From: Nicolette Date: Wed, 16 Jun 1999 14:10:43 -0400 Subject: My first fan fic TITLE: Yin And Yang AUTHOR: Nicolette E-MAIL: cheri@tiac.net CATEGORY: SR KEYWORDS: Mulder / Scully Romance RATING: NC-17, but only for a bit. The rest R for language & adult situations. SUMMARY: A long weekend gives Mulder and Scully a chance to ponder their complex relationship. SPOILERS: FTF, Milagro, and most of the way through season six. FEEDBACK: Oh, golly, yes, please. This is my first effort, so be gentle. But I need to know?. send responses to : cheri@tiac.net ARCHIVE: Gossamer, and elsewhere only by permission , with my e- mail, name, and credits listed. DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter, DD, GA, and all the folks at 1013. Bless their hearts. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to Peter Keeley, for inspiring me to begin writing again, to Rachel Anton and Dasha K for hooking me on wonderful fan fiction, to SP for being an encouraging beta reader and again to Rachel for her support and great suggestions. ******************************************************** Yin And Yang Here was the sweet moment for which he waited with every breath in his body, every day of his life. The one guaranteed perfect moment of each day. The moment she walked into the office and said good morning to him, rolling his name off her perfect lips with alliterative syncopation . "'Morning, Mulder." Same ritual, every morning. After six years, none of the monotony of a long partnership had set in, the dread of yet another day with the same face. No, this moment was what he woke for, lived for, every day of his life. She would appear in the doorway, say her hello, step forward, and in a swift, fluid movement, remove her suit jacket. In that movement, the faintest whiff of her light, herbal perfume would waft under his chin, forcing him to dip his head to breathe it in. Head hung, he would watch her sit down across from him through heavy- lidded eyes. "Hey," he would respond casually. Then the hair. She would toss it lightly with a circular motion of her neck as she reached into her bag for her glasses, and perch them midway down the bridge of her nose. Then she would read files, or boot her computer and log on, align herself for the day. This gave him time to sneak tiny peeks at her, appearing engrossed in his own files. Her lips, red hot cinnamon candies, small and full, gooey with fresh lipstick, and, he guessed, tasting as sweet and spicy. Her eyes, crystalline blue and shining tiny diamonds there, reflecting the light of her desk lamp. The creamy, milky white of her cheek, smooth skin over the sharp planes of her cheek bones, so delicate and soft, he longed to lap at it like a kitten. By this point he was falling deep into a fantasy, of slipping off her clothes, caressing and dusting every inch of her with tiny kisses. Inevitably, only when his cock was at full mast, would she decide to address him. "So, what's up?" He would blink his eyes for a moment, coming out of his reverie, and grin sheepishly, dying to share the joke with her, all the while scooting himself closer to his desk to protect against discovery. As his grin broadened, he laced his hands behind his head and thought a moment. "We have a meeting with the yearly budgetary review board in a half hour. Other than that, anything goes, Scully." He almost winked, but thought better of it and shrugged carelessly instead, still beaming at her. She clearly was not amused. "Great. I love those meetings. They are almost as much fun as a root canal. How long should it run?" "Probably right into lunch. Any plans?" he ventured, trying not to sound eager. She responded by holding up a small container of lemon yogurt in one hand, and a tiny Rubbermaid tub of granola in the other. "'C'mon, Scully, my fish eat more than that. I tell you what. Today, I'm taking you to lunch." He knew the badger and order approach didn't usually work with her, but the words fell out before he could recover his best social graces. He was feeling brave today, especially playful. "I don't think I'm really ready for yet another trip to the Slurp and Burp Diner on 8th, Mulder. My arteries can't take much more of that chili..." She was grinning mischievously, his good mood a bit contagious. "No, no. Someplace reasonable. How 'bout Margarita's?" "A little greasy for my taste, but okay, Mulder, you're on. C'mon. Let's get upstairs before Skinner comes looking for us. " ******************************************************** Three and a half hours. Excruciating detail to so many things he cared for not a whit. His stomach was rudely growling and he could think of nothing but watching Scully lick salsa off a burrito. Not very subtle, but the image and ensuing fantasies sure helped the time pass quickly. She was methodically destroying the end of a ball point pen, chewing and nibbling it to a flat nub, unwittingly encouraging his fantasy. After every rumble of his stomach, she would glance sharply at him, as if that impatient stare would humble his gut into silence. Then blissfully, finally, Skinner was closing the meeting and pulling them aside. He stood and