TITLE: End of the World AUTHOR: bugs EMAIL ADDRESS: bugs1231@my-deja.com, bugsfic can be found at http://www.plaza.v-wave.com/Tara/bugs/index.html DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Spookys, Gossamer, anyone who wants it. SPOILER WARNING: Millennium, Triangle, Rain King, Dreamland RATING: NC-17 for sexual situations. Little language or violence CONTENT WARNING: I swear to god, this was PG until Ambress looked at it. She demanded smut! CLASSIFICATION: Scully POV, V, H, MSR, Post-episode fic for Millennium SUMMARY: When Scully takes Mulder home from the hospital, she brings along her old pals, denial and rationalization. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to: Ambress, Shawne, Magdeleine, and Sharon. AUTHOR'S NOTES: I wrote a fantasy Millennium post-ep fic, what am I Doing writing a legit one? Hell, I even rip off myself! I think I get to do that. All this talk of 'Scully's reaction' to the kiss got my juices flowing. ~~~~~~~~8~~~~~~~~~~8~~~~~~~~~~8~~~~~~~~~~~~~~8~~~~~~~~~~8 January 1st, 2000; 10:45 AM I roll over in bed and groan in pain. Oh, yes. Yesterday was just another day at the office. A zombie attack. That would explain the dull ache in every muscle I'm experiencing. However, that pain is accompanied by a distinct throbbing in my lower extremities, a general feeling of exhaustion, which, although unusual, is not unsettling...my thighs seem to be glued together... "OH--MY--GO--" A deep chuckle in my ear cuts off my exclamation. January 1st, 2000; 1:30 AM When I stop the car at a red light, I glance over at Mulder. His head rests against the window, his breath fogging the glass. He seems to be dozing. Those pain killers. He's such a lightweight under their influence. There was the time he gushed, "I love you," and now this. A kiss. He's a silly schoolboy sometimes. I smile at the memory of his soft lips descending onto mine. It was nice. Very sweet. Took me right back to Junior High...what was that guy's name? Jimmy Something... I'm not oblivious. I know he'd been wanting to kiss me for a while. For a guy who has some...unique...sex scenarios playing out on his television, he seems to have very simple needs. The minute I saw that couple kissing on the television in the hospital waiting room, I could sense him perking up like a hound dog catching a scent. Frankly, I'd expected him to try to kiss me during the high school reunion in Kroner. I'd felt that same alertness pass through his body as we watched couples kiss that night. It's difficult to watch everyone else do something and not feel an urge to comply. I resisted that night, refusing to turn to look at him. But tonight...tonight I felt warm and happy and weak from worry and adrenaline draining out the bottom of my feet. I wanted to know he was alive. That I was alive. The only person I wanted to be kissing tonight was Mulder. I knew that the moment I saw his head tip down to me. I welcomed his kiss. It felt...nice. With any other man, a kiss may lead to complications. But I know I can count on Mulder to keep the distance I need for as long as I need it. "Scully?" He breaks into my thoughts. "Yes, Mulder?" "You didn't have to do this. I could have gotten a ride from Skinner." He seems worried. I'm puzzled. "That's okay, Mulder. I want to make sure your bandage is clean before you go to bed. God knows what you got in that cut." Sounding slightly peeved, he says, "You seem all right after your brush with..." He trails off. "The undead," I finish calmly. I can feel his sweet smile in the dark, brought on by my acknowledgment of the paranormal possibilities. He gets sentimental about the oddest things. Briskly, I add as I pull up to his building, "Too late. Here we are." "Uh-huh," he mumbles. Those pills are doing their job. Good. The order of business is getting him out of his clothes and in bed as soon as possible. Will his pajamas be too hot or should I just leave him in his boxers? I muse as I steer the big sleepy puppy he's become up the stairs and into the elevator. I experienced a slight fever after being scratched, despite the antibiotic course I started. I'm concerned about his reaction: he was exposed to the infection for a longer period of time before he received treatment. Perhaps I should spend the night in case he develops fever-induced delusions. As the elevator rises, he clutches the wall. "Are you sure you feel all right, Mulder?" He nods. "Yeah. Just a little dizzy." I fuss, "That's not all right." Up on my toes so I can run my fingers through his soft hair, I try to determine if his forehead is hot. Like a fretful toddler, he flinches away. That's not like him at all. I'm sure he's hiding something from me. Furrowing my brow, I give him my most threatening look. He complies immediately, dipping his head so I can reach his forehead. I resist an odd urge to press my lips to it. Isn't there an old wives' tale about determining temperature by placing your lips on a forehead? The elevator doors open just as I decide he's only being a pain in the ass and not suffering from some malady. I lead him into his apartment and hurry him down the hall to the dark bedroom as he