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Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. Don't sue me. I'm just having a
little fun with 'em. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox Television.

Thanks to Christine, my Goddess, for all her generosity.

Scribbler's note: this is my first X endeavor. Let me know how you like it.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part One
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Slight one for Closure
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, burgeoning MSR
KEYWORDS: Romance.
SUMMARY: What would it take for Scully to admit some things to herself?
How would Mulder take the news? Noromos, here be dragons.

~~~~~~~~~~

She drove home from the airport. His ankle was still stiff and swollen enough
that managing the accelerator would have been difficult. She managed to
park not far from the apartment, and hoisted his bag out of the trunk as he
struggled out of the passenger's seat. She hurried to his side and eased an
arm around him to help bear him up. He started to brush her off, then
thought better of it. He would rather get there under his own steam, but then
he'd rather the whole thing hadn't happened at all. They had a long block to
walk, and his foot hurt like hell. Now wasn't the time for pride. Besides, each
step with her was an experiment in pleasure. With each step he was aware of
the arm around his waist, of the body pressed up close to his. He was
enjoying the contact, perhaps more than he should. That was happening a lot
lately.

It was almost a disappointment to reach the apartment building. She stepped
aside and held the front door open for him, then took her place back at his
side. He was only too glad to have her back. It took forever for the elevator
to fall from wherever its last call had taken it. Not that he really cared. Every
moment they waited was another moment of touching her. Not a bad thing,
that.

She eyed him as they rode the car up to the fourth floor. "You don't look
much the worse for the past few days," she said dryly.

He half-smiled. Looks can be deceiving, he wanted to say.

She, on the other hand, looked pretty damned good. Maybe not crisp, but
certainly acceptable, and no doubt better than he did. She usually did manage
to look nice, even when she was out in the field; still, he had a particular
preference for her like this, in jeans and a plain white shirt. It looked -
different. Casual. Not the suit-clad business partner with the killer mind.
More a home-body. And what a body.

He studied it as she preceded him down the hall to his door. She was still
lugging his suitcase, and he chastised himself roundly for not having taken it
from her at the outset. Partner or not, he had to admit he liked watching her
ass. Was she at all aware of his scrutiny? He thought it unlikely, but didn't
discount the notion out of hand. They did share a bond that could only be
called unusual. One might even call it spooky. Of course, if she was aware of
it, she'd almost certainly turn around and kick his leg out from under him. He
could indulge himself. Yeah, nice ass. Slim waist. The long sleeves on the
shirt were rolled halfway up her forearms. That glorious hair was pleasantly
disheveled, and when she glanced at him, there was a soft pink glow to her
face. God, she looked good.

She set the case down with a little thud and looked back at him expectantly,
and for a moment he found himself just looking at her, taking in the sight.
She frowned a little impatiently, and he grunted and dug in a pocket for his
keys. "Sorry, " he muttered, unlocking the door and swinging it open for her.

She bowed him through. "Go ahead. It's your abode."

He scooped up the bag and carried it in. Dropped it in one of the dining
room chairs. He'd tend to it tomorrow. Right now he just wanted to rest his
fucking leg.

"Anything to eat around here?" she asked.

He waved a hand at the kitchen as he struggled into the living room. "Have a
look around. I'm not sure what I have." With a drawn out grunt he lowered
himself onto the couch. His shoe was too tight to kick off; he swore as he
unlaced it and gingerly teased it off. His ankle was discolored and painful to
touch. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen, opening cupboards
and looking in the fridge. There was rarely anything interesting to find.
Shopping was never high on his list of priorities, but he wished now that he
had something more to offer her than ovaltine.

