Subject: manictuesday Date: Thu, 29 Apr 1999 23:57:17 -0700 From: Trixie To: trixie@wgn.net Fuck. Goddamn mother fucking day from hell. As if yesterday hadn’t been bad enough; as if my waterbed springing a leak, being held up in a bank robbery and nearly DYING for what I personally do not believe was the first time that day wasn’t bad enough. Oh no; today had to get much, MUCH worse. How the hell does it work out in the cosmic scheme of things that Tuesday gets to be worse than Monday? Where is it written that Fox Mulder can’t have one nice, peaceful day? Who decreed on high that I couldn’t rest? Even God got to rest for a God damn day. I sigh, mopping a hand across my face. Not that I’m comparing myself to God; I don’t have =that= much of an ego. If I was God, Monday never would have happened and Tuesday sure as hell wouldn’t have gone the way it did. If there WERE a God, He wouldn’t have allowed the past two days of my life to occur. Scully thinks I’m nuts. I know, not exactly a news flash. She’s thought I was nuts since our first case together. Hell, she’s probably right. But it’s not that she thinks I’m nuts that bothers me; it’s the =reason= she thinks I’m nuts that’s eating at me right now. As I knew she would, she insisted I tell her my whole big ‘theory’ (I swear to God she puts it in quotations when she’s referring to MY theories) about what happened on Monday. I told her how I knew Pam was out there, why I knew Edgar had a bomb. I explained that the phrase ‘he’s got a bomb’ just began running through my head in the middle of that bank. I told her I’d been getting flashes of her face hovering above my head, worried, scared, yelling that she had to get me out of there. I told her of the phantom pain I’d been feeling in my chest, something akin to a heart attack, but too much like the time she’d shot me to be written off. Finally, I’d told her about my waterbed; about how I KNEW my landlord would call and make me pay for it; about how I had the most amazing sense of déjà vu. The =certainty= that it had all happened before, that it was happening again and we were powerless to stop the chain of events until we snapped the chain. And finally, I told her I believed Pam’s death finally snapped the chain. I’d sat in our office, freshly rid of all things Spender and Diana and waited for some kind of reaction from my partner. I’d just told her one hell of a story, even for my standards. She’d blinked. Nothing else; just blinked. I’d raised my eyebrow in response and she’d swallowed. I watched her lick her lips. I watched her straighten her shoulders and sit up a little straighter in the chair before my desk. Then she’d launched into it. ‘You can’t possibly believe . . .’ ‘Even if I were so inclined to believe, the scientific data . . .’ ‘We’ve been through a lot lately; you’re probably just exhausted . . .’ ‘Go home, get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Just like that. She’d dismissed me. I didn’t even hear most of her explanation as to why I’m insane now. I’ve heard it all before. Been there, done that Scully. Why can’t either of us seem to understand that we’ll never agree? Why do I constantly want her to believe me, just ONCE? Why does she always assume one day I’ll see her reasoning, her belief in the scientifically sound answers to the things we see? Putting a halt on that train of thought, I’d come home. I’d kicked off my shoes, stripped off my work clothes and climbed into a hot shower. Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed in blue jeans and a light weight v-necked gray sweater, stretched out on my couch flipping between The History Channel, Animal Planet and The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. Just as I’d lulled myself into an almost restful state, the phone had rung. Mentally, I’d tried to ignore it for half a beat. Whoever it was, they could just go away and deal with me tomorrow. At the rate my week was going, Wednesday would bring along fields of locust. On the fifth ring, I snatched up the phone and mumbled ‘Mulder’ none too enthusiastically. At the familiar tone of ‘Mulder, it’s me,’ I’d sat up a little straighter on the couch, unconsciously adopting an interested pose at the sound of her voice. The conversation was short and to the point; we needed to talk and she was coming over. She’d be there in twenty minutes. That had been seventeen minutes ago and I’m dreading the moment she arrives. It’s not that I don’t want to see her; I do. I always enjoy Scully’s company, even when she’s driving me nuts. It’s just that I’d detected something decidedly foreboding in the way she said ‘we need to talk’. If we’d been dating, I’d be sure she was coming over to break up with me, or suggest we see other people, or, God forbid, ‘still be friends.’ It’s ironic, given the state of our physical relationship (or lack there of) that the thought of her voicing the phrase ‘let’s just be friends, Mulder,’ sends an unpleasant shudder through my body. I will most likely spend the rest of my life as nothing more than her friend. Her good friend, but her friend nonetheless. It really doesn’t bother me as much as it used to; I’ve learned over my life that there’s far more to this world than sex. What Scully and I have really does go beyond that, as cliché as it may be to say it. We have companionship; we have trust; we have a deep friendship. We have something most married couples can’t come anywhere near achieving; we are partners. She is my partner in every way, and I am hers in every way she allows me to be. We have love; platonic love, yes, but love all the same. It’s the kind of love that lasts longer than lifetimes; the kind of love that survives millenniums. She completes me and I don’t think I have sufficient words to tell her how, exactly. So I don’t try; I stopped trying a long time ago. Anything I could say is wholly inadequate to the task set before me. Tell Dana Scully what she means to my life. She IS my life. She has become inexorably twined with every breath I take, every thought I think, every reason I have for being. My work, my soul, my life is wrapped so intricately