TITLE: In Retrospect
AUTHOR: flynn
CLASSIFICATION: SAR, SCULLY POV.
KEYWORDS: Can't think of any 
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com 
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/ 
CATEGORY: POST-EP
DATE: March 7, 2001
DISTRIBUTION: Xemplary, Ephemeral, Spooky, Gossamer, yes;
anywhere else I've agreed to in the past, sure; anyone else, just ask.
I share.

SPOILER WARNING: Up through "all things". 
RATING: Largely an earthy PG; last part is definitely NC-17. If
you're under 17, buzz off now, please. No looks, no attitude. Out.

FEEDBACK: If you like it, just lemme know. If you don't like it,
lemme know. I'm a Gemini. I'm easy to please. 

SUMMARY: Scully traces the Relationship during the course of
S7. 

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Thanks for making me say it. 

Whopping big thanks to my sister-in-smut, Cratkinson. We feed
each other's obsessions. What can I tell ya?




~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Retrospect
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It began with a kiss. New Year's eve, Dick Clark in the
background, and the mingled scents of betadine and human sweat
hanging over us like a cloud. Other odors, too. Gunpowder, faint
but unmistakable. The metallic stench of fear-sweat. And decay, the
fetid reek of rotting flesh a strong reminder of the four walking
undead, hideously reanimated by means I cannot begin to fathom.

Dick Clark, zombies, and Mulder. It was all fitting, somehow, this
backdrop for our first kiss. It really wasn't much of one, I must
admit, as those things go. I don't mean to take anything away from
Mulder - after all, he'd been through one hell of a wringer that day.
It was nice. Sweet, tender, and lingering. Understated, like him.
Not a lot of passion, though. I guess after what we'd been through,
we were just too tired. Not the kiss one would expect after so many
years of anticipation.

He kissed me that night. Even though it's been months, I can still
picture that shy little smile he gave me when we drew apart - the
one he gets when he truly feels out of his depth. I had to battle back
a grin of my own, of course. For just a few seconds we were like
any other two people in the city, or hell - in the hospital. Ours was
certainly not the only kiss St. Joe's witnessed that night. But then
something happened. Perhaps it was because I looked away; his
smile abruptly faded, and I could see uncertainty overwhelm the
imp in him. How like him: one moment he was full of sentiment and
humor and devil-may-care conceit, and the next he was terrified
he'd gone too far.

Too far with one little kiss?

Poor Mulder, always bracing himself for the worst possible
outcome. He read something in my eyes, I think, and of course
misconstrued. We exchanged quiet formalities as we stood there,
but the spirit was conspicuously absent. He did put his arm around
me as we headed for the stairwell, not low on my back as is his
usual wont, but across my shoulders. I didn't react, because frankly
I didn't know how. I did want so badly to touch him back. I wanted
to stop him there on the stairs - we would have been almost even
with a step or two between us - and turn him to face me so I could
hug him. Maybe as a partner, maybe as a friend. Whoever it was
that had so enjoyed kissing him back a minute ago.

But I didn't. I couldn't. The Ice Queen didn't do things like
impulsively hug her partner. Not because she didn't want to, but
because she wasn't quite sure how to go about it. Because she was
afraid he would think her weak and needy. And because she wasn't
sure where the line existed between concerned friend and conduct
inappropriate between partners. Propriety. Always propriety.

So neither of us acknowledged that little kiss or what it might have
meant. We just walked down the stairs, those few steps that might
have leveled the playing field instead separating us like a canyon. I
asked him if he wanted to get something from the cafeteria, but he
said he wasn't particularly interested in food. Neither was I. We
didn't say much more as we walked the length of the parking lot to
his car. We didn't address the issue. Silence was just too much of a
habit. We might well have gone on like that for years, wondering
and fretting and allowing ourselves no peace or resolution - except
for one thing. One little question.

It was cold out, naturally, and he had lost his jacket in the attack. I
knew he was probably feeling very chilly, so I didn't say anything
when he put his arm around me again. Anyway, it was something of
a familiar gesture by then, after seven years. Like so many other
things between us, sometimes it just happens. No fanfare. Yeah, he
was cold. I could feel little tremors in his arm, could hear it
breaking the rhythm of his breathing. 

Upon reaching the car, Mulder fished his keys out of a pocket and
unlocked the passenger door. "Do you mind driving?" he asked,
slowly lowering himself into the seat. "I'm not really up to it."

I nodded as I held the door for him. A physical attack, some deep
lacerations to the muscles of his arm and shoulder, and pupils
already dilating from the pain meds they'd given him .... yeah, I had
no trouble at all with that request. I was just glad I wouldn't have
to wrestle the keys away from him. There was the matter of my
own rental, still parked out at the Johnson place, but one of the
local officers had already offered to return it to Lariat for me. It
wouldn't go back with a full tank, of course, but just at the moment
I really didn't give a damn. I squeezed Mulder's shoulder gently,
trying to convey a dozen different things with that simple touch.
Concern. Affection. Respect. "Sure. Why don't you try to get some
sleep? We'll be a couple hours getting home."

He nodded but didn't move, just sat there hanging half out of the
open door. It always bothers me a little when he goes quiet like
that. His mind is rarely more active than when he's silent. When he
leaves half-complete simple things like getting into a car .... well,
that's rarely a good sign. I reached for the keys, but he didn't
relinquish them. I thought at first he was trying to instigate a little
game of tug o'war or something, but his expression said otherwise.
He looked up at me, his eyes crinkling a little. Not a smile, but a
wince. I've seen Mulder in just about every emotional state
possible, from hysterical with laughter to adrift in a miasma of grief.
This was not a good look. I had no clue what he was thinking, as so
frequently happens, so I could only wait him out. He looked at the
keys for a moment, then back up at me. Then he asked very softly,
"Did I blow it?" 

I blinked at him, bemused. "Did you .... when, at Mark Johnson's?
Mulder, don't ask me to explain what happened down there. Not
tonight. I just don't have the energy."

"No." He tipped his head back toward the hospital, looming up
behind me. "When I .... when we ...." He sighed. "I - it was an
impulse. I don't want to wreck our .... what we have. I'm sorry if I
.... I mean, I hope you don't -" 

It was clear where that stammer was heading. Somehow, I really
had given him the wrong impression. I could think of only one way
to rectify that, and to be honest, it didn't take *that* much effort to
come up with a solution. Just this once, I'd ignore protocol.
"Mulder, shh," I murmured, and kissed him. Clearly I took him by
surprise, but God bless him, after a minor hesitation he leaned right
into it. Oh, much better than our previous effort. When we finally
looked at one another, his eyes were like saucers. That shy smile
was back, and with it a look of wonder that pierced me right
through the heart. I smiled as I dabbed an imaginary smudge of
lipstick off his mouth with my thumb. Who the hell wears lipstick at
midnight in a hospital emergency room? It was an excuse to touch
him again and we both knew it. "Any questions?" I asked as I
stepped back. 

He shook his head a time or two, then lifted his legs into the car
and settled back into the seat. He was still smiling. I closed his door
and hurried around to the driver's side. Unlock, drop in, adjust. Old
hat. But Mulder, unaccustomed to having the use of only his left
arm, was having real troubles with his seat belt. I caught him just as
he was about to give up and throw it aside in frustration. "Wait, let
me." I reached around him and tried to right it. It was a struggle,
because of course he had the whole thing in a snarl. He's an
excellent investigator and a brilliant profiler, but give him anything
mechanical to deal with and, more often than not, he's quickly back
in the Stone Age. 

It took me a minute to untangle the mess, and I had to practically
wrap myself around him to do it. Only when I sat back with a
satisfied grunt did I realize just how hard I was leaning into him.

For the record, I *was* cold. Middle of winter, and midnight to
boot. Besides, hardening of the nipples is a reflex, pure and simple. 

Not that that made one shred of difference to me just at the moment.

He didn't say anything. I don't know if something in my expression
stopped him, or if his mind was just on other things. Maybe he
couldn't think of anything glib to say. I know I couldn't. Up until
that moment, I wonder if we'd ever seriously considered each other
quite like that; not as partners, but as human bodies with reflexes
we simply can't control. Nipples hardening, eyes dilating .... even
erections. Sure, we've seen each other nude on occasion through
the years .... nude, *and* at death's door, a combination not exactly
conducive to spawning romantic impulses. But this was different.
We were awake and aware of each other. Maybe a little *too*
aware. His expression was completely impassive, but I saw his eyes
linger for a moment on my chest before snapping away. Even in the
glow from the crappy dome light, I could see his embarrassed flush.
"Sorry," he muttered, drawing his lips in tight. "Must be the drugs.
Can't keep a thought in my head."

I sat back a little and looked at him for a few seconds. He bore it as
well as he ever does, which I suppose isn't saying much. A leg
twitch, a nervous tug on the strap across his chest, a wince of
discomfort. I laid my hand on his, and he looked at me. "Mulder ....
" He went very still. Words failed me, of course. He was waiting
for me, listening. What could I say? 

Gee, Mulder, I'm really sorry I just forced you to feel me up ....

Thank you for being such a gentleman and not saying something
smart-ass and uncouth ....

There were more vibrations under my hand, and the leg twitches
started again. He *was* exhausted, but he was clearly still keyed
up. Probably wouldn't be able to sleep despite the drugs. Maybe he
was too tired. I wondered if he was going to try and redirect our
attention away from this newest problem, attempt to hash out the
day right now and drag a capitulation from me about the role that
science played in the whole thing. Effectively avoid the issue of
emotions and motivations by hiding in the sheer detail of the case -
he'd done it before. Hell, we both had.

