TITLE: MELTDOWN                                
AUTHOR: Blackwood
CATEGORY: MSR Vignette, RST
RATING: NC17
SPOILERS: Nothing significant, but set between all-things and
Requiem.
SUMMARY: Altruism has definite rewards.
DISCLAIMER: By law, Mulder & Scully belong to Murdoch and Carter who
give them license. By artistic right, Mulder & Scully belong to
Duchovny and Anderson who give them life. Me? I just give 'em a
break. No infringement intended on them or on any other trademarked
name used herein. Skip this one if you're under 18.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For those of you waiting for a sequel to "Ancient
Mariner," this must serve until the muse grants otherwise. I'm using
Carter's timestamp from The Pilot indicating March 1992 as Mulder and
Scully's first Bellefleur case, making them partners for eight years
in May 2000. All my love and thanks to Musea for planting and
nuturing ideas, providing exemplary beta and sending inspirational
e-mail attachments. And since I can not pay in gratitude, I must pay
in kind. This one's for you. 


MELTDOWN
by Blackwood

"Mulder, it's me."

"Scully?"

"You were expecting Devon the umm, *adult* entertainer?"

"Ooooh. Somebody's been browsing."

"I'm not living on Walden Pond, you know. I know what's out there."

"Really?"

"Quit while you're ahead. Her name, Mulder. That's all I know about
it. Her *name.*"

"Sure. I'll play along. So, what's new pussycat?"

"Mulder--"

"Oh, all right. Killjoy." I clear my throat. "So, Agent Scully,
what can I do for you this fine Sunday morning?"

"Well, *Agent* Mulder, you can get over here and help me finish
dipping Oreos."

"Huh?"

"I promised Mom I'd prepare something for the church fundraiser
tonight and I'm still not ready. I got sidetracked by Father McCue
after Mass, and now I'm sitting with a kitchen full of Oreos,
Ghirardelli chocolate and--"

"I'm there," I interrupt and disconnect.

She's probably still standing there, phone in hand, ticked with me
and completely unaware that the thought of her, food prep and a
kitchen table just did a strange little number on my dick. No
matter. I just got out of the shower, but I ditch the towel clutched
at my hips and throw on the nearest clothes I can find before bolting
out the door, keys in hand. Never let it be said that I'm not a
first-class partner, always ready to assist in whatever problems
Scully might be experiencing.

Irregular patches of blue show through dissipating cloud cover,
streets washed clean by morning rain. I can hear Scully admonishing
me to be more careful as I span Alexandria in record time. I attempt
a short cut but get snared in cathedral traffic letting out. Spooky
intuition is great on open highways and on foot, but lousy in Sunday
morning traffic.

I'm impatient and annoyed with the beat cop who flags me to a stop
with a wary look at my government plates while she crosses a bunch of
good church-goers to the parking lot. My backwash of guilt is a mix
of honest contrition and sexual bravado in fantasizing about the
booty action I'm hoping to initiate with my partner this afternoon.

"Hey, we're grown-ups," I feel like shouting out my open window. 
"We're allowed." Yes, we crossed that damned line a while ago. 
Well, a few weeks. So okay, three times if you count a certain
heated phone call. We haven't had much time or opportunity of late
and it's been a while. Frankly, I'm still worried Scully'll wake up
one morning, smack her forehead, think "Idiot!" to herself and say,
"Mulder, this isn't going to work."

We're new at this. Not inexperienced, mind you, just new with one
another. I shouldn't be so transparent, but having sampled the
goods, I find myself a little distracted by things I'd normally be
able to ignore. Wishing and hoping are a lot different from having. 
Trust me. I've had. Me want cookie.

I cross the bridge from Arlington to Georgetown and find a parking
spot, glory be, only a block and a half from Scully's. I pop in an
Altoid and check my face in the rear-view before exiting the car. 
Damn, unshaved. I could do a Remington right here, but...no. Maybe
Scully will like me this way. We'll just have to see.

The sun breaks through as I jog down Potomac, dreary blacktop
becoming diamond-studded road as sunlight glistens off wet pavement. 
I feel younger and lighter in spirit than I have in years. After so
much anguish this winter, I'm finally free to move on with my life
with Scully by my side. I dash through the puddles that dapple the
asphalt, spattering silver spray against my legs.

A Georgetown coed with a blonde ponytail runs opposite me. She gives
me the once-over as we pass one another. We both look back (I *am*
still human) and, swear to God, she winks at me. Ahh, I'm feeling
chipper at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. The sweet scent of cut
grass is in the air, kids are playing at the grammar school and the
Yankees are already leading the boys of summer. Spring is here and
even not-so-young men's fancies turn to love on days like this.

I turn the corner onto Scully's street and sprint the last ten yards
to her building, taking the stairs in two bounds. I key past the
security door and consider letting myself into her apartment without
knocking, hoping to surprise my beauty. Early on in our partnership
we exchanged keys, but I've only used hers in extreme situations. 
Even now, I hesitate to enter without her express permission. Like I
said, this -- familiarity -- is new for us.

On the other hand, I can picture her deep in thought and cooking. I
could creep up behind her... oh God. Flashback to me taking Scully
from behind, her firm little ass tucked right up against my belly as
I slide in... and out...and... Jesus, Mary and Joseph and I'm not
even Catholic. I slouch against the doorframe and knock, weakly, too
absorbed in my impromptu memory to do much more.

"Just a minute!" a familiar contralto calls out. I listen for the
click of Scullyheels against the wood floor, but there's no sound. 
Sneakers? I glance down, suddenly aware of my own attire: black
sweatpants, an old blue polo and an unzipped wind jacket. Hardly GQ.
I've never worried about my appearance in front of Scully before and
I'd hate to think we're going to get stupid just because we've
started having sex. I repeat those last four words to myself and a
shit-eating grin plasters itself on my face. Still, I don't want to
take Scully for granted. Maybe I should have--

Grblpshaw. For the record: one Oxford educated psychologist turned
into a tongue-tied adolescent by the sight of a beautiful woman. 
Well, not just any woman. I mean, it's Scully but, she's barefoot. 
As in no shoes, no mega-heels or demi-boots or flats or pumps. No
socks, no stockings, no thigh-highs, no nothing. Just ten tiny
Scully tootsies brazenly pointing at me. Unpainted. Barenaked toes.
Nude digits. Help.

"Mulder?"

I lift my eyes in slo-mo, taking in every inch of faded bootleg
jeans, one shapely knee just visible through a threadbare tear. One
of *my* wayward white dress shirts hangs to her thighs, concealing
her best assets. Yeah, I'm smiling now and Scully's giving me one of
her patented what-*are*-you doing looks. Her hair is shoved into a
blue clippy thing, little shoots poking out at odd angles. A
half-eaten licorice is in her hand and she lifts the red twist to her
mouth and sucks on it. Hoo boy.

"Hey," I manage to say with some composure as I breeze by her. Get a
grip, Fox. Round One - Scully's. Round Two will be mine. "Sounded
interesting over here. How can I help?" 

