TITLE: Finding Words
AUTHOR: Flynn
CLASSIFICATION: RST, at least for M/S
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
All my work can be found at my Website:
www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
DATE: 12-9-00
DISTRIBUTION: Just lemme know where so I can visit.
SPOILER WARNING: passing references to Brand X, all
things
RATING: NC-17
FEEDBACK: If you like it, all I ask is that you let me know.
SUMMARY: How many people make all the right sounds
but leave out the feelings behind them?

DISCLAIMER: His characters, his money, my fun. He can
always get me at my address, listed above.

To my sister, who happened to be born to another family in
another state.



~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finding Words
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Sunday. Her day.

No meetings. No commuting or last minute flights. No
autopsies. The coffee wasn't vile. There was no arguing over
hypotheses and case solutions. In fact, work was little more
than a vague notion out on the horizon.

She lay peacefully in bed until the sun was well up, then
lounged in her robe and slippers and watched TV until it
felt like it was time to be dressed. Then it was faded levis and
an old sweater. It had been an old favorite in college, though
the intervening years had not been necessarily kind to it. A
few buttons had long ago been lost, and the hem was
beginning to fray. She scowled as she studied her reflection
in the mirror. Well, so be it. She didn't have anywhere she
had to be, did she? She didn't *have* to get dressed at all.

Breakfast. Not the standard cold bagel and cream cheese, but
real food. Eggs and toast with jam, and with it a leisurely
second cup of coffee. She stirred it absently as she worked
her way through the Sunday Times. Steam rose up around
her face, touching her skin in a warm caress. She closed her
eyes and breathed in the scent.

There were other things she could and probably should be
doing, she mused. There were always things that needed
doing at the office. And Mom would never turn aside a
chance to share her pew. It'd been too long since she'd seen
her mother, and far too long since she'd spoken to Father
McCue. But church? On a day like this? A fine rain was
feathering her windows with diamonds of moisture. A cold
spring shower, a pot of French-roast, the Times, and on her
coffee table, the new JAMA.

No, church could not compare.

She wondered what her partner was doing. Hopefully, not
much of anything; after all, it hadn't been too many weeks
ago that he had been in the hospital. Again. The thought of
him produced a little flutter in her chest, and she found
herself smiling. She wished he was there with her. Yeah, that
would just about be perfect, wouldn't it? Mulder stretched
out on her couch, dozing or reading . . . or more probably
pacing restlessly and yammering on about Big Foot or Elvis
or whatever his current passion was. Working on *her*
coffee as he waited for her to figure out what to wear so she
could run out into the elements with him. How did he do it?
How could he talk her into half the stuff he did? She was
more than passingly intelligent. She didn't believe in the
bogeyman. She didn't believe in magic. She certainly didn't
believe in fairy tales.

Except those that he could spin. Ghost-busting on Christmas
Eve? A TV weatherman whose unrequited love could bring
about climatic changes? No problem . . . just so long as she
was there to back up her partner.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. Enjoy the moment. Coffee
cup on the coaster; newspaper at the ready, phone within
easy reach . . . just in case anyone should happen to call. Now
sit down and enjoy the quiet.

She did sit back. She squirmed around until she was
stretched out across the cushions, her back braced against
the padded arm. Her left hand caressed the back of the
couch, her finger tapping absently against the smooth
material. Wet sunlight peered in over her shoulder.

Though her mind was occupied, her senses were wandering.

The slow, steady beat of her heart. The whisper of rain on
the windows. The rustle of the newspaper.

The trilling of the phone.

How did he do it? Spooky, indeed. She smiled as she glanced
at the wall clock. Sunday morning, just past ten . . . not hard
guessing who it was.

A burst of static told her he was already on the move, and by
the weakness of his signal, she judged he was either out of
the state or had forgotten to charge the battery again. "Hey,
Scully. Nice weather we're having. What're you doin'?"

Her heart fluttered again at the sound of his voice. It had
been a month since her epiphany regarding her past in that
drab hospital room  a month since she'd stripped bare, both
physically and emotionally, and slipped into bed with this
man. Her partner. Too bad that month had offered no
opportunities for a repeat performance. Quite the contrary -
the intervening weeks had witnessed yet another dramatic
turn; another brush with death. She'd never liked bugs
much. Forensic entomology left her cold. Almost losing her
partner, her best friend - her lover - to a chestful of larvae
went a long way in sealing that mindset.

The careful, casual manner of his question actually made her
smile. This was not a get-dressed-we-have-a-new-case phone
call. His voice was level and soft, and untouched by the
tension that usually accompanied calls about work. No, he
was out and about, no doubt restless from the weather and a
protracted illness and recovery - thank God, a full recovery -
and probably sniffing around for a little company.

She smiled and closed her eyes for a moment. A night spent
together, feelings acknowledged if never quite declared aloud
. . . and still he felt he had to invent a reason to see her.
"Mulder, where are you?"

She heard the soft, rhythmic slap of his wipers. "I'm on the
95. Had to get out of that apartment. I thought I'd go in to
work for a while. Just wanted to see what you're up to this
morning."

She dropped the newspaper in her lap. "You're kidding me,
right? Mulder, don't go in now. It's Sunday, *and* it's your
last day off! Tomorrow's going to be here soon enough.
Leave it be, okay? Do it as a personal favor to me?"