stretched, coming up behind Scully to catch the end of their conversation. "...And so I see no reason why you should stay on for the rest of the day. Take the time off, and," Skinner was addressing him, "I'll expect to see your final budget report first thing Monday." . "O.K., I guess that about does it." He guided Scully out of the conference room, into the elevator. "I thought that meeting would never end. Are you as hungry as I am?" He pushed the button for the garage. "Oh, you still want to do lunch?" She asked, looking a bit surprised. " I figured since we were given some time off, I might just head home, eat there and work on some other stuff." His face fell instantly. "I'm starved, Scully, and I got my heart set on some tacos and a margarita. Don't tell me I'm gonna go it solo?" He tried to keep his tone light, but it felt like the beginning of a long, lonely weekend. "Sorry, Mulder. My waistline just can't take too much more of that greasy food you mysteriously thrive on. How 'bout a rain check?" The elevator stopped and she stepped out, fishing for her keys in her bag. "See ya Monday, Mulder." ******************************************************** He lay back on the black leather couch, its all too familiar crunch-and- slide sounds sighing out under his shifting weight. Sprawled with his long legs dangling over the armrest, his hands resting on his stomach, Mulder settled the length of his body into the well-worn contours molded in the cushions. A remote control dangled in his right hand, the blue light of the TV, mood lamp, and fish tanks casting a dull electric glow over his face. "Today was such a long day," he thought, with remainder of the long lonely weekend looming before him. He had come home from the office nearly three hours ago, putting in extra hours this Saturday to complete Skinner's request for the budgetary review, and more importantly, to pass the weekend more quickly. On week nights, the cab ride to his apartment passed by unnoticed. Buried in paperwork, files and photos, it seemed only moments later the cabby would gruffly inform him the $17.00 fare was due. But tonight he carried nothing home save his cell phone. The ride droned on, past dingy streets and tired faces, through endlessly long red lights, until finally his apartment building appeared. Trudging up the dusty wooden stairs, he found his way to his door and fumbled inside, kicking off his shoes by the door. Tossing his suit coat on the coffee table, he wandered into his newly furnished bedroom and pulled his tie loose. It landed absently on the bed, followed by his blue oxford shirt and charcoal gray suit pants. His black socks fell to the floor by the bureau, as he rummaged for his sweat shorts and tank tee shirt. Once he was dressed again, he headed out for his nightly run. He ran his usual route, winding through various side streets, toward the park. The run was usually his therapy, his cleansing. He would sort through the events of the day, going over case details, his streaming sweat and hard even breaths somehow focusing his thoughts, opening pathways for clearer insights. But tonight running in the oppressive heat and humidity only served to cloud his mind, bringing on a throbbing headache, forcing him to slow his pace. He found himself home a good twenty minutes shy of his usual time. The shower went on, full force, hot steam billowing out of the stall, misting the mirror. He stepped in and leaned hard on the wall, the heat beating his body, turning his bones to putty. Florally herbal shampoo smells filled the room, and mixed strangely with the mint tang of toothpaste and oatmeal soap. With a tired sigh, he twisted the shower off and stepped out. With a rough towel dry, he threw on clean khaki shorts and a gray T-shirt, and headed for the couch for a long evening of mundane television. Flipping through the channels absently, he found himself drifting in and out of catnaps. Disjointed images floated around him as he half woke. Her face. Her sharply blue eyes. Her hair shining as she turned toward him. The full shape of her lips. These images dancing around grotesque photographs from the cases they had shared. Drifting in and out of beauty and horror. The defining elements of his existence. As a commercial loudly blared its way into the room, he jolted awake, his heart hammering, sweat leaping to his forehead. Realizing the television was the culprit, he sat back again. "What a long day," he murmured again. He was decidedly depressed. He had missed her Friday afternoon, had put too much anticipation into their lunch plans, and had been sorely disappointed when she went home. He had longed for her physical presence, and had let his cock do the thinking for him. It was so easy for him to fantasize about her when she was with him. Her smells and beauty drove him to distraction, he saved himself exposure only by his quips. Which likely were what pissed her off. She had worked so hard to avoid harassment, to prove herself competent in a man's profession, and he frequently voiced all those misogynist one-liners she undoubtedly fought against daily. No wonder she bolted out on Friday. Her