mumbles, "Uh...Scully?" After I get him in the bedroom, I can't let him escape. Barring the doorway with my body, I say, "Mulder, you need to get in bed right now. We've had the longest day of our lives. Trust me. As soon as your head hits the pillow, you'll be out." He hasn't tried to resist, so far, but I know not to trust him when it comes to guarding his health. He stops by his bed, docile. He glances over at me. The silly, wide grin that he's worn on and off since the stroke of midnight fills his face again. "If you say so." He doesn't think I know his medical reactions by now? I flip the light switch and a small bedside lamp comes on. I look for a switch for the overhead light and find none. "Mulder?" He glances over at me. "Oh. It burned out, so I just plugged the lamp into the outlet connected to the light switch." Frowning as I unclip his sling and carefully remove it, I resentfully ruminate about tall people that don't take advantage of their height to change light bulbs. "Keep it bent," I admonish him as he tries to move his arm and then winces with pain. I peer under the bandage. It looks good-- very little bleeding, no swelling around the stitches. Mulder always heals like a dog, but there's a first time for everything. Fortunately, this doesn't appear to be that time, but it bears watching. I nod with satisfaction. Mulder remains quiet, staying still for my ministrations. "The shirt," I say. "The shirt?" He's speaking so low he has to bend to whisper in my ear. He must be tired. I tug it loose from his pants before he can protest. Sometimes he decides to be ridiculously shy when I need to do this. But when I go to pull it higher, I realize we have a problem. I don't want him to move his injured arm. I'll need him to raise his good arm straight above his head to be able to get the shirt loose of his body. But when he does, at my suggestion, I can't pull the shirt off. I'm too short. "Stay right there," I tell him as I clamber up on his bed and stand. Thankfully he seems to have gotten rid of that waterbed he claimed to own last year. I didn't really believe him but it would have been very difficult to balance on. Triumphant, I pull his shirt up and over his good arm and then ease it down so he can remove it over his injured arm. Trying to balance in my heels on his soft comforter is difficult and I reach out to steady myself against his bare back. He jumps at my touch. I must have startled him. My ankle gives way and I start to go down, frantically reaching out to catch my balance on his firm shoulders. He's moved out of my reach and I collapse awkwardly onto the mattress, which momentarily knocks the breath out of me. "Scully!" He's concerned and turns. "I--" I forget what I was going to say. I know I meant to say something. But it's fled my mind. When I landed, my legs ended up spread open, my feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. Mulder is standing between my legs. With his shirt off. The low light from the lamp catches his ivory-smooth edges for a pleasing chiaroscuro effect. My own half-dressed David. I have an overwhelming urge to snap my legs shut like scissors but he's in the way. And I don't want him to think I find anything unsettling about this position. He's staring right into my eyes. I match his gaze. I want to shift my eyes and plan an escape route. But somehow I feel that if I do, he wins. What, I'm not sure. I manage to force a lump the size of a grapefruit down my throat. That big grin is forming again, now like a tidal wave bearing down on my addled senses. "Scully, can I ask you something?" I have to speak. He'll think something's wrong with me if I don't speak. But concentrating on his warm eyes, controlling my legs and speaking seems to be two tasks too many at this point. I can do this. "Whaa--" He lightly grips my bare ankle over my pump. His fingers stroke at my skin in what I might call a caress, if I were to be that fanciful. Foolishly, I stripped my knee- highs earlier and now I miss them like I'd miss body-armor while under fire from an AK-47. He bends slightly at the waist. "How do you run in these heels?" His fingertip gently taps the heel of my shoe. That wasn't what I expected him to say. Not at all. What did I expect him to ask? He raises a brow. He wants an answer. An answer. "It's...it's not that difficult." I gargle out around the rind of that grapefruit. "With practice." He grins with all his teeth. "Nothing's difficult with enough practice." What was he asking again? Why am I here? Struggling up on my elbows, I decide to think over these complexities later. "You need to get in bed," I declare. His tongue flicks out to lick his lower lip. He reminds me, oh, so briefly, of a wolf licking his chops. "Someone's in my bed," he murmurs. "I know that!" I steam. "I can't seem to--" "Let me help you," he offers, reaching out with a large hand. I don't want to touch him. I must not touch him. Something bad will happen if I touch him. My legs have begun to quake from being held so wide for so long. My eyes are shifting now, looking anywhere but at the sprinkling of dark hairs on his chest, his glowing eyes or glistening