Subject:Tempest (1/15) by Missy Pennington
From:	josiechung@aol.com (JosieChung)
Date:	21 Oct 1997 05:49:00 GMT

Tempest
by Missy Pennington (josiechung@aol.com)

Classification:  X/S/MSR

Rated:  Strong R for adult language and situations

Summary:  Mulder and Scully survive a plane crash to find 
themselves injured and stranded in the Appalachian wilderness.

Disclaimer: All characters which have been seen or mentioned on 
the X-FILES belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the
FOX network, and are used without permission.  All other characters
are my own imaginings.  I mean no infringement.

This story has been a work in progress for almost a year, and it would
never have gotten finished without the unfailing support and
discerning eyes of some wonderful friends and editors.  My most
heartfelt thanks are extended to Paula Graves, Jenn Francis,
JulietttXF, Paul Leone, Deb Bennett, Alanna Baker, Shari Long, Chris
McNickel, and Andrea Rouleau.

Special thanks to L.C. Brown for loaning me the concept of the 
"Your Fault" game, which she used so charmingly in the story
"Blizzard."


TEMPEST

Character is nurtured midst the tempests of the world.
 -- Goethe


 Hartsfield-Atlanta International Airport
 Monday, April 30
 11:17 A.M.


Dana Scully mindlessly twisted her wrists back and forth inside
the steel handcuffs that bound her, wincing as the unforgiving
metal made yet another scraping pass on her already sensitive
skin.  She hadn't expected it to take so long.  A private plane,
a quick takeoff -- that was what they had promised.  That was
what she had counted on.  It wasn't their fault, she knew. 
Nobody could have foreseen the fog that had rolled in before
dawn.  No one could have predicted the two-hour runway delay. 
But it hadn't been two hours for Scully -- it had been a
lifetime.

She hated being afraid.  Hated it with a passion.  The anxiety of
knowing that everything -- even her own safety -- was too far out of
her own hands.  It made her feel small and vulnerable --
characteristics she'd profaned even as a child.  She had always
preferred to be in control, always chose to take the initiative.
Passivity, her father had told her, only bred dependence and fear, and
like him, she had no use for either.  But she wasn't in control, not
this time.  She had given up that right, agreed to let them call the
shots.  She had willingly made herself a victim.  And God help her,
she was afraid.

Don't think about it, Dana.  Don't think about it....

She settled into the soft seat with a nonchalance she didn't
feel, and picked up a magazine from the pocket in front of her. 
The pages blurred together as she turned them mindlessly.  She
couldn't concentrate on anything except the cold steel of the
handcuffs that bit into her wrists.   

It's all out of your hands, Dana.  It's not in your control....

She gave up -- slapped the magazine closed and tossed it into the
empty seat beside her.  This is ridiculous, she chided herself. You
might as well get over it, Dana.  You've gone too far to stop it now
anyway.  It'll be okay.  It'll have to be okay...

She craned her neck toward the cockpit of the plane, catching a
glimpse of Special Agent Fox Mulder's head over the seat back in
front of her.  Her partner was still engrossed in conversation
with the captain.  He hadn't said a word to her in over an hour,
and that in itself was telling -- testimony to how seriously he
was taking this case.  They rarely passed time in close quarters
without some semblance of small talk, some feeble attempt, at
least, to distract each other from the nightmare of field work
and public transportation.

Desperate for that distraction now, Scully considered calling him back
into the cabin.  Conversation would be a welcome relief for them both,
she knew, but something in his stance kept her from asking.  He was
tense.  Alert.  Standing guard.  He was playing his part as watchdog;
and since he was playing it on her behalf, she kept her silence. 

She sighed and continued to fidget in the wide leather seat,
unable to get comfortable.  A trickle of sweat ran down the back
of her neck.  God, she was hot.  The air vents had been off for
as long as they'd been idling on the runway, nearly two hours
now.  The stillness of the air in the confined space was growing
more uncomfortable by the minute, but it was pointless to
complain -- she couldn't take her jacket off over the handcuffs,
and no one was around to commiserate. 

You're helpless, Dana.  Completely dependent.  

She dropped her head heavily against the seat back, causing an
errant strand of blond hair to fall across her eyes.  Without
thinking, she raised her right hand to tuck it back into
position, wincing as the left hand followed it up automatically
within the confines of the handcuffs.  

The absurdity of the situation hit her all at once.  Blond. 
Handcuffed.  In a confined space.  It sounded like half of
Mulder's apocryphal video library.  She felt a laugh
bubbling in the back of her throat and momentarily considered
giving into the release of nervous tension.  But the sound of a
shot from outside the plane sobered her instantly.

She was completely unarmed.  Heart pounding, she bent forward,
covering her head instinctively.  Hunched over in the small seat, she
listened intently for any sign of approach from outside the plane. 
She heard nothing but silence. 

In a matter of seconds, Mulder was in the cabin.  "Luggage
transport backfired," he told her as he knelt down in the aisle
beside her.  "We're okay, Scully."

She sat up, heart pounding wildly.  For a moment, she couldn't
find her voice to answer him.

"Scully?"  He placed his hand on top of hers, shaking her gently.

"It's okay."  It's not okay.  I hate this.  I don't want to do
this, Mulder.  I want my gun back.  The words spun endlessly in
her mind, but remained unspoken.

Finally, she gave him a feeble smile.  "I'm fine, Mulder."

Of course he didn't believe her.  But his gaze held hers long
enough to search for the truth in her eyes, giving her the
benefit of the doubt.  Finally he nodded and rose, unconvinced,
she knew, but obviously  willing to concede.  When he returned to the
cockpit, leaving her isolated in the cabin once more, she felt utterly
alone in the world. 

But she wasn't alone, and that was the problem.  Somewhere
outside that plane, they were looking for her.

Watching.  

Waiting.  

Making plans.

Scully looked at the handcuffs on her wrists and willed the plane to
start moving.  She hated being afraid.

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

She hadn't been fine, and he knew it.  Hadn't been even remotely
convincing telling him she was.  And still he had walked away
without a backwards glance, bowing to her spoken words rather
than argue about the unspoken ones.  The end result would have
been the same, even if he had chosen to push it.  After four
years of practice, Scully was too good at the argument.

"I'm fine, Mulder."   The words echoed through him.  She'd
uttered the phrase so often, he had no doubt that she believed
it, but to him the words were hollow.  Just one more in a long
line of automated responses that had become habit.  She wasn't
fine -- she was terrified, and that was why he'd given in so
easily.  The uncharacteristic fear in Scully's wide blue eyes had been
just the wellspring of strength that he needed to rise and head back
to the cockpit to resume his watch.  He couldn't protect her in the
cabin. 

He could have distracted her, taken her mind off the fact that
half the world seemed to have a gun pointed at her small blond
head, but distraction was a luxury they couldn't afford.  Every
second they sat on the ground, the noose tightened just a bit. 
Anonymity wouldn't cover them for long; they hadn't taken
precautions against this type of delay.  One observant bystander
was all it would take.  One observant bystander in one of the
busiest airports in the country.  

The clock was running.  He knew it and Scully knew it.  And so
she lied -- and told him she was fine.  And he lied back -- and
acted as though he believed her.  

The irony of it all was not lost on Fox Mulder.  As he walked
away, leaving his partner alone and handcuffed in the cabin, he
couldn't help but wonder how a man who spent his days in pursuit
of the truth had gotten so damn good at blinding himself to it
when he had to.

He stopped at the door of the cockpit, looking through the window over
the shoulder of Captain Daniel Davis.  The young pilot looked up at
Mulder as he returned.

"Agent Scully okay?"

"She's fine," he lied.  There was nothing Davis could do about
it.

"Good.  We should be cleared any minute now."

Mulder watched as one plane after another made it's way into the
clouds.  He nodded in silent agreement.  It had to be their turn
soon.  

"Cessna Citation NS84, you are cleared for takeoff."

Mulder jumped at the announcement, feeling a strange mixture of
relief and anxiety.  Out with the old trauma, in with the new, he
thought.  But nothing was worse than the waiting game.  Once they were
airborne, they could begin to answer some questions.  They could lay
out a game plan.  They could do something to make themselves feel more
in control.

Davis gave Mulder a brief nod, reaching across the agent for the
handset.  "That's us, Agent Mulder.  Go strap yourself in, and
let's get this thing in the air."

Mulder began to back out of the cockpit, then hesitated.  "Where
are we going, Davis?"

The young pilot flushed.  "You know I can't tell you that, Sir. 
Not until we've leveled off."  He looked away, obviously
uncomfortable at having to deny the more experienced special
agent.  

"Bureaucratic bullshit," Mulder said with a small, tight smile. 
"I know it well."

"Yes sir."  Davis grinned an apology.

Mulder was struck once again by the DEA agent's youthful
appearance.  God help us, he thought.  We've put our lives in the
hands of McCauly Culkin.  He eased out of the cockpit, leaving the
young pilot to maneuver the small jet out of Atlanta and toward more
unanswered questions.  

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Scully was already prepared for takeoff when he returned to the
plush interior of the cabin.  Her trademark professionalism was
back in place.  She seemed perfectly calm.  

She looked up at him as he made his way toward her.  "We're
going?"

"Yeah.  Any minute now."

He sat down in the seat across the aisle from her, still unable
after 6 hours to keep from smiling at the sight of Special Agent
Dana Scully as a bleached blond.  The makeup didn't help.  Her
large blue eyes, usually so professionally colored with subtle,
natural shades were now rimmed with heavy black eyeliner.  Her
bowed lips were sticky with lipgloss.

She glared at him, obviously irritated by his amusement.  "One
word and you're a dead man, Mulder."

He held up his hands in protest.  "I didn't say a thing."  Though God
knows I deserve a medal for restraint, he added mentally.

"Yes you did," she grumbled.  

Mulder chuckled, and fastened his seatbelt, listening to the
increasing drone of the engines as the plane rolled slowly out
toward the runway.  He tried several times to maneuver his long
legs into a more comfortable position, but there wasn't one to be
found, and he gave up finally with a grunt of frustration.  Small
private planes, he decided, were obviously not made for tall people.  

He felt, rather than saw, Scully's gaze upon him and looked over
at his petite partner, who seemed to be swimming in leg room.

"Comfy?" she asked innocently.

"Hardly."

"Well then we're even." She held out her hands to him.  "Come on,
Mulder, I'm tired of being 'in custody.'  Get me out of these things."

He shook his head ruefully, acknowledging her plight.  "Can't
risk it.  Not until we're in the air.  You know the drill."

She huffed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes and glared at
him.  "You don't have to sound so happy about it."  

His answering grin only seemed to darken her mood.

As if on cue, the plane began to make its way down the runway,
launching itself into the air with amazingly quiet grace.  Within a
matter of seconds it seemed, they were well within the clouds. 

Wondering at the silence that had fallen between them since
takeoff, Mulder ventured a sideways look across the aisle. 
Scully's eyes were closed, hands clenched together in agitation. It
was obvious she would have been gripping the armrests if the handcuffs
weren't preventing it.  Scully hated to fly, and between the takeoff
and the handcuffs, she had somehow managed to adapt a look that could
only be described at totally disgruntled fear.

Still, Mulder knew it wasn't the flight that was foremost on his
partner's mind.  She had that all-business, let's-examine-this-
from-every-angle look on her face.  She was thinking about
Escabedo.  About the safehouse.  About what would happened next.

What will happen next, he wondered?  God, do I even want to know?

Dreading the conversation they would soon have to start, he
sighed heavily, the sound catching Scully's attention.  

"Did Davis tell you where we're going?"  The plane began to
slowly level out and she raised her hands to him again, her eyes
hopeful.

Okay, enough torture, Mulder thought, as he unfastened his
seatbelt and rose, digging for the key to the handcuffs in his
jacket pocket.  "No.  He won't tell us until we're leveled off. 
I'll head up there in a minute."  He crouched down in the aisle
and took her hands, manipulating the metal cuffs so he could find the
lock.  

When she winced, he stopped instantly. 

"Scully?"  He looked down, seeing for the first time the raw skin
underneath the metal brackets.  His own casual words came rushing back
at him.  *Not until we're in the air.  You know the drill.*

Mulder, you're an asshole.  You didn't even look....

"It's nothing, Mulder."

Another Scully favorite, he thought.  He didn't allow himself to
be appeased this time.  "You should have said something, Scully. I
could have loosened them, at least"

"It's really not that bad, Mulder.  Just some chaffing. 
Handcuffs have a tendency to do that, you know."  She favored him with
a mischievous smile.  "What do you usually do for that?"

He choked at the unexpected question, causing her to laugh out
loud.  He was thoroughly charmed by the moment.  Scully didn't
laugh enough.

Okay, Scully, he thought.  You want to play?  Never let it be
said that Fox Mulder passed up an obvious challenge.  He leaned
in as he inserted the key in the lock, purposefully invading her
personal space.  "So tell me," he began, affecting his best
'what's-your-sign' tone of voice.  "Is it true what they say?  Do
blondes have more fun?"

The handcuffs slipped away and he pocketed them, as Scully rubbed her
wrists gingerly.  She ran slender fingers through her hair, and
hastily removed the brassy blond wig to reveal the soft copper tresses
beneath.  "You're welcome to find out," she replied, unceremoniously
tossing the lifeless hairpiece at him.

He caught it easily.  "Well it's really not my style," he told
her, twisting to drop it into the empty seat behind him.  "But I
must say I'm surprised."

She raised an eyebrow.  "Why?"

He clucked his tongue in exaggerated disapproval.  "Dr. Dana
Scully giving up the chance to irrefutably prove a scientific
theory of this magnitude?"  He turned at started back toward the
cockpit.  "What's the world coming to?"

Her voice followed him up the aisle.  "Mulder, if blond hair or
handcuffs are supposed to be fun, I'm obviously doing both of
them wrong."

So we'll practice--

The words were almost out of his mouth before he caught himself. That
kind of comment wouldn't take them anywhere they needed to go right
now.  They had enough to think about.


 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Mulder entered the cockpit to find Davis grinning at him.

"Eighty seven seconds, Agent Mulder.  What took you so long?"

Mulder chuckled.. "I got delayed by the weather."   He sat down
in the empty co-pilot's seat, taking in the array of gauges and
meters in front of him.  His eyes fell upon the compass reading. "So
we're heading north.  How far north?"

The pilot's hands moved over the controls, casually flipping
switches as he navigated the plane through the cloud coverage.  
He handed Mulder the flight plan.  "Ever been to New Jersey?  I
hear it's lovely this time of year."

Mulder glanced at the paper and affected a horror-stricken look.
"We're going to Tuckerton, New Jersey?  Hell, Davis, what'd we ever do
to you?"

The young agent laughed.  "I don't pick 'em, Agent Mulder -- I'm
just the delivery man."  His smile faded as he looked earnestly
at the FBI agent beside him.  "The team waiting for you in Jersey is
top notch.  Agent Scully couldn't be in better hands--"  He broke off
abruptly.  "Did you hear that?"  His head tilted slightly as he
listened intently, concentrating on the hum of the engines.

"I don't hear anythi--"  Mulder started.

Davis help up a cautionary hand, silencing him.

Mulder looked at him anxiously.  God, that was all they needed --
mechanical problems.

After a tense moment, Davis waved it off.  "Shit, now you've got
*me* paranoid."

Mulder looked at him, warily.  "You sure?"

Davis nodded.  "Yeah.  Everything's fine.   No problem."

Mulder rose from the seat and reached for the door handle. 
"That's what you think."  He opened the door, then leaned back in
toward Davis, his voice low and threatening.  "Wait until I tell
Scully you're taking us to New Jersey."

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Scully looked at the array of paperwork spread out before her and
wondered, not for the first time, why she was even involved in this
case.  It was a DEA case all the way; she and Mulder were completely
out of their element.  But the photograph in her hand had sparked more
than mild curiosity, and once she had seen it, there had been no way
to refuse.

She stared at the young woman in the picture.  Lindsey Carrol was
young and blond.  Superficial, but pretty.  Her small, heart-shaped
face was framed by a platinum, shoulder length bob, her large green
eyes rimmed with too much dark makeup.  But somehow, rather than
giving her a hard, streetwise look, it only seem to emphasize her
youthful features.  If anything, it made her look younger than her
twenty-seven years, like a young girl playing dress up.  Certainly not
like a woman about to turn state's evidence against her Columbian
drug-lord boyfriend.

It was only in the depth of those eyes, that her past was
evident.  A glint of cynicism, a silent edge that spoke volumes
about he living she'd done, the things she'd seen.  It wasn't
evident to the casual observer; Lindsey Carrol would never stand
out in a crowd.  In fact, the overall picture she presented was
more girl next door than lifetime criminal.  But it wasn't the
ivory soap image of the young woman that caused Scully's
head to swim with questions.  It was the fact that beneath the
makeup, softly framed by highlighted strands of blond hair, was
the face of Dana Scully.

End of Part 1



Subject: Tempest (2/15) by Missy Pennington

*  *  *  *  *  *  *


"You okay?" Mulder's voice broke Scully's concentration, and she
jumped.  

"Sorry.  I didn't mean to startle you."  

"No, it's okay.  I'm jumpy today."

"Well, that's understandable."  He reached down and took the
picture from her hand, shaking his head in wonder as he
scrutinized the unsettling familiarity of the stranger in the
photograph.  "It's still fascinating, isn't it?"   

She nodded.

He handed the picture back to her.  "Does it bother you?"

She took the photograph, contemplating the question for a moment.
"Honestly, Mulder?  I don't know.  I think..." her voice trailed of as
she searched for the right words.  Did it bother her, this stranger
with her face?  It was hard to explain to someone who had never come
face-to-face with his own countenance.

Mulder didn't press the question, letting her find her way to the
words she needed.  Instead, he moved to his seat across from her and
sat down, reaching behind his back, as a puzzled frown creased his
forehead.  He shifted his weight and withdrew the blond wig from his
seat, dangling it on his index finger in front of her.  "I believe
this is yours."

She smiled and took it, stuffing it haphazardly into the carry-on bag
between her feet.  "It's not the resemblance that bothers me," she
told him at last, as she straightened to look at him. "Uncanny
resemblance is something you can write off to a quirk of nature." 

He was quiet, waiting for her to continue.

"It's that....." she paused for a moment, thought some more. 
"it's like looking into a mirror and seeing my life as
interpreted by someone else.  I mean, I look at this woman, and
she looks *just* like me, Mulder."  She pointed to the woman in
the photograph.  "That's my face right there -- this could *be*
me.  And knowing what I do about Lindsey Carrol's life, I have
this overwhelming sense of 'there but for the grace of God....'" 

She laid the picture down on the folder and looked up at Mulder,
surprised by the utter solemnity on his face.

"Is that why you agreed to all this, Scully?" he asked.  "Out of
some unfounded sense of guilt?  Because I have to tell you, when
Agent Westbrook suggested this whole decoy thing, I was pretty
sure you wouldn't want any part of it. I mean this..."   He
gestured around them, indicating the plane.  ".... is not what we do. 
It's not what we're about.  And yes, Lindsey Carrol looks amazingly
like you, but any number of female agents could have put on a wig and
gotten on this plane.  So why are we here?"

She lifted her chin ever so slightly, unwilling to let him know
she'd been stung by his words.  "WE didn't have to be here,
Mulder; I was the one they approached."  She opened the folder in her
lap and began rifling through the papers.  "It's only four days until
Lindsey's called to testify.  If I can divert attention away from her
until then and help put away one of the biggest drug czars to ever see
a trial in this country, why in the world wouldn't you think I'd be
willing to do that?"

He pressed on, completely disregarding her attempt at
indignation.  "Because there are four dead agents awaiting burial
right now in Atlanta.  And if Escabedo manages to find us in
Tuckerton, New Jersey -- the way he found the last three safehouses
they've had her in -- you and I could very well be numbers five and
six."  His voice softened.  "I just want to know why, Scully.  Why did
you agree to this?  We've never worked outside the FBI before, and
given that even with your uncanny resemblance, they've still got you
disguised in a wig and heavy makeup, there's no reason why somebody
else couldn't be doing this now.  Your involvement wasn't necessary."

Scully bit back the retort that sprang to mind and forced her
breathing to a slow, steady rate.  She didn't look at him; she
didn't trust herself to.  If she looked at him, she would want to hit
him.  

Her involvement wasn't necessary?  Woo hoo.  Big fat surprise
there, she thought.  Wasn't that just everything in a nutshell? 
She didn't want to tell him how close his casual remark was to
the truth.  For all his talk about it, Mulder wasn't one to
revere the truth when it didn't serve his purpose.  Mulder's 
truths, Scully thought,  were elusive and idealistic.  He had no
use for the truths that cut to the quick -- the truths she
sometimes ached to slap down in front of him.  There were too
many of them to count, these undesirable truths.  And the one she
wanted to fling at him this moment was that she was sick and goddamned
tired of being made to feel her half of this partnership was
unnecessary.  

Scully swallowed and took a deep breath, finally looking up at
Mulder's inquisitive expression.  He really, honestly didn't have a
clue how useless he made her feel sometimes.  She wanted out of this
conversation fast, before she said something she'd regret.  

She placed the picture of Lindsey Carrol in the file and closed
it quietly, calmly.  Only when she was certain she had her anger
in check, did she lift her head to look at him.  "I don't know
why, Mulder," she lied.  "I just wanted to help."

He looked doubtful.

She pasted on a smile she hoped looked more genuine than it felt.
"Everyone talks about the war on drugs, but no one does anything about
it.  Well.... I'm doing my part.  I'm helping the real Lindsey Carrol
stay alive long enough to put her ex-boyfriend away for life."

Satisfied or not, Mulder finally gave up the inquisition, leaning back
against the seat with a sigh.  He rolled his head to the side to look
at her again.  "Well, I hope it's worth it in the end.  I'd hate to
think we went to New Jersey for nothing."

She smiled for real this time, relieved at the passing tension. 
"New Jersey, huh?"

"Yep."

She grimaced for effect.  "Charming."

He chuckled and closed his eyes.  "Wake me when we get there."


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"Come on, do your business, I thought you had to go."

She sighed impatiently as the Pomeranian pranced back and forth
at the end of his leash, obviously in no hurry, nosing around,
sniffing each blade of grass, his canine senses honing in on a
scent only he could discern.  He suddenly bristled, the small
fox-like head snapped up, black eyes focused straight ahead.  His
shrill bark shattered the silence.

She shook her head.  "Queequeg, we're not gonna go into the
woods."

The barking persisted. 

She was uneasy, suddenly aware of the fact that she was alone,
surrounded only by the smothering blackness of a moonless country
night.  A thousand stars glistened overhead, but their dancing light
was an illusion.  Only the tiny, worthless beam of a cheap flashlight
kept the darkness from being complete.  She looked toward the woods
and saw nothing.

She listened anxiously, hearing only silence.  Only solitude. 
And yet...

Queequeg lunged.  The leash dropped from Scully's hand and
disappeared into the darkness as the small dog made for the
woods.

She ran after him, flashlight in hand, trying to keep the yellow
handle of the leash in her sight.

"Queequeg!  Where're you going?"

The dog ran at a frenzied pace, dragging the leash behind him. 
He tore through the brush, and she stumbled behind him,
oblivious to the branches that pulled at her hair and clothes.

"Queequeg..."

Determined, she followed the yellow plastic handle deeper and
deeper into the woods until it came to an abrupt stop, caught by
the branches of a rotted log.  Out of breath, she bent down to
retrieve it, flipping a small lever to retract the excess line.

Then she heard it.  The pitiful cry of an animal in distress. 
The yappy little bark she had been following with such irritation
ended abruptly in an agonized whimper that turned her stomach.

"Queequeg?" she whispered, looking desperately for the dog as the
leash continued to retract.

>From somewhere close by came the scream of a small animal in
pain, then nothing.  The only sound she heard was the pulley
leash, winding the rope that Queequeg had extended.

Heart pounding wildly, she scanned the darkness, seeing nothing
from the thin beam of her flashlight.  She began to hear the
faint jingle of Queequeg's dog tags as they traveled over the
rough terrain, but the sound didn't comfort her.  It sounded
wrong.  It was travelling too fast, too smoothly; there was no
resistance. 

And then she saw why.

She felt herself start to sway, and she looked in shock and
horror as the pulley leash retracted the last bit of line.  The
tattered remains of Queequeg's collar dangled sickly from the end of
it, broken...and empty....

Scully woke with a start, the sound of her racing heart pounding
furiously in her ears.  She placed a hand over her chest
instinctively, feeling the surge of the quick beats underneath
her fingers.  She looked at her partner, hoping he hadn't seen
her startle from the dream, but his eyes were closed, his
breathing steady.  

She was relieved.  She didn't want to talk about it -- not with
Mulder.  It was Mulder's fault she'd even had the dream.  She
only had it when she was upset.  No, that wasn't true -- she only had
it when she was angry at him.  It was her own little subconscious
blanket of guilt that she threw over him at will. Queequeg had just
been another one of her little life traumas that Mulder couldn't be
bothered to deal with.  Someday she was going to tell him as much.  

Someday.

She got up and stretched, shaking her legs to loosen the knots
that had formed while she dozed.  She looked at her watch --
they'd only been in the air little over an hour.  Obviously the
stress was showing on all of them.  She glanced at Mulder's still form
across the aisle and the last remnants of her bad mood faded.  He
looked completely different when he slept, wistful and vulnerable. 
She allowed herself to scrutinize his face, something she'd never been
able to do while he was awake, and was overcome suddenly by the
complexity of her feelings for this man.

One minute she wanted to throttle him, the next minute she was
overwhelmed by the need to protect him somehow, although she knew the
impulse was ridiculous.  He didn't need her protection.  He certainly
didn't want it.  

Still, she thought, taking in the uncommon peacefulness on her
partner's face, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.  With all
the emotional baggage they had between them at this point, what
was one more guilty little secret?  She didn't need his
permission to feel the way she felt.  She might want to kill him
half the time he was awake, but if she wanted to protect him
while he slept, by God, then who was he or anyone else, for that
matter, to tell her she couldn't?  She brushed one stray lock of hair
off his forehead, and he sighed in his sleep, his contentment obvious.
 

Damn straight, she thought.

Smiling, she walked to the cockpit, knocking on the door even as
she pulled it open.

Daniel Davis beamed when he saw her.  "Agent Scully.  Come on
in."

She smiled at him.  He's so cute, she thought.  Why can't I just
find some nice guy like this and fall madly in love, she
wondered.     

Because you don't want someone like this.  

She pushed the thought away.  "How's it going up here?"  She sat
down in the empty copilot seat.

"We're pretty much on schedule, factoring in the weather delay. 
I did have a little problem with some gauges, but I raised some
ATCs in Chattanooga, and they helped me out.  Our ETA is about
three hours, twenty minutes."

She nodded, looking around the cockpit at the various controls. 
How did anyone ever know what it all meant?  She didn't like to
think about it.  She could only distract herself from one anxiety at a
time.

Davis wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, a gesture
that seemed to stem from anxiety more than heat.  "I have to tell you
Agent Scully, I'll be relieved to have this one over.  I didn't have a
good feeling about all that time we spent on the runway."

Scully nodded.  "The waiting game always--"   

"Sucks?" he supplied.

She laughed.  "Yeah.  That."  She traced her fingers over a few
of the controls.  "So what kind of problem are we having with the
gauges?" 

"No biggie, really."  He shook his head for emphasis.  "I think
we're safe.  If your cover had been blown, they would have gone
for something much more significant.  Subtlety isn't high on
Escabedo's list."

Catching her reflection in the cockpit window, Scully smiled. 
"Judging from the amount of makeup on my face, I'd say it's not
too high on Lindsey Carrol's list either."

Davis laughed appreciatively.  "Obviously not."  

The plane shuddered, and Scully scanned Davis' face to gage his
reaction.  He seemed perfectly calm.  "You might want to strap
in, Agent Scully.  We're about to hit some turbulence."

Wonderful, she thought.  I was feeling positively bereft without
it.  Wouldn't want to deprive ourselves of one of the best perks
of air travel, would we?  

But she only smiled at the young pilot.  "Okay.  I have some more
reading to do, anyway."  She rose and reached for the door.  "Let us
know if we hit any more snags, okay?"

"Will do."  He gave her a casual salute.  "But I'm sure we're be
fine."

Scully nodded as she left the cabin.  "I hope so."

She closed the door behind her and was almost to her seat when
the plane began to shudder and jerk.  Robbed of her balance, she
stumbled to the left, almost recovering her equilibrium when her
foot struck the carry-on bag she had placed beside her seat. 
Without a word, Dana Scully committed the single most ungraceful
act of her adult life, falling forward in a tangle of flailing
limbs, right into the arms of a sleeping Fox Mulder.

"Ooph."

She was absolutely mortified, feeling the heat of embarrassment
flood her cheeks instantly.  She was face down on top of him, her face
pressed up against his tie, one hand over his shoulder, the other
pinned between them.  Her entire weight rested heavily upon him;
neither of her feet were on the floor.  For a moment, she was afraid
she'd hurt him, then she felt the shaking of his body underneath her
and realized he was laughing.  

Reluctantly, she lifted her face to him.  Her mouth opened and
closed several times without sound. "Sorry," she managed finally.

She pushed herself up using the back of his chair as leverage,
and began to disentangle herself from him. 

He was still grinning as she climbed back into her own seat,
buckling her seatbelt as the plane continued to shimmy through
the turbulence.  "Smooth moves, Agent Scully."

"I'm so glad I amuse you," she told him dryly.

"Oh come on.  Where's your sense of humor?  You gotta admit, that was
funny."

She looked at him without smiling, but her eyes twinkled with
mischief.  "That's not exactly what a woman wants to hear when
she throws herself at a man, Mulder."

They looked at each other in silence, sizing up the moment,
recognizing the fork in the road.  Neither was sure which path to
travel.  It was Mulder who finally chose one.

"Hand me that file on Lindsey Carrol, would you, Scully?  I need
to look it over before we land."  

She let her breath out, surprised to find she'd been holding it. She
pulled the folder from her bag and handed it across the aisle to him,
her heart catching just a bit when she realized he had put on his
glasses.

Mulder had no idea how much she relished the times he wore his
glasses.  The all-too-infrequent sight never failed to make her
heart beat just a little faster than usual.  He had been wearing
them the day they met.  She had reluctantly walked into that
small basement office to find herself facing a man who greeted
her with a mixture of thinly veiled hostility and obvious
distrust.  And even then, her only coherent thought for a good
two minutes had been, "God, he looks good in glasses."

Someday, Dana told herself.  Someday I'll tell him how much I
love those frames.  

She slid deeper into the reverie.  Someday, she mused, there's no
telling *what* I might tell him.

She pulled her own glasses out of her bag and put them on,
joining her partner in the case-related reading.  Gradually, even
their silence fell into quiet natural rhythm, letting her know that,
even without words, they were working in tandem.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

12:50 P.M.

Scully startled into consciousness, surprised to find she had
been dozing.  She didn't know what had roused her, only that she
should have been working and wasn't.  She turned to look at
Mulder, expecting to find him grinning at her embarrassment.  He
wasn't grinning.  He was grim and tense.

"Mulder?"

If he answered, his reply was drowned out by a mechanical whine
from outside the window.  It ended abruptly, replaced by a
sputtering that could only be a sign of worse things to come.

Scully felt the blood drain from her face.  "Oh my God."

The sputtering stopped and the plane shuddered violently in
response.  She raised the shade closest to her and looked out. 
There was nothing unusual in what she could see, but what she
could hear scared the hell out of her.

Silence.

The engine outside her window had completely shut down.

She stared at her partner, as the electronic whining from
Mulder's side of the plane started again.  Within a matter of
seconds, it too gave way to silence, and the plane began to fall.

Mulder was halfway to the cockpit when Davis' voice reached them
from the cockpit.

"Strap in and brace yourselves!  We're going down."

Mulder turned and wobbled back toward Scully yelling as he neared his
seat.  "What the hell is going on, Davis?  What happened?"

"I don't know!  I don't know!"  Davis' voice was thick with fear. "We
were fine and then we weren't.  It's like someone set off a goddamned
timer."

The plane's nose dropped sharply, and Mulder's face smacked the
seatback in front on him as he fumbled with his seatbelt.

"What the damage?" Mulder yelled.

Davis didn't buffer the news.  "The engines are gone - our
landing gear's not operational.  I'm gonna try to glide through
the peaks, but we're definitely going down.  I can't stop it."

Scully stared straight ahead at the cockpit door, as though she
were looking at Davis himself.  Her brain would not absorb the
words.  "Through the peaks?" she repeated softly.

As if he had heard her, Davis continued.  "We're directly over
the Appalachians.  I'm trying to raise the ranger station there
at the national park, but I haven't gotten anyone."

Mulder looked at Scully and back toward Davis.  "What can we do?" he
called to the pilot.

Davis' voice was grim.  "There's nothing any of us can do but
pray." 


End of Part 2



Tempest, part 3


Scully tightened her seatbelt, adrenaline surging through her
body as the plane lost altitude with amazing speed.  She had the
grotesque sensation of free-falling sideways.  It was a feeling
of utter insignificance, as though the plane itself was no more
than a dead leaf, blown hurriedly across the sky.  Her shaking
fingers reached for the tiny gold cross dangling from her neck,
and she clutched it tightly, looking out the plane's window as
the mountainside spiraled closer and closer.

A million thoughts raced through her mind.  Mulder, Queequeg, her
apartment, her mother.  Oh, God.  Her mother.  She wouldn't be
able to stand it, not again.  Too much loss, too much pain.  A
husband, two daughters....

It wasn't fair, Scully thought frantically.  Why should such a
kind, loving woman have to live with so much grief?  Who would it
be, she wondered.  Who would be the one to tell her mother that
she had lost another child?

The mental image of her mother receiving the news hit Scully
hard.  She really was going to die -- she knew it with certainty.

Strangely, accepting the inevitability of it seemed to calm her. 
The pounding heartbeat that had been resounding in her ears began
to fade, and a quiet peacefulness overtook her.  The world slowed
down to half time, and she realized, with a wondrous sense of
detachment, that she was probably as ready now as she would ever
be to die.  There was never a perfect time to go.

She spared a sideways look at Mulder, feeling vaguely reassured
by the sight of him close to her.  His hand crept across the
aisle toward hers, and upon finding her fingers he laced them
with his own. It was, in the face of death, the most intimate of
gestures; his way, perhaps, of telling her that whatever was
about to happen in this world or the next, they would face it
together.  

She marvelled at his calm.  No matter what life threw at Mulder,
he always seemed to roll with the punches.  While she struggled
daily to make sense of the world around her, he went about the
business of living with all the guileless enthusiasm and wonder
of a child.  If he was sometimes too quick to believe, it only
complemented the fact that she was sometimes too slow to accept. 
Complements, that's what they were, Scully realized, offering up
a short prayer of thanks for the time she'd had with him.

The plane began to shudder violently, and the evil silence of
their quick descent gave way to an even more ominous humming that
seemed to resonate from every seam and crack in the plane.  It
grew louder and more frenetic with each passing second as the
small craft struggled to hold itself together against the
tremendous force of gravity.

Scully looked at her hand, still linked with Mulder's.  Her
stomach dropped as the plane lost altitude, and she tightened her
hold on his hand.  God, she wanted to tell him...tell him what? 
What was there to say?  The silence between them was more than
fear, she knew; it was a silence of futility.  Too much had gone
unsaid for too long.  They had both felt it at one time or
another and blinded themselves to it willingly.  It was so much
easier to ignore it than to deal with it, she mused.  But then
she met his gaze, saw in his eyes the same regret, and she was
lost.  

"Mulder..." she started, her voice barely a whisper above the
noise of the plane.

The aircraft dipped violently to the right and then seemed to
nosedive.  Scully's eyes widened, her words stopped in panic of
the now impending crash.  

Mulder shook his head as she tried again to get the words out.  
"I know, Scully."  He squeezed her hand reassuringly.  "Me too." 

He looked out his own window, then back at her, his eyes
unreadable.  Then he raised their clasped fingers to his lips and
brushed a kiss across the back of her hand before releasing it
slowly.  

The plane dipped sharply again, and Scully had the absurd impulse
to run, as if she could somehow distance herself from the plane
before it crashed.  She looked at Mulder, trying one last time to
get the words out, but her mind had already closed down.  She
stared at him blankly as he bent forward in a crash position,
motioning for her to do the same. 

He grinned at her sideways, a smile that didn't quite reach his
eyes. "We'll talk about it later."

His words were inaudible, but she understood.  She returned his
smile weakly, and glanced one last time out the window at the now
sickeningly close landscape.  It's only a matter of seconds, she
thought numbly, looking through detached eyes at the
fast-approaching mountain.  Already she could see the leaves on
the trees, the small rocks filling crevices where their plane
would soon be.  She removed her glasses and bent forward, eyes
clenched shut, arms folded protectively around her head. 
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..."

The impact came before she finished.  Scully heard the scream of
the plane as it tore itself open on the rocky landscape, and the
rush of dust and wind that filled the cabin told her that some
part of the plane's body had been ripped apart.  She made the
mistake of opening her eyes, trying in vain to find Mulder in the
swirling chaos.  What she saw was a gaping hole where the right
side of the plane had been, where Mulder had been.  

Scully's brain registered his absence only fleetingly as the
plane slid sideways, and she watched the approaching
configuration of rock bearing down on her through the gaping
wound in the right side.  There was a flash of blinding light as
the earth turned upside down, and then blessed darkness
descended, wiping clean the sound of twisting metal and the
horrifying images of what seemed to her the end of the world.


*   *   *   *   *   *


1:07 pm
Cherokee National Forest
Appalachian Mountains, Tennessee
     
Fox Mulder was twelve years old all over again, paralyzed by the
brilliant intensity of the light that surrounded him.  He tried
to move, to call out, but he was incapable of doing either.  He
was helpless against the force of the light, helpless to do
anything as his sister Samantha seemed to float on an invisible
cloud out the window and out of his life.  He struggled in vain
to reach her, but the light, the terrible haunting light would
not release him.  In a heartbeat, she was lost to him and he
moved forward in slow motion toward the window as the light
gradually faded. 

But the light didn't fade this time like it usually did.  And
Mulder, hovering on the brink of consciousness, slowly began to
realize that the awful light of this particular dream had no
intention of releasing him at all.  The hateful glare surrounded
him wholly, burning his face and neck, leading him to raise his
arm over his face in an effort to shield himself from the
radiance.

The movement brought him to full consciousness as pain registered
completely in his mind.  God, he hurt everywhere.  He chanced
opening his eyes and blinked rapidly into the bright sky,
noticing for the first time that he was outside and flat on his
back.  He wasn't dead, that much was obvious.  Beyond that, his
brain ceased to function.

He tried to raise his head to get a good look at his
surroundings, but after a monumental effort, he gave up.  It was
too damn hard.  From where he lay his eyes took in a thick
covering of trees that seemed to tower miles over his head,
giving him absolutely no indication at all of his location.  He
was completely disoriented.  Even the blinding sunlight that had
vexed him into consciousness was, he realized, no more than a
single tiny sunbeam that had managed to cut through the thick
foliage.

Christ.  Where was he?  In a daze, he tried to replay the day's
events in his mind, but the shroud of confusion that covered him
was overwhelming.  Sleep still beckoned like a siren call, luring
him back toward an easy escape from the pain in his head.  He
knew it would be so easy to give in to it, but his mind wouldn't
let him.  Not yet.  Not until he realized... 

Something was missing.  Something important that should have been
there with him and wasn't.  He had no idea what it was, but the
disturbing emptiness he felt was like a phantom pain inside him,
convincing his mind beyond the shadow of a doubt that part of him
was unaccounted for.  He turned his head to look beside him, and
a stabbing pain shot through his body.  Mulder heard himself
groan, and then the lure of sleep returned, too strong to resist. 
Resigned, he gave himself back to unconsciousness, the
unexplained feeling of loss still gnawing at his gut.


*  *  *  *  *
     
1:20 pm
     

The plane lay on its side, mangled and twisted on the rocky lip
of the mountainside where it had come to rest.  It balanced
precariously on a thin shelf of earth that seemed to defy gravity
by stretching too far over the cavernous valley below.  The
gaping hole that had been the right side of the cabin now opened
toward the sky, allowing the early afternoon sun to beat down
upon the exposed interior. 

Perched as it was, the wreckage gave the appearance of a
sacrificial offering, held out from the arms of the mountain.  It
was quiet now.  The creaking and groaning of the framework had
settled, replaced by the eerie stillness of tension, as if the
plane, aware of its position, was somehow holding its breath.

Inside the cabin, Scully groaned, awareness returning to her in
bits and pieces, like a nightmare recalled from the safety of
dawn.  She opened her eyes slowly, blinking several times to
focus her vision on the confusing jumble of images that swam
before her at eye level.  Her carry-on bag, part of a seat
cushion, broken glass, pieces of metal--

Mulder!   Her mind screamed his name.  Where was Mulder?

She twisted frantically, ignoring the pain that shot through her
with every movement, desperate to find some trace of him amid the
debris.  There was no sign, not even a sound to let her know he
was anywhere close.

She forced herself to breathe deeply, trying to calm the
paralyzing fear that was hovering.  Panic was not an option;
hysteria, while tempting, was energy wasted.  Mentally, she went
through her "repertoire" as Mulder called it, the standard
physician's checklist:  no broken bones, no paralysis, no
significant loss of feeling although there was some definite
numbness in her left leg, several scrapes and scratches, endless
bruises, probably a concussion.  Not too bad for a plane crash
survivor, she concluded.  She was alive.  It was enough.

She looked around, assessing the situation, and realized that she
was lying face down upon the emergency exit door.  Rather, what
used to be the door.  In the tilted cabin, it now appeared to
serve as the floor, and Scully was wedged against it, held nearly
immobile by the loose debris that surrounded her.  Her seat had
broken free upon impact, its warped frame now clinging to her
body with the desperation of a small child. 

Lucidity continued to return slowly as she maneuvered herself
carefully around the jagged pieces of structuralized metal,
inching her way closer to freedom.  It was a tedious process, but
she didn't have the luxury of waiting for rescue--she had to find
Mulder.

She succeeded finally in liberating her left arm and used it to
unlock the seat belt that had kept her prisoner.  She sat up
gingerly, rubbing stiff muscles and joints, getting her first
unobstructed view of the remains of the aircraft.  She was
definitely alone; Mulder was nowhere in the cabin.

She didn't dwell on his absence.  She would find him; it wasn't a
matter of question.

Scully looked toward the cockpit, her right arm grasping the 
armrest to steady herself when the sudden movement made her
dizzy.  She had to check on Davis.  Her mind called up an image
of the handsome blond pilot who had so recently been flirting
with her.  

So young...

Summoning courage and breath in the same instant, she tentatively
called out to him, shattering the utter stillness of the air with
a voice that was too fragile, to tentative and childlike to sound
anything like her own.  "Davis?"

The resounding silence that answered was chilling. 

Scully forced herself to stand, ignoring the throbbing ache in
her leg, and began to make her way toward the front of the plane. 
It was awkward with the plane lying sideways.  She crawled and
stepped as carefully as she could over broken seats, strips of
jagged metal, and shattered windows, pulling herself forward with
agonizing deliberation.

Please God, she prayed.  Please let him be alive.

She called again.  "Daniel?"  

Nothing.  There had been no sound at all from the cockpit since
she regained consciousness.  She reached for the door and with
shaking hands, pulled it open.

Overall, the cockpit of the plane looked surprisingly intact. 
Despite the vulnerability of its position, it seemed to absorb
the impact of the crash better than the cabin had.  A few loose
items had been tossed around, Scully noted.  Gauges in the
instrument panel were cracked and most of the glass was broken. 
Davis was still in the cockpit, strapped in the pilot's seat. 
The ninety degree angle of the plane gave him the appearance of
lying on his left side, allowing Scully to see him only in
profile as she crawled over the door.  His eyes were closed; he
was pale and still.  But she saw no obvious injuries, no blood on
his uniform, and she allowed herself a moment of Mulderesque
optimism that he might still be alive.

"Please.  Please be alive," she breathed placing her fingers on
his neck to check for a pulse.  She didn't feel one, but the
position of her hand was unnatural in the cramped area, so she
reached her hand around him to the other side.  Her fingers
encountered the warm, thick, stickiness of blood almost
immediately, and she jerked her hand back in horror.

Scully's bloody fingers touched Davis' chin, pulling his face
toward her as she leaned over him in an attempt to see the wound. 
His head slid toward her with a freedom that was sickening,
exposing to her view a large triangular shard of glass protruding
from his throat.  It had severed both bone and muscle,
effectively decapitating him, save the thin layer of skin than
stubbornly held his head to the right side of his body.

He probably died before the plane stopped moving, Scully thought.

She released his chin, watching as his head bobbed unnaturally
several times, then stilled, the blood continuing to flow from
his neck into a pool on the wall beneath him.

She turned her attention from Davis' body and began to look at
the control panel, searching for the radio.  She found the
microphone dangling beside Davis, and raised it to her lips,
forcing her voice to sound stronger than it felt.  "Mayday,
Mayday.  Can anyone here me?"

The only reply was silence.

"Mayday.  This is Cessna Citation NS84.  We are down--I repeat,
we are down." 

There was nothing, not even static. 

She turned the frequency knob back and forth, trying to raise
some signs of life from the instrument, but it was useless.  In
disgust, she flung the microphone at the control panel, feeling
no satisfaction as the crystal of yet another gauge cracked under
the impact.

She looked blankly at the various gauges and dials on the console
before her.  They all looked alike.  Her head began to ache with
more intensity as she struggled to make sense of the readings. 
She had no clue what she was looking at, no way of figuring out
her location.  

Mulder would probably know, she thought.  Mulder and his
photographic memory.  If anyone had ever halfheartedly explained
the workings of a plane to him, he would remember it exactly.  

But Mulder wasn't there.  

Her heart skipped a beat.

God, what happened to him?  Please let him be safe.

Scully caught a glimpse of Davis' body  in her peripheral vision
and suddenly felt light-headed.  

You're losing it Dana, she warned herself.  And if you fall apart
now, you won't be any help to yourself or Mulder.  The voice made
sense, but the wave of panic rising within her was too strong to
deny.  She was alone.  

Alone in a wrecked plane.  

On a mountain.  

With a dead man.

She backed out of the cockpit as quickly as she could, distancing
herself from Davis' body, sitting down on the side frame of a
seat and thrusting her head between her knees.  She forced
herself to inhale and exhale slowly.  

She had to find Mulder.  

Mulder.

She couldn't think about what might have happened to him.  All
she knew with certainty was that he wasn't dead.  Surely if he
was, she would feel it...

Her head was pounding with more ferocity now, and she raised her
hands to her temples in an attempt to ease the pressure.  Sticky
warmth registered against her face and she jerked her hands away
in horror, dazed eyes staring at fingers still covered with
Davis' blood.  

Don't faint, don't faint...

But the dim ringing in her ears was already growing louder.

Don't faint, Dana, you've got to get out of here....

White spots began to dance in front of her eyes, and the colors
of the world seemed to dim all at once.

Scully made a weak grab for the twisted seat beside her, swiping
feebly through the air as she sank down into a displaced seat
cushion.  The blackness approached her quickly, picking up speed
as the world spun in circles around her.  Her last thought as
she slipped into the abyss was that she had never fainted in her
life.
     

*  *  *  *  *

     
1:30 pm
     
Mulder awakened slowly to the feeling of soft hair brushing
lightly against his neck.  It was a pleasant sensation, one that
evoked erotic images of silky auburn hair trailing his body in
the sensuous afterglow of passion.  He was tempted, momentarily,
to indulge the fantasy, until he caught a whiff of the unpleasant
odor that accompanied it.  It smelled musty and dirty, almost
like a wild anim....

His eyes snapped open to reveal two shiny black ones staring back
at him.  

"Agh!"  The startled cry came as a reflex, but it had the desired
effect.  The frightened raccoon turned and scurried back to the
undergrowth, leaving Mulder alone once again.

Fully awake now, heart pounding, Mulder looked around.  His mind
slowly replayed recent events, searching for the missing pieces
that led him to this place.  

Then he remembered.  The impact.  The screech of metal.  The
feeling of flying through the air, soaring, free falling...

Scully!  Where was Scully?

He tried to sit up, but something was holding him, preventing him
from moving.  Mulder fought a wave of panic before realizing that
he was still connected to the plane seat, held tight by the nylon
safety belt he had donned before the crash.  He released the
clasp and sat up quickly, ignoring the pain that his sudden
movement caused.  With eyes that struggled to focus, he surveyed
the area.  It was heavily wooded, with an expanse of trees in
every direction.  With the exception of the airplane seat and
himself, the area seemed completely undisturbed. No plane, no
sign of wreckage.  No Scully.  

He did a brief check for broken bones.  Finding none, he stood,
wobbling on unsteady legs.  He walked a few feet, then stopped,
realizing he had no idea where he was going.  He leaned weakly
against a large tree, listening intently for some sound that
would guide him toward Scully and Davis.  

All he heard was the dull throbbing in his temples.  His head
hurt like a son of a bitch. 

Thoughts of Scully flashed through his mind.  He wondered if she,
too, was thrown clear of the wreckage, or if she was still in the
plane, trapped and hurt.  Was she calling out to him?  She'd
called out to him before and he'd been unable to help her.  Was
he failing her again?  Was she even still alive?

The last thought stunned him, as he contemplated the very real
possibility of finding her lifeless body amid the crash debris. 
God, he couldn't take that.  He couldn't.  His stomach lurched at
the thought. 

He remembered the look of terror in her eye as the plane was
going down, and how she had looked to him for reassurance.  And
still he hadn't told her.

Fucking coward, he cursed himself.  Why didn't you tell her?  

The image of Scully, bruised and bloody, lifeless amid the
wreckage came unbidden to his mind, causing him to lose the
valiant struggle with his stomach.  He sank to his knees and
vomited, thankful if only for a moment for the solitude of his
surroundings.