She appeared in the doorway, sporting a bag of frozen vegetables and a beer.
"Which do you want first?" she asked.

He grimaced. "Neither. I'm just gonna take a shower and get my ass to bed."

She smiled as she twisted the lid off the bottle. "Good. I'll take care of this.
As for this - " she hefted the bag " - I didn't intend to feed it to you. Here,
put it on your foot."

He looked at her dubiously. "I like butter with my veggies, Scully."

She grunted as she knelt before him. "You like butter with your butter. Take
off your shirt and sit back, I'll do it." He gave her a blank look, and she
beckoned with a hand. "Come on, I want to get it iced down again. Gimme
your shirt."

He allowed himself a wry smile as he complied. "All those years of med
school and the best you can come up with is a bag of frozen corn and a dirty
T-shirt?" She said nothing, merely set about devising a poultice. He hissed
through clenched teeth. "Ow, shit that hurts. How 'bout a couple aspirin?"

She scowled as she took a sip of beer. "Tylenol would be better, Mulder.
Aspirin is an anticoag. You don't need those vessels in there bleeding any
more than they are. I still say you should just agree to have a doctor check it
out."

He plucked the beer out of her hand. "I've already had my doctor check it
out." He took a swig and burped. "Hey, this is pretty good. There any more
in there?"

She dropped into the chair across from him and laced her fingers over her
belly. "One, hiding in the back behind the graveyard of Chinese cartons. Next
time check your leftovers before we skip town. I think something's staging a
revolt in there."

He handed her the bottle, then sat back and slumped on his side and closed
his eyes. The makeshift ice pack was beginning to prick at his skin like a
thousand needles.

She was watching him, he could feel it even before he looked at her again.
Those eyes, that face . . . How many people know she's as beautiful inwardly
as she is to look at? *I am one lucky son of a bitch. I get to go to work every
day and sit across the office from her. Every damn day I get to watch her try
not to laugh at my jokes. I get to stare into those blue eyes and wonder just
what it is she's thinking. What she's feeling. Yeah, you got 'em, girlfriend.
You just don't like it when they run the show. I don't mind. Your reserve is
part of who you are. It's part of why I love you so damn much.*

He thought of a dream he'd recently had, and smiled. Sweet flutterings deep
in his belly, like warm butterflies. She noticed, of course. "What?" she asked,
her own smile starting.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

She eyed him doubtfully. "A smile like that couldn't be about nothing."

No, it couldn't, he thought to himself. Still, it made you smile too. I'm lying
here with my foot wrapped in a sweaty T-shirt, and I'm watching my partner
smile. I'm a happy man right now.

About fifteen seconds was all she could take. She rose with a jerk and
headed for the kitchen. "What d'ya want for dinner?" she called over her
shoulder.

He gave a mental shrug. The dream played through his head as a warm
breeze plays through the branches of a willow. *Yeah, that's what you are,
Scully. Graceful and giving, to the wind or to me. I know I had to let go. It's
time to lay aside the guilt. Samantha's gone. You're alive and she's not.
Mom's not. Forgive myself and move on. They don't need me any more.* He
smiled at the thought of his partner. *You don't need me either, do you,
Scully? You don't need me to take care of you. You don't need me to grieve
for you. Thank God you don't need me to avenge you. I would have, in a
heartbeat. That little prick who shot you last year, Ritter - I'd have put him
down in a New York minute, and to hell with the consequences.*

He heard her moving about in the kitchen. Before she left, she'd see that he
ate something. His foot wasn't so bad now. The cold had made it go numb. If
he moved carefully he could go lend a hand, or at least watch. Watch her
move around his kitchen like she moved in his life: unobtrusive and
undemanding, but unrelenting.

Carefully he rolled to his feet. She was standing at the sink, and looked up as
he rounded the corner, a frown drawing her brows together. "You shouldn't
be up," she said. The words sounded like a reprimand, but the tone didn't
match them. It was soft, almost inviting.

He shrugged as he brushed past her. The scent of her was enticing: aged
perfume and sweat. Delicious. He squelched the impulse to bury his nose in
