DISCLAIMERS: The characters herein are the property of Chris

Carter, Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. The situation into

which we have placed them is of our own creation. No infrigement is

intended and no money is being exchanged.

DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere--so long as our names remain attached

and it's archived in its entirety.

CATEGORY: V, A, MSR

RATING: NC-17 for sexual content and language.

SPOILERS: None.

TIMELINE: Takes place during fifth season--you decide when.

SUMMARY: How much of yourself can you bare but still remain

alone?

FEEDBACK: Yes, please. Pro and con. Send to

bower@cu-online.com and/or emmalanna@aol.com. Author's notes can be

found at the end.

 

Doors

Part 1/4

by Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker.

 

 

     I promised myself I'd never make the conscious decision to

profile Scully. So much for good intentions.

     I could be a real jerk and put the blame on her. Claim that her

actions forced me; gave me no other choice but to get inside her

head.

     There's something very sexual about the idea of doing that,

and the realization disturbs me. I shouldn't get a hard-on from

thinking about really getting into her head. But I do. And just because

I shouldn't profile her, doesn't mean I won't.

     I didn't set out to do this because of the way she looks at me

these days; with those big, wet eyes and that candy-apple mouth. And

it's not because of the numerous opportunities she's taken to make

sure we come in casual contact as often as possible. It's not even the

innuendoes she's been tossing my way; blatant enough to shock me

into silence--not an easy feat.

     It's just that it all fused together and came crashing down on

my head this afternoon. The combined force of five years of curiosity

and fear and emotions both primitive and ethereal. All gathering

together and exploding from a single spark that flared in a dingy

interview room.

     Lanford, Indiana has taken on the distinction of becoming the

place where I will break all my self-imposed rules.

     And all because Scully didn't pull away from me.

     The word came down that the man who'd been sacrificing

innocent victims to fulfill some inner demon's need had been caught.

Not some monster with glowing eyes and razor-sharp teeth as per the

stories that'd brought us here in the first place. It didn't take us long

to figure out it was just a man. One smart enough and crazy enough

to construct gloves tipped with bear claws and a second skin of fur.

     A man who'll no doubt spend the rest of his life on a steady

diet of thorazine, therapy sessions, and bad sit-coms blaring from a

TV on a high shelf in a room of the state wacko ward.

     One more down, countless to go.

     I was happy, relieved--as was Scully--and it seemed perfectly

okay to grab her for a celebratory hug. And it would have been

enough if it had ended that way, too. But it didn't. Instead, as I held

her tiny, perfect body close to mine, various parts of me rebelled

against my tight control. First it was my nose, which decided that

Scully's hair was the perfect place to bury itself. Then it was my

hands, when they decided they really liked how well they fit curled

around her waist. And then it was my mouth, which decided it needed

to leave its invisible mark everywhere on her face but the one place it

wanted to touch the most.

     It all went straight to hell from there. Ending when Scully

made the monumental mistake of pushing her hips up close against

me.

     She felt mine and I felt the heat of hers and it was incredible.

Everything from the waist up drew apart while our lower extremities

stayed nice and cozy. Scully looked up at me, her eyes wide, and

pushed out a breathy, "Oh."

     It was an "oh" of many different flavors and textures. It was a

welcome and an acknowledgment and an acceptance, all rolled into

one. It was what I'd been waiting to hear for a very long time.

     I saw it in her eyes. Saw the final barrier falling away. It

scared the hell out of her. And me. But then I've always found it easy

to take a leap of faith. I don't spend as much time questioning things

like that as I should. But Scully does. And when she gets scared, she

tends to back away.

     She was true to form this afternoon. But by then it was too

late. We'd both seen it, felt it, knew it to be inevitable. And I've just

discovered that I'm not nearly as patient as I used to be. I want this

for us. I want it now. After all we've been through, we deserve some

measure of happiness.

     So here I sit, former profiling wonder boy of the FBI,

lounging on my motel bed, staring at the walls and not really seeing

anything. All my thoughts are focused on the woman who's separated

from me by a thin wall and little else.

     Our connecting doors stand open, as usual. I know exactly

where she is and what she's doing. Sitting at the tiny table right across

from the connecting doors, tapping away on her laptop. I can smell

her.

     And it's so easy to let my eyes slip shut and open the door in

my head. Easy to step through and into a different country; the lush

landscape of Scully's mind. I look around and catch the glittering

sparkle of each clue and motivation, each need and desire she so

vigilantly hoards and hides away from me. I crouch down and gather

all the pieces  into a tightly woven basket. A gentle shake begins to

bring them together. It's shocking to discover how easily the puzzle is

solved. Either I'm very good or I've know it all along.

     I should be ashamed of myself for doing this. I should be

guilt-ridden and repentive. Embarrassed as hell for what I've got

planned. But I'm not.

     It's time to bring this particular dance to its end and begin a

new one. I hope I don't fuck this up. I may not get a second chance.

 

     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

     I am in so much trouble.

     I don't know what got into me this afternoon. Never in my

wildest dreams did I imagine that one day I'd be standing in a police

station in my partner's arms, pressing my hips up tightly to his. But

now I've gone and done just that.

     Oh my God. I am in so much trouble.

     I knew the moment I looked up into those smoky,

heavily-lidded eyes. Knew that Mulder had seen right through every

excuse and rationalization I'd ever thrown up between us. The corner

of his mouth lifted in a secret smile and I conceded my defeat. It

didn't matter that I chose that moment to step away from him, to try

to salvage some measure of control. He saw everything there was to

see. He tucked the information away in that massive file cabinet he

calls a brain. There to be pulled out and run over and over again, like

one of his videos. Damn his eidetic mind. 

     And damn his wonderfully lean body and his quirky, perfect

face. Damn those eyes that change color from one second to the next.

And damn those lips, that beckon me to come close and spend the

rest of my life exploring their texture and taste.

     I glance down at my laptop and sigh at the gibberish I see

there. My fingers pound out words and sentences that might as well

be in Reticulan for all the sense they make. But I have to do

something to keep my mind occupied; to help me forget that he's just

on the other side of our opened doors.

     I must be sensible about this. I must approach this newest

development rationally and with caution. I must.

     God grant me the serenity....

     With the reprieve of my death sentence came a new

awareness. My cancer ushered in more than the possibility of my

death. It also swiftly and cleanly severed almost all emotion. All but

rage and confusion and a burning need to distance myself from all

things living and alive. I couldn't afford to let myself want or need.

Anything. I denied the most basic of human desires. I continued to

feed my body, but my mind and my heart and my soul went without.

And now, now that the specter of death has been lifted, I find I am

hungry. Starving. For Mulder.

     For his life and his passion. For the fulfillment of the promise

he's been silently making me all these years. For his obsessive nature

that threatens to take me and swallow me whole. I want to be

consumed, and to consume in my surrender.

     I think of his hands, with their long, elegant fingers. I

remember how they feel as they touch my shoulder or the small of my

back. How easily they've cupped my face. How they reach out to me

with a surety once gained and lost and gained again.