"You can start by taking off your shoes."

I pause mid-step and turn to face her. The thrill of hearing Scully
asking me to take off *anything* is a turn-on all by itself. But,
shoes? Then I see her expression. Totally serious, so I look down. 
My runners are wet from my youthful antics and there are tracks on
her shiny floor. Uh-oh.

I toe off the sneaks and Scully heads into the kitchen. She hands
off a dishtowel and I toss it onto the bare-wood floor, pushing it
around a bit with my foot, over the places where I saw the tracks. 
My mother did teach her boy a thing or two about manners and the last
thing I want to do is rile Scully. Especially now.

I hook shot the dirty towel into her sink and survey her domain. 
There are two packages of Oreos stacked on the counter beside several
gold-wrapped bars of Ghirardelli's chocolate. Two cookie sheets
lined with waxed paper sit side-by-side on the large wooden table,
also covered with waxed paper, along with a dish of M&Ms, some
utensils and a straw mat. So tidy, my Scully. Must be the
pathologist in her.

The smell of melting chocolate wafts past my nose and I inhale
deeply. I'm a sucker for sweets and Scully knows it -- ice cream
sundaes, chocolate pudding with whipped cream, Boston creme pie from
Nance's Bakery on the Vineyard. Anything chocolate will do it for
me, anything with chocolate in it or on it. Anything. You think...
whoa, Fox. Slow down. Your partner's on a mission and won't
tolerate deviations. Just, maybe, a single deviant.

I turn and flash her my most innocent grin, prepared to lay some
compliment on her just to soften her up. That's when she says,
"How's your dip technique, Mulder?"

Shit. The base of my dick jumps and I'm standing here like a fool
with my mouth open. She approaches and slips her small, strong hands
around the posts that sit at the top of her ladder-back kitchen
chairs. My eyes widen as I blink in rapid succession and reply in a
voice I haven't heard since I was sixteen. "My *dip* technique?" 
Brain to dick: dip, fool, as in fondue; not dip, as into Scully. Now
recover, boy, and pronto. Masculine pride is at stake. And I did
say that Round Two would be mine, didn't I?

I conceal my surprise with a smooth move of my own. I pout. It's
unfair, really. I've gotten away with so much crap in my life just
because I've got a good face. Anybody born with good looks knows it.
They just won't admit how much they enjoy the power or depend on it.
I know how to play things to my advantage and I'm feeling a little
guilty using this knowledge on her, but hey-- Don't tell me she
doesn't know exactly what she's doing fondling those chair posts,
walking around without shoes.

I see the rapid double blink of her eyes. Mark and advance, verbally
that is. My eyes narrow and I reply, "I've been told it's pretty
good, actually. Of course, I haven't done much *dipping* lately, so
I'm a little rusty, but it's not the sort of thing one forgets." I
wag a brow in triumph. Round Two secure.

But Scully is nothing, if not cool. "No, Mulder," she retorts in an
off-handed way. "I don't suppose you have been-- dipping. I, on the
other hand, have much experience in dipping; and today you and I are
going to dip together." Her hands leave the chair and she moves
towards me and around my back as I stand rooted to the spot, not
breathing.

She's out of my line of sight for two seconds max, but the brush of
her fingers across my ass registers an urgent message to my brain and
my dick simultaneously. They're gone before I can react and she's
already on the opposite side of the table. Fucking aging hormones. 
Or aging fucking hormones. Take your pick. Scully just took Round
Three. Ding.

She's facing the stove and stirring the pot with the melting
chocolate. "You might want to take off that jacket, Mulder. This
could get a bit messy."

"Oh, I don't mind messy," I assure her with a low croon. Her
stirring slows only a bit and then she turns, wooden spoon poised in
midair, liquid chocolate dribbling back into the enameled cookware.

"Let's get started then," she coos back, a twinkle in her eyes and a
small smile on her lips before she turns back to the simmering pan.

I inhale and exhale and make my way around the table. I'm half an
arm's length away from her when she steps beyond my reach. She grabs
the cookies from the counter and turns, lifting her face to me. 
"First, you watch. Then, you do," she advises in a sultry tone as
she presses the plastic tray into my waiting, Scully-less hands. All
at once, I'm flushed just thinking about what I might watch Scully
do. I lose track of who's winning the round. Frankly, I'm beginning
to think there's not gonna be a loser.

"Anything you say," I murmur and the tip of her tongue gently pressed
against her upper lip belies her serene exterior. Her shoulders rise
and fall with her breath and she blushes. We face one another,
unmoving. Her eyes are so blue and I spy the minute vacillations of
her irises as she focuses intently on me. What do you see Scully? 
Do you see me? Really? As I am? I'm no prize, no matter how good
it looks on the outside. My breath comes quicker, anticipating her
response. My heartbeat is slightly elevated, as is another part of
me, waiting for a signal that she wants this to move forward.

"In that case," she says softly, "pay attention." She turns towards
the table and I sigh, eyes closing. One step at a time, Fox. I lay
the cookies on the table and shrug off my jacket, throwing it across
the back of a chair before I sit. Meanwhile, Scully shifts past me
and is back with the saucepan of melted chocolate in her hand.

Setting it on the straw mat, she picks up a sleeve of Oreos. 
"Observe and learn," she says in her best Quantico voice. She tips
the sleeve and allows a few cookies to pitch into the gooey brown
substance that coats and fills the pot. Chocolate oozes around the
edges of the textured wafers and a stray bubble erupts with a lazy
burp at the surface of the confection.

Scully submerges them into the goo with a fork, then fishes them out
one at a time. She holds each cookie just above the surface, liquid
cocoa dribbling off the edges while her lips move in an unvoiced
"1..2..3." She places the coated Oreos onto the waiting baking
sheets, then gives me a look of modest victory. "There!" she chimes
and I'm pleased such a small thing makes her happy. I have to smile.

"Another Scully job, perfectly executed," I commend.

"Not done yet."

"What's left?"

"Finesse," she replies and reaching across the table, she grabs the
candy dish. With precision, she impresses a few M&Ms into the
still-wet surface of each treat. Wonder if Scully would buy my
green-M&Ms-as-aphrodisiac theory. She's smiling to herself and for a
moment I imagine her as a little girl: task oriented, focused,
responsible. Like she is now, only with braided pigtails and skinned
knees. Basic nature is set by age five, or so says Sigmund. I
agree.

Glistening circles make for an ordered row. Scully moves with
unhurried grace, her inner nature and years of training an automatic
given in every move she makes, in every thought that fills her
complex mind. Whatever Scully does, she does because it's what she's
decided is the best course of action after careful consideration.

"You know," I comment as she finishes off another row, "this is nice,
but a total waste of time."

"Oh, really?" she says with a sidelong glance at me.

"Sure. Oreo is basic eating. I think it's a food group, actually. 
Meat, vegetables, Oreos. The simpler, the better." She waits and
watches me, a small smile on that luscious mouth.