her hair. "I'm okay. Big strong male and all that. What're you doing?"

She tipped her head toward the stove. "Heating water for tea. You really
don't have much here. How's Italian sound? I thought I'd get something
delivered. Don't just shake your head, I'm hungry, too."

He shrugged and nodded. He'd sleep better if he ate something. Besides, he
knew she wouldn't give up. "Yeah, that sounds okay. I'll phone it in, but you
realize it's gonna take a while. You want to take a shower while we wait?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks. Whatever I have in the car's worse off than
what I'm wearing."

He eyed her thoughtfully. "I can find something for you. Go on."

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it and merely
nodded. "All right. I like onions on mine."

He gave her arm a squeeze as she passed him. "I know. Onions and
pineapple, hold the sausage."

He heard the shower begin to run as he placed the order. Pizza, with the
crust extra thick. Two salads. Some of that fattening garlic bread she always
bitched about but loved anyway. Half an hour, the disembodied voice told
him. Probably longer.

He dug in his closet and came up with the promised clothing. Running pants
and a sweatshirt. His socks would be ridiculously large for her, but she
wouldn't care. Something caught his eye and he drew it out. Studied it
thoughtfully for a moment. A tank rather than the sweatshirt? He smiled. No,
she wouldn't accept it; and besides, she'd probably hit him for even
suggesting it.

He spared a glance at the clock. Almost eight. He'd have time to shower too,
if she didn't use up all the hot water. He hesitated outside the bathroom door
and listened. She was there, just a few feet away, in a place he'd stood
hundreds of times without care or thought. And she was naked. The thought
made his face burn, which surprised him. Blushing was something he just
didn't do much anymore.

It took very little effort to imagine what she'd look like. No, the real effort
was in trying not to think of it. The brilliant auburn hair plastered to her
skull. Lather gliding down her body - oh, to be one of those bubbles. The
water playing over her face and neck, the tops of her shoulders, her shapely
breasts. Down her flat belly, over and around her navel . . .

Dangerous, he told himself, turning away. Very dangerous. Go do something
in the kitchen. Go watch TV. Go do your laundry - hell, go do *her*
laundry. Just get the hell away from here.

"Mulder, are you out there?"

*Dammit.* He froze and turned back, pressed his forehead to the closed
bathroom door. "Yeah, what is it?"

"Can you get me a towel? I got in here without one."

Shit. Shit. She couldn't be serious. Just the thought of her in there was
making his jeans tight. Now she wanted him to go in? The shower door
wasn't transparent, but neither was it what he could call opaque. Shit. Well,
maybe he could just toss the towel on the top of the toilet.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Shit, the mirror wasn't fogged at all. Chagrined, he whipped the towel over
the top of the shower door - it was closer than the toilet was. "Here you go.
Don't forget to wash behind your ears."

She gave a soft laugh. "Thanks for the reminder."

He saw her reflection in the mirror and froze.

The door wasn't fogged either, and what glazing it had was diminished by the
shower's spray. Through it he could see every detail of her body. Every
curve, every dip and hollow, damn near every freckle. The glint of gold chain
- shit, did she *ever* take that off? She was rinsing her hair now. He could
see the lather gliding down her flanks and hips, just as he'd imagined it, down
the dip of her back and over her butt . . . thank God her back was to him.

He realized he was staring. *Get out,* he snarled to himself. He bullied his
feet into moving, forced his hand to grasp the doorknob and afford him his
escape. The bedroom was a welcome sight after that: drab, disarrayed,
infinitely lived-in. Nowhere did he see anything as brilliant as the image - no,
the *vision* - standing in his shower.

Get a fucking grip, he snarled to himself. You've seen her naked. It isn't
really a mystery, is it? Remember the jaunt to Wilkes, a little place just north
of Hell? How about Fort Marlene? A half-dozen Marine thugs standing over
us, ready to pummel us to death if we refused their hospitality?

So where are those Marines when I need them, he asked himself, leaning
