Blind Naked Babies With Wings

The story is inspired by commercials for the new TV show "Cupid," which I
haven't actually seen but which looks pretty cute. And Jeremy Piven is
imminently lickable.

         "Go in love, my friend." -"The Seducer" by Dawson E. Rambo



The man looks perfectly ordinary. Average height and build. A face neither
extraordinarily handsome nor uniquely ugly. Brown eyes and hair. A
casual-Friday suit. And a kind, twinkly smile.

I don't go to bars, as a rule, especially by myself. I hate drinking alone,
and the kind of company I generally find in places like this aren't big on
courtesy or conversation or basic intelligence. Mulder has spoiled me for
other men. It's true, as insane as it sounds. No one else is as interesting,
exciting, or infuriating as he is, and though I know loving him is probably
not one of my wiser life choices, it is my most precious one. Even if he'll
never know.

But this man, sitting just a few bar stools away, is enough to make me
reconsider. Even if it is just for a night.

Why? I'm not sure. There is something reassuring in his ordinariness. It's
probably the fact that his smile is not a leer, that he isn't trying to look
down my cleavage nor is he checking out my ass, and that he is just
drinking, popping pretzels into his mouth and watching the playoffs on the
TV over the bar. Passing time like any other ordinary Joe.

And whenever he catches my eye, he smiles. Just smiles. A perfectly natural,
non-threatening, "isn't it great the Cubs are winning" smile.

I'm smitten. I don't know why. Just . . . smitten. But not really sure how
to approach him, or even if I should. With my luck lately, he'll probably be
serial killer or a child molester.

But on the other hand, he has such a nice smile.

I look up from my drink again, and notice that he had moved to the stool
beside me. "Rooting for the Cubbies?" he asks.

"I like to root for the underdog."

"It's their year." He took a pull from his beer.

The batter hits a triple and the man applauds, as do many other people in
the bar. I do too, and I think that Mulder would probably laugh if he saw
this: me in jeans and t-shirt in a sports bar, enjoying baseball and beer.
Mulder has an image of me that I don't quite comprehend, that I'm somehow
above things like sports and peeing. It's ridiculous. It's funny. It's
infuriating.

I came here to get away from Mulder, and I can't stop thinking about him.
Welcome to my life.

Eventually the man says to me, "So, where's your significant other this fine
Friday night?"

I laugh with surprise at the directness of his question, and say, "I don't
have one. I'm just here."

"A pretty thing like you?" He shakes his head. "Tragic."

I should be offended. Normally I would be, if he was saying it in a
condescending way. Thankfully he didn't add "little." I just smile and drink
my beer. "Tragic but true."

"I find it hard to believe a woman like you is entirely alone in the world.
There's got to be somebody. He's out of town, maybe."

"Oh, and what kind of woman am I like?"

"Well, you know. Pretty. Smart. Roots for the underdog."

"How can you tell I'm smart?"

He points to my t-shirt. Ah. I guess the Johns Hopkins Physics Club t-shirt
is a dead giveaway. "Unless you borrowed that, in which case you date smart
people, which is, I've noticed, something other smart people do."

"It's mine."

"So there you go. Tell me there's not some smart, good-looking,
compassionate guy who worships the ground you walk on."

I study him for a moment. "What kind of a pickup line is this?"

"I'm not picking you up. Hope that doesn't disappoint you?"

"No . . . no." Just a tiny bit.

"So answer me. There is someone."

I nod, sighing. "There's someone. The whole thing. Smart. Good-looking.
Compassionate. But also driven, self-absorbed and enormously insecure."

"But does he worship the ground you walk on? That's the kicker."

"He does. The ground that I walk on, the air that I breathe. And that, my
friend, is why he will never make a move towards actually soiling me with
sex."

"Ah. I see. You're above things like the beast with two backs."

"That's what he thinks."

"That is a difficult obstacle. How badly, though, do you want to overcome
it?"

I study him again, as the bar around us explodes with delight over another
homer. "Who are you? I mean it. Who are you?"

"Oh, sorry." He holds out his hand. "Eric Ross."

I shake his hand. "Dana Scully. But that doesn't answer my question."

"I bring people together. I guess you can call me a matchmaker."

"Uh-huh." I sip my beer. "Interesting way to make a living."

"Oh, it's not how I make my living. It's just something that I do."

"Why?"

He smiles again. It has the same effect on me as my mother's voice on the
phone, as curling up on my couch under my warmest blanket, as Mulder smiling
at me. "Because I like seeing people in love."

I look at him, furrowing my eyebrows. He likes seeing people in love. Why
does that make a weird kind of sense?

"Well," I say finally, "okay. That's great. I think I'll go now." I stand up
from the stool and start to pull on my jacket.

"Don't go yet. Please. I'd like to help you with this. Let's move to a
table, we can talk."

I shouldn't do this, I think, but I nod anyway. There's really only one
person I can talk about Mulder with-my mother-and truthfully, I'm not
terribly comfortable talking to her about him. She's fond of him, but it's
hard to talk about passion with your mother.

I probably shouldn't talk to a complete stranger about him, either. But this
Eric Ross . . . there's something about him that makes me want to talk.
Maybe it's that he's willing to listen.

We move to a table away from the TV, bringing our beers. "Tell me about your
friend," he says as we sit down.

"We work together. That's how we met. And it's been . . . intense. Like no
other relationship I've ever been in. And it's like I can't help loving him,
either. There's so much between us, how could we not love each other?"

"Right," Eric says, nodding. His back is to the TV, and he hasn't glanced
towards its once. Amazing. "Like you were sent to love him."

"Sort of." I laugh a little. "When I was first sent to work with him, it was
basically to spy on him. But I was honest about the work that we did, and
that disappointed our superiors. They wanted to hear that he was nuts, that
he was dangerous. He's not. He's . . . driven. And obsessed. And he's so
*good*."

Eric smiles at me again. "They sent you to destroy him, and ended up giving
him an ally."

"Basically. That's how I see it. It was their greatest mistake and my
greatest blessing."

"So what's the problem?"

"Tell me something first. Are you a psychologist?"

"Nope. I just understand human nature."

"You've got to have studied psychology or something."

"I've just been around awhile. So tell me what's keeping you back."

"Well . . . like I said, he has this vision of me as a . . ." I have to stop
and think a while to find a word to explain it. "Like I'm a saint. His
savior. And while it's nice to be that admired, I wish sometimes he'd just
see me as a woman."

"With all the complications and the passions and the insecurities of an
ordinary woman."

"Right." I sip my beer. "He told me once that I make him a whole person."

"That's beautiful," he says softly. "What did you say?"

"I was crying. I kissed him. Kind of. I kissed him on the forehead." I find
my eyes are starting to tear up again at the memory. "The thing is, we
haven't talked about it since. We almost kissed and it was interrupted, and
we haven't talked about it since."

"Why?" Eric says, and he grips my hand gently.

"I don't know. I'm afraid, he's afraid, what is there to say? I know he
loves me, I hope he knows I love him, but actually saying it . . . I'm
scared," I admit finally. "What if it doesn't work? What if we should just
continue to love each other in the spiritual sense?"

Eric snorts with laughter. "Good God. You actually buy that? Tell me about
one example of lovers who never touch and were happy about it."

I think about it for a while, and say, "I can't."

"Friendship is beautiful," Eric says. "I do believe that. And there are
factions who say that friendship is more pure, and therefore more desirable
than love. But I don't believe it for a second. Do you know classical
mythology?"

"Somewhat, why?"

"Do you know why the Greeks had different goddesses for love and marriage?"

"No."

"Because to them, love was dangerous. A disease, an insanity. Marriage was
safe. But of course, at least with the upper classes, marriages were also
loveless. A woman's purpose was to bear children, or to be the receptacle of
love. Which meant, of course, sex."

"Okay, so what?"

"So, nowadays we don't make that distinction." He grins and rolls his eyes.
"Much. The people on Jerry Springer seem to have trouble with the concept."

"I'm still not clear on what you're talking about."

"That love is safe. That it's not madness. Does loving your friend make you
feel safe?"

I have to think about this for a while too. "In a way. I don't want to lose
him. I'm more afraid of losing him than of loving him, but it's a big fear."

"Okay, disregarding outside influences, is loving Mulder safe?"

"Yes. Yes, it is." I put down my beer and look at Eric. "I didn't tell you
his name."

"Oh-yes you did. You said his name is Mulder. It's an unusual name."

"No, I didn't-who are you?" I stand up so quickly I knock my chair over.
"Have you been spying on us? Who do you work for?"

"Dana, Dana," Eric says, holding out his hands, palms up. "Calm down. I'm
not spying on you. I don't work for anybody. Sit down. I'll tell you the
truth. Sit down. I swear I'm not trying to hurt you or Mulder in any way."

I pick up my chair and sit down. "You have five minutes."

"I'm Cupid."

I stare at him. "You're insane."

"I can prove it to you. The next batter-what kind of hit do you want him to
make?"

"A double."

"Okay. Watch." He doesn't point to the screen, or nod, or wiggle his nose or
anything like that. The pitcher throws, the batter swings, and he makes it
to second base as the guy on third makes it home. Eric turns around to look
at me, and smiles.

"So? That doesn't prove anything. Cupid is a blind naked baby with wings,
everybody knows that."

"Actually, that's a cherub. If you look at your mythology you'll see that
the stories about me require me being a grown man. My wife Psyche, for
example."

"I don't know that story."

"Oh, she made my mother jealous so her people sacrificed her to the beast on
the mountain-who happened to be me-and I fell in love with her, and we got
married. But I couldn't let her know who I was, at least at first, so I told
her she couldn't see me. She had these bitchy sisters, right, who told her I
was a monster. So one night she brought in a lamp to look at me as I was
sleeping, and the oil from the lamp woke me up. So I had to send her away."

"Why?"

He blinks at me for a moment. "Because I had to. So, to prove her love for
me and to make my mother not so mad at her, Psyche had to perform three
tasks: she had to carry water in a sieve, she had to count a pile of grain
without losing any, and she had to get beauty from the Queen of the Dead.
And of course, she did. She's a goddess now." He reaches for his wallet.
"Want to see a picture of her and the kids?"

"No, that's okay." Great. I've got a certifiable looney here. "So if you're
a god, how come you're in a place like this on a Friday night?"

"Because you're here. I wanted to talk to you."

"Me. You came down from Olympus or whatever just to talk to me."

"We really don't live on Olympus anymore. Well, for a while Psyche and I
lived in Olympus, Washington, as a private joke."