     
End of Part 3


Tempest, part 4



1:46 pm
     
For the second time in an hour, Dana Scully regained
consciousness amid the broken remains of  Cessna Citation NS84. 
Unlike the first time, however, the second awakening was
accompanied by lucidity and a feeling of calm.  Davis was dead;
Mulder was missing; she had survived.  Help would be coming soon
enough, she realized.  What had to be done in the meantime, she
would have to do herself.  

She would have to find Mulder.

She struggled to her feet, catching her breath at the burning
sensation that raced down her left leg as she stood.  The white
hot pain ran down the back of her thigh in blistering waves,
amazing her that she hadn't felt it before.  She twisted at the
waist, trying to get a good look at the back of her leg.  When
she did, she wished she hadn't.

"So much for walking away unscathed," she whispered, stunned by
the sight.  

The left leg of her pants was ripped from thigh to knee in the
back, stained dark red with blood -- *her* blood, she realized,
somewhat dazed.  She hadn't even felt it. 

She sighed, more at the thought of having to delay her search for
Mulder than at her own discomfort.  Damn.  She would have to take
the time to dress it.  

She couldn't get a good look at the cut through the material, so
she unfastened her pants and let them drop, wincing as the torn
material slid off of the wound and fell to a pile of bloody
scraps at her feet.

She pulled her carry on bag out of the rubble and opened it,
scrounging around inside for the tube of antibiotic creme she
usually carried, finding it with surprising ease.  She pulled out
a bottle of drinking water and looked around for something
she could use to clean the wound.  There was nothing except her
discarded pants, so she used them to wipe the blood away
carefully before smearing the wound with creme from the tube.  It
was a savage, devastatingly deep cut; she knew it needed
stitches.  She'd also be lucky to avoid infection; she had no
idea what had cut her.

She used her blouse to dress it, ripping the soft cotton into
strips and wrapping them firmly around the gash.  Satisfied, she
donned the spare change of clothing she always carried on board
with her and began searching the cabin for essentials.  She had
her gun; Mulder had been wearing his.  She took inventory of her
bag, noting with some satisfaction that the bottled water and
miniature candy bars that Mulder so often teased her about would
definitely come in handy until help arrived.  She had only a few
medical supplies, small and relatively useless against a wound
such as hers, but she didn't know what kind of shape Mulder would
be in, so she left them in the bag, hoping they would be enough. 
The one medical comfort she did have was a single syringe filled
with Demerol.  The way Mulder found trouble, she never travelled
without the comfort of a "single serving" pain killer.  She'd
learned long ago he was far too much of a little boy to endure
quietly.

She was unable to keep from smiling at the thought, then sobered
instantly as she contemplated the condition in which she might
find him.

We're okay, Mulder, she told him mentally, echoing his words from
earlier in the day.  I'm coming to find you.

She hastily finished packing the bag, careful not to overload it
with more than she could carry.  Finally satisfied, she zipped it
closed and stood, putting her head and left arm through the
strap to keep it anchored as she climbed. 

She moved to stand upon the broken seats directly under the hole
in the plane, cursing her lack of height.  She couldn't reach the
opening.  She stepped down and began pulling the frame of a
second seat on top of the one she had been using.  As she moved
it, the gleam of metal and reflection caught her eye. 

Mulder's glasses.  

Amazingly intact.

She bent and picked them up, wiping them carefully with her
shirt, tears blurring her vision.  She'd almost left them.  She
couldn't explain the overwhelming sense of responsibility she
felt to return them to him.  She only knew that they were a part
of Mulder.  A part she'd secretly always loved.  The only part
she had with her now.  And she'd almost left them.

She unzipped the bag without removing it from her shoulder and
placed the frames carefully inside, protected by the fabric of
her jacket.  Dragging the back of her hand across her cheek, she
swiped at the uncharacteristic moisture there and climbed back
upon the makeshift ladder of broken seats.

"Okay.  This is it, Dana.  Let's hear it for upper body
strength."

She took a deep breath and jumped slightly, hoisting herself up
through the torn metal, drawing her knees up until her feet could
leverage her onto the solid frame of the plane, away from the
jagged edges.  Feeling immensely pleased with herself, she took a
moment to catch her breath, trying to ignore the uncomfortable
sensation of hot metal underneath her injured leg.

"One down," she congratulated herself.  "Now which way to find
Mulder?" 

For the first time since the crash, she looked over the edge of
the plane, expecting to see rocks and shrubs.  She saw nothing
but air.  Terrified, she looked behind her and saw the gentle
upward slope toward the top of the mountain.  The plane had slid
down the ridge like a child's sled down a snowbank, stopping just
before they fell into the abyss.

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God.

Adrenaline coursed through her instantly.  She was on a cliff. 
All the moving around she had done inside the cabin, changing
clothes, gathering items, stacking debris--

--and she was on a cliff.

She inched backward, toward the rocky hill behind her, trying not
to cause so much as a tremor on the plane, fighting the
overwhelming urge to cry out.

Yell for help. 

Scream for Mulder.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *
     
Mulder cleared the last small cluster of trees and walked easily
out of the foliage toward the large patch of scarred earth he'd
been searching for.  With no way to gauge the site of impact from
ground level, he had carefully searched the area where he had
regained consciousness, trying to determine the path his own seat
had taken.  It was a slow process; tracking had never been his
strong suit.

He had, over the course of the early afternoon, managed to regain
his strength.   Amazingly, he had no long lasting physical
effects of the crash at all.  A few bruises, but that was all. 
The headache had finally disappeared, taking with it the
dizziness and the nausea.  The shakiness of his legs had finally
ceased.  He was better off than he had a right to be.  He
wondered endlessly if Scully had fared as well.

Standing at last in front of the path the plane had taken, Mulder
scrutinized the razed, barren path of land in front of him, a
frown creasing his forehead.  Somehow the angled path looked
awkward, but he couldn't put his finger on why.  He walked
alongside the huge scar in the mountainside, following the wide
trail as it led--up? 

That couldn't be right.

He looked behind him, visually marking the point where he had
picked up the path.  Then it hit him.  He was walking uphill. 
Very slight, barely noticeable, but definitely uphill.  The plane
couldn't have slid uphill.

Mulder turned and retraced his steps, following the crash course
down the mountain in the other direction almost a quarter of a
mile before he saw the drop--the point where the path of the
plane seemed to veer off into nothingness.  It had fallen, and it
had taken Scully with it.

He sank to his knees, unwilling to look over the side, cursing
himself for every kind of fool.  He'd failed her...lost
her...again.  She might have survived one crash, but he knew
there was no way she'd survived two.  

And he hadn't been with her.  

Grief and rage battled within him, each feeding on the other
until they issued forth a desolate, heartbreaking cry he was
completely unaware of.

He sank further to the ground, head hung low, palms flat to the
dirt as grief finally won out over rage.  He couldn't do it
again.  He couldn't pick up and move on without her.  It wasn't
supposed to happen like this.  Not to them.  Not to Scully.

Her voice reached him through the haze of his desolation, so soft
he thought he'd imagined it.

"Mulder!"

He heard it clearer this time, his heart stopping completely at
the sound.  

"Scully!   Scully where are you?"  He looked frantically around,
unable to locate her.  Their words mixed together and echoed from
every direction; she could have been standing beside him and he
wouldn't have known it from the sound.

"I'm here, Mulder!  Down here on the ridge."  

Her voice was thin and tight, quiet almost.  It terrified him all
over again.  He scrambled toward the thin shelf of the ridge and
leaned over until he saw her.  

His mouth went completely dry.  

She was sitting on top of the wreckage.  The wreckage was sitting
on top of nothing.

"Don't move, Scully!  Don't move an inch."

The tremble in her voice cut through him like a dagger.  "The
plane is sliding, Mulder.  It's gonna fall any second."

And then he could see it -- the wreckage was moving.  Almost
imperceptibly, but it was moving.  And he was powerless to stop
it.  He didn't have a rope; his belt wasn't long enough to reach
her.  And that face, that beautiful face he'd so recently thought
lost to him forever stared up at him like a beacon of hope in the
blackness that was his life.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *


She could hear him above her, frantic movements that echoed the
unexpressed urges within her own mind.  She closed her eyes.

"Scully!"

She didn't open her eyes.  "What?"

"Is Davis still in the plane?"

"He's dead, Mulder."

If the news jarred him in anyway, there was no indication.  "I
need you to look up, Scully.  Is there anything above you that
you can reach or hold onto?"

"I don't think so."  She looked up.  "Rocks and sky, Mulder. 
That's it." 

"Okay." His voice was deceptively light. "Just hang on for
another minute.  I'm working as fast as I can up here."

The plane shifted underneath her.

She forced her voice to sound steady. "A minute might be pushing
it, Mulder."

His voice changed instantly, suddenly as shaky as she felt. 
"Well, grab something.  Anything!"

Her patience snapped.  "For God's sake Mulder, if there was as
much as a speck of dirt down here that I could hold on to, I'd be
holding it!  Grabbing something when you're falling is not a
survival skill that slips your mind!"

"Did I mention I'm working as fast as I can up here?"

Fear and agitation gave way to a reluctant, tentative smile.  "I
think you mentioned it.  Did I mention I'm holding my breath down
here?"  

"Try not to think about it."

Her sharp bark of laughter echoed lightly across the canyon. 
"Words to live by, Mulder.  Now tell me not to look down, okay?" 

She'd already made that mistake once.  Looked down into the
emptiness that momentarily supported her.   What was he doing up
there?  The wreckage groaned and slid forward, moving her another
inch away from the mountain.

She had no idea what he was working on overhead, but it didn't
seem to be progressing very quickly.  She looked beside her,
hoping to find an indentation in the rock, a foothold she could
maintain, a protrusion of any kind that she could grab to
forestall the encroaching freefall into the rocks below.  Several
feet above her, thick rocks jutted outward from the mountainside,
but they were too far out of her grasp.  She had no way to reach
them.

"Hey, Scully?  Let's talk about something."

His voice pulled her back toward him, as though he had
instinctively known the direction of her thoughts.  He was trying
to distract her. 

"What?"

"When was the last time you saw a really good movie?"

That did it.  She was going to get the *hell* off of this cliff
if for no other reason than to strangle Fox Mulder.  Forget the
knight in shining armor crap -- Special Agent Lancelot up there
was *toast.*  She carefully rose to her knees, testing the
stability of the teetering plane before standing.  She placed her
tennis shoe against the loose dirt of the hillside and struggled for a
foothold.  The plane shifted and groaned.  She froze.

"Scully!"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

"Heads up."

"What?"  She looked up.

*Thwack!*  A heavy tangle of fabric hit her square in the face
and she lost her equilibrium as the world went suddenly black. 
Momentarily knocked off balance, she clawed at the offending
material, trying not to panic.

It was Mulder's shirt.

Tied to Mulder's pants.

And t-shirt.

Either he was trying to save her or he'd gone stark-raving mad. 
She didn't care; it was a lifeline.  She grabbed the shirt and
tugged, testing its strength.  "Got it."

The plane slid forward an inch, creeping down the mountainside. 
The underbelly of the plane screeched against stone, metal
ripping with an almost human wail.  Scully's heart ratcheted into
doubletime as the world shifted beneath her feet.  

The plane was going down.

"MULDER, GET ME THE HELL OUTTA HERE!"  She pushed to 
her tip toes and grabbed for the knot that held his shirt to his pants 
just as the plane gave one final lurch and disappeared from beneath 
her feet, taking a large hunk of the hillside with it. 

Suddenly, she was dangling over a 100 foot drop, with only
Mulder's clothing between her and certain death.  The bag looped
over her neck and shoulder banged against her hip, almost causing
her to lose her grip.  She dug her fingers more tightly into the
fabric of Mulder's shirt and held on for dear life.

Breathe, Scully.

She forced air into her lungs in slow, steady rhythm, drawing on
her training to still the frantic cadence of her heart.  It's a
rope.  A cliff.  Basic obstacle course training, Agent Scully. 
You know the drill.

Hand over hand.  Up the makeshift rope, she followed perfect
form.  Knees tight, legs thrusting despite the screaming pain of
her torn thigh.  Her hands found the next knot, fingers curling in
the soft white cotton of Mulder's undershirt.  She brought her
feet up, searching for the bottom knot to leverage herself
upwards and momentarily take the weight off her aching arms.  

Her right foot caught and she heard a ripping sound as the fabric
gave way beneath her.  Her weight shifted, almost causing her to
lose her grip on Mulder's t-shirt, but a frantic, scrambling
second later, her feet found the knot.  The bag thumped the back
of her thigh as she steadied herself, and pain shot through her,
taking her breath away as she dangled helplessly.  She
redistributed her weight and worked to shift the bag away from
her leg and back toward her hip. 

Scully paused to catch her breath and pressed her forehead
briefly against the soft cotton shirt as she regained control.
Oh, God, it was still warm.  A faint, male fragrance clung to it.

Her head swam for a second, and she tightened her hold on the
knot.

"You okay, Scully?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."  She took a deep breath and pushed upward. 
Slow.  Steady.  Hand over hand.  She felt the rope moving
slightly upward as she climbed. Mulder was pulling her, helping
her along.

She could see trees, she realized as she looked up to gauge her
ascent.  She was close.  Closer than she had realized.  She had
gone past the t-shirt, on to his jacket.  Peeking over the edge
of the overhang was Mulder's blue and gray spotted tie, double
looped and double-knotted.  Just a scrap of material that didn't
look all that sturdy, she realized.  Especially considering the
way the fabric was sliding back and forth against a sharp
outcropping at the edge of the cliff.  She imagined she could
actually see the frayed fibers giving way one by one.

She redoubled her efforts, scrambling upward.  Just another
couple of feet....

Suddenly, she was lurched up and forward.  She grabbed for the
side of the hill, clutching at the rocky protrusions at the edge
of the cliff.  Her hair fell forward into her eyes, blinding her
for a second.  

Then hands circled her upper arms and hauled her up and over,
dragging her to her feet and into the circle of warm, strong
arms.  She closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace, trapping
the makeshift rope tightly between them as her arms wrapped
around his waist.  She rested her head against his chest, taking
solace in the sound of his heartbeat underneath her--not the
slow, steady beat of traditional reassurance, but the erratic
thumping of panic that had mirrored her own.  

They stayed that way for some time, neither speaking.  It was
Mulder who broke the silence.

"Are you sure you're okay, Scully?  You're not hurt?"

She hesitated.  If she told him about her leg, he would worry,
and there was nothing he could do.  It wouldn't serve any purpose
to tell him, she reasoned.  So she didn't.

"Just a couple scrapes and bruises."  She answered from the
cocoon of his arms,  unwilling to relinquish her hold on him yet. 
He was so solid, wrapped around her, so whole and so real.  She
pressed her hands flat against his back, slowly rubbing the taut
muscles.  "I'm okay, Mulder," she breathed against his chest. 
"I'm okay."

She felt him nod in silent agreement, his chin touching the top
of her head.  She was always amazed that he could make her feel
so safe.  She was a trained special agent.  She could handle, HAD
handled dangerous men twice her size.  But this man had the power
to make her feel safer, more protected  than she had ever felt in
her life.  Just his presence was enough.  

Unthinking, she trailed her hands down to his sides, her
fingertips moving slowly over bare skin.  She felt him shiver and
fleetingly wondered if it was due more to the scare they had had
or her soft touches.  She trailed her nails up and down his sides
in a feathersoft touch and heard his sharp intake of breath.  

Question answered.

Scully smiled into his chest.

Her mind's focus on the day's events began to blur softly as she
relaxed, her clear memories of the day fading into one another,
blurring like wet watercolors until she had only a muted, hazy
understanding of what had happened and how she came to be on this
cliff in Mulder's arms.  She didn't care; she didn't want to
remember the details -- they would come rushing back later
whether she wanted them to or not.  This was enough for now.  It
was all she needed and everything she wanted.  

She concentrated on the sensation of Mulder's warm skin and soft
breath enveloping her.  How many of her days had been filled with
too much blood and death and fear?  She lost count years ago,
because she was hardly fazed by it anymore.  But today it had hit
too close to home.  Today had been an endless bombardment of
ugly, harsh reality, and she just wanted to stand here and not
think about it.  

Her hands rose toward Mulder's shoulders, kneading the tired
muscles.  She couldn't tune it out.  God, she had come so close-- 
so close to losing everything.  Mulder.  Her family.  Her life.  Her 
fingertips moved slowly down to the small of his back, delighting 
in the feel of his bare skin.  She traced light patterns on his 
hips, his thighs, his....

She froze as reality sank in.

"Mulder?"

He didn't move, and she was afraid to.

"Yeah?"

"You're naked."

She felt him smile into her hair.  "Thank you for noticing."


End of part 4


Tempest, part 5


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

2:37 pm

Scully jumped away from him, leaving the bulky cloth rope she had
pinned between them to fall in a puddle at his feet.  Then slowly, as
if trying to give the appearance of utter nonchalance, she turned away
from him, allowing him privacy to redress.  

The act was casual, but he'd seen the color staining her cheeks.
Dr. Dana Scully, expert of forensic pathology, was flustered.  He
couldn't help grinning at the thought.  It amazed him that she still
had the capacity to blush after all they had seen and been through
together -- by rights, she should have been as jaded and cynical and
world-weary as he was.  God, he loved the fact that she wasn't.  

He stooped to pick up his clothes, fumbling over the cloth knots
for a starting place; they were all pulled tight from Scully's
climb.

"You should have said something."

He could hear the censure in her voice.  "I didn't exactly have
time to consult you, Scully."

"That's not what I meant."

Even with his back to her, he could see the exasperation on her
face. "I know what you meant."  

He frowned at the knot he was working, wishing again that he'd
had the foresight to pack extra clothing.  Scully had not only
packed extra clothes, she'd had the presence of mind to change
into them before climbing out of the plane.  She never ceased to
amaze him.  

The material finally moved apart, and he shook out the garments
and stepped into his boxers and suit pants. "You can turn around
now."

She didn't, and he grinned at her absurd sense of decorum in the
face of recent events.  Tactfully, he changed the subject.  "Were you
able to use the radio?"

"No.  Everything was gone."

"Well, there's no point in going after it," he said, tugging at
the knot that connected his dress shirt and T-shirt.  "If it was
repairable before, it's certainly in a million pieces now."  The
knot gave way, and he slipped on the stretched cotton undershirt
and tucked it into the waistband of his pants.  He looked
enviously at Scully's jeans.  She would be a lot more comfortable
during this misadventure than he was going to be.

"We should probably get down there anyway, Mulder.  Our chances
of being seen are going to be a lot greater if we stay with the
plane."

"Exactly, which is why we don't need to be anywhere close to it."

She turned around to look at him.  "Why?"

He put on his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as he casually
examined the gaping hole in the fabric.  "Because we don't have
any way of knowing whether or not Escabedo was behind the crash. At
this point, and for our own safety, we have to assume he was. And if
that's the case, he'll want confirmation -- he'll send someone to
verify the remains...."

"That's assuming that Escabedo was behind the engine failure,
which we can't prove."

"Are you willing to take that chance?  You want to go back down
there and just wait for whoever shows up?"

"Mulder, I'm not saying I want to paint a bull's eye on my
forehead and jump up and down.  But staying within shouting
distance of the wreckage would increase our odds of being found,
and since the DEA has the flight plan and knows exactly where
they lost contact with Davis, chances are that they'll be there
before Escabedo even knows we're down."  

Mulder walked toward her, lowering his voice out of habit. 
"Okay, then think about this...if Escabedo *is* behind the crash, the
first thing he's going to do is send someone to look for that plane. 
If we're not there, they're going to find Davis alone and start
combing the woods for a runaway blond and her bodyguard. The longer we
can make them believe that Lindsey Carrol is wandering around out
here, the better chance the real Lindsey has to make it to trial."  
He reached out and fingered a strand of her auburn hair, rubbing it
slowly between his thumb and fingers. "If they realize right away that
Lindsey Carrol was never on that plane, they may or may not give up
looking for *us* but they're going to head straight back to Atlanta
and start combing for her all over again."

He scanned her face, watching the play of emotions on her
features as she considered his words.

"You've given this some thought."

He shrugged.  "I thought about it while I was wandering around
looking for you."

Her eyes were unreadable to him.  He thought he glimpsed a trace
of anger in them, but he dismissed it without much thought.  Why
in the world would she be angry?

"Okay," she said quietly.  "On the off chance that you *are*
right, I agree we shouldn't risk it.  I guess the best thing we
can do right now is to make it to the nearest ranger station and
radio our position to someone we know we can trust."  She raised
an eyebrow at him.  "Think there's any such person?"

He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Oooh, a woman after my
own heart.  I love it when you're paranoid."  He stooped down to
pick up the canvas bag at her feet, shouldering it easily.

She didn't smile back.  She looked pale, tired.....distant. 
Hell, she looked positively irritable, he noted. "Something was
still bothering her, he realized, and it had nothing to do with
this case.  The tension between them had been festering for days, and
it started well before the Drug Enforcement Agency had come knocking. 
Mulder had no idea what it was, and judging by the look on her face,
he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  CrankyScully was not one of his
favorite companions.

He unzipped the bag and stuffed his coat into it, filling the
nylon pouch to capacity before he closed it again.  It hung
awkwardly from his shoulder, too full now to be anything but
cumbersome.  He turned slowly in a circle, taking in the
landscape.  "Any idea which way to the nearest McDonald's?"

His attempt at humor fell flat. Nothing. Not even a smile.
"I don't have a clue, Mulder.  But then I was hardly in a
position to sightsee."

"Well then I guess our best bet would be to head back up to the
top of this ridge and see if we can spot any kind of lookout
tower or ranger station."  He turned and started up the path,
turning after a few steps to make sure she was behind him.

She was following quietly -- slowly.  It seemed she was purposely
keeping the distance between them, he noted, continuing up the rocky
hillside.  He looked over his shoulder and made one last attempt at
conversation.  "If we make the top of the ridge within an hour or so,
we should have plenty of time to get started in the right direction
before nightfall."

"Fine."

Her terse reply caught him off guard, but she didn't continue,
and he didn't press it.  Okay, Scully, he thought.  We can play
the quiet game for now.  But sooner or later, you're going to
tell me what's bugging you.  We've got no one to talk to but each
other.

He fell quiet, concentrating on the rocky landscape, listening
occasionally for the sounds of Scully following behind.  She
could have her way for now, he decided.  They had a long
afternoon ahead of them, and probably an even longer night;
tomorrow was too far away to think about.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

6:36 pm

It had been the longest day of Scully's life.  Even without the
crash it had been one long, foggy nightmare from which she
couldn't awake; the crash had just been the final straw.  She
trudged along the rocky trail behind Mulder, keeping him in her
sight, but not following too closely; she needed the distance. 
She hadn't realized how out of shape she had gotten since leaving the
academy, and her injured leg wasn't helping her mobility any. 

One foot in front of the other, Scully, she told herself.  Just
like hiking up Grayson's Ridge with Charlie and Bill.  Just watch the
ground, step carefully, and put one foot in front of the other.  

Her muscles were screaming at her with every step.  All right,
already, she groaned, inwardly addressing her aching limbs.  I
promise I'll go to the gym more often if you'll just get me down
from this mountain.  Her answer was a flash of pain that shot
down her neck and shoulders.  Yeah, well, same to you, she told
her traitorous body. 

She couldn't ask Mulder to stop.  No, that wasn't the truth.  She
*wouldn't* ask -- there was a difference.  They hadn't gone far enough
to take a break; when they had, she would propose a brief stop.

She caught a glimpse of him ahead of her, his work shirt
discarded, T-shirt wet with perspiration, sticking to his back. 
The bag he had taken from her bounced easily against his side,
obviously not bothering him in the least. 

It bothered Scully.  It bothered her a lot.

It bothered her that he had picked it up automatically, relieving her
of a burden she hadn't asked to be relieved of.  A burden, in fact,
that she had fought tooth and nail to hold onto.  He was always doing
that, taking the lead, making decisions, setting the pace.  He was
always the senior agent to her novice; he was always the last word to
her careful suggestion.  He was always the adult treating her like a
child.  Well she wasn't a child, damn it, and she *wanted* her bag!   

God, he was such a ..... a *man* sometimes.  She stumbled lightly on
the loose rocks lining the hillside and fleetingly considered chucking
one of the small pebbles toward him.  A fiendishly childish act, to be
sure, but one that would feel so good. 

A pine sprig slapped her in the face and she swatted it away,
scraping her hand in the process.  Tiny beads of blood surfaced
on her skin, and she wiped them away on her jeans.

Her jeans.  Another perfect example of the Y chromosome at work.
How in the hell could he have failed to notice that she had
changed clothes?  He was a Special Agent of the FBI, for God's
sake.  He had a photographic memory on top of that.  And yet it
somehow "slipped his notice" that her wardrobe changed completely from
point-of-impact to site-of-rescue?

Typical Mulder. Hell, it was *vintage* Mulder.

Mulder and every other man in the world.  They all had that
annoyingly selective attention span.  The one that let them tune
out the sound of the telephone ringing off the hook right next to
them, but allowed them to hear every bit of television sports
commentary over the din of the civil defense siren blaring in the
middle of a thunderstorm.

She watched him up ahead, gaining higher ground, turning around
every once in awhile to make sure she was following.  

Well she was.  Hell, wasn't she always?  That was *exactly* what
she had become, she groused:  a follower to his leadership.

Mulder might not have noticed that she changed clothes, and
obviously couldn't be bothered to notice she was limping, but by
God, if there was a bag to be carried or a pace to be set, he
would be the one to do both.  And the worst part, she admitted,
was that she had allowed it to get to this point.  How many times had
she acquiesced when she should have held her ground?  How much of
herself had she sacrificed to keep up with Mulder?  Too much, she
thought.  And she was just beginning to realize how much she resented
it.

>From twenty yards ahead, Mulder paused and turned to face her. 
They were near the top, and it was obvious he had seen something; he
was grinning like a boy scout on a nature hike.  He looked totally
invigorated.   

She felt completely drained.

She climbed steadily toward him, thankful that the pain in her
leg had been replaced by total numbness over an hour ago.  She
felt absurdly pleased with herself that she had kept him from
noticing.  It was her injury, her cross to bear.  And she'd be
damned if she'd give him control over her mobility.

She reached him quietly, leaning against the roughened bark of a
large pine tree to catch her breath.

"There's a lookout tower halfway up the next ridge.  We won't
make it tonight, but we should be able to get there tomorrow. 
There may be a radio."

Scully nodded.  "You want to camp here tonight?"  God please let
him say yes, she thought.  She'd managed okay for most of the
day, but her leg was growing heavier and heavier with every step. She
didn't know how much longer she could keep up with him.

"I guess we ought to start thinking about making camp," he
agreed.  "We don't have a lot of options."

She looked up at a sky resplendent in deep shades of pink and
orange.  It was later than she'd realized.  "No, we don't," she
readily agreed.  Darkness would come fast, Scully knew, and when
it came, it would be complete.  Impenetrable.   "I guess this is
as good a place as any." 

He looked at the small clearing, sizing it up, finding it,
ultimately to his satisfaction.  "I'll go round up some
firewood."  He walked away into the lengthening shadows.

Scully watched him go without a sound, sliding down the length of the
tree trunk until she was sitting on the ground with her legs stretched
out in front of her.  She was too tired to muster any real indignation
at his hunter/gatherer mentality.  Mulder was the least of her
problems now, she was beginning to realize.

She had no sensation at all in her left leg, and while the
numbness had served her well today, she knew it would be in worse
shape tomorrow, after a night of inactivity.  It was probably going to
get infected. If so, she would know it tomorrow.  

"Then what," she whispered.  "Then what will I do?"

She didn't have an answer.  And it scared the hell out of her.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

10:47 pm

Flickering firelight danced in the blackness, leaping and
stretching in a myriad of ways, illuminating those objects
closest to the campfire, encompassing them within an illusion of
light and safety.  But beyond the small circle of orange warmth,
the liquid radiance spread slow, deep shadows into the unfamiliar
woods, dissolving far too quickly into the larger, smothering darkness
of the Appalachian wilderness.

Stretched out on the forest floor on a blanket of pine needles,
Scully shifted uncomfortably, trying yet again to concentrate on
Mulder's incessant rambling, unable to focus on anything beyond
the all-consuming pain in her left leg.  She rolled onto her
left side and breathed a sigh of relief as the wretched burning
subsided.

"Don't you think, Scully?"

"Uh huh."  She had no idea what she was agreeing with.

Why couldn't she sleep?  Was it the darkness?  The stillness? 
They'd never really bothered her before, and she'd camped dozens
of times as a child.

She stifled an urge to fluff the twigs underneath her, knowing
that no matter how she patted and arranged them, they would never
transform into her big soft bed at home.  Instead, she pushed the
image of home from her mind and pulled her jacket up snugly underneath
her chin like a blanket, crossing her arms underneath it.  It covered
her from chin to hips in the front, leaving the small campfire to warm
her legs.  The comforting warmth she felt lightly against her back,
was Mulder.  

"....was that how you interpreted it?"

Oh.  He was talking to her now.  "Um, yeah.  That was pretty much how
I interpreted it."

Mulder seemed satisfied with her response, because he began the
droning again.  God, she'd never been this tired in her life.  So why
couldn't she sleep?  She was warm, she was exhausted, she was
relatively safe, given that both she and Mulder were armed.  If they
*were* approached by an animal, despite their meager campfire, they
could easily defend themselves.  

The sound of Mulder's voice behind her began to grate on her
nerves.  It seemed he had been talking ever since they had
finished their dinner.  Dinner.  Ha.  That was a laugh.  Five
miniature Three Musketeers bars each and one shared bottle of
Evian.  Not the most nutritiously balanced mean she'd ever had,
but her stomach hadn't cared.  At the time it seemed nothing had
ever tasted better.  Even the lukewarm water was exceptionally
good.  

Water.  They needed water. They would have to find a water source
soon; the small six pack of Evian was going fast.  What kind of
National Park was this where there wasn't even a meandering brook, she
wondered?  

Behind her, Mulder continued his monologue.  "...if that's okay
with you."

"That's fine with me, Mulder."   She hoped it was.  Damn, her leg
hurt.  I should tell him, she thought.  He'll be angry if I don't tell
him. But her pride still refused to let her say the words.  

Oh, who gives a shit if he's angry, she decided at last.  It's
not like he can do anything about it.  And telling him will only
give him more reason to act like he needs to make all the
decisions and I can't do anything for myself.  

She nodded in the darkness, pleased to have won the argument with
herself.  He should have known anyway, she thought unreasonably. She
always knew when *he* wasn't well.  

She was suddenly aware of the silence.  Was he waiting for her to say
something?  

"I'm sorry, Mulder, what did you say?"

He didn't respond.

"Mulder?"

Finally, the steady sound of deep breathing answered her, and she was
filled with an overwhelming sense of resentment.

Sleeping.  The son of a bitch was sleeping.  One minute they were
having a conversation, and the next minute he was off in slumberland. 

Okay, she conceded, maybe she hadn't exactly been holding up her
end of the conversation this evening, but if he had an ounce of
common sense, he'd know why.  He should know why, she groused. 
She frowned into the darkness.  

Unbelievable.  Even his subconscious ditched her.

Scully closed her eyes, calling up comforting visions of home and
family.  She could rest, at least.  She could lay here and relax and
think about getting out of this entire DEA fiasco.  And if sleep
continued to elude her, she would deal with the fatigue tomorrow, and
Mulder would be predictably oblivious.

A cool breeze swept over her face, caressing her cheek and
ruffling her hair.  She shivered, snuggling down under her jacket and
curling her legs up as far as she could without hurting herself.  She
inched back towards Mulder in search of the warmth his body provided,
pressing her back tighter against his.  She found the warmth she
sought, but not the comfort. The comfort was gone, taken away without
warning.  The comfort was sleeping. 

Her leg began to ache again, and Scully bit her bottom lip to
keep from moaning as she steeled  herself against the hot
sensations.  Eventually, through the haze of pain, her
subconscious began to beckon her toward the soft void of sleep,
and in her mind, Scully walked toward the dreamscape slowly,
almost painfully.

And alone.  

Always alone.


End of Part 5


Tempest, part 6

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

3:37 am

He was cold. No matter what he did, he couldn't get warm.  He
stood, sick and trembling outside Scully's door, praying he would
still be standing when she opened it.   The door swung open
suddenly and he stumbled inside, off-balance as she reached
out to steady him.

"Oh.  Mulder."   Her arms went around him.  "Thank God."

He felt sick.  And fuzzy.  There was so much blood.  They would
think he did it.  They would think he killed his father.

Scully reached a cool hand toward his face, gasping as she made
contact with his skin.  "Look at you.  You're sick."  She closed
the door and reached for the zipper of his jacket, yanking it
downward in an effort to take it from him.

"Let's get this coat off."

Didn't she know he was cold?  He was so cold.  He just wanted to
sit down.  "No, I'm okay."  He slumped into the chair beside her
door.

"No, don't."  She pulled him up.  

Why wouldn't she let him rest?

"I want you to lie down."

He moved toward the chair again.

"Don't," she repeated.  "I want you to lie down.  Come on, take
your coat off."  She unhooked the zipper of his jacket and pulled
it from him.  

He gave up this time, shrugging out of it.  He would just have to
be cold.  "We have to find them, Scully."  

She didn't seem to be listening.  She pushed him ahead of her
down the hall and into her bedroom.  Everything was blurry.  *He*
felt blurry.  She guided him toward the bed and he sat down,
craving the coolness of her hands as she stroked his face and the
back of his neck.  She leaned him back toward the pillows, her
silken touch everywhere on him.  She would take care of him.  She
would take care of everything.  

He stretched out on her bed and she walked away from him
suddenly.  She was leaving.  

Scully, don't leave me.

Dad, don't leave me.

His father was gone.

He struggled to a sitting position, ignoring the dizziness that
engulfed him.  He looked down the hall where Scully had
disappeared.  "We've got to find out who killed my father."

And then magically, she was back.  Her hand closed around the
back of his neck and eased him back to the pillow.  "Well right
now, you need to rest," she told him, placing a cool cloth on his
forehead.  

It felt good.  It made him feel better.

"Rest," Scully whispered.

She sounded far away.  She sounded so tired.  He didn't want to
rest.

"It's okay," he heard her breathe close to his ear.  "It's okay."

He slept, and the coldness left him.

He was unaware when she had joined him in bed.  He only knew that
at some point in the night, she had begun to talk in her sleep.

"I'm okay," she whispered.  "I'm okay, Mulder."

He rolled over onto his side, taking in the pallor of her face. 
She was trembling all over.  She didn't look okay.  She looked
cold.  He reached out to touch her cheek, surprised to find it
unnaturally hot.  Scully's eyelids fluttered below the damp cloth
on her forehead.  Had she been sick?  She must be sick.  

"I'm cold, Mulder."

Her skin was so hot.  What was wrong with her?  He couldn't see
anything wrong with her.  But the bed began to shake from the
force of her trembling, and she began to moan softly in her
sleep.  He reached out for her, and she sighed when he touched
her.  Feeling reassured that he was doing the right thing, he
gathered her to him, ignoring the heat of her skin, and wrapped
himself around every inch of her as she trembled from cold he
couldn't feel, and battled demons he couldn't see.

Slowly, the shudders that racked her body began to subside, and
she relaxed against him.  He felt unbelievably tired now.  Scully
sighed and rolled over on top of him, sleeping peacefully at last
with one arm stretched up around his neck and the other curled
under her chin like a small child.  She weighed nothing, he
thought, nothing at all.  Almost as if she wasn't there.

He was dreaming.  He knew it then. But he didn't want to pull
himself out of it.  He wasn't ready to let it go.  Instead, he
anchored himself tighter into the dream, wrapping his arms around
the small waist of his dream Scully, content merely to be next to
her, even within the innocence of sleep. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *
  
6:46 am

The unusually loud song of birds close by broke through the thin
veil of sleep that covered Scully, pulling her softly into the
vague awareness of morning consciousness.  Eyes closed, she
reached her right arm out in a slow languid stretch.  Lord, she
was tired, and her bed felt so good, she just wanted to sleep all
day.  But the unmistakable light of day was evident even through
closed eyelids, and Scully knew she had to get up.  Her alarm
would probably go off any minute. 

Her alarm?  Her alarm hadn't gone off.

Since when did her bed smell like Mulder?

She opened her eyes, squinting away the morning glare, and
blinking rapidly against the unrelenting sunshine.  She was
outside. 

The crash came back to her in a wave, wiping away every trace of
sleepiness.  She was miraculously alive...and she was lying
completely on top of a sleeping Fox Mulder.  At some point during
the night, she had rolled over on top of him and obviously found
him more comfortable than the twigs she had gone to sleep on. 
Not an inch of her touched the ground.  Her left arm was straight
down beside her, resting along the length of his torso, her right
arm was curled under her chin.  Her legs were stretched down the
length of his, the toes of her shoes pointing in toward each
other at Mulder's shins.

Bit by bit, Scully's awareness of her body came fully into focus.

Her growling stomach was the first to complain.  She was
ravenous.  Nothing she could do about that one.  Her head hurt. 
Damn.  There was nothing worse than a morning headache -- they
were the hardest to get rid of.  But at least she had some
aspirin in her bag somewhere.  Next?  She *really* had to go to
the bathroom.  There was only one way to take care of that one. 
She sighed.

Slowly, trying desperately not to disturb Mulder, she put her
hand down on the ground beside him and attempted to raise
herself.  She failed miserably.

Not only could she not lift her body from his, she realized with
horror...she couldn't move at all.

Not an inch.

Nothing.

She was one big sore muscle -- completely immobile.  

Move, damn it, she commanded her body.  Oh God, she thought,
don't let him wake up and find me like this.

One by one, she began carefully testing her limbs, flexing and
relaxing her muscles to gauge the damage.  It didn't look good. 
Her arms were stiff and sore, her back was aching already.  She
couldn't seem to move her legs at all.

Concentrating intensely, she managed to bend her right leg,
dropping her foot over the side of Mulder's leg, feeling a twinge
of hope that she could eventually work her way off of him bit by
methodical bit.  The stiffness she would worry about later.  

Her optimism was short lived however.  Her body straining with
every movement, she inadvertently pressed her hips hard into
Mulder's as she fought for control of her muscles.

And Mulder's body responded instantly.

She went completely still, trying not notice the growing hardness
underneath her, but her own body's response made it impossible. 
Her mouth went dry, her nipples hardened against his chest.  Her
heart began to pound furiously. 

Not good, she thought.  This is not good.  

The only thing that kept her from being completely mortified was
the knowledge that his body reacted to hers of its own volition,
while he continued to sleep. As if on cue, the birds began their
morning song again, louder than any birds Scully had ever heard,
loud enough to wake the dead, she thought. 

Loud enough to wake Mulder.

No, no no, Scully thought frantically.  Shut up.  But the aria
was in full swing.

Mulder's arm went around her waist and hugged her gently.

Oh God.

Dreading what she knew she was going to see, Scully lifted her
head, groaning with the effort, and found herself staring
straight into Fox Mulder's very wide awake hazel eyes.  His body
surged underneath her, and she felt the heat in her cheeks as she
realized she was completely incapable of rolling off of him.  She
didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.  She simply stared
at him.  She'd never been in a more awkward position -- and she'd
never been more aroused in her life.

He didn't say a word.  He didn't make a move toward her, even as
his body continued talk to hers.  His breathing was as shallow as
her own, she noted, and he swallowed hard a couple of times. 
After what seemed an eternity, he lifted his head from the
ground, his face drawing closer, his lips nearing hers.  She
readied herself for the inevitable contact as his arm tightened
around her waist.

"Ooh!"  She couldn't suppress the cry of surprise as Mulder sat
up without warning and rolled her off of him in a single fluid
motion.  Her bottom hit the ground with a solid thump, sending
waves of pain to every muscle in her body.  Before she could
even process what had just happened, he had disappeared into the
surrounding trees.

Pressed against the rough terrain, her injured leg felt like it
was on fire, and it was the motivation to alleviate that agony
that finally prompted Dana Scully to stagger to her feet, wincing
with every movement.

She looked toward the trees where Mulder had disappeared and
began limping slowly in the other direction to attend her own
private needs.  Above her, the mockingbirds whistled shrilly,
their loud unceasing song beginning to grate on her nerves. 
"Obnoxious little bastards," she muttered.

She wouldn't think about Mulder, she told herself.  She wouldn't
give a second thought to what had almost happened.  It was
obvious his arousal had been induced by sleep and her intimate
contact -- not because he wanted her.

She looked down at her dirty jeans and her scratched hands,
wishing desperately for a toothbrush to eliminate a few of the
tiny little sweaters that seemed to cover her teeth.  Gosh,
Mulder, she thought, pulling a leaf from her hair.  What's not to
want?

The sound of her bitter laughter rang clear through quiet
mountain morning.  Overhead, the birds laughed back.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

7:03 am

Mulder was already back in the clearing, pacing restlessly when
she returned.  She walked carefully toward him, determined not to
show the pain that coursed through her with every step.  It would
get better, she promised herself.  She would walk out the
stiffness and it would get better.  She hadn't looked at the
wound this morning.  Her makeshift bandage was still firmly in
place, and she knew if she had taken the time to unwrap and
examine it, Mulder would have come looking for her.  Since she
couldn't clean it anyway, she had left it alone.  It wasn't worth
the argument it would cause if he knew.  

He turned to face her as she approached, seemingly oblivious to
her discomfort, and she was relieved.  When she realized he
wasn't going to bring up their early morning encounter, she was
doubly relieved.  Then she got her first good look at him, and
her relief turned to alarm.

"Mulder!  Oh my God, your face!"  The purple bruise high on his
cheekbone had escaped her notice this morning when he had lifted
his head, and his hair had covered the deep scratches on his
forehead.  

"It's nothing," he told her.  "Doesn't even hurt."

He winced slightly as she pushed his hair out of the way to get a
better look.  "Liar."

His lips twitched.  "Okay.  It hurts a little.  But not nearly as
much as my shoulder.  How are *you* feeling this morning?"

She ignored the question.  "Your shoulder?"

"I'm fine, Scully."

"Uh huh.  Let me check it."

He sighed.  "How come it works when *you* say it?"

She chuckled.  "Because you're a wise man." She walked around to
stand behind him.  "Right or left?"

"Left," he replied.  "It's just bruised, Scully.  I think I
probably landed on it yesterday."

"Take your shirt off, and let me look at it," she ordered.

He complied without comment, wincing as her fingers probed the
sensitive area on his back.

"Well, it's ten shades of purple, and it'll probably be fifteen
shades of blue and green before it's done, but I don't think
anything's separated or torn."  She walked back to face him,
indicating he could redress.  "It's going to be awfully sore
though.  I think you better take it easy today, Mulder," she told
him casually.  "Don't over do anything.  Pace yourself today."

Smooth, Scully, she congratulated herself.  Make him slow down
and think he's doing it for himself.  You are good, you know
that?

"It doesn't hurt when I walk, Scully.  I'm fine.  Are you ready
to go?" 

Damn.  "I think so," she sighed.  "Just let me get the bag."

Mulder began kicking dirt over the black ashes of what had been
their campfire, as Scully walked toward the canvas bag, mentally
taking inventory of the contents.  Their limited supplies weren't
going to support them longer than a day, she knew.  She picked up
the bag and shouldered it, absently patting the side of it.  It
wasn't much, but it was all they had.  Two more meals worth of
Three Musketeers, and enough bottled water to last the day if
they were frugal.  Aside from that, they were painfully short on
anything remotely helpful.  Their jackets, the antibiotic cream
and syringe of Demerol, a lighter she had thrown in as an
afterthought when she saw it in the plane, and Mulder's glasses.

Mulder's glasses.

Oh God.  Where were they?  She had wrapped them in her jacket
before leaving the plane, but then she had slept under her jacket
last night and she hadn't seen them.  Where were they?   She
pulled the bag around to the front and unzipped it, pawing 
through it roughly, removing her wadded up jacket and Mulder's to
get a better look inside.  The glasses were gone.  She had no
idea what had happened to them.

She'd lost them, she thought, somewhat dazed.  She'd managed to
save them from the wreckage only to lose them within a day.  She
blinked hard, embarrassed to realize she was close to tears.  She
wasn't a crier.  Dana Scully had never been a crier.  But she'd
never been in a plane crash before, either, she consoled herself. 
It was stress.

That had to be it.  Just stress.

She sniffed and blinked back the last of her remorse, pulling out
the antibiotic cream and returning the rest of the items to the
bag.  She and Mulder had both lost things in the crash --
clothing, personal items, paperwork.  It could all be replaced --
even his glasses.  She just wouldn't tell him she had ever taken
them from the plane.  It seemed less of a failure that way. 
Somewhat mollified, she zipped the bag and turned to her partner.

"Here," she said, waving the tube of cream at him.  "Let me put
some of this on your forehead before we go.

He nodded allowing her to administer the ointment liberally
before returning it to the bag.   "Okay," he told her, breaking
the short silence that had fallen between them.  "We're heading
west now, and I figure from the last point where we could see the
lookout tower that we're about a good ten or eleven miles from
it.  We won't know for sure until we crest the next hill, but for
now, let's just head this way.  Hopefully we'll find a stream or
a river before lunch time.  Okay?"

She sighed, looking through the trees at a day's worth of
mosquitoes and discomfort.  Fuck it, she wanted to say.

"I'm ready if you are," she said.

Mulder turned and walked easily into the trees.  Limping slightly
after her long-legged partner, she left the clearing without a
look back.  It hadn't been an outright lie, she thought -- she
was as ready as she was going to get today.  Mulder just didn't
have a clue how "not ready" that was.

End of Part 6


Tempest, part 7

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

1:13 pm

Mulder swatted away an errant pine branch and winced as the
needles added yet another jagged scratch to his hand.  He ran his
knuckles across the fabric of his pants, wiping away the blood
beginning to bead.  Sweat ran down the back of his neck and
disappeared into the damp fabric of his T-shirt.  It was too goddamned
hot for barely being May.  Wasn't it supposed to be cool in the
mountains?

As Scully followed several steps behind him, lost in her own
thoughts and observations, Mulder continued walking down the
sloping landscape, slipping now and then on the overlapping piles of
fallen leaves.  Occasionally, there were squirrels and rabbits that
bounded across his path.  Once, he saw a snake.  He hadn't mentioned
that one to Scully.  She hated snakes, and with the mood she was in
now, he just wasn't sure how she would have taken it.

He was beginning to feel discouraged.  Despite the hours they'd
been walking, they weren't making good progress at all.  His
muscles were screaming at him with every step, and although she
hadn't mentioned it, Scully was obviously faring even worse.  She was
limping noticeably, stumbling along several paces behind him. He'd
slowed down automatically when he realized she was struggling to keep
up.  Not that she'd been forthcoming about it. Oh no, not stoic
Special Agent Scully.  She hadn't complained once -- hadn't really
said anything at all outside of basic small talk when they'd stopped
for lunch -- but Mulder knew something was eating away at his partner,
and she stubbornly refused to tell him what it was.  

At first, he had thought she was hiding an injury from him.  But
the longer she kept her silence, the more certain he became that
it had something to do with their uncomfortable encounter that
morning.

Uncomfortable?  Hell, that was the understatement of the decade.
Waking up with the soft inviting form of Dana Scully stretched out
prone like a blanket on top of him was hardly uncomfortable -- it was
exquisite.  He hadn't awakened to a hard-on that intense since high
school.  And judging from the look on Scully's face this morning,
she'd been horrified at his body's response. Now she was keeping her
distance.  

It wasn't like he'd done it on purpose, he rationalized; some
things were just automatic.  Still, he knew first hand how
seriously Scully took her professionalism.  Her status with the
Bureau depended on it.  As a woman, and a small, attractive woman at
that, she had to be on guard all the time.  Mulder knew the ugly truth
that Scully fought so hard against: men take advantage at every
opportunity.  Did Scully think that about him now?  That he had tried
to take advantage?  That he had propositioned her?

Christ.  *Had* he propositioned her?  There had been a moment
when he wasn't sure.  They had stared at each other, neither
saying a word, but the reality of their position was all too
evident to them both.  The truth was, he could have broken the
contact sooner...but then so could she.  He honestly hadn't been
sure what he was seeing in her expression, and so he had waited,
hoping she would say or do something that would give him a clue
as to what his next move should be.  

In a way, she had.  Her silence had ultimately moved him to roll her
off of him before he humiliated himself completely.  But one
word...just one...and things might have been different.

What had she been thinking, he wondered.  Why hadn't she said
anything?  And why, he asked himself, was he agonizing over
something that hadn't been his fault?  She could have moved. 
She could have broken the silence.

The silence.  Scully was a paradigm of it lately.  This morning
had just been one more piece of the unending jigsaw puzzle that
had become their relationship.  He didn't know where he stood
with her anymore, and it was really beginning to piss him off.

He stopped walking.  God, it just hit him this very second.  He
really was pissed off.  Scully had been acting strangely for days now
and treating him as though he should know exactly what was going
through her mind.  Well he didn't know how to read minds, and he
surely wouldn't hazard a guess as to what was going through one as
paradoxical as Dana Scully's.

No.  She was going to have to tell him.  Spell it out.  Come
clean.  And he would pry it out of her tonight if he had to use a
fucking crowbar.  She owed him that much.  She did.

"Mulder?"  

Her voice startled him.  "Huh?"

"What's wrong?"

That's the million dollar question, isn't it, he thought. 
"Nothing," he told her.  "I was waiting for you to catch up."

Her lips thinned.  "Sorry to have held you up."

If she was looking for an apology, she wasn't going to get one. 
"No problem," he told her, turning to start back down the path,
ignoring the surprised look on her face.  He took several steps
before he heard her make a move to follow.

Oh yeah, he thought, slapping another pine branch out of his way.
Tonight it was going to be resolved one way or another.  And he really
didn't give a shit whether or not she was ready to talk about whatever
it was.  He was ready enough for both of them.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

3:42 p.m.

