Flights of Fancy -- The Collector's Edition By Pebbles pebblesxf@yahoo.com Distribution: Anywhere, just play nice, please, and let me know where. FEEDBACK: OH, PLEASE!!!!! pebblesxf@yahoo.com Classification: SRA Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance Overall Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Through Season Six Disclaimer: Wish they were mine but they're not. Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox own them all, but I think they belong to Gillian and David. I think we all know I'm not getting any money here, but just in case - I'M NOT! No harm intended. Just having a bit of fun with a fantasy or two. Complete thanks and notes at the end. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART ONE: Fancy Dance ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I blame it on Sting. When I awake, amazingly well rested, the first thing I notice is the big red date on the Monet wall calendar opposite my bed. My big, empty bed. This year the dreaded day, traditionally the most uncomfortable of the year, falls on Sunday. I heave a sigh of relief that I will be spared the discomfort of sitting eight feet away from the object of my traitorous heart, trying to get through a workday and keep my mind on potheads, low lifes and various and sundry forms of bull and other shit which it is now my job to track. Boredom makes the mind wander and mine has been wandering quite a bit lately. Unfortunately it takes entirely too many liberties with my good sense and more often than not I've found my thoughts occupied with forbidden flights of fancy. God, I need to get laid. I close my eyes again, trying to remember just exactly how long it has been. How many years have passed since I allowed a man's hands to travel over my body, lips to caress my tender spots, tongue to meet and tangle with mine? Sighing heavily, wallowing in my longing, I roll my head and open my eyes again, only to be met with an empty pillow. In my big, old, empty bed. Familiar visions appear, daily visitors from the secret corner of my mind where I keep all of my forbidden yearnings, penned up and craving attention. Visions of a dark head resting on the pillow beside me, his beautiful face peaceful in repose, his generous lower lip full and inviting and begging to be taken in and suckled… I snap back to reality with an impatient groan. This is getting me absolutely nowhere. I scramble from the bed, forcing myself to begin the morning routine before I get caught up in the all-too-easy fantasy. The fantasy of exactly whose hands and lips and tongue I want taking part in these activities. Fantasy is what got me into this spot in the first place. I pad into the bathroom, stripping off my cotton nightshirt and panties as I go. After taking care of the immediate business of emptying my bladder, I turn on the shower hot and hard and step under the spray. Taking up the oversized sponge I soap it liberally with Scottish rose soap, replace the bar in its cradle and go about cleansing myself. I scrub my body with a vengeance, as if I can wash away the confusion of being madly and totally in love and lust with my partner. Unfortunately every brush of the sponge against my body becomes his hands, his lips and there it is again, the vision of him before me, wet and naked and ready to please. My eyes close as I contemplate the possibilities. Dammit! I'm doing it again! I open my eyes and slap my hand hard against the tile, the sponge falling free and into the swirling water at my feet. I stand for a moment, watching it caught in the current, washing down toward the drain only to sit there, bobbing gently as the water flows out of the tub. Sometimes I feel like that with Mulder, I realize, caught in a current I have no hope of resisting, no matter how much I might fight. Fight my future with him. I know it is there, and so does he, but somehow we never seem to be able to get past the bullshit and down to business. I don't even know if we can. Taking up the bottle of shampoo I squirt some into my hand, work it into a lather with my other hand and apply it to my head. I massage my scalp with fingers that soon become his long, lean ones, caressing my head, twining into my wet hair, big hands combing through it and down to rest my face in the cradle they form against my cheeks. And his eyes as he looks at me, sea green and earnest and as full of love and longing as I know that mine are. I shake my head against the vision and duck under the spray, rinsing my hair thoroughly, turning around to get my entire body. I retrieve the sponge from its watery grave and return it to its spot in the shower caddy, turning off the water and taking up the towel that hangs on the wall beside the tub. As I wrap it around my body the soft cotton folds become his arms enfolding me, safe and warm in the security of his love and devotion. Again I sigh as I realize that it doesn't matter that this day falls on Sunday. Regardless of whether I go to the office or stay at home, Mulder will dominate my thoughts this Valentine's Day, as he does every day of my life. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Determined to lighten my melancholy mood, I spend a good part of the morning in the local Barnes & Noble, ostensibly looking for a new mystery in which to bury myself over the remainder of the weekend, but unable to find anything that catches my fancy. I pick up the new issue of Vanity Fair and spend a few minutes admiring the handsome cast of the upcoming Star Wars movie which graces the fold-out cover. Knowing that Mulder would like to see it, I buy it on impulse and take it over to a table in the cafe section of the store. I order a cup of latte, sit down and idly begin leafing through my magazine. Mulder's magazine. I can leave it on his chair in the morning. I swirl sugar and half-and-half in my coffee, idly wondering what he is doing today. The speakers above my head are crooning a gentle love song, rife with sensuality. I glance at the display beside the register, see the distinctive cheekbones and electric eyes of the singer, and know immediately who the seducer is. Sting. Just like that, I am back in Mulder's hallway, his thumbs caressing my cheeks as he holds my face in his hands, his eyes burning with the intensity of his love, my heart going like a triphammer and those lips for which I have so long lusted are brushing mine… ... before the damned bee announces its presence in no uncertain terms. Sting, indeed. I shake my head, trying to erase the all-too-vivid scene, one which has seen no repeat in the six plus months since it became conclusively obvious that Mulder wanted to kiss me. Six months of denial. We both know it. But have never acted on the forbidden knowledge. It is taboo. Oh, God, why is taboo so attractive? Why the hell do I have to remember something like that on Valentine's Day? I know full well the reason for my restlessness lies not in boredom but in sheer horniness, born of six years of doing without, waiting and wanting and lusting. Lusting for someone who is too chicken to do anything about it. Just as I am. Sting is still crooning over my shoulder: > My eyes close as I sit there alone, picturing the two of us together, dancing, my head against his chest, his arms around me and mine around him. Hips and thighs moving together in an ageless rhythm of courtship. The music turns heavy with angst and my longing becomes a physical pain. Enough is enough already! I open my eyes with a snap, now determined, fearless. Mulder may be chicken when it comes to matters of the heart but the same cannot be said for me. I am stronger than my fear and I know what I must do. I grab my coffee, magazine and purse, get up and walk purposefully toward the counter. Snapping up an unopened CD from the display, I turn on my heel and make my way to the front register. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Damnation. Here I am again. How many times have I stood on this side of the door, feeling his presence behind it, wondering what would be the outcome of my unannounced visit? I glance down at my attire. Dressed in charcoal leggings and a soft pink off the shoulder cashmere sweater which skims past my hips to gently hug my derriere, I feel nothing like the proper Agent Scully who is all too often in charge. Tonight SoftScully is in command and she has had six years to dream up her battle plan. Now if she can just manage not to bungle the execution. I give the door three sharp raps. A moment later it opens and there he stands, obviously fresh from the shower, bare-chested, damp, buttoning faded jeans slung low on his hips, his hand at work towel drying his wet hair, making it spike in all directions. I am mesmerized by the sight of the crisp, dark tufts of hair that dance across his chest, sprinkling lightly over his pecs and running down the middle of his stomach to the just-buttoned button. God, I had forgotten how beautiful he is without his shirt. He is beautiful all the damned time. Which is part of the problem. His eyes light up when he sees me. "Hey!" he says with a smile, moving aside for me to come in. He closes the door behind me and takes my coat, his eyes widening with pleasure at what lies beneath. I rarely let him see SoftScully. With good reason: given her way, SoftScully could get us both into a lot of trouble. Don't look now, partner, but SoftScully is in charge tonight. "You look nice," he tells me as his eyes rake me up and down. "What's up?" You, I hope, I think before I can stop myself. I get the distinct impression that he somehow manages to read the innuendo anyway and my breath catches as he flashes me that wicked grin, the one that can so undo me if I let it. I swallow tightly, effectively putting my emotions under control, and hoist the wicker basket I carry in my right hand. "Got plans?" I ask, arching a delicate brow. He shakes his head, raking his fingers through his spiky hair, smoothing it into a semblance of order. "Nope. Just me and the Knicks." He gestures at the muted television where healthy male bodies are sweating in a blatant display of testosterone. He cocks his head, suspicion dawning. "Unless you have a more attractive alternative?" I smile in what I hope is an enigmatic manner and move past him through the hall to the living room, placing the basket on the coffee table. Leaning over for maximum effect, I pull from it a pint of fresh strawberries, a container of prepared whipped cream, and a bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme. I remove and unroll two thick pink dinner napkins from which emerge two cordial glasses, their crystalline brilliance winking encouragement as they join the collection on the table. Next come three pedestal candles in pink, green and white and the new CD, which has played in my head like a soundtrack during my afternoon preparations. Finished, I look at him, giving him the full effect of my eyes and when I speak my voice is husky. "Do you like strawberries, Mulder?" The look on his face is almost comical: shock, suspicion, a reluctance to acknowledge the evidence at hand. "Scully?" He approaches me tentatively, touches me on the arm, rubbing gently. "Are you feeling okay?" I smile. "I'm fine, Mulder," I say softly, my fingers coming to rest momentarily on the hand that sits warmly on my upper wrist. "For the first time in a long while, I'm fine. Really, truly fine." I turn from him and set the white candle on the coffee table, walk over to the desk and place the green one there so that its flame will reflect in the glass from the aquarium. I move to the music center on the other side of the room and find a spot for the pink one, opening the CD player while I'm there and slipping the new CD into the slot. I do not hit power. Not yet, I realize. Timing is everything. I rummage in my pocket for the pack of matches I had picked up at the convenience store down the street and retrace my steps, methodically lighting each candle as I go, their soft golden glow competing with the more vivid colors on the television screen. Returning to the couch my fingers sweep over the power button as I pass, and instantly the room is bathed in romance. I sit down and pat the cushion beside me. "Sit, Mulder," I quietly command and he does so quickly, his hip and shoulder grazing mine and sending sparks all up and down that side of my body. I try to ignore it and open the strawberries and whipped creme instead, nodding toward the bottle of Bailey's as I do so and lifting a brow to convey the silent suggestion. I study his nimble fingers working the top of the bottle, opening it with a muffled pop! and watch as he pours the heavy liquid into the waiting cordials. He offers a glass to me, retrieves the other and raises it expectantly. "What are we drinking to, Scully?" he asks as he slowly, sinuously winds his wrist around mine so that his face is close enough for me to see my reflection in the magic of his eyes. "Extreme possibilities," I purr and am delighted by the flame that leaps to his eyes, the tightening of his jaw as he absorbs the hidden meaning of my words. "How extreme?" he whispers, his lips a fraction of an inch from mine, his breath sweet upon my face. "As extreme as only we can make it," I promise, meeting his eyes, daring him to deny it. His lips curve into a smile as sweet as any I have ever seen on him and only the glint in those cat eyes of his gives evidence of a hidden agenda. He gently clinks his glass to mine and raises it to his lips. He waits for me to raise my own before we sip together, eyes locked, each watching the other roll the decadent elixir over lips and tongue, savoring its sensuality, swallowing with relish. His eyes bore into mine and I feel a tightening in the depths of my belly, pulsing into the core of my being. I know. He knows, I now realize. We both know that each of us knows. And we both want it. "Be careful what you ask for, Scully," he warns in a tone that closely resembles a growl. I lick my lips, meet his challenge unflinchingly. "Why is that, Mulder?" "Because you'll get it," he hisses, his breath bathing me in the wildly erotic scent of Baileys. Oh, God, I hope so. Slowly, carefully, I unwind my wrist from his and sit my glass back onto the table, rise and walk over to the CD player. I push the play button and a moment later the slow, seductive love song I had heard in the bookstore fills the room. I look back at my partner, extending my hand. "Dance with me, Mulder," I urge and he instantly rises, comes to me and takes me gently, almost reverently into his arms. One of his hands is in my hair, caressing the back of my head as he guides it to rest against his chest, the other is on the small of my back, its favorite place and mine. I wrap my arms around him, my hands sliding upwards to caress the broad expanse of his back as I relax against him. He is still shirtless and I bury my nose in the center of his chest, breathing in his clean male scent, freshly showered and smelling good enough to eat. Now there's a thought. He rests his cheek against the top of my head and I wonder if his eyes are closed, as are mine. Together we sway to the music, temporarily lost, neither wanting to be found. I feel his arms tighten around me and I snuggle closer, wanting to stay here forever. I am supremely content. I don't want the music to stop, I realize. It can play on and on for the rest of my days and I will remain in Mulder's arms, dancing, loving, communing. Surely nothing can touch us so long as we continue to dance this way. I sigh again. God, when did I become such a critter for sighs? We move in a timeless, sensual rhythm, our bodies melded together, our hips moving in tandem and I smile secretly as I feel him hardening against my belly. He knows I can feel it, I can tell from the way his lower body lingers against mine, every step he takes as we move in our mating dance bringing it into greater contact, burning in its intensity. Despite his condition, he skillfully maneuvers me around the room, gradually making our way to the coffee table where he releases the hand from the small of my back. I immediately miss it and want it back where it belongs. I can feel his other hand move from my head and the warmth of his palm as it caresses the back of my neck, below the heavy fall of my hair. He guides my head back and up so that I am looking directly at him when I open my eyes, at him and the big, ripe, red strawberry, smothered with whipped creme that he is bringing to my lips. I hold my breath as he paints my mouth with the strawberry, then leans down and gently licks me clean. His tongue is warm and supple and holds the promise of rapture unending. I think I might die, right here on the spot. Spontaneously combust. He continues to hold the naked berry to my lips and I obligingly open to it, taking it in and biting down so that it explodes into my mouth in a burst of sweetness and color, making the juices leak from the corners of my mouth, which he likewise licks clean. Slowly, oh, so slowly. I am startled at the sound that leaves my throat. Could that really be me making that noise? Whatever it is, wherever it came from, the effect on Mulder is instantaneous. He emits a growl that is positively feral and pulls me to him, his hand on the back of my neck, holding me to him as his mouth slants over mine. Our kiss is deep and fierce, possessive and passionate and primal and I honestly think I'm going to faint. His tongue, that amazing tongue of his, is making thorough exploration of my mouth, my teeth, the inside of my cheeks, and mine is meeting his with such fervor that I am almost embarrassed. But this is Mulder. Oh, God, this is Mulder! My Mulder. We alone can do this to each other. We dance. And all the while we kiss each other as if kissing is the only thing in the world and we are the only two people ever to do it. The CD reaches its end and begins again and as the night wears on we delve into further explorations of body and soul, hearts already known to each other, and freedom comes from acknowledging the flame that has burned brightly for so many years, unquenchable and defiant in the face of all our common sense. Sting is right, I think, much, much later, snuggled securely in the arms of my lover, his lips in my hair, his hands worshipping my body, his heart my own and mine his. I daresay the angels do run and hide when we dance. I never want the dance to end. The CD plays on and on through the night. As do we. And the bee rests in peace. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART TWO: Fancy Footwork ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mulder's tongue is in my ear. My left one, to be precise. I know because we fell asleep on his couch last night, lying on our right sides, feet entwined, a warm blanket covering us, cocooning us in warmth. As I slowly come awake I realize that we are lying butt to belly, mine to his, my head cushioned by the warmth of his upper arm beneath my cheek, his other arm wrapped snugly around my middle, just below my breasts. And his tongue is in my ear. Just the tip of it, mind you, not enough to leave any residual drool to drip down into my ear canal and drive me crazy. No, Mulder already knows me well enough to know that the tip of his tongue is quite enough to drive me crazy all on its own. He is leaning over me, I know this instantly, for though my eyes are still closed I sense the proximity of his face so close to mine. I feel the gentle puff of his breath against my hair as his mouth hovers over my ear. The one with the tongue in it. His left hand is moving from its resting place around my middle to conduct its own exploration, sliding up and down and over and around the Twin Peaks of Scully. Those long, nimble fingers are blazing new trails of delight as they explore my hills and valleys. They're doing a damned fine job of it, too. And his tongue is still in my ear, dancing with phantom touches against my skin that soon have me fully awake and aroused and ready to repeat the events of the night before, leading to repletion of mind and body and spirit. I sigh with pleasure and arch my back against him only to find him fully armed and very dangerous. He gives a whole new meaning to the word "cocky." Already he knows how to play my body like a maestro and does so with a schoolboy's glee. His hand is working its magic on the front of my body while his erection courts me from behind, promising rapture known only to us, in the memory of last night's dual epiphany. "Scully." My name is a breath against my skin as the tongue now works its way behind my ear, at the sensitive area on the side of my neck. I sigh again as it sends an array of delicious shivers throughout my body. "Scully, Scully, Scully," he croons, his voice as rich and dark as the finest chocolate. I realize he doesn't expect an answer, simply wants to love me with my name on his tongue, his tongue that is now painting my neck with tiny swirls that leave me gasping. My left hand reaches behind me to find him and he groans deep in the back of his throat as I grasp him fully, my fingers tingling where they touch the most intimate part of him, branding him mine and mine alone. With a low growl he rolls us both, tumbling off the couch to the floor and absorbing the brunt of the impact as he lands on his back with me pressed full length on top of him, my eyes now fully open and awake, staring into the sea green depths of his. I catch my breath at the animal I see lurking there, a hair's breadth from being set loose to show me once again the true meaning of rapture. The room fairly vibrates with the impact of whatever object has been thrown at his door and I react instinctively, pushing myself up and off of my partner and looking wildly about for my gun. It lies on the floor behind me where I had heedlessly dropped it last night while caught up in the heat of the moment. I lunge for it, pull the Sig from its holster and crouch there on the floor, naked as the day I was born, aiming my weapon at the door, my left hand supporting my right, my finger poised over the trigger. I hear a muffled from the vicinity of the couch and look sharply in that direction, a lock of hair falling into my eyes as I do. I clear my vision with an impatient shake of my head only to see Mulder convulsing with silent mirth, straining to keep control and finally losing the battle. His laughter explodes with a rush, bouncing off the walls and ringing through the apartment. My grip on the Sig loosens as I realize that he isn't alarmed in the least. Apparently it is a daily occurrence to have someone hurl objects with great force against his door in the early hours of the morning. I cock an eyebrow at him, wordlessly demanding an explanation. "P-p-paper," he manages to get out. "Relax, Scully, it's just the morning paper." He continues to whoop it up, oblivious to the fact that I am now flushing deeply, and not with the passion he had so skillfully urged a short while ago. After six years one would think the man would have a clue as to what pisses me off, I think. In light of his past encounters with an irate Scully one would think that he would go to great pains to avoid such action. Such does not appear to be the case at the moment and the more he laughs at me the angrier I become. "S-s-sorry, S-S-Scully," he croaks, holding his gut as if to stifle his guffaws. He finally manages to pull himself to a sitting position, smiling hugely over at me. The picture he presents is a pretty one: Early Morning Mulder, pillow-headed and stubbled, idly scratching the hair on his chest with one hand while his other dangles from his upraised knee where he has draped his forearm across it. The fact that he is still fully erect and showing it does nothing to soothe my jangled nerves. I slowly lower my Sig, put it back in its holster and drop it to the floor, my head lowered to avoid any eye contact with Mulder. What a sight I must present, I fume. Naked and crouched into combat stance, my hair falling in my face, my eyes wild. God, I must look like an idiot, I think. God, I AM an idiot to have done what I have done, to throw away six years of cool detachment on a single night of passion. I can't imagine what Mulder must be thinking of me. Or, rather, I don't WANT to imagine what he must be thinking of me. Supremely embarrassed, I begin gathering my discarded clothes, clutching them to me one by one, forming a barrier between my nakedness and his probing eyes. I dare not look him in the face for fear of what I might see there. But he will have none of that. He crawls toward me where I kneel on the floor, bridging the distance between us in a matter of seconds, and gently turns my face toward him with a touch of his hand. "Scully?" he says, the smile still in his voice. His dear face is open and earnest as he tries to reach me. "Come on, it's okay. It was just my obnoxious paper boy making his morning rounds and getting everybody up for work." I cringe. Work. I glance out the window over the desk and I can tell the hour is later than I usually rise. I resume my gathering, finally finding my watch amid the tangle of clothes littering the carpet. I raise it to my face and cringe. 7:15. Shit. Late again. Nothing like starting off the work week right. I get to my feet as Mulder reaches for my hand and tries to stay my withdrawal. I pull it away, unable to meet his eyes. "Mulder, it's late," I mumble, twisting away from him. "I've got to go." He releases me and I continue my search for my belongings, locating all but my panties. I resolve to pull on my leggings without them, anything to get me out of here and away from Mulder before I die of embarrassment. I rise and run for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I lean my head against the cool wood, trying to maintain a modicum of control. I can feel Mulder's confused presence on the other side of the door and I close my eyes, terrified he will come after me; terrified that he won't. I finally lift my head and turn to the sink, bending to splash cool water on my face, easing the furious blush that has settled over my entire body. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and I do not like what I see. In the wet face staring back at me there is no trace of the woman I had been last night. Gone is the seductress, the woman who knew her heart's desire and wasn't afraid to pursue it. In her place is Dana, looking like nothing so much as Daddy's Little Girl who has done something of which Daddy wouldn't approve. I shake my head, mentally preparing to argue this point. For Heaven's sake, Dana, you are 34 years old! You are not Daddy's Little Girl anymore! You are a living, breathing woman with very real human needs. And you found those needs met by the man you love more than any other, the only man in the world who could possibly bring you a such a sense of fulfillment, the only man in the world you could make feel the same way. Grow up, already! Having successfully redirected my emotions from angst to annoyance, I begin dressing, jerking my clothes on with short, angry movements, dreading the moment when I will have to emerge and face him. Surely if he laughs at me again I will disintegrate, disappear in a puff of smoke. I smooth my hair as best I can using only my hands, turning the ends under with my fingers and tucking it behind my ears. Finally there is no reason for delay and I open the door to find Mulder standing directly in front if me, arms crossed over a well-toned chest. Thankfully he is no longer naked but the black silk boxers are almost more of a distraction than his bare skin. Now I know what lies beneath the pretty package and I find it hard to avert my eyes. There is nowhere safe to look. His boxers, his bare chest, his mouth or those cat eyes I feel boring into me - none of the choices offers an easy out. But he is not moving and I realize I will have to face him in order to get out of the apartment. I raise my eyes and meet his and my heart turns over at the confusion I see there. "Talk to me, Scully," he says softly. "Don't shut me out like this. Not now." I swallow tightly, determined to get through this without breaking down. "I'm fine," I manage and immediately his expression changes from concern to irritation. "Yeah, well I've heard that too many times to believe it," he counters. "Most of the time." His eyes soften a bit as he takes my chin in his hand. "I believed it last night when you said it. Why don't I believe it now?" I cannot bear to look at him, for I know that I cannot maintain control if I do. The wall must come up again and I begin to lay my mortar. I ease my chin from his grip, laying the first brick. "I don't know, Mulder," I say, in a surprisingly cool voice for one who is so emotionally wrought. "But I don't have time to stand here and debate it to death." I push past him and go back to the living room, retrieving my gun and strapping the holster into place. I look around for my purse, find it and hoist it over my shoulder. My keys, my keys, where the hell are my keys? Moving quickly to the hallway I retrieve my trench from the rack by the door, pulling it on over my clothes and slapping the pockets, relieved to hear the familiar jingle. "Scully?" I hear him say from behind me. I ignore him and move toward the door. "Scully!" Suddenly the voice is in my ear and his hand is on my shoulder and I am being spun around to face him. Oh, God, don't make me do this, not now, please not now! I just laid the first brick and the mortar has not had a chance to set! As hard as I try, I cannot resist the pull of his eyes as they train on my face, finding and fastening on my own suddenly tearful ones. I am mortified by my weakness on top of my foolishness and die a thousand deaths for every second he holds my eyes with his. I try to pull away but this time his grip is strong. "Talk to me, Scully," he says again, gripping my shoulders and giving them a little shake. "Don't do this to us. Not after what we shared last night." I look back at him blankly, desperately searching for something to say to him that will ease his pain while also allowing me to make a graceful exit. There is nothing. "I have to go," I finally tell him, my voice quaking traitorously while my eyes dare him to try to stop me. I see genuine confusion in his face and know that I am hurting him, while also knowing that I am powerless to stop. If I don't get away from him right now I will expire on the spot. I pull away from him again and this time he lets me go. Blindly I make for the door, fumbling with the handle for another eternal moment before finally managing to open it. Stepping quickly over the newspaper at my feet, I dash out into the hallway, making a beeline for the elevator. This time Mulder does not come after me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART THREE: Fancy Three ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My apartment has never looked so good. Or so lonely. I stand with my back against the door, looking around the haven I have created, my private sanctuary from the darkness which dominates my professional life. It is nice and safe and familiar. There is the chair my father always liked, the one in which I saw his fetch at the moment of his death. The comfortable yet tasteful couch where I have consumed so many pints of ice cream during countless old movies on AMC. I lean wearily against the door, knowing that Mulder will undoubtedly be knocking at any moment. I know he followed me home as I drove like a madwoman to reach my apartment. I don't know why I thought that he would or could let this go. While I am the expert at avoiding confrontations, Mulder is fearless in his pursuit of the truth, gleefully striking the match to our fuse when we are on a collision course. As if on cue there is a soft rapping on the other side of the door. "Scully?" he calls softly. I close my eyes, desperately willing him to go away while simultaneously begging him to stay and see this through. "C'mon Scully," he wheedles. "I know you're there." He sounds about fourteen. "Let me in, Scully, we need to talk." Caught in a purgatory of my own making, I turn my eyes heavenward. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what am I going to do now? Help me out here, Someone. I know that I don't have it in me to fight him alone. Where is Divine Intervention when I need it? I wait another heartbeat, perhaps two more, all the while feeling his presence on the other side of the door like a magnet drawing me near. We have to talk and I know it. The situation is unavoidable. The fact that the idea of discussing the change in our relationship scares the mortal hell out of me does not alter the fact that it needs to be done. I chew on my lower lip, wanting more than anything to turn tail and run into my bedroom, lock the door and hide my head under my pillow. Not that it would matter if I did. Mulder is capable of breaking and entering in a dozen different ways and I have no doubt he will resort to drastic means if I continue to refuse him entrance. Resigned, I turn the deadbolt and open the door, granting admittance to the inner sanctum. He proceeds into the living room as I close and bolt the door behind him. I see that he is wearing his trench over his clothes but the pants showing beneath the hem don't appear to be standard issue FBI blues. Hoping to divert him before he has a chance to steer the conversation, I opt for a preemptive strike. "Mulder, what are we going to tell Skinner?" I ask without preamble. "We just got the X-Files back. I'd rather not commemorate the victory by pissing off the boss." "We won't," he says shortly, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over the back of Ahab's chair. He turns to face me and I see that he is dressed in black jeans and a matching tee shirt. My very own Man in Black. "I took care of Skinner," he states in a tone that brooks no further discussion. He stands there watching me, hands on hips, that bulldog look on his face, and inwardly I groan, knowing that I am in for Mulder at his tenacious best. "We need to talk," he begins matter-of-factly. "Whether you want to or not." He moves brazenly into my personal space and takes me by the shoulders, squeezing gently, but firmly. "You're not gonna run away from this, Scully. Away from me. Not after last night. You're going to talk to me and we're going to deal with this. Right here. Right now." I try to twist away from him but the effort is half-hearted, a token resistance born of habit. He refuses to give an inch, his eyes boring into mine, forcing me to face my weakness, like it or not. "No more walls, Scully," he says hoarsely, his voice betraying a slight tremor of deep emotion. Oh, God, he is going to break down my new barrier before I even manage to lay the first row of bricks. I look up at him, into those warm, wonderful eyes that speak volumes to me without his ever uttering a single word, and suddenly I'm wondering how in the hell I'm ever going to manage to push him away this time. Still reeling with aftershocks from the earth moving the night before, my reserves are depleted, my knees rubbery, my resistance dangerously low. I suddenly realize how very tired I am. Tired of the constant niggling thoughts that haunt me about the unprofessionalism of being in love with my partner. Tired of denying myself the pleasure of appreciating that love for the pure joy of it, and the wonder that it has come to me, to us. Tired most of all of holding back tears that I know would cleanse if I could only let them fall, tears that I know would be shared and vanquished by the man who now holds me before him in a strong but tender grip. He is going to fight for me, I know it. Fight for us. Because he believes in us. And he has always had tremendous strength in his beliefs. His image goes blurry as my eyes fill, but through the haze I recognize the Mulder to whom I have already entrusted myself for years now. The Mulder who has gone to the ends of the earth to save me, who has performed astounding feats of heroics in my name. The Mulder who pulled me back from the abyss when I was so far gone I could not find my way but for the power of his voice, calling me home. I feel a single tear escape each eye, trickling down my face to salt the corners of my mouth. Mulder's hands slide from my shoulders up to my cheeks, where he tenderly cradles my face, his thumbs lightly brushing away my tears. "Talk to me, Scully," he whispers, his eyes searching mine, searing their way into my heart. "Talk to me. Please." I want to lower my gaze but if I do all of the tears will fall and then he will pull me into his arms and I know I will be undone and lost forever. So I glare at him instead, trying to work up a measure of rage that he has reduced me to this, that he is forcing me to come clean about this most intimate of secrets. But the anger refuses to surface. I can't in good conscience hold any of this against him. This is all about me and I can't deny it. I can't deny any of it. "I'm afraid," I finally say in a very small voice, not trusting myself to speak louder. His eyes are dark with concern, his brows drawn into a point over them. He is trying so hard to understand. "Afraid of what?" he asks in a breath, his voice and manner gentle. He is always gentle with me - except when he is driving me up the wall with innuendo and games of cat and mouse. He wears me out in more ways than I can count. Or maybe it's just my ongoing battle between the way I *think* things should be and the way I *want* them to be that does me in. Either way I am exhausted. Too exhausted to fight. "Tell me what you're afraid of, Scully," he urges, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me so I can make it go away." Go away? Not on your life, buster. In a breath I give up the fight, finding that I no longer wish to run from the truth. Or to hide it from him. "You," I say simply, lowering my head, the flood upon me. I feel the tears as they breach the dam of my eyelids, flowing down my cheeks to land wetly on my chest, trickling down into the neckline of the pink sweater to pool in my cleavage. "Me?" His tone is one of astonishment. "Scully, why are you afraid of me? After all these years, after all we've seen and done together, after all we've *been* for each other - how can you be afraid of me?" "Not *of* you," I correct softly, my eyes downcast, still unable to look at him as I admit my weakness. "I'm afraid of *loving* you." I hear his quick intake of breath. He tips my chin so that I must look him in the eye. I meet him dead on; there is no other way. "I'm afraid of loving you," I say again, watching the impact of my words, how his eyes grow misty, how his throat tightens as he swallows my admission. "But, I do, dammit," I continue, angrily swiping at my eyes so I can see him better while I make a fool of myself. "Love you. No matter how hard I try not to." His face has gone all soft and goofy, that little boy smile playing across his features and transforming them into something magical and endearing. "Then don't," he says quickly. "Don't try not to. Just accept it, Scully. Accept this gift we've been given. The gift we gave each other last night, the gift of every single day we have together, for the rest of our lives, however long that may be." I hear what he is saying and they are exactly the right words to say. But somehow they fail to comfort, for now all I can see is a ticking clock. My time with Alfred Fellig had touched me deeply. Our conversations about life and love affected me much more than I care to admit. His wrenching story of surviving his wife by so long that he no longer remembered her name had moved me immeasurably. I have always felt in my heart that I would die if anything happened to Mulder. But after Alfred Fellig I found myself obsessed with the fear that, in my brief contact with him, I had assumed his immortality. Having fought death so hard such a short time ago I now know my greatest horror is the idea of *not* dying, of living on without Mulder by my side. And now, after six years of loving him covertly, the thought of giving in completely to my emotions is terrifying. The potential for heartache should I ever lose him shakes me to my core. "M-Mulder," I stammer, fighting for control of my voice, wanting so badly to make him understand. "I want to accept it. I need to accept it. Everything in me is crying out for me to accept it. But I'm so afraid of letting go. I'm so afraid of having you and then losing you. *They* could take you out at any time. And I would have to live on without you. I couldn't bear it." A shameful sniffle escapes me; but I have come too far to stop now. Once released, the words tumble forth in a burst of deep-seated fear. "I would want to die," I continue, my voice trembling, my body quaking. "And I'm so afraid I'll be like Alfred Fellig and I won't be able to die or that I'll be like that Pam girl you told me about, that poor girl in the bank who was caught in her own perpetual hell and was doomed to repeat the same horrible day, day in and day out, every single day of her life, and ... and ..." I'm rambling now and I know it, and crying to boot. I'm ranting and raving and hormoning all over the place and all of this in front of Mulder, who must be thinking that his tightly wound partner has finally snapped. And he might not be too far off the mark. Wordlessly he enfolds me in his arms, urging my head onto the pillow of his broad and oh-so-comforting chest. His breath teases my hair as he shushes me. He holds me up as my knees give way and I sag against him, weeping as I have never done in my life, weeping in a manner I never thought I would or could. That little wall I had been trying so hard to rebuild all morning is smashed to smithereens by the raging torrent of long repressed tears and fears. And I was right, I think through the tumult. As much as it hurts to cry, the tears *are* cleansing. And I was also right that they would be tenderly received by the man I love. And I have no doubt, even as I lean against him and cry like there is no tomorrow, that he will banish those tears. In his own inimitable way. And, of course, he does. "Scully," I hear him say as his hand caresses the back of my head, smoothing over my hair. "Scully, listen to me. Shhh, now listen. Shhh. Shhh." He waits a few moments while I compose myself enough so that he can be heard over my sobbing. Finally I have regained enough control so that I now hang, limp and docile in his arms, quietly hiccuping. "Do you remember New Mexico?" he asks quietly. I nod my head against his chest, sniffing loudly. I didn't want to remember that dreadful time, would much rather have forgotten the horror of discovering that my partner had apparently died a fiery death trapped in a burning, buried train car. Although I had reported the incident, and everyone had assumed that Mulder was dead, I somehow couldn't believe it myself. I didn't *feel * that he was dead. Somewhere along the way I began to feel his spirit again, beside me as always, right where it belonged. And, as it turned out, he wasn't dead and before long he was communicating with me, via my dreams. "Scully, I died in New Mexico," he continues, rubbing his cheek against my hair. "I died yet I came to you, didn't I? I came to you in a dream and told you that I was returning to you, to continue our fight." I draw a deep, shuddering breath and his arms tighten around me in reaction. Again I feel his lips in my hair, this time lingering in a tender kiss. "And that time when you were taken, and then returned to me, in a coma so deep that everyone had given up hope for you." I feel his body shudder at the recollection, feel his throat muscles working as he swallows the painful memory. "I sat with you all night, that last night. I held your hand so that you could feel me wherever you were. I reminded you that I was there, reminded you that you weren't ready to leave. And you heard me, didn't you, Scully?" Again I nod, my heart aching at the visual image of a grieving Mulder at my bedside, holding my hand, sitting with me through the long, lonely night, calling me back to him. And, indeed, I had heard him, and returned. He moves me away ever so slightly and uses the tips of his fingers to bring my face up to look at him. "Don't you see, Scully?" he asks gently, his eyes searching my face for evidence that he is getting through to me. "We both died, yet we both felt the other one, despite death, perhaps *in* spite of it. We've communicated across the great beyond, our spirits have been together no matter the realm of our existence. And that's how we'll always be, Scully. No matter how much time we have in the corporeal world, in here," he finds my hand and links his fingers with mine, touches our combined fist to our hearts, now so close together, "in here, we are joined forever. Nothing can change that. Even death. Whenever that comes." I stand quietly in his arms, watching him intently, listening raptly as he speaks of death and rebirth, of paranormal communications between people in the spirit world and those in the real world. And I want so badly to believe. Miraculously, he seems to hear me, my unvoiced thoughts, my unspoken fears, my needs long denied. "Believe, Scully," he urges, his eyes shimmering. "I know you want to. You know you want to. Just let it happen." He squeezes my hand. "Believe in *us*, Scully. Believe in *us*. He leans down and tenderly brushes his lips against my temple, moves to my eyelids, kissing each one and taking my tears with him. They glisten on his lower lip as he makes his declaration. "I love you, Scully," he tells me, his voice husky with emotion, his own unshed tears threatening to fall and add to the river that I have already cried this day. "I *love* you - with everything I've got, with everything I am. Believe in my love, Scully. Believe in *our* love. I'll never leave you. I swear it on my father's grave." That oath is one I cannot take lightly. I know he still agonizes daily over the death of his father, though he rarely speaks of the man who hurt him so badly, who so totally doomed his only son to a life of guilt and self-doubt. Now it is my turn to comfort. I cannot look into his face and see his wounded heart without rallying to heal it. "Mulder," I say, smiling through my tears, reaching with my free hand to caress his face as he has so often caressed mine. "I do love you. I believe you - I believe in us." I could not choke out more if my life depended on it. With my admission he goes in for the kill. His mouth swoops down over mine and I am reminded all too vividly of why I have fallen so completely and head-over-heels in love with him. Because I realize that he *does* love me with everything he's got. And I owe it to both of us to unleash my heart and return the sentiment in equal measure. And I do. We stand locked in passionate embrace, mouths molded together, tongues tasting, hands stroking, connecting on a level I never believed existed until now. If angels run and hide when we dance, they positively weep when we make love. Surely we are the only two people in the world to ever experience this. Surely no one else has felt this connection the way that we do. Mulder, my best friend, my partner, always my love, pulls away from me with a ragged sigh. "What is it," I ask in a drugged sort of voice. That's what he is to me. Mulder: my drug of choice. And I am now hopelessly addicted. He gently disentangles himself from my arms, stepping back from me with a look of genuine regret on his face. "If we keep this up I won't be able to stop and I don't think you will either." I sigh heavily, unable to resist a peek at the bulge in his pants as he stands in front of me. I hate it when he's right. He sees the direction of my gaze and flashes that sexy grin. "Don't worry, Scully. I'm not going anywhere, remember?" He looks down at his crotch, back up to capture my eyes with his. "Neither one of us." I flush deeply at his words, fighting a losing battle to keep my upper lip straight. I have to look away from him before I dissolve into helpless, hysterical laughter and further humiliate myself. "I bought us some time with Skinner," he continues, in a decidedly more cheerful voice. "But not nearly enough time to do with you what I want to do." I dart my eyes back to his in time to catch the wicked intent. We smolder for a few heartbeats, reading each other with perfect clarity. "But, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm working on my patience. We'll continue along this line of thought when we get back from California." I arch a brow at him. "California?" "Yeah, nice little country club setting, something really weird going on. Homeowners disappearing, neighbors pleading ignorance." His eyes are lit like a Christmas tree and I can't help but smile as he rubs his hands together in joyous anticipation of an X-File, after all these months of boredom. "And we get to play house." He drops the bomb on me without missing a beat. I shake my head to clear it. "I beg your pardon?" He's standing there, grinning like a Cheshire cat, the one who just ate the canary. "Married, Scully," he purrs, his eyes twinkling, his brows waggling suggestively. "We get to go undercover as a married couple." Stunned, I remain silent, considering the possibilities of this arrangement, pro and con. I'm going to have to tread very carefully here and I know it. How we conduct ourselves on this case could have far-reaching effects on our relationship, as well as our careers. "We'll get all the details from Skinner," he promises, reaching for his coat and slinging it over his arm, moving toward the door. "Our plane leaves in just over four hours and we've got a hell of a lot to do before we go. Shopping for clothes, compiling our cover, buying the rings, you know the routine." Buying the rings? This is proving more interesting by the minute. "I'll meet you in Skinner's office in an hour." He bends to drop a quick, chaste kiss on my forehead before opening the door. "Hey!" I tug at his sleeve. "Not so fast." He turns to look at me, brows raised. "If we're going undercover there are a few things we'd better get straight first. Right here. Right now." He grins, earnest as a little schoolboy. "Sure, Scully," he agrees. "Anything you say." "Number One: No hanky panky while we're working." "Please explain to me the scientific nature of hanky panky," he deadpans. I bite the inside of my cheek, determined not to laugh at his teasing. "Sex, Mulder," I state firmly, not giving an inch. "No sex while we're working." He dramatically slaps his hand to his heart, groaning. "Aww, Scully!" he protests. "Do the words 'party pooper' mean anything to you?" I hide my smile and continue smoothly. "Number Two: What we do together in the privacy of our own little world has nothing to do with anybody else and nobody else needs to know. This stays between us. Got it?" "Goes without saying, Scully," he says readily. "Too many people would have way too much fun with that information." His eyes grow serious as he considers a darker side of the situation. "And too many people wouldn't hesitate to use it against us," he finishes, reaching to take my hand and giving it a squeeze as he smiles softly down into my eyes. "Just you and me, G-woman. That's all I need." Damn him, he's doing it again. Just when I take control of a situation he has to go and make me all weepy again. I blink back the sudden mist, clear my throat and forge ahead. "And Number Three," I manage to croak, pausing meaningfully, still clutching his hand. "Number Three?" he prods. I take his face in my free hand, cupping his cheek gently, my thumb caressing that luscious lower lip that now belongs to me. "No regrets," I whisper and rise on tiptoes to take that lip between my own and gently suck on it, swirling my tongue over it at the last second before I let it pop out of my mouth. I feel his immediate and urgent prodding against my belly, smile with triumph at my power over him. Suddenly all my fear has left me and I feel nothing but good ahead for us. I don't even mind so much getting on the damned plane, as long as Mulder is along for the ride. I plant a quick kiss in the dimple of his chin before putting my hands on his chest and pushing him backward out the door. "Skinner's office, one hour," I repeat, ushering him out into the hallway. He favors me with his best Mulder smile, kisses his first two fingers and blows across the threshhold at me. His eyes are sparkling with happiness, reflecting the fireworks that I know are going off in mine. "Be there or be square," he teases. He turns toward the elevator, tossing his trench coat casually over his shoulder. "Make sure you bring your nightie," I hear him call, and then, under his breath, as if to himself: "Not that you'll need it." I watch him saunter down the hallway, catch the waiting elevator and disappear from my sight as the doors close in front of him. "Cocky bastard," I whisper, smiling as I close my own door. "We'll just see about that." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART FOUR: Tickled Fancy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Every time I go into the woods with Mulder bad things happen. Sometimes we go willingly into the forest in search of trouble that is already there; often it closes in on us once we enter unfamiliar territory. Small wonder I feel nothing but trepidation when Mulder says he wants to take me to the woods. For a little rest and relaxation. "C'mon, Scully," he urges, nudging my foot with his. It is the middle of the night and we are sipping at our Tension Tamer tea, thoughtfully prepared by the scruffy man playing footsie with me under my kitchen table. He is here because he has adamantly refused to leave me alone for more than ten minutes since the Phillip Padgett ordeal. I haven't pressed the issue because I'm not quite ready for him to go. My couch is beginning to show the permanent imprint of his long, lean body from so many consecutive nights of his lying there, guarding my sleep in silent sentry while I refused him my bed, sick with revulsion at what had nearly happened to me. Several times those first few nights, and again tonight, I experienced vivid flashbacks of Padgett and the way he manipulated me in his sick fantasy. I would struggle to wakefulness in a cold sweat, gasping and clutching the silk pajamas over my heart, protecting myself from the hands of a madman's ghost. Every single time I awoke in this state Mulder was there in an instant, touching my cheek to make sure I knew it was him before silently enfolding me in his arms, where I would quake and quiver against him until the nightmare faded. More often than not he remained in my bed, wrapping himself around me like a cloak and making me feel so safe that I knew the dragons of my dreams would not dare to venture forth with a guardian such as he to protect me. In the week and a half since the incident the memories have been reluctant to release me. They invade the little bit of sleep I am getting, leaving me physically drained and emotionally exhausted. Tonight I was driven from my bed once again, terrified and in full flight mode, relentlessly pursued by the demon of my dreams. Mulder, blissfully channel surfing on my couch, sensed my presence in the doorway and turned toward me. One look at my face told him what was amiss and he came to me immediately, wrapping his arms around me as I threw myself against him, seeking deliverance from evil in the heaven of his embrace. My face pressed against his chest, so warm and solid and infinitely soothing, his arms tight around my back, he had comforted me in just this way for night after night after night. He cradled me against his body and took unto himself all of the little pieces into which I had broken and just held me, allowing me time to put myself back together and draw sustenance from the strength of his love for me. He is good that way, always giving me room to heal myself if it can be done. And when it can't, he is there to help me along. Ever my knight, ever my hero. I used to resent that in him. But after six years of saving and being saved, I have come to appreciate the importance of that aspect of our relationship. We depend on each other to provide whatever it is that the other one lacks. And we are, and always will be, there for each other. No matter what. Wrapped in his arms a little while ago, I eventually calmed to a point where I could draw steady breaths, gentled by the feel of his hands rubbing lightly against my back, softly caressing my shoulders. I felt his lips in my hair at the top of my head and I snuggled closer, luxuriating in the peace that came upon me while being held by him. Gently he eased me around to his side and tucked me into his shoulder, leading me into the kitchen where he settled me into a chair and put the kettle on to boil. It was at this point that he announced his proposition for getting me out of the city, away from unpleasant memories. We are sitting here now fantasizing about what we would do if we had no boundaries and no need to report to work for an entire week. My answer is quick and tidy: sleep. Mulder, being Mulder, wants to do something more adventurous. He wants us to go hiking. On the Appalachian Trail. In the wilderness. "Come on, Scully," he wheedles. "God knows we've got the vacation time coming. Use it or lose it, remember?" The brows go up and the smile comes out full force. "It'll be a nice little trip to the forest." I give him the You Can't be Serious Look, setting my cup on the table with a small thump. "Mulder, the last time I heard that line we were very nearly cocooned." He has the grace to look abashed at the memory, ducking his head to hide his chagrin. But then he looks back up at me, through those lashes, with those eyes, and that damned puppy dog look. And I know that my fate is sealed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So, two days later, here we are in the woods. Again. I am not happy. I don't like to hike, period. I certainly don't like to hike carrying anything larger than a sun visor. And I especially don't like to hike with a fully-loaded pack on my back, into a wilderness area, beside the quintessential Indian Guide, who looks as if he could walk from sunup to sunset carrying a sixty pound pack and never break a sweat. Which is probably just what he intends to do, damn him. I have agreed to hike a partial leg of the Appalachian Trail with him. To be quite honest, I blanked out the names just after Mulder announced the distance between Point Whatever-It's-Called and Point Really Far Away, a distance which we are now going to hike, with packs heavily laden. I cannot believe I have agreed to go along with him on this one. How in the *hell* does he talk me into these things? I have no choice but to follow the lure of my partner's fine-toned butt as he hits the trail, lithe and lean in jeans and hiking boots, moving effortlessly and surely, as if he owns the forest. I have a sudden sweet vision of the boy he might once have been, polished and proud in his Indian Guide uniform, long-legged and wiry and bursting with the need to know everything there is to know. Before his sister's abduction, and the self-destruction of his family. My heart aches anew for the man, and for the boy, upon whom life dealt such a blow so early on. He turns to look at me over his shoulder and the light in his eyes and the smile on his face are enough to lift my mood, no matter the distance I am being asked to hike. I am with him, he is with me, and, more important, we are *together*. And we are solving no mysteries on this trip, only searching for our own little bit of peace and quiet in an often turbulent world. Mulder has promised me a little R&R. Somehow I can't help thinking that his idea of Rest & Relaxation and mine are likely to be polar opposites. As we head into the woods on this beautiful late April morning, I have to admit that despite my dread of the hike to come, the scenery out here is spectacular. The air is filled with the joyous chirping of myriad birds. The land is painted with scarlet splashes of wild azaleas and delicate mountain laurel, with brilliant fuchsia rhododendron and bright orange tiger lilies, cascading plumes of purple and white wisteria seeming to drip from every branch of every tree. As we hike in comfortable silence I am lulled into a peaceful state by the quiet beauty of the forest, and the majesty of nature in her springtime glory. We reach the top of a small ridge and pause to admire the endless vista of mountains spread before us in a vast panorama. I see wave upon wave of gentle slopes and craggy peaks, bursting with new life in every shade of green in the spectrum. Patches of clouds linger in the valleys in stark contrast to the deep and brilliant blue of the skies above the showcase. I catch my breath at the grandeur of the scene, and stand frozen in wonder at the perfection of God's handiwork. And as I feast my eyes on this masterpiece, that small part of me that has been cowering inside reawakens with the memory of something positive and good, something I have been chastising myself for wanting, but which I have proven myself hopelessly inept at repelling. I look up at Mulder to find him watching me, that little half-smile on his face, his eyes just turning up at the corners. I can feel myself blush. "What?" I ask, stifling a nervous, and very uncharacteristic, giggle. "Your eyes," he says, a smile in his voice. "Do you know that the sky today is the exact same shade of blue as your eyes?" From anyone else the words would have been a cheesy pick-up line, but somehow Mulder's eyes convey his loopy sincerity and utter believability. I have no response to this. I simply duck my head with a shyness I haven't felt around him -- or any man -- in a long while now. I feel his fingers beneath my chin and I do not resist when he tips my face up to his. I meet his eyes willingly, swallowing whole the look in the mossy green ones staring back at me. *I'm here*, they are saying. *I know*, I am trying to say with mine. He leans in as if to kiss my mouth but hesitates halfway there, opting to brush his lips lightly against my forehead instead. I am saddened at that hesitation, there because of my own. He has been so wonderful to me these last few weeks, giving of himself as never before. And I have taken every bit of support he has offered, greedily feeding on it in the wee hours of the morning, when my dreams have brought him to my side, then pushing him away in the cold light of day, embarrassed and unsure of myself. Now he has brought me to this beautiful place, and is even attempting a Sweet Nothing, and all I can do is silently repel him with my skittishness. I don't know why I do this, but I hate it. And I don't want to push him away anymore. I reach my hand to his face and cup his cheek, stroking his lower lip gently with my thumb. "Thank you, Mulder," I say softly, and smile at his quizzical expression. "What for, G-woman?" My smile widens. He hasn't called me that in ages. "For holding me when I fall apart; and for keeping it to yourself. For giving me the room to put myself back together again, but not being far enough away so that I have to wait for you to reach me. For being so patient with me. For not pushing." He turns his head until his lips connect with my hand and slowly nuzzles his way into my palm. His mouth is warm and moist and soft and sensual and sends a barrage of tiny shocks through my hand, up my arm and down, directly into my nether regions. I remember the mouth, too. Quite well, actually. Not to mention all the lovely things he can do with it. "Thanks for coming to the woods with me, Scully," he whispers against my skin. I rise on tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the cheek, lingering a moment longer than necessary so that I may relish the heady scent of Eau de Mulder on a Warm Day. "You're welcome," I say politely. "I think." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We make camp on top of a ridge that overlooks a valley to our east, in a clearing surrounded by hemlock pines and mountain ash. The grove of trees where we have decided to stay the night is dense and cozy yet provides enough open space for a grand fire, which Mulder immediately kindles the moment the tent is pitched. Although the weather was quite comfortable all through the hike up the ridge, with the setting sun goes the warmth of the day and I have a sinking feeling that the night will be chilly. Which means both of us. In the tent. In sleeping bags. Together. I don't know why I am backing away from the thought of our being physically intimate again. We had only just entered this new phase of our relationship a few weeks before I became the object of Phillip Padgett's twisted fantasy. I soon found that the awkwardness of Padgett's obsession with me, coupled with my horror at what had ultimately resulted, had thoroughly driven all carnal thoughts from my mind. It's a shame, really. Here lately, whenever I would find myself looking at my partner, as I am doing now, I would unfailingly think "What a waste!" I remember all too well the feeling of his hands on my body, the sensual play of his tongue on my hot spots, the very essence of him as he buried himself deep inside me, only to pull back and drive home again and again and again. When I think of it now, even after all these weeks, I can still actually *feel* the thrill of his entry, the first time, back in his apartment, on the couch where I will never again be able to sit without remembering the activities of the night. Well, maybe carnal thoughts have not been driven quite so thoroughly from my mind as I had thought. I watch Mulder now with salacious intent, eyeing his long, lean, runner's legs in his faded jeans, the sleeves of his equally faded denim shirt rolled up to reveal the muscular forearms that have always been my private pleasure to observe in action. Like now, as he arranges logs in the fire pit, I enjoy watching the muscles beneath the skin bunch and relax with the movement of his arms. The hair on them is rich and golden and unbelievably soft. Oh, yes, I remember that, too. How soft his hair is, everywhere, dusting over his body lightly and lovingly, thicker in some spots than others, coarser here than there. The evening breeze ruffles the soft brown hair on his head as he bends to his task and in the setting sun his skin is burnished to near bronze. Good God, he is beautiful. It almost hurts to look at him, he is so beautiful. And he is mine. If I will let him be. He looks up suddenly and finds me studying him, winks in that endearingly teasing manner he adopted with me the first year we worked together. "So what's the word, Scully?" he asks casually, cocking his head as he looks up at the sky. "Think it'll rain sleeping bags tonight?" I can't hide my smile at his audacity. He knows exactly what he is doing to me, posing like that, all Manly Man And You Like It, Too. "It might," I murmur and am rewarded with his full-of-himself grin. I'm not altogether sure if I'm ready for anything more than the luxury of getting my hands on him, but get my hands on him I must. I want to touch him and stroke his hair and his face and all his other parts, in the way I have learned will make him moan my name in that sexy baritone that still sends chills up my spine. He meets my eyes knowingly and I have the sudden, vivid visual image of the two of us, making love outdoors, here, on the ground, before the fire, with the moon and stars above us - and no demons anywhere in sight. Suddenly I feel much, much better about this trip to the woods. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Hey, Scully, do you know what day it is?" Mulder's voice reaches me from across the stream. He spotted a mother lode of deadwood on the other side a few minutes ago and crossed to retrieve it while I rinse the aluminum camp plates on which we ate our dinner. Nothing like freeze-dried stroganoff in the deep woods, helped along by a piece of whole wheat pita bread and several healthy swigs of water from the flask at my hip. I certainly won't be gaining any weight on this trip. "No, Mulder," I answer automatically, not really concentrating on his question because I am looking all around me in the encroaching darkness, certain my eyes will light upon something staring back at me before I finish my task. "What day is it?" "April 30th," he answers readily. "May Eve." I dip the plates in the cool water, my fingers finding a handful of sand in the stream bed and scrubbing each plate in turn. "And?" When he doesn't answer right away I look up to find him making his way back toward me, burdened with an armful of kindling. He stone hops across the stream and waits as I rinse the plates a final time. I stand up and sling the excess water from them. My task finished, I look back up only to find a mocking Mulder watching me, an evil glint in his eye. "What?" I say with a twinge of exasperation. "You don't know what that date means?" he asks as we begin the short walk back to our camp. "Should I, Mulder?" I hurry past him to the massive oak that skirts the camp where we have fixed a backpack with ropes slung over one of the lower branches. Quickly storing the plates in the pouch and locking all the zippers, I pull on the rope and the pack ascends into the wild dark yonder. I secure the rope around the base of the tree and return to Mulder, who has stoked the fire to his satisfaction and is now kneeling to spread one of the sleeping bags on the ground. "Scully," he scoffs, "anybody with as much obviously Celtic blood as you have should know the ancient legends, how her ancestors celebrated the changing of the season, and the reawakening of the land." I suppress a smile at what I know and he does not. Cocky bastard, I think. I'll show you. I approach him by the fireside. He pats the sleeping bag invitingly. "C'mon, Scully," he coaxes, on his knees at one end of the sleeping bag. "Come on over here and let me tell you a story." I feel my brow go up. "Story, Mulder?" I say. "What about?" "About the origin of the Maypole and Beltane rites and the renewal of the land through an appreciation by its people." Again he pats the space beside him. I make a big show of appearing to consider his offer, although secretly thinking how nice it would be to take him up on it. I want very much to sit before the fire with him, watching it die down to glowing embers while we talk of things dark and mysterious and perhaps a little revealing. After a respectable interval, I move to the fireside and lower myself to the sleeping bag opposite his spot, demurely folding my legs and tucking them to the side. "Beltane?" I ask innocently, as if I'd never heard the word before. "Beltane," he nods and I see that spark in his eyes that says that Professor Mulder is going to launch into a lesson. "Also known as May Eve." He knee-walks over to my side of the sleeping bag and slips in behind me, resting his long legs on either side of mine. His arms encircle me and pull me into the shelter of his solid strength and I willingly surrender to the lure of intimate contact with his body. I settle back against him with a sigh, hug his arms a little tighter across my middle, and allow myself the luxury of leaning into the comfortable pillow of his chest, supremely content. "Did you ever learn anything about Beltane, Scully?" "I grew up in Catholic school, Mulder," I remind him. "The nuns weren't too keen on teaching the young ladies all about the history of ancient pagan fire festivals which encourage sexual romps in the forest and fornication in the fields to ensure a bountiful harvest." I feel a suspicious twitch behind me, in the vicinity of my tailbone, see him jerk in surprise at my words, and from the corner of my eye I can see him peering around at me. Good; I've managed to shock him. "Sexual romps, huh?" he asks in his dangerous voice, the one that drips with intent to test me and give me a run for my money. I don't need to see his face to know that he is pleased at what I have revealed. "Well, then, tell me, Dr. Scully," he continues, "just exactly what is the purpose of this yearly celebration?" I suppress a smile, knowing I have him but wanting to drag it out as long as possible. "Well, Mulder," I begin. "Beltane - or May Eve, as you called it - is a complex folk festival, associated with both life and death and the changing of the seasons. Traditionally a celebration marking the start of the light half of the year, it was a time of profound significance for the people who worked the land. The return of the light meant a return of fertility for their mother the Earth, and they celebrated accordingly." "Do tell," he urges in my ear. "I'm all a-tingle." I stifle a grin. Ass. Taking a deep breath, I continue my oral dissertation. "In ancient times the people of the community would rise at midnight on May Eve and gather boughs and flowers with which to decorate their homes. They would observe the sunrise from a hilltop and later visit apple orchards, where they would bury cider and cakes to insure a fruitful harvest. People would hold hands and walk the fields, tossing cakes into the air as they went and later burying the remains to enhance the proceedings." Mulder is resting his chin on my left shoulder, apparently listening intently as I go on. "Caudles - a kind of beverage consisting of warm ale or wine mixed with sugar, oatmeal, butter, eggs and milk - were prepared over fires kindled in holes in the earth, and partaken by everyone. Celebratory bonfires were built. The men of the community would leap through the flames, followed by the women, and finally the herd animals were driven through the smoking embers as an act of purification and protection." I feel a distinct pressure against my back where I am lounging against him and I suppress another grin. I always suspected Mulder got a hard on when I talked science, and especially when I surprised him and gave him a dose of his own medicine. It's nice to see that I was right about yet another facet of his personality. "Impressive," Mulder murmurs, his left cheek nuzzling my right. "You know quite a bit about what the folk did on May Day, Scully. Except that you left out the part about the Maypole." "I haven't gotten to that yet, Mulder," I tell him. "Give me time." I wonder how much I am going to taunt him with the description of something so innocent in its very basic humanity yet graphically sexual at the same time. "The Maypole," I finally begin, "was traditionally made of birch, the tree known as the Lady of the Woods. Birch is the symbol of the Earth Mother, representing the feminine powers of growth, healing and the natural world. Her chief strength is the ability to cultivate unconditional love for all beings." "That's real nice, Scully," his voice rumbles from beside my ear and his breath is warm against my skin. "But what does it *mean*? You still haven't told me what exactly is the significance of the Maypole itself. Do you even know?" he taunts. "Patience, Mulder," I admonish. "I'm not finished yet." He lapses into silence and I continue. "The pole itself represented the movement of energy between Earth and sky, movement that resulted in the renewal of growth in the spring. Herbs and tree branches were brought into the home as a way of concentrating healing and fertile energies." I pause, savoring the moment, and his anticipated reaction. The maypole behind me has been growing rapidly and I can feel the heat of his arousal through the fabric of two pair of jeans. I am feeling feral, earthy and elemental, as elemental as the earth upon which we sit, as the air around us and the little stream which sings in the distance, as elemental as the fire which now heats the space we inhabit and compels me to boldness. "Maypoles were erected," I say slowly, deliberately, "and danced around to energize the soil ... the symbolic male phallic pole being buried snugly in the female Earth." I hear Mulder's quick intake of breath, feel the more insistent prodding of his own phallic pole, and I grin with erotic intent. "After all the feasting and dancing was over, young couples disappeared into the hills, forests and newly plowed fields to further energize the land with their activities." Mulder is silent for a moment before clearing his throat and thus managing to croak a question. "What activities would those be, Scully?" "Well, Mulder," I tell him smugly. "*You're* the expert on pagan rituals. *You* figure it out." We are silent for a few moments, lost in our thoughts, imaginings and individual fancies. We sit quietly by the fire, and the air around us fairly snaps with sexual tension, unrelieved these past two weeks. The fire crackles, the creek babbles and somewhere off in the distance a whippoorwill sounds a lonely cry. Finally, Mulder speaks again and when he does his words go straight to my heart, speaking to something so deeply buried I had not realized that it was there. "Beltane marks something else, you know. The return of vitality, of passion and hopes consummated." He pauses meaningfully before answering the brow I have raised in silent question. "Beltane is our time, Scully," he explains, kissing my cheek softly, just below my right ear. *This* is our time." I can feel the beating of his heart in a steady thump against my back and suddenly the hands that have rested quite contentedly on his feel the need to roam. They begin a leisurely slide upward, caressing the forearms that I had so admired earlier in the day. The hair on them is soft and furred and I want to rub my face against it, like a cat onto the scent of her mate. "You know, Mulder," I say in a husky voice. "Beltane also marks the coming together of the Horned God and the Lady of the Greenwood." He laughs deep in his throat, a laugh that is cut off as I scoot my bottom a little more tightly against his crotch, where I can feel the heat coming off his now fully erect pole in waves of sensuality. "Well, I don't know about the god part," he murmurs, burying his lips in the sensitive skin at the juncture of my neck and shoulder. I reward him with a gasp of my own and I feel his smile against my skin. "But I might be up to fulfilling the requirements of a horned beast." I turn in his arms and look up at him, my heart in my eyes, my soul bared and my body anxious to be bared as well. And then he goes and rips me to pieces with his next words. "But what about you, Scully?" he asks, his eyes piercing, his voice a mere whisper. "Are you my Goddess?" "I'm whatever you want me to be, Mulder," I tell him, touching his face gently with one hand, the back of his neck with the other. I want to be closer to him, though we are now pressed mere centimeters apart. It is too much, and I can't bear the distance another moment. I pull him down to me and put my mouth to his, softly at first, then more daringly, pushing his lips apart with my tongue, demanding and receiving entrance. I feel an immediate surge of arousal, the insistent earlier vision of our coupling out here by the fire coming back to remind me of what I shared with this man just a few short weeks ago. His arms are tight around me, as if he is pulling me into his body, and at this moment I want him to do just that. Or, more precisely, I want to pull him into *mine*. I moan with the sudden flashback of his taking me to unbelievable heights and the sound appears to snap the control he has maintained all evening. Emitting a low growl, his body urges mine to lie back on the sleeping bag while his mouth lays siege to my lips. His kiss is fierce and possessive and for once I don't mind being possessed, and kiss him back, abandoning my own control just as he has abandoned his. His hands are suddenly everywhere, caressing the back of my head, smoothing over my hips, cupping underneath my buttocks and squeezing as if he were testing a melon for ripeness. I pull my mouth away from his for a moment, gasping. "So, Mulder, am I ripe?" In answer his hand travels from my hip up my side, sliding sensuously along my torso until it reaches my breasts. "Dunno, Scully," he tells me, his hand stroking, his erection throbbing against my belly. "I haven't been to the market in a while. And sometimes the signs are pretty confusing. I may have forgotten how to tell." He cups my breast then, kneading the flesh, his thumb darting in to trace my nipple in concentric circles, zeroing in on the peak and tweaking it through the thin cotton of my campshirt. The feel of his hands through my clothes is achingly erotic. I am beginning to quiver with my need for more of him. "I have great faith in you, Mulder," I assure him. "I'm sure it'll come back to you." My head lolls back on the sleeping bag and my eyes drift shut as I feel his long fingers against the skin of my belly, where he has breached the hem of my shirt and is beginning his trek northward. My breath hitches in my throat as his hand encounters my bra then deftly dips behind my back to unsnap the hooks and return to my front without missing a beat. I feel him push the fabric up and I lift my arms and allow him to pull shirt and bra off together, tossing them to the side, away from the fire. I open my eyes to see him sitting back on his heels, gazing at me as I lie there, bare-chested and open to him, his eyes drinking me in as if he had never seen me like this before. Perhaps he hasn't. Not in this way. Not the way he is looking at me tonight. He lifts his hands and brings them toward my breasts, moving with infinite slowness, and I cease breathing until they finally reach their destination. He cups my breasts in his hands and lowers his head to bury it between them, his mouth warm and wet against my skin. All the while his thumbs are doing their circular dance, arousing me as never before. Oh, my God, *this* is what I nearly pushed away. The wonder of his hands on my body, his mouth covering my nipples one after the other, his tongue darting out and around and over and above and beyond the realms of my imagination. I am heated to an unbearable degree, from without by the fire now roaring and seeming to build even as our passion mounts, from within by the ferocity of my desire for my partner. I want to touch him, to feel his skin beneath my fingers but he is still fully clothed and I cannot bear to break the action on my nipples, now throbbing with the need to be suckled, a need which he fulfills to the nth degree. I can't believe the things this man can do with his mouth. He is making me whimper with need, and Scullys don't whimper. Except, perhaps, when they're whimpering with need. "Mu-Mulder," I finally breathe into the night air. "Mulder, lose the shirt. I want to touch you." Without taking his mouth from its ministrations he reaches beneath him and tears at his shirt, popping the buttons all over the place, jerking it off his shoulders and down his arms. He tosses it behind him with a flick of his arm before returning his hands to my body to continue their conquest. Now that I can get my hands on him, I do, kneading his shoulders, stroking the hard muscles beneath the smooth skin, reveling in the power I feel in the man who is about to join with me here in the forest, beneath the full moon now rising over the treetops. And then I remember the significance of this night in Beltane lore, how it was said that this night the sexual forces of the world are at their peak. They would certainly get no argument from me there. Mulder moves from my breasts to work his way down my body, unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down, taking my panties along for the ride. He pushes them down to my ankles and I try to kick them off, only to be hampered by the heavy hiking boots that still encase my feet. I want to squeal with frusatration, but only a moment, for he immediately unties and removes my boots, casually tossing them aside, and repeating the action with my socks. Finally, after an interval that seems eternal, he peels off my jeans and panties, dropping them to the ground behind him as I lie back on the sleeping bag, proudly baring myself to him, and to whatever future the fates hold for us. "Yours, too," I command in a ragged whisper and he complies in a heartbeat, shucking his boots, socks and pants in record time, until he kneels naked before me. He is on his knees, his erection standing out proudly from his body, rigid and regal and full of power for me, only for me. His eyes glisten, sweat beads on his forehead and his breathing is labored as he leans over me, tracing my body with his hands. "God, Scully," he whispers. "You are so beautiful. So very beautiful." I look up into his eyes, and I can almost see myself reflected in them, lying there in the moonlight, with the fire painting patterns on my skin and my eyes as dark with desire for him as his are for me. He bends to kiss my mouth lightly, softly, reverently. "*You* are my goddess, Scully." His lips move to the hollow of my throat. "You are Dana, Moon Goddess, Patroness of rivers and water and magic and wisdom." His mouth has now made its way to my chest, kissing my skin, just above my heart. "Let me worship you." I can't believe the things he is saying to me tonight. This isn't Mulder. He never gets all sappy on me. But somehow it doesn't feel sappy tonight. I can't deny myself the pleasure I am receiving from the delicious attention he is paying me, certainly not as his mouth travels down the length of my torso, stopping at my navel to swirl his tongue in and around it. Certainly not after his mouth touches me where I feel myself on fire, making me cry out with the sheer ecstasy of the sensation of his heat on mine. And most assuredly not when he opens me with those nimble fingers and goes to work on me in earnest. This feels so good it *must* be a sin, I think for a split second, before the elemental Dana takes over and reminds me that this is the very essence of divine blessing. I surrender to the sweet sensations wrought by his tongue, by the feel of that lower lip I love so much as it joins with its mate and slides over my clitoris, suckling me to the point where I am sobbing in my need for release. I feel him moan against my screaming flesh and the vibration is enough to put me over the edge. I fling my arms out beside me, my fingers clawing at the ground, eyes widening in wonder as my orgasm builds and builds and builds to a point where I think I will surely die from the sheer bliss of it all. I look up into the star-spangled sky and scream as rockets explode in my body, making my hips jerk off the sleeping bag but not once jarring Mulder's mouth from my core. He holds my bottom with both hands and steadies me, continuing to feast upon me with the insatiable appetite of a starving man. Even as the echos resound in my body from the first orgasm, I am slammed with another, more powerful one and this time I moan his name over and over as I come, lost in a netherworld of orgasmic bliss. Now I can feel him moving up my body and I open my eyes to see him hovering above me, his skin glistening in the firelight, his chest heaving, his mouth wet with me. "Come here," I command, my arms drawing him to me. "I need you in me, Mulder. I need you now." He complies in an instant, positioning himself over me and entering in one smooth motion. He doesn't stop until he is nudging against my pubic bone, and I moan at the sheer power of his body as it merges with mine. My muscles tighten around him and I bring my legs up around his hips as he begins to rock me, slowly at first, back and forth, back and forth. I cannot believe the sensations he is arousing. My flesh is resounding in waves of pleasure with every stroke, and I find that I can't suppress the little moans that are now coming from my throat continuously. He reaches down and positions his arms to the back of my knees, raising my legs higher and farther apart, deepening his penetration . I hang onto his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles as he moves his body, tightening my grip with every stroke into me, loosening it with every retreat. He speaks as he pumps steadily into me, words I can barely register through the haze of rampant pleasure, but when I do realize it I listen closer and what I hear is my undoing. "Love you, love you, love you, Scully, love you, love you, Scully, love you, Scully, love you, love you, love you ..." I feel every muscle in my body draw up into a tight little ball and explode with the force of a thousand suns. I am clutching and clawing and crying and sobbing his name over and over and this time I am sure I am going to die. "... love you, love you, Scully, love you, Scully, love you, love you, love you, Scully, Scully, Sculleeee!" His body spasms, spending itself deep within me, as we have spent ourselves in each other for years. I tighten my inner muscles and hold him right where he is, right where I want him to be. Right where he belongs. We ride the waves together, surfing joyously until we are set back on the beach of reality, back in our little camp, beneath the moon and the stars. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The fire is roaring, lighting the heated air around us, adding to the afterglow of our pagan romp. Mulder's chest is plastered to my breasts, his arms still hooked behind my knees, and the sudden realization of the image we must present is shocking to my good girl upbringing. But the primal Dana, the ancient goddess within all women, *that* woman revels in the very essence of the moment. Out here, beneath the stars, the trickling stream providing a lover's serenade, the blazing fire heating and illuminating our coupling, the breeze gently stirring his hair as he hovers above me, the fertile earth at my back, my body both nestling and being nestled by all of the elements at once - out here I feel very much like my Celtic namesake, *Dana*, the moon goddess. Mulder's goddess. Never in my life have I felt so worshipped. His eyes look down at me with such love that I feel my own brim with tears. The significance of the moment fills me as completely as he does, and I tighten my inner muscles against him in reaction to the pleasurable pain I am feeling at the intensity of my emotions. I hear a gasp. I think it is mine. But it might also have been his. "God, Scul-ly," he whispers, his voice breaking on my name. He closes his eyes, swallows and gives his head a small shake before looking at me again. Tears glisten and a bead of sweat falls from his forehead to land on mine and join with the moisture that escapes his eyes. They mingle and meander down to my hairline and seep into my wet and tousled hair. I take one arm from the shoulder I was hanging onto for dear life a few short moments ago and reach to gently cup his cheek in my palm. I meet his eyes unflinchingly, letting the whole of my heart into the look that both accepts and offers. *Here I am*, I say with my body, mind, heart, soul. *Take me, accept me, as I take and accept you.