"Okay. I'm really going to go now." I start to stand again.

"Dana, wait, come on. You know you believe me."

"I don't believe a thing you've said. Cupid? Come on. You're the
personification of an emotion, a mythological excuse of falling in love at
first sight."

"Maybe. Or I'm the god of love trying to give you some advice, because I
like seeing people in love. And I like you. I like Mulder. And I would
really like the two of you to stop messing around."

I stare at him. This is too unbelievable. Cupid. Right. I lean my hands on
the table and say, "Okay. Here's your chance. I'm going to leave here, and
I'm going to go to Mulder's. And if the first thing he says to me is . . .
is 'You wanna order Chinese?', maybe I'll believe you."

"'You wanna order Chinese,'" he repeats, and smiles. "Okay. Good luck,
Dana."

"Uh-huh." I pull on my jacket and toss a five on the table. I go outside the
bar and hail a cab.

On the drive to Mulder's I do have to wonder what I've gotten myself into.
Going over the Mulder's with no excuse, just to prove something to myself
that I already know. What am I going to say? "There was this guy in the bar
and he said he's Cupid so here I am . . ."

I bury my face in my hands and consider telling the driver to turn around.
This is nuts. I am not nuts. I am a logical, rational person who just
happens to be in love.

So why am I fighting it?

What am I afraid of?

We pull up in front of Mulder's building and I get out and pay the driver. I
stand on the sidewalk for a moment, running my hands through my hair, and
then go inside and take the elevator up to his floor. I knock on his door
and wait.

I don't even know if he's home tonight. For all I know he's out tailing a
suspect or catching a movie or shopping for porn. Doing what he does.

The door opens and I look up to see Mulder smiling at me, holding his phone
to his ear. He gestures for me to come in, and says, "I'm starving-you wanna
order Chinese?"

My eyes widen and I can't speak. I nod and manage to squeak, "Okay."


Blind Naked Babies With Wings 2

 "Never had a morning been so perfect for an Oreo." "An Allegorical Oreo" by
                                 RhymePhile



It being Saturday, I'm at the grocery store. I have a long list today, it's
been a while since I've had time for serious grocery shopping. Fresh pasta,
ice cream, fruit, soap, toothpaste, et cetera, et cetera.

I usually shop in a huge mega-supermarket that also sells water hoses and
cheap toys and condoms. Condoms. Don't go there, girl. I grit my teeth as I
pass the small display and try not to think about the fact that I may never
need to use one of those again.

So after my long conversation with Eric Ross (E. Ross, Eros, get it? My
thoughts exactly), what happened when I went to Mulder's? We ate Chinese
food and watched "Young Frankenstein." We talked about office gossip and the
latest baby pool. He did not ask me why I came over, though he seemed
pleased that I did, and I did not tell him. I left before midnight, and he
waited with me on the street for the cab he'd called. If there was any
influence on his behavior, divine or demonic, I didn't see it.

I suppose there are worse things than being played for a fool, but today I
can't think of one.

I'm in the produce section sniffing oranges, when another cart collides with
mine. "Careful," I say, glancing up, and then look up at the cart's driver.
Grinning at me is Eric Ross. "You," I say with some disgust.

"How'd it go last night?"

"It didn't."

He looked honestly surprised. "He didn't ask you about ordering Chinese?"

"No, he did, only nothing else happened. I mean, we had a pleasant enough
evening but it was completely like a hundred other evenings we've had."

"So he *did* ask you about ordering Chinese?"

"Yes, but-"

"Dana, that is all you asked for. You said if the first thing he said was
'Wanna order Chinese' you'd believe I'm Cupid. He did. But you still don't
believe."

"I guess I was expecting something more," I say, looking into his cart.
Definitely a family's grocery list here: kids' cereals, three gallons of
milk, family-sized box of Pop Tarts, a big bag of Cheetos. It looks like
more fun than my list.

"You didn't ask for a miracle, Dana. I'm divine, not infallible."

"This is too weird," I say, pulling back my cart so I can go around him.

"I"m not saying it would take a miracle for him to love you. It may take a
miracle for him to admit it."

I stop and study him. "I know," I say quietly. "I know."

"See, that's where I can help you, Dana. I can make that miracle."

"If you do something," I say, trying to pick my words with care, "if you
influence him, then it would be you, it wouldn't be what he really feels."

"No, no," Eric says, shaking his head, "that's not true. I wouldn't be
offering if the feeling wasn't there. Tell me you'd be willing to take this
chance if I weren't pushing you. You wouldn't. You're not that way."

I have to admit he's right. I wouldn't.

"He needs a push too," Eric says, seeing my answer in my face.

"But why have you come to me? Mulder would probably believe you more easily
than I would."

"You think so, really?" His brows crinkle. He's leaning on the handle of the
cart, one foot on the bar on the underside of the cart. He lifts up his
other foot and pushes himself down the aisle. Only the weight of his food
keeps him from popping a wheelie. He swerves and circles back around me as I
continue pushing my cart down the aisle. "'Cause I don't think he would,
really. Not that you're the most open-minded person . . ."

"Oh, thank you," I say sarcastically.

"I mean that in the best possible way."

"There is no best possible way."

"Okay, okay, down. I'm sorry. What I'm trying to say is, Mulder is not the
kind of person I can approach. Not as obviously as I have you. I've done
some . . . whispering."

"Whispering."

"Uh-huh. He's been having a lot of dreams about you lately. Many more than
usual."

This stops me in my tracks. "He has dreams about me?"

"Didn't you know that?"

"No. No, I didn't know."

"You have dreams about him, right?"

"Yes . . . have you been 'whispering' to me too?"

Eric shakes his head, grinning. "Like I said, I can talk to you."

"Okay. So, you talk to me and you whisper to him. What are you trying to
accomplish?"

He leans back his head, still grinning, and pushes his cart down the aisle,
still balancing on one foot. "Total, complete, and utter bliss," he says,
and turns the corner out of my sight. I abandon my cart to follow him but
when I reach the long back aisle I don't see him. Gone.

I just hope he paid for his groceries.

So. Mulder dreams about me. The truth is, I suspected as much a long time
ago. I catch him looking at me sometimes in an almost speculative way,
comparing, maybe, what his subconscious produces with the real thing. I've
returned the look. More than once.

It's not until I'm in the checkout line that Eric's answer to my last
question hits me. Total, complete and utter bliss. For whom-for him?

Or for us?

I shiver and close my eyes. Mulder is a passionate person. I know a lot of
people wouldn't believe it, he keeps himself so withdrawn, but the truth is,
the veneer of civilization on him is very thin. I know-I've sensed-that it
wouldn't be hard to bring that passion to the fore. To be on its receiving
end.

And to give it back. To give and receive, give and receive--

Oh, to hell with talking around it. I want to make love to him for the rest
of my life. Every night, all night. Which I know isn't realistic, but a
woman can dream, right? And as long as I'm dreaming, I can dream of total,
complete, and utter bliss in Mulder's arms, from Mulder's body, his mouth
and his hands and his tongue-

I really shouldn't be thinking about this.

And it's terrible and juvenile, but every item of food I place on the
counter takes on a new sexual angle, the ice cream on his stomach, the honey
dripped over his face, fun with the bananas and the oranges . . . God, I've
got it bad.

I get my bags out to my car and start on my way home. I want to stop by
Mulder's again but I can't do it twice in one weekend, not without a good
excuse this time.

My phone rings as I'm putting my groceries away. "Scully."

"Hey, Scully, it's me."

"Mulder. What's up?"

"I'm standing in the cookie aisle, and I'm leaning towards Pepperidge Farms,
but I can't decide which variety. Do you eat these?"

"I've been known to."

"What kind do you like?"

"Why?"

"Because . . ." Mulder draws it out, "if you're really nice, I'll share them
with you."

I have to smile, and I say, "The Sausalito. But you know what I really love
to eat?"

"Tell me."

"Double Stuff Oreos."

"Oo, Scully." I hear the crinkling of plastic. "Tell me more."

"Well, there are a couple ways you can do it, you know. There's the classic
twist. Sometimes with Double Stuff it splits, so that each cookie has
cream."

"Uh-huh."

"There's the dunk. You hold the cookie in milk until it's almost ready to
fall apart. If you time it right you can catch a drip of milk on your tongue
before you put the cookie in your mouth. The chocolate mixes in with the
cream and the milk. Mm, Mulder, it's delicious."

"Mm," Mulder almost moans, and I have to smile.

"Then there's just popping the cookie right into your mouth. No fooling
around, no extras. Of course, that always needs to be washed down. Mulder,
are you all right?" His breathing sounds a little shallow.

"What? Oh, yeah. So what other ways are there to eat an Oreo?"

"The nibble, but I think that produces too many crumbs."

"You don't like to take is slow?"

"Only when the rewards outweigh the process. Let's see. The nibble, the half
bite, the whole bite, the dunk, the twist . . . I think that's it."

"I would've thought there were more."

"There might be, to people more daring than I am. I have no idea how Oreos
taste with, say, orange juice."

"They're great with coffee."

"You know, I hope you don't eat Oreos for breakfast."

"Not regularly."

I laugh, and I hear him chuckle. "I need to go," he says, "I'm done with my
shopping. See you later?"

"Sure. Bye, Mulder."

"Bye." He hangs up, and so do I.

Now, what was that? I feel somewhat seduced, and somewhat seductive. But
over Oreos? Are we that pathetic?

I have to wonder, too, if Eric Ross-or whoever he is-whispered to Mulder to
bring his cell phone shopping, to vacillate about cookies, to call me.
Suddenly everything is taking on a strange new significance: is it Mulder,
or is it Memorex? How do I know what's real?

But I do know this. My own feelings are real. The history I have with Mulder
is real. I can't assume he feels the same way about me, but I'm tired of
waiting to find out.

I call his home phone-I'm feeling brave but not *that* brave-and leave a
message on his machine. "Mulder? Wanna come over tonight? The Sci-Fi channel
is showing a marathon of Mystery Science Theater 3000, and I know you love
that show and don't get that channel. Call me. Bye."

Okay. I know that unless he has a really good excuse he won't pass up this
opportunity. Six hours of MST3K, and Mulder's company. If there's no Mulder,
there's still the show to get me through this weekend.

I don't know what he's going to think, spending Friday *and* Saturday night
with me when usually it's goodbye on Friday afternoon and hello on Monday
morning. He only calls if he's really bored or if he wants advice for his
groceries. He hates to bother me on weekends. That's why, I suppose, he
doesn't call me often over the weekend.