He gave a harried sigh, and when he spoke, his voice was
dangerously close to a whine. "God, Scully, I'm bored out of
my mind. The doctors won't let me run yet. Nothing to do
at home but watch TV, nothing open around here but
churches and restaurants and diners . . . hey, have you eaten?
You want some breakfast? I can be there in about twenty
minutes."

She caught herself smiling again. "Sorry, Mulder. Just
finished."

He didn't even try to mask his disappointment. "Oh. Um.
Well, you want to do lunch? I can go in for a couple hours,
review some cases, then pick you up and . . ."

"Mulder, what is it with you and food today?"

She could almost hear his mouth open and close futilely.
Wheels were turning, thoughts were racing. Deflect deflect
deflect. "Um, nothing. Like I said, I'm just bored."

Oh, it was too tempting; she couldn't resist a little dig at his
ego. "Yeah? Well, I'm not. In fact, I was just sitting down
with another cup of Starbucks and a new medical journal.
Enjoying the rain and the quiet. Oh, and the Times. And
before you ask, I only have a pencil, so if I screw up the
crossword, you'll never be the wiser."

He groaned softly and her grin broadened. "Pencil? Have I
taught you nothing? Anyone with balls uses a pen. A *pen,*
Scully. C'mon, have a little faith in your puzzle-solving
talents. Prove your mettle."

She snorted. "Well, seeing as I haven't got any balls, literally
or otherwise, I really don't think I have to worry about
proving anything."

He saw the opening and, just as she'd hoped, he jumped at
it. "By happy coincidence, this Mulder model comes fully
equipped. I would be pleased and honored to lend myself
toward the proper completion of your Times crossword."

She pursed her lips and made soft kissing sounds as she
pretended to consider his offer. "I don't know, Mulder. I'm
not really dressed for company."

There was a soft snort. "Since when am *I* company?"

She toyed with a loose string dangling from the hem of her
top. "I'm just lying around in jeans and a sweater. I'm not
even wearing shoes. No makeup, not even a shower yet, and
my hair's a mess . . ."

"Which sweater?"

She looked down at herself. "The blue V-neck."

His swallow was perceptible even over the screech and fade
of the weak signal. "The one with the missing buttons?"

She tried for outraged disbelief, but succeeded only in
producing a girlish laugh. "Mulder, I don't believe you
sometimes! May I ask how long you've been studying my
sweaters?"

"*Is* it the one with the buttons missing? And the bottom
that's started to unravel?"

She grinned as she arched back over the arm of the couch.
Oh, how she wished he was here to study and maybe pay a
little attention to what was *in* that sweater. That wasn't a
bad thing, was it? Maybe it was time for her to push the
envelope a little. See if he really was as cool as he pretended
to be. "As if it's any business of yours, Mulder, yes. And . . .
rats, another button just fell between . . . oh, wait, lemme see
if I can get it . . . Damn, this is one of my favorites. I lose too
many more of these and there won't be any keeping this
thing on."

Was it possible to actually hear someone sweat? She knew
her partner. He was being too damned quiet - her remarks
were definitely having an impact. "Mulder, are you there?
Where are you?"

It took him a few seconds to find his voice. "I'm at, uh,
Stonebrook. No, make that Foster."

Foster. Not heading in to town at all, the little faker. In fact,
he'd probably been heading for Georgetown all along,
hoping she'd set aside whatever she was working on and take
him in - his proverbial port in the storm.

It was tempting to continue this torture, but it just didn't
seem practical. It was Sunday. They weren't working. They
weren't injured. When might such an opportunity present
itself again? She affected a loud, put-upon sigh. "Well, you're
almost here anyway. Come on. I'll put on a fresh pot."

This time there was no hesitation. "I'll be right there."



He wasn't kidding - it wasn't very long before she heard the
pound of footsteps on the old wooden stoop. There was a
pause and soft rattle as he used the key she'd given him -
how many years ago? - to open the foyer door. Another pause
. . . an attempt to call for the elevator, perhaps . . .  and then
faint, erratic thumps as he took the stairs two at a time. She
really had to talk to him about that. There was no reason to
push himself so hard so fast; it would only set him back,
render him unable to work . . . or to play.

Footsteps in the hall, and then hesitation. A slow, almost
timid knock.

She didn't stir from her nest on the couch. "Use your key,"
she called. A little thrill made her shiver. Would he
recognize the intimacy of such a request? That she was not
only granting him access, but *free* access? Oh, surely he
would. After all, *he* was the profiler. What would he think
about the development? Would he say something, or just
hold his silence and try to read her through hers?

What would he do?

There was a series of clicks, and then the door slowly swung
open. She schooled her expression into a neutral mask. Hell,
the effort it took not to turn and gaze hungrily at him, not to
allow him to see in her eyes just how much she admired
him, and not only for his intellect. Then again, such
outward displays just weren't her style, were they? He'd be
expecting his calm, rational partner, not some quivering
bundle of pent-up sexual energy. And even if he wasn't -
after so many years of presenting the world her cool mask of
composure . . . well, it wasn't an easy habit to break.