teeth. I've never seen Mulder like this. Ever. Those moments in our first year and a half of working together, when he'd make me uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time by standing too close--when his eyes would sparkle in bemusement- -those were different. He'd been trying to seduce me into seeing things his way. As soon as he figured out it was never going to work and got down to the business of getting the cases solved, that shit stopped. This is different. There's not an X-file in sight, other than the mystery of why I can't seem to get off his bed. His soft, Mulder-scented bed. He helps me. With just his one good arm, he scoops me up like the rag doll I've become, setting me down on my feet. It seems the game is over. His voice is tight and low. "Thanks for the ride, Scully. I can get my pants off myself. It's late. You've had a long day, too." He pushes me down the hall towards the front door. "You should go home and get some sleep, yourself." We're at the door and I gasp for breath. "My coat--" "Yes, let me get your coat." He whirls to find it. The lump is back in my throat, forcing ridiculous tears to linger under my lids, threatening to fall for some odd reason. He comes back with the coat clutched against his bare chest, his face as sober as an altar boy's. "Thanks again, Scully." He's leaning past me to turn the doorknob. It's my turn. I have to take my turn or default the game. No matter how scary the game got when I was a kid, I never backed down. I can't leave him this dejected. Next move. When he shifts his eyes up from the door, I catch his gaze. My heart has become a herd of gazelles, bounding off across the savanna, away from the loping cheetah of fear. With a deep, painful gulp, I swallow that lump down and settle my mouth on his. This time, I breathe out, asking. This time, he parts his lips slightly to accept my breath. This time, I tilt my head slightly to swim deeper into his mouth, pressing until his mouth opens. This time, I lead with my tongue, stroking and teasing his bashful mouth to let me enter briefly. Then my natural shyness snatches up my boldness and scurries back from whence it came. I think he likes that because his tongue follows mine and I'm convinced to come back out to play. A thumping under my palm startles me. Under my hand, the beating of his heart has increased to a frantic, animalistic rate. His skin is warm and soft. But it's bare and that's a whole other step beyond this point, a simple kiss in his entryway. With regret, I pull back and so does he. This time his smile is sad. I have to make that grin come back. I love that grin. "The world didn't end, Mulder," I reassure him again. His lips, soft and slightly swollen from our kiss, spread out to reveal his glistening teeth. The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement and his gaze begins to dance in time to my flip-flopping heart. The grin is back, right where it belongs. That kiss was very nice. Very, very nice. But now I need to take some time and absorb this new information. I say regretfully as I press my forehead to his, "You need to get some rest." "I do?" There's a bit of a whine there. "Uh-huh," I assure him. Shutting the door firmly, then taking his hand, once again I lead him down the hallway to his bedroom. End (1/2) End of the World by bugs (2/2) NC-17; see part 1 for content warnings. ~~~~~*~~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~~ He stops by the bed, seeming to hesitate, uncertain. I reach for his belt buckle and his hand closes over mine. "I can do it," he says quickly. "I don't want you to strain your arm," I say stiffly. His teeth flash at me in the low light. "I'll try not to." His pants drop to the floor and after he steps out of them, I pick them up and shake them out. "Where's your pile for dry cleaning?" I ask, wrinkling my nose at the moldy, musty odor coming off the fabric. "In the closet." As I poke around in the dark closet, trying to figure out which pile is 'safe to wear again', 'dry cleaning', or 'have destroyed by the CDC', I can hear a drawer frantically being pulled open and slammed shut. Now what's he up to? When I finally get rid of the pants and turn around, he's trying to drag a fresh pair of boxers up and over his lean butt, shining gold in the soft light. His flanks are cool when I help him and seem to ripple under my touch as though they're being tickled. What an odd place to be ticklish. When my hands reach around to tug the waistband up snug, he steps away from me. Fine. Always has to show he can take care of himself. But who was the one cowering in the shadows while I busted through a window to save that well-toned ass? He really *is* tired. His voice is completely dead when he says, "Thank you, Scully." "You're welcome, Mulder." I'm suddenly, completely exhausted as well. My shoulders droop and I can't help but let out a huge sigh. He turns quickly. "Are you okay, Scully?" I shrug. "I'm fine. Tired." Slowly, he says, "Yes...you should stay here. You shouldn't try to drive all the way home." Nodding, I agree. "You're right. You have an extra pillow and blanket?" "Scullee..." He has that warm