Date: Tue, 23 Dec 1997 23:06:02 -0800
From: "Imajiru F. Mackenzie" <imajiru@mindspring.com>
Subject: Taming The Unicorn 7 (1/2) MSR NC-17


NOTE: All versions of all installments of Taming The Unicorn should be
credited to "Imajiru", at the e-mail address "imajiru@mindspring.com".  No
other name or e-mail address should appear on this story, anywhere.  Thanks.

Spoilers: None.  As with all installments of Taming The Unicorn, this story
ignores canon wherever it proves inconvenient, i.e. most of the last season or
two. 

Archiving: May be forwarded to atxc.  May be archived at Gossamer.  May be
archived anywhere else where it is wanted; but please let me know where it's
being put - and as stated above, PLEASE be certain that this and all other
installments are being archived under the name "Imajiru".

Gossamer Codes: PRhino says this is Keyword: MSR, and V for Vignette.  An'
some parts of the triad are NC-17, but I forget exactly where that stuff is...

Credits: Thanks to Beth/Caia, PRhino and JuliaK for beta-reading & offering
commentary.  Special thanks to Nurse Hampster for the medical advice and
terminology.  ("Hey, how do you run over someone's foot without crippling them
for life?"  "Just WHAT are you planning??")  And extra special thanks to the
Voices In My Head for helping me write this... welcome back!  I missed you
guys!

Disclaimer: They're not mine.  If they were, they'd be working a lot less, and
having a lot more fun.  If by some inexplicable quirk of fate I ever make any
sort of profit from writing this stuff, I promise to send half to the Great
God Chris; in the meantime, I expect to be left alone.  ;)

Apology: Sorry it took so long.  But when they're not talking to me, how can I
write 'em?

"Been a long time, been a long time, been a long lonely, lonely, lonely,
lonely, lonely time..." -- Led Zeppelin

-------

Taming The Unicorn 7
by Imajiru
imajiru@mindspring.com

The story so far:
I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. 
II - In which the terms of the wager are defined.
III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan.
IV - In which bad things happen to good people.
V - In which broken things are made whole.
VI - In which Mulder's bed is unearthed.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

VII.  Friendship

They were chasing her.

She feinted left, dodged right, dashed quickly around a curve, then raced down
the corridor, running for her very life; this was her last chance...  Faster,
faster, gaining speed on the straightaway -- finally, ahead, she glimpsed
salvation.

Scully reached her goal and claimed it, with a small, breathless cry of
triumph.

And the maze froze, and began to blink.

The teenagers who'd gathered to watch were cheering her success; she stepped
back from the vintage Pac-Man game, wiped her sweating palms on her blue jeans
and took a deep breath while Inky, Pinky, Blinky and Clyde cavorted on the
screen with a little yellow ball...  A fountain Coke with ice appeared in her
hand: she blinked in surprise, then sipped from the straw gratefully.

"Way to go, Scully; you *rock*," said the familiar voice, the sound of someone
grinning from ear to ear.  She turned her head, and there he was -- and yes,
he was, seemingly more pleased by her success than she was.  "I told you that
you'd like your present," he added, taking the paper cup from her hand, and
she laughed and returned her attention to the game, which was starting up
again.

It had been years since she'd played Pac-Man, but her reflexes were sound, and
the old moves and patterns had come back to her as if it had been yesterday...
Mulder had soundly beaten her at Centipede and Missile Command, the trak-ball
games, but Scully and Pac-Man had an intimate and long-standing friendship;
she'd been nursing the same game now for over an hour.

Another man might've gone off sulking and nursing his bruised ego -- in the
past, many had -- but here was Mulder, keeping her supplied with sodas and
cheering her success more loudly than any of the kids gathered around
watching.

She'd taken it for a gag gift, that part of her holiday present; but no,
Mulder had been serious.  "You need to play more," he'd said, "we both do,"
and so they'd gone down to the arcade.  She had to admit, he'd been right --
she'd needed this, for more reasons than he knew.

On their last case, he'd been particularly annoying: charging in with his own
peculiar brand of naivete and paranoia, ignoring her advice along with all
common sense, ordering her around *and* insisting on driving... for awhile,
she'd felt like strangling him, until it had come down to crunch time and she
was staring into a gun pointed at her face and trying not to look or be
afraid: and then suddenly she was free and safe again, and Mulder was standing
there bleeding and bruised and about a half inch away from killing her
assailant.

"What did you do at work today, Dana?"  "Nothing, Mom."

Now here they were, on something that neither of them had dared refer to as a
'date', unlike any evening Scully had spent since high school... and she was
content.  And that was something she couldn't explain, either; no one would
understand.  Her single friends rated their dates based on the lavish luxury
of the restaurants they were taken to, the expense of the theater tickets --
how could she tell them that her evenings out were spent at video arcades,
discount movie theaters and Denny's?  Or that she wouldn't have wanted it any
other way?

Besides, that wasn't *all* she did with her evenings...

"Go for the grapes, Scully," said his voice in her ear, and she pulled her
attention back to the game, gratified to have discovered that she could still
play Pac-Man while completely distracted -- she'd memorized the monsters'
movements long before the cheat books had come out, had in fact discovered
patterns that no one else had ever found.  Now she moved to capture the bonus-
points fruit, resumed the methodical flight, efficiently gobbling dots,
evading her pursuers, and causing a gasp to arise from the spectators when she
utilized a little-known glitch of the game to go *through* one of the monsters
as if it didn't exist; she finished the maze easily, began on the next, all
the while very aware of Mulder standing just behind her, eagerly watching her
beat the game.

"Whoa!" said several voices at once, and "Excellent!" and "Way to go!" and
Scully glanced at the top of the maze to see two sets of numbers spinning in
unison: her own score and the High Score... she truly *had* beaten the game,
though the ancient game had no place for her to enter her initials to prove
it.  Not that it mattered -- the crowd around her knew what she'd done, and
more importantly, Mulder knew.  It wasn't as if she needed to prove herself to
him, not any more, but she still enjoyed it.

And *he* liked it, that was the best part; he treasured her skills and
talents, delighted in the fact that she was smart and strong and unwilling to
repress those things in order to seem more 'feminine'.

She didn't really want to be playing Pac-Man at all, she realized; what she
wanted was to be in Mulder's bed, or with him in hers, or hell, even in the
back seat of her car...  Scully smiled to herself, continued piloting the
munching yellow ball through the maze, wokka-wokka-wokka-gulp; she finished
out the maze, then feigned an elaborate yawn and stepped back from the
machine.  "I'm bored," she said, and gestured one of her teenaged spectators
to take over the game.

Mulder slipped his arm around her shoulders as they strolled away; behind
them, she heard the sound of a wilting Pac-Man, as the hapless teenage boy
failed to keep her game going.  "That was *great*," her partner said, smiling,
and she grinned up at him.  "You up for more, or you want to get something to
eat?"

"I think ice-cream sodas would be in keeping with the theme of the evening,"
she said, after a moment's consideration, and he laughed and acquiesced.

The Suzy-Q's in the strip mall was the perfect image of the archetypical
fifties diner, right down to the jukebox; this meant that their prices were
exorbitant, of course, but they did make an excellent chocolate malt.  It also
meant that the teenage date-crowd that permeated most of the shopping center
was noticeably absent, driven away by the ten-dollar hamburgers and the Fats
Domino music.  They had the huge corner booth to themselves -- lots of extra
space they didn't need, since they were sitting as close as if they were
connected at the hip.

Scully almost laughed aloud at the thought, for they were so much closer than
that.

"What you need," Mulder said, after a long, thoughtful perusal of the menu,
"is an ice-cream sundae."

"No," she retorted pleasantly, "I don't," and let herself lean into him, just
a little, enjoying his steadiness and his warmth.

"Sure you do.  You had a rough day," and reality swam before her eyes, wavered
and reformed into an image of that gun staring her straight in the face...
His arm tightened around her, banishing the nightmare.  "Ice cream sundaes are
good for erasing rough days."

"You're fairly good at it yourself," she said, very softly, and rested her
head against his shoulder.

She felt his hand smooth along her upper arm, a reassuring caress; and she was
so happily drifting in the gentle comfort of his closeness that the sound of
his voice, when he spoke, was a dismaying shock.  "I'm sorry, Scully," in a
tone that was as lost, as desolate, as she'd ever heard from him.

"Sorry for what?"  She pulled away from him, stared up at him, completely at a
loss...

"If I had listened to you in the first place, you never would have been in
danger..."  He turned away, staring out the window at nothing.  "I wanted so
badly to believe Mariano's story that I ignored you and disregarded all common
sense, and it was almost Duane Barry all over again...  You deserved better
than that, especially from me; and I'm sorry."

She already knew it, of course; had seen it his face in the moment when he'd
realized the truth of the situation.  The contrition, the regret... not to
mention the fear for her safety, and the fury that had caused him to use what
the manuals tactfully referred to as 'unnecessary force' in subduing her
assailant.  Twenty-twenty hindsight, of the sort that Mulder was so good at --
she was accustomed to it, was well used to the blind spot formed by his
willingness, his *need* to believe in the unbelievable -- and she knew he was
sorry, she didn't need to be told; but it was nice to hear it anyway.

Her hands enfolded his, and she opened her mouth to tell him so -- then she
saw his body tense.  "Damn it!"

"What?" and she leaned across him to follow his gaze out the window.