Well, that wasn't going to happen. Okay, so he snuck a look. So
what? It wasn't like he didn't have just cause - I had practically
shoved them in his face. Besides, we were alive and .... well,
*relatively* unscathed. I could forgive him a lot just at the moment. 

Besides, I've always known Mulder was a breast man. I'd bet real
money it wasn't the first time he'd looked at my chest. Just the first
time I happened to catch him at it.

I stroked his forearm and hand in a manner that I hoped was
comforting. "Eyes closed," I murmured, leaning toward him and
touching the back of my left hand to his temple. It reminded me a
little of that night in Florida, when I'd told him there was no place
like home. If memory serves, he told me something too, though at
the time I laughed it off as so much horse shit, unquestionably
brought on by Demerol and exhaustion and yet another near-death experience.

I wasn't laughing now.

He sighed deeply and made a visible effort to relax. "I'm all right,
Scully. Let's just go."

I buckled my own belt, then started the car and headed for the
highway that would take us north, and home. When we were safely
on our way, I felt his hand lay itself gently across my right knee. He
said nothing, just stared out the window at the bright lights of
whatever city we were in. When I covered his hand with mine and
squeezed very gently, he looked back at me with that little smile.
Then he let his head fall back, and it wasn't very long at all before
he was snoring very softly. 

He's snoring right now - sweet, soft little snuffle-puffs. I don't
mind. It isn't like he's disturbing me. It isn't his fault I'm lying here,
wide-awake. He nodded off not very long after we made love.

I catch myself smiling. 

We made love. It was tender and sweet and incredible. All these
years I've wondered, in the privacy of my own thoughts, what kind
of lover my partner would be. Now I know. 

Mulder's probably never done anything half-hearted in his entire life.

We made love. And as wonderful as it was, that we've taken this
step at all causes no little trepidation. Mulder and I have been
connected somehow for years. Up until now, that connection's
always been  . undefined. Indefinable. Mercurial, like his moods.
More spiritual than physical, certainly. What we've done here
tonight all but sets it in stone. We made a commitment, and not just
in the conventional sense. And while it's true that there are no
mandates against partners becoming personally involved, I'm sure
the only people who would have anything kind to say about it
would be those counting their winnings from the clandestine pools
scattered throughout the Hoover Building.

It's late. I know I'm going to regret not sleeping when I had the
chance. Right at this moment, I just don't care. I need to study
Mulder. I'm lying a little higher in the bed, and the light from
outside is falling nicely right across his face. His eyes are rolling a
little, and a tiny sound escapes him between snores. A groan? I
wonder if he's dreaming. As I watch and listen, I find myself
thinking. Remembering things. Not the work. I don't want to think
about any of that. Right now I want to remember  . everything
else. Everything that's happened to us this year, extraordinary or
not, that will never be found in a case file.

Things like watching him take a tap water geyser to the face.
There's that mechanical thing. That woman would have done better
getting her kid to use the pipe wrench. Or me. 

Watching his expression as he expounds on the hows and whys of
illusion, savoring the glow in his eyes as he makes a quarter
magically drop from my nose. The Great Muldini.

Maybe even discussing religion and philosophy with him. The rest
of that case was hideous - I had a healthy loathing for snakes as it
was, and I still have trouble reaching into dark corners in my closet,
thank you very much, Enoch O'Connor. The discussion was good,
though. Heated. Mulder has his view, I have mine, and while we
each already know the other simply does not and will never agree
when it comes to faith and religion, sometimes it's comforting to go
through the motions. Our arguments are a constant in life,
something we can depend on even when nothing else is predictable
or certain. Let him hold up his beliefs beside mine and show me just
how unlike the two of us are. It only emphasizes how well we mesh
in spite of that disparity.

So in a way what happened New Year's changed very little. After
all, we've been friends for years. I'm always going to his apartment
for different things, to feed the fish when he's away, maybe
working solo on a consult somewhere. Or for dinner, pizza or
Chinese and a slide show of the next new thing he wants to tackle.
Come to think of it, he's not exactly a stranger to my home either.
He doesn't have his own drawer or anything, but he knows his way
around my kitchen. He still asks my permission to use the
bathroom. Can't seem to get his mind around that toilet seat thing,
but then most guys have a problem with that. 

I find myself smiling again. Maybe it didn't start there in that
hospital waiting room. Maybe it started with a tie and matching
baseball cap and a quiet exchange of  . something  . there in that
doorway last summer. "You're my constant  . my touchstone  ."

Or perhaps I still haven't gone back far enough. After all, it was
more than two years ago that he tried to kiss me, and I'm fairly sure
I would have kissed him back if it hadn't been for that damned bee. 

Two years. That's how long we've been dancing around that little
incident, carefully not talking about it, mindful that the possibility
simply did not present itself again. Two years of tension and
frustration and .... well, impediments. Other people, none of whom
I care to think of by name just at the moment. It was easy not to get
more deeply involved, not to get more attached to the man than I
already was. Well, relatively easy. What wasn't so simple was
convincing myself that I didn't want it in the first place. Mulder can
be difficult. He can be selfish and hard-headed. He thinks nothing of
ditching me, whether it's out of some crazy thirst for adventure or a
misplaced sense of honor, of wanting to keep me safe from what he
isn't afraid of but on some level knows he should be. It's hard
enough dealing with that without adding the burden of intimacy.
Let someone else have that side of him. I work with him. I don't
want anything else with him. 

Oh, you can say the words. 

No, I decide as I lie there listening to the soft snores; it *did*
become more that cool January night. That one kiss did a lot to
bridge the distance those two years had put between us. That one,
and a few others. There was that second kiss in the parking lot. A
third just inside his apartment sometime around two in the morning.
He looked down, I looked up, and bingo. Like it wasn't any big
deal. Like we did it all the time. Slow and sweet, and full of
promise. It was an acknowledgment as indisputable as a spoken
pact: this thing between us wasn't going away this time.


We made slow progress after that. Though we conducted ourselves
as professionally as we ever did while working, there was a definite
undercurrent. People have always assumed us to be a couple, at
least until we flash our badges, but we actually began to act more
like it. We smiled just a little more. God help me, we flirted. We
indulged in the little things that new lovers do at the start of a
relationship; things like holding hands whenever we could, when
the cases were done and we had nothing to do but wait in some
hideous airport in Nowhere, South Dakota. Once he even pulled me
into a dark corner of a shoddy airline caf‚ and made a show of
stealing a kiss. There would eventually be more. We both knew
this. For the moment we were content with enjoying the moment.
Slow? The two of us have made *slow* an art form. Glaciers move
faster than we do.

In typical form, we decided on a game plan without ever discussing
it. We'd start spending a little more time together, after work or on
weekends. We'd rent movies. There would be maybe six months of
hand holding, a year or so of quiet necking on the couch - his or
mine, it wouldn't really matter. Some cautious explorations, maybe
by candlelight, of bodies already as familiar to us as our own. Well,
I should qualify that: true, we're familiar with the general
territories, and of course we know all about the scars, but we know
next to nothing about the more positive aspects. The 'moan zones,'
Mulder calls them. Yeah, a decade or two of careful touches and
making each other writhe. Then when things were just about to the
breaking point, we'd get a suite at the Hyatt or some charming B
and B, take that last step and consummate what has been
developing probably since the day I walked into his office for the
first time. A new beginning. That was the plan.

Anyone who knows this game we call Life knows plans sometimes
go awry. In February came the escape of Donald Addy Pfaster. The
LaPierre case. The death of Teena Mulder.

I had to tell him. I had to tell my best friend his mother had taken
her own life. It was one of the hardest things I've had to do in my
life, and I hated myself for it. Hadn't he been through enough? He
refused to accept it, as I knew he would. His anger lashed out, first
against the furniture and then against me. He pulled away from me,
drew himself in hard and tight. It didn't last long, though. He
already knew the bearer of those sad tidings was also his pillar of
strength. When the initial sobs threatened to break him into pieces,
I held him together. He clung to me, wrapped himself around me
and hid his face in my shirtfront. All night long, in that chair and
then later in bed, I murmured his name or soft, meaningless words
as I rocked him and stroked his hair. I kissed away his tears. I held
him. It was familiar and it was intimate. He needed a lot from me
that night. Support. The comfort of physical contact.

Sex played no part in it.

Although the issue was clearly not far from Skinner's mind the next
morning. He wasn't especially surprised to find me there, rumpled
and tired, and he didn't offer a protest when I told him in no
uncertain terms that I wasn't about to turn Mulder loose with him.
But he watched us. I could feel his scrutiny in the car, on the plane,
in the terminals between connecting flights. He was wondering
about us. What kind of partnership did we have? Was it the kind the
Bureau sanctioned? Or had we crossed the line at some point,
maybe even during the night? Had I gone so far as to offer Mulder
a physical outlet for his grief? 

It was almost enough to make me laugh. If we offered up a flat
denial, would the son of a bitch believe us? Did it even matter
anymore? Propriety? Protocol? Did I actually used to care about
such things?

The case ended in California. There could be no conclusions drawn
when so little had actually been resolved; but something took place
which brought Mulder, if not understanding, then at least a measure
of peace. For that, I was grateful. I just wish I had been there to see
it, too. Peace is an infrequent visitor in my own life. 

