That was real too.
	He could no longer deny it.
	And as he crushed the woman before him to his chest,  
Mulder wished with everything he had that he had somehow, some 
way held on to even a scrap of his innocence.  Unlikely, he knew, 
given his childhood.  Still, Mad Hatters and Cheshire Cats came in 
handy every once and awhile.
	When a person needed to escape.  To believe in make-believe
and the fantastic.  And miracles.  Miracles, most of all.
	Since, at that moment, a miracle was what he needed.  What 
Scully and he both needed.  Desperately.  And Fox Mulder had never 
wanted to believe in anything more.

THE END
*********************************************************
	"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very 
earnestly.
	"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone:  
"so I can't take more."
	"You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter:  "it's very 
easy to take more than nothing."

--"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll
	
Wonderland IV
"Joining the Dance" (1/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch

Shhhhh!  Don't tell Rachel.  I'm playing hooky.  =:-0  She was 
gone for the holidays, and this story had been on my mind for 
awhile now.  So I figured, 'What's the harm?!'  I can dash off 
<insert laughter here> this little ditty before she returns, and 
no one will be the wiser.  

Yeah, . . .  So, here we are--well into 1998--and I'm only now 
finishing up.  Sorry.  Try though I might, I just can't write it 
if it's not there.  

Now, having made my feeble excuses, I also feel I need to 'fess 
up on one more important point--I'm really not certain how 
necessary this particular tale is.  After all, it takes place in a 
universe that is no longer entirely valid.  Scully's cancer has 
blessedly gone into remission.  So, an angsty MSR involving 
Scully-with-tumor and Mulder and their first time *probably* 
isn't what you'd call topical.  <g>  Yet, the story has been 
gnawing at me since I finished "More Than Nothing," and I've 
had a few people asking after it.  And it's the first solo NC-17 
I've tackled in a time.  Wouldn't want to get out of practice.  ;-)
 
CLASSIFICATION:  MSR

RATING:  NC-17 (sex and language)

SUMMARY:  A continuation of the Wonderland series.  This 
picks up almost immediately after "More Than Nothing."  
Mulder and Scully are on their way back from the seashore.  
The weather changes for the worse, and they're forced to take 
shelter in a roadside motel where they have nothing to do but 
consider the recent changes in their relationship.

DISCLAIMER:  These characters don't belong to me.  Fox, 
1013, and CC own 'em.  DD and GA bring 'em to life.  Long 
may they reign.  No profit is being made.  I hope no offense has 
been taken.  Archive wherever, as long as my name remains 
attached to the story.  Discuss, if you like. 

