~ The Sexually Repressed Guide to Defining Forever by Trixie trixie@wgn.net ~ Prologue: Scully Gives the End Away ~ Well. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s all I have to say. Clothes are strewn everywhere. The black silk blouse hanging off the end of the bed will never be the same again – ripped beyond repair. The heavy weight of my partner is draped over me, and it’s the most incredible sensation I’ve ever experienced. I knew, of course, that it would have to happen eventually; had been, in fact, almost anticipating it. Nearly six years of sexual tension doesn’t just evaporate into thin air; it weighs you down. It builds and it builds until it explodes; if you’re extremely lucky, it takes you with it. Looking around the room, I decide it has most certainly taken us with it. I never would’ve guessed – not in a million years, not even in my wildest fantasies – that this crazy weekend from Hell would end up like this. Sunlight streams through the window, hitting me squarely in the eye. It’s hot, sticky and humid in the air. I sigh, and stretch as best I can. A muscle I haven’t used in ages protests and the slight pain brings a smile to my face. Well, indeed. ~ Chapter 1: The Actual Beginning or Meet =This= Version of S&M ~ Two days earlier Outside Dana Scully’s apartment 6:42 AM I’m so cold. No, that’s not true. I was cold when I first stepped out of the relatively warm sanctuary of my apartment. The chill had hit me immediately, but I’d merely pulled my coat tighter around my body, lugged my suitcase to the curb and tried to convince myself that =wasn’t= a fine sheen of frost on the tip of my nose. That was at 6:15. Cold doesn’t even begin to cover what I am now. Freezing my ass off is much more accurate. Freezing my ass off and steaming mad. It’s almost a wonder I haven’t burned a hole through the ground. Instead, I shift from foot to foot, giving first one, then the other a blessed moment of relief. I don’t have to be here. I could be in my nice, warm bed, sound asleep. I could be replenishing my system of the lost rest and sleep it was so cruelly deprived during the last case from hell Mulder and I endured just last week. I could be lost in a dream of a decidedly erotic nature, the likes of which I had been experiencing just this morning before the ringing of my phone brought me crashing back to reality. That damn dream was just starting to get good, too. Who, pray tell, could it be on the other line, you ask? Three guesses. And the first two =don’t= count. One eye had slowly opened. As I reached for the phone blindly, it had been brought to my attention that it was only 5:33 AM. No human person should be forced into consciousness at 5:33 AM. Especially not by their well meaning but totally self-absorbed way too chipper for that hour of the morning star of the above mentioned dream partner’s. That isn’t even the kicker though. If any sane, rational person were to call another sane, rational person before 6:00 AM in the morning, wouldn’t it be logical to assume the first words out of their mouths to be something along the lines of ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Right? =Right?= But that wouldn’t be Mulder, would it? Don’t answer; rhetorical question. Mulder being Mulder, and nowhere even bordering on ‘sane’ or ‘rational’, he began the conversation thusly – “Hey, Scully, you ever been to Catalina?” Just like that! He wakes me from a sound sleep at the crack of dawn, and he opens the conversation by asking me if I’d ever been to Catalina. I was good though. I did =not= hang up on him. I did =not= tell him to go to hell. I did not even so much as yell at him for calling me so early. I was far too sleep addled to do anything more than retort with an extremely intelligent “Huh?” Sue me, I was tired. I =am= tired. But back to my story. So Mulder’s on the other line, and he has the nerve to =laugh= at my honest, sleep deprived confusion. “Catalina, Scully,” he’d explained again, slowly, as though =I= were stupid for not immediately inferring what he was babbling about. “Have you ever been to Catalina?” “No Mulder, I haven’t,” I’d answered, making my first (of many, as it would seem) mistake. “Great. We’re booked on the 7:25 out of Dulles. Don’t forget to pack your bikini Scully.” And then - =then= - he’d hung up. The bastard called me almost two hours before I =ever= wake up on a normal weekday, informed me we were flying to Catalina, then =hung up= on me before I could formulate a response. I remember half sitting, half reclining in my bed, the phone still pressed against my ear. I could barely keep my eyes open and he expected me to be ready in time for a 7:25 flight out of Dulles? Ha! I’d mentally scoffed. He really is nuts if he believes that . . . But even as I’d thought it, even as I’d tried to be strong, tried =so= hard to stick to my New Year’s resolution . . . . . . my mind had already begun mentally packing for me. All casual clothes suited for island weather were in my bottom right hand bureau drawer. My lightweight suits were neatly hung in the back of my closet, suitable for warm weather investigations. And my bikini (my eensy weensy, teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini =Mulder= had bought for me as a gag gift nearly three years ago) was rolled up in my underwear drawer, where it’s remained since he gave it to me. And before I could stop myself, I was up, packing for all I was worth, throwing together enough clothes to last me four days (one never knows with Mulder, after all) and five nights. I jumped in a hot shower that lasted a paltry three minutes, more an effort to wake myself up than any attempt at hygiene. Fifteen minutes (and not a single drop of coffee) later and I was standing outside my building, waiting for Mulder to arrive, as was the custom when he woke me from a deep sleep and informed me we were heading out on some wild goose chase. That sounded harsh. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the wild goose chases. I do. More than I’d ever actually admit to Mulder, in fact. It’s just that sometimes . . . Sometimes I really, =really= would like to sleep. Sometimes, I wouldn’t mind it if Mulder just called me up because he wanted to talk to me. Sometimes, I wouldn’t mind if Mulder whisked me away to Catalina simply because he wanted to see me in that stupid bikini he bought for me that I’ll never actually wear, but somehow always bring with me when I know I’m going to be anywhere near the ocean. On the other hand, what would I do if he did just that? How would I actually react if my infuriating, adorable, unpredictable partner actually did fulfill one of my milder and deeply hidden fantasies? What if he arrived on my door and played Prince Charming? Would I allow the professional walls to drop between us, allow him to sweep me into his arms and carry me off into the sunset? Or would I do what I usually do when he attempts to bridge the gap between partnerly affection and something decidedly more basic? Would I gently but firmly rebuke his attentions, quickly diverting that keen mind of his elsewhere? Ruefully, I admit to myself that I’m not sure what I’d do if he actually put forth the effort. I just want to have the choice. I want to know if the choice is really even available to me. I know he loves me. I know a part of him even wants me, to a degree. What I can’t begin to fathom is what that means to Fox Mulder. He’s such a complicated mass of contradictions. When I actually allow myself to ponder him, I’m left more confused than when I began. He is a fierce knight, out on the quest of his life, attempting to right wrongs that have existed since before he was born. He is an arrogant bastard, often blinded by his own willingness to believe in everything and anything, sometimes even at the risk of me, the person he claims to care about more than any other. He is a tortured child, a twelve-year-old boy stuck in a constant, unending causality loop, forced to relive the defining moment of his life like a bad acid trip. He is a selfish man, who at the same time displays such acts of utter altruism, that it’s astounding to realize the same soul lingers beneath his skin. And linger it does. Because Mulder so rarely lets his soul out to play; he so rarely allows it to take a walk out in the sunshine, or laugh with a friend. Some odd combination of all the above characteristics is why I’m standing out here at 6:46 AM, freezing my ass off, waiting for him to show up. Because, through some cosmic joke, twist of fate or curse put on me for some imagined crime, I have fallen in love with that totally infuriating, unequivocally annoying and positively captivating man. Life’s a bitch. The object of my affection (?) arrives within mere seconds of that thought. I swear, sometimes I wonder if he isn’t able to read my mind. Was he waiting for a softening in my mood to approach? Did he sense that I’d been waxing poetic in my head over how I feel about him, and deemed this to be the best time to slip in, lest he be burned? Bad call Mulder. You see, that’s the funny thing about this love I have for Mulder. I get my most angry at him when it’s at its strongest. Why? Believe me, I’ve spent countless hours trying to figure that one out myself. If you figure it out before me, be sure to let me know, will you? He hops out of the car, looking sufficiently contrite as he nears my half-frozen body. I think my toes are numb. “You could’ve waited inside,” he points out to me as he bends for my suitcase. The glare I send him appears to have the desired effect – namely, to shrivel his balls. He gives me this smile – this perfect, beautiful MulderSmile that I have no defense against – and loads my suitcase into the trunk of his car. “You’ll forget all about this once you set foot on the beach Scully,” he assures me. “Trust me.” Trust him. Ha. ~ I’m an idiot. Contrary to popular opinion, I am aware of it. I even regret it. But I’ll be damned if I can do anything about it. It seems to be a trait I’m unable to shake. Just ask Scully. I swear I didn’t mean to disturb her like this. I’m aware that in the past I’ve drug her away from some much needed sleep for some really bone headed reasons; Mad dashes to Area 51; shadow meetings with somewhat nefarious characters; star gazing at three in the morning because I’d heard there were lights in the sky somewhere outside DC. In my own defense, it’s not like she’s ever said no. Well, not and stuck to it. She’d always relent. Be it a three AM flight to some middle of nowhere town that has crop circles, or a haunted house on Christmas Eve, she’s always there, by my side, fighting the good fight. Humoring my madness. Tempering it into something manageable. She’s good at that. But I know it’s taken its toll on her. It’s worn her down over the years. She’s become distant, more closed off than she ever has before. Sometimes I see her sitting at that pathetic excuse for a desk, ferreting out the background of Joe Q Public and she just sort of . . . drifts away. I don’t know where she goes. I wish I could go with her. Sometimes I imagine that I do. I imagine when we’re stuck at our little desks, doing our penance, we’re really a thousand miles away, laying in the sun on some beach, soaking up the peace around us. That’s how this particular intrusion on her rest came about. I was sitting at home, staring off into space and I could =see= her in that damn bikini. The image was starting to haunt me. I had no choice. I’d hit the speed dial before I’d known what I was doing. Airlines were number two, right after Scully, just before the Chinese place around the corner. I woke her up again. She was so tired after our last out of town jaunt, so fucking weary. I can’t remember the last time the bags under her eyes were that pronounced. And I felt bad – after all, it was my fault. I’d been the one who believed (and was never proven conclusively wrong, I may add) there were werewolves running rampant. I don’t think Scully will ever forgive me for the loss of her Donna Karen (and I only know it was a Donna Karen because she told me so. Repeatedly) suit. You know I’m almost – almost – pissed off that she’s so pissed off. Every time we shuffle a few feet ahead in this narrow gate to our plane, she sends me yet another glare. It’s a terminal case of damned if I do and damned if I don’t. If I were to go off on these little excursions by myself – witness the Bermuda Triangle escapade – she’s pissed. She drones on and on for hours about how we’re partners, and I can’t continue to ditch her when something peaks my interest. Fine. I prefer her company, anyway. So I decide to bring her with me. And what does she do? She’s pissed! She glares at me (God she’s cute when she’s angry) she angrily brushes that little lock of hair (is it wrong I have fantasies about her hair?) off her forehead and trudges along, looking for all the world like a good little trooper. As the fifth tourist nearly dislocates one of my ribs by bumping into me, I’m tempted to lose my temper. At least if I let loose on this guy I wouldn’t end up taking it out on Scully. She chooses this precise moment to glare at me again and my resolve goes out the window. Who the =fuck= does she think she is? I’m trying to do something nice for my partner, and all she can do is scorn me for it. Fine. Whatever. I don’t need the aggravation. If Scully wants to pout whenever I take her along on one of these wild goose chases, she can go right ahead, because frankly, I’m sick of caring and I swear to God if that ass hole bumps me one more time— Oh. It’s Scully this time. I wonder what she wants and why she’s smacking into me (amazing how my anger dissolves when I realize it’s her little body making contact with mine) to get my attention. “Mulder, I’m falling asleep on my feet,” she tells me as she thrusts something toward my stomach. “Don’t eat the airline food.” She quirks her lips slightly at me, then moves in front of me, simultaneously shielding me from the woman who’d been stopping suddenly for the last few minutes and allowing me an easier manner of keeping track of my partner. You see, I tend to lose Scully in airports. I don’t mean to. She just gets shoved aside by much bigger, rude people. I glance down at what she’d thrust at me. A package of sunflower seeds she’d no doubt picked up when she bought herself a pack of gum and a romance novel (she swears she doesn’t buy or read but I know better) for the plane. A smile pulls at me, one I allow myself to smile at the back of her head because I know she can’t see me. It’s really not fair that she can evaporate my exasperation with her with such ease. I watch with respect as my Scully (would she really kill me if she knew I thought of her as such?) nimbly works her way far ahead of me, darting between passengers with a speed that would give the Roadrunner cause for envy. I reach the plane minutes after she did, grimacing as I see the rush of people before me. Our seats are near the back of the plane, and I opt to wait just to the left of the galley until the aisles are clearer. I have no desire to kill myself by getting in the way of a mother with a screaming baby (or, God forbid, a tourist with an attitude) just so I can claim my seat first. Leaning against the inside of the plane, I allow the rest of my fellow passengers to pass me, scanning the back of the plane for Scully’s head. “Excuse me, Sir, may I help you find your seat?” I turn, focusing on the source of the (way too bubbly, not at all soothing like Scully’s) voice. “No,” my eyes dart to her nametag, “Candy,” I almost snicker (why is it always Bambis and Candys . . .) covering quickly. “I’m just waiting for the crowd to dissipate before I join my partner.” An eyebrow quirks (though nowhere near as artfully as Scully’s) “Partner?” I have one of two choices here. I can explain or I can lie. I’ve done both in the past. For some reason, today I feel like being honest. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to start this trip out on the right foot. “I’m an FBI Agent,” I explain. “Really?” she asks, her gaze turning almost predatory (that =can’t= be my imagination) in a matter of seconds. “Do you have a . . . gun?” She places a hand on my chest in what’s supposed to be a flirtatious gesture (Scully’s the only one who can touch me like that and make it work for me) but instead makes me extremely wary. “Yea,” I answer slowly, once again scanning the aisle quickly, hoping to see my path to Scully clear. Only to find Scully herself. Staring at Candy and I. Well, no, staring isn’t exactly the right word. Glaring would be more accurate. Scully is glaring at this blonde flight attendant (who happens to be terrifying me at the moment) touching me like we’re old friends and all I can think is God she truly =is= beautiful when she’s angry . . . Extracting myself from Candy with a mumbled ‘excuse me’, I head to the back of the plane, taking in Scully’s pursed lips as she flops into the seat by the aisle. I sigh. She knows I prefer the aisle seat so I can stretch out, just as I know she prefers it because being next to the window makes her fear of flying worse. So we trade off – one flight I take the aisle, the next, she does. Last time I had the window seat. Ignoring this, I step over her, refusing to notice this brings my crotch even with her face (I just can’t have thoughts like that on a crowded plane full of people) as I flop into the seat beside her. We sit in silence for what seems like hours, but is in actuality only a few minutes. The Captain announces we’ll be taking off momentarily. The safety video runs. Scully starts to do her ‘breathing’. I take her hand and refuse to let go, even as she tries to pull it away. After a moment, she relents, allowing herself to hold onto me. I know how difficult it is for her. How hard it is to admit she might actually need me on occasion Ow! Scully’s fingernails dig into my skin as we taxi down the runway. I know it’s mostly just nerves, but . . . I glance at her from the corner of my eye. Damn. Her lips are still pursed. Her jaw is jutted out way more than usual and that little furrow thing is between her eyes. She is so pissed. ~ My arm is asleep. I realize this is my fault, but, perversely, I feel the need to blame it on Mulder. My arm is asleep because I’ve been lying on it for the last hour and a half, attempting (not succeeding, mind you) to get some sleep. However, I wouldn’t have been attempting to sleep at this unbelievably uncomfortable angle had I not been on this unbelievably uncomfortable plane. And I wouldn’t be on this unbelievably uncomfortable plane if Mulder hadn’t called me at 5:33 AM . . . but then we’ve covered that already, haven’t we? Sufficed to say, my arm is asleep and it’s all Mulder’s fault. I peer at him from the corner of my eye, noticing =he= doesn’t appear to be sleep deprived, in the least. Instead, he’s flipping through an old Stephen King novel (really Mulder, The Shining again?) pretending not to notice me shift and turn and fidget in my seat every few minutes. Okay, so I’m not a very good flyer. It might not be all Mulder’s fault that every nerve ending I have is on edge, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. That, I blame on the above mentioned slight problem with flying, and ‘Candy’, our perky blonde flight attendant. ‘Candy’ has been flirting with Mulder since we came aboard. Mulder, though, has been oddly unreceptive to her. Normally, if a buxom blonde starts blatantly going after him, Mulder at least smiles at her kindly. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he hadn’t even noticed ‘Candy’s’ existence. The third time ‘Candy’ offered Mulder an extra blanket, ‘Candy’ got stuck on my ‘list’. This is a very exclusive list, you see. It’s a list of women who never want to meet me in a dark alley. ‘Bambi’ is on that list. Phoebe Greene is at the top of that list. Det. Angela White is sandwiched nicely in-between ‘Bambi’ and Phoebe. Diana Fowley is currently residing just below Det. White, only in deference to Mulder’s obvious . . . affection toward her. Candy is now just below Diana. “Excuse me, Sir.” Oh God, why won’t it just go away? “What is it?” I ask Candy, knowing she’s talking to Mulder, not particularly caring. She looks at me like I’m a speck of dust she’d like nothing more than to brush away. “Sir,” she says a bit more firmly, and Mulder, who up until now had been blessedly oblivious to the silent, purely feminine battle over possession being waged mere inches from him, perks up. “Yes?” This is where I have to flag on the play. Why is it that all big-busted blonde women have to inherently be bitches, sluts, total morons, or a combination of the three? Why is it that I am seemingly incapable of meeting just one that’s nice, friendly and helpful? Why? “There’s an opening in first class,” Candy all but purrs. “If you’d like, I could upgrade you.” “Ah,” Mulder stammers for a moment. “I thought it was against the rules to do that?” A purely feline smile crosses Candy’s face and I have to firmly tamp down on the urge to throw up. Yea, I’m jealous by nature. What tipped you off? “Well,” she drags the word out. “Technically, we’re not supposed to. But I could make an exception . . .” she trails off meaningfully. “If you’re interested,” she adds. Mulder nods slowly and – miracle of miracles – finally gets a clue. He smiles kindly. “Thanks, but I’m fine where I am.” Candy appears to pout. It’s not a cute pout though. Not the kind of pout Mulder has, that melts me and makes me want to do nothing more than to gather him into my arms and make him smile. This is an annoying pout. This is a pout that makes me want to knock Candy unconscious. “Your loss,” she informs Mulder haughtily, traipsing away. “My narrow escape,” Mulder mutters under his breath. I smile at that. Only Mulder could classify missing out on what was obviously a none-too-subtle invitation to join the mile high club with an extremely well endowed blonde woman as a ‘narrow escape’. I tell him so. He chuckles. One of those rich, meaningful chuckles that only he’s capable of emitting. It sends tingles up and down my spine, that laugh. It makes me want things I have no business wanting, imagine things I have no right to imagine. “Hey Scully,” he whispers close to my ear, “what makes you think I’d be =joining= the mile high club?” I don’t have an answer to that, so I send him one of my enigmatic little looks and fold my hands in my lap, thankfully noting that circulation is beginning to restore itself in my arm. “So Mulder,” I begin, purposely ignoring his last comment (as I always do when he says something truly interesting like that) “would you care to tell me why we’re on a Trans-Pacific flight to Catalina, or are you going to surprise me?” He worries his lower lip between his teeth and I have to forcibly tear my gaze from the sight. “Well, given the choice, I think I’m going to surprise you,” he remarks, his face not giving a clue to what he’s thinking. Damn it I hate that. I hate not being able to read him. And he’s doing it on purpose, I can tell. He doesn’t want me to know what he’s thinking. I do at least know him that well. I heave a sigh. “Just promise me this has nothing to do with Sea Monsters,” I plead in a wary tone I don’t feel even an ounce of. “No Sea Monsters,” he assures me, using his best Boy Scout voice. “And no Sand Monsters,” I add. “No Sand Monsters,” he assures me, his voice turning almost soothing as he removes the pillow from