around hers I firmly believe that if she were to die, my heart would cease to beat right along with hers. Yet I don’t try to take our relationship to any sexual level of intimacy. I don’t make passes at her; don’t try to kiss her. I did once, and look what happened? We both almost died. If that wasn’t a sign, I don’t know what is. She deserves better than me, anyway. If it weren’t for me, for the choices I’ve made in my life, she’d probably be head of the Forensic Pathology Division by now, her sister still alive and well. I don’t tell her I love her. I did it once and it wasn’t met with what I would call elation. I know she believed me to be drugged up; I know she normally would’ve returned the sentiment, as easily as I’d spoken it when I finally got my nerve up. I also know that the words wouldn’t have been followed with anything as trite as a kiss. We would’ve shared those words, shared their meaning, and moved on; continued as we always had, forever in pursuit of the ever elusive truth. And if I lie awake some nights swearing I can hear her breathing, if I never, =ever= consciously fantasize about her, but my dreams are filled with ScullySkin and ScullySweat; If I don’t hear what she’s saying on occasion because I’m too busy staring at her mouth, is that some kind of sin against our partnership? Is that taking the pure, perfect thing we have for granted by WANTING her, by NEEDING her in a way that’s purely physical wrong? I release a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding as I hear a light tap on my door. Scully’s fucking knock doesn’t even sound like anyone else’s. How pathetic is that? I know what her knock sounds like. “Mulder,” her voice calls out softly. I shut my eyes and will the thoughts pervading my senses away. I can’t think about anything unpartnerly while she’s actually in the room; that way leads to madness. “It’s open,” I answer, muting the TV on ‘The History of the Incan People’. She walks in and I take in her appearance; loose black slacks, wine colored sweater, the same style as my own, but shaped so that it compliments the way her body curves in just the right way. It brings out her hair and I find myself having to put up a mental block to keep myself from saying so out loud. That was just one of a thousand things platonic partners weren’t supposed to say to one another. Scully closes the door quietly behind her and moves to the couch, setting her purse on the coffee table as she takes her seat beside me. “What’re you watching?” she asks softly, her eyes drawn to the flickering pictures of an ancient civilization on my TV. “Nothing,” I answer, flipping it off with a flick of my wrist. The silence looms over us for a minute, wrapping itself around us like a suffocating blanket. “So, what’s up?” I ask after it seems she won’t be volunteering the information herself. Her tongue darts out to lick her lower lip and I find myself fascinated by the motion. Catching myself in a lecherous thought, I snap back my control, shifting my shoulders in the unease of the moment; I’m far too close to the rabbit hole tonight, my emotions far too close to the surface to be sharing a quiet couch in my apartment with Dana Scully. “God I don’t know how to do this,” she mutters and it draws me out of my own thoughts and into hers. “I practiced all the way over in the car; I hate people who do that,” she confides to me, her voice that dry, self-deprecating tone I haven’t heard enough of lately. “Scully, whatever it is, you can tell me,” I murmur softly, the nervousness and . . . fear? coming off her in waves. “I know,” she answers, giving me the tenderest smile I’ve ever been the recipient of. “I know,” she repeats again. “I just don’t know how to tell you this particular thing.” I purse my lips for a moment, thinking it over. I don’t think she’s here to tell me she’s quitting the bureau; her spirits are far too high for that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was a little buzzed. She’s definitely wired; something has her almost glowing, like I don’t remember her glowing since we stood in the middle of a graveyard in the pouring rain and laughed our asses off. The neurotic part of my personality still warns me to beware. It names off a thousand scenarios that could destroy me; the most likely of all being that she’s met someone. Someone she’ll let be more than a friend to her. My gut tightens at the thought. Still, I want to give her the best advice I can. “I’ve found in my experience that it’s better to just spit it all out,” I offer, trying to sound impartial, as though whatever she’s about to say ISN’T as important to me as my next breath. “Just spit it all out?” she asks, an eyebrow raised, one corner of her mouth curling up just enough to give away her amusement. I can’t help but smile back at her, the same curling effecting my mouth. “Just spit it out Scully,” I confirm. She nods slowly. “Okay,” she agrees. I am not comforted when I think I hear ‘you asked for it,’ muttered under her breath. She looks up at me, her hands folded in her lap and fixes me with the most serious, intense look I’ve ever seen on her face. “I love you,” she tells me flatly, her voice betraying only a fraction of the emotion she feels. I know, because I’ve heard her use the same voice before, when telling me she knew her father was proud of her. “That love is not exclusively that of a friend and a partner, although it’s certainly a part of it. I love you,” she repeats and I can see how hard this is for her, how hard it is to open herself up while still holding so much in. “Scully,” I whisper, finding that my vocal chords somehow still function. The object of my tumultuous thoughts, however, holds up a hand to forestall any words I might’ve spoken. “Not yet, okay? I just . . . I need to spit this all out,” she tells me, smiling a little wider than before. I return her smile and nod, assuring her I won’t speak again until she wishes me to. Scully finds her strength in silence; I believe she can pretend she’s alone and therefore not putting herself at risk if the party she’s addressing doesn’t speak. I will give