We flew home to arrange the funeral for his mother. How I wish he
could have been spared that. I did what I could to help. I arranged
for the cremation. I assisted with the legal matters. Fortunately the
woman had done most of the work for us, leaving clear instructions
for the dispensation of her remains and her property. I couldn't help
thinking it was one of the kinder things she's ever done for her son.
The service was held at the Lutheran church on the Vineyard.
Flanking the austere brass urn on the alter were two framed
pictures: one of Teena, as imperious and indifferent as she ever was
in life; and one of Samantha, taken on her birthday a scant week
before her abduction. I spent a good part of the service looking at
those two pictures: the bitter, angry woman and the little girl with
eyes that were full of laughter and sweet, innocent mischief. 

He took my hand as Teena's eulogy was given by someone who
knew her. His long fingers laced with mine. Every so often his
thumb glided up and down the back of my hand, slowly. I glanced
at him a few times through the speech, but his face was carefully
blank, his eyes walled off and to all appearances quite empty. 

I knew better.

We caught the ferry back to the mainland immediately after the
service. There was nothing to keep him on the island, really. I stood
at the railing and watched the spit of land recede and disappear into
the ocean. When had that place held anything for him but terrible
memories? I looked at him, standing there at the ferry rail a few
paces away, hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped, staring
not at the island but out over open water. What was he thinking, I
wondered. Could he let go now? Would his ghosts let go of *him?*
For a second I saw him not as my partner, but as the boy - the child
- to whom so many terrible things had happened; a twelve-year-old
with braces and a prominent nose and long, awkward limbs who
thought he was to blame for the demise of his family. Standing
there watching him say good-bye, my heart ached anew for him.

When we reached the dock, he asked me to drive and then stared
out the passenger side window at the cityscape as it flashed past.
Few words were exchanged. We hadn't gone far when I felt his
hand find its place on my knee. The grip conveyed everything his
blank expression had so carefully concealed. When I pulled up
before his apartment building several hours later, that hand was still there.

I parked the car and walked with him, hand in hand, up the front
walkway. In the elevator, he dug in a pocket and produced his keys.
"I'm okay, Scully. Stop worrying about me."

I looked up at him. He was a little flushed, but dry-eyed. I was
relieved when he didn't avoid my gaze. "Just like that?" I asked,
and shook my head. "I wish it worked that way."

The elevator doors opened, and his hand tightened around mine.
"So do I," he murmured. His keys chimed softly as he unlocked his door.

How many times had we been there? Right there in that hallway,
standing before that open door, looking at each other? He stepped
backward, his eyes never leaving mine as he drew me inside. "Can
you stay?" he asked, his tone so soft I could barely hear him. I
opened my mouth to reply, to say of course I wasn't leaving, he
was in no shape to be alone .... but something in his expression
stopped me. I've always known my partner is a needy man, but this
was different somehow. There was an emptiness in him tonight, one
that I knew I would never be able to fill. No, this wasn't how I
wanted it to be. If we really were ever to make love, I wanted it to
be a celebration of us, of all that *we* are, not as a way to thank
God it wasn't *our* funeral that had just taken place. 

I stared at him.  I told myself impatiently. 

He stepped closer, so close I could see the tiny stubble on his chin
and around his mouth. His eyes were strange, dark and intent, not
frightening but unsettling. No, I wasn't staying .... but neither was I
leaving. Damn it, my feet seemed glued in place on his hardwood
floor. He reached behind me, closing and then locking the door, his
eyes not once wavering from mine. The hand moved from the
deadbolt to my shoulder. His other hand rose and spread itself over
my hip, steadying me, drawing my slowly toward him. Oh, hell.
He's my friend, I remember thinking. I can't leave him like this. I
can't ....

Our bodies were scant millimeters apart. I could feel the heat
coming off of him in waves, and with it a wash of pheromones that
made my pulse go absolutely wild. His eyes closed as he brushed
his lips across my brow. "Stay," he breathed. The lips meandered
down the side of my face, and I wondered how long I would last
there before my knees simply buckled and I landed in a sodden pile
at his feet. No, he wouldn't let me fall. The arms that were finding
their way around me would not let that happen. And my own hands
.... closed in fists at my sides, my arms rigid and trembling. I knew,
and so did he. He was going to kiss me for real this time. No tender
gestures, no waiting patiently for the right moment to present itself.
This was for real, and it was for keeps.

I couldn't stay. Better get out now, before the explosion. Get out
while I still could. But I couldn't move. He was in front of me,
trapping me against the door. No, not trapped. I *wanted* to be
there. That mouth, the one that was playing gently over my eyelids
and down my nose, was unstoppable. I lifted my chin that last little
bit and let his lips play over mine. A breath of skin on skin, a scrape
of evening beard. *Stay*, he breathed again, the word no more than
an instant of warmth on my skin .... and then contact. Oh, hell. A
shot of heat arced through me and made me stiffen. This was no
New Year's kiss. This was liquid fire. This was an orgasm waiting
to happen. His mouth angled against mine, finding better purchase,
and I felt his lips open. Without thinking, I followed his lead. Wet
inner lip, and teeth. I gasped at my first real taste of him. Every
breath drew him into me, into my mouth and my lungs. He wanted
access and I gave it to him. His tongue swept into my mouth, a
slow-moving invader. His mouth was wet and hot and oh God, I
wanted more of it. 

My hands were no longer clenched in fists at my side. They were
dragging through his hair, meeting behind his neck, drawing him
down and pinning him to me. He groaned softly as we moved
deeper into one another. Teeth and tongues meeting and
completing, exploring, enticing .... no thought, only sensation.
Warm and liquid and good, my mouth and other parts of me, parts
that were more than ready to receive that erection pressing,
unrepentant, against my abdomen. His hands were at my collar,
gentle but persistent, opening my black silk shirt one button at a
time. His breath was a raspy pant now, and I could tell from the
heat in his face and neck that he was badly flushed.  I
wanted to say. I wanted to stroke him, his face and his hair  . his
body. I wanted to feel him respond to me. That desire was almost
overwhelming in its strength. 

Somehow I managed to break the kiss and turn my face away. If I
didn't stop now, I'd be dragging him by the hand to that big bed of
his. He groaned again and dropped his chin, pressing his sweaty
forehead to mine. "Can't do this," he gasped, dragging his hands
away from my throat and holding them in the air over my shoulders.
His eyes were squeezed shut and he gave his head a slow shake.
"Can't .... not like this. I love you, but I'm not going to ...." When
he finally looked at me, I saw pain and guilt and regret in his eyes,
and I hated his parents anew for ever instilling such things in him.
"Sorry, Scully .... I know what this is, and it isn't what I want for
us. It isn't .... you deserve better than to be mauled in the name of
survivor guilt ...."

I didn't resist. Neither was I surprised that he should reach the
same conclusion I had, that to make love now would make it less
than it should be because it would be for all the wrong reasons. He
started to fasten my buttons again, then stopped himself. I caught
his hands and squeezed them hard, then gently put him away from
me. "Don't, Mulder," I whispered. "I know. It'll happen when it's
meant to and not before. God, don't hate yourself. You didn't do
anything I didn't want you to." He closed his eyes and fell back a
step, allowing me room to slip by him. I pushed myself away from
the door and stood there, weaving a little. Okay, I could do this. I
could walk and I could leave him. I had to do this. We both knew
it. 

He fell back another step when I opened the door. His gaze was
downcast. "Call me when you're home," he murmured. 

I nodded. My hand brushed his as I slipped past him, but he made
no active move to touch me. I started to speak, but there was
nothing to say. Turning, I opened the door and escaped out into the
cold hallway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive back to Georgetown was lost in a blur. I have no clear
recollection of anything beyond unlocking my front door and
securing it again behind me. The whole drive, my thoughts had been
occupied with memories of sensations. My breasts ached. Dammit,
he hadn't even touched me there, other than to press his body up
against mine. How could they remember the feel of his hands? 

I shrugged off my coat and draped it over the back of a kitchen
chair, then began peeling off layers of clothing. Funereal black for
someone I was glad to be rid of. The perversity of that thought
would wait until later for deeper consideration. Much later. I'd
already spent way too much time thinking about her. 

There were a few messages on my answering machine, none of
which demanded immediate attention. I picked up the cordless and
speed-dialed Mulder's number as I made my way down the hall to
my bedroom. No answer. Not a big surprise; he was probably in the
shower or out for one of his late-night runs. I left a brief message
on his machine and hung up. Shower. Good idea. I stripped off
what remained of my clothing and left it in a pile on the bedroom floor.

Mulder in the shower. I tried not to think of him standing there
under the spray, letting the water wash over his face, his throat. It
didn't matter, because of course as hard as I tried to shut them out,
the images were there. I thought of the scar on his left shoulder, the
one I had put there myself. I often thought of that night. I wish
there had been a better way to deal with the situation, but even with
the passage of time and the wisdom of retrospect, I've never been
able to come up with another alternative. I'd done it to save him
from his own self-destruction. The other time he'd been shot ....
well, altruism had played no part in that one. That bullet had taken
him in the thigh, and it had done a lot of damage. I wondered how
it looked now as he stood there in the shower; the dark hair
flattened by water, covering the pale splotch from the impact point
and the long incision necessary to repair that damage. And there
above it, the darkness of his .... I shivered and turned the cold water
completely off. What remained was almost too hot, but I didn't
care. 

Deal with it, I told myself firmly, scrubbing my hair until my arms
ached. Damn the lather, rinsing down my body and feeling for all
the world like a lover's hands. Mulder has a penis. I knew this, of
course, both medically and realistically. I've seen it; I've even had
reason to touch it in the course of my duties as a physician. I'd just
never seen it .... well, erect, and I'd certainly never felt it against me
in such a condition before. Oh, there were the occasional glances in
various hotels, when late night or early morning summons brought
me to his room before he had the opportunity or presence of mind
to disguise any such condition. Even so, even if that had been a
morning erection he'd secreted under a pillow last week, a barely-
registered silhouette couldn't compare to what I'd felt against my
own body earlier in the evening. So what that it'd been years since
I'd experienced that first-hand? You don't forget that feeling.