Happy 1998, Everyone!
**************************************************

	Rain sheeted against the windshield, refracting the 
glow of oncoming headlights so that the cool, colorless light 
splintered into a dozen dazzling hues.
	"This is bad."
	The heavy thwap of the wipers kept time like a 
metronome, tirelessly pushing the relentless downpour to the 
side.  
	But only for an instant. 
	Then all was water once more.
	"This is beyond bad.  Can you see?"
	Dana Scully sat behind the wheel, hunched in 
concentration, her lips thinned, her focus fixed determinedly 
on the road.
	"Yeah.  But not very well."
	Beside her, Fox Mulder nodded, his posture tense, his 
jaw set.  "Well then, you're doing better than me.  Because I 
can't even make out the center line anymore."
	"I'm trying to--"
	Suddenly, without warning, a pair of taillights blazed 
to life little more than a car's length ahead of the agents' sedan.
	"Shit!" Scully muttered, stomping the brake peddle to 
the floor.
	Mulder braced his hand against the dashboard.  Their 
seatbelts strained.  The car shimmied and whined.  Yet, in 
apparent defiance of these dramatics, the Taurus ultimately 
slid to a smooth stop inches from the Nissan before it.  
	For just a moment, the pair sat there, engine running, 
pulses pounding.  Their Ford going nowhere.  The only sound 
echoing through the vehicle's cabin was the static-filled murmur 
of the radio.  Her jangled nerves irritated by its incessant hissing, 
Scully leaned over and silenced the hum.  Then, realizing the 
danger they were in, she shakily guided their automobile onto 
the shoulder and threw it into park.  Soon after, the Nissan 
disappeared into the storm, melting into the raindrops, its 
passengers seemingly uncaring that a crisis had seconds earlier 
been only narrowly avoided.  The mystery of why they had 
stopped left unsolved.
	Good one, Dana, Scully wordlessly chided herself as 
she struggled to corral her runaway heartbeat.  That's certainly 
one way to get rid of that pesky cancer problem.  Death by 
automobile accident.  A slight improvement, she supposed.  
Messy.  But quick.  The only thing was--she really didn't feel 
much like dying.  Not by any method.  True, in the end, she 
might not be given any choice in the matter, but that didn't 
mean she planned on helping the process along.
	Not when she had so much to live for.
	She glanced over at her partner.  He seemed as 
unnerved as she, yet thankfully also unharmed.  Bending 
forward slightly, he ran both hands through his hair.
	"Thank God for anti-lock brakes," he wryly remarked.
	She nodded.
	"You okay?" he queried.
	"I'm fine.  You?"
	"Shaken.  Not stirred."
	She chuckled weakly.  He smiled just as wanly back 
at her.
	Momentarily closing her eyes, she tipped her head 
back against the seat and let loose a long, slow sigh. "I didn't 
even realize we were tailgating like that.  I had no idea.  I 
couldn't see--"
	"Scully, don't beat yourself up," her companion gently 
advised.  "Nobody can see anything on a night like this.  That's 
the problem."
	Lifting her lashes, she turned to look at him.  "So what 
do you want to do?"
	He considered for a beat, his gaze locked on hers, 
before murmuring, "Well, I realize we're probably only an hour 
or so outside of DC, but the guys on the radio have been saying 
that this storm is going to last into tomorrow.  And I don't know 
about you--but I =really= don't want a replay of what almost just 
happened."
	Ruefully, she shook her head.
	"So, I think it might be wisest if we find ourselves the 
closest motel and bunk down for the night."
	Having said his piece, Mulder waited for her approval, 
his expression mild, his features composed.  All but his eyes.  
In them, Scully saw the same unspoken knowledge restlessly 
churning its way through her own consciousness.
	If they did decide to spend the night in a motel, they 
would be doing so in the same room, the same bed.
	Of that, she was certain.
	And she couldn't quite decide how she felt about that.  
Oh, not about sleeping with Mulder.  That wasn't the issue.  At 
least half the reason she had been driving as aggressively as she 
had was her impatience to get home.  So that she and her partner 
could finally do what they undoubtedly should have done years 
ago.
	Express their love for each other in a way that didn't 
involve death-defying deeds and hospital room vigils.  
	It was ridiculous really, when she stopped to think 
about it.  While she understood, on the one hand, the necessity 
of restraint, on the other, she viewed it as nothing less than a 
miracle that the two of them had managed to stifle certain 
impulses for as long as they had.  After all, the relationship 
Mulder and she shared could, in many ways, be viewed as four 
years of foreplay.  It was more than that, of course.  Far more.  
Yet, there was no denying the spark that had crackled between 
them since day one.  And whenever she sought to relate how 
that awareness, that energy manifested, foreplay was as good 
a word as any to describe what went on between them.  
	And what was foreplay if not seduction?  A preparation 
of sorts for the actual joining of bodies.  The sexual act.
	Well, she couldn't speak for Mulder, but the time she 
had spent working beside him had more than readied her for 
such a union.  She had been attracted to him from the start, had 
admired his physical beauty; his moody hazel eyes and wide, 
soft mouth.  She had been aroused by his intelligence; by his 
fervent dedication to his ideals, his passion for his work; by his 
admittedly quirky sense of humor.  But their courtship, as it were, 
could by no means be considered traditional.  Her partner had 
won her not with roses and candlelit dinners, but with blood 
and sweat, and sorrows shared.  Like some sort of badly 
tarnished knight, he had proven his worth by illustrating time 
and again his commitment to her and their relationship, 
regardless of how one chose to define the word.  No more than 
she, he wasn't perfect. 
	But that didn't keep her from wistfully wishing that 
their first time together could be.
	The desire was stupid and outmoded, and fueled by 
way too many soft-focused romances.  Yet, she couldn't help 
herself.  Four years was a long time to build anticipation.  And 
more recently, as her health had declined and her resolve had 
stiffened, a sense of nearly crushing urgency had been added to 
her yearnings.  They had waited so terribly long, Mulder and 
she, that they weren't going to enjoy the luxury of getting to 
know one another.  In that sense.  She didn't know how much 
time she had.  She felt good now.  Her energy was okay and she 
hadn't suffered a nosebleed in weeks.  But that could change; 
now that the tumor had metastasized, it inevitably would.  
Soon.  And she simply refused to leave Mulder with nothing 
but memories of tentative, fumbling, mediocre sex.  He 
deserved more.  They both did.  In fact, as far as she was 
concerned, right about now anything less than fireworks and 
cymbal crashes would be anticlimactic.
	So to speak.
	And somehow she doubted the ideal setting for 
such a momentous event would be some nondescript motel  
stuck just off the interstate.  At least in her own home she 
could trust the sheets were clean.
	"Where are we anyway?" she inquired at last, craning 
her neck to see if she could catch sight of a highway marker.
	"I'm not really sure," Mulder admitted sheepishly.  
"Somewhere in Maryland.  If I had a road atlas, I could 
probably narrow it down for you some."  
	"Sorry I can't help you out," she murmured.
	"Right back at'cha," he said with a lop-sided smile.
	The corners of her lips lifted in reply.
	"I do have some good news though," he assured her.
	"What's that?"
	"Just before our near fender-bender, I saw a sign that 
said 'Motel Next Exit'."
	Scully peered into the rain-soaked gloom.  "And where 
do you suppose that exit might be?"
	"Can't be far," he said with a shrug.  "They usually 
position those signs only a mile or two from the turn-off they 
refer to."
	She nodded a trifle warily, her lips pursed.  "Well, 
traffic appears light enough.  I guess we can chance hydroplaning 
for another mile or two."
	"You want me to drive?"
	She quickly shook her head.  "No, it's okay.  I'm fine."
	Mulder looked at her long and hard, his eyes searching 
her countenance.  "All right.  If you're sure."
	And then, because he was trying so hard to be brave, 
to allow them both to pretend she was well and their time 
together was endless, she decided she needed to reward him.  
Saying nothing, she stretched across the seat separating them, 
and hooked her hand behind his neck.  Tugging ever so slightly, 
she drew his face to hers and kissed him, her lips parted.  He 
resisted only for an instant, his reaction most likely due to shock, 
she silently mused.  After all, this sort of thing was rather newly 
minted.  They were both still getting used to all the lovey-dovey 
stuff.  Yet, almost immediately, he yielded to her, his mouth 
relaxing and shaping itself to hers.  Swallowing a groan, she 
couldn't help but notice the perfection of the fit.  But, much as 
she was tempted, she didn't give in to the need to deepen their 
kiss, to mold herself to Mulder's lanky frame and make long, 
lingering love to that pair of lips.
	Hell, a no-tell motel was bad enough, but a late-model 
Ford was beyond consideration.
	"I'm very sure, Mulder," she murmured after 
reluctantly pulling away.  She didn't go far.  Her hand still 
caressed the nape of his neck.  "About a lot of things.  I told 
you."
	His lips were damp from their contact with hers.  It 
was all she could do to keep from inching forward to taste that 
moisture with her tongue.  His eyes had turned sleepy with 
arousal.  His lids drooped, his gaze smoldered.  Taking his 
thumb, he traced the bones in her face; her cheek, her jaw, her 
brow.  "I don't want you to have any regrets, Scully.  I don't 
want you to do something--even something I freely admit I 
want--for the wrong reasons."
	Smiling softly, she blinked back tears.  How like him.  
How utterly like him.  For all the times he acted selfishly--had 
assumed her acquiescence, or had stupidly left her behind in the 
hopes of somehow sparing her--Mulder would, every so often, 
balance things out with moments such as these.   Instances 
where his integrity and his concern for her outshone all the 
other inconsequential nonsense.
	"I see nothing wrong with our loving each other, 
Mulder," she told him simply.  "We've both admitted that the 
emotions are nothing new.  As long as we trust in them, in 
each other, I think we'll be all right."
	They sat, heads close together, their hands still lightly 
caressing, the touches shared not so much sensual as reassuring.
	Finally, Mulder muttered dryly, "Just be gentle with 
me, okay?"
	Scully rested her forehead against his and smiled 
broadly, her eyes alight.  "Sorry, bud.  I'm making no promises."
			***************
	As it turned out, Mulder's estimate was right on the 
money.  In little less than a mile, they happened upon the 
proper exit.  Following the signs, they cautiously made their 
way along the rain-slicked road to the motel.  It was located 
perhaps a quarter of a mile from the highway and opposite a 
sprawling neon-lit gas station whose chief customers appeared 
to be interstate truckers. 
	"The Coronet?" Scully murmured as they pulled into 
the establishment's gravel drive and saw that name pulsing in 
a garish red.  A small cock-eyed crown perched atop the sign; 
it, too, glowed crimson.
	"Fit for any 'King of the Road'," Mulder mumbled in 
reply, a bemused smile on his lips.
	The place itself was single-storied and built of russet 
colored brick.  Its three sections formed a hard-angled U which 
opened up onto the frontage road.  Peeling white paint trimmed 
the windows, venetian blinds hid the rooms' interiors from view.  
The weather didn't seem to have helped business too terribly 
much.  Only a few cars were parked in the rapidly flooding lot.  
	"I'll go in and register," Mulder offered as Scully 
steered the Taurus in the direction of the sign marked 'Office'.  
"Seems silly for both of us to get wet."
	She pulled up as close to the door as possible and let 
him go.  Not because she was tired or lazy, but because he was 
right.  It didn't require two of them to secure a room.  The 
process didn't take long; Mulder was in and out in a matter 
of minutes.
	"Well, from the sound of it, I think we made the right 
choice," he said as he slipped back inside the automobile.
	"What do you mean?" she asked.
	"I was talking to our friendly neighborhood desk clerk," 
he explained as he raked his fingers through his damp hair.  
"The poor guy is trying to watch 'Dr. Quinn', but the show 
keeps getting interrupted by weather bulletins."
	She frowned.  "Why?  What's going on?"
	"Apparently, even bigger storms are rolling in behind 
this one.  They're forecasting thunder, lightning, high winds, 
maybe some hail."  
	Scully looked out at the deluge sluicing off the roof of 
the motel to pool on the ground below.  Shaking her head, she 
murmured, "This place is looking better all the time."
	Mulder smiled.  "Maybe you should hold off on your 
assessment until we actually see our room."
	A few moments later, she was forced to acknowledge 
the wisdom of his suggestion.  
	Their accommodations were located almost directly 
across from the office, in one of the structure's two shorter 
wings.  Other rooms flanked theirs.  But seeing no light inside 
them and no cars without, Scully guessed the chambers were 
empty.  
	Their key clutched tightly in his hand, Mulder 
proceeded her to the door, his leather jacket draped over his 
head, his big feet splashing sloppily through the puddles.  A 
quick turn of his wrist and they ducked inside.  Blindly 
stretching out her hand, Scully searched for and found the 
wall switch.  A bedside lamp flickered to life.
	"Well . . . ," Mulder commented succinctly.
	Never had he been more eloquent.
	The room was an earth tone nightmare.  Avocado, 
brown, harvest gold, and rust colored every available surface; 
from the plaid upholstery covering the two window-side chairs, 
to the quilted floral bedspread, to the deep shag carpet at their 
feet.
	"So, when do you suppose the last time was this place 
was decorated?" she muttered, her mood plummeting.
	"Sometime during the Nixon administration." 
	She nodded slowly as she surveyed their surroundings, 
her brows lifting with a kind of amazement.  She wouldn't have 
been at all surprised if Mulder was right.  Although everything 
looked neat enough, their lodgings had obviously seen that kind 
of wear and tear. The upholstery was faded; the bedding, pilled.  
	"It's clean," Mulder noted in an overly cheery voice. 
	"It is," she quietly agreed, searching for a way past her 
disappointment. 	Clean was good, no doubt about it.  But 