I wasn't this antsy with my first major crush is high school. Arranging
study dates and passing notes to my friends to pass to his friends wasn't
this nerve-wracking. But the giddiness is familiar, and the truth is I
welcome it, that rush of anticipation, the wonder and excitement of what's
to come. And I know it's real.

Around four Mulder calls me back. "What time do you want me to come?"

"It starts at seven."

"I'll be there at six-thirty. Dinner's my treat, is pizza good?"

"Pizza's great. Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Get some wine, too."

There's a slight pause, and then he says quietly, "Okay. Do you drink red or
white with pepperoni?"

"My guess would be red."

"Unless I go to that gourmet place you like and get one of those other
kinds. The Greek pizza with feta cheese and asparagus."

I have to smile, and I can't keep it out of my voice. "You hated the Greek
pizza."

"Yeah, but it goes great with white wine."

"You bring whatever you like, Mulder. Just come." I hoped there wasn't too
much need in my voice.

I can hear the smile in his voice too. "I'll be there in a couple hours. See
you."

"See you."

I hang up, very aware of my growing smile.


Blind Naked Babies with Wings 3

    "Seduction. Such a lost art, she mused." -- "Battle Plan" by SynnerX

Mulder is late.

I am not upset about this. I have the TV on to the Sci-Fi channel, and
they're in good form today so I've already laughed a few times. I have a
pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Crunch ice cream, which I know is
not the healthiest dinner, but at this point I'm willing to sacrifice a few
calories for comfort food.

Upset? No, not me. I've been stood up before. Not a problem. This wasn't a
date, after all. Just two friends getting together for cheesy movies and
pizza. This Eric Ross guy has been messing with my head, that's all, he's
been making me see things that aren't really there.

And to top it all off, it's raining.

I snuggle beneath an afghan and eat my ice cream, and try not to get angry.
This is my favorite ice cream. This is my favorite pair of jeans. This is my
favorite afghan. This is one of my favorite shows . . . because Mulder got
me hooked. Grr.

Do I really love him or is he just a habit?

My phone finally rings, and I'm tempted to ignore it. But I put the carton
aside and get up to answer it. "Scully."

"Hey, it's me. I'm sorry I'm late, I got stuck behind an accident."

"I was getting worried." Yes, I was. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. The pizza's getting cold, though."

"We can warm it up again in the oven."

"I should be there in half an hour or so. What's the first movie?"

"'Gamera and the Invaders From Mars' or something. Japanese, bad dubbing, a
large group of small boys saving the world. You know how these movies are."

"Johnny and his little pants," Mulder intones, and I have to laugh. I
remember that episode. "I'll be right there. The cars in front of me are
moving. See you soon, Scully." He hangs up.

I hang up my phone and settle back down on my couch. Maybe I'll save him
some ice cream. If he hurries.

After half an hour the knock comes at my door, and I get up to answer the
door. Mulder looks a little sheepish as he holds out the pizza box. "It's
cold."

"I've got the oven warming already. We can eat in about ten minutes. Did you
get the wine?"

"Red," he announces, hanging up his jacket, and he follows me into the
kitchen. He opens the bottle as I put the pizza in the oven. He got
pepperoni. It smells delicious, even cold.

He hands me a glass of wine and leans back against the sink. He looks
rakishly handsome today, his hair falling in his eyes, the shadow of stubble
just beneath his skin. He's wearing jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt, and I
think as I look at him, all he needs is a cigarette and a wounded expression
and he'd look like James Dean. I wonder if he knows.

"We're missing the movie," I manage to say, and he smiles at me. I take a
drink a little too fast and sputter on it. Great. I wasn't this clumsy at my
first Communion.

He pats my back. "Are you okay? Are you breathing?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." I curl up in the corner of the couch, pulling the
afghan over me again. Mulder settles into the other end of the couch,
stretching out his long legs. I sketch out the relevant details of the movie
so he can follow the plot-such as it is-and we watch the movie in silence.

This is not good. Last night at least we cuddled. Sort of. I leaned against
him and he had his arm around my shoulders. At some point in the evening my
left leg intertwined with his right.

So how do I move, unobtrusively, from one end of the couch to the other?

I don't know, either.

Luckily for me, Mulder decides to solve that problem for us. "I'm cold," he
says, "wanna share the afghan?" and lies down with his head against my
shoulder. After a second I recover myself enough to spread the afghan over
both of us. At first I don't know what to do with my hands, but one falls
into his hair and settles into a steady stroking.

When the oven timer goes off we both sigh, and he sits up reluctantly. "Got
to, uh, get the pizza," I say, and stumble into the kitchen. Again he
follows me, and gets the plates from the cupboard as I get the pizza from
the oven. We sit down at my coffee table with a stack of napkins, wine and
glasses, pizza and plates. He serves a piece for me and a piece to himself,
and we start to eat.

I started a fire in the fireplace earlier, and between it and the wine I
start to feel mellow and a little more relaxed. And Mulder smells good.
Clean and spicy, like Dial soap and aftershave.

My head rests easily on his shoulder, and his head comes down to rest on
mine. He pulls the afghan from the couch and spreads it over us. He's warm
and solid and broad. We fit together. Even when we laugh the movement is
comfortable.

I'm starting to doze off when I sense Mulder moving again, just his arm. I
open my eyes, and then lift my head. He's rubbing his chest absently, over
his breastbone. "Are you okay?"

"Hm? Oh, it's an itch, that's all."

"Are you sure? There's no pain or anything?"

He looks down at me with a grin. "It's just an itch. I'm not having a heart
attack."

"You can never be too careful."

His eyebrows quirk devilishly and he says, "You want to examine me?"

More than you know, I think, and I rub my chest. "Sympathy itch," I say, and
he smiles.

He looks like he's about to say something more, but instead he stands up and
mutters, "Excuse me," and goes into the bathroom.

Okay. I don't quite know what to make of this. I move back up onto the
couch, near the center this time, and wait for him to return.

Is it always going to be like this? Awkward and uncertain, one or both of us
skittering away when we get too close? No wonder we need divine
intervention.

When Mulder comes back from the bathroom I turn off the TV and say, "Mulder,
we need to talk."

His panic face puts in a brief appearance, and he sits on the edge of the
couch by my feet and says slowly, "Okay. About what?"

I lean back against the sofa arm, my legs drawn up. I know it's an insecure
position but at the moment I need the reassurance of my own body protecting
me. I say quietly, "We have some unfinished business that I think we need to
finish."

"Oh." He sounds relieved, and he sits down at the other end of the couch,
imitating my position. "What business is that?"

"I don't remember much, you know, what happened after the bee sting. I
remember coming out of a waking dream to see you there, smiling at me in
that terrible place."

"You told me you were cold."

"I remember. I remember a lot of things after that. But I want to talk to
you about before."

"Before? I told you how I got there."

"No, *before* before."

"Before," he says softly.

"Your hallway. Remember?"

"I remember."

"You said these wonderful, beautiful things to me and I . . ." My voice
thickens and my eyes tear up. "I have to know. Were you going to seduce me
into staying with you? Is that would you thought it would take for me to
stay, us making love?"

This is not the question he was expecting. His mouth opens and closes and he
says, "I wasn't planning anything. I just wanted to kiss you. Don't ask me
what I was planning next, because I wasn't planning anything. Maybe to hold
you." His eyes search my face. "Maybe to kiss you some more. All I wanted,
Scully, was to not let you go." His hands are open now. Not reaching for me
exactly, just open on his lap.

They look so empty. I move to him and slip my hand into one of his. "I
wouldn't have left. Not you. Everything else I would have left in a
heartbeat, if it meant staying with you."

His eyes are green. They aren't always, they change colors all the time from
grey to brown to green again, but right now they're emerald green. He
tightens his hand on mine and says, "Thanks."

My chest itches again, just over my breastbone, over my heart. I rub it and
look at Mulder, wanting so much to take his face in my hands and kiss him
until the pain goes away. His big other hand covers mine, and he says, "So
tell me, Scully, why did you come over last night?"

"To be with you."

"We were together all day yesterday. From eight in the morning until nearly
six. And then you came over at nine. And I spent all night last night trying
to figure out what you wanted, why you came."

"Your company. I just wanted your company."

"And you asked me over today because you wanted my company."

"Yes." This is hard. This is so hard. The words want to come out. Simple,
little words, that I've said to my family and close friends and a few, very
few-okay, two-men. Why can't I say them to him? I've thought them often
enough.

He's smiling still. "What exactly do you enjoy about my company?"

"Why do I feel the tables are turning on me?"

"Do you want to go back to the movie?"

"No. I just don't know how to answer your question."

"The whole truth, Scully." His hand strokes mine. This is all that we're
touching but my whole body feels like it's on fire, like every nerve is
attuned to the few square inches of my hand and the soft brush of his skin.
His fingers are long and tapered, not calloused but not soft, either.

"Your hands," I say softly. "I like your hands." I pick one up and curve it
to my cheek.

"And I've never given you a backrub."

"I know how it would be." I close my eyes. "Gentle at first. Knowing.
Finding all my pressure points. Willing to listen to what I want but also
wanting to show me something new."

"Agent Scully, are you trying to seduce me?"

I smile but don't open my eyes. "You asked why I like your company, it's
because I like your hands."

"That can't be it."

"Oh? How so?"

"Because I don't touch you that much."

He's touching me now. Featherlight against my cheek. Gently over my hair. A
brush of the thumb over my lips. I'm touching him too. The soft cotton of
his t-shirt, the faint rasp of his beard, the fragile skin around his eyes.
I feel delirious, giddy, buoyant. My hands are shaking.

Somehow we've entwined ourselves together, he is between my legs and I am
between his. His eyes are closed and he's breathing through his mouth, and
he looks like he can't quite believe what's happening. I stroke back some
errant hair and tilt up his face.

"Touch me more," I whisper, and he moans and buries his face in my neck. He
pulls me closer to him and one hand cups the back of my head as he cradles
my back with the other. He kisses all over my face and neck, everywhere but
my mouth. He nuzzles my face, nips my ears and even sucks my hair. I hear
myself laughing, and I try to kiss him back but he won't let me, dodging my
mouth whenever it comes close to his.

"Mulder," I plead finally, grabbing his face. I smooth his face with my
palms. "Kiss me."

"I am kissing you."

"Here, Mulder." I press his fingers to my lips. "Kiss me here."

