I suspected this very early on in our partnership. The way he'd look at
             another human being, the way he'd feel their pain as though it were his
             own. He is perpetually in search of a damsel in distress he can save
             from the world, knowing he can't save his own lost soul; knowing he
             can't save his sister. I learned this over the last six years I have
             spent by his side. From a fucked up diner waitress, to a blind woman
             with too much bravado for her own good, I have watched the man I love
             take one wounded bird after another beneath his wing. I have watched
             him weep tears of blood, seen the depth of his compassion for strangers
             sometimes exceed the compassion most men have for their own families.

             He feels more than is probably healthy for him; I doubt he'd know any
             other way to live though. He's used to feeling more than anyone else.
             He's used to wallowing in depths of despair he's surrounded himself in,
             treating his misery like a cauldron of water he must bathe in each
             night. Penance, I assumed for many years. But I realize now it's more
             than that; deeper than that. He doesn't just hold himself responsible
             for his sister being taken. He doesn't just believe he's been used his
             entire life as a pawn in some grand government conspiracy to conceal
             the truth about extra terrestrial life on this planet. Oh no; that
             would be much too simple for him.

             Mulder believes he's responsible for every fucked up soul on this
             planet; that it's his personal mission to rid the Goddamn world of all
             its problems. I sometimes believe he honestly thinks he single handedly
             keeps the line between good and evil from blurring too badly.

             When I say he loves easily, I don't refer to romantic love; that he
             doles out at such paltry rations, it's a wonder there have ever been
             women in his life he actually =slept= with. I believe he has loved me
             since our first case together. I believe he has loved many of the souls
             we've come across on our journey together. I even believe a part of him
             loved Melissa Ephisan. Not as a soul mate, as she'd proclaimed he was.
             But as another soul he could save, in the hopes he might avoid saving
             his own.

             It exhausts me to try and save Mulder's soul. Just when I think I won't
             be able to do it any longer; that I won't be able to devote any more of
             myself to his salvation, he does something remarkable. He opens his
             heart to me and lets me in. He shows me a part of himself no other has
             glimpsed and it deconstructs me at my most fundamental level. And while
             I'm loathe to admit it, even to myself, when I see him give a part of
             himself to another person like that, it makes me angry.

             It's not jealousy, as some might think. It's really not. It's anger;
             and an extreme sadness for him. He has so little of himself left to
             give, yet he continues to spread himself thin, to scatter the pieces of
             his being to the four winds so whoever might need help will have it.

             He accused me of being jealous, a few hours before I brought him his
             poster. I'd meant it to be a gesture of peace between us; bringing him
             a gift from Karen instead of having it brought down by courier. I let
             it go earlier and left him to his wallowing, thinking I'd truly brushed
             his comment aside. Looking back now, I realize I'd just bottled it up,
             like I always do. Because I'm mad he even =dared= accuse me of being
             jealous. If I had to give a name to my behavior, it would be something
             he's done with me a thousand times before.

             I was being territorial.

             And damn it, I have every right to be. He is MINE. I don't care what's
             ever been spoken aloud between us. I don't care about PC bullshit that
             says human beings are above owning one another. I have laid my life on
             the line for him, every day, bar none, for the last six years. He's
             done the same for me. If he pretends to be emotionally available to
             other people, when he isn't for ME, he's damn right I'm going to be
             =territorial=. Not jealous; I have only been truly jealous of someone
             else in Mulder's life twice. Detective Angela White (which I'm actually
             willing to go with Mulder's theory on - the cosmos were out to get us)
             and Diana Fowley. In both instances, I believed Mulder had been, or
             would soon be, sharing something with them we'd never shared together:
             A physical relationship.

             For some reason, jealousy never possessed me that badly with Phoebe
             Greene; again, I was extremely territorial, as Mulder has been more
             times than I can count. Maybe it was just too early on in our
             relationship for me to feel truly threatened by their physical
             intimacy. I hadn't yet accepted it would never be like that between us,
             no matter how badly I might want things to evolve. I don't use the word
             change, because the fundamentals of our relationship will never change.
             By nature, they can't. I do believe they could evolve though. If we can
             get past our mutual fear of what would happen if we do.