"Someone's breaking into your car," and Mulder was sliding around the booth
and dashing out of the diner at the speed of light; she followed him
unquestioningly, prepared for action.

Not that any was necessary, or possible.  As the diner's door swung shut
behind her, she saw the taillights of her car disappearing out of the parking
lot, the car fishtailing wildly, roaring away into the night.

And Mulder was standing there, a few yards away from her, shaking from the
adrenaline burst, cursing a blue streak, and looking like he was one small
step away from a nervous breakdown.

She went to him, took his hand, squeezed it hard enough for him to feel it.
"It wasn't your fault," she said quietly, firmly, not talking about the car
theft at all.

"If you had never met me, none of this would have happened!" was his anguished
reply -- one that would have been a total non-sequitur to anyone who didn't
know him as well as she did.  

"If I had never met you, I wouldn't be as happy as I am now," she told him,
moving to stand in front of him and challenging him silently to meet her eyes,
to believe the truth of what she said.  

"Happy?"  Disbelief saturated his voice.  "You've had your car stolen, you
were almost killed today..."

"And between the two incidents, I had a wonderful evening at the video arcade
with the man I love," Scully responded, with perfect dignity.  "What more
could any woman ask for?"

He stared at her incredulously, and she returned his gaze evenly; she wrapped
her arms around him, and felt him grab hold of her, clinging to her fiercely;
the tension drained out of him in the space of one long, shuddering sigh.

"I'm still sorry," he said, into her hair.

"I know," she murmured into his chest, "and you should be; but don't worry
about it, okay?" and she heard him laugh, just the barest breath of mirth.  A
good sign: when he was truly immersed in one of his moods, it required
intensive effort to bring him out of it.  Being with Mulder was a full-time
job, in and of itself -- but then, she'd come to terms with that a long time
ago; had decided that she wouldn't have it any other way.

Scully pulled her head back just far enough to look up at him.  "I think," she
said, "that we should go inside, call the police and report the robbery, and
order the biggest, most fattening ice-cream sundaes on the menu."

"I concur," said Mulder, and let her lead him inside.

-------

The first thing she did when the cab let them off at her apartment was to
strip off her jeans -- they were snug-fitting, and unforgiving to such things
as a waistline distended by too much ice cream and syrup.  The second thing
she did was wash her face -- Mulder had taken a positive delight in dabbing
whipped cream on her nose, over and over and over again, until she'd been
giggling so hard she'd thought she might vomit.

She thought she might, anyway; she hadn't eaten that much ice cream at one
sitting since childhood.

Clad in sweatshirt and panties, she trudged through her apartment to the
kitchen, where Mulder was -- she blinked, in astonishment -- doing the dishes
that had been sitting in the sink since that morning's breakfast.  "You'd make
a good housewife, Mulder," she commented approvingly.

"Does that mean you're going to make an honest woman of me?" he teased, and
she smiled.

"Sure," she said, playing along.  "If I can ever get you to make a *dis*honest
woman of me, maybe..."

"Is that a prerequisite?  I thought you were saving yourself for marriage,"
said Mulder; she couldn't see his face, so she couldn't quite be sure if it
was a jest or not.

"I gave up on that a long time ago, you know that," she answered, hoping that
she'd managed to keep the bitterness from her voice; she tore a paper towel
off the roll and wiped the countertop dry.

"Saving yourself, or marriage?" he wondered.

"Both, maybe," she answered honestly, and this time she heard the
disillusionment in her own voice and cursed herself for it.

She expected him to offer some comforting platitude; typical of Mulder, that
he did no such thing.  "I never actually expected to marry," he mused.  "It
just never fit into my worldview.  All that mattered was finding Samantha,
finding the truth.  I didn't think anything would ever matter to me as much as
that."

"And now something does?" she queried, knowing the answer, wanting to hear him
say it.

Preoccupied with rubbing a coffeestain from the counter, she didn't sense him
approaching, and let out a small surprised squeak when his hands slid around
her waist.  "My best friend matters," he said.  "My very best friend in the
whole world."

"Ah.  I see."  Scully leaned back, into him.  This was comfortable, this was
*perfect*.  This was the way it was supposed to be between them.

"Mm-hmm.  In fact," and Mulder's voice dropped, to a conspiratorial tone,
"she's such a good friend that even though I let her down all the time, she
still loves me."

She opened her mouth to protest at that -- thought about what she'd been ready
to say, reconsidered, and began again.  "You do let me down," she agreed.
"You ask me for my input and then ignore it, you take me for granted, you're
careless and you're annoying.  All very true."

"And you still love me."  It wasn't, Scully thought, quite a question; but it
was close enough.  The eternal question: the one he'd never gotten past
asking.

"I do," she affirmed.  "Because despite all your irritating superficial
qualities, you are also the very best friend that I have ever had.  More than
that, you are my one certainty."  She reached for the hands that embraced her,
held those hands tightly.  "Don't forget that, Mulder.  Because I don't.  Not
even when you piss me off."

Again, that soft laughter, sign that his mood was breaking.  "I'll try to do
better," he promised, fingers twining around hers.

"I wouldn't recognize you," she disputed, and was rewarded by another small
breath of laughter.

He released her -- not without a certain reluctance -- and returned to his
self-appointed task, while Scully began to dry and put away the dishes he'd
washed.  "You do realize," she remarked, conversationally, "that you're
blowing this way out of proportion.  There was no way either of us could have
foreseen or prevented that confrontation," and again, briefly, she was looking
down the gun barrel...  Scully took a deep breath and blinked hard; she was
accustomed to these flashbacks after the fact, the moments of terror that
mercifully usually only happened after it was all over.  She'd never gotten
used to the danger, had often had nightmares after some particularly stressful
or traumatic episode.  At least now, when she fell asleep, it would be in the
comforting haven of his embrace.  She wouldn't be alone... would never be
alone again.  Not as long as they both lived.

It was a new feeling, and yet it was also an old familiar feeling, because it
had been that way... just about since the beginning of their partnership.  In
that sense, despite all the changes in their relationship, nothing had really
changed at all.

"I know," Mulder answered, scrubbing a stubborn bit of food from a bowl.  "I
can't help it.  Call me crazy, but I have this little philosophical objection
to losing people I love."

"That's not a failing, Mulder; but you don't need to go overboard.  We face
danger, we protect each other; that's what partners do."  She felt herself
smile.  "And best friends."

"Yeah, but..." and he fell silent, devoting (she noted) far too much attention
to the simple task of dishwashing, staring steadfastly at the plate he was
washing so that he wouldn't have to meet her eyes.  "I just want to protect
you," he continued, after a moment -- surprising her; she'd thought she would
have to drag it out of him, the way she usually did.  "I don't want you to be
hurt, not ever.  Sometimes I wish I could lock you up in an ivory tower
somewhere, like a princess in some fairy tale, so that I'd know you were safe,
and that no one could ever take you away from me.  Even though I know it's
impossible.  And that you'd hate it, even if I could."

Scully put down the dishtowel she was holding and stared at him, for a long
moment -- he knew he was being scrutinized, and his face reddened with
embarrassment, yet still he refused to look at her, scouring a saucepan as if
it was the most important thing in the world.  *His* nightmare, one that
remained with him constantly; and it tore him apart to confess it -- even to
her, even though she already knew.  As if speaking it aloud might make it come
true.

And there was no way she could reassure him, not really, because it had
happened before, and might happen again...

=====/continues in TTU7(2/2)



Taming The Unicorn 7 (2/2) by Imajiru (imajiru@mindspring.com)
MSR, NC17, see part 1 for disclaimers & stuff.

-----continuous from TTU7(1/2)

"I feel the same way about you, you know," she said finally.

This earned her a quick sidelong glance.  "Do you?"

"Of course I do.  You think you have some sort of monopoly on fear and
insecurity?  I worry about you all the time.  And you, you go off chasing
rainbows into bottomless chasms, and leave me sitting in the passenger seat of
some rental car wondering if I'll ever see you again..."  She snatched up the
dishtowel and thwacked him on the arm with it; inexplicably, this brought a
smile to his face.  "And I try to protect you, or at least to temper your
belief with reason, and more often than not, you refuse to listen..."

"I listen," he protested.  "I just... don't always heed your advice.  I have
to follow my own instincts..."

"As do I," she said quietly.

"I know that."  He washed off the last dish, set it in the drainer, and turned
to face her finally, abandoning pretense for directness.  "Scully, I wouldn't
change you, not for anything; that's not what I'm saying..."

"I know what you're saying," she told him.

"Do you?"

"Yes."  She took his hands in her own; they were wet, a little soapy, but as
strong and as warm as always.  "And as I said, I feel the same way.  I would
like to protect you, too... even though I know that I can't."

He nodded once, slowly.  "Yeah," and his tone was wistful.  "But there's never
going to be any real safety for us, is there?"

"Not as long as we're doing what we're doing," she said, very softly.

"Yeah."  And then there was silence, a stillness that seemed to stretch
forever.

After an eternity, Mulder drew a deep breath, and broached the subject that
neither of them had ever dared speak of.  "It would be safer," he said, in an
unsteady voice, "if we left the Bureau.  Or at least, the X-Files."

//We,// Scully thought, wondering what exactly that meant.  "Do you think we
really could?" she asked him, placing the slightest emphasis on the 'we'.

"I don't know," he said bleakly.  "But if it meant that you would be safe..."
and his voice trailed off.  "Sometimes... sometimes, I think..." and again, he
didn't -- couldn't -- finish the sentence.