Looking at through his lashes, he raises my hand to his mouth and kisses my
fingertips. "Here?"

"Mulder."

"Or maybe you mean here." He kisses the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

"Mulder . . ."

"Or maybe you mean here," he whispers and leans his head down to kiss me
just at the point of the v of my sweater.

"Getting better," I gasp and raise his head. "No more fooling around,
Mulder."

"But the fun's just starting," he says, his eyes holding onto mine, and my
bones melt.

And then . . .

I don't know what happens. Suddenly I'm off his lap and deposited somewhat
coldly on the sofa, and he's pulling on his jacket. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go."

"Why? Mulder-"

"I have to go." He blindly kisses my cheek and goes, the door slamming shut
behind him.

Well.

Thanks but no thanks, is that it, Mulder?

I spend several minutes shoving my hands through my hair and tring to make
sense of what just happened, and then I grab my coat and car keys. G-Man has
some explaining to do.


Blind Naked Babies With Wings 4

  "She wanted to be utterly consumed, subject to sensations so intense that
she could forget herself. And then find herself again... In other words, she
 thought wryly, she wanted to come. And hard." --"Diet Coke" by Romana Clef.

I'm halfway to Alexandria when I notice the gas gage is sitting on empty.
Swearing-I did just fill it up a few days ago-I pull into the first gas
station I see. I use my credit card and start the pump, muttering to myself.

Stupid Mulder. Stupid Eric Ross. Stupid me for believing him. Stupid
literary personification of falling in love. How could I believe him,
anyway?

This is stupid. We kissed and he freaked out. I shouldn't chase him. I
should just go home and tell him on Monday that I'm sorry I forced myself on
him, it won't happen again.

At this point I notice that the numbers on my pump aren't moving. It's
clicking like the gas is running, but neither the amount pumped nor the
dollar amount are changing.

"Dammit." I don't need this.

I go into the gas station and tell the clerk, "The pump isn't working."

She looks up from the magazine she's reading and says, "So?"

Deep breath. Patiently. "Pump number two isn't giving the correct readout.
I'd like to pay the correct amount that the pump has given me. Isn't there
someone you should call?"

She looks at the readout on her machine. "Five dollars on your credit card.
You're fine."

"But-"

"You're fine." She turns the page of her magazine. "Fifty Ways to Snag Your
Man." I wonder if it would help me any.

I just sigh and go back out to my car. There's a Suburban parked on the
other side of the pumps, and who should be getting gas but Eric Ross. He
grins at me, leaning back against his car.

"Hi, Dana," he says, sounding pleased. "How's it going?"

"Listen, you," I say, backing him up against his car, "this whole weekend
you've done nothing but upset my life and I wish you would just stop popping
up everywhere I go! You're not helping me, whoever you are! I was fine
before you showed up, I was happy with my life-"

He grabs the hand that I've been poking into his chest, his face serious.
"You were not happy. Don't even try to lie to me."

We stare at each other and he drops my hand.

"Okay," I say quietly. "Okay. I wasn't happy. But I'm not any happier now."

"Tell me what happened."

"I invited him over. We were talking. It was going fine. We started kissing
and . . . he freaked out. He couldn't get out of the apartment fast enough.
He wouldn't even tell me why, he just said he had to go."

Eric nods. "So now what?"

"I thought I'd go to his place, but there's no point. He won't tell me
what's wrong."

"You sure of that?"

I look down at the dirty, gum-pocked asphalt and sigh. "No. Of course I'm
not sure. I don't know what I'm going to do. Maybe I'll just drive around
for a while and try to think."

Again he nods, and puts his arm around my shoulders. "It's okay, Dana, to
not know how you're going to handle every situation. Just go to him. Be
honest. Let yourself be scared and nervous and whatever. But don't let this
night end alone."

His arm feels good around my shoulders, reassuring, strengthening even.
Finally I raise my head and smile at him. "Okay. Thanks."

"You're going to go see Mulder?"

"I'm going."

"Good girl."

"If you were anyone but you I'd hurt you for that."

He smiles. "I know. Have a good night." He goes into the station to pay. I
put the hose back in the pump and get into my car, and drive to Mulder's
apartment.

There is no light in his window. Maybe he's gone to bed.

But's it's not even nine.

Maybe he went out.

Wait, this is Mulder we're talking about, here.

Maybe he's pursuing a tip.

Oh, I don't want to work this weekend.

Maybe he's lying on his couch wishing he hadn't left my place and wondering
if he can come up with an excuse to go back.

So what am I doing here on the street?

In five minutes I'm standing in front of his door. I'm nervous but it's okay
to be nervous, right? I knock on his door.

No answer.

Oh, God, he did go out. But I am not going to worry about where or what he's
doing, I'm just going to go into his apartment and wait. I let myself into
the apartment and sit down on his couch in the dark. I should probably turn
on the light, but I don't. I just wait.

Only about twenty minutes pass when his front door opens and he comes in,
wearing his running clothes: shorts and a sweatshirt, and a bandana tied
like a 'do rag around his head. He doesn't see me at first, and flicks on
the light, dropping his keys on the coffee table.

"Hi, Mulder."

"Jesus, Scully!" he says, jumping back. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to finish our conversation."

His face is blank when he says, "As I recall, we weren't doing a whole lot
of talking."

I swallow. He doesn't sound pleased to see me. And the itch is back in my
chest. I rub it with my fingertips and say, "Well, if you want to we could
just neck some more."

That gets a smile and he sits down beside me. Even sweaty he smells good. "I
appreciate the offer but I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why did you leave?"

He leans his head on my shoulder and says softly, "Because I wanted to make
love to you."

"That was the idea, Mulder."

He chuckles. "Scully, have you ever been hungry for a long time, really
really hungry, and then a gorgeous meal, your dream meal, gets put before
you and you know it's going to satisfy every part of your body, every desire
you have, but you're so hungry and everything looks so good that you can't
eat?"

"No." I lean my cheek against the top of his head and stroke his face
gently.

"Well, try to imagine it."

I go on stroking his face, and then it hits me. I can't believe how dense
I've been. I smile and whisper, "It's okay to be nervous, Mulder."

"Oh, don't be patronizing, please. It's embarrassing."

"I'm trying to be understanding. I'm nervous too."

"It's different for you."

"Not much different. Would you like me to--"

"No," he says hastily, and I go on stroking his face. Finally I say, "I
don't want to be alone tonight."

"Me neither."

"I have an idea."

"I'm listening."

"I'll sleep over tonight. If something happens, then it happens. If it
doesn't . . . there's always tomorrow night."

"Hm. That is an idea."

"Or we could just neck some more."

He chuckles again and lifts his head from my shoulder. "I'm going to take a
shower," he says quietly. "Help yourself to whatever you want to sleep in,
or if you're hungry, or whatever."

"Thanks."

"I won't be long." He goes into the bathroom.

It's barely ten-thirty, though, much too early to get ready for bed. I get
up from the couch and wander first to his kitchen. Mulder's cooking ability
is limited but not as bad as some single men I've known. His kitchen has a
large supply of the basics: peanut butter, canned soup, microwave popcorn,
spaghetti. I pop a bag of popcorn and pour it into a big bowl, and go back
to the living room.

Now a movie. This is the tricky part. I'm not in the mood for something that
comes in a plain brown wrapper, but he doesn't have much else besides. A few
classics, a few Disneys, a few recent movies. There is also his MST3K
collection, which is what he first used to get me interested in the show. I
choose one from the Joel Robinson era-Mike is a fine host but Joel is my
favorite, even after all these years-and put into the VCR.

What I really want to do, of course, is go into the bathroom and get into
the shower with him. I could wash his back. But it might not be the best
idea at the moment.

When Mulder comes out of the shower he's got just a towel wrapped around his
hips. His hair is damp and slicked back from his face. He sniffs the air.
"Popcorn. Perfect."

"Hurry before it's all gone."

He comes to me and grabs a handful of popcorn, pops several kernels into his
mouth and says through them, "You know, I usually sleep in the buff."

I suppress the tremor that runs through me and say nonchalantly, "Really?
I'm not surprised."

"Just warning you." He goes into the bedroom and closes the door.

Warning me, huh? I put the popcorn bowl aside and hastily take off my shoes,
socks, sweater and t-shirt. I unhook my bra and put my t-shirt back on, fold
up the sweater and bra and place them on top of my shoes at the foot of the
couch. My t-shirt is black, v-necked, and somewhat tighter than most of my
shirts, which is why I usually wear a sweater over it. It makes my breasts
look enormous.

Tonight that is not going to be a problem.

Mulder comes back from the bedroom in sweats and a t-shirt. He pauses when
he sees me, curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn in my lap, and a
slow smile spreads over his face. He sits beside me and says softly, "You
dropped something," and leans forward.

And kisses a piece of popcorn off my breast.

I drop the bowl. My hands wind into his hair, cupping the back of his head,
and my back arches. He's lying on the couch, and he moves across my body to
anchor himself on one elbow over my lap. His mouth closes around my nipple
and he suckles me through my shirt. I bend my head over him to kiss his
hair, I stroke his face, his neck and his back, and moan into his ear, "God,
this feels good , Mulder . . ."

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not having that problem anymore." He grins up at me.

"Oh, good," I say faintly, and he kneels on the floor in front of me and
takes my face in his hands.

"Would it have worked, Scully?"

"Would what have worked?" I lick my lips as he eases closer to me.

"Seducing you into staying."

"It wouldn't have hurt."

Our mouths are a breath apart. "It was about here, wasn't it," he whispers.

"I think so."

He breathes through his open mouth against my lips. "Unfinished business,
huh?"

"Yeah . . . unfinished . . ."

He closes his eyes and kisses me gently, chastely as a child, and sweetly
too. It still lights me on fire, and I wind my arms around his neck and pull
him closer to me.

That's all the encouragement he needs, apparently, because his mouth opens
and his tongue sweeps over my lips. I back up enough to meet his tongue with
mine in the open air, which makes him laugh, and then we set about kissing
seriously.

I love kissing. Kissing is like the pepperoni on the pizza. The pizza's fine
without it but is improved immeasurably by it. And Mulder, by instinct or
practice, really knows how to kiss. His tongue-his lips-his teeth-his hands
and his nose and the scent of his skin-kissing him is unbelievable. I can't
believe I waited this long to do it.

When we finally part for breath I lean my forehead against his. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"If I'd known you could kiss like that you would've had me the first night."

"Like you would've let me kiss you the first night."