             He is terrified of the word change; almost as terrified as I am, when
             it applies to our relationship. He is my partner; my best friend and
             the man I trust above all others. To lose that would be detrimental. I
             assume he feels the same way about me. Some time after my missing
             months, I forced myself into the realization that we would never be
             more than friends. Best friends; partners; perhaps even soul mates, of
             some kind. But never lovers; never husband and wife, as some secret
             part of me had always hoped.

             That realization hardened me more than the work ever could.

             We have existed in a perpetual holding pattern for years. We never
             quite cross that line between platonic and . . . not so platonic. He
             makes a move; I rebuff it. I make an overture; he assumes I'm just
             trying to lighten up and starts bantering with me. I don't want banter;
             I want him.

             Quietly observing from the hallway, I watched him put up that I WANT TO
             BELIEVE poster tonight. Never in my life have I wanted to believe a
             slogan more than that moment. I want to believe we can move beyond
             platonic. I want to believe he loves me; not the way he loved Lucy
             Householder, or Marty Glenn or even the way he loved Diana Fowley once.
             I want him to love me the way he loves Dana Scully; the way he could
             love only me.

             I want to believe.

             My inner musings are interrupted by a knock at my door. Startled, I
             glance at the clock, noting that it's nearly three AM.  Knowing there's
             no one else it could be, I rise and open the door a crack. "It's late,"
             I say without preamble, wondering briefly if perhaps he's gotten drunk
             again.

             "Depends on your perception," he counters, looking sober enough. "For
             people who've actually been to sleep, this is early."

             I quirk an eyebrow at his logic, stepping away from the door so he can
             enter. I don't watch his progress as I head back for my couch. "What
             are you doing here Mulder?" I ask, faced away from him, unnecessarily
             fluffing a pillow. I busy myself with my useless task, waiting for him
             to speak. When he does not, I turn to face him, seeking answers he will
             not give me in words. What I see in his expression staggers me.

             "I'm not fine, Scully," he tells me raggedly. The door hangs open
             behind him. I move slowly, and close it without once taking my eyes
             from his. He is scaring me; Mulder has never scared me.

             "Mulder," I begin softly, hoping to diffuse what is building to be a
             very tense situation.

             "I was sitting there," he states as though he never even heard me speak
             his name, "after you'd left," he clarifies, "wondering what kind of
             meaning my life had." He turns haunted eyes to mine before looking
             away. "Everyone I make some kind of real, human connection with ends up
             dead. Why is that?"

             Thanks for asking the easy questions, Mulder. I somehow stop myself
             from voicing the bitter words. He's here because he trusts me to piece
             him back together and send him on his way. I've done it before; he has
             no reason to believe I won't do it now. He needs me and I react. It's a
             pattern we've established over the years. I don't know how to tell him
             that I need him now; that I need him to be something he's never been
             for me before.

             "It's not true," I say, the words coming out stilted and far too long
             after he voiced his question. My ability to think quickly, to act cool,
             calm and collected has been impaired over the last few months.  I lack
             the energy and inclination to pretend with him anymore. I have lost my
             fear of being with him in every way I can be.

             "Isn't it?" he asks bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "It's
             like signing their death warrant if I care for someone," he continues,
             pacing my floor like a caged tiger. "Everything I touch withers and
             dies," he pronounces in a voice so lacking any self-pity that I cannot
             fault him his beliefs.

             "I'm not dead," I hear myself say, as though I weren't really
             responsible for it. How odd that tonight of all night's we're going to
             have this conversation. I'd always assumed it would be something he'd
             initiate. Of course, he did come over here tonight, didn't he? Maybe he
             isn't quite as afraid as I'd thought he was.