tidiness alone wasn't enough.  Not for them.  Now.  God, what 
she wouldn't give for a little ambiance!  It just wasn't fair.  Some 
couples make love for the first time in one wildly exotic locale
or another, some in an elegantly appointed bedroom or in front 
of a roaring fire.
	Mulder and she were going to do it in a room that 
looked as if it might have been decorated by someone Mike 
and Carol Brady would have hired. 
	The two agents stood there for a moment on the room's 
well-trod welcome mat, side by side, water dripping steadily 
from their soggy persons.  The day hadn't been balmy to begin 
with, and with the rain, the temperature had dropped even 
lower.  Without thinking, Scully quietly sniffled.
	"Are you cold?" Mulder asked instantly, his hazel 
eyes shadowed with concern.
	She smiled up at him, her hands shoved in her 
windbreaker pockets.  "Maybe a little." 
	He crossed away from her to the chamber's heating 
and air conditioning unit.  Flipping open the control box, he 
fiddled with a couple dials, then stretched his fingers over the 
vent atop the apparatus.  A small smile of satisfaction pulled 
at the corners of his mouth.  "There.  This should warm things 
up pretty quick."
	"Great.  Thanks," Scully said as, looking for something
to do, she toed her boots from her feet and lined them up neatly 
on the edge of the mat.  She was lucky, she absently mused, 
wiggling her toes; her sox had somehow remained dry.  Looking
up from her perusal of her feet, she saw that Mulder was in the
process of removing his boots as well.  Hand braced against the
wall, his head bowed, he wrestled with the damp laces, muttering
under his breath.  Leaving him to it, she turned to investigate 
their accommodations.
	The room was much like any of a dozen other such 
motel rooms in which she and Mulder had stayed.  Built-in 
dresser and desk.  Queen-sized bed with a nicked wooden 
headboard.  Two night stands.  A table and two chairs situated 
in front of a single wide window.  She stepped inside the 
bathroom and flicked on the vanity light.  Shower stall.  No tub.  
But, like its counterpart, this room also appeared reasonably 
clean.  There was a fresh bar of soap and small bottle of what 
looked to be shampoo.  Plenty of towels.  Things could have 
been worse.  Much worse.  She should have been pleased, or 
at the very least, content.
	Yet, Dana Scully was neither.
	"Do you want me to see if there's a Coke machine?" 
Mulder called from the other room.  "Or are you hungry or 
anything?"
	They had stopped only a couple of hours before and 
eaten an early dinner at a roadside diner packed with weekend
travelers.  While she hadn't wolfed down a burger, fries, and 
chocolate malt as her partner had, she had managed to finish 
the soup and salad she had ordered.  Mulder knew this, of 
course.  They had sat at the same table.  However, she had a 
sneaking suspicion his questions weren't really about hunger 
or thirst.
	They were about nerves.
	Hers were a bit on edge themselves.
	Mustering up a faint smile to hide those jitters, Scully 
returned to the main room with two towels in hand.  Tossing 
one to Mulder, she rubbed the other vigorously over her tousled 
hair.  "I'm not really hungry.  But if you want something, I'll bet 
that gas station across the way sells snacks."
	He mimicked her actions, wiping down his hair and 
face with his thin, terry cloth rectangle.  His posture was 
slightly bowed, his eyes averted.  "No, that's okay.  I just thought . . . 
you know."
	She nodded, straining to widen that smile.  "Yeah.  
Well, . . . thanks."
	He smiled back, his effort forced as well.
	So they stood, eyes locked, their towels still clutched 
in their hands, their cheeks flushed, their hair spiked like 
porcupine quills.  
	Neither saying a word.
	Well, isn't this romantic.
	This wasn't going at all as she had planned.
	Planned, Dana? she wordlessly challenged herself as 
she retreated from their silent stare-down to at last shrug free 
of her windbreaker. Did you really have some foolish fantasy 
concocted around how you and Mulder would be together?
Stilling mulling that one over, she gave the man opposite her 
one more tight smile, and settled her coat over the back of the 
desk chair. 
	Actually, she had, she mutely admitted as, checking 
her appearance in the mirror, she wiped a few errant raindrops
from her hairline.  Again, Mulder followed her lead.  Carrying 
both his towel and leather jacket, he walked past her to the 
room's closet where he hung his coat.  "Be right back," he 
mumbled as he disappeared into the bathroom with the towel 
and closed the door, leaving her with nothing but her reflection 
for company.  But, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, she 
thought.  She could use a minute to herself.  
	Hmm.  Nearly all her make-up had worn away with the 
hour and the rain.  Thankfully, what was left of her mascara 
hadn't pooled beneath her eyes.  Yet that tiny concession to 
vanity was about all in which she had to rejoice.  Unlike Mulder, 
she hadn't bothered to pull her coat over her head when she had 
scampered in from the car.  So even with the brisk toweling she 
had given it, her auburn locks hung limp and glossy from their 
dousing.  Add to that her pale skin, sunken cheeks, and 
oversized eyes, and she looked like an urchin straight out of 
Dickens.
	"Please sir, I want some more," she mumbled sotto 
voce as she gazed with disgruntlement into the mirror.  Oh 
yeah.  What a babe.  She could certainly understand how 
Mulder had resisted the urge to ravage her.
	Is that really what you had hoped he would do, Dana? 
she asked herself as, draping her towel on top of her jacket, she 
turned her back on the looking-glass and flopped bonelessly 
onto the bed.  Did you envision Mulder sweeping you up in his 
manly arms and carrying you off to his lair? she silently queried 
as she studied the stucco ceiling overhead, her arms lifted and
curved so they framed her head.
	Lair?  No.  After all, she had been inside his apartment.
Numerous times.  And she had never once thought of it as a den 
of iniquity.
	Despite the porn videos.
	But the sweeping her up in his arms thing . . . .
	Mulder had actually done that.  Once.  It had been 
late and she had fallen asleep.  And when she had awakened, 
it had been in his embrace, in the rain.  Part of her had 
protested, had felt vaguely embarrassed about exhibiting such 
weakness.  Especially in front of him.  After all, she wasn't a 
child or an invalid.  She could walk quite well on her own, 
thank-you-very-much.  She had no need of her partner's 
misplaced gallantry.
	But another piece of her had reluctantly allowed it, 
had reveled in the sensation of him effortlessly supporting her.  
She had laid there, her cheek on his shoulder, her arms twined 
around his neck, and quietly memorized the feel of his body 
flowing and shifting against hers as he moved.  She had basked 
in his heat, his strength, his care; his warmth enough to melt 
no small measure of her reserve.  
	And finally, when she had laid in her bed, her habitual 
restraint eased by drowsiness and Mulder's seemingly limitless 
affection, she had taken a chance.  She had reached out to the 
man she loved.  
	And been rejected.
	So, is that what this is? she wondered to herself now.  
Is that why ever since they had stepped out of the car and into 
their motel room she had felt as ill at ease as if the two of them 
had only just met?  Did she worry that Mulder might, for some 
reason, get cold feet?
	She didn't think so.  The two of them had reached a 
kind of understanding on that rock.  She had forced him to face 
up to certain truths, and painful though the confrontation had 
been, they had emerged from the ordeal stronger for it, more 
fiercely united.
	As if such a thing were possible.
	At last they knew where they stood with each other; 
how they felt, what they wanted.  How absurd that two people 
so intensely dedicated to the truth should find it so difficult to 
accept certain aspects of it, she mused.  
	Believe in aliens from other worlds?  Sure.
	Put your faith in your partner's love . . . .
	In the abstract, it's terrific. 
	But try to pin it down, give it form and voice. . . .
	And the whole thing goes to hell in a hand basket.  
	Chuckling ruefully, she lolled her head upon the 
faded bedspread, slowly turning it from side to side, capturing 
bits of hair in her eyelashes, the corners of her mouth.  This 
was crazy.  For goodness sake, you'd think that neither she nor 
Mulder had ever before done the deed, she wordlessly groused.  
While she freely acknowledged that it had been awhile for her, 
she hadn't utterly forgotten how to go about it.  And even though 
she assumed Mulder's videos operated for him as a sort of 
substitute for the real thing, she felt fairly positive he too had 
practical knowledge of the subject.  That barracuda, Phoebe, 
definitely pointed to a certain degree of hands-on experience.
	Then why is this so =hard=, she wondered with a sigh, 
her brow crinkling with chagrin.  They had been doing so well 
up to this point.  They had shared any number of sweet, hot 
kisses on the beach at Assateague.  When they had journeyed 
from her rock back to the car, they had done so holding hands.  
They hadn't spoken.  Not much.  But that silence had been 
different, the antithesis of the polite yet awkward void that 
currently yawned between them.
	What had changed? Scully asked herself as thunder 
softly rumbled outside their room.  How had that afternoon, 
singular and magical, transformed into this?
	All at once, she closed her eyes and slid her fingers 
through her hair's cool, slick strands, clenching them in the 
damp auburn softness.  Of course.  That's exactly it.  Singular.  
Magical.  Unique.   She herself had told Mulder how that rock, 
the stretch of sand and sea, felt to her sometimes as if it were 
somehow set apart from reality.  Perhaps it was that she 
journeyed there so infrequently.  Or maybe it was because, until 
that afternoon, she had always visited there alone.  But regardless, 
she looked at her special place as being removed from the 
commonplace, from the normal workings of her life.	 She had 
just never realized she viewed the things that happened there 
as being separate as well.
	And how does one weave the fantastic into the fabric 
of a person's everyday existence?
	Mulder must have felt something similar, she thought, 
her arms flopping flat upon the bed once more.  When he had 
made that cryptic comment about how overwhelmed he was by 
the reality of their situation, she had chuckled fondly at his 
angst.  But now, as she struggled with her own version of it, 
she better understood his reaction.  It's one thing when a movie 
couple confesses their love and the screen goes to black; it's quite 
another when the cameras keep on rolling and the audience is 
forced to watch the lovebirds muddle ineptly through the rest of 
their lives.
	Mulder and she had completely redefined their 
relationship.  No wonder they felt a trifle clumsy.  Who wouldn't?  
For four years, they had slowly yet surely learned all there was to 
know about each other.  But as friends, partners.  Not as lovers.  
Neither really knew what the other expected or even wanted.  
Not in that sort of relationship.  It was the same for all couples, 
true.  However, not all couples had the sort of history Mulder 
and she shared.  The same expectations.  It all went back to 
that initial phone call, the first time she had admitted to her 
partner how at sea she felt in the wake of her illness.  She had 
tried to explain to him that night how it sometimes felt as if 
she were playing a role; one in which she had cast herself, but 
one that at times seemed as if it were slowly smothering her.  
Now here it was again, her leading lady persona, coming back 
to haunt her.
	How would Dana Scully--the cool, intelligent, tough 
federal agent/doctor--behave if she was in love?
	Would she be aggressive?
	Flirtatious?
	Would she scream her lover's name as she clenched 
around him?
	Or would she softly whisper her feelings for him, the 
words breathless and needy?
	And would this new version of her old self please the 
man whose opinion most mattered to her?
	Oh God, it's all so simple, she shouted inside her head, 
an odd giddiness bubbling up from the bottom-most reaches of 
her belly.  Here she had been worried about things like flea 
market quality motel furnishings when all she really should 
have been concerned about were her own insecurities.
	Since when had she deliberately changed or edited 
herself for Mulder's benefit?  When had she ever been any less 
than utterly who and what she was?  Certainly, there were days 
when the title 'Ms. Congeniality' eluded her.  She recognized 
that, without meaning to, she was sometimes cold or distant, 
inflexible.  But never had she been false with her reactions, 
never stooped to telling her partner what he wanted to hear 
when he wanted to hear it.  If she thought he was wrong, she 
made damned sure he knew about it.  Without question, she had
become a different person since working with Mulder.  Grown, 
evolved.  As had he with her.  But it had been a natural process, 
one borne of two fiercely independent beings butting against 
each other, like two pebbles tumbling in the surf.  Battered this 
way and that until their edges had worn away, their fit made 
smooth by friction and time.
	Mulder loved her.  She believed that.  Knew it as 
gospel.
	In spite of all the fights, and absences, and enemies 
within and without.
	So chances were pretty good that she wouldn't drive 
him away by making love to him.
	It hadn't been =that= long for her.
	Lightning zig-zagged its way through the blinds, 
flashing sharp and white against the room's shadows.  Attracted 
by its flicker, Scully swiveled her head and watched the hard, 
cool rain wash the world, a contented smile now curving her 
lips.  
	"Scully?"  Mulder whispered her name, low and 
yearningly.  And soft, as if he feared she might have dozed off 
while he was in the other room.  She turned back to gaze up at 
him, answering his call.  He stood, framed in the bathroom 
doorway, his hands in his pockets, his shoulder braced against 
the jamb.  Apparently the mirror over the sink had been put to 
use as well.  His hair had been tamed, its disarray put to rights.  
But there was still a messy quality to his appearance that 
she found immensely appealing.  He looked rumpled and 
young.  Unsure.
	Time to erase that doubt.
	For them both.
	"Come here," she murmured, her voice husky, though 
not purposefully so.
	The corner of his mouth pulled up at her tone, faint 
amusement shining in his eyes.  "And where is it exactly you 
want me to go?"
	"To bed," she said.  "With me.  It's time, Mulder.  
Seems to me, you and I have waited long enough."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Continued in Chapter II