Scully really needed to stop long enough to get a good look at
the back of her leg.  She could feel the wetness seeping through
the bandage and into the fabric of her jeans.  Oozing wetness
wasn't good, wasn't good at all.  If she could see it, she could
verify the infection -- gauge how long she had before the
situation became critical.  Losing her leg was a real
possibility, she knew, and it all hinged upon the amount of
tissue damage she sustained before beginning antibiotic
treatment.  

Another wave of acid burning pain shot down her limb and she
moaned softly.  She had to be realistic.  Losing her leg was only one
of the extreme possibilities that was becoming less and less extreme
with every passing second.  Left untreated under these conditions, the
cut could easily be life-threatening.  She needed to look at it.  She
needed to, but she wouldn't.  God forbid Special Agent Chuck Yeager up
ahead be forced to wait for her again.  No, she could go as long as he
could.  She'd wait for *him* to stop.  To hell with complaining -- she
was her father's daughter.  She could endure. 

A waist-high cluster of golden wildflowers caught her eye and she
brushed her fingertips lightly across the soft petals.  She loved the
velvety softness of flounders.  It was lovely at the beach this time
of year.  She straightened and shook her head.  Where had that come
from?  She looked ahead.  Mulder was farther away than she realized. 
With a deep groan, she limped after him.  

The pain really wasn't so bad once she made up her mind to ignore it,
she thought.  The weather was nice, and the sun was casting the most
interesting shadows all around her.  Some of them actually moved. 
Weird.  She'd never noticed that before -- it must be a mountain
thing, she decided.

She tripped on a rock and took a small skip to regain her
footing.  She laughed out loud, and the sound seemed far away. 
She hadn't skipped since she was a little girl.  Skipping. 
Hopscotch.  Missy's childish voice came floating back to her. 
You're out, Dana.  You stepped on the line.  I did not.  Did too. Did
not.  You're such a baby!  You're such a pukeface.  You're a butthole.
 Mom!  Missy called me a butthole! 

Missy called me the night she was killed.  The phone rang
shrilly.  Don't answer, Mom.  There's been an accident.  Melissa
was shot.  Shot.  C'mon Dana.  Do another shot.  The tequila
burned her throat as she swallowed and placed the slice of lemon
in her mouth.  The party was in full swing.  How long will your
folks be out of town?

You're going out of town again?  Her mother's voice was
reproachful.  I have to, Mom.  That's part of my job.  Agent
Mulder sees more of you than I do these days.  Well we're even,
Mom -- I see just as much of him.  Do you enjoy the view?  MOM!

It's a nice view, she thought dreamily, staring at the slightly
blurry backside of her partner several yards ahead of her.  Such
a nice ass, she marveled.  It was an ass that should be carved
into the side of a mountain somewhere 200 feet tall people could
make pilgrimages to it on vacation.  Mt. Muldermore.  And that
was her professional opinion too.  She was a doctor -- she knew
about these things.  Great ass.  World class ass.

Mom! Dana's cussing!  She keeps saying "ass."  Did not!  Did too! Did
not!  Did too!  Liar!  Tattletale!  Tattle...tattle...
battle...rattle...rattlesnakes?  Her brother's voice now, so close by.
 Very, very close by.  A rattlesnake can kill you within 20 minutes if
it bites you more than once.  She hated snakes.  Hated them.  Mulder
hated bugs.  But he had liked the bug girl.  What was her name? 
Fluffy?  Barbie?

No. Baaaaaambi. That was it, she scoffed.  Hmph.  Real people
weren't named Bambi.  Nobody was *really* named Bambi.  Fucking
deer.  She hated Bambi.  It was her least favorite Disney movie.
Disney.  Pbbbbbbbbbt.  What was WITH all those little characters
losing their parents?  What kind of freakin' sadist WAS that Walt
Disney, anyway?  Bambi, Dumbo, Ariel, Simba, and oh...that little
Jungle Book kid in the loincloth.  

She wished she was wearing a loincloth.  She was too damn hot to
be traipsing around out here in the bright sun.  She'd feel
better if she could rest.  Just a few minutes.  The world spun
around her, making her stomach lurch like she was on a roller
coaster.  Whee.  Free ride.  She almost giggled at the thought,
then sobered as her equilibrium returned with the slightest bit
of mental acuity.  She'd made a mistake keeping her injury from
Mulder.  She should have told him.  He was going to be angry.

Are you mad at me Mom?  Her mother's hand still held the crumpled note
from Mrs. Allegro.  I'm not mad, Dana.  I'm disappointed in you. 
Tears begin to slip down Dana's cheeks.  I think I'd rather have you
mad at me.  

So long ago.  So far away.  

Mulder was so far away.  He looked to be miles ahead of her now. Why
didn't he see she wasn't there?  He was leaving her.  He was leaving
her alone.  She could keep up better is she didn't have to drag around
this heavy bag.  Why wasn't Mulder carrying the bag?  He should have
been carrying the bag.  It was so heavy.

I didn't mean to drop it, Missy.  I just wanted to look at it.  I
didn't know it was heavy.  More tears.  Comforting arms around her. 
It's okay, honey.  Don't cry.  I didn't like that figurine
anyway...I'm gonna get a crystal one that matches my room.  One that
matches...

You're not supposed to play with matches, Bill.  You're gonna get it
if Daddy catches you.  Who's gonna tell him, Dana Raina? Matches start
forest fires -- my teacher said so.  So I won't go near the forest.

Don't go near the forest.  Don't go near the forest.   My name's
Forrest Gump.  People call me Forrest Gump.  You can't be
serious, Mulder.  *Everyone* has seen Forrest Gump.  I keep
meaning to get around to it, I just haven't had time.

The thoughts swirled through her foggy mind.  No time.  No time.
Running out of time.  Wasted time.  Tired.  So tired.  So much blood. 
Alone now.  No Mulder.

Mulder was gone.

Through tear-filled eyes, Scully scanned the wooded landscape. 
When did she fall so far behind?  She'd completely lost sight of
Mulder and not even realized it.  How long ago had it been? 
Seconds?  Five minutes?  An hour?  She had no concept of time. 
Everything was distorted and wobbly.  Everything moved.  Even the
ground was moving.  Was she moving?  She wasn't moving.  When had she
stopped moving?  

She stood, wavering on unreliable legs, and lifted her face into
the soft breeze met her from the east.  Which way were they
walking again?  She didn't know, and she'd never figure it out
without Mulder.  She hadn't been paying attention. 

"Scully!"

Mulder's voice reached her distantly, like the cry of a small
animal imagined through the roar of a summer storm.  She spun
around, looking for a sign of him, seeing nothing but trees.  The
sudden movement stole the last of her balance, and she knew she was
going to fall.

Her knees buckled and she pitched forward, scraping her palms
across the rock-strewn ground as she broke her fall.  She ignored the
pain in her hands.  All she could feel was the pain in her leg. 

"Scully!"  Mulder's voice was closer now. 

"I'm here."  She yelled the words, but her voice resounded in her head
as the thinnest of whispers.  

He found her anyway.  Struggling to stand despite the
heart-stopping agony of her leg, she suddenly found herself
looking directly at his outstretched hand.

She slapped it away.  "I don't need your help."  Her words
sounded thick...not like her own voice at all.

"Scully what is going on?" he asked as she dragged herself to her
feet.  "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong," she mumbled.  "I need some privacy,
Mulder."  She hobbled off toward the trees.

"Scully?"

"Just give me a minute.  I'm fine."  She straightened her back
and walked slowly and deliberately away from her partner, praying with
every step she took, that she hadn't lied to him.  But in her heart
she knew the truth.  Fine was the very last thing she was.


End of part 7

Tempest, part 8


*  *  *  *  *  *  *


Mulder watched Scully wobble into the heavily wooded area,
waiting until she was well in front of him before he began to
follow.  He'd known something was wrong for a long time, but
he had hoped she would confide in him what it was.  From the way
she'd shoved his hand away when he tried to help her up, he felt
pretty sure that the admission was not forthcoming.

Watching her limp away from him with agonizing deliberation, he
was equally sure he'd finally put all the pieces together.  She'd
been hurt in the crash.  God, it was so obvious now.  She'd been
hurt and she'd hidden it from him and he'd been a fucking asshole
for not figuring it out sooner.  Well he was going to know all
about it now, or they wouldn't take another step.  Dana Scully
wasn't the only one who knew how to issue an ultimatum.  

Without a sound, he followed the path she had taken, closing the
gap between them.  

He found her half-dressed, leaning against the trunk of a large
tree as she tried to unwind a makeshift bandage from around her
left leg.  Her face was drawn and pale, streaked with dirt where
her tears had rolled down her cheeks.  She'd been crying?  He
could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Scully in
tears.  If she'd been crying, it was worse than he'd anticipated.
He cursed himself for every kind of fool that he hadn't called
her on her erratic behavior earlier.  He should have known she
was covering.

He should have, but he hadn't.

In silence, he stood behind her, watching in amazement as she
unraveled more and more of the bloody bandage from her thigh. 
Her shuddery breath caught in a muffled sob, and his heart
twisted at the sound; she didn't want him to hear her cry.  He
shook his head, dumbfounded by what he was seeing.  She was still
trying to keep it from him, still trying to keep the pace that he
had set for them both -- a pace that he had complained more than
once was too slow.  Now he knew why.

God, he was an jerk sometimes.

He walked toward her quietly, not drawing her attention until he
was standing almost beside her.  A twig snapped underfoot as he
approached her and she jumped as if she'd been shot, looking at
him with a guilty expression that quickly transformed into one of
irritation. 

"Don't you ever knock, Mulder?"

Hostile.  She was definitely hostile.

He was unfazed by her attitude.  "The door was open," he replied
quietly.  His eyes were fixed on the bandage she held loosely in
her hands.  There was blood.  A lot of blood.  "Jesus, Scully,"
he breathed.  "Why didn't you say something?"

"It's nothing, Mulder," she told him, trying to rewrap her leg
before he could see otherwise.  "I just need a few minutes,
that's all."

He closed the rest of the distance between them, fully taking in
for the first time the pallor on her face.  She was almost grey. 
"Nothing, huh?  Is that why you fell back there?  Because it's
nothing?"  His voice rose in anger.  "Is that why you look like
you're about to pass out now?  Because it's nothing?"  The words
sounded angrier than he meant for them to.

"For God's sake, Mulder, I'm a doctor.  I've looked at it -- it's
nothing.  And I'm not about to faint."  She glared at him, but
the attitude didn't disguise the pain in her eyes.  

He didn't bite.  "Sit down," he ordered.  "I want to look at it."
He gave her a look that dared her to argue, and she complied
without comment, awkwardly easing herself down beneath the tree,
leaning against it with a tired sigh as she stretched her legs
out in front of her.  

He crouched down, untying and removing her shoes, tugging lightly
on the legs of her jeans to pull them off completely.  They slid
easily from her shapely legs and he tossed them aside absently as
she shifted her weight onto her right hip, giving him access to
her left leg.  There was not a hint of self-consciousness in her
actions, no misplaced modesty for the fact that she sat before
him clad only in a T-shirt and bikini panties.  She looked
resigned.  Tired.  Sick.  

He felt ill himself.

He began to unwrap the bandage from her upper leg.  Layer by
layer the thin cloth came away from the wound, until at last he
had revealed the entire length of the fiendish cut that ran down
her thigh.  He looked at it closely, steeling himself to maintain
a scientifically-detached scrutiny. 

He wanted to throw up.

The deep, jagged cut was crusted with dried blood around the
edges, but the center of the wound oozed freely, a combination of
blood and dirt that Mulder knew was a haven for infection. 
Already, the skin around the cut was red and puffy, making the
edges of the wound pucker upward, widening the gash.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Scully whispered.  

Her head was turned away, her gaze averted.  She could easily
have twisted far enough to see the cut herself, but she didn't
try and he was glad.  However it might have looked when she
dressed it, he didn't think she had the stomach to see it now. 
He certainly didn't.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it infected?"

He considered lying to her, but it would have been pointless. 
She would know.  She *did* know.  She was only asking for
confirmation.

He ran a hand tiredly across his stubbled cheek.  "Yeah.  It's
infected."

She nodded silently, and began to stand, groaning softly as she
shifted her weight onto a leg he knew she had no business
standing on, but he couldn't think of a rational argument for
telling her that, so he said nothing.  She moved slowly,
unsteadily reaching for her discarded jeans.

"Wait," he told her, stopping her with an upraised hand.

"What?"

"I think we ought to put a clean dressing on that before we do
anything else." 

"I don't have anything to dress it with, Mulder."

He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. "Here.  We'll use
this.  I still have my T-shirt."

She looked doubtful.

"Don't argue," he warned.  "Sit."

She shrugged her compliance and sat back down.

Mulder ripped the shirt into strips, his mind racing.  Bad.  This
was more than bad.  Why hadn't she said something.  Goddammit,
she should have said something.  And he was mad as hell about the
fact that she hadn't, but that conversation would have to wait. 
He dug the antibiotic cream and last bottle of water from the bag
and crouched behind her.

"I'm gonna pour some water on it, Scully, and see if I can wipe
some of the dirt away.  Then I'll put some cream on it."

She sniffed and nodded resolutely, gasping audibly when he
touched the tender skin around the cut.  But she didn't cry out. 
Not once.  Not when he dabbed at it with the corner of the
shirt, and not when he touched the jagged edges of the wound with
the thick ointment from the tube.  He would have felt better if
she'd cried or screamed.  Her stoicism only made him feel like a
heel for hurting her -- like she'd just resigned herself to the
torture.  When he tied the last section of the meager thin
bandage, he didn't know who was more relieved.

"So what do we do now?"  He helped her to her feet.  She looked
completely out of it.

"Well, nothing's changed since this morning, Mulder."  Her words
were slow, but lucid.  She stepped into her jeans with his help
and slowly eased them up over her hips, wincing as the thick
denim touched the bandage.  "My leg was hurt then; it's hurt now. 
I can keep going."  She zipped her jeans and stepped into her
tennis shoes, walking slowly toward him.  "I can make it to the
watch tower.  Surely we're getting close by now."
  
"Scully you're not in any condition to be hiking down a
mountainside!"  His voice was loud and rough.

"Well I wasn't in any condition to be hiking down a mountainside
this morning either, but it didn't kill me, did it?"

"Not yet, it didn't," he growled.  "But it sure as hell didn't do
you any good!" 

"Well then you tell me what the alternative is, Mulder," Scully
shot back.  "because I'm sure as hell not gonna sit here and do
nothing while you wander around out here by yourself under the
guise of being chivalrous and going for help."  She crossed her
arms and glared at him.  

"You know damn well I wouldn't be chivalrous and go for help!" he
snapped.

Her eyebrows rose and the corners of her mouth twitched.

"You know what I mean," he corrected in a softer tone.

"Yes, I know what you mean, Mulder," she told him with a small
smile.  But she didn't let him off the hook.  "I'm serious,
Mulder.  We're not splitting up.  I'm not going to perish alone
out here from hunger or wolves or infection..."

"Don't forget hitmen," he added helpfully.

"...or hitmen," she amended without skipping a beat, "because you
felt the need to play hero to my damsel in distress.  Staying put
won't help anything at this point.  We've both seen the cut --
obviously I can't afford to wait around.  I have nothing to lose
and hopefully something to gain by continuing to walk down this
mountain, injured leg or not.  So the only question is why we're
standing here wasting time."  

He sighed.  "Okay.  You win."  He picked up the shoulder bag and
looked around them, getting his bearings.  "We'll take it slow,
and we'll stop whenever you need to, okay?"

She nodded.  "As long as I don't have to bend over or jog, I'll
be fine.  I've come this far; another half a day isn't going to
faze me."  She smiled at him.  "Hey, I've survived giant
flukeworms, satanic cults, pyromaniacs, liver-eating mutants, my
own abduction, and a plane crash.  I think I can walk a few more
hours on a cut leg."

And he almost believed her.  He might have believed her, if she
hadn't walked around to face him and placed her hand on his arm
in a gentle, if hesitant gesture.

"Mulder?"  Her voice was soft.

"What?"  He answered her just as quietly.

"Will you do something for me before we go?"

He looked down at her, hating the stress and pain that showed on
her face.  Hating the evidence of anxiety that had become far too
familiar when he looked at her.  He was suddenly overwhelmed by
the need to offer her some modicum of comfort or reassurance.
Lend her his strength.  Whatever she wanted from him, at that
moment, he would have moved heaven and earth to make it so.
"Sure."

She lifted one leg toward him and smiled tentatively.  "Tie my
shoes?" 

Wordlessly, Mulder bent down and fumbled with her laces,
complying with her request in what seemed no longer than a
heartbeat.  Unexpected tears blurred his vision; he blinked them
away.  Tying her shoes was such a simple gesture, so easily
given, and yet the act itself seemed unbelievably intimate.  And
kneeling in the woods, with Dana Scully's foot on his thigh, Fox
Mulder was startled to realize just how much of his life -- his
world, in fact -- could fit into something as small as a size six
tennis shoe.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

5:47 p.m.

The watchtower sat high on the hillside, supported by a knotty
wooden frame that showed significant signs of weathering and old
age.  Sixty six rungs of rough-hewed pine stretched upward in a
mock salute, taunting both agents with the promise of a much
deserved rest.  But the journey to the top was a test of
endurance.  They climbed for ten minutes, slowly and carefully
inching up the sturdy wooden ladder with Scully setting the pace. 
Mulder followed below, spotting her shaky steps -- steadying her
when the vertigo kicked in about halfway up.  Finally, Scully
pulled herself painfully onto the small deck and scrambled
away from the ladder, making room as Mulder stepped over the last
rung to join her.   He pulled his weapon and fired one quick
round into the cheap padlock on the door, pushing it open and
waiting as Scully limped inside ahead of him.

She knew within five seconds that it hadn't been worth the trip. 
She'd cataloged the contents in an instant:  two short shelves
containing less than a dozen dusty books, one small cabinet
directly underneath the room's single multi-paned window, one gas
lantern on a hook by the door, a hot plate left sitting on a
small folding card table, some rolled up papers leaning in the
corner, and a small dirty generator peeking out from behind the
one tiny cot on the far wall.

There was no radio.

Fatigue and disappointment claimed the last of her strength and
she swayed, showing no reaction at all when Mulder's hands
encircled her upper arms to steady her.  

There was no radio.

He nudged her toward the cot.  "Sit down before you fall down,
Scully."  

She sat.

There was no radio.

"There has to be something here.  There *has* to be."  Mulder 
voice faded in and out as he stuck his head into corners and
crevices.  "How the hell can you have a watchtower in the middle
of a national park and not have a radio?  What would a ranger do
if there was a fire out here?  Send smoke signals?"

Scully leaned back on the dusty cot, melting into a puddle of
benign acceptance.  Her eyes closed instantly.  She didn't care
that there was no radio.  She was too tired to worry about what
would happen tomorrow.  She couldn't feel her leg anymore, and
the temporary respite from the pain was quickly leading her
toward subconscious oblivion.  The small dirty cot with the thin
lumpy mattress felt like a king-sized therapeutic massage bed
from a suite at the Ritz.  It was heaven -- heaven in a dirty
little wooden sardine can.  

She could live with that.  She could live with anything as long
as she didn't have to ever open her eyes again...

"Scully."  

The voice invaded her solitude, tempting her with a wonderful
aroma that made her mouth water.  Food...there was food.  Wait --
that wasn't right.  There was no food.  She was dreaming.

"Scully, open your eyes."

Go away go away go away.  Don't take away my food...I'm not done
smelling it.

"Scully!" A gentle hand on her shoulder roused her, finally.  She
stared at the figure in front of her, unable to blink it into
focus.  Where was she?  

"You okay?"

Mulder.

"Um hmmm."   She stretched her arms up over her head and tried to
push away the persistent sleepiness.  Her stomach turned over
with a loud groan, and she patted it softly, her disappointment
mixing with hunger.  "I dreamed there was food," she mumbled. 
"It smelled so good I didn't want to wake up."

He raised his hands, and for first time, she realized he was
holding a blue ceramic bowl.  Steam wafted over the edges,
curling and dancing into the air. "Cafe Muldaire is open for
business."

Her eyes flew open wide, all remnants of sleep gone instantly. 
"You found food?" she gaped.  "Real food?"

He grinned.  "Five cans of Woodhouse Smoked Baked Beans.  Dinner
of champions."

Her mouth was watering.  Oh God.  Food.  Real honest to goodness
food.  She wanted to tackle him and wrest the bowl away from him,
but she only grinned back.  "When do we eat?"

Mulder pushed a strand of hair from her forehead and looked into
her eyes, concern showing on his face.  "Can you sit up?"

"With food at stake?" she snorted.  "Of course I can sit up." 
With a heavy sigh, she leveraged herself upward and swung her
legs over the side of the cot, yelling in spite of herself when
the back of her left leg made contact with the cot.  "Shit!"  She
pulled her legs back onto the cot and curled them toward the wall
as she shifted onto her side.  "And then again, maybe not," she
said, more to herself than to Mulder.

She could see the concern on his face, but thankfully, he didn't
pass judgment on her condition.  "Okay," he told her
matter-of-factly.  "Dinner in bed it is."  He simply waited 
while she adjusted herself into a more upright position, propping
herself on one arm, then he handed her a worn, bent spoon and
moved to sit on the floor beside her.  They wound up almost eye
to eye.

Scully looked around the room as Mulder situated himself.  The
colorful haze of twilight had long since been left behind,
replaced by unadorned, unrelieved blackness.  The gas lantern
was burning brightly from its hook, casting a surprisingly warm
glow around the small interior.  The room fared much better in
dim light, Scully thought.  In the daytime it was cramped and
dirty.  But through the warm glow of gaslight, it took on an
almost cozy feeling.  Safe.  

She looked at the quiet generator in the corner.  "Does that
work?" she asked.

"Nope," Mulder replied, crossing his long legs underneath him. 
He inched himself closer to the bed.  "It had enough gas to run
the hot plate for approximately seven minutes.   Then it quit
completely.  Lukewarm will have to be good enough."

Scully's stomach rolled over again, the sound unbelievably loud
in the small room.  "Mulder," she smiled, "right now it could be
a baked bean popsicle and I wouldn't complain."

He set the bowl on the edge of the bed between them.  "That's
good to know," he told her.  "Because there's only one bowl and
one spoon."  He held the small tin utensil out to her.  "We'll
have to share."

She fixed him with a pointed stare.  "You don't have cooties, do
you?"

He laughed.  "Not last time I checked.  Dig in." 

Scully didn't need a second invitation.  She took the spoon and
dug into the bowl with gusto, popping a spoonful of the warm
substance into her mouth.  Nothing on the planet had ever tasted
so good.  She moaned her appreciation.  "Mmmm, ese are goo,
Muller."  

She handed him the spoon, swallowing hard as she watched him
savor his first bite.  His eyes closed slowly and sensually as he
savored the taste.  Muscles moved continuously beneath the shadow
of stubble on his jaw, and Scully imagined she could see his
tongue rolling over the spicy concoction in his mouth.  Just as
she had done, he moaned his appreciation.  The sound sent a
shiver down her spine.  Mulder in ecstasy, she thought.  So this
is what it looks like.  Good Lord, it ought to be illegal to look
tha...

"Your turn."

She snapped back to reality, heat flooding her cheeks.  She took
the spoon he offered and dug into the bowl again.  Eat, Scully,
she told herself.  Don't think about Mulder, and for God's sake,
don't think about Mulder's tongue.  Just eat.

In fifteen minutes, the bowl was empty.  Scully dropped the spoon
into the empty bowl and sighed, raising her head to look at the
man sitting in front of her.  "Well I guess that's it," she told
Mulder, surprised to find he was staring at her.

"Not quite," he murmured, reaching his hand toward her.

"Wha..?"  Her question cut off abruptly when she felt his fingers
upon her.  His index finger slowly traced a path upward from her
chin to the corner of her mouth.  When he pulled it away, she
could see the barbecue sauce running down his finger.  She
dragged the back of her hand across her mouth automatically,
watching entranced as he placed his index finger in his mouth and
withdrew it, turning his hand to lap at the small remnants of
sauce clinging to his knuckle.  

When his eyes met hers again, he smiled and she felt her heart
drop to her toes.  "Anyone ever tell you you're a messy barbecue
eater?" 

She just stared at him.  For the life of her, she couldn't think
of a single thing to say.

"Mind you, I'm not complaining," he continued, pinning her again
under the most intense gaze she had ever imagined.  "It's part of
your charm."

She shook herself free from the sexual tension that she knew was
close to overwhelming her.  This was a baaaaaaaad place to be
right now.  Just back away from it, she told herself.  "Part of
my charm?  *Part* of my charm?  Ha!," she scoffed in mock
irritation.  "You're delusional, Mulder.  We both know the fact
that I'm a messy barbecue eater is at least a good three quarters
of my charm."

He laughed and rose from the floor, carrying their single dish
and utensil to the tiny sink.  He paused at the window, his back
to her as he looked out the glass panes into nothingness. 
Automatically, her own eyes followed the path of his.

The blackness of night covered every pane of the window like a
blanket of black velvet hung on the outside of the cabin. 
Crickets whirred outside, their song filling the night with
memories of childhood.  Trips to the country, nights spent with
Missy under her grandmother's handmade quilts, snuggling together
and telling ghost stories, marveling at the darkness of true
country nights in comparison to their street lamp filled twilight
that served as darkness back home.

"We have to talk about what we're going to do."  He didn't turn
around.  "We only have a few options, and we need to talk about
them Scully."

The warm feeling she had nurtured since awakening was yanked away
from her without warning.  Mulder's voice was firm, all business. 
Whatever spell they had been under moments ago was broken.    She
was utterly confused, hopelessly frustrated.  Her relationship
with Mulder was one big roller coaster ride these days -- rising
and falling in senseless abandon, changing directions
constantly...she kept waiting for the bottom to drop out from
under her, wondering every time it did if the ride was over.  

She took a deep breath and forced her mind into focus.  Back to
business.  This was all about the business of survival -- hers
and Mulder's.  If that wasn't serious enough to pull her mind
away from Mulder's body and into some semblance of cognizance for
ten minutes then she deserved to meet her demise out here among
the wild things.

Wild thing, I think I love you...I wanna know for sure...

Focus, damn it!  She could do this.  She could.  She forced
herself to stand and limped over toward the window.  He watched
her approach in the window.  "Okay, Mulder.  Let's talk.  We
need a game plan." 

He nodded, and motioned for her to follow as he walked to the
card table.  Maps were spread across the entire surface, held in
place by various makeshift paperweights to keep the corners from
curling.  Scully looked at the maps.  Aerial, mostly...a few
geographic.  One geological.  Lines and colors and levels and
symbols danced in front of her, a jumble of moving string art. 
She had no idea what she was looking at. 

"Okay... as near as I can figure..." Mulder's voice trailed off
as he ran his finger over the lines of one of the maps.  "We are
somewhere right around...damn.  Where did we go?"  He looked
around the surface of the table, and gave a satisfied sigh,
picking up the object he sought.  "Ah, okay," he continued. 
"Now..." 

Scully stared at him, agape.

"We are...*here.*"  He motioned to a point on the map.

"You bastard."

"Huh?"  He looked at her blankly.

"You bastard!  I can't believe you didn't say...I mean, you let
me think...I just...I thought..."

Mulder straightened and turned to face her, a look of total
incomprehension on his face.  She'd never wanted to hit him so
much in her life.  Never wanted to hit *anyone* so much in
her life.  And the only thing that kept her from punching his
lights out was the fact that she just didn't have it in her to do
anything that would put his once-lost-but-now-found glasses in
jeopardy.  

She kicked him instead.


End of part 8



Tempest, part 9

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"OW!  Goddammit, Scully!  What did you do *that* for?"  Mulder
grabbed his shin and stared at his partner as she'd just grown
another head.

"You're wearing your glasses!" she bellowed.

"And so you felt the need to kick me?" he yelled back.  "Jesus
Christ!  What the hell's the matter with you?"

Her eyes flashed fire.  "I thought I lost them!  I pulled them
out of that plane, climbed up the side of a mountain with them,
and then suddenly found them missing yesterday morning.  I
thought I lost them, and you didn't say a word.  How could you
not say a word?"

He was completely lost.  Uncharted territory.  Clueless.  What in
God's name was she getting hysterical about?  His glasses? "I...I
found them in the...in the bag," he stammered.  "I'm sorry if I didn't
sa--"

"This isn't about being sorry!" she hissed.  "This is about a lot more
than a stupid pair of glasses."

She was feverish, he told himself.  She wasn't herself.  He
reached a hand toward her.  "Scully, calm down."

She pushed his hand away.  "Don't tell me to calm down!"  

"Fine!" he snapped.  "Then tell me what the hell you want me to
say!  I'm sorry I found my glasses?  I'm sorry I put them on? 
What?  I don't understand you, Scully!  What's going on here?"

To his absolute horror, she dissolved into tears.  Her face
crumpled before his eyes, her chin quivering, tears streaming
down her cheeks.  She hobbled away from him, swiping angrily at
the tears as she moved to sit down on the cot.  Like a flash of
fire, she jumped up as soon as the mattress made contact with the back
of her thigh.  Arms swinging, fists flailing the air, she let loose
her anger in a long creative string of invectives, cursing with an air
of fluency that amazed Mulder.  She was completely transformed as she
vented -- a feral creature lashing out with fury.  

His mind was racing.  What should he do?  What *could* he do?  Go to
her?  Try to comfort her?  Hell, she almost bit his head off last time
he tried to calm her down.  He had no idea at all what was the right
course of action...and so he did nothing.  He just stood quietly and
waited for her rage to play itself out.

When she finally began to regain control, she fixed him with a
glare that cut straight to his heart.  "I can't believe you're
just going to stand there, you self-absorbed son of a bitch! 
You're just going to stand there and watch me fall apart and not
say a word.  Just...go away, Mulder."

He stared at her.  "What?"

"Go away.   From me.  Leave me alone.  Oooh!  *There's* an idea! Why
don't you go look outside -- I'm sure you could find a nice bright
light to go chase.  God knows you haven't DITCHED me in at LEAST 8
hours, Mulder.  You must be needing a fix."

His patience snapped.  "Okay, stop right there."  He held up one
hand in a motion to halt her words.  "I've had enough of this
crap -- you're driving me crazy!  Either tell me what's the
matter or take the goddamn chip off your shoulder, Scully.  I
can't read your mind."

She crossed her arms defiantly.  "Well, thank you very much,
Agent Mulder, for bothering to remember that I even HAVE mind." 
Her words were lower now.  Controlled.  But still full of venom.

He was stung by the sarcasm.  "What the hell is *that* supposed
to mean?" 

"For the best fuckin' profiler the FBI ever had, you're not real
perceptive sometimes."  She laughed harshly.  "God, Mulder--you
honestly don't see it, do you?"

He raised his hands toward the ceiling in frustration.  "NO!  I
don't see it!  How many times do you want me to say it?  I don't
get it!    I mean...I'm trying, Scully -- I am.  But you've
been walking around for weeks -- long before this fiasco ever
started -- with a little black storm cloud over your head.  You
won't talk about it.  You hardly speak at all anymore when
we're in the office.  I don't know what I can do that I haven't
already done!  I'm tired of walking on eggshells here.  You think I'm
dense?  Fine.  Whatever.  Spell it out for me and let's get past it
but stop treating me like the bad guy for not being able to fix what
you won't tell me is broken.  What do you WANT from me?"

Blue eyes met his with electric fire, boring their way into his
conscience.  "What do I want?  What do I WANT?  What I *want,*
Mulder, is to know that I'm more than a fucking footnote stamped
on every case report that passes through our office!"  

His jaw dropped open in surprise.  "I've never treated you like a
foo--"

"You *have*," she snapped, effectively cutting off his denial. 
"You come up with these bizarre UFO theories and elaborate,
Byzantine conspiracy plots, and I'm supposed to drop everything
to come play Tonto to your Lone Ranger."

She was in a total fury as she turned on him, breathing rapidly,
her cheeks flushed -- with anger or fever or both, he didn't
know. 

"Well, I'm not your sidekick, damn it."  She pointed her finger
and tapped his chest to emphasize her words.  "I'm a doctor with
as much -- if not more -- education than you, I have a damned
good record the Bureau, which is a HELL of a lot more than you
can say---and if *I* come up with a theory, you can be damned
sure I can back it up with some hard evidence---and God knows,
you certainly can't say that. So what I WANT, Mulder, is for you
to stop treating me like your secretary, you selfish sack of
shit!"

He started to reply, but her tirade wasn't over, and he fell
silent again under the harshness of her words.

"What I WANT, is for you to stop telling me what to do and who to
interrogate and what to ask.  Just once, I want you to ask me nicely
what I think about your suggestion, and maybe, just MAYBE, if I think
it's the best thing for the case, I'll take it under advisement!"

Her anger began to dissipate, and she turned away from him,
limping back toward the cot on the far wall.  Her words
continued, but they were softer now, speaking more of hurt than
of vindication.  He didn't miss the slight catch of her breath
before she continued.  "What I want is for you to acknowledge
that I contribute something to this partnership -- that I'm
not some annoying afterthought you got stuck with."   Carefully,
she sat down on the edge of the cot, her tears spilling anew. 
She swiped a hand across her upper lip, wiping her nose and the
wetness from her cheeks. "I want to know where I stand with you,
Mulder, or else I want you to acknowledge that I don't stand
anywhere at all."  Her chin began to quiver again.  "I want you
to stop confusing me." 

His heart wrenched at the sight of her tears.  He had no bigger
weakness in the world.  "I'm sorry," he told her.  "I'm sorry.  I
never meant to hurt you, Scully.  I don't ever mean to do that."

She didn't meet his eyes.  "Then why do you keep doing it?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly.  "I guess I'm just not
aware of what it is that hurts you so much.  Tell me what it is
that bothers you, Scully.  I need specifics."

"Stop ditching me and going off on your own."  The words spilled
forth without hesitation.  "We can be in the middle of a case,
working together, and the first time you have one of your
psychological profiler hunches or supernatural phenomenon
theories, you run off by yourself and leave me alone to clean up
the details you can't be bothered with -- like proof and
evidence.  I might not always agree with your ideas, Mulder, but
I'm part of the X-Files full time -- it's not a hobby for me any
more than it is for you.  And I don't appreciate being treated
like a whore you call up every once in awhile when you have a
professional itch that needs to be scratched."

He winced at the metaphor.  "I didn't realize I was ditching
you," he said quietly.  "I just always assumed we each worked
better in our own comfort level.  You in the lab and me in hot
pursuit.  I never meant for that to seem like a slight of your
contribution to the X-Files." 

"Well, after four years, that's how it feels," she told him.

He nodded.  "What else?"

She looked away from him.  "I just need you to stop taking me for
granted."  

"Taking you for granted?"  He couldn't keep the incredulity from
his voice.  "Scully, there's not a day that goes by that I'm not
thankful you're on my side."  He crossed the room and knelt in
front of her, placing his hands on top of hers in her lap.  "The
fact that I know I can trust you...the fact that I know you trust
me...that's a gift to me.  That I know I can call you night or day and
you'll listen to my outrageous theories and my ridiculous conclusions
and reel me back in when I need for you to."  He reached up and
crooked his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him.  "The
fact that I can stumble onto your doorstep from a crime scene at two
in the morning, sick and bloody, and know that you'll take care of me
first and ask questions later...those are things I will *never* take
for granted.  And if I've ever once made you think otherwise, then you
have every right to call me on it."

A crystalline tear spilled from her eye and he brushed it away
with his thumb.  "I'm sorry I made you feel that way, Scully." 
His words were a hoarse whisper in the stillness of the wooden
tower.  "I would never knowingly hurt you.  Okay?"

Her eyes searched his for the honesty of his words before she
nodded.  "Okay."

He wasn't quite convinced. He tilted his head to make eye contact with
her again.  "You sure?"

She smiled the smallest of smiles.  "I'm sure."

"All right."  He stood and held out his hand to her.  "Come back
and look at the maps and let me show you where we are.  We have a
decision to make, and then we need to get some sleep."

She made one last swipe at her damp cheeks and took the hand he
offered, wincing as he pulled her onto her feet.  She was
obviously in constant pain, stubbornly refusing to give in to the urge
to cry out.  He supported her weight with an arm around her waist,
walking slowly beside her as she hopped to the table.

"Okay.  We're here," he told her, indicating an area in the
bottom right corner of the map.  "As near as I can figure, our
point of impact must have been somewhere around --" his finger
circled the air as he looked for the position he had pinpointed
earlier while she slept --"right around here somewhere.  This is
the only place I see with a ridge high enough to be the one you
climbed."

She nodded.  "Okay.  So what's the rest of the news?"

He sighed.  "Well it's not good.  If my estimates are correct,
then really it comes down to choosing one of two options."  She
didn't answer, and he bent to look in her eyes.  "Are you
following this, Scully?  I need you to be coherent for about
another 10 minutes, then I promise I'll let you rest."

She attempted a smile.  "I'm here.  Two options," she repeated as
proof that she'd heard him.  "What's the first one?"

"The first one is that we retrace our path and head back to the
crash site like you suggested yesterday.  It would be the safest
bet to ensure our being found."

"Yeah, but we discussed that yesterday," she stated.  "And I 
agreed you were right.  Lindsey Carrol has a better chance if we
stay away from the wreckage." 

"I'm not concerned about Lindsey Carol at this point, and I don't
think you ought to be either," he told her slowly.  "I don't want to
put her in danger, Scully, but right now our first priority has to be
to get you to a hospital."

"Point taken," Scully agreed.  "What's the second option?"

Mulder turned back to the papers on the table.  "The second
option is that we head north west over this little hill right
here.  If I'm reading this correctly at all, I think this is a
main highway."  He indicated a black line that intersected the
mountain in a winding path.  "It's a shorter distance to the
highway, but it's a gamble as to whether or not it's active. 
Plus we'll have to cross a river."

Scully rubbed her temples.  He was struck by the pallor of her
complexion.  She wasn't well at all, and he knew it.  Time was
going to run out on them if they guessed wrong.  They couldn't
afford to miss.  "It's your call," he told her.  "I know you're
in pain and not thinking real clearly right now, but I also know
you're the doctor -- and you know what the prognosis is for your
leg if we don't get the help we need in the time we have left. 
So I need for you to make the decision.  I'll abide by whatever
you say."

She looked at the map, blinking hard, and he could tell she was
trying desperately to comprehend the maze of lines and numbers. 
Finally, she looked up.  The plane is the better bet for rescue,
but the highway is closer.  I say we head for the road at sun-up. I
don't have more than one day that I'll even be able to walk, and the
crash site is two days back now."

His heart skipped a beat at the grim prediction.  "Are you sure?"

"No," she said.  "But I'm willing to risk it at this point.  I
can't stand the pain much longer and I'll be sick with fever by
morning.  I say we take a leap of faith.  The highway's closer."

He nodded.  "Okay.  Highway it is."  

Scully shuffled toward the cot.  "Can I leave a wake up call?"

He took in the warped frame of the old metal cot.  "Do you really
think that'll be necessary?" he asked.  "I can't imagine either of us
will sleep too soundly in these luxurious conditions."

She rummaged through the travel bag and pulled something from the side
pocket.  "Ahhh," she breathed.  "On the contrary, Mulder..." she
turned to face him.  "You're about to ensure that I sleep like a baby
tonight."

He took a step backward.  "Um...I am?"

She smiled and held out a small syringe to him.  "Uh huh.  You're
going to give me a shot."

"I can't give you a shot," he protested.  "I'll...I'll hurt you. I've
never done it."

She walked back to the table and stopped.  "Well, it's you or me,
Mulder, and I can't effectively reach the area where it needs to be
given." 

He swallowed.  "Which is where?"  he asked, his voice shaky.

She smiled at him, a genuine, if tired smile that lightened the
load on his heart just a bit.  "Don't be such a baby."  She
unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, hooking her thumbs in the
waistband and pulling them down, exposing her buttocks to him.

His mouth went completely dry.  His hands were shaking.  He could only
stare at the image she presented standing there with her pants half
lowered, her eyes sparkling with mischief, even through the haze of
fever.

"C'mon, Mulder.  It's not that bad.  I'll walk you through it."

Slowly he approached the table, trying not to stare at the creamy
curves of her bottom.  It was a shot.  An injection.  He could
maintain detachment.  He could.  He took the cap off the needle and
swallowed hard one more time.  "Okay," he managed to choke out.  "What
do I do?"

"Jab the needle in the fleshy part of my hip, slightly closer to
my butt than my side.  Don't try to do it slowly, that'll hurt
more.  Just stick it in there.  And then after you do, press the
plunger halfway down.  That's 100 milligrams of Demerol, but I
want to save half of it in case I need it more later."

His eyes were fixated on her body.  

"Mulder?" 

"Huh?"

"You ready?"

"Um, yeah."

He was as ready as he could be, he told himself.  He could handle
this.  Professional detachment.  Medical decorum, he told himself.  He
could survive the moment without embarrassment.  And he almost did --
until Dana Scully bent over the small table and bared her bottom to
him completely, giving him the most instantaneous erection he'd ever
experienced.

The seconds ticked away.

"Enjoying the view, Mulder?"

"Sorry," he mumbled.  "You're sure you trust me to do this?"

"Mulder," she sighed.  "I'm in a fairly submissive position at
the moment.  I think the matter of my trust has been
established."

"Just...just anywhere over...here?"  He indicated an area close
to her hip.

"That's as good a place as any.  Just do it and put us both out
of our misery."

He jabbed the needle into her flesh, wincing more than she did
when it slid into her body effortlessly.  He pressed the plunger
halfway, then withdrew the needle completely.  "There," he told
her, immensely pleased with himself.  "Home free."

His relief was short lived.

Scully stood and pulled up her panties, wiggling out of her jeans
completely and leaving them in a heap on the floor as she hobbled back
to the cot. "That's what you think, Mulder," she called over her
shoulder.

"Huh?"

She smiled at him as she curled onto her side on the cot. 
"You've never seen me on Demerol before.  I might be home free
for the rest of the night, but trust me -- your  ride is just
beginning."

End of part 9


Tempest, part 10

10:13 PM

She'd been out like a light within ten minutes, though whether
from the drug or fatigue he couldn't tell.  Not that it mattered.
She was resting -- oblivious to the pain in her leg and the
memories of the crash -- and for that, Mulder was thankful.  The
sleep would do her good and give him a chance to study the maps
and determine the best route toward the highway.  Thank God her
dire predictions about her behavior had been a false alarm.  He'd
had enough trouble communicating with Scully lately when she was
coherent; the prospect of spending a night with Scully and the
Three Faces of Eve was more than a little unsettling.

He walked to the cot and pulled the thin cotton sheet up over
her.  She hadn't moved in an hour.  Not a sound, not a whimper. 
Her mouth was slightly open, her beautiful lips soft and
inviting.  Her brow was wrinkled slightly, as if puzzling over
something just barely beyond her grasp as she dreamed.  He'd
never wanted to kiss anyone so much in his life.

He stared at her, entranced by the picture she presented.  Even
after two days of hiking,  even exhausted and injured, uncombed
and unwashed, she was the most magnetic woman he'd ever known. 
Whatever was there between them, it was mutual.  Of that, he was
certain.  If he'd had any doubt at all lingering in the back of
his mind, it had been obliterated the second Dana Scully bent
over that table.  Sure, he was giving her a shot at the time, but
he hadn't missed the unspoken challenge sparkling in her eyes
when she did it.  And the mock sensor in her when she accused him
of lingering spoke more of amusement than irritation.  She'd been
flirting with him -- testing the boundaries.  But he couldn't
help wondering if she was prepared for him to call her on it. 
What would she have done if he'd accepted her mischievous
impromptu invitation?  That was the question he still couldn't
answer, and it was driving him crazy.

He couldn't afford to be wrong.  Not with Scully.  There had to
be nothing to chance, no room for the slightest doubt before they
crossed that line, because once they crossed it, there was no
turning back.  And if her flagrantly provocative behavior tonight
was all he'd had to go on, he would have played along in a
heartbeat.  But her hesitancy when they'd awakened this morning
was still fresh in his mind, not to mention the argument they'd
had only an hour ago.  

No, he couldn't risk it yet.  Not until he was positive.  And
when he *was* positive, he was going to insist they replay this
little scene again with a different ending.  The ending he'd
denied himself tonight.  The ending where he walked slowly up to
the table behind her and pressed his hands flat against the small
of her bare back, slowly kneading the muscles there, allowing his
hands to trail their way down her body until they traced the
curve of her bottom and came to rest on her bare hips.  One small
tug and she would slide back toward him, her bare cheeks pressing
tightly against his erection, and she would gasp that breathy
little gasp that drove him crazy.  Then slowly, like a gift laid
out before him, she would turn over sit up, smiling as her hands
reached for the fabric of his shirt.  He could feel the softness
of her fingers upon his chest. He could feel.....

His eyes snapped open.  What the hell was he doing?  He looked
down at his sleeping partner, relieved to find she was still
oblivious to his erotic musings.  "This is what it's come to," he
chuckled.  "Fantasies about a feverish, dirty, unconscious
woman."

He looked at her quiet pale face, expressive even in sleep and
wondered if she ever fantasized about him.  Did he ever haunt her
dreams like she haunted his?  He shook his head sadly.  Her
dreams tonight were fever dreams -- vivid, probably disturbing. 
He could only hope if he was a part of them that he was bringing
her some comfort.  His hand reached out and softly brushed the
hair from her forehead, lingering briefly on her clammy skin,
gauging the advancement of her fever.  It didn't seem any worse.

She sighed at the touch of his hand, and turned her face toward
him, as if seeking to get closer.  He couldn't resist the
unspoken invitation of her beautiful lips.  He knelt beside her,
leaning in to press a soft, chaste kiss upon her mouth.  Like a
princess in a fairy tale, her eyes fluttered open as he pulled
back from her.  She was dazed and glassy, completely unfocused,
but she smiled at him sleepily.

"Hullo."

"Hi," he whispered back.  "How ya doin' over here?

Her brow furrowed as she contemplated the question.  Her head
rolled to the side.  "I feel FUNky," she slurred.

"I'll bet you do," he smiled.  "Do you need anything?"

Her head rolled from side to side in time to a song only she
could hear.  "Nope," she told him dreamily.  "I'm jus'
peeeeachy."  She giggled then, the uncharacteristic sound making
him grin.  

"Go back to sleep.  I'm sorry I woke you."

"S'okay."  She waved dismissively.  "M'not seepy anyway."  She
giggled again.  "I said seepy.  Did you hear me, Muller?  What I
*meant* was, I'm not seepy."  She gave into woozy, sporadic
chuckles.

He shook his head in bemusement.  A giggling Scully?  Years of
working amid the unexpected and unexplainable hadn't prepared him
for that one.  He started to stand up, but she grabbed his hand.

"Muller?"  She looked distressed.

"What is it, Scully?"

She squinted up at him.  "You're not wear'n your glassiss."

"No, I took them off."

"Well that jus' sucks," she admonished.  "Put `em back on."

He sighed.  "Scully.  You should go back to sleep.  You need to
rest."

"Put `em on," she commanded.  "I'm not gonna rest 'nless you wear
your glassiss."

Mulder ran a tired hand over his forehead.  "Okay.  I'll put on
my glasses, and then you go to sleep, okay?"

She nodded woozily.  "Ooooooookay, fine."

He walked to the table and retrieved his glasses and put them on.

"There," he said, turning to Scully.  "Better?"

She nodded, concentrating hard to move her head in the right
direction.

"Okay," he smiled, walking back to the cot.  "Now can you go back
to sleep?"

She nodded again.  "Mulder?" she whispered loudly.

"What?" he whispered back, just as loud.

"C'mere...I gotta tell you somethin'."

He looked down at her.  "What?"

"Come 'ere," she insisted.  "S'important."

He bent down.  "Okay, Scully.  What?"

"Okay...shhhhhhh.  It's a secret."  She looked up at him
adoringly.  "I jus' looooove your glassiss."

He patted her hand condescendingly.  "I'm glad, Scully.  I love
your glasses too."  He began to pull his hand away but she
grabbed it with surprising quickness and held tight.

"You're not lissning," she accused.  She tugged on his hand until
he bent close to her once more.  "I mean I reallyrillywillyweely
love your glassiss."  She stared at him.  "Are you gettin' this?"

He choked back a laugh.  "Yeah, Scully.  I got it."

She didn't let go of his shirt.  "I don't think you're followin'
me, Mulder."   She pulled him even closer until they were nose to
nose.  "I mean like sometimes at work when you're wearin' 'em, I
jus' wanna go lock the door an' lay across your desk like
Michelle Whasername in that movie...wha's that movie?  You know
the one where she lays across the piano an' sings...."   She let
go of his shirt and made a dismissive gesture in the air.  "Well,
anyway...tha's how I feel sometimes."

What was he supposed to say to that?  Please do?  Feel free? 
Mulder stared at her.  "Um...thank you?"

She released his hand.  "S'okay.  I jus' thought you oughta
know."

He watched her close her eyes and fall still on the tiny cot once
again, feeling immensely relieved that the five minute twilight
zone episode was over.  He hadn't taken two steps away from her
side when a startled gasp made him stop in his tracks.

"Muller!"

His heart began to pound harder.  "What is it, Scully?  What's
wrong?"

She looked up at him through glassy, unfocused eyes.  "My knees
are gone!"  

She struggled to sit up, but Mulder put his hands on her
shoulders, pressing her back to the thin mattress.  "No, Scully,"
he sighed.  "You're knees are right where they're supposed to be.

I promise."

"Don't patternize me, Mulder -- I'm a doctor an' I *know* when my
knees are gone!"  She pointed toward her feet.  "See?  They're
NOT where they're s'posed to be!" she wailed.  "They're gone!" 
She sat up and looked forlornly at her straight legs.  "Bye," she
sniffed, waving limply.

