Three Little Words (1/2) By Karen Rasch I'm reposting this because I've heard from several people that this never showed up on their servers. I originally sent this one to the group about four weeks ago. I apologize for the excessive use of bandwidth, but not even Vincent got this story for the archive. Disclaimer: Same as everybody else: Scully and Mulder are the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and Fox Television and are used entirely without permission. No disrespect or copyright infringement is intended. I appreciate feedback, and would especially like to hear from people this time around as I'm now paranoid that no one is seeing this. Please send all comments and constructive criticism to krasch@delphi.com. Thanks to all who took the time to write regarding "Coming Back." You don't know how delighted I was to hear your impressions. This is a very supportive group of folks. I guess this story should be rated PG-13 for mature theme, some profanity (although I believe that one of the words used would earn me an "R" in the movie world), and a degree of violence. No sex. A wee bit of romance. Since I started this story before the third season began, no events from that story arc are included here. Thanks, as always, to Helen, Captain of the UST Brigade without whose feedback and encouragement this story would not have been written. I am proud to serve as one of your many lieutenants. Enjoy. BRE Incorporated Central Warehouse Chicago 12:48 a.m. Bennett Riggs stared down the sleek metallic barrel of the Sig Sauer P229. The gun's owner stared back, his hazel eyes clear and unflinching despite the fear mirrored in their depths. The other man's distress pleased Riggs. A slow cruel smile stretched his narrow lips. "Let's end this now Riggs, before anyone else gets hurt," said the man with the gun, his voice low and calm, his eyes never leaving Riggs' face. "Just throw down the knife." Riggs slowly shook his head, his longish black hair grazing his collar. He really had to admire his opponent's cool. If he hadn't been inside the man's head, felt for himself the turmoil, the pain, the complex and often contradictory manner in which the man's mind worked, he might have believed him totally in control. But Riggs knew better. For one brief, shimmering instant he had seen the soul of his adversary. Then, like any general planning a campaign, he had identified his opponent's greatest vunerability. And struck. He shifted his grasp on the petite young woman before him. He was a tall man, perhaps only a inch shorter than the man he faced. The woman's bright copper covered head barely reached his shoulder. And yet her small frame did its job. Her partner would not fire as long as she stood between him and the bullet's target. Riggs held her tightly, his arm locked across her chest, his knife a whisper from her exposed throat. Her bound hands pressed uncomfortably between their two bodies. He chanced a glance down. He could see by the dull brownish smudge on his chest that he had broken the skin when he had hit her. Finding the chunk of Italian marble the warehouse foreman apparently used as a paperweight had been a convenient stroke of luck. The blow had stunned her, making her easy prey. He hadn't even needed to wrestle her gun away from her. She had dropped it when the marble came down upon her head. It lay there still on the warehouse office's floor perhaps 100 feet behind them. He wouldn't need it. He detested guns. They were so clumsy; not elegant weapons at all. So impersonal. "I knew you'd follow me tonight, Agent Mulder," he called jovially to the tall slender man opposite him. "And I didn't even need to touch you." For some reason, the reference to their momentary linkage unnerved the young F.B.I. agent. His jaw tightened, and he suddenly blinked rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. "Then why, Riggs?" he ventured, his hands holding tightly to his weapon, his arms outstretched before him. "Why come after us when you knew we had no proof?" Riggs smiled sadly, the malicious amusement in his coal gray eyes belying his melancholy. "My dear Agent Mulder, haven't you ever been just plain bored?" * * * * * * * * Bennett Riggs had been. Almost since birth. He couldn't remember a time when life had been anything other than easy. Simple. Predictable. Routine. Tedious. Boring. Part of his ever-present ennui had sprung no doubt from the manifestation of his talent, that strange little quirk of genetics that had proven so often as much curse as gift. But an equal share of blame had to be ascribed to the circumstances of his birth. After all, being the only child of one of the country's wealthiest industrialists had certainly not resulted in a difficult childhood. On the contrary, his every whim had been catered to. No demand had been considered too outlandish, no desire too expensive. If a concerned few might have pointed out that his ambitious father and socialite mother had substituted presents and privileges for love, Bennett would merely have shrugged. A strange, self-sufficient child, he would have told the amateur social workers that he had welcomed his parents' actions. He had no need of love, that cloying, sentimental emotion. Things brought power. Power, pleasure. He had relished being left to the care of a succession of highly professional, yet emotionally inaccessible nannies. Like Garbo, he had wanted to be alone. It was that same quality he had recognized in Agent Mulder. That same need for separation. It mattered little that the F.B.I. man's need came from a different place than his own, a place ripe with pain and emotions that were not missing, merely held in check. Unlike himself, Riggs realized that Mulder kept aloof in the mistaken belief that such a course of action would protect him. And those he secretly cared for. Riggs looked down again at the woman before him, her eyes focused ahead, her back ramrod straight. Dana Scully. Dr. Dana Scully. Fox Mulder's partner. His best friend. His . . . "What do you want, Riggs?" Mulder asked, his eyes blazing, his gun never wavering. "You and I both know a knife is no match for a gun. You're not going anywhere. Just give it up." "Oh, I beg to differ, Agent Mulder," Riggs said calmly, the smile he used both to disarm and taunt his victims once again settling upon his lips. "I have always found a knife to be a most effective weapon. I believe, if you were able to question any of my recent . . . acquaintances, you would find they would agree with me." He shifted the gleaming blade in his leather gloved hand so that the flat of it lay against Scully's face. Then softly, like a lover's caress, he ran it from her temple, down her cheek to her chin. To her credit, the woman made not a sound, but stood absolutely still, her rapid breathing the only sign of her agitation. Riggs glanced at Mulder, his eyebrow raised in a challenge. Scully's partner was not having the same success as she in schooling his emotions. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. Pale, eyes wide with barely restrained horror, Mulder nervously licked his lips. Riggs noted with satisfaction that his opponent looked as if he might be physically ill. "I see you get my . . . point, Agent Mulder," said the man with the knife, allowing himself a tiny smirk at his quip. "Used properly, a knife can hold its own against a gun. The trick is to hold its blade against something the gun's owner values." He saw Mulder's eyes flit to his partner's. Sorrow, regret and reassurance all shone in the young man's eyes as he sought to send a silent message to the woman before him. Not for the first time, Riggs wondered at the connection between the two agents. That a man with Mulder's need for solitude, his obsession with his own private demons and crusade would allow one person to get as close to him, to matter as much as Scully did. Did either of them realize the depth of their feelings for each other? Riggs thought not. And yet they had been apparent to him, a casual on-looker, even before he had laid a hand on Mulder. * * * * * * * * He had known the first time he had set eyes on them, the night they had brought him to that dirty, rundown Chicago Police precinct house to question him. The two agents had told him soon after appearing at his doorstep that they come had to town to assist in the investigation of a series of homicides, murders which had dominated the city's newspaper headlines for the past six months. Crimes with which Riggs was intimately familiar. Not that Scully and Mulder knew that. Not yet. Seven total. The victims had appeared to have been selected randomly with no consistency in age, sex, or race, and no discernible motive. The weapon of choice was a knife with a small, non-serrated blade. No clues were left at any of the crime scenes, which were as varied as the victims. Chicago's finest were stumped. Then, they had gotten their break. A woman, Linda Ferguson, age 32, a secretary at a law office in the Loop was found in the alley behind her Diversey Harbor apartment building. Blood loss had been substantial, but she was discovered alive. Barely. She told the police a curious tale, a story strange enough to compel one of the detectives assigned to the case to contact two federal agents he had heard specialized in that sort of thing. When they had arrived in the Windy City, the agents had found they hadn't much to go on. Just a few mumbled phrases from the victim. Riggs had imagined what she must have sounded like, her voice cracking under the strain, the words blurry as if their edges had been sanded off. At first, they must have thought her mad, he had mused, or at the very least confused by the pain and the drugs the doctors had pumped into her to alleviate it. But then, because they had nothing else to go on, the authorities must have decided to try and investigate her claims. Still, he hadn't been worried. He had been able to put the pieces together quickly enough. Somehow, these agents must have tracked Linda Ferguson's activity on the night she had been killed. Any of a dozen people could have told them that he had bought the unfortunate woman a drink at the club on Armitage. However, those same eagle-eyed 12 would also have undoubtedly remarked that he had left the place hours before she did. Other than that brief encounter, they would be unable to prove any other connection between Ms. Ferguson and himself. As always, he had worn gloves, and had been careful, so very careful that nothing linking him to the crime had been left behind. Besides, under any circumstances, he was an unlikely murder suspect. Riggs was a pillar of the community. His corporate empire had offices in five countries, he owned a graystone on the Gold Coast, served on the boards of six of the city's most prominent charities, and had never even had so much as a parking ticket charged against him. What possible reason would one of Chicago's wealthiest, most eligible bachelors have for taking a knife to a total stranger? They certainly couldn't ask the victim, hoping that she might be able to provide a motive, or better still, I.D. her assailant. She had lapsed into a coma before sunrise, and had died less than twenty-four hours later. So, Riggs had been breathing easy that night. No real fear or apprehension. Feeling no threat to himself or his unusual pastime, he had done what he usually did when in a crowd of strangers. He had watched. Apart. Alone. Zeroing in on individual people. The shopworn prostitutes with their garish outfits and bored, tired eyes. The gang members sporting Bulls jackets, $200 Nikes, and the fiercest attitudes they could cop. He had listened to the cacophony of sounds reverberating within the aged building as they layered one on top of another like an old Phil Spector forty-five. He had taken in all the nuances of behavior displayed by the station house's denizens as they went about their respective businesses of crime and punishment. But nothing had piqued his interest quite as sharply as the pair of agents who had brought him to that godforsaken place to begin with. They had shown up at his home right after dinner and had requested that he accompany them for questioning. The man was tall, taller than him and lean; lanky, yet graceful. Square-jawed, with a full, mobile mouth, and old eyes that changed color depending upon under what light Riggs viewed them. His thick, medium brown hair had been worn swept back from his forehead, except for one stubborn shock that hung determinedly over his brow. He was dressed well if conservatively, his steel grey suit and light blue shirt appearing strictly government issued. The illusion, however, was shattered by the tie, an eye-catching riot of blues and blacks and grays with a smattering of red. Not to Riggs' taste, but he had to admit the man carried it off. From the first, he had suspected a rebel dwelt within the soul of that particular G-man. His partner was another matter. Nearly a foot shorter than the man standing beside her, she had nevertheless appeared his equal, if not in stature, than certainly in intelligence. It had taken Riggs no more than an instant to discern the keen mind at work behind the woman's penetrating blue eyes. Her red-gold hair had framed her face, yet didn't quite reach her shoulders, and he was almost certain he had spied a dusting of freckles across her small Roman nose. She too had obviously read the section in the Bureau's handbook covering Dress Code. Her tailored suit and matching pumps had been so neutral in color as to almost not register at all. Unlike the other agent, she had made no attempt to personalize her wardrobe. The only jewelry he had been able to detect was a small golden cross on a chain around her neck. He had gone along quietly, stopping only to pull his coat from the hall closet as protection from the chilling November wind off the lake. All the way to the station he had sat in the back seat of their rented sedan and watched. And listened. The ride hadn't taken very long, and in truth, not much had been said between the two agents. Yet, there had been enough for someone with his powers of observation to pick up the subtle clues as to who these people were, both individually and in relation to each other. He had noted immediately that they were truly a team. Neither took the lead, neither acquiesced to the other's authority. They hadn't spoken much, being the sort who were comfortable with their shared silences. But, they had caught and held each other's gaze. Often. Sometimes, the look that flowed between them was filled with an unspoken question or comment regarding something they had either said or seen. Other times, it had appeared they simply liked looking at each other. When they had arrived at their destination, Riggs had still more opportunity to study the two agents. Enough time to witness the closeness with which they stood, Mulder's much taller frame bent to listen intently to his partner's voice, to consider carefully her opinion. To notice once again the eye contact between them, unwavering, unguarded, and lingering. To view the small incidental ways in which Mulder had managed to establish a physical connection with Scully: a gentle touch on her arm to get her attention, his hand on the small of her back to guide her down a hall, through a door. And the smiles. Small, intimate, volumes spoken without a word being said. Riggs had heard of the special bond that supposedly existed between law enforcement officers and their partners. Yet, what he had seen between Mulder and Scully was more than professional, while being somehow less than sexual. This unspoken something had intrigued him. Few things in life did. He had made up his mind without even giving the matter conscious thought. He wanted to learn more. He had his opportunity. Just after the agents had finally brought him into an empty interrogation room, a young Chicago cop had stuck his head in the door. "Agent Scully. I've got a call for you from Washington. It's an Assistant Director Skinner." The redhead had glanced at her partner in consternation. He had merely smiled, saying, "Be sure to give him my regards." With a wry half-smile, she had excused herself and left the room. The two men had waited, each of a similar age, looking enough alike to be related. They had stared at each other across the table at which they sat, each at ease with himself and the situation. The row of fluorescent lights overhead illuminating the silent stand-off. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to go ahead and get started?" Mulder had finally asked, a small, polite smile in place. "I know Scully wouldn't mind, and if we wrap this up quickly enough I just might be able to get back to my hotel in time to catch that old Vincent Price movie on the late show." "Sorry to disappoint you, Agent Mulder," Riggs had replied as if he were declining an invitation for lunch at the country club. "But I'd just as soon wait for my lawyer. He'll be so annoyed if I pulled him away from his aerobics class for nothing." Mulder had inclined his head, graciously accepting that his ploy hadn't succeeded. "Well, since this may take awhile, can I get you anything? Coffee? A glass of water?" Riggs had shaken his head. "Actually, Agent Mulder, I'd prefer for you to simply answer a question for me." Riggs had then reached across the tabletop, placed his hand on Mulder's forearm, and concentrated. As he knew they would, images had flooded his brain. Most dark, many painful, they had flown by him like a movie run at double-speed, snippets of dialogue coming at him like bullets. Not only did Riggs see snapshots from Mulder's life but he understood their significance, sensed the emotions that accompanied them. Riggs had smiled, his eyes closed, absorbed in the rush. The man's memories had reminded him of a particularly vivid fever dream. It had been tempting to forget what he was looking for, to investigate instead any one of the other intriguing images he had seen fly by him. But, he had resisted the urge. He had known he was close. So close to the answer he sought. He had kept his hand on Mulder's arm. He only ever allowed himself one touch. Otherwise, the hunt wouldn't be sporting. So, he had to make it a good one. For his part, the F.B.I. agent had sat stunned, his mouth agape, his eyes staring, yet unfocused. When it was over he wouldn't understand what had happened. People never did. But he would realize that something had occurred. Only by then it would be too late. Riggs had searched Mulder's psyche much the way he would flip through his rolodex, looking for the one insight that would tell him what he wanted to know. At last, he had stumbled across it. Riggs had almost reeled with the emotions connected to that memory. They had rolled off of Mulder in waves, stronger than anything he had run across previously. He had his answer. "Thank you, Agent Mulder," Riggs had said sweetly, releasing the other man from his thrall. "You've been a great help." * * * * * * * * "I wonder, do you value your partner, Agent Mulder?" Riggs asked conversationally, delicately lifting strands of the woman in question's hair with his knife. Mulder's mouth tightened. "I'm not playing that game with you, Riggs." The raven haired man shrugged without rancor, his eyes sly. "All right. I can see how you might find that question rather personal. It can wait until we get to know each other better. Why don't we play another game I believe you =will= enjoy." Mulder shifted warily, his gun still before him. "Oh, and what game is that?" "Twenty Questions," Riggs answered evenly, relaxing against the wall of packing crates at his back. "Surely, there must be some things about me you're just . . . dying to know." Mulder thought it over, then said with studied nonchalance, "Why don't you let Scully go. Then we can talk. As soon as I know she's all right, we'll play any sort of game you like." Quick as a snake, Riggs stepped away from the cartons and changed his grip on Scully. The hand that had clasped her to his chest reached up and pressed sharply beneath her chin, his thumb and forefinger digging into the soft flesh there surrounding her windpipe. Just as swiftly, she began to gag, sputtering for air. With his other hand, he pointed his knife at the hollow at the base of her throat. "=Don't= insult my intelligence, Agent Mulder. Do me that courtesy at least. And do not =ever= forget how quickly I can paint the floor with your partner's blood." Stricken, Mulder's voice tumbled out of his mouth like a rock slide, "All right, all right. That's enough, Riggs. Let her go. You son of a bitch. You heard me. I SAID LET HER GO!" Satisfied he had made his point, Riggs released his hold on his hostage's throat. She tried to bend over from the waist to catch her breath. His arm across her collarbone restricted any such motion. So, the young redhead could only bow her head, coughing and gasping for air. "Scully? Scully! You okay? Can you breathe?" Mulder's worried eyes bored holes into the crown of his partner's head as he anxiously waited for her to raise her eyes. It took a moment, but she managed it, her voice rough and raw. "Yeah. It's okay. I'm okay." Mulder nodded in acknowledgment, then raised his eyes to meet Riggs'. The gentle concern that had been there only an instant before vanished before a flood of hatred. Riggs merely smiled. "Do you understand the rules now, Agent Mulder?" he asked softly. Mulder nodded again. "More than you know." "Then ask your questions." His eyes never leaving Riggs and the woman he held pressed against him, Mulder paced in a tiny square, all the fury and frustration he had thus far ruthlessly squelched fueling his movement. Finally, rubbing his hand over his mouth as if wiping away the taste of something foul, he spoke, "Fine, Riggs. We'll play it your way. For now. You want questions--Here's number one: Did you kill Linda Ferguson?" Riggs dipped his head. "Yes." "And the others?" "Of course." Mulder's eyes narrowed. "Why?" "Why not," Riggs replied with a mischievous grin, leaning in to speak the words in a stage whisper into Scully's ear. His breath made her hair flutter against the side of her face. Mulder shifted uncomfortably, all too well aware of the physical proximity shared by a psychopath with a knife and his defenseless partner. "I thought you were going to give me answers, Riggs," he challenged loudly, trying to draw the man's attention back to him. "Isn't that how you play Twenty Questions? One person asks the questions, the other answers. Well, I'm doing my part. But you--you're just feeding me bullshit." "My apologies," Riggs said smoothly, his eyes measuring. Mulder died just a little bit every time he physically encroached upon Scully. In that respect, the agent was just like Pavlov's dog. You push a button, you get the expected response. Riggs lived for that now familiar feeling of power. The control. The ability to manipulate others, to bend them to his will. The psychological and emotional high he got from playing god with someone else's life was why he hunted in the first place. How far could he push it with Agent Mulder? What would it take to make the man break? Riggs smiled a secret smile, and decided to try an experiment. He let his hand drift down from its safe, neutral position on Scully's shoulder to rest lightly just on the slope of her left breast. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the woman made herself even more rigid. The only proof he had that there was a living, breathing woman before him and not a statue carved in stone was the steady if rapid beat of her heart against his fingertips. A muscle in the corner of Mulder's jaw jumped, then tightened with what looked like painful force. "Save your apologies for my partner," Mulder murmured, his voice low and intent. "Under normal circumstances I don't believe she let's a guy go that far on the first date." Riggs quirked an eyebrow. Hmm, although it was costing him to remain calm, Mulder was handling this particular maneuver better than Riggs had thought he would. He had expected the F.B.I. agent to turn into a latter-day Lancelot defending a certain fair maiden's honor. Instead, the agent had recognized the gesture for what it was--a test. While it pained him to see his partner compromised, he controlled himself. Riggs' respect for Mulder raised a notch. He understood then that he would have to go farther to get the reaction he desired. "Quite right," Riggs said at last, raising the offending hand to gently flick at Scully's cheek in a perversely playful, affectionate gesture before resting it once again on her shoulder. She merely turned her face away in disgust. "I was rude. I'm afraid I couldn't help myself. Agent Scully is a very attractive woman. I got carried away. Has that ever happened to you, Agent Mulder?" "I thought I was the one who got to ask the questions," Mulder protested, adjusting his grip on the Sig. "Ah, yes, the game. " Mulder nodded. "The game. You were the one who wanted to play. So I ask you again--why?" Riggs sighed as if put out by the question, and resumed his slouch against the wall of packing crates. "Because I can, Agent Mulder. Because I can." "How?" "Oh, come now," Riggs said, nearly purring his response, his eyes flint hard, unforgiving. "You, better than anyone, know the answer to that." Mulder fidgeted, his eyes darting to Scully, then back again to rest on Riggs' face. "Have you forgotten already, Agent Mulder?" Riggs said in a concerned, friendly tone. He clucked sympathetically, and addressed his next comments to Scully. "I would have thought the experience had made a greater impression upon him. Perhaps I should refresh his memory by getting to know you better." "No!" Mulder took a step forward. Riggs stopped him by smiling darkly. "Ah. I see you do recall after all." =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *REPOST* "Three Little Words" (2/2) Date: Sat, 28 Oct 95 16:51:59 -0500 *REPOST* Three Little Words (2/2) By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com For Disclaimer and other info, please check Part I. As I said in that first section, I'm reposting this puppy because it apparently got lost in cyber-space the first time around (at least for many of you!)Hope you like it. Comments are appreciated (even if it's only to say, yeah I saw it this time ). Thanks. Enjoy. Mulder froze, his weight on the balls of his feet, torn between his desire to take out his frustrations on the man opposite him and his knowledge that to do so would result in disaster for his partner. Breathing heavily, he looked at Riggs with all the contempt he could muster. "Sure I do. You read minds." "Christ, Mulder! You make me sound like a fortune teller at a fair," Riggs retorted with equal disdain. "You and I both know that what I do is far more sophisticated, more selective than merely pulling a person's birth date out of mid-air." "Really?" Mulder said with scorn, aware that he had pricked his adversary's pride. Perhaps by attacking his ego he could lead Riggs into making a mistake. "How do I know that? It seems to me that all you did was contact those poor people and pull out of them whatever you needed to kill them. An address, a phone number, a clue to where they'd be and who they'd be with at a given time. I don't know--sure sounds like fortune telling to me." "Then that shows how very little you know," Riggs sneered, his arm wrapping itself around Scully's throat, the knife poised at the corner of her jaw. "Perhaps your partner has more appreciation for what I do. You're a doctor, Agent Scully. Surely, you can imagine the intricacies involved in my own particular brand of psychic surgery." The woman spoke in a hushed, tightly controlled voice, taking care to move no more than necessary what with the knife point tickling her jawline. "I don't know what you're talking about." Riggs relaxed slightly, and glanced mockingly at Mulder. "Do you mean to say that Agent Mulder didn't tell you?" "Don't flatter yourself, Riggs," Mulder said blandly. "I only bother her with the important stuff." "I'm hurt," Riggs replied, although his smile said he was anything but. "I would have thought our little 'meeting of the minds' would be worth sharing. . . . Seeing as you two are so close." "Why don't you tell me more about how you were able to get to Linda Ferguson without anyone seeing you," Mulder suggested quickly, his attempt to change the subject so transparent Riggs had to chuckle. "But, Agent Mulder," Riggs protested mildly. "That's just what I'm doing." He shifted Scully again within the circle of his arms, bringing his face beside hers. Her body rested against his, her bound hands jostling against his thigh. "You see, I have a certain talent, Agent Scully. A gift," Riggs said conversationally, as if he and the female agent were old pals. His eyes remained pinned on Mulder. "I can touch people. Really =touch= them. And when I do, I know everything. Or I could if I were to keep the contact between us alive." Scully licked her lips, then queried, "Is that how you knew where Linda Ferguson lived?" Riggs' eyebrows raised sardonically. He patted her cheek. "You, my dear, get a gold star. Yes, it was simple really. One touch on her arm and I knew she where she lived, her cat's name, what she had had for dinner that night. And yes, Agent Mulder, her birth date. August 14, 1963." "Why her?" Mulder demanded, his eyes bleak. Riggs shrugged, then shook his head. "It wasn't anything personal. I had never even met the woman before that night. That's one of the rules of the game." Mulder looked at him with poorly veiled astonishment. "And what game would =this= be?" "Oh. My favorite game. The one that gives me the most problems. And the most pleasure. The Hunt." Mulder's eyes narrowed as he mulled over Riggs' words, not quite making sense of it all. "The Hunt--You hunt people as part of some game?" "Not just any game, Agent Mulder," Riggs said, stepping away once again from the boxes, his eyes fever bright with enthusiasm. "=The= game. The one where I play the great white hunter and the rest of the world tries to elude me in the brush." "What are you talking about?" Mulder asked warily, as if he really didn't want to hear the answer. "I'm talking about my life, my dear FBI man," Riggs said softly as he rubbed his face in Scully's hair, like a cat marking something as its own. "I'm talking about knowing. Knowing anything about anyone. Can you imagine what that's like?" "Not really." Riggs continued as if he hadn't heard Mulder's mumbled reply. "At first, it was incredible. I mean, you can imagine school, can't you? Being able to figure out what was going to be on a test. Any test. Knowing your classmates' minds almost before they did themselves. Touching a girl's hand and discovering exactly what it would take to get into her pants." Mulder shrugged, determined not to show his wonder at what he was hearing, and said lightly, "Sounds like an episode of Weird Science." Riggs glared at him. "It gets weirder. I inherited my father's business empire. Corporate take-overs. Mergers. Stock transactions. Job bids. All I have to do is be there. Mingle with the powers-that-be, the movers and shakers, and that information is mine for the taking. The only problem is, that like all things, it got old." Mulder shook his head. "That still doesn't explain why you turned from corporate raiding to murder." Riggs grabbed Scully's hair and jerked hard, bending her back until the top of her head rested against his shoulder. A small sound of surprise and pain escaped her lips. "It would, if you were only listening." Mulder took one hand from his Sig, and reached out towards the couple before him beseechingly. "I am. I am. I'm listening. I want to know. Riggs--Riggs! Why did you kill these people? What did you believe they had done to deserve it?" Riggs giggled. "Nothing. =Nothing.= Don't you see? They were merely my prey." Mulder blinked, his expression pained. "In the Hunt?" Riggs nodded too, his expression pleased. "Yes. You see. You were listening, after all. In the Hunt. I choose them. At random. I can't really say how I make my selection. It's . . . it's instinctive, you know?" "Of course, " Mulder murmured. "Then, it's one touch. One touch only. For as long as I can hold it," Riggs said rapidly, his excitement evident. "I gather what I can and then I release them." "Until it's time to hunt," Mulder said, prodding. "Exactly." Understanding dawning, Mulder considered what the man before him had said, then dropped his gaze for an instant, before once again engaging Riggs', purpose shining in his hazel eyes. "Then let Scully go. It's me you touched. I'm the one you chose." "Mulder, no!" Scully cried, twisting in Riggs' embrace, the knife in his hand momentarily forgotten. "It's all right, Scully," Mulder said soothingly, venturing a step forward. "I'm right, aren't I, Riggs? That's what happened in the station house. You touched me." This was going all too well, Riggs thought with pleasure. The FBI agent was playing into his hands so beautifully. "That's right, Agent Mulder. I touched you." "Then it's me you want," Mulder said softly in the same voice he'd use to talk a jumper off a roof. "Let her go." "Mulder--," Scully said warningly. Her partner's eyes flickered to hers for a moment. He smiled gently with reassurance. "Right again, Agent Mulder," Riggs said in a honeyed tone. Then, he slid the knife under Scully's chin to stop his adversary's progress forward. "But it's not just your life I want." "What are you talking about?" "It's your soul." Mulder stopped, bewildered. He had thought he was going to be able to get Scully away from that madman. He had believed that he would finally be able to resolve their stand-off. Instead, he was left nearly grinding his teeth in frustration. "I don't understand." "I know you, Agent Mulder," Riggs said smugly, taunting like a schoolboy. "I know all about you. Why, I'd wager I know you better than the lovely Agent Scully here." "Terrific. I'm sure we'd do really well on The Newlywed Game," Mulder gritted out, his gun arm beginning to feel the strain. "Just let her go." "No, no. I don't want to exclude Agent Scully from our little circle," Riggs said with mock reproof, his eyes wild, his face flushed. "I think you should share with her what you shared with me." Mulder grimaced, his brow furrowed. "I didn't =share= anything with you, Riggs. You took it. Just like you took all those people's lives. But, I'm willing to play along. What do you want me to say?" Riggs smiled. Icy, hard, victorious. "You're a bright boy. You figure it out." He then took his knife and turned it with his leather- covered fingertips, the blade catching the light from the bulb directly over the threesome's heads. Then, before Mulder could even register what was happening, Riggs took his weapon and flicked against Dana Scully's neck. Its blade opened a wound about three quarters of an inch long. Red welled up in the shallow cut, beaded, then fell. A small sound of alarm vibrated in the back of Scully's throat. "NO!" The words were wrenched out of Mulder as if a team of horses dragged them from him. "Think of this as an incentive, Agent Mulder," Riggs purred. "After all, it's getting late. And we have been at this for quite awhile. We need to move along. Just tell Agent Scully what you told me, and it will all be over." "I don't know what you're talking about--" Riggs could see the FBI agent fumbling, both physically and mentally as he tried to come up with the information that would satisfy the man before him with the knife. The black-haired man chuckled, wanting to shout his pleasure to the world. "Oh, come on! Where's your sporting sensibility?" Riggs said with mock encouragement, his hand still locked in Scully's hair. "Think of it as a puzzle. It can't be all that difficult. That's what you do for a living, isn't it? Solve puzzles. Mysteries. Well, this is the same thing. Only this time, something important is on the line." "Riggs, this has gone far enough," Mulder said, trying reason, though his face hinted that he was fast losing his own hold on it. "This isn't your game. I didn't think you were into puzzles--" "That's your problem, Agent Mulder," Riggs said, his voice diamond hard. "You don't think." The knife did its dance against Scully's skin again. This time, it drew blood from the flesh exposed by the vee of her suit's blouse. This gash, like the other, was small, yet the thick scarlet fluid rose quickly to the surface and trickled down to disappear inside the frightened agent's clothes. She sucked in a stunned gasp. Mulder shifted his weight and his weapon, desperately looking for a lane in which to shoot. "Riggs, so help me god --" "I wouldn't if I were you, Agent Mulder," Riggs cautioned, as he too began to move ever so slightly. "What if you chose to fire, and I did this--" He dipped both Scully and himself sharply to the left, then righted them. "Sure, you *might* hit me," Riggs continued, the amusement in his eyes goading Mulder unmercifully. "But, look who stands in front of me. What would you do if you hit Agent Scully?" As he supposed Riggs had intended, Mulder's eyes strayed to his partner's terrified gaze. Tiny red rivulets marred the ivory smoothness of her neck and chest. But she didn't weep. She didn't beg. Mulder stood there, his grey trench coat enveloping him like a fog, his eyes frightened, haunted, his shoulders bowed. Not even knowing he was doing so, he slowly shook his head. Riggs pressed his advantage. "What would you do if you killed her, Mulder? If she died right in front of you from a bullet fired by your hand? How would you feel?" Something in the way Riggs asked the last question drew Mulder's eyes back to the man standing before him. The bastard. He was smiling a cocky, sure grin. Then he nodded as if offering some particularly twisted encouragement. Mulder replayed the man's last words over in his head. And suddenly Mulder knew. He knew what Riggs wanted. But it was hard. So very hard to say the words. "Riggs, . . . you know . . . I care for her--" "Not good enough!" The knife flashed like lightning. Another shallow wound, this one slightly longer than the other two, spilled blood again on Scully's throat. This time she couldn't stop the moan that slipped from her lips. Mulder tore at his hair with the hand not holding his now shaking Sig, and paced back and forth like the proverbial tiger in a cage, his voice carrying through that simile with its roar. "That's enough! THAT'S ENOUGH, YOU FUCKER! I love her! Is that what you wanted to hear? =I love her.=" Riggs merely smiled. Mulder stared at his partner, swaying on his feet. Riggs wished he could see Scully's face. She was trembling now, her hands vibrating against his camel's hair coat, brushing against his hip. But not from fear. That, he was certain. Something in her expression must have asked a silent question. Mulder answered it. This time softly, the sorrow and longing in his eyes fathomless. "I love her." Riggs waited, savoring the moment. Then, whispered, "Very good, Agent Mulder. I knew you could do it. Now, let's wrap up this little tea party, shall we? Throw down your gun." Riggs felt Scully start in his arms. "Mulder!" She protested. Riggs pulled her against him more tightly, his arm back to its original position across her collarbone, smearing the blood on her chest as it settled. "Do it, Mulder. Or my knife carves Agent Scully a new smile right across her very pretty neck." "Mulder, shoot!" his partner urged, her voice tight with unshed tears. Mulder didn't even consider the consequences. Ghostly pale in the warehouse's stark light, he bent down to place his gun on the floor. Riggs wanted to do a little victory dance. He liked this new game. He had thought tonight would be different. Had hoped it might be, in fact. He had realized when he had noticed the agents watching his home that he could lure them to this building and have his way with them. But unlike his other crimes, he hadn't planned his course of action, hadn't mapped each and every step. Instead, he had relied on his own sharp intelligence and improvisational skills. He found the sensation of flying by the seat of his pants invigorating. And despite his words to Mulder, he didn't want it to end just yet. No. Tonight, he wasn't only going to take lives--but secrets, dignity, and dreams. He had lied to the agents. This evening wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot. He figured he had hours of enjoyment left while he decided which of the two star-crossed lovers would watch the other die. Riggs watched Mulder lower his weapon to the floor, feeling as if he was viewing the action in slow motion, much the way a sports fan watches that one impossible catch or basket on the instant replay. He relished the agent's surrender. As soon as the Sig left Mulder's hand this round of the contest would be over, and Riggs would be declared the winner. But before that could happen, Agent Scully entered the game. His attention so focused on Mulder, Riggs had nearly forgotten about the petite redhead in his arms. She used his distraction to her advantage. Her small hands, which had been brushing tantalizingly close to his groin all night, grew bolder, finally finding their target. And when she located what she was looking for, she squeezed. And squeezed hard. Riggs shrieked, high and long like a wounded animal. His body contorted, his arm flinging up and away from Scully's shoulder in surprise. She took her opening, and releasing the two sacs of skin and nerves she had crushed so tightly, dropped down, preparing to roll away from the man behind her. Riggs' reflexes were as sharp as his blade, however, and before she could get away cleanly, his knife arm plunged. A scream ripped from her throat the same moment the blade ripped through her upper arm. But, before Riggs could raise his weapon for another swipe, a shot rang out. Riggs flew backwards, crashing into the wooden crates that had served as his backdrop, and slipped to the floor with a heavy thud. Mulder sprang from his knees, his gun arm shaking, his feet getting tangled in the folds of his coat. Scully lay on her side, her hands still bound tightly behind her. Crimson was rising through her clothes to stain her arm. He ran to her, his mouth thinning in anger when he realized that Riggs had used the belt from her trench coat to bind her. As gently as he could so as not to jar her injured arm, he wrestled the knot free "Scully! Scully, are you okay?" His hands skimmed lightly over her as if that alone would be enough to discern her condition. She nodded, struggling to sit, swaying from a combination of adrenaline and blood loss. "Riggs--" she mumbled as she simultaneously tried to rub her sore wrists and shrug out of her coat. Mulder scuttled over to the man, and turned him over on the cement floor. Blood blossomed on his chest like some exotic variety of orchid. The agent put his fingertips to the man's throat. Nothing. "He's dead." Scully nodded, and wearily tried to stand, her legs not quite cooperating. Mulder hurried back to her. "Are you out of your mind, Scully?" he asked in a hushed, angry tone as he caught her in his arms, and gently smoothed away a fall of hair from her cheek. Then, as if he thought she might shatter from impact, he carefully lowered her back to the floor. "Just sit here, okay? I'll call for back-up." His hand still shaking, he whipped out his cell phone and did just that. Then, while they waited, he settled Scully as comfortably as he was able, resting her against a wall a discreet distance from Riggs' body, and draping his coat over her lap to help ward off shock. That taken care of, he wanted to get a look at the wound. "What you did, Scully--that was stupid," he muttered as he eased her suit coat away from her shoulders. Really stupid, deadly stupid. Very nearly unforgivably stupid. "You're welcome," she rejoined lightly, her brow creased with pain and annoyance. Mulder shook his head, his concentration centered on tending to her. Blood had soaked through her blouse, saturating the silky fabric. Although she was being stoically brave, he knew it must be painful. Physically and emotionally exhausted, Scully just sat with her head against the wall, her eyes closed, her face devoid of color. "What I mean is--you could have been killed. If Riggs had swung his knife from left to right rather than straight down---" Mulder shuddered. The thought didn't even bear consideration. "Don't make me out to be Joan of Arc, Mulder," Scully scolded quietly, her eyes still closed. "If you had given him your gun, chances are he would have killed us both anyway. Even though he preferred a knife, I'm sure he wouldn't have had any trouble figuring out how to use your Sig. I just didn't want to die in this place. For either of us to." His head bowed, Mulder considered her words, then nodded. She was right. Her move had saved both their lives. Yet that knowledge proved an ineffective balm to his abraded emotions. He felt certain that the image of her falling before Riggs' knife would be making regular appearances in his nightmares for years to come. Sighing, and wondering if his partner was aware just how badly his hands continued to shake, he leaned down, and with his teeth, tore away her blouse's soaked sleeve. Now, he could get a better look at the cut. It was difficult to tell, but it didn't look as if the knife had gone deeply enough to damage muscle. Still, there was an awful lot of blood. Grabbing the discarded belt which had so recently bound Scully's hands, he cinched it around her arm above the wound to staunch the flow. "Ow!" Her eyes flew open, their usual brilliance dulled by pain. And yet, she looked at him without any real rancor. "Sorry," he mumbled, suddenly shy with her in a way he had never been before. "S'okay," she murmured, studying him intently, catching everything. Mulder tried to conceal his discomfiture by fussing. Not meeting her seeking gaze, he took her suit coat and folded it into a makeshift pillow, then slipped it behind her back. Next, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket he dabbed at the small cuts on her throat and upper torso. Thankfully, the wounds appeared superficial. Throughout his ministrations, his eyes never strayed above the delicate line of her jaw. "Talk to me, Mulder." The husky request jerked him to attention. He raised his eyes and found them locked on hers. His face had somehow wandered dangerously close to his partner's. When he spoke, he almost didn't recognize his voice. It sounded raw, unformed to his ears. "I think I've said enough for one night, don't you?" Scully watched him, her eyes wary but warm, considering his words. Then, slowly she shook her head. "No. There's still a lot to be said. By both of us." Mulder swallowed hard, wishing he could erase the panic and embarrassment from his features. Why at moments like this did he always have the sensation that those laser blue eyes of her penetrated far deeper inside him than he would have liked? "Not tonight." After a moment, she nodded, touching his forearm lightly with her hand. "Not tonight. But soon." He nodded in return, ridiculously thankful for the reprieve. "Soon." Their eyes held, unspoken questions in each pair. Finally, Mulder broke the contact. But not before he brought his hand to her cheek. After holding it there a moment, he turned away with a regretful twist of his lips. Ever so faintly in the distance, he could make out the sharp metallic whine of sirens. He thought he had never heard as lovely a sound in his entire life. THE END "Saying The Words" By Karen Rasch (Part 1/3) This is the sequel to "Three Little Words," which was reposted in conjunction with this story. You really should read that one to understand what's going on here. I know I said that this one would be NC-17, and it is--however, the steamy stuff doesn't make an appearance until Part II. So, all you young Philes feel free to read Part I. There isn't anything here to shock you (with the exception of a few mild profanities). All those who have not yet seen Season III should be fairly safe as well. I have included only one spoiler, which for anyone who has been reading this or any other X-File Sig, isn't going to come as much of a surprise. I would like to thank everyone who has written to me with comments and suggestions. It's just the coolest thing in the world to get letters from people who have been reading your stuff. Some very lovely friendships have sprung up from this correspondence. I count myself lucky. Very special thanks to Helen, Connie, Juliettt and the Troupe, and Ri'an who have provided much appreciated moral support, and who have helped me identify Mulder & Scully in love. Needless to say, these two fascinating characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox and are used entirely without permission (although not without love). No money is being made. I'm just having some fun. Finally-- please, keep those cards and letters coming. My address is krasch@delphi.com. I would love to hear from you. RELATIONSHIP STORY AHEAD. Enter at your own risk. :) He knew it was her the moment he heard the knock on the door. The knowledge didn't come as a result of the uncanny sixth sense they shared, the one that so often let one of them know what the other was thinking without words being spoken. No. This time, his flash of precognition came as a result of simple common sense. After all, it only stood to reason that the determined woman who had worn a hole in his answering machine tape with her messages would eventually tire of his games and seek him at his home. He cracked open the door to his apartment. The hallway's fluorescents blinded him for an instant. Evening came early the first week of December, and his eyes had been accustomed only to the muted brilliance imparted by the Saturday afternoon basketball game continuing still on his television. "Hi. Remember me?" said a husky feminine voice that had figured prominently in so many of his recent fantasies. He stood in the doorway and blinked once, twice to clear his vision, wondering as he did so whether he looked as much like an owl as he felt. A pair of flashing blue eyes surveyed him coolly, the copper hair that framed the eyes, a fiery contrast. "Aren't you that cute little red-haired girl who's always following me around?" "Au contraire, Charlie Brown. =I= am that cute little red-haired girl who has been calling you nearly every hour on the hour for the past week." "Ohh," he murmured knowingly. "=That= one." Dana Scully narrowed her eyes at her partner, not knowing whether to hug him or slug him. He looked like shit. Well, good, she thought without remorse. At least she wasn't the only one suffering. It seemed only fair that he also lose a few nights' sleep and a chunk of his peace of mind. After all, it was his fault they were in this mess. Still, she acknowledged with wry amusement, that wasn't to say that Fox Mulder was without appeal. As he stood in the doorway in his jeans and faded blue henley, he looked younger, more boyish than he usually did in his workaday G-man getup. She had always liked him in casual clothes, probably because the opportunity to see him out of a suit and tie was so rare that it always felt as if she were viewing something special, something tantalizingly private when she chanced to catch him garbed more informally. Some little intimate part of his persona that he didn't share with the rest of his Bureau colleagues. Of course, the fact that he filled out a pair of jeans rather nicely undoubtedly had something to do with it as well. Even with bleary hazel eyes, hair that looked as if it would know a brush only by reputation, and the faint beginnings of a beard darkening his jaw, the man before her had the power to turn heads. Especially hers. Always hers. "So, are you planning on inviting me in?" she asked dryly after a second or two of them staring at each other. "Or would you prefer to come out here and join me?" Mulder grimaced with chagrin and stepped back to allow her entry. She stole one last look at his eyes, then brushed past him and into his apartment. It wasn't fair, he thought as he turned away from her to close and lock the door. Why should the sight of her affect him like a late summer cloudburst did parched farmland? Despite the vehemence with which he had been avoiding this moment for weeks, it took every iota of willpower he possessed to keep from simply staring dumbly at her, a silly grin on his face. God, she looked good. Clear eyed, pink cheeked from the cold, her cap of auburn hair attractively mussed atop her head. Way too good for the sake of his sanity. The really maddening thing was that she didn't even need to make some special effort to twist his insides in knots. She wasn't all dolled up, cosmetics an inch thick, perfume hanging like miasma in a cloud around her. He turned to look at her again, hungry as always for another glimpse of her. She didn't note his silent study. Instead, she was glancing around his darkened apartment as if trying to gage by its appearance his state of mind. While doing so, she absent-mindedly unzipped her jacket. He saw that beneath her bulky coat she was dressed in standard-issue weekend casual: jeans, a soft looking black cardigan with black pearl buttons and a pair of low black boots. Nothing provocative. Nothing intentionally seductive. And yet, all she had to do was stand in the same room with him, and he had to struggle to remember his own name. It hadn't been so bad before Chicago. Before Riggs and a confession Mulder wished he and his partner could both forget. Until he had said the words, he could pretend it wasn't real. His feelings for her. In some perverse way, it had seemed to his wildly rationalizing mind that as long as he was the only one who knew about them, he wouldn't have to deal with them. He could tamp them down, secret them away like some crazy old relative in an attic. Content himself with Scully's friendship, and nothing more. But now those emotions were out in the open. He could hide no longer. And for some reason, the physical yearning he had felt for his partner for the longest time; the need to hold her, to bury his face in her hair, to trace the slope of her shoulder with his lips, to hear her voice break on his name had taken on a life all its own. In the weeks since they had returned to D.C., he had found he woke reaching for her, as if the fevered dreams that plagued his nights might have some basis in reality once daylight dawned. But Fox Mulder had more than just a passing acquaintance with reality. And his arms remained empty. They had to. He just couldn't risk the alternative. "So, who's winning?" He realized with a start that he had been staring unseeing at the floor near his stockinged feet. "I . . . I don't know. The Bulls were leading when I got up to answer the door." He looked up at her just in time to catch her wince as she shrugged off her ski jacket. He crossed over to where she stood in front of the flickering television, and helped remove the coat. "Where's your sling?" he asked gruffly from just over her left shoulder. "The sling was retired over a week ago, Mulder," she said shortly, rotating her sore arm in a gingerly fashion to relieve the slight twinge of pain that remained. "Which you would have known if you had bothered to stop by or return any of my phone calls." Now it was Mulder's turn to flinch as he once again walked away from her to hang her coat on the rack by the door. He had no defense. She was right. Absolutely, positively correct. He was an ass. He hadn't seen her since he had dropped her off at her apartment after the uncomfortable flight home from Chicago. Sure, he had called her every day during the week Skinner had ordered her off work. Short, perfunctory little check-ins each day to assure himself that she was breathing, and indeed recovering from her injuries. But when he had known for certain that she had emerged from their ordeal in the Windy City without any permanent harm, he had decided that even that meager contact was tempting fate. At least for now. Perhaps it was finally time to take that long overdue vacation, he had told himself with false heartiness. Pretending this sudden urge to take some time away from the job had nothing whatsoever to do with the woman with whom he shared an office, he sat at home for a week. And thought of nothing but her. Still, calling on some inner resolve he hadn't known he possessed, he didn't called her. Hadn't dropped by her apartment. Instead, he spent an entire week without seeing or speaking to Dana Scully. Cold turkey. With the exception of her disappearance, it was the longest time he had endured since they had met completely devoid of contact with her. This must be what heroin addicts feel like when their fix is denied them, he had thought in one of his more self-pitying moments. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to speak to her. After only a few days, his fingers had nearly itched their way through his skin in their desire to pick up the telephone just to hear her voice. But, he couldn't do that anymore. Couldn't do the courtesy call, how-are-you-oh-that's-good-well-take-care-bye-now shit. He had wanted to =talk= to her. Really talk. To hear her laugh. To listen to the way her clever mind could take an idea of his and turn it on its ear without him even being able to muster offense. He had wanted that subtly sexy voice of hers to wind its way round his ears, soothing while it excited. But to do all that, to have a true conversation with his partner and best friend, they would have to talk about =it=. They would have to discuss what they had learned in Chicago. And that was a subject he simply couldn't face. "I'm sorry, Mulder," he heard her say softly from somewhere behind him. "That was harsh. It's just . . . I mean, what were you hoping? That if you ignored me long enough, I'd just disappear?" He licked his lips and closed his eyes for an instant, wondering why the mere mention of such an occurrence still had the power to terrify him. Waiting until he could trust his voice, he turned from the coat rack to look at her. "No. No. I'd never wish for that." Scully heard his words, spoken in that same low rough voice he had used when she had been in the hospital; that first time she had laid eyes on him after so very long, and he had given her that goofy football videotape she still hadn't watched. Memories that both pleased and pained her tussled their way to the forefront of her awareness, tempting tears. Ignoring them as best she could, she smiled tentatively and nodded, all the while silently cursing the apartment's shadows, wishing she could better see her partner's eyes. She knew that without meaning to she had wounded him with her innocent comment, and sincerely regretted the injury. Although, she suspected that an apology would only make matters worse. "I'm glad," she whispered finally, hoping the two words would be enough. They seemed to be. She thought she detected a softening in his eyes. Funny. With all the time they had spent together, all the conversations, all the secrets shared, they had never discussed in any meaningful way what had gone on during the months she had been missing. She had always assumed that Mulder had avoided the topic out of deference to her fears, to the feelings of helplessness and rage that always arose when she considered the time stolen from her. But looking at his face, seeing what she could of the pain etched in the lines around his eyes, the grim set of his mouth, the slight bow of his shoulders, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, the reason her partner shied away from the subject was because he himself could not bear it. She wanted to go to him. To smooth away the guilt and the regret from his features. But, she wasn't sure she had the permission. She didn't know Mulder in this mood, couldn't predict how he might react. She feared that if she were to take the chance, to cross to him, and pull him into her arms, he would reject her, perhaps seeing her comfort as pity. She sighed. She had known this afternoon would be difficult. She just hadn't realized how much. Neither moved. Mulder continued to watch her, his gaze wary, his posture alert. He appeared to be waiting for her to take the lead, something in his eyes telling Scully that with the proper coaxing, he might agree to follow. Okay, she thought ruefully, here goes nothing. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the small side table opposite his couch and turned on the lamp that served as its centerpiece. A soft, hazy glow filled the room. Not banishing shadows, but not promoting them either. Without saying a word, she walked back to the television, and turned it off, interrupting the game's announcer mid-sentence. Then, pinning Mulder with her gaze, she took a seat on his black leather couch. This is it, the look said. We are going to talk. I don't care if it takes all night. I'm not leaving until we're done. His lips twisted ever so slightly, the closest thing to a smile she had seen from him since showing up at his door. He recognized that look, and knew the futility of opposing it. Shaking his head, he gave in, and padded over to sit down heavily on the opposite end of the couch, facing her. "Just make yourself at home, Scully. It's not like I was watching the game anyway." "Mulder, if I waited for an invitation from you, Michael Jordan would already be in the middle of his *second* comeback." He dipped his head as if acknowledging the validity of her statement, his eyes reflecting gentle amusement. That amusement flowed over into her, and she smiled at him, her lips curving sweetly, her eyes warm. Unable to hold them back any longer, she spoke the words that had been threatening to pop out since she had first seen him framed in his apartment's doorway. "I've missed you." It may have been a trick of the room's lighting scheme, but she could have sworn a blush stole across his cheeks. "I've missed you too," he admitted softly, his voice sounding as if it had suddenly been thrown into disrepair. "The office just hasn't been the same without you. Everyone has noticed it," she continued, keeping her tone deliberately light, not wanting him to realize just how much his words pleased her. "In fact, I should probably tell you that you're currently the hot topic of conversation throughout the Bureau." "Some things never change," he murmured dryly, his eyebrows raised mockingly, one leg tucked beneath him as he sat. "Oh, not for the usual stuff," she assured him, the smallest measure of mischief twinkling in her eyes. "It's the vacation, Mulder. A week away from the job that wasn't prompted by medical necessity. The personnel clerk that processed your request may never recover. Rumor has it that smelling salts were called for." "I had the time coming," he said a bit defensively. "I'm sure you did," she agreed mildly, glad to have her partner talking to her again in a way he hadn't since that fateful night in Chicago. "But to take it willingly, without threats from Skinner, . . . or me. . . . Well, you have to expect that people will wonder why." He shrugged noncommittally, his gaze drifting away from hers once more. "Call me paranoid--but . . . I got the impression you might be avoiding me." "Scully--" "What's the matter, Mulder?" she teased softly, cutting off his objection, leaning towards him in an effort to draw him out, to breach his dauntingly thick wall of reserve. "You afraid of me?" At first, she thought he might refuse to answer, as he hesitated prior to replying. In the end, however, he merely looked at her with a mixture of fondness and chagrin, gnawing a moment on his lower lip before speaking. "Scully, you terrify me." The hushed confession stunned her. She had meant the remark playfully, hoping only to keep alive the short volley of banter a few moments longer. The revelation that the man she trusted most in the world might for some reason fear her or her reaction to him rendered her temporarily speechless. For his part, Mulder tore his gaze away from her astounded countenance, already regretting his words and the vulnerability they revealed. There was no way in hell Dana Scully was going to let him regret anything. "Why do I scare you, Mulder?" she asked, laying her small hand on his forearm. He sighed, shaking his head, a self-deprecating smile flirting with his lips. "Because you know the truth." "Isn't that what you're always after?" she challenged gently. "What the two of us have been looking for all this time?" He rubbed his hand over his face, and turned away from her slightly, struggling to come up with the words to make her understand. "Somehow, it's more difficult when that spotlight falls on you, Scully. You know?" She nodded slowly. He was right. Up to that point, the onus had fallen on him. He had been the one whose emotions had been put on display, whose secrets had been stolen, whose pretenses had been revealed as nothing more substantial than paper and colored lights. She, on the other hand, had found herself in the enviable position of Sphinx. Her mystery intact. Her will unknowable. She hadn't wanted it to be that way. If it had been up to her they would have hashed the whole thing out on the floor of that blood-stained warehouse. But Mulder--her brilliant, aggravating, terribly private partner-- had ducked her best efforts. And unwittingly given her the power to shatter his world. She supposed that some women might relish holding such sway over a man. One tall, leggy Brit sprang instantly to mind. But, Scully just couldn't do that. Credit the guilt instilled in her by the army of well-meaning nuns that had trouped through her grade-school years, or perhaps the old-fashioned values with which she had been raised by Ahab and his loving Maggie. But regardless of what had sired it, her own innate sense of fair play kicked in. Alone, Mulder had suffered the indignity long enough. The playing field had to be leveled. "How do you feel about sharing the spotlight, Mulder?" His head cocked in response to her query, his eyes radiating confusion. "What do you mean?" She smiled, treading carefully, her own reticence not making it any easier for her than it had been for him. "Aren't you curious, Mulder? Just the tiniest bit . . . I mean, through all of this you've never once asked me how I feel." His lips tightened. Half smile, half grimace. "Scully-- you don't have to do this." He didn't want her to think she was obliged to say something to make him feel better. They would never even have been having this conversation were it not for the intervention of a madman with a knife. There must be a hundred reasons why their feelings for each other were better left unexplored. If she did indeed love him, where did that leave them? How could they go on the way they had? He didn't see how they could be both lovers and partners. And as attractive a proposition as the former was, he didn't think he could face his life without the latter. And if she didn't love him . . . well, he grimly hoped that in that event the shards of his broken heart might somehow pierce something vital and put him out of his misery. "I know I don't have to," she said softly, looking at him with those shining eyes, the ones that seemed to catch every little slip, every little foible, and then forgive him for them just the same. "But what if I want to? What if I want to say the words?" He dared not blink, afraid that if he closed his eyes for even an instant, he would miss the moment he had both longed for and dreaded, seemingly since he had met her. "Don't you want to hear me say 'I love you,' Mulder?" The question was asked so simply, so sweetly, that for the briefest measure of time his eyes filled. "Only as much as I want my next breath," he admitted, not knowing before the words left his lips what exactly what he had planned on saying. She nodded, then opened her mouth to say the magic phrase. But he stayed her, his fingertips stopping within a hair's breadth of her lips. "But, I don't think that would be wise." She took his hand from in front of her face and held it tightly in both of hers, her eyes echoing the fierceness in her voice. "You may be able to prevent me from saying it. But you can't stop me from loving you, Mulder." His hand clenched hers painfully, his voice releasing wistfully on a sigh, sadness lacing it like veins in a leaf. "Oh, Scully . . . that's the last thing I want to do." She let go of his hand in frustration, squelching the urge to shake him, and pulled her legs beneath her in agitation so that she knelt upon the couch. "Then why are you fighting it? Why are you fighting me?" He perched on the edge of the sofa now, facing forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head in his hands. "Because to allow this to happen, everything that came before it would have to go." "What are you talking about?" He turned his head to look at her, and she was stunned by the anguish pooled in his eyes. "Us, . . . working as partners. The X-Files. That wouldn't be allowed to continue if word got out that we were together. It would be just the excuse they'd need to shut us down." "Then word won't get out," she told him calmly, her eyes resolute. "No one will know." "Scully--" "Mulder, answer me this," she said, crawling towards him slightly, needing to be closer to him, as if physical proximity alone would be enough to reach him. "What you told me in Chicago--that wasn't a revelation for you, was it? I mean . . . it wasn't something that just occurred to you at that moment." "No," he admitted, a bit puzzled as to where this was going. "I had known how I felt about you for a long time." She smiled, her beautiful heart-melting smile, the one that he waited for like a kid waits for Christmas. "I thought so. It was the same for me. I had known that my feelings for you had grown into something more than friendship for . . . well, for quite a while." He smiled shyly at her, surprised by her admission, and pleased beyond all measure by it. "And . . .?" "And--don't you see, Mulder?" she said, her enthusiasm bubbling over. "We're better actors than we give ourselves credit for. We fooled them, we fooled each other, and if we're being completely honest here, we fooled ourselves for months. Who's to say we couldn't carry out the charade indefinitely?" What she proposed was so tempting, so damn easy to agree to. And he wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. In fact, at that moment, he wanted it more than he wanted to see Samantha again, knowledge which he greeted with a touch of wonderment and guilt. But, Mulder had spent the better part of his life having those things he most desired snatched away from him. It seemed to him that the things he cared the most about were those that exacted the greatest price. "Scully, you more than anyone know the dangers our enemies pose," he said softly, his eyes studying his hands. "Nothing stays secret from them very long. You know it would only be a matter of time before they found out. And then it would be the most natural thing in the world for them to use our relationship against us." "No," she said shortly, steel girding her tone. "They can't have this." He looked at her, his eyes filled to overflow with questions. She stared gravely back, her face pale, but composed. "They have taken so much from me, from both of us," she said quietly, her intensity moderated not a bit by her lack of volume, her so, so serious eyes never leaving his. "They've stolen from me my illusions, months of my life, memories, Mis-. . . my sister. Even without knowing about our feelings for each other, they've tried to take you away from me more than once. It's gotten to the point where they don't even have to do anything, and yet we second-guess ourselves, wondering if we're making the right decisions, the right choices. Well, I won't let my fear of what they may or may not do keep me from being who and what I am. And I sure as hell won't sacrifice this . . . what we could have . . . in the misguided belief that it will keep either of us safe. There are no guarantees, Mulder. You, of all people, should know that. We can't let them win. I refuse to." His throat closed painfully as he listened to her, and felt that familiar sense of admiration and pride well up inside him when he considered her bravery, her absolute courage. It was absurd, really. He was supposed to be the senior partner in their relationship, the one with more field time, more years logged at the Bureau. And yet, at moments like this, he knew which of them possessed the true strength, the utter and complete certitude in their combined power. How ironic. People always referred to her as the skeptic. But not when it came to the two of them. Her fearlessness only made his own doubts seem that much more cowardly. But he had one more confession he had to make. "Scully, . . . there is something else," he said haltingly, a tiny self-mocking smile flitting across his lips, his eyes dancing back and forth between her patient gaze and his own trembling hands. "I, um . . . , I had a lot of time to think this week. More than I probably should have. And, uh . . . I discovered something about myself. Something . . . something I'm sure you probably noticed a long time ago. I don't deal very well with loss." He looked at her then, full on. His hazel eyes shadowed, but not without humor, directed, as usual, at himself. Taking her cue from that humor, Scully found she wanted to laugh. Not at Mulder. Not at his fears, or his pain, or for the losses he had already suffered. But for the endearing way the man beside her had of taking his deepest, most dreaded phobias, and making them sound as if they were nothing more than minor inconveniences. Abandonment. Such a common fear for such an uncommon man. Yet, she understood it. Knew that it wasn't just their enemies about which they had to worry. Separation could come from a drunk driver, an unexpected illness, or simply two people growing apart. And as much as she wanted to, she couldn't make him promises. But, she would swear to him and to anyone else who cared to listen that she planned on fighting for this, for them, with every ounce of strength she possessed, secure in the knowledge that Mulder would do no less. That was one of the things she most admired in him. His commitment to those he loved. It amazed her that although throughout his life the people for whom he had most cared had routinely turned their backs on him or simply disappeared, he was willing to take chances on friendships. And occasionally, on something more. When he did so, his loyalty was absolute. And his need, almost frightening in its intensity. Scully knew that Mulder didn't let go of something--of someone--without a ferociously fought battle. After all, he spent every day of his life searching for a sister who had gone missing more than 20 years before. And although her sister and mother had never relayed to her the whole story of what had transpired after she had turned up so unexpectedly at Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, she had gotten the sense that he, more so even than her own family members, had flatly refused to let her die. She had been told that he alone had contested her living will, the document that he himself had signed. She could also remember, admittedly only in the vaguest terms, how he had sat beside her the night before she had awoke. His words and the sensation of his touch were things she could recall only as if they had taken place in a dream. But, his presence, the almost tangible pull of him, clinging so stubbornly to her, personally barring her way to heaven, had imprinted itself upon her much more lastingly. He hadn't given up on her, even when everyone else had told him it was the wisest, sanest thing to do. She loved him for that. And for a great many other things. Not the least of which was his ability to recognize the things that frightened him most and then wage war against them just the same. "Are you so convinced that our being together will only hurt you in the end?" she asked softly, her thumb brushing lightly along his upper arm, her face wandering closer to his. "I'll admit, the thought has crossed my mind," he said dryly, turning his face towards her, so near suddenly that their noses were in danger of rubbing. He found he liked having her close, and realized he had an almost overwhelming urge to play Eskimo. "Well then, I guess I'm going to have to prove you wrong," she whispered, her eyes growing dark, heated as if from within. "But to do that, I have to ask you something. A favor." "What?" His throat felt like the Mojave. And who the hell had turned up the thermostat? "Can I kiss you, Mulder?" she asked softly, her lips curved ever so invitingly. "Would you mind? I've wanted to for the longest time." He swallowed hard, thinking that if his blood roared any more loudly through his head, he'd soon be unable to hear her. "Sure, Scully. Never let it be said that I'd deny you a favor." (Continued in Part II) =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "Saying The Words" 2/3 (Sequel to "Three Little Words") Date: Tue, 28 Nov 95 06:41:53 -0500 Here we go again. Acknowledgments and disclaimer in Part I. The sex starts here (and flows over into Part III). You've been warned. Read at your own risk. Let me know what you think. My address is krasch@delphi.com "Saying the Words" NC-17 By Karen Rasch (Part 2/3) "Thanks, Mulder. I knew I could count on you," Scully said softly, her smile widening ever so slightly as she moved still closer to him. "And I promise--it won't hurt a bit." He wasn't so sure. She was taking all the time in the world, and he felt quite certain the wait alone might kill him. Still, he held on, watching her, fascinated by the subtle changes taking place in his partner. Gone was the cool, efficient government employee. The tiny redhead curled up on black leather beside him fairly radiated heat. Her eyes met his, dusky blue, their pupils large and just the tiniest bit unfocused. Her face was flushed, and her lips held that maddening little Mona Lisa smile, the one that made him both nervous and more than just a trifle aroused. She was on her knees beside him, the only way they would ever be of equal stature. Placing her small hand on the corner of his jaw, she pulled his head towards her so they faced one another. She just looked at him for the space of a breath or two, then took her fingertips and lightly threaded them through the hair that fell across his forehead. Mulder had to fight the urge to close his eyes and give himself over to the sensations her touch engendered, the sparks of pleasure and fire that traveled down his nerve paths like a telephone call down a wire. But, he didn't want to miss a moment of this. He wanted to-- needed to--see her, to take in the emotions that played so tellingly across her features. Her tiny frown of concentration; the way her mouth hung full and relaxed, the white of her teeth barely visible behind her lips; the manner in which her eyes were closed just a fraction, her lashes hiding their smoky depths like feathery veils, the intensity and intelligence he had so often witnessed in them now trained on him and his reaction to her. He was glad he had withstood the temptation when not a moment later she leaned in to press her lips to his temple. He followed her mouth with his eyes until it passed from his view, noting for maybe the thousandth time since he had met her the shape and texture of it, and wondering if it would taste as sweet as it looked. It was all he could do not to reach up and grab her beautiful face, anchoring those lips to his own. But he tamped down on the desire, not wanting to disrupt the woman next to him's slow yet infinitely promising seduction of him. Her lips were as warm as he had imagined they'd be and soft, and even though the caress was nothing more than a mother might give a wayward child, he could already feel his body quickening. "There now," she whispered, her breath puffing against his ear, inducing shivers strangely at odds with the heat rising through his body like mercury up a thermometer. "Did that hurt?" "I don't think so," he said in a low voice that crackled in the back of his throat like paper. "But why don't you try it again to be sure." Scully giggled, a silly child-like sound that Mulder wished he could surprise out of her more often. "Greedy man," she chided softly before once again kissing his face, this time lower, in the hollow beneath his cheekbone, just in front of his ear. He made a rough short humming noise behind closed lips that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. The need to do more than just sit there and enjoy her ministrations was beginning to gnaw at him. At the very least, he wanted to be able to touch her as well, to make her feel the fiery little tendrils of excitement that even now coiled in the pit of his stomach. Unable to stand it any longer, he reached out and lightly grasped her slender waist in his two hands. She swayed in his hold like a willow. His thumbs made slow little circles over the slinky knit of her sweater, its weave gliding over her skin teasingly. The moment his hands closed over her waist, Scully bowed her head, and with the bridge of her nose traced the side of his face, nuzzling him, much the way a particularly affectionate kitten might its master's hand. To his surprise and infinite pleasure, Mulder discovered one of his fantasies coming true. Her hair, fragrant, soft, cool against his heated skin, hung before his eyes like a curtain. Powerless against the reality of dream made flesh, he finally closed his eyes in surrender. Her lips continued their exploration of his face, finding his brow, his hairline, the corner of his eye, the tip of his nose, the slight indentation in his chin. Everywhere but where he wanted most to feel them--against his own. "Am I still scaring you, Mulder?" she asked in a voice whiskey smooth, her cheek rubbing gently against his, her breath tantalizing his ear. Now it was his turn to chuckle, his hands tightening in reaction around her middle. "Yeah. Yeah, but it's a good scare." Oh god . . . her mouth was at his ear, making small biting little kisses around its curve. He felt his heart soar then plunge like an elevator out of control. "What do you mean 'good scare'?" she asked softly from right at his ear, speaking so closely that he felt the words as much as heard them. "You know. . . ," he said with a shaky smile, his restless hands now roaming up to her shoulder blades and back down to just where sweater gave way to jeans. ". . . Like a haunted house at Halloween." She drew away from his ear and eyed him with a dry half-smile, her lips already swollen from their contact with his skin, her arms looped loosely around his neck. "I had no idea you were such a smooth talker, Mulder. I've been called a lot of things, but never a 'haunted house.'" "Hey, that was a compliment," he teased, his smile lopsided but tender. "Any kid knows that the best haunted houses give you the thrill of a lifetime. And once you've experienced one of those, you want to go back again and again." She smiled more broadly, deciding the comparison pleased her. "Well, I don't know if I can compete with things that go bump in the night. But, I'll do what I can to give you a thrill." Cradling his face in her hands, she finally gave him what he had been wishing for with increasing desperation since they had begun. She brushed her lips against his, lightly, chastely, just enough to let him sample their texture, but not enough to let him learn it. She pulled back and looked at him. Their eyes clung, each pair feeding off the other's heat. Satisfied with what she saw, she once again dipped her head, this time deepening the contact. And yet, the kiss retained its innocence, its sweet, non-threatening nature. They continued their gentle play, each realizing it was an introduction of sorts, a way of getting to know the person beside them in a new and decidedly unprofessional manner. Time temporarily in a holding pattern, they slanted their lips over and against each other's, each discovering just what it took to cause breath to shorten or sighs to whisper. Gradually, Mulder's hands gave up their place on Scully's supple back, and instead buried themselves in her hair. She must have sensed his growing urgency as she caught his lower lip between her teeth and nibbled, tugging on it with care. A surprised gasp turned groan escaped his lips, and she smiled against his mouth. He felt her lips curve lusciously against his, and decided that it was long past time for him to turn the tables. Figuring turnabout was fair play, he started by mimicking her actions, capturing her lower lip, and restraining it carefully between his teeth. Then, slowly, softly he ran his tongue tenderly over it as if to soothe away a hurt. He felt rather than saw the shiver course through her, and with the most gentle of kisses released her from his hold. She pulled back once more, only this time not as far, a dreamy bemused look in her eye. "I may be crazy, Mulder. But I don't think you're frightened of me anymore." He wanted to tell her how wrong she was. How she scared him more than anything because he needed her more than anyone. How she was more important to him than air, or water, or light, or tomorrow. How he would forever look at his life as divided into two parts: before and after he had met her. How she and only she brought out what was best in him. How she made him stronger, better than he had any right to be. How when they were together, he felt safe and loved and understood, and as if with her beside him he could accomplish anything, anything at all. And how it would all dissolve into dust if one day she was gone. But to make that most damning of confessions, he would have to stop kissing her. And he had just discovered that together they were so very good at this. So instead, he merely murmured with eyes at half mast, "Let's test that theory, shall we?" Before she had the opportunity to realize his intentions, Scully found herself tumbled across Mulder's lap, his strong arms supporting her shoulders and lower back, her legs hanging off his to lie on the couch, her bottom nestled where her partner's legs met his hips. She only had a moment to adjust to her new position, to recognize the purpose in the hazel eyes that watched her so intently, before his mouth swooped down to claim hers. She met him at least halfway, the urgency with which her arms clung to his neck straining the barely healed flesh on her upper arm. She ignored the pain, focusing instead on the moist heat of his lips. On the unexpected and most welcome introduction of his tongue, the play of it against hers, the insistent stroking, the slow glide of it over her teeth, the roof of her mouth, her lips themselves. Chasing his mouth with hers, she found herself pressing her upper body sinuously to his, seeking the friction of his chest against her breasts to soothe their aching tips. She wanted him so badly she was almost delirious with it. Her fingers tangled themselves in his silky hair, grabbing hold of it tightly to keep his face just where she wanted it. He let her have her way for a few fevered kisses, then his strength reasserted itself, and he tore his lips from hers to run his open mouth along the ivory column of her throat. She bent back in his arms to allow him better access, trusting he would support her, offering up her neck like a sacrifice. He accepted it gladly, nibbling and licking and trailing his lips against her skin, luxuriating in its velvety grain. Finding, like the excellent investigator he was, all her hidden hollows and secret sensitivities, driving the woman in his arms to twist and start with pleasure, the whispery moans and sighs escaping from her lips falling on his ears like benedictions. Then, his mouth ran across a patch of skin different from the rest. He paused, and lifted his head to stare at her neck. His breath came in great gasps, as if he had run a long, long way. Scully pulled herself reluctantly from the world of sensation and insensibility in which she had been drifting to look up at him, her breathing no less labored. "What is it?" Mulder didn't answer her directly. But his actions told her what was wrong. He took his forefinger and lifted it to just below her jaw line, beneath a fall of auburn hair that worked like camouflage to disguise what lie beneath it. With a touch like eyelashes grazing skin, he brushed it against her throat. Following the angry, jagged path of a nearly healed knife wound. Still silent, he careful pushed her tousled hair back over her shoulders, searching with shuttered eyes for the scar's companions. He found one peering over the neckline of her sweater. Like before, he traced it, this time with his thumb, the pressure so light she almost couldn't feel it. Scully pushed herself up from her half-reclining posture, and turned so that she faced Mulder, straddling his lap, her knees resting on the sofa. With solemn blue eyes, she waited until his haunted gaze met hers. Then, ever so slowly she reached up, her eyes never leaving his, and undid the top two buttons on her sweater, the black faux pearls slipping easily through the holes. Calmly, she spread the opening into a wide vee, revealing one more puckered red wound. And her cross. Mulder didn't touch this additional momento of Rigg's abuse, choosing instead to finger the delicate gold chain around her neck, running it between his thumb and forefinger in a way that reminded Scully of someone saying a rosary. Finally, he mumbled something she didn't quite catch. "What?" she asked softly. His eyes, which had lowered to study the gleaming necklace pinched so tightly between his fingers, found hers, the pain reflected in them hurting her more deeply than Rigg's knife ever could. "I said, 'Too close'. Too . . . damn . . .close." She nodded, not agreeing so much as accepting. "But I survived." "This time." "We take it day by day, Mulder. That's the best anyone can do." His brow furrowed, his fingers still clinging to her cross and chain. "What if I want better for you?" "Better than what?" "Better than this. Than me." She understood his fear, lived with her own version of it every minute of every day. Wondering if this time they would be quick enough, smart enough, or just plain lucky enough to make it through another case intact. Reliving in her errant daydreams and most vivid nightmares all the near misses, all the bedside vigils. She laid her hand upon his cheek. "I appreciate the sentiment, Mulder. But that's not your call. I'm a big girl. I can make my own choices." She rose up on her knees and pressed her lips to his forehead. "And I choose you." He stared at her moodily, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. "More fool you." "Hey--you better watch that!" she cautioned in a laughing voice, dropping down on his lap again, her other hand coming up to mirror the first so that she cradled his face between them. "You're talking about the man I love." For a moment he didn't move. Instead, he only looked at her, a complex mixture of emotions she found impossible to label shining in his eyes. Then, the dam broke. "I'm so glad." His hands raised to pull her face towards his. "So glad." His eyes slid shut, hiding a suspicious glitter. "So glad." His lips found hers, clinging to them fiercely, his arms crushing her to him. The rest of the chant was silenced by the fusing of their mouths, but the words echoed endlessly inside his head. Over and over and over again, strengthening their meaning rather than diminishing it. Scully clung to him, feeling herself growing heavy and moist, the slow clenching need her partner so effortlessly stoked within her compelling her bottom to shift restlessly atop his lap. Mulder moaned into her mouth, and arched up beneath her. She smiled with just a touch of womanly triumph, some tiny detached part of her brain musing over the way nature compelled her body to soften in readiness for their union, while at the same time urging his to harden. His hands ran over her arms, her hips, her back, her behind; their movement quicker, less fluid than it had been only moments before. His fingers found the front of her sweater. Trembling, they popped the tiny buttons securing the garment from their holes. Scully egged him on, alternately nibbling on then laving with her tongue the muscles in his neck. He gasped, flinging back his head to accommodate her. Finally, the cardigan lay open, framing her demure black lace bra and her torso's ivory expanse. Bringing his head once more upright, Mulder laid his hands again on her waist. This time, the contact was skin against skin. Scully stopped her loving assault on his neck, and pulled back to look at him. He gazed at her, panting. His eyes had turned a cats-eye gold, appearing positively molten in the room's half-light. The heated anticipation in his regard sparked a pinprick of anxiety in her. Under normal circumstances, Dana Scully was quite content with her body. Sure, she wouldn't have minded a few additional inches, preferably tacked on to the length of legs. But overall, she was pleased with her form, knew it to be strong, gently curved, and capable of eliciting admiring glances from the opposite sex. She wasn't blind. She had seen Mulder eyeing her in that way, understood that he that found her attractive. But she also knew that the women with whom he had recently spent the most time were of the fantasy variety. Immortalized forever on celluloid in all their silicone perfection. Now, while she didn't harbor any deep, dark, secret envy of Barbie, Bambi, and the rest of the girls, she recognized with all the clear-eyed honesty that was her hallmark that in some ways, when compared to these screen queens, she didn't quite . . . stack up. And it was suddenly very, very important to her that the man before her not be disappointed. She rested her hands against his chest, felt it rise and fall beneath them in a quick, shallow rhythm, his heart thudding in soothing counterpoint under her fingertips. His hands ran slowly up and down her sides from her waist to the edge of her bra. He let his fingers slide loosely over her, so she experienced the sensation of his touch rather than the touch itself. The gentle teasing was electric. She could feel goose flesh rising on her arms and back. And yet he made no move to turn the caress more overtly seductive, to get to what the kids in junior high would once have referred to as second base. He seemed to be waiting. Waiting for some sign from her. A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but one, she told herself with a touch of ironic humor, wondering why one of her father's pithy homilies would choose that moment to enter her mind. Her eyes retaining their hold on his, she reached up and carefully pushed the sweater from her shoulders, leaving it to pool on the floor behind her. Cool air swept over her naked skin. She felt her nipples tingle in reaction. Something indescribably arousing flared in Mulder's eyes. Then died when his gaze flickered to her shoulder. There lie the worst of Rigg's damage. The wound extended for nearly four inches. It had cut deeply and had required a multitude of tiny precise stitches. Despite her physician's best efforts to the contrary, she knew she would forever carry the scar. And yet, it wasn't the physical disfigurement she was concerned with at that moment. It was the emotional one. Mulder took the back of his hand and tenderly smoothed it over the pink, tortured flesh. To his eyes, the neat row of black stitches appeared obscene against her shoulder's ivory curve. "It doesn't hurt," she said softly. "Liar," he challenged without any rancor, his fingers still dancing lightly over her upper arm. She smiled wryly, her eyebrow lifting in acknowledgment at getting caught with her fib. "Most of the time," she amended. He nodded, still not meeting her eyes. She took the hand of her uninjured arm, and combed her fingers through his hair to soothe him. He accepted the caress, but she couldn't tell if it in any way eased him. Finally, he leaned forward, and pressed his lips to the wound, the touch feather-light. She, in turn, kissed the top of his head, the short silky strands of hair tickling her nose. "Maybe you should try and take my mind off of it," she whispered against his temple. "What?" She leaned back and looked at him with pure devilry shining in her eyes. "The pain. Maybe you should try distracting me, Mulder." He knew what she was doing, understood that she was injecting humor and a dose of sexual teasing into the moment in the hopes of detouring his slide into a colossal blue funk. He supposed that his awareness of her tactics should have mitigated their effectiveness. But, there was no way in hell he was proof against the half naked woman he loved straddling his lap. The one who was so damned sexy when she suggested he do what he already wanted to do more than anything in the world. His eyes skimmed down from her face to her waist, and then back up again. On their return trip, his hands followed along for the ride, sliding up to cup her breasts, lifting them ever so slightly. Her flesh rose over the bra's cups, full, creamy white, gently rounded. He squeezed. Scully's eyes fluttered shut. His hands clenched carefully again. "Hmm . . . . and what do you suppose it would take to distract you, Agent Scully?" The gentle kneading continued, his thumbs finding her nipples through the lingerie, and sweeping slowly over them, persuading the nubbins to pucker ever more tightly. Her voice, throaty and low, sounded as if it took every smidgen of concentration she possessed just to form the words. "Oh, I don't know. . . . That's not a bad start." (Continued in Part III) =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "Saying The Words" 3/3 (Sequel to "Three Little Words") Date: Tue, 28 Nov 95 06:42:50 -0500 This is it--the climax! (Isn't that awful? I can't believe I just wrote that. . . .:) That's what writing smut will do to you. ) Again, credits/disclaimer can be found in Part I. I hope you all enjoyed this one. I had a heck of a time putting it together. Let me know. Drop me a line at krasch@delphi.com. I would love to hear from you. "Saying the Words" NC-17 By Karen Rasch (Part 3/3) He smiled, and with his hands coming around to support her slight weight, bent his head to kiss the skin directly below her bra. Then, his lips trailed downwards. Scully arched in his arms, lowering herself farther and farther back as his teasing lips made their way down her torso. Eventually, she came to rest almost parallel to the floor, her stomach muscles jumping in reaction when Mulder nibbled right above her navel. His smile broadened. With a quick kiss to the small indentation peeking out from her jean's waistband, he slowly brought her upright again. Her hair was an auburn cloud, back lit from the lamp across the room so that it glowed like a nimbus, framing her flushed face. Her lips were rosy and slightly parted, her eyes glazed with need. She ran the edge of her hand against his face, then reached down to undo the clasp at the front of her bra. Mulder stopped her. "No. I want to." He twisted the tiny plastic fastener and slid it apart. Black lace clung for a moment to ivory skin before falling free. All the while silent, he reached up and slowly pushed the slender straps down her arms. His eyes were focused low, intent on the skin he was uncovering. Scully sat on his lap, holding her breath, waiting for him to say or do anything that would let her know that she pleased him. He took his finger and lightly stroked the back of it over first one then the other pink tipped nipple, glancing over the peaks, circling the aureoles with a maddening lack of pressure. She swayed into him, desiring firmer contact. His eyes lifted, and what she saw there silenced all her nagging little insecurities. He sighed. "Oh, Scully . . . " Smiling with tenderness and exceedingly male appreciation, his hands came up to cup her shoulder blades. Saying nothing more, he rested his face between her breasts, and slowly, so very, very slowly turned it from side to side, lost in the sensation of her velvety skin caressing his cheeks. He wanted to tell her just what she looked like to him. How he saw her at that moment. The way her mesmerizing mix of burnished red hair, pale soft skin, flame blue eyes, and what had to be the most exquisitely constructed mouth on the planet aroused him to the point of pain. He didn't think he would ever get enough of the sight of her sitting astride him, wild in a way he would never have imagined possible, her oh-so pretty breasts quivering before him provocatively enough to tempt a saint. But, he knew she'd never believe him. Not when he told her what a siren she was. She would never recognize herself as the bewitching woman he saw her to be. God . . . She was driving him half out of his mind. He desired nothing more than to toss her to the floor, rip off what remained of her clothes, and bury himself so deeply inside her that nothing the world might throw at them could separate them ever, ever again. But, he had been reining in those impulses since she had first pressed her lips to his temple, had squelched the urge to hurry, to turn their coming together into nothing more than a venting of physical need. He had done his damnedest to take it slow, to try to express to her through his touch, his kiss, just how much she meant to him. To make their first time together special. For her. However, he wouldn't lay odds as to just how much longer his badly over-taxed control was going to prevail. Mulder's lips made their leisurely way to the tip of her breast. Oh, thank god, she thought fervently. She had been wondering if she might die waiting for the hot wet feel of them wrapped around her furled nipple. "Oh . . .!" She had to revise that thought not soon after he closed his mouth over her and began to suckle. Instead of the anticipation, she mused, she might just die from the pleasure. His tongue swept over her pebbled skin, coaxing still more hardness from the sensitive peak. His lips clung tightly, their gentle in-and-out motion narrowing her awareness of the world to only the sensation of his mouth tugging on her breast. It was dizzying, the pressure, the pull. His strong hands, still cupping her shoulder blades, were the only things allowing her to remain upright. He turned his attention to her other side. This time his teeth grazed her sensitive skin, their impact carefully measured. He kissed her there, rubbed his cheek against her, his tongue, then his lips began their tortuous suction. Oh, god, God, =God=--he had a fabulous mouth! And the things he could do with it . . . . She grew light-headed merely considering the possibilities. She whimpered in his hold. Her need was becoming unbearable. Blindly, her hands reached for his henley, and pulled it with barely restrained violence from his jeans. "I want . . . .," she began, the words sounding breathless and high to her ears. "Yes," he agreed quickly, his voice rumbling from somewhere south of his waist, his mouth having released her breast to help her remove his shirt. She ran her hands over the breadth of his chest and down to his flat stomach, her mouth lowering to just where his neck met his shoulders. She closed her teeth over him, teasing the sensitive network of nerves gathered there with finely honed pressure. "Oh god. . . " His eyes drifted shut, his breath sucking in on a hiss. She touched his skin with her tongue and tasted the faint tang of salt. She wanted more of the flavor, and her lips roamed his chest seeking it. She found other pleasures as well. Buried within the light sprinkling of hair, she discovered first one, then another small flat nipple and lavished on them the same attention Mulder had shown to hers. Nipping at them, suckling, licking, her hands all the while vying for his regard as they swept across his torso, flooding him with desire. He wanted to shout with it. But all he could do was groan. His hands grabbed hold of her hips and yanked her down, while at the same time thrusting up beneath her. Scully raised her head from its contemplation of his chest to look him in the eye. God, he was beautiful. His face, always handsome, had altered with his passion for her. His color had heightened, his eyes had gone soft with a lambent glow that warmed her just to look at them. The grim lines life had conspired to bracket his mouth had disappeared, leaving behind only those lips. Those lips that were fast becoming an obsession with her. She loved this man. Her mouth curved at the corners, she let her hand drift to his lap, found him through the denim of his jeans, and squeezed. He arched again, a throaty moan tumbling from his mouth. He caught her head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through her hair to cradle the base of her skull, his thumbs framing her eyes. Trembling, he pulled her to him. "I want you." She kept her hands in his lap, slowly stroking him through the fabric, feeling his flesh jump against her caress. Lengthen. Harden. She raised her eyebrow at him, a look he had seen hundreds of times, although certainly not in this context. No. Now it served as an invitation, or perhaps a challenge. "Then take me," she whispered, her voice low, husky, like honey coated gravel. Mulder let loose with something like a growl, and holding her close, swiftly turned so that they lay facing each other on the couch. His lips once again taking possession of hers, he freed her from her remaining clothes. With her help, his soon joined hers in a pile on the floor. Running his hand up her smoothly muscled thigh, he paused momentarily from his tongue's investigation of her ear to murmur, "You know, I do have a bed." Her smile could have lit up most of D.C. single- handedly. "I don't think my legs could carry me that far." "Mine *might* manage for both of us." "No," she said softly, rubbing her thumb gently along his lower lip. "This couch. This is what I think of as your 'territory,' Mulder. Your domain." He smiled tenderly. "And what, Scully--you're looking to stake a claim?" She nodded unabashedly. "Mmhmm," she whispered, her eyes aglow. "That's right. I want you to make love to me here, Mulder. The place where you usually spend your nights." "Alone," he said quietly, feeling the need to finish off her sentence, to acknowledge the way his life had been unspooling until that night. She kissed him, her lips sweet and clinging. "Not any more." At that moment he would have willingly done the wild thing with her in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue if it would have made her happy. As it was, he wondered with the tiny pocket of his brain that wasn't completely and totally taken up with Dana Katherine Scully just what it ran these days to dry-clean leather. His hands gripped her buttocks, squeezed the soft skin, then drifted forward to tangle themselves in the nest of hair at the juncture of her thighs. She moaned, luscious and low. He nuzzled her neck with his lips while his fingers gently explored. The folds of flesh hidden between her legs were swollen, and moist, and nearly hot enough to burn. Lightly, he stroked the opening to her body. Then, his fingers slipped inside. Her hips rocked languidly beneath his touch. Her neck arched , her teeth closing sharply over her bottom lip to hold back a groan, her eyes sliding shut. "Look at me," he implored, kissing the corner of her jaw, her cheek, her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, their expression dazed. His hand continued its slow, unrelenting rhythm; his long sensitive fingers gliding into her heated center; then out, a fraction at a time. "Oh, Mulder," she whispered. "I don't know if I can." "I want to please you," he explained softly, his face even more boyish than usual with his eyes shining down at hers so openly, and his hair flopping over onto his forehead. "I want to make you feel . . . everything. And your eyes . . . . they tell me all I need to know." She reached up with a hand that had begun to tremble as much as his, and smoothed her fingertips over his brow. "All right. Hold onto me, Mulder." "Always." Lifting up and over her smaller frame, he settled himself on his knees between her legs, one arm snaked around her shoulders. She reached down and stroked him, root to tip. Now, he had to bite back a groan, to struggle to keep his eyes open and on hers. She repeated the caress, over and over, varying the pressure and the direction of her touch. Until, with a gasp, he had to pull her hands away for fear he would embarrass himself. For a moment, they just looked at each. Heated hazel eyes gazing down into vivid limpid blue. Then, her hands found him again, and carefully guided him inside her. Each whimpered, low and harsh from the back of their throats, as he slipped inside. His body stretched her, making her feel full, possessed. One arm still around her slender shoulders, the other locked around her waist, Mulder began to move. He started slow; an easy, gentle rock. Scully's hips soon picked up the rhythm, and her legs twined around his lower back, her heels drumming on his behind. Before long, the tempo picked up. Sweat beaded along his hairline, and his back grew slick beneath her fingertips. Her breath came in little bursts against his face, the air flowing raggedly in to and out of her mouth, the rise and fall of her chest bringing her sensitized breasts into teasing contact with his chest. He gripped her more tightly, trying to bring her body flush against his without further injuring her wounded shoulder, needing to delve as deeply into her as he could, unconsciously trying to meld their bodies into one. If the slash pained her, she gave no indication. Instead, she gripped him with a strength he hadn't known she owned, her fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. Her hips slapped against his, her legs holding him close. On and on, he drove into her, knowing he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. He stole little sipping kisses from her lips, his eyes still locked on hers, watching intently to judge which stroke most made her shiver and clench, which angle heightened the tension coiling inside her, which caress was most likely to send her over the edge. Oh, god--she was close . . . soclosesoclosesoclose soclose. . . . . She took her arms from around his waist and shoulders, and grabbed hold of his hair, pulling his face down so that it hung mere inches from hers. She could feel his arms shaking with the strain of holding back, sense the current that ran through his body as he readied himself to let go. "Mulder, say my name," she begged him, surprised to find that her voice still even worked, her tongue coming out to sweep over her swollen mouth, moistening it.. "What . . . .?" His mind was a whisper away from incoherent. "My name. Say . . . my . . . name." His hips quickened even more, the pace nearly unbearable. His legs ached. His body screamed for release. Even so, he smiled. The look in his eyes blindingly tender. He knew what she wanted. And it was his great pleasure to be able to give it to her. "Dana," he breathed softly, marveling at how good --how right--it felt to speak that name while passion stretched him so tightly on the rack. "Dana . . . I love you." Her smile nearly split her face in two, and throwing her head back, she splintered apart in his arms, her cry of joy and triumph pulling him along with her. He gave one last final thrust, and then came, muffling his shout in her shoulder. Unable to support his weight any longer, he collapsed into her arms, his limbs heavy and limp, utterly relaxed. They stayed that way for a long time, a jumble of body parts resting wearily against one another, their skin cooling. Finally, realizing that not only was he undoubtedly smothering the woman beneath him, but most probably pinning her wounded shoulder with his own, Mulder pressed his hands against the couch to lift himself away. "Stay." He looked down into his partner's slumberous blue eyes. Softly, he brushed her tousled hair from her face before leaning down to touch his lips to hers. "I'm not going anywhere." "Good," she murmured, a faint smile flirting with her lips. "I like you just where you are." His lips quirked in an answering smile. "You're sure I'm not crushing you?" "Uh uh. It feels good. Besides, you're warm." "Are you cold?" he asked in concern. "Hmm," she hummed non-committally, blinking up at him sleepily. "A bit. Funny . . . I didn't notice it before." He chuckled. "I'll tell you what--how about if we compromise?" he offered, and turned them both, their bodies still joined, so that they rested on their sides facing each other. "I'd play blanket myself, but I don't think my knees would hold out. Old basketball injury." "You and half the NBA." He kissed her again and tugged down an ancient blanket he kept tossed over the back of the sofa for those nights when the couch served as his bed. Sensing that she was drifting off, he tried not to jostle her as he settled the covering over them. Scully sighed and snuggled closer to his warmth. "You know, this couch isn't exactly built to sleep two people," he said quietly at her temple, playing with her hair's silky strands, combing through them with his fingers. "You'd probably get a better night's sleep in my bed." "Who said I plan on sleeping the night away?" He pulled his face away from hers to look into her eyes. He saw humor lurking there. "You getting old on me, Mulder?" she asked teasingly. "First it's your knees. Then you want me to sleep my way through a Saturday night." "I just thought that maybe I had tired you out some," he said quietly, smiling as he nuzzled the hair on her forehead with his lips. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "Maybe just a tad." Her fingers brushed lightly against his chest. "But I think I still have enough energy to do this." "What?" he asked in a whisper. She reached up to touch his face with her hand, her eyes soft and warm. "To say 'I love you.' I love you, Mulder, so very, very much." He took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, holding it against his mouth for a moment afterwards. Finally, he released it, and bent his head for a long, lingering kiss. "You better rest up, Scully," he warned, his eyes glinting with humor and something decidedly more earthy. "'Cause you know the old saying--actions speak louder than words." And he intended to show her with every means at his disposal just how true that adage was. THE END Hi, all! This is a follow-up to "Saying The Words", which in turn was a sequel to "Three Little Words." I don't know--I guess I'm on my way to a series here. If you haven't read those, just know that our favorite FBI agents have admitted their feelings for each other, and taken that big step--gotten physical. This isn't as angst ridden as the previous stories. Instead, what you get here is a little pillow talk courtesy of Ameritech (or whoever your local carrier is :) ). I just felt like Mulder and Scully needed a bit more of an opportunity to talk after all that had happened. I would rate this PG-13. One eight letter word and lots of innuendo. Nothing graphic. Also, no third season spoilers. Just fluff! Thanks as always to Helen (oh captain, my captain), Connie, Robin, Juliettt and the Troupe, and all the very nice people who have taken time to write me with feedback. I'm a sucker for e-mail. So, let me know if you think this works. (Or is it a little too Rock Hudson/Doris Day?!--oh god, I hope not! Can you imagine Scully with that hair-do?) You can reach me at krasch @delphi.com. Thanks. * * * * * * * * Words On The Wire (1/1) by Karen Rasch "Hello?" "Hey, Scully." "Mulder? Hi!" "What are you doin'?" "Exactly what I told you I'd be doing. It's just like back in med school--I'm studying for tomorrow's quiz. I'm sitting here surrounded by crime scene photos, forensic reports, suspect profiles, a laptop that's practically bulging with all the information I've typed into it tonight--I'm surprised there's still enough room left on the bed for me." "You're in bed? What are you wearing?" Dana Scully chuckled, an affectionate smile settling upon her lips, and wearily tucked a piece of auburn hair behind her ear. It was way past her bedtime. And she had spent a long Sunday night preparing for a court appearance the following afternoon. She was scheduled to present forensic evidence in a case she had consulted on as a favor to an old Academy friend. Normally, she didn't mind this sort of outside work. In fact, this time the request had coincided perfectly with Mulder's abruptly taken vacation. The hours she had volunteered studying the autopsy findings on the victim, and the paperwork that had followed had neatly filled the void which had arisen from his absence. However, a few short hours before, she and the man who had just so suggestively inquired as to her attire had been naked, locked in each other 's arms atop his bed's rumpled sheets. They had rested there, sated, blood flowing slowly and heavily through their veins, their pleasantly taxed limbs incapable of any movement save to twine more tightly together. Listening only to the sound of each other's breath, each other's heartbeat, they had laid, her head on his chest, his hand buried in her hair, and watched night lower over day like a lover. She had not wanted to leave him. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mulder," she said in a voice pitched just a touch lower than her usual husky timbre. "But if you're looking for an exciting answer to your question, you've hit the wrong button on your speed dial." "You're the only number on my speed dial." She said nothing, not knowing whether he meant that literally or figuratively, but pleased regardless. "You and Tony's Pizza," Mulder amended after a beat. "After all, a guy's gotta eat. And believe me, whatever you're wearing has got to be more . . . inspirational than those stupid hats Tony's makes their drivers wear." She chuckled again. "Well, in that case, allow me to inspire you--I've got on a pair of gray sweats with a hole in the knee, an old blue checked flannel shirt, sweat socks, no make-up, my hair is tied back in a pony-tail, and I'm wearing my glasses." "Oooh--stop. You're killing me here." She giggled. "You're easy." "Only with you," he smoothly replied. "Regardless of what you might have heard to the contrary." "What are you doing?" He sighed. "Channel surfing. Just trying to catch a wave." "Any luck?" He mouth-guitared the opening riff to "Wipeout." She chuckled again. "It's after eleven," she said helpfully. "The news is on." "And watch highlights of the Redskins getting clobbered yet again. No thank you." "Poor Mulder," she said in mock sympathy. "It's late. Maybe you should just go to bed." "Mmm. I know I should, but my mind refuses to shut down." "Why? What are you thinking about?" Silence. Then, as if words indeed had been spoken, unbidden, the image of him braced above her, his head thrown back, his eyes shut, his mouth open on a cry danced before her. She shivered. For a moment, she could almost smell the scent of his skin. She wondered just what picture of her he carried around inside his head. "Oh." More silence. "I have to tell you, Scully, before last night I had never realized that you had freckles." His voice had gone low, dark. "I do =not= have freckles, Mulder." "Denial if ever I heard it." "Not denial. Certainty. I know my own face. If I had freckles, I'm sure I would be aware of them." "I never said they were on your face." She felt a lush wave of heat suffuse through her from head to toe. "Oh, and just where do you think I have freckles?" "Hmm, let's see . . . " he said softly. The intimate tone worked on her like a caress. "Well, you have one behind your right knee. In the crease. Just a little off center." Scully took off her glasses and laid them on her night stand, then pushed the pile of papers from her lap to sit beside her on the bed. With the way this conversation was developing there was no way in hell she would be getting any more work done that evening. "A person doesn't have =one= freckle, Mulder." "Oh, and where did you learn that, Dr. Scully? Anatomy 101--the Freckle Lecture?" She kept her voice light and completely rational in tone, even though a smile was tugging with determination at her lips. "No. It's common sense. As you yourself have said, a person may or may not have 'freckles.' However, you never hear it said that they have 'freckle.' As someone who has fought them her entire life, believe me--they come in clusters. What you're thinking of is probably a mole." "Beauty mark." "Po-tay-to, po-tah-to." She heard him chuckle. "=Anyway=. You didn't let me finish." "Oh, I'm very sorry," she said in a voice that implied she wasn't at all. "Please go on." "You do have freckle=s=. There's another one on your shoulder. Your left shoulder. It's right along side the shoulder blade, in the hollow there." "I think this is a conspiracy, Mulder. You're supposedly spying these freckles in places you know I can't see without contorting myself into a pretzel." "You've been working with me too long, Scully. You're seeing conspiracies everywhere." "What can I tell you--you've rubbed off on me." "Considering the last day or so, I'd say that's almost a physical possibility." She leaned back against the pillows she had piled against the headboard earlier, and smiled ruefully. Blasted man. It had been years since she had suffered with an honest-to-god- blush. And yet, here she was, teetering on the brink. How was it he was able to get to her so easily? And, more importantly, could she return the favor? "So, is that it, Mulder?" she asked dryly, straightening out her legs in front of her, and lazily stretching out the kinks in her back. "Is that the sum and total of my freckles?" "No, no," he assured her. "I saved the best for last. There's even a cluster of them." "Where?" "The small of your back." "A cluster?" "Well . . . two." "Two is not a cluster." "Who died and made you Freckle Police?" he demanded in pretended outrage. She giggled. He joined in. They were silent once more. "You know, Scully," he said quietly after a moment. "Even without the freckles, the small of your back would be . . . memorable." She felt her insides clench and release. The restless feeling she was beginning to associate more and more exclusively with the man on the other end of the telephone line was back with a vengeance. So, this is phone sex, she thought with a hint of humor. Despite the fact that his words were nothing more than PG in rating, she recognized that he was seducing her as surely as if the dialogue was a good deal more explicit. "You think so, huh?" she asked softly, releasing her hair from its tie, and running her fingers through it to loosen and fluff it. "Mmm. I know so. God knows I haven't been able to drive it from my mind all night." "Tell me why," she said, daring him to share that with her. This kind of intimacy was new to them, and a bit frightening. But addictive. She wanted more. He paused a moment, and she could almost hear his mind formulating its answer. "It's the curve, I think. It slopes in, and then flares . . . . below. It's like that dip was put there for my hand. You know? The fit is perfect. And the softness . . . . you have the softest skin, Scully." Another rush of heat sluiced through her. This was not fair. He was arousing her so easily, so effortlessly, and yet she knew that, for that night anyway, the arousal would only lead to frustration. Was it the same for him, she mused. She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine him as he must look at that moment. He was undoubtedly laying on his couch, hair mussed, hazel eyes sleepy, but with twin sparks of amusement and intelligence burning in them like tiny flames, perhaps one arm curved behind his head to cushion it. He had been wearing jeans and a black long-sleeved mock turtleneck when she had left him. She remembered how the clothes had clung lovingly to his lanky frame. His long legs would be stretched out before him; his stockinged feet, propped on the sofa's arm. He had finally shaved when hunger had driven them from his bedroom around noon. His face would probably still be smooth. Picturing him in that way, she had a nearly overwhelming urge to run the back of her hand along his jaw line to test her hypothesis. "Do you want to know what I can't escape?" she asked, her eyes opening once more, their newly revealed depths a deeply tinted shade of blue. "Hmm?" "The sensation of the muscles in your back moving beneath my hands." Pause. "Really?" His voice sounded rough all of a sudden, as if it had been mined from somewhere deep inside him. "Mmhmm. I can close my eyes and almost feel the muscles bunch then lengthen against my fingertips. I remember the heat of your skin, the texture, how it grew moist, hard to hold on to. The way you arched more sharply, more quickly as you. . . as it got nearer to the end. I can recall all of it, Mulder. Almost like it's happening now. This minute. It's very . . . .vivid." For a moment she heard nothing but the sound of his breath. "You did that on purpose," he accused finally, just the slightest hint of humor taking the edge off his voice's suddenly uneven quality. She smiled into the phone. "Maybe. But it's true. Every word of it. And besides, you deserved it." "Me? What did I do?" She purposefully lowered her voice, a little shy with her confession. "You made me miss you." "Oh," he said, matching her voice in volume. "Well, . . . that's all right then." She wanted to laugh at just how absurdly pleased with himself Mulder sounded at that moment. "Speak for yourself." He chuckled. "So, do you think you're ready? For tomorrow, I mean." "Yeah. I should be. I just don't want to get caught off-guard. Alan says the defense attorney is awfully sharp. Supposedly, he does his homework. I've been warned to be ready for anything." "Alan?" "Alan Barnes, the Assistant D.A. He's good. With the evidence we've got, I think we'll nail this guy." "Do I know him?" Scully hesitated, hearing something she thought she recognized, but certainly didn't normally associate with Mulder, creeping into his voice. "Alan? I don't think so. When I told him that we worked together, he said he had heard of you. But, he never mentioned that you two had met." "Oh, and what exactly had he heard?" She paused again, mentally kicking herself. She had really blundered into that one. Although Barnes struck her as a savvy attorney, and basically a decent fellow, he had fallen prey to all the rumors still floating around as to Mulder and his obsessions. Consequently, he, like so many others before him, was of the opinion that her partner sounded =spooky.= She reasoned that while Mulder might be used to such reactions, he undoubtedly didn't appreciate the sentiment behind them. Thus, she painstakingly sifted through Assistant D.A. Barnes' remarks to find a safely neutral quote. "Nothing much. He asked me what it was like to work with you. He said he had heard you were . . . intense." The sound of a bitten off laugh ricocheted down the phone line. Scully knew that despite her efforts, Mulder had already filled in the blanks as to just what else the Assistant D.A. had probably said. "And what did you tell him?" She wondered at this sudden interest in the opinion of a man Mulder had never met. He can't be that insecure, she thought. Yet . . . this thing between them was so new. Just over 24 hours old. And fragile. And it had been so very, very long since he had let anyone close to him . . . "I told him I liked your intensity," she said to him in a hushed voice, not intending her words to tease, just wanting to let him know his effect on her. To make him understand its power. To reassure him. "That I find it . . . exciting. How when you focus on something it's as if the rest of the world just melts away." "That's what last night was like for me," he told her quietly after a moment. "And today. When you were here." "Like there wasn't anything outside the two of us?" "Yeah. Like all the rest of the pain and the bullshit had disappeared. Like the only thing that was real was laying there beside me." She felt tears pricking the back of her eyes. "It was like that for me too, Mulder. You've got to know that." She could almost see him nod. "I do . . . well, anyway . . . I had hoped so. Do me a favor though--remind me from time to time. Okay? For a guy with a photographic memory, it seems like I forget the important stuff sometimes. You know?" She smiled tenderly. "Yeah. I do. Don't worry. I'll do my part. Besides, I owed you a favor anyway." He chuckled, then murmured, "Hey--that's right." "Oh, and Mulder--?" "Hmm?" "Alan Barnes is happily married and a father of two." He tried to laugh it off. "I didn't--" "I know," she said swiftly, doing her best to at the same time soothe his male ego and his doubts. "I just figured you should know, that's all. Not that it would matter if he =was= single." This time Mulder's laugh was genuine. "Oh, really?" "Mmhmm. The guy wouldn't stand a chance, Mulder. You've ruined me for other men." His voice took on that teasing quality she loved so much. "I think I like the sound of this. Care to fill me in on the specifics?" She smiled. "Well, I would think it would be obvious. During the time we've been together you've shown me mutants, beast women, the occasional UFO, and god only knows how many government cover-ups. Our lives may at times have their share of risks, but they're never dull. I can't go back to the everyday, Mulder. The illusion of security--of normalcy--just doesn't wash for me anymore." He paused a moment, considering. "Hmm. And here I was thinking you were referring to my talents in the sack." She chewed on her lower lip to hold back a giggle. "Oh, yeah. Well, . . . those too." She knew, even without being able to see his face, that he smiled. Neither said anything for a time, each content merely to know that the other was on the opposite end of the line. Finally, Mulder spoke. "This is real, isn't it?" She smiled fondly. "What?" "Us. Being together. All of it." Before she could answer, he continued, the words tumbling from his lips as if they had been precariously perched there, and only just now lost their balance. "You know, I think that's why I haven't wanted to go to bed. I've been half afraid to close my eyes. Thinking that when I woke up I'd discover that last night, . . . your coming over, our making love . . . that it would all end up only having been a dream." "No," Scully said softly. "It's real. I'm real." "I wish you were here. Or, I was there." She smiled again. "Right now, so do I." He sighed. "Will you be in the office tomorrow at all?" "No, I don't think so. Alan wants to put me through a mock cross-examination before I take the stand and to go over a few last minute things, so I plan on going to his office first, then to court." "Oh. Well, what time do you think you'll get out?" "I don't know. Late afternoon, I'd imagine. I'm scheduled to take the stand right after lunch recess. But you know how those things go." "Yeah. So, do you have any plans for tomorrow night?" Her heart did a little leap. "Depends. What do you have in mind?" "How about if I pick you up from the courthouse, and we get something to eat?" "I think I'd like that." "Good," he said with satisfaction. "Call me when you're done, and we'll take it from there." She smothered a yawn with her hand. Much as she was enjoying this conversation, she had gotten little sleep the night before. She was exhausted. "Okay. I will." He apparently heard what she had tried to hide. "I should let you go." "Sorry. I guess I'm more tired than I thought." "No. I'm the one who should be sorry. You need your rest. There's just one more thing, though." "What?" "Have I mentioned how well you wear black?" A wry smile tilted the corners of her lips. "Would that be in reference to my sweater or . . . to what I wore under it?" "Oh. Well, don't get me wrong--the sweater was great. But, I guess I was referring specifically to . . . something more . . . intimate." She chuckled. "Black, huh?" "It does amazing things against your skin, Scully." "Hmm," she said in mock consideration. "Well, I guess I'll have to rummage around in my lingerie drawer and see what else I can dig up that fits the bill." "Oh, man!" he comically moaned. "Don't bring up your lingerie drawer and then expect me to go to sleep." She laughed. "=Good night=, Mulder. I'll call you." "Good night, Scully," he said warmly, the humor still lacing his voice. "Sweet dreams." Somehow, she suspected that those would be the only kind she would have that night. THE END From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "The Gift of Words" 1/2 Date: Thu, 21 DEC 95 23:42:25 -0500 I wasn't going to attempt a Christmas X-File story. After all, this time of year is just =too= hectic! And besides, if you're going to do a seasonal story, you're almost =forced= to deal with the issue of what they would buy each other for Christmas. And who knows what the answer to that question might be! Well, I'm going to take a stab at answering it. :) This is a continuation of the "Word" series. In this version of the XF universe, Mulder and Scully are a couple. A very recent couple. Needless to say, these characters are in no way mine. Instead, they belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. I hope they don't mind my borrowing them for awhile. I also hope that all of you out there enjoy the happiest and most blessed of holidays. Thanks especially to all the terrific writers and readers who have taken the time to drop me a line. People like Juliettt, Charlotte, Jess, Lis, Nicole, Cherie, Connie and Heathyr make this a very rewarding place to hang out. As always, comments are deeply appreciated. You can reach me at krasch@delphi.com. Take care. I hope you like it. The Gift of Words (1/2) By Karen Rasch "So, Mulder, are you bucking for the role of Ebenezer Scrooge again this year?" Fox Mulder looked up from his computer screen to spy his partner juggling two styrofoam cups and a stack of files. Manuevering with a deftness that would have put any of a number of professional waitstaff to shame, she shouldered her way through their office door, and with one swing of her shapely hips, shut the portal behind her. "If I am, what does that make you? The Ghost of Christmas Past?" She deposited the manila folders on her desk and crossed towards him, still in possession of the cups, one now at her lips, the other outstretched towards him. "Not Past, I wouldn't think. Present, maybe?" He nodded and took the drink from her. Judging by its color and bubbles, he tentatively identified it as champagne. "And Future?" he ventured, the question obviously in reference to something other than Dickens. She smiled at him, her eyes warm. "If I have anything to say about it." He smiled back at her, then took a sip. Good call, Sherlock. Definitely champagne. The office Christmas party must be in full swing. Scully perched a hip on his desk, and gazed at him thoughtfully. He looked right back at her, enjoying the view. Even now, after more than two years of working together and nearly a month after deciding to take their professional relationship one step further, he still couldn't get enough of her. It seemed like every time he looked at her he rediscovered for the first time just how beautiful she was. Now was no exception. She peered at him over the rim of her cup, her blue eyes soft, her auburn hair styled in its usual attractive bob. He found himself watching her throat as she swallowed, admiring its graceful line, and noting with satisfaction that the tiny hairline scars that had lingered so stubbornly were at long last nearly invisible. She wore a slim black suit with, as perhaps her concession to the holiday, a deep forest green shell beneath it. The green brought out her eyes' teal undertones. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to go upstairs and make an appearance?" she asked after finishing the sip. "People were asking about you." He grimaced at her, the effect leavened by the wry twist of his lips. "I bet I can guess what they were asking." She set her glass down, and said mildly, "You'd be surprised. The holidays can do amazing things for peoples' personalities." He folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair, his eyebrows lifted sardonically. "Not to mention the champagne." Her lips tightened in annoyance. At times like this she really wanted to throttle the man on the other side of the desk. She knew that he had been hurt by many of the people celebrating a floor above, that they had often ridiculed his ideas, slammed his unorthodox methods and interests. And yet, not all of them were guilty of such slights. Some of their fellow agents actually admired Mulder's drive, his maverick streak of independence. Not that he would believe that. Not without firsthand proof. Which was awfully difficult to come by when the two parties kept their distance. But, Mulder was a big boy. She wouldn't push him. She respected the boundaries he set. "I just thought you might actually enjoy yourself if you gave it half a chance. That's all." He shook his head. "Scully, the only thing that might lure me to a Bureau Christmas party would be the off chance of cornering you under the mistletoe." That comment earned him a raised eyebrow. He smiled with mock innocence. "However," he continued, leaning forward once more, his elbows planted on the desk beside her thigh, his eyes growing speculative. "As it's just you and me behind closed doors, maybe we don't need that little sprig of green." She tried hard to be stern, but her lips kept curving up in a bemused smile. "Mulder, we agreed. Not on company time." He glanced at his watch. "It's after five. We're officially off the clock," he coaxed softly, coming out of his chair with his palms pressed against the desk top so that his face hovered close to hers. "Come on, Scully. It's the Friday before Christmas. We're not assigned to a case. Hell--Skinner has even taken off for the weekend. What could it hurt?" "I don't know . . . ," she said, the look in her eyes and the gentle touch of her hand on his cheek belying the hesitancy in her voice. "Somehow it doesn't seem entirely . . . . professional to do that sort of thing in the office." His hand found the hem of her skirt and worried it between his fingers, the whisper light glide of them against her stockinged thigh a subtle tease. "You've got an entire bullpen full of drunken agents one floor above you, and you're worried about a little kiss tarnishing the Bureau's image?" Her lips quirked. "Another danger to be considered. You say you don't want to go to the party--but what if the party decides to come to you?" He bent his head and kissed her earlobe, not above stepping up the physical coercion. "It's for times like these that God created locks." With a meaningful look over his shoulder, he crossed to the door and threw the deadbolt. Scully continued to sit on his desk, sipping what remained of her champagne, watching him. And waiting. Her legs were crossed, one slim ankle turning lazily. With measured step, he returned to her side, and placed his hands on her upper arms, caging her body with his against the desk. He smiled an anticipatory smile, his hazel eyes heavy-lidded, and lowered his head. Just a heartbeat before contact, she stopped him by placing a hand on his chest, her smile a tad more devilish than his. "Oh, and Mulder? One more thing." Her voice was low, purposefully seductive. "What?" "Who said I'd be satisfied with just 'a little kiss'?" His smile broadened. Then, making a mental note to take special care to satisfy the woman before him, he pressed his lips to hers. They clung, warm and soft, and just a trifle moist. He could detect the faint tang of champagne lingering on her generous mouth, and realized he enjoyed the wine's flavor better this way. Mingled with the sweet taste that belonged only to Dana Scully. They toyed with each other for a time, playfully dueling with teeth and tongue, until finally desire began to get the upper hand. His fingers tunneled roughly through her hair, tilting her head back to adjust for his height. She went with him, unresisting, her hands gripping the front of his charcoal suit for balance. The stroking of his tongue against hers grew slower, more deliberately provocative. She moaned into his mouth, and returned the caress, the wet slide of her tongue over his teeth inducing an almost painful shiver down his spine. The kiss turned drugging, neither of them wanting it to end., but both knowing that if it didn't, they would soon be past the point of no return. Scully found the willpower to pull free first, and trailing her lips across Mulder's cheek to his ear, whispered, "I wish you were coming with me this weekend." He pulled back to look at her, his breathing more than just a bit ragged, his face flushed. Her eyes were luminous in the office's shadowed light, and large, a touch of desire still fogging them. For one perilous second, he was so tempted-- so =very= tempted--to say yes. But reason prevailed. "Scully, we've been through this--" he began with a heavy sigh. She shushed him with a fingertip on his full lower lip. "I know, I know. And I'm sorry. I don't mean to nag you, but I promised my mom I'd ask one last time. Although, for what it's worth, Mulder. I should probably tell you--I wouldn't mind having you there myself." Margaret Scully had invited Mulder to be part of the Scully family Christmas. She had done this not knowing of the change that had taken place in his relationship with her daughter. Instead, she had merely not wanted him to be alone over the holidays. Mulder had declined the invitation for a number of reasons. "What makes you think your mother would allow you to 'have me' under her roof?" She traced his mouth with her forefinger, a dry smile gracing her lips. "=You= are possessed of a singularly prurient mind." He nodded, grinning with satisfaction. "And damn proud of it." She gave him a quick, noisy kiss. "=And= incorrigible. Even so, I know everyone would love for you to spend the holiday with us. You're sure you won't reconsider?" He shook his head. Much as he loved his partner, there was no way in hell he was going to spend that particular Christmas with her clan. Not only were both her brothers due to fly in with their families, undoubtedly to link up with god only knew how many other relatives. But, it would be the first such holiday without Melissa. He could only imagine how difficult the day would be for those who had been closest to her. He didn't want to be there. Intruding. His presence serving as a sort of silent reminder as to the circumstances of her death. "No. Thank your mom for me, but I've gotta pass," he said, his fingers combing lightly through her hair in an effort to right the damage they had wrought. "Besides--I kept meaning to tell you today, but with first one thing, then another, the timing just never seemed right--um . . . my mom called last night. She wants me to drive up to Connecticut." Scully's eyebrows nearly climbed to her hairline. "She does?" "Yeah. Do you believe it? She wants me to come up for dinner. First time in years. I guess I now understand why they call this the season of miracles." Scully said a silent prayer of thanks. While she would have selfishly welcomed Mulder's strength this particular Christmas, she was more than pleased to hear of his mothers invitation. She knew of the estrangement that had existed between Mulder and his parents for years. And although he never referred to it specifically, she also knew that the separation had pained her partner. If this phone call was any indication, it looked as if maybe he and his mother had rounded a bend in their relationship. Who would have thought it possible? Perhaps something worthwhile could be salvaged from the far too early deaths of William Mulder and Melissa Scully. "That's great," she said softly, her fingers running lightly along his suit's lapels. "Are you heading up there tonight?" "No. This isn't 'Christmas on Walton Mountain.' We're just doing dinner. I figure I'll drive up Monday morning." She smiled at him, aware that his flippant words cloaked some very powerfully felt emotions. He smiled back, tenderness in the look, and pulled her into his arms so that she rested with her head against his chest, needing at that moment to hold her, although he couldn't put his finger on why exactly the need existed. They leaned quietly against each other for a time, his hands running soothingly up and down her back, her arms wound tightly around his waist. "What about you?" he asked finally. "I've got my stuff in the car. I thought I'd take off directly from here." "Oh. Well then, maybe you should get on the road." Regret echoed hollowly in his voice. She leaned back to look him in the eye. "No, not yet. Even with holiday traffic, it's not that long a drive." She then stretched up and kissed him on the chin. "And anyway--we haven't opened our presents yet." ====================================================================== ===== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "The Gift of Words" 2/2 Date: Thu, 21 DEC 95 23:43:10 -0500 Happy holidays! For disclaimer & credits, please see Part I. This is a bit of Christmas cheer. No file, just relationship. It's a continuation of my "Word" stories. Please let me know what you think. You can reach me at krasch@delphi.com. Thanks! The Gift of Words (2/2) By Karen Rasch Mulder felt his heart expand, then sharply contract. He had been waiting for this. "Presents?" Her eyes narrowed in mock scrutiny. "That doesn't sound too promising, Mulder. And I've been awfully good this year." Her teasing calmed him for a moment. One half of his mouth pulled up in a lop-sided grin. "Relax, Scully. I got you something." "Good," she said with a answering smile as she gave his middle a squeeze and scooted off his desk. "Because I find that I become alarmingly mercenary this time of year." Mulder shook his head with fondness and viewed with appreciation the gentle sway of her hips as she crossed away from him to her side of the room. He just knew that Dana Scully had been one of those kids who shook their parents awake Christmas morning before the sun had even cleared the horizon. The sort who carefully composed their list for Santa, who scrimped and saved their allowance for months in order to buy each of those they loved a very special gift. She caught him looking at her and flashed him a full blown smile. "Well don't just stand there, Mulder. Hand it over." She then sat behind her neatly organized desk and opened the lower right hand drawer. An instant later, a long flat box, approximately the length of a business sized envelope, sat upon her blotter. Brightly colored paper sprinkled with what looked to be angels covered it. A saucy red bow perched on top. Mulder raised his eyebrows in consideration, and battling curiosity and his nerves, went behind his desk where he retrieved a small shopping bag from beneath it. Inside the crisp green paper bag was a medium sized square box wrapped with exceedingly tasteful striped paper. Unfortunately, just looking at it was enough to jumpstart his concern. It's no big deal, Mulder, he tried telling himself. It's just a gift. A token of affection. A wish for the season. It's not as if the fate of the world rested on her reaction to it. No. It was more important than that. Well, if nothing else, the package looked nice, he thought with rueful satisfaction. Thank god for stores that offered their customers free gift wrapping. He glanced up. She sat watching him with unbridled anticipation, her eyes aglow, her elbows resting on the desk, a small smile gently curving her lips. He took a deep breath, his eyes focusing again on the gaily wrapped package before him. This whole gift-giving thing was likely to give him an ulcer. It was crazy, really. After all, it wasn't as if neither of them had ever bought anything for each other before. They had exchanged Christmas gifts in years past. Birthday presents too. But this year was different. This was their first Christmas as lovers. And the gift had to reflect that. Right? Consequently, he had tortured himself for the past two weeks. Had battled the crowds. Suffered rude and inattentive sales clerks. Pounded the pavement on his lunch hour and after work as if he were seeking clues, hoping to singlehandedly solve the crime of the century. When, in reality, all he wanted to find was the ideal present. For her. He thought he had done pretty well. He would know for certain in a matter of minutes. If his heart didn't give out first. "Mulder, would you mind grabbing my cup?" He snapped out of his reverie, and made his way to her, their glasses of rapidly warming champagne and Scully's present in tow. Handing her one of the cups, he set the package down, then made himself comfortable on the corner of her desk. "Who goes first?" she asked lightly, her eyes shining like a little girl's. "You." He had to end this suspense. Had to see what she thought of his choice. Although he never believed for a moment that were she disapppointed, she would consciously allow such emotions to register on her face. Still, he flattered himself that he knew her well enough to be able to truthfully read her reaction. However, right now he wasn't entirely sure that this supposed skill was a good thing. Smiling tightly, he pushed the package towards her. Scully looked at him a bit shyly, picked it up. Some weight, some bulk. And yet, not really heavy. "Can I shake it?" She was certain Mulder paled. "I wouldn't." She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in tandem. Saying nothing, she thoughtfully turned the box carefully in her hands, while she silently mused over what might be inside. As she did so, the cascade of ribbon crowning the box shifted, and revealed a small golden seal embossed with the logo of one of the capital's most exclusive stores. She sucked in a breath. Oh good lord, Mulder. What have you done? She had gone into that place once. And quickly exited. Their prices were as outrageous as their merchandise was beautiful. "Mulder . . . " she drawled, tipping the box to bring his attention to the seal, admonishing him without words for his extravagance. He shrugged and smiled. "Open it." She eyed him for a beat. Then, shaking her head, she began carefully removing the paper. Normally, she would have simply torn apart the wrappings with relish. But, somehow, when she considered the expense he had apparently borne on her behalf, it seemed rude to rush. Mulder didn't push her. Instead, he just sat there quietly, sipping his champagne. If she didn't just rip the paper off the bloody thing soon, he was going to grab it from her and do it himself! Leave it to Scully to be as methodical with her gift opening as she was with her autopsies. Praying for patience, he managed to get through the process without betraying his agitation. Finally, the box sat naked. Sliding a neatly trimmed nail beneath the flap, she popped it open. At first, she couldn't see anything; tissue paper and thick white pieces of styrofoam obscuring the view. Then, lifting the packing free of the box, she finally discovered what it so painstakingly protected. Mulder had bought her a clock. Although to call it such did the piece a great injustice. For surely it was beautiful enough to be considered art. It was small, the sort of dainty curio that seemed destined to belong to a woman, and rectangular in shape, its case resting on four tiny round wooden feet. It had been constructed from two types of wood, both reddish in tone. She guessed that one of them, the darker of two, the one that composed the piece's inlays, was rosewood. She couldn't be sure of the second. Their finishes had been buffed to a burnished glow that gleamed, even in the office's half light. She was almost afraid to handle the piece for fear of ruining that shine, of leaving fingerprints behind like a common criminal. Etched into the delicate timepiece's surface with meticulous precision and detail was a gently winding vine covered with leaves. The design ran down either side of the clock's front panel, framing the dial. The carving coaxed still more shades from the wood; deeper, nearly black hollows, and golden edges. The dial itself was made of some sort of stone; its color, the palest shade of pink she had ever seen. The shell-like hue completed the wood's warmth. The dial's numbers and rim were both a soft gold. The overall impression the piece gave was one of beauty, elegance, and superb craftsmanship. "Oh, Mulder," she whispered finally, her eyes raising to meet his, their gaze tender. "It's lovely." He had watched her examine the present without moving, very nearly holding his breath as he waited for her verdict. Now that he saw that he had done well with his selection, that he had pleased her, he found himself wanting to confess to her all of the nonsense and anxiety that had gone into choosing the gift in the first place. How he had tromped from store to store, but nothing had ever really hit him, had ever struck him as having been made solely to belong to her. How what had first drawn him to the item in her hands was its color, which reminded him of her hair. How the longer he looked at it, the more right for her it seemed; its grace, size, and beauty, echoes of her own. But ultimately, he only told her the most important thing of all. "In the beginning, I didn't know what to get you," he said quietly, his eyes at first clinging to hers, only to at last slide away. "So I asked myself , 'What is it she wants most?'" Scully gently set the little clock on her desk, and cocked her head as she listened, not certain where he was going with this. "Only it wasn't as easy to narrow down as I thought. The most important things, the things that really matter, I have no power over. Much as I'd like to, I can't bring back your father or Melissa." She nodded, her eyes misting unexpectedly, her throat closing. "And the other . . . the months that you were away . . . . Well, I can't return those to you either." He scowled for a moment, trying to get his thoughts in order, then leaned forward and took her hand, enclosing it in both of his. It lay there smooth and soft, and rather small. And without warning, he was sideswiped by memories of holding her hand under very different circumstances. On the night when he had thought he was saying goodbye. Swallowing past a sudden uncomfortable lump, he continued. "But, I would. I would give you that time, Dana, if I could. If it was mine to give. And . . . and, I just . . . want you to know that. I guess that's what this is supposed to symbolize. I don't know . . . ." She stood then, her eyes filled with tears that would not fall, and took his face in her hands. She kissed him softly, the touch imparting not passion, but love. Still cradling his face, she leaned her forehead against his. "Thank you." "You're welcome." "You know, Mulder, I realize sometimes . . . with everything that's happened over the past couple of years it's easy for me to lose sight of something." "What?" he asked, his voice coming out low and rough, his hands on her waist. "I'm lucky," she whispered, pulling back to look at him, her eyes glistening. "I'm so very lucky." Mulder made a soft, inarticulate sound in the back of his throat, and pulled her into his embrace. She hugged him fiercely, her face buried in the curve of his neck. He found he couldn't say anything. He just held her. It wasn't difficult to do. She felt warm and soft and strong and vital and fragile and . . . necessary--positively essential. She thought =she= was lucky? Well then, . . . hell. What word was there to describe how he felt? After what seemed to Mulder like an unreasonably short period of time, Scully pulled back slightly, kissed him on the cheek, and murmured, "It's your turn." She drew back, and handed him her present. It weighed next to nothing. "Can I shake it?" he asked whimsically, consciously mimicking her earlier question. She smiled, standing beside him as if her anticipation made it impossible to sit. "You can--but it won't tell you anything." He found she was right. "Just open it," she urged with a little push on his shoulder. He smiled over her impatience, and did as she requested. Stripping the paper away, he uncovered a plain white box, which when opened, revealed a bed of soft white cotton. On which rested her cross. "Scully--?" "You know what they say about great minds, Mulder?" she asked softly. "Well, in our case, I think it must be true." He pulled the dainty medallion from its box, cupping it in his hand, studying it as if to discover its secrets. "I also asked myself what it was you wanted most in the world," she continued, taking a step closer to him, her fingers gliding along his upper arm, the touch soothing. "And when I came up with the answer, like you, I realized I couldn't give it to you." He looked up, knowing immediately to what she referred. "I couldn't stick a bow on Samantha and put her under your Christmas tree," she said, regret and nearly bottomless compassion darkening her blue eyes. "But, I came to see that I could give you my promise to help you continue the search, my pledge that together we'll find her." "How can you be so sure?" he asked, his voice sounding potholed and a bit lost, his eyes shadowed. "I mean . . . it's my search, you know? My . . . quest. And yet sometimes, I wonder whether the whole thing isn't just some sort of cosmic snipe hunt." "That's what this is for," she whispered, laying her hand over his so that they nestled the cross between them. "Faith. I'm not talking about Catholic faith, or any kind of organized religion really, Mulder. I just mean . . . belief." She gently tightened her grip over his hand. "On those days when you question, when it seems like Samantha is farther away than ever. Remember this. Remember that I'm here. That not only do you have your strength to draw on but mine as well. That's my gift to you. Does that make any sense?" He nodded, his eyes lowered once more. Then, he cleared his throat. "What about your mom?" "What about her?" "Well, it's just--this was her gift to you. I don't know if--" "I think she'll approve," she interrupted gently. "After all, she gave it to you once herself, didn't she?" He nodded. "Since you brought up my mom . . . I'd like to tell her about this, if it's all right. About us." His lips stretched in a wry smile, embarrassment threatening. "Yeah. Okay--sure." She nodded. "Good. I'd just like her to know, that's all." The smile grew stronger. "I know." She smiled back. "Thank you," he said, placing his hand against her face, his thumb smoothing over her cheekbone. "You're not done yet." "Scully!" She chuckled. "Look in the bottom of the box." He did. Beneath the layer of cotton he found a plain white envelope. After an encouraging nod from his partner, he opened it and began reading the contents. Upon finishing the first couple of sentences, his eyebrows arched. Soon after, a stunned laugh escaped his lips. "You bought me a star!?" Scully laughed outright. This was precisely the reaction she had hoped for. "Can =you= think of a more appropriate gift?" He just looked at her, stunned. "I got the idea from something I saw in the Post," she explained, her smile still wide, her eyes dancing. "It talked about this agency that was authorized to sell stars." "But how?" She shrugged. "I don't really know all the ins and outs of it. I do know it's all supposed to be above board, though. And very official. That little piece of the universe is all yours, Mulder. You should know that I tried to get them to promise that your particular star would be populated. But, the man I talked to said there were no guarantees." He smiled in wonder and shook his head, his eyes still scanning the document before him. "Star #3285497531-0, huh?" "You know, as the new owner you can change that name. Something to think about." "Any suggestions?" "Not the kind that involve names." His smile changed, became more intimate. "Why don't you show me what you have in mind?" Her smile matched his. "I could do that." She kissed him once more. The touch gentle, sweet. Mulder's hands held her loosely to him. "I love you, Mulder," she whispered when she was done, her breath warm upon his face, her arms draped around his neck. He looked at her, the gaze alone a caress. "I'll tell you something, Scully. Something that's proven to me everyday. =I'm= the lucky one." She smiled at him tenderly, and opened her mouth to reply when their interlude was interrupted. "Hey, Mulder! Spooky!" roared a slightly slurred voice from the other side of the door. Mulder grinned mischievously, and put a finger to his lips. Although he couldn't be certain, it sounded as if Special Agent Peter Boyd, one of the VC's finest, had downed more than his share of champagne. Scully smiled wryly and kept quiet also. Their shared silence only earned their office door a knock that threatened to shake it off its hinges. Next, the doorknob was tried. "Come on, man--you in there? Hey, there's a party goin' on upstairs. Why don't you join us? We've got everything you need! Wine, women, song. Hell--somebody even brought mistletoe." "Come on, Pete" urged another much higher voice Mulder couldn't identify. "I told you they weren't here. Let's go back up. Come on--I wanna see if the mistletoe is occupied." A short burst of coed laughter followed. And faintly Mulder and Scully could hear the tip-tap of heels receding down the basement's tiled hallway. Scully shook her head and looked at her partner, one eyebrow raised. Mulder smiled, and pulled her more closely to him, reveling in the sleek feel of her, the fresh clean scent of her skin, the humor twinkling in her clear blue eyes. Sorry, Boyd, he thought. Thanks for the offer, but there is no way in hell you have everything I need. "Mistletoe?" he growled softly as he lowered his lips to hers. "We don't need no steenkin' mistletoe." Even before their mouths touched, Scully knew with absolute certainty that Mulder was right. THE END *Note* The idea of buying a star for a person came from a number of articles I read a few years back. Apparently, someone came up with the brainstorm of selling off celestial bodies. Unfortunately, I can't remember the details. However, for *some* bizarre reason I =do= remember that Princess Di supposedly received a star as a wedding present. I can't tell you if such purchases are still possible. I only know that the idea stuck in my head as something wildly romantic. And a very fitting present for the FBI's best known stargazer. :) Happy Holidays! "Beyond Words" (1/3) NC-17 by Karen Rasch In the words of one of our most gifted writers of XF erotica, Kelli Rocherolle--This is mind candy. Pure (well . . . maybe not *that* pure) and simple. :) When I posted "Words On The Wire" awhile back, I got e-mail saying, "Okay, the phone call was fine-- but I can't believe you didn't write about the dinner date!" Far be it from me to upset a Phile. So, here you go! This is a continuation of the "Word" series. It's slightly out of order as this takes place before the events in "The Gift Of Words," my Xmas XFstory. In this series, Mulder & Scully are a couple, albeit early in their relationship. I would categorize this as erotica and rate it NC-17, as it is chock full of innuendo and sprinkled with graphic descriptions of various and sundry sexual acts. No Season 3 spoilers. No casefile. Just Mulder & Scully in love/ lust. If that is unpalatable to you, bail now. You've been warned. The earlier stories in this series are available on the Gossamer archive. You may want to read them to fully understand how everything fits together. If you're interested, please e-mail me for titles at krasch@delphi.com. I would also love to hear comments, constructive and otherwise. Please drop me a line. And finally--No, of course, these characters aren't mine! Don't you read the credits? They belong to the crew at 1013. I'm merely borrowing them for a time. I promise I'll return them in good shape. Thanks this time to the Scully Power Rangers. You know who you are. :) And to Charlotte, who talked about getting it right. * * * * * * * * He should have known the moment he had seen her smile that something was up. Not that Dana Scully didn't often smile. On the contrary, the woman was capable of heart-stopping smiles; the kind that lit up a room; the sort that, when she unleashed one on him, always made him feel a bit light-headed, as if something had suddenly thinned all the oxygen available to him, making it difficult to breathe. But this wasn't one of those smiles. Instead, this was what Mulder always thought of as Scully's "dangerous" smile. The actual curving of her lips was slight; just the corners raised. It was the rest of her body language that gave the look its unsettling impact. She would duck her head, sometimes turning it slightly, a fall of auburn hair sliding forward to caress her cheek, and look up at him through her lashes; her blue eyes intelligent, alive with humor and just a suggestion of challenge. That gaze, when coupled with the soft promise of her lips never failed to reduce him to the relative sophistication of a twelve year old. It was a distinctly sensual smile that communicated, "I know something you don't, Mulder. And I'm only going to share it with you when I'm good and ready." A smile that for him brought to mind warm silky curves, the whisper of skin gliding over crisp cotton sheets, the scent of bodies yearning against each other. It made him uneasy. It made him hot. It made him very glad that this particular woman had chosen to aim it at him. And so she had, just before she had climbed into his car outside Washington D.C.'s Criminal Courthouse. "Hi." "Hi yourself. How'd it go?" "Well, I thought," she said with a smile, this one safer, less loaded with undercurrents. "Of course, the trial will probably drag into next week, so we won't know the verdict for awhile. But, all things considered, I think I helped rather than hindered the prosecution's case." He nodded, then pulled away into traffic. Once they had successfully merged, he ventured a glance over at her. She was buckling herself in, her eyes averted from his. She certainly looked the part of the "expert witness," he thought with approval. The weather was mild for early December, and she had left her trench coat uncinched. She wore a dark gray suit; slim skirt, waist length blazer, and a deep red, almost wine colored blouse beneath it. Judging by its sheen, he thought it might be silk. Black hose and those damn three inch heels that he could never figure out how the hell she navigated in completed the package. The jury would have seen an agent who radiated poise, confidence, polish, and professionalism. But all he saw was the woman who had forty-eight hours earlier sat astride him, naked to the waist. The one who had looked deep into his eyes and urged him to "take her." That image setting up residence in his mind's eye, Mulder punched the gas, and began maneuvering his Bureau motor pool sedan more aggressively through traffic. Noting her partner's apparent haste with a combination of puzzlement and wry good humor, Scully steadied herself with her hand against the dashboard. "Mulder, where are we going?" "I'm not sure. I'll let you know when we get there." One slim auburn brow arching, she said nothing more, choosing instead to simply hang on. And so they drove, silent, not even the radio on for company, weaving in and out of downtown D.C.'s rush hour traffic. As Scully had suspected, she hadn't been called to the stand until mid-afternoon. By the time the defense was through with her, the workday was nearly done. Consequently, Mulder hadn't picked her up until after five. By that time, evening had fallen over the capital. Velvety. Still, despite the competing rush of autos and pedestrians. Blue-black in color. Streetlights and headlights vying to outshine each other in their efforts to illuminate the way home. Suddenly, without warning, Mulder turned the car sharply into a long narrow alley dividing an apartment building from a neighborhood drugstore. Driving to nearly smack dab in the middle of the concrete passageway, he cut the engine. And turned to direct his gaze to the woman beside him. "What's this, Mulder--an impromptu stakeout?" Scully asked mildly. Mulder said nothing, instead he merely looked at her, the car's shadowed interior hiding his eyes from her view. Then, slowly he shook his head. After a beat, she dipped hers in acknowledgment. "Okay . . . " she drawled, eyebrows raised, a beam of light from a nearby street lamp angling through the car window to land on her hair, igniting its color. "Are we just going to sit here all night, or do you plan on telling me what this is all about?" "Sorry, Scully," he murmured as, with one motion, he loosed himself from his seatbelt and leaned towards her, his hand coming up to wrap itself possessively around her nape. "But words escape me at this moment." Before Scully could also free herself from the safety restraints holding her so securely in her seat, Mulder's mouth descended upon hers. She gasped. There was no greeting in the kiss. No introduction. Instead, it was as if he were rejoining a seduction that was already well underway. And in truth, perhaps he was. Their lips ground urgently against each other; the pressure bruising, needy. Without preamble, his tongue slipped easily into her mouth, searching for hers. She met him without hesitation, and stroked along him beseechingly. He growled low in his throat, and answered her silent demand, grasping her tightly around the waist with his other hand, his mouth intent on sucking every last drop of sweetness from her lips. For several long, drugging minutes, neither spoke. The rustle of fabric; the wet slide of their lips as they clung and released, then clung once more; and the muted rush of their mingled, ragged breath the only sounds echoing within the car's cabin. "I have been wanting to do this all day," Mulder muttered heatedly against her mouth when he finally mustered the restraint to pull away from her criminally inviting lips. "What took you so long?" she whispered, breathless, her eyes dreamy. He chuckled. She liked when he laughed, and just had to kiss him once more as a token of her approval. "Just trying to hold up my end of the bargain, Scully. We both decided we had to keep this secret to make it work. The best way to accomplish that is =not= to ravish you in a no-parking zone." Her lips quirked as she teased. "I don't know, Mulder-- this has got to be the longest, narrowest parking lot =I've= ever seen." Mulder nipped her ear in retaliation. She squeaked in surprise. He made it up to her by running his tongue over the curve. She sighed with pleasure. "=Secluded= no parking zones are a completely different matter. And the best I could do on short notice." "I'm not complaining," she assured him, her hands running slowly up and down the arms that encircled her, her motion hindered by the strap criss-crossing her body. "Although I have to admit, I wouldn't mind losing the seat belt." With a wry twist of her lips, she looked down at the offending apparatus, then made to unfasten it. Mulder halted her attempt. "Not so fast," he murmured near her ear before trailing his mouth along her hairline leaving kisses in its wake, his words sprinkled amongst them like raindrops. "I think I like you where you are, Scully. This way, you're at my mercy." She shifted sinuously in her seat as his hand drifted down from her waist to her hip. "I'm