behind his back and settles it over the armrest separating us. The extra padding allows me to lean into it without hurting my side, and a smile tugs at my lips. “And no Mexican Goat Suckers,” I murmur, taking the invitation I think I see in his eyes, slowly draping my body across the space between us, my cheek gently landing against his shoulder. “Damn,” he whispers against my hair, his cheek coming to rest against the top of my head. “You’ve got me there,” he tells me, and something about his words goes beyond the simple teasing I think he was trying to impart. I can hear his heartbeat from my position. Turn about is fair play, Mulder, I whisper to him in the confines of my soul, watching as he goes back to his book. You’ve had =me= there for years. ~ Chapter 2: The Journey Continues or What =Not= to do on Your Catalina Excursion ~ You tell people that you graduated from Oxford, and they assume you’re pretty smart. You tell people you’re an FBI Agent, they have one of two reactions: They become instantly wary of you, as though you’re escorting a dangerous serial killer everywhere you go. Or there’s the response I got from our friendly flight attendant. Instant attraction, based solely on the misguided notion that danger is sexy. You tell people your partner is a woman and their first reaction (whether they vocalize it or not) is to assume you’re fucking her. How I long to scream ‘I wish’ at the top of my lungs when such an assumption is made (especially when they vocalize it.) Then they =see= your partner and they =know= you =must= be sleeping with her, because how could you stop yourself? This habit of referring to myself in the second person within the confines of my own mind is a defense mechanism. I know that. It separates me from the rest of the world; it separates me from my own problems. If I don’t concentrate on them, they don’t exist. However, the fact is I =did= graduate from Oxford and I =am= smart. I =am= an FBI Agent, I =do= have a female partner, and with all my heart and soul I =wish= I were sleeping with her. Her head lying on my shoulder, her breath puffing delicately against my neck the entire flight certainly only served to drive matters home. The feel of Scully’s breath never fails to invoke three different reactions within me, simultaneously. One is the infinitely precious knowledge that she is alive. She’s breathing, she’s alive, and she’s with me. The second response is an overwhelming flood of tenderness. Usually when I feel her breath, it’s because she’s allowed me into her personal space. Scully doesn’t allow just anybody inside, and I’m honored to be one of the few. The third is predictably male – the feel of her breath against the side of my neck, my face, my arm (okay, okay, =anywhere=) is indescribably erotic. Except, of course, for right now. At the moment, the feel of her breath against the back of my neck is nothing but comforting. Her hand in my hair, doubly so. And I find myself bitter. Because if I weren’t bent over the railing of this ship, retching what was left of my stomach over the edge, I could =really= enjoy the feel of Scully touching me. She’s restraining herself. I can tell. She’s not lecturing me about the stupidity of my eating fish on an airplane. Which is a good thing, because if she started in on that, I’d have to explain why I ate the fish. I know better. It’s just that . . . well, she was asleep on my shoulder. Her hot little breath (which I believe I already mentioned is quite intoxicating to my senses) was puffing against the side of my neck and I =needed= to do something with my hands (and =not= the something they seemed to want to do) and fast. The Shining had been finished for nearly an hour and our friendly flight attendant (not the blonde, whatshername, as you might think, but a very nice African American male who I caught gazing at Scully a little too long . . . ) came over to me, informing the passengers stuck back here that the fish was the only lunch left. So I lapsed in judgment. I ate the fish. It kept me from doing decidedly unpartnerlike things to Scully. Apparently this is my punishment for being a gentleman. I wish I hadn’t lost the bag of sunflower seeds she’d gone to so much trouble to buy me. I don’t even remember the last time I felt this bad without having sustained some kind of near fatal injury before hand. I couldn’t have been older than seven. I think it was when I had the mumps or the measles – I couldn’t breathe half the time and the other half a deep breath made me want to throw up. I take a deep breath, hoping to calm my stomach . . . . . . and realize the more things change, the more they stay the same. Christ, there can’t be that much =left= to throw up. I’ve been standing here for what seems like hours, Scully’s gentle, unimposing presence the only thing keeping me from saying to hell with it, and jumping over the edge, just to put an end to the misery. “Sharks Mulder,” she whispers into my ear, a wry note to her voice, “speaking as an expert, it’s an ugly way to die.” A weary, pained chuckle escapes my lips (totally against my will) as I lift my head to meet her eyes, my mind obviously having been read. “As opposed to the pleasant way I’m dying now, you mean?” I comment, trying very hard not to start in on round three. “You’re not dying Mulder,” she informs me, using that no nonsense tone that screams SCULLY to me. “You’re just having a negative reaction to something you shouldn’t have eaten,” she points out, and I can =hear= the ‘I told you so’ tone. “Scully, I’m begging you,” I mumble, turning away from the rail to lean my back against it heavily. “Not yet you’re not,” she murmurs, softening her words by brushing the hair (what little is left of it) back from my face. “Mulder, I think you should lie down for the rest of the ride to Catalina.” “I can’t lie down on a ship,” I explain, “it only makes it worse. If you think I’m seasick now . . .” “But I don’t think you’re seasick now, Mulder,” she informs me. “I think you ate fish on a plane, and now you’re paying for it.” “Fine,” I mutter. “But either way, if I lay down, I’m going to get seasick.” I give her a pout. “Do you want to see me sicker?” She almost rolls her eyes. I can see the incredible control, can almost hear the ‘aye yi yi,’ she wants to let loose with. Instead, she composes herself, mask dropping carefully back into place. “Can I get you anything?” she asks, her tone achingly polite. “Got any Listerine?” I crack, half hoping she actually does. She shakes her head though, and lays a comforting hand on my upper arm. “Anything else?” she asks and I can see the genuine wish to help in her eyes. I smile at her, reaching for the hand she’s placed on my arm. I squeeze it in my own, then don’t release it, instead turning back toward the rail, inviting her to come with me. She does, and we drop hands, instead linking our arms as we stare out at the water, side by side, letting the silence envelope us. It’s peaceful right now. This is what I envisioned when I woke her up this morning. This is how I wanted this trip to be. I’d spent hours on my computer, pouring over useless detail upon useless detail about life on Catalina. Then, finally, I’d come across something that I might actually be able to manufacture into a reason for our coming here: The hotel I booked us at has supposedly been haunted for the last thirty years. And I knew there was no way, no how I was getting Scully out to another haunted house, no matter how good a story I spun, or how concerned for my life she was. So I’d done the simplest thing I could think of. I hadn’t told her anything, save where we were headed. However, I hadn’t taken into account the fact that not everyone is the insomniac I am. Honestly, the fact that I might be waking her up really didn’t cross my mind until I heard that sleepy (erotic) husky (sexy) little girl (won’t touch it with a ten foot pole) voice of hers across the line. It was slightly confused and totally unprepared for a full on assault. In retrospect, the way I’d gotten her ready had been cruel – I’d made her believe I was taking her to Catalina for legitimate reasons, rather than tell her the truth – I really, really, =really= want to see her in that bikini. And I want her to smile. She doesn’t smile nearly enough. I want her to laugh, too. And relax. I want her to luxuriate, maybe even let herself be pampered for awhile; let =me= pamper her for awhile. Thoughts of rubbing suntan oil on her back as we sit on a quiet beach filled my mind around four thirty this morning. As we stand here at the railing of this ship, I (almost) don’t care about seeing her in that bikini. Because this is enough – just standing here with her, being in her presence, soaking up pure, uncensored ScullyEssence. It’s priceless. It’s perfection. “Storm’s coming,” Scully pipes up beside me, shattering the stillness. I glance down at her, refusing to accept what she’s saying. “Why do you say that?” I ask warily, feeling my visions of suntan oil and ScullySkin beginning to wither. She shrugs, just staring toward the tiny mass of land appearing on the horizon. “Curse of a sailor’s daughter,” is all she says in answer. Keeping my eyes on her for a moment, I slowly move them back to the land, our arms still twined together. I bite my lower lip, considering what she’s said, that she’s allowed her intuition to speak for her. Fuck. It’s going to rain. ~ I am =not= amused. Mulder throws me a nervous glance and I see genuine fear behind his eyes. He’s communicating me a silent plea – Please don’t kill me Scully. And, if you must, at least wait until we’re alone to do it. No promises Mulder, but I’ll try, I silently send back. He looks like he’s going to be sick again. I sigh and lean my body against the side of the wall, running a hand through my soaking wet hair. It isn’t his fault; not really. Unless I follow my earlier logic on the plane, not one damn thing that’s happened since we landed is his fault. Of course, I wasn’t this rational an hour ago. Oh no. An hour ago, I was ready to cheerfully strangle him from the passenger seat of the only rental car currently available at the tiny little rental place by the harbor. A convertible. A convertible, with a top that wouldn’t go up. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem on an island. Of course, this particular island was currently in the middle of a tropic rainstorm. As a result, both Mulder and I became utterly and totally drenched on our way to this very hotel. Even as I was furious at Mulder, I couldn’t help feeling bad for him. I’d had the good fortune to sleep through lunch (if you can call airline food lunch). Mulder hadn’t had the same luck. He ate the fish (FISH on a plane – I long to yell MULDER, you were ASKING for it) and not an hour later became almost violently ill. That little airline bathroom wasn’t built for that kind of thing. The short boat ride from California to Catalina hadn’t exactly settled his stomach, either. He looks miserable, I concede to myself, watching as he handles the hotel manager behind the desk. I sigh. And of course, due to the storm, no boats are being allowed to leave the island. And so everyone who’d intended to check out today has decided to extend their stay, indefinitely. So Mulder and I get to take the only room available. One room. Single. Uno. More than anything at this precise moment, I want to go upstairs and crawl into a nice hot bubble bath. I’m dripping wet and freezing cold (again). I’m in a bad mood and I don’t want to take it out on Mulder, but damn it, he’s right there and it =is= his fault. Sort of. “Hey Scully,” he murmurs, finally returning to my side after a far too lengthy discussion with the desk clerk. “Good news or bad news?” “I get a choice?” I ask sardonically. Then he gives me the look. The ‘Jeez, I’m sorry I fucked up, but could you please wait just a little bit longer to call me on it, Scully?’ look that only he can sell. He lets the look speak for him, and I sigh. “Bad news first,” I mumble. “There’s only one room,” he tells me. His voice sounds contrite, but I swear there’s a glint in his eyes – almost a twinkle. Not really that torn up about it, are you Mulder? I’d love to call him on it. Only the fear of being wrong keeps me silent. “And the good news?” I ask, almost feeling hopeful. If that was the bad news, the good news had to actually be good. “It’s a suite,” Mulder announces. “We’ve got the best suite in Avalon, actually,” he informs me, handing over a brochure. As I begin to flip through it, my eyes widen. He smiles an extremely pleased smile at my reaction. “Sunken six seater hot tub,” I read from the brochure, liking the sound of that a =lot=. “Two King sized beds, a kitchenette, full living room, view of the ocean,” I grimace, looking out the full glass windows at the raging storm, “twenty-four hour room service, Mulder,” I break off, turning my head to look at him intently. “We can’t afford this,” I inform him, knowing damn good and well we couldn’t write this off on the Bureau’s tab – we hadn’t been able to write off any of our little excursions lately. Not since we lost the X-Files. My eyes drift down to the prices on the brochure – one thousand dollars a night. I nearly choke to death on the figure. “They’re giving it to us at a discount, to apologize for the inconvenience,” Mulder assures me. “Even at a discount,” I mumble, staring at the price. “Hey Scully?” he murmurs softly, causing me to meet his eyes. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I drug you out here. It’s on me.” “Mulder,” I murmur doubtfully. “End of story,” he states, slashing the air with his hand. He picks up my suitcase, along with his own, leaving me with only my laptop to contend with. “C’mon, I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to see what constitutes a four star room on this island.” Watching him walk ahead of me with more than a little bemusement, I gather my nerve, as well as my wits to me tightly and follow. I’m a little curious myself. ~ Mulder is almost completely forgiven. I realize now, as I recline in a hot tub of water, lilac scented bubbles tickling my chin, that perhaps I’ve been too hard on him. Amazing how much more inclined to sympathy I am, when my toes =aren’t= numb. Despite my reservations in the lobby, I’m pleased to report that this four star room is absolutely beautiful. Not to mention twice the size of my =apartment=. The water feels heavenly. Mulder hadn’t even let me argue with him when we’d first arrived beyond the threshold. He’d merely deposited my suitcase on one bed, made the quick trip into the adjoing bedroom to lose his own, and then walked briskly into the suite’s only bathroom. He’d flipped on the tub, deposited the bubble bath and returned to the living room. “Soak in there for thirty minutes. If you still feel the urge to kill me, I’ll be lying prone and vulnerable in the other room,” he’d informed me, a single hand raised toward me to still the words in my throat. He’d offered me a hopeful smile then, and once more the look in his eyes totally deconstructed me. “I wouldn’t kill you Mulder,” is all I’d protested, moving to the bathroom as fast as my exhausted body would carry me. And it’s the truth, I reflect wryly. I wouldn’t kill him. I might be compelled to shoot him (again) one day. I might even strangle him (but only until he loses consciousness) in a fit of Mulder-induced-insanity. But I wouldn’t kill him. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t do that to =myself=. Guilt issues and prison aside, I’d be lost without Mulder. Worse than that; I’d be bored out of my mind. Contrary to popular opinion, I do remember my life before the X-Files. I remember sitting on the floor with female friends, drinking wine and giggling over this man and that. Debating whether a guy was ‘a good fuck’, ‘the man I could marry’, or ‘a total loser’. Yes, women do categorize. I also recall, at the time, feeling oddly empty while doing so. Like I wasn’t mean to =be= just one of the girls, dabbling in her life. I first began to withdraw from social friends when I joined the FBI. That decision was definitely unpopular with my family. However, it didn’t distance me from them, per se. It made relations between myself and the male members of my immediate family somewhat strained. Especially Dad and Bill. Charlie, I think, understood. Even if he didn’t want his big sister in the line of fire, he ‘got me’. Charlie and I had always been like that though. I suppose it stemmed from my not being his ‘little’ anything – Missy and Bill, I think, always felt like they had to protect me. Even though he understood on some level, though, Charlie never really understood what I had to go through. He may have been the ‘baby’ of the family, but I was still the youngest girl; I was the =female= baby. Everyone was supposed to protect me, see to it that nothing bad ever happen to me. That went over =real= well with me, as I’m sure you can imagine. I think it’s yet another reason why Mulder’s over-protective streak rankles so badly. I know he means well. I know how much pain and guilt he’s suffered over his life because of a perceived inability to protect the people he loves. Yet even with this understanding, not just of his motivations, but of his character at an elemental level, I can’t help but wish he’d trust me to take care of myself. Sighing, I lean my head against the back of the tub, letting my eyes drift shut. The X-Files, while definitely doing their fair share to fuck with my life, have brought me a sense of accomplishment that has been sorely missing my entire life. They challenge and excite me. They are the reason I haven’t resigned from the bureau by now, dragging Mulder behind me. I want them back almost as much as he does, more if you take into account the fact that I want them back =for= him, in addition. It’d be nice if I could convince Bill of that. If I could let him see Mulder isn’t the devil; I didn’t sell my immortal soul when I became partnered with him; I gave it away. I may not have intended to, but I did have a choice. I had the choice to leave when I felt myself falling for him. I could’ve left him after our first case. But something (my own pride and an already deep affection for Fox Mulder) stopped me from requesting that transfer out of the X-Files; an inherent curiosity, in everything that lived and breathed around him. I truly wanted to see if he could prove me wrong; if he could challenge every belief I’d ever had, make me re-evaluate, reconsider things I knew to be gospel. I wanted to see if he could get under my skin. Ruefully, I recognize that he’d more than proven he could. Do I believe everything he does? Of course not. Do I consider the possibility that he might be right, even when I don’t believe him? Yes. And that, in my eyes, is far greater an accomplishment on his part than getting me to believe. I don’t believe what he believes. But I believe =in= him. In his passion, in his dedication, in his truth. My truth. Our truth. It’s all become horribly blurred over the years. And the damnedest thing is, I can’t make myself care. I used to be able to work up a good righteous indignation over the fact that my life was so inexorably entwined with Fox Mulder’s. That head of steam fueled more than one foray into our regular philosophically lined, scientifically infused banter sessions. Naturally, once I’d made my choice, there was no going back. There was no deciding it was the wrong choice; no take backs. There were a lot of little decisions that lead up to the choice; The Tooms case, the first time I really chose Mulder over something important to me. That storage room, in Icy Cape, when I chose possibly dying at Mulder’s hand to give us both proof that he wasn’t infected. I trusted him more than I trusted others that day. The day Deep Throat died, when I suspended my disbelief to bargain for Mulder’s safety; when I was taken, then returned. I returned not only to this life, but also to Mulder’s side. I could’ve left after that; God knows he wouldn’t have blamed me. But I didn’t. I continued with him. And then, one cold November night, Fox Mulder made it so I could never leave him again. On a bridge under the cover of darkness, he gave me the greatest affirmation of my meaning to him. He traded the woman he believed to be his sister, Mulder’s very own Holy Grail, for my life. I don’t kid myself into believing he traded life for life. Mulder, as always, had a plan. Not to mention the fact that, lingering in the back of his mind, was the idea that she might’ve been a clone. It doesn’t matter that he intended to save us both. The fact that he made the risk – that I meant so much that he was willing to =take= the risk – was the sign I’d subconsciously been waiting for. And so we continued. We searched and found, cried and laughed, lost and died, fought and survived for the next few years. And finally - =finally= - I thought we were getting somewhere. I truly believed we were nearing the point where we’d break down this final wall between us, perhaps even destroy the barrier that exists between professionalism and something decidedly more personal. After my cancer, we turned to one another more. We let down defenses that were so deeply entrenched neither of us dropped them consciously. It just sort of happened when we were alone together. We were =connecting= again, like we hadn’t since our first year together. And a little bit of hope began to breed and grow inside me again. That was short lived. Because that was when =she= showed up. Grimacing as the thought of her crosses my mind, I pull the plug on the tub, allowing the now tepid water and bubbles to drain away. The her in questions is, of course, the ambiguous Diana Fowley. After a nearly eight year absence in =my= Mulder’s life, she waltzes back into it, acting like she has the Goddamn =right= to be there. As though she spent the last six years fighting him and loving him and saving him and being saved by him. As though she had salvaged his soul from the bottom of his desk drawer. As though she had made him a whole person. As though he had completed her, so effortlessly it almost made her believe in fate. Even as those somewhat petty, but no less true thoughts crossed my mind, I’d begun to let doubt creep up on me. Maybe she =did= have the right. Maybe her absence from his life =had= been a mistake. Maybe he hadn’t always been like this – tortured, lost, searching so desperately and passionately for the little sister that’d been taken from him so long ago. Maybe this quest for Samantha, for the truth was a supplement for something missing from his life. Maybe he’d buried himself in his work to forget about =her=. I know, I know. It was stupid. It wasn’t at all rational and nothing you’d expect from Special Agent Dr. Dana Katherine Scully. But there it was. It was how I felt. I was so fucking terrified that he was going to say ‘Hey, Scully, it’s been great, but Diana’s back now and we’re going to finish up this whole search for the truth thing, k?’ I know he never would’ve done that. I know that even if he’d wanted to, his deep sense of loyalty and devotion to me would’ve stopped it. But that knowledge, that surety didn’t help me where I was then. The seed had been planted, and it was growing at a rate I was powerless to stop. Every word she spoke, every time she touched him, it brought me one step closer to my eventual ‘realization’. He didn’t need me. He never had. I was holding him back. I’ve been keeping him from finding his sister, from finding his truth. My inability to open my mind, to be whatever he needs me to be has taken its toll. I’m hurting him. I’m letting my own desire, my own need to be with him, to fight at his side color my perception of our relationship. He’d rather be with her. He’d set me straight on that one, once he became aware of my feelings. The fact that he’d almost kissed me gives me a kind of wary hope for us. I wish I knew whether he’d done it because he wanted to, or because he’d thought it was something I wanted. Something to keep me from walking out of his life. I couldn’t have done it. I couldn’t have walked out of his life. Quit the bureau? Sure. Done. No problem. Leave Fox Mulder? Ha. Not in this lifetime. Oh, I would’ve been there. I would’ve been ready to do an autopsy if he needed me to, to help the guys track him down when he’d done something truly stupid. My couch would’ve been ready, willing and able to accommodate a late night movie, the occasional Chinese food confessional and even a few hours of nightmare free sleep. I would’ve remained what I’d always been – his friend. But I wouldn’t have been his partner. And that would’ve killed me. I just didn’t realize until that fateful moment in his hallway that it would’ve killed him too. Armed with that knowledge, once we’d escaped from the third ring of hell (AKA Antarctica) I’d made a decision. I wasn’t going to encourage anything less than professional between us, but I was going to stop discouraging it, too. I wouldn’t make an overt pass at him; that wouldn’t be my style and it certainly wasn’t who =we= were. Are. Over the last few months, I’ve become more open to him. I’ve tried to talk to him. I haven’t left him alone when I knew he needed me with him. I’ve shown up at his apartment and just stayed there for awhile, talking to him, making him talk to me. And he’s been receptive. In return, he’s shown up at my apartment on Friday nights, bringing little offerings with him. I think he thinks I won’t accept him if he comes alone. Foolish man. So he brings me chocolate, dinner, wine, sparkling grape juice, ice cream, a single yellow rose, whatever it is he thinks will make me smile at him that day. And so I smile at him. I give him one of my breathtaking smiles, the kind I know he’s going for, no matter what he brings me. And then, I get my real present. The real reward for that smile. I get one of his smiles. The kind that spread over his face gently, then touch his eyes. When his eyes smile at me, I’m his. I am totally under his power, willing to do anything he’d ever ask of me. I shiver, realizing the water’s gone and I’ve been sitting here in the tub like an idiot for the last fifteen minutes. Shaking my head at the ease at which Mulder totally consumes my thoughts, I stand, grab one of the huge complimentary bathrobes (Wow, real cotton, thick, warm, better than my robe, this baby’s coming home with me) the hotel supplies and wrap it around my body, already feeling warmer. Exiting the bathroom, I glance around my area of the suite, finding no sign of Mulder. Slowly making my way across the room, I pause outside the door to the other bedroom in the suite. I knock lightly, not wanting to disturb him if he’s managed to fall asleep. He really had looked horrible earlier. A low moan answers my knock. Furrowing my eyebrows, I knock again, a little louder. “Mulder?” I call gently. “Five more minutes, Mom,” he mumbles and I pull my lower lip between my teeth. That sounded like DeliriousFeveredMulder. Pushing his door open, I walk slowly into his bedroom, jumping slightly as a tree branch hits the window with a thud. Glancing out, I see the storm continues to rage with no sign of stopping. Licking my lips, I creep toward the bed, spotting Mulder’s form (prone and vulnerable, just like he promised) stretched out in the middle of the bed. He’d managed to strip down to his boxers, but hadn’t quite covered up or even washed the airport grime and sea salt off his body. He is soaked to the skin. Reaching a hand out, I place it over his forehead. Just as I’d suspected, he’s burning up. “Mulder,” I call gently, trying to get him turned off his stomach. “Mulder, roll over for me,” I plead softly, heading into the other bathroom. Returning with several towels, a washcloth and a basin of hot water, I seat myself on the edge of the bed next to him. “Mulder,” I call again, more firmly this time. I inject a note of Maggie Scully, mixed with Special Agent no nonsense. It does the trick. “Wha?” he mumbles, turning over onto his back, one arm disjointedly coming up to scratch his bare stomach. “Mulder, you smell bad,” I murmur, dipping the wash cloth into the warm water. Very gently, I move over his face, washing the filth away. I’d like to get him into a shower, but somehow given the difficulty we had turning him over, walking into the bathroom is probably out of the question. “Nu-uh,” he mumbles like a child, his eyes slowly drifting open to look at me. “Scully?” he asks softly, as though he didn’t really know. Moving the washcloth down his neck, to his shoulders, I offer him a tiny smile of reassurance. “I told you not to eat the fish, Mulder,” I chastise lightly, my heart breaking for how obviously sick he is. “Wasn’t the fish,” he denies, slurring his speech like a drunk. “Was the damn boat,” he insists, screwing up his face like a five-year-old presented with Brussels sprouts. “’Sides,” he adds, wincing at he tries to sit up on his elbows, “you didn’t tell me not to eat it right before I did.” I roll my eyes, rinsing the cloth in the water, moving on to his chest. I run the rag over his ribs, then to his stomach, keeping my touch as gentle as I can make it for him. “Why is it you can remember every guy whose sunk a basket for the New York Knicks, yet the simplest instruction from me can be forgotten in a matter of minutes?” I question lightly, only upset with him because he’s sick. I hate seeing him sick. I’d rather have him ditch me than see him sick or hurt. I’ll kiss Kersh before I ever tell him that. “You wearing anything under that robe?” he asks, leering at me drunkenly. I can barely contain a chuckle as my hands move down his legs, rinsing the cloth again in the water. I wince as I feel how hot his entire body is – I hope this is just a reaction to the fish. I really don’t want to have to take Mulder to the hospital in the middle of a tropic storm. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I banter back, finished with my task of washing him. Grabbing a dry towel, I quickly follow the same path I’d taken before, making sure every drop of water has left his skin. His hand settles itself on my thigh and I ignore it, deducing (correctly, as it would seem) that he’s playing me for a reaction. Even DeliriousFeveredMulder is =still= Mulder. “Maybe I would,” he mumbles, slowly drawing his fingertip along the edge of my robe. “Man is a naturally curious animal,” he continues, slipping his thumb beneath the fabric, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger now. “And when presented with an enigma – especially an enigma of the female variety – he can’t help being interested,” he finishes, raising his eyes from his hand to my eyes. Mulder is absolutely irresistible to me like this. His voice is hypnotic, that laconic, almost disinterested, gravelly, verbal caress that makes me shiver at the sound of it. It’s not fair for him to be this sick, this utterly pathetic and have this effect on me. “Trust me Mulder, what’s under this robe isn’t all that interesting,” I murmur, my voice intentionally self deprecating. I brush his hair (what little there is of it) off his forehead and reach for a clean washcloth. I use some of the fresh drinking water by the bed to dampen it, then lay it across his forehead gently. “Does that mean there’s something else under the robe, or is it just you, Scully?” he asks, his fingers abandoning the edge of my robe, working up to the knot around my waist. His brows furrow, as though spending this much energy on thought is painful. “And either way, why wouldn’t I be interested?” he asks, his voice genuinely confused as he slowly works the knot loose enough for the material to gape at my chest, making it clear that it is in fact ‘just me’ under there. A tiny smile pulls at his lips, as though he’s pleased by this new information. Licking my lips, I snap out of the trance-like state that I’d been in since his hand moved further up my body. Tying the robe securely once again, I remove the washcloth. “You need sleep Mulder. You’re delirious,” I inform him, unwilling to chalk up his latest performance to anything else. He often does and says things he doesn’t mean when he’s out of it. A declaration of love comes to mind. “Why don’t you ever believe I mean it?” he asks, reading my mind again. Stop that Mulder, I long to yell. Or at the very least, dust while you’re in there. “Mean what, Mulder?” I ask lightly, leaning over him to pull back the covers on the side of the bed he’s not occupying. His hand moves along my back as I do, settling at the base of my neck. His fingers slip beneath the top of my robe and slowly begin sliding against my skin. I nearly lose my balance and fall on top of him. Control wins out and I succeed in pulling back the covers. “Roll over Mulder,” I instruct, my tongue darting out to nervously lick my lower lip again. He obediently rolls until his back hits the cool sheets. Crossing to the other side of the bed, I cover him only with the sheet, leaving the blanket near so he can cover himself when he begins chilling in a few hours. I do not give myself the chance to examine why I know the stages of Mulder’s suffering when he’s sick. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Scully,” he mumbles into his pillow, once again on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the soft cotton. I crouch down on the floor beside him, running my fingertips over his scalp, circling his temple. “I know,” I murmur, humoring him. His eyes open and I can tell how much effort it’s taking for him to focus on me. “No, you don’t,” he whispers, gazing at me with such sadness I feel my heart cracking for him. “But you will,” he adds, closing his eyes again, his breathing deep and labored. “Make sure of it,” he mumbles, already half asleep. “Whatever you want Mulder,” I whisper, standing, pressing a light kiss to his forehead as I do. “Whatever makes you happy.” Straightening, I move to the other side of the room, watching the storm rage outside. There are moments I wish I could be like the storm. I wish I could rage at all around me, that I could let all the turmoil, all the pain inside me free. Perhaps that release would cleanse me. Perhaps that release would allow me to move on, to move forward. I keep waiting for Mulder to make the first move. All the first moves. I wait so I can stay safe. So I can remain removed from it all; I don’t have to worry about rejection if I don’t put forth the effort. I know it’s unfair to him. After all, I can’t risk rejection, yet I expect him to? A man who’s been rejected more in his life than I can even fathom? I know loss. I understand pain; even his, to a degree. I don’t know why I’m so deathly afraid. I was raised with love. Even when I doubted my place in my family, I’ve never doubted I was loved. I have doubted Mulder. Partaking of one final look at Mulder’s sleeping form, I slip from the room, leaving the door to the suite’s living room open. I walk to my own room, leaving that door open as well, wanting to make sure I’ll be able to hear him if he needs something in the night. Stripping the robe from my body, I pull a clean pair of pale blue silk pajamas from my bag. Dressed for bed, I climb in, pulling the covers to my chin. The sound of the storm rages around me and I can see the trees sway with the force of the winds outside the window next to my bed. Awake now, more so than Mulder has ever been, I stare outside the window, trying to watch the wind. I have never doubted Mulder’s passion, nor his dedication. I have never doubted Mulder’s character, nor his intense devotion to this quest of his. I have, however, doubted his devotion to me. I have doubted whether or not he needed me. I have doubted whether he loved me. I still doubt. After New York, after Fellig, I have begun to examine my own mortality anew. After my Cancer I could barely talk about it. I was simply glad to be alive. But there’s something about Fellig that has made me examine my life. Both with Mulder and independent of him. That I love him is a surety I can no longer deny; not even to myself; barely to him. That I need him, the way I need air is a fundamental part of my being. He has done what I always feared he would. He has consumed me. And I have done what some part of me has always feared I would do. I don’t care. I embrace this consumption he offers me. I offer to consume him, in return. And I have been fine with this. I have, in fact, been secure in this. There’s a kind of safety in surrender. No longer being on guard; no longer wondering when, where or how it’s going to sneak up on you; this wanting, this longing. I have familiarized myself with my need for him, my love for him. By doing so, I have gained power. There is no time in my life for denial; I have no tolerance for it. That’s something Alfred Fellig taught me, whether it’s what he meant to impart or not. Life is short and the =second= you start to take it for granted, you’ve lost something infinitely precious. I had begun to take Mulder for granted before Diana Fowley came back into his life. I had assumed he would always be there. I had assumed that no matter what our relationship seemed – friends, partners, co-workers – we both would always recognize that it was more. That =we= were more, whether we ever spoke it aloud or not. Diana Fowley had other ideas. And so, my doubts started to fester. And now, I’m left here, in this place that is neither the present nor the future – it’s a limbo-land where nightmares are real and insecurities have voice and form. I am so afraid, I need him so desperately, I love him so completely – yet I am lost to the point that I do not know how to tell him. I am lost to the point that I don’t know how to find him. The partner who shares not only my work, but my soul sleeps soundly in the next room. A storm rages, both outside and within. The moon shines brightly, seemingly above the ravages of wind and rain and thunder and lightening. Sleep will not come for me tonight. So I watch the wind until morning. ~ Chapter 3: Mulder Coughs Up the Goods, or The Epiphany That Nearly Killed Dana Scully ~ She hasn’t slept. I’ve always been able to tell. Ever since the first time, when she walked into our (I still referred to it as MY office at the time) office, not quite looking herself. Nothing overt, of course; her hair was masterfully styled; the small amounts of makeup she wore applied to perfection; she’d even worn her wine colored suit. But something was =off=. Her eyes were just a little dimmer than they’d been the day before. That was the first day I’d begun to read her eyes. They told me everything I’d ever want to know. If she was sad, happy, wary, amused, frightened, excited, aroused (I’ve placed that emotion more times than I can count) and enraged. Each one of these emotions is accompanied by a slightly different look in her eyes; the tilting of her mouth, one way or another; the furrow of her brow, or merely the way she carried herself. I was forced to learn to read her moods once I’d realized she wouldn’t give me a straight answer if she weren’t all right. After the forty-fourth ‘I’m fine’ it really started to piss me off. Rather than confronting her with it (even at that early stage in our relationship, I knew how well THAT would go over) I did what I always do: I worked around it. I can read her from a mile away; know exactly what she’s feeling, just by the way she walks into a room. And if I’m actually lucky enough to glimpse her baby blues, I can usually get a beat on how to fix it. Of course, I don’t always do what I know will fix it. Nine times out of ten, what would fix it involves her, a beach, and me. It involves us getting as far away from work, from hell as we possibly can. It would require a total distraction of her mind, to allow her soul to heal. And so the idea was born. I tried to ignore it; I did. I knew something irrevocable would happen to us as soon as we were on our way. And when the idea first occurred to me, we weren’t anywhere near ready for whatever it was that would happen. I drove her up north once, shortly after her abduction. She hadn’t yet returned to work and I’d begun missing her. When I dropped by her apartment, she’d looked depressed; her eyes were sunken into her face and I couldn’t remember seeing her ever look that frail. So I’d suggested the trip. We’d driven to Maine for the weekend. Stayed at a beautiful little bed and breakfast on the shoreline. And it had almost broken me. It was hard keeping my hands off her that weekend. My emotions were already raw and exposed – the roller coaster I’d been riding the previous three months had seen to that. I’d wanted nothing more than to wrap her in my arms, to keep her safe for as long as she’d allow. And it was God damn reckless to have taken her out of town; it’d been as selfish as it was selfless. Despite the test of my control, we really had a wonderful time that weekend. It was yet another moment in our life together that brought us a few more baby steps closer to each other. That weekend is something I’ve tried damn hard to re-capture; I think she has, too. Why else would she choose Maine as a vacation spot? With the exception of that trip, we’ve never gone out of town together socially. There’s always been a reason – be it lights in the sky, a nefarious informant or some other mutant liver eating serial killer with gills. But there were moments when my thoughts strayed – I couldn’t help myself. She’d give me a sigh that was just a tad bit more world weary than the last, and I’d begin to plot – how do I get Dana Scully to relax? How do I get her to calm down for a little while? The answer came to me in a flash. Manufacture a reason. Give her some mystery she thinks she’s saving you from. Make sure she feels needed (in a non-sexual, non-emotional way) on the case. Tell her we’re going ghost hunting. The plan ready in my mind, all I had to do was wait until I caught her at her weariest. Ever since Fellig, her weariness has grown leaps and bounds. This last out of town jerk off fertilizer assignment was the last straw for her. I saw something behind her eyes snap; something I’d barely seen bend before. I knew if I didn’t enact my plan fast, my plan would become useless. So I moved fast; got her here. And now, because I failed in my duties, she hasn’t slept. Because I got sick, she hasn’t rested. Even when I try not to, I can’t help fucking up. She has not yet seen me; I can tell. I stand so I face her profile; her eyes are focused on something I can’t see outside the window. The storm still rages heavily, showing no sign of abating. She looks so God damn tired. I can see the bags under her eyes; the blankets are pulled just above her breasts, her blue silk clad arms flattened over them. The fingernails of one hand tap the rhythm of the rain silently, the other picking at invisible pieces of lint on the covers. I have to pull her out of this. She’s teetering on the edge of something that frightens me; I am terrified of losing her to something I might not be able to bring her back from. Even if it means crossing that invisible line in the sand, I will save her. I have to. I am lost without her. “Morning Sunshine,” I murmur, my voice sounding booming, even to myself in the quiet of her bedroom. Her hand flies to her heart and she snaps her head around to meet my eyes. She takes a few deep breaths, her eyes shutting. “Jesus Mulder,” she mutters, eyes opening again to take me in. “Anyone ever teach you to knock before you come into someone’s room?” “Door was open,” I point out, ambling toward the bed. I plop myself down on one side, folding my arms beneath my head as I lie beside her. “So what do you want to do today, Scully?” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Don’t tell me you intend to investigate whatever we’re here to investigate in this weather,” she tells me dubiously. “Why should the weather effect our investigation?” I ask innocently, knowing she has no clue what I’m talking about. At her look, I relent, inclining my head toward her in surrender. “What we have to investigate is at this hotel,” I murmur softly. The eyebrow creeps almost infinitesimally higher. “And that would be?” she asks, letting the sentence trail off. A grin splits across my face. “Didn’t you know Scully? This place is haunted.” “Why am I not surprised?” she murmurs dryly, giving me that tiny little half smirk of hers. “For the last thirty years, guests of the hotel have been reporting . . . odd occurrences,” I downplay, wanting to ease into this explanation, rather than blindside her with it. “What sort of odd occurrences?” she questions, that slightly suspicious tone creeping into her voice. “Oh you know, the usual,” I wave off, folding my arms over my chest. I turn my head to look at her. “Hungry, Scully?” I ask enticingly. Her eyes narrow for a moment, seemingly debating whether it’s worth it to force a confession from me. “Starved,” is all she says, obviously deciding that it isn’t. I smile gently at her. “Then get it in gear, Girlfriend. Breakfast buffet closes at eleven.” Hopping out of bed, I head back into my own room. “You sure know how to treat a girl, Mulder,” I hear her mumble when she thinks I can’t hear her. I smile a little wider at that. I’m trying Scully; I’m trying. Going straight for my suitcase, I pull out a pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt. I refuse to wear a suit on an island in the middle of a tropical storm. Dressed, I weigh my options carefully: I could stick around the room, wait until Scully’s up and ready to go ghost busting. She would see that as hovering, though, and my hovering irritates her. The one thing I do =not= want to do this trip, is irritate her. In the end, the only viable option is to go downstairs and wait for her in the hotel lounge. Decision made, I stride back to her room, leaning my head around her door. “I’ll meet you downstairs, k?” I suggest casually. Her eyes are still focused on the window. I hate it when she does this; it’s like that damn rose petal, all over again. “Whatever Mulder,” she answers, heaving a sigh. I have to physically force myself to move away from her, to leave her in that room alone and adjourn to the lobby. I can’t bring her out until she’s ready; she won’t let me. I have to wait until the exact right moment. I have to be her friend, none of that bullshit like I pulled last night. Groaning to myself, I step into the elevator, letting my forehead rest against the wooden panel. What little I can remember of my fever-induced delirium proves to me what a jackass I can be. I’m lucky Scully didn’t cold-cock me for that performance with her robe. I really wish I could remember what I said, as so to put the proper amount of spin control on it. I never mean to cross that invisible, but oh so necessary line we have between partnerly concern, and something decidedly more personal. Yet somehow, I seem to be doing so with increasing frequency. Granted, in my defense, there have been a few unusual circumstances. It all started when I thought she was going to leave me. The thought of going on without her had been so unthinkable that invisible barrier between us had been demolished for a few precious seconds. In its interim, a crazy notion had occurred to me. Kiss her, the part of me wildly in love with her had urged. It’ll ruin everything, the sensible, careful part of me had warned. But I was too out of control in that moment to be sensible, or careful. So I’d moved in to kiss her . . . . . . and instead of experiencing something I’d been curious about for years, I found myself trying to lower my partner to floor without hurting her further. The next few days, my hospital stay and subsequent escape are a blur. I only clearly remember the moment I saw her in that cryo-pod, trapped, eyes wide open and filled with terror. Then my focus narrowed again – the litany that had filled me from the moment I awakened to Larry, Moe and Curly above me began anew: Get Scully Home. Get Scully Home. Get Scully Home. And I did. Together, we both found our way home. The difference from all the other times we’d done it was, once I’d gotten home, I realized the only place I wanted to be was with her. She nipped that in the bud with her refusal to acknowledge what had transpired between us in my hallway. I realize I probably could’ve asked her out right – but that’s not our style, Scully’s and mine. We’re subtler than that. Or so I’d thought. Now, I have to wonder; had she been waiting for me to make the first =real= move? By some perverted sense of reality, could her insecurities truly be bigger than mine? I’d thought surely not; that is, until I saw her reaction to Diana, up close and personal. Once Diana was assigned the X-Files, Scully’s claws (and I do mean claws) came out. For the record, I don’t think she’s right about Diana. I really don’t think Diana would ever do something like that to me; that kind of betrayal has no place in what we were – and are – to each other. But I believe Scully has some ridiculous idea in her head that given the choice between Diana and herself, I’d choose Diana. Got to give Scully credit for one thing; when she’s wrong, she’s WRONG. Then again, she’s never done anything in small measures, my Scully. It’s one of the first things that attracted me to her; one of the first things that truly made me wonder what it would be like to be more than simply her professional partner. I would wonder sometimes, when it was dark and sleep would not come, if she would throw herself into a relationship the same way she threw herself into work; if she would show the same passion, the same intensity. In my heart of hearts, I believe she would show more. Those thoughts, coupled with the concern I feel for her has prompted this Ghost hunt. I damn this storm for ruining my vision of rubbing suntan oil over her near naked body. Blinking that thought away before it gets me into trouble, I stride through the hotel restaurant and seat myself in the lounge, waiting for one of the gaily-dressed server’s to notice me. I notice they have a rather diverse selection of magazines available and begin sifting through them, looking for something interesting to read while I wait for Scully. ~ Epiphanies are unusual things. I usually don’t come upon them that often; not =important= epiphanies, at any rate. The solution to a case will sometimes hit me out of the blue, for no apparent reason. But when it comes to me – to my personal life – the epiphanies are few and far between. I believe that’s mostly because I so rarely allow myself more than a moment or two of introspection. When you’ve had so much pain over one lifetime, you tend to shy away from reflection. I don’t want to explore my own psyche. The very idea terrifies me. Yet when it comes to the subject of Mulder, I can’t seem to help myself. Participating in a serious case of introspection while observing Mulder is what brought me to the above-mentioned epiphany. Watching Mulder nervously eat sunflower seeds, his gaze riveted to a copy of some UFO magazine, I finally understand why I seem to love him most when I’m angriest with him. It’s because the man I love – the Fox William Mulder that absolutely melts my soul and deconstructs my being – is elementally everything that drives me nuts. His recklessness, his continued forays into the unknown and usually dangerous. His frustration when the rest of the world refuses to see what he =knows= to be gospel, his astonishment when I don’t believe in ghosts after he’s known me =this= long. The way he continues to view the world through the innocent, wonder filled eyes of a child, even after every ounce of his innocence has been ruthlessly stripped away over his lifetime. The knack he has for unerringly finding himself in harm’s way – ferreting out a serial killer’s lair, or deciphering that a mutant’s killing spree is directly proportional to the position of the moon that night. All these things endanger his life and, as a result, my protective instincts come out full blast. Mother Tigers have got =nothing= on a Scully woman when the man she loves is in danger. Often, however, these protective instincts are expressed to him as anger; hostility toward his way of doing things, rage at the differences between us. Paradoxically, these things that divide us so are also what I love most about us, as a fundamental unit. His passion, his belief in the unsubstantial, his beautiful Mulderish way of doing everything that is inherently his and his alone brings me a kind of frustrated joy. It’s like being swept away with a wave, letting it take you wherever you please. Except with Mulder, I don’t have to worry about crashing on the sand too hard. I know he won’t allow it to happen. He’ll keep me safe, gently carry me back to land and maybe – if I’m lucky – he’ll stay with me for awhile. He allows himself to be grounded, to spend a few precious hours with me in my world because he believes it pleases me. I like his world. I like living in his world. I’ve already bought a house and moved in my plants. Doesn’t he get I’m not going anywhere? And yet how can I expect him to know this? Just this morning, I snapped at him for entering my room without knocking. I =had= left the door open, just in case he’d needed me in the night. The truth is, my thoughts had been so turbulent, so focused that the sound of his voice had nearly given me a heart attack. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately; ever since Fellig, I haven’t been myself. Mulder’s noticed; it’s why he manufactured a ghost story for me. A smile tugs at my lips as I watch him struggle with a particularly stubborn seed, forcing it to crack, his face taking on all the consternation of a little boy trying to fold his first paper airplane. One of the minor epiphanies I arrived at last night was the purpose of this trip. For the last few weeks, I’ve been wondering how, or even if, he was going to approach the subject of my listlessness. I’d finally decided he was going to let it lie. Apparently, I was greatly mistaken. I’ve also underestimated my partner, yet again. That’s something I’d decided not to do after we’d been partnered for a few months; underestimating Mulder is almost always a miscalculation. He manufactured this entire outing; of this, I’m almost positive. He’s gotten it into his head that he needs to ‘save’ me from myself. Maybe he does; maybe I’m happy he’s trying. I know I’m happy he cares enough =to= try. I realize I’ve been difficult lately. I haven’t been as open or receptive to him, as he’s grown accustomed to. Not that I’m normally =that= open; I’m just usually at least willing to listen. Lately, I haven’t even been that. I guess I have no one to blame but myself for his inability to grasp that I’ve become a permanent fixture in his life, whether he likes it or not. I watch him toss another shell on the growing pile beside him. Maybe he doesn’t get it yet. It’s about time I assure Fox Mulder of his position in my life. “Don’t think you’re getting out of buying me breakfast because you’ve filled up on seeds,” I warn, coming up behind him, allowing a teasing note I can’t remember using in awhile show through. >From the slightly startled look on his face, it’s been a =long= time since I’ve really teased him. I’m sorry Mulder. The startled look leaves his face quickly, to be replaced by a gentle smile. “What, you think a few seeds can fill me up? Men need real food. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, a wide variety of assorted tropical fruit . . .” “You eat all that in one morning and you won’t be able to perform manly deeds of manliness in the height of your manhood,” I remind him, plopping down on the Love seat beside him. He takes in my appearance, moving past the loose black slacks, lingering on the long sleeved wine colored blouse I didn’t bother to button all the way in concession to the . . . . tropic local. What he doesn’t know – couldn’t know – is that in a fit of whimsy I put my bikini on beneath my clothes. I try damn hard not to grin; maybe this little ghost busting expedition of Mulder’s will end up doing us both a world of good. “Scully, I’m wounded you’re taking my ability to perform into question,” he delivers dead pan, managing to work the MulderPout to its fullest effect. I’m saved from finding a snappy retort by the appearance of our waitress. “Hi, my name is Susan, are you ready to order?” she asks, sounding mightily perky. Something in my expression must’ve shown, because she gives me a sheepish smile. “They make us sound like members of the Minnie Mouse on Helium brigade,” she explains. “Especially with the somewhat nasty weather we’re having,” she adds. I raise an eyebrow at ‘somewhat’ but don’t comment further. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at my menu.” “We have a great special today,” Susan informs me. “Nonfat vanilla yogurt and an array of fresh fruit indigenous to the island.” “That sounds good actually,” I murmur. “And a cup of coffee.” “And you sir?” she asks, turning to Mulder. “Western omelet, coffee and orange juice,” he replies as though he’s had his order memorized for quite some time now. I hadn’t sulked in the room for =that= long. “Susan,” Mulder begins, voice smooth as silk. I raise an eyebrow; this’ll be good. “Would you happen to know anything about this hotel’s history?” Ahh, ghost hunting; still for my benefit, Mulder, or has the allure of a good mystery peaked your interest? “Would I!” Susan responds, genuinely perky now. She bites her lower lip. “Look, my break’s coming up in about fifteen minutes – mind if I eat with you? If you’re one of those people interested in the bumps and rattles the hotel management insist don’t exist, do I have some stories for you.” “I can assure you, we are definitely interested in anything that bumps and grinds in the night,” Mulder assures her, sending me a discreet wink. Susan misses it completely and smiles sweetly as she departs. Mulder and I consider one another in silence for a moment, exchanging a smile or two through our eyes. “What are we doing here Mulder?” I ask, no preamble; Mulder and I don’t ‘do’ small talk. “I told you,” he reminds me, gesturing with one hand, “there’s been paranormal occurrences in this hotel for decades.” “So something strange goes on, and we hop a plane?” I ask, not the least bit irritated any longer; at this stage in the game, I’m just playing with him. “Who you gonna call Scully?” he counters, looking so adorable I have to work hard to contain a laugh. “Us, it seems,” I murmur dryly, picking up one of his sunflower seeds and rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. “No one really calls us anymore,” he points out, and I can see something akin to guilt fill his eyes. “I seem to either go looking for this kind of stuff, or stumble into it unwittingly.” “And drag me along with you,” I can’t help adding. At the look that crosses his face, I wish I could’ve helped myself. “I don’t mean to put a cramp in your style, Scully,” he murmurs, managing to sound pissed that I’m not jumping for joy at being here, and contrite for my inability to jump for joy. I don’t know whether to console him, or snap at him. “You only cramp my style because I let you Mulder,” I settle on, my tone grudging, even to my own ears. I glance up at him, seeking his eyes with my own, needing that contact between us for some reason. “I kind of like the way you cramp,” I admit, allowing my lips to curve slightly. He leans toward me, letting our shoulders bump as his head inclines toward mine. “I like the way you cramp too,” he murmurs quietly, gentle affection and just a hint of amusement simmering behind his eyes. Does he mean something else by that? I look closely, trying to hear more than he’s saying. There have been moments in our life together I truly believed I was cramping his style; a bleach blonde detective, and an entomologist with a little =too= much love for her profession come to mind; not to mention a certain fellow FBI agent and current head of the X-Files division. Is it possible I could’ve misjudged the irritation I surely thought I read in his eyes? Would he have welcomed my intrusion, rather than scorned it? I must’ve communicated with him silently again, for he smiles at me, the smile still barely there; one of those smiles only I would be able to detect. “You can cramp my style =any= time,” he murmurs, taking hold of my hand and squeezing gently. When he moves to release it, I refuse to let go, holding his hand a little firmer than I normally would. His eyes are puzzled, but they are also pleased. I squeeze his hand for emphasis, letting him know that the feeling is most definitely mutual. “You planning on sharing any of these ghost stories you’ve read about?” I ask, my voice huskier than I intended it to be. He pauses for a moment, his eyes glancing at our hands briefly, before rising to meet mine again. We must look like we’re together, I realize suddenly. Not that we aren’t together; we’re just not together in the way most would assume. I see a woman watching us in my peripheral vision, her eyes having found us the most interesting sight in the room. She probably thinks we’re newlyweds, come to Catalina to celebrate our honeymoon in the sun and sand. That would be about par for our course together; when we go on our honeymoon, some tropical storm will most likely interru— My GOD did I just say when? “Scully, you okay?” At least I think that’s what he said; it might’ve been something more like ‘what?’ or even ‘Scully, want to run around the hotel naked?’ I can’t be sure because I just thought of WHEN, not IF, concerning Mulder, a romantic future and me. When the HELL did I allow my random thoughts and feelings to start thinking in terms of eventualities, instead of unlikely futures? It must’ve happened recently; my psyche never would’ve slipped like that before we lost the X-Files. It’s ridiculous, really; something that was supposed to break our spirits has actually brought us closer. We’d never really socialized much, Mulder and me. But with the loss of the X-Files, we were forced into grunt work that made the time we spent together less quality than it’d been in the past. So we started employing our own brand of socializing; you might even call them dates. “Yea Mom, Mulder and I flew to Vegas this weekend. Oh, nothing much. Just a meeting with a nefarious government snitch that was cut short by a bunch of MIB’s before we ever even met up with him. Same old, same old.” “Billy, I was late for Christmas morning because I spent it with Mulder. We opened some presents together. You know, after we got out of the haunted house and away from the two restless spirits who tried to get us to murder each other in some twisted lovers pact. And what did you and Tara do on Christmas Eve?” “Mulder and I went to a high school reunion. Granted, it wasn’t either of ours and we nearly drowned because some guy couldn’t admit he was in love with his high school crush, but hey, we danced all night and got free eats, as Mulder so colorfully reminds me.” In the midst of all our ‘extra curricular activities,’ Mulder and I became closer in a way we’d never been before. We started talking to each other about things we’d never talked about before; sharing our feelings, at least a little bit. In some ways, I trust him more now than I did even a month ago. What happened to me in New York changed me in a subtle, but no less substantial way. When I look around, I sometimes see people in black and white. I know it’s merely my imagination; these people don’t die. But it doesn’t change the very real psychological impact Fellig has had on me; I fear for my sanity, like I never have in all my years partnered with Mulder. Who, incidentally, is looking at me like I really have lost my mind. All because I lost my mental discipline for a few lousy seconds and thought of when, instead of if. “Scully, are you all right?” “I’m fine,” I answer, my automatic answer leaping forth as I try to calculate exactly how long I’ve been quietly freaking him out. “I spaced out,” I say dumbly. “Were it not below a highly trained FBI Agent to say so, the word ‘duh’ would spring to mind,” Mulder mutters, squeezing my hand without conscious thought on his part. “I’m sorry,” I offer lamely, not meeting his eyes, terrified of what he might read there. Jesus, I feel so raw right now; so exposed; so naked. Okay, BAD choice of words. Naked and Mulder in the same realm right now is not a good place to go. I have the totally irrational urge to shoot the woman who’d been staring at us for starting me on this train of thought in the first place. “Don’t be sorry,” he admonishes. “Just tell me what the hell just happened to you.” “I... I don’t know,” I lie quickly, totally unprepared for this conversation. “I told you, I just spaced out.” The look on his face states he clearly doesn’t believe me. However, Mulder being Mulder doesn’t call me on it. He rarely calls me on it out loud. Then one day when I’m least expecting it – POW – the other shoe drops and we end up in a much more weighty discussion than the original lie got us out of. I contain a sigh knowing when this point comes up, it’s going to be a doozy. And quite possibly the catalyst for . . . something. “Okay, we’ve got a breakfast special, a western omelet, a glass of orange juice and I just brought you a pot of coffee to share.” Susan gives us a huge smile as both our eyes turn simultaneously to take her sudden appearance in. Her eyebrows waggle. “You ready to hear some kick-ass ghost stories?” ~ Chapter 4: The Plot Thickens (Materializes) or Mulder Finally Gets Proof of =Something= He Believes ~ I tried to listen to Susan’s ghost stories; really, I did. I even tried to appear interested. I may have even succeeded a few times, especially once she started talking about the Lovers. She just has to have a ghost story about Lovers. Ever since Maurice and Lyda, I’ve been fascinated with the concept of ‘together for all eternity’. Not that I’d ever enter into a murder/suicide pact with Scully; hell no. I much prefer us the way we are: Alive, healthy and able to watch each other’s backs. I suppose it’s the concept of forever that’s really giving me pause. What is forever? Is it until we die, or some undetermined time after that point? Is forever as long as our souls exist and, if so, does that include future lives? If you promise someone forever in this life, but love another in a future life, does that invalidate your promise of forever? I’ve thought of this at great length, especially after my encounter with Melissa Ephisan. I don’t know if she was my soul mate; and even if she was, I know damn good and well she isn’t my =only= soul mate. I know, in a place so bone deep inside me only Scully’s ever touched it, that Scully is my soul mate. She is the person I am supposed to devote my life and time to; my life; my love; the center of my universe. She has always existed in this capacity; in this life and all others. I just haven’t been able to resign myself to it until now. Is what Scully and I have forever? Or is forever some other entity entirely, reserved for Romeo and Juliet type lovers? And if you were going to end your life in some pledge of love for all time, why the HELL would you pick Catalina to do it in? But these Lovers, at least had taste; they killed themselves in the suite Scully and I are currently residing in. But wait, it gets better; they did so on Valentine’s Day. What’s tomorrow, you ask? Me and my big fucking ideas. So much for my attempt to take Scully’s mind off our lives. One look confirms what I already knew; she’s taking Susan’s story in with her usual dose of skepticism, plus a large amount of trepidation. Scully doesn’t believe in ghosts; but, as she’s admitted in the past, she does have an irrational fear of them. I swear to God I didn’t know the place might =actually= be haunted. I’d thought it was like most of the hotels and tourists traps on any island; there were people who liked to believe it was haunted to drum up business. But what Susan is telling us goes beyond a few tales to tell your grandchildren about your summer vacation. The noises she’s reporting having heard herself are classic trademarks of spirits not laid to rest. Apparitions other guests have seen in the halls fit the description of Anthony Bellows and Felicity James, the two kids whose families didn’t approve of their relationship. They came here nearly twenty years ago to the day and killed themselves in our room. If I weren’t so worried about Scully, I’d be practically foaming at the mouth. This case is like a kook’s wet dream; a genuinely good opportunity to observe paranormal activity up close and personal. Be it a case of ‘been there, done that’ mentality, or my total focus on making Scully feel better, I just can’t work up the proper interest. “And that’s the first time I saw her myself,” Susan concludes, sitting back in the chair in front of Scully and me. “Felicity,” Scully clarifies, definitely wearing her little ‘skeptic’ beanie. “Yep,” Susan confirms. “I’ve never seen Anthony – none of the women have. But some of the guys . . . one of the busboys around here SWEARS he saw Anthony the night he proposed to his wife. The funny thing is, people who just . . . see them, like me, have no problem talking about it. But people – couples – who see both of them, refuse to divulge any secrets. They just sort of grin.” Susan leans in, affecting a confidential manner. “They say Felicity and Anthony danced before they died; the only reason their bodies were discovered so quickly was because they’d left a record playing over and over again and the other guests began to complain.” “Which record?” I ask, before I can stop myself. Scully gives me a ‘you insensitive pig’ look, which I pointedly ignore. Sue me; I’m curious. “It was an old Elvis Presley tune,” Susan murmurs, gnawing on her lower lip. She snaps her fingers triumphantly. “It was ‘Fools Rush In’,” she announces proudly. “The King strikes again,” Scully murmurs, smirking as she sits back in the love seat to my left. “Ha-ha,” I mumble, sending a smile Susan’s way. “Thanks for your help – the Missus and I are fascinated by this sort of thing.” Scully’s eyes are wide as saucers. I’m not even looking at her, but I can =feel= it. Susan smiles kindly at us. “You guys here on your honeymoon?” “Yea,” I confirm, looking a bit bashful. I sneak a glance at Scully. Just as I’d assumed - her