"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the 
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's 
Adventures in Wonderland" 
   
Wonderland IV
"Joining the Dance" (2/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch

Disclaimers and such are back in chapter one.  The sex starts 
here.

**************************************************

	Mulder pushed away from the door frame and walked 
towards her, slowly, deliberately, his hands still shoved deeply 
in his jeans pockets.  She looked up at him from the bed, 
watching his leisurely progress and thinking, 'The room feels 
as if it's suddenly doubled in size.  It's taking him forever to 
get here.'
	The mattress was as old as everything else in the 
chamber and had undoubtedly seen the most use.  When 
Mulder at last sat beside her, his behind even with her thigh, 
it shifted, tipping her slightly towards him.  Gazing up at him, 
she lifted one arm from alongside her head and caressed his 
shoulder, his arm, before stretching a bit higher to graze her 
fingertips against his chin.  He waited, his body and hers 
resting against each other at the hip.  Otherwise, he made no 
move to touch her.
	"Here I am," he said quietly, his eyes the same 
delicious shade of brown as his sweater, his expression tender.  
"So, now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"
	"Come closer," she murmured playfully, responding 
to his teasing air, her fingers poised at the corner of his jaw 
ready to help guide him to her.
	"Like this?" he mumbled, obligingly leaning down so 
that his face hovered inches from hers, his hand at last settling 
upon her middle, where it rubbed lazy little circular patterns 
against her cable-knit.
	"Closer," she demanded, the smile in her voice 
finding its way to her lips.
	Again, Mulder complied, halving the distance 
between them.  Yet, ultimately, he refrained from giving her 
what she wanted.  And that simply wouldn't do.  Not when 
she was feeling so unrepentantly bossy.  Lifting her head, she 
captured her partner's full lower lip between her teeth and 
nibbled, tugging his mouth to hers.  He chuckled softly and 
followed where she led.
	"Yes," she breathed as at last Mulder surrendered 
fully and sealed their lips together, his hand easing up from 
her waist to bury itself in her hair.
	Once the kiss began in earnest, Mulder immediately 
took the lead.  Cradling her head in his palm, he tilted her 
face, angling his mouth first one way then another.  Sliding 
his lips over hers, sucking, nipping.  Bonding firmly, then 
pulling away at leisure.  Sampling her taste and texture the 
same way a greedy child might devour a dessert tray.  Moaning 
her approval, Scully wrapped her arms around his neck, holding 
him to her, urging him on.
	Yet, seemingly, Mulder didn't require her 
encouragement.  As with most things, once committed, he 
set himself to the task with abandon.  His tongue swept inside 
her mouth, wet and warm and curious.  Searching within her, 
seeking out all her most sensitive spots, urging her to twist
sinuously atop the bed, her body suddenly unable to lie still.  
He stroked long and slow over the slick, hard edges of her teeth; 
the soft, spongy underside of her cheeks.  His breath harsh, his 
lips open and hungry, he at last rubbed along her tongue with 
his, caressing it in greeting.  She eagerly returned the hello.
	Then, groaning his pleasure into her mouth, all at 
once, he pulled away and lowered her head to the mattress, his 
eyes sulky with arousal, his face flushed.
	"I love your mouth," he muttered as, almost helplessly, 
he pressed his lips to hers once more, the contact deep and 
lingering.  "There have been times, Scully . . . I swear to God . . . 
I've missed entire conversations daydreaming about your lips."
	She gazed up him, bemused.  Despite the need painted 
plainly on his face, he appeared somewhat embarrassed;
sheepish, in a way that suggested he hadn't really meant to 
blurt out this particular secret.  Yet despite his discomfort, 
she was charmed by his candor, and couldn't resist ribbing him 
just a touch.  "Oh, so now you're trying to tell me that it's =my= 
fault when you don't pay attention to me."
	"Don't pay attention to you?"
	"Well, I'm assuming that I was a participant in 
*some* of those unheard conversations," she said with a wry 
lift of her brow. 
	"You really think I don't pay attention to you?" he 
asked with a measure of concern, his former chagrin forgotten.
	Oh, no.  She wasn't going there. "It's okay, Mulder," 
she assured him soothingly.  "You seem to be doing pretty well 
at the moment."
	He looked down at her for beat, weighing her words, 
his fingers stealing through the fine hair bordering her face.
	"*Pretty* well?" he challenged finally, mock 
indignation ringing in his tone.
	"What do you want?" she teased before shamelessly 
attempting to distract him with a kiss.  "A written endorsement?"
	He chuckled at that.  "No.  It's all right.  I trust you."
	Still smiling, he dipped his head and nuzzled her brow, 
dragging his lips softly over it.  The gentle caress was repeated.  
At the corner of her jaw.  Her chin.  Her ear.  Pride banished, 
Scully arched beneath him, baring her throat in submission.  
He smiled wider and took what she offered, his hands braced 
against the bed as he bent over her.
	"I'll make it up to you," he murmured against her 
tender skin.
	Her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders, she 
frowned.  "There's nothing to make up for.  I was teasing."
	"Oh . . . you can tease me anytime," he whispered 
hoarsely, as he traced the length of her throat, the path 
descending.  "Just don't ever believe I take you for granted."
	"I don't," she protested, her legs rubbing against each
other in a kind of erotic turmoil.  Her neck was so sensitive, 
like one great big erogenous zone.  The skin there seemed 
almost painfully thin, as if it were unable to adequately protect 
the nerve endings hidden beneath it.  "Honestly."
	"Honestly?" he echoed before tugging her heavy
sweater to the side and suckling lightly on her shoulder.
	She weakly hummed her pleasure, feeling the white 
hot currents of it shoot through her body to pool at her groin. 
Upon hearing the rough, ragged sound pushed from between 
her lips, Mulder increased the suction, scraping over her muscle 
with his teeth.
	She whimpered brokenly, hushed and throaty.  He
smiled against her skin.
	"I *honestly* plan on paying very strict attention to 
you tonight, Agent Scully," he told her heatedly as he lifted 
his head.  His arms were planted on either side of her head, 
his eyes burned down into hers.  "I'm going to make it my 
business to learn everything there is to know about you . . . ."
	He dipped his head once more and kissed her, his 
lips like velvet against her swollen mouth.
	"Your body . . . ."
	This time, he captured only her upper lip, pulling on 
it slightly before letting it slide, wet and warm from his mouth.
	"And what exactly it is you like."
	He paused, his breath shallow as he loomed over her,
his hair slipping down over his brow.  His eyes locked on her 
mouth, he gently rubbed his thumb over it, tracing its shape.  
The gesture was slow and filled with a kind of regret, almost 
as if he'd love to spend more time with that plump bit of flesh, 
but was forced to move along.
	He had more discoveries to make.  More territory to
conquer.
	"What is it that =you= like, Mulder?" Scully asked  
quietly, shaping the sentence against his caressing finger.
	"This," he told her flatly, the word solemn and all- 
encompassing.  He looked down at her for a beat longer, his 
gaze filled with an odd mixture of wonder and pain.  Then, 
with a visible force of will, his mood eased, his face 
brightened.  "I like this a lot, Scully," he admitted with 
boyish enthusiasm.
	"Me too," she said, her fingers brushing against his
cheek.
	"But you know what I'd like even more?" he queried
gruffly, his focus drifting away from her face to somewhere 
below her shoulders.
	"What?" she asked, thinking she would give him 
absolutely anything if it meant he would never again be 
plagued by the emotions that had troubled him a moment 
earlier.
	His fingertips trailed slowly from her mouth to her 
chin to her throat to her chest.  Flattening his hand, Mulder 
rested his palm between her breasts, its heat warming straight
through to her heart. 
	"If you would take off your sweater for me."
	Hesitating for not more than instant, she nodded 
and reached down to grab the hem of the garment.  Pulling
and wiggling atop the mattress, she drew the bulky knit over 
her head, and onto the floor.  Tousled to begin with, her hair
now tangled about her face, wisps of it obscuring her vision.  
Mulder's fingers joined with hers to smooth the strands to 
the side.  Once she could see more clearly, she noticed her 
partner's eyes had drifted south, where they widened and
stared.  Seeing this, she allowed herself a tiny smile of 
satisfaction.  Good.  It appeared that last month's Master 
Card bill had been worth it after all.
 	Beneath her sweater, she wore a silk camisole.
Apricot in color and trimmed with rich ecru lace, she had 
bought it thinking its softness would be just what she needed
to protect her skin from some of her scratchier winter wear.
	And hoping that it might one day evoke exactly this 
reaction from exactly this man.
	Slowly expelling the breath he had been holding, 
Mulder worried the slippery bit of lingerie between his fingers.
"It's pretty, Scully," he murmured, his brow furrowed, his eyes
trained on his fingers.
	"Thank you," she said, laying on her back, her arms
at her sides, granting him tacit permission to touch her where
and when he would.
	For a time, he continued studying the peachy silk, 
slipping and sliding it between his thumb and forefinger as if
surprised by its fluidity.  Finally, he raised his head and met 
her gaze.  "It's funny."
	"What is?" she asked.
	"I had no idea . . . I mean . . I had wondered today 
. . . and before . . . what you wore beneath . . ."
	His voice trailed off, and she wondered if in some 
unexpected way this particular lingerie purchase had confused
or even disappointed him.  Had his stillness not been evidence
of desire, but rather of a kind of shock?
	"But this," he began again, his voice soft, his fingers 
gliding lightly over the camisole, doodling nonsense.  "This is
perfect."
	"It is?" she queried, marveling at the tears pushing
insistently behind her eyes.
	He nodded.  "Yeah.  Especially when you wear it
under something like that."  He gestured in the direction of 
her discarded sweater.
	She shook her head, utterly confused.  "You've lost
me, Mulder."
	A gentle smile curved the edges of his mouth.  "That
sweater reminds me of the Scully most people know."
	She arched a brow.
	His smile broadened, but remained tender.  "It's a 
classic.  Durable, strong.  Not flashy, but attractive." 
	"Well, I suppose it could be worse," she muttered 
with an exasperation that wasn't entirely sham  "You could be 
comparing me to a sweat sock or a jockstrap."
	"Let me finish," he chided lightly, his hand pressed
flat against her middle once more.
	They looked at each other.  For a moment.  Maybe
more.  In the silence, the sound of the rain battering against 
the window seemed amplified; its tone deeper, its rhythm 
quicker.  Another jagged streak of lightning flashed wild 
and wonderful just the other side of the blinds.
	"Go on," she prompted at last, unable to maintain