     I have been shameless in my pursuit of him. I have teased and

flirted and felt pride when my arrows pierced their target with great

precision. But I went too far today. I took a giant step when it should

have been a small one. I pushed the limits. I offered a challenge I

wasn't prepared to follow through on.

     I'm afraid of this, afraid of wanting him as much as I do.

Afraid of the effect it will surely have on our relationship. It's

happening too quickly now, careening out my control, and I have no

one to blame but myself. I wish I could go back and erase that

moment in the interview room. I don't think I'm ready for this. Not

yet. 

     But I fear it's too late now. Mulder, once set in motion, is like

a dog with a bone. He will not give up. Not until he has what he

wants. And now he wants me. All of me. He won't be satisfied with

just my flesh-- though that is the tension and need that drives him

tonight.. He will demand my heart and my soul, as well. 

     I can do nothing but sit here and wait.

     A small sound alerts me and I glance up to find him in the

doorway. My mouth goes dry. He's slumped with one shoulder

resting against the door frame. His tie is unknotted and hanging

loose, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. His sleeves are

carelessly rolled up to the elbow and the light from the table lamp

plays on the silky brown hairs that cover his forearms. His hair is

tousled and fanning across his brow.

     "Hey."

     I somehow find my voice. "Hey, yourself." 

     He spends an uncomfortable amount of time just looking at

me. I feel like a bug under a microscope. It takes all my control to

keep from squirming in my seat.

     "I'm gonna, um, grab a shower and hit the sack," he finally

says.

     My sense of relief is almost overwhelming. His statement

marks the end of the day for us. A simple declaration of intent that

implies a reprieve. He will turn soon, and close the door on his side.

This is what we do. Our routine.

     "Okay. 'Night, Mulder. I'll see you in the morning."

     "Sweet dreams, Scully," he tells me. And then he turns away.

But he doesn't close the door.

     Instead, I watch as he steps to the table in his room. Watch as

he digs through his overnight bag and comes up with his toiletry case.

Without a look in my direction, he steps from my view and towards

the bathroom. I hear the shower come on. He's leaving the bathroom

door open, too.

     Curiosity battles with confusion battles with apprehension. I

can't help but wonder at this turn of events. Leaving the doors open

was a deliberate decision on his part-- that's obvious. But why? Does

 

he expect me to see it as an invitation to join him? Could he be so

arrogant that he believes himself that certain of my response?

     So get up and close your door, Agent Scully. Put an end to it

right now. What Mulder has done is a subtle invitation at best. To

decline by closing the door wouldn't be seen as a blanket rejection of

him, would it? More of a similarly subtle indication that I'm not ready

for this.

     I'm not, am I?

     Leave it open, Dana. Let's just wait and see what happens.

Don't you want to know how far this will go?

     In the end I do not move. A heavy lassitude settles over me. I

manage to convince myself it's easier to do nothing than to force my

body to take some action. My only concession is to reach over and

switch off the table lamp. I am bathed in shadows.

     Waiting.

     Long minutes pass before the shower is shut off. The sudden

silence envelops my room. I can hear the steady beating of my heart. I

close my eyes, feeling the blood coursing through my veins. I sense

movement from the other room and my eyes fly open.

     Mulder stands naked and wet, no more than twenty feet away.

The soft light from the lamp on his night table catches the rivulets of

water that run from his scalp and trail down his neck and his

shoulders and his arms. He stands in profile, searching through his

bag.

     My eyes are drawn to the dark forest at the apex of his thighs.

His sex is heavy and swollen, semi-erect. From the warmth of the

shower or the heat of his thoughts?

     If he turns, will he see me sitting here in the dark, watching

him? I feel like a voyeur. An ember of pleasurable shame creeps up to

color my cheeks. At the same time, a different heat settles low in my

belly. He's beautiful.

     His hair is a dark corona plastered to his head. His skin is

golden and slick. I watch the play of muscles across his back as he

half-turns away from me. Broad shoulders taper to narrow hips and

down to the perfect globes of his small ass. His legs are lean and

muscular and endless.

     There is a snap of his wrist and now I can see the dark blue

boxers he holds in his hand. Bending slightly at the waist, Mulder

steps into them and slides them up. They come to rest low on his

hips.

     I am both disappointed and relieved.

     He steps from my view without having thrown a single look

my direction. The small light in his room is extinguished seconds

later. A few moments pass before I see the flash of the TV coming

on, hear the dim voices floating through the air. Then follows the

chaotic noise of channels being changed. Snippets of canned laughter

and anchor-man voices, of country music and sports announcers

blend and blur before they fade away completely. The faint light from

the TV continues to flicker across the far wall of his room. He's

muted the sound. The air around me grows charged in the silence. I

can feel his attention.

     Now we are waiting together.

     Suddenly cowardice fills me and finally ends my stasis. I

indiscriminately grab clothing from my bag and escape to the shower.

I stand under the needle-sharp spray of hot water, not daring to do

any more than barely skim the bar of soap across my body. My skin

has become so very sensitized. It would be too easy to slip into

familiar fantasies of my hands becoming Mulder's.

     I quickly lather my hair, and it's as I'm rinsing the last of the

suds away that I remember anew the doors standing open between

our rooms. As I took Mulder's gesture as invitation, will he see the

same in mine? Could he even now have crossed the threshold of our

rooms and be standing just outside the shower? Suddenly I'm

convinced it's true. Every nerve in my body screams that he's here. I

savagely twist the knob to kill the spray and wrench the shower

curtain aside, my heart pounding in my chest.

     The bathroom is empty. I grab a towel with trembling fingers

and quickly dry myself. I slip into panties and an over-sized FBI

Academy t-shirt I normally wear when jogging. I'm aware of how

much skin it leaves exposed, but the thought of trading the shirt for

my usual pajamas is oddly unappealing.

     Teeth are brushed and flossed, hair is combed and

towel-dried. I squeeze a generous dollop of lotion into my hand and

slather it onto my legs, strangely anxious to complete the routine and

leave the steamy confines of this room.

     I am greeted by the same weighty silence as when I fled. But

wait... There: a small noise. And then another. A pair of soft sighs

from Mulder's room. My feet propel me to the doorway before I've

even decided to move in that direction. I take a tiny step inside the

room and look over at him. I freeze in my tracks as I forget how to

breathe. Time stands still.

     The cool blue light of the TV washes over his body. Mulder is

once more naked, lying on the bed atop the spread, eyes closed. But

he's not sleeping. Oh, not at all.

     His left arm is folded and serving as a pillow for his head.  His

right arm is draped along his torso while his fingers tap slowly but

firmly against his cock.

     His cock.

     Oh, God. I find myself whispering the word aloud, again and

again. A litany, a chant. "Cock." It is a smooth breath that catches on

the last "k". Such a difference from the fluidity of his name.

     Mulder.

     Mulder's cock. 

     The clicking of my tongue against my glottis is louder than I'd

realized. Just as he is beginning to take his penis <cock> into his

hand, he stops and his body stills. Becomes erect. I see the blood

under his skin even from this distance and it mixes with the pale

ghostly blue of the television.