She contemplated him thoughtfully, amazed by what he'd said, and what he'd
left unsaid.  It was true enough that there were times she wanted nothing more
than to be done with the X-Files; to leave it all behind, the endless
uncertainty, the chasing of rainbows and the scurrying away from the faceless
shadows that wanted their secrets kept... and then there were the times when
the need for the Truth burned within her ferociously, a fire that he'd
kindled, but which her own nature kept alight.  His fight had become hers; and
yet there were times when she wanted to leave the struggle far, far behind...

Somehow, though, she'd never imagined that he might have become ambivalent
about his Holy Grail.  She'd certainly never dreamed that *she* might be at
the heart of the ambivalence.

"Could you?" he asked her finally, his eyes meeting hers tentatively, as if he
feared what she might say, but had to know the answer anyway.

"I could never work with anyone but you, not now," she said at once, not
having to think about that part of it; their partnership ran so deep, with or
without the romantic aspects, that the thought of being paired with any other
agent was unnatural, even repugnant.

That seemed to reassure him; but he persisted: "What if... what if I left the
X-Files?"

Despite his earlier words, the statement stunned her; she'd never imagined
hearing him say such a thing...  "I can't imagine you doing that," she said,
feeling slightly dazed, as if she were in a dream.

He thought about it for a moment.  "I can't imagine living without you," he
said at last.  And fell silent again, as if he couldn't bear to say anything
more.

"I feel the same way," Scully whispered, and left it at that; she hugged him,
hard enough to drive such troublesome thoughts far, far into the distance, and
felt his arms tighten around her, grateful for the distraction.

Leave the X-Files?  What about the Truth?  What about *Samantha*?
Unbelievable, that he would even consider it...  And what would become of
them, if they did?  The X-Files were at the heart of their partnership -- yet
that union had become so much more.  The very idea, that she had somehow come
to mean more to him than his life's quest...  inconceivable.

It scared her, even as it warmed her.  And after the tumultuous events of the
past day, she didn't even want to think about it.  She didn't think she could
handle any more instability, not at the moment.  She didn't think *he* could,
either.

"Let's go to bed," she said, and he agreed silently, signaling affirmation
with a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

-------

They were chasing her.

Faceless demons, and ones with all-too-familiar faces.  Duane Barry.  Mariano.
The darkness of impending death, looming up on her inexorably.  She raced
through the maze, eerily similar to that of the Pac-Man game she'd beaten; but
this was no game, this was her life... and worst of all, she was alone.

It seemed to her that it was wrong, this aloneness; it was *wrong*, in the
sense that a two-headed baby would be wrong -- impossible, implausible,
something that should not be -- but she couldn't remember quite why.

She ran, and ran, knowing that there was no way out, until finally a clawed
hand snatched her and dragged her down...

...soft kisses on her face, her neck, warm strong hands caressing her, easing
her from the falseness of dreams into blessed reality, chasing away the demon
fears of her sleeping mind with the comforting knowledge that the nightmare
had denied her -- that she was *not* alone; never alone.

"Mulder," she whispered, and let herself sink into his embrace.

"Scully," came her name, a soft murmur, as his arms wrapped around her and
drew her even closer, one hand rising to smooth her tousled hair...  He knew
all about nightmares, of course; he'd had enough of his own.  She'd witnessed
many of them, especially recently, and had become adept at soothing away the
residual horror that lingered after the dream had been dispelled.  Apparently,
he'd learned a thing or two along the way.

Or else it came naturally, this capacity for nurturing and tenderness; a
latent tendency, rarely expressed.  Whatever.  It didn't matter.  Nothing
mattered.  Only that he was there, as (it seemed, now) he'd always  been.

She cried a little, and he held her until the tears stopped; they seemed to
wash away the last of the nightmare, left her feeling calmer and less
unsteady.  Resting her head on his chest, listening to the slow beat of his
heart, it occurred to her that nothing in her life had ever felt so right...
"I think," she said, "that you are quite probably the best thing that has ever
happened to me."

A soft chuckle.  "I'm glad you feel that way," said her partner,  "because I
*know* you're the best thing that ever happened to me.  How'd I ever get so
lucky?" and there was wonder in his voice, awe, at the machinations of a
universe that had once seemed so cruel and uncaring, and yet had presented him
so unexpectedly with the prospect of a bright and shining future.

Scully knew the feeling.  Shared it.  How was it that her inexplicable (and at
the time, undesired) pairing with the FBI's arguably *strangest* agent had led
to this?

"I don't know," she said, "sounds like a case for the X-Files," and he
laughed.

Theirs had never been a relationship built on merriment.  They'd built a
fragile foundation of trust amidst a gnarled tangle of conspiracy and lies,
strengthened that bond over years of shared experience, until their faith in
each other had become something that they'd come to rely on utterly -- but
smiles and laughter had been rare, few and far between.  They'd been a part of
each other, yet had never been truly close... until that one fateful night,
when a dare had become so much more.  Within that new intimacy, they'd begun
to build a new rapport, integrated with the old, solid bond to form something
even stronger -- and Scully was beginning to discover something amazing and
wondrous: that Mulder was an entirely different person when he was happy.

She wriggled free from his grasp and straddled him, still shaking slightly
with the giggles that wouldn't quite go away.  "You're gorgeous when you
smile," she told him, and bent down to kiss the tip of his nose.

He liked that, she could tell; and so she worked her way down, her hair
brushing against his skin as her lips trailed kisses...  As she passed his
belly button, his hips arched up to meet her, presenting evidence of his
desire that poked her in the jaw; she grinned and applied kisses there, too,
feeling a long, ferocious tremor consume him as her lips slid along heated
flesh.  She knew what he liked, how he liked it, well enough to predict his
every response to her every move: and in this case, familiarity didn't breed
contempt, only a delicious intimacy that just got better and better each time
they were together.  Like riding a roller coaster, over and over -- no less
exhilarating on the tenth, the hundredth journey, no matter how well one knew
the course of the track: the long slow ascents were just as fraught with tense
anticipation, the sheer coasting drops just as likely to provoke wild screams
of pleasure -- Scully had never been overly fond of roller coasters, actually;
but this particular ride was one she loved dearly.

And it was as easy now as it had been the first time, to bring him to the peak
of that ascent... as easy, and as much fun: to hold such complete power over
him, as he lay whimpering and writhing beneath her, his hands clutching at the
sheets, digging furrows into the mattress, so aroused that the smallest flick
of her tongue could provoke near-convulsions... she held him there, on the
edge of culmination, loving the feeling of power, of mastery, of owning him:
*her* Mulder, hers and hers alone, for no one else could do to him what she
did -- she knew this; he'd told her so, in more than words -- held him there
until he could stand it no longer, then drew his throbbing erection all the
way into her mouth, as deeply as she could, with one long hard application of
suction, lips and tongue conspiring to draw him over the edge.

She was sure that her neighbors could hear him howl, not merely the next-door
tenants but the entire apartment complex, as his orgasm seized him and
consumed him; she suckled gently, enhancing the spasms, swallowed without
thinking about it, and smiled to herself, pleased with her work.  Loving him
this way was as good as being the recipient of similar attentions: a trite old
cliche, but absolutely true in this case.  Maybe because he was so contained
that it was a delight to see him lose control so thoroughly, to provoke him to
such extreme responses.  Maybe just because he was *her* Mulder, and she loved
him with all her soul.

For a long time, his breathing was ragged and hoarse, as he struggled to
recover -- his muscles were as limp and lax as a rag-doll marionette who'd had
its strings severed; he lay motionless, as if the effort of respiration were
all he could manage -- and she inched her way up the bed to lie beside him,
snuggling into her familiar, comfortable place against his side, placing her
hand palm-flat against his chest to feel it rise and fall in that irregular
pattern, to feel the hard pounding of his heart.  Watching drops of sweat
slide down his face, she saw his lips move silently in a well-used pattern;
she waited the space of a breath and heard him add sound to it: "Scully," in a
whisper that barely qualified as a vocalization.  Her name, the only one he'd
ever used for her, a name that belonged to him and him only.  Her surname, an
impersonal appellation -- except when it came from his lips; and then, it was
an endearment.

Then he smiled, that wonderful, sated, contented, happy, *gorgeous* smile that
she so enjoyed seeing, and said it again in a stronger voice:  "Scully," the
paired syllables conveying so much more than her identity.  His respiration
was stabilizing, now; and he turned, rolling over and capturing her in his
arms, holding her close enough that she could feel his heart thumping in
syncopated rhythm with her own.  Lips forming a kiss on her forehead, another
on her eyebrow:  "Scully," once more, in a voice saturated with love, and she
smiled and kissed him back.

And then he pushed her gently back against the mattress, rallying his
strength, and began to return the favor.

-------

Morning arrived with the annoying, persistent buzz of an alarm, piercing her
consciousness and nagging her to alertness despite her fatigue; she wriggled
out from beneath the arm that held her immobile, and stumbled into the
bathroom.

She didn't shut off the alarm, knowing that if she did, he would never
awaken... she was in the shower when she heard the bathroom door open, heard
the unmistakeable sounds of the usual morning routine; and shortly afterwards,
the shower curtain slid back, and he stepped in with her.

