Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully don't belong to me. They are the property
of CC, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I'll take good care of
them, I promise.

Dancing With Mulder
NC-17
by Lydia Bower <bower2@juno.com>
R, Mulder/Scully romance
Summary: Follows 'The Wisdom of a Man.' Scully's thoughts on her changing
relationship with Mulder.
  

	I still knock on Mulder's office door--even though there doesn't
seem to be much purpose to it. I don't know why I've continued to do it
for so many years. Am I expecting that one day he will call out "Sorry,
you can't come in," and I'll turn the knob only to find it locked? Isn't
this office just as much mine now as it is Mulder's? I think it is. We
share so many things these days. I will not knock again.
	I open the door and step inside. The room smells of old files and
new adventures--the promise of truths waiting to be uncovered. It also
smells like Mulder. That underlying clean, masculine aroma that doesn't
seem to come from any cologne bottle. It's wonderful, and unique to him
and him alone. Mulder is tipped back in his chair at a gravity-defying
angle, feet propped up on his desk and crossed at the ankle. Someday his
luck will run out and he'll end up flipping over backwards, chair and
all. When that day comes, I've promised myself I won't laugh at him. 
	He hasn't been here long--he's still wearing his suit jacket.
There is an open file in his lap and he's chewing on a pencil. A steaming
mug of coffee sits within easy reaching distance. I notice he's filled my
mug as well, and it waits for me on my desk. 
	Mulder looks up and smiles as I cross the room and set my
briefcase and purse on the desk and hold out a small white bakery bag to
him. 
	"Hey, Scully," he says in greeting. "Is that my cheese danish?"
	"Just don't blame me when they're wheeling you in for coronary
bypass surgery, Mulder. Good morning. And you're welcome." 
	He takes the bag from my hand and our fingers brush. His smile
turns to an impish grin and he drawls, "G'morning, Scully. And thanks."  

	He leans up and opens the bag, drawing out a danish wrapped in
grease-stained wax paper. He peers up at me. "Nothing for you?"
	I lean back against my desk and fold my arms across my chest.
"Unlike you, Mulder, I had a healthy breakfast this morning."
	"Twigs and stems in a bowl?"
	I shoot him a mildly chastising look. "If you'd bother to read
something besides 'Adult Video News' you might discover that fiber is a
very important element in one's diet. It decreases the chances of colon
cancer, not to mention--"
	Mulder holds up his hand like a stop sign, chuckling, "Okay,
okay, I get the point. I'll have rabbit food for lunch. Will that pacify
you?"
	"Temporarily," I offer. I nod at the file in the hand that's not
busy shoving pastry in his mouth. "New case?"
	"Nah," Mulder answers around a mouthful. He swallows, looks down
at the file and flicks his wrist, closing it. "Just surfin'." 
	I turn away and slip out of my coat, remarking, "Well, if you're
not going to drag me off in search of any little gray men today, I
suggest we get some of this paperwork taken care of before someone comes
down here and discovers we've been crushed to death under a mountain of
expense forms and field reports."
	"Nobody I'd rather be crushed with, Scully, or against, for that
matter."
	I turn away from the coat rack and face his child-like grin.
"Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere, Mulder. I got a not-so-gentle
reminder from Skinner this morning. I think he was lying in wait for me.
He caught me just as I walked in the door."
	"Aren't you the lucky one."
	"And as I recall," I continue as I sit at my desk and began to
make two piles of forms. "The last time around yours truly was stuck
doing most of the paperwork. I seem to remember something about 'Cross my
heart and hope to die, Scully--the next time I'll do the bulk of the
work.'" One pile of forms is growing significantly thicker than the
other. 
	Mulder sits up all the way and licks icing off the tips of his
fingers, eyeing the piles I've made with more than a little dread. "I
said that?"
	"Do I have to show you the paper you signed?"
	Mulder chuckles. I have that slip of paper in my desk. He knows
it. And I know that when faced with the truth, Mulder has no choice but
to follow it. 
	He sighs in resignation and holds a hand out for his share. I
pass it over to him, a deliberately smug grin firmly planted on my face. 
	"You're a real slave driver, Scully, you know that?"
	"Careful, Mulder. Slaves who complain are subject to the whip."
	He leers at me. "Promises, promises." 
	We trade smiles and get down to business. The office is quiet,
save the occasional put-upon sigh emanating from Mulder. He loathes
paperwork and anything that smacks of protocol and relative order. One
look around at this office confirms that. While my area is neat, files in
level stacks and most everything in it's place, Mulder's reminds me of
the damage wrought by a hurricane. Files, books, photos and papers are
haphazardly piled on his desk, more than a few file drawers are pulled
open, distinctive red and white X-Files spilling forth with abandon or
shoved carelessly back into place. I've given up trying to figure out
Mulder's filing system--if, in fact, he has one. He claims he does. It's
far easier to ask him to locate a file for me than attempt to find it
myself. After much fuming on my part I've finally realized that Mulder's
messes are as much a part of him as his keen mind and sharp wit and have
accepted it. He personifies ordered confusion.
	Suddenly a white envelope flies across the space between our
desks and lands in front of me. I glance over at Mulder. He's watching
me, wrist still cocked from flipping the envelope in my direction. I
can't see his eyes. The light from my desk lamp reflects off his glasses.
"I almost forgot about this," he says. "I thought I'd let you open it."
His voice is low, with just a tinge of some emotion I can't quite put my
finger on. Regret? Sadness? I wish I could see his eyes; they tell me so
much.
	"What is it?" I ask as I pick it up and examine it. It's
addressed to Agents Mulder and Scully. I glance at the Portland, Maine
postmark and then the return address. My heart speeds up a bit and I
throw a sharp glance in Mulder's direction. He's turned his head and his
eyes are focused on the forms before him. But he's not filling them out.
He's waiting. 
	I slide a finger under the flap of the envelope and tear it open,
pulling out a single sheet of onion paper. It whispers as I unfold it. I
start to skim over it and then stop, looking to Mulder. "Do you want me
to read to you?"
	He shrugs. The glasses come off and he scrubs his eyes as if he's
been at this all day instead of just a few hours. 
	