"Here," I say and grab a cookie from the sleeve. "Observe and
learn," I parrot with a little moue. I lift the cookie and point it
at her before chomping it in two, then shoving the rest into my mouth
and devouring both posthaste. I swallow. "Got milk?"

"Fridge," she says, shaking her head.

I stand and grab two mugs from her cupboard. Hey, they match. I set
them down, then cross to the refrigerator. Opening the door, I lift
a white plastic jug of skim milk aloft.

"This," I declare, "is not milk."

Her eyes challenge. "Check the door, smarty." I do and am surprised
to find a paper quart of whole milk there, not even two percent. 
Scully's been paying attention. I like that. I like having someone
thinking about me and what I like. I could get used to that.

I take out both containers. "Thank you," she says as I pour out a
mug of skim for Ms. Healthy Choice and a mug of the good stuff for
me. Cartons returned to the fridge, I pull up a chair next to Scully
and just watch her, my eyes following the patrician line of her nose
across the full mouth and sculpted chin. The collar of my shirt on
her is open several buttons and if I tilt my head just so, I can see
the beautiful line of her neck, the fine bones of her clavicle and
the swell of a lace-covered breast. Scully is petite, but potent in
many, many ways.

I don't think she minds my open adulation but I still redden when she
turns her head towards me and catches me staring. "Sorry," I murmur,
eyes averting hers.

"For what?" she asks with sincerity, and I realize for the umpteenth
time that things are different now. We've been playing it coy for so
long, I'm not sure I even know how to *be* direct with her. But I'll
give it a go.

I look back at her. "For staring."

"Are you?"

"Huh?"

"Staring. You say you're sorry for staring, Mulder. But you're not,
really."

"Staring?" She faces me fully and I watch her brow crinkle and her
mouth purse at my parry. She steps between the open vee of my legs
and I look up into her face.

"You watch me all the time," she says in a calm voice, her hands on
my shoulders. "I just never said anything about it before." I'm
about to argue, but she places a light hand over my mouth. "It's
okay. I like it."

"You do?" I whisper against her fingers.

She nods. "Um-hmm. So many people look at me, but they don't really
see me. Not like you do. Nobody looks at me the way you do,
Mulder."

There's a glib remark poised on my tongue, but her sudden serious
observation and the tenderness in her tone renders me speechless. 
"Scully," I begin then stop, taken aback by the rush of feeling that
squeezes my chest.

Then the sparkle returns to her eyes and she's playful again. 
Picking up a cookie, she holds it between us. "It's obvious that,
for all your fancy education, you haven't a clue as to how to eat an
Oreo properly."

Back in familiar territory, I can breathe again. "Forgot to tell
you. I skipped Cookie 101 at Oxford. Heard it was overrated."

"I thought they're called biscuits in England."

"Po-tay-to. Po-tah-to."

"More like carriages and prams, isn't it? Or movies and cinema."

"Or sex and--"

"Stop there, Mulder. And no, I don't need to know all the British
vocab that goes with it. Not at a moment."

"Am I hearing a 'maybe later' in that clause?"

"Maybe. But, right now you need a lesson in dipping."

I lean towards her and with deliberate intent say, "Teach me." Her
eyes widen, her lips part and she takes in a quick breath, releasing
it just as quickly. Nothin' but net, Fox.

She says nothing. Instead, she moves closer to consider me, then
settles herself astride my lap. A sweet ache settles in my groin, my
pulse notches up and my hands close around her thighs. Scully's legs
wrap around my calves and itty-bitty toenails slip beneath the ankle
elastic of my sweats, tickling the hairs on my legs.

She holds the *biscuit* between us and with a slow twist, separates
the top wafer from the bottom with her other hand. "Perfect," she
coos and I have to agree. The circle of soft sugar isn't marred in
the least.

Her head drops back and she lifts the cookie to her mouth, eyelids
falling closed. I'm about to make a smart-ass remark to offset my
growing physical discomfort, but fall mute at the sight of Scully's
pink tongue, the tip gliding around the perimeter of the snowy cream,
followed by a second, rougher swipe with the flat of her tongue. She
holds it to her lips and laps at the sweetness a few times.

I never thought of Scully as cruel until now, but she's killing me. 
I draw in a breath and release it in a rush. Her eyes open halfway
and she stops. She says, "You can blink now," then turns away from
me; but not before I see the suppressed grin on her face.

Oh, so that's how it is, is it?

No more points for you, Scully. Grabbing a cookie-wielding hand with
my own, I hold it steady between us. I wait until she meets my eyes
again. Damn. I didn't think my partner of eight years could still
surprise me, but the smoldering look she gives me sends a shiver down
my spine. All at once, my mid-life hormones catch up to my boyish
imagination. The effect is predictable and Mr. Mulder rises to the
occasion.

"There *is* another way to eat an Oreo, you know," I tell her. "The
classic Oreo technique." I guide her hand to the still brimming mug
beside me.

"Mulder--" she warns.

Scully once told me I'm left of center and slightly obsessive. I
don't deny it. She, on the other hand, is just this side of
conservative and her neat and tidy ways could use a little loosening
up. After all, certain things in life are just more fun when you
aren't worried about staying prim and proper. Eating cookies is
*one* of them.

"How's your dip technique, Scully?" I ask before plunging the cookie,
along with our fingers, into my mug. Milk sloshes up and over the
sides onto the table.

"Mulder!" she cries, but her ire is insincere.

The cookie emerges, the ridges of dark wafer coated in creamy
translucence. I lift our hands to my mouth and before Scully can
object, I wrap my lips around both cookie and fingers. Hard biscuit
has turned soft, heavy with moisture, and the wet sugar mass
dissolves on my tongue. Closing my eyes to better savor the texture
of the sweets and my sweet, I suck down the morsel, the cookie
replaced, bit by bit, by Scully's fingers against my tongue. I suck
on *them,* savoring the lingering taste of chocolate and cream and
Scully combined.

She draws back her hand to toy with my lower lip, wet with milk. Her
finger slides back and forth, back and forth. "Not bad form, but a
little uncontrolled," she chides. Her words are a little breathy.

My hands move to her waist as I arch a brow and smile. "Seem to
recall that you *like* uncontrolled."

Her finger stops. "It has a place," she responds, mischief in her
eyes. She caresses my cheek and I kiss the palm of her hand before
she lets it fall along my neckline.

She lifts the remaining chocolate wafer between us with her opposite
hand. She looks at me and I spy a glimmer of hesitation. Then it's
gone, replaced by an impish smile. Placing the cookie between her
teeth, her lips close halfway around it and she leans in, her hands
on my chest. I smile and take up the other half in similar manner.

I tug to draw her closer, but she resists. I tug again and she
resists, still. So I bite. Scully falls back, a little sound of
consternation escaping her. A split-second later, I lean in and bite
again, grabbing her face with my hands and claiming the rest of the
visible wafer and her lips with my own. She tries to pull away, but
I hold her fast. She chortles against my mouth, vibrations thrumming
from her as I try to kiss her and we swallow cookies at the same
time. Trust me, it isn't easy, especially since I'm trying not to
laugh, too.