             "Not yet," he counters, pinning me with his intense gaze again. He
             moves toward me, his hand slowly moving between us. He cups my jaw in
             his palm, the touch gentle, almost reverent. "But you've come so
             close," he whispers, his voice tight, raspy. "And I made something die
             behind your eyes," he continues. "It was there that first day I met
             you. It was even there through a few of our first cases. But I killed
             it. I killed a part of Dana Scully and I'll never forgive myself for
             it." His eyes shut as though he can't bear to look at what he believes
             he's done to me.

             "Not you," I whisper, missing the lack of contact as his hand falls
             from my jaw in defeat. I raise my own hand to the side of his face,
             brushing my fingertips against the stubble below his ear. "It wasn't
             you," I enunciate carefully, feeling tears clog both my voice and my
             eyes. "It was Them. They have taken so much from both of us. But never
             confuse what they've done with who you are. Their lives touch yours.
             That's what makes everything die Mulder. Not you," I stress for what
             seems like the thousandth time for myself. I need him to really hear me
             right now. He's slipping away and I'm afraid I might lose him.

             "How can you still care when knowing me has cost you so much?" he asks
             dejectedly, staring at me like he really doesn't understand. His cheek
             leans into my palm just enough to let me know he needs this. He would
             never admit it, but he needs me to tell him it's okay to need me; that
             I don't resent him for it.

             "Mulder, knowing you has given me much more than it's cost me," I tell
             him slowly, choosing my words carefully. It's true; I wouldn't lie to
             him, not about this. I offer him a gentle smile. "I meant what I told
             you. I wouldn't change a day Mulder. A slight change might mean we
             weren't together now, and as frustrating as it's been at times, I like
             having you in my life," I finish, voicing the understatement of the
             year. Yea, I like having Mulder in my life; the same way I like having
             food and water and air in my life.

             "I like having you in my life too," he confesses, the darkness in his
             mood lifting just a bit. He gives me a weary smile. "I don't know why
             you put up with a neurotic, morose bastard like me, but I'm really glad
             you do," he whispers sincerely, staring down at the floor, his eyes
             closed.

             I feel myself losing control; all control. I've given him what he needs
             from me, but I haven't taken what I need from him.  He wouldn't deny
             me; I know he wouldn't. Even if he didn't feel the same, he wouldn't
             deny me. "Mulder, I love you," I whisper so quietly I doubt he can even
             hear me. Not waiting for him to meet my eyes again, I trace the tips of
             my fingers along his jaw to his chin, feeling his skin, memorizing the
             feel of his face. As though it weren't connected to the rest of my
             body, my hand moves slightly, my fingertips brushing his full lower
             lip. His body stills and his head slowly lifts, his eyes meeting mine.
             I do not give him the chance to voice the questions I read in his eyes.
             I rise on my toes and press my lips to his, the touch almost chaste.
             It's just a comfort kiss, I tell myself. I'll pull back in a minute. I
             just need this for a minute.

             But I don't pull back. I lengthen the contact until this kiss can no
             longer be thought of as chaste. It's gentle, but it's anything but
             chaste. Both my hands creep up to cup his face, his stubble scratching
             my palms as I luxuriate in the feel of this. I pull his lower lip
             between both of mine and simply let it rest there. Somewhere in the
             back of my mind, a part of my brain is still saying 'I'll pull back in
             a minute' and I believe it. I honestly believe I'll pull back in a
             minute. I just need to taste him first. That's all. Just one taste and
             I'll be able to pull back.

             I move my tongue slowly, barely flicking it over his lower lip. I
             realize as I do this that Mulder's hands have already found their way
             to my hips. He doesn't hold me or squeeze me. His hands are merely
             resting atop my hips. My index fingers slide behind his ears, gently
             rubbing the sensitive skin there as I probe my tongue further into his
             mouth.

             That was a mistake.