caramel tone in his voice that appeals to my sweet tooth every time. "Sleep with me in the bed. You were beaten up pretty bad yourself. You're sore. The last thing you need to do is spend the night trapped in that lumpy old sofa." His face has that innocent blankness, but I still squint at him to try to discern deceit. He blinks, once. Dryly, I comment, "That sofa was good enough for you all these years--" Quickly he cuts in. "I've turned over a new leaf. Time to start acting normally." I can only raise a brow to that suggestion. Finally, I say, "I suppose you're right. If I won't be imposing." "Oh, no, Scully. Don't worry about that," he states sincerely. I vacillate for only a moment. His bed looks so soft and inviting. After snapping off the lamp, I slowly undress. Now that I've allowed myself to stop worrying about him long enough to listen to my body, exhaustion creeps through my veins, deadening my limbs. In the darkness, Mulder stands close, whisper-light fingertips tracing the marks left on my bare shoulder and neck by the deputy. His voice is choked as he says, "He hurt you. He could have killed you." Moving to the bureau, I can only nod in agreement as I rummage through a drawer to find a clean tee shirt. I unsnap my bra and lay it with clothes I've piled on top of some boxes stacked against the wall. I'm getting ready for bed and Mulder's in the room. Oddly, I don't feel uncomfortable. I pull the shirt over my head, tugging it down to cover my butt. It's large enough to swirl around me like a soft, sweet-smelling cloak. "This was a good idea, Mulder," I say as we slip under the covers. "With me in the bed, you won't roll over on your arm." Settling on his side, he lays his injured arm over my body. "Yes." There's a resigned tone in his voice. I begin to doze off, warm and safe. Just as I'm drifting down to sleep, Mulder rolls away with a groan. I wake instantly. What's he doing now? He's lying on his back staring at the ceiling. "Mulder?" "I'm fine." "You're going to be in pain sleeping like that," I say as I tug his torso up off the mattress. I push my pillow under his shoulders and have to lean over him to pull it even from the other side. His mouth is at my ear. "Scully?" I lean back and notice his bristly hair is still standing on end from when I removed his shirt. Smoothing it down carefully, I respond, "Yes?" "What are you doing?" Each word slams out of him like a closing door. Meeting his intense gaze, I settle back to rest lightly on his thighs. "I'm trying to elevate your injury." His lips twitch as though he's trying to hold in a laugh but then he shakes his head, his eyes bitter black. "Will you be honest with me, Scully? For me?" I'm confused. "What do you mean?" "I want you to answer this question. What's a man to think?" His eyes are now searching my face. "About what?" I'm tired and cranky and really don't want to take the time for one of his long, intense discussions. He starts one anyway, carefully saying, "Use your rational, analytical mind. What does this all add up to? A woman touches a man in intimate ways, kisses him, undresses in front of him, snoogles..." Frustrated, I cut him off. "I do not snoogle! Whatever that is." He rolls us quickly and suddenly he's on top of me. "This is snoogling," he murmurs. I have no answer to that. "What do you think any other man would do?" His eyes are flickering like flames. "Don't you consider me a real man?" Now, from anyone else, that comment would cause me to sneer at his fragile male ego. But this is Mulder. He's slowly settled his weight on me. Not enough to suffocate me, but enough to make me keenly aware of his size and heat. Even so lightly, his groin is brushing between my legs with every breath we take. If I were to slightly tip my hips, contact would be made. "I'm as much of a feminist as the next guy"--this earns him a raised eyebrow--"But a man can only take so much." Oh good Lord. I open my mouth to give him a sharp retort from a 'real' feminist, and he cuts me off. "Seven years is a long time, Scully." Oh? And who's setting a time schedule? His eyes narrow and the whites glisten like pearls. "I'll tell you what, Scully, you can just lie back and try to decide if your laptop is going to explode when you turn it on Monday and I'll go about my business." That comment gets both eyebrows raised. Try as it might, my brain, exhausted, its folds seemingly as flat as a punctured tire, can't expand to imagine what he's planning to do next. But I am concerned, somewhat. This isn't the Mulder I know. This is a man with his face but I've never seen these expressions play across them. Crafty. Needy. Wanting. Lustful. I frantically remember that unsettling, repetitive dream of another encounter with a Not Mulder in this room. But more frightening is my complete confidence that this is my Mulder. While I've been fretting, he's begun to awkwardly crawl down my body. His voice muffled under the covers, he says, "I won't even take your clothes off. But I need to do this." Do what? Oh. Well... This being my Mulder and knowing how fragile his self-esteem can be, I'm reluctant to stop him. I wouldn't want to embarrass