All at once, it turns serious. Her tongue retreats even as mine
advances, breaching her lips to thoroughly explore her mouth. She
tastes like cookies and candy and sex waiting to happen. An arm
wraps around my waist, while the other traces the outline of my ear. 
I release the clip in her hair and it skitters to the floor. Silky
strands glide around my hand and I tangle my fingers in them. A moan
catches in her throat and she pushes against the leg joists of the
chair, rising to seek quarter over me. I let her.

I tip my face upwards and she claims me. I'm breathless and shaky by
the time her head lifts. Scully's hair is tousled and her lips are
swollen, begging to be kissed again. She's softly panting as she
looks into my eyes and I'm mute, held captive in the gold-flecked
blue of her eyes. Alien conspiracies, serial killer profiles and FBI
investigative protocol I can spew without a thought but sentimental
words, the kind most woman like to hear, don't come easy.

I should say *something,* only my lust-addled brain isn't capable of
stringing together a simple sentence. Instead, my hands delve under
crisp cotton that smells newly ironed, rising along the crease of her
back until they reach the clasp of her bra.

"Mmm-ulder, yes," she murmurs, then drops her head to me -- moist,
soft lips, kissing again and again. Ahh, Scully, you taste so good. 
My erection pushes against boxers and sweats, straining towards the
coveted triangle of warmth between her thighs. A half-groan escapes
me in frustration as the clasp refuses to open. This is Victoria's
real secret. Scully pulls back and settles back onto my thighs.

"Patience is a virtue," she remands with a knowing look. Her hands
disappear behind her and beneath the fabric. "Possess it if you
can." Her hands move back in front. "It's seldom found in woman..."
Inscrutable feminine gymnastics, loose sleeves and thirty seconds
later, she's holding a scrap of white in her hand. "And never in a
man," she finishes with a slow shake of her head.

"Fucking amazing," I say with genuine awe before I grab the lacy
garment from her and toss it aside.

"Yes, you are," she says and I can't help but beam at her. She
places her arms around my neck and the kiss we exchange is gentle and
warm and tender. She rests her cheek on my shoulder, one hand
tracing circles over my heart. I kiss her forehead and we sit like
that for half a minute, just listening to the clock on the wall, our
breath coming into sync with its steady tick... tick... tick... 

It's very pleasant, but I'm ready to get down.

You think Scully would mind if we skipped foreplay and I took her
right here on the table? All right, sue me for being a heterosexual
human male. It's just that I'm eager to know what "Sunday afternoon
on the kitchen table Scully" feels like, as opposed to "Tuesday
morning in my rumpled bed Scully" or "Friday night on my leather
couch Scully." This could take a bit of time and research. Yeah, I
know, but somebody has to do it.

I peer into the sleeve rolled up to her elbow. "You have any other
tricks up *my* sleeve, Scully?"

"Only one." She shifts off my lap to stand before me.

"Which would be?" I ask, watching her finger the placket of the
shirt.

"The disappearing shirt," she says low.

Desire surges, honey sweet, warm and sticky. Meanwhile she stands
there and unbuttons. When she's done, my shirt hangs open on her
small frame and I see the curve of a now-naked breast peeking from
beneath the starched fabric. I reach for the edges of the garment to
draw her back between my legs.

I tell myself take it slow. The first time, we'd barely joined when
she cried out my name, disbelief and joy on her flushed face as she
climaxed scant seconds before me. We fell asleep in my bed, but she
was gone before I awoke. The second time we explored one another's
sensitive places and I began my catalog for future reference. Slower
has its own charm, to be sure, and I'm game for just about
everything. Like phone calls, particularly one late night/early
morning repartee that began with me wooing her from a sound sleep
with love whispered like sin until her sighs echoed in my head like a
siren's call and I could only imagine what she was doing to make the
airwaves hum between us.

My hands alight on her shoulders, pushing aside the fabric until it
drops down her back. It puddles around her waist, over still-sleeved
arms. Her hands rest on my forearms and either she's trembling or I
am. I don't know which since I'm equally caught in this moment when
there is nothing and no one but the two of us in this space and time.

Her arms drop to her sides and the shirt flutters to the floor. It's
not like I haven't seen Scully naked before, but knowing that I can
watch, can touch, can taste is erotic in a way I didn't anticipate. 
I trace the contours of her shoulders with my hands, down her arms,
savoring the way she quivers, her chest rising and falling with rapid
breaths. The backs of my fingers rise along her stomach and over her
breasts, the hard ridge of knuckles brushing the tips once, then
twice, before turning inwards to mold themselves around succulent
breasts, thumbs stroking the hardened, rosied tips. She drops her
head back onto her shoulders, taking in a shuddered breath and
releasing it.

God, I did that. Am doing that. A fire sparks in my belly and I
stand, forcing her to step backwards. I take her by the waist and
her soft gasp resonates as I lift and turn us towards the table with
minimal effort. Her hands wrap around the table's edge as she pushes
up and back and I step between her legs, thighs pressed to the
immovable furniture.

Scully's hands rise to grip my forearms, nails prickling through
coarse hairs. Her right thigh rests against my left hip and my hand
slides around and under, holding her there. She leans back, elbows
supporting her weight, between the finished treats to her right and
the unused ingredients to her left. 

Gotta admire those master craftsman. This table is antique, solid
oak and rock steady. Not a creak to be heard. The waxed paper is
another story. It shifts beneath her, rustling complaint. Jeez. I
reach around and behind her to scatter as much paper as I can away
from her onto the floor. Neatness does *not* count here.

She's giggling as she watches me. I stop and she worries her lower
lip. I want to taste it again. "Okay?" I ask, searching her eyes. 
She blinks at me once, slowly, then curls her free leg around my
waist, the heel of her foot on my ass urging me forward. See? I
told you, Scully. We don't need no stinkin' workshops. We
communicate fine.

Grabbing her hips, I pull her flush against me, hard. We both groan
at the contact and breathe a little harder. Her jeans are loose and
shabby in the best way possible, fabric thin in all the right places.
Her softness yields to the firm bulge of my crotch. Scully sighs
again, making a little sound that sets the crowd in the back of my
mind to cheering "Go."

I shift forward, leaning my weight onto my left forearm while the
other hand slides up the smooth skin of her back to support as I ease
her down. She arches up at me as cool wood meets warm flesh, then
relaxes until she lies waiting before me, a veritable Scully feast.

I straighten, palms pressed to the table on either side of her while
I observe. Afternoon sunlight, thick and mellow, suffuses the room
and I realize I've never seen her in the, excuse the pun, bare light
of day. Her hair fans out like flame against the golden grain of the
table and her alabaster skin fairly glows. Maybe I *don't* want to
rush this. Besides, she's only half-naked and I, only barefoot. You
don't need an advanced degree to know there's something wrong with
this picture.