Torn between laughter and sympathy, Mulder picked up one of her
legs under the knee and bent  it.  "See Scully?  You're knee's
right here.  Now go to sleep."

She looked at him gratefully.  "You FOUND it!.  Muller you're the
best.  You're susha good friend..."  She struggled for the words.

"You're susha a good friend that I'd...I'd give you my only knee
f'you needed it."  She looked at him solemnly.  "I would."

"Thaaaaat's nice, Scully," he said, stretching out his arms
toward her.  "Here -- hug me."

"Huh?"  She looked confused, but she reached up for him anyway.

"Okay, Scully, heeeeeere we go."  He linked his arms under hers
and tried to ease her back down on the mattress.

"She pulled her arms away and cupped his face in her hands.  "You
b'lieve me, don't you Mulder?  That I'd give you my knee?"

"Sure I do, Scully.  I'd give you my knee too."

"I know you would," she sniffed.

He started to stand, but she clung to his hand.  "Wayda
minute...wha'm I gon' do with only one knee?" she asked.  "I
can't walk with only one knee."  The look of distress on her face
nearly did him in, but he kept a straight face.

"It'll be okay, Scully.  You sleep and I promise I'll find your
other one." 

She blinked at him, uncomprehending.  "My other what?"

"Your other knee," he told her pointedly.

"Wha's wrong with my knee?" she cried in alarm.

"Nothing!" he protested quickly.  "You're knees are fine."  

She looked unconvinced.  "You're not tellin' me the tooth."

"Really," he assured her.  "You're knees are fine.  Great knees. 
Wonderful knees."

She flipped her hands toward him in an exaggeratedly modest
gesture.  "G'wan.. really?  I always thought they're kinda
knobby."

"GoodNIGHT, Scully," he told her tiredly.

She closed her eyes.  "Night, Muller."

He walked away shaking his head.  What the hell just happened
here, he wondered.  And more important -- was it going to happen
again?  It was a damn good thing he'd only given her half the
Demerol in the syringe, he marveled.  If he'd given her the whole
100 milligrams, she wouldn't come back to earth for a week.  He
chuckled at the image she presented, glazed-over and
half-dressed, laughing at her own jokes.  If she remembered any
of this tomorrow morning, she was going to be mortified, he
thought.  But she probably wouldn't remember; she was too far
gone.  

On the other hand...she had warned him about the possible side
effects before he'd given her the shot.  So obviously, she'd had
the happy drugs before, he realized.  He grinned broadly and made
a mental note to save that discussion for a later time.

He bent over the short wobbly table and unrolled one of the more
detailed area maps, shoving the others off the table into the
floor.  He had to map out a route for them to take tomorrow, and
he had to do it before Scully woke up aga--

"Oh, Muuuuuuuller...."  

He hung his head in defeat, laughing in spite of himself at the
singsong tone of her words. This night was a goner.  The map
would have to wait until morning.  Scully, obviously, was not
going to sleep like a baby after all.

"Oh Scuuuuuuuully," he answered back affectionately. He might as
well sit and talk to her, he realized.  He couldn't get anything
done with her in this condition, and despite her out of character
behavior, he was glad for the easy rapport that had settled over
them again.  He stood up and grabbed the top rung of the chair
back, dragging it toward the cot.  He set it up against the edge
of the mattress and straddled it backwards, crossing his arms
over the back of the chair, resting his chin on his forearms.

Scully smiled up at him.  "Hullo," she said again, waving her
fingers at him. She stretched her uninjured leg straight up
toward the ceiling underneath the sheet, pulling the thin
covering from her upper body.  When she lowered her limb, the
sheet clung to her toes, pooling finally at the foot of the cot,
leaving her completely uncovered.  The navy blue bikini panties
she wore made a startling contrast to her pale skin, emphasizing
the fact that she lay before him in only her underwear and a
T-shirt.  And what amazed him more than her current state of
undress was the fact that she was completely unconcerned with it.

He smiled down at his scantily-clad, uninhibited partner. 
"What's up, Red?"

She turned to her side and propped her head into her hand,
assuming a more conversational position.  Her brow wrinkled. 
"You gave me a shot."

"Yeah." he agreed.

"I dropped my pants right there in the middle of the room, and
you gave me a shot in the butt."

"Yes I did," he confirmed.  "Right in the butt."  

"Oh."  She lowered her lashes, a sad look descending upon her
features.

He frowned.  "What's on your mind, Scully?"

"Well, I was jus' thinkin' -- I do that sometimes you know ."

He grinned.  "What?  Drop your pants in the middle of the room?"

"No!"  She made a lazy swipe at his leg, missing him completely. 
"I *think* sometimes."  She rolled her eyes up to look at him. 
"You with me?"

 "Yeah, I'm with you.  You think sometimes.  What were you
thinking?"

"Well," she continued, "I was just thinkin'... "  Her voice got
low, and he had to lean in to hear her words.  "You saw my butt."

She looked up at him, a woozy mixture of hurt and accusation. 

Her vulnerable expression cut through his joking mood.  He hated
the sight of vulnerability on Scully; it didn't suit her at all. 
Crumbling under the worried look on her face, Mulder couldn't
bring himself to make jokes at her expense, even if she wouldn't
remember them tomorrow.  "Scully, I had to see you to give you
that shot, that's all," he assured her.  "I didn't even look, I
promise."

"I know!" she wailed.  "You didn't say a thing!"  She pinned him
under a drug-induced stare.  "Tha's kinda *harsh* Muller...I
mean, iss not every day I jus' bare my ass to you."

Three words echoed in his head, like a warning:  No.  Win. 
Situation.   He stared at her, taken aback by the indignant
expression on her face.  Pick a response, Mulder.  Any response. 
"Um..." he started.

Her words slurred into one another as her hands made exaggerated
gestures to emphasize them.  "I mean, you could've said 'Wow!' or
'Hey Scully, nice ass' or *something* but you just stuck that
damn needle in me and went 'bout your business."  She leveraged
herself up on her arm until she was almost eye to eye with him. 
"Be straight w'me, Mulder.  I can take it. You don't like my ass,
do you?" she asked him blatantly.  

Heads or tails, Mulder thought.  Deny you enjoyed the view, and
hurt her feelings, or admit you enjoyed it and set yourself up as
Special Agent Clarence Thomas.  "Scully, I only sa--"

"You thought it was flabby 'cause I haven't been workin' out like
I used to."  She sighed and laid back down on the bed, continuing
her accusation without pause.  "Well s'cause I been so tired
lately.  An, s'cuse the hell out of me Mr. Buns of Steel -- we
can't all have an ass as great as yours--"  She slapped a hand
across her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.  "Did I say that out
loud?" she asked, with a look of wonder on her face.  

He should have gone with his conscience, and he knew it.  But he
was having too much fun to be a gentleman at the moment.  He
rarely got the upper hand with Scully.  He opened his mouth and
heard the words come out before he could stop them.  "No no,
Scully, you're not talking out loud -- you're thinking all of
this.  I'm not hearing a thing. What were you saying about
Mulder's ass?"

"Oh," she said.  "Well it's okay then.  'Cause what I was *gonna*
say was..." She looked around conspiratorially, looking for
eavesdroppers before continuing.  "...I've seen his butt too."

He tried not to laugh at her seriousness.  "No!" he cried in mock
horror.  "Scully, you *haven't!"

She nodded quickly.  "Have too!"  She held up three fingers. 
"Twice!"

Okay, he chastised himself.  He'd asked for this.  Any
embarrassment he was feeling here was his own damn fault.  He'd
asked for it, and she'd delivered in spades.  So now he knew. 
Dana Scully liked his ass.  Now what was he supposed to do with
this newfound information?

Her next words solved the problem for him.  "But don't tell
Mulder, okay?"

God, she didn't know what she was saying, and she sure as hell
didn't have a clue who she was saying it to.  Feeling guilty now
for pressing the conversation, he decided to end it.  He traced
an x on his chest.  "Cross my heart," he promised.  "We don't
have to mention this conversation to anyone."

Unfortunately, Scully was beginning to warm to the subject. 
"Yep," she murmured, babbling more to herself now than to him. 
"I've seen Fox Muller naked as a jaybird.  Bare as the day he was
born."  She looked up at him, totally serious.  "And you know
what?"

Mulder rubbed his forehead with a weary hand.  He was afraid to
ask, suddenly reluctant to continue this talk, but curiosity got
the better of him.  "What," he asked softly.

She smiled the smallest of smiles, her eyes glazing over in a
dream-like haze.  "He's beautiful," she whispered.

End of part 10


Tempest, part 11

Mulder's heart clenched at Scully's open, uninhibited words. 
This was total honesty, handed to him at face value, and it
touched him profoundly.  He felt a lump in his throat, and
swallowed hard.  "I'm sure..." he started, then stopped and
cleared his throat.  "I'm sure Mulder thinks you're beautiful
too," he whispered back.  He brushed a stray lock of hair from
her cheek.

"He doesn't," she told him sadly.  "I'm not his type."

He had a type? That surprised the hell out of him.  "Why do you
think that?" he asked gently.

She shook her head.  "I'm too short.  I've got little legs."  To
emphasize her statement, she stretched her uninjured leg up high
in a scissor spilt, running her hand along the top of her thigh.
"They're not bad little legs, but they're not what Mulder goes for." 
She crooked her arm under her knee and pulled her leg over her until
her foot came to rest on the cot by her stomach.   

Mulder watched her distort her body into what seemed like an
impossible position, and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.  His eyes
were transfixed on her hand as it made short stroking motions along
her thigh in an unconsciously sensual motion.  He forced him mind away
from her body.  "Um...not...not what he goes for?" he stammered.

She shook her head.  "Nope.  Mulder likes women with those long
Barbie legs, like Fleabie."

He nearly choked.  "Who?"

"Fleabie.  She was his girlfrin once, but there was a fire inna
hotel and I hate her."

Mulder stared in amazement.  One case with an ex-girlfriend three
years ago, and Scully had concluded that she couldn't possibly be his
type because he went for long legs?  Good Lord, the woman had NO idea
how many nights he'd fantasized about her small, beautiful body lying
naked in his arms.  

Enough.  He'd heard enough.  This flirting and double talk was
going to end, he resolved.  As soon as she was better, they were
going to have a serious talk about all the things they'd
obviously been hiding from each other.  If they both felt this
strongly about it, they'd been stupid to deny it for this long. 
One way or another, the end of this platonic farce was coming --
Fox Mulder had decreed it.

Oblivious to Mulder's mental resolve, Scully was still engrossed
in her Phoebe musings.  "Yep," she continued.  "Hate the bitch. 
Haaaaate her.  In fact..."  She placed her hand on the back of
his chair and half pulled herself up to be closer to him.  "...I
wanna see the bitch DOWN!" she ground out.  Having had her say,
she released the back of the chair and flopped back down on the
cot, giggling at herself.  "I just looooooove Deremol," she told
him.

"I can't imagine why," Mulder laughed.  He stood up and stretched his
legs, giving the chair a gentle kick to move it out of his way.  He
tapped her raised knee and motioned for her to scoot over so he could
sit on the cot.  When she complied, he sank down beside her and placed
a hand on her forehead.  It was hot--hotter than it had been last time
he checked.

She must have read his expression, because she looked up at him,
visibly struggling to appear coherent.  "Is my fever rising?" she
asked.

He nodded, moving a damp strand of hair off her moist forehead. 
"Don't worry about anything, Scully," he assured her.  "You'll be
okay."

"I can't feel my leg," she told him.  

"It's the Demerol," he reassured her.  "That's what it's supposed to
do."

She shook her head.  "No -- Deremol is jus' supposed to make you
not care if you feel it."

He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, choosing instead
to take her hand in his.

"Muller, you do know I could die out here, don't you?  You haff
to know that it *could* happen."

He bent close to her face.  "You're not going to die out here,
Scully," he told her.  "It's not an option."

She tried to smile at him, but failed miserably.  For a long
moment they stayed quiet, until Scully broke the silence.  "Well
shit!"  She slapped the mattress vehemently.  "I shoulda paid
better attention."

Mulder looked at her quizzically.  "Paid better attention?  To
what?"

"Sex," she told him bluntly.  "If I'd known the last time I had
sex was gonna be the last time I had sex, I'd have paid more
attention."

He laughed out loud in spite of himself.

"Sure, laugh it up," she groused.  "You're not the one who's
gonna perish out here after an embarrassingly long dry spell."

You'd be surprised, he almost blurted out.

"Neither are you," he argued.  "You'll have sex again, Scully. 
We're going to get out of here."

Her eyes closed wearily.  "Promise?"

"Absolutely."  He stroked her hair.  "Tomorrow we'll head toward
the highway and I'm sure we'll find a --"

Her eyes came open.  "No, I mean do you promise I'll have sex
again before I die?"

He didn't laugh this time.  Instead, he bent his head to hers
until mere centimeters stood between them.  "I personally
guarantee it."

It was Scully who bridged the tiny distance between them, lifting her
head to capture his lips with her own.  The moment her mouth touched
his, he was lost, engulfed in flames of want that had been too-long
denied.  His arms snaked under hers, closing around her shoulder
blades and pulling her closer to him as he slanted his mouth over
hers, deepening the kiss.  His tongue met hers hungrily, the contact
sending a shiver down his spine.  His heart hammered in his chest.  

He threaded his hands through her hair and clasped her to him as
though he could keep her anchored to him forever.  She made a
soft mewling sound in response, her tongue tracing lightly over
his teeth before she pulled away from him, her breathing heavy,
her eyes cloudy with passion.  She crossed her arms in front of
her and grabbed the fabric of her T-shirt, pulling it over her
head and tossing it to the floor in a single fluid motion.  

Like a Roman Goddess poised on the altar, she offered herself to
him silently, sitting before him in her bra and panties, her
chest rising and falling rapidly.  He could see her nipples
pressing hard through the soft cups of her bra, and he ached to
reach out and free them from the silk prison.  He wanted to see
her.  All of her.

He wanted to see her and touch her and make love to her so much
it hurt.

His body was painfully erect, his cock hot and throbbing.  It was all
he could to not to rip his own clothing off just so he could feel her
hot skin against his.  

But it was wrong.  The hateful words blared in his head like a
foghorn at close range.  He couldn't take what wasn't offered
with complete coherence.  He wouldn't risk the repercussions of
morning remorse.  And though he knew there would be no regret on
his part, he also knew Scully deserved to be fully present the
first time they made love.

As much as he wanted her, it couldn't be here.  It certainly
couldn't be now.  No matter how much he ached for her.

No matter how longingly she was gazing at him.

No matter how many baby soft kisses she trailed down his neck and
shoulder...

Mayday, mayday!  The warning sirens began to blare in his head. 
He pulled away again.  Not here.  Not like this.  She was feeling the
effects of the Demerol, and he had to protect her from her actions. 
Christ, he thought, looking at her almost nude body. He had to protect
her from HIS actions.

"Wha's wrong?" Scully asked slowly, her breath warm on his neck.

"You're not up to this right now, Scully," he told her pointedly. "And
as much as I'd like to keep following this path, we both need to get
some sleep.  We'll have time for....this...later. After we're back in
civilization."

Her eyes darkened.  "You're not attracted to me," she stated.

"Jesus, Scully," he ground out.  "I'm hard as a fucking rock
right now."  He stood up, allowing her to see the evidence of his
body's reaction to her.  "So I don't think your attractiveness is in
question."

She smiled at him, blatantly pleased with his admission.  "That's
because of me?" she asked.

He chuckled at the self-satisfaction he heard in her voice. 
"Well it's certainly not because of me," he whispered, bending
down for one last sound kiss.

He pulled the chair back toward the table and spread a tiny worn
blanket on the floor beside the cot.  Pulling his jacket from the
canvas bag, he sat down on the fuzzy plaid pallet and began to remove
his shoes, pausing from his task when he realized Scully was watching
every move he made with rapt attention.

"Mulder?" she said.

"What?"

Her mouth split into a devilish grin, dulled only by the evidence of
haze in her sleepy eyes.  "I'm definitely going to make it out of
here."   She paused to give emphasis to her words.  "We've got
unfinished business."

He shook his head at her brazenness, wondering again how much of
this night she would actually remember.  It was going to stay
with *him* for a very long time.  "Goodnight, Scully."

"Night, Muller," she answered dreamily.

He stretched out on the floor in the dim light of the lantern,
shoving his jacket  under his head as a makeshift pillow.  He was
about to close his eyes, when a sudden movement close to his face sent
him careening off the floor.

"ARGH!"

"AGHH!" Scully answered.

"Son of a *bitch*!" Mulder yelled.

"What!" Scully squealed.

"Something moved right past my head when I lay down."  He began
walking slowly around the rug on the floor.  As he neared his
jacket, the culprit gave another surprise leap.

"Jesus!" Mulder yelped.

"Oh fer goodness sakes, Muller," Scully said.  "It's just a
little frog."

He snorted.  "Yeah, well see how much you like it in your face
when you're about to nod off to sleep." 

"It jus' wanted to sleep with you Mulder," Scully told him with a
sleepy smile.  "Why don't we call it Fleabie?"

He bent to scoop the small creature into his hands, grimacing as
he walked to the door with it.  "This couldn't be Phoebe,
Scully," he called over his shoulder.  "Its mouth isn't big
enough.".

Surely he scored big points for that one, he thought.  United in
Phoebe bashing.  The cement of all good relationships.  Mulder
threw the frog onto the deck and closed the door, waiting for
Scully's reply.  

Surprised at the silence, he walked to the cot and pulled the
sheet away from her face.  She was sound asleep.

He sighed, a mixed reaction of regret and relief.  The ride was
over.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Wednesday, May 2
6:58 a.m.

The thickness of morning clung heavily to Scully,  weighing down
upon her like a sodden wool blanket.  Her body was heavy and
unresponsive, resisting her efforts to slough off the fever
dreams that had plagued her all night.  Water dreams.  Drowning.
Trying to draw a breath of air amid the fluid weightlessness of death
and suffocation.  The images clung to her as she began making her way
slowly back to reality, stretching tired arms outward, calling for
Mulder, and knowing he would never be able to reach her through the
myriad of phantom creatures that held him at bay.  Was this real?  She
couldn't tell anymore.

Fighting her way out of the drug induced stupor, she woke slowly
at last, to the sound of strong wind and creaking wood, and the
unsettling sensation of movement all around her.  The watchtower
swung to and fro like a metronome, groaning its protest to the
relentless gales that assaulted it.  Scully's stomach roiled at
the unwelcome movement and the pain in her leg.  She lay quietly
on the cot, eyes closed, and tried not to move until the nausea
passed.  She wondered if a drink of water would help.

"Mulder?"  Her voice was thin and hoarse, not much more than a
whisper.

When silence was her only answer, she forced her eyes open,
squinting against the glare of overcast daylight that invaded the room
through small dirty windows.  Her head was throbbing, and every
movement she made was a struggle.  Feeling as though she was fighting
her way through quicksand, she forced herself halfway up on the cot
and looked down, expecting to see Mulder stretched out on the floor.

He was nowhere in sight.

"Mulder?"

The high pitched tone of her voice hurt her head, causing the
throbbing to intensify.  He was gone.  How long had he been gone? How
long had she slept?  She felt hot and cold at the same time, her face
flushed with fever, her skin hypersensitive to the cool air of the
mountain morning.  Everything was blurry as she looked around the room
for some sign of her partner.

"Mulder, where are you?" she called louder, unable to keep the
panic from her voice.  He had left her.  He had gotten up while
she slept and he had left her.  Angry tears welled up in
unfocused eyes as she inched her legs over the side of the cot
and pushed herself into a sitting position.

Fire shot up her leg and seared its impression on her dazed
brain.  She tried to scream as the pain engulfed her, but the
sound came out a choked sob as she stumbled off the cot and fell
in a heap to the empty floor.  She had no balance, no equilibrium in
the swaying tower, and the nausea that had assaulted her earlier
returned full force.  She lost the battle of wills a moment later and
vomited.

He'd ditched her, the bastard.  

She was going to kill him.

Scully wiped her mouth and dragged herself on hands and knees to
the small table on the other side of the room, using it to
leverage herself to her feet.  She could walk out the stiffness,
she promised herself.  She would have too.  She wouldn't stay
here alone and wait for Mulder.  

Fucking bastard.

Her partner's voice silently taunted her.  Of *course* I trust
you, Scully...Yes of *course* we'll stay together, Scully...that
is, until you're asleep and I can leave you here safe and sound
and go for help on my own.  Obviously their talk last night had
gone in one ear and out the other for Mulder.  After standing
there and telling her with a straight face that he would make a
conscious effort to stop ditching her, he had crept out of the
tower this morning without waking her and set out on his own.  He
didn't want *her* taking risks, oh no -- but he could take them
without reservation, and knowing Mulder, he'd get up to his ass in
alligators or a rock slide or wind up shivering outside in the middle
of a sudden freak snowstorm...

She shivered with cold and realized for the first time that she
was wearing only her bra and panties.  Her jeans were still on
the floor beside the table, she realized; she had no idea where
her T-shirt was.  How the hell had that happened?  She looked
over toward the cot and spotted the light blue garment in a small pile
on the floor.  Obviously she'd gotten hot during the night and pulled
it off.

Gingerly, Scully stepped into her jeans without bothering to
unwrap and look at her leg.  She couldn't clean or dress it by
herself and she had a feeling looking at it would only make her
throw up again.  Forcing herself to focus, she donned her shirt
and shoes, and began searching the room for any supplies she
could take with her.  Mulder had left her the bag -- for that she was
grateful.  It was the least the asshole could do after sneaking away
while she slept.

She found precious little in the small abandoned shelter.  No
food at all; they had taken care of that last night.  But she did find
a small used bar of soap under the tiny sink, and an unopened box of
baking soda.  She didn't know how old it was or if such things
expired, but she was willing to take her chances for the opportunity
to brush her teeth.  She ran her tongue across the front of her top
teeth, grimacing at the feeling of velvet in her mouth.  She was
*definitely* going to risk it.

Finding nothing else useful, she turned and hobbled back to the
bed to claim the bag she had set there.  She would take the maps
and what little she had, and head toward the main road.  Maybe
she could manage to track Mulder's progress.  He couldn't have
left too long ago -- even Mulder wouldn't have set out in total
darkness.

She pulled her gun from the bag and tucked into the back of her
waistband, repacking the remaining supplies.  She would have to
travel as light as possible in her weakened condition.  Anything
that wasn't absolutely imperative would have to go.  There wasn't
really much to leave -- a couple pairs of socks, a hairbrush, a can of
hairspray she'd brought for it's flammability, and Mulder's gun.

Mulder's gun?

Scully's eyes widened.  He'd left his gun?  That wasn't right.  

She looked around the room, trying to piece together a puzzle
that suddenly seemed unsettling.  There was no sign of him in the
room.  But something still wasn't right.

Then it hit her.

There was no note.

Mulder would never have left without a note.  Even if he had
decided to leave her, he would never have gone without telling
her why.  There was plenty of paper lying around.  

Plenty of paper....plenty of paper...

Scully stared at the table.  The maps were still here.  He hadn't
taken them.  He'd left the maps, and he'd left his gun.  He hadn't
left *her*.  At least, he hadn't left her voluntarily.

"Mulder!" she yelled.

The wind howled back.

She limped to the door and pushed hard against it until it was
caught by the strong current and thrown back against the side of
the building.  She looked left and right on the small deck.  No
Mulder.  Just a small, disgruntled-looking frog that hopped
quickly across the open doorway into the shelter.

Scully walked to the railing and looked down, gripping the wooden slab
when dizziness assaulted her.  She saw no sign of him down below, but
he was there somewhere.  He had to be.

"Scully."  His voice was a whisper almost lost amidst the wind.

"Mulder!"  She looked all around the ground level of the tower

"I need you."

"I'm coming," she yelled, heart pounding ferociously in her
chest.

"Bring your gun."  The words sounded tight, uttered through
clenched teeth, and they sent a chill down her spine.

She felt for her gun in the back waistband of her jeans and moved to
the ladder.  Tamping down the fear and dizziness she felt, she swung
her good leg over the railing and laboriously inched her sore leg down
after it.  She couldn't bend her injured leg well enough to climb down
so she allowed it to hang limply to the side of the ladder as she
began hopping slowly down on one leg.  It took all of her
concentration and almost all of her strength.

"I'm...coming, Muh..Mulder," she panted.

He didn't answer.

She saw him as soon as her head cleared the bottom of the
shelter.  He was standing directly underneath the watchtower,
unmoving and pale...directly in front of a rattlesnake, poised
and ready to strike.


End of part 11


Tempest, part 12


"Oh my God," Scully whispered.

The snake was huge, at least six feet.  Its body was coiled into
a cylindrical tube, capped by the wavering rattle that signaled
its irritability.  Its head undulated slowly from side to side in
front of Mulder, its tongue darting out at regular intervals to sniff
the intruder before it.  Mulder stood still as a statue, his forehead
glistening with nervous perspiration.

Oh God.  Oh God.

A rattlesnake can kill you in 20 minutes if it bites you more
than once.  Charlie's voice invaded her mind again.  Snakes. 
Charlie and Billy had loved them.  She'd always hated them. 
She'd killed one once when she was young, a little sister's
hopeless attempt to gain her brothers' approval.  It had been a
tiny garden snake, totally harmless, and as much as she hated the
creatures, she'd felt enough remorse over killing it that she never
hunted another one.  

Scully stared down at the poisonous monster in front of Mulder
and felt her blood run cold.  This was different.  This one
wasn't harmless.  She could kill this one and not feel a thing.

She eased one hand behind her and pulled her weapon from its
makeshift holster, blinking hard to clear her still blurry
vision.  She aimed the gun down toward the snake, then hesitated,
bringing her hand back up to rub her eyes.  She was so tired and
groggy and fuzzy and blurry...

"Scully?"  

"S'okay, Mulder," she mumbled.  "I'm just a little blurry."  She
aimed the gun again.

Mulder's voice was thick with tension.  "Are you sure you can..."

"Shut up, Mulder."

Concentrate.  She had to concentrate.

Two snakes and two Mulders swam before her eyes.  She only had
one chance to make the right decision.  If she missed, the
startled snake would strike instantly in reaction.  If it struck
more than once, Mulder had no chance.

Her finger tightened on the trigger, and Mulder's eyes widened. 
"Trust me, Mulder?" she asked softly.

He swallowed, but nodded, almost imperceptibly.

The gun discharged in a fraction of a second, the bullet sending
the snake 2 feet into the air before it crumpled in a scaly pile
at Mulder's feet.  Scully too, went flying, too weak to withstand the
recoil of the gunfire.  She landed with a heavy thud at the bottom of
the ladder, not having uttered a single sound on the way down.  Mulder
was at her side instantly.

"God, Scully, are you okay?" he cried, brushing the hair from her face
and gently feeling underneath her head for cuts or bumps.

She had the breath knocked out of her, but she nodded at him,
openmouthed, gasping for air.  He sat there with her until she
recovered enough to sit up.

She couldn't get over the sight he presented in the soft overcast
light of the morning.  He was wearing his glasses, and as usual, the
sight of them quickened her heart just a bit.  After only 2 days, his
face and arms had a healthy tan to them, evidence of his outdoor
nature.  She could feel the sunburn on the bridge of her nose, and
knew her cheeks were almost as red.  Scullys didn't tan...ever.

His beard was thicker today, no longer just a covering of heavy
five o'clock shadow.  She'd never given much thought to Mulder
with a beard, but the sight he presented made a fantastic
argument for the banishment of razors.  Rugged Mulder was damned
appealing, she thought.  Hell, *every* Mulder was damned
appealing.  Rugged, unkempt, formal, professional, casual,
outdoor, indoor, who the hell cared?  Mulder was like brownie
batter -- every state was equally appealing.  You might crave the
final product, but licking the bowl was just as much fun.  She shook
her head, trying to clear the erotic images that were beginning to
form.

"How long were you down here with that thing," she asked, hoping
she sounded casual and conversational.

"I don't know.  It felt like two hours, but it was probably only
fifteen or twenty minutes."

She looked up at him.  "When I woke up I thought...I thought...."

His forehead wrinkled.  "You thought what?"

She leaned forward against his chest, her arms encircling his
neck as she buried her face against his neck.  "Nothing.  It
doesn't matter.  I'm just glad you're okay."

He returned the embrace wholly, his arms encircling her and
holding tight, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head. 
"Quite a wake-up call, don't you think?" he asked with a smile
she could hear.

She nodded.  "Oh yeah.  I'm awake.  Who needs coffee?"

He pulled back from her.  "There's no need for you to try to
climb those steps again.  Why don't you wait here, and I'll go
get our stuff."

"Okay," she agreed.  "I need to go to the bathroom anyway."  She
smiled up at him.  "Although I gotta admit, Mulder, I came damn
close to going as soon as I saw that snake."

He chuckled.  "Well if it makes you feel any better, I'm sure I
*would* have gone, except I was just on my way back from going
when I found the snake."

She laughed at his admission and began to hobble into the trees.

"Watch yourself in those bushes," he warned.

"S'okay, Mulder.  I'm armed," she assured him.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't thinking about your arms."

She turned to look at him, raising one eyebrow.  "And do you
think about these things often?"

He grinned at her and stepped onto the ladder.  "Only lately."

Smiling, she turned and walked out of sight of the watchtower. 

He hadn't ditched her.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

7:40 a.m.

"You didn't tell me you'd were sick."

The statement was reproachful enough to make Scully feel guilty.

Mulder jumped the last three steps of the ladder, landing lightly
beside her.  "Why didn't you say something?"  He shouldered their bag
and stared at her, scrutinizing every inch of her face.

She tried to shrug it off.  "What should I have said, Mulder? 
Good morning, nice snake you got there...by the way, I threw up?"

His hand reached out toward her face and she ducked away from him with
impatience.  "Yes, Mulder, I have a fever.  Yes, I threw up in the
tower -- if you have to know, I threw up again before you came back
down.  I feel like shit and I'm seeing two of everything.  But
standing here isn't helping.  Can we just go?"  

He waited until she finished ranting, then calmly reached his
hand toward her again.  

Fuck it, she thought.  Go ahead.  Play doctor.  Knock yourself
out.  She looked up at him tiredly, presenting her forehead for
his perusal.  His palm felt like ice against her skin.

"You're burning up, Scully."

She was angry in an instant.  "No shit, Mulder.  My leg's
infected, and I've been walking on it for two days -- I'm sick. 
Of *course* I have a fever."  Her head bobbed randomly with every
emphatic sentence -- a motion she couldn't control -- and she started
to laugh.  Once she started, she couldn't stop.  The laughter became
hysterical, until tears were streaming down her face.  Was she crying
now?  She couldn't tell.  She couldn't tell anything anymore.

Mulder's hands came up to capture her head, holding it steady as
he bent to look directly into her unfocused eyes.

"Scully!" he barked.  "Listen to me!"

She blinked hard, once, twice.  Suddenly he came into focus.  Had they
been standing here long?  The wetness of tears registered on her
cheeks beneath his hands, and she was totally confused.  Was she
crying?  Why was she crying?

"Scully," Mulder said more softly, "I can't leave you out here
alone in this condition, but you're going to have to fight this
fever with every bit of strength you have left if we're going to
get out of here today.  Do you understand?"  

She nodded her head, still held captive by his hands.  Amazing
how familiar his touch was to her now.  She blinked sluggishly,
regretting the automatic blurring of his features.  She never
tired of looking at him.   

He moved his face closer to her own until they were centimeters
apart.  "You're going to have to fight hard," he  told her, his
voice husky.

"I'll try, Mulder."  She searched his eyes, taking advantage of
her momentary lucidity.  "I can do this."

"I know you can."  

He stunned her by leaning in and kissing her softly as he
released her face.  There was no hesitation in the action, no
second guessing -- just the sound promise of honest emotion. 
Scully felt as if her heart stopped completely. She hadn't
totally forgotten their encounter last night, although she had
only a vague recollection of what transpired.  But those kisses
had been initiated by her -- the result of an uninhibited
Demerol-induced stupor.  This kiss had been real and lucid.  This kiss
had been all Mulder.

This small soft kiss had shattered her heart and soul.

Mulder took her hand pulling her gently in the right direction. 
"Let's get started," he sighed.

Her lips still tingled from the contact with his as she turned to
begin limping beside him, silently chanting her single itinerary for
the day.

She had to fight it.  She had to fight hard.  She had to fight
it.  She had to fight hard.

Throughout the course of the morning, the landscape of the
mountain began to blur, then change completely as she
concentrated only on her progress.  She had managed to separate
herself from the fog of delirium and fever that had hampered her
earlier, but it hovered close by, following her every step of the way.
 

Scully knew it was only a matter of time before it overtook her
again.

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

10:27 a.m.

The river was bigger than they'd anticipated.  It was colder and
faster, more imposing than they'd expected to find it.  Mulder
and Scully stood along the bank, transfixed by the sight of the
clear blue water running endlessly over silt and sand, driftwood
and plants.  Strong currents raced over smooth grey stones in a
constant rush of cold water that seemed to come from nowhere and
disappear into the other side of nothing.  If they hadn't had to
cross it, Mulder would have welcomed the sight.  Fresh water --
all they could drink -- cool and cleansing, beckoning them into
its quiet, shallow reserves with a promise of rejuvenation.  They
could have enjoyed the discovery, allowed themselves to revel in
washing away the dirt and grime of three days spent hiking.

But they did have to cross it, Mulder thought grimly.  He looked
across the wide expanse of fast-moving water that separated them
from the opposite bank.  It looked imposing and treacherous,
emphasizing the fact that standing quietly beside him, swaying
with fatigue, Dana Scully looked small and fragile.  

She'd never make it across.  She wouldn't even come close.

"What now?" Scully posed.  "Think we can make it?"  Her voice was
strained and thin, belying the bravery of her words.

Mulder looked at her in amazement, almost laughing at the
absurdity of her question.  He choked on the humor as soon as he
saw the thin straw of desperation that she was clinging to.  Her
solemn, determined face exacted an honest answer, and he gave 
her one.  

"I think *I* could make it...," he began.  "But you'd be three
miles downstream before you got halfway across."  

She nodded mutely, her eyes still fixed on the swift water.

Mulder put his arm around Scully's back and guided her a few
steps away from the bank.  He knew with certainty how bad she was
feeling when she made no pretense of shunning his help.  In fact, she
seemed to welcome it without reservation -- a fact that made him even
more nervous about her rapid state of decline.  "Here," he told her. 
"Come back here and sit down for a few minutes." She agreed without
protest, and he gently supported her weight as she lowered herself to
the ground in a half reclining position.

"Scully?"

He had to call her three times before his voice seemed to
register with her.  Finally she looked at him blankly.

"I'm going to walk around this bend over here and see if I can
spot any point in the river that looks narrower or calmer. 
Someplace we might have an easier time crossing.  Okay?"   He
waited, but received no response.  "Scully?  Will you be okay?"

She shook her head sluggishly, as if trying to throw off a cloudy veil
that covered her.  "I want to clean up," she whispered.

He crouched down beside her.  "Scully?" he said softly, capturing her
cheeks with his palms and tilting her head up to look at him. "Scully,
look at me."  When she didn't comply right away he shook her lightly. 
"Scully, *look* at me!" he commanded.

She turned dull, tired eyes up to meet his.

"Don't bug out on me now, Scully," he told her.  "You hear me?"

"M'not," she mumbled, blinking in slow motion.

"I'm going to look for a place to cross the river," he repeated. "You
stay right here until I get back, okay?"

God, he sounded like a parent, Mulder thought.  A healthy,
opinionated argumentative Scully would have called him on it in a
heartbeat, and God he wished that more-familiar Scully would show up
now.  The Scully in front of him merely nodded.  He was getting more
worried with each passing second.  He had to revive her somehow, even
if it was momentary, or they wouldn't be able to take another step.

"Scully," he asked loudly, hoping the increased volume of his
voice would register with her.  "You said you wanted to clean up,
right?"

She nodded at once.

He released her face and placed his hands on her shoulders. 
"Okay.  Listen to me."  He shook her lightly again to make sure
he had her attention.  "I'm going around this bend and then I'm
coming right back, okay?  As soon as we get across the river,
we'll both take a short break and clean up a little bit, okay? 
How's that sound?"

She smiled at him, or rather, she tried to, and the sight cut
through his very soul.  He couldn't lose this woman.  He couldn't even
begin to consider the possibility.  Life without Scully wasn't worth
contemplating.

He stood up, reluctant to leave her.  "Well...good.  You stay
here and think about enjoying that water, and I'll be back in
just a couple minutes.  I'm not going far."

"All right."  She didn't look at him this time, nodding her head
absently as she said the words and continued to gaze longingly at the
cool river.  But she had answered him without prodding, and he felt
confident enough in her response to walk away from her, down around
the sharp outcropped piece of land that obscured the river from their
view to the east side.  Not wanting to leave her alone any longer than
he had to, he walked quickly with purpose, his eyes fixed on the
variations of distance between the east and west sides of the river. 
He didn't take his eyes off the shorelines.

He didn't look back.

And because he didn't look back, he was oblivious to the fact
that behind him, a small redhead crawled slowly and unsteadily on
hands and knees, toward the rapidly moving water of the Watauga River.

End of part 12


Tempest, part 13


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Standing waist deep in the river, Scully jumped visibly as the
sharp sound of his voice destroyed the quiet tranquillity of the
mountains.  She wearing her T-shirt; her jeans were lying in a
small pile of leaves under the tree where he'd left her.

Sinking lower into the water until only her head was visible, she
stared at him -- a lucid, alert gaze that he hadn't seen in two days. 
"Well, let's see...there's water...there's me *in* the water...there's
soap -- which thank God you didn't make me drop just now when you
screamed at me...if memory serves, I believe most people would call
this a bath, Mulder."  She dipped her head back into the water,
wetting her hair completely.  "You should try it yourself," she told
him, her voice hoarse and throaty. "You're not exactly fresh as a
daisy yourself these days."

Her eyes widened as he plowed into the water fully clothed, his
fury evident.

"What's wrong with y---"

Her words cut off sharply as he bent down and placed his hands on her
hips underneath the water, lifting her effortlessly in the buoyancy of
the water until she was bent over his shoulder, her bikini clad bottom
arched toward the sky.  The bandage he'd placed around her leg was
still in place, the heavy stains of blood a dark brown blemish against
the soaked white cotton that had been his work shirt.  Careful not to
hurt her, he anchored her in place with one hand on her hip, the other
tightly gripping her uninjured leg.

He knew she was angry, but there was no question he was angrier.

He didn't trust himself to speak.  Not as he carried her out onto the
river bank, not as he set her unceremoniously on her unsteady
feet...not even as she stared at him, openmouthed by his actions.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins and his heart pounded
relentlessly in his chest.  He wanted to throttle her.

"I leave you for ten minutes, Scully!" he yelled.  "Ten minutes! And
all I ask you to do is sit there and wait for me for ten lousy
minutes!  So where are you when I come back?"

"I was taking a bath," she snapped, reaching down for her jeans,
wincing at the sharpness of her own movement.  "Why is that such
a--"

"You were up to your goddamned neck in a river that could have
swept you downstream in less than a minute!  Jesus Christ, Scully --
you don't have the strength of a Chihuahua right now.  What in the
hell made you think you could just waltz into a river -- one that
scares the shit out of *me* by the way -- and have yourself an
Elizabeth Arden moment out here in the middle of the fucking
wilderness?"

"I was doing just *fine* thank you very much!"   She stepped into her
jeans and began tugging, inching the material up over wet legs as she
emphasized her argument.  "Excuse the *hell* out of *me* if I made a
*decision* without *consulting* you."  She left her jeans unbuttoned
and stepped into her tennis shoes.  "You're not my keeper, Mulder." 
Her eyes flashed with indignation.  "So save the caveman routine for
someone who'll appreciate it."

He couldn't help the slow smile that spread across his face.

"Am I amusing you now?" she challenged.

"You're back."  His words were full of quiet emotion.

Scully looked puzzled.

"Look at you," Mulder told her.  "You're wide awake, mad as hell,
ready to take my head off..."  He paused, giving his words time to
sink in.  "Welcome back."

She shook her head, chuckling softly.  "Why can't you just let me stay
mad at you, Mulder?" she asked.  "I was on a roll."

He shook his arms and legs, sending drops of water flying. 
"Because right now it's not in your best interest to be mad at
me."

She quirked an eyebrow at him, and shoved a limp strand of hair
from her eyes.  "Oh?"

"C'mon," he told her, extending his hand toward her.  "I found a
place we can cross.  It's only waist deep and it seems a little
calmer."

Scully hauled the dirty nylon bag into her arms and handed it to
him, allowing him to lead her slowly around the curved bank of
the river.

"This is it?" she asked, eyeing the distance.

"This is it," he confirmed.  "I don't see anyplace narrower, and
those rocks down there seem to pull some of the current away from the
center where it's deepest."  He looked down at her, his heart catching
slightly at the familiar glint in her eyes.  Maybe they would make it
after all.  "You ready?"

She nodded, and made a move toward the edge, but he stopped her
with a hand on her shoulder.  "Hold the bag," he told her,
thrusting it into her surprised hands.  He swept her easily into
his arms, bouncing her lightly a couple of times to test her
weight.

"Mulder," she sighed.  "This isn't necessary.  Really.  I can
pull my weight -- you said it was only waist deep."

He stepped into the water, testing the slipperiness of the rocks
underneath his feet.  "It's not a matter of pulling your weight,
Scully," he told her.  "I'm glad you're feeling better for the
moment, but if you exhaust yourself crossing this river then what good
has it done?"  He stepped off an invisible plateau on the river
bottom, sinking a good foot lower than he'd expected. Scully's bottom
dipped into the water and she held the bag aloft as they made slow
progress toward the other side.

"Besides," he panted, struggling against the rushing water, "when I
said it was waist deep, I meant *my* waist.  You'd be in up to your
neck."  He took a fraction of a second to flash her a sexy smile. 
"And as good as you look in wet, clingy clothes, I'm just not willing
to risk it."

He plowed through the river with slow, deliberate steps, pausing
a few times to readjust the weight of the woman in his arms.  His
muscles were aching, but the precious cargo he carried was his first
priority.  Finally, he felt the surface of the bottom begin to ascend,
and knew he had made it across.  He set her down in water that came to
her hips, taking her hand as they trudged the last few steps onto the
muddy bank and collapsed into the dirt and leaves, breathing heavily.

For the first time since the crash, Mulder felt optimistic.  The
cold water had revived Scully somewhat, and they had to be
getting close to the highway.  They'd cleared the air that had
festered between them, confronted some problems that they'd been
avoiding too long.  And little by little, they walls that kept
them apart at the end of the business day were beginning to
crumble.  He'd kissed her this morning, and although he was
fairly certain she didn't remember their encounter last night,
she hadn't pulled away from him.  It was a step in the right
direction.

It was a beginning.

He closed his eyes against the brightness of the clearing sky,
and allowed his breathing to settle back to a normal rate.  They
would rest a few minutes and head straight through the woods. 
With any luck, he'd have Scully tucked into a hospital bed and
receiving antibiotics before nightfall.  After that, he had no
clue.  But they'd made some promises that he was going to move
heaven and earth to keep.

"Mulder?"

He didn't open his eyes.  "Uh huh?"

"Get up."

"Do I have to?" he sighed.  He hadn't expected her to be so eager to
move on.  She'd been so listless only half an hour ago.

"No," she answered slowly.  "You don't have to, but it won't be
nearly as pleasant if you don't help out a little."

He opened his eyes, squinting up at her in confusion.  "What
won't?"

She moved over him, blocking the sun from his eyes, and smiled
down at him, the smile of everything good that he'd ever known in his
life.  Her tongue darted out and slowly licked her chapped lips,
making him ache to retrace the path with his own tongue.

Don't torture yourself, Mulder, he thought.  "What won't?" he
repeated.

She pushed something wet and slippery into his hand and bent low
to whisper in his ear.  Her throaty laugh promised more than he
knew she could deliver, but he didn't care.  Her words were
enough to make his pulse leap instantly.

"Cleaning up, Mulder," she breathed against his neck.  "You and I are
going to take a bath."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

She hadn't been skinnydipping in years.  Not since her sophomore
year of college when she and Wendy Bealer had sneaked away to
meet their boyfriends at Lake Laremont.  They'd spent hours in
the water, playing, flirting, splashing, kissing, petting.  She'd
finally let Kurt Eyremore get to third base, and if they hadn't been
interrupted by the ill-timed arrival of a group of lost campers, she
would have let him make love to her.  At the time, she'd thought she
loved him.

"You done with the soap yet?"  

Mulder's question broke into her thoughts, startling her out of
her nostalgic daydream.  "Just a minute, Mulder," she called over her
shoulder.  "I'm almost done."  She passed the small white bar over her
arms in small circles and up around her neck, working the slippery
residue into lather as much as she could.  Even though there was no
fragrance, she felt positively decadent.  She dipped lower under the
surface to rinse herself off, and began side-stroking through the
heavy water to Mulder, who waited patiently some distance away.

They'd separated instinctively when they entered the water,
allowing each other their privacy.  Now, closing the distance
between them, Scully regretted their unfailing civility to one
another.  Fox Mulder stood tall and steady in the crystal clear
water that reached only to the middle of his hips.  He stood
completely still, waiting for her to approach him with the humble
delivery.  Tiny rivulets of water ran in slow patterns down his
muscled body, and for a moment, Scully imagined herself as that water,
running free over his skin, his entire body her playground.  Did he
have any idea how much she wanted that?  To explore his body?  To
familiarize herself with every inch of it?

She couldn't breathe.  He was Poseidon come to life.  A god
standing firm amid the watery world that surrounded him. Surely
no human had ever affected her so strongly, no mere mortal had
ever achieved this level of effortless sexuality.  She stopped
her progression in mid-stroke about five feet away from him and
indulged an unabashed stare at his beauty.  She'd never wanted a
man so much in her life.  Fox Mulder was living, breathing proof
of the artistry of the very God he sometimes questioned. 
Perfection didn't happen without help.

"Scully?"

She blinked, suddenly aware she was treading water.  "What?"

"You okay?"  He began moving toward her.

She put her feet down to the muddy floor of the river and
crouched down neck deep into its depths.  "I'm fine, Mulder," she told
him.  Her voice sounded low, husky.  "Just taking a breather."

He began swimming sideways as he drew close to her in the
shallower water, obscuring his nudity from her eyes.  She could
see the worry in his eyes, and felt a pang of guilt.  She'd been
fantasizing about his body, and he was worried sick about her
health.  He reached her easily, almost kneeling in calm water
closer to the bank.  Mulder reached a hand toward her forehead,
but she captured his wrist and lowered it to just above the
surface of the water, placing the small sliver of soap into it
and closing his fingers over it tightly.

"I'm fine, Mulder.  I just got tired, that's all."  She looked up at
him.  "Really.  Go wash."

He nodded his agreement.  "Why don't you go ahead and get
dressed.  That'll give you a little time to rest before we hit
the trail again."  His other hand came out of the water to cup
her cheek.  "I won't be long.  Can you make it out?"

His concern was touching.  It was also irritating as hell.  

They were never going to get anywhere at this rate, she thought,
thoroughly disgruntled.  The game was wearing thin.  She knew he
wanted her; she'd seen -- hell she'd *felt* -- the proof of that. But
for some reason he refused to take advantage of her almost blatent
invitation.  What the hell did he want?  A trail of breadcrumbs? 
Scully stared at the handsome man in front of her with a mixture of
desire and exasperation.  He couldn't kiss her soundly one minute and
play big brother the next.  And if that was what he was feeling at the
moment, he could get over it, she decided.  She wasn't about to step
into little sister's shoes.

"Yeah, I can make it out," she told him, slowly standing up in
the thigh-deep water.  His eyes widened as she bared her body to
him completely before turning slowly and walking toward the
shore, allowing him the lingering view of her naked bottom.

Scully smiled wickedly as she stepped onto the bank, knowing full well
that his eyes were riveted upon her.  Without a look back, she bent
over to retrieve her clothes from the ground, laughing to herself when
Mulder's intake of breath reached her over the distance between them.

"I'll be over on the other side, Mulder," she called over her
shoulder to him.  

He didn't answer.  Scully looked back just in time to see the
surface of the cold water close completely over her partner's
head as he immersed himself completely in Mother Nature's version of a
cold shower.

"Gotcha," she whispered, smiling.


End of part 13


Tempest, part 14


*   *   *   *   *   *   * 

Finally clean from toes to teeth, she was sitting straight legged on
the ground, finger-combing her hair when Mulder joined her on the
bank.  Her leg throbbed dully underneath the soaked cotton bandage,
numbed from its prolonged submersion in the cold water. The river had
acted as an ice pack, momentarily relieving the most intense stabs of
pain, but Scully could feel the heat radiating from the wound.  The
respite would be undoubtedly brief, and then the nauseating agony
would begin again.  

Mulder stood beside her, watching quietly.  He was clad only in
his torn, dirty work pants, the blue fabric turned nearly black
from three days in the mountain wilderness.  His bare chest was
still wet, small trails of water running down from the wet
strands of his hair.

"Need a hand?" he asked her, his voice a soft caress.

She looked at him wistfully.  "Need a brush.  I left it behind."

"I didn't."  He held up her brush, smiling as her face registered her
delight and surprise.  "I saw what you took out of the bag when I went
back into the tower.  I repacked."

She smiled a silent invitation and Mulder lowered himself to the
ground behind her, situating her between his legs as he stretched his
own limbs out beside hers.  She went still, concentrating wholly on
the sensation as he began to stroke her hair.

It was a measure of patience as he worked the soft bristles of
the brush through hair too long neglected.  Little by little, the
snarls began to disappear as Mulder painstakingly drew the brush over
and over and over her hair, following its progress with his hands,
combing the ends around his hand to simulate the soft curl she so
often wore.  Scully sat still beneath his ministrations, her heart
shattering at this, his small simple act of selfless caring.  It was
the most touching thing he'd ever done for her.