her whatever illusion of privacy and safety she needs to get this out. “I don’t know if what we experienced was the last in a long line of moments the same, but different,” she begins anew. It takes me a moment to make the connection between the conversation we had been having in the office, to the conversation we’re having now. “I don’t know if yesterday repeated over and over, or if any of the ghost-like images that flutter through my mind are real.” She licks her lips and takes a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes as glued to mine as mine are to hers. “I only know that real or imagined, I watched your blood stain my hands; I watched it pour out of you at alarming rates as you struggled for every breath. I stared into your eyes and watched the life drain out of you with every second. I felt your heart literally stop beating beneath my hand a moment before all memory I have ceases.” Her eyes are filled with tears, an ocean of blue she refuses to let free. The urge to speak is almost overwhelming. Only the thought of what she needs keep my words at bay. She needs my silence to do this; I will be quiet. I will give her what she needs just one God damn time in our partnership. I will put her first and let her speak her mind without interference. God knows this must be hard for her. I have had enough dreams and realities like she’s describing. Seeing her in the hospital after she was returned, machines breathing for her, her eyes taped shut. Watching her die of Cancer, thinking each time I saw her might be the last. Finding her in that cryo-pod, something alien and inherently evil invading her body as she rested in some kind of liquid suspension. I know how she feels. I have lived it, just as she has a thousand times with me. “I’ve almost lost you before,” she begins again, her voice hoarse. “But for some reason, after all we’ve been through this past year, this time was different.” Her eyes hold mine hostage in a grip I have no desire to ever break. “Over the last few months, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our relationship; more so than usual,” she confides as though that were some kind of joke. “Mostly, it’s been ever since Agent Fowley pulled her re-appearing act in your life.” I freeze at the mention of Diana. God Scully, please don’t tell me this is about Diana; please don’t tell me you’re here because you’re afraid she could hold a candle to you. Please don’t make this about territory and staking your claim because someone from my past came back and you’re insecure. Please, please, please . . . “I almost left you because I allowed her to matter,” she tells me softly, her eyes imploring me to understand. “I allowed her words to undermine me; her beliefs to cloud what I knew to be true. Somewhere inside me, I have always doubted my use to you. I have always doubted whether or not I was actually aiding you all these years, or simply preventing you from realizing your full potential. She voiced so many of my deeply hidden fears that I got spooked. I honestly believed you didn’t need me; that everything I’d brought to the work, everything I’d contributed had been nothing but colossal wastes of both our time.” “Scully, no,” I deny, all thoughts of being silent flying out the window. “Never think that,” I get out before she stills my speech once more, this time with two gentle fingers over my lips. Her smile is adoring this time. “I know,” she whispers. “You set me straight in your hallway, Mulder. That’s not what this is about; I just needed to explain.” Her fingers slowly fall away and she folds her hands in her lap again. I find myself missing the contact of her skin. Before I can stop myself, I stretch my hand out and untangle one of hers, holding it gently on the space between us. She looks up at me and cocks an eyebrow. “What? I’m not talking,” I challenge. I grin and she returns it, chuckling softly. “Anyway,” she continues, keeping her hand in mine, “once Diana showed up, I was threatened. After I was sure how important I was to you professionally, I didn’t understand why I still felt that way. I was honestly that clueless. So I started thinking about us; about our relationship. And while I knew how I felt about you, I didn’t realize how deeply it ran; I honestly didn’t realize what was wrong.” She takes a breath. “I knew she was going to hurt you. I saw a betrayal in the making and I wanted to spare you that so badly. I wanted you to see her for what she was, for what I knew her to be and you refused to. That made me so damned angry Mulder,” she mutters, taking another breath. She shuts her eyes. “But that’s not the point,” she states, as though it were a mantra. “The point is, I was forced to examine my feelings for you when she came into your life again.” “You were right you know,” I say softly, unable to keep quiet about this. Her eyes snap to mine and I can tell she doesn’t mind the interruption so much now. “Care to elaborate?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at me. I smile gently. “You were right about Diana.” I sigh and lean back against the couch, taking her with me because I don’t release her hand. “I was with her that night, the night you called me and told me about the train, because I had been rifling through her apartment, looking for something concrete, something to prove your accusations, one way or another.” I look up at her, begging her understanding. “I had to give her the benefit of the doubt. You hadn’t given me enough to condemn her. But because it was you, I couldn’t ignore it. Anyone else and I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. But you Scully? You made me question someone that might be my oldest living friend. You made me question trust I’d placed in someone before I even knew you.” I take a deep breath, feeling a small weight on my soul lift; finally getting this off my chest is almost cathartic. “But you were right,” I whisper softly, “and I thought you deserved to know that.” I lift my head to get a glimpse of her eyes. She’s staring at me with some kind of dawning realization, her eyes filling with even more tears she