     And slowly--so slowly--his head turns toward me. His eyes

open, slowly, like a louvered door curtained in thin gauze.

     And Mulder looks at me. 

     Watching him.

 

     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

Doors (2/4)

By Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker.

 

     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

     Scully's mind is a dense, dark forest. Each step further into it

leads me closer to her, closer to the hidden treasure in the lush,

secluded cave. I step cautiously, afraid of getting lost within it, but

also afraid of losing sight of her and of my map. 

     But I'm not afraid. I can't be. I'm in control, even as my

self-control slips away smoothly, like silk over my fingertips. She

stands at the doorway, watching me as I watch her. Neither of us will

pull away, each drawn into the pull of the other. We're like a pair of

fingers caught in Chinese cuffs--unable to leave each other, only able

to disentangle if we move closer together and relax. I don't want to

relax. I don't want to disentangle. She doesn't either. I can see it in

her eyes, even as she tries to pull a veil over them.

     I pin her with my gaze. I take another step into the forest of

her mind. The dark canopy of foliage soothes me but darkens my

desire. A tree looms ahead of me. She is confused--that much I can

tell. She wants this, but the cool detachment of her face suggests she

is scared--of being too interested, of what this might change, *will*

change. I wish I were a clairvoyant. I wish I could step inside her

mind and convince her that this is good, so good. Instead, I step away

and hope that actions speak louder than words.

     She's still watching me.

     Triumph: she takes a step forward or perhaps shifts on the

balls of her feet. I dare to smile at her--just at the corners of my

mouth--the pull of my cheek muscles suddenly an erotic sensation.

She does not smile back at me, though her eyebrow seems to twitch,

wanting to be raised. I wonder if she really knows how much I want

her. I wonder if she knows that if sheer will and desire could move

mountains, I'd have the Himalayas at my feet. And I'd climb across

them to get to her. 

     Every cell in our bodies and every atom in the air between us

is alive, even more so than when we stood pressed against each other

in a dismal steel-and-safety glass room. Every move I make is of the

utmost importance--one wrong one and it will all be over. So we stay

locked in the fingercuffs, simply staring at each other for one long

moment. 

     I take myself in my hand once again, though I barely even feel

it as all my thoughts are channeled on watching her watching me.

Scully's hands twitch nearly imperceptibly. She must feel her hands on

me as surely as I feel them, even though my own flesh and bone

clasps my cock in my slightly callused right hand. I hope that her

reaction means that she wants to take me into hers. But she stays

where she is, denying the clear invitation I have extended--hot and

thrilled and engorged with blood--to her. Her eyes flicker down to

my hand and then back up to my eyes, setting a calypso rhythm in

time with my pulse. 

     And then I swoop my sword down, ready to parry, ready to

cut away the underbrush which blocks our path through the forest.

     "Do you like to watch?"

     Her eyes widen then narrow, the motion fluttering and

intense.  My breath catches in my throat. My hand instinctively

clenches around me at her reaction. Blood surges through my penis

and my ass cheeks tense. I realize that I could come right now, just

from watching her watching me. But I don't want to, not yet. She has

to participate.

     But she will not. 

     In the space of the blink of my eyes, her back is to me, though

she doesn't take the final step through the proverbial and very

concrete door. And all I can think is ohgodohgodomigod don't leave

don't leave pleaseineedyou i need you to come to me i need it more

than i've ever needed anyone

ineedtolookatyoulookingatmewatchyouwatchingme don'tleaveme i

can't lose you any more than i can lose myself. A litany of confusion

and pain and terror and loss, all directed at the smooth back turned to

me like a stop sign draped in white mourning muslin. 

     "Scully."

     A wave of tension ripples down her back, fluttering the

curtain of cotton. 

     "Stay."

     She does.

     All my best friends are women. My best friend is all woman. I

know the female interpersonal dynamic, especially when it's directed

toward men. I hear the phrases on Oprah and at the table behind me

at Shoney's and on the garish covers of Glamour: "Men Who Think

With Their Dicks and the Women Who Love Them." Right now, my

brain has been taken over by the thin nerve connecting it to my core

of arousal. And I'll continue to think with that nerve if it'll only bring

you back to me, Scully. If it'll only show you how much you mean to

me and if you'll only show me how much I mean to you.

     "I was thinking about you, Scully." I speak quietly,

unthreateningly.  "I do that a lot."

     Her back is still to me, but she hasn't walked away. Not yet. I

may still have some hope, so I pour all that hope into my seduction of

her. My voice drips honey from a comb of pure need. 

     "Don't you want to see what you do to me?" And then she

takes the fateful step into her room. "No." The word leaves my

mouth with a shuddering firmness. 

     She stops once again.

     "But you don't have to turn around. I don't want you to look

at me." Beat. "I want you to listen to me." 

     She turns toward me slowly. Deliberately. That's my

Scully--never one to heed the demands of others. Her eyes lock on

mine as she walks over to the bed and stands at the end, her knees

nearly brushing my toes. She's interested. Oh, God, she wants this,

though she's trying her hardest to hide it. My hips buck involuntarily,

and the pressure of my hand against my balls releases another wave

of tension rolling over me. 

     The corner of Scully's mouth curls up in a half-smile. Glory

Hallelujah. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Mulder has rounded second

base and is going for third. I find myself patting the patch of bed next

to me lightly, then murmuring, "C'mere."

     She comes.

     As she turns away to sit down, her t-shirt rides up a little and

I get a glimpse of her beautiful ass, framed by a plain pair of cotton

panties. Those panties brush against the hair of my forearm as she

nestles in next to me, trying not to touch but helpless not to. I look

up at her looking down at me, the same half-smile on her lips. 

     So I begin to move my hand up and down my cock, losing all

of myself in the sensation except the part of me which belongs to her

only. My other hand reaches up and takes her own, then places it on

my chest. Her palm rises and falls with each labored breath I take.

Scully's head rotates down to look at my other hand and my eyes

follow hers. 

     "Do you want to know what you do to me?" I repeat. 

     "Yes." Her voice is barely more than a whisper. It whispers

over my body. "Tell me. Show me." 

     Gladly.

     I place my free hand over hers, our palms rising and falling

together with each labored breath I take. "I watch you, Scully. Do

you have any idea how often I look at you?" She exhales a brief,

self-conscious laugh. "I watch you walking through our office, or

down a hallway, or even through that field where we found Wilson

today." Slight humor mixes with intrigue on her face. "Your body

moves with such strength and poise that it takes my breath away. I

should be ashamed of wanting to take off your clothes and feel that

body under my hands, but I'm not. Why be ashamed of something so

perfect, with such potential for beauty?" 

     She holds my gaze. Desire flushes her skin, flares her nostrils,

and dilates her pupils. I deliberately move my hand up and down my

cock, then again, squeezing harder this time. But I don't need the

added pressure when She is looking at me, so perfect and exquisite.

My eyes glance down and the top of my sex glistens against the

backdrop of the television, now showing nothing but a Technicolor

test pattern. 

