TITLE: FANCY FALL AUTHOR: Pebbles RATING: PG-13 - um, okay, R - but I still maintain this is not smut. No matter what Ropo says. ;-) ARCHIVE: Okie-day! But drop me a line, first, please and let me know where. DISCLAIMER: Don't I wish? Alas, they belong to CC, 1013, Fox, DD and Gillian the Great SPOILERS: Emily, Milagro; oh yeah, and all the other Fancies :) CATEGORY: MSR, Angst, and Romangst THANKS TO: Brandon, Robbie, Shannon and Kris for the great beta FEEDBACK: Oh, yes! Make me dance like Lena! :) You'll find me at pebblesb@earthlink.net Fancy Fall By Pebbles I rise in the fall. Or at least I used to. Autumn has always been my season of choice and for as long as I can remember I've looked forward to the arrival of September. Since my heritage blessed me with coloring that demands I avoid the searing summer sun as much as possible, I've found it necessary to keep more of myself covered than I would like. I sometimes resented it, particularly on those sweltering summer days when all I really wanted to do was tear off every stitch of clothing and stand in front of a cool breeze. I was usually worn down by the heat before the end of the season. I am driving through Georgetown on the way to my mother's house. As I travel the familiar route I see splashes of yellow here and there and realize with a bit of surprise that today marks the first day of fall. I smile to myself, knowing that soon the splashes of yellow will be joined by swaths of red and waves of bright orange as the leaves adopt their autumnal mantle. And the wheel of the seasons turns once again. Soon the weather will break and bring with it the subtle changes in atmosphere that herald fall's arrival. This past summer was both miraculous and brutal, in so many ways. I've often found myself wishing for a way to speed up time, to fast-forward through necessary hardships and move on to the next phase of our lives. Logically, I know that I will eventually put the heartache of the last few months behind me. I've tried hard not to focus on the past, but instead on the journey that lies ahead. My determination to move on is fueled by memories of Mulder and me as we were in the days before pain took up residence in his apartment and mine. We still maintain separate residences, of course. There was never any discussion of him moving into my place on a permanent basis, nor I into his. Though we spend the majority of both our waking and sleeping hours together, there is an unspoken agreement between us that we will each maintain our own space for those occasions when one or both of us needs time alone. Lately those times have come more and more frequently. It started slowly, as these things usually do. Mulder and I were spending far too many hours together. We were both trying desperately to ease each other's pain, so much so that we sometimes got into each other's way. On more than one occasion I craved an evening alone, a time when I could just sink into a warm, bubbly bath and wipe all the anguish of our tragedy from my mind for a little while, to ease the agony of a heart beaten and bloodied by loss, the depth of which I am still afraid to fully acknowledge. But Mulder was always there, whether I wanted him to be or not, with those eyes, and that face, and those lips that curve just barely at the corners when he looks at me, trying so hard to be supportive, when I wasn't giving him a clue as to what I wanted in the form of support. I'm not even sure I know what sort of support I want. I don't know if I want him to take me in his arms and hold me while I cry until I can cry no more, or if I want him to keep a discreet distance and let me stand alone in my grief. Karen Kossoff tells me that these feelings are normal, and to be expected. She also says that I will eventually work my way through the darkness and come out a stronger person on the other side - with Mulder beside me, if I will allow him to be there. She knows about Mulder, of course, and she did not seem the least bit surprised at the change in the status of our relationship. I confessed to her when I first started seeing her again, three weeks after our loss. Sometimes it seems that Mulder and I were the only ones who didn't know how much we cared for one another. And sometimes I feel like a real idiot for having dodged the magic bullet for so long. I must be an idiot, for now I've gone and pushed him away from me again. After hearing "I'm fine" one time too many this afternoon, Mulder announced his intention to spend the weekend at his apartment, ostensibly catching up on e-mail and miscellaneous projects long neglected. Because of me. Because of what we did, and what we had, and what we lost. And right now I wish with all my heart that Mulder was here beside me. But, of course, he isn't. That isn't the way it works for Mulder and me. I've become convinced that if it isn't a struggle, it doesn't count. Sometimes my bitterness astounds me. Now is one of those times. My life with Mulder has been filled with struggle. Time and again we've been forced to accept the loss of loved ones, while being confronted by an enemy seemingly immune to the laws we are sworn to uphold as agents of the Justice Department. Maybe Krycek was right, after all. Maybe there is no justice. That thought first came to me after Melissa was killed, but over