Her shower wasn't built for two, but there wasn't any choice; there was
neither enough hot water nor enough time for them to shower separately and
still make it to work on time.  A neat little gadget from an airplane SkyMall
catalogue had remedied the logistical problem: a shower-head extender that
created two simultaneous sprays, so that neither of them had to shiver at the
cold end of the tub -- he reached around her to position the gadget, then
reached further for the soap, pulled her into his arms and began to wash her
back.  She reciprocated, letting herself rest against him for one long lazy
moment, luxuriating in the feel of warm wet skin against hers.  Shared showers
might have been practical, but they were also delicious, even when there
wasn't time for anything more than getting clean.

Ritual: he exited the shower first, so that when she emerged, there was a huge
fluffy towel being wrapped around her before the cooler air could touch her
skin and make her shiver; another towel deposited itself upon her head, and
gentle strong hands rubbed her hair briskly.  She plugged in the dryer, picked
up a comb and began to style her barely damp hair; a long arm stretched across
her field of vision, blocking her view of the mirror, as he plugged in his
razor, and side by side they shared the bathroom mirror.  There wasn't really
enough room in the little bathroom, but they managed, as always.

He finished shaving before she was through drying her hair, left the bathroom
-- not long after, she smelled the drifting aroma of coffee brewing, and
headed to the kitchen to claim her cup as soon as she'd finished coaxing her
hair into its usual professional 'do.  It was waiting for her, black coffee
steaming in her mug, sitting on the countertop; and Mulder was making
breakfast, the usual pot of oatmeal, made with a dash of vanilla and a bit of
heavy cream, a liberal helping of cinnamon and entirely too much brown sugar,
one of the few meals he could prepare without destroying half the kitchen. 

The toaster popped, and she plucked the protruding slices from the slots, got
out the spread and began to butter the toast, slid each piece onto a paper
towel and took them to the table along with her coffee; a moment later, Mulder
was there, bringing two bowls with him.  She traded him a slice of toast for a
bowl of oatmeal, and they sat side by side, eating their breakfast.

It wasn't until he spoke that Scully realized that neither of them had said a
word since waking: that all their morning preparations had been conducted in a
silence as comfortable as their conversations.  But then, words weren't
necessary; not between *them*, not anymore.

"I don't think I could," he said slowly.  "I wish I could, sometimes, but I
can't."

She was momentarily confused, wondering what he was talking about; an instant
later, it was clear.  "I didn't think you could," she agreed.  "I don't think
I could, either."

His eyes met hers: still sleep-fogged, but intense.  "I love you," he said,
and she had no doubt that he meant it.  "How could I put anything else before
you?"

It was clear to her that he felt guilty about that -- yet she felt no
resentment; and she searched her mind to figure out why.  "It's not a question
of who or what you care more deeply about," she said at last.  "It's a matter
of what you believe, and who you are.  And who I am."  Her hand snaked across
the table, fingers intertwining with his.  "It isn't merely your quest
anymore," she reminded him.  "It's mine, too."

"Because I forced it on you..."

"You did no such thing."  //Sometimes,// Scully thought, with mingled fondness
and annoyance, //he can be so *blind*...//  "You showed me things I had never
seen before," she continued, "opened my eyes to new possibilities, opened my
mind to questions I hadn't considered.  Do you think I blame you for that?
I'm *thankful* for that."

"Really?" and it was clear that he'd never considered that angle  before.

"Really," she confirmed.  "To be perfectly frank, if you were to tell me that
you were giving up the X-Files for me, I would have to insist that you seek
immediate counseling.  Because that's not *you*, Mulder."

Finally, a smile -- how she loved to see him smile.  "You amaze me, Scully."

"Good," she said, and watched the smile widen.

They finished breakfast, took their dishes to the sink.  "We're late," she
said, with a cursory glance at the clock, "again.  And we still have to dress,
and call a cab..."
"Yeah."  He turned toward the trash.  "Guess I might as well take this out
when we leave; you're too pretty to spend the day smelling like yesterday's
garbage."

"My hero," she said, grinning.  "Don't forget, the blue bag goes in the
container on the left..."

"I know, I know, you recycle."  Mulder reached for her hand, and she reached
back automatically -- suddenly, belatedly realized that he wasn't being
affectionate... 

"Hey!" she yelped involuntarily, snatching at the hand that had stripped the
ring from her finger.  

Mulder caught her hand and held it immobile.  "You *said* you recycle," he
said reasonably.  "And I think we ought to save our money for a new car;
personally, I'm not expecting the local authorities to find anything except
possibly a burned-out wreck."  His eyes met hers, gazing at her with such
love, it took her breath away.  "Scully... will you marry  me?"

It took her a moment to realize what he'd said.  It took another moment for it
to sink in.

"But Mulder, we're *already* married," she heard herself say, and knew in that
instant that it was true.

His smile was a treasure.  "We are," he agreed.  "So maybe we should walk down
the aisle and make it official?"

She didn't have to pause to think about it.  "We should," she affirmed.

Very carefully, very tenderly, he slipped the ring back onto her finger, drew
her hand up to his lips and kissed it.

That was when the tears began, and the laughter that bubbled up through the
tears and coexisted with them; he wiped away her tears with the corner of a
paper towel, paying no heed to his own, both of them laughing and crying at
once, sharing an emotion that was too big for words or laughter or tears or
even the kisses that followed.

And they never did get to work that day.

-------end/7



Taming The Unicorn 8
by Imajiru
imajiru@mindspring.com

The story so far:
I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. 
II - In which the terms of the wager are defined.
III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan.
IV - In which bad things happen to good people.
V - In which broken things are made whole.
VI - In which Mulder's bed is unearthed.
VII - In which a promise is made.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

VIII. Love

//She's mad at me,// Mulder thought.  //Really, really mad.//

The tirade had begun with, "You stupid, thoughtless, reckless son of a bitch!"
and had escalated from there to a level of profanity of which he had never
imagined Scully was capable.  It would have been interesting, even
entertaining, if it hadn't been directed at him.

And it had continued all the way to the hospital emergency room, and for the
thirty-five minutes that it had taken until the triage nurse on duty had
deemed her injury worthy of note; even as the wheelchair bearing his beloved
had disappeared into the treatment area, he'd still heard her cursing him and
his lineage, utilizing her formidable vocabulary for maximum disparagement.

Now she was silent, and that was worse: withdrawn, cold and still on the
passenger side of the car as he drove her back to the motel.  A few times, he
dared glance over at her, but each time his eyes darted quickly back to the
road, fearful of what she might say if she did return his gaze.

//I think I'm in real trouble,// Mulder mused.

After he'd parked, he hurried around to open her door, to help her out -- she
shoved him back, hard, with the crutches the hospital had so thoughtfully
provided, and made her own way to her room.  He hovered behind her, close
enough to catch her if she stumbled, yet far enough that she wouldn't use it
as an opportunity to renew the verbal barrage; he stayed there while she
fumbled with her key, attempted to follow her into the room -- and was caught
by surprise when she attempted to shove the door closed, nearly catching his
fingers in the jamb.

"Scully, I'm, uh, I'm sorry?" he tried.

"SHUT UP!" she screamed in his face, and slammed the door.

With a sigh, he went to his own room, noted upon entering that she'd closed
the connecting door -- he tested the knob: locked, as he'd expected.  Mulder
cast a glance at Scully's luggage, still sitting where she'd left it, in the
corner of his room, and wondered just how angry she was... tentatively, he
knocked on the door.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" came the same furious shout, only barely attenuated by the
intervening wood.

"You, uh, you left your stuff in here," he reminded her.  The renting of two
rooms had become a mere formality long ago; it had been ages since they'd
actually *slept* in separate rooms.  He could hardly remember what it was like
to sleep alone...

He had the dismal feeling that he'd be becoming reacquainted with that
sensation tonight.

>From the adjoining room, he heard the cursing begin again, a steady stream of
epithets, growing louder along with the ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP of her crutches as
she made her way toward the door -- "That's quite a vocabulary you've got
there," he said conversationally, as she opened it, and was instantly struck
silent by the vicious gaze she turned upon  him.

He stood by the door and watched her struggle with suitcase and crutches until
he couldn't stand it any longer, then went over and took the bag out of her
hands and carried it into her room for her -- not looking at her, lest her
angry eyes turn him to stone.

And of course, once he'd set foot in her room, he wasn't about to leave; "Get
out," she commanded, and he ignored her, settling himself into the single
battered easy chair in the corner.

"Look," he began, "I realize that I screwed up..."

"I don't want to hear it," she cut him off, rummaging furiously through the
suitcase he'd placed carefully on the bed.

"I should have listened to you," Mulder continued, with the uncomfortable
awareness that he'd said those words too many times recently, without really
paying attention to them, or modifying his behavior.  "I shouldn't have been
so quick to leave..."

"YOU RAN OVER MY FOOT!" she raged.  "You were in such a GODDAMN HURRY to
listen to a confirmed drug addict spin her hallucinatory fantasies of alien
abduction that you nearly ran me over!"

"Yeah," he mumbled.  "Scully, I really am sorry..."

"I DON'T CARE!" she shouted, snatching up a garment and storming off to the
bathroom: an undignified retreat, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, all the way.

It took an unnaturally long time for her to emerge, so long that he knew it
wasn't just the difficulty of her injured foot delaying her; he wondered if
she was mad enough to sleep in there, rather than face him again... but
eventually she came out, wearing a nightgown that was very definitely not
meant for intimate nights: high-necked, shapeless and unflattering.

"You look beautiful," he said involuntarily, meaning it; and she glared at him
again.