     "Do you want to taste what you do to me, Scully?" 

     Her head lowers in the start of a nod, but doesn't raise. I bring

my hand up to my tip and catch the droplet of creamy liquid with the

hand which had just rested on hers, then raise it to her lips. Scully's

tongue snakes out and swipes over the top of my thumb, then draws

it inward, suckling firmly. 

     Oh, God. Oh my God. I have to fight for restraint, or this

might happen way too soon. My deep shuddering breath reverberates

her hand against my chest. 

     "Make me come, Scully." 

     "Yes." I feel her word against my thumb, the breath moving

over the saliva-slickened digit. Then she takes it in again and begins

suckling more fiercely, her cheeks hollowing around me and her eyes

boring into my penis. My other hand jerks and clenches around me.

This sensory overload is all I need to explode into a million pieces,

my stickysweet seed covering my hand. She has not moved, but her

small, strong body anchors me. And as my body thrums with the

release of pressure, she grabs my other hand and begins to lick it

clean. As I react to that divine assault, she bends down and drapes

her body over mine, her breasts burrowing into my chest.

     Her kisses rain over the side of my face not resting against my

pillow, and her voice whispers into my neck...

     "I know, Mulder. I know." 

 

     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

     It would be so easy to lose control to Fox Mulder. It would

be so easy to sit back and let him take over my life. He already does

in so many ways. Sometimes I feel helpless against his power.

Sometimes I want to be helpless.

     I can taste him.

     I taste him on my tongue. I swirl him around my mouth--over

my soft palate, around the soft fleshiness of the insides of my lips, in

the crevices between my teeth and cheeks. He tastes salty and

bittersweet and of the promise of life to give. 

     But I feel hollow.

     I like feeling hollow. It's easier that way. It's easier than

waking up next to someone and trying to come up with something

deep and emotional and romantic. It's easier than giving myself to

someone and carrying the baggage accompanying a relationship. It's

easier than falling in love.

     My life has been so damned difficult--why can't my sex life be

easy?

     Somehow, I know that Mulder will not make this easy. I wish

he would. I wish we could just lay here together and touch ourselves

and enjoy it. And then we could walk away from it and everything

would be normal. But instead, I'm lying on top of him, his hard body

pressing into mine, my lips defying my logical realm and pressing

kisses to his beautiful face, which is flushed from the ecstasy I have

just given him.

     Oh, Lord. 

     "Hey." His voice is still ragged and breathy.

     "Hi." I can't help but respond. I find myself wanting to feel

what he feels. I want him to feel it with me. The risk factor has risen

exponentially. Against every decision I have made about my life, I

want this risk. I want it so much I can taste it, just like I taste him. 

     I raise myself and sit back on my heels. The brief headrush

brings white spots to my eyes. I'm reminded of the blinding delirium

of orgasm. I want to feel that. I look down at Mulder. His eyes are

focused on mine, with a look I dare not interpret, but it thrills me. It's

the look I've always secretly wanted to see in a man's eyes when he

looks at me. I wish I could capture that look and hold it close to me,

but without all the other things--frightening things--which come along

with it. 

     "Your turn, Scully."

     My turn? Do I even want it to be my turn? Do I want to lay

myself bare to him, to put myself in his hands and let him feel me

touch myself? Do I want to come in his arms, vulnerable and needy? I

look down at him. I run my fingertips over his chest. He shudders

slightly.

     "Yes." I voice my assent aloud, but am answering my own

inner questions. He smiles at me. A wave of arousal flows through

my entire body, and it is my turn to shudder slightly.

     "Yes," I repeat. And I mean it.

     I begin my dance. He is my accompanist. We don't even need

words to begin--our instinct is our cue. I turn my back to him and sit

near the edge of the bed. He pulls up on his knees behind me. My

body shifts with the bed. His fingertips move to my shoulder blades

and pinch the tired cotton there. I raise my arms like a child, and the

t-shirt is lifted off. I fall backward and raise my hips. He hooks his

fingers under the waistband of my panties and pulls them off, his

fingertips grazing my legs all the way down to my toes.

     And I lay bare before him. Bare. Naked. I like it. I don't want

to, but I do. I wonder if he likes it. I want to open my eyes and look

at him, but I don't dare because I'd never be able to look away. I'd fall

in love, but I can't do that. So I sit up, regaining my self-control.

     I feel him move behind me and sit down on the bed. His hands

come up to my shoulders. He speaks softly, his chest vibrating against

my back.

     "You're beautiful, Scully." 

     My breath catches. I'm sure he has noticed. He continues

speaking. 

     "I want you to feel beautiful. I want you to show me how

beautiful you must look when you come. I want you to come in my

arms."

     That's my cue. I'm supposed to get my shirt and leave now.

I'm supposed to walk away from this and everything it could mean.

That's the easy answer. But then my tongue flicks against my palate

and I taste him. I'm filled with a shiver of need. I want him to taste

me like I can still taste him.

     Mulder sits up straighter and his legs straddle me. He takes

my right hand in his and laces our fingers together. I grip them

tightly, then relax. He groans slightly into my ear. His left hand picks

up mine and places it on my breast, pressing it into the pillowed flesh.

I breathe into his hand, deeply aroused. Inflamed.

     We begin a pas de deux.

     He moves my hand over my breast, the taut skin of my palm

whispering over my skin. He commands softly, "Touch your nipple."

And I do. Oh, God! I do. My breathing is heavy, labored, against

him. The nubbin moves up and down against my hand, catching on

each finger like a button. "Pinch it," he orders, his voice flowing like

cream.

     I pinch it firmly, then tug slightly and roll my nipple in my

fingers, his own hand moving with mine. My breath is lilting and I

begin to moan softly. Mulder's voice drops to a whisper. "How does

it feel, Scully? How does it make you feel?"

     "Good." I breathe the word. "So good."

     He places a kiss on my shoulder blade, his breath warm

against my skin. "I'm glad. I want you to feel good, Scully. Do you

know that?"

     "Yes." Yesyesyes. I'm so far gone that I can only say that one

small word. He anchors my hand to my breast, moving my fingers

over the flesh, rapture making me dizzy. All logic has left my mind,

all reserve has left my soul. What's happening between us isn't easy

like I'd wanted, but God, it feels so good.

     I'm so lost in the feeling of my fingers on my breast that I

almost fail to notice Mulder picking up my other hand and placing it

on my thigh. He unweaves my fingers from his and places my first

two fingers together. Pinching them together, he says in a voice

which tries for firmness but wavers like a reed, "Put your fingers

inside you."

     And I do. Oh, my God. My fingers are lost in a hot, smooth

sheath of muscle and heaven. He doesn't even need to whisper "Move

them, Scully" before I begin to pump in and out. In and out inandout.

His hands leave mine and move up to my shoulders as my own hands

work their magic sensually, fervently. 

     Then Mulder says the words which could complicate our

relationship manifold, yet I welcome them. I cherish them.

     "Come for me, Scully. Come. Let go."

     "Yes."

     And I begin the climb to ecstasy.