the years it has grown progressively stronger, and harder to deny. I have to remind myself whenever I think of Missy and that horrible time in our lives that I was not the only one suffering a loss. Mulder lost someone, too; his father, with whom he was never able to make amends for harsh words exchanged between them. He had stoically borne his pain and continued the good fight. But I knew how much he was hurting. Like he is hurting now. I know this, yet more times than I can count I've been guilty of forgetting that he, like me, is in pain; and that he, too, could use a little comfort. But I've been afraid to open up and fully acknowledge the anguish in both of our hearts, for fear it would hurt too much. To punish myself, I've pushed him away, again and again and again; and when I've pushed him as far as I can push him and he hasn't run away, I've reached down within myself and pushed him further still. And still he remains. At my beck and call, if I will have him. Before I quite know what I'm doing I pull out my cell and punch in his number. It rings. And rings. And rings. When the recording comes on, I click the 'end' button, taking the coward's way out. Besides, I'm pulling into my mother's neighborhood now and her house is just around the corner. Somehow Mom always knows how to make it better. No matter how old I get, whenever I'm hurting, my instincts propel me into my mother's arms. I smile at the thought, and then at her, as I pull up to her driveway and see her waving at me from her gladiola bed. I stash my phone in the console between the front seats and step out of the car, and into her warm embrace. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The only thing I hate worse than doing housework is Old Smoky himself. I loathe and detest it as I loathe and detest him. Unfortunately, just as CGB is proving himself to be a more or less permanent fixture in our lives, so is the necessity of keeping my living space relatively clean and acceptable for human habitation. Especially when said habitation sometimes translates into a visit from Scully. Or, if I'm extraordinarily lucky, an overnight stay. It's Saturday morning, the first Saturday morning in quite a while that I have awakened on my couch, my arms empty, my heart aching with longing to hold my partner. To keep myself busy and, I hoped, distracted, I'd decided to tackle my apartment and give it a cleaning like it has never known. Maybe the mindless business of sweeping the floor and cleaning the bathroom will somehow lift the gloom that permeates my thoughts. At least the place will be clean if Scully does decide to drop by. I worry about her as I work on the newspapers and ad fliers that have accumulated, separating them into recyclable and non-recyclable before I take them downstairs to the incinerator and the recycling bin. Scully's hiding from me again, as she is wont to do when she's hurting. I fully understand her pain, and her withdrawal and the reasons behind it, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let her get away with this for much longer. She's pushing me away again, just as she did after Emily died. I understood Scully's pain and confusion then, and her reluctance to let anyone comfort her, despite the fact that she was being ripped apart by heartache. I, too, was torn up about everything that transpired that holiday season. Coming on the heels of her recovery from cancer and being as close to death as a person can get, not once but several times, for a while there I didn't think either of us would survive the agony of the period. But we did. Somehow we got through it, not necessarily as together as I might want us to be on a regular basis, but still we withstood the barrage of blows that came our way, blows seemingly designed to test the fabric of our relationship for sturdiness and resiliency. It took many long months and endless patience on my part to coax the softer side of Scully to emerge from its hard outer shell. It was only after her near-death on the Alfred Fellig case that I detected a subtle change in her manner that indicated we might have a chance after all. I don't want it to have to come to something as drastic as that to bring us together again, I think, as I gather the stack of papers in my arms and head out the door, down the stairs to the basement. I toss the newspapers into the recycling bin, then the shiny ad inserts into the incinerator, standing still for a minute, watching them curl and crackle in the roaring fire. My mind flashes back to the sight of Phillip Padgett, looking up at me from the spot where I now stand, frozen before the gun I aimed on him. In his hands he held his novel, prepared to destroy it, while I argued with him, preventing him from burning the prophetic pages, nearly costing my partner her life. Which would have been the end of mine. As I climb back to my floor and enter my apartment, I stop again at the spot where she was lying when I burst through my front door, gun drawn, fear gripping my gut. I remember staring down with disbelief at Scully's still body, covered with blood, her face deathly white. As I knelt over her, shocked witless, her eyes snapped open, jump-starting my heart, which I was sure had ceased beating the moment I saw her. The stark terror that dominated those wide blue eyes, the way