She raised a hand in greeting without looking up. He
hesitated for just a second before stepping in and closing the
door behind him. "Hey, Scully." She tracked him intently
with her peripheral vision. He glanced around as he
shrugged out of his jacket, which bore dark blotches across
the shoulders. Hmm, the light sprinkles must have given way
to serious rainfall. Again he looked at her uncertainly, and
this time she allowed herself a lingering glance. Oh, hell - he
was wearing his glasses. Did he have any idea how much she
loved seeing him in them? How did one ask one's partner to
please wear the charcoal Armani with the blood-red tie, that
cologne she can't name other than to say it's the one that
smells like musk and wood smoke, and oh by the way, can
you slip the specs on while you're at it because I have a thing
for you in your wire-rims? Nope, couldn't do that. She
dropped her gaze to the paper in her lap. His own expression
was carefully blank - she couldn't tell if he'd noticed her
stare. "Coffee ready?" he asked.

She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "Help
yourself."

Another gesture. Another subtle invitation. Well, it was time
for such intimacies, wasn't it? A key, a coffee cup, the
freedom to search her refrigerator for the half-and-half . . .
wasn't that what lovers did? She smiled behind her hand as
she feigned interest in the crossword. They'd waited long
enough for this. Almost too long. This last incident - if it did
nothing else, it spelled out to her the fact that, all this time,
they could have had more. Much more.

And not just sex. Although, she reminded herself as she
admired the lines of his lean frame, there was definitely
something to be said for *that.* That night, the sex had been
slow and intense and delicious. Holding him in a
four-limbed embrace, reveling in the feel of his skin, his
warmth. The firmness of his body standing in marked
contrast to her own deep softness . . .

She actually shivered.  She
smiled inwardly at the notion. 

She heard him moving around in the kitchen. Carefully she
propped her glasses on the end of her nose and studied him
over the frames. Typical weekend attire. Blue jeans. Battered
runners. A dark T-shirt. He looked like he might have
shaved, though at this distance she couldn't be sure. His hair
was delightfully tousled. Clearly he, too, had missed his
morning shower. She felt a delicious warmth creep up her
neck. Mmm, essence of Mulder. The thought of it was
actually making her mouth water. More notably, it was also
making other places feel . . . rather warm. She remembered a
time when such thoughts would have embarrassed the hell
out of her, but now she shrugged it away with an impatient
grunt. Christian puritanism be damned. Was it such a bad
thing if they enjoyed one another? She loved him. He was
her friend. He was her partner.

She smiled behind her hand. And he was snooping. 

"Hey, Scully! You got pop-tarts!" He whirled, a wide grin
splitting his face. "My favorite kind, too. How'd you know?"

That the box had been sitting in her cupboard since the
impulse hit her three weeks ago didn't seem worth
mentioning. He had to know they were for him - she hated
those things. She regarded him placidly as she considered
her response. "Well, let me think. A sugar-filled product
with lavender icing and electric blue stripes. Gee, I don't
know. Call it a lucky guess."

He already had the box open and was tearing into one of the
packets. "God, this is so great. You want one? I normally
don't share these babies, but I can make an exception in
your case."

She smiled half-heartedly and held up a hand. "Pass. But
thank you."

He chuckled as he filled a coffee cup, then added enough
sugar and cream to rival any high-priced latte. He balanced
the pastries over the top of his cup and made his way to the
living room, where he carefully bent over the back of the
couch and kissed her cheek. "Thanks, Scully. Mm, you smell
good."

She caught a hand around the back of his neck and leaned
into the caress, for just that brief moment savoring
everything about him. Damn, if he thought *she* smelled
good . . .

She forced herself to release him and turned back to the
puzzle. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like them." She shot
the pastries an uneasy look. "I just don't want to hear one
more crack about my choice of frozen dessert products. I
think this one makes us just about even."

He laughed lightly as he rounded the couch and squatted
beside her. "I reserve the right to disparage anything you eat,
Scully, and I expect no less from you. I see you took my
advice and found a pen. Twelve across is Anton. Anton
Chekhov, the Russian novelist. He - "

"Mulder, shush." She waved a hand impatiently at him, glad
for the opportunity to distance herself if even a little. She
could see now, he'd done at least a slap-dash job of shaving.
Soap and Mulder. The thought made her shiver. Oh, how
she wanted to bite that earlobe. Not hard - just enough to
make him groan. Self-denial made her just as testy as
temptation did, of course, and it always had. "Jeez, back off a
little. Go sit down somewhere and eat those things. And
don't get crumbs everywhere."

He broke off a large piece and stuffed it in his mouth. "Sic
down i' lihen," he said, his words badly slurred. "Sic le'er
word for moth."

Her stony Don't-mess-with-me glare was evidently lost on
him. "I assume you mean *lichen* and *moss.* Thank you, I
know. Dammit, you want to eat those or pick them out of
your hair? Get away from me with them!"

He grinned as he pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah, okay. I
can take a hint."

She snorted softly. "No, but you are getting better at it," she
muttered.

He moved quietly around the room for a few minutes,
studying photos, reading book titles. His attention finally
settled on the medical journal on the coffee table beside her.
The last bite disappeared into his mouth as he settled on the
couch. She silently drew her legs up, making room. "Lemme
know if you need any help," he said, his tone quietly
seductive. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand
and then opened the magazine with a flick of his wrist.

It required considerable effort, but she managed to focus at
least a portion of her attention on the task at hand. The
puzzle wasn't difficult so much as it was just damn complex.
*Gideon. Lucretia. Manifesto.* It didn't help that she was
more than passingly aware of him. The tiny movements of
his breathing, the flutter of his eyelids. Even from here she
could smell him. Damn. Focus, Dana. Focus.