	Dear Agents Mulder and Scully,
		Please forgive the time that has passed between the
		sending of this note and the delivery of your news to
		us last month. It has been a time of both tears and 
		relief. 
		I thought you might like to know that we were able to lay
		our dearest Amanda to a peaceful rest two weeks ago.
                       	 There are no words to express to you our
thanks for your 		diligent search for her, and for bringing
her back home to 		us after so many years. The flowers that
Agent Scully 			sent were beautiful. However did you
know that 			wildflowers had been	Amanda's
favorite?

		Thank you and God bless you both,
		Henry and Elizabeth Hastings 

	I fold the paper and slip it back into the envelope. I place it
on the center of my desk, my open palm resting atop it. 
	"You sent flowers?" Mulder asks me, his voice husky.
	"Yeah," I answer. "From both of us." I turn my head and our eyes
meet for a moment before Mulder's flick away. "You did good, Mulder. You
found the last of Roche's victims and now we can finally put the whole
thing behind us."
	"*We* found her," he reminds me.
	I dip my head gratefully but we both know who spent the majority
of the endless nights going over missing persons reports on children from
1973 to 1991 for every state along the eastern seaboard. Every state that
John Lee Roche was known to have traveled in before Mulder's profile had
put an end to the pedophile's kidnap, rape and murder spree. The last
cloth heart had finally had a name put to it. And it wasn't Samantha
Mulder's.
	I still don't understand how Mulder was able to pinpoint the
location of the last body. Once we'd narrowed down the leads and begun
our interviews with the parents and relatives of the still-missing
children, it was after only the fourth interview that Mulder had walked
out of the house and back toward the car, leaning close to me and
announcing urgently, "It's her, Scully." 
	Amanda Hastings.
	He'd been right. Mulder and I had gone back the next day with the
cloth heart. Elizabeth Hastings had fainted seconds after Mulder had put
it in her hand, and once recovered enough had disappeared up the stairs
and returned with a bolt of fabric from which the nightgown had been
made. She'd kept it as a reminder, a keepsake. It was the first item of
clothing that Amanda had helped her mother make, and the first night
she'd worn it to bed. 
	That same night Mulder dragged me out of the motel bed in the
middle of the night and drove me to a wooded area past the state line,
some thirty miles away. "She's here, Scully," he'd said. I believed him.
And he'd been right again.
	It was downright spooky. I'd told him so.
	I meant in the most respectful of ways and that's how he took it.