             The realization comes too late. Like a woman dying of thirst, after
             just one taste, I only want more. I can't stop kissing him; I don't
             even =want= to stop kissing him. I just know that I should.
             Unfortunately, I've been doing what I should do for a very long time
             and I've become sick of it. And then, like magic and every moment of
             relief and joy ever expressed throughout time, Mulder is kissing me
             back. And not just politely kissing me back, the way he might if he
             were trying to let me down easy. This is intense. His tongue is in my
             mouth, sliding along mine, tracing the roof of my mouth with slow,
             seductive movements. His hands leave my hips and slide around my lower
             back, tugging until I'm flush against his body.

             Very slowly, I move my hands from his face to his neck, then lower over
             his chest, taking the opportunity to touch as much of him as I can. We
             seem to be of like mind in this, for his hands begin sliding up and
             down my spine, from top to bottom and back again. He slants his mouth
             over mine and bends down until my feet land flat on the floor again.
             He's everywhere, above and below and beside me. His scent, gun leather
             and Mulder fills my nostrils; his taste, uniquely his own and lightly
             flavored with the salt of sunflower seeds fills my mouth.

             A familiar refrain runs through my mind. MINE, I think as my hands
             slide lower to his waist, pulling his white dress shirt from his pants.
             MINE, it chants as my hand smoothes up his bare skin, fingernails
             tickling his rib cage gently. MINE, I cry silently as his gentle
             laughter in my mouth makes me want to weep with joy. I'm definitely
             territorial where he's concerned. But I think he's the same way with
             me. I'm sure of it as his hand creeps up my side to cup one of my
             breasts through my blouse. His touch is possessive in the way his touch
             has always been. Only now, that touch has layers to it; it moves beyond
             merely possessive or territorial. His touch is now the touch of a
             long-time lover's. Secure that he has the right to touch me; sure of
             the way I wish to be touched.

             Finally, after what seems like minutes, I break the kiss between us
             long enough to rip his tie over his head. Noticing I hadn't even
             bothered to push his jacket off earlier, I do so, letting the black
             Armani fall to the floor in an undignified heap. I move away from him
             until my back hits the door. I keep my eyes on his as his arms drop to
             his sides. He looks slightly confused at my sudden withdrawal and I
             smile wantonly at him in reassurance. My hands slowly creep up my sides
             until they reach the first button on my blouse. Undoing it slowly, I
             move to the next, then the next, then the next, until I've unbuttoned
             them all. I reach for one of his hands and pull him toward me. I press
             that hand to the skin revealed by the parted blouse, just above my
             breast. Taking his other hand, I place it directly opposite the first.
             I allow my hands to move away and begin unbuttoning his shirt. As I do,
             he gently shoves my blouse off my shoulders, the heels of his hands
             smoothing over my skin as he does.

             I pause in my task long enough to shrug my blouse off, then go back to
             undoing his buttons before it hits the floor. I practically claw at the
             material covering his shoulders, taking a moment to breathe only when
             his shirt joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor. I lean
             forward and press my lips against his skin over his heart, feeling the
             slight vibration of its beat. My eyes close as I inhale him, taking him
             into so much more than my lungs.

             "What're we doing here Scully?" his husky whisper asks from the top of
             my head. I can feel his lips move over my forehead as his hands rest
             just below the clasp of my bra on my back.

             "Something we should've done years ago," I answer quietly, brushing
             light kisses across his breastbone until I reach his clavicle. I suck
             lightly and dart my tongue out to taste his skin. Again, I cannot stop
             with just one taste and I find myself kissing and licking and lightly
             biting on his skin until I reach his neck. I press my lips against his
             throat and I can feel him humming. He's trying to suppress a moan I
             realize with a thrill of pleasure. I move my hands over his abdomen,
             slowly, teasingly brushing them along his ribcage. I kiss the underside
             of his chin.

             "Scully," he whispers jaggedly, his fingers flexing against my back in
             an effort to keep control. He's afraid. He's afraid of what's happening
             between us, of what he's feeling. I don't want him to be afraid now. I
             want him to embrace this with me; to accept it as inevitable. His arms
             are around me, but he isn't touching me. He's here, but he isn't
             participating.