solitary, lonely life was better than spending time with someone who held her back, cut her down. And what an unfair assumption. Was Scully really lonely? He wanted to imagine it, that she missed him as much as he did her on these long weekend afternoons. But she was strong. She had outside interests. He felt sure of it. Not that she had ever told him about any of them. Or that they talked about anything personal. He preferred to escape the dangers of granting his complete trust with jokes and sexual innuendo, while she sidled away with silences and stony glances, sharp replies to any questions cutting too close to who she was on the inside. He didn't really blame her for distancing herself. Considering how many painful physical and emotional incidents her association with him had caused, he was often amazed she hadn't walked away already. He was desperate and terrified when she nearly did last summer. So terrified that for a moment he had let down his guard, and had spoken the unspoken truths between them. His need for her. And she had stayed on. And suffered on, with several new attempts on her life this year. Even more depressed and now guilt ridden as well, he realized he was hungry and had nothing in the apartment. "Well," he thought "I guess am gonna make it to Margarita's this weekend after all." ******************************************************* Scully sat sprawled on her white couch, fan blowing in an oscillating rotation, sweeping past her, and back again. Over and over, the air lifted her hair away from her temples, as she sat sweating into the woolly fabric. It was a hot, steamy Saturday, and as the sun began to set on the angry traffic noises outside, she breathed a lazy sigh, knowing the evening would bring cooler temperatures. The central air was on the fritz again. Of course, the super, who managed two other apartment complexes, was unavailable until Sunday afternoon. So, she sat quietly in her living room, trying not to move much, to relax on a rare day off. She had spent most of the day reading, sitting in a cool bathtub. It was her favorite luxury, the gentle hiss of bubbles dissipating around her . She lost herself in Beryl Markam's West With the Night. Beryl was hunting with Baron Von Blixen, Isak Dinesen's husband, and it made Scully wonder at the means by which so many women prepare themselves to go through their lives beside a driven man. Beryl had walked beside those men, had in a natural way, assumed her place among men, her right to hunt with them, raise horses with them, and fly airplanes with them. She did so in the 1930's, when a woman other than wife was largely invisible. Isak Dinesen, of Out of Africa fame, had pried her way forcefully into Africa, making a name for herself as business woman and benefactor, while her husband wandered off with hunting expeditions and other women. And while the world had changed much for women since these ones carved out their niches, Scully thought of her own endeavors to make a name for herself, to distinguish herself, beside her own driven partner. Surely, as a survivor of medical school, a female doctor, pathologist and FBI agent, she had proved her metal, her ability to succeed in so many endeavors that granted women so little leeway. Yet she did not base her self worth on these accomplishments. While surely she was proud of her victories, trying to prove to herself and her absent father that she was made of a stronger stuff, she still found her esteem wanting. She knew she was beautiful, and certainly intelligent. And yet, to so often be proven wrong by Mulder's irrational theories, wild hypotheses that had solved their cases more often than her scientific, logical ones had, it left her feeling her efforts at self definition were lacking substance. It left her feeling uncertain and unsure, inadequate. She had certainly bought into the traditional male model of thought. Logic, reason, science. These were clearly the means to satisfying ends. To sound answers to all life's complex questions. It had been her survival m.o., to be accepted as "one of the guys" with her brothers, to gain praise from her military father, to get past the harsh treatment of her peers in medical school, and to gain acceptance at the academy. It had worked for her then, left her feeling sure of herself and her ability to find answers, find the truth. Confident in the same ways Beryl Markam and Isak Dinesen were confident of their innate strengths, despite gender stereotypes. Until she was partnered with Mulder. How casually Mulder discarded her science, her anchor, preferred to operate on his gut level, on instinct and emotion. More often than not, his intuition bore out well for him. She was, at a deep level, jealous of his freedom, afforded him simply because he was a man. For if she were to pursue cases on such an instinctual level, she would undoubtedly be labeled unprofessional, too emotional. The highest insult for a woman. And perhaps that was why Mulder was so unfavorably regarded. Because he let such traditionally feminine traits guide his method. It was strange, how they had traded roles. She wondered if he was ever equally jealous