	It's easier now to be around Mulder. There aren't as many land
mines laid in his heart and mind as there used to be. I have always been
very direct with him. And there had always been an invisible but
nonetheless tenable barrier that stood between us. That barrier is gone
now. I have found myself teasing him more than I ever did. I find myself
smiling more, and laughing with him. I have even allowed myself to cry.
Alone. And with Mulder. If John Lee Roche ever accomplished one good
thing in his whole miserable life, it was being the sledgehammer that
finally broke down the barrier.
	Mulder and I became lovers during the Roche case. The same night
he put a bullet in Roche's head--ending a nightmare and weaving yet
another thread into the dense and complicated tapestry of the
relationship Mulder and I share.
	Perhaps it's not Mulder who's changed so much as me. I often try
to pinpoint which it is. I don't think I was ever truly comfortable with
Mulder before. Or he with me. There were too many contradictions, too
many subtle nuances that thrummed between us. Too many emotions and
thoughts we didn't dare share with each other because we had so much to
lose. We still do. It's just that now that we've seen how good it can be,
how we make each other whole, we've discovered how very much we have to
gain. Perhaps in finally admitting our feelings for each other and giving
them form and substance it's no longer necessary to analyze every word,
every look, every touch, and weigh them against what has come before. 
	I love Mulder and he loves me. And maybe it's just that now we
can finally get out of each other's way and learn to relax and enjoy one
another. 
	And there's so much to enjoy about him. Fox William Mulder is the
most complex man I have ever been lucky enough to know. And the most
infuriating. But he is also intelligent, loving, compassionate, tender,
witty, dedicated, brave and loyal. I have fought for him and with him and
by his side; have whispered to him and screamed at him; have sat by his
bed when he was hurt or sick; worried about him when he ditched me;
cursed him for his recklessness and praised him for his courage. I have
come back from the brink of death for him, as he has for me. I have loved
him and despised him. I live for him and I would die for him. 
	These truths no longer frighten me because I believe in Mulder's
love. I believe in what we've built and what we share. 
	I look at him now and my heart breaks a little. These last two
months have been so hard for him. Part of him shrank away from the
possibility that Samantha might have been one of Roche's victims, while
another part of him was guiltily disappointed when we found out that she
hadn't been. It would have been a relief to finally have the answer he's
been seeking all these years; no matter what its form. I reach out my
hand to Mulder and he leans forward and closes the distance between our
fingers, squeezing my hand in his. The touch lasts only moments. We
cannot chance anyone walking in and seeing us like this.
 	"You okay, Mulder?"
	He nods as he meets my eyes and enough of his faint smile is
genuine that I believe him. "Yeah, Scully, I'm okay. Just a little raw
around the edges." 
	He turns back to his paperwork and I take a few moments to study
his profile. He is such a handsome man. His face is a wonderful sculpture
of cheek and jaw and chin, of forehead and eyes, nose and mouth. His face
is lean and mobile, though he prefers to hide himself behind a deadpan
expression. But I have seen the way his face changes when he laughs. He
looks like a boy. And I have watched his eyes change shade in a matter of
seconds, belying the different emotions behind the low-key persona. I
have seen him when his eyes are dark with desire and his face flushed
from the heat of our lovemaking. I have heard him moan my name. He grows
more beautiful to me every day. 
	He absently pulls a hand through his hair and all his work in
front of the mirror this morning is for naught. Most of it falls back
into place. But enough strands spike out or fall forward onto his brow to
make him look less the Special Agent and more the enduring man-child
playing dress-up in an Armani suit and a loud tie. A part of Mulder will
always be twelve.
	I smile at him and Mulder catches me at it, cocking his head a
little. His eyes capture mine and hold them before they dip down to my
lips and then back to my eyes. A shiver runs through me. "Something I can
do for you, Scully?"
	"No," I answer, hearing the happy lift of my voice and becoming
aware of the subtle pull that has begun to thrum between us. Never before
have I been with a man who could twist my insides with a simple look or a
lift of his mouth. "I think you're doing quite enough as it is."
	He jerks a smile and comments, "I never promised you easy."
	We both know what he's talking about. I didn't realized how hard
it was going to be not to touch him, to respond to the way he looks at me
and touches me when we're working. I never had to think about it before.
But now the most simple of touches brings forth the memories of caresses
we are only able to enjoy secretly. Mulder's hand on the small of my back
used to be almost routine to me; a gesture of his upbringing and his
gentlemanly ways. Now it reminds me of what his hand feels like when it
slips lower to cup me, or slides around to run over the swell of my hip.
His fingers on my elbow bring thoughts of his hands moving over me,
exploring far more intimate places. A touch on my shoulder could easily
become his arms wrapped tightly around me. He speaks to me about a case
and my eyes are drawn to the fullness of his mouth and the fire in his
eyes. 
	There are evenings when our need is so fierce that our lovemaking
begins in the car on the way to his apartment or mine, and we have to
struggle against the desire to pull into a dark alley and finish there,
fumbling in the back seat like love-struck horny teenagers. Moments when
we are barely inside the door before we are pulling at each other's
clothes in helpless abandon. But we both agreed from the start that what
we do and who we are off the job would not affect the work we do. We
can't let it; it's too important. I've begun to feel as though we're
living double lives. It's not easy--sometimes it's damn hard. But it's
worth it.
	Mulder leaves his desk and begins digging through a file cabinet.
I envy him his ability to shift gears as well as he does. I guess I
imagined it would be easier for me than Mulder. Yet another of my
preconceived notions shot all to hell. 
	I go back to my paperwork like the dutiful FBI agent I am. It's
only after a few minutes that I hear Mulder begin singing under his
breath as he flips through files, digging out receipts for the expense
forms. I lay my pen down and listen carefully. I recognize the song, but
Mulder has substituted his own lyrics. As he comes back around and takes
his seat with nary a look in my direction, the words become more
distinct.