The phone was ringing when I finally turned the water off. I quickly
wrapped myself in a towel and hurried to my room, where the
cordless was wailing mournfully in the middle of my bed. I grabbed
it before my answering machine could kick in. "Yeah, I'm here," I
announced curtly. Anyone who happened to be calling could take
my tone as it was. I really wasn't in the mood for being polite.

I felt a brief tingle at the soft words that greeted me. "Hey, Scully.
Sorry I missed you. I was, uh, I was in the shower."

Again the images flashed behind my closed eyes. I wonder if he'd
touched himself when he was in there, if that was why he was so
long in calling. The idea stopped my words, my thoughts - hell, it
almost stopped my heart, I think. I wondered what he had looked
like. Did he like it fast or slow? What was his expression? Was it
animated? Placid? Had he grimaced as he climaxed? Had he
groaned? Had he said something? Anything? My name? For a
moment that offered up another image that I was helpless to stop.
Both of us in the shower. One of my hands around the back of his
neck, drawing him down for a deep kiss, the other sliding up
between us to grasp his erection. His soft groan as I ply his rigid
flesh. Sounds rise out of him, sounds that I trap in my own mouth.
His breath catches and he moans my name, and then I feel the
sweet, searing heat as he ejaculates, his semen dashing itself across
my belly, my hand, my breasts.

Shit. I hadn't caught a word he'd said, and my silence was
becoming conspicuous. "I - I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm in my closet,
and I think the phone faded. What was that last thing you said?"

His tone was concerned, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Good, he
bought the cover. "I just wanted to thank you. You helped me out a
lot with .... the funeral and, um .... I just  . I don't know what I'd
be if they hadn't thrown us together all those years ago .... I mean,
uh ...." I heard sounds, gentle scuffs and bangs, and I wondered
what he was doing. There was a long moment when neither of us
spoke, and I knew he was struggling to find words. Myself, I could
hear his thoughts just fine in the silence. 

No worries about that, Mulder. 

"Anyway," he resumed at last, as if we'd just been discussing the
weather and not the one subject we could never fit into words. "I'm
getting something to eat, and then I'm gonna try to sleep. Oh,
Skinner sent me an e-mail about some sort of stake-out assignment
he's gonna be hitting us with. Could be interesting." He hesitated
again, and as another silence stretched out between us, I realized I
didn't want to hang up, either. "So I, uh, I guess I'll see you at
work on Monday."

Monday. It was only Saturday. There were plenty of things to keep
me busy for a single day, but none of them were especially
interesting. Domestic stuff. Laundry, cleaning, at least a few
groceries to buy. Then there was church, which I should do more
regularly. It would mean a lot to Mom, if not the priests at St.
Dom's. Yeah, I should get some rest. The hot shower had worn me
out a little. Maybe I would actually be able to sleep.

With Mulder naked in my head? Fat chance, Dana.

"So what are you eating?" I asked, wrapping the towel more
securely around me. 

The question seemed to have thrown him. "Huh? What am I ....
well, you know me, Scully. A veritable grand chef. A little fresh
sausage, some veggies, a handful of fresh chopped herbs ...."

I smiled. "Macaroni and cheese again, is it? With that diet, you
should weigh in at around two fifty, you realize that, don't you?"

I heard an answering smile in his voice. "Jealous? You're welcome
to join me, you know. I wouldn't mind you with a little more meat
on your bones."

I glanced at myself in the mirror affixed to the wall behind my door.
I gain two pounds and it looks like ten; I drop ten and it looks like
two. He eats like a horse and it never shows. Some things in life
just are not fair. "Thanks just the same. Not all of us have the
metabolism of a Superchief. Besides, the dress code is at Chez
Mulder is pretty tight, I hear. I'm fairly sure I wouldn't meet the
standards. Just got out of the shower myself."

"Oooh, more the better. That means you're wearing that lumpy
bathrobe, right? I don't mind."

My smile was creeping steadily into the neighborhood of silly grins.
"No, actually I'm .... I'm wearing a towel. Nothing more than that,
unless you count the necklace."

I heard a hiss from his end. "Damn, Scully, don't say shit like that
when I'm standing in front of the stove. Some day I might like to
have a kid or two." 

A strange little pain fluttered in my chest. Wouldn't we all, I
thought to myself. I bit my lip before the words could tumble from
my mouth. I knew he didn't mean anything by it. He forgets. It's
just a comeback. The whole happy-family thing is just a theory to
him. 

How I wish it were possible for me. For him. 

For us.

He immediately gave a soft, self-conscious cough. "Scully? I didn't
mean to .... shit, I'm sorry. Forget I said anything. Sc-Scully? Are
you there?"

I sighed. "Where else would I be, Mulder?"

He paused for a beat. "Well, I can think of a few places I'd like you
to be." 

"Expound on that and I'm hanging up, mister."

He snorted softly, and with that simple sound, the tension between
us was banished. "Killjoy. So Scully, what are you wearing?
Whoops, I guess that's already been established. Okay, answer me
this: what do you think I'm wearing? I'll give you one hint: I don't
wear a necklace."

I sighed and shook my head. Just the image I needed. Thanks very
much, Mulder. He had a point about food, though. It was late, and
I was suddenly hungry. I wondered what I could find in my
neglected kitchen. Certainly this would not be the first meal we've
shared with a phone line between us. I smiled as I reached for my
robe. Sleep? Who needed sleep? 





The undercover detail began a week later. The assignment really
was interesting, from a weird sociological standpoint. We were to
trade shifts with other teams of agents and surveil the entrance to a
nightclub down in one of the seedier parts of town. Watch for a tall,
well-built woman who frequented a bar called Dirty Dames. Report
on any of her movements. I sighed as I studied the photos we had
of her. Any of her movements, I mused. What movements might
those be? Long legs, short skirts, breasts that could not have been
made by any force of nature *I* was familiar with .... well, this
detail was right up my partner's alley, wasn't it? 

After what had happened the other night, I was prepared to admit
to some misgivings about the stake-out, at least to myself. The
dreams I'd been having since our kiss  . well, they were almost
embarrassing. Or at least, they might have been if I didn't enjoy
them so much. True, I had a *little* trouble looking Mulder in the
eye at times, but that was something I was fully prepared to live
with. 

But now I had to spend time with him. A lot of time. Alone. Shit.

In actuality, the whole situation was a little more complicated than
the original brief implied. The surveillance point was in the office of
a condemned warehouse a couple streets from the target business.
Skinner's statement that the place was in poor shape in no way
prepared us for the reality of the situation. The place was a wreck.
The door barely moved on its hinges. There was not one surface in
the room that was not so filthy that I hesitated to touch it. And the
bathroom .... 

It has facilities, I told myself. Aerial evacuation is good for the legs.
Just remember to wash your hands thoroughly every thirty or forty
seconds and things would be fine.

Okay, so the two of us wouldn't be tempted to play house here any
time soon. Ever. 

More complications arose in our second shift. One of the other two
teams was unceremoniously pulled for another assignment. That left
shifts of twelve hours, not eight as was originally planned, and true
to our luck in such matters, Mulder and I found ourselves stuck
with the night watch. Twelve hours sitting there, from midnight to
noon, watching the dregs of modern society indulging in every
whim imaginable, most of which should at the very least have
gotten the perpetrators arrested for indecent exposure. 

Okay, it was disgusting work and I hated every minute of it, but at
least the run-down office was warm. My pockets were bulging with
disposable wipes and little plastic bottles of hand sanitizer. Twelve
hours at a stretch with rodents, over-sexed street vermin, and a
partner I couldn't so much as touch. Could it get any worse? It
couldn't, right?

Oh, I am such an optimist. Barely an hour into our third day on the
clock, Mulder got a call from Skinner and then left. The bastard. He
left me with stale pizza and rats for company, along with rapidly
cooling tea and a toilet I was afraid to sit on. He left *me* to watch
for his mystery lady-serial killer while he went off .... hell, I didn't
even know where. Someplace nice. Someplace where he got real
food, I found out later. A clean place to sleep, fairly decent
company, and not one sick bastard who decided it would be easier
to whip it out in the street than get a damn twenty dollar hotel
room. 

I was lonely. I was miserable. And when the heater gave out later
that evening, I was damn cold, too. We kept in touch by phone in
the intervening days, but he really wasn't into the normal banter.
Turns out he was onto something really .... well, as it turned out,
weird was something of an understatement. Funny, but the meek-
looking woman in the photos he showed me didn't look strong
enough to throw my partner through a couple doors and half-drown
him in a tub full of warm bubble bath. I saw his injuries, though. I
saw the contusions around his throat. I saw the blood in his urine
from a bruised kidney. 

Almost made me glad to have been left in that filthy room. Almost.

Our cases wrapped up on consecutive days, and we were free
again. I was honestly looking forward to a little quiet time in the
office with him, maybe catch up on some reports, make the Gods of
Paperwork happy with us for a change. Drink coffee, listen to my
partner babble about spring training and his predictions about who
would start for his beloved Yankees. Just why a boy from
Massachusetts would give a flying rip about a baseball team from
New York, I couldn't say. Maybe he'd get around to explaining it
to me.