eyes are now popping out of their sockets, much like a cartoon characters. “Well, you two have a great time. I know the weather’s not the best for an island, but we’ve got tons of fun stuff to do around the hotel.” An excited look gleams in her eyes. “Oh hey, we’ve got a dance contest tonight and one of our couples just dropped out – it’ll be a great time!” “We’d love to,” Scully answers before I can open my mouth to voice a refusal. My head snaps around to stare at her blankly. She gives me a self-satisfied little smile that seems to say ‘marry me off without my consent, will ya’. I can’t contain a grin. At least she’s having fun. It’s at my expense, but it’s still fun. “What are your names?” Susan asks. “Mister and Missus Ricardo,” I supply helpfully, and with a totally straight face I might add. Susan eyes us suspiciously. “Ricky’s mother was a big fan of nineteen fifties television,” Scully cuts in, keeping her face and voice totally neutral. “She had his name legally changed to Richard Ozzie Ricardo.” She blushes and affects a laugh that makes me want to start laughing. “I swear, sometimes I think he only married me because my name is Lucy.” “Sweetheart,” I croon, taking her hand and placing a kiss to the palm, “you know that despite what mom said, if you’d been named Deborah we’d of just had it changed.” At this, Susan has apparently withstood all any mere mortal can of Mr. & Mrs. Spooky. “It was really nice meeting you both; I’ll be sure to sign you up for the dance contest tonight. Can I get you anything else?” “Just the check,” Scully and I answer at the same time, never taking our eyes off one another. “You betcha,” Susan mutters, quickly tossing our check down and fleeing the table. As soon as she’s out of earshot, we both start laughing, near hysterics. “You’re in a mood,” I comment to Scully once I’ve caught my breath. “Me?” she counters, still giggling a little. “You’re one to talk.” “But that’s different,” I protest. “I’m =always= in a mood.” “Mulder, you will get no argument from me there.” She smiles at me, a real, wide, beautiful smile. “So what now? I suppose you want to go back to the room and wait for Felicity to show up.” I pretend to consider that for a moment. “We could do that,” I allow, keeping a firm hold on her hand. “Or we could practice for the dance contest tonight.” Her eyebrow raises at me. “Mulder, I wasn’t serious,” she begins, watching me carefully. “I was just having a little fun with her.” I narrow my eyes, feigning annoyance with her. “Are you trying to back out?” I ask, sounding shocked. “Lucy,” I draw out, doing the best damn Ricky Ricardo of my life. I succeed in sending her into another peal of giggles. “Okay, okay,” she concedes, holding up a hand. “You win. We’ll go . .. practice for the dance contest,” she murmurs, pronouncing the syllables of each word carefully, as though she can barely believe she’s saying it. “I knew there was a reason I married you,” I murmur, smiling into her eyes, loving the sound of her laughter. The laughter stops and something passes over her eyes. Aw jeez, what did I say? Stop that Scully, I long to yell. Come back; I like it when you laugh. This sudden change in her brings to mind what happened earlier. While she’d love me to believe she just spaced out, I know damn good and well there was more to it than that; is more to it. For some reason, something I’ve said or done has caused that sadness, that utter stillness to come over her entire being. She speaks before I can contemplate her further. “I’d really like to just go up to the room for awhile, maybe lie down,” she murmurs, looking more distant than she has since we arrived. “I didn’t sleep much,” she explains further when I’m silent. I nod slowly, forcing myself not to betray my cool exterior. “Sure,” I agree a bit too easily. “I’m still a little worn out, anyway,” I add, alluding to the fact that I’ve been almost violently ill most of our journey. What I don’t say out loud is that I’d rather have her in that room than anywhere else on this whole damn island. I don’t say what I want to do more than anything else is take her upstairs and wrap her inside me for a few precious hours. I don’t say all the things I want to say; all the things I’ve realized over the last year; all the things I’ve always known somewhere, but refused to acknowledge for one reason or another. I want to acknowledge all those things now; to give voice and substance to the looks, the little touches, the subtle gestures. I want to take the subtlety out of our relationship. I want to live in something more substantial than subtext. And I want to live there with Scully. I only hope she wants the same thing. That’s something I hadn’t admitted, even to myself. This whole trip was concocted in my mind, supposedly for her own good; but it’s one of the most selfish things I’ve ever done. I’m sick of the distance between us because I need her. I’m tired of wondering what she’s feeling, instead of being able to simply ask her. I’m through playing her platonic work-mate, the man she sees as a good friend, yes, but ‘off limits’. I don’t want to be ‘off limits’ to Scully. I don’t want her to be ‘off limits’ to me. Heaven forbid I make the first move though; hell no. Ever since that aborted attempt in my hallway, I haven’t been able to work up the courage to try bridging the distance between us in anything resembling a romantic overture. Half of me is afraid an assassin with a AK47 will take her out just as our lips brush; the other half is terrified she’ll just shoot me. I’m not sure which eventuality scares me most at the moment. She really is beautiful. The thought occurs to me sporadically over our life together. The light catches a certain way and I’m once again made aware of the magnificence that is my partner. She isn’t classically beautiful or in any way what you’d call surface pretty. She is unique; a true original. Her beauty transcends the cover girl’s today’s public call the most beautiful women alive. It comes from within; it radiates, no matter the day she’s had or the hardships she endures on a daily basis. Looking at her now, I’m struck at how her beauty takes on a new layer when she is sad. It’s the kind of poignant beauty that has made poets weep and artists paint; to capture her essence would be to capture an enigma; a work of art, for sure. The kind men would give up their lives to spend an hour with. Scully is worth the loss of a mere life; I would give mine a thousand times for her. I have. It is brought to my attention that she is speaking. I wish I could say it was for any other reason than I was staring at her lips and realized they were moving. “You were pretty sick last night,” she’s saying, a look of genuine concern on her face. I realize now that I must’ve had her pretty worried last night. I wish to God that I could remember exactly what I did. Whatever it was, it doesn’t seem to have put her off me too badly; maybe most of what I remember was a dream. “I am better now,” I clarify, not wanting to worry her further. “I’m just tired.” I offer her a gentle smile, hoping to assure her that I am indeed telling the truth, not just feigning it for her benefit. She refuses to be the weak one; refuses to be the one who needs to rest. Only when she’s sure I’m about to fall over does she admit to herself the level of her exhaustion. “Let’s go take a nap then,” she suggests, looking almost relieved to be heading upstairs. She stands and looks at me expectantly. “Coming Ricky?” she asks, an amused eyebrow raised. And the time has arrived. The moment in every day where I decide just how far I’m going to push the casual flirtation between us. Over the past few years, it’s become so much a part of who we are, I don’t think either of us acknowledges just how far we do go sometimes. The innuendo stopped being serious somewhere around our sixth month together; through mutual unspoken consent, we’d decided we weren’t going down that road together. We would be partners; no more, certainly no less. Somehow, we’ve evolved beyond mere platonic partners without consent on either of our parts. It hasn’t moved into the physical, but she has taken up residence in the corner of my soul I’d marked off years ago; it was surrounded by police tape and she somehow found a way inside. Now it belongs to her and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. The original question stands; how far do we go? How much do I give away this early? How far am I prepared to go, period? If I cross the line first, will she follow? And if she does, will I have the courage to bury the line in the sand? It’s already hopelessly blurred. Can we both take that final step, together? “Our honeymoon and you want to nap?” I ask, forcing an aghast tone to my voice. I stand in front of her, placing my hands on her hips, giving her a smile that tells her I’m serious, but that we can pretend I’m not, if she likes. “Whatever happened to making love until we can’t move anymore?” Her eyes search mine; I can feel them like a caress. She’s searching me for something; trying to figure out how she should react. She wiggles out of my grasp, trailing a hand down to grab mine when it would’ve fallen to my side. She quirks a playful eyebrow at me. “You’ve been sick,” she answers, smiling gently. “I’d assumed it’d tax your already depleted resources.” I tug her hand gently, pulling her toward me until our bodies barely brush. I smile gently, hoping the gesture will put her at ease. “Don’t assume anything where I’m concerned, Scully,” I warn, letting the seriousness creep into my voice again. “I figured that out a long time ago, Mulder,” she murmurs after a lengthy silence. She drops my hand and heads for the elevator bank. She inclines an eyebrow, as if to say ‘coming?’ as she holds open the doors. Shaking myself out of the paralysis momentarily taking residence in my body, I follow her, mentally kicking a clot of dirt onto that line in the sand. ~ His hand caressed her milk white breast, his thumb brushing across the tip of it. She arched toward him, an enraptured look on her face. The sunlight glinted off her red hair. She whimpered when his mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss, sealing their bond for all time. In whispered words, she begged him to take her, moving her own hands to the buttons of his jeans. After a timeless interval, she held his manhood in her hands, stroked his hardness slowly, and poised him at the entrance to her body. His hazel eyes bore down into hers and she could already feel herself lost in his heat Jesus Christ why am I reading this with Mulder next door? I set my book beside me and heave a sigh. Why the hell did I have to pick the book that had a guy with hazel eyes on the cover? God knows I had no clue the woman was going to be a redhead. Nor did I know it was going to be a mystery/romance involving two CIA Agents (had they been FBI Agents I would’ve suspected some kind of Consortium interference) who have been partnered for three years and let loose their unresolved sexual tension when they’re assigned to a case in Hawaii (where it’s actually SUNNY, damn them). When I was young, I used to wonder why on Earth Melissa would read those sappy, borderline pornographic ‘romance’ (her word, NOT mine) novels she’d become obsessed with when she turned thirteen. She’d sigh at my annoying, inexperienced in the art of love (again, her words, NOT mine) self and patiently explain ‘you just don’t get it yet Dana.’ I remember how much that used to piss me off, even when I was barely ten. I read my first romance novel when I was eleven. I hated it and couldn’t fathom why anyone would buy into the commercialized sap. I picked up another one when I was fifteen, and my opinion wasn’t much improved. Then, after I lost my virginity, I gave them another try. I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to get past the first sex scene. Throughout my life, I never lost my distaste for romance novels. I found the idea of love at first sight, the ice around your heart melting because you found that special person and never knowing the person you loved with your soul loved you back, to be trite and unrealistic. There were times I picked one up for a good laugh; I even found a passage or two moving. But I never enjoyed them and I sure as hell =never= would’ve brought one along on a trip. That is, until about three months into my partnership with Mulder. I think it was after we got back from Icy Cape. Something about being trapped in a small room with him that made my palms sweat (and it wasn’t out of fear) and my face flush. The memory of his hand at the back of my neck, his touch so gentle and calming as he checked me for infection never fails to send a surge of warmth through my soul. That was the moment I trusted him completely. And, I think that was the moment he trusted me, =really= trusted me, not like he had before then. He liked me, I knew that. He’d liked me from our first meeting in spite of himself. He even respected me at that point. But he didn’t trust me the way he needed to; the way we both needed to in order to be real partners. That trust was born in that storage room and it’s grown ever since. We’ve been neglectful parents to it at times, taking it for granted, assuming it would always be there, no matter what we did. It was strained, sometimes even bent and frayed to the point we thought it might shred. But it didn’t; our trust has never been broken, no matter what has passed between us. It’s a line we’ve never crossed, one I doubt we ever will. I will trust him always. I believe he will trust me always. I have to. And ever since that trust came into fruition, I have been hopelessly in search of the perfect romance novel. At first I convinced myself it was just a latent woman thing. I’d never really been into ‘girly’ stuff; this was probably left over from my teenage years. I didn’t really believe myself then, but I forced myself to accept the excuse. After a couple of years, I had to admit it wasn’t just a phase left over from adolescence. I was on a mission; am on a mission. I’m trying to find words to describe what I feel for Mulder. Something inside of me is searching for someone else who’s possibly felt this much, this deeply, this profoundly for another human being. I’ve yet to find my own thoughts echoed in anyone else’s voice. These thoughts are uniquely my own. But still I do not admit defeat. It isn’t my style. I search, with almost the same passion I give Mulder in our search for the truth. I search for one of the truly lost art forms: Romance. Who’d of thought Dana Katherine Scully, professional skeptic, was a closet romantic? It isn’t traditional romance I crave though. It was the kind of romance anyone else would find foolish or stupid. Playing Scrabble with Mulder on his desk is romantic to me. To just say it, it doesn’t sound so. But when I explain it, I think maybe even the most conventional people might agree. When we play Scrabble at our desks, it’s because we’ve stayed late to finish up some report Kersh needed. We’re both wired and unwilling to leave each other’s company yet. So Mulder breaks out the Scrabble bored. He sweeps all the papers off his desk as he would if he were about to take me . . . Just going to get OFF that train of thought . . . Okay, we’re back. He sets up the board and gives me the most adorable grin. We are both intelligent people. I maintain that the only reason he beats me most of the time is because of his eidetic memory. Still, we fill almost every space on the board until all tiles are exhausted. Sometimes for fun, we split it into categories – only rare diseases allowed; use only words that could be found in one of our old case files. If you use a word, and it’s challenged, you have to use it in a complete sentence, relating to said case. Most of the time, we don’t even finish the game, dissolving into laughter at the unique cases we come up with. The laughter is what makes it romantic. We can laugh at anything together. We can even laugh at each other, secure in the knowledge that it’s not mean or petty. Another thing that happens during these late night Scrabble games, is that Mulder shares his sunflower seeds with me. I know people don’t realize this, but Fox Mulder sharing his sunflower seeds is like most men sharing their blood. He does things that are considered to be out of date, but I find charming. He holds open doors for me. He stands when I arrive at any area he’s seated at. He places his hand at the small of my back, I think more as a reassurance to himself that I’m there. As much as he trusts me, part of him still doesn’t believe I’ll never leave him. A lot of that is my fault. I promise myself again that I’ll find a way to prove to him that I’m here forever before he turns forty. He holds my hand on airplanes because he knows I’m terrified and it helps. He throws paper airplanes at my head when I’ve gotten too far into mindless drudgery. He does a frighteningly accurate Kersh impression that never fails to brighten my mood. He flies all the way to New York because he’s scared for me and doesn’t trust anyone else to watch my back. He trusts me not to reject him when he calls me just because he needs to hear the sound of my voice. He expends time and energy to draw me out, even when the result is often my exploding at him. That is romance to me. Hell, the way he says my surname is the most exquisite verbal caress. All the sweetheart’s and baby’s and honey’s in the world don’t equal one softly spoken, huskily tender ‘Scully’. That’s what I search for in these books. I admit, I’ve found a few that come close. But none have hit the mark. Although, I do give the current one credit – it’s almost scarily close. Remembering I am about half of the way through it, I pick it up and quickly scan the words to find the place I left off . . . “Time to get up Sunshine,” Mulder’s far too upbeat voice calls as he barges in, without knocking. “Mulder, do you have any idea what a closed door means?” I ask, tossing my book to the foot of the bed in disgust. “A closed door is a door waiting to be opened,” he responds, eyes instantly darting to the book. Fuck. There’s no time to kick it aside, no time to pretend I wasn’t really reading it. He’s got me, he knows that he’s got me, he knows that I know and so on and so on. He snatches it before I can and I’m poised at the end of the bed, our noses nearly bumping. He pulls back and holds the book up, his eyebrows raised. “Civilized people adopted a custom a few centuries ago,” I bite out, pissed that he finally has proof. “Why Scully, is this one of those books that aren’t yours?” he asks before I’ve even stopped speaking, pissing me off further when he uses one of my own lines back at me. “It’s called asking permission before entering someone else’s room,” I continue, gritting my teeth. He once again talks over the end of my sentence. “It looks interesting,” he comments, flipping it open where I’d left it. Oh shit he’s going straight for the sex, I know he is. “Her eyes told him something he’d always known,” he quotes aloud, his voice imperious and mocking. “Some people actually knock,” I call out loudly, inserting the comment in an attempt to stop his words. “The passion erupted between them as his stare gave her all the answers she needed. He filled her in one fluid motion and they rode the waves together, sinking and shifting into each other until they crested and climaxed together as one,” he finishes with a flourish. I sit on my knees, quiet now at the end of the bed. My head is bowed in defeat and I warily lift my eyes to see his face. A single eyebrow is quirked in amusement and I sigh, folding my arms around my middle. I feel the bed dip beside me and my startled eyes fly to his face. “Mulder,” I begin quietly, having no clue what I’m about to say. “I’m sorry,” he says before I can decide, looking contrite. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he adds. “I just . . . I can’t believe you actually read these things,” he explains helplessly. “And why not?” I ask, wanting to know what’s so fucking implausible about me having a romantic side. “Well,” he babbles, “because you’re Scully.” My eyes widen. “Because I’m Scully?” I repeat dumbly, rising from the bed. “Do you honestly think that I have no passion? No need or yearning for love and affection, even in the most vicarious of thrills?” “Scully, no,” he begins, back peddling furiously as he stands before me. “It’s just that these things are so mindless,” he begins. I cut him off. “For the record, I admit to reading romance novels. They’re mindless, yes, and I go through them in about an hour and a half. But . . .” I pause for a moment, pursing my lips, trying to gather my thoughts and explain this to him in a way that won’t seem totally ridiculous. “I enjoy them,” I finally stutter, barely believing it myself. “Especially since a select few of them are actually pretty good. You just have to wade through layers of crap to get to them,” I admit, sheepish again as my anger fades. I feel the back of his thumb against my chin and I raise my eyes to his. He smiles gently. “Scully, why do you think I watch the skin flicks?” he asks, gentle affection soothing me as it always does. “Do you really want to know what I think?” I counter, a playful eyebrow raised. “Scratch that,” he amends, chuckling. “My point is,” he continues, “we both have releases Scully. Just because you don’t use mine and I don’t use yours doesn’t make either . . . silly,” he finally settles on. “I’m sorry I made fun of yours.” I smile back at him. “I’m sorry for all the times I made fun of yours,” I mumble, hating the apology but knowing it necessary. I hadn’t realized that may he was searching for the same thing I was. “So, are you ready?” he asks, switching subjects faster than a speeding bullet. “For?” I prompt, truly having no clue. I haven’t gotten a minute of sleep since the plane. “Scully,” he says as though my name should explain everything. “The dance contest,” he explains further when my name elicits no response. “Is not for another two hours,” I finish for him. He shakes his head, looking disappointed in me. “We have to =practice= for the dance contest,” he reminds me. “Mulder, I came up here to nap,” I remind him. “And you did. You’ve been in here for almost two hours,” he practically whines. I contain a sigh. I can’t refuse him like this. He’s a little boy, begging for attention he never received. “All right,” I grumble. “We’ll practice.” “Are you going to wear that?” he asks, indicating my sweat pants and gray t-shirt. I look down at myself in my sleepwear. “Is there a problem with it?” I ask, failing to see why my attire should matter. “It’s just . . . kind of not what one would wear to go dancing,” he mumbles, clearly having decided what he was about to say wasn’t safe. I narrow my eyes. Does Mulder want to play? Fine; we’ll play. “Give me a minute, I’ll change,” I say breezily, smiling falsely. His eyes narrow. “Scully, you look fine,” he attempts to retract. “Mulder, I’m changing,” I say definitively. He smiles at me, that same gentle affection and – dare I think it consciously? – love in his eyes. “I hope not,” he whispers softly, exiting my room and shutting the door gently behind him. Oh God damn him. Just when I’ve gotten a REALLY good idea in my head to pay him back for at least half the innuendoes he’s thrown at me over the years, he has to go and say something that makes me want to cry. Well, to hell with