Me and Agent Scully,
We got a thing goin' on
We both know that it's wrong
But it's much too strong
To let it go now

We meet every day
With the same thing in mind
Her bed or mine, I know, I know she'll be there
Holding hands, making all kinds of plans
While the stereo plays our favorite song

Me and Agent, Agent Scully.... 

	His voice drops away and then he glances over at me and winks.
His eyes are bright and filled with wicked glee. He is the kind of man my
mother always warned me about when I was younger. Now I know why. Mulder
is a very dangerous man. "Wanna do lunch, Scully?"
	I glance at my watch. "Mulder, it's only ten-thirty."
	He leans back and locks his hands behind his head, his eyes still
on me, burning into me. They telegraph his thoughts and they are far from
innocent.
	I shove down my desire to leave my desk and hurl myself into his
arms. I missed him this weekend. He spent it with his mother and I with
mine. My bed was so cold and so large without him there. And Mulder's
voice on the telephone is no longer enough. "Work, Mulder, work."
	He looks down at his watch and pulls his lower lip into his
mouth, sucking at it. I watch, mesmerized. "Let's see," he says in a
conversational tone. "Traffic should be light this time of day. Ten,
maybe fifteen minutes to get to my place, a few minutes more to get back.
That'd leave us about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes if we push
our luck. What do you say, Scully? You up for it?"
	He could just as well be talking about a trip to the dry cleaners
or the grocery store. I can't help but laugh. This is so unlike him.
"What's gotten into you, Mulder?"
	"Ah, it's not what's gotten into me, it's what I wanna get into
*you*." 
	"Mulder!"
	He laughs then. He is completely unrepentant and I don't think he
has any idea what his words have done to me. Or maybe he does. He gets up
again and steps to my chair, crouching down beside me. He looks up into
my eyes and lays his hand on my leg, just above the knee. Slowly he
begins to slide his hand up along the inside of my thigh, his fingers
whispering against the thin fabric of my pantyhose. Why did I wear a
skirt today? Part of my mind is screaming at me to tell him to stop, that
we can't do this here. Another part allows my thighs to drift open. I
drop my eyes and I cannot seem to pull them from his hand. I watch it
move farther and farther up, pushing my skirt up with it, unable and
unwilling to stop its slow progress. Mulder leans closer to me, his
breath warm on my skin. "Have I ever told you how great you look in a
skirt, Scully? All I can think about are the insides of your thighs. How
soft they are. How great it feels to have them straddling my hips, my
face."
	A ragged sigh leaves my mouth. I can't believe he's doing this. I
can't believe I'm letting him. But God, his hand feels so good. His words
and the images they bring to mind shoot through me like an electric
current. I feel myself flood with moisture. And then his fingers reach
their goal. He brushes the back of them against me once and then slides
up and turns them until his palm is resting on my lower abdomen, his
fingers splayed out against me. His thumb settles on my clitoris and
begins to rub in slow circles. My hips lift off the chair and I moan,
closing my eyes. I feel his breath against my mouth and he whispers, "So,
lunch?"
	My eyes fly open and I find myself falling into the vivid
greenish-gold depths of his. I take one calming breath and push his hand
away, stepping by him and heading for the door. I look back at him as I
slip on my coat. 
	"Last one to the car is a rotten egg." I'm inordinately proud
that my voice is as calm as it is. I am vibrating with desire. 
	Mulder pulls himself up to his full height, smiling widely, and I
can see the stiffness of his erection through his pants. He joins me at
the door, pulling on his coat and flipping off the lights as he opens the
door and guides us out, his hand firmly planted on the small of my back. 