She pulled back the covers and flopped down onto the bed, wincing.  "Get the
lights on your way out," she directed, quite obviously a command, and he
hesitated; would it be better to obey, and let her simmer, or to try to make
amends...?  With a sigh, he got up, moved toward the door -- then discovered
that he couldn't leave; his legs wouldn't take him through the door.

"Scully," he said helplessly, not knowing what else to say, not knowing how to
make it right.

"Mulder," she said, not looking at him, "go away."

"For how long?  For now, for tonight..." and he couldn't finish the sentence,
struck by sudden fear: just how angry was she?  Angry enough to dissolve their
partnership?  Angry enough to call off the wedding?

Of their own accord, his eyes searched her hand, looking for the ring that she
never, ever took off -- and the anxiety within him suddenly exploded into
full-fledged terror, because *she wasn't wearing it*.

And suddenly it hit home, what he'd done to her, in a way that it hadn't,
quite, before...

He wasn't aware of moving, but suddenly he was kneeling at her bedside,
reaching for her hand, the unnaturally bare hand that wore no ring, babbling
desperately: "Scully, I'm sorry, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'll never
do it again, I swear to you; Scully, *please*..."

And she rolled over toward him, so that for just a moment he thought that she
was going to forgive him; but there was blazing fury in her eyes, and the
volume of her voice deafened him:  "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Stunned beyond rational thought, he did as he'd been told; retreating into his
own room by instinct alone, since his eyes wouldn't focus well enough to see
where he was going -- ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP behind him, bringing the faintest
ghost of hope to his despairing soul, until the final indictment as the door
clicked 'locked' behind him.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and his eyes burned as if with tears,
but the pain was too great for so simple a release.  //This is it,// came to
him, with dreadful clarity, //this is it, this is the end, I've finally pushed
her too far...//

The quest, always the same damned quest for the Truth; and in the end, it was
as he'd always known it would be -- the only Truth was that he was alone.
Would always be alone, because of the damned quest.  Always searching for the
answer to the old pain... and was there ever an answer?  No.

Why had he been in such a hurry, anyway?  Because this abduction story seemed
like such a promising lead?  Bullshit: not with medical records like those, of
chronic drug abuse and pathological lying.  His own instincts told him that
this was a dead end, but still he'd been so anxious to check it out... And of
course it would lead him to another brick wall, just like they all did; it
seemed to be his destiny to be eternally stymied.

And this time, oh, this time he'd screwed up royally, all because he'd been so
wrapped up in the Quest that he hadn't bothered to check the rear-view mirror.
No... because he hadn't bothered to wait ten whole seconds for Scully to get
into the car.  A moment's more thought, and it never would have happened --
but he'd been in such a hurry, he'd forgotten about her.  About *her* -- the
woman who was a part of his soul, the way no one had ever been.  About *her*
-- his partner, his best friend, his fiancee.

No, he couldn't blame this one on his Quest: this one was his fault, HIS
fault, for being more self-centered than any being had a right to be and still
exist.

//She deserves better,// he thought miserably.  //If this *is* the end...
maybe it's for the best.  Not for me, certainly, but for Scully...//

Automatically, he stripped down to underwear and slid into bed, knowing that
there would be no pleasant dreams for him that night; wondering why he
bothered.  //Maybe things will be better in the morning,// he thought, but
didn't believe it.  Not this time... 

-------

=====continues in TTU8(2/2)



Taming The Unicorn 8 (2/2) by Imajiru (imajiru@mindspring.com)
MSR, NC17, see part 1 for disclaimers & stuff.

-----continuous from TTU8(1/2)

-------

It was a long night.

Every time he managed to drift off, after a prolonged period of wakefulness,
there was another nightmare; every time he managed to shake off the nightmare,
there was the bleakness of the empty room, the empty bed, reminding him of
what he'd done.  Sometime around dawn, he gave up entirely, threw on clothes
and went out for a run.

The morning was cold, mist and frost forming a haze over the world -- kind of
like the ice he felt encroaching on his soul.  What would it be like for him,
living in a world without Scully?  He didn't want to think about it, and yet
he couldn't help himself -- like probing an abscessed tooth with one's tongue,
there was something in him that couldn't leave the painful spot alone.

Cold.  It would be cold, like the chill air that seemed to spread a layer of
frost over his throat on its way to his lungs.  Hard and unyielding, like the
pavement under his feet.  An endless, pointless journey to nowhere, like
jogging in a giant circle around a motel...

Running was too damn depressing; he headed back to his room.

And noticed the light on next door, in Scully's window.

He knocked hesitantly on her door, hoping against hope that he might find the
words, this time, to eradicate the fury in her eyes... but something in him
died when he noticed that she was dressed, and appeared to be packing.

"You're leaving," he said, not as a question.

"Yes," she said, her voice too measured, far too even.

"Why?"  It hurt, it hurt beyond belief; she was leaving, leaving *him*...

"There isn't much I can do here with a broken foot," she responded, in that
so-logical voice that infuriated him sometimes.

Now, though, all he could find was despondence.  "I'm sorry," he said, almost
a moan, almost a plea.

"It doesn't make much difference right now whether you're sorry or not," said
Scully, "in any case, I'm incapable of doing my job."

That was true enough, he had to admit, but still...  "Don't go," he heard
himself say, and this time he *was* pleading; "don't go, Scully, don't leave
me..."

She sighed softly, turned away from the suitcase she was packing to face him.
"I'm not leaving you, Mulder," she said.  "I'm going back to D.C. so that I
won't leave you."

He tried to make sense of that, failed.  "I don't get it."

"It's going to take me awhile to forget how angry I am with you, Mulder," she
told him, in a patient tone like one she might use toward a child.  "If I stay
here, with you, I won't have the chance to forget; because you'll just keep on
doing the same stupid things that make me so angry.  I don't like you very
much right now, Mulder -- but I do love you, and I don't want anything to
damage that."

//She loves me.  She still loves me.//  The news should have elated him, left
him with a feeling of relief.  Somehow... it didn't.

"But I don't want you to forget," he heard himself say, and wondered why he
was saying such a foolish thing.

Scully just looked at him, perplexed.

"*I* don't want to forget," he amended, beginning to sort out the tangle of
conflicting feelings that were assaulting him.

She stared at him for another moment, shook her head.  "Explain," she said
softly.

"Why should the same things keep happening again and again?" Mulder asked her,
asked himself, not certain where his train of thought was going, but willing
to follow it to the end of the track.  "Why should you have to *leave* me,
just so that you can continue to love me?  It isn't right, Scully.  This isn't
the way things should be between us."

"Agreed," she murmured, "but I know better than to think I can change you,
Mulder."

"Maybe you should," he mused.  "Maybe I need to change."  An old, old
psychiatrist's joke came to him, the one about the burned-out lightbulb --
//One, but it has to *want* to change.//

"Maybe I want to change," he whispered.

Scully's gaze lingered on him; then she sat down on the edge of the bed, and
-- miracle! -- patted the space beside her, inviting him to occupy it.  So he
sat beside her, let her take his hand, saw the gleam of diamonds and emeralds
on her left hand and felt something within him unclench and relax...  "I ran
over your foot, Scully," he said, "and I feel like total human garbage."

Almost, she laughed.  "Don't," she told him, "it'll just make it harder for
you the *next* time you do something stupid and hurtful to me."

"I don't want there to *be* a next time!" in a voice that was nearly a shout.
"But I don't know how to prevent it..."  He slumped forward, defeated; his
free hand rose to rub at his forehead, for he had the beginning of a headache
that promised to be the mother of all headaches; //not enough sleep and too
much misery can do that,// he thought bleakly.  "I get caught up in these
things, and I lose sight of everything else.  Even you.  And I don't ever want
to lose sight of you, Scully!"

"So don't," she said reasonably.

"How?"  //Addictive behavior,// he realized, //addictive and obsessive,// but
all his knowledge of psychology couldn't help him, because breaking the
patterns of behavior meant giving up his quest for the Truth -- for Samantha
-- and how could he do that?

"Come back to D.C. with me," Scully said.

His turn to stare at her, now.  "Now?  When there's a potential alien abductee
who might hold the key to Samantha's disappearance and whereabouts; you want
me to leave without even investigating..." and his voice trailed off.  //Oh.//

"Or stay, if you want," she added, without the slightest trace of
recrimination in her voice.  "I won't be upset with you."

//But I will have done it again,// Mulder thought.

It wasn't even that good a lead, he knew.  All signs pointed to a drug-induced
hallucination; the woman wasn't what you would term a reliable witness.  Logic
told him so, and his instincts agreed -- but still...

//Oh, *hell*,// he thought miserably.  //I really am hopeless, am I?//

"I know who you are, Mulder," said Scully -- his partner, his lover, his
fiancee -- "I knew who you were when I fell in love with you.  I don't expect
you to change," and was there the slightest trace of sadness in her voice?  "I
need to go back," she continued.  "I'm not any use to you here, and besides
that, my foot hurts.  What you do... is up to you; and I won't think less of
you, no matter what you choose."

He gazed at her, and wanted to embrace her, to kiss her, to tell her how much
he loved her, how much he cherished her and valued her -- and he couldn't.
Didn't feel that he had the right.

A horn beeped outside; "That's my taxi," she said, "do me a favor, go outside
and tell him I'll be out in a few minutes?  I need to finish packing," and
Mulder swallowed and nodded.