 

     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

Doors (3/4)

By Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker

 

     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

     This is almost surreal. My desire-addled brain is finding it

difficult to take it all in and comprehend it. Scully sits with her back

to me, one hand between her legs, touching herself. The other is

slowly twisting one erect and perfect nipple between her fingers.

     All because of me. Because of my hands and my words.

Because somehow, beyond any reason, she's let me lead her on this

journey.

     My hands have settled lightly on her shoulders; my presence

no more than a whisper-touch. It's my job to simply guide her now, to

hand over the completion to her.

     She sighs quietly and her head grows heavy on her neck,

lolling back to rest against my chest. Her skin is like alabaster in the

bluish, ghostly glow of the television. The long lashes of her closed

eyes throw shadow curves against her cheeks. Her beautiful mouth is

open and I can see the moist tip of her tongue, the sharp points of her

teeth as her lips draw back.

     She has a distant look on her face, an expression that's part

arousal and part something I can't name. It's almost...closed-off. As

though my presence here has been forgotten; as though hers has. An

itch of doubt takes up residence in a dark corner of my brain.

     I drop my eyes to the hand between her legs and my breath

leaves me in a rush. She has opened her thighs even more now, and I

can see the swollen folds that surround her fingers.

     I dip my head and bring my mouth close to her ear. "Does

that feel good, Scully?"

     Her head nods slowly. "Uh-huh."

     I watch as her fingers move in and out of her body, pumping

languidly. My cock twitches with every bend of her wrist, growing

firm and solid against her back. It's so hard not to drop my hands and

touch her again. My fingers ache with the need to join hers. It's a

sweet pain.

     "Would you like to touch your clit now?" I ask her.

     Her left hand closes around her breast and squeezes in

answer.

     "Then do it, Scully. Touch your clit. Show me how you like

it."

     There is a soft liquid sound as her fingers leave her body. I

watch as they spread her dewy petals apart, sliding up to the hooded

bundle of nerves that top her sex. They land and begin a slow

circling. Scully tenses and her hips arch up from the bed.

     "Yeah." The utterance slips from my mouth uninvited. I can

smell her now. Heavy and musky sweet. I imagine the taste of her on

my tongue. Savoring her essence as she has savored mine.

     God, I want this for her. I want it for both of us. I want her to

feel her hands as my hands, circling and pulling and tugging at tender

flesh. I want to fill her dreams and her body and her heart. Become

her fantasy and her reality.

     "I could be touching you," I tell her. "In all kinds of ways. I

could be touching you there with my tongue." She gasps and I can't

stop the smile of satisfaction that crosses my face.

     "Would you like that, Scully? Would it feel good to have my

tongue on your clit; stroking, circling, flicking against you?"

     "Oh God...." Her plea is no more than a breathy whisper. Her

left hand slides across her chest to finger the nipple of her right

breast. Her tongue snakes out to wet her lips. As I watch over her

shoulder, Scully dips her fingers inside her body to gather more

moisture. Back up they slide, spreading her juices over the tight bud

of her clitoris.

     She is flushed now, and breathing in tiny pants, her fingers

moving hard and fast. Almost there. I press a kiss against her

shoulder. "You're close, aren't you, baby? You gonna come for me?"

     She can do no more than nod as her head rolls against my

chest. I'm filled with a wonderful rush of power that humbles me even

as it feeds my ego. I know that at this moment I hold her soul in my

hands. But at the same time, everything I am, everything I dream of,

is at her mercy.

     "How do you feel, Scully?"

     I have to know.

     "I... Oh...oh... Empty," she tells me.

     "Then fill yourself."

     Her response is immediate. She plunges her fingers back

inside her core and thrusts them in and out. There is no grace, no

slow erotic movement. She is desperate to come. I am desperate to

see it. The ball of her hand bumps against her clit with every stroke of

her fingers.

     "Yeah, that's right, Scully. Bring yourself off. I wanna see it. I

want to watch you come."

     My hands tighten on her shoulders as I hear the keening

begin. It starts low and deep in her chest. Each plunge of her fingers

increases the volume and pitch of it.

     "Ohgodohgodohgodohgodoh..."

     And then she is crying out, her fingers once more pressed to

her clit, her hips bucking, her body thrashing against me.

     It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I love her

more than life itself.

     She sags against me, her hand soon lifting and landing curled

on her thigh. The hand at her breast skims slowly down and comes to

rest on the swell of her belly. I kiss the curve of her neck and once

more take her right hand in mine. Raising it my lips, I pull her fingers

inside my mouth and suck away the sweetness of her body. The dark

and smoky taste is like nectar on my tongue. She shivers as I lick her

fingers clean and then gently ease her hand back down to her side.

     I want to taste her mouth now. I want to suckle her lips and

hold her close. Wrap myself around her and keep her safe in the

shelter of my arms. I dip my head and drop a single kiss just behind

her ear. And then another. Cradling her jaw in my hand, I turn her

face to mine and brush my lips across hers.

     Like a shot, Scully is off the bed and plucking her t-shirt from

the floor. I barely have time to think before she's slipped it on and is

heading for the connecting doors.

     "Scu..."

     She swings around, glaring at me, as her name catches in my

throat. What the fuck is going on here?

     "Scully? What's wrong?"

     She dips her head, refusing to meet my eyes. She's slowly

side-stepping her way to the door.

     Stunned, I get to my feet and move towards her. Her open

palm shoots up in an unmistakable warning.

     Stop. Do not come closer. Do not pass go. Do not collect

$200. Go straight to hell.

     I've cornered enough desperate people to know when to back

off. Every instinct is telling me that if I don't play this right, my whole

world will end tonight--in this motel room, in the middle of nowhere.

No fanfare, no headlines. Just a quiet, deadly end to everything.

     I stand perfectly still, my arms at my side. I keep my voice

gentle and non-threatening. "Scully. Talk to me. Tell me what's

wrong."

     She lifts her eyes and I'm almost knocked off my feet by the

fear I see in them. I feel like someone has punched me in the gut.

     "I can't..." She stops and licks her lips. "I can't do this,

Mulder. You shouldn't have tried to kiss me."

     That is absolutely the last thing I would have expected to

come out of her mouth. "You..." My head is shaking in confusion.

My body trembles, strung tight by adrenaline. "You'll pleasure

yourself in front of me..." A low chuff of pained, incredulous laughter

is pushed from my throat. "...in my arms--but you don't want me to

kiss you? What is going on, Scully?"

     Her voice is flat as an icy pond and just as cold. "I'm sorry,

Mulder. This was wrong." And then she turns on her heel and walks

out, slamming the door behind her.

     Stunned, I stand frozen, my toes digging into the worn carpet

beneath my feet, my hands tightly curled into fists. Her words echo in

my ears--the tone remote, disconnected:

     "This was wrong."

     No. How can she say that? How could it be wrong? How can

she just walk away from me like that?