My gaze sweeps upwards over luscious, peaked breasts to the graceful
curve of her neck and shoulders. Scully is Venetian marble in the
flesh, the rose stain of her cheeks a shade darker than the pink
flush of her chest. Freckles concealed on her face dust her arms and
there's a small mole on her left breast. Her right hand settles at
the waistband of her jeans, thumb hooked inside, neatly manicured
fingers splayed over the vertical row of brass buttons that deny me
access to the rest of her. The other hand is flung over her head,
relaxed, palm upward. It's a pretty picture and my eyes follow the
line of her hand.

That's when I spy it. The pan of melted chocolate beside her. I did
say how much I loved chocolate, didn't I? Anything with chocolate in
it or *on* it? Eyes narrow and lips purse. My gaze shifts back to
Scully's face and I see she's turned her head to see what I'm looking
at. *Her* eyes shift to meet mine.

"You wouldn't," she says, a note of incredulity in her voice as I
lean across her to gingerly dip two fingers into the chocolate to
test its heat. It's already cooling and thickening. Anyone for
dessert?

"Mulder?" she queries.

I lift my fingers and some of the syrup drips back into the pan. 
Scully's eyes waver from my hand to my face and back again.

"Mulder?" she repeats with more insistence.

"C'mon, Scully. It'll be fun," I coax, bringing my right hand
between us, just above her chest. A lopsided dollop of melted
chocolate dribbles onto her right breast. "Ooops," I say before
plunging my fingers into my mouth.

"I can't believe--" she begins, then gasps as my tongue laps up the
unruly candy on the rounded curve of her breast, trailing down across
the full ripeness of her to suckle a nipple. Didn't I say I knew my
manners?

"Mmmuh--" she says. I think it's my name, but I'm not sure. I'm a
little busy. Meanwhile, I reach blindly with my left for the pan,
since I can't see without giving up my newest favorite treat.

I lift my head, about to smear syrup onto her other breast when her
left catches mine, mid-air. Scully's strength is surprising, but I'm
really not opposing her. Looking up, I spy desire and challenge in
her eyes. And indecision. Ironic, when her legs are tensing around
me and she's pressing herself closer against my erection. My hips
pulse against her in a slow, involuntary rhythm that feels so
goddamned good I'd be a millionaire if I could bottle it and sell it
on the Internet.

I guess it helps, because she parts her pretty pink lips and drawing
my hand to her mouth, wraps them around a chocolate-sticky digit. I
feel the suction of her mouth on my middle finger. Good choice,
Scully. You liked that one, as I recall. She finishes with it and
nabs the other. The serene expression on her face as she laps at my
index finger reminds me of the way that talented tongue caressed
another appendage, and my balls begin to ache.

That's when I glance down and notice that her right hand has slipped
lower beneath the waistband of her jeans and is creeping, creeping
southwards. I pull my hand from hers and with both, release five
brassy nubs from their frayed enclosures, one by one. I spread the
closure and there's the flat of her stomach, her navel a shallow dip
cresting above black lace and creamy flesh. I grin like a fool when
I spy her hand beneath the fabric, not above. I wonder how far
she'll go and if I can remain standing when she gets there. That's
when Scully opens her eyes and starts to withdraw her hand.

"Don't stop on my account," I say with sincerity, my hands tugging at
her jeans. She raises her hips and I pull them down partway. A
teasing note creeps in as I add, "I'm just trying to watch and
learn." The blush in her cheeks deepens. I wait, fascinated by the
idea that maybe, just maybe, she'll do this for me.

I cover her hand with mine, my fingers sliding over her fingers. I
drag her panties towards me with the heel of my hand and seek her
with my thumb, fondling in lazy circles. "Show me," I urge, my words
a subtle command. She hesitates and I amend my attitude. Seduction
is like chess, after all -- as much strategy as execution. "What you
did the other night," I entice with the confidence of a
co-conspirator. "When we were on the phone."

Her expression softens as the memory of that night replays in her
eyes. Want and need censure rational thought and the idea that I'm
being manipulative flares and is gone just as quickly. Then I look
into her face. Scully's eyes reflect her remaining doubt and her
anxiety sets me back on my heels. All at once, I don't care if she
does this or not. There's no hurry for this.

"Listen," I say without malice or regret. "Forget it."

I lean back over her to kiss her and savor the feel of our hands
pressed between us. She caresses my cheek and looking into my eyes
says, "No." My eyebrows rise in surprise and my mouth drops open to
speak. "Shhh," she admonishes, placing her thumb across my lips. 
"In my eyes."

A rapid inhale, exhale and I do as I'm told. She rests her free
hand, palm up, across her forehead in a shy gesture. I lose myself
in liquid lapis and wait for what feels like forever. Then her
fingers meet mine and there's a hitch to her breath as she closes her
eyes, telling me she's there with me.

She wets her lips and turns her head to one side. Her lazy movements
are imprecise against my regular ones and for a moment, I think she's
going to stop. But as seconds pass, inhibition yields to arousal. 
The shifting pressure between us stimulates us both and I push
against her to intensify the sensations fluxing through me.

"Lose the shirt," she breathes.

No problem, Scully. My hand leaves her and as I pull the polo over
my head, I glance down. Heat courses through me at the sight of our
bodies pressed together, her hand in the sweetest spot on the planet.
It's almost impossible to look away, but I lift my gaze and content
myself with my hands caressing her breasts.

A soft moan comes from deep inside her and I feel her tempo on
herself becoming more circular and rhythmic. Creating space between
us, my right hand moves from her breast to beneath the elastic of my
sweats and boxer-briefs. I sigh at the familiar contact of hand on
self, a groan at the back of my throat as I slide and pull an already
erect shaft, easing my frustration with a familiar ritual.

She turns her face back to mine and I lean over. Mouths skirmish for
dominance and it looks like sex will be another arena for our usual m.o.
*and* our customary spectacular solve rate. An unexpected twitch
from her ends our kiss and I look into her eyes. Her breath in my
face is slow and deep while I'm panting. "Better ease up on the
trigger, partner..." she murmurs, voice trailing off.

"Should we put the pistol away?" I inquire with an arched brow; ego
challenged but not wounded.

"Not on your life, but maybe you should put the safety on. For now."

"I'll be careful."

"I hope so," she warns, her nails grazing my lower back. "Cause
there's nothing worse than a gun going off before you're ready to
fire."

I quiver and shake my head. "That's a rookie's problem, Scully. I'm
an experienced agent." 

"That may be true, Mulder, but older weapons *can* be temperamental."

I throw her a look of mock disdain. "Not in the right hands."

She arches a brow. "Sounds like you know your weapon."

"Intimately," I chuff at her.

"Lots of practice, then?" she whispers between breaths.

"A shitload of practice," I exhale. "You?"

"I'm afraid... mmmm... I don't pack the same heat-- as you, Mulder."

I sigh and shake my head at her. "Trust me, Scully, you're packing."
Mental foreplay is grossly under-appreciated by the general public,
but not my partner. So, I wait for the sassy comeback.

Instead, there's only her breathing growing more labored. She's
half-listening, eyes half-lidded as she undulates against me. Her
legs grip me and she turns her face away again. Wanton sounds issue
from the back of her throat.