her pique.  Not when he was gazing at her with eyes the color
of the sea.  Beautiful eyes, knowing and sad.
	"This," he said, his voice husky and low, his palm 
rubbing slowly over the silk, petting it,  "is more like the 
woman I've always suspected you were."
	She hadn't been certain it was possible, but Mulder
had somehow managed to turn the whole comparison around.  
"And what kind of woman did you suspect I was, Mulder?"
	He pondered her question for a minute before 
answering, spending the time dragging his hand over her 
camisole.  He brushed along her belly, her ribs; he even 
traced the wide lacy straps with his fingertips.  Yet, he 
pointedly refrained from touching her breasts; from circling
their rounded slopes, teasing her aching nipples, urging 
them ever more erect.
	Which, of course, meant Scully longed all the
more for him to do exactly that.
	"Soft," he began thoughtfully, his gaze focused 
away from hers.  "Not delicate . . . but warm, tender."
	He looked at her then.  "You're pretty good at all the
tough guy stuff, Scully.  But every once and awhile, you let 
your guard down."
	She nodded.
	"Not as often as I'd like . . ."
	She frowned at that.  "You want me to be weak?"
	"No.  No, that's not what I want," he hurried to
assure her.
	"Then what do you want?" she asked him, not at
all certain she was going to like his answer.
	His hand lay still again, resting heavily just below 
her breasts.  "I want . . . I'd like . . for you to need me.  Not 
all the time.  Just every once and awhile."
	Now she really was going to cry.  Or throttle him.  At
that point in time, she really couldn't decide which course of 
action was preferable.  "Mulder, I need you.  You know that.
I told you so."
	He shook his head.  "It's not the same.  I mean . . .
yeah, there are times you turn to me.  When you let me in.  But 
if I wasn't here, you'd do just fine.  You wouldn't fall apart or
break down.  You'd carry on.  I know you would.  You're strong, 
Scully.  You're the strongest person I've ever known."
	And all at once it felt as if crying had gained a 
marked advantage.  He was so sincere with his praise, so quiet 
and sure, she knew he believed what he was saying without 
reservation.  And that was so unfair.  To them both.
	She reached up and framed his face in her hands.  
Tugging gently, she drew him down so that he lie against her,
over her, his weight balanced on his forearm, his one hand 
still centered on her torso.  "You forget something, Mulder," 
she told him softly yet firmly.  "I know what it's like to try 
to live without you."
	He didn't make the connection immediately.  A frown
of confusion crinkled his brow.
	"New Mexico," she said, reminding them both of that 
awful time not so long ago.  "I thought you were dead.  It was 
nearly a week before you found your way back to D.C."
	"You told me that you knew I was all right," he 
murmured, his breath stirring her hair.
	"I did," she admitted, her voice throaty and low, her 
thumbs moving lightly against his temples.  "But not at first.  
Not for several days.  When I saw that smoldering boxcar . . . 
Mulder, I believed your remains were trapped inside."
	Damn it.  Remembering what had happened outside
Farmington, and later what had occurred in D.C. with Missy 
and the DAT tape, always did this to her.  The tears were 
winning.  She could feel them stinging her eyes, could 
sense the moisture gathering, poised to spill over her lashes.  
Great.  Now, she'd have a red nose to complement the 
ragamuffin persona she was already cultivating.  Terrific. 
Just the look she was going for.  Bozo the Waif.
	Angry now, both at Mulder and her own treacherous
emotions, her eyes blazed up into his.  "I remember how I felt 
when I thought you'd died.  I haven't forgotten, Mulder.  Any
of it.  How lost I was.  How alone.  So don't tell me I'd be fine.  
That if one day you suddenly weren't here, I'd get over it.  
Because I know better.  I've lived with that kind of pain.  And 
believe me--I don't ever, =ever= want to go through something 
like that again."
	He was looking down at her, nodding slowly, his 
expressive eyes mirroring hers.  Both pairs were awash now 
with tears.  Seeing his reaction to her tirade, she knew that 
without meaning to, she had resurrected in Mulder memories 
similar to hers.  Feelings of desperation and dread.  Guilt and 
abandonment.  After all, he also knew what it was like to lose 
a partner.  
	And three months is a very long time.
	He didn't speak.  Not at first.  Instead, he gathered 
her to him, wrapped himself around her; his embrace so 
tight that she had to struggle to catch her breath.  He roughly 
plunged a hand into her tangled tresses while the other ranged 
free beneath her camisole, caressing her back's tender plains.  
His legs imprisoned her hips.  She could feel his erection 
prodding hard and needy against her softness.
	Yet he made no move to assuage his desire.  Rather,
he simply buried his face in hair, and held her.  Very still and
very close.
	They stayed that way for a time, unmoving.  Until at 
long last, he whispered brokenly in her ear, "Scully, I'm so 
afraid."
	And with that, her tears at last poured forth, hot and 
salty, running down her face in rivulets.  Hugging him back 
with all the fierceness she possessed, she murmured, "You 
can't give up either, you know."
	He pulled back to look at her, his cheeks as wet as 
hers, his voice likewise waterlogged.  "What are you talking 
about?"
	"You told me, . . . on the beach, . . . you said you 
wouldn't let me give up."
	Grimacing, Mulder nodded, visibly struggling to get
himself under control.
	"Well, I'll make you a deal," she offered, her tone as 
tattered as the room's upholstery.  "I'll keep fighting.  I'll keep 
hanging on.  I'll keep doing all those things it's been getting 
so damned hard for me to do."
	Lips pressed thin, he nodded again.
	"Only . . . you can't start mourning me until after I'm 
gone," she whispered.
	"=What= . . .?"  Her partner appeared horrified that 
she would think him capable of such a thing.
	"If we begin grieving now, we'll cheat ourselves out 
of whatever time we may have," she said reasonably, her voice
cracking just a touch.  
	"Scully . . ."
	"And I =want= that time, Mulder," she told him, her
small hands squeezing his shoulders for emphasis.  "I want 
every last minute of it.  For it to be joyous and full of life."
	He looked at her.  Thunder boomed and grumbled
its disquiet outside their motel window.
	"Not just a countdown to my death."
	Lightning crackled ominously, zapping the room with
an eerie silver flash. 
	Taking a deep breath, he nodded one last time, slowly 
and solemnly.  Then, his hand trembling only slightly, he
traced the shape of her face with his fingertips.  "I love you."
	"I know you do," she said with a small, bittersweet 
smile.  "I love you too."
	"I'll try, Scully," he whispered, watching the path of
his hand rather than her eyes.  "I'll do my best to give you that 
time.  To make it all you want it to be."
	"That's all I ask," she assured him.  "That you try."
	"I may forget sometimes," he warned.
	"I'll remind you."
	Now it was his turn to smile.  "And how exactly do 
you plan on doing that?"
	She pursed her lips in faux consideration.  "Guess 
I'll have to kick a little ass."
	Chuckling, he drew her into his embrace once more, 
and rocked her, very tenderly.  "Who are you kidding, Scully?  
You like my ass too much to kick it."
	"It would break my heart," she admitted with sham 
sorrow, her head tucked beneath his chin.  "But a girl's gotta 
do what a girl's gotta do."
	He pulled her to him, his arms tightening, his hands 
moving slowly and soothingly over her slender frame.
	Tilting her chin, Scully nuzzled softly against his
neck, rubbing her nose just below his ear, pressing her lips 
gently to the corner of his jaw.  Mulder's breath caught, then 
released on a ragged sigh.  Upon hearing it, she smiled.
	"Are you ticklish, Mulder?" she whispered, her hands 
coasting lightly along his sides, a plan formulating.
	"No," he mumbled, craning his chin up and away,
mutely encouraging her actions.
	"Are you sure?" she breathed, dropping tiny, stinging
kisses along the side of his face, her fingertips now skimming
up to trace his ribs.
	"Scully, trust me--the last thing I want to do right now 
is laugh," he muttered, his eyes slipping shut.
	"Ah, but maybe that's your problem," she murmured 
silkily, her hand trailing downwards in the direction of his navel.
	"What's my problem?" he queried hoarsely, his legs
shifting restlessly atop the mattress.  
	She took his lobe between her teeth and delicately 
nibbled on it before answering; gnawing, then gliding along
its curve.  Mulder groaned in response and arched his neck, 
his hands clenching on her back and hip.
	"Simple, Mulder.  You need to rethink your priorities."
	With that, she abruptly curled her fingers, burrowing 
them mercilessly into his vulnerable mid-section.  "You see . . .
as far as I can tell, laughing is the *first* thing you ought to 
do."
	Mulder reacted instinctively to her surprise assault, 
sucking in his stomach and letting loose a short yelp of 
laughter.  Scully beamed with delight, and moved in for the
kill.
	"I'm tired of all the doom and gloom, Mulder," Scully
informed him tartly, taking advantage of his discomfiture by 
rolling over to sit astride him, her knees on either side of his
hips, her wicked fingers busy still.  "You and I could both use 
a good laugh."
	He let her have her way for a breath or two, a smile 
stretching his mouth, rusty-sounding chuckles rumbling forth
from between his lips.  He squirmed to avoid her attack, but 
was seemingly more amused at her effort than the actual
tickling itself.
	"Laugh?" he finally echoed as, grabbing hold of 
her wrists, he wrestled her beneath him once more, ending their 
light-hearted skirmish.  They rested for a beat, both breathing
hard, her arms raised and pinned, his groin resting hotly in the 
cradle of her hips.  "You want me to laugh, Scully?"
	"I wish you would," she said in a low, hushed voice,
her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the silken camisole.
	Something in her tone seemed to transform his gaze 
from heated to tender.  "Why?"
	"Because you have the most beautiful smile, Mulder."
	Hearing her praise, spoken softly and simply, he 
grimaced for a moment, then ducked his head, his hair 
obscuring his eyes from view.  Scully wondered if, when he 
looked at her once more, a blush might be staining his cheeks.
	"I know we haven't had a lot to smile about lately,"
she said, stretching up to press a kiss to his temple.  "But today 
. . . here, now . . . I think our luck may be changing."
	Letting go of her wrists, he lifted his chin.  No blush.  
But his tentative smile was enough to melt her heart.  "You 
tellin' me you feel lucky, Scully?"
	Her smile simmered to life with a bit more spice 
than his.  "What if I told you I want to *get* lucky?"
	He tilted his pelvis, pushing himself provocatively 
against her mons.  "I'd say I might be able to help you out
with that."
	"Thanks, Mulder," she murmured as she rolled her 
hips in answer, relishing the way his eyes darkened as she
did so.  "I'd appreciate the hand."
	Dipping his head, he lapped delicately at the hollow
between her collarbones.  Stifling a moan, she mumbled, "And 
any other body part you might be willing to spare."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Continued in Chapter III
		