doesn’t shed. She swallows deeply and I can see the gargantuan effort it takes her to speak. “I thought you’d lost faith in me,” she whispers and I feel something around the vicinity of my heart clench inside my chest. “Scully,” I whisper, covering the hand I hold with my other. “Scully I could never lose my faith in you,” I promise. “In the world, in myself, in anything but you.” She sniffs loudly and squeezes my hand so tight it almost hurts. She turns her eyes from mine and stares at the hand in her lap, absently picking at invisible bits of lint on her sweater. “Something changed for me in Arcadia,” she begins again after a moment, picking up her original train of thought seamlessly. “I don’t know if it was pretending to be your wife, or having you call me honey or just the idea of us spending the rest of our lives together that did it, but something that’s been brewing for a long time just kind of . . . flicked.” She meets my eyes and sighs, something akin to a laugh leaving her mouth. “I love you,” she says softly, repeating it more for clarification purposes, than anything else. “But over the last two years, I’ve found myself falling in love with you.” The laugh comes again, the slightly insane sound of a woman on the edge. “It scared the hell out of me at first; I didn’t realize what it was. I’d always found you attractive, but . . . this was different. This wasn’t just wondering what the man you work with would be like, this was . . . waiting for the day you’d find out what the man you worked with would be like.” She looks at me for a reaction, to see if I’ve followed her at all. I wish I could give her what she’s looking for. Right now, I’m putting all my energy into breathing properly. Because if she’s going where I think she’s going with this, I have every reason to believe my heart might just stop beating all together. “I guess I’ve taken far too long to say something much simpler than I’m making it out to be,” she mutters. “I love you. I need you. And I want you,” she enunciates carefully, her eyes never once wavering from mine. Before I can begin to process that, she leans forward and presses her lips to mine, lightly at first, testing my reaction. Instinct takes over and I kiss her back, keeping the pressure just as light as she is. Her mouth opens over mine and I’m struck by the absolute perfection of this moment; Scully and I sitting in my apartment, nothing but our hands and lips touching as we share our first kiss. Her tongue runs over the seam of my mouth and before I can fully appreciate it, it’s gone along with her as she moves back to look me in the eye again. “To put a very fine point on it Mulder, I’m here tonight because I want more. I don’t need it,” she clarifies. “What I have with you now is enough to last me my life. It contents me. It makes me happy. And if you can’t give me more, that’s fine. We’ll go on as we always have. But Mulder I want more,” she repeats. “I want more for me, for you and for us.” By the time my brain processes that she’s standing, she’s already halfway to the door. “I laid a lot on you tonight,” she mutters shyly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Think about it. And uh . . . when you come to a conclusion, you know where I’ll be.” She’s gone before I can form the words ‘don’t go’. Jesus H. Christ on a pony, what the fuck just happened here? Staring at the door she exited, I feel my breathing slowly begin to steady out. I shake my head, trying to clear the dust. If she’d just waited a few minutes, I could’ve . . . What? I could’ve told her I loved her. I could’ve told her I’ve been in love with her for years; that I’ve =known= I’ve been in love with her for years. I could’ve told her I want her too. I could’ve grabbed her and whispered how beautiful she is, how sexy. I could’ve told her how fucking incredible that sweater made her hair look and how whenever she put her hair up in that half ponytail it was in, her eyes look innocent and not quite as haunted as they appear most of the time. Before I can stop myself, before I can fully understand what I’m doing, I grab my leather jacket and barrel out the door, only taking the time to grab my keys. The next thing I know I’m in my car and I’m driving like mad to her apartment. I have no idea how long it’s been since she left. I have no idea what I’m going to say or do when I see her. I only know that I can’t let this lie until tomorrow. I can’t calmly rationalize my every emotion for her, can’t treat it like a case I’m profiling. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I see her. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I look into her eyes. I only know that I have to; I have to look into her eyes and breathe in her scent. I need to bask in her essence, feel the calm her presence always brings. I need to say all the things she’s said to me; all the things that have been clawing at the edges of my control to be let loose. And I need to do it tonight. ~~~~ I am breathing hard by the time I reach her door. I parked almost a block away because there was no space by her building. I ran all the way here and up her stairs because the elevator just would’ve taken WAY too long. It’s only after she doesn’t answer her door for almost a minute that I realize I’ve beaten her home. The amusement is almost twisted as the thought occurs. I remove my keys from my jacket pocket and locate hers. Inserting it in the lock, I move through her door and close it behind me. I glance around her living room and raise my eyebrows in interest. She’s taken out her photo albums; her journals as well. They’re strewn over her coffee table and on her floor, putting her apartment into the most disarray I’ve ever known Scully to exist in. Slowly, I head for the couch, perching on the edge of it. My eyes wander to the open album and something inside me catches at what I see. She’s established a chronicle of our partnership over two pages in the beginning of an album. There are only eight pictures covering both pages in the front of the book, but they are all of us, save one, which is only of me. She must’ve taken it while