She remembered everything. She remembered the wet heat
of his mouth under hers, his silken tongue greeting hers as if
it were an old friend. She remembered the precise moment
when she'd taken his weight for the first time. The feel of his
belly pressing into hers, of their breath mingling. His hushed
words. And his hands finally, *finally* touching her some
place other than the small of her back. The bare skin of her
neck. Her breasts. Her thighs.

She remembered making love to him there in that big bed of
his. The stark emotion in his eyes, the lust and the love that
found acceptance and ultimately release in her own body.
How willingly she'd taken him in. How she'd clutched at
him as she let slip her hold on the Here And Now and rode
out one frenzied storm after another, first coaxed and
cajoled and then demanded by his seemingly tireless body.
Holding him in the cocoon of her warmth as he, too,
succumbed to the sweet inevitable. She remembered
touching him as he drifted toward sleep, unable to look at
him for fear he'd see something unguarded in her eyes, yet
unwilling to completely distance herself. She remembered
the warmth of his flesh beneath her hand. Hair dampened
with sweat, like brown silk between her fingers. His eyes
closing, his respirations growing longer and slower and
deeper, and she knew he was so profoundly asleep that he
would never hear her leave.

She had left. It was a temptation, of course, to remain there,
to sleep at his side and perhaps in his arms, and wake to his
gentle touches. It *was* tempting . . . but it was also
impossible.

At least, it was then. Reality had been beckoning to her, and
with it responsibility for more than her own desires.

Only days later they were in North Carolina. A strange and
gruesome series of deaths, and another fight in yet another
hospital, a fight for a life that she now knew meant more to
her than her faith and even her family. And she was losing.
He was going to die, ravaged from the inside out just like
those anonymous corpses she'd worked on, and there was
nothing she could do about it. She was helpless.

And then something had happened. Science and luck
conspired in her favor. The treatment was terrible, was
almost as devastating as the condition it was intended to
treat . . . but he pulled through. He would be all right.

And so, by extension, would she. This time.

But had she changed? Had *they* changed? Talking had
never been their strong suit, so they didn't try. Oh, they
could play off each other over just about anything else. They
could argue and defend the merits of a case or their own
unique belief systems. They could disagree over the weather
until the seasons changed. But the intimacies eluded them.
They did not, they could not, express what they meant to
each other.

At least, she couldn't.

She worried her lip anxiously, the words on the page before
her lost in a vague blur. Feelings acknowledged though not
declared. Was it time to change that? Oh, he'd expressed
himself pretty damn eloquently during that last frenzied
climax, fairly raining her with *God, I love yous.* She knew
he did; in fact, she'd known for quite some time. But it was
easy to disregard the words, to put them down to the passion
of the moment and not seek a deeper significance. It only
made sense, after all. But was that fair to him? Was he
merely blurting out something in a moment of supreme
passion? Or was he, for just that sublime moment, capable of
expressing something deeper, something that could not be
expressed any other way?

If saying the words at all made the feeling more tangible,
then saying them at that instant should not detract from the
depth of those feelings . . . should it?

"You know, it works much better if you actually touch the
pen to the paper every so often." The rumble of his voice,
soft and light, startled her, and her eyes focused on him with
a snap. He was grinning. "It's been a good five minutes.
Come across a hard one? I'm here to help."

She sighed and forced herself to relax, smiling a little as she
stretched her legs out. She wondered if he had any idea of
the thoughts he'd interrupted. "Not exactly difficult, no. It's
asking for a synonym. To prevaricate." She pressed one of
her bare feet into the side of his thigh and nudged gently.
"Any suggestions?"

He pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose,
then dropped his right hand around her ankle. The touch
was easy and familiar, the gentle squeeze verging on
something more intimate. "Gimme some landmarks."

She smiled impishly. "No. C'mon, brainstorm for me. You
should be able to come up with some whammies."

He shot her a look out the corner of his eye. "Well, let me
think," he said softly, lifting his feet and planting them on
the coffee table before him. "Prevaricate: to lie. To fabricate.
To deceive."

She cleared her throat, cutting him off. "Mulder, I'm glad to
see you relaxing, but I'm really not wild about what your
shoes are going to do to that glass . . ."

He droned on, uninterrupted. ". . . to falsify . . . to adulterate
. . ." Without breaking the slow tempo of his words, he lifted
his feet, loosened the laces, and then slipped the shoes off.
"To exagerate . . . to omit."  His socks joined the discarded
runners, and with a soft grunt he shifted his weight, settling
back in a pose that mirrored her own: back pressed to the
padded arm rest, legs stretched out over the overstuffed
cushions. Gently he edged his right leg between the backrest
and her left hip. "To distort. To equivocate." He gestured
vaguely with the magazine as his right hand settled on her
ankle again. "If you were to provide me with just a few clues,
like a first or last and maybe a middle letter, I might actually
have a chance here."

She rolled her foot around under his loose grasp. Vaguely
she wondered if this intimate contact had been his goal in
the first place, why he'd even thought to grind those shoes
all over her coffee table. She smiled as he nestled his foot
securely under her thigh. Hell, she could really get used to
this. Sharing the quiet on a rainy day, doing nothing more
than enjoying the company - to say nothing of contemplating
what the future might hold. Especially the *immediate*
future.