     White-hot anger boils up suddenly from my gut, eclipsing

everything else. I've gone from sexual bliss to spiritual fulfillment to

utter shock to burning rage in the space of a few minutes. Right now

I can't decide which I prefer, but the heat of anger is feeling pretty

good. And it doesn't take long to reach indignant. I can't--won't--let

her do this to us. I won't let her.

     Four long strides bring me to the door she's slammed between

us. Some small, polite part of my brain tell me I should knock first.

Primal instinct tells me otherwise. I reach for the knob and find it

locked.

     Fuck.

     I jiggle it in my hand and call out hoarsely, "Scully? Scully, let

me in!"  

      Nothing.

      "Goddammit, Scully, open this door before I break it down!"

My voice is aloft on an air cushion of fury and pain and need. I can

feel the emotions rolling off me in waves, seeping under the door and

filling the room beyond. She has to feel it, too. How can she not?

     My foot snaps up and connects with the bottom of the door.

Wounded toes scream at me and feed the fire in my belly. I give the

door another kick. My voice, rough and bitter, spews the words from

my mouth: "What? Do you think you can retreat into your little

corner and pretend this didn't happen?"

      Finally she answers me. Her voice sounds dead as it rasps,

"Just leave me alone, Mulder. I can't do this right now."

      Oh God, Scully. Please.

      I can hear her breathing just on the other side of the door.

My own breath hitches and stops until it picks up again--this time in

unison with hers. This is one connection she can't sever. She has to

breathe. But, apparently, not with me, not so close to me: I can sense

her walking away.

     "You can't ignore me, Scully. Not after what just happened."

      Her voice rings out, spewing its own venom, muffled by the

distance she's once more put between us. "I know what just

happened," she spits. "You jerked off. I helped you. I fucked myself.

You helped me. It's perfectly natural. It happens all the time."

     Of course it does, Scully. Of course. People masturbate while

being held by the person who loves them more than anything else in

this world *all* the fucking time. Just like clockwork. I almost have

to laugh.

     Her next words are filled with an air of resignation and

condescension. "Why the hell do you have to make it into something

it's not?"

      "Something it's not? What are you talking about?" I am met

by silence. I raise my voice, desperation coloring my words. "Open

the door right now, Scully! I mean it!" 

      Or what, Mulder? What are you going to do? Kick the door

down? Oh yeah, that'll make her see the light. Just put on a

convincing enough display of manly power and force and she'll just

fall right into your arms. The anger is draining away to become

something cold and empty. Something that imagines what my life

would be like without her.

     Think, Mulder, think. I raise my hands and brace them on

either side of the door and drop my forehead against the cool wood.

Don't yell at her. Talk to her. Beg, plead. Do whatever you have to

do to get her to open the goddamn door. A single anguished thought

runs through my mind and out of my mouth with no volition:

     "Why are you doing this to us?"

      And then the door flies open and I nearly stumble into her

arms.

Scully scurries away slightly and squints at me, her face a mask of

fear and anger. "This is about *you* and this is about *me*. This is

not about *us*. There is no *us*."

     Each phrase is a bullet aimed straight at my heart. I can feel

my face crumple like onionskin, my body sag with defeat. She can't

really believe that, can she?

     "How can you say that? This was *all* about us."

     Scully turns her back on me and walks away in the direction

of the bed. She yanks the bedspread off and drapes it over her

shoulders like a cape--hiding her body, hiding herself . It swirls

around the smooth curve of her ass before settling around her shins.

It's then I realize I'm standing in the doorway completely naked.

Completely vulnerable.

     So be it.

     She starts pacing the floor in front of the bed in erratic figure

eights, mumbling quietly under her breath. And then she veers off and

ends up facing the wall in front of the bathroom. She wearily rests her

forehead against it and my heart lurches in my chest as her words

become clear.

     "...ican'tican'tican'tican'tican'tican't..."

     Over and over, like a vow. Like a prayer.

     I ache for her, for her pain. But I hate her for doing this to us.

How can I function with two such opposing emotions at war within

me?

     Bite it back, Mulder. Shove it all aside. Just find a way to

breech the distance.

     I take a literal step towards her. And then another. One more

and her arms shoot up, warding me off, the bedspread slipping from

her shoulders and puddling on the floor behind her. And then, very

calmly: 

     "There can't be an 'us', Mulder."

     My rollercoaster ride of love and fury begins anew.

     Welcome to my nightmare.

     "There already *is*! How can you think otherwise?"

     How can you be so fucking cruel, Scully?

     "We both know what just happened," I tell her. "You knew

what you were getting yourself into when you walked into my room

and stayed." I take another step towards her and she shrinks

back--like I'm going to hit her or something. And for some ungodly

reason, this just makes me angrier. "Don't you *dare* pull away from

me now." 

      She hits me with laser eyes and I can feel my heart crisping in

my chest. Her eyes narrow and she hisses, "I walked into your room

because you wanted me there and weren't going to stop making a

show of yourself until I gave in and joined you. You wanted me

there, Mulder,  and you just couldn't leave me alone until you had me.

I am *not* an object for you to attain."

      "And you let me 'have you', Scully. I wasn't in that room

alone. Let me remind you who was sucking on whose thumb and

why."

     The gloves have come off and we're down to no-holds barred.

It's not the fighting itself that twists my guts. Scully and I have heated

arguments down to a science. It's what we're each fighting for that

wounds me the deepest. I was under the impression we were doing it

to stay together. Now I'm not so sure. Because I think Scully is

fighting to keep us apart.

     And how fucked up is that? I should just walk out of here

right now. Cut my losses and try to salvage whatever remains of my

dignity.

     But I can't. I can't leave. And I can't seem to shut up. I can't

make the words stop coming from my mouth. She steps closer and

closer, fire and ice, and my brain is screaming at me to stop while the

pain keeps flooding out of me in a torrent of poisonous words. "Just

who was the real object back there, Scully? Seems to me you were

the one doing the objectifying." I wait until she's toe to toe with me

before I deliver the kicker. "Was I just a means to an end, Scully?

Were you

just horny and decided to use me to get what you wanted?"

      Her hand flies up and connects with my cheek, hard. I can

feel the imprint of her fingers against my skin. I can taste the copper

of blood on my tongue.  

     "Sex," she snaps. "That's all this ever was, and that's all this

will

ever be. We should be able to touch--to do this for each other and

then go about our business. Why does it have to be anything else?"

     Oh, Jesus. God help me. My hands--the same hands that held

her so tenderly only minutes ago--fly up and roughly grab her by the

shoulders. My fingers dig deep into her flesh, scratch against the

worn cotton of her t-shirt. I feel grim satisfaction at the pain and

alarm telegraphed in her eyes.

     "You don't really believe that, do you? It wasn't just sex,

Scully. It could never be just sex with us. Why can't you admit that to

yourself?" She is silent; remarkably still under my hands. She ducks

her head and refuses to look at me. No answer is forthcoming. My

next words are intentionally bitter. Meant to wound her.

     After all, I am my father's son. And I have learned well.

     "Or maybe I'm the fool here. Maybe that's all you wanted

from me. Maybe I should just be grateful and wait around until the

next time you need to get off." I push her away and she stumbles

back a step. "Should we start scheduling appointments, Scully? Want

me to grab your date book so you can pencil me in?"