* Out here I can allow myself to feel these wayward emotions. Out here I can give myself to him wholeheartedly and completely, without worrying about the repercussions of tomorrow. He gently removes his arms from around my knees, and I lower my legs to wrap snugly around his waist, crossing my ankles at the small of his back, unwilling to let him leave my body just yet. He eases his arms beneath me, one around my shoulder, the other around my waist, keeping me pressed tightly against him. Oh, God, I want to stay like this forever. Life cannot possibly get any better than this moment. This here and now. "Kill me now," he breathes as he plants tiny, soft kisses against my chin, his lips working their way up the line of my jaw to my ear. "This is as good as it gets," he murmurs. "You and me, out here, like this." He sighs contentedly. "This is the meat." "No, Mulder," I contest, nipping at his lower lip as he makes another pass. "*You* are the meat." Our bodies shake together in silent laughter and I marvel that we have come to this, so to speak. The fact that I can lie here with my partner, naked beneath a moonlit sky, entwined like the roots of the massive trees that tower above us, and can laugh with such deep-seated joy is a blessing I never thought to share in this life. We laugh so hard that he inadvertently slips out of me and my body immediately craves his return. He deftly turns us and pulls me against him, bringing one arm out to lie against the ground and provide a pillow for my head. We lie there, spooned and spent by the fire. I feel like purring and maybe I am. Blissful and blurry, sated beyond belief, I allow myself the luxury of going to sleep in Mulder's arms. I drift into a dreamworld of love and lust and satyrs and nymphs, gnomes and fairies and toads and rabbits. I dream of a huge maypole planted snugly in Mother Earth and a couple writhing in passion on the heated ground beside a blazing fire. Somewhere in the deep of the night, or the wee hours of the morning, I drift to the surface of wakefulness to the feeling of soft caresses on my nether parts. No wonder I was dreaming of phallic symbols and mating rituals, I think briefly before his touch banishes all thought. "Hey, Scully?" he breathes against the back of my neck, his fingers again working their magic on me. "Yeah?" I sigh, arousal already taking hold. "You liked it." He did not question; how could he, with the evidence so obviously and literally at hand? "A little while ago," he elaborates, "under the moonlight, with the wind and the fire, on the ground with the water flowing past. You liked it when I took you out here, among the elements." "Yeah, Mulder," I answer dreamily. "You tickled my fancy, all right." I feel his answering grin against my skin. It's probably the cocky one, I think. The one he wears so well. "Tickled your fancy, huh?" He seems enormously pleased with himself. And, after that performance, he should be. We are quiet for a moment, the stroker and the strokee, savoring the sensations of touching and being touched. I feel his kisses against my hair, my ear, the side of my neck, my shoulder where it peeps out from underneath the shelter of his arm. "Hey, Scully?" he whispers in my ear. "You know what day it is?" I sigh with a touch of exasperation. "Mulder, didn't we just go through this a few hours ago?" Not that I would mind a repeat performance, but variety *is* the spice of life. "Yesterday, Scully," he points out. "It's well past midnight, you know." "May Day?" I look over my shoulder at him, crooking a brow. He gives me the Mega-Watt-Mulder-Shit-Eating-Grin and waggles his own brows. "Hail, hail, the first of May," he begins. "Outdoor fucking begins today," I finish for him. "Scully!" he cries, pretending to be scandalized. I rarely use the "f" word and, for this reason, it has great impact when I do. We dissolve into a fit of giggles, our bodies rocking in unison, fitting together in all the right places. I am so happy here. And for the first time ever, I feel that we are perfectly in sync. I wish I could bottle this moment and make it last forever. God knows there may be days ahead when we could well use it. "Hey, Scully," he whispers against my ear again, his hand stroking again. I turn in his arms until my face is an inch from his. I look up into his eyes and see the primal Mulder lurking, waiting for permission to come out and play. "Yeah, Mulder?" "Want me to tickle it again?" Without warning, I shove him onto his back and climb aboard, straddling his hips and laughing at his surprised expression. I cock one eyebrow at him from my perch on high and put on my best Mae West impersonation: "How about I tickle *yours* instead?" "Scully!" he says in that I-Just-Got-Very-Turned-On tone, his eyes wide, his face glowing with the light of his smile and, I think, reflecting the happiness he sees in mine. I lean over his chest, reaching with my mouth to take his lower lip in mine, suckling gently. He is ready for me again, I can feel his insistent knocking at my back door. But this time the lady will have her wicked way with the horned beast. "It's a full moon, Mulder" I remind him, grinning lasciviously. "And *this* time, I'm going to make *you* howl." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART FIVE: Fancy Toppings ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Kill me now, Scully." Mulder is bored. I can hear it in his voice. He agreed to this assignment because I asked him, but he did not do so with a happy heart. Bored Mulder makes for miserable Mulder and this Mulder, at the moment, is both. He is about to bounce off the walls; which, given our locale and situation, would be a difficult thing to do. Even for Mulder. We are sitting on the Promenade Deck of the Caribbean Princess, the sun high overhead, surrounded by legitimate honeymooners who have eyes only for each other. Posing as newlyweds to maintain our cover, we have been assigned to keep an eye on one Brian O'Connor, Irish stepdancing sensation, who is part of a touring international dance troupe providing nightly entertainment on board the ship. Rumor has it that the fancy-footing Mr. O'Connor is traveling under a death threat from a band of IRA extremists, for naming names on a list to which he is privy. Mulder and I, along with four other agents working in teams of two, have been assigned to accompany him on this vacation cruise until he reaches his destination of New Providence Island in the Bahamas. Once there he will be handed off to a team of U.S. Marshals with the Witness Protection Program, who will covertly transport him to one of the Out Islands. There, he will disappear into relative obscurity until the death threat against him can be eliminated. Mulder and I ended our shift at 7:00 this morning after an incredibly long and tiring evening of watching O'Connor and Company perform their exhausting ninety minute program in the ship's auditorium. After watching the program through twice, I was worn out just from being so close to all that activity. All I really wanted to do this morning was stumble to our cabin and fall into bed. And sleep. Which I could not do because I knew that Mulder would follow me. And I couldn't allow myself to be alone with him, not after watching that highly charged performance, knowing the effect that the ancient Celtic music had on him. The same effect it has on me. Ever since Beltane and our time in the forest. But we are working and will be on the Bureau's clock until we dock in Nassau later this afternoon. Once we make port, we are officially off duty, off the ship, and all of our responsibilities with regard to the safety of Mr. O'Connor will be assumed by others. And not a moment too soon, from the signals I am receiving this morning, from Mulder and from myself. I look up from my magazine, reaching with one hand to lower my sunglasses so that I can peer over the rims at my partner. "The name," I remind him sternly, "is Lucy." It's hard not to laugh at him, at his pained expression, at the way he shifts in his chair, fingers drumming with nervous energy against the table. "That's just what I mean, Scu - honey," he breaks off as a waiter pauses to inquire if we need further refreshment. I shake my head and he moves on. Mulder nudges my feet under the table, as he is wont to do. "I mean, *really*," he continues in a tone dripping with sarcasm. "Lucy and Ricky McGillicuddy?" I watch, amused, as he rolls his eyes. He looks like a fourteen-year-old boy, complaining to his mother. I am having none of it. "You had your fun in Arcadia, Ricky, darling," I emphasize the endearment, relishing the subtext to this whole scenario I have devised. "Now it's my turn." He opens his mouth as if to protest, but the arch of my brow silences him. He knows I'm right. And it bugs the hell out of him. He flops back in his chair, looking out to sea as he works on the buttons of his shirt. "God, it's hot," he says unnecessarily. "I hate hot." He finishes his task and parts the crisp blue cotton to reveal a chest burnished to a deep, golden sheen. A chest lightly covered with fine dark hair that catches the glint of the sun and seems to wink at me, taunting me with the sight of a man in his prime and damned proud of it. I can't help but check out his torso, my body quickening despite my resolve to keep my libido on an even keel, and I mentally kick myself for engineering the merry hell I have wrought for myself this time. We are on assignment, the one place where I will *not* allow myself to give in to the passion that has had him by the testes and me by the hormones since we began this new phase in our relationship. And here we are posing as newlyweds, for God's sake, on a ship comprised largely of people of Celtic background, where the theme of the cruise seems to be "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" and everyone is only too happy to comply. We are in an atmosphere where the very air is filled with ancient, pagan rhythms and soul-stirring music that makes me want to grab my partner by the cheeks of his ass and whirl him madly around the dance floor. That, or maybe throw him to the floor and press my heels into the cheeks of his ass as he makes fast and furious love to me. Both options have their appeal. Oh, boy, am I in trouble. I think now that I may have been a bit too hasty in assuming that I could make up for Arcadia on this little cruise to the Bahamas. Mulder has an uncanny knack for making stone soup out of all the rocks that are thrown at him. Something in his body language tells me that he's up for the challenge. He looks up at me suddenly and catches me staring. His eyes engage mine in a game of chicken and we gaze unabashedly at each other for an indeterminable length of time. I experience the memory of a moonlit night and two entwined bodies before a raging fire… I have never felt more woman than I did that night. And the memory makes me crave a repeat performance, assignment be damned. "Gotcha," I hear him say, so softly as to make me wonder if he really spoke, or if it was one of those odd little telepathy things we've been doing lately, since our return from Brown Mountain. I decide to test my theory. //Yes, you do.// I send the words with a caress, my thoughts to his, and his sweet smile is my reward. I really love it when he does that. It makes me go all soft and gooey and forget things like Revenge of the Thwarted Lover and The Fine Art of One-Upmanship. He suddenly rises from his seat and moves away. "Be right back," he says, pursing his lips in a fleeting kiss and blowing it my way. I catch it in my fingers and press it against my mouth. We're getting better at this pretending to be honeymooners thing, I think, smiling as I return to my perusal of Mulder's GQ. I am so happily immersed in the story of Ewan McGregor and his considerable attributes that I don't hear Mulder's return. One minute I am checking out that bad boy Scot and the next moment his picture is obliterated by the most heavenly-looking confection I have ever seen. The dish is huge and bulging with ripe bananas, three scoops of ice cream in varying shades and flavors, smothered with whipped cream, cascading walnut pieces, four plump cherries and two of the biggest, reddest, ripest strawberries I have seen in some time. Since Valentine's Day, now that I think about it. I look up into the leering face of my cohort in the delectable activities of that lovely evening. In his eyes I see the memory of our sweetheart dance -- the night we fed each other strawberries and whipped cream and then licked each other clean. He sits before me now, chin down, eyes up and focusing on me, the hint of a smile on his lips, his forearms resting on the table, fingers steepled, waiting. He looks like the cat who is about to swallow the canary. Whole. Tweet, tweet, I think, taking the plunge and plucking one of the strawberries from the top of the mountain. I hold it inches from my mouth, watching as his eyes follow it and widen as my tongue snakes out to lick a bit of the whipped crème from the berry's tip. He shifts in his chair and I smile at him. "Do you like strawberries, Ricky?" I ask innocently. "You know damned well I do, Lucy," he growls. "Almost as much as I like cherries." His eyes lower to my bosom and I swear I can feel the heat of his gaze through the latex of my swimsuit. I realize that my nipples are standing at attention and I flush at his grin as he takes in the hard evidence of his effect on me. "I'm especially fond of Scully cherries," he taunts, his eyes snapping back to mine, glinting with mischief. Now it's my turn to shift in my chair. This is not going as planned. Just that quickly he has taken the lead in the innuendo department and now the ball is back in my court. Okay, big boy, you want to play? I bite into the strawberry, purposely making it squirt all over me, licking ineffectually at the juices that are trickling from my mouth and down over my chin, leaving a wet path across my chest and into my cleavage. His eyes follow the trail with a feral hunger that makes my toes curl. I've seen that look before. That "I'm going to eat you up" look, the one he has used with such success in the past. Oh, I *do* hope so, I think. I can see him capture the thought by the tilt of his head, the widening of his grin. He snags a cherry from the heap, holding it by the stem and dangling it before my eyes. "Hey, Honeybunch," says he, "did I ever show you how I can tie a cherry stem in a knot using just my tongue?" I sit bolt upright in the chair, looking surreptitiously around to make sure no one was within earshot of his suggestive query. This isn't so funny anymore. Not here on the damned Promenade Deck of the damned Caribbean Princess in the middle of a damned assignment, where we are restricted from acting upon the primal urge to devour each other. I am beginning to regret my impulsive acceptance of this job. "Stop it, Mulder," I say, hating the little catch in my voice as I try to call a halt to this madness. "Stop *what*?" he asks, all innocence as he pops the cherry into his mouth. I watch the stem disappear between those lips and try hard to look away, failing miserably, unable to tear my eyes from the sight of his mouth working as his oh-so-talented tongue goes to town on that cherry stem. "Stop *that!*" I try a little more forcefully. "This isn't going to do either of us any good, Mulder, and you know it. We're *working*." He ignores me, as usual, and continues his little oral acrobatics. Finally, I see him swallow and his eyes crinkle just at the corners as he sticks out his tongue, revealing no cherry but only the stem, wrapped around itself and tied in a neat little knot. I am stunned, amazed at his feat, embarrassed that anyone could have been watching this little charade - and incredibly turned on. And he, the cocky bastard, is sitting there with that shit-eating grin, so pleased with himself he looks about to pop. Meow. "Mr. and Mrs. McGillicuddy?" a voice erupts from the hazy world outside my vision of Mulder and the fruit of his labors. Reluctantly I tear my eyes away from my partner's triumph and peer up at the purser. "Yes?" I manage to croak. "Terribly sorry to interrupt, but we will be putting into port within the hour and I have orders to see to the smooth transfer of your belongings once we dock. Where are you planning on staying while in the Islands?" I give him the name of the hotel the Bureau has booked for us and start to gather my things as he moves away. Although I had taken care of most of my packing this morning before coming down to the Promenade Deck, I want to make a quick check of the cabin before we clear out if it. Besides, I have *got* to get us away from that banana split before this game of Top This with the ice cream toppings gets out of hand. "Come on, Ricky," I urge my pseudo-husband, rising and pulling him up by the back of his shirt collar. "Time to get ready to go." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Back in our cabin he does his utmost to drive me to the brink of distraction. The moment the lock clicks into place on the door behind us, he invades my personal space, standing so close behind me that his breath tickles the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. I can feel him hardening from the sheer proximity of our bodies and I have to keep a rigid control over mine lest we transgress. When his lips touch the crease of my neck and shoulder, I duck my head and move away. "No, Ricky," I remind him. "Not until we're off this boat." I go about opening closets and bureau drawers, double checking the bathroom and under the king-sized bed which we have for the last four nights shared so chastely. This cruise had enlightened me to the fact that I enjoy sleeping with Mulder as much as I enjoy, well, sleeping with Mulder. We both sleep better when we're curled up in each other, and spooning with the one you love is the best sleep aid in the world. But the growing discomfort of unrelieved sexual tension that has built up over the past few days made the last evening a bit strained, to say the least. I had the most incredible dream last night, doubtless brought on by the daily doses of Brian O'Connor and his dancers. I admit to having found a certain amount of enjoyment in watching all of those well-toned bodies engage in such energetic exhibitions of rhythm and precision. The images left by their sometimes sultry and stunningly sensual dancing carried over into the netherworld, where I found myself dancing with Mulder. The scene was a repeat of our Valentine's dance except that I was totally naked. Mulder, however, was not only wearing the studly Mr. O'Connor's costume, but was seducing me with all his step-dancing moves as well. Mulder is a fine-looking man. Correction. Mulder is a *damn* fine-looking man. Mulder in a pair of black step pants, purple cummerbund with Celtic knotwork embroidered in gold, and a white, billowy-sleeved flowing shirt cut to the navel so that you can see his chest hair and down the line that leads to the Land of Many Delights - *that* Mulder is damned near fatal. I must have moaned in my sleep before I woke myself because Mulder stirred behind me, which brought me fully awake and on edge. When he quieted, I thanked my lucky stars that he had slept through that one. Wouldn't do at all for him to know the contents of my dreams. Just as I am ready to head to the deck, he decides that he needs to change clothes, declaring the white jeans and cool blue cotton shirt too restrictive for an afternoon tear through the wild and woolly world of the island's market place. While I can't argue against comfort, I know the man well enough to read him when he has an ulterior motive. He stands there in his boxers, knowing how that sight turns me on these days, and takes his time about selecting his attire. After opening bag after bag of his previously packed and ready to go luggage, looking for just the right combination, he finally settles on a loose-fitting pair of khaki shorts and a simple white cotton tee that emphasizes his well toned chest and the musculature of his arms. I have to leave the room before I pounce on him. Assembling my luggage by the cabin door to be picked up, I snag my straw tote bag from the bed and make for the exit. I look back at him over my shoulder, blowing him an air kiss as I do. "See you up on deck, laddie buck," I call, using one of my father's old endearments. I close the door behind me and lean against it, checking my watch. With any luck we'll be off this boat within the hour. I have my doubts about whether we'll make it that long. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Hey, Loosy!" My partner is calling me from across the waves of tourists. "Get a load of the gonads on this elephant!" We are in the middle of the Straw Market in Nassau, hundreds of people swarming around us. I cringe as Mulder's voice carries across the aisles, though certainly none of these people have stopped long enough to hear him. Intent on claiming their own treasures, they go about their merry way. I come up behind Mulder at the dealer's table, fully one-half of which is taken up by a truly impressive ebony statue of a large bull elephant. A large anatomically correct bull elephant, to be precise. Mulder bends to get a closer look at the reproductive equipment on said pachyderm, displayed in all its glory on the underside of the beast. He pauses in his scrutiny to leer up at me, waggling his brows. "Does the sight of this titanic testosterone toting tally-whacker do anything to turn you on, Scully?" "Mulder!" I scold, shocked at his crudity. He straightens and gives me that grin again. Ass, I think. He knows full well what he's doing when he starts this crap. Baiting me to the point of pissing me off, enjoying the slow burn, having the gall to look hurt when I blow my stack and then wanting to soothe the annoyance with seduction of the sweetest kind. He's been seducing me all afternoon, since before we got off the boat, starting with that banana split on the Promenade Deck. He followed that with the near seduction in the cabin, the kisses on the back of my neck as he came up behind me on deck, and finished up with the blazing hand at the small of my back as he guided me off the boat and into the bustling crowded streets of Nassau. Then for reasons known only to Mulder, we wound up strolling through the local market instead of going directly to our motel. It must be part of an orchestrated plan of his to drive me insane with desire, and then thwart me. The problem is, it's working. But I'll be damned if I'm going to beg. I grab Mulder's hand and pull him after me as I continue through the maze of tables, amazed at the variety of items available. There is everything from clothing and footware to baskets and cages. On one side I see a display of exquisite, hand-painted batiks; on the other side is a table of obscure books and magazines. I see a particularly large stack on one corner and look closer. *Architectural Digest*. From the size of the stack I'd say there were at least seventy-five of them in there. What kind of a pack rat would collect seventy-five issues of Architectural Digest? "Oh, hey!" Mulder exclaims as he spots the magazines. "I have a stack like that in my closet." I pull him on, now anxious to get back to the hotel. As much as I would hate to have to admit it to Mulder, his little touches and all that innuendo have achieved the desired effect on me. I don't care if they haven't brought the bags yet; it's time to take care of business. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I barely make it through the door to our spacious room before Mulder has me against the wall, hands on either side of my face, holding me still while his mouth makes a thorough exploration of mine. I lean into him and clasp him to me, my knees quaking with the flood of desire that has consumed me, now that the opportunity is finally upon us. Neither one of us speaks, our mouths too busy nipping and tasting, sucking lips and suckling tongues. My hands are inside Mulder's shirt, caressing his bare back, pulling him ever closer. His mouth moves to my neck, back to my ear, taking the tender lobe between his lips and teasing it, making me shiver. "Cold, Lucy?" he asks against my skin. "The name," I gasp as his mouth moves lower, "is Scully. And I believe we're off duty." He slips the straps of my sundress off my slightly reddened shoulders, pressing his lips to the sunburned flesh. He continues to slide the dress off my body, followed by my bra and matching little white cotton panties. It is odd, I think suddenly, this feeling of deja vu. It is my dream again; I am naked in Mulder's hands. But his attire is all wrong. //In your dreams, Scully,// he tells me in the moment before his mouth closes around my left nipple and his fingers go to work on my right. I ought to be upset by his psychic taunting, at the sudden realization that he had picked up on my nocturnal wanderings of the night before, but I can't work up a measure of indignation, not when his tongue has just done such a fine job of laving my screaming flesh and is proceeding due south at a breakneck pace. Thirty seconds later I am sprawled on my back on the chaise lounge, one leg on either side of it and Mulder in between, giving me a personal lesson in the advantages of having a lover who can tie a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue. After the second powerful series of shudders passes through me, I pull him up to me, my body demanding an immediate end to the waiting. He happily complies with his usual gusto and the next thing I know he is naked and deep within me and I am clasping him warmly, both inside and out. We move with such exquisite rhythm and precision, dancing our own primal dance, enjoying our own little bit of heaven after the hell of doing without. He begins to serenade me, in the manner that works so well. "Love you, love you, love you, Scully, love you, love you, Scully, love you, love you, love you, Scully, Scully, Scully, Sculleee!" My moans are lost in his, my cry of release mingling with his own, and we wallow in our euphoria, clinging tightly to each other, as together as any two people can be. Afterwards, sated and sleepy, we lie entwined, listening to each other's breathing, counting beats of each other's heart. "I love you, Mulder," I remind him, my voice barely audible, my thoughts barely there. //I know.// I feel the caress of his words in my mind. //I've always known.// ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART SIX: Midsummer Night's Fancy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Mulder, you are *such* a dick!" The words are out of my mouth before I know it and instantly I regret having said them. The hurt in Mulder's eyes is piercing, but only for a moment. Then the hard mask falls again, the one I had fought so hard to penetrate, the one I thought I had succeeded in banishing. "Last night it was 'Mulder, you *have* such a dick,'" he reminds me, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm that cuts like a knife. "How'd I go from 'have' to 'are' so fast?" I can do nothing but gape at his audacity. We are moments away from a showing of the newest Star Wars movie, which he has finally succeeded at wheedling me into seeing with him. His eyes hold mine in a death grip, daring me to look away. Fearful of boiling my brain in my anger if I don't get away from him, and soon, I turn my back and walk briskly down the hall toward the ladies' restroom. All the way there I feel his eyes on my neck, burning like a brand, at the spot where his mouth claimed my flesh last night as he held me from behind, while I arched into him at the height of ecstasy. Dammit, why do I have to think of that now? Now, when I'm so furious with him I can't see straight? I certainly can't *think* straight. And haven't for weeks now. What the hell is wrong with me? I've had bouts of PMS before, some worse than others, some longer or shorter than the norm. But I've never had it take control of me for such an extended period of time. I push open the door to the restroom and move to the sink, snagging two paper towels as I pass the dispenser. I thrust them under the tap and hold them under cold water for a moment before wringing them out and pressing them to my hot cheeks. As I do I raise my eyes to the mirror. I don't look any different. My hair is just as red today as it was yesterday; my eyes are just as blue. My face is finally beginning to fill out to normal proportions after the ravages of my struggle with cancer. I am only too glad to say goodbye to the Calista Flockhart look. The woman in the mirror appears the epitome of propriety. Even casually attired in light linen slacks and coordinating top the same shade as her eyes, she radiates professionalism. She looks smart, tough and self-assured. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. I like the reflection I see in the mirror. But I don't feel like that woman anymore; the woman I've always been. Cool, calm and collected on the outside, detached from emotional involvement on the inside. For as long as I can remember I have maintained my balance through turning down the volume on my heart. Until Mulder and I, together, learned how to gradually turn it up so that it could be heard. Now, suddenly I am on overload. The feelings that tear through me at any given time of the day or night are staggering in their intensity, often catching me so completely off guard that I'm rocked by their volume. Where once I maintained rigid control, now I am hopelessly inept at governing my emotions. Which pisses me off. I mean *really* pisses me off. Unfortunately, Pissy Scully has joined forces with Wacko Scully and the result is more frightening to me than anything Mulder and I have encountered in the nearly seven years we have worked together. The change really started a few days after we got back from the Bahamas. Our time in the islands had been idyllic, the fulfillment of so many fantasies at once that it was very nearly overwhelming. Making love on a private beach, under the moon and the stars, the song of the ocean ringing in our ears, Mulder and I had once again found euphoria in the outdoors. By contrast, the flight home had been unpleasant, doubtless brought on by having to charter a smaller plane to carry us into Miami before catching a commercial flight home. Mulder had been kindness itself during the first leg of our journey, holding my hand for as long as I needed him to hold it, allowing me to gently disentangle our fingers when I felt a little more comfortable. He repeated the solace on the longer flight into D.C., squeezing tightly as we made our descent. I considered it an accomplishment of the highest magnitude that I had not tossed my Caribbean cookies on either flight. For days afterward, all I wanted to do was sleep. And all Mulder wanted to do was have sex. In every way imaginable. For hours on end. Lest I be miscast as an ungrateful shrew, let me just state for the record that I love sex with Mulder. I crave it like chocolate, like strawberries and whipped cream and banana splits and all those other lovely things I have come to associate with our most erotic moments. But I'm tired. I'm tired and I'm out of sorts and I'm cranky as hell, primed and ready for a fight, just to relieve the tension. And I don't want to do that to Mulder. He doesn't deserve it. Well, maybe just a little bit, but not as much as I've been doling out lately. I discard the soggy towels, dry my hands, straighten my clothing and touch up my lipstick. Finally, I smooth my hair, take a deep breath and head for the door, formulating my apology as I go and already dreading my next outburst. What the hell is wrong with me? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What the hell is wrong with her? One minute we're standing peacefully in line, waiting for popcorn, Cokes and Goobers, and the next thing I know she's telling me - and everyone within hearing distance - that I'm a dick. Yeah, so what else is new, partner? Scully knows I'm a dick; hell, *I* know I'm a dick. Although I try hard not to let it happen, sometimes my dick-like tendencies rear up and make me act in ways that I normally wouldn't, were I in control of all my faculties. Lately I haven't been the least bit in control. Not since I discovered the joys of loving Scully. Oh, I've always loved her. Almost always, anyway. Since her abduction and return, certainly. Painfully so, during her bout with cancer. And in the past few months, since we've gotten physical, I'm constantly discovering new wonders in loving the woman. The trust she shows in *allowing* me to love her, after all these years, and the knowledge that her feelings for me run as deep as mine for her, combine to make her a thirst I find unquenchable. I watch her retreating to the ladies' room, remembering last night when she cried a variation of her epithet in the throes of passion. On our knees in the middle of her bed, holding her to me with one hand covering a heated breast, I sheathed myself to the hilt in her even more heated center as she moaned her encouragement. With every thrust into her I used the grip of my hand on her breast to press her body back into me. At some point she began to sing the praises of that part of me she now refers to with such disdain. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face, remembering. Well, it *was* pretty damned good, come to think of it. Good enough to repeat not once, not twice, but thrice in one super charged evening. At my age, too. I still feel like the cock of the walk. So to speak. I glance at my watch, heave a put-upon sigh and lean heavily against the wall, watching moviegoers pass me by in their zeal to get the best seats before the movie starts. If I'm lucky, we'll only miss the previews. But these days there's no telling how long it'll take Scully to cool off. Lately she's been hell on wheels, 24/7. I've worked with Scully for nearly seven years, and known her menstrual cycle for at least six and a half. Pretty quickly I caught on to the fact that if I didn't want to wind up missing parts of my anatomy I'd better steer clear of her pressure points at certain times of the month. For the most part, I've done pretty well. Until this cycle. The neverending one. She started getting quiet on me during the trip back from the islands. I know how uncomfortable flying makes her, doubly so in the puddle-jumper that we caught to Miami on the way home. At first I thought she was airsick. Her color was off, she seemed more nervous than usual, and she took full and unrepentant advantage of my handholding skills during the entire flight. Once back in D.C. and safe in her apartment, she dropped her luggage just inside the door and immediately headed for her bedroom, leaving discarded clothing in her wake. Without a backward glance she left me standing in the open doorway, laden with my own luggage and a hard-on the size of Haiti, watching the pendulum sway of her retreating hips, beckoning me. I kicked the door closed, dropped my bags and turned the dead bolt before following her, one horny fox onto the scent of his mate in their den. We made love 'til the first faint rays of light came creeping through the blinds on her bedroom windows, finally falling asleep spooned together like little baby cats. Not to coin a phrase. I'm brought back to the present by the sight of Scully emerging from the restroom, seemingly in a calmer state than she had entered. I warily watch her approach, trying my best to read her body language as she stops in front of me and silently raises her eyes to mine. "You were right," I jump right in, before she has a chance to speak. "I am a dick." I know it and she knows it, but somehow I just feel like she needs to hear me acknowledge the fact. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. I have her now. I lean down and rest my forehead against hers. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'll try to do better in the future." "Oh, Mulder!" she sighs. "Don't do that!" "Do what?" I ask, backing away, confused. "*That!*" She touches my cheek softly, melting me with those baby blues. "Don't be so eager to take all the blame. I'm just as responsible as you; I don't have to blow up like that over such a little thing." She drops her hand, looks down at her feet. "I don't know what's wrong with me lately. I've been such a bitch." What, my Scully, a bitch? I pull her into my arms for a quick, tight hug, and she lets me. "And I'm a prize asshole," I admit, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "What say we call a truce and see if we can escape to fantasy-land for a couple of hours?" I feel her nod against my chest and kiss her again for good measure, enjoying the feel of my lips against the softness of her hair. At length she pushes away and nudges me toward the refreshment stand. "I'll go find us a pair of seats, you go fetch the goodies," she tells me. "You're buying." Relieved that the moment of tension has passed, I give her my best grin. "Coke, Pepsi, saline I.V.?" She favors me with one of her winning smiles. "Something sweet," she says. "Something salty. And, oh yeah," she pauses for effect, her eyes dancing. "A big box of Goobers." I almost remind her that she has me, but figure my smart ass mouth has already gotten me into enough trouble this evening and I decide to leave well enough alone. I find her hand and squeeze it momentarily before turning back to the line of hungry moviegoers. "Get us a couple of seats in front," I suggest, immensely glad the storm has passed. "Hurry your ass up, partner," she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the door. "You don't want to miss the movie, do you?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I can't believe I'm crying. Here, in the middle of a Star Wars movie, in the presence of a full-house crowd of every age, size and description. The woman who refuses to cry in public is now a weeping mess. Over a silly movie. I'm sitting here in the darkness of the theater, watching little Anakin say goodbye to his mother, trying in vain to keep my eyes from welling and running over. Mulder's hand is covering mine on the armrest so that I cannot retrieve a napkin to covertly wipe my streaming eyes. I blink furiously, succeeding in containing the tears for a moment only, before the look on the mother's face as she sends her young son off to his destiny tears me up again. Damn. Now my nose is running, too, and there is no way I can deal with it in a discreet manner. I rub my sleeve against it, trying to staunch the flow but only making matters worse. I'm going to have to sniff eventually and then I will no doubt have Mulder's full attention. I feel a nudge against my free hand and look down and see a handkerchief. A big, white, man's handkerchief. Mulder's. Anticipating the unforeseen, as usual. I silently take it and wipe my eyes, my nose. I wad it into a little bundle and slip it into my left hand, the one lying on the armrest, covered by Mulder's right hand. I feel a little squeeze and wish my hand were positioned so that I could squeeze his in return. Instead, I lean my head a little to the left, coming to rest on the shoulder that is always there when I need it. His right arm comes around my shoulders to hold me close and we watch the rest of the movie together without further incident. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What the hell is wrong with her? Back at her apartment I unlock the door with my key, open it and usher her inside with a hand at the small of her back. She cried at The Phantom Menace. Scully, the woman who cries only under extreme duress, cried at a Star Wars movie! Who the hell cries at a Star Wars movie? I wish she'd let me in on why she is so upset. I know it's not me, for once. At least I don't think so. She's actually sharing her uneasiness with me, as much as she will allow herself to do it. A year ago she would have maintained the stiff upper lip if it had killed her, never giving the slightest hint that there was anything amiss. Now she is making only a token effort to conceal it. I suppose I should be grateful for that, the increased openness, I mean. Of course, it also means that now I actually have to deal with whatever it is that's bothering her so. And I remain, as usual, without a clue. I watch her in silence as she moves across the living room, slowing only slightly to remove her shoes, one at a time, spaced a step apart and barely breaking stride as she makes for the bedroom. I watch her disappear into her room and then I just stand there, waiting, unsure whether to stay or go. Automatically I lock the dead bolt, quietly place my keys on the coffee table, and tiptoe down the hall to the doorway of her room. She's lying on the bed, fully clothed, and I stand motionless, watching her, waiting for a signal to tell me what I should do. "Stay," I hear her say, as if on cue. I toe off my loafers and pad over to the bed. She lies facing me, the big wide expanse of empty bed yawning before me. I sit down gingerly, feeling like I've suddenly been reassigned to the bomb squad, on short notice and without proper training or equipment. One wrong move, and KABOOM! I bite back the mental sarcasm and focus on Scully, who is watching me with those amazing eyes and whose hand is extended in silent invitation. I accept it and lie down, opening my arms. She settles her head into the crook of my arm and shoulder, snuggling her body against mine. I clasp the hand that rests lightly on my chest and give it a squeeze. She emits a tiny sigh. I smile at the sound. At long last: a peaceful Scully. In two minutes she is breathing deeply and I know that she's out like a light. She's always been able to do that, go to sleep on a dime if presented the opportunity, whereas I have to fight my body for every minute of slumber I can manage. I'm glad she has that ability, I think as I hold her, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against mine. Moonlight streams into the room from the slanted blinds at the window and through them I can see its source, round and glowing and golden in the summer night. I am reminded of our moonlit romp in the forest and the smile I'm nurturing grows to a full-fledged, face-splitting grin. Beltane mating rituals will be forever imprinted on my memory after the night we shared. I move smoothly over mental snapshots of our beach sessions in the Islands and on to other stepping stones in our new relationship. They lull me to the edge of sleep, singing all the songs of Scully; Scully and her husky voice, deep with passion, Scully, crying my name as she finds her release, Scully calling for me, urging me to stay… And then it hits me. The full moon. I open my eyes wide, drinking in the proof of the calendar, realizing the enormity of what was missed during those wild and crazy days and primal nights of May, the thing that never happened. The reason for the neverending cycle, the PMS that doesn't stop, the wildness in Scully's eyes when she raged at me for no apparent reason. For the first time in my memory of her, Scully has missed her cycle. And she's scared shitless. Lying there in the moonlight with her cradled in my arms, soft and warm and infinitely precious to me, I suddenly know quite clearly what the hell is wrong with her. The question now is: how do I get her to admit it? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As the first rays of light drift through the blinds at the open window I wake, vaguely aware of some unease, unidentifiable as yet. My nose is buried in a warm, fuzzy place which I soon identify as Mulder's chest. I snuggle closer, taking in the unique scent of him, and of us, together. Passion. We smell of passion. And something else I refuse to identify. I mentally play back the events of the past month: the arguments I've started out of my own fear, the times I have opted for the coward's route and run away from a discussion of what is going on with me. The way I did three weeks ago, at the movies with Mulder, on the night of the full moon. The way I did last week, when the new moon had again come and gone. From the age of twelve I had come to expect my period at the same time of the month. Even after my abduction, my menses were as regular as the moon. But my last cycle began in the middle of April and we are now entering late June. And coming up on yet another full moon. I carefully roll away from Mulder and onto my back, feeling my brow crease with familiar tension as worry gnaws at my stomach. I silently chide myself for refusing to face the reality of what is happening, at the same time wondering how I can possibly explain it to Mulder when I can't for the life of me figure it out myself. I open my eyes and instantly regret it as the ceiling seems to slither above me. My stomach gives a mighty heave and I propel myself from the bed and into the bathroom, barely making my target before the sickness engulfs me, striking me in a wave reminiscent of those which rocked me in the throes of chemotherapy. I drop to my knees in front of the toilet as my body purges itself of what is left of last night's dinner, and weakly hold myself upright with an elbow on the tissue holder. With my free hand I try to push my hair away from my face. I feel a gentle hand on my forehead and another at the nape of my neck, where Mulder is gathering my hair into a ball to keep it from being soiled. In the midst of my misery I bless him for being there, though I am simultaneously mortified that he is. But I am not exactly in a position to protest, either. A few minutes later, shaking and drained, I am helped back to bed by my partner, sweetly solicitous and just this side of annoying in his concern for me. I lie back on the pillows as he bathes my face with a cool cloth. My eyes remain closed but I can picture his hovering presence above me. I am too weak to do anything but lie there and let him take care of me. Even though it embarrasses me and puts me to shame. I hate for him to see me this way. After a few minutes he folds the cloth and leaves it lying across my forehead. I wait in silence, knowing the question will come but not exactly ready to encourage it. "You okay, Scully?" he finally asks, restrained, as he has learned to be with me. Automatically I respond in the manner I know he despises. "I'm fine." An uncomfortable silence reigns for a few moments before he finally speaks again. "Are you ready to talk about it?" Not really, I think. I still don't know how I can even be contemplating the possibility, given my past, the fact that all of my eggs were supposedly harvested years ago, rendering me infertile. Sterile. Barren. But Mulder is no Joseph and I am certainly no candidate for Immaculate Conception. How what I think has come to pass *has* come to pass is beyond me. And I don't know how to talk with him about it. So I do what I do best. I retreat. "No, Mulder," I say. Feeling his tension at my words I quickly add, "Not yet. Can we just talk about it later, please?" I allow weakness to seep into my voice. "When we get to the cabin, okay?" He is quiet beside me. I open my eyes and look at him from beneath the cloth. He's got that look in his eyes, the one that tells me I'm only going to get away with this for so long. Finally he finds my hand and squeezes it. "You still feel up to going to the cabin this afternoon?" he asks, trepidation etched in his voice. I know how much this trip means to him. His chance to take us on a little jaunt which promises romance among the wonders of nature. He has rented a cabin, deep in the forest along the banks of a river whose name I've already forgotten. All I know is that Mulder has promised me a mountain view from a jacuzzi, and no cell phones or other forms of interruption while we languish for a few days of well-deserved vacation. "Of course I do," I assure him. "You said it was Midsummer. We can't miss our chance to watch the fairies come out." He smiles at my teasing, apparently mollified by my humor. He leans down to kiss my cheek. "Why don't you stay here and rest for a bit while I get stuff together?" he suggests. "Can I get you anything?" I think of two things that will likely help how I'm feeling. "A cup of tea, please," I say. "Decaf, there's a box of it in the kitchen cupboard. And some soda crackers, on the shelf below it." There's that look again, and my stomach flip-flops as I realize -- he knows. God help me, he knows. And he's almost as afraid to talk about it with me as I am of discussing it with him. *The cabin.* I clearly hear his thought in my head. *Then the truth will come out.* He rises and squeezes my hand again before letting it go. "Be right back with your tea and crackers," he says as he heads for the door. I close my eyes and wait. Knowing that this will be my last time to dodge the bullet. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The cabin belongs to a long forgotten cousin I hadn't spoken to in years; but I remembered he had it and didn't hesitate to call on distant family ties in order to secure it for Scully and me. Less than two hours out of D.C., it is situated on the banks of the Shenandoah River in northern Virginia. By early afternoon we are pulling up in front of it and I'm parking the car. I glance over at my partner, asleep again, her red hair spilling across the headrest, her mouth slightly open in repose. I am almost reluctant to wake her; she so obviously needs the rest. And I'm pretty sure why. Which is high on my list of topics for discussion once we get settled. For now I simply brush my fingers against her cheek and watch with rapt attention as she rises to the surface of wakefulness. She blinks, confused. "What time is it?" she asks warily, as if realizing she's overslept and is late for work. I smile back at her reassuringly, brush that stray lock of hair away from her cheek and tuck it behind her right ear. "Time to get out of the car," I suggest, letting memory play back in my head, gratefully accepting the answering smile she throws back at me to show she does indeed remember another time, another place, in another car where she suggested that she wanted exactly that. We open our doors simultaneously, get out and walk around to the trunk to get our bags. I try to take Scully's along with my own but she stops me cold with one look. *Don't start that shit with me*, it clearly says. I reluctantly concede the point but put that on my mental list of Things That Will Have to Change. For now, though, I can wait. With one hand at the small of her back, I usher her up the front steps and turn the key in the lock on the rustic, wooden door. It swings open into a spacious living room with a huge stone hearth that takes up an entire wall, pillows galore before it, and a bay window to the side that looks out upon the mountains in all their summer glory. I've been here before, years ago, on summer vacation from Oxford. Back then I never thought I'd bring anyone to my own private haunt. But this isn't just anyone, this is my partner, my friend and my lover, the person I cherish above all others. This is Scully. And we have some serious business to take care of; business which can't wait much longer. It's so obvious that she knows I know. Just as it's also obvious that this waiting game has just about reached its end. "Oh, Mulder," she croons appreciatively, dropping her bag beside mine just inside the door. "It's lovely!" I grin my best "aw, shucks, ma'am" grin and take her hand, leading her through the small dining area to the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck beyond. The meandering Shenandoah River flows passively by just below, and the Blue Ridge Mountains beckon from beyond. I walk with her over to the railing along the edge of the deck and ease her in front of me, pulling her back against my chest. My arms encircle her middle, my hands aching to reach down and caress her belly, just for a moment, a moment in which to connect. I hear her sigh against me and a minute or two later feel her hands reaching for mine, taking them into a gentle grip and bringing them around to lightly cup her stomach. And I hold my breath because she's letting me in again, giving me clues where I am so dangerously inept at reading them. I allow my hands to rest against her, feeling that I am holding within my hands a miracle. "Yes," she whispers from in front of me. "Yes." They are the only words I need to hear. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am finally beginning to accept the reality that this might actually be happening to me -- to us. This miracle of new life springing from a once barren field. Mulder and I are in a grassy patch by the river's edge, lying on our backs on a thick quilt procured from the guest bedroom, which certainly will see no use tonight. He has led me down to a sheltered grove of rhododendron and laurel and scattered hemlock pine, where we have finished a fine repast of fresh fruit and assorted cheeses, smoked salmon and herbed bread. An empty bottle of sparkling cider rests on its side at the far end of the quilt. Our stomachs are full and our hearts at peace, with the twilight creeping upon us and the wonders of an unfettered nighttime sky only moments away. Mulder gets up and rummages in the picnic basket, finally emerging with a stack of small paper bags and a handful of citronella candles. He smiles at my quizzical expression and begins to retrace the path to the cabin, stopping every few feet to set out a candle, using the paper bags and a handful of dirt as lanterns. On the return trip he lights each one in turn, and by the time he stretches out next to me on the quilt again, the hillside is aglow with candlelight. Mulder has planned this little sojourn to the nth degree, I realize, as he snags the pillows we brought down from the plundered guest room and tucks them both under our heads. He pulls me tight against him, spooning my backside into his front, his right arm warm and comforting around me, his hand resting over my own, which quite naturally covers my vulnerable stomach. We lie there in blissful contentment, marveling at what has befallen us, wondering what the future holds in store. "What do you know about Midsummer, Scully?" I hear his voice at my ear, stirring the fine hairs at the edge of my face, almost but not quite tickling. "What do you want to know?" I challenge. I am reminded of the question and answer session which preceded our Beltane initiation, the night most likely responsible for this new life lying beneath our hands. "What is its significance in the grand scheme of life?" he elaborates. "We know what Beltane was meant to signify: a renewal of life." His hand squeezes mine gently from where it rests on top of our secret marvel. "Obviously. But what do you know about the ancient celebrations for Midsummer?" Actually, I know quite a bit. And just as happened at Beltane, I can't resist the temptation to show off a bit. "Well, because it was believed that the sun was at its zenith on or about June 24th, it was celebrated as the longest day of the year." I struggle to paraphrase the words I had memorized so long ago in college, now coming back to me as if the classes I took as part of my study of ancient religions were only yesterday. "The sun was central to the Celtic activities surrounding the ritual year. At Midsummer the therapeutic value of the sun was aligned with the healing properties of water, and solar shrines would often be set up at healing springs, perceived as the mystical entryway to the Otherworld." I look up at the trees towering above our little circle of flowering shrubs. Oak, ash and hawthorn grow in abundance in this forest, and I remember that it was this combination that was often associated with the nocturnal activities of fairies and other wee folk of the night. Recounting now the legends of my ancestors, out here amid the abundance of nature in her summer mantle, I can certainly understand how the tales had caught hold of the people's imaginations and spread like wildfire, until they were regarded as truth unquestionable. "Tree worship played a vital role in the celebration," I continue, watching the shadows play on the sheltering leaves above us. "Oaks growing near wells were decorated with flowers and ribbons while the people danced around them, rejoicing in the renewal of life, in reverence for the power of nature." We are silent for a few moments, feeling our own reverence for the force of life which has brought our shared miracle to pass. "Did you know," Mulder interrupts my thoughts, "that your namesake, Danu, the Celtic Magna Mater who mothers the land, was also the goddess of pregnancy, ripening and the home?" I turn my head just enough to make eye contact with him and convey my surprise at his latent knowledge. "Yes, I did know, Mulder," I tell him, "but I'm surprised that you do. Since when did you become so knowledgeable about ancient pagan celebrations?" "Since Beltane," he tells me readily, and I question him no further. Of course he would have learned all he could on the subject, once I opened the door in such a fashion. I wonder if he has an ulterior motive for bringing up the subject tonight, if he plans to consummate the observance of Midsummer's Day the way we did back on May Eve. *Not if you don't want to.* I hear the thought as clearly as if it were voiced and send back an immediate mental assurance that I do. To make things crystal clear I push my bottom back into his crotch and smile to myself as I feel his immediate response. He begins to plant soft kisses against my hair, my ear, my neck and suddenly I can't bear to be so far away from his mouth. I turn in his arms and capture his lips with mine before he has a chance to recover. Our kiss is at once sweet and innocent, passionate and primal, and I want to spend the rest of my life honing this courtship ritual to a fine art. We finally come up for air and I immediately latch onto his ear, alternately suckling on the lobe and swirling my tongue around its edge. His body reacts fiercely and immediately and I hear a groan escape his lips that echoes off the trees. He catches my shoulders, pulls me away so that he can look at me straight on. "Scully," he says, his dear eyes dark and earnest, despite the trembling I feel in his fingertips. "Are you okay with this?" "*This* being what, Mulder?" I ask him, stroking his cheek, loving him with my eyes. "Being here, with you, in the forest, on the banks of a lazy river, with your arms around me and your child growing within me?" I see the shimmer of sudden tears in his eyes and long to kiss each one away before it falls. I put my lips to his eyes, tasting the moisture, warm and salty, and then I continue down his face, over his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose, down to the lips I love so much. I kiss him with all of the pent-up emotions I have held for so many weeks now, kissing away the hurt and the fear and the worry about what the future will bring. I kiss him for the sheer joy of it, and for the happiness it brings to me and to him, and in celebration of the fact that our love together has created ... a child ... *our* child. Something I never allowed myself to think would happen. "I'm SO okay with it, Mulder," I assure him when I finally release his mouth. "Show me, Mulder," I implore. "Show me that you are, too." "Scully," I hear him gasp a moment before his lips reclaim mine and I give myself up to the pure, unadulterated joy of making love to the man I love. Somehow we divest ourselves of our clothing and now lie together on the soft ground by the river's edge, petting each other, stroking, caressing, loving. He is careful and oh so tender with me, worshipping every inch of my skin with his hands and his lips, suckling at my nipples as the babe that grows within me will someday do. I hold his head against me, marveling at the exquisite sensations wrought by his mouth on my sensitive flesh. He leaves my breasts to rub his face against the small swell of my belly, closing his eyes as he seeks a connection with the life that awaits. When we finally come together we do so face to face, lying side by side, my right hand joined in his left hand, my left leg over his right hip and my free hand caressing the swell of his buttocks as he presses firmly but carefully within me. We rock together on the quilt beside the river, the sound of the cleansing water flowing past, the glow of the candles he has set providing a romantic luster to the proceedings, the surety of our love wrapping around us as surely as our bodies are entwined. And afterwards, lying in each other's arms, drunk with afterglow and joy, I see just out of the corner of my eye, a glimmer at the river's edge, shimmering with an ethereal light, dancing on the mist that rises from the rushing water. My fanciful thoughts turn to fairies, watching us as we are enveloped in our happiness, and I know first hand the warmth and life-giving energies of the Earth Mother Danu. Midsummer is a time of reverence, for life and for love, for the fruitfulness of the Earth and of the womb. Now, here, in this forest, beside this river, with this man, I have found my own reverence. And in that discovery I have likewise found my peace. And my hope for the future. Heart at peace, soul fulfilled, womb stretching with renewed fertility, I sleep. And am rewarded with the sweetest of Midsummer Night's dreams. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART SEVEN: Fancy Harvest ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I wake to cramps. And a dull throbbing in my lower back. I gingerly turn onto my side and draw my knees up a little. I think for a moment of asking Mulder to dig his thumbs into my back for me but he's asleep at my side and I hesitate to disturb him, to stir things up when they have only just settled down. I'm suddenly afraid and I don't know why. My inner walls are trying to resurrect themselves, as if in preparation for some great battle; quite naturally I fall back into the old habit of concealing my state from my partner. And denying it to myself. I'm fine. My mind fully accepted the fact of my pregnancy only after confirmation by my own OB/GYN. Dr. Chappel was stunned when all her tests had come back positive, having personally delivered to me the news of my sterility some years back. "You Scullys," I remember her marveling as she shook her head in amazement. "Always ready to prove somebody wrong." After the first few weeks of niggling but not incapacitating nausea, it seems as if my body has finally accepted the change as well. I run my fingers across my stomach, wondering how there can be a life growing in there. Near the end of the first trimester, there has been little alteration of my physical appearance, with the exception of my breasts, with which Mulder has lately become obsessed. He can and has spent hours fondling them, testing their weight in his capable hands, teasing the nipples with his tongue, suckling like a greedy child. "They're so pretty, Scully," he told me just last week. "Your nipples have gone the color of champagne grapes. Makes me want to eat 'em up." And then he tried his best to do just that. I look over at him in the bed beside me, on his back, one arm thrown over his head to expose the silky soft tufts of dark hair in his armpit. I want to rub my nose in it and breathe him in but again I pull back, unwilling to move for fear of worsening the cramps, which have abated somewhat. Besides, I argue with myself, if I wake him he'll doubtless notice something amiss and will ask me if I'm okay. I'll probably respond with my usual "fine" and we'll start the tap dance again. I sigh softly, regretfully, having thought we were past that by now. I thought I was over the need to hide things from him. Apparently not, for I resist the silent pull towards his body, remaining huddled within myself, opting instead to lie still and watch him sleep. Then and only then can I gaze at him to my heart's content. Then and only then is he completely at ease. And that only since we began sleeping together. Together we have managed to defeat each other's nightmares. Together we are stronger. Mulder's profile in early morning light is a sight to behold: absurdly long lashes, strong nose, luscious lips slightly puckered in slumber, the corners turning up just slightly, as if he is dreaming of something that makes him happy. Most likely the miracle child, about which we dream often. After so many years of being alone I have only recently come to realize the double blessing that I have, Mulder at my side, his child in my belly. That we have managed to conceive after being told it was impossible is a feat beyond my wildest dreams. How we are going to manage all the complications this change will bring is something we are still trying to work out. The long weekend we stayed at the cabin was a time of marvels. We spent most of our waking hours taking long walks, hand in hand, stumbling around in a goofy sort of stunned happiness. At night we curled into each other and inevitably ended up spooned together with our hands resting atop my stomach as we slept. It was a time of complete harmony and boundless joy; a memory I will treasure for the rest of my life. Now, four weeks later, we have been trying to come up with the best way to break the news to those who will have to know. My mother, of course. Although that will inevitably lead to the question of matrimony -- a path I am unwilling to take at this particular time in our lives. Bureau policies aside, the delicate matter of working with one's spouse is not one to be taken lightly and I'm not sure I'm ready to rock the boat on this cruise into fantasyland. For that's what life with Mulder has become. That we have gotten to this point in our relationship is the stuff born of my wildest fantasies; the fear of what could happen to us if we make one false step is straight out of my worst nightmares. Although I have a pretty good idea of how my mother will react, when it comes to our superior I don't have a clue. Mulder argues that Skinner needn't know at all, if I don't want to tell him. And, truthfully, part of me agrees with him. I'm still not totally sure of Skinner's allegiance, despite the events of this past winter when he was so ill in the hospital and attempted to unburden his soul to me. I felt so sure of him at the time, so sure that he was, indeed, on our side. But later, after his recovery, when he acted as if nothing had happened and left us writhing under Kersh's thumb, then the doubts came creeping back. At this point I am as unsure of Skinner as I have ever been in the entire six years I've worked under him. I rub light little circles on my abdomen as I think of the months to come, hoping to ease the cramping that is threatening again. A baby is easy to conceal at this stage of the game. But once we pass the first trimester it will be much more difficult to hide the fact that there is more to Agent Scully than there was before. For the millionth time I wonder how we are going to deal with the enormous changes this unexpected arrival is going to bring into our lives. As if in answer I feel another spasm grip my lower back and I jerk with the unexpectedness of it. Mulder's eyes snap open, and he is fully awake by the time I've gotten my breath back. He looks over at me, his eyes questioning. "Scully?" he murmurs, turning onto his side so that he faces me. "You okay?" Here it is. The moment of truth. I open my mouth, even get so far as to press my top teeth against my lower lip in preparation for making my standard answer. Then another spasm hits and this time it wraps from my back around to my middle. I gasp involuntarily and Mulder goes on instant alert. "What is it?" he asks quietly yet urgently. "What can I do?" And suddenly I feel it, the breaking away of a vital part of me, the rush of wetness between my legs that has nothing to do with desire for the man who is now looking at me with genuine fear in his eyes. "Get us to a hospital," I whisper, stricken. "As quickly as you can." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We lost the baby. Nearly a week later it still hurts to think about it. "Hurt" is such a mild word for what I feel inside. "Hurt" does not begin to describe the pain that tears through my heart every time I look at Scully and feel doubly the loss that we have suffered. True to form, she has withdrawn into herself again. She is like a wounded animal, stark and silent and seemingly devoid of emotion. I know better than to be fooled by her act. Because the private Scully had her heart ripped out on Saturday when our child slipped the bonds of her body, the professional Scully saw fit to take over. Sure enough, Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D. was in the office bright and early on Monday morning, performing two autopsies that very afternoon, mercifully on adults and not children. Sometimes the gods don't totally piss on us. Scully continued to perform her professional duties like the pro she is and promptly at 6:00 closed the file she was perusing, put it neatly away and announced that she was going home. I rose to join her but she cut me off with a wave of her hand. "Don't, Mulder," she said in that monotone that scares me so much, because I know that she has left me again. "I'm tired," she continues. "I just want to go home and go to bed." Something in her body language told me not to follow her that night, though my stomach tightened at the thought of her being alone. "You want me to come?" I couldn't resist asking, secretly longing for her to say yes. She shook her head, her eyes refusing to meet mine. "No, not tonight. I really just want to go home and go to bed. Alone." So I let her go, even though it was tearing me up inside to do so. And I likewise let her go on Tuesday, Wednesday and again yesterday. But not tonight. I've left her alone to grieve for five long days and four endless nights and this has got to stop. I look up at her over the rims of my glasses as she begins to tidy her desk, signs I have come to recognize over the years as precursors to her departure. She goes about it methodically, pens in their rightful tray in the front middle drawer, files neatly deposited in the pit drawer filled with color-coded and alphabetized Pendaflex folders. Everything in its proper place, she closes the drawer and sits still for a minute, eyes downcast, hands resting on her knees, palms up, empty. Her face shows that she hasn't been sleeping well, maybe not at all. There are circles under her eyes that no amount of makeup can conceal. And she is pale. Paler than I have ever seen her outside of a hospital bed. Clearly she is not well. My heart constricts painfully in my chest as I realize an overwhelming need to care for her. Just this once, I wish she would let me do that. I can't let her go tonight, can't let her be alone with her pain for the next two days. If she continues to decline at the rate she has this week, she'll be unable to function come Monday. Scully or not, the human body does have its limits, and I have a sick feeling that Scully has reached hers during the last few days. She suddenly rises from her chair and I'm alarmed at the look on her face, the way her hands grab for the edge of the desk for support. I step around the desk and secure her with a hand on each shoulder, standing close enough to her body to feel her trembling. "That's it," I say quietly. "I'm taking you home." "Mulder, I can drive," she protests, but her voice has none of its usual conviction. "I'm fine." "Bullshit," I tell her. "Don't even start with me, Scully. Not this time." She goes quiet and I can feel her inwardly seething at my harsh dismissal of her words, her annoyance at my need to care for her. I retrieve her briefcase from the floor beside her desk, and stand waiting as she glares up at me. In her eyes I can see her embarrassment at her inability to control the shivering that has seized her, her anger that she has to lean on me when she wants so badly to stand on her own. Finally, resigned, Scully takes the briefcase from my hand and walks docilely out into the hallway and toward the elevator. She punches the call button and a moment later the bell dings as it arrives, doors opening wide. We board in silence, and ride up and out of the Hoover Building, out into the real world, where real pain awaits around every corner. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Damn him! Why can't he just leave me the hell alone? I don't need him hovering over me every minute of the day, ringing my phone off the hook every night, watching me like a hawk every waking moment. Just waiting for me to fall apart. I'm fine. So what if I haven't slept more than a handful of hours for the last six days? So what if my body feels bruised and battered and barren? None of these conditions are new to me. I've bounced back more times than I can count and I see no reason to believe I will not bounce back from this ordeal, given enough time and a sufficient amount of space in which to heal. Never mind that my heart has been ripped out as surely as any victim of that psychic surgeon, along with the baby I had been so amazed to find myself carrying. It isn't as if I actually expected to carry the child to term, I tell myself. Motherhood is obviously not in my genetic makeup, nor has it ever been. While I consider myself a good aunt to my brothers' children, I have not seen myself as maternal for some time now. The rigors of my job, the demanding hours it requires, the need to be able to pick up and go on a moment's notice, none of these are conducive to raising a healthy child. In the years I've known myself to be barren, I considered my sterility a case of God knowing what is best for me, and I trusted in the basic biology of my very human body. But even God can err, once in a while; and God has seen fit to rectify the mistake. Now all I want to do is just forget that it ever happened. Let me go back to pretending that I never wanted it in the first place. Just like with Emily. I'm just fucking fine. I'm so fine my partner is falling all over himself to try to care for me while at the same time keeping his distance. I know the vibes I'm putting off are confusing and I wish I could stop it, but I can't. I recognize the old pattern, my pushing him away just when I long to have him near me the most, punishing myself for my deficiencies, imagined or otherwise. I lost our child. I allowed my body to reject the miracle of conception. I recall that I had been thinking of the difficulties that lay ahead last Saturday morning, and no matter how hard I try I can't shake the feeling that those negative thoughts were somehow translated into a physical reality. Be careful what you wish for, I remember from long, long ago. It seems to me that, once again, I have gotten it. And this time I've hurt Mulder, along with myself. I can't bear to look at him these days, and for this reason I've invented one excuse after another to keep from spending time with him outside of the office. He was with me during the entirety of the Weekend from Hell, wherein I miscarried on Saturday morning and underwent a D&C that evening. When I awoke from the procedure, all I wanted to do was go right back to sleep. I have little memory of Mulder driving me home, or of putting me to bed once we got there. There is only a merciful blackness for the remainder of the weekend, and the next thing I knew it was Monday. Mulder was in my kitchen making coffee when I stumbled in there that morning, and he stopped what he was doing immediately when he saw me. His mouth twisted into a sad little smile and I let him come to me and take me in his arms, because it was easier not to resist. I let him hold me for a good long while, settling my head against his sturdy chest, my ear just above the steady rhythm of his heart. A heart that was aching with loss, a hurt that I had given him. Because I had rejected our miracle. I couldn't bear to face him. I pulled away from his arms and pushed past him to the cabinet and pulled out a juice glass, moved to the refrigerator and poured a glass of juice to take to the shower with me. "I'm going to get a shower," I mumbled as I passed Mulder in route to my bedroom. "I'll see you at the office." I heard his startled exclamation behind me and whirled to find him giving me that look, the one that states he is about to assert his dominant will upon me and try to make me do something I have no intention of doing. "You sure that's a good idea, Scully?" he asked quietly, crossing his arms over his tee shirted chest. "Is there anything so terrible about giving yourself some time?" 'I don't need time," I say curtly, starting again for the bathroom and the sanctuary of a hot shower. "I need to work. I'll see you at the office." When I came out of the shower half an hour later he was gone, and I haven't been alone with him outside of the office since then. Until now, when he has assumed control of the situation and insisted upon driving me home. The drive to my apartment is made in total silence; likewise the whole process of seeing me to my door, which he insists upon doing. When I try to turn him away at the door he pulls out his key and opens it, ushering me inside with a possessive hand, pushing the door closed behind him and locking it with the other. He relieves me of my suit jacket, even hangs it in the closet for me, then escorts me into the bedroom where he sits me on the bed, pulling my legs up and gently pressing me backwards, so that I am lying flat. He leans over and takes off my shoes one by one, setting them neatly by the chair at the window, bringing back with him the throw I keep folded over the arm. I lie there and watch him as he leans over me, pulling the throw across me and tucking it around my cold feet. He exasperates me when he gets like this. On one hand it's heavenly to be so cared for; on the other it's hell on my sense of independence. I don't want to appear weak before my partner, for fear that he will not be able to rely on me when the going gets tough. I will not crack over this, I promise myself. I won't let him down. I'm fine. I tell him so as he bends down to kiss me on the forehead and urges me to rest while he makes us something to eat. He just gives me that look in response, the one that telegraphs he doesn't believe me for shit. I hate that in him. That he can read me so well. I turn my face into the pillow as he leaves the room and will myself to blank my mind, to retreat into the sweet oblivion of sleep, where I don't have to pretend to be strong, I don't have to worry about being weak, I don't have any emotions at all. And maybe when I wake up I'll find that the detachment has carried over into the harsh reality from which I sought escape. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She is out like a light. I barely manage to wait five minutes before I am at her desk, rifling through the address book for Dr. Chappel's pager number. I find it, pull out my cell and punch in the digits quickly, leaving a terse message on the recording. If Scully can't let me in on what is going on inside her right now, perhaps her doctor can give me a clue as to what is typical behavior in patients who suffer this kind of loss, at this stage of the game. Not that my Scully is typical anything. The pregnancy itself was extraordinary. How could the loss be anything less? I putter around in the kitchen while I wait for the doctor's call, trying to be as quiet as possible even though I remembered to close Scully's door as I left her room. I finally locate a can of minestrone and a box of Jiffy cornbread mix. Yum, yum. Just what Scully needs. I find a saucepan and put the soup on the burner to warm, then mix the cornbread in an amount of time that does justice to its name. I spoon the batter into the muffin pan and pop it in the toaster oven, turning the soup down to simmer and covering the pot with a lid. Just as I finish, my cell phone trills and I catch it on the first ring. "Mr. Mulder?" a familiar voice calls. "It's Christine Chappel. How may I help you?" A thorough grilling of Dr. Chappel assures me that, while alarming to me and perhaps seemingly overwhelming to her, the withdrawal Scully is experiencing is perfectly normal, and more common than I realized. I know all the general information -- that most miscarriages occur because the baby would not have lived anyway -- but hearing more detail from Dr. Chappel both comforts me and makes the knife twist just a little bit more. The risk of miscarriage doubles from age 20 to 40, she says, adding that about one-quarter of all pregnancies miscarry. Half of the miscarriages in the first trimester, which we had just completed, are the result of chromosomal abnormalities that prevent the fetus from developing into a healthy baby. I try not to consider the possible meanings behind "chromosomal abnormalities." "Give her time to grieve, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Chappel urges me toward the end of the conversation. "And if either of you are interested, there are a number of support groups in the area, even some on-line support groups over the internet. I think that if you make the information available to Dana, let her know what kind of help is there, she might find an outlet for the sorrow and sometimes anger that she will inevitably feel. I'm sure you would both benefit from joining one of these groups, maybe find comfort in the experiences of others. The support is out there, Mr. Mulder," she reminds me just before signing off. "Please help Dana to see that." I have a hard time picturing Scully opening herself to a stranger on line, especially after she was so scornful of my on line relationship with Karin Berquist earlier this year. Still, it's worth a try. I'm so worried about her at this point that I'm willing to try anything. I hear the door to the bedroom open and look up to see Scully coming out, brushing her tousled hair out of her eyes and yawning. She has removed her skirt but not her slip or blouse and she walks toward me on silent stocking feet. "Hey, honeybunch," I call, teasing her with the endearment I know that she hates but still allows me to use. "Soup's on." She sniffs the air appreciatively, the lure of the rising corn muffins attracting her attention at once. "Corn bread, Mulder?" "Close," I say, taking two bowls and plates from the cupboard. "Muffins." I go about setting the table while Scully takes one of the wicker baskets from the wall of the kitchen and pulls a clean dishtowel from a drawer. She lines the basket with the towel and places it near the toaster oven, leaning over slightly to peer inside and judge the state of readiness. We work together to put dinner on the table. I snag a couple of spoons and napkins, put them in their proper places and hit the freezer on the way back, removing two tall frosty glasses which I fill with iced tea and place on the table along with the pitcher. Scully, meanwhile, has determined the bread done and dumped the muffins into the basket, covering them with the towel before placing them on the table. A moment later I set the bowls of steaming minestrone before us and we sit down to eat. Scully starts out hesitantly, taking little baby sips of the soup, nibbling on a muffin. But slowly an appetite seems to grow and she eventually eats the whole bowl of soup, and two muffins as well. I eat more quickly, as usual, but when I'm finished I sit back in my chair and watch her, taking what satisfaction I can in at least doing small things for her, even though I know it doesn't help with the real problem. She looks up at me, wiping her mouth on the paper towel that is pretending to be a napkin. Her eyes are so blue, so vivid in her pale face, and I swear I could dive right in and drown in them forever. Especially now, when they are dark with heartbreak. Despite her anguish, she smiles at me. It isn't one of those Scully mega-watt smiles she so rarely bestows, but it does seem to indicate she appreciates my pitiful little gesture. "Thank you for dinner, Mulder," she says quietly. "You didn't have to, but I'm glad you did." I return the smile, reaching my hand over to rest atop hers and giving it a squeeze. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," I tell her. "I'm glad to see you eat. You needed it. You still need it." She ducks her head. "Give me time, Mulder," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll be fine." That stops me cold. "I'll be," she said. Not "I'm," as in "I AM fine." She said "I'll BE fine." That, alone, is progress. I squeeze her hand again, smile at her as she looks back up at me. "Yes, you will be," I agree with her. "You always are. But once in a while, Scully, do you think that maybe you could let me take care of you when you need it?" She watches me for a long moment before rising from her chair and coming over to me, nudging my legs apart and surprising the hell out of me by settling herself on my knee, looping her arms around my neck and resting her head on my shoulder. "I'll try," she agrees, finally, great weariness evident in her voice "It won't be easy, Mulder, but I'll try." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mulder persuaded me to leave the clean up to him in favor of a nice warm soak in a bubble-filled tub. I switch the lights off and light a scented candle, remove my blouse and slip and hang them on the hook behind the bathroom door. Dropping my underclothes in an untidy heap on the floor, I step over the high side of the tub, pausing to pin my hair up with a clip before sinking down into the foamy water. I lie back on the bath pillow and close my eyes, weary and beaten. It hasn't even been a week since our world fell apart and already I'm having trouble remembering all the things that actually happened. During the ride to the hospital I got a good opportunity to study Mulder's "panic face", and it frightened me nearly as much as what was happening to my body. When we got to the emergency room, I made him wait outside while the doctors confirmed that I was, indeed, losing our baby. At the time I didn't think I could stand to witness his pain on receiving the news, thinking if I could prevent myself from watching his heart torn asunder I could keep my own from suffering the same fate. Afterwards, when the messy business of expelling the contents of my womb was over, he came to me where I lay propped up in a hospital bed, with a pillow beneath my knees and clean sheets surrounding me. We only had a few moments, as I had decided to go ahead and let them do the D&C right away, not wanting any latent reminders of the horror of miscarriage coming back to haunt me later on. I can still see his ravaged face as he came to stand beside me and took my hand, bringing it to his lips to press a soft kiss on my fingers, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. "I'm sorry," we said in unison, swallowing twin lumps that lodged in our throats, quelling the heartache that threatened to assume control. Moments later I was wheeled into surgery, having willed myself not to cry. Now, nearly a week later, the dam has remained unbreached. I wish I could allow myself the luxury of expending my tears in the privacy of my bathroom, but I'm afraid that once I start it will be a very long time before I stop, and I know that Mulder won't let me hide in here forever. Besides, if I stay in here too much longer, I'm afraid my resolve will crumble and the tears will come despite my best efforts. Sleep. Sleep is what I need, what my body craves, and with this in mind I make short order of bathing and pulling the stopper from the tub. I step out and wrap the waiting towel around me while I wash my face and brush my teeth, finally emerging from the bathroom to cross the bedroom and root around in my pajama drawer. I settle on an old, soft tee shirt of Mulder's that I confiscated months ago, slip it over my head and slide a soft pair of cotton panties over my bottom. At last. Ready for bed and nothing to stop me. I quell the guilt that rears its ugly head as I hear Mulder still puttering around in the kitchen, cleaning up the supper dishes and putting things in order. I smile at the incongruous image of my Mulder in the throes of domesticity. He never ceases to amaze me. Finally, able to wait no longer, I climb into bed and pull the comforter over me. And before I know it, I'm gone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Finally, she sleeps. She had let me persuade her to bathe and lie down only after promising that I would come soon after. I tidied up the supper things while she readied for bed and after checking the locks and putting out the lights I joined her in the bedroom. I saw the lump she made in the bed as I crossed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and take care of business. When I came out a moment later, she was already zonked. As I look down on her now I smile at her choice of sleeping attire, a tee shirt of mine that she pilfered from my apartment several months ago. I drop my pants and shirt to the floor and climb into bed in just my boxers and tee shirt. I want to take her in my arms and hold her close, but she's sleeping so soundly I hate to disturb her. She's been so distant these last few days, so full of grief and stoicism to the point where I ache for her, feel her pain lance through my heart as surely as any fallen knight on some medieval battlefield. I wish she could cry. Her drought of tears is painful to watch, and frightening at the same time because those that remain unshed will choke her on the inside if she doesn't get them out, somehow. I worry about her until my own lack of sleep overcomes me and I drift below the surface of wakefulness, sleep that is distressingly short lived. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am so tired and I still have three autopsies to go. I am in the stark black and white of an autopsy bay, standing at the table, mechanically lifting the sheet from the corpse -- only to find a fetus lying there, curled up and vulnerable. It has the stamp of its sire already, and I feel pain wash me anew as I realize it is ours. Mulder comes up on the other side of the table, opposite the tiny being we created, his face broken and unutterably sad. /You didn't believe, Scully,/ he accuses. /You didn't believe and now she's gone. Another miracle that was never meant to be./ His words resound against the walls of the autopsy bay: /...never meant to be...never meant to be...never meant to be.../ - over and over until I clamp my hands over my ears to silence them. /I can't believe, Mulder!/ I am anguished and broken. /I want to believe, but I can't!/ He points to the fetus, our doomed, dead baby, whose death I had caused by my disbelief. /Now she's an X-File, Scully. You have to find out why she had to die./ Horrified, I back away as he hands me the Stryker saw, flips the switch that sets it into noisy motion. It is coming nearer, the whirling blade closer and closer to the pink lump of human tissue on the table. /I can't do this! I *can't* believe. I can't *not* believe. Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry.../ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My sleep is disturbed by the low moans that are coming from Scully. I peer at her in the darkness, barely making out her face in the light from the waxing moon outside the window. Her expression is one of profound distress and the words emerging from her mouth are equally distressing. "Can't...don't make me cut her...can't...Mulder, I'm sorry...so sorry...my fault...can't believe...my fault...so sorry...didn't want her to die!" She is crying by this point, gently and painfully in her sleep, and I pull her a little closer and make shushing noises in her ear, crooning nonsense words of comfort for an ache that can't be eased. I hold her through the night as she cries the tears she won't allow during waking hours. And when she finally falls silent, limp and exhausted and utterly drained, I vow to find a way to help her accept her grief so that she can overcome it, and find again the hope of a future wrought with miracles of our own creation. Finally we both sleep. And this time our dreams are mercifully few. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I have had the same dream now for eight consecutive nights. Eight nights of mental taunting, seeing twisted visions of myself, Mulder, our dead baby and the mystery of her death. Every night I am back in that autopsy bay, faced with the impossible. How can I look too deeply for a reason for what happened? I spent the majority of this morning at church, going to confession for the first time since before Beltane, hoping to ease my pain through a cleansing of the spirit. Having failed in that mission, I ended up at my mother's, where we spent the afternoon watching a movie, "Dancing at Lughnasadh", with Meryl Streep and a host of Irish actors I didn't know. It was a nice diversion, and, as always, good to spend time with my mother. But when Bill and Tara called for their weekly Sunday afternoon chat I excused myself and began the long drive back to my apartment. My mother's house is filled with pictures of babies, her own and those belonging to my brothers. Childhood scenes of Bill, Missy, Charlie and me take up one entire wall of the den, while photos of Bill and Charlie's little ones cover the mantel above the fireplace. Not so long ago I had allowed myself to dream of seeing my own child's picture up there with his or her cousins. Now that dream, too, has died a painful death. I am not meant to be a mother, obviously; for twice now I have been given the miracle of maternity and twice come away empty-handed. Mulder's voice, the one that haunts me in my dream, telling me that the child was a miracle that was never meant to be, keeps getting mixed up with the words he told me while Emily was fighting a losing battle to live. How many times must I seek validation as a woman through motherhood before I realize that it's a road not meant for me to travel? Mulder, to his credit, has been simply too dear for words. He has given me the space I need, while at the same time being at the ready whenever I look his way for support. I haven't asked often, just a quick hug here and there when I know he can't stand to stay away from me any longer. Always, he is ready, with those wonderful, strong arms of his drawing me into an all encompassing embrace. Our loss is something that my logical mind knows will inevitably bring us closer, but at the present my very real aching heart is keeping him at a distance. I have turned my head on several occasions where he would offer more than just a kiss goodnight. To his credit he has taken it in stride. Thank God he knows me so well. I am counting on it to get us through this awful period. He grieves for the baby that will never be, of this I have no doubt, though he hasn't said one word about how he is feeling about this whole chain of events. He has swallowed all of the pain that I know he is feeling and reverted to being the partner I have known for the last few years, deeply committed, supportive and true. But, even though last week Dr. Chappel told us that physical relations could resume, not once has Mulder pushed me for anything I might not be ready to give. And I'm still not sure when I will be ready. I want him. God knows I want him. It frightens me, because this kind of longing is what brought about this kind of pain. Whereas before I never had to consider the possibility of a product of such a union, now I'm afraid of the consequences of our making love. But I doubt it will ever happen again; three miracles do not occur in one woman's lifetime. When I start to think this way I withdraw further into depression, and longing for what we could have had and now never will. I pull up to my apartment, park, get out and lock the car behind me. At the moment all I can think about is the sweet oblivion of a nice warm soak in a scented tub, followed by an early bed. Perhaps if I pave the way for sleep a little better I'll be less plagued with unsettled dreams. This is my theory as I enter my empty apartment and make my way toward my bedroom, starting the water in the tub as I pass the bathroom. Stripping quickly, I hang my clothes in the closet and toss my underwear in the hamper before padding naked into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror as I pile my hair up, wondering whatever happened to that earthy, sensual woman I used to be. Beaten into submission, I think tiredly. In sad need of a break. I sigh heavily and step into the bath, my woeful exhalations turning to soft groans of muted comfort as the warm, scented water envelops my body. For the first time in what seems like forever I relax against the bath cushion, turning my mind off and blotting out the world outside my bathroom door. I must have dozed a bit because I gradually become aware of the sounds of an Irish fiddle coming from the living room, of the smell of fresh baked bread and the muted clatter of someone messing around in my kitchen. Mulder, I think, and smile despite my weariness. I pull the stopper from the cooling tub, rise and take the waiting towel from the rack beside me, wrapping it around my body before I step out into the bedroom. I'm surprised to discover candles flickering on the bedside table and from the dresser across the room and pleased by the sight of red and white rose petals strewn across the bed. And there is an exquisite ivory dress draped across the comforter, its gossamer folds soft and flowing, the bodice covered with embroidery in a thread slightly lighter in shade so that the little swirls seem to shimmer. Smiling, I run my fingers along the soft fabric, holding the garment up in front of me and admiring the view reflected from the full-length mirror in the corner. The dress is scooped in the front and dips low in the back and I don't see how I can possibly wear any undergarments without marring the effect. Throwing caution to the wind, I drop my towel and slip the dress over my head, settling it into place. I take the clip from my hair and shake it out so that it frames my face in soft disarray. Liking what I see, I turn away from the mirror and walk barefoot down the hall and stand in the doorway of the living room. There are fresh flowers on every table, beautiful, bold gladiolas in vibrant yellow, red and orange. Tall stalks of wheat are propped up on either side of the fireplace. Baskets of bright yellow squash and green zucchini are beside one of the stalks, more baskets on the other side, these filled to the brim with big red apples mixed in with walnuts and pecans. I look in the direction of the kitchen where Mulder is emerging with a bowl of what appears to be strawberries and blueberries in one hand, a bottle of sparkling cider and two glasses in the other. He stops stone still when he sees me and I watch as his eyes roam up and down my body, from the top of my tousled head to the tips of my painted toenails, peeking out shyly from the long skirt of the dress. He journeys back up my body until his gaze rests on my face and I smile at the look in his eyes, that of a man in love with the woman he sees. Me. All of me, emotional baggage notwithstanding. "Hey," he calls softly, his eyes broadcasting his pleasure at my attire. "Hey yourself," I return, coming toward him and taking the bowl of berries from him. They are deep blue and fiery red, plump and undoubtedly juicy, and I pop a blue one in my mouth before I can stop myself. "Mmmmm!" Delighted with the unexpected treat I pick up another to share with him. He opens his mouth obediently and takes the strawberry I put to his lips, my fingers coming away tingling from the lightest touch of his tongue. "What's the occasion?" I ask as I follow him into the living room, where he places the cider and glasses on the table, then takes the bowl of berries and sits it down beside them. "Lughnasadh," he replies, and goes on to enlighten me further. "Also known in Celtic countries as the first feast of the harvest, the other two being Mabon - what we know as the Autumnal Equinox - and Samhain, or Hallowe'en." He delivers his little oral dissertation during a trip back into the kitchen and concludes upon his return a moment later with a wicker basket bearing a loaf of fresh baked bread, its aroma wafting deliciously through the apartment. He sets it down on the coffee table, looks back up at me. "On or about August 2nd, actually the entire month in Ireland, the first harvest is observed by feasting upon the fruits of Mother Earth." He gestures to the coffee table, now brimming with nature's bounty. "Bread, fresh fruit, cider." He tilts his head toward the flowers and the decorations that adorn the hearth, smiles almost shyly. "A simple feast, but a feast nonetheless." I must be getting used to these little productions of his, because I'm more amused by his resourcefulness than annoyed at his uninvited - though not unwelcome - presence. I duck my head a moment, trying hard to stifle the grin as I picture Mulder in an apron with flour all over him. "Mulder," I admonish, looking back up at him straight-faced, "surely you don't expect me to believe you baked bread for me. I've seen you in the kitchen, remember?" He slaps his hand against his chest dramatically. "I'm cut to the quick, Scully. Here I was thinking you liked my muffins." I let the remark slide. "Actually, Mulder, it's just that I don't buy the idea that you baked that loaf of bread." He gives me that one-sided, sort of twisted grin and I know I have him. "Come on, 'fess up." He has the grace to look sheepish. "Okay, okay," he concedes. "I cheated. I got it from the bakery down the street and just heated it up once I got here." At my smirk he defends himself. "Hey, it *smells* like the real deal Holyfield, doesn't it?" I lean down and sniff appraisingly. "Oh, yeah," I agree, suddenly hungry and feeling more alive than I've felt in weeks. "Smells good enough to eat." He nuzzles my shoulder for a moment, doing his own olfactory exploration. "So do you," he murmurs, just before pulling away from me and ushering me to sit on the couch, where he proceeds to pour cider into our glasses. He raises his glass in salute and I raise my own. I think for a moment he may propose a toast but he remains silent, his eyes intensely focused on mine. I gaze back at him, my pulse quickening, trying to read the intent behind his little surprise. "Relax, Scully," he says softly, his cat-eyes glinting at me. "There is no grand design, here. I don't plan to jump your bones - not unless you ask me to." This he delivers with a ghost of his little boy smile, which I can't help returning. Little Boy Mulder will get me every time. "To you, then, Mulder," I tell him. "And to me." I swallow the sudden lump in my throat before continuing. "And to the memory of what we created and lost." "And to the promise of future creations," he finishes, drinking before I can protest, his eyes never leaving mine, daring me to disagree. I take a sip of the cider, swirling the tangy stuff around in my mouth before I swallow, savoring its spicy sweetness. "You know, Mulder," I finally say, fiddling with the glass, twirling it round and round in my hand as I keep my eyes downcast, studying the swirling motion. "There isn't much likelihood of there being any more creations. Miracles just don't happen that frequently." "They don't happen at all unless you believe that they *can* happen," he reminds me, setting his glass on the coffee table and leaning forward to cut two thick slices of the still-warm bread. He hands one to me and takes a huge bite out of his. Watching his eyes close with pleasure, I bite into my own slice. Oh, my, this is good. I had forgotten how heavenly fresh baked bread really is. We eat in silence for a while, alternately feeding each other berries, bread and cider, using the food as an excuse not to elaborate on his words or mine. The CD he has put in the player continues to pump out lively Celtic music and I find my feet tapping to some of the tunes. By the time we finish off the berries it has switched to Lorena McKinnett, through whose hauntingly original music I am transported back to the land of my ancestors, to an Ireland ruled on the surface by the High Kings and beneath by the Tuatha de Danaan, the Children of Dana. To a land whose last great leader was Lugh of the Shining Spirit. A wondrous land where miracles came true on a daily basis and barren queens gave birth to new generations through the strength of their beliefs. Finally, Mulder wipes his hands on his napkin, stands up and extends a hand in invitation. I take it and move into his arms as he pulls me away from the coffee table. We don't really dance, just sort of sway to the hypnotic rhythm of "The Bonny Swan", lapsing into the comfortable silence we have always been able to enjoy. The song ends and we continue to sway, my head against his heart, his arms around me at shoulder and waist. His cheek is resting against the top of my head and his breath stirs the hair at my temple as he speaks. "Know what else Lughnasadh represents, Scully?" Probably way back in the recesses of my memory I could pull the significance of the festival from my college days, but I know Mulder enjoys wearing his professor hat, so I shake my head just enough to encourage him. "Lughnasadh is all about changes in our lives, and how we deal with them through the choices we make." He pulls back from me, looks deeply into my eyes and I see the uncertainty in his. "Do you regret the choices you made six months ago, when we decided to - um - expand our relationship?" My heart lurches. I can feel the tears building up beneath my lids and I reach with one hand to caress his cheek. "Mulder, no!" I assure him, my voice catching on the denial. "Never!" I see the relief that springs to his eyes at my words, just before he closes them, as if giving thanks. I burrow back up against him, pressing my face into the hollow of his chest where I can feel the accelerated thumping of his heart. I feel his lips in the hair on top of my head and I snuggle further into the arms that now tighten around me. "Even when those changes and those choices result in something that is painful?" The tremble in his voice suggests his greatest fear, and I admire his courage at opening himself to the possibility that I could answer differently from how he wants me to. I look back along the path we have taken over the last six months, one half of a year, one half of a whole, like we are whenever we're apart. I don't want to go back to that other existence, the one of a year ago when I would ache all over with want for him, with the need to share my heart, offer up my body and open my soul to him. We have traveled far on this road, this road that our choices led us to take. "Even then, Mulder," I confess. For suddenly I know it, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could, and would, face it again, the chance of bearing our own, even the fear of losing again. " Even if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn't change a day." He heaves a mighty sigh, relief emanating from every pore in his body. We continue to move to the sultry music, lost in our individual musings until finally he speaks again. "You know what else the ancient Celts believed about Lughnasadh, Scully?" he asks, his voice husky and low. "What?" I take the bait, smiling against his tee shirt. "That this is the season when the sun consummates its union with the Earth and produces the first fruits of the harvest. Like we did, Scully. And like we'll harvest again. In our own time. In our own season." Now I do cry, bittersweet but cleansing tears of loss and of love, and he kisses them tenderly as I shed them, his own wetting his face and trickling down the side of his nose. His brow is creased with the effort to contain the emotions and I brush my fingers across it, trying to ease the ache of his grief, seeking a way to assuage my own. And suddenly I have it. The only remedy for what ails us, for what has torn us apart and is now pulling us back together again. The only way for us to completely heal. "Mulder, take me to bed." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We spent last evening dancing in one way or another, both celebrating and bidding farewell to the first harvest of our union. By the time we fell asleep in each other's arms, we had learned enough about healing to welcome the possibility of further fruition, when our season is right. All in good time, I think as I open my eyes and look down at the fragile beauty of my partner, my love. She sleeps deeply, peacefully, the night having passed with no sounds of disquiet, and I smile now in gratitude to Whoever for giving us sense enough to work through this heartbreak. For making us strong enough to bear the pain of our loss. For giving us the courage to trust in ourselves to make things right. In ancient times, Lughnasadh lasted for one month, fifteen days before the first of August, and fifteen days after. It was supposed to commemorate birth and death, and the first harvest of the fruits of the land. The obvious inference is not lost on me, that as the new season would bring the rebirth of the Earth's bounty, so would the souls of those departed also arise to be reborn. The Festival of Lugh marks the first of three harvests of the agricultural year. Scully and I have just weathered our first harvest. As I hold her closer to me, nuzzling my lips in her hair and inhaling the scent of our own union, I find myself looking forward to seeing what other seeds we can sow. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART EIGHT: Fancy Fall ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 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." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART NINE: Fancy Foreplay ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The insistent ringing of the phone lures me from pleasant dreams of autumn leaves and picnic tables, which I am reluctant to leave. Groaning, I fling out a hand and grope for the receiver, bringing it to my ear and managing a sleepy "'lo?" "Dana, honey? It's Mom." Of course it's Mom, I think, coming instantly awake. Nobody in the world says "Dana, honey?" quite like she does. Especially when she is about to deliver bad news. She sounds very much like she did when she called in the wee hours of the morning nearly six years ago to tell me that my father had died. She isn't crying, but I have the distinct impression that she's about to tell me something I don't want to hear, and I feel myself tense in anticipation. "What is it, Mom?" "I don't mean to worry you," she continues, "but I have to catch a plane to Jacksonville and I just wanted to let you know where I'll be." I glance at the clock, a crimson 11:20 that illuminates the darkened room. "Why are you leaving town at this hour, Mom? Are you okay?" "I'm fine, honey," she assures me, even though it's obvious that she is not. For once I am on the receiving end of that line and I suddenly feel a twinge of empathy for Mulder. "It's your Aunt Olive. She's been admitted to the hospital and I'm flying down there tonight to see after her. I promised your father a long time ago that I would always watch out for her if anything happened to him." Her voice catches a little at the reference and my heart clenches with renewed realization that she misses him even more than I do. "What's wrong with her, Mom?" Aunt Olive is about as Irish as they come, full of piss and vinegar, as Ahab used to say. She had been his favorite aunt as a child, and mine, as well. "She's suffered a major stroke, Dana," Mom's voice is quivering again. "They don't expect her to make it, honey. And I can't let her die alone. I just can't." "Oh, Mom," I sigh, my heart aching for her, and at the thought that I may never again know the quiet joy of listening to Aunt Olive spin one of her tales. "Do you want me to come with you?" "No, no, honey. I don't expect there's anything you can do. She's lapsed into a coma. So, even if you were there, I doubt she would be aware of it." I'm reminded of the fallacy of that notion by the watery memory of Mulder at my own bedside, when I was hovering between life and death and no one expected me to make it; when even Mulder wasn't sure that I would. I knew that he was there, the whole time, despite my comatose state. I always have known when he's near. I always will. We're in tune that way. "I've got a taxi on the way here now to take me to Dulles." Mom is going on without me. "I'll call you from Jacksonville, after I get checked into my room and after I've been able to see your aunt. I'll be staying at the Rivergate, where we stayed the last time we went to see her. Do you remember?" I nod, as if she can see me across the miles from her home to mine. "Yes, I remember," I tell her. "Give Aunt Olive my love when you see her, Mom. She'll hear you. I know she'll be listening. And call me tomorrow, okay?" "Okay, honey," she promises. "I love you." "Love you, too," I remind her. "Be careful." "I will, sweetie," she assures me. "Give Fox my love." And she clicks off the line. I stare at the receiver a minute, smiling at Mom's zinger, tickled that she knows, really. And that she accepts. "Scully?" I hear Mulder mumble from behind me. "You okay?" I put the receiver down and turn back to him, nestling into the crook of his shoulder, as his arm tightens around me. "I'm okay," I murmur. Not 'fine'; 'okay.' I must be making progress. "I'm just a little sad, that's all." I feel his hand brush the hair away from my forehead and his lips planting a kiss there as he brings his other arm up and around me, completely enfolding me in his warm embrace. "You never told me about your Aunt Olive," he says into the silence. "Just that one cryptic mention of her when we were out in Kroner." I smile softly to myself, thinking of my dear old aunt who is just a little loopy. Thinking how I'm going to miss her. Thinking how good it would feel to remember her with the man who knows my heart, and how glad I am that he is here with me to share the memories that I now let flow over me like rainwater. When I was a little girl, I would spend hours at her knee, enraptured by passages from Jane Austen novels, which she was forever reading to me. I thought the characters were silly, really, but I loved Aunt Olive and it made her happy to have me there. So I listened patiently to her sweetly lilting Irish voice, telling stories of women with no ambition and even less sense, characters for whom I could feel no empathy. Aunt Olive comes from an age long-passed, and she is forever entrenched in its memory, and of similar fantasies from a by-gone era. My family considers her eccentric and we have often feared that she would one day slip too far into her little fantasy world and never again emerge. It seems that that day may have finally come. "She was my father's favorite aunt, and mine," I tell Mulder. "She lived in a world all her own, one inhabited by 19th century ladies and gents. Aunt Olive believed she was guided by the spirits of those who had gone before her, and was forever weaving tales about them. She's the one who taught me all that ancient Celtic legend and lore you like to hear so much." I feel Mulder's smile against my forehead, where his lips have come to rest as he listens to me talk. "She sounds wonderful," he says softly. I'm sometimes forcefully reminded that Mulder had grown up with none of this family closeness, and how alien it must seem to him, though he secretly wants it so badly for himself. "She is," I agree. "She was a debutante in the '20s and went to all of these parties along the southeastern coast. She knew the Carnegies who owned the majority of Cumberland Island, actually was a very close friend of one of the daughters. Oh, she told the most romantic stories to delight a 12-year old girl you can ever imagine." Mulder's chest vibrates with his chuckle. "Don't go there, Scully," he warns me. "Trust me." I poke him in the ribs. "Ass!" I chide. He settles and we lie quietly for several moments, comfortable in our silence, while I indulge in my trip down memory lane. "In my freshman year in college, when role playing games had become all the rage, Aunt Olive sent me a 'Pride and Prejudice' role playing game," I recall, smiling at the memory. "At first everyone groaned about it, but it turned out to be a rousing success in the dorm during one long, wet and otherwise dreary weekend." "Oh, schoolgirl Scully," he murmurs. "You trying to turn me on, baby?" I cuff him gently on the chin, not willing for the moment to leave my precious memories. "She used to tell the most wonderful ghost stories, Mulder," I go on. "Tales that had been handed down generation by generation, from the people who lived along the coast and knew its legends like the back of their hand." I can practically feel his ears perking up at my words, the gears already shifting into place in the steel trap of his mind. "Ghost stories? What kind of ghost stories?" "Stories of spirits of shipwrecked sailors and lost lovers roaming lonely beaches." I have him now. I snuggle contentedly in his arms and launch into a legend. "There was the one about the Gray Man, a wealthy planter who lived on the Island in the '20s, who was on his way to propose marriage to the daughter of a neighbor and was thrown from his horse into quicksand and killed. Two days later, his heartbroken lady love was walking alone on the beach when she saw a gray figure. When she approached it, she recognized the figure as her lover, but he disappeared as soon as she reached him. "That night she had a terrible dream about being caught in a storm at sea. The next day she and her family left for the mainland and narrowly missed a hurricane that subsequently ravaged the Island. Since then, according to Aunt Olive, the Gray Man has appeared sporadically, but always just before the Island is struck by a major storm, most recently in 1989 just before Hurricane Hugo." "Interesting story, Scully," Mulder murmurs into my hair, smoothing it back so that he can place light little kisses on my temple and across my forehead. "Rather strange to be hearing something like that from you. Does this mean that, all these years, you've been a closet ghostbuster?" "I said I loved to hear the stories, Mulder," I remind him. "I didn't say that I believed them. Aunt Olive liked to tell them and I enjoyed listening to them, enjoyed just being in her company. She was like all of my favorite library books combined into one sweet little old lady. All she had to do was open her mouth and these wonderful, fanciful stories would come pouring out, taking me places I'd never have a chance to see myself." We fall quiet again, each lost in our own thoughts until finally Mulder breaks the silence. "I'm sorry about your Aunt Olive, Scully," he says softly, his lips against my hair. "Do you want to go to her? We could, if you want to." I shake my head against his chest, sighing. "No, I'd rather remember her the way she was the last time I saw her; all dressed up for the annual Hallowe'en Ball at the Greyfield Inn on Cumberland Island." I smile at the memory of Aunt Olive in her finery, all dolled up for her role as a 19th century matron. "Last year Mom and I flew down there to see her, and ended up being left on our own to pass out candy while Aunt Olive tended to her very busy social schedule." "Beats the hell out of *my* Hallowe'en last year," Mulder snorts. "Spending all night chasing three-foot tall Frankenstein pranksters away from my building was not my idea of a good time." "You could have gone to the Gunmen's party," I