we were in Arcadia; it’s the last in the album and I’m wearing that stupid pink polo shirt with that stupid grin on my face. Feeling only a little guilty, I look to the open journal and read a few words. What is this I’m feeling Mulder? Is this the natural culmination of all the time we’ve spent together, or is it something more? Do I lie away at night and dream of feeling your hands on my bare skin, your breath fanning my face, because you’re the man I spend the most time with? Or have I simply done what I always knew I would if I let my guard down. Have I simply fallen in love with you? I wish you could sort this out for me. I wish you could clarify these emotions that roll within I cannot control. I hate the lack of control. I feel you with me tonight, as I do so many nights. I sit on my couch writing this and I wonder if you could possibly feel the way that I do. I wonder if it’s possible, in this world of infinite possibilities, that we could both be sitting alone, wanting each other, loving each other and both equally terrified to do anything about it. It’s the last entry in this book. I stare at the blank line below her words and I swear I can feel the emotion that must’ve run through her body when she wrote it. I am startled when the door opens. I’m on my feet before she realizes I’m there. She gasps and reaches for her weapon, her reflexes working faster than her mind. She stops when she realizes it’s me and slowly relaxes, her hands dropping to her sides. I walk toward her slowly, almost in a trance. She shed a few tears once she left me; I can tell by the tear tracks. She didn’t sob; she didn’t cry for more than a minute. But it happened and I can tell. Is it good or bad that the expression of whatever she feels for me brings her to tears? “Mulder?” she questions huskily as I stand less than a foot in front of her. I don’t answer. I came here to tell her the contents of my soul; to give words to the emotions I know I can never express verbally. How foolish I was to believe I could stand here with her after what she told me and simply TALK to her. I love her; I want her =more= than I want my next breath. This want could end up being hazardous to her health; could consume her the way it’s consumed me. I don’t deserve her. I know that; I acknowledge it. I spit in the face of that knowledge. I need her. My hand snakes around the back of her neck and I bring her body against mine, her mouth to mine in a gesture frighteningly similar to one I experienced in what she believes to be a dream and I believe to be a rip in time. I wrap my free arm around her waist and I feel both her hands clutching at the fronts of my leather jacket at the sides of our bodies. After a long moment of kissing her, of just feeling her up against me, I pull back, half expecting her to slug me. She stares up at me, her eyes huge and bright, her mouth open and swollen. I stare right back; I imagine my expression almost mirroring hers. I see something shift behind her eyes; surprise gives way to hunger and one of her hands buries itself at the nape of my neck, dragging my head down to hers. Her tongue brushes against my lips for the second time tonight, and I open my mouth above hers, sliding my own into her mouth, stroking alone the insides of her cheeks. She moans and presses herself against me, pushing against my tongue with her own, playing with it. The kiss goes on until we’re forced to break it in order to breathe. She shoves my jacket off in the interim and I go to work on lifting her sweater up. Just as I’ve reached her ribcage, she stills my hands with her own, pulling away just slightly. “Not here,” she whispers, her mouth hot and wet against my neck. “Why the hell not?” I mutter back, curling my fingers against her hips to halt their process, not wanting to stop, knowing I’ll start thinking too much if I do. She stands on her toes and reaches up, pulling my earlobe into her mouth. She bites gently, then laves over my skin with her tongue. “Because,” she whispers huskily, “I want you in my bed.” Letting out a groan I have no hope of containing at her words, I trail my hands slowly down her ass to her thighs, lifting slightly. She gets the message and jumps with me, her legs wrapping around my waist. She giggles against my mouth as this new position places her just slightly above me. Her hands trail up to my cheeks and she holds my face still as she bends her head to place a few very soft, very gentle kisses to my nose, my forehead, my cheeks. I hold her tightly and turn, walking her down her hall and into her bedroom. The feel of Scully’s legs around my waist is not a sensation I’m ready to give up. However, this position is somewhat inconvenient for the things I have in mind for us. I let her slide down my body until her feet touch the floor, then give a gentle push until she’s seated on the bed. I don’t feel right about this, but I’ll be damned if I’m giving up the pleasure of giving Scully pleasure. My doubts and feelings of guilt stemming from childhood and a lifetime of failures and fuck-ups can go take a flying leap. Scully’s faster than I am, I’ll give her that; before I can begin my task of undressing her anew, she’s already working on my belt. Chuckling, I pull my sweater off and toss it into the corner. I try to get her sweater off, but she won’t move her hands away from my pants. I stop thinking about her sweater when her palm covers my erection through the cloth. Something between a moan and a groan leaves my mouth as she slowly rubs her palm back and forth. I lean my head down and look her in the eyes. She’s smiling; more than smiling. Dana Scully is grinning at me. She pulls my pants and boxers off with one fell swoop and they fall to my ankles. I step out of them and before I can so much as take her hair out of the loose ponytail it’s in, she’s on her knees and I can feel her breath against the tip of my cock. She licks her lips, and for the second it takes for them to wrap around me I’m self-conscious about being totally naked while she’s fully dressed and doing this to me. As I feel my cock disappear into the wet warmth of