perpetually at your mercy, Mulder. Haven't you noticed that already?" "Are we speaking personally or professionally now?" His hand descended further still to land solidly on her knee. The sleek feel of nylon encased leg tantalized his fingertips, and he let them glide lingeringly as he recalled with sudden stunning clarity the way this woman's slim legs had cradled him when their bodies had come together for the first time. "Either," she answered in a low husky voice, having trouble remembering the question, her legs sliding apart just a bit, tacitly giving him permission. "Both, when you touch me like that." "Like what?" Mulder asked innocently, his eyes smokey from the fire kindling within him, his hand daring to slip beneath her skirt. "Like this?" Scully closed her teeth over her lower lip, her eyes fluttering in reaction to the soft tingle of her partner's fingertips drawing lazy little free form patterns on the inside of her leg, just above the knee. "Oh yeah . . . exactly like that." God, he couldn't remember the last time he had done more than offer a date a good-bye kiss in the front seat of a car. But right now, if they both didn't watch it, this was going to end up like a stereotypical date at the drive-in. And he was entirely too old to do battle with a steering wheel for leg room. Still, it was awfully hard to call it quits when Scully sat there watching him with such wide, slumberous eyes; her lips parted, moist, swollen from their kisses; her hand gently combing through the hair at his temple. Just another minute, and we'll get out of here, he silently promised. We better. Before someone decides to take out their garbage. Deciding to make the most out of the little time afforded them in their current location, he again brought his lips to hers, and moved the hand still busy beneath her skirt a bit higher. Where he encountered skin. "What the--" he murmured, pulling his mouth away from hers. He shifted his fingertips more towards the center of her leg. This can't be what I think this is, he mused. But, no. It was. A thin lacy piece of cloth covered elastic. His hand roamed further over still, towards the outside edge of her thigh. Another ribbon of fabric and lace. Garters. He looked up at Scully, questions poised on his lips. Only to see that she was wearing that damn smile again. Well, now it looked as if they were never going to leave this alley, he thought ruefully, as he doubted his lower body would be willing to cooperate with any reasonable demands for a very, very long time. "Do you purposefully set out to drive me out of my mind?" he muttered dryly, his breath suddenly racing beyond his control, his hand braced against the back of her seat. "Or is this just some sort of gift with you." "You were the one who put in lingerie requests, Mulder," she purred, fingering his tie, her smile now positively lethal. "I thought you'd be pleased. . . . They're black." I'm going to ruin this whole thing if I laugh, she thought, her eyes twinkling with mischief. But it was hard not to when Mulder, who already looked as if every nerve ending he possessed was throbbing, gulped with enough force to swallow a head of lettuce whole. "Do you want to see?" she asked with mock innocence, her hand dropping to the hem of her skirt. Mulder swiftly withdrew his hand from beneath her clothing and landed it with a light slap on hers. She stilled her hand and waited. Ridiculously proud that his wasn't shaking from the anticipation he felt coursing through his veins like some sort of designer drug, Mulder grasped the thin wool weave and inched slowly it up her leg. Up and up it slid, revealing more black sheathed thigh, and still more again. Until finally, the stocking came to an end. A band of lace marked the finish of midnight tinted nylon and the start of pale soft skin. Bridging those two extremes were two tiny strips of inky fabric, each trimmed with lace and a petal pink rose. Wondering if perhaps he might instantaneously burst into flame what with the way his blood was pounding at his temples, the air around him positively refused to enter his lungs through either his mouth or nose, and his throat suddenly felt as if a truckload of silt had been poured down it, he brushed his forefinger over the little floral adornment, and grasped wildly for control. "I was given these when I stood up in my cousin's wedding a couple of years ago," Scully explained lightly, trying hard to sit still even though the heat of Mulder's hand felt as if it was close to burning her naked thigh. "She gave them to all her bridesmaids as a sort of gag gift--you know, the bride and her garter . . . . Anyway, she said that just because she was no longer a 'single on the prowl' there was no reason why we shouldn't carry on. I guess she thought these might help." Good lord in heaven, her slim pale thigh absolutely gleamed in the harsh white light leaking into the car from the streetlamp above. And those stockings . . . all he could think of were the drawings of artists like Toulouse-Lautrec or those naughty Victorian postcards that nowadays were collected in books and passed off as a sort of high brow pornography. Both featured women wearing dark colored hose against milky white skin. Not exactly the sort of image normally promoted by a culture where millions applied that nasty instant tan goop year 'round. Still, it suited Scully. And that suited him. "So these are what--?" he queried softly, amusement coloring his question, his fingertip having slipped beneath the object of his current obsession so it was sandwiched between garter and skin, comparing the texture of both as it trailed lightly between them. "Weapons in the War Between The Sexes?" Scully shrugged, her eyes shining with a heady mix of humor and arousal. "That may have been the way my cousin saw it. I've always been a pacifist myself." "Make love not war," he murmured, bending his head towards hers as prologue to that very act. She tangled her fingers in his hair, and urged him to her, her tongue slipping out to playfully flick at his lips. "Have I ever told you how much I love the way your mind works?" He smiled, a whisper from her mouth. Just before he crossed that scant distance, his lips moved once more. She thought she felt the word "liar" vibrate against her mouth. A second later, all speculation ceased being relevant. But they had only enjoyed the reunion of their lips a few breathless moments when a flood of bright white light poured through the car's rear window. It appeared their interlude in the alley was at an end. Mulder sighed, and ran a hand distractedly through his hair. The shock of the other car's headlights intruding upon their little sanctuary had jolted his body enough that he thought he might actually be able to get them home without plunging the automobile into the Potomac by mistake. Now, the question remained--whose home should it be? He turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life. "At the risk of sounding like I should be wearing a leisure suit and discussing astrological signs--your place or mine?" Scully just sat there, her skirt smoothed back down to its proper demure position on her knee, every auburn hair in place, slowly shaking her head. And smiling that smile. The car behind them flashed its brights. Mulder blinked at her. "What--?" "You promised me food, Mulder." "Huh?" "You said, 'How about if I pick you up from the courthouse, and we get something to eat.'" "Well, yeah . . . but--" Mulder couldn't help himself. He was reduced to sputtering. "So feed me, Mulder." He stared at her blankly for a moment. Then, the realization dawned. She had every intention of making him wait. A pained smile surfaced on his lips. "Is this some sort of punishment ?" he asked dryly, his eyes narrowing as he took in the amusement aglow in hers. "I mean--I haven't forgotten your birthday or something, have I?" The driver of the car in back of them was at the end of his patience, and laid on the horn. Scully looked over her shoulder, then grinned at her companion. "The only one who may be doling out punishment is that guy, if we don't get out of his way." Mulder grimaced at the absurdity of the situation, and threw the car into drive. They hadn't inched more than a few feet forward when Scully reached over and placed her hand lightly on his thigh. Thankfully, the car in back of them hadn't been tailgating, as Mulder slammed on the brakes in reaction. "I'm not doing this to hurt you, you know," she whispered in that low intimate tone of voice she had that was always guaranteed to melt the veneer of cool he so desperately clung to in her presence. "I'm just having a little fun." "You're teasing me, Scully," he growled, the humor he couldn't quite rid from his eyes telling her he was actually handling her surprise better than he was letting on. "I'm teasing both of us," she whispered, her blue eyes huge and warm. He took her hand from his leg and kissed the back of it. The driver behind them began serenading them with his horn once more. Mulder lifted his foot from the brake and took out his frustrations on the gas pedal. The car proved to have good pick up, and zipped obediently along the alley's narrow lane towards the street beyond. "I don't suppose you'd consider the drive-up window--?" "Just drive, Mulder. Just drive." * * * * * * * * =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "Beyond Words" 2/3 NC-17 Date: Wed, 17 Jan 96 11:24:43 -0500 For disclaimers and other trivia, please see Part I. For now, the wait continues . . . . Beyond Words (2/3) NC-17 By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com "You know you really have no one to blame for this but yourself." "And you call some of =my= theories farfetched?" They were eating Thai. Mulder had left the choice up to Scully and she had directed them to a little storefront Thai restaurant that he had actually introduced her to months before. With it being early on a Monday evening, they had the place nearly to themselves, and were sequestered in a cheery red upholstered booth against the establishment's back brick wall. "It's true," she insisted, punctuating her statement with her fork as she spoke. "I wasn't even planning on telling you about the garters until over dinner. It's your own fault you found out about them early." Mulder's face took on that sulky schoolboy quality that, to Scully's continued dismay, consistently had the ability to disarm her. "I don't care what you say, Scully. I still contend I had some help. Or, at the very least, encouragement." He leaned over the table towards her, his voice lowering in tone and volume. "I mean, correct me if I'm wrong--but as I recall, you *were* kissing me back." She arched a brow. "You noticed that, did you?" The corner of his mouth turned up. "Yeah . . . well, not much gets past me." She smiled. This was fun. As banal as she knew that statement might sound to some, it blazed in neon letters across a marquee in her mind. She was having fun. God, it had been so long since she had actually permitted herself to relax, to enjoy herself. To not worry about work, or her family. To just allow herself to be a normal woman. To flirt with a handsome man who told her with every glance, every subtle gesture, that he found her equally attractive. Hell, with the year she had been having, it was a miracle that she was even still able to =identify= fun. But, thankfully, that skill hadn't completely deserted her. The happiness bubbling up inside her like an artesian spring was unmistakable as well. How long has it been, Dana, since you cruised through a day feeling this good, this unburdened, she asked herself as she watched Mulder push around his food on his plate like a little kid who knows he has to eat his vegetables before he gets dessert. When was the last time you did something as silly as wearing provocative lingerie beneath a tailored suit to excite a man? And as reckless as denying that same man the very thing you had hoped to make him crave. She thoughtfully chewed a forkful of tung tag as she considered with a touch of astonishment her recent behavior. No, this wasn't like her. Not her usual self; the everyday Dana Katherine Scully. And yet, the possibility--albeit, *extreme* possibility--of such actions remained a constant within her. True, the bedrock of her personality was her calm, rational take on the world. Her belief that truth in all its myriad shapes and sizes was knowable and ultimately understandable. Her methodical way of approaching any situation, any problem as if it were simply a knot to be untied. But, somewhere, in the far reaches of her soul dwelt another aspect of herself. This one was tiny, composing only the most minute portion of who she was. And yet, every once in awhile this little something would peek around a corner, and beckon to her, its very essence glowing with such intensity as to eclipse her other more logical self. This was the part of her personality that had driven her to join the Bureau right out of medical school, despite the reservations of her family and friends. The part that had urged her to laugh with Mulder in a rainstorm when they were knee deep in mud, and it looked as if the first nemesis they were facing as a team came from outer space. The part that had prompted her when on a case in Florida to act as if she had just popped a live cricket into her mouth, the only reason for doing so being her desire to see the look on her partner's face. Had she been asked, she wouldn't be able to identify it, this strange yet often compelling impulse. It wasn't bravery, although that was certainly a component of it. No. Instead, it was more the need to test boundaries. Both within herself and the world around her. To experience that rush, that surge of satisfaction that came from knowing that she had just redefined herself, if only for an instant. Her eyes strayed again to the man sitting across from her. She found him watching her intently, as he had throughout the meal, his hazel eyes telling her he was hungrier for her than he had ever been for the food laid out before him. How do you see me, Mulder, she wondered without words. When people ask you what your partner is like, what do you tell them? As if Fox Mulder would ever be so forthcoming as to express his true views on the subject to an outside party. She lifted her eyebrows at the thought, and returned her gaze to her plate. That's not fair, Dana, she silently chided a moment later. After all, how do you answer when people ask about Mulder? He's an excellent investigator. He has a gift for putting things together. We make a good team. All true. All utterly absurd. As if such safe, simple sentences could ever truly give the listener an accurate picture of who this man was. "Are you going to eat that?" Mulder asked, interrupting her reverie with a tiny quirk of his lips, a dip of his head referring to her half-filled plate, the contents of which she was now toying with. "You haven't even finished your own," she countered with an answering smile and a slight blush at getting caught daydreaming. "I don't want your food, Scully. I was only hoping you'd say no, so I'd have a reason to ask for the check." She chuckled, and shook her head. His humor. She liked it. No. She more than liked it. She found it a turn-on. Especially now that she realized just how often it was used to deflect those around him from bigger issues. How frequently her partner slipped into the role of the wry court jester in order to camouflage the deeper, more telling emotions swirling around inside him. But that ploy didn't work with her. Not anymore. She was wise to him. All she had to do was look in his eyes. She did so then, meeting his gaze. Unflinching. He had beautiful eyes. Even for so handsome a man, they easily stood out as his best feature. She doubted it was just their changing color which attracted her, although she had to admit that the deep bottle green orbs presently staring back at her were as arresting a hue as she had ever seen. But rather, she suspected that what truly drew her to them was something beyond mere physicality. Certainly it was child's play to name the flashes of emotion that would register in them during the course of a normal work day: amusement at some goofy piece of e-mail the Lone Gunmen had sent his way, impatience at yet another round of bureaucratic red tape, warmth when they would wander in her direction, horror when forced to take in a scene of criminal brutality. But these reactions to outside stimuli were temporal, and would pass like clouds before the sun. What had taken her longer to learn, to identify, was the constant that shone from them. The essence of this man before her. She didn't delude herself. Even though she loved him, she recognized he wasn't a saint. He had his moments of blindness, obstinacy, selfishness, and yes, even cruelty. But she knew, could see in those eyes, that even those instances of less than exemplary behavior came from a gut level need to make things right--to bring Samantha home, to combat the lies, to protect those who were unable to do so themselves, to look after her. To try to do better. To *be* better. He might believe he was operating on guilt. Was doing what he did because he had let Samantha down. Had let her down. But Scully didn't think so. Not at all. Although she understood that he had suffered because of his perceived inadequacies, she felt certain that even if his life had followed a smoother path, one less riddled with heartache and loss, Mulder would still be searching. Still be attempting to fix things. Himself. His loved ones. The world around him. The means would undoubtedly be different, but the goal would remain the same. The man possessed a sense of purpose, a nobility that went unheralded, unseen by most. But not by her. She embraced it as she did the man. Knowing each was intrinsically wrapped up in the other. "You're awfully quiet, Scully," Mulder ventured finally with a gentle smile. "Thinking up new and exciting ways to torment me?" She shook her head, wondering at the tears she felt gathering in back of her eyes and willing them to remain there, hidden from view. "Why?" she asked softly, deliberately crossing her legs beneath the table to disguise the emotions still percolating near the surface of her calm facade, the resulting sound, insinuating and low within the hushed restaurant. "Isn't the old way working anymore?" Desire flared in Mulder's gaze. "As if I even need to answer that question." "What's the matter, Mulder?" she sweetly taunted, now feeling more in possession of herself, of the emotions that still had the tendency to turn dangerously tender where he was concerned. "Do you find this . . ." She slowly drew one calf along the other. "Distracting?" The slithery, slinky sound of nylon against nylon again reverberated within their secluded booth. The man across from her looked as if at any moment he might need to grab hold of the tablecloth with both fists for control. "I guess you could say that," he gritted out, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes deepening in color by the second. "Good. Because they've been distracting the hell out of me all day." His eyebrow quirked. "You wore those all day?" "Mm-hmm," she said while sipping her wine, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she remembered. "All day. It was all I could do to focus on the defense attorney's questions." "Oooh . . . I wonder how ol' Alan would feel about that if he only knew." Scully narrowed her eyes at him in mock annoyance. Mulder held up his hands in a defensive posture that silently pled--sorry, couldn't help myself. "What Alan doesn't know won't hurt him," she assured her partner with a half-smile, leaning forward now as well so that they nearly met at the table's center. "Besides, I wore these for you, Mulder. Only you." The air crackled with that now familiar electricity. "That right?" "That's right." "Then I suppose that means that I get to decide whether to have you leave them on . . . or take them off. Later." Scully nearly choked on the mouthful of wine she was swallowing. That damn man could turn tables faster than a busboy on speed. Mulder saw her discomfiture, and pressed his advantage, his smile wicked, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing which color suit to buy. "Either way has its advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, it's nice not to have anything getting in the way of . . . us. My touching you. You . . . , well I think you get the picture. And, of course, even though I promise I'd be . . . gentle, we'd still run the risk of ripping them in the heat of the moment." She scrambled to regain her equilibrium. "You anticipate heat, Mulder?" The corner of his mouth raised at her riposte. "I always anticipate heat where you're concerned, Scully." She felt a rush of it rising from her chest to stain her face. "On the other hand," he continued, his voice low, comprised of equal parts promise and need. "There is something to be said for leaving them on. I told you how I feel about your skin . . . and what it looks like next to black. You glow, Scully. And the way you look at me when you want me . . . " "How do I look at you?" she asked, her mouth suddenly so dry that she wished she hadn't drained what had remained of her wine only moments before. "Like this," he said softly, daring her to deny it. "Like now." He said nothing more. Instead, his eyes fell away from hers and landed on her hand, which rested on the table, near his own. She followed the direction of his gaze as if mesmerized. For a brief instant, she thought he might actually do something as sentimental as link hands with her in public. But she should have known better. That wasn't Mulder's style. Instead, he took his thumb and ran it with a light touch, an excruciatingly light touch, over the tender skin on the underside of her wrist, tracing the tiny network of blue veins that lay just below the skin. Slowly continuing the caress, he raised his eyes once more. "You know what I learned about you tonight, Scully?" "What?" "You like being teased." She felt something plunge from her heart to the juncture of her legs. "How do you figure that?" He smiled ever so slightly. "I'm a psychologist, remember? A trained professional." She smiled back at him now, despite the restlessness that fueled the blood in her veins, making it sing. "Are you analyzing me, Doctor?" "No, Doctor. Just observing." "And what do you see?" "People usually choose to seduce their partners with that which seduces them," he told her lightly, self-directed amusement shining in his eyes over his carefully worded explanation. "So are you suggesting that I get turned on by my own lingerie?" she inquired dryly, an eyebrow arched in signature fashion. "I don't know. Do you?" She moistened her lips as she considered the question. Her inherent honesty reluctantly recognizing a kernel of truth in his theory. "But more to the point," he resumed, his thumb now gliding with almost phantom pressure over her palm, her fingertips, his eyes watching his hand's activity. "I came to the conclusion that--whether you know it or not--you set up this evening, this whole . . . tease . . . as much for you as for me. Not that I have a problem with that, mind you. I recognize the . . . advantages . . . of anticipation. And besides, I've always wanted to know just what exactly aroused you." "What if I did?" she said in a husky voice, her blue eyes simmering, challenging the man who knew her too well to come clean himself. "Any complaints?" "None," he told her succinctly, his hand closing over her wrist, his eyes meeting hers. "Only thanks." "Thank me later," Scully instructed him, her lips flirting as much with a smile as with him. "When you're sure I deserve it." They both looked at each other, a parity having been achieved. "Are you almost finished?" Mulder asked quietly, his gaze nearly blinding her with its intensity. She nodded, the faintest suggestion of a smile lingering still. "You realize that if you order dessert, I won't be held accountable for my actions." That coaxed a true smile out of her. "Good thing I've never been that crazy about fortune cookies." Mulder raised his brow in a fair imitation of hers. "You won't need one." He signaled their waiter for the check. "If you have any questions about what you'll be doing in the near future, just talk to me. I've had a vision." * * * * * * * * They spoke only six words between the restaurant and her apartment. They paid the bill and walked out to the car, the crisp evening air doing nothing to cool what sizzled between them. Mulder went around to her side of the automobile first, and unlocked her door. Scully started to slip past him, to reach out for the door handle and open it as she had hundreds, maybe thousands of times before, only to find herself snagged by her partner's strong right arm. He wrapped it around her waist with almost crushing force, pulling her body flush against his, and bent his head, his lips covering hers for a quick, hard, hot kiss. "Who's closer?" he muttered against her mouth. "I am," she whispered, knowing instinctively that his question referred to which apartment they were nearest. "Let's go." Her legs suddenly feeling as if someone had surgically removed their bones, she climbed inside the car and, unable in her current state to deal with the intricacies of the seatbelt, instead watched Mulder start up the sedan as if she had never seen him do so before. Her eyes lingered on the strong line of his jaw; the mole that decorated the curve of his cheek; his lower lip, which glistened in the light lent the car's cabin by the street lamp a few doors down. He noted her regard, felt the power of it, the almost tangible pull of her sapphire eyes, and turned to look at her, his gaze melting her will, her sense of self. She knew with an almost painful sort of awareness, that if he chose to take her, right there, in that car, on a city street, during the family viewing hour, she would let him. Hell, she would welcome it. But, he didn't try. Didn't ask. Instead, he simply took a deep breath, and wrapping the tattered remnants of his self- control round him like a cape, pulled the car away from the curb and into the night. Don't look at me that way, Mulder silently urged the woman beside him; the one splitting her attention between the road before them and his profile, studying both with apparent fascination. Don't sit there, Scully, with that hungry look in your eye. The one I dreamed of for so long; the one I longed for like a drowning man does land. Don't do that and expect me to be able to think, to breathe, to drive. Don't expect me to function. Not when every molecule I can call my own is urging me to bury myself inside you. To lose myself in the sleek soft heat of your body. To hold you in my arms, your cheek to my chest, to secret us both away for a decade or two. Just until I gain the upper hand over this need I have for you, this greedy desire that frightens me as much as it turns me on. Turns me inside-out He tried to slow his breathing. To clear his head. Good thing he had to hold on to the steering wheel, had to keep his hands braced against something. Otherwise the trembling he could feel trickling through his body like a crumbling wall of sand would expose him. Would announce just how close to the edge he really was. Oh, he felt pretty good about how he had handled himself in the restaurant. He had even gotten a little of his own back. Not that this was a competition between Scully and him. Not at all. It was just that she had this uncanny knack for throwing him on his ear. If it wasn't her fearless devotion to him and his work that unnerved him, it was the lush sensuality she continued to slowly reveal to him like Salome dropping her veils. He had believed he had fallen in love with a woman who, while she was without question lovely, was more a creature of intellect than of the physical. He had found her sexually alluring, sure. But, he had thought of that as his discovery, his little secret. After all, Dana Katherine Scully was a nice Catholic girl from a military family. She had two brothers and a career Navy captain of a father to guard her virtue. Surely, that sort of upbringing should have resulted in a woman possessing a sort of innocence, a natural reticence towards the physical expression of love. But, that didn't seem to be the case. Well, not entirely. True, no matter how carnal the embrace they shared, she always retained a kind of purity. An innocence that had nothing at all to do with inexperience, and everything to do with goodness. But, that virtue that was so much a part of her in no way impeded her sexuality. No. She came to him so freely, so beautifully that just to think about it made his throat close and his eyes moisten. She gave herself to him the same way she gave her trust, her friendship, her support. Completely. Without reservation. And then tonight . . . After spending an entire day staring at her empty desk from across their cluttered office, willing her to suddenly be there, smiling at him, her red-gold hair lighting up the room; reliving in vivid detail the stolen and far too limited time they had spent in each other's arms, he had finally gotten what he had wished for. What he had yearned for. She was there. With him. Her faint perfume teasing his senses, the perfect sweep of her cheekbone begging him to run his hand along it. Her lips tempting him unmercifully to taste them once more, taunting him with the memory of their sweetness. And she had done it again. She had given him what he had asked her for. That silly playful little request he had made in a fit of whimsy the night before. Black lingerie. A garter belt and stockings. Jesus, he hadn't even seen them. Well, not gotten a good look anyway. And yet, just the knowledge they were there had been enough to make him feel like he was suffering from a bad case of vertigo. The world seemed just a little bit off-center, a tad out of focus. Spinning with increasing speed, out of control. And yet he hung on, striving mightily to maintain his balance, to keep his grip. Clinging by his fingernails. But that wasn't going to be good enough. Not for her. He had been serious when he had pointed out to her that her little surprise had been designed as much for her own enjoyment as for his. He believed that. Knew that while Scully had obviously been acquiescing to his entreaty, she would never have done so had the idea not appealed to her as well. That she would find such a plan of action exciting came as no shock to him. Of course, this woman would find the mental aspects of sex--the suggestion, the tease, the anticipation--thrilling. Just as he did. For all their differences, they always seemed to agree on the important stuff. Well, she had certainly succeeded in her effort to make him think about their coming together. Their joining. She had made him ache with it. Dwell on it to the point of madness. His desire for her. And he intended to return the favor. He wasn't quite sure how he would manage it, but he meant to make her as out of her mind with longing as she made him. The question would be: Which one of them would break first? * * * * * * * * =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "Beyond Words" 3/3 NC-17 Date: Wed, 17 Jan 96 11:25:22 -0500 For all that technical stuff you've come to know and love, please see Part I. This is where things heat up. So, hold on to your garters . . . . Beyond Word (3/3) NC-17 By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Scully fumbled in her purse for her key. Mulder stood at her elbow like a taller version of her shadow. He had come around to her side of the car before she had even emerged from the auto. And with his arm draped protectively around her shoulder, had tucked her against his side to shepherd her into her building. While she had found his physical proximity comforting as always, at the same time, his very urgency had made her aware, extremely aware, that the time for play was at an end. They had danced this particular dance until the band had packed up for the night and called it quits. And now it was time to go home with the guy who had brought her. She smiled a secret little smile at the thought, and pushed open the door to her apartment Mulder followed only a step behind, and swiftly shut the portal behind them, throwing the deadbolt for good measure. "Afraid we'll be interrupted?" she asked in what she hoped passed for a wry tone, but feared instead came out more like a croak. He smiled dryly, his eyes nearly glowing in the muted light filtering through her living room curtains. "Not willing to take any chances." She nodded, and started to cross to the table at the end of the couch, intending to turn on a light to erase the shadows that spilled on the room's walls and floor like pools of india ink. "No." Mulder was behind her again, his hand on her uninjured shoulder, restraining her movement away from the door and him. "Leave it." He was right. The room's darkness seemed to fit the mood of the evening, the slightly dangerous air that had thus far permeated their hours together. She nodded once more. His hands swept lightly forward, closed around the opening of her coat and eased it from her shoulders. Her suit jacket followed. Both ended up tossed in a heap on the sofa, as did his trench a moment later. Mulder then smoothed his hands up and down the sleeves of her blouse, their heat warming her through the delicate fabric, his breath stirring her hair. "Is this silk, Scully?" he asked at her temple only an instant before pressing his lips there. "Hmm," she hummed, hoping he realized the answer was affirmative, but unable to be any clearer given her distraction due to the way his tongue was tracing the whorls of her ear. "It's got nothing on your skin," he assured her in a low voice, as he captured her lobe with his teeth, and nibbled on it carefully. She answered with a gasp and tilted back her head so that it lay against his chest, silently encouraging him to continue his seduction of her ear. He obliged her, his arm slipping around her waist in reaction, holding her to him, almost as if he thought she might need his support to continue standing. Not a second later, when his other hand began to slowly, yet steadily pull her blouse free from her skirt, she mused that with the way her knees were trembling, she just might. She felt him gently tip her head away from its resting place, and tenderly brush the hair from her nape, much the way he had during that awful case at the North Pole; the one where she had betrayed his trust for the one and only time since they had partnered, her lack of faith nearly costing him dearly. Exposing the graceful arch of her neck to his curious lips, he explored. Nuzzling her skin lightly, testing it with his teeth. And delighting, when as a result, he felt a shiver overtake her. "I want you crazy for me, Scully," he muttered into her hair, his hands beneath her blouse now, their movement sure and slow. "I want you beyond yourself. Beyond anything you've ever felt before." She stretched her arms upwards, her fingers searching blindly for his face, his hair. Her body went taut. Her breasts lifted, their weight suddenly more than before. Without fully understanding the speed at which such a change could occur, they felt fuller to her, swollen, and inexplicably tender. When Mulder's hands gently closed over them, his palms covering her softness, she couldn't stop the moan that flowed from her lips like water overrunning a dam. "I am," she whispered, her eyes falling shut, her breath shallow and hurried, her back flush with his chest. "I am now." His fingers lightly plucked at the nipples he found tenting the satiny fabric of her bra, rolling them carefully between his thumbs and forefingers when he felt the tiny nubbins harden even more beneath his ministrations. She arched her back, pushing her breasts into his hands, her bottom against his groin. He chuckled ruefully, rubbing his cheek against her hair. "No. No, you're not. You're not even close." He tucked his fingers into the lace trimmed cups of her bra, pulling them down, releasing the soft mounds of her breasts so that now only the gossamer light silk of her blouse concealed them. They quivered gently, suspended there by the framework of her lingerie. He wanted his mouth on them. So did she. But that pleasure was going to have to wait. As were quite a few others, Mulder silently vowed, even as he wondered if he was up to the task. His hands retreated from beneath her clothing. One finding the buttons running down the front of her blouse, and slipping them free, one by one. The other taking hold of her chin, and turning her face up and back, bringing her lips into view, so that he could reach them with his own. "No, you're not close, Scully," he murmured as he sprinkled tiny little stinging kisses on her lips. "But, you will be. . . . you will be. I'm going to make you beg." She turned in his arms, her blouse now hanging open from her shoulders, her breasts bobbing gently with the motion, their pink tips dusky and hard. Twisting her fingers in the short, silky hair low on the back of his head, she pulled him to her. "I'm prepared to enjoy your best efforts, Mulder," she told him, her breath caressing his lips, her voice hushed and throaty. Holding back only until she saw the corners of his lips turn up at her intrepid declaration, she kissed him, her mouth soft and moist, and insistent against his own. His mouth proved no less resolved. It solicited hers, shaping her lips to his, coaxing them to open. It didn't take much persuasion. Then, his tongue plunged into her mouth and withdrew, daring her to follow his lead. She was up to the challenge, and clung to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her breasts flattened against his dress shirt, his tie, the lapels of his suit coat, her lips battling his for control of the kiss. His hands didn't know where to touch first. Her hair, her waist, her hips, her face. One part of her body was more enticing than the next. Not waiting for a conscious decision to be reached, he slipped once more beneath her blouse so he could trace the supple flow of muscles in her back, her shoulders. Sweeping down, he discovered the zipper to her skirt. The sound it made as he lowered it seemed appallingly loud, nearly raucous within the quiet confines of her apartment. His hands beginning to tremble in anticipation, he shoved the skirt almost roughly down and away. Scully stepped out of it, her heel catching on its hem, then kicked it free. His hands now ran lovingly over her bottom, the sweet round curve of it filling them perfectly. He squeezed. She swayed. Low, strangled whispers escaped both their mouths, one right after the other, neither of them in any condition to identify who instigated the sounds. He gripped the silky fabric of her slip and rubbed it over her panties, relishing the way each slipped and slid over the other, before pushing the skirt's liner to the floor as well. His hands returned to the provocative portion of her anatomy he had just so recently abandoned. And encountered her garter belt. "Come here, Scully." Not quite sure just where he was leading her, Mulder turned the woman in his arms, moving her with him, stumbling over the items of her clothing he had just removed as they wove unsteadily across her living room floor towards the wall her front door was on. She followed him, offering no resistance, her lips never losing contact with his, her arms locked around him for balance. As luck, or perhaps kismet would have it, they ended their awkward traveling embrace in a square of light provided courtesy of the street lamp outside her window. Reluctantly releasing her lips, he took in the sight of his partner framed by this fortuitous source of illumination, and couldn't help but mentally compare the glow to a spotlight on a stage. However, he was hard pressed to come up with a title of a play featuring a scene quite like this. Breathing hard, he stepped back from the woman before him, and looked at her. Just looked. She stood with her back pressed against the wall, her hair wild from his fingers' urgent forays through it. Her face flushed, her lips full and glistening. Her soft round breasts framed by the scarlet curtain that was her blouse, their weight resting on what would have once been easily identifiable as an elegant black silk bra, but now looked more like a sort of erotic ebony harness, the pink tips crowning the breasts tightly aroused. Her ivory torso gleamed, its pale complexion set off by the vivid color draped around her shoulders, the combination highlighting her skin's creamy translucent quality. And her legs. Oh dear god, her legs. They were sheathed in the most sinfully seductive pair of black hose he had ever seen. They covered her limbs from toe to mid-thigh, accentuating the very attributes they hid. And the only things that held them up, kept them in place, were those deceptively fragile-looking bits of fabric. The garters. Three on each leg, two in front, one in back. The six of them attached to another narrow band of black, this one the belt itself, which hung low and tight on her hips, just above the trim triangle of her panties. Strange how so very little could do so very much to his piece of mind. She stood there waiting, watching him, her eyes languorous and dark, gazing up at him through her half lowered lashes, teetering ever so slightly on those heels. Those black pumps. The ones that had just never seemed quite that sexy when paired with one of her typically staid business suits. Drinking in the sight of what those three inches did for the muscles in her calves, Mulder was beginning to understand how some men found themselves obsessed by such items of women's footwear. "You're wearing too many clothes, Mulder," she murmured from her place against the wall, her voice sounding as if it took a great deal of effort to produce, her eyes never leaving his. Quickly, efficiently, he shrugged out of his jacket, dropping it on the floor, not far from her skirt. His tie pooled beside it a moment later, the top button of his shirt popping free as well. That having been accomplished, he slowly crossed the handful of steps towards her, negligently rolling up his shirt sleeves as he walked. As soon as he was within arm's reach, Scully stretched out her hand and grabbed hold of his shirt in preparation for pulling it loose from his pants. Mulder stopped her. "Uh-uh." She looked at him, puzzled, her small hand still tightly gripping his once immaculate white dress shirt. He smiled at her, half his mouth turned up, a tad chagrined. "You're already too great temptation." She raised a brow, her voice husky, it's low tone doing truly evil things to his pulse rate. "And that's a bad thing?" He stepped closer still and gently but firmly removed her hand from his shirt. He captured her other hand as well, and held them both against the wall at waist level, restraining her easily, and wishing he might have the same success with some of his own more unruly impulses. "I want this to last," he murmured against her brow. "We stand a better chance of that if one of us keeps some clothes on." She strained ever so slightly against his hold, wanting to touch him when he stood so close, to feel his body's long solid length warming her naked skin, and yet unable to do more than nuzzle her face against his in their current positions. "It doesn't have to," she whispered, entreating him sweetly, brushing her lips against his cheek to plead her case. "Not this time." He chuckled, tracing her brow with the bridge of his nose, the sound escaping his lips ragged, dark. "Is that begging I hear, Scully?" She caught his bottom lip with her teeth and tugged. "Is this the best you can do, Mulder?" A short, harsh bark of laughter echoed against her cheek as his lips slipped lower, to her mouth, her chin, her neck. His tongue slowly traced the thin red scars he found there before kissing them as well. She sighed and tilted her head back, baring her throat in surrender. He released her hands, and slid her blouse down her shoulders, kissing each inch of her skin as it came into view until he came in contact with her half healed injury. He hesitated only an instant. But, it was enough for Scully to raise her hand to his cheek in concern. "Leave the blouse on." "Are you getting shy with me all of a sudden, Scully?" She smiled softly and shook her head. "No. I just don't want you thinking about it. =I= don't want to think about it." He considered for a moment, his eyes boring into hers, then nodded. "All right." She smiled once more, her lips curving gently. "Good." Mulder answered her smile, his a touch more provocative. "Now then, where were we?" Ah, yes. He had been running his lips down her body. And had stopped just north of her breasts. Scully saw the anticipation gleaming in his gaze as it studied her chest, and nearly had to close her own eyes with the force of the thrill skittering through her. Oh god, he always touched this particular part of her body so beautifully, his hands sensitive and warm against her full soft curves. Lifting them, kneading, sweeping his fingertips over them. Avoiding her nipples. Making her wait. Teasing her. Forcing her to twist her torso, silently demanding what he had taught her to crave. His fingers on the tips of her breasts. "Yes," she hissed softly when she achieved her goal, when his thumbs rubbed tight little circles over her rosy nipples. "Does that feel good?" he muttered roughly as his lips began a slow tortuous descent down the front of her, from her collarbone to the valley between her breasts. "Yes," she repeated mindlessly, wondering where the rest of her vocabulary had gone, her fingers tunneled in his hair, holding him to her. "Good," he said quietly, the word pressing like a brand against her tender skin, his hands cupping her breasts, tilting them towards his mouth, rubbing his cheek against them lightly. "Because that's how you feel to me." Then he covered her nipple with his mouth. She cried out and dug her fingers into his shoulders for balance. He played with her, nudging her with his tongue, suckling, nibbling. Her hips began to move of their own accord, rocking with a slow restless motion she couldn't control. He moved to her other breast, capturing its nipple between his lips, running his tongue over it as well, and softly suckling. She took her hand and placed it on his cheek, feeling his jaw move rhythmically as it worked her. She laid her head back against the wall, her neck suddenly having problems supporting it, her quick frantic intake of breath driving her breasts to bob and sway beneath her partner's mouth and hands. He could feel her resistance weakening, her need building, like kindling being added piece by piece to a single match. He dropped to his knees before her, his mouth open and avid against her skin, his hands still tantalizing her breasts. Trailing his lips along her belly's soft flesh, he felt her muscles jump and twitch beneath his mouth, and with a stroke of inspiration, decided to nibble the slightly rounded curve just below her navel to heighten her torment. She was moaning now, soft, low, helpless. And he thought he just might be able to hold on after all. If only to hear her make that sound again. And again. He sat back on his heels and looked up at her, his hands running slowly up and down the back of her legs. She gazed down, her eyes glittering with the force of her arousal, her hands resting atop his head. "These," he murmured, taking his hand and slipping a forefinger in the waistband of her panties, rubbing it softly from side to side. "Are in my way." She just watched him, beyond words. Her continuing struggle to tame her breath, her pulse, her racing heartbeat stealing every last bit of energy she owned. Mulder bent his head and kissed the center of her right thigh, directly between two of the garters. Then, he pressed his palm to her stomach, its weight, its heat, heavy against her delicate skin, and looked up at her. "Don't move." Once he was certain she would follow his softly spoken instruction, he lowered his eyes and slowly, carefully unfastened the garters. One at a time. The stockings stayed put, their elastic holding them in place for the time being. As soon as the garters hung free, he eased his hands inside her panties, and pushed them down. Past the garters, her thighs, the hose. To the floor. Scully stood there docilely, something Mulder didn't see everyday, as if incapable of movement. Her eyes were huge, liquid. Gently, he lifted first one of her legs, then the other, freeing the panties, and tossing them aside. He kissed her left thigh. "On the other hand, these," he began, running one of the dangling garters between his thumb and forefinger, tugging on it gently, circling the tiny pink rosette adorning it with his fingertip, studying the flimsy bit of lingerie with a connoisseur's eye, "should definitely remain on." And so he refastened the stockings, taking his time, caressing her thighs every now and again while he worked as if to remind her he was there. Between her legs. When he was finished, he sat back once more and admired his handiwork. "You," he murmured, his hand low on her stomach, his fingers spread wide as if he were trying to touch as much of her pale silky skin as possible, "are so ridiculously beautiful, Scully." That coaxed a chuckle from her, feeble though it was. "You don't have to sweet talk me, Mulder." He smiled up at her, his head level with her hips. "I don't?" Slowly, she shook her head so that it lolled against the wall behind her, her eyes heavy-lidded, her voice more breath than sound. "No. I thought you knew. I'm already yours." His gaze darkened, his jaw tightening as if trying to decide whether to release the words that clamored to be set free. In the end, he simply swept his hands around behind her, cupping her buttocks, and pressed his mouth to her, finding her through the coarse nest of curls where her thighs met. "Oh . . . ." Her body arched sharply, jumping as if it were the lash that touched her and not his tongue, her palms pressed against the wall for support. He nuzzled her gently, rubbing the flat of his tongue over her, tracing along the soft folds hidden there, searching for the spot that served as the center of her pleasure, the tiny cluster of nerves that controlled her reaction to him, to this. When he found it, he pulled it into his mouth, and suckled. She cried out once more, her hands flying to his hair, her hips pushing shamelessly forward. Mulder gripped, then released her buttocks, kneading them as he had her breasts earlier, his head bobbing slowly as he incited her to higher, more dangerous levels of arousal, pulling her into a kind of dizzying vortex where all that existed was that painfully sensitive bud between her legs and the feel of his mouth, his tongue, playing over it. And then, just when it felt as if she really couldn't take any more. Couldn't stand the assault on her senses a minute longer. Just had to shatter beneath his lips, and hope that he would be there to catch her, to gather up the pieces . . . He stopped. And went back to merely nuzzling her center. Playing with her garter belt with his teeth, kissing the tender flesh of her belly, nibbling along it. Running his tongue over her thighs' pale skin, pressing his lips there as well. But nothing more. Not what she wanted. Needed. Had to have with a desperation, a violence that shocked her. She looked down at him, words of entreaty jockeying with her half-formed questions for expression. He returned her regard, his face so tantalizingly close to where she wanted it. And yet not nearly close enough. He pressed his lips to her for an instant as if he sensed that thought, his nose buried in her crisp curls. Her eyes slid shut in reaction. "Mulder . . ." she moaned, the word marbled with just the slightest hint of demand. He pulled back again. But kept his hand on her, her fingertips, sliding lightly, teasingly over the swollen opening to her body, his touch a constant reminder of just how close she was to release. "You want something, Scully?" he murmured, his voice rumbling out of his chest. She somehow managed to arch a brow at him. He smiled at the familiar expression. "All you have to do is ask me," he whispered, his breath hot against her thigh, his fingers continuing their bewitching glide. Her mouth opened in a silent laugh. Bastard, she thought without any true rancor. As dearly as she craved her release, she wouldn't give in that easily, and shook her head, her fingers clenching in his hair. Mulder ducked his head to hide his own smile. And waited. With a patience that stunned him. Keeping his hands on her. His lips every once and awhile. But otherwise, he held back, watching her. Biding his time until he could feel her ardor slowly beginning to fade. And then he built the fire all over again. One small piece of wood at a time. He must have repeated the cycle three times or more. Scully couldn't be sure. Unfortunately, she had discovered she no longer could count that high. Not right at the moment. Mulder had erased even that most basic of mental functions from her. Had turned her into a woman consumed by sensation and nothing more. "Torture . . ." she whispered, her hands tugging at his hair, weaving the strands unthinkingly through her fingertips. Wanting to make him understand how sharp the tremors of pleasure rocking her really were, to share their potency. His hands slid from her hips to her waist. His eyes shadowed a moment in concern. "That bad?" She shook her head, attempting a smile that came out more like a grimace, her hips pulsing. "That good." His thumbs spread her wide. And he put his lips to her once more, his tongue circling. She whimpered his name. As much as he loved seeing her like this, relished the sight of his usually unflappable partner swallowed up by the passion he induced within her, he was dangerously close to his own limits as well. The part of his body that sought its release inside hers had grown painfully hard, straining the fabric of his trousers. He knew he had to slip inside her, had to experience that hot wet feel of her closing around him, taking him in, cradling him. Soon. Had to. And so he redoubled his efforts. Who said hard work never paid off, he thought with satisfaction a few breathless moments later when he finally heard, ever so faintly, the word he had been waiting for. "Please . . . " The entreaty slipped from her lips so softly that for an instant, he thought he might have imagined it. Then, she repeated it. "Please . . ." He looked up, his mouth continuing its light, tormenting dance over her. Her head turned fitfully from side to side against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut, her brow furrowed as she concentrated on the treacherous workings of her body, the elusive current of pleasure that promised so much and demanded that much more in return. Her mouth was open, her face flushed and moist. The word was moaned again. And again. The string of syllables metamorphosing into a chant. "Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease . . ." He gripped her more tightly and increased the pressure of his lips and tongue. Her knees were bent, her hips arched forward, her hands now framing his face, holding him to her as if she feared he might change his mind. Might leave her hanging there, endlessly teetering on the edge of oblivion. On and on, he stroked over her. He could feel the blood roaring through his head. Could feel the excitement that catapulted from the woman before him to land solidly at his core, his center. Finally, his lips returned to that little nodule he had played with before, closed over it. And pulled on it. Hard. She screamed. And went rigid. Every muscle taut, her hips bucking wildly. He gripped her buttocks and held on, riding out the storm with her. Intent on milking every last sensation from her tired aching body. At last, spent, her knees buckled. He caught her in his arms and pulled her down to him with one arm twined tightly around her waist. His other hand dropped to his lap, and trembling, freed himself from his pants, his boxers. In one motion, he slid inside her, maneuvering the woman in his arms like a rag doll, her limbs limp and heavy. She rested on her knees astride him, her face buried in the curve of his neck, her arms clinging around his shoulders. He clutched her waist tightly and lifted her, pumping her on him. Fast, furious. Soft, heated grunts punctuating the motion. It took no more than a half dozen such strokes. Then, his body erupted as well. His strangled shout of release echoing hoarsely in her ear. For a long silent collection of minutes, they rested against each other, Mulder trying to catch his breath, his hand slowly smoothing her hair. And, right on schedule, the doubts and self- recriminations began to creep into his mind, like old friends who knew the way, who had a key. Why didn't she say anything, he wondered. Sure, she was probably exhausted. He thought detected a faint tremor in her limbs. But still . . . What if this hadn't been as great a turn-on for her as he had hoped? As it had proved for him? What if she didn't get into the power games? The sensation of having her passion displayed rather than shared? And what the hell was that last part about? Not much finesse in that. His cramping thighs attested to that realization. Didn't last long either. Sighing with a mixture of contentment and dread, he hugged her to him even more tightly, she returned the embrace, although the pressure seemed to him a tad less fierce than usual. That only fueled his concern. "I love you," he whispered, his lips touching her hair. She pulled back to look at him. Her mascara was smeared beneath one eye, her lipstick completely erased. But, her skin glowed, its color heightened. He thought he had never seen her look more beautiful. She smiled her special smile. Not the dangerous one. The other. "That was fun. Can we do it again?" He groaned, and tumbled them both to the floor, their bodies tangled together, his pants hanging half-on, half-off his hips. "I've created a monster." She giggled, nestling into his arms. "Come on, Mulder," she cajoled, her fingers slipping the buttons free on his shirt so she could glide her fingertips over his chest. "I'll ask nicely." She nipped his ear. "Or would you rather have me make you ask instead?" He chuckled weakly. "Oooh. That's tempting. It really is," he said, taking her lightly caressing hand and kissing her palm "Ask me again in about a week. I might have recovered by then." She smiled sleepily and kissed him softly, laying her head upon his shoulder. He hugged her close, running his hand up and down her small frame, unable to get his fill of touching her. "Oh . . . Sorry." His hand had strayed to her thigh, where his fingers trailed over a very obvious run in her much appreciated, and apparently over-taxed, stockings. "S'okay," she murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow above his collarbone in a series of sweet kisses. "I'll just buy another pair." "When's your birthday?" She chuckled. "Christmas is closer." "I don't know if Santa Clause delivers stockings. I mean, having anything like this lying around the workshop would only distract the elves." She joined him in a drowsy chuckle, and kissed him once more. Then scooting herself more fully against him, rested her head over his heart, and drifted off to sleep, her dreams set in a forest of Christmas trees. Only instead of garland, all were covered with long silky stockings, garter belts taking the place of ornaments. * * * * * * * * Somehow they made it to work the following morning; Mulder only a few minutes late as he had left her apartment near dawn to return to his own for a change of clothes, having decided he might as well shower and shave there too, rather than tying up her bathroom. They also got through their first work day together since returning from Chicago, their first 8-hour shift spent in their basement office as lovers who just happened to work as partners. It wasn't as hard as Scully had thought it might be. After all, they were professionals, adults. They knew their jobs and took pride in the work they did. In fact, they managed to submerge the other part of their relationship so thoroughly, so successfully, that at times she almost believed that the hours spent the night before, first in her living room, then later on her bed, were just another one of her dreams, the kind she had indulged in from time to time before reality had obliterating their need. That thought, however, disappeared when she opened the door to her apartment and discovered a large, long white box on her coffee table; the kind that normally came from a florist, filled with roses. She had no question who had left it there. Mulder had left work early, muttering about an errand he had to run and promising to stop by her apartment later, a pizza in tow. Dropping her purse on the couch, she crossed to the box and opened it, shaking her head in wonder at this new side of her partner as romantic. Well, not that romantic, at least not the sentimental kind. And yet, she wouldn't have wanted him any other way. Inside, she found a single perfect pink rose, exactly like the ones decorating her garter belt the previous evening. And serving as the backdrop for the flower were packages of thigh high hose. Eleven of them. In black. She threw back her head and laughed, realizing as she did so that she smelled pepperoni wafting from the direction of her kitchen. THE END A Words Interlude: Early Morning Words NC-17 (1/1) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Hey! This piece was written as a birthday present for my good friend, Connie, a fan of NC-17stories and fan fic in general. As she is a sweetheart, Con has been kind enough to give her permission for me to post this. After all, it =is= her story. :) The disclaimer is your usual rock and roll. I don't own either of these characters. CC, 1013 and Fox do. No money is being made. This is fun. Nothing more. Erotica warning ahead. No plot. (I think "No Greater Love" cured me of that urge for awhile.) Enjoy! Comments appreciated at the above address. Those of you who wrote regarding "NGL", please be patient. I'm digging out from under an overloaded mailbox. Thanks. :) ================================================= Dana Scully awoke to find a man's hand on her breast. Now, like any young woman who lived alone, she might have found this turn of events a trifle alarming, especially given the recent state of her love life. But not the *current* state of her love life. Not for the past several months. Not since she and her partner had decided to finally do something about the attraction each of them had sensed simmering just below the surface of their professional relationship. Had, in fact, been maddeningly aware of ever since the first moment they had met. When Fox Mulder had looked up from his desktop full of slides upon her initial entrance into his basement sanctuary, taken her outstretched hand in greeting, given her his very best mocking smile and murmured, "Well, isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded." Isn't it nice, indeed? She stirred ever so slightly, arching her back, offering herself up to the hand that continued to glide teasingly over her. Circling. Fingertips tracing her gently rounded curves with a frankly proprietary relish. Warming her through the cotton jersey she had pulled on the night before in deference to the slight draft that had prevailed, the shirt that now lay bunched on the swell of her hip. The one that bore the insignia of Mulder's beloved Knicks. The one she had donned because it belonged to him, smelled of him, and settled over her as softly as did his arms, his hands. They were lying in her bed, she and Mulder, on their sides, her back to his chest, his arm tossed possessively over her slender form, indulging in a bit of the taboo. Mulder had spent the night. With her. For the first time since they had consummated their relationship. Now, for most couples this would not be considered particularly unusual, let alone daring. And yet, for them, it was both. After all, they were not supposed to be doing this. Any of it. They were partners. Their profession strictly prohibited any sort of fraternization. Especially of the sort in which she and the man who was at present pressing soft wet kisses in a line from just below her ear to the juncture of her neck and shoulder were reveling. Not only did they risk the displeasure of their superiors, and the very real danger of separation. But, should their liaison be made known, they both faced the threat of having each of them used against the other. To control them. To distract them from their work, their respective quests. As someone somewhere had tried to do when they had ripped her from Mulder's side for all those long, lonely months, nearly killing her. And him. If the shadowy forces they struggled against had opted to be that cruel, that heartless when they had believed she and Mulder to be merely good friends, what more would they dare if they knew she and the man who laid curled around her, his breath blowing warmly and evenly through her tousled hair, to be intimately involved? The question sent a shiver shimmering through her. Not the pleasant kind. The wonderfully thrilling kind. The kind Mulder could induce with merely a long lingering look and the promise of passion shining heatedly in his hazel eyes. No. This sort brought to mind the old saying "Someone just walked across my grave." Not something she particularly wanted to contemplate right at the moment. Not when it was early on a Saturday morning in March, and she lie wrapped in her lover's arms, lazy and replete after a night spent pleasing and being pleased. And knowing with almost smug satisfaction, that should she so desire, they could spend the entire day in just this fashion. In bed. Together. Refusing to be lured away from their cozy haven by anything so mundane as what the world might have to offer. Knowing that all they were looking for, all that they really needed was right there beside them. Considering that delicious and decidedly decadent proposition, Scully sighed. Low. A whisper of a moan rumbling beneath the sound, adding depth to it. Complexity. Like a pinch of spice being added to an already tasty sauce. Mulder heard the languid rush of air. And the longing fueling it. Almost as if in silent answer to her plea, he slipped one arm beneath her, between the mattress and her waist, and pulled her closer. The hand on that arm continued the enjoyable work begun by Mulder's other hand. The complete and utter seduction of her breast. Seemingly discontent to merely lavish attention on one portion of her body, he tugged Scully's nightshirt away from her shoulder, allowing him to nibble carefully there on the newly revealed ridge of muscle. Nipping, than laving the soft skin with his tongue. Restlessly, her legs rubbed slowly against each other, over each other, like a cricket's. His longer limbs tangled with hers, his knee slipping between her thighs, opening her to him, the coarse hair on his legs tickling just a bit. Not wanting to be outdone, she took the back of her foot and glided it along his calf. Almost instantaneously, she heard his breath change. Catch. Then, unravel. And smiled with the knowledge. Even as she slowly roused, she kept her eyes closed, not quite ready to wholly relinquish sleep. The potent mingling of slumber and Mulder's gentle caresses having woven a spell, a lovely sort of never-never land she found difficult to leave. Besides, she couldn't really see him from their current positions anyway. And with her sight disengaged she was able to concentrate more fully on her other senses. On the muted musky smell of him. Sweet and familiar. The scent of them. Of what they had done together in that bed not so many hours before. On the sound of his lips as they met her skin. The faint moist smack as they pressed against her, shielding his teeth as they went about their infinitely pleasurable endeavor. And his touch. Most of all his touch. Easy. Light, yet sure. Flowing with the speed of molasses over a body so attuned to the sweep of his fingers, so yearning for that quicksilver flash of arousal only he could spark, that even upon first contact, her nipples had instantly hardened, her core liquefied. Grown hot. Engorged. Needy. As if her very physical being had somehow become addicted to him. As if once she had tasted him, his lips, his chest. The strong planes of his back. The tender column of his throat. That part of his anatomy that was so very different from her own decidedly feminine form. Buried inside her. Filling the void there. Moving. Slowly at first. The tempo building. A sheen of sweat misting over them. Their pulses pounding one after the other, like a drum roll. Until she and Mulder were racing each other for oblivion. . . . Oh yes, she was definitely hooked. And the funny thing was, it was almost as if he knew. Recognized the power he held over her. Because as cautious as he was about expressing feelings of affection or need, even from the beginning Mulder had never been afraid to physically reach out to her. And always, right from the start, the sensation of his hands on her body had wrought a kind of magic. A wizardry that stole from her all her formidable restraint, her reason, and at times it seemed, her very identity. The man she loved had without knowing it changed her. Not for better or for worse. Just . . . different. Had challenged her. Made her view the world and herself in a new and, without question, more expansive way. Had urged her to lay everything--her trust, her beliefs, her safety, her sanity, her heart--in his capable hands. He had won these concessions from her not by force or coercion. But by offering to her the very same thing. Everything he was. Knowing that she wouldn't laugh or scoff or regard the gift cheaply. But instead treasure it, guarding it like gold. Being given that kind of responsibility, that sort of sway, was a heady venture. And a duty Dana Scully did not take lightly. She understood that Mulder had made her the custodian of his heart, its caretaker. And she promised herself and him that she would strive to be worthy of the honor. That she would always be the one he could depend upon for comfort, for support, for laughter. And--be it physical or emotional--for love. "Make love to me, Mulder," she whispered, nuzzling her cheek against his; her voice, a breathy rendition of its usual husky alto. He answered her by capturing her ear with his teeth and tugging on it, before ultimately closing his lips over its lobe and suckling. She gasped, her hips twitching in response. Continuing his silence, Mulder tenderly brushed her rumpled hair back from her face, away from her ear so as to give him better access. Carefully, he traced its intricate whorls, his breath igniting the moisture left behind by his tongue, setting off a string of tiny little fireworks that rippled through her. All the way down to her toes. He then found the row of buttons holding closed the oversized jersey that served as her night wear. Slowly yet steadily, he loosed each of them from their holes. One by one they slipped free, gradually exposing more of her chest to the bite of the cool morning air. Then, as smoothly as the little closures had eased free of their constraints, his hand, warm and slightly rough against her satiny skin, slipped inside the shirt to erase that chill. To cup her breast, almost as if weighing it in his palm, his index finger and thumb carefully restraining her swollen nipple between them. She cried out with the caress, her throaty sound of surrender a feeble expression of just how amazing it felt to be held so delicately, so beautifully in his hands. He squeezed carefully, exerting just the right pressure on the tiny nubbin. She writhed once more. Powerless. And yet, never feeling more alive, more utterly invincible than she did at moments such as these. When all the sometimes confusing, oftentimes frightening, and always overpowering emotions she had for the man beside her were distilled down to their essence. When all they felt for each other, all of it, every layer, every nuance was expressed through their bodies, much the same way that dancers use their craft to give life to their choreographer's vision or their composer's scope. Scully found she liked the idea of she and her partner as participants in a dance, even if their "steps" had decidedly less vertical range than say a Baryshnikov's or a Fonteyn's, and smiled yet again. As she did so, she tipped back her head so that the top of it rested against Mulder's shoulder, exposing her slender throat, like a cat begging to be petted there. He obliged her, nuzzling against her pale soft skin with the bridge of his nose, dragging his lips over the area as well, almost as if he couldn't bear to lift his mouth from her, couldn't stand even that smallest of separations. She understood his reluctance. And her teeth closed over her bottom lip to hold back yet another wordless groan. It escaped just the same, a broken, tortured-sounding murmur that she almost couldn't identify as belonging to her, as coming from her lips; the outburst sounding that foreign to her. With a kind of scarcely controlled vehemence, Mulder's hand slipped beneath the covers, and trembling, stroked the length of her thigh. It had gotten to the point where she was having difficulty keeping still. She thought to turn, to roll over into his embrace, to face him. But Mulder wasn't letting her. He kept her pinned against him, his hold gentle, yet implacable. And truth be known, she wasn't in all that big a hurry to alter their positions. She liked the feeling of being covered by him, of wearing him like an exotic sort of overcoat. She just wanted more. More of him. His caress. His kiss. Everything. Once again, with that strange intuitive sense they both shared, he reacted as if reading her mind. And after smoothing his hand a half dozen times softly down her leg and back again, he hooked his thumb over the waistband of the little wisp of bikinis she was wearing, and yanked them down and away. "You won't be needing these," he assured her in a sleep roughened voice from right at her ear, finally speaking his first words to her since waking. She felt the mattress shift, heard the scratchy whisper of cloth against cloth, and realized that he had also gotten rid of the boxers he had worn to bed. "And for some reason, these are feeling tight all of a sudden." He then reached down and carefully pulled her top leg up and over his hips, so that she rested more fully against him. And was suddenly far more available to him. Vulnerable to him. And his very talented fingers. She sucked in a quick harsh hiss of air when he found her, combing through the crisp curls where her legs met, and encountering incontrovertible evidence of just how badly she wanted him. Wanted this. He glided over the soft slick folds marking the entrance to her body, his gentleness devastating. His touch, slow. Lingering. Exploratory. As if they had all the time in the world. As if it wasn't already taking every last drop of her composure just to keep from flying apart at his touch. As if she wasn't ready to crawl across broken glass to feel him inside her. Stroking. His steel to her flint. Throwing sparks. Creating fire. As if he thought she could wait. As if he thought she actually would. But, Dana Scully had never been a pushover where Fox Mulder was concerned. And she wasn't about to start now. So she tilted her pelvis just a bit. Arched the small of her back. Nudged against the hard, yet velvety soft length of him, where it lay nestled in the crease of her buttocks. Reached back with her hand to hold his hips to her while she repeated the motion, the caress. Until they were both moaning with it. Finally, Mulder gasped. Then, chuckled. The sound shaky. Rueful. "God, Scully," he groaned, his voice vibrating roughly in the back of his throat. "What are you trying to do--kill me?" "You're the one taking your own sweet time," she retorted lightly, the words little more than a whisper, her eyes still tightly shut, her hips undulating slowly in response to his continued fondling. His fingers eased into her body and out again, the leisurely rhythm utterly bewitching her . "Ah, Scully, you never should rush the good stuff," Mulder murmured as he pressed a kiss to the corner of her eye. "And believe me, this. . . . you . . . . as much as I want it--all of it-- I'm in no hurry for any of it to end." She had more to say to him. Arguments regarding need and the potency of desire. But just then, his two fingers slipped slowly out of her, and drifting, glanced over the small knot of nerves which lie hidden in her body's nether region. Damp from their foray inside her, they circled over her. God. . . . ! She jerked. Crying out. Her hips suddenly pumping with more urgency, reaching for that thing, that promise of ecstasy. That shattering rush he had granted her so many times before. And as he moved to finally sheathe himself inside her, she knew with a kind of giddy joy, it was a rush that she would soon share with him again. Carefully, he pushed inside her. Past the initial resistance of her body, and into its hot, wet confines. Mulder's hand spread wide on her pelvic bone, pressing her to him, controlling their joining. His other hand still played over her breasts, tracing their peaks, kneading the soft mounds, squeezing the exquisitely sensitive flesh with finely measured force. At last, he was embedded in her. Buried to his hilt. "Yes," he groaned into her hair. And then slowly began to move. Scully couldn't get any leverage, not from where she lie sideways on her hip. She had to allow Mulder to take the lead, to decide at just what pace their passion was to unfold. Judging by the speed at which he was currently driving into her, his groin meeting her buttocks, he was still disinclined to rush. He thrust at her gently from behind, his hand splayed low on her belly, holding her to him. Coaxing her to rock with him. Urging her closer. His breath fanned her hair, hot and harsh. With all his concentration centered on the lower half of his body--their bodies--on the increasingly demanding way in which his hips came into contact with hers, his hand had ceased its movement on her breasts. It was almost as if the split in focus was too much for him. As if everything he had was being poured into their actual union. And so the best he could do was to merely place his palm over her one breast, lifting it slightly, cradling it carefully. In a manner that encouraged Scully to whimsically muse that Mulder was, at that moment, somehow guarding her heart. "I love this," he muttered heatedly from near her ear, need stripping his voice of its accustomed tenderness. Instead, leaving it raw. "I love the way you want me. . . . How you respond to me. Those little gasps you make when I move inside of you. The feel of you taking me in, holding me . . . ." "I love you," she told him simply, softly. One hand grabbing hold of his hair, the other running slowly up his flank, reveling in the play of muscle there. He groaned once more. "Oh God, Dana . . . my God . . ." The hand that had rested below her navel, its fingers pointing downward, inched towards where their bodies were joined. With an unerring sort of surety, it searched for that most sensitive point of her anatomy. That tiny little bud that when manipulated by this man had the power to turn her into a mindless creature. One consumed by sensation. Divested of thought, language, reason, and pride. A woman who craved release like a wild thing. And who hungered with a kind of desperation for that same mind-blowing conclusion for her partner. He found her. His fingers, slicked with her own body's moisture, gliding over her. Swirling. Sliding. Upping her need. Driving her to that place where she felt she simply had to split right through her skin. Her physical body incapable of containing all the tumult, the nearly violent desire roiling around inside her. Patiently, Mulder continued his loving assault. The pressure he exerted over her feverishly tender skin never bruising or frightening. Merely relentless. Her head twisted fitfully on the pillow, her hair tangling over her face, tickling her nose, catching in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes remained squeezed shut. "Let it happen," Mulder crooned in a hoarse whisper as he nuzzled her face, finding her temple, her cheek, through the coppery fringe surrounding them. His hand and his hips unceasing in their efforts to totally and utterly disassemble her. "Just let it come." She wanted to. God. Didn't he understand that? It was just that it was so much. What he was able to draw from her was often so overwhelming. She wondered sometimes if when she was caught in the wave of emotions she associated with this man, if when she was trapped in their surge like some overly confident surfer clinging to her board, she might not get washed away completely. If when the foam cleared, and the surf settled, she would cease to be altogether. Having been sucked down, swallowed into the bottomless ocean that was this man. Drowned by his needs, his demons, his desires. But, no. This was Mulder. A man who loved her more than his own life. A man who would invite any manner of heartache upon himself if it meant that she would be spared even the slightest discomfort or sorrow. Much as it pained her, she ruefully recognized this about her partner. Understood his tendency towards self- sacrifice. Especially where she was concerned. Certainly, he wanted her surrender. Wanted to watch as she tumbled headlong into rapture. But not to prove his power over her. Not to control or master her. But instead, by giving her such a gift, by placing her own pleasure, her own fulfillment before his, he hoped to prove to her and to himself that he was worthy of her. That in some bizarre way he deserved the happiness, the peace, the fragile sort of joy she knew without a doubt he had discovered as a result of their relationship. And with that as a motivation, how could she deny him? Her breath coming in frantic little gasps, she whispered, "Catch me, Mulder." And burst into flames. Her mouth opened on a cry. Her neck arched. One small hand tightened on his buttocks. Digging in to the resilient flesh there. The other tugged on Mulder's hair with a force she feared might injure him. Her hips shimmied helplessly as the convulsions cascaded through her. God. Dear God. The feeling was incandescent. She was soaring. Blazing across consciousness. Her skin flushed. Going hot, then surprisingly cold. She was vaguely aware that her body was now dewed with sweat. And, as if she had been hit with a bolt of lightning, the hair on her arms stood literally on end. For a moment, she couldn't catch her breath. Her chest heaved. Then, gradually, like a feather tossed on the wind, she floated down to earth. And into Mulder's arms. Safe. Secure. Cherished. They lay there. Still. Mulder's hand finally ceasing its gentle torment, and now just holding her to him, her buttocks nestled in the bend of his hips. She could sense the almost ferocious tension vibrating through the man beside her, the extent of the need he had yet to quench. She was more than aware of the hard hot length of him still buried inside her. Longing for release. And yet, he refrained from pumping into her. From bringing himself to that same sweet peak of pleasure he had shown her. He traced her hairline with his kisses. Trembling now. Like she was. "I love you, Dana Katherine Scully," he told her in a low ragged voice. "It's never been like this for me. Never." Licking her lips, she murmured, "Show me, Mulder. Show me how much you love me. . . . how much you want me. Share it with me. I want you to feel the way I do right now. I want to hear you moan with it. With me. Because of me." His arms tightened with nearly painful intensity around her. Then, tucking his head against the nape of her neck, he began to stroke in and out of her once more. This time, the finesse he had shown, the restraint, was sorely missing. It was simply beyond him at that point. He couldn't think, couldn't move, save to at long last strive for completion. His thrusts were short. Sharp. Desperate. And Scully wondered if despite the care he had taken with her, she might not be sore when all was said and done. Rapidly, Mulder picked up speed. He pounded into her urgently. His breath came in harsh little pants against her shoulder. His body threw heat like a bonfire. Both her arms were outstretched now, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair. She gave herself over to him, to be used for his enjoyment, his ease. He slapped against her, his arm keeping her tired legs spread, one still thrown over his hips. And she knew, with the sort of knowledge only longtime lovers had, that he wasn't going to last much longer. Then, he stiffened. "Christ!" His muffled shout dissolved into a deep, wrenching groan. Scully couldn't tell if Mulder meant the single word as a prayer or an oath. But the force of the emotion itself was without question. He quivered against her, his body emptying. His arms crushing her to him. The silence that followed proved almost deafening by contrast to what had come before. As if by tacit agreement, they each said nothing. Scully could hear her pulse pounding in her temple, could sense her heart's tempo downshifting, slowing as her excitement ebbed. Behind her, Mulder's uneven breath rustled her hair. His embrace continued with all its fierce might. Finally, he withdrew from her. And although he pulled from her with utmost gentleness she couldn't help but wince. Oh, yes. She was going to be doing an inspired John Wayne for the next several hours. Smiling at the absurdity of the thought, she rolled onto her back, and opened her eyes. And found her partner staring down at her, a shattering sort of vulnerability shining in his gaze. How odd, she realized with a start. She and Mulder had just shared the most fearsomely intimate of acts, and yet she had never once looked at him. Never born witness to the emotions swimming in those expressive hazel eyes. The ones that now poured over her, drenching her with their intensity. He lay sprawled half over her, his legs tangled with hers, his elbows planted on either side of her head, caging her with his body. For the longest time, he refrained from speech. Instead, he took his hand and lightly combed through her hair, lifting only a few of the silky strands at a time while he looked at her. Only looked. As if he hoped to catch a glimpse of something in her face. Some mystery he aspired to solve. Some truth only she held. "Do you have any idea what you mean to me?" he finally asked her, his voice hushed, his eyes intent. She reached up and traced his lips with her fingertip, lingering on the full curve of his lower one. After a time, she nodded, her own eyes glistening. "Everything," Mulder told her with the faintest of smiles and helpless sort of shrug. "Not everything, Mulder," she protested, her brow creasing just a bit, her palm resting now against his cheek. "Everything," he assured her. Then bent his head to press his lips to hers for a long lingering kiss, as if he thought to end the argument in just that way. How had they come to this point, she wondered with a touch of awe as his tongue softly explored her mouth. How had they gone from being two strangers, both distrustful. Each, miles apart in their views, their ambitions. To this. This mingling of two souls, two identities. When had it happened? When did that aggravating man she worked with become the heart that beat inside her? The air she needed to live. "Don't give me that kind of power, Mulder," she instructed quietly when their lips had parted, her fingers trailing over his brow. "I don't deserve it." He smiled down at her ruefully. "It's too late. You already have it. I can't do anything about it. It's out of my hands." She smiled wanly, still troubled just a tad by the notion. "Besides," Mulder murmured as he leaned down to sprinkle kisses on her nose, her cheek, her forehead, her chin. "If you don't deserve it, I don't know who does." "That's true," she murmured back, her tone dry, her eyes sliding shut once more as his lips got reacquainted with her features. "After all, who else would put up with you?" He stopped then. "Hey!" But, she only grinned. And, framing his face with her hands, she whispered, "Just know this, Agent Mulder--I am ready to put up with you for as long as you want me." "As long as all that?" he asked tenderly. She nodded solemnly. "As long as all that." He gathered her to him once more, cradling her against him. "Then you better be prepared for the long haul, Scully. Because I don't see any end to my wanting you." "Good," she said with a small sigh as she burrowed against him, a delicious variety of lassitude washing over her. "I'd hate for the guy I love to get tired of me." "Not a chance. Not any at all." She kissed him softly, just above his collarbone, in the hollow there. "Hmm. That's what I had hoped you'd say. 'Cause, to be honest, Mulder. . . . I'm just don't see how I could bear to let you go." "That a fact?" he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest, beneath her ear. "Mm-hmm," she told him a bit sleepily. "Don't forget . . . I shot you once, and I can do it again." "Ouch," he chuckled, kissing the top of her head as his hands smoothed over her shoulders, her back. "You've got me shaking now, Scully." "No, I don't," she said with a hint of mischief, as her fingers trailed lightly over his chest. "But give me a few minutes to recover, and I'll see what I can do." And as he hugged her tightly to him in response, she began to formulate a plan to accomplish just that. * * * * * * * * THE END At a Loss for Words (0/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com ***Introduction*** Hi! I've never done this before. Well, actually I've never done *many* things, but what I'm referring to specifically is: 1) Write a separate introduction; and 2) Post something before it was completed. I do have reasons however for finally indulging my urge to do both. First off, I'm putting all my disclaimer/acknowledgment stuff in a separate post simply in the interest of space. My first chapter was edging closer and closer to 30K and I know that's the magical number for many people's servers. So, seeing as I am rarely a woman of few words (please God, no pun intended) I thought I better make this a chapter of its own. Secondly, I'm posting this baby before it's finished as a means to keep me on the straight and narrow. This particular story has gotten away from me. I expected it to run four chapters. I'm currently at six and a half, with at least two, most likely four chapters still to come. This wouldn't be all that big a deal, except that I've made a promise to a cyber-pal that another story would be done by the magical October 4th premiere date. (I swear to God, I'm trying, MD.) So, I need to move this effort along. I figure what better way to do that than post what I have of this one so that I feel =compelled= somehow to put the pedal to the metal. Now, I realize this approach is not everyone's cup of tea. I myself, being the impatient sort, try to stay away from incomplete stories. Although sometimes I *do* get sucked in. (Mary Ann--am I everevereverever going to see the end of "When a Tree Falls" or do you plan on torturing me and the rest of your fans for the rest of our natural lives? ) All I can tell you is that I have six completed chapters. I plan to post them one a day, while in the meantime, writing like mad. I promise I'll do my best. :) Enough yakking. Let's get down to business. This is a continuation of the "Words" series. (If you'd like to know what other stories fall under that banner, please e-mail me for titles. I would be happy to help you out.) It is most definitely NC-17 in nature, and therefore carries with it all the appropriate warnings. Having said that, I hasten to add that the story isn't *all* sex. It also has embedded in it a case file of sorts, some character reflection, Mulderangst, and a touch or two of humor. The title comes courtesy of Adina Ringler, a lovely woman who suggested it in jest only to have me glom on to it immediately. It's not the "Scully Revenge" story, Adina. But I think the title works for this piece just the same. This story is dedicated to the wondrous Nicole Perry, writer of the amazing "Road" series, and one of my dearest cyber pals. She's been after me for the longest time to do one of these relationship tales with a file included. This is that effort. Nic, I hope you enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed our friendship. You're the best, Bert. Disclaimers? You guys know! These characters don't belong to me (M & S that is). They are the property of CC, 1013, and Fox. I'm merely having fun. There are places in this tale that actually exist. I mean them no disrespect. I added them simply for authenticity and local color. And rest assured, all of you, no money is being made. At least not by me. Comments are appreciated at the above address. I may not be able to answer them immediately. But I'll do my damnedest. Thanks for listening. Onward to Chapter I. At a Loss for Words (1/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Please check the intro for all the pertinent disclaimer info. Enjoy. Comments appreciated at the above address. Thanks. ************************************************ Scully was late. Way late. Her plane had touched down over two hours before. When it first appeared that she had been delayed, Mulder had called the airline. Had convinced the representative to check the flight manifest. And yet the perky young voice at the other end of the telephone line had found nothing unusual to report. His partner had boarded in Atlanta just as they had planned. So where the hell was she? God. He should have known they would be unable to carry this thing off. Should have realized that their plan was a pipe dream at best. And yet, at the time, the undertaking had seemed a reasonable enough risk. They would leave Washington on different planes, from two different airports, both using assumed names. Holding two sets of tickets apiece to two different destinations, they would each make their connections in Atlanta. And from there, land in New Orleans, Mulder several hours ahead of Scully. Well, he had arrived safely in the Crescent City. Had made it in without a hitch. And yet, he had no idea where she might be. That knowledge gnawing on his insides, he had earlier attempted to contact her via her cell phone; but had only succeeded in getting that annoying little recording informing him that the cellular customer was unavailable. He had then thought to try paging her at New Orleans International Airport. Yet, to do so would be akin to dropping a large neon arrow over her head, thus shooting in the foot any hope of secrecy. And so, he had refrained, deciding instead to resort to that measure only should the need prove dire enough. He glanced at his watch. After eleven. Grimacing at the late hour, Mulder ran his hand through his hair, and paced without purpose across the polished hardwood floor at his feet. Not even the sweet sensual scent of jasmine wafting in through the room's open balcony doors could distract him from the self-recriminations ringing in his head. He would never forgive himself. Never. Not if something had happened to her on account of this. On account of him. God. It was all so unnecessary. They would never even have had to make this trek. It was all his idea. Like the majority of their most harrowing misadventures. They could be safe and snug in D.C. But, no. He had to insist on their coming here. Had to drag Scully into the midst of yet another fiasco. Perhaps he should just go ahead and make that call. He could try having her paged under her assumed name rather than her actual name. It would still call attention to her, but the misdirection might be enough to keep any interested parties from getting overly suspicious. He crossed to the dresser and had just picked up his cell phone from atop it when he heard the faint knock at the door. "Yes?" "Mulder? It's me." Tossing the phone negligently so that it skittered across the gleaming surface of the chest of drawers like a puck across ice, he strode quickly to the door. Taking a deep and what he hoped would be calming breath, he pulled the portal open. And there stood his partner, as worry-free as could be. Clad in a long flowing skirt, a lightweight cotton blouse with a low rounded neckline and a pair of slip-on flats, she appeared travel-weary, but completely unharmed. She looked up at him, one suitcase on a trolley at her feet, a lumpy tote bag hanging from her shoulder. "Hi." "Where have you been?" Dana Scully raised a finely arched brow and considered the man before her. He stood in what she imagined must be the remnants of one of his suits; the navy blue slacks, and matching pinstriped shirt he wore contributing to that impression. And yet, his emotional state appeared to belie the apparent sophistication of his dress. He seemed . . . well . . . frantic. His eyes peered at her a trifle wildly, a small frown of annoyance, or possibly concern, running in a seam between them. His hair had obviously been most recently styled without benefit of a comb. And his posture was drawn so tightly that she wondered if were she to run her finger across his back she might actually coax from him a note of music. "I've been here," she replied dryly as she stepped into the room, noting with appreciation its elegant layout and decor. "It was my luggage that had trouble finding the place." "Excuse me?" Mulder asked with a frown as he reached over and took her bag from her shoulder, then relieved her hand of the suitcase she pulled behind her. "My luggage stayed in Atlanta when I changed planes for New Orleans," she said with a wry smile as she closed the door behind her. "So, I thought I should hang out and wait for it. With all the precautions we took, it seemed silly to leave an address behind for them to send the bags." Mulder turned from where he had settled her belongings, his hands on his narrow hips, clearly not placated by her explanation. "Why didn't you call?" "I tried," she insisted, her hands outstretched towards him. "I've been calling on and off ever since I landed. But the number was always busy. When I walked in just now, some girl was on the phone downstairs with someone named Mark, and she didn't sound happy. I think she may be the culprit. I got the impression they had been at it awhile. I just hope for the sake of our hosts it's a local call." Her partner pursed his lips. "You could have tried my cell phone. I tried reaching yours, but I couldn't get through." Scully shook her head at that, her expression amused. "You brought your cell phone, Mulder?" His frown intensified; his eyes, by contrast, turned faintly sheepish. "Yeah. Didn't you?" She slowly shook her head once more, her smile broadening. "No." With that, she crossed to him, her eyes twinkling at the disgruntled look he gave her, and said quietly, "We're on vacation, remember?" His lips twisted. "I know--" "I'll bet you brought your gun too, didn't you," she asserted knowingly, her eyes alight with gentle humor. "Yes, but--" She sighed, the sound gusty and overdone, her smile lingering still. "Only you, Mulder, would lure a girl to the most romantic city in the continental U.S., and then sleep with a .45 under your pillow." "Scully, we need to be careful," he reminded her obstinately, his hands reaching out to grasp her arms tightly, the set of his jaw belligerent. Her amusement lessened just a touch. Mulder was right. Despite the fact that they were thousands of miles away from their enemies, they still had to watch themselves. True, it appeared that they had made their getaway with no one the wiser. But, that sort of thing could change at a moment's notice. They had to remain vigilant. She knew that. Accepted it as part of the bargain. Part of what went along with loving the man before her. The one who looked as if he had spent the better part of the evening crawling the room's tastefully wallpapered walls on her account. "I know," she told him softly, her hands resting lightly now on his chest. "I know we do. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry if you were worried about me." He said nothing for a beat, and instead only looked at her, his hazel eyes boring into her calm blue ones. "And you're all right?" "Yes, of course." "You're sure?" he asked yet again, his hands running up and down her arms, smoothing along her skin. "Yes," she said a bit more emphatically, bemusement creeping into her voice once more. "I'm fine." "Well, I'm not," Mulder muttered as he brought his lips to hers with a kind of barely controlled violence. His mouth crushed against hers, surprising her. Blindly, she clung to his arms for balance, while he kissed her as if he thought to mark her in this way, stamp her as his own. "I think I've aged ten years in the last couple of hours, Scully," he admitted ruefully, as his lips plundered her features, pressing kisses on her mouth, her cheek, her brow; his aim erratic at best. "I know it's crazy . . . but I got it in my head that something terrible had happened." "Nothing happened. I'm fine. I told you," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as Mulder continued to exorcise his demons by kissing her senseless. And a delightful form of exercise it was too. Well, it was official, Mulder thought wryly as he reveled in the feel of Scully's soft skin beneath his mouth. The tender bend of her jaw. The lush fullness of her lips. The arrogant little arch of her nose. He was insane. Had finally gone utterly and completely off the deep end. What the hell was wrong with him? After all, it wasn't as if he and Scully hadn't already faced down stuff most people would only encounter in their dreams. Strike that . . . Nightmares. For crying out loud, this woman had battled liver-eating mutants, killer viruses, madmen with the power to literally climb inside a person's mind. And yet the minute she was inexplicably out of his sight for a couple of hours he fell apart like a house of cards in a windstorm. Undone by the loss of a couple of suitcases. But, he had an excuse, he told himself as his mouth made its way down the slim velvety line of her neck, her pleasure vibrating against his lips as she hummed her enjoyment deep in the back of her throat. He had a reason for his sudden case of the vapors where his partner's safety was concerned. Expectations. After all, in the midst of their daily routine, he steeled himself for the worst. Whether consciously or no, he recognized that theirs was dangerous work. They made their livelihood by tracking down criminals, those who broke the law and, more often than not, threatened lives. So, he was ready for it. Understood that the status quo could at any time be altered. That he might at any moment be called upon to defend his life. And Scully's. But, tonight was different. That evening he hadn't been in his usual G-man mode. He hadn't thought he would need to be. As the beautiful redhead in his arms had so succinctly noted, they were on vacation. Christ. Who the hell went on vacation? Certainly not Spooky Mulder, the F.B.I.'s Most Unwanted. And yet, to his never-ending delight, over the past several months, the latter appellation had proven particularly inappropriate. Because as much as it was his nature to question good fortune, even when it was staring him straight in the eye, Special Agent Dr. Dana Scully had succeeded in convincing him how very much she wanted him. Almost as much as he continually longed for her. And difficult as Fox Mulder found it to trust, he had never doubted Scully. She said she loved him. He believed her. And would do anything, absolutely anything, to make certain that particular truth was in no way threatened. Unfortunately, nurturing a relationship wasn't as easy for him as it was for the average guy in love. It wasn't that Scully was especially demanding or needy. Not at all. Lord knew she put up with things that would have driven nearly any other female on the planet to gnashing her teeth in vexation. But he was handcuffed by their predicament. By the roles they were forced to play in order to keep their professional lives intact. God, it was hard. Hard to pretend they were friends. Good friends, certainly. But nothing more. At times, he thought that one day he would finally just snap and ravage her right there on his battered old desk. Would at long last shove all the papers, the files, the pens and pencils to the floor with a sweep of his arm, and lay her there. Her slim body, soft and willing. Her skirt sliding up her milky thigh. Her hair spread over the desktop like a rippling river of red. Her eyes watching him, smoky and unfocused. Waiting for him. Welcoming him. Into her arms, her body. But as much as he longed to, he didn't step over that line. Not once. Nor did she. Instead, while in the J. Edgar Hoover Building and in the field, they comported themselves like the seasoned agents they were. They kept their feelings for each other under wraps. No mean feat, that. After all, they were alone together all the time. All the time. And yet, they always managed to keep their conduct within proper Bureau standards. When they worked together, they were the consummate professionals. Efficient, focused, thorough. They each loved their jobs, recognized the value of what they did. The truths they strove to uncover. And, more importantly, they each understood that any changes in behavior on their part, any alterations from the established rhythms of their lives would be noted. They weren't certain by whom, or even why such actions should really matter. But they knew their lives were constantly under scrutiny. And so they controlled themselves. And their urges. They had to. One slip, and they revealed themselves. And that was an open invitation for heartache. So, they lived their love in the shadows. Stole moments. Interludes. A lazy Saturday afternoon lounging in Scully's bed. A heated grappling in front of the TV on his living room floor. The sex was shattering. It always had been. The intimacy positively devastating in its power, its tenderness. But the other things, the things most couples took for granted, were sorely lacking. The freedom to enjoy each other in the open. At first, the clandestine aspects of their relationship had held a certain glamour, danger not being without allure. But, they had been living in such a manner for months. And it was only a matter of time before the issue came to a head. And that had occurred a little over three weeks ago. Scully had been trying to coax him to dinner and a movie. "Come on, Mulder," she had cajoled winningly. "It's just a movie. Maybe a pizza beforehand. We can get away with that. I mean--it's not as if we've never done it before." But Mulder had shaken his head, his brow furrowed. "Scully, we can't. We shouldn't. We were together on Tuesday night. Twice in one week is going to make them suspicious." She had pursed her lips a moment before her eyes had slid from his sadly, her shoulders slumped. "This is insane, Mulder. You know, I think I saw more of you before . . . before this--us--than I do now." He couldn't have agreed more. And yet, caution had prevailed. For that night anyway. But, Scully's dissatisfaction with the arrangement, with their lack of contact, had sparked something in him. And unwilling to let that dissatisfaction grow into anything more unwieldy, he had set about to remedy the situation. A kind of fugitive long weekend in the Big Easy had seemed the perfect solution. "So what do you think of the place?" Mulder asked as his lips slid beneath a fall of her auburn hair to nip and lick at her ear. She chuckled low, his teeth and tongue tickling her in more ways than one. "I haven't seen much of it yet, Mulder. You keep . . . bothering me." He smiled against her skin, his hands running urgently up and down her slender frame, sliding over the silky sweep of her skirt. "I *bother* you?" "Mmm," she purred in the affirmative, a smile still teasing her lips. "Constantly." Somehow he liked the idea of getting under the oh-so- serious Agent Scully's skin. And, on a whim, decided to prove to her just how truly bothersome he could be. Backing her against the nearest wall, he caged her there with his hands planted high, near her head, and pressed his hips against her. Rocked against her. Circled. Until they both groaned, and her small hands tightened on his buttocks in reaction, holding him to her possessively. "Funny. You seem to have the same effect on me," he whispered hoarsely as she kneaded him through his trousers. She laughed once more, the sound throaty. Her eyes shut. Her head tipped back slightly. "Hmm. And what do you suppose we ought to do about that?" He nibbled down her neck, nuzzling her pale soft skin with his lips, the bridge of his nose. Grabbing hold of her skirt and slip, he pulled the fabric slowly yet steadily up until his fingertips were able to brush lightly against the outside of her thigh, just above the knee. "You aren't wearing any stockings," he murmured with a touch of surprise, his eyes staring heatedly down into hers. With the realization, his groin hardened just another degree. In answer, she smiled that wicked little smile she seemed to reserve only for him. Thank God. "No need," she breathed softly, her lips pressing gently against his chin, his jaw. "The skirt is long. And besides, I wanted to be comfortable. And everyone knows how muggy New Orleans can get this time of year." He slowly shook his head, his hand gliding with the faintest of pressures up and down her thigh, a rather sensual smile of his own shaping his lips. "Not muggy," he corrected quietly, a playful light twinkling in his eyes. "If tonight is anything to judge by, I'd say instead that this place is . . . hot." "Humid," she countered in a husky voice, her arms coming up to drape themselves around his neck. "Sultry," he whispered just before his mouth closed over hers, his lips moving, rubbing slowly against her tender mouth. Scully took a deep, shuddering breath as if to steady herself when their lips parted a few moments later, and gazed up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded. "Sultry?" she asked, the single word the very personification of its meaning. Mulder looked down at the woman he loved standing before him. Her breasts teasing his chest with every breath she took. Her lips swollen and rosy from his kisses. Her color high. "=Definitely= sultry," he assured her, as his hand slipped up even higher beneath her skirt, grabbed hold of her panties and pulled them down, his other hand delving beneath her clothing as well to assist with the effort. Scully's breath caught. Her eyes dipped demurely even as the subtle curve of her lips told Mulder his action in no way shocked her. Silently, she stepped out of the silky bit of lingerie and kicked it away. His hands now ranged free under the cover of her skirt and its slip, gliding over her hips, reaching around to squeeze the smooth roundness of her bottom. Shivering slightly, her lids drooped again for a moment, camouflaging her expression. Then, moving with a sudden urgency, she leaned forward on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to the shallow indentation at the base of his throat, her tongue slipping out to lap and tease. Mulder moaned, rough and ragged, his hands tightening in reaction around her hips. Scully gasped. Then, her fingers found his belt and deftly undid the strip of leather. The zipper on his pants was soon to follow. Within moments, her gentle hands cupped him through his boxers. This time, his moan sounded desperate. As if pain, not pleasure, had prompted it. Scully smiled, and continued her own particular brand of torture. For a short while they were content with merely fondling each other. Each of them allowing their hands to run over the other, stealing softly over the most sensitive portions of their partner's anatomy. The places that most yearned for that contact, that caress. Their touches were gentle. Slow. A marked contrast to the reckless sort of neediness that had instigated the encounter in the first place. And yet, that wasn't to say that their ardor had cooled. God, no. The fire between them built steadily. The flames inching higher and higher. Until the passion that always smoldered between them ignited into a full-fledged conflagration. Mulder stood it as long as he could. After all, Scully's hands felt so damned good against him. Once she had found him, she stroked him unceasingly. Her fingers had glided down the length of him and up again. At first, just the back of her index finger as it ran in a leisurely tease along him. Then, gradually more pressure, more speed was added as she gripped him tightly through the fabric. Until he knew he had to have more. Now. Gasping for control, he pushed his fingers into her, the movement so sudden, so forceful, that her body thudded against the wall as he slipped inside. Mortified that he might have in some way frightened or hurt her, Mulder anxiously sought Scully's eyes, words of apology ready on his lips. Only to find they weren't at all necessary. His partner watched him languidly from where her head rested against the wall, her lips parted and moist. She smiled with reassurance. And then freed him from his boxers. Lord. She loved the hot heavy weight of him in her hand, his skin so soft, so responsive to her lightest caress. She smoothed her thumb in a circle over the tip of him. His voice broke on a sob of pleasure while his hand slid more deeply inside her as if in answer. Until he cupped her, the heel of his hand pressing against her mons, nudging her there. She whimpered high and helpless. Their eyes met. Their hands continued to softly move. "Do you trust me, Scully?" Mulder asked hoarsely, his skin glistening now with sweat, the hand that had earlier rustled free from beneath her skirt coming up to rest against her cheek. A glint of humor in her eyes, she nodded. He nodded back, pleased by her lack of hesitation. And smiling a taut, almost pained looking smile, he gently pulled his other hand from her. Scully gasped with the withdrawal, missing him immediately. Then, before she could mourn the loss too dearly, he slipped both his hands beneath her clothing once more to cup her buttocks, and lifted her, bracing her against the wall as he did so. Startled, she let go of the long quivering length of him, clutching at his shoulders instead. "Wrap your legs around me," he instructed in a vaguely strained voice, the recklessness in his eyes beckoning to her like a dare. As her feet had been dangling against the back of his thighs already, it took no more than a simple adjustment on her part to do as he requested. Once she had, she could feel him intimately nestled in the vee of her legs, hard and needy, as Mulder cradled her carefully to him. Without question, the man before her was aware of their closeness as well. And he groaned deeply, desperately, when she molded herself to him, her head on his shoulder, her legs locked around his waist. Scully responded by kissing him, her tongue tracing the shape of his mouth before sweeping inside it. He welcomed her, his own tongue dancing against hers, stroking along it, exploring her sweet mouth as completely as she did his. Her arousal racing through her veins like water down a chute, Scully rocked her hips against his. Arched her back. Rubbed her breasts over him, dragging her nipples restlessly across his chest, teasing them both unmercifully. Mulder staggered. "Hold on. . . . Hold on," he panted beseechingly, a rueful chuckle rumbling deep inside him. "Just wait. Wait just a minute." And struggling for balance and restraint, he lifted the woman in his arms ever so slightly before bringing her carefully down once more. To sit tightly atop him. Hot and wet. Gasping, Mulder leaned his head against the wall, right beside hers, frantically seeking a modicum of control before continuing. "Are you all right?" he whispered, his voice pulled tight, like a catapult at the instant before release. Scully's words flowed over his senses with the smoothness of decades old scotch. Making him lightheaded. Drunk with the moment. With her. "Hmm. . . . You feel wonderful. . . . But, you fall, Mulder, and so help me God, I'll kill you." Her slender arms were twined around his neck, her lips pressed fervidly against his throat, just beneath his ear. Her thighs clung to him, trembling slightly with the effort, circling his body. Mulder clasped his hands firmly around Scully's waist. Raised her. Then, let her slide slowly down him once more. The whole thing felt so positively amazing that he just =had= to do it again. And again. Until he was surging into her relentlessly. Her back skidding against the wall with the force of his thrust, his rhythm. His legs aching with the motion as he struggled to remain upright. Seeing as he didn't want to alarm the woman riding him so trustfully, Mulder decided to refrain from mentioning that he had never attempted anything like this before. It wasn't that he lacked invention as a lover, or feared trying something a bit different. On the contrary--he liked to consider himself a reasonably daring guy. On the other hand, he wasn't the brawniest man in the world, and logistically this sort of thing just plain didn't figure to work all that well with someone near his own height. Like so many of the women he had dated in the past. But Scully was slim enough and small enough to make the whole thing possible. If not plausible. And so, inspiration had struck. He had figured, what the hell? They were on vacation. Lips curving at just how giddy that notion was tempting to make him, Mulder allowed his concentration to wander just a touch. Disaster threatened, and he wobbled slightly. Scully shrieked with a combination of laughter and alarm. "Oh great," Mulder murmured, his lips near her ear, humor underlying his words. "Here I am trying to move you to new heights of passion, and all I get for my effort is a fit of the giggles." "No . . . No," Scully assured him breathlessly, her eyes shimmering with heat, her mouth curled in a smile. "I'm not laughing . . . laughing at you." As if to punctuate that statement, Scully dug her heels in with vigor to the small of his back, bringing her slamming down against him. While she succeeded in wringing a moan from his mouth and a sigh from her own, her enthusiasm once again threw off their precarious equilibrium. They tottered, the pants riding low on Mulder's hips not helping the enterprise one bit. A peal of feminine laughter poured forth once more. "You =are=, Scully," Mulder challenged, smiling now himself, his breath uneven, rapid. Yet even as they bantered playfully, his hips kept on pumping, continuing to urge both of them closer to that place where such things as gravity, balance, and hardwood floors were beyond irrelevant. "You *are* laughing at me." "Not at you. At us," she whispered with a smile and a sigh, her teeth catching on her lip, her fingers winding through his hair. "Doesn't matter," he told her, stopping all at once. Then, leaning his head against the wall as if for strength, he paused there a moment, gathering himself. Finally, he pulled back and gave the woman he held a long, slow, deep kiss. She whimpered when their lips finally parted. "I can't have you laughing when I make love to you, Scully," Mulder said softly, the light in his eyes telling her he was in no way serious with his declaration. "It's murder on a guy's ego." Her smile broadened. Her gaze turned mischievous. Pulling one hand away from where it clung to the back of his neck, she trailed her index finger down the center of his face. From his forehead, down the bridge of his nose to his mouth. Lightly, she rubbed it against the curve of his lower lip. "Well then, Mulder," she murmured with a killer arch of her brow. "I guess it's up to you to stop me." Growling with a mixture of amusement and arousal, Mulder dipped his head slightly, and captured Scully's finger with his mouth, his tongue; then sucked on it. Watching her with pure challenge shining in his eyes, he waited until he saw her eyelids flutter in surrender before he released her finger and pushed away from the wall, weaving in the general direction of the room's generously sized brass bed. Oh please God, keep me from breaking both our necks, Mulder silently implored with the fervor of the converted as he tripped first on a shoe that had slipped free from Scully's foot not long after they had begun, then on the tangled wad of her panties. Somehow, he managed to find his way to the side of the bed, life and limb intact. Taking care to keep their bodies joined, he eased Scully down with as much gentleness as he could muster, then braced himself above her with his hands pressing against the mattress, his feet planted firmly on the floor. Beneath him, his partner looked up, eyes cloudy with passion. Waiting for him. Just like in his office fantasy. "Let me know if you have the urge to laugh," he said in a low, rough voice. And pushed his hips forward. Pressing her down into the soft bedding. Pressing himself into the impossibly soft, heated depths of her body. "Don't think that will be a problem," Scully groaned, her legs tightening around him once more. And strangely enough, it wasn't. ************************************************* While in a corner of the room, unseen, unsensed, a presence watched. And considered. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part II Subject: "At a Loss For Words" (2/15) NC-17 by K. Rasch From: krasch@delphi.com Date: Mon, 26 Aug 96 20:36:51 -0500 At a Loss for Words (2/?) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Disclaimers/Credits can be found in the intro. This is merely story. Feedback is, as always, appreciated. Thanks. ************************************************* Dana Scully slowly awoke when she felt the mattress dip beside her. Scooting up a tad against the headboard and stretching sinuously, she captured a yawn with the back of her hand as she prepared to rouse. "Keep your eyes closed." She smiled upon hearing the low murmured words from a voice that not only was well known to her, but much beloved. With a small nod, she readily complied. "Open your mouth." Lying back against the piled pillows, she lifted her brows with a blend of amusement and curiosity, and once again did as she was told. And was rewarded. Something warm, sweet, and heavenly-smelling was pressed to her lips. She took a bite, and whatever it was she was eating crumbled. Giggling, she felt a light dusting of what she assumed to be powdered sugar settle in the corner of her mouth, then flutter down to dot her chin. Seemingly discontent to remain solely on her face, a few more adventuresome granules drifted south to land on the slope of her breast where it rose above the bedclothes she had draped across her in some inborn attempt at modesty. Although why she bothered, she couldn't say. After all, she might be naked beneath the cool cotton sheet, but it wasn't as if Mulder wasn't already familiar with her body. Intimately familiar with it. "Ooh. Hold still, Scully," instructed his voice as it, and he, moved closer to her. He placed his hands over her wrists where her arms lay on the pillows, bent at the elbow so that her hands rested palm up near her head, and carefully restrained her there as he bent his head. Delicately, like a cat lapping cream, he pressed his mouth to the corner of hers and with his tongue swept away the sweet residue the still unidentified treat had left behind, then repeated the action against the curve of her chin. Her partner was nothing if not thorough. He took his time with it. Licking gently around her mouth, sucking softly on her jawbone. Scully's hips began to move slowly, slightly, against the mattress; unable, as always, to fight the arousal this man could induce merely by being in the same room with her, let alone sitting on the same bed, his tongue exploring her face. Keeping her eyes closed, she could feel the heat of his body as it hovered over her. Smell the freshly showered scent of his skin, the tang of toothpaste on his breath. And silently grumbled that although Mulder might indeed find her alluring lying there clad in nothing but her sparkling personality, she wished that she too had been afforded the opportunity to brush her teeth and run a comb through her hair before indulging in this bit of closeness. "Hmm, what's this?" he queried in a light, teasing voice when it appeared that he had at long last relieved her face of all the stubborn powdered sugar sprinkled there. She opened her eyes. His warm hazel ones shone down into hers with boundless affection. God, he looked good. His jawline newly shaven. His hair a trifle mussed, falling down over his forehead in a manner he didn't allow when on the job. He smiled at her. It was a good morning sort of smile. One of greeting. And longing. He kissed her softly. Then, let his eyes wander away from hers to focus just below her shoulders. Where he spied still more powdery white stuff. "Don't move." Still holding her securely, he lowered his head to the ivory expanse of her chest. Mouth open against her skin, he pressed his lips to her, his tongue slipping out from between them to sweep across her, over her, warm and wet. "Hmm," she moaned, her eyes sliding shut once more, her back arching just a touch, pressing her breasts against the thin cloth hiding them from view. Mulder kept at it for a good long while, his hair tickling her nose, her chin, as he bent over her, intent on stealing away every last bit of sweetness to be found on her upper torso. "Mulder," she murmured as his mouth roamed her chest, setting her afire. He pulled back to look at her, a similar flame echoing in his own eyes. "You always destroy my best intentions," he told her with a rueful smile. "What do you mean?" He kissed her brow, the corner of her eye. "I had thought to actually let you out of bed today." "Who told you to be so noble?" she asked him with mock indignation as she stretched up to nibble on his chin. He chuckled, the sound little more than a rumble in his chest. Then, he covered her mouth with his own, and tenderly lavished it with attention. For a time, the only sound in the room was the gentle whir of the ceiling fan overhead and the moist whisper of their lips moving against each other. Finally, they came up for air, each gasping for it greedily. Their eyes clung, then Mulder's gaze tore away, dropping instead to run the length of her body. Scully fought the urge to curl her toes with the intensity of the look. The way he had of claiming her in that way. Of silently calling to her from some little understood yet deeply persuasive part of him. Reminding her without words that she belonged to him, and he to her. As if she would have it any other way. She returned his regard, noting with satisfaction that Mulder seemed as swept away by their little early morning tete-a-tete as she. His chest rose and fell raggedly. Rapidly. And his cheeks were flushed. As if he ran a fever. And perhaps he did. "I love you," he told her quietly, one hand releasing a wrist to cup her cheek. "I love you too," she assured him as his thumb smoothed over the satiny rise of her cheekbone. His lips opened. Then, shut with a sigh. As if he thought to say more, but language proved inadequate to what he felt he needed to express. She understood. Words had never come easily for her either. Luckily, that had never seemed to matter with the two of them. Some of their very best communication had come without benefit of speech. Finally, he merely whispered, "Dana. . . ." And closed his lips over the tender tip of one breast. She cried out with it. With the feel of his mouth tugging on her through the sheet. Suckling her. Playing over her with his teeth, his tongue. Until she was ready to commit murder to have that troublesome bit of bedding pulled away so she could experience the hot moist sensation of his mouth on her skin without encumbrance. But his hands were holding her captive once more. And he made her wait for it. "Come back to bed, Mulder," she implored, her hips twisting restlessly now, craving what the man beside her promised with his caresses. "New Orleans will still be there when we're finished." Mulder raised his head once more, reluctantly relinquishing her nipple as he did so. His eyes searched her face, a great deal more than sensual desire revealed with the gaze. "I don't think I'll ever be finished with you," he admitted softly. "Sometimes I doubt that there are enough minutes in one lifetime for us." Scully feared for one horrified instant that she just might burst into tears. Good grief! Here she had been musing over how expressive Mulder could be at times without words, and then he had to go and say something like that! "Then let's not waste a moment," she suggested in a husky voice once she figured out a way to speak around the lump in her throat. "I want you, Mulder. Right here. Right now." He looked at her for a beat longer before nodding, then sat up and pulled his shirt over his head. Scully reached out and ran her fingertips over his chest, stopping to trace the chain on which dangled the cross she had given him. He closed his eyes for the span of a breath, seemingly giving in to her touch before standing a bit unsteadily, and toeing off his shoes. "You've got me, Scully," he murmured as he swiftly undid his jeans and, with his boxers, shoved them to the floor. "Anytime. Anywhere." "Now," she urged with slumberous eyes and a warm sensual smile. He chuckled, bending down to skim his knuckles over the curve of her jaw. "Some people are so *demanding*." Shrugging without concern over his playful observation, she then lay still once more as Mulder slowly drew the sheet down and away from her body, revealing her slender form with heated anticipation glittering in his eyes. "Looks like you've got a few demands of your own, Agent Mulder," she noted dryly, her eyes glancing at the part of his body that bobbed before him, betraying his interest. He smiled wryly at her quip and crawled carefully onto the bed, lowering himself over her to rest in the cradle of her hips. "What if I do? Think you can keep up with me, Scully?" "Just try losing me," she challenged an instant before kissing him. "Now why the hell would I want to do that?" he asked with a growl as their lips met yet again. And a Friday morning in New Orleans slipped away. ************************************************ Hours later, the two agents reclined in each other's arms against a mound of pillows, happily munching on the now cooled baked goods Mulder had brought back to the room just after dawn. "So these are beignets, huh?" Scully queried, licking her fingers clean. She and Mulder had discovered that if they each broke off pieces of the pastries from inside the white paper bag in which they had arrived, they had a better chance of actually getting the treat to their lips without a thorough dusting of powdered sugar raining down upon them both. Not that she had any complaints about the last time that had occurred. "Mm-hmm," Mulder murmured around a mouthful of beignet. "From Cafe du Monde, no less." "Cafe du Monde?" "It's been around for over 100 years. Our hosts recommended it to me when I arrived." "Bill? Tall guy, glasses, receding hairline?" He nodded. "Yeah, that's him. Apparently, when he's not playing innkeeper he's a professor at Tulane. And his wife, Laura. She's an artist." Scully shook her head. "I didn't meet her. But Bill let me in last night. He seems like a nice man." "He is," Mulder agreed, popping another bite of pastry into his mouth. "They both are. Nice, that is. We chatted a bit when I first got here. I wonder what makes your average college professor want to run a place like 'La Maison de la Lune Argentine'." She smiled at the way the words tripped a tad awkwardly off his tongue. "Okay. Spanish was always my foreign language of choice, so help me out here." "The House of the Silver Moon," he translated with a smile of his own. "Didn't you notice the crescent on the front door?" She nodded. She had seen the decorative little slip of a moon when she had arrived the night before. "What's the significance of the name?" Mulder shrugged. "Don't know. Guess we'll have to ask Bill and Laura." He nuzzled the tender skin beneath her ear with his lips as he tightened his arms around her. "If and when we ever get out of this bed." She chuckled and tilted up her chin to grant him better access. "So how did you ever stumble across this place?" He stopped his investigation into whether her throat could possibly be as soft as he remembered, and eyed her with what he was certain Scully would be forced to label a distinctly uneasy look. "I read about it in the Post." She arched a brow. "In the Post? You never struck me as a reader of the Travel section, Mulder." His lips twisted. "I didn't find it in the Travel section, Scully." "Where then?" "In Features." "Features? How come?" He hesitated a moment, then murmured, "I was reading a piece about haunted houses." Scully lifted her head from where it lay nestled in the crook of his shoulder and stared at the man before her, incredulous. "=Tell me= you're joking." He slowly shook his head, a mixture of humor and chagrin shining in his eyes. Of course, she mused wryly. Why should she find this revelation surprising? "So this is a 'busman's holiday' then, Mulder?" she asked with a dry smile. "What?" he countered innocently. "You don't like it here?" On the contrary, she thought fondly. She loved it. Who wouldn't? La Lune Argentine was romantic in the extreme. The inn itself was an attractive brick establishment covered with ivy and accented with wrought iron railings and embellishments. To compound its allure, the place was tucked away on one of the French Quarter's more picturesque streets, its neighboring buildings similar in architecture and Old World charm. She didn't yet have a feel for how big the inn was, having arrived too late the night before for a proper investigation of its layout. But she did know from peering out their balcony window that the structure contained at its center a flagstone courtyard complete with a small stone fountain, and shaded by abundant magnolia and orange trees. And their room itself . . . . It was exquisite. Done up in what she assumed was an attempt at recapturing the opulence of the mid-nineteenth century, its cherry wood antiques echoed beautifully the warmth of the chamber's burgundy, mauve, and green wallpaper, and matching bedding. If she chose to forget the plane that had brought her south the night before, Scully could almost convince herself while luxuriating in their lodgings that she and Mulder had indeed taken a step back in time. The room had no television, no mini-bar. Just wood, and porcelain, and brass, and fabric, and glass. And a ceiling fan. Thank God. She stared into the eyes of the man holding her. He seemed a wee bit anxious that she not be miffed over what had drawn him to La Lune Argentine in the first place. "You done good, Mulder," she told him with a soft kiss on his cheek. "It's beautiful." Something in his eyes eased, and he nodded at her, his lips curled in a smile. "So tell me about the ghost," she urged as she settled comfortably against his chest once more and nibbled another bite of beignet. "According to the story, she is a former owner of the house," Mulder said softly as he smoothed his fingers over the rumpled silk of her hair. "A courtesan who was murdered by her lover." "Hmm," Scully murmured as she chewed. "That sounds appropriately gruesome. So what does she do? Rattle her chains or toss around breakables?" "Neither," Mulder assured her. "She supposedly walks the halls and cries. The article said several of the house's previous owners have heard her." "Poor ghost," Scully said with sympathy. "Spirits don't often have happy endings, Scully," Mulder said reasonably from near her ear. "That's what makes them spirits to begin with." "Well then, if my life were to end this very minute I don't imagine anyone would find me haunting them." "How's that?" She rolled over in his arms, and taking the bakery bag from where it had rested atop his body, placed it instead on the night stand beside the bed before pressing her lips to the center of his chest. "I'm entirely too content, Mulder," she explained with shining eyes. "Happy, actually. Plain and simple." He regarded her silently for a time before saying in a low gruff voice, "I want to make you happy, Scully." "You do," she assured him softly. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her with every ounce of what he felt for her in the touch. Every bit of joy, every iota of thanks, every drop of reverence. She responded in kind. And it was well after 1:00 before they actually made it out of the inn and on to the streets of New Orleans. ************************************************ Scully discovered, with a touch of surprise, that she enjoyed playing tourist with Mulder. She hadn't known what to expect, never having been in such a situation with her partner before. But, much to her delight, she and Mulder proved very good at that sort of thing. They both approached their exploration of the city in the same manner, leaving themselves open to wander freely. To investigate a particularly interesting street or promising shop should the spirit so move them. They kept no timetable, followed no map. Instead, they simply walked through the Quarter, alert for the unusual, attuned to the amusing. It went without saying that at least half of what made the afternoon so entertaining was Mulder himself. Lord! He was just like a little kid. All boundless energy, and never-ending curiosity. Scully trailed after him at times, ferociously squelching the urge to ruffle his hair fondly as one might an excitable boy at the county fair. "Scully, this place is supposed to be the original 'House of the Rising Sun'!" he urgently impressed upon her at one point. Her only comment was a murmured, "Why does it *not* surprise me that you know that?" And . . . "Do you know they say that Jackson and Lafitte met in this very bar to plot strategy for the Battle of New Orleans?" She, of course, felt it necessary to remind him, "Mulder, there is no proof whatsoever that Jean Lafitte and Andrew Jackson ever even *met*, let alone worked together during the Battle of New Orleans." He scowled at her lack of faith, but she knew he had, in a way, expected it of her. Given their relationship, such observations were, after all, her job. She even let him drag her to the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum. And although the place brought back a host of unwelcome memories regarding that frightening case in North Carolina involving poor Chester and his fellow Haitian refugees, she found she enjoyed the museum once she gave herself the chance. She doubted she would ever buy into the whole idea of zombies and black magic, but from a purely scientific standpoint, the religion was fascinating. And browsing through the assortment of powders, potions, and talismans she and Mulder found so proudly displayed, she lost herself considering the whys and wherefores of the herbal remedies in which voodoo was grounded. The beliefs that had been passed down through generations of family practitioners and midwifes. In fact, in the end, it was Mulder who ended up hustling her out of the place, and not vice-versa. However, neither of them exited before leaving behind an "offering" to Exu, the museum's resident spirit. A candy bar was suggested as an appropriate token of their esteem. And so, Scully reluctantly gave up one of the sumptuous pralines she had bought earlier that afternoon at a neighborhood confectionery. "You're going to ruin your appetite, you know," Mulder cautioned a while later as they strolled along one of the Quarter's busy streets, Scully now nibbling on one of her precious pralines herself. "You're just angling for a bite of my praline, Mulder," she retorted blithely, and then held out the sweet to her partner so he could indeed sample it. His hand closed over her wrist to steady the offering, their eyes meeting over the brown sugar treat. She flashed him a full-blown smile as his lips closed over the candy. Wide. Guileless. Her affection for him so plain in her expression, so utterly and completely without limits or conditions, that Mulder's heart did a back flip Mary Lou Retton would have been proud to call her own. Without caring who the hell might see them, or what the action might reveal to Scully or anyone else, Mulder slung his arm around the shoulder of the auburn-haired woman beside him and tucked her up against him as they resumed walking, thinking to himself that he couldn't remember the last time he had felt this good. ************************************************* "Get out of here, Mulder." "I think I'm hurt." "You will be if you don't get out of here and let me get dressed." They had arrived back at their room a little over an hour before, after a long, leisurely afternoon spent touring the French Quarter. He had just finished his shower and changed into a pair of khakis and a simple white shirt when Scully had leaned against the bathroom doorway clad in what Mulder almost instantly determined to be perhaps *the* sexiest bit of silken finery he had ever seen. It was a robe. Short. Cinched at the waist. It's pattern, floral. Tiger lilies, maybe, against a black background. He couldn't be sure. He had never been any good with flowers. And anyway, what the damned thing looked like was really beside the point, because what caught and held his attention wasn't actually the lingerie at all. But what it failed to conceal. Slim legs and shadowed cleavage. Surprisingly deep cleavage when one stopped to consider how petite the woman before him was. And he, of all people, was definitely guilty of considering Scully's physical make-up from time to time. "That new?" he asked with a nod to the garment she had belted loosely around her. She smiled at him a trifle shyly. "Yeah. You like it?" He nodded slowly, his eyes going into more detail regarding his feelings towards her recently purchased article of clothing. "Good," she murmured with satisfaction. "Now, why don't you go ask Bill for some restaurant suggestions so I can take it off, and finish getting ready." Mulder felt his heartbeat accelerate with the images her playful instructions conjured, and dryly inquired of his partner, "And you believe that bit of information will actually work as an incentive to get me out of this room?" She tilted her head and pretended to consider the idea. "Hmm. No, I suppose not," she allowed in a low throaty voice. "So maybe we ought to do this instead." Mulder arched a brow in an attempt to mimic his favorite redhead. "What did you have in mind?" Scully said nothing. Instead, she curled her index finger in a come-hither gesture as old as Eve and walked gracefully away from him to the other side of the room, looking over her shoulder as she did so as if to make certain she retained his interest. She did. Mesmerized by the gentle sway of her hips, Mulder followed as obediently as if she had him on a leash. In fact, it wasn't until she had the door open and him framed in front of it that her intentions even registered. Only by then it was too late. She stepped nimbly behind him. Her small hands landed between his shoulder blades. And Mulder landed in the hall. "Go downstairs," Scully called through the door after slamming it in his face and locking it. "I'll be down soon. I promise I'll hurry." Shaking his head at just how ridiculously they were both behaving, while at the same time grinning with the sheer joy of it, he retorted calmly, "You are a cruel woman, Dana Katherine Scully." And although only a few months earlier he would have doubted the reserved, dignified woman he worked with capable of such a thing, Mulder could =swear= he heard her snickering on the side of that thick, unyielding, wooden door. ************************************************ Glancing at her watch from where it lay on the bathroom vanity top, Scully mentally calculated how long she had already kept her partner waiting. Not bad. In the end, he wouldn't wind up cooling his heels for too terribly long. She had rushed through her shower, and knew from experience that make-up usually didn't take her very long. She never wore much of the stuff anyway. No. She could breeze through that part of her preparations without too much bother. That just left her hair and her dress. Hmm. Her hair. Dana Scully had fought her entire life with hair that just couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to be wavy or straight. Stylistically, she normally opted for a smooth, polished bob. It looked more professional. And, when all was said and done, her auburn tresses were more prone to lose a curl than hold one. Except when confronted with the kind of humidity New Orleans was noted for. "'Sultry' my ear, Mulder," she murmured into the mirror as she considered the mass of damp hair atop her head. Well, armed with a battery of styling aids, she guessed she could wage war against Mother Nature and wrestle her do into a reasonable facsimile of her usual everyday look. Or, she could run a little mousse through her hair, scrunch it with her fingers, and call it a day. She knew which solution sounded better to her. Two down. One to go. The dress. That was a no-brainer. She had picked up her outfit of choice during the same shopping spree which had resulted in the robe that had so enticed Mulder earlier. It had been a long time since she had bought clothes with the specific intention of impressing a man. And yet, Scully recognized without a doubt that when it came to these newest additions to her wardrobe she was guilty as charged. She supposed the feminist in her should rail against this sudden urge to employ her feminine wiles. To don articles of clothing with the express purpose of arousing a man. After all, she liked to believe that Mulder had fallen in love with the inside of her rather than the outside. However, she had to admit that the look of frankly masculine approval she would note in his eyes when she walked into work in the morning dressed in a suit she knew hugged her figure just right, or his whispered words of praise when their bodies were moving together towards completion--telling her how beautiful she was, what it felt like to lose himself inside her, how the way she moved her hips threatened to steal his very soul--did something to her self-esteem that no amount of advanced degrees could. And what was more, she liked this Dana Katherine Scully. The woman Mulder saw her to be. The person whose intelligence, courage, and humor shared the stage equally with her sensuality, her femininity. Mulder's equal? Damn straight. But no less a woman for it. Smiling to herself at the random musings floating through her consciousness, Scully stood before the cheval glass just outside the bathroom door and critically considered her appearance before heading downstairs. Okay. The hair was a bit more wild than she was used to, but given the occasion, she thought it would do. And she had gotten a touch of color in her face from their afternoon jaunt. Not too much. Just enough to give her the suggestion of a tan across her cheeks and nose. Of course, with that blush came the inevitable freckles. Ah well. Maybe Mulder wouldn't notice. Right. And maybe the Cubs will finally win that pennant, Dana. Eyebrows lifting as she imagined in advance Mulder's teasing, she decided to ignore what she couldn't control and instead focus on the really important issue. The dress had made the journey from D.C. to New Orleans with nary a wrinkle. Saying a silent prayer of thanks, she smoothed her hand over the outfit's skirt, and made ready to turn away from her reflection in order to slip on her sandals and grab her purse. When she saw it. At first, she thought she had gotten something in her eye. She didn't know how else to explain it. That thing she noted in the mirror. Shimmering there. Behind her. Just to her left. For a moment, she simply stared, unsure what to make of it. Hell, she wasn't even positive what she was looking at. Whatever had caught her eye didn't really have a shape. And it certainly didn't have substance. She could see right through it. What it most reminded her of was heat rising from a highway. Those waves that often taunt drivers on hot summer afternoons. And yet, although the early evening was warm, it was nowhere near hot enough to generate that kind of phenomenon. Puzzled, she turned around. And saw nothing. Not a damn thing. Just the quiet elegant confines of their room. "I must be hungrier than I thought," she murmured with a shake of her head. And thinking no more about it, she left to rejoin her partner. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part III Subject: "At a Loss for Words" (3/15) NC-17 by K. Rasch From: krasch@delphi.com Date: Tue, 27 Aug 96 21:09:29 -0500 At a Loss for Words (3/?) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com See intro for credits. Thanks! ************************************************ "Ah! I believe this is the person you've been waiting for." "Hey, Scully, guess what? I just found out how La Lune Argentine got its name. It's the--" Whatever Mulder had thought to share with his partner fizzled inside his brain like a couple of Alka-Seltzer tablets hitting water. Dissolving away into nothing. Disappearing without a trace. The sensation certainly proved an unexpected one for a man with his mental prowess and gift for gab. But how the hell was he supposed to hang on to thoughts, retain the function of speech, when Dana Scully sauntered into view wearing something like *that*? Mulder didn't know whether to throw a jacket over her or rip the damn dress from her body in a fit of pure unadulterated lust. And what in God's name was up with her hair? The woman who walked slowly yet steadily towards him across the shade dappled courtyard wearing a pair of strappy black heels and smiling a small knowing smile, looked nothing at all like the agent he had for the past three years worked beside. True, that woman shared this one's intrinsic grace, her obvious sophistication, intelligence, and beauty. But the government employee he normally called 'Scully' usually had about her a kind of restraint, a finely constructed barrier between the person she really was and the world around her. Oh, Mulder liked to pat himself on the back over the way he had managed to rip down a few of those shields since they had partnered together. To congratulate himself on astutely knowing that beneath the professional mask Dana Scully considered a necessary component of her workaday wardrobe lie a sweet simmering sensuality hot enough to melt through more than a couple layers of his own reserve. His own well developed means of self-protection. But *this*. . . this side of the enigmatic Dr. Scully threatened to burn away all of his pretensions towards civility, and certainly any hope he might that evening entertain of behaving like a proper gentleman. Sweet God in heaven. How did the woman expect him to make it through an entire night without succumbing to the nearly primal desire to ravage her? She was dressed in black, a color he had often in the past appreciated on her. He had always admired the way the darkness contrasted with her skin's creamy complexion; the way it seemed to bring the richness of her hair into sharper relief. Besides, the hue was almost archetypally erotic. Seeing the woman he loved clothed in such a fashion seemed to signal to him all sorts of . . . extreme possibilities. But the dress had more going for it than simply its color. It was made of a fabric he couldn't identify, but one that swirled and floated around Scully like mist. And yet, that wasn't to say that the garment was shapeless. Oh God, no. Its waist was marked by a wide belt made of the same cloth as the rest of the dress. When coupled with the slight flare of its skirt, it made Scully's middle appear impossibly small. So tiny that Mulder mused he could easily span it with his two hands should the urge arise. The skirt itself hit somewhere an inch or two above her knee. So he couldn't in all good faith accuse the outfit's length of being overtly provocative. And yet, every time she moved, its bottom half seemed to cling lovingly to a hip . . . a thigh . . . the curve of her buttocks . . . then flow free once more. The whole thing, one great big perpetual tease. And the bodice . . . Or, more to the point--what there *was* of a bodice. . . . First off, the dress had no back. None. Zip. Nada. And what it had as a front was . . . well . . . overtly provocative. The damn thing was a halter. It closed around the back of Scully's slender throat, held in place by a single black button. And what were held so securely by that fastening were two wide shirred swathes of fabric that neatly ran up either side of her torso. Her breasts were covered, true. There was even a bit of overlap down near where those strips of cloth met the waistband, which lent the dress the appearance of respectability, arguably even, restraint. But there was nothing whatsoever restrained about Mulder's reaction to the sight of Scully's breasts quivering freely, gently, beneath that halter as she glided towards him; the whisper of her stockings, the soft click of her heels against the flagstone, serving as soundtrack for the scene. She knew, he thought with self-directed amusement. Scully knew the reaction she was drawing from him with her attire, the emotions she was evoking. The physical need she stirred. She had to. He was way past the point of feigning nonchalance. And she had always been able to pick up on his moods, the serpentine manner in which his mind often ordered his thoughts. Yeah, she recognized she had him right where she wanted him. The sparkle of pure devilry shining in her eyes nearly blinded him. Not to mention the way it turned him on. Breathe, Mulder, breathe, he instructed himself wordlessly. Oh boy. Oh my God, look at his face, Scully thought with a touch of giddy humor and the smallest measure of self-satisfaction. Mulder's expression was priceless. As far as she could tell, at that precise instant her partner seemed utterly incapable of moving. Instead, he stared at her, his eyes wide and a trifle uncomprehending, their color a mossy green. Even simple conversation seemed more than he could muster. His mouth hung open mid-word, parted in a manner that made her think of long slow kisses, and how well, how beautifully those lips fit against hers. No doubt about it--Mulder appeared positively dumbstruck. Speechless. Quite a change from the usual glib ease with which he normally conducted himself. Score one for the Irish. "What were you saying, Mulder?" she asked innocently once she had reached his side, her hand stretching up to push a thick wavy fall of hair out of her eyes. Mulder found himself longing to bury his own fingers in her tousled curls. Or better still, to see that wonderfully rumpled head of hair spread on a pillow. His pillow. "You found out how La Lune Argentine got its name?" Scully was standing close, inches away, her lips curved, glistening in the courtyard's shadows in a way that promised all manner of pleasure if he just gave in to the impulse, the need that rose in him like a rocket leaving Cape Kennedy bound for distant worlds. To kiss her. To grab her and meld his lips to hers. To fuse them. To weld the two of them together so that Scully and he would be locked in a never-ending embrace. An eternal kiss. Yeah. As if that would be long enough. Her body was turned towards his so that her left breast bobbed only a hair's breadth away from his right arm. Mulder wondered for one crazy moment if were he to brush that arm against her sweet curve right there in front of Bill, some-time innkeeper, full-time college professor, he might possibly feel her nipple rise up to meet him through the dress. The temptation was almost too much to bear. His groin thickened merely with the notion. His arm twitched in readiness. . . . "So, are you going to enlighten me, Mulder? Or do I have to guess?" Mulder snapped out of his reverie as abruptly if someone had dashed ice water in his face, and reluctantly took a half step away from Scully in hopes of avoiding any future calamity like the one he had been contemplating only seconds before. Shifting his gaze, he took in his partner's thoroughly amused expression. And, as absurd as he knew the idea to be, felt alarmingly certain that somewhere along the way the auburn- haired woman on his right had turned clairvoyant. "Why don't you ask Bill to tell you the story?" he suggested dryly as he tried by sheer force of will to hold back the color he could feel rising up to tint his cheeks. "I'm sure he'll do a better job of it than I would." Especially right at this particular moment, he added silently in chagrin. "Be happy to," Bill offered smoothly, apparently unaware of the currents flowing not at all subtly between the two people before him. Or perhaps choosing simply not to acknowledge them. "It's pretty simple really. The place was named for its best known owner." Scully curiously arched a brow. "And who would that be?" "Selene Broussard." Scully smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid the name doesn't ring a bell." Bill smiled back at her. "It wouldn't. Not anymore. But in her day, Selene was one of New Orleans' most famous citizens." "Famous for what?" she inquired. "Her beauty. Her wit," Bill said as if ticking off items on a grocery list. "Her *temper*. Selene was a courtesan. According to local legend, one of her lovers built this house specifically for her. Tragically, he supposedly later killed her here as well." "The ghost!" Scully exclaimed with a look at Mulder for confirmation. Bill chuckled. "Aha! So you've heard about our resident spook." "I may have mentioned it," Mulder murmured. Bill nodded. "At first Laura and I worried that rumors about the place being haunted would be bad for business. But surprisingly, the opposite has proven true. People love the idea. I had one lady call up and ask if she could rent out the entire place to do a seance." Scully's lips curled. "And what did you tell her?" Bill ruefully shook his head. "'No thank you.' The last thing I need is a house full of Ghostbusters on my hands. One sad little spirit seems a much better bargain." "I was just getting ready to ask you before . . . before I got distracted," Mulder said with a self-deprecating smile and a sideways glance at Scully. "Have you ever seen or heard her yourself?" "Me?" Bill inquired. "No. I never have. But, Laura thinks she's heard something. The sound of footsteps and a muffled sort of crying. I don't know if I buy it, to tell you the truth. But, the folks we bought from said that they had heard Selene on several occasions. And, after all, we've only been in the house for a little over a year. Maybe she and I have just never crossed paths." "Well, you and your wife have done a wonderful job with the place," Scully assured him warmly. "It's absolutely beautiful." "Thanks," Bill said, beaming. "We're pretty proud of it. " "So, I understand the 'moon' part of the name--Selene obviously being a moon goddess," Scully said thoughtfully. "But how exactly does 'silver' enter into it?" "Her eyes," Bill answered simply. "By all accounts, they were her most striking feature. They were gray apparently. A very light gray. Somewhere along the line someone referred to them as silver. And that, coupled with her first name gave Selene the nickname 'The Silver Moon'. I suppose it was the same sort of thing as with Dumas' 'La Dame aux Camellias'." "I suppose," Scully murmured with a nod. "She really was lovely," Bill enthused, obviously an admirer of the woman in question. "At least--if her portrait is anything to go by." "Her portrait?" Mulder queried. "Yeah," Bill confirmed with a grin. "It was a real find. We discovered it tucked away under the eaves when we moved in. You'd have thought someone would have donated it to a museum or something. But it didn't happen. Of course, the poor thing is understandably a bit worse for wear. Hell, it had probably been sitting upstairs for God only knows how long. Laura has made restoring it a pet project of hers. Although with as busy as we've been with the inn I can't say that she's really had the time to get very far with it." Pausing for a moment, the tall slender bespectacled man self-consciously ran a hand through his thinning blond hair. "Speaking of time, if I don't shut up, you two aren't going to have enough of it to go get something to eat." "Don't be silly," Mulder told him with a smile. "We appreciate your taking the time to answer our questions." "My pleasure." "In fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask one more," Scully quickly said. "Shoot." "I understand that Selene was killed by her lover," she began with a wry smile. "But how did the whole thing come about? What exactly happened?" "He strangled her," Bill said succinctly. "In a fit of passion. He came home and found her in bed with another man." "How awful!" Scully mumbled softly. "Oh, it gets better," Bill assured her. "Or worse, as the case may be. In the end the guy was overcome with guilt. He wound up hanging himself. Over the bed in which he had ended Selene's life." ************************************************ At one point early in the evening, Mulder had mused that the blood-thirsty topic of conversation he and Scully had discussed with Bill before leaving the inn should, by all rights, have put them both off their appetites. But then again, the woman with whom he was dining that particular Friday night spent a hefty percentage of her time cutting up corpses. So he guessed, in the end, one long ago crime of passion probably didn't do much in the way of unsettling her stomach. For his part, Mulder knew it would take more than hearing the details regarding a violent lovers' spat for him to pass up the chance at fresh seafood. Growing up on the Vineyard had spoiled him when it came to fish. As blasé as he was about most of the rest of his diet, if something with fins or a shell hadn't been caught that day, he just wasn't interested in eating it. No problem in the Big Easy. Especially not at the quiet little back street restaurant Bill had suggested. The innkeeper had told Mulder it wasn't anything flashy. "You won't get a souvenir bib or a drink that lets you keep the glass as a momento of the experience," Bill had said with a smile. "But, if you're looking for the best seafood in town, all I can say is--this is where the locals go." And wise people they were too. Because the food was amazing. Shrimp as big as his hand. Gumbo that managed to be spicy but not overpowering. Bread that made him want to rail at the injustice involved in allowing that tasteless white stuff he always seemed to find on sale for under a buck to go by the same name. And wine that had Mulder wishing he knew enough about things like 'vintage' and 'bouquet' to fully appreciate the bottle Scully and he were sharing. The restaurant itself was hushed, subdued, despite the fact that every table was filled. Candlelight provided most of the establishment's illumination. White linen and fresh flowers adorned the tables, all of which were far enough apart to promote the illusion of intimacy. Many of the patrons seemed to know each other, and they nodded and smiled at acquaintances as they wound their way through a decor composed more of wood than anything else. The service wasn't quite as vigorous as what Mulder was used to in some of the places he frequented near the Beltway. But, that was all right by him. He wasn't opposed to lingering. After all--he couldn't fault the scenery. "What?" Mulder was sitting back in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles, and eyeing with unabashed appreciation the woman across from him. "Nothing," he murmured with a shake of his head and a quirk of a smile just before he took another sip of his wine. On the opposite side of the table, a brow arched in silent reproach. Although Scully's answering smile took away any sting the look might have provoked. "Oh, I don't know, Mulder. It didn't look like 'nothing' to me." He dipped his head, acquiescing. "I was just thinking that it's a good thing Frohike can't see you in that dress." "Oh, and why is that?" "'Cause then I'd have to kill him." Knowing just how fond her partner was of the Lone Gunmen's oldest and shortest member, Scully wasn't too terribly alarmed by this pronouncement. "You know, it isn't as if my dress is the equivalent of that DAT tape, Mulder," she drawled mildly as she rested her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers before her lips. "Seems to me that even if Frohike did happen to catch a glimpse of my outfit, he should probably still be allowed to live." "No, you don't understand," Mulder told her as he leaned forward in his seat and drew closer to his dinner companion. "I mean . . . Frohike has already elevated you to goddess status. You walk into a room, and the poor guy gets so flustered he starts speaking in tongues." Scully chuckled, remembering the late night conversation she and Frohike had shared when they had each thought Mulder was dead and that the X-Files were no more. Much to her surprise, her would-be worshipper had proven a good friend that night, and a source of some much needed support. Even if his turning up on her doorstep had added another item to her recycling bin. "But if he *ever* saw you in that dress," Mulder continued, his gaze warm, a slight smile still tugging on his lips. "Well, I'm afraid it would be the equivalent of a holy war. An all or nothing kind of thing, you know? He'd want you all to himself. I know I do." Scully ducked her head a bit shyly, a suggestion of a smile softening her mouth. "I wouldn't worry. For all his quirks, Frohike is a bright guy. I don't think it would take much for him to realize that he was outmatched." "I don't know, Scully. Maybe we shouldn't underestimate him. After all, it's surprising sometimes just what exactly a man in love is capable of." "Ah . . . ," Scully playfully said with a lift of her brows. "And who are we talking about now, Agent Mulder?" The dark-haired man with the sleepy hazel eyes merely shrugged. "Mulder, at this point in our relationship there is very little you could do that would surprise me," she purred with deliberate provocation. His lashes lowered indulgently for an instant. "Hmm . . . That sounds suspiciously like a dare, Agent Scully. Do you really believe that I'm incapable of shocking you?" She moistened her lips. "I really believe that I would like to see you try." Mulder slowly nodded. And signaled for the check. *********************************************** Yet, in the end, the two agents didn't wind up running back to their accommodations. Trying to flag a taxi didn't even occur to them. Experience had taught them the piquant sweetness of anticipation. So instead, they walked. Why not? The night was lovely. Mild for spring in New Orleans, with a light wind off the river to help slice through the humidity. They strolled side by side, Mulder taking care to match his stride to his partner's. Each remained surprisingly silent, almost as if they feared shattering the mood, the circle of privacy they could feel encapsulating them, fragile and beautiful as a soap bubble. Shielding them, setting them apart, as they walked amidst a sea of similar couples. Similar men and women. Visitors and natives alike. It was uncanny, really, the manner in which they could sense their bodies being drawn to one another. At times it seemed as if the pull existed without they themselves being able to control it. To rein it in. They would find their arms brushing against each other as they walked. Or from time to time, Mulder's hand would magically end up caressing the smooth warm slope of Scully's back, guiding her as they turned a corner or maneuvered through pockets of other pedestrians out enjoying the evening. Even Scully's dress conspired to ensnare the man walking beside her. Its skirt would flutter with the breeze, the draft created by passerbys, and slip between Mulder's legs or slap lightly against his thigh. Like a reminder. As if he needed one. And so, it actually came as little surprise when their fingers ended up woven together. At first, just a couple of them. Entwined lightly. Tentatively. Then, without either of them knowing who instigated it, their hands slid more firmly together. To clasp. Wholly, completely. Palm to palm. Forming a bond. They traveled that way for a time. Neither taking particular note of what had occurred. Until, at last, almost as an afterthought, Mulder glanced down at their hands. He considered for a moment. Then he smiled, his eyes raising to find Scully's. She had followed his gaze with her own, and smiled back, the pleasure she received from the evening, from his touch, shimmering in her eyes like sunlight off still water. Mulder basked in the warmth of that look, then nodded. Who knew that a simple thing like the sensation of her small hand resting in his larger one could signify so much more, he thought with a touch of amazement. And that the act of acknowledging that connection on a public street would feel like a kind of promise. A vow. No less holy for being spoken without words under a lazy star-lit Louisiana sky rather than beneath a church's vaulted ceiling. ************************************************ "Dance with me, Mulder." They had returned to their room. The inn was still. Its other guests either out or asleep for the night. In the darkness, Scully stood beside Mulder framed in the balcony's wide archway, breathing in the night's scented air. In the distance, they could faintly hear a saxophone moaning with a lonely sort of longing, piercing with its melody the city's muffled undertones of automobiles and fragmented conversations. "I'm not much of a dancer, Scully," he murmured from right above her ear, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder. For just a quarter second, she flashed back to another time, another dance, another woman, and a certain hotel hallway. Oh Mulder, I seem to remember you doing just fine with Phoebe, Scully thought with rueful humor. And then, just as quickly, she dismissed the memory. Ancient history. That scene had nothing to do with the present. With them. "I'll teach you," she whispered, and turned into his arms. He welcomed her there as if there was nowhere else on earth that she should be. And indeed, that was how it felt to her. To them both. Sighing with the homecoming, she wrapped a slender arm up and around the back of Mulder's neck. He curved his around her waist. Their remaining two hands linked, his covering hers protectively, and settled against his chest. Scully nestled her cheek just below Mulder's shoulder, reveling in the subtle ebb and flow of his muscles shifting against her delicate frame as they slowly turned and swayed to the faraway music. Her partner had nothing to fear, she mused fondly. He may not be their generation's Fred Astaire, but he was a natural at holding her. And wasn't that what this sort of dancing was, after all? Merely an excuse to be close. A reason to rest their bodies against each other. An opportunity to touch and be touched. She closed her eyes for a instant, sinking in to the sensation, giving herself over to the moment. To him. She didn't want this to end. This sweet interlude. This strange yet wonderful sense of oneness she felt enfolded in Mulder's embrace. He smelled so good. Soap and sweat and man all blending together to form a mix a girl just couldn't buy over the counter. Although, Scully had to admit that if someone did figure out a way to bottle the fragrance, she would undoubtedly be the new cologne's number one customer. She honestly couldn't get enough of him. Not that night. Not ever. Everything about him aroused her both mentally and physically. Even the sound of his heartbeat charmed her. The steady thud of it beneath her ear, its even rhythm, serving as a kind of pulmonary percussion section to the phantom saxophone serenading them still. "I can hear your heart," she told him quietly as she combed her fingers through the silky hair grazing his collar. "I'm not surprised," he replied just as softly, the words vibrating with a rumble in his chest. "It's had a lot to say the past couple of days." "Does that bother you?" she asked, pulling back to look into his eyes, knowing that even obscured by the room's shadows they would reveal to her his answer long before his words would. "That I feel more these days?" he inquired with a gentle lopsided smile. "No, Scully. I don't mind when my heart decides it needs to chat. Not when you're the topic of conversation." She smiled at him, tenderness for this man filling her, pushing aside all other thoughts, all other considerations. "You've always 'felt', Mulder. Sometimes too much." "Not enough to do anything about it," he reminded her ruefully, his lips nuzzling her hair. "Not when it came to us." No, Scully thought as she and Mulder continued to slowly move to the music filtering in through the balcony's French doors. Neither of them had dared act upon their feelings for each other, the love they had each kept hidden like a pirate's treasure. Buried for what seemed an eternity. Not until a madman had driven them to it; forced them to recognize what had been staring them brazenly in the face for so very long. That the person with whom they worked had somehow, some way, become the single most important individual in their lives. The one without whom they were something less than whole. After all, wasn't that what she had felt when she had come home from New Mexico alone and disheartened. When she had understood with the most terrible sort of self-knowledge that part of her had remained beneath the hard packed earth so many thousands of miles away. Buried there under a blazing sun whose heat was challenged only by the fire that for awhile she had believed had ended Mulder's life. That separation had ached like a mortal wound. The kind that would never heal, never close. That no amount of doctoring or time could cure. And yet, they had been lucky, hadn't they? Mulder had been given another chance. As had she before him. Not all the players in the little drama she and Mulder called their lives had been that fortunate, Scully acknowledged as Melissa's gentle face drifted bittersweet into her mind's eye. But she and Mulder had thus far survived. And in some respects, thrived. The happiness she felt singing through her blood supplied for her all the proof that last statement required. And, as she tightened her arms around her lean, lanky dance partner, Scully realized with a rush of resolve, that such triumphs had to be celebrated. Had to be relished. Life was too fragile, time too fleeting, to do otherwise. "I know what I want to do, Mulder," she whispered in a low husky voice. "And what is that?" She tilted back her head to look at him, the hand she had around his neck coming forward to trace his hairline. "I want to make love to you." Mulder returned her gaze, his eyes warm and liquid in the half-light, his smile tender. "Scully, I always knew that you were the real brains of the operation." They stilled their movement, and remaining in the circle of Mulder's arms, Scully stretched up to kiss him. He sighed with pleasure. And she smiled slightly against his mouth, surprised as always by just how soft his lips were. How utterly he could seduce her merely by moving them gently against her own. She had almost succumbed to his ministrations, had almost gotten lost in his kiss just as she had so many times before, when she pulled back, and instead ran the backs of her fingers down the slope of his cheek. "Do you trust me, Mulder?" she asked a tad mischievously, consciously echoing the question he had asked her just twenty-four hours before. "You know I do," he answered quietly, a faint quizzical smile tilting his lips. "With you heart?" He nodded solemnly. "With your body?" she queried lightly, her hand still caressing his face. "With my soul." Scully felt her insides suddenly constrict, her eyes well. "Then let me," she whispered, as her fingers drifted down to the top button of his shirt and slipped it free. Another slipped loose. And another yet again. "Trust me." She strung a string of kisses down the center of his torso. Slow moist kisses that ran in a line from the base of his throat to directly between his nipples, ending just above the cross around his neck. He gasped as her mouth descended. She paused at that, and looked up at him, her blue eyes nearly black in the faint light leaking into the chamber from outside. "I'm going to seduce you, Mulder," she told him with a suggestion of a smile and a challenging arch of her brow. He chuckled, the sound a bit wobbly. Then, his hands flexed on her slender waist, giving her middle a squeeze. "I've got news for you, Scully. You already have." She shook her head, her fingertips running faintly over the planes of his chest. "No, not yet. I need you to do something for me first." "Anything." Now, it was her turn to chuckle. "Don't stop me." * * * * * * * * Subject: "At a Loss for Words" (4/15) NC-17 by K. Rasch From: krasch@delphi.com Date: Wed, 28 Aug 96 21:39:05 -0500 At a Loss for Words (4/?) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com ************************************************ Those following along at home may remember that at the end of our last chapter, Dana Scully implored Fox Mulder: "Don't stop me." He cocked a brow and a smile. "And why ever would I do that?" She tugged his shirt free from his pants, a playful smile gracing her own lips. "Well, . . . perhaps 'stop' is the wrong word. What about 'distract'? Or maybe, just plain 'help'." "You don't want me to help you seduce me?" She laughed softly once more, and brushed her lips against his. "What I want is for this to be about you. Only you." Something flared a bit wildly in his hazel eyes, only to at once be ruthlessly brought under control. When he spoke, his lightly teasing words echoed this restraint. "I see. And where will you be?" "Right where I belong." With that she kissed him again. More deeply this time, her tongue rubbing slowly, provocatively, against his. Her arms twined tightly around his neck, her breasts pressed heavy against his chest. "Let me," she implored breathlessly as she sprinkled a deluge of tiny soft kisses on his face. "Let me give this to you, Mulder. Please. I want to. And I have a feeling that it wouldn't take much for you to want it too." His hands came up and framed her face, trembling slightly against her cheeks as they did so. He held her still for a moment while their eyes carried on a silent conversation. But, before she was willing to let it go, Scully had one more thing she had to say out loud. "I promise, I'll take good care of you." With that, Mulder shook his head, a touch of wonder in his expression. "I'd have to be as nuts as everyone claims I am to say no," he murmured wryly, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones. "All right, Scully. We'll do it your way. As of right now, I place myself in your very capable hands." "You won't be sorry." "I'm counting on it." Their eyes clung for a moment. Then, her hands returned to the remaining buttons on his shirt, and smoothly freed them from their holes. In a matter of seconds, the white cotton shirt hung open from his shoulders. Scully could see the strong lines of his chest, his stomach's tender skin. Lightly she ran her palms beneath the shirt, skimmed her fingertips over his warm torso. "Have I ever mentioned how much I like your body, Mulder?" He laughed softly, shortly. "Maybe from time to time." She smiled up at him, then kissed him right where she judged his heart to be. "Ah, well--I didn't want to overdo it. I wouldn't want you to think me shallow." She slid her hands up to his shoulders and pushed his shirt to the floor. He stood before her, his hands at his sides, his chest rising and falling in a rapid, uneven manner. Watching and waiting, as she had requested that he do. He was beautiful, she thought, her admiration for him glowing plainly in her eyes. He had a swimmer's body; all long muscles, and loose-limbed grace. Like most athletes in that sport, his waist was slim, his shoulders broad. Lightly, almost experimentally, she drew her fingertips across his skin, using them like an artist's brush, tracing muscle. With a gentle touch, she painted her own variety of abstract art; her canvas, his chest. "But perhaps I've been remiss, Mulder," she murmured as her mouth lowered to one of his small brown nipples. She closed her lips tenderly around it, and flicked her tongue over the nubbin. Mulder groaned. She smiled at the sound. "Perhaps I should tell you just what exactly I think of you." "Go ahead," he whispered with a shaky smile, his eyes sliding shut as Scully's mouth turned its attention to his other nipple. She waited, choosing instead to tantalize the man before her with her tongue, her teeth. Carefully, she even suckled at his breast. Mulder responded by hissing in a quick lung full of air, and throwing back his head as if in agony. She knew better. Finally, she released him and looked up, her eyes sparkling. Mulder met her gaze, his dark and fathomless. She reached up and outlined the shape of his mouth with her index finger. "You're perfect." Despite his arousal, the man before her chuckled ruefully. "Uh-oh, Scully. It sounds as if all those blows to the head you've suffered over the years have finally impaired your judgment." She grinned, and wrapped her arms around his neck, tugging down his head for a long lazy kiss. "You are, Agent Mulder," she told him when their mouths parted company. "To me, you are. You're everything I want." He moistened his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. "Then that's all that matters." She nodded, and kissed him again, her mouth open and hungry against his. Mulder returned the kiss, greedily slanting his lips over hers. And yet, he continued to allow her to take the lead. Instead, he merely held her. One hand splayed against her silky back, the other buried in the soft cloud of her hair. Scully ran her hands over her partner's naked skin. The smooth sculpted breadth of his shoulders, the gentle curve of his waist. She could sense how her touch excited him, could feel the evidence pressed hard and impatient against her belly. His need fed her own desire, her own physical demands. And yet, she refused to hurry. She wanted this to last. For the man in her arms to be the recipient of every weapon in her feminine arsenal. Hell, let's be honest, Dana--you want Mulder to be screaming for you when he comes, she acknowledged dryly. After all, she owed him. Finally tearing her lips from his, she trailed them down the line of his throat, lapping and sucking her way along while her hands found his belt buckle and deftly unfastened it. "What's your greatest fantasy, Mulder?" she asked him in a low throaty voice, her fingers fluttering lightly along his waistband. "You," he answered without hesitation. She chuckled. "I'm not a fantasy. I'm real." "Exactly," he told her quietly, his eyes glittering down into hers like diamonds. "Why would I need make-believe, when I finally have the real thing?" She kissed him on the sensitive patch of skin just behind his ear. "I don't know, Mulder. There's something to be said for imagination. If nothing else, the women you create in your head never give you any lip." "I love your lips," he protested with a growl and a wolfish smile. She captured his lower one with her teeth and carefully nibbled on it while her fingers grabbed hold of the zipper on his pants and lowered it. "And I love yours," she whispered, kissing the object of her affection tenderly upon releasing it. "But that still doesn't take care of the problem." "We don't have any problems. At least not in that regard." She knelt before him like a geisha and freed his shoes from his feet. His socks were gently removed as well. She then stood once more, and eased her hands inside his slacks, slipping them between boxers and skin, her breasts brushing like a tease against his middle. "Maybe it's my problem then. My concern. You see, I've always been very competitive. When I do something, I like to do it well." "You do," he assured her as he nuzzled her brow, the subject of their cryptic conversation never in doubt. "Thanks, Mulder," she said with a small smile as she bent to remove his trousers and shorts so that he finally stood before her naked. "But there are always ways to improve." Mulder hummed non-committally as she stood again and circled him, her hands smoothing over his heated skin with a kind of purely carnal enjoyment. He was hers, she thought with a surge of nearly painful satisfaction. This brilliant, beautiful, gentle, insane man belonged to her. He proved it to her every day with his devotion, his loyalty, his love. And now, he had made himself absolutely vulnerable to her, standing there unmoving, his eyes half closed, trusting that she would keep her promise. That she would cherish him as much as she knew he did her. The idea aroused her more than the most fervent caress ever could. She stepped around behind him, not quite ready to let him look into her eyes right at that moment. Not certain she could maintain control if he did. She pressed her cheek against the powerful sweep of his upper back, nuzzling him there. Sighing, she clasped her arms around his waist, one hand coming to rest, fingers spread, on his chest; the other, just below his navel. "You're so strong, Mulder," Scully whispered against his skin, her breath hot and moist. "Do you even realize sometimes how strong you are? I feel so safe with you. Like nothing can touch us as long as we're together." Mulder didn't feel strong. Not one bit. In fact, he ruefully mused, right at that moment a particularly husky preschooler could probably take him. Effortlessly tumble him right over on his ass with a push of the little one's tiny hand. God, it was taking all of his concentration, all of his supposed might, merely to remain standing. Because for all his calm forbearance, Scully was reducing him to a pale quivering imitation of a man with her touch. Her heatedly spoken words of praise. The frank look of approval in her eyes. "Do I make you feel that way, Mulder?" she inquired quietly as her lips began inching their way down his spine. She went slowly, her mouth open as she pressed one soft kiss after another down the length of his back. At the same time, her hands moved just as gently over him, sweeping across his chest, his shoulders, his upper arms, his waist. "Do I make you feel safe?" Now?!-- he wanted to whimper. =Right now=? No, Scully. Not safe. Anything but safe, he wanted to confess. You make me hot and weak and nervous and reckless and happy--so blessedly happy that if his life ended right then and there he knew he would be unable to muster a complaint. After all, he had been allowed this. Amidst all the pain and the fear and the failure that had dogged his days, he had been given a gift. Her. Some merciful deity somewhere had looked down on him and granted him Dana Katherine Scully. Mulder didn't know what he had done to deserve such a prize. He had no idea what act had finally convinced the powers-that-be to grace him with a woman like her. But, he meant to make certain that she never regretted their relationship. Never wondered if perhaps the whole thing wasn't some sort of terrible mistake. That kind of resolve, that sort of responsibility, weighed heavily at times. Hell, some days it seemed as if the odds against him, against them, were frighteningly astronomical. First, Scully and he had to battle all the silly foolish little things all couples had to face. The jealousies. The annoying little habits and peccadilloes that when two people were just getting to know each other were seen as endearing, only to later become the source of immeasurable irritation. And, to make matters worse, they had to put up with all the petty vexations while virtually living in each other's pockets. They saw more of each other than did many married couples. And yet they failed to enjoy the freedom such a relationship should, by all rights, have entailed. No. The subterfuge and care that went into maintaining the platonic myth of their partnership had made restraint second nature. And control, the touchstone by which they lived their lives. So, at times like this, when Scully asked him to disregard that control, to let loose, to fully open himself up to her, Mulder wondered sometimes if he could bear it. If he could actually give her the truly honest response she sought. Then, he remembered his vow, his promise to make the woman he loved as happy as she made him. And suddenly it all came a good deal easier. "Safe isn't a word I would use when it comes to you, Scully," he muttered hoarsely, his head tipped back slightly, his eyes tightly shut. Her tongue touched first one dimple on the small of his back, then the other. Mulder bit back a moan. Scully didn't acknowledge his effort. Instead, she continued to tease him, her lips grazing his side, the back of his thighs, his buttocks, her hands resting lightly on his hips, kneading him there. "What word would you prefer?" Mulder was beginning to sway, not certain how much longer his legs would support him. Not against the onslaught Scully was inflicting upon his senses. "I don't know . . ." "Tell me," she urged, nibbling on the curve of his behind, her soft hair tickling his painfully sensitized skin. "Try." He attempted a chuckle that came out more like a groan, his mind whirring like a radial on slush. Finally, in desperation he mumbled, "Maddening." Her caresses abruptly stopped, although her hands remained poised on his hips. "Maddening?" Whoops. Mulder couldn't judge how Scully was taking his little confession, but decided to see it through to the end. "Yes, . . . maddening." With that, the tip of one slim index finger began to run up the back of his thigh, from the slight indentation of his knee to his derriere "And would that word describe the way you always think of me, or just the way you feel right now?" This time, the short pained sound coming from his throat more closely resembled the laugh it strove to be, and yet the attempt was still shaky at best. "Scully, at this moment, I can't think much past right now." For a time, she said nothing. Mulder stood facing away from her, waiting. Bravely trying to gather himself, his breath, his badly-taxed control. Without warning, her hands abandoned him. He heard a rustle of fabric. Something grazed the back of his calves. Then, he heard Scully whisper, "Turn around." Had she murmured, "Set yourself on fire" he would have been just as powerless to disobey. But as her actual instruction sounded far more promising, he moved to comply as quickly as he was able. God. Not only was her sweet soft mouth inches away from a portion of his anatomy that was straining towards her, almost frantically seeking her attention, but she had taken off that twice bedamned dress. The one that had been wreaking havoc with his sanity all night long. And hidden beneath it like a secret had been, what was to him, the most beloved occupant of Scully's lingerie drawer. Her garter belt. Black with tiny pink roses. Holding up a pair of slinky ebony hose. She knelt at his feet wearing those, a lacy pair of matching panties, and her black high-heeled sandals. And nothing else. Battling a sudden wave of light-headedness, Mulder wondered if Scully would think him any less a man if he swooned. As it was, he flinched with a degree of violence when she raised her small hand and lightly traced the length of him. Outlined him. Smiling her very best Mona Lisa smile as she contentedly watched him jump beneath the caress. "You know, I'm not certain that I should be flattered by hearing I drive you *mad*, Mulder," she murmured in a low husky voice, her thumb rubbing now over his very tip. "You should," he gritted out, his hands fisting at his sides, the muscles in his neck cording. "You should." Her smile broadened. "I see. So, then your going a bit insane, . . . your loss of control is a *good* thing?" No doubt about it. The woman was clairvoyant. "Yes," he hissed as her gentle hands now cupped the heavy sac of nerves at his base and lifted it, jostling it slightly in her palm. His eyes slid tightly shut in reaction. "Oh God, . . . yes." "Well, you know what they say, Mulder," she said softly as she smoothed her thumb over the vein that ran up the underside of him, her eyes smoky and full of promise. "You can never have too much of a good thing." Mulder had run out of words. He could only watch her, the blood pounding at his temples, the sweat trickling down his hairline. "So, let's see what exactly it takes to drive you insane, shall we, Agent Mulder?" she said lowly, the mock menace in her voice tempered by her smile. "Only I want to be sure I do it right. If I'm to be your fantasy, I have to make certain that I please you." Oh God, any more pleasure would kill him. "You do," he whispered fervently. "Remember Mulder--there's always room for improvement." And with that, she licked her lips. And Mulder felt quite confident that he was going to lose it right then and there. That he was going to spiral up and away, exploding like a fireball, before Scully ever even did what he knew she was about to do and wanted her to do more than he wanted the earth to continue spinning. . . . . Then, she lowered her head. And he was lost. A tortured inarticulate sound was ripped from the back of his throat as her soft hot mouth closed around him, taking the head of him between her lips and slowly running her tongue over him. Oh God. Oh sweet Jesus. She played with him that way, her mouth locked firmly over him. Over and under and around, her tongue lapped. At times, just the tip of it, flicking. Then, she would flatten it and lave the hard rounded length of him. Pressing against him, driving him on. Coaxing. Urging. Until he thought he would weep when after a while, an all too short while, she pulled her mouth up and away from him. "Did you like that, Mulder?" He wanted to tell her. To share with her the raw, piercing sort of ecstasy her caresses had shown him. But ordering words into a sentence was really too Herculean a task at present. So, instead, he kept it simple. He whimpered. She smiled. Wickedly. "Or perhaps you'd prefer this." Her bright tousled head bent and she drew him once more into the hot wet confines of her mouth. Deeper. And deeper still. Slowly. Until Mulder could feel her nose pushed flush against his body. Her fingers dug into the resilient flesh of his buttocks, her short nails nipping at his skin. She just held him there for a moment. Unmoving. Then, lightly, so lightly that at first he thought he might be imagining it, her tongue began its playful lapping once more. His hands flew to her hair. His hips pressed beseechingly forward. Finally, Scully's head began to leisurely move. To bob up and down. And Mulder began to understand the true meaning of insanity. As a psychologist, he had, of course, run across definitions in the past. Phrases meant to break the condition apart. Ground it in something recognizable. Parallels that rendered the state of being safe. Safe. There's that word again, he mused a tad incoherently. But safe was the furthest thing from what he felt. Not safe. Alive, yes. Aroused, certainly. His entire being vibrating with the violence of his need, obviously. Christ, she was driving him nuts. Scully was pushing him right over the edge with her fullsofthotwetdeeptight mouth. Could a man die from this, he wondered as she slowly picked up speed, gradually increased the pressure, the suction her lips had created around the rigid length of him. He wasn't certain. But, right about now he was willing to make the sacrifice. Then, she stopped once more. And far less pleasant ways to die skittered across his consciousness. "So, how am I doing, Mulder?" she inquired innocently. One hand holding firmly around the base of him, the other gliding lightly up and down the hard, heavy ridge of muscle throbbing between them. "Any suggestions? Or did you like it just the way it was?" He opened his eyes and gazed down at her. She rested gracefully at his feet. Her pale body gleaming in the room's shadows like a slim flame. He could see the firm round twin curves of her breasts, their pink rigid peaks. The fine mist of sweat dewing her skin. The way her swollen moist lips glistened up at him, parted as if waiting and willing to pull him back inside. To salvation. Still, she held back. She was as turned on by this whole thing as he, and yet she was taking her time. Making him suffer. So much so, he half suspected that his picture had just been added to the latest edition of Websters. Right next to the word "desperate". Haven't you ever heard, Mulder, asked a mocking little voice inside his head. Paybacks are a bitch. "Well . . . did you? Like it, I mean," she queried quietly, her fingers gliding over him feather light. "Yes," he murmured, the single word almost more than he could manage. "Anything you'd like me to change?" She kissed him softly, right at his root. He trembled. "No." "Good." She smiled, her lips moving slowly up him, gentle and warm. "Shall I continue?" He was panting now. Every pore on his body open and receptive to whatever the woman before him might choose to do. Poised on the edge of never-never. Anxious for it. Ready to kill to have it. And yet it was out of his control. He had promised to let her run the show. What he needed, what he had to have, rested entirely in her hands. Quite literally. "Do you want me to beg, Scully?" The words came out low and hoarse. Little more than a rumble. And yet, she instantly understood. "Would you?" "Yes." Her lashes lowered with that. And she kissed him again. Moist and soothing on the hot turgid tip of him. "Don't say a word, Mulder." Then, she lowered her mouth over him once more. And, in the end, he followed her instructions. Except for one minor deviation. The broken sounding whisper of her name, murmured over and over again as he, shuddering, found release. * * * * * * * * Mulder didn't know how long he stood there. Neck arched. Mouth open. Hips thrust forward. Body quivering helplessly. His hands clenching and unclenching mindlessly in Scully's hair. Time had ceased its relevance. Nothing existed any longer but Scully and him. Nothing else counted. Nothing else was real. Then at last, he could feel his heart slowing, the sweat on his skin cooling, his muscles growing heavy and slack. Finally, he became aware of the soft cheek resting against his abdomen, the gentle glide of fingertips along his hips, his torso, his sides. Battling against the sudden weightiness of his eyelids, he looked down and saw Scully smiling up at him. Her eyes shining, her mouth curved sweetly. Not at all convinced he had the strength necessary to complete the maneuver, he leaned down a bit unsteadily, and pulled her up and into his embrace. The move proved rough, but successful. And they held each other silently, almost reverently. After a time, Scully nuzzled her face against Mulder's chest and kissed his salt slicked skin. "Hi," she whispered a trifle shyly. "Hi yourself," he murmured, his arms tightening around her. "How do you feel?" He chuckled. "How do you think I feel? I may never recover." She hugged him close for a moment, then pulled back and gazed up at him, her brow arched. "Never is a long time, Mulder." He just looked at her for a moment, at the beautiful woman in his arms. The one with the pale soft skin and the tumble of auburn hair. The one whose azure eyes glistened up at him full of warmth, intelligence, and desire. Whose full swollen lips even now inspired in him scenes that threatened to make him, the subscriber to "Celebrity Skin," blush. Whose slim silky body held surprises he knew he would never tire of discovering. The one who cradled his badly bruised heart in her hands like a robin's egg. Precious and fragile. The way he often thought to hold her. The woman he would do anything for. Anything. He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her gently. "Never is an *awfully* long time when one of us isn't satisfied." She dipped her gaze and said, a tad disgruntled, "I'm not keeping score, you know, Mulder. This isn't 'one for you and one for me'." "Ah, but maybe it should be, Scully," he countered quietly, his mouth now tracing its way along her hairline. "We're partners, after all. Doesn't that suggest a certain equality?" She smiled in spite of herself, her eyes sliding shut as Mulder gently explored her face with his lips. "Yes, it does. But don't you see--what we just did was as much for me as it was for you. Remember, I wanted it. It was my idea." "And a lovely idea it was too," he assured her. "But somehow my reaction to it and yours were . . . oh, I don't know-- subtly different?" She chuckled, her eyes opening once more, her hands flexing on his back. He smiled down into her upturned face, and spoke again. "So, call it my sense of fair play--or maybe it's simply my inability to keep my hands off you. But I feel the need to reciprocate." Scully knew herself to be warming to the notion, melting under the deep soft tenor of his words, the tender sweep of his hands over her back, her arms. Yet, she felt compelled to point out the obvious. "Mulder, I hate to burst your bubble. But your body probably won't be up to . . . reciprocating . . . for awhile yet." Mulder lifted his brows a trifle smugly. And eyes flickering away from hers for a moment to a point just beyond her shoulder, he turned Scully gently in his arms so that her back rested against his chest. "Scully, I would have thought that you of all people would appreciate just how very resourceful I can be." Before she was even quite certain how she had gotten there, Scully found herself staring straight into the cheval glass half a room away. "Look," he urged. She did. Oh dear God. "Look at yourself, Scully," Mulder whispered heatedly, his hands moving slowly over her body, gliding powerfully along her torso, massaging her skin while his mouth hovered inches from her ear. "You told me what I look like to you. How you see me. Well, this is what I see when I make love to you." The image before her was almost painfully erotic. Her slender body rested nearly boneless against Mulder's larger frame. The ebony hose and shoes calling attention to her lower body while the upper half gleamed in the room's shadows like ivory against black velvet. Mesmerized, she watched as Mulder's hands continued their leisurely inventory of her curves, her hands having somehow found their way to the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair so that her back arched, pushing her breasts forward, lifting them as if she hoped to tempt the man standing behind her with their fullness. "Do you see how beautiful you are?" he asked her softly. His mouth now teased her ear, sucking on it, nipping at it through her hair. "Do see how perfectly you fit against me? How these . . ." He cupped her breasts carefully in his palms. " . . . are exactly the right size for my hands? Do you see that?" She moistened her lips, her breath now coming in quick little jerks, not even certain what question she was answering. "Yes." His hands began gently kneading the soft mounds of flesh he held, clenching and releasing with an easy steady rhythm. She ground her hips against him in reaction. He chuckled, the sound dark and low, and nibbled on the elegant bend of her neck. "But if you want to see something truly amazing, something that never fails to take my breath away, let me show you this." One hand eased away from her breast to trail instead down the front of her. Utterly in Mulder's thrall, Scully watched his hand slide past her waist, the slight curve of her belly, to the waistband of her panties, and beyond. Coming to a stop only when it found the hot moist core of her. And slipped inside. She moaned and started in his arms. Her eyelids fluttered. "No. No, Scully," Mulder chided tenderly as his fingers moved slowly over her, tracing the slick engorged folds guarding the opening to her body, circling over the sensitive little knot of nerves hidden there. "Keep your eyes open and watch us. Watch yourself. Because believe me, Scully, there is nothing more beautiful in this world than you. Like this." She whimpered and strove to do as he instructed. But it was hard. She felt vulnerable in a way she never had before, meeting Mulder's eyes in the mirror while he played her body with the same skill that Perlman brought to a Stradivarius. His hand moved like a thief beneath the lacy triangle of her panties, stealing her control, her strength, her senses themselves. His other hand continued toying with her breast, rolling its swollen peak between his thumb and forefinger, pulling lightly on it, tracing its center with his fingertips. Her chest heaved. Her knees threatened to buckle. "Mulder . . ." she whispered, her mouth twisted into a grimace of pleasure, desperate to make him understand just what precisely he was doing to her. How ferociously her arousal had descended upon her. He knew. "I love you," he muttered against her temple, his voice rough and low, his eyes glowing fiercely in the mirror, their fire seemingly fueled by her need. "I love you, Scully. Let go. Let go for me. Let me see you. Let me see you come." And she did. Trembling and bucking as if trying to throw off chains when at last she flew apart in his arms. Powerless to do anything else. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter V Subject: "At a Loss for Words" (5/15) NC-17 by K. Rasch From: krasch@delphi.com Date: Thu, 29 Aug 96 21:10:28 -0500 At a Loss for Words (5/?) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Same old, same old. Read on, Macduff. :) ************************************************ Fox Mulder slept the sleep of the innocent. Not that his psyche had suddenly been washed clean. Unsullied. No longer tainted by the guilt, the fear, the righteous anger that had for so long added shadows to the shape of his soul. Rather, he was exhausted. Scully might be small, but she had the endurance of a triathlete. Not that he was complaining. Lord, no. Instead, he had recently begun considering whether perhaps he should start running a bit more frequently. Maybe don with more regularity that red Speedo. Build up his cardio- vascular fitness. After all, a certain sexy little redhead was, in a manner of speaking, her very own Olympic event. And he definitely wanted to be atop the podium. In a manner of speaking. Yet, for all his performance anxiety, Mulder had been able that night to feel that he had at least held his own. Because when all had been said and done, the Energizer Bunny known as Dana Scully had been the one to fall asleep first. And while he hadn't received a medal of any sort for that achievement, the occasion had granted him a kind of bounty. He had been allowed to look at her. Unhindered. Without interruption. Sappy as he recognized it was, Mulder could never get enough of watching his partner at rest. He supposed the attraction was due, at least in part, to the very novelty of the act. Hell, they spent so damn few nights together. And the hours they did manage to finagle always seemed to the two of them far too precious to waste on petty things like shut-eye. But he suspected the real delight to be had in observing Scully slumber came from the way in which sleep released her. Freed her from the constraints she habitually imposed upon herself. In her continuing pursuit of perfection. Mulder wondered sometimes whether the woman he loved even realized that she behaved in such a manner. That she set for herself such high standards. Such strict codes of behavior and conduct. In the end, the point was moot. Because cognizant or no, Scully quite simply accepted nothing less than excellence from herself. Always. And that was tough. Especially on her. Such a goal required constant vigilance on her part. It never mattered where they were, what the hour was, or what the situation. In her mind, she had to be on top of it. Without fail. On the flip side, from where Mulder was standing, it seemed as if no matter how closely he paid attention, how carefully he observed, catching Scully with her guard down was about as easy as getting a good look at old Nessie. And yet, he did manage it from time to time. When they made love, of course. And he caught glimpses of it on those occasions when she would look him in the eye and softly tell him something true, something intimate, spoken without fear of misunderstanding or consequences. But those scant moments only made him crave more. Instances of Scully without her defenses in place were as addictive as the purest heroin. And Mulder had ruefully discovered that for this particular high he had become the most pathetic of junkies. He couldn't help himself. Couldn't conquer the desire to know all there was to know about this woman. Not only her strengths, which were obvious and far too numerous to count. But the aspects of her personality that weren't so readily accessible. The things about herself that she was loath to share. Her vulnerabilities. Her weaknesses. And sleep allowed him to indulge that craving. When she lie next to him, small and warm and utterly relaxed, Mulder knew that this was Dana Scully in her purest form. Woman as an elemental being. He had held her that night until she had nodded off, softly stroking her hair in that slow lazy rhythm he knew she liked. Once he had felt her body slacken in his arms and her breathing grow deep and even, he had carefully slipped free from beneath her, rolling her slight form gently onto the mattress beside him. Propping his head on his hand, and his elbow on the pillow, Mulder had then looked down at his partner with a tender smile, his eyes leisurely sweeping over the smooth perfect oval of her face. Scully's lashes had curled like lush little ladies' fans over the faint crescents beneath her eyes. The sort of fashion accessories that had been used in Jane Austen's day and before as a means to both attract and repel a man. Struck by this insight, Mulder had stifled the urge to chuckle. He had never before made the connection. His metaphor had an unexpectedly circular logic embedded in it. After all, a woman could easily choose to use her eyes in the same manner, for the same purpose, as Emma, Elizabeth and all the rest of the Regency period's most famous heroines had utilized the language of the fan. She could bat her lashes to entice. Snap her eyes away from a man's admiring gaze in an effort to dissuade. The game was as old as civilization. But not his Scully. No game player there. She didn't get off on the power such ploys inevitably spawned. The rush to be had by dangling the promise of intimacy, the hope of affection before a man only to all at once deny him. She didn't have it in her to make a guy jump through hoops just to see if the fool would do it. Unlike Phoebe. No, he had thought fondly, his fingers stealing lightly once more through the strands of her fiery hair. Scully was too true, too kind, too good, for that sort of cruelty. Praise God. It never ceased to amaze him that such a gentle soul was shielded by such a fierce intellect, a ferocious spirit. For despite the fact that in her present state she more closely resembled 'kitten', Mulder had always thought of Scully as more 'lioness' than anything else. The real leader of the pride. Huntress. Protectress. All regal power and calm fortitude. Brave when she had to be. Tender with those with whose care she was charged. Not afraid to give the guy with the shaggy mane a quick swipe of her paw across his nose when he deserved it. Why had he suddenly felt the urge to get a haircut? Fearing that his zoological imagery was getting the best of him, Mulder had banished it from his head and had focused instead on the reality of the woman before him. The simple incontrovertible actuality of who she was. Petite. Hardly a revelation, that. And yet there were times when the knowledge made a certain powerful impact on him. Although throughout much of her Bureau career Scully had managed to avoid physical confrontations, there was no escaping the fact that her size made her vulnerable. That despite her training and intelligence, there was simply no way she was a match for a person with twice her bulk. And that, quite frankly, frightened the hell out of Mulder. He had supposed that this fear might be seen by some as a bit of a slap in the face to his partner's capabilities. Especially given that in the course of their joint careers, he had been far more likely to be on the receiving end of a butt-whupping than she. And yet, his concern was in no way due to some perceived deficiency on Scully's part. On the contrary, he knew that the woman with whom he worked had routinely recognized her physical limitations and had adjusted accordingly. To minimize her risk, she approached danger with utmost caution. Unlike his leap-first- ask-questions-later mentality, she carefully considered all the potential hazards to be found in a situation before diving in, and then reacted as needed. This, of course, wasn't to say that she lacked bravery. Mulder felt quite certain that he would never meet anyone possessing the sort of courage Dana Scully did. She just fought smart. Period. She maximized the odds. And yet, odds implied luck. And no one's luck held out forever. Some variables couldn't be foreseen or controlled. Watching Scully softly sleep, Mulder had thought back to what she had looked like during that nightmarish stand-off on Old Memorial Bridge. The one where he had thought he had watched his baby sister plunge to an icy death. The one where something not of this earth had succeeded in stealing his partner away from him, only to barter her back like some trinket at a bazaar. He had recalled seeing the blood on her face when she had been dragged from the automobile that had brought her to the exchange point. Her nose running red. An ugly looking gash oozing the same colored stuff through her hairline. He had remembered the manner in which her legs had shaken when she had stumbled back to him, to safety. And the way her empty motel room had earlier that night silently testified to the brutality of the battle waged there. The one that she had lost. Those memories swirling around inside his mind like cyanide gas, Mulder had sadly shaken his head, his brow darkening. God, how tenuous life was. How easily snuffed out. He had been considering all life he had supposed, but Scully's life in particular. She had been through so much. How the hell had she managed to survive, he had wondered with a touch of awe. How had they both? Better still, how had she kept herself from hating him for the sort of sorrow their partnership had shown her? His eyes had skimmed down her slender body where it tented the sheet beneath which she slumbered, his gaze lingering on silly things like the smallness of her foot, the sharp narrowing of her waist, the easy rise and fall of her breasts as she softly breathed, oblivious to his scrutiny. Lips pursed in thought, he had taken his index finger and with gossamer force, ran the back of it from the pale slope of her shoulder, down her arm, to her hand where it rested heavily on her stomach atop the bedclothes. Fragile, had screamed his brain. Breakable. Mortal. Precious. Sighing, he had collapsed the arm supporting him and laid his head on the pillow beside Scully's, his resting just above hers so that his chin was even with her temple. His stomach flush against her side, he had settled his arm across her middle, holding her to him. She had murmured in her sleep, but had not awakened. Instead, she had instinctively turned her face so that her nose nuzzled Mulder's throat. At the same time, her hands had found their way to his forearm where they lightly gripped. A ferocious need to protect the woman in his arms had risen up inside Mulder quite unexpectedly. A desire he knew was outdated and would most certainly go unappreciated by the person in question. But one of which he couldn't rid himself just the same. Pressing an almost furtive kiss to her hair, he had ruefully recognized the notion as far from noble. Instead, he had been painfully aware that his motivation was wholly and entirely selfish. Because he simply didn't know what he would do if he ever lost her. ************************************************** Some time later--he wasn't sure exactly how long--Mulder was awakened by a slight shift of the mattress. Scully was slipping silently out from under the covers. "You okay?" he queried softly. He had assumed that she was merely getting up to use the facilities and had actually only asked the question as a courtesy. But, when she didn't immediately answer, he became a bit concerned. "Scully?" Still no reply. Instead, she had gracefully gotten out of bed and, after a moment, walked slowly to a small needlepoint chair across the room. There she retrieved her robe and pulled it on over the black silk camisole and tap pants she had worn to bed. Mulder sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist, and impatiently rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Running his hand through his hair, he watched nonplused as Scully gently glided across the floor. Something wasn't right. True, she was moving easily, maneuvering through the room's darkness with the sureness of a cat. But the motion looked unnatural somehow. Her steps, too even. Her gait, too smooth. "What are you doing?" he inquired softly, attempting once more to gain her attention. She continued voiceless. Mulder's fear escalated. Then, she crossed through a shaft of moonlight filtering in through the balcony door. And he caught his breath in surprise. Scully's eyes were open. Not all the way; her lashes drooped at half mast. But what he could see of her gaze revealed nothing. No awareness. No intelligence. No spark. She was still asleep. His mind raced. Scully, a sleepwalker? He had never noted that about her before. Not once in all the nights they had spent together on the road had the problem arisen. She herself had never mentioned it. Surely if she was aware of the condition she would have called his attention to it. Wouldn't she? Or perhaps she had been too embarrassed to do so. On the other hand, if this was something new--why now? What would have been the impetus for this behavior? These questions and others jostling inside his head, begging answers, Mulder continued to watch Scully make her leisurely way around the room, bending and swaying as she moved like a poplar caressed by a spring breeze. Half mesmerized by the sight, he woefully realized he had no idea what to do. He knew the basics, of course. That you weren't supposed to try and rouse a person in this state. That instead they should be allowed to come out of it on their own, the shock of being forced awake having potentially lethal consequences. And the last thing he wanted to do was throw Scully into some sort of panic attack. So he waited, sitting there clad only in his silk boxers, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, his hands fisting the sheet in frustration. For her part, Scully appeared oblivious to his concern. She seemed in no hurry, to have no specific destination in mind. Rather, she wandered. Floating with an eerie sort of calm across the shadowed chamber. Taking a moment to run her fingers along a bureau top, to inspect a hairbrush, to pause before a mirror. Most disturbing to Mulder's piece of mind, her hands returned time and again to the slick softness of her robe, where they fondled the fabric with distinctly sensual pleasure. Finally, after a time, she stopped. And stood absolutely still as if scenting the air. Then, without warning, she turned suddenly and began heading slowly, yet steadily, towards the door. "Shit," Mulder mumbled hoarsely. Scully had gotten past the bed and him before he had realized her intentions. Short of teleporting, he wasn't going to be able to stop her from opening the door, and if he was going to follow her out into the hall he figured he damn well better put some clothes on first. Fumbling around in the dark, he finally found his pants wadded up near the foot of the bed. With the speed of a fireman answering an alarm, he shoved his legs roughly into them, yanked the zipper up, and followed his partner into the corridor. As it turned out, he needn't have hurried. When he got to the doorway, he found Scully standing just outside it, head turning slowly from side to side as if unsure which way to proceed. He stayed back, not wanting to crowd her, concerned that such a sensation might in some way agitate her. At last, as if coming to a decision, she turned to her left, down the longest part of the passageway. Their room was situated at the end of what Mulder thought of as the second floor's main hallway. He regarded it in this fashion because their corridor ran the front of the house, and had at its middle the massive central staircase linking La Lune Argentine's three stories. The entire building was designed in a simple hollow square with the courtyard at its center. Consequently, each of the building's three floors was made up of four hallways, one connecting to another at ninety degree angles. The inn's guests all stayed on the first and second floors, the third floor's apartments being left to Bill and Laura. Mulder didn't know how many of the inn's rooms were occupied that night, but he hoped they encountered no one else up and about at that late hour. As it was, he wordlessly said a prayer of thanks that the dainty little wall sconces had been left on to allow the corridor some small degree of illumination. Trailing behind Scully like a wraith, he once again kept his distance, hanging back to see what she would do. He was concerned that she might try and enter one of the other rooms along the corridor, and vaguely hoped that those others staying on their floor had locked their doors before turning in. Otherwise, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do. But that wasn't the case. She didn't even seem to consider the notion. Instead, she continued to walk slowly down the center of the hallway, looking from right to left as if examining it, regarding the silent wallpapered passageway as if it were a mysterious cavern and she, an intrepid explorer. They got to the small narrow galley kitchen that had been tucked away for the guests' convenience next to a linen closet. Scully appeared puzzled by this. Confused by the gleaming white refrigerator, countertop and cabinets, the spotless stainless steel sink. She paused for a moment and turned in to the area. Head cocked, she ran her small hands over the appliances as if unsure just what exactly they were. Mulder was supremely thankful at that moment that the little alcove had only a microwave and not a stovetop. All they would need would be for Scully to curiously turn on a burner and have the sleeves of her robe catch fire. The mere thought sent a shudder through him. Finally, she grew tired of her investigation of the kitchen and returned to her silent patrol of the halls. She seemed fascinated by the art on the walls--the reproductions of scenes painted over a century before, antique silhouettes and other assorted odds and ends appropriate to the period--and studied these bits of decoration intently. However, what particularly arrested her attention was the painting hanging at the top of the wide cherry wood staircase. It was an oil of La Lune Argentine as it must have looked during its heyday. Mulder was no art historian. He couldn't tell if the painting dated from the mid-nineteenth century, or if some modern day artist had merely managed to capture with his imagination how the structure must have looked when Selene Broussard had held court in the building's salon. But the picture transported its viewer back to a time of gas powered street lights and horse drawn carriages. Of ladies dressed in corsets and layers of fabric, and men sporting top hats and ebony walking sticks. Scully came to an abrupt halt before it, her head tilting back to take it all in. Mulder thought he might have heard her gasp, but he couldn't be sure. Trembling slightly, the small red-haired woman reached out and lightly ran her fingertips over the painting, over the thick swirls of pigment, almost as if she hoped to better see the picture by touch rather than by sight. For the longest time she stood there, her eyes still hazed with that unnerving lack of awareness, her lips parted, her feet bare, her diminutive frame stretched to allow her hands to caress the picture like a lover. Mulder folded his arms across his naked chest, and slouched against the wall some ways from her, lulled into a false sense of security by her apparent rapt interest in a painting she had, as far as he knew, done nothing more than glance at previously. That complacency was nearly his undoing. Or, more to the point, hers. Mulder would later wonder how he could have been so careless. How he could have stood there and almost let the unthinkable occur. As with the other things that had held her for a time in thrall, Scully's enchantment with the large, ornately framed painting ended abruptly. Her arms dropped to her sides and she turned to face the steep flight of stairs. But, in pivoting, her toe caught on the edge of the runner extending the length of the hallway and beyond. Her balance faltered. She stumbled. And began to plunge head first down the staircase's yawning mouth. Biting back a cry of terror, Mulder lunged from his place against the wall. Certain that he was going to be too late. Sure that her bright head would crack unmercifully against the edge of first one hardwood step than another. Her small body twisting and tumbling, bouncing against the railings like a gymnast out of control. But providence was with him that night, and he managed to snag his fingers on the slippery collar of her robe. And pull. Hard. Yanking her away from the precipice. And into his arms. When she slammed boneless against his chest, he felt her awaken. Her body went rigid. She sucked in air in preparation for crying out. Hurriedly, Mulder pressed his palm over her mouth, his other arm locked around her waist as he staggered back, finally sinking to his knees on the floor. "Ssh. Easy now," he crooned softly into her ear, rocking her slightly, his pulse pounding in his head like thunder. "Quiet . . . quiet. I've got you. . . . I've got you. You're all right. You're okay." They sat, huddled in a heap, Scully on his lap, Mulder's back resting against the wall upon which the oil painting of La Lune Argentine hung. Once he was certain she wouldn't unwittingly sound an alarm, he gently removed his hand from her lips. He held on to her tightly, afraid for her even though the danger of her taking a header down the stairs had ended. No, now he was worried about her less than kindly transition from sleep to awareness. Her body was nearly convulsing against him with the strength of her shudders. Smooth, Mulder, he mentally chided himself. Real smooth. People have been known to die from waking too abruptly out of a somnambulistic state. And you rouse the woman by virtually shaking her by the scruff of her neck. "M-Mulder?" The word was whispered, its edges blurred as if she was drunk. She had turned in his arms slightly so that her cheek rested against his collarbone. "I'm here," he assured her quietly, rocking her still, his lips buried in her hair. "What . . .?" She sounded lost, out of it. Her trembling continued unabated. "How . . . ?" "Give yourself some time, Scully," he instructed softly, pressing gentle kisses to her hairline. "You're not even awake yet. Just rest. It's okay. You're safe. I wouldn't let anything happen to you." Nodding a bit jerkily against his chin, she seemed to accede to his wishes. Saying nothing more for the moment, she burrowed against him, her arms locked around her middle as if trying to physically hold herself together, her head tucked beneath his chin. They rested that way a long while, Mulder's hand combing lightly through her hair. He continued to hold her to him fiercely, using the time as Scully did, to rein in his body's reaction to the near tragedy. Finally, it appeared that they had both succeeded with their quest. His heartbeat was no longer like that of a hummingbird's, and she at last sat still in his arms. Softly, her fingers found his jawline. "Where are we?" she whispered. "In the hall," he answered just as softly, still not wanting to wake any of the other guests. "Are you all right?" She ignored his question, clearly still a bit befuddled. "I . . . I was dreaming. It was so vivid, Mulder. I was here. At the inn. Only it wasn't here. The inn didn't look like it does now. It was different." "Different how?" he asked, curious in spite of himself. She shook her head, but didn't look at him just yet. "I don't know. The furniture . . . it was changed somehow. Things were moved. The colors had been altered. It's . . . weird. I don't know how to explain it." "Don't worry about it," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair in comfort. "It was just a dream." "Why are we here?" she queried a tad unsteadily after a time, her voice sounding like that of a little girl's. "You don't remember?" She shook her head once more. Mulder sighed, not certain the best way to broach this. "Scully, you wandered out here." She sat up straight so she could look him in the eye, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why?" He shrugged a bit helplessly. "I don't know. You were sleepwalking. You got out of bed and you came out here." Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Finally, she sputtered out, "But . . . I don't sleepwalk, Mulder!" Her thoroughly disgruntled tone lightened his heart immeasurably. Now she was sounding like the Scully he knew. "Well . . . maybe not before. But believe me--that's exactly what you did tonight." Impatiently, she pushed her fingers through her tousled hair. "But . . . how can that be? I never . . . . Why would I suddenly start doing something like that? What would cause it?" "I don't know," Mulder admitted softly, his hands smoothing gently over her back. "Could be a lot of things. Maybe the unfamiliar setting, the new bed . . ." "Mulder, I spend half my life in motel rooms," she interrupted dryly, her voice getting stronger by the minute. "I'm in 'new' beds more than I'm in my old one." Mulder smiled. Scully would be all right. She was bouncing back already. "What can I tell you? I'm at a loss." He lightly kissed her forehead. "Although I do have *one* more theory." "And what is that?" "Maybe it wasn't the bed at all. Maybe instead it was your bed =partner=." Her lips quirked at that. "Are you worried that for some reason I felt subconsciously compelled to get away from you, Mulder?" His eyes warmed. "If I was hogging the covers, Scully, all you had to do was say something. You didn't need to get out of bed altogether." She kissed him, her eyes twinkling back at him. "Are you crazy? After all the trouble it took to get you into bed in the first place, do you honestly believe I'd be so quick to leave myself?" "Well, I had *hoped* not . . .," he drawled quietly. She kissed him again, softly and sweetly, to banish all his doubts. "So what did I do?" she asked when their lips had parted, and her head was once more nestled beneath Mulder's chin. He quickly filled her in on the details regarding her late night stroll. Glancing over her shoulder at the staircase when he was finished, she slowly shook her head. "Wow. That's one hell of a first step." "Don't remind me," he muttered ruefully. "I'm half tempted to see if we can be moved to a first floor room tomorrow." She yawned then. "It's tomorrow already." "Come on," he said, carefully setting her on the floor and rising to his feet. "I don't know about you, but if we keep this up, I'm going to need a vacation from my vacation. We need to get some sleep." "I am kind of tired," she admitted, as her fingers again combed wearily through her hair. Reaching down, Mulder grasped Scully's hands and tugged her gently to her feet. She wobbled when she stood, her legs still a trifle unsteady. He caught her, and before she could offer protest, swept her up in his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder. She eyed him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. "You know, Mulder," she told him softly, her arms twined around his neck. "As nice as this is, I *am* capable of walking." "Your walking is what got us into this mess in the first place," he reminded her dryly. She arched a brow, her lips turning up in a reluctant smile. Mulder just stood there for a moment in the hallway, holding Scully's warm, supple body in his arms. So ridiculously thankful that they had made it through yet another potential disaster unscathed. Bending his head, he placed his lips on hers and kissed her tenderly, his mouth moving gently over hers. Rubbing. Nuzzling. Coaxing. Until finally her tongue slipped out to meet his, and they lazily explored each other. "Indulge me," he whispered against her mouth. Scully wasn't certain whether Mulder's entreaty was in regard to his fit of chivalry or something a good deal less noble--and yet, no less pleasurable. Not that it mattered at that instant. She could deny him nothing. Not when he cradled her to him so carefully, his arms strong, his skin hot against hers. His hazel eyes shining down into her blue ones like twin lanterns, offering with that gaze safety and sanctuary, the way a lighthouse beacon promises the same to a battered ship. So, raising no more protest, she pressed a small kiss to the bend of his neck and settled in for the ride. "Mulder, what will we do if this happens again?" "If what happens?" "My sleepwalking. How do we know that this is a one time thing?" "We don't. I guess to be on the safe side I should tie you to the bed." "Promises, promises, Mulder. Promises, promises." ************************************************* Oh, she had forgotten what it was like to have form. Eyes with which to see. Legs upon which to travel. Fingers with which to grasp. To take hold of silk. Of wood. She had missed that. The solidity of life. She would not be satisfied with only a single taste of it. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part VI At a Loss for Words (6/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com All the credits, disclaimers, etc. are found in the intro. This is where you find the story. Feedback of all kinds appreciated. Just a note. While I am by no means a French expert, I *have* tried to spell the words right. :) However, accent marks just don't work properly in ASCII, I've discovered. So please excuse the lack of such things as the little "caps" over the e's in tete-a-tete. Thanks. ************************************************ The two agents slept in the following morning. Later than either of them had ever expected they would. Scully awoke first, the transition gradual. She lie on her side, Mulder spooned behind her, his arm thrown over her slender body, his breath rustling her hair. For a time she merely rested there in her lover's arms, content with the world and her place in it. Finally however, unable to escape the uncanny sense that under normal circumstances she would have been up hours ago, she blinked away slumber and glanced at the clock on the night stand. Oh boy, she thought in some dismay, the morning was nearly over. They may be on vacation, but she still had things she wanted to do in the Crescent City. And not *all* of them involved that bed. Stretching languorously, she turned her head and pressed a kiss to Mulder's shoulder. He stirred at her touch and pulled her closer. "Hey," she whispered in a voice still cloaked in sleep. "Come on. Time to get up." He made a soft wordless sound of protest, then rolled, tugging her with him so that without quite knowing how they managed it, she wound up draped over his supine body, her chest to his. Throughout the maneuver, Mulder's eyes had remained closed, almost giving the impression that this was his very own quirky sort of "sleepwalking". Scully smiled at that thought, and with her hands trailing lightly over his skin, softly kissed her way up the strong column of his throat. "Hmm," he murmured quietly, his head tilting back to encourage her attention, his hands finding their way beneath her camisole to smooth gently up and down her graceful back. "You make the nicest alarm clock, Scully." She chuckled, and nuzzled the corner of his jaw with her lips. "I'm not so sure how good I am at it, though. You aren't exactly 'rising and shining'." His warm hands dipped beneath her short silk pants and cupped her buttocks. Gripping, then releasing. His eyes still stayed tightly shut. "Haven't you ever heard of the 'snooze', Scully?" "Are you saying I actually *put* you to sleep, Mulder?" she asked playfully, her teeth closing over his earlobe just as her hips rocked against his groin. His breath caught, then expelled on a soft rough groan. Scully smiled slyly against his ear. "I take back what I said before. Something is definitely 'rising' now." "You don't have to sound so damn smug about it," he growled with mock ferocity as he framed her head with his hands and pulled her back so he could meet her gaze, his hazel eyes open at last and smiling up at her. Her lips answered his look with a subtly teasing smile of their own that belied the bland recitation of her words. "I wouldn't dream of being smug, Mulder. I'm a physician, don't forget. So I, of all people, know that this . . . ." She tilted her pelvis against his ever-increasing erection with as much detachment as she could muster. And circled. Once. Then, because it felt so good--their bodies grinding slowly against each other, separated by nothing more than two fragile layers of silk--she did it again. And tried not to moan. She was more successful with the effort than Mulder. His ragged sounding breath played like the sweetest music in her head, urging her on. "This . . .," Scully began once more in a low voice, her hips rolling constantly now over his in a never-ending yet never forceful sort of seduction, her lips pressing tiny kisses to his face in between her words, "is merely a man's biological reaction to waking. Almost a reflex action, if you will. The same kind of thing as a person's eyes narrowing when they look into the sun. That's all." She kissed him then, her full soft mouth warm and open against his. "Why would I get any satisfaction out of that?" she asked ingenuously when the kiss had ended, a brow arched to undercut the innocence. Mulder's arms had snaked tightly around her waist during her calm discourse, the lower half of his body throbbing at a steady maddening pace. Eyes glittering, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a rueful grin, he swiftly turned once more, pinning Scully beneath him. She squealed softly in surprise when she found herself on her back, Mulder resting heavy and hard between her legs. He looked down at her flushed face, his expression sulky with arousal. "So, Dr. Scully," he muttered heatedly, his hands clasped in hers and drawn high on the pillow above her head so that her back was arched slightly. "Are you saying that my reaction to certain . . . stimuli . . is purely involuntary, nothing more than a kind of primitive animal instinct?" Her eyes sparkled up at him, her pupils large, her lashes lowered just a bit. "I'd say there's a touch of the animal in you, Agent Mulder. Yes." "Ah, but what about you?" "What about me?" His brows lifted as if in speculation, his smile broadening by a fraction. "I can't help but wonder if there aren't ways in which your body . . . behaves . . . that one might term 'instinctive'." Watching with satisfaction as Scully's gaze grew a tad unfocused with anticipation, Mulder bent his head, and with his teeth, gently pulled on the low vee neckline of her camisole, tugging it lower still until one smooth, round breast peeked over the edge, its nipple already swollen and hard. He just looked at her pale softness for a breath or two, admiring it, and mused that the bud crowning the creamy mound looked ripe. Like a berry just begging to be picked. The notion made him suddenly ravenous. "Take, for example, this," he murmured, nudging her nipple with his nose. Taking his time, he circled around the aureole slowly, battling the urge to chuckle when he felt Scully's hips shift restlessly beneath him in reaction, almost as if there were some invisible cord directly connecting the top half of her body and the bottom portion. Next, licking his lips, he lowered his mouth over the peak, slipping hot and wet over it, covering the tip completely then lazily lifting once more, leaving her breast glistening, and its nipple tighter than it had been only moments before. "If moisture is applied, you can see that a change almost immediately takes place." Looking up at him, Scully watched as with a devilish smile Mulder then blew lightly on the nubbin. She started in his arms, undulated softly beneath him, a low breathy moan escaping her lips, her eyes sliding shut. The pale pink tip puckered still more, lengthened. "A change in temperature will also have a similar effect," he said in a way that made her feel as if the man above her was lecturing to a classroom full of invisible students and she had somehow been pressed into service as a kind of erotic audio-visual aid. "As for pressure . . ." he whispered, his voice ragged at the seams. Almost, Scully thought, as if his body was being teased as beautifully as he was teasing hers. "Well, . . . there are two kinds." He kissed her tenderly on her breast's sensitive point. "Direct." Then his lips and teeth and tongue began a dizzying sort of assault. He lapped at her nipple. Stabbed at it with his tongue. Made biting little kisses around its edge. Carefully nibbled it. Ran his lips up its length. The man's invention was endless. It was heavenly. She helplessly listened as a string of small mewling sounds escaped while she breathed, her head twisting feverishly on the pillow. Finally, he pulled away from her nipple, lavishing one last kiss on it before reluctantly letting it slip from his mouth. Oh God, Scully thought, her chest now heaving with the force of her excitement, sweat beading at her hairline. She was beginning to understand how some women could actually orgasm merely by having their breasts stimulated. It had never before happened to her. But that morning she wondered if there really wasn't a first time for everything. Mulder released her hands, and balancing himself on his elbows, reached down to cup the objection of his attention. "Direct is good," he mumbled, his seduction seemingly beginning to have its effect on him as well, his hips now rocking against hers in a steady, increasingly urgent manner. "The effect of prolonged stimulation is still more pronounced." He lifted her breast gently, plumping it in his hand, and studied it with anything but the detachment he was still trying to exhibit in his speech. "But you know something, Scully? I think I like indirect pressure best." With that, he bent his head once more, pulling her into his mouth, and suckled. Easy at first, tenderly. Then harder, his cheeks hollowing with the effort. While beneath him Dana Scully went just a little bit nuts. The fierce sort of tugging on her sensitized nipple almost sent her into sensory overload. She screamed, a lovely muffled sort of cry. She called out Mulder's name, the word rough and throaty. She even invoked a few phrases that would have shocked the nuns who had done their best to guide her through childhood. But she really couldn't help it. She was beyond all manner of decorum at that point. She had suspected Mulder might be building to this. Had hoped he was, in fact. But, nothing had quite prepared her for the reality of it. The way her nerve endings felt as if they were being seared by the pull of his lips. She couldn't hold still. Her legs thrashed against the mattress, then finally, with a sort of desperation, locked around his hips. Her back bowed. Her fingers tunneled their way into the tangled brown silk of his hair, holding him to her, encouraging him At long last, the suction eased. He pressed a trio of soft, sweet kisses to her breast. Then, raised his head. "I think you like indirect pressure best too, Scully," he told her quietly, his tone low and hoarse, his eyes shining down into hers with a look of distinctly male pride. "Now who's smug?" she murmured with an arch of her brow and a tiny smile, surprised what with the way her heart was racing that she was able to speak at all. "Not true," he protested lightly, his fingers gliding over her cheek. "After all, this was merely an experiment, remember? An investigation into whether your body was as . . . . prone to involuntary responses as mine." He kissed her, his mouth urgent and hot against hers. Then, pressed his groin heatedly against her mons. Her legs tightened around his middle in response, urging him still more firmly against her. "So what do you say, Dr. Scully?" Mulder asked with deceptive casualness, the majority of his upper body weight resting on his forearms, the majority of his lower body resting squarely on her. "Is the female of the species as susceptible to her body's more basic biological urges as the male?" Smiling more with her eyes than with her mouth, Scully shook her head slightly, "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder. But I can't answer that just yet." His gaze bore down into hers, the force of his arousal shooting what felt almost like sparks of static electricity into the air between them. "Why not?" Her fingertips trailed down the strong line of his jaw. "The experiment is inconclusive." He managed a smile, but she could see the effort cost him. "How so?" "Even the most remedial science class teaches that a proper conclusion can never be reached after only one test of a hypothesis." Mulder cocked his head, his look questioning. Scully lowered her lashes for a heartbeat, searching for control. Then, with trembling fingers, she fumbled for the hem of her camisole, and lifting slightly, pulled the garment over her head and on to the floor, leaving her naked from the waist up. She languidly raised her arms to frame her head on the pillow, the move almost lethally sensual, the posture one that clearly called attention to her chest. Mulder's eyes darkened. She smiled. "Further investigation is necessary," she drawled, honey sweet. With a small nod of agreement, he curled his hand carefully around her previously clothed breast, and bent his head once more. "We'll make a scientist out of you yet, Mulder," Scully whispered as her eyes slowly closed and her hands again burrowed their way into her partner's hair. ************************************************ Mulder and Scully wound up finding their way out of the inn just after twelve. Their plan was much the same as the previous day's. Which was to say, of course, that they had no plan at all. They were simply bumming. With one small exception. "I'd like to look for a present for my mom," Scully had explained to Mulder soon after their trek had begun. "She's never been to New Orleans, and she's watering my plants while I'm away. So, I'd like to bring her something. You know-- just to show that I was thinking of her." "Sure," Mulder had agreed without hesitation. So with that objective in mind, they found themselves that afternoon drawn particularly to retail establishments as they strolled. Scully was amazed yet again at what a good sport Mulder was being about the whole thing. Most guys would rather give blood than go gift shopping. But not him. He never once raised a protest or gave a long suffering sigh as she turned into yet another store featuring unusual art or jewelry, those being the sorts of things she thought her mother might enjoy. In fact, he seemed to be as interested in the merchandise the various shops had to offer as she. Still, for much of the afternoon neither of them bought anything. Instead, they contented themselves with merely browsing, waiting for that one item that would strike a chord. And yet, the day wasn't only about finding a gift for Maggie Scully. About midway through their excursion, Mulder convinced Scully to have her tea leaves read. "Tea leaves, Mulder?" she inquired dryly. He shrugged blithely. "Seems as likely a means of prognostication as any. Come on, Scully. Aren't you curious?" As a matter of fact, she was. Not that she put any stock in that sort of thing. Not at all. Still, the idea struck her as a lark, especially given where they were: New Orleans--home of voodoo, vampires, and all things mystical. Having a soothsayer look into a china cup and pronounce the future seemed to her to be on a level with the sorts of things little girls did at slumber parties; right up there with Ouija boards and seances. What harm could there be in that? And besides, Mulder's eyes were dancing at the very notion. Her saying no would be like denying a little boy a puppy at Christmas. "What the hell. I'm thirsty anyway," she said with a small subtle smile. "All right, Mulder. But if our gypsy fortune-teller informs me that I'm going to meet a tall dark stranger I'm going to have to tell her I've already met one." "No one stranger than me," he murmured with wry good humor as he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back and ushered her inside the Bottom of the Cup Tearoom. The establishment was more than a place to grab a quick cup of Earl Gray, hot. In addition to serving beverages, it also sold fortune-telling supplies, books on the occult, and several ominous looking types of charms. In the back, a number of curtained booths were set up in what Scully assumed was an attempt at providing privacy for the variety of readings taking place. Mulder shepherded her in that direction and soon they were both ensconced in one of the room's cozy cubbyholes. Their tasseographer's name was Rachel. She was a tall exotic looking African-American woman of indeterminate age, with a head full of long jet braids and a deep melodious voice. After pouring her two customers their cups of tea, she explained a bit regarding what they were about to experience, her nearly black almond shaped eyes glowing with a blend of intelligence and humor. "It is not all about the leaves, you know," she murmured softly; a faint difficult to pinpoint accent lacing her words. "They are merely a means to an end." "In what way?" Mulder asked intently, clearly fascinated. She shrugged lightly. "They suggest. They do not tell." Scully glanced doubtfully at Mulder over the rim of her teacup. He smiled at her with encouragement. She lifted her brows in silent reply, then turned to address the woman across from her. "I'm not sure I'm following you," the petite redhead confessed. Rachel sipped her tea. "The leaves are like the tarot. They are a way for the seer to focus. To clear the mind and open the gateway to the other place. They do not dictate. They only guide." "What other place?" Scully queried, a tad impatient with all the otherworldly mumbo-jumbo. For a moment, the woman with the braids said nothing, her eyes merely narrowed in consideration. Finally, she slowly shook her head, her full lips quirking in a smile. "I do not need to tell you, I think. You have been there, after all. You both have." Scully felt a shiver trickle through her, and her enthusiasm for the venture all but instantly shriveled. Almost as if sensing this, Mulder placed a comforting hand on her forearm, and calmly asked, "What *can* you tell us, then?" Rachel dipped her head as if silently agreeing to proceed, and laid her hands on both their now empty cups of tea. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep unhurried breath. Slowly, her lashes lifted once more. "You are not married." Oh, great opener, Scully thought with a touch of derision. No mighty leap, there. Neither she nor Mulder were wearing rings. And despite the change in their relationship from professional to personal, she somehow doubted that either of them gave the impression that they were in any way domesticated. "No," Mulder confirmed evenly. Rachel pursed her lips thoughtfully. "And yet you are . . . together." Mulder's gaze slid to Scully's. He smiled tenderly. She strove not to blush. "Yes, we are," he said quietly. Rachel smiled for a moment in understanding. Then, to Scully's way of thinking, the African-American woman's expression changed. Shifted subtly. Her eyes grew suddenly keen, urgent. All at once, her stare seemed as if it might somehow pull the two people sitting across from her inside of her to a place of shadows and specters, of mysteries and truths not meant to be known. Scully found the sensation patently unnerving. "Together you are stronger than either of you are alone." Rachel spoke the words in a hushed, low voice. "You must always remember that. No matter what occurs; turn to each other, not away." Scully was =really= beginning to regret this little tea break. The things Rachel was pronouncing, while in no way earth-shattering, none the less disturbed her greatly. She couldn't escape the notion that the woman seated on the other side of the table was in some unknowable way privy to parts of her life Scully was more than unwilling to share. However, before she could offer protest, call a halt to the whole thing, the fortune-teller continued. And Scully felt like one of those people who stares at car crashes as they drive by on the interstate. Appalled, yet fascinated. Saying nothing more, Rachel picked up Scully's cup with two hands. Closed her eyes. Swirled the vessel three times in a clock-wise fashion. And peered inside. Her dark, bottomless eyes studied Scully over the rim. "You are in danger," Rachel said softly, the words spoken in an oddly calm manner. Then, her lips curled ever so slightly in a smile. "But, this is not so strange, I think." Scully arched a brow in Mulder's direction. He wouldn't meet her gaze. Instead, lips pressed thin, he tightened his hand on her arm. But whether the gesture was meant to offer comfort or to reassure himself that she was still seated beside him, Scully couldn't say. The ebony-skinned woman squinted into the dainty cup cradled in her hands as if trying to read some particularly fine print. "However, this time is different. The enemy is one you least expect. You must be on your guard. But do not fight him. For he is as much friend as foe." Scully had to stifle the urge to roll her eyes in amusement. Oh for crying out loud, could the woman be any more melodramatic? Some of the dangerous mood that had only moments before made her stomach turn traitor melted away. Despite the fact that Rachel was imparting to her a warning, she really had to shake her head in bemused dismay. The words the woman used, the dark foreboding tone with which she spoke, reminded Scully of nothing so much as fortune cookie messages read aloud. How could she fret over something that inane? Smiling at the notion, the red-haired agent whimsically wondered if the whole exercise would end with she and Mulder being told their lucky numbers. Scully chanced another glance at Mulder. He didn't seem to be taking Rachel's words with quite the same cavalier attitude as she. He still wouldn't meet her eyes. Instead, he stared at the woman who claimed she could see the future, his brow furrowed, his teeth absent-mindedly gnawing on the corner of his lip. Scully wanted to shake him. To urge him to get in on the joke. But, after seeing the look on his face, she somehow doubted that he viewed Rachel's declarations as the least bit funny. And so, Scully merely watched in silence as Rachel repeated her simple little ritual with Mulder's empty tea cup in preparation for telling his fortune. "As for you," Rachel murmured after a moment, her attention now focused on the leaves at the bottom of Mulder's cup. "You are a believer. A believer in all things except that in which you most desperately *need* to believe." She raised her eyes, and pinned Mulder with them. Scully felt him shift a bit uneasily next to her under the woman's unblinking scrutiny. "Yourself." Setting down the cup, Rachel continued to look at him pointedly, her gaze old and wise. "What do you mean?" Mulder mumbled after a beat. Rachel sadly shook her head, her smile gentle. "You don't trust yourself. You never have. You doubt your strength. Your resolve." Now it was Scully's turn to offer comfort. Rachel's words were getting to Mulder. Her comments were hitting a little too closely to home. Scully could feel him tensing beside her. Softly, she laid her hand atop his. His grasped it gratefully. "Others know what kind of man you are. You must know it yourself," Rachel instructed quietly as she folded her hands upon the table. "Everything depends upon it. Everything you value. Everything you love hinges upon this. Be strong. Soon you will need to be for both of you." Scully could feel a cleansing sort of anger bubble up inside of her, burning away the remnants of the disquiet that had troubled her earlier. She didn't know who in the world this woman was, but she sure as hell had an awful lot of nerve laying that sort of burden upon Mulder. Good God, there couldn't be a man on the planet who was any harder on himself than Fox William Mulder, and the warning that 'everything depended upon him being strong' was certainly not going to make things any easier. They had to get out of there. Now. "Well, thank you for your time," Scully said with excessive politeness as she abruptly stood, tugging Mulder to his feet as well with a strength that belied her size. "We appreciate it." Rachel just looked at the pair of them a moment before chuckling, the sound low and musical. "No. You do not. But you will. Remember what I told you. Both of you." Scully was halfway out the curtained alcove when she turned to see Mulder lingering. Taking a beat, he nodded his good-bye to Rachel who was still seated behind the rickety old table, her dark eyes fastened on him. "The one thing you can trust is each other," the serene looking woman at the table said softly, her brow arched in a meaningful fashion. "That is everything." "Yes, it is," Scully heard Mulder quietly agree. And then he pushed past her and out of the shop. ************************************************* "Well that was interesting," Scully ventured with a grim smile after they had walked nearly two blocks in total silence. "That's not quite the word I would use," Mulder mumbled at her side. God, he still hadn't gotten his pulse rate under control. Great way to spend an afternoon, Mulder, he silently chided. Fabulous idea. Spend money to have someone tell you that the life of the woman you love is in danger and you--a person whose neuroses are obvious enough for a stranger to pick up on at first glance--are going to have to be strong enough to see her to safety. Oh yeah. He knew how to have a good time. "You know, if I had known you were going to do this to yourself, I would have clubbed you over the head and bodily dragged you from that place before subjecting you to that woman's shtick." Hearing the vehement tone of voice the woman beside him was using, Mulder stopped and turned to her. "What's that supposed to mean?" Scully glared up at him, hands on her hips. "Mulder stop torturing yourself." "I'm not--" "You =are=! =Why=, I don't know. Rachel whatever-her- name-was did nothing more than whisper the kind of nonsense those guys on Mystery Science Theater make fun of." He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, knowing his fears were out of proportion to the threat, but unable to stifle them just the same. "Scully, she said your life was in danger." Scully rolled her eyes. "Yes. And then even *she* admitted that the problem wasn't anything out of the ordinary. It means nothing, Mulder." "It does to me." Mulder could see his softly spoken confession took some of the starch out of Scully's sails. While that was not his intention, he was still pleased to see her anger ebb. The last thing he wanted to do right at that moment was fight. Her eyes shone up at his softly. "I'm fine, Mulder. Finer than I've been in quite awhile, if truth be known." She reached up then and touched his cheek gently with her fingertips. "You're the one I'm worried about." He stood there on a busy French Quarter street, unmoving, utterly beguiled by the delicate stroke of her fingers along the curve of his face, and fighting like crazy not to stammer like a schoolboy. "What are you talking about?" She smiled with just a hint of sympathy. "No one likes to have people play amateur psychologist with them. Least of all a professional one." He smiled wryly after a second or two. "You noticed that, did you?" "I could hardly =not= notice. All that stuff about believing in yourself was awfully heavy-handed. She sounded like a motivational speaker on speed." That forced a reluctant chuckle out of him. Then Mulder sobered once more, his expression tinged with self- deprecation. "She wasn't far off the mark, Scully." She shrugged. "So, she got lucky. That doesn't make her omniscient. Despite what you may think, you're not that hard to read, you know. The minute the woman started talking your face gave you away." Mulder's lips twisted, his eyes still clouded with doubt. "Mulder, she was consulting tea leaves," Scully said in a voice dripping with disdain, her gaze one of profound disbelief and scarcely contained laughter. "=Tea leaves=!" Finally, his sense of the ridiculous kicked in and he grinned down at her upturned face. "Kinda crazy, huh?" "Absurd," she assured him with a smile. "All right," he said resolutely. "Let's forget about it then." ************************************************* And so they did. Until they returned to La Lune Argentine that evening. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part VII Subject: "At a Loss for Words" (7/15) NC-17 by K. Rasch From: krasch@delphi.com Date: Mon, 2 Sep 96 23:05:44 -0500 At a Loss for Words (7/?) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com You guys know the drill. This isn't where you find a summary, my acknowledgments, or anything else. This is where you read Chapter 7. So go for it. :) ************************************************* "So what do you think, Mulder--is it me?" "Only in some of my kinkier fantasies, Scully." "You know--you keep that up and there is *no way* I'm going to be able to give this to my mother." Having done her best to make the last statement as prohibitive as possible, Dana Scully pulled the delicate papier- mache mask she had been modeling from her face to see whether her partner appeared the least bit abashed at her censure. He didn't. Instead, he sat sprawled across from her on the floor of their room, grinning unrepentantly, his weight resting on his elbows, his denim-clad legs stretched out before him. Between them the remnants of their recently completed picnic dinner lay scattered on the towel that served as a sort of makeshift tablecloth for their feast. A nearly empty bottle of red wine sat there surrounded by a variety of cheeses, a few leftover slices of ham, half a loaf of French bread, a bag containing a handful of grapes and a single peach, and a paper plate upon which remained one last bite of a sinfully decadent napoleon that neither of the pair would give in and eat. Everything on the menu had been purchased at the French Market that afternoon. True, their meal hadn't possessed the same sort of flair as that of the previous evening. But it had been casual, intimate, and most important, tasty. They simply hadn't felt the urge to go out that night, the weather having undoubtedly contributed to their mood. Through the open balcony door, the soothing patter of a misty spring rain tapped against the roof and railings in the twilight, the sound hushed. Lulling. Giving up on trying to make Mulder behave, Scully studied the mask in her hands, her head tilted in consideration, her lips pursed. She really did hope her mother liked it. She thought she would. Even if Maggie Scully owned nothing even remotely like it. She had found the gift at the kind of place at which her sister would once have frequented, a cozy tucked away little store that had been lit more by candlelight it had seemed than by any sort of bulb. The pungent scent of patchouli had mingled sweetly in the air with that of melting wax as she and Mulder had silently browsed. They had taken their time. They had needed to. Although the establishment had been small, it had been crammed floor to ceiling with an eclectic assortment of odds and ends. Whimsical paintings, hand blown glass, pottery of all shapes and sizes, ornately carved bits of wood, and jewelry sparkling with a blinding array of stones had all vied for their attention. But what had drawn Scully into the shop in the first place had been the item in her hands. Light as the peacock feather that adorned it, the dainty little mask covered only its wearer's eyes and nose. Tiny rhinestones glittered along its ocular cutaways. Ribbons trailed from its sides. Teal and hunter green and indigo and black swirled in a dizzying pattern that seemed to suggest a contour map of the human face. Streaks of deep burnished gold accented those hills and valleys, giving the disguise a movement and a flow that dazzled the viewer, intimating the fantastic while merely spotlighting the mundane. She had spied the mask in the store window as they had strolled by. "You know, Melissa would have loved that place today," she murmured a tad wistfully after a time, watching with apparent rapt fascination as her fingers ran between them the long wispy feather attached exactly midway between the mask's two painted brows. "All that stuff is . . . was . . right up her alley." Mulder drew in his legs and looped his arms around his knees, his shift in position bringing him closer to her. "It seemed like there was plenty there that you liked too." "Oh, there was," she hurried to agree, not wanting her sudden spell of melancholy to put a damper on the evening. "They had some beautiful things." He nodded. Then, with a small smile, he rose fluidly from the floor, and crossed to the bureau behind her. "I thought so too," he said conversationally as he opened one of the dresser drawers and rummaged around inside it as if searching for something. "I had a chance to look around a bit myself while you were shopping for your mom. They had some really unique pieces." Scully chuckled as she bent her head and carefully returned the mask to the tissue lined box in which it had been packed. "I didn't know you were so into shopping." He tsked with mock disapproval as he brought his foraging through the bureau to an end, and gently slid the drawer shut once more. "Those gender stereotypes will trip you up every time, Scully." She glanced over her shoulder at him as she too stood, and with her newly rewrapped present in one hand and her glass of wine in the other, crossed to the closet to put the former away. "Sorry, Mulder. I should have realized that you're a tough one to type." "Part of my charm," he retorted dryly, his arms crossed against his chest as he watched her. She smiled, the twinge of sadness she had felt when she had earlier thought of her older sister forgotten for the time being. Chatting about everything and nothing, she and Mulder cleaned up their dinner leavings, ultimately making use of the sink and refrigerator housed in the hallway kitchen with which Scully had been so intrigued the night before. By the time they were finished, the rain had increased in power. Gone was the gentle April shower that had underscored their meal. In its place was the beginnings of a storm. Thunder could be heard in the distance like the faraway boom of an angel's bass drum. "Hmm. Looks like we made the right decision in staying in," Scully murmured thoughtfully as she stood in the balcony doorway watching the rain bounce off the inn as if the drops were made of rubber, oblivious to the light mist that drifted in through the portal to dot her face, to sprinkle ever so faintly her khaki walking shorts and plum colored cotton T-shirt. Mulder came to stand behind her, his arms folded heavily across her collarbone to pull her close. "You're sure?" he asked quietly in her ear, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "It's still early. We could grab a taxi. Go to a club, listen to some music." With a small smile, she shook her head. "No, let's just stay here tonight. Okay? I don't really feel like getting dressed to go out, you know? I don't want to fight the crowds. I'd much rather stand here watching the rain with you." And relaxing against each other, they did just that. They stood, chest to back, chin to hair and watched the sky unload its burden. It was turning into quite a show. Thunder now peppered the rain's steady thrum, building in both power and frequency. Jagged bolts of lightning added to the festivities, criss-crossing the flint grey sky like silvery veins. "I've always loved the rain," Scully murmured after a time, her voice velvety low. "When I was little, maybe six or seven, the house we were living in at the time had this enclosed back porch. No walls to speak of really, just screened in windows all the way around. At night, when it would rain, Missy and I would get up sometimes while the rest of the family was sleeping and sneak downstairs to sit on the porch and watch the storm." She paused for a moment, smiling bittersweet at the memory. Mulder tightened his arms around her almost imperceptibly. "The thing was that because of all the windows, the least little bit of wind would bring the rain pouring in. But we didn't care. Not Missy and me. We'd sit there, side by side, slowly getting soaked to the skin, watching the rain like most kids watch tv. It drove my mom nuts. I know she thought that one day we'd both end up catching pneumonia." "And did you?" She shook her head, her soft smile lingering still, sadness dulling its glow. "No." Saying nothing, Mulder nuzzled her hair in comfort. Scully sighed, wondering at her mood. Where were all these thoughts of Melissa coming from, she silently questioned. Why now? Why tonight? It wasn't that she was depressed. Not at all. Why, in many ways she felt more content than she could ever remember. How else could she feel? After all, she was cloistered away in the lap of luxury with the man she loved. She had just been fed, stuffed full to the brim with their simple yet hardy meal. Was as mellow as a cat napping in the sun as a result of the wine she had drunk and the feel of Mulder's strong body pillowing her back. Hell, she was so relaxed she was almost drowsy with it. In fact, she was beginning to have to resist the urge to let her eyelids slide shut. Funny. The compulsion had hit her awfully hard all of a sudden. Maybe it was the wine. She had never been much of a drinker. And yet, she was *really* turning into a lightweight if she couldn't handle the couple of glasses she had enjoyed with her meal. Still, if she couldn't blame it on the alcohol she was hard pressed to come up with an explanation for the numbing sort of torpor currently washing over her like the rain sluicing down the inn's gutters. Even her blood was starting to feel as if it was flowing sluggishly through her veins. The sensation was beyond odd. Her whole body felt muffled somehow, almost as if it was swaddled in flannel. Even her breathing seemed to be slowing. Deepening. Giving in to the urge, she closed her eyes for a moment, relaxing totally against Mulder. He supported her easily, while appearing seemingly oblivious to her plight. Not that she blamed him. After all, they had been standing there quietly for the last however many minutes, leaning against each other, speaking only in spurts. How was Mulder to know that her condition had in any way changed? And changed it had. No doubt about that. For much to her dismay, with her eyes shut, her disturbing sense of unreality worsened. She could see things in her mind's eye, hear them, smell them--images, people, places that she recognized without a doubt were wholly foreign and yet which beckoned to her with shards of memory attached, poking at her, pricking her to recall their significance. But, how could she know them, she wanted so desperately to ask. They weren't from her life, but from another's. Seeking to banish these unnerving bits of psychic debris, Scully opened her eyes once more. Only to find that the view had changed. True, the rain still poured down. So much so, it seemed to affect her very vision. For some reason, she couldn't see as clearly as she had been able to only moments before. The sky looked darker, more ominous. Throwing shadows. Making it difficult to pick out shapes. Edges were blurred. Outlines hazy. Everything felt skewed somehow, tilted on its side the way a sidewalk square might buckle after an earthquake. The building itself appeared to have inexplicably altered. Where had all that ivy on the walls come from? And those windows across the courtyard--they hadn't been covered by shutters, had they? What about that weather vane? There, sitting squarely atop La Lune Argentine's green tiled roof. Had she noted it before? The cast iron one, in the shape of a mermaid. A mermaid named Calypso. How could she know that? And that smell . . . Overpowering. Too sweet by half. Lilies. Purest white. Like her skin, he had told her. Who? Who had told her? Becoming well and truly frightened now, Scully trembled suddenly, violently, in Mulder's arms. Breaking the chimera's hold on her. "Scully?" Saying nothing, she turned in Mulder's embrace and buried her head against the navy blue cotton knit of his shirt, her arms locked tightly around his waist, hugging him. In response, his hands smoothed gently up and down her arms, the motion hesitant and filled with questions. "What's wrong? Hey, you're shaking. What--did you catch a chill?" he queried softly, his voice gruff with concern. "Come here." Arm draped around her slender shoulders, he walked her away from the open doorway to the burgundy wing chair in the far corner of the room. Sitting first himself, he then tugged her down on to his lap and wrapped his arms protectively around her. "You okay?" he asked while he tried to rub some warmth into her upper arms, her back. "Yeah. I'm fine," she murmured, her head nestled on his shoulder. "It's just . . . . It was weird." "What was?" She hesitated. How could she explain the sensations that had so unexpectedly swamped her? She herself had no idea what had prompted them. No explanation for what exactly they were. Her imagination? Possibly. *Probably*, when one considered the influence of the wine. After all, the inn was nothing if not atmospheric. And, her mood had already been reflective. The way in which memories of Melissa kept drifting through her consciousness was proof enough of that. Add both the depressive and intoxicating properties of those two glasses of merlot, and voila! Fantasies of a time long ago and far away. That had to be it. The innocent combination of mood, fancy, and alcohol had no doubt led to her musings. Simple as that. So why bother telling Mulder about it? She shook her head, her palm resting lightly on his chest. "Oh, it was nothing. I was just kind of daydreaming, you know? Imagining what this place must have been like when it was first built." "When Selene Broussard ruled the roost?" She smiled. "Yeah. 'La Lune Argentine' herself." Mulder chuckled, then shifted beneath her ever so slightly. "Sit up a minute." Scully did as he requested, figuring that he hadn't gotten himself situated comfortably when he had first settled them both on the chair's roomy seat. Thus, she was surprised when instead of adjusting his position, Mulder merely brought his hands forward to in front of her throat and fastened around it a long silver chain. "What's this?" she asked with an arched brow, her fingers running lightly over the shiny links encircling her neck. "La Lune Argentine." Smiling with surprise and appreciation, she looked down at the delicately formed charm dangling from the necklace, and held it up for closer inspection. Rendered in silver as well, it was a crescent moon, etched with the face of a man in profile, his hooked nose pointing skyward. And sitting astride this curved perch, facing the whimsical man-in-the-moon was a woman. Head tipped back as if in ecstasy, she braced her arms against the heavenly body that served as her throne, her lips curled in a smile, her legs trailing naked from beneath the loosely flowing dress she wore. "Oh, Mulder . . . " she whispered, the pendant cradled in her hand as she studied it in the room's muted lamplight. Outside, the soft rumble of thunder continued as the rain did, unabated. Mulder shrugged as if the gift was no big deal, and yet she thought she detected more than a hint of pleasure over her reaction to it. "I saw it, and I thought of you . . . of this place. I thought you might like a memento. You know . . . of the trip. Besides, you need one. A necklace, I mean." He reached into his shirt and touched the slender gold chain upon which was suspended the cross that had once belonged to her, but had for the past several months hung around his neck instead. "Some guy is wearing the one you used to wear." "Thank you," she told him with a gentle smile as she kissed him tenderly on the cheek. "It's absolutely beautiful. I love it." He smiled back at her, his eyes warm. "Good. I'm glad." Then his gaze turned intent, and he studied her face for a moment. "You're sure you're okay, Scully?" he asked quietly, his hand cupping her cheek. "You seemed kind of distant before . . . like maybe something was bothering you." She thought to deny it. And yet, after a beat, she nodded, her lips twisted. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." "What do you mean?" She shook her head, not willing to go into the details, all of which seemed far too fantastical to her way of thinking. "It's nothing. Honest. I'm just kind of in a weird mood, you know? I can't explain it. I . . . I don't know. Maybe with my sleep getting interrupted last night, and all the walking today, then the wine, the rain--it all just got to me for a minute. It's no big deal though, Mulder. So don't worry. Okay? I'm fine." He looked at her for another second or two. "And you're sure you're not concerned over what Rachel had to say this afternoon?" "About you or me?" Scully queried dryly, a brow arched to accentuate her point. He grimaced, then shrugged. "Take your pick." "All right," she said softly, deciding to answer the challenge. "In regard to what she said about me--I'm still taking it with a grain of salt. I mean--first of all, I *don't* believe that anyone can catch a glimpse of my future by examining my dirty dishes. And secondly, when all is said and done, I don't see how I can be in any more danger here than I would be at home. I think it's far more likely that her *warning* was all part of the 'act'. You know--something mysterious to tell a customer, something theatrical, so that I'd feel I was getting my money's worth." As reasonable as she was sure all that sounded, Mulder didn't look the least bit convinced. Knowing that the next part was going to be even tougher on him, she turned on his lap to face him more fully, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. A flash of lightning momentarily threw the face of the man before her into harsh relief. Despite her reassurances, he still looked concerned. "As for what she said about you," she began slowly. "Well, I'm not really inclined to believe that any more than I do the rest of it. And yet, I'm not so sure that what I believe really matters when all is said and done." "What do you mean?" Mulder asked, his brow furrowed. "Because =you= believe it, Mulder," she told him softly, her fingertips reaching up to smooth the crease between his hazel eyes. "Whether you think she got it from looking at a bunch of soggy tea leaves, or instead that she's simply a good judge of character, Rachel's assessment of you struck a nerve." His eyes dipped from hers guiltily. His hands tightened slightly on her waist. "I wish you'd tell me why." Their gaze met once more. And for a moment Scully could see in Mulder's expression the boy that had witnessed his sister being snatched away before his own terrified eyes so many years before. Waiting to see if he would respond, she said nothing for a time. Instead, she combed gently through his hair, and waited. In the end, he remained silent. "Why are you so hard on yourself, Mulder?" she inquired finally when she was certain that indeed he would not speak on his own, a tender smile tugging on her lips. "Why is it that you're willing to forgive me for putting a bullet in your shoulder, and yet you refuse to cut yourself even the tiniest bit of slack?" She could feel him tense beneath her. Coil, as if in preparation for movement. Could sense the way in which his breath had become less even, more choppy. His eyes flickered away from hers, darting instead to land on random objects around the dimly lit room, the action nearly furtive, almost as if he was looking for an escape route. Or someplace he could hide. "Scully, I'm . . . I mean . . hell--I'm not very good at--" "Shh," she crooned, kissing him first on the forehead, then on the cheek. "I know. I know. And the last thing I want to do is put you on the spot. But, Mulder, you have to know something." She cradled his face in her hands, and looked at him, some of the fog that had settled over her that night lifting as she focused on him and his needs. His fears. "None of us is perfect, Mulder," she said quietly, her eyes burning, glowing like twin candles. "None. But, I'll tell you something. I think you strive harder to be than anyone I've ever known." "Scully . . ." he muttered, clearly embarrassed. "It's true," she insisted, pushing back his hair from his forehead as a mother might caress an over-excited child. "You push and you push and you push. It may not make you popular, but it gets the job done." "It does?" he challenged with thick irony. She tilted her head at his question, her smile almost whimsical. "Maybe not all at once," she allowed. "Maybe not even every 'job'. But you never stop trying, Mulder. No matter what. You just don't know when to quit." She kissed him then, softly on the mouth. When their lips parted, the smile she gave him eclipsed in brilliance the lightning that pulsed behind her in the balcony doorway. "And that tenacity somehow manages to be both your most endearing and your most infuriating character trait." Even he had to chuckle at that. They merely smiled at each other for a moment, listening to the thunder and the sting of the rain against brick. Then, Scully turned serious once more. "But, I admire it. And you . . . more than I can say." He frowned at her disclosure and shook his head. The gesture silently speaking of his disbelief, his astonishment, his extreme discomfort, at her praise. "I wouldn't lie to you, Mulder," she promised, her eyes solemn yet warm. He nodded slowly, a rueful smile tilting his lips. "I know. I know you wouldn't. It's just . . . the funny thing is, Scully, I'd been thinking the same thing about you." "What?" His hands were moving again, smoothing over her arms. "That you were the one who was always striving for perfection. The one who was always so hard on herself." "Me?" she asked in surprise. He nodded once more. Scully chuckled. "Mulder, next to you, I'm a rank amateur." His lips quirked. Then, his fingertips traced the curve of her cheek. "Thank you," he murmured, his eyelids drooping, his gaze focused on her mouth. "For what?" she queried softly, leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder. "You know," he whispered as, bending his head, their lips met. She did know. And sighed, giving herself over to him, to his gentle kiss. Yet, as she did, the strange lethargy that had plagued her that night on and off washed over her again unexpectedly. She started with it, stiffened for a moment in his arms, even though the sensation itself was anything but painful. Instead, it was not unlike being slowly filled with warm heavy liquid. It started in her head, behind her eyes, and then slowly flooded her body. Until, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she felt a potent sort of languor weighing her down. Making both her mind and body sluggish. Hazy. As if she were viewing the world through a lens smeared with Vaseline. Mulder must have sensed the moment that the change hit her, because he hesitated for just an instant as his lips moved over hers. Pulled away so she could feel the soft puffs of his breath against her mouth. Then, almost as if there were no questions to be asked, no doubts that had been raised, he continued, the pressure of his lips more needy, the sweep of his hands over her arms, her back, her waist, more forceful. Finally, he tore his mouth from hers and instead pressed kisses down the length of her throat, his hands now cradling the back of her head, maneuvering her easily, bending her this way and that so that his lips could touch her at will. "You are so lovely." The words were spoken hoarsely. Low. Rough. Coming from just beneath her ear. They sounded like Mulder. And yet, it was as if there was something overlaying his voice. Filtering it. Something unknown. Coarser somehow than her partner's usual wry tone. She felt a shiver trickle down her back. And far, far away, so distant as to almost convince her that the sound was solely a product of her imagination, Scully heard the faint muffled sound of a woman crying. She opened her eyes. Draped across Mulder's lap, her arms around his neck, her lips swollen from his kisses, she looked up into his eyes. And saw a stranger gazing down at her. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part VIII "At a Loss for Words" (8/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Comments are appreciated at the above address. This particular installment leans towards the violent side. Not anything you wouldn't see on the show. But those folks who are sensitive might appreciate the warning. Thanks very much for sticking around. :) ************************************************ The color that Mulder's eyes sometimes turned. And with that thought, it was suddenly her partner whose befuddled gaze met hers. But only for an instant. Then, Mulder was gone once more. Leaving Scully to battle the stranger on her own. Questions careening through her head, she stiffened, and tried to push away from whoever the hell it was who shared the chair with her. But he held her fast. His arms locked around her. What in God's name was going on, she wanted to rail. Who was this man? What had happened to Mulder? And why was it so ridiculously difficult for her to get her bearings? She was having trouble focusing once more. Everything seemed blurred. Hazy. Things that shouldn't have been visible shimmered on the edges of her awareness, tempting her to acknowledge them. A midnight blue ball gown trimmed in ebony lace hanging against the closet door. A cut glass bottle filled with amber liquid sparkling on the bureau top. However, as much as these images disturbed her, she got no attendant boost of adrenaline. Instead, the lethargy that had been stealing her will since she and Mulder had stood in each other's embrace watching the rainstorm confused her, dulled her desire to flee, even as she knew without a doubt that escape was her best option. The man who held her trailed his hand along the line of her jaw, his eyes following its path, his expression an unsettling mixture of passion and disdain. "So lovely," he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "And so false." Hearing that, she struggled more vehemently in his arms, not understanding to what exactly he was referring, but knowing instinctively that trouble loomed on the horizon. The battle was not for naught, and she managed to finally sit upright. And yet, he didn't release her entirely. His hands held her upper arms like a pair of vises, his fingers digging into her muscles with a force she knew would leave bruises. "I gave you everything," he told her softly, fiercely, his voice accusing, his face only inches from hers. "Everything I was. Everything I owned, I handed over to you. Like some boy wet behind the ears would do for a miss fresh from the schoolroom. But I should have known better, shouldn't I? After all, it was no secret what you were." She twisted there, on his lap, but it was difficult to get any leverage. Her feet didn't entirely reach the floor, and despite the fact that she continued to press against his chest with all her might, she still couldn't break free from his hold. To complicate matters, part of her didn't really want to get away. A portion of her desired nothing more than to sit there for all eternity and just look at him, drink in the harsh unforgiving planes of his face, the strong line of his brow. To run her hands over his cheeks, through his hair. To feel his eyelashes flutter against her fingertips. To burrow against him and absorb his strength, his warmth. She had been so cold. And so alone. So terribly alone. All she had wanted for all those years, decades upon decades condemned to wander through the twilight world on her own, was him. Only him. "Jack." The word slipped from Scully's lips unbidden. The eyes of the man before her darkened dangerously at the sound. "You whisper that so sweetly," he murmured, his brow furrowed. "But then, you always did. Calling out my name when I was between your legs. There was a wonder in it, wasn't there, my love? An innocence that almost allowed me to forget just what a whore you really were." He stood then, this man Scully knew but didn't, dragging her with him as if she weighed nothing more than the clothes she wore. She wanted to fight him, to break free from his punishing hands, to scream, to run. But defense of any sort was denied her. She felt like a puppet, a prisoner in her own body. True, she resisted. But it was mostly flailing. Ineffectual. Useless. Try though she might, she wasn't able to bring into play any of her training, any of the hand-to-hand technique that had been drilled into her at the Academy. Despite her best efforts, her limbs just wouldn't respond. Instead, in some bizarre way it seemed that she had been cast as both audience member and star in a melodrama that threatened at any moment to turn lurid. "Did you scream Antoine's name when he was here, Selene, in our bed? Did he make you tremble the way I do? Did he take it long and slow the way you like?" He was backing her towards the bed now, his step measured and filled with menace. "No, I would never . . . . I didn't betray you, Jack." The words tumbled from her lips, her voice sounding strange to her ears, hushed and throaty, rising and falling with an unrecognizable lilt. "Please . . . you must believe me . . . ." Her denial only infuriated him more, his ire reminding Scully of the thunder claps still echoing beyond their window as the storm outside gradually wound down in power. "Don't you lie to me, you bitch! I =saw= you. I saw you with my own two eyes. Lying here naked, that bastard's hands all over you." The backs of her knees were flush against the edge of the mattress. And suddenly she knew what he intended, what this man who should have been Mulder but was not wanted from her. And that, she could not let him have. "I loved you," he said in anguish, the words little more than a moan. "I loved you more than my own life. And all the while you and Antoine were laughing at me behind my back." "No," Scully protested automatically, the word spoken not by her but by another as she herself looked left and right, trying to judge whether she could slip past him to safety. If her body would even allow her to try. "Stop lying!" he commanded as he pushed her roughly to the bed. "Just stop it! =Stop it=." And then, the moment her back hit the mattress the presence that had for a time shared her head vanished. Instantly. Without a trace. She didn't know whether it was her own fear of what was about to occur that pushed the entity she recognized must be Selene Broussard from her head, or whether the long dead woman left of her own accord. But, Dana Scully was once again her own person. And faced with a man intent on raping her. Who, ironically enough, happened to be the man she loved. Now that she no longer viewed the world through Selene's eyes, she could see Mulder plainly. Could witness the way in which his face was contorted with the rage of another man. A man who held her partner prisoner just as she had been held only moments before. His face dark with a combination of anger and lust, Mulder reached out for the waistband of shorts. "Come here." She turned away from him on the bed, rolling, her legs coming up to kick at his mid-section. But she was off balance when she tried, and the attempt was paltry at best. He blocked the blows easily. The man in Mulder's body chuckled. "Oh, so you want to play rough, Selene? Well, I'm more than happy to oblige." He grabbed hold of her T-shirt and tossed her down on to the comforter. Bouncing, she scrambled on to her knees once more. But before she could crawl off the other side of the bed to freedom, Mulder reached out, seized a fistful of her shirt, and with his other hand struck her hard, his palm to her cheek, the slap catching the edge of her mouth as well. She reeled, falling back as much in amazement as by the force of the blow itself. Her eyes watered. Her face stung as if it had been set upon by a hive of bees. Touching her tongue to the corner of her mouth, she tasted blood. "Why do you fight me?" he demanded heatedly as he loomed over her, his hands planted just above her shoulders on the mattress. "You always liked what we did here well enough before. And I know damn well that you didn't try to discourage Antoine." Think, Dana, think, a little voice inside her head urged. What was her best plan of action? Physical strength appeared most definitely to favor the man above her. He moved with Mulder's quickness and struck with a power far outreaching anything she had ever before seen from her partner. Although she might indeed manage to somehow make it off the bed, she doubted that he would allow her to get to the door. The gun. Oh, God, not that. Anything but that. She had put a bullet into Mulder once before and had sworn as she had struggled not only to heal him, but to transport his battered body to safety that she would never again take that kind of chance. Not with him. She couldn't. She just couldn't. And besides, she wasn't even certain where Mulder had stored his weapon. Searching for it would take valuable time. And even if she did manage to locate it, she still had no guarantee that in the midst of a fray the firearm wouldn't be turned on her. No. As it stood right now, that thing in Mulder's body had no idea that a gun lay tucked away somewhere in a dresser drawer. And she had no intention of enlightening him. So what should she do? She supposed she could scream. After all, the inn was full of people. But crying out for help would put poor Mulder in an untenable situation. How could she explain their predicament to any would-be rescuers? No. The circumstances were entirely too gothic for her to successfully clarify for anyone else. Even with this being New Orleans. For the sake of Mulder and their partnership she was going to have to extricate herself from this dilemma on her own. And yet, how the hell was she going to do that? What about psychology? That's a ploy Mulder would have been sure to attempt were he in her shoes. Why not try appealing to the entity who was at present running his hands over her torso as he stared moodily down into her frightened blue eyes, defilement on his mind. But what could she say to him? What did he want? Selene. Well, she couldn't help him there. And yet, maybe that was the key. Perhaps it was time for Jack to be made aware of just who exactly he was dealing with. Deciding to risk it, she reached up to tentatively touch Mulder's chin, lightly, soothingly. As if she hoped to gentle a wild beast. "I'm not who you think I am. You don't want me. I'm not Selene." His eyes narrowed, the intelligence shining from them regarding her intently. Something flickered deep inside him, and she thought for one breathless moment that she might actually have gotten through. Then, he blinked, and the doubt that she thought she had seen in his eyes disappeared. Saying nothing, he tugged on her shirt, nearly pulling it free from the waistline of her shorts. Fabric bunched in his hands, he raised her to a sitting position, his nose brushing against her own, his breath hot and hurried against her face, his eyes glittering down into hers. "I don't know what game you're playing here, Selene. But I'd know you in the dark. And if you know me even a little bit, you know better than to try and tell me what I do and do not want." "You're confused," Scully insisted a bit more strongly, trying reason one more time, even as she feared the tactic might prove unwise. "My name is Dana Scully. You were made to believe that I was Selene. I don't know how. I don't know what happened. But, I think that in some way she called to you. Lured you here--" "SHUT UP!" he roared, as with his hands still clinging to the front of her shirt, he shook her back and forth like a dog with an ill used toy. Her hands covering his, Scully closed her eyes against the onslaught, certain that her brain was in the process of being churned with his manhandling, altered somehow, like cream being agitated into butter. Her ears were ringing. The ache in her head that had begun with the slap to her cheek now screamed with intensity. Points of light pulsed behind her lowered lids. Definite miscalculation, Dana, she silently chided herself. Big time. Seeking in some way to recover what she had lost, she thrashed her legs between them both, her bare feet windmilling as she wildly sought to make contact, to score some sort of point in their terribly one-sided battle. Finally, whether it was as a result of Irish stubbornness or just pure dumb luck, she connected. Her small hard heel slammed into the side of Mulder's hip with a force powerful enough for her to feel the blow vibrate up the entire length of her leg. Muttering an ear-singeing curse, he threw her from him, the combination of pain and fury fueling his motion. She flew through the air, awkwardly, like a nestling testing her wings for the first time. In the end, however, her flight was short, coming to an abrupt halt when her head cracked against the brass headboard and her side was pierced by the corner of the night stand. OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod. That hurt. That really hurt. That did some damage. While she didn't believe that she had broken any ribs when she had collided fast and furiously against the spear sharp edge of the small yet sturdy table beside the bed, she felt certain that the tissue around the area of impact was bruised. Badly. Oh dear Lord. She was having trouble catching her breath, taking in more than a sip of air was utter agony at that moment. Her eyes welled from it. From the awful blinding pain searing her middle. At the same time, her poor head suddenly felt in danger of spilling her brains onto the mattress beside her. Her skull seemingly too battered, her skin too thin to contain them. One of the bed's brass knobs had caught her squarely on the temple when she had landed, the result being a slender jagged gash and a doozy of a headache. With a degree of calm that amazed even her, Scully wondered dispassionately if she might just pass out from her injuries. But that was not to be. Although a trifle muddy, she stayed awake when the man she loved took her by the hair and pulled her upright once more. When she sat before him, hunched in pain, he let go of the fall of her auburn hair he had used to lift her. And instead closed his hands around her neck. "I'm going to kill you," he muttered hoarsely, his tone low and matter of fact, his eyes little more than slits. And with that, his fingers tightened around the pale soft arch of her throat. Scully twisted her head, trying to find a position that would allow her to steal oxygen despite her assailant's attempt to deny her. But, it was tough. He was strong. So very strong. And had no compunction about using that strength against her. She heard a roaring in her ears, like surf pounding against the beach. She could feel the necklace that Mulder had just that night given her digging into the tender flesh around the base of her throat, abrading the skin there. With a terrible sort of certainty she knew that unless she did something, and did something quickly, she would soon be unconscious. And utterly helpless. Searching for and finding reserves of determination she hadn't known she owned, she methodically worked to pry his fingers loose. But, despite her best efforts, they barely budged. Still, anytime she felt a momentary lessening of pressure she sucked in what air she could, knowing she would need every last gasp of it if she hoped to survive. "Mulder, don't," she whispered finally, her voice reedy, her legs twitching beneath her. At first, he appeared not to listen to her, not to hear his name stumble past her drawn lips. Instead he seemed unaware that he was slowly choking the life from her, reenacting a murder that had taken place in that very house so many years ago. Then, Scully thought she spied something in his hazel eyes. An awareness. A fear. Mulder himself. Heartened, she tried again, her raspy voice pure torture to produce. "Mulder, please . . stop . . . ." The confusion in his gaze intensified in a way that made Scully's heart ache in sympathy for him. =Damn you=, she silently cursed at the spirit she knew only as Jack. How can you do this to us? How can you do this to him? Despite her pain, despite her fear, she was livid. Absolutely beside herself with rage at the way in which Mulder and she had been manipulated into playing hosts for these two dead parasites. Why them? Why after all these years spent as nothing more than a sort of ghostly tourist attraction had Selene Broussard suddenly decided she needed to turn corporeal once more? What did she hope to gain? How and why had she summoned her murderer back to the scene of his crime? And what in the world would Mulder ever do, Scully wondered, if through no fault of his own he somehow wound up being responsible for her death? No, she vowed, even as her vision began to dissolve into tiny black dots. She would not let that happen. To either of them. Summoning every last bit of oxygen available to her, she locked her watery blue eyes on Mulder's. Reaching up with trembling hands, she placed them gently on his cheeks and whispered as clearly as she could, "Mulder, I need you . . . to stop. Mulder, . . .you're hurting me." He stared at her. His pupils large, his eyes uncomprehending. His mouth agape. The pressure around her throat as fierce as ever. Oh God, it didn't work, she silently moaned after a heartbeat or two, her hands falling lifelessly away from his face. Mulder still hadn't released her. The steady rumbling in her head grew deafening. The only thing still visible to her were her partner's wide unseeing eyes. Scully had run out of time. And air. Then, like a wall crumbling inwards against a wrecking ball, she saw the change occur. His expression shifted. Grew softer. More vulnerable. Familiar. And Mulder came crashing through. ************************************************** Fox Mulder's head felt as if someone had drop kicked it through the uprights. Thirty or forty times. Ow. What the hell had happened? How had he wound up on the bed? Had he managed to somehow hurt himself again, he wondered in bewilderment as he raised himself carefully on to his elbows, his head pointing towards the foot of the bed. Wouldn't be the first time, of course, he admitted to himself in silent chagrin. Hell, all the evidence seemed to point in that direction. Every muscle in his body felt as if it had been replaced with high tension wire. His hands ached. And a spot high on his hip throbbed like a son of a gun. Not to mention his head. Maybe the wine was to blame. That, at least, would explain the sore noggin and the reason why his memory was so fuzzy. Yet, drinker or no, surely he wouldn't have passed out from what little alcohol he had imbibed with dinner. Still, he had no other solution that satisfied the queries swimming around inside his brain. He couldn't even really recall much of anything that had happened after giving Scully that necklace. Scully. Where was she? Then, before he could ponder that question in any greater detail, the answer was provided for him. In horrifying fashion. Mulder heard a faint rattle of a moan from just over his shoulder. Scrambling awkwardly to view its cause, he came face to face with the object of his inquiry. Only she wasn't looking at him. Scully was curled on her side, facing away from him and towards the edge of the bed. Her tangled hair obscured her face and neck. And yet, through the tousled strands he spied the small trickle of blood smeared in the corner of her mouth, and the swollen split lip beside it. Her clothes were wrinkled badly, hanging awry on her slender frame, with her shirt pulled free entirely from her shorts and riding up on her back, exposing its tender slope. She had her arms wrapped protectively around her middle, and her eyes shut. Her breath appeared rapid and uneven. "Scully?" Her body stiffened. Then slowly, with great effort, she rolled over to face him more fully. "Oh God. . . ." The words slipped mindlessly from his mouth before he could edit himself. She was hurt. His Scully was hurt. Beaten, it appeared. Not only had she suffered a blow to the mouth, but her temple was bloodied and bruised as well. And her throat. . . . . Mulder felt as though all at once Mike Tyson had landed a solid right to his solar plexus. Sweet God in heaven, what had happened here? Who had done this? Why the hell couldn't he remember? It was beyond awful. Scully had ghastly purple and blue and red marks all up and down the length of her neck. They weren't large, perhaps only an inch or two in length and even narrower in width. Still, despite their comparatively small size, they stood out like blood on snow. Their presence, an atrocity. A crime against all things good. Against sanity itself. Struggling to her elbows, she met his eyes, her own gaze wary. "Mulder?" she asked softly as if for identification, her voice demolished. He swallowed hard and nodded, reaching for her. Intending to pull her into his arms, to comfort her. But the sight of those hands--his hands--stretching towards Scully's shoulders, her neck, brought it all hurtling back. And suddenly it was only through sheer force of will that Mulder didn't lose the contents of his stomach right then and there atop the bed's beautiful quilted comforter. "No," he muttered, the word little more than as grunt. Shaking his head in horrified disbelief, he pulled his hands back suddenly as if the simple touch of her skin would burn him somehow. As if she had the capacity to wound him in ways far more devastating than he had hurt her previously. His eyes went wide with fear and revulsion, their expression more than a bit wild. "Mulder . . ." Scully whispered as, grimacing, she leaned forward, her hand outstretched to lightly touch his arm, to attempt in some small way to calm him with the gentle caress. "No," he repeated, shaking his head now more vehemently, almost as if he thought the side to side motion would somehow erase what had happened only moments before. Wipe the slate clean. "Scully, I . . I wouldn't . . . . I could never . . . ." She refused to let him continue, apparently not needing to hear what she already knew. "It wasn't you." Still he inched away from her on the bed, shrinking from her hand, not feeling fit to even look at her. Not after what he had done. No way could he crush her to him the way he longed to. Not for an instant could he cradle her in his arms, rocking her while he murmured his apologies, his pleas for forgiveness in her ear. No. The man he had been that afternoon, the man he had been the night before, a week before, a lifetime before--that man might have been worthy to offer this woman solace. But not him. Not now. Oh God. At that moment, Mulder quite happily would have gone to the bureau drawer, retrieved his service revolver, stuck it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Only he suspected the display would only distress Scully. He was an expert at guilt, an aficionado of self-loathing. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, Mulder, continually whispered the insidious little voice that lived inside his head. But never, never in his entire life had he ever so thoroughly despised himself as he did at that instant. When her eyes clung to his, wide and moist in her pale battered face, seeking reassurance. Her body trembling, the set of her slender shoulders rigid with pain and leftover fear. And he knew without question, without excuse, that he was the cause of her suffering. "Dana . . . I--," he began haltingly, licking his lips, his hands clenching and unclenching without conscious thought on the bed beside him, like an echo of the violence that had occurred. "I'm just . . ." Then, not waiting for him to finish, Scully moved. The shift wasn't smooth. Her speed was only a fraction of what she would normally muster. In the end, the change could probably best be described as half crawl, half fall. But, regardless of how her motion might have been catalogued, it was her destination that ultimately proved important. She ended up in Mulder's arms. Scully threw herself into them, her breath hitching in pain as she did so, the way she favored her side telling him that she had still more wounds than those he had already noted. Seemingly ignoring these injuries herself, she tucked her head beneath his chin, and wrapped her arms tightly around his middle. "I never believed it was you, Mulder," she said softly, the effort to speak clearly costing her. "Never. You've got to know that." He closed his eyes and buried his face in her sweetly scented hair, his voice tight and hushed. "Scully, those marks on your throat might as well be my fingerprints." "No," she whispered hoarsely, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, his cheek. "No. You saved me." With as much gentleness as he had in him, Mulder pulled back with anguished eyes to look at her. "I nearly killed you." Scully was having none of it. "You didn't. Jack did." He merely shook his head, unable at that point to trust his voice. She smiled at him tenderly. "He wanted Selene dead. He wanted me dead. But you wouldn't let him win." Still not willing to let himself off the hook, Mulder looked away. But Scully captured his chin with her hand and pulled it back so that their eyes met once more. Her gaze was soft and as warm as a cottage hearth on a blustery autumn day. "I called to you for help, Mulder. And you answered. Just like the cavalry. I want to thank you, not blame you." "You don't have to blame me," he told her bleakly. "I blame myself." Sighing, she pressed against him once more, hugging him with a fierceness that surprised him, her words muffled by the fabric of his shirt and her own exhaustion. "Don't, Mulder. Okay? Please. Don't take this on yourself." "Scully, I can't promise you--" "No promises. No vows," she murmured, her voice more croak now than anything else as she sagged against him, her resources apparently running down. "None except this. I love you. And we will get through this. Together. Just like always." Slowly, he nodded, his hair sliding against hers, and held her to him as tightly as he dared. All the while wondering if he didn't hear a ghostly voice or two laughing with malicious mockery at the surety of Scully's words. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part IX "At a Loss for Words" (9/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch @delphi.com All credits, etc. can be found in the introduction. This, on the other hand, is where you find Mulderangst. ;) Enjoy. Lord knows Mulder isn't . . . ************************************************* Mulder listened to the soft steady drip of the rain as it quietly fell from the awning outside the first floor window where he stood to the flagstone below. Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop. Concentrating on that sound, and that sound only, he wearily closed his eyes and rested his head against the window's cool pane. His body ached with fatigue, his eyes burned. Yet, despite the fact that hours had passed, that the new day was nearly upon him, his mind still refused to grant him rest. To allow the events of the previous evening to mercifully dull in remembrance. Instead, his near epic battle with Scully replayed endlessly inside his head, every particular, every detail, vividly intact; like those tapes that play in department stores hawking the latest fad. The kind that run the same five minute infommercial over and over again in a continuous loop. The storm itself had ended long ago. Had petered off even before he had left their room soon after midnight and sequestered himself in the inn's cozy book-lined library. He had needed to get out of there. Out of what had been, up until that evening, Scully's and his own private sanctuary from the madness that was their lives. The chamber in which they had enjoyed a temporary respite from all the shadowy conspiracies and things that go bump in the night. The room that, under normal circumstances, should have been the last place in the world he would ever want to leave. But as of last night, that peace, that sense of safety, was no more. It had been shattered as thoroughly as a sledgehammer pounding plate glass. He just couldn't stay after what had happened, couldn't blithely lie down next to Scully, and drop off to sleep, worry-free. Because he had no way of knowing whether Jack would return. To finish off what he had started. Using Mulder's hands, Mulder's strength, to do his dirty work. Of course, Scully hadn't quite looked at the situation in the same manner as he. "Mulder, I know this sounds crazy. But, I think it's over. For tonight anyway," she had whispered raggedly as she lie beneath the crisp cotton sheet, her eyelids drooping in exhaustion. "Stay. Stay here with me." Saying nothing, he had reached out and tenderly threaded her hair through his fingertips, smoothing it from her forehead. But in the end, he had left her in their bed. Alone. Oh, he had been tempted. Sorely tempted. Part of him didn't want to let her out of his sight. Ever. Afraid that when all was said and done her injuries would prove more dire than they had first believed. Scully kept insisting that all she had were a few bumps and bruises, nothing that some time and a couple of Advil wouldn't cure. But despite her reassurances, he couldn't help but wonder whether she wasn't simply putting up a brave front for his benefit. She had to be in pain. The wound at her temple had already turned livid; purple, blue and black smudged the area surrounding the red hairline cut in her skin. The swollen patch around her mouth wasn't much better. Although not quite as colorful as the expanse above her eye, her upper lip had gone puffy and red where it had split, distorting the shape of her beautiful mouth. Yet that damage, awful and disturbing as it was, didn't worry him nearly as much as her throat and her ribs. He must have asked her a half dozen times if she was certain that her ability to swallow hadn't been impaired. "It's okay, Mulder," she had murmured softly, her brow creased with impatience. "Just sore." Mulder didn't buy it. Scully could barely speak. The marks on her neck had darkened like the bruise on her temple, their color the same as midnight. And he had grimly noted the difficulty with which she choked down saliva. So, what exactly does it take to crush an esophagus, Mulder, he had ruthlessly asked himself. Just how much more pressure would you have needed to exert before her windpipe had collapsed entirely? He had pondered these questions as he had sat on the edge of the bed, his throbbing head cradled in his hands, and waited for Scully to emerge from the bathroom. After pulling herself together as best she could, she had arisen stiffly from the bed, waving off his attempt to assist her, and walked slowly and carefully to the other room, ostensibly to clean up and dress her wounds. However, Mulder suspected that the real reason for her leaving the room and the reach of his interested eyes was that she was unwilling to share with him the full extent of her injuries. He knew damn well that something was wrong with her ribs. She was carrying herself funny, keeping one arm wrapped at all times around her waist as a sort of protective shield. And yet, she wouldn't even discuss going to the hospital to have them checked out. "No way, Mulder," she had gritted out, her voice raw. "I'd have to explain how I got like this. Too many questions. They'll be fine. Don't worry about it." Don't worry about it. Okay. Sure. I'll just put it out of my mind, he had wanted to sarcastically retort. And yet he couldn't. He didn't have that right. Not anymore. So, he had let her go behind closed doors. Had let her pretend that nothing between them had changed. That it was perfectly normal for she to stand battered and bruised before the bathroom mirror, unable to stand upright for the pain. All because he, a man doubly sworn to protect her--first as her partner, secondly as her lover--had not only failed in his duty, but had actually been the one responsible for her injuries. Yet, he had unequivocally refused to allow her to retire for the night defenseless. "Take this," he had said to her when she had finally shuffled out of the bathroom clad in the same garb she had worn the night before, the black silk camisole, tap pants, and robe that he had seen her hang on the back of the door that morning. She had stared in horror at the gun he had placed heavily in her hands, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. "Mulder, you must be out of your mind," she had mumbled. "Not right now I'm not, Scully," he had told her fiercely. "You keep this. Under your pillow. Beside the bed. In a drawer. I don't care. Just don't tell me where it is. And if I try anything . . . anything at all like what happened before . . . use it." She had looked up at him, her eyes moist, yet stormy. "I ought to shoot you for coming up with such a ridiculous idea," she had whispered. And with that, she had turned from him, and limping, crossed to the balcony, slipped out the ammunition clip, and tossed it over the railing. In the distance, he had heard it clatter softly onto the courtyard below. "Scully!" he had muttered with exasperation She had merely walked haltingly back to him, pressed the now unarmed weapon back into his hands, and said in a low voice, "If I would do the same for Hodge and Da Silva, I would certainly do no less for you, Mulder." He had known to what she had referred. Even though he had been locked away in a storeroom at Icy Cape, he had later learned how she had thrown the clips from both their guns out into the frigid sub-zero air. How she had given away her only advantage in order to placate the two remaining members of the research team with whom they had traveled north. It had comforted him not one bit to remember that particular case. "Then at least lock the door after me," he had implored her, his hand pushing distractedly through his hair, his gaze focused on the carpet at his feet. Scully had stood before him, small and vulnerable looking with her pale naked legs and mass of rumpled auburn hair, the erotic appeal of her attire completely lost on him at that point in time. Resolutely, she had shaken her head. "No." Mulder had simply looked at her for a moment, trying to figure out how the hell to make her see reason. And then had ruefully realized that attempting to apply reason to their particular situation was a futile exercise at best. So instead, he had sighed, taken her by the arm and settled her into bed with as much gentleness as he possessed. Pressing his lips to her forehead, he had then crossed to the door, and paused with his hand on the knob, his body only partly turned towards her. "I'll be downstairs if you need me," he had promised her quietly, his eyes flickering away from the sight of her damaged face turned on the pillow to face him, questions he had felt far too inadequate to answer shining in her bleary blue eyes. "Try to get some rest." She had nodded ever so slightly. Then, let her lashes fall. His gaze lingering on the woman in the bed a moment longer, Mulder had finally slipped into the hall. But not before drawing the old skeleton key out of its hole on the interior side of the door. Once he had pulled the portal closed, he had swiftly locked it, and scooted the key back under it. "Don't open up, Scully, unless you're sure it's safe," he had called softly through the thick wooden barrier. And then, without another word, he had hurried away towards the stairs, trying to ignore the pain radiating through his body. Its starting point, his heart. Even now, as he stood inside the shadowed library, staring moodily out the window at the first tendrils of dawn snaking their way through night's blackness, he still couldn't figure out what the hell had happened. How he and Scully had gone from two people in love, sitting in each other's arms, to victim and assailant. Try though he might, he was having difficulty pinpointing the moment in which the change had occurred. When precisely the being known simply as Jack had suddenly decided to introduce himself into Mulder's body. And yet, although he wasn't positive, he thought that his psyche had probably first been invaded when Scully and he had been kissing. He remembered holding her, his lips tenderly nuzzling hers, when he had felt a fine trembling overtake her, a shiver pass the length of her spine. The slight but violent movement had concerned him, he recalled. He had pulled away from her soft mouth, and was just about to ask her if she was all right when a rush of light-headedness had stolen over him unexpectedly. It had happened all at once. Without warning. And with that, it hadn't mattered what might be wrong with the woman he embraced. He had found he didn't care if she was cold or ill or even frightened. Hell, he hadn't even been entirely certain *what* woman was before him. All he knew was that she aroused him. Aroused =in= him passion and anger. For him, the two emotions had somehow become twisted around each other like strands of wire painstakingly entwined in order to strengthen them. Increase their power. Wound so tightly that it was impossible to separate either from the other. They had become irrevocably linked. But none of that had been important to him at that moment. None of the analysis had even registered. His mind had not been as keen as it usually was. Everything had seemed far too difficult to process. Tough to make sense of. But, if his mind hadn't been working up to snuff, his body certainly had. God, he had felt good. Alive. Gloriously alive. Virile. Strong. Potent. And all that potency had needed an outlet. The most likely candidate having been the woman in his arms. Selene Broussard. For despite the fact that he had never before seen her, he had recognized her immediately. She had been tall. Far taller than Scully. And possessed of a long willowy build. She had thick inky hair that had tumbled down her shoulders and back like an ebony waterfall. Her skin had been alabaster tinged with pink. Her nose, long and aquiline. Her cheekbones, high. Her mouth, soft and full; eminently kissable. But it was her eyes that had arrested his attention. They had looked up at him from beneath gracefully arched brows, large and solemn, and the most unusual shade of gray he had ever seen. They were the hue of mist over a field at sunrise. No. That was too placid. Too tame. More like the color of lightning. Of steel. Of sparks. Silver. La Lune Argentine. And yet, even as he had marveled at the beauty the woman before him possessed. Even as his groin had hardened painfully; his body longing without reason for her. Part of him had wanted to punish her. Had wanted to see her cry. To force her to beg. To make her suffer for the way she had wrenched his heart from his chest. Had unmanned him. Had turned him into a boy again. Had stripped him of the defenses he had spent nearly a lifetime developing. All by telling him that she loved him By making him believe it. And then by stabbing him in the back at the first opportunity. Mulder had felt these contradictory drives, these warring compulsions, churning inside him; whirling with a force that made him dizzy. They had been his feelings, his memories, his needs. And yet they hadn't been. He had shared them. Had felt the pain. Had understood the motivations, the desires. And yet, part of him had remained separate from them. A chunk of him had viewed the proceedings from outside of it, of him. And this was the portion that had eventually come to Scully's rescue. He had been watching how the situation had escalated. And yet, even as he had sensed how Jack's frustration with Selene, with her stubborn resistance to his overtures, was growing into something far more dangerous, he had been powerless to intercede. Hell, he hadn't even been certain he had wanted to. After all, it hadn't seemed real. More like a dream. A fascinating violent dream, chock full of erotic undertones. He had been mesmerized. Then, he had thought he had heard the woman on the bed, the one he had identified as Selene, say the impossible. Wow. Talk about your bizarre dreams. She had looked nothing like Scully, this woman who had stared up at him with terrified eyes. What was the significance of this little twist in the tale, he had wondered. This wasn't the first time that the woman he loved had popped up in one of his nocturnal fantasies. But, it was certainly the first time she had appeared in this form. Had guest-starred as a long dead courtesan. A nineteenth century rendition of a high-priced call girl. God. Scully would have his head if she knew. And so, he had thought little of it. Had instead only continued to watch the increasingly violent battle unfold before him. The rational part of him more and more disturbed by the manner in which his dream was edging into the area of snuff. Then, it had happened again. This was too weird, he had thought. Too distasteful. Too spooky, even for him. Hearing his name spoken by the struggling woman before him had threatened to make his stomach roil. He had wanted no part of it. Any of it. It had to stop. Now. Desperately, he had tried to discover a way out of the dream. Only to find himself trapped. No matter how hard he had fought. How passionately he had resisted the manner in which this shadow self was behaving, he had been unable to bring the spectacle to an end. Had found himself incapable of freeing the trashing woman beneath him. Then, his nightmare had turned unspeakably vile. Because the tall slender ebony-haired woman on the bed had metamorphosed before his horrified eyes into a much smaller auburn-haired woman. A woman who was intimately familiar to him. One whom he loved more than life itself. And one whose own life was being steadily choked into oblivion by his very own two hands. . . . A chilling sort of sweat broke out on Mulder's skin as he remembered the look in Scully's eyes when he had come back to himself. The way her gaze had silently pleaded with him for help, her expression full of fear, of pain. But not of accusation. Never that. Christ. How could she forgive him when he would never be able to forgive himself. Taking a deep breath, Mulder turned quickly away from the library window, and buried his face in his hands once more. Shit, if he kept this up he'd soon be ready for a padded cell. And yet, he didn't know how to stop it. How to make the memories go away. He needed to see Scully. He pushed wearily away from his place against the wall, and took a few stiff-legged steps before he stopped dead in his tracks. Look at your watch, Mulder, instructed a calm little voice inside his head. God. Not yet six. Far too early to wake her. The least he could do for her, the very least, was to allow her to get some sleep. Much as he longed to slip into bed beside her and pull her into his arms, that option was denied him. After all, he had no way of gaining access to the room. Not without her unlocking the door first. And besides, even if by some miracle the room was indeed open to him, even if he ignored his fear of injuring her once more, of allowing Jack to gain control as he had the night before, Mulder still felt dirty somehow. Unclean. Unworthy. What could he say to her? How would they go on? Suddenly, he felt old. So terribly old. Aged in both body and soul. All at once, mere standing was more than he felt equipped to handle. With a soft wordless groan, he sunk into the overstuffed armchair facing the room's wall of windows. Leaning his head against the seat's rounded back, he closed his eyes, his hands hanging limply from the chair's rolled arms. "Trouble in paradise?" The quietly spoken query brought Mulder's head upright and his eyes open once more. Before him stood a faintly embarrassed Bill. Hair mussed, jaw unshaved, the innkeeper looked down inquisitively through his wire-rimmed glasses, his gaze kind. Taking in the sweatpants, Tulane T- shirt, and tennis shoes the other man wore, Mulder judged that his host was about to head out for an early morning run. Suddenly, he wanted more than anything to join him, thinking that it would do him a world of good to run off some of the pent-up emotions he still had raging through him like a firestorm. Trouble in paradise? The man had no idea. "No," Mulder lied smoothly, his expression mild. "I just couldn't sleep. Decided to come down here so I wouldn't wake Dana." Bill nodded sagely. "I know. I get like that sometimes. It's weird. Laura and I have completely different internal clocks. I'm very much the 'early to bed, early to rise' type while she is most definitely a night owl. It's a wonder, what with her slipping into bed late and me slipping out of bed early, that either of us get any sleep." Mulder smiled wryly, not really feeling like talking and yet not really wanting to be alone either. At least when he was making conversation with Bill he felt like himself, like a normal human being. Well, normal for him anyway. Not like the monster he feared himself to be when he thought of the previous night. "It's tough," he ventured at last with a small nod, unable at that moment to come up with anything more insightful. "Yeah," Bill agreed, his lips curved slightly. "So . . , did you at least find something to read?" Mulder wanted to chuckle. All those hours spent sitting there with nothing to do and no company but his own, and yet he hadn't even begun to browse through the selection of reading material surrounding him. How unlike him. A man who was a voracious reader. He must have had other things on his mind. "Too many choices," Mulder said with chagrined smile, thinking that at least this particular lie was a variation on the truth. "You've got a nice collection here. I just couldn't make up my mind." "Ah," Bill said with a quick nod and a lift of his eyebrows. He then walked to the wall on the far side of the room, talking to Mulder over his shoulder as he moved. "Well then, if you don't mind a suggestion . . . " He swiftly found a thin burgundy colored volume tucked away in the corner of the uppermost shelf. Turning, he crossed back to Mulder, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "Now, before you say anything, I want you to know that this is in no way a feeble attempt at self-promotion." Mulder scanned the book's spine and saw that its author was indeed the man before him. Well, what do you know, he thought with a glint of humor. Bill was a triple threat-- professor, innkeeper, and author. But, before he could playfully comment on that observation, he spied the book's title. And his heart kicked into overdrive. "'Under a Silvery Moon': The Life and Tragic Death of Selene Broussard," Mulder murmured, his brow tightly furrowed. Bill shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah. I was going to tell you about it night before last, when we were talking. But . . . I kind of lost my nerve. Proud as I am of it, I usually hesitate before pulling the book out in front of guests. I don't know. It just always seems like the worst kind of touristy scam. You know? Hear the ghost! Read the book!" "No, no," Mulder assured him, his voice vaguely distracted as he began leafing through the slender volume. "This is great. Really. Um . . . so where did you get your information?" Bill sighed. "It wasn't easy. My field is history. My interest, local folklore. So, with our living in Selene's old house, the subject was a natural. But, there wasn't much to go on. Unfortunately, she wasn't the sort to keep a diary. In the end, I wound up digging around mostly in the newspapers of the time. Periodicals. That sort of thing." "Any luck?" Mulder asked. Bill twisted his lips. "Some. Oh, Selene made the society columns often enough. But, that's mostly gossip, you know? Hearsay. Her life already reads like one of those books with Fabio on the cover. I was trying to do a little more with it. Raise the whole thing a step above your average dime store novel." "And did you succeed?" Mulder queried with a small smile. Bill grinned. "What, are you crazy? I was shown the error of my ways. Sex sells. Or so my editor kept telling me. Of course, that's the same guy who wanted to put her picture on the cover." "Her picture?" Mulder echoed, his throat suddenly going dry, his grip on the book tightening. "Yeah," Bill confirmed. "I've got about a half dozen black and white plates in there. Pictures of Selene--well, her portrait anyway. The house. Heck, I even got my hands on a charcoal sketch that's supposed to be of Jacques LeFevre." "Who's that?" Mulder asked quietly, even though he felt certain he already knew the answer. "Selene's lover," Bill said simply. "The man who killed her." ************************************************ Scully was growing horribly restless. She had only been able to sleep until nine, her body unwilling to allow her longer escape from the aches and pains assailing it. Stifling a moan, she had rolled with ungainly grace from bed and padded into the shower where she had contented herself by allowing a steady stream of nearly scorching hot water to pummel her stiff muscles into submission. She really did feel better, she thought. Certainly more human than she had the night before. True, her throat was still raw. Sore, like a bad case of strep. And the tenderness around her ribs seriously restricted her movement, making her feel as if the eighty year old widow who lived across the hall from her back home was spry by comparison. Still, the piercing pain in her temple had dulled to a steady throb. And emotionally she felt more fit, more able to deal with the aftermath of what had occurred. And she knew that there would be no eluding the fallout. Not for her. And especially not for Mulder. Lord, she had wanted to scream at him last night. Had yearned to grab hold of his sloped shoulders and shake him into awareness. I need you now, Mulder, she had longed to tell him. I need you to snap out of this state you've put yourself into, this prison of guilt and self- recrimination, and be there for me. I know that none of this was your fault. So why is it so damned difficult for you to have faith in your own innocence? But she couldn't ask that of him, couldn't rub his nose in the way he was feeling. Because she recognized that despite her own impatience with him, Mulder's emotions were genuine. There was no wallowing in angst for angst's sake. No fashionable melancholy donned like a costume in order to gain attention. Not at all. He truly believed that he had in some unthinkable manner failed her. That he was the sole cause of her injuries. What a bunch of bullshit. Shaking her head in frustration, she checked the time. Five till eleven. Where could he be? She would go downstairs and look for him herself, but she feared running into anyone. More than anything, she wished that her wounds weren't so highly visible. Scully recognized that she looked for all the world like a stereotypical battered woman. Many at La Lune Argentine knew that she and Mulder had spent the night in. If she had entered the room with Mulder the night before, whole and unmarked, only to exit it the following morning with cuts and bruises, it didn't exactly take an Einstein to figure out who had inflicted them upon her. And there was no way in hell that she was going to subject Mulder to those sorts of suspicions. So she was stuck. A captive bird in a beautifully appointed cage. Sighing, she wandered over to the cheval glass, and checked her appearance. Not bad. Well . . . not =good=. The mottled colors marring her face and neck were plainly obvious. She didn't imagine that even a double layer of make-up would disguise the damage. Still, she didn't think she looked too fragile. Too waif-like. Too likely to drive Mulder shuddering from the room once more, his over-active conscience flagellating his soul like a crazed monk. Smiling ruefully at the image, she rolled up more tightly the sleeves on the over-sized shirt she wore. The garment didn't belong to her. It was Mulder's. She had chosen it in a fit of pique. If he was going to leave her alone in their room while he went off brooding over imagined transgressions, then she was going to damn well keep him with her in whatever small way she could. And if that meant wearing his clothes because they retained his scent, and because the knowledge that the fabric that currently caressed her skin had not so long ago done the same to his, then so be it. A girl had to find her comfort where she could. Besides, she liked the way his pin-striped dress shirt looked with her black knit shorts. "Scully? You awake?" If she could have skipped to the door she would have. As it was, she crossed to it as quickly as she was able, and turned the key. "Hi," she said softly, the smile she started to give him pulling painfully on her swollen lip. He stood framed in the doorway, exhaustion evident in the slight bow of his shoulders, the haunted look in his eyes. In his hands were two white paper bags. "I brought you a present," he told her quietly as he stepped into their room, and handed her one of the bags. She closed the door behind him, then peered inside the sack. "Ice cream!" He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Chocolate. I thought it might feel good on your throat." Her eyes sparkled up at him. "I bet it will. Thanks, Mulder." He nodded once more, his stance diffident, his eyes locked on her face. "Looks better on you than it does on me," he murmured after a beat, a dip of his head indicating her borrowed article of clothing. "I missed you," she whispered back, as if that was explanation enough for her outfit. Perhaps it was. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, his gaze burning down into hers. "I'm okay," she assured him. He only nodded yet again. "So what's in there?" she questioned him finally when it appeared that they would both stand there, just inside their room, staring at each other for the rest of the day. He started at her question, almost as if he had forgotten he still carried another package. "Oh. Coffee. One for me and one for you. After all, you shouldn't be having dessert without eating breakfast first." Her eyebrows lifted in amusement at his quip, and taking the paper carton and plastic spoon from the first bag, she climbed awkwardly on to the bed where she sat cross-legged against the pillows. Mulder put her cup of coffee on the night stand, and then sat in the chair across from her with his. "Get comfortable, Scully. I'm going to tell you a story." She arched a brow as she slowly swallowed a spoonful of the ice cream. Oh Lord, that felt good. Just what the doctor ordered. "What kind?" she asked. Mulder crossed his ankle over his knee and took a sip of his coffee. "A ghost story. Believe it or not, I think I may actually understand what happened here last night." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part X "At a Loss for Words" (10/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Sorry this took so long. Please see the intro for credits, disclaimers, & thanks. ************************************************ Scully thoughtfully nibbled on her spoon a moment before murmuring. "Well, don't keep me in suspense, Mulder. Spill it." Mulder hesitated an instant himself. Then, leaning forward in his chair, he reached behind him and pulled something from the waistband of his jeans. It was a small hard cover book. He must have tucked it there in the back of his pants while trying to successfully maneuver it and the two white paper bags into their room, Scully realized with a touch of bemusement. From where she sat, she couldn't clearly see the title on its spine, but the restrained burgundy, black, and white book jacket clearly identified the tome as a step above Jackie Collins. No splashy artwork, no full size photo of the writer, adorned either of the two covers. Instead, on the front, she noted only some spidery white script which apparently heralded the book's name and author. While beneath the words, she thought she spied a gracefully rendered line drawing of a crescent moon. Her brow creased. "What's that?" "A little bomb that got dropped on my head early this morning, courtesy of Bill," Mulder said with a wry smile as he glanced down at the volume in his hands, his gaze almost rueful. "It seems that the guy was holding out on us, Scully." "In what way?" she asked suspiciously. He smiled reassuringly. "Oh, don't worry. Our mild- mannered host isn't a fiend in disguise. However, he does possess certain hidden talents." "Such as?" she inquired before swallowing another spoonful of ice cream. "He's a writer. And this is his latest effort." Watching her face closely, he reached across and handed her the book. Scully took one look at it and gasped. "Oh." "Yeah," Mulder said with a nod and a sardonic twist to his lips. "Everything you ever wanted to know, and then some." Good Lord, she thought, her heart leaping past her battered throat and straight into her mouth. Bill had actually recorded for posterity the life and times of La Lune Argentine's best known resident. No wonder he was so knowledgeable about the subject when they had spoken the other night. Selene Broussard wasn't so much a hobby for him as a vocation. Nearly shaking with anticipation, she deposited her half eaten dish of ice cream next to her coffee on the night stand. And, taking a deep breath, she cracked open the book. "Have you read it?" she queried huskily, her eyes skimming over text as she flipped slowly through the volume. "Cover to cover," Mulder said after taking a sip of his coffee. "I had some time to kill." She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes before bowing her head once more. "First things first though, Scully," he said softly, his voice sounding tight all of a sudden, as if perhaps his coffee had somehow burned his mouth, numbed his lips and tongue, making speech a struggle. "Turn to page 82. See anything that looks familiar?" She regarded him quizzically. Just what in the world was this all about, she silently wondered. Mulder sat there, waiting, his gaze intent. Clearly expecting that whatever the hell was on page 82 would indeed have some impact on her. Precisely what *sort* of impact, however, she couldn't venture to say. And yet, she didn't like the look in his eyes. Without knowing why, she suspected that she would soon regret locating the page in question. Still, fingers suddenly clumsy, she did as he instructed. And upon flipping to the proper page, felt all the air in her lungs expel in a rush. "Oh, my God." she murmured fervently, like a prayer. "Do you recognize him, Scully?" Mulder asked quietly as he perched literally on the edge of his seat, his elbows braced on his knees. She slowly nodded. There, in coarsely drawn profile, was the face of the man who had attacked her the night before. "Jack?" she asked, her bewildered gaze seeking Mulder's for confirmation, not even thinking to look at the caption beneath the picture first for the information she sought. His expression bleak, Mulder dipped his head. "You'd be the one to know," he said in a soft rough voice. "Remember, I've never seen him." A gurgle of hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up from inside of her, bursting to the surface like champagne popping a cork. Of course, Mulder wouldn't know what Jack looked like. After all, the man in the drawing had taken up residence *inside* the man sitting across from her. "However, there's someone else in there that I believe I *do* recognize," Mulder muttered. His expression shuttered, he rose from his chair and crossed to sit before her on the bed. Saying nothing, he gently removed the book from her hands and deftly turned to its frontispiece. "This is the woman I saw last night." Scully peered at the small black and white photograph her partner held out for her perusal. The picture featured a detail of what looked to be an oil painting; its subject, a young woman with pale skin, jet black hair, and eyes that were almost eerie in their intensity and lightness of color. She gasped once more. "Selene Broussard?" Mulder nodded grimly. "Yes." She shook her head skeptically, an eyebrow arched to underscore the sentiment. "Good Lord." So this was the woman who had been sharing her body. The one with the ivory handled hairbrush. The one who wanted nothing more than to spend her days lounging in the lush comfort of her bed. With the man she loved. The man who wanted her dead. "This woman was in our room last night, Scully" Mulder said in a hushed voice, his gaze falling away from hers to study his hands. "I saw her. Heard her. I don't know how, but she was the one I saw attacked. The one . . . I . . hurt. Not you." Never you. Scully had been contemplating the picture before her, her lips pursed in speculation, her fingertips resting lightly on the page, when Mulder spoke. She immediately identified the shame in his voice, heard in her head his unspoken addendum. And her eyes lifted to meet his. "You didn't hurt anyone, Mulder," she told him firmly, knowing that for the foreseeable future she would undoubtedly be repeating that statement ad infinitum. He just looked at her for a beat, the haggard lines etched in his face paining her sharply at that moment, tormenting her far more grievously than her ribs. Finally, his gaze dropped away once more. "You know what I mean," he mumbled, his brow furrowed. Staring at his bowed head, Scully sighed softly with frustration, wishing that she could miraculously come up with the words that would ease his soul. Could somehow wave a magic wand and cleanse him of the guilt burning holes in his heart. And yet, she recognized that in reality nothing she said or did would free him from his suffering. Ultimately, the only one who could do that was Mulder himself. He was the one who had to forgive himself. She had never blamed him to begin with. Well, what do you know, she grimly mused. Rachel was right, after all. Unwilling to mull over the ramifications of that little revelation, she closed the book with a snap, and scooting carefully into place, leaned once more against the pillows at her back. "So tell me everything." He raised his head, the corner of his mouth quirking in a smile. "Don't you want to read it yourself?" "Later," she said in a rough voice as she once again picked up her dish of ice cream, noting with a small smile of pleasure that the frozen treat hadn't yet turned entirely to soup. Good. She could use something soothing against her throat. All this talking was murder. "Give me the Reader's Digest version." Smiling his acquiescence, Mulder stepped away from the bed for a moment, retrieved his coffee from the small table beside the chair where he had sat, and returned to settle himself before her. "Okay. Well, to begin at the beginning," he murmured before taking a sip of the beverage in his hand. "Selene, as you may have guessed, came from the wrong side of the tracks. Not to mention, the wrong side of the blanket." "Illegitimate?" Scully queried. Mulder nodded. "Apparently. Bill was able to track down a birth certificate for her, but no marriage license for Selene's mother, Lucille Byrne, and one, Jefferson Matthias, the man listed on the certificate as her father." "Did her mother ever marry at all?" she asked as she stirred her melting ice cream. "Nope," Mulder said shortly. "But then it was tough for a woman in her position to meet the right kind of guy." "What do you mean?" "Let's just say that Selene entered the family business." Scully's eyebrows crawled towards her hairline. "Her mother was a prostitute?" He nodded once more. "That's right. And from what Bill was able to dig up, it appears that poor Lucy was of a much more common variety than Selene. She worked at a cathouse not far from the river. It must have been one hell of a life. She was dead before Selene's fourteenth birthday." "God," Scully murmured darkly as she shook her head. Mulder sipped his coffee, his puckish shadow of a smile telling her that more was yet to come on this particular subject. He didn't make her wait long for it. "However, before she died she did manage to assure that her daughter was settled comfortably." "How?" "By selling her at the age of thirteen to an elderly plantation owner by the name of John Reginald Smith." Scully nearly choked on her ice cream. "She =sold= her?!" "I know," Mulder agreed with a grimace. "Pretty harsh. Yet, in the end, it was probably the best thing Lucy could have done for her. Smith was filthy rich, and obviously not afraid to spend a little money. His home just northwest of the city was supposedly a palace. He gave Selene a taste for the finer things in life. And surprisingly enough, he treated her well. Like family." He chuckled humorlessly and took another swallow of coffee. "In fact, he used to introduce her to people as his niece. Although, I don't imagine that designation particularly *fooled* anybody. Still, like I said, he was good to her. Generous. Clothes. Jewelry. Servants. He even hired a tutor for her; made sure she knew how to read and write; taught her how to go about in polite society. He basically molded her into what she would become. She was with him for nearly six years." "So, why did she leave?" Scully queried softly. Mulder smiled dryly. "She didn't. He did. Smith passed away just before Selene's nineteenth birthday. According to Bill, the old man left everything to her--plantation and all. But, his remaining relatives contested the will. Selene got bounced out on her ear. So, she took stock of her assets, and went in search of another protector." She nodded thoughtfully. "And she ran into Jack?" He shook his head. "Not yet. First she latched onto Henri Antoine." "Antoine?" she croaked, her eyes going wide. "Yeah," he confirmed with a nod. "Selene became his mis--" "He was the man Jack found her with," she muttered with absolute surety, her gaze lowered, her blue eyes gleaming in their intensity. Taken aback, Mulder hesitated before speaking. "That's right, . . . but how did you--?" "Last night," she explained, her gaze locked on his once more. "Jack talked about Antoine. He taunted Selene with it. With him." He nodded slowly. "I had forgotten." "Who was he?" she prodded. His lips pulled up in a rueful smile. "A guy who lived his life just this side of the law. He owned a string of gambling halls up and down the river in addition to having his hand in any number of equally shady enterprises in New Orleans itself. However, despite the questionable nature of his trade, Antoine preferred to consider himself simply a businessman. Most people were too afraid of him to argue semantics." Scully's brow creased. "Did he have a record?" "No," he said with a shake of his head. "Antoine wasn't a thug. Just powerful. In a dangerous sort of way. He never got his own hands dirty. He was too smart for that. As a matter of fact, he and Selene were welcome in many of New Orleans' better homes. People looked the other way. After all, Selene was beautiful, charming. And Antoine's money could buy them both a lot of acceptance." "Sounds like Selene chose her protector well." He shrugged. "To a point. They were together nearly three years. And yet from what Bill was able to find out, they fought almost constantly. Antoine was older than Selene. Old enough to be her father. And extremely possessive. She, unfortunately, liked attention. Particularly from the opposite sex. Not a good mix. Still, Antoine had a genius for smoothing her feathers. Usually with an expensive piece of jewelry. So, she stayed with him." "Until Jack came along," Scully murmured softly as she set her now empty dish of ice cream to the side. "Yeah," Mulder agreed quietly. "Until Captain Jacques LeFevre sailed into port." "=Captain=?" The corner of Mulder's mouth lifted at her tone of voice. "Hmm-mm. *Jack* was a sailor. Or more to the point, a privateer. At least, that's what people suspected. No one was ever able to prove that he or his men carried illegal cargo. But, one way or another, he made his money on the water. He was handsome, successful, a bit wild, and a hell of a lot closer in age to Selene than either of her other two lovers. She fell hard." "And she left Antoine for him?" His smile broadened. "Not right away. Selene knew that Antoine wouldn't be happy about losing her. She feared what he might do. So, Jack and she apparently snuck around at first." "It probably seemed romantic to her," Scully said dryly, a brow lifted just a tad. "The danger." After all, Dana, a little voice inside her whispered, isn't that part of what makes the idea of you and Mulder as a couple so exciting? The thing that gives your relationship that extra little kick, that spark, that zest that your earlier liaisons had always lacked. The knowledge that when you get right down to it, you and he are breaking rules. Hell, you two are defying everything--the mandates of your job, the stricture of your superiors, the censure of your co-workers, the threat your enemies could pose should they learn of your feelings for each other--all to be together. She looked at Mulder then. At this man she had chosen. Or had choice ever even entered into it, she mused wryly. Sometimes, their union seemed far more like destiny than anything else. Like something that had been set into motion long before she had walked into his basement office for the first time, and even now continued to snowball with increasing momentum. Gaining in power, in intensity, with every long look, every shared secret, every furtive caress. Until there were moments, instants, when her world, her entire universe got distilled down to just the two of them. At times, her family, her friends, her career, all faded away into nothingness when viewed beside the nova brilliance that was Fox Mulder. And yet, it wasn't only his surface dazzle that drew her in. His wickedly nimble mind and pensive good looks. There was more to their bond than the physical. Than the thrill to be had merely by their daring to be together. Had it been that way for Selene and Jack? Had they felt the same soul deep connection that she felt with Mulder, Scully mused. When they had been apart, had either of them felt as if some intrinsic hunk of themselves was missing? If pressed, had they been unable to come up with another single person in their lives to whom they had longed to unburden their hearts? Had Selene discovered one day, quite accidentally, that it was impossible anymore to view the world except through the filter of her lover's eyes? Had she found herself talking to a person or seeing a situation unfold, and automatically formed Jack's opinion of the moment as she had formed her own? Had they been that fused together, that complete? If not, why had she sought him out, defying death and time to find him once more? And yet, if so, why had their association ended with betrayal and murder? "Selene might have enjoyed the danger a relationship with Jack offered," Mulder allowed quietly after a time. "After all, for all her sophistication, she was still young, still inclined to be taken in by that sort of thing. Me--I'd have to say that danger is highly overrated." "Sounds as if she must have eventually come to the same conclusion," she offered as she reached for her coffee, the twisting motion the effort required sending a shooting pain through her mid-section. She froze, hoping Mulder hadn't caught her sudden wince. He had. Refusing to dwell on her discomfort or the look in his eyes, she resolutely continued, "She =did= leave Antoine, didn't she?" After a beat, he nodded. "Yeah. She did. Although I'm not sure that the phrase 'leave Antoine' is necessarily accurate." "What do you mean?" The corner of his mouth pulled up. "It's just that she didn't exactly leave him. He lost her in a poker game." A small smile of disbelief flirted with her lips. "Excuse me?" His smile widened. "Jack maneuvered Antoine into a poker game. They were playing for big money, and Jack was on a roll. When Antoine ran out of chips, Jack suggested that they make the game a bit more interesting." Scully's eyebrows lifted. "By wagering a human being?" Mulder chuckled. "Now before you let yourself get all indignant over this. There is something you should know." "Such as?" she asked dryly. "Such as," he echoed. "The whole thing was Selene's idea to begin with. At least, according to Bill." She frowned in confusion. "I don't understand." "Jack and Antoine were playing with a marked deck. One marked by Selene to allow Jack a distinct advantage. She knew all along that she was going to end up in the pot. And she wanted to make sure that she wound up going home with the right guy." Scully shook her head ever so slightly. "That's insane." Mulder shrugged. "It is a bit extreme. But, when you stop to think about it, the whole thing *does* make a warped sort of sense." She merely looked at him. He grinned. "It =does=! Selene knew that her leaving Antoine for Jack could have dire consequences. So, she had to make certain that it looked as if she had no choice in the matter. As if Antoine had no one else to blame but himself for the outcome." "So what--you're saying that when Antoine decided that he'd accept Jack's dare, that he'd wager his mistress, Selene acted as if she was appalled by the idea?" He nodded. "I don't know. Probably. Given what she did for a living, Selene had to have had a bit of the actress in her. So, I suppose she was probably able to feign outrage when it appeared her future was being decided by a couple of hands of cards." Scully tried to visualize the scenario in her head. "How was she able to manage marking the cards?" "Don't forget, Antoine was really little more than a gambler made good," Mulder reminded her after taking a final sip of his coffee. "He played cards often and well. But, he wasn't the most trusting of men. He was known for never entering a game unless it was agreed in advance that his own deck of cards would be used." She smiled in reluctant admiration. "So, Selene got to that deck, marked it--possibly even doing so in a way in which Antoine himself had shown her--" "Possibly," he agreed with a small smile. "And then she simply sat back and watched their plan unfold," she finished, noting that her voice was getting progressively rougher the longer their discussion continued. And yet, she had absolutely no intention of cutting it short. Finally, she was getting a sense of who Selene Broussard had been, this woman who had seen virtually every aspect of her life controlled from an early age by those who viewed her as little more than property. A toy. An amusement. Beautiful, certainly. Expensive, without a doubt. And yet, something to be owned. Kept. Not a person. Not really. Not until Jack. "They should have lived happily ever after," she murmured wistfully at last. "I had no idea you were such a romantic, Scully," Mulder teased gently. She looked up and saw his warm hazel eyes resting lovingly on her face. She smiled, feeling a bit silly at getting caught musing in such a manner over the events in question. Shaking her head as if trying to clear it, she said wryly, "So, after going to all that trouble to get away from Antoine, why did Selene decide to go back to him?" Mulder gnawed on the inside of his bottom lip for a moment, his gaze turning speculative. "Here is where our tale turns interesting. You see, Bill doesn't believe she went back to him. He doesn't even think that they slept together. He states in his book that the whole thing was a set-up." Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "What kind of a set-up?" "According to him, Antoine found out that he had been had. I don't know how. Maybe the cards. Maybe Selene told someone and it got back to him. I don't know. But, one way or another he learned the truth." "So, you're saying that he decided to get his revenge?" Mulder nodded. "That's what Bill says. Antoine waited for a night when he knew Jack would be gone. Although this was technically Selene's home, Jack lived here with her when he was in town. They had been together nearly a year at this point. Things were going well. Selene had even told some of her acquaintances that Jack had proposed marriage. So anyway, Antoine comes over, says he needs to speak with her. At first, Selene puts him off. Tells him that it's over between them, and that Jack wouldn't approve of her seeing him. But, Antoine keeps after her. He explains that Jack is the reason he needs to talk to her. He tells her that he overheard something at one of his clubs that could put Jack and his operation at risk." Scully looked at him with a touch of doubt. "And she fell for that?" He shrugged. "Don't forget, she had no reason to believe that Antoine was any the wiser. Besides, time had passed. Antoine had even taken a new mistress. Selene probably figured that he had no reason to lie to her about this, nothing to gain. Regardless, she let him in. They talked. And somewhere along the way, he slipped her a mickey." "He =drugged= her?" He nodded once more. "That's what Bill hypothesizes." The whole thing was all getting a bit too Southern Gothic for her taste. "I don't get it. Just where did he come up with all this?" Mulder's eyes twinkled at her blunt demand. "Put the blame on modern technology." He took the book from her once more and quickly leafed to the back, and its bibliography. "Bill was having a tough time with his book. He had originally wanted to use Selene's life as a case study of sorts to point up the inequities women had faced in the last century. You know--the absence of opportunities for young women without family or money, their lack of stature in the eyes of the law, their dependency upon men. That type of thing." She nodded. "But it wasn't coming together for him. Selene just wasn't *typical* enough. Her life was too unusual. Too 'out there'. So, in a kind of desperation, he put out a call on the Internet asking if anyone who was doing similar research on the period had run across any information that he might find useful." "And he hit it lucky," Scully surmised with a smile. "Bingo," Mulder confirmed, pointing to the citation in question. "A Dr. Susan Archer from LSU wrote to him with a anecdote she had uncovered while doing research on slaves who had stayed with their former masters after the Emancipation." "Selene kept slaves?" "No," he said shortly. "Antoine did." "I don't understand." "Antoine had a servant, a man named Nathaniel Walker. He had been bought when he was little more than a boy and stayed with Antoine even after he was freed," Mulder explained, his eye glowing now with excitement as his tale reached its climax. "In fact, he was the one who was with Antoine on the night he died." "How did he die?" Scully asked. "Nothing dramatic," he assured her. "His body just gave out. He lived to be almost eighty. But, he couldn't meet his maker without confessing his sins." "And what he did to Jack and Selene was one of them?" she guessed quietly. "Right. Antoine told Walker the whole thing. How he had drugged Selene, took her upstairs, got her undressed and then waited for a very drunk Jack to return home." "Drunk?" He nodded. "Antoine hadn't left anything to chance. He had arranged to have one of his men, one Jack would be certain not to know, befriend the guy for the evening, buy him a few drinks. He had known about a bar down near the waterfront where LeFevre tended to go with his men after a run. Apparently, the man was an ugly drunk. He had a fairly ferocious temper to begin with. And alcohol only made it worse. Antoine had wanted to stir up trouble. And he certainly knew how to go about it." Scully was silent for a moment, considering all that she had learned. "Had he planned on Selene dying?" Mulder shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. He was adamant about that when he told the story to Walker. He had hoped to break Selene and Jack up. Or at the very least, to cause them to doubt each other. But murder had never been part of his scheme." She nodded solemnly. Then, she asked him the question that had been on her mind since they had begun. "So what does any of this have to do with us? With what happened last night?" He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took her hand. Her eyes burned for an instant with tears. It was the first time he had touched her that morning. As he spoke, he kept his gaze averted from hers. "I believe that Selene is trying to reach out to Jack," he said softly. "That she is trying to convince him that she didn't betray him. That what he saw when he walked into their bedroom that night wasn't what it appeared to be." Scully's mind reeled. She had been going along with everything up to this point. Much as it was wholly and entirely against her nature to believe in ghosts, she knew what she had experienced the previous night. Had seen its effect on Mulder. It hadn't been their imaginations at work, or too much wine. Nor were Mulder and she delusional. Their psyches were, for the most part, intact. No. Rather, other forces had been at work. Something foreign had insinuated itself into them both. Something--some =things=--had taken up residence inside them. She believed that. She didn't want to. But she had to. She had no other explanation. However, to hear Mulder baldly come up with a theory as to why it had occurred disturbed her nevertheless. Made the whole thing too unspeakably real. "But why =us=?" she asked, her voice gravel low. "How do we fit into all this?" Mulder grimaced. "I'm not sure. But, I think that Selene thought to use us as a kind of buffer." "You've lost me." "Think about it, Scully," he urged, his grip on her hand tightening. "As strong as Selene was, she was unable to get Jack to listen to any of her explanations. Hell, she probably didn't even have a chance to utter a single word in her defense." "Well, don't forget, if Bill's information is correct she was probably still out of it when Jack burst on the scene," she murmured reasonably. "I know," he agreed quickly. "But, I'll tell you something, Scully. I've had that guy inside me. Or I've been inside him. Last night I couldn't tell the difference. And the pain . . . the rage . . . he carries around with him. . . . What he saw when he walked into that room was a scene from his greatest nightmare. It pushed him right over the edge. Even if Selene had been clear-headed I doubt that she could have gotten through to him." She slowly nodded. "So, if I was supposed to lend Selene my strength, you were supposed to share with Jack your . . . calm?" Mulder shrugged, plainly embarrassed. "I don't know. If that was the case, it appears the joke is on him." He smiled dryly, the look failing to convey humor. "Maybe it wasn't any particular facet of our personalities that drew Selene to us. Perhaps instead it's our relationship as a whole that attracted her. Maybe she thought that the trust we share would be enough for her and Jack to discover a little of it between themselves." She looked at him for a beat, her eyes narrowed in consideration. "It's flattering if you think about it, Scully," he quipped at last. That coaxed a small smile out of her. "So what do we do now?" Mulder's expression hardened into resolve. "We get out of here. Today. I refuse to spend another night under this roof." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part XI "At a Loss for Words" (11/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com We're getting there slowly but surely. How the =hell= I thought I was going to fit this into four chapters I do not know . . . ************************************************ Scully felt flooded by a rush of profound affection as she watched Mulder laying sprawled on his back on their bed. Breathing slowly and deeply. Eyes shut. Lips parted. He rested, cheek turned on the pillow so that his hair fell in messy ripples across his forehead, softening his features. She smiled at the sight. Even though he hadn't admitted it, she knew with absolute certainty that her partner hadn't so much as closed his eyes the night before. Add to that the manner in which their slumber had been interrupted by her nocturnal ramblings two nights previously, and the man before her was owed several hours of shut-eye. Thus, treading lightly across the room's hardwood floor, she made as little noise as possible as she silently packed her belongings in preparation for leaving La Lune Argentine. She and Mulder had only one more night planned in New Orleans. And it now appeared that they would be spending it at a Holiday Inn not far from the airport. Mulder had apologized, saying that it was the best he could do under the circumstances. She didn't mind the step down in accommodations. Not at all. Lord knew that they had stayed at worse. What she did regret, however, was the way in which their time together in the Big Easy had gone from 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous' to 'Tales From the Crypt'. Lips curving ruefully at the thought, she stopped and fingered the delicate silver chain around her neck. Reaching down, she cupped the crescent moon dangling from the chain in her hand, lifting it so she could study it more carefully. You were supposed to be a memento of this trip, she silently told the tiny woman clinging to the delicate little slip of a moon. A souvenir of a special time, a joyous time. You were meant to be a reminder whose significance only Mulder and I would fully understand. Brow furrowed, she closed her hand around the pendant, feeling it press, edges sharp, against her palm. Why is it that at this moment that you remind me more of those charms we saw at The Bottom of the Cup, she mused grimly. The ones that can be used to conjure up all manner of mischief. Shaking her head, she let the necklace drop once more. You don't believe in that stuff, Dana, she wordlessly chided herself. Remember? And yet, she was finding it increasingly difficult these days to keep from buying into voodoo, ghosts and rest of it. After all, she had seen things, experienced things firsthand for which she had no other logical explanation. Even her skepticism only stretched so far. Sighing, she began to fold the pile of clothes she had quietly pulled from the dresser drawer. Damn it. She had no intention of feeling sorry for herself. Only it was just that she couldn't help but be disappointed over the turn events had taken. And angry. Mostly angry. She hated that they were being forced out of La Lune Argentine. Fleeing for their lives like islanders trying to outrun a hurricane. Not exactly the way she had thought she'd be ending her much needed vacation. Vacation. Ha. Hell, she'd need to take a couple additional days when they got back just to let some of her bruises subside. Grimacing as she considered that unhappy prospect, Scully wandered into the bathroom for a moment and flicked on the lights. Yeah. No doubt about it. Her face was bound to get noticed. And not in a good way either. Hmm. She thought perhaps that the wounds at her temple and lip would probably be the first to fade and the easiest to explain. Well, maybe 'easiest' was overly optimistic, she allowed with a glum smile as she studied her reflection in the mirror. But, at least she should be able to come up with a halfway decent story as to how she had gotten them. Car accident. Mugging. Sheer clumsiness. But the marks on her throat were a different matter. Because even to the untrained eye they looked exactly like what they were. The telltale imprints of fingers. And just how was she supposed to come up with a reasonable justification as to how they had gotten there? Mulling over that little quandary, she shook a couple of Advil free from the bottle on the sink and swallowed them with a swig of water. Her headache still thudded as relentlessly as a metronome. But, it was manageable. Not blinding. The pills seemed to help. She wished that they would do something for her ribs as well. However, that apparently was asking too much. Her mid-section remained tender and stiff. Breathing likewise proved tricky. She had to be careful not to pull in too much air too quickly. Any type of sudden exertion and the area just below her lungs burned with the sting of a whiplash. A sharp, sudden sort of pain would assail her with a force that instantly sapped her strength. It was the kind of hurt that made her want to curl up in a little ball somewhere soft and warm and just wait out the storm. Lord, she hated this. Stubbornly ignoring the ache that was her body, she turned off the lights, and walked slowly into their chamber once more, stifling a yawn as she did so. Man, that bed looked inviting. She didn't really know why, but she was feeling sort of sleepy all of a sudden. At that moment, she would have liked nothing more than to crawl up beside Mulder, nestle into his arms, and catch forty winks. Yet, she had promised him that she wouldn't nod off. In the end, it had been the only way to get him to agree to take a nap himself. "I'm not tired, Scully," he had insisted even as he had been literally swaying on his feet before her when their discussion of Bill's book had finally come to an end. Glowering down at her from where they stood facing each other at the room's center, his eyes had been shadowed with fatigue, his jaw dark with stubble. "Let's just get our things together and get out of here while the getting is good." But, she had resolutely shaken her head, and taking his hand in hers had drawn him instead to the side of the bed. "Like hell you're not, Mulder," she had told him softly. "Just lay down for a little while. You're beat. I had a chance to sleep. You didn't. So, why don't you catch some z's, and I'll get started on the packing." However, despite her calmly spoken words and his obvious exhaustion, he hadn't acquiesced immediately. "Scully, this room isn't safe." She had touched his cheek, stroked it gently, feeling the faint rasp of his whiskers against her fingertips as she did so. "I promise to be on the lookout, okay? If anything starts going weird, I'll get out of here. But I honestly don't think we have to worry. Not yet." He had smiled quizzically at that. "Why not?" She had shrugged, surprised herself that she was setting forth such reasonable arguments regarding such a totally unreasonable subject. "Haven't you noticed that nothing has ever happened to us during the daytime hours?" "What do you mean?" "Think about it," she had instructed, her voice low. "Last night, my sleepwalking, that little blur of energy I told you about seeing in the mirror--even the reports visitors have made of hearing Selene walking the halls--all of those things have occurred from dusk on." His tired eyes had narrowed in thought. "So, you're saying that you think that somehow Selene's 'reach' into this world is more powerful at night?" She had smiled sheepishly. "Sounds crazy, I know." But he had shaken his head. "No. No, not really. It makes sense. After all, the human mind is more vulnerable the closer it is to total relaxation, to sleep. And darkness encourages that state of mind. We equate night with sleep. It makes us more susceptible to things. Things we wouldn't normally be open to in the bright light of day." "Like ghosts?" she had inquired dryly. Mulder had merely lifted his brows. "Get some rest," she had told him, pushing him lightly down on to the mattress. "It'll be all right. I'm sure of it." He had looked up at her as he had kicked off his shoes, still not entirely convinced. "I don't know, Scully. Seems like you should be the one getting some rest, not me." "Why, Mulder?" she had teased as she had stood between his legs, her hands smoothing back his hair from his brow. "Did you pick up a new extra strength variety of No-Doze when you were out getting our breakfast?" "Scully--" "You're tired. I'm not. End of story," she had said firmly. "Now go to sleep. I can't argue with you anymore. All this talk is killing my throat." That had shut him up. It hadn't exactly been fighting fair. But, she had figured that in this case the end had fully justified the means. "Just don't let me sleep past four, Scully," he had told her as he had laid down, his hand tight around her wrist, his eyes already struggling to remain open. "I want to be out of here before sunset." "I promise." "And just leave the packing. I'll do it when I get up." She had nodded, but had no intention of following through with that little directive. After all, it wasn't as if she had never packed a suitcase before. Hell, with the amount of time they spent on the road, she had the whole procedure down to a science. Which was why at merely 2:00 in the afternoon, she had already finished up with her chore. Great. Time to get a look for herself at Bill's book, she thought with a small smile. Grabbing the narrow volume, she crossed to the wing chair on the far side of the room, and settled in. Opening the book at its beginning, she hesitated for a moment before flipping to the text itself, and instead stared gravely down at the small picture of Selene Broussard. The photograph only captured a portion of the portrait. Its focus was from the chest up. Selene was dressed in a ball gown. Without any jewelry or adornments. Almost as if the painter had recognized that frills of any sort would only detract from his subject's own inherent beauty. As the picture was in black and white, Scully couldn't be certain of the dress' color, but she judged it to be dark. A rich blue perhaps. Or maybe a deep purple. The gown's neckline was plunging, its bodice without sleeves; thus, leaving a good deal of milky white skin exposed. Her hair was upswept as well, baring her throat, emphasizing its elegant line. Her neck appeared ridiculously slender to Scully's eyes. Swan-like. Vulnerable. An expanse of muscle and skin and bone that looked as if it could so easily be crushed. Which, of course, had in fact proven to be the case. I'm sorry, Selene, she silently told the woman with the extraordinary eyes. I'm sorry that I can't help you. But, helping you would put him at risk. Her eyes stole once more to Mulder's slumbering form. His face was turned away from her at this angle, and she focused instead on the soothing gentle rise and fall of his chest, the sight of his hand laying, fingers relaxed, on the sheet covering his middle. Scully let her gaze linger for a time. Then, without cause, she felt her eyes well even as her lips curved in a tender smile. She loved this man. Loved him beyond all sense. Beyond the reason with which she governed all other aspects of her life. And despite the odd sympathy she felt for the soul of a woman she had never met and yet knew intimately, she recognized that she had no choice but to walk away from Selene's plight. Because nothing and no one was worth taking a chance on Mulder's life. Not a single thing, Scully acknowledged with the calm acceptance of one who had long ago come to terms with certain truths. Not even her own survival. ************************************************ "I'm really sorry you and Dana have to take off early." Mulder had to remind himself to stop from cringing. For a man who hated lying, it sure as hell felt as if he had been doing an awful lot of it lately. Most particularly to Bill. But, it was certainly simpler for him to tell their host that Scully and he had been unexpectedly called back to D.C. than it was for him to say that they were taking off due to their run-in with La Lune Argentine's resident ghost. A part of him wondered if perhaps they weren't behaving a tad irresponsibly in failing to alert Bill and Laura to the danger living under their roof. And yet, Scully and he had talked it over and, in the end, judged it to be safe. After all, to the best of their knowledge, Selene had rested over a hundred years before reaching out to them. The threat seemed to be specific to their personalities, their essences, and not a general menace. "Yeah. Well, we're sorry too," he said evenly. "But you know how it is. Plans change." Bill nodded. "I understand. Well, Laura is going to be sorry she missed you. Did you already call for a taxi?" "Yeah," Mulder confirmed shortly. "It should be here any minute." "Great. Then, let me help you--" "No, that's okay," Mulder said with perhaps a touch more vehemence than the situation warranted. "Dana and I travel light. I can manage it." Bill seemed a bit confused by Mulder's insistence, but adjusted as best he could. "All right. If you're sure--" "Um, excuse me, Bill?" came a hesitant voice from the doorway of the inn's office. "But there seems to be something wrong with the lights in my room. I think I may have blown a fuse." Bill looked past Mulder at the small elderly woman framed in the room's entrance. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Cooper," he said quickly. "I'll be right there." Saved by the bell, Mulder thought with a jolt of giddy humor. Now he wouldn't have to come up with a plausible excuse as to why he didn't need Bill's help. He could have kissed the petite little gray-haired lady peering at him shyly. Assuring his host one last time that he could indeed manage without any assistance, Mulder urged him to look to the needs of his other guests. And with a firm handshake and warm wishes, bid Bill farewell. Phew. That was a close one, Mulder thought as he watched Bill trail after Mrs. Cooper. After all, what would he have said to the man if he had insisted on coming upstairs. No. The fewer people who got a look at her condition, the better. Mentally chastising himself for his cowardice, Mulder peered out the entry hall window as he crossed to head upstairs. Terrific. It appeared that their recent run of good luck was holding. The sky was overcast. A light rain had begun to fall. Great. Bad weather meant even worse visibility. Maybe Scully and he really could make it out of La Lune Argentine with no one the wiser. Keeping that thought in mind, he bounded up the stairs with renewed enthusiasm. "You about ready?" he asked as he briskly entered their room once more, recognizing as he did so that the nearer he and Scully got to leaving the inn, the better he felt. Then, he took one look at his partner, and his spirits plummeted. "Scully?" She sat, hunched as if for warmth in the wing chair in the corner of the room, the small afghan that had been draped over the chair's back laying across her lap. Her head was tilted back at an awkward angle and her eyes were closed. Upon hearing his voice, she stirred, and slowly raised her lashes. "Hmm?" she murmured, her voice husky and low, her eyelids appearing unutterably heavy. He crossed to kneel before her, his heart thumping a mile a minute as a dozen alarming reasons for her lethargy flashed through his mind one after another like one of those hyper-kinetic videos on MTV. "Are you okay?" She smiled sleepily. "Yeah. I'm just a little more tired than I thought." He brushed the back of his fingertips along the curve of her cheek. She felt cool. Not like she was running a fever or anything. But she looked awfully pale to his worried eyes. "You sure?" She nodded and turned to press a kiss to his palm. His concern lessened by a whisper. "Mmm-hm. Just sleepy. I knew I should have crawled into bed beside you this afternoon." His brow darkened. "And *I* knew that you should have been the one to take a nap in the first place." She frowned at him, the mock ferocity of the look ruined by the softness in her eyes. "Don't get started, Mulder." He sighed. "I'm not. I'm not. Come on. Let's get out of here." Extending his hands, he pulled her gently up from the chair. She swayed ever so slightly, yet remained standing. Mulder gazed down at her, his eyes narrowed and intent, ready to steady her if need be. Yet in the end, she didn't require his assistance. Her balance stabilized. And, with a small embarrassed smile she pushed a hand through her hair, her brow creased in consternation. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she said quietly, stretching gingerly to relieve some of the kinks she had picked up slumbering in the chair. "I was fine all afternoon." "Call me crazy--but I think I know what the problem is," Mulder grumbled, as he leaned down and grabbed his suitcase and her duffel. "I mean, it's not exactly as if you're one hundred percent, Scully." "But, I don't feel that bad," she argued in a small rough voice. Then, almost as if to prove her point, she turned and walked to where her suitcase stood alongside the bureau, and grabbed hold of its handle. Muttering an obscenity under his breath, Mulder dropped the luggage he had just picked up, and crossing swiftly to her side, stopped her before the bag in her hand left the ground. "Will you just please . . . =please= . . let me get that?" he implored harshly, doing his damnedest to rein in the impulse to yell. He knew what she was doing. Understood that she was trying to go about as if everything was as it should be. As if she were absolutely fine, and there was no need in the world for him to hover. Like he felt he ought. What he would like to know, however, was how the *hell* Scully had thought she was going to drag that suitcase to the front door with the way her ribs were paining her. But somehow it didn't seem like the appropriate time to bring up little things like that. His emotions were entirely too close to the surface. And the last thing he wanted to do was take out his frustrations on her. "Just let me get these downstairs, okay? And then I'll come up for the rest of it. And you." She stood with her arms crossed against her chest, considering him. She had exchanged the shorts she had worn earlier in the day for jeans, he noted. Probably not a bad idea what with the way the temperature had dropped with the rain. But she still wore his shirt. Sleeves folded neatly to just below the elbow, shirt tails tied at the waist. Primitive though he had to admit it was, Mulder found that he liked the idea of her wearing his clothes. Liked the way that her doing so in some way marked her as his. Part of his team, so to speak. His clan. Finally, the corner of her mouth raised, and he gratefully recognized that she too preferred not to argue. "Lumping me in with the luggage now, are we, Mulder?" His lips quirked in an answering smile. "How can you say that, Scully? You know I'd never consider you a bag." She dropped her head, her smile widening. "Anyone ever tell you what a pain in the ass you are, Mulder?" she asked him dryly, her eyes sparkling up at him through her lashes. "Sure," he replied blithely, his hand reaching out to finger the soft fringe of hair fluttering around her face. "You. About once a week or so." She chuckled. "Go downstairs. The taxi is probably here by now." He nodded. "Okay. Let me make sure the coast is clear before you come down, all right? It'll be easier all the way 'round." "Fine." Yes, Mulder thought as he turned towards the door. Everything would indeed be fine. The minute La Lune Argentine was just a blur in the taxi's rear view mirror. ********************************************** For awhile, Mulder had felt quite certain that rather than drive them to their new lodgings, Sam, their very polite, very large cab driver was instead going to take he and Scully to the nearest police station. Standing well over six feet tall and tipping the scales at a minimum of two-twenty, the imposing looking ebony-skinned man who was temporarily their chauffeur had noted the marks on Scully's face and neck the moment she had exited the inn. And had come to the same disturbing conclusion Mulder knew he would have had he been in the same position. They had actually made it to the taxi without a problem. La Lune Argentine's first floor had been almost eerily empty when Scully had made her way haltingly down the inn's imposing flight of stairs. However, once the two of them were settled comfortably in the cab's back seat, Mulder couldn't help but notice how frequently Sam's eyes drifted to his rear view mirror to focus with concern on Scully. Great, Mulder had thought dryly. We would get a driver who not only looked as if he played offensive lineman for the Saints, but had a protective streak when it came to petite redheads. Absolutely terrific. Things only got worse when he told the massive cabbie where they were headed. "Holiday Inn?" Sam had inquired in surprise, his voice little more than a rumble. "Isn't =this= place a motel?" Mulder tried not to grimace. "Yeah. It's just that we . . . um, wanted to be closer to the airport." Okay. He knew that was lame. But did the guy in the front seat have to glare at him quite so threateningly? "We've got an early flight tomorrow," Scully said softly, speaking for the first time since entering the cab. "And we figured it would be easier to already be out that way rather than having to deal with rush hour traffic in the morning." Sam met her eyes in the mirror. Holding her gaze for a moment, he searched her expression as if looking for any signs of hurt or distress. Scully only smiled at him gently. Seemingly satisfied at last, he nodded, and started the ignition. "Thanks," Mulder whispered into her hair as the taxi pulled away from the curb. "What for?" she inquired, her voice at the same volume. "Your new protector up there was getting ready to kick my ass," he murmured quietly, his tone wry with humor. "If for no other reason than my taking you away from La Lune Argentine and making you spend the night at an airport Holiday Inn." She chuckled. "Aw, you didn't need me, Mulder. You coulda taken him." "You really *do* need a nap," he murmured tenderly as he stretched his arm across the back of the seat, and tucked her slender frame up alongside his own. She nestled her cheek in the crook of his shoulder, and sighing, refrained from answering his quip. Mulder didn't particularly feel like talking much himself. Instead, he was content simply to be free of the inn and its phantom tenants. Pulling Scully's small soft weight more firmly against him, he sat back and watched the city go by as the taxi made its way through the rainy Sunday night. Headlights shone in through the car's windows, diffused by the steadily falling rain so that they glowed, pinwheeling with bits of color embedded, dazzling the eye. Traffic wasn't bad. And the soft wet sounds of the cab's wheels rolling over pavement proved lulling, so the trip out to the airport ended up being not nearly as long as Mulder had thought it would be. In no time at all it seemed, they were pulling up in the Holiday Inn's lot. "Would you mind waiting here until I go in and register?" Mulder asked Sam politely. "What with the weather and all, I'd rather she didn't walk any more than she had to." While he knew he was playing upon their driver's inherent chivalry, Mulder had made the request in earnest. Scully had fallen asleep again on the drive out. And although she was awake once more, blinking up at him in a decidedly muzzy fashion, he really didn't want her to tax her strength unnecessarily. Not surprisingly, Sam agreed. Pressing a quick kiss to Scully's hair, Mulder dashed through the rain and into the motel's lobby. Within minutes, they were registered and driven around to their first floor room on the far end of the building. Mulder gave Sam an outrageous tip for his trouble. The big man took the money, and left. But not before telling Mulder, "You take care of her now." "I will," Mulder assured him quietly. And with that, he closed and locked the door behind him. "You want something to eat?" Mulder asked as Scully and he got themselves settled into their new room. Ambiance- wise the place couldn't compare to the accommodations they had so recently left. Still, it was clean and quiet. And it had a television. Maybe they could just sack out on the bed and watch the boob tube, Mulder thought with a degree of mild anticipation. "I could go pick something up." Scully stopped rummaging through her suitcase to consider the question. His heart went out to her. She looked utterly exhausted. Her lashes were drooping. Her hair was rumpled and damp. Even the simple act of standing seemed to be more than she could presently manage, as she sat heavily beside her open piece of luggage on the bed. He knew she was ready to hit the hay. And yet, other than nibbling on some of the leftovers from their picnic the night before, he didn't think that she had eaten anything besides the ice cream he had brought her that morning. He hoped she would agree to at least a light meal before turning in. "Soup would be good," she said with a small weary smile. "Do you think it's on the menu at the coffee shop?" "I'll go check," he offered immediately. "You want anything else?" "Surprise me," she told him lightly as she zippered up her bag once more, and pressed a tad unsteadily to her feet. "It's my mission in life," he said dryly before giving her a soft kiss on the cheek and heading for the door. "Be right back." The rain had begun to let up a bit, and although a light mist continued to fall, Mulder didn't become too overly soaked as he made his way to and from the brightly lit motel coffee shop. The place wasn't terribly busy on a Sunday night, and true to his word, he wasn't gone any more than fifteen minutes before he returned to their room with their meal. "Hey Scully, how do you feel about chicken and rice?" he queried as he shouldered open the door. "It was all they had--" Whatever else he had thought to say died on his lips. "Oh my God . . . ." Scully lay face down on the floor near the foot of the bed, her one hand stretched out in the direction of the door as if she were reaching for it. For him. "Scully?" He got no reply. The bags containing their dinner were deposited without conscious thought on the table near the door. Trembling, Mulder crossed to her side, and supporting her head, rolled her gently over onto her back. Pressing an unsteady hand to her throat, he searched for a pulse. And was rewarded. Thank you. Oh God, thank you, he silently chanted as he ran his hands lightly over her, trying to rouse her. And having no success. "Scully?' he tried once more, bending over her, his heart racing with a rhythm that pounded in his temples. One hand combed softly through her hair, the other stroked tenderly along her cool pale cheek. "Come on, Dana . . . please, don't do this . . ." Her heartbeat seemed strong, her breathing unimpeded. And yet, she remained unconscious. What had happened? Had she fainted? Why? Surely not just because she was tired. After all, she had slept the night before. No. It had to be her injuries. Damn it! He had known he should have gotten her to a hospital. Well, he was sure as hell going to remedy that little error in judgment this minute. Surging to his feet, he headed towards the phone beside the bed. Only to be stopped by a faint rustle of sound. "Dana?" he whispered as he dropped to his knees beside her once more, his hand clutching at hers almost convulsively. Her eyelids were fluttering, her lips moving. And yet no sound issued forth. Finally, after what felt like the better part of eternity, she opened her eyes, their blue depths cloudy and confused. "Mulder?" she whispered. "Yeah," he confirmed shortly, his voice rough and low. "It's all right. I'm getting you to a hospital." With that, her eyes rolled horrifying back in her head, causing Mulder's stomach to clench and his skin to go cold. Then Scully looked at him once more. And all at once, he understood what real fear was. Because the woman he loved looked up at him with eyes that were not hers and spoke to him calmly in a voice that rang with the hollow aching echo of the grave. "Take her back." And Mulder knew without a doubt that it wasn't Dana Scully who was speaking. But the one and only Selene Broussard. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part XII "At a Loss for Words" (12/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Please check the intro for disclaimers, etc. And please check Adam & Stef's archives for any chapters you may be missing. Their addys are: (Stef) web.ukonline.co.uk/members/ xfilesfanficarchive.d/contents.htm =and= (Adam) www.bns.com.au/alee/html/author.a.html I only mention this because I have the world's oldest computer, and with the speed of my modem, carrier pigeon would get the parts you need to you sooner than I would. :) Thanks! ************************************************ Mulder carefully pulled the small auburn-haired woman on the floor into his arms, and in a voice roughened by fear and grief, asked the question whose answer he most dreaded. "Is that you, Selene?" At first, the woman who should have been Dana Scully said nothing. Instead, she only regarded him solemnly, her head cushioned by his arm, her eyes unblinking, her pupils enormous. Then, at last she spoke. The words soft and vaguely slurred. "Take her back." With that, her eyes slid slowly shut again, as if she were gradually, irrevocably, slipping into unconsciousness. Yet, as they did so, she twisted slightly in his embrace. Stirred. Her head turned restlessly from side to side. Her brow wrinkled. All at once, her lashes fluttered open once more. And to his profound relief, Mulder saw Scully gazing up at him in bewilderment. "Mul--?" But, before he could respond, before she could even finish saying his name, Scully's eyes rolled upwards as before. Her body tensed, then shook. Her back arched. Her small hands fisted tightly as if she were getting ready to step into the ring. Mulder could only continue to hold her, watching her silent struggle with a mind numbing sense of foreboding, unsure what else to do. Fearful that at any moment she might launch into some sort of seizure, the tremors rocking her slight form suggesting just such a cataclysm. Finally, her face contorted into a grimace. Perhaps of pain. Or maybe of anger. Her throat was working furiously, her muscles clenching and rolling beneath the bruises. And yet, despite her efforts, Mulder couldn't decide whether Scully was trying to produce sound or merely attempting to swallow. Ultimately the debate was settled. "=NO!=" ripped from her lips, its tone awful and jagged. And Mulder realized that the voice issuing forth wasn't Dana Scully's. But, it wasn't that of Selene Broussard either. Rather it was a mingling of the two. As each resisted the influence of the other while locked in a fierce battle whose loser had only oblivion to look forward to. Finally, her slender frame pulled woefully tight, Scully's eyes shut one last time. Then, with a harsh rattle of a sigh, she went limp and lifeless in his arms. And Mulder knew with chilling certainty just which female had emerged victorious from the struggle waged in his embrace. Still, he whispered to the woman he loved, clutching her fast to his chest, rocking her gently as he hid his face in her hair. "Scully? Dana, come on . . . please. . ." Nothing. Oh God. Oh sweet Lord in heaven. For the span of several minutes, he sat paralyzed. Utterly and completely unable to move from his awkward crouch on the nice neutral beige carpeting of his motel room floor. Selene had her, he thought with a mixture of horror and amazement. She had latched on to Scully like a pit bull with a steak, and she wasn't going to let go until he caved in and took the woman in her thrall back to La Maison de la Lune Argentine. Where he and his partner would once again be coerced into taking part in a dangerous communion with the dead. Striving with everything he had to stave off panic, Mulder pushed himself up clumsily from the floor, taking care to cradle the woman in his arms with utmost care. With legs the consistency of Play-Doh, he found his way to the room's queen-sized bed and gently laid Scully atop it, her head upon the pillow. Selene wouldn't really hurt her, would she, he pondered as he leaned over Scully's delicate frame, straightening her arms and legs, and tenderly pushing a few errant tendrils of auburn hair from her cool brow. After all, Selene needed Scully, didn't she? Needed her assistance, her strength, if she hoped to successfully reach Jack. So, she wouldn't do anything that would in anyway permanently harm her. Right? Then what was this, he despaired as he sank down beside her on the bed, even with her hip. This state. This deep and ominous slumber. He checked her pulse again. Watched her chest as it rhythmically rose and fell. Yet, those two indicators gave him no real clue as to her health. They seemed to suggest that nothing was wrong. That, in fact, everything was completely normal. She appeared to rest easy; her lips open just a whisper, her body relaxed, her limbs heavy. If he had returned to their room to find her like this, on the bed, her eyes closed, he wouldn't have given her condition another moment's thought. He would have believed her asleep. That's all. But, he hadn't come back to find her resting peacefully. She had been sprawled on the floor, crumpled there like a flower wilted by the summer heat. Her repose wasn't natural. Far from it. Instead, her body was being compelled to act as a prison. Caging her spirit, her intellect, her soul. Separating her from the world. Keeping her from him. And he hadn't any idea at all how to help her break free. Mulder's hand strayed once more to Scully's face. Despite her lack of response, he had an almost desperate urge to touch her. A compulsive, besetting sort of need. He found immeasurable comfort in the sensation of her skin's soft suppleness beneath his fingertips. Silly though it undoubtedly was, it seemed that if he could at least share this scant physical contact with her, then she wasn't really gone. Wasn't actually being held for ransom by a selfishly willful ghost. Gently, he ran his knuckles over the ivory curve of her cheek, indulging his desire. She felt so cold. No, not cold exactly. Her body temperature just seemed a degree or two cooler than it should have been. Almost as if in some inexplicable manner her life force was being suppressed. Tamped down. Controlled. God damn you, Selene. Standing a bit unsteadily, he shifted Scully just enough to pull the bedclothes free from beneath her. Well, he didn't care what the mastermind of this little catastrophe demanded. They weren't going anywhere tonight. Despite the awful worry he felt, Mulder recognized that Scully didn't appear to be in any immediate danger. Not for that night anyway. And there was no way he was going to just blindly run back to La Lune Argentine, to Selene's very lair, without considering every other option first. After all, Scully had been the one to point out that the dead courtesan's "power", so to speak, seemed to manifest most strongly at night. Perhaps once the sun rose, her hold on Scully would lessen. Maybe even disappear. Yet what would they do the following night? Shaking his head with a kind of weary wretchedness, he ran his hand mindlessly through his hair, and reached over to gently remove Scully's shoes. First things first, Mulder, he mentally chided himself. Get the two of you through one night of hell on earth before you begin trying to plan for a lifetime of it. If Selene wanted Scully to sleep, then sleep she would. She needed to anyway. But he was going to make damn sure that in doing so, she was as comfortable as possible. To that end, he began by unknotting the shirt tails at her waist. Scully hadn't pulled any night wear from her bag when she had searched through it earlier. And he simply didn't have the heart to go through her things on his own. So, he figured that she could just as easily sleep in his shirt. After all, it was big enough and soft enough to serve as pajamas. But, she would want to lose the jeans. They were too stiff, too confining to leave on overnight. Eyes shadowed with concern, he unfastened her pants and tugged them gently down her slim hips, all the while achingly aware that his getting Scully ready for bed in this manner reminded him of nothing so much as undressing a life-sized doll. He left her socks on, reasoning that with the room's air conditioning and her own lack of body heat she might need the extra bit of warmth on her extremities. He started to adjust her upon the mattress in preparation for pulling the covers up over her, when his hand landed quite by accident on her bra strap. Should he just leave that on, he mused. She probably wouldn't be in any great discomfort were she to sleep in her brassiere. And yet, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought with a touch of wry humor. He had wanted to settle her as best he could for the night. So, he might as well do it up right. Brow creased with a combination of worry and chagrin, his hands moved to the buttons running up the front of the pin-striped shirt. Swiftly and smoothly, he undid them, and spread open the garment. "Oh Jesus, Scully," he murmured harshly all at once, his hands suddenly unable to touch her for their trembling. This had been what she hadn't wanted him to see. Just below her left breast, directly over her rib cage was an ugly looking gouge approximately an inch long. The cut itself wasn't all that bad. It had bled, undoubtedly. But, Mulder could tell that thankfully the skin hadn't been deeply sliced through. The bruise around the gash was another matter. It radiated from the shallow puncture, perhaps a half an inch in all directions. Not pink in color. Not red. Not blue. But black. Pure ebony. Like a blot of ink upon the porcelain perfection of her torso. And for some unfathomable reason this, out of all she had suffered, made Mulder most want to weep. He didn't know whether the effect was cumulative. Whether the sight of this last angry wound was finally the straw that broke the camel's back. He suspected that might be part of it. But more likely, he thought, it was instead the certainty that this had been something that Scully had felt she had to keep from him. Had believed she needed to bear on her own. Such a decision on her part indicated that the pain she labored under was severe. And yet again, he was the one responsible for it. Heart heavy, he quickly yet gently stripped her of her bra, then clothed her once more in the shirt she had borrowed from him, and pulled the covers up to just below her chin. Pushing up from the bed, he walked a bit shakily over to the bags of food he had brought back to the room ages ago. The rich, slightly oily smell of Scully's soup threatened to upend his stomach. His now cold, hard hamburger promised no better. Christ. No way could he eat. Instead he dug through the bag's contents and found the iced tea he had purchased for himself. It had sat there forgotten for so long that the ice in the cup had melted, watering down the drink. He didn't care. He was beyond tasting anything right then, anyway. All five of his senses were focused on one thing and one thing only. The small figure of the woman who rested silently on the bed behind him. As for the rest of existence, he was operating on auto-pilot. Trudging slowly back to the edge of the bed, he pulled over a chair and dropped heavily into it, his beverage in his hand. Carefully, he stretched out his legs and rested his feet alongside Scully's calves. She wasn't moving, aside from the deep regular rhythm of her chest. Not at all. Surely that would wind up being uncomfortable, wouldn't it? To spend an entire night in one position. Don't think about it, Mulder, he instructed himself coldly. Don't let yourself get distracted by the details. If need be, you'll move her. That's all. That sort of problem is simple, easily taken care of. So stop dwelling on the minutiae of the situation and focus your energies instead on how the hell you're going to get out of this. Figure out a way to wake Scully up before she has to rely on IVs and saline in order to keep her body fed and hydrated. Sighing, he tilted back his weary head and closing his eyes, fiercely pinched the bridge of his nose. Oh God, please, he silently implored a deity in which he wasn't even certain he believed. I can't do this, all right? I just don't think I can bear another bedside vigil. And the fear that went along with it. The helplessness. It was going to be a long night. ************************************************* Mulder waited until nearly 10:00 the following morning before he bowed to inevitable. At that point, Scully had been unconscious for well over twelve hours. And despite the fact that Monday morning had long since dawned bright and cheerful, she had never once stirred after he had laid her so carefully upon the motel room bed. He paced, consumed, despite his own lack of rest, by a ferocious sort of nervous energy. There just wasn't any way out of their predicament that he could see. No way to rouse Scully that didn't involve a return trip to the inn. Oh, he had spent one of the most endless nights of his entire life considering the alternatives. Weighing and discarding options with the speed and finesse with which Henri Antoine and Jacques LeFevre had undoubtedly once dealt hands of cards. He had, of course, hoped most fervently that simply waiting would do the trick. That with the return of day, Scully would also come back to him. No dice. Then, he had thought to just leave New Orleans as scheduled. To simply trundle her on to a 747 and let sheer mileage take care of the problem. But what if that didn't work? What if he got all the way home only to discover that no change had occurred in her condition? Would he then have to turn right around with a still unconscious Scully and head back to New Orleans? And how the hell was he going to explain to the nice folks at United the reason why his traveling companion was comatose? No. Too risky. Of course, the rational thing to do would be to take Scully to a hospital. To view her condition as a medical problem. To look at the situation from a scientific standpoint. And yet, once he had gotten her into a hospital, and the good doctors had hooked her up to their machines and run their battery of tests, if they didn't find a medical explanation for her lack of consciousness, there was no way that he was going to be able to smuggle her back out again. And there wasn't a doctor in the world who would agree to release a patient into the hands of a man, F.B.I. agent or no, who believed that taking her to an inn in the French Quarter might somehow cure her. Well, maybe *one* doctor might have considered his theory plausible. But she lie pale and still on an airport Holiday Inn bed. No. Although he had no solid proof to back up his hypothesis, Mulder felt certain that conventional medicine would be unable to help Scully. That taking her to a hospital would only condemn her to spend the rest of her assuredly shortened life chained to life support. That left exorcism. God, he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry when offering up the banishing of demons as a possible treatment. While on the one hand, images of Linda Blair and pea soup danced through his head, on the other hand, he had been present at an actual rite performed by the Calusari. Saw the toll it took on the victim. Could he subject Scully to that? Would it be successful? Could he even find anyone who would take Scully's plight seriously? He somehow doubted that reputable exorcists advertised like exterminators. No. No matter how he looked at it, how many different angles he examined, it always seemed to come around to the inn once more. He was going to have to take her back. Having finally come to a decision, he looked down at his soundly slumbering partner. "Oh, Scully," he whispered as he bent down to take her hand in his. "I hope I'm doing the right thing." And giving her fingers a little squeeze, he reluctantly released her once more. He had some phone calls he needed to make. ************************************************ A little over an hour later, Mulder was pulling up in front of La Lune Argentine. Lady Luck seemed to be with him once more as he spied a parking place only a few car lengths away from the inn's front door. Man, he hoped renting this car wasn't a mistake. He had needed to give his credit card number in order to obtain it. That meant that anyone who was seriously interested in his whereabouts could now track him. He had sidestepped that little problem the night before when he had found them a room at the Holiday Inn. When he had called for a reservation, the helpful night clerk had informed him that a variety of rooms were available. So, he had taken his chances and secured accommodations simply by paying cash when they had arrived. Unfortunately, Mulder had known that the same sort of arrangement would be impossible to finagle with Hertz or one of their competitors. Aware of the danger, he had mulled over the problem for the longest time before finally pulling out the phone book to look up rental agencies. He had considered simply calling for a cab. But with Scully in the condition she was, he didn't judge that to be the wisest route to take. Any cabbie was bound to inquire as to her state of health. And he just didn't believe that a trumped up story involving a case of the flu or a headache was going to fool many of them for any length of time. Not after the undoubtedly wary driver got a look at her battered face. And certainly not after hearing that their destination was an inn and not the emergency room of a local hospital. The previous night's experience with Sam had made him sensitive to the potential hazards a simple cab ride posed. So instead, he had contacted one of the car rental places that promised to deliver an automobile to the customer's door. Within a half an hour, a navy blue four door had pulled up in the Holiday Inn's parking lot. In the interim, Mulder had called La Lune Argentine and gotten Laura on the line. "Laura, I know this is going to sound nuts," he had begun hesitantly. "But is our old room available?" "I thought Bill said that you and Dana had flown out last night," she had countered in surprise. Mulder had grimaced into the receiver. "That had been our plan, but Dana isn't feeling all that well, and we decided to postpone our return instead. We spent the night out by the airport. But we'd both really prefer to stay at your place." Laura had hummed a bit uncertainly, and for a breathless minute Mulder had wondered whether perhaps he had blown the whole thing by mentioning a supposed illness. Yet, in the end, she had merely said, "Well, I guess that would be all right. I don't have anyone scheduled for your room until Thursday. Do you think you'll be ready to head home by then?" "Yes," he had flatly said. "By Thursday we should be long gone." Please God. He glanced over into the back seat. Scully rested on her side, one hand curled beside her cheek, the lightweight cotton blanket he had pinched from the motel draped over her hips. Despite the fact that they had done as Selene had instructed and returned to the inn, he noted no change in her condition. She slept silently. Just as before. Lips thinning as he gravely regarded the small still figure before him, Mulder quickly exited the car, locking the doors behind him and strode to La Lune Argentine's entrance. Taking a deep breath, he rang the bell. Laura answered. "Oh, Mr. Mulder," she said with a shy smile, her big brown eyes glowing up at him in a kindly fashion, her waist length mink brown hair pulled back in a long loose braid. "I just finished pulling together your room. Where is Dana?" "She's in the car," he said, taking pains to meet her eyes, even though his impulse was to do anything but. "She, . . . um . . she fell asleep on the drive over. I hate to wake her. She had kind of a rough night. Do you suppose you could hold the door for me while I go get her?" Laura's brow wrinkled in concern. "Oh. Of course." Okay, here comes the tricky part, Mulder mused ruefully, as he turned and jogged back to the car. Opening the rear door, he carefully tugged Scully into a sitting position. Wrapping the blanket around her, he lifted her into his arms, taking care to shield the left side of her face against his shoulder in a manner that hid from view the worst of her injuries. Pulling the soft covering up so that only her nose peeked over the top, he kicked closed the car door and returned to La Lune Argentine. "What exactly is wrong with her?" Laura whispered as she led Mulder smoothly up the inn's central staircase. "Migraine," he said just as quietly, looking down to confirm that all but the top of Scully's head remained securely enveloped by the cotton throw in which he had swaddled her. "She gets some doozies every once in awhile. They really knock her out. That's why I didn't want her on the plane last night. The change in pressure would have been murder on her." He mentally replayed his lie back in his head. Yes. That story sounded plausible. Laura bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. Moving easily before him as they turned and headed down the second floor corridor, her long broomstick skirt swishing in time to her steps, she only murmured, "Poor thing." "Yeah," he agreed heartily as at long last, they stood outside the doorway of the room that had housed Scully and him only two nights previous. "But, she'll be all right. She just needs some rest." Lie. Lie. Lie. All she really needs is to wake up. "Oh, don't worry," Laura assured him as she opened the room's door and stepped aside so Mulder could precede her in. "We're only at about half capacity until the weekend. Nobody will disturb her." "Good," Mulder said softly as he lowered Scully gently on to the familiar brass bed, taking care to keep her injuries covered. "That's what I was hoping to hear. Thanks again for letting us return on such short notice." "My pleasure," Laura said, smiling warmly. "You were absolutely right to bring her back here. Now, if you need anything else, you be sure to let me know." "I will," he promised as he followed after her to retrieve the luggage, closing the door behind him to shield Scully from any prying eyes. And yet he knew that the one thing he truly needed was beyond Laura's scope. He needed Scully awake once more. More than he had ever needed anything in his life. ************************************************* However, an hour later, she still had not opened her eyes. And he was becoming desperate. She had been unconscious for over eighteen hours. How long could a body go without taking in liquids, he wondered, panic creeping into his thoughts like a slug. Could this stasis that Selene had induced somehow take into account the physical demands of Scully's body? Would such things as nourishment be without meaning in such a state? Pacing aimlessly as he had ever since returning to the room with their suitcases, he took his fist and, with every last drop of frustration coursing through his body, pounded it into the back of needlepoint chair that stood in the corner beside the balcony door. The dainty Queen Anne style piece of furniture clattered over the hardwood floor to bang against the wall in a most satisfying fashion. His knuckles throbbed as a result of his little outburst. But, Mulder felt ever so slightly better. God. He had been so fucking naive to believe that merely walking out the inn's front door would be enough to stop an entity like Selene. True, according to everything he had read on the subject, ghosts tend to haunt locations not people. But still, he should have known. Should have realized that she was stronger than that. Even Scully had been surprised by his intended course of action. "You want us to go?" she had inquired as she had sat upon the bed, her cup of coffee in her hand. "Yes," he had answered emphatically. "The sooner the better. Why do you find that so odd?" She had hesitated. "I don't know . . . It's just that this-- Selene, the opportunity to investigate a real paranormal phenomenon--. . . is the sort of thing you live for--" "You are the sort of thing I live for, Scully," he had interrupted quietly. "And nothing and no one is going to put you at risk. Least of all me. We're getting out of here. Today." Great job, Mulder, he told himself silently. Good call. Trying to remember a time when he had ever felt so utterly drained in both body and soul, he wandered out on to the balcony and with unseeing eyes surveyed the courtyard. The day was cooler than it had been since they had arrived. The rain the night before having apparently brought with it a drop in temperature. Sighing, he braced his hands on the wrought iron railing, and bowed his head as if in prayer. They were running out of options. Out of time itself. If Selene had decided for some unknown reason not to release Scully, he would have no choice. He would have to go to outside sources for help. God, what a mess that would turn out to be. He cringed just imagining all the questions that would be fired at him; not only regarding Scully's injuries and her current lack of consciousness, but also about what the two of them were doing together in New Orleans in the first place. Even if by some miracle Scully did later manage to awaken, their world would, for all intents and purposes, be brought crashing down around them. Please, Selene, he implored without words, his eyes closing wearily. Please don't do this. Don't do to the two of us what was done to you and Jack. Don't rip us apart simply because you can. Please. He just stood there for a time, almost clinging to the railing for support. Finally, he pushed himself upright once more. And leaning in the balcony doorway, he looked in at his partner. He had undressed her as before, leaving her clothed merely in his shirt and her panties. She rested beneath the covers, her bright hair spread in glossy waves upon the pillow. From where he stood he couldn't make out the marks on her throat, not with the collar on the shirt standing with enviable crispness, blocking the view. And yet, even with the bruises marring her lip and temple, she seemed so lovely to him. "Sleeping Beauty, Scully," he murmured gruffly as he folded his arms against his chest. "Only I sure as hell am not any Prince Charming." Then, almost as if in answer to this whimsical observation, Mulder thought he spied something. Something he had despaired of ever seeing again. Something that was as welcome and as wished for as the sun valiantly breaking through a cloud bank. Her fingers twitched. On the comforter. Just the tiniest amount. And Mulder felt as if someone had poured pure undiluted joy through an opening in the top of his head. That was the only way he could think of to describe the sensation. It seemed to him as if an almost painfully powerful happiness trickled down inside of him from head to toe. Filling him. Flooding him. Until the sweet, hot liquid overflowed. In the form of tears. "Scully?" he whispered as he cautiously approached, impatiently wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. She shifted just a touch. Her lips quirked. Her breath changed its cadence; caught, then released on a sigh. "Dana?" he queried softly as he settled slowly onto the bed, even with her waist. Taking her hand in his, he reached out with his other hand, and with the back of his index finger stroked her cheek. "You gonna wake up for me now?" She made a small humming noise in the back of her throat, and Mulder's mouth split into a shaky grin. Yes. Yes, she was. Oh thank God. Lifting their clasped hands, he pressed a kiss to the back of hers, wondering as he did so whether Scully could sense the manner in which he had begun to tremble. "Come on, sweetheart," he urged quietly, musing with a touch of self-deprecation over his peculiar use of the endearment. Scully and he had never gone in for that sort of thing, pet names and the like. Such cooing had always seemed to him so . . .well . . . grossly sentimental. Like the worst kind of Hallmark cards. And yet, at that moment in time, he found himself overcome with the desire to call her that and any of a dozen such others. Angel. Darling. Love. Must be the lack of sleep. "Open your eyes for me now," he entreated in a whisper, his hand straying to her hair to comb lightly through the silky strands surrounding her face. "You can do it." And almost to prove him right, her eyelashes blinked. Then raised. "Mulder?" she queried, her voice husky and low. "Yeah," he confirmed softly, her hand still held in his and now pressed to his chest. She smiled slightly and stretched with care beneath the covers. "I don't suppose you brought me any beignets, did you?" she murmured wryly, her free hand coming up to capture a lusty yawn. "I'm starved." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part XIII "At a Loss for Words" (13/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Not to jinx myself or anything, but I'm thinking that this will probably run 14-15 parts total. So, we are winding down. Oh, and one more thing--hide the children! That nasty old NC-17 stuff is back. ;) (The beginnings of it, anyway--more to follow in Chapter 14. ) Comments are, as always, appreciated. ************************************************ Scully really hadn't intended for Mulder to go dashing out to Cafe du Monde. Honestly, she hadn't. However, if she were to be totally truthful, she had to admit she was rather glad that he had decided on his own to make the trek. After all, she had awakened to find herself absolutely ravenous, so the pastries he had gone to purchase would indeed be welcome. But, more importantly, his taking off on a beignet run had allowed her to slip into the shower and change without him hovering. And he had been hovering. Like a helicopter. Circling endlessly. And yet, never quite touching down. Hell. Never touching, period. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had held her hand. But only when she had first awakened. Aside from that, after she had roused, slightly befuddled, but actually feeling rather well, Mulder had taken a giant step back, both literally and figuratively. Of course, that wasn't to say that he had ignored her. On the contrary. As they had sat on the bed exchanging comforting words of greeting, he had gravely studied every change in her expression, every nuance, as if her innocent little shifts and frowns were a new and terribly complicated language to which he had just been introduced. And yet, while doing so, his reticence, his restraint had been almost palpable. A living, breathing thing sitting atop the immense brass bed with them. Oh, Mulder, she silently sighed as she vigorously rubbed a towel over her damp, tousled hair. I had thought we had gotten past the whole guilt thing. The night before, when they had been preparing to leave La Lune Argentine, he had seemed more like his usual affectionate self. True, he hadn't done more than kiss her on the head. But he had been willing to hold her to him, to touch her hair, her cheek. But in the aftermath of her little enforced beauty rest, they were back to being awkward around each other. No. Not they. He. =Him=. Mulder had reverted to treating her like some porcelain figurine. Precious, certainly. But fragile. The sort of thing you love to look at, but don't dare handle. The very idea galled her. Of any man she had ever been with, Mulder had always been the touchy type. Even before their relationship had taken a turn towards the personal. And now, when she most urgently needed that physical support, he denied her it. It was all she could do not to stamp her foot in vexation. But on the one hand, she couldn't really blame him, she supposed. She understood, even without him precisely saying so, the pain and the anxiety Mulder must have suffered while she had been under Selene's sway. They hadn't discussed the night before in any great detail. Not yet. Mulder hadn't seemed quite ready for that little chat right at the moment that she had opened her eyes. So, she had opted to be patient. For the moment. She herself couldn't even really remember much about it. She recalled feeling tired. Desperately so. She had been moving about the motel room, trying to unpack the few things she would need for the night, when all at once a ferocious wave of fatigue had washed over her. The compulsion to sleep had ultimately proven impossible to ignore. And yet, even as she had turned and crossed for the bed, her head swimming, her limbs leaden with weariness, somehow, some way she had sensed that the urge assailing her was far from natural. Selene. Scully had no inkling how she had known the dead courtesan was responsible. But, in some inexplicable manner, the revelation had seared her like a brand. And once she had been assured as to the real reason for her exhaustion, she had struggled. With every means at her disposal. However, with the toll her wounds had already taken upon her body, she had been no match for the ghost's will. Her vitality had been sapped by the events of the night before. She just hadn't been able to put up much resistance. Until Mulder had returned. She had sensed him near. Had somehow felt his touch on her skin. And she had known-- dear God, she had known--what seeing her like that would do to him. So, she had fought like a wildcat to reach him. Clawed and scrambled her way towards consciousness. And had succeeded. For an instant. No more. Selene was just too strong. And thus, after another aborted attempt to ward off the spirit's control of her body, Scully had reluctantly dropped off into a deep and not unpleasant sleep. She hadn't dreamed. Not that she remembered. Just floated, like a fallen leaf atop a gently running stream. Until, she had drifted free from the current and swum her way back to shore. And into the big brass bed at La Maison de la Lune Argentine. "Didn't know if you'd prefer coffee or orange juice, so I got you both." She neatly hung her towel on the rack beside the bathtub, and peered out into the bed chamber. Mulder was shouldering his way into the room, precariously balancing two white paper bags and a cardboard cup carrier with all four slots filled. "Let me help you with that," she murmured with a smile as she took a step forward. "No, that's okay. I've got it," he said firmly as he gently kicked closed the door and deftly maneuvered past her to the other side of the room. There, he set their meal on the night stand, and turned to look at her expectantly. He must be running on pure adrenaline, she judged with a certain rueful fondness. Despite the energy he currently displayed, the man before her looked positively =wiped=. He was still wearing the same jeans and black cotton pullover he had donned after rousing from his nap the afternoon before. A day's worth of stubble darkened his jaw while a night's worth of shadows did the same for under his eyes. But most disturbing to Scully's way of thinking was the brittleness she sensed about him. The aura which suggested that if one knew precisely just where to tap, Mulder's hard won composure would shatter like flawed crystal. "So how many dozens of those things did you buy?" she queried with a gentle smile as she padded barefoot out of the bathroom in her gray sweat shorts and white cotton T-shirt. Absent-mindedly combing her fingers through her thoroughly mussed hair, she crossed over to the bed and crawled slowly up onto it. He grinned at her in a way that made the lines etched around his eyes and mouth only that much more pronounced. The unabashed happiness shining in his gaze contrasted harshly with the misery still lingering like a stain upon his features. Noting this, Scully yearned all the more to share with him an embrace. After all, she knew with utter surety that he needed it as badly as she. But at the same time, she also sensed that he wouldn't allow it. Not just yet. "Only a half dozen," he retorted mildly. "But I also picked up some fruit at the market. I figured you hadn't eaten in awhile, so you might like something a little more substantial." You better watch it, Mulder, she longed to tease him. A girl could get used to all this pampering. And yet, given his present state of mind, the man would probably take her at her word; the result being breakfast in bed for the rest of her natural life. And even she could only stand so much of a good thing. So instead, as she peered into one of the bags and pulled out a still warm beignet, she simply said, "Thanks, Mulder. That sounds good. But you know something?" "What?" "It looks to me as if you could use a decent meal even more than I could." He merely shrugged and reached for one of the steaming styrofoam cups of coffee before settling himself on the chair near the head of the bed. A safe distance away from her. She regarded him silently for a moment, trying to decide how best to approach him when he was in this mood. Then, she realized something. Something to which she felt certain Mulder was utterly oblivious. Their positions were identical to those they had shared when he had returned to their room after spending the night beating up on himself in the library. She, with her back cushioned by a mound of pillows piled against the bed's headboard. He, sitting a tad formally in the rather uncomfortable looking cane-seated chair against the wall. An unexpectedly poignant thought occurred to her. Mulder had just placed himself in the punishment chair. When she had been in first grade, Sister Mary Catherine, an aged gentle soul, had one seat in her classroom that while it *looked* like all the rest, was, in fact, markedly different. It had been a simple straight back wooden chair at the front of the room, right next to the little nun's desk. And anytime a boy or girl misbehaved, they were made to come and sit in that chair to consider their sin, and face the pity and amusement of their classmates. Apart from the other pupils. Alone. Just like Mulder. He sat sipping his coffee, totally unaware of her whimsy, and watched her, almost as if to make certain that she was indeed eating, his eyes intent over the rim of his cup. "How's the throat?" "Better," she mumbled around a bite of baked good, thankful that this time around, Mulder had remembered napkins. "My headache is completely gone." "Yeah?" "Yeah." "That's good." And they say the art of conversation is dead, Scully mused dryly when it became evident that neither she nor Mulder could come up with a way to fill the void that had ensued after their admittedly feeble initial exchange. Nope. Not a quip. Not a quibble. Not even a question. Nothing. Instead, it appeared that all they could do was look at each other, their eyes apparently hungrier at that moment than their stomachs. However, as fond as she was of the shape of Mulder's face, there came a time when merely regarding it wasn't enough. "So, what's the plan?" Scully asked mildly after she had finished one beignet and started in on a brightly polished apple. Mulder stiffened, his eyes dropping away from hers to study instead his own half eaten pastry. "I don't know. I had wanted to wait and talk it over with you." She nodded, chewing slowly, and considering. "Okay. Well, I think it's safe to assume that Selene won't let me leave without trying at least one last time to make contact with Jack." He nodded as well. Once. The motion more a jerk than anything else. "I know. I've kind of come to the same conclusion myself." "But you know, . . . you may be able to go, Mulder," she said quietly, her eyes also finding other things to focus on than the person seated across from her. "From what we've witnessed, Selene's influence appears to extend only to me. For some reason, she seems to think that she needs my help with Jack. But, we don't know for certain that you have to be present as a counterpart for him. I might be able to do this on my own." He lifted his head once more, his gaze rueful yet warm. "Selene may be many things, but she isn't stupid, Scully. Although it's true that she hasn't had me walking the floor at night as she has you, that doesn't necessarily mean that she couldn't if she put her mind to it." "So then why hasn't she, do you think?" Scully asked as she took another bite of apple. "I don't know why Selene has chosen to focus solely on you," he admitted with a shake of his head. "But my guess is that when you get right down to it, it's fairly simple. She's recognized that she doesn't need to directly influence my behavior to get me to stay." "How's that?" Scully queried softly. "Because she knows I'd never leave without you," he said with a small shrug and an even smaller smile. She felt something blossom inside her chest. "So then-- we're in this together, Mulder?" He hesitated for just a sliver of time before quietly assuring her, "Yes." She cocked her head, unable to hold her tongue a moment longer. And putting aside what remained of her apple, she wiped her fingertips with a napkin before speaking, feigning nonchalance. "Then why don't I *feel* very together?" Mulder looked at her in confusion. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I've never felt so lonely when I was with you as I do right now," she explained as gently as she could. "Scully--" "Mulder, you've tried to shut me out physically in the past," she murmured as she watched her fingers neatly fold the napkin in her hands into a series of narrow little pleats. "I can't even count the times that you've run off on your own when you've thought that a situation was particularly strange or dangerous. And even though it's always made me crazy, I understood that you did what you did because you were trying to protect me." Mulder said nothing. He merely sat, gravely regarding her, his elbows on his knees, his coffee cup now cradled in his hands. "But there have been other times--times like this-- when you've managed to separate yourself from me while standing less than an arm's length away." She lifted her gaze in time to catch his head dropping guiltily. Damn it. The last thing she wanted to do was add to the man's burden. But, he had to made aware of this. Made to know what his actions were doing to her. And to himself. Taking a deep breath, she plunged on. "And those times have hurt, Mulder. Not only me. But you too." "I don't want to hurt you, Scully," he murmured hoarsely as he set his drink on the table beside his chair, and pushed his hand wearily through his hair, his eyes still skittering away from hers. "You've got to believe me. Not ever." "I know," she said, her voice hushed and intimate as she leaned towards him on the bed. "I do." He frowned then, his lips tightening in a grimace of frustration made weightier by sorrow. When he spoke, she had to strain to hear him. "But that's all I ever seem to do." The self-loathing she heard saturating his words made her heart break, and if she believed that he wouldn't thrust her away from him in a kind of panic, she would have somehow sprouted wings and flown into his arms. As it was, she scooted ponderously forward to perch on the edge of the bed, facing him, taking care not to move too abruptly for fear of aggravating the area around her ribs. Mulder's head was bowed once more, his elbows still braced on his knees, his fingers furrowed in his hair. "No," she whispered fiercely, scarcely resisting the almost compulsive urge to comb her own fingertips through his crisp brown locks. She was close enough now to make such things possible. But she refrained. "No, that's not true." He looked at her again, a horrible semblance of a chuckle escaping his lips. "Isn't it?" "No," she insisted calmly, resolutely, shaking her head to emphasize her point. "That is the furthest thing from the truth." "Oh come on, Scully. Look at us," he muttered, a desperate sort of rage oozing through the cracks in his facade. "Look at our relationship." "What is it that you want me to see?" she asked evenly. Casting her a disbelieving stare, he surged to his feet. His words spewing now like venom. "=Us=. The two of us together. I mean--what do we have =really=? What can I even offer you?" "Mulder, you don't--" "I'll tell you," he said quickly, cutting her off before she could even attempt to diffuse the suddenly armed bomb ticking away before her. "The answer is *nothing*, Scully. Nothing at all." "That's crazy, Mulder," she told him, her voice low and steady. "Relationships aren't like business deals. You don't decide to be with someone based on what they have to =offer= you. You know that." "No," he countered as he paced away from her, his stride uneven, his hands gesturing with an alarming lack of specificity. The restless energy that had impelled him through the ordeal of the previous night back again in full force. "No, I don't. I don't know that." Then, he swung back on her all at once, his hands now coming to rest reluctantly on his waist, his weight shifting nervously from hip to hip as he fidgeted before her. "But I'll tell you what I do know." Scully looked up at him from her seat on the bed. She saw the ferocious control he was exerting over himself. Recognized just how close he was to flying apart. This man who regarded her with eyes like a winter sky, bleak and barren. "What?" she whispered, dreading to hear what she understood he needed so desperately to say. He merely stood there for a seemingly endless span of time, gazing down at her, an awful tension rolling off of him, stealing the very air from the room. Like some gross parody of the murder that had brought them to this point in the first place. "When it comes to you and me, Scully, . . . I might as well be poison." The idea was so absurd, so utterly without merit, that Scully had to struggle not to laugh. But, at the same time, she was painfully aware just how far from humorous this all appeared to Mulder. So instead, she only shook her head once more, the motion slow and sure. "No." He advanced on her, his eyes feverish, his hands fisted. "Think about it," Mulder urged, bending down so that his face hovered just above hers, invading her space as he had so often in the past. "Think about what being with me has done to you. Done to your career, your family, your health." Gently, she stretched out her hand and laid it on his forearm. He started at her touch, but didn't pull away. Still, she could feel his muscles bunched rock hard beneath her fingertips, like he was readying himself for flight. Looking up at him, her gaze soft, she assured him, "Nothing that has happened to me over the past three years has been your fault, Mulder. Not a single thing." That did make him retreat. He staggered back a couple of steps. "Bullshit," he told her succinctly. And he turned from her once more, his hands coming up to cover his face while he stood swaying from a combination of emotion and fatigue. Scully rose carefully from the bed to stand behind Mulder, studying his back, wishing as she did so that their areas of expertise would somehow magically flip-flop. That her partner would suddenly become the forensic pathologist and she would be the one who had earned the degree in psychology from Oxford. She just wasn't sure how to proceed; how best to help him. She knew that he was in pain. That he was dying to lash out, and yet had no target but her, the one person he absolutely refused to use in that fashion. However, if he didn't let off a little steam one of these minutes, he was going to burst. Gnawing on the uninjured half of her lower lip, she considered. Hmm. Perhaps Mulder himself could lead her in the proper direction. With that in mind, she cautiously asked him, "So what do you want to do?" She heard him draw in a shaky breath. "Scully, you know that I love you . . . more than . . . more than anything. But I'm not sure that's enough." "Enough for what?" she inquired, already ruing the decision to let Mulder dictate the way their confrontation should resolve. At last, he turned to face her, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his expression utterly desolate. "Enough for us to go on like this." "What are you saying?" she demanded, her voice quiet, yet strong. He licked his lips, and took a deep ragged lung full of air. "Scully, I can't . . . we can't keep tempting fate. Every time we cheat death we only succeed in loading the odds against us for the next time. Sooner or later, it's all going to catch up with one of us. And I sure as hell don't want it to be you." She nodded slowly, pleased to feel a bracing sort of anger boil at her center, bubbling up. Spreading out from her core to suffuse her through and through. Its heat potent enough to burn away the ache that had been curling throughout her body like fog. The pain that had come from bearing mute witness to the sorrow in Mulder's eyes. "I see. Seems like you've given this a lot of thought, Mulder." He only shrugged, his gaze falling away. "So I ask you again--have you decided what you want to do?" she asked calmly, as if they were talking about the weather, and not the possible destruction of everything that defined them. "I don't =want= . . ." he began, then hesitated. She could see the frustration literally throbbing inside him, seeking a way to vent, an outlet. Thrumming and pulsing within him, its relentless pressure akin to that of the blood pumping into and out of his heart. "But we can't go on like--" "Like what, Mulder?" she challenged swiftly, taking a step towards him, her eyes flashing. "Are you saying you want us to stop working together?" "No! I mean . . . I don't--" "Or do you simply want to stop sleeping with me?" she inquired softly. His mouth opened as if he were going to answer her. Then, his eyes awash with misery, his lips squeezed shut once more, unable to say the words. And Scully knew that she had found his weakness. Not to mention, a possible way to get them past this. "Can you tell me that you don't want me, Mulder?" His gaze flickered away from hers again. She pressed her advantage. "Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you wouldn't care if we never made love again?" she asked him in a whisper, watching his face closely. "That you wouldn't miss me. Miss what we have." He didn't answer her. Instead, he seemed to sink further and further into himself. Shrink. Almost as if he were running from her without ever leaving the room. "Would you be able to live the rest of your life without my touching you again?" Gently, almost as if she feared startling him, as if she thought he might shy like an unbroken horse, she reached out and ran the back of her hand down the slope of his cheek. He shuddered beneath the caress, quivering like a plucked bow string, his gaze locked on hers. "Do you want to give this up, Mulder?" she queried softly, a small tender smile on her lips, her anger banished in the face of his fear. "Do you want to be the one to kill what we have? Not Selene, not Jack, not the even the Cancerman--but you." He shook his head, regret shimmering in his hazel eyes. "No." "Because if you do decide to, you should know something. "What?" "I will fight you," Scully promised him, a brow arching to underline her point, her fingertips stealing through his tousled hair. "Tooth and nail, Mulder. You're not going to get rid of me easily. Not if I know that you love me." "I do," he whispered, as if the simple statement was the most damning of confessions. Her smile broadened. Her hand rested against his cheek. "And I love you." Stretching up to tiptoe, she kissed him tenderly on the corner of his mouth. "So why are we having this conversation?" she asked him whimsically as her hand softly drifted down from his face to rest instead on his chest. Mulder looked down at her, his hands at his sides, his eyes wide and moist, their expression more than a trifle lost. "I don't know what to do." Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her cheek upon his breast. She could still feel him trembling in her embrace. "Touch me," she breathed. As if in answer to her entreaty, his hands found their way to her waist. Yet his hold on her was tentative at best. Recognizing this, she said in a husky voice. "I won't break, Mulder. Don't be afraid. You'd be surprised what I can take." He chuckled sadly, his hands flexing lightly just above her hips. "No. No, I wouldn't." She pressed her lips to the vee of skin exposed by the neckline of his shirt. "I want you to feel that you can turn to me when you're hurting, Mulder," she whispered, her hands now moving slowly, soothingly over his tense back and shoulders, her nose nuzzling gently at the base of his throat. His breath escaping on a sigh, Mulder's eyes slid shut, his head tilting back just a touch in surrender. "You're hurting too," he reminded her, his voice low. Hoarse. "Not like you," she murmured as her lips trailed softly up the strong yet vulnerable column of his throat. "My wounds may be more visible. But I think yours are more severe." He was calming beneath her tender ministrations. Not all at once. But gradually. Relaxing. She could feel his body unbending ever so slightly as her hands and mouth roamed over him, spreading warmth. "Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?" he asked quietly, his eyes still closed, gripping her waist with a tad more confidence. She smiled against his skin as she dotted the line of his jaw with her kisses. "Absolutely. And I know just the treatment. For us both." "What?" "You remember what Rachel said, Mulder," she said lightly, her lips still grazing his face, his throat. "Turn to each other, not away." "You believe in tea leaves now, Scully?" "I believe we need to heal each other. That we're the only ones who can." His lips quirked in a reluctant smile. He looked down at her intently, as if seeking to confirm what her playful tone suggested. "And how do you propose we do that?" Scully took a small step back, her eyes never leaving his. Mulder stood completely still, waiting to see what she would do. Saying nothing, she turned and without sparing him another glance, walked slowly towards the bed. Carefully, she settled herself atop the comforter. And looked at him once more. The invitation clear. "Come here," she requested softly as she reclined against the pillows, her lashes lowered, her hand outstretched. Yet even as she plainly saw the yearning in his eyes, Mulder hesitated. "Scully, . . . I . . .um--," he mumbled, his hands slipping into his jeans pockets as he stirred with indecision. "With your ribs . . . I don't . . ." Ah. So the cat's out of the bag, is it, Mulder, she silently mused. Well. It appeared that sometime during the night, the man she loved had gotten a look at the worst of her injuries. Big deal. Time to put things in perspective. "It's ugly, isn't it?" she admitted mildly, raising her T-shirt to take a peek at the livid bruise, almost as if she herself had forgotten what it looked like. "It isn't--" he began with a frown. Scully sighed theatrically, cutting off his protest. "You're right. It is. I know. And with that, and . . . these . . ." She gestured to her face and neck. "I can understand why you might find it difficult to . . . shall we say--get in the mood." Gingerly sitting up, she eyed him pointedly before grabbing hold of the hem of her shirt and tugging the garment up over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra. It somehow seemed like the ideal moment to bring that fact to Mulder's attention. "But even though I may not look my best, Mulder, I'll make you a promise," she said in a throaty voice, laying back once more, her hands drifting lazily now over her upper body, the gesture uncompromisingly sensual. "You meet me halfway, and I'll make you forget every bump and bruise." "That a fact?" Mulder whispered hoarsely, his fingers twitching at his sides. You've almost got him, Dana, she thought ruefully. Might as well go for broke. Slipping her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, she lifted her hips from the bed, and tugged the rest of her clothes off and away. She couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw Mulder gulp. Lying before him, languidly naked atop the covers, she murmured with sleepy eyes, "No, Mulder. I told you-- that's a promise." Taking a deep breath, he inclined his head as if accepting her bargain. And joined her on the bed. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part XIV From krasch@delphi.com Wed Oct 30 18:53:37 1996 "At a Loss for Words" (14/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!!!!!!! As many of you know, I had hoped to have this story done by the season's opener. Um, well . . . we've just finished with week four and this pup =still= hasn't been put to bed. Blame it on the Case of the Exploding Computer (let me just tell you that the disk on which I had backed up my stuff proved to be faulty--I had to go the archives to find my own stories!! =:0), and a rush of real life interference. Still, I apologize. I know what a pain this sort of thing can be. So--Switch from groveling mode . . . Okay. Here we go again. NC-17 warning still in effect. Hide the minors. As I intimated before, this *should* be the next to the last chapter in our little saga. So, things are winding down. If you're missing any parts, please check out the archives before asking me to mail them. I *believe* you can find everything up to this point at the three (or is it four?) sites. Much applause, by the way, to those of you who have taken on the role of archivist. You're all doing a bang-up job (believe me, I *know*). Thanks very much for the support thus far. I really appreciate all the little notes and comments. Meanwhile, back in New Orleans . . . . ;) ************************************************* Slipping off his shoes, Mulder eased himself onto the bed's soft flowered comforter and contemplated the far softer skin of the woman lying beside him. Naked, save for the dainty little silver necklace with which he had gifted her seemingly ages ago. Her gaze was locked on his, deepest blue, and dreamy with anticipation. God. It was as if he were suddenly, inexplicably 16 again. Horny as hell, but at a loss as to just what exactly he should do about it. Oh, he understood the mechanics of the situation. It was the subtleties that eluded him. How he could even bring himself to touch her when, despite her encouragement, he still wasn't entirely convinced that he deserved her? How, with her collection of injuries, could he ever hope to make love to her without ultimately hurting her still more in the process? Scully seemed to sense his dilemma. She looked up at him with bemused eyes, her vibrant auburn hair spread with messy abandon on the pillow beneath her head. "You might want to start by kissing me," she suggested dryly, a tiny smile curving her lips. He smiled back at her, his expression tender. Propping himself on his side, his chin balanced on the heel of his hand, he lightly traced the shape of her mouth with the forefinger of his free hand. His eyes focused darkly on his task, he lingered on the narrow split in her lower lip, still swollen, but thankfully on its way to healing. "I'd love to," he murmured as he ever so softly brushed from side to side over the wound. "But, *this* has me concerned." "Don't be," she whispered, turning her head and pressing a kiss to his caressing finger. "It'll be all right. I trust you. You're always gentle with me." Resolutely ignoring the little voice inside his head that gleefully reminded him just how untrue his partner's calm reassurances were, Mulder shifted so that his upper body was supported by his elbows. Taking his time, he lowered his face to hers; near enough to feel Scully's breath puffing lightly against his cheek, warm and soft. Just that scant contact was sufficient to start his body quickening. And he found, much to his chagrin, that he needed to take a deep breath to steady himself. Yet despite his desire to do far more, in the end, he merely rested his lips against her forehead, his hand coming up to cradle the curve of her jaw in his palm. She sighed and wrapped one arm languidly around his shoulder, her hand almost surreptitiously massaging the back of his neck. For a moment neither moved. "So gentle," she repeated in a hushed voice, her eyes closing. Trying his damnedest to live up to her estimation of him, Mulder delicately let his lips drift from her brow, over to her uninjured temple, across both eyelids, and down to first one, then the other cheek. Her fingers burrowed in his hair, Scully hummed her pleasure a bit unsteadily, her legs beginning to slide restlessly upon the comforter. "Kiss me," she finally pleaded in a whisper, her lashes still lowered. Now, when all was said and done, Mulder was only human. No way could he hold out against the sort of breathless entreaty the woman beside him had let slip like a siren's song from her absurdly inviting lips. Not when he recognized with a kind of rueful self- knowledge that at that moment he would willingly hand over a decade or two of his life just to feel that sweet mouth melt longingly against his once more. And so he gave in. "Let me know if it's too much," he softly said as he pulled back slightly to study her flushed face, his lips hovering just a hair's breadth above her own. "What if I told you I was into excess?" she murmured as her eyes flickered open once more to engage his. "Then I'd say I'm the luckiest man alive," he replied quietly. And slowly, almost chastely, he touched his mouth to hers. Eyes closed now as well, he focused every last bit of his attention on the woman beneath him, on her reaction to the soft moist caress of his lips against hers. The kiss didn't seem to pain her. Her mouth was warm against his, her lips pliant. He nuzzled her tenderly, carefully, while his fingertips stroked feather light along the edges of her face. For the longest time, they allowed themselves to simply explore each other in this fashion. The intimacy compelling, and yet the physicality of the caress no more than what might be shared by two nervous virgins. At long last, seemingly intent on taking the initiative, Scully let her tongue slip out to stroke along his lips seeking entrance. Touching gently. Lapping playfully. In response, Mulder felt a shiver begin somewhere south of his waist and explode up his spine. Oh Christ, Scully. Cut it out, he silently implored. Not that he wasn't interested. He was. God. He wanted nothing more than to deepen the kiss. To sweep inside her luscious mouth and trace its contours with his tongue. To crush his lips to hers. But, at the same time, he was afraid. Worried that if he got caught up in the moment, if he allowed himself to get lost in the passion this woman so effortlessly inspired, he wouldn't be able to judge the exact limits of her tolerance. At that instant, he feared nothing more than the sight of her shrinking from him in pain. To see those lovely eyes shadow with reproach or mistrust. No. That was a sight guaranteed to impel him across the flagstone courtyard on his hands and knees in search of his ammunition clip, self-destruction on his mind. So, rather than chance it and pursue what had been up to that point an exquisite if tentative seduction, he pulled away. Only to find that Scully wouldn't let him go. "Don't tease me, Mulder," she chided in a soft voice as her arms locked steadfastly around the back of his neck. "I'm not--" "You are," she murmured, her eyes gazing up at him calmly, but not coolly. "And I had expected more from you somehow." Despite the whimsical lilt to her voice, Mulder still felt his heart clench almost reflexively with concern. "What do you mean?" She stretched up and nibbled on his chin as she answered. Light teasing little bites. Her hands smoothed firmly across his shoulders, down his upper arms. "You know what you do to me. How much I want you . . . want this. And yet you refuse to give it to me." The sharp yet gentle nip of her teeth against his skin zapped him like a quiver full of tiny lightning bolts, shooting small sparks of electricity through his blood stream, their effect ultimately extending to his groin. Making him jump. Harden. Yearn. Gradually, very nearly without him noticing at all, he could sense his worries ebbing as his need increased. "That right?" he whispered, his voice husky, his eyes sliding shut. "Yes, that's right," she rejoined with mock tartness as her lips found a particularly sensitive area on the underside of his chin and brushed against it, her tongue slipping forth once more to taste his skin. "And I think it's completely unfair. You're taking advantage of me." "If you didn't want me to take advantage of you, you probably shouldn't have treated me to that little striptease earlier." "I thought you liked that," she murmured against his throat. "I *loved* that," he corrected with a growl, as his hands tightened unthinkingly in her hair. "But a man can only take so much." "And I do so love testing your limits, Agent Mulder." "You do indeed, Agent Scully. You do indeed." Sighing, Mulder arched his neck as Scully's mouth now trailed down from his jaw to press a series of tender kisses on the slope leading to his shoulder. His hands threaded their way through her hair, sifting the silky strands through his fingertips. "Don't be afraid to test mine, Mulder," she whispered after a time, the words spoken just before she nuzzled the slight indentation at the base of his throat with her nose. "What?" She looked up at him with a smile in her eyes, her fingers lightly tracing the firm line of his jaw. "I said 'don't be afraid'. After all, when you stop to think about it, so little of me is really even hurt." "Ah, but Scully--there is so little of you to begin with." She slugged him. He chuckled, slowly but surely feeling better. "I'll have you know that I could point out to you any number of places on my body that can take anything you have to dish out." "Anything?" "Try me." Mulder arched a brow. "Okay. Maybe I will." The corners of her mouth tilted upwards. "But just to be on the safe side, why don't you go ahead and show me the places you have in mind," he suggested, heat shimmering beneath the surface of his mildly spoken words. Scully pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then, she stretched with care atop the covers; the move sinuous, vaguely feline, amusement glowing in her eyes. "Well . . . *here* for example," she murmured, turning her chin and reaching up to push aside a fall of auburn hair, baring her ear. "Right here?" Mulder asked quietly, tracing the delicate little whorls, the velvety lobe with a gentle finger. "Ohhh. . . . Yeah. There." "Let's see." And bending his head, he nibbled his way around the curve of her ear. His lips and tongue traced the path as well, soothing away any sting his teeth might have provoked. Scully squirmed beneath him, her hands tightening on his biceps. "Okay?" he inquired after he had coaxed a soft rough groan from the lips of the woman beside him, his voice low and husky. "Hmm . . . Better than okay." And he smiled, his face buried in her hair, thinking that he just might survive their vacation after all. "Where else?" he asked, pulling back to look at her, a shock of hair falling forward onto his forehead. Scully gazed up at him, her eyes cloudy with passion, and wordlessly offered him the inside of her forearm. Mulder lightly ran his index finger up the smooth pale flesh. Goosebumps rose in its wake. For some reason, her obvious sensitivity to him, to his touch, pleased him beyond all reason. Bringing her hand to the side of his head, he slowly kissed his way along the tender ivory skin. Dragging his lips over her, open and warm. Breathing in her scent. The subtle clean blend of soap and skin he had come to associate solely with her. The smell he knew without question would somehow only become diluted, more common perhaps, were it to be enhanced by one of those department store perfumes. Flicking out his tongue to lave the bend of her elbow, Mulder stole a glance at Scully. She was watching him. Her eyes huge and luminous. Her gaze strangely solemn, despite the small tilt of her lips. "What?" he queried. She lifted the hand he had raised in his own, and softly caressed the curve of his face. Glided it slowly from his temple down to his chin, her eyes never leaving his. "I love you," she told him, the stark simplicity of the statement failing to rob it of any of its power. God. It was at times such as these that Mulder most felt like a gawky adolescent. Most like the terribly shy boy he once had been. The outcast. The supposedly self-sufficient loner he had metamorphosed into with the onset of adulthood. Ironic really that he should flashback to those personas, those solitary existences, at those moments when he was most assured that he was, in fact, no longer alone. That he had her. That she loved him without reservation. Without restriction. That she would continue to love him when he screwed up. When he was selfish. Or merely obtuse. That she placed him first. Above all else. Even herself. And that, in the end, was what so unmanned him. After all, when weighed against Dana Katherine Scully, who the hell was he? Yet he couldn't express that to her just then. Not with the pitiful tangle his emotions were in. Not when he had so much to say to her already. Words of apology and need and praise, and yes--of love. So instead, he knew, with more than a touch of regret, that once more he was going to have to rely on actions. Trusting that Scully would astutely fill in the blanks. Just like always. Bowing his head, his lips claimed hers, moving over them with a force, an urgency he had not previously shown. His tongue plunged into her mouth, smoothing over her teeth, rubbing along her own tongue almost feverishly now. His former reticence fading into memory. "Where else, Scully?" he muttered after finally pulling away from the kiss, choosing instead to nuzzle her cheek, her brow. "Tell me. I want to please you. Where else do you want me to touch you?" "You know," she whispered, her eyes sliding shut, her hands delving beneath his shirt to run up the length of his back. Her fingers kneading his muscles, flexing and releasing mindlessly. "What do I know?" "How to touch me," she breathed into his ear. "You've always known, Mulder. Since the very first time." "But with--" "No," she said softly, her eyes fluttering open once more, her gaze pinning him. "Now is no different from any other time. It's the same. I'm the same." She was wrong. Things had changed. They were always changing. And no amount of wishful thinking could alter the course. Could freeze that one perfect moment, preserving it like a butterfly in a bell jar. Mulder knew all about change. All about the manner in which existence could turn on its side like a carnival ride, prompting the same sort of squeals, the same type of fearful exhilaration. The same stomach clenching nausea. Hell. That had been the sensation he had suffered when his sister had been taken. Stolen away like an unsuspecting tourist's wallet. When his family had disintegrated around him, his parents' stony silence ringing in his ears. Deafening him. The same response that had arisen in him like bile on that final day when Phoebe had, without explanation or cause, turned and walked away. Leaving him with only a crater where his heart used to be, an emptiness to which he had gradually become resigned. After all, he had his work. His quest. And if that journey was sometimes lonely, if he felt occasionally abandoned or forsaken. . . Well, there were worse things. Weren't there? And yet he had learned, kicking and screaming his way through the lesson, that change didn't necessarily have to be bad. Sometimes, when you least expected it, change could prove to be your salvation. A woman could wander into your life, no more suspecting of what was to occur than you. And . . . *WHAM*. Nothing was as it once had been. You could find that, despite a boat load of differences --your points of views, your habits--you meshed seamlessly. You could discover that regardless of how many times she stuck a pin in that oddly over-inflated ego of yours, you still came back to her. Bringing for her perusal, her judgment, theory after implausible theory, daring her to prove you wrong. Willing her to take you on, not only for the challenge, the sheer intellectual thrill to be had; but because in so doing, in sharing that with her, she made you better, sharper, wiser. More like the kind of agent--the kind of man--you had always wanted to be. The kind of man he swore he was going to be for her. Now. This very minute. "So you're telling me that you're the same woman who wore that wicked garter belt the other night?" he questioned softly, his lips brushing with infinite care over the livid assortment of bruises dotting her throat. Scully chuckled weakly, her hands caressing his back in long uneven strokes. "Yeah. That was me." "She was pretty hot." "You think so?" "I know so," he murmured, sliding down her body to take one tight pink nipple into his mouth. Slipping his tongue over the nubbin, nibbling gently on it. Suckling lightly, teasingly. His fingers lightly rolling the other swollen peak. Rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. All the while, sharply attuned to the shifts and sighs of the woman beneath him. Delighting, when he felt her hook one leg over his hip, almost as if she were trying to crawl inside him. "Did you want me to touch you there, Scully?" he asked when he had lavished both breasts with the same sort of attention. Even as he spoke, his hand still trailing over them, his fingertips gliding over her softness, her roundness. "Yes," she whispered, her hands now cupping his behind, squeezing it. "What about here?" His lips kissed a slow path down her middle, skirting the lurid puncture marring the pale even spacing of her ribs, his weight balanced carefully over her so as not to put any undue pressure on her injuries. She shifted with a kind of erotic agitation, her breath echoing her disquiet. "Mulder . . ." "Hmm?" he hummed, his tongue dipping into the tiny indentation of her navel, his hand stroking with urgency along her now quivering thigh. "No . . . wait . . ." "Wait?" he echoed, gliding his nose back and forth, just below the slight curve of her belly. That exquisitely tender patch of skin where the smallest caress can make a woman jump, twitch. Whimper. Surrender. "But Scully, you told me that you didn't want to have to wait," he reminded her between soft damp kisses aimed just above the nest of curls guarding the most sensitive, most private portion of her anatomy. "I know . . . but . . ." Her voice was high and small, her eyes scrunched shut, her fingers clamped tightly on his shoulders. "You said you didn't want to be teased," he murmured with a small smile as settled himself between her legs, sensing with satisfaction the need slowly consuming the woman beneath him. Swallowing her whole. "You asked me not to." "Yes . . . yes. But, Mulder . . ." Her head was tilted back upon the pillow so that her neck was curved and vulnerable. Her breath escaping in a shaky series of tiny little gasps, she wound her fingers through his hair. "Of course, if you've changed your mind, I'd be happy to oblige," he told her quietly as he slid his arms beneath her knees. "After all, I've always enjoyed . . . keeping you on edge." And curling his arms around her thighs, he spread her open with his thumbs. And lowered his mouth to her. Open. Hot. Wet. Scully cried out, sobbing inarticulate sounds of longing, and arched up off the bed. For a moment, Mulder feared that she might have injured herself with the sudden whiplash motion. But when, after a time, she did no more than moan with the feel of his tongue sweeping slowly over that keenly sensitive bundle of nerves hidden in the folds of her body, he reasoned that she had thankfully managed to keep herself from harm. "Is this what you want, Scully?" he muttered against her core, his voice so low, so roughened by his own rapidly escalating desire that he feared she might not be able to understand him. To make sense of his words. "Should I make it last? Take it nice and slow. Or do you want it now? Do you want me to see just how quickly I can take you over the edge?" Not waiting for her reply, he bent his head once more, his lips finding her and holding her captive. Sucking on the tiny swollen bud like a nipple. She screamed, the sound not one of pain, and thrashed upon the mattress, tightening her legs around his shoulders. "Tell me what you want, Scully," he whispered once more, his teeth testing the resilient flesh of her inner thigh. "Tell me, and I'll give it to you. I swear it." Even as his tongue stroked over her once more, he wondered if perhaps he had driven her past the point of speech. Had urged her into a place of pure sensation, where language had ceased to exist. To that point, his queries, his coaxing had earned him nothing but still more ragged moans, more breathy little mewls. Not that they were unwelcome. There were days when he could sit at his desk at the J. Edgar Hoover building and bring himself to painful readiness merely by thinking about the sounds torn from the ever so reserved Agent Scully as she twisted in the grip of passion. However, in this particular instance, they just didn't give him much direction. Then, all at once, he realized that the hushed murmurs emanating from her lips were actually words. Three, to be exact. Spoken over and over again. The order sometimes jumbled, but the meaning unmistakable. "You. I want you . . .you . . . I want . . . I want . . ." Raising himself onto his elbows, he peered up at her. "What? What do you want from me?" She looked back at him, her gaze nearly feverish, her hands reaching for him. He met her halfway, and twined his fingers with hers, holding on tight. Panting as if she had just finished a marathon, Scully licked her lips, then spoke. Her whisper like skin sliding over silken sheets. "I want you naked, Mulder. I want you naked . . . beneath me . . . inside me . . . I want to feel you moving. Pushing and stroking, harder and faster, . . . sobbing with it, groaning . . . until you can't take anymore . . . until neither of us can . . ." Shit, if you keep talking like that, Scully, that 'can't take anymore' part is going to come real soon-far too soon, he thought with an almost torturous rush of arousal. Oh Christ. "Are you sure?" he queried when he was certain he could speak without his voice cracking. "Are you sure you're not going to hurt yourself?" She slowly nodded. Well. If she was sure . . . His eyes holding hers for a beat longer, he nodded as well. And sat back on his heels to remove first his shirt. Scully's legs were sprawled on either side of him as she watched him disrobe, the heat of her stare very nearly convincing him that his skin had suddenly turned flammable. Within minutes, the rest of his clothes were shed as well, puddled on the floor beside the bed. That done, Mulder found his way up to the headboard, alongside where Scully rested against the pillows. And wrapping his hand around the nape of her neck, he pulled her to him for a long slow deep kiss. "I love you," he said, his forehead flush against hers, his hand still curled around the back of her neck. "And I'm yours for whatever you want, whatever you need. Take it from me. I want you to have it." Upon hearing that, it appeared for just a second that her eyes misted, grew softer. Then, her lips curved. And she whimsically questioned him, her voice husky in the extreme. "Are you telling me that you're my Boy Toy, Mulder?" "I'm your slave." "No, you're not." "Try me." She smiled still more at hearing her own words volleyed back at her. And as Mulder had suspected she would, apparently decided that two could play at that game. "Okay. Maybe I will." With that, she gently pushed him down onto his back, so that he rested atop the pillows which had previously cushioned her, and carefully scooted to just even with his hip. Stretching out her hand, she lightly drew her fingertips up his now pulsing erection. Mulder moaned helplessly, his face closing on a grimace of pleasure, his hips lifting to meet her caress. Pleading for it. "So what exactly are a slave's duties?" she murmured as she played with him. Grasping him in her small hand. Squeezing. Stroking along his hardness. Swirling her index finger over his tip, smearing in a tight little circle the moisture that had escaped from him unbidden. Stop, stop, stop, he wanted to scream. God, it was all he could do not to grab her hands. To push them away from him with a kind of frantic desperation. Not that he really wanted her to stop. Not at any time within the next millennium. But, if she didn't, there was no way in hell he was going to be able to hang on. Never. Not with the best will in the world. "I think . . ." he began, then paused when his train of thought derailed. "Um . . . I think . . that's your decision." "Mine?" she queried innocently as she at long last ceased her torment and cautiously straddled his lean hips. "Yeah," Mulder nearly groaned as he felt her descend over him. Not taking him in. Not yet. Just flowing over him. Hot and sweet and wet. Oh God, . . . so wet. So ready for him. "Yours." "Oh, that's right," she whispered as she leaned forward and balanced herself with her hands against his chest. Lifting up just a touch, she rubbed over him. Root to tip. Slowly. Slick as butter and hot as flame itself. Oh Jesus. He didn't know about the rest of her, but there was certainly nothing wrong with the small of her back. It undulated over his rigid length with all the flexibility of a slinky. She smiled at him, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lush lashes hiding her expression. "This is all about me, right?" Well, it was supposed to be. But at that moment, when the woman he loved was moving that round little bottom of hers in a steady wicked rhythm, her breasts bobbing in time, Mulder wondered if indeed that sort of thing was written in stone. But, in the end, he answered her as he thought he ought. "Yes." To his surprise, Scully shook her head. "You're wrong." And with that, she raised up onto her knees and gently guided him inside her. Slowly Slowly Slowly Slowly Slowly she sunk down on top of him, her lower lip seized by her teeth as if to hold back still more of those lovely little sounds he had come to crave. For his part, Mulder had no such self-control. He could only moan his ecstasy, his eyes drooping shut, his mouth pulled tight in a rictus of pleasure. For a moment, neither moved. Scully sat absolutely still atop him, like a rider getting used to an unaccustomed mount. Her fingertips lazily drew patterns on his midriff while her eyes bored down into his. "You're wrong," she repeated softly after a time. Her words not triumphant or challenging, merely a statement of fact. "Regardless of what position we try or what game we play, *this* is never about only one or the other of us." "I . . ." "Mulder, you and I are bound together in ways I won't even pretend to understand," she told him, her gaze almost unnervingly tender. "I could no more 'take' this from you, than you could from me." Still sheathing him tightly within her slender body, she carefully leaned forward and kissed him gently upon the lips. "This should never be about making amends, Mulder," she said, eerily picking up on his errant musings, his secret motivations. Her eyes so soft now as they regarded him, so blue. "This should be about making love. Always." A terribly unwelcome lump was forming in his throat. One that blocked all those words, all those things Mulder swore he would one day say. Even if it took him a lifetime. So instead, he nodded. The gesture feeling to him horribly inadequate. Scully didn't seem to mind. She smiled her most beautiful smile at him, the split in her lip not hindering her one bit. "Together, Mulder?" "Together." And keeping her eyes trained on his, Scully began to move. Up until he nearly slid free from her body. Then, down once more. The pace she set was leisurely. Due in part, Mulder was certain, to her injuries. And yet, he also got the sense as their hands found each other, and fingers woven, held on tight, that the tempo Scully maintained had nothing at all to do with the speed at which she hoped to reach gratification. Instead, it appeared to him that she simply didn't want their union to end. That this particular coupling seemed to symbolize so much more--passion certainly, but forgiveness, and acceptance, and trust, and sacrifice, and celebration, and dozens of other components that had all somehow gotten drawn into the mix. He felt it too. And knew, as their breath grew more belabored and sweat oozed forth to dot their brows, that the outcome would be devastating. In the best possible way. So he stayed with her. Focused on her. Breathed with her. Their hands locked. Their bodies straining. Scully's lovely breasts gently bouncing and swaying, her necklace swinging between them. The mere sight begging him to release her small hands and capture those soft mounds of flesh instead. But he refrained. Or at least, compromised. Stretching forward, he sucked one hard pointed nipple into his mouth and tantalized it. His lips and teeth and tongue intent on wringing more of those voluptuous sounds from the woman sitting astride him, rising and falling like a piston. He succeeded. And a stream of breathy entreaties poured from her lips, drenching him like a gentle spring rain. At long last he let her slip free. He couldn't concentrate anymore. Not enough to make it good for her. Not when everything he had was fixated on the hot moist slide of their lower bodies. On the ever-increasing friction. The speed. The angle. The way in which he was positive he was going to split apart. To helplessly rip in two inside her; he felt that hard, that swollen, that out of control. Leaning forward now so that their linked hands were braced upon his chest, Scully increased the rhythm, her hips pumping over his with escalating urgency. Her hair falling forward like a silken drapery, hiding her from view. But Mulder wanted to see her. To witness the expression on her face at the moment of her release. So, finally untangling their fingers, he cradled her face in his hands and pulled it close to his own. Sweat slicking their bodies now, he studied her eyes, sapphire blue, and so sweetly unfocused. She looked right back at him, her gaze unwavering, her body drawing tight. Arching and releasing almost mindlessly, readying itself for climax. Just like his. Mulder surged his hips up to meet hers, all caution forgotten as slap after slap their groins met, then parted. "Scully?" he queried hoarsely, no more words necessary. "Yeah," she panted breathlessly. "Yeah." And rocking fast, furiously, desperately, he drove into her. Until finally he stiffened, the part of his body buried inside her leaping with its surrender, ripping apart perception, sundering his senses. The shout that issued from his mouth to mark the moment starting gravelly low, as if strangled somehow. Ending, by contrast, with a whimper, a weak, needy sort of sound he had never before heard coming from his lips. For her part, Scully suddenly arched like a slender ivory bow, her head tipped back so that her chin pointed skywards, her hair flying, her eyes shut like fringed curtains. Her small frame quivered as if shock waves were rippling through it. Her faint languorous cries like watercolors made aural. And Mulder could feel the flutter of her soft inner muscles pulsing against that part of him embedded in her still. Milking him. Draining him, even as their union filled him with something entirely new and far more precious. And in that moment it seemed as if creation itself were holding its breath. As if the image of Scully drawn taut in ecstasy above him, the curve of her back equal in sheer artistry to anything the Louvre might have to offer, was suspended there for all time. Still, mesmerized as Mulder was by the sight of her before him, flushed and unspeakably lovely in her arousal, after a breath or two, he unexpectedly found his eyes lured to the shiny silver charm dangling from her neck. Swaying. Glinting in the light leaking into the chamber from outside. The tiny woman riding the moon, her arms braced against it; her eyes lifted to the stars, her lips curled in a smile. A look of near rapture transforming her features. La Lune Argentine. And in that instant, she reminded him of Scully. Yet, oddly enough, the notion didn't frighten him. Mulder hadn't once thought of Selene Broussard and her captain since joining Scully on the big brass bed. And now, now that Scully had gracefully folded over onto his chest, her slight limp weight nestled against him in total surrender, utter trust, he found himself musing that perhaps their crafty ghost did not, in fact, have the upper hand as he had once believed. True, she and her kind might possess the ability to manipulate him and the woman cradled in his arms. But not control them. Not completely. Because to do that, she and Jack would have to cleave the bond he and Scully shared. Shred it. Scully sighed against his throat, her body laying lax against his, her cheek settled in the space between his ear and shoulder. "I love you, Mulder," she whispered, too tired at that point to even lift her head and look him in the eye. He kissed her brow. "Every minute of every day, Scully," he murmured with his eyes closed, his head resting against hers, their hair entwined. "With every breath, every heartbeat." He felt her press a soft kiss to his throat, and tightened his arms around her. Poor Selene, he mused, rocking Scully gently in his embrace. She had no idea what she was up against. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XV From krasch3251@aol.com Mon Nov 25 03:16:06 1996 "At a Loss for Words" (15/15) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Hi! I don't mean to confuse anyone, but I'm posting this on AOL even though my main server is still Delphi. *sigh* For some reason, my newsgroup access on the big "D" is royally screwed up. I haven't been able to log on to it for two weeks now. Thank God for that handy AOL back-up. :) So, if you're thinking of dropping me a line , please do so at the Delphi address. I'm trying not to use this secondary account any more than is necessary. Okay. Wow. I think this is it. Barring unforeseen circumstances, this should be the final chapter of Mulder & Scully's little escapade in New Orleans. I hope you guys have enjoyed it. Many thanks to everyone who took the time to drop me little nudge notes as this progressed. I honestly never intended for the story to run so long or take so long to post. And I learned a valuable lesson. Never =ever= do the post-as-you-go thing again. Too much pressure. :) All official disclaimers in the intro. This is just story. ************************************************** "Scully, I want you to tie me up." "*Now?*" Dana Scully crossed from the bathroom doorway where she stood framed, and strolled to where her partner was seated on the edge of the bed, clad in a pair of black jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, his brow furrowed with intensity. "But, Mulder," she murmured with a smile as she came to a halt between his splayed legs, her fingertips reaching out to drift lazily through his hair. "I don't think we have enough time to do it *properly*." Mulder gazed up at her, a reluctant smile of his own tugging at his mouth, his hands finding their way to the swell of her hip. He flexed them there lightly against the soft gray fabric of her sweat shorts, seemingly enjoying the firm yet pliant feel of her body flowing beneath his fingertips. "And there are some things I absolutely refuse to rush," she teased just before pressing her lips to his forehead. "You know, until recently I had always thought of you as such a good girl," he commented with dry humor as his palms slid slowly up and down her sides. "Disappointed?" she drawled, her hands resting on his shoulders. "What, are you nuts?" he growled as he gently pulled down her head for a long leisurely kiss. "Don't start something you can't finish, Mulder," she whispered breathlessly when their lips had parted. His eyes glinted with a hint of the devil. "What time is it?" She checked her watch and cocked a brow. "Nearly six." He grimaced, then sighed his disappointment. She chuckled. Sorry, Mulder, Scully thought wryly. But, time does tend to fly when you're having . . . fun. Her silent use of that woefully inadequate word brought a bemused twist to her lips. *Fun*, Dana, she wordlessly challenged herself. True, she had more than enjoyed the past several hours. The resulting collection of aches and pains currently filtering through her already battered body served as a testament to the enthusiasm with which she had thrown herself into the afternoon's activities. Yet to look at what she and Mulder had shared as mere recreation seemed to her way of thinking almost a kind of blasphemy. After all, there was sex. And then, there was making love. But as lovely as the experience had been, as much as she longed to return to lying contentedly in the arms of the man before her. Sheltered there, secure and drowsy and utterly replete. The two of them had other considerations. Because the sun had begun its slow yet inevitable slide towards the horizon, night falling right along with it. Soon, Selene would be venturing forth once more, in search of her captain. And the two people she planned to use to that end needed to prepare. "I'm serious, you know," Mulder said quietly, holding Scully in place before him when she started to cross away. "About my tying you up?" she queried, her hands smoothing over his upper arms as if to soothe him. "Yes," he said, tugging her down beside him on the bed. When she started to voice her protest, he stopped her before she could utter a word. "Listen to me, Scully. It makes sense." Very little about this entire experience makes sense, Mulder, she yearned to retort. Yet, they didn't have time to argue. If they had ever needed to present a united front, this was certainly it. Resolutely pressing her lips together, Scully held her peace and let her partner continue. "Selene wants the two of us together," he said, his voice calm and controlled, his hand setting lightly on her thigh. "We know that. She believes that she needs us to communicate with Jack. But there's nothing that says that any sort of physical contact needs to take place. Nothing that dictates that we have to in any way be touching for this plan of hers to succeed." "So you want me to restrain you so we don't have a repeat of the other night," Scully surmised softly. Mulder nodded, his expression darkening. "Scully, much as I hate to say this--I just don't trust myself to be strong enough to do it on my own." "Mulder--" "And I don't know what I would do if something like that happened again." Scully had an inkling. And it wasn't pretty. Thus, much as it pained her to resort to something as extreme as lashing the man she loved to a piece of furniture, she reluctantly agreed that in this instance it was perhaps the wisest thing to do. "All right, Mulder. If you're sure," she murmured with a quick nod. "We'll play it your way. So, where do you want be for this?" He shrugged and looked around the room for inspiration. "I don't know. We should probably secure me to something I can't drag around. Um . . . Well, . . I suppose the *bed* is our best bet." She had to chew on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the direction in which their conversation seemed intent on heading. Hmm, interesting how they had first discussed this topic with her being the one fixed in place atop a mattress. Ah, well. Either arrangement held promise. "You want me to tie you to the bed?" "Not exactly standard Bureau procedure, is it?" Mulder said with a grin, his brows lifting a tad sheepishly. "But can you think of a better idea?" "Yeah, but I'm not sure this is the time," she offered with a suggestive arch of her own brow. "Oh, don't hold back now, Agent Scully," he urged in a low rough voice. One intimate enough and arousing enough to very nearly make her forget the rather serious topic that had started their discussion in the first place. "You know how much I value your opinion." "Let's just say that the next time I tie you to a bed, I promise it won't have anything at all to do with ghostbusting," she murmured in a husky voice. "Who you gonna call, Scully?" Mulder countered softly, his eyes twinkling at her. "My name, Mulder," she purred, her hand stretching forth to caress the side of his face. "My name." For a moment, they just sat smiling at each other. This is absurd, Scully thought with a touch of bemusement. We shouldn't be behaving like this. After all, the past few days had been difficult. Fraught with danger and mishap. She had almost died. That tragedy nearly having come at the hands of the man beside her. And yet, despite such knowledge, she just simply couldn't muster the appropriate fear, the proper sort of dread. Strangely enough, Mulder's mood seemed to reflect her own. "Does this seem at all odd to you?" she finally queried softly. "What?" he parried with a quirk of his lips. "Our being on vacation? Our getting ready to do battle with a ghost? Or our looking at my being tied to a bed as a viable defense against things that go bump in the night?" Scully smiled, then shook her head. "None of it. All of it. I don't know. . . . It's just . . . it seems that given what we've been through lately, I should be more worried about this than I am." "You're not afraid?" Mulder asked her quietly. She considered for a moment, then smiled once more. "No. Isn't that weird?" He laughed shortly, the sound more a grunt than a chuckle. "No more than anything else, I suppose." Her smile continued. "But, I know you mean," he ventured after a instant. "I kind of feel the same way. And I'm not sure why." His eyes dropping from hers, Mulder reached out and took Scully's hand in his, cradling it carefully. "I've been so crazy the last couple of days. Feeling . . . out of control. What with you, and my own . . . problems, I got . . . lost. You know? Off balance." She looked at him, her gaze gentle with understanding. "I know." He shrugged and took a deep breath. "But I think maybe that's past. At least . . . I hope it is." Scully tightened her fingers around his. "Me too." Mulder just studied the woman sitting next to him for a moment, his affection for her naked in his regard. "But you know what I find really weird, Scully?" "What?" "Your accepting this whole thing. I mean . . . ghosts, possession--does all this mean that we're going to have to find a new skeptic to balance out all *our* crazy theories?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Three's a crowd, Mulder." He grinned. "No," she said an instant later, dropping her playful facade of annoyance, and searching for the words that would best explain to her partner her reasons for suddenly believing in the unbelievable. "No, don't worry. I'm not jumping over to your side of the fence just yet. But, I can't and I =won't= deny hard evidence. And even though you and I may not have anything tangible to hold on to with all this, we do have our own experiences, our own memories of what went on inside our heads. Now, I don't know about you. But, I =know= that I didn't imagine all those things I told you about. The images, the emotions--" He nodded, his eyes grave. "I know. Neither did I." She smiled, bittersweet. "I don't doubt it." "So if we concede the reality of those experiences," she continued, "then what do we look to as an explanation for them? How do we rationalize my seeing you as Jacques LeFevre before I had ever even known what the man had looked like?" "Or my recognizing the mystery woman I mistook you for as Selene Broussard," Mulder murmured quietly, his focus now on their clasped hands. Scully nodded. "Exactly." They sat quietly for a moment. "So, you're okay with this?" he queried after a time, his fingertips lightly caressing her palm. She chuckled ruefully. "Oh, I don't know. 'Okay' may be a bit overly optimistic." He smiled, his hand tightening over hers once more. "But I'll survive," she assured him softly. "Yes, you will," he said in a low, certain voice. The words a promise. And with that, and a quick hard kiss on the forehead of the woman beside him, Mulder rose from the bed in search of something with which to bind his wrists. *************************************************** "You know, Scully--I had actually =liked= this tie." "Think of it as having been sacrificed for a good cause." "All right. But what about this other one?" "*That*, Mulder, is more like a mercy killing." Fox Mulder glared up at the petite auburn-haired woman before him with mock aggravation, and attempted for perhaps the tenth time to free himself from the restraints securing him to the headboard of the room's wide brass bed. The restraints formerly known as two of his silk neckties. He wasn't really interested in pulling free. Rather his goal was to make certain that such escape was impossible. He planned on taking no chances. Not with the life of the woman looking down at him, concern creasing her brow. "Are you sure you're okay?" she queried softly as she crossed to sit on the bed, even with his waist, her hand stretching out to rest gently on his chest. "Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?" He smiled up at her from where he rested against an impressively plump mound of pillows, and let his arms fall again to frame his head. "I told you, Scully. I'm fine. I was just making sure. That's all." "Well, cut it out," she chided without any real heat, her fingertips combing through the strands of hair on his forehead. "You keep up that straining and your wrists are going to have bruises that rival mine." "How are *you* feeling?" Mulder questioned swiftly, mentally chastising himself for not having asked earlier. Since her awakening, Scully had seemed so much like her old self that despite the discoloration on her face and neck, he had almost forgotten that she was still recovering from her injuries. His partner didn't seem to take offense at his lapse. "I'm good," she said with a small smile before she carefully leaned over and touched her lips to his. "Really. I am." He regarded her gravely for a moment, searching her eyes as if wondering whether she might be attempting in some way to spare him. "But I do think I'm going to have to sit out a few days from work when we get back," she said dryly. "I intimated as much when I called in to Skinner while you were in the shower." "What story did you give him?" Mulder queried, knowing that in addition to having to make new travel arrangements for their return to D.C., Scully and he were also going to have to coordinate fictions to explain their unexpectedly extended absences. No one would believe that each of the pair had taken extra time off work without notifying the other of their decision to do so. Scully grimaced. "I decided to go with 'auto accident' as an explanation for the mess on my face. It seemed a reasonable enough excuse, and as I made myself a passenger in the imaginary car rather than the driver, it should be tougher for anyone to disprove." He nodded. "And Skinner bought it?" She grinned slyly. "I didn't talk to him. I talked to Kimberly." "Ooh," he murmured with a half-smile. "Some people have all the luck." "Why--what did Skinner say when you talked to him?" "Haven't done it yet," he admitted wryly. "I figured that I'd wait till tonight and leave it on his voice mail." "Coward," Scully teased without heat, her brow lifting to further lighten the statement. "Pragmatist," Mulder corrected, his smile widening. They looked at each other as the seconds ticked away, Scully's hand gently stroking his chest. Then, Mulder sighed. "So, now what do we do?" he asked in a put-upon voice. She shrugged, amusement at his impatience shining in her eyes, and crossed away from him to glance out the window. "Wait, I guess. It shouldn't be too long. The sun has already fallen beyond the roof line." He glanced out the open balcony doors, and saw that she was right. Although the transition to night was in no way wholly complete, the courtyard below had been cloaked entirely in shade. Their room itself was murky with shadows. Soon, they would be unable to maneuver freely without the assistance of lamplight. "You know, I'm going to feel pretty silly if Selene decides to bother someone else tonight," he muttered, looking with vexation at the silken ties binding him to the bedposts. "This was your idea, Mulder," Scully reminded him softly as she turned to face him once more. "Just say the word and I'll untie you." "No!" Mulder said quickly, his tone sharp. "No, whatever you do, do =not= release me, Scully. Not until you know for sure that it's safe." She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then nodded. And as Scully crossed to the wing chair, and turned on the floor lamp beside it, the two agents settled in to wait. It wasn't all that difficult. After all, the two of them were used to stakeouts. To cross country flights. To hours spent behind the wheel of one rented automobile or another. They knew how to fill the minutes between them. And besides, it wasn't as if either of them viewed sitting alone together as a kind of punishment or chore. Whatever private time they managed to steal was cherished. Valued. And almost always put to good use. Yet, this time they couldn't escape the pall that hung over the room. The nagging frustration that came with knowing that while something *should* happen, something unpleasant, they had no idea when, or what, or how. Still, they had to keep on alert. In that respect, their present waiting period was not unlike that aforementioned staple of modern crime-fighting, the stakeout. Unfortunately, the only difference was that unlike all those nights spent as a team, sitting side by side in a parked car, they were not truly a unit fighting an external foe. Although their current battle did indeed feature an antagonist, her weapon was ironically enough the agents themselves. As much as they longed to cling to one another for support, they couldn't turn a blind eye to the threat such a proposition offered. So, they sat--or rather, Mulder laid--making small talk, and watched the room slowly dim. As time stretched on, Mulder found himself perversely wishing that something =would= finally break. Although the manner in which Scully had tied him allowed him some small mobility--he could scoot up and down against the pillows--his arms were growing weary of being bent at the elbow. He longed to stretch, to move around. But he had no intention of sharing his desires with Scully. Because she would see that they were fulfilled. And there was no way in hell he would ever let that happen. Thus, he continued his half of the vigil with the mute forbearance of a saint, breathing deeply, and willing himself to remain relaxed. It seemed to be working. Scully and he had at long last fallen silent for a time, each content to simply be; Scully curled in the big chair in the corner, he flat on his back. The quiet was lulling. Mulder felt as if he were drifting, edging ever so slowly towards sleep. Not that he should find such a journey all that unexpected. God. When was the last time he had slept? Could it really have been just the previous afternoon? Granted that still meant that he had remained awake for more than 24 hours. Yet, with as heavy as his eyelids presently felt, it seemed far more likely that his last slumber had occurred sometime during the Reagan era. But then again, Mulder had always equated the former President with shut-eye. Both as an actor and as a politician. His lips tilting in a smile at the musings winding through his head, the bound agent vaguely found himself wondering just when it had been that his eyes had drooped shut. Then he thought he heard something. "What was that?" Had Scully spoken or had he? His lashes snapped open. When had it gotten so dark? The room's only source of illumination came from the lamp in the corner, its brightness muted by its own fringed burgundy shade. The chamber's corners were nearly black with shadow. Mulder couldn't even clearly see his partner's face from where she now stood at the balcony door. By contrast, the white of her T-shirt seemed to catch what little light was present, eerily suggesting that in fact she was actually the ghost for whom they waited. "Did you hear that?" she asked finally as she peered out through the French doors, almost as if she thought the answer lie outside the room rather than inside, her voice hushed. Mulder licked his lips. "I'd thought I'd heard something." She nodded, still not looking at him. "So did I. A voice maybe . . . Not . . words, really. But a sound--" Then, before Scully could finish her thought, her knees buckled. A small whimper trickled from her lips. She staggered, her hands stretching out blindly as if searching for a means with which to steady herself. "=Scully!=" Mulder cried from the bed, his body arching up off the mattress, his heels digging into the comforter, the muscles in his arms cording as he strained to reach the stricken woman before him. But she didn't fall. Somehow, her small hands found the corner of the dresser at the foot of the bed, and clung to it, her knuckles white with the effort, her head bowed. "Scully, are you okay?" Mulder asked worriedly, his former pleasantly drowsy state a thing of the past. "Yeah . . ," she mumbled, her countenance still hidden by a silken wall of auburn hair. Then, Mulder heard it. The soft low sound of a woman sobbing as if her heart would cleave in two. With that, Scully shuddered, tremors coursing through her slender frame. Try though he might, Mulder couldn't tell if her reaction had been born of fear. He was just getting ready to speak once more, to perhaps ask her just such a question or maybe instead to inquire again as to her to her well being. All he knew was that he needed to say something to his partner. To make that connection. But before he could come up with the words, Scully pushed upright as before, her arms shaking with the effort, and slowly turned to face him. Her complexion pale. Her eyes not her own. And for just a moment, Mulder almost believed that their sea blue depths had somehow been inexplicably lightened to the coolest, palest shade of gray he had ever seen. Pearl gray. Silver. The woman standing at the foot of the bed stared at him solemnly for a handful of seconds, her expression tender. Slowly, a sad smile curved the corners of her mouth. "Jack," she whispered, the word sounding to Mulder's ears frighteningly like an invocation. He soon rued the insight. Because all at once, a rush of what felt like adrenaline poured through his veins, firing his body even as his head tingled as if touched by frost. He felt light-headed, like someone or something had conspired to deny oxygen to his brain. Oh God, it was happening. Against his will, the change was taking place. Knowing now, in a way he had not previously, what would inevitably occur, what these physical sensations boded for him emotionally and even psychically, Mulder struggled in Selene's hold. Fought the intrusion of the entity known as Jack. And like Scully before him, failed. Shimmering like a curtain of rippling water, his vision slowly, irrevocably blurred. He laid there for the span of a heartbeat or two. Blind, like an old man with cataracts. His body rigid as he stubbornly battled for control. Finally, his eyesight returned. Gradually, like steam being wiped from a window. And the sight that greeted Mulder made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. For now, the woman staring down at him so intently, longing vivid in her expressive eyes, was no longer petite with hair the color of autumn leaves. Instead, she stood nearly as tall as he, her inky hair tumbling about her shoulders and down her back, thick and wavy, and ridiculously erotic. "Selene," he hissed, unsure whether the emotion coloring the word came from Jack or from himself. It didn't matter. She appeared not to notice the venom in his voice. Instead, her eyes glistened upon hearing her name snake from his lips. Mulder felt his groin harden merely from the sight of her. And violence creep into his heart and mind, crackling and bubbling upon his insides like a slow steady drip of acid. Still he resisted with steely determination the impulses that had begun surging through him. The need to wound, to conquer. But, it was like trying to rein in a runaway horse. The spirit sharing his body burned with a whirlwind of pain. Anger, yes. But, guilt and remorse. Need and hurt. The molotov cocktail of emotions swirling inside Mulder confused him, made his brain ache just from trying to make sense of it all. Lord, had LeFevre's psyche always been this tormented, Mulder wondered. Had he always been this confused, this twisted in knots where Selene was concerned? The captain's anguished uncertainty made Mulder's own demons appear mere imps by comparison. And yet, perhaps a century or more of solitary wandering, of living for eternity with the knowledge that you were responsible for the death of the one person you had loved above all others would do that to a soul. Mulder prayed to God that he himself never had to learn if such speculation was true. However, despite his misgivings, his own instinctive distaste for LeFevre's crime, Mulder felt a certain sympathy rise inside him like the tide, a wave of pity for a man who had tragically fallen victim to all the wrong sorts of passion. How wisely Antoine had chosen his revenge, the agent mused. How clever, and ultimately how cruel he had been to twist his rival's greatest joy into his greatest fear. And ironically, if what Mulder could sense rolling around inside him was anything to go by, how easy the plan must have been to carry out. After all, everything suggested that LeFevre had been a man who had felt things deeply. One prone to act, then consider. One ruled by his heart rather than his head. Much like Mulder himself. The dead man's agony made it next to impossible to think. To reason. And when the woman Mulder knew to be Scully yet looked for all the world to be Selene stepped around the corner of the bed to draw closer to his side, he had no clue, no idea what he should do to make this confrontation come out right. To keep Scully safe. But, he had no time to ponder the problem. Because, without conscious thought, words overflowed his lips. "What do you want, Selene?" he asked in a low ragged version of his own voice. "Why do you torture me? Why will you not leave me? Just leave me alone." A lone tear trickled down the smooth pale cheek of the woman standing before him clad in a gown the color of sapphires. Its hue nearly as beautiful as Scully's eyes. "I can't leave you," she whispered, the words a husky rumble of sound. "I've had decades to try, and yet I couldn't master the skill." Mulder felt his features contort into a sneer. "You lie. Just like always. The words trip prettily off your tongue, my love. But their worth is as weighty as smoke." "I tell you nothing but the truth, Jack." "AND I SAY AGAIN, YOU LIE!" Mulder roared, his throat aching with the effort. "You can't =leave= me? Funny, you looked damn ready to leave me when I burst in on you and Antoine." "No--" she began, shaking her head, her composure slipping. "Or perhaps I'm wrong," he interrupted with all the slashing violence of a knife stroke. "Perhaps you weren't going to walk out after all. Maybe instead you thought you could have us both. Live in my house, take my name, and yet cuckold me with your lover." "Antoine was not my lover!" the woman with the now swimming eyes insisted. "Not after I had met you. He drugged me. Forced me--" "Lies again!" Mulder spat, his hands fisted in their confinement, his blood pounding thunderously at his temples, the fury LeFevre had sent racing through his body threatening to make him nauseous. "I begged you for =months= to leave Antoine! Months of watching you two together. Of living with the knowledge that while I lay in my bed alone at night, dying for you, Antoine was happily rutting between your legs." "It wasn't like that--" "Wasn't it?" he goaded, a mocking smile twisting his lips. "Would you lie to me, Selene, and claim that you managed to keep Antoine from your bed while you were sneaking around with me? That you lived like a nun in that bastard's grand house. You, a woman who at the theater let me take you against a wall during the interval, and then calmly returned to your box to watch the rest of the show with the man who owned you." Mulder saw the woman living inside Scully's body blush crimson with her lover's insult, and yet despite the slight tremor that shook her graceful form, she stood firm. Instead of crumpling, she merely regarded him, her lips pressed tight, and lifted her chin as if daring him to strike her there. The move was so signature Scully that for a moment he felt his own eyes water in recognition. And he knew without question that Selene had begun borrowing a little of his partner's courage. "No, I won't lie to you, Jack," she told him softly as she took a step still closer to the bed. "During those months, Antoine shared my bed." "I thought as much," retorted the man on the mattress a trifle smugly, although his expression suggested that he got little pleasure from being proven right. "But he was not my lover." Mulder thought that Jack in his disbelief would make his eyes literally spring from their sockets. "What are you talking about?" Selene crossed to perch on the bed, her hip snug against his waist. "He only had my body." "What--" "You were the keeper of my heart." Mulder felt the pain begin to roil once more. "No--" "My soul," she murmured, her hand floating out of nowhere to rest on his chest. "=Stop it=," he said, shaking his head until he thought his brains were in danger of careening from side to side inside his skull like bumper cars. "I don't believe you." She smiled down at him, the look gentle and marbled with sadness. "But you do. At least part of you does." "=No=," he insisted, the word gritted out from between his teeth. "If not, why did you end your life?" she queried, her eyes liquid now. "Why kill yourself, Jack, over a common whore?" To Mulder's profound relief, he could sense her words making an impact. He didn't know if the calm wisdom flowing from Selene's lips came from her or from Scully, but he could feel some of the bitterness clinging to LeFevre's soul easing. "I don't . . . know," he muttered, pulling with frustration on the bits of fabric holding him in place. "I can't . . . remember. Can't think." "Ssh," she crooned, her fingers lacing themselves through his hair as she strove to calm him. Mulder went absolutely still beneath her touch, almost as if he thought that the caress might somehow wound him. Or that the sweet contact was ultimately too much to bear. "It's all right. It'll be all right. Trust me, my love." Then, suddenly, Jack found a defense against her tenderness. "=Trust!