she clung to me when I pulled her into my arms, the way her body shook as she sobbed against my neck - none of these are memories I'm likely to forget. She began to let me in a little more after that, as if her surrender to those emotions had somehow loosened the self-imposed restraints of her own reluctant - but mercifully still beating - heart. Our trip to the forest and the fireside lovemaking that ensued under the light of the full moon was yet another lightening of Scully's heart. The promise of new life filled that same heart with joy at Midsummer, and the sad slipping away of that promise threatened it again with rupture. And now we have reached the beginning of another season, a season in which her ancestors celebrated the death of John Barleycorn, the spirit of vegetation. A death that must occur in order for new life to be born in the spring. As I load the dishwasher and turn it on, I think of harvest celebrations that will doubtless be going on in the mountains this weekend. Maybe a ride in the country would appeal to Scully, a chance to get out of the city and get a breath of fresh air and sunshine. On an impulse, I cross to the telephone and hit speed dial number one. Come on, Scully, I silently urge, pick up the phone and talk to me. But no amount of telekinesis will make her pick up when she isn't there, or doesn't want to talk. Sighing with resignation as her machine answers for her, I click the phone off and put it back on the coffee table. To hell with the housework, I think, now thoroughly depressed. Damn, but I miss her. Finally, after an indeterminable amount of indecision and self-pity, I retrieve my running shoes from the corner behind the front door and slip them on. Heading out the door, seeking the sanctuary afforded by a good workout, I go in search of physical exhaustion that I hope will translate into a numbing of the senses, and also of the heart. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I woke in my old room this morning, the room where I spent much of my adolescence. For the most part Mom has kept it as it was when I lived in it, though I've been grown and on my own now for so many years that it's hard to remember my time here. But as I lay in my old bed and watched September's early morning breeze billow the curtains beside me, I remembered lying here at the beginning of every school year, dreaming about my future, wondering which paths life would take me along, the kind of people I would be driven to meet, the relationships I would cultivate as a result of my actions or lack thereof. I certainly never envisioned being partnered with anyone as complex and passionate as my Mulder. Or as giving, I realize, thinking of the patience he has shown me these last eight weeks. He has given me the room to flee to a place of comfort and now, after an overnight in my mother's house, I am eager to get back to the real world, my world. The world wherein Mulder is loving and giving and supportive, and I allow him to be. Somehow, in the short span of twelve hours or so, things have shifted. Without saying very much at all, my mother has soothed me with the simple pleasure of her nearness, and her understanding of me, and, I was shocked to learn, of Mulder. We worked in her flower beds last evening until daylight faded and the rising moon bathed the area behind the house in all its lunar glory. Mom explained to me the importance of gathering seeds from the plants that were already there, to be stored in a dark place for the winter, then planted again when the time was right, thus ensuring a new cycle. I was captured by the sight of the nearly full moon rising over the neighbor's rooftops, emerging bold and brilliant and shining brightly in a cloudless sky. I thought of Mulder, and of the way he had looked at me under the full moon at Beltane, after having made primal, passionate love to me in the middle of a forest on a night meant to honor fertility. The night that inexplicably restored my ability to conceive, I remembered with a sigh, glancing down at my middle, realizing that I would have been showing by now if I had somehow managed not to lose our miracle child two months ago. "Did I ever tell you, Dana?" my mother's words interrupted my musings. "Tell me what, Mom?" I answer automatically, pulling away from the bleakness of my thoughts. "How much I admire you, for what you're doing, even though it scares me sometimes. Often, actually," she added with a little smile. "Although I would be much, much more frightened about what could happen to my little girl if you were doing it with anyone other than Fox." I looked sharply in her direction, wondering just exactly what she was talking about here, and unsure of whether I wanted to discuss any of it. I had not told her about the child Mulder and I lost, nor even about the change in our relationship. I knew that my mother liked him, knew that a deep bond had formed between them during my absence so long ago. It had been renewed, apparently, when Mulder flew Mom up to New York after I was shot by Peyton Ritter. The two of them taking turns hovering over me, while I struggled to recover, was indescribably reassuring during those moments of darkest despair when I thought of Fellig and his sad life. And the possibility that it could be mine. I sat back on my heels and