	There is no conversation in the car. And we don't touch each
other; even though I so desperately want to and I can tell Mulder feels
the same way. There is a sweet torture in forcing ourselves to stay
silent and as far away from each other as the car will allow. We trade
glances and I am fascinated by the heavy, hungry look in his eyes. I
study his hands as they hold the steering wheel. His long, elegant
fingers grip and release the wheel time and again; his only concession to
his inner tension. I know he wants his hands on me instead, and watching
the motion of them reminds me of how they grasp and squeeze my breasts,
my hips.
	We reach his apartment and the game continues as we stand on
opposite sides in the elevator. Mulder's hands are shoved in his coat
pockets and he licks his lips as he raises his eyes to the floor
indicator above the door, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. I
don't think it's ever taken so long to ascend four floors. 
	And then we are there, inside the apartment. Mulder has stepped
inside before me and I hear the click of the deadbolt sliding home as he
closes the door behind me. He turns to me and there is a moment when our
eyes lock that time stands still. He growls "Come here," and I step to
him. My arms wrap around his waist as his hands fly up and grasp my face,
his fingers lacing through my hair. He tips my face upward and urgently
brings his mouth to mine. His kiss is rough and wet and hot, his tongue
plunging into my mouth and dancing across mine. There is no finesse, no
practiced technique; only raw desire. His mouth devours mine, his teeth
bruising and rough against my tender skin. Never let it be said that Dana
Scully doesn't give as good as she gets. I drop my hands from his waist
and cup the rounded cheeks of his butt in my hands, pulling him tightly
against me. I can feel the rock-hard heat of his erection pressing into
my belly and he catches my laughter in his mouth. I have discovered that
there is no power quite so heady as that of knowing what I can do, have
done, to this man. It exhilarates me. It makes me giddy. 
	Mulder is yanking my coat from my shoulders. I shrug out of it
and begin to work on his. He drops his arms to help me and pulls his
mouth from mine. His lips are wet and pouting and I stand on tiptoe and
take his bottom lip between my teeth. Mulder moans and pulls my blouse
free of my skirt, his warm hands slipping under it and playing along my
ribs and back before they move around to cup my breasts. I pull at his
tie and work it loose, starting on the top buttons of his shirt. I am
reckless, bold. I grasp the edges of his shirt in my fists and jerk out
and down, ripping the buttons loose. Mulder chuckles wickedly and leans
into me, his tongue playing along the line of my jaw as he works the
buttons free on my blouse. He pulls it off my shoulders and tugs at my
bra, pulling the fabric down to expose my breasts. He gently pinches my
hardened nipples between fingers and thumbs, watching me, waiting for my
reaction.
	"Harder," I plead.
	"Like this?" he asks and pinches again, rolling the nubs between
his fingers. A low moan escapes me. "Yeah. You like that, don't you,
Scully?"
	"God..." I feel so wanton standing here half dressed, my breasts
exposed and lifted by the bunched fabric of my bra beneath them. I am
panting, out of breath, as though I've run all the way here. And I can
feel Mulder's eyes on me. I watch as they drop from my eyes to my breasts
and his tongue snakes out and wets his lips. I know what he will do now
and I tangle my hands in his hair and pull his mouth down to them. I sigh
and throw my head back as he begins to suckle me urgently, nipping and
licking at one nipple as his fingers dance across my other breast,
squeezing and kneading the soft flesh.. 
	"Yes, Mulder," I sigh. "Oh, don't stop."
	His hands move to my waist and he unhooks my skirt. It drops to
the floor. I step out of it and closer to him. His mouth lifts and traces
a path up my neck to my mouth. He grabs my bottom in his hands and grinds
his erection against me. I am breathless, dizzy. I want him so badly. He
turns me slightly and his hand slips beneath my hose and panties, his
fingers seeking me out. My knees grow weak as he pushes a finger inside
me, exploring me. Mulder groans and mutters against me, "God, Scully.
You're so hot, so wet. Jesus."
	His finger goes to work on me, sapping any strength I might have
had left. His arm around my waist supports me as I sag against him.
Mulder brings two fingers together and plunges them into me before
stroking them upward and unfolding me. He lays them flat against my
clitoris and begins to rub against it.
	ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.... 
	"C'mon, Scully, say it," he urges. "C'mon, tell me."
	"I want you, Mulder. Oh God, I want you."
	My eyes are heavy and I want to close them, surrender to the fire