back on the door and letting his head go *thunk!* against the wood. At least
he'd managed to escape the bathroom with only his dignity the worse for
wear. No, he was way too aware of her now. He couldn't help how he felt
toward her, but it certainly wasn't appropriate to entertain any notion of
acting on it. So what that he loved her? So what that he had been dreaming
about her, and that in those dreams she'd done things to him and for him that
had no place in his sad life?

"Mulder?"

He steeled himself. "What is it, Scully?"

"Did you remember about those clothes?"

Shit! Dammit to hell, they were on the foot of the bed, right in front of him.
Taunting him. He glared at them impotently. "They're right here. I'm going
out to watch TV. You can get them when you're finished. Don't worry, I
won't look."

She immediately began to protest. "No, no, no! I'm not leaving this bathroom
wrapped in a threadbare towel! Come on, just open the door and leave them
on the floor in here."

Defeat ground at him. *She isn't going to be satisfied until I'm sporting a
conversation piece,* he thought savagely, scooping up the clothes. Opening
the door, he all but hurled them through, then slammed it again with a
pronounced thud. There. Pride intact. Levis now too tight for comfort. With
a furtive glance at the bathroom - the shower was still running - he quickly
stripped them off and flung them in the general direction of the hamper, then
pulled on a pair of sweat pants. Matters would resolve themselves. Maybe
he'd get lucky and find another bag of veggies in the freezer.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scully couldn't help but smile when the bathroom door slammed for the
second time. She'd heard him, of course, even over the running water.
Rather, she'd heard that interval of total inaction and knew that he was
standing motionless, probably staring as if caught in a spell. It made her feel .
. . decadent. How tempting it had been to turn, maybe just a little, and afford
him a glimpse. Just a glimpse. Common sense had asserted itself just in time
and she remained still, her back to him, rinsing her face and hair over and
over until she heard the door bang shut a last time.

If she'd turned, would he even have noticed her smile? Doubtful his eyes
would have made it that high.

*Good decision. He's your partner. Don't tempt fate.*

Her partner. So much implication in those syllables, and yet just what did it
mean to them? Were they friends? Yeah, and then some. Lovers? Uh uh.
Emotional co-dependents? There was some merit to that one, certainly.

His clothes were huge on her, of course. She shivered as she drew them on.
Between the soap and the shampoo, she smelled of him already; now she
found herself wrapped - cocooned - in his essence. She raised the shirt to her
face and closed her eyes as she took a long, deep breath. Strange how erotic
it was, swathing herself in him like this. What would he do if she went to him
and acted on a few of those impulses she'd secretly been fighting since -
when? When *hadn't* she been aware of him? Whether he wore suits at the
office and those jeans in the field, watching his ass had become her favorite
past-time. Couldn't she just once reach out and touch that -

*Don't do it, slick,* that irritating, reasonable inner voice said. *Don't screw
up. He has a hard enough time some days keeping that poker face in place.
He doesn't need any encouragement. Besides, rules are rules. No
involvement between partners.*

She sneered at herself. Rules? They'd broken every other rule over the past
six plus years; what was one more? It wasn't like there weren't already
rumors to that effect flying like the wind through the Hoover Building. The
crime might just as well fit the punishment.

She found him in the overstuffed armchair, surfing absently through the cable
channels. He didn't notice her, peering around the corner of the doorway.
She couldn't resist the opportunity to study him unobserved. He'd changed
into sweats, and still wore no shirt. God, it was going to be hard not staring
at all that skin. Poor guy - what would he have done if she *had* turned?
The thought of him actually stripping off what clothes he had on and getting
in with her - oh, at the sweet contemplations, her mouth went dry. The same
couldn't be said of the rest of her traitorous body.

Time was pressing on. Time for her musings to stop. The interlude was over.
Time for reality. It wasn't a bad one, as realities went. Look who she worked
with.