of her dogged loyalty to science. He carrying the feminine, and she the masculine, role. He had been right last summer to say she made him a whole person. He did complete her as well, granting her vicarious access to a feminine vision of the world which she would not claim herself . Yin and yang, together they formed the full circle, and was likely the reason for the high rate of success in solving their cases. Pondering this strange nature of her relationship with Mulder, she stepped out of the chilly tub and dried off, donning a gray tee shirt and underwear. As the water drained, she went to the kitchen, poured herself a tall iced tea, and settled in on the couch in front of the fan, watching the glass sweat onto the table. ******************************************************** By 9:00 he was past the point. Fall off your bar stool, sloppy drunk. His shirt unbuttoned, hair rumpled, wallowing in self pity, lost in memories. He lounged heavily, foggy and morose, thinking of the years he had shared with Scully. He wondered when he had first fallen in love with her. It was probably that first case, how she had trusted him, nearly a stranger, enough to bear her body and fear before him. Her vulnerability and strength, at that moment, had won his heart, and his trust as well. He had told her his quest that night, his deepest secret, his driving force, his darkest hour. She had embraced that quest as her own over the past six years, and they had found soul mates in each other through it. Yet though they both knew this, the love between them was their unspoken secret, their silent pact. To never breach the professional distance between them. He thought of their most recent case involving his neighbor, Padgett. How powerless she had been, against any of it. She had seemed so unlike herself, so out of control, like that time in Philly getting that tattoo. And yet, in the end, she had clung to him. He had come to save her, and she had shown him a rare moment of fear and vulnerability, as she had on that first case. But now, they were no longer strangers, but two halves of a whole. She had clutched at him as though he were her anchor to life, to safety and sanity. And he had closed his eyes in silent prayer to God or whatever powers that be, for her, holding him, alive and safe. But by the time the paramedics had arrived, the moment had passed. She was somewhat calmed down, smoothing her jacket and hair, and quietly responding to the EMT's questions. He went to the hospital with her, holding her hand in the back of the ambulance, sitting in silence with her. Padgett's words sat unspoken between them during that ride. "Agent Scully is already in love." And when she looked up at him to perfunctorily thank him for being with her, he saw her eyes darken with emotion as she recognized what he was offering her. She was seeing through his eyes, seeing his thoughts. Him similarly in a hospital bed. Professing his love for her, with a soul shaking clarity and depth. And she finally recognized he had meant it. It was not the drugs talking that day. She smiled at him, looking into his eyes, silently acknowledging what she could now see was between them. He had thought, "This is it," and prepared to swallow his fear and pride and tell her again, kiss her, make love to her, make her his wife. But then the ambulance stopped. The orderlies shuttled her away for the necessary paperwork and exam. By the time she was settled in her room, she was behind her wall again. And they were back to their old sidestep and avoid dance. In the following weeks, he had let the disappointment and bitterness of that lost moment seep away into their familiar routine, out of necessity, for he could not bear to be angry with her, or have her avoid his gaze. He had come again to try to find peace in that perfect moment, of her smell and the ease of their morning greeting ritual. But now, drunk and lonely, frustrated and missing her, he wanted more than just that one perfect moment a day. In his haze, he decided he wanted every moment with her. He found himself paying his tab, hailing a cab, and giving the driver her address. ******************************************************** He leaned heavily on the frame of her door for a long while before he got up the courage to knock. He heard her footsteps come to the door, and then using her G-Woman voice, "Who is it?" "It's me, Scully," he tried to respond clearly, but through his fog could hear himself slur her name. "Mulder?" She opened the door and half caught him as he stumbled in. "Mulder, are you all right?!" she was all examining his head with her hands and making a worried face, until he exhaled. She stepped back, suddenly stern. "Mulder, are you drunk?" "Uh, Scully, I, " He tried to think of where to start, but couldn't get his brain to find a solid coherent sentence. "I better sit down," was all he could manage. He plopped himself down on her couch, knowing he was only pissing her off. Again. He was sobering a bit, and it was eking away at the confidence he had felt at the bar. The heat in the apartment was oppressive, and knowing he was there for his confession, the