"Maybe if you'd asked nicely . . ."

"Scully," he says seriously, "may I please take you to bed and make love to
you?"

"I would like that very much."

He stands and takes my hands, and brings me to my feet. He kisses me again,
gently, and then bends and lifts me up in his arms. I yelp with surprise.

"Too much?" he asks, worry furrowing his forehead.

"Just perfect. To the bed!"

"To the bed!" He kisses me again and carries me to his bedroom.


Blind Naked Babies With Wings 5

  "He had not yet managed to bring the limitless wonders of making love to
 Dana into some sort of coherent pattern of thoughts." -"Day 17" by Khyber.



"I've always wanted to do this," he says softly as we go into his bedroom.

"Carry me around?"

"Carry you here." He pauses, and somehow manages to hold me with one arm as
he rips back the covers on his bed. "You're lucky. I did laundry today.
Clean sheets." He lays me down and I stretch out, rolling around on his
cotton sheets. He smiles at me and sits cross-legged on the bed.

"Mm . . . it smells good."

"That's the fabric softener."

I roll from my stomach to my back and sit up, and I reach out to touch his
face. I trace his cheekbones, his chin and his cheeks, his nose and his
forehead and his lips. He closes his eyes as I touch him, still smiling.

"I love your face," I say softly. "Your lovely, funny face."

"The keyword is funny," he says.

"You know the song, 'My Funny Valentine?'"

"No. You're not going to sing, are you?"

I laugh. "No. Once a decade is often enough, don't you think? But it's a
song I like. It makes me think of your face. My favorite work of art."

He shakes his head under my hands, and then lunges forward and kisses me,
pulling me onto his crossed legs. His hands feel huge against my back. "I
love your face too," he whispers, "your gorgeous, pretty face, these blue,
blue eyes-" he kisses them-"and this sex goddess mouth." He kisses me
deeply, his tongue tracing patterns in my mouth. He lifts me up and lays me
on my back, and I cradle his body between my legs and rake my hands over his
back. "I love your chin. I love your neck. I love your ears," he says as he
kisses them. "I love your breasts. I love your waist." He raises the hem of
my t-shirt and kisses my stomach. I moan helplessly, coming my hands through
his hair. Every nerve in my body is awake and longing for his mouth.

As abruptly as he grabbed me he sits up and gets off the bed. Dammit, I
think, and prop myself up on my elbows. "Where are you going?"

"You left the TV on," he says, "and I'm locking the front door. No
interruptions. I'll be right back."

"Hurry," I say, and my voice is husky. He smiles and goes back into the
living room. I hear him turn off the TV and lock the door, and then he goes
into the bathroom.

"Scully?" he calls. He sounds somewhat defeated.

Oh, no. "What is it?"

"I thought I had condoms but they've, um, expired."

I roll my eyes. "We don't need condoms, Mulder. I'm not going to get
pregnant and we're both healthy."

He stands in the bedroom doorway. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." I hold out my hands. "Though," I add as he takes my hands and
kisses them, "if you did make me pregnant that would not necessarily be a
bad thing."

His smile is one of surprise and wonder, and for a second I think I've gone
too far. He clasps my hands to his chest. "No," he says softly, "that would
not be a bad thing." He lies down beside me and I move on top of him. His
eyes widen as I pull off my t-shirt, and he breathes, "Ohhhh boy . . ."

I cup my breasts in my hands and lean down to tease my nipples against his
lips. "On a scale of one to ten, Mulder . . ."

"Oh, god, fifteen at least." His mouth closes around my breast and his hands
grip my waist.

"Right answer," I breathe, and lean on my hands on the mattress. Oh, his
mouth. He's always playing with his lips, sucking on something, chewing on
something. And now that something is my breast and it feels so . . . *good.*

He pulls me down further and rolls us onto our sides, moving his mouth from
my left breast to my right. Already I'm moaning and squirming against him. I
don't think I've ever been so excited, so eager, so hungry for a man's body.
I clasp my arms around his neck and kiss his hair. I raise his face so I can
kiss his mouth. As we kiss he unbuttons the fly of my jeans and slips his
hand beneath my panties to cup and knead my butt.

"Cotton," he whispers.

"What?"

"Cotton. I like it."

"I only wear the leather on Fridays," I say, and he laughs. He laughs a
little too much, though, so I tell him, "Don't assume you know everything
about me, Mulder. I actually do have a set of leather underwear. They were a
gift. From Missy. As a joke."

"What, um, color are they?" Mulder asks, trying to be serious.

"Brown. The name on the label is 'cinnamon.'"

"Would you . . . wear them? Sometime? For me?"

I have to smile-he sounds so hesitant, as if he doesn't think there will be
more to us than this night. I rake my hands through his hair and cup the
back of his skull. "Sometime. I'll surprise you."

He nods, his eyes going wide again. I set about licking his face while he
thinks this over. He confesses finally, "I don't have anything special for
you."

"I'll think of something."

"Scully?"

"Hm?" I'm too busy sucking on his ear to pay much attention.

"Do you really wear leather on Fridays?"

"Maybe."

His head rolls to the side and he says, his voice deep and hoarse, "I want
to see you. I want to look at your body." Both his hands ease my jeans and
panties down my hips, and I stand on the bed so he can complete the job.

I'll tell you the honest truth: sex, for me, has always been just okay. The
earth doesn't move, angels don't sing, fireworks don't go off. But every
disappointment, every less than stellar experience, is immediately and
forever banished from my mind by the look on Mulder's face when he sees me.
Yes, he has seen me naked before, but he promised, the one time we talked
about it, that he really didn't look at anything. Considering the
circumstances, I choose to believe him.

His expression as he looks at me reminds me of paintings of saints in
ecstasy. His lips part and a flush rises in his cheeks, and he rises up on
his knees and slides his hands from my hips to just beneath my breasts. He
inspects my skin, giving me babysoft kisses, and presses his head to my
stomach. He looks up at me and licks his lower lip. "You're beautiful."

I smile and stroke his hair, and he continues kissing me, finding all the
odd places: the inside of my elbow, the back of my knee, the base of my
spine, behind my ear. I kiss him back, tasting all the parts of him I've
fantasized about: between his nose and upper lip, the arch of his foot, the
inside of his wrist, between his shoulder blades. "Sweet," I murmur into his
ear, and he chuckles.

"Funny, I was about the say the same thing. Come here." He's sitting
cross-legged, and he pulls me into his lap. His clothes are long abandoned
and we're naked as Adam and Eve, but far from innocent.

"Tell me what you want, Scully. Tell me your fantasies. I want to make them
come true." He holds my face in his hands, stroking his thumbs along my
cheekbones.

"Just being with you-"

"No, I mean it." He grins at me. "How do you want me, Scully?"

For a second I can't seem to breathe, and I finally gasp, "Don't hold back.
Don't hold anything back. Give me all of you. Come inside me. Fuck me hard."

He's panting and his eyelids lower, and he says softly, "Okay," lifts me up,
and lowers me onto him in one stroke.

My body-my muscles-my mind reels. Mulder inside me. His face is fierce with
concentration, his arms and thighs tense as he slams me down onto him. I
moan with every thrust, barely hanging onto him. I feel like he's
rearranging my organs, like he's reaching into my throat. I manage to wrap
my legs around his waist and I push with my heels against his ass, rocking
my hips. He kisses my throat and between my breasts as my back arches away
from him.

"Oh, yeah . . . Scully . . . "

I just moan, too far gone for words. The missionary position doesn't work
half as good as this. Or maybe it's because it's Mulder.

He lifts me up and rises up onto his knees, backs me up against the
headboard and thrusts even harder. I hang onto him as my back slams against
the headboard. I'm going to have bruises tomorrow. I don't care. I feel wild
and wanton, like the sex goddess Mulder compared me to, receiving the honors
due to me. I feel transcendent and magic and strong. I feel beautiful.

Mulder makes hungry, greedy sounds and I can't stop moaning. We're so loud.
Our cries and the sound of flesh on flesh and the creak of the bed and the
slam of the headboard against the wall. I wonder if the neighbors are
enjoying the show. I don't think I've ever been so noisy.

"Scully--can't-" He lifts his head enough so I can look into his eyes.

"Do it." My voice is rough.

He turns us so I'm lying on my back again, his long body between my thighs.
His eyes hold mine, even though I want to watch him, watch us, but I can't
look away. They're so dark, and dangerous like a tiger's eyes.

"Tell me I'm not dreaming," he says softly.

I pinch his ribs and he yelps and catches my hand. "Convinced yet?" I say,
and he kisses my smile. He rubs his face against my caressing hand, pulls my
legs up until they're under his arms, and begins to ride me even harder,
even faster. All I can get out when I open my mouth are wordless, primitive
noises. My head thrashes back and forth and my nails scrape over his back,
my heels drum against his ass. I can feel the orgasm building up inside me
like climbing a mountain, straining for the peak. I want to go there. I want
to go there with Mulder.

Just--a little--further--

His hand reaches down between us and his finger probe between my folds,
finding my clitoris. He moans into my ear as he rubs my clit, still stroking
within me, so hot and big and I'm so wet and heavy-

My body bucks and I shout what I hope is his name. Mulder groans and I feel
him shudder from his head to his feet and his body goes limp in my arms.

When I can move again I start touching him. The soft lobe of his ear. The
bridge of his nose. The cleft of his ass. His flat nipple. The groove of his
spine. Slowly his hands begin to move over me too. The ridge of my
collarbone. The dip of my navel. The underside of my breast. When he pulls
out of me I sigh and pull him back close to me. His soft kisses are soothing
and sweet.

I drift into sleep, vaguely aware of him pulling the blankets over us and
spooning himself to my back. His arm is heavy over my waist, his breath warm
against my neck. His hand loosely cups my breast .

This is good, I think. This is very good.


Blind Naked Babies With Wings 6

  "Tell yourself that slugging him would be better than fucking him, though
    neither is really advisable." "Your Platonic Relationship: An Owner's
                           Manual" by Lilla Vaughn

I wake up slowly, only vaguely aware at first that I'm awake. Even more
slowly I remember where I am, and why the sheets smell like Mulder. I smile,
thinking that he was such a good boy last night--so generous and giving--I
really ought to reward him. I stretch luxuriously and feel around for him,
but come up empty. I open my eyes.

Alone. Well.