looked at my mother, thinking of the open affection she and Mulder shared. The breeze was stirring her still-dark hair, and I watched with a jolt of familiarity as she tucked it behind her ear. I had the uncanny feeling she knew exactly what was inside me at that moment, things I needed to say but didn't know how to express. "What exactly are you talking about, Mom?" I ask cautiously, rubbing my hands on the legs of my jeans. She looked square at me then, her eyes soft, her smile secretive. "Your partnership with Fox, of course," she explained. "You are partners now, aren't you, Dana? In every sense of the word?" Here it was, the moment of truth. I could not lie to my mother. I dipped my head, maddeningly embarrassed to be in the midst of this conversation. "Yes," I admitted, in a voice just slightly above inaudible. Mom put her hand under my chin and lifted it so that I was looking her in the eye again. "He's a good man, Dana," she reminds me softly. "I can't say I condone the two of you being intimately involved - outside the bonds of holy matrimony - but you're a grown woman, and I respect your right to make your own decisions. I do know how much Fox loves you. He's an honorable man, Dana, and he would go to the ends of the Earth for you. And if you have made that choice, dear, then I have to be happy for you. You could have chosen much worse than Fox Mulder." I thought of Jack Willis and had to agree with her. Was he really the type of life partner I had thought I wanted all those years ago? After seven years with Mulder it's hard to imagine being involved with another man, not on such a deep professional and personal level. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Even now, when it hurts so much. But, then again, the almost unbearable angst of our relationship seems right. As if it was meant to be. And somehow Mom seems to know this. After our conversation last night, I went to bed with a smile on my lips and a lightening of my heart as I reflected back upon the day and looked forward to the morning. And now it is morning and I'm kissing Mom goodbye and heading back to where my heart wants to be. With Mulder. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I forego the elevator when I get back to my building, hitting the stairwell instead and pushing my body that much further into exhaustion, my mind that much further into blessed numbness. I leave a trail of clothes as I blow through my apartment on the way to the shower. Shoes kicked off behind the door, sweaty tank shirt tossed across the arm of the couch closest to me as I pass by, I drop my shorts at the door to the bathroom and step over and into the shower, turning the water on full force, hot enough to fill the bathroom with steam before I can work up a decent lather in my hair. Almost immediately my thoughts go back to another time, when Scully shared this shower with me. I try to shake the memory but nothing can bar the clear picture in my mind of my partner, on her knees before me, her hands cupping the cheeks of my butt as she pleasured me with her mouth, while the warm water beat down on her shining head and slithered down her back to glide across the graceful curve of her bottom. Groaning deep in my throat, I stand under the hot spray and allow my hands to provide the release I have not known with Scully for nearly eight weeks. We made tender, healing love on the night of our little feast of Lughnasadh, but have not done so since. Oh, we're still affectionate; she still allows me to kiss her hello, and sadly, goodbye, and she often touches my hand when she wants to get my attention. We're very comfortable in our touches. But Scully has wanted nothing more than touch for so long now that it's becoming painful. I can't help but wonder if maybe she's changed her mind about the sexual side of our relationship. Hell, she was perfectly happy for six years to be my platonic partner. Deep inside, I know a not altogether irrational fear that the loss we suffered will return her to that mindset, and that she will want to go back to the look-but-don't- touch relationship we had for so long. I finish up in the shower and step out, drying off with the towel slung over the shower curtain and wrapping it casually around my waist. I stand before the mirror and rub it clear with my forearm until I can see my wet reflection. I remember suddenly that I have a birthday coming up. Another year closer to 40. Maybe Scully's just not attracted to me anymore, I think morosely, feeling the opening twinges of a depressing bout of self- flagellation. Maybe I'm getting too old for her. I rub my hand against my jaw, feeling its Saturday stubble, but I don't have it in me to shave today, so I just swipe my armpits with that powdered stuff in the sport stick and turn to my room. I forage around in my closet for a few minutes, seeking and finding my favorite tattered jeans, and pull them on, not bothering with underwear. Returning to the living room I grab the remote and throw myself on the couch, settling into a comfortable sprawl. My thumb moves idly, flipping past channel after channel, briefly stopping on a documentary about the legend of the Yeti, but even that mysterious beast doesn't have the power to hold my attention today. I want Scully. And I'm not sure if Scully wants me anymore. If I weren't supposed to be a big, tough, G-man, I'd cry. Oh, hell, I just might anyway. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It is just past ten a.m. when I reach Alexandria and make my way to Hegal Place. I've come straight from my mother's home to Mulder's, anxious to be with him, my heart already beating faster than its normal rhythm in anticipation of seeing him. The day has burst forth in all its early autumn glory, skies so blue and sun so bright I have to mute its brilliance with the sunglasses Mulder calls my 'G-Woman Shades.' During the drive over here I've been thinking of all the little seasonal festivals going on in the little towns that line the Blue Ridge Parkway. I think wistfully of a future where I could spend the afternoon exploring them with Mulder, strolling hand in hand examining homemade quilts and sampling sinfully sweet confections while we watch the seasons change. I warm to the idea as I park my car and enter his building. As the elevator carries me up to the fourth floor, I wonder at the state in which I'll find him. Will he be sullen and cross, as he was yesterday afternoon when he left the office? Or will he be subdued and remorseful, and eaten up with guilt, as is often the case when we disagree and he thinks that he has hurt me? The elevator dings its arrival at my destination and as the doors slide silently open I slip through them and make my way down the hall to his door. After only a moment's hesitation, I raise my hand and give the door three sharp raps. The thirty seconds it takes him to reach the door are interminable. I stand there, a quivering mass of nerves and repression, until the door opens and the worn "42" is replaced by his somnolent face. He looks older than his years this morning, tired, worn down by worry and heartache, and the sight of his distress makes me want to take him in my arms and cuddle him like a little boy. He is shirtless, clad only in the faded jeans that he wore the night I first seduced him. For a moment I'm gripped with déjà vu, and it's as if we're right back where we started, all those months ago. His eyes hold just the hint of a spark when they light on me. "Scully!" he exclaims, stepping aside to let me pass through the door. "Are you okay?" He bites his lip the moment the words leave his mouth, as if regretting them, and dreading the anticipated, patented response on my part. I don't give it to him. "I'm getting better," I tell him as he closes the door behind me. "Not great, but better." I lay a hand on his elbow and add, "And a lot of that is because of you." I see his eyes widen slightly in surprise at my unaccustomed frankness and openness, and I nod slightly, trying to confirm with my eyes the words I've just spoken. I *am* doing better, Mulder, I think, and you're responsible for that. Only you. I hold his gaze until he finally smiles and nods slightly. I look past him into the apartment. His running shoes are in an untidy heap in the corner behind the front door, and further down the hall into the living room a pair of dirty socks litters the carpet. There is a dark blue smudge on the arm of the couch that I recognize as one of his favorite tank shirts. From the bathroom down the hall I can smell the aroma of his particular brand of spicy soap and can feel the lingering moisture and heat from the shower recently used. He ducks his head, shuffles his feet, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, and looks back up at me from beneath the fringe of his drying bangs. "I'm glad you're feeling better," he says sincerely. "So what's up?" My eyes drop involuntarily to the worn crotch of his jeans as the question immediately brings other things to mind. Oh, God, he isn't wearing underwear either; I can tell just from the hang of them. So to speak. Regretfully I pull my eyes from his nether regions and my thoughts form memories of what lies beneath the faded denim. I smile up at him and offer a healthy alternative to more basic instincts. "So I was on my way back from my mother's this morning and I realized that this is the first weekend of fall. I fancied taking a ride along the Blue Ridge Parkway and thought maybe you'd like to come along. We could, you know, enjoy the change of seasons together." That gets a sweet little smile out of him and he turns toward his room. "Just let me put on some decent clothes..." "Don't!" I stop him before he has gone two steps. He looks back at me with brows raised. "I like those jeans on you," I explain, making his grin widen that much more. "Just grab a shirt or something and your sneakers and you can pull them on in the car. I'm driving." "That's my Scully," he quips, already on his way down the hall into his room. "Grabbing life by the testes." I smile at the sudden memory of those same words coming from my mouth, last spring, the morning before he decided to teach me how to hit a baseball. Be careful what you wish for, Dana. Ten minutes later we're out the door and on our way to an afternoon of fun and frolic. And, if I play my cards right, perhaps a little more than that. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So Scully and I spend the afternoon picking apples at an orchard along the Blue Ridge Parkway, and cherries at a farm further down the road. We even discover, much to our delight, a winery tucked away in the country and we stop for a taste and a purchase. We leave with four bottles of Virginia's finest vino, and a box of eight hand-dipped candles. We get caught up in the fun of going from town to town and strolling hand in hand through aisles of tables that sport everything from hand- woven baskets and quilts to bird houses and whirlygigs, from homemade jellies and jams to baskets of fresh apples and decorative gourds. We add to our larder a loaf of fresh baked bread, a jar of strawberry preserves, a pound of fudge and a huge, bright orange pumpkin. Not to mention an impressive hand-woven wicker cornucopia and two truly magnificent quilts purchased from a little old mountain woman with no teeth. We meander along, taking our time, no destination really set. I find that I spend as much time admiring my partner as I do the scenery. She seems to blend with the foliage, I think at one point, when we stop at an overlook and get out of the car to admire the view. Scully stands there, on the outcropping, with the cool mountain air blushing her cheeks, billowing her auburn hair behind her, deep, rich and vibrant, just like her. The season's finery surrounds her on all sides, and Scully is the most resplendent of all. She turns to look at me at the precise moment I think this, and our eyes connect, thoughts melding and merging. I know in that instant that something has clicked for Scully and me. She wants me, like she wanted me when we went camping back in the spring. And over the years I've found that, as a general rule, Scully is very resourceful about getting what she wants. I have to step very carefully here and I know it. She's still so skittish, but at the same time she suddenly has that indefinable something that puts me onto her scent. Pheromones. Scullymones. No, Scullymoans are what I want to create, to wring them out of her, as I know I can. Patience, my ass, I want to fuck this woman. And she wants me, too. I can feel it, even from here. I wonder if she can feel it, as well. But I'll be damned if we're going to do it in the back seat of this car. We've been so caught up in our fun that we didn't pay attention to the fact that the day was waning, and now darkness is fast approaching. And from the looks of the "no vacancy" signs we've seen on every single motel or lodge we've passed, we will not know the luxury of a bed tonight unless we drive all the way back home. I don't want that, not when we've gotten so much accomplished in just one afternoon. I don't want to go back to DC and our separate homes. But I sure as hell don't intend to spend this night with Scully in a car with no way to stretch out. We finally get back in the car and this time she lets me drive. Somewhere along the route I put out my hand ever so casually on the seat between us and am delighted when she slides her fingers over it and gives it a little squeeze. We drive along in silence for maybe twenty miles, until I notice a sign ahead that piques my interest - 'Fancy Gap Campground.' Curious, I turn off the main highway and onto a lightly graveled road that threads through the forest and is dotted with perhaps a dozen sites. Scattered along the banks of a mountain stream which gurgles its merry way through the campground, each site not only has a raised platform for a tent, but also a picnic table, and a water hookup. I look over at Scully in silent suggestion. She cocks that brow at me for just a moment before following my gaze into the back seat and assessing the loot we've collected throughout the day: a bushel of red delicious apples, a basket of cherries, a pound of fudge, a jar of strawberry preserves, a loaf of bread, four bottles of wine - and two queen-sized quilts. "A loaf of bread, a jug of wine..." I muse, then meet her eyes dead on as she lifts her gaze to me, an enigmatic little smile on her lips. "Full moon tonight, Scully," I remind her. "Harvest Moon. Mabon." A cock of the head is added to the cock of the brow. "Mabon?" "The feast of Mabon," I explain. "In the rhythm of the year, Mabon marks a time of thanksgiving and of rest after hard work, when the crops have been brought in but winter is still weeks, if not months, away. It's celebrated at the time of the Fall Equinox." "But we've already passed the Equinox," she reminds me. "Two days ago." "You're right," I admit. "But since the agricultural folk had no way of marking truly accurate astronomical points, the Fall Equinox was traditionally celebrated on the 25th." I tick off other dates with my fingers. "As was the Vernal Equinox, or Ostara, on March 25th, Midsummer on June 25th, and Yule on December 25th. Each of these days marks exactly one quarter year and each was celebrated on that date. As we know now, they're actually closer to the 21st, but they vary from year to year." "What about Beltane?" she challenges, and I see the snap of memory in her eyes. "It's always celebrated on the same day every year, as are Lughnasadh, Samhain and Imbolc." I stop for breath and nod toward the back seat. "You know, Scully, we could have our own little thanksgiving, right here, tonight." I look around the small, empty campground. "Looks like we'll have the place to ourselves, too." She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, pondering the possibilities. "Unless, of course, you're afraid of the dark," I challenge. "And don't trust me to take care of you in the wilderness." She holds her position for another few endless moments, before suddenly brightening and flashing me that smile that I haven't seen in such a long time, that smile that I've missed so very much. "You're on, Mulder," she says, bussing my cheek quickly before getting out of the car and moving to unpack her side of the back seat. Grinning like an idiot, I open my own door and get out to help her. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mulder and I enjoy an evening's repast in the majesty of the forest, serenaded by a bubbling brook and a chorus of night birds giving throat to evensong. We'd filled the cornucopia with our food and carried it to a clearing, where we had already dragged the picnic table and covered it with one of the quilts. Our 'dining room' was ringed with yellow poplars and sweetgums which formed a glowing canopy around us but left an unimpeded view of the clear night skies. We sit on top of the table and watch in silent wonder as the moon rises above the treetops, a glowing golden orb that takes my breath away with its beauty. I am suddenly acutely aware of the absolute perfection of the moment. Here we are, Mulder and I, so close, so comfortable, so absolutely attuned to each other that we can almost hear each other's thoughts. We have spent the evening talking of nothing in particular, yet somehow conveying volumes through what we did not say. We often lapsed into periods of comfortable silence as we drank our wine straight from the bottle and fed each other fruit and bread. Somewhere in the period between the opening of the first bottle of wine and the rising of the moon, something seemed to click back into place for us. Suddenly we are in sync again, and everything is in perfect balance. Except for one thing. I know Mulder. And I know myself. And I know exactly how this synchrony is affecting both of us. We've been gradually reconnecting as the day progressed, and now I long to make the connection complete. I look at him as he looks up at the moon, his face bathed in its yellow beams, and I realize again that I love this man with all my heart. And that he loves me the same. It's something that I seemed to have forgotten in the days when I was hurting so much. I still hurt, but Mulder and I are going to be okay now. I know it, and he knows it; I can feel it in the ease of his manner. We're not tensed up with worry about one of us saying something wrong, or inadvertently annoying the other. We're no longer putting up barriers to certain painful emotions, because together we have borne the agony of our love and what it produced. And now I want to share the ecstasy. I swear, if I don't get those jeans off of him, and quickly, I'll end up gnawing at the worn denim over his crotch and sniffing him out like a bitch in heat. Part of me is shocked that I'm feeling so primal, and at how impatient I am to be in Mulder's arms. After pushing him away time and again for weeks on end I'm finally ready to let him touch me. I'm *more* than ready. I *need* to feel his hands on my body, holding me, caressing me, opening me, preparing me to receive him. And Mulder is still sitting there, oblivious, staring up at the moon, mouth slightly open, his lower lip glistening with the remnants of his last sip of merlot. I want to eat him up. Slowly I sidle over to him, scooting my bottom across the table inch by inch, and he pretends not to notice until I am practically on top of him. Only then does he look down at me, and give me that smile. "Do you feel it, Scully?" he asks, his breath brushing my cheeks as he leans close enough for our noses to touch. "The pull of the moon? The balance of the seasons? A restored equilibrium in nature? In us?" So he really *can* read my mind. This definitely poses some interesting possibilities. I nod solemnly as I project the image I've been toying with all day long as I walked beside him, with my hand in his, our bodies touching here and there as we stopped to admire this and that. Knowing the whole time that he hung loose beneath the fabric of his jeans, that I had only to brush my hand just so -- He draws a sharp breath as my hand settles over his crotch. Lightly I begin to caress him, tracing his shape and smiling as he grows under my hand. "Oh yeah, I can feel it, Mulder," I murmur, my voice growing husky. "I can feel it just fine. Can you feel the pull?" "Scully!" he purrs, in the same voice he used on another occasion, when I suggested spontaneous human combustion and it gave him an instant hard on. I reach with my other hand and move the cornucopia out of my way so that I can swivel around and go to work on him like I've wanted to all day. I recline on my right side and reach for him with my left hand, deftly unzipping his fly and freeing his horn of plenty, which I promptly cover with my mouth, eliciting a groan from its owner. I never enjoyed this particular intimacy before I fell in love with Mulder and made him my own. I had never truly wanted to do this to any other man, to take him inside and worship his beauty with lips and teeth and tongue. But with Mulder it is a mind blowing experience, to feel him hot and hard in my mouth, and growing more so by the minute while I woo his erection to new heights