~~~~~~~~~~

He glanced up at her entrance and nodded a distant greeting. Shit, even
swimming around in his clothes, she looked good enough to rob him of
breath. How did she do that? Was she even aware of the power she had over
him?

She silently approached, and then to his dismay knelt before him on the floor.
He drew his legs in to give her room, but she caught his right calf and gently
drew it towards her. He jumped and tried to pull away.

"Jesus, Scully, a little warning next time, all right?"

She ignored the rebuke. "Sit still. I want to check it out before you go doing
it more damage."

Her hands were warm as she gentled back the elastic cuff. He recoiled. *Shit,
just when I was feeling a little more normal, she had to go and do that. Leave
the damn thing alone. A few more minutes and it won't be the only stiff thing
around here.*

She bent closer and peered at the mottled bruising around his anklebone.
"You should still have ice on it," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

He leaned closer to her, following her gaze. Granted, he hadn't the training
she had had, but his ankle really didn't look all that different from its
counterpart. He grunted a soft protest when she explored it with her fingers.
She glanced up at him, evidently not surprised to find his face beside hers.

"Can you feel this?" she murmured, dragging a nail gently up the side of his
calf. He grunted again and nodded. "It's still pretty swollen, but I don't think
you damaged any nerves. Any numbness or tingling, you let me know."

She smelled of his shampoo. He warred briefly with himself, fought the
impulse to touch her face, to play with the damp hair forming lithe curls
around her ears. "It's tingling right now."

Jesus, what the hell had prompted him to say *that?*

She frowned, immediately falling into doctor-mode. "Where? Mulder, show
me."

He touched the spot beneath her fingers, then the fingers themselves. She
glanced at him, and he could see in her eyes that she understood. "Here," he
said softly. "Anywhere you touch, in fact." He stared into her eyes, felt
himself falling into the blue depths, and found he was unwilling to stop
himself. "Sometimes you don't even have to touch me. Just look at me like
that." She held his gaze for a beat before dropping her eyes, and he felt a stab
of self-reproach. *Dammit, there you go again, putting your foot in it. You
take a nice moment and blow it.*

Or had he? If she was so put off, wouldn't she move away or something?
Why was she looking at his mouth? He succumbed to a wicked impulse and
snaked his tongue out over his lower lip. Her eyes shut in a slow blink,
opened again. Anyone else would have thought her expression blank. He
knew better. Yeah, she was feeling it too, as much as she pretended
otherwise. He leaned a little closer. "You think that's anything to worry
about, Dr. Scully?"

God, what was he doing? He felt drugged, out of control, but he didn't care.
The smell of her was maddening. In the past when he teased her like this
she'd already have moved away with a wry half-smile.

She wasn't moving away this time.

Her eyes closed again and her shoulders slumped a little. "God, I'm so tired,"
she breathed.

A twinge of regret shot through him and he drew back a little, instantly
hating himself. It had been a tough week, a tougher case. Exhaustion was
hitting her, and here he was playing mind games.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "You should have just gone home. I should - "

"No," she said, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a groan. "When
you look at me like that, I realize how tired I am of pushing away this
feeling." Her voice dropped even more. "I'm always holding you at arm's
length. I'm sick of telling myself this isn't something I want."

The words stopped him. He stared at her mutely, not daring to move, not
daring to breathe. *This has to be a dream,* he thought, suddenly afraid he
really was asleep and that it would end and he would wake up alone. Always
alone. He opened his mouth but found himself all but speechless. "This?" he
managed to breathe.

Her eyes met his again. She didn't pull back. Carefully he brushed a hand
along her cheek, stroking a stray lock of hair away from her eyes.

Abruptly she lifted her chin, closing the distance between them, and kissed
him. *She* kissed *him.* It wasn't a New Year's kiss either, or at least it
wasn't for much more than a few seconds. His breath caught in his throat as
her mouth moved beneath his, opening and inviting. It was all he could do
not to groan his appreciation. God, she tasted . . . good. Too good. For an
instant he wondered if he could be hallucinating. The throbbing in his chest -
and other places - leapt tenfold. His hands slid up her arms and caught
themselves around her face, and she didn't pull away. She met him kiss for
kiss, touch for touch.

Her hands were evidently no longer satisfied with where they were. One
moved to his neck, and the other settled on his jaw and tipped his head to the
side, changing the direction of the kiss. He moved without protest. His hands
slipped through her damp hair and then down her back. He enveloped her,
pulled her close, closer than she'd ever been, closer than she'd ever allowed.
Good, was all his bleary mind could think. Good. Good. Good.

At last they had to draw apart, if only to catch their breaths. She didn't look
away in embarrassment as he feared she would, but held his gaze measure for
measure. Her eyes were clear and bright. He stared at her stupidly, knowing
he had to look as feverish as he felt.

She tipped her head to one side. Her arms were linked around his neck and
gave no sign of relinquishing their hold on him. Her mouth didn't show it
much, but her eyes were smiling. "God, I've wanted to do that for so long,"
she breathed.

He stared at her mutely. How long, his fuzzy mind wanted to ask. No, it was
too great an effort, organizing his thoughts into meaningful words and
phrases. Besides, her answer might well be dangerous. He was painfully
aware of the hands playing through his rumpled hair and slowly stroking his
bare shoulders. Of the twin soft points pressing themselves into his chest, and
the pressure in other regions that was growing exponentially. She was a math
whiz - she should be able to understand that concept.