him when he obviously intends to be kind. His good hand sweeps up the tee shirt, revealing my belly to the cold air. "You don't need to say anything, do anything..." I do something. I raise my knees, creating a tent so he can breath under there. I feel his teeth against my inner thigh. "Thank you. That helps." His breath is on the crotch of my panties. I reach down to push them free but his hand stills me. "I told you. Clothes on. Then you can go to sleep and pretend like nothing happened." I'm not sure how to respond to that but I stop taking off my underwear. With a boyish glee, he says, "Look what I found!" As his mouth settles in the crevice between my crotch and inner thigh I know what he's discovered. His tongue swirls around a mole that is hidden there. Panting, he moans, "A secret. I found out one of your secrets." I don't know about that. Just because I'm not in the habit of telling people I have a mole near my genitalia... He's sucking it. No man has ever done that. I'm tingling at the ends of my toes and fingers. I want to ask him to move his mouth slightly to the right, but I really can't... I think he reads my mind. Thank God for the 100% cotton crotch in my panties. His strong tongue can push at my labia. His mouth can drink me in, wringing my moisture from the cloth. It buffers the edges of his teeth as he nips lightly at my clitoris with just enough pressure... Like a sharp slap, I come hard and fast--disappointingly. It's been a while--what did I expect? I end up dazed and slightly confused as he crawls back up my body. In the dimness, he looms over me, the silly grin back once again. His fingertip traces my lax features. "My New Year's resolution was to put that expression on your face." He cranes his head to look at the alarm clock. "And I did it at 2:24 am on the very first day." I wait and here it comes. "Cool." My only response is a hitch of a sigh as I wiggle out of my panties. They're drenched and uncomfortable as the moisture cools. All right, so things moved ahead a little quicker than I intended. But his eyelids are drifting shut as he settles down on the bed beside me and I think I'm going to gain some breathing room to figure out what the fuck to do about this latest development. "Go to sleep," I admonish him gently. His head nestles into his pillows. "Uh-huh." Light trickles into the room through the open door. A light is on in the front room. I should get up and turn it off. I'd hate Mulder to wake up early. He needs his rest. But I'm too tired myself, so I snuggle up close to him, watching his peaceful face, tracing the line of hair down over his bare chest until it disappears beneath the sheet. Poor guy still has an erection. He seems to have those quite a bit after suffering an injury. Must be a fear reflex for males. Or at least Mulder. It seems that nearly every time I've visited him in the hospital I've had to ignore a lump under his sheet. Now that I think about it, I was rather selfish. Bang and no thank you, sir. He deserves some relief as well. It wouldn't really be going any further than we've already gone. Tit for tat- -that's all. Carefully, I place my lips on his left pectoral. No reaction. He's dead to the world. If I do this right, I may be able to alleviate his distress without waking him. The tip of my tongue follows the path of the fine hairs. He tastes of sweat, left to absorb into his skin. I don't mind. It is the taste of my Mulder, not some guy I met at a bar with his scrubbed clean surface and perfumed pores. After a moment's hesitation spent worrying at his bellybutton, I push down the sheet to his knees. I'm concerned he'll become cold. Thinking on it, I decide to risk pushing his boxers down over his half-mast erection and testicles. First nipping at the hard points of his hipbones, I then run my mouth along the baby-soft skin of his groin under the slight swell of his belly. I love that texture. So delicate and tender for a male but contrasted by the other side of this man: his pubic hair, a wild, coarse bramble, and his thickening erection. It's as hard and strong as a root, yet sheathed in that tender skin. Pleased little gasps come from above my head, but when I raise my gaze, his eyes are still shut, his mouth loose. I'm exhilarated. I'm making Mulder happy. I settle my mouth over the plump head of his penis. He's moaning my name now, not the cries of a runaway nightmare, but a joyous sound. Still concerned about disturbing his sleep, I suck delicately as if I was trying not to make an unseemly slurping noise while I sip the dregs of a drink through a straw. Something warns me that I'm being watched. When I glance up, he's propped his head up and I catch him with a wolf-grin on his mouth. I must look ridiculous. The head of his cock in my mouth, with big, round, cartoon eyes blinking up at him. I suspect he's been awake the entire time. Reflexively, I tighten my mouth. His hips surge off the bed with a guttural cry. In front of my eyes, his civilized exterior falls away and a large, dark beast is coming at me, blocking out the light. Concerned, I struggle away, only to have him snag and pin me beneath him with his