that burns through me. But Mulder won't let me. He pierces me with eyes
gone black with desire. His voice is husky and fierce and full of
promise. "I'm gonna make you come so hard." 
	His words alone are almost enough to bring me to orgasm. "Then do
it, Mulder," I beg. "Make me come."
	He chuckles deep in his throat. "Uh uh. Not yet."
	He bends, making one swift movement and my panties and hose are
peeled down my legs and tossed aside. My bra is unhooked and joins the
rest of my clothes on the floor at our feet. He turns to the table that
sits by the door and sweeps it clean with his arm, scattering books and
papers and tall candlesticks, and then lifts me up and places me on the
edge. The cold wood against my heated skin makes me gasp. I reach for
Mulder's belt and pull it free as his hands roam my breasts and his mouth
comes down on my shoulder, biting and licking at the tender skin. I
unbutton his pants and pull down the zipper, slipping my hand inside his
boxers. Mulder moans as I wrap my fingers around him. He is hot and hard
and huge. 
	Suddenly he steps back and places his hands on my thighs, roughly
spreading them apart. He sinks down in front of me and plunges a finger
inside me, his eyes focused on his task. It excites me to see Mulder
looking at me this way. His eyes are hooded and soft as he watches his
finger moving in and out of me. I can smell myself in the air, a heavy,
musky aroma. He pulls his finger out of me and I watch him slip it into
his mouth, sucking away my juices. His fingers settle back on my clitoris
as he lifts his other hand, his thumb pulling back the small hood of skin
that covers it. He raises his eyes and they lock onto me. His mouth is
open, his breath coming fast and hard. 
	"Mine?" he asks me.
	I can no longer make the words to answer him. All thought has
left my head. I bite my lower lip and nod, the motion jerky and loose.
	"Mine," he declares and brings his mouth to me.
	I grip the edges of the table in my hands and slump against the
wall behind me, my legs lifting and settling on his shoulders. His lips
are soft, his tongue firm, his mouth hot, and he is quickly driving me
out of my mind. I don't have to direct him or shift my hips or place my
hands on his head to guide him. Mulder knows exactly where and how to
touch me. He always has. From the very first time we both seemed to know
without words or gestures what we each needed and wanted from the other.
Mulder and I have always been very good at that. First as partners and
friends, and now as lovers. We are seamlessly connected. 
	As though to prove my thoughts, as soon as my hips begin the tiny
circles against his mouth that foretell my climax, Mulder pulls away from
me and stands. I can do nothing more than moan and reach for him. His
unfastened pants are riding low on his slim hips and I can see the tip of
his erection peeking out of the top of his boxers. I free it, jerking
pants and boxers down. Mulder quickly bends over and pulls off his shoes
and steps out of his clothes. He turns to me, and grasping me around the
waist, tugs me to him, slipping easily and fully inside me. I watch as
his head tips back and his mouth opens. He sighs and drops his head, his
eyes opening and finding mine. A peaceful smile plays on his mouth.
Mulder dips his head until our foreheads touch.
	 "Home sweet home, Scully," he whispers, his voice rich with
pleasure. He moves slowly against me, thrusting gently as I lift my legs
and wrap them low on his hips. The table is the perfect height for this.
We fit together well. 
	The furious nature of our lovemaking has subsided, leaving us
content for the time being with small movements and this easy connection.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that we have come to regard the
initial joining of our bodies as a benediction, a thing to be treasured
and enjoyed, not hurried through. The sex is just another link in the
chain that binds us, one to the other; but it is now, this special
moment, that has finally defined us. We are one. Truly. Completely.
Always.
	"I missed you, Scully," Mulder whispers against my mouth. "No
more weekends apart."
	I kiss him once. Twice. "No more ditching me," I bargain.
	"Never again."
	"Liar."
	We both laugh. Mulder wraps his arms around me, under my butt,
and lifts me from the table, turning us towards his bedroom. I am impaled
on him, and my arms snake up around his shoulders. He lifts a hand to my
back, easily holding me up with one arm. He splays his fingers across my
back and I lean into his hand as he continues to pump slowly inside me in
full, long strokes. "May I have this dance, Scully?"
	I grin at him. I am so happy here. "Little too late to be asking,
isn't it, Mulder?"
	"It's never too late. Not for us."
	I kiss the tip of his nose. "Then dance with me, Mulder."
	"That's my girl." He kisses me and carries me into the bedroom.
	We're only a little late getting back from lunch.

THE END