She stared at him blankly and gave her head a shake when
he chuckled. She'd missed something. A question about . . .
something. "Letters? Oh, um . . ." She forced her eyes to
focus on the words. "Well, sure. There's a 'y' and it looks
like there's a 'z'. I'm not saying where they are, or how many
letters the word has -"

"Hyperbolize." He smiled at her stunned expression, and the
hand on her leg squeezed gently. "Scully, you of all people
should know, all it takes is the right clue." His thumb
brushed the tender skin of her instep, almost but not quite
enough to make her flinch away. "Lemme know if you get
stuck on another one."

She pursed her lips as she filled in the squares. "Fair
enough," she murmured, and thought,  Her free hand settled gently on his foot as
if of its own accord. Slowly she played her thumb up and
around the sharp point of his anklebone, then back down to
the high arch and the pad at the large ball.  she mused as her
fingertips moved and explored. She felt his slight jerk, heard
his breath catch just a bit first on inhalation and then
release. She repeated the move, this time more firmly, and
was rewarded by his soft grunt. 

She didn't have to ask. His expression lost its playfulness
with amazing speed and took on a marked blankness. A
slight tic appeared under his left eye as she gave his ankle a
careful squeeze. "You're awfully quiet. What are you reading
about?"

His free hand resumed its slow seduction of her own leg.
"Actually, I don't have the faintest idea." He held up the
journal. "Not a lot on psych disorders in *this* issue.
Aphasia, nosocomial infections, various non-invasive
therapies for long-term cardiac patients, whether it's ethical
to ask entire surgical teams to pray together before operating
or if they should do it separately and by their respective
faiths . . ." He sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, Scully, I
just don't see what you get out of this rag."

She held his gaze, unwavering. "Well, I'll grant it certainly
isn't as entertaining as, say, the Forum section of your
favorite publication, but then this one is for grown-ups."

His eyes narrowed minutely. "You read Forum? Scully, you
live to surprise me, don't you?"

Laughter threatened, but she willed it away. "Well, it must
have its appeal, or you wouldn't read it." Oh, a definite
gleam in his eyes. "As a matter of fact, I tried to peruse the
issue in your bathroom when I was at your place last week."
Her lips twitched, but she refused to give in and smile. "I
couldn't get the pages apart. I think something must have . . .
spilled . . . on them."

Oh, hell. Message received; challenge accepted. Something
flashed in those gray-green eyes, something equal parts
irritation and excitement. He was dangerous in this mood.
She smirked as she raised the newspaper again. It was an
overt challenge in itself; a barrier, albeit a flimsy one. She
heard the magazine hit the floor, and she bit her lips behind
her paper shield. If she lost her composure now, she'd never
get it back. He was on the move, she could feel it in the dip
and roll of the cushions. A hand slipped up her leg,
squeezing gently as it went. In a mock display of impatience,
she slapped it away. It returned almost immediately. The
couch creaked softly, and she knew he was close . . . A few
seconds . . . just a few seconds . . .

The paper wall abruptly crumpled beneath his hand and she
found herself nose to nose with him, braced on all fours and
all but straddling her lap. "Agent Scully," he whispered, "are
you implying something about my tastes in reading
materials?"

She held his gaze, her expression stoic. "Me? I would never
do that."

He was so close, his face was beginning to blur. "Then are
you saying I have unusual bathroom habits?"

She had to bite her cheek to prevent a snort of laughter. "I
don't know anything about your conduct in the bathroom,
Mulder."

His gaze dropped, and she knew he was looking at her
mouth. She could smell coffee on his breath and the faint
aroma of shaving cream. Just the tiniest of movements and
he'd be hers . . . she'd have hold of that lower lip and there
was no way she'd let go . . .

Except that he moved first. She froze as that mouth brushed
her cheek, hovered at the corner of her lips, then meandered
along the line of her jaw toward her ear. The contact, or lack
thereof, was maddening - it was all she could do to keep her
hands in her lap, to accept what he was doing and not force
the issue. "So what you're saying then," he murmured
between torturous near-kisses, "is that I've been whacking
off?"

She swallowed hard. He was in soft-focus; there was no way
her eyes were going to cooperate, not as long as he was doing
. . . that . . . to her. She shivered. "Uh . . . did I . . . did
I say that?" she managed to ask. She dipped her head a little
and groaned a soft protest when he drew back, denying her
anything beyond the barest of contacts. "I didn't say *you*
had . . . I just meant something must have . . . gotten . . . on
the pages . . ."

"Because you might have something there," he murmured,
nuzzling the curve of her ear and feathering kisses down her
neck. Carefully he drew her glasses off and set them on the
table beside them. "I can't help it, Scully. First we were so
damned busy with cases, and then those hideous beetles . . .
it's a good thing everyone at the hospital was so concerned
with my lungs, because if they'd thought to look just a little
lower . . ." He kissed her cheek again, and she shivered when
the warmth of his breath moved to her mouth. "These past
few weeks have been hell. Sitting on my ass for days on end
. . . nothing to do but watch TV and reflect. I have to admit,
since that night . . . since our first time . . ." Another nuzzle.
". . . certain solitary activities have definitely lost their
charm."

She stared at him, bleary-eyed. "Tell me about it."