weight. With one blinking of my eyelids, my resistance runs off into the dark woods like the scared little girl it is. I'll let her get back to me after she's contemplated all the possible ramifications of pulling Mulder down on top of me. In the meantime, I'll just start touching and kissing him in as many places as possible. Now I return his stare and in each moment we hold eye contact, our systems seem to be exchanging a rapid dialogue in a language I can't follow. Gold, green, brown, gray--each color is an exotic code for my senses. My heart starts thumping loud and strong, like a primitive drum, urging us onward. He grunts with satisfaction when I open my thighs for his insistent hand. His fingers settle between my folds, touching, stroking, probing, stretching my aching flesh. His mouth has descended with his body, tearing at my lips, forcing his way in. His hips follow his hand, and I can feel his penis nudging at my opening. Whimpering, I push back. I'm too excited, too overwrought. He only manages halfway into me before he settles into a thrusting rhythm. This won't do at all. He may be satisfied, but I certainly am not. I can feel my internal muscles contracting, clamoring for his thickness. He has to hold himself up with his one good arm, so I raise my hips for the best possible angle for deeper entry, snake my arms around his neck, wrap my legs around his waist and tighten them, pulling him the rest of the way in. He gasps out, high-pitched and frightened. I like that sound. I want to hear it again. I tighten my muscles around his cock and I get my wish. "Scully." More amazed than when he's asking me to look at some paranormal occurrence, with more reverence than any spaceship has ever elicited, he whispers again, "Scully." His strong thrusts push me to the end of the bed and my head falls over the edge. My eyes roll back in my head, and the rush of blood floods my brain, completely drowning any last minute concerns. My grip keeps him tight against me. If I let him thrust fully, he might escape my clasp. We must stay together. It's the end of the world and we must be as one. The thick base of his cock is rubbing against my labia, his pelvic bone lightly stroking my clit with each thrust, and his taut balls thump above my tingling anus. His pelt of pubic hair rubs on my thighs and moans like a big cat seeking a caress. I'm usually a woman who requires at least twenty minutes of carefully orchestrated clitoral stimulation but this seems to be working fine. I feel sudden, ridiculous excitement and anxiety. We have to hurry! We might be late for class! My mother might hear us! Skinner needs that report right now! The world is imploding! I'm dripping sweat and shivering with cold all at the same time, he's gasping and gurgling and he keeps rubbing everything perfectly. My legs hold him tight against me to make sure he doesn't get any bright ideas about changing his rhythm. I squeeze his cock as hard as I can for compensation. Being a tight little bitch has its advantages. He starts swiveling his hips to give me more of a screw than a thrust and I think I've died and gone to heaven. He somehow gets his head under the huge tee shirt. I look as though some creature possesses me and now he wants to burst out. His hair pokes out the neck and his teeth are chewing at my collarbone, his back humped up like a turtle. And he just keeps rubbing against me. There's no smoothness to this. Or can't I catch his rhythm because my head has fallen off the edge of the bed again and drool is starting to come out of my mouth? My neck is killing me, so I raise my head just in time to see Mulder's eyes glowing out of the neck of the shirt like a green- eyed wild canine peering from his den. I think it's that expression that does me in. I recognize my mate in that look. I let my head fall back and howl like a she-wolf, long and loud. I've let go of his neck but I'm still trapped within the possessed shirt, my now limp and sated body lifted off the mattress as he rumbles and bucks like a stampeding buffalo. He gives a roar with his last powerful thrusts before collapsing with a cute little whimper. I cannot--will not move. Mulder seems to be of the same opinion. The only movement is the rise and fall of our chests in an attempt to breathe. Somehow he gets himself free from the shirt and starts to drag me to the head of the bed with his uninjured arm. "Mulder...your arm," I offer weakly. "I feel great. Everything feels great," he mumbles as he struggles with the comforter, trying to get us under it. I think he succeeds. I only know that I now wake up aching, confused, to his laugh in my ear. I remain very, very still, reviewing carefully these events of the first early dawn of the new millennium. His laugh dies in his throat. Slowly he asks, "Well, did the world end this time?" I stop all rational thought processes, roll over and kiss him until he responds with vigor. When I have him properly, finally, speechless, I answer, "No, it didn't." The grin appears on his stubble-sharp cheeks. I suggest, "But we could try again. Who knows? Maybe this time we can get the earth to spin off its axis." End (2/2)