      "I can get off just fine by myself, thank you very much. I

don't *need* you."

     And there it is in a nutshell, folks. The sorry truth. I can't face

her anymore. I can't keep doing this. I turn my back and take a step

away, my hands coming up to cover my face. I don't know what to

do. I don't know what to say to her. I'm standing here in her room

naked and bleeding in a hundred places from the razor-sharp edge of

our words.

     This is all my fault. I sat in my room an hour ago and set

about profiling Scully the way I would a serial killer. I cut through all

the bullshit and narrowed everything down until I found her weakest,

most vulnerable point. And then I attacked, intentionally and selfishly.

     But I forgot one very important thing when I drew my map:

unlike the criminals I profile, Scully didn't set out to hurt anyone.

She's more than just a set of facts and statistics. More than just the

sum total of her fears and her dreams and her desires. I stormed the

barriers she's erected over the years and didn't stop to consider that I

might be destroying the very foundations she needs to survive. I

reduced her to a goal. A game to be won. The victory, ultimately a

hollow one.

     Congratulations, Mulder. You got what you wanted. Happy

now?

     In the end, there is nothing left between us but the simple

truth--hers and mine. Her words echo in my head: "I don't need you."

     Gathering the shards of my remaining courage, I turn to her

and whisper my truth:    

      "But I need you, Scully. Don't you know that?"

      Her eyes shoot level with mine and then skitter away. They

move about the room, taking in everything, seeing nothing. And then

her chin drops to her chest and she says wearily, "You don't need me,

Mulder. You don't...."

     She backs away and stumbles over the long-discarded

bedspread. Her knees hit the edge of the bed and she sinks down onto

it as I ask myself who she's trying to convince.

     And then it comes to me with perfect clarity that she's afraid. I

remember the look on her face right before she walked out of my

room. It was terror--plain and simple. And I know exactly what

scares her.

     Jesus Christ. I'm such a fool.

     Who wouldn't be afraid of loving a man like me? Obsessed,

driven, demanding everything but so unwilling to give the same in

return. I hold a part of myself away from Scully, just as she does with

me. I expect my actions to say everything I haven't the courage to

voice.

     No more. It's too late to go back to the comfortable, familiar,

but ultimately unfulfilling dynamic of what we share and who we are

together. There's nothing left to lose. Nothing at all.

     I cross to the bed and crouch down on my knees before her.

She still won't meet my gaze, her eyes focusing on a spot on my chest

instead. I have to make this count. I have to make her see the truth.

      "But I do need you, Scully. More than you'll ever know. And

I

thought you felt the same way." I take a ragged, labored breath. "Can

you look me in the eye and tell me you don't? That it was about sex

and pleasure and nothing else?"

      Her eyes lift to mine. They are moist with tears. Dark with

pain and longing and fear. "It was about sex," she tells me. But then

her eyes drop and she gracelessly falls back on the bed, curling up

fetus-like, her knees pulled up to her chest.

     I don't believe it, Scully. And I don't think you do, either.

How do I prove it to you? What more can I do?

     And now I realize it's not just about the truth. It's about

choices: having them and keeping them. It's a matter of Scully

deciding for herself what she has to do in order to live with what's

happened tonight. She will have to weigh the pros and cons, come to

her own conclusions. All I can do is point out the options. Help her

to see what lies ahead--no matter what choice she makes.

     I take a deep, cleansing breath and step around the bed,

settling myself down on the mattress next to her, my legs folded up in

front of me. I don't try to touch her or talk to her. There will be time

for that later. For now, I give her my stillness.

     And time.

     It's all I have left to give.

 

      ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Doors (4/4)

By Lydia Bower and Alanna Baker

 

      ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

     Anger has always been my most comfortable emotion. It

requires nothing of me except adrenaline and elucidation. I can lose

myself in its grip then emerge, refreshed, when the argument is over

into the light of day. 

     I am emerging.

     I hug my knees to my chest, spent from fury. All through this

tirade, I have chanted a silent mantra to myself: "I can't." I can't do

this, I can't feel this, I can't submit. I can't let him feel for me what I

see written on his face, knitted into his words. But as I curl into

myself, my chant fades. My anger is exhausted, replaced by fear and

confusion.

     I am so aware of him. Even though my eyes remain shut

against the dangers which face me when I open them, I see him as

clearly as I ever have. I replay our conversation methodically in my

mind. I turn over every nuance obsessively, sorting through the

details for any hint of how I should approach this situation. The

answers are there--somewhere in his words--but I don't know where

to look. 

     His last words echo through my mind: "I do need you--more

than you'll ever know." The strange thing is that I believe him. I know

I shouldn't let myself, but I do. No matter what Mulder might do or

what his methods might be, he would never lie to me--not about

something like this. What he is telling me is genuine. That doesn't

mean that I have to accept it.

     I wish I weren't here. I wish I could go back to where I was

an hour ago, sitting at my laptop with Mulder a mystery in the next

room. If I had known then what would be the result, would I have

stepped into his room, sat down next to him on his bed, reveled in his

nakedness and helped him come? Would I have given myself over to

him?

     I don't know. I honestly don't know. My automatic rational

explanation fails me. I want it back. It makes me feel safe. Without it,

I feel empty. Without him, I feel empty. I don't want this truth, which

hurts with a hollow pain. But deep inside me, I know that somehow it

will set me free.

     So I take my chances with opening my eyes. 

     He is sitting inches away from me, his legs bent lotus-style.

Peaceful. His body is peaceful. Mine looks peaceful but is filled with

chaos. In his hands, Mulder holds the power to open my shell. 

     I remain ensconced within.

     We look at each other for a very long moment, neither of us

speaking. We are shell-shocked, like soldiers who have endured the

worst of the battle only to come through battered but alive. The skin

of his face is drawn tightly. He is holding back. A tiny part of me

wants to draw it out of him, but instead I remain silent. Silence is

easier than facing this problem.

     We can't remain in silence forever.

     His voice is pale, reedlike. "Scully, please. Just listen to me.

Will you promise me that?" 

     I slowly nod. I will listen, but I won't promise anything.

     "If you want this to be about sex, then I'll accept that." The

artificial calmness of his voice worries me. "We seem to have two

options here: the first one is that we could just pretend this never

happened." The horror of returning to what we'd had before is worse

than the fear of a relationship. My head tilts sharply toward him. He

rises to my cue. "But you don't want that, do you?"

     "No."

     His face wears grim satisfaction. A flash of humor flits over

my heart as I watch his hand lift toward my cheek then pull back

swiftly. He wants to touch me, I can tell. I don't want to be touched.

     "And you don't want a relationship." I remain silent. "Okay,

then.... If you want this to be just about sex, then we'll just have to let

things be that way. I think we can manage this, don't you?  We should

probably set some ground rules for this, though. Like, say, we can

only have sex when a case is over--like tonight--or in our apartments.

We already have keys, right? As long as we let each other know

beforehand and establish mutual consent, this should be okay."