combination was making his stomach knot up tightly. "I think you better go home, Mulder. Let me call you a cab." She was brusque then. She tried to yank him off the couch by his wrists, but ended up falling onto his heavy body, straddling his legs. The sudden closeness of her, the sharpness of her smells, right there, inches away, brought him suddenly alert. He was still drunk, but shocked into that strange misty clarity and honesty of being half drunk. Her hands were still clasped around his wrists, and he lifted his head to look deep in her eyes. "I love you Scully." A single long stream of sweat ran down his temple, forming a droplet on his jaw line. "Mulder," her face furrowed and she started to move off him, but he firmly grasped her hands and held them down at his waist, holding her to his chest, sitting her on his lap. "Mulder, let me go." "Did you hear me?" he managed to slur out, boring his eyes into hers, as she tried to look away and loosen his grip, twisting her wrists in half circles. "Yes, I heard you. You seem to say that every time you are under the influence." She jerked her wrists upwards and was free, swinging her leg over his long ones. She backed away and stood by the doorway to the kitchen. "Mulder, it's late, and you are in no condition to talk this out. I'm making you coffee and calling you a cab. I will call you tomorrow morning and you can tell me what happened today." As she spoke, his head and arms had fallen, chin on his chest, hands lying palm up on the sofa cushion. He looked ill and defeated. " I, ?.I'm sorry Scully. I don't need any coffee. I'll go now." He was lurching forward and headed toward the door. "Mulder, sit down. It'll only be a minute?" But he was already out the door. She stood a moment in the door frame of the kitchen, sweating and feeling sick, then headed for her bedroom to get dressed. ******************************************************** She was furious. This was the second time he had professed his inebriated love to her. She was overwhelmed with anger when he said it. Clearly, it had been another lonely Saturday for him, likely as lonely as hers had been. But his ridiculous male ego had let the booze talk for his dick, rather than speaking to her from his heart. Maybe he had watched too many of his damn videos today, and had wanted the real thing. She guessed he had figured "I love you" were the right words to get her to drop her shorts, once she felt how hard he was under her. How sophomoric. How infuriating. After six years of closely guarding her emotions, how could he expect her to swoon at his admission? Didn't he understand her esteem, as a doctor, agent, hell, as a woman in a man's world, depended on her ability to distance herself from just this kind of emotionally charged situation? He was a psychologist. He knew her childhood. Two brothers, military father. There was no room for emotional outburst or contrived drama in her life, then or now. Of course, he probably did understand. Not only was he a psychologist, he, too, had suffered under a strict disciplinarian and was rejected by his father for his sentimentality and emotionalism. Mulder was a smart man, an educated man. So if he did understand her need to hold back, why come to her all sloppy drunk and force her onto his erection? Why not just tell her sober? Appeal to her with reason, as he had last summer, explaining how she made him whole? But that was an extreme situation, for neither of them had anything to lose. They had lost the x-files, their partnership was dissolved, she was being transferred. Maybe he could only speak those truths when he had nothing to lose. As he had last summer, as he had all doped up in Bermuda, and tonight, blasted on her couch. What if he needed that mental release to break through the wall she had forced between them? He did respect her. She knew that much. That was never in question. He would never intentionally hurt her. He had left her behind on many cases to protect her from harm, had cried at her hospital beside when he couldn't protect her. He wasn't trying to insult her tonight. He was trying to get through to her, in his twisted, adolescent way. She did believe that he loved her. Those were the right words. She loved him as well. She had known it for some time, had surprised herself when she realized it, last summer when they had nearly kissed in his hallway. He had said all the right words then, everything save "I love you.". She had been surprised at the speed with which the realization had overpowered her emotions. Without the interruption of her infection and abduction, she likely would have surrendered herself to him that day. She had felt the love between them in the ambulance, after the incident with his neighbor Padgett. He had held her hand, and his gaze had been electric. But once she was at the hospital, she couldn't let go of her desire for a simpler life, an easier path. She always imagined she would fall in love with someone more practical, more predictable. Someone who would bring her stability and normalcy. She wouldn't have been in the hospital, that time and so many others, if it wasn't for her association