Oh, shit. The words were out before she could begin to
audit the thought behind them. She felt herself blush
furiously. Dammit, why did the whole idea have to be so
embarrassing? Human beings were sexual creatures, after all,
and she'd been alone a long damn time. And it wasn't like
she was confessing to overt perversions. Hadn't he just
admitted to doing the same thing? Yes, she'd tried numerous
times to reproduce the feel of his hands and his mouth and
his body on hers. Each time had been stirring, at least at the
outset, but ultimately proved to be woefully unsatisfying.
Shit, all that and Catholic guilt, too. How'd she get so lucky?

His smile was growing by the second. "You, Scully?" he
murmured, advancing and withdrawing, almost but not
quite kissing her. She shadowed him persistently, seeking his
mouth as he moved. "I'm shocked. I thought that kind of
thing was frowned upon by the - "

"Shut up, Mulder," she muttered. Dammit, would he just sit
still? "I suppose it's okay for you, being a pagan and an
infidel."

He leaned close again, and his lashes licked at her temple as
he breathed, "So does this mean I won't get the seat next to
you in Purgatory? Damn, I was counting on breaking a few
precedents while I'm there."

To hell with it - he wasn't going to cooperate? Her hands
abruptly rose and caught themselves around his face, and he
gave a soft, surprised grunt as contact was made. *Firm*
contact. For a moment his mouth was still against hers.
Warm. Steady. Then a gentle side-to-side movement started,
and his lips slowly opened. Another sound as his tongue
made a tentative foray toward her - a groan, this one longer
and much deeper. His. Her hands delved into his hair. Her
legs twined around his, and she groaned as she caressed his
calves with her bare feet. There were just too damn many
layers of clothing between them. That was something they'd
have to remedy . . . but that would mean breaking the clinch
they were in, and that just wasn't something she felt
disposed to do at the moment.

Clothed or not, the immediacy of his reaction was no
mystery. He collapsed slowly over her, moving his hips,
nudging and caressing her with the rapidly-forming bulge in
his crotch. The kiss broke off with an audible smack when
she responded in kind. "I hope you won't be offended by
what I'm about to say, Agent Scully," he whispered, "but
you're causing me considerable discomfort here. I can only
think of one remedy, and it entails you and me getting
naked and making each other scream."

She smiled as she eyed his throat hungrily. "You're kidding
me, right?" A fevered kiss under his ear raised goosebumps
on his neck and arms. "Get naked? That means I have to let
go of you." Another kiss, this one encompassing his smooth
chin. "It's been too long, Mulder, and I just got my hands on
you. I don't know if I can let go."

He kissed her again, but ended it before she could gain
serious purchase on him. "C'mon, it'll be worth it." She
moaned her frustration when he lunged upward, bracing
himself on an arm as he struggled, one-handed, with his
shirt. She helped him, and the garment went sailing. His
skin was delightfully warm, and she purred her appreciation
as she stroked his smooth back. He shivered as he turned his
attention to the remaining buttons on her sweater. "Help me
here," he whispered, "or kiss this thing good-bye."

She groaned as they struggled with the tiny pearls. Unsteady
fingers did not help. After a moment of awkward fumbling
the sweater fell open around her, and he gave a soft gasp.
"Jesus, Scully." He ran a hand lovingly down the bare skin of
her breastbone. His eyes met hers again, and his playful
smile returned. "If I'd had any idea you weren't wearing a
bra, I wouldn't have wasted a single damn minute on
praying doctors - we'd just be *playing* doctor."

She shivered under his careful touch. "Always did have you
pegged as a breast man, Mulder." His hand curled around
her, and she gasped as a thumb caressed her hard nipple.
"Oh, that feels good . . . Mulder, please don't tell me you
plan to stare at them all day. Please don't tell me that."

His eyes gleamed. "Did you have something else in mind,
Agent Scully?"

She groaned as she plied her fingers through his hair,
scratching gently at his scalp and pressing his head steadily
downward. "Yeah, I do."

Obediently he nuzzled her breast, and she smiled at his
delighted groan. Then she was aware only of the sensations
of his talented mouth, the gentle tug of his teeth and lips on
her nipple, of his fingers kneading and rolling its twin in
perfect unison. Of the twitch and ache deep inside that was
building with every damn beat of her heart . . .

She remembered how he had looked that night in April;
how he'd lain there beside her in all his swollen glory and
silently borne her heated scrutiny. True, it was not the first
time they had seen one another nude - that had been
witnessed numerous times by then - but to see him like that,
engorged and rigid . . . and what was more, to know it was on
account of *her* . . . How she'd admired the low hips and
nearly flat belly, and oh, God, what she'd felt when he began
to touch and stroke himself, slow and unabashed, and the
look on his face as he reached for her hand. His soft groan
as she found just the right tempo. Then slowly rolling with
him, floating and rolling  and floating some more, until she
found herself beneath him, her legs opening of their own
accord, not just accepting him but beckoning . . . The
sensation of that first penetration, the breadth of him
stretching her to the point of pain.  he'd asked through clenched teeth and tight
lips, with that sweet frown hovering over his brow, and her
muted  as she clung to him. How he'd
gone so still, needing so badly to move and yet afraid to lest
he hurt her even more, until her whispered encouragements
persuaded him to take up the rhythm again, slowly invading
and withdrawing until a deep-rooted pleasure replaced any
memory of pain. The slick heat of his body, on her and in
her, his mouth against hers, kissing and suckling, his groans
and labored grunts mingling with her own sounds. The feel
of his muscles tensing and quivering beneath her hands, his
back and shoulders and his ass, all responding to her . . . .