=," he bellowed, the word strangled as he leaned forward, straining against his confinement. "You want me to trust a woman who would tie me down like an animal?!" Hey pal--if you want to talk about trust you may want to consider how very *little* of it the lady should have for you, Mulder longed to lecture the man renting space within him. But what Scully/Selene did next froze the words inside his brain. She just looked at him, her regard unblinking, then nodded. And standing once more, stretched across his body to free his right hand. "=NO!=" Mulder screamed, knowing without question that this most recent outburst belonged to him and him alone. Yet the woman above him ignored his cry, and just as smoothly and as calmly untied his other hand. For a moment, Mulder did nothing. He laid with his arms drawn up tight against his chest, his hands fisted, like a pugilist on the defensive. But slowly, as if beset by a force of nature, he could feel his will wearing away. "No. Please . . no," he quietly pled, not certain to whom the entreaty was addressed, his eyes screwed shut, his chest heaving. "Please . . . ." But his body betrayed him. And striking with a speed he hadn't known he possessed, he reached up like a flash, grabbed hold of the woman standing beside the bed, and tugged her down onto the mattress. With a quick spin and a grunt, he wrestled her beneath him so that he rested squarely atop her, his hands locked around her wrists, her body anchored to the bed. He looked down at her, breathing hard, the part of his anatomy that had stiffened when Selene had first been made manifest reacting with glee to the fact that it was now nestled in the cradle of her hips. Mulder burned with shame, and did his damnedest to keep the bulk of his weight off Scully's ribs. And yet, the woman he crushed to the comforter returned his regard, if not calmly, at least with resolve. "Do you trust =me=, Selene?" he muttered through thinned lips, mocking her apparent naivete , clearly believing that he already knew her reply. But instead, she surprised him. "Yes," she whispered, her eyes shining up at him like twin moonstones. "I do. Of course, I do." And before Mulder's stunned countenance, Scully's beloved face reappeared, her familiar gaze shimmering with the same sort of emotion he had witnessed there so often in the past when they had been in these positions. Him looming over her, his hardness pressed to her softness, his body caging hers. He clung to her. To her presence. Her strength. But, it was so hard. Jack was fighting him. Struggling against his control. Against Mulder's own needs. He could feel himself slipping away once more. But Scully pulled him back from the edge. "Do you trust me?" she asked him quietly, the question loaded with all the resonance that particular word held for the two of them. All the meaning they had managed to cram into those five simple little letters over the years. Trust. Knowing that this person valued you. Respected you. Had faith in you. Shared with you. Would kill for you. Die for you. Would willingly place their life in your hands, secure in the belief that there was no safer place on earth for it. "Yes," he told her, wondering if Jack spoke the words with him or if he and Scully really were in this all alone. He couldn't be sure. LeFevre had gone strangely quiet inside his head. Such serenity was a blessing. Beneath him, Scully smiled, the curve of her lips reminding him of sunshine. And without knowing precisely why, whether the idea was Jack's or his own, Mulder bent his head and touched his lips to Scully's. They were warm and yielding. Trembling from the contact, he released her wrists and plunged his fingers into her tousled hair. She welcomed the shift in position, winding her newly freed arms tightly around his back, sealing their bodies' bond. And Mulder felt as if he would gladly stay in just this pose for all eternity, locked in his lover's embrace, resting heavily against her softness. But before the kiss could turn into anything other than pure, he sensed a change taking place inside him, a turbulence, a churning that felt different than all that LeFevre had unleashed in him up to that point. Dizziness assailed him. And Mulder found himself sincerely grateful that his eyes were already closed. Unable to concentrate on the kiss he had been enjoying only moments before, he instead buried his head in the curve of Scully's neck, seeking comfort like a child with a nightmare, and waited out the storm. Images assaulted him. Formed in his mind's eye. Slapped against his psyche like angry hands. Mulder couldn't stand it any longer. He felt certain he was going to be physically ill. His eyes ached with unshed tears. Every muscle in his body throbbed with tension. Somehow raising his head, he peered down at the woman beneath him. Thankfully, he saw Scully's eyes softly gazing up at him. His hands shaking as if weak from sickness, he cradled her face in his palms. "I never knew," he whispered as finally one tear poured forth to run unchecked down his cheek. "I swear to heaven I didn't." She nodded gravely, her eyes glowing with forgiveness, her hands glancing over his face, tracing the line of his brow, his cheek. "I didn't betray you." "No," he agreed with infinite sorrow, the word barely audible. "I loved you," she said, her voice at the same volume as his, her fingertips continuing their restless trek across his features, as if she were trying to store up tactile memories of his face. "Always." He shut his eyes, and pressed his lips to her forehead, the corner of her eye, her temple, her cheek. The need and the love fueling the caresses overwhelming him. Scully lay beneath him, her lids lowered as well, her breathing slow and regular. Finally, needing to see her once more, desiring to assure himself as to her condition, Mulder opened his eyes, and saw her gazing up at him, a smile filled with longing curving her lips. "I've missed you," she said softly, then let her lashes droop shut once more. And with that, Mulder felt the room spin. Low buzzing filled his ears, and his arms were no longer able to support his upper body. With a degree of desperation, he heaved himself to the side so that he lay beside Scully on the bed, curled around her smaller body, and yet a safe distance from her injured ribs. "Scully?" he queried weakly, his hand flailing until it found hers. Finally latching hold, he clung to her fingers as if he feared she might be torn from him. "It's okay," she mumbled from somewhere near his ear. "S'okay. . . ." And with that, Fox Mulder passed out. * * * * * * * * I lied!! :) There's an epilogue!!! From krasch3251@aol.com Mon Nov 25 03:29:03 1996 "At a Loss for Words" (epilogue) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com I've run out of intro dribble. ;) This is shorter than most of my other chapters (thus the designation of "epilogue"), and will basically just wrap up a few of the story's loose ends. Oh yeah . . . and hopefully leave you wondering about the next entry in the series. ;) All mail to the Delphi address, please. Nothing personal against AOL. Thanks, you guys. Happy Turkey Day! *************************************************** "The bags are in the car." Dana Scully looked away from her last minute perusal of the bathroom cabinet, and smiled at her partner. In truth, she really hadn't thought that she had left anything behind. But she had wanted to be certain. After all, she didn't imagine that they would be venturing back to New Orleans anytime soon. Mores the pity. "Great," she said with a smile as she crossed to Mulder and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I guess that means that we're just about ready to head out." He nodded. "As soon as we make that visit upstairs." She cocked her head and considered his expression. He didn't look too pained over what was to come. Still, she needed to be sure. Because when all was said and done, this last minute change in their schedule had been her idea. "If you don't want to do this, Mulder, I'll understand," she murmured as she hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans and regarded the man standing before her. He was garbed in a similar fashion. Snug fitting denim on his bottom half, a plain white oxford clothing his top. She had opted instead for a soft peach colored cotton sweater. "No. It's okay," he insisted. "I want to." She arched a brow. "It could be awkward. It's bad enough the sorts of looks we're going to get at the airport. But Laura knows you. Knows that I was supposedly 'ill' when we returned. She may ask questions. I'll do my best to allay her suspicions. But, it may not be enough." He smiled ever so slightly. "It's all right, Scully. I can handle it." She nodded, still not entirely convinced, and wished that she could better explain to the man she loved what exactly was motivating her. "It's just . . . I want to see her portrait." "I understand," Mulder said quietly, drawing her into his arms. Nestling there, burrowed against his warmth, Scully looked back with a touch of amazement over the events of the previous night. It had been nearly midnight when they had finally awakened, Mulder first; her moments later, urged to consciousness by his soft entreaties, and realized that at long last it appeared their ordeal was at an end. Because neither of them had sensed the lingering presence of either Selene Broussard or Jacques LeFevre. "Do you think they're really gone?" she whispered from her resting place in his embrace, her words muffled by his shirt. He considered for a moment, then answered, his arms tightening around her slender back. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I mean . . . why would they stay? Selene has finally gotten what she wanted." "Jack?" she queried. "Yeah," he grunted in reply, his breath rippling her hair. "Although why she bothered I still don't entirely understand." Scully pulled back to look at him. "Why do you say that?" Mulder grimaced. "Come on, Scully. You can't exactly call what those two had a 'healthy relationship'." "Oh, so now you're Dr. Ruth?" she teased, merriment dancing in her eyes. He chuckled ruefully and ducked his gaze. "=No=. It's just . . . the woman haunted this house for over a century. . . haunted =us=, nearly killing you in the process, all for the love of a man who =murdered= her. Who didn't care enough, didn't trust her enough to listen to her side of an admittedly incriminating situation. It just seems to me that no matter how you look at it, Selene got the raw end of the deal." She pondered his words for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know, Mulder. Much as I suppose this statement is going to contradict a significant portion of my world view, I really don't think that you can logically explain the human heart. We don't always fall in love with the one it appears to others would be best for us, you know? The whole process is more mysterious than simply picking the person who seems most compatible or is considered best looking." "Yeah," he muttered, his eyes hooded, his lips twisting with wry humor. "I'd have to agree that certain pairings *are* a mystery." Scully didn't pretend to misunderstand him. "Ah. But there is =no= mystery to our relationship, Mulder," she murmured before pressing a kiss to the pulse beating steadily at the base of his throat. "You think not?" "Uh-uh. It's simple really when you stop to think about it." His gaze turned tender. "Oh, that explains it then--I've never been any good at simple. Maybe you ought to just spell it out for me." "But, I don't need to," she said laughingly. "You just hit the nail on the head. Simple doesn't apply to you and I." "What do you mean?" "I mean that you're a challenge. Everything about you keeps me on my toes." "Excuse me?" Scully laid her hand upon his cheek. "You, Agent Mulder, are many things. But you are never, =ever= dull. I've had to work hard to keep up with you. Both in the field, and . . . elsewhere. You don't cut me much slack, you know." Mulder silently mulled her statement over for a time, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "So you're saying that you love me precisely because I'm not an easy man to love." Her eyebrow quirked again. "Hmm. Well, I probably wouldn't have phrased it quite that way. But, I suppose that, overall, that statement is reasonably accurate." He gazed down at her, slowly shaking his head. Whether the subtle side to side motion was meant to signal disagreement or amazement she couldn't judge. Ultimately, the point was moot. Because he laughed. Shortly. "Whatever, Scully," he murmured softly as he folded her to his chest once more, and rocked her gently in his arms. "Just do me a favor, okay?" "What?" "Don't stop," he whispered into her hair. "Don't ever stop loving me. No matter how difficult I may become. Or how crazy all of this may get." "Don't worry, Mulder," she said in a husky voice as she nuzzled her cheek against the pocket of his shirt, wishing that the thin cotton barrier might somehow be magically removed and the two of them would once again be skin to skin. "I took a vow somewhere along the line. I don't even remember exactly when. But, it's a promise I take every bit as seriously as my Hippocratic oath." "And what promise would that be?" "To love you in spite of everything," she told him. "In spite of whatever obstacles Cancerman may throw at us or whatever monsters-- human and/or otherwise--get in our way." Mulder softly kissed the top of her head. "And even in spite of you, Mulder," she said quietly, gently. "In spite of all the things that make this . . . what we have, so difficult for you sometimes." He went still suddenly in her arms, his body not even pulling in oxygen. Then, Mulder did the unexpected. He chuckled. "You've got your work cut out for you," he told her dryly. Scully smiled against his warm solid frame. "Yeah. Well . . . it's a good thing I don't scare easy." Laughter rumbled in his chest yet again. "=That=, Agent Scully is without a doubt the understatement of the century." *************************************************** "Anybody home?" Fox Mulder pushed open the heavy wooden door leading to Laura's studio, and after ushering Scully inside, closed the portal behind him once more. At first, no one answered his call. And yet, the boom box by the door was on, mellow classical piano the music of choice, thus suggesting that indeed someone was in residence. Hmm. Perhaps their hostess had needed to step out for a moment. This might not be such a bad thing. Although Mulder recognized that he and Scully couldn't linger overlong, Laura's absence did allow the two of them to take a curious look about the place, free of any scrutiny. It was basically what he had expected. Paintings, some little more than brushstroke sketches stood on easels scattered about the room, several more works in progress piled against other surfaces as well. A sturdy table standing on the side wall was neatly arranged with a variety of pigments, brushes, palettes, and other artist's tools. The chamber itself was enormous with ceilings made to look all that much taller by the skylights that for all intents and purposes had replaced the roof above their heads. Consequently, the studio was flooded with the day's mid-afternoon sunlight. It formed even rows of neat golden rectangles strung end to end across the room's hardwood floor, the effect suggesting that the shapes had been pressed in that fashion by an enormous cookie cutter. Then, after a moment, Mulder thought he heard something in the room's far corner, coming from behind what looked to be a muslin screen. Water, it sounded like, barely audible beneath the music. Splashing a tad irregularly as if something were blocking its flow, moving beneath its stream. Scully noted the faint noise as well, and after a quick glance in her partner's direction called out, "Hello?" This time, they were heard. The water ceased its murmur, and Laura walked into view, her hair pulled back in a bun, her rounded form clad in a tie-dyed T-shirt and overalls that had somewhere along the way been liberally anointed with spatterings of paint. "Oh, hi!" she said with a friendly smile as she crossed towards the couple, wiping her hands on a frayed piece of toweling. "I'm sorry if I ignored you. I couldn't hear, what with the sink and Chopin." "That's okay," Mulder assured her with a smile of his own. "We don't mean to bother you. It's just that we're getting ready to go, and we wanted to stop by before leaving. Um . . . Laura, this is Dana Scully." Inwardly wincing, he watched as Laura's eyes settled on the woman beside him. They widened upon taking in the bruises on Scully's face and neck, then narrowed, not unkindly, in speculation. "Hello, Dana. It's nice to finally meet you." "Likewise," Scully said, a faint hint of humor which no doubt came as a result of Laura's scrutiny underlying her tone. Laura nodded thoughtfully before pinning Mulder with her gaze. He met it unflinchingly, feeling a momentary sense of triumph as he managed to do so. "I thought that Bill had said that you had settled your tab with him this morning," she murmured a tad coolly. Seemingly aware of just where Laura's thought processes were headed, Scully protectively sidled up alongside Mulder. And wrapping her arm around his waist, leaned her slight weight against him in a silent display of affection. Her partner felt his throat thicken in response. "We did," Scully said, her voice calm and firm. "We're all checked out. But we wanted to do one last thing before we left." "What?" Laura queried, her concerns diminished by Scully's actions, but still not entirely gone. "We'd like to see Selene's portrait," Scully said. Laura's brows lifted. "Selene's? How did you even know about that?" "Bill told us about it," Mulder explained, his arm draped now across Scully's shoulders. "He had loaned me his book, and told us that you were working on restoring her picture." Laura frowned, her eyes a bit sheepish. "Well . . . I am. But, it's not finished yet. Restoration is painstaking work, and to be honest, I've been putting in the hours on my own stuff instead." Scully smiled soothingly. "We understand. And believe me, neither of us are art critics. We just . . . we'd like to see her. That's all." Laura regarded the couple before her intently, in a way that made Mulder wonder just what she made of their motives. Finally, however, she nodded. A kind of understanding in her eyes. "Okay. If you want to," she said softly. "She's over here." Trailing behind the pretty young woman with the big brown eyes, the two agents followed her to a muslin draped easel on the far side of the room. Upon it looked to be an enormous canvas, nearly as high as Scully was tall. Grabbing hold of the drapery, Laura tugged it from the painting with all the panache of Houdini himself. Scully gasped upon seeing what lay beneath. "Oh my God," she murmured from Mulder's side, her words like a prayer. Mulder understood the sentiment. It was one thing to see a black and white photograph of their apparition. A picture where her face was only as big as his thumbnail. But, this . . . this was almost life-sized. All the colors, all the shadings faithfully rendered. Mulder didn't know who the artist had been. But he or she had been exceedingly talented. The oil was almost photographic in its accuracy. And after all, he would know. He had seen the model first-hand. "Is this . . .?" Scully queried softly as she took a step closer to the portrait. "Yes," he confirmed as he crossed to in back of her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind so that she rested against him, her back to his chest. Slowly, she shook her head, a few stray strands of hair tickling his nose. "She was beautiful, wasn't she?" "Yes," he whispered again. "Yes, she was." "You've heard her, haven't you?" Laura suddenly asked with quiet surety. Her question cutting through their rapt study of the painting, slicing their shared reverie in two. "You've heard Selene." Scully glanced up over her shoulder at Mulder. He shrugged, leaving the decision in her hands. "Yes," the auburn-haired agent told the woman before her. "Yes, we have." Excitement glowed in Laura's eyes. "I knew it! I knew there had to be a reason why you wanted to see this. What was she like?" Mulder smiled over her reaction, always pleased to find a fellow believer. And checking with Scully for permission, decided to let their artistic friend in on still more of the story. "Like that. Like her picture." "You mean you've =seen= her too!?" Laura asked, her voice sliding up the scale until it squeaked. Mulder could only chuckle and nod. And although with the way they were standing, he couldn't see her face, he felt certain Scully was smiling as well. "Oh, my God. You're so =lucky=!" Laura enthused, all her reservations about the pair before her now forgotten in the face of their revelation. "I told Bill I'd thought I'd heard her. But he only laughed at me. He doesn't believe in that stuff, you know?" Mulder bent his head to steal a look at his partner. She poked him in the ribs. "But =I= do!" Laura continued happily, oblivious to the byplay going on in front of her. "I've always known she was real. Well, what do you know? Wow. Hey, maybe I'll catch a glimpse of her one of these nights myself." "I wouldn't count on that," Mulder cautioned with a smile. "Why do you say that?" Laura asked, her brow creased. He shrugged. "I don't know. I just get the feeling that Selene may not feel the need to wander these halls any longer." "What did you do?" Laura teased, her thrill over the event her guests had shared proving difficult to dim. "Perform an exorcism?" Scully stepped away from Mulder's arms, but reached out and took hold of his hand, almost as if she regretted breaking the embrace they had shared. "No, I don't think that either of us is quite qualified for something like that." Laura tilted her head. "Then why do you think Selene is through with this place?" "There isn't anything she needs here anymore," Scully explained a tad wistfully, her gaze drifting over to Mulder's and staying there. "Somebody told me once that only unhappy souls feel the need to haunt." Laura nodded. "Well, I guess that's true. I mean . . . that's what you always see in all those old horror movies." Scully smiled. "Well, I think what Mulder here was trying to say is that we have reason to believe that Selene is no longer quite so . . . troubled. And that's a good thing, isn't it?" Laura considered, her gaze flitting back and forth between the pair holding hands before her as if trying to determine the full scope of their knowledge. They looked back at her, their eyes friendly and yet utterly without the information she sought. Sighing, she finally nodded once more, the action executed a tad reluctantly. "I suppose so." "Believe me, it is," Mulder assured the brunette, and with a quick peek at the woman beside him for confirmation, crossed to Laura to offer her his hand. "And now we really do have to go." Laura grasped his hand warmly, her smile genuine. "Thank you for staying at La Lune Argentine, Mr. Mulder, Dana. Bill and I hope to see you again sometime." "We'd like that," Scully said, offering her hand as well. "And thanks. For everything." "My pleasure," Laura murmured as she watched her former guests walk away from her and towards the door, her hands absent- mindedly twisting the towel in her hands as she pondered all that they had said. And all that they had not. The couple had almost reached the room's entryway before she spoke one last time. "Dana!" the woman in the overalls called on a hunch. The pair by the door turned at the sound of her voice, Mulder's hand on the small of Scully's back. "You got those bruises staying here, didn't you?" Laura asked, her tone of voice clearly suggesting she would brook no prevarication. Still, Scully glanced at Mulder before answering. He did little more than shrug. But it was enough for her to recognize that her partner had left it up to her. "Yes, I did." Laura slowly nodded. "Should I be worried?" "No," Scully said softly, her gaze steady and reassuring. "No. We don't think so." Laura let out a great sigh of relief. "Thank you." The couple before her smiled again. And exited her studio. *************************************************** "Are we there yet, Mom?" Scully smiled and squeezed the hand of the man sitting next to her, his long legs folded like an accordion into the narrow space between their pair of airplane seats and the seats in front of them. "Almost," she murmured, knowing that the flight attendant's announcement instructing them to ready themselves for landing had undoubtedly been what had awakened Mulder. She too had been dozing, her head resting on his shoulder, prior to the crackle and pop of the intercom. "You know, I have to admit, this is nice," she commented softly. "What is?" "Our traveling like this," she replied. "Together, rather than playing James and Jane Bond." "What?" Mulder asked with a sleepy chuckle. "You didn't like our earlier Spy vs. Spy mode of transportation?" Her lips tilted in a wry half-smile. "Mulder, between all the changing of planes and my luggage taking a hike, what should have been a three hour flight took nearly twice that long." "Yeah. Well . . . much as I'm enjoying this too, I still wish that we had been able to find separate flights, Scully," Mulder said, his tone suddenly turning a tad more serious. "It couldn't be helped," she said philosophically. "Nothing else was available. Not until tomorrow. Besides--do you actually think that we're in any danger?" He shrugged. "I don't know. We did use assumed names, after all. And I paid for the tickets in cash. Still, it could be that I had already blown it days ago with the rental car. I mean . . . if anyone had *really* wanted to find us, all they would have had to do is track my credit card. But, who knows? Maybe we got lucky. Maybe nobody is watching." Scully considered his words for a moment, then sighed. "You know, our being together isn't a crime." He turned in his seat to face her more fully, his lips close to her cheek. "No, it isn't. But, it could have consequences." "I know," she said with a tiny nod, her voice hushed. "I know the rules, Mulder. It's just that not having to live by them the past few days has made me less tolerant of them. That's all." His eyes searched her face, his gaze a trifle concerned. "No regrets, Scully?" She smiled warmly, and spoke without hesitation. "No regrets." His lips curving as well, Mulder raised her hand to his mouth, and pressed a quick kiss to its back. Just then, the gentle floating motion their aircraft had settled into as it landed altered, coming to an end as the wheels touched down on the tarmac with a bump and a bounce. "Welcome home, Scully," Mulder whispered near her ear. And Scully knew that as long as she was by his side, home was exactly where she would be. *************************************************** The man in the trench coat studied the young couple as they embarked from the gate area. Walking close. Talking softly. The woman so much shorter than her companion. Both of them rumpled from their journey. Tired, it appeared. But happy. He could see that from across the crowded airport corridor where he sat, hidden in the shadows of one of Dulles' several bars. The man swallowed the last of his watered down scotch and pulled from his pocket his cell phone, knowing as he did so that he looked to any curious passer-by like any other business traveler. Medium height, medium age, medium build. Nothing to distinguish him from the crowd. Nothing to set him apart. That would only have defeated his purpose. And despite the fact that he would not, indeed, be climbing aboard a plane that evening bound for distant lands, his trip to the airport did in the end have its purpose. He was there to watch. And report. "They've arrived," he murmured into his phone. "Just as we had believed they would." The voice on the other end was pleased. And asked him the question he had been expecting. The one he had been sent to confirm. But before he answered, his eyes wandered back to the subjects of his mission once more. The couple was laughing as they struggled to control the trolley on which the petite auburn-haired woman was pulling her carry-on bag. Despite their best efforts, the apparatus wouldn't cooperate. And when she tried to quickly lean down to grab her bag before it tumbled to the floor entirely, she winced. The movement sharp, and painful looking. The tall dark-haired man gently cupped his hand around her elbow and guided her upright once more, his head bent to ear, his expression tender. He asked the woman something. She nodded. Then, his brow still furrowed with concern, the man combed his fingers through the hair at the woman's temple, lightly pushing the shiny strands away from her face. His hand lingering for just a moment on the curve of her cheek. The man at the bar smiled. "Yes, sir. I'd say that your information is correct. From what I have been able to gather, Agents Mulder and Scully have chosen to move their relationship to a decidedly non-professional level." The voice at the other end was silent for a moment before softly murmuring a single word. Good. "How would you like me to proceed, sir?" asked the man in the trench coat, a certain eagerness in his tone. But the voice told him to go home. To get a good night's sleep. After all, they didn't need to act on this information immediately. They had all the time in the world. * * * * * * * * THE END Heh . . . heh. Evil, I know. I can't help myself. It's all those hours staring at a computer screen. It'll *warp* ya, I tell ya!! I may not get to this for awhile. Other stories are demanding my attention. But, I promise you. I =will= deal with this new twist in the tale. Eventually. ;) Peace "A Mother's Words" (1/1) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com I'm really sorry if I'm bombarding the newsgroup with posts, but I keep getting "failure" messages each time I try to send this. (Yeah. Like I really need to hear *that* from my server . . . ) ANYWAY Well, here it is the second Christmas to be celebrated in the Words universe, and this story comes courtesy of a really nice guy named Patrick who wrote to me and suggested that we take a look at Mulder and Scully through the eyes of Mrs. Scully. In addition, he had always been curious about a conversation to which I alluded in "The Gift of Words" (last year's Christmas entry), and wondered if maybe a second Christmas story might somehow kill two birds with one stone. Sounded like fun to me! :) As with everything else that gets posted on this group, let me assure you, that I in no way own these characters or profit from them. They belong to Fox, 1013, CC, and the rest of the gang. I just take them on every once and awhile. I'd like to take this opportunity to wish all the really wonderful people I've come into contact with as a result of this newsgroup a safe and happy holiday season. You guys are the best. Thanks for making a girl feel welcome. And finally, with Patrick as my inspiration, I'd like to dedicate this particular story to all the guys who have taken the time to write to me over the past year or so. Not to slip into any sort of heinous gender-based stereotypes here, but judging from the mail I receive, I don't believe as many men tend to go for my type of File story as do women. Still, the guys who have taken the time to drop me a line are fab. Thanks to Patrick, Henry, JohnBear (I swear I'll be more careful about ammunition the next time around. Honest!), Antony, Angus and all the rest. It's always good to get your side of the story. ;) FOR THE ARCHIVES: I guess I would consider this an SRV (with a decidedly XMAS bend to it .) No NC-17 here. Strictly G. Appropriate for all audiences. Summary: One Christmas Eve, Maggie Scully contemplates her life and the lives of her loved ones. Peace. ********************************************************* "Now listen, you two--don't stay up all night. Morning is going to come awfully early. And believe me, the children are not going to be at all shy about making you aware of that fact." Dana Scully chuckled at her mother's mock sternness. "Don't worry, Mom. We won't be long." "Good," Maggie Scully said with a small smile from her place at the foot of the stairs, her hand resting lightly on the banister. "Don't forget to make sure the fire is out before you come up, and close the flue. Oh!--and turn off the tree, too." "We will." "Good night, Mrs. Scully," said another voice, one whose owner didn't bear the surname of Scully. "Good night, Fox," the older woman said, her eyes warm as she gazed at the man sitting so closely on the sofa beside her younger daughter, his arm draped familiarly around her shoulder, both his profile and Dana's caressed by shadows. Soft flickering firelight and a tree full of tiny white bulbs provided the room's only illumination; the resulting mood, intimate, cozy. She did not imagine that the couple on the couch would ultimately miss her company too terribly much. "See you in the morning." "'Night, Mom," Dana called quietly after her as Maggie turned and padded wearily up the stairs. Margaret Scully had always enjoyed the holidays; looked forward to them as a time of family and sharing. Yet, she wasn't as young as she used to be, and the preparations for all that family and sharing seemed to take more out of her with each passing year. Much to her annoyance, she found that nowadays, all the shopping and the wrapping and the decorating and the cooking seemed far more taxing than it had when her children had been the ones rousing her from bed at an ungodly hour. Yet this year, it would be her grandchildren playing heralds of the dawn. Her modest two-story home was packed to the gills with visiting relatives. Bill Jr., his wife and two boys had all found a place to rest their weary heads in her remodeled basement. Charlie, his wife and their young daughter were all settled in what would normally be Maggie's own bedroom. She had given up the master suite for the sake of family harmony. After all, it was the largest of the upstairs rooms. Dana was in the room she always stayed in when she visited, the one with the antique spindle bed that was right next door to her mother's own holiday sleeping quarters. And Fox Mulder was housed just down the hall from his partner in a room of his own. When the tall, good-looking government agent had learned just how cramped accommodations were going to be, he had vigorously protested what he perceived to be his preferential treatment. "Mrs. Scully, this is nuts," he had said with a measure of chagrin. "Dana never mentioned that her entire family was going to be staying with you. You're going to need every available bed. We'll just . . . we'll do this some other time." But there was no way in hell that Margaret Scully was going to let Fox Mulder get away. Not when she had waited an entire year to see the man she had grown to love as one of her own coupled with her darling Dana. Not as her daughter's co-worker. Not as her friend. But as her lover. Or whatever the hell young people called their boyfriend or girlfriend this day and age. "Don't be silly, Fox," she had said briskly, blithely anticipating, then deflecting any and all arguments the man had attempted to offer. "Around here, the creative sleeping arrangements are half the fun. The kids love it; they look at it as one big slumber party." "I'm sure your grandchildren enjoy it," he had allowed with a small nod, his brow furrowed with embarrassment. "However, I don't imagine that Dana's brothers and their wives are going to be all that crazy about it." "They'd be even *less* crazy about it if I told them that you had bailed on us over something we've all taken for granted for years," she had assured him with a motherly pat on the arm. "Honestly. This is no big deal. Besides, Christmas isn't about sleeping. It's about spending time with those you love. We want you here, Fox. I want you here. Dana wants you here." That had done it. Maggie knew the soft spot Fox Mulder had for her. The way he tended to view her as a sort of surrogate mother; someone he respected and treated with the same affection with which he treated his own mother. But, she was even more well aware of his feelings for her daughter. Had, in fact, sensed the depth of his attachment to Dana long before the poor man had come to terms with it himself. She doubted that there was little he could deny the woman he loved. Thus, regardless of how awkward he might find the notion of bedding down with a house full of Scullys, Maggie had an inkling that with the combined influence of both she and her daughter, the man her youngest girl insisted on referring to as 'Mulder' would, when all was said and done, accept their invitation. And she had been proven right. "Okay," he had finally mumbled with a sheepish shrug, caving in with the same grace with which he seemed to do most things. "That's very kind of you. Of all of you. I appreciate it. With my mom in Florida this year for the holidays, I had wondered what exactly to do with myself." Maggie wished she could take credit for the idea. But the plan had been Dana's from its inception. "Mom, would you mind if Mulder spent Christmas with us?" Dana had asked without preamble one Saturday afternoon in November as she had sat at her mother's kitchen table slicing up vegetables for Maggie's famous chicken noodle soup. The older of the two women had felt her heart do a little cartwheel inside her chest. "Mind?" she had echoed as casually as she could manage. "Why would I mind?" Dana had shrugged. "I don't know. I just wanted to ask. His mom is going to spend the last couple of weeks in December down in Sarasota with some friends. So, he's going to be alone this Christmas. And . . . well, if it's all right with everyone, I'd like to invite him to spend the holidays with us." "Well, you know he's welcome, Dana," she had murmured as she had thoughtfully stirred the simmering kettle of chicken and water and herbs. "But, don't forget--you invited him last year and he didn't come." "I know," her daughter had said with a small nod of her head and a wry twist of her lips. "I know. But, it was new then. We were new. Now is . . . different. I think he might. I really think he might." And from what Maggie could see, Dana was right. Now was *different*. Somehow. Although she couldn't quite put her finger on why she believed that to be so. Sometimes she thought she was kidding herself. After all, it wasn't as if she had exactly been afforded the opportunity to watch the couple together in the past. To get an accurate sense of how they interacted. To be able to gauge what precisely was considered 'normal' for the two of them. True, she had learned last Christmas of the shift in their relationship. Dana had shared with her the knowledge that she and her partner had come to care for each other in more than strictly a platonic sense. But, they certainly hadn't invited her along to chaperone their dates. Or did those two ever even go on *dates*? Maggie shook her head with amusement as she softly opened the door to her room and fumbled for the wall switch. Although she and Bill had purchased this particular house nearly a decade ago, she still wasn't entirely certain where things were in the dark. Especially not in this room, which usually served as more guest quarters than anything else. The chamber would sit empty for months at a time until one of the boys swung through town with his family. When springtime rolled around each year and she busily marched from room to room, pulling down drapes for the wash and moving pieces of furniture to vacuum behind them, she often wondered why in God's name she and her husband had ever chosen to move into a house this size when they had reached a point in their lives when it had really been just the two of them. Well. One, now. Then, she would sit in her garden with one of her daughter-in- laws, sipping lemonade and gossiping about one family member or another. Or would lean over the back of one of her tall kitchen chairs, gazing at a piece of paper filled with multi-color crayon swirls and wondering just what precisely the little one had chosen to draw *this* time. And she would remember. Every family needed a place to roost. Her baby birds may have flown the nest, but from time to time, they returned. Not as regularly as those swallows out in Capistrano. But, as devotedly. Having successfully conquered the problem of the bedroom lights, Maggie paused for a moment, eyes narrowed against the sudden brightness, and smiling a trifle sadly at her metaphor. Bill had always teased her about her and her *chicks* when the children had been growing up. He had always claimed that she tried too hard to shelter them. "Kids are kids, Maggie," he would tell her with a fond twinkle in his eyes. "You've got to let them skin their knees. Try and fail. That's how they learn. How they grow up. You can't always protect them, sweetheart. I'm not even sure you should attempt to." She ruefully shook her head as she slowly changed from her faded jeans and bulky wool sweater into her nightgown. Brave words from a man who had routinely subjected any boy contending for his daughters' affections to an interrogation reminiscent of a Navy court- martial, she thought, her love for the man with whom she had spent more than half her life undiminished by time or loss. Oh, her Bill had talked a good game, but he was as fierce a defender of his family as she. As all the Scullys were for each other. What would Bill have made of Fox Mulder? Maggie swallowed a girlish giggle as she tiptoed down the darkened hall to the bathroom, a quilted robe covering her flannel night wear, her slippered feet silent as they tread upon the faded hallway runner. Strange to think that Fox, who had played such an important role in Dana's world for so many years, had never met the other most important man in her daughter's life. Her Ahab. Maggie had few illusions on that account. As close as she and her only remaining daughter were, as much love as they shared between them, Dana had always been, and perhaps would always be, her daddy's girl. Much to Bill's delight. Yes, he had gotten quite a kick out of their closeness. That special bond that sometimes developed between a parent and child. His sweet Starbuck. How proud he had been of her. Of her intelligence, her drive, her warmth, her grit. Hmm. How would the doting father have taken to the man who had in so many ways stolen his little girl from him? Well, perhaps *stolen* is a bit harsh, Maggie mused as she peered into the vanity mirror and began removing what scant make-up she wore. But in many ways, Dana's decision to join the FBI, which of course had led to her partnership with Fox, had taken her from her family. And not just in the literal sense. First of all, it had sparked the rift between Dana and Bill. He couldn't believe that after all the years, all the study, all the student loans, that his daughter the doctor would choose not to practice. Then, to add insult to injury, she had decided that she was going to try her luck in a job that not only would pay her a fraction of what she would have been making as a physician, but could put her life in jeopardy as well. "Where the hell is the sense in that?" he had grumbled heatedly to Maggie upon hearing the news. And yet, there had been no fight, no out-and-out knock-down- drag'em-out. Instead, her husband and daughter had both chosen to merely withdraw into themselves; the defense, a Scully trait. Lord knew that the gene had =not= come from her side of the family. Her loved ones had been ridiculously civil to one another; so much so, that at times she longed to take the pair and knock their two politely smiling noggins together. But there had been strain. Unmistakable, even in its reticence. And that had only been exacerbated when Dana had left Quantico to pair with Fox. "You know that this guy is a flake, Dana," Bill had warned her. "Your old man hasn't been an employee of Uncle Sam all these years without making a few contacts along the way. I asked around. He hunts spaceships, sweetheart. =Spaceships=. Are you going to tell me that you left medicine to chase colored lights in the sky?" It went without saying that her father's derision had only fueled Dana's determination. The petite redhead had inherited her father's stubbornness as well. "It's true that Agent Mulder does have certain . . . unorthodox interests," she had calmly retorted. "But he is an excellent investigator. I know I'll learn a lot from him." Oh, honey, Maggie silently lamented as she, with cupped hands, splashed water onto her face to rinse it. Why is it that I fear sometimes that Fox has taught you things you would both be better off not knowing? Eyes shut, she stretched out her hand, blindly searching for the towel hanging over the toilet. Succeeding with her objective, she pressed the terry cloth to her face. Much as part of her felt like a traitor for entertaining such thoughts, she couldn't help but wonder from time to time if her family wouldn't have been better served by never having been introduced to Fox Mulder and his 'unorthodox interests.' After all, if not for the X-Files, she and her family wouldn't have to suffer through this second Christmas without Melissa; her beautiful free-spirited eldest daughter. "Missy," Maggie whispered on a sigh, her throat clenching as the single word flowed gently past her lips, the towel clutched tightly in her hands forgotten in her reverie. Does it ever get any easier, she wordlessly queried, studying her reflection in the mirror as if the answer might be found there. And indeed it was. Her eyes told the tale. No. It never does. Having been forced to bury two beloved family members in such a short period of time had challenged the faith of even so devoted a church-goer as she. She couldn't begin to count the hours she had spent talking with her Lord; at church, and in bed at night before she had finally escaped her sorrow in sleep. Why, she would ask her strangely quiet deity, the question shaded with less humility than she knew perhaps was proper or just. Why would you ask this of me? Of our family? What have we done to deserve this? And yet, even as she had cried out her indignation to the heavens, Maggie had known her queries would ultimately be without answers. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. How long had that truth been drilled into her head? First, by her own devout mother. Later, by the nuns who had taught her not only dignity and grace and strength, but spelling and math and geography. And finally, by a succession of sincere, well-meaning priests who had echoed the platitude from the pulpit Sunday after Sunday throughout her life. Ours is not to question, child. But to accept. Accept. But it was so hard. Hard to say goodbye to the man who had been her constant companion since girlhood. Hard to think about all the maybes and the might-have-beens; all the bright shining possibilities that her older girl had never been given the time to explore or fulfill. Maggie sighed, feeling the sadness that never entirely left her well up inside of her like the tide, lapping at her heart, filling her eyes with salt water, stinging like the spray from the ocean. "Enough of that," she murmured as, turning from the mirror, she neatly folded her towel, the action something she completed without conscious thought, and hung it over the bar where it belonged. Wishing didn't change anything. This, she knew. And besides, she and her family had so very much for which to be thankful. So many blessings to consider. She and Bill had enjoyed the best of marriages. The greatest of friendships. She had years and years of memories stowed away to cherish in her twilight. She still had three children. Three offspring whom she dearly loved and who returned her affection unendingly. Out of these three, she had three more Scullys to love. Three more innocents to play with, marvel over, and guide to adulthood. And even though she had confronted God during the worst of her losses, upbraiding him for her travails and her pain, he had not forsaken her. For, in the midst of the great tragedies the past few years had wrought, she had been granted a miracle. Her littlest girl, taken without true motive or explanation, had been returned to her. And yet the return hadn't proven the actual miracle. The recovery had. Because, almost as if it were a test of some kind, a trial of Maggie's belief, of her trust in a power greater than herself, Dana had been allowed back into her life in only the most tenuous of ways. Her lovely, vibrant daughter had been found alive, yes. Yet, only just so. A spark of life. But little more. And so Maggie had commenced to mourn even as she had rejoiced. But not alone. No. Melissa had been there, coming home to her family after years of searching, of looking for something both within herself and without. Something that her traditional mother and father had been unable to provide. Having her prodigal daughter return to the fold had been one of the few good things to come from that time, Maggie readily acknowledged. And getting to know Fox Mulder--really know him--was another. Prior to those desperate hours, Maggie had known *of* him, of course. In addition to Bill's less than kindly assessment of the young agent, she had been privy to Dana's far more approving comments. Well, perhaps *approving* wasn't quite the right word. "It's weird, Mom," her daughter had confided one day at lunch not soon after being partnered with the man who would change her life. "There are days when I want to take Mulder by the throat and absolutely . . . =throttle= him, he makes me so crazy." "That sounds a bit extreme," Maggie recalled murmuring mildly in response. Dana's brows had lifted, the corners of her lips quirking as well. "Yeah. Well . . . it's probably a good thing that I don't. Because no sooner are my hands twitching to do the deed than he'll say something. Something so . . . so off the wall, and yet so =right=, that I end up just . . . just standing there shaking my head." "In a good way?" Maggie had queried with a gentle smile, already fairly certain of the answer to her question. Dana had ducked her head as if a trifle embarrassed by her admission. "Yeah. Yeah, in a good way." And that was how it would go. During those all too rare instances when Dana would talk about her work, she would always mention her partner. That in and of itself, of course, wasn't particularly odd. They were a team. Maggie would have found it unusual had her daughter =not= discussed the man with whom she worked. But rather, it was the =way= that Fox Mulder without fail found his way into the conversation. Dana would invariably begin by blowing off a little steam--mentioning an argument the two of them had had, or a particularly preposterous theory her partner had proposed, or an outlandishly foolhardy risk the man had taken. Then, almost before the words were even out of her mouth, she would double back on herself. The thing about Fox Mulder that had initially made her most insane would somehow transmute into the thing she most admired. Like the alchemy of old. Lead being transformed into gold. Maggie remembered at the time wondering if Dana even realized that such a change was taking place. If she had any idea of the way her face would come to life when she spoke of him. Her eyes flashing with exasperation. Her lips curving gently into the most rueful, yet fondest, of smiles. Maggie herself had noted it. And had been intrigued by the mystery man. She had hoped one day to meet him. But never under the circumstances that had occurred. She doubted few women could boast that they had first met their daughter's beau right smack dab in the middle of a crime scene. A crime whose victim was the person responsible for bringing them together in the first place. And yet, it had been in Dana's darkened apartment that she and Fox Mulder had been introduced, the scene lit by the garish strobe of flashbulbs and police lights. Her daughter's blood quite literally on her frightened partner's hands. But despite the pain and horror under which they both had labored, the fear and the anguish she had seen shining so plainly in the young man's expressive eyes, she had recognized immediately what had so attracted her daughter. Not Fox's face. Nor his form. But instead, the core of virtue the man had within him. The strength and the kindness that had steadied her when her world had been so violently rocked. First, by the abduction and, then later, by the return of her youngest girl. They had turned to each other during that hellish time, she and Fox. She had sought him out for news as to Dana's whereabouts. Updates on the case. Reassurance that, despite the lack of clues, someone somewhere was still looking for her child. Still missed her. Still needed her. And although he had never said as much, had never intimated as to the depth of his own despair, Maggie Scully had known that Fox Mulder had indeed mourned the loss of her daughter. Perhaps as much as she herself. Perhaps more. Maggie chuckled sadly, the sound little more than a gentle rumble in her throat as she opened up the medicine chest and rummaged around for her toothbrush. No. When Dana had been missing, Fox had refused to share his grief with her. Instead, he had chosen to be her rock, the one who could be counted on to preserve hope in the midst of the most hopeless of situations. And in return, Fox, what did I give you, she silently mused as she located the half empty tube of toothpaste and squeezed its contents carefully onto her brush. Why did you put up with the phone calls and the visits and the questions that couldn't be answered? She paused for a moment, brush in hand, and considered the question. Other than the man's inherent decency, what had prompted his indulgence? Why make time for a woman he had barely known? A glance in the mirror provided the answer once more. She had given him Dana. True, the gift had only been a pale imitation of the real thing; comprised of memories and shared emotions and the faintest of physical resemblances. But she suspected that such a phantom had indeed been welcome when the original had been lost. At least she hoped that she had provided that comfort. After all, she had owed him. She honestly didn't know what she would have done if Fox Mulder had not been there for her. Neither, she fancied, did her daughter. Oh, no way would Fox ever take credit for having rescued Dana, Maggie wordlessly recognized, the frustration that insight provoked adding speed and vigor to the manner in which the brush in her hand made contact with her teeth. If anything, her daughter's partner blamed himself for her abduction. Maggie knew that. And that knowledge made her own earlier musings regarding the wisdom of having Fox Mulder as a friend seem almost piercingly cruel and petty in retrospect. But regardless of the misgivings which drifted through her mind every once in awhile like miasma, Maggie believed in her heart that it was because of that young man that her little girl had opened her eyes once more. After all, he had been the one to sit with her on that night before she had awakened. That night when everyone, including Fox Mulder, had believed that Dana Scully was breathing her last. Maggie recalled returning to Dana's bedside after having been coerced by Melissa and Doctor Daly to lay down for a few hours. Her exhaustion had caught up with her. And those few hours had turned into overnight. She had awakened near dawn, disoriented and terribly frightened upon realizing that her daughter had been left alone. Afraid that without something with which to anchor her, Dana had stolen from the world. Like morning mist being burned from a field by the sun. The passing soundless, gradual. Irrevocable. To this day, she could remember stumbling back to Intensive Care, some little understood part of her urging her to hurry, taunting her with the fear that she would, in the end, be too late to say goodbye. Only to come upon someone else saying their farewell. No. Although she had no way of proving her theory save to ask the man outright, she somehow doubted that Fox Mulder had given up on his partner even then. It was funny, Maggie thought as she brought her oddly brisk brushing to an end by rinsing her mouth and stowing her gear back in the medicine cabinet. She couldn't say why, but finding Fox seated beside Dana's hospital bed had surprised her somehow. So much so, that upon discovering him there, she had hung back for a moment and taken in the scene. He had been slumped in his chair. Sitting still. So very still. Dana's small hand clutched in his. His face shuttered against the world. Against the pain. Closed. Almost as if it had been carved in marble. Like the grave marker he had gone with her to pick up. All except for his eyes. They were soft. And shimmering with grief. Their gaze trained on Dana's pale complexion. Maggie had stood there for a time, watching him watching her. Then finally, feeling like a voyeur, she had crossed to stand in back of his chair, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. His eyes had flickered in her direction, but he didn't move. "Dana is fortunate to have a friend like you, Fox," she had told him quietly, hoping he would somehow understand how much she valued him as well. "I'm the lucky one," he had whispered, his eyes still refusing to leave the face of the woman Maggie had known in that instant he loved. "I'm the lucky one." Poor Fox, she mournfully mused as she snapped off the bathroom light and retreated back down the hall to her temporary bedchamber. He must have felt anything but lucky that morning. The Lord knew how lacking in good fortune she had believed her life to be that chilly November dawn. And yet, how wrong they both had been. How utterly unfounded had been their fears. Because, against all odds, a few short hours later, Dana had returned to them. Weak, but awake. Alive. And judging by the look on Fox Mulder's face when he had arrived at her home that Christmas Eve night, not a day went by when he didn't say a prayer of thanks for that particular blessing. Did Dana even realize the way that man looked at her, Maggie silently queried as she crawled gratefully into bed. Did she note the way his hazel eyes seemed loathe to leave her? The manner in which he sought her out in a room full of people, searching for her like a touchstone. Did she sense how he tended to check with her, even when speaking of the most mundane things, as if seeking her approval, or perhaps merely her acknowledgment? Did she know how much he loved her? Maggie smiled as she nestled under the covers, impatient for the icy sheets beneath her to absorb her warmth and thus transmit the heat back to her. Yes, when it came right down to it, she had a feeling that her little girl was well aware of her partner's emotions. After all, she mirrored them. That, Maggie knew for a fact. "Mom, what do you think of Mulder?" Dana had asked her over spiced cider nearly one year ago to the day. The boys had been out in the snow playing touch football with their sons. The women in their lives had been watching the game from the comfort of the kitchen window seat. Maggie and her daughter had enjoyed the living room all to themselves. And Dana had apparently decided to make good use of the opportunity. "Well, I like him, Dana," Maggie had replied to the unexpected query, her mug nestled between her palms for warmth. "You know that." Dana had grimaced with chagrin. "Yeah, I do. It's just . . . well, I guess I was wondering more what you thought of him as a person." "What I think of his character?" "Yeah. I suppose." She remembered having taken a slow sip of her drink as she had ordered her thoughts, her brain whirring as she strove to figure out where precisely Dana was going with this line of questioning. "He's a good man," she had carefully said at last. "He's honest. Intelligent. He cares about you. Worries about you. Respects you. I don't imagine that you could ask for much more in a partner." Dana had smiled at that. "No, I don't imagine that I could." "Why, honey?" Maggie had inquired gently. "Are you and Fox having some sort of problem?" "No," Dana had answered swiftly, a chuckle blurting out along with the single word. "No, not at all. I just . . um, I just needed to know." "Why?" For the longest time, Dana had said nothing, Maggie recalled. Instead, her eyes had grown seemingly fascinated by the steam rising in airy little wisps from her cider. Finally, she had whispered, "I love him, Mom." Although there was nothing in the world wrong with Maggie's hearing, the mother in her had needed that simple phrase to be repeated. "What did you say?" And her little girl had raised her eyes, and looked at her head on, the emotion shining in her gaze nearly blinding the older woman with its intensity. "I love him." "You do?" "Yeah. I do." "And he makes you happy?" "Oh, Mom. . . . Yes." "And he . . .?" "Feels the same." "Then the rest is just logistics." Burrowing under the covers as she tried unsuccessfully to get comfortable, Maggie stifled the urge to laugh out loud at her naiveté. Oh, Maggie, old girl. Something tells me that the relationship Dana and Fox share is a good deal more complicated than what you and Bill had faced. Of course, that was purely speculation on her part. Dana had given her only the sketchiest of details. She knew that the feelings the two young people had for each other had been revealed in a moment of crisis. That they had admitted their love while on a case. Dana would tell her no more. But, she had impressed upon her mother the need for secrecy. "Please, Mom, whatever you do, =don't= breathe a word of this to anyone. Not to the boys. Not to anyone." "Honey, you know that I won't," Maggie had assured her. "I know," Dana had hurriedly replied. "That's why I felt as if I could tell you. It's just that . . . it could be dangerous if anyone found out. Mulder and I could be separated. The X-Files themselves could be shut down." "You don't think--" "No. No, I don't," Dana had swiftly averred, the very speed with which she hastened to placate her mother making the older woman all the more nervous. "I really don't think there's anything to be worried about. But Mulder and I just want to be safe, you know? Take the proper precautions." Maggie had nodded, not at all convinced, but determined to be supportive. For Dana's sake. For the sake of them both. For =heaven's= sake, what in God's name was the thermostat set at, she felt like wailing. Her feet were like ice. This was ridiculous. Was that ratty old patchwork quilt still stashed in the hall closet? Sighing with a combination of resignation and determination, Maggie slipped from beneath the covers, retrieved her slippers from the foot of the bed, and quietly stepped into the hall. Cautiously, she made her way to the closet and, wincing upon hearing the door's tattletale squeak, pulled open the cupboard's portal. Drat! Forget about the comforter. There in the corner of the closet leaned one of her oldest grandson's gifts. An air rifle, secreted away because of the distinctive shape and size of the present's packaging. She had planned on putting the gift out once the boys were asleep, but had totally forgotten. Thank goodness the old house was drafty. Otherwise, she might not have remembered about this most wished-for item until it was too late. Bill Jr. would have killed her. Not to mention how disappointed his son would have been. Smiling as she anticipated the look on the boy's face when he got a gander at what 'Santa' had left behind, Maggie walked swiftly yet silently to the stairs, and just as carefully descended. Well, this way, I can kill two birds with one stone, she thought with satisfaction as her slippered feet came to the end of their downward trek. Not only can I deposit this little item beneath the tree, but I can shoo Dana and Fox upstairs where they belong. That musing, however, came to an abrupt halt the moment she rounded the corner of the sofa and got a good look at the pair in question. They lay on the couch, tangled in each other's arms, lost in sleep. Fox was wedged in the corner, his tousled head cushioned by one of the throw pillows, his legs hanging half on, half off the piece of furniture. He had her daughter clasped to him, his grip no doubt loosened by slumber, his arms looped around her slender back. Dana rested on her side, her head tucked beneath his chin, her weight wholly supported by her partner's lanky frame, one hand curled against his chest, the other laying limply in her lap, palm up, like that of a baby. The child she once had been. The couple's chests rose and fell deeply, evenly, their breaths overlapping one after the other like an endless series of echoes. Dying firelight kissed their cheeks. They looked young. And beautiful. And at that moment, so heart-breakingly innocent that it made Maggie's eyes ache just to look at them. But look at them she did. Just for a second or two. Merry Christmas, sweetheart, she whispered in her heart, not even certain for whom precisely the wish was intended. And for an instant, she found it far from impossible to imagine that a ghostly pair of lips brushed against her cheek. Warm, like her memories of the man whose kiss she craved. Soft, like the tumble of auburn hair she had so often brushed and braided for her eldest girl. Please, dear Lord, she entreated, her eyes tightly shut against the tears that were stubbornly seeking their freedom. Let them be as happy and as blessed as we were. And scooting her gaily wrapped package beneath the room's sweetly scented pine, she reached over and softly shook out the old crocheted afghan she kept over the back of the room's antique rocker. With small silent steps, she crossed to the sofa and gently settled the throw over the slumbering pair. They didn't feel it. That should keep out the evening's chill well enough, she reasoned as she crossed to the switch that operated the tree's festive lights and flicked it off. After all, the fire would probably smolder for another hour or two. True, with the flue still open, a draft would inevitably trickle in. And yet, she imagined that in the end, the faint chill would only offer her daughter and the man she loved even more reason to snuggle closely together. Maggie knew that had it been she and Bill on that sofa, that would have been *their* solution to the problem. No. Let them stay there, she thought with a smile as she climbed one last time up the stairs to a well deserved rest. She'd just set her alarm and make sure they were up before the children. They could all take naps tomorrow. And she had a feeling she knew who would be calling dibs on the sofa. * * * * * * * * THE END Merry Christmas, you guys!! And a very Happy New Year!!! :) Subject: *NEW* "Words to the Wise" 1/5 (NC-17) by K. Rasch From: Karen Rasch Date: Sun, 15 Jun 1997 19:42:15 -0500 I'm planning on posting a chapter a day. I've got four written. Hopefully, you won't have to wait for chapter 5. If this kind of thing makes you nuts, please blame Nic Perry. This was her idea. She said that she wished I would post this silly thing as I went along so more people would bug me to finish it than just her. :) I'm workin'! I'm workin!! Oh. Just so you know--chapter 1 is PG-13 at best. It heats up from there. ********************************************************** "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 1/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net Sex. And nothing but. :) An erotica epic (in my own mind, if nothing else ) set in the Words universe. Figure it falls somewhere between "At a Loss for Words" and "A Mother's Words". Be forewarned--this has no redeeming social value whatsoever. I just needed to get out of the angst groove for awhile. As far as disclaimers go, not only aren't these characters mine, but what I have planned for them would likely make CC roll his eyes in disgust and dismay. However, as I'm not making any money off the deal I'm hoping he'll leave me alone. Post where you will, but I'd appreciate my name remaining attached to the tale. ********************************************************* ARCHIVISTS: Mulder and Scully try to work some of the kinks out of their relationship. In the bedroom. Make of that summary what you will. ;) MSR, NC-17 (Harder edged than you're used to seeing from me. What the heck. A girl's gotta stretch.) Enjoy. ********************************************************* This is for the Dragon. You know, when you've written as many fine stories as Sheryl, you sometimes get taken for granted. I'd rather that didn't happen. :) Hope this helps get you through all those Wookie- less months, kiddo. * * * * * * * * * "Mulder, I don't think this is such a good idea tonight." "You're kicking me out?" "No. I'm not letting you in. There's a difference." Fox Mulder sighed in frustration, and braced his arm across the doorway to his partner's apartment, effectively blocking her entrance as well. The two agents stood in the softly lighted corridor, hunched and rumpled, both exhausted by that evening's ordeal, glaring at each other. "Scully . . . Look--I know you're pissed. . . ." Dana Scully calmly folded her arms across her chest, and planted her feet wide, her squared physical stance suggesting that she was just dying for someone to take her on. Mulder couldn't decide whether her defiant posture turned him on or scared the hell out of him. Or both. "Pissed? Why would I be pissed?" she drawled, lifting a brow for accent. "Just because you ditched me tonight after specifically *promising* me you would wait for--" "Scully, I told you--everything happened all at once. I had no choice. I had to move--" "Move without me." "Yes!" Shaking her head, she pushed past him and slid her key into the lock. "Go home, Mulder." The tall dark-haired man knew that the woman he loved didn't want to discuss what had happened that evening. Recognized that she had done everything short of drawing him a picture to get that point across. And yet, despite the fact that he got her message loud and clear, Mulder chose to be obtuse. Much as he adored her, at that moment he didn't really care what Scully would prefer. He wasn't going anywhere. They had both suffered a scare that night, had both come face to face with the very real possibility of the other being taken from them. By forcible means. But the fates had been kind, and they had dodged a bullet. This time. Yet that terror, that adrenaline rush stayed with him still. Like a drug that just wouldn't leave his system. Yes, they had triumphed. But their success had never been a sure thing. Even now, hours after they had left the crime scene, he could feel a slight tremor vibrating through him. A surge that wasn't entirely unpleasant, but unnerved him nevertheless. He felt adrift somehow. Lost, even as he stood in familiar surroundings. And Scully was his North Star. His only constant. The best and safest way for him to find his way home. He needed her. Needed her warmth, her understanding, her comfort. Needed to know that she was indeed sound and whole, and not lying in a pool of her own blood on the floor of that bastard's lair. And much as she was trying to hide her own vulnerability, mask her own residual fear with anger, he suspected that the woman beside him could use a bit of that same reassurance herself. "No, Scully. I'm not going home. Not until we talk about this." She paused for an instant and thinned her lips, clearly vexed by his stubbornness. Then, as if coming to a decision, she spoke once more. "Oh, fine. *Now* you want to talk," she muttered darkly as with a twist of her wrist, the door swung open. "Funny--when I asked you earlier this evening what you made of that note Sinclair had delivered to us, you had very little to say." Ignoring the withering stare his partner tossed over her shoulder in his general direction, Mulder followed her into her apartment. "That's because I wasn't sure." Scully wasn't buying it. "Bullshit, Mulder. The minute I wasn't around you went right to him. Right to where he was hiding out." "Scully, it wasn't--" But the petite redhead apparently didn't want to hear his explanations. She slammed shut the apartment door so fiercely that Mulder could see the pictures hanging on her walls jump in reaction. It was all he could do not to follow their example. Shoulders rigid, Scully stalked away from the entryway and him, shedding her briefcase and coat as she moved. "You know, I can take a lot from you, Mulder. But this is unacceptable." "What is?" he asked ingenuously, shrugging off his own trench so that he stood clad simply in his navy suit and tie. Without warning, she spun on her heel to face him. "Lying. Don't lie to me. Don't =ever= lie to me." "I wasn't." Something dangerous crackled in the air around the woman before him. Danced across the trim teal green suit she wore, rippled over the ivory silk blouse beneath it. The force of it so intense, Mulder marveled for a moment that his hair wasn't standing on end as a result. Her eyes narrowed, almost as if the gesture were a reflection of her opinion of him. Smaller and smaller until you disappear altogether, Mulder, old boy. "Weren't you?" she purred after a beat. And Mulder knew the jig was up. She was on to him. Grimacing, he bowed his head. "I thought so," she said tartly, and walked away from him to the kitchen, where she flicked on a light. Sighing, he trailed after her, trying to salvage what he could. "Scully, okay. . . . Yes. I had a pretty good idea where Sinclair was holed up." "But you didn't feel the information was important enough to share with me?" she inquired with finely honed sarcasm as she rifled through her cabinets for a glass, refusing him eye contact. "Or maybe I've got it wrong. Maybe =I= was the one who wasn't important enough to the investigation to be kept in the loop." His lips twisted, a combination of aggravation and guilt tightening his jaw to the point where he wondered if he would be able to get out any words at all. "Oh, come on! You know that's not it--" Scully had just crossed past him on her way to the refrigerator, when she whirled on him once again. "Well then, =tell= me," she urged, her eyes flashing blue sparks. "Explain to me why the HELL you would walk in alone to confront a man who is quite possibly responsible for the deaths of over a dozen people, when your partner had begged you to wait for her!" They stood like sparring partners in the center of her kitchen, muscles clenched, eyes locked, both breathing hard. Then, Scully's face softened just a fraction. "I *begged* you not to do anything stupid, Mulder. And you promised. You promised me you wouldn't." Mulder let out a long slow lung full of air, almost as if he were deflating. His gaze dipped away from hers. "I know. And I'm sorry. But, I couldn't . . . I didn't have any choice." "=Why=?" she asked, gesturing weakly with the forgotten glass in her grasp. Hands on his hips, he fidgeted for a moment. Like a kid called on the carpet who knows damned well he was wrong. At last, he spit out his excuse. "He had your business card, Scully." Her brow crinkled in confusion. "Who did?" "Sinclair." "When? Where did you see it?" "It was folded up in that note he sent to us." She nodded, her eyes looking up at him measuringly. "Okay. So what's the big deal? Why didn't you just show it to me?" He rubbed his hand over his mouth, his jaw. "It had blood on it." She cocked a brow. "Blood? Whose?" He shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know who it belonged to. But the message it conveyed was pretty damn clear." Giving up on the idea of refreshment, Scully set the glass on the counter, then turned once more to face him, her hands braced against the formica surface. Her pose suggested to Mulder that while she still hadn't entirely forgiven him, she was now at least willing to listen. He took a step closer and, resting his shoulder against her fridge, leaned into her. "Scully, you know that Sinclair liked to collect things from his victims. Trophies. Almost like Tooms did. Steal them so that those he had targeted weren't even aware that the items were missing. That they were in danger." She shrugged. "Mulder, he could have picked up my business card anywhere. We've been passing out our cards to everyone we've spoken with. And with as long as this case has dragged on, that's half the population of D.C." "True," Mulder admitted in a low voice. "Getting his hand on the card wouldn't have been all that difficult. But that's not what worried me." "So what did?" He winced. "Scully, the card didn't just have a smear of blood on it." She looked at him, waiting. "It had the word 'goodbye' written in blood on the back of it." She considered that revelation for a moment before nodding. "I see. So you thought that Sinclair had targeted me next." Swallowing hard, he nodded as well. "Yes." She chewed on her lip. "And you couldn't simply *tell* me that, rather than ditching me?" "Scully--" "Why, Mulder? Were you afraid I'd overreact? Afraid I wouldn't be able to handle it?" Needing suddenly to dissolve the remaining distance between them, both emotionally and physically, he reached out and gently cupped her cheek, "No. I was afraid of losing you." She just looked up at him for a breath or two, then whispered, "So you decided it would be easier for me to lose you instead?" His hand dropped away from her face. Sighing, he mumbled, "I didn't intend for either of us to lose." Eyes large and haunted, she stretched out her hands and gripped him just above the elbows. "But don't you see--we almost did. Both of us." "It's not--" "Mulder, when I burst into that room, Sinclair had the drop on you." "What do you want me to say, Scully?" he queried harshly, embarrassment and guilt making it difficult for him to meet her gaze. "That you saved my ass? Okay. You did. You shot him before he could shoot me. Thank you." "No!" she nearly spat, turning her back on him to pace without direction across her tiled kitchen floor. "That is =not= what I want." He followed her restless movement with his eyes, her apparent anger fueling a similar response in him. "Okay. Then tell me. Tell me what you do want." "I want you to talk to me." Oh, that was rich. That really was. The Queen of "I'm Fine" was accusing him of being uncommunicative. How absolutely priceless. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud. The only thing was, the sight of Scully in high dudgeon didn't exactly amuse him. Arousal, on the other hand . . . Why, oh why, did a certain tiny redhead with a colossal head of steam make him want to fall to his knees and beg for mercy. In more ways than one. His mind busily conjuring up images to go along with that insight, Mulder felt the corners of his lips lift in a small crooked smile. "You want to tell me what good talking would have done?" Scully appeared taken aback by his question. Her forehead wrinkled in consternation. "What do you mean?" "I mean what do think would have happened if I had told you about the business card?" he asked with deceptive mildness. She pondered that for a moment before giving a small shrug. "I don't know. I suppose I would have insisted on accompanying you to Sinclair's hideout. Convinced you to at least let me provide you with some sort of back-up." He nodded. "In other words, you would have made damn sure you were in on it. In on the arrest." "Yes!" she retorted instantly, her hands rising and falling in exasperation. "Of course, I would have." "And it wouldn't even have occurred to you that I could take care of it? That I could handle it on my own." Her brow rose like an exclamation point. "Mulder, anytime you go off on your own, disaster strikes." "That's not true," he insisted with a noticeable lack of conviction. "Isn't it?" she countered silkily, knowing as well as he did that the evening's events were all the evidence she needed to win the argument at hand. Time to regroup, Mulder. "The point is . . . this isn't about me, Scully," he said a tad impatiently, recognizing that he was about to throw up a kind of smoke screen. And hoping against hope that his ploy would work. "I'm talking about you." "What about me?" Yes, he thought with a triumphant yet silent little cry. Scully was going for the misdirection. Thank God. "I'm talking about this need you have to be in charge," he said, treading cautiously, realizing how easily the woman before him might take his statement as an insult. When, in fact, he meant it as anything but. "The way you always have to be in the thick of things, directing how a situation plays out." Scully nodded absent-mindedly while mulling over his words. "Are you saying that you think I'm some sort of control freak, Mulder?" "No," he said quickly, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "No, I'm not." "Then what are you saying?" she asked quietly, her chin tipped upwards in apparent aggression, even as her eyes belied that challenge with their softness. Understanding that despite his care his words had wounded her, Mulder crossed to her, and lightly ran his hands across her shoulders, up and down her arms. "I'm saying that you are brave and loyal, and that if you had thought my life was in danger, nothing short of a good stout length of rope or a blow to the head would have kept you from being there with me." She opened her mouth as if to protest. But, he managed to squelch that urge by drawing her into his arms and pressing his lips to her forehead. "And as much as I needed you there beside me, there was no way in hell I was going to chance your safety tonight. Not with Sinclair. Not after he had practically announced his intentions." Rocking her in his embrace, he sadly shook his head, rubbing his chin over her hair. "I'm sorry, Scully. But the whole thing just reminded me too much of Riggs. You know?" Hearing the name of the man who had nearly succeeded in using their feelings for each other to destroy them both, she sighed, and nuzzled her cheek against his chest. "You don't know what I might have done, Mulder," she chided softly from against his shirt, his confession having seemingly cooled her earlier ire. "You can't be sure." He tightened his arms around her. "Can't I?" "No." He kissed the top of her shiny head. "You mean to tell me that if I had come to you and told you that I wanted to confront Sinclair on my own, you would have given me your blessing?" She pulled back just enough to look at him, her lips twisted in what looked to be half smile, half grimace. "I don't know. I can't say for certain what I would have done." Mulder inclined his head as if to wordlessly say, "I told you so." However, Scully wasn't prepared to let him think her admission in any way got him off the hook. "But, you can't take that choice away from me, Mulder. It isn't fair. To either of us," she told him sternly, even as her hands swept slowly and soothingly over his back. "You have to talk to me. You have to tell me what's going on." "I do--" he argued. She grabbed hold of his suit coat, and gave him a little shake. "You =don't=. At least, not all the time." "I don't, huh?" "Uh-uh." "Okay. And what about you?" What the hell. The same tactic had worked before. Her pert little rosebud of a mouth pursed. "Why does it always come back to me, Mulder?" Because you're all I think about, he wanted to confess. All I care about most days. "Because I'm not the only one at fault here." "Oh. So now =I'm= the one to blame for you walking in alone to confront a serial killer?" Jesus. Why couldn't he stop digging a hole for himself? "All I'm saying is that I might have gone about the whole thing differently if I had believed that you would listen to me and agree to step out of the picture." She looked up at him from the circle of his arms. Then, shaking her head, she took a step back to stare at him, chuckling in disbelief. "What do you want, Mulder?" she asked, her tone incredulous. "Do you want a partner who just follows you blindly? Who goes along with whatever you say whenever you say it? Is that what you want?" Frustrated in more ways than one, he ran his hand impatiently through his hair. "What I want, Scully, is for you to trust me." She sighed in exasperation. "I do!" His riposte flew out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Not enough!" Silence. Scully and he stood separated by a couple of floor tiles. But to Mulder it felt as if the distance might as well be light years. Damn it. This wasn't how he had meant for their discussion to go. He didn't want to fight. Not tonight. Not with her. Not when he so badly longed to soothe his jangled nerves by losing himself in her arms, her bed, her body. Shit. Hands on his hips, he bowed his head to study the gleaming linoleum at his feet, wondering just what the hell he should say or do next. "So, what'll it take?" His gaze shot level once more. And instantly fastened on Scully's. The words should have been his. But she was the one who had spoken. "What?" he asked, brow knitted. She looked at him calmly, her arms folded across her chest, and repeated her query, her voice even and low. "I said, 'what'll it take?'" At first glance, she appeared to be asking him a simple question. An innocent sort of inquiry. Casual in nature. But there was something else in her eyes. Something far, far removed from casual. The dark side of innocence. "I don't know what you mean," he admitted softly, aware that somehow, some way, the dynamic between them had changed. He didn't quite understand how it had happened, but they didn't appear to be fighting anymore. Thankfully. Yet, a tension still remained between them. A current that crackled from Scully to him and back again. Heightening his senses and pinpointing his awareness until everything he knew, everything he was became about this woman. She licked her lips. He felt the sweep of that tongue glide phantom-like across his groin. "You worry that I don't completely trust you, Mulder," she murmured, her gaze intent. "I worry that you don't talk to me enough. Tell me what you're thinking. What you need." "I need you." She knew that, right? Even with all this foolish arguing, she had to know that. Scully smiled. Yeah. She knew. "I need you to be sure about us," she said, her voice maintaining its intimate, husky timbre. "Sure about what we have together. Secure in my feelings for you." "Scully, I didn't mean--" "I know you didn't," she said swiftly, stopping his flow of words before his apology could even fully take shape. "But you wouldn't have said what you did if you didn't have some doubts." Angry at himself for ever having broached the subject in the first place, Mulder cradled her face in his hands. "That's not true. The one thing I have never doubted is you. You've got to believe that." She gently laid her hands atop his. "And you've got to believe that I trust you in all things." Then, she smiled at him, a full blown dazzler. "And I think I know how to prove it to you." All he could do when she looked at him like that was grin back at her like an idiot. He did so gladly. "Oh yeah? What do you have in mind?" Her lashes lowered, shadowing her gaze. "I've been thinking about what you said, Mulder. About control. And how difficult it is for me to be without it." Not quite certain where this was headed, he refrained from commentary, choosing simply to nod his encouragement. "It's something I value, you know?" she said softly, her eyes dodging his still. "Something that makes me who I am." "I know," he assured her quietly. "I know that." "But I think that tonight it might do us both some good if I let go of that control. If I gave it instead to someone I trust. With it. And me." God. She couldn't possibly mean . . . . . "There's just one catch," she said, interrupting his silent ruminations before he could draw any conclusions. "What?" he asked, the word stuck somewhere in his throat. "You have to tell me =exactly= what you want from me. Otherwise, how will I be able to obey you?" And all at once, Fox Mulder felt as if he were viewing the world through a fun house mirror. Reality as he knew it took a decidedly unexpected turn. "'Obey'?" he croaked, trying to make certain he understood what she intended. "You mean to tell me that you're willing to . . . ." "I am willing to do whatever you ask of me," she whispered as she laid her hand upon his chest, directly over his wildly beating heart. "But you have to ask, Mulder. That's the deal." Okay. So, the urge was primitive. More than primitive. Savage. Beyond anything a reasonably enlightened guy like himself should desire from an intelligent, strong, assured woman like Scully. He freely admitted that. But, he'd be lying if he said he didn't want it. And yet, he had to be sure that she wanted it too. That she wasn't offering such a thing out of guilt or some other misguided notion. Shaking his head with a kind of amazement, he threaded his fingertips through the fringe of hair edging her face, aware that his hand trembled as he did so. "Scully . . . much as I'm . . . =intrigued= by your proposal, . . I want you to know that I don't *expect* . . . what I mean is . . you don't have to do this. Not to prove something to me. Something that I already know is true if I just stop long enough to think about it." She ran her fingers lightly over his shoulders, down the front of his suit coat. "I know I don't. But I want to. I want you to be sure, Mulder. To know the faith I place in you. To believe in it." God. Here he was, mere moments away from what promised to be one of the peak sexual experiences of his entire life, and his eyes were threatening waterworks. How did she do that? How did she take a situation plucked from the pages of Penthouse and turn it into something tender, something spiritual? With that, she stretched up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his. He let her mouth rest lightly against his for all of a millisecond before caving in to the impulse that had been stirring in him since they had first gotten home. Letting out a soft, muffled groan, he crushed her to him, driving back her head and plunging his tongue into the warm moist confines of her mouth. Scully clung to him, more for balance Mulder suspected than anything else, and met him stroke for stroke. No doubt about it--in every way that mattered, they were very evenly matched. Finally, he pulled away, and breathing hard, he asked one last time, "You're sure?" Eyes bright as stars, she nodded. He kissed her again, this time gently, as if in apology for what came before. "Well then, Agent Scully, you have yourself a deal," he murmured, his mouth hovering over hers. She smiled. He grinned back at her. Idiotically. "Just remember to talk to me, Mulder," she said as she strung a line of soft damp kisses along his jaw. "You've got to talk to me." His eyes slid shut as his hands closed around her shoulders. "I promise." Scully's laughter puffed against his throat. "Then let the games begin." * * * * * * * * * Continued in Part II ***The Words Universe, Cancer-Free Since 1995*** "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 2a/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net I hate splitting chapters up. Archivists, if there is any way you could put Humpty Dumpty back together again I would =really= appreciate it. All the non-story stuff is in part 1. The sex starts here. * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully had never noticed before how poorly the ginger jar lamp atop her night stand illuminated her bedroom. The squat peach-colored light glowed beneath its shade, true. And with its assistance, a person could move easily about the space, without fear of stubbing a toe or barking a shin. Yet, in spite of the little lamp's valiant efforts, shadows ruled her sleeping room. Bled like spilled ink upon the handmade quilt covering her mattress. Licked like a lover at the knickknacks displayed upon her bureau. The encroaching darkness reminded her that while this chamber was a sanctuary of sorts; a place where she stored her most personal belongings, where nightly the sandman seduced her with promises of peace and rejuvenation, it also served as backdrop for a variety of far less wholesome pursuits. After all, here was a place not only of dreams, but of nightmares. Not just of slumber, but of sex. The juxtaposition of innocence and corruption struck a chord, one that grew in power and in resonance when she considered the man seated before her. Because presiding over this oddly familiar twilight realm, as still and as watchful as hell's sentry was Mulder, his face a study in such contradictions. Her dark angel. One of the fallen. At that moment, when he sat slouched and sullen in the corner of her bedroom, she could think of him in no other way. This man with the moody hooded gaze could no more be one of heaven's denizens than Old Nick himself. Fox Mulder was far too intimately acquainted with suffering and loss to ever fit in comfortably among the cherubim and seraphim. No. When you got right down to it, the man she loved seemed infinitely more at home with the sinners than with the saints. His present appearance certainly bore out that impression. Gone was the Special Agent spit and polish. His suit coat had been removed, as had his tie. What remained looked lived-in, wrinkled with wear. His dress shirt sleeves had been rolled midway up his arms, the garments' collar open, exposing the steady pulse at the base of his throat. His hair was at its unruly after-hours best, pieces of it feathered across his brow. His legs were splayed. His erection, easily identified beneath his trousers' fine fabric, rose hard and needy at the apex of his thighs. He sipped at a tall frosty tumbler of ice water, having finally put to use the glass she had ages ago pulled from her cabinets, his eyes watching her intently over its rim. How in the world was the ice maintaining its shape under the heat of that gaze? she mused. She had to admit that she wasn't holding up nearly as well as those little cubes. Melting, she thought. When he looks at me like that my body always responds the same way. It softens. Liquefies. The moisture pooling at her engorged center ample evidence of this truth. "Take off your clothes," he said quietly as he set the glass on the table beside him. Here we go. Taking a deep breath, she brought her hands to the buttons running down the center of her fitted blazer. "Slowly, Scully," he murmured, his voice as murky as the room's lighting scheme. "Take it nice and slow." She swallowed hard, her eyes locked on his, and began to do as he had requested. Her hands were shaking, she noted in some amazement. How absurd. Despite the forbidding air Mulder had adopted for the purposes of their game, she wasn't afraid of him. She wasn't. Then what is this, Dana? she silently questioned as even with her less than nimble fingers, the buttons slipped easily enough from their holes. Why the trembling, the ragged breaths, the uneasiness that stoked her awareness to an almost painful sensitivity? Fight or flight, she realized with a rush. That was what her body was urging her to do. Some part of her had recognized a threat. But what was it exactly that she feared? She reached up and slipped her hands between her jacket and blouse as she made ready to remove the former. The movement arched her back, thrust her chest forward. She hadn't given any conscious thought to her posture, hadn't meant the action to be deliberately provocative. Yet, in the end, her intention proved unimportant. Because Mulder reacted to the simple gesture as if it were calculated. His hands flexed, the movement slight, not much more than a twitch. But she caught it just the same. "Let it slide off your shoulders," he instructed softly. "Yeah. Like that. Just let it fall." Let it fall, she echoed in her head as her Dry Clean Only wool crepe dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap. You may not know it, buddy. But, you'll be getting a bill for the damages, she wordlessly warned him. Standing before him clad in her skirt and blouse, Scully then paused for a moment, chewing lightly on her lower lip. Now what? she wondered. Top or bottom? Should she simply make a choice, or should she look to her partner for guidance? Oh, what the hell. Quit agonizing over it, Dana, she thought. You're a grown woman. You know how to undress yourself. Just do it. Fumbling clumsily, her fingers found the top button on her blouse. "No," Mulder said, stopping her. "Not just yet." She arched a brow. The corner of his mouth lifted at her silent question. "Turn around." Unsure as to the reason for this unexpected directive, she hesitated for a moment. "Do it." The words were spoken softly, yet with unmistakable authority. Inclining her head, she did as she was told. Pivoting slowly on her heels, she faced away from the man in the chair. "The skirt," he said from somewhere over her shoulder. "Lose the skirt." Allowing her eyes to drift shut, she followed his instructions, stretching behind her to lower the garment's zipper. This was actually easier, she realized. Facing away from him allowed her a certain sense of anonymity. A degree of privacy, that while she understood it to be ultimately no more than illusion, comforted her nonetheless. Taking heart from this sudden insight, she pulled the zipper down, head tipped back slightly. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted. Breathe, Dana, she wordlessly coached herself. Breathe. Stop thinking so much and just let it happen. Give yourself permission to let it happen. After all, this is your game, right? Your idea. So, why not enjoy it? Be honest--you aren't just doing this for Mulder's benefit, are you? You want it too. Want him. The skirt's waistband gapped at her middle. She hooked her thumbs between it and her slip, and pulled it down, shimmying just a bit to ease the closely cut garment past the swell of her hips. Finally free, it fell to the floor, pooling atop the jacket that completed the outfit. Task completed, she carefully stepped outside the circle of fabric lassoing her feet. But did not turn around. "Very nice, Scully," came his whispered approval. "Very nice indeed. Now do the same with the slip. Only this time . . . I want you to bend over as you take it off." Lips compressing into a narrow line, she nodded, a quick bob of her head. "Oh, and Scully? Be sure and keep your legs straight for me." Bastard, she thought as her face flooded with heat. And yet, even now, she wanted him. Wanted to erase the tension and exhaustion their six weeks of painstaking yet frustrating investigation had provoked, quell the panic she had felt when she had witnessed him unknowingly targeted by Sinclair, make disappear the hurtful words they had exchanged. Heal whatever breach their relationship had suffered as a result of that evening's events. She wanted all of it. Every last bit of it. And would do whatever it took to achieve her goal. Whatever it took. It was only that this, this complete and total submission to his whims, his needs . . . . Aroused her. She almost gasped aloud with the knowledge. Strange, but undeniably true. As much as the notion of her being wholly dependent on another terrified her, at the same time it held a kind of allure. An appeal she did not fully understand, but could not dismiss. "What are you waiting for?" The question was asked calmly enough. But running just beneath it was a suggestion of consequences should she, for some reason, choose not to comply. She didn't feel quite that brave. Not right at that moment. Licking her lips, she bent over at the waist, her fingertips holding tightly to her half-slip's glossy fabric. Slowly, slowly, slowly she slid it over her nylon-covered ass, down her thighs to her knees. She paused there, her torso curled over her thighs, knowing that Mulder had given her the instructions he had so as to maneuver her into just this position. And somehow, given the roles they were playing, she sensed it wouldn't do to disappoint him. Then, hair brushing against her calves, she let go of the undergarment, straightening gently once more. And stepped out of the slip just as she had done previously with the skirt. "Look at me, Scully." Her knees now trembling with the same force as her hands, she turned around a bit unsteadily to face him. He looked back at her, his expression deliberately bland, his eyes glittering by contrast in the half-light. He knew. He knew what this was doing to her, she thought with a touch of dismay. How could he not? At the very least, he must have guessed at its effects. For heaven's sake, her panties were practically dripping with it. And given the display she just had put on, he certainly couldn't have overlooked that little detail. She could feel the blush staining her cheeks, knew her hair to be tousled and in disarray. Her heart was pounding with such vigor that she feared Mulder could hear it from across the room. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Naughty. He picked up the glass and took another sip of water, biding his time before he spoke. She waited, doing everything in her power to keep her arms at her sides and not crossed protectively over her breasts. "Tell me how you feel," he urged at last, the words silky and low. With her breath proving as difficult to control as her heart, she shook her head. "No." His brow furrowed in disbelief. "No?" She raised her chin. "You're the one who's supposed to talk, Mulder. Remember?" The faintest suggestion of a smile lifted his lips. Toasting her with the drink in his hand, he dipped his head as if conceding the point. "That's right. I'd forgotten the rules." She nodded. Then, Mulder set his beverage back on the table with a sharp click of glass against wood. "But you know something, Scully, I think you've forgotten some of those rules yourself." Her mouth went dry at his suddenly harsh tone. "What do you mean?" His movement controlled, precise, he slowly leaned forward in his chair. Clasping his hands together as if in prayer, he braced his elbows against his thighs, his gaze fused with hers. She could sense an awful tension coiled within his lanky frame; a tautness that appeared to start at his blood-heavy center and radiate out the length and breadth of his body. "Your job is to obey, isn't that what you told me?" he asked, interrogating her with the same banked intensity he would a suspect. "Yes," she whispered, not sure whether the chill shimmering down her spine was fear or passion induced. "In all things." Not a question, a statement. She nodded helplessly. He smiled slyly. Like a Fox. "So come here," he commanded, the words rumbling in his chest. For just a split second, Scully honestly wondered whether her legs had the strength necessary to carry her to him. Cautiously, she took one step. Then another. Until finally, step after careful step, she crossed the distance to stand before him, within arms' reach. Mulder looked up at her from his seat, seemingly bemused by her frailty. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of her shirt tail, and worried the silk between his thumb and forefinger. "Tell me, Scully," he began in an off-handed tone, his eyes now trained on his hand rather than on her face. "Can you honestly say that you've been obeying me? Completely, I mean. Nothing held back." "No," she confessed in a hushed voice, infinitely aware that his face was currently inches from her humid crotch. "And what do you think I ought to do about that?" he queried as he slid his hands under her blouse, found the band of elastic topping her pantyhose and began peeling the stockings from her slender legs. "I mean . . . I ought to do something. Don't you think? Seeing as I'm the one who's supposed to . . . keep you in line." She teetered for a moment, surprised by his action and unsettled by his nearness. He instantly steadied her with a gentleness that belied the menace lacing his words. Flailing blindly, she somehow found his shoulders and held on for dear life as he eased first one foot from her pumps, then the other. Working with his head bowed, intent on his chore, Mulder removed her nylons, then replaced her heels. When he finished, he lightly ran his fingertips up the backs of her legs as if to confirm their nakedness. Lashes lowered, Scully swayed within the circle of his arms. "You didn't answer my question," he chided, his thumbs sneaking beneath her panties to caress the rounded edge of her derriere. She bit back a whimper, her hands clenching for an instant on his shoulders. "What do you want me to say?" "Anything. As long as it's the truth." But she couldn't speak. She could only moan as he slowly traced the crease of her buttocks. Moving at a leisurely pace, he skimmed along its seam, fingering for the briefest measure of time the tiny puckered hole secreted in the fold. He parted her cheeks. Lifted them. Then released them once more. Only to begin kneading, handling her flesh with the greatest of care. As if he were afraid of inadvertently bruising her with his touch. She was panting now. Her words escaping in little wisps of sound, her fingertips clinging to his shirt. "It doesn't matter what I say, Mulder. You're going to do what you want to do. I can't fight you. Not here. Not tonight." "Can't or won't?" he challenged, as he all at once stopped toying with her behind and instead grabbed hold of her bikinis. In one swift motion he shoved the underwear to her ankles. Gasping, her eyes snapped open as she wobbled on her heels. For an instant, she was certain she was headed to the floor in an undignified heap. But unexpected though it was, Mulder came to her rescue once more. Nearly springing upwards from his crouched position, he threw his arms around her middle; one hand landing chastely between her shoulder blades, the other finding its way back to her ass. They merely held each other for a moment, his cheek pressed just above her navel, her hands clutching his shirt. Then, sighing, he rubbed his face against her belly. Slowly, from side to side. Like he had that first time, when he had rested his face in the valley between her breasts. Remembering that and so much more about this man and his lovemaking, Scully wondered if in the end she might not wind up tumbling to the floor after all. Surely, her knees couldn't hold out much longer against this onslaught. "Tell me, Scully," he said, his breath hot and moist against the creamy cool fabric of her blouse. "Tell me the truth. Can't or won't stop me?" She couldn't explain how she knew it to be so, but more was hinging on the answer to his inquiry than simple curiosity. She wasn't exactly sure what signals she was giving off, what doubts or demons shone in her eyes. But somewhere along the way, Mulder must have picked up on something. Something that made him question the wisdom of their course. And so, he had decided to stop and ask for permission. Permission to finish what they had begun. Together. No holds barred. "Won't," she whispered, the single word a promise. "I won't." And saying nothing more, she stepped from her sodden panties. He released his hold and watched her, nodding. Silence. "That's better," he murmured after a bit, as he leaned down and with a flick of his wrist pitched the discarded bit of silk somewhere off to the side. Scully couldn't tell if he was referring to her acquiescence or to her increasing lack of clothing. "But it's not enough," he continued, settling back once more in his chair. "What would be?" she countered quietly as she stood before him, nude from the waist down. "What would be enough for you, Mulder?" He smiled a lazy, self-satisfied smile, almost as if he had been waiting for her query. "Nothing short of everything. I'm greedy where you're concerned, Scully. I want it all." No surprise there, she thought with a touch of rueful humor. She had known from the start the extent of his need. The gaps in his life, in his soul, that cried out to be filled. And from the beginning, she had done what she could to plug those holes; first as his partner and friend, then later as his lover. Feeling, at times, like a variety of emotional Spackle, she had diligently plastered over the cracks in his persona as she had discovered them. And yet, was she repairing the flaws or masking them? That was the sort of painful question she asked herself from time to time. But not right now. She had other things on her mind. "You know what I'm feeling particularly greedy for, Scully?" Mulder drawled, his eyes sweeping over her with a hunger he could no longer entirely conceal. "What I need this minute?" "What?" she asked him softly. "Your skin," he told her, his voice as raw as her nerves. "I want to see it, smell it, taste it." She didn't move. "So take off that fucking blouse before I rip it off." Continued in IIB "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 2b/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net Picking up where we left off . . . . * * * * * * * * * Startled by his sudden vehemence, she roused as if from a dream to do as he asked. Her fingers seemingly nerveless, she plucked at the buttons holding closed her cuffs. After an aborted attempt or two, she wrestled them free, then did the same with the fastenings running down the shirt's front. With scant ceremony, she eased her arms out of their sleeves and added the blouse to the growing pile on the floor. "That too," he said as he gestured to her last remaining article of clothing, a demure lacy little underwire. "It's pretty and all. But quite frankly, I prefer what's underneath." A quick twist, a slide, and a shrug later, the bra too had been shed. At last, Dana Scully stood before Fox Mulder naked. And wondered just what was coming next. Mulder seemed in no hurry to enlighten her. In marked contrast to the urgency with which he had instructed her to strip, he now appeared content to simply look at her. To let his eyes glide from her flame-bright fall of hair down to her ankles' narrow circumferences, returning time and again to the spots that most captured his attention. The rounded fullness of her breasts, her trim waist, the thatch of wiry curls guarding her sex. "God, you're beautiful, Scully," he mumbled softly after awhile, his gaze dark with longing, gentler than she had seen it since their game had begun. "Have you any idea how beautiful you are?" "Tell me," she urged breathlessly, caught up in the spell his voice was weaving. He sadly shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry. I know I'm supposed to. Supposed to . . . tell you stuff like that. But it sounds so stupid when you try to put it into words, Scully. Or . . . at least when I try to." She nodded, understanding his reticence, but disappointed by it just the same. Their eyes held for another silent second or two. Then he raised his hand from the arm of the chair, and curled his middle and index fingers in voiceless command. Come here. She did. She crossed to him. Mulder held out his hands. She took them, and allowed him to guide her down onto his lap. She sat facing him, her knees bent on either side of his narrow hips, his erection prodding her bottom. The instant her hands touched his chest, signaling that she was settled, he seized her. Plunging his hands into her hair, he pulled her to him for a deep, slow, wet kiss. Groaning into her mouth, he stroked his tongue along hers. Rubbed over and under it. Bathed her lips, her teeth, the roof of her mouth. He was devouring her, she thought, the notion making her a trifle giddy. Eating her alive. Feasting on her tender mouth as if he were starving for the taste of it. Of her. He suckled her lips with his own. Pulled them into his mouth. Nipped at them. Covered them again and again. Twisting and turning her face in his palms as if searching for the best possible angle; the tightest, most exquisite fit. Recklessly, she returned his caresses, the need rising in her like a fever. Yes, want me, she yearned to whisper to him. Want me . . . Here. Now. In this chair. On the floor. What did it matter? Nothing mattered. Nothing. Not when he was kissing her like this. And this. And . . . oh God . . . like that . . . . So ferocious was her arousal, so fierce her desire, that when he pulled away from her--pulled away and grabbed hold of the arms of the chair as if he thought to rip them from the poor unassuming piece of furniture--she sobbed. The sound flying breathy and weak from her swollen lips. He looked up at her, eyes unfocused but bright, his mouth damp from their kisses. "Touch yourself, Scully." "What?" Her brain wasn't functioning properly, that's all there was to it. She couldn't hear, couldn't think. His words made no sense. He might as well have been speaking Reticulan. "You heard me," he muttered as his hips began to rise and fall beneath her, pressing against her open, pouting lower lips, then pulling away like the cruelest of flirts. "Play with yourself." Oh my God. She had never done anything like that. Never shared with anyone something so essentially private. "I want to watch you come, Scully" he told her hoarsely. "I want to sit back and watch it happen. Up close and personal." Still she waited, frightened and embarrassed. Excited and on fire. "Do that for me," he implored, the words spoken soothingly, as if he were trying to tame something wild. "Be a good girl, Dana, and do as you're told." A good girl? Not tonight. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. And letting out a deep shuddering breath, she at last nodded. Yet still didn't move. "Go on," he urged, his eyes sleepy now with arousal. Slicking her lips with her tongue, she raised up slightly on her knees. She covered her mouth for a moment with her hand, the gesture suggesting she just couldn't *believe* what she was about to do. Then, slowly, as if moving all on its own, her hand drifted down the front of her. Her fingers trailed down the column of her throat, meandered across the hard jutting peaks of her breasts, glided over the smoothness of her belly to comb lightly through the coarse hair at her crotch. She whimpered. God, she was wet. Wet and swollen. And ready. So very ready. Idly, she wondered how long she'd last. Head tipped back so that her hair dangled down past her shoulders, she closed her eyes and slipped her fingers inside the distended entrance to her body. Two, at first. Then three. Slowly. In, where the walls of her vagina clung to her intruding digits like a suckling mouth. Out, where she spread the moisture coating her makeshift cock along her tender, pulsing slit. Smeared it over the ripe little bud tucked away up front. Oh Christ. In . . . Out. Again. And again. Sweat broke out on her forehead, dotted her upper lip. With a will of its own, her pelvis tipped forward to meet her easy thrusts, some primal impulse instinctively guiding her into the position bested suited for climax. Gradually, her body sinking in to the rhythm established by her hand, she felt a delicious sort of tension begin to build. A throbbing kind of ache that ratcheted tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap her in two. "What does it feel like, Scully?" Mulder asked, his voice coarse like gravel. "Tell me what it feels like." "Soft," she whispered, her brow wrinkling with effort. "Soft." His hand found its way to her face. Lovingly, with the gentlest of touches, he skimmed his fingertips along the curve of her cheek. "What else?" he prompted, his tone still ragged. She kept her eyes closed, focusing on the pleasure rippling through her rather than on the man beneath her, his hips mimicking the motion of her hand. Her head turned feverishly from side to side, lolling on her neck. Her lips were parted, open as if ready to cry out. Honeyed with her own arousal, her fingers slid over her clitoris once more. Her breath hitched with the sharpness of the sensation. She circled, taking care to keep the pressure light as her sensitivity was high. Around and around, her middle finger swirled, her hips twitching, her breath unnaturally loud to her ears. "Hot," she mumbled, head twisting fitfully. "I'm . . . it's hot." Somewhere, on the periphery of her hearing, she heard ice tapping against glass. Then suddenly, a keen, stinging cold lanced through her left nipple. "Oh!" Scully groaned, her head snapping upright, her eyes fluttering open once more. Mulder had taken his glass of water, now little of it left save cubes and condensation, and pressed it to her breast. "How does that feel?" he asked with almost clinical detachment, his gaze locked on the sight of her shiny pink nipple. "Um . . . I don't know," she admitted in a broken sounding whisper, her hand stalled for a moment between her legs. "I can't . . . I . . oh . . ." What did he want from her? Sorry Mulder, but I just can't discuss with you things such as nerve endings and temperature variances. Not when her senses were just about ready to launch into overload. Not when the nerve endings in question were her own. Continuing until her one nipple was numb from cold, he then applied the same treatment to her other side. Her back arched involuntarily as the frigid surface danced against her far warmer one. "Does it hurt?" he queried in the same casual tone as he traced the edge of her aureole with the tumbler's frosty bottom rim. Her fingers began to move inside her again, the action commencing almost without conscious thought. She could do nothing else. Not when she was so close. "No. No, it doesn't hurt." "Good," he murmured as he set the glass on the table once more. "I don't want to hurt you, Scully. I don't ever, ever want to hurt you." "I know," she said, moving faster now, her hand thrusting smoothly, rhythmically between her legs. "I know you don't." "I want you to feel good," he said, as he reached up and with his index finger spread the droplets of water left behind by the glass over the pebbled peaks of her breasts. He dabbed at them, scarcely touching her, his caress maddeningly light. "I do," she chuckled feebly, her lashes drooping, her hips surging in counterpoint to the slide of her fingers. "And I know how sensitive your breasts are," he said conversationally, his fingers tapping soundly against her nipples now as if testing their firmness, their resiliency. The little nubbins responded by lengthening, plumping; feeling gradually returning to them after their trial by ice. "How much you like it when I touch you there." She hummed her agreement, words more than she could manage at that moment. True enough, Mulder, she thought dazedly. When you're right, you're right. "How much you like it when I do something like this," he growled, the change in his voice signaling his intentions before he himself had actually moved. Then, with that shift in tone her only warning, he seized her rigid nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, and tugged. Hard. She screamed atop him, her body stretching, arching, searching desperately for a way to relieve the stress. Her slender frame bent like a bow, she hung suspended over him, chin tipped towards the ceiling. At first, she thought to help support her weight herself, and to that end, clutched at his forearm with the hand not buried between her legs. "No," he told her sharply. "Let go." Whimpering, she did as she was told. It wasn't that he was hurting her. Not exactly. After all, the muscles in her thighs took some of the pressure away from her imprisoned nipples. But the tension, the pull . . . she felt as if the two tender tips he was pinching were being squeezed by little mini-vises. Clamps that oddly rewarded her with their punishing grip. "What's the matter, Scully?" whispered the man she at that moment looked to as Master. "Did I tell you that you could stop?" Stop? "No," she admitted, confused for a second as to what he referring. Then, she followed his gaze to her hand where it lay still and glistening against her thigh. Vaguely surprised by this, she looked up and found Mulder watching her closely. "Go on," he instructed; the words an order, the tone a caress. Teeth gnawing on her bottom lip, she nodded, and inched her fingers inside her body once more. "Yeah, that's right. . . . and out. That's beautiful," he praised, his voice velvety soft, his thumbs and forefingers still holding her nipples captive. "You're doing very well." She sighed, the sound lost and low. "Come on now. A little harder. . . harder. Faster. Yeah, like that. Just like that. I can see you, you know, Scully. I see everything you do." She knew that. God, she knew that. That was at least half the reason she kept her eyes closed. "Go back to your clit now. Yeah. Rub there for me. Lightly now. Slowly. Imagine it's my tongue. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" "Yes." "Later, Scully. Later. We've got all night. But for now, this feels pretty good, doesn't it? Feels really good." "Yes," she sobbed, as he gently wiggled her breasts from side to side for emphasis. "Oh please . . ." "Very good," he said, amusement seeping into his words. "'Please and thank you'. You're always polite, Scully. Regardless of the situation. I admire that in you." He rolled her nipples now, careful not to lose his grip. "Mulder . . . ." She was reduced to begging. Even though she had somehow still managed to refrain from voicing the actual plea, she could hear the entreaty when she spoke. True, her pleasure was technically being generated by her own hand. But for some reason, she felt as if she had to ask for his permission. Implore the one who had set her to her task to free her from it. At that point, anything else would seem like rebellion. And a dutiful slave never disobeys. "Listen to me," he gritted out, seemingly growing as effected by her need as she. "I'm going to let you come, Scully. Do you want that? Do you want to come?" What--was he kidding? "=Yes=." "All right. But you have to do exactly as I say." She nodded, her head nearly flopping back and forth atop her shoulders. "I want you to make sure your fingers are wet. Are they? Good girl." GoodgirlGoodgirlGoodgirlGoodgirlGoodgirl. "Now, I want you to push your hips forward. As far as you can go. That's right. Don't move them, now. Keep them still. And rub your hand over your clit very lightly. Circle it. No. Ease up. I said, 'Ease up.' Better. Yeah. That's it . . . that's it." Damn him, she thought, silently cursing her tormentor. It wasn't enough. He was barely allowing her to use any force at all. Given how slick her fingers were, she couldn't feel any friction, any pressure. Instead, all she could enjoy was a kind of current humming through her, a vibration. Breath flowing from her lips in a series of deep gusty pants, she focused on the sensation. And after a time was astonished to discover a method to Mulder's madness. Because out of that gentle gossamer-light caress, ecstasy bloomed. Oblivion beckoned. If she was patient. And did as she was told. She groaned. He began deliberately pulling on her nipples; easy, rhythmic little pulses, as if he were milking her. "You're close now, aren't you?" he queried, his voice hypnotic, shadowed like the room, their souls. "I'll bet you're very close." "Yes . . . . ." She increased her fingers' speed, but not their pressure. He wouldn't like that. Wouldn't approve. "And you'd like me to let you go. Let you come." "Oh yes . . . . ." Swifter still. Until she wondered if, were she to open her eyes, her hand would appear only as a blur. "Yes, please . . ." "*Please* what, Scully? I'm not sure what you want." Her words were thick, difficult to understand. "You know." "Say it. I want to hear you say it" It was over. Pride had lost all meaning. "To come. I want to come." And even though her lids were lowered, she knew without question that Fox Mulder was smiling. "All right then," he told her, sounding as if he were bestowing on her the greatest of favors. "If you really want it, I'll give it to you. On my count." She nodded. Oh, thank God. He pulled her to him, brought her closer. The fingers locked on her aching nipples guiding her into position. "One." Gradually, he increased the pressure. Tightened the vices. "Two." He kissed her on the center of her chest, directly between her breasts. "Three." And all at once, he let go of her nipples, bringing his hands around to cup her shoulder blades instead. Circulation was restored to the two rosy tips. With sensation flooding back seconds after. A searing, white hot river of it. And with its return, Scully's world exploded. Fragments of light, shards of color flashed behind her closed eyes. She screamed and moaned and bucked. Danced on his lap like some sort of X-rated bar-girl. Her hair flying, her fingertips still spinning over her clitoris like a top. Her nipples burned and throbbed; heavy and tender at the same time. Her entire body convulsed with the power of her free fall. It was wondrous and scary and it felt like drowning because for a moment she didn't think she'd be able to breathe as this immense rushing wave of heat and arousal and passion and release crashed over her sweeping up her torso from her throbbing groin past her quivering breasts to her cheeks her brow her brain and for one crazy instant it felt as if her hair were tingling with it but that was absurd because everyone knew that hair was actually dead and why couldn't her neck support her head all of a sudden when all she really wanted to do was curl up in Mulder's embrace because he had her cradled against his chest now and was kissing her hair her temple he was talking to her but she couldn't hear what he was saying because her heart was pounding so loudly that her head felt like the inside of a bell tower Notre Dame Go Irish but it didn't really matter what words he used she had heard them before knew them by heart and besides he smelled so good all musky and male and burrowing against him made her feel cherished and safe and warm fuzzy everything was fuzzy buzzy wuzzy was was was what was she going to . . . . . . . . . .? And for the first time in her life, Dana Scully swooned. * * * * * * * * * Continued in Part III ***The Words Universe, Cancer-Free Since 1995*** "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 3/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net Yeah, there's more. Of the same. And then some. * * * * * * * * * Oh, my God. I've killed her. That was the first semi-coherent thought to enter Fox Mulder's mind when he felt Dana Scully, shaky and soft in the aftermath of a positively shattering orgasm, suddenly sigh and collapse limply in his arms. Idiotic though he later recognized the notion to be, for one brief moment, fear seized his heart. Squeezed it in its barbed wire grip until he imagined he could actually feel blood seeping from the wound. Then, he gathered her to him. Rested her slender form against his. Once she was nestled securely in his embrace, he had no trouble discerning the deep, even rise and fall of her breasts, detecting the moist, heated kiss of her breath against his skin. She lived. Thank God. Nearly light-headed himself with relief, it was all he could do not to laugh at his momentary delusions of grandeur. Take it easy, Romeo, he mockingly advised himself as he softly smoothed her hair from her brow. Your love-making techniques don't exactly warrant the skull and cross bones warning just yet. Still, he couldn't help but feel some small measure of satisfaction over the way the unmistakably sated woman in his lap had responded to his seduction. Seduction, Mulder? Doesn't that word suggest a certain degree of romance? a little voice inside him challenged. Imply a kind of tenderness or, at the very least, some attempt at wooing? Hmm. Was there any way in hell that the words "Touch yourself" could be construed as wooing? What about "So take off that fucking blouse before I rip it off"? Uh, no. Probably not. And yet, Scully hadn't seemed to mind. Not at all. In fact, once things had truly gotten underway, she had appeared to enter into the spirit of their game with no small measure of abandon. Her daring, her trust, her vulnerability had been . . . . Amazing. Absolutely breathtakingly amazing. But then, this was Scully he was talking about. Amazing was nothing more than her usual state of being. Pressing a kiss to her hairline, he tightened his arms protectively around her. Warm and yielding, she lay sideways across his lap with her head tucked beneath his chin. Her knees were drawn up, her hands lay slack atop her thighs. Sweat slicked her flushed skin so that it glowed like pearls. A single shoe dangled from her toes like the last leaf of autumn. Curling around her small body, he gently removed the pump and tossed it to the floor, caressing her dainty foot as he did so. That simple touch proved enough to rouse her. She stirred. Instinctively, she turned into him more fully, lifted what looked to be a ridiculously heavy arm and draped it around his neck. Nuzzling his throat with her brow, she sighed, the sound suggesting utter languor. "Scully?" he murmured quietly in question, hoping she was indeed coming down from her high. It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying this interlude, this break from the erotic drama that had gone before. After all, holding Scully--particularly a naked Scully--was never what he would call a hardship. It was only that while holding this delightfully naked woman he was wrestling with a hard-on of near Wagnerian proportions. Well, actually he wasn't wrestling with it. Neither was anyone else. That was the problem. "Hmm?" she hummed in reply as she pressed a sleepy kiss just below his ear. "You okay?" he queried as he combed lightly through her tousled hair with his fingertips. "You kinda scared me there for a minute." "I'm fine," she assured him, her head on his shoulder, her hushed voice a tad rough around the edges. "Here," he said, stretching over to the little chair-side table and retrieving his water. A bit more of the ice had melted since he had last handled the glass; liquid now floated what cubes still remained. He judged there ought to be enough H2O there to soothe her throat. Not even considering what the action implied, he brought the glass to her lips himself and slowly tipped it so that the water trickled into her mouth. She swallowed greedily, accepting his care without comment or protest. Behavior which did not go unnoticed by Mulder. "Better?" he asked when she had all but drained the glass dry. "Better," she softly confirmed, her eyes flickering to his, then away. This too failed to escape his attention. Gently, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin and tipped up her head to meet his gaze. "What's wrong?" he asked, his previous satisfaction threatening to shrivel up and blow away. She looked up at him, her blue eyes enormous. And more than a trifle bewildered. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. It's just . . . " "What?" he prompted, gliding the back of his hand along the curve of her cheek. She cleared her throat, and dipped her eyes. "Mulder . . . nothing like that has ever happened to me before." "Nothing like what?" he queried, thinking that depending upon her response he was either going to be one of the proudest men on planet Earth or one of the most mortified. She shrugged a bit helplessly. "Like . . . well, like *any* of it." He slowly nodded, still unable to judge from her tone of voice whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. So, he decided to ask. "Does that frighten you?" Her gaze lifted slightly. It now appeared to be focused somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. "No." Okay. That sounded promising. But he needed to be sure. "No?" She shook her head, then shyly peered up at him, her hand resting on his chest. "Uh-uh. . . . I . . um . . I kinda liked it." Proud. He was definitely Proud. Maybe even borderline Smug. "Not as a lifestyle, Mulder," she continued quietly, talking to his collar rather than to his face. "Not every day. But, as a sort of a . . . change of pace . . . . it's intense." "It is," he chuckled, hugging her to him and affectionately kissing her brow. "It is that." But Scully seemingly wanted more; more affection, more reassurance. More of him. Turning, she reached up and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, her fingers entwined in his hair. Breasts pressed firmly against his chest, she kissed him, her mouth open and demanding, hot and just a little bit wild. And all at once, the kitten curled atop his lap turned into a tigress. But it was Mulder who felt like purring. His hands skimmed up and down her graceful back, tracing its flats and curves. On one downward sweep, he filled his palms with her buttocks, cupped her there and squeezed. She moaned her approval and shifted restlessly atop him. Which inevitably brought her hip in contact with his raging erection. Which inevitably wrenched a heartfelt groan from his lips. Upon hearing his low strangled cry, Scully pulled away from the kiss and looked at him, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "Problem, Mulder?" He licked his lips before wryly replying, "Nothing you can't help me fix." She nodded as if gravely considering the matter before murmuring, "I could do that, I suppose." The corner of Mulder's mouth pulled up in a lop-sided smile. "Well, that's a relief. Now, the question is--how should we go about it?" "What do you mean?" Mulder adjusted the woman on his lap so that her wonderfully rounded little bottom wasn't quite such a distraction. "What I mean, Scully, is that you and I have going what you might call a 'Theme Night'." "A 'Theme Night'?" Smiling sheepishly, he shrugged. "For want of a better term. I believe you referred to it as a 'change of pace'." Lifting her brows in understanding, she nodded once more. "Now, we can continue in that vein if you're willing," he said, running his index finger lightly down her arm, and watching goose flesh rise in its wake. "Or we can . . . take a more conventional approach. It's entirely up to you." His hand found hers and lifted it to his lips. Softly kissing her knuckles, he realized that the scent of her arousal lingered still on her fingertips. His groin pulsed with the awareness. "Truth is, Scully," he mumbled once he had gotten himself under control. "At this moment, I want you so badly that the finer points really don't matter a whole hell of a lot to me." "They don't, huh?" she asked in a husky voice, her expression gentle. "No," he confessed with sham remorse, his hips rolling beneath her almost against his will. Scully didn't answer at first. She didn't even look him in the eye. Instead, she loosed her fingers from his and went to work on his shirt. Saying nothing, she slowly unbuttoned one fastening after another until the garment lay open to his waist. Mulder sat watching her, struggling to control his respiration, his blood pressure, his heart rate. And other vital signs. "I think there's something to be said for consistency, Mulder," she whispered at last, her eyes trained on her hand as it swept lightly along his torso. "Don't you?" Oh God, Scully, don't quiz me when you're touching me like that, he thought a tad incoherently. "Consistency?" "Hmm," she hummed, her fingers finding beneath the shirt one of his small flat nipples and scratching carefully around its rim. His willpower in tatters, he couldn't stop the moan that spilled from his lips. She smiled at the sound, and gave the same treatment to the tiny nubbin's twin. "Consistency. It seems a shame to establish a certain mood and then let it go to waste." Okay. True, in his present state, he wasn't quite as quick on the uptake as he usually was. But, if he wasn't mistaken, it appeared that the naked woman perched before him wanted . . . . "Are you saying that you're in the mood to be bossed around some more?" he queried, his voice rumbling low in his register. Scully slid both hands beneath his rumpled shirt, and ran them slowly down the front of him, from his shoulders to his waist, fingers spread as if she feared missing so much as an inch of his skin. Pursing her lips into a sexy little pout, she looked up at him through her lashes. "I don't know. Think you're man enough to handle me?" He growled in mock menace, and pulled her to him for another long, slow kiss. He could feel her smiling as his mouth roamed over hers. His lips curved to answer her. At last breaking free, he muttered heatedly, "Anytime, anywhere, Agent Scully. I'm always willing to take you on." She gazed up at him from where her head lay pillowed on his upper arm. "Then do your worst, Mulder. I can take it. And you." Of that, I have no doubt, he thought ruefully to himself. I know you can take me, Scully. Take me and tie me in knots just by using your bedroom voice to lecture me on the habits of the not-so- average fluke worm. Take me from stand-by to rock-solid-ready simply by delivering a well deserved dressing-down to a guy with twice your size and half your brains. Take me straight to heaven with the sensation of you stroking and straining against me, your skin sliding over mine, the heat between us building until at any moment I keep expecting us both to ignite like flash paper. Oh boy, he was the one in trouble here. Just how the hell was he supposed to hold it all together to give this woman the experience she deserved? After all, the game was control. And he was currently clinging to his only by his fingernails. There was no way around it. He was going to have to relieve a little of the pressure if he had any hope at all of making their evening last. Kissing her one last time, he framed her face with his hands before whispering, "On your knees, Scully." Her eyes darkened in understanding. Then, lips tilted upwards in the most subtle of smiles, she nodded. And gently slipped to the floor. "I told you I need a little help," he said, his pupils large and unfocused, drugged with desire. "Why don't you see what you can do." She looked up at him from between his legs, her small, infinitely capable hands setting atop his thighs, her lovely face inches from his painfully throbbing cock. And moved not a muscle. "I need instructions, Mulder," she told him in a husky voice. "Instructions?" he echoed, too overwrought at that point to fully comprehend the cause of her inertia. She smiled, her lashes lowering just a touch to obscure her gaze. "I told you before, I need to know =exactly= what it is you want from me." "Exactly?" he croaked, thinking that the bulge tenting his trousers should have given her some clue as to how to proceed. Then, she lightly rested her hand directly on that bulge and every clue in his head flew out the window. "=Exactly=, Mulder," she said, idly doodling on his penis with her fingertip, watching with a kind of bemusement as it twitched and jumped. "Step by step. Otherwise, forget it. After all, your talking to me =was= part of the deal. Remember?" Oh, he remembered all right. He vividly recalled promising to tell her what he wanted, what he needed. As long as she promised to then fulfill those needs. Which, he had to admit, she had thus far been doing. Admirably. And he had no doubt she would continue to hold up her end of the bargain. Scully's word was her bond. It was just that walking her through something like that, sharing with her in the most specific detail how he wanted her to make love to him was . . . very revealing. Almost more intimate than the act itself. Which was, of course, precisely why she asked it of him. "You are going to get it," he murmured with dark promise, his hand now gently cradling her cheek. "Only after you do," she softly replied, mischief in her eyes. My. Someone was feeling frisky. He chewed on the corner of his lip while he mulled over his options. And realized he had none. Sighing, he gave in. "All right, Scully. I'll play by the rules. For now. So, let's start with the basics, shall we? Open my pants." She sat up a little straighter and reached for the top button on his trousers. Pausing for a moment, she looked up at him with one brow arched. "Belt too?" Oh man. She was not going to make this easy. "Belt too," he confirmed gruffly. Nodding, she slipped the narrow strip of leather free from its buckle. She next moved to the pants and popped the button topping the zipper. Then, with excruciating slowness, she carefully lowered the zipper itself, the back of her hand brushing against him through his boxers as she did so. His vision swam with her touch. Breathe, you idiot. Breathe, he silently exhorted himself. Christ. If something this simple was affecting him this strongly, how the hell was he going to react when she actually caressed him, skin to skin? Let alone what came after that. Her task complete, Scully sat back on her heels and looked up at him. Waiting for her next instruction. "Take it out," Mulder mumbled, feeling all of fifteen again under the knowing light of her gaze. "Take what out?" she queried with counterfeit innocence. Sweat was now coating his brow. "Well, this particular portion of the male anatomy has several nicknames, Scully," he began, embarrassment and arousal roughening his voice. "But I believe the correct term is 'penis'." "Ohhhh," she said as if a light bulb had suddenly clicked on above her head. Then, her lips curved in a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, and she leaned forward to do as she was told. He lifted. She pulled. And a few short seconds later, the evening air caressed his erection, cool and soothing against his heated flesh. However, the minute that she had done as he had asked, Scully once more sat back to watch him. Calm, composed. And, as far as Mulder was concerned--utterly, blindingly maddening. How ironic, he mused dazedly. The woman before him was naked, on her knees, on the floor, between his legs, following his every direction to the letter. And yet, the balance of power had somehow shifted to her favor. Maybe he just wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. Then the memory of Scully poised atop his lap, writhing in the throes of passion, shimmered into focus in his mind's eye. And he took heart. No, he had a certain knack. He just needed to master his own need before he could master her. But before he could do =anything=, he had to say the words. Swallowing hard, he gave it a try. "Touch it." She did that smile thing again. "Touch what?" she inquired sweetly. Just you wait, Dana Scully, just you wait, chanted an almost frantic little voice inside his head. "My *cock*," he choked out, hoping the word might shock her, but knowing her too well to actually believe such a ploy might succeed. It didn't. Instead, she stretched out her fingertips and dragged them lightly along his length, stroking over him with a deliberate lack of pressure. Toying. Tickling. Giving him what he wanted but refusing him the proper measure of it. "Like this?" she asked, already knowing the answer. A single groan was his reply. God. It might not be all he needed, but it sure as hell wasn't a bad start. Scully floated over him like a whisper, calling to him. To his heart, his soul, his body. Stirring his nerve endings, urging his blood to flow faster, more heavily. Like a well trained beast, the flesh beneath her hand responded, grew thicker, harder, longer. More, more, more, screamed his brain. And yet, in all honesty, he didn't know how much more he could stand. Still, he let her play with him, tease him with her feathery caresses until the pleasure promised to turn into pain. "Wait." She stopped immediately. "Hold it. In your hand. Hold me. Tight." She did. Right at the root. Her hand was cool and strong. And he swore he could feel his pulse pounding nowhere else on his body except in the long, hard piece of muscle nestled in her palm. "Yeah. . . . Now move it. Move your hand." "Up and down?" "Yes." "Then I think maybe I ought to do this first," she murmured, and lifting her hand, she licked her palm, her eyes simmering as she watched him watching her, warming him with their glow. He dug his fingers into the chair's arms, and waited. Until she gripped him once more and gently ran her moistened hand up his rigid member, then back down again. "Ohh," he moaned low, his head falling back to rest against the seat cushion; his hips lifting languidly, then falling; following the motion of her fist. Taking it even slower, she repeated the caress, pulling on him slightly as she brought her hand all the way to his penis' head before letting it glide back down to its starting place. The third trip up, she improvised. When she reached his sensitive tip she took her thumb and swept some of the liquid she found there over the head, swirling smoothly and evenly until the entire knob glistened from her efforts. Oh God, it was remarkable. Her hand, wrapped around him. Moving over him. The friction, the heat. "Faster," he commanded hoarsely. Obligingly, she picked up speed. Working him now, carefully stretching him as she stroked. Lifting him further and further away from his body. Propelling him closer and closer towards the stratosphere. "My balls, Scully," he whispered after a time, his voice thin and breathy. "Touch my balls." Keeping her one hand busy, she brought her other palm beneath him, and painstakingly balanced his satiny sac of nerves there. Closing her fingers lightly around him, she rolled it. From side to side. In a slow, tight circle. He groaned. Helpless, ragged little bursts of sound leaked from his lips. His hips arched for the ceiling; his thighs quivering from the excitement, the strain. Christ, this was good. This was too good. He could come just from this. Just from her hands, pumping, stroking, and generally driving him out of his mind. But he wanted more. "Your mouth, Scully. Give me your mouth," he implored, his body twisting restlessly in the chair, his hands locked in place on its arms. She didn't stop her ministrations entirely, though upon hearing him speak, they did ebb in intensity. "What was that, Mulder? I didn't quite hear you." Liarliarliarliarliarliarliarliar. Taking a deep, jagged breath he gave it one more shot. "Take me in your mouth." Her hands stilled. Mulder didn't know whether to rejoice or mourn. Scrambling for some semblance of control, he raised his head. Scully looked back at him, her gaze singeing him with its fire. Mouth parted, lips moist and full. So ready to take him inside. After she had made him work for it just a little bit. She made him wait, let him stew. Tortured him just a touch by rubbing her thumb along his underside, purposefully targeting the angry blue vein running up its length, pressing against it with finely measured force. "Tell me =exactly= how you want it done," she murmured, her gaze unwavering, more black it seemed than blue, all pretense at innocence gone. "I want to be sure to get it right." This is where they separate the men from the boys, Mulder, he mockingly told himself. So be a man. "Your tongue," he mumbled weakly, eyes sliding shut at last, unable to look at her right at that moment. "Lick it. Lick the head." Almost immediately, her small wet tongue lapped gently at him. Around and around, with short, fleeting strokes she moistened the keenly tender crown, her hand still locked firmly at the base of his groin. "Oh God, Scully," he murmured brokenly, his hips thrusting at the air. "God. . . more. . . . Give me more." Shifting slightly, she did as he asked. Brushing along his swollen length with her tongue, her hair, she caressed him sweetly. Tracing over the hot silken muscle with gradually lengthening strokes. He was sobbing now. Scraps of words, a jumble of incoherent inanity. His breath burst from his lips in choked little hisses. Reality narrowed down to two things, and two things only. His cock. Her mouth. He couldn't hold out any longer. Couldn't wait. Couldn't go without. "Scully . . . . Scully, please," he whispered, his lashes creeping open once more. "Please." At first he only saw the bright crown of her head as she knelt curled over his crotch. But, upon hearing his voice, she straightened to regard him solemnly, her hand still clenched around where his erection began. "What do you want, Mulder?" she asked, her voice hushed. Desperate though he was, he didn't speak. Couldn't speak. Why should he? She knew. She =knew=. "Ask me," she said softly. "And I'll give it to you." Panting, he shook his head. Bending over him once more, she nipped at him lightly, dragging her teeth along his velvety skin, taking care not to injure him. Crying out in surprise and arousal, his hands flew from their place on the chair's arms to land heavily on her shoulders. She only chuckled at his reaction. "Be good now, Mulder. Behave." "You're the one being bad, Scully," he muttered, his hips rocking again, straining against her confining hand. "But I'd be so good to you if you'd let me," she crooned, her gaze nearly molten now as she peered up at him. "If you would only let me, Mulder." He could feel his inhibitions dissolving, sense his need overwhelming his pride. Then, she lowered her lips to him and kissed him on the very tip, her mouth open and soft and wet and warm . . . . "Ask me," she coaxed, low and tempting like a Lorelei. It was too much. He was drowning in it. In his desire, in her. In the sight of her, the feel of her, the promise of her . . . And something inside him shattered. "Suck it," he gritted it out, his voice harsh and fierce with longing. "I want your lips around me. . . . your tongue. I want everything. . . . everything. Please, Scully, . . I want to come . . . . I have to . . . " "Where?" she asked, demanding one final concession. He swallowed hard, his face dark and sulky with passion. "In your mouth." She smiled, the curve of her lips distinctly sensual. "Whatever you say." And all the while keeping her eyes locked on his, she slid him slowly between her lips. Christ Almighty. He feared for an instant that the sight of his penis disappearing inside her mouth might literally stop his heart. Inch by hot, aching inch she lowered her lips down his rigid member. Then back up. And down. Keeping pressure on him, pulling hard, her flushed cheeks hollowing with the effort. Just as she had been told. Entranced, he lifted his trembling hands to her hair. He just set them there, so that they rested lightly on either side of her head. He didn't try to push, didn't attempt to guide or control her movements. At that moment, he just needed to touch her, to somehow caress her when she was so memorably caressing him. Watching him shiver and mumble and moan, the bottom half of his body undulating with a steady, measured pulse, Scully continued her efforts. Faster and faster her head bobbed, her tongue fluttering over him; rubbing, dipping, and swirling. "God . . . oh God." Regular speech had deserted him. All that was left to him were prayers. Finally, he couldn't watch her anymore, couldn't keep his eyes open. He couldn't concentrate any more, all his focus having shifted elsewhere, along with apparently half his body's blood flow. Face screwed tight, sweat trickling down his cheeks, his head twisted fitfully against the chair's back. His mouth was open, sucking in great shuddering lung fulls of air. Waiting. He was waiting. It wouldn't be long now. Wouldn't be long. Not long. Not . . . . And with one last tight slid of her mouth, his body convulsed. Moaning a series of guttural nonsense sounds, his body twitched as if electricity were pouring through him. His hips surged relentlessly, like his orgasm would never end. It continued to roll over him, flowing like quicksilver from one end of his body to the other. He tingled hot, then cold. And he couldn't be certain, but he suspected that his bones had dissolved. It had to be something like that, because given the sort of dense relaxation that had descended upon him as his body had poured into hers, he doubted he would ever again be capable of movement. Forget Spooky Mulder. His new nickname would be Mulder the Hut. And through it all, Scully was with him. First taunting, then soothing, she had urged him mercilessly towards that impossibly high peak. Then plunged from it with him. Shielding him as he fell. Afterwards, she licked him dry, pressed an affectionate kiss to him, then laid her hand softly atop him and waited for him to come back to himself. It took some time. But finally, he whispered in a ragged voice, "Hey, Scully?" "Yeah?" "Wow." She chuckled. "You're welcome." "See what I mean?" he murmured, head still tipped back, eyes closed, pulse zooming. "Always polite." She stretched up to kiss him low on his belly, then rested her cheek against his thigh. His fingers threaded absently through her hair. He could feel his sweat cooling on his skin, chilling him unexpectedly. "Scully?" "Hmm?" "There's just one thing." "What?" "You made me play by the rules. . . ." "Yeah?" "But you cheated." She lifted her head from his leg. "What do you mean?" He opened his eyes and looked down at her. "You were supposed to do as I said." "I did." He shook his head slowly from side to side. "No. Not really. Not right away. You had some fun first." She arched a brow, but said nothing in her defense. He lifted the corner of his mouth. "And I figure now it's my turn." She lifted her chin, a smile tugging at her mouth as well. "You had your turn, Mulder." He leered at her, then reached down and tugged her up for a quick kiss. He could taste himself on her mouth. "Ah. But this is the penalty phase." Her hands were spread high on his chest for balance. "Penalty phase?" He nodded, a slow sensual smile spreading across his lips. "You heard me. You were a bad girl, Scully. A very bad girl. You made up the rules and then you broke them. And now . . . . now you have to pay." * * * * * * * * * Continued in Part IV "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 4a/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net You know, this started out as just a nice, simple erotica vignette . . . . . And has turned into freakin' "War and Peace." Too many words! Only one more (chapter, that is) after this. Honest! :) * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully snapped off the vanity lights and prepared to exit her small tiled bathroom. She had taken a few moments for herself just as Mulder had before her to repair some of the damage inflicted upon her face and form by their lovemaking. And had discovered quite happily that she really didn't have much to put to right. The woman who had looked back at her in the mirror was radiant. True, her wildly tousled hair made her look as if she were the requisite babe in Aerosmith's latest video. And her furled nipples blushed a tad darker than their usual petal pink. But, in the end, she suspected Mulder would find fault with neither. And besides, even if he should for some reason look askance at these small anomalies in her appearance, she knew that her slender naked body had a few other enticements with which to tempt him. The delicate slope of her shoulders. Her breasts' high twin curves. The lush flare of her hips. No. Unless she very much missed her mark, she doubted that the man she loved would feel compelled to pick up his toys and go home. At least, she hoped like hell he wouldn't. She still wanted to play. Smiling in anticipation, she returned to her bedroom. Just as she crossed the threshold, she witnessed Fox Mulder sliding shut the drawer of her bureau. Shirt hanging open from his shoulders, he stood in his trousers and socks, his back to her. "Looking to slip into something more comfortable, Mulder?" she wryly inquired from the doorway, her voice both husky and bemused. "I'm afraid I don't have much that'll fit you." He turned to gaze at her from over his shoulder, his hair endearingly askew, his eyes shining with approval as they leisurely traveled the length of her body. "What if I said I wasn't looking for something for *me* to wear?" he queried lightly. "You'd prefer I got dressed?" she asked in surprise. He slowly shook his head from side to side. "Not exactly." "What then?" He pivoted to face her more fully. And she discovered that he had something bunched in his hand. Opening his fingers, that something slithered free from their tangled coil to trail like snakes from his palm. Scarves. Three of them. Scully licked her lips and contemplated what this revelation suggested. "If you're hoping to have me to perform the Dance of the Seven Veils, you're four short." The corners of his lips lifted as he glanced down at the crumpled silk spilling from between his fingers. "Actually, I was happy to even find three. You're not what I would call the fussy accessory type, Scully. I was worried I might need to improvise." "Improvise?" she echoed warily. He nodded, his lips pursed. "Yeah. But luckily, that won't be necessary. These are exactly what I was looking for." "And what *exactly* do you plan to do with those?" she asked, wondering if her tone gave away just how dry her throat had suddenly become. His eyes gleamed in the room's muted light, the look almost predatory in nature. Twisting to his right, he deposited two of the scarves on her night stand, then walked slowly towards her, holding the remaining bit of silk in his fist. Watching his finely regulated stride, the steely focus of his gaze, the smoldering sort of energy that radiated from him, growing more potent the closer he came, it was all she could do to hold her ground. He drew to a halt mere inches from her, his decision to encroach upon her personal space clearly deliberate. When he spoke, she could feel his breath blowing hot and ragged through her hair. "I'll bet you feel pretty proud of yourself, Agent Scully," he muttered softly as he nonchalantly ran the long strip of fabric through his fingers. "What did it feel like to make me beg? Did you like holding that sort of power over me? Did it make you feel good? Did it turn you on?" Her heart was racing. He hadn't even touched her yet, and still she was having trouble drawing breath. Not certain she could trust her voice, she simply nodded. Mulder accepted her admission with a rueful half-smile. Lifting his arms, he looped the scarf around the back of her neck so that its tails hung limply over her chest. Letting go of one end, he slowly pulled the other down her shoulder and across her breast. It slid cool and slippery along her feverish skin, snagging for just an instant on her tender nipple. She moaned with the sensation. "But that wasn't supposed to be the game now--was it, Dana?" he whispered from right at her ear, using his height to intimidate her, purposefully crowding her against the door jamb. "That wasn't what we had agreed upon." Her back pressed flat against the archway, she raised her eyes to his. He loomed over her, holding her in place as much with his silent gaze as he did with his far larger physique. "You said you wanted to give up control tonight, didn't you?" he challenged hoarsely as, without even looking at the fabric in his hands, he twisted and knotted it, fashioning it into what looked to be a small, soft noose. "You told me you felt like letting go of it, of turning it over to me." "I did," she whispered, lightly touching his chest with her fingertips, feeling his heated skin quiver beneath her caress. "I do." With that, he swiftly grabbed her wrist, almost as if he couldn't bear the halting stroke of her skin against his. His grip firm but not injurious, he pinned her arm above her head. Holding her captive, he took the silken shackle he had created and slipped carefully over her hand. "You sure, Scully?" he asked, his breath now bathing her face. His body rested heavily against hers, his belt buckle cutting into the soft flesh just below her breasts. "Are you certain you trust me enough to turn yourself over to me?" She regarded him gravely. His features were harsh with arousal, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth in what could be mistaken for a smile, but to her way of thinking looked more like a snarl. His brow was dark. His eyes were locked on hers, their lids heavy. She could feel his erection pulsing to life once more against her hip. She supposed that some women might feel threatened by such a situation. Fearful. Endangered. But Dana Scully prided herself on being braver than the average female. "I trust you completely," she told him quietly, her lips curving into the softest and gentlest of smiles, her free hand reaching up to skim lightly along his cheek. For an instant, she thought she spied a surge of moisture welling in Mulder's expressive hazel eyes. Then, he blinked. And it was gone. He erased what little space remained between them, bowed his head and settled his lips against hers. The kiss lingered, but didn't blossom into the wildly carnal tongue duel they often shared. Rather, the touch was tender, reassuring. "You won't regret it, Scully," he muttered fervently when the kiss had ended; when his lips had pulled away from hers to instead trail over her cheek, her brow, her temple. "I swear you won't regret it." And with that promise, she closed her eyes and relinquished herself to his care. Allowed him to snatch her other wrist and stretch it above her head, to bind it as he had the first, handcuffing both her slender limbs with his silken restraints. For just an moment, she simply stood there, her back flush against the doorway's frame, her arms lifted tautly aloft, her chest rising and falling in a series of shallow, uneven breaths. Her lashes were lowered, her face turned slightly to the side. He's looking at me, she realized, the idea as disturbing as it was erotic. Mulder is less than a foot away, studying me. Taking it all in. Seeing everything. My vulnerability. My submission. Knowing that I'm doing it for him. Understanding that I'm giving myself wholly, utterly to him. Then all at once, her musings ceased. She felt his fingers link with hers, entwining tightly, holding on. She sensed the warmth of his body blanketing hers, his shirt tails tickling her belly, his cock rubbing insistently against her hip. His lips descended once more. Swooping down to steal her breath, her soul. Her mouth opened. His tongue plunged inside; delved, then retreated. Moaning his name, she struggled to keep up. To slide her tongue sweetly along his, tasting his need, stirring his desire. At last, he pulled away with a gasp. Her eyes snapped open. He stared at her, his dark angel guise back with a vengeance. Releasing her hands, he gripped her cloth chain at its mid-point, and lowered her arms. "Come here," Mulder mumbled, giving a small tug on her makeshift leash. She obediently followed as he backed towards the bed, its piled pillows spotlighted by the nearby lamp. Once they stood before her night stand, he let go of her bound hands and turned instead to finger one of the still unused scarves. "Do you know what sense we as humans rely most heavily on?" he asked conversationally, his gaze averted from hers, his hand toying with the wad of silk before him. "Become most easily distracted by?" Hands tied tightly in front of her, separated by only a scant length of fabric, she shook her head. "No. Which?" He chose one of the scraps of silk, the wider of the two, and worried it between his fingertips. "Sight," he said shortly, still not looking at her. "Studies show we value that particular sense above the other four." She swallowed hard, waiting a trifle uneasily for what she now knew was to come. "Will you give that to me, Scully?" he queried softly, his eyes focused on hers once more. "Will you sacrifice it if I ask you to?" She hesitated only an instant. "Yes." The suggestion of a smile softening his lips, he nodded and crossed to stand behind her. She closed her eyes and felt the scarf drape across her lids. Holding her breath, she waited until the blindfold was secured before testing its actual functionality. Once the knot was tightened, she tried to lift her lashes. But could not raise them at all. She was blind. Bound. Naked. And at the mercy of the man who had made her so. The man who now traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertips, the caress so unexpected that she startled and took a step away. "Stand still." A quick breath. An even quicker nod. His touch returned. This time it outlined her lips, the shape of her jaw. Then, it floated like down across her chin, along her graceful throat, to her chest. He slipped his hands beneath her breasts, lifted them, kneading them carefully before releasing them. And yet, he wasn't finished with them. Or with her. Gently, he circled his palms over her swollen nipples, dragged them teasingly them over her pebbled skin. She sucked in a quick, sharp breath. Immediately, he ceased his fondling. "Sore?" he queried, concern roughening his voice. She licked her lips. "Tender." Saying nothing at first, he hefted her satiny globes once more in his hands. Held them mounded high, his fingers curled loosely around their sides. As she stood there waiting, mulling over his intentions, Scully idly wondered whether he could feel her heartbeat pulsing against his palms. "Poor Scully," Mulder whispered gruffly as he dropped to his knees, his hands still cupping her breasts. She felt his hair brush softly against her collarbone before she actually experienced his lips touching first one, then the other sensitive peak. Opening his mouth just a fraction, his tongue slipped out to soothe as well, to rub delicately over the nubbins, bathing them in moist heat. She sighed with his caresses, trembled from them. Mulder continued on, seemingly unawares. Framing her breasts in his hands, he made slow, sweet love to them. He lapped and licked and nuzzled his way across their rounded expanse, paying particular attention to the two tiny bits of flesh he had treated less kindly not so very long ago. His lips flowed like honey over her, coating her with the same speed, urging from her body a similarly rich substance. Part of her wished they could stay like this all night. Yet, alas, that was not to be. After a time, an all too short time, the man before her rose and gave her joined hands a small pull. "Come with me." She swayed for a moment, her balance a bit uncertain without her eyes to guide her, then took a step towards him. His hands landing lightly on her shoulders, Mulder turned her and backed her to the edge of the mattress. "Lie down." Bending her knees, she sat, then swiveled so that she was facing the foot of the bed. Her partner leaned over her, cradled her head in his hands, and carefully lowered it onto the pillow. She straightened her legs and took a long, slow breath, striving to relax. Her trussed wrists rested crossed atop her abdomen, her nipples throbbed with a mixture of excitement and dread. Again, Mulder made her wait before he chose to act. What is he thinking? she asked herself. What does he see when he looks at me like this? What is it about our game that excites him? He wasn't a cruel man, she knew. He had a temper, an anger that harkened back to his childhood. Certainly. But, he had never focused that wrath on her, never abused her either mentally or physically. Even now, in a position of nearly absolute power, he handled her with utmost gentleness. What was he getting out of this? "Lift your arms, Scully" he murmured quietly from beside the bed. "Raise them above your head." She did as he instructed, stretched her arms above her so that her wrists dangled between the headboard and the mattress. The position arched her back, thrust her breasts towards the ceiling. Her nipples reacted to the tension, stiffened even further, their pink centers crinkling with arousal. She felt him bend over her, sensed his body covering hers. The scarf binding her wrists was then lifted as well, jostled slightly, to finally be pulled tighter than it had been before. She tried to adjust. To bend her elbows. To shift into a position which allowed her a greater range of movement. And found she was trapped. Mulder had apparently attached the remaining scarf to her handcuffs, knotting it firmly at the center of the cloth running between her hands, and then tied its free end to the spindles at the head of her bed. The mattress dipped at her hip. And although they were not yet touching, she knew he now sat beside her. "You know, some people find it liberating to be restrained," he said in a low gruff voice. "They believe it somehow frees them from responsibility. Takes away the burden of having to act." He moved. She could hear cloth scraping against cloth, sense the shifting of his weight. Without warning, he kissed her just below the curve of her belly. His mouth was warm and moist against her tender flesh. Gentle. And yet, she still twitched in surprise, a choked gasp sliding past her lips. "All you have to do is react, Scully," he muttered as he slowly kissed his way up the center of her torso, his lips open, his tongue slipping out to taste her velvety skin. "I'll take care of the rest." He nuzzled between her breasts with the bridge of his nose, nibbled her shoulder, lapped at the underside of her chin. "Unless this frightens you," he whispered in her ear, the sensation hot and chilling at the same time. "Unless this is more than you want to deal with." He traced the intricate whorls of cartilage with his tongue, pulled her lobe into his mouth and suckled on it lightly. She moaned and shifted restlessly atop the covers. "Just say the word," he mumbled, his words little more than the breath buffeting her ear. "If you want to stop, just tell me. And we will. Okay?" A smile tilted the corners of her lips. How like him, she mused. How utterly Mulderish to set up this entire scenario, to deftly maneuver her into this bizarre situation and then have second thoughts. The man was nothing if not true to form. She didn't know what had set him off this time; if perhaps he feared that her being bound might bring back memories of those times when she had not willingly turned herself over to her captor. Given their shared histories, she supposed she couldn't blame him for worrying. Yet, despite her run-ins with Pfaster, Barry, and the rest, she felt strangely comfortable with the current state of affairs. After all, she was freely turning over her control to this man, not struggling to hang on to it while he violently tried to steal it away. He would never hurt her. She trusted him to respect her limits, to never demand more of her than what she could give. Besides, part of her was curious to learn just how far those limits extended. How much she could, in fact, withstand. And who better to test those waters with her than Mulder? She cleared her throat before assuring him in a hushed voice, "It's okay. I'm okay." He kissed her softly on the temple. Then pulled back, stood and seemingly crossed away from the bed, leaving her bereft. She lay there for a time, all her senses straining for clues as she tried to figure out what might be coming next. She could hear Mulder walking around the room, could just make out the hushed rustle of fabric as he moved somewhere off to her left. She turned her head on the pillow, rotated so that she was looking in the proper direction. Even if sight was still denied her. She heard a click. Lights? A door opening and closing. It sounded far away. Down her hallway perhaps. Or maybe it wasn't a door at all. Cabinets? What was he looking for? Hands clenching and releasing with an impatient sort of agitation, she at last heard him approach. "You know, this spur of the moment stuff is murder, Scully," he murmured as he returned to stand over her. "What do you mean?" He chuckled ruefully. "I mean a guy has to try to get the job done without the proper . . . equipment." Her lips curved in a wicked smile. "Don't sell yourself short, Mulder. I know your 'equipment' as well as anyone. And from what I've seen, it ain't half bad." He laughed again, the rhythm bumpy, as if he weren't used to making the sound. "My equipment thanks you. But, to be honest, I was specifically referring to something a little less . . . *personal* in nature." "Like what?" With that, something airy and almost unbearably soft trailed along the outside curve of her breast. She gasped, squirming away from the sensation before she had even fully identified what it was. "You ticklish, Scully?" * * * * * * * * * * Onward to IVb "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 4b/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net Once again, if archivists could paste this chapter back together again it would be ever so appreciated. :) * * * * * * * * * =Ticklish=? He wouldn't. Fox Mulder wouldn't dare subject her to . . . . The same hellish something grazed the tender stretch of skin below her navel, was dragged in a lazy semi-circle above the coarse nest of curls there. A choked little whimper escaped her lips. Mulder chuckled once more. "I take that as a yes." She ignored his gloating tone to instead demand, "What =is= that?" "A feather." If her eyes had been open she suspected they would be bulging in disbelief. "A =feather=? Where on earth did you find--?" The item in question dipped into her armpit's shallow hollow, cutting off her query. She squeaked in dismay, jerking against her bindings so fiercely that the bed frame rattled. "I pulled it off that thing under your sink." Off that thing under her sink? =Off that ratty old feather duster she used to clean the lighting fixtures?