I get up and wrap the sheet around me, and go looking for Mulder. He's in
the living room, dressed already in jeans and t-shirt, staring at the
computer. I watch him for a moment, reveling in the way his hair falls over
his forehead and the circumference of his biceps, but then I realize what's
wrong here. He's not typing, not reading, not doing anything. Just staring
at the dark screen saver.

I hike up the sheet and say quietly, "Mulder?"

He starts and looks at me blankly. "Oh. Hey. What do you want for
breakfast?"

"I--um, I'm okay."

"I've got tons of cereal," he says, standing. "The question is if the milk
is still any good."

"Mulder, are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm great. Are you a sweet cereal or a healthy cereal type?"

"Mulder, will you stop for a minute?"

"I bet you like muesli. Don't have anything like that, though. I think I've
got some granola back here somewhere." In the kitchen now, he opens a
cupboard and starts looking through cereal boxes, then pauses. "Unless you'd
rather have eggs or something. I think I've got eggs."

I go to him and catch his arm. "Mulder. Tell me what's wrong."

"Wrong?" he says, too quickly. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just trying to find you
some breakfast."

"You don't need to feed me."

"Maybe you should go put some clothes on."

I glance down at his jeans and smile. "I can take care of that for you," I
say softly, reaching for the button at his waistband. "What's a blowjob
between friends?" I go down onto my knees and smile up at him.

He pushes my hand away and pulls me to my feet. "Quit it, Scully."

"Quit it?"

He looks helpless and scared, standing there holding a box of Lucky Charms.
"I mean, you don't need to keep this up. It was just a one-time thing.
Right?"

"A one-time thing."

"You knew I was feeling down and you indulged in some pity sex. And it was
great, really, but it would never--I mean, you and me, that's nuts."

"Pity sex."

"So the least I can do is give you breakfast. Such as it is."

Exactly what he's saying hits me like a fist in the solar plexus. I take a
deep breath and manage to get out, "You fucking asshole," and go back to the
bedroom to find my clothes. Tears are so thick in my eyes I can barely see.
I drop the sheet and pull on my panties, t-shirt and jeans, and find my
shoes and jacket in the living room.

Mulder stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the doorway, still
holding the box of cereal to his chest like a security blanket. "Scully?" he
says softly.

I don't bother to slam the door. I just have to get out of here.

I drive home as fast as I dare, glad for the light Sunday-morning traffic. I
can't believe how stupid I was. Mulder doesn't love me. How could I ever
have thought he loved me? I was a convenient receptacle. Nothing more.

And I threw myself at him. Just threw myself at him. No reason, no catalyst,
just because some nutcase told me it would work.

Well, it worked, all right. Mulder got laid. Yippee.

By the time I reach my apartment I've worked up a good head of steam, and
I'm beginning to wish I'd stayed and told him exactly what I think of him.
Just another one-night stand, eh, Mulder? Didn't even have to go to a bar.

I slam my front door shut behind me and throw myself face-down on my couch.
Stupid stupid stupid! Maybe if we'd talked more I would have learned sooner
that he only wants me for my body. All the things he said, that I make him
whole, that he owes me everything--it was all just words. Words to get me
into bed.

And now that he's had me, he's through.

Dickhead.

Asshole.

Motherfucker.

However, calling him names in my head doesn't really make me feel better. I
slowly sit up and push my hair out of my face, and take a deep breath. I'm
going to clean this place up a little from last night and then I'm going to
take a nice long bubble bath, with Mozart on the stereo and the phone off
the hook.

I look up and shriek.

Sitting in my armchair is my erstwhile Cupid, smiling at me sadly.

"You! You prick! Do you know what he said to me this morning?" I fly at him,
and pound his chest with my fists. "He said it was a one-time thing! He said
it was pity sex! He said--he said--"

"Dana. I know, Dana, I know. Calm down. Come on." He catches my hands and
holds onto them until I don't feel like hitting him anymore.

"It was you, wasn't it," I say dully, and sink down onto the couch again.
"It was all you. You used your arrows or something, and when it wore off
Mulder realized he'd made a mistake."

Eric sighs, stroking my back. "I used the passion arrows, just to encourage
you, I promise. Dana, you've got to believe that I didn't make either of you
feel something that isn't there."

"Then why did he say those things?" I look at him. "Does he love me or
doesn't he?"

He studies me for a long time. "Only he can answer that, Dana."

I feel tears threaten again and I stand up. "Go away. Go back to wherever
you came from. Everything that was precious to me is gone and I just want to
crawl into bed and cry."

"Oh, don't give me that. You're not going to hide."

"Then what am I going to do? He doesn't want me."

"You're going to take that bubble bath you were thinking about, and you're
going to indulge yourself today. And when you have to act, you'll know what
to do."

"No more arrows."

"You don't need them."

"None to Mulder, either."

"Dana . . . Mulder needs all the help I can give."

"Don't. Promise you won't."

He crosses his heart. "All right. No arrows to Mulder." He leans over and
kisses my forehead. "Feeling better?"

"Not really."

"Well, you will, I promise." He kisses me again and rubs my shoulders. "See
ya, Dana."

I mumble an unenthusiastic goodbye and watch him leave. He goes through the
front door like a normal person. So how did he get in here?

Well, duh, Dana, he is a god.

I sigh and run my hands through my hair, force myself to my feet and lock
the front door. I go to my bathroom, shedding clothes as I go, and put a
Mozart CD into my stereo. I leave the bathroom door open so I can hear the
music, and run water as hot as I can stand, with plenty of vanilla-scented
bubbles. When the tub is full I get in, lean back against the bath pillow
and close my eyes.

Better. Life is so much more bearable when you're up to your chin in
bubbles.

I draw the loofah lazily over my stomach, and despite myself it reminds me
of Mulder's tongue, lazily circling my navel before continuing its journey
downward. Oh, the talented tongue on that man. His fingers and his lips,
too, and of course his very beautiful, elegant even, penis. He woke me up
twice during the night, the first time entering me from behind while his
hands played with my breasts and the second by burying his face between my
legs. I could live with waking up like that.

Mulder. I want Mulder. I want him here in my tub, playing with my body,
teasing me with his dark eyes. Kissing me. His lips on my neck, sucking my
ears, moaning my name. Coming inside me with a shudder and a groan.

The phone rings. Damn. I forgot to take it off the hook. I sink beneath the
water so I can't hear it. Actually I can hear it, a thick wavering sound
through the water and porcelain. I stay beneath the water as long as I can
hold my breath, and when I resurface the answering machine has picked up. No
message is left after the beep, though.

Must have been a wrong number, or a telemarketer.

I stay in the tub until the water turns tepid, and pull the stopper with my
toes. The bubbles are nearly gone by now, too. I debate refilling the tub
and staying in for a while longer, but it's really not good for the skin. I
rinse off the film the bubbles left and get out, and wrap a towel around me
from the sudden chill.

I go into the living room to change the CD, and nearly drop my towel.

Mulder sits on the floor in front of my coffee table, and on the table are a
jug of milk, two bowls, two spoons, and boxes of cereal. Cocoa Puffs, Lucky
Charms, Froot Loops, Trix, Cookie Crisp . . .

"Hey, Scully," he says mildly. "I thought you might be hungry, since you
missed breakfast."

I can't think of a thing to say.

"Why don't you put your robe on. You're getting goosebumps."

I turn and go into my bedroom, pull on my bathrobe and go back to the living
room, tying the sash tightly. I am very aware that I'm naked, and I'm aware
that he is aware as well.

"Do you ever eat a megabowl, Scully?"

"What a megabowl?" I say cautiously. The bowls he brought are huge. They
look like soup tureens.

"You fill a big bowl with every kind of cereal. It works best with the sweet
kinds. Want to try it?"

"Um . . . sure." I finally sit on the couch, folding my legs decorously
beneath me. Mulder pours cereal from every box on the table, and splashes a
generous amount of milk over it. He hands me the bowl and the spoon, and
waits for me to eat before he prepares his own bowl.

The cereal tastes good, all mixed together. I eat in silence, watching
Mulder. He picks up the TV remote and turns it to the Cartoon Network, and
as we watch cartoons he sits with his back against the couch, his head at my
knee. Whenever there's a good gag he looks up at me and grins.

Even though I am thoroughly confused, I can't help but smile back. It's nice
to have him here, despite everything. And maybe we can actually talk. Maybe
we can work this out.

When my bowl is empty I set it aside with a satisfied sigh. "Thanks for
breakfast, Mulder."

"You're welcome," he says, or a close approximation of it because his mouth
is still full. He drains the last of his milk and sets the bowl on the
table, clicks off the TV and turns, still sitting on the floor, to face me.

His turn. I'm talked out.

His eyes search my face for a moment, then he takes my hand. "I did it all
wrong this morning," he says.

"That you did, buster."

He turns my hand over and rubs his thumb over my palm. "It didn't make any
sense to me, you see," he says quietly, looking down at my hand as if the
answers are written there. A cheat sheet for love. "Why, all of a sudden,
you were so . . . eager for me. When you came over Friday night I was so
glad to see you. I want to call you every weekend, you know, ask you if you
want to get together, but I never do because you must be sick of me, week in
and week out . . ."

"Only sometimes."

He chuckles. "And then Saturday, here you were again. Wanting to be with me.
Asking me over . . . you never do that, Scully. I didn't know what to
think."

"And you got scared."

"Yeah. But you were determined."

"It's one of my better qualities."

"I'll say." He looks up at me at last. "And when I woke up this morning,
everything that made sense last night didn't anymore. I don't know why. But
when you left, all I knew was that I missed you."

I touch the side of his face, and he smiles. "I need to tell you something."

"Please, let me finish first, before I lose my nerve. This morning I thought
. . . I thought, there's no way she could love me. No way. Not Scully, who's
beautiful and good and smart and pretty and perfect. Not a fucked-up mess
like me."

"Mulder-"

"Shh. And then I was sitting there, after you left, wanting you and aching
for you, and it was like someone said it out loud: why would she come, why
would she make love to you, if she didn't love you? And then it all made
sense again." He smiles. "So here I am. Heart in hand. And loving you
desperately."

I tug on his hand and he moves up onto the couch with me. I put my arms
around his neck. "I love you," I say seriously. "I'm not perfect. And you're
not fucked-up. Not much, anyway."

He chuckles again, and sighs, and leans in to lie his head on my shoulder.
His arms go around my waist. His hand hesitates at the edge of my robe, but
when I don't protest it slips gently beneath the fabric and strokes my
stomach. "Your skin is so soft," he says. His nose parts the vee above my
breasts. "You smell good," he whispers as he nuzzles my breasts, and a low,
satisfying thrum starts in my belly. "Scully?" His breath is a whisper over
my nipple, and I whimper in response. "Is this all right? Do you want me to
go on?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, Mulder."