They should stop. Stop before something else started - *anything* else. It
was exhaustion, the rational part of his mind pointed out. Their reserves were
low, their emotional barriers flattened from their latest dance with danger.
Yeah, they should stop. But her laughing eyes and those full, gorgeous lips
conspired against him, struck him incapable of speech, drove all coherent
thought from his head, and he found himself falling again.

Joy. Utter and unutterable joy. His partner, his friend - his. *His.* He was
kissing her. Running his fingers through the mane of copper hair, meeting
teeth and tongue with teeth and tongue. No hesitation. It felt unreal, and yet
completely right. God, what was she doing now? Without breaking off the
kiss she was pushing herself against him, leaning into him until his bare back
was pressed against the cushion behind him. Her hands were on his neck, in
his hair, touching his face, and the sounds she made as she whispered his
name . . .

The pounding at the door was like an explosion. She started and pulled
away, breaking off the kiss with a resonating *smack.* For a moment they
just stared at one another, and he saw the same question in her smoky yes:
how long have we been at this? A testy glance at the door and her eyes swept
back to his. "I'll get it," she whispered, leaving him with one last, lingering
kiss. He gasped for breath when she pulled away. She glanced back at him
from the doorway, and he saw a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Don't get up."

He managed a shaky laugh. *Too late.*

No, he didn't move. Didn't even try, just sat there and listened to the
interchange. "Yes, we'd like peppers. Salads? And wine? Mulder, you
ordered wine? All right. Just let me get my wallet . . ."

The smell of pizza wafted through the dining room. He sat up straighter,
instantly famished. She appeared in the doorway, the pizza box in one hand,
the bottle in the other. A glow lit her face. "You really know how to cook,
don't you?"

He smiled. "My mother taught me to be self-sufficient."

Her eyes narrowed at that, and though she didn't say anything, he could
almost hear her thoughts as she set the food down on the coffee table.

*You could say that again.*

No, he hadn't meant it like that. He knew Scully, knew she was fair-minded
and practical; but she was also a good friend, and so was understandably
biased when it came to defending him. Mulder's childhood had ended with
the disappearance of his sister. An adult at the ripe age of twelve. Neither of
his parents had been able to protect him, nor had they even seemed
particularly sensitive to his anguish. Too locked into their own loss and
despair to help him bear his. Too busy blaming each other to see that he
blamed no one but himself. Not fair. Not fucking fair.

Scully turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a
minute later with plates, silverware, and a corkscrew. The tension from the
offhand remark quickly dissipated. They ate the food and drank the wine.
The TV was on, but they paid it no attention. She sat on the couch beside
him, her legs drawn up, her shoulder pressed intimately against his. He
watched with a squeamish wince as she ate her onion-pineapple combination.
"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," she murmured. "I don't say anything about
your Cap'n Crunch, do I?"

He gave her a sidelong glance as he offered the wine. "No one knocks the
Captain. Here, you want to finish this?"

She gave her head a shake. "No, I've had enough. I still have to drive home."

He smiled slyly. "Not if you don't want to."

Blue daggers, however playful. "Don't get fresh."

He snorted at that. "Fresh," he repeated, putting his glass on his empty plate.
"After that tonsil hockey we just played? You've got nerve."

She bit back a giggle as she eyed him defiantly. "You're complaining? How
provincial." He pulled her close again, and she laughed as she put her glass
down with a thud. "Look out, I almost spilled."

He kissed her once, twice. "That's a common problem with some guys, I
hear," he murmured, pressing his mouth to the side of her throat. Bit very
gently.

She almost purred as her arms rose up around him. "So I've heard. That ever
happen to you?"

He found her mouth again. His answer was unintelligible. She sank back
without a struggle, taking his weight atop her as if it was old habit. As if it
wasn't for the first time. Kisses deepened, became less playful. Intense.
Frighteningly so. What were they doing? He couldn't seem to stop himself,
didn't even really want to. It was all he could do not to rock and grind
himself into her. God, everything about her was . . . it was succulent. Her
skin was soft beneath his mouth, and with every passing second there was a
lot more of it available to him. Another nudge at the sweatshirt and he'd have
a clear shot at her left breast . . .