"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the 
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's 
Adventures in Wonderland" 

Wonderland IV
"Joining the Dance (3/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch

I know I've been threatening NC-17 for two chapters now, but 
this time it really is.  Or at least the beginnings of it . . . 
I swear!!
**************************************************

	"My entire body is at your disposal," Fox Mulder
murmured against her skin as he nuzzled softly just above
the neckline of her camisole, tracing the deep vee with his
nose.
	"Yeah?" Dana Scully queried breathlessly, her hands 
furrowing his tousled hair.
	"Absolutely."
	She smiled.  "Then let's see a little of it."
	He lifted his head, a lopsided smile now pulling on his 
lips too.  "I beg your pardon?"
	"Lose the sweater, Mulder."
	Hearing her brusque directive, the man resting between
her legs pulled back to sit on his haunches, his hands on his
thighs, his expression distinctly amused.  "You want me to take 
off my sweater, Scully?"
	Lifting a brow, she looked up at him, her auburn 
hair wild upon the pillow, her legs sprawled on either side of 
him.  "For starters."
	She could feel the heat of his gaze as if it were pure
flame, warming her skin, melting away her inhibitions.  A few 
of those same barriers seemed to be going up in smoke for 
Mulder as well.  When he spoke, his voice came out low and 
rough, little more than a grunt and a grumble.  
	"Then take it off yourself."
	It was strange really.  She could practically feel 
the dynamic between them changing, their relationship 
metamorphosing from platonic to sexual almost as they
themselves watched it happen.  The very air seemed denser 
somehow, making it difficult for her to breathe.  Her limbs 
were heavy too, and clumsy.  When she tried to push herself 
up from her reclining position, she fumbled awkwardly at 
first before at last succeeding.  Mulder made no move to 
assist.  He just waited in the center of the bed, watching her, 
half his face in shadow.
	Finally, she scrambled upright and crawled to kneel
before him, their knees touching.  She paused for a moment
to look at him, taking in the taut lines of his face, the tightly
drawn muscle twitching restlessly at the corner of his jaw.
	He was holding back, she realized, letting her set 
the pace.  Clinging almost desperately to his control.
	Oh, Mulder, she longed to whisper.  If there is one
thing I've learned it's that control is highly overrated.
	"Lift your arms," she murmured instead.  
	Silently, he complied.  She leaned in close, grabbed
hold of the sweater's hem and drew it over his head.  Showing
the same regard for his pullover as she had earlier for her own, 
she then carelessly tossed it on the floor.  Mulder didn't appear 
to object.  Arms lowered, he sat as still as a T-shirt clad Buddha, 
his cheeks flushed, his eyes hooded and intent.
	Lightning sizzled outside, their bedside lamp flickered
within.
	"Sounds like it's picking up out there," she commented
as she ran her fingertips lightly, almost experimentally, across 
his chest.
	"Seems like the same thing is happening in here," he
mumbled, his mouth inches from her bowed head.  She smiled
in voiceless agreement.
	Her gaze still averted, she found his nipple through 
the white cotton.  Softly, she traced the small brown circle, 
scratching at it delicately with her nail.  "This feels so decadent, 
Mulder."
	His breath stutter-stepped its way from between his 
lips, ruffling her damp hair.  "What does?"
	"To be able to touch you this way," she said, finding 
the nipple's mate and lavishing on it similar attention.
	His hands clenched on his thighs; balled, then released.
"You haven't really even touched me yet."
	"What do you call this then?" she asked as her small 
hand trailed down his middle to land heavily at the apex of his 
legs.  Raising her eyes to his, she just let her fingers lay there for 
a time, challenging him with her regard, her caress.  She could 
feel his hardness jutting against the denim, his pulse pounding 
powerfully against her palm.
	Then, she squeezed.
	Very carefully.
	Mulder pressed up into her hand, his head snapping 
back upon his neck as if in agony, his mouth open, his lashes 
sliding shut.  Ruefully, he chuckled before whispering, 
"Torture."
	"Should I stop?"
	"No . . . please."
	Heeding her partner's plea, Scully continued working 
him through his jeans, rubbing the heel of her hand firmly 
along his length, wrapping her fingers around his circumference 
and sliding them slowly up and down.  He lifted and lowered 
his hips, pumping in time to her ministrations.  Smiling at his 
reaction, she deepened the pressure, almost as if striving to 
breach the thick cloth barrier separating her hand and his cock.  
Mulder sat spellbound, his head lolling loosely on his neck, his 
breath hurried and harsh.
	"Take off your shirt," she directed quietly.
	Moving in one single fluid motion, he tipped his face
downward to meet her gaze, his eyes glittering with a dangerous
kind of arousal, and roughly tugged his T-shirt over his head.  
She thought she might have heard a seam rip as the garment 
twisted passing over his broad shoulders.  But such trivial
considerations soon fled from her mind.  The man she loved 
sat opposite her, naked from the waist up.  His chest shone 
faintly golden in the room's muted light, its expanse smooth 
and finely muscled.
	"Thank you," she murmured in satisfaction before 
inching closer to press a soft, wet kiss to the center of his 
torso.
	Mulder tunneled his fingers through her hair, holding
her to him.  "You like this, Scully?"
	"Hmm," she hummed in the affirmative as her mouth
made its leisurely way across his breast, discovering in its 
travels a light scattering of hair and warm, satiny skin.
	"Good," he sighed unevenly, cupping her head loosely 
in his palms.  
	"Yes," she whispered, nibbling carefully on his nipple.
It was.
	"God," he groaned, his hands tightening in her hair.  
	She smiled once more at the sound, her fingers gliding 
softly over the long, lean planes of his back as her lips suckled 
just as gently at the small, puckered nubbin.
	Mulder writhed before her, arching helplessly.
	"What about you?" she asked seconds later as her 
mouth dragged open and slow down the middle of his frame.
	"What do you mean?" he mumbled, caressing her 
shoulders, her upper arms.
	"Do you like this?"
	He laughed quietly, the sound rumbling beneath her
kisses.  "What's not to like?"
	"Just checking," she murmured, reaching for his belt 
buckle.
	But Mulder stopped her, his hand closing over her 
wrist.
	"I would like to make one *small* request."
	Scully looked up at him through her lashes.  "What?"
	He didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to 
slip his index finger beneath one of her camisole's lacy straps.  
Sliding the back of his digit along her skin's sensitive slope, 
he eased the strip of fabric from her shoulder.
	"Tit for tat, Scully."
	Doing her damnedest to hold back a smile, she 
arched her brow at his choice of words.
	Apparently unrepentant, he shrugged, the corner of
his mouth pulling upwards.  "In a manner of speaking."
	Holding his gaze for just a moment more, she finally
nodded, her fingers drifting to the hem of her undergarment.
Yet as she did so, the smallest flicker of apprehension skittered 
fast and frantic across her peace of mind.  
	Intellectually, she knew Mulder found her attractive.  
But with her illness, her body had undergone so many changes.  
She sometimes didn't even feel like herself anymore, that rather 
her essence had somehow become trapped inside another's form.  
One that had grown pale and weak, and was ultimately not to 
be trusted.  
	 Not like the man waiting patiently before her.
	"I'm thinner than I was," she told him, her voice 
hushed, her eyes trained on his as she worried the satiny fabric
in her grip.
	His expression turned tender, telling her wordlessly
he understood her fear.  "You always were a skinny little
thing."
	She recognized Mulder was teasing; his tone was 
gentle, his eyes warm.  But this particular concern of hers 
was deep-seated, and tangled with such tricky things as 
identity and self-worth.  The quip stung, even though she 
knew that hadn't been its intent.  Hating herself for being so 
sensitive, Scully struggled valiantly for an off-handed drawl.  
Yet, even as she spoke, she feared her words revealed far 
too much.  "Well, when you sweet-talk me like that, how can 
I refuse?"
	With that, she bent her head and began to lift the 
camisole up and away, thinking to simply get it over with. 
	But she had bared little more than an inch of skin
when his hands landed on hers, impeding her progress.
	"You think I was sweet-talking you, Scully?"
	He had murmured the question from just above her
ear, his breath puffing hot and honeyed against her hair.  His
nearness was wreaking havoc with her composure.  She so
wanted to avoid a repeat of the tears she and Mulder had 
earlier shared.  But the husky, intimate timbre of his voice 
was making it difficult for her to refrain.  
	"I mean . . . I realize I may not be the smoothest
guy you're ever going to meet.  But even *I* can do better 
than that."
	The wind rattled the room's window in its frame,
whipping a mixture of gravel and raindrops against the glass 
so that it rat-tatted like fingernails against a tabletop.
	Still, she refused to look at him.  "You don't have to,
Mulder.  I don't need that kind of thing."
	He sensed her misgivings.  She knew it.  And that
was the last thing she wanted.  To be looked at as needy or
vulnerable.  Please don't pity me, Mulder, she silently pled.  
Not when I'm wallowing in it already.  Don't treat me like I'm 
dying.  You'll ruin this for me if you do.
	His hands lifted to frame her face, to cradle it warmly
in his palms.  Tilting her head carefully, Mulder brought her
eyes to his.  Scully didn't know what he saw in hers, but his 
shone candle bright and welcoming.  Longing was there, and 
a nameless kind of compassion.  But not pity.  Not a trace of 
it.  She took heart.
	"You don't think I'm up to it," he said softly, the 
slightest hint of humor leavening his voice.  "You don't think
I know what to say to a beautiful woman."
	She smiled wryly, responding to his tone.  "I look 
like a drowned rat, Mulder.  And a skinny one at that.  Believe
me--chances are you could talk my ear off."
	Slowly, he shook his head, incredulity wrinkling his
brow.  "What mirror have =you= been using?"
	"The one behind you," she replied dryly, gesturing
with her chin in that direction.  "Far as I can tell, it works 
just fine."
	"That's just glass.  Try using this one instead."  
Easing one hand away from her cheek, he pointed towards 
his face.  "See yourself through my eyes."
	"Mulder . . . ."  God damn the man.  He seemed
determined to make her cry.
	"I mean it, Scully," he said with an urgency he had
only hinted at previously.  "I can't believe . . .  My God--don't 
you have any idea what you do to me?"
	She wasn't stupid, and despite all her current 
insecurities, she hadn't entirely forgotten how this man had 
turned into a twitching, moaning mess the minute she had 
applied a little pressure to a particularly sensitive portion of 
his anatomy.  Still, she couldn't help but be curious.  Their 
attraction had always been something that had been hinted at; 
intuited, but never spoken of.  Mulder seemed in the mood to 
change all that, to lay bare his feelings for her like a
penitent at confession.  She would be a fool not to hear 
him out.
	So, she shook her head, her gaze still locked on his.
	Slicking his lips with his tongue, the man kneeling 
before her took a deep breath.  And began.
	"Yeah.  So you've lost a little weight," he murmured,
drawing his fingertips lightly along the edges of her face.  "I'll 
bet you don't sleep as well as you used to, and you probably 
don't have enough energy these days to put in time at the gym."
	Lips pressed tight, she shook her head once more, 
striving hard to maintain eye contact.
	"And when you look in the mirror, you see what this 
disease has cost you.  You catalog all the ways your body has 
found to betray you."
	Her head bobbed, the movement subtle and quick.
	"But, Scully . . . you haven't changed as much as 
you think," he said earnestly, both palms again bookending 
her face.  "The woman you've always been is still there.  She's 
just been pared down a little.  Distilled."
	"Mulder . . . "
	"It's true," he insisted, holding her captive in his 
gentle hands.  "Believe me.  I, of all people, should know."
	Lightning crackled just outside their window, its
flash nimble and brilliant.
	"Your eyes are same shade of blue they've always 
been," Mulder said, leaning in close, staring down at her 
intently.  She couldn't look away.  "I don't know what you'd 
call the color exactly.  But they're very light.  Almost gray 
sometimes.  I'd say they were ice blue, but that's misleading."
	He bent his head and kissed her just beneath her 
brows.  Delicate, butterfly kisses.  Her lashes fluttered shut.
	"Your eyes aren't cold, Scully."
	Thunder boomed, its vibration shaking the very 
ground beneath them.
	"Except when you catch me doing something really
stupid.  Then it's like they're shooting icicles at me."
	She smiled at that, her lids lifting.  He looked back 
at her, mimicking her grin.
	"Then there's your mouth," he said, his fingertips
brushing gossamer light against that particular feature.  "I've 
already told you how I feel about it."
	She nodded, bemused by his seeming obsession.
	He kissed her, the caress chaste, but lingering.  
"Mmm," he murmured afterwards, savoring the contact, his
eyes slumberous and dark.  "That hasn't changed.  It's the same 
shape, the same softness.  For years, I'd imagined what it 
would be like to kiss you.  Years.  I wasn't disappointed, Scully."
	"No?" she asked.
	"Uh-uh," he said solemnly.
	She smiled yet again.
	"And you still do that walk thing."
	God, it felt as if her emotions were spinning like a 
top.  One minute she was battling back tears, the next it was
all she could do to keep from guffawing.  "What 'walk thing'?"
	"That strut you've perfected over the course of our 
partnership.  The one that tells anyone within eyeshot you're 
a force to be reckoned with."
	Okay.  Now she really did have to laugh.  With 
indignation if nothing else.  "I do =not= *strut*!"
	Mulder took his hands from her face and rested them
instead on his hips.  Cocking his head, he gazed down at her
with scarcely concealed amusement.  "Call it what you like, 
Scully.  I know what I've seen."
	He was baiting her.  She understood that.  Trying to 
get a rise out of her.  But she was having too much fun at that 
moment to call him on it.  "And what exactly do you think 
you've seen, Mulder?"
	He hesitated for a beat, his lips pursed, his eyes
narrowed, almost as if he were sizing her up.  "How can I put
this . . . ?  Let's just say that when you move, you send out a 
very contradictory message."
	"What are you talking about?"
	"From the waist up you've got something entirely
different going on than you do from the waist down."
	She hoisted her brow as high as it would go.  "Pray
enlighten me."
	Mulder grinned at her withering tone.  "You hold 
your shoulders really still when you walk.  They don't budge.  
It's like you've got a board strapped to them."
	She wrinkled her nose in mock disdain.  "You know,
I think I liked it better when you were just calling me skinny."
	"No--it's impressive," he assured her, his hands
spread wide before him as if in apology.  "It really is.  The 
whole look is very much 'don't fuck with me'.  You walk into 
a room, and it's like you own it and everyone in it."
	"Even you?" she queried softly, her chin raised.
	"Especially me," he replied just as quietly.
	They looked at each other, the room silent save for
the rain pounding outside for entrance.
	"But it's your hips that make it a strut," he continued
after a moment or two, his voice low and knowing.
	She rolled her eyes disparagingly.  "I'm not even going 
to--"
	"You work 'em," he said, leaning into her, merriment 
dancing in his eyes.  "Snap 'em from side to side.  Under all 
those straight-lined skirts . . . . It's mesmerizing.  Why do you
think I'm always hanging back, opening doors and what-not?
It's not manners, let me assure you."
	Vaguely embarrassed by his apparent scrutiny of her
body and its motion, Scully shoved at Mulder's chest, her small
hands landing squarely at its center.  "You are *such* a liar!  
You don't hang back for anyone.  I'm always running after you,
worried you're going to leave me behind."
	Placing his hands on her shoulders, Mulder gently 
pushed her back against the bed clothes, more guiding than
forcing her.  He followed her down, and came to rest on his side,
one leg thrown over hers.
	"What if I promised I wouldn't leave you behind tonight?"
he whispered between kisses, his lips pressing soft and warm
against her cheek, her temple, the corner of her mouth.  "That
I'd make certain you went before me."
	"Went before you?" she murmured, her eyes sliding
shut, her hands roaming restlessly down his back's sculpted 
slopes.
	"Came before me," he mumbled against her mouth,
his hand in her hair.
	"I'd settle for came with you," she told him, nipping 
at his lower lip.
	"Deal," he said, and crushed his mouth to hers. 

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
Continued in Chapter IV

"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the 
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's 
Adventures in Wonderland" 

Wonderland IV
Joining the Dance (4/4) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
home.earthlink.net/~krasch

Thanks for your patience.  Here we go.
***************************************************