But when I showed up for work, it turned out field reports were
nowhere on the immediate horizon. We each had something to
investigate: he, a mysterious e-mail, and I, an outrageous story. A
young boy, spontaneously cured of cancer by forces unseen and
unknown. Was it angels, as the family asserted? My Catholic
upbringing warned against dismissing that possibility out of hand.
Still, neither Skinner nor my partner would ever accept angels as a
plausible explanation. Frankly, neither would I. Common sense
demanded a closer look. 

That case almost cost me my partner.

Three days, I was gone. Spender himself was at the heart of it. He
convinced me to go with him with little more than attractive
promises. Looking back, I see how stupid I was to ever listen to
him. I was used. I was shot at. I was suckered. 

I was had, plain and simple. 

I felt so foolish. Of course the blackhearted bastard had come to me
- he knew Mulder would never believe such a bullshit story. 

No one sulks like my partner. Well, it was more than sulking. He
broods, and this time he had every right to. Two days passed before
he would do more than snap at me, and it was another day and a
half of cool distance before I could get anything resembling a
friendly rise out of him. We talked about it over pizza a week or so
after the dust settled. Was it payback, he asked, his voice level, his
expression placid. Was I getting back at him for his ditching me all
those times when he felt he had no choice? Had I done this thing,
this dangerous, unforgivable thing to impress upon him how painful
it was to be the one left behind?

That poker face of his wasn't very convincing. The anger was still
there, it had just gone deep. Though his question pissed me off, I
did my best not to let the anger show. What good would it do?
Mulder was fundamentally an only child, and as such, his take on
every situation was that of a loner. He judged people's motives by
their impact on him. The profiler in him was no doubt aware of this,
but the child he persisted in being just didn't give a shit. He was
selfish. Sometimes I could almost hate him.

Of course I didn't mean for it to play out like it did, I replied
solemnly. I hadn't done anything to punish him. My motivations
were based in altruism and nothing more. Not deceit, and certainly
not vengeance, against him or anyone.

Little more was said on the matter. The subject was evidently
closed. Bruised feelings remained bruised.

We returned to the established routine. Well, the work was as
routine as it ever could be, given what we do; what was
conspicuously absent was the playful flirting. I didn't  . I wouldn't
 . hell, I *couldn't* admit it, but I missed it.

A couple weeks later we got word of a possible murder. Hysterical
reports from a handful of college girls who insisted they had
witnessed a ghostly entity attack and kill a friend of theirs. I saw
nothing noteworthy in it, and in fact was more than a little irritated
when one of the young women in question actually made a pass at
Mulder right there in front of me. Surprisingly enough, Mr.
Oblivious didn't even seem to notice, which is the only reason I
didn't have the little troublemaker charged with underage drinking.
Hey, no one can piss me off like Mulder, and to be truthful, things
were still far from smooth between us; but all irritation aside, I'm
still ready and willing to kick the ass of any female who looks at
him twice. 

The reports had no clear merit, but he wanted to pursue the matter.
Great. Three other cases pending and I'm strong-armed into
wasting a beautiful Saturday morning performing a full autopsy.
Four hours I spend poking through the guts of a very pretty and
very dead college coed. Didn't take anywhere near that long to
determine the cause of death. Micro blood bursts in the eyes
coupled with foaming in the lungs and mouth pointed to the culprit:
she'd choked to death. More to the point, she drank until she threw
up, then drowned in her own vomit. Not a very noble way to go,
granted, but not too uncommon, especially in that age bracket. At
least her parents would have a degree of closure. The college girls
were shown the door. 

I almost enjoyed breaking the news to Mulder. Nothing
supernatural about margarita mix. 

It didn't go as smoothly as I would have liked. Did it ever? From
the beginning, the whole case rubbed me the wrong way; and
unfortunately for me and especially my unsuspecting partner, my
hormones were in something of an uproar that morning. Joy -
another rocky weekend courtesy of the power of PMS.
Premenstrual syndrome? Putting up with Mulder's Shit was more
like it. His glib reaction to my solving of the case did nothing to
improve my humor. Neither did the impromptu slide show he had
prepared for me. I'd found myself thinking that morning of all the
things my life could be now, all the places I wanted to go, what I
should have and really did want. Did I have anything? No. Just this
job, and a partner who believed in .... everything. Everything, that
is, but in growing up, in settling down and living the life of an adult.
To add insult to injury, I was dying for a big, greasy burger and
fries from Big Al's down on Potuckny, but what I got was a limp
green salad and fat-free Italian. 

And Stonehenge. Don't forget that. Avebury? Crop circles? You
have got to be shitting me, I almost blurted. Instead I sat there with
my shoulders hunched and angrily tortured my salad. I wasn't
ignoring him, really I wasn't. My mind was just on .... other things.
A person can speak at about a hundred words a minute, but the
mind works at a staggering eight hundred. Is it my fault Mulder
couldn't keep up? I wanted to kick these damn heels into next
week, toss back some Advil, then take a long, hot bath and soak my
aching back. I wanted about six pounds of Godiva chocolate,
though in a pinch I'd settle for Dove. And though I would never
have admitted it to anyone but myself, I was feeling a tad ....
uncomfortable. Tense. On edge. Horny, those oversexed little
college twits would probably call it. Was it so unthinkable? How
the hell long had it been since I'd had sex, good, bad, or indifferent?
To top it all off, he didn't even seem to care if we moved forward
or not. I was well aware of the power of this man's kiss. Was he
*trying* to torture me? Was he still punishing me for ditching him?
Were the two of us *ever* going to get down to the serious
business of making out like reckless teens? 

Of course, at that moment, if he'd even suggested such a thing, I
probably would have reached down his throat and ripped his balls
out from the inside. 

Just my luck. All that pent up energy, sexual and otherwise, and
what happened? Nothing. Doesn't it figure? Sure, I was pissed off
right then, but he knew me - that could change without so much as
a moment's notice. A beautiful April weekend, baseball season
starting off, and a perfectly good television sitting idle in my
apartment - I could think of a few things that would have kept us
occupied, if he'd just given it the chance. So what happened
instead? He was flying off to England. Bastard. Well, nothing was
getting me on anywhere near a plane that weekend, *especially* for
a flight that long. London's Heathrow? Thanks but no thanks. I was
sure I could find better things to do than sit around some soggy
wheat field, listening to my partner jabber about UFOs with farmers
and college students taking a spring vacation on the backs of their
well-heeled parents. I could work on my taxes. I could change the
shelf paper in my kitchen cupboards. Maybe call my brother and let
him tell me again what a sorry-ass lowlife my partner was.

It occurred to me later that day, Mulder may just have had other
motives. No FBI case, no jurisdiction, no responsibilities to the
Bureau. Nothing, in fact, but time on our hands in a country where
you couldn't swing a blood-sucking, sewer-dwelling mutant
without hitting a dozen charming B&Bs.

Shit.

So he left. Not without asking for one more thing, of course. As if
spending part of my weekend up to my elbows in green puke
wasn't enough of an insult, his parting shot was asking me to chase
down some contact of his and pick up some obscure research he
probably wouldn't even be able to use. Hello! He was going to
England! What, was I going to fax him this stuff out in the middle
of a damn cow field? Was he kidding me? Whatever. Fine. Sure. I'd
get the research, he could stick it someplace it wasn't likely to get a
sunburn, and then while his ass was getting pruny from all the
rainfall in England that time of year, I'd be spending the rest of the
weekend sucking down chocolate and lounging in the altogether in
my dry and very comfortable apartment. Not a problem.

Only it didn't work out that way. Was it an accident - a
coincidence, as I would have claimed once upon a time? Was it a
sign from God? If so, whose? The God *I* subscribe to may give
the occasional hint once in a while, but it usually involves prayer
and insight and maybe a priest or two. But this? A man from my
past? And *that* man? The only man I ever considered spending
the rest of my life with? Jesus, what had I been thinking? What
*was* I thinking, sitting there listening to his bullshit about
knowing what I truly long for? And little Maggie .... was it any
wonder she was such a neurotic mess? Daniel had done a fine job of
screwing up her life, even worse than he'd screwed up mine. Now
he wanted to do it to me some more. And I almost let him

Too much input. The last few days had left me completely rattled. I
couldn't find my balance anywhere. A near-death experience while
driving, the words of that researcher ringing in my head about
honesty and the consequences of our choices; and then seeing a
woman, the same damn one time and time again, in the hospital and
then again in traffic, and then again in the streets of Chinatown ....
racing after her and almost catching up, only to lose her outside a
Buddhist temple.

Oh, how the old Dana would have scoffed. 

I still don't fully understand what happened to me there. I saw ....
something. I saw paths. I saw choices. I saw Daniel for what he
was: a lonely man, flawed and sick, a victim of his own bad
decisions. I saw Mulder too, holding me when I was so sick,
supporting me when he could barely manage himself some days. I
saw my father, and I saw Mom. I saw Emily. I saw some of what
had been, and what could be. I saw possibilities. 

I went back to Daniel the next day and gently broke the news to
him: he never did know who I was. He certainly didn't have a clue
about what I was secretly longing for. I told him to mend the
crappy relationship he had with his own daughter and get on with
his life. And I left.

It was strange, sitting out there alone. I guess I'm used to
experiencing these strange flashes of insight with Mulder there to
balance me. I'm used to bouncing ideas off of him. I felt like I was
missing something that day. Oh, I still had my faith. I still wore my
cross and I still asked God to bless the nuns I saw moving around
the hospital grounds. But something had happened to me that I
couldn't explain, and I really, really needed to talk about it. Trouble
was, the only person who would care or understand was quite
literally on the other side of the planet.