She was almost unaware when he stopped the soothing stroking
motion of the brush, and began to knead the tired, sore muscles
of her shoulders.  One sensual pleasure melted into another as
she allowed him to massage away days of anxiety and stress.  His
hand pushed her hair aside and bared her neck to him, and her
mind flashed back to the last time he had made this same exact
move.  Back then, standing alone in a freezing storage unit, it
had been a measure of suspicion; an act of fear and retaliation. This
time, there was nothing but the gentle feel of his skin upon hers. 
His fingers, his breath against her neck.

His breath?  Oh God.  

Scully bit her bottom lip as she felt Mulder's hot breath against the
sensitive nape of her neck.  When his lips touched her there, all
coherent thought left completely.  He grazed soft kisses across her
shoulder and down her upper arm. There was no mistaking the intention.
 She was being seduced.  Awkwardly, trying not to hurt her leg, she
moved to her knees and turned to face him, her eyes searching his.  

It was all there.  

Finally.  

Everything she'd longed to see in him was there for the taking.

Their lips met hungrily, his mouth capturing hers in wordless
passion that set her very soul on fire.  She felt the slow soft
heat beginning to spread throughout her lower body and moaned
against his mouth.  Everything.  This was everything.

The touch of his tongue against the roof of her mouth, the
feeling of his breath mixing with hers. She wanted all of it. 
She wanted more.  Scully captured Mulder's full lower lip softly
between her teeth and suckled lightly, his groan of pleasure
giving her confidence, spurring her on.  Kissing a trail down his jaw
and neck, she let her exploring hands stroke a path across his bare
chest, the last remnants of water spreading out across his muscles
underneath her palms.

"Scully," he groaned, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Shhhhh."  Her mouth continued its journey as she sensuously
worked her way back to his jaw, his cheek.  His beard was
surprisingly soft to her touch, and more arousing than she'd ever
imagined.  Everything about Mulder was arousing, she realized,
wondrously.  She trailed her tongue across his jawbone toward his ear.
 When she found it, she sucked lightly on his earlobe.

His breathless moan excited her even more.  She pulled back,
releasing him just long enough to cross her arms over herself and pull
the constricting T-shirt over her head.  This time, she wasn't wearing
her bra.  She felt the heat of Mulder's eyes upon her and resisted the
urge to cover herself again.  She was so pale and thin -- thinner than
she'd ever been.  She lowered her lashes, afraid to look at him,
knowing she wasn't prepared to see what he might not be able to
disguise.

"God, you're so beautiful," he whispered.  When she didn't
answer, he crooked a finger under her chin and raised her face to look
at him.  "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known, Dana
Scully."  His face moved closer to hers.  "Don't ever doubt it."  His
mouth descended upon hers before she could reply, driving away any
doubt of his sincerity.  

His tongue ravaged the softness of her mouth, as he leaned her
back to lie on the ground, covering her carefully with his own
body without ever breaking their kiss.  His hand moved to cover
her breast, gently cupping the soft flesh as his palm made soft
passing strokes across her hardened nipple.  An involuntary
whimper escaped her and she closed her eyes, opening herself to
him completely, drinking in the feel of his hands against her
fevered skin.  His mouth began a downward exploration, kissing a
trail down her throat, stopping as his tongue flicked out to lap
the small hollow of her clavicle.  She shivered and threaded her
hands through his hair.  She was dissolving right beneath him,
unable to believe this was actually happening.

Mulder followed the path of his hands to her breasts, nuzzling
one softly against his cheek before his mouth closed over her
nipple.  When he suckled her, she cried out, breathless, overcome by
the combined sensation of his lips and tongue and beard against her
sensitive flesh.  Her hands tightened in his hair, holding him to her,
and when she felt the moisture beginning between her legs, she parted
them instinctively.  Smiling against her breast, Mulder widened them
further, settling himself finally between her thighs.

He moved up to capture her mouth again, the sound of his wordless
murmurs leading her to the brink of her own self-control.  "I want
you, Mulder," she breathed against his mouth.

His elbows were on the ground on either side of her head, and he
supported his weight on them as he pulled back to look at her.

"I want you, Mulder," she repeated, her honest whisper surprising both
of them.

"Scully, your leg..."

She reached up and pulled his head back down to hers, her mouth
slanting across his in wanton passion.  "My leg wants you,
Mulder."

He chuckled at her brazenness.  "Your leg only wants me for my
knee," he joked, kissing her cheekbone.

"Shut up, Mulder."  She pulled his mouth to hers again,
effectively stopping their extraneous conversation.  She was
overdressed.  They were both so damn overdressed.  Without
breaking the kiss, her hands moved down to the waistband of her
jeans and she fumbled with the button and zipper, finally
releasing them both.  She lifted her hips and began to push the
jeans downward.  A short stabbing pain went through her leg as
the heavy denim scraped across the bandage, but she gritted her
teeth and forced herself to ignore it.  Some things were worth a
little discomfort.  And at the moment, Fox Mulder was all of
them.  

Mulder slid lower down her body, his mouth blazing a trail of
fire down her stomach until his chin rested just below her navel. He
slid his hands into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down
until they met the fabric of her jeans, then pushed both further down.
 

His breath was hot against her stomach, and she felt the tight
coil of desire building hotter within her.  The tension was
unbearable.

"God Mulder," she gasped, "I need...I need..."

His tongue darted out to flick her navel and she whimpered.  "You need
what?"  His voice sounded thick and rough.

"You."  The word was a cry.  A plea.  Eyes closed, she turned her head
to the side as he covered her body with his once more, the already
familiar weight of him a welcome sensation.  Her breasts ached for his
touch, her nipples hypersensitive from the heady feeling of his mouth
upon them.  He buried his face in her neck and she felt the aching
wetness between her thighs.  When finally, his hand moved between her
legs, she gasped, a combination of relief and uncontrolled passion.

He kissed her deeply as his fingers parted her, his tongue
mimicking the motions of his fingers as they deftly stroked her. When
he moved one finger inside her, she moaned loudly against his mouth. 
His assault was unrelenting, first one finger, finally two, pulsing in
and out of her body.  When his thumb moved upward to stroke her
simultaneously, her hips began to thrust against him as she fought for
release.  The tension was unbearable.  Unbearable and magnificent. 
She never wanted it to end.

"Let it go, Scully," he whispered, coaxing her toward the
brilliant light.  "Just let go."

His words pushed her over the edge into the beautiful void she'd
been seeking.  The world exploded around her in a thousand pieces of
dazzling light, settling over her in a cohesive veil of sunlight and
promise.  Her body felt like thick hot liquid pooled beneath him. 
Shapeless.  Formless.

Opening her eyes, she looked into Mulder's fathomless hazel ones,
feeling a surprising wetness clinging to her lashes.  Mulder bent his
head low to her, silently kissing away the moisture. Scully's thoughts
were a jumbled blur.  She couldn't think.  She didn't want to think.
She didn't even want to go home anymore. She didn't want anything but
for Mulder to stay here with her.

"Make love to me, Mulder," she whispered, her voice thick with
emotion.  She reached for the waistband of his pants and began to
fumble with the button.  His erection was huge, straining against the
worn fabric of the pants and she knew the measure of self-control he
had exercised to put her own pleasure first.

He didn't move or say a word as she released the button and
slowly pulled the zipper down.  Only their ragged breathing
measured the intensity of the scene as they played it out in
wondrous solitude.  She slid her hands inside the fabric of his
boxers and pushed them down over his hips.  She needed him.  She
wanted him.  All of him.

Taking up the cause when her arms had reached as far as they
could, Mulder half-turned and removed them completely, his eyes
searching hers endlessly, as if he expected her to change her
mind.  She allowed herself an appreciative look at his body and
felt her mouth go completely dry.  He was beautiful.  Every inch
of him was beautiful.

"Scully," he breathed, lowering himself over her body.  "Are you
sure?"

She reached between their bodies and took him in her hand, amazed by
the silken hardness of him.  "Oh yeah," she breathed against his neck.
 "I'm sure."  She stroked him softly and he groaned.

He kissed her deeply, then without warning or explanation, he
pulled away suddenly, his body still poised above hers.

"Mulder?"

He didn't answer.

"Mulder, what is it?"

"Do you hear that?" he asked, still breathless with passion.

"Do I hear wha --"

"Shhhh..."  he commanded abruptly.

Scully fell silent, listening intently,  hearing only the sound
of her own blood rushing through her veins.  Then there was
something else.  The unmistakable sound of a vehicle.  Not a
plane or a helicopter or something far away.  This was small.  A
car, possibly a truck.  And it was close.  God, it was close.

"Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor?" he groaned, closing his
eyes.  When he opened them, he seemed to be in total control. "Wait
here.  I'll be right back," Mulder rasped, rolling away from her and
grabbing for his pants.

The weight of his body pushed her leg into the rocky ground, and
she couldn't stop the cry of pain that escaped her lips.

"Scully!"  He scrambled back, kneeling beside her as he cupped
her cheek in his hand.  "God, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to hurt
you."

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, her eyes closed against the
pain.  "It's okay, Mulder," she said, gritting her teeth.  When
at last the fiery pain subsided, she opened her eyes to look into his
worried ones.  His hand was softly caressing her cheek. "Really.  I'm
fine."  She attempted a smile to back up her words. "Are you?"

He helped her to her feet.  "Am I what?"

Her eyes lowered to his barely concealed erection, bulging hard
against the fabric of his pants.  "Fine."  With a mischievous
glint in her eye, she reached her hand down to cup him softly
through the material.  "It looks like *you're* the one in pain to me,"
she told him wryly.

"God, Scully..."  Mulder's eyes closed as he fought for control.

Taking pity on him, she removed her hand, trailing her nails
across his chest lightly.  He captured her hand easily and
pressed it against his bare skin.  "Scully," he began.

"Yes?"

He gazed meaningfully into her eyes, the small twitch of his jaw
the only indication of his humor.  "Promise me I'll have sex
again before I die."

His teasing words sparked a glimmer of rememberance.  Uninhibited
kissing, her own spontaneous laughter...oh dear lord.  She'd actually
told him...

She was momentarily embarrassed, then gave herself over to good
humor.  Her laughter eased the tension in her body, as she began
to realize that their rescue truly was at hand after their three
day ordeal.  She looked at him seriously, an imitation of what
she vaguely remembered as his own response to her plea.  "I
personally guarantee it, Mulder" she promised hoarsely, pulling
his head down to hers for one last kiss, lightly teasing his
tongue with her own. Drawing away from him at last, she reached
down and pulled his jacket from the ground behind her, shaking it
forcefully to remove the leaves and dirt that clung to it. "Here's
your chance, Mulder," she told him, handing him the jacket and giving
him a gentle shove toward the trees.  "Go be a manly man."  When he
raised his eyebrows in a puzzled expression, she chuckled.  "Go be a
hero and find the highway," she instructed,  "I'm ready to be
rescued."

He grinned and turned without a word, maneuvering through the
underbrush that surrounded the river, fastening his pants even as he
made his way toward the sound of civilization.

Scully watched him go, her heart racing.  She couldn't even
absorb what had just happened here, and she didn't have time to
sort it out.  They'd found the highway.  What they would find
*on* the highway was yet to be determined.

She pulled on her T-shirt and stumbled to her feet, her legs
still shaky in the aftermath of orgasm.  Every nerve in her body
was on full-alert, screaming for a conclusion that wasn't going
to happen.  She couldn't imagine the frustration that Mulder was
feeling.

Sense of humor indeed, she thought wryly.  God was probably
headlining at the Pearly Gates Comedy Club.

She stepped into her shoes, waiting anxiously for some sign of
Mulder through the thick covering of trees.  Gradually, her
breathing returned to normal, even as her thoughts began to pick
up speed.  The trial was tomorrow.  In all probability, if
Escabedo hadn't found Lindsey Carroll by now, she would surely
make it to her court date.  And that was suddenly more important
to Scully than it had been before the crash.  If Escabedo was to
blame for their plane going down, if he was responsible for the
death of Daniel Davis and for what had happened to her and
Mulder, it was suddenly vitally important to Scully that Lindsey
Carroll be present in that court room to nail his ass to the
wall.  She could only hope her own reemergence into the land of
the living didn't jeopardize that.

Scully stared into the trees where Mulder had disappeared and
fought the urge to call him back.  They had to get to a hospital,
trial or no trial.  She couldn't risk losing her leg, no matter what
the cost to the DEA's case.  They'd run out of time.

"Ready or not, Lindsey," she whispered.  "Here we come."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The four lane highway was a welcome sight, winding its way across the
uneven terrain of Cherokee National Park.  It cut across the mountain
like an endless grey ribbon, an adornment of civilization upon the
endless expanse of wildlife.

Mulder and Scully cleared the last piece of overgrown brush that
separated them from salvation and stood quietly, hand in hand,
gazing at the quiet road.  They'd made it to the highway.  They
hadn't made it to safety.

Tightening his grip on her hand, Mulder looked down at his
partner, resisting the urge to lead her back to the river and
finish what they had started.  The images of Dana Scully lying
soft and pliant beneath his exploring hands and mouth was still
fresh in his mind.  It was forever imprinted in his memory...the
soft flush of excitement on her pale cheeks, her parted lips
swollen from his kisses, her breath ragged and labored as she
looked up at him with four years' worth of passion coupled with a
measure of trust he'd never expected to know in his lifetime.  He
could still feel the silk of her skin.  He could still taste her.

Dana Scully was a gift he hadn't earned, his fondest wish come to
life.  She was everything.  

And he was about to step onto this highway and shatter any peace
of mind he ever hoped to have.  He was going to flag down a car
and make her a target again, this time in public view.

He was going to risk her life in order to save it.

"I think something's coming."  Her voice seemed suddenly shaky,
as if she wasn't sure about what they were doing.

He put his arm around her shoulder.  "Scully, we're going to have to
take this chance."

"I know."  She nodded her agreement.  "I just keep thinking that
with our luck, we'll flag down the only car on this highway
that's full of Escabedo's flunkies."

Mulder looked over her shoulder at the approaching vehicle, and
couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face.  "Well, I
think you can stop worrying," he grinned.

Scully turned to look behind her.

"Unless Escabedo's suffered a major financial setback in the last
three days, I don't think he drives a '76 Pinto."

Buoyed by the welcome sound of her genuine laughter, Mulder
smiled and stepped out onto the highway, waving his arms to slow
the sputtering car.  The driver pulled to the shoulder and rolled down
the window.  He was young, college-aged, and more than willing to give
them a lift.

Opening the door and helping Scully into the back seat, Mulder
allowed himself the first deep breath he'd taken in nearly a
week.  Finally, after going to hell and back, they'd come out on
top.  They were going to have the last word.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

End of Part 14


Tempest, epilogue


St. Francis Hospital
Johnson City, Tennessee
5:17 p.m.

The third floor lounge area of St. Francis Hospital was small and
dark, tucked away in the far corner of the hallway across from the
nurses' station.  Rows of vinyl chairs connected by their armrests
formed a yellow and blue chain around the walls.  The room was
uncomfortable and stale, and smelled of old magazines and various
spilled drinks.  Mulder stood alone in the corner of the room, his
hand resting lightly on the wooden privacy carrel that housed the pay
phone.  

Through the glass that served as the top half of the walls, he 
scrutinized the nursing staff as they went about their duties.  Scully
was one of their duties now, tucked away at the end of the hall behind
door 309.  He'd hesitated to leave her even long enough to call
Skinner, but she'd insisted he take care of business and stop
hovering.

Stop hovering.  What a fucking joke.  

He wasn't her salvation.  He could never be her protector.  He was
nothing but a liability to Dana Scully, and this time it had nearly
cost her her life.  The voice on the other end of the phone gave him
instructions, drawing their conversation to a close.

Mulder blinked tiredly, watching the lazy activity across the hall. 
"Yes, Sir.  I'll be in touch tomorrow."  He paused.  "Thank you, Sir."

He hung up the phone and moved wearily toward the door, his feet
carrying him automatically back toward Scully.  He paused only long
enough to retrieve the daily newspaper from the small plastic table
where he had tossed it, folding it inward to obscure the headline from
his sight as he began making his way to Scully's room.

Suddenly, three days in the wilderness seemed like nothing compared to
the length of that hallway. Knowing what he did and anticipating
Scully's reaction to what he was about to tell her, the walk to her
room was the longest solitary journey of his life -- and over much too
quickly.

He paused and took a deep breath, rapping the door with his knuckle. 
Was it too much to hope she wasn't home?

"Come in."

Mulder leaned his head against the smooth surface of the wide entry,
collecting himself before making a move to enter. He couldn't gloss it
over, not this time; Scully had to know the truth.

And in all the years he'd spent chasing it, the truth had never been
uglier.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Scully looked up as Mulder pushed open the heavy door and walked into
the her standard issue, sparsely furnished hospital sanctuary.

"Everybody decent?"

Her heart caught when she saw him.  He'd showered and shaved, 
somehow managed a change of clothes.  Jeans.  God, she loved him in
jeans.  After three days of bearded Mulder, she'd also been unprepared
for her reaction to his familiar clean-shaven visage.  He'd lost
weight, as had she, and the bruise on his forehead was fading to dark
yellow, but she'd never seen him look better.  Her body was on instant
alert.

She smiled at his casual question and pulled back the sheet to reveal
her blue and white hospital gown.  "I think that's a matter of
opinion.  I'm covered, but I'm not sure this classifies as decent." 
When he didn't comment, she quirked an eyebrow at him.  "What answer
were you hoping for?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.  In Scully's experience,
Mulder's eyes always told the tale.  He was so easy to read. 
Sometimes he was *too* damn easy to read.  One good look at his face
and it registered loud and clear.  Guilt...a *lot* of guilt.

There was a small beige chair against the wall by her bed and he
dragged it over to sit beside her, resting his forearms on his knees. 
He was holding a folded newspaper.  "How are you feeling?"

Polite conversation, she noted.  This was going to be bad.  "I'm
okay," she hedged.  Her leg hurt like hell, but she wasn't going to
lose it gangrene.  And until she knew exactly what was on Mulder's
mind, she wouldn't risk adding another load to his overburdened
conscience.  "What's on your mind, Mulder?"

He looked down at his hands.  "I've been trying to come up with a good
way to tell you..."

Her heart began to thud heavily, her mind whirling.  Let's forget what
happened by the river?  I've decided I'm not really that attracted to
you after all?  There's someone else?  She steeled herself for the
horrible possibilities.  "What?  Just tell me, Mulder."

Wordlessly, he handed her the newspaper, and she took it, confused by
the act, but relieved that he hadn't confirmed her fears.  The
headline sent her heart plummeting.  "GRAND JURY CLAIMS INSUFFICIENT
EVIDENCE."  The picture showed Hector Escabedo leaving the courthouse
surrounded by a legion of bodyguards.

She looked up at him, stunned.  "He killed her, didn't he?  He found
her and killed her."

Mulder's jaw tightened.  "He didn't find her."

Her mind raced.  "She decided not to testify?"

"Scully..." Mulder began.  "It's not that simple.  The truth is that
the--"

"I don't understand," she interrupted.  "She had enough to get a
conviction.  Agent Westbrook said Lindsey Carrol's testimony would be
the nail in Escab--"

"She doesn't exist."

That stopped her cold.  "What do you mean she doesn't exist?"  A
feeling of dread spread slowly throughout her body like ice water
running through her veins.  Her heart rate quickened even more.

"There is no Lindsey Carrol."  He closed his eyes briefly and took a
deep breath.  When he opened them, he sprang from the chair and turned
away from her, running a hand through his hair.  "There never was a
Lindsey Carrol.  There was no girlfriend.  There was no testimony. 
The whole thing was a set up, Scully."  He turned back to face her,
his eyes pain-filled.  "We were set up."

She couldn't fathom what he was telling her.  "But..." she fingered
the rough edges of the newspaper struggling to find the words. 
"...the picture -- and the file."

He shook his head.  "The file was fabricated, start to finish.  I can
only assume the picture was an altered photo of you."

She shook her head.  "No.  That can't be right.  Mulder, we checked
all this out.  We did the paperwork.  That file checked out --
Westbrook's whole story checked out."

Mulder ran a tired hand over his face.  "The DEA's official statement,
Agent Mulder, is that we have no record of any Agent Raymond Westbrook
ever having worked for this agency," he quoted sarcastically.  "If you
have any further questions, please submit them in writing to the
office of inter-departmental resources."

"Mulder, that's INSANE!" she yelled.  "What could anyone possibly hope
to accomplish with that kind of elaborate scheme?  What would be the
point?"

He stared at her, the guilt flooding his eyes once again.

"You think they did all this to get rid of US?  Mulder that's crazy! 
Who would go to all this trouble just to...just...just for us?"  Her
voice trailed off.

"All this trouble, Scully?  Like the trouble of killing my father? 
Your sister?  The trouble of abducting you and holding you for months?
 Or the trouble of erasing people's memories, burning boxcars full of
their inconvenient reminders, blowing up entire jets full of innocent
people..."

Her head snapped up at his statement.  "What about Daniel?" she 
asked.

His lips thinned.  "If he ever existed, as far as the DEA's concerned,
he's been erased." 

She put her hands to her temples.  This was too much.  She couldn't
absorb it.  "Mulder, Skinner signed those case transfer orders.  He
okayed our involvement."

He shook his head.  "Skinner started calling around day before 
yesterday when we hadn't contacted him from New Jersey.  As soon as he
realized they'd cut us loose he started searching."  He laughed
harshly.  "You and I have been quite a topic of conversation around
the old J. Edgar Hoover Building," he told her.  "We've been listed
MIA for the last two days."

Silence settled over them as they struggled for a mental hold on the
circumstances.  Scully looked at her partner, her friend, her -- what
exactly were they now?  It didn't matter, she realized.  She was
suddenly overcome with her own guilt.  "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He spun around.  "What?"

She bit her bottom lip.  "It's my fault."

"No."

"Yes.  It is."  She stared at him pointedly.  "Don't try to play the
`My Fault' game with me on this one, Mulder.  I'll win.  It's my fault
because I'm the one who accepted this assignment in the first place."

He walked to the foot of her bed.  "No, it's my fault.  I'm the reason
why you wanted to accept that assignment, Scully.  I made you feel
your work on the X-Files wasn't important or valid."

She responded instantly.  "It's my fault because I was the one 
they approached and I made the decision."

Mulder turned his face toward the window, breaking eye contact.  "It's
my fault, because they never would have approached you if you weren't
involved with me to begin with."  

His pained whisper pierced her to the core.  Game over, she 
realized.  She couldn't compete with that kind of guilt.  She couldn't
begin to imagine the burden he felt.  She held her hand out for him,
craving the feeling of him close to her.  "Mulder..."

He turned toward her and, seeing her outstretched hand, moved to take
it, sitting carefully on the side of her bed.  He looked at her with
the saddest eyes she'd ever seen, and she was overcome with the urge
to protect him.  This was a man who'd taken the blame for the loss of
every person close to him.  She had no doubt he was mentally adding
her to that list with a footnote of  "almost."

She squeezed his hand, looking at their intertwined fingers.  "Mulder,
you have *got* to stop feeling guilty that I'm a part of your life. 
You're not the final say in where my life goes or doesn't go, and I am
exactly where I want to be right now."

He looked away.

"Mulder, I don't blame you.  Not for Missy's death, not for my 
abduction.  You spend a lot of time thinking that you're the reason I
should leave the X-Files.  You don't seem to understand that in my
mind, you're the only reason to stay."

That got him.  He turned to look at her, his eyes glistening with
unshed tears.  Her heart ached for his vulnerability.  She reached her
free hand outward to cup his cheek, and he turned his head into it,
his eyes fathomless as they searched hers, taking the comfort she
offered.  "Mulder, I told you once that even if I had known everything
that would happen, I wouldn't change a day.  Did you think I was
lying?"

He didn't answer, closing his eyes finally against the blatant 
honesty of hers. 

She dropped her hand from his face.  "I have to believe everything
happens for a reason, Mulder.  And even if we don't know what they are
right now, we'll find them if we keep looking."

He swallowed, and opened his eyes.  "I don't know how much 
longer we can keep looking, Scully.  They keep upping the ante."

"Noooo," she said slowly.  "I don't think so."  At his puzzled 
expression, she continued.  "We're not any worse off than we've 
ever been, Mulder.  We're just back on the same old familiar 
ground...trust no one."

He snorted.  "Well obviously we need to be a little more careful about
who we don't trust."

She smiled at him, grateful for the reappearance of his sardonic
humor.  He was gaining perspective...rededicating himself.  In short,
he was coming back to her.

On cue, he leaned forward and pressed a firm kiss to her 
forehead.  "Get some sleep, Scully.  I'm gonna go make a few 
more calls and grab some dinner, which I'll smuggle up to you in a
little bit.  I won't be long."

The kiss was perfunctory at best.  When he made a move to 
stand, she didn't release his hand.  "Is that the best you can 
do?" she asked wryly, arching her brow in feigned annoyance.  
"If it is, I'm afraid I have to tell you that you do your best work in
the field, Agent Mulder."

His eyes widened at her bold statement, but he laughed 
appreciatively, bending to kiss the lips she turned up toward him. 
The kiss was soft but lingering, full of promise -- an unspoken
acknowledgement of things to come.  They pulled away from each other
breathless.  "You gonna be okay?" he asked, stroking her hair from her
forehead.

She nodded.  "Weren't you listening?  I'm always okay."  

He moved toward the door, his hand resting on the door handle.  
When he looked at her this time, he was utterly serious.  "Watch your
back, Scully," he said quietly.

"Uh uh," she told him shaking her head.

He looked confused.

"That's your job, Mulder.  Mine is to watch yours."

Their eyes held for a moment, then without another word, Mulder 
nodded once and disappeared through the open doorway.  

Scully sighed, leaning back into her pillow, closing her eyes. 
Slowly, she gave herself over to relaxation, letting the mild pain
medication carry her off toward slumber.  For Scully, sleep came
easily for the first time in days, finally secure in the knowledge
that she and Mulder were safe, that they had survived and become
stronger.  They'd managed to walk away from this whole thing with time
on their side, and for now, that was enough.  Scully's breathing
became deep and even and she stumbled into the now comforting
darkness, still feeling the warmth of Mulder's promise on her lips.

<END>

Well, there it is.  The finished product of WAY too many months of
work.  :) 
 It would be an understatement to say I'd love to hear your comments. 
 Please let me know if you enjoyed it.

Missy (josiechung@aol.com)


Title:   Distance
Author:   Missy Pennington
Classification:  V, MSR
Rating:   PG
Keyword:   MSR

Summary:  An emotional standoff and a long distance phone call

Author's Note:  This is the first of two follow ups to my story "Tempest,"
which can be found at Gossamer.

Disclaimer:   Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013
Productions. No monetary profit is being made, and no copyright
infringement is intended.


Distance
By Missy Pennington


"Distance is the cruelest enemy known to the human heart."
-- Monique Plaisance



Comfort Lodge Motel
Dothan, Alabama

There was nothing at all spectacular about room 117 of the Comfort Lodge
Motel.  Like every cheap motel on the I-75 straight-away, it supplied
little more than shelter and some small modicum of security to the weary
travelers housed
temporarily behind its thin walls.  The rooms were small, the furniture
unmatched, the dim light of low wattage bulbs casting deep shadows upon the
floor and walls, keenly disguising the telltale signs of age and possible
neglect.

Still, it wasn't the worst motel Special Agent Fox Mulder had ever stayed
in. It didn't even make the bottom ten.  And while it would never be
mistaken for the Ritz, this one at least seemed reasonably clean. Hell,
there had even been hints of luxury here:  actual cellophane around the
small brown ice bucket on the counter, plastic cups individually packaged,
and a paper wrapper around the toilet seat, stating that it had recently
been "sanitized."   Of course he hadn't believed it for a minute, but he
had to give them an 'A' for effort. At least someone had cared enough to
lie.  Besides, for the moment -- for the past two days, in fact -- it was
home.

"Be it ever so humble," Mulder muttered, entering the room without
enthusiasm.

It was quiet.  Crap.

He stood in the open doorway and sighed heavily at the sight of glaring
sunlight filtering into the room through the half-exposed window.  Damn
maid.  She obviously belonged to a sun-worshipping cult of neatness
fanatics without
sweat glands whose sole purpose in life was to ensure that after a hard
day's work, a person could prolong that "not so fresh" feeling for even
greater enjoyment later in the evening.  It was methodical,
ritualistic...make the bed,
open the curtains, turn off the air-conditioner.

Sadistic bitch.

Mulder stepped across the threshold, shrugging out of his suit jacket and
tossing it carelessly onto the nearest bed before the door even clicked
shut behind him.  Jesus Christ, it was hot.  He pulled anxiously at his
tie, loosening the knot with his left hand as his right felt for the
yellowed cord that dangled freely along the edge of the window.  He pulled
it hard, making
the heavy blue curtain halves swing inward with a quiet whoosh, overlapping
each other briefly until the momentum ceased.   One flick of a switch on
the antique wall unit, and the machine groaned to life, beginning its
familiar death rattle that expelled honest effort, but very little cool
air, into the room.

He hated the South.  It was just so damn...rural.

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, along with his tie, draping both
across the back of the small wooden chair beside the bed.  Ignoring his
T-shirt, he stepped out of his shoes, pulled his socks off quickly, and
tossed them over his shoulder onto the floor.  He padded barefoot across
the room to the bed, dropping backward onto it with a heavy sigh, arms
outstretched.  Why was he here?  What the *hell* was he doing here?

His mind began the rundown, silently answering the rhetorical question.  He
was investigating a case.  He was second-guessing the obvious,
hypothesizing things the average person didn't want to consider, stepping
on the toes of local law enforcement.  In other words, doing what he did
best.

He was missing Scully.

Working the past three weeks without her had been an exercise in patience.
He was tired of pointing out holes in his own theories...bored with his own
company.  The days dragged on endlessly.  He wondered if she missed him
even half as much.

A severe leg injury, sustained in a plane crash, had put her on restricted
duty for four weeks.  Office work.  Four weeks of the paper chase.  And if
he was missing his red headed partner's cynical mind and discerning eye in
the field right now, he could at least take solace in the fact that he was
handling her recuperation period a hell of a lot better than she was.
After the first week, she had been climbing the walls.  By the end of the
second week, coworkers were taking alternate routes to the cafeteria to
avoid bumping into her.  Dana Scully was swiftly and surely going insane
from the tedium of deskwork, and had vowed to take the rest of the J. Edgar
Hoover Building with her.

Not a person who knew her doubted she could.

Mulder ran a weary hand down his face, rubbing his eyes tiredly.  If there
was one thing he knew for sure about Scully, it was that she had the
capacity to drive a person crazy.  He was halfway there himself.  They'd
spoken only twice in the past week -- a record low for them during their
partnership -- and the silence puzzled and frustrated him.  In the three
weeks since they'd made their way out of the Tennessee wilderness, they had
yet to broach the subject that he knew was on both their minds:  The
Encounter.  For whatever reason, fate or circumstances, he and Scully had
crossed a line
out there, moved from partners to...to what?  Damned if he knew.  They
weren't lovers.  Not officially, although God knew they'd made a good stab
at it before rescue reared its ill-timed head.  But since she'd been
released from the hospital, there had been no mention of the closeness
they'd shared.

<You should have said something before now.>

Maybe so, he argued with himself, but he hadn't wanted to push her.  He'd
fared better in the crash than Scully had -- far better.  He'd walked away
with only minor cuts and bruises; she'd very nearly lost her leg.  So he
had stepped back, given her time to recuperate and room to breathe.  He'd
just never expected it to drag on this long.

The first week, the silence hadn't bothered him.  He'd brushed it aside,
chalked it up to her injury and a need for recuperative rest.  But then the
second week came and went.  By the time this case had presented itself
several days ago, he'd welcomed the chance to leave DC, thoroughly
disconcerted by his partner's unwillingness to talk about what had, to him,
seemed a monumental event.

Unwillingness to talk about it?  Ha.  He was beginning to wonder if she
even *remembered* it.  While he'd been going out of his mind recalling the
softness of Dana Scully's warm, inviting lips and the velvet silk of her
bare skin everywhere against him, she was acting as though the whole
experience was a bad dream best forgotten in the light of day.

Three weeks and not a word.  Not one mention.  Nothing.

Had she blocked it out of her mind?

<Now *there's* a confidence builder.>

Had she decided it was all a mistake?

<Maybe it *was* a mistake.>

It was no mistake.  He'd known that the moment their lips met.  Nothing had
ever been more right.

<So what's the problem, here?>

That was the $64,000 question.  He'd tried for a while to get a feel for
where they stood with each other, but the tenebrific silence between them
gave no clue.  Every psychologist profiling trick in the world wasn't
enough to get a bead on Dana Scully when she didn't feel like sharing.

Mulder sighed again, his body relaxing further into the too-soft mattress.
They had to talk, and the sooner the better.  To hell with breathing room.

Fuck personal space.

Obviously, he was going to have to confront her when he returned to DC,
because the overwhelming desire to finish what they'd started was beginning
to take over his every waking thought and most of his subconscious ones.
Here he was in the middle of a case with four discolored, chemically
decomposed bodies, and all he could concentrate on was the logical
conclusion to what had been unceremoniously aborted on the bank of that
river.

If that conclusion wasn't ever going to happen, then damn it, she was going
to have to tell him.

<Push the issue, Mulder.  It's time.>

It was past time.  His patience had run out.  He wanted nothing more in the
world than to play caveman now -- go to her apartment and kiss her until
she melted into his arms, resistance seeping slowly from her weakened body
until she could no longer support her own weight, leaving him free to lock
the whole world outside her door and carry Dana Scully to the bedroom and
explore every tantalizing curve of her body, inside and out.

Not his best shot, tactically speaking, but hell, a man could dream,
couldn't he?  Lately it felt like that was all he *could* do.  He eased
further into the fantasy, his body hardening at the thought of a certain
red-headed beauty, breathless beneath him.

The shrill double ring of the motel room phone resonated loudly over the
chugging air conditioner, startling Mulder from his trance as effectively
as a bucket of cold water.  He turned his head toward the nightstand and
reached for the receiver without raising up.  It was too hot to make the
effort.

"Mulder."

There was a momentary hesitation, and then the almost surreal sound of his
daydream stepping into reality.  "Mulder, it's me."

As always, Scully's timing was impeccable.  Just the sound of her voice
sent a shock wave through him.  How long since they'd spoken?  Two days?
Three?  It felt like a month.  His heart began beating double time.

<Play it cool, Mulder.>

"I'll give you a million dollars if you'll get me out of this place," he
said in lieu of a greeting.

She chuckled lightly.  "That bad?"

"Honestly?  No," he answered.  "It just falls under the heading of 'Places
You Wish You Weren't.'"  He closed his eyes, conjuring up an image of his
partner as they talked.  "Ever spent a 'hottest June on record' in Alabama,
Scully? It's the Scared Straight version of Purgatory.  This is where they
send people to get a taste of eternal suffering in the flames of hell."

"No," she bantered, "you're thinking of Nevada.  Alabama is where they send
you when they're just trying to piss you off."

He gave an appreciative snort.  "I'd laugh but it takes too much energy."

"Don't let me put you out." He could hear her smile in her voice.

There was a thick pause as he waited for her to speak, but she said nothing
else.  Finally, he broke the silence.  "Tell me again what I'm doing here,
Scully."

She answered slowly, her voice sounding uncharacteristically tentative for
some reason.  "Well I can do that if you want...but I don't think it's
going to make you feel any better."

"Oh?"  He sat up, giving her his full attention.  "You got the results?"

"Yeah, Mulder, I did. In fact, the tox screen is in my hand as we speak.
But um..." she paused.  "Considering your feelings about how you've spent
the past two days, I don't think you're going to like it."

He fell back on the bed in defeat.  "It was negative."

"Well no, not completely."  Her voice was flat.  "But Mr. Danby's death is
unrelated to the case.  There's no connection to the first three bodies."

"Damn."  He ran his fingers through the sweat-dampened hair that clung to
his forehead.

"I know," she said.  "I wish I could offer something more constructive.
The cyanosis of the extremities did appear to be the same as those found on
the first three victims, but the autopsy on Mr. Danby turned up no trace of
the chemical compounds that caused the deterioration of the tissue in those
cases. In this case, the blueness was caused by exposure to a single,
highly toxic substance, most likely Paraquat."

"Paraquat?  Sounds like an exotic fruit," he joked.

She didn't laugh.

<So much for charm.>

"Mr. Danby was a farmer, wasn't he, Mulder?"

"Yeah."

"Well Paraquat is a herbicide, highly toxic by ingestion, inhalation, or
even just prolonged contact to the skin.  It cuts off oxygenation to the
body piece by piece, which accounts for the blue fingers and toes.  It also
explains the ulcerated condition of the tongue and throat, since it burns
its way through the internal tissue."  Scully's voice trailed off, and he
could hear the rustling of papers being shifted.

Stacking the two pillows against the headboard, Mulder leaned back, taking
a moment to process the information.  "If that's true, then why haven't
more of the farmers down here been affected by it?"

"That, I can't answer," she told him honestly.  "My best guess is that he
was most likely the only one using it. Turns out it's not widely sold
anymore, because of the health threat to the growers, and the few places
that do broker it usually dilute it to the point that it's not a problem.
Whatever toxicity is left is moderated by contact with the soil; at least
that's the way it was explained to me."

When he didn't comment, she continued.  "Either Mr. Danby was inexperienced
in using this particular herbicide, or he was just completely unaware of
the risk he was taking.  Either way, he was toying with a potentially
explosive situation."

A very unpartnerlike comment was nearly out of his mouth before Mulder
stopped himself from stating the obvious.  Jesus Christ, this was making
him crazy. He was frustrated, he was hot, and he was now officially on a
useless trip to
Alabama.  And the one person he'd wanted to talk to more than anything in
the world was on the phone with him now.

Talking business.

<Nothing else you want to say, Scully?>

"I've remanded the body to the Dothan M.E."

<Not exactly what I had in mind.>

"Well...thanks for letting me know," he said diplomatically.  "You must
have pulled some strings to get the results back this fast."

"I did pull a few," she said.

He heard the hesitance in her admission.  "Well...thanks.  I appreciate
it," he told her honestly.  "Anything to get out of this heat.  I was going
to ge--"

"I didn't just do it for you, Mulder," she interrupted, gaining his
attention instantly.  "I did it for me too."  She paused.  "I miss you
and..."  Her voice trailed off.

He heard the deepening emotion in her voice, and his body tensed in
anticipation of her words.  Whether or not it would be what he wanted to
hear, he had no doubt that the moment was at hand.  There would be no
turning back from the course she was about to set.

He held his breath while she gathered her thoughts, his heart sinking just
a bit lower with every passing second.  Awkward silence.  Hesitance.  That
couldn't be good, he thought.

But when the words finally came, they were not uncertain at all.  They were
strong and sure, and they stunned him with their simple honesty.

"I want you to come home Mulder."  She took a breath.  "I want you to come
home to me."


*  *  *  *  *  *  *


She'd said too much.

She'd pushed too far too fast.  She sounded clingy.  Possessive.  He would
run screaming in the other direction.

Dana Scully sat like a stone on the grey and white corner cushion of her
couch and tried to remember any other time in her life when she had ever
been this nervous.

Medical boards.  Loss of virginity.  Three hours past curfew on a school
night.  They all paled in comparison to the pregnant pause that assaulted
her psyche at this moment.

<I want you to come home to *me*?  Oh, that's good, Scully.  Dumb move.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.  What's next?  Marry me, Mulder?>

She winced.  This was not going well.  Nothing in her life was going well
at the moment.  The uneasiness that had settled between her and Mulder
would never have happened if she hadn't been restricted to deskwork for so
long.  They could have talked about things sooner, before the silence
festered.

<Festered is an understatement.>

The first week she'd shrugged it off.  She assumed he was giving her some
space, and in all honesty, she'd been thankful.  Her leg still hurt like
hell; it hadn't exactly been conducive to setting the mood for a replay of
recent events.  But when the second week came and went she knew something
had taken a wrong turn.  Their breathing room had taken on a life of its
own.

An unpleasant one.

The entire J. Edgar Hoover building seemed to be cracking under the stress
of a silent standoff that nobody knew was in progress. All her coworkers
seemed on edge lately, speaking only in hushed, hurried tones, going out of
their way to avoid one another at all costs -- even during lunch hours.
The hallways were empty, the cafeteria unnaturally quiet.  Anyone else
might have taken it personally, but she knew she'd been blessed with a more
even temperament than most.  She never showed outward signs of stress.

It was a good thing, too.  If people knew how she *really* felt, they'd run
for cover every time they saw her coming.

The seconds ticked away like heartbeats, thumping against the vacuous wall
of silence.  Dear God, what has she done?  Mulder had been trying to tell
her something with his distance all these weeks, and she had ignored the
obvious, trying to will it into nothing more than a misunderstanding of
good intentions.

But she'd been wrong.

<You idiot.>

Damage control.  She needed damage control.

<Think, damn it!  THINK!>

She couldn't think.  She said the first words that popped into her head,
trying desperately to backpedal.  "I'm sorry, Mulder," she started.  "I was
--"

"Don't..." he interrupted.  "Just...don't say anything."   The unnatural
tone of his voice jarred her into instant compliance.

Heart pounding, she drew her legs up to her chest, curling up tighter in
the corner of her couch, wishing more than anything in the world that she
could erase the last five minutes.  What had she expected?  They hadn't
discussed
anything outside the obligatory work-related topics for weeks.

<That should have told you something, Dana.>

It did tell her something.  It told her too much.

It told her that what happened between them had been nothing more than the
heat of the moment, and she'd placed too much importance on it.  Well of
*course* she'd placed too much importance on it, she reasoned.  She hadn't
had sex in
four years.  It wasn't normal!  Reasonably attractive, intelligent women
her age did not go four years without sex unless they were mentally
disturbed or lesbians in denial.  Did they?  Maybe they did.  Her left hand
came up to cover her eyes, rubbing her brow in thoughtless despair.  Who
was she kidding?  Every mentally disturbed, lesbian-in-denial in the world
had probably gotten lucky since the last time she had.  This was not
supposed to happen to her.  She was never supposed to become this serious,
career driven woman with no...outlet.

Then out of the blue, he was just...there.  Wet.  Tan.  Gorgeous.  Mulder.

Mulder brushing her hair.

Mulder kissing her neck.

He'd obviously wanted her.  God only knew how badly she'd wanted *him.*

<A marble statue would have wanted him.>

So she had done what any woman with a single functioning brain cell and a
shred of estrogen would do:  she'd attacked him.

<You did not attack him.>

She felt the warmth of humiliation color her cheeks.  It had been so long.
Too long.  Now Mulder knew exactly how long it had been and he was letting
her know in no uncertain terms that it was going to be even longer; he
wasn't interested.

Under other circumstances, she could have been okay with that, really...she
could have learned to live with it.  Except she'd just tipped her hand.

She'd taken the chance and it backfired.  Mulder didn't feel the same way.

He still hadn't spoken.  This was getting ridiculous.

"Mulder, I'm sorry--" she started.  "I shouldn't have sai--"

"No!" he interrupted.  "I'm sorry!  I'm sorry, Scully.  I was just...I
just...needed a minute to let that sink in."

She was actually sweating now.  She fingered the corner of the autopsy file
beside her on the couch and swallowed hard.  "Look, Mulder, you don't have
to say anything.  I don't want you feel like I --"

"I do feel like it."

Her heart stopped.  "You feel like what?"

"Like coming home."  There was silence on the line.  "To you," he amended.

Her heart resumed beating in the same instant that time was suspended.
Relief overwhelmed her, and she sagged down into the pillows.  He wanted
her.  She hadn't made a mistake.

<Why didn't you say something sooner?>

She knew why, but it didn't matter anymore.  "I was afraid you'd changed
your mind," she admitted in a hoarse whisper.  "You've been so quiet.
You've hardly said a word to me since...we got back.  And then I was afraid
to bring it up
to you...and the longer we didn't say anything the more I just thought..."

"I was waiting for you," he replied.  "I thought you were having regrets."

He thought she was having regrets?  They were living an O. Henry story.

"No," she told him.  "Not regrets, Mulder.  Just...uncertainty."

"About what happened?"

She could hear the twinge of hurt in his voice.  "No," she rushed to assure
him.  "Not about what happened."

"Then what?" he pressed.

<Tell him.  Cards on the table.>

"About what's going to happen.  About what I want to happen."

She heard his soft intake of breath, and it gave her the confidence to
continue.  "I've been afraid, Mulder, that once you distanced yourself from
what happened, you might decide it was a mistake.  And when you didn't say
anything about it for such a long time, well..."

His voice was hoarse.  "I was waiting for you, Scully.  All this time I've
been waiting for you.  I didn't want to push you.  I thought that once you
distanced *your*self from it that you regretted what happened."

"No," she said softly.  "I don't."

<Liar!>

"Well, that's not true," she amended.

"You do regret it?"  He sounded confused.

"No," she smiled.  "But I regret one part of it."

"Which part?" he asked.

"The part we didn't get to finish."

"Scully?" he interrupted.

"Yes?"

"What are you wearing?"

She bit her bottom lip and looked down at her blue pants suit, her blue
eyes gleaming mischievously.  "Pajamas with feet and a mud mask."

"You *know* what I like," he growled.

She laughed.  "So...when are you coming home?"

"My plane leaves late tomorrow afternoon.  I won't be back before 6:30 or
so."

"You going straight home?" she asked.

"You gonna make me a better offer?" he countered.

"I'll do more than make you an offer -- I'll make you dinner."

"Deal."

"You're easy," she laughed.

"Don't let it get around," he chuckled.

"We need to talk, Mulder."

His voice was quiet when he replied.  "We will.  It's overdue."

She leaned her head against the back of the sofa, perfectly content to be
aware of nothing in the world outside of his voice low in her ear.  "A lot
of things are overdue."  The words were sultry, and full of promise.

There was a momentary silence.  "How's your leg?" his voice ground out
finally.

The change in subject was abrupt, and she laughed at his tactic, unwilling
to let him off the hook quite yet.

<Reel him in.>

She stretched her injured leg out completely, running her hand around the
back of her thigh, feeling the bandage that still covered the wound.

"Mmmmmmm...it's much better," she told him in a low, husky voice, playing
shamelessly to the moment.  "In fact, I'll bet that I can even...oh
yeah...I can.  Guess what, Mulder," she purred.  "I've regained my
flexibility."

He groaned.  "God, Scully."

She turned and swung her legs down from the couch, feeling suddenly lighter
than she had felt in years, maybe even since before Melissa was killed.
God, it felt good.  She'd forgotten what it was like to know promise in a
coming day.  Everything had been so dark for so long.

"Get some sleep, Mulder."

"Okay.  We'll talk tomorrow."

"If you're real good," she smiled, "we may even do more than talk."

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm damn good."

"Promises, promises."

"God, I miss you.  If you can make that dinner a brunch instead, I'll catch
an earlier flight.  I've had enough distance, Scully.  I've had enough to
last a lifetime."

She agreed without hesitation.  "Brunch it is."

"You're easy," he mimicked.

"Don't let it get around."

"I'll be home early."

"I know," she replied.  "See you then."

"Goodnight."

"'Night, Mulder."

She hung up and set the phone on the coffee table, her body still humming
from the sound of his hoarse whisper.  The uncertainty had been erased, she
knew now where they stood.  That was enough for tonight.  Mulder would be
back tomorrow, and they would figure out where they were going.

If she didn't have all the answers yet, well... at least they were closing
in on the ones that mattered most.

Everything else would follow.


<end>

Feedback is always appreciated.  :)


Title:  Wild Places  
Author:  Missy Pennington  
Rating:  NC-17  
Classification:  S, MSR  
Archive:  Gossamer yes.  Others please ask.  
  
Summary:  Sequel to "Tempest" and "Distance"  
  
  
Wild Places  
by Missy Pennington  
  
"The mind that I love must have wild places."  
--Katherine Mansfield  
  
  
Fox Mulder did his best thinking on the road.  It was  
surprising, really, how  easily the mysteries of the  
universe opened up to him when he settled in to yet  
another unfamiliar room for the night.  Of course  
some rooms were more unfamiliar than others; this  
one was downright foreign, not  even in the same  
universe as the dingy, roadside accommodations that  
usually served as shelter when he and Scully were on  
a case.  This one had foil-wrapped chocolates on the  
pillows and a fully stocked minibar in the corner -- at  
least it had been fully stocked when he arrived.    
Sprawled across the rumpled king sized bed, Mulder  
drained the last few drops out of the miniscule, seven- 
dollar bottle of club soda and dropped the empty  
container onto the floor with the other remains.   
 
It wasn't pretty, and he didn't give a damn.  If ever  
there was a night he deserved to feel sorry for himself,  
this was it; and since the Bulls' game was blacked out,  
he had turned to his second choice of mundane  
entertainment: snack food.  
 
 The Snickers Bars had been the first to go.  Food of  
the gods, ritually sacrificed for the sake of the greater  
good.  When that failed to appease the Furies, he'd  
moved on to the rest of the food.  The revelations  
began in earnest when he finished the six-dollar  
container of blueberry yogurt.  Halfway through the  
eighteen-dollar jar of olives, he was putting the  
finishing touches on his fool-proof plan for peace in  
the middle east.  By the time the four-dollar, Chicklet- 
sized box of raisins was gone, he'd rationalized the  
existence of several parallel universes and managed to  
come to grips with the fact that he was probably  
nothing more than a brain in a vat reacting to  
electrical impulses from an unknown source.    
 
It was the Milk Duds that finally brought  
enlightenment.  The little flattened balls of chocolate- 
covered caramel had ultimately proved the catalyst for  
insight, provoking a moment of perfect clarity,  
condensing all the knowledge of the universe into a  
single statement that Fox Mulder understood all too  
well:  fate loved a good laugh.  Usually at his expense.  
 