that. I’ve got a good idea and I’m running with it. Not to mention that fact that he’ll probably enjoy it more than I will. ~ Chapter 5: Scully’s Really Evil Plan or How to Fuck With Your Audience by Alluding to a Kiss that Never Actually Happens Then Totally Ignoring it in Your Sixth Season. . . (Sorry, that was the alternate title of Fight the Future.) ~ Oh. My. God. Normally my vocabulary isn’t totally wiped out with no conscious effort on my part. Just a few moments ago, I was reflecting on the fact that I’d finally caught Scully in her romance novel habit. I had almost given up on the hope of one day having proof of it. I hadn’t intended to disturb her. I just didn’t want her to be alone; I even convinced myself something in her posture suggested SHE didn’t want to be alone. Sue me; I’ll believe anything I tell myself. My mental process was functioning just fine as I rooted through the modest CD collection the hotel provided to its four star guests. I’d just popped Eric Clapton into the CD changer when all my brain function ceased. In my defense, it’s not just me. ANY man would be staggered by it. There are a few gay men out there who might just have to consider switching teams when confronted with Dana Katherine Scully in her current state. She’s wearing the bikini I bought her. And a beautiful black sarong skirt she’s tied expertly around her waist, so most of her left leg peeks out; and, of course, absolutely nothing else. Dear Lord take me now because I’m never going to see a sight that rivals this. The only thing that keeps me from vocalizing the thought is the knowledge that I’m going to be allowed to touch the vision before me. In a few moments, I’m going to press her body to mine and dance with her in preparation for an entire night of dancing. I’ve only danced with Scully once before. Twice if you count the impromptu tango in that diner outside Iowa City when Love Me Tender came on the jukebox (which I’m sure she doesn’t.). Impromptu Elvis inspired cheek to cheek meetings aside, I’m definitely looking forward to this. Be cool Mulder, I order myself. Be unflappable; don’t let her see what she’s doing to you. Don’t make her think you’re nuts (too late?); don’t let on how much you want her. Just be there for her; be her friend. She needs a friend right now. I wish to God that I were capable of listening to the good advice I give myself. Usually, the only little voice I pay attention to is the one that says if I don’t go NOW, I could miss out on an opportunity to study one of the most significant findings of our time, depending on what we’ve been investigating at the time. Good intentions aside, I am lost the moment she gives me that tiny, shy smile she has. She ducks her head and her hair obscures my vision momentarily. She looks up and she radiates confidence. How do you do that Scully? How do you go from scared shitless to fearless in less than six seconds? “May I have this dance?” she asks, her voice gliding over my nerve endings like warm honey. Scully holds out a hand, her eyes offering me something I’m not sure she intended them to. Nonetheless, I take her hand and pull her close to me, settling my left hand at the small of her back, my right holding hers against my chest. Her free hand snakes around my waist, holding me as we slowly begin to sway to the strains of ‘Change the World’. “You can have all the dances,” I murmur without conscious thought on my part. Had I been thinking, I never would’ve said anything so inanely stupid and juvenile. Jesus, it sounded like something a high school kid would tell his prom date in the hopes she might let him feel her up later . . . “Forever and always Mulder?” she asks, interrupting my internal ramblings. I look down into her eyes and am momentarily stalled as to what to say. Her voice and the expression on her face is so damned guileless. She’s hopeful, like a little girl asking for the pony she knows she’ll never really get for Christmas. “Forever and always Scully,” I find myself promising her, unable to give her any other answer. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to disappoint my partner. I’ve never enjoyed it; but I used to actually be able to DO it if I had to. I wouldn’t begin to know how anymore. “Although, I find the concept of forever rather dubious,” I hear myself add, the words definitely escaping my mouth without my consent. I really don’t want to get into a conversation about the definition of forever with Scully. Those waters are far too choppy and I’ve already been seasick once this trip. “Dubious how?” she asks and I KNEW she wouldn’t be able to let it lie. “Well, think about it,” I propose, resigned at this point to having the discussion. “What is forever, exactly?” “Until the end of time?” she offers, sliding her arm from around my back to my shoulder, resting it there as her fingertips brush lightly against the top of my spine. “Ah, but if forever is . . . well, =forever=, how can it stop at the end of time? Just because time itself stops, does that mean ‘forever’ stops?” I pull her a little tighter against me. I try really, really hard not to think about the fact that only my t-shirt separates me from pure ScullySkin. “I suppose it is something of a paradox,” she allows, tipping her head up to look me in the eye. Her fingertips begin playing with the ends of my hair and I fight the urge to close my eyes at her touch. “Does forever mark the end of time, or does the end of time mark the end of forever?” “Or,” I challenge, spinning us quickly, causing a surprised laugh to leave us both, “perhaps forever supercedes the end of time. Perhaps time itself has no meaning to forever.” “To define forever is to define time itself?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. “Time is a universal invariant; by its essence it can’t be defined.” “I believe the term ‘forever’ is used far too loosely,” I mention as the CD clicks over to ‘Tears in Heaven’. “People say they’ll love someone forever, or that they’ll remember someone forever and I don’t think they mean it. I don’t think they mean it because they can’t grasp what they’re promising. To define forever is to promise not your life, not even your soul, but your being; everything that makes you who you are to another human begin. By saying forever, you’re implying something beyond life and time.” “You mean sort of like you just promised me all the dances?” she challenges, a playful light in her eyes. I look down into her eyes for a long, agonizing moment. Time seems to slow around us and I allow my thumb to gently trace the base of her spine above her sarong. Her skin is smoother than silk and I find myself wanting to touch more of it. “No,” I disagree. “I meant that.” She looks up at me and I can tell she’s trying to decide if I’m serious. She’s biding her time, unwilling to give anything away, for fear I might change the mood with a glib remark. I hate that I’ve made her wary of her own emotions around me. In retrospect, I can see all the times I’ve diffused a potentially volatile situation between us with a simple innuendo. However, I don’t want to do that this time. Right now, I want us to be honest. I want her to know how I feel, how special she is to me. I’m sick of hiding from her and I’m sick of pretending I feel like a surrogate older brother to her. I don’t and I know damn good and well she doesn’t feel that way about me, either. “Really?” she asks finally, that beautiful eyebrow raised again. “So I’m your only dance partner, from here on out?” I wait a beat, one part of me trying to talk the other part out of what I’m about to do. “You’re my only partner, Scully,” I tell her, using the word partner in every context it applies to. “Now and always.” “Forever?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. When did our faces get this close? When was it exactly that I started feeling her breath before I heard her voice? “Forever,” I promise, meaning it with all my heart. I may not be able to define it, but I know what it is; what it means. Forever Scully, I silently echo. I think I’m about to kiss her when her eyes widen and she stiffens in my arms. I curse myself; stupid, stupid, stupid. She doesn’t need some guy making passes at her. She wants a friend; someone she can have fun with. Just because =I= might be ready for something more than platonic doesn’t mean she automatically is. With much regret, I slowly pull away from her, separating our bodies then slowly releasing her hand. She looks slightly confused by my withdrawal. “I think we’re ready to move and groove with the rest of those funky Island vacationers,” I announce, putting on my glib face with the greatest of ease. I used to be proud of how quickly I could don that sarcastic mask; it just makes me sad now. She smiles wanly, her hands fluttering over her sarong, making sure it’s in place. “You may be right Mulder,” she concedes. “Just give me a minute to change.” “You’re not wearing that?” I ask, confused as to why she put it on if she hadn’t planned on wearing it for the contest. She smiles and I swear to God that I almost see pity in it. “You think I’d dress like this for anyone else Mulder?” she asks, keeping just enough mischief in her eyes so I can write her comment off as an innuendo should I choose to. I don’t; I may not be sure, but I’m not taking any chances. “I didn’t know how you’d dress for the rest of the world Scully,” I murmur softly. “If what you’ve got on is just for me, I’d have to say I’m flattered.” What the hell was that? The SophisticatedMulder that lives inside my head beats the Cro-MagnonMulder who just spit that out to death with his own club. What kind of idiotic comment was that? I have a chance to really wow her, to let her know how much I appreciate that she’d take the time, how much I fucking love her no matter what she wears and I blow it. She looks disappointed. I can see it in her eyes. She hides it so well, but it’s there. Fuck; fuck, fuck, fuck. “Scully,” I find myself blurting out before I can stop myself. She pauses at her door and turns toward me, an expectant look on her face. I lick my lips. “It looks amazing,” I whisper, my eyes taking in her appearance. She blushes slightly. “Thanks,” she mumbles. “I mean, you have great taste Mulder, the bikini does a lot for my figure--” “Actually,” I interrupt, standing nearly four feet in front of her, “I was referring to what your body does for the bikini.” I don’t allow myself to read too much into the look that takes over her face. “I’m going to go change,” I murmur, turning before I’m unable to leave the room. I hear her bedroom door shut quietly a moment after mine does. ~ I can’t believe that just happened. It didn’t happen. That’s all there is to it. What went on in that room not fifteen minutes ago just =didn’t= actually take place. It must’ve been my imagination. I haven’t slept well lately; I’ve been awake for almost forty-eight hours now. The lack of sleep is causing visual and auditory illusions, prompted by the storm and the events of the last two days. It’s all perfectly plausible, perfectly explainable, perfectly rational. And as if I didn’t have enough pressure on me, I think Mulder was going to kiss me just before I saw Felicity. Woah Dana; you did NOT see Felicity. You THOUGHT you saw Felicity. You =halluccinated= Felicity. Then why can I still feel a slight chill run up and down my spine? Why can I clearly picture her dark black hair flowing around her face in a mass of curls? Why do I have an image of her face, almost ethereal in its perusal of Mulder and I in my mind? Mulder keeps looking at me like I’m insane. Hell, maybe I am. I saw a figure, silhouetted by the storm raging outside our window. She was young and I have nothing to base her being Felicity on but my own gut instinct. Something in me screams that it’s her; that something can shut the hell up, thank you very much. I did not see Felicity. I could not have seen Felicity, because Felicity would be a ghost, and ghosts do NOT exist. Logic; simple and precise as always. Why don’t I feel better? I watch Mulder watch everyone around us. He can sense what I’m going through and he’s learned over the years this is a time when my ‘do not disturb’ sign is clearly out. The only difference is, I want him to disturb me right now. Hell, he’s been disturbing me since he woke me up Saturday morning – he might as well take my mind off this current train of thought. I think the only reason I’m not truly freaking out is that Felicity was in color. Stop that Dana; she is not Felicity. I didn’t see Felicity and I should just stop referring to my hallucination by name. I glance up at Mulder and notice his attention has become focused on the middle of the room. I follow his line of sight and at first see nothing. Then, I see her; Candy. Can this day possibly get ANY better? The stewardess from hell spots Mulder easily and begins waving excitedly, her breasts bouncing in her obviously bra-less low-cut black velvet dress. Mulder doesn’t acknowledge her in the least and that puzzles me; he was obviously staring at her. Hell, that’s how she saw him. Why isn’t he waving back? “Mulder?” I hear myself question aloud softly. My voice doesn’t seem to penetrate the deep state of concentration he’s in. “Mulder,” I say a little louder; put more authority in it. “Hmm?” he asks, snapping his neck to my direction. “Scully; ready to dance?” He offers me his arm and my confusion grows by leaps and bounds. Before I can analyze this latest development, however, Candy makes her presence known. “Fox!” she squeals. “It’s great to see you again so soon! It certainly is a small island, isn’t it?” she asks, giving him a wink. A wink; it scrunches the entire right side of her face up and, in my opinion, looks more like a nervous tick than a wink. Of course that could just be my perspective, I really can’t say. “Getting smaller all the time,” I mumble, wishing to God the ground would open up and swallow one of us. Mulder smiles politely at her. I know that smile; it clearly states that he shows as much interest in Candy as he does for Team-Work Seminars. Maybe he just likes her packaging, I concede wryly. She certainly is built like a red blooded American male’s wet dream. And on the occasion I’ve come across one of those videotapes that aren’t his, I’ve definitely noticed the similarity between those women; almost every one a Pamela Anderson type. I realize Candy’s speaking again. “. . . got stranded along with everyone else.” I try really hard to figure out why Candy ended up going all the way from California to Catalina. Then I realize I don’t care. Unless little gray men flew her in on a flying saucer, I don’t give a rat’s ass how she made it to the island sunshine forgot. God I wanted to have Mulder all to myself tonight. I can’t even express why exactly. I just . . . want him. Not necessarily in a sexual way, although that certain attraction has definitely been making itself known with increasing frequency in the last few months; the last ten hours, in particular. More than that though, I want to talk to him. I want to try and explain the myriad of thoughts and emotions and contradictions that have been running through me over the last year or so. I want to watch the rain splatter against the windowpanes with him and listen to the wind howl in ever-increasing screams. I want to count the beats between thunder and lightening, share stories rooted in mythology and fairy tales with him until we fall asleep together. I want to wake up with his presence, his bulk, his breath against me, wrapping me inside him until this aching emptiness that has pervaded me for what seems like an eternity ceases. Somehow, I know he will help heal me. It won’t be immediate and it won’t even be complete; but it will help, God damn it, and I need that. I need his help in ways I will never be able to verbalize. “Tough break,” Mulder finally responds, no longer putting up any pretense of smiling at Candy. “Would you like to dance?” she all but purrs, her eyes scanning MY partner like an all you can eat buffet. “Actually, I’d love to,” he answers and my hand moves of its own volition. I smack his arm, none too gently, giving him a glare I know makes me look far too much like an annoyed wife than I have a right to. He meets my eyes, a gentle admonishing quality to his. That look asks me a question; ‘how could you doubt me Scully’? He turns back to Candy. “My wife has dibs on my dance card and we have a competition to get to,” he murmurs, his voice sounding almost apologetic. His hand grasps for mine and he holds it, circling my palm with the pad of his thumb slowly. “Your wife?” Candy asks, looking from him, to me, then back again. What’s so fucking implausible Barbie? I am mortified by Mulder’s none-too-discreet snort. Jesus did I just say that out loud? I glance at Candy’s horrified expression and realize I did. That’s it, it’s official; I’ve lost it. Cart me away, lock me up, Dana Scully is no longer a productive member of society. I am too embarrassed to look at Mulder. He’s still holding my hand, if anything, his thumb has started moving more soothingly, as though he senses my embarrassment and wishes to eradicate it. “Hey look, the contest is starting,” Mulder announces, tugging my hand firmly. He moves us to the table, grabs our number, slaps it on over my black silk blouse, turning so I can return the favor with his black polo shirt. I watch Candy fume quietly ten feet from us as he pulls me into his arms and slowly sways with me. Oh God this feels good. I don’t think I can remember ever being this close to him physically. He keeps one of my hands in his, the other wrapping as far around my lower body as it can. He leans his shoulders down so I’m forced to look at him. He smiles gently. I bow my head again, landing my forehead against his shoulder. “I can’t believe I said that,” I mutter, feeling the mortification anew. “Neither can I,” he agrees, whispering into my hair. “Barbie Doll’s all over the world were offended.” I find myself laughing, my head snapping up to look him in the eye again. “Mulder,” I exclaim, exasperated. He isn’t supposed to find this amusing. But he does; I can see it in his eyes, the way they sparkle and dance, refusing to leave my own. “Scully,” he replies, using the same tone I had. I bust out laughing; I can’t help myself. He pulls me to him and I feel his jaw against my temple. I wrap my free arm around his neck and press a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks Mulder,” I whisper, moving a little faster with him as an old Three Dog Night song picks up tempo, telling us it’s coming down in three part harmony. “Anytime Scully,” he whispers back, pulling back from me long enough to spin me outward, then back again. We do pretty well. Considering we spend most of the time laughing at one another and ourselves, I’m surprised we =only= came in eighteenth of thirty. Banished to the corner of the dance floor with the rest of the losers, we couldn’t care less. In fact, I dare say we’ve never been this carefree. I thought once we were done that we’d go back up to the room. But Mulder has made no move to release me. Instead, he actually seemed to draw me closer when we were eliminated from competition. As though he sensed my natural inclination toward distance and sought to prevent it. I will not run from him tonight. I have no desire to be away from him; no desire to be without him. I thought before that I’d never been that close to him; foolishly, I’d believe I couldn’t possibly be closer so long as we remained fully clothed. I was so wrong. My breasts are pressed deliciously into his chest and one of his hands keeps making the trip up and down my back, his fingertips brushing over the back of my neck. If I still felt brave about speaking thoughts I have out loud, I might ask him if that was a flashlight in his pocket, or if he was just happy to see me. Hell, I can’t really fault him for being a little turned on. God knows I’m a LOT turned on. And I truly have only myself to blame. He wasn’t doing anything overt until I started it. I was subtle at first; I started brushing my nose over that little spot where his neck becomes his jaw. I kept drawing little circles up and down his spine with my fingers, my other hand staying just high enough above his ass to make him wonder if I’m doing it on purpose. So naturally, being the competitive person he is, Mulder began nuzzling my ear with the tip of his nose. His hands started running up and down my sides, before one of them dared to roam so low on my ass I had no doubt that he was doing it on purpose. His other hand buried itself in the back of my hair and held my head to his shoulder until we were called off the dance floor. We’re much less blatant at this moment; we haven’t cooled down, we’re just back to being ambiguous. As much fun as it can be, I’m sick of ambiguous. We’ve been teasing each other for years, both intentionally and unintentionally. I don’t want to tease him and I don’t want to be teased. Perhaps one day when we’ve become more substantial to one another than living touchstones I will be able to tolerate this kind of dance. But I can’t now; not anymore. As I think it, his hand tugs at the back of my head, bringing me back to look into his eyes. I go willingly, staring up into those depths that have turned honey brown. He leans toward me and I lean toward him, our faces so close I’m breathing his breath. I almost feel a sense of déjà vu, cruelly hurled back to that moment in his hallway when we were so rudely interrupted. His fingers trail from my hair to the back of my neck and his fingers rub gently over my skin. I laugh slightly as I realize what he’s doing; checking for bees, Mulder? The sheepish amusement I see in his eyes confirms my suspicions. No bees Mulder, I silently promise. There’s nothing else to ruin this moment. God I want him to kiss me. But he seems hesitant; as though he’s waiting for something. I suppose I could kiss him. I just . . . God what if I’m reading him wrong? What if somehow I’ve totally misinterpreted the last six years of our lives and he doesn’t want to kiss me and I ruin this almost idyllic partnership we Oh God, his lips, they’re brushing mine and OW!!! God DAMN it! “Sorry,” some guy with a bad Hawaiian print shirt apologizes. My ire rises further as I realize he’s dancing with Candy. Of course; of fucking course. “It’s all right,” I hear Mulder mumble solicitously. It’s all right, I mock in my head. No, no it’s really NOT all right. That was our FIRST kiss and it was ruined. It was absolutely ruined. The mood is wrong, the feel is wrong and it’s all Candy’s fault. Her and that nineteen seventies reject she’s dancing with. “Hey Scully,” he whispers into my ear, pulling me away from my thoughts. I look up at him, cursing the loss of whatever was going on here. It’ll be gone when I look into his eyes. He won’t look at me like he wants me and he won’t pull me to him and kiss me. We won’t go on dancing as though nothing happened and all the fantasies I had in my head of him fulfilling this aching desire I have deep inside me just flew out the window. And considering how badly it’s raining, there’s no chance it survived the fall. “Yea Mulder?” I ask, annoyed with myself that I’ve allowed a hint of the frustration I feel color my voice. He’s not even looking at me. His fucking eyes are focused across the room. Jesus, the least he could do is look me in the EYE while he ignores what just happened between us. “Why don’t you go on up to the room?” he suggests, finally meeting my eyes. “I’ve uh . . got to check on something down here.” “Sure you do,” I answer crisply, folding my arms over my chest. “Ghost hunting without me Mulder?” I ask, giving him the God damn excuse I always give him; helping him write it off. Why do I do that again? And why the hell does he let me? “Something like that,” he mumbles distractedly. He places a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be up later,” he promises, drifting away. If he weren’t walking away from me, I could =almost= believe that meant something more than he eventually intended to return to the room. ~ Chapter 6: Finally Nearing the End or Finally the Story Warrants an NC-17 ~ Maybe everyone’s been right all these years; maybe I am a few forks short of a dining set. Scanning the dancing crowd, I try to locate him again. He was there, then he was gone. I thought I’d imagined the man who’d stood in the center of the dance floor and disappeared before my eyes. In fact, I’d convinced myself of it. But then I saw him – then didn’t see him – again. That, combined with the chill that ran up and down my spine in his presence, leads me to believe something isn’t entirely kosher in Catalina. Scully’s pissed at me again. I can’t blame her for it; I’m pretty pissed off at myself. The fact that I kissed her at all is going to cause issues between us. I just compounded those issues by pretending it didn’t happen. She knew, too; I could tell. More than anything, I wanted to make the certainty that I was going to do exactly what she knew I was going to do go away. I wanted to kiss her again, a real kiss, something more substantial than the fleeting contact we shared before Candy and her current paramour slammed into us. I guess I remember how to disappoint her, after all. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gotten a glimpse of =him=. In fact, I daresay we’d be upstairs by now, buck naked and halfway to heaven. Instead, my nature has gotten the best of my libido. Not many men can say they’d pass up the opportunity to neck with Dana Scully in favor of searching an over-crowded dance floor for traces of a ghost. I check my watch; 2:45 AM. Wow; I hadn’t thought we’d been dancing THAT long. Time with Scully really does fly by. I’ve almost decided to give up when I spot him again. He’s lounging by the elevator bank Scully disappeared into not fifteen minutes ago. I beeline for him, snaking my way through moonstruck newlyweds the entire way. He doesn’t fade from view this time; if anything, he grows slightly more substantial. I can see right through him when I get close, yet he’s so defined I can tell what color his eyes are – bright, vivid blue. “Anthony?” I question softly, already knowing the answer to that particular question. “The one and only spirit haunting this island with that name,” he confirms, tipping an imaginary hat toward me. “What can I do for you?” His eyes actually =twinkle=. “Or shall I guess?” “Guess?” I ask, bemused by this entire situation. “Actually, guess implies that I don’t know exactly what you need,” he clarifies, the type of kindly smile on his face you’d usually reserve for an All-American Boy Next Door. “And what is it I need?” I challenge, more unsettled than I care to admit by him. “What we all need from time to time,” he responds, pushing away from the elevator banks to give me a grin. “To let go.” ~ “What do you mean let go?” Felicity laughs, the sound light an airy; I’d compare it to what a fairy’s laugh must surely sound like. That is, if I believed in fairies, which I don’t. Of course I don’t believe in ghosts either, yet here I am, having an extremely surreal conversation with one. Yep, just another normal, ordinary day in the life of Dana Scully . . . “I mean you need to loosen up Dana,” she states, as though it were obvious. “You need to give in to a few wants and needs.” Her lips quirk upward and I swear she’s laughing at me. “Don’t you have any dark, sinful desires just dying to be revealed?” “No,” I answer quickly; too quickly. She’s onto me and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I suppose I should know better than to attempt lying to a ghost. God I’m lying to a ghost – I’m talking to a ghost, I can’t be talking to a ghost, ghosts do NOT exist, but there she is, real as can be, standing there, looking at me like I’m nuts which I MUST be because there’s no other excuse for me to be talking to a ghost . . . “Dana, shh,” she murmurs soothingly, moving forward until I can feel her . . . whatever brush against me. Her . . . hand presses against my forehead and I instantly feel calmer. Logic is gone; it’s meaningless here, now, anyway. “I should’ve known better than to ask you for a fantasy,” she mutters, sounding annoyed with herself. “You’d never allow yourself to be that open; not even to yourself.” “What are you . . .?” I find I can’t finish the thought, let alone the question. I feel hot and heavy and so . . . =aroused= I can barely contain myself. It reminds me of a dream I had a long time ago, something that I’d woken up from, feeling ashamed yet so turned on I couldn’t stop my hands from roaming over my body, couldn’t stop them from moving to places good Catholic girls are taught never to touch. I remembered that dream fully and have tried every moment since to forget it; especially when we were on the road in adjoining motel rooms . . . “And we have a winner,” Felicity whispers, a wide, sprightly smile curving her lips. A winner, my mind silently echoes; winner, winner, winner take all . . . ~ “A definite winner,” I hear Anthony agree with someone I can’t see or hear. He chuckles and I feel his hand move away from my forehead. “You two,” he murmurs, the way an exasperated but ultimately loving parent might comment on their children. “What about us?” I ask, dazed and confused. I have a need in my mind; I have to go upstairs, I have to see Scully. I don’t know why. Two parts of my mind are vying for equal attention. My soul, my heart, my body =needs= me to get to Scully for some reason I can’t define. My mind, my intellect, my consciousness =needs= to process this latest turn of events in our bizarre lives. I’m speaking to a ghost, up close and personal. And he’s not torturing me, he’s not trying to get me to join some weird lover’s suicide pact – if anything, he’s helping me get back in touch with . . . Me. “You both have such capacity for happiness, yet you choose to be unhappy. Together, always together, yet ultimately alone.” His eyes are genuinely puzzled. “Why do you do that? No one is stopping you; no one is telling you that you’re not allowed to love her. Why don’t you?” “I do love her,” I hear myself say. “I love her every moment of every day.” “But do you say it? Do you show it?” he counters, no accusations in his eyes, merely a gentle kinship. “No,” I answer slowly, feeling a haze settle over my consciousness. I feel like I’m under a spell; something that isn’t controlling me, but rather something that’s making me unable to control myself. An enchantment forbidding me to ignore the wants and needs of my soul. “Not like I should.” He smiles. “Then do so. Go to her. Show her, tell her, make one of the fantasies you share come true.” “Why did you kill yourselves?” I ask, desperately wishing to know. I can understand the desperation; even the temptation to ensure you’re with the one you love forever. He smiles sadly at me and for a split second, I see something I haven’t seen in him before. Gone is the carefree young man; in his place, a troubled, scared, desperate child stands, trying to put into words something he doesn’t quite understand himself. “We wanted to be together always,” he finally whispers. “And death was the only way to accomplish that?” I ask. He chuckles ruefully. “I admit, it probably wasn’t the best way. But we saw it as the only way. It was a different time, Fox,” he explains slowly. “We weren’t allowed to be together as far as the rest of the world was concerned. And we wanted . . .” he trails off, at a loss for words. He looks up at me and smiles. “Forever,” he finally finishes. “Forever,” I echo softly, the mystique of the time and the place weaving its magic around me. I can feel my heart beating, feel every fine hair on my body charge with an electric current. I am =alive= right now; alive and unable to resist my heart’s desire. ~ I barely notice as she fades away. I am only conscious of the pulse points all over my body beating in smooth, fluid rhythm with one another. I move into my bedroom and shut the door behind me, performing a ritual I have performed many times, though never with Mulder so near; never when there was a chance he might walk in on me. Slowly, I peel the clothes from my body, letting my hands drift over my nipples, feeling them tighten almost painfully. God I’ve never been this turned on. My thoughts are in tumult, my emotions and my body’s cravings the only things I truly comprehend at this moment. Dispensing with my underwear, I lay on the bed, naked, the cool sheets a relief against my heated skin. My hand trails over my breasts, thumb and forefinger meeting to tug at a nipple briefly before moving downward. I spread my hand low on my belly, teasing myself even as I realize I have no patience for teasing tonight. My hand slips between my thighs and I slowly brush my fingertips over my wetness. I shudder at the proof of how truly aroused I am. Eyes closing of their own volition, I lean my head back and continue to tease myself, refusing to give my body what it demands, waiting for . . . something, waiting, waiting, waiting . . . I open my eyes and see him. He is standing there, door wide open behind him. He is breathing heavily, my dream realized, his eyes glued to my hand, only leaving it to roam over the rest of my body. His gaze manages to be longing and possessive at the same time and I feel his eyes like a physical touch. In reality, if the usual Dana Scully had control, this is the moment I would jerk on the bed, grab the sheet and pull it over myself in some pretense of modesty around a man who’s seen my naked soul. But this is not reality; at least not as it normally is. This is some kind of suspended unreality, somehow blending and shifting until it IS real. The unreality adds to its substance. These facts contradict themselves, yet just this once, I do not question the inconsistency of my emotions; I accept that they simply are. So I do not move my hand; I leave it where it is. I spread my legs a little further on the bed, letting him look, wanting him to look; =needing= him to look, to do MORE than look. My eyes must communicate with his as is our way, for he slowly makes his way to me. He sinks to his knees by the bed, his head near mine. I scoot on the mattress until I can inhale the small puffs of breath escaping his mouth. I am so lost in the euphoric sense of peace I experience in his eyes that I don’t notice his hand cover mine for a moment. It is déjà vu times ten as my hand begins to move again, his eyes begging me to continue. We are connected now, more so, possibly, than we have ever been. His hand flows over mine, melting into it but making no independent moves of its own. Instead, he moves with me, allowing me to set my own pace. He feels the movements of my hand, memorizing them, learning, I realize, how I like to be touched. I cannot begin to comprehend how most secret desire has become reality; I don’t care to comprehend it at this moment. All I wish to do is enjoy it; to live it. His eyes are liquid velvet, gray with specks of golden brown scattered around his pupils. Our hands continue to move as he makes love to me with his eyes. The pace is unhurried, neither of us in any rush for this to be over. As much as I want it to be his hand (or his mouth) and not my own, I cannot make my vocal chords cooperate long enough to ask. We never speak, my Dream-Mulder and I. Somehow, it seems inappropriate that we should speak now as it is happening for the first time. Time seems to stretch and bend, folding in upon itself even as it remains the same as it has always been. It is magical and surreal and a thousand different adjectives I can’t seem to find the words for. His forearm rests comfortably against my belly and I feel him draw nearer, his breath against my forehead a phantom whisper. His lips brush against my brow, an echo of what was, what is and what will always be. In unspoken entreaty, both our hands increase speed. It’s hot; I’m hot and hazy at the same time. I lick my lips and arch my back into our hands, amazed as I do that his gaze doesn’t embarrass me in the least. It only succeeds in arousing me further. His lips move over my temple, my cheek, always the barest contact, never giving me anything more substantial than phantom touches. Our fingers set up a steady rhythm over my clit, the build-up over now; he needs me to come almost as badly as I do. I can see it in his eyes, in the way his breathing speeds up against my face as his ghostly kisses become slightly erratic. So close; so close; so close. Mulder’s lips wrap around my earlobe and he tugs, biting down with his teeth at the same time. A moan is wrenched from the depths of my soul. My body shudders as I come and Mulder’s other hand touches me for the first time, stroking my hair as his nose nuzzles the side of my face. His touch calms me, bringing me down from this high I don’t think I’ve ever been to before. The hand resting over mine separates itself, his fingertips trailing over my knuckles, circling the skin, soothing the tremors that still shake me. Invariably, the dream always ends here; I do not have a conclusion to this particular fantasy, so I suppose it’s up to us now. RealMulder and RealScully get to figure out where to go from here. Given that the fantasy has ended, my powers of speech magically return. With those powers, my rational side returns as well. Rather than chastise me for what has just occurred, RationalScully surprises me. She points out that what just transpired WAS between us. It was real and pretending it wasn’t makes it cheap. I will =not= allow anything that happens between Mulder and I to be cheap. I open my eyes to find his, still watching me; studying me. I give him the widest smile my tired face can manage at the moment. “Didn’t I tell you something about knocking?” I whisper, making sure he senses no malice in my words. He returns my smile, only his is much more brilliant than mine could ever be. His is the kind of smile women die for. However, before he can answer me, there’s a loud crash as a palm tree literally comes through that lovely glass wall in the living room, shattering more than just the mood; the thought occurs to me that perhaps there could’ve been no more appropriate end to our first sexual encounter. ~ Chapter 7: Sexual Frustration Comes (no pun intended) to a Close or As Good as It’ll Ever Get for Mulder & Scully ~ NOW it’s sunny. To look at the weather now, you wouldn’t believe Catalina had been ravaged by one of the worse storms in recent history a mere two hours ago. It’s so hot in this wide open lobby that my shirt is sticking to my body and I swear to God if they don’t get us into another room, and I mean RIGHT NOW, I’m grabbing Scully and we’re ducking into a closet. I’m not even going to pretend to understand what the hell happened up there. I have a few theories; theories I plan to share with Scully once I’ve shared a few other things with Scully. That is, of course, assuming she =wants= to share those things with me. Although, given the zeal and enthusiasm she’s putting behind taking her turn at berating the hotel manager, I’d say she’s almost as eager as I am to make the rest of the world go away for a few hours. Once the fact that we were really going to have to leave the room without some serious nookie happening first sank in, I assisted Scully in very quickly and haphazardly dressing. I don’t have the heart to tell her that black silk blouse of hers is buttoned wrong. I should’ve known something like this would happen. I mean, the first time I tried to kiss her she got stung by a bee, an alien virus infected her and we both nearly froze to death. It figures that the first time I try to make love to her a tree would literally come through a window; I’m almost surprised it didn’t fall =directly= on top of us. Ghosts that get inside my head disconcert me. I think that’s a normal reaction; in fact, I’m willing to lay money on the odds that any average, well-balanced every day American mortal would be totally freaked out by the dearly departed plucking one of their most tightly held fantasies from them. The reality of what went on upstairs hits me anew and I have to remind myself to breathe. Honestly, in my heart of hearts, I never really thought it would happen. I’d resigned myself to being her partner, and nothing but her partner, for as long as she let my sorry ass reside in her life. I should’ve known I’d end up wrong about this. I’m usually wrong when it comes to Scully’s place in my life. From my first instincts, that she was planning to spy on me, all the way to my conclusions that the X-Files could never be usurped as the most important facet of my life. I used to want to touch her. The feeling would hit me out of the blue, for no reason whatsoever and I’d find myself assuaging that desire by laying a hand on her lower back or brushing the hair out of her face. Those touches satisfied the urge for years and I didn’t give it a second thought. So I like touching Scully – you wanna make somethin’ of it? And then she tried to leave me. For the first time, I consciously thought of Scully as a viable sexual entity; she was a woman I could trust and love and feel safe with. It was irresistible and I tried to kiss her. It turned out to be a disaster, but that doesn’t negate what it brought about. It changed the way I think about her. And soon, those casual touches weren’t enough. I wanted to touch her skin, to feel it next to my own and I somehow knew, like a man dying of thirst, once I had, one touch would never be enough. I have touched her; and I need to do it again. I need to drink from her, to quench this thirst that has plagued me, unconsciously, I believe, from the very beginning. “They found us one room, Queen size bed, view of the ocean,” her voice breaks into my thoughts. I look up at her, meeting her eyes with my own. I smile a tiny, and I hope sexy, smile. “Let’s go G-Woman,” I murmur, getting to my feet. Something flickers behind her eyes; something I can’t name but instinctively respond to on some deeply primal level. Oh please God don’t let that be my imagination; please let me touch her and hold her and make love to her. Please don’t let us have some kind of sane moment until later when we’ll be better equipped to deal with it; when it’s too late to back out of wherever it is we’re heading with this. Scully turns on her heel and walks ahead of me toward the elevators, seemingly trusting that I’ll follow. Not wishing to disappoint her, I do, catching up to her quickly with a few long strides. We step into the elevator together, followed by an elderly couple who hit the floor a few numbers below ours. Mind swimming with doubts I don’t want to entertain at the moment, I stare up at the top of the elevator, willing it to go faster. I jump slightly as I feel the backs of Scully’s knuckles brush over the half-erection I’ve had since my encounter with Anthony. My head snaps down to look at her, but she’s facing forward, expression totally composed, her hands once again folded neatly in front of her. The elevator stops and lets two more people on from the pool level. Ostensibly to make room for them, Scully moves in front of me, that gorgeous ass I’ve admired from afar for so many years pressing firmly against my ever-expanding hard-on. The elevator stops again before reaching anyone’s floor and I nearly groan with a combination of arousal and frustration. Three teenagers stand outside. “Waiting for the down,” they explain, looking like juvenile delinquents. Scully’s arms slide around my lower back as the doors shut, her hands landing on my ass. She pulls me hard against her back and I emit a low hiss into her ear. “Scully,” I mutter warningly as I turn her slightly away from the elevator’s other occupants. “What?” she whispers back, leaning up and craning her head to whisper the word into my ear. This movement rubs her against the front of my jeans and I place both hands on her hips to keep her still; she smirks. “Am I doing something that disturbs you, Mulder?” she questions softly, a teasing in her voice I’ve never heard in quite that tone. “Yea,” I whisper raggedly into her ear, the hand furthest from prying eyes sliding up her hip to land over her breast, brushing her nipple against my palm through the shirt. She isn’t wearing any underwear, whatsoever and I have been very studiously trying to ignore this fact for the last few hours; it’s pure ScullySkin under that shirt and slacks. “You’re a very disturbing woman, Agent Scully,” I whisper right into her ear, delighting in the shiver that runs through her body. The people from the pool exit on their floor and we both try damn hard to act normal until the elevator starts moving again. One floor and Scully’s wiggling her ass against my crotch again, the single hand I have kind of restraining her hips doing absolutely no good. Of course, it might help if I actually WANTED her to stop. Determinedly, I brush the pad of my thumb over her nipple, making sure she feels it as I weigh her breast in my palm. “Do you want something, Agent,” a tiny moan as I nip her earlobe, “Mulder?” The elevator stops again, the motion rocking the car slightly. We both bite lips to keep moans from escaping. The elderly couple departs rather quickly, causing the amused thought that they knew exactly what was going on in here to flit through my mind. But then the doors close and I whip Scully around and all I can think about is kissing her. I back her into the elevator wall, inserting my knee between her legs. One of my hands lands on her hip, the other threading through her hair. I tilt her head back and stare into her eyes. “Frankly Scully, I’d love to banter with you for awhile about just how much I want you, but I’m totally unwilling to let some other damn thing stop me from doing this,” I mutter, crushing her lips to mine in an almost bruising kiss. It has no hesitation, this kiss; our mouths open simultaneously and I feel her tongue against mine, probing the inside of my mouth. One of her hands grips my ass, pulling me to her tightly again, the other landing at the back of my neck, holding my head to hers, totally unwilling to let go, even when the elevator stops once more, this time on our floor. Realizing as loathe as I am to move from this spot, I’d still rather be in bed with her, I manage to stumble backwards with her through the doors, never once breaking the kiss, or the full upper body contact we have. “Scully,” right back to her mouth, pulling her lower lip between both of mine, “what’s our,” a moan, as she nips my bottom lip in retaliation, “room,” I manage to pant, that little hand of hers slipping between our bodies to cup my cock. “Thirteen Ten,” she mutters, abandoning my mouth so she can fasten her lips around my throat; she sucks hard, darting her tongue out to lick at my skin. Tiring quickly of the slow progress we’re making down the long hall, I regretfully abandon her hair, both hands snaking