	Lightning pulsed behind Dana Scully's lowered lids
as her lips pressed and sucked and slid over Fox Mulder's
full, soft mouth.  Their tongues caressed each other like 
fondling fingers, tangling and stroking, soothing and arousing.  
Mulder hovered over her, his upper body supported by his 
forearms, his lower body resting solidly on hers.  Almost 
mindlessly, his groin rhythmically nudged against the juncture 
of her legs; small thrusts, even smaller retreats, teasing her with 
hints of what was to come.  Restlessly, her hips began to lift and 
drop beneath him, picking up his cadence.  Her hands tightening 
in his hair, she hooked her leg around the back of his, urging him 
to fulfill his promise.  Responding to her plea, he ground his cock 
against her mons, turning in tight, fierce circles, and raised his 
head to lock his gaze on hers.
	"Let me see you, Scully," he muttered against her 
cheek, plucking at the strap of her camisole as if he were 
considering ripping it from her torso, his eyes dark and 
unfocused with desire.  "Let me see you.  I want to see you."
	"Yes," she breathlessly agreed, her former demons 
slinking off to cower in the shadows, banished for the time
being.  
	Their hands collided at her lingerie's hem, fingers 
fumbling to grab hold.  In the end, she just let him do the work,
allowed him to skim the slippery bit of fabric up her supine form, 
tug it over her head, and drop it heedlessly on the floor.
	Her chest now naked, pale and delicate and vulnerable 
upon the bedclothes, Mulder paused for a moment as if to take 
it all in.  He lie beside her, their legs still entwined, his palm 
flattened on the zipper of her jeans.  He wasn't touching skin.  
Not a bit of it.
	But she wished with everything she had that he would.
	"You were afraid to show me this?" he murmured after
a time, his gaze focused on her breasts.
	"Not afraid exactly," she said quietly, her hands by
her sides.  "Ashamed maybe."
	"Ashamed?" he echoed in amazement, his eyes finding
hers.
	"I want to give you the best of me, Mulder," she said 
softly, striving to come up with a way to make him understand.
	"The best?" he asked confusedly.
	"Yes," she said with a tiny nod.  "The best of who I
am.  Inside and out.  Not only for you.  But for me too."
	He just looked at her, his forehead wrinkled, wordlessly 
asking for clarification.
	"I've never been willing to come to a man as anything 
less than an equal," she said in a hushed, throaty voice.  "Not 
even to you."
	 He hung his head, evading her gaze.  "Do you think
I treat you as less than my equal?"
	"Sometimes," she replied honestly, her expression
betraying no anger, no hurt at the notion.  "But I don't think
you do it purposely."
	"I don't," he said hoarsely, the words puffing against
her shoulder.
	She reached up and lightly stroked his chin.  "I know.
But it happens every once and awhile just the same."
	He sighed, and slid his hand upwards where it at last 
met flesh.  Softly, he rubbed his thumb against her suddenly 
ticklish middle.  "So what has any of this got to do with your 
wanting to make love for the first time lights off, eyes closed?"
	She chuckled, her fingertips weaving through the hair 
on his brow.  'Make love'.  She liked the sound of that.  "We've 
waited a long time, Mulder.  I wanted this to be . . . special.  I 
still want it to."
	His eyes turned tender, his mouth gentled into a ghost
of a smile.  "And you think the loss of a few pounds is going to 
keep that from happening?"
	She shrugged a tad sheepishly.  "I worried that it 
might.  Yeah."
	"Stop your worrying, Scully," he mumbled as he
dipped his head once more.  "Let me assure you--I've got no 
complaints."
	"Good," she whispered with a smile of her own.
	Then his mouth closed over her nipple.
	And her smile transformed into a grimace of delight.
	"Oh!"
	Mulder cupped her breast, lifting it slightly.  His 
lips clung tightly to its rosy center, pulling at it, cheeks
hollowed with the effort.
	"Oh God . . . . ," she whimpered, her back arching,
her lashes fluttering shut.
	His fingers flexing carefully on the soft, rounded flesh
nestled in his palm, he snaked his other hand beneath her torso,
balancing her body on his forearm so it bowed, thrusting her 
chest upwards towards his eager mouth.  
	For a time, he simply fed on her, nursing like a 
hungry infant, his tongue rubbing slowly and firmly over her 
swollen flesh.  Then, at last, he drew away, stretching the 
ripened peak with his lips before relinquishing it completely.
	"Did that seem like I wasn't enjoying myself?" he 
muttered as he nuzzled her breast's sensitive under-slope, 
brushing against her tender skin with the bridge of his nose.  
"Did it feel to you like anything less than 'special'?"
	"It felt wonderful, Mulder," she murmured huskily, 
her eyes still closed, her fingers clenching and releasing in his 
tousled hair, kneading the silky strands like a cat exercising 
its claws.  "As I'm sure you're well aware."
	"We aim to please," he mumbled in between kisses,
his mouth tracing a circular path around one breast before
languidly making its way to the other.  
	Thunder crashed and boomed just outside their motel 
window.
	Scully's pulse pounded and roared just behind her 
eyes.
	"And seeing as you seemed rather 'pleased' before," 
continued her partner, her previously untouched breast now 
cradled in his work roughened palm, his thumb sweeping 
over its tip, coaxing it to harden, to reach for his mouth, "why 
don't we do it again?"
	She mewled her approval.
	Yet, that apparently wasn't good enough.
	Not for Mulder.
	"Do you want me to, Scully?" he asked, his tongue 
slipping forth to lap gently at her nipple; teasing little strokes 
that made her twitch and start in his arms.  "Would you like 
that?"
	"Yes," she urged, the single word harsh and needy, 
shamelessly offering herself up to him, pressing back with 
her shoulders, tilting up her chin to bare her throat in 
surrender.  "Please . . . "
	Saying nothing more, he answered her entreaty.  His 
mouth descended upon the stiffened bit of pink, covering 
it with moist heat.  Suckling hard, he drew on her nipple, 
laved it with his tongue.  Crying out her enjoyment, she 
twisted her head fitfully upon the pillow, her breath expelling 
in short, ragged gusts.
	"I like the taste of your skin," he told her some minutes
later, lifting his head to nudge and nip at her breast, his voice 
little more than a mutter.  "I like the feel of it, the smell of it, 
the way it glows even with only that tacky lamp for light."
	He pressed his lips to her, dotted her chest with a trio 
of quick, soft kisses; one on each nipple, another directly 
between her breasts.  Bracing himself over her, he smiled down 
into her flushed face, his eyes trained on hers.
	"What can I tell you, Scully?" he murmured with a 
lift of his brows.  "I'm a happy man."
	"I bet I know a way to make you happier," she retorted
blithely, her fingers reaching for his zipper.
	But before she could lower it, a mammoth bolt of 
lightning cracked wickedly just outside their window, startling 
them both.  Almost immediately, its attendant thunder bellowed 
its fury, and before either agent could comment, the room was 
plunged into darkness.
	"What the--?" Mulder mumbled, turning his head 
towards the window.  The rain continued unabated, the wind
howled and moaned.  Yet, although they lie in shadows, 
something pulsed bright and golden through the blinds.
	"Hold that thought," he instructed with a noisy kiss,
and leveraging himself off her smaller form, he slipped from
the bed to pad mutely to the window.
	"What is it?" Scully queried, pushing herself to a 
sitting position and running a hand through her tangled locks.
	He twisted the blinds open to their fullest and chuckled.  
"The gas station across the way.  They've still got power."
	"While we don't?" she asked even though she already
knew the answer
	"It doesn't look that way," he replied, peering intently 
through the rain slicked glass.  "I don't see any lights on this
side of the road at all.  On the other side, however, it's 
business as usual.  That great big neon arrow is working
just fine."
	"Leave the blinds open then," she instructed quietly, 
kneeling now on the bedspread.  "No one is going to be playing
Peeping Tom on a night like this."
	He looked over his shoulder at her, his face largely
hidden from view, swallowed by the room's murkiness, his
silhouette backlit in starts and stops.  "You want me to see
you, Scully?"
	She wet her lips, aware that Mulder could discern
her expression far better than she could his.  Yet, she didn't
need to look in his eyes to know what she would see there.
It was the same thing she felt certain shimmered in her own.
	Need.
	Both physical and emotional.
	"Yes," she said softly, scooting backwards so she
now stood as well, facing Mulder, the bed between them.  "I
want you to see me."
	He turned to regard her more fully, his feet planted
shoulders' width apart, his hands at his sides.  A black outline
of a man, still and forbidding.
	Whose every inch was known to her, memorized years 
before.
	Loved and trusted.
	As no one else on earth.
	"Show me," he whispered.
	She nodded.
	Head bowed, her hands found the button at the waist of
her jeans.  A quick flick of her thumb and index finger, and it 
slipped from its hole.  Grabbing hold of the zipper, she eased 
open her pants, slid her hands inside the gaping fabric and 
pushed the denim to the floor.  Clad only in her panties and 
socks, she paused.
	"All of it," he directed, his voice rumbling like an 
echo of thunder.
	She bobbed her chin again, and bracing her hand 
against the bed, yanked first one sock free, then the other.  
Straightening, she aimed her gaze where she imagined his 
must be.  With the yellow neon flashing honey-colored bars 
across her skin, she took hold of her bikinis, pulling them 
over her hips, shimmying just a bit when they stretched across 
the fullest portion of her anatomy.  Bending over, she kept 
her eyes focused on the man watching her, tall and lean, and 
silent as snowfall, and guided her panties down and away.
	Naked, she stood once more, proud and slim, a silent 
challenge issued now that her clothes had at long last been 
shed.  This is who I am, she wordlessly told the man studying 
her so intently.  During the time we have worked together, the 
years you have stood by my side, you have to come to know 
what's inside of me.  The way I think, the values I hold dear, 
what makes me laugh or moves me to tears.
	This is what houses all of that, Mulder.  This is what 
is left of my physical self, the part the cancer has not yet 
ravished.
	Is it enough for you?
	"God," he breathed after a moment or two, the word
properly reverent.
	And yet, not truly directed heavenward.  
	Smiling, Scully knew she had her answer.
	Saying nothing, she climbed atop the bed.  Crawling,
breasts slightly swaying, she came to just before him.  Remaining 
mute as well, he crossed the few steps to meet her.  She sat back 
on her heels and looked up at him.  This close, she could just 
make out his face, although night cloaked it still.  
	"You know, the more I think about it, the more I like
your reasoning, Mulder," she murmured, her fingers finding
his belt buckle and pulling the strip of leather free.
	"That's a first," he muttered under his breath.
	Brow arched at his quip, she reached around and 
pinched his behind.  He yelped, but didn't seem to overly take
offense.
	"Behave yourself," she directed quietly, bemused in 
spite of herself.
	"With you naked and your hand on my fly?" he retorted,
absently rubbing his palm over the seat of his pants.  "Not a 
chance."
	"And here I was commending you," she said, popping 
the button at the waist of his jeans and grabbing hold of the
zipper tab beneath it.
	"Don't let me stop you," he mumbled soft and low, his
fingers combing lightly through her hair.  "Please . . . continue."
	She smiled at the double meaning inherent in his plea,
and followed through on his request.  "All I'm saying is I've 
come to realize there's something to be said for full disclosure."
	"Full disclosure?" he queried as she slowly peeled 
open his jeans.
	"Looks pretty full to me," she replied cheekily, cupping
his erection through his boxers, weighing him in her palm.
	He chuckled, the sound rough and rueful.  "Thanks.  I 
think."
	"My pleasure," she whispered, slipping her hands inside 
his shorts and easing them and his pants to just above his 
knees.  His penis rose swollen and hard from the joining
of his legs, bobbing towards her beseechingly.  Gently, she
stroked it, smoothed her fingertips along his hot, silky 
length.
	Mulder swallowed a groan and curled his fingers, 
tangling them in her auburn tresses.  His eyes slid shut.
	"Why do I have a feeling it may be mine as well?"
he mumbled, his body beginning to quiver beneath her delicate 
caress.
	Scully looked up at him, peered through the darkness 
to witness the intensity of her partner's pleasure, the near 
rapture her simple touch wrought.
	His lips parted, swollen from their kisses.
	His lashes feathering over the hollows beneath his
eyes.
	Every sense, every smidgen of attention focused on 
her.  Poised and yearning.  Longing for more.  From her. 
	And her alone.
	Lucky for him she was in a generous mood.
	"You always were one for hunches, Mulder," she said
as she adjusted her position on the bedspread, and brought her 
face nearer to his straining cock.  Closing her hand firmly 
around the root of his maleness, she guided it towards her, 
stretched it away from his belly.  Bowing her head, she gave 
him a friendly swipe of her tongue.
	"Scully . . . . ," he moaned, swaying in her grasp.
	"Looks like this particular premonition of yours was
right on target," she murmured, softly rubbing her cheek along 
him, loving the slide of skin against heated skin.
	With that, she took him between her lips, slid him 
slowly inside her to rest upon her tongue.  For a moment, she 
just held him there, imprisoning him sweetly in the warm, 
wet confines of her mouth.
	"Oh God, Scully," he whispered helplessly, keeping 
his hips absolutely still.  "My God . . ."
	She could smell the muted, musky scent of him, 
taste the salt on his flesh, feel his need shuddering through 
him with nearly the same violence as the storm battering 
their motel.  It was heady stuff, she thought, to be the one 
who could either fulfill or deny Mulder's dearest, deepest 
desire.  He wanted her now.  Desperately.  She knew this 
unequivocally.  But he wouldn't take her.  Wouldn't force 
or coerce.  Even now, with sweat beading on his forehead, 
his eyes screwed tight with concentration, he was waiting 