Mulder looked around the luxury accommodations, so  
far removed from the dives he and Scully were used  
to.  Forget the good laugh -- fate must have been  
absolutely hysterical over this one, he thought.  The  
one time in their history that his partner would have  
enjoyed the accommodations, and she wasn't there to  
share it.  
 
He cast a discerning eye around the room, half- 
heartedly cataloguing its contents from the pair of  
plush white complimentary robes in the closet to the  
miniature glass bottles of expensive shampoo and  
lotion.    
 
Enjoyed?  No.  Scully would have *loved* this.  
 
"Damn it."  He groaned in frustration as his body  
automatically went rigid on ScullyAlert.  Years of  
dancing around the subject.  Years worth of  
unfulfilled longing, restless nights and endless  
rationalization of the pros and cons of crossing that  
taboo, non-professional line with your partner.  And  
tonight, finally, they'd planned to put the matter to  
bed.  
 
Literally.  
 
Tonight, he should have been in Scully's arms, in her  
bed.  Instead he was lying alone on a mattress built for  
two, wallowing in self-pity, sporting a persistent  
erection that he resentfully refused to indulge, cursing  
the day nine years ago when FBI cadet Damon Wiles  
had saved his worthless hide.  
 
It was Wiles' fault he was here in this god-forsaken,  
luxury hotel.  Eight years without so much as a  
Christmas card, and the son of a bitch picked this day  
to call in his marker.  Bad timing or not, there had  
been no way Mulder could refuse.  Not after  
Baltimore...  
 
The shadows overhead began to move against the  
ceiling, phantom images projected from nowhere,  
playing out a scene in silhouette form.  A silent movie  
with a cast of young unknowns that looked eerily  
familiar to the audience of one below.  Mulder had the  
scene memorized, but he watched it again as it played  
through his mind.  
 
< EVERYBODY DOWN!  DON'T MOVE! >  
 
 <You too, asshole.  Hands behind your head!>  
 
 < AGH! >  
 
 < WILES! >  
 
 <The son of a bitch cut me! He's got a knife-- >  
 
 < I'm on him -- stay here! >  
 
 < MULDER!  BEHIND YOU! >  
 
 < BAM! >  
 
 The sound effects faded, and the shadows took a  
bow.  
 
Case closed.  
 
It was a classic tale of happily ever after, Mulder  
mused.  Bad guys lost, good guys won.  But one thing  
kept the story from being perfect.  For the past nine  
years, he'd owed Damon Wiles the ultimate debt of  
gratitude, and if there was any sort of creed  by which  
Fox Mulder lived, it was the idea that indebtedness  
sucked. It was the ultimate double-edged sword, a  
constant reminder that you were living in a state of  
grace bestowed upon you by the good will of another.   
Sure, it spoke of reprieve...but it also spoke of  
repayment.  And repayment, Mulder knew, was a  
bitch.  An ill-timed one at that.  
 
He looked at the clock.  It was 9:30.  Scully should be  
home by now, he thought.  He'd barely had two  
minutes to call her this morning with the news that he  
was on his way to Chicago, before he'd had to hang  
up and rush to make his flight.  After that, it seemed  
every minute had been filled with planes, meetings,  
and debriefings.  When he found time to call again,  
she hadn't been home.    
 
He didn't think she was angry. She'd seemed to take it  
pretty well, all things considered, though her  
disappointment was obvious.  He looked toward the  
plush white Hyatt Regency robes.  She'd be even  
more disappointed if she knew where Wiles had put  
him up for the night.  No, not disappointed, he  
amended silently.  She'd be on the next flight to  
Chicago, that's what she would be.  
 
On the next flight to Chicago?  
 
Mulder sat up and grabbed for the phone, his fingers  
moving automatically over the keypad.  The grating  
sound of a busy signal blared in his ear, and he  
slammed the phone down.  "Damn it."    
 
Maybe she *had* been upset and he just hadn't picked  
up on it.    
 
No, he would have known.  The few times Scully had  
been deeply, genuinely angry at him were burned into  
his brain, filed under "never do again."  But he was  
flying blind on this one, and he didn't know what the  
hell he was going to do if he'd really screwed things  
up.  They were in totally foreign territory, and  
evidently, Scully was in the lead.  
  
Scully...   His mind took the increasingly familiar path  
that started three weeks before, in the wake of a plane  
crash.  
 
Scully dangling helplessly over the side of a mountain,  
clinging to a makeshift rope of clothing.  He and  
Scully hiking endlessly through the Appalachians.   
Going to sleep with Scully curled up against his back  
in the glow of a campfire, and waking up with Scully  
stretched out fully on top of him in the light of early  
morning.  Scully in a ranger's watchtower, flirting  
unabashedly under the effects of a pain killer.  Scully  
wet and half dressed, sitting by the river.  Scully  
seated between his legs, her head tilted back in  
pleasure as he carefully worked the tangles from her  
clean, damp hair.  Scully kissing him, her soft cries  
urging him on.  Scully underneath him, moaning his  
name...  
 
His body was aching for release, his cock throbbing  
incessantly. And every time he closed his eyes, he  
could feel the lingering softness of Dana Scully's  
beautiful mouth as if their last kiss had been this  
morning instead of three weeks ago in the Tennessee  
wilderness.  
 
Unable to relax, he tried pacing, but the room was too  
small.  He doubled back and forth twice with the pent  
up energy of a caged animal, and then the minibar  
caught his eye again.  Was there anything left?  He  
padded barefoot to the corner and opened the small  
storage unit for the fiftieth time.  
 
One can of V-8 and a small red apple.  
 
Shit.  
 
Served Wiles right, he thought, reaching for the apple;  
he hoped the bill was enormous. 
 
His mouth closed over the small red fruit.    
Small...red. Fitting, he thought.  He couldn't even  
taste it.   Whoever said food was a substitute for sex  
had obviously never made plans to explore the  
delights of Special Agent Dana Scully; there was no  
comparison.  His stomach rebelled against any further  
snacking, and he tossed the uneaten apple over his  
shoulder with disgust, ignoring the fact that it rolled  
under the dresser.    
 
Fuck it, he thought.  Fuck everything.  
 
Everything, that is, except the beautiful redhead  
waiting for you in Georgetown.  
 
There was no justice in the world.  None at all.  
 
The shrillness of the phone interrupted his private pity  
 
party and he answered it with no thought to etiquette,  
grabbing the receiver as though he wanted to choke it.   
"Mulder," he growled.  
 
"My," the female voice on the other end replied.  "A  
little on edge tonight, Mulder?"  
 
His heart skipped a beat. "Scully?"  
 
Her low, quiet voice sent another surge of desire  
through him.  "Yeah," she confirmed.  "It's me."  
 
God, that voice.  He lived for the sound of that voice.    
He stood beside the night table, thumb hooked  
casually in the pocket of his jeans, letting the tension  
ebb from his body as if a release valve had just been  
opened.  There was light in his dark world once more.   
He breathed deeply, imagining he could detect the  
slightest trace of fragrance.  
 
"How are things in Chicago?"  
 
"Noisy.  How'd you know where to find me?" he  
asked.  
 
"I'm a resourceful woman, didn't you know?"  
 
"I do know.  But you still surprise me sometimes."  
 
"Only sometimes?" He could hear the smile in her  
voice. "I'll have to work on that.  I'd hate to think the  
mystery's gone already. "By the way..." she drawled,  
"Agent Wiles asked me to pass along his heartfelt  
apology for causing you to miss out on your chance  
to have long-overdue sex tonight."   
 
Wha...?  He froze.  
 
“I'm kidding!  Mulder, I'm kidding," she laughed. "I  
told him I was your partner and I needed to get in  
touch with you.  That's all."  
 
He could hear her still chuckling on the other end of  
the line, and he made a mental note to retaliate.   
Laugh it up, Scully.  Remind me to call your mother  
for a verbal okay before we reschedule our plans.  
 
"You really *are* on edge tonight."  
 
"Aren't you?"  
 
"Yes, but I'm trying not to be."  
 
"Me too, it's just not working."  He sat down on the  
edge of the bed and scooted back against the  
headboard to get comfortable.   
 
Comfortable...that was a laugh.  Sitting alone on a  
bed that screamed for wild, abandoned sex, listening  
to the incredibly erotic voice of the woman he should  
have been having wild, abandoned sex *with*, and  
wearing jeans that were becoming more and more  
constricting by the second.  Comfortable was not an  
option.  
 
Oblivious to his predicament, Scully was continuing  
the conversation.  "How is your profile coming?"  
 
"It's not," he sighed, his mind reluctantly turning back  
toward the disturbed psyche he'd spent the day  
exploring.  "I had a preliminary done, based on the  
case files that Wiles faxed me at the airport.  I worked  
it up on the plane.  Real gut-wrenching stuff; I can see  
why they're desperate to catch this guy.  He's  
definitely escalating."  
 
"Bad case?"  
 
"Yeah.  Three victims in three weeks now.   
Kids...boys.  I'll spare you the details."  
 
"Thank you."  
 
"Anyway, when I got to the office, everything was in  
chaos...a fax from Dallas about the MO that may tie in  
two previously unrelated cases in Texas."  
 
"When will you know?"  
 
"Lab results are supposed to come FedEx in the  
morning; hopefully they won't be a match.  If they are,  
I'll have to start over from page one--timing, age,  
background, territoriality...it's all gonna change.  The  
Texas victims are both females.  Teenage.  Killed in  
`87.  Totally at odds with the suspect I've worked up  
on paper.  But I gotta admit from the coroner's report,  
it looks like the same sick bastard."  
 
"I'm sorry."  
 
He frowned.  "For what?"  
 
"For bringing it up.  Must be hard to stop thinking  
about it."  
 
"Today it's been hard to stop thinking about a lot of  
things."  You.  Naked.  Wrapped around me.  Eyes  
closed in ecstasy.  That sound you make in the back  
of your throat when you're crazy with passion.  
 
"Bad day huh?"  
 
He snapped back to reality.  "Yeah, well...I've had  
better."  
 
"Wanna talk about it?"  
 
"Well for starters, my head is throbbing."  
 
"Mmm.  Have you taken anything?"  
 
"For what?"  
 
"For the headache."  
 
"Who said I have a headache?"  
 
She was quiet for a moment, then responded dryly, "If  
you're looking for sympathy, Mulder, you're looking  
in the wrong place.  I'm the one who got stood up  
when you decided to head to Chicago, you know."  
 
There was no malice in her words, only teasing, but  
he felt the urge to apologize anyway.  "I know.  I'm  
sorry."  He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then trailed his  
hand over his jaw, rubbing across the stubble he  
hadn't bothered to shave.  "I had to.  I've known Wiles  
since we were in the Academy together.  And I owed  
him."  
 
"I know," she told him, her words softer this time.   
 
"You told me.  And it's okay.  If he saved your life  
once, then I owe him too."  
 
Her words washed over him like a cleansing rain, and  
he leaned his head against the wall, shutting his eyes  
to everything, concentrating only on the sound of her  
voice.  It was one of the countless things he loved  
about her.  Dana Scully had the most amazing voice.   
Just the sound of it over a telephone wire was enough  
to make him feel her presence keenly.  It was low and  
soft.  Steady.  Calm.  Listening to Scully -- *really*  
listening to her -- was like losing himself in the heady  
seduction of a well-sung torch song.  
 
Dancing.  Bodies pressed tightly against each other.   
The slow, easy movement of quiet passion and the  
exquisite promise of so much to follow...  
 
"Besides," she continued, "as it turns out, I have  
something important to do this weekend anyway."  
 
That got his attention.  His eyes snapped open.  "Oh?   
More important than long-overdue sex?"  
 
She chuckled.  "I didn't say *more* important.  Just  
important.  Since you're not going to be here, it's a  
moot point anyway, don't you think?"  
 
"Okay, I'll bite.  What's up?  Do I get to know?"  
 
"As a matter of fact," she said coyly, "it concerns  
you."  
 
"Oh?" he asked, genuinely intrigued by her buoyed  
enthusiasm.  
 
"Well...I had a doctor's appointment today, and my  
leg has healed faster than anyone expected."  
 
He waited for her to continue, even though he knew  
where this was leading, and a feeling of dread began  
to pool in his stomach.  
 
"I got a green light from my doctor to return to active  
duty on Monday."  
 
Back.  She was coming back already.  So much  
sooner than he expected...too soon.  She wasn't ready.   
 
Or maybe she was.   But he wasn't.  
 
"That's great," he told her, summoning up as much  
enthusiasm as he could.  He couldn't suppress the  
memory of the savage cut that had nearly cost his  
partner her leg.   The cut that had nearly cost him  
everything.  
 
"It's great, but...?" she prompted.  
 
"But what," he asked, knowing already that she had  
picked up on his hesitation.  
 
"Mulder, I can read you like a book.  Let's have it."  
 
Damn, she was good.   I'll take lying through my teeth  
for five hundred, Alex.  "No buts, Scully...I'm thrilled  
you're coming back to work.  It's weird out here  
without someone to second guess me on a regular  
basis."  
 
"But?"  
 
She didn't bite.  Did she ever?  "Okay.  But..."  He  
took a deep breath.  "It just seems awfully soon.  I  
mean...I saw that cut.  I dressed it.  You couldn't even  
walk, Scully; I carried you into your apartment when  
we got home.  Now it's only been three weeks.  Are  
the doctors really sure you're ready?"  
 
"Almost four weeks," she corrected.  "And yes,  
they're really sure.  Well...a few of them were *really*  
sure.  The others were eventually...convinced."  
 
"And you were the one who convinced them?" he  
pressed.   "I had a valid professional medical opinion  
on the matter."  
 
He didn't let her off the hook.  "And?"  
 
"And...ultimately they were unanimous in signing off  
on the paperwork."  
 
"Okay," he conceded.  "So you were like a dog with a  
bone until they were all unanimous.  I'm still not  
convinced, but okay.  What does that have to do with  
your plans for weekend?"  
 
She paused, and he could picture her searching for the  
right words, her forehead wrinkled, her bottom lip  
between her teeth.  She was searching for a way to  
tell him something he wasn't going to like.  It was a  
strategy on her part:  how to phrase it to elicit the  
least vehement response from him. Damn, she was  
frustrating.  It was like pulling information out of a  
recalcitrant child.  
 
"Well...the Bureau, isn't quite convinced I'm ready for  
field work."  
 
Score one for the Bureau, he mentally noted.  A first  
in his book.  "Well that's no big surprise there," he  
cracked.  "How many times have you and I been  
injured in the line of duty, Scully?  And how many  
times have they made coming back to work easy and  
pleasant?  Every paper-pushing asshole in personnel  
lives for red tape; that can't be a surprise to you."    
 
"No, it's not," she conceded.  "But because of the  
depth of the cut and the threat of serious muscle  
damage, they want to be certain that I didn't suffer  
any permanent physical impairment."  
 
"What does that mean?" he asked.  
 
"They're making me pass a physical and a strength test  
before personnel will change my status."  
 
"A strength test?"  That was a new one.  
  
"Flexibility.  Stamina.  Self defense.  That sort of  
thing.  God knows the Bureau isn't about to clear an  
agent for field work with the slightest doubt as to  
whether or not they're fit for duty.  `That, Agent  
Scully,'" she deadpanned, sounding for all the world  
like a mindless, bureaucratic desk jockey, "`...would  
open up the Bureau to the threat of legal action,  
should a field agent not be able to react quickly  
enough to defend himself in a hazardous situation.'"  
 
He snorted appreciatively.  "Did you have a translator  
with you?"  
 
"Bottom line: I don't pass a physical, I don't come  
back to work.  It sounded more life-threatening  when  
they said it."  
 
"So that's the important thing you have planned this  
weekend?"  
 
"Yes," she told him, sounding reluctant.  "I'll be at the  
gym all day Saturday and Sunday."  
 
His mind detoured.  Scully in work out clothes,  
glistening with perspiration, muscles moving  
sensuously in repetitive motion...  
 
His aroused body hardened even more, causing him to  
grit his teeth.  God, he was desperate.  He wanted to  
hit something.  
 
No.  That wasn't what he wanted.  He wanted Scully.   
Hitting something would have just been an added  
bonus.  This entire night was torment.  He was here,  
she was there.  Just the sound of her breath reaching  
him through the receiver was driving him toward  
orgasm.  
 
He had to make it home this weekend.  "You know,  
Scully," he said, purposely lowering his voice, "if I  
can make it home tomorrow night we could spend the  
weekend working out together."  
 
She processed the statement silently before replying,  
"I don't know, Mulder.  How long has it been since  
you were on the mat?  I may need someone with  
more...recent...experience under their belt."  
 
He closed his eyes and counted to ten.  His lower  
body continued to throb uncomfortably.  Finally, he  
reached his hand downward, desperate to ease the  
ache.  "I can tell you for a fact, Scully," he said,  
catching his breath slightly at the feel of his own  
undeniable need.  "I have plenty of experience under  
my belt."  
 
His hand rubbed lightly against his erection through  
the worn denim fabric of his jeans.  Had he ever been  
this desperate for sex?  Three weeks without just her  
*presence,* and he felt like a soldier on wartime  
deployment.  His palm pressed a little harder,  
increasing the friction, and he bit his bottom lip.  
 
He could come so easily.  His hand...Scully's low  
seductive voice.  He was dangerously close.  And if  
she knew what she was doing to him...what he was  
doing to himself, while talking to her, the implication  
of a cheap, phone-sex thrill would be unforgivable.   
He shifted his position on the mattress, trying half- 
heartedly to gain control of himself, but the movement  
only brought his crotch into tighter contact with the  
inseam of his Levi's.  Nearly breathless, he tried for  
small talk.  "So...how are things in DC?"  
 
He winced the second the words were out.  Okay,  
how lame was that?  Lying here with a monumental  
erection, talking to Dana Scully about the weather.  
 
Scully didn't laugh.  He could hear her settling in for  
comfort against the sound of creaking wood.  She  
was in bed, he realized  God, did he really need to  
know that?   She made a few indecipherable noises  
before she finally answered him, sounding strangely  
short of breath.   "Things in...DC, Mulder, are...kind  
of wet at the moment."  
 
Not what he expected.  He fumbled for the button of  
his jeans, trying to formulate a coherent reply.   
"Well...we were due for the rain, I guess."  
 
"I didn't say it was raining."   

He heard the small catch of breath that punctuated 
her statement, and it pushed him over the edge.  His 
hand moved slowly back and forth against his aching 
cock, and he could barely suppress a groan.  Fuck it.  
He was too far gone.  
  
Ten seconds of experienced maneuvering, and he was  
free, kicking jeans and boxers both to the foot of the  
bed in a pile of constricting cloth.  He leaned back,  
naked, and tucked the phone into the crook of his  
neck, his hands free to roam his body.  
  
He shouldn't do this, his conscience chided him.  The  
mere idea of Scully conversing casually, keeping him  
company long-distance, oblivious to the fact that he  
was getting off, should have kept him from going  
through with it.    
 
He was lost at the first touch of his own hand.  He  
had no willpower, he told himself; he was a man.  Not  
that the argument was valid, but he was desperate  
enough grasp the easy out.  Scully didn't have to  
know.  Surely he could do this...quietly?  
  
Inconspicuously?  
  
Hell, it wasn't like they were going to discuss it, right?  
 
He pushed aside the niggling guilt and concentrated  
more intently on the sound of her voice, trailing his  
fingers up his stomach to his chest, tracing small  
circles around one nipple, imaging it was her hand  
that carressed him.  
  
He didn't know how much time had passed before he  
realized she had stopped speaking.  
  
Oh God.  
  
She knew.  Did she know?  Why was she so quiet?  
  
He cleared his throat half heartedly, so she would  
know he was still there.  From her end of the line, he  
could hear movement, but nothing else.    
"Everything okay?" he asked finally.  
  
"Yes!" she responded quickly, almost as if she'd been  
startled.  "I'm here.  Everything's...fine. 
So... Mulder..."  
  
"...Yeah?" he answered, praying he could keep up a  
pretense of coherent conversation.  
  
Scully's voice was suspiciously shaky.  "How is it for  
you out there, going it alone?"  
 
He opened his eyes in surprise.  Was that an obvious  
sexual comment, or was he only imagining her play on  
words?  Surely Scully wouldn't...   
 
Would she?  
  
His fingers reached downward again, grazing lightly  
across his penis.  His eyes closed heavily again and he  
forced himself to respond casually.  "It's...hard.   
Harder than I expected, but I'm...managing it."     
 
God, he couldn't believe he just said that.  What if he  
was wrong?  What if he offended her with his blatent  
innuendo.  He tried to backtrack.  "Um...how is it for  
you?"  
  
"It's been...repetitive, mostly," she almost whispered.   
"I feel like I've just been going through the motions."  
 
Jesus Christ.  He was right.  She was right here with  
him.  
 
"In fact," she continued, "it's really almost mindless at  
times...things I can do in my sleep."  
 
The game was in full swing.  He grazed his thumb  
across the tip of his penis, feeling the moisture.   
"Well," he ground out, "sometimes a...slow and  
steady... pace can be...good.  It's easier to...keep  
things in hand."  
 
Her breath caught, and she didn't reply for a few  
seconds, allowing his imagination to roam freely into  
an erotic Scully playland.  "Maybe," she admitted  
finally.  "But after a while...trust me, you're...more  
than...ready for..."   She gasped.  "Fast and furious."  
  
He wanted to touch her.  He could hear the soft,  
private sounds of her passion, and he ached to trail his  
fingers across her soft, pale skin.  Down the  
smoothness of her back, across the contour of her  
bottom, over the rising curve of her hip and around  
her pelvic bone...down lower until his hand was at the  
apex of  her thighs.   
 
Mulder's hand moved lower still, seeking her core, his  
fingers slipping inside her body to find the warm, wet  
evidence of her arousal, finding his own instead.   The  
fantasy blended seamlessly.  Her hand, his own, her  
touch evoking the shivers that expelled his ragged  
breath into the phone for her to hear. He heard her  
moan softly, not knowing, not caring anymore if she  
was responding to him or to herself.  It ceased to  
matter.  She moaned again, and he repeated his  
movements, urging her on through his mounting  
passion, enticing his own body as she responded  
hundreds of miles away.  
  
He felt the image of her body shudder, felt it as his  
own orgasm overwhelmed him.  For a long moment,  
there was only the sound of labored breathing from  
the receiver, then her voice, as she sought his  
presence.    
 
"Mulder?" Her voice was hoarse.  
 
"Jesus," he murmured, settling further into the bed,  
cradling the receiver against his neck.  
 
"I know."  
 
There was no mention of the shared intimacy.  No  
denial or affirmation of things that were thought and  
done.  Just quiet acceptance of the moment, and  
reverence for the barrier that shattered in the wake of  
shared privacy.  
 
They were silent for another moment, content with  
nothing more than the awareness of each other's  
company.  He had no idea what to say.  It was one of  
the most erotic encounters he'd ever had.  And it  
wasn't nearly enough.   
 
It wasn't in the same ball park as nearly enough. Not  
in the same universe.  And it never would be until he  
could hold her. Until he could make love to her while  
they were actually in the same city.  
 
"Mulder?" Scully asked finally.  
 
"Hmm?"  The sound of her voice, still thick with  
passion, saying his name made him ache with the  
loneliness of what had just transpired.  
 
"What side of the bed are you on?"  
 
He had to look to be sure.  "Right.  You?"  
 
"Left."   Neither of them commented, and he  
contemplated the mental picture they presented.  She  
yawned quietly.  
 
"Want to sleep?" he asked.  
 
"I should," she whispered, suddenly sounding as  
lonely has he felt.  
 
"Me too."  
 
"So...I guess I'll look for you on Monday?"  
 
He nodded, as if she could see him.  "I'll be home  
sooner if I can."  
 
He felt, rather than saw, her nod in reply.  "I'll see you  
Monday."  
 
Don't hang up.  Don't hang up.  I need to say...  
 
"Scully?"  
 
Silence.  "Yeah?"  
 
"Goodnight."   You coward.  
 
"Goodnight, Mulder."  
 
He heard the soft snick of the line disconnecting, and  
then the harsh, offending drone of the dial tone,  
severing the last of his contentment.  He placed the  
receiver in the cradle and turned off the nearest lamp,  
sliding over to the clean, unwrinkled side of the bed,  
away from the light of the  remaining lamp in the  
corner.  He didn't feeling like walking over to turn it  
off.  
 
His mind raced through the countless possibilities that  
tomorrow might hold.  Maybe, if he was lucky, he  
could get back to DC by Sunday.  Maybe he could  
make it.  Maybe...if it all came together...if there were  
no surprises, his preliminary profile would stand up.   
He could hand the paperwork over to Wiles and head  
for the airport.  Home by 6:00.  In Scully's arms by  
7:00.   So simple.  
 
So simple if not for the souls of two dead girls in  
Texas, crying out for justice, and two shattered  
families he didn't know looking to him for closure.  
There was no decision to be made; he would do what  
had to be done.  He always did.  The fact that he was  
in Chicago at all was proof of that.  
 
It was never simple.  
  
He raised his arm over his eyes, shielding himself from  
the offending light of the lamp, cursing the fact that  
there was no way in hell he would be back in DC  
before Monday.  It wasn't pessimistic; it was realistic.   
The way his luck had been running lately, the whole  
idea of something going right at this point was utterly  
laughable.  
 
Yet luckily, at that moment, Fox Mulder -- profiler,  
psychologist, and part-time philosopher -- forgot one  
very important fact that had the ability to tilt his world  
on its axis:  fate loved a good laugh.  
 
Usually at his expense.  
 
 <end>   
  
  
Author's note:  Yes, I know I said this would be the  
final gratification story to wrap up "Tempest" and  
"Distance."  What can I tell you...I got sidetracked by  
the idea of a fourth story.  The good news is that the  
fourth story is WELL underway and there is a 100%  
chance that Mulder and Scully will at LAST be  
successful in their efforts to get it together.  Any  
encouragement sent to Joseechung@aol.com will  
definitely help speed things along.   Thanks for  
reading.  :)

Title:  Escape Me Never
Author:  Missy Pennington
Rating:  NC-17
Summary:  Withheld at author's request
Archive:  Gossamer yes, others please ask 
Keywords:  S, MSR
Spoilers:  None

Disclaimer:  Mulder, Scully and the X-Files do not 
belong to me.  They are the property of Chris Carter, 
FOX, and 1013, and are used without permission.  I 
mean no infringement.

(The working title of this story was "Pressure Points."  
So for those who wrote to inquire about my progress, 
rest assured, this IS the same story.)

Note:  "Escape Me Never" is the conclusion of a story 
that started in "Tempest" and continued in "Distance" 
and "Wild Places."  Like those stories, this one can 
stand on its own, but it works better if you read the 
others first.  They can be found on my website 
(http://members.aol.com/mjpmissy/missy.html)



Escape Me Never
by Missy Pennington

"Escape me?  Never, Beloved!
While I am I, and you are you,
So long as the world contains us both."
                      -- Robert Browning


8:47 p.m.
Georgetown
Remo's Gym (after hours)

The victim was unaware.

She stood casually in the center of the dimly lit room, 
the fingers of her left hand lightly massaging her 
forehead as if to relieve the tension of a stressful day 
of work.  She was small and looked even smaller in 
casual clothing.  The grey sweatshirt she had donned 
hung loosely from her shoulders, obscuring the curves 
of her body from his eyes, but not from his memory.  
He knew what enticements were underneath.  How 
many hours had he spent studying her while she was 
blissfully unaware of his scrutiny?  How many days?  
He couldn't count them all.  

She had never caught him, and she wouldn't this time; 
he was always careful when he watched her.  He had 
to be.

Centimeter by centimeter, he pushed the door into 
place behind him, controlling its movement with little 
more than his own extreme patience, aware that even 
the tiniest squeak of a hinge could give him away.  
The sound of a latch falling into place, a lock 
turning...those were careless mistakes.  Those were 
mistakes made by amateurs.

He was a professional.  

He locked the door without a sound, and began his 
silent move to the back of the room, his eyes never 
leaving the auburn-haired beauty who stood less than 
twenty feet from him.  He kept to the wall, his shadow 
blending seamlessly with the myriad of shapes 
already indistinguishable on the light wood floor.  The 
dim lighting helped; she couldn't have provided him 
with a better setting.

Stealthy movements went undetected as he 
approached her from behind, his gaze sweeping over 
her, lingering on the curve of her neck.  With her short 
red hair swept up, pinned haphazardly, she afforded 
him an unencumbered view of her slender throat. So 
thin, so delicate, presented like an offering.  Daring 
him almost to reach his fingers toward her. 

But he didn't; she was stronger than she looked.  

Powerful.

Determined.  

He admired that about her.  

The hardwood beneath him gave way to slight 
resistance, and the floorboard groaned loudly, its 
sound magnified by the emptiness of the room and the 
utter stillness that preceded it.  He froze, heart 
pounding.

Stupid mistake.

Careless.

Now she would look.  She would turn to scan the 
darkness, her body tense and alert.  He would lose 
the element of surprise he'd worked so hard to 
maintain.  His carefully made plans would crumble 
because of an amateurish blunder.

But maybe...

Maybe if he was still...  Maybe if he could be utterly 
silent a while longer among the shadows....

The Target turned toward him, her eyes searching the 
phantom jungle of darkness that held him safely 
within.  She was wary; he could see it plainly in her 
eyes and in the thoughtful furrow of her brow as she 
scanned the room, nervous energy radiating from her 
every movement.  But she didn't see him, standing 
almost close enough to touch.  She looked through 
the blackness without recognition, oblivious to the 
hammering of his blood through his veins.  There was 
no fear on her face.  Only caution.

She stood facing him for a long moment, effectively 
hindering his progress to draw closer, but he didn't 
mind.  He was a patient man, and he'd waited a long 
time for this.  He merely stared at her unabashedly, 
relishing the fact that he was free to scrutinize her 
from head to toe without fear of being caught.  When 
she first turned around, he'd been surprised by the 
sight of her, the business suit she usually wore 
replaced now by cotton fleece, her face scrubbed 
clean of any trace of makeup.  She looked young -- 
younger than he had realized.  He didn't question the 
small thrill this gave him, nor did he allow himself to 
be distracted from his task.  Looks were deceiving, 
and this small beauty was as worthy an adversary as 
he'd ever encountered.

She turned her back on him suddenly, and he 
frowned, watching her shrug off the nervousness as 
she returned to her quiet vigil of clock-watching.  Her 
guard was down once more; he hadn't expected such 
an easy battle.

The Target stretched her arms up high overhead, 
pulling the tension out of knotted muscles, a small 
quick sigh the only sound that marked her return to 
vulnerability.  Once again, she was totally self-
absorbed, unaware of the opportunity she presented.

She lowered her gaze to look at her watch.  

Unguarded, he thought scornfully.  Unsuspecting.  It 
was too easy.  There would be no challenge after all.  
He'd expected more.

His eyes narrowed with disdain as her hips swung 
almost imperceptibly back and forth, playing out a 
rhythm only she could hear.  Small taunting sounds of 
her contentment reached him, raising the hair on the 
back of his neck. A swallow, light humming, level 
breathing.  Oh, to feel that breath against his skin as 
he covered her mouth...

She shifted her weight onto her right hip, and he knew 
the moment had come.  Her nonchalance would be 
her undoing. With her balance off-center, she could 
put up no defense against a swift, blind attack.  

She should know better, he thought resentfully.  All 
women should know better.  Such carelessness was 
their downfall.  They invited attack.  

The Target straightened, looking once more at her left 
wrist before she began to walk away, putting more 
distance between them.  There was no more time to 
reflect on the moment; he had to act or lose his 
opportunity.  

Adrenaline pumping, he approached with silent speed.  
A few quick strides, and the distance between them 
disappeared.  His movements were calculated, each 
one measured and effective as he calmly, steadily 
reached around her neck.  His left forearm closed 
around her windpipe, pulling her back swiftly against 
his chest as his right arm circled around her abdomen, 
pinning her arms to her sides, preventing any further 
movement.  There was a soft gasp of surprise from 
her, but no scream.

She didn't struggle.

He pushed aside his disappointment.  He'd expected 
more.  He'd looked forward to more.

The woman in his grasp was still as a stone.  He held 
her at his mercy, incapable of retaliation, though he 
could feel the futile tension in her muscles.  Her body 
was rigid against his own, her frustration tangible.  It 
almost made him feel sorry for her, knowing the 
measure of pride she took in her self-reliance.  Almost 
made him regret his actions, made him sorry he was 
so rough with her.  

Perhaps he could have been more gentle...

The second-guessing stopped the instant he felt the 
heel of her right foot make contact with his shin.  The 
kick was swift and precise, delivered without warning, 
and she followed it instantly with another kick in the 
same spot.  Her  accuracy was deadly.  Deadly and 
excruciating.

Startled, he reacted to the pain by loosening his grip 
on her body, and she turned her full fury on him.  Her 
arms pulled free from his grasp and rose quickly in 
defense, coming up instinctively between her chest 
and his arm, pushing violently against his wrist.  
Unable to maintain his hold on her, he took an 
unconscious step backward, and she doubled over, 
using the space between them to gain a foothold.  Her 
hands tightened on his forearm and she pulled against 
his weight, leveraging his body to roll over her back 
and onto the floor.

Within seconds, she had him helpless.

He stared up at her, wide-eyed.  

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

Clear blue eyes met his own, and he was surprised by 
what he saw in them; Special Agent Dana Scully 
looked bored beyond words.

And more than a little amused.

She swung her leg over his body and straddled his 
abdomen, using her weight to pin him as she raised 
an eyebrow in reprimand.  "Care to explain yourself, 
Agent Mulder?"

"Um...I'm home?"

"So I see."

"I thought I'd surprise you," he told her, starting to rise.  

She pushed him back down with surprising ease.  
"Surprise me?  Mulder, a deaf man in Asia could have 
heard that approach -- and probably did," she 
chastised lightly.

Unwilling to admit his defeat or explain it, he gave a 
sheepish smile instead.  "Two out of three?"

"Huh-uh."  She clutched a handful of his t-shirt and 
bent forward toward his face, her knuckles pressing 
into his stomach, forcing the breath from him.  "I want 
to know what that little maneuver was all about."

"What?  I don't know what you--"

She pressed harder.

"Ooof!"

She eased up.  "Mulder...what are you doing here?"

"Well obviously, I came to work out with you."  His 
gaze wandered down to her hands, which still held 
two fistfulls of his shirt.  "Although at this point I'm 
seriously reconsidering my options."

She released his shirt but made no move to rise.  "You 
couldn't have called?"

He stared up at her.  "I guess the big `running-
through-the-field-with-outstretched-arms' reunion thing 
I had planned is out of the question?"

Her expression was all the confirmation he needed.

"I got in a couple hours ago," he told her.  "I knew you 
were going to be here working out and I thought I'd 
surprise you."

"What about your case?"

"Finally got a break."  He shrugged, reluctant to detail 
the gruesome murder cases he'd spent the past two 
days memorizing. His head rolled from side to side as 
he took in the lateral view of the empty gym.  "The lab 
results on the trace evidence from Texas were 
sufficient to establish the murders weren't related.  I 
gave Wiles my paperwork and hopped the 4:15 
home."

Her expression softened, and she graced him with a 
small hint of a smile, leaning down close to tell him, "It 
isn't that I'm not glad to see you, Mulder...I am.  But I 
have to keep this appointment.  I promise," she told 
him conspiratorially, "after this workout, I'm all yours."

You don't know the half of it, he thought, mesmerized 
by the feeling of her slight weight on top of him.  
You're mine now, Scully.  Signed, sealed, delivered.  

Of course he didn't say it.  But the possessive feeling 
that washed over him at her casual comment 
surprised him with its intensity.  All she had to do was 
look at him like that and he was lost.  Aware that his 
mouth was suddenly dry, he swallowed hard, his 
tongue darting out to moisten parched lips.  "So," he 
questioned at last, "exactly how glad...are you, to see 
me?"

His hands came up to sit lightly on her hips, and for a 
moment, she looked tempted.  The battle being waged 
silently within her was almost comical to see played 
out in her deep blue eyes, and Mulder had an 
unencumbered view.  He watched with vested interest, 
able to pinpoint the exact moment that the little 
pantsuit-clad ScullyAngel sitting five inches above her 
left shoulder finally kicked the shit out of the 
delectable little lingerie-clad ScullyDevil he'd been 
rooting for.

"I'm very...very glad to see you," she told him, raising 
his hopes momentarily before squashing them like a 
twinkie under the foot of a Sumo wrestler.  "But it's 
going to have to wait, Mulder, much as I hate it.  I 
can't play yet."  Her hands began smoothing out the 
wrinkles she had inflicted upon his t-shirt. With 
obvious reluctance, she rose to her knees, wincing 
visibly.

"What?" he asked, instantly concerned.  "Is it your 
leg?  Did I hurt it when I grabbed you?"

"Relax," she commanded lightly.  "You didn't hurt me, 
Mulder." Her breath caught as she probed gingerly 
around the back of her left thigh, massaging the area 
around her healing wound.  "It's fine.  When I stress 
the muscle in any way for longer than a couple 
minutes, it hurts when I move.  That's why I need this 
work out so much."   She made another move to get to 
her feet.  "I need to walk this off before my trainer 
shows up.  He was supposed to be here five minutes 
ago."

"Um...he's not coming, Scully."

She looked confused.  "What?"

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

He paused, reluctant to come clean.  "I kind of...sent 
him home."  He looked all around the gym, determined 
not to meet her pointed gaze.

She sat back down on his stomach, making no effort 
to do so gently. "Excuse me?"

The light fixtures in this place were really dirty, he 
noted.  How long had it been since anyone with an 
extension ladder did any kind of maintenance up 
there?  Chipped paint was one thing, but the fixtures 
looked shot to hell.  No telling about the amount of 
shoddy duct work...

"Mulder..."   Her voice held a warning he couldn't 
ignore.  "You sent...?"

He sighed.  "He was on his way in when I got here.  
I...I...might have told him..."

She didn't wait to hear what he'd told him.  Her anger 
was immediate.  "You sent him away?  You took it 
upon yourself to send him away?  I can't believe you, 
Mulder!  You had no right!  I needed this -- it's 
important!  I told you that on the phone.  If I want to be 
reinstated for active duty I have to be positive I can 
defend myself in the field!  I need this work out!"

"So work out with me," he protested.  "That's why I 
came!"

Her mouth dropped open in wordless accusation, her 
forehead wrinkled in amazement.  She looked at him 
as if he'd grown another head.  "You're serious."

It was his turn to look hurt.  "Why not?"

"Because you can't do it," she told him flatly.

"I can't d...WHAT?"

She gestured around them, indicating their current 
position on the mat.  "Well this should be a big clue, 
Mulder.  I mean, what was this?"  She held her palms 
up in an expression of puzzlement.  "You try to take 
me from behind and I've got you pinned in twenty 
seconds?"

He tried to formulate an answer, but his mind was still 
stuck on the words "take me from behind."  The 
prospect was infinitely more pleasing than anything 
they were discussing here for the fifth time already.  
Unfortunately, Scully didn't see it that way.

She toyed with the fabric of his t-shirt for a minute, 
then pressed her hands to his chest, stilling any 
thought he had to try and rise again. "I know you 
meant well, Mulder," she told him, her voice assuming 
a softer, almost soothing tone.  "But I'm pretty sure 
you lack the killer instinct where I'm concerned.  I 
mean...look at us!"

He didn't need to. He was painfully aware of their 
position.

"You hesitated.  I felt it the minute you touched me.  
You were going to blindside me, and at the last 
minute, you held back."  She leveled him with a stare.  
"And don't deny it because I can always tell when 
you're lying."

"Scully, I --"

"Held back," she interjected.  "Why?"

"--never lie to you," he finished, taking some 
satisfaction from her guilty look.  

She frowned at him through a curtain of loose red hair, 
pulled free during their struggle.  "Okay," she 
acquiesced.  "Then you explain it to me, Mulder, 
because I'm sure you don't want it known all over the 
FBI that I can pin your ass in less than thirty seconds.  
I mean, I'm good, but even I know I'm not that good."

He looked around the empty gym in mock relief.   "I 
think my reputation is safe. Can I get up now?" he 
asked politely.  His back was beginning to ache.

He made a move to rise from the worn red vinyl, but 
Scully stopped him, her hands pushing his shoulders 
back to the mat.  "No," she said.  

"This isn't exactly the welcome I had in mind, Scully," 
he muttered.  "Well...maybe part of it.."

"If you wanted warm and fuzzy, you could have 
surprised me at my apartment later tonight.  You 
dressed to work out, you came all the way down here 
to do it, and went to the trouble of sending my trainer -
- whose time I paid for, by the way -- home.  So I want 
to know why you felt it necessary to pull back at the 
last minute.  I don't need you to protect me, Mulder.  If 
you're going to work out with me, I need you to 
challenge me.  So tell me now if you can't do that, and 
I'll reschedule my appointment."

Her hands still gripped the muscles of his shoulders, 
her fingers lightly kneading the flesh underneath his 
t-shirt.  He wondered if she knew she was doing it.  
She did so many sensual things without realizing it.  
Like that little catch in her voice on the phone the 
other night.  She might have thought she sounded 
completely casual, but Mulder knew beyond a doubt 
that she'd been imagining his hands roving her body 
instead of her own.

God, he wanted her.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well what," he asked, shaking himself back into the 
conversation.

She growled in frustration and slapped at his chest.  
"You're not even listening!  This is exactly what I'm 
talking about!"  Her eyes flashed in anger.  "You know, 
this isn't just about me, Mulder -- it's about you too!  
I'm not going to gain anything if you go easy on me.  
Do you really want someone covering your back who 
can only protect you from bad guys who are 5'2" and 
104 pounds?"

"No!  Of course not.  It's just that..."  He picked up her 
left hand and pressed her palm against his own right 
hand, spreading their fingers out in a mirror image of 
one another, holding them up for her to see.  God, she 
was small.  The tips of her fingers stopped more than 
an inch below his own, her light pink nails a startling 
contrast to the dark tones of his skin in the dim room.

The gesture was surprisingly soft, somehow more 
gentle than he'd intended it to be.  She didn't say 
anything; she simply looked at him with an intensity he 
couldn't quite identify but responded to instantly.

He ached to kiss her.  He had to kiss her...

"I don't want to hurt you, Scully," he said honestly. "I 
know this is important to you and I honestly had the 
best of intentions when I came here.  I thought I could 
help you work out and we'd get to spend more time 
together, but..."  He diverted his eyes from hers.  
"...I'm twice your size, and..." His voice trailed off 
leaving the implication heavy between them.

Her brow furrowed in frustration.  "Mulder, you know 
that has noth--"

"I couldn't do it," he told her blankly.  "When it came 
time to go in for the kill, I just couldn't do it.  I've seen 
you hurt before, Scully.  Badly."

His eyes found hers again and the irritation on her 
face ebbed away, softened at the sincerity of his 
words. 

"I just...I don't ever want to be responsible for that."

Without a word, she moved her fingers to the left, 
bending them over his hand, allowing his own fingers 
to thread through hers instinctively.  Hands loosely 
clasped, she bent down, lowering herself until they 
were chest to chest, then she leaned toward his ear in 
a gesture of confidence.  "First of all..."

He closed his eyes, listening intently to the soothing 
sound of her quiet words.  He was totally unprepared 
for the sudden, excruciating pain of his index finger 
being twisted back toward his wrist with amazing 
strength.

"...you're assuming that just because you're bigger 
than I am, you would win."

"OW!" he gasped, trying to pull his hand away.  He 
had been willing to concede the bruise on his shin to a 
well-executed defense tactic, but this wasn't self-
defense.  This was an offensive strike, and the fact 
that she wouldn't release him was his first clue that 
the mood had shifted drastically.  

Dana Scully was not playing games.

That startling fact roused the competitor within him, 
and proved the catalyst for something that, until that 
moment, Fox Mulder had never imagined he would 
ever feel toward his partner:  the need for retaliation.

"You just assume that because you're the big strong 
man, you would automatically have the advantage 
over poor...small...weak...me."   She accentuated her 
words by twisting his wrist, putting more pressure 
against his aching finger, even as her lower body 
ground into his with more pleasant repercussions.

Pain was at war with arousal, and he didn't know 
which was more intense.  All he knew with certainty 
was that the woman who sat astride him was soooooo 
going to regret this course of action.  He didn't know 
how.  Yet.  But she would...and soon.

Oblivious to the emotional tilt-a-whirl her partner was 
experiencing, Scully egged him on relentlessly.  She 
released his finger, freeing her own hands and 
pressing them flat against the floor on each side of his 
head.  "Haven't you heard, Mulder?" she whispered, 
settling her lower body tight against his, stilling any 
further movement from both of them. "Rule number 
one:  size doesn't matter."

Her lips were no more than a heartbeat away from his 
neck.

His gaze locked with hers and he willed himself to stay 
in control.  He had no idea where she was about to 
take this conversation, but he knew beyond a doubt 
that he was finished with his role as subordinate.   

"That a fact?"  He could hear the tension in his own 
voice as he struggled to ignore the warmth of her body 
and the feeling of her legs straddling him, her thighs 
gently squeezing his ribs.

"Uh huh," she breathed, the sound warm on his cheek.  
"Technique is everything."

He went perfectly still and just stared at her.  God, she 
was good at this.  It was the closest thing to outright 
innuendo she'd ever thrown at him, and for a moment 
he was absolutely stunned into acquiescence.  He 
couldn't believe she'd gotten the better of him.  
Double entendre was his game.  He invented it.  Now 
when he needed that smug, cynical wit, he was at the 
mercy of an ass-kicking pixie.

What's wrong with this picture, he wondered, trying to 
rally his waning competitive spirit.  He was supposed 
to be in the driver's seat when it came to...well, when 
it came to whatever the hell this was.  She was right 
about one thing:  he'd been too easy on her.  He'd 
underestimated her again, and that was a situation he 
was about to rectify.

Technique was everything?  He had technique.  He 
had it to spare.

"You're right, Scully," he said pointedly.

She blinked in surprise, unprepared for his admission.  
"I am?"

"You are.  I went easy on you, and that was wrong.  
This is important; it's your career.  You needed to 
practice, and I let you down."   He held her gaze, even 
as he extended his hand.  "I can do better.  C'mon, 
help me up."

She looked skeptical.

"Honest," he told her, his hand still reaching out to 
her.  "Give me one more chance.   I promise this time 
I'll kick your ass."

The corners of her mouth twitched, and she took his 
hand, rising at last and moving to pull him up behind 
her.  "Okay, one more chance, Mulder.  That's it.  And 
this time you have to promise me that you--"

His hands were around her hips before she finished 
the sentence.  One quick tug, and she came falling 
toward him.  He rolled out of the way as her butt hit 
the mat and she scrambled to get to her knees.  She 
wasn't fast enough.

He moved with the grace and speed of a panther, 
pouncing while she was robbed of her balance.  In 
one quick move, he captured both of her wrists, and 
used his leg to push her off her knees.  Once she was 
on the mat, he swung one long leg across her 
stomach, and straddled her as she had him.

Then he went a step further.

He raised her arms up toward her head, pinning them 
to the mat with his hands against her wrists.  
Stretched out to hold her in this position, he shadowed 
her body with his own, his face hovering just above 
hers.

He leaned down to her ear, purposely recalling her 
actions earlier.  "Rule number two," he rasped.  "Never 
let your guard down."

She was breathing hard from exertion, her indignant 
reply coming between labored gasps.  "I 
can't...believe...you just...did that."

"Believe it," he panted.

"I wasn't...ready."

Her chest was rising and falling in rapid rhythm.  With 
every breath, he felt the swell of her breasts beneath 
her sweatshirt, pressing against him.  This time, he 
couldn't prevent his body's reaction to the intimate 
contact with her, and he felt his erection press hard 
against her belly.  Her eyes widened, but she said 
nothing.

"You said not to go easy on you and I didn't.  You 
think an attacker is going to wait for you to be 'in the 
moment' before he grabs you?  Expect the 
unexpected, Scully.  You should know that."

"Oh believe me, Mulder," she told him pointedly.  "I'm 
very much...'in the moment.'" She tilted her head to 
look down at her abdomen where their bodies were 
pressed together.  "Obviously...I'm not as 'in the 
moment' as you are," she said, raising an eyebrow, 
"but you made your point."

He stared at her.  "I didn't make it alone."

She didn't shrink from his words or his gaze.  "This 
isn't about sex -- and I get the idea, Mulder.  You can 
let me up now."

"Let you up?  LET...you up?  Why Scully, I'm 
surprised at you.  That would be going easy on you.  
That wouldn't be right.  What would you gain from 
that?"

Now her irritation was beginning to show through.  
She strained against his grip on her wrists.  "You're 
not being funny, Mulder."

He bent closer, his voice a mere whisper though it 
seemed he was screaming every word.  "Let me clue 
you in about something, Scully.  When a man's got a 
beautiful woman at his mercy?  When he's lying on 
top of her and feeling every inch of her body 
underneath him?  It's a safe bet he's not trying to be 
funny."

She moved her head to the left, gaining just enough 
distance from his face to fix a steady gaze upon him.  
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to get all 
embarrassed and blush for you?"

"Mmmm...please do." The words were a dare.

"My pleasure. Just as soon as you say or do 
something to shock me."

"I asked you first," he whispered.

"Hmmmm...," she mused.  "Something to shock 
you...something to shock you.  Would this classify as 
challenge or opportunity?"  Her eyes lit up suddenly 
with a sparkle of mischief he'd rarely seen, making 
him instantly wary.  "Okay, Mulder.  This is me, 
shocking you."

It happened before he could blink, a flash of 
movement as she lifted her head, closing the few 
inches between them.  He felt the moist warmth of her 
breath as her parted lips drew close, then her tongue 
darted out and flicked the tip of his nose.