and lengths. He sprawls there on the table in the moonlight, and as I look up from my ministrations I see his face twist with the struggle to restrain the beast within. But I don't want it restrained. Not tonight. Tonight I want the beast to take hold of us both, and give us a ride we've been missing for too long. He groans suddenly, deep in his throat, and stops my motions with a hand on either side of my head. I release him and meet his eyes, and the hunger I see there makes me catch my breath. He pulls me up so that my face is even with his, and kisses me long and hard before flipping me over onto my back and rucking up the fabric on my denim skirt, his long fingers sliding up the inside of my thighs until they reach the spot where I want them to be. My panties are soaked through and through with the force of my own desire, and he deftly slides them off my hips and down my legs to disappear somewhere at his feet. I close my eyes and emit a long, low moan as he slips his middle finger inside me and plunges deep. And then he slips away from me and is gone. But then I feel his warm hands on my ankles as he pulls me down to the end of the table. He is looking at me like I'm a seven-course meal and before I can form a sufficiently witty quip about the sight we must present I feel his mouth settle over my center, and I lose the ability to speak. My head lolls from side to side as I surrender to the exquisite sensations wrought by his marauding mouth. I hold myself open for him as he works me like the pro he is, his oral fixation and cherry stem- tying tongue being put to marvelous use as I quickly succumb to the fire he has lit within me. Before I know it, orgasm is slamming into my body and I have begun to keen with the rapture of it all. Mulder's face is before me when I open my eyes, his head shining in the halo of the golden moon behind him. He looks like a Greek God come to life, his eyes blazing with passion: passion for me, passion for what we can create, just us two. "Come here, Mulder," I urge, holding out my arms. "Come to me now. I want you to come to me, and in me, and with me." I look down the slope of my body and see that he has dropped his jeans and is now positioning himself at my opening, and as I watch he enters me slowly, his face contorting in pleasure as our bodies join. I am completely undone as he begins to move, holding my legs open with his hands as he pushes into me, draws slowly back and rams home again. And then he does it again; and again and again and again and, oh, dear God, why did I avoid this for so long? He begins to sing to me, as he has done so often in the past when making love to me, and I am overcome with emotion at the sound of his voice "Love you, Scully...love you,...Scully, love you...love you, love you,...Scully...Scully, Scully, Scul-ly..." His voice shatters on the last syllable of my name and I shatter as well. I fly up into the night sky and become one with the stars, and with the moon that rules me. I linger long enough to think I'll surely die of this pleasure until I finally dissolve into a puddle of all-encompassing love for the man who has brought me to such heights. I come back to my senses only when I feel Mulder slipping out of me, his hands loosening their grip on my legs and rising to wrap around my back and draw me up to him. He holds me against him as my legs dangle from the table's edge, my feet brushing against his naked thighs. We hold each other tightly in the moonlight, spent on so many levels, together on so many more. We are facing the moon, washed in its cleansing beams, cheek to chest, belly to belly. Mulder fits comfortably between my thighs as we attempt to mold ourselves to each other, in the aftermath of our moonlight madness. "Hey, Scully?" he finally murmurs against my cheek. "Yeah?" I am drowsy and content, doused with wine and sex and love and my new quilt is going have a stain on it to put the chief executive to shame, but I don't care. All is right in my world again. "Know what we just did?" "Um...I think so, Mulder," I yawn against his chest. "What do you think we just did?" "Had ourselves a fancy feast -- at Fancy Gap." That earns a look, and I can't refrain from grinning up at him. He is so pleased with himself -- and for good reason, I must admit. I duck my head again, chortling into the warm opening in his flannel shirt where his chhest hair peeks out and I can taste the salt of his skin. I think it tickles him because he starts to snicker himself, and before I know it we are hooting and howling at the moon. Finally we spend ourselves on that level, too, and fall silent again, just looking at each other, loving each other with our eyes. Our lips come together in a lingering kiss that conveys everything that has happened to us over the last few months, and again my heart is overwhelmed. I pull away from his lips long enough to tell him the very thing I should tell him the most, but end up telling him the least. "I love you, Mulder." "Me, too, you," he murmurs against my lips. "Always." -END- NOTE: I swear to God there's a Fancy Gap, Virginia. And once I came upon it, so to speak, I thought it was the perfect place to bridge the gap between these two. If you've made it this far, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think at pebblesb@earthlink.net.