     I can scarcely believe what I'm hearing. Trust Mulder to

reduce everything which has happened to rational specifics, in an

attempt to hold on to what little of me I'll allow him.

     "And I don't think we should kiss each other. I'm not sure I

could just step back from that, Scully. So this will be just sex. No

emotional involvement. Nothing which could create artificial feelings

of attachment. Nothing which would threaten you."

     No....

     "How does that sound?" He is silent for a moment, then

continues talking in a smooth, leaden voice. "I mean, Scully, you're

right.  This sounds like the best possible solution for us. We can just

fuck each other or do this--what is the word? Autoerotic. Whichever.

We're both adults. We should be able to handle this."

     "No."

     The word breathes out of my mouth.  His eyes widen slightly.

     "I'm sorry, Scully. What did you say?"

     "No." I repeat, a bit more loudly. My stomach begins to repel

in a vague horror at what his proposal could mean. I realize that I

can't just pretend none of this happened. Nor can I treat sex with

Mulder as something I would schedule and execute methodically, like

a doctor's appointment or dinner with an old friend. 

     It would be so much more than that.

     It would be emotional and spiritual and loving.

     Am I ready for that?  How can I deny it?

     I relax my body slightly and raise up on one elbow. Mulder is

still looking at me, the milk and moss and ink of his eyes swimming in

my gaze. Even through the detachment of his voice and demeanor,

those beautiful eyes scream cries of love. The man who bears those

eyes could never be "just an appointment," just someone I fuck and

run. This man invades every single aspect of my life. How can I shut

him out of my soul? My body? How can I have technique and not

heart? Actions without emotions?

     How can I turn him away because I'm scared and weary and

unready for this? 

     Mulder reaches over and tentatively runs his fingertips down

my arm, shoulder to wrist. His touch thrills me. It cries love in a way

that his voice will not. I want to feel that touch every day for the rest

of my life.

     "No." My voice is firm and confident. "I want more, Mulder."

     His eyes widen slightly. The corners of my mouth turn up in a

soft half-smile.

     "I want you."

     I bend my arm at the elbow and hold his hand to my shoulder.

His face blossoms into anticipation mixed with fear.

     "I want everything."

     After a long moment--excruciating in its tension--Mulder

speaks in a low, strained voice. "Are you sure, Scully? Because if this

happens, we can't go back." 

     "Yes, I'm sure." 

     He begins to laugh--a silent, shaking laugh of disbelief. I

struggle to a sitting position, my knees resting against his. I reach

over and take his hand and look up into his eyes. A tear glistens in

one corner, only to be blinked back. He is strong, so very strong. His

body, in the umber light of the bathroom lamp, is a fierce, steadfast

redwood. He supports me. I carry him. And we are together.

     I want everything. I have everything. It is terrifying, but it's a

sweet, cleansing fear. It courses through my veins, giving us life. I'm

not sure what a life with him might mean, but it could mean so much.

And for the first time in ages, I want to try. 

     "Scully, I can't promise you anything. I can't promise that this

will be easy or that I'll be any good at this, but I want us to try."

Imagine that: he echoes my thoughts. "We won't do anything you

don't want to do, okay? We'll take all this at your pace."

     I let my gaze roam over his body, naked and splayed open

before me. I want to do so many things. I want them to mean

something.  But first, I fold my legs under me and lean forward

slightly, then take one of his hands and then the other, twining our

fingers together. 

     "I want you to kiss me." My voice is a whisper. I meet him

halfway. How fitting. 

     His lips brush over mine, once. Then they stop. He pulls away

and squeezes my hands slightly, so I open my eyes and look at him.

Wonder has made him radiant. His voice is quiet but his face screams

fits of joy and awe with shining eyes, a slight flush to his skin, and lips

sanguine with ardor. How could I have spent so much fury on him

when I could have been enjoying--loving--this? I am profoundly

grateful for my foolishness, for without it, whatever we might have

done would have been about him and me, and not about us.

Together.

     I brush my lips against his, once. He tilts his chin up slightly

and catches my upper lip on his full lower one. I feel the warmth of

blood underneath the puckered skin, each crease an entry to his soul,

which washes over me. Each moment is a revelation. I take the

epiphany step by step. And mid-stride, I breathe an "Oh," echoing the

moment in that interrogation room which eventually led to this. He

pulls back again and looks at me steadily. Reading my face. I feel

naked, even though I am still clothed. 

     That must change.

     Before, when I lay on the bed, preparing to bare myself to

him, I allowed him to take off my shirt, to allow him to control the

situation so that I wouldn't be forced to feel anything. But now, I

want to feel. I want to offer myself to him.

     My hands disentangle from his and move to the hem of my

old t-shirt. I cross my arms over me and lift the shirt over my head,

then toss it to the floor behind me. I take his hand in mine and place it

on my chest, over my breastbone. I breathe into his hand and give my

benediction.

     "Mulder, all this is yours." I don't need to say anything else. I

don't need to apologize or make vows or prove myself to him. I just

need to be here with him right now. 

     He brings his other hand to my waist and begins to move his

palms in lazy circles over my body. Each point of contact leaves trails

of starry thrills on my skin. In my soul. I lift my lips to his again, but

instead of brushing my own lips against his, I am consumed with

hunger and the need to devour him. 

     His mouth is a delicacy I can't pause to savor, but rather

swallow whole into my body. He brings his hands up to my breasts

and squeezes lightly. I moan into his mouth, hardly aware of anything

but the sensation of it coursing over my tongue and his together.

Something in him snaps, because suddenly we are on the bed, bodies

pressed against each other from tip to top, on the edge of

consumption. We devour each other, and it's a glorious feeling.

     Our doors are open wide.

 

     ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

     The End

 

Author's notes: Lydia here. Looks like I've been elected to speak for

the both of us. <g> This was my first attempt at collaboration and I

couldn't have asked for a more patient and kind-hearted writing

partner. I really put Alanna through hell on this one, and I want to

take this opportunity to thank her for everything. She is, in a word,

perfect. Thanks, love! :-)

     To say that this story was a departure for both of us is a bit of

an understatement. While the subject matter and the subsequent

conflict was somewhat difficult to explore, it gave us a chance to

look into the dark places that exist within our heroes. We'd both love

to know your thoughts on whether we successfully did our jobs or

not.

     In closing, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that

without Alanna's nudging and constant enthusiasm, this piece

probably would've remained unfinished on my hard drive forever. I

began it as a solo project and soon ran smack into a wall I couldn't

scale. It was with gratitude that I handed it over to Alanna--knowing

it was in good hands. And then strangely (or not) she ran into the

same problem I'd had. I offered to fill in some of the blanks for her

and, well, the result is what you've just read. Funny how life works

sometimes, isn't it?

 

 

 

~~~~~ Alanna Baker, alanna@ibm.net ~~~~~

"Not mad, I pray not mad. But the sheer joy of

contemplating it is hard to contain."

            --Peter Carey, _Oscar and Lucinda_

stories -- members.aol.com/emmalanna/fanfic.html