He smiles and moves me to lie on my back, and sprawls over me. "Can I do
this?" He runs his fingers lightly down my throat.

"Yes."

"How about this?" His fingers swirl over my breast.

"Yesss. . ."

"And this . . ." His hand smooths over my belly and tangles in the hair over
my center.

"Mm . . ."

"Should I stop?"

"No, no, don't stop."

"So . . . is this okay?" His hand parts my thighs and his fingertips tease
open my folds. I draw in my breath in a hiss. "Scully?"

"Y-yes, it's . . . oh, it's okay."

His long first finger gently feels around until he finds my clitoris, and he
flicks it gently. "Does this feel good, Scully?" he whispers, and my only
answer is a moan. "Scully? Tell me what you want, Scully."

"I want-I want-I want your mouth. I want your tongue."

He waggles his eyebrows at me and his tongue dips around my folds slowly. I
open my legs wider and try to raise my hips to his mouth. He chuckles at me
and slips his hands under my butt.

"You know something, Scully? You smell good. You taste good. You sound good.
And I want to make you scream."

My breath escapes my mouth in a whine and I clutch at his hair, as he dips
his mouth to me and laps at my opening with his tongue. I move my legs up
onto his shoulders so he can reach even deeper into me, and he starts
humming low in his throat. I fight to get out words, to tell him how good
this feels. "Mmm . . . Mu-Mulder . . . oh, god . . . love you . . .
Mmmmulder . . ."

He growls and moves up his tongue to my clitoris. The tip of his tongue
circles the base and the flat of his tongue moves over it, and I cry out
when he begins to suck on it gently. When he lifts his head for breath I
almost sob in frustration, and I push his head down hungrily to my center.
"Please."

"What was that, Scully?"

"Please. Please don't stop. Please, Mulder."

"Horny little thing, aren't you?" He takes hold of my wrists and holds my
legs open, my knees nearly touching my chest. "Not that I'm complaining," he
says hoarsely, and lowers his mouth to me again.

It occurs to me, briefly, that we must look absurd, me with my legs in this
position and still wearing my bathrobe, Mulder still fully dressed and all
but munching at me. I've seen him eat apples with this much enthusiasm.

But you know what? I almost hope someone is watching, so they could see the
look of pure bliss I know is on my face, or hear the sounds of pleasure
Mulder is making. We are beautiful together, he and I.

The first orgasm pushes me to nearly sitting up, and I cry out with surprise
and jerk my legs out of Mulder's grasp. He pauses and looks at me, and
whispers, "Good. Good start. More?"

I can only whimper, and when he renews his attentions I almost want to tell
him to stop. "More," I finally breathe, and lace my fingers into his hair.
He obliges me, his tongue and lips making warm, sticky sounds on my slick
skin. Even his stubble feels good. I feel like every nerve is awake, every
pore is aware. I struggle to keep my eyes open, to watch his dark hair
against the whiteness of my skin.

The second orgasm is slower in building, and I'm more aware of it. I can
feel it gathering at the base of my spine, a pressure that I will surely die
of if he doesn't finish me.

No danger of that. As I push my hips against Mulder's face, letting my cries
sound as they will, he holds onto my thighs and rides the waves through with
me, still sucking and licking and tugging, until finally I do scream and my
body collapses, worn out. He continues gently licking me for some minutes,
avoiding the more tender spots, and finally leans his cheek on my stomach
and smiles at me.

"Forgiven?"

I smile and touch his cheek. "Forgiven. Now it's my turn."


Blind Naked Babies With Wings 7



We finally get out of bed long enough to find ourselves some dinner. We
showered, which put off leaving the apartment even longer, but we didn't
want to go out into public smelling of sex and each other. Roy's is a family
restaurant, most of the time, and the last thing I want is a knowing smile
from our waiter. I would have been happy with a burger from one of his
beloved diners, but Mulder wanted someplace nice. And Roy's is nice. It's
not pretentious, the food is hearty, and they have a huge salad bar.

And Mulder's holding my hand. He just quietly took my hand while we were
talking, waiting for our table, and he's still holding it. As if he holds my
hand all the time.

And I like holding his hand. I like sitting here like regular people, having
dinner on a Sunday night. I smile and lean my head against his shoulder. He
smiles too and his thumb traces the veins in my wrist.

He whispers, "Do you want to come over to my place tonight, or go back to
yours?"

"We've got to work on these sleeping arrangements."

"Why?"

"Whoever sleeps over tonight has to get up early tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah. Work. I forgot."

"Yeah. Work."

"Unless," Mulder drawls, "we stop by my place on the way back to yours and I
can pick up some clothes for tomorrow."

"We could do that."

"Scully, party of two?" the hostess says, holding the menus in front of her,
and we get up and follow her to the back of the restaurant, near the
windows. Mulder pulls out the chair for me, which makes the hostess smile.
She hands us our menus and says, looking at Mulder, "Your waitress will be
with you in a minute, hon," and ambles off.

"Another conquest," I say.

"I'm sorry, is there another woman in this room?" Mulder says, taking my
hand again. I have to smile--he's making up for lost time.

And how. Though he warns me repeatedly that he's not seventeen anymore, to
tell you the truth I'm glad. I'd rather have a man with experience and
tenderness than a boy at his physical peak. Even so, for a guy closer to
forty than thirty, he's got amazing stamina.

Why didn't anyone tell me before that sex is fun? That you can laugh in bed?
That tickling and zerberts are just as much a part of making love as kissing
and sucking? That the world can explode like every movie cliche and slowly
reassemble itself into a more beautiful place?

I've never felt so good in my entire life. I feel peaceful and safe and
loved. Judging by the smile Mulder isn't bothering to hide, he feels the
same.

"We should probably look at the menus," I say.

"I need protein. You've probably had enough for one day."

Giggles surface and I press my napkin to my mouth. "Well, you've heard the
argument, haven't you? A cure for both overpopulation and world hunger."

Mulder leans closer to me from across the table and says softly, "A car in
every garage and a blowjob in every pot? What a plank for your platform,
senator."

I snort to keep from laughing. "I can just imagine what the rallies would be
like."

"Attendance would quadruple."

I open my menu, not daring to say anything more right now. I really don't
want to break into the undignified giggles that I know are waiting for the
least excuse to surface. Not here, anyway. Later.

At some point earlier today we were teasing back and forth and I indulged in
my belly laugh for the first time in years, and Mulder smiled at me and
said, "Do that again." I like that he likes to hear me laugh. I like
laughing with him. I like making him laugh.

I refuse to worry today. Time enough for that tomorrow, when we figure out
how we're going to make this working together and loving each other work.
Truth is, I don't think much is going to change. We won't be sleeping alone
anymore, is all. We can indulge ourselves in holding each other when times
get bad. We can say I love you out loud.

"Hey, Scully."

"Hm?" I look up from the menu. He's got a spoon hanging off his nose. I
swallow the laugh, pick up my spoon, rub it with my thumb and try to hang if
off my nose, but it slides off.

"I just wanted a witness. I never gotten it to stick before." He plucks off
the spoon and touches the tip of my nose. "Yours is too straight for this to
work, I think. And too small."

"I wonder what people would think of Mr. and Mrs. Spooky if they saw us."

"They'd shake their heads and 'tsk' their tongues, and wonder what happened
to Mrs. Spooky. Mr. Spooky was always nuts, but Mrs. Spooky, she used to be
so . . . normal."

"And deadly dull, overly earnest, taking herself too seriously . . ."

"You were never dull."

"Thank you, dear."

"You're welcome, precious."

We exchange grins, and go back to perusing the menus. Everything looks good.
Even the liver and onions. And onions give me gas. No salad tonight, nothing
dainty. I want something to sink my teeth into.

My eyes stray to Mulder's neck, where a lovebite or two has mysteriously
blossomed since Friday. Wouldn't mind sinking me teeth into that again.

He catches my look and grins. "I know what you're thinking."

"I bet you don't."

"Bet I do. I'll show you later."

"I'm going to make you show me until you get it right."

"Oo, a challenge."

Eventually our waitress comes, we order, and when the food comes--lasagna
for me, bacon burger for him--Mulder doesn't argue when I take his pickle,
and even offers me some fries. In return I give him my garlic bread and the
first taste of my vanilla Coke.

"So," he says, "we stop by my place later and get some things for the
morning, and we'll sleep at your place."

"That sounds good."

"I've fallen in love with that bathtub of yours."

"Oh, is that what you love me for? My bathtub?"

"You've got to admit, it's a strong draw."

"I want you on your couch before too long, you know."

His eyelids lower and he says softly, "You name the day, Scully."

"Tomorrow."

"Okay. Work is going to be impossible tomorrow, you know."

"You'll manage."

"I want you all the time."

Even though I'm sitting down my knees feel weak, and I say softly, "You have
me now, Mulder."

He smiles and takes my hand again. "You don't need this, do you?"

"No."

"Good. It's mine now."

Oh, boy. Sappy in love. I used to laugh at people like this. I used to hate
people like this. I used to think I'd never be a person like this. Maybe I
was just envious.

"Hey," says a pleased voice at my side, "Dana, how are you doing this
evening?"

I manage to smile at Eric. This is a nice place, Mulder is here, and there's
a pretty woman and three kids at Eric's side. And, whether or not he
actually is Cupid, it's because of him that we're here. "Hi," I say.
"Mulder, this is my friend Eric Ross."

They shake hands, and Eric introduces his wife--yes, her name is Psyche--and
the children, two boys named Jason and Alex, and a little girl named Clytie,
who is asleep on her father's shoulder. "We're on our way out," Psyche says,
hugging Eric's arm, "but Eric wanted to say hello."

"I've heard a lot about you," Eric says to Mulder, whose look to me makes me
want to crawl under the table.

"Really? I've never heard of you before."

"Dana and I haven't known each other long."

"I'm curious how you heard a lot about me, then."

"Down," I say to Mulder, and he sighs.

"Sorry."

"Hey, I'm glad you're doing okay," Eric says to me, "and we'll talk later,
okay? I've got to get baby girl in bed."

"Good night," I say, and smile after them as they leave.

"Scully?"

"Hm?"

"Who is that?"

"A friend."

"That you talk to about me?"

"He's been . . . counseling me. Romantically."