= Oblivious to her indignation, the feather next drifted along the sharp bend of her waist, from her hip to the top of her ribs. She longed to berate the man directing its path, chastise him for turning her cleaning supplies against her. But all that issued from her lips was a yet another strangled cry. "I didn't even know what I was looking for," he quietly admitted as he stroked the instrument of her undoing lightly against her navel, danced it into the tiny indentation, and then out again. She sucked in her stomach in a feeble attempt to flee its touch. But, tied the way she was, she wasn't going anywhere. "I was just kinda scouting around the place, you know? Searching for . . . . inspiration. And I found this." He fluttered the bit of down beneath her chin, behind her ear, along the muscles in her neck. She twisted her head atop the pillow, her brow wrinkled with effort as she tried to evade it. "Lucky, wouldn't you say?" he murmured, his tone suggesting he was vastly pleased with himself and his find Scully wished she could feel so smug. Unfortunately, seeing as Mulder had just unwittingly uncovered one of her most closely guarded secrets, she doubted that particular word would be used to describe her anytime soon. She was ticklish. Horribly, heinously ticklish. Had been since childhood. It had been bad enough when her two brothers had used her weakness against her. But this . . . "Where else, where else, where else?" he mumbled to himself as he circled her bound form. "I know." He perched at the end of the bed and took her ankle in his hand. Oh no, oh please, oh God . . . . Not her feet. He lightly dragged the feather from her heel, up her arch, to her toes; lingering on the softest bits, the parts of her sole not toughened by callous or underpinned by bone. She waited, feigning indifference, clinging to her composure. Every muscle in her body having gone rigid in a heroic attempt to hold back her response. She bit her lip, stretched her throat so that her chin pointed skyward. Her fingers clutched wildly at the scarf holding her in place, seeking something against which to brace herself. Then, he pulled the blasted piece of fluff slowly between her toes. And she lost it. She shrieked with laughter, kicked and thrashed upon the mattress, her skin sheened suddenly with sweat, her breath flowed harsh and hurried from her lips. Seemingly astonished by her outburst, Mulder momentarily lost his grip on her flailing limb. But before Scully could hope to take advantage of his distraction, he retrieved it once more. Within seconds, he had secured not only one, but both legs. Holding her ankles tightly in his grasp, he pulled them into his lap and locked his forearm over her calves to keep them still. "Well now. *That* was interesting," he murmured in amused fascination, the backs of his fingers coasting lightly over the tops of her tootsies. "I had no idea, Scully. No idea at all." Damn right you didn't, she silently told him. And believe me, Mulder--much as I love you, I had no plans to share the information with you. It wasn't that such teasing pained her, per se. Not really. Not at all. It was only that the sensations were so acute, so all- encompassing. She had no control over her response. No way to mitigate the effect his touch had on her. It was embarrassing. And unexpectedly arousing. Fearsomely so. She wasn't certain whether it was the idea of being completely helpless that she found so exciting or whether it was the actual physiological reaction to stimuli that set her insides on fire. But regardless of the cause, she could feel her groin tightening and pulsing, the tender tissue there engorging with blood. Softening and swelling. Readying itself to be entered. "So, you're pretty sensitive here, eh?" he queried as he brushed against the bottom of her foot with his fingertips, his usual implement of torture apparently having been set aside for the moment. She curled her toes and twisted her ankle, little murmurs of distress slipping out from behind her thinned lips. But, try though she might, there was no eluding this man or his attentions. He had her right where he wanted her. "Don't," she pled, her tone hushed and throaty. "Don't do what, Scully?" he muttered as he picked up the feather once more and began weaving it slowly through her toes. She wiggled them frantically, mewling and moaning, a desperate sort of laughter bubbling forth from her mouth. Her back arched as if she were somehow trying to throw him off. And yet, her supposed plan met with little success. He was just too strong. "Don't punish you when you misbehave?" Punishment. Was that honestly what he was administering? True, the sensations he was wringing from her were keen, edged with a frightening sort of intensity. But he wasn't hurting her. Not yet. "I told you this would happen, you know," he said in a low, menacing voice as he turned now to her other foot, giving it the same sort of treatment he had shown the first. "I warned you that you were going to get it." Great bursts of air escaped from her lips. She tried to shape them into words. But the proper technique escaped her. He chuckled with satisfaction as she writhed feebly before him. "I'll bet this wasn't exactly what you had envisioned." Hell, no. She pressed her pelvis upwards, twisted her torso, strained against her confinement. She could do nothing else. Was powerless against the need roaring through her like wildfire. She had to move, to thrust, to pump her hips. Had to do something. Anything. Anything to ease her awful restlessness. To scratch that dreadful itch. Then suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, her torment ended. The finely feathered plume was withdrawn. And was replaced with Mulder's tongue. She gasped. Then, groaned. The deep wrenching sound feeling as if had been yanked from the very pit of her womb. His hands now cinched her slender ankles, keeping her one leg secured atop his thigh. The other, however, he raised to his mouth. He tasted her skin, lapped at the muscles, traced the bones. Slipped her toes between his lips and suckled them. Gently at first, then harder. Tugging on them one by one, until her nipples, her clitoris ached with the suction. "Is this more what you had in mind, Scully?" he queried softly as he nipped and nibbled his way carefully along her sole. "Do you prefer this instead?" She gnawed on her lower lip, her head rolling fitfully now upon the pillow. "Yes." He finished with one foot and started in on the other, kissing delicately along its side in introduction. "This is nice, isn't it? Better than the feather, I think." "Oh . . . yes," she whispered. She hadn't known, hadn't realized how maddeningly erotic this could be. How intricately connected this small portion of her anatomy was with the rest of her body's pleasure receptors. Mulder apparently had. He took his time, lingering endlessly over her. Until finally, he shifted, her ankles still within his grasp, and set her now damp feet flat upon the comforter. Her knees were bent. Her legs spread wide. "Did you like that, Scully?" he asked, no longer touching her, his voice coming from somewhere near the end of the bed. "Tell me you liked that." "I did," she murmured obediently, more than aware that her vagina glistened beneath its curls, silently telling him everything he sought to learn. "I liked that." "I could do that everywhere, Scully. Over every single inch of you. I could wash your body with my tongue." She whimpered, the images conjured up by his statement almost all she needed to take her over the edge. "And you know where I'd start?" His voice had turned rough, ragged. The bed dipped between her legs. Was he sitting again? No, kneeling. "Right here." And with his fiercely muttered words, he plunged his fingers inside her, his thumb landing on clitoris. She moaned and bucked against him. Almost as if she thought to somehow take control of the situation, to bring herself to climax simply by writhing on his hand. Mulder chuckled at her efforts. "I'd cover you with my mouth," he told her, his fingers moving inside her, edging in and out, just a little bit at a time. "Kiss you there. Softly. Maybe nibble just a little bit." She squirmed beneath him, hissing, "Do it, Mulder. Just do it." He laughed quietly once more, seemingly amused by her vehemence, and circled slowly over her clitoris, stimulating the tender tip. "I will, Scully. I promise. Maybe if you're good, I'll even suck on this. Would you like that?" She gasped and pressed shamelessly against his hand. "Yes." "After you've asked me." Yes, she could do that. She could definitely do that. "Convinced me that you want it." Something in his tone alerted her. She froze, her chest heaving, her lower body impaled still upon his hand. "Go on, Scully," he coaxed, a dark sort of humor running beneath his words. "Beg me for it." Bastard. He was turning the tables on her. Getting back at her for what had happened earlier. He knew as well as she did that this, not his tickling, was her real punishment. And for a moment, she almost missed that feather. Asking for anything, from anyone, had always been difficult for her. She hated the sense of weakness such entreaties provoked. But at that moment, she despised even more the throbbing, burning emptiness centered in her groin. "Go down on me," she muttered, her eyes scrunched behind her blindfold, her hips rocking longingly against the heel of his hand. "Go down on you?" he echoed in mock confusion. "I'm sorry. What does that--?" She groaned in frustration. "Mulder, please . . . . I want your mouth on me." "Please is good, " he softly allowed, his thumb tapping lightly, rhythmically against her clit. "But where, though? Tell me where you want my mouth." "Between my legs." He said nothing at first. Then, slowly he eased his fingers from her. She moaned with their removal. "And what do you want me to do between your legs, Scully?" he queried hoarsely. She took a deep, calming breath. Then gave him what he wanted. "Make me come. Make me scream. Make me beg for more." Silence filled the shadowed chamber for a second or two. Until Mulder murmured, "I think I'd like to hear that." And moved to make it so. * * * * * * * * * Continued in Part V ***The Words Universe, Cancer-Free Since 1995*** "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 5/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net I'm sure many of you thought this day would never come. I know I had my doubts. This is it, folks. Hope it was good for you. ;) * * * * * * * * * Fox Mulder was growing increasingly concerned. He was way too into this whole domination game for his own good. Or for the good of the woman he was dominating. They had dabbled in this kind of sport before. One particularly heated encounter against her living room wall being among his most treasured erotic escapades. But never had they taken it to this length, this extreme. He couldn't get over it. At times, in the midst of their play, he would simply stop and look at his partner. Amazed by her willingness to go along with the whole thing, awed that she would allow him such carte blanche. He would gaze down at her, small and trusting and utterly at his mercy and, odd though the impulse was, he would all at once feel like weeping. In her arms. Like a baby. It was only with the utmost effort that he could put such longings aside. Cut the crap, Mulder, he would ruthlessly instruct himself. This isn't about your giving in to weakness. You do that all too readily. This is about Scully. About her wants, her needs. After all, the entire evening had been her suggestion. She might insist that she had concocted the scenario with him in mind; that she had wanted to prove to him her absolute faith in him. And yet, he suspected that something else was at work here. Something that would ultimately be as much for her benefit as it was for his. It wasn't that he thought Scully incapable of selflessness. On the contrary, he knew her to be one of the most giving individuals he had ever met. But when you got right down to it, he hadn't been the one to request this. He hadn't needed her to prove anything to him. He had told her as much. He hadn't wanted it. . . . What a crock of shit. She lie before him now, her arousal so intense that he could smell the sweet spicy scent of it as it hung over them, wove between them, around them like the richest and rarest of perfumes. He would have to be a eunuch not to want her. Not to desire the beautiful woman laid out before him like a sacrifice on an altar. But he didn't only crave the sensual delights to be found in their union. It was the whole woman he needed. Her intelligence, her warmth, her wit, her laughter, her stubbornness, her integrity, her love. All of it. Every single bit of her he needed, yearned for, had to have. He hadn't been lying earlier. When it came to Dana Katherine Scully his greed knew no bounds. Want, need, desire. They were constants with him. When it came to her. They never went entirely away. Never really dulled, never dimmed. And now, heightened by Scully's far from innocent suggestion, that unholy trinity felt as if it might just rip him totally asunder. Those feelings that he had to this point somehow managed to keep leashed threatened at any moment to break loose. Wreak havoc. He just didn't want Scully to be a victim of the chaos. He looked down at her as he slid his shirt off his shoulders. She rested flushed and lovely; her eyes hidden from him, her hair, a puddle of auburn waves upon the stark white pillowcase. She moved not at all save for the flutter of her chest as she softly pulled in air. He could sense the tension in her. See the tautness in her arms where they lay, framing her head like parentheses. Recognized the way the muscles in her thighs struggled to maintain the position in which he had placed her legs; open and accessible to his eyes, his touch, his tongue. But most of all he felt her longing, her impatience. How difficult it was for her to be forced to lie there passively, waiting on him and his whims. And as his shirt slithered to the floor and his belt slipped free of its buckle, Mulder made the woman on the bed a silent promise. Your wait is almost over, Scully. It won't be long now. With an emphasis on speed not tidiness, he shoved his remaining clothes to the floor. First his trousers, then his socks and boxers. Finally, he stood at the foot of the bed, naked. And fiercely aroused. His penis bobbed swollen and hard, and twitching to be plunged into the hot moist depths displayed so invitingly before him. But, he resisted. Barely. Where he had unearthed such control he couldn't say. Its discovery had proven welcome, but decidedly unexpected. Most especially given how desperate he was to feel her skin glide like silk against his. Silk. Silken flesh. Silken hair. Silken scarves. Silken sheets. . . . Well, maybe not sheets, he wryly mused as he crawled atop the bedding in question and eased into place between her slender legs. Scully was more the practical type. Her taste tended towards simple cotton. But somehow, when they were together it felt as if the background for their coupling was indeed that sort of decadent luxury. That type of opulence. That sort of splendor. He had no other words to describe it. Making love to this woman transcended the usual, the common, the run-of-the-mill. Sinking inside her lush, heated body took him outside of himself. Beyond petty reality; away from the everyday, the tedious. The painful. No question about it. Dana Scully was the sort of woman a man could lose himself in. Devote himself to. And Fox Mulder was going to prove to her just how devoted he could be. When it came to her pleasure. He lay sprawled on his stomach, half on, half off the bed. His arms were snaked under Scully's knees, his fingers gripped lightly just above her hips. He blew gently on the damp nest of curls at the juncture of her thighs. A shiver swept over her, followed closely thereafter by a breathy, low-pitched moan. He could see the reddened skin of her sex, the tiny tip of her clitoris as it peeked out from beneath its hood. God, she was primed. So ready, that the least little touch or caress was likely to send her right over the edge. He'd have to be very careful indeed if he hoped to prolong her enjoyment. He began by kissing her directly in the center of her soft, slick lower lips, his mouth open and tender against her sensitive skin. Almost as if the action were reflex, the woman before him pushed upwards, silently begging him for more. "Ah, ah, ah," he murmured with a smile. "You can't move, Scully. If you move, I'll have to stop. And you don't want that. Do you?" "No," she whispered, her voice throaty and small. "Good girl," he said, kissing first one, then her other thigh. High, on the creamy smooth insides of her legs. "Now stay very still." She didn't speak, but he thought he spied her nodding, the gesture quick and subtle. Content that she understood the newest rule to their game, he went back to what he had started. Slowly, he traced with his tongue the petals of flesh surrounding the entrance to her body, rubbed lightly on the small ridge of muscle separating this opening from the one behind it. A faint, choked whimper floated free from his partner's lips. But she didn't move. He would have to reward her restraint. Delicately, he lapped at her clitoris with his tongue; gentle, teasing little swipes. Groaning, Scully pressed her hips shamelessly against his mouth, her derriere lifting entirely from the mattress. Mulder immediately pulled back. "Scully, you know better than that," he chided in mock disappointment as he nipped and nibbled his way along the area surrounding her groin. Darted his tongue across the crease of her hip, the slight curve of her belly. Dragged his lips once more down her spread thighs. But, granted her no direct stimulation. "I told you that if you did that, I was going to have to stop." "Don't stop," she pleaded, the words husky, passion-clouded. "Please don't stop." He paused, allowing her to wonder if indeed he would, letting her fret just a bit. Then at last, he whispered, "Okay. I guess we can let it slide. This time. But one more move . . . and that's it. I'll leave you here, Scully. Just . . . as is. You know I'll do it." And even though he knew he was baldly lying, his warning seemed to have the desired effect. She licked her lips and nodded again, the motion little more than a jerk. "All right." He smiled and bent to her once more. He hesitated for little more than an instant. Then, plunged his tongue inside her. "Mulder . . . . . . ." His name was uttered on a low, helpless groan. He stole a peek at her face. Her expression was contorted in a grimace of pleasure, her head tipped back, her lips open and desperately sucking in air. But she didn't move. Not an inch. So, Fox Mulder continued doing with one part of his anatomy what he so dearly wanted to do with another. He thrust gently. Into her hot moist body, he slid. And out. He varied the rhythm, the depth. But, he kept up the caress. Until she was keening with it. Then, like a kind of salvation, he captured her clitoris between his lips, held it there. And rubbed his tongue firmly over it. And at long last, Dana Scully moved. Screaming, she bucked against his mouth; twisted and thrashed upon the bed. The headboard banged with abandon against her bedroom wall, the sharp cracks of wood against plaster reminding him of rifle fire. Scully appeared oblivious to the noise; to anything really, other than the ferocious orgasm tearing through her with the sharpness of a blade. Skin shiny with sweat, she dug her heels into the mattress so that she could move her hips more freely, pumping them wildly now against his face. And yet Mulder hung on for the ride, reveling in the knowledge that he had brought her to this, that he alone was responsible for this woman's utter unraveling. He was the man who had prompted her strangled cries. The man who had urged from her this fierce, shuddering release. The man who was going to make her do it again. And before her contractions had fully subsided, he rose from where he had laid crouched at the foot of the bed. Kneeling now between her legs, he kept his forearms beneath her thighs, lifting her legs so that he wholly supported their weight. Sliding as closely to her as he dared, he maneuvered himself into position, and in one swift, piercing lunge, sheathed his rigid cock inside her. God. He could feel her insides pulsing against him, surrounding him in drenched velvet, milking him before he had even had a chance to climax himself. It was all he could do to keep from jackhammering his hips, stroking and stroking and stroking inside her, until he at long last split apart deep within her womb. But somehow he refrained. "You moved, Scully," he growled, his head tipped back, his eyes squeezed shut, the tendons in his neck corded as he strove valiantly for control. Like a miracle, he found it and clung stubbornly to it, even though it threatened at any moment to squirm away from him. "Seems to me you're having a hell of a time holding still." Then, his own hips began to move; hard, short thrusts that had little to recommend in the way of technique or finesse. "So why don't you just go ahead and give in. Move with me," he suggested hoarsely. "Come on, Scully. Move that beautiful ass for me. And let's see if we can't double your pleasure, double your fun." He would later wonder how the hell he had expected her to comply with his instructions. After all, the upper part of the woman's body was anchored to the bed frame while the lower portion dangled in his arms. And yet, somehow she managed it. She hooked her heels around the backs of his thighs and pushed off from the mattress with her shoulders. Her entire body straining with the effort, she slammed against him. Once. Then, again. Mulder met her stroke for stroke. He groaned in delight. "Oh yeah. . . . . God. I'm going to make you come, Scully. I swear . . . I'm going to make you come so hard." Keeping her legs draped over his forearms, he shifted position, balancing his palms against the comforter to give him better leverage. Sweat dripping from his brow, he deepened his penetration. The woman beneath him moaned her appreciation. "That's right," he muttered, his head bowed, his back arching and stretching with a relentless, measured pace. "You like that, Scully? Do you?" "Yeah . . . yeah . . ." He adjusted slightly again, pressed forward just a bit. He scooted up his arms as well, taking her legs with him so that they curled back over her torso, bringing her knees almost even with her shoulders. Her pelvis now pointed towards the ceiling. Downwards he thrust, angling so that his shaft rubbed more directly against her swollen clitoris. "What about this?" he rasped out as he loomed over her. "Better?" She whimpered. "Better. .better. .better. Oh . . . Oh, God . . ." He couldn't have said it *better* himself. It was amazing. This whole crazy evening had been utterly amazing. And now . . . Now it felt as if the woman he loved had somehow, some way absorbed him, and he her. That they had merged. Become one. She was everywhere--beneath him, over him, around him. He could taste her on his lips. Feel her passion-slicked skin caress his own fevered flesh. Hear her faint, tortured cries. Smell her. See her. Witness the way her slender body struggled beneath his as she clawed her way to climax. View the frantic manner in which her head twisted upon the pillow, tangling her hair so that bits of it stuck to her parted lips, her moist, pinkened cheeks. Note how her fingers clutched tightly at the scarf binding her to the headboard, crushing the fabric in her grip, her knuckles white with exertion. "Almost there," he chanted softly, his lanky frame coiling and releasing with nearly mechanical precision. "Almost there, now." "Oh . . . oh . . . oh," she mewled mindlessly in reply, her voice breathy and high. Then, she stiffened. And plunged over the precipice once more. Mulder watched her shimmying helplessly beneath him, her breasts bouncing, her legs locked around his shoulders, her eyes scrunched shut beneath the blindfold. She looked beautiful. Wanton. Wild. And she shared that part of herself with no one but him. In this, she was his. And his alone. God, he loved this woman. Loved her more than he had ever thought it possible to love another human being. He wanted to prove that love to her. To make her happy. Ecstatic. Delirious with it. With him. He wanted to give her everything. Everything he had. Everything he was. Yet, he wasn't wholly convinced of the value of such a gift. He knew even on his best days that he was little more than damaged goods. And as Scully's furious orgasm rippled through her body and over his, he decided instead to opt for something whose worth was more immediately measurable. He was going to bring her to this again. He could do it. He knew he could. Just one more time. * * * * * * * * * * Continued in Part Vb ***The Words Universe, Cancer-Free Since 1995*** "Words to the Wise" (NC-17) 5b/5 by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net I think I've run out of comments . . . . . . . (Now, I'll =never= win that new award!! ) * * * * * * * * * Withdrawing from her with more than a modicum of regret, he lowered her trembling legs. Pulling back a touch, he slipped an arm around her slender waist, and flipped her; maneuvering her so that she rested on her knees, her ass high, her forearms bracing her upper body against the mattress. "Mulder?" Her voice sounded weak, disoriented, as she peered blindly over her shoulder at him, the swath of silk separating their gazes still. Choosing to answer her with action rather than words, he spread her open with his hands, and pushed his way inside her yet again. She groaned and dropped her head upon her bound wrists. Mulder dug his fingers into the soft flesh just above her derriere, pulled out so that only the tip of his penis remained embedded in her, then shoved it home again. "Give it to me, Scully," he gritted out, his hips setting up a rhythm that was noticeably faster, more rocky than before. "I want you to come for me again." "Can't . . ." she whispered into the bedding, the word barely audible above the wet slap of his balls meeting her buttocks. "No . . . I can't." "And I say you can," he growled, hauling her back against him once more. "I =know= you can." She didn't answer, didn't speak at all, but allowed him to manipulate her slender form, to send her crashing against him time and time again. Doing nothing to hinder his efforts, but little to assist. She remained silent save for her soft short gasps, her body fluid beneath his, ebbing and flowing like water. Mulder would later realize that her submissive posture should have tipped him off, clued him in that all was not as it should be. Hell, he would soon after lament, simply hearing the word 'no' slip past her lips should have alerted him. But his focus was off. His attention diverted. He was so intent on his purpose, on bringing Scully to climax one last time and then throwing himself over that cliff right along with her that he didn't pick up on the danger signs. "Come on," he urged from where he lay draped over her body, his lips near her ear, his arm locked around her waist. "Let go. I want you to. I'm telling you to." His cock drove into her mercilessly, sawing back and forth with such ferocity that he wondered if he weren't in danger of shredding what was left of his control. But he held on. Somehow. Searching for that something, that unknown spark that would ignite this woman's passion and send her up in flames. It had to be dramatic, he thought. Extreme. The evening's previous activities left little room for subtleties. What though? He had pulled just about every trick he had ever learned out of the bag. He didn't know how much imagination he had left. And yet, he couldn't give up. Wouldn't give up. He wanted this for her--for them both-- desperately. He had to come up with something different. Something unexpected. . . . The sharp crack of his hand against her bottom ricocheted hollowly about the bedchamber. And for a moment, Mulder fervently regretted his tactic. Christ. He hadn't hit her hard. He hadn't. But, despite his restraint, it sure as hell sounded as if he had. Then, she moaned and arched her back like a cat in heat. And he thought maybe, just maybe, he had chosen wisely after all. "You're being bad, Scully," he muttered, slipping easily into his role, his jaw clenched, his fingers rubbing lightly over the sweet curve he had just spanked. "You're not following my instructions." He brought the palm of his hand down upon her once more. *Smack* She gasped. "I want you to come--I've told you to, and you've refused." *Smack* She hissed in a quick breath between her teeth. "I can't allow that, Scully. You know the rules. You have to do what you're told." *Smack* Her head snapped back, her bottom pushed against his palm. "So come on now," he whispered, his voice pitched in the lowermost depths of his register. "Behave. Don't make me punish you anymore than I have to." His hips still driving into her, he massaged her reddened, rounded flesh with his hand. He could feel the heat rising from her skin. Could sense her arousal steadily growing. Building. She was close. Very, very close. He knew it. All he had to do was give her one last little push . . . . Wrapping one arm across her collarbones and the other around her waist, he rested his chest atop her back. Bowing his head, he licked her salt-sheened shoulder. Kissed her there. Then, opening his mouth, he bit down. And with that, Scully convulsed. Violently. As if she were in the grip of a seizure. Mulder held on for perhaps an extra quarter of a second before he too gave over to the demands of his body. He kept his arms sealed around the woman beneath him, leaned his forehead against her shoulder and pistoned into and out of her like an engine thrown suddenly into high gear. He shivered with it, delicious tendrils of fiery cold tracing their way up his spine and down his extremities. His vision shimmered out of focus, tiny flashes of light flickered at the edges of his consciousness. And somewhere, in the still lucid pockets of his mind, he wondered if this time he'd be the one to swoon. Yet, in the end, he merely collapsed atop the woman whose insides still kneaded his slowly softening cock. Breathless, sated, and utterly relaxed. Together, they dropped to the mattress, Mulder rolling immediately off of Scully so as not to crush her far more diminutive form. He laid there on his side for a moment or two, his breast to her back, his arm thrown over her side. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving, his body still intimately joined with hers. Sighing, he kissed the nape of her neck, nuzzled her hair. Boy oh boy, it really didn't get much better than this. He wondered if Scully felt the same. She was trembling, he noted, delicate little currents of it coursed through her petite frame. He moved to pull her more fully into his arms when, with a kind of surprise, he realized she was yet tied to the bed. Smooth, Mulder, he silently rebuked himself. Real smooth. Stretching upwards, he wrestled free the scarf securing her arms to the headboard. Slowly, Scully lowered her still shackled wrists before her, the motion performed in a gingerly manner, as if she were sore or stiff. Instantly, Mulder was filled with contrition. "Hey, you all right?" he murmured softly as he fumbled for the knot holding her blindfold in place. After tugging first one way, then another, he finally managed to draw the scarf up and away from her eyes. And discovered something that sent his heart careening around the inside of his chest like a twister-tossed trailer. She was crying. His brave, beautiful Scully had tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes. Oh my God. What had he done? His mouth suddenly felt like someone had vacuumed it dry. "Scully . . . what is it? What's wrong?" She didn't answer. Instead she shook her head, her eyes remaining tightly shut, and turned her face towards the mattress. Sitting up, he leaned over her in a kind of panic, and with as much gentleness as he had in him freed her hands from their last remaining restraint, wincing when he saw the bands of red circling her slender wrists. "Dana, talk to me," he implored as he laid down beside her again and carefully drew her unresisting body into his embrace. She allowed him to hold her, but did not turn towards him. "Are you hurt?" Still, she said nothing, choosing instead to shake her head once more. All the while, she openly wept, her face hidden beneath her tousled hair, her chest hitching as she strove to control her sobs. Mulder wrapped his arms around her, and choked back tears of his own. Oh man. He had fucked up. He had fucked up big time. Here he had been trying to prove how much he adored this woman, and instead he had reduced her to tears. Scully. A woman who had stared down lunatics bent on her destruction and not so much as blinked an eye. She was crying because of him. He had never known it possible for a man to loathe himself as much as he did at that precise moment in time. Not even in New Orleans. When he had nearly killed her. "Scully . . . Scully, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice ragged with grief. "I'm so, so sorry." She remained mute, her trembling continuing unabated. "I just . . . I wanted . . . ." What? What had he wanted? What had he hoped to achieve? He couldn't speak. Didn't have the words. Couldn't think. Like you ever can, his conscience taunted. Like you ever do. Did you think this one through, Mulder? At all? Did you consider your actions for even a millisecond? Mull over their ramifications. The dangers they presented. To her. No. If he had, he would never have gone so far. Never have pushed and pushed and pushed this woman to her breaking point. Christ. She had given him control, placed herself in his care because she had trusted him. Trusted him to know when to stop. Believed that he loved her enough to keep her from harm. And this was the way he repaid her. By tying and teasing and beating her body into submission. Yeah. Some fucking Romeo he had turned out to be. Swallowing down a sudden surge of bile, he tenderly brushed her hair away from her cheek, his fingers trembling now, like her. "Scully, . . . I never meant. . . . I never wanted to do anything to frighten or hurt you," he began haltingly, his hands drifting over her body; caressing, soothing, apologizing. "I only tried to . . . to make you feel . . . . I don't know. Feel something more than you usually do when we're together." He kissed the corner of her jaw, her curve of her ear, her shoulder. "I felt awful about tonight. About the fight, and . . . the rest of it. And I thought . . I thought I could make it up to you." "Mulder . . . ." She looked up at him from over her shoulder, her lashes spiky with tears; her eyes, shimmering blue pools. "No, wait," he said, his fingers landing softly on her lips. "Let me finish." She regarded him gravely for an instant, then rolled into his arms, her cheek on his chest, her arm twined across his middle. And Mulder said a silent prayer of thanks. The damage can't be too great, he reasoned, if she turns to me rather than away. Taking heart from that bit of insight, he gathered his thoughts, his frayed emotions, and continued. "I made a mess of it," he quietly confessed. "I took things too far. I know that now. And I'm sorry." "But you--" Scully murmured, her voice rough and low. "But nothing," Mulder said, cutting her off. "There is no excuse. No excuse at all for what I did." He closed his eyes and kissed her shiny hair. "Not when I love you as much as I do. Not when you are so much a part of me that I can't drive you from my mind for more than seconds at a time." He tightened his arms around her, pressed her cheek to his heart. "You're what's best in me, Scully. What I try and fail to be every moment of everyday. I need you. You're what keeps me whole. What keeps me sane." He chuckled at his words, thinking she probably had a decent case should she choose to disprove his latter statement, and was dismayed to find the sound waterlogged. Oh great. Now they were both crying. "Because I'll tell you something, Scully. When it comes to control . . . there's only one person who truly has it." He turned slightly, and carefully eased himself from beneath her so that they wound up on their sides, facing each other. Reaching down, he gently tilted up her head with the edge of his hand. Their eyes met and held, both awash with tears. Mulder just looked at her for a time, tracing her features with his fingertips. Then, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "Right there, Scully," he whispered as he enfolded her hand in his so that it made a small, tight fist. "That's where you hold me. In the palm of your hand." Her eyes clung to his for a moment longer. Then, she smiled, tears glistening still in her lovely eyes. "So, I don't need to tie you up to make you do my bidding?" He shook his head, a dry half-smile of his own lifting the corner of his mouth. "Only if you want to. I'm flexible." She bent her head to his, and kissed him softly. "Mulder?" "Hmm?' he queried, thinking that perhaps his apology had been accepted, no questions asked. "I feel I should tell you something." Shit. He knew it had been too easy. "What?" She licked her lips and dropped her gaze. "When I was crying before . . . . I wasn't upset." He raised his brows in disbelief. "You weren't? You sure could've fooled me." She quickly shook her head. "No,. . . what I mean is. . . . I guess I was kind of . . overcome. But not for the reasons you thought I was." Now if felt as if it was his brain not his heart swirling in a dizzying fashion. "I don't follow." Pursing her lips, she sighed. "Let's just say we probably both would have been better off if I had just fainted again." Slowly, the pieces were shifting into place. "Are you saying--" "I'm saying that you took me someplace I'd never been before. Someplace scary, true. But, someplace I wouldn't mind visiting again someday." "You wouldn't?" he asked in no small astonishment. "No," she confirmed softly, her hand cupping his cheek. "Not as long as I knew that you were there." He just looked at her again, the expression in his eyes stark, unvarnished by pretense or reserve. "I don't deserve you." She kissed him. "=I= didn't deserve that spanking," she quipped as she pulled away. "Want me to kiss it and make it better?" he offered, a playful leer darkening his features. "Maybe later," she said, stifling a yawn as she settled back into his embrace. "Could you just hold me now?" "I could do that," he said solemnly as he gathered her to him. And as they lay wrapped in each other's arms, their tired bodies floating towards slumber, Mulder realized something both simple and profound. Control wasn't something to be wielded or denied. But rather, something shared. Exchanged in a never- ending give and take. And there was no one in this universe or any other that he would rather share his with, give more to than the woman curled around him, her hair spread like fire across his chest, her hand gripped tightly in his. * * * * * * * * * THE END Oy! ***The Words Universe, Cancer-Free Since 1995*** "Words to Live By" (0/17) By Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch While the actual intro to this piece can be found just prior to chapter one, I wanted to start things off with a brief note of explanation. This has little, if anything to do with the story. Please feel free to skip it entirely if personal disclosure isn't your bag. :-) This has been a wacky year for me. In addition to having a whole slew of life changes to muddle through, many of you know that I was also robbed in late June. The thieves broke in when I was out of town and made off with many of my valuables, the most damaging of which being my computer. It wasn't just the hardware that I missed, but the first six pages of WTLB, chapter 16. I had been struggling with that measly 15K for months at that point, distracted by workplace angst and general writer's burnout. I was fortunate enough to be able to replace my stolen computer within a month's time. However, the new machine proved to have a faulty modem. So, while I was able to write, I couldn't get on the web. The computer was, of course, under warranty. Unfortunately, to get it fixed I would have had to bundle the thing back into its original packaging and ship it off to the manufacturer. Being without a car, such an arrangement was frankly more hassle than I could stand at that particular point in my life. I decided I would simply wait until I moved (which I did last month), get a cable modem, and bypass the problem entirely. So, here I am, many months later. :-) If you've written to me and haven't received an answer, chances are, I haven't seen your letter. I haven't even attempted to open my in-box since mid-July. That's on this week's "To-Do" list. I also hope to get caught up on my fanfic reading. From time to time, I'd surf over to Ephemeral during my lunch hour and grab a story or two. However, I know I've overlooked stuff along the way. If there are any "don''t- miss" stories you'd like to recommend, I'd appreciate the heads-up. Basically, I need to get re-acclimated to the community. After all, we've only got a year left to go (I believe that to be the case despite the devastation that is Fox's fall line-up). I want to enjoy this crazy online world while I can. And finally, here's my contribution to said world. Sorry for making all those who were reading it chapter-by-chapter wait so long for its conclusion. Karen "Words to Live By" by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch I've been talking about this story for quite awhile now. I knew the outline of it way back when I wrote "At a Loss", but before I felt as if I could tackle it, I needed to fill in some of the gaps for myself. Hopefully, that mission has been accomplished. I guess you guys will be the judge. Title: Words to Live By (1/17) Rating: NC-17 (language, sexual situations, violence) Category: MSRTA (honest!) Spoilers: Not really. Like all the Words Universe, this is set post-abduction and pre-cancer. Expect no episode references past Season Three. You may want to read the other "Words" stories to understand what has come before. Summary: The Smoker and his buddies are on to our heroes' relationship. In order to save Mulder, Scully must leave him. But will she be strong enough to do either? Chronology: Sequentially, this comes after "At a Loss for Words" and before "A Mother's Words." Disclaimer: While I like to think this universe is mine, the characters who inhabit it are not. Mulder, Scully, the Cigarette Smoking Man, Skinner, and the rest are all the property of Fox Television, 1013, and Chris Carter. Side Note: Please realize that while the cabin from "Coming Back" and "The Calm After the Storm" makes its reappearance here, those stories are not connected with any of the "Words" tales. It's just that I already know in my head what that structure looks like. So why reinvent the wheel? *************************************************** Dana Scully was exhausted that early September evening when she pulled up in front of her apartment building and maneuvered her motor pool Taurus into a fortuitous, nearby space. No sooner had she lined up the Ford the way she wanted it than, almost as if in greeting, the block's street lamps flickered to life, glowing like a double column of oversized fireflies. Was it that late already? she wearily wondered, killing the ignition. Good Lord. She had been locked away in the basement for so long she had nearly forgotten what daytime looked like. And with night falling earlier and earlier as summer drew to a close, little was left of that particular Thursday to offer her much in the way of clues. The sun had long since set below the surrounding rooftops, leaving behind only a fuchsia aura as a reminder of its brilliance, the sky itself having turned from cloud-free blue to dusky purple. Pushing open the car door and sliding from behind the wheel, she stood and arched her back, smiling with a kind of pained pleasure when she heard three soft pops sound from the base of her spine. Boy. A few more weeks like this one and all those thin, little vertebrae were going to fuse together for good, she thought. It seemed inevitable what with all the hours she had spent lately hunched before her computer, researching, or bent over one form or another, filling in the blanks. It was review time at the J. Edgar Hoover Building--that yearly period when all federal agents took stock not only of their accomplishments, but also of the accomplishments of those directly under them. It was a tedious process, one predicated upon an endless succession of reports. Scully tolerated it as best she could, but her boredom was such she almost wished Mulder would dig up a case requiring them to go traipsing through a nice, dense forest somewhere trailing after Bigfoot's surlier younger brother. Almost. However, seeing as a road trip to escape the paperwork blues was by any measure unlikely, she decided instead to indulge in a bath to buoy her mood. A long, hot one. Vanilla scented bubbles. Merlot on the side. Paradise. Smiling now in anticipation, she made her way down the corridor towards her apartment, her mind drifting, her step leisurely. She unlocked her door and entered, juggling her mail, briefcase, and keys. Depositing her belongings on the hall table, she shrugged out of her blazer, her back to the living room. With only the streetlights and faintest remnants of day leaking through the blinds, she was operating more on instinct than any real sense of sight. Toeing off her heels, she stretched out her hand for the wall switch, intending to remedy the situation. When all at once she realized she wasn't alone. "Good evening, Agent Scully," intoned a man seated at her kitchen table, alerting her to his presence. Hearing the unfamiliar voice, she whirled, eyes wide with bewilderment and shock. An older man calmly looked back at her, his hound dog face providing her with his identity in a way his murmur had not. The Smoker. The man Mulder claimed was responsible for ordering her abduction and the death of his father. "Make yourself comfortable," he continued, his tone silky and low. "After all, this is your home." Her home. The murdering bastard was sitting there, smug as you please, after having obviously broken into her home. Incensed at the idea, her hands flew to the small of her back, struggling to free the gun she had holstered there. "Let's keep it friendly, shall we?" suggested her visitor as he withdrew a battered pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. "I only want to talk." With that, another man stepped into her line of vision, emerging from his hiding place in the shadows. This intruder was larger and younger than the other. Dark, sleekly styled hair. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. Hired muscle, she grimly recognized. Not all the expensive tailoring in the world could disguise the banked power lurking beneath his Italian-cut finery. The bruiser hovered protectively behind the man seated at the table, his meaty hands poised on his hips just inside his suit coat; his right one inches from the automatic tucked into the waistband of his pants. In a quick draw contest, she wouldn't stand a chance. "What do you want?" she asked without ceremony or fear, her arms falling reluctantly to her sides. She'd bide her time, she decided. Hear him out. Wait for the proper moment to make her move. With a little luck, she might be able to get the two of them on breaking and entering. "Why don't you come here and sit down?" the first man offered with just a touch of condescension, slipping a Morley between his lips as he spoke. "You've no doubt had a long day. I'm sure you'd like to unwind." "I prefer to stand," Scully said, wishing she had left on her shoes. She felt far too vulnerable, small and girlish, opposing these two men in her stocking feet. If either male noticed her discomfiture, they chose not to comment upon it. The older one merely flicked his lighter beneath the end of his cigarette, setting it ablaze. Drawing hard on his stick of tobacco, he pocketed the silver-cased butane, his eyes never leaving hers. Letting the smoke drool like water from his lips, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged. "Suit yourself." She nodded. "But place your weapon on the table." Her gaze shifted from The Smoker to his henchman. The big man's gun no longer rested idly at his waist. It was instead gripped tightly in his hand. And pointed at her chest. She hesitated only an instant. Then, lips thinned, she did as she was told. "That's better," said the man seated opposite her. Stretching forward, he pulled her Sig Sauer to directly in front of him, effectively putting it entirely out of her reach. With practiced skill, he removed the ammunition clip and laid it on the tabletop beside the weapon. Scully bit back her frustration and waited. "I want you to listen to something," said her unwelcome guest, pausing between sentences to take a drag off his cigarette. "Something I think you'll find quite interesting." With that, he gave his hulking cohort a nod. The younger man crossed away from the dining area and into her living room. Moving with a grace that belied his size, he strode directly to her stereo, turned it on, and popped in a cassette tape. Looking over his shoulder at her, he pressed "Play." At first, she heard only static. White noise. Nothingness. Then, quietly, the sound muffled yet audible, a man and a woman began to speak. Mulder. And her. In glorious Dolby stereo. <"So what do you say, Scully?"> <"I don't know. I have to admit . . . I'm not exactly 'in the mood.' All this paperwork has given me the mother of all headaches."> She recognized those words. Had spoken them less than a week ago. Last Saturday night. After a day spent composing their annual departmental review. <"Ah! A challenge."> Mulder. His tone whimsical, lighthearted. Like a little boy who after a long day at school was looking forward to the playground. His seduction underway. Scully's eyes darted to The Smoker. He looked back at her, the slightest suggestion of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. No. They wouldn't. Not even They would . . . <"I don't want to disappoint you."> <"So don't. It's your choice, Scully. I would never force you."> Another kiss after that, she remembered. The brush of his lips against hers, too gentle for the microphone to pick up. All that sounded was the faint rustle of their clothes, and the hushed, heated murmur of their breath. Trying to master her embarrassment, she drew her eyes away from The Smoker's knowing stare, choosing instead to focus on the floor, her arms folded protectively around her middle. <"I am not, however, above trying to persuade you."> Oh God. Mulder had been a gifted lobbyist that night, she recalled. As persuasive as any of the professionals on Capitol Hill. She had been tired and cranky after a Saturday spent pouring over case files and arrest reports, trying to make an argument for keeping the X-Files open for another year. She hadn't been lying; a thundering headache had begun pounding behind her eyes shortly after dinner, its rhythm beating in time to her heart. <"It's just stress, Scully. Your headache. Stress and maybe some eyestrain from trying to decipher my handwriting. You need to relax. Let me help you relax."> "That's enough," she said tightly, her gaze lifting from her perusal of the baseboards to light on that of the man seated before her, poised, in control, like a king surveying his court. "Turn it off." "Oh no," he said, his tone mild, his expression benign, the perverse sort of light shining in his eyes inconsistent with his apparent kindliness. "I want you to hear all of it." There was no need. She knew exactly where this would end. The memory was only days old, fresh and vivid in her mind. They had been in her bedroom, Mulder and she, standing between her bed and the small low-backed chair in the corner. His hands moving slowly over her, his lips skimming along her throat, her cheek, dipping from time to time to taste her mouth, he had lazily stripped her of her clothing. <"See what I mean? Feel how tense you are? You shouldn't let yourself get worked up over this stuff, Scully. It's not as if Skinner is going to close down the X-Files just because we forget to cross a few T's."> <"You were the one who said we should put in some hours on this over the weekend."> <"A shameless ploy to get me into your bedroom."> <"We were working in the living room."> <"Yeah. But look where we are now."> She had chuckled at that, she recalled, hearing that laughter now almost as if it were an echo of the memory. And despite the throbbing in her head, she had tried to return the favor, to rid Mulder of his jeans and T-shirt while at the same time he peeled away hers. <"No. Not yet. Let me." A sharp creak. His knees as he knelt before her.> She had stood there, just a few nights past, already naked from the waist up, the cool breeze seeping in through the raised casement pleasurably tightening her nipples. Fingers threaded through his rumpled hair, she had allowed her partner to finish undressing her. Handling her carefully, he had eased her feet free from the denim pooled around her ankles. Her socks had followed soon after. Then finally her panties. <"See. Doesn't that feel better already? Now there's nothing to bind you. Nothing to make you feel . . . restrained."> At that, he had kissed her, just above the coarse nest of hair that sprang from the joining of her legs, his fingertips trailing lightly over the backs of her thighs, her buttocks. <"Mulder. . . ."> Her voice sounded husky to her now reddened ears, entreaty drenching the word, molasses sweet and thick. Mulder must have recognized the plea as well; because he had then guided her backwards towards the corner chair. . . . <"Sit. Now scoot down. Yeah . . . that's it.> Listening to the tape it was clear in a way it hadn't been at the time that anticipation had begun to affect Mulder nearly as strongly as it had affected her. His voice had dropped to the depths of his register, rumbling like a kettle drum. <"Comfy?"> <"I suppose."> Trembling now with a combination of mortification and rage, Scully would have given absolutely anything to stop that cassette, to run to the stereo, wrench it free and rip the slender magnetized strip from its casing, shredding it to bits. Because on that Saturday evening not so many days before, Mulder had seated her in that bedroom chair, draped her legs over its arms, and lowered his mouth to the tender area between her thighs. Licking and sucking and nibbling over every sensitive inch, he feasted on her, intent on pleasing her as only he could. <"Relax."> And she was going to have to relive every single intensely private second of that encounter. With The Smoker and his friend as an audience. But they would not have the satisfaction of hearing her beg. <"Oh, Mulder. . . . God!"> Not to them, anyway. She wanted to die. Scully would later question how exactly she had managed to live through the next several minutes of her life. How she had been able to survive the shame without breaking down entirely. Even though she knew the tape couldn't have lasted as long as all that, while she had stood there, in the dark, alone, it had felt as if her humiliation was without end. As if she were going to be trapped forever in that shadowy living room, a place that had once served as her haven, her refuge from the evil Mulder and she daily battled. Only now, two representatives of that wickedness stood and watched her reaction as together the three of them eavesdropped on the sound of her partner's lips moving open and warm over her swollen flesh while she writhed beneath him, mindlessly urging him on. <"Yeah. There . . . there. . . . Oh . . ."> Her frantic mewling was bad enough, but the soft, wet sounds Mulder made as he coaxed from her those cries were far worse, their wordless yet telling murmurs damning. <"Mmm. . . oh . . ."> As she listened, she could see the two of them, Mulder and she, plainly picture them. She, naked and flushed, her eyes squeezed shut, her face tipped towards the ceiling, her toes curled, every particle of her being concentrated on nothing but his mouth, straining towards it, asking for more. Begging him to end the ache. He, still clothed, his tousled head bent over her, bobbing, his nose nuzzling her curls. His tongue unerringly finding that perfect point, that exact spot, and then massaging it, rubbing over it in small, tight circles. His fingers pressed against her soft, yielding thighs, holding her open, defenseless against his onslaught, his own arousal heavy and hard beneath his jeans. And if she was envisioning the scene, screening it inside her head like one of Mulder's videos, she had no doubt the men standing there with her were similarly engaged. "Why are you doing this?" she asked at last, angry tears held just barely in check, her hands fisted now at her sides. "Why does anyone do anything?" The Smoker countered serenely, stubbing out his spent Morley in the houseplant centered on her kitchen table "Why do you and Mulder do this?" "For pleasure, I expect," he continued, that same unholy amusement yet twinkling in his eyes. "But perhaps there's another reason, something else you seek." <"Mulder . . . oh . . yeah . . ."> "What would that be, Agent Scully?" he prodded, clasping his hands together and leaning towards her as if hoping to capture her confidence. "Why is it you fuck your partner?" <"Yeah. . . . =Oh!="> And with that sharp, bitten off yelp, Scully's ordeal ended as quickly as it had begun. The woman on the tape moaned in ecstasy, signaling her climax. Waiting only a moment for her voice to crack then shatter into a long, breathy exhale, The Smoker nodded to his helper. Immediately, the other man stopped the cassette and, ejecting it from the player, pocketed it again. And for a moment, the three of them simply held their positions in silence. The men giving away nothing with their stony countenances, Scully breathing rapid and hard, trying desperately to keep from flying apart under the strain. "As you can imagine, there are other tapes such as this one," the Smoker said after a time, his tone conversational. "Several, in fact. Some recorded at his apartment, some at yours." He paused, almost as if inviting commentary. But for the life of her, Scully couldn't think of a single thing to say. "We've yet to stumble across anything . . . untoward taking place while you've actually been on the job." With that, he smiled, toying with her now like a lazy tom with a confused, overmatched mouse. "I really must commend you two on your professionalism." "What difference does it make?" she gritted out, taking a step towards The Cigarette Man, her backbone rigid. "We're not breaking any laws. The FBI has no policy forbidding personal relationships between employees." "True," he admitted with a nod. "Technically, your employers have no say over your personal lives." "Then why are you so interested in them?" she asked. "Because I do." At first, his bland proclamation took her so much by surprise she could only blink her astonishment. Then, a grunt of humorless laughter forced its way past her lips. "Oh really?" Hearing Scully's softly spoken challenge, the second man abandoned his post at her stereo, crossing instead towards the pair at the table. Seeing him stride closer, The Smoker lifted his hand, staying The Henchman. Like a show dog demonstrating obedience, the big man stopped almost at once, midway between his target and his starting place. "I brought you this tape, Agent Scully, as proof," said The Smoker, in contrast, apparently unruffled by her reaction. "Evidence, if you will, to substantiate our claim." Her brow arched dangerously. "And what claim is that?" "You're sleeping with your partner," her nemesis said bluntly. "I don't see what--" "And that has got to stop." "=What=?" she said, eyes wide, as she took a step nearer to the man, her hands resting now on the back of one of the table's chairs. "What are you talking about? Why do you care what Mulder and I do? We don't work for you." "No, you don't," he agreed easily as he tapped another Morley free of its pack. "You work against me. You both do." Scully shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand." He dug out his lighter from his coat pocket, worrying it between his fingers while he spoke, the cigarette already dangling between his lips. "My colleagues and I made a mistake when we first teamed you with Agent Mulder. We had thought that giving him a partner--particularly one who was skeptical of his work, his beliefs--would slow him down. Interfere with his investigations." He paused to light up, pulling deeply on the Morley, his cheeks hollowing with the effort. "But that didn't happen," he continued, his face now shrouded in smoke. "Instead, his confidence grew, his solve rate soared." He eyed her darkly, his cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, the effect oddly effeminate. "The only time that trend has reversed was when you were missing." Her hands tightening around the chair's thick wooden back, Scully wished she instead had them wrapped around his throat. "In the months since you two have gotten . . . closer, matters have only worsened," he said, taking another puff. "You have brought a certain stability to the work, a methodology, a maturity that despite his years, Mulder once lacked. You two complement each other in ways we had never considered. Together, you are a threat to our work." How strange, she thought. How surreal to be standing there with the man responsible for any of a number of atrocities perpetrated against her and her partner, listening to him list her accomplishments, praising her as if she were a prized pupil. "And that can't be allowed to continue. Our mistake must be remedied." His pronouncement didn't frighten her. It only made her furious. "I don't have to listen to this," she said coldly, pushing away from the chair to stand, feet planted shoulder's width apart, her stance clearly combative. "Get out of my apartment." The Smoker didn't move. "I'm afraid you do need to listen, Agent Scully. That is . . . if you want to keep Agent Mulder alive." An icy tendril of fear began inching its way down her spine, weakening her resolve. "What do you mean?" "I told you. With you, Mulder has become more than a nuisance. He has become a detriment to our work. Someone we can no longer ignore." He pulled once more on the Morley. "He needs to be taken out of the picture. Eliminated." Her blood ran frigid and fast through her veins, her pulse suddenly roaring in her ears. "If you so much as lay a hand on him, so help me God--" "Oh, come now," The Smoker said, chuckling indulgently at her outburst. "Do you honestly believe you could stop us if we chose to end your partner's life?" Oh please, God. Not that. Not now. "Have you ever killed anyone, Agent Scully?" he slyly asked, almost as if he sensed her terror, and like any predator scenting vulnerability, was moving in for the kill. "Yes," she said softly, her mouth parched, her heart beating wildly. "It's easy, isn't it?" he asked, the question almost chummy. "So simple and so many ways to do it. A bullet, a knife, a car crash, a fall. The human body isn't nearly as resilient as we like to think. Bones can be brittle. Skin, paper thin." "Why are you telling me this?" she queried hoarsely, fearing she already knew the answer. "Agent Mulder lives because I allow it," he replied, his cigarette once more poised between his fingers. "I protect him." "Why?" she asked again, knowing this was a question Mulder himself asked from time to time. The Smoker shrugged. "Past alliances. Debts which are owed by me and by others. A certain fondness for his family. Call it a whim if you like." He took one last puff then stubbed out this Morley like he had the first. "Unfortunately, the time for such indulgences is at an end." "I won't let you hurt him," she quietly swore, her words spoken like the most sacred of oaths. The Smoker smiled, unfazed. "That won't be necessary if you do your part." "Which is?" "Leave him. Leave Mulder and the X-Files. Walk away." A kind of disbelieving laughter welled up inside of her, bubbling from her lips in a series of wet-sounding chuckles, the sort that threatened at any moment to turn into sobs. "You want me to quit the FBI?" "Oh, I don't know if it needs to come to that," The Smoker said, pursing his lips as if considering the scenario. "I'm sure I could arrange for a transfer to any office you like. Any department you like." "If I resign as Mulder's partner," she said, her words a statement, not a query. "And as his lover," he murmured, watching her with hooded eyes. For a breath or two, Scully just stood there, shaking her head, her expression incredulous. "That's crazy. Even if I agreed, what makes you think Mulder would let me go without a fight?" "Oh, I'm well aware of your partner's devotion to you, Agent Scully," he assured her grimly. "We've been closely monitoring you these past few months. I know how much he depends upon you, both on the job and off." Monitoring her for months. Good Lord, exactly how many tapes like that were there? she wondered in dismay. Had Mulder and she enjoyed even a moment's privacy since they had consummated their relationship? "He won't believe me," she said, desperately searching for an argument to refuse his demands. "I can't just end what we have without a reason. He'll be suspicious." The Smoker's face was without sympathy or mercy. "That's your problem. You have to find a way to make him believe. It's either that, or I arrange for Agent Mulder to suffer an unfortunate accident. The choice is entirely up to you. I place his life in your hands." "If he dies, I'll kill you," she whispered, her eyes filling with fiery tears. "I don't care what rock you hide under, I'll find you." "Agent Mulder stands to live a long and healthy life," he said soothingly, his mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. "One without you, true. But then . . . is laying between your legs really worth dying for?" Her cheeks burned with chagrin. If she had been armed, she would have happily pumped every last bullet into his smiling, hateful face. "It's simple, Agent Scully," he said briskly, the matter apparently settled in his eyes. "End your relationship with Mulder and the X-Files. Move on." The Smoker then rose, his action acting as a signal to his assistant. The larger man saw it and crossed to stand beside him once more. "If you can't do that, if you can't bear to leave your partner and the basement, you will leave me no choice but to find another way of rendering him less . . . effective." He paused there for a moment in her all but light-less apartment, taller than she had first thought, all legs and arms, studying her almost thoughtfully. "It's not so much to ask, when you think about it. Couples break up everyday. You know what they say--all good things come to an end. Yours and Mulder's just came a bit sooner than you had anticipated." Together, the men crossed past her for the door, The Henchman quelling any heroic notions she might have entertained by keeping his automatic pointed in her direction. Scully watched them go, her mind whirring, franticly trying to come up with something to turn it all around, to allow her some small victory. Something, at least, to work with. A chance to think. . . . "I'll need time." Her visitors turned to regard her, the older one with his hand resting on her front doorknob. "I can't just break it off with him," she said, clearing her throat. "If you want me to convince him, I'll need to work up to it. To make it seem real." The Smoker considered her request for a second or two. "All right. You can have some time." She breathed a silent sigh of relief. "But know my patience is not without limits," he warned, his voice ominous in the darkness. "We will be watching you, Agent Scully. One word, spoken to Mulder or anyone else, and his life is forfeited. There will be no second chances. Do you understand?" "Yes," she whispered with dread. "I'm giving you the opportunity to save him," he told her quietly, his shadow lean and menacing, staining the floor between them like inky blood. "To save you both. Don't make me regret my generosity." And without another word, he and his companion slipped out of her apartment and into the light. While Scully stood motionless in the darkness, wondering if this was a nightmare from which she would ever be allowed to awaken. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter II "Words to Live By" (2/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch All disclaimer and such are found prior to chapter one. Thanks! *************************************************** 9:38 At most, mid-morning. Still, late nonetheless. Standing at his office file cabinets in his shirtsleeves, Fox Mulder glanced from the pages in his hand to his watch and pursed his lips in concern. Scully should have been there by now. What could be detaining her? True, with the hours he kept, she almost never beat him in the door. Just the same, she was usually at work by nine. Did she have an appointment or something he had forgotten to write down? He had just crossed to his desk and picked up the phone, thinking he would try her cell, when she breezed in the door, her cheeks flushed, her hair wind-tousled, briefcase and an extra large cup of coffee in her hands. "Hey, Scully," he murmured casually, his eyes sweeping over her, surreptitiously checking for clues as to the reason for her tardiness, searching for signs of injury or distress. On the surface, all seemed to be well. She appeared perfectly sound. Pant-suit clad and ready for business. A bit harried, perhaps, her gaze shadowed with what looked to be annoyance or anxiety. But that was to be expected if she had rushed to get downtown. "Morning, Mulder. Sorry I'm late." "Traffic bad?" he queried as he perched his hip alongside his computer monitor and watched her settle in for the morning. "No," she mumbled, unpacking her briefcase, her eyes averted from his. "I overslept." "Late night?" he asked, his tone light, his eyebrows raised. "Long week," she answered, glancing up at him for just an instant, a tight, almost embarrassed smile stretching her lips. "Well, I don't know if this is any consolation," he said, pressing to his feet and strolling to stand before her, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "But, the worst of 'review week' should be over. When I got home last night, I keyed in those last few edits we'd talked about. Then, this morning, I ran copies of all the support data we'd collected, put the two together and dumped it all in Skinner's in-box." "Great," she said absently, booting up her computer, her focus on it rather than on him and his news. "That's good to hear." Studying her, shadow painted by the office's fluorescents, the tiniest glimmer of unease flickered at the edges of Mulder's consciousness, its sparkle too quick and too faint for him to fully grasp what was being revealed to him. "You all right, Scully?" he asked at last, wishing he could be more original, but unsure how else to voice his worry. That brought her gaze to his. "I'm fine," she said with another small smile. "It's just . . . I'm really ready for the weekend. You know?" Rather than returning her smile, he searched her eyes. Ocean-blue, they regarded him mildly. He thought he spied the weariness to which she had alluded swimming in their depths, clouding the water. Otherwise, she looked okay. Didn't she? He couldn't decide. So, in the end, he murmured only, "It's been a long week." She nodded and returned to her work. Which left him standing there, staring stupidly at her profile, unable to fully shake his disquiet. Yet he couldn't just gape at her all day. "Uh, listen, Scully," he said, clearing his throat and running his hand distractedly through his hair. "The guys in VC wanted my opinion on that stalker they've been tracking in Philly. So, I think I'm gonna go up and--" "Go ahead," she urged, pulling open her desk drawer and rummaging around its contents. "I've got stuff to do. I'll see you when you get back." "All right then," he said evenly, trying not to feel as if he were being summarily dismissed. Which it sure as hell seemed as if he were. "Maybe if I get back in time, we can grab a sandwich or something for lunch." "Sounds good," she said brightly, shutting the drawer and swiveling back to her computer, newly selected ballpoint and legal pad in hand. Hesitating for an instant, Mulder finally nodded. Then, retrieving his suit coat from the back of his chair, he slung it over his shoulder and exited the office, his brow knit in thought. Scully waited until she heard the elevator doors open and close before she bent down and popped open her briefcase. Withdrawing from it the evidence bag she had packed that morning, she headed for the door, her prize clutched tightly in her hand. But rather than following her partner's path, she turned away from the bank of elevators at the end of the corridor, hurrying instead towards the stairs opposite them. Let Mulder ride inside that creaky old Otis. Violent Crimes was five floors up. While the Identification Unit was only two flights away. ***** "Who is it?" "It's Scully, Frohike. Open up." At a few minutes after one, Dana Scully stood outside the headquarters of the Lone Gunmen, impatient, exhausted, and feeling more than a trifle guilty. She had slept little the night before, only managing to fall into an uneasy slumber just before dawn. Despite her nagging fatigue, she had been far too keyed up to snooze. She hadn't the time. She needed to plan. Locks clicked behind the thick, metal door, one after another, like machinegun fire. Once, such precautions would have amused her. Not anymore. After the previous evening's confrontation, she recognized them as necessary. Which was why she had come to these three men when she should have been having lunch with her partner. Oh boy. Mulder was not going to like that note she had left on his desk. I'll make it up to you, Mulder, she silently promised, her arms folded tightly across her chest. I swear I will. "The lovely Agent Scully," murmured the diminutive man framed in the now open doorway, a certain endearing eagerness in his eyes. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" "I need your help," she said, stepping past him and into the Gunmen's den, squinting as her eyes adjusted from mid- afternoon sun to the near darkness within. "Always happy to oblige," Melvin Frohike said, securing the door behind them once more, the fringe on his suede vest swinging lazily as he moved. "What can we do for you?" "Where's Mulder?" Langley asked before she could reply, looking up from where he sat at a nearby counter, a sub sandwich, chips, and soda spread before him, his mouth half full when he spoke. "Working," she said shortly. "He doesn't know I'm here." "Do you mind if I ask why?" Byers queried, crossing towards her from a bank of computers on the far wall, his kind eyes bright with curiosity. "This doesn't concern him," Scully said, hoping against hope she had built enough trust with these men over the years for them to keep this visit from Mulder. If not, she was in big trouble. As was her partner. "This is about me and my problem." "And what problem would that be?" Frohike asked, sidling up alongside of her. "I think I'm being bugged," she told them, her expression grim. "And I need you to tell me how to get rid of them." ***** "Well, looks like your suspicions were right on," Langley admitted, dropping four small silvery objects into her open hand. She gasped when their slight weight landed with a silent thud against her palm. "Bugs. And I don't mean cockroaches." Swallowing hard, she gazed at them in disbelief. Oh my God. Scully didn't know why the sight of the listening devices unnerved her so. After all, The Smoker had been far from subtle in providing her with proof of his treachery. Still, it was one thing to be told she was under surveillance and quite another to hold the evidence in her grasp. Shit. She half expected one of the tiny microphones to suddenly develop teeth and take a bite out of her flesh. They were simply that menacing to her. Surrounded by the Gunmen, like Snow White amongst the dwarves, she stared at the bugs with a mixture of repulsion and fascination, rolling them between her fingers like dice. "Where did you find them?" she queried softly at last. "Two were in the phones, the others we found in the living room and bedroom," Byers said, standing opposite her, his tone almost apologetic. "Don't worry. We've taken the liberty of deactivating them. They're nothing more than scrap metal now." "Is this all of them?" she asked, lifting her eyes from the bits of circuitry to question the trio. Hovering protectively on her right, Frohike shrugged, then nodded for emphasis. "Should be. We've been over the place three times." Three times. The Gunmen had been busy while she had been out. "But you should realize, Agent Scully, just because we've gotten rid of these, that doesn't necessarily guarantee you won't still be listened in on," Byers said. "What do you mean?" she said with a frown, her insides knotting with dread. "There are other ways to get the job done," Langley said bluntly, towering over her on the left. "Remotes, satellites even." "Satellites?" she echoed, shaking her head in denial. "Why would . . . ? I can't imagine anyone would consider me important enough to aim a satellite at." "You'd be surprised, Agent Scully," Frohike said gently. "It's easier than you'd think. That kind of thing doesn't just happen in techno-thrillers anymore." Her life was turning into one big techno-thriller, she thought with dismay, one written by Tom Clancy with an assist from Stephen King. "They could even keep it simple, come back and replant devices similar to these," Langley said, gesturing to the objects in her fist. "If they got in once, they can do it again." "Oh, that's reassuring," Frohike muttered, throwing his long- haired cohort a scathing look. "What?" Langley asked blankly. "If you like, we could come back and sweep the place every couple of days," Byers offered in a rush, seemingly also trying to make amends for his associate's tactlessness. "Till this is over, I mean." Smiling wistfully, Scully shook her head once more. "No. . . no. Thanks. But if what you've told me is true, I don't see what good it would do." Pivoting towards Frohike, she took his right hand in her left. Turning it palm up, she placed the now dead bugs in its center then pressed his fingers around them, sealing it shut. "I'm sorry I wasted your time." "You . . . you didn't *waste*--," the little man began, stammering at her touch. "I do need one more favor though," she quietly confessed, her hand still resting lightly on his. "Name it," he said fervently, staring at her with unabashed devotion. "It's a long shot, but see if you can dig up anything on who manufactured these things." "Three guesses," Langley mumbled, his brows lifted behind his thick black frames. She nodded. "I won't be surprised if it's a government vendor. But I would like to know for sure." She gave Frohike's hand a friendly little squeeze before releasing it. "In case." "In case of what?" Byers asked cautiously. She slicked her lips and took a deep breath. "Hang on to these. If anything happens to Mulder or me, I want you to take them to Assistant Director Skinner. Tell him about this. All of this." "All of what?" Byers demanded, his forehead wrinkled with care, his hands lifting and lowering feebly at his sides. "You haven't told us what's going on." "Why can't you tell Mulder?" Langley asked. "Who is it you're afraid of?" Frohike chimed in. But Scully only shook her head. "I've told you too much already. Just please, =please= trust me on this. You can't say anything to Mulder. His life will be in danger if you do." "What about your life?" Frohike gravely queried, his voice hesitant and low. She smiled sadly at her pint-sized friend. "Mine is mine to worry about." If asked, the three men standing with her would have told her they shared in that concern. ***** Less than an hour later, Dana Scully had stripped off her power suit and slipped into her favorite terry cloth bathrobe. Unfortunately, this beloved article of clothing didn't provide quite the measure of comfort it usually did. Yet the soft tap of rain against her living room windows did in some way ease her soul. Its gentle sound was soothing. And unexpected. She couldn't recall anyone mentioning it would be a wet weekend. Like your mind has been on anything as ordinary as the weather, she thought with the tiniest hint of derision. Cup of tea in hand, she sank down onto her living room sofa and, placing her beverage on the end table, wearily ran her hands over her pale cheeks. What a hellish 24 hours. Chuckling mirthlessly, she lowered her fingers from her face and checked the clock on the mantel to confirm her math. 8:26. Yep. Almost exactly a day. So why did it feel as if she had been undergoing this particular ordeal for decades? She should have known not to get her hopes up. Her plan had never had anything but the slightest chance for success. Yet, even recognizing the odds, for a brief time she had allowed herself to believe she might actually have a way to fight back. She had sat up the previous night, mind spinning frantically, struggling to come up with a means around The Smoker's demands. Several hours and countless cups of tea later, she had decided that rather than play the victim, she was going to go on the offensive. Her nemesis apparently knew all her secrets. So maybe it was time she unearthed a few of his. Starting with his identity. And she had prayed the thumbprint she had lifted from her front doorknob would provide that information. She had been so proud of herself the evening before, rustling her dusting kit out of the suitcase she kept packed on the floor of her closet, the one she always had handy in case Mulder called unexpectedly, airline tickets in hand. Wielding her brush with the care of DaVinci, she had dabbed graphite on the brass, the overrun drifting like sooty snow to the newspaper laid below. Almost magically, the lines and whorls had appeared beneath the powder. Yes! Smiling with a kind of muted delight, she had painstakingly lifted the print with tape and transferred it to the latent. She had then tried the same trick on her cassette player, hoping to also assign a name to The Henchman. Unfortunately, the stereo's plastic casing hadn't proved as cooperative as the doorknob's slick surface. She would have to be satisfied with attempting to track down only one of her two visitors. Still, one would have been enough. If he had appeared in any of the Bureau's numerous databases. "You're sure there's no match?" she had asked Agent Willa Monroe that afternoon, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. The statuesque African-American had been a pal since the Academy, and was currently one of the Identification Unit's senior techs. Having left the print with Agent Monroe that morning for analysis, Scully had snuck back into the lab after her meeting with the Gunmen, all the while worried she might run into Mulder in the halls of the Hoover Building. "The guy doesn't have a record," the ebony-skinned agent had told her, "if that's what you mean." "What about the Bureau database?" she had asked, her urgency scarcely held in check. At that, her friend had turned from her computer to eye her with the sort of skepticism Scully usually reserved for Mulder. "You think someone from the Bureau broke into your car?" In the absence of a case file to assign the inquiry to, she had needed to come up with a reason to impose upon the FBI's resources. And Scully had decided to make it personal. "It was parked in the Bureau garage," she had said with what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. "Seems like we should check and see if the thief is one of our own." Seemingly doubtful of her logic, Monroe had held her gaze for a second or two before eventually sighing and bowing to her request. Only to come up empty once more. After that, Scully had spent the remainder of the afternoon personally searching the military and governmental databases. With the same result. The Smoker didn't officially exist. It was as if her intruder had been a figment of her imagination, as insubstantial as the smoke that had drifted from between his lips. Defeated, she had finally driven home, her mind more on her phantom persecutor than on the thick Friday night traffic. By that time, the Gunmen had already been at her apartment for hours, meticulously searching its confines per her request. She supposed she should have been relieved by what they had found, justified in the paranoia that had haunted her throughout that long, hard day. But in the end, she just felt overwhelmed, and confused as to how she should proceed. Sipping thoughtfully at her tea, her melancholic musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Scully?" Mulder. Great. Just what she needed. For a moment or two, she simply sat there, wondering how best to get rid of him. Much as it pained her to hurt him, she simply couldn't do this right now. Couldn't maintain the facade. She was too tired and too frightened to pretend all was right with the world. Besides, on the off chance The Smoker had other ways of monitoring her than the listening devices they had destroyed, she had to toe the line. Had to make him believe she was taking steps towards dissolving the bond between Mulder and she. Her partner's life might depend on it. "Scully, you in there?" If she waited much longer, he was bound to use his key. Pushing to her feet, she padded to the door and peeked through the peephole. Mulder stared back at her, damp and flushed. Dressed in sweats and a ripped, worn Frank Zappa T-shirt, he looked as if he had gotten caught in the recent downpour. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. "Hey," he murmured, his eyes sliding down her slender form, noting her attire. "Did I wake you?" "It's not even nine yet, Mulder." "Then why are you dressed for bed?" She tilted her head to the side, her arm braced against the jamb, barring his entrance like a gate at a tollbooth. "If you must know, I was getting ready to take a bath." She expected him to come back with an innuendo-laden retort. Instead, he merely nodded and asked a bit diffidently, "Can I come in?" She sighed. It was so much harder to deny him when he was acting more puppy than tiger. "Mulder, look," she began, her gaze focused somewhere around his knees. "It's been a long week. I'm tired and out of sorts and, quite frankly, not very good company right now." "Did I do something?" His softly voiced query dragged her eyes up to his. He looked back at her, his gaze steady yet troubled, his face near hers, its bottom half shaded blue-black with stubble. "What?" "Did I leave the toilet seat up or run over the cat?" he asked, his anxious expression belying his playful tone. She couldn't believe it. She was the one who had given him the cold shoulder that morning, who had stonewalled his best attempts at communication then ditched him without so much as a backwards glance. She ought to be the one apologizing. Yet there stood Mulder, wholly contrite, like a child willingly stretching out his hand to have his wrist slapped. His readiness to take the blame made her insides cramp with guilt. "This isn't about you, Mulder," she said slowly and patiently, wondering as she spoke if he could sense her control about to fray. "Not about you or anything you've done. This is about me. About my needing a little time to myself. That's all. Can you give me that?" Solemnly, he nodded. Just as she knew he would. Yet he made no move to leave. They stood there, contemplating each other, for a second or two. Now that she got a good look at him, Mulder appeared to be more drenched than damp. His hair lay flat against his skull, its rich brown shiny as a seal pelt. The soft jersey of his ratty old tee clung wantonly to his shoulders and chest, coating his sleek muscles and knobby little nipples like faded red paint. She could smell the rainwater on his skin. "So, did you come all the way over here to ask me about my nonexistent cat?" she queried, the words coming out husky and velvet rough. "I don't know why I came," Mulder quietly confessed. "I was running. And before I realized it, I was here." Her eyes grew wide. "You didn't jog all the way from Virginia, did you?" "No," he said with a lopsided smile. "I took off from the Hoover Building. I'd worked late and decided I needed to clear my head before I went home." Leaning against the door jamb, she chuckled ruefully. "You mean to tell me you ran, unarmed, at night, in the rain, through the streets of downtown D.C.?" "It wasn't raining when I started," he argued sheepishly, a self- directed bemusement shining in his eyes. "Besides, it's not all that far to Georgetown. It's basically a straight shot down Pennsylvania." "Did you give any thought as to how you were going to get back?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest and arching her brow. He shrugged. "The way I came, I guess." She shook her head. "Uh-uh. No way. I'm not letting you tempt fate a second time. Give me a minute. I'll change clothes and give you a lift to your car." Scully turned away towards the bedroom, but before she could take more than a few steps, Mulder grabbed her arm, halting her progress. "Scully, don't worry about it," he said, his fingers curled tightly around her wrist. "I'll just hop a cab." "On a Friday night, in the rain?" she queried in disbelief. "Just how long do you plan on waiting for one?" "Then I'll go on foot," he said with another lift of his shoulders. "It's not like I can get much more wet." "Mulder--" she began with a sigh. "Scully, you were just about to get in the tub," he reminded her, a gentle smile softening his mouth. They stood in her living room, close, her robe sliding over his legs, her forearm resting against his chest. He still had hold of her, his fingers circling her like a bracelet. She looked up into his eyes and saw there a fatigue that matched her own. A care she had helped foster. Lips pressed thin in regret, she reached up with her free hand and pushed back a shock of hair from his brow. He shivered. She wasn't certain of the cause. It might have been the brisk September air. She hoped it was her touch. Fuck The Smoker. Fuck 'em all. "You look like you could use a nice hot bath yourself," she murmured, her gaze lingering on his. "Actually, I'm more a shower kind of guy," he mumbled, his breath stirring her hair. She drew away from him and crossed to the door. Closing it, she locked them in. "Why don't you go take one then," she suggested, tossing the words over her shoulder as casually as she was able. "I'll see if I can find you something to wear." "I thought you wanted some time to yourself." She turned to face him once more. Poor Mulder. He appeared utterly confused. She couldn't say she blamed him. She knew she was sending him contradictory signals. It wasn't intentional, just a byproduct of their situation. She wanted to protect him, would do absolutely anything to keep him from being harmed. And yet, only a day into this charade, she was finding it impossible to keep him physically safe without wounding him emotionally. She had seen the questions shining in his eyes. What's going on? Why are you acting so strangely? Is it my fault? Damn it. The man had literally run to be by her side. She couldn't just turn him away. "I do," she said at last. "I do need some time on my own. But I have the rest of the weekend for that." He nodded a bit uncertainly. "I don't need to be alone tonight." Mulder dipped his head again, his eyes locked on hers. "Go on," she instructed, unsettled a bit by his stare. "Go on and take your shower before you catch a chill." Scully watched his back as, without another word, Mulder retreated from the living room down the hallway towards her bathroom. Nibbling on the corner of her mouth, she crossed to the stereo and turned on her CD player. Instantly, soft classical music filled the room. She listened for a moment, then bumped up the volume. There. That's better. If she really was still under surveillance, there was no sense in making it easy for them. ***** Fox Mulder stood naked beneath the stream of soothing warm water, closing his eyes as it sluiced over his head, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. Thank God, Scully didn't go in for all that flowery girly stuff, he mused, rubbing his hands vigorously over his face to help rid it of suds. Rather than roses or lilies, the woman he loved opted for subtler, greener scents when choosing toiletries. Shampoos and soaps that reminded him of leafy vines and forests and newly mown grass. Which meant not only did she smell great, but he could borrow her grooming supplies without fear of reeking like Rex Reed's latest pool boy. It felt good, the water raining down over him, washing away his weariness, his sweat, the worry that had been plaguing him since Scully had first sailed into their office that morning. He couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't pin it down and neatly label it. But something was wrong. He'd bet his life on it. At first, he had feared it might be him, that he had somehow done something to anger or annoy her. While Scully wasn't a game player, she sometimes had trouble addressing issues between them. Such a scenario might account for the tension he thought he sensed crackling around her, hissing and snapping like a field of static electricity. Yet, if that were the case, he honestly couldn't recall what would have set her off. He had been mulling it over since midday, since returning to the basement, eager to steal a work-free hour with his favorite redhead only to find a terse note in her stead. Crushing the scrap of paper in frustration, he had begun replaying the past week or so inside his head, searching for clues. And had come up with zero. He had been a good boy lately. On his very best behavior. So, if it wasn't him, what was it? The question had echoed endlessly between his ears as he had pounded his way down D.C.'s darkened streets. Aimlessly, he had run, examining the problem from every angle, dissecting it, meditating on it. Yet, ultimately, failing to achieve enlightenment. With this present quandary monopolizing his thoughts, was it any wonder he had ended up on her doorstep? He hadn't meant to bother her, hadn't planned on disturbing her solitude. But something had summoned him that night, drawing him to her in a way he couldn't entirely explain. He had needed reassurance, had wanted to make certain Scully was all right. That, together, they were both all right. Thankfully, it appeared they were. After all, she was letting him spend the night. Contemplating just what 'spending the night' might mean in this particular instance, Mulder heard the bathroom door open, then click shut. "Scully?" he called, soaping his belly. "What towel did you want me to--?" His question died when the shower curtain slid noisily on its thin, metal rod, folding in on itself like an accordion. To reveal Dana Scully, her hair piled winningly atop her head, wearing not a stitch of clothing. Smiling shyly at him, she stepped into the tub. For a moment, he could only stare. "Wha-- . . . what are you doing?" he queried dumbly at last, his shoulders pummeled now by spray. "I'm conserving water," she said lightly, reaching out to take the soap from his suddenly paralyzed hands. "I thought you were looking forward to your bath," he said, mesmerized by the way droplets of water bounced from his body to hers, the manner in which they beaded on her pale skin, clinging to her like fat, juicy gumdrops of moisture. He wanted to eat them off her, one by one. To lick and suck, to dry her with his tongue. "I decided that you, in the shower, was more appealing than me, alone, in the bath," she murmured, lathering her hands. "Do you mind?" Mind? Why would he mind sharing a shower with a gorgeous woman? "No," he answered succinctly. "Turn around," she directed, setting the soap back in its dish. "I'll do your back." Mulder did as he was told. Facing the faucet, he stood so that his chest was once more hit by spray. Scully slowly ran her hands down his body, gently spreading the suds with her palms, rubbing it into his skin with her fingertips. It was heavenly. Bowing his head beneath the nozzle, he sighed with contentment. "Feel good?" she asked quietly, her words muffled by the water falling around them. "Feels great," he assured her, his hands braced now against the shower walls for balance. Almost as if she had been awaiting such tacit permission, she began smoothing over him a bit harder, rolling his muscles, working out the kinks. Without thinking, he tipped back his head and let loose with a groan, the water running down his cheeks like tears. "Sore?" she queried. "A little," he muttered, eyes squeezed shut. A lot, if he were to be honest with her. Between the days spent putting together their review for Skinner, the hours spent worrying over what was going on with his partner, and the minutes spent running over D.C's unforgiving pavement, his body was in knots. Good thing Scully's fingers were so nimble. And so strong. Firmly, she kneaded the length of his back, starting at his shoulders and working her way down. Gripping and releasing, she massaged his aching flesh, digging deep, stroking long. Finally, she made her way to his behind, pressing against the thick, heavy muscle there with the heel of her hand, rotating against it in tight, hard circles. Mulder was in ecstasy, pushing back against her with his hips, his chin tipped downwards so that it rested against his chest. "Yeah . . . oooh, Scully. Right there." They stayed like that for a long while, with Scully giving his ass more attention than it probably deserved. Mulder was just about to make a crack about her having missed her true calling. When, all at once, her hands strayed from their task, trailing instead around the front of his body to make their acquaintance with another part of his anatomy. "Oh!" he gasped when her fingertips closed carefully around his not-quite erection. "Shh," she crooned, her arms twined tightly around him, steadying him as she strained to reach her goal. "It's okay." It was more than okay. It was fabulous. Tenderly, Scully slid her hand down his cock and back again, the way eased by suds. She handled him delicately, as if she feared hurting him, the pressure exerted not tremendous. Still, it was enough to stiffen the muscle beneath her fingers, to thicken it. To add an inch. Then, two. "Oh, . . . Scully," he moaned, water pounding against his scalp, flowing into his ears, his mouth. "Oh, yeah . . ." "I know," she whispered from his shoulder, her thumb circling his tip before her hand slipped down to ever so gently jostle his balls in her palm, moving them slowly from side to side. "I know." She was draped over him like a blanket, her breasts flattened against his shoulder blades, her ripened nipples nudging him like impatient fingers. As much as he was reveling in her ministrations, part of him wanted to turn and pull her into his embrace. To caress her, kiss her, drive her as out of her mind as she was making him. But Scully wouldn't let him. She held him fast and near, her cheek plastered to his back, her hands slowly yet steadily drawing him away from his torso, stretching him to his fullest. Over and over she stroked, varying the speed and intensity in what he assumed must be an effort to prolong his pleasure. Much to his delight, her tactic was succeeding. His hips pumped with the rhythm she set, back and forth, the crisp hair between her legs tickling his backside each time he swayed into her. Finally, he knew he couldn't take much more. He could feel his groin growing hotter, harder, tighter until . . . . . He jerked in her hold, his head snapping back so the water above him poured wildly into his mouth and nose. Splattering the tile before him with his release, he groaned and grunted, thrusting against her still moving hand, wildfire blazing up and down his spine. And as he shuddered mindlessly beneath the now cooling spray only one thing kept his joy from being complete. The note of desperation he swore he heard woven through Scully's words when she fiercely whispered, "I love you, Mulder. Never forget I love you." * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter III "Words to Live By" (3/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch All disclaimer and such are found prior to chapter one. Thanks! *************************************************** Mulder slept late the following morning, even though he and the woman who shared with him her bed had retired early the night before. The retiring early part had been all Scully's idea. After their bathroom encounter, she had pleaded exhaustion which, while it wasn't entirely a lie, was a smoke screen. Having judged the slap of water against tile and porcelain loud enough to camouflage their activities, she hadn't worried about being overheard when she had joined Mulder in the shower. However, even with the stereo cranked, she hadn't been certain they wouldn't be listened in on elsewhere in the apartment. And no way was she adding to The Smoker's tape collection. Luckily for her, Mulder had been as genuinely wiped as she had claimed to be. He had followed her lead without argument or coercion. Sweetly bidding each other goodnight, they had nestled cozily beneath her comforter, lying close, their limbs tangled like tree roots. Yet, even sheltered in her lover's embrace, cradled against him warm and secure, Scully had lain awake for hours, her thoughts jumbled and all-consuming. What to do. . . . What to do. . . . The question echoed still when she finally slipped from bed, groggy with fatigue, shortly after dawn. Tiptoeing silently about the flat so as not to rouse her overnight guest, she threw on black leggings and a long, bulky grey cable knit, wanting to be dressed when he awoke. She would have preferred, of course, to have simply remained beneath the covers, wrapped around Mulder, skin to skin, all morning long. But such indulgences were no longer an option. You just never knew who might have their ear pressed against the wall. Pondering that disturbing new reality adjustment, Scully stood at her kitchen counter, slicing in two a wheat germ bagel, when she heard Mulder steal up behind her. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she murmured fondly as he pressed a soft, damp kiss to the nape of her neck. "Did you sleep well?" "Too well," he mumbled in reply, his arms looped heavily around her middle, his nose burrowing now in her tousled hair. "I didn't hear you get up." "You weren't supposed to," she retorted mildly, popping the bagel into the toaster. "I was trying to be quiet." "But, Scully," he whispered from just behind her ear, his voice morning gruff, his breath scorching her tender lobe. "I like it when you're loud." With that, he drew her yet more fully against him, her back to his front, his groin pressed firmly against her buttocks. Stealthily, his hands slipped beneath her sweater to stroke along her suddenly ticklish midriff. "Mulder," she sighed in breathy rebuke, her eyelids drooping, her insides turning almost instantly to thick, bubbling syrup. But rather than take note of the faint censure threading through her voice, Mulder chose instead to focus on the arousal his touch had so obviously stirred. Skimming up her satiny skin, he reached beneath her clothing to cup her breasts in his palms. Lifting them slightly, his thumbs traced slow, bone-dissolving circles around their crests. "So whaddya say?" he murmured, punctuating the question with a sharp nip just inside the neckline of her pullover. Scully twitched and moaned as his teeth scraped her skin, her fingers tightening their already fierce hold on the countertop's edge. "Wanna make a little noise?" He couldn't have killed her desire any more thoroughly if he had somehow morphed into The Smoker himself. "Uh-uh," she grunted as she twisted gracelessly in his hold, determined to face him. To end his seduction before it could begin. "I'm not falling for that." "Falling for what?" he asked, his hands reluctantly sliding free from her clothes. His arms caged her now against the counter. Thus positioned, he loomed over her, standing so close their bare toes nudged. Scully pressed back against the cabinets, trying to win a little breathing room. Yet, there was scant to be had. Mulder was purposely crowding her, urging her to be aware of him. Of his needs. His intentions. Message received, Sir. Loud and clear. Heart thumping with his nearness, she snuck a peek at his face. His hair feathered messily across his forehead, falling forward as he stared down at her to mingle with her own. His breath slipped from between his parted lips, bathing her brow, warm and vaguely minty. He had taken the time to brush his teeth. The louse. It was so unfair. That she should be expected to resist this. Resist him. Torture really, when she wanted it as badly as he. Sighing at the injustice, she bravely pulled her eyes away from his tempting mouth, glancing downwards instead as she sought to find an avenue for escape. Bad decision. Not the need to flee--the whole eyes below the waist thing. She had forgotten Mulder had gone to bed dressed in nothing but a pair of plaid flannel boxers. He was garbed in them still. Well- worn, they left little to the imagination. "You're trying to seduce me so I won't kick you out," she mumbled resolutely, determined to remain strong. "I'm trying to seduce you for reasons other than that," he assured her, bending down to nuzzle along her hairline. "Maybe, but the result would still be the same," Scully argued as, spying an opening, she swiftly ducked beneath Mulder's arm and crossed away to the refrigerator. Don't look at him. Mustn't look at him. "If I give you half a chance, you'll lure me back to bed. And before you know it, the day will be gone." "Missing time," he murmured from somewhere behind her. "We've got an entire file drawer dedicated to the phenomenon back at the office. You sure you don't want to investigate, Agent Scully?" Keeping her back to him, she pulled open her Frigidaire, searching for the orange juice she had bought earlier in the week. "Not today, Mulder. I have things I have to do." At first, nothing was said as she rooted amongst the perishables. It wasn't until she had finally located the elusive quart of Tropicana that Mulder mumbled . . . "Things that don't include me." Shit. She had hurt him. Again. "I need this, Mulder," she muttered, hiding behind the refrigerator door, the carton of orange juice clutched tightly in her hand. "It's a weekend. That's all. Don't turn it into something it's not." He made no reply. So, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Scully closed the gleaming white side-by-side and returned to the counter, pretending as if the matter was closed. Stretching up to seize two glasses from the shelf overhead, she began to pour the juice. Almost as if on cue, the bagel she had dropped in the toaster seemingly hours before sprang from its fiery prison, announcing its readiness. Pity she had lost her appetite. "If there was something wrong, you'd tell me. Wouldn't you?" he queried softly at last. Briefly, she closed her eyes, guilt squeezing her heart like a hurried housewife might wring a sponge. Opening them once more, she turned to steal a glance in his direction. Mulder stood with his fists on his hips, his head bowed. "There isn't anything wrong. How many times do I have to tell you that?" Gnawing thoughtfully on his lower lip, he met her eyes. Studying her for a beat, he admitted, "Until I believe it." "Mulder--," she sighed. "Try to understand, Scully," he said quietly, taking a tentative step towards her, his fingers raking restlessly through his hair. "This thing we have . . . it's been going well between us. For a long time now. Almost a year." She nodded slightly, encouraging him. "I've been . . . happy," he confessed with a sheepish shrug. "And you . . . well, I haven't felt like I needed to hide sharp objects from you or anything." She thinly smiled, hoping the curving of her lips might direct his attention away from the moisture gathering in her eyes. "I'm not used to that," he continued, seemingly oblivious to the tempest raging inside her, unknowing of the shame his simple disclosure stirred. "Not used to getting the things I want and then being allowed to keep them." Grimacing, he shook his head and rubbed his palm over his lips and jaw, almost as if he were somehow trying to scrub clean his mouth, to erase what he had just said. "You. You're what I want. What I wanted for a very long time. And sometimes . . . sometimes I'm afraid it's all gonna go away. That the proverbial other shoe is finally gonna drop." Swallowing hard, she reached out and closed her fingers just above his wrist, thinking to reassure him with her touch. "Don't be afraid." For the longest time, he stared down at the sight of her hand on his arm, his brow scrunched tight in contemplation. Finally, shaking his head once more, he pulled from her grasp and turning away, headed for the bedroom. "I better go." Chasing him across the kitchen floor, she grabbed him by the shoulder, stopping him before he could leave the room. "Wait . . ." He rounded on her impatiently. "Make up your mind, Scully. Stay or go. What do you want me to do?" She wet her lips and shrugged a bit helplessly, feeling foolish. "It's just . . . you don't have to take off right away. Don't you want some breakfast?" "I'm not very hungry," he murmured, his breath ruffling her hair. She still had hold of him, her fingers digging into the firm, pliable muscle atop his arm. Yet even as she clung to him, she asked herself why. Why stop him from doing what she had been hoping he would do since he had arrived? Why try and keep him there? Better he should leave. They might be listening. "I'm sorry," Scully whispered, releasing him, her eyes unable to meet his. "Don't be sorry for telling me the truth," he said evenly. Oh God, Mulder, she thought with a measure of desperation. Twist the knife, why don't you? "Maybe you're right," she mumbled dully, gesturing towards him as if to say 'it's your call'. "Maybe you should go." Mulder hesitated for a moment. Then, nodding sadly, he did just that. ***** Mulder hadn't been gone an hour before Scully tried calling him. She didn't know precisely what she was going to say, how she was going to make amends for her behavior. At that moment, however, details were inconsequential. She needed to hear his voice, to attempt in some way to atone for her sins. Yet all she got was his answering machine. She hung up without saying a word. She had no more than returned her cordless to its charger when she heard a muffled ringing from the entry hall. Her cell phone. Mulder? Scarcely resisting the urge to run, she hurried to the front door. Fumbling in the side pocket of the briefcase she had left leaning against the wall there, she retrieved the palm- sized Nokia. "Scully." "That was foolish, Agent Scully." The Smoker. She froze in the foyer, her mouth turning drought dry, her heart plunging to the soles of her feet. "What are you talking about?" she asked, careful to keep her tone even and low. "The objects you and your three friends found. I told you no one was to know of our discussion." "They don't know," she said quickly, her pulse thudding so loudly at her temples she almost couldn't hear herself. "I didn't tell them about that, only that I was being bugged." "Even if what you're saying is true, their discoveries are bound to make them . . . . suspicious. It puts our arrangement at risk." She had to chew on her bottom lip to keep from laughing, afraid once she started, she'd never stop. "I don't think you have to worry. Finding those bugs isn't going to make the Gunmen anymore suspicious than usual." For a moment, he was silent on the other end of the line, seemingly mulling over her words. His reticence frightened her. What if this small transgression was enough to make him strike out at Mulder? "I trust them," she said calmly, hoping her fears in no way seeped through her voice. "They're my friends. I have asked them to keep this a secret. From everyone. Even Mulder. They won't betray me." "They had better not," he finally murmured. "Betrayal will not go unpunished, Agent Scully." She breathed slow and deep, trying to quell the nausea churning sluggishly in the pit of her stomach. "See that you remember that," he warned. "I will," she assured him quietly. For an instant, neither of them said anything. Scully wondered if she had permission to hang up. Then the man on the other end of the line spoke once more. "On a more pleasant note, I must congratulate you on your handling of the situation this morning." "What situation this morning?" she queried with a frown. "Getting Mulder out of your apartment," he said, his knowledge of the incident destroying any hopes she still harbored regarding her home's surveillance. Or lack thereof. "I was concerned, of course, when I learned he had spent the night. But I'm beginning to see the benefit to doing things your way." "My way?" she echoed warily. "What exactly do you mean by 'my way'?" "This 'taking your time'," he explained. "Working up to it bit by bit. The more I think about it, the more I approve. After all, how can Mulder help but believe you no longer want him once you give him incident upon incident illustrating that very thing?" Bastard. As if she didn't already know her role in this farce. "Go to hell," she snarled into the handset and, punching a button, severed their connection. Yet, even though she had silenced his voice, Scully swore she could hear The Smoker still, chuckling softly, mockingly, inside her head. ***** Fox Mulder felt like 34 going on 100. Damn basketball hustlers. He had been jogging by the university, leaving Scully's neighborhood in the same fashion in which he had arrived, when he had happened upon a pick-up game on one of the school's outdoor courts. He had watched for a moment or two, gaze drawn, as always, to any sort of athletic activity. To his critical eye, the pair who had captured his attention had seemed evenly matched; neither was more than six feet tall, one stockier, more muscular than the other, but at the same time clumsier, less sure on his feet. They were pretty good ball handlers, possessing no great speed, but decent jump shots. They would have been even more formidable if they had dared to take it to the hoop. Instead, they each seemed to prefer playing the perimeter. When the two saw him watching their game, peering almost wistfully through the rusting chain linked fence, they had invited him to join them. "Come on, man. You up for a little two-on-one? Twenty bucks to the winner, just to make it interesting. We'll even spot you five points to even up the odds." Feeling as if he could do with an outlet for all the emotional gunk swimming around his system, he had shrugged in acceptance and strolled through the gate. He could take these guys, he had judged with a confidence that bordered on swagger. He could take them and maybe teach them a little something while he was at it. Yet, as it turned out, he was the one who was taught a lesson that morning. If asked, Mulder would have liked to have been able to say his b-ball opponents were better actors than they were players. But that would have been a lie. They were damned good players. Once they had him in their grasp, their tentative, low-keyed styles vanished. True natures revealed, they showed no mercy, darting and passing and shooting like they had somehow suddenly gotten hold of John Thompson's play book. Up and down the cracked slab of concrete they ran him, their game fast and physical, their accuracy with the basketball humbling in the extreme. *Swish* *Swish* *Swish* It wasn't long before Mulder's wallet was $20 lighter and his limbs felt about 20 pounds heavier each. "Hey, no hard feelings. You know?" the skinnier shyster said when it was over, pocketing the only cash Mulder had been carrying. "I mean . . .you don't play too bad for an old guy." Oh. So that was what was meant by 'damning with faint praise'. "Thanks, sonny," the ancient one mumbled between gasps. Sigh. Was he really that big a patsy? Did he have the word "Sucker" tattooed across his forehead? It sure felt like it these days, Mulder silently fumed as he sat hunched forward on a court-side bench, trying to capture his fugitive breath. God. First, Scully . . . then his two Nike wearing con-men. . . . Wincing, he felt the sting of conscience's whip. That's out of line, he thought with a shake of his head, wordlessly reprimanding himself. How ridiculously unfair to lump the woman he loved in with the pair of would-be Hoyas. She asked you for a weekend, Mulder, and you label her a Jezebel. Try not to be anymore pathetic than you have to be, okay? It wasn't the weekend, he silently argued, pushing to his feet and taking a few weak-kneed steps towards the street. He could handle being on his own. After all, it wasn't as if Scully and he had ever been joined at the hip. They spent plenty of time apart. Caution dictated they do so. It wasn't that she supposedly needed time to herself. It was that she was lying to him. He was positive of that now. The warning bells had begun clanging the previous morning and had only gotten louder and more vehement as the day had progressed. He imagined most guys wouldn't get so bent out of shape by a bit of simple secret-keeping. So, she doesn't tell you everything. Big deal. Everyone has stuff they want to keep to themselves. A little mystery is good for a relationship. It keeps you from becoming complacent, from taking your partner for granted. However, Scully and he had never operated that way. Not since Chicago. Oh sure, she would dodge his inquiries every now again. Claim she was "fine" when he knew damned well she was anything but. Yet she had never been able to keep up the charade for any length of time. If he called her on it, demanded her honesty, she would come clean. Reluctantly, but thoroughly. Not this time though. Something was going on. Something she was hiding from him. In the beginning, he had thought it might be him. That Scully was angry with him or tired of their whole cloak and dagger love affair. The notion had terrified him as few things had the power to. But after the previous night, that theory had all at once become far less compelling. She wouldn't have been able to give him that truly exquisite hand-job unless things were right between them. Would she? She wouldn't have held him like that, her arms slim yet strong, told him she loved him while his body quaked in her embrace, helpless with the force of his passion for her. No. Scully wasn't capable of that kind of deceit. And never in a million years would she have invited him into her bed, melting against him all soft and yielding. Not if she had truly wanted him gone. Then again . . . she hadn't let him make love to her. Mulder grimaced as he slowly made his way up one of Georgetown's busier thoroughfare, hobbling as if he were a suffering from the gout. Jesus. He must have pulled something. He could do with another of Dr. Scully's patented shower massages. Eat your heart out, WaterPik. Yet it wasn't likely he would see one of those again in the near future. Not when the woman was running so hot and cold. Ba-boom ching. A little shower humor, folks. Good grief. Did one of those guys elbow him in the head when they were scrambling for the ball? Nope, he ruefully yet silently replied. The pain in his noggin was all about tension, not body checks. He needed to find a cab. Stepping gingerly to the curb, Mulder shielded his eyes against the noonday sun, searching for a taxi. He desperately tried to keep his focus on that simple task. Look for and find a car with that nifty little emblem atop it, he wordlessly directed himself. Go home. Shower . . . Oh God. We're back to that again. Yet, in reality, it wasn't actually the shower he kept returning to, it was what had happened after the water had been shut off. When he had come back to himself, secure still in Scully's arms. They had kissed then, standing beneath the spray, her face cradled in his hands, her palms running lightly along his sides. Her lips had met his, soft and warm, and willing. Mulder was absolutely certain she had been willing. Which was why he had been so surprised when later, beneath the sheets, she had nixed the idea of their lovemaking. "I'm tired," she had mumbled into the crook of his neck, her fingers weaving through his hair. "So tired. Would you hold me? Just hold me." Of course, he would. Gladly. And yet . . . There, in the distance, he spied a taxicab. Waving his arm like a castaway trying to signal a rescue plane, he flagged down the battered sedan. Moving slowly and carefully, Mulder popped open the passenger side door and folded himself into the back seat. "Where to?" said the driver, checking out his fare in the rear view mirror. He was young, with wildly curly black hair and a goatee. "Downtown," Mulder said shortly. "The Hoover Building." With a nod, the cabbie spun the wheel, slicing away from the curb and into traffic. Staring moodily out the window as the taxi sped down streets packed with Saturday shoppers, Mulder recalled what bothered him most about his night in Scully's bed. He had dozed off first. For all her supposed weariness, Scully had been the one to hold him while he had slept. Not vice versa. Now, granted, he too had been tired, most especially after enjoying his partner's bathtub ministrations. Still, he had fought off slumber as long as he could, hoping Scully and he might perhaps be able to have a bit of serious conversation before calling it a night. Hoping Scully might change her mind about the "just hold me" thing. But it hadn't happened. She had held tough, escaping his questioning, dodging his attempts at intimacy. They may have spent the night together. But, looking back, it seemed to him as if miles had separated them. "Hey, pal. Here you go," said Mulder's scruffy chauffeur, pulling over to the corner of Pennsylvania and Tenth. "Hoover Building. Sixteen bucks." Mind still elsewhere, Mulder absently dug in his pocket for his wallet. It felt rather thin between his fingertips. Shit. He hated weekends. "Listen," he began hesitantly, patting himself down as if he might magically have an extra twenty pinned somewhere on his person, like the milk money of old. "I . . uh . . don't suppose you take plastic." The cabbie's eyes narrowed. "Cash, my man. And cash only." Mulder sighed. "In that case, I need you to drive just a little bit further." His driver was not amused. "Oh yeah? Where'd you have in mind?" Mulder shrugged, an embarrassed smile on his face. "A bank, an ATM, a drunk you think I can roll. Right about now--I don't care. I just need to get some money." His friend in the front seat only glared. For some reason, his expression made Mulder laugh. His friend glared harder. "I'm sorry," Mulder said, snickering still. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't cool. It's just . . . with the day I've had so far, I gotta tell ya--sixteen bucks is no big deal." The cabbie looked him over as if trying to judge whether his passenger was giving it to him straight. Eventually, he came to a decision. "All right," he said, nodding reluctantly. "We'll go find your drunk. But don't plan on rolling him for sixteen. Better make it thirty. I figure you're gonna owe me a nice, big tip." Thirty dollars for a sixteen dollar ride!? Mulder silently railed. The little thief. That made it twice in one day he had been robbed. This was getting ridiculous. He was supposed to be in law enforcement. "Twenty," Mulder countered swiftly. "The longer I sit here talking to you, the more fares I lose," said his savvy cabbie, seemingly getting into the negotiations. "That's money, my friend. Outta my pocket. Twenty-five." Mulder shook his head, surrendering. "Fine. Twenty-five. Whatever. Let's just go." Satisfied, the driver set off for points unknown. While Mulder slouched tiredly behind him, realizing that when you got right down to it, twenty-five dollars wasn't a whole heck of a lot of money. Would that all his woes could be solved so cheaply. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter IV "Words to Live By" (4/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Onward and upwards. Disclaimers and non-story stuff found prior to chapter one. ************************************************** Every Friday afternoon, Walter Skinner promised himself he wasn't going to do this. Yet, seemingly, every time Sunday night rolled around he had invariably broken his oath. The weekends were supposed to be about rest and rejuvenation. So why in the world couldn't he make it through one without logging a few hours at the Hoover Building? You almost made it this time, though. Didn't you, Walt? he silently razzed as he scooped up his leather jacket from the arm of his office sofa and slipped it on over his navy T-shirt. You very nearly lasted until Monday morning without succumbing to the urge. Well . . . at least this week you waited until after "Sixty Minutes" before dragging your sorry ass into D.C. Shaking his head with disgust, he snapped shut his briefcase, tucked it and a few stray file folders under his arm, and crossed towards the door, hitting the lights on his way out. The halls were nearly empty this late, with only a few hardy souls manning the graveyard shift. Skinner checked his watch, frowning at the information it imparted. After midnight? Jesus, what had he been thinking? For a man who hadn't originally planned on making an appearance at all, he had certainly put in more than his share of face time. And yet, what the hell else did you have to do? he wordlessly asked himself as his boot heels click-clacked on the high- gloss linoleum. It's not as if your social calendar has been jam packed the past few months. Ever since Sharon had walked out, weekends had been more things to endure than any sort of respite or reward. Days when his apartment echoed in its silence. Hours filled by the necessities of life rather than by its pleasures. The running of errands, the laundry and the oil changes, the occasional trip to the gym. Chores. Performed alone. Always alone. You lead a solitary existence, you son of a bitch. And you have no one to blame for it but yourself. Wincing at the turn his thoughts had taken, he opted for the stairs rather than the elevator. It was better that way, he thought, nodding politely at a freckle-faced agent whose name floated just beyond his grasp. Too many times he had been trapped beside some overeager rookie looking to score points with such inspired conversation starters as, "So, sir . . . you're here late. Big case?" He wasn't that lonely. Besides, after sitting on his behind for the past however many hours, he could use a little exercise. Slipping into the stairwell like a phantom, he began trotting lightly down the steps. Actually, when you stop to consider, it hadn't been such a bad evening's work, he mused, trying to bolster his spirits. He had taken care of some private correspondence, the paying of bills and the like. But more importantly, he had managed to plow through a half dozen reviews, jotting notes in the margins, and checking the math on the corresponding budgetary figures. He had plenty more to analyze, of course, stacks of pages, double-spaced and boring as hell. But at least he had made a dent in it. The rest he could get to as the week progressed. He somehow had the feeling he would have the time. Second floor. One stop to make before hoofing it to the car. Skinner shouldered open the stairwell's door. Like the floors above it, this one held little traffic. Turning to his right, he swiftly flipped through the manila folders in his hands, head bowed, searching for the one marked "Personal." There it was. Inside lay folded the form he needed to deliver. The request to take Sharon off his insurance. Sighing, he paused before the entrance to Human Resources, one of the few Bureau departments that actually kept business hours. The office was dark. He tried the doorknob. Locked. No one was working at quarter after twelve on a Sunday night. He should have realized that. God. What had he been thinking? Glaring down at the offending paperwork, he weighed his options. He could simply return to his desk, stick the damned thing in an interoffice envelope and let it wind its way to its destination the following day, courtesy of the mailroom. But given all the times he had argued with Sharon over this decision, the phone calls he had made pleading with her to reconsider, the dread with which he had even approached asking for the stupid form in the first place. . . No. He just wanted it over with. To get it out of his hands once and for all. To never have to see this Goddamned piece of official Bureau b.s. ever again. Not when it represented written proof that his marriage was at long last over, this document, turned over to the powers- that-be before the divorce papers themselves had even been filed. Neatly submitted. In triplicate. Signed by his hand. Shit. Squatting, he angrily shoved the paperwork under the door, his hand catching and scraping against the portal, rattling it violently in its jamb. "Easy, Walt," a husky female voice urged. "I don't know what beef you have with HR, but I'll bet that poor door had nothing to do with it." Grimacing, Skinner peered up through his wire-rims, and spied a familiar face. One surrounded by a cap of wavy blond hair and featuring a pair of intelligent green eyes. "Hey, Chris," he murmured sheepishly, standing once more, his gaze lowered, contemplating his skinned knuckles rather than Agent Christine Chauncy's obvious amusement. "What are you doing here so late?" "I could ask the same of you," she countered, her arms folded tightly across her ample bosom. That brought his eyes back to hers. The expression he saw there made him shake his head in wry recognition. "You could ask. But you won't. You'll just sweat it out of me with that gorgon stare of yours." "Are you insinuating my middle name should be Medusa?" she queried, her voice as arch as her brow. "Never," he said, genuine affection warming his tone. "With a middle name like Sergei, I know better than to cast aspersions." With that, her mock affront melted, leaving behind only a smile. Skinner returned it, his pique momentarily soothed. He liked Chauncy. They were friends. Once, their relationship had gone deeper than that. They had gotten involved with the Bureau within months of each other, and involved with each other not long after that. It had never amounted to much, a few drinks, a few dates, a few evenings spent thrusting into her strong, soft body, her arms twined tightly around his shoulders, her legs wrapped just as fiercely about his hips. They had been young and ambitious, and more interested in a commitment-free good time than anything lasting. Things had inevitably changed, of course. He had met Sharon and Chris had met . . . Howard, was it? She had kept her maiden name when she had gotten married and he had a mental block about her husband's identity. Anyway . . . they had parted, friendly, with few regrets. A computer specialist, she had swiftly moved up the ranks in MIS. He ran into her from time to time. "I was getting some paperwork out of the way," he said, strolling away from Human Resources and back the way he had come, faintly embarrassed this particular woman had found him on his knees, taking out his aggression on a defenseless door, and wanting to get away from the scene of the crime as smoothly and as quickly as possible. "Reviews. You know. What's your excuse?" "The flu bug," Chris said with a growl of annoyance, falling into step alongside him, her long legs matching his, stride for stride. "Half my team is out with it. I needed someone to fill in for the overnight." "And you're the lucky girl?" he teased. "The only healthy girl, apparently," she retorted dryly, a low chuckle rumbling beneath her words. "I called everyone on my staff list and came up empty." "Sorry to hear that," he said, stopping before the stairwell. "Not as sorry as I am," she assured him with another curving of her lips, this one coaxing out of hiding the smallest hint of a dimple, a tiny crescent moon curling around the right- hand corner of her mouth. Chris had dimples. He had forgotten that. He had also failed to recall how attractive she was, Skinner admitted to himself, the insight unexpected. Chauncy's roundish face might have been marked with a few spidery lines, and her middle softened by an extra pound or two. But the same could be said of him. Could be said of them all. She looked good. He wondered if Howard and she were happy. Or, if instead, she might every so often see his name on a report or catch a glimpse of him prowling the halls and stop to wonder what might have been. The same way he did sometimes. "Hey, do me a favor before you go, will you?" she asked, interrupting his reverie. "Sure," he said, trying his best to shake off the melancholy. "What?" She glanced over her shoulder, and shook her head. "Listen . . . I know you live this job twenty-four/seven. But I gotta tell you--that kind of lifestyle doesn't work for everyone. Some Bureau employees are mere mortals. They need things like . . . oh . . . I don't know . . . =sleep=." Skinner's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What are you talking about?" "I've got one of your agents in my I.D. lab," Chris said, gesturing vaguely down the corridor. "Dead to the world. According to the kid I relieved, she'd been there through most of his shift. Apparently, he'd tried making small talk with her when he noticed she was fading, suggested she might want to call it a night. But she didn't want to hear it." "Which agent?" he queried. "Scully. The girl from the basement." He nodded ruefully, grunting with a small, humorless chuckle. That poor junior tech. He was probably smarting still. After all, in Skinner's experience, Special Agent Dana Scully did not take kindly to being told what to do, no matter how well meaning the sentiment. "I was just gonna grab some coffee before trying to kick her out myself," Chris finished with a shrug. "But seeing as you're her direct superior, I'm thinking you might have better luck chasing her home." "Where is she?" he asked. "This way," she replied. When they got to the doorway of the lab, Chris reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. "There she is," she murmured, leaning in to direct his eyes towards the back of the room. "The only die-hard in the place. Third carrel on your left." From where he stood, Skinner couldn't see anything but the top third of what had to be Scully's machine. A twisting, turning, multi-colored screensaver danced with abandon on its black backdrop. He started to move away towards his agent, but Chris' fingers tightened, holding him in place. "Hey . . . um, I'm gonna get that coffee now," she said quietly, almost as if she were trying to keep from waking Scully, half a room away. "You'll probably be gone when I get back, so I just wanted to say . . . " But, rather than complete her thought, Chris trailed off, her gaze wandering as well. Skinner was bemused and more than a little surprised; he had never known Chris Chauncy to be anything less than forthright. It was one of the things he liked most about her. "What?" he prodded. She moistened her lips with her tongue. "Look . . . I know this is none of my business. That I forfeited that right a long time ago . . ." "You're worrying me, Chauncy," he muttered, his words spoken not entirely in jest. "Yeah, well . . . then the feeling is mutual," she muttered back. "What . . .?" "All I'm trying to say is . . . you may want to stop making a habit of these late nights yourself." He shrugged, utterly befuddled. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She smiled with gentle affection. "No. I don't suppose you do." She slid her hand down his arm and enfolding his fingers with her own, gave them a quick, soft squeeze. "You look tired, Walt." Christ. If he wasn't careful, the kindness he heard underlying her words was going to be his undoing. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to him like that. Like they were looking out for him, without any ulterior motive. His throat suddenly felt full, blocked by some entirely unwanted emotion. "Chris, I'm fine--" "I know," she murmured, letting go and backing away. "You're a tough guy. I knew that about you from the start." She paused with her hands buried in her pockets, looking at him with a shrewdly yet warmly. "But even tough guys need friends. So, don't forget you have at least one. Okay?" Not trusting his voice, he simply nodded. "Good," she said, nodding in reply, a small smile stretching her lips. "Now go see if you can get your agent out of here and home in one piece. I think she's drooling on one of my keyboards." He chuckled at that. "Thanks, Chris." "Don't mention it," she said quietly, and turning away, sashayed out of sight. Skinner watched her go, considering, if only for an instant, choices made. Then, deciding he couldn't change the past, he set off to do what he could about the present. Namely, find out what the heck was going on with Scully. He crossed noiselessly to stand just behind her chair, careful not to rouse her. Not yet. He knew the minute she was awake she would be full of apologies and explanations. She would no doubt smooth her hair and adjust her clothes, and go from flustered to fabulous in under thirty seconds flat. All that was fine. He expected nothing less. But, just once, he wanted a moment between them without all the usual Scully armor in place. And when she lay there before him, crumpled over on the desktop, her cheek pillowed on her arm, her glasses resting crookedly on her nose, her hair rumpled, sliding forward to tickle her parted lips, there wasn't a codpiece or breastplate in sight. Jesus, Scully looked like just a kid. Like a coed who had crashed while trying to cram for finals. Amazing, he mused. Who would have guessed this woman would appear so young and innocent, so remarkably vulnerable in repose? He could detect no trace of the firebrand who had once stared defiantly at him down the barrel of gun, ordering him to drop his weapon or suffer the consequences. Asleep like this, she looked incapable of such theatrics, unlikely to be involved in anything more dangerous than a campus sit-in. Ha! That just goes to prove--looks can be deceiving. And enjoyable, he noted almost absently. Quite enjoyable. Because in addition to all her other laudable attributes, intangibles such as loyalty, strength, and courage, Dana Scully had something else to recommend her. She was very, very pretty. Sighing, he wearily shook his head. Sick, Walt, he silently chided as his eyes swept over his slumbering charge. This is sick. This is nothing more than a form of voyeurism. You know it as well as anyone. What the hell is wrong with you? First Chauncy, now Scully. Why don't you just stop by the convenience store on your way home, buy something with a centerfold in it, and relieve yourself of a little of this . . . tension? God. If this kept up, one of these days he was going to find himself accused of sexual harassment. Lips thin with annoyance, he stretched out his hand and jostled Scully's slender shoulder, putting an abrupt end to the interlude. "Scully? Come on, wake up." Instantly, she bolted upright, her glasses tumbling from her nose to her lap as she roused. At first, she seemed disoriented, frightened and confused as to her surroundings. Gradually, however, her eyes found his and, blinking, widened with chagrin. "Sir?" she murmured, clearing her throat, her fingers pushing hurriedly through her tousled hair. "Agent Scully," he answered mildly. "You want to tell me what you're doing here in the middle of the night?" "I'm . . . um . . . ," she began, pausing to grab her spectacles before they could complete their journey to the floor, her focus on her rescue of the eyewear rather than on him. "I was just trying to get caught up on some work." "What work?" he asked bewilderedly, attempting to get a better look at her face. The glimpses he caught didn't tell him much. Her cheek was pink and creased by the weave of her sweater. Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, accentuating the shadows there, and her lipstick had seemingly been entirely eaten away. All evidence pointed to Scully having put in a very long day with little in the way of breathers. Yet he still didn't know why. "Neither you nor Agent Mulder have recently filed a 302." "No, sir," she agreed, capturing a yawn. "It's, um . . . research for a case currently under review." "Research?" he echoed in disbelief, crossing his arms firmly against his chest. "Research is what has you spending an entire Sunday combing Bureau databases?" She took a moment to once more don her glasses, to tuck her hair behind her ear and ever so slightly stiffen her spine. "Are you checking up on me, sir?" she queried at last, calmly gathering her belongings as she spoke, flipping closed her legal pad and capping her pens, all the while averting her gaze from his. He sighed in exasperation, looking heavenward for a second or two, searching for patience. "No, I am not checking up on you," he assured her, his tone measured and deliberate. "I'm just curious as to what would draw you to the office on your day off and then keep you here past midnight." Scully looked at him then, her blue eyes hazed with fatigue, her jaw set. "I would imagine, sir, that what draws me here isn't much different than what draws you." He didn't know what to say to that, didn't know how to justify the reasons for his own late night stint at the Hoover Building. So, looking for something to fill the void, he reached out and jiggled the mouse laying midway between Scully's hand and his. The monitor before them instantly crackled to life. On it was a page of pictures. All of them were of men in their late twenties or early thirties, all with dark hair, all possessing criminal records. Skinner wondered at this, curious as to why the female half of the X-Files would be studying anything so mundane as petty felons. But before he could spend much time contemplating the puzzle, Scully leaned past him, loosed the mouse from his grasp and, clicking, exited the program. "You're right, sir," she said, continuing to shut down the computer, her eyes again trained pointedly away from his. "It's late, and I should be getting home." He stood there for a moment, stunned by her uncharacteristic high-handedness, yet unsure what to say in protest. After all, she was under no specific obligation to disclose the purpose of her research. She had said it was in relation to a case she hoped to pursue, and he should respect that. But he couldn't escape the notion that something else was going on here, something Agent Scully very much wanted kept secret. "Scully, is there anything you'd like to share with me?" he asked, struggling to keep the query from becoming an accusation. "No, sir," she said, her expression giving away nothing. Frustrated both with her and with himself, Skinner tried again, not sure why he felt compelled to push, but somehow believing it necessary just the same. "You know that you can come to me. . . . that if you have a problem . . . I can be a resource for you." He had expected another brusque reply, another brush-off or evasion. But this time, Scully surprised him. She kept her gaze locked on his face, her eyes seemingly searching for something in his. Not for the first time, he wondered what she saw when she looked at him, if what she regarded inspired confidence or disdain. Finally, she nodded as if a question had been answered, the action slow and slight. He would have given anything to know what conclusion had been reached. "Thank you, sir," she whispered then, her voice scratchy, like an over-played forty-five. "I appreciate that." Faced with her apparent approval, Skinner all at once felt oddly ill at ease. Shrugging, he mumbled, "Don't thank me. That's the way it's supposed to work." Eyeing him still, she smiled a trifle sadly and stood, bending to collect her things. "Maybe. But we all know what's supposed to happen isn't always what does. You can't count on life working out the way you plan." He could feel the undercurrents swirling beneath her simple statement, could sense the meaning, like a language he had once known but had since forgotten. And even though the actual words were lost to him, he knew what was required in response. Reassurance. For what, he was not certain. "I don't deny that sometimes life tosses you a curve," he said awkwardly, taking a half step towards her. "But I meant what I said before, Scully. You can count on me. You and Mulder, both. That's a promise." "I hope it won't come to that, sir," she said softly, her eyes flickering to his. And for just an instant, her mask slipped, revealing a burden that made Skinner's own shoulders ache with the weight. "I hope that's one promise you never need to keep." And all at once, he questioned just what the hell he might have pledged his support to. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter V "Words to Live By" (5/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch For all you Mulder fans in the audience, let me assure you-- while he's absent from this chapter as well, he will be making a rather dramatic return. And that's all I'm sayin'! ************************************************** Over the next several days, Dana Scully's life fell into a kind of routine, a pattern which she loathed as much as upheld. She arrived at their basement office on time. Strictly on time. Impeccably dressed. Hair coifed, make-up perfectly applied. Must keep up appearances. Wouldn't do to make Mulder anymore concerned than he was already. Once there, she worked like a woman possessed. She got caught up on all her case notes, filed her expense report, answered the basket full of correspondence she had been putting off. She consulted on autopsies, researched leads on several of the investigations Mulder and she had been considering pursuing. . . . Busy. She had to keep busy. No time for lunch or breaks or talk. Definitely no time for talk. After all, if her home was bugged, she was damned well certain their office was also under surveillance. Which meant, in effect, she was damned if she did and damned if she didn't. Talk, that is. If she said the sorts of things The Smoker wanted to hear, she would again hurt Mulder, wounding him as she had at her apartment that past weekend; yet, if she shared with her partner the discussion she had had with their cigarette sucking friend, thinking perhaps to include him in her plans, she would most likely be signing his death sentence. And that was unacceptable. To put it mildly. No. Avoid. Deny. Keep searching for a way around this, her conscience urged. A means to save both Mulder and your relationship. I'm trying, she would meekly reply, hoping such assurances might silence that nagging little voice. Honestly. I =am= trying. Indeed, she was. The Sunday before, when she had been so rudely awakened by Skinner, her boss rousing her from sleep with all the delicacy of a rooster on steroids, she had spent the day plowing her way through the FBI's criminal database. Her quest for The Smoker had amounted to zilch, but perhaps his henchman's identity wasn't so well guarded, she had thought, her optimism fragile, but alive. In the days to follow, she snuck out when she could, stayed late, came in early, dashing to the I.D. lab to steal an hour or two before retiring to their cubby below. Yet, all her efforts were for naught. It took her until Wednesday night at 11:48 p.m. to make it through the pictures of every single white male between the ages of 25 and 35 who possessed not only brown hair and brown eyes, but a criminal record. The Smoker's sidekick was not among them. Her failing optimism instantly flat-lined. Frustrated, exhausted, frightened in spite of herself, it was all she could do not to break down right there in front of the computer terminal. Instead, she went home and collapsed onto her unmade bed, not even bothering to get undressed first. Now what? she asked herself, staring up at her shadowed ceiling, her eyes burning, her back throbbing. What could she do? Where could she turn? If she went public, ran to Mulder or even Skinner and confessed all, she had no doubt of the outcome. The Smoker would never be caught, never stand trial. He would only slink back to his hidey-hole, disappear like a grain of sand in the desert, watching and waiting. Lurking until he spied an opportunity to see both her partner and she punished. Sure, they might be able to protect Mulder at first, assign him guards or tuck him away in a safe house somewhere. But he couldn't live out the rest of his life that way. Sooner or later, he would rebel, or would relax, grow less cautious. And The Smoker would be there. To pay her back for her betrayal. Then leave him, Dana, said that insistent inner voice. Do as the nicotine fiend instructed, and walk away. I can't do that, she argued back, scrubbing her cheeks with her palms, her eyes squeezed shut as if to hold back tears. It would break Mulder's heart. And mine. That was the real irony of the situation. The thing that made her want to laugh even as her throat tightened in misery. When The Smoker had first broached with her the dissolution of the relationship Mulder and she shared, he had spoken only of what it would do to Mulder. How it would distract him, make him less effective, take away the stability and focus her presence had seemingly granted. But nothing had been said regarding what Mulder had given her. Was that common? she wondered now, twisting on to her side and drawing the bedclothes up over her. Did outsiders believe the give and take between Mulder and she was utterly one-sided? The Smoker had told her he knew Mulder depended upon her. Yet, wasn't he aware she relied on her partner just as fiercely? She loved him, for heaven's sake. More than anything or anyone. More than her life. He was so deeply a part of her now that to lose him would be like lopping off a limb, tearing from her a kidney or a lung. The Smoker might have thought she would approach this logically, would look at the situation in rational terms, realize she had no options, and then, resigned, bow to his will. But her vaunted reason grew strangely mute when it came to what Mulder and she had being threatened. In its stead, pure emotion swept through her, its surge as powerful and as bracing as the tide. She had made Mulder a promise on that night so many months before, when he had tried to warn her something like this might occur, that their enemies might one day attempt to use their feelings against them. She had sat there in his darkened apartment on that cold November eve and listened to his admonitions, solemnly acknowledging the truth in his words. Then, she had looked her partner in the eye and calmly denied The Smoker and his henchmen that kind of sway. "No," she had told Mulder. "They can't have this." And you still can't, you son of a bitch, she now silently vowed. You can try and take it from me--from us both --but I won't go down without a fight. Her resolve stiffened, she lay cocooned beneath her comforter, thinking, her woolen pantsuit and silk blouse both sorry excuses for pajamas, her body too leaden with fatigue to even contemplate slipping from beneath the covers to change. Slowly, painstakingly, one final gambit began to take shape inside her weary head, the strategy risky, yet too tempting to disregard. One that required an accomplice of sorts, if not in deed then in the sharing of information. Tomorrow, she would be paying a visit to Assistant Director Skinner's office. She had feared she might eventually be forced to take him up on his offer of assistance. Yet, she was certain neither of them had thought the day would come quite so soon. Please, God, she prayed as she watched the tree outside her window thrash helplessly against the bullying wind. Please let Walter Skinner be a man of his word. ***** A.D. Skinner's Thursday had been progressing fairly typically. A meeting with the other Washington A.D.s to discuss staffing and budget for the coming year, a postmortem on an investigation one of his teams had recently closed, an hour of tedious yet necessary phone calls, and lunch at his desk-- corned beef on rye and a bag of chips. His calendar that afternoon was open, free of commitments or demands. Maybe I can get some more work done on those damned reviews, he thought, lips pursed as he considered the rest of his day. His recommendations were due on his superior's desk by the following Wednesday. And while his social life was admittedly pathetic, he hoped to do *something* that weekend besides sit round-shouldered and bleary-eyed over paperwork. Yet, he had scarcely gotten more than a page into his reading when he heard the soft rap of knuckles on wood. "Yes?" he called, not bothering to look up. The office entryway cracked open and a small, sharp-featured face peered inside. "Sir?" Scully? Surprised by the identity of his visitor, he set the report aside. "What can I do for you, Agent Scully?" She stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. "I'm sorry, sir . . . Kimberly wasn't at her desk . . ." He shook his head, dismissing her apology. "Don't worry about it. She's at lunch." "Good," Scully said with a nod. "I didn't want to intrude." "You're not," he assured her. "What's on your mind?" She hesitated for a moment, seemingly torn as to how she should proceed. In her hand was a small, folded piece of paper. Her thumb rubbed slow little circles over the back of it, the gesture seemingly performed without conscious thought. "I have the documentation you requested, sir, on that 302." He blinked at her in confusion, unable to recall when he had asked for such information. "What 302 was that?" Her expression screaming silent words of warning, she crossed the additional few steps to his desk. Laying flat the scrap of paper she had been worrying only moments before, she pointed to the message written on it. Their eyes met over the desk and held for a moment. Then, Scully deliberately drew hers away, letting her gaze sweep instead over the room's paneled walls. They have ears, she seemed to be telling him. This, he well knew. Or at least suspected. Scully apparently shared in his belief. "Well, as it happens, I was just about to head out for a cup of coffee," he said evenly, pushing up from his chair to stand before her in his shirtsleeves. "Don't suppose you'd care to join me? We can talk on the way." Her face visibly brightened. "I'd love a cup of coffee." "So, let's go." Together, they left his office and walked side by side down the length of the hall. Skinner slowed only slightly as they strode towards the floor's break room. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I got the impression you weren't really in need of a caffeine fix," he mumbled beneath his breath. "No sir," Scully replied, eyes straight ahead. "This way then." Stepping quickly, he continued past the vending machines and the coffeemaker. Scully followed wordlessly on his right. When he reached the end of the corridor, he turned left and ducked through the stairwell door with Scully at his heels. They said nothing as they descended, exiting the shaft once they reached the parking garage. For a moment, they paused just inside the concrete chamber, their footsteps echoing hollowly off its cement walls. Skinner stood just a half step in front of his companion, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the area, looking for anyone who might later call into question this clandestine conference. In the distance, he could faintly hear the sound of traffic, yet directly before them the place looked empty. The out-to-lunch crowd must all be back at their desks by now, he absently thought. "Sir, I--," Scully began softly. "Not here," he muttered, indicating the surveillance camera perched on a nearby corner's molding. Slowly, it scanned, electronically searching for those engaged in activities of a dubious nature. Much to his chagrin, Skinner feared that description fit what Scully and he were up to. "Come on," he murmured, and grabbing the woman beside his just above the elbow, pulled her behind one of the structure's thick support pillars. She went with him willingly enough, but not without throwing him a look ripe with annoyance. Agent Scully apparently didn't like being manhandled. "All right, Scully. You wanted to talk," he said quietly, his shoulder braced against the column, his body close to hers. "So talk. There's no guarantee how long we'll be left alone down here." She gazed up at him, her face pale in the shadows cast by mortar and by him, her blue eyes wide and troubled. "I need your help." Scully admitting need? Alone? Skinner frowned in confusion and concern. "Does Mulder know you're talking to me?" "No." Her answer was quick and cutting, and it roused his suspicions as violently as might the sudden, unexplained appearance on this woman of a black eye or a swollen lip. "Did he do something? Is he the reason you're coming to me?" he asked, his tone turning harsh. "No, sir," she said quickly, astonishment contorting her features. "Mulder has done nothing. This isn't about him. This is about me." Skinner took a deep breath. Calm down, Walt, he told himself. Get that knight-in-shining-armor impulse under control here. "What about you?" She slicked her lips with her tongue, her eyes drifting away from his. "You told me . . . a few nights ago . . . you said that if I had a problem, I could come to you," she murmured, her voice husky and low. "That I . . . that =Mulder= and I could count on your support." The tiny hairs on the back of his neck were tickling him, standing upright, pricking his skin in warning. It was an unconscious physical phenomenon, a throwback to the days when man was more ape than human, when he walked hunched and hirsute. Skinner ruefully rubbed his bald pate and sighed. Thousands of years out of Africa and a guy could still instinctively recognize trouble in the form of a woman. "My support for what exactly, Scully?" "I need you to tell me where he lives." He pulled away ever so slightly to get a better look at her expression. She stared back at him, as maddeningly composed as a Raphael Madonna. "Where who lives?" he asked cautiously. "The Smoker." Stunned by her request, Skinner pushed away from the pillar to stand squarely before her, his hands on his hips, his words shoved from between his gritted teeth like meat squeezed from a grinder. "Are you out of your mind?" She took a step towards him and thrust out her chin, clearly not cowed by his reaction. "I'd ask you for his name. But I don't believe that has any meaning anymore. Not now. Not for him. I need to find him. And you're the only one I can think of who can help me." He shook his head. "Even if I had that information--" She ruthlessly silenced his lies. "I =know= you have that information, sir. Or you did at one time." There was only one person who could have let that particular cat out of the bag. "What did Mulder tell you?" She shrugged, the gesture conveying not a lack of care, but the withholding of knowledge. "That when I came back . . . after Duane Barry, he needed . . . answers." Answers, Agent Mulder? Skinner wordlessly asked his absent subordinate. Is that what you're calling it these days? "That you took a chance and gave him the Cigarette Man's address." "Did he tell you what happened then?" he queried, that question having long haunted him. It had all turned out right in the end, Scully's return. But he had often wondered what had occurred when Mulder had confronted his nemesis, if perhaps their meeting was, in fact, the reason for Scully's miraculous recovery. "Not entirely," she hedged, her slight glance away confessing she knew more about the incident than she was willing to share. "But I do know the information you gave him was correct." "That was more than a year ago, Agent Scully," he said, attempting a little hedging of his own. "I'm certain The Smoker has moved on by now." "Not far enough," she muttered, her arms folded tightly across her chest. He would have laughed at that, at the utterly disgruntled tone of her voice, if what they were discussing wasn't so absurdly dangerous. "Sir, you once trusted Agent Mulder with that knowledge," she continued, her gaze again fastened on his. "And I would hope that you would extend to me the same level of professional courtesy and respect." That did it. "Oh, for crying out loud, Scully. This has nothing to do with 'professional courtesy' and you know it!" he snapped, losing his cool. "But it has everything to do with trust, sir!" she countered, matching him in volume and in attitude. "With trust and with you being willing to back up your agents." "Back up my agents?" he parroted, the words disbelieving and loud. "On what? A suicide mission? Or have you turned vigilante on me, Scully? Are you looking for a little payback here, a little getting even?" Her eyes dropped from his, training now on the floor. Seeing her tacit admission of guilt, Skinner wondered exactly what nerve he had struck. "I don't want anyone to get hurt, sir," she said quietly, speaking to his shoes. "That's why I need to meet with him." He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and bent down to try and steal a look at her face. "Why would anyone be in a position to be hurt, Scully? Has that bastard threatened you?" With what appeared to be great reluctance, she lifted her gaze to his, her eyes looked bruised in the half-light, their color more black than blue. "No, sir. I'm not in any danger." He studied her hard, searching for clues in her expression. But that afternoon, Scully seemed to him little more than a cipher. She gave away nothing. Yet demanded from him so much more. "I know you know, sir," she whispered, standing straight and strong in his hold. "And I ask you now to trust me as you did Mulder. To believe me when I tell you I wouldn't ask you for this if I thought there was any other way around it." "Around what, Scully?" he muttered, the urge to shake her almost unbearable, his fingers twitching to do the deed. "You're asking me for information any of a dozen men would kill to have. And yet, you give me no solid reason why you should even need such knowledge." Her lips tightened, flattening long and thin, then releasing on a sigh. "I am trying to keep a very bad situation from turning worse." He dropped his hands away from her and, slipping off his glasses, wearily rubbed the back of his hand between his eyes. "And that's all you're going to say?" "Yes, sir. I'm afraid it is." He shook his head, needing time to think, to consider the ramifications of such a betrayal. And what could happen to Scully and her partner if, instead, he refrained from turning traitor. "Please, sir. Lives may depend on this." Skinner looked at her then, surprised to see the vulnerability he had witnessed the other night once more softening her features. With some women, he would have deemed the shift in expression calculated, designed to bend a man to their will. But not with Scully. In fact, he felt certain, were he to point out to her the way in which such sincerity, such honest need made her seem smaller, more delicate and easy to wound, she would cringe in disgust. Scully wasn't enamored of that sort of weakness. He had seen her in action, had watched as she had stubbornly clung to control, often in the face of nearly insurmountable odds. Dana Scully could be a formidable foe. But could anyone take on The Smoker single-handedly? "I need to think about this," he told her at last, deciding to end their discussion by telling her the truth, feeling he owed this woman that small kindness at least. "I understand," she said with a nod. "Am I right in believing I should mention this conversation to no one?" he queried sardonically, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "Yes, sir. That's correct." "Not even Mulder?" She hesitated no more than an instant. "Not even Mulder." "All right then, Scully," he muttered. "You have my word. I'll get back with you on the other." And saying nothing more, Skinner turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the garage. He didn't make her wait long. Friday morning, Scully awoke to find a plain brown envelope shoved under her door. In it was a slip of paper with an address typewritten on it. She committed the string of numbers and letters to memory, then burned the piece of paper in her sink. Her body quivering with excitement and dread, she took her shower, began getting ready for work. But as she stood beneath the water, her mind wasn't on the J. Edgar Hoover Building or even Fox Mulder. Rather, Dana Scully was planning her Friday night. ***** Scully stood outside the red brick apartment building and looked up at the darkened second floor windows. Her breath puffed white and fluffy in the cold, black night, its mist reminding her of ghosts, of spirits haunting the earth in search of rest and redemption. Like Selene and Jack. In New Orleans. With Mulder. Stop that, she said, giving herself a small mental shake. This is no time to turn fanciful. She needed her wits about her if she hoped to come away from this with anything resembling a victory. Victory. God. Mulder and she could win this. But not without an assist from Skinner. Thank God for the big guy. She still couldn't entirely believe he had come through for her. The day before, he had seemed so dead set against the idea of her coming here that she had feared her pleading had fallen on deaf ears. But, apparently her boss wasn't in need of a hearing aid after all. Because here she stood outside the home of the infamous Smoker. Ding-dong, Avon calling. Moving swiftly and silently, she slipped into the building's vestibule. Pulling from her jacket pocket her Bureau-issued lock gun, she grappled with the inner door. As solid as the rest of this Cold War era structure, it resisted her attempts at first. Yet, after a minute or two, its lock at last fell victim to modern technology. With a final whir of the bit and a twist of her wrist, it clicked open. She was in. Running into no one, she tread lightly up the stairs, her jeans, black turtleneck and leather coat blending in with the hallway's murk. She could hear the muted tones of televisions--the late news and sitcom reruns--and conversation. From above, a baby cried. But no one opened their apartment door to take out the garbage or visit a neighbor. Good. Perfect. Once she reached the second floor, she searched for #2N. The "N" standing for "north" according to the building information she had tracked down that afternoon. She had ditched poor Mulder late morning, and had hightailed it down to City Hall. There, she had studied the necessary blueprints, memorizing things like fire exits and apartment layouts. It paid to be prepared, she reasoned. There. At the end of the hall. Her destination. Cautiously, she approached, listening with the intensity of a doe on the opening day of hunting season. Yet, try though she might, she couldn't hear anything on the other side of the door. She bent down and peered beneath it. No light. Consistent with what she had seen from the outside. Satisfied, she withdrew once more the tool she had used downstairs. This door proved easier than the first, its tumblers yielding without putting up much of a fight. What she wouldn't give to have The Smoker be this big a pushover, she mused. Fat chance. Her Sig Sauer in her hand, Scully inched open the door. When the archway didn't light up with gunfire, she grew bold. Stepping between the door and jamb, she entered her enemy's lair. It took a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The glow from the street lamps outside provided some illumination, enough to keep her from running into furniture. But it was still tough to see. Briefly, she considered turning on a light, only to decide against it. She didn't know where the apartment's tenant was or when he might return home. No sense in warning him of her presence. She would have to do her scouting in the shadows. Fitting, really. When she stopped to think about it. Moving carefully through the place, she looked for clues as to The Smoker's true identity--personal items, correspondence, photographs, anything that might give him away. Yet, there was next to nothing for her to analyze. The flat was small, typical for this part of D.C., with a single bedroom and a narrow galley kitchen. The furnishings were simple and nondescript. Functional rather than fashionable. A plaid, overstuffed sofa with a coordinating solid colored chair in the living room. End tables, cocktail table. Television. A desk, but no computer. Table and chairs in the dinette area. The sleeping quarters had a double bed, matching night stands and dresser. She tiptoed to the closet and peeked inside. A row of suits and shirts, a rack of decidedly sedate ties, all smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. Nothing unexpected there. A well-perused TV guide lay curled and creased atop the one of the two end tables. Otherwise, she found no papers or magazines, no mail or bills. She looked inside his refrigerator, taking care to keep the light dimmed by pressing in the door release with one gloved finger. Milk, orange juice, a can of Folgers, beer, some eggs and lunch meat. Typical bachelor fare, she judged with a rueful half-smile. Nothing special there either. Fine, she thought, shutting the side-by-side. His dwelling might not tell her anything. But the man himself damned well would when she was through with him. Now all she had to do was wait. A phone rang. Startled, her hands flew to her jacket, thinking it might be her cell. No, of course not, she realized, her heart pounding at fast forward speed. She had left her Nokia blocks away in the car with her purse. Someone was calling Him. Her head swiveled in the direction of the noise. There. The phone. Tucked away on the corner of the desk. She hadn't seen it at first. Oh good God. . . . He had an answering machine! What luck. Walking slowly towards it, as if she feared it might all of a sudden go into attack mode, Scully neared the phone and its mechanical secretary. Neither was anymore remarkable than anything else in the place. Studying the answering machine, she found the volume control and eased the level up, wanting to be sure and catch every word that was said, not knowing what might prove useful. On the fourth ring, the machine picked up. The Smoker had no message greeting callers. Why was she not surprised? "Good evening, Agent Scully." The amazement that had been lacking only moments before slammed into her with all the force of a baseball bat. Shit. He was calling his own number. Knowing he would reach her. "Sorry I wasn't there to greet you. But then . . . I didn't know you were coming, did I?" She backed away from the desk in horror. All her hopes shriveling away to nothing. Turning to dust and settling in her mouth, the powdery residue choked her. "Did you really believe you could successfully steal into my home unannounced? Did you think I wouldn't know about your pitiful little plan?" She could only shake her head, unable to answer. "I assure you, Agent Scully. I know. We always know." Christ. "What did you think you would do once you got there? Put a gun to my head?" What had she planned on doing, she now asked herself. Reason with him? Blackmail him? Shoot him through the forehead as if she were some kind of contract killer? "Agent Mulder tried that once, you know. It didn't work for him either." Mulder. Oh my God, Mulder. "Such presumption can't be overlooked, Agent Scully. I forgave you for talking to your friends, but now you've gone too far." She had to get out of there. "You have no one to blame for this but yourself, you know." Blame? Blame for what? she longed to ask. "No one but yourself." And with a noisy click, the line went dead. As soon as the room fell silent, she lunged for the phone. Mulder. She had to warn him. What did it matter if the line was bugged? They were already on to her. She tried his apartment first. One. Two. Three. Four rings. Answering machine. "This is Fox Mulder, please leave a message. " "Mulder, pick up. It's me." Nothing. "Pick up," she urged again. Still nothing. Hanging up, she tried his cell. By now, her hand was shaking so badly, she had to punch in the number twice before she got it right. It rang. . . . Please, Mulder. And rang. . . . Please answer. And rang. . . . I'm begging you. And rang. . . . Oh God, I'll never forgive myself. And by the time the recorded voice at last announced the cellular customer was unavailable, Dana Scully had already dropped the handset. Burst through the apartment door. And stumbling, pounded down the stairs. Mulder. I have to get to Mulder, she thought wildly, breaking into a run when she reached the outside. I have to get to him before it's too late. If it wasn't already. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter VI "Words to Live By" (6/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch And back by popular demand . . . the one, the only, the spooky man himself--Fooooooxxxxx Mulderrrrr! ;-) ************************************************** Fox Mulder bit back a groan as his body crashed noisily to the floor, knee first. "Ow!" Lying prone, he twisted awkwardly, a hand cradling his wounded joint, trying to catch a glimpse of the ones responsible for his injury. They stood there just inside the entrance to his apartment, unmoving, impassive, heedless of the damage they had caused, the pain they had inflicted. . . . When had he left his gym shoes by the door? He blinked at them in annoyance and surprise, staring at the offending Nikes as if he expected an answer to his unspoken query. The tennies remained, however, typically mute. Stupid shoes. A guy could break an ankle tripping over stuff like that. Or litter his living room with what had been only moments before his newly laundered, carefully folded clothes. Actually, he mused, absently rubbing his knee, his socks and shorts might still qualify as fresh out of the dryer. But the whole carefully folded thing had gone to hell in a laundry basket. Now his wash lay twisted and balled, draped on furniture, wadded on his faded Indian rug. "Crap," he murmured softly and, hands braced against the hardwood, began to push up from the entryway floor, intending to go retrieve the aforementioned basket and collect his scattered articles of clothing. But the sudden relative change in altitude made his head spin and his arms buckle. With a graceless "Oomph," he collapsed once more, his cheek cushioned by his forearm as he ruefully chuckled over his predicament. "Shoulda never finished that tequila." And he wouldn't have. If the six pack of Sam Adams he had picked up to wash down his pizza had given him the buzz he had been looking for. "Stupid beer," he mumbled, trying again, and this time succeeding in levering himself to a sitting position, his legs splayed, his back propped now beside the archway to his living room. Pleased with his progress, he just sat there for a moment, dreamily contemplating the shadowy vestibule, taking in the view. It's not so bad down here, he decided after a time, kinda dark and peaceful. The floor wasn't even all that uncomfortable once you got used to it, a little chilly . . . . . . his door was open. That wasn't good. Not with him sitting there on his ass. Anyone could just waltz right in . . . Better fix that. He stretched to his left, reaching for the half-opened portal. Unfortunately, his lean threw off his precarious balance and, resembling nothing so much as a defective Weeble, he tipped over, landing on his side. But not before his fingers snagged on the edge of the door, allowing him to thrust forward with his shoulder and slam the slab of wood into its frame, shimmying it against the jamb. It must be true, he thought woozily, looking up at the world from his crooked fetal position. God really does have a soft spot for drunks. No. Not drunk, he amended only seconds later, the revision accompanied by no small measure of affront. Tipsy, maybe. But not drunk. If he were drunk, would he have been able to wash, dry and put away not one, not two, but =three= loads of laundry? I think not! True, the chore had grown noticeably more difficult as the night had dragged on, that last load taking an eternity to make it from the dryer to the table to his basket. And he hadn't actually "put away" the final batch, unless you counted toting it from the basement to his apartment . . . . . . which was a triumph of a sorts, 'cause there for a minute, in the elevator coming up, he had forgotten what floor he lived on. . . . "Apartment 42," he now said aloud to no one in particular, rolling over onto his back to study with profound concentration the ceiling overhead. And the meaning behind the mysterious 42. "Number four-two," he repeated, the words spoken slowly and with spectacular diction. Weird . . . . . . if he squinted really hard, that crack in the plaster up there reminded him a whole lot of Alfred Hitchcock. "Four plus two equals six," he recited dutifully, eyes narrowed as he sought to bring into focus the image of the man responsible for "Psycho." Not the remake, the original. What had he been mumbling about again? Oh yeah . . . "Sixth floor." No . . . wait a minute. . . . that wasn't it. God. He'd always hated math! Numbers were tricky things. Willful and mischievous. Like cats, only with greater attention spans. Just look at his checkbook. Better stick with words. . . . . . . Here come some now. "Gotta clean up." Indeed he did he did indeed. After all, that's what he had stayed home for. To get cleaned up. Well . . . his clothes anyway. He coulda gone out. It was Friday. Stuff was going on. =He'd had offers.= The guys had invited him to sit in on their weekly poker game. Hernandez up in Violent Crimes had said something about a happy hour when he had stopped by that afternoon . . . Happy . . . happyhappyhappy. He was happy. Goddamn it. Why wouldn't he be happy? His life was just fine. Not a single complaint. Not a one. Lie. Liar. Lying. I'm lying, Mulder wordlessly admitted, the confession coupled with a woeful sigh. I'm lying while lying . . . . . . on the floor. I've got to get off the floor. Carefulcarefulcareful . . . . Success! He stands. He walks. He wobbles. . . . But he does *not* fall down. Things were looking up. If only the same could be said of the "thing" between Scully and him. Now, cut that out! he urged as, hanging on to the arm of the sofa, he bent down with all the agility of an arthritic pensioner to grab his overturned laundry basket. The whole reason he had indulged in this alcohol induced stupor in the first place was so he wouldn't have to think about a certain auburn-haired special agent. He had wanted a night, just one night, where he wasn't stretched out on his couch pretending to watch television or staring at a printed page until the words blurred and ran, becoming as meaningless to his untutored eye as Sanskrit. He had hoped to win a few hours respite, some time away from the worry and frustration that had haunted him now for days. And it had worked. More or less. Up till now. . . . Time for another drink. No, no, no. Bad Mulder. Besides, with the beer and tequila gone, the only alcohol he had in the house was in his medicine cabinet. And he was way too *tipsy* to try driving to the liquor store for more. "Just pick up your underwear and go to bed," he muttered to himself as he scooped up a wrinkled scrap of black silk and tossed it into the basket with its less slinky brethren. Yeah. Bed. Bed was good. Sleep was good. Or so he'd heard. He really couldn't speak to the subject himself. Not lately. Christ. He hadn't really enjoyed a good night's sleep since that evening spent in Scully's bed, which was ironic, seeing as that was where his troubles had seemingly begun. Of course, Mulder had lived with insomnia his entire life. Sometimes, if they were on a case or if he was in the midst of some particularly fascinating bit of research, he would go days without shut-eye, subsisting on nothing more substantial than caffeine and sugar. Scully wasn't like that though. She liked her eight hours. Even so, she hadn't been getting it that past week, he was almost certain. Unless he missed his guess, something was weighing heavily on her soul. Something that robbed her not only of slumber but of serenity. Oh, the signs weren't overt. They never were where she was concerned. Still, he had noted them just the same. He was a bona fide expert when it came to Scully-watching. And yet, even with all his supposed expertise, he found it tough to actually pinpoint what had tipped him off, hard to articulate either verbally or inside his head. Doubly difficult, right at that moment, given the amount of alcohol he had imbibed. He supposed it was a hardening of sorts he had spied, a shutting down. Without being snide or cruel, without erupting in anger or in tears, Scully seemed to him to be retreating inside herself these days, shielding all the soft, vulnerable bits, tucking them safely away and then steeling the rest of herself against the world. Against him? Or against some imagined danger. But whatwhatwhat could that be? He had asked her. Repeatedly. Only to have her politely, and repeatedly, dodge his inquiries. With a smile and an assurance and a turning away. Turning . . . Lately, she carried herself differently. That's something else he had noticed. Her movements were less fluid, her posture more stiff. That taut quality persisted in her expression. Her face appeared drawn, set as if carved from marble, its only color courtesy of Lancome. And her eyes. They were . . . . . . sad. He realized the word was vague, the sort used by children, broad in scope, obscure in meaning. Still, it was fitting where Scully was concerned, he now thought to himself, weaving a tad unsteadily, yet somehow managing to remain upright as he made his way about the apartment. Sorrow seemed to pour from those baby blues, its intensity suggesting a cause far more serious than your average bad hair day. Of course, that was when she would actually condescend to =meet= his gaze, he silently groused, snatching a sock from where it dangled on the edge of his coffee table. Such instances had been few. She had spent the better part of the week avoiding his eyes. And all other parts of his anatomy. Damn. Talk about frustrating. Despite sharing an office with the woman, he had hardly seen her the past several days. She had always had somewhere to go, something to do. He would have thought she was angry with him, miffed over some imagined or all too real slight. Only she had never fought with him outright, never cut him with word or deed. Instead, it was as if she had simply removed herself from the situation, as if her life were taking place on a plane not far from his. . . . Yet separate, nonetheless. And he hated that separation. Hated being patient. Being understanding. . . . But he didn't hate Scully. Couldn't hate her. Not even if he tried. He loved her. And missed her. Desperately. Shit. . . . Why did he have to wait till he was three sheets to the wind to remember he was a maudlin drunk? "Enough," he muttered, tossing the now heaped basket onto his couch and then plopping down beside it. He had tracked down most of his strewn laundry. He could find the rest in the morning. When he was hungover. And if that wasn't a reason to greet the new day with a smile, he didn't know what was. Sighing once more, he leaned back against the sofa's cool, black leather and closed his eyes. This was nice, he decided after a minute or two. Comfortable. Just sitting still. Breathing slowly and evenly. Feeling the room roll gently beneath him, lazily rocking, like the pitch of a boat on a calm summer lake. Oh yeah. Nice. . . . Slowly, his body began to unwind, sinking deep into the cushions, limbs heavy like sandbags. One by one, his bones softened, then dissolved. Sleep beckoned enticingly, promising to cradle him tenderly in its sheltering arms . . . *BANG BANG BANG* Which was why the vicious pounding at his door startled him so. "Agent Mulder? Agent Mulder, would you please open the door, sir?" "What?" he croaked, jerking painfully awake. Ouch! His neck . . . Anybody know a good chiropractor? "Sir, it's the Alexandria Police. Can we talk to you for a minute?" The police? What were =they= doing here? "Sir, are you okay in there?" "Yeah," he assured the voice on the other side of the door, trying to figure out the best way to escape the sofa's clutches. Why wouldn't his arms work in coordination with his legs? He knew they could do it. He had seen them collaborate before. "Sir?" "Coming," he called hoarsely as, swaying, he at last fumbled gracelessly to his feet. "I'm coming." A few rambling steps later, he was opening the door. Two of the boys in blue were waiting for him, both young, both trying to peer past him and into his apartment. "Can I help you?" Mulder asked politely, his shoulder propped against the jamb for support, thrilled he had somehow managed to utter the question with nary a slur. The taller of his two visitors, the one with the name "Larson" pinned to his shirt pocket, spoke first. "Sir, we got a report of an incident." "Incident?" Mulder echoed in confusion, his brow furrowed. "Yes, sir," said the other officer, a man named Pucinski. "We got a call saying you needed assistance." Assistance with what? Mulder wondered in dismay. With gathering up his laundry? No. That couldn't be . . . Oh, God. Had one of his neighbors heard his tumble to the floor? Great. The place gets ransacked and nobody says a word. He stumbles over his sneakers and old Mrs. McCreary down the hall sends in the National Guard. "Look . . . officers . . . I think there's been a mistake," he began haltingly, ducking his head and running a hand over his unruly after-hours hair. "Mulder!" A husky female voice lured his eyes from their perusal of his stocking feet. Scully? She stood at the end of the corridor, down near the stairs. Why would she have climbed all those steps when there was a perfectly good elevator nearby? he asked himself. And not only had she apparently taken the stairs, but judging by the way her chest pumped and her forehead shone, she had done so in a hurry. "Who's that?" Pucinski asked, turning to curiously regard the newcomer. "That's my . . . my partner," Mulder mumbled, watching her swift approach. If Scully was surprised to see a pair of policemen at his door she hid it well. All her focus was on him, her blue eyes burning into his as she marched the length of the passageway, her pace just shy of a run. "Are you all right?" she asked when she reached his side, looking for a moment like she might reach out and touch him, as if she somehow thought to gauge his wellbeing by tactile means. In the end, however, she refrained. Dizzy with standing, Mulder frowned, wondering if perhaps he had only imagined her aborted caress. "Yeah," he muttered, looking from her to the cops and back again, still trying to make sense of it all. "I'm fine. Why does everyone keep askin' if I'm okay?" "You weren't the one who placed a 911 call to the Alexandria P.D.?" Larson asked, his patience clearly being tested. "No," Mulder began, shaking his head. "I don't--" "That would have been me," Scully quietly yet firmly confessed, neatly slicing in two his befuddled disavowal. Scully had called the police? Why? As far as he knew, Nikes were exempt from the law. "Ma'am, may I remind you of the consequences for unnecessarily contacting an emergency operator?" Uh-oh. It sounded like Pucinski was getting pissed off now too. Watch it, Scully, Mulder silently warned. You were the one who used to lecture me about playing nice with local law enforcement. But he needn't have worried. Scully proved unfazed by the policeman's hostility. "Officers, may I have a word with you both?" she asked calmly. Bowing a trifle reluctantly to her request, the pair followed Scully a step or two from the door. Mulder yearned to tag after them, eager to discover the reason for his partner's phone call. But he feared what might occur should he lose the door frame's brace. Almost as if sensing his dilemma, Scully looked his way. "Give me just a minute, Mulder," she said softly. "I'll be right there." Scully would be right there. With him, in his apartment. On a lonely, lonely Friday night. And suddenly it didn't matter why she had made her way to Hegel Place. What did he care? As long as she was there. Now, if only his breath didn't stink like a bar rag. He couldn't hear what Scully had to say. She spoke quietly, forcing her two-man audience to stand close so as to catch her words. They listened attentively, nodding from time to time, adding their two cents only when she was finished. "Thanks," Mulder heard his partner murmur as she wrapped things up. "I really appreciate it." "It's no trouble," Larson said as he turned towards the elevator, his good humor seemingly restored. "We don't mind checking back." "If anything happens tonight, tell the dispatcher to patch you through directly to us," Pucinski instructed, handing her his card. "We can be here in a matter of minutes." "I will. Thanks," Scully said, pocketing the small piece of paper. "That's good to know." "Good night, Agent Scully," Pucinski then said with a small nod of farewell. "Agent Mulder, sorry to have bothered you." "No bother," Mulder mumbled, more confused than ever. Larson smiled and ambled after his partner. Within seconds, the two policemen disappeared into the elevator. Leaving Mulder and Scully alone together. At first, neither said anything. They just looked at each other for a beat or more, Mulder scarcely resisting the urge to squirm under his partner's scrutiny. Christ, he silently huffed, glancing away from her penetrating gaze. If he had known he was going to have company he would have changed into something besides this ugly yellow T-shirt. The ribbing around the neck had pulled loose in two or three places, and . . . oh man . . . he had a smear of pizza sauce down near the bottom there. Lips twisted in chagrin, he tugged at the shirt's hem, bowing his head to try to get a better look at the stain, when the simple shift in position shot his equilibrium all to hell. With a small sound of surprise, he began to list sideways. But Scully caught him before he could do himself more harm, her small hands clinging tightly to his arm, restoring his balance. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked, her forehead wrinkled with concern, her body close to his. She smelled of the outdoors, of wind and chill and winter yet to come. Like a muzzled dog, the alcohol in his system strained against its leash and, bursting free, succeeded in gnawing the edges off his words. "I tol' ya I'm fine." Scully pulled back just a touch, her lips pursed in consideration. Delicately, she sniffed the air between them. "Have you been drinking, Mulder?" Busted. Grimacing, he turned away and began trekking slowly and carefully towards the sofa. Absolute mortification took a lot out of a guy. He needed to sit down before he fell down. Again. "Who wants to know?" he mumbled, only just managing to avoid taking a chunk out of his shin with the coffee table. "I do," she replied from somewhere behind him. Ah! Here we go. Rich Corinthian leather. My friend. My bed. My couch. Sit. Comfortably ensconced, he looked her way. Scully was standing, watching him from the apartment's entrance, her arms crisscrossed against her chest. Stop staring at me! he longed to shout. I know I'm drunk. Maybe if he closed his eyes she would go away. Bye-bye, Scully. "Mulder?" Damn. That almost never worked. "Why are you here, Scully?" he grumbled under his breath, his lashes still stubbornly lowered. He heard her shut the door, listened to the whisper of the chain sliding through its metal channel, the grunt of the dead bolt, the click of the lock as it engaged. Apparently, not only was his guest still there, but she planned on staying. "I came to talk," she murmured as she crossed towards him, her voice coming nearer, her heels sounding softly against the throw rug. "'Bout what?" he asked, his lips feeling thick and clumsy on his face, their girth getting in the way of his speech. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she walked past him to the window where, with a rattle and a swoosh, she drew closed the blinds. "It doesn't matter now. It can wait till morning." When she said nothing more, he raised his lids. What he saw surprised him. Scully was leaning against his desk, massaging the area between her closed eyes. Her shoulders sagged wearily, her hair all but hiding her face from view. "S'okay," he said soothingly, his worry dulled, but not entirely drowned by alcohol. "You can talk if you want. I'm listenin'." Like runaway window shades, her lashes snapped towards her brows. Standing upright once more, she took a step his way. "Mulder, look at you," she urged with a frustrated sigh, gesturing in his direction as if she feared he might not know to whom she was referring. "You're . . . you're barely conscious." "Not true," he argued back, pulling himself forward to perch on the sofa's edge. "Look at my laundry." Wait. . . . that wasn't what he'd meant to say. He had meant to tell her that he couldn't be that far gone, not when he had gotten so much done that night. That he could stay awake. That he would listen to her recite from the Yellow Pages if she wanted. He was up for anything. But that explanation required too many words arranged in far too complicated a pattern. So, instead, he just pointed emphatically at the basket of clothes as if that would explain everything. And even though some part of him, some teeny-tiny, itty-bitty bit of him recognized the pantomime as idiotic, as the action of a man who with Cuervo Gold had tragically pickled untold brain cells, another larger part of him all at once was proud. Because, without warning, Scully smiled at him. Slowly shaking her head, her expression turned tender, a gentle affection shining unmistakably in her gaze. "Just how much have you had to drink?" she quietly asked, the curving of her lips lingering. He rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, trying to decide exactly what he should divulge. "Dunno. A little of this, a little of that." "How little?" Sighing, he surrendered. What was the use? "Bottles are in the kitchen." She nodded, but didn't speak. "So's pizza," he added helpfully. "Couple slices left if you want'em." "No thanks." This time he nodded. Then yawned. "Probably wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get some sleep," Scully said, taking a couple of steps in his direction. "I'm tired," he admitted, a tad apologetically. "Why don't you lie down here," she suggested, crossing to move his laundry basket from beside him to the floor nearby. "Just lie down and close your eyes." Mmmm. Close his eyes. That sounded really good. . . . . . . and so easy to do. His lids drooped in anticipation. But first . . . "You gonna stay?" he asked as she guided him down onto the cushions. "Yeah," she murmured, reaching past him to grab the blanket off the back of the couch and shake it open before settling it over him. "I'll stay. I'll be here when you wake up." "And then we'll talk?" he queried sleepily as he snuggled beneath the covers. "Then we'll talk," she echoed in a whisper, her hand trailing lightly over his hair. That felt so wonderful, the brush of her fingertips against his temple. So remarkable, that he gave up even the pretense of trying to stay awake. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Fox Mulder slipped into the Sandman's realm, falling asleep so quickly he never felt Dana Scully's lips press warm and soft against his brow, bidding him sweet dreams. And never remembered to ask just what it was the two of them so grievously needed to discuss. ***** Scully didn't nod off until dawn had nearly broken, sickly and pale, from behind night's clouds. She had spent the wee hours on sentry duty, her Sig Sauer by her side, guarding her partner from those she feared sought to harm him, watching over him while he slumbered unawares. At first, it had been easy to stay alert. Emotions raw and close to the surface, she had been all but a bundle of nerves. Tearing over the bridge from D.C. to Virginia, she had frantically called 911, telling the operator a federal agent had been threatened and was in need of assistance, well aware the local P.D. would be able to get to Mulder's place far faster than she. That done, all she could do was pray, pray and flatten the accelerator to the floor. Zipping through traffic, she had darted between cars like a hummingbird in a flowerbed, intent on one thing, and one thing only--getting to Mulder before The Smoker did. Arriving to see the squad car parked outside her partner's building had done little to allay her fears. Unwilling to wait for the elevator, she had run up the stairs to his floor, all the while imagining an endless array of Technicolor horrors. Pulse pounding in rhythm with her step, she had pictured Mulder twisted on the rug in agony. Bleeding from a bullet hole, a puncture wound. Or worse. So, when she had seen him, unharmed, swaying drunkenly in his apartment's doorway, she hadn't known whether to laugh or to sob. Her body had felt torn with indecision. For a moment, she hadn't even been able to move from her place at the top of the stairs. Instead, she had stood rooted to the spot, trembling as if with fever. He's all right, she had kept repeating inside her head. He's okay. He's fine. God. At that moment, she would have given anything to have been able to just let loose. To yell or scream or run to Mulder and throw her arms around him in thanksgiving. But the police were there. And she needed them on their side, to serve as back-up if required. She couldn't alienate them with fantastic stories or melodramatic displays of emotion. She had to keep cool, remain in control. With that in mind, she had calmly yet ruthlessly squelched all her unseemly urges. Adopting her most professional demeanor, she had told the two officers she had received a threatening phone call that evening, one that had promised harm to the man with whom she worked. Fellow law enforcement professionals, they had immediately sympathized with the situation, and pledged their support. It's no doubt a crank, they had told her in an attempt to reassure. Just the same, we'll check back throughout the night. If anything funny happens, give us a call and we'll be here in no time. Good to know, she had thought. Especially as, for the present, Mulder was in no condition to champion his own cause. Good grief, Mulder, she had scolded as he had slept. What had you been thinking? You don't get drunk. I've never seen you drunk. Yet there he had been in all his bleary-eyed glory. And with him in such a state, how could she confess her recklessness might cost him his life? No. She couldn't tell Mulder what had happened, couldn't detail for him all The Smoker had said and done. Not when the man couldn't even focus his eyes. In the morning, she had decided. When Mulder was sober once more, she would tell him everything, as she should have from the start. She would share with him what their enemy had threatened and together they would figure out a way out to defend themselves and their partnership. The matter settled, she had moved restlessly about Mulder's apartment, impatient now to simply get it all over with. Looking for something to pass the time, she had quietly tidied up about the place, picking up stray articles of wash, drying the dinner dishes, and throwing out the empties in the kitchen. Beer =and= tequila, Mulder? she had silently queried as she had wrapped up the leftover pizza. You are going to regret this come morning. That thought sounding still inside her head, she hadn't been overly surprised to have been roused from a light doze by the sound of Mulder retching in the bathroom. She glanced at her watch. 6:02. Great. Exhausted, she had dropped into the chair sometime around 4:30, thinking perhaps she might read. Not such a terrific idea. It hadn't taken long before she had realized that, as tired as she was, reading would inevitably lead to sleeping. However, the night had been quiet and, despite the paranoia that had become her constant companion of late, she felt reasonably secure with neighbors close by and police patrolling the perimeter. It should be safe to give in to her fatigue, she had decided. If only for an hour or two. But judging by the pained gasps coming from down the hall, her hour or two was up. Time to get Mulder ready to face the world. Poor guy. She was certain he felt awful; the mornings after were never kind. Still, he would have to get past the discomfort. They were going to have to be at the top of their game if they hoped to have a chance against The Smoker. "Mulder?" she called, knocking on the bathroom door. "Do you need help?" "Scu--, . . . Scully?" he murmured weakly from within. That sounded like a 'yes', she mused with a touch of wry humor. Pushing open the portal, she slipped into doctor mode, determined not to lecture or condescend. No matter how sorely she might be tempted. But the minute she laid eyes on Mulder, all thoughts of teasing evaporated. He lay on the floor, wedged on his side between the toilet and the sink, twitching. The commode was splashed brown with bile, spots of it dotting the seat and tile as well. He breathed raggedly from his mouth, his face sheened with sweat. "Mulder?" she whispered, falling to her knees beside him and turning him over onto his back, cradling his head in her hands to protect him from further injury. Initially, he didn't answer, though his eyes found hers and clung, fear shining darkly in their glassy depths. "Mulder what's the matter?" she asked, hands running over him, searching for a pulse. She found it fluttering beneath her fingertips, beating like sparrow wings. "Can you talk to me? Can you tell me what hurts?" He tried; his lips moved, but no sound came forth. God. His strange silence terrified her. She had seen her share of hangovers in her day, some of the ones in med school fairly severe. But she had never seen a sufferer in this condition. "Mulder, I'm going to call an ambulance," she told him, smoothing his hair away from his face as she began to stand. "Just rest here. I'll be right back." "Scully?" he mumbled faintly, his gaze struggling to maintain its hold on hers. "Yeah?" she prompted, bending down once more, palm pressed to his too cool cheek. "What is it?" "Somethin' . . . somethin's not right." Saying nothing more, he blinked, then slowly closed his eyes. And with one long, rattling breath, his head lolled to the side . . . . . . as Fox Mulder slipped into unconsciousness. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter VII "Words to Live By" (7/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Well, I doubt this will be my longest Words piece (please God, no . . .), but it's turning out to be far lengthier than your average vignette. Thanks for your patience. One quick note, please remember this story falls somewhere during third season. You'll understand this reminder better once you get in to the chapter. :-) *************************************************** Walter Skinner got the call shortly after ten. Weekend traffic and rain-slicked roads slowed his progress. Still, he made it to Memorial Medical Center before noon. A few well-placed questions and he quickly found his way to the seventh floor. To Fox Mulder's bedside. Not surprisingly, the X-Files' senior agent already had company. "Agent Scully," Skinner said in greeting as he stood in the doorway, surveying Mulder's accommodations. The room was a single. Small, it smelled of disinfectant and disease. Although it was nearly midday, scant outside light dribbled in through the blinds. A goose-necked lamp clipped to the bed's headboard did what it could to combat the dreariness. Sadly, its feeble glow hadn't the firepower to provide the chamber with anything approximating cheer. "How is he?" The small auburn-haired woman turned her head listlessly in his direction. One glimpse of her face and it was all Skinner could do not to gasp at her appearance. He had known Scully had been the one to find Mulder, that she had supposedly gone to his apartment that morning and discovered him all but unconscious on his bathroom floor. Still, Skinner hadn't been prepared for the toll such a discovery might exact. Christ. Scully looked nearly as ill as the man over whom she sat watch. Shoulders stooped in grief, she regarded him with lifeless blue eyes, her complexion wan, her lips pinched with misery. "He's stabilized now," she murmured dully, her voice sounding raw and overused. "They pumped his stomach when he was first brought in and put him on the respirator . . ." Her shuttered gaze drifted away from that of her superior, returning instead to the man who lay between them, unmoving, save for the steady, mechanical pumping of his chest. "He couldn't breathe," she whispered, almost to herself, the slight wrinkling of her brow the only overt sign of her agitation. "In the ER. Could barely swallow." Sighing, Skinner took a step towards her, cursing himself for feeling so ill at ease in these sorts of situations. "Scully--" "I was afraid he was going to choke to death on his own vomit," she confessed brokenly, her hands clenched in her lap white- knuckle tight. "But you said he's better now," Skinner reminded quietly from the opposite side of the bed, at a loss as how best to comfort this woman. Yet knowing, at that moment, she desperately needed some form of solace. Even one as awkwardly bestowed as his. Mulder had been injured before, had spent more time during his tenure with the X-Files being poked and prodded by doctors than most men did in a lifetime. And through nearly every office call, hospital stay and quarantine, Scully had been by his side, oftentimes even serving as his physician. But never had Skinner seen her react this strongly to Mulder's suffering. Never had she seemed so perilously close to falling apart over it. "Yes, he's better," she absently agreed, all her attention on the man whose condition they were discussing. "The respirator is doing his breathing for him, and the anti-toxin should soon rid his system of the bacteria. As long as no complications set in, he should be out of the woods in a couple of days." "That's good, then," Skinner said gruffly, punctuating the statement with another bob of his head. "He's going to be all right." At first, Scully said nothing. She simply kept her gaze locked on Mulder, her eyes avidly following the rhythmic expansion and deflation of his lungs, her stare so intent it almost appeared as if she were consciously willing his body to take in and expel oxygen. Then, in a small, fierce voice, she muttered, "Yes. Yes, he is," the words seemingly a vow. Glancing down at the room's lone patient, Skinner wished he could share Scully's certainty. Jesus. Bluntly put, Mulder looked like shit. Lips closed around the respirator's mouthpiece, his skin was ashen, the stubble on his chin and jaw only accentuating his pallor. His eyes seemed sunken in his head, his cheeks hollowed, as if his illness had already somehow lay waste to the flesh beneath. A feeding tube had been run up through his right nostril; an IV bag supplied the rest of his body's needs, its line attached to the back of his hand. Grimacing in sympathy, Skinner shook his head. "I don't get it. Botulism? Where the hell did Mulder eat last night?" "At home," Scully replied, stretching out her hand to rest it gently on her partner's forearm, taking care not to jostle any of the many wires and tubes connected to his insensate form. "He ordered pizza." "Pizza?" Skinner echoed. She wearily nodded. "Sausage pizza. From Tony's. It's a little mom and pop place not far from his apartment. He orders from there all the time." "Are you sure that's what did it?" Skinner asked. "Couldn't it have been something else, something he ate for lunch maybe?" "I wasn't sure at first," she admitted quietly. "After I called 911, I grabbed the leftover slices, thinking I would bring them in with me. That the techs could analyze them, check them for anything unusual." Scully then paused for a second or two, saying nothing while her thumb rubbed slowly and soothingly over the pale inside of Mulder's arm, tracing the fine network of veins laying just below the surface of his skin. "But in the end, it didn't really matter," she whispered after a time. Skinner blinked at her from behind his wire-rims. "What do you mean?" "The doctors had no problem diagnosing his condition or pinpointing its cause." Although he yearned to urge Scully forward with her narrative, Skinner resisted the impulse long enough for her to finish her story on her own. "Over a dozen people have been brought in since early this morning, all suffering from a particularly virulent strain of the toxin. The cause is believed to be tainted pizza sauce. One of the victims, a little girl named Caitlin Marie Lindsey, died less than an hour ago. She was four years old." "God," Skinner muttered, once more shaking his head. "God had very little to do with this," Scully corrected huskily. Not knowing what to say in response, Skinner opted to remain mute. Feeling hopelessly inept, he stood there, watching Scully watch Mulder, until at last he shattered the deafening silence by querying, "How long are you planning on staying here?" "Until he wakes up." Why did he even bother asking? "Chances are Mulder will be out for some time yet," he said, trying to approach the situation delicately, yet all the while feeling as if he were wearing combat boots at a tea party. "Why don't you go home? Get some rest yourself." "I'd rather not," she said, not even bothering to turn his way. Skinner sighed, his patience beginning to fray. "Scully, you're obviously exhausted. Go home. There's nothing you can do here." "I can be here when he wakes up," she said simply. "That may not be for days," Skinner countered, purposely gentling his voice, hoping to coax rather than browbeat. "Go home and get some sleep. I'll sit here with him. He won't wake up alone." "Thank you, sir," she said politely, her tone arch yet firm. "But that won't be necessary. I can sleep here just as easily as I can at home." Her insistence, while not entirely unexpected, niggled at Skinner nonetheless. "Is there some reason you're afraid to leave Mulder here alone?" he asked, his nameless suspicions lending the question an edge he regretted. "Something having to do with our conversation the other day perhaps?" That brought Scully's eyes around to his. "No, sir," she said calmly, the words sounding automatic to his ears, machine-generated, like widgets off an assembly line. Skinner thinned his lips, trying to judge whether she was telling the truth. And failing to reach any sort of verdict. "Did you see him, Scully?" he queried finally, testing her. "See who, sir?" she asked, her lashes lowering and lifting like a camera shutter. "Don't be coy with me," he growled, his frustration sparking his temper. "The man you were looking for. Did you get what you needed?" The corner of her mouth raised infinitesimally, yet her expression suggested anything but amusement. Dipping her head, she tucked a few strands of flyaway auburn hair behind her ear. "No. I didn't see him. I don't plan to either." Skinner frowned. "Why not?" Scully hesitated for a moment. Then, bringing her other hand atop Mulder's arm to rest beside the first, she spoke, her gaze sliding from that of her boss to grow distant and unfocused. "I don't need to anymore. The issue has been resolved." Skinner didn't like the sound of that. "Resolved =how= exactly?" She pursed her lips, staring now unseeing at the bedclothes. "There had been a decision I had needed to make. Some questions I had hoped to have answered so I would know best how to proceed." When she paused again, Skinner prodded her along, forgetting to be circumspect in his urgency. "And you got those answers without talking to The Smoker?" "Yes, I did," she murmured, directing those vacant eyes his way again. "I know now what I need to do." Skinner looked at her long and hard, noting her haggard expression, the disturbing emptiness of her gaze. Something was wrong here, his instincts warned. Very, very wrong. "Are you planning on sharing that information any time soon, Agent Scully?" he queried, already fearing her reply. Yet, as it happened, it wasn't quite time for dread. Not just then. "Soon, sir," Scully said with a little nod of her head. "Believe me. You'll know soon enough." ***** The night nurses were infinitely more tolerant than those who worked the nine to five shift, Scully decided, sliding down a bit lower in the vinyl bedside chair, trying to find a position that would relieve the stabbing ache between her shoulder blades. Seemingly sympathetic to her plight, they had brought her coffee and a sandwich, and had found her a spare blanket to help ward off the evening's chill. Their efforts had been gratefully acknowledged, even if she had only been able to muster a quiet "thank you" in appreciation. Yet, despite her reticence, they had appeared to understand, to make allowances for her fatigue and her concern. Pity she hadn't hit it off quite as well with the day crew, she now mused. She couldn't be certain, but by dinnertime she had thought perhaps her presence had begun to unnerve them. She hadn't meant to give offense, but with Mulder's present vulnerability, she had been forced to be even more vigilant than usual in supervising his care. Watching like a hawk, she had stood at one nurse's elbow then another as they had checked his vitals, making sure nothing was amiss. She had grilled his doctors, questioning their diagnoses, their treatment strategy, even their qualifications. Still not satisfied, she had spent the afternoon studying Mulder's chart, examining it as if were written in hieroglyphics and she were an archaeologist intent on unlocking the mysteries of the pyramids. In reality, she was checking and rechecking the staff's findings, searching for any potential hazards the good doctors might have overlooked. So far, she had come up empty. One thing was for certain, however--contrary to popular belief, Tony's poor patrons had not been felled by a dented can of Contadina's. She didn't know how The Smoker's people had managed to introduce the bacteria into the pizzeria's kitchen, but she was positive the poisonings were far from accidental. Oh God . . . . that poor little girl, Scully silently mourned, lips pressed tight as if to hold back a sob. Their enemies had murdered that innocent child in cold blood. And for what? To cover up their attempt at killing Mulder. To punish her for her disobedience. No. No, I am not to blame for this, she told herself, doing all within her power to keep that inner voice firm and resolute. I am not the one responsible for Caitlin Lindsey's death. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, keep repeating the words over and over again inside my head, chanting them like a mantra . . . . . . maybe one day I'll actually believe them. Taking a slow, shuddering breath, Scully kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her, settling in for the night. But try though she might, she just couldn't get comfortable. Her jeans felt like chain mail against her skin, heavy and rough, binding her limbs like a corset would her middle. What she wouldn't give for a change of clothes or even just a shower. She was still wearing the turtleneck and denim she had donned for her visit to The Smoker's den. And although she knew it was impossible, she could swear she smelled a telltale hint of cigarette smoke clinging to her person, marking her as surely as the letter "A" had Hester. Like a souvenir of her failed raid the night before, the phantom odor kept reminding her of her mistakes. You are to blame for this, it told her, ruthlessly silencing the reason trying so hard to convince her otherwise. All of this. Your pride put Mulder in this hospital bed. Your foolishness killed that little girl. . . . I feel so dirty, she lamented, closing her eyes as she shoved her fingers roughly through the rumpled mess of her hair, and not only because I'm wearing yesterday's make-up. Rather, she felt soiled within, her very soul tainted in some way by the events of the past twenty-four hours. She had fought her fall every inch of the way, grasping for alternatives the same way a climber might grab wildly for handholds when the earth beneath her feet crumbled to dust, and yet she had still been pulled down into The Smoker's plot, made an accomplice to his crimes. She had sworn she wouldn't give in to his demands, had promised herself she would struggle until her last dying breath. . . . But what about Mulder's? What right did she have to take chances with his life? Because that's what she had done when she had contacted Skinner, demanding information. She knew that now, the transgression so great, no amount of Hail Marys would ever truly absolve her of the guilt. She had played fast and loose with Mulder's wellbeing, flaunting her rebellion, all but daring The Smoker to strike out in retaliation. To strike out at Mulder. She couldn't pretend it had been anything other than her arrogance that had led to her partner lying in that hospital bed, his breath controlled by the pressers manipulating his lungs. And why? Because she had believed he couldn't live without her, nor she without him. God . . . "I'm sorry," she whispered, pushing aside the blanket and pressing to her feet. Her legs wobbly beneath her, she padded the few steps to Mulder's bedside. Reaching out, she threaded her fingers through the hair on his brow. "I'm so sorry." Quietly, the sound muffled as if it came from several rooms away, she heard the trilling of her cell phone. Startled by the noise, Scully turned, searching for her purse. She found it resting against the side of the night stand. Quickly, she crossed to the bag and, rummaging through it, retrieved her Nokia. Stabbing the Talk button, she mumbled, "Scully." "How's the patient?" The Smoker. Her heart began pounding almost painfully in her chest, its thump so powerful, she imagined she could feel the vibrations setting her ribs aquiver. Arm outstretched, she grabbed hold of the back of the chair, closing her fingers round it vise-like for support. "You bastard," she hissed, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, the salty liquid hot and corrosive, searing like acid. "You fucking, =fucking= bastard." "Now, now," he murmured indulgently. "I don't think that's quite fair. Do you? After all, I gave you plenty of warning." Don't you put this on me, she mutely railed, fighting his influence and her own inclinations. Don't you try and make me the guilty party here. "You murdered a helpless little girl." He took his time before answering. In the silence, she could hear him take a drag off his cigarette, the small wet sound of his lips closing around the stick of tobacco then releasing once more threatening to upend her stomach. "Innocents are often caught in the crossfire, Agent Scully. You know that as well as anyone." Yes, she did. "How do you sleep at night?" she whispered, her tears now branding her cheeks. "Isn't that a question you should be asking yourself this evening?" countered the person on the other end of the line. "My conscience is clear," she said, wishing she could inject the statement with more conviction. "Is it?" he taunted knowingly. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she said nothing in reply. How could she? They both knew her arguments were lies. Instead, she turned to look at the man she loved. The hour was late, the room almost completely dark. The only light came from the lamp clipped above him. Yet, she could see Mulder clearly, his drawn, dear face amply illuminated by the bulb's glow. "For some reason, Agent Scully, you seem determined to cast Agent Mulder and yourself as a pair of star-crossed lovers, a couple torn apart by cruel fate, the FBI's answer to Romeo and Juliet." Listening almost dreamily to The Smoker's voice, she walked slowly towards the bed, her stocking feet noiseless against the tile. Funny . . . For as many times as she had seen him like this, lying unconscious in one hospital or another, she could never get over how strange it all was, what an odd image he presented. Awake, Mulder always seemed more alive than anyone she had ever known. His mind more breathtakingly agile, his body strong and lithe, nearly pulsing with energy, with drive, that passion appearing ready at any moment to burst right through his skin. "I wonder where the urge for such self-dramatization comes from. Why you have such a difficult time taking responsibility for your own actions." Yet, like this, dwarfed by the machines monitoring his condition, all Mulder's potent vitality was missing, vanished as utterly as his wry, lop-sided grin. In its place was this . . . this stillness. And the silence that accompanied it. Neither ever really seemed to belong to him. Rather, it was as if an imposter was in his stead, a pretender with his face. Is that really you, Mulder? Why don't you open up your eyes and tell me so. "It seems to me this tendency is a form of vanity. Don't you think? Ego. After all, you and Mulder are adults, not starry- eyed children. You know the way the game is played." "This is not a game," she said quietly, drawing up alongside Mulder and stretching out her hand to caress his cheek, to slide her fingertips from the center of his forehead to his temple, to trace the shape of his brows. "That's my point," said The Smoker, murmuring like an imp in her ear. "This is real, Agent Scully. Real life." Look at those eyelashes, she thought, her musing dim and ill-formed. Long and lush, they lay nestled in the bruised hollows of his eyes, curled like a beauty queen's. And that nose . . . What a perfectly ridiculous nose. Mulder, only you could be this handsome saddled with a nose like that. "In real life, people like Mulder and you don't live happily ever after. You don't marry, move to the suburbs, and have children. You don't coach little league or drive a minivan." Children, she repeated silently, the word ringing inside her head, its meaning obscure for some reason, hard to grasp. She didn't think much about children. Hadn't for several years. They had no place in the life she led, the path she had chosen for herself. The one she shared with Mulder. Well, what do you know? The Smoker and she were in accord. "That future isn't an option for you. You're the sort who live hard and fast. You burn, your flame incandescent, until one day that candle is snuffed out." The way he was echoing her musings frightened her, making her feel as if his surveillance had extended beyond her home, her office, her car. That now, her very thoughts were being monitored, her emotions recorded, then cataloged for further reference. "I don't want him to die," she whispered, not sure anymore to whom exactly the words were directed. "I want him alive." "I can give you that," The Smoker promised, crooning like a lover. "It's not too late. I can see that he lives. But first you must give me what I want." Closing her eyes, she swallowed hard against the sudden thickness in her throat, swaying with the loss of vision. "It's simple," he told her. "All you have to do is say goodbye." Goodbye . . . "Come now, Agent Scully," the Smoker coaxed, his tone silky and insinuating. "It's time to end this . . ." She lifted her lashes. It was harder than it should have been; her lids stubbornly resisted her efforts. I'm so tired. So very, very tired . . . " . . . we both know that." Brows drawn tightly together, she stared unblinking at Mulder, her gaze fierce and clinging. "It's for the best." This is for the best, Mulder . . . "Don't make me hurt him again." No. Not again. Never, ever, again. And letting loose a long, slow, deep breath, she surrendered. "All right." Rather than gloating, The Smoker sucked noisily on his cigarette once more. "Excellent," he finally said, the word tobacco-charred. "You've made a wise decision." Turning away from the bed, Scully pressed her hand firmly over her mouth, trying to squelch her impending hysteria. Decision? That implied Choice, didn't it? "I'll expect your request for transfer to be on Skinner's desk by the time Mulder is ready to be discharged from the hospital," The Smoker instructed. "I don't want to wait any longer. I'm sure you can understand why." "He'll have my resignation in plenty of time," she assured him as she wandered towards the window, her thoughts and words fluttering now at the edges of her consciousness, rent and worn like a weathered flag. She felt cold suddenly, her extremities numb. While, in contrast, her head tingled hot and fuzzy as if with fever. Shock. I think I'm in shock. The notion neither surprised nor alarmed her. "Resignation?" The Smoker queried. "I thought I had told you that wasn't necessary." Coming to a halt at the window, Scully propped her shoulder against its frame. Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, she clumsily twisted open the blinds. Mulder's room looked out on the entrance to the hospital. Even though it was the middle of the night, cars motored past, their headlights glowing eerily, reflecting off the oil smeared puddles dotting the asphalt. A man dressed in a navy blue windbreaker waited on the corner for a bus. Another, garbed in a red flannel shirt, leaned against an ambulance, talking to a woman dressed in scrubs and a sweater, a cup of coffee in her hand. Something she said made her companion laugh. How amazing, Scully thought, peering through the slats. How remarkable, really, that the rest of life should so blithely carry on . . . . . . when hers was coming to an end. "I don't think I have the stomach for this kind of work," she told the man on the other end of the line. "Not anymore." "Yes. I suppose that's understandable," he said agreeably, his reply quick and smooth, as if he had expected such a thing. "No need to punish yourself, after all. You're a young woman, a doctor. You should get on with your life. It won't be as bad as all that. You'll see. One day, you'll forget all about the X-Files. . . ." Unable to stand a minute more of his blathering, Scully hit the End button, wordlessly bidding The Smoker adieu. Setting the phone on the sill, she turned so that she stood with her back against the wall, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle. Her teeth snagged on her bottom lip, she tipped back her head so it rested against the plaster and closed her eyes. Forget? she echoed mockingly inside her head. You stupid monster of a man. You believe someday I'll forget Fox Mulder and the way I betrayed him? Never. I couldn't possibly live that long. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter VIII "Words to Live By" (8/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch The really bad thing about these long stories is that at one point or another I totally run out of things to say when introducing a chapter. This would be that point. Quit cheering! >;-\ ************************************************** Fox Mulder dreamt he was dining on broken glass. Jagged pieces sat before his dream self, heaped in a bowl, glittering in a myriad of jewel-toned hues, brilliant, like fragments from a shattered church window. In this odd otherplace, he felt no surprise, no fear at being offered such a repast. Rather, he dug into it enthusiastically, scooping up the shards like they were corn flakes. It wasn't until after that first bite, until the spoon was pulled from between his lips that the pain began. Like razors, the wickedly sharp edges shredded the tender inside of his mouth, sliced bloody furrows down the length of his gullet. The coppery taste of blood on his tongue, his stomach rebelled against the noxious fare, cramping and roiling in an effort to expel it. But it hurt . . . Oh God, it hurthurthurt . . . Burned. Like those vicious bits of glass had never left the kiln. They scorched and stabbed . . . And choked. Choking . . . Something was lodged in his throat. Something hard and wide that bruised the spongy lining of his esophagus. He couldn't breathe. . . . Drowning, I'm drowning . . . and I can't even close my mouth to hold back the waves. . . . "Mulder . . . =Mulder= . . . ssh. Ssh, now. It's okay. Don't fight. . . . don't fight. Just relax. Relax. It's the respirator . . . the respirator you feel. Give us a minute and we'll get you off that thing. You're going to be fine." He couldn't open his eyes. He wanted to, but the lids wouldn't lift for him. He didn't have the energy or the strength. Still, he didn't need his vision to identify that the voice. He knew it well. And trusted the speaker. Absolutely. Scully. Her husky alto whispered to him like rainwater on moss, dousing the fire in his gut, soothing his aching throat. Scully would make it better. She would make the pain go away. She always did. He could feel her fingertips skimming delicately atop his hair, combing through the strands, her touch reassuring. She was murmuring to him still, though he couldn't understand all she was saying. Just crumbs, particles floating through his consciousness like motes wafting before his eyes. She was there. He could relax. That's what he needed to do . . . relax. He would be all right. Scully would take care of everything. . . . And secure in that knowledge, Mulder promptly fell back to sleep. When he next awoke, it was to dazzling beams of sunlight, their radiance powerful enough to bleed right through his lowered lids. Realizing his only escape was still more sleep, he chose the opposite instead and opened his eyes. Morning, he absently decided, squinting against the almost blinding brightness. But which one? Turning his head away from the painful evidence of day, he protested his discomfort with a low, breathy moan. "Fox?" That wasn't Scully. . . . Though he did recognize the voice. His mouth felt as if it were lined with construction paper, his throat, like it had been the route for the annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Damn, those marching bands were murder. . . . Still, he thought he could muster at least some semblance of speech. Swiping his lips with his tongue, he gave it his best shot. "Mom?" he croaked. Almost as if he had somehow conjured her, she stepped into view. Wearing a mint green cardigan and shell, pearl earrings, and a chic silk scarf tied around her neck, Teena Mulder looked as impeccably groomed as ever. That's the one thing he could always count on when it came to his mother. Whether she was lunching with the ladies or playing nursemaid to him, the attractive matron invariably came prepared with manicured nails, a dab of Chanel No. 5, and just the right sweater set. "There, there, dear. Lie still," she murmured, reaching out to gently press him back against the pillows, her hands cool and white. Surprised yet pleased to see her, he gave the whole talking thing another try. "W-water?" With a small smile, she reached behind her to the bedside table. Lifting the pitcher positioned there, she poured some of its contents into a clear plastic cup and offered it to him. A striped, elbowed straw peeked gaily over the side of the tumbler. Mulder grimaced, but sucked on the plastic tube anyway. Terrific, he mutely grumbled as the H2O dribbled down his parched throat, not only do I feel weak as a newborn, but within minutes of waking, I get to nurse on a sippy straw. While my mom holds the damned thing to my lips. This could have deep, unfortunate, psychological consequences. "There," Mrs. Mulder said quietly after he had swallowed a few mouthfuls. "Is that better?" He nodded ever so slightly and wearily sighed. God, he felt like shit. What the hell had happened? One minute he was happily snoozing on the couch and the next he was bent over the toilet spewing up the contents of his stomach. Hmm. He could remember that, but not how he had wound up here. . . . Had he somehow crawled to the phone and called 911? No. . . . No, Scully had been there. "Sc . . Scully?" he queried now, craning his neck to look for her, straining to lift his head. Lips thinned in concern, Teena Mulder pushed him flat with the hand not still holding the cup. "Your partner? She's not here, dear." Nothing like pointing out the obvious, Mom. So, if she's not here--*where is she*? "Wh--wh-where?" he began, the simple word taking as much effort to shape as Quonochontaug once did when he was a child. "Where is this?" his mother queried helpfully, turning away to replace the glass on the night stand. No, no, no. He shook his head. His mother didn't see. "Memorial Medical Center," she said, unaware her response was not the information he sought. "Wh-wh?" he stubbornly mumbled, determined to get an answer to his question. "I got the call late yesterday and came down as soon as I could," she said, misinterpreting him yet again as she straightened his blankets, tucking him in as if she had just finished reading him a bedtime story. "I got in a couple of hours ago. What I don't understand is why your partner waited until Monday before letting me know you were ill. Had I been aware of the situation, I would have been here sooner." Monday? Then . . . that would make this . . . "=T-Tuesday=?" he all but groaned, his eyes going wide in their sockets. "Yes, dear," his mother said, her hand resting on his shoulder. "You've been very sick. We were worried." "Sc-Sc . . .?" he sputtered one last time, appalled that his language skills had tragically deteriorated to those of a toddler. Yet, somehow, some way, his mother understood. "Agent Scully? She went home to get some sleep. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. She looked awfully tired." Good. She was okay. If tired. Sleep. What a good idea. His eyelids drooped. His mother took notice. "You should get some rest too, you know," she advised in a voice he remembered well from childhood. The one that reminded him to mind his manners, do his homework, and quit picking on his sister. "You're going to need your energy to face all those doctors. You gave us quite a scare, Fox. Don't think they aren't going to want to check you over but good." Mulder knew of only one doctor he wanted giving him the once-over. Sadly, she wasn't around at present. But surely she would be there when he awoke. "Go to sleep," his mother urged him softly before kissing his brow. "Go on. Close your eyes." "Mmm," he murmured, meaning the sound to be a kind of thank-you, yet fearing it didn't express all he had intended. He didn't want to seem ungrateful. Honestly, he didn't. He appreciated his mom coming all the way down from Connecticut, especially as under normal circumstances their relationship wasn't exactly what he would term 'close'. It was nice she had gone to the trouble, that she was willing to sit in that small, sterile room for no other reason than he was in it too. But she wasn't the one he had wanted to wake to. He wanted Scully. Sighing at the injustice of it all, he nuzzled his cheek into the bleach-scented pillow and closed his eyes. Patience, Mulder, he told himself as he rapidly descended into dreamland. She'll be here. Just get some sleep. She's sure to be back soon. ***** But Scully wasn't there when next he roused. This time, when Mulder opened his eyes, it was dark outside. And within. In apparent deference to his slumber, no lamp had been lit. However, the door to his room was ajar. A sharp- edged triangle of florescence spilled onto the floor from the hallway, spotlighting the heel marks scuffing the tile. By the glow of this vivid yet limited light, he realized he was alone. One of the New York Times' hottest best-sellers lay on his bedside table, spine up. Beside it balanced his mother's reading glasses. She was nowhere to be seen. "Mr. Mulder?" Surprised by the unknown voice, Mulder swiveled his head on the pillow, turning his attention away from the room's empty chair and back towards its entrance. A wiry Hispanic man peered around the door, the sculpted planes of his long, narrow face softened by a pair of sympathetic brown eyes and a mouth that looked prone to smile. His lab coat and stethoscope marked him as a doctor. Great. The fun begins. Yet, as it turned out, Dr. Gilbert Marquez was a cut above the usual quacks who looked after him. True, he was no Scully. But he didn't condescend or treat Mulder like a piece of meat. He performed his examination with care and explained the situation in simple, straight-forward terms, outlining for Mulder what lay ahead on the road to recovery. "Overall," Marquez assured him, strolling to the foot of the bed to retrieve Mulder's chart, "you seem to be responding quite well to the anti-toxin. I'm sure you feel weak, and that your coordination is in some ways lacking. But that's to be expected. The toxin attacks the nervous system. It's probably going to take awhile for you to feel one hundred percent." Mulder nodded in regretful agreement. One hundred percent? He'd give his left kidney to be at fifty. "For right now, rest," Marquez kindly advised, eyes first on the machines circling the bed, then dropping to his clipboard where he jotted down some notes. "Tomorrow, if you're up for it, we'll start you off on some solids." Mulder grimaced. As cavernous as his stomach currently felt, the thought of chewing and swallowing actual food took his insides on the roller coaster ride from hell. "Do you have any questions?" Marquez queried, capping his pen and slipping it back into his jacket pocket. "Where . . . ?" Mulder asked, gesturing weakly with his chin in the direction of the bedside chair, amazed he was already tiring. "Your mother?" Marquez said, trying to fill in the blanks. "She went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat. Don't worry. She said she'd be by to say goodnight before she headed to the hotel." "No, . . . no," Mulder mumbled, shaking his head restlessly. He couldn't take another game of Guess What the Invalid is Grunting. He just couldn't. Somebody give him a goddamned piece of scratch paper already. "Sc-Scully." "Dr. Scully?" No. Rabbi Scully. "Yeah," he murmured instead, behaving himself. Marquez's lips lifted at the corners, wry amusement all at once evident in his gaze. "She's your partner, right?" Mulder nodded, wondering at the doctor's curious expression. "I'll bet she's a handful," Marquez stated flatly, a kind of rueful admiration in his voice. Well, Mulder fondly mused, sounds like somebody made quite an impression. "What?" he queried hoarsely a moment later, the question rumbling deep in his ruined throat. Marquez shrugged, his small smile lingering. "Nothing really. It's just . . . she is one formidable woman" Mulder chuckled at that vast understatement. "Wish I had more information for you. But as far as I know, she's still wherever it was she went to when she left here," Marquez said with a nimbleness of tongue that made Mulder want to howl with inarticulate envy. "Once your mom arrived, she took off." Mulder nodded again. Scully had left that morning utterly exhausted. He knew that. He knew she had kept watch in that horridly uncomfortable-looking chair for days on end with nothing more stimulating to do than watch him sleep. He knew that too. It wasn't that he begrudged her the time away. And yet . . . "I can check with the staff and see if she's called in," Marquez offered, taking a step towards the corridor and the nurses' desk beyond. "No, no," Mulder mumbled hurriedly, not wanting to appear anymore needy than was absolutely necessary. The doctor smiled his reassurance. "You're lucky to have her on your side, Mr. Mulder," Marquez said, his hand on the door. "Now get some sleep. If Dr. Scully comes back tomorrow and your condition isn't to her liking, I =know= who's going to hear about it." Unable to argue with that, Mulder simply closed his eyes once more. After all, the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he'd wake up. And with any luck, Scully would be there waiting for him. ***** Only she wasn't there. She didn't come. Not that following morning, afternoon, or evening. Instead, Mulder had his mother for company. She tried to distract him, to tell him amusing anecdotes about her friends, to catch him up on all the family gossip. They watched TV together--seventies sitcom reruns and cable news. She went down to the gift store and brought him back a stack of magazines. She even offered to play cards with him. By nightfall, he was all but begging her to return to Connecticut. His foul mood did not go unnoticed by the woman who was its undeserving target. "When your partner called and said you were in the hospital, I told her what an awful patient you could be," she said after an increasingly strained afternoon, her lips pulled tight in a little moue of hurt. "It wasn't that I wasn't willing to come down. I told her that more as a warning, so that she would know what to expect. After all, I certainly nursed you through enough bouts of the flu when you were growing up. I know how restless you can get." God, Mom, Mulder silently groused. It isn't as if Scully doesn't know what a pain in the ass I can be. Ask her sometime about the retro-virus I came in contact with in the Arctic, or when they drugged my water . . . or better yet--if you want to swap war stories--have her tell you about the time she shot me and then dragged me cross-country while I bled all over the inside of her car. That oughta be good for a few laughs. "Maybe she took my words to heart," Teena Mulder continued, choosing to leaf through one of the magazines she had purchased rather than look at him, her pointed avoidance unmistakable as punishment. "Maybe that's why she hasn't stopped by." "She'll be here," Mulder muttered, rolling onto his side and away from his obviously miffed mother. He knew he was largely to blame for the tension between them, but he didn't have it in him to apologize. Not just then. He still ached all over, his throat and stomach raw, anxiety over Scully's whereabouts driving him just this side of homicidal. Even under the best of circumstances, he hated being idle. But this . . . this forced inactivity was making him =buggy=. He wanted to know where his partner was. He wanted to climb out of that hospital bed, track her down . . . and drag her back under the covers with him. Where they would lie, twined around each other for all eternity. What a lovely, lovely dream. . . . Exhausted still in the wake of his illness, he fell helplessly back asleep, much to his mother's relief, dozing off before primetime got underway. But Scully never popped in to kiss him good-night. By late Thursday morning, Mulder was fast succumbing to panic. This wasn't like Scully. Not at all. She hadn't visited, hadn't called. Fearing the worst, he had tried her at home, then on her cell. Nothing. Recordings, but no Scully. Christ. What if something had happened? What if she needed him and he was stuck in that damned hospital, lying around in a powder blue smock with his ass hanging out? Weak, yet resolute, he demanded to speak to Dr. Marquez who, when he heard his patient intended to check himself out, threatened to sedate him instead. Overhearing this exchange, his mother informed him in no uncertain terms he was out of his mind. Then, throwing up her hands in disgust, she walked out, telling him if he came to his senses she would be at the hotel. Left alone to plot and stew, Mulder had just about decided he was willing to chance the good doctor and his fiendish needle when there was a knock on the door. "I'm still here, Marquez," he called darkly from where he sat brooding, propped against a stack of pillows, his voice scratchy but far easier to produce than it had been a few days previous. "No need to stick me just yet." "Stick you with what?" queried Assistant Director Skinner as he entered without invitation, his trench coat fluttering, his jaw set. "Wouldja believe 'the check'?" Mulder parried sheepishly, wondering what the hell he had done to merit a visit from the boss during business hours. "No," Skinner said shortly, coming to a halt beside the bed, his hands fisted in his pockets. "I wouldn't. I just talked to your doctor on the way in. He informs me you've been making his life difficult." Mulder shrugged, a trifle embarrassed at being called by Skinner on his bad behavior, but determined to stay the course. "I gotta be me." Skinner nodded. "That's what I told him. Not surprisingly, the man found it little comfort." "I'm ready to get out of here," Mulder said stubbornly. "That's all." Skinner looked at his agent appraisingly, his eyes narrowed behind his wire-rims. "Can you even keep down solid food?" "I'm a wiz with toast and Jell-O," Mulder assured him with a sardonic lift of his brows. "What does your doctor say?" Skinner queried, seemingly unconvinced by the younger man's bravado. "He says I've probably got another day or two of bed rest here," Mulder muttered, folding his arms as he leaned back against the headboard. "Then he'll see about releasing me." Skinner nodded, gnawing thoughtfully on the corner of his mouth. "=I= say I have a bed at home," Mulder finished with a scowl. "Or at least a couch." "You're in that big a hurry to get out of here?" Skinner queried. "I don't call a week's hospital stay rushing things, sir," Mulder said sullenly, regretting he sounded like a petulant teen, but unable to help himself nonetheless. "I just don't see how my lying around here for another day or two is going to make any difference in my recovery. I have things I have to take care of." "I don't suppose any of these 'things' would include Agent Scully, would they?" Something in his voice shot adrenaline through Mulder's veins, drugging him in a way opposite to what Marquez had promised, setting his blood to tingle as it flowed. "What are you talking about?" Saying nothing at first, Skinner reached inside his trench and withdrew from his breast pocket an envelope. "This was waiting for me on my desk this morning," he said, tossing the white rectangle onto Mulder's blanket draped lap. Firing the other man a quick, questioning glance, Mulder slipped his fingers beneath the paper flap and pulled from the pouch its contents. "I thought maybe you could tell me just what the hell it all means." Distracted for a second by Skinner's ominous tone, Mulder at last folded flat the single sheet of stationery. It was a letter. Typewritten. Short, to the point. And utterly devastating. "What is this?" Mulder demanded in a hiss, his voice low and terrible, his face colorless save for the two bright spots of red high on his cheeks. "I don't know," Skinner retorted with a grim shake of his head. "As soon as I finished reading it, I called her in. We talked. . . . Or rather, I did." "What did she say?" Mulder asked, an awful, gaping emptiness beginning to hollow out the center of his chest. "That she had reevaluated her priorities and, as it stood, the Bureau was no longer among them," Skinner said as if repeating the words by rote. Reevaluated her priorities? Mulder echoed inside his head, the very notion refusing to gel, to make any sense at all. No, that wasn't possible. Scully would never turn her back on the work, would never grow bored or disillusioned. Would never even contemplate leaving the X-Files. Or him. Would she? "Well, you have to stop her," he blurted out to his superior, heartily embarrassed the minute the words left his lips. Still, swallowing his pride, he forged on. "You have to talk to her, get her to reconsider." Skinner sighed. "Mulder, that's what I'm trying to tell you-- we had that talk. I did what I could. I told her to think about it, to take some time. I tried to convince her that it would be wiser not to jump into anything. Hell, I had her in my office for close to two hours." "And?" Mulder urged, lunging forward from his comfortable berth, a hand stretched beseechingly towards Skinner. "And . . . she wouldn't budge," the A.D. finished with another slow shake of his head. At first, neither man said anything, Mulder only able to stare blindly at the foot of the bed, his brain having a difficult time wrapping itself around this particular calamity. "I had considered simply ripping this to pieces," Skinner murmured after a time, his focus on the floor at his feet. "After all, it had worked with you." Blinking as if waking from a dream, Mulder turned his attention once more to the man standing beside him, regret carved into the lines of his face. "But I don't think it would have made a difference with Scully," Skinner said quietly, the muscle in the corner of his jaw jumping as if zapped by electricity. "Her mind was made up." That was what Mulder was having trouble grasping. How Scully could have decided this, could have opted to upend their professional lives without ever saying anything, anything at all, to him. Not when their private lives were so closely bound to the same. But had she really been that silent? queried a venomous little voice inside his head. Had there been no warning signs for you to read? No cautions, no alarms? Are you certain she never told you, never showed you, she was drifting away? Did you ever take the time to look? "I need to talk to her," Mulder mumbled at last as he pushed aside the covers and made ready to stand. But before he could do more than scoot to the mattress' edge, Skinner's hand clamped on his shoulder to keep him from rising. "I know you want to talk to her," the older man said, bending down to speak the words directly into Mulder's face. "I think you should. If there's one person who can talk some sense into her it's you." Swallowing hard, Mulder nodded, but said nothing, sensing there was still more Skinner had to impart. "But there's something else you should know. Something you should be aware of before you go trying to drag Scully back to the basement by her hair." The image of himself as Neanderthal did little to lighten Mulder's mood. "What?" Skinner straightened once more, then took a step away. Running a hand over the smooth slope of his head, he spoke. "About a week ago, Scully came to me to ask for a favor." "A favor?" Mulder echoed warily. "What kind of favor?" Skinner hesitated, clearly torn as to whether he wanted to continue. Grimacing, he finally did just that. "She needed information. Information she knew I had but would be reluctant to share." Mulder perched on the side of the bed, mute, waiting for the A.D. to finish, his impatience eating at him. "She wanted the address of The Smoker." A cascade of ice and dread shimmered through Mulder's system, chilling him from head to toe. "=What=?" "She wanted to know where she could find him," Skinner said, turning away to pace along the length of the bed, his eyes unable to meet those of his agent. "She said she had questions she needed answered." "And you gave her that information?" Mulder seethed as he pushed shakily to his feet. "You sent her to him =alone=?" Mulder's rage seemingly fueling a similar response in him, Skinner rounded on the younger man, his color high, "I gave her a way to contact him, Mulder. That's it. I did the same for you once. Don't you remember?" "That was different--," Mulder began, taking a slow, unsteady step his way. "Why?" Skinner challenged. "Because Scully's a woman?" "No!" Mulder protested, vehemently shaking his head. "Because . . . because . . ." Because she's Scully. And if anything were ever to happen to her because he wasn't there to watch her back . . . "I've gotta talk to her," he muttered rather than finishing his earlier argument and, pushing past Skinner, he lurched away, his path wavering. His destination: the room's tiny closet. "For what it's worth, she told me she didn't go through with it," Skinner mumbled from somewhere behind him. Mulder pivoted to face him, his hand braced against the far wall for support, exhausted by a journey of a half a dozen steps. "Go through with what?" "Seeing the Smoker. She said she wound up deciding she didn't need to." Mulder hung his head, feeling as if the world were spinning just a little too fast for his comfort. Jesus. Scully choosing not to see The Smoker made even less sense than her asking for his address in the first place. Why would she have refrained from confronting him when she had had information like that handed to her? "And you believed her?" he quietly asked Skinner. Lips pressed flat, the A.D. shrugged. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I can't tell. I don't know what Scully looks like when she lies." Slowly, Mulder nodded, wondering if, when the time came, he would be any more insightful. Fearful of the answer to that question, he opened the closet door. While he had been taking one of his many naps, his mother had been kind enough to visit his apartment and pack him a suitcase, a collection of personal items for when he was sent home. Hanging on the rack before him were some of the contents of that tote: a pair of his favorite jeans and a pressed white oxford. Above them, on the shelf, was his shaving kit. He reached up to grab the small leather bag and almost groaned aloud at what the stretch did to his middle. "You sure you're up to this?" Skinner queried from across the room, obviously having witnessed his discomfort. Was he sure? His vision was fuzzy at the edges, pixilated like a painting by Seurat. His head felt as if it were filled with helium, weightless, so that it seemed to hover above his shoulder, airy and cold. His knees shook, his hands quaked. And he was certain that sometime during his convalescence his insides had mysteriously taken on the texture of an emery board. But the woman he loved had just signed away their life together. "I'm up to it," Mulder solemnly told his superior, his clothes bunched in his hands. I can take the walking out of here, I can face down Marquez, I can endure it all without complaint. I'm not afraid of leaving this hospital. It's what's beyond these walls I fear I won't survive. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter IX "Words to Live By" (9/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch All disclaimer stuff prior to chapter one. Thanks! *************************************************** How strange it was that years of work, of blood and sorrow, of laughter and love, could fit quite neatly into a simple banker's box. She hadn't realized folded cardboard could so easily hold something she herself hadn't even fully grasped. Sighing, Dana Scully leaned over the carton, pushed upright a collection of sagging file folders and wedged against them a stained ceramic coffee mug. Cobalt blue with hints of copper spidering through its glaze, the oversized cup was a favorite, a holdover from her days at the Academy. She remembered when she had first decided to bring it to the office, opting to do so even though she feared her new partner would regard her desire for the familiar as too girlish or sentimental. That the man for whom personalizing a workspace meant wallpapering it with photos of the macabre and unexplained might deem her need for such creature comforts a sign of weakness or immaturity. Funny how, right from the start, Mulder's opinion had mattered to her. Had preyed upon her confidence, weighed on her peace of mind. The knowledge was not something about which she was proud; Scully had spent long hours analyzing this need she had to prove herself, to win acceptance and praise from those in authority. She had tried to pinpoint exactly when such recognition had become something she craved. Yet no childhood trauma came readily to mind, no seminal event ripe with meaning burned in her memory. She recognized she was a competitive person, someone driven to succeed. But she couldn't honestly say why she apparently required such success be measured against a marker other than her own. Resigned to the situation, she had come to accept this tendency as merely a part of whom she was. Everyone has quirks to their personality, she reasoned. It's no big deal. Hell, it could be worse. Rather than looking to others for validation, she could instead be torturing small animals for kicks. Once, that rationalization would have brought a certain measure of solace. However, now, with what she was being forced to do to Mulder, Scully feared tormenting the innocent had proven a pastime not all that far removed. "Christ," she muttered under her breath, still bent over the box, shaking her head from side to side in weary denial. What grieved her most about this ongoing travesty was that through their closeness, Mulder had unwittingly handed her the means for his destruction, had shown her where specifically to wound, precisely how deep to plunge the knife. Normally the most intensely private of individuals, he had let down his guard where she was concerned. Not all at once, but gradually, concessions won by trials jointly overcome, by confidences shared, then kept. Shedding layer after layer of protection, peeling them away like the most erotic of stripteases, he had laid himself bare before her, childlike in his faith, his trust. Convinced that she, more so than any other, was incorruptible. Foolish man. When the price was his safety, she could be bought. Just like any other whore. Like any other fallen woman. Angrily shoving her address book in with the rest, Scully chuckled mirthlessly at such an absurd notion, at the idea that she was some sort of modern day Mary Magdalene to Mulder's Christ. Jesus. Might as well cast them as Adam and Eve, she silently huffed, as two blithe souls living in a world made only of themselves, a pair who reigned happily in their private realm, needing nothing but each other. Until one day, betrayed by her own willfulness, the woman made a deal with a serpent. And suddenly, nothing was as it had been. The couple's life together was torn apart. They were cast out, set adrift. Banished from paradise. All at once, her scornful contemplation took on a bittersweet tone. Eyes stinging, she looked around the shadowy office, taking note of the worn, second-hand furniture, the dusty corners and crannies, the stacks of documents and photos, files and books, all piled willy-nilly, looking as if at any moment they might transform into an avalanche of paper. She would miss this place. Who had known a kind of Eden could be created in a cold, damp basement cell? Lost for a moment in her reverie, she heard through the office entrance the elevator doors sweep open, then footsteps on tile, slow and deliberate, drawing nearer with each stride. Straightening, Scully turned in the direction of the sound. Skinner, she determined, pursing her lips. It could be no one else. If she were to be honest, she wasn't all that surprised by his impromptu visit. She knew her superior had grave suspicions as to the real reason behind her leaving the Bureau, doubts as to what had truly occurred once he had given her the whereabouts of The Smoker. Upon learning of her resignation, he had called her into his office. There, he had lectured her like the sternest Father Confessor imaginable. To his credit, he had advised her well. This is so sudden, he had said. So unexpected. Think about your decision. You don't have to rush into anything. Oh, but I do, she had mutely corrected. I have a schedule to keep, a bargain to uphold. So, despite his concern and her own traitorous heart, she had held firm. She had sat, posture impeccable, clad in her most severely tailored suit, her expression solemn, and had listened to his pleas. Only to remain unmoved. She hadn't crumbled, hadn't cracked. Hadn't even so much as flinched. Not even when, thwarted by her stubbornness, the Assistant Director had heatedly grilled her on her dealings with The Smoker. That's what this is about, she now determined, listening to her would-be guest approach. Skinner wasn't yet convinced she had refrained from using the information with which he had so generously supplied her. She couldn't say she blamed him for doubting her word. If their situations were reversed, she knew she would now be marching down that basement corridor herself. Still, she reflected, in the end it didn't matter whether Skinner believed her. He couldn't prove anything; and even if he could, he couldn't stop her from turning in her badge. His hands were tied. Just like hers. Heartened by that realization, Scully stood behind her desk, her fingertips pressed lightly against the blotter as if for balance. Her features arranged into a suitably neutral cast, she took a deep, cleansing breath, bracing herself for the confrontation to follow. I can do this, she told herself, that inner voice as reassuring as she could make it. All I have to do is hold it together, keep my emotions under control, and everything will be fine. And everything would have. If indeed it had been Skinner who had come to call. But when the man who stepped across that office threshold turned out to be younger, slimmer, and blessed with infinitely more hair than the Assistant Director, Scully couldn't keep her heart from surging upwards to plop heavily on her tongue, gagging her like the bitterest of pills. Mulder. Oh my God. Mulder. Her first impulse was to smile, even though he looked absolutely dreadful. He faced her, one hand braced, shoulder high, against the jamb, the other wrapped tightly around the doorknob, as if he needed its support to stay on his feet. His clothes seemed to hang on him; although she fancied that observation was more a response to the gaunt, gray quality of his complexion than any dramatic wasting of his form. His hair appearing as if it had been combed via Cuisinart, he stared at her from below a furrowed brow, his eyes reddened yet intent. "What are you doing out of bed?" she asked almost automatically, praying her question sounded to him more disapproving than shrill. He should never have been discharged so soon, she mutely railed. Look at him! He can't even stand without propping himself up. "What are you doing cleaning out your desk?" he countered, his voice an appealing combination of rasp and husk. He didn't seem surprised, she noticed. Just enraged. He must have known about her resignation before he had come. Which, of course, made sense. Why else would he have left the hospital so soon? "Is that why you're here?" she queried softly, doing her best to appear unflustered, even while she could feel her pulse butting fast and hard against her temples, straining against the fragile skin there like a battering ram. "Answer my question, Scully," he muttered, pushing away from the door to weave towards her, swaying a bit unsteadily when he came to a halt, only the desk and a few feet of floor separating them. Sighing, she bowed her head to study her hands, her fingers spread wide, their pads just barely resting atop the ancient Steelcase. What do you know? she mused. The tremors she could feel creeping their way down her arms straight through to her nails were all but invisible to the naked eye. "I was going to tell you . . . ," she began quietly. "Tell me what?" Mulder ruthlessly interrupted. "That you were too busy writing your resignation letter to visit me in the hospital?" "I called to check up on you," she said, her gaze once more drawn towards his. "I stayed in touch." "I'm deeply moved by your concern," he mockingly assured her. She had nothing she could say to that, no defense of her actions, no explanation she could share. Hollowly, the room rang with her silence, while Mulder stood, waiting, daring her to reveal her motive. Slowly, the echo turned hostile. Unable to endure another minute of it, Scully finally nodded-- a quick, short, little bob--and looked away, wordlessly accepting his rebuke. The point apparently resolved to his satisfaction, Mulder forged on. "So, I hear I should be jealous." Startled out of her brief contemplation of the linoleum, she stole a glance in her partner's direction. He was fidgeting now, shifting restlessly from hip to hip, his arms at his sides. She didn't know where he was finding the energy. "What?" she murmured with a frown, distracted by the thin layer of sweat coating his forehead, the nervous clenching and unclenching of his hands. God, Mulder. You have no business being out of bed. "Rumor has it you've been seeing another guy behind my back," he said with feigned nonchalance, his wounded expression belying his casual tone. "I hadn't realized you had a thing for older men." If her heart beat any faster its motion would soon be nothing but a blur. "What are you talking about?" "I know about Cancerman, Scully," he said, prowling towards her, his stride powerful, yet stilted somehow, his gait reminding her of a jungle cat with a wounded paw. "I know you asked Skinner how you could find him." Shit. She had wondered if in the wake of her resignation, Skinner might renege on his word. Apparently, she had her answer. "Why did you need to see him?" Mulder growled. "What did that son of a bitch do that you went to Skinner for help?" "Mulder . . . ," she mumbled softly, turning so she stood in profile to him, her head bowed as if trying to escape his glare. This wasn't how she had thought this would go. Not at all. But before she could retreat further, before she could draw inside herself or even try to walk away, Mulder rounded the corner of the desk, his movement clumsy yet swift. Grabbing her by her upper arms, he pulled her back to face him. "What did he want, Scully?" he asked again, holding her close. "Did he threaten you? Is that why you handed in your resignation?" "No, no," she lied. "Why didn't you come to me?" Scully looked up at her partner, trapped between the desk and him, her forearms resting against his chest, his hands locked around her biceps. He was trembling. She could feel the shivers trickling through him and into her. Yet, despite his apparent weakness, there was no mistaking his resolve. His eyes keenly scrutinized hers, like twin flashlights carefully scanning a darkened room, searching for anything, anything at all, that might provide him with a clue, a way to solve this latest mystery. But this was one puzzle she couldn't allow him to make whole, one riddle she didn't dare let him answer. Not if she wanted to keep him alive. Time to play her part. All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up. "Mulder," she began quietly, her voice roughened by his nearness. "You've got it wrong." "You didn't go to Skinner?" he challenged. "I did," she admitted sharply. "Of course, I did. But it wasn't because of something The Smoker said or did, it was because of =me=. Because of a decision I needed to make. I had wanted his assurance he wouldn't try and interfere. But then I realized that with a man like him, assurances are meaningless." He pulled back a touch, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "What are you talking about?" She lowered her gaze, taking a moment to prepare herself. "Mulder . . . I've been thinking lately . . . about us." "What about us?" he queried warily, his fingers flexing around her arms as if he hoped to improve his grip. She slicked her lips with her tongue. "This thing we have, this . . . relationship, . . . I . . . =we've= tried really hard. To keep it separate from the job, to make time for each other." He nodded cautiously, obviously uncertain as to where she was going with this. Scully wished with everything she had she didn't need to show him the way. "Yeah, . . . so?" She looked up at him once more. He stood, waiting. Pale and sick, and utterly at her mercy. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she denied him. Her compassion. Her love. Their tomorrow. "I don't think it's working." At first, Mulder stood motionless, still, save for his hooded lids. They blinked at her. Up, down. Slowly, as if trying to clear his vision. Then, his mouth began to move, to open and close, to gape like a baffled goldfish. At last, his hands fell away, releasing her from his hold. Staggering back a step, he shook his head and whispered dazedly, "What?" Scully swallowed hard, striving to control the bile she could feel rising in her gullet, burning and bubbling like witches' brew. "I'm sorry, Mulder. But I just can't do this anymore." And still he stood there, shaking his head. "I don't understand. You can't do what . . . us?" She nodded, her chin bobbing madly. Yet more color siphoning from his face, he spread his hands before him, the simple gesture speaking more eloquently than words ever could. Screaming to her of his bewilderment, his amazement, his surrender. "But . . . but what happened? What did I do?" I will not cry, she silently swore. I will not, =will not= cry. "You didn't do anything. This isn't your fault. It's me. It's what I need." She took a step towards him then and laid her hand on his arm. The muscles beneath her fingers jumped when they connected, as if her touch pained him in some way, shocked him like charged metal. Look him in the eye, Dana. Make him believe. "It's what you can't give me," she said, her tone gentle, almost apologetic. "No matter how badly you might want to." Yet her tenderness failed to soothe him. Instead, Mulder's jaw clenched viciously, his mouth grew hard. "Try me." Sighing, she again turned away, only able to hold his gaze for so long. Lips pressed flat, she crossed around the far side of the desk, struggling to remain focused, to somehow insulate herself against his suffering. Yet she was fighting a losing battle. How could she hurt the man she loved, deliberately subject him to what she knew numbered among his worst nightmares when her every instinct urged her instead to comfort him, to draw him into her arms and relieve him of the sorrow she had so heartlessly engendered? "Mulder, there isn't anything to try," she told him, wandering as she spoke, her arms wrapped around her middle, her back pointed his way. "This isn't about some annoying habit, or your forgetting my birthday." When he didn't say anything, she continued, finding it easier now that she had put some distance between them. "This is about who and what we are. It's about our situation and the things we can't change." She stood now at their work table in the back corner of the office. Its surface was covered by a scattering of slides, some project of Mulder's, begun, then forgotten. Pictures of crop circles mostly, their designs intricate and beautiful, like Celtic knot work. Almost reverently, she traced the hard plastic frame surrounding one of the images, running her fingertip over it as if to memorize its texture. To record what it had been like to pursue this sort of work, to chase after the fantastical with Mulder by her side. "You're a good man," she murmured, the sound hushed and aching. "And you've tried very hard to make me happy. But there's no life for us together, no future. This is all we'll ever have. And 'this' isn't enough for me anymore." She didn't hear him move until he stood directly behind her, towering over her smaller form, but not touching her. Not yet. "Tell me what you want," he entreated, his voice broken and raw. "Tell me what would be enough. And I'll give it to you. I'll find some way. You'll see." "Mulder, it isn't as simple as all that," she whispered, woefully shaking her head. "Then =explain= it to me, Scully," he hissed, his hands landing on her shoulders to spin her around. Thrown off balance by his action, she grabbed hold of the table behind her to steady herself and looked up into his face. Mulder stared back at her, no attempt made to hide his misery or his rage. "Explain to me how it all got so =fucking= complicated." But rather than speaking, she remained mute, struck dumb at seeing the depth of his despair. And knowing she was its cause. "Nothing you've said makes any sense to me," he confessed hoarsely, panic now glittering in his eyes, his hands slipping down, returning to their former positions on her arms. "I don't know what any of it means or where it's all coming from." "This isn't something new," she told him quietly, her gaze sliding away to focus somewhere around his chin. "It's been building for a long time." "But what is ='this'=?" he cried, ducking his head in an attempt to recapture her eyes. "You talk about how I've failed you, about how you need something I can't give you. And yet, you won't even tell me what that something is." "It's not some sort of secret, Mulder," she said, scowling as she pulled free of his grasp and rubbed her palms over the tender patches where his hands had gripped. "We've discussed it before." "Remind me of our conversation, then," he snarled, shoving his fists in the pockets of his jeans, almost as if to stop himself from grabbing her again. "Because I seem to have forgotten something I swear to God I never knew." "Our conversation would have had something to do with 'normal life'," she told him, her voice taking on an edge it had been lacking to that point. "About living like the rest of the world does." This was good, she thought, the two of them squaring off as adversaries rather than teammates. Vulnerable and grieving, Mulder threatened her resolve. But, while it blistered and burned, his anger was something she could combat, something she could push back against. Something she could match with her own. "'Normal life'?" he parroted scornfully. "Normal for whom? In case you haven't noticed, Scully, the world doesn't run under a specific code of conduct. Everyone has their own way of doing things." "I know that," she said with an emphatic nod. "I realize that 'normal' is a relative term. But I also know what it means to me, what I have to have to feel . . . happy, to feel 'right'." "Fine," he retorted, swaying again, only this time she couldn't judge whether fury or exhaustion was its cause. "So, I'm asking you again--what do you need?" "I need to be in a relationship I can be open about," she said, her voice raised, her tone high, all the emotion she had so savagely been repressing, holding in check since that first confrontation with The Smoker, starting to seep out from beneath the barriers she had erected, like water escaping from a dam. "Open with whom?" Mulder queried with a derisive shrug. "What does it matter who knows about us and who doesn't? You've never cared before what people think." "I still don't," she swiftly replied. "This isn't about other people. This is about my having to watch everything I say, everything I do. It's about worrying that a simple dinner date is going to bring my world crashing down around me." When he refrained from commentary, she continued, the words beginning to flow a bit easier now. "It's about having to space out the evenings we spend together so that we won't draw suspicion to ourselves," she told him. "About having to check in my rear view mirror when I'm driving home from your place to see if I'm being followed." Breath coming quicker, examples suddenly springing up like weeds, she paced, and kept on talking. "It's needing to be careful not to be too familiar with you in front of others, about being afraid to touch you, to smile at you, to laugh at your stupid jokes." Shoulders hunched, Mulder stood, watching her, chewing on his lower lip, still saying nothing. "It's about never having any place I can go where I can get away from this job," she said with a sweep of her arm, indicating their workspace and all it represented. "I mean . . . most people can escape the office when they go home, can spend time with the ones they love and forget all about it." She pivoted to face him then, to look him in the eye, knowing that this like all that had come before it, was in its way true. And, therefore, more likely to ring with conviction. To sound most damning to Mulder's ears. "But not me," she said, her voice subdued. "Not us. With you and me, it's all the same. Here, at home, everywhere. And it always will be." "You don't know that," Mulder muttered, crossing towards her, pulling his hands free of his pockets as he moved. "You don't know that we can't change things." "Change things =how=?" she demanded, meeting the challenge in his hazel eyes. "As long as you're working on the X-Files, the same dangers are going to exist. You can't alter that." "Actually, I can," Mulder said shortly, coming to a stop before her and folding his arms across his chest. "You're not the only one who can turn in a resignation letter, you know." Now it was Scully's turn to gape and gasp, her turn to stare incomprehensibly. Good Lord. Mulder was offering to give up the X-Files for her. He was proposing to turn his back on what was for all intents and purposes his life's work, if she would only agree to stay with him. Oh my God. I'm honored, Mulder, she longed to tell him as moisture filled her eyes. Truly. But I am completely undeserving of such a sacrifice. Don't renounce your dreams for someone like me. Her gaze flitting between Mulder and the floor, she cleared her throat and strove to speak around the tears. "You don't want to quit the Bureau, Mulder. You'd cut yourself off from the access and the resources you've come to depend on in your work." "There are always other ways, Scully," he murmured with a shrug. "You know that as well as I do." "Maybe," she allowed. "But I think you'd come to miss the things you've always taken for granted--the additional manpower, the labs, the databases, the financial support." He shook his head, denying her claims. "You may not think so now," she said. "But after awhile, you'd begin to weigh all those things, all those advantages you'd given up against what you got in return. And when you realized that all you had was me, you'd begin to resent me for what I'd made you do. For what we'd become." Mulder grimaced in disbelief and disdain, his hands raking through his hair. "You don't know what you're talking about." "You're wrong, Mulder," Scully shot back, her eyes again trained on him. "I know you better than you know yourself." "It's a =job=, Scully," he insisted, his volume rising. "It's your =life=!" she shouted, topping him in decibels. For a moment, neither said anything more. They simply stood, inches apart, both breathing hard, their gazes locked on each other. "These files, this work . . . it's your life," she repeated after a time, her voice measurably softer than before, regret evident in its timbre. "And for a little while, you've let me share it with you. Thank you for that." She could feel her bottom lip beginning to tremble, her nose pricked, her eyes burned. If she didn't hurry, she would soon be sobbing like an over-tired child. It was finally time to say goodbye. Stretching out her hand, she stroked her fingertips along his jaw, lightly caressing his warm, smooth skin. "I need to go, Mulder. I need to make a clean break, to start fresh somewhere, far away from flukes and UFOs and nameless, faceless villains. I =have= to do this." He didn't say anything, he just stared down at her, slowly shaking his head. "And you . . . you have got to let me." With that, Scully let her hand drift away from his face, to instead fall heavily to her side. Mulder remained silent, wraith- like before her with his white shirt and pallor, his eyes telling tales written by Poe. "I'm sorry I've hurt you," she said quietly, her contrition not at all contrived. "That was never my intent." Nodding, he folded his arms once more, then shrugged, an ugly smile twisting his mouth out of shape. "Yeah. Well . . . best laid plans and all that." Ah. Flippancy. The classic Mulder defense mechanism. The one he employed when he was taking punishment rather than doling it out. Taking it. Accepting it. Accepting her lie. Oh God, he believed her. This was the end. Taking a deep breath, she crossed past him to the desk. Gathering the last of her things, she spoke briskly, her focus on the cardboard box heaped with her belongings rather than on him, needing now to simply get out of there. "I . . . um . . . I basically have everything. There wasn't all that much to pack. I'm going to take some time . . . some time for myself. So, I won't be around for the next week or two. But if you need anything, have a question or whatever, you can leave a message on my answering machine and I'll call you back." "Fine," he mumbled, his eyes aimed now at the floor, his body turned in profile to her. Well, that was that. Sighing, she grabbed her trench from the back of her chair and pulled it on. Sliding the strap from her briefcase over her shoulder, she hefted the carton in her arms and stole one last look at the man who used to be her partner. The reckless sort of energy that had propelled him earlier had apparently been burned away, leaving behind only a slender shell of a man, strangely delicate for one so tall and fit. He stood very still, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his head bowed, as if he feared movement of any kind might somehow betray him, the same way prey cowers before the hunter. Alone, Scully wordlessly lamented. He seems so awfully alone. But he'll be safe that way, a little voice reminded her. Besides, do you really believe you're indispensable? That he won't learn to do without you? Anyone can be replaced. Some partings are merely more painful than others. "Take care of yourself, Mulder," she murmured, tucking her box beneath her arm and heading for the door. "Scully?" Hearing his quiet call, she stopped, but did not turn around. "Don't do this." He whispered his plea, the words coming out all mottled with grief. Closing her eyes, she choked back a sob, careful not to make a sound. Slowly, she took a deep, quavering breath. And another. And still one more. Then, eyes open, shoulders squared, she walked out of the basement office, her step quick and light, leaving behind Fox Mulder and the life they had once shared. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter X "Words to Live By" (10/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch This is story. All disclaimer stuff is prior to chapter one. Thanks! ************************************************** In the days that followed his release from the hospital, those who came in contact with Fox Mulder, spoke to him on the phone or caught a glimpse of his lean, rumpled form, noticed little amiss. True, his strength was still lacking, his appetite not quite up to snuff. He may have looked a trifle thinner than usual, seemed somewhat distracted, his attention on something other than what lay directly before him. But these subtle abnormalities caused no alarm. Such behavior was to be expected from a man recovering from a serious illness, reasoned his mother, Dr. Marquez, the clerk at the market near his home. Inside, however, Mulder was dying by inches. Dying, but not yet dead, he grimly acknowledged from where he lay on his couch, idly channel surfing. No. Not dead. The dearly departed couldn't possibly ache this much. Chuckling mirthlessly at his melodramatic musings, he stabbed at the button on his remote, dully watching the TV images change before his eyes, randomly shifting, like patterns in a kaleidoscope. Hundreds of channels and not a damned thing on. Still . . . what else did he have to do? Nearly a week had passed since Scully had left him. Six days to sleep, to slowly reintroduce his stomach to solid foods, to mourn all he had lost. At first, he had wished he could simply return to work, could bury himself in his files in the hopes of distracting himself from his grief. Yet, from the beginning, that option had been denied him. Under pain of permanent dismissal, Skinner had banned him from the Hoover Building, saying he didn't want to see Mulder anywhere near the place until at least the end of the month. The agent knew his boss meant the edict as a kindness, that he was, in his way, looking out for his willful underling. What Skinner couldn't have known, however, was how dearly Mulder had longed for the solace of his office, how much he had yearned to return to that musty place, missing it like a newborn craves the womb. There, he was in his element . . . . . . or had been. Before. And all at once it had hit him, sucker-punched him, only days into his convalescence. The X-Files weren't a haven for him. Not anymore. After all, the room where they were housed was now more teeming than ever with memories. Not all of them pleasant. These days it was empty. Ringing with silence. Cold and vacant. Not unlike the terrible emptiness that had begun gnawing out his chest soon after he had learned of Scully's resignation. Even as he recuperated, the creeping void continued its slow, steady excavation of his insides, heading south through his body. From his breast to his ribs, stomach and beyond, it spread, leaving a path of nothingness in its wake. At this rate, I'll soon disappear all together, he absently noted. One day, there won't be anything left of the man I used to be, not even a shadow to mark my presence. He wished he could say such a thing surprised him, that he was shocked to discover losing Scully threatened to jeopardize his very identity. He wished even more he could summon up the energy to care. He should have had a plan at the ready, a PS contingency. Life Post-Scully. He had always feared, dreaded with a kind of fatalistic certainty, this eventuality would one day come to pass. It wasn't that he doubted Scully's avowals of love, questioned her integrity or fealty. But he knew his worth, recognized with ruthless honesty what exactly he had to give her. And how much more she could expect were she to look elsewhere for affection. Oh, Mulder didn't entirely sell himself short. No one would ever, ever love her more. This, he believed without ego or shame. But she was right about all the rest--the dangers, the secrecy, the sense that together they were doomed to do nothing but tread water, praying the seas remained calm, yet all the while fearing something might surge from the depths below to pull them under. None of that was going to change. He had no future he could promise. No assurances at all, really, save he would die to protect her. Yet, while that sort of thing was attractive in a romantic sense, the kind of devotion immortalized by poets and playwrights, its appeal was harder to define when it came to the everyday. Can't hold hands with you at a movie, Scully. But you need someone to take a bullet for you, and I'm your guy. Only she didn't want that. Didn't want him. Not anymore. She loved him. Just not enough to stay with him. What had changed? That was the question he most wanted answered. After all, these things she said she now valued-- this normal life she had told him she desired--from the very beginning they had known that as a couple they would never enjoy such an existence. At least, not as long as they worked on the X-Files. But Scully had always assured him she didn't care about such things, didn't aspire to be Donna Reed or even Mary Beth Lacey. Ironically, he had been the one who had suffered misgivings, who had feared he wasn't going to be able to provide her with all she required. How many times had they argued the point, with Scully invariably taking the side of love conquering all, of seizing the day and to hell with all The Smoker and his kind threatened? So, what happened, Scully? he mutely asked his barren living room, the shadowed walls mocking in their answering silence. Did I wear you down? Piss you off? Are you really so mired in the rational you're able to objectively analyze what we have, assign it a value, then decide whether it's worth hanging onto? Can you quantify your feelings for me, measure them like rainfall? I love you, Mulder. But only this much. Enough to care whether you live or die, but not enough to stick around to see which it will be. No. That was so utterly counter to everything he knew of her, so foreign to an understanding it had taken him years to cultivate, he couldn't even fathom the notion. Dana Scully was many things. But she wasn't cruel, wasn't fickle or cold. She wasn't the kind of woman who gave her love lightly or toyed with the emotions of others. So, logically, something must have occurred, some catalyst, to make her change her mind, to compel her to long for something she had steadfastly sworn to him she didn't want. Yet, no matter how many times he reviewed the last several weeks, how many different ways he considered the moments leading up to their fateful conversation, he couldn't come up with what might have been the impetus, the reason for her walking away. Their lives had been almost scarily normal for the past month or more, lots of regular hours and paperwork, little in the way of drama. Except for his sojourn in Intensive Care. He wished he could better remember the night before his ride in the ambulance, the hours when he had not only poisoned himself with pizza, but drank himself into a stupor, with Scully a witness to his idiocy. Why had she decided to come over that night? Had she been planning to leave him even then? She had said something about needing to speak with him. That, he recalled. But she had never come right out and said why that need existed. And what the hell had the police been doing there? Scully had smoothed things over with them--which was fortunate, as he had been in no state to mend fences on his own. But, try though he might, he couldn't recall why they had visited him to begin with. God. He was missing something, he thought as he punched the power button on his remote and plunged his living room into total darkness. Something critical, and no doubt obvious. He just couldn't figure out what that something was. Normally, he would have considered Scully's conversation with Skinner to be significant, her demanding The Smoker's whereabouts to be of utmost importance. Yet, she insisted she never met with the black-lunged son of a bitch, never took advantage of Skinner's generosity. Such restraint seemed decidedly out of character-- Scully never being one to shy away from confronting their enemies. But why would she lie about such a thing? In the end, it came down to a matter of trust, Mulder ruefully decided, his head propped on the arm of the sofa, his eyes staring now, unseeing in the night. Did he believe what Scully had told him, accept her words as true? His immediate reaction was to say, 'Of course.' After all, this was Scully he was considering here, the most honest individual he had ever known. But all these questions . . . His telephone's anxious ring jarred him from his ruminations. For half a second, he contemplated letting the machine get it, unsure as to whether he was up for conversation, polite or otherwise. But, having been on his own since his mother had returned home that past weekend, he was sick to death of his own company. Maybe his caller was a telemarketer, some poor minimum wage sap he could torture. What the hell. With the mood he was in, he felt like spreading the joy. "Mulder," he growled, grabbing the handset. "Mulder?" a familiar voice echoed. "Frohike here." Oh. Damn. Someone he actually knew. Guess he'd have to behave himself. If he didn't, he was well aware the little gnome had the means to see he was audited by the IRS well into the twenty-first century. "Frohike," he murmured, trying to infuse his voice with some semblance of enthusiasm, all the while fearing the effort fell far short. "What can I do for you?" "Ah . . . well, that depends," said the man on the other end of the line. "How you feeling?" "All right, I suppose," Mulder said with a shrug. "Though I'm not exactly planning on attempting any stomach crunches anytime soon." "Glad to hear it," the hacker assured him. "You had us worried." "Sorry," Mulder said with a wry smile. "Believe me when I say it wasn't intentional." "I sure hope not," Frohike muttered under his breath. Mulder frowned into the phone. "What's that supposed to mean?" But the smallest Lone Gunmen ignored his query. "Mulder, I'm calling with a question about your partner." His partner, Mulder repeated sadly inside his head. Not anymore. "What about her?" "I tried getting hold of her earlier this evening at the Hoover Building, called her direct line, but all I got was a message saying the extension was no longer in service." Oh no. The last thing he wanted right now was to relate the whole sorry tale to Frohike. The little guy idolized Scully. Once he heard she had quit the Bureau, he'd no doubt declare a national day of mourning. "Leave her a message at home," Mulder advised, trying to sidestep the matter entirely. "I did," Frohike told him, a certain impatience evident in his tone. "I didn't know what else to do after the switchboard had told me she was no longer with the FBI." Ah. So the president of Scully's fan club had already been apprised of the situation. "Did you know about this, Mulder?" Frohike queried after the agent had failed to comment. "I knew," Mulder confirmed shortly. "And do you even care she's gone?" The question was voiced quietly, yet the Gunman's disapproval rang out loud and clear. What the fuck?! Just what the hell was that supposed to mean? Bastard. "What do you =think=, Frohike?" Mulder hissed in reply. At first, his friend said nothing, perhaps considering whether he had overstepped his bounds. Finally, however, he answered, his words grave and to the point. "I think there's some funky shit going down. Get over here, Mulder. We've got something you should see." ***** "You found these in Scully's apartment?" The hour was minutes shy of midnight. Mulder stood surrounded by Frohike, Byers, and Langley, the four men huddled over a countertop at the Gunmen's headquarters. Glittering atop the Formica were four tiny bits of metal. Bugs, listening devices. Proof that something was very, very wrong. "Yeah," Langley said, tapping the bridge of his glasses with his middle finger to realign the frames atop his nose. "Pulled 'em from her phones, the living room, and bedroom." "Agent Scully came to us a few weeks ago," Byers explained, tweed-clad, even at this late hour, "saying she suspected she was under surveillance. We swept the place and came up with these." Mulder shook his head as he lightly fingered the tiny specks of circuitry. "But what made Scully think someone was bugging her apartment?" "Don't know," Langley admitted with a shrug. "She was pretty close-mouthed about the whole thing." "She didn't want us to tell you," Byers confessed a trifle apologetically. "Said that if you found out, your life might be in danger." "Why would my life be in danger if she was the one being bugged?" Mulder queried, utterly befuddled. "Why don't you ask her that?" Frohike advised, his earlier ire seemingly cooled. "I plan to," Mulder muttered as he turned away, his hand running distractedly through his hair. "Mulder," Frohike called, stopping the agent before he could reach the door. "What?" Mulder asked from across the room. "When we found these things, Scully asked us to look into whether they were made by a government vendor," Frohike said, taking a step or two in Mulder's direction. "She was looking for proof, Mulder. Proof as to who was responsible for this." "And?" Mulder queried impatiently, the urge to run out of there in search of his once and future partner all but impossible to quell. "And the bugs were made by a company called AGB Technologies," Frohike murmured with a sideways glance at his fellow Gunmen. "You don't hear a lot about them in the press. But those 'in the know' claim AGB has been supplying electronics such as these to the military since the Gulf War." Mulder nodded, then turned once more to leave. "Mulder," said Langley from somewhere behind him. "Realize who you're up against, man." "I do," the agent assured his blond friend. "For the first time in a long time, I think I finally do." ***** Idiot. Dumb fuck. Pathetic excuse for a human being. Total waste of DNA. Driving away from the Gunmen's office, Mulder berated himself up one side and down the other. How could he have been so stupid, so completely and utterly self-absorbed? How could he have allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for days, without ever questioning what had brought him to that sorry state to begin with. He had known something was fishy about Scully's resignation from the onset, had sensed there were facts being kept from him, secrets out there, cleverly hidden from view. Had he been working a case and such misgivings taunted him, he would have been relentless in his pursuit of the truth, would have denied himself food and sleep, relaxation and entertainment, until he had flushed out those responsible for setting his Spooky Sense a-tingle. But the minute Scully had told him it was over between them, he had shut down, had lost all objectivity. Had instead been operating in panic mode. As he had confessed to Scully weeks before, he had always been dreading the moment when she would say goodbye, shrank from it like a frightened child might from the mythical boogey man. Yet, at the same time, he had in a sense been waiting for it, figuring that sooner or later it was bound to happen. After all, he certainly wasn't going to be the one to break it off. And everything has a beginning and an end. But maybe this wasn't their end, he now thought, buzzing down one deserted street after another on his way to DC. Maybe he had been given a reprieve, another chance. Perhaps Scully's decision hadn't really been hers to make. Evidence pointed to =something= strange going on. Of course, he had no way of truly knowing. Not until he talked to her again. But, for now, he could hope. And that was more than he had been able to do since she had left him, carrying with her not only a box of her belongings, but a piece of his soul. ***** Dawn was spreading its fingers across the horizon when Mulder pulled up outside his apartment. Wearily, he climbed from his Ford and made his way towards the building. Jesus, you'd think with all the sleep he'd been getting lately he'd be better able to handle an all-nighter, he thought as he flipped through his key ring, searching for the one that would open his front door. He supposed he could have simply stayed at Scully's, caught a few winks on her couch. But he hadn't wanted to remain at her place any longer than was absolutely necessary. Not when he felt so guilty about intruding on her privacy, about stealing into her home and searching through her things like she was a suspect in an investigation. And yet, in a way, she was. Wasn't she? He had gone to Georgetown looking for her, thinking perhaps her self-imposed exile might have, by this time, come to an end, that rather secreting herself away in some shadowy nook, she was instead hiding in plain sight, sitting at home, screening her calls and trying to decide what to do with the rest of her life. Only it hadn't been that easy. Moving stealthily as a thief, he had let himself into her place, fingers crossed, optimism high, his biggest concern being that Scully might mistake him for a burglar and use him for target practice. But, in the end, he hadn't wound up feeling as if he had a bull's eye painted on his chest. The apartment had been empty. She was gone. Just as she had said she would be. Disappointed, he had consoled himself by scouting around, hunting for clues as to where she was holed up. But the only things he had been able to discern were that her smaller Pullman was missing from the hall closet, she had taken with her mostly casual clothes, and it looked as if she had followed through on her promise to check her machine. The little red light was blinking. But it announced only one message. That was probably Frohike, he thought. After all, the Gunman had said he had called earlier that evening. Yet surely she would have received more calls than just his during the time she had been away. She must be doing remote retrieval. That being the case, he planned on going ahead and leaving a message himself. Depending how frequently Scully was calling in, the direct approach might well be the best way to get hold of her. But, just to play it safe, he was also going to talk to Mrs. Scully. He knew his partner. No way would she go out of town without first telling her mother where she could be reached in case of emergency. Of course, Maggie might not exactly be eager to share that information with him, Mulder now silently admitted as he exited the elevator and headed towards his apartment. She might feel that to do so would be betraying her daughter's confidence. Fine. He didn't have to call Scully; she could call him. It didn't really make any difference to him. He just needed to speak with her. He didn't think Scully's life was in danger, not now that she had left him. But he couldn't be certain, not of anything really, until he knew what exactly they were up against. And he wouldn't know that until they talked. I'll catch a couple of hours sleep, he decided, sliding his key into the lock. Get up early. Call Mrs. Scully, and then, hopefully, track down her daughter. Feeling more alive than he had in over a week, Mulder twisted his wrist to the right, the same direction he always turned it when unlocking his front door. Only, much to his surprise, he found he didn't need to unlock it. It was already open. Shit. Drawing his gun from his hip holster, he cautiously inched open the portal. And discovered his home a complete shambles. "What the hell?" he mumbled in astonishment, standing dumbstruck in the doorway, taking it all in. The place looked like the Jets and the Falcons had played a set of downs in his living room. Furniture was overturned, drawers emptied, clothes strewn everywhere. Had he been robbed? At first glance, that didn't appear to be the case. His television was still there, as was his computer and VCR. But if robbery hadn't been the motive, what in God's name had been? This didn't look to be a professional job, not with the mess that had been left behind. But why would some amateur target him? And if it had indeed been some random attack, why would the person have ventured to the building's fourth floor? How would they have known for certain he was even out at that hour? He had left the light on. Carefully, he entered, then closed the door behind him. Pulling from his pocket his cell phone, Mulder dialed 911. "Yes. Hello. This is Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to report a break- in." ***** "Looks to me like I'm only pulling one set of prints here, Agent Mulder, and I'd lay odds they're yours." Mulder looked up from where he sat on his leather sofa, wearily watching the evidence technician go about her work. "I don't doubt it," he mumbled. "You think they wore gloves?" the pretty young tech queried, looking over her shoulder at him. "I didn't at first," he admitted, scrubbing his face with his palms. "But the more I think about it, the more likely it seems." "Looks like they jimmied the front door," said the tall, balding cop named Mannheim. "Nothing fancy really. They used maybe a screwdriver or a knife." "You still haven't figured out if anything's missing?" queried Mannheim's partner, an equally tall African-American officer named Churchill. "No," Mulder said with a shake of his head. "All my electronic equipment is still here. They even left behind some cash I'd stashed in my desk drawer." "Weird," said Mannheim with a frown. "It's almost as if the son-of-a-bitch was sending you a warning." "A warning?" Mulder echoed. Mannheim crossed to stand before him, jotting down notes as he spoke. "Well, what else would you call it? Why would someone go to all this trouble, risk getting caught for a crime that netted them nothing?" "Maybe this is connected to that phone call your partner got." That casual remark came courtesy of Officer Churchill. "What are you talking about?" Mulder asked as he slowly pushed to his feet. "What call? How do you know my partner?" Churchill looked a trifle taken aback at the tone Mulder used. "I don't. But a friend of mine does." "Who?" Mulder demanded, as he marched right up to Churchill and got in his face. The policeman wasn't impressed. He folded his arms and calmly regarded the belligerent agent. "When the call came over the radio, telling us to get over here, one of my buddies got on the horn and said he recognized the address. He told us he had been here with his partner a week or so ago, answering a 911." Mulder backed down a step or two. This could be the information he had been looking for. "Yeah. Um . . . Friday before last." "Right," Churchill said with a nod. "Something about a crank . . . threats directed at you. . . he didn't have time to give me the details, not over the radio. But Larson did say your partner was the one who had gotten the call. Apparently, she met the officers on the scene; they checked it out. Nothing ever came of it." So, that's why Scully had come that night. She had feared for his safety. The pieces were slowly falling into place. "That could be connected to this," Mannheim agreed with a shrug. "Not that much time has passed. Of course, it's hard to tell what the hell the motive was without first finding out if anything's been taken." Love to help you, gentlemen, Mulder mused as he surveyed with disgruntlement his ravaged apartment. But it's not going to be that simple. "Let me put some stuff away," he murmured, wondering even where to begin. "I'm sure it will be easier for me to tell if anything's missing once I get some order restored." "Well, I'm finished," said the tech with way too much perk for this early in the morning. "So don't be afraid to touch anything here. Sorry about the graphite." "Don't worry about it," Mulder mumbled, backing up to clear a path so she could make it to the door without having to scale the small mountain of videotapes heaped alongside the coffee table. "Here's my card," Mannheim said, handing him the article in question. "Let us know if anything's been stolen. We'll be in touch on our end." "I appreciate it," Mulder assured him, collecting both Mannheim's business card and that of his partner. With a few further words of farewell, the officers left him, standing by himself in the ruins. God, what a mess. The place looked even worse than it had the last time his world had teetered on the brink of oblivion. When Scully had laid dying in a lonely hospital bed and he had bartered back his soul by spending the night at her side. Well. Not surprisingly, that particular memory did nothing to raise his spirits. Shit. He would have preferred to just turn around and walk out, to begin his search for Scully and forget all about the junkyard that was once his living room. Only it wasn't even six o'clock. He couldn't call Mrs. Scully at this hour, no matter how badly he might want to get hold of her daughter. Just bite the bullet and get it over with, he told himself. Try to put at least some of this stuff away. Sighing, Mulder decided to listen to the nagging little voice inside his head. Moving slowly yet steadily, he righted furniture and stacked the scattered papers and files, books and videos littering his apartment, gradually uncovering the floor beneath the debris. Some time later, he took an armload of clothes to his bedroom. Why the hell his late night visitor had seen fit to throw his shirts and ties everywhere, he didn't know. Christ. His dry cleaning bill would be through the roof this month. Oh well, for now he might as well hang up what he could. He would decide later what to take in and what he would try to wash himself. His arms laden with linen, he shuffled into the darkened closet. Damn it. Where was that blasted light switch? Scrabbling for it with his right hand, he tripped over something on the floor, something mixed in with his shoes. Ouch. Something hard. Metal, by the sound of it. What the hell was that? He flipped on the light. A strongbox. Open and laying bottom side up amidst his oxfords. The strongbox where he kept his extra gun and clips. Oh my God. Dumping the clothes he held onto the floor, Mulder quickly knelt down and pulled the box closer to him. At that point, he wasn't even worried about disturbing evidence. If whoever had done this had come looking specifically for his spare firearm, they weren't going to be stupid enough to leave prints behind. Sure enough. The box was empty, the lock apparently forced. His back-up automatic was nowhere in sight. Well, at least he now knew what they had been after. If only he knew why. Sighing, he rose to his feet and checked his watch. 7:43. He had to talk to Scully. Frohike was right. There was some funky shit going down. And he no idea how he or his partner fit into any of it. First, he tried her number. Both of them. Her cell was turned off. Shit. He called her home and, as expected, got her machine. "Scully, it's me. Call me. It's important." Okay. One down. I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully, he silently apologized. I know it's early. But this can't wait any longer. Dana's life might be at stake. He didn't know where the hell his address book was in the midst of all this. So, he called information, then punched in the number. And got Maggie Scully's machine, just as he had her daughter's moments before. Damn it. Doesn't anyone just answer the phone anymore? Maybe she was in the shower. "Mrs. Scully, it's Fox Mulder," he said, trying to keep the worry from his voice. "Listen, I've got a situation here I need to talk with your daughter about. Could you please call me and let me know how to get in touch with her? Well, that was lame, he sheepishly thought as he hung up the phone. Still, he didn't know what else to do. He didn't want to alarm the woman unnecessarily. Now all he could do was wait. Not something he did particularly well. Still, somehow he managed it, passing the time by continuing to set his apartment to rights. However, an hour passed without Mulder hearing anything from either of the Scully women. So, he tried again. "Mrs. Scully, it's very important that I speak with Dana. Please, either call me with where she can be reached, or have her call me herself." It had been harder to mask his disquiet this time around. And yet, his urgency yielded him nothing. Another hour ticked away without a return call. So, he tried one more time. "Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry to be such a pest. But I =have= to talk to Dana. Please, please tell me how I can reach her." Still, his phone remained mute. At 10:00, he called the Gunmen. Byers picked up the line. "I need a favor," Mulder said without preamble. "I've gotta find out where Scully is. I need you guys to see if her credit card has been used in the last week or so. Can you do that?" "Sure," Byers replied. "But it may take awhile." "Hurry," Mulder urged. "And while you're at it, run a check on her mother as well. I've been calling her to find out where Scully is, but she's not answering her phone." "We'll get right on it," the bearded Gunman promised. Forty minutes later, Mulder had his information. "We didn't find out much on Scully," Frohike reported. "But what we did learn was interesting. She's only used her credit card twice this past week, both times were on the same day. Last Friday, she got gas at a station here in town. Then she fueled up again, later that afternoon. Only this time, she was midway between New York City and Albany." New York City and Albany? Mulder repeated inside his head. What the hell was in New York State? "Is that it?" he queried, his mind spinning furiously. "On the daughter, yes," Frohike said. "But we have better news where Mama is concerned." "Let me have it," Mulder commanded. "The reason she hasn't been returning your calls is because she's in Florida." "Florida?" he murmured with discouragement. God. If she was staying with friends, they might never find her. "The Sunshine State," Frohike confirmed. "But not for long." "What do you mean?" "She's due back today," the Gunman said. "On a United flight scheduled to arrive at National at 12:05 this afternoon." 12:05. Okay, that would work. That was only a few hours away. "Frohike, I could kiss you," Mulder said after he had scribbled down the necessary information. "Thanks. But I'm saving myself for your comely partner," the little man sniffed with mock disdain. "Get in line, my friend," Mulder murmured in reply. "Get in line." * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XI "Words to Live By" (11/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Okay. Now I know I had said the cabin from "Coming Back" would be making a reappearance. And it is. But I've changed a few things to better service this particular story. So, no fair emailing me to point out my "mistakes". After all, these are two totally separate universes. Thanks! :-) *************************************************** It's pretty out here, Dana Scully thought not for the first time as she stepped out onto the cabin's planked porch and looked up at the stars. A multitude shone overhead, twinkling back at her, though their brilliance was muted ever so slightly by day's stubborn leavings. Sweeping swathes of crimson and violet colored high, raggedy clouds, their rich shades bravely defying night's influence. The freshly tinted shapes were messy, ill-defined, like a childish deity had somehow gotten hold of a box of equally divine crayons, the little one's fingers too clumsy to contain his scribbling within nature's lines. Beautiful. Yet even as she watched, a cup of hot tea cradled in her hands, her chin tipped towards the heavens, the vibrant hues that so delighted her began to slowly fade, to bleed and shrink, to dim, then die. Before her very eyes, the cloud canvases were washed clean, first bleached by night's blackness, then gradually swallowed by it, secreted away as if the young god's mother had tidied up after him, stowed his playthings when it was time for bed. Soon, all hints of day were banished, exiled till dawn. . . . . . . And all at once, she stood, slender and small, beneath an vast, inky canopy, her world lit only by the glittering firmament above. Faintly--far, far away--she could hear the choked cries of night hunting birds; closer by, crickets and their insect brethren chirped and hummed companionably, busily conversing in a language only they understood. The setting should have struck her as magical--a starlit sky, towering trees gilded with orange and gold, the hushed tranquility of the mountains, majestic and pristine. She should have found it peaceful, at least. Serene. But all she really felt was lonely. Friendless and abandoned. The very air around her threatening to suffocate her with its emptiness. Good Lord, she mused with a lift of her brows as she lowered herself down onto the porch's top step, and set the cup of now tepid tea aside. There was just no pleasing some people. After all, wasn't this what she had said she wanted? Hadn't she told herself she needed some time away, some space, some distance so she could decide what to do, where to go now that she could no longer continue on as she had? Be careful what you wish for, Dana, she silently advised, her mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. Because you never know when that wish just might come true. Boy, she thought with a sigh, her elbows balanced on her knees, her face buried now in her hands. She had accomplished next to nothing since coming to the mountains. She had been there a week, supposedly recharging her badly depleted emotional battery, preparing herself for the many challenges that lie ahead. Each morning, she had tromped miles through the surrounding woods, exercising her body, striving mightily to clear her mind. In the afternoons she would read or drive to town. There, she would browse the quaint little tourist shops, stopping perhaps on the way home at one roadside stand or another. She had taken it easy. Pampered herself. But this vacation hadn't only been meant to be about rest and relaxation. She had certain questions to answer for herself, plans she needed outlined, then seen through. It was easy to forget, hundreds of miles away from home, but she was currently unemployed. And her meager savings wouldn't be enough to finance much more than her move out of Georgetown and into new digs. But where should she go? And how exactly could she hope to pay her rent? In an attempt to address these issues, she had dropped by her favorite newsstand before hitting the road and grabbed the latest out-of-town papers. Adding these to the stack of professional journals she had already packed, she had felt more than ready to tackle the problem, to find herself a new position far away from D.C and the bittersweet memories the capitol held. Spreading out her periodicals on the cabin's hardwood floor, she had pored over them, circling job postings and jotting down notes beside promising apartment listings. Yet all the while she had done so, all she had heard was Mulder's voice, murmuring warmly and wryly in her ear. If she were the type to readily believe in ghosts, she would have said he was haunting her. Not a bad trick for the living. Leave me alone, Mulder, she had yearned to shout. Just let me go! Yet she feared she was the one who wasn't willing to cut the ties, the sorry soul who was grasping at what used to be rather than facing what was to come. But I don't want to move on, she would confess late at night, huddled beneath the covers, restless and lost. I don't want to forget him. I don't want anyone else. Fine. Then be alone, whispered an unseen imp, his soft, sibilant words murmuring from the menacing shadows of her darkened bedroom. Because you can't have Mulder. That's finished. You killed it. So he would live. Remember? Remember. Oh God, she now sighed, pressing the heels of her hands against her lowered lids and turning her head wearily from side to side. Of course, I remember. Though I'd give almost anything to be able to forget. Trying to shake off the almost crushing weight of memory, she stood, her mug in hand, and stretched, breathing deeply of the pine spiced air. She could see the Milky Way now, the Big Dipper and Bootes, the plowman. She had been lucky since arriving in the Adirondacks. With the exception of last night's thunderstorm, the weather had been remarkably fine, sunny and mild, the afternoons temperate enough for her to comfortably wear shorts with her sweaters and hiking boots. Even now, hours after sundown, the air was only chilly enough to set her skin tingling, the kind of evening when a roaring fire was more a mood enhancement than a way to keep warm. Actually, building a fire didn't sound like such a bad idea, she decided, pulling open the screen door and entering the cabin. She'd take a nice, hot bath, relax. Take her mind off things. Then, she'd load up the logs and sit down with a glass of cabernet to enjoy the blaze. But first, she wanted to call her machine. She had tried earlier, but the line had been down. Not that she was surprised, not with all the wind and rain the night before. With her uncle's cabin having been built nearly half a century ago, the structure's wiring bordered on antique. It seemed anytime a storm rolled through, either the electricity or phone turned temperamental. It had been that way for as long as she could remember, way back to the days when her family had spent vacations up here with her Uncle Jim, Aunt Sally and their two children. Crossing to the kitchen, she deposited her cup in the sink and reached for the phone. Damn. Still nothing. She'd go ahead and use her cell, but she knew from experience the reception up here was lousy. She had tried calling out on her Nokia not long after arriving and had nearly been deafened by static. Oh well, it wasn't like she was expecting anything all that exciting. She supposed her mother might have left her a message or one of the boys could have called to say hello. It was just that she had promised Mulder she would be available, in case he had a question or perhaps wondered where some bit of paperwork might have gotten to. After all she had put him through, she hated to renege on her word. If he needed something, she wanted to be able to respond as quickly as possible. To help him out. Not because she yearned for the sound of his voice. Oh no. Of course not. Liar, she silently chided as she hung up the phone. You have got to get a grip. Keep this up and you'll soon be rooting through Mulder's garbage, searching for mementos. Shaking her head in disgust, she had just exited the dining area, heading towards the bathroom, when she saw it. A glow moving through the trees surrounding the cabin, two round, eerie eyes staring back at her in the darkness. Headlights. A car. Who the hell was visiting at this late hour? Quickly, Scully trotted to the bedroom and pulled her spare Sig from the dresser's top drawer. She may have had to turn in her service automatic to Skinner along with her badge, but that she didn't mean she was defenseless. Following Mulder's example, she had bought this second gun months ago, wanting a back-up should the need arise. And at that moment, she was feeling far needier than she would have liked. Returning to the living room, she hit the light switch, killing the lamp beside the couch. Closing her eyes for a moment to help them adjust to the sudden blackness, she crept carefully to the window, the Sig's safety disengaged. Peering between the drapes, she watched as her uninvited guest approached. It was difficult for her to clearly see the car, catching only glimpses of it as it wove through the trees. But she judged it was a newer model, a sedan most likely, her guess based on the position of the headlights and the engine's low, smooth purr. Whoever was behind the wheel was making his way cautiously down the gravel drive. Not a bad idea, as the path was narrow, and riddled with rocks and ruts. It wasn't until she saw the car pull into the grassy area surrounding the cabin that she began to suspect the identity of her caller. Up until then she had thought perhaps someone had chosen this particular property in error, believing they were dropping in on someone they knew. But that was before she got a good look at the vehicle parked just at the foot of her stairs. Noticed it was, indeed, a late model four-door, a Ford, like hers. Saw that it had District of Columbia plates. Recognized the familiar face of the man who had driven it there. Felt her stomach yo-yo down to her toes, then back again. Mulder. Oh God. What now? "Scully!" he called anxiously as he eased free of the sedan. For one crazy half-second, she toyed with pretending she wasn't at home, considered dashing inside a closet or under a bed to hide like a frightened child. Then reality slapped her like a hard, heavy palm. She had never backed down from this man before. She certainly wasn't going to start doing so now. And sliding her safety back into position, she slipped her gun into the waistband of her shorts, so its butt rested just above hers. Then, flipping on the porch light, she pushed open the front screen door. All the while wondering if, from where he stood, Mulder could see her knees knocking, trembling as if she had run all the way from D.C. to these distant mountains in an ill-fated attempt to elude him. Impossible, perhaps. But at that moment, she felt nearly that desperate to escape him once more. ***** "Scully?" he called, stumbling as he sidestepped around the driver's side door, then slammed it shut after him. "Scully!" Christ. His ass was numb, his legs stiff as proverbial boards after that hellish drive. Everything from the waist down was pins and needles. All except his right calf. That had started cramping just outside of Glens Falls. Seven hours. Two stops. One traffic citation. Luckily, he had brought his badge. That State Police escort he had received had nearly made up the time he had lost when Mrs. Scully's plane had gotten in late. Still, all of the bullshit had been worth it. All the endless miles of hard, hypnotic asphalt, the sun that had reflected off the rear view mirror at exactly the right angle to steal his vision, the sadistic interstate trucker he had trailed through most of New Jersey, the one who had somehow always managed to drift over the dividing line every time he had tried to maneuver his Taurus around the far larger vehicle. Because, despite his terror when he couldn't raise her on the phone, couldn't call to tell her he was coming, to warn her that whatever her plan had been, it had gone seriously awry, Scully was there, in one piece, looking at him . . . . . . like he had oozing, open sores dotting his complexion. "I tried to call," he finally said, thinking that was as good a conversation starter as any. "But your phone is out." "It rained last night," she said, standing above him on the porch, clad in khaki walking shorts, a white T-shirt and navy blue cardigan. "The lines are down." He nodded a trifle skeptically. "Are you sure the rain was to blame?" A flicker of disquiet skittered across her countenance before she replied. "What else would it have been?" He shrugged, letting his silence speak for him. "What are you doing here, Mulder?" she asked after a moment or two, apparently dismissing both his conjecture and his attempt at small talk. He shrugged again, feigning nonchalance, nervous now that he had her in his sights, even though he had been practicing what he planned on saying ever since pulling out of National. "Nice night for a drive." She frowned at that, and folded her arms across her chest. "Cut the crap, Mulder. How did you even find me?" He strolled around the front of the car, his hands in his jacket pockets. "Your mother. She had a terrific time in Boca, by the way. Ray and Terry send their regards." Her eyes widened. "My mother told you where I was?" Mulder nodded, wishing he could better see her. The bare bulb overhead lit her hair and shoulders well. But not her face. Her eyes in particular were masked by shadow. "What did you tell her?" she demanded, anger seemingly creeping in to lend her words some bite. He drew closer. "The truth." "What truth?" she asked heatedly, her arms falling to her sides. "My mother knew why I came up here. She knew I needed some time. She would never have helped you find me. Not unless you scared her or--" "Did you tell her about us, Scully?" he asked, standing now at the bottom of the stairs, his voice hushed, his foot resting on the first step. "Does she know what we are to each other? I wasn't sure." "=Were= to each other, Mulder," she corrected quietly, her gaze focused down and away. "Were." "That's what you keep telling me," he agreed, leaning back against railing leading up to where she stood, her shoulders bowed, her hand dragging slowly through her hair. "You've made it very clear you no longer want any part of me." She tilted her chin to look at him, one brow arched. "Then why are you here?" He smiled slightly at that, the corners of his mouth softening, his expression gentle. He had been waiting for this, had been looking forward to it for what felt like eternity. Here was what he should have said in their office, the words he ought to have spoken when Scully had so tenderly lay waste to his world. "I don't believe you." At first, she didn't move. She just stood there, staring at him. "You what?" she finally asked, her brow wrinkled in consternation. "I don't believe you," he repeated calmly. "You don't believe I'm unhappy?" she asked, her query dripping with disdain and disbelief. "Isn't that a bit presumptuous, Mulder, even for you? "I never said you weren't unhappy," he murmured, climbing up a step. "If your week has been anything like mine, I'm sure you feel miserable right about now." "I don't deny this has been difficult," she allowed, her posture wary, her voice tempered and low, "for both of us. And I'm sorry you made the drive all the way up here for nothing. But I've said all I have to say, Mulder. It's over. You, me, the Bureau--all of it. And the sooner you learn to live with that, the better." With that, she turned as if planning to reenter the cabin. Urging his travel-sore legs into action, Mulder bounded up the remaining steps and grabbed hold of her wrist, stopping her. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed, rounding on him. Now that he stood beside her, he could see her eyes more clearly. Anger sparkled in their blueness, certainly, and annoyance at his unexpected reappearance in her life. But fear shone there too, its gleam eclipsing all other emotion. "Let go of me!" "You expect me to believe you told me everything that day, Scully?" he asked, stubbornly hanging on to her. "That the reason you turned your back on everything we had, everything you =are=, is that you suddenly want to live like the other half does?" "Yes!" she insisted, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming now fast and hard. "Why does that surprise you, Mulder? You're the one who always said it was crazy for us to try to make a life together." "Yeah?" he challenged mockingly, capturing her other arm as he had the first. "And you're the one who's spent the last year or so convincing me otherwise." She said nothing to that. Instead, she merely stood, unmoving in his hold, her eyes struggling to remain on his. "Weird, huh? The way things turn out sometimes," he said softly, his mouth inches from her temple. "I don't want to hurt you, Mulder," she said as finally her gaze strayed, drifting to somewhere near his left shoulder. "But you will leave me no choice unless you get back in that car and go home to D.C." "I don't think you can hurt me," he murmured, only just barely resisting the desire to press his lips to the vulnerable line of skin where her hair parted. "Not anymore. Not with what I know now." With what looked to be great reluctance, her eyes again found his. "What do you think you know?" she whispered. "I know you've recently had a bug problem," he wryly said. "A nasty infestation. The kind those roach motels can't cure." "I . . . I don't--" she sputtered, the pink slowly fading from her cheeks. "Save your breath, Scully," he drawled. "The guys told me everything. I've even seen the little beasties myself." "So you know about the bugs," she muttered, yanking her arms free, then backing away, rubbing her palms over her reddened wrists. "So what? It means nothing, Mulder. That was simply the last straw, the thing that made me realize I couldn't live this way anymore." "You know, there was a time I might have believed that," he said, prowling towards her, his eyes narrowed, his gaze intent. Scully compensated by continuing her retreat, edging away, doing what she could to keep some space between them. "When I might have thought your apartment being under surveillance would be reason enough for you to call it quits." With a bump and a grimace, Scully's shoulder collided with one of the porch's supports. Mulder quickly closed the gap between them. "But not now," he told her, leaning in, one hand braced against the post, crowding her without remorse. "Not with the things I know." "You know nothing," she bit out, looking up at him with tear-bright eyes, panic now flickering in their depths as well, shiny-hard, like light reflecting off a blade. "Nothing. If you did, you wouldn't have come up here, using my family to track me down like I'm some criminal you have a warrant for. You . . . you wouldn't try and bully your way back into my life, Mulder. You would respect me and my decision, instead of treating me like a child who's too stupid to know what she really wants." "What do you really want, Scully?" he asked, his voice rumbling out, low and intimate, its timbre a reaction to her nearness, to the longing that had all but consumed him these past seven days and more. "I want you to let me be," she whispered, desperation seemingly feathering her words, stealing from them weight and mass. "I want you to turn around and leave here. To get the hell away from me." "What about me?" he murmured, surrendering at last to temptation and nuzzling her silky hair with his nose. She raised her arms and flattened her palms against his chest. But she didn't try to push him away. "Don't you want me?" "Mulder . . . don't," she pleaded, closing her eyes and turning her face away. She was trembling now, almost shuddering against him. He could feel her small, soft body shivering delicately in his embrace. "Not even a little, Scully?" he wheedled against her skin, kissing his way along her cheek's smooth curve, his lips warm and tender against her face. "Don't you want me just a little?" "Please, Mulder," she muttered, a tear slipping free from beneath her lowered lid to run like molten quicksilver down her pale, cool flesh. ". . . please." "I know about the threats," he told her, gently wiping away the tiny rivulet of salt water with his fingertips. "I know you were the one who called the police that night, that you told the guys to keep quiet about the bugs or my life might be in danger." At that, she opened up her eyes to look at him, her lashes spiky and damp. "Is that why you wanted to see Cancerman, Scully?" he queried, his hand cupping her jaw in his palm, his thumb massaging the baby-soft skin just below her ear. "Were you trying to strike a bargain, my life for the end of your career?" All at once, Scully sighed in surrender and, swallowing hard, curled her fingers around his wrist, holding him to her. "He's going to kill you, Mulder," she mumbled, her voice clogged with tears. "He's had enough of your interference. He wants you stopped." Mulder knew it was absurd, that news of his impending death ought to alarm him or at least give pause. But all he wanted to do was laugh. To rejoice. To howl at the moon. Yes! Scully was talking to him again. And this time, he believed her. They were back. Mulder and Scully, FBI. On the case. "Ah, but doesn't ol' Emphysema Breath know?" he teased as he leaned his forehead against that of his partner and smiled what felt to him like the world's goofiest grin. "I can't be stopped. I'm like the Energizer Bunny. I just keep going and going--" "This isn't funny, Mulder!" Scully growled as she shoved him squarely in the chest, then stalked away to pace before the cabin's darkened doorway, back and forth, like a duck in a shooting gallery. "He's been watching you. Been watching both of us probably. Once he finds out we've spoken, that you know what's going on, your life isn't going to be worth shit." "That's nothing new," he said with an indifferent shrug. Scully stopped her measured step to glare at him from beneath the porch light, her hands planted now on her hips. "Scuh-lee," he cajoled, his lips still curved in that same cocky smile. "This isn't the first time that bastard has wanted me dead and it probably won't be the last." "Mulder," she muttered in exasperation, shaking her head as she turned from him and began to cross away, out of the circle of light. "For God's sake. . . . you don't understand!" "Fine. Then make me," he said, chasing after her. "Tell me what's been going--" But before he could reach her, could wrap his fingers around her wrist and draw her to him, pain exploded in the back of his head, tearing at his skin, obliterating his vision. "MULDER!" Oh God, it hurt! Burned. Like someone had taken a two-by- four and slammed it against his skull. Distantly, he felt something hot and wet matting his hair, trickling down the back of his neck to stain his collar. Blood? he wondered as he staggered drunkenly, his hand going to his head and coming away covered in the stuff. How had that gotten there? "=MULDER!=" Scully? He couldn't find her. Didn't know where she had gone to. He thought he sensed movement somewhere off to the left, imagined he could feel the boards beneath his feet bouncing as if someone were on the porch beside him. But he couldn't keep his eyes open to see who it might be as the ground rushed up to meet him . . . No, not the ground. The stairs. Crumpling gracelessly, he tumbled down the wooden steps, his head colliding with first railing, then riser, his right leg twisting painfully beneath him as he toppled. Scully, he wordlessly cried, his cheek pressed now to the cool, moist dirt, his body leaden, unable to move. Scully. But she didn't answer. No one did. No voices. No words. Just noise, coming from above him. Cracking and popping. One after another. Sharp and piercing, as if rockets were going off. Fireworks. . . . Sparklers and Roman Candles. . . . Sooty confetti raining down upon him from on high. . . . And as he lay there, consciousness slipping painfully away, he questioned what might be the occasion, wondered why someone felt the need to light up the night sky. Were the unseen revelers celebrating Scully's and his reunion? Or were they instead joyously feting his imminent demise? * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XII "Words to Live By" (12/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Uh-oh . . . I'm thinking this may go longer than I'd thought. I don't know. I can't tell. I'm lousy at the whole numbers thing. . . . ************************************************** A single gunshot tore through the fabric of that starry September sky. Then . . . "MULDER!" Scully screamed as he convulsed before her, blood spraying like Satan's own fountain from the back of his head. Only he didn't answer her call, didn't even meet her horrified gaze. Instead, he teetered, his knees turning soft, his expression slackening. Slowly, dreamily, he lifted his hand to his hair and petted the strands there, his fingers hidden from her view. While she watched him. Shocked, amazed, and utterly transfixed. Even when Mulder dropped his arm. And she saw his palm was painted with dark, rich red. "=MULDER!=" It wasn't until his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his legs buckled beneath him that she was able to break free from her stasis. She surged towards him from where she stood, scarcely more than an arm's length away, reaching out for him. But he fell before she could grab hold, his lanky frame folding in on itself, collapsing like a sail cut loose from its rigging. She started down the stairs after him, wincing as his body bounced first one way then another against the punishing wood. But before she had gotten little more than a step, gunfire erupted once more, bullets flying at her head like a swarm of angry hornets. Cursing beneath her breath, Scully ducked, then dove behind the nearest newel, fumbling to free her Sig from its makeshift holster. The minute she had it in her hand, she pointed it at the bulb dangling over her, and let loose with a shot. The fragile globe of glass shattered into a million glittering shards, and the night was once more lit only by the heavens. The instant the bulb was destroyed and darkness again reigned supreme, Scully's assailant stopped firing. No doubt taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, she thought as she huddled behind the post, trembling with a dizzying mix of terror and outrage, her lashes lowered as she strove to accomplish the exact same thing. In the sudden silence, she strained, listening for anything, anything at all that might lend her an advantage. But other than the hushed night sounds pouring into the vacuum left behind by the recent salvo, she didn't hear a thing, no rustle of brush, no footfalls, no creaking of bones nor swish of cloth. And nothing from Mulder, who lay twisted and unmoving at the bottom of the steps. Oh God, she wordlessly anguished. Mulder. Please be all right. Please. Please, Mulder. Please, God. I can't lose him now. Not after everything that's happened. In the midst of her mute yet fervent plea, gunfire began again, the shots popping around her like a bag of Orville Redenbacher's finest, the bullets pounding holes in wood and glass. She scrunched herself into the smallest shape possible, waited for a break in the barrage, then returned fire. Yet even as her finger tightened on the trigger, Scully knew her shots were doomed. She couldn't get a bead on the shooter's location, not with the way she was being forced to cower. And if she didn't know for certain where he was, all she was going to do was aim blindly, wasting precious ammunition. She couldn't stay where she was, she decided, her arms wrapped protectively around her head as another clip was emptied into her uncle's beleaguered cabin. As much as she wanted to remain close to her fallen partner, cover on the porch was next to nil. She had to get inside. There, she could set up a position at the window, and have access to her extra clips. The door wasn't far, little more than a body's length away. She would only need to be out in the open for an instant. Surely, the gunman couldn't be that fine a shot. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she drew her knees up against her belly, pressed her back flat against the newel, and slowly stood, her gun clasped tightly in both hands. She stood there for a moment or two, preparing herself, doing everything within her power to merge with the shadows. Still more gunshots rang out as if trying to distract her, to lure away her concentration. But Scully didn't let it rattle her. She stood perfectly still. And waited. Let him fire. Let him exhaust another magazine. I'll wait until he needs to reload, then . . . Striking like a snake, she bent low and sprinted for the door. One. Two. Three steps. Grabbing hold of the handle, she threw the portal open and herself inside. More shots flew. But none hit their mark. She'd made it. Yet had no time to celebrate. As soon as Scully cleared the threshold, she reached back and slammed shut the interior door, flipping the lock to secure it. Keeping close to the ground, she dashed to the bedroom and frantically rooted through the same dresser drawer that had held her gun, hunting for her extra clips. There they were, buried beneath that stack of panties. Two magazines of ten bullets each, which when coupled with the six she still had loaded in her Sig . . . Gave her twenty-six shots. Not exactly an arsenal. Not if the siege lasted for any extended period of time. That seemed unlikely, though, she mused, her stockpile in hand as she made her way quickly yet cautiously back to the living room. Surely someone should have heard the gunfire, most especially with the way sound carried up there. Alerted by the racket, they would have undoubtedly worried something was amiss, would have called the authorities and asked them to check it out. Why, with any luck, the county sheriff was on his way there right now, sirens blaring, his deputies not far behind . . . . . . and yet, the cabin was surrounded by government land, acre after acre of national forest. Her uncle had purchased the lot for exactly that reason. The location was secluded, isolated. The nearest home was miles away, and she couldn't even say with any certainty whether it was occupied this time of year. Chances were good no one had heard a thing, or if they had, they had ascribed it to some sort of crazy, late-night target practice, the kind of activity usually instigated by boredom and way too many beers. She couldn't count on the cavalry riding in to save the day. Odds were she was on her own here. Without even Mulder to rely on. Dear Lord. Creeping around the perimeter of the room, being careful to keep to the shadows, she made her way to the wall of windows looking out onto the porch. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet, the cracking and grinding for some reason putting her in mind of bones being crushed to powder. Inching her way forward, she used the starlight's pale glow to guide her, its faint luminescence streaming in from outside, enabling her to maneuver, to successfully skirt furniture and electrical cords. When she reached her destination, her shoulder edging the window frame, she peered behind the drape, her eyes surveying the cabin's front yard. From her vantage, she spied Mulder. He lay on his side, his legs sprawled half on the stairs, half off. One arm was pinned beneath him, but the other was flung wide, his palm up, his fingers curled. With the way he had landed, she couldn't see his face, couldn't tell if he was breathing. Couldn't even judge if the bullet that had wounded him had penetrated or instead merely nicked the surface. I'm coming, Mulder, she whispered to him inside her head. As soon as I can, I'll be there. We'll get out of this. You'll see. You just have to hang on for me, okay? Just hang on a little while longer. I'll do the rest. I'll get that son of a bitch. I'll protect you. I swear it. Or die trying. Almost as if answering her unspoken challenge, she glimpsed movement in the woods rimming the cabin's raggedy lawn. It wasn't much. Just a shadow that changed shape when there had been no breeze to set it in motion. She spotted the telltale shift in a particularly dense grove of pines, just the other side of the road leading to the property. Old trees, their trunks were as long and as narrow as the needles clinging to their branches. So that's where you set up shop. You fucking bastard. Opening and closing her fingers around the grip of her gun in an effort to release some of the tension tightening her hand, she crawled to the center of the window, looking for the best possible position. Staying low, she peered up through the glass, heedless of the shards below pricking her knees. The shot wouldn't be easy. A fair distance separated them, even from here. The angle sucked, and the thick ground cover served the gunman well as camouflage. No matter how long or how hard she stared, she couldn't tell for certain where he ended and mere foliage began. That was a problem. She was only going to get one chance to surprise him. She had to take advantage of it, had to be sure and hit him, not the bush he was crouched behind. Work with what you've got, Dana. Work with what you've got. Placing the barrel of her automatic into one of the holes already blasted through the living room panes, she braced her left arm on the sill and her right arm on top of that. Staring down the Sig's sight, she took a deep breath, trying to gather herself for the shot to come. When, before she could pull the trigger, she noticed the dark, thick shape she had taken for her attacker split. Half sinking even lower in the brush. Half stepping back to melt deeper into the woods. Shit. There were two of them. The realization startled her, making her pause for the slightest measure of time to reevaluate her plan. And before she could take out the shooter she had first targeted, he opened fire once more. She ducked, grimacing as she heard still more glass shatter above her, the pieces falling on her like deadly diamonds. Instinctively, she scuttled to the corner of the window frame, and punched out a new hole with the butt of her gun. Searching for her assailant in the trees, she returned fire, cursing her hesitation. Damn it. Now she was back to square one. She might have a more secure stronghold inside, but her ammunition was still limited, and her chances of taking out either of her attackers, long-range, with a handgun, were limited at best. Whoever the hell these guys were, they could no doubt wait her out, let her expend her meager supply of bullets, and then swoop in for the kill. If they didn't try to get her pinned in the middle of a crossfire first. Which was why she feared they had separated to begin with. After all, if she were the one directing this assault, that's the sort of tactic she would use. She glanced over her shoulder while bullets continued to sand blast the front porch. The cabin was structured so that the kitchen, dinette and living room were all one large area, a breakfast bar, but no walls, helping to delineate space. With this open floor plan, the kitchen was situated behind her. Over the sink were three windows, all fairly narrow and fairly high, and directly opposite her current location. If anyone did make their way around the back of the cabin and peered through those panes, she would be a sitting duck. What if she could catch sight of Thug #2 before he actually made it to those windows? she pondered, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. Perhaps she could take him unawares. To the bedroom. Easing herself away from her present position, she fired a couple of shots as cover, then swiftly retraced her steps to the room in which she had slept since arriving. As she returned to the back of the house, she reloaded, the current magazine empty. One clip down, two to go. Once she had made her way to the rear bedroom, she flattened herself next to the side window, and carefully eased away the curtain. She didn't see anything, not just then. But, if her assailant did indeed plan to try and outflank her, he would probably pass this way. To go around the other side would mean he would have to cross the road leading into the property, which would expose him to possible gunfire. And besides, the vegetation on that side was rougher, more difficult to navigate, while on this side it was sparse, more trees than reeds and brush. If he was hoping to take the easy way around, he should be headed directly for her. And she would be waiting. This could turn out to be a kind of advantage, she mused, squinting against the darkness, her heart pounding out "Flight of the Bumblebee" inside her chest, her mouth cottony dry. After all, she had been worried she wouldn't have the opportunity to directly engage her attackers, wouldn't be able to get close enough to them to do any real damage. Well, if she had guessed correctly, that son-of-bitch should pass within inches of her. And she didn't intend for his invasion of her personal space to go unpunished. Out front, she could hear intermittent shots still being fired. But the space between bullets had lengthened since she had left the living room. The first shooter was testing her, she grimly realized, seeing if she was still willing to take him on. Damn it. If she stayed back here much longer, her silence was going to goad them into making some sort of move. Either they would figure out she had abandoned her position in the living room, or they would instead no doubt surmise she was out of ammunition, thus hastening their entry of the cabin. And she needed to keep Thug #1 where he was if she hoped to take out Thug #2 on her own. . . . Come on, she chanted to herself. Come on, come on, come on. What did you do? Get lost out there? Then suddenly, her patience paid off. Faintly, its origin probably no more than a stone's throw from the cabin, came a sound. A crack and a flurry, like someone had stumbled over a stick and needed to shuffle quickly to maintain their balance. Another evening and she might have attributed the noise to a raccoon or possum. But tonight she had a feeling bigger game was afoot. Staring unblinking from behind the curtain, she waited until she saw movement in the trees, witnessed the gentle sway of a low-hanging branch. There you are, she mused, her blood beginning to surge now more heavily through her veins. Are you the one who shot Mulder? No matter. You're going to pay just the same. Letting the drapery fall softly back into place, she reentered the cabin's great room. Dropping to her knees, she crawled quickly yet quietly to the kitchen area. Huddled there, surrounded on three sides by cabinets, she waited. She wasn't sure what Thug #2 would do. If she had still been in sight, at her position overlooking the porch, she thought he would probably try taking her out through the kitchen windows. However, as she was now almost directly beneath those windows, hidden from view, she thought instead perhaps he might try forcing his way in through the back door. It lay just the other side of the breakfast bar, separated from her by the cupboards supporting the long, narrow eating area. If he came through the door, she should be able to get the drop on him. Shouldn't she? Scully knelt there on the rag rug marking the kitchen's imaginary walls, trying to ignore the tremors coursing through her body, the odd weakness in her limbs. It's just nerves, she told herself. No, not even. Her symptoms actually pointed to adrenaline as the culprit, the M.D. within her diagnosed. Epinephrine. The 'colorless crystalline feebly basic sympathomimetic adrenal hormone which is used medicinally, especially as a heart stimulant, a vasoconstrictor, and a muscle relaxant.' Hear that--muscle relaxant. So =chill=, she instructed herself, the slightest touch of giddiness beginning to undercut her anxiety. God. The things you'll think about at a time like this. All at once, the shooting up front stopped entirely. Shit. That wasn't good. If her back door friend didn't hurry, she was going to be stuck facing him and his associate simultaneously; she knew it. What was that? The window right above her shifted in its frame as if the wind had jostled it. Or someone had touched it. That's right, you son-of-a-bitch, she coaxed silently. I'm not here. You can't see me. Where did I go? Why don't you come on through that door and find out? She waited perhaps another second or two more. Then, as if her still unseen attacker were responding to her invitation, the door burst inward, announcing his arrival. Popping up like a pistol-packing jack-in-the-box, she sprang from her position, her gun clasped tightly in both hands. In one smooth motion, she planted her feet wide and began firing, bullets pumping into her intruder's chest so quickly he had no time to pull the trigger himself. Spasming before her like a victim of Saint Vitus's dance, he shuddered, blood pouring from his wounds, dribbling from his mouth, until at last he collapsed, his weapon tumbling from his fingers. Her automatic still held firmly before her, Scully came around the breakfast bar to retrieve his gun and see who the hell she had just killed. He lay on his back, face up, making it easy for her to identify him, even given the cabin's limited light. The Henchman. The man who had accompanied The Smoker to her apartment that night. "Oh, Agent Scully?" Her head whipped around in the direction of the sound. Fuck. Thug #1. "Agent Scully, be a good girl and come out now, won't you?" Bending down, she snatched The Henchman's weapon from the floor. Both pistols held before her like the gunslingers of old, she sped back to the window. Oh God. Please don't let him have gotten to Mulder. "Come on, Agent Scully. Don't waste my time. You've fought a good fight, but enough is enough." Stationed just to the side of the window, she peeked out, careful not to get sloppy now, to inadvertently show herself and wind up with a bullet between the eyes. But from where she stood, all she could see was that Mulder was no longer at the foot of the stairs. Where was he? What had they done with him? "Come out unarmed and I promise I won't take out my annoyance with you on poor Agent Mulder here." Take out his annoyance . . . Was Mulder still alive? Taking a deep, shaky breath, she could feel tears of relief pricking at the backs of her eyes. Rather ironic given the circumstances. Oh thank God. Thank you, God. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" she called, scanning her limited field of vision for the whereabouts of both her partner and his captor. Shit. She couldn't see a damned thing. "That you'll keep your promise." "You don't," replied a light, taunting voice. "But if you don't do as I say I am going to put a bullet in Agent Mulder. That is also a promise." Think, Dana. Think. "How do I know he's not already dead?" she shouted. "Mulder?" queried the voice with dry amusement. "The man with more lives than the entire Broadway production of 'Cats' combined? No. He's still alive, if not kicking. He may have blundered his way in front of a bullet meant for you, but it didn't do anymore than break the skin." A bullet meant for her . . . ? "Unfortunately, my former associate had a bit of trouble timing his shot." The Smoker sent these men up here to kill =her=? But why now? She had been alone and vulnerable for a week. Why wait until Mulder ventured on the scene to complicate matters? "I assure you, however, I won't have any problem hitting =my= target, not from this range." Whoever the man was, he sounded as if he were losing patience. Which could only spell disaster for Mulder. "I'm coming out!" she cried. "Delightful," the voice said with approval, sounding as pleased as if she had instead announced she was throwing a party in his honor. "Leave all weapons on the floor there, please, and keep your hands in the air." Delightful? Please? He had to be the most polite assassin she had ever had the misfortune to meet. Doing as she was told, she carefully set both her gun and that of The Henchman just inside the cabin's entrance. She then unlocked the interior door, opened it, and pushed her way through the screen door as well. "So nice of you to join us at last," said the voice. "I hated to rush you, but to tell you the truth, Agent Mulder here is rather heavy." Turning slightly to her right, Scully was surprised to find the man responsible for her current plight was standing just the other side of Mulder's car, using her unconscious partner as a shield. The sight wouldn't have been all that unusual except that Mulder so overwhelmingly dwarfed the slender man supporting him that even now, with only a few yards separating them, she found it difficult to get a good look at her tormentor. "Agent Scully, would you be so kind as to turn for me, please. Slowly. That's right . . . all the way around. Keep your hands in the air. I want to make certain I have no surprises awaiting me. I'm sure you understand." Frowning, she did as she was bid. "Very good. Now come down the steps. All the way to the bottom." Again, she followed his instructions and slowly descended the stairs, her hands still held high craning her neck to try and see past Mulder's bowed and bloody head to the face of the man holding the gun. "Excellent," he said approvingly, shifting Mulder in his embrace. "Well . . . I don't believe I need your partner any longer. . . ." What? "No!" she screamed, lunging towards the duo. But rather than ridding himself of Mulder for good, Thug #1 merely let go of his unconscious burden, allowing the wounded agent to fall once more in a heap on the ground. "Stay right there, Agent Scully. There's no need for that sort of outburst. Not just yet." Freezing in place, Scully stopped, hands now at her sides, and studied the man with the gun. He was Asian. Young, she thought. Surely no older than either Mulder or herself. Standing perhaps two or three inches taller than she, he was delicately built, with bright, expressive eyes and a full sensual mouth. He was dressed casually, just as The Henchman had been. Jeans, cotton shirt, windbreaker, leather gloves and boots. Anyone who might see him on the highway or meet him in town would peg him for a tourist, a yuppie looking for a quiet weekend away from the big, bad city. Of course, those people wouldn't have gotten a look at him holding a gun in his hand. "What are you doing here?" Scully queried softly, looking to buy time. "I did as The Smoker asked." "Meaning what exactly?" The Asian asked pleasantly. "You quit your job? Did you really think that was going to make any difference?" "That's what I was told to do," she said calmly, trying to gauge who was closer to Mulder's wilted form, her or the man with the automatic. "I was told to break off my relationship with Mulder and leave the X-Files. I held up my end of the bargain." "Agent Scully, your naivete is quite refreshing," said The Asian with a smile. "Truly. Now, I need you to step over here to the car, please, and assume the position. Quickly now. I don't know how much time we're going to have to finish this." When she hesitated, he gestured with his gun, an eyebrow raised as if in challenge. Grimly, she crossed to the trunk of Mulder's Taurus and placed her hands atop it, her stance wide. "Why did you say that?" she mumbled as he patted her down, his gun pressed hard at the base of her skull. Keep him talking. She needed to keep him talking. If she could engage him in conversation, he might lose focus, make a mistake. "Why do you consider me naive?" He chuckled indulgently, his breath dancing against her hair. "Many reasons, actually." "Name me one," she said as his hand ran up the inside of her leg, his touch firm but impersonal. "You believe that people mean what they say." "I know you and your kind lie," she assured him lowly, her head bent she endured his touch. "I'm not exactly surprised The Smoker decided to back out of our deal." "I hate to tell you this, but there never was a deal," he said affably, changing his gun hand and starting down her other side. "What do you mean there was no deal?" she queried, wishing he would move that gun away, even for an instant. She would try attacking his shin or throwing an elbow to his midsection if she thought she could do so without getting a guaranteed bullet to the brain. "It's just that no one has ever cared who you fucked," he murmured, pulling her upright once more, so that she stood, facing away from him, her hands at her sides. "Put your hands behind your back, please." But rather than continuing to play the model prisoner, Scully angrily whirled on him, frightened, frustrated, and willing to take a chance. "Then what the hell was--" Her gamble didn't pay off. Moving so fast she literally didn't see the blows coming, he drove his fist into her stomach, then glanced his pistol off her chin. Folding first in half, then violently arching, she bit her lip to hold back a groan, and finally doubled over onto her knees, gasping for breath. "'The hell is' you behave yourself," replied The Asian mildly. "Or you're going to be sorry." "I think I already am," she muttered, her eyes watering as she gingerly massaged her tender jaw. "Get up." "Tell me what you meant first," she entreated, looking up at him, one hand pointed towards him, palm out. "Agent Scully, you're trying my patience," he blandly warned, his gun inches now from her head. "Just tell me what the hell you're talking about!" she demanded, her insistence at odds with her submissive posture. "What do you mean The Smoker didn't care about Mulder and me? Why did he confront me with it then? Why did he tell me splitting us up would work to his advantage?" The Asian leaned down and buried the muzzle of his automatic in the soft fleshy area just beneath her chin. Using it as a kind of lever, he raised his arm, slowly forcing Scully to her feet. "The man I work for only really cares about one thing where you and Agent Mulder are concerned," he said quietly as he leaned in close, with her face balanced atop his gun. "Closing down the X-Files." "Why not just kill us then?" she asked, the words hoarse and hushed. "Agent Mulder has a certain notoriety," he told her, his eyes alight with cruel humor. "Name recognition, if you will. His murder would throw unwanted attention on our work. And yours." "If that's the case, then why did your boss poison him?" she harshly queried. "Mulder was never in any danger of dying from that," The Asian said mockingly, easing the pressure of the gun against her skin a touch. "Not really. You were there to save him. Just as we knew you would." Scully could only stare at him, shaking her head in denial. "Pity your partner is currently unable to return the favor," he murmured with a sly smile. She glanced sideways at Mulder, who lay only a few feet away. She could see his chest rising and falling now beneath his navy T-shirt. But aside from that, he still didn't move. "Turn around, Agent Scully, with your hands behind your back, please," the Asian instructed briskly, their question and answer period apparently at an end. "I'm not going to ask you again." Sighing, she did as he asked. Almost instantly, a pair of cuffs were snapped tightly around her wrists. As soon as her arms were secured, a thick cotton gag was then looped over her head and forced between her lips. "Now, please lay on the ground here. On your stomach. And don't move. If you fail to follow my directions, I will be forced to do something very damaging to your partner. You don't want to test my creativity now, do you?" Her brow wrinkled, she shook her head once more. "I didn't think so." She lay on the cool, moist dirt for probably ten minutes or more. From her position, behind Mulder's car and possibly a half dozen yards from the foot of the stairs, it was difficult for her to really see what was going on. Upon obtaining her compliance, the Asian had slung Mulder over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, the move accomplished with almost frightening ease, and carried him back inside. He had then quickly returned, humming softly under his breath, his former associate now draped across his back. After dumping The Henchman on the ground a few feet from her, he went back into the cabin one more time. This trip, he returned holding a bucket and what looked to be a length of plastic tubing. Some kind of hose, she thought. He brought both these items to the passenger side of Mulder's Taurus. She lifted her head to try and see what he was doing. The Asian felt her eyes on him, looked up from his mysterious task, and smiled. "You realize, of course, that Agent Mulder's unfortunate 'accident' ruined months of careful planning. He wasn't supposed to be the one shot with his own gun. You were. And we can't very well make a case for suicide when the man got nicked in the back of the head." Suddenly, she heard liquid draining into the plastic pail The Asian had appropriated. He was siphoning gasoline from the tank. "No one is that poor a shot. Not even Agent Mulder." "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she tried to ask, the fabric wedged between her teeth wholly thwarting her attempt. "For everything to work as it's supposed to, I need you dead and your partner's bullet wound erased," he murmured, ignoring her badly muffled query, his head bent over his chore. "And I think I've figured out a way to kill two birds with one stone." He paused at that, and peeked up at her again, his sloe-eyed gaze almost playful. "So to speak." Bastard. Sweet Jesus. If what he said was true, she could think of only one thing for which he might need that gasoline. As an accelerator. "Now, if you would just remain here, please, I will return for you in a moment." And with a cordial nod, he climbed the stairs back to the cabin, the pail hanging heavy in one hand, the tubing dangling from the other. The minute he stepped through the front door, Scully disregarded his request. Rolling sharply, she managed to awkwardly maneuver herself onto her knees. Okay. From here, she could easily get to her feet, she knew she could. And although her arms were lost to her, there was certainly nothing wrong with her legs. Yet she didn't know where the hell she could run, to whom she could turn for help. The nearest neighbor was too far and the woods too dark and treacherous. At best, she might be able to postpone what The Asian had planned, but she was in no position to stop him altogether. And more importantly--if she were to try and escape, what might he do to Mulder in retaliation? "Agent Scully," The Asian called unseen from behind the screen door, startling her from her mournful contemplation. "Are you going somewhere?" She knelt alone beneath a night sky, looking up at him from below, bound and gagged, her eyes saucer-shaped in her pale, bruised face. Slowly, she shook her head. "That's right," he said as he pushed open the screen with his gun and stepped out onto the porch, speaking to her as if she were a very dull child indeed. "You most certainly are not." His step light and graceful, he trotted down the steps and crossed to her. Bending down, he grabbed her by the arm, and hoisted her to her feet. "You know, I have to tell you--you played right into the old man's hands," he whispered as he led her up the stairs. "All he had to do was tell you Mulder's life was in danger, and you gave up without a fight." That's not true, she silently argued. I tried to resist. I don't know what else I could have done. Unaware of her wordless reply, he pushed her across the threshold, then closed the screen door behind them. "You two are so predictable that way." She stumbled her way inside and stole a quick look around, trying to confirm her suspicions as to her fate. The mess left behind by The Henchman had been cleaned up, all traces of blood seemingly having vanished. Otherwise, everything appeared to be untouched. Only the oily smell of gasoline was new. It permeated the air, thick and cloying, and faintly nauseating. Mulder had been laid in front of the fireplace. Unlike her, his hands were free. . . . And moving . . . She thought. She hoped. She tried not to stare, tried to refrain from drawing attention to the event. But it appeared his fingers were twitching the tiniest little bit, like he were fingering a saxophone in his sleep. Or had she only imagined it? "He told you he wanted Mulder out of the picture," The Asian continued from somewhere behind her. "But you were the one he was after all along." He moved to just behind her, then spun her around to face him, Their heights nearly equal, they looked at each other for a moment, his eyes lingering on her face, his gaze strangely fond. Then, he took his hands, and shoved her forcibly in the center of her chest, sending her sprawling to land alongside Mulder. "All he ever wanted Agent Mulder to do was be charged with your murder." Scully hit the floor hard, most of her weight pressing heavily on her bound arms. Wincing, she rolled immediately onto her side. She could smell the gasoline more strongly now, its fumes pungent and sharp, burning the lining of her nose. He must have poured it on the floor nearby, she thought. "With this change in plans, it doesn't look as if Mulder will be doing any jail time." She glanced up over her shoulder and saw the barrel of the Asian's automatic staring back at her. The man holding the gun was smiling. "But that doesn't mean you still don't need to die." She knew what he intended, realized it instantly, and did the only thing she could. She twisted swiftly to her right, trying to get out of the line of fire. Only she wasn't nearly fast enough. The bullet tore into her side, searing a path through flesh and muscle, the pain making her scream into the gag, making her writhe and moan, her strength ebbing almost as quickly as the blood flowed from her wound. "Nice to have met you, Agent Scully," The Asian said cheerily as he placed the automatic near Mulder's hand and withdrew from his pocket an enameled butane lighter. Flicking his thumb over its toothy wheel, he carefully lit one of the kitchen towels. The bit of fabric caught fire at once. He must've dipped it in gasoline first, she woozily mused from her place before the hearth. "I know this isn't probably how you envisioned ending it all," he admitted as he quickly strode through the great room spreading the fire to drapes and furnishings. The hungry blaze gobbled all in its path, as if eager to be fed. When the towel itself became consumed by flames, he simply dropped it where he stood, and glanced around in satisfaction. "But look at it this way," he said with a shrug as he crossed past her back to the door. "At least you and Agent Mulder are going together." Together, she echoed inside her head as her blood pooled beneath her and fire filled her horizon. Now, why didn't she find that notion any comfort whatsoever? * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XIII "Words to Live By" (13/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Okay. Colorful language and angst ahead. Read at your own risk. You know . . . fifteen chapters ought to do it. Really. I'm serious. ************************************************** Funny. . . . . . the way her own spilled blood scalded her skin. Ridiculous. That out of all the sensations currently assailing her battered body, it was the slow, hot trickle tickling her belly which most commanded her attention. Dana Scully lay on her side, her knees bent, her arms pinioned behind her, bruised and aching, her surroundings inked in lurid Halloween hues. Black and orange. Smoke and flame. Dying. I'm dying, she thought to herself with some small measure of regret, her head lolling on the hardwood, her eyes, battling both the room's haze and their own heavy lids, valiantly struggling to remain open. I think I must be. Because if the bullet doesn't kill me, the fire probably will. Oh God. . . . That fucking bullet. Getting shot hurt. I'm sorry, she murmured fuzzily inside her head. I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry I ever shot you. I would never have done it if I'd known how much it hurt. She should have known, she supposed. Should have guessed. After all, she was both a doctor and an officer of the law. She had certainly been around enough gunshot victims to have witnessed the consequences firsthand. Consequences . . . Truth or consequences . . . Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but . . . No! Focus. Focus, Dana. Screwing tight her brow, she tried. Tried to think. Tried to move. Tried to figure out a way to relieve some of the awful tension knotting her shoulders and numbing her arms. To that end, she twisted . . . Shit. Oh, . . . Shit. Without warning, a white hot bolt of agony rocketed through her body, lancing muscle, scraping bone, shearing nerve endings. Christ. Wordlessly, she moaned behind the gag and curled inward on herself, quivering in misery. Tears overflowing, she panted through the pain, breathing as hard and as fast as if she were in labor, anxiously waiting for it to fade. Gradually, it did. Though an echo of it yet remained, like the morning-after memory of a nightmare. Oh. Oh. God. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But I don't think I can do this, she wearily admitted to whomever might be listening, the confession spoken without words, without pride. I don't think I can be the strong one this time. I really don't. I'm so sorry. Forgive me, Mulder. Mulder . . . <"All he had to do was tell you Mulder's life was in danger, and you gave up without a fight."> That's right . . . Mulder's life was in danger. Again. And again and again and again. It was exhausting, all that danger. Maybe if she just closed her eyes . . . No. =No=! She was the reason they were here. The reason they had both been shot, the reason her uncle's cabin had been set ablaze, pressed into service as a kind of makeshift funeral pyre. Alone, she might have granted herself the luxury of cowardice, might have allowed her lashes to droop and slipped blithely into unconsciousness, a prayer for deliverance shaping her lips. But not when she was Mulder's sole hope of salvation, when she was the one and only thing standing between him and Death's chilling embrace. How could she do nothing when he was depending on her? That would be unconscionable. To surrender Mulder's life. Without a fight. Groaning, Scully raised her head, only managing to hoist it a few meager inches, searching for her partner in the smoke- filled night. There he was. Behind her, perhaps a yard or two away. Blearily, her narrowed gaze drifted from Mulder's still form to survey the room. She saw fire licking greedily at the curtains, at the kitchen's rag rug, the blaze devouring the nearby couch and chair with such relish she almost imagined she could hear its fleshy lips smacking in satisfaction. They didn't have much time. Light-headed, she first tried to get her knees beneath her, to sit upright in preparation to perhaps stand or crawl. Only, once again, her middle couldn't stand the strain. Before she could do anything other than lift her shoulders from the floor, the nightmare echo of that earlier pain flared to its original, dreadful majesty. Stiffening with hurt, she sobbed into the gag, its nubbly white weight flattening her tongue, muffling her cries. Silently, she writhed while blood pulsed thickly from her wound, flowing black and shiny in the firelight, her legs flailing, like those of a June bug flipped on its back. Wretched, she could hear the inferno laughing at her now, crackling and popping as it snickered, mocking her and her feeble attempts to evade it. There is no escape, Dana, it crooned, chuckling malevolently as it crept closer still, crawling towards her like a spider nearing its web-trapped prey. You're mine now. You and Mulder, both. What tasty morsels you are, tender and juicy. How delicious it will be to suck you dry. Stubbornly, she began shaking her head, her sweaty hair flopping into her eyes to steal her sight. No. . . . No. Mulder. Almost as if somehow hearing her mutely call his name, the man behind her moaned, the sound wrenching and low. Somewhere, just over her shoulder, she sensed movement, a shudder or a twitch. Oh, thank God. Finally. Finally, he was returning to her. I'm here, Mulder. I'm still here. Without forethought or plan, Scully drew up her knees as far as they would go, digging the soles of her boots into the cabin's oak planking. Straightening her legs once more, she began to propel herself across the floor, slowly and painfully, squirming and wriggling, slithering like a slug, blood trailing after her instead of ooze. It took forever, the expanse was endless, as wide as oceans, as vast as the galaxy itself. Backing towards Mulder, Scully couldn't judge how much further she had to go, approaching him blindly as she was. Drenched in perspiration and trembling with exertion, she at one point feared perhaps she had overshot her mark, had passed him right by. But, at last, her head butted his side. Giving one final push, she wedged herself against him so her shoulder fit snugly between his arm and torso, her bound hands touching his hip, her cheek resting against his collarbone. Lashes lowered now in total exhaustion, she began to push against his chin with the top of her head. Rhythmically. Like a needy feline begging for attention. Please, Mulder. Wake up. You have to wake up, now. Please. But, utterly oblivious to her urgency, Mulder merely mumbled, and shifted position as if to make himself more comfortable. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. Scully didn't know how long she tried to rouse him, couldn't accurately judge the passage of time. All she was sure of was the room was growing hotter, brighter, and she was fading, bit by excruciating bit. Blood, breathe, warmth, and life were all slowly, yet steadily, ebbing. Yet still she rocked against him, still she chanted inside her head. Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup . . . Still she prayed, not only for herself, but for the man who unwittingly pillowed her weary, aching body with his own. Their lives hinging on one thing, and one thing only. That he open his eyes. And realize he was awakening in hell. ***** His head thick, his body sore, Fox Mulder reluctantly woke, feeling as if he were in danger of being smothered. The room was just too damned stuffy. He really should have opened a window before lying down for a nap. And there was an unexpected weight propped upon his chest, as if he had fallen asleep while reading and the book had remained balanced atop him, right where he had left it. Yet, strangely, this would-be tome didn't smell of the printed page, didn't seem to have either binding or corners. He moved beneath it, rolled his shoulder, half expecting it would fall away, would tumble dully to the carpet. But instead it stayed put, soft and faintly fragrant . . . . . . and moving. It was moving, bumping firmly against his jaw with a slow, methodical insistence. Annoyed at the continual jostling, he raised his hand to push the mysterious weight away, to shove it aside and return to his snooze . . . . . . only, to his surprise, his fingers landed not on paper but on tangled hair, on silky strands matted by sweat and heat. The instant his palm settled upon the too-warm scalp, the weight stilled, then fell limp, pressing his shoulder blade uncomfortably against the floor. The floor . . . What the hell? Cautiously, he opened his eyes and tried to take a look around. But before he could do much more than squint against the darkness, a sharp whiplash of pain exploded across the back of his head. Fuck! What was that? Groaning, he carefully probed the area with his fingertips. They came away wet. Bleeding. He was bleeding. But . . . how? He couldn't remember being wounded. Couldn't remember much of anything, really. He had been standing there, talking to Scully . . . Scully? Scowling, Mulder battled mightily to gain his bearings, to somehow ignore the vicious ache girding his skull like an over-cinched belt, the thin, dry air that pinched instead of fed his hungry lungs. His vision was blurred, doubled and trebled like a reflection in a fun house mirror, ringed with dizzying halos of fire. Fire . . . Oh. My. God. Where the =fuck= was he?! He lay surrounded by flame, tongues of it stretching towards the ceiling, climbing the walls like untended ivy, inching its way across the floor and countertops, gobbling all that stood in its path. And beside him, her head nestled cozily on his shoulder, seemingly unaware of their shared peril, lay Scully. Her eyes closed, her jaw bruised. Bound. Gagged. And bleeding. Oh, Jesus. There was so much blood. So much blood. Horrified, he quickly eased himself from beneath her, his hands shaking as they skimmed along her slender frame, stupidly unable to comprehend what lay before him. "Scully?" he croaked as he bent over her, wrestling with the knot holding the swathe of fabric secure between her lips. Fuck! He couldn't get his fingers to work, they slipped and fumbled, granting him all the coordination of a kindergartner trying to tie his shoes for the very first time. God. He couldn't see the tangled ends beneath her hair, couldn't reason his way around the impasse, could scarcely even breathe for panic. "Scully, can you hear me?" And unless he pulled it all together, they were going to die because of his incompetence. At last, his patience waning, Mulder gave up on the idea of getting rid of the gag completely, settling instead on merely loosening it enough to draw it from her mouth. The minute it hung free, dangling around her neck like a bandit's kerchief, Scully moistened her lips with her tongue and, lashes lifting drowsily, murmured, "Mulder?" "Yeah," he answered, gently smoothing back her hair with one hand while digging in his jacket pockets with the other. "Yeah, it's me. It's me. Just hang on, okay? I'm gonna . . . gonna . . . " Keys. . . Keys. . . Where the hell were his Goddamned keys? Ah, there. Good. His head bowed, his brow knit fierce in concentration, Mulder swiftly flipped through the ring in his hand, searching for the smallest member of his collection. There it was. The key to his own set of handcuffs. Blinking madly in a vain attempt to clear his vision, he awkwardly fit the small silver opener to the lock holding Scully's arms pinned behind her. A quick twist of his fist and the first cuff sprang wide. A moment later, both her wrists were free. But rather than celebrating her newfound liberty, Scully instead merely moaned and rolled ponderously onto her back, her arms hanging limp now at her sides. There, she looked up at him with glassy, pain-filled eyes. "Mulder . . . ," she whispered hoarsely, her tongue slipping out to again wet her lips. "We . . . go . . . we have to go." "Yeah, I know," he muttered distractedly, shoving the keys back in his pocket, and edging closer to her still, desperately trying to figure out how the hell he was going to get her out of there without hurting her further. "I know." But before he could even begin to try and lift her, she laid her hand softly on his chest, stopping him. Pointing somewhere behind him, she said in a hush, "The gun. Take the gun." Confused, Mulder looked over his shoulder, peering through the smoke in the direction she indicated. At first, he saw nothing. But then, captured in the fire's glow, he caught sight of a sleek automatic. A Smith and Wesson, he thought. Not unlike his own. Pivoting on his knees, he stretched for it. And, checking to see the safety was engaged, stowed it roughly in his pocket. "Okay," he murmured, turning back to her, "do you think . . . ?" . . . only to see flames casting ghoulish shadows on Scully's pale countenance, flickering shapes that danced across her cheeks and brow, like fiendishly merry goblins rejoicing over their predicament. While she lie beneath the shifting darkness, her eyes closed, her lips parted, gore dripping from her side. Unmoving. And, to his frantic, disbelieving gaze, no longer drawing breath. "SCULLY?" he bellowed, crawling wildly to her, scuttling across the floor like a deranged crab, his terror all but choking him. As if in answer, her lashes fluttered open once more, her eyes rolling restlessly beneath their lids as she sought to focus on him. "Wh--what?" she mumbled, unseeing. Fuck this, Mulder thought, touching her cheek, her hair, reassuring her as well as himself. Fuck all of it. "Just try and hang on to me," he grimly instructed as he painstakingly slid his arms beneath her knees and shoulders, and readied himself to stand. Reaching up, she did as directed and grabbed hold of his jacket collar, pulling it taut against the back of his neck. "'kay." Nodding encouragement, he gathered her against him and shakily struggled to gain his feet. But despite his care, the moment he moved, Scully writhed in his embrace, her neck arching, her mouth gaping wide. Seemingly against her will, she screamed, the sound ripping from somewhere deep within, then burrowed against him, her lips closing on his throat, biting down as if she hoped to muffle her cries against his flesh. "I'm sorry," Mulder muttered fervently, his face buried in her hair, oblivious to the nip, his injuries, the stifling heat, to everything but her anguish. "Oh God, Scully . . . I'm sorry." Holding herself perfectly still, Scully said nothing, the bridge of her nose pressed just behind his ear, her breath hot and harsh against his lobe, only a faint shuddering betraying her distress. Stumbling, Mulder staggered drunkenly towards the door, his right ankle stubbornly refusing to take the full measure of their weight, long-forgotten snippets of prayers ringing hollowly inside his head. Dodging falling bits of burning debris, stinging cinder and blinding ash, he pulled up short of the door. It stood just barely ajar, inches separating it from the jamb. Saying a quick, silent apology to the woman in his arms, Mulder angled his body so his shoulder fit through the gap. Pushing back, he wedged himself between the inner door and the screen, then, turning, used his hip to shove them through that final barrier and out into the cool, black night. "We made it, Scully," he murmured as he hobbled down the front stairs, careful not to trip, careful not to fall. Onesteponesteponesteponsteponestep. In reply, Scully whimpered quietly against his skin, the small, soft sound shattering what remained of his heart. "Shhh. . . . it's okay. It's almost over. I swear. This is the easy part now." Limping, Mulder made his way to the middle of the cabin's grassy front yard, his partner clutched tightly in his embrace, anxious to get them both a safe distance away. God, he thought as he tramped past their cars. He would give anything to be able to just pick up his cell phone and call 911, or better still, lay Scully in the back seat of his Taurus and get them to the nearest emergency room on his own. But his cell had become worthless not long after he had begun winding through the Adirondacks, and with whatever had happened to the back of his head, he could barely see to walk, let alone drive. In his condition, getting behind the wheel would be tantamount to suicide. Not to mention murder. No. They would have to wait, wait for help to come to them. Moving in slow motion, he sunk awkwardly to his knees and laid Scully on the ground. Eyes still closed, she moaned as her back touched dirt, and reached out blindly for him, his name slipping softly, helplessly, from between her lips. Grimacing in sympathy, Mulder captured her hand between his, and raised it to his mouth. "I'm here," he assured her quietly as he pressed a kiss to her palm. "I'm here" Almost as if doubting him, her lashes bounced, then lifted, revealing blue eyes befuddled by pain. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" he queried gruffly, bending over her as he released her hand and began tending to her wound. "I killed one of them," she mumbled, her gaze clinging to his. "Good," he retorted harshly as he eased her T-shirt free from her shorts, then popped the button holding the khakis closed. "But there were two," she said urgently, reaching out once more to grab hold of his sleeve and tug on it as if for emphasis. "Two men." Two, huh? he mused, lifting his head to scan the horizon. Yet, he saw nothing but trees, brush, and shadow, the scenery twisted and unfocused, shrouded by night, lit by flame. A landscape painted by Rousseau. If he had been a Surrealist. "He's probably long gone," he murmured, still searching the darkness, wishing he could infuse his voice with more surety. "No," she said, apparently sharing his doubts, her tone hushed and hoarse. "No." Jesus, Scully. For all the times we've argued, I've never been more hopeful you were wrong. "It's okay. If he is still here, I'll be ready for him," he soothed, cradling the corner of her jaw with his palm and stroking his thumb tenderly along her cheek. Eyes yet locked on his, Scully nodded. Mulder smiled in reply. Brave words, asshole. So just how the hell do you propose to 'prepare yourself'? How do you plan on taking out the bad guy when you don't even know for certain he's there? First things first. Sitting upright, he slid his hand into his pocket, took the gun he had rescued, released its safety, and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans. Then, once again checking the perimeter for movement, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and draped it over Scully's naked legs. "I'm going to see if I can stop the bleeding," he murmured, trying one last time to untie the damned gag from around her neck. "Or slow it down, at least." The thick piece of toweling was as clean as anything else he had handy, and they were desperately in need of a bandage. "All right," she breathed, her eyes sliding shut, her hands curling tight, her body tensing, seemingly readying itself for the pain to come. Whether he had somehow loosened the knot during his first attempt, or had instead merely gained better control over his motor functions, this time he succeeded where earlier he had failed, and quickly folded the wrinkled fabric into a lumpy, uneven square. Gently pushing aside Scully's clothes, Mulder leaned down to take a closer look at her wound. The bullet had entered above and to the left of her navel. With both the darkness and the blood obscuring his view, it was difficult to judge the extent of the damage. One thing was for certain, however--the tattered hole still leaked. "I don't know, Scully," he mumbled, his brow furrowed, his stomach roiling. "I can see where you were hit, but I don't see where the bullet came out." "Doesn't matter," she whispered, eyes still closed, her stoic acceptance of what was to come, her seeming willingness to endure yet more agony, disturbing him in ways he would never be able to fully articulate. "Press down." Lips squeezed flat, he nodded, and centering the pad atop the wound, bore down with both hands. Blood seeped from beneath the bandage, hot and sticky, staining his fingers. The moment he applied pressure, Scully's shoulders and knees lifted from the ground, her body contorting into a small, human W. Mewling brokenly, the sound vibrating inside her throat, she clenched her jaw as if refusing to set the moan free, and pounded her fists feebly against the earth in a kind of mute protest against such treatment. "Scully?" Mulder queried fearfully, alarmed by her reaction. "I'm sorry, I--" Hearing her name, she opened her eyes. Dazed, they lit on his for an instant, then drifted to a point just above his right shoulder. Seemingly catching sight of something there, they widened, the fog lifting suddenly from her gaze. Swallowing hard, once, then again, she frantically rasped out, "M-Mulder, . . . behind you." Reacting on instinct and his absolute faith in his partner, Mulder whirled, then rolled, pulling the automatic loose from his jeans as he tumbled. Landing hard on his behind, inches from Scully, he drew the gun level and fired three shots in quick succession, not certain where their enemy was. Just knowing without a doubt that Scully had seen him. He was rewarded for his trust with a low, choked cry of pain and the sound of a body dropping heavily to the ground. Still having trouble with his vision, Mulder squinted from where he lie, trying to make out who his attacker was and whether he had been disarmed. Yet his efforts availed him little. All he could see was a small, crumpled form silhouetted against the burning cabin. He couldn't tell if his attacker had lived or died. He couldn't even discern if the bastard still had his weapon. Rising stiffly to his feet, the agent cautiously approached, his gun held out before him. He hadn't taken more than a step or two before the wounded man stirred. "Who are you?" Mulder demanded, advancing slowly, his eyes panning for the other man's weapon. But he didn't see it. Could barely even see the man himself. "Answer me, you son-of-a-bitch!" Mulder shouted when his query went ignored, his gait hitched as he neared the assassin. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" "What am I doing here?" The question was echoed softly, the utterance thready, yet somehow mocking. Mulder stopped. The other man moved, lifted his head. His arm. His gun. Mulder fired. And the night exploded with sound. Violent. Deafening. Then it fell silent again. As silent as a tomb. "Mulder . . .?" He didn't answer her at first. He couldn't. He could only stare down at the ravaged body at his feet, broken and bleeding, flecks of brain where its left eye should have been. Mulder didn't know how many bullets he had pumped into his attacker. But at least one had struck the other man's face, obliterating his features. The shaken agent couldn't tell what his assailant had once looked like, only that he had been slight, with dark hair and pale skin. Once. When he had been something more than a nameless corpse. "M-Mulder . . . ?" Startled from his grim contemplation, Mulder turned in the direction of Scully's voice. She lie behind him, perhaps ten feet away, wincing as she struggled to sit up, to seemingly try to discover the reason for his reticence. Good one, Mulder. You idiot. Sighing in self-directed disgust, he hurried to her side. "It's okay. He's dead," he murmured, his hand reaching beneath her head to cradle it, to gently lower her once more to the ground. "Lie down. Sssh. . . . lie down." Trembling now, the last vestiges of her energy seemingly channeled into the small, fierce shudders, her eyes swam beneath their lashes, cloudy and unfocused. "Take it easy, Scully. Okay? Help will be here soon." "You okay?" she whispered as he stroked her hair back from her face, as he again pulled away her T-shirt and shorts to see that blood yet seeped from her wound. How could she still be bleeding? How could any one person have that much blood inside them? "I'm fine," he mumbled, biting back panic as he searched for the discarded bit of toweling he had earlier used to help staunch the flow. Shit. The damned bandage was already soaked. Maybe he should use his coat instead. "You s-sure?" she queried softly, oblivious to his concerns, her breath shallow, her voice breaking. "Yeah," he said shortly. Fuck. Not only was it drenched, but the cloth now also had bits of grass, crushed leaves and twigs clinging to it. No way was he going to grind that filth against an open wound. "Thank God," Scully murmured dreamily, trailing her hand lightly up his arm, her fingertips chilling against his skin. "Thank God." Compelled by the faint, distant quality of her voice, Mulder glanced down at her. Scully's skin appeared shockingly pale now, her face almost ghostly in the starlight. Sweat beaded on her brow, her lips were colorless and cracked. Christ. She was literally fading before his eyes, her life force draining away, drop by precious drop, watering the ground beneath her with its plump, red tears. Where the hell were the fire trucks? Where were the ambulances? How could no one have noticed the sky was ablaze? Pulling free from beneath her touch, Mulder grabbed his jacket from Scully's legs. Turning it inside out, he wadded it roughly into a ball and thrust it desperately against her side. She groaned in misery and slid closed her eyes. "Stay with me here, Scully," he harshly implored as he loomed over her, holding the ruined coat in place. "Stay focused." "Trying," she told him breathlessly, blinking hard, her eyes glazed, like a window in winter. "I'm trying." "Not hard enough," he goaded, hoping to spark her anger, her pride, hoping to spark something that would inspire her to fight, to hang on just a little while longer. "Come on, Goddamn it. I need you here with me." "I . . . I'm sorry, Mulder," she mumbled, her head turning listlessly in the grass, moving languidly from side to side. "No, you're not," he swiftly countered, utterly terrified by how much her words sounded like farewell. "I don't want to hear that kind of talk." I don't want to say goodbye. "Don't be mad . . . ," she entreated softly, her gaze finding his, ". . . at me. 'kay? Don't be angry." "I'm not," he whispered hoarsely, his throat clogging with tears. How could she think that? How could she believe for even a second that he was angry with her? "I'm not mad." "I was so stupid, Mulder," she confessed, bravely fighting to keep her eyes on his. "So naive." "No," he told her, shaking his head, unable to say anything more, unable to think past that word. "No." "I told you I wasn't afraid," she murmured, reaching out to graze his jaw with her fingertips, to trace its strong, straight line, then fall away. "'member? Th-that I didn't care what The Smoker might do." "It's okay to be afraid, Scully," he mumbled, wishing he could hold her, that he could pull her into his embrace and comfort them both. But instead he kept his hands where they were, squarely atop her wound. "If it's any consolation, I've spent the past year or so scared shitless." Only she didn't seem to notice his regret, didn't even seem to hear his reassurance. "I lied." Bewilderedly, he frowned and leaned in closer, having to strain now to catch her words. "What do you mean?" "When I said I wasn't afraid . . . I-I meant for me." This was important. Mulder knew this was important. But he had no idea what the fuck she was trying to say. "I don't understand." Scully nodded as if sympathetic to his confusion. Then, laying her hand upon his, its weight slight, her palm cold and clammy, she continued. "I never thought he'd go after you, Mulder." Go after him? She was the one with a bullet in her. "You see . . . ," she began with an almost sheepish little lift of her brows, ". . . I always thought I'd be the one to die." =What=? But before he could voice his query, before his scrambled, aching brain could even wrap itself around the concept, Scully sighed, her eyes drifting shut. Then slowly, as if guided by some phantom force, her hand slipped off his to land softly on the grass, her palm up, her fingers curled. "Scully?!" he cried in horror, bending down to shout her name inches from her face. She was still breathing; he could feel the gentle puffs of air kissing his cheek. But she didn't open her eyes. Not even when she spoke, her words mumbled and slurred. "M-Mulder? Whazzat noise?" At first, Mulder feared Scully was listening to something only she could hear, some fucking heavenly choir of seraphim coming to serenade the faithful home. Then, all at once, he heard it too. Sirens. In the distance, wailing like a band of presumptuous banshees Thank God. Oh, thank God. Help was finally here. And not a blessed moment too soon. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XIV "Words to Live By" (14/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! And what's worse . . . I lied. This chapter isn't going to be NC-17. The next one is. Damned that Mulder and Scully. You plan on having them engage in a little harmless smut, and they decide to have ideas of their own. Characters. Can't write with 'em. Can't write without 'em. :-) On with the story. ************************************************** It was over. Finally. All the lies. The vicious battle for Mulder's very existence. The X-Files. Mulder and her. Their lives, as they had known them, both together and apart. Everything. Done, finished. Kaput. Part of Dana Scully was glad--indescribably glad Mulder had survived, of course--but happy, too, the whole wretched mess was at last out in the open, that the world now knew not only of the peril she and her partner had faced, but also of the deeper relationship that had developed between them months before. While she had long understood the need for subterfuge, it had never come easily to her. She wouldn't miss the pretending, the secrets, the danger she had almost begun to take for granted. Yet even with such small happiness had come a price. An awful, unspeakable price. Mulder hated her now. Hated her for her well-meaning lies, her unwanted protection. He wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't even touch her. These days, he could scarcely stand to look at her. Which was difficult on them both, as for weeks now there hadn't been much else to draw his eye. They were in hiding, Mulder and she, in a safe house on what Scully thought might be the Chesapeake Bay. As they had been moved while she had been well and truly out of it, half-asleep and addled with pain medication, she couldn't be certain of the location. But the coast seemed familiar, and the drive from the capital to this unnamed place had been more of a jaunt than a journey. She had inquired as to their whereabouts soon after arriving, had blearily questioned one of their many minders, their many keepers, as he had overseen her transfer. "Where are we?" she had softly asked from her sickbed. Only they were a close-lipped lot, their protectors, the small army of professionals who guarded this supposed haven with the same steely vigilance with which they had once patrolled outside her hospital room in D.C. For them, actions had always spoken far more eloquently than words, with information given out on a strict need-to-know basis. And despite the dire circumstances surrounding her convalescence, her attendant had seemingly not been at all convinced as to the depth of her need. "Don't worry about that, ma'am," she had politely been told by a man she had come to know simply as Rolph. "We've got it under control." Under control. Ironic . . . She had once believed she knew what that phrase meant. She didn't anymore. She wondered sometimes if she ever would again. Still, even as Scully acknowledged in herself this particular ignorance, she found the very idea to be an anathema. She railed against the notion that through her actions she had become something akin to flotsam, that her life had been turned into nothing more than metaphoric wreckage rolling helplessly atop equally metaphoric waves, floating there until the elements at last drove it under, sinking it without a trace. It had been bad enough when The Smoker had manipulated her into destroying her relationship with Mulder. But matters had only deteriorated since she had been shot. She couldn't remember much after Mulder had killed the Asian. Lying there on the grass as her uncle's cabin went up in flames, she had been half out of her mind with pain. The desire to let go had nearly overwhelmed her resolve, the urge to simply close her eyes and let darkness take her where it would being all but impossible to resist. Yet, she had fought the impulse as best she could, had struggled against it as violently as she would a human foe. She had done everything possible to stay awake and alert, not only because of clinical concerns like shock and coma, but because she had decided if she were indeed going to die, were going to bleed out beneath a star-bright September sky, she was first going to make her peace with Mulder. She was going to apologize, and in so doing, ask for his forgiveness. She was going to seek absolution. And so Scully had confessed, had tried to explain why she had done what she had done. She couldn't remember now what words she had used, what arguments she had made. She couldn't even recall Mulder's reaction to her unburdening. All she could recollect with any clarity was the high, mournful cry of sirens, their song eerie as it echoed through the trees. Salvation, she had absently reflected. If not for her, then at least for Mulder. After that, it was all a mishmash. Sound and movement, dizzying in its noise, its scope, its energy. Hands had pulled and tugged at her clothes, ripping them, probing her wound, swabbing it clean. Oh. Dear God. Pain. Always, always pain. All around her, men and women had yelled instructions, the words garbled and loud, like the roar of a jet leaving its runway, straining towards the atmosphere. Lifting, jostling. Something had been fitted snugly over her mouth and nose. Moments later, air, cool and faintly stale, had poured into her lungs. Without warning, something sharp had been jabbed into her arm, plunged beneath her skin. Then . . . . . . peace. Or some facsimile thereof. With a single prick of a needle, soothing heat had begun flowing slowly and sweetly through her veins. Morphine, she had identified at once. Glorious, glorious morphine. And somewhere, on the edges of all this, his presence as constant as had been her suffering, had stood Mulder. Scully may have lost actual physical contact with her partner soon after help had arrived, but somehow she had still been aware of his nearness. She had dimly heard his voice muttering mindless words of comfort, had sensed his eyes on her, his gaze anxious and unwavering. Pushed past the point of all endurance, she had taken solace in his immediacy and trusting he was there amidst the chaos, keeping watch, had allowed herself at last to surrender. Sighing, she had relaxed into the starched white softness beneath her . . . . . . and had awakened two days later in an upstate New York trauma center. Mulder had been there too when she had opened her eyes, dressed in what had looked to be borrowed pajamas and a thin, grey pin-striped robe. Unshaven, his face lined with fatigue and care, he had been bending over her, his hand outstretched, when her eyelids had fluttered open. "Mulder," she had weakly mumbled, the single word almost instantly depleting her resources. Yet rather than answering her simple greeting, he had instead grimaced, his forehead wrinkling, his jaw clenched like a prizefighter's fist, and remained mute, his arm falling to his side. Scully had wondered at that, even in her muddled state, had pondered why Mulder, a man who could converse for hours on any of a number of arcane topics would be struck dumb at such a time. But her ruminations hadn't lasted long. After only a second or two of wakefulness, she had slipped once more into oblivion. When next she had swum her way back to consciousness, her sleepy gaze had landed on Assistant Director Skinner. The big man had stood beside her bed, his hands hidden in his trench coat pockets, his expression grave. "Agent Scully, good to see you awake," he had murmured, taking a step closer, his voice not without a certain warmth. "Your doctors tell me you're doing well. With any luck, you'll be on your feet in no time." "Hmm," she had hummed, her lashes hanging low, her throat so dry she had feared her words might snag there, like fabric catching on a hangnail. "Where . . . M-Mulder?" "I took the liberty of flying the two of you back to D.C.," Skinner had told her. "After all that's happened, I wanted to be able to keep a close eye on you both." With that, Mulder had limped shakily into view, dressed again in pajamas and robe. Hovering just behind their boss, he had said nothing, choosing instead to simply watch her, his face a study in contrast. Taken at a glance, it would have seemed his features had been arranged into a decidedly neutral cast--his lips relaxed, his brow smooth. Yet even with her drug induced stupor, it hadn't taken Scully long to note the tempest in her partner's eyes. Some strong emotion had turned his gaze stormy, all thunderclaps and lightning strikes and gallon upon gallon of sheeting rain. "I don't want you to worry about anything," Skinner had said, seemingly unaware Hurricane Mulder roiled threateningly only an arm's length away. "All precautions have been taken. You two were admitted here in secret, under assumed names. Your doctors have been hand-picked. I have men stationed outside your rooms, and two more teams monitoring the perimeter." Three teams of two agents each. Six men. Six mortal men, she had mused. Would such a puny force be enough to repel the devil himself? "Your mother has been notified as well," Skinner had continued. "While sparing her certain details, Agent Mulder and I explained that you and he would be going underground for a period of time." Scully had frowned at that bit of news, wishing she had been the one to explain things to her mother, and worried over what the poor woman must be thinking as a result. "What did she say?" "She wasn't happy about it," Skinner had admitted wryly. "About any of it. In the end, however, I think she understood." Scully had nodded, not entirely convinced. "But none of that matters now," Skinner had said, pulling his hand free from his coat to lay it warmly on her arm. "All that's important is for you to get well. Focus on gaining your strength back, Scully. Let us take care of the rest." Exhausted by their brief discussion, she had tried her best to smile for him. "Thank you." Lips lifting in response, Skinner had tightened his grip on her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Her eyes had drifted shut . . . . . . and she had dozed off before either of her two guests had even left her room. In the days that had followed, a similar pattern had emerged. Sleep had taken up the majority of Scully's time, her hours having been measured by naps, her slumber itself divided only by examinations and meals. She had been lucky. The bullet had missed all major organs. Still, with the blood loss she had suffered and the surgery to remove the slug, simply watching television had been enough to tire her. The tedium of it all would have no doubt irked her if she had possessed sufficient energy for annoyance. She had had no way of knowing if Mulder had been similarly engaged, if he had been snoozing away the afternoons or had instead been wearing out the buttons on his TV's remote control. Her partner's room may have been right next door. Yet Scully had seen more of her good friend, Rolph, than she had of Mulder. At first, she had tried to tell herself it was simply happenstance, nothing more than rotten timing which had kept Mulder from her side. Okay. So, he hadn't been there when she had awoke. No big deal. He's probably in his own bed right now, catching a few z's. What did she expect--that he would forego sleep, food, and comfort just for the privilege of watching her drool? After all, he too had been injured. He needed his rest just as badly as she. And surely his pillow was more appealing for that sort of thing than her bedside. As days had passed, Scully had clung stubbornly to that belief, had assured herself Mulder's absence was in no way intentional. But as time had dragged on, and her partner had remained as elusive as a yeti, her rationalizations had grown increasingly less likely. Finally, one Tuesday afternoon, slightly more than a week into their hospital stay, the illusion had shattered completely. Unannounced, Mulder had shuffled past the guard and into her room, his shoulders bowed, his jaw peppered with stubble, his attire upgraded to black sweatpants and a wine-colored Henley. Plopping himself down in the chair to her right, he had combed his hands roughly through his hair, then clasped them before him. Sitting there, hunched forward so that his elbows were balanced on his knees, he had looked at her for a moment, his eyes shadowed, before dropping his gaze to the floor. "Tell me," he had demanded hoarsely. Scully didn't even pretend to misunderstand him. Propped against the pillows, she had quietly outlined for him her dealings with The Smoker. Starting with the night their nemesis had been waiting for her at her apartment, she had spared neither her partner nor herself, at last confiding every threat, every lie, every error in judgment. When she had finished, the effort taxing her more than she had cared to admit, Mulder had pushed slowly to his feet. His arms folded now across his chest, he had regarded her solemnly, chewing on the corner of his mouth for a second or two before murmuring, "Thank you." Then he had turned to go. "Mulder," she had softly called, stopping him before he could escape. "What?" Mulder had stood in profile, framed in the doorway, his hand braced against the jamb, his posture weary. His pose had so reminded Scully of that day in their office, of the hellish conversation that had resulted in her walking out, abandoning both the X-Files and him, her words had dissolved before she could utter them. Swallowing hard, she had merely shook her head, dismissing him. Hesitating just one breath more, he had nodded, then continued on his way. Leaving her alone. As she was to this day. Or as alone as anyone could be sharing a cozy beach house with not only Mulder, but with two more agents a floor below. Truth be told, Scully rather liked their hideaway. It wasn't anything fancy, its decor more summer cottage than luxury condo. The furniture was mismatched, the pieces comfortable, yet faded and worn. The carpeting was indoor-outdoor, gray with flecks of green and black. A bookcase full of paperbacks, their spines lined and cracked, took up one wall while an entertainment center packed with TV, VCR, and an impressive array of videotapes loomed opposite the sofa. A small kitchen and dining area ran along the back of the apartment, with a hallway off to the right leading to the sleeping chambers and bath. The entrance to the unit connected via an enclosed stairwell to a similar residence downstairs. In deference to their privacy, the door had been kept locked since they had arrived. Even so, she had faith that one pair of fibbies or another were always just a floor away, ready to break down that locked door, if necessary, should danger threaten. Whether it was because the place reminded her of childhood vacations with her family, or because it was wired with an alarm system sophisticated enough to please even the Lone Gunmen, Scully felt safe there. That security especially welcome after the past couple of months. Sighing at the thought, she crossed to the kitchen to begin cleaning up the dishes from lunch, her loose-fitting black knit pants and over-sized flannel shirt as comfortable as pajamas. Having eaten alone, she hadn't much to set to rights. While she had munched on a sandwich, Mulder had cloistered himself away in his room to ride the exercise bike. Again. She could hear him at it still, the soft whir of the stationary wheels vaguely soothing. Despite the problems they currently shared between them, she sympathized with her partner's restlessness. She knew how difficult it was for him to be cooped up in any fashion. With his injuries having been far less serious than hers, she had thought she had sensed him growing antsy before they had even left the hospital. Now, weeks later, he was beginning to remind her of a hamster deprived of his wheel. The man had way too much energy for his own good. And hers. It was unsettling. To live so intimately with a man that . . . vital. Especially when he was doing all within his power to pretend she wasn't even there. While she seemingly couldn't move without running into him, breathe without inhaling his scent. Damn him. In the beginning, it had been easier to overlook her partner's disregard, as she had still been spending most of the day in bed. Before long, however, Scully had opted to make her way into the living room, bored with all the shut-eye, yearning instead for some sort of distraction. And the biggest one of all had been sprawled on the sagging plaid couch, leafing through the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. Mulder looked good, she had realized with a start. No bandages or bruises. Not anymore. He had still seemed a trifle thin in his sweats and T-shirt. But that would be easy enough to correct once they got home. . . . If they got home. "Should you be out of bed?" he had murmured, clearly questioning the wisdom of her decision, his eyes sweeping over her as if searching for evidence to substantiate his misgivings. "I don't see why not," she had responded, determined to try and keep the conversation friendly. "I think I've gotten enough sleep the past few weeks." Mulder had gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a time before querying, "So exactly how much sleep does it take to heal a bullet wound?" She had stiffened at his surly tone. "Sleep doesn't heal a bullet wound, Mulder. Time does." "Well, we've both got plenty of that," he had retorted before returning his attention to an article on college football. Okay. So, he was right. But did he have to be such a bastard about it? Mulder must have felt it too, must have realized he had been unnecessarily harsh. Because before he had done much more than glance at the current Big Ten standings, he had sighed and impatiently tossed the periodical aside. Lifting his gaze once more to hers, he had muttered, "Oh for God's sake, Scully. Sit down before you fall down." Then, pressing swiftly to his feet, he had taken hold of her arms and guided her gently onto the sofa. "Here," he had said once she was seated and he had handed her the remote. "Why don't you watch some TV or something? I think I'm going to go in and lie down for awhile." "This place isn't all that big, Mulder," she had told him as he had turned to walk away, her words clipped, her feelings hurt. "You're not going to be able to hide from me forever." "I'm not hiding," he had replied, stopping to look back at her, his face wiped clean of all expression. "Bullshit," she had countered, not quite as successful in masking her emotion. Mulder had held her gaze for a moment more before giving her a quick little nod and mumbling, "Yeah. I know the feeling." With that, he had surrendered the use of the living room to her for the rest of the evening. Yet, as Scully had huddled on the couch, indifferently channel-surfing, her victory had felt more like annihilation. She had known Mulder was angry with her, had realized he no doubt felt betrayed by her lies, but she had clearly underestimated the depth of his resentment. She had thought perhaps as time had passed and they had each healed their various physical and emotional wounds, matters between them would somehow work themselves out. Ha. She should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Not with anything involving Mulder and her. That night, as she had stared blindly at the television, she had tried to come up with a solution to her dilemma, had attempted to form some sort of plan for winning back Mulder's trust. Yet, even as she had sat there, gloomily considering her options, she had felt daunted by her task. Depressingly so. To Mulder, trust was everything. He valued it as some men did their reputation, hoarding it like gold, dispensing it with the generosity of a miser. Scully could count on one hand the number of people with whom her partner shared this most precious commodity. Once, her name would have topped the list. Now, she couldn't be sure where she stood. She wished those doubts didn't devastate her as much they did, that all the unanswered questions didn't so thoroughly undermine her confidence, make her second-guess whether Mulder and she ought to even try to find their way back to each other. Because if she was surprised by how well Mulder had been managing to avoid her while they had been housed under one roof, she felt certain his skill would utterly dazzle her when they were released back into the world. And it looked as if perhaps that day might not be that far off, she acknowledged to herself as she wiped down the counter and put away the last of the silverware. Skinner had contacted them to say he would be stopping by later that afternoon. He had something he wanted to discuss. Although she hadn't any proof upon which to base her assumption, Scully had a feeling she knew what that *something* might be. The Assistant Director wanted to talk about their futures. She would bet her life on it. Suspecting what she did, she knew just as strongly that she couldn't allow Mulder to shut her out any longer, she couldn't be patient and hope her proximity alone might be enough to wear him down. She would have to force the issue. She would have to confront him. Almost as if a silent bell had gone off, signaling the start of a match, Mulder chose that moment to enter the kitchen, stepping onto the checkerboard linoleum the same way he might into a ring. Clad in his standard gray sweats and a white T-shirt, his color was high from his exercise, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright. Glancing in her direction, he crossed to the refrigerator. "Hey," he murmured in hello. Scully leaned back against the cupboards, her arms folded across her breast, and watched Mulder duck his head to peer inside the Amana, admiring the way the seat of his pants clung to his back side. While, at the same time, she tried to muster enough courage to throw the first punch. "Skinner said he'd be by," she said softly at last. "Said he'd leave the office early and be here before nightfall." Mulder straightened, a bottle of sports drink in his hand, and pushed the door shut after him. "You don't suppose I could call and ask him to pick up some ribs, do you? I'm having cravings." "Do you have any idea why he's coming out here?" she asked, ignoring his query. "He missed my sparkling personality?" Mulder quipped as he reached up to grab a tumbler from the cabinet above, his eyes pointedly avoiding hers. "I think he wants to talk about how we can get our lives back," she murmured, willing him to look at her. As if responding to her mute plea, Mulder set down both the glass and the bottle, and directed his gaze her way. Less than a foot of space separated them. "Do you want it back?" he asked, his expression guarded, his voice pitched low. "Your life, I mean." "The way it was before?" she queried, turning to regard him more fully, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other planted on her hip. "No." He studied her for a moment, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed, before ruefully shaking his head and again facing the counter. His attention now focused on twisting open the container before him and filling his glass, he mumbled, "I'm not surprised." "You shouldn't be," she agreed, taking a step towards him, her stocking feet padding lightly against the tile. "Why should I want things the way they were when they can be so much better?" Backing away as he replaced the cap on the bottle, Mulder all but sneered at her in disbelief. "'Better'? You call this 'better', Scully?" "I guess that depends on what you compare it to," she calmly replied, taking still another step in his direction, not about to let him retreat. "At least since we've been here I haven't had to worry about waking up in the morning and finding you dead." "Except maybe from boredom," he muttered petulantly. "I'm sorry I haven't been more entertaining, Mulder," Scully muttered back, her patience fast waning. "No more sorry than I," he grimly assured her, turning away. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded. "Nothing," he said before guzzling the acid yellow beverage he had poured, then depositing the now empty glass in the sink. Picking up the bottle, he crossed to the refrigerator to put it away. "Forget about it. I'm going to take a shower." "I can't!" she insisted, deliberately stepping into his path, her hand outstretched to avert a collision. It was a near thing. Her fingertips just barely grazed his chest. "I can't 'forget about it'. Ever since that night at the cabin, I have been trying to 'forget' every snub, every silence, every time you leave a room simply because I'm there too. Well, I'm sorry, Mulder, but I can't do it. I won't do it. Not anymore. Like it or not, you are going to have to deal with me." "Deal with you?" he echoed warily. "Yes," Scully said. Shoulders drooping, Mulder sadly shook his head. "Scully, I don't think I know how to anymore." It was the sorrow in his voice that undid her, the sorrow and the resignation that went along with it. Apparently, she had been mistaken. Mulder wasn't angry with her. Not just then. He had simply given up. The notion terrified her. "It's not that hard," she said with a self-conscious little shrug, her arms spread wide, her fear conspiring to make the limbs tremble just a bit. "We're the same people we've always been. Just talk to me. Stop running away." Lips pressed flat, Mulder pushed his fingers distractedly through his hair. "What do you want me say?" "I don't know," she admitted quietly. "I don't know what I want you to say. I mean . . . it's not like I have this scripted. It's just . . . I'm just so tired of you acting as if I don't exist, Mulder." He didn't deny her claims, didn't interrupt to try and defend himself. Heartened, Scully continued, her voice gaining strength the longer she spoke. "I'm sure it must difficult for you to understand the decisions I made," she said, her gaze aimed at his collarbone, her hands hanging at her sides. "I know I've hurt you, that because of my actions you were put in danger and other people's lives were lost." With great difficulty, she lifted her eyes to his, trying to ignore the moisture she could feel gathering beneath her lashes. Her partner stared back at her, his own eyes the color of leaves at dusk. "I want you to know, Mulder, how sorry I am, how much I wish I could take back all the pain I've caused you." Scully could feel the back of her throat beginning to seal with tears, knew that if she didn't finish her apology soon, she wouldn't be finishing it at all. But she wanted to do this right. She didn't know if she would get the opportunity again, didn't trust she would have Mulder all to herself again anytime soon. So, she didn't rush, didn't edit. Scully said it all. And she told the truth. "I realize my mistakes and I would undo them if I could," she said, her words measured and firm, only the edges damp. "But the bottom line is that . . . despite everything . . . you're alive. That's all that really matters to me. And if the price for that is losing you . . . then I'm prepared to pay it." They looked at each other for what felt to Scully like the better part of forever, bodies close, gazes locked. Finally, Mulder pulled away and wandered past her towards the living room, his palm scrubbing over the bottom half of his face as he walked. Her tears at last overflowing down her pale cheeks, she turned to watch him, absently swiping at the drops with the back of her hand. "You think that's what all this is about?" At first she didn't realize the question had come from Mulder, that it had, in fact, been spoken aloud. She was so wrapped up in her own misery it took a minute for her to make sense of his query, the process feeling to her muddled mind much like actual translation. "What?" she asked dumbly as she sought to regain her footing. He rounded to face her, his expression incredulous. "You think I'm angry because someone bounced a bullet off my head?" Surprised both by Mulder's countenance and his turn of phrase, Scully shrugged. "That has been known to piss people off." "Yeah? Well, I got news for you," Mulder said as he crossed back towards her, his stride militant. "What I'm pissed about has nothing to do with what happened to me." She frowned at that. "What has it got to do with then?" "You," he said succinctly, reaching out to wrap his fingers tightly around her upper arms. Drawing her near, he glared down into her upturned face. "For some reason, you've decided that being with me is worth dying for." "What--?" she began, as lost as an abandoned mitten. "And I'm here to tell you, Scully--nobody is that good in bed." * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XV "Words to Live By" (15/17) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Hello. How nice to see all of you again. Children, hide your eyes. The rest of you, read on. ************************************************** "I don't understand. What are you talking about?" murmured the petite red-haired woman in his grasp. What am I talking about? Fox Mulder repeated inside his head, his hands locked like manacles around Dana Scully's arms. What the fuck =am= I talking about? He wasn't even sure himself sometimes. Not anymore. Not when everything he knew, everything in which he placed confidence seemed to be twisted and tangled, knotted like a willful telephone cord. First he had trusted, without question or doubt, in Scully's love. Then she had left him. Only, soon after, he had discovered she had been blackmailed into her abandonment. So everything would have been all right, except . . . She had been shot. And when she had laid there, wounded, blood all but gushing from the hole in her side, she had taken it into her head to apologize for what she had done. To assure him she would never have succumbed to The Smoker's demands if it hadn't been that his attack had caught her unawares. "I never thought he'd go after you, Mulder," she had whispered, lying small and still upon the cold ground, her eyes as dark and as wide as the inky sky above. "You see . . . I always thought I'd be the one to die." Shit. "I am talking about what you said to me that night at the cabin," Mulder answered at last, growling the words into Scully's face, noting with dismay the tear tracks marking her cheeks, but refusing to allow himself to be swayed by them. "I'm talking about a certain inclination you seem to have towards martyrdom." She scowled at that, at his harsh judgment upon her character. Yet despite his explanation, her confusion seemingly remained. "You have me at a disadvantage, Mulder. You appear to be a whole lot clearer on what was said that night than I am." "Are you telling me you didn't mean what you said?" "I'm telling you I don't remember." Flattening his mouth into a hard, narrow line, Mulder released his hold on his partner and backed away. Turning from her, he started pacing, his fingers digging furrows in his hair. "All right then, Scully, let me remind you." Treading restlessly across the thin, gray carpet, he stole a look at the woman he loved, glanced in her direction to see how she was taking his ill-tempered little rant. Well, one thing was for certain. She wasn't particularly impressed. Her arms folded across her chest, Scully stood watching him, freckles dusting her nose and cheeks like cinnamon, her eyes, banked blue flames. The clothes Skinner had found for her from God-only-knew-where swam on her, swallowing her tiny frame in their excess. Her posture was such that Mulder thought she might still be favoring her left side. No surprise there. Not to him. Not with the damage that son-of-a-bitch had done . . . Oh God. He had never been so scared in his entire life. When he had knelt beside her, helpless, with nothing but his bare hands with which to try and fend off her death. "That night," he began, swallowing hard against the memories, "when we were waiting for help, you said something to me. Something I'd never thought I'd hear you say." "What?" she asked quietly, her brow wrinkled with a frown. Mulder stopped his aimless crisscrossing to pin her with a stare. "You told me that when you'd decided to act upon what you'd learned from Riggs, . . . when you came to my apartment that night, you did so fully expecting that a relationship with me would get you killed." At first, Scully said nothing. Her eyes grew large, her mouth opened, then shut once more. Finally, she shook her head and murmured slowly, "I can't . . . Mulder, I don't remember saying that." "Do you deny it?" he demanded. "Do you deny saying it?" "No," she calmly replied. "I believe you." "Then it was the truth," he said, his hands on his hips, his stance wide. "You meant what you said." "I think it's a question of interpretation--" "Don't try and turn this into a discussion of semantics, Scully!" he roared as he barreled back towards her. "We're talking about your life here, not some dry, intellectual debate." "That's right," she said when he lurched to a stop not a foot from where she stood. "=My= life. My choice. My decision." Scully looked up at him, the fire in her eyes crackling to life, his own temper its tinder. "I've told you before, Mulder. I knew the risk I was taking entering into a relationship with you." "And you found the idea of impending death a turn-on?" he muttered, his voice as ugly as his question. "No," she insisted angrily. "No, of course not. Despite what you apparently believe me capable of, I have never had any intention of allowing myself to become a victim of this relationship." Hearing her passionate disavowal, it took everything Mulder had to keep from wincing in guilt. Atta boy. The woman takes a bullet trying to save your sorry ass, and you belittle her for it. Oh yeah. He was really something. "But I won't pretend I wasn't aware there might be danger involved," Scully admitted, continuing on ignorant of his musings. "You knew that. We talked about it." "We talked about the danger to =both= of us," he said, gesturing first to himself, then to her. "Not just you." "Mulder . . . ," she murmured tiredly, her eyes dipping away. "My God, Scully--don't you realize how =twisted= that is?" he exclaimed, ducking his head to try and reclaim her gaze. "How wrong it is for you to consider me worth a bullet or a bomb. How am I supposed to feel good about something like that? How am I supposed to be with you, knowing you yourself view me as a likely cause of your death? Christ. I can't live with that. I don't even know what to say to you anymore." Her lips pursed, Scully looked up at him through her lashes. "This is what you've been so upset about?" Mulder chuckled mirthlessly. "Can you blame me?" For a time, Scully remained mute. Then, after tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, she shook her head. "No. I guess not." Mulder nodded, then dropped his eyes, wishing he felt better about his partner's easy acquiescence. "But I don't think you can blame me either." The words were spoken quietly, with little apology. "What?" he queried, his gaze drawn upwards to light on hers. Scully stood, watching him, her expression grave. Somehow, some way, they had moved still closer together. If he were to open his arms, he could easily enfold her in his embrace. "You can't blame me for telling you the truth," she said, so near now her hair rustled beneath his chin, stirred with every breath he took. "I've apologized for lying, Mulder, but I won't apologize for that." "I'm not asking you to," he mumbled, confused by the turn their conversation had taken, distracted by the blueness of her eyes, the lush fullness of her mouth. When had he last kissed her? Jesus. He couldn't remember that far back. "We both know that in the eyes of our enemies, I've never been much more than an afterthought," she murmured, unknowing of his preoccupation. "A sidekick. Nothing more." "Not to me," Mulder told her. "I know," Scully said softly. "I know that. And that's why it was okay." He nodded, but said nothing. "Besides, it's not like I especially want their attention," she said, her brow arching with a kind of wry humor. "Ego notwithstanding, I've been quite happy existing outside of that particular limelight." Mulder smiled. She had a point. There was something to be said for living in comfortable obscurity. Scully looked at him for a beat or two, thoughtfully studying his expression before glancing away, her hand rubbing wearily over the back of her neck. "But being 'unimportant' can also be thought of as being 'expendable'," she said with a small shrug, her voice, matter- of-fact. "I think we're both aware of that too. And although I can't be sure, I imagine that's what prompted me to say what I did to you at the cabin. Even with all that's happened, I am still only valuable to The Smoker and his associates in how I relate to you." Mulder bowed his head once more, pretending fascination with his newly acquired cross-trainers. Yet, in reality, unable at that moment to meet Dana Scully's eyes. "But you know something, Mulder? Seems to me your price on the open market has plummeted over the past few weeks as well." Again bringing his gaze level, Mulder was surprised to see Scully smiling at him, a degree of mischief contained in the gentle curving of her lips. "What was that?" he mumbled, only just managing to keep from reaching out and tracing the shape of those lips with his fingertip. "While I'll be the first to admit The Smoker is not to be trusted, I believe he was honest in one thing," Scully murmured ruefully. "I think he was telling me the truth when he said you've become too great an obstacle, that it's gotten to the point where he can no longer ignore your work and its impact on his." "=Our= work," Mulder corrected quietly. "Our work," she echoed just as softly, her smile ratcheting up a notch in brilliance. He just basked in the glow. "And because of that, Agent Mulder, it would appear you've become expendable too." "How do you mean?" "Near as I can figure, The Smoker's original plan was to kill me and pin the murder on you," she said, her tone betraying no emotion. "He wanted us out of the way and the X-Files closed for good." "You think he wanted to make it look as if I'd snapped when you left?" "It makes sense. Just killing us wouldn't have been enough; other agents would have taken our places. But if he had managed to discredit us--to make the X-Files seem like nothing more than the vanity project of a madman and his lover, chances are he would have succeeded in having the division shut down entirely." "And his bugging your apartment . . . ?" "Proof, as he so succinctly put it. Of our relationship, and my bringing it to an end." His stomach souring at the idea, Mulder reluctantly nodded. "So you think my place is bugged too? And the office?" "I'd count on it," she said. "The Smoker wouldn't have wanted to miss anything." "Like the conversation we had when you turned in your resignation?" he dryly queried. "Lots of material there," Scully concurred, her eyes avoiding his. "Don't remind me," Mulder muttered darkly. That coaxed another smile out of her, this one considerably less dazzling than the one preceding it. "But the bottom line is this," Scully continued, her gaze still trained away, "when The Smoker's original plan failed and it seemed as if it were no longer feasible for you to be framed for my death, his would-be assassin had no hesitation about deviating from his orders." Mulder wished to God Scully would stop talking so casually about her near death. It was giving him the willies. "Had things worked out to his satisfaction, you and I would both have lost our lives in the fire," she murmured, bringing her argument to a close. Tired suddenly, exhausted in a way that pointed towards emotional exertion rather than physical, Mulder turned and began drifting towards the couch, its plaid bulk all at once inviting. "So, what's it all mean, Scully?" he queried as he circled around the sofa and plopped himself down on its bowed middle. "Where do we go from here?" "I think that's up to you." Mulder craned his neck to look at his partner, twisted in his seat to catch a glimpse of her face. Scully looked back at him, her expression composed, her eyes intent, the muscle at the corner of her jaw clenching and unclenching. As if she were trying to physically curb the desire to say more. "What do you mean by that?" he asked cautiously. She lifted her brows, then glanced down and away, first at the floor, then at her hands. They peeked out from beneath her rolled up cuffs, as pale and seemingly delicate as porcelain. "You know that talk we had in the office, Mulder? The day I was packing up?" He licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Yeah?" "I said a lot of things I didn't mean. A lot of things to hurt you, to drive you away." He nodded, wanting to encourage her. If not this particular topic of conversation. "Yet, at the heart of it all was one fundamental truth." Mulder felt his own heart plummet in his chest, ripping free from the network of veins anchoring it, to drop inside him like a stone. "As long as we're working on the X-Files, we're going to be at risk. That's nothing new, and it's certainly not profound. But it's also something we can't avoid." True enough. They had definitely been over that ground before. "I don't think either of us is crazy about the situation," Scully said as she began crossing towards him, her stocking feet mute against the carpet. "I know I'm not. But, like you, my choices are rather limited. If I want you, I have to accept that our enemies might try and harm you because of it." "Or you," he muttered stubbornly, looking up at her when she came to stand before him. Scully smiled down at him sadly. "The other is harder. I found that out pretty quickly. It's one thing to take responsibility for myself and my own well-being. But the thought that you might be made to suffer because of me or something I've done . . . " She trailed off then, and pressed her lips together as if to once more hold back unwanted sentiment. Reaching out, she skimmed her fingers through his hair, gently combing the unruly strands from his forehead. "It was awful. The fear, the guilt. The sense I had that it might as well have been me who had hurt you, who had put you in that hospital bed. Sighing, Scully's hand stilled upon his head. "But then, you knew that, didn't you, Mulder? You knew what that felt like, what a burden it could be." Mulder closed his eyes for an instant, choosing to concentrate only on the warm weight of her palm pressing against his scalp, and not on the emotions her simple query evoked. "Yes." "So now I guess the question remains, 'Is it worth it?' To you, I mean." Lifting his lashes, Mulder looked up at her. "Is what worth it?" Scully's hand slid away to hang heavy at her side, her sleeves covering all but the very tips of her fingers. "Me." His eyes grew wide with dismay. "You think I don't want you?" She shrugged with what appeared to him to be studied nonchalance. "I'm not so worried about me as I am the baggage I bring with me." Confused, he shook his head. "What baggage?" "The stuff you told me just a little while ago you can't live with." Brows raised, Mulder cocked his head. "I want to make sure I'm following you here, Scully. So why don't you spell it out for me. Exactly what stuff would that be?" She sighed again, her eyes focused somewhere around his knees. "Just the usual, Mulder. Nothing too exotic." Scully looked up then, stared him right in the eye. Conviction shone in her gaze, an almost fierce resolution. But a kind of trepidation flickered there as well, a fear Mulder couldn't ever remember seeing before. Not in her. "I love you," she told him quietly. "More than anything. More than my life." Like some dreadful line of Hallmark verse, his heart seemed to have suddenly solved the mystery of flight. Rushing upwards from the pit of his stomach, it soared until it could go no further, lodging uncomfortably in his throat. "Scully--," he tried, surprised to find he could speak around the obstruction. "I want to be with you," she said, cutting him off, her words husky with emotion. "To work beside you. To share your bed." Oh Christ. His eyes were watering. If he didn't watch it, he'd soon be blubbering like a baby. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen," Scully continued, reaching out to trail her fingertips lightly across his brow. It felt wonderful, cool and soothing. Again, Mulder murmured inside his head. Again, please. "And if anyone--The Smoker, Skinner, or some still unknown someone --threatens you or what we have, I will oppose them." I know that, Scully, he silently assured her, losing himself in the calm, smooth cadence of her voice, in the liquid midnight of her eyes. I do. You've always been my champion. "To get to you, they will have to go through me," she said, almost as if she were echoing his musings, her hand skating down the side of his face until she cradled the corner of his jaw in her palm. Stroking his cheek with her thumb, the motion slow and tender, she leaned down to query softly, "Can you honestly tell me it's any different for you?" Mulder swallowed hard. Once, then again, trying to force his heart back where it belonged. So he could speak. "No," he whispered hoarsely, the single word all he could muster. Scully smiled at him, her expression wistful, his face still nestled in her hand. "So what do we do, Mulder? It's up to you. The best assurance I can offer you is that The Smoker now seems just as likely to try and kill you as he does me. She seemed to find this humorous, and arched her brow in bemusement even as her smile faded. "I know that's not much, but it's something." Leave it to Scully to find hope in both their lives being jeopardized, Mulder thought with rueful admiration. "So what do you want to do?" Saying nothing at first, Mulder took her hand from his cheek and pressed his lips to its center, his eyes shut tight. Then, changing his grip, he grabbed hold of her wrist and tugged gently on her arm. "Come here." Lowering herself carefully, Scully sat beside him, one leg tucked beneath the other. The minute she was settled, he reached for her. Weaving his fingers through her hair like ribbons, Mulder pulled her to him, carefully not to move too quickly or too far, mindful of her injury. Bringing her face to his, his hands bracketed on either side, he kissed her, softly, his mouth lingering. Her lips met his and clung, warm and welcoming, as sumptuous as velvet, as heady as champagne. After all too short a time, he reluctantly eased away to look at her. Scully's cheeks were flushed, her mouth damp, her eyes closed. For just a second longer, her lashes remained lowered. Then, slowly, lazily, they drifted open, revealing a decidedly slumberous gaze. Bedroom eyes. "That was nice," she murmured, her throaty alto feeling to Mulder as if it were reverberating against his very groin. "Yeah . . . well, you asked me what I wanted to do," he mumbled in reply, his fingers clenching in her hair, the cool strands sifting between them like watered silk. "So, was that supposed to be a fairy-tale kind of kiss?" Scully queried, her hands closing over his wrists as if to hold him to her. "You mean of the princess and frog variety?" he queried back. She smiled. "Well, I don't know about that. I'm not exactly what you'd call princess material, and green has never been your color." Note to self: ditch any and all leftover St. Patrick's Day garb. "No," she said quietly, her thumb tracing a leisurely path across his knuckles. "What I mean is, . . . you know how at the end of most children's stories, the hero and heroine kiss and everything is suddenly back the way it should be--the kingdom is restored, the villain is carted off to the dungeon . . . " "And they all live happily ever after?" Mulder murmured, gently releasing her face from his grasp. Scully shrugged almost sheepishly, her brows lifting in tandem. He hesitated for a moment, unsure how best to respond. Finally, he covered her hands with his, curled his fingers round hers and held on tight. "I can't promise you 'ever after', Scully," he said, shaking his head in remorse. "I can't even promise you tomorrow. Not anymore. All I have to give you is right here, right now." She sat, watching him, her eyes luminous and large. "But I can tell you this--regardless of how much time we have together, how many more days and nights . . . this is it for me," he told her solemnly. "This . . . you and I . . . this is for life." Scully looked at him for a moment or two more, her gaze searching, her breath shallow and quick. Then, as if coming to some sort of conclusion, she nodded, her study of his features continuing still. "For life," she softly pledged. And saying nothing else, she stretched up to kiss him, one hand hooking around the back of his head to draw him close, the other grabbing hold of his T-shirt as if for balance. Mouth open, hot and yearning, Scully pressed her lips to his. Sliding and releasing. Angling, first one way, then another. Moving over his. Soft, so soft. And sweet, like the most sinfully rich dessert imaginably. Caramel and fudge and dollop upon dollop of freshly whipped cream. Falling back against the sofa cushions, Mulder pulled his partner with him, his hands on her shoulders, in her hair, towing her along until she somehow knelt over him, her arms twined around his neck, her breasts brushing unfettered against his chest. "No more shutting me out, Mulder," Scully muttered against his mouth, pulling away only just far enough to voice the words. "No," he agreed before capturing her lower lip between both of his and tugging on it gently. "No more." "I thought you were mad at me," she whispered between kisses, stringing them like pearls along his jaw line. "Angry at what I had done." "I was angry," he admitted breathlessly, nuzzling the side of her face with his nose. Angry at the risks you took, the danger you courted. "And now?" "Now I'm getting over it," he mumbled, sealing her lips with his and plunging his tongue inside. Greeting him in a similar fashion, Scully softly moaned, the sound echoing oddly through them both. Her hand cupping his cheek, she pressed and pulled at his lips with hers, varying the angle and force, her tongue sliding along his, flicking and stroking hotly. Reveling in her response, Mulder slowly mapped the interior of her mouth, exploring its shape and depth, carefully and thoroughly, as if he thought never to leave. His breath harsh, his pulse quickening, he ran his hands down the graceful slope of her back, cupped her bottom in his palms. Squeezed, released. And repeated. Several times. Apparently approving of his actions, Scully's kiss grew wilder, more aggressive. She nipped at his lips, sucked on them, on his tongue, all the while making small frantic noises in the back of her throat, the low, faint cries sending shivers down his spine. His groin growing heavy and hard, needy with desire, Mulder stole a hand beneath her shirt. For a moment, he merely stroked her heated skin, petted the downy valley at her waist. But before long, such innocent caresses weren't enough. Following her body's natural curve, he slid his hand upwards towards her breast. Soon finding what he sought, he held it in his grasp, fingers relaxed, his thumb circling round and round the tender peak, coaxing its center to harden. Bemused, he felt Scully become distracted by his touch, mesmerized by it. Almost as if against her will, her kisses slowed, her hand fell away from his face to land heavily on his chest, fingers lax. Encouraged by her reaction, Mulder decided to take matters a step further. Grasping her now taut nipple between his forefinger and thumb, he rolled it, twisting gently, then tugged on the nubbin, stretching the sensitive bit of flesh with care. Shuddering atop him, Scully gasped at the unexpected pull, and turned, one shoulder in front of the other, as if hoping to somehow heighten the sensations assailing her. However, the instant she moved past a certain point, she grimaced and froze, sucking in a quick, painful breath. "What?" Mulder mumbled worriedly, instantly slipping his hand free from her clothes. "What's wrong? What happened?" "Nothing," she murmured with a measure of chagrin, wrinkling her nose as she gingerly worked out the kinks. "I just twisted funny. It pulled on the wound. That's all." Feeling like the worst kind of masher, Mulder smoothed his hands over her hair in apology, sweeping the rumpled strands away from her face. "That's *all*?" he echoed dryly. "I'd say that's enough." Scully eyed him speculatively, her cheeks blushed pink with arousal, her lips swollen and red. Keeping him fixed with her gaze, she reached down between them. Her aim unerring, her palm landed heavily on his thickened shaft. Unthinkingly, his hips lifted to push against the soft weight, to seek greater pressure, greater heat. Scully only smiled. "Really, Mulder?" she queried huskily, her brow doing its signature bend and stretch. "Enough, you say?" "Scully . . . just give me a minute, okay?" Mulder entreated, vaguely embarrassed by the situation, by his lack of control in more ways than one. "Give me a minute to get myself together here, and then we can take a step back, take it slower . . . cuddle or something." "Cuddle?" Scully parroted back in disbelief. "Or something," he mumbled stubbornly. "Gee, Mulder. And maybe after that we can maybe go to the soda shop for a malted," she muttered from his lap. "You're mocking me," he muttered back, glowering at her. "Yes," she agreed, her expression utterly deadpan. "Yes, I am." "I don't want to hurt you," he said reasonably, cutting to the heart of her discontent. "You won't," she assured him. Unconvinced, he shook his head. Taking up the challenge, Scully slipped carefully from the sofa to stand before him, bracing herself as necessary against his knees. "As long as I don't make an sudden movements from side to side, I'm fine," she told him, her fingers finding the tiny buttons on her checkered shirt and slipping them free one by one until the garment hung open from her shoulders, exposing a swath of pale, smooth skin. And the corner of her bandage. "That's not going to work," Mulder told her, his arms folded disapprovingly across his chest, the low, rough quality of his voice belying his words. Scully cocked her head as if in consideration. "You sure? What about . . . ?" Hooking her thumbs inside the waistband of her pants, she pushed them and the panties beneath, past her hips to the floor. The baggy slacks dropped easily away. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she stepped free of them, garbed now only in loosely flowing flannel and her floppy rag socks. Mulder could see her slim, strong legs, the twin inner curves of her breasts, her navel's shadowed dimple, the nest of auburn curls shielding her sex . . . Oh God. He could smell her, like an animal scenting its mate half a forest away. "What about this, Mulder?" she queried guilelessly after he had stared at her slack-jawed for a century or two. "That just might do it," he admitted as he shifted restlessly in his seat. Smiling softly at his discomfiture, Scully stepped closer to him, her shirt playing peek-a-boo as she neared. "I'll be careful, Mulder," she told him as she bent down to try and help him with his sweats. Shooing her away, he acknowledged defeat, and quickly toed off his sneakers, then shucked his socks and pants, littering the floor with his clothes. "As long as we take it easy, I'll be fine." His rigid length seemed to pulse in his lap as he waited, heavy with blood and want. Take it easy. Just take it easy, damn it. Holding out his hands in invitation, he guided her down over him. Scully knelt above his lap, her legs framing his. Reaching down, she slid her hand slowly along his hot, silky shaft. Mulder grimaced in pleasure, a moan vibrating softly, deeply in his throat. "It's been a long time, Mulder," she said, watching him and his reaction as she stroked him, petted him hard and long. "Weeks." "Months," he corrected quietly, his hips languidly following the rhythm set by her caress. "A long time," she murmured again. And, at last, lifting him in her palm, she centered herself over him. Slowly, slowly, she sunk down. Her eyes sliding shut as he filled her, Scully tipped her head, arched her neck so her hair dangled midway down her back. Her teeth snagged on her lower lip, she sighed, her breath escaping in a long, seemingly endless hiss, her posture almost painfully erotic. Determined to keep his eyes open and on her, Mulder groaned brokenly as they joined, all but overcome by the sensation of Scully closing around him, taking him in. Hot and wet and tight and softsoftsoft. God. It had been a long time. Forever. Fucking forever. Finally, he was buried in her, deeply, to his hilt. With her hands on his shoulders, Scully bent her head to kiss him. "See?" she whispered, smiling, bathing his lips with the word. "Piece of cake." Answering her smile with one of his own, Mulder tenderly smoothed the back of his index finger along the slope of her cheek, yet said nothing in reply. Scully didn't seem to mind his silence. She pushed against him with her hands, against the couch with her legs. Lifted. And lowered over him once more. Her rate deliberate. Leisurely. Lazy as summer's hottest afternoon. Scully swayed above him, her full, round breasts bobbing before him, swinging as temptingly as Eve's apple did from Eden's tree. Sliding his hands beneath her shirt, up her back and around, Mulder stilled their gentle motion, balanced them on his palms and lifted them to his lips. There, he suckled and pulled, nursing on the tender tips, nipping at them, then soothing them with teasing little licks, with sweet, honeyed kisses. Scully mewled in his hold, yet refrained from hurry, continuing on instead at her same steady pace. It was killing him. Christ. Mulder wanted nothing more than to simply drop them both to the floor, roll Scully beneath him, and drive into her. He yearned to piston and pound into her strong, soft body, to rut mindlessly between her legs until his own form exploded in pleasure. His need was so great, his arousal so fierce, that this slow slip and slide just wasn't enough. The friction wasn't hard enough, fast enough. He wanted more . . . More . . . "More," he moaned softly, helplessly, his head resting against the back of the sofa, his hands skimming urgently up and down Scully's arms. Sweat beaded on his brow, his lips felt swollen, sensitive, raw from their kisses. "More." "Are you close?" Scully whispered, her hair an auburn tempest, her eyes the deepest, dearest sapphire, a faint tremor shimmering through her slender frame as she strained to increase her speed. "Yeah," Mulder panted, squeezing her shoulders for emphasis, his hips pumping beneath her as aggressively as he dared. "Yeah . . . close." Swiping her mouth with her tongue, Scully nodded. Then, sighing, closed her eyes and began to rise and fall more swiftly than before. Yet, although the added intensity was welcomed by Mulder, at the same time, he feared the toll being exacted on his partner. He saw the sweat gleaming on her skin, recognized the fierceness with which she gripped his shoulders, felt the harsh, hurried flow of her breath as it bounced against his cheek. Tired, he thought. Scully had to be tired. She was still only weeks from a hospital bed. Weeks from a bullet and a beating. She had to be exhausted. "Easy, Scully," he murmured, wanting to do the right thing, the noble thing, trying to wrap his arms around her and pull her flush against him, thinking to still or at least slow her motion. Even if it killed him. "Remember we said we'd take it easy?" But rather than melting against him in gratitude, drained and shivering with fatigue, Scully fought his efforts. "I want to finish, Mulder," she muttered into his face, the hair edging her face damp and dark, her eyes dilated with passion. "Let me finish." "Scully--" "Lie down. . . . just lie down." Securing her atop him, Mulder did as he was told. Swiveling on the sofa, he propped his head against its arm and throw pillow, and stretched his legs out along its cushions. As soon as they had shifted positions, Scully adjusted too. Keeping him secreted within her, she balanced above him on her hands and knees, her palms planted high on his chest, her legs on either side of his hips, her shirt draped over them both. Almost instantly, she began to move. "Scully--," Mulder groaned as their bodies met, then fell away, closing his eyes in mindless pleasure and pressing his chin towards the ceiling, baring his throat in surrender. God, it was fabulous. Scully was moving more swiftly than she had before, with more authority, and apparently more ease. "Leverage," she muttered, her head hanging between her arms, her hair obscuring her face from view. "I needed leverage." Mulder didn't need anything. Not right at that moment in time. Not when the woman he loved was gliding over his exquisitely sensitive cock with such power, such care. "Are you . . . ?" he queried weakly, his hands coasting over her, stopping every once and awhile to clutch and knead. "Oh yeah," she assured him hoarsely, the curls at her core mixing with those at his, tangling with every slap of their heated flesh. "Yeah." Good. Because he didn't think he was going to be able to hang on much longer. His hips were rolling beneath her, almost of their own accord, faster and higher, his fervor increasing by the second. Dragging his hands from where they rested almost chastely on her thighs, he slid them towards her middle. Spreading his fingers wide, like a girdle, he positioned his thumbs where their bodies joined. Capturing a bit of the moisture he found there, slicking their way, he lifted his hands just a wee bit more, searching for the plump little bud that would set Dana Scully free. "=Mulder=!" Ah. There it is. Circling lightly over her, above and below, swirling and sliding, both his hands moving in concert, Mulder felt Scully begin to shudder above him, her breath coming now in tortured-sounding gasps, her head lolling feebly from side to side. "Come on," he coaxed, his eyes pinched shut, his lips pulled tight, his jaw set, his thumbs spinning. "Come on . . . come on." Please. Oh, please. At last, she stiffened above him. "God. . ." she moaned. Her arms finally giving out, Scully collapsed her upper body onto his, her cheek pressed against his breast, driving the breath from his lungs. Her hands creeping upwards to burrow in his hair, she began to clench around him, fast and fluttery, her groin yet spanking his. As soon as Scully's contractions began, Mulder let go. Twining his arms around her slender back, holding her close, he thrust upwards once, then again, bucking beneath her, all restraint forgotten as his body pumped wetly into hers. Electric sparks seemingly crackled behind his eyes, danced on the ends of his hair, surged down his arms and legs, make the hair dusting the limbs stand on end. Oh boy. Afterwards, as he murmured soft nonsense words of love, Mulder ran his hands up and down Scully's limp form, soothing her and him, while they floated blissfully on what had suddenly become the world's most comfortable couch. "Okay, now I'm tired," Scully confessed after a time, speaking the words into his chest. "Me too," he mumbled against her hair. "Mulder?" "Hmm?" "I missed that." "Definitely." Silence. "Missed you too." Jesus. If you only knew. . . "I was always here." Drawing Scully more securely against him still, Mulder pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I was just a little hard to find. That's all." "No more hide and seek," she whispered, nuzzling her brow just beneath his chin, her fingertips toying with the hair at his temple. "No," he promised quietly. "No more hide and seek." Not from you, Scully, he thought to himself. Even as he wondered if perhaps a version of that children's game might be what the two of them had to look forward to if they were to stay together. And alive. * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XVI "Words to Live By" (16/17) By Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Argh! You know . . . this was only going to be a 16-part story. Unfortunately, I couldn't get Mulder and Scully to just shut up and do the deed. Things were getting out of hand . So, rather than have a 40K chapter, I chopped things up and created this short little one as kind of a bridge to the final installment. Sorry this isn't very meaty. Normally, I like to try and give a reader their money's worth. Hopefully the payoff will be in Chapter 17. On the plus side, for all you Skinner fans, this is the big guy's chapter. :-) Enjoy! *************************************************** It was almost exactly half past ten on a blustery November morning when Walter Skinner stood at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, craning his neck as he searched for the one who had summoned him not twenty minutes before. There he was, leaning against that far wall, his gray trench coat flapping around his legs like a flock of petulant ducks. The Smoker. Catching sight of the Assistant Director, the older man grimaced, almost as if he would have preferred to have avoided their upcoming conversation rather than have initiated it. Skinner stifled the urge to smile at the other man's sour expression. Averting his gaze, he quickly climbed the steps, eager to have it out between them, once and for all. "You wanted to see me?" the A.D. drawled when he reached the top, scanning the crowd around them to see if the nicotine fiend had brought anyone along with him for support. No one immediately stood out from the throng as suspicious. It appeared it was just the two of them. The Smoker squinted against the gunmetal sky, the lines around his eyes deep and long. "I need to talk to you, to discuss the little show your agents are putting on as we speak." Skinner feigned surprise. "You mean the press conference?" "Yes. The press conference." "If you're so concerned about it, why aren't you there instead of here?" "I don't need to be there," The Smoker replied as he rustled around in his vest pocket and dug out a battered pack of Morleys. "I have a representative in attendance." "I've got a metal detector at the entrance to the auditorium and guards posted at every door, if your 'representative' tries anything, anything at all--," Skinner gritted out as he took a step towards his nemesis. The Smoker showed no fear. Instead, he regarded the other man mildly, a cigarette dangling from between his lips, his lighter in his hand. "No need for alarm, Assistant Director Skinner. I assure you, the last thing I want is to call undue attention to Fox Mulder or his partner." "That's what I'm counting on," Skinner muttered, striving to get his heart rate under control. The Smoker took a moment to process that bit of information, filling the time by lighting his cigarette and taking a leisurely drag. "Oh, is that what this is about?" He scoffed at last. "Is that the reason why you've decided to make Mulder and Scully's 'situation' public?" "What if it was?" Skinner asked, his posture tense, his hands balled tight inside his coat pockets. The Smoker puffed thoughtfully on his Morley. "Interesting tactic. To try and hide the two of them in plain sight." "I'm not 'hiding them'," Skinner said. "I'm making them too famous for you to kill." "Famous?" The Smoker parroted mockingly. "Is that your sole defense? You know what Warhol said about the fickle nature of fame, Mr. Skinner. It will happen to all of us. And it will last no more than fifteen minutes." "Warhol might have been right," Skinner admitted with a small shrug. "When it comes to most people. But you know as well as I do that Mulder and Scully have always fallen just a little outside the norm." In more ways than one, the Assistant Director ruefully mused. Few people would have gotten themselves into such a predicament to begin with; fewer still would have had the guts to go along with his scheme to set it all right. "Precisely why this ploy of yours won't work," The Smoker responded tartly. "Mulder has no credibility, neither with the public nor with the Bureau. Anything he says, any story he tells, is suspect." "Under normal circumstances, I 'd agree with you," Skinner said. "Mulder's reputation typically precedes him. But this time, he isn't trying to bring to light a global conspiracy or prove to the American public the existence of extraterrestrials." "No?" The Smoker sneered before sucking on his cigarette. "Then what is Chicken Little shouting about now?" Skinner came to within an inch of slapping the Morley from the smug son-of-a-bitch's mouth. "Agent Mulder is telling the reporters assembled about a blackmail plot designed to destroy the careers of both Agent Scully and himself. He is telling the press everything--about the relationship he and his partner share, the threats made against them. Everything the two of them have been through over the past few months will soon be splashed across the front page of every newspaper from here to the Pacific." The Smoker said nothing, choosing instead to draw yet again on his fast dwindling stick of tobacco. "He has no names to give, of course," Skinner continued. "We were unable to identify the bodies we recovered of the two men responsible for the agents' injuries." "Pity," The Smoker murmured, pulling the cigarette butt from between his lips, dropping it to the ground, and grinding it beneath his Oxford-shod foot. "Yes," Skinner agreed. "It is." "And that's all you have to base this circus on?" The Smoker queried after a beat. "Two nameless bodies and the ravings of a man his own colleagues view as unstable. I'm surprised your superiors allowed you to proceed." "Allowed me?" Skinner echoed sardonically. "My 'superiors' view this as a PR wet dream." The Smoker just looked at him. "Recruitment is down," Skinner explained, warming to his topic. "Especially among women. The Bureau has been looking for a way to lure qualified candidates to its ranks. Mulder and Scully are young, attractive, intelligent; both possess advanced degrees. And say what you like about Mulder's often unorthodox methods-- but their solve rate is in the upper 3% of departments Bureau-wide. Throw in a near-tragic love story, and they're practically custom- made for this sort of thing, poster children for the new FBI." "'New FBI'," The Smoker sputtered with derision. "Don't be absurd. Do you honestly expect me to believe that Mulder has suddenly gone from being the outcast in the basement to the Bureau's wunderkind?" "Why not?" Skinner replied, hard won satisfaction coloring his words, lifting the corners of his mouth. "It's not that far a leap. After all, Agent Scully's record is nearly spotless and it wasn't so long ago that Mulder himself was on the fast track. Besides, they now have the Department of Justice's spin-doctors behind them, working their magic. You'd be surprised what you can do for a person's image when you position the facts just right." For a time, The Smoker was silent. Turning away from the Assistant Director, he surveyed instead the Mall, his eyes narrowed as before, his expression overall difficult to read. He remained mute just long enough for the first stirrings of worry to churn thickly in the pit of Skinner's stomach. Shit. What if their gamble backfired? What if the man contemplating the Reflecting Pool below decided to eliminate Mulder and Scully despite their efforts to prevent just such a calamity? What if, after all was said and done, he wound up failing his two charges? Again. When at last he spoke, The Smoker gave no indication as to what his intentions were. He merely shifted to once more regard the former Marine, his gaze measuring. "I really must applaud your efforts, Assistant Director Skinner. It sounds to me as if a great deal of work went into coordinating today's revelations. You must have called in a good many markers." "I collected on some favors," Skinner said, his tone matter-of-fact. As before, The Smoker said nothing at first, opting instead to study the man standing before him, his mouth pressed thin. Finally, he asked, "Why?" Skinner hesitated himself, considering whether he should indeed indulge both The Smoker and his own pride. Turning the matter over inside his head, he glanced away, his eyes lighting on the Washington Monument, standing tall and strong at the other end of the Mall. He thought about the history the obelisk was meant to invoke, the values embodied by its namesake and by the man whose statue loomed opposite, towering over their clandestine meeting, solemn and serene. He remembered how, when he was young, he had hoped to follow in the tradition of these two great leaders, to serve his country and its citizens, defending its interests and upholding its laws. He recalled too how quickly those ideals had been tainted. By Vietnam and its aftermath. By the machinations of the man now waiting for his reply. "I did it because it's the right thing to do," he said at last, the wind whipping off the Potomac stinging his cheeks, wetting his eyes. "Because I am sick and tired of you toying with my agents, treating them like chess pieces instead of human beings." The Smoker uttered nothing in his defense. He stood by stoically, letting Skinner have his say. "I did it because for the first time in a long time I thought I had a battle I could win," Skinner admitted. "Scully said your assassin had told her your goal in all this was to shut down the X-Files. Publicizing the department rather than burying it should make that harder for you to do." "Do you really believe your 'spin-doctors' can make Mulder's crusade seem like the vocation of a reasonable man?" The Smoker queried. "Do I believe the country as a whole will embrace the X-Files and the work Mulder and Scully have done?" Skinner queried back. "No, of course not. I'm not naive. I know most people will roll their eyes at the stories they'll hear." The Smoker's lips quirked at that, as if he himself was disinclined to take the matter seriously. "But at least their case will have been heard," Skinner said, vaguely surprised by the urgency he could feel contained within his words, the fervor with which he spoke. "Finally. The seed will have been planted." "So when the world realizes how it has been betrayed by you and the men you work with, when the day comes and your deal with the devil is finally revealed, people will remember my agents and their sacrifices," he continued, his voice low and firm. "And they will understand." The Smoker looked at him for a second or two longer, seemingly reflecting on what had just been said. "You consider Mulder and Scully heroes," he murmured at last. "I do," Skinner confirmed. The Smoker slowly nodded, his gaze speculative. "You know, Assistant Director Skinner, . . . it's a funny thing about heroes. It seems the ones who live longest in our memory are the men and women who come to the worst ends." Bastard. Skinner recognized the threat, heard the sinister note threading through The Smoker's words. But was the menace real or merely a bluff? He couldn't judge. And, in the end, it wouldn't matter anyway, Skinner admitted to himself. He had known going into this that he wouldn't be able to protect Mulder and Scully if the man standing opposite him chose to strike. Not forever. Not with the weapons The Smoker had at his disposal. That was why he had formulated this particular plan to begin with. All he could really do was convince the tobacco junkie it would be in his best interests to spare the two agents' lives. Best not to overplay his hand. "Well, if that's the case, then it seems I made the right decision," he murmured finally. The Smoker frowned, seemingly surprised by Skinner's reaction. "What do mean?" Skinner shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. "I want Mulder and Scully alive. You want them and the work they do out of the public's eye." The Smoker pursed his lips as if not entirely agreeing with Skinner's take on things. Yet, he held his tongue. "So all you have to do is leave them alone," Skinner said reasonably. "And we both wind up happy." "Happy?" The Smoker repeated with disdain. "It's the little things that mean so much," Skinner replied, his tone similar. The Smoker glanced away again, his eyes trained now on the crowded horizon. "One man and one woman," he murmured almost dreamily. "When weighed against the whole of civilization, the matter of their survival seems small indeed, does it not?" "Small enough to overlook," Skinner said, the last word spoken with particular emphasis. The Smoker turned to regard him once more, his face giving away nothing. "After all," Skinner said persuasively, "surely you must have more important things requiring your attention." The tiniest measure of amusement flickered across The Smoker's countenance. "You have no idea, Assistant Director Skinner. No idea at all." * * * * * * * * Continued in Chapter XVII "Words to Live By" (17/17) By Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch This is it. And what a strange and wondrous journey it was, too. I'm sure many of you feel as if this story has dragged on for the better part of eternity. I can't say I disagree. But consider this . . . you may have started following "Words to Live By" in October of last year. But I started writing the silly thing in July. I'm slow. What can I tell you? I would like to thank everyone who decided to take a chance on this WIP. I very much appreciate the support and encouragement. I'll be posting this to ATXC and will make a copy of it available on my web site in the days to come. If you've been collecting chapters as they've been posted, you may want to go ahead and grab the updated versions. I don't know if you'll notice all that much has changed, but as the author, I feel some worthwhile tweaking has gone on. Endnotes will follow, appropriately enough, at the end of the story. **************************************************** "Well, that may have been the most humiliating hour of my life." "More humiliating than that time we were walking out of Skinner's office after the strategy session on the Pepito kidnappings, and your heel caught on the rug and you--" "Yes, Mulder. As hard as it may be to believe, more humiliating than that." Sighing with exasperation, Dana Scully maneuvered past her partner and into their basement office, her path lit only by the single bulb aglow in Mulder's desk lamp. Dumping her briefcase on her own desk, she lowered herself into the chair behind it, the entire sequence accomplished with little of her usual grace. "I don't know, Scully," Mulder said as he flipped on the overhead fluorescent, then ambled over to peer expectantly into his in-box. "I didn't think it was all that bad." "All that bad?" she echoed in disbelief. "Mulder, those reporters were getting so personal with their questioning I kept expecting one of them to ask my bra size." "34B." She glared up at him. "34C?" "How can this not bother you?" she asked, leaning forward in her chair, her elbows braced against the blotter, her query both a question and a demand. "Do you think this =doesn't= bother me?" he retorted as he crossed to stand before her. "Do you think I *like* the idea of you and I being tabloid flavor of the month?" All at once ashamed of herself for being so peevish, Scully dropped her eyes and shook her head, her lips pursed in a tight, little moue. "Scully," Mulder began as he took a step closer and pressed his hands flat against the desktop. Looming over her in that way, his face hovered just inches above hers. "The last thing I want is to share you, share what we have, with Jerry Springer's studio audience. But I thought we had agreed that, given our limited options, this was the best way to go." She sighed again, this time exasperated only with herself. Yes, they had agreed. And, yes, given the choice of either living as a kind of guiltless fugitive for the rest of her life or admitting to a roomful of scandal-hungry reporters that she had been sleeping with her partner, she preferred the latter. It was just that it had all seemed so much more manageable when Skinner had first pitched the solution to them weeks earlier. "Mulder, I'm sorry," she quietly apologized. "But you know how I am about my privacy. Ever since the night The Smoker was waiting for me with that damned tape, I've felt as if I can never be certain where the next microphone might turn up." Nodding as if in silent encouragement, Mulder settled himself on the corner of her desk. Scully continued. "It's been as if my life is no longer my own. For months now I've known I was being listened to, watched. That we both were. I've had to be careful what I said, what I did. One word out of place . . ." "And I eat poisoned pizza," Mulder mumbled, not without a touch of wry humor. "Exactly," she glumly concurred. "Okay," he said after a second or two, his voice determinedly upbeat. "But that was then and this is now. Look on the bright side--after this morning, there won't be any need to edit yourself. Everyone will know about us. It'll all out in the open." "=Way= out in the open," she murmured, her funk proving resistant to his optimism. "There are pluses to that though, Scully," he insisted, bending down to try and recapture her gaze. "Think of all the things we can do now without having to worry about the consequences. Hell--we'll save a fortune on vacation airfare alone." That brought a smile to her lips. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. Seemingly heartened by her reaction, Mulder took Scully's hand in his and pressed his advantage. "I think this is gonna work. I honestly do. Going public not only offers us protection, but it finally lets us be who we really are." Scully wearily shook her head, her eyes dipping to study their tangled fingers. "'Who we really are'," she repeated in a hushed voice, her brow furrowed. "You know, Mulder, I think that's the problem." "What do you mean?" he asked, rubbing his thumb soothingly across her knuckles. "I mean that for months now I've been watching everything I say, everything I do, altering my behavior for some unseen audience. Nothing has been 'normal'. You know? I've been living everywhere but home. We haven't worked on a case in I don't know how long . . ." She paused then, struggling to order her thoughts. She hadn't planned on all this coming out, hadn't even known half of it had existed. The anxiety that had plagued her since the crisis had begun had always been an amorphous thing, shapeless and cloudy, its scope difficult to measure. Only now, when she was trying to articulate for Mulder her feelings was she beginning to come to terms with just how deeply The Smoker's manipulation had wounded her. "What's happened these past several months has changed a lot of things for me," she said, able to hold his gaze only intermittently. "Changed the way I look at things, the way I look at myself." "How do you look at yourself, Scully?" "Do you mean in the past or now?" "Either. Both. I don't care. Just help me understand." Mulder was sitting close to her, his hip resting alongside her arm, their hands yet joined. The jovial mood he had been maintaining for her benefit had vanished in the wake of her disclosures, replaced by what looked to her troubled eyes to be confusion and concern. Feeling vaguely guilty for having spoiled his fun, Scully at last lifted her chin and met him stare for stare. Raising his fingers to her lips, she kissed them softly, then held them for a moment to her cheek before lowering them once more. "I guess the easiest way to explain it would be to make a confession," she began. "Am I going to be expected to come up with some sort of penance?" Mulder teased. Yet despite her partner's effort to lighten the mood, Scully refused to play along. Instead she at long last said aloud the words that had been ringing inside her head for weeks. "I'm truly disappointed in myself for the way I handled this whole thing, Mulder. Disappointed in the decisions I made, in the way I let my fear get the best of me." He shook his head in dismissal and disgust. "Oh for God's sake, Scully. We've been through this already. What happened was not your fault--" "I don't think you understand how unsettling this experience has been for me," she insisted, ruthlessly slicing his argument in two. "How disturbed I am by the way I reacted." When he continued to shake his head in disagreement, she pressed to her feet, and circled around the desk to stand before him, all the while keeping hold of his hand. "Mulder, if you had asked me six months ago what I would do if The Smoker went on the offensive, I'm certain I would have outlined for you a very detailed, very logical plan designed to circumvent any measures he might decide to take against us. I would have been calm and self-assured. And as we both now know, the entire performance would have been a colossal sham." "Scully, you are being way too hard on yourself," Mulder muttered, his fingers tightening on hers, the pressure feeling to her half supportive, half punishing. "This isn't about that," she countered, pulling free from his grasp. "This isn't about my beating up on myself or mistakenly trying to assume blame for something I didn't do." "What is it about then?" "It's about identity," she said with a helpless sort of shrug, at a loss for any other way to phrase her concern. "It's about my not knowing myself quite as well as I thought I did." This news seemed to surprise Mulder. Unlike before, he didn't argue with her. Instead he simply sat, his eyes locked on hers, and waited for her to say more. "All we've talked about lately is change," she said. "About how our going public is going to reshape our world." Mulder nodded, both agreeing and encouraging. "But what about the changes that have been happening all along, ever since we met? Not with the world or how its inhabitants perceive us, but with ourselves." "What about it? People change, Scully. You know that." "Yes. Yes, I do. And I'm not suggesting I should be exempt from the process. I just didn't realize that with such change I could become someone who was very nearly unrecognizable to me." Again her words gave Mulder pause. Brow wrinkled in bewilderment, he asked, "In what way do you consider this supposed new you 'unrecognizable'?" "In my actions--my keeping secrets, acting on impulse, taking foolish risks. That's not like me, Mulder. Not like me at all. Where would behavior like that come from?" She could almost see the light bulb go off above his head. Chewing on his bottom lip for a moment before speaking, he murmured, "From me?" Scully could only stare. The thought had never occurred to her. Faced with her silence, Mulder's expression turned sheepish. "Don't say I never gave you anything." Unwilling to let him shoulder the blame, she shook her head. "I don't know, Mulder. It's sweet of you to offer, but I don't think I can pin this on you." "Sure you can," he said with a lift of his brows. "I'm not saying you're easily influenced, Scully, or that you have no will of your own. But given all the time we've spent together, the hours on and off the job, a few of our tendencies, our personality traits, are bound to have 'crossed over'. It's inevitable." Reluctantly, she nodded, still not entirely convinced. "I don't think it's such a bad thing," Mulder continued, his tone conversational. "Of course . . . you may want to refrain from picking up some of my less appealing habits--getting beaten up by guys twice my size, dropping my weapon at inopportune moments. . . ." "Stay away from oversized thugs and hang on to my gun," she mumbled dutifully, the corners of her lips lifting slightly. "Got it." Mulder nodded as if approving her quick study. "Who knows-- you may even find some of your more 'Mulderesque' leanings . . . not all that hard to live with." She chuckled at that, her frame of mind improving almost in spite of herself. Mulder grinned right back, apparently pleased to have provoked such a response. "I'll grant you, it takes some getting used to," he said after a moment or two spent simply smiling at her. Stretching out his hand, he tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, his voice soothing and low. "It's scary sometimes when you realize how much power another person can have over you." "You sound as if you're speaking from experience," she said, her voice sounding to her ears unexpectedly rough around the edges. "I am," he admitted, his fingers skating now along the curve of her cheek, a bread crumb trail of sparks following in their wake. "You don't think I'm the same man today that I was the day we met, do you?" She considered that, considered Mulder-Then vs. Mulder-Now. Fondly, she recalled the confident, caustic young agent who had been waiting for her when she had knocked on his basement door, and measured him against the somewhat more weathered version sitting before her now. "I guess not," she finally conceded, reaching out to take hold of his lapel, the urge to touch him growing exponentially the longer his hands remained on her. "I suppose it's been the same for you as it's been for me." "What's good for the goose . . . ," he mumbled, his head bowed as, with apparent fascination, he watched her lightly finger his jacket. Edging closer, she kept her gaze lowered as well, her forehead knit. "It's just . . . much as I wish I could say otherwise, Mulder . . . I prefer the new you to the new me." Now it was his turn to chuckle. "Of course you do. I've become more like you." "More like me?" "We're practically twins. Any day now my hair is going to turn red and you're no longer going to have to stand on a box to look me in the eye." Growling with mock indignation, Scully brought her other hand up alongside the first, filled her fists with Armani's finest wool, and gave her partner a good, hard shake. Laughing, Mulder ended her assault by wrapping his arms around her and hauling her nearer still. His bear hug trapped her now between his legs so that her upper body rested flush against his. "Scully, you've already admitted that I've changed since you first met me," he said, his breath warm and soft against her face. Even with the heat he was giving off, she fought the urge to shiver. "But haven't you ever stopped to notice exactly what those changes are?" Standing so close, she could smell his after shave's faint woodsy undertones, the starch on his shirt, the clean yet earthy scent of his skin. You wonder if I've noticed you? she longed to ask. Oh, Mulder. If you only knew. "I'm more careful than I was," he continued, blessedly unaware of her musings. "More methodical in my work. I do my damnedest to scrounge up some kind of evidence now before I run with an idea; I check my facts and try not to trust the first mysterious informant that comes along." Reaching up to cradle the back of her head in his hands, Mulder stretched forward and pressed a kiss to her lips. "I do those things because of you," he murmured afterwards, his eyes turning tender, his voice scraping the bottom of his register. "I'm telling you, Scully--I'm a changed man." "I wouldn't go shopping for a halo just yet," she said, her fingers creeping up the back of his neck to thread through his hair. "While I will accept you've made great strides in that area, I still see plenty of room for improvement in the 'look-before-you-leap' department." Mulder shrugged slightly, clearly not at all offended by her take on the situation. "Well, as with most things, it's an ongoing process." "That is not what I wanted to hear." "What? You don't think I should continue to strive for perfect Scullyhood?" "Strive all you like," she told him, a faint smile softening the edges of her mouth. "In this particular instance, I'm more worried about me." Mulder frowned. "What's got you worried?" "What if it's not only an ongoing process for you, but for me as well?" she asked, her tone playful even though her question wasn't without its serious side. "What if I'm only in the early stages of assimilating some of your more outrageous qualities? What if matters only escalate from here? Think about it, Mulder. The situation could get . . . dangerous." "Have I ever told you you're sexy when you're dangerous?" he queried with a mock leer. "Mulder." "You are," he insisted before leaning in for a quick, noisy kiss. "As for the rest of it . . . I say don't worry about it." "You do?" she challenged, her eyebrow shooting towards the stratosphere. "I do," he confirmed, his hands gently kneading her shoulders. She chuckled at his utter certainty. "And why is that?" "Because--just like always, Scully--I've got your back." "What do you mean?" "I mean that regardless of what happens, what choices you make, what turns the road we're on might take, we'll adjust. =I'll= adjust," Mulder promised as he continued his massage. "If you want to be the wacky one in this relationship, I can work on being practical. Hell, it won't even be like work. It'll come naturally. You'll see. You and me, Scully--we're like yin and yang." "Yin and yang?" "Yin and yang. Peanut butter and jelly. Batman and Robin." "Batman and Robin?" she queried. "I know. Not an obvious choice," he admitted with counterfeit chagrin. "But I have this reoccurring fantasy involving you, a pair of tights, thigh high boots, and a cape." "Mulder," Scully chided again, bemused despite her better judgment. "May I say again--not what I wanted to hear." "Give me another shot," he murmured, his hands at last stilling on her shoulders. "And I'll see if I can do better." Good humor lingering, she nodded, silently granting him permission. But rather than immediately firing out another quip, Mulder hesitated a moment before continuing. When he did finally speak, his tone was different than before. Huskier, more intimate. His pace was measured, as if he were choosing his words with care. "You say you find this change in you disturbing, Scully. That you worry you're turning into someone unrecognizable." Puzzled by the direction their conversation had taken, Scully quietly agreed. "Yes. That's right." Taking hold of her upper arms, Mulder put some space between them and looked her over, top to toe. His head cocked, his eyes intent, he let his gaze slip slowly down her slender frame as if he were somehow searching for structural defects. Fidgeting under his scrutiny, Scully was just about to tell him to 'take a picture' when he suddenly drew her back into his embrace. "I recognize you," he whispered an instant before once more lowering his mouth to hers. This kiss wasn't like the others, swift and chaste. This time Mulder lingered, took his time, allowing her to truly savor the contact. His lips were warm and firm and, much to her delight, tasted vaguely of peppermint. Scully felt her own mouth heat as they kissed, melt like sun- touched wax, shaping itself to his. Pressing and clinging. Sliding. Slow and seductive. Sighing with pleasure, she twined her arms around his neck and let her body relax against his. Secure in Mulder's hold, she felt as if she were floating, his lips the only thing anchoring her to earth. It was sinful the way he could so effortlessly do this to her, she thought as his tongue stroked along hers, coaxing it to play. Positively sinful. "I'd know you anywhere, Scully" he told her moments later when they came up for air, the words spoken softly against her cheek. "Anywhere. Anytime. This life or the next. No amount of change will ever make you a stranger to me." Throat tightening, eyes stinging with unshed tears, Scully nuzzled the side of his face with her own. "I'm not afraid, you know. Of what's ahead of us. I'm not." "I know." "I just want this to work." "It will. We'll make it work." Yes. They would make it work, she vowed as she kissed a path back to Mulder's mouth. They would. They had to. The two of them continued for awhile in this way, their lips meeting and retreating, their hands caressing whatever they could reach. Their basement sanctuary was all but silent save for the rustle of clothes and the faint, breathless sound of their need. In the end, it was Mulder who broke the spell, his nose buried beneath her hair. "Hey, Scully--you know what I've always wanted to do?" Please, Mulder. No Twenty Questions, she yearned to shout. Not when you're doing such lovely, lovely things to my neck. "What?" "Well . . . to be honest, it's what I always want to do," he muttered, his hand on her breast, lifting and squeezing, his mouth poised just below her ear. "With you, that is." "What?" she asked again, having trouble following the discussion. She had her reasons, of course. Mulder's thumb was now spiraling around her nipple, turning like a top in a series of tight yet lazy loops as he patiently urged the tiny tip to harden for him. Something like that was bound to distract anyone, she reasoned in a vain attempt to salvage her pride. "I want to do this," he whispered, his breath shallow and hot against her ear, his hand trembling as, having achieved its goal, it relinquished her breast in favor of her behind. "This, only more so. I want to be inside you." "Yes," Scully agreed, reaching down to cup him through his trousers. Grunting his approval, Mulder thrust forward with his hips, nearly scooting off the desktop in an effort to press against her palm. "Come on. Let's get out of here." "No." "No?" "I want to do it here." "Do what here?" "This," he rasped, grabbing hold of her derriere and yanking her against him, belly to belly. "Here?" she squeaked, pulling back to get a better look at his face. "Right here, in this room," Mulder repeated, his eyes boring into hers, bright and nearly feverish. "Preferably on this desk." "You can't be serious." "I can." "That's crazy," she flatly told him. "Quite possibly," he replied. "Mulder, we're probably being listened to--" "We're not. I had the guys come in and sweep the place this morning." "Someone could walk in--" "Not if we lock the door." Scully sighed with a kind of double-edged frustration and folded her arms across her chest. "Mulder, we have an agreement about this kind of thing. You know that." "Yes, I know that. Our agreement has always been to keep the personal side of our relationship separate from the professional," he said as if reciting from rote. "But that's all changed now, Scully. After this morning, it's all one and the same." True enough. It was certainly no longer a secret just how complete their partnership was. "It's like we're starting fresh, you and I," he said, his voice silky and persuasive, his thumbs stroking back and forth along the swell of her ass. "And what better way to celebrate our new beginning than with a. . ." "=Bang=?" she queried dryly, her eyebrow arched. "You said it," Mulder retorted, clearly delighted that she had. "I didn't." Yes, she had. She had, indeed. Yet more evidence of Mulder's influence, she supposed with a sigh. "You know . . . two years ago, I would never even have considered something like this," she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes. "I =know=," Mulder assured her happily, punctuating the statement with a vigorous nod. "If anyone were to find out about this, Mulder, we could be in a hell of a lot of trouble," Scully warned, tapping her finger against his swollen lower lip for a little emphasis of her own. "I'll cancel the second press conference," he promised before capturing her finger in his mouth and sliding his lips tightly all the way to its base and back again. Helpless against the hot, wet suction, Scully shivered, the almost violent tremor traveling quickly down the length of her spine. Mulder's eyes turned slumberous as he watched her, dark and a trifle unfocused. "Let me make love to you here, Scully," he murmured as he pulled her to him for another kiss then leaned his forehead against hers, his hands still framing her face. "God knows I've imagined it enough times. Let me make it real. After all, how many opportunities does a person have to do that with a dream?" Well, when he put it that way . . . And like that, all her remaining reservations disappeared. "All right," she whispered. He nodded, then pressed his lips to hers again, softly, reverently. "Thank you." Setting her away from him a step, Mulder unfolded his body from its perch atop the desk and crossed to the door. There, he threw the dead bolt, then reached over and hit the light switch, plunging the room into instant twilight. Scully lifted a brow in query. "Mood lighting," he explained with the smallest of shrugs. "I see," she said with a gentle smile. He smiled back, his expression faintly sheepish, and returned to her side. "First things first," he mumbled as, hesitating just a instant, he stretched out his arm and swept the desktop free of its accessories. The crash was deafening within the chamber's limited confines. "Was that really necessary?" Scully queried breathlessly, her heartbeat racing now for more reasons than one. "Absolutely," Mulder said, grinning like a madman amidst the rubble, his gaze now glittering with excitement. "This is supposed to be the realization of a fantasy, Scully. Remember? A dream come true. Surely something as momentous as that deserves a *little* drama to spice things up." She shook her head in amusement. "First 'mood lighting', now adding a touch of 'drama ' to the proceedings. What are you doing here, Mulder, setting the stage?" "The stage is set," he said, reaching for her. "Now it's on to Costumes." Pulling her squarely in front of him, Mulder held her in place with one hand while nimbly popping loose the first three buttons on her blouse with the other. Allowing him to lead, Scully watched as he then reached beneath the parted fabric and slipped first one, then the other breast free from her bra. Balanced atop their underwire shelf, the pale, soft mounds quivered as she breathed. "Do you want . . . ?" she asked, gesturing rather weakly to the suit jacket she still wore. "No," he murmured hoarsely, staring unabashedly at her exposed chest. "Leave it on. Just leave it on." "Part of the costume?" "Yeah." "You really have given this some thought, haven't you?" His gaze meeting hers at last, Mulder took his finger and lightly stroked it around the center of her left breast. Scully could feel the skin there tightening in response, crinkle and flush in arousal. "Only every day since we met." With that, he bent his head to her and took her nipple between his lips. Tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, he at the same time worked its twin with his thumb and forefinger, gently pinching and rolling it to make it harder still. Just when Scully thought she couldn't stand it any more, when she was certain her knees were going to give out completely and drag them both to the floor, Mulder released the tiny nubbin. Only to repeat his wet caress on the other side. Her hands clenched in his tousled hair, she held him to her, struggling not to moan when Mulder began to suckle sweetly at her breast. Before she could make a sound, however, he straightened once more and pressed a series of kisses along her hairline. "Come here, Scully," he mumbled against her temple, his hands beneath her clothes as he guided her backwards. "Come here with me." Following blindly, she let him maneuver her over to the desk. With Mulder's help, she soon found herself seated atop it, her legs dangling over the side, her skirt bunched high on her thighs. "I don't suppose you're wearing stockings today, are you?" he muttered, his cheek against her hair, his palms skimming along her curves. "Sorry, Mulder," she murmured, grabbing hold of his behind. "I dressed for a press conference, not for sex." "Guess we'll have to improvise then," he said, and sliding his hand beneath her hem, curled his fingers in the crotch of her pantyhose and pulled. The flimsy fabric gave at once, tearing open at her core. "I would have taken them off if you'd let me," Scully said before giving his ear a nip. "If I'd wanted them off, I'd have taken them off myself," he retorted before slipping his fingers through the ruined nylon and underneath her panties. "Mulder!" she moaned, arching in his grasp, her hands clutching at his arms in an effort to remain upright. As if in answer, he traced along the slick, warm opening to her body, its entrance now nearly distended with need, his range of motion limited by the clothes she still wore. "This is all part of it, Scully," he explained as he gently lowered her to the desktop, his fingers busy still beneath her garments, spreading the moisture they found there and teasing her with hints of what was to come. "You, here, like this. It's all part of the fantasy." Mulder looked down at her from where he stood, tie askew, hair wild. Stepping in closer, so that her thighs were held open by his, he unzipped his fly and took himself in hand. Breathing fast and hard as he leaned over her, he slowly stroked the rigid shaft with his palm, his gaze pinning her immobile with its intensity. "You're my dream come true," he told her, the tender words seemingly at odds with the almost feral light in his eyes. "Show me how the dream ends, Mulder," she begged from where she lay, panting and flushed, and yearning. Painfully yearning. "Show me how it ends." Nodding, he obliged her. Holding the crotch of her panties aside, he entered her in one quick, strong jab of his hips, joining their bodies together. "Oh God!" she softly cried, her chin pushing towards the ceiling, her eyes squeezing shut. Hooking her legs over his arms, he immediately began to move. All Scully could do was hang on, her fingers grasping for purchase on the desktop's edge as Mulder pumped inside her, his pace measured, his thrust powerful enough to rattle the drawers beneath her like dice in a cup. Lashes lowered, she wondered what she must look like to him, lying there, breasts bouncing, glistening from the tonguing they had received, her hair tangled, her lips parted and puffy from his kisses. She questioned what it was about this particular scenario that excited Mulder so, what made it the subject of fantasies long treasured, yet subsumed. Was it the forbidden aspect alone, the idea of their having an intimate encounter in the very bowels of the FBI, that turned him on, or did it go deeper than that? Then, she opened her eyes and looked at him, studied the man above her, his arms braced like Sisyphus against the rock, his face screwed tight in a grimace of bliss. Yes, he was beautiful. And yes, he felt so damned good driving into her the way he was. The friction, the heat, the fullness. The sense that as his body pounded its way to ecstasy inside hers, he wasn't only sharing with her sexual release, but a kind of physical one as well. Here, in this primitive fashion, the two of them were celebrating their return to their lives, their work. Without speaking a word, they were saying to hell with protocol and fear. They were taking back this place, this awful, wonderful, claustrophobic place. Their office. Rescuing it and them from the more painful memories contained within its walls. They were demonstrating to all the shadow conspirators, to that sneaky bastard with the nicotine stained fingers and a marked lack of morals just how badly his plot had gone awry. The Smoker hadn't destroyed what Mulder and she had. He had only made it, them, stronger. They might not have any power over his future plans, they might even be at risk right now with scant hope of tomorrow. But at least they had this moment. Together, united. At least they had each other. New and improved, or otherwise. "I love you," Scully told him, the words coming out breathy and hushed as she writhed beneath him, straining to meet him stroke for stroke. "I love you, Mulder." Her declaration seemed to affect his rhythm. Head bowed, he faltered for an instant, hesitated, then sawed wildly, his movement choppy and short, sweat trickling now from his hairline to wet his cheeks. Whimpering, he sucked in a deep, ragged breath and, with a visible act of will, reined in his motion. Slowed it, evened it out. Jaw set, he struggled to remain in control. Scully was having none of it. "Don't hold back," she urged, letting go of the desk and stretching up in a failed attempt to touch him, to direct his eyes towards hers. "Don't hold back for me." "I want . . ." he rasped, looking up, his hair hanging down over his brow, nearly obscuring the gaze she sought to meet. "I'm there . . . I'm there," she assured him, grasping at his jacket sleeve, the delicious tension indeed coiling tighter inside her by the second. "I'm right behind you." "You sure?" he queried, leaning in closer, his legs thudding against the beleaguered piece of furniture with every forward thrust. At long last able to reach him, she cradled his head in her hands. "Yes," she breathed, kissing him once, then again. "I am. Let go, Mulder. Let go. Come in my arms." Moaning his surrender, Mulder nestled his face against her neck and did as Scully asked. Giving himself over to his need, he jerked and jumped in her embrace, all finesse abandoned and, crying out her name, emptied his body into hers. True to her word, Scully tumbled right after him. One final stroke and her world suddenly whirled like a wind-tortured pinwheel, dizzying and fast. Color and motion and the sensation of flight on a sun-drenched summer afternoon. Afterwards, when they lay exhausted, her slender frame graciously cushioning his lankier, more muscular form, Scully spoke, her voice dreamy with satisfaction. "We were wrong, Mulder." "'bout what?" he murmured somewhere beneath her hair. "That wasn't the end of the dream." "No?" "Uh-uh. It was only the beginning." In reply, his arms tightened around her. Scully smiled. Dreams are like stories our psyches tell us, she thought, her fingers lightly sifting through Mulder's hair. Well . . . she might not know the way this particular story ended. But she certainly intended to follow it through to its conclusion. * * * * * * * * THE END Endnotes: These notes alone could fill volumes. Given the length of this story, however, I will do my best to stifle certain impulses. As many of you know, it's been a rather trying year for me. With some of the stuff going on in my life, it seemed at times that my online activities were fated to become a thing of the past. Thankfully, that wound up not to be the case. I would like to thank Connie for her friendship and unbelievable generosity. I don't deserve either, Con. But I thank you for them just the same. Thanks to Missy, who not only was kind enough to go to the trouble of hunting down missing stories, jpgs, etc. for me, but who also checked in from time to time at my work addy to make certain I was still alive and kicking. Word of warning, folks--this woman has a touch of the private eye in her. Don't try and hide. She will track you down. ;-) To Danielle who was a valuable beta for this story, but whom I lost track of when my computer hit the road. Thanks, sweetie! I hope you don't find too many errors in these final chapters. To Nic and MD and Jen and Jill and all the rest of my online friends. I've been up and running internet-wise now for a week. I wanted to concentrate on finishing this silly story first, before tackling my in-box. Seeing as the danged thing has sat for months and months. I shudder to think what spam awaits me. I will, however, get back to it and you. I've missed you guys. That goes for all of you. Thanks for taking the time to read not only this story, but these notes. I hope it was worth the hours spent. Karen