her mouth, I cease to care. Her tongue swirls around me, her mouth lowering with every swipe until her nose brushes against my pubic hair. I let out a moan as she begins to suck, then slowly pulls back until just the tip of my cock is between her lips. Her tongue darts out and circles it, slurping up the bit of moisture beaded on the tip. I could die a happy man right now; I really could. People say that and don’t really mean it. I mean it. If whatever God might exist chose this precise moment to smite me down, I really think my only complaint would be that I didn’t get the chance to return the favor to Scully. That thought prompts my hands to settle themselves on either side of her head. I free her hair from its constraints and let the strands slowly sift through my fingers. I tug at her head gently, needing her to stop. There are too many things I want to do to her body and I need at least a modicum of control to do them. She doesn’t comply with my silent request immediately, but she does eventually stop, sitting back on her heels. She looks up at me from her place on the floor, her mouth swollen, her eyes heavy lidded and hungry, her hair fanned around her face in the most perfect Sex Goddess pose it has ever been my pleasure to witness. I run my fingers through the hair at both her temples, massaging her scalp with my fingertips. Her eyes shut and she leans her head back. Regretfully, I move my hands from her hair to her upper arms, tugging until she stands before me. Smiling into her eyes, I trace my fingertips over the sides of her face. She is so precious to me. She could be a china doll at this moment, her features so still. I know she is not fragile. I know she knows what she’s getting herself into with me. I still can’t help but wish I wasn’t going to be such a handful. I brush her hair behind either ear, assuring nothing obscures my view of her face. My hands slowly slide down her sweater until they reach the hem. I inch her sweater up, taking the time to brush my thumbs over each new bit of skin I encounter. She’s trying not to laugh; I love the way it makes her face glow. Finally, I whip the sweater over her head, my eyes holding hers. I move my hands to the front clasp of her bra, and I notice with more than a touch of distress that they are shaking. Her hands over mine still they’re fumbling. “Let me,” she implores huskily, bringing her hands beneath mine to undo the clasp. She appears to be moving in slow motion to my dazed senses. I barely know what end is up right now. It hasn’t even been a full hour since my entire world spun off its axis. Everything has changed. And it’s wonderful. It’s scary and exhilarating and wonderful. My breath catches as she shrugs out of her bra. She is beautiful; I’ve known this for awhile now. But somehow seeing her when I’m not filled with panic allows my vision to pick up little nuances I’d missed before; the little mole just above her left nipple; the incredibly light sprinkling of freckles between her breasts. I don’t allow myself to touch yet; once I start, I won’t stop and I want her naked. Glad my shaking hands seem to be cooperating, I quickly undo the buttons on her jeans. I tug them down her hips and with a little wiggling on her part, jeans and panties are disposed of and we stand facing one another, naked as the day we were born. I reach a hand out to her face, stroking her cheek with the very tips of my knuckles. I flatten my palm against her cheek, then do the same with my other hand. I lean my forehead against hers, then let my hands wander downward, over her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders, her arms. I stop when I reach her hands and twine our fingers together. “Just in case I haven’t mentioned it recently,” I whisper quietly, our lips barely an inch apart, “I love you. And I want you so much, I ache,” I tell her in a soft, sincere voice I hope conveys even a tenth the emotion I feel for her. “Mulder,” she whispers, brushing our lips together in a feather-light caress, “neither one of us has to ache anymore.” My eyes open and meet hers. “Never again,” she promises me, her hands leaving mine to rest on my shoulders. “Lay down Scully,” I whisper gently, waiting until she’s complied to lie beside her on the bed. I reach my hand over and press my palm flat against her beating heart. I allow myself a moment to soak up the vibration of her life before I brush my fingertips over her collarbones, tracing the path to her shoulders. I prop my head up with one hand, the other given free rein to touch her, to feel the texture of her skin. Inclining my head toward her, I brush my nose over the crook of her neck and press a soft kiss there. I take my time now to prevent myself from weeping; the beauty of this moment is not loss on me, as utterly clueless as I can be at times. I know what this means for me, for her, for us. This is the point of no return; this is the moment we’ve spent the last six plus years working toward. I want this more than I want anything; want her more than I want anything. And I feel as though I don’t deserve a single second of this. I don’t deserve her; I don’t deserve to have her love me, to have her want me. It doesn’t stop me from wanting it, or being damned thankful that I have it. It does cause me a pang or two of guilt. Most of the time I can forget about the horrors that have transpired during our partnership; but there are moments, usually the most inconvenient, where I can’t stop myself from thinking of all the pain I’ve caused her. I can’t help but remember she wouldn’t have gone through ANY of the hell she has if it wasn’t for me. I don’t know if it’s fair to take this next step; I only know that I can’t stop myself. I need her too much. It would kill me to hurt her and I’m terrified that’s exactly what’s going to happen in this new phase to our ever-evolving relationship. I’ve never been good at being someone’s lover. I don’t really even know how. And I want this to work; hell, I =need= this to work. I’m just terrified that it won’t. “Hey Mulder, where are you?” Her voice pulls me out of wherever I had been. I realize I’ve just been combing my fingers through her hair, staring at a patch of skin just above her breasts. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, torn between guilt and embarrassment. “Don’t be sorry,” she whispers, moving her hands to thread through my hair, turning my head to face her. “I just want you here with me. I don’t want anything else but you and me tonight.” She tugs firmly at my head and brings my mouth down on hers. I can’t resist her; don’t want to resist her, so I allow her to chase my doubts and fears away. “I’m here,” I whisper into her mouth, sipping from her lips slowly, lingeringly. “I’m right here,” I mumble, dipping my tongue between her lips to duel with hers. Scully’s hands move to my back and her fingers press into my skin as she pulls on me. Her legs are spread and she urges me to lie between them. I take most of my weight on my arms and kiss her, plundering her mouth with my own, our kisses turning rougher, more intense the longer they go on. I feel her breasts pressing against my chest as she arches her back against me, trying to get closer, her mouth just as hungry as mine. She pulls my lower lip between her teeth and nibbles on it, one of her legs hooking around my hip, her inner thigh rubbing against my outer sending delicious little shivers up and down my spine. Regretfully I abandon her mouth, ignoring the moan of protest she emits, knowing she’ll forgive me in a minute. I trail my lips down her jaw to her neck, nibbling at her flesh until I reach her collarbone. I suck lightly on it, graze my teeth against it, then continue on my way. I press a series of light, fluttering kisses over the freckles between her breasts; each one is paid considerable attention to. Next, I press my lips over that mole; I dart my tongue out and circle it. My mouth has ideas of its own and has soon encased one of her hard nipples in its grip. Her moans encourage me and I suck lightly, then harder as her fingers claw up my back to my hair, holding my head to her breast. I switch sides and pull her other nipple into my mouth, my hand skimming up her ribcage to replace my mouth on her now abandon breast. Using my own saliva as lubrication, I slide my thumb and forefinger over her nipple, twisting gently, rubbing slowly at the same pace I use my tongue on her other. Very gently, I bite down on her nipple and she lets out a whimper. I do it again, a little harder, quickly followed by a long, slow brush of my tongue. I feel a shudder run through her body and I smile, releasing both her nipples. My hands trail down her sides and settle at her hips as my lips blaze a trail, from beneath her breasts, to over her ribs and along her abdomen. My tongue takes a side trip and darts into her belly button, causing her to giggle. I nibble at the skin just below her belly button and she bites her lip, stifling a moan. My thumbs stroke the tops of her thighs in slow, circular little motions as I lick and nibble my way down to her hips. Her legs part further in invitation. I press my cheek against her inner thigh and inhale deeply. I brush my cheeks against her thighs and she lets out another moan as my stubble abrades her sensitive skin. I slide my hands beneath her ass, tilting her hips completely off the bed. I use my thumbs to spread her wide and I blow lightly on her clit. She shudders the most ego-boosting shudder and I simply take a moment to look at her. She’s wet; so wet some distant part of my mind takes a moment to wonder how a sorry son of a bitch like me could possibly bring her to this. Then Scully arches her hips, bringing her wetness in contact with my nose and I stop thinking. Pulling her clit into my mouth, I suck lightly, darting my tongue out to make tiny circular motions on the very tip. Wanting this to last, I flatten my tongue against her and slide it all the way down, then up again, setting up a pattern of slow but firm glides around her. Jesus she tastes good; heady, like wine, but more potent, more addictive than any wine I’ve ever tasted. The sounds she’s making are almost as good as how she tastes. Moans punctuated by whimpers; groans cut off by gasps as I slip my tongue inside her as far as it will go, then withdraw slowly, taking my time to learn every inch of her. I get so lost in her that when she comes, it’s almost a surprise. It’s sudden and I continue what I’m doing, making it last for her, helping her ride out something I judge in my experience to be a fairly violent orgasm. Her nails scrape along my scalp the entire time and I swear to God that she screamed my name. She goes completely boneless beneath me and I spend a few more seconds pressing gentle kisses to her thighs and her hips before resting my cheek against her stomach. Her fingers move to the hair at the base of my neck after a few precious minutes. She tugs firmly, her limbs finally working for her. With all her strength she pulls me up her body, bringing our mouths together again. Her tongue pushes into mine and I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like this; in fact, I know I haven’t. And I never want to be, by anyone but Scully. “Mulder,” she whispers against my mouth, still kissing me, her words coming out breathless and muffled. “Inside me. Now.” Can’t say I have to be told twice. Scully moves her legs until they’re almost level with her shoulders. Her hand comes between us and guides me into her; home. Jesus Christ I feel like I’m home. She’s so wet I slide into her with one thrust and we groan in unison at the feel. Her legs slide down enough to wrap around my lower torso, her hands moving to my shoulder blades. I frame her face with my arms and take the weight of my upper body on them. The tips of her breasts brush against my chest with every thrust and the sensation is incredible. She pulls my head down and kisses me again, sucking on my lower lip, worrying it between her teeth. Her hips move against mine with every thrust like we’ve been doing this forever. “Harder,” she mutters against my lips, her arms holding her to me. I feel her upper back arch off the bed and now I’m supporting my weight and