He furrows his forehead. "Do I want to know this, Scully? Should I get
worried?"

"No. You saw, he's married. Happily. He's just a friend to me."

"Okay. Okay. I'm glad you have friends. I should work on that, myself." He's
still watching them as they wend out of the restaurant. I turn to look too,
and sigh. He may be nuts, but he's happy. A nice wife, cute kids . . .

"I'll be right back," I say to Mulder, and go after Eric and his family
quickly. I catch up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. He turns around
and smiles, shifting Clytie to his other arm.

"What's wrong, Dana?"

"Look," I whisper, "I may be crazy, you may be crazy--hell, we're probably
all crazy--but if you are who you say you are--if you are--"

"If I am who, Dana?" he says gently.

"You know. A god. Cupid."

"You mean after this whole weekend you still don't believe me? Geez. I've
never had to work so hard to convince someone. So, what were you saying?"

"If you are a god, Eric, if you are divine or something--could you--do you
think you could--if there was a way--"

Psyche whispers something into Eric's ear, and Eric grins and says, "I think
you're right. Dana. Whatever you want, you have it."

I can't say anything. I twist my hands together. I *am* crazy.

"Do you believe me, Dana? Whatever you want. The impossible. The improbable.
Every gift in my power, I give it to you." He leans over and kisses my
cheek, and then Psyche does as well.

She whispers in my ear, "Don't let him bully you into naming the children
something you don't like," pats my cheek, and takes her sons by their hands.
I am left standing mute and shaking, watching them go, and I go back slowly
to our table.

"Scully? Are you okay?" Mulder stands to pull out my chair for me again, and
I sink into it gratefully.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay." I watch him sit down and start eating again, and I
say, "Mulder?"

"Yeah, love?"

"Nine months from today."

"June 18th?"

"Yeah. Let's . . . remember that."

"Scully. Is there something I should know?"

"No. I don't think so." I put my hand on my stomach. "Although . . ."

He waits, his eyebrows raised.

"I'm feeling very . . . open . . . to extreme possibilities today."

This doesn't help, apparently, and he looks at the door the Rosses just went
through. He says hesitantly, "He's not an ordinary guy, is he."

"I'm not sure. But let's remember June 18th. Just in case."

His hand finds mine once more. "Just in case," he says softly, and he
squeezes my hand.



And that, my friends, is the end.



First of all, I want to give big wet sloppy kisses to everybody who wrote to
encourage me in finishing this, namely DeeDee, Fabi, Janis, Red V.,
Kimberly, Diadem, Marjorie, Suzanne, Auralisse, etc, etc, etc. You guys
rock. Also a big sloppy wet kiss to my friend Daryl. Love ya lots,
girlfriend. And to the "Cupid" mailing list, who have no idea this story
exists but who make me laugh on a regular basis. Watch "Cupid"! You'll be
glad you did. And of course, to DD, GA, and Jeremy Piven, who are
inspirational in all sort of weird ways.

J.


You begged. You pleaded. You bribed me with virtual chocolate-okay, you
                 didn't, but it's a fun idea. So here it is:

                   Blind Naked Babies With Wings: Epilogue



I wake up first, as usual, and haul myself into a sitting position, back
against the headboard. We've been married for five months and together for
nine, and it's still a surprise to wake up and find Mulder in bed with me. I
lean over and play with his earlobe to wake him up, but he just grumbles and
burrows his face deeper into the pillow. One foot is sticking out from under
the covers, the only part of him that's exposed except the side of his head.

God, he's cute in the mornings. His hair is all mussed and there's stubble
on his jaw. In the summer he sleeps just in boxer shorts, and his skin is
warm and smells sweetly of sleep and soap. When he wakes up-any minute
now-his eyes will be greener than they are the rest of the day, and he likes
to start the morning with a quick make-out session. So do I.

It's a bright, sunny Saturday in June, a good day for shopping. We've been
putting this off for a while, but we really need to buy a few things before
the week is out. I made the list last night. We need towels and receiving
blankets and a breast pump, the thought of which makes Mulder laugh.

I'm pregnant. Of course I am. Through what Mulder likes to call the power of
his love and what might be divine intervention, I am pregnant. We're a few
days off, of course, it's the 20th, not the 18th, and the baby is due in the
next two weeks. We think it's a boy, but we chose to be surprised.

We're not going to make him Eric. Maybe Nathan. Or Michael. Or James. His
middle name is going to be William, but aside from that we really haven't
decided. If it's a girl we're thinking of Molly, or Hannah, or Bethany. Our
list has also included Dakota, Jericho-I'm serious!-Bridget, Xavier, Quaid,
and Sloane. It has been a lot of fun, trying to figure out what to name this
baby.

I kept my name, though, and Mulder has no desire to continue the Mulder name
so we're looking for something to go with Scully. When we got married-he did
this without telling me until our wedding day-Mulder took my name. On paper
he is now Fox William Scully-Mulder. Gotta love a man like that.

He turns his face up to me and smiles at me sleepily. "Good morning,
sweetie."

"Hi. We've got errands to run today."

"Oh, I know. But this bed is too comfy to get up yet." His hand goes into my
hair and he rubs the back of my neck.

He's right. This bed is too comfy to get up. The sheets are at the perfect
softness and warmth, and we smell good, and bars of sunlight from the window
are just beginning to crawl over the quilt. I snuggle down on his chest and
he runs his hand over my hair.

It's been a while since we've made love. I'm too huge, I feel gargantuan,
though Mulder says I've never been more beautiful. When he says this I punch
him and tell him not to lie. This morning, though, I'm feeling a little
frisky. He's so beautiful, after all. He has a great chest and back and
stomach and legs . . .

I move up and balance over him, and run my open lips over his chest. He has
the perfect amount of chest hair, just a patch under his pecs and a trail
that leads down to his groin. Mm, what to do to him this morning?

He rumbles and runs his hands up my arms, and says softly, "I thought you
said we had errands to run."

"Oh, do you want me to stop?" I flick his nipple with my tongue and he makes
a soft sigh.

"No, no, don't stop, I'm not saying that, I just think that you know it's
late and we have stuff to do and oh God Scully do that again-"

I grin and do it again. Married life is great.

*****

The baby furniture store is not crowded today, and once Mulder stops teasing
me with the ugliest crib in creation, we look seriously at high chairs. We
got a great combo-carseat/stroller/carrier from the Long Gunmen-who knew
they could be so practical?-which took care of three worries in one swoop.
The crib was a gift from Mrs. Mulder, a lovely maple antique, which I am
happy to say, goes the decor we decided on for the baby's room. We painted
it cream and country blue, and put up Peter Rabbit wallpaper. The changing
table is maple too, and so is the rocking chair. For the high chair, though,
we're looking for something more practical. That thick plastic they make
playhouses out of, maybe.

"Scully?" Mulder holds up the box for a mobile purported to increase Baby's
intelligence and awareness. "Why does this make me flinch?"

"It's for people trying to raise geniuses."

Mulder shakes his head, putting the box back on the shelf. "Sick and wrong.
Let a baby be a baby, fer cryin out loud."

"Are you changing your mind, Mr. Let's Read Aloud to the Baby?"

"Hey, we read Dr. Seuss. This has the Mona Lisa. Promise we if we get a
mobile it'll be something like the Pooh characters."

"I promise. Or brightly-colored abstract things, I saw something like that I
liked in the toy store the other day."

"That sounds better." He goes on down the aisle, frowning over the products
that promise a smarter, more advanced baby. For all his teasing me about
UberScullys, he wants our child to be as normal as possible. Considering the
circumstances of its conception, I'm not counting on that. I just want it to
be human.

From anybody else that would sound ridiculous, wouldn't it? Every test and
ultrasound has said the baby is normal and healthy, but I still have
nightmares of toxic green blood killing me and the hospital staff while I
give birth.

As Mulder looks over the gadgets, I look at the high chairs. He likes
gadgets-we have the baby monitor to end all baby monitors-but I'm more
interested in practical matters. We don't need the speaker that imitates the
mother's heartbeat, for example, I don't see what use that would be unless
we have a really fussy baby.

As I try to imagine various chairs in our kitchen, I hear a familiar voice.
"Well, Dana Scully."

"Well, Eric Ross." I smile and shake his hand, and Psyche's too. She's
pregnant as well, though not as far as I am.

"You look wonderful," Eric says, putting his arm back around his wife. "When
is the baby due?"

"Thanks. Any day now. What are you guys here for?"

"We are expecting twins," Eric says proudly. "We need double of everything."

"How exciting. I wanted to send you a wedding invitation but I didn't have
an address."

"We've been moving around," Psyche says. "We went back to Greece for a
while. You know, visit the home front, see the in-laws."

"My mother sends her love, by the way," Eric says.

"She does?"

"Of course. People like you drive her crazy, you know, she was so happy to
hear you've finally," he shrugs, "loosened up."

"Crossed over to our side," Psyche adds with a grin.

"People like me."

"You know. Denying your passions, things like that."

"I see."

Eric sighs. "Dana, after all this, why don't you believe me? Why don't you
believe in me?"

"Because . . ." I find it hard to look at them, for some reason, but
nonetheless I do. "Because mythology is just that, it's mythology. The gods
weren't real, and what's even more unrealistic is that you know live in
suburban America and give advice to the lovelorn. And eat at places like
Roy's. And watch baseball in sports bars-I mean, if you were me, would you
believe it?"

"Dana," Eric says gently, "you are pregnant after being told you'd never
have children. That alone would convince me."

"Mistakes are made in cases like mine."

"See, now you're just being stubborn."

"I am grateful. You did encourage me to take a risk, the rewards have been
amazing. But as for believing you're Cupid, that's more than I can do."

Eric says seriously and quietly, "You're going to have a boy. He's going to
have green eyes and brown hair. He's going to be tall, and he's going to
love music, and he's going to be a doctor. A surgeon. Do you want to know
about your next baby?"

I can't say anything for a moment, then I say quietly, "I can't confirm
anything you just said."

"I don't want you to. I just you want to believe. And forty years from now
you may remember this conversation, and realize, yeah, he was Cupid. And
there is more to my universe than I can even guess. That's all I want from
you, Dana. Believe in your sense of wonder."

I press my lips together. My sense of wonder. If only what Mulder needs from
me were so easy.

I can see him coming up the aisle again, and Eric and Psyche are getting
ready to go. I catch Eric by the hand and say, "My next baby?"

He smiles at me. "You want a daughter?"

*****

This is really, finally, and fully the end.