remind him. "We weren't in the middle of anything pressing. Why didn't you?" "Kersh was riding my ass, you were out of town. And I just really didn't want to go without you. We're a team, remember?" I kiss his chest where my lips rest against his skin, my fingers toying with the soft hair that tickles my nose. "Yes, we are," I agree. After a long and rocky road these last months, we are finally once again in tandem. He tightens his arms in a gentle squeeze of acknowledgment before launching into memories of his own. "Besides," he says, "no costume we could come up with could ever top the costume we had the year before anyway, when we won for most original. Better to go out on top, I say." I have the sudden vivid recollection of going to the Gunmen's Hallowe'en party two years ago, reluctant and there only under extreme duress, dressed in the costume Mulder had procured for us right after he conned me into going with him. We were to be the Tin Woodsman and Woodswoman, something I thought would be reasonably safe when Mulder had called me from the costume shop. To my horror, the costumes consisted of nothing but snugly fitting gray body suits that left nothing to the imagination and silver funnels that were strategically attached with velcro to the sex-defining parts of the body. I nearly swallowed my tongue at the thought of walking into the Gunmen's lair dressed like that. But then I imagined Mulder walking around all night in that get up and suddenly the thought didn't seem half bad. At any rate, there was no time to find a suitable substitute, so I had donned the offending garment and endured the evening with a grin- and-bear it attitude. And, every time I looked at my partner, I couldn't keep myself from grinning. The night ended up being more fun that I would have ever imagined and, in fact, brought me closer to the Gunmen in the way that you're more connected with someone after having been around them with their hair down. Best of all, perhaps, was Langly, who came dressed in a hospital gown whose ties kept coming apart in back, only to reveal the most garish pair of boxers I've ever seen. "That was a fun night," I agree. "A far cry from the next Hallowe'en." "At least you got out of the city last year, Scully," he reminds me. "And the southeastern coast is nice this time of year. Come to think of it, that might not be a bad place for us to slip away to." "In our dreams, Mulder," I tell him, just a touch of sadness in my voice. "Our lives don't allow for flights of fancy, remember?" He places a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Well, maybe we should start allowing for the occasional flight," he murmurs against my skin. "I've never made love to you on a haunted island before. I'll bet it's a spiritual experience." I lift my head so that I can reach his mouth with mine and press a soft kiss there. "It's always a spiritual experience with you," I remind him. His eyes twinkle in the faint light from the red numbers on the clock. His hands begin to caress me where they hold me against him and as he pulls me closer his erection becomes apparent. I still thrill that he can get so aroused so quickly, and over something as simple as a kiss. "Hey, Scully, do you remember dancing at the party?" he asks me as the fingers of his left hand work their way up to my breast and start to play lightly with the nipple. His other hand has moved to my hip and is slowly working my panties over my bottom. I rock my pelvis for him to remove them completely and feel them slide down my legs to my knees, where I hook them with my toes and peel them the rest of the way off. My hand moves through the hair at his chest and across his hard, flat stomach until I am able to take him in my hand. "I have a dim memory of doing the Hokey Pokey at some point," I admit, slowly moving my hand up and down his length, teasing the head with my thumb. Mulder's breathing is coming faster as I stroke him, and he reaches between us to cup his hand over my mons. His fingers work their way down into the damp curls to find my opening and I gasp as he plunges one long finger deep inside me. "You put your finger in," he chants against my cheek while he teases me with his finger play. "You put your finger out, you put your finger in, and you shake it all about." This last action elicits a throaty moan and I surrender to the sensations he's stirring. I ride them for a few moments before turning the tables on him and rolling him over onto his back. Lying over him, my hands resting on his chest, my chin on top of them, I raise innocent eyes to his fiery hazel ones and issue a challenge. "Why, Mulder," I purr. "Do you want to pokey my hokey?" He chuckles as he lifts me away from his body just enough to slip inside me, then slowly eases me back down on him until he fills me to the brim. "That's what it's all about," he sighs as I begin to rock on top of him, slowly at first, progressing to a swirl of the hips every few strokes. He brings both hands to my breasts and cups them, his thumbs dancing across their peaks as I ride him. He lifts his head to take a nipple into his mouth and the movement causes him to shift within me, bringing forth yet another moan from some animalistic part of me that I rarely let out. Slowly he suckles me, one breast and then the other, over and over again, while I hook my legs around his hips and hang onto his shoulders for dear life and allow my body to take over the wild ride. I am close, so close, and Mulder somehow knows it, removing his mouth from my breast to turn his assault on my lips. He kisses me with a hard fury that reminds me of the time we made love by the campfire, when we were both seemingly possessed by the wild spirits of the night. He bucks beneath me, and I dance on top of him until I am suddenly shuddering with the thrill of his release and mine, and he groans from deep in his throat, into my mouth, his arms clasping me tightly against him. The next thing I know the world has exploded and all the colors of the rainbow are pouring down upon us, drenching us in shared ecstasy. This is heaven. This is spiritual. This is the elemental Scully and Mulder, down to the bones cohesion. Eventually it is too much, and I have to fall over him and allow him to slip out of me, only to be caught up in his arms as he turns us onto our sides and spoons himself behind me. We lie quietly, allowing our breathing to return to normal, enjoying the bliss of afterglow, the joy of communion. I start to drift again as sleep beckons, and I find myself caught in fanciful scenes of making love to Mulder beneath the moss-draped branches of centuries-old live water oaks. I hear the distant crashing of waves against the shore, the roar of the sea as it calls to me. I think hazily of my great aunt and wish her Godspeed on her journey to whatever lies ahead. And just before I drift off to sleep I say a prayer of thanks for the blessing that was Aunt Olive, and for the special place she holds in my heart, for the timeless images she has embedded in my mind. And somehow, deep down, I know that I haven't seen the last of her. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART TEN: Fancy Haunts ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It is a dark and stormy night. Seriously. A storm is rolling in across the Atlantic, not too far offshore from our stakeout at the southern tip of a barrier island at the very end of Georgia. We crouch in the shadows of a burned-out mansion which fairly hums with the memory of those who have come and gone. Earlier we walked through the graveyard by the marsh, where the bones of lost loved ones rest beside those of strangers passing through. I have the oddest feeling that by my presence I'm intruding upon sacred space of the former, while being among the latter. Mulder is at my side, of course, dressed in those deadly black jeans, matching mock turtleneck and my secret weakness, that black leather jacket. I think he dresses this way on purpose, knowing the effect his attire has on me and my hormones. The waning, gibbous moon sits high in the sky, illuminating his features in the stark relief that is so damnably attractive on him. The world has gone black and white, confined to the blackened ruins of the structure that burned decades ago and the stark white of moonbeams, bathing the bare lawn with light. Mulder is a meeting point between that darkness and light. He's so excited to be here on this hallowed ground, on this night of all nights. Clearly he anticipates a visit from the great beyond, on this night when the veil between the worlds is said to be at its thinnest. Remembering my aunt, I'm thinking that maybe I'm not so afraid to believe, after all. That maybe there is something to all of Mulder's talk of spirits and the messages they come back to deliver. Aunt Olive's passing opened my door of willingness to believe in communication with the dead. She's also responsible for my being here this on Hallowe'en, ghost hunting with Mulder, while a fancy schmancy full-fledged ball is going on in the inn up the road, invitations to which Aunt Olive left for me to go in her stead. We'd nixed attendance at the ball ten minutes after Mulder caught sight of the costumes we were supposed to wear, thoughtfully left on the enormous four poster bed in our suite on the fourth floor of the circa- 1900 Greyfield Inn. Aunt Olive had always done everything in style and her choice in accommodations for the yearly Hallowe'en Ball was no exception. We were luxuriously ensconced in the inn's premier suite, our windows presenting a hauntingly lovely view of the marsh, the river beyond it to the west, and further south the Atlantic Ocean, barely visible from our location near the middle of the island. "Scully, you know that I love you," Mulder had told me, grasping my shoulders between his hands, his look most sincere. "And that I'd do damned near anything you ask of me..." I could see it coming. "...except mingle with a roomful of strangers wearing those pants, if you can even call them that. And pretend that I'm enjoying it." I felt a touch of disappointment at being denied the fulfillment of the visual image I'd been nursing all day: his well toned ass beneath those snug little brown doeskin breeches, Mulderbulge barely concealed by the hem of his claret velvet coat, his long, lean legs swathed in shiny black riding boots that reached halfway up his thigh, his rapier hilt a- twinkle at his hip. My very own Highwayman. I looked longingly toward the gown that was to transform me into Bess, the Landlord's daughter, yards of rich midnight blue muslin hanging on the open door of the chifforobe. The baggy-sleeved underdress, what Aunt Olive had called an Irish chemise, was a pale blue confection of soft cotton and the bodice-and-skirt-in-one dress was worn over it, lacing up the front with gold satin ribbons. Where once I would have been disappointed at losing the opportunity to play dress up with honest to goodness period clothes, I now had no desire to force Mulder to do something he didn't want to do. Not when there were other extreme possibilities we would both enjoy. So I made a deal with him. We'd skip the party in lieu of a moonlight stroll down the dirt road running the length of the island, three-quarters of a mile or so to the ruins of Dungeness, the grand old mansion once owned by the mighty Carnegie family. A Gatsbyesque mansion of breathtaking opulence and beauty, in its heyday it had been a favorite haunt of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his contemporaries. Aunt Olive used to tell delightful stories of the parties she'd attended there as a debutante; I confess to a certain enchantment with the idea of walking in her footsteps at a place that brought her so much joy. In return for a few hours of ghost hunting with him, Mulder agreed to play dress-up with me. And drink champagne before the fire in our sitting room. And dance with me. Like we danced together on our very first night, although the music will have to be in our heads, since we have no CD player with us. No matter. Our heads and our hearts will supply the symphony, and our bodies will doubtless remember all of the passages and breaks and shattering crescendos that are hallmarks of our lovemaking. Standing here now, beneath the sheltering arms of water oaks dripping with Spanish moss, the wind whipping over the dunes and across the open expanse of prairie and the distant rumble of thunder filling the air, I wonder if I'll make it that long. I look over at him, his thick brown hair ruffling in the wind from the approaching storm, his lips parted in anticipation of an ectoplasmic event, and I'm filled with a feral hunger for him. I just want to jump his bones, right here, right now. Damn the dress-up game. He seems to hear my thoughts, as he does so often these days. I can see that he's aware of them by the little tug at the corner of his mouth, the bobbing movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows, the slow blink of his eyes. He turns his head to look at me, and our eyes zero in on each other and lock. "Mulderdick for your thoughts," he says, in a soft and sexy voice usually reserved for the bedroom. I can't stop the blush that creeps up my neck to consume my face, no more than I can tear my eyes away from his at this moment. Several weeks ago I had coined the name during a fit of pre-menstrual horniness and Mulder, delighted with both the word and my reaction every time I hear it, now uses it with glee. But I won't let him bait me tonight. Tonight the only games we'll be playing will be my games. "You know my thoughts, Mulder," I remind him. "Same as I know yours." There is a flash of white teeth amid the shadows obscuring his face, and a certain air of cockiness in his reply. "You know my Mulderdick, Scully." I can't resist. "Like you know my Mulderschtick," I toss back at him. He inches closer to me in the dark, circling around behind me and crouching low, his knees on either side of my hips and his head so close to mine I can feel his breath against my neck. His lips hover just above my ear. "Where would you like me to schtick it?" This is a dangerous game we are playing, and we both know it. Alone out here, nearly a mile away from our lodgings, with a thunderstorm approaching and a long, long walk down a tree-lined path before we reach shelter, we can ill afford to let our sexuality get in the way of good sense. "Preferably in me," I tell him, reaching one hand behind me to caress his cheek. "Back in our room. On that big old four poster bed. With the sound of rain and thunder outside our windows and the two of us making our own storm inside." "I like the way you think, Scully," he growls, a second before his lips latch onto the tender skin just behind my ear. I allow my head to fall back onto his shoulder, welcoming the shivers that he's sending coursing through my body. The things this man can do with his mouth... No! I can't do this. Not here, not now, when there is a real threat of being caught out in the open on a barrier island with a major storm blowing in from the sea. The skies may be nice and clear now, with only the occasional cloud drifting past the half moon that hangs heavily in the eastern sky, but I can sense the change in the weather that will doubtless follow in the moon's wake. I pull away from Mulder and stand up, brushing my hands against my jeans as I do. I shake my head, tossing my hair back into place and clearing my mind with one movement. Mulder stays put, his nose level with my ass, and he doesn't seem inclined to move. He can doubtless sense my arousal. God, I smell it on myself, and he is much more attuned to such things than I am - and has his nose much closer to the source. He is still for a moment more, as I keep my back resolutely turned to him, looking out now at the dark line of trees that part in a narrow path back to the inn. For all my FBI training, for all the monsters, both worldly and otherwise, that I have encountered over the years, I am still frightened at some very basic level by the thought of walking along a dark path, surrounded on all sides by the silent sentry of trees. Especially on a dark and stormy night. "Mulder, let's go," I suddenly urge him, wrapping my arms around me to ward off the sudden chill I'm feeling. He stands and his arms immediately encircle me, pulling me back against him. "S'okay, Scully," he assures me, wrapping himself around me like a cloak. "What was that?" I gasp, my eye caught by movement at the edge of the property, on the side closest to the dunes and the beach beyond. But now there is nothing, only the dark shadows of trees and saw palmetto that dominate the untamed land behind the grounds of the mansion. "What?" Mulder is instantly alert, I can feel it in the tension that springs into his body behind me. "Out there," I say, nodding in the general direction. "At the edge of the grounds, just behind the pergola. There he is again!" Through the gloom I can dimly make out the figure of a man, dressed in uniform, but not of this time. He is hatless and seems to be walking directly toward the mansion. I can see no details, but I have the definite impression that he is anxious to get some place else, up ahead, and that someone is waiting for him when he gets there. "Is that your Gray Man, Scully?" Mulder asks in my ear. At that very moment the figure fades from sight, and once again all is still and silent. We are frozen, stunned with the realization of what we've just seen. Then I remember what the appearance of our ghostly visitor is said to herald. "Mulder, let's go back," I urge. "The storm's coming soon. Let's get back to the inn." His arms drop from around me and he takes my hand as we turn to the path that will take us back. We walk in silence, wrapped in our thoughts of what we just witnessed. I can't help wondering if I really saw what I think I saw, or if I'm just more sensitive to suggestion since Aunt Olive's death. But Mulder obviously saw it, too, and is happy as a pig in shit that he got his wish for Hallowe'en. I sneak glances at him as we walk, and he's grinning like a kid at Christmas. Okay, big boy, you got yours, I think. Just you wait 'til I get you back to our rooms. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thunder and lightning chase us all the way back to the inn, booming over our shoulders as the storm sweeps in from the sea, crackling overhead, but thankfully none of the bolts touching the ground. Walking down long, dark, tree-lined paths is one thing; traveling them with the fear of being struck by an errant charge from the sky as you go is quite another . I don't think I've run so fast for such an extended period of time in my life. Mulder, of course, is barely even winded; in fact, he seems exhilarated from both the storm and our encounter in the ruins. The skies break just as we reach the intersection where the main road meets the path that leads to the inn. By the time we reach the wide verandah we are soaked to the skin. To avoid the party in the front of the house, we skirt around to the back entrance, slipping in the side door to the kitchen. A bright-eyed young lady, hard at work loading hors d'oeuvres onto silver serving trays, takes note of our plight and tosses us a couple of kitchen towels from the cupboard behind her. Thanking her quickly, I make a few swipes at my hair and clothing before Mulder takes my hand and pulls me along behind him. He leads me to the back stairs and we leave a wet path four full flights up to our floor. By the time we reach the landing we are both breathless. Mulder unlocks the door to our room and ushers me inside, locking it behind him and turning to sweep me up in his arms as he heads toward our private bath. "Don't want to puddle on the floor, now, do we, Scully?" he murmurs into my ear, and just like that the switch is flicked again and I am back to a state of full arousal. He lowers me to the floor as we reach the door to the bathroom, which is nearly as large as the kitchen in my apartment. Like the rest of the suite, this is a lovely room, all porcelain and ornate, with shiny gold fixtures and elaborate metalwork on the walls, the sink - and the huge old bathtub that sits proudly on curved legs in the corner of the room. He sees my look at the tub and shakes his head. "Not a chance, Scully," he warns. "Not tonight. I'm a patient man, but not that patient." He looks pointedly down at my nipples, which are rather pointedly looking back at him, clearly seen through the wet cotton of my cream colored tee. Before I can catch my breath he lowers his head and takes the right one in his mouth, suckling the moisture there, penetrating the fabric down to the multitude of nerve endings that are screaming for attention. A few gasping breaths on my part later, he pulls his mouth away and looks down upon his handiwork, at the rosy tip of my breast glowing pink and pulsating beneath the thin veneer of clothing. He lifts his head back to mine, grinning in triumph. "Still wanna play dress-up, Scully?" he asks, his tone deep and dark and delicious, like the best chocolate truffle imaginable. I shake my head. "Not tonight, Mulder," I tell him, taking the lapels of his jacket in my hands and pushing it off his shoulders. "It's time I gave you a proper dressing down." The jacket hits the floor and I move next to the button of his jeans. "Five years, together, Mulder - you *must* have seen this coming." He laughs outright at this, a joyful noise charged with the sound of a man who's about to get some, and knows it. He sucks in his breath as my fingers manage to unzip his jeans and I slip my hand inside the damp denim, deftly capturing the moist heat of him. He groans, deep in the back of his throat, the sound low and feral. He pulls the hem of my shirt from my jeans and his hands slip underneath and around my back, finding the clasp to my bra and snapping it loose with one quick flick of those nimble fingers. He moves them around to my front, encircling my breasts, teasing my now painfully erect nipples with his thumbs, and his mouth descends over mine, stifling the gasp that is just leaving my lips. Dear God, I can very nearly reach orgasm just from the erotic pleasure of kissing this man, with our tongues exploring, each doing our best to swallow each other from the inside out. We break free only long enough to whip our shirts over our heads and off before we are kissing again, running our hands all over newly exposed hot spots, gasping into each other's mouths and sharing the pleasure of every touch, every caress, every stroke of goose-pimpled flesh. We step out of our wet jeans and leave them in a dripping heap on the tile as Mulder steers me backward, toward the bedroom and that four- poster I've been wanting to break in. Looks like I'm going to get *my* Hallowe'en wish, too. Mulder lowers me gently backwards until I'm lying on the high bed and as I lie back I feel his erection through the tent of his boxers at exactly the right height for a perfect entry. I come up off the bed and reach for his shorts, pushing them roughly off his hips and smiling at the rigid member that bobs up at me with enthusiasm. Mulder sees my eyes widen and can't resist the opportunity. "Mulderdick, Scully?" I nod, reaching for him. Mulder backs away, grabbing for my legs instead and whipping my panties down them, tossing them to disappear somewhere across the room. "Uh-uh," he purrs. "Not yet. I'm hungry." He climbs up on the bed with me and takes a knee in each hand, pushing my legs up and apart so that I am splayed open for him in all my naked, horny glory. I can't believe the abandon the man inspires in me, am astounded still by the utterly primal nature of our lovemaking at times. I open slitted eyes to see Mulder's face just as his fingers descend on either side of my sex and open me fully to him. He looks like a starving man about to be turned loose at a banquet. He plays with me for a bit, teasing me with nips and light pinches and lubricating strokes as he dips his middle finger inside me and paints my lips with my arousal. Still he watches me, as if he has not seen it many times before, as if every time he brings me to this point is a source of wonder to him. It's such a turn on, to see him looking at me like that, to know the effect it has on him, and to have first-hand knowledge of how he intends to follow up on what he has started. I am strung taut, every nerve ending in my body anticipating that first touch of his mouth, the first swipe of his tongue, the slow suckle that he will employ to turn me into a quivering mass of pleasure. When that first touch comes, so do I. My hips buck up off the mattress and I suck in my breath with a sharp "aahhh!" and abruptly the room is aglow in the primary colors of the rapture he brings me. Mulder, of course, does not let up in the face of victory, but keeps going, wringing two more mind-blowing series of spasms from my body before I reach for him and pull him up to me. There is only one thing left to say to him at this moment. "Mulderdick. Now." His smile is as big as the organ he plunges into me as the last word leaves my mouth. He buries himself to the hilt, stopping only when he can go no further, and murmurs huskily into my ear. "Now?" "Shut up, Mulder," I tell him in a strangled sort of voice. I tighten my internal muscles around him, tilt my pelvis toward him. "Move that fine ass and move it now!" Chuckling in triumph, he starts an inexorable rhythm that soon leaves me incapable of speech. The room flashes with intermittent lightning, and thunder roars overhead as the heavy downpour pounds against the windows, like Mulder is pounding into me now. I am reduced to throaty moans and groans and finally shrieks as he pulls me over the brink yet again. He follows me barely a stroke later, as I am still floating above the mattress, mindless with bliss. When I come back to myself we are lying spooned on our sides so that we're facing the window and can watch the rain continue to thwack against the panes. Strangely enough, I'm thinking of Aunt Olive, wondering if, during all the years she made this trek to the inn, she ever shared this suite with the man she loved. I remember her patient explanation when I asked her why the day is celebrated, our Hallowe'en, her Samhain. "This is the last day of the Celtic Year, Danie," she had told me in her sweetly lilting Irish voice. "Our New Year begins on November 1st, so this is the day we reflect on all that passed during the year. Today we take time to recall those who have gone before us, to remember them with a smile, and give thanks that they were a part of our lives." I think back now on the seasons just passed with Mulder. Our relationship had just begun to bud at Imbolc in February, sprouted its first leaves with Ostara. We bloomed with unrestrained glory with the coming of May, and knew full born fruition at Midsummer. Tested with the harvest of late summer, we clung to each other, pushed away and came back together again, to be renewed with the second harvest at the Fall Equinox. Here we are now at the end of the wheel of the year, having weathered three-quarters of the cycle, and I'm somehow not surprised to find how content I am with where we are. I snuggle my bottom back into the cavity framed by Mulder's belly and thighs, mentally purring, and I find that I'm looking forward to the winter. For the first time in my life I'm actually welcoming stay-inside- and-cuddle weather, because for the first time in my life I'm with the right man. Mulder's arms tighten around me, and his lips graze the back of my neck, lightly, lovingly. "What are you thinking about?" I put my hands on top of his enfolding arms and return the embrace. "Aunt Olive," I say. "Now?" he snorts into my hair. "Kinky, Scully." I spank his forearm, biting my lip to still my laughter. "Stop that!" He chortles into my neck and I can't help laughing with him. Happy. We are happy here. And tonight, as we ease from the last day of the old year to the first day of the new, I look upon the future with renewed optimism. I turn my head toward him, my body following until our fronts are flush together and my lips are a breath away from his. I hear the big grandfather clock in the hallway as it strikes the midnight hour and with every gong I plant a tiny kiss on his lips. "Happy New Year, Mulder," I whisper between kisses, ever so thankful for Aunt Olive and her legacy. "I can't wait to see what our next season brings." ~~~~~~~~~~~~THE END~~~~~~~~~~~~ FINAL NOTES: I couldn't have done this without the faithful support of my dear cyber buddy Erlybird, who gave me that boost back up on the horse and then cheered for me when I took off, arms outflung in full-fledged joy. Neither could I have braved this posting were it not for Jill's kindness in giving me a shot of faith when I needed it most. And last, but not at all least, I wouldn't have had the nerve to jump if my bud Magdeleine hadn't shown me how to do it first. You guys have my sincerest thanks for helping me find the gumption to do it again. I'm so glad I found you! BETA THANKS: Lysandra, Lena, Brandon, Shannon, Kris, Brynna: the best of the best. Period. STORY INFO: Part Five, "Fancy Toppings," was an improv written for the Scullyfic mailing list. Elements were: M&S at a costume party - extra points if they're wearing matching costumes; a hospital gown; a Pride and Prejudice role playing game; a three foot tall Frankenstein running amok in DC; and The Hokey Pokey - (that's what it's all about!). The Greyfield Inn really is a lovely place for a weekend getaway, if you can afford it. If you want to take a look, do a search for Cumberland Island, Georgia, and check out the Greyfield Inn. I don't think anyone would mind if I listed their webpage, but maybe I should just leave it to the reader to go there. It is truly a slice of heaven and definitely on my list of places to go before I'm too old to enjoy it. But, then, that never bothered Aunt Olive, did it? Thanks for reading! Also, 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. :) Thanks for the fun, guys and gals!