That's it. I don't care if I did promise. With a hand still on
myself, I rise up over her to watch our bodies pressed together. 
Heat ripples through me at the delectable sight of my educated,
cultured, conservative partner pleasuring herself. She doesn't seem
to notice I'm watching her. Or care. Fine with me. I'm tempted to
take myself all the way home, when her voice reaches through my foggy
brain and I hear my name. We stop, both breathing in abnormal
fashion and I open my eyes to see her looking up at me.

"Mulder?" she repeats in a breathy rush.

Damn, Scully. Please tell me quick cause I dunno how long I can
stand here with my dick in my hand instead of in you. "What?" I say,
my tone edgy.

A smile plays on her lips, eyes filled with her affection and lust
for me. I did say I was in control of myself, didn't I? Shit. Her
words are simple. "Take me to bed."

Shut up, Fox. Don't think. Don't talk. *Don't ask questions.* 
Just do what she says. Take her inside, strip off every scrap of
clothing left between you and make love to her until you both can't
walk. Instead, asshole that I am, I say, "You don't like this nice,
sturdy table?"

She gives a little sigh-moan. "It's fine, but I can't check your
weapon like this."

And I thought *I* was witty under pressure. She extricates her hand
and wraps both arms around my neck as she completes her grip around
my waist with her legs. Without a word, I tug her jeans back over
her hips and pull her with me. I grumble as I straighten up, an
uncharacteristic ache in my lower back.

"You okay?" she asks as we fumble towards ecstasy and her bedroom.

"Never better," I say as we fall against the door to her room,
Scully's back to the jamb. I press into her for ten exquisite
seconds, hoisting her higher to improve our point of contact. "You
putting on weight?"

"You gettin' old?"

"Point taken."

"Thank you. Besides, seems to me *you're* the one eating all the
cookies."

"True and I'm saving the best for last. Scully-o's with that nice
creamy center."

"Is that supposed to be witty or snide?" she jibes, but her tone
betrays her good humor.

"Scully," I chortle with amusement as we turn and lurch into her
bedroom. "You've been reading the dictionary again."

"Keep it up, Mulder," she warns.

"I'm trying. Have mercy. I am almost forty."

"But still lookin' good, G-man."

My shins hit the side of her neat little bed and I lower her down,
dropping her the last six inches, so that she cries in surprise. I
straddle her with knees bent, the woodsy scent of her strong in the
space between her neck and the soft cotton comforter and linens that
embrace her while she sleeps. I begin to roll off her, but she yanks
me back, turning towards me. I comply half-way and our legs
entangle. 

I'm a little dazed as deft hands move to my waist and Scully tries to
peel me like a grape, tugging at the elastic waist. After a few
fruitless seconds, she scolds, "You're not cooperating," so I lift my
hips. Flzzz! Thwack! Sweatpants and blue jeans hit the chair in
the corner simultaneously. There ya go, Scully. Another excellent
example of our unspoken communication.

We laugh as we wrangle off my boxers. I try to remove her panties
with my teeth but she gently slaps my face away and shimmies out of
them in five seconds.

"Next time," I growl.

"Only if you're good," she leers. O-kay. I catch my breath as she
twists onto her stomach to grab at the corner of the comforter,
tugging it free and away from under the pillows clustered at the
headboard.

Out of nowhere, I'm struck by the thought that this is virgin
territory. Not Scully, mind you, but her bedroom *and* her bed. 
I've been in here less than a dozen times in seven years and always
for professional reasons, no matter what else I was thinking at the
time. This is her sanctuary -- the sacred, secret repository of her
dreams and her tears, her unrequited passion and the joy of blissful
sleep. The only place truly her own.

It is also the profaned site of her unmitigated terror not so long
ago with Pfaster. Darker thoughts rise unbidden. My profiling
skills are too damned good and the sudden total recall of that
abominable character seeps through the fissures of my ego.

"Scully--" I say with some seriousness.

She turns a worried face over her shoulder at me, "What's wrong?"

My fingers trail down the beautiful curve of her ass to the crease
where her thigh begins. The scent of her arousal is primitive and my
senses overload as I breathe her in, my dick twitching for release. 
From this angle, I spy hair peeking from between her crooked leg and
the barest glimpse of her sex.

Scully rolls to re-face me, the quilt ensconcing her in cottony
softness. I lean in on an elbow and rake a rough hand through her
hair and around her skull to grab the back of her head. Scattered
thoughts of inflicting pain on her pierce my thoughts and I fight the
unwanted lure of dwelling on any number of vile images while in this
state. These are associations I *don't* want to make.

Her breath is quick, confusion and concern in her eyes. I close my
eyes and take in a deep breath, willing Pfaster and all the beasts
that live in my psyche back into their abysmal hellhole, trying to
expel them with a forced exhalation. I don't know how to explain
this or if she'd understand even if I could.

"Scully, I'm not sure I can-- keep the monsters in my mind at bay
and--" I release her and begin to pull away, dismayed with this
sudden twist of events.

Her body is across mine before I've even completely turned from her. 
"You'd never hurt me, Mulder," she says, taking my face between her
hands. She looks into my eyes and adds in an impassioned whisper,
"You're the first person I think about when I wake up in the morning
and the last one before I fall asleep at night."

Surprise must be written in my face because she nods. "You're always
welcome here with me." She kisses my mouth softly and whispers, "And
here," before moving upwards to my cheek. "Here," to my forehead. 
"And here," back down my other cheek. "And *always* here," to my
lips again. Her devotion is a light in my darkness, demons banished
in the wake of her tender ministrations.

We part, the only sound the wet suction of our mouths. Scully sidles
downwards, her lips sliding over my stubbled chin, nuzzling my
throat, her breasts rubbing against my chest. Below the waist, she's
slick and hot as she slides up and down my erect shaft with slow,
sensual movements, my hardness throbbing against her tender center.

"In me," Scully demands in a voice husky with need. "Now," she says
in a tone I dare not dispute. And rolling onto her back, she pulls
me with her, parting her knees to take my body between, her hand
reaching between us to guide me inside her.

Oh. Yes. This is what I remember. This is what I crave. This
tight, wet, hot place that is you and me and me in you; you taking me
in and me filling you up. She takes me all the way in a few slow,
easy arcs of her hips. Sweet aching pleasure floods every nerve
ending, heat radiating to the tips of my fingers and toes. I remind
myself to breathe thinking it can't get any better than this. Then I
move. I pull out of her almost all the way and enter her again in a
slow, steady thrust that doesn't stop until my balls brush her ass
and my eyeballs hit the back of my head.

Feel this with me, Scully-- this sensation, this experience, so
singular that I only remember it while it's happening. My hand moves
back on her, palm pressed to the mound of her pubis, my thumb seeking
through folds to find and circle her engorged clit as I sink into her
love, her heat, her strong small body over and again.