And the blinding whiteness of her orgasm, choked sobs and
the pressure of his mouth on her neck as he followed her
lead and lost all semblance of control, flowing into her hot
and wet and 

Not enough. This gentle suckling, this foreplay, was
definitely not enough. Almost roughly she pushed him away
from her. He raised his head and looked at her, clearly
confused. "Sc . . . what is it? I didn't -"

She clapped a hand over his mouth. "No, you didn't hurt
me." Her hand slipped down his torso as she spoke, and she
plucked impatiently at his waist. Evidently comprehending,
he rolled back onto one arm and fumbled with the buttons
on his fly. She arched beneath him, unzipping her own jeans
and then sliding them down and off, taking her modest
underwear with them. His levis hit the chair across the
room.

Contact. Naked body to naked body, skin and hair meeting
in counterpoint so perfect that it robbed her of breath. God,
the warmth of his body actually made her light-headed. Did
he understand the urgency? She could see from his eyes, he
did not. He wanted to take his time, wanted to savor each
moment, each lingering taste. Still, he was willing to accept
her pace, bless the man. She caught a hand around his neck
and nuzzled his cheek. "We'll go slow next time," she
whispered. "You just make me feel so . . . so . . ." She groaned
softly. "I want to come with you inside me. Is that okay?"

He drew back a little and stared at her incredulously.
Stunned that she had said the words, probably stunned that
she felt she even needed to ask. Then his eyes fell to her lips,
and he nodded. "Sure, Scully."

She closed her eyes as he settled between her thighs. Her
heart was racing out of control, beating so hard that her
whole body was shaking.

He slid into her, slowly, carefully, like a bolt sliding home . . .

<. . . home. Welcome home, Mulder . . .>

. . . and then set a sensuous rhythm, driving into her hard
and fast and then withdrawing slowly, so slowly she thought
she would scream, and then a soft grunt as he sank into her
again, bottoming out in her, so deep inside her that she
could feel him in her heart. Her legs tangled and knotted
with his.



He groaned, his stroke growing rapid and even deeper, and
she knew he could sense it, he could feel the tension
building in her, could probably see it in her expression. So
long; it had been so long for both of them, endurance was
not an issue. She moaned long and low in her throat as she
let herself go. He rode the firestorm out, and she knew he
was staring at her, staring and glorying in the feel of her
body's reaction to him.

"Don't stop," she gasped when the squall had passed. He
groaned again as he kept up the rhythm, and she wondered
if at that moment he was even capable of stopping. He was
close, so close; she could feel it in his size, sense it in the
intense push-and-pull of what he was doing to her. His lip
curled as his eyes fell shut.

"Sc . . . can't hold it . . ."

Her arms gripped his slim torso with renewed strength.
"Don't try. Let it go. Come for me, Mulder . . . let it
happen. . ."

His eyes snapped open and he looked at her intently. "Inside
. . . you . . ."



His hands closed into fists in her hair. Holding her. Binding
her. The feeling was intoxicating. "Inside . . . you?" This time
it came out as a question.

She nodded frantically, no longer able to speak. He was
close, he was on the verge and he was dragging her with him.
She felt the explosion of sweet, white-hot insanity, and her
back arched as it turned her inside out and set her ablaze all
over again. 

Did she cry it aloud, or did he? He stiffened, panting, his
stroke growing erratic. His face screwed up into an agonized
grimace, and through the haze of her own climax, she felt
the heat of his begin. He reared up over her, thrashing
helplessly. "*Now . . . Ugh, Jesus . . .*"

Minds and bodies exploded outward and inward, chaos and
order meeting and shattering in those few heated seconds,
and through it all the sound of his voice as he cried her
name, or tried to.

With a last coughing grunt he collapsed, and she was sure he
would have rolled off and fallen to the floor if she'd given
him the chance. He resisted her briefly. "Crushing you," he
panted. "Lemme go."

She held onto him fiercely, pressing her face into his throat
and inhaling the heady scent drifting up between them. "I
want you to crush me." She kissed his neck, then licked her
lips and tasted salt. It, too, was intoxicating.

Resigned, panting, he slumped over her, his head caught
awkwardly on a raised arm. They didn't move for a long
time. Her hand traced a path slowly up his back, then down
to the dip at his waist as she listened to the soft wheeze of his
breathing. She could feel his heart racing insanely. Two
weeks ago he could barely walk up a flight of stairs without
the pain in his chest stopping him. This had been a real test
for him.

She felt a bitter twinge of guilt. Maybe she shouldn't have
allowed this today. Maybe it was still too soon. He needed
more time to recuperate. Get back to work, get a few days
under his belt and see how he felt  wouldn't that have been
wiser? She nuzzled and then kissed his shoulder as she
silently berated herself. "Are you all right?" she murmured.
He grunted softly. "You sound terrible. I wish we hadn't
done this now." She brushed a hand tenderly across his
forehead. "Are you okay? Talk to me."

