***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

ARCHIVING: Link only, please!

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Savannah Night
By shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, Mulder/Scully Romance

Rated R

Spoilers through "The End"

Summary: A day in Savannah, followed by a night in a Savannah
bed-and-breakfast.

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Savannah Night
By shannono


What am I doing?

Maybe I should rephrase that. I know *exactly* what I'm
doing. Even discounting the feeling, the sound and smell
would be enough to give it away.

I'm making love. Well, having sex, I guess, since the
word "love" hasn't crossed our lips yet.

Whatever.

Actually, when you get down to it, we haven't gotten
to the sex part yet. We're still in the soul-kissing-
and-foreplay stage. Haven't even made it to the bed,
although I believe I'll insist on it if we're not
there in a few minutes.

This isn't the first time, either. Not the first time
I've had sex, I mean. It *is*, however, the first time
I've had sex with this particular partner.

Ooooh. Bad choice of words there. Make that, "this
particular *person*." Because that one word -- "partner" --
is the whole crux of the problem.

See, I'm not supposed to be doing this, not with *this*
person.

Oh, forget all that "FBI regulations" crap you've heard.
There *are* some rules that apply, most involving sexual
harrassment, and sexual relationships between partners
are not exactly encouraged. But it's really more of a
"don't ask, don't tell" policy, as long as it doesn't
intrude on work. In fact, the only specific mention the
subject gets in the handbook is that part about agents
"consorting in the same hotel room while on assignment."

In other words, if you're sleeping together, don't do it
on the government's time.

Well, we're not on government time now. We *are* in a
hotel room -- actually a pretty nice bed-and-breakfast
just outside Savannah, Georgia -- but it's not going
on the government's account. This was supposed to be
a little vacation on the tail end of a case, taking
advantage of the local scenery for a day or two after
the job was wrapped up. We even kept separate rooms.

Not that we're using them as such.

Or, at least, not that it looks like we'll *be* using
both of them. This is our first night here, so I can't
be sure, but at the moment, it's looking like we'll be
saving the rental rate on the second room for the rest
of our stay.

This morning, we moved from our standard seedy roadside
motel -- "carpet, free TV, hourly and weekly rates
available" -- and into this airy, bright old house
filled with antiques and smiling hosts. Our rooms were
actually remodeled from the space that was originally
the kitchen, separated from the rest of the house by
a wide breezeway. Secluded and quiet, they said.

Guess they knew what they were doing.

This way, we won't be waking the neighbors.

Hmmm ... so maybe we'll keep both rooms after all?

Anyway, back to the question at hand: What am I doing,
making love with my partner? (I'm not even going to worry
about the "love" thing. I think I'm grown-up enough to
admit to myself that *I'm* in love, even if I don't know
*absolutely* that it's reciprocated.)

I'm not even sure what happened to push us to this. I
mean, the attraction's been there, probably from the
very start. And neither of us is exactly known for
playing the field; I can't remember the last time either
of us had a date.

Oh, and I'd know; there's no way either of us could keep
it a secret, even if we wanted to. Not as much time as we
spend together. We've known every time either of us has
gone on a date. Except once, but then I wouldn't really
call *that* one a date, would you? Sex on the bathroom
floor ... Besides, we both knew about it soon enough.

So we're very close, and we're attracted to each other.
But we've kept each other at arms' length -- sexually,
I mean -- out of necessity. We are partners, but we're
also friends, and neither of us has exactly a *wealth*
friends. We've never discussed it, but I know neither
of us wanted to chance our friendship just to satisfy
our physical desires, so we've made an effort to avoid
the subject completely.

And we've been successful, for the past five-years-and-
some-odd-months. With everything we've endured, we've
managed to comfort each other, take care of each other,
simply *be there* for each other, without falling into
bed together.

So what happened here?

Okay. We spent the day walking around downtown Savannah,
enjoying the shade, the breeze, and the feel of standing
in the middle of history. It's a beautiful town, it
really is. We saw lots of it.

Well, we went *through* lots of it. I don't know how
much of it we actually *saw*. We kept getting distracted.

By each other.

It makes me want to laugh just thinking about it. Every
couple of minutes, one of us would be caught staring by
the other. The one staring would look away, embarrassed,
and neither of us would mention it. But before long, it
would happen again, this time embarrassing the other one.

This went on all day.

We decided to eat dinner at a small cafe in an old
storefront near the river, offering a highbrow version
of Low Country cuisine, live jazz, and, as we discovered
after we were seated, a tiny sliver of a dance floor.

I don't know if it was the music, the atmosphere, the
company, or some combination of the three, but whatever
it was, we fell into it. We ate slowly, as if we'd come
to a tacit agreement to draw things out as long as
possible. Wine washed down some wonderful shrimp, and
coffee followed a shared slice of rich cheesecake. The
music stayed low, the conversation light -- but then I
caught the melody of an old favorite.

So we danced.

Pressed against each other, surrounded by just a few
other couples, we swayed to the music, barely moving
our feet. Our hands kept a proper distance from any
sensitive points, but it didn't seem to matter. We
could have felt each other from across the room.

We didn't stay long.

Getting back here seemed to take both forever and no
time at all. Once inside, we wasted little time with
talk. We knew what was going to happen.

Now, barely twenty minutes later, we're wrapped
around each other in the middle of the floor, various
items of clothing strewn here and there. The last
pieces fall away, and we're inching toward the high,
four-poster bed as we kiss each other everywhere we
can reach without straining too much.

The height difference isn't *too* much of an
obstacle, but, then, we're pretty determined.

How fitting, I think suddenly, that this will happen
on neutral ground. Ours is a partnership of equals,
and neither of us wants to give or take the
advantage.

Especially not now.

We make it to the bed, both reaching blindly to pull
away the comforter and shams. We half-climb, half-
fall onto the wide mattress, chuckling a bit at our
passion-fogged actions.

But as we draw together on the cotton sheets, our
eyes lock as they do so often, and a moment of
clarity falls between us. Then, nearly in unison,
we speak.

"I love you."

==========END==========

So ... was it Mulder or Scully?

... Does it really matter? (eg)