He didn't go back to her room afterwards, went to his own instead, sat cross-
legged in the middle of the bed staring at the wall.  Images of Samantha swam
before his vision -- Samantha as a little girl; he'd been shown what she might
have looked like as an adult, but he didn't know, not *really*.  Images of
Scully: laughing Scully, grim-faced serious Scully; Scully bruised and
bleeding, Scully-the-FBI-agent with her gun and badge, Scully in wisps of lace
and satin beckoning him closer... Scully as she had looked in that terrible
moment after the car's tire had rolled over her foot, startled and shocked, as
the scream wrenched itself from her throat...

//What matters most?// he wondered.  //What is the Truth, exactly?//

It had always seemed to him that his search for the Truth was a higher
purpose; now, suddenly, it seemed like a cop-out.  //Devote your life to
unraveling the inexplicable, and you can ignore the mundane realities around
you.  Spend your time chasing rainbows, and you can safely disregard the pot
of gold sitting on your doorstep.  Become engrossed in a quest for some
unknown goal, and you can avoid getting entangled in anything more personal --
you have an excuse not to care, not to get involved, so what if you hurt the
one you love; you have a higher purpose, and that makes everything all right.
Doesn't it?//

//Samantha,// cried one part of his mind, and, //Scully,// howled another, and
he wondered how it had happened that it had come to a choice between them.
Certainly, Scully hadn't forced the issue; Scully understood, no matter how
much effort she devoted to shooting holes in his single-minded intensity on
the subject.  That was just her way of injecting reason into his flights of
fancy; he relied on her for that, unconsciously and instinctively.  Above and
beyond that, she understood what it meant to him, to find an answer if not
Samantha herself: to have that eternal question resolved.

But now he had a choice to make, because he knew -- he *knew* -- that no
matter how well Scully understood, sooner or later he would drive her away, if
he continued on this course.  //Not because of what I believe.  Because I
don't know *when* to believe... and when to believe in Scully.//

He heard a door open and close, heard a car engine race, heard it retreat...
it took him a moment to understand what he'd heard, what it meant; and he
sprang to his feet, stunned and shocked, flung open the connecting door and
tore into her room... empty, now, save for a hastily scrawled note awaiting
him on the dresser.

     I thought I'd spare you the necessity of saying the words.  
     It's all right.  I love you, and I'll see you when you get 
     back.  Good luck.

Mulder stared at the note, feeling the emptiness of the room like a void in
his heart.  //She knew what I'd do,// and the knowledge brought no comfort,
only a slow, deep ache like the morning chill seeping into his bones.

-------

For so many years that he'd lost track, the X-Files had consumed his life.  A
natural progression from the endless questioning, the eternal 'why?' of his
lonely childhood, until finally he'd been old enough to *do* something about
it: to find the answers.  He'd tried to find happiness elsewhere, tried to
build a normal life, but that search had been futile, and in the end he'd
settled for the quest; it was his life's work, the only thing he'd ever really
cared enough about to actively pursue...

Until now.

He left the rental car half-parked at the side of the curb, snatched up his
bag and tossed the car keys onto the seat, and raced into the terminal,
desperately scanning the departure listing... there it was: Scully's flight.
Boarding.  And only a few minutes from leaving.

Silently, Mulder thanked the gods for electronic ticketing, and sprinted for
the gate.

He was the last one aboard, and he moved up the aisle, eyes rapidly flickering
from one side to the other along the rows -- //is this the wrong flight? did I
make a mistake? where is she???//

And then he saw her, huddled into a window seat, her face showing the pain and
the sadness she hadn't let him see... and he thanked the gods again, for
giving him the one instant's worth of wisdom it had taken him to realize that
there was a Truth more important to him than alien abduction or government
conspiracy or anything else.

The Truth was out there... just a few rows back, with tired eyes and tousled
red hair, more beautiful in her fatigue and rumpled suit than any porn-star
had ever been to him.

He ignored the number on his boarding pass and plopped down in the empty seat
beside her; she glanced at him sideways, the sort of casual brief look that
one would direct toward a stranger who happened to be sitting in an adjacent
seat -- then registered his identity, and *stared*.

"Hi," he said, trying not to sound too breathless from his sprint for the
plane.

"Hi," she returned automatically; then, "What are you doing here?"

Mulder shrugged, shoved his bag underneath the seat in front of him, kicked at
it until it fit.

"What about the case?" and her eyes were perplexed, confused.  "Did you... you
couldn't have wrapped it up, not so soon..."

Again, he shrugged, feeling curiously lighthearted.  "It'll still be there in
a couple of weeks," he said.  "Or not.  Whatever."  For the first time in
memory, it didn't matter to him.

Samantha mattered, would always matter -- but as for the rest... no.  Not in
the same way.  Never again.

"Mulder..." she began, and he placed one fingertip on her lips gently,
silencing her.

For so long, he'd struggled with this, but now he *knew*; and the certainty
lifted a burden from his soul that he hadn't known was there, until after it
was gone.  "This is where I want to be," he said.  "Right here.  With you."

At first, she didn't believe it; he gazed into her startled eyes and willed
her to believe, until finally he saw the glimmering of hope dawning...  Scully
blinked, hard.  "Damn it, Mulder, you're messing up my makeup," she
complained, in a voice that only trembled a little bit.

Very carefully, he drew a fingertip along the tender skin under her tired
eyes, wiping away the teardrops and errant eyeliner.  "I love you, Scully," he
said, as if that explained everything.

Which it did, really.

She pulled his head down and kissed him, as passionately as if they were in
bed together, and joy spiraled through him in an endless, dizzying torrent, as
all-consuming as an orgasm but purely emotional; and in that moment, he *knew*
that he'd done the right thing.  He'd stood at a crossroads, unaware, and
somehow he'd chosen the right path... the one that would lead to a future
worth living.

Everything would be all right now, everything.  He knew it, as surely as he'd
ever known anything.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, when she'd finished kissing him -- which
wasn't for some time.

"I know," said Mulder, and yawned -- his own fatigue was catching up to him,
now; the adrenaline rush that had propelled him at top speed to the airport
was fading, and the effects of his sleepless, troubled night were beginning to
set in with a vengeance.  "Me, too."

"We can come back later and finish the investigation," Scully added, snuggling
against him, as the plane began to move away from the gate.

"When you're feeling better," was his answer, as he settled into the embrace,
rested his cheek against the top of her head.

He couldn't see her face, but he could feel her smile.  "I feel better
already," she said.

A roar of engines, as the plane taxied toward the runway, not yet airborne --
but Mulder was already flying: soaring, propelled by a wonderful new
certainty.

The Truth *was* out there -- and the Truth was love; a truth that nothing
could ever touch, or destroy.

He took that knowledge with him into his dreams.

-----end/8


Taming The Unicorn 9
by Imajiru
imajiru@mindspring.com

The story so far:
I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. 
II - In which the terms of the wager are defined.
III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan.
IV - In which bad things happen to good people.
V - In which broken things are made whole.
VI - In which Mulder's bed is unearthed.
VII - In which a relationship is redefined.
VIII - In which priorities are established.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

IX. Commitment

In the parlance of her profession, it was a fracture of the medial phalanx of
the second metatarsal, accompanied by various contusions of muscles and
tendons and a nasty sub-carpal hematoma.  In practical terms, it was her
ticket to extended sick leave... she could have simply accepted a temporary
desk-job assignment; but Scully was more in a mood to take some time off.

And wonder of wonders, Mulder had taken some of his accumulated vacation time
to stay home and nurse her back to health.  Part of his sense of guilt, she
supposed, for having caused the injury in the first place -- well-deserved
guilt, at that, for if she hadn't been standing on extremely soft ground at
the time, the car tire would likely have crushed the bones beyond repair.

//He ran over my *foot*,// she thought, and stifled her incipient giggles; for
now that the pain was fading, the entire situation was nothing if not
hilarious.

Absently, she shook a couple of pills into her palm from the prescription
container on the nightstand, gulped them down with a swallow of wine -- Mulder
had nearly had a fit, the first time he'd witnessed her taking the pain
medication with liquor; Scully had had to very patiently explain the enhancing
effect of the latter upon the former, and reassure him that it was perfectly
safe, as long as she wasn't operating heavy machinery.  She still wasn't sure
he was convinced -- which was why she generally waited for him to leave the
room before doing it.

At the moment, her partner (//fiance,// she corrected herself, still not used
to the idea) was busy making her breakfast -- eggs over easy, bacon and hash-
browns, toast and juice and coffee.  In the past couple of weeks, he'd become
quite proficient in the kitchen; all she had to do was let the slightest
expression of distaste cross her face for the barest instant.  Then it would
be, "I'll fix you another one," as the plate was whisked away, to be replaced
by another plate of food, more correctly cooked.

She'd always known that guilt was a powerful motivator, to Mulder; however,
she'd never had the chance to apply that knowledge to their relationship
before.  Scully was almost ashamed of herself, sometimes, for letting him run
himself ragged on her behalf -- *almost* ashamed, until the pain meds began to
wear off, and she was forced to remember the severity of his offense.

//He ran over my foot,// she thought darkly; then, //but he's sure working
overtime to make up for it.//

The bedroom door opened.  "Coffee," said Mulder, sleepy-eyed and tousled and
adorable, setting a steaming mug on the nightstand.  "Breakfast in a few."

She smiled at him and touched his cheek in a silent thank-you; "Don't burn the
bacon this time?" she requested, and he nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

"Good boy," said Scully, when the door was safely closed, letting her smile
broaden into the wicked grin she fought to keep under wraps.