He reared back in surprise, but he didn't let go of her 
wrists.  Not until he felt her lips make contact with this 
throat.  She moaned once, softly. Or was that him?  
Then her tongue began to trace a path from his 
adam's apple across his jaw and up his cheek.  The 
sensation was incredible.  Every neuron in his body 
went ballistic.  He released his grip on her, his hands 
moving flat against the mat to support his own weight.  
"Jesus, Scully!  What --"

Her mouth silenced his words, slanting over his lips 
with no trace of gentleness.  Her hands cupped the 
sides of his face, pulling him further into the kiss.  He 
didn't need to be asked twice.  After years of fighting 
the good fight, weeks of reliving the memory of their 
close encounter on the riverbank, there was no 
question about what was happening.  It was long 
overdue.  He knew it.  She knew it.  The entire 
goddamned FBI knew it.  So if half a decade of sexual 
tension was meant to culminate on a red vinyl mat in 
the shadows of a dimly lit gym, he could live with that.

Reaching behind her back, he scooped her up from 
the mat, grasping her head with his hand, holding her 
close to him as he ravaged the soft interior of her 
mouth with his tongue, his entire being committed to 
memorizing every tantalizing moment of this 
encounter.  So good, so sweet...so much better than 
his dreams...

He couldn't breathe.

He could feel her mouth against his, he could feel her 
fingers against his neck, but for the life of him, he 
couldn't breathe.  

"Gotcha," she whispered against his mouth.

His arm dropped limply to his side, and he watched 
with a vague air of detachment as Scully pulled away 
from him and shifted her weight to push him flat on the 
mat, her hands never leaving his neck.  He had to give 
her credit; the woman knew her pressure points.

Her fingers released the nerve on his neck, and he 
gulped for air as she rolled him unceremoniously onto 
his stomach, bending his left leg up, and pinning it to 
his back with the weight of her body against his shin.  
She then grabbed his left arm, pulling it hard and high 
against his back.

"This is fun, Mulder," she panted, sinking down 
against the damp cotton shirt that clung to his back.

"Speak for yourself," Mulder growled, his cheek 
pressed firmly against the mat.  "That was cruel, 
Scully."

She clucked her tongue in mock disapproval.  "It 
wasn't cruel."

"No?  What would you call it?"

She was quiet for a moment before replying.  "I guess 
I'd have to call it a distraction."

"Whatever," he mumbled.  Not about sex?  Bullshit.  
This was entirely about sex; if it hadn't been before, it 
certainly was now.

She eased up her hold on his leg, lowering herself just 
enough look into his eyes.  "Rule number three:  the 
end justifies the means."

"What the hell does that mean?"  The woman looked 
entirely too pleased with herself.   All right, Scully, he 
thought.  You wanna play dirty?   I can play dirty.

Ever so slowly, he began inching his right arm 
underneath his body toward the left.  If she thought 
she could kiss him thoroughly enough to make his 
fantasies jealous and then just walk away, she was 
wrong. 

Scully was oblivious to his movements.  Grinning like 
a Cheshire cat, she blew lightly in his ear, making him 
shiver.  "It means there are no rules in battle -- you 
have to use whatever you can."

"I thought you said this wasn't about sex," he accused 
her pointedly.

"It's not."  Her breathing was labored.  "But sex can be 
a very effective weapon, Mulder. Sometimes you have 
to use it."

Sex was a weapon, huh?  Fine.  Whatever.  At least 
he was suitably armed for that fight.

Mulder watched his partner smile, obviously still 
confident that she held the upper hand.  "So what 
you're saying in effect, is that there are no rules here?  
None at all?"  he repeated, flexing his fingers 
underneath him, feeling his fingertips brush against 
the softness of Scully's grey cotton fleece.  

Be careful how you answer, Lady.

She bent down even closer to his cheek, her lips 
barely grazing his skin before she pulled back slightly, 
emphasizing the sexual tease.  "None," she said 
emphatically.

"Well then," he said evenly, grabbing a handful of her 
sweatshirt in his right hand.  "Lucky for me I'm a fast 
learner."

Her cry of surprise signaled the opening he needed.  
He pushed hard, rolling to his back, making her 
relinquish her loose grip on both his arm and leg.  For 
one brief moment, they were on equal footing; then he 
stood up and pulled her up after him, his hand still 
clutching a handful of material near the neck of her 
sweatshirt.

"My my, how the tables have turned," he taunted.

She looked like a cornered animal, her blue eyes 
flashing a combination of wariness and excitement as 
she struggled against his hold.  She made a motion to 
retreat, trying to pull away from him, but his grasp was 
too strong.  There was no way she could get away.  
Not without...

She raised her arms high overhead, simultaneously 
crouching low in a deep knee bend, allowing her arms 
and head to slip easily from the oversized garment.  
Surprised to find himself suddenly holding an empty 
sweatshirt, Mulder took a step back.

He smiled at her then, wagging the sweatshirt back 
and forth as it dangled from his index finger.  "Lose 
something?"

She brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead.  
"It wasn't a loss," she shot back, holding her ground 
as he took a step toward her.  She put her hands on 
her hips, facing him with confidence.  "It was... 
strategy."

"You say so."

"I do."  She stood three feet away in sweat pants and 
a black sports bra.  Her hair was in wild disarray.  She 
was breathing heavily, the sheen of perspiration 
making her skin glisten under the soft light.

If he lived a thousand lifetimes with her, he would 
never cease to be amazed by her beauty.

"Can I have that back, please?" she asked, holding 
out her hand for the shirt.

No way in hell.  

"Sure you can," he told her.  "But you're gonna have to 
come get it."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me.  If you want it, come get it."  He 
wagged the shirt just out of her reach, making her 
frown.

She studied the situation for a moment, then shook 
her head.  "And put myself in a position for you to grab 
me?  I don't think so."  She crossed her arms.  "Nice 
try."

"Fine.  Your call."  He threw the shirt aside, but Scully 
didn't look to see where it landed.  She kept her gaze 
upon Mulder, her eyes sparkling with energy.  Slowly, 
they began to circle, each looking for an opening and 
each determined not to provide one.

He moved to the right.

She followed.

He turned back to the left.

She mirrored his every move.

"This could go on all night," he told her.

"Promises, promises."

There was that mischievous gleam again. The 
suggestive comment brought him up short.  He 
stopped circling and drew up to face her.  "How could 
you do that?"

She stopped moving when he did, looking genuinely 
perplexed by his serious tone.  "Do what?"

"Lecture me about making this all about professional 
reinstatement and then kiss me as nothing more than 
a means to an end.  Didn't that affect you at all?  Even 
after..."   After four years of waiting for this weekend 
that's slipping through our fingers, he added silently.  
He instantly regretted the words.  They sounded hurt, 
and that was a vulnerability he wasn't ready to hand 
over to the pint-sized American Gladiator who stood 
facing him.

She started to move toward him, reaching out her 
hand, then obviously thought better of it.  "Well..." she 
started.  "I had to do something, and I didn't have a 
whole lot of options."  She licked her lips nervously.  
"It had to be drastic -- as you pointed out, Mulder, 
you're bigger than I am."

The teasing came to a halt as he looked at her with 
utter seriousness.  "Soooo...finding yourself 
underneath me was such an awful prospect that you 
had to do something as drastic as kissing me to 
escape?"

She winced at the ugly description.

"Gee, Scully.  I'll bet you say that to all the guys."

She shook her head, visibly frustrated.  "That's not 
what I said.  You're twisting my words."   She began to 
circle again, slowly, to the left.  "What I said, Mulder, 
was that kissing you was a distraction.  You just 
assumed you were the only one who was distracted."

For a moment, his heart skipped a beat, then he 
started to dissect the dozens of possible meanings for 
that statement.  Damn it.  Why did they always have to 
do this?  Why did they have to leave so much up to 
interpretation?  Why couldn't either one of them 
commit to a direct statement, make a declaration?  
Why did it have to be so damn hard?

Because this is who we are, he told himself, 
answering his own question.  This is what we do.  This 
is our game, and we're good at it.  The thought was an 
epiphany.  They were playing their own game.  It had 
always been their game.  Their rules that no one else 
understood.  Why couldn't he introduce some new 
ones?  Like truth.

He could do truth, couldn't he?

Time to find out, he told himself.  His eyes held hers in 
utter sincerity.  "Oh I  was distracted, all right," he 
admitted, winning a small smile from her.  

"So...are we going to stand here all night," she asked, 
beginning to circle slowly to the left.

He smiled back at her, resuming his own movement.  
"Well I suppose we could," he told her.  "I mean, I've 
got a helluva view.  If my opinion counts for anything, 
you really should wear this outfit more often."

She shrugged good-naturedly under his scrutiny.  
"You're not going to embarrass me, Mulder.  You 
should know by now I don't play coy.  Besides, if you 
want something badly enough, immodesty's a small 
price to pay.  I want to come back to work."

New rule.  

He stopped circling again.  "Really?  Now there's a 
philosophy I'm willing to test."  He reached behind his 
head and grabbed the back of his t-shirt, pulling it off 
in a single movement and throwing it to the floor, 
where it joined Scully's discarded sweatshirt in a pile 
of damp wrinkles.  Standing before her, bare-chested, 
his sweatpants slung low around his hips, he gave her 
his most devastating smile--the one he kept in reserve 
for crucial situations.  "How long do I have to wait?" he 
asked pointedly.

Dazed blue eyes blinked, uncomprehending.  Her 
mouth opened and closed twice without sound, her 
perfect lips forming a small O shape as she stared at 
him.

"Scully?" 

She blinked hard.  "What, Mulder?"

"I said how long do I have to wait?"

She blinked again, harder this time, her forehead 
wrinkled in confusion.  "Wait for what?"

"To get what I want."  He eased forward, noting with 
smug satisfaction that she didn't move away.  Instead, 
she seemed rooted to the floor, staring a hole right 
through him.  "You said if I was willing to sacrifice 
modesty, I would get what I want.  Is this not enough?"  
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his 
sweatpants, and slid them half an inch lower."

Her eyes widened, taking in every inch of his muscled 
stomach.  

"Still not enough?"  The pants slid even lower, barely 
clinging now to his narrow hips.  "I must be doing 
something wrong here, Scully.  Exactly how much do I 
have to sacrifice?"

She stood back, taking in his one man strip show with 
intense focus.  "Well that depends," she said, her 
analytical words tempered by the low, throaty tone of 
her voice. "What exactly do you want?"

"The same thing you do."

Only her right eyebrow reacted.  "You want a twenty 
one inch waist and long legs?"

"Not a chance," he murmured, walking slowly toward 
her.  "And neither do you.  Long legs are highly 
overrated."

"Well then what is it you think you and I both want?"  
Her voice was whisper soft.

"I think we want to distract each other again."  At last 
he was toe to toe with her, nowhere for either of them 
to go.  "I think we both want to continue this full body 
exercise, without the pretext of wrestling."  He lowered 
his head to hers and her chin lifted instinctively, 
allowing him to brush an angel soft kiss across her 
upper lip.  "What I think we both want, Scully, is a 
satisfying end to this five year mating dance."

She didn't find her voice for a moment, then she 
pinned him with The Look.  The one he knew was her 
last defense before she usually yielded to whatever it 
was he wanted.  "You seem pretty sure of yourself 
there, Sailor."

He shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance he 
sure as hell didn't feel.  "I'm not the one who started 
undressing."  He reached out his hand, slipping his 
index finger underneath the black spandex strap of 
her bra, running it down the length of the arm hole 
until it encountered the soft swell of her breast.

"That wasn't undressing," she told him, her voice too 
hoarse to be convincing.  "I told you -- that was a 
textbook example of an evasive maneuver."

"Is that what that was?" he asked, his finger continuing 
to trace the soft outline of her figure.  "Cause it looked 
like undressing to me."  His finger was on a mission 
now, the back of his knuckle sliding lightly across the 
shiny fabric, making her nipple harden under the 
softest of touches.

She submitted to the light caress, but not to the 
accusation.  "I'm familiar with your hobbies, Mulder.  
I'm fairly certain that *everything* looks like 
undressing to you.  Besides," she continued, "it wasn't 
undressing because I had every intention of putting it 
back on.  That is, until you threw it on the floor."  

The seduction was in full swing.  Mulder's arms 
reached around Scully's waist, pulling her closer.  
"Well it was pretty much useless to me," he told her, 
accentuating his conversational words with a soft kiss 
to her temple.  "I mean, what in the world was I going 
to do with your tiny little sweatshirt?" he asked.

She turned her face up in acquiescence, offering him 
a variety of kissable places.  "If you were any kind of 
gentleman," she lightly accused, "you'd have given it 
back to me."  She closed her eyes as he kissed her 
eyelids and the tip of her small roman nose.

New rule.

"Scully?" he whispered hoarsely. God, he wanted her.  
How long had he wanted her?

"What?"  

"Rule number....four...," he told her, his body 
hardening in a surge of passion he couldn't deny, 
"...never assume your opponent's a gentleman."

He swept her into his arms in a single fluid motion, 
sinking to his knees and placing her gently on the mat, 
covering her with body.  Her skin burned against his, 
everywhere they touched.  Arms.  Mouths.  Her 
stomach against his.  His fingers fanned out across 
her taut abdomen, stroking her skin.  He wanted to 
touch her everywhere.  He wanted to kiss every inch 
of her.  

"That's...not...a rule," Scully gasped.

"It should be."  His mouth stopped any further 
argument from her, slanting over her parted lips, 
consuming her as if she was his only life source.  She 
*was* his only life source.  Without her to back him up, 
he would have died dozens of times in the past four 
years.  Without her beside him in the future, the 
deaths would be countless.  Every day.  Every hour.  
Every minute that she wasn't there, he would look into 
unfathomable blackness.  She was as essential to him 
as the air that he breathed, inseparable from the other 
intangibles that made up his very soul.

Without a sound, Scully returned his kiss, her fingers 
threading through his hair, her nails grazing the skin 
at the back of his neck as she sought to keep his 
mouth against hers.  Her tongue pushed its way into 
the softness of his mouth, and he welcomed the 
intrusion, sucking lightly, allowing her free rein to taste 
him anywhere...everywhere she wanted.

He felt ready to burst, his body throbbing at the 
exquisite contact.  How long could he wait?  Did she 
know how crazy she was making him? Every coherent 
thought he could form was centered around the 
instinctive need to bury himself inside her.  

He thrust against her gently, one time, desperate to 
ease the ache, and she moaned her approval, 
encouraging him to repeat the movement.  He pressed 
his lower body against her again, a silent preview of 
the long awaited main event, and when she rewarded 
him with a soft mewling sound in the back of her 
throat, he repeated the slow rhythmic motion again.

She found his rhythm easily, her body rising to meet 
his with every thrust, the languorous tempo of their 
actions becoming even more arousing by the friction 
of the material that separated them.  With every press 
of her body against his erection, she moaned her 
pleasure.

Jesus, God Almighty.

It was incredible.

He couldn't take it. He was going to...

He pulled his lips from hers abruptly, making her 
whimper in frustration, but his action had the desired 
effect -- her body stilled beneath his.  He sucked his 
upper lip tightly between his teeth, eyes closed tightly, 
steeling himself against the lure of orgasm.  He had a 
hard-on a sixteen year old would envy.

"Mulder?"  

The sound of his whispered name slid over him like 
melted butter, a salve to his ever-wounded soul.  This 
wasn't just for him.  She wanted this, she needed this, 
as much as he did, and he determined then and there 
to have her with him when he came.

"Shhhhh..." he told her, regaining control of his body.  
"Trust me."   His head moved lower to cover her bare 
stomach with kisses, and he thrilled inwardly when her 
body arched up to meet his mouth.  She responded 
automatically to his every movement.  Armed with that 
heady information, he dipped his tongue into her 
navel, smiling against her skin as she moaned loudly, 
writhing beneath him.  

"Who...needs...a gentleman?" she panted.  "Oh, God, 
Mulder...I want..."

"What?" he breathed against her skin.  "Tell me what 
you want." His body was on fire.  This was happening.  
This was finally happening.

The sound of angry pounding on the side of the 
building broke through the haze of passion for both of 
them.

This was not happening.

Scully dropped her hand heavily to the floor, her eyes 
closed in a heady mix of passion and frustration.  Her 
chest continued to rise and fall heavily as she 
struggled to regain her breath.  "I want to get my gun 
and kill whoever is pounding on that door."

"See that?" he ground out, rolling off her, onto the 
mat. "We do want the same thing."  He raised an arm 
over his eyes, trying to erase the ugly intrusion of 
reality on what had, two minutes ago, been the 
promise of paradise.

Scully groaned her acceptance of the interruption, a 
trace of ecstasy still clinging to every sound she 
made, turning his bones to mush.  He couldn't fathom 
the intensity of what they were about to give up.  It 
wasn't fair.

The world was a fuckin' cruel place, and fate was a 
mean son of a bitch after all.  For the briefest moment, 
he'd allowed himself to forget it.

"It's just as well," Scully murmured.  

Her tone was no more convincing than her words.  He 
lowered his arm to stare at her.  "Huh?"

She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the 
ceiling as her breathing returned to a normal rate.  
"Well...four years of waiting only to wind up on a torn 
vinyl mat where no telling how many hundreds of 
sweaty people have been before us?  We can do 
better." 

"Speak for yourself," he grumbled, unwilling to be 
appeased.  "I was planning to be at the top of my 
form."

That got her.  

She turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow in 
bemusement.  "Really?  And here all this time I was 
planning for you to be on top of MY form."

The rush of blood through his ears drowned out the 
growing mob outside.  His body was absolutely rigid.  
Taking a deep breath, he gave himself over to the 
inevitable, ugly reality.  

Not now.

Not here.

"You're right," he said, indulging the irresistible urge to 
reach for her one last time.  His hand pulled aside the 
loose hair against her neck so he could plant a trail of 
kisses around her hairline.  "We can do better than a 
dirty red mat."  He pulled back and looked at her 
hopefully.  "How `bout the locker room?"

She chuckled, low in her throat, the sound nearly 
pushing him over the edge.  "You romantic fool, you.  
Take me -- here, now, by the punching bag."

Don't tempt me.  He almost said the words, but knew 
deep down the threat was a hollow one.  

Not this time.

Not yet.

The pounding continued, harder this time, 
accompanied by angry voices.  "Open the door!  Who 
the hell is in there?"  The sound of frustrated kicking 
echoed in the rafters.  "I know someone is in there!  
Open the goddamned door!"

Scully chuckled.  "Any chance they'll go away?"

"We paid for this time!  Open this goddamned door or 
I'm getting a blowtorch!"

"Smart money says no," Mulder groaned.  "All right!" 
he yelled at the door.  "Shut up already!"  He stood up 
and finger combed his hair, then pulled his 
sweatpants up to their proper position with a resigned 
sigh.

Scully was still on the mat below him, breathing hard.  
"Well..." she started, the hint of a smile turning up the 
corners of her mouth.  "You wouldn't want it to be easy 
at this point, would you?"

"I gotta tell you something, Scully," he told her 
seriously.  "After four years...you don't ever have to 
worry about me thinking you're easy."

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.  
"Yeah?  Shows what you know.  We could have done 
this four years ago, as far as I'm concerned."

"Liar."

The pounding started again.

"Knock it off!  I'm coming!" Mulder yelled, heading 
toward the door.  "Eventually," he added under his 
breath.

Scully reached out to the corner of the mat, snagging 
her sweatshirt with her fingertips, pulling it toward her 
as she sat up in a fluid, acrobatic movement.  "Hey 
Mulder," she called, stopping him after only a few 
steps toward the door.

He turned.  "Yeah?"  His t-shirt hit him square in the 
face, then dropped into his hands.

"Not that you don't look great," she said, pushing 
herself to her feet.  "And you really should wear that 
outfit more often."

He stopped for a moment to pull on the wrinkled 
garment and tried one more time to calm the anger of 
the people outside.  "Hang on," he yelled.  "Be right 
there."  He gave Scully a rueful smile, feeling for all 
the world like a teenager caught making out.  "So...I 
guess this means another rain check?"

She gave him a hungry look that made him ache to be 
in her arms again.  "Not a chance, G-man, I'm all out 
of rain checks.  My place.  One hour.  And Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't wanna wrestle." 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Scully's apartment
One hour later


How do you dress for sex?  

That was the question on Scully's mind as she made 
the fiftieth lap around the perimeter of her walk-in 
closet.  Ordinary clothing conventions were not 
applicable here.  There was nothing ordinary about 
this encounter.  It was not a date that might or might 
not lead to sex.  It wasn't even a date that was *surely* 
going to lead to sex.  

Hell.  It wasn't even a date.

This was just sex, down and dirty.  Come over.  Let's 
do it.  How in the world was she supposed to dress for 
that?  Her manual on such matters had been missing 
for years.  Way too many years, she mused.

Briefly, she considered going the seductive route, 
thinking of some of the more daring lingerie she so 
rarely got to wear, but she discarded that notion 
quickly.  She'd already invited the man to come to her 
house and take her; garters were redundant at this 
point.  Not to mention the fact that they were too damn 
hard to get out of.  Then again, the last time she'd 
worn them, the disappointing target of her seduction 
had left quite a bit to be desired in the way of finesse, 
and somehow, remembering the feel of Mulder's long, 
nimble fingers trailing down her body, she was fairly 
certain he knew a million ways to dispose of any lacy 
enclosures that stood in his way.

She froze, reconsidering the potential.

No.  Maybe next time.

Next time?  God, what were they starting here?  Her 
mind couldn't even wrap around the multitude of 
possibilities that opened up, and as she glanced at 
her watch, she frantically realized she had no time to 
mull the endless scenarios.  Sometime within the next 
fifteen minutes, her partner of four years was going to 
ring her doorbell, enter her apartment, take off his 
clothes and make mad, passionate love to her.  
Hopefully in that order, but she was open for 
suggestions.

Clothes.  She needed clothes.

The wanton seductress look was out.  What was left?  
She pawed through her blouses and dress pants, 
looking in vain for the right combination, but nothing 
seemed right.  If she dressed up too much, then she 
was making it a date.  Neither of them needed that 
kind of pressure.  It wasn't a date.  They were surely 
past that point.

That edict eliminated at least a third of the clothing in 
her closet.  With keen scrutiny, she examined what 
was left.

Her worn, faded Levis always made her feel sexy in a 
beer commercial, Ford pickup truck kind of way, and 
she knew Mulder had a penchant for jeans during his 
off time.  He would probably come dressed for comfort 
-- at the very least, for easy access.  She almost 
laughed at the thought.  If Mulder had mentally 
debated anything since she'd left him at the gym, she 
sincerely doubted it was what to wear.

Her hand grasped the denim fabric and she pulled it 
toward her, still undecided.  For some totally 
unexplainable reason, it just seemed wrong.  Of 
course on the opposite end of the "date clothes" 
spectrum, she didn't want seem *too* casual about 
this encounter.  They'd already started the chain of 
events sweaty, wearing work out clothes; this was a 
chance to take a step back and do it right.

So what was right?

All that remained were her work clothes, things he'd 
seen her in dozens of times.  It wasn't Cinderella, but 
for some reason, it worked.  She pulled on a pair of 
light grey pants, part of a suit she'd recently bought 
and hadn't yet worn too many times.  She ignored the 
matching jacket and bypassed her collection of white 
and black blouses, opting instead for a simple, light 
blue shell that she had bought in a moment of total 
feminine weakness because the commissioned sales 
woman shrewdly pointed out what a striking 
complement the color was to her eyes.

Actually, it was a nice match.  She hadn't regretted the 
purchase.

Feeling a bit better after selecting her clothes, Scully 
carried the selections into the bedroom and laid them 
on the bed, turning her attention to the contents of her 
dresser and the silky items housed within.  She chose 
her lingerie with almost comical scrutiny, opting for her 
nicest matching set.  To hell with accidents and 
hospitals, she thought.  There was no better argument 
in the world for nice underwear than a date with 
Mulder.

No.  Not a date.

Sex.  Sex they had started but never got to finish on at 
least two different occasions.  Sex they had both 
wanted and denied themselves for a very long time.  
Sex they had come damn close to having in a public 
gym on a battered floor mat.  Sex that was going to 
change everything.

Finally.

Surprisingly, her nerves began to calm as she 
dressed.  It was methodical almost.  The closer it got 
to time for Mulder's arrival, the more steady she 
became.  No shaking hands, no trembly breath.  She 
was a rock.  She was totally in control.  With each 
passing second, the events in motion seemed more 
and more right.  This was the inevitable conclusion of 
something they'd both been working towards, and 
now, finally, there were no more barriers.  

None.

Nothing standing in their way at all.

And Scully realized that finally, she was the very 
picture of confidence and self-assurance.

She nearly screamed when the doorbell rang.

Heart racing, she glanced one more time in the mirror, 
critically cataloguing her appearance.  She 
looked...nice.  Not incredibly hot, not girl next door 
casual. Not like a woman on a date--and that was the 
main thing.

She walked toward the door, conscious of her pace, 
feeling ridiculous for wondering if she was opening the 
door too fast, or opening it too slowly while trying to 
appear uneager.  And even though she knew it wasn't, 
her pounding heart told her with every beat that it sure 
as hell *felt* like a date.

She didn't bother to look through the peephole before 
opening the door.  She knew it was him.

Mulder was leaning casually against wall by her door, 
his tall frame the epitome of relaxed, she noted 
jealously.  If she hadn't felt his body's reaction to the 
closeness they'd shared in the gym, she might have 
thought he was totally nonchalant about the whole 
thing.  But on a closer look, she realized she was 
wrong.

He was dressed in work pants and white button shirt.  
No jacket or tie, but the effort was obvious.  He hadn't 
thrown on the first thing his hand touched. His eyes 
were searing her with an intensity that stunned her.  
Still silent, he stared at her, his expression part 
uncertainty, part anticipation.  

All hunger.

For a moment, they simply looked at one another.

"Can I come in?" he asked finally, the slightest hint of 
teasing in his tone.

"Oh.  Sorry,"  she startled, moving back into the living 
room opening the door wide enough for him to enter.  
When he did, he stopped in front of her, proffering her 
something which had been hidden from her view.

The bouquet was small, a mix of wildflowers with a few 
camellias as the focal point.  It wasn't extravagant, by 
any means.  It wasn't expensive or exotic, and its 
beauty wasn't in the arrangement or the soft fragrance 
it possessed.  Its beauty was in the gesture her 
partner had made, telling her that the man who stood 
before her was on more than a personal quest for 
sexual satisfaction.

Special Agent Fox Mulder was on a date.

God help them both.

Not quite knowing what to say, Scully took the sweet 
smelling-blossoms he handed her, stepping back as 
she made an exaggerated welcome gesture, waving 
him toward the couch.  Unable to keep from smiling as 
he moved past her, she closed the door behind him 
and turned to follow.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

She didn't join him as he sat down.  Instead, she 
watched from across the room as he settled easily into 
the soft cushions of her sofa.  "I can't believe you 
brought flowers, Mulder."  

His feigned indignation was ruined by the small smile 
he couldn't hide.  "I have my moments."

She looked at the flowers she held, trailing her fingers 
lightly across the soft petals.  "Yes.  Yes you do."

"Did you think I was going to pull up to the curb and 
honk for you?" 

"No," she deadpanned.  "I don't expect that for at least 
another two weeks."

He nodded in mock agreement.  "Maybe three."

She caught the scent of the bouquet she held and 
breathed in deeply, memorizing the fragrance.  It 
amazed her how the smallest gesture from this man 
could engrave itself upon her heart.  "I just meant that 
I wouldn't have thought you could take a shower, 
change clothes, buy flowers, and drive over here in an 
hour."  She raised her eyes from the flowers and 
found him staring at her with an expression that 
branded her, body and soul.

The smoldering gaze never faltered.  "I can do a lot of 
amazing things when I'm motivated, Scully."

She began to melt before his very eyes, staggered by 
the realization that she could very easily humiliate 
herself by having an honest-to-God orgasm before 
he'd even touched her.  Just that tone of voice was 
enough to push her to the brink.  <I can do a lot of 
amazing things, when I'm motivated, Scully.>  

She'd seen glimpses of his motivation before and 
knew first hand the truth of his boast.  Or maybe it 
wasn't a boast at all.  Her father used to bolster her 
self-confidence with pep talks, telling her "it's not 
bragging if you can back it up, Starbuck."  Whether or 
not the adage was true, it seemed to fit.  Oh yeah, 
Mulder could back it up.  Of course he could.  The 
man was a walking testimony to great sex; all you had 
to do was look at him, and you saw the possibilities.  
God only knew how often she'd looked.  Every female 
agent in the J. Edgar Hoover Building looked.  She 
could have named a hundred women in that office -- 
single AND married -- who would have gladly made 
themselves available to Special Agent Fox Mulder for 
a lot less than a small bouquet of flowers.

Neither one of them had moved, Scully realized.  She 
was still standing stock still in the middle of the room, 
and he was still sitting on the couch, watching her 
examine the flowers.  He must have thought she'd lost 
her mind.  Enough analysis for tonight, she told 
herself, mentally hanging the "Doctor is OUT" sign on 
her psyche.  Tonight wasn't about thinking.  It was 
about feeling.  And she was going to feel every damn 
inch of Fox Mulder very very soon.

His nude body.

Her hands roaming over his bare skin all night long.

Sex with Mulder.

She felt her stomach drop to the floor at the thought.

And he'd actually brought her flowers.

Gracing him with the first real smile she'd indulged 
since he arrived, she gently waved the bouquet.  "Did 
I say thank you?"

His sexy half-grin answered back.  "Not yet, but I have 
high expectations."  He pushed himself up from the 
sofa and walked toward her.  "In the meantime, why 
don't I make myself useful.  Can I have your cell 
phone for a minute?"

She looked at him suspiciously, but answered without 
hesitation.  "It's on my dresser in the bedroom.".

He walked down the hall, returning a moment later 
with her phone.  While she watched, he 
ceremoniously removed the battery, placing both 
pieces side by side on the coffee table, then moved 
methodically toward the phone on the end table and 
took it off the hook, disconnecting the cord at the 
same time to keep it silent.  When he'd finished, he 
walked resolutely toward her front door and locked it 
firmly, turning off her porch light as the exclamation 
mark on the statement he'd made.

She would have laughed had the gestures not been 
so completely sexually motivated.  From all 
indications, he was planning one hell of a night.

"Anything else?" she asked, furrowing her brow in 
pseudo-concentration.  "What about *your* phone, 
Mulder?"  

"I didn't bring my phone."

Her eyes widened in mock surprise.  "You left your 
apartment without your phone?"

"Damn right."

"Isn't that one of the signs of the Apocalypse?"

"Maybe.  But mark my words, Scully...if the world is 
ending tonight, you and I are going out in a blaze of 
glory."  

Mulder began to move toward her with the stealth of a 
cat stalking its prey, and with each step that brought 
him closer, Scully realized that her desire was 
suddenly at war with her...nerves?

What the hell?

No.  No no no.  It wasn't nerves.  Why in the *world* 
would it be nerves?  This was not unexplored territory, 
she told herself.   They'd already come as close as 
two people could come to making love without actually 
finishing the act.  She'd been on the bank of that river; 
she'd felt his hands all over her, his fingers inside her 
body.  They'd been mere seconds away from what she 
was inexplicably anxious about now.  Not to mention 
the long distance call they'd shared Friday night.

But this felt different.  It felt *really* different. Then she 
realized why.

Their previous experiences had been spontaneous, 
born of circumstance and fierce need. This was 
premeditated...it was *scheduled* for God's sake.  And 
premeditated encounters came with expectations.

Lovely.  Now *there* was a previously overlooked 
anxiety.

"So," he murmured closing in on her.  "You mentioned 
something about welcoming me home?"

Oh yeah.  Definite expectations here.

Every fiber of her being ached to be in Mulder's arms; 
it was so damn overdue.  The two of them were 
already in the Sexual Tension Hall of Fame and they 
both knew it.  They'd been dallying at the college level 
for years, spent the past four weeks honing their skills 
in the minors.  This was the phone call.  The big 
league, the majors.  Tonight they were going to The 
Show.  For the briefest of moments, Scully was 
confident she was ready for her turn at bat.

The mistake she made was actually looking at him.

Goddamn, the man was gorgeous.  Stunningly, 
unquestionably, jaw-droppingly gorgeous.  And he 
was walking toward her in slow motion, staring at her 
with a look that said he'd like to eat her with a spoon 
at the first opportunity.  

She needed to step back for a moment, regain control 
of herself.  Put the right emotions...the libidonous 
ones...back in the driver's seat.  It was impossible to 
do with Mulder's white shirt and dark hazel eyes 
closing in.  So she did the only thing she could think 
of:  she took refuge in the kitchen.

"Just...let me get these flowers in some water,Mulder," 
she told him, effectively stopping his advance just 
before he reached her.  

He raised one eyebrow in question, but he didn't 
protest.  He didn't even blink in surprise. If he was 
confused or irritated or frustrated in the least by her 
unexpected retreat, he betrayed none of it.

Scully walked to the kitchen mentally kicking herself 
with every step.  With a mind of its own, her traitorous 
memory recalled the sound of Mulder's lightly teasing 
voice on a plane trip from Hell, taunting her with her 
own embarrassment.  <Smooth moves, Agent Scully.>

She should have just attacked him, ripped off that 
white shirt and had a field day exploring his muscled 
chest.  God, she loved him in white shirts, a fact he 
was obviously aware of.  She loved him out of them 
too.  So why the hell had she walked away from him 
just now?  

Walked?  Like hell.  She'd run, and she had no idea 
why.  This was way out of the realm of normal 
behavior.  The emotional scrutiny was underway.  
Expert voices on female sexuality were screaming 
advice to her, sounding like the cover of every 
magazine she'd ever read.  

Cosmopolitan:  Don't forget who's in control here.  
You are the woman.  You are the dominant force in 
the universe.  It's all about you.  You, you, you.  Your 
needs are more important the needs of any mere man, 
even if he can give you multiple orgasms.   Now get 
back in there, tell him exactly what you want and how 
you want it, and don't back down until he gives it to 
you.

No.  Too militant.  Next?

Glamour:  The best thing you can do for yourself and 
your lover is to make sex an endless adventure.  Why 
not make love on satin sheets, by candlelight, during a 
rainstorm.  Afterwards, don't forget to cuddle until 
dawn sharing intimate laughter and childhood secrets 
with one another to get the full effect of that post-coital 
bonding opportunity.

Yeah.  Right.  You forgot the part about feeding each 
other strawberries and cream while sharing a bubble 
bath in a claw-footed antique tub while a live three 
piece orchestra serenades us with a dreamy sonata 
right outside the gossamer draped bay windows.  
Next?

Working Woman:  Office relationships are never a 
good idea, and the nineties career woman should 
have better things to do than think about sex.  Sex is 
over, a thing of the past.  Sex is a throwback to the 
days of the secretarial pool and the manual typewriter. 
Get yourself two good D cell batteries and move on.

With Mulder ready and willing in a white shirt in the 
next room?  Not an option in this or any other 
universe.  Next?

Woman's Day:  You wouldn't be feeling so insecure if 
you'd lost ten pounds in fifteen days, and paid 
attention to those quick fixes for hair emergencies.  
Also it wouldn't have hurt to have some splendid 
delights for late night cravings on hand either.

He already thinks I'm too thin...and what the hell's 
wrong with my hair?  Next?

Vogue:  I can't believe you're wearing that.

Bitch.  Next?

Anyone?

The experts fell silent, and Scully closed her eyes with 
a deep breath, wondering if she was destined to be 
visited soon by an apparition of some scary little 
dancing baby. Good Lord, she'd been a lot of things in 
her life, but neurotic had never been one of them.  Not 
until recently.  When did she get like this?  

When?

Four weeks ago, that's when, she answered herself.  
Four weeks ago in Tennessee, when she told her 
partner of four years that she wanted him.

And now here they were, about to change the width, 
breadth, and depth of the small universe that housed 
them both.

Shaking herself back to reality, Scully rummaged 
through cabinets at random, not even remembering 
what she was looking for.  What the hell was she 
doing in the kitchen when Mulder  was standing alone 
in the next room, patiently waiting to ravish her until 
she begged for mercy?

Wasn't that what she'd been dreaming of the past four 
weeks?  The past year?  Wasn't that what she was 
imagining a couple nights ago when the two of them 
shared a phone encounter that barely even qualified 
as vaguely discreet?  This was what she wanted.

Mulder was what she wanted.

And no matter how long she stayed in this kitchen, the 
course of events was set in stone.  They were going to 
make love, no question about it.  The look in Mulder's 
eyes brooked no argument. God help whoever or 
whatever tried to stand in his way this time.  All she 
was doing was postponing the inevitable...and she 
*wanted* the inevitable.

So get whatever it was you came in here for and get 
your butt back out there, she told herself.

Her hand grazed the delicate rim of a wine glass.  Ah.  
Wine glasses.  She found them.

Realizing suddenly that she had no idea how long 
she'd been lost in her own conflicting thoughts and 
emotions, she called loudly, "I'll be back in just a 
second, Mulder."

"Good to know."  

She jumped at the nearness of his voice, spinning 
around. He was standing silently in the doorway.   
"Don't do that."

He held up a hand in apology.  "Sorry."   He was 
studying her intently.  

How long had he been standing there?  "I thought you 
were in the living room."  She aimed her tone for 
nonchalance.

"I was."  The glimmer of a smile was in his eyes.

"Oh."  She picked up the wine glasses from the bottom 
cabinet shelf, threading the stems between her fingers 
and waved them back and forth.  "Found them," she 
explained, setting them on the counter as she opened 
a drawer and began searching for a corkscrew.

"I thought you were looking for a vase."

Damn it.  The flowers.  That's what she'd come to the 
kitchen for, not wine glasses.  A vase, you idiot.  A 
vase.

He walked up behind her until his chest was against 
her back, lightly grazing the silky material of her 
blouse.  From the corner of her eye, she saw his arms 
coming around her, and she stilled, her eyes closing 
in dreamlike anticipation, awaiting the inevitable touch 
of his hand on her body.

Yes...please God, touch me soon before I die.  I'm 
ready, Mulder.  I'm so damn ready.  I don't know why I 
walked away...

"Here's one right here."

She opened her eyes.  His arm was extended past 
her, reaching for a small vase sitting in plain view on 
the middle shelf -- right in front of her eyes the whole 
time.  So much for nonchalance.

"Tell you what," he continued in an infuriatingly 
conversational tone, "you open the wine, I'll take care 
of the flowers."  

"Okay."  

She pawed through silverware looking for her 
corkscrew, finally locating it as Mulder walked to the 
sink and filled the vase with water.  She took a 
random bottle of Chardonney from the wine rack.

All she had to do was open one bottle.  One small task 
they'd agreed upon, something she'd done a hundred 
times.  But the cork of this particular bottle seemed to 
be made of petrified wood.  She tried three times to 
get the metal screw ensconced in the cork so she 
could twist it down, but every time it simply slid off the 
top, refusing to make a dent.

"Damn," she muttered, trying to decide if she was 
more angry at the cork or the corkscrew or her total 
lack of finesse.  If she couldn't laugh about this 
tomorrow it would only be because she'd died tonight 
of mortal embarrassment.

Out of nowhere, long arms in a white shirt reached 
around her on both sides, taking both the wine bottle 
and the corkscrew from her in a single motion.  He 
didn't say a word.  Keeping her trapped loosely within 
his arms, he easily twisted the corkscrew into the 
bottle and pushed the stopper up slowly with his 
thumbs.  It popped out with no resistance whatsoever.

She felt his body move away from her, and she turned 
around, watching as Mulder set the items down firmly 
on the opposite counter and turned back to face her.  
He took two steps, closing the small distance between 
them completely, putting them face to face.  His 
closeness caused her to take half a step back before 
she hit the edge of the countertop.  

"What are you doing?" she nearly whispered.

His hands came up in a single quick motion, capturing 
her cheeks, tilting her head up towards him.  

"Putting me out of your misery."

His mouth came down upon hers in a kiss that was 
both soft and demanding at the same time.  He forced 
nothing, and yet the gentle insistence of his lips 
against hers, coaxing her mouth to open for him, was 
more than she could deny.  Her lips parted, inviting 
him in, and she felt her stomach coil tightly in 
response as his tongue sought the velvet warmth 
inside her mouth.

He continued to cradle her face in his hands as he 
slanted his mouth hotly over hers, moving her head 
first to one side, then the other as they lost 
themselves in a lover's kiss that seemed to go on 
forever.

When he finally began to pull away, she released his 
mouth reluctantly, a small moan of disappointment 
escaping her throat.

Mulder bent forward, pressing his forehead against 
hers, his palms still pressed against her jawline.  He 
was breathing as hard as she was.

Scully was on sensory overload.

Forget nervous.  To hell with nervous.  If she didn't 
have him right here, right now, she was going to 
explode.  She pushed away from the counter, 
reaching for his hand as she stepped away from him.  
He caught her light embrace, but didn't follow.

"Come on, Mulder."  Her breath was uneven.  She 
could feel the blood rushing through her veins.  Her 
heart was pounding in her ears.

"Come where?"

The look she gave him, she knew, was totally wanton.  
She couldn't have cared less how obvious she was.  
She *was* wanton.  "To the bedroom."

Instead of following, he slowly let go of her hand, 
reaching back toward the counter to pick up the bottle 
of wine he had opened.  He held it loosely in his left 
hand and threaded the fingers of his right around the 
stems of the two glasses, fitting them both easily into 
his palm.

"Oh we're definitely getting there."  He bent down, 
placing a sound, firm kiss on her still-swollen lips.  
"But we have a few things to finish up in the living 
room first."  He squeezed past her to the doorway, 
pausing to look over his shoulder in an unspoken 
invitation that was too full of promise to deny.

Breathing hard, still flushed from their kiss, Scully 
followed him out of the kitchen, wondering every step 
of the way what exactly her partner had up the sleeve 
of his devastatingly sexy white shirt.

She prayed she wouldn't have to wait long to find out.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Mulder headed toward the couch, but didn't sit down, 
and Scully took her cue from him, standing beside the 
coffee table as he poured two glasses of wine and 
handed one to her.  Her palm registered the cool 
smoothness of the delicate crystal, but she didn't care 
about the drink she held; her eyes never left his face, 
still searching for some hint as to what exactly he had 
in mind for the two of them.

The delicate rim of his glass clinked against the side 
of hers.  "Here's to an entire night with no 
interruptions."

"I'll drink to that," she murmured, taking a sip of the 
light-colored wine.

She watched, mesmerized, as Mulder drank to his 
toast and lowered his glass, a trace of moisture 
clinging to his lips, glistening in the lamplight like the 
promise of her salvation.  She couldn't resist reaching 
out to him.

Her index finger pressed lightly against the corner of 
his mouth, and he didn't move as she slowly dragged 
it across the entire length of his lips, feeling the slight 
wetness against her own skin.  When she reached the 
other side of his mouth, she pulled her finger away, 
bringing the trace of wine she'd captured with her.  

Without a word, she brought her hand to her own 
slightly-parted lips, letting the tip of her finger spread 
the small trace of now-imaginary wetness against the 
softness of her own mouth.  

Mulder watched her impromptu show, his eyes riveted 
upon her mouth.  When she opened her lips wider and 
drew her finger inside, she heard his soft intake of 
breath.  Without ever looking away from him, Scully 
closed her lips around her finger and slowly, oh so 
slowly, pulled it from her mouth, as if reluctant to let it 
leave her empty.

Mulder blinked in slow motion, his eyes finally closing 
completely, but hesitating before opening again.  His 
jaw was clenched.  

He swallowed hard, once.

His erection was obvious, pressing against the light 
material of his suit pants, and Scully knew she'd been 
testing his resolve.   Unfortunately, the man appeared 
to have an iron will.  Evidently, whatever he had 
planned for them, he wanted it badly enough to resist 
her blatant invitation for the moment.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, lust still 
prevalent in his expression, but tempered now with 
what looked to her like mischief.  Not a safe 
combination, but damn if he didn't wear it well, she 
mused.

"Soooooo, what exactly did you have in mind here, 
Mulder?" she asked.  Her voice sounded hoarse 
already, thick with passion.

He drank the remaining wine in his glass in two large 
swallows, setting his empty glass on the coffee table.  
In silent question, he held his hand out for hers.  She 
took one more sip and handed it to him, letting him set 
it aside.  

"This."  Mulder's hands snaked around the back of her 
neck, pulling her to him roughly. This time, she was 
ready.

Her lips parted instinctively the moment she felt his 
touch, her mouth melding against his, welcoming the 
heat of his tongue as it dueled with hers.  Her arms 
reached up to encircle his neck, her fingers 
encountering and lightly teasing the damp strands of 
baby soft hair at the base of his hairline.

He groaned in response to the soft caress.

Mulder's hands moved down her body to the small of 
her back, and he wrapped them low around her, 
pulling her sharply against his groin, letting her feel 
the undeniable hardness of his cock throbbing against 
her.  She pushed against him, wanting and needing 
more contact than he was giving her.

Instead of complying, he slowly pulled his mouth from 
hers, indulging one last nibble on her bottom lip 
before the last trace of her flesh parted from his in 
slow motion. Grinning down at her, his smile nearly 
robbing her of the ability to stand on her own, Mulder 
reached down and pulled off his shoes, tossing them 
aside with almost comic disregard.

For a moment, Scully thought he was seeking to 
lessen the height difference between them, but then 
he crouched before her and wordlessly tapped at her 
leg.  The command was silent, but crystal clear, and 
she did as he asked, just as silently as he asked it.  
Balancing herself with a hand on his shoulder, she 
lifted first one foot, then the other, allowing him to 
slide her shoes off and toss them aside with his own.

Mission accomplished, he straightened and took her 
hand, pulling her after him as they padded to the sofa.  
He sat down in the corner and Scully made a motion 
to maneuver past his legs so she could sit beside him, 
but instead of releasing her hand, he tugged down 
lightly, his arm encircling her hips, and she realized in 
wonder that in the course of less than four seconds, 
he had seated her firmly in his lap.

Smooth moves indeed.

She reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand, 
her heart melting as he turned his head into her 
caress and pressed a soft kiss against the palm of her 
hand.

"What are you doing to me, Mulder?" she whispered, 
so soft she wasn't sure she'd even uttered it aloud.

The man beneath her pulled her low into his arms, his 
hot breath a tickle against her neck as he chuckled 
softly at the words he'd heard.  "If you don't know then 
it's been too damn long for one of us."

She gasped when he sucked lightly on her earlobe.  
"It's been too damn long for...both of us," she 
breathed.

"Mmmm hmmm," he agreed, pushing her hair aside to 
nip lightly at her jaw line.  She arched her neck, baring 
more sensitive skin to his mouth.

Scully's heart was pounding double time.  She could 
feel Mulder's erection straining against the confines of 
his pants and she ached to release him.  She wanted 
to see him again...all of him.  Nude and glorious and 
begging her to touch him.  She'd relied on her memory 
for the past four weeks, but it was nothing compared 
to the reality that pulsed hotly against her hip as she 
sat draped across his lap, supported by his arm 
behind her back.  If he didn't make love to her soon 
she was going to die, right there in his arms.

"Mulder," she breathed, her voice sounding unfamiliar 
and needy.

"Mmmm?"  He continued his oral exploration of her 
neck and hairline.

"I'm...really enjoying this whole...foreplay...thing."  She 
shuddered uncontrollably as his tongue darted into 
the shallow depth of her upper ear.  "But...I'm 
already...committed here.  You don't have to...seduce 
me."

His mouth left her neck and he raised his face to look 
at her. "Maybe I want to seduce you," he whispered.

He slid lower on the sofa cushion and pulled her 
lightly against his chest, urging her to relax against 
him.  She did and he stole another lingering kiss from 
her swollen lips before he spoke, his hand continuing 
to softly stroke her back.

"On my way over, I was thinking about how long it took 
us to get here."

She nodded.

"That there wasn't any doubt in either of our minds 
when we left the gym, about what was going to 
happen here tonight.  At least I don't think there was.  
Was there?"

"No," she said.  "I knew."

He kissed her again, tugging lightly on her bottom lip 
before releasing her mouth.

Scully was on fire.  Every touch, every kiss, sent her 
deeper into the agonizing heaven of wanting more.  
She wasn't high enough to reach his mouth unless he 
lowered his head, so she nuzzled his neck instead, 
kissing her way toward his Adam's apple.  "So why 
aren't we doing what we both knew we were going do, 
Mulder?"

His fingers threaded through her hair, urging her head 
up to look at him.  His expression was utterly serious.  
"Because it occurred to me tonight that we've missed 
some steps along the way."

She looked at him in confusion.  "Missed some 
steps?"

"Scully, I can count one hand the number of times I've 
kissed you.  I mean really kissed you, the way I want 
to...the way you *should* be kissed."   He paused, and 
the corner of his mouth twitched, threatening a small 
smile.  "You know, we've missed some of the good 
stuff."

She had to smile slightly at that.  "The good stuff?"

"This kind of stuff."  He bent his head and kissed her 
again, so brief she might have imagined it, had it not 
been followed immediately by the feeling of his tongue 
tracing the outline of her mouth.  When he finished, he 
looked at her with blatant possessiveness.  "I just 
wanted to make sure before we take the next step that 
we've exhausted all the finer points of *this* step. 
Because Scully?"

For a moment she couldn't even find her voice.  
"What," she finally whispered, her voice cracking with 
emotion.

"Kissing you and making love to you and spending an 
entire night exploring every inch of you?  It's *all* the 
good stuff. I don't want to miss anything."

The unexpected threat of tears burned behind her 
eyes, and she blinked to keep them from spilling.  
Leave it to Mulder to stun her with sentiment at a time 
like this, telling her the small, simple truths that she 
already knew but never expected to be offered so 
sincerely. He could touch her heart like no man ever 
had, with nothing more than mere words.  He handed 
them up like small, unworthy offerings, never knowing 
how she cherished even the effort he made to present 
them.

She moved from her draped ragdoll position, rising 
slightly to straddle his lap, facing him.  Her knees 
pressed into the back cushions of the sofa, and she 
inched herself up until his body was intimately 
pressed between her spread legs.  Taking his face in 
her hands, she looked deeply into his eyes.