And then I saw her. The long blond hair, that crappy raincoat.
Maybe she could give me some answers. I bolted after her,
determined that this time she wouldn't get away. I called out as I
caught up to her. I grabbed her arm, and I swear I felt her hair slap
me in the face as she turned. But it wasn't her. It wasn't even a
woman. The hair wasn't long and blond, it was dark. And it looked
really bad against that beige rain coat. 

I didn't get it. I wondered for a second if someone was playing
some sort of game with us. How the hell had I mistaken Mulder for
my mystery woman? 

I still don't get it. I cannot say for sure what happened to me that
day. I do know what happened *after* that. We went to his
apartment and drank tea. And we talked. More to the point, he
listened while I poured out everything that was on my mind,
everything that had *been* on my mind for the past God knows
how many years. I told him about my mistakes, not the least of
which was the affair I'd had with one of my professors. I told him
about my heartaches and my hopes. I told him what I wanted out of
life.

I don't know what shocked him the most: that I had done those
things at all, or that I was actually opening up and talking about
them with him.

What I *didn't* tell him was how much he meant to me, how much
he *does* mean to me. I figured we'd get to that later. Only I fell
asleep. Dammit. I was sitting next to my friend, the best friend I've
ever had; I was listening to the sound of his voice as he went on
about the decisions we make and how different our lives would be
if we'd just made different choices  . I was comfortable and safe
and talked out, and I was so tired  . I just needed to rest for a
minute. Just a minute.

When I woke up, I was alone. It took me a minute to realize that
what I smelled was the blanket he'd put over me - that scratchy,
elegantly simple blanket I see every time I go over there. How
many nights had he slept right where I was?  I mused
as I sat there with my legs stretched out, watching his fish swim
around in their rectangular little world. 

If only.

What had Colleen said the other day about moments of perfect
clarity? I felt it that night. Time slowed around me, and as I sat
there I felt the gravity of my decisions. What my life was to become
depended upon the actions I was about to take. I considered my
options rationally. Dispassionately. The first was the most logical: I
could stay there and sleep on the couch. I knew Mulder wouldn't
mind. In fact, he was probably hoping I would do just that.
Secondly, I could do what I *should* do, which was to get up and
drive home and sleep in my own bed. In the morning we would talk
over coffee about what had happened to me and what hadn't
happened to him; we would discuss the nature of the universe and
the power of fate and life in general, and we would carry on much
the same as we had literally for years. 

Or I could get up and go to him. I could follow the path I'd started
down God only knows how long ago - maybe it began with the kiss
on New Years, or the day we'd quietly exchanged vows in his
doorway, or perhaps even the day we'd met - I could take the last
few steps of the convoluted path that stretched out over the years
and ended right there at his bedroom door.

Of the three, I knew which I wanted to do.

I had been lonely for years, and all for nothing. I did have someone.
I had someone and so did he - we simply had never done anything
about it. All our posturing, all those speeches to ourselves about
propriety and protocol and how we shouldn't upset the status quo;
the attachments and sentiments and quiet longings acknowledged
only in the privacy of our own hearts, expressed only through
phonecalls about cases or inane, pointless questions, or sometimes
calls about absolutely nothing at all  . What the hell were we
waiting for?

What if? I found myself smiling. What would happen if I did follow
that path, if I walked into that bedroom and took him up on one of
those offers he so blithely threw out every day? 

A sound, soft and indistinct, caught my attention. Without another
thought, I got up and padded to his bedroom doorway. The room
was dark, of course, but the street lamp outside afforded me
enough light to see the rumpled, empty bed.  I sighed and let my head rest for a moment on the door
jamb. A lingering doubt plagued me. A vestige of the old Dana,
perhaps.  

What can he do to me, I countered rationally. He's the best friend
I've ever had. He knows me. He loves me. He knows I love him. 

I smiled.

The bathroom door suddenly opened and a dark form stepped out.
He saw me immediately, standing there in his doorway. "Hey,
you're awake." As was he, I wanted to say. Evidently not even jet-
lag could overcome the chronic insomnia that plagued him. Well,
why should that be any different tonight? 

I nodded placidly. "Quite the master of observation, aren't you?
Guess that's why they pay you the big bucks." 

He was little more than a dark blur as he crossed the room and
switched on the little lamp beside his bed. "So, I guess this mean
you're heading home now?" 

Was it just my imagination, or was there a hint of disappointment in
his tone? 

I didn't say anything, just stood there with my arms folded and
studied him in the soft light. Mulder in a suit is always something to
behold, but to see him like this  . it was a treat, plain and simple.
Hair nicely rumpled, chest bare, and those plaid drawstring pants
slung low on his hips like that  .

Okay, being his partner doesn't preclude me from appreciating
beauty when I see it, does it?

And evidently he read that appreciation in my eyes. I felt a flutter in
my chest when he grinned. I loved that I could make him light up
like that, however briefly. "Scully, stop. You're making me blush."

I folded my arms and shrugged one shoulder, the very picture of
nonchalance. "Why? Is ogling a gender-specific activity? Are you
going to report me for harassment?" 

He waved a hand at my non-denial. "We've been doing the hokey-
pokey for years, according to everyone but the Bureau janitor.
Who'd listen to me now?" He paused and lifted his chin toward me.
"*Is* this good night? Are you taking off now?"

I sighed and slowly shook my head. "No."

His brows twitched upward, then almost met across the bridge of
his nose. "Oh. Good. I was kind of hoping you'd  . I mean, I
thought you might make it through the night out there. Um  . now
that you're up, d'you want to take the bed? I can sleep on the
couch. I don't mind. Wait, you'll need something to sleep in. Uh
 ." He turned and looked around. Clothes from his trip were
dumped in a pile by the closet, and the empty suitcase was sticking
out from under the foot of the bed. An obviously wet towel had
been thrown in the middle of the mess. I didn't have to feel them to
know, everything there was a total loss.

I couldn't help smiling.  

He had the good grace to appear chagrined. "Uh, damn. I don't
think I have any clean shirts. Do you mind sleeping in one not quite
laundry-fresh but better than, say, something I played b-ball in last weekend?"

I bit back a giggle as I shrugged again. If I had my way, neither of
us would be sleeping in T-shirts.

He found a suitable offering draped over the back of the chair in the
corner and tossed it to me. I raised it to my face and took a careful
sniff. Oh, heaven help me - that smell was better than any
manufactured fragrance could ever be. He caught the look on my
face and, being Mulder, misconstrued. "What, is it gross? Sorry,
give it back  . shit, I can find something around here, I know I
can. Maybe I have one in my gym bag out in the car  ."

I raised my hand, stopping him before he could slip on his shoes,
grab his keys, and run out the door. "No, it's fine. Mulder, stop.
Just  . stop."

He looked at me uncertainly. "Is it okay? I just  . I don't  ."

I nodded once. "It's fine."

He relaxed visibly. "Good. Okay. I'll just take this  ." He scooped
up one of the pillows and tucked it under his arm, and when he
looked at me, that impish gleam I knew so well had reappeared in
his eyes. "Listen, if you like the shirt, you should really get a charge
out of the bed. I don't think I've changed the sheets since  ." He
stopped abruptly and pursed his lips. "Never mind. I should learn to
keep my mouth shut." He stopped beside me in the doorway, and I
felt a shiver of anticipation as he tried to sidle past without touching
me. "You know where everything is. I'll just  . be out here."

I stopped him with a hand on his arm. He looked at me, puzzled. I
shook my head before he could speak. "Mulder, don't sleep on the
couch tonight."

He froze, and I could see in his eyes that, this time, he knew exactly
what I meant. For a moment neither of us moved - we just stood
there, frozen. Slowly I let my hand play up and down his forearm,
savoring the warmth of his skin, the silkiness of the fine, dark hair.
He opened his mouth to say something, but for a moment nothing
came out. Then he slowly leaned toward me, and I shivered when
the warmth of his breath touched my face. "Would you please pinch
me?" 

I smiled again. My heart rate was edging up, and heat was
beginning to gather in my face - if he didn't touch me soon, I was
going to melt right there in the doorway. I shook my head slowly.
"I can think of some things I'd rather do." He watched my hand
stray up to his bicep. His expression was mild, almost passive.
Almost. 

It occurred to me that, but for those soft cotton pajamas, he was
naked. A delicious warmth spread outward from my belly, up
through my chest and down into my  . 

I shivered when his hand settled on my shoulder. My eyes were
locked on his supersternal notch and the tiny flutter of his pulse  .
it was so close, I could just reach out and touch it with my lips,
with my tongue. God, how I wanted to taste him.

Without even looking, he tossed the pillow back on the bed, then
gently took the shirt from me and let it fall on the floor. Then he
raised his hand and gently grazed my cheek with the back of a
finger. "You gonna tell me what's going on in your head, Scully? A
guy could get into trouble guessing these days, you know."

A soft sound escaped him when I first nuzzled and then kissed that
hand - something that was half-gasp, half-groan. "We started
something a while ago," I murmured. "I'd like to finish it now."

He looked at me mutely, his eyes were veiled behind his lashes. His
mouth opened and his lips silently formed one word. *Now?*

I nodded. At last, after a long, breathless moment, he leaned in and
kissed me. Once. Twice. A third time, each longer and deeper than
the last. My arms found their way around him, and I sighed as he
followed suit. Our bodies met and meshed, our lips and tongues
meeting and greeting like old friends. Oh, this was right. This was
good. 

After what felt like an hour, he raised his head and looked at me
almost playfully. "Well, maybe it's just me," he murmured,
dropping kisses along my jaw as his hands found the hem of my
sweater, "but I think one of us is a little overdressed for a sleep-over."