with him. She had put her wall back up before he had been allowed into her room, and they had returned to their dance of denial. She couldn't let go of the fairy tale vision she held of her life and had shut him out. It had hurt those first few weeks, but he had seemed playful recently. Resigned to accept their professional distance, sprinkled with occasional flirting, as he had on Friday morning. She had ran from lunch with him, mostly out of fear. Fear of off hours time with him, when little, save their unspoken passion for each other lay between them to discuss. She was still too afraid then to let go of her dream of a normal life. But her life was so far afield from normalcy, extreme in it's irregularity, she had spent the day today considering just what her place in the world might be. Just what her place might be with Mulder. It was easier to remain hopeful that one day she might be a wife, with the white picket fence, 2.5 kids. Less painful than to face the reality, that she would never be a mother, never have a normal life. Not with Mulder, anyway. So what kind of a life did she want? One without Mulder? Be a doctor, buy a big house, meet another doctor at a charity function, try to live happily ever after? With all she had been through, she could never be satisfied with that life. She had developed a symbiosis with Mulder. They fed each other, completed each other. She loved the challenges of their work together, but more importantly, loved the excitement of the unpredictable life they shared. Loved his raw emotion, his wild spontaneity, all the things she had closed off in herself. As she came up to the steps of his apartment, running sweat and calves aching, she felt a peace settle upon her. She had spent the day reading, thinking, questioning and searching. Here was her answer. She always ended up here. Seeking out Mulder. She belonged here. And like Beryl Markham and Isak Dinesen, she had a difficult road ahead, in this man's world. She would have to find a balance, between her professional face, all hard edges and strict science, and a softer face, one she discovered she wanted to show Mulder, tonight. She would find it though. She no longer had a doubt. She was strong. And in love. ******************************************************** He had just barely made it home and to his bathroom before he had thrown up everything he had consumed at the restaurant. He sat on the cool floor, resting his head against the porcelain, tears running down his face. Twice now she had rejected him. Was it any wonder? How pathetic his appeal had been, coming to her like an adolescent, thinking his admission of love would have her swooning. She had seen right through him, seen his loneliness as desperation. Except that he had meant it, wanted her to see how desperately he wanted to be with her, every moment of every day. And now, to have to face her tomorrow, for he had heard her say she would call, and apologize for holding her against his straining cock, his painful physical manifestation of the passion he felt for her in his heart. Maybe he would be "out" tomorrow, let the machine pick up all day. Wait until Monday to face the music. Yeah, more adolescent avoidance, greater evidence of his apparent emotional immaturity. That would really convince her of his sincerity. He stood slowly, leaning heavily on the toilet seat, and made his way carefully to the kitchen. No sudden moves, just going to get some water, to get the awful taste of rice, tequila and bile from his mouth. As he crossed the living room, there were footsteps in the hall, followed by a sharp knock at the door. He knew it was her from the particular cadence of her footsteps. He plopped himself on the couch, resting his pounding head in his hands. "Go away, Scully." "Mulder, let me in. We really need to talk." Her voice sounded firm, but gentle. "Please." "I am really not feeling well right now. Could this please wait until tomorrow?" he moaned out, regretting that he had ever given her a key to his place. "No, Mulder, it can't. Look, I can't wait out here all night. Please let me in." She sounded anxious. Worried. Not at all what he expected. She clearly wasn't going to take no for a answer, and he was curious at her tone. He stood up holding his head, and let her in. "Scully, I..." She walked through the door and encircled her arms around his waist. "Mulder, sshhh. It's okay." She raised her chin slowly, and looked up into his eyes. And smiled. She smiled. Actually smiled. Let him know with one glance that she forgave him. That he wasn't a complete ass. He slid his hands down her arms and took her hands, leading her over to the couch. She sat beside him, still holding his hand. It was so soft in his and he let his fingertips trace the bones along the back of it. She seemed shy now, looking down, and leaned in to him hesitantly, placing her other hand on his jaw. She tilted his head down and placed an open mouthed kiss over his eyebrow. He was instantly hard, but this time shuffled a bit to conceal it. He certainly didn't want a replay of the encounter at her place. But when he looked in her eyes, he saw he had nothing