around her ass. “Hold on,” I mutter, lifting her until her feet leave the floor and I can pick up the pace. To my complete surprise and utter enjoyment, Scully’s legs wrap around my hips and she grinds her crotch against mine as her mouth returns to nibble at my lips. I plunge my tongue into her mouth, tasting as much of her as I can. Thirteen-oh-two, thirteen-oh-four, thirteen-oh-six, come on, come on . . . Mulder-r-r,” she purrs into my mouth, her little hands clawing at my back, trying to pull my shirt up. She finally succeeds at thirteen-oh-eight and her fingers make contact with my skin. As we finally reach thirteen ten, her fingertips start massaging my back, touching every inch she can reach. “Scully,” I mutter against her mouth. “Key,” I manage, hoping to God she understands me cause I really don’t think I can be much clearer with her crotch rubbing against my erection, her hot little mouth refusing to release mine even long enough for me to talk. “Back right hand pocket,” she whispers in that raw, husky voice I’ve heard from her far too infrequently. I slide my hand up from its holding place on her thigh to her ass, easily sliding the card-key from her pocket. I slam her back none-too-gently against our door, wincing, even as the reverberation sends a shudder of pure pleasure through my body. “Sorry,” I mumble, kissing the corner of her mouth to resonate the apology as I fumble with the key, trying to fit it in the hole. Jesus, insert tab A into slot B . . . this would be a hell of a lot easier if my brain wasn’t focused on inserting a very different tab A into an extremely different slot B. “Don’t be,” she almost whimpers, managing to pull my shirt past the tip of my shoulders, catching it on them, leaving my back totally bare for her wandering hands. She leans her head back against the door, moving every part of her body – save the ones still wrapped around my hips – away from mine. A sultry little smile crosses her face. “I liked it,” she confesses, running her hands down the front of my chest, scraping her fingernail over one of my nipples for emphasis. “I like rough sometimes,” she elaborates and I hear the key slip into the slot with a ‘beep,’ signaling it is now unlocked. I slam the handle down, stumble into the room with her and kick the damn door shut behind us. She slides down my body, taking her sweet time, making sure we’re pressed together as tightly as we can be until her feet hit the floor. I place both my hands on her shoulders, taking in her finger-tousled hair, her swollen pink lips and those fuck-me sea blue eyes. My gaze is drawn to the line of her blouse and the button that is out of place. “What?” she asks, biting her lower lip. “Your blouse is buttoned wrong,” I reply, tracing the skin just above her breasts with my index finger; I slide it down slowly, dip it into her cleavage briefly, then circle one of her buttons slowly. Her eyes shut for a millisecond then open again, focusing on my face. “Fix it,” she implores in what is probably the sexiest damn voice I have ever heard. Bringing my other hand to join the first, I take hold of both sides of her shirt, giving a hard pull. The buttons go flying and I part her shirt so that the very edge of both her nipples peek out behind black silk. I can’t help but notice the contrast with her pale skin as I slowly trace my fingertips from her throat to the hem of her pants. “All fixed ma’am,” I whisper, bending my head to brush a kiss against her collarbone. “I don’t like the way it hangs now,” she murmurs dryly and I can’t quite contain a chuckle. I slide it easily off her shoulders until it tangles at her wrists. Before she can shrug it off, I tighten it and twist until both her hands are imprisoned behind her back. I spin her around and hold her hands between our bodies. Her breathing is heavy and I can feel her heart beating through her back, against my chest. “Do you really like rough, Scully?” I whisper into her ear, dragging my teeth over the side of her neck. She whimpers softly as my teeth close over the pulse at the base of her neck. “Yes,” she finally whispers. “Which I think is a cruel irony, given the fact that I’ve never felt comfortable enough with a man to try rough out too much,” she adds, sounding almost clinically detached. That bothers me; I don’t want her to be detached from any part of this. Keeping her hands trapped with one of mine, I slide my free hand around to her stomach, un-doing the buttons of her slacks. I slide the zipper down, brushing my fingers through her curly hair. I cup her gently, giving her only the most insubstantial contact as her slacks hook on her hips. “Do you feel comfortable with me?” I whisper into her ear, moving my fingers through her curls in such a way I know she will make me pay for my torture later. A throaty chuckle escapes her lips, quickly turning into a small cry of pleasure/frustration. “Right now, you’re making me very uncomfortable,” she mutters. “But I trust you; I trust you with my life.” “Just your life?” I counter, moving my hand up her stomach to her perfect, beautiful breasts. I cup one of them in my palm, squeezing with the gentlest of pressure. “Aren’t we greedy,” she comments, arching her breast further into my hand, trying to get more pressure than I’m giving her. “When it comes to you Scully?” I whisper, nibbling on the shell of her ear, darting my tongue into the whorls that make her shiver. “I make no pretense of wanting anything less than absolutely everything,” I inform her as I bite down on her shoulder, not quite hard enough to really hurt, but definitely hard enough to leave a mark. I’m greedy for all things Scully the way most men are greedy for money and power. “Then stop playing with me Mulder and just take me,” she mutters, turning her head so her cheek is brushing against my shoulder. Slowly, I untangle her wrists from her blouse, wincing as I hear the fabric rip. “Sorry,” I whisper into her ear as I toss the blouse in the general direction of the bed. “It gave its life for a good cause,” I add, looking on the bright side. She turns in my hold to look me in the eye. “I’ll have to reward it by turning it into a pillow case or something,” she mumbles, wasting no time in practically ripping my shirt from my body. Her hands flatten against my chest then slide down to my abdomen, her nails scraping my skin with just the right amount of pressure. “Can we stop talking about your blouse now?” I mutter, tunneling my fingers through her hair. I force her head up to mine, plundering her mouth with my own for a few fleeting moments. In the interim I release her hair and slide my hands down her body, grazing the sides of her breasts before moving to her hips. I shove her pants down, my palms covering both of her cheeks as I pull her hips back to mine where they belong. She moans into my mouth and I swear to God I could come just from listening to her moan. Stepping out of her pants, she breaks our kiss, opting instead to trail her lips down my jaw to my neck. She spends an inordinate amount of time sucking and licking and biting at my neck and shoulders (not that I’m complaining) before she moves on to my chest. At this point, she obviously decides to give me a tongue bath and I decide maybe =this= is the exact moment I could die a perfectly happy man. But then she looks up at me, her eyes tell me exactly what she’s got in mind and I take it back; no benevolent God could take a man before he experienced this. Her hands quickly undo my jeans and she pushes them and my boxers down my hips. She’s on her knees and her lips are wrapped around the tip of my cock before I can fully process what she’s doing. My mental state is reduced to the consistency of Jell-O as I watch those swollen lips of hers slide down what may possibly be the most impressive hard-on of my life. Before I can really enjoy the sensation, however, she stops. She takes her mouth away from me and sits back on her heels, looking up at me through half-lidded eyes. “Mulder,” she whispers in that sex roughened voice I’m growing to love, “I should warn you I’m experiencing some sensations I’m not entirely used to.” I blink and try to focus my mental power on her; it’s damned hard considering I’m so . . . well, damned hard. “I think it’s safe to say that’s mutual,” I manage to mumble. “I feel like someone I used to . . .” she pauses, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. “No, that’s wrong; I feel like someone I used to stop myself from being.” Very slowly, she stands and I take the opportunity to kick my jeans away. Her hands fall to either side of my ribcage, caressing gently. She leans close to my face and licks my lips, careful not to touch them with her own. “I feel wicked Mulder,” she breathes against my mouth. She backs away from me slowly, lying flat on her back the wrong way on the bed. She bends her knees and spreads her legs as far as they’ll go, propping herself up on both elbows. “Would you like to be wicked with me?” she asks, her tone all beguiling innocence, totally belying her posture. As I am sure I’ve mentioned, I am =not= an idiot and when presented with a ready, willing and able Dana Scully, asking me to be wicked with her, I most assuredly do NOT have to be told twice. I dive onto the bed next to her, causing a fit of giggles to over-take us both as one of my arms goes around her waist. I pull her on top of me, her legs landing on either side of my hips as I slide my fingers through her hair. I lean up and press a kiss to the very tip of her nose, then her forehead. “What’s gotten into you Scully?” I ask, delighting in this side of my partner I’ve never seen but always suspected existed. “Not what I =want= in me, Agent Mulder,” she responds, her hand trailing down my stomach. She gives me that grin of hers; the one I don’t see very often but crave sometimes like an alcoholic craves liquor. “I just feel . . . light,” she answers, laughing softly. “I haven’t felt light since before I joined the FBI; and I don’t think I’ve =ever= felt this light and easy and . . . free,” she whispers, lowering her head towards mine. She leans her head down and brushes her lips over my cheek; her nose nuzzles against me and I feel it move into the crook of my neck. “I have no worries and no concerns and I’m totally free to do whatever it is I want to do,” she whispers against my skin. I hook my leg around her calf and roll her beneath me. I take my weight on my elbows and use one of my hands to brush the hair out of her surprised, laughing face. “And you want to be wicked,” I whisper, pressing my body against hers just because I want to feel it. “I want to be wicked with =you=,” she clarifies, tracing my shoulder blades with her fingertips. “But we’ve got the rest of our lives to be wicked,” she concedes, bringing one of her hands to the side of my face, cupping my jaw with the most tender touch I have ever been the recipient of. “Right now, I think I’d just like to make love with you,” she whispers against my mouth, leaning her upper body off the bed to brush her lips against mine. We kiss each other the same way we do everything else; give and take is applied to the pressure of our lips. Tongue, teeth and lips work together to give a full bodied flavor to each brush and nip and peck. Layers and subtext are added to the mix, a simple touch of our mouths reminding us of a thousand experiences shared and survived. We are partners in the way we make love to one another, as we are in everything. It’s wonderful and I swear if I’d known the entire time it would’ve been like this, I don’t know if I’d have been able to resist her all these years. What began as an affirmation of desire quickly gains pace, our tongues sliding along each other, our mouths opening wider until it feels as though we’re trying to devour one another whole. One of her legs slides up my hip until her foot lands on my ass. I feel her tighten it, bringing me closer to her (if that’s even possible) as her hands lose themselves in my hair (what little there is of it). My full weight is deposited on top of her when she knocks my elbows out from under me. “You could’ve just asked,” I mutter against the side of her breast. My lips close around her nipple and I suck, flicking my tongue over the tip as we roll to our sides, never once separating our bodies. Hands finding her back, I cup her shoulder blades against me, switching breasts as she whimpers against the top of my head. “So I’m asking,” she mumbles, both hands seizing hold of my head. She pulls it forcefully to her own, instigating another almost violent kiss. In what seems like a split second, she’s sitting astride me, her hand wrapped around my cock. “Mulder, would you please stop taking your time and make love to me?” she whispers tenderly. “Not that I don’t enjoy absolutely everything we have to offer each other – I’m just kind of afraid a tidal wave is going to knock over the hotel or a fire will start or =something= will stop us long before I’m ready to stop.” “Scully,” I interrupt, raising both my hands to hold her hips. “What?” she asks, slipping just the tip of my cock inside her. I have to take a moment to remember what I was about to say. “You’re babbling,” I whisper, shoving her hips down a little further, groaning at the feel of being halfway inside Scully. “Am I?” she questions aloud. She braces both her hands on my chest and slides the rest of the way down until our hips touch. “I suppose that’s part of the total lack of control I feel,” she mumbles, sounding like she’s thinking aloud. Another breathtaking ScullySmile crosses her face. “Thank you, Mulder, for being the first man I’ve ever felt safe enough with to lose control around.” I’m sure the full impact of what she said will hit me sometime when I’m not marveling over how fucking incredible she feels. We’re not even moving yet; I’m just inside her. I’m =INSIDE= Scully. As many things as I’ve wrapped my mind around, as many extreme possibilities as I have considered, I can’t quite get myself to believe this extraordinary fact. Gently, I place my hands on her back; she seems to be reading my mind again and we both move up at the same time until we’re sitting. Her legs wrap around my hips, her hands cradle my head as she presses her lips to mine again. I find one of her hands with my own and thread our fingers together. Scully’s body is wrapped around mine and all I can smell is her, pure unadulterated ScullyScent clinging to my every sense; I am touching, smelling, hearing, seeing and tasting her. I am struck by the random thought that this must be what home feels like. After we’ve soaked each other up for a few minutes, or a few hours (I lost all sense of time after I got her blouse off) we slowly roll around on the bed until I find myself on top of her again. Both her legs are wrapped high on my hips, her nails slowly scraping up and down my back as we both begin to thrust. We move together, the same way we had when we began dancing, as though we’d been doing it together forever. One of my hands anchors itself in her hair, my fingers tangling until I can hold her still. I lower my head to hers and slowly kiss her, the kind of long, deep erotic kisses you see in the movies and don’t think actually exist. Let me tell you, they exist and God this is good, this is better than baseball and aliens and sunflower seeds all rolled into one Jesus she’s beautiful and she’s mine (she might not kill me if she knew I referred to her as MINE after all) and I love her so much and I’ve never told her and suddenly I really, really want to tell her. “I love you,” I whisper into her mouth as soon as the kiss breaks. My words are so low I doubt she could’ve even heard them. But once again, Scully is obviously intent on proving me wrong. The hand not making crescent moon shapes I’ll carry for a week on my back drifts into my hair, her fingers curling around the base of my skull. She lifts her head to my ear and tugs at the lobe until my head joins hers on the bed. “I love you Mulder,” she whispers into my ear, darting her tongue out to lick that spot on my jaw that makes me shudder (how the hell did she find out about that already?). Wow; that was easier than I thought it would be. It was almost . . . natural. It was natural and as inevitable as what we’re doing right now is. Without conscious thought on my part I find myself laughing at the thought that we’ve waited this long to do something about what we feel toward one another. Some of the time warranted it; we weren’t always this close, this ready for each other. But the last two years have just been ridiculous. The last two years of solitude have been totally unnecessary and if I have anything to say about it we will never repeat them again. I almost consider sharing my new findings with Scully; but she starts thrusting her hips against mine faster and I lose my train of thought. I notice she’s laughing softly herself and I join her again, letting our laughter reverberate through both our bodies; letting it heighten the sensations we’re both feeling. Earlier, Scully put into words exactly what I’m feeling right now. It’s not necessarily different from how I’ve felt before in her presence; it’s just more. It’s raw, unguarded emotion and it’s manifesting itself in the most amazing physical, spiritual and emotional ways. I haven’t felt this damn GOOD since . . . hell, not even when I =was= a child. I’ve =never= felt this good. And it’s NOT just the sex, although on a purely physical level kissing Scully is like tasting ambrosia; everything else is icing. No, the GOOD comes from a place so deep inside I don’t think I can lay name to it. It comes from feeling her feeling the exact same indefinable, undeniably cleansing THING. This isn’t what home feels like; this IS home. Scully is home. How could it have taken me so long to realize it? “Mulder.” God, she’s moaning my name into my ear. Now =that’s= good. “Harder,” she whispers in a breathy voice; I could sincerely sit in rapt attention while she read autopsy reports to me, so long as she used that voice. Always give the lady what she wants . . . the only damn piece of advice my father ever gave me I’ve applied in my life. I slide my hands down to her hips and hold on tight, giving myself the angle I need to give her what she wants. “Scully,” I whisper into her ear, sliding my lips down to the crook of her neck. I lap at her skin, grazing it with my teeth. “Scully,” I repeat again, having no idea what I want to say to her; maybe I just need to say her name. She lets loose another moan, followed by a groan as I feel her hips pumping against mine in perfect tempo. I can feel her entire body tightening, beginning to shiver in prelude to her climax. Her nails have become almost (but not quite) painful on my back and I nip her shoulder as I increase the speed of my thrusts again. I slide one of my hands between our bodies and flick my thumb over her clit, timing the movements to occur with every thrust. A throaty sound that isn’t a moan but couldn’t be called a scream, either, leaves Scully’s lips as she mingles my name and God’s. I’m far too consumed to really notice as I feel a shudder run through my body and I come harder than I can ever remember coming before. I can still feel small little tremors milking my cock as I return back to Earth. Her hands are sort of clutching and un-clutching at my back, one of them sliding up to my hair, stroking with her fingers. I press a kiss to the skin just above her breast and rest my head against her shoulder, far too exhausted to move. I dart my tongue out, licking the little wound I’ve left her with, feeling her smooth those soft, gentle hands over the indents she’s given me on my back. I don’t know how long we lie here together in silence, gently touching and caressing one another, the rare sunshine beating down on our skin through a window that hopefully won’t shatter. I don’t know and for once in my life, I don’t care. I have no desire to move, but I realize I must be heavy on her and I attempt to roll to the side. The way she tightens both arms and legs around me stops me easily. I settle back against her, my cheek pressing just above her breast. Once she’s sure I will not move again, her hands go back to lazily trailing over my body and I return the favor gladly. “Mulder?” I blink my eyes open, unsure as to whether I’ve slept or not. I don’t think so; I’m not as disoriented as I should be after being woken up; just pleasantly fuzzy. “Yea?” I mumble sleepily, amused to detect even unconsciously my hands and fingers have continued to trace idle patterns on her skin. “Everything’s in color,” she whispers, as though it’s the most exhilarating, fascinating observation she’s ever made; the most important thing she’s ever told me. “It’s always going to be in color,” she adds firmly, as though it’s something she finally =believes=, the same way I believe that they’ve been here for years. I nuzzle my cheek against her breast, then press a kiss to the underside of her chin. Upon further reflection, I come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe that =is= the most important thing she’s ever said to me. Or at the very least, the most hopeful. ~ Shattered glass covers the floor, sunlight reflecting off each tiny shard, causing rainbows to dance on the walls. If you listen carefully enough, you could almost hear the strains of ‘Fools Rush In’ as they echo off the walls of the temporarily unavailable suite. If you’re an extremely lucky individual, you might catch a glimpse of two lovers, wrapped in each other’s arms, dancing their last dance for all eternity. If you’re an extremely special individual, desperately in need of . . . something, you might get a very special gift you didn’t plan on when you booked your trip to Catalina. You might be given the chance to live out a fantasy or two; the chance to temporarily abandon maturity and logic for a weekend, or even a few hours. You could frolic in the sand, remember why you fell in love with your spouse all those years ago, meet the person you’ll spend the rest of your life with, or even gain the courage to tell the computer analyst you met in the bar tonight you think they’re cute and would they like to dance? In the not quite rare enough to be considered rare chance you come to the island with someone you love; someone you are destined to be with forever, you just might have an experience that changes you both forever. A permanent change; something that stays with you, something that gives you a peace that can’t be taken away by a boat and plane ride back to reality. A certain something that makes you grin a shit-eating grin when you’re asked about the experience; something that implores you to respond in no other way. You might learn a lesson from two lost souls who made a mistake a few decades ago; two souls who, rather than wallow in the bitterness of their youthful error in judgment, have chosen to help others find a better way. You might just be a little awed and grateful to these generous, pained spirits who have decided to live their afterlife, as they weren’t allowed to live their life. That is, of course, assuming you believed in ghosts. And after all, we know ghosts don’t =really= exist. Right? ~ “Scully?” A sleepy breath, mumbled after an endless silence. “Yea?” equally sleepy, breath puffing against the top of the head nestled beneath her chin. “It feels really good to let go.” A mutual agreement made in the now dark room, louder than the silence. ~ The REAL End