on her.  Letting her choose whether he should be allowed 
relief.
	As if she could gainsay him anything.
	Keeping her lips sealed tightly around him, she
pulled her mouth upwards until only the rounded tip of 
him remained secreted within.  Holding him there, she
traced his circumference with her tongue, licking lightly
around the crown.
	Mulder whimpered.  But did not move.
	Smiling around his width, Scully did.
	Her hands stealing around to bracket his hips, she 
pushed her face to his groin, then away.  In and out, she
slid over him, the pace measured, the pressure unyielding, 
her tongue stroking him relentlessly.  Gradually, the man 
in her thrall began to tilt his pelvis, forward and back, the 
movement subtle, tightly reined.
	Yet almost vibrating with the depth of his arousal.
	"You don't know . . .  " he murmured brokenly, his
voice scarcely audible above the tempest.  "You can't . . .
you can't know."
	But she could.  And she did.  She understood the
wonder of it, the beauty of it.  Knew how fiercely intimate
the act was, how powerful, how wondrously erotic.  Looking
up at his tortured face, she would have liked almost nothing 
more than for this man to find completion in her mouth, to 
spill inside her while she took nothing for herself other than 
satisfaction for a job well done.
	But, despite his obvious enjoyment, Mulder wasn't 
willing to let her be so selfless.
	Taking a deep, wrenching breath, he all at once 
knotted his hands in her hair, and pulled her from him 
with far less care than she would have taken on her own.
Cradling her face in his palms, he gazed down at her,
his eyes ebony-dark in the neon shadows.
	"Not like this, Scully," he whispered gruffly, his
thumbs circling her temples.  "Not the first time.  That's
not what I want."
	"What =do= you want, Mulder?" she queried, her 
fingertips resting lightly on his wrists, her behind setting 
squarely on her heels.
	"You."
	Lightning dazzled her for just an instant.  An instant 
later, Mulder's lips were covering hers.  She met his kiss 
hungrily, angling her mouth beneath his.  But she only 
allowed them the briefest measure of contact before pulling 
away to tumble back atop the bed.  From there, she looked up 
at him with soft, slumberous eyes, her arms framing her face, 
her legs splayed with a kind of wanton abandon.
	"Here I am," she whispered, consciously echoing
his earlier words. "So, now that you've got me, what are you 
going to do with me?"
	His patience apparently at an end, Mulder roughly
shoved his pants and boxers to the floor, shucked his socks
from his feet, his gaze never releasing its hold on hers.  "I'm 
sure I'll come up with something."
	"I'm sure you will," she assured him quietly, 
mesmerized by the play of light and dark on her partner's
lanky body.  The way it brought into sharp relief the 
elegant construction of his frame, highlighted the supple
curvature of his muscles.
	"Count on it."
	At long last naked, Mulder crossed from the foot 
of the bed to even with her waist.  Stretching out his hand,
he traced one long, lean finger up the inside of her turned-
out thigh, slowly trailing it from her knee to just shy of the 
wiry copper curls guarding her sex.
	His eyes following the path of his hand, he swallowed 
hard, his expression oddly grave.  When he spoke, the words 
sounded bumpy and small.  "You're probably not going to 
believe this, Scully."
	"Try me," she urged.
	He smiled at her turn of phrase before his face 
turned solemn once more.
	"Right now . . . here . . . with you.  I don't think
I have ever wanted anything more in my entire life."
	What was there to say to that?  He already knew
the feeling was mutual.
	So instead she opened up her arms to him, wordlessly 
inviting him into her embrace, her body; reminding him of
the place he already owned within her heart.
	And carefully lowering himself over her, Mulder 
came inside.
	Lightning flickered like a battalion of fireflies outside
their window.  Coming together for the first time sans clothes, 
the pair on the bed groaned one right after the other, the rough, 
urgent sound seemingly taking the place of thunder.
	Sucking in a quick breath, Scully tensed for an instant 
as Mulder slowly pushed between her legs, not so much in pain 
as in a kind of surprise.
	Hearing her, he instantly held utterly still.  "You 
okay?"
	Nodding, she said softly.  "It's just been awhile, that's
all."
	He bent his head to brush a kiss to her ear.  "You know
what they say about riding a bike, Scully?"
	"Seems to me I've heard it before," she murmured, her
hands stroking restlessly across his taut shoulders and back.
	"It's the same thing," he muttered, nibbling her lobe.  
"I promise.  You'll be surprised how quickly it all comes back 
to you."
	She chuckled, lolling her head on the pillow, his breath
tickling her in ways she had never dreamed possible.  "Do you 
speak from experience?"
	"Wouldn't that actually be an oxymoron in this case?" 
he countered playfully, nuzzling her hairline.
	"Who're you calling a moron?" she grumbled in mock
indignation, gradually relaxing now as her body adjusted to 
his presence.
	"Not you, Dr. Scully," he assured her soothingly, 
anointing her face with kisses.  "Definitely not you."
	Grinning up at him, she twined her arms around his
shoulders.  They could do this.  They could most certainly do
this.  "Hey, Mulder?"
	"Yeah?"
	"Take me for a spin."
	Smiling down at her, his hair falling across his 
brow to tangle in his lashes, he pressed forward with his hips.  
Filling her inch by inch, he stretched the delicate, humid tissue 
sheathing him until at last he was buried to the hilt.
	Moaning with his own enjoyment, Mulder dropped 
his head and mumbled into her shoulder, "Are we good?"
	"We're great," she whispered back, her eyelashes 
drooping.
	Lifting his head from the crook of her neck, he softly 
pressed his lips to hers.  "You know, I think we are."
	Withdrawing slowly, he surged forward once more.
Smooth and hard and hot.
	Scully sighed.
	This was more like it.
	Moving with an easy sort of rhythm, Mulder began
to slide in and out of her, one arm beneath her shoulders, the
other helping to support his weight.  At first, he watched her
eyes, seemingly intent on sparing her any unnecessary discomfort.
But as soon as it became evident such fears were unfounded,
he returned to burying his face against the side of her neck, his
breath warm and moist against her skin.
	"Perfect," he mumbled into her hair, his hips rising
and falling with ever increasing urgency.  "This is . . . God, 
Scully, . . . you feel . . . "  
	She locked her heels around the backs of his thighs, 
dug her fingers into the firm, rounded globes of his ass, holding
him to her with a ferocity that surprised even her.  "I know . . . "
	"Hang on . . . hang on to me."
	"Yes . . . "
	"Don't let go."
	"I won't."
	Onward, he drove, moving steadily, fluid and 
quick within her hot, slick walls; gliding endlessly over the 
swollen knot of nerves hidden away within her folds, glancing
at it from first one angle, then another.  Over and over, he 
stroked across the center of her sensation, exciting it the same 
way a musician fingers a guitar string, drawing from it a similar
music.  A simple sort of note, lovely and pure, resounded within 
her, echoing from one end of her small frame to the other, 
deepening in tone and intensity the longer it played. 
	She wanted to scream with it, to wrap her body around
Mulder's like second skin and shout her song to the heavens,
challenging the thunder and the wind with the power of her
voice.  But she wasn't ready.  Not yet.  Not judging by the 
faint moans and gasps trickling feebly from between her lips.
	No.  
	The crescendo was still a ways off.
	Still, that didn't mean she couldn't help it along.
	Hitching her one leg a bit higher, she hooked it around
Mulder's waist.  He ran his hand down the side of her thigh to 
her knee and back again as if approving of her action.  He then 
trailed his fingers up her middle, kneading her breast, tweaking
her nipple.  Scully shuddered, arching her back, her teeth closing
on her lower lip.
	"You like that?" he asked hoarsely, his groin slapping
against hers, his passion-clouded hazel eyes now boring down 
into her equally foggy blue ones.
	"Yes," she told him softly.  "Yes, of course,"
	"What about this?" he queried again, gnawing lightly 
at the spot where her neck met her shoulder, skimming over the
sensitive slope with his teeth.
	She undulated helplessly beneath him, her chin 
tipped towards the ceiling, her hips pushing off the mattress 
to buck against at his.  "Yes.  Yes . . . I like all of it."
	Nodding, he probed deeper inside her, his cock pumping
fast and furious now, straining as if to reach past her womb.  
Sweat poured down Mulder's back, slicking his skin, making
it glisten in the intermittent neon sun.  His body felt almost 
feverish in her arms, hot and shaky, the restraint he was 
exercising nearly palpable.  It was as if he were trying
somehow to control what lay within him. To keep under 
wraps all the tumultuous emotions, all the terrible memories 
that haunted him, the disappointments, the fears.  As if he 
were attempting master them all.  To once and for all bring 
them to heel.
	Even though he had to know such a quest would 
be doomed from the start.
	Scully could feel her own body readying, could
sense the quickening of her blood, her breath.  She could 
almost picture in her head that spring inside her tightening. 
The one that would finally launch her skyward ratcheting up 
twist by twist, bit by bit, until the poor delicate scrap of metal 
couldn't take it anymore.  Until the tension became so dreadful,
so absolutely, perfectly awful that the coil reached its breaking 
point and . . .
	. . . *BOING*
	With a cry, she catapulted towards the clouds.  Soared 
there, floating.  Drifting through the atmosphere, weightless,
relaxed, and sun-warmed.  Never again wanting to set foot 
on the cold, dirty ground.
	Or ever leave Mulder's embrace.
	The moment she began to clench around him, to 
writhe and moan and clutch blindly at him, her nails scratching
his shoulders and back, marking him, he followed her in flight.  
Pistoning between her spread legs like a wild man, his arms 
crushing her to him, he gave out a low, harsh groan and collapsed 
atop her breast, his hips moving still, his body emptying inside 
hers.
	They rested against each other for what could have
been hours, but was more likely mere minutes.  Scully thought
she might have dozed, yet she couldn't be certain.  Everything 
was just too fuzzy.  She couldn't speak.  She was exhausted.  
Her muscles were already beginning to pipe up with complaints,  
though she had none herself.  She hadn't felt this good in she
couldn't remember how long.  Every single square centimeter 
of her tingled.  She felt as if one of the many lightning bolts 
dancing outside their window had somehow pierced glass, 
kissing her with an electric caress.
	At last, Mulder rolled off of her, moving slowly and 
clumsily as though rousing from a deep and drugging sleep.  
She thought he would pull her to his chest, and was already 
anticipating what a fine pillow his shoulder would make, 
when she realized that instead of adjusting them both to face
each other, he had maneuvered so that his chest was pressed
up against her back and her head was tucked beneath his 
chin.
	Wondering at this, she lie there quietly, nestled in his 
embrace, until Mulder whispered softly, "You can't leave me, 
Scully."
	She tightened her hands on his arm.  "Mulder . . ."
	"Not after today."
	She tried to turn and look him in the eye, but he
wouldn't allow it.  He pressed his cheek to her hair, keeping
her still.  Rain exploded against the window, the wind 
shimmying it in its frame.
	"You can't show a man heaven and then ask him to
do without."
	With his words, she could feel her eyes fill, but the 
emotion pouring through her wasn't the despair she had felt 
before.  It wasn't fear of her impending death or the helplessness 
that came with knowing her disease was supposedly without  
cure.  
	It was hope.
	Tender and fragile as a rosebud.
	But beautiful too.  And just as full of promise.
	"What if I told you I had decided I might live?"
she asked in a hushed voice.
	He went completely still, his very breath suspended.  
"You what?"
	Taking advantage of his sudden inertia, she tried again
to turn and face him.  He didn't even attempt to stop her.  Once
settled, she looked up, searching his eyes.  Tears shone there just 
as they did in hers.
	"I've thought it over," she said, dragging her fingertips
soothingly across his breast.  "And I've realized that maybe things 
aren't quite as dire as I'd feared."
	"They aren't?" he croaked, his hand skimming gently 
over her hair.
	"No," she replied, her voice husky but brisk.  "I don't 
think so."
	She touched his chin, his cheek, a shaky smile pulling
at her lips.
	"Don't get me wrong, Mulder," she murmured.  "I know
I'm sick."
	She balled her fists and pounded them once against his
chest; lightly, for emphasis.
	"But I'm not dead yet."
	He thinned his lips, his hand reaching out to cradle
her face.  "Scully--"
	"I'm just saying that all this acceptance stuff is fine.
But when you get right down to it, I still have to live each day
as it comes."
	He slowly nodded.
	"And I want to live each fully," she said, salt water 
dribbling down her cheeks.  "With you.  Fighting every step of
the way.  Do you understand what I'm saying?"
	He nodded again, quick and hard, his tears now 
overflowing as well.  "I love you."
	She smiled for him as best she could.  "I love you too."
	Suddenly, lightning lit up their room, momentarily
outshining the pulsing neon.  When thunder grumbled after, low
and surly, a thought occurred to Scully unexpectedly.  One that
brought a genuine smile to her lips.  Rolling over once more,
she presented Mulder with her back, fitting herself to his larger
form so that the two of them were cuddled close, both facing 
the window.
	"You know what, Mulder?" she softly queried.
	"What?"
	"I just thought of something."
	"Hmm?"
	"Did you ever notice how a really good thunderstorm
can remind you of fireworks?"
	"I guess so," he murmured sleepily, drawing her nearer 
still.  "I never really thought about it." 
	"I did," she said dreamily, feeling warm and cozy and
so terribly loved.  "And for tonight, that's exactly the kind of 
thing I had hoped for."
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

THE END

"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the 
dance?"--(The Lobster-Quadrille) Lewis Carroll, "Alice's 
Adventures in Wonderland"