The first twenty-four hours after the injury had been deceptively mild; by the
time their plane had landed in D.C., the full force of the pain had set in,
and she had barely been able to bear being vertical.  The blood rushing to her
foot had been agony, and Mulder had had to requisition a wheelchair to get her
to the cab stand.  For the first week or so afterwards, she'd sincerely needed
his help... but now, fifteen days after he'd run over her foot, she was simply
savoring being pampered.  Not that he'd ever neglected her, within the
parameters of their romantic relationship -- but when they weren't going out
on dates or in bed together, Mulder could be so self-absorbed, so damned
distant...

Not now, though.  For the past two weeks, it seemed that his whole universe
had been shaped by her wants and needs -- and Scully was enjoying the
experience immensely.  //It's about time!// she told herself fiercely.  //I
deserve this,// and the small nagging voice of conscience retreated into the
back of her mind.

By the time she'd finished her coffee, Mulder had returned with her meal and a
refill -- breakfast was delicious, and she told him so; watched his face light
up in response to her approval.  "Aren't you eating?" she queried.

"Nah, I snacked on the stuff I burned," was the reply, and Scully wondered how
many eggs, and what percentage of the package of bacon, had been destroyed
during the preparation of her meal.  Not that it was her problem.  Since her
injury, Mulder had been buying the groceries, and handling the bills.

"You're sweet," she said affectionately, placing one hand on his thigh -- and
was intrigued by the sharp frisson that raced through his body in response to
the touch.

Their sexual relationship had been effectively quenched, for the time being;
the pain of her injury had left Scully completely uninterested in such
recreational activities.  And Mulder, who was (she guessed) desperately
grateful that she was even *speaking* to him, had not said one word about the
subject -- no requests, no invitations, not even the slightest joking
innuendo.  He'd spent the first week sleeping on the floor beside her bed,
lest she awaken in the night and need his assistance; since then, he'd been
sleeping on her couch.  To all outward appearances, the sudden absence of
sexual activity wasn't affecting him one bit.

But Scully knew him better than that, and had for some time been noting the
increased tension, the nervous energy, that she had long associated with
accumulated sexual frustration.  Moreover, she'd been keeping an eye on the
temperature control of the shower she couldn't use, and every day it had moved
a little bit further to the right -- for the last week, it had hovered solidly
in the ice-cold range.  The conclusion was inescapable, and unsurprising:
Mulder was as horny as a three-balled tomcat.

A week ago, she would have been in too much pain to care.  Now, though... she
was feeling well enough to find the situation interesting.

She let her palm linger on his thigh, relaxed the muscles of her arm so that
her hand seemed to slide closer to his groin of its own accord... Mulder's
breath caught in his throat, and a quick sideways glance told her that even
that slight caress had affected him strongly.  "Uhhhh, I think I left the
stove on," he stammered, leapt to his feet and dashed out of the room --
walking with difficulty.

Unseen, Scully grinned.  //He's got it bad,// she thought.  //Wow.//  And
then, //Hmmm... what can I do with this?// as she contemplated how she might
capitalize on the situation.

Like all the men she'd been intimate with, Mulder was fairly well governed by
his hormones, but that was the only similarity.  Some of her ex-boyfriends had
gotten mean when they wanted it and couldn't get it; some of them had become
sullen and sulky, as if sex was something they were entitled to, that she was
obliged to provide.  Mulder, on the other hand, seemed almost embarrassed by
his own sex drive -- for all that he could joke about it in the abstract, on a
personal level he was far more shy and self-conscious.  Which meant that he
was *cute* when he was horny, instead of being annoying or sulky.

Or else she just found it appealing because she was in love with him.
Whatever.

//He's been so good to me,// she thought fondly; then, //He's never pushed me,
not once.  He's never tried to force me, or persuade me, to go further than I
wanted to go.//  For all the stupid, selfish, annoying things he'd ever done
in the course of their partnership, *that* was a side of him that she
treasured.  The *true* Mulder, she felt, the person he'd have been if
childhood trauma hadn't twisted him ninety degrees away from so-called
normality and left him with a psyche full of unanswered questions and
unalloyed solitude.

//I love him,// Scully thought.  It wasn't often that she phrased it to
herself that way: it was something she *knew*, soul-deep, without needing to
analyze or contemplate the fact.  He was her partner, her lover, her friend,
and she took him for granted in the same sort of absent-minded way that she
accepted the presence of her arms, her legs, her eyes.  Mulder was essential,
and so much a part of her that voluntary separation was unthinkable.  They
*were* already married, as she'd told him: legal vows would be redundant.

But now, there it was, the stark fact: //I love him,// Scully thought.  //I
love him, and he loves me.//  What a miracle that was; what a miracle *he*
was, somehow all the more perfect for his imperfections.  What a wondrous
blessing, that they had the sort of relationship that could withstand
everything they'd been through, everything they'd put each other through, and
still thrive.

//I love him,// Scully thought, //and he's horny,// and a slow grin crossed
her face and refused to go away.  //Oh, I think I can do something about
that.//

"Did you burn anything?" she asked him innocently when he returned.

"Huh?  Oh.  No," as he sat down on the edge of her bed, as usual.  Scully
nodded, and winced; she reached up to rub at her forehead.  "Are you okay?" he
asked, with concern.

"It's nothing," she said, "it's just a headache," and Mulder reached out and
took her in his arms, held her close.

Scully rested her head on his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his waist,
letting her hands slide beneath the waistband of the sweatpants he wore in
lieu of pajamas.  "That feels good," she said, as he stroked her hair --
allowed her voice to deepen into a slow purr, the type she generally used when
he was stroking her elsewhere -- and felt him shiver.

She snuggled close, and her hands drifted lower, to his hip... he was nearly
fully aroused, already, and starting to sweat; with her ear pressed against
his bare chest, she could hear a strangled sound in his throat like a moan
being choked back at the source.  "Umm," he managed to say, after a few
unsuccessful tries, "Scully, I think... I think maybe you should get some
rest."

"I am resting," she answered contentedly, letting her hands wander a bit more.

"Scully," and now his voice was breathless, "ummm... don't you think you'd be
more comfortable lying down?  I can get you some more pillows..."

//How far is he going to go to keep from admitting it?// she wondered.  "I'm
more comfortable with you holding me," she said, letting the faintest note of
pleading seep into her voice.

Mulder sighed.  "Okay," he said, sounding defeated, and settled into the
embrace.

-----continued in TTU9(2/2)


Taming The Unicorn 9 (2/2) by Imajiru (imajiru@mindspring.com)
MSR, NC17, see part 1 for disclaimers & stuff.

-----continuous from TTU9(1/2)


For maybe a minute and a half, she rested in his arms, feeling the tension in
his body as he struggled to restrain his own responses... knew, with sudden
certainty, that he'd sit there holding her for as long as he thought she
needed him, no matter how strongly her proximity was affecting him, without
ever letting his own desires take control of the situation.  That was Mulder,
*her* Mulder; when he was annoying, he could be thoroughly obnoxious to deal
with, but when he was being noble, he was every bit the knight-in-shining-
armor of her girlhood fantasies.

She reached down, wrapped her hand around his erection -- and felt his body
shudder fiercely as something approximating a whimper was wrung from his
throat.

"Scully, *don't*," he said in a hoarse whisper, much to her surprise.  "You
don't know what you're doing to me..."

"Yes I do," she whispered back, "and I think you've suffered long enough,
don't you?"

"Thought you had a headache...", then, "You set me up, didn't you?" and she
grinned up at him.

Her fingers traced the length of him with a feather touch, then increased
pressure for a second stroke -- and that was all it took to set him off.
"*Damn,*" he cursed, before the spasms had even begun to subside, then, "I can
get seconds, right?"

She laughed.  "Yes, you can get seconds," she confirmed, "and thirds, even,"
and reached over him to the nightstand for a tissue to wipe her hand with.

"Damn," he muttered again, chagrined, "I hate it when that happens..."

"It's been two weeks," she reminded him, kissing his reddened cheek in an
attempt to eradicate his embarassment.

"Two weeks," he repeated, "two weeks is nothing; I've gone so much longer than
that..."

"Not recently."  The tissue wasn't doing the job, so she gave up and wiped her
hand on the bedsheet -- which would probably need to be changed anyway, by the
time they were finished. 

"No, not recently," and he kissed her forehead.  "You're so good to me,
Scully; I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do.  You're a good man, Mulder; and I love you."  She shifted
position, studied his face: //and you don't believe a word of it, do you?//

"Not good enough to find Samantha," he murmured darkly, confirming her
thought, "or to keep you safe; and as for the rest, I wish I understood why.
Scully, you could do so much better..."

"Define 'better'," she challenged him.

"Someone stronger, someone stable, someone who doesn't drag you off into
strange places with no warning for his own selfish reasons, or drive over your
*feet*..."

"I've forgiven you for that, Mulder," she said patiently, "when are you going
to learn to forgive yourself?"

He shrugged self-consciously, and didn't answer.

"You really need to do something about this self-image problem of yours,"
Scully told him.

"I know.  You don't deserve *that*, either," and she sighed; glanced up and
caught his sheepish grin.  "Hey, maybe when we've been married thirty or forty
years and raised a half-dozen kids, I'll get used to the idea that you love
me.  Until then, I'm afraid you're just going to have to cope with my belief
that you're far too good for me."