             "Mulder," I murmur against his throat, nipping lightly at his Adam's
             Apple.  "Mulder please touch me," I whisper, moving my mouth to his
             ear. I pull the lobe into my mouth and suck gently. "I need you to
             touch me."

             His hands leave my back. One rests again on my hip, the other trails up
             my stomach to cup one of my breasts through my bra. I gasp as his thumb
             brushes over my nipple, the lace of my bra causing a pleasant friction.
             He leans his head away from me just enough to look into my eyes. "Like
             this?" he asks, his voice low as his thumb continues to move. I can see
             the confidence building in both his eyes and his touch. There's still
             fear there, but he isn't letting it rule him. By telling him what to
             do, I'm taking the consequences of his actions away from him; taking
             any blame he might heap upon himself, any blame he believes I might
             place on him. "Is this how you like to be touched?" he whispers, his
             eyes never leaving mine.

             A smile curves my lips as I involuntarily arch into his touch. "No," I
             manage to get out, biting my lower lip to contain a moan. The smile
             grows wider. "I don't want anything between your hand and my skin," I
             tell him, reaching for his other hand. I bring it up to my other
             breast, placing both my palms over the backs of his hands, holding him
             to my breasts. "It would feel so much better, skin against skin," I
             whisper to him, trying to make the proposition sound as enticing as
             possible.

             His eyes leave mine and land on his hands. He stares at his hands on my
             chest, a fascinated look on his face as his hands cup my breasts, his
             thumbs still rolling over my nipples. The sensation is incredible and I
             work hard to contain a whimper. I want to really feel him before I
             allow a sound to pass my lips. As though he senses this, Mulder's hands
             slip behind my back and quickly undo the clasp of my bra. He shoves it
             off my shoulders and his hands return to my breasts.  Unable to hold it
             in any longer, I moan as he rolls one of my nipples between his thumb
             and forefinger. He smiles at me and I force my eyes to stay open. I
             don't want to miss a moment of this.

             "Does that feel better Scully?" he asks me, his voice sandpaper rough.

             "Yes," I whisper, moving my hands to his shoulders. I squeeze lightly
             in reaction to his touch.

             He bends his head and takes one of my nipples into his mouth. I groan
             at the sensation and thread my fingers through his hair. "How does that
             feel?" he asks, his breath fanning over my breast.

             Rather than answer him, I force his head back down, leaning against the
             back of the door to keep from sinking to the floor. He lavishes his
             attention on both my breasts, moving from one to another slowly,
             devoting plenty of time to the skin in-between. Pulling one of my
             nipples into his mouth, he nibbles gently around the aureole, then
             sucks lightly. I moan his name (or something resembling it) and clutch
             at his hair.

             I cannot remember the last time I was this lost in sensation. His mouth
             is warm and wet and everywhere at once. In the recesses of my
             consciousness, I can dimly remember a time when the feel of his mouth
             on my breasts ranked high up on my list of 'sensations I want to
             experience one day'.  However, now that I'm experiencing it, I'm
             finding I'm not enjoying it as much as I should. It's great; wonderful
             in fact. It's just that I'm too anxious to fully appreciate the feel of
             his mouth. I want more; I want more for me and for him.

             "Mulder," I begin, then stop, realizing my voice came out like a purr.
             I'm disconcerted for a moment until I remember this is Mulder; I want
             him to know what he does to me. He either didn't hear me, or he took
             what I said as encouragement; either way, he's still devoting his full
             attentions to my breasts. "Mulder, we're both wearing too many
             clothes," I finally manage to protest, not liking at all that we're
             only naked from the waist up.

             I'm really not certain, but I think he mutters something like 'let's
             rectify that, shall we?' His mouth is pressed to my skin too firmly for
             me to hear him clearly. His lips brush over my abdomen and his fingers
             land on the buttons of my pants. He undoes them quickly and shoves them
             down my hips. I do a little shimmy, which seems to please him, given
             the subtle chuckle he emits and my pants land at my ankles.  He helps
             me step out of them, then returns his mouth to my skin, moving down my
             abdomen to the waistband of my simple cotton panties.  His tongue darts
             out and he begins tracing the waistband, occasionally dipping beneath
             the elastic band. His hands trail slowly up my thighs, then higher, to
             cup my ass.