to fear. Nothing to conceal. Her pupils were dark and wide with desire and love. Her eyes darted all around his face, looking in his own eyes, searching down to his full lips. They leaned into each other, kissing hotly with open mouthed passion. "Muluh," she gasped airily into his mouth, his name mangled in the heat of their kiss. She swung her leg over his, sitting astride him as she had at her apartment, this time willingly. His breath came in ragged puffs at the movement of her hot center over his hardness. It was finally time to get it right. "Scully, I love you. I want you." And this time, she did not reject him, did not mock him, or turn away in disgust. She crushed her mouth to his in silent affirmation, and ground herself down into his lap. He felt wild and dizzy, as one of his hands cradled the nape of her neck and swept up her hair. The other pressed the small of her back down as she continued gyrating on him. He buried his face in the dip of her neck and shoulder's joining, and suckled her with his full lips, tracing circles with his tongue. She let out a soft moan and threw her head back as his hands slid up to her breasts, circling her nipples with his fingertips. "Ahh," she gasped, confirming he was at last doing something right, doing something well. He lifted her shirt to find she wore no bra underneath. He raised it smoothly over her head, tossing it onto the floor. He then lifted her breast to his lips, and began his assault upon her nipples with his teeth and tongue. She was making the most amazing moans and gasps, and the movement of her pussy on his crotch was not helping him stay in control. He knew he had to get her off of his lap, or their first encounter would certainly end more quickly than he wanted. He simply moved his hands under her ass, and stood up. The motion made his head pound with his hangover, but as his mouth never stopped it's attentions to Scully's breasts, she didn't seem to notice his slight stumble. With her legs wrapped around him, he walked her into the bedroom, depositing her on the waterbed, moving his mouth to her flat stomach while he slipped his clothes off. As he traced circles around her belly button with his tongue, he began to untie the waistband of her shorts. He slid them and her panties down her thighs, which obligingly opened for him to kneel between. He then came up and lay down upon her, kissing her mouth ferociously. "I want to Scully." "Yessss," was all she could manage, and he returned to sit between her legs, knees folded under himself. He leaned down, and inhaled deeply. She smelled musky, like cumin, and sweet, like a pastry. He carefully opened her folds and lay his tongue on her. She answered immediately with a buck of her hips. "Ahhh, yeesss, uunnhh." Guttural sounds were all she seemed capable of at this point, and he was thrilled to be the one to have reduced her to such blissful incoherency. She was soaked. Dripping wet on his chin, fingers, and down her thighs. But the more he licked the closer he came. He was ramrod hard and pulsating with need now. Fortunately, she realized this and reached under his chin to pull him up. "Mulder, I need you inside me. Now." Her voice was breathy. As he guided himself into her, he swept down to kiss her at their final union. He dipped his cheek along hers, whispering his confession in her ear, moving in long slow strokes. "Oh, Scully." Thrust. "I'm so sorry I made you wait all these years." Thrust. "You are all I ever wanted." Thrust. "All I ever needed in a" Thrust. "Partner." Thrust. "Friend." Thrust. "Lover." Then he buried himself in her to the hilt. "I love you." His voice had gone rough and raw with emotion. "Tell me what you want. I want to make this right, so good for you." A single tear trickled out of the corner of her eye, wetting the hair at her temple, dripping off the upper folds of her ear. She had been gasping at each of his strokes, with every word he was rasping into her brain. She was close, felt as though a balloon was filling inside her, ready to pop. When he lifted up from her cheek to look into her eyes, the desire, love and passion reflected there sent them both over the top. She finally managed to force out a few words. "Oh, Mul?, ahh, you? are? my?, Ahhh! I love you!" She was tightening around his cock, and then with his last words, exploded over him. "Yes, unhhh, Scu...!" He lay motionless upon her, immobilized with passion. She felt each pulse run up his shaft as he filled her, staring into her eyes, kissing her swollen lips. They lay that way for a long while, slowly kissing and holding on to one another, as he shrunk and slipped out of her. When he finally rolled off of her, he pulled her alongside him, his arm encircling her, her head resting on his chest. This was his truly perfect moment. At last. "I love you, Scully." He nuzzled into her hairline, closing his eyes. She smiled into his chest, fingers buried in his chest hair, her eyes closing as well. This was her niche. She did not want that "simpler" life. This was where she belonged, her happy ending. She was strong. She was beautiful. She was successful. And together they were whole. Fin