"Beautiful..." I murmur into her hair, wondering how I ever kept my
promise to Skinner to keep my hands to myself. "Goddamned sexy..."
even in her ultra-professional suits, so who could blame me if I laid
my hand as often as I could eight inches above where I really wanted
it. "Need you..." When did she become *my* touchstone? Fucked if I
know, but she's a part of me so intrinsic I can't imagine life
without her. "Love you..." I do, Scully. "No one, but you..." 

Hands clutch and hips gyrate. Breath is stolen between intoxicating,
bruising kisses. We enact nature's primal dance as I enter her again
and again with short, rough strokes. She grinds against me and my
fingers are a blur on her. I get sloppy as the rising tide in my
groin crests and I lose touch with everything except for the
overwhelming vortex of sensation that whirls through me.

"I should-- wait," I grunt with the last vestige of self-control.

"S'ok," she says in a jagged whisper. "Fly."

Two final thrusts and it begins -- a frisson of heat that rises
between us, radiating with lightening speed and power to every
extremity. Throwing back my head, I cry out like some primeval beast
and give in to the fire that fluxes like glory through every particle
of my being. Crimson blossoms explode behind tight-shut eyelids. My
heart pounds, pumping oxygen-rich blood through dilated veins and
arteries while my lungs gasp for needed fuel to sustain the moment
divinity and mortality collide. The peak overtakes me and I feel the
rush of semen that I wish could bring her heart's desire.

I enfold her in a tight embrace, my climax fading in slow arcs of
feeling. I move with some lethargy, still pushing into her while she
continues to move against me, on the brink of her own orgasm. She
sighs, "Stay with me," then reaches between us, her fingers sliding
around my hand.

I pull out and enter her with my index and middle fingers while she
finds her clit. A few awkward moments of hands colliding and
shifting into better position and then we find our stride. Scully
hums to herself as she rides further, higher and tighter without
releasing. I watch the intense concentration on her face with awe,
but there's something I want to do for her.

Sliding down her body, I slip my head between her parted knees and
she strains upwards against the bolster of the bed, so that she's
half reclining, half sitting. I kiss the back of her hand. "Let
me," I murmur, and her hand drops back to rest on her inner thigh. 
She closes her eyes, sinking into the pillows. Her breasts heave and
I'm overwhelmed by her trust. Her body has been the target of
ungodly machinations, yet she lies here with me, seeking my touch.

The scent of sex is thick around us and Scully's labia are like
petals of an exotic flower, flaunting its carnal nature by virtue of
the viewer's focus. And now, I'm focused on Scully through an
orgasm-induced stupor. Time takes on a surreal quality and like a
film projected in slow motion, I lower my lips to her. She's moist
and hot under my mouth. When the tip of my tongue snakes out to
touch her clit, she gives a breathy cry and her hands cradle my head.

I read somewhere that a man should trace the alphabet on his lover
during cunnilingus, but I'm supposed to be highly educated. I can do
better than ABC's. So, I tell her in action what I want to say... 
loveyouloveyou... over and over while her hands pull at my hair and I
hold her hips to a slow gyration.

The dark taste of her on my tongue demolishes rational thought and I
forget spelling to simply suckle her. My fingers penetrate and
withdraw and repeat while she pushes against me, her breathy sighs
and moans goading me on. "Yes," she calls to me. "More," with each
thrust of her hips as I coil her tighter and harder.

"Oh!" she cries and I feel the trembling power of her vaginal
contractions below my mouth and around my fingers as her thighs press
into my ears. "Oh my God," she cries. I lick and tease her engorged
sex, sustaining the waves of pleasure that tremor through her
writhing body beneath me. Let me give you this, Scully. I love you.
More than life. I love you.

Her movements ease and I kiss my way back up her stomach and breasts
to take her in my arms. Scully is still enraptured in the miasma of
orgasm, her body trembling as if current is sparking through her. At
last, she sighs her contentment and nestles her cheek on my chest,
throwing a limp arm around me. I grouse a bit because I can't turn
onto my stomach. She ignores me, so I yank a pillow over my eyes and
drift into oblivion.

I don't know whether I've slept minutes or hours when next I open my
eyes, but I'm a little disoriented to see toes just within arm's
reach. Ten perfect Scullytoes with neatly clipped nails are attached
to pale unmarred feet, which is surprising when you consider how much
time she spends in the field, on her feet *and* the height of those
killer heels she sometimes wears.

I'm about to comment on that fact when I feel the unmistakable
pressure of a fingernail running up the bottom of my foot. The
ticklishness is one thing, but the way the sensation makes my dick
jump is startling and I hitch my foot away. 

"Easy, agent," I hear Scully murmur with a hint of humor. "You liked
this last time, remember?"

She's right. I did. Do. Oh my. She's running her hands around my
right ankle and across my instep. I confess I never realized how
sensitive my feet were until Scully got through with them. I don't
know *how* she knew, but after my first foot bath from Scully's
tongue, I discovered an erogenous zone I didn't know I had and I've
been doing research for years.

I lie back and force myself to relax so I don't respond with a
knee-jerk reaction. Scully takes her time and I watch her nude
reclined body beside me. I'm sated and drowsy, but if she keeps on
rubbing my toes the way she is, that is going to change. Her touch
is gentle, but firm. Soft hands caress my tired feet and I'm soothed
and aroused simultaneously. The last time she did this, I tried
reciprocating the gesture, but she stopped me. "This is just for
you," she said. "Something special." I decided to let her win that
particular argument.

She moves lower on the bed until she's perpendicular to me. Taking
my foot between her hands, she slowly kneads the sole, thumbs
pressing in slow circles up and down the length of it. I'm on the
verge of sleep again when her mouth wraps itself around my big toe. 
"Oh yeah," I purr. She sucks on my toe much like I'd like to suckle
her breast right now, only I'm in no position. In fact, I'm at her
mercy and she knows it, which is probably why she's doing this. I'm
happy to throw in the towel.

She trails her tongue from tip to base and moves on to the next
digit. She repeats this performance with each toe and soon, I'm no
longer interested in sleep. I bite my lower lip to keep from
stopping her. The pleasure-pain index in my brain is maxing out from
the arousal/tickle factor. I wonder what I did to earn this. 
Probably nothing, but I don't question good fortune. It's come my
way far too seldom.

She moves to indulge my other foot when the sound of a cordless phone
chirrups at us from the bed stand. I think about not answering, but
the third ring *sounds* insistent, so I stretch out my arm to see if
I can grab it from where I'm laying. If I can reach it without
moving any more than this, it's a sign. My fingers just make it and
I pick up the unit. Scully lifts her head and says, "Don't."

Yes, I'm neurotic, but at least I admit it and my digital
dependencies are all mine. "It might be important," I retort. 
Scully groans her frustration and gestures with her head for me to
answer. I thumb open the line and offer my usual greeting. A cheery
voice sounds in my ears.

"Fox? Is that you?" Shit. It's Margaret Scully.

Sudden and ridiculous guilt washes over me and I sit up, feeling like
a kid, yanking my feet away from Scully's talented mouth. "Yyyeah,
it'sss mmme."