I didn't particularly want to lose what contact we'd established, but
I figured the payoff would be worthwhile. Silently I raised my arms
over my head, allowing him to draw my sweater up and off. When
he caught the cascade of my hair and I felt those long fingers caress
my scalp - well, I had a hard time not moaning my approval.
"Would this be a good time to tell you I've always wanted to do
this?" he whispered. "Play with it like this, I mean. God, I love your
hair."

I let my hands fall to his hips as I rolled my head back into his hand.
The maneuver exposed my throat to him. Oh, God help me .... he
bowed his head and gently ran his lips slowly up and down my
neck, his warm mouth opening against my skin and leaving a little
path of wet kisses in his wake. I wondered if he could feel my
nipples drawing up tight and hard. Oh hell, how could he not? To
speak was difficult, but somehow I managed it. "I-I think this
would be a good time for a lot of things we've always wanted to do."

He lifted his head away, and I saw cautious hope in his eyes. "God,
Scully, what are we doing? Is this for real?" 

The quiet reverence in his tone made me smile. "What do you think,
Mulder?" He said nothing, and I saw a flicker of something like
anxiety in his clear eyes. Beautiful eyes. I could admit to it now,
and not just to myself: I wanted to make them shine. I wanted to
make them roll back in his head. I wanted to see that little smile on
his lips, the one I see sometimes when he doesn't realize I'm
watching him, and I want to know beyond any doubt that I am the
cause of it. Impulsively I slipped my arms around him again and
held him tight, pressed my face to his chest and breathed him in.
When I gently kissed the ridge of his collarbone, goosebumps rose
up under my mouth, and I felt his own nipples tighten. I couldn't
help but smile. "Ooh, something tells me you like that."

A soft groan was his only response.

I kissed his chin, the raspy skin of his throat, then trailed my lips
down his sternum to his flat male breasts. He stood motionless, his
head thrown back, allowing me to do as I pleased. Shudders
vibrated through him, but his hands never left my shoulders. He
groaned softly as I lavished attention on each of his nipples, and I
felt a thrill course through me. 

When I traced the line of dark hair down his belly to the indentation
of his navel, he hissed and finally caught a gentle hand under my
chin, impelling me to look at him again. "Slow down," he
whispered, kissing me. "I won't last a minute if you go for the big
guns right now."

I smiled as I stroked him through the thin material of his pants. His
breath caught in his throat, though to his credit he didn't try to stop
me. Jesus, he was already hard. That was no joke about endurance.
"Big guns?" I repeated, reaching back to caress that sweet ass of
his. I wanted to sink down to my knees and take him into my
mouth, but I didn't. Better leave well enough alone, at least for the
moment. We had plenty of time - I certainly wasn't going
anywhere. He tipped my head back, and I smiled at him as I
hummed contentedly. "Mmm, do you have a big gun, Mulder?"

He trailed his lips over my temple, my eyelids, down my nose to my
mouth. "You tell me - you were just playing with it." He kissed me
and God, what a kiss it was. Before I had recovered my breath, he
was nudging me back toward the bed. "Take a load off, Scully. I
think we're gonna be here for a while. At least, I hope we are."

I pressed my face in his throat as I fumbled for the zipper on my
skirt. "First things first. Help me with this, would you? My fingers
are shaking."

He chuckled breathlessly. "So are mine." They were, too. I could
feel the tremor in them as he slid the blade of the zipper down over
my hip. The skirt slid down and off, landing in a black hoop around
my feet. I stepped out of it, and he kicked it away. Hosiery quickly
followed. He gasped when he saw my underwear. "Jesus, Scully
...." His eyes were dark in the half-life of the small lamp, the
beautiful irises little more than narrow rings around the deep black
wells of his pupils. He looked at me incredulously. "Ugh, if I'd
known you were wearing those under your clothes, this might have
happened a long time ago."

I raised a hand and pressed a finger to his lips. "Mulder, shh."

It was a slow dance from there. Arms circled me, caressing and
holding me. We turned, and I felt him bear me slowly to the bed.
God, the sheets really did smell like him. The pressure of his body
against mine was the sweetest of pleasures. When I felt his hands at
the closure of my bra I arched against him, and he reverently drew
the scrap of lycra down and off my arms. The look on his face when
he saw my breasts was heartbreaking, and I wondered if he even
knew he was holding his breath. He touched one gently, caressing
me, his thumb immediately finding my nipple. The sensation was
maddening. I bit my lip as he toyed with it. After a moment he
raised his hand to his mouth and licked that thumb, then plied it to
me again. This time I couldn't restrain a soft sound.

"Jesus, I made you moan," he whispered. He sighed explosively,
and I saw a brightness in his eyes. "I could die a happy man now."

I caught that hand and drew it to my mouth, gently caressed the
thumb with my tongue. He sucked in his breath in a loud gasp, and
I smiled. "Don't say that, Mulder. We're just getting started here."

He swallowed convulsively. "I want so much. I want ...." His voice
trailed off helplessly.

I kissed his hand, then returned it to my breast. "Like what?" His
eyes brightened even more, and I smiled. "I'm lying here in nothing
but a thong, Mulder. If I'm not shy, you really can't be either.
Which reminds me .... you said something about being overdressed?"

That earned me a grin. My hands joined his at his waist, and he
grunted softly as he bucked his hips and divested himself of his
pajama bottoms. His erection sprang up between us, and I felt my
eyes go wide. God, he was beautiful. Long but not too long, thick
but not too thick, angled just right .... I looked back at him and
found him smiling at me. "See something you like, Agent Scully?"

I blinked and swallowed. "Nice specimen, Mulder." 

I gasped a little when his hand closed around it and he gave it a
little stroke. "I'm glad you approve. But where are my manners?
You two haven't met, have you? Not directly, at any rate." He
gently caught my hand and drew it down, encircling his breadth
with our entwined fingers. Oh sweet Jesus, it was hard and hot and
mobile within its paper-thin sheath of skin. He groaned softly as we
stroked it together. Was it my imagination, or did it grow just a
little bit more? 

I know biology. I know anatomy, both male and female. I just
couldn't fathom there being any part of me that would be enough to
accommodate what I was looking at. I gave a shaky laugh. "Mulder
.... God, it's been a long time."

His mouth twitched into a little pout, and his brows drew together
as he propped himself up on an elbow. "Trust me, Scully. Granted,
it's been a while for me, too, but I still know how to ride a bike."
With that he leaned close and kissed me, slow and deep, then
dipped his head and took my nipple tenderly in his mouth. Oh, God
- stars burst in my head at the first contact, and a rush of heat and
liquid quickly saturated my crotch. I clutched at his shoulders as my
eyes slammed shut. Sensation was all there was now, the sensation
of his mouth on my breast, his tongue circling and caressing my
nipple, his hand sliding down my side to the scrap of material at my
waist. His fingers edging their way under that scrap, dragging it
down slowly over my hips, my knees, my ankles .... then he was
back, those fingers moving over my skin and through my hair as if
reading Braille, until they were right there .... I began to pant at the
first tentative touch, and if I'd been myself, I'd certainly have been
embarrassed when my legs opened of their own accord, permitting
him entrance. I caught a hand hard around his wrist, though
whether it was to stop him or prevent his stopping, I was not sure. I
gasped again as he opened me, when he gently slipped a long finger
into me. Oh shit, oh God, the rhythm of his mouth on my breast,
suckling and worrying, that tongue forever circling, and now a hand
where only mine had been for so many years .... a hand that quickly
established its own rhythm of probing and circling, invading and
retreating, reaching inward until I knew he had to be touching my
cervix, and then withdrawing until I ached from the emptiness ....
My hand tightened around his, no longer content to merely hold but
now guiding and controlling its movements. My hips countered
with their own rhythm, the pressure building between his mouth and
his hand, squeezing me and stretching me, tightness building in my
spine until I was arching back into the bed, grinding him harder and
deeper .... a last nip at my breast and I was gone, exploding around
him .... fire consuming me from the inside out, my held breath
released in a long, soft cry that must have carried his name with it ....

.... sweet oblivion ....

I was forever coming back down. He favored my breast with a last
tender kiss, then looked up at me with smiling eyes. "*Now* I can
die happy," he whispered, sliding back up my body. "I just hope it
doesn't happen for a good fifty or sixty years."

I smiled, breathless. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to touch him.
My limbs were rubber though, and I couldn't move. "Sixty years?"
I panted. "Yeah, I could do this that long, no problem." I rolled my
head feebly from side to side. "If *I* don't die right away. Jesus,
what did you do to me ...?"

I felt him grasp my hand and guide it to his burning erection. I
stroked the smooth head tenderly and was rewarded with a
teardrop of moisture. I looked at it as I spread it around with my
fingertips. He was dark and throbbing, and clearly in distress after
witnessing my own breathless flight. I bit back a groan as I rolled
on my side toward him. Fair was fair. Besides, the lethargy was
beginning to lift, leaving me curiously revived. And the look in his
eyes as I fondled him was doing wonderful things to my heart. I
edged closer and ruffled the head of his cock through my pubic
hair. "Poor Mulder," I murmured, lifting a leg and draping it over
his hip. He looked down between us, and I saw a muscle twitch in
his clenched jaw. When he looked at me again, his expression was
anything but blank. I saw many things in his eyes. Love. Lust.
Burning hunger. He bit his lower lip when I gently drew him up and
down my slick outer folds. His hand curled into a fist on my raised
knee, but he made no move to either stop or encourage me. I
leaned forward and brushed my lips over his. His response of brief
and perfunctory, and I realized it was taking considerable effort on
his part to hold himself back, to let me do what I was doing. He
was letting me set the pace. How should we proceed? Missionary?
Did he want me on top? Why not like this, facing each other on our
sides, my leg cradling his hip? I took a firmer hold of him as I edged
a little closer. Oh, perfect. Could he see from this angle? I looked at
him and saw him watching my hand with rapt attention. His mouth
was open now, his upper lip beginning to curl in a helpless grimace.
His chest was heaving, and I could almost hear his heart pounding
like a kettle drum. I tipped my pelvis just a little, and a small groan
escaped him as I slipped him inside me.