             I shiver at the feel of his tongue, and a whimper that I don't recall
             ever emitting in my life passes my lips. It is a plea and an approval
             of what he's doing. I'd be begging for more if I could speak. He seems
             to understand, however, as his teeth close over the fabric of my
             panties. In an agonizing slow progression, he pulls them down my hips
             using only his mouth. I hadn't thought I could want him more; I'm
             almost embarrassingly wet and getting more so by the second. My panties
             are removed and his mouth returns to my stomach, his lips pressing soft
             butterfly kisses around my belly button. He presses a fleeting kiss to
             the jut of each hip bone, then moves on to my thighs, determinedly
             ignoring the place I want his mouth most.

             After an interminable amount of time, I nearly sob with relief as I
             feel the very tip of his tongue touch my clit. As it is, I jerk with
             the suddenness of the move, a high pitched cry leaving my mouth. I can
             feel him grinning against me as he flattens his tongue and licks slow,
             languid circles around my clit, as though he were eating an ice cream
             cone, loathe to allow a single drop to be missed. My knees are going
             weak on me and my hands trail from his hair to his shoulders, using him
             as a brace. He's down on both knees, moving his tongue so slowly it's
             maddening. His touch grows more possessive with every sound I make,
             with every twitch of my hips under his mouth. I revel in that
             possessiveness; encourage it, even.

             His hands curve around my ass, anchoring me to his mouth, tilting my
             hips for the best possible angle. His tongue moves lower, dips inside
             me and he moans. That moan sets something off inside me and I nearly
             come. I stop myself though, because as much as I'm enjoying this, it's
             not the way I want it to be. With more than a tinge of regret, I tangle
             my fingers into his hair and tug lightly. He ignores me and continues
             lick and suck at me, almost causing me to forget that I don't want to
             come until he's inside me. "Mulder," I whimper, unable to muster up the
             proper shame at how weak I sound. "Mulder stop," I order breathlessly.

             Regretfully, it seems, he pulls away from me and rests his cheek
             against my stomach. I stroke his hair for a moment, regaining control
             of my breathing. "You okay?" he asks softly, caressing my abdomen with
             his cheek. He sounds scared again, possibly afraid I don't want this.

             "I'm fine," I answer automatically, then wince at the words. He doesn't
             need to hear them any more than I need to say them. "I'm incredible
             Mulder," I add, sliding my hands down to his cheeks. I move his head
             back and drop to my knees so we're almost eye level. I lean forward and
             brush the gentlest of kisses over his forehead. His eyes shut and I
             place a fleeting kiss to each of his closed eyelids. I feel him
             shudder, his body close to mine and I share the vibration with him.
             "You make me feel sounds and hear sensations," I whisper, brushing my
             nose with his side to side in an Eskimo Kiss. The kind my father used
             to give me at bedtime that I'd completely forgotten about until this
             moment.

             "How do I do that?" he asks, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine.

             I smile gently at him. "We'll talk about it later," I promise, sliding
             my palms down his neck to his shoulders. "Right now," I add, switching
             my mood back to playfully seductive, "you're still wearing too many
             clothes." My smile widens; becomes almost predatory. "I very, very
             badly want you inside me Mulder," I tell him, averting my eyes from
             his, shy at saying the words aloud.

             "Don't hide from me Scully," he orders gently, bringing a hand up to
             tilt my chin toward his face. Our eyes meet again. "I want," he begins
             softly, his brows furrowing, seemingly at a lost for words.

             "What?" I ask softy, undoing the buckle on his pants. His hands still
             mine, as he still appears to search for the proper wording. I wiggle my
             hands out from under his, bringing them to cup his cheeks. "Mulder,
             what do you want? You can tell me, what do you want?" I ask,
             desperately wanting to know.