"How are you? It's nice to hear your voice. It's been a while."

Scully scoots closer and is nipping at my toes. "Ummmm... I'm fine,
thank you." Meanwhile, I mouth "Stop it" to the younger Scully
seeking my attention. "Hang on a sec, Mrs. Scully, would you? I'll
get Dana for you." I extend the unit to Scully who climbs me like a
ladder until she's reclining atop me with her head tucked under my
chin, her breasts crushed against my chest and one knee nudging me in
just the right spot. She grabs the phone from me.

"Mom? Oh, Mulder's helping me... Sure, he's a regular pastry chef
... Handy? I guess you could say he's handy in the kitchen, but I'm
teaching him a thing or two." I roll my eyes. "Oh, about six dozen
and fifty black-bottom cupcakes. When do you need them? ... Sure, we
can help out." I grimace. "See you later." She disconnects and
sets the phone beside us, snuggling against me while plucking at my
chest hairs.

"And what have you just gotten me into?" I gripe into the crown of
her head.

"We have to sell our baked goods at the church bazaar for an hour
tonight."

"*Our* baked goods?"

She looks up at me and begs with her eyes. "It's only an hour and
you said you wanted to help." She nuzzles my throat. "C'mon,
Mulder. It'll be-- fun."

Revenge is a dish best served cold and I've just been conned into an
hour of community service. Hey, I know it's my job and I don't mind
helping Scully and her mom, but I want to play. In fact, I'd like
nothing better than to order in Chinese food, feed one another dim
sum with our fingers and maybe convince Scully to try some more
tabletop antics. 

She pushes upwards until her mouth is at my ear. "Tell you what,"
she coos. "I promise only an hour and then we can come back here and
dip again. Sound fair?"

"Well, when you put it that way," I begin.

She chuckles, then runs a cool hand over my stubbled chin. "Mmmmm...
Sexy, but scratchy," she says, then leaves me to pad across the room
and throw on a short black satin kimono. I already miss her body
pressed to mine. Lacing my hands behind my head, I watch her rummage
through her dresser for undergarments and clothing.

"Scully?"

"Yes, Mulder," she singsongs without looking at me. She moves to the
closet, clothing clutched to her body. Opening the door wide, she
looks down to at least fifteen pairs of shoes from what I can see. 
Didn't they used to tie tin cans and shoes to the backs of cars when
people wedded? 

"Marry me," I blurt out before I fully process what I'm saying and my
heart begins to pound.

"Sure, Mulder," she tosses off and I relax. I've kidded her before
about marriage, china patterns and uber-Scullys. She gets that it's
a joke.

I roll onto my side to face her and watch as she holds very still,
then turns to face me, her back pressed to the wall beside the open
door. She looks at me and I read humor and love in her eyes. "Is
that what you want?" she says, her voice expectant.

Whoa. My palms are damp and my skin temperature dips. Three
different witty, disparaging remarks about marriage flash through my
mind. With mouth half open, I pause and realize none of them express
my real feelings. That's when clarity stumbles from the dusty back
passages of my brain into the white light of realization.

I don't want out.

It isn't until she says, "Neither do I," that I realize I've spoken
aloud. "But is that what you really want?" she repeats, considering
me with those beautiful analytical eyes that see into me and lay my
heart wide open.

My voice is barely audible, but I find it and say in as steady a
manner as I can muster, "Yeah. That's what I want." Now for the
tougher part of this exchange: "You?"

"Well," she begins, then pauses again, brows knitting as she ponders
her response. "That seems right," she says at last, then turns and
heads towards the bathroom, clothing in hand.

I fall back into the pillows, dazed. Was that a yes? Never in a
million years could I have anticipated what just transpired, but I
guess that's how it happens, sometimes. I move off the bed and go to
the bathroom door that's open a crack. Water is running, so I tap a
few times on the panel. "Scully?"

"Come in," she answers. I push into the steamy room. She's leaning
over the tub, kimono open and loose on her frame with her hair pushed
away from her face by a velvet band. She's pouring orange goo to the
rising water and bubbles multiply at the splash point while a sweet
citrus odor wafts my way.

We watch one another for a space, while I figure out how to ask her
what she meant in the bedroom without sounding stupid. Stymied, I
rub a hand across my lower face. I tell her, "I'm going home to
change. I'm not fit for company."

"Always for mine," she replies with a nod towards the tub. Uh-huh.

We continue to stare at one another and her expression grows somber.
I take a step towards her and we meet in the middle of the room. I
pull her up onto her toes against me. Scully's mouth will always be
my favorite refuge and my knees grow weak from our long, soulful
kiss. We part, breath coming short for us both. "You're sure?" she
whispers against my mouth and we both know she's asking about the
proposal.

"Yeah. Are you?"

This time there's no hesitation. "Yes, Mulder," she says kissing me
again. "Yes." Two kisses. "Always, yes."

One last kiss and I hug her close to me, my hands tracing up and down
over the slippery fabric at her back. "That's good," I say.

She drops back onto the soles of her feet. "My offer still stands,
you know," she teases with a tip of her head towards the foamy tub.

I watch it fill. It isn't hard for me to imagine Scully and myself
turning wrinkly and squeaky clean together. Definitely tempting, but
we'll never make it to the bazaar if we do. I scrunch up my face and
sigh. "Think I'll add that to my To Do list. Don't wanna rush
things." I look into her upturned face. "You'll start taking me for
granted."

"As if," she chides and slaps my ass, turns me around and shoves me
out of the room. I turn around and she's standing in the doorway,
one hand on the doorknob, the other parallel to the frame. "Lock the
door behind you, would you?" she asks. "And meet me at St. John's at
seven. Basement of the church."

"Basement, huh?" I say edging backwards from her, appraising her
unclothed form beneath the brief robe with an appreciative eye.

"You should find it by instinct," she counters.

"That's not all I can do by instinct, you know."

A slow smile spreads until I've got a thousand watts beaming at me. 
"Show me," she dares then amends just as quickly with, "Later,"
before shutting the door.

I head back to the bedroom to dress and hear Scully call out, "And
Mulder?"

"Yo," I respond, pulling on my boxers.

"Don't wear anything too complicated. I like easy access."

Hot damn. I'm whistling as I throw on sweats and polo. I shove my
feet into stiff sneakers, grab my keys and take the stairs down. 
The air is cooling as early evening decends and I realize I've
forgotten my jacket. Later, I think to myself with a smile, pleased
to have an open invitation to Scully and her home. I enter the car
and flip down the visor. My hair is a bit mussed, but my cheeks are
ruddy. Guess Scully didn't mind me unshaven after all. Hell of a
woman.

I wonder how I'll ever get through sixty minutes of torture at the
bazaar thinking about dipping and Scully-o's and chocolate-covered
breasts every time she makes a sale. Jeez, Scully. What you do to
me. And Oreos. Well, they *are* America's favorite cookie, aren't
they?

And now I understand why.

END
MELTDOWN
by Blackwood

January 2001