At first the fullness stole my breath away. I felt no pain .... there
was just stretching as tissues too long idle suddenly found
themselves accommodating a sizable intruder. He was hard and hot
and satin-smooth all at once. It felt incredible.

We rocked apart slowly and he reappeared between us, shining and
slick. I clenched myself once around the blunt head still ensconced
inside me, and he gave a little panting groan. "Oh God," he
whimpered in a tiny voice, "I could come right now."

I touched his face, drawing his attention back to me. His eyes were
feverish, and I saw something like panic in them. His control really
was tenuous. I leaned in and kissed him tenderly. "We'll wait then,"
I murmured against his lips. "No hurry."

He took a few sharp breaths, and a shudder ran the length of him as
he fought to control his impatient body. "You're wearing your
cross," he managed to say, as if he had just noticed it. I knew
without asking, that was not the case. "We're not going be struck
dead for doing this, are we? I don't want to end up as my own final
X-file." He groaned long and low. "Not that this wouldn't be the
way to go, but ...."

I stroked his mouth with my thumb. His lips curved a little, kissing
me. "No, of course not. I'll just have a little more to discuss with
my priest." 

His eyes flickered to mine, and I saw silent laughter there. "You
really have to tell him about this? How embarrassing."

I shook my head. "No details. Just that I slept with a man I'm not
married to. And that I enjoyed doing it."

His eyes narrowed a little. "You have to tell him *that?*"

I smiled playfully. "No, not necessarily. I just want to say it. 'I did it
and I enjoyed it. Now give me my penance and shut up about it.'"

He gave a short, breathless laugh. "I'm sure that'll go over well
with the good father." He looked down between us then, and we
watched him disappear into me again. Oh, hell. His shaft was doing
fantastic things to the nub hidden in my hair, the ridges and
contours scraping deliciously with his inward progress. He pressed
inward a little deeper this time, then withdrew and immediately
lunged again. A groan rose out of him. "God, this is .... this is good.
I can't believe .... I can't believe we're doing this." 

I tipped my hips, finding him a deeper fit, and he groaned again.
"We are, Mulder."

His hand rose between us and gently stroked my breastbone. Oh
hell, how did he know that was one of my favorite spots? I locked
my gaze with his as he continued to move. The grimace was quickly
making a reappearance, and the hand fell away. "Scully," he
moaned softly.

Our hips were setting their own rhythm now, one that wouldn't last
long for either of us. "Yeah," I grunted. My hand was on his hip,
anchoring me to him. 

His eyes held mine, his expression somewhere between bliss and
utter torment. "I love you. God, I can't .... I can't .... I need to be
deeper .... "

His arms rose around me and he took me with him as he rolled onto
his back. Our hips kept up their movements as I braced myself over
him. He was trying to watch me, but I could see his eyes were
losing their focus. His lips moved too, forming words I couldn't
quite make out. The pressure was building in us and between us,
and through the haze gathering in my head I realized he was trying
to contain his thrusts, limiting himself so that he wouldn't climax
before me. God, he was inside me. This was Mulder inside me - my
friend, my *partner* - and he was about to come. We weren't using
anything, which meant when it happened, he really was going to
shoot himself into me. That image of us in the shower, of him
ejaculating, emptying himself in hot, heavy spurts, and me there to
see it happen .... oh God, I was losing it ....

He tipped his hips just a little and I was suddenly grinding myself
hard on his pubic bone. Oh, perfection .... I gasped as heat
consumed me again. I could feel him laboring under me, his arms
locked around my waist. He was pounding into me now. His balls
had been slapping into me with gusto for some time but they were
gone now, drawing up into his own body in preparation of their
hot, wet delivery. I managed to get my eyes open and I watched as
his orgasm took him. A strained grimace, a long, low moan from
deep in his chest, a break in the rhythm of his thrusts .... his mouth
opened as he balanced there on the pinnacle, and I knew any second
now he was going to ignite, he was going to explode and it was
going to engulf us both ....

 . beautiful  . my God, he is so beautiful  . 
.... and then it happened. He let out a choked bellow as his hips
began driving again, lifting us off the bed, plunging him into me so
deeply, I swear I felt him touch my heart. His sounds and
movements as he gushed into me conspired in my favor, and I cried
out softly as I succumbed a third time. For a breathless eternity we
pulsed and spasmed around and in each other, performing an
agonized dance of movement and stillness and pounding, racing
hearts ....

And then collapse. He shuddered a final time and then went still
beneath me, so still I couldn't help but wonder if he'd lost
consciousness. I tried to turn my head so we weren't breathing each
other's panting exhalations, but my muscles would not cooperate. I
couldn't move. So be it. I'd lay there atop him and I'd enjoy it.

Slowly the sweaty body stirred beneath me. "God," he moaned,
rolling us onto our sides. His arms tightened around me, and his
penis, slick and flaccid, slipped out of me. 

For a long while we didn't move. I listened, rapt, to his labored
pants and the insane tempo of his pulse. At last his arms moved
higher around me, one hand spreading across my back and rubbing
slowly. "Scully," he whispered.

I tried without success to open my eyes. "Hmm?" 

His voice rumbled in his chest as he gave a breathless chuckle. "I
think I left my body there for a minute." He raised his hand and
cupped the back of my head, his fingers burrowing through my hair
and scratching gently at my scalp. For a while we were still and
silent, and I tried with all the energy left to me to remember this
moment, to frame it so that it would be in my memory forever. The
warmth of his skin against mine, slick with sweat; the sounds of his
breathing, his heart; the sweet, unmistakable scent rising up
between us that was neither his nor mine, but ours. I sighed as I
nuzzled the soft skin beneath his ear. A finger gently traced the
outer curve of my own ear, and I knew even before he spoke what
was coming. I sighed contentedly. Even now, his body sated and on
the verge of sleep, my partner was not talked out.

"Are you awake?" he murmured. I curled my fingers in response
and gently scraped his ass with my nails, and he gave a little jerk.
"Whoa, I'll take that as a yes." He tipped his head back a little and
we looked at each other. I've known for a long time how strongly
my partner felt for me, but what I saw in his expression actually left
me speechless. "I want to ask you something," he said, and stopped
as though uncertain. Then the smile reappeared, and the finger left
my ear and trailed gently down the side of my face to my chin. "Do
you think it's possible for friends, for best friends, to fall in love?"

I smiled and let my eyes fall shut. Was it a rhetorical question, I
wondered, or did he really expect me to answer? What we had just
done - didn't that tell him something? Was he so insecure that he
needed to hear the words? I mustered the
strength for an eyebrow lift. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
I murmured, toying with the cleft in his chin, that ran the length of
that bottom lip. Vaguely I wondered how he managed to shave in
there. Hmm. I was going to have to start paying closer attention. 

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Are you saying I have to?" he
murmured. His breath fluttered, warm and humid, on my skin as he
sighed. "Tell me you don't know already."

I tried for a wry tone, and almost succeeded. "Well, when you put it
that way  ." He chuckled almost silently, and I smiled again as
little twitches and spasm began to steal over him. Ah, sleep was
coming for him at last. Suddenly I didn't want to toy with him. I
wanted to give him anything I could. He needed to hear me say the
words? Would my saying them make him rest just a little easier?
That was fine with me. Impulsively I drew him in tight, molding my
body so hard to his that I could feel the strong rhythm of his heart
in my own chest. "Mulder," I whispered, stroking his hair a little.
He murmured something unintelligible. Gently I kissed his forehead,
his browbone, then dipped my face just enough to allow me to
reach his lips. "I do love you," I whispered in between gentle kisses.
"I do."

A smile was his only response. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's raining. I smile as I stand for a moment at the window and look
out at the wet, dripping leaves. This is how a spring storm sounds, I
muse. These are the sounds Mulder hears while he's lying in bed. 

I'm dressed. My clothes are on, and my hair is presentable. Any
minute I'll be leaving, walk out that door, get into my car, make the
drive back to my own Georgetown neighborhood. Any minute.
Wait - I have time to watch him. The steady rise and fall of his
chest. The tiny flutter of his eyelids. The way his mouth purses and
parts just a little. I want so to touch him - I want it so badly, my
hand actually aches - but I don't. I don't want to take the chance of
waking him. It isn't just that I want him to sleep - I do, certainly -
but if I wake him now, we'll be late for work, plain and simple. 

We haven't talked much about this new development. If our knack
for unspoken communication holds true, we don't need to. 

It's late. Or early. I don't know how to qualify it - my perspective
has definitely changed from what it had been when I walked in here
a few hours ago. I don't want to leave. I know he won't like
waking up alone. He'd want me to stay there in the warm nest of
his bed, my body wrapped around his, asleep and at peace and his
touch if he so desired. He'd want to wake me with a long, slow
kiss, then make love to me again. I know him.

I wish I could stay. How I wish I could. Circumstances simply
won't allow it. *This* time.

I stand for a long while and watch him. 
I whisper as I turn away.

It is a promise, both to the sleeper and myself. 


~~~~~~~~~
Fin.

Thanks for reading.

    Source: geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/Text