He smiled drowsily. "Mmm." His breathing hitched a little
and he gave a few deep, racking coughs. "Ugh, ow." He
grunted as he shifted and moved, breaking their delicate
connection, edging himself downward and nestling his cheek
comfortably on her chest. "Mmm, I'm fine. Bit tired." He
nuzzled the pale curve of her breast. "Do me a favor and
don't tell my doctor we did this though, okay? She's kind of
a worrier. I don't want her ragging on me like she does
sometimes."

Scully smiled as she stroked the soft, damp hair under her
chin. "Don't you suppose she just has your best interest at
heart?"

He released a deep, quivering breath and tried without
much success to quell another coughing spasm. "Mmm,
she's wonderful," he replied breathlessly. "I love her. She just
worries too much."

She shifted uneasily beneath him. Feelings undeclared . . .
Maybe it was time she put words to those feelings. Maybe it
was past time. She bit her lip anxiously. "Mulder . . ."

He tilted his head and looked up at her expectantly.  His
glasses were askew, and she found it strange that he had even
managed to keep them on during that last session. Gently
she slid them off and placed them on the coffee table beside
her own. "Thanks," he said quietly.

She stroked his face again and let her fingers play for a
moment around his mouth. "Mulder, listen . . . you know
I'm better with facts than . . . well, than f-feelings, or
expressing myself. I, uh . . . There's something I want to tell
you."  She
managed a shaky smiled and held onto him firmly when he
started to pull away. "Breathe, Mulder. It isn't bad, what I
have to say." He nodded, but his eyes retained a tense,
pinched look, one that she desperately wanted to smooth
away. She kissed his brow gently and then plowed on. "I just
. . . I want . . . I realize you probably already know how I feel
about . . . this . . . and you . . . and I'm sure you know *why* I
haven't said anything before this, because after all, *you're*
the intuitive one. I've wanted to say . . . things. Many times.
But . . . um . . ." She licked her lips, then sighed deeply.
Dammit, she was making it more difficult than it had to be,
she knew she was. How did he make it look so effortless?

He eyed her thoughtfully as she struggled for words, then
slowly shook his head. The frown eased into a gentle smile.
"I do know," he murmured, touching a finger to her chin.
"And you're wrong, Scully. You tell me all the time. You told
me in April when you came to me in the middle of the
night. You told me there in the hospital in Raleigh when I
woke up and found you holding my hand. You tell me every
time you want me to believe you're just checking me for
head trauma. I swear I even heard it when I walked in this
morning." He kissed her briefly, and then the gentle smile
became a grin. "Using my very own key, no less. And you
bought me pop-tarts and then put them someplace you knew
I'd find them. That's gotta be love." At that, she couldn't
help but smile. "Don't you know, Scully? All you have to do
is look at me sometimes and I can hear it. Didn't you know
that?"

She gnawed her lip thoughtfully. "But I can't say it, Mulder.
You never have any trouble finding words. In Florida last
year, and then after England . . ." She touched a finger to his
lips, staving off his response. "Yeah, I know. You're never at
a loss for words. Or you were heavily medicated. Or it was
blurted out in the throes of passion. I just don't know why I
can't . . . lose myself in the moment like that. If saying the
words makes the feelings more immediate, more real, then
what does *not* saying them do?"

His kiss silenced her. "Stop it," he murmured, shaking his
head again. "Scully, sometimes they're just words. How
many people make all the right sounds but leave out the
feeling? *They* find the words, but they forget about the
emotions those words are supposed to convey. I got it all the
time from Diana, and that guy Waterston did it to you . . ."
He paused, and his tone softened a little. "Don't . . . don't try
to force anything out. Some things . . . they just aren't *you.*
Your passion is quiet and intense, just like *you* are, and I
never, ever want that to change. You've been telling me for
years how you feel. Believe me, I've been listening." She said
nothing, merely held his gaze. The depth of his conviction
was staggering. He truly did know, somehow. He sighed, and
his eyes grew distant as his gaze shifted to one of the
rain-spattered windows. "Words . . . they're fine to a point,
but I think maybe they should be left to those unfortunate
souls in the world who have nothing better available to
them." The finger played up and down the line of her jaw,
then dragged slowly over her lips as he looked at her again.
"We don't need them, Scully. Not when it's just the two of
us. Not for some things." He kissed her again, slow and light
and lingering. "Not for this."

She said nothing. His words would bear closer examination.
Later. For now she would take them for what they were: his
unswerving acceptance of her, self-perceived warts and all.
Without another word he dropped his head and nuzzled her
breast with a contented sigh. She crossed her arms around
him, enfolding him, drawing him close. Emotion swelled
within her, silent and intense. One hand swept gently across
his shoulder and then through his hair, brushing it back.
The faint scar on his scalp caught her eye. Her eyes sagged
shut as she kissed it. How close they'd come, time and again,
to losing one another. They both had so many scars now,
both physical and emotional. They had both inflicted so
many. But they were stronger now. This bond - maybe it was
better for all they had been through. She smiled as she kissed
him again, his forehead and brow bone and then the
impossibly soft skin of his eyelid. The words were in her
heart. They didn't have to be declared.

He smiled, and she felt him twitch as sleep reached out for
him. His lips parted on a sigh, and he whispered, "Love you,
too, Scully."

Outside, a rising wind spattered rain on the windows. She
heard it distantly over the soft rhythms of their breathing, of
their heartbeats.

She found herself smiling.

Words?

Who needs them?

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