             "I want," I begins again, his voice awestruck at whatever conclusion
             he's reached. His mouth opens then closes once.  When he smiles, it's
             an amazed, partially disbelieving thing. "I want everything," he says
             slowly, as though barely believing it himself. "With you," he
             clarifies, looking straight into my eyes.

             I am totally unprepared for that and it shows. I don't even realize I'm
             crying until he curses under his breath. His hands move to my cheeks,
             his thumbs brushing at the tears. He's mumbling an apology for saying
             too much and I start laughing and crying at the same time. He leans
             back from me, giving me a look I usually reserve for him: He's looking
             at me like I've lost my mind. Pulling myself together enough to speak,
             I lean forward and kiss him, hard, my arms wrapping around his neck.
             Our bodies come in close contact until not even air separates our skin.
 

             Very slowly I pull back, resting my forehead against his. His arms are
             wrapped tightly around my waist, his embrace almost bruising in its
             intensity; I love it. "I want everything with you," I whisper before I
             can chicken out. I smile, a lopsided, tearful little smile. "I always
             have," I confess, only the slight quaver in my voice betraying how
             nervous I am.

             "Don't say that," he whispers and I feel my heart stop for an endless
             moment. It beats again with his next words. A pained chuckle leaves his
             throat. "Don't tell me I could've had you - this - all along and I was
             just too stupid and scared to reach for it," he implores me.

             "I have an idea," I whisper, knowing whatever needs to be said will be
             said in time. "I think you should shut up and make love to me," I say
             in a throaty voice, kissing him before he can speak. From his
             enthusiastic response, I doubt he has a problem with my idea.

             I strip him of his pants quickly, his boxers soon following. I give his
             chest a gentle, playful push and fall with him. We land on the floor
             with a thud, him on his back, me straddling his waist. It's almost
             awkward for a moment, lying here naked with Mulder.

             Hell, it is awkward. I feel it and he feels it. It was safe before; we
             were getting into the swing of things. But this moment is the point of
             no return. Emotions have been spilled and we're fumbling with each
             other like two teenagers in the back of a Buick.

             "Hey Scully," he whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

             "What?" I ask, wary. I've braced my elbows on his chest and I'm sort of
             hovering above him, my body much tenser than it should be.

             "Have we gotten to third base yet?" he whispers into my ear.

             I giggle; I can't help it. The question was so unbelievably appropriate
             for this moment with us. It also served as the perfect icebreaker. I
             lose my balance and collapse on top of him, almost melting into him. He
             presses a kiss to my ear and wraps both arms around my back. "Screw
             third base," I mumble when I've gotten control of myself. I lean back
             and take his cock in my hand, stroking slowly. He groans. I grin down
             at him. "I say we go for a home run," I propose, raising my hips and
             taking him inside.

I giggle; I can't help it. The question was so unbelievably appropriate
             for this moment with us. It also served as the perfect icebreaker. I
             lose my balance and collapse on top of him, almost melting into him. He
             presses a kiss to my ear and wraps both arms around my back. "Screw
             third base," I mumble when I've gotten control of myself. I lean back
             and take his cock in my hand, stroking slowly. He groans. I grin down
             at him. "I say we go for a home run," I propose, raising my hips and
             taking him inside.

             We let out a groan that isn't mine and isn't his; it's ours, slowly
             increasing in volume until he's buried as deep as he can go. I bite my
             lower lip and feel a moment of amusement creep up on me as I realize
             he's doing the same thing.  Content for the moment, I press my body to
             his, lay my ear just above his heart and trail my hands up his arms
             until they encounter his own. He twines our fingers together and we
             rest where we are for a moment, connected, total and complete for the
             first time. We are breathing in time with one another and I rise with
             his chest with every breath he takes. One of his hands abandons mine to
             land in my hair. His fingers sift through it and he lifts a strand to
             his nose, inhaling deeply.