most of hers. It feels fantastic. Her voice is the only thing that keeps me from losing my sense of self. She calls my name; she moans it, she whimpers it, she screams it as she comes again. I’m still thrusting into her, trying to let go of something that won’t let go of me. After a few moments, I realize I’m going to start hurting her at the rate I’m going if I don’t stop. I pull out of her, painfully hard, and roll to my back beside her. I concentrate on the sound of her labored breathing, trying to figure out what the hell’s going on. I’ve never had a problem coming before; not once. “Mulder?” her voice is concerned; she’s worried about me. I feel her hand come to rest on my stomach. “Mulder, what’s wrong?” she asks softly. “Did . . . did I do something?” she asks tentatively, and I want to rip my own heart out for putting her through this. “No,” I whisper, trying very hard to gain control over my emotions as I realize what’s happened; my fucking neurosis. All the doubt, guilt and self-recriminations have returned and rendered me unable to find pleasure, to find any kind of release in her body. It’s completely psychological and even my training gives me no edge over how to change it. “This isn’t you Scully,” I promise her, remembering she’s still there, still waiting. “This is just me. This is my fucked up life.” “Mulder, why did you . . . stop?” she asks, her hand still resting on my abdomen. “Because I was hurting you,” I answer without thought on my part. “No, Mulder, no you weren’t,” she denies vehemently and without a moment’s hesitation. I know she isn’t lying. But that had been the reason I stopped a moment ago. Soul deep fear of hurting her. I don’t deserve her; I don’t deserve the kind of peace I’m sure to find by losing myself in her body. I’m ugly inside and all twisted up due to a lifetime of shit and she doesn’t deserve to have that touch her, doesn’t deserve to have it taint her . . . I don’t realize I’ve been mumbling all of this out loud until I feel her climbing on top of me. She straddles my waist and presses her mouth to mine. When she does, I taste salt and realize I must’ve started crying too. When did I lose all control over what I say, do and think? Before I even know what she’s doing, I’m inside her again and she’s lowering her body over mine. “I love you,” she whispers and I can feel her tears mingle with my own. She peppers butterfly kisses over my face; darts her tongue out to lick away the moisture on my cheeks, my chin, my lips, my nose. All the while, she’s whispering to me. She loves me and she doesn’t blame me, for any of it. It isn’t my fault. She repeats it over and over, the words changing, but the meaning the same. I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear it until she does. “And you’re not ugly inside,” she whispers vehemently, her hands moving over my shoulders. She presses a kiss to each of my closed eyelids, cleaning away the rest of the tears the gesture causes. “You’re beautiful Mulder,” she whispers. “So beautiful,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over my neck, my shoulders, my chest. Her mouth is everywhere, soothing, healing, loving. And I feel her breathe the word ‘beautiful’ over my skin every few seconds. I have no idea when it happened, but our hips are moving together. She’s pushing down against me hard and I’m pushing up with equal strength. She sets up a rhythm; circle, circle, thrust; circle, circle, thrust. It’s fantastic and the climax I hadn’t been able to get near a few minutes ago looms close. Her upper body is pressed to mine and her mouth is by my ear. My hands have somehow landed on her hips, my thumbs absently stroking over her skin. “It’s okay Mulder,” she whispers into my ear. “Let go; let go and come for me.” It’s all the motivation I need. I groan deeply, the sound animalistic to my own ears as I thrust as hard as I can into her warm, welcoming body. An orgasm rips through my being, its power and intensity staggering. It seems to last and last until all I am conscious of is the weight of her body above me, the soft puffing of her breath against the crook of my neck and the peaceful, sated feeling spreading through my body. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her, one of my hands tangling in her hair, the other tracing slow, whisper-soft patterns up and down her spine. “For what?” she asks, brushing the tip of her nose against my jaw, snuggling her body around mine, wrapping me inside her like a blanket. “For fucking this up?” I probe, unwilling to believe this was how she’d imagined tonight. “Mulder, you haven’t fucked anything up,” she mutters tiredly, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “And I don’t have the energy to go into exactly how profound an experience tonight was for me because you’ve tired me out.” She burrows her arms beneath my back, holding me close to her. She finds a place comfortable, her head against my shoulder, her nose buried in the crook of my neck. “Tomorrow before we get up, I promise to tell you all the many exciting and indescribably wonderful ways you’ve changed my life. Then you can make me breakfast and cater to my every whim before we go into work.” Amazingly, she makes me smile; then laugh. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to laugh about this. I must be the luckiest son of a bitch alive. Dana Scully loves me. Dana Scully WANTS me, in spite of myself. There’s just one problem. “Scully?” “Hmm?” “I can’t cook for shit.” A rustling sound echoes through the room, followed by a yelp as she bites my shoulder lightly. “Go to sleep Mulder,” she orders. I reach up and click off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness. I listen to her breath; feel her hair flutter against the tip of my nose every time we breathe. Our heartbeats have become synchronized along with our breathing. I close my eyes and experience an emotion I’ve searched for most of my life. The knowledge of what this emotion is floors me briefly; knowledge I haven’t been able to identify until this precise moment in time. As I fall asleep tonight, I know that I am loved. ~~~~