She smiled, nuzzled closer -- then it hit her.  "A *half-dozen* kids?" she
squeaked.  "Tell me, Mulder, are *you* planning to give birth to these half-
dozen children...?"

He considered.  "Not a good number?"

"Here's a clue, Mulder: childbirth *hurts*."  But even as she said it, she was
contemplating it -- children, hers and his.  It was a new image, one she
hadn't let herself envision before... *their* children, the ones they would
conceive and raise together.

His hand found hers, curled around her still-sticky fingers.  "I'll help,"
said Mulder.  "I'll change diapers and everything."

"Oh, I *know* you will," she replied archly, "whether we have one or a flock;
I'm not letting you off the hook."  And smiled up at him.  "You're going to
make a great father."

"You think so?  Sometimes I think I'm still too much of a kid  myself..."

"You are," she confirmed, "and that's why."  She found that she could picture
it, so easily: Mulder and his children, *their* children -- playing with them
in the back yard of the house they didn't yet have, reading bed-time stories,
checking homework at the kitchen table, the whole nine yards.

"Wow," she said involuntarily, and he glanced at her inquiringly.  "Kids," she
answered his silent query, "marriage... it's all so new to me..."

He turned sideways a little, finding a more comfortable position; she moved
with him, adjusting her pose to his.  "Really?  I've been thinking about it
since the day we met."

This was a revelation; "Since the day we met?" she said, surprised.

And again, a faint crimson blush crept over his face.  "Before I knew what hit
me," he said, softly, "the first moment I set eyes on you.  You've never heard
of love at first sight, Scully?"

"I stopped believing in it, a long time ago," she said slowly, turning the
thought over in her mind.  "You've loved me for that long...?  You never said
anything..."

"I didn't want to take the chance of losing my best friend," said Mulder
simply.

There it was again, that nobility...  She pulled his head down and kissed him
deeply, catching him off-guard; his startlement passed quickly, and he sank
into the kiss the way he always did, with one hundred percent of his attention
focused on it, on her.  No such thing as halfway measures, with Mulder: when
he kissed her, nothing else existed except the kiss, and them.

Scully's mind, however, was elsewhere.  Thinking about the earliest days of
their partnership, and the rapport they'd established over the years.  How
difficult it would have been for her to trust him, in the early days, if she'd
realized how deeply he was attracted to her.  How their partnership would
never have become so close, so *intimate*, if she had held that knowledge from
the beginning.

And what a wondrous thing it was for her to have that knowledge now.

"I love you," she said, when they came up for air.  "Never doubt that."

He shook his head slowly.  "I don't," he said.  "Not usually, not really."

"Not ever," she told him, sliding her hand along his hip.  "Ready for
'seconds' yet?"  A rhetorical question; she was well aware of his renewed
arousal.

But again, he shook his head.  "Not just yet," he demurred, as his hand
slipped under her t-shirt, cupped her breast, fingertip flicking across the
nipple... and abruptly, Scully became aware that two weeks was a *long* time.

"Mulder, I'm fine," she said anyway.

"Uh-huh," said Mulder, in a tone of disbelief, "liar," and did something else
to her nipple with his fingertips... the sensation rippled through her and set
her afire with a thoroughness that astonished her.  "On your back, woman, and
don't argue," he said playfully, in a tone of mock severity.

He eased her t-shirt over her head first, then carefully propped up her foot
with pillows -- and then he was kissing her, slow soft kisses from her lips on
down, knowing exactly where and how.  And she understood what it had been like
for Mulder, because her orgasm began with shocking suddenness, uncontrollable:
his tongue touched her clitoris and she felt herself go off, hair-trigger,
like a match igniting a fireworks factory, a climax that built and built and
spread through her, so intense it was almost unbearable.

"Those were new sounds," Mulder said reflectively, afterwards.  "I liked them.
Especially that last one -- I think my ears are still ringing."

Scully grinned sheepishly, for *her* ears were still ringing from that last
frenzied cry.  "My throat hurts," she admitted, and he laughed.  "Mulder,
explain to me why some woman hasn't already chained you to her bed, and kept
you as her personal sex slave...?"

He considered.  "I don't think I was this good before you," he said, finally.
"I like the way you taste," and she felt his lips plant a light kiss on her
stomach, about halfway between her navel and her groin.

She tangled her hand in his hair affectionately.  "You think you can keep up
the good work for the next thirty or forty years?"

"For you, Scully?  Anything."  Such absolute conviction in that statement; it
warmed her straight through.

"Anything?" she wondered aloud.

"Anything."

"Would you... walk barefoot through hot coals for me?"

A moment's thought.  "I could learn how to do that," he said finally, "sure."

"Would you... climb the highest mountain for me?"

"Do I get rappelling gear?"

"No."

Again, he took a moment to consider it.  "Yeah, okay, I could do that, too,"
was his decision.

Scully smiled.  "Would you get me another cup of coffee?"

"No," said Mulder, straight-faced; he planted another soft kiss on her stomach
before levering himself off the bed.

She drank the coffee he brought her, even though he'd microwaved it to within
an inch of toxicity; and then she set her mug aside and reached for him,
pulled him down atop her.  "Time for seconds," she said, delighting in his
smile.

-------

"Go left."

"No, that'll take us back to the schoolroom."

"No it won't.  Go left."

Mulder had relocated the desktop computer to her bedside, and presented her
with a gift at the beginning of her convalescence... one that dated back to a
time before their partnership had become a romance.  'You've never played
Myst?' she could remember him saying, an eternity ago, in an incredulous
voice; the next day he'd brought it to work with him, and they'd spent the
better part of a week working their way through it, neglecting X-files and
paperwork and everything else.  Well, *she* had -- Mulder had already beaten
the game, months before.

Now the sequel was out, and they were playing it together, puzzling out the
game's enigmas, and arguing merrily about every detail -- it was like working
on a case, only less demanding and dangerous; and Scully was having a
wonderful time.  "I told you that was the wrong way..."

"So I got turned around, so sue me.  Let's go play with the snapping fish
while we're here."

"Is that your cellphone?" she said suddenly, distracted.

He muted the sound on the computer and listened... "Yeah," he said, sprang to
his feet, and headed for the living room where he'd left it.  Shortly, he
returned, immersed in an animated conversation; after a few minutes of terse
discussion, he ended the phone call, turned to her: "The boys have turned up
something interesting that they want us to look at," he said, "I can't get
anything out of 'em over the phone; but it sounds like it might have to do
with that string of abductions in Nevada.  We should..." and abruptly fell
silent, glancing first at her foot and then at her face.

His expression was one of agonized indecision, and Scully made a split-second
decision; the only one she *could* make.  "Go," she said.

"It's not *that* important -- I don't have to..." he began.

"Yes you do.  You *need* to do this."  She knew it, with certainty; knew
*him*.

Mulder blinked back at her, not moving, gazing into her eyes: //are you
sure?// the look seemed to say.

"Go," Scully repeated.  "It could be something important.  You can tell me
about it when you get back," and ruthlessly suppressed the small irrational
voice of terror within her that cried out: //*if* you get back, if something
awful doesn't happen to you while I'm not there to guard your back...//

But Mulder was Mulder, and if she tried to stop him from being who he was,
doing what he did best, it would destroy their relationship... maybe even
destroy him.  He'd been there for her when she'd needed him to be, the way
she'd needed him to be; now it was time to return the favor.  "Go," she said
softly.

He hesitated -- then shook his head, decisively.  "Come with me," he said.

She sighed.  "Mulder, I can barely walk; and I haven't been able to bathe
properly for weeks now, I look terrible..."

"Frohike won't care, and the others won't notice.  And you can walk well
enough to make to the car and back; and if you can't, I'll carry you."  Mulder
paused suddenly, as if searching for words.  "I need to do this," he agreed,
very quietly.  "And I need you with me."

Dana Scully looked at her fiance, for the first time seeing him as such: not
her partner or her friend or her annoying distraction, but the man she would
marry, and spend the rest of her life with.  How handsome he was, not merely
for the cut of his hair or the angles of his face, but for the earnest
sincerity that emanated from him, for the love that shone in his eyes.  Once
upon a time, she had dreamed of this man -- the one man who would love her
utterly and completely: who would know all the sides of her, serious and silly
and sarcastic, who would value her for her strengths and her weaknesses, for
everything she was.  She had discarded the dream in favor of pragmatism, had
scorned the idea that such foolish fantasies could come true, had refused to
believe in fairytales.

And then this man had come along, and taught her to believe in, oh, so many
things.  //I, Dana Scully, take thee, Fox Mulder...//

She reached out to him, and he reached back; their fingers entwined.  "I need
to be with you," she said, past the lump in her throat.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.  "I'll get you some clothes,"
he said, his voice roughened as hers was, "and a hairbrush."

But he kissed her first, a long slow kiss that took her breath away; and she
kissed him, thinking about the next thirty or forty years, and how wonderful
they would be.

And then they got dressed, one of them armed and the other one limping, and
went to see three men about an X-File.

=====end/9

...They promised me we could wrap this up within a couple of weeks.  They
*promised*.  :)  So -- more soon, I hope.

Cheers,
I.


                          -------
                 Imajiru Fantasia Mackenzie
imajiru@mindspring.com - http://imajiru.home.mindspring.com/
   The 7th St. Tavern -- http://www.xmission.com/~seven/
              Practice Safe Sex - Read Erotica