             My nose buries itself in the crook of his neck, and I press a kiss
             there. I dart my tongue out and taste his skin again, growing restless.
             As much as my mind would like to stay like this forever, my body has
             other ideas. So does his. He's already begun moving his hips ever so
             slowly. Both his hands lock around my back and he moves quickly,
             rolling us until he's on top of me, never once severing the physical
             connection we have.

             "This is the best there's ever been," he whispers into my ear, moving
             his hips in a slow, hard rhythm.

             I wrap a leg around his hips, groaning with every move. He's right;
             this is the best there's ever been. I reflect on when he'd silenced me
             earlier. We could've had this all along. We could've taken solace in
             one another almost from the beginning. We could've sought shelter in
             our passion, relief from the trials and stresses of the day in each
             other's arms. We've wasted so damn much time . . .

             No more, I resolve, wrapping my other leg around him to get better
             traction. I move my hips against his, instinctively picking up the pace
             as he does. I feel his lips move over my shoulder, his teeth nibbling
             gently on my skin. He bites down, not enough to hurt, but definitely
             enough to leave a mark. He laves his tongue over the bite and I
             shudder, knowing what he's doing. He's marking me as his and he
             probably doesn't even know it. Relaxing the grip in my hands, I realize
             I've done the same thing; Mulder will wear ten crescent moon shaped
             marks on his back. MINE.

             His hips pick up the pace and my mind becomes muddled. There is only
             Mulder; his scent, his touch, his taste. I pull on his hair until his
             face is near mine. I need to kiss him; I need to taste him . . .

             At the touch of his lips, I arch against him, sobbing his name into his
             mouth as an intense orgasm tears through my body. He follows me a
             moment later, no longer kissing me, just resting his lips against mine,
             as unwilling as I am to give up the contact. He collapses on top of me
             and no weight has ever felt this good. I soothe my fingertips up and
             down his back as he nuzzles the side of my neck with his nose. Focusing
             on my living room ceiling, I realize the thought of stopping long
             enough to make it into my bedroom never even occurred to me. I wanted
             him so badly it blotted out all rational thought.

             A wide, satisfied smile spreads across my face. He made the rational
             part of me go away. That should terrify me; it gives me hope. Because I
             think I chased his demons away; at least for a little while. And if I
             can live without control for a few minutes, and he can forget his
             demons for the same amount of time, we might actually have a shot at
             making this thing work.

             "What are you grinning about?" he asks, brushing his lips against my
             jaw, letting me feel his own smile as he does.

             "I was just thinking," I begin slowly, my voice as sleep as I'm
             beginning to feel.

             "Dangerous," he warns softly, his hand trailing down my side to rest on
             my hip.

             "I was thinking about how we might actually have a chance," I blurt
             out, glancing to look at him quickly. "That we might actually make it
             together."

             "Scully, I know we will," he says firmly. "Not to sound possessive and
             totally Alpha Male or anything, but . . . you're mine," he explains, as
             though he couldn't think of anything else to say. "And I'm yours," he
             hastens to add. "It's just . . . how we work. For better or for worse,
             we're stuck with each other."

             For better or for worse . . . I decide not to call him on that Freudian
             slip just now. There will be time later. Apparently, all the time we
             have. "You know Mulder," I begin, a teasing note to my voice, "you're
             sounding awful territorial."

             He chuckles and I giggle back because I can still feel him inside me.
             "So is that what we were doing?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Marking
             the rug?"

             "Mulder!" I admonish, slapping him lightly on the chest even as I can't
             contain a laugh.

             "Scully," he interrupts, a serious look on his face. "I just realized
             something important."

             "What?" I ask, worried now.

             He purses his lips. "We haven't marked your bed yet," he warns me in
             the most dead serious voice I've ever heard.

             I nod, my expression grave, even as my eyes twinkle only for him. "Or
             the shower," I add. "Or the kitchen, or the couch, or--"

             "Good God woman, what are we doing just lying here then?" he asks,
             sounding genuinely outraged. "We've got =work= to do!"

             I can't find a single argument to refute him, so I decide to stop
             trying.

             We do have a lot of lost time to make up for.

             ~~~~

            END