"Mulder?"  She pressed a kiss against his cheekbone, 
following it with another that moved up higher toward 
the corner of his eye.

"What?"

There was that look again.  The hungry one.  The one 
that not only had her willing to be the main course, but 
had her damn near ready to go find the man a spoon 
on her own, if it would only put an end to this 
unbearable longing.

Her kisses moved across his forehead, stopping in the 
center to travel downward, along the bridge of his 
nose.  "I promise..."  She kissed the small indentation 
above his upper lip.  "We're not...going...to 
miss...anything."   She accentuated every other word 
with a soft kiss, her lips grazing his chin, his cheeks, 
his brow, every part of his face except his lips.  She 
raised her head to smile at him, before finally bringing 
her mouth achingly close to his.  "This whole night is 
going to be the good stuff."

His mouth met hers without hesitation.  The kiss was 
hard and demanding, full of wicked promise.  When 
his hand moved from her neck toward the front of her 
body, she panted encouragement, moaning when he 
cupped her breast through the silky fabric of her 
blouse.  

"You're overdressed, Scully."

His free hand began pulling the soft material from the 
waistband of her pants, and she broke the kiss long 
enough to sit back upon his knees and pull the silky 
barrier off completely, throwing it unceremoniously 
behind her on the floor.

"We're both overdressed, Mulder, but I know how to 
fix that."

His eyes burned with longing that mirrored her own.  
Unable to wait another minute to feel more of his skin 
upon hers, she reached for the buttons of his shirt, 
releasing them more in desperation than finesse.  He 
didn't seem to mind.  When the last one came free, he 
grabbed both halves of the shirtfront and nearly ripped 
it off, sitting barechested before her at last, hungrily 
eyeing the delicate lace that still hid the curves of her 
body from his view. She didn't have time to utter a 
sound before he cupped the back of her head, pulling 
her mouth to his as his other hand deftly released the 
front clasp of her bra in what seemed a single 
movement.   

Her brain registered the dexterity of his actions on a 
level she was only half aware of.

Oh yeah.  He could sure as hell back it up.

She could have lived the rest of her days content to 
do nothing except return that kiss, exploring every 
contour of Fox Mulder's mouth, stroking his tongue 
with her own until she committed to memory not only 
the feel, but the very taste of him inside her.  Every 
nerve in her body concentrated wholly on the task. 
Even her toes felt committed.  But Mulder put an end 
to that plan when he pulled away from her, 
suspending the kiss despite her soft sound of protest.  
His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them, the 
intensity of his need evidenced as much by the hungry 
look on his face as by his undeniable erection pressed 
tightly between her legs.

Feeling that hardness against the core of her body, 
Scully ground her hips against him, delighted when 
she heard the small gasp of pleasure he could not 
surpress.

Slowly, showing more patience than Scully felt she 
possessed at the moment, Mulder fingered the soft 
cups of her opened bra, lightly stroking the satin 
edges of it before he slipped his fingers underneath 
and drew the fabric away from her skin with agonizing 
deliberation, pushing it back until the thin straps slid 
silently down her arms and onto the floor.

At last, her breasts were bared to his searing gaze.  
He'd looked at her like this before, once, but it was too 
long ago, and it hadn't been nearly enough.  Was 
there such a thing as enough with Mulder?  How could 
there possibly be?

"God, you're so perfect."  His thumbs stroked across 
her hardened nipples.  He cupped her breast against 
his palm, lightly kneading the sensitive flesh, making 
her writhe against him.

Heat coiled inside her like a spring, building upon 
itself toward what she knew would be an 
earthshattering release.  She saw his head bending 
low toward her breasts, and suddenly she could no 
longer tolerate his langourous pace.  Scully arched 
her back high, her chest rising to meet him, even as 
her arms wound behind his head, pulling him to her in 
blatent desperation.  His mouth closed upon her 
breast in an instant, and she moaned when he began 
to suckle her.  

She pressed her hands flat against the back of the 
couch, rising to her knees to keep her breasts at the 
right level for Mulder's mouth as she moved forward 
against him, pinning him to the sofa cushion.   His 
hands held firm to her sides, lightly moving up and 
down against her bare skin as his mouth worked 
feverishly at her breast, sucking and kissing in turn 
while she panted above him.

"Oh...God...Mulder."   She slowly sank down upon his 
lap again, thankful when his mouth didn't leave her, 
but instead began weaving a delicious trail of wet, 
deep kisses across her skin toward the other rosy 
peak.  When he reached it, he gave it equal attention, 
kissing his way around the areola before his lips 
closed over her nipple and drew lightly against her.

Scully bit down hard on her upper lip to keep from 
crying out.  How could anyone feel this much so fast?  
She was dangerously close to a place she didn't 
recognize as human.  It was a plane of ecstasy she'd 
never known existed -- and maybe it didn't for anyone 
but her and Mulder.

Mulder's hand closed around her wrist, pulling her 
hand down toward their laps.  Without a word, his 
mouth never leaving her body, he worked her hand 
between their tightly joined bodies, pressing her palm 
firmly against his straining erection.  Her fingers 
curled around him through the fabric, and he moaned, 
biting down lightly on her nipple in response.

It still wasn't nearly enough.

"Mulder..." she gasped.

His mouth left her breast and began kissing a path up 
to her clavicle, his tongue dipping into the slight 
hollow.  "What?" he rasped.

She shuddered as his lips grazed her neck.  "We're... 
still... overdressed..."

His hands moved to the front of her slacks.  "I can fix 
that," he murmured, echoing her earlier words.

His nimble fingers released the button of her slacks 
and reached for the zipper, drawing it down, before he 
released his light hold on her body, allowing her to 
stand.  She winced slightly as circulation returned to 
her legs, the back of her thigh throbbing 
uncomfortably from the position she'd been 
maintaining.

"Scully?"  The concern on Mulder's face was 
instantaneous.

She shook her head.  "It's nothing.  Just a twinge from 
how I was sitting."

He looked doubtful.

"I promise, Mulder.  I'm fine."  She slid the grey pants 
down her hips and let them fall to the floor, stepping 
out of the silk puddle and kicking it aside.  Clad only in 
white satin bikini panties, she moved over him again, 
intent on reclaiming her position upon his lap.

Instead, Mulder twisted slightly, sitting closer to the 
edge of the cushion.  His position didn't allow her to 
balance herself on her knees as she had previously.  
"Change of plans," he told her softly, craning his head 
to get a look at the jagged scar on the back of her left 
leg.

Noooooooo, she cried inwardly.  Don't you dare do 
this to me, Mulder.  Damn her leg and damn her for 
letting him see her discomfort.  He couldn't do this.  
He couldn't.  She couldn't take the disappointment of 
another postponed encounter.

She slid her hand underneath his chin and pulled his 
head up until he was looking her in the eyes.  This 
time, it was she who lowered her head down to him, 
planting the softest of kisses on the corner of his 
mouth.  "I want you," she whispered, slowly reclaiming 
her place on his lap.  She couldn't kneel over him 
anymore, so she slid one leg around his body, letting 
her legs encircle his waist completely.  When he didn't 
try to stop her, she kissed him again.  And again, and 
again, pressing soft kisses across his jaw until she 
reached his ear.

"I want you so much, Mulder," she whispered again, 
feeling him shiver. "Please don't make me wait any 
longer."  She felt his jaw clench.  "Don't leave."

He grasped her shoulders, pulling her back, looking at 
her like she'd just told him she'd renounced her belief 
in science and become an advocate of the Psychic 
Friends Hotline.  "Leave?" he croaked.

She blinked.  Wasn't that what he was leading up to?

His fingers wound through her hair roughly and he 
dragged her mouth to his, ravaging her with a kiss that 
was, in itself, infinitely more satisfying that some of 
her earliest sexual encounters had been in their 
entirety.

"Scully, we're just getting started."

His arms moved low to encircle the small of her back, 
and they wrapped around her tightly, pulling her body 
to him even closer.  Without warning, he leaned 
forward, his arms preventing her from falling 
backward, and then he stood...taking Scully with him.

They never broke the kiss.

Scully wrapped her legs around Mulder's waist, 
crossing her ankles behind him as he carried her 
down the hall and into the bedroom.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Looking back on the moment some time later, Scully 
couldn't even recall the two of them moving from the 
living room to the bedroom.  She only knew that one 
minute she had been terrified Mulder was about to 
leave and the next minute they'd been tumbling onto 
her bed in a tangle of arms and legs, hungry mouths 
and feverish moans.

Unwinding Scully's limbs from around him, Mulder 
stood up, leaving her to lie on the bed as he began to 
remove the rest of his clothes.  It was the show of the 
century, she thought, dazed by the beauty of the man 
before her, and she had a front row seat.  Her heart 
was thudding loudly as she watched him unfasten his 
pants and slide them to the floor.  Deliberately, fully 
aware of his audience, he stepped out of them and 
turned slightly, giving her a full, unencumbered view of 
the huge erection straining to escape the confines of 
his grey Calvin Kleins.

Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips, an 
instinctive response of anticipation and one she 
couldn't prevent.  Mulder noticed and grinned, 
obviously enjoying both his performance and the 
response he was eliciting.  He moved closer to the 
edge of the bed, standing before her with a look of 
total possession as he slid his hands into the 
waistband of the boxer/briefs and pushed them down 
until they joined his unwanted pants on the floor.  He 
stood before her unmoving for a moment, letting her 
drink in every inch of his nude body as his own eyes 
caressed her in a similar fashion.

It was almost too much to absorb, Scully thought, 
dazed by the sight of him in all his aroused glory.

Fox Mulder.

Her partner.

Her friend.

Naked.

In her bedroom.

Thank you God.

Fully aroused to this extent, he was huge, she 
realized.  Larger even than she remembered from 
their encounter by the river.  Large enough to give her 
pause...for about one thousandth of a millisecond.  
She was mesmerized by the shear beauty of him, and 
couldn't stop the words that tumbled automatically 
from her lips.

"You're so beautiful."

She wished them back as soon as she heard them.  
Most men by nature would have denied the claim of 
beauty, even taken offense at such a description 
given at a time like this.  But not Mulder.  Mulder 
looked down at her as if she'd handed him the secrets 
of the universe, gathered up and wrapped just for him.

"So are you."

She needed him so much.  It was no longer something 
she merely wanted.  She needed to feel him warm and 
tight against her.  Around her.  Inside her.  It was 
primal...desperate.

Scully's hands moved down across her flat stomach 
until her fingers encountered the lacy edge of her 
panties.  Breathing hard, she slid her hands into the 
waistband, as Mulder had done, eager to remove the 
last barrier that stood between them.  She paused 
when he moved around to stand directly in front of 
her.  

"Let me."

She pulled her hands away, expecting him to replace 
them with his own.  But when he reached for her, it 
wasn't her hips that felt the inviting warmth of his 
fingers.  It was her legs.

Mulder's hands closed softly around each of her 
ankles, his long fingers encircling her slender limbs 
completely.  Without preamble, he began to pull her 
slowly toward him across the mattress.  When she 
was close enough for her knees to bend over the edge 
of the bed, he released her, letting her legs dangle 
toward the floor as he parted her knees slightly and 
moved to stand between them.  Wordlessly, he 
reached for the thin band of elastic that clung to her 
hips.

Scully lifted her hips for him and he slowly pulled the 
damp material down her legs completely until they slid 
over her knees, where they fell to the floor unnoticed.  
She eased backward once more, allowing room for 
Mulder to join her on the bed, and he did, finally, 
lowering his body slowly over hers and putting to rest 
every unfathomable longing that had stood between 
them for so long.  The weight of him, so real against 
her, here in the waking hours, was too much to 
process. Mulder...naked... wrapped around her at last.

She kissed him, slow and deep, making love to his 
mouth with her tongue in an explicit imitation of what 
he would soon be doing to her.  His tongue met her 
thrust for thrust, and he moaned deep in his throat, 
wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, 
pulling her with him as he rolled to his side, threading 
his knee between her legs.  

Scully trailed her hands down his muscled back as low 
as they would reach, finding with a vague sense of 
disappointment that his magnificent ass was just 
slightly out of her reach.  Wordlessly, she broke the 
kiss and moved lower against him, licking his neck, 
tasting him everywhere along the way until her mouth 
found a new target of seduction in the form of his 
raised nipple.  She flicked it with her tongue, watching 
as it hardened even more, so similar to the response 
of her own breasts.  She  covered it with her mouth 
and sucked lightly, rewarded when Mulder's moan of 
pleasure was accompanied by the feeling of his 
erection thrusting sharply against her.

"Scully, touch me," he rasped.

Her hand was already there, closing softly around him, 
marveling at the strength of him.  He was so hard...so 
ready.  He moaned when she began stroking him, his 
need obviously as desperate as hers.  She grazed her 
thumb across the head, spreading the moisture that 
was there already, causing him to cry out harshly.  
When he did, her fingers curled tighter around him, 
increasing the tempo of her movements.  

God in heaven.  He felt amazing.  

His skin burned her, soft and hot against her breasts, 
her stomach...any place he touched her.  And he was 
touching her everywhere.

Mulder's hand moved between her legs, his fingers 
finding her core with earth-shattering precision. When 
his finger slipped inside to stroke her, she bit down on 
her bottom lip to keep from crying out, even as her 
legs parted further, allowing him greater access.  He 
kissed her deeply, and she felt her body give way to a 
second finger as his exploration continued.

Desperately, she held on, wanting Mulder deep inside 
her, matching her every movement when she climaxed 
around him.   It was a heroic effort.  But then his 
thumb moved up against the tight nerve center of her 
arousal and he stroked firmly once...twice...

She lost the battle on the third, clutching helplessly at 
the bedcovers, looking for anything that might serve to 
keep her grounded, even as she soared. Everything in 
her world exploded in an almost tangible freefall.  It 
was too much.  Too much feeling, too much emotion.  
Too much everything.

"Open your eyes, Scully."

She did, looking at him through the haze of what was 
indescribable within the realm of mere words.  His 
fingers were still buried within her.  "I was hoping we 
were going to do that together," she murmured, 
cupping his face in her hands.

"We still are."  His mouth crashed down upon hers.

She was living and breathing in a state of awareness 
somewhere between heaven and earth, and she 
wanted nothing more than to stay there forever.  
Mulder's body moved to cover hers and she parted 
her legs for him in eager invitation.  She felt her every 
nerve scream silently when he pressed against her 
body's entrance, then he pushed into her slowly, 
pausing at first, allowing her time to adjust.

She needed it.

Even with the extent of her arousal, she couldn't 
prevent the inevitable discomfort as her body 
stretched to accommodate him. When at last he thrust 
deeply, burying himself to the hilt, she gasped audibly, 
despite her best efforts not to cry out.

Poised and still, buried intimately within her, Mulder 
closed his eyes tightly, biting hard on his upper lip 
before he found the control he obviously sought, and 
looked down at her.  She knew he must have seen her 
discomfort.

He gently stroked her hair from her forehead.  "Okay?"

God yes.

She nodded.  "Give me a second."  She adjusted to 
him quickly, and nearly before the words were out of 
her mouth, she was aching to feel him moving within 
her.  Her body clenched tightly, eliciting a small 
breathless moan from Mulder.  She looked at him, 
raising a speculative eyebrow...then, pressed up 
instinctively against him.  

It was all the encouragement he needed.  Slowly, he 
began to push into her, easily finding the steady 
rhythm that she matched thrust for thrust.  Her hands 
clutched at his back, pulling him as deeply inside her 
as she could.  She felt the warm tension, so recently 
eased in the wake of her orgasm, return even 
stronger, dragging her full force toward the pinnacle 
again.

She knew the exact moment when it grabbed Mulder 
also.  He increased the tempo of his thrusts, breathing 
hard against her neck as he drove himself further into 
her.  Her palms slid across his sweat-slicked back, 
and she moaned in wordless encouragement. She 
was close...but Mulder was so much closer.  

The gentleness was gone now, replaced by the 
intensity of burning need.  He pulled back for the 
briefest moment, and in a movement too quick for her 
to fathom, he hooked his arm under her right knee, 
pulling her leg up high toward her chest. Her body 
opened even further for him.  She could feel him 
pressing hard against the edge of her womb, deeper 
and stronger than anything she had ever felt.  Mulder 
braced his position, flattening his palms against the 
mattress as he continued to pump into her 
relentlessly. In an instant, she was at the peak again, 
looking over the edge of oblivion.

"God...Scully..." he gasped.    "Come."

Whether it was a plea or a command, she complied, 
totally enveloped by exquisite pleasure as the 
downward spiral overwhelmed her.  He followed her 
an instant later, spilling into her endlessly as she 
spasmed around him.

Panting, his body still pulsing within her, Mulder sank 
down against her breast, letting her wrap her arms 
around his back.  He buried his face in her neck, 
breathing heavily against her as her nails traced light 
patterns against his damp skin.

This was all there was in the world, she thought.

Her and Mulder.

Like this.

He stirred, then, and made a reluctant motion to move 
off her, but she didn't release him.  "Stay with me," she 
said.

He eased back down, his body still joined with hers.  
"I'm heavy," he told her, kissing the end of her nose, 
then moving on to her cheekbone.

"I don't mind," she whispered.  "I want you to stay with 
me like this...stay inside me...just a little while longer."

Eyes glimmering with totally transparent male pride, 
he wrapped his arms around her, pulling them both 
onto their sides without disengaging their bodies.  "I 
aim to please."

She nibbled his bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth.  
"You're right on target," she mumbled.

She lost track of the time they spent there, lying 
together, passions momentarily spent. Try as she 
might, she just couldn't form any cohesive thoughts 
about what had transpired or what it meant for their 
future together.  After building for four years, 
something this incredible wasn't easily articulated.

She decided later that Mulder put it best.

Holding her tightly, his fingers trailing lightly up and 
down her bare arm as she laid with her head on his 
chest, he looked down at their entwined position and 
grinned at her.

"I feel like we should high five."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Dana Scully's Bedroom
12:15 a.m.


In the quiet stillness of the wee small hours, Mulder 
tightened his arm around his partner's narrow waist, 
feeling her body slide back tighter against his chest. 
He still couldn't believe he was holding her, warm and 
nude, in his arms at last.  He'd dreamed it so many 
times, but the reality was unsurpassed by his wildest 
imaginings.  Dana Scully was a sensory experience 
unlike anything he'd ever known.  Her healing touch, 
the sound of her voice...the fact that she tasted like 
heaven and that every breath he took was filled with 
the fragrance of her.  She smelled soft and fresh, like 
sunshine and rain mixed together.  He could have 
picked her out of a crowded room blindfolded, based 
on nothing but the natural scent of her hair and skin, 
so long ago committed to his heart's memory.

Her voice reached out to him softly, lighting the 
comfortable darkness that embraced them. "When did 
you know, Mulder?"

He settled his chin into the hollow of her shoulder.  
"When did I know what?"

"When did you know this was going to happen?"  She 
asked the question gently, her voice laden with 
content, sleepy curiosity. 

 "When did I know it was going to happen or when did 
I know I wanted it to?"  He imagined he could see her 
forehead creasing slightly as she pondered it.  

"Well, I meant when did you know it was *going* to, 
but you bring up an interesting question.  When did 
you know you wanted it to?"

He nestled his chin further into the hollow of her neck, 
feeling her squirm beneath him.  "Ticklish?" he 
chuckled.

Her arms covered his at her waist, hugging herself 
tighter within his embrace.  "Maaaaybe.  You're 
avoiding the question."

"I'm thinking."

When had he known that he wanted Dana Scully?  
When hadn't he known?  He'd been attracted to her 
from the beginning, but early on, the feelings then had 
been hormonal, nothing more than single man meets 
single attractive woman.  Sure, there were moments of 
raging desire... her hand pulling down the fabric of his 
shirt, massaging his neck as she looked for traces of 
infection...a glimpse of something just this side of 
platonic in her eyes during a late night stake out...but 
those were surface longings.  He'd known it even 
then. When had it changed to something more?  

He briefly catalogued some of the cases they'd 
investigated, mentally rolling through the road trips, 
the cheap motels, the cheesy diners, and then through 
the less mundane milestones that marked their 
journey together.  Abductions.  Tragedies.  Anguish.  
Danger.  How could he separate all the elements that 
were so tightly woven into their history?

Still...certain moments of clarity stood out in his mind.  
Moments that has left such impact in his memory that 
the scars would never be healed.  An empty, crumpled 
rental car, abandoned in a ditch...regaining 
consciousness in a strange hospital to be met with the 
sight of her tired, beautiful face as she slept fitfully in 
a chair beside him...a terrified voice on his answering 
machine...and the chilling memory of a cold, granite 
headstone that marked the premature passing of one 
life -- and two souls.

"I knew for sure how much I wanted you the first time 
they separated us," he told her at last.  "The first time 
they closed the X-Files."

"Really?"  She sounded surprised.

"I suppose I'd felt it for some time before then, but that 
was when I really admitted it to myself, that I was 
miserable without you...on more than a professional 
level."

He felt her nod.  "What about the other?"

"You mean when did I know we were destined to wind 
up here?"

"Yeah."

He knew the answer, but he was loathe to say it.  He 
didn't want to darken the mood with somber 
recollections.  Moments like this were few, when they 
could distance themselves completely from the 
depravity that overwhelmed them so often.

"Mulder?"

"Braddock Heights."

Her body stilled ever so slightly against him.  "What?"

"Braddock Heights.  The videotapes.  When you got--"

"I know the case," she softly interrupted.  "I just can't 
imagine the connection between that and where we 
are now."  Her voice lowered to a whisper.  "I said 
terrible things to you."

He kissed her neck, letting his tongue caress her 
lightly until he began to feel her relax again.  "That 
wasn't you." 

"But still...I know it hurt when I accused you..."

"No."  He shook his head lightly against her hair, 
placing silent kisses upon the auburn strands. How 
like her to blame herself, he thought; and how like him 
not to have known she would.  "It wasn't anything you 
said or did."  

He wondered, not for the first time, how clouded her 
memories of the case actually were, how 
compromised her entire sense of reality had been.  
Did it still haunt her today, those hazy images of all 
her worse fears come to life?  Apparently, it did.

For Mulder, though, something else had come to life 
during that case, something that had shone upon him 
like a lighthouse beacon in the midst of a raging 
storm.  It was an epiphany for the ages:  Special 
Agent Dana Katherine Scully was his soul mate.

He felt his body stir automatically when his soul mate 
snuggled deeper into his embrace, her body wiggling 
deliciously against him.  "What was it, then, about that 
particular case?" she prodded.

She felt so incredibly warm and inviting.  His roaming 
fingers began stroking her stomach lightly, drawing 
small, invisible circles upon her flesh.  

"Do we really want to talk about this right now," he 
whispered. His hand ventured lower, stroking the soft 
triangle of hair between her legs.  He  heard the slight 
catch of her breath.  He was surprised when her hand 
moved down to cover his, stilling the motions of his 
fingers against her tender flesh.  

"I'd really like to know, Mulder."  Her voice was 
coaxing, filled with honest curiosity and the unspoken 
promise of understanding.

He ceased his wayward seduction for the moment, 
wrapping his arms around her, crossing them tightly 
underneath her breasts.  "I went to the morgue," he 
told her, quietly, staving off the revulsion that 
threatened to overwhelm him every time he thought of 
it.  "I went to identify your body."

She was silent, listening.

"I stood there behind those blinds thinking that I was 
going to see you on that table...praying that it wouldn't 
be you."  His throat constricted.

"It wasn't me," she whispered.  Her hand trailed down 
his arm to his wrist, pulling it from its tucked position 
so she could bring it to her mouth.  Softly, she 
brushed a kiss across each fingertip, then laced her 
own fingers with his.

He swallowed hard, regaining his voice.  "No.  It 
wasn't you.  But it was a turning point of sorts for me."

"How so?"

"Because that was when I knew that I wasn't going to 
spend another day of my life without you in it.  
Walking into that morgue was like keeping an 
appointment with the end of the world," he told her 
honestly, uncaring how needy it sounded.  "It was the 
second time I'd gotten a glimpse of what would be left 
of me without you.  And I just knew I would never let it 
happen again."

"It won't," she promised.

"No it won't.  I made myself that promise, and I've kept 
it."

She laughed suddenly, the sound shattering brilliant 
light over the somber shadows they'd been exploring.  
"You've kept it?"  Her voice rose in obvious 
amusement.  "You've kept a promise to yourself that I 
would never leave you?  That's quite an 
accomplishment, Mulder, even for you."

He chuckled at her description.  "Now who's twisting 
words?"

She didn't return to the deep introspection, and he 
was grateful.  Instead, she leveraged herself up on 
her elbow and turned in his arms until she faced him.   
Her breasts were pressed lightly against his chest, 
making him keenly aware that her nipples hardened 
instantly from the contact.  "So...if you had this big 
master plan, Mulder," she teased, threading her 
fingers through the hair on his chest, "why did it take 
us so long to get here?  Huh?  Braddock Heights was 
ages ago."

His mouth found hers and kissed it lightly, tugging her 
upper lip gently between his teeth.  "I know," he 
mumbled.  "But I had to wait for *you* to come 
around."  His tongue flicked into her mouth for only a 
second, eliciting a soft moan.  "I have to say, 
Scully...you're kinda slow on the uptake sometimes."

"Me?" she squeaked, pulling back.

"Mmmm hmmm."  He began kissing his way across 
her cheek.  "You've been a bit...indecisive."

"I have *not* been indecisive."

His hands reached low to cup her bottom, pulling her 
agonizingly close to him.  "No?" he smiled wickedly.  
"Then you tell me...when did *you* know you wanted 
this to happen?"

Her response was instant.  "When I saw Phoebe kiss 
you in the parking garage."

He stared at her in the darkness.  "That long ago?"  

"That long ago."

That surprised the hell out of him.  He'd have bet his 
last dollar Scully hadn't felt much more than 
professional camaraderie for him until some time well 
after her abduction.  

Her abduction.

Automatically, his stomach clenched when he thought 
of the months he'd spent without her.  He pushed 
them away, refusing to follow that train of thought.  
Those were memories better forgotten now; he had 
happier pursuits to occupy him tonight.

His tongue traced the edge of her jaw.  "That's a lot of 
wasted time," he conceded.  "I must be slipping."  He 
felt her shudder.

"Obviously."

His head settled on the pillow close to hers.  "I'm 
finding this very insightful," he said seriously.  
"Soooo...you wanted this to happen ever since 
Phoebe kissed me in the parking garage.  That 
answers the first question.  What about the second:  
when did you know this was *going* to happen?"

He heard the smile in her voice.  "Same moment."

His hoarse laughter severed the last remains of their 
cozy mood.  Of all the things she could have said, all 
the moments she could have pointed to, he was not 
prepared for that one.  So many years ago, so early in 
their partnership, Dana Scully had staked a claim on 
him that went unpursued until now.  To hell with 
slipping.  He was not slipping.

He was blind as a fucking bat.

Her body shook lightly as she joined in his continuing 
laughter.  "Well I was...unprepared.  I'd never had to 
compete for your time before."  

Compete?  There was no comparison.  Dana Scully 
was in a league Phoebe Green could only aspire to.  
He couldn't suppress the grin. "Okay.  Parking garage.  
Watch tower. I'm sensing a pattern here, Scully.  I'm 
gonna go out on a limb...you really can't stand, 
Phoebe, can you?"

She pushed her leg in between his, moving up as 
close as possible and tilted her head back to look up 
at him.  "Well I don't know if I'd go *that* far."  

His memory called up the image of a half-dressed 
Scully, high as a kite on Demerol, rattling on to him 
about Phoebe as if he'd been her oldest girlfriend.  
She hadn't even known who she was talking to.

<Mulder likes women with those long Barbie legs, like 
Fleabie.">

<"Who?">

<"Fleabie.  She was his girlfrin once, but there was a 
fire inna hotel and I hate her.">

Now she wouldn't go far enough to say she couldn't 
stand the woman?

Yeah.

Right.

He kissed the tip of her nose. "Okay.  You're a model 
of open-mindedness, and Phoebe doesn't bother you 
at all.  Got it."

Scully looked slightly offended.  "Don't patronize me, 
Mulder."  

God, she was fun to tease.  It was so damn easy to 
get under her skin.

"I didn't say she didn't bother me at all.  We both know 
that's not true.  I'm just saying that I think the phrase 
"can't stand her" is kind of strong.  I mean, I hardly 
know her.  I might not particularly admire the way she 
conducts herself on the job, but that's a professional 
opinion, not a personal one."

"Of course it is."  He kissed his way lightly toward her 
lips.

She fell silent for a moment.  "Mulder?"

"Mmmm?"

She dropped her head forward against him, hiding her 
face.  "I can't stand Phoebe."

His hand came up, threading into her hair, pulling her 
head back to look at him.  "Who?"  

Their mouths met lightly in a soft open kiss that left 
them both breathing hard when she slowly pulled 
away.

"Good answer," she smiled.

"I have my moments."

"So you keep telling me."  Her mouth covered his 
again, preventing any further conversation.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

1:27 a.m.

"I can't believe you're still harping on this."  Scully's 
fork stabbed at the remains of her cheese omelet as 
she polished it off with obvious enthusiasm.

She sat before him at the small table in her dining 
room, hair tousled from his roaming hands, lips full 
and inviting, still showing the evidence of his kisses.

"I'm not harping on it," he offered lightly.  "I just find it 
hard to believe I didn't know this about you after four 
years.  This is a very important dimension of your 
personality that you've been hiding from me all this 
time."

There was precious little of her hidden from him now, 
he acknowledged with whole-hearted approval.  She 
wore nothing but his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up 
past her wrists.  It was completely unbuttoned, giving 
him a delicious view of the dappled shadows that 
played across her swell of her breasts. That shirt had 
never looked better.  He'd imagined her in it before, 
slipping into it in the wake of their lovemaking.  The 
reality was more breath-taking than his wildest 
dreams.

"I wasn't hiding anything from you,"  Scully told him 
with affected disdain.  "There just haven't been many 
opportunities for you to see me in a kitchen before 
now."

"My point exactly."  He stifled a grin, swallowing the 
last bite of his own late night meal, washing it down 
with a long drink of iced tea.

"That doesn't mean I was hiding it from you."   She 
pushed back her chair and stood, the sudden 
movement separating the two halves of the shirt front 
even wider, gracing him an all-too-brief view of her 
nude body underneath.  Picking up her empty plate, 
she stacked it loudly on top of his own and carried 
them both to kitchen.

"Besides," she called out, "this is the nineties, Mulder.  
A lot of women don't cook."

"There's not cooking, Scully...and then there's 
`unable-to-make-toast.""

She came back into the dining room carrying the small 
vase of flowers, leaning over his chair to set them 
lightly in the center of the table.  She curled her head 
over his shoulder and brought her face close to his, 
kissing him soundly on the corner of his mouth. "You 
distracted me."

Her hair fell across his cheek like a silken veil, and he 
inhaled deeply, relishing the scent.  Was there any 
part of her body that wasn't excruciatingly appealing?  
He kissed her back softly, reeling from the knowledge 
that he could do so at will.  "That's a flimsy excuse, 
Agent Scully," he countered.  "To the best of my 
knowledge, I was equally engaged in those 
distractions...and did I burn the omelets?"

She refused to be baited.  "No, thank goodness.  I 
readily admit your culinary skills saved both our lives, 
Mulder.  Good to know one of us can cook."  She 
moved back to her own chair and sat facing him, one 
leg curled underneath her on the seat cushion.  His 
shirt slipped tantalizing low on her shoulder but 
managed to hold its place with an irritating disregard 
for the law of gravity.

"I can not tell a lie," he told her, lightly patting his bare 
stomach.  "Omelets and spaghetti with meat sauce.  
That's my entire repertoire."

"Well, you're ahead of me," she conceded.  "Although 
I'm not totally hopeless...I make a mean salad."  

"Perfect.  Between the two of us, we're a balanced 
meal."

"That's lovely, Mulder.  We should have that engraved 
on something."

She yawned, stretching her arms up high overhead as 
she did.  She swayed side to side for a moment, then 
bent low at the waist, stretching her arms out before 
her in a forward imitation of her previous stretch.  She 
was surprisingly limber.  He knew she worked out, but 
most of the time he saw her, she was dressed for 
office or field work, not recreation.  Whatever it was 
that she did in her off time to keep her muscles 
flexible, he was a firm believer in its effectiveness.

She straightened with a satisfied sigh and leaned 
forward on the table, cupping her chin in her hand.  
The movement was completely innocent, yet it was 
enough to spark a memory that was anything but.

Scully, in another place.

Leaning against another table.

In a comparable state of undress.

His mouth went dry, as he recalled that moment in the 
watch tower.  She'd been standing before him with her 
pants lowered, professionally instructing him on how 
to give her an injection of Demerol, patiently talking 
him through his nervousness at purposely piercing her 
flesh.  He'd tried so hard to pay attention to her words, 
and he'd been moderately successful...until she bent 
over that table.

The minute she leaned across that small rickety card 
table, all bets were off.  To hell with professional 
detachment.  All he could think about was his hands 
on her hips, tugging her back against his rock hard 
erection.  He'd done the only responsible thing, of 
course.  He'd mustered all his will power and stuck 
that needle into her hip, only to watch her hobble off to 
the other side of the room toward the shabby cot.  But 
while she was sleeping that night and nearly every 
night since, his thoughts had played that scenario a 
hundred times with a hundred variations.  The only 
constant was that heaven on earth began when Dana 
Scully bent forward over that table.

His body hardened uncomfortably as he explored the 
fantasy.  It never failed.  All he had to do was conjure 
up the image, and his erection was immediate.  It had 
nearly humiliated him on more than one occasion 
lately.  

"Mulder?"

He blinked.  "What?"

"I said you look like you're a million miles away."

Not a million.  Maybe eight or nine hundred...

"What were you thinking about?"

Deer in headlights.  

It wasn't what he was thinking about, but it sure as hell 
was how he felt.  Like a blinded animal frozen in fear 
of the immanent crash.

His silence did not go unnoticed.  She raised the ever-
speculative eyebrow in amusement.  "Now I'm *really* 
intrigued.  So tell me, Mulder.  Where did you go just 
now?"

Heaven.

He still didn't answer.  He just looked at her, sitting 
there in nothing but his wrinkled shirt while he 
weighed his options.  Mentally, he clutched the coin of 
fate, undecided whether he should pocket it and walk 
away, or flip it and take a chance on winning the 
lottery.  

The warring looks that crossed his face must have 
given the woman before him quite a show.  "Gee," she 
said coyly, "I thought the question was fairly 
straightforward and easy, but I guess I was wrong."  
She moved closer, as if speaking in confidence.  "Is it 
hard, Mulder?"

Yes.  God, yes.

"The question, that is."

She was enjoying his discomfiture, he realized.  "You 
just looked like you were thinking of something 
really... interesting."

You, lying across this table.  Me, standing behind 
you...interesting enough?

His mind had all the right answers, but the words 
wouldn't come.  He stared at her, feeling as though 
she had somehow cornered him.  He wanted to tell 
her, he realized.  That gleam in her eyes was too 
damn tempting.  God help him if she actually showed 
an interest in exploring the idea...  

Blood surged through him until the erection was 
painful, pushing hard against his briefs.  No, he 
couldn't.  Maybe sometime. Maybe even soon...but not 
now.  Not this first night together.

"It was nothing," he muttered.

She ducked her head to look under the table at his 
lap, grinning as she straightened back up.  "Must've 
been a pretty impressive nothing."

He felt himself flush slightly in embarrassment, and 
the knowledge stunned him.  He did *not* blush.  
Especially not over matters of sex.

"Let's change the subject."

"You know," she grinned, "before I looked under the 
table, I might have gone along with that.  But now I 
have to say...not a chance in hell.  You can't sit here 
and look at me like that and then not tell me what you 
were thinking."

"How was I looking at you?"

She leaned forward, causing the lowest side of the 
shirt to fall loosely to the crook of her elbow.  "Like 
you just finished your omelet appetizer and I'm about 
to become the main course."

The woman had a remarkable way with words.

His resolve was weakening.

Sturdy table.  Scully's beautiful bare ass pressing 
against him at just the right level...

"Come on, Mulder..." she coaxed.  "You know you 
want to tell me.  I can see it all over your face."

She'd seen it all over the rest of him too.  What the 
hell.  In for a penny, in for a pound.

Before he reconsidered, the confession tumbled out.  
"I was remembering that night in the watch tower," he 
told her pointedly.  "When I gave you that shot of 
Demerol."

She looked puzzled.  "When you gave me the shot?"

"Well it wasn't the shot I was thinking about."

"What were you thinking about?"

Say it, Mulder, he dared himself.  Just look her in the 
eye and say it.

"I was thinking about how I stood there and watched 
you bend over that table and  how every night since 
then, I've had fantasy after fantasy about reliving that 
moment with you."

It took a minute to sink in.  He saw the flash of 
awareness when she realized what he meant, and his 
heart caught.  He didn't flinch from her clear blue 
gaze, curious to see what kind of reaction she would 
have.  Curiosity?  Excitement? Revulsion?

What he saw was the last thing he expected.

Invitation.

Ever so slowly, her eyes never leaving his, Scully 
pushed herself back from the table and stood up, her 
movements seamless as she glided toward him with 
powerful, feline stealth.  The entire universe and 
everything in it stood still, watching her seductive 
approach.  He'd never seen anything like it.

For the first time in his thirty six years, Fox Mulder had 
no doubt of the existence of heaven.  It stood before 
him at this very moment, wearing a wrinkled white 
shirt and an expression that Botticelli himself couldn't 
have captured on his best day. 

She didn't say a thing, just waited patiently for him to 
rise, and when he did, she placed her hands on his 
upper arms, stretching up on her tiptoes to place a 
soft kiss against his lips.  Then she slowly turned her 
back to him and moved to stand in front of the table, 
looking over her shoulder to whisper the only thing 
she'd said since his confession.

"All right."

He watched, mesmerized, as her hands came up to 
the open collar of the shirt, pulling ever so gently on 
the two halves, parting them completely.  White cotton 
slid effortlessly down her arms, dropping like water 
from her fingertips into a pool on the floor.  

Even as his body screamed its need, he stood rooted 
to the floor, in awe of the fathomless trust that had 
been placed in his hands.  No qualms.  No hesitation.  
He'd told her his heart's desire and she'd given herself 
to him without question.

How did a person ever merit that kind of gift?  That 
was exactly what Scully was, he realized.  A gift.  
Something gracious bestowed upon him that he would 
endlessly strive to prove himself worthy of.

As if he ever could.

"Mulder?"

Her whisper pulled him back to her, and he heard the 
slight uncertainty in her tone -- uncertainty caused by 
his hesitation, not his admission.  

"No?"  Her voice sounded strange, choked with a mix 
of emotions, hurt...confusion...maybe some 
disappointment?

"Yes," he breathed.

He wrapped his arms around her slim waist, drawing 
her back against his chest.  "That wasn't hesitation," 
he whispered into her hair.  "That was a moment of 
reverence."

She pushed her bottom back firmly, rubbing against 
his cock.  The friction of her bare cheeks stroking 
back and forth against the cotton of his briefs made 
him groan in pleasure.  He was beyond the point of 
wanting.  His body ached with the fury of wanting her, 
every muscle rigid with the urgent need to bury 
himself in her small, tight body.  

Had it only been a matter of lust, he'd have taken her 
already.  He'd be two seconds from orgasm right now, 
uncaring if the entire world was ending around him.  
But this wasn't just a matter of slaking his lust.  
Somehow, it had even transcended the act of making 
love.  This was the ultimate measure of trust, and 
she'd placed it firmly in his hands without question.  
Here I am, her actions told him.  This is me at my most 
vulnerable.  I know you would never hurt me.

He never would.  Not even to realize a fantasy that 
had haunted every hour of his life for the past four 
weeks.

He lowered his head to hers, rubbing his nose and 
mouth softly back and forth across the top of her 
head.  "You don't have to do this," he whispered.  It 
was important to them both that he say it.  She had to 
know the decision was hers and hers alone to make.  
Even hers to take back if she wanted...if she needed 
to.

Scully's arm moved up high over her head, reaching 
back to cup his cheek.  She turned her head to look 
up at him as her voice reached him, soft and thick with 
emotion.  "I've never been anyone's fantasy before."

His heart melted completely.  She had no idea how 
beautiful she was.  He bent to kiss her parted lips, 
pulling her bottom lip between his teeth and tugging 
gently before releasing it to the ministrations of his 
tongue.  "You have," he told her honestly.  "So many 
times I can't count."

She turned forward and pressed her bottom against 
him again. His hand splayed flat against her abdomen, 
and he heard a little mewling sound in the back of her 
throat, an expression of need that seemed as great as 
his own.  For one fleeting moment, he thought it was 
the most arousing thing he would ever hear.  The very 
next second proved him wrong.

"Please..."

The last of his self-control shattered.

Mulder freed himself from the constricting fabric of his 
briefs, and kicked them aside, inching closer to press 
himself intimately against her cheeks.  With each 
passing second, the desperation was growing.  If he'd 
had any doubt that Scully wanted this as much as he 
did, the anguished sound of her own desire, begging 
him to touch her, wiped it away completely.  

He wanted the all of it, the whole experience.  He 
wanted to take her completely, ravishing her body 
until she screamed with the force of her need.  He'd 
heard the sound before, in his dreams, and it was 
soul-shattering.  Was Scully one to scream in the 
throes of passion?  She hadn't yet revealed that 
answer to him, but Mulder knew one thing with 
absolute certainty:  it would take more than a few soft 
words and caresses to find out.

"Mulder--"  She arched her back, pressing her head to 
his shoulder with deliberate slowness.  A moment 
later, she began to sink low against him, her knees 
bending deep as she continued the journey south, 
pressing her back and shoulders firmly against his 
chest, his stomach, his groin...

Her hair spread out around his erection, parting of its 
own volition, capturing him in a prison of auburn silk.  
When she shook her head slowly, rubbing against 
him, the contact was devastating.

He bit the inside of his cheek in a last-ditch effort to 
maintain control.  It hurt like hell, but it pulled him back 
from the edge.  He reached down, curling his fingers 
tightly into her hair, tugging her up until she stood 
before him again.  He didn't release her, but instead 
pulled her head to the side, baring her neck to his 
hungry mouth.  

She moaned when he nipped at the sensitive hollow 
of her throat.  His teeth, his tongue, his breath 
explored every inch of the her neck and shoulder, 
alternately biting and sucking, licking and nibbling his 
way lower.  She lifted her arm as his mouth grazed a 
path across it.

His body was on fire,  throbbing against her.  He was 
desperate to ease the ache, Scully's soft keening 
cries spurring him on.  He pressing tighter against the 
curve of her bottom, his cock lightly stroking up and 
down between her cheeks.  He couldn't stand it 
another second.

"Now, Scully..."   He stepped one foot between her 
legs, nudging her feet further apart as he pressed 
himself against her.  She curled her fingers around the 
edges of the table and slowly bent down, until she was 
almost at a ninety degree angle, her entire upper body 
resting upon the table top, her legs spread wide to the 
floor.

She looked back at him with the most seductive 
expression he'd ever seen in his life.  "Do you want 
me to say it?" she whispered.

Jaw clenched, he placed his hands on her hips, 
positioning himself against her hot, wet core.  "Say it."

She turned her head away, laying her cheek against 
the smooth surface, her fingers clutching the table 
edges in anticipation.  "Take me, Mulder."

He thrust into her sharply, hearing her cry out at the 
initial intrusion, but he didn't stop this time.  He 
couldn't.  Her body was like an exquisite silken vice, 
holding him so tightly that he thought he would die 
from the sheer pleasure of it.  

There was no preamble.  No easing their way into it.  
As soon as he felt her body yield to him, he began 
strong, deep movements within her.  Without her legs 
raised against him in response, her body was even 
tighter, increasing the intensity of sensations he found 
in her intimate embrace.

She couldn't meet his movements.  She'd been eager 
and deliciously responsive the first time they'd made 
love, but this time the tempo was his to command, and 
he was relentless, pushing them both to the limit with 
every thrust.  Each time he would nearly withdraw 
from her body, and each time he surged back even 
harder a second later.  His hands held firmly to her 
hips steadying her to the strength of his movements.  

Hard and fast, he drove into her, watching her hands 
tighten around the smooth wood.  Her knuckles 
whitened, and the table shook violently beneath them.

The sound of trembling glass and melting ice 
accentuated every move they made.  Mulder's empty 
glass was the first casualty, shimmying toward the 
edge of the tabletop and plunging over the side as the 
small flower arrangement waged a battle of its own.  A 
few inches beyond the top of Scully's head, the vase 
trembled with ever-increasing frenzy, water sloshing 
out from both sides as it pitched back and forth.  
Finally, it succumbed to the moment, toppling over. 
Flowers escaped one by one in time with Mulder's 
movements, rolling across the shaking wood,  a poetic 
accompaniment to every breathless moan of the 
woman whose body they surrounded.

"Oh God...Mulder..."

Scully slid her arms up further across the dark wooden 
slab, her hands still clutching the edges.  The stretch 
elongated her upper torso, causing her legs to clench 
together ever so slightly.  It was a small adjustment, 
but Mulder cried out from sheer rapture when he felt 
the inside of her body clench around him even tighter.  
He was gasping now with the force of every thrust, 
and she answered him each time with a soft moan of 
her own.

He felt his impending orgasm far too soon...long 
before he was ready.  But he had no more control over 
the approaching abyss than he had over his body's 
instinctive response to Dana Scully.  Some things 
were too powerful to fight, especially when defeat was 
meted out with sensations this exquisite.  A couple 
more thrusts and he came hard and fast, unable to 
stave off the climax any longer.  His entire body 
shuddered with overwhelming release.  Dazed, he 
held on, bending low over Scully to ride out the 
sensations, his chest pressed tightly against her bare 
back as he spent the last of his passion within her.

His own body began to still, the waves of orgasm 
receding slowly, but Scully continued to move beneath 
him, her soft moans telling him what he already 
knew...he'd left her hanging.  He hadn't been able to 
wait this time.  He kissed the back of her neck, so 
tantalizingly presented within reach of his lips, then 
pushed himself upright, breathing hard.  He withdrew 
from her body as he stood, legs trembling.  

Scully began to gather herself as he moved away from 
her.  Panting, she unclenched her hands and flexed 
them, forcing circulation to return.  She slid back 
toward him, smoothing her palms along the flat 
surface of the table into the spilled mixture of water 
and wildflowers.  He reached to help her, his hands 
sliding underneath her stomach from the sides, 
scooping her up from the table. He pulled her against 
him easily so that they were in a vertical spooned 
postion.

She was heavy in his arms, her body half-limp from 
stiffness and unfulfilled desire.  Allowing him to 
support her, she found her balance slowly, still 
shaking against him, fighting for the release he'd 
denied her.  She looked up, breathless, but the smile 
she gave him was beatific.

"Enjoy yourself?" she panted.

He shifted her weight to one arm and reached low with 
the other, threading his fingers through the damp hair 
between her legs. "Yes I did," he breathed.  "Now I get 
to finish enjoying you."

One finger slid inside, stroking the hot moisture deep 
within her.  She moaned loudly, the sound 
encouraging him to repeat the movement again, faster 
and harder.  When he did, her knees began to buckle.

Without breaking their position, Mulder inched 
cautiously backward, bringing Scully with him, until he 
felt the chair against the backs of his legs.  He sat, 
keeping his legs together and pulled her down to 
straddle his lap.  She leaned back, resting against his 
chest, her legs dangling on either side of his.  With no 
hesitation, she reached for his hand and pulled it low 
between her legs.

His fingers found her easily, but it wasn't enough.  The 
woman on his lap responded instantly to his every 
touch, but he wanted more for her.  He wanted her 
wild.  He wanted even more of her body's secrets 
exposed to his touch.  He moved his own legs apart, 
spreading them wide, forcing hers to open even wider 
around him.

When his fingers found her again, she screamed, 
throwing her head back against his shoulder.  This 
was what he had wanted. This was the image of his 
dreams.  Dana Scully, outside herself with passion, 
mindless from the feeling of his body, his hands, 
pressing against her...stroking...thrusting...

She came as forcefully as he had, crying out his 
name, and the sound broke over him like another 
fulfillment of his own passion.  To be responsible for 
that catch in her voice, the uncontrollable shaking of 
her head back and forth against his neck, was as 
satisfying as anything he'd ever known.  Dana Scully 
was not a woman who easily lowered the barriers that 
surrounded her.  To see her at her most vulnerable --
like this, with him -- was an experience he would 
treasure with perfect clarity until the day he died.

Ever so slowly, their infinitesimal world began to 
expand once more, letting in the images of reality that 
had discreetly kept their distance.  The world still 
existed, Mulder realized, though his perception of it 
was hazy, clouded no doubt by the luminescence of 
the red-haired beauty in his arms.

The beauty stretched contentedly.  "Wow."

He could only nod.

She looked down, a puzzled frown crossing her face.  
He followed the direction of her gaze.  In her left hand, 
she held a single camellia, still in one piece but 
slightly crumpled, showing tell tale signs of damage 
from its erotic journey from vase to table to chair.  

"What the..."

She looked toward the table, her eyes widening.  
Water and flowers were everywhere.  His glass of tea 
lay on the carpet in a soggy puddle of melting ice.  A 
rumpled pile of cotton consisting of a white shirt and a 
pair of Calvin Klein underwear completed the decor.  

"Mulder?"

"Hmmm?"  He expected her to comment on their 
destructive sexual rampage, but when she spoke, he 
found himself equally surprised.

"Why is my table all the way out in the hallway?"

He did a double take.

Sure enough, the table was a good three feet away 
from its normal position.  He couldn't suppress the 
laugh.  "I don't know, Scully, maybe it's just me...but I 
think we're pretty good at this."

She turned in his arms, her eyes sparkling as she 
offered him the crumpled flower.  "I'd have to say, 
Agent Mulder, that we definitely have our moments."


END


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