The burring of a phone broke the spell. He lifted his head and looked at her.
Desire competed with disbelief in her eyes. Slowly he pushed himself upright.
She held his gaze for a moment, then rolled away and sat up, pulling the
sweatshirt down to cover herself. Her expression was already growing
distant. He swallowed hard as he reached for the phone. His fingers were
shaking. Shit, what was happening? This wasn't right. No, it was right, too
damn right - but it was also too strange. They couldn't spend the night here,
making out like horny teenagers. Their first time - if there was to be a first
time - it had to be better than this.

He muttered his name. The voice in his ear was terse. Skinner.

Scully drew her arms close to her chest and moved away. He followed her
with his eyes. He knew that expression. She'd leave now. Murmur something
polite, something sensible and pragmatic, and then disappear out of his life.
Not forever - but for too long. He ached to hold her. Ached to tell her all the
secrets in his heart. He watched her move from living room to kitchen,
conveying dishes and leftovers. He only half-listened to his superior. Said a
solemn good-night and hung up. Later he wouldn't remember half of what
had been said.

She was standing in the doorway leading into the dining room. Her arms
were still crossed before her, her eyes downcast. "That was Skinner," he
murmured. She nodded silently. "He wants to see us tomorrow. Debriefing
on the case. His office, ten."

She nodded slowly. They were silent for a moment; then she turned with a
sigh. "I'll just get my clothes," she murmured.

He let his head fall back. Let her go, he told himself. You can't keep her here
if she doesn't want to stay. Tonight isn't the night. She made that first move.
She needs space now. For God's sake, give it to her.

She returned a moment later, cradling her travel-weary outfit in her arms. "I'll
hang on to your things for now, if you don't mind," she said, her voice soft
and distant. "I don't want to change right now."

*Don't change, Scully. Not ever.* No, he couldn't say that. Instead he
nodded. "Sure. No rush." He tried for a playful tone. "You look better in my
clothes than I do."

Her smile wavered and died. "Good night, Mulder."

The sad tone tore at him. He balled a fist and crushed it to his forehead.
"Scully," he called. What was he going to say? What was there to say? *If a
friend is all I can be to you, then that's fine by me? Let's not screw us up by
screwing?* He heard her quiet footfall, knew she had turned back and was
watching him. He let his hand fall. His mouth opened and closed without a
sound being uttered. She stood motionless. He looked at the hand lying in his
lap. "I love you, Scully." Shit, where did that come from? Was that really
what he'd meant to say?

Had she heard? When she didn't respond, didn't react at all, he glanced at her
uncertainly. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but a smile was starting.
"I know," she whispered, tipping her head to the side. For a moment she
didn't move, just looked at him from the archway. No make-up, her damp
hair drying in hanks - he thought his heart would burst looking at her.

At last he dropped his gaze again. "Good night, Scully."

Quiet footfalls. The door opened and then closed. He was alone.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Two: The Heart Of The Matter
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Beyond the Sea, One Breath, Triangle
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A
KEYWORDS: ScullyAngst
SUMMARY: Scully and her mom discuss life, men, and Mulder. Continues
where More Than A
River leaves off.

~~~~~~~~~~

*He loves me.*

She pulled out into traffic. Her mind was elsewhere as she drove. Meeting at
ten. Skinner was giving them the chance for a late morning. Not like him, but
not exactly *unlike* him either. Things were definitely been better since their
release from Kersh. Skinner was gruff and could be a real pain in the ass, but
as ADs went he was acceptable. More than acceptable. He left them free to
do their work, and bore Mulder's frequent tangents with little more than a
frustrated sigh. Sometimes even a little grudging respect.

Mulder. Her thoughts snapped back to what had just happened. What *she*
had started. Her heart sank. Mulder. He loves me.

Jesus, would you grow up, she snarled at herself. You've known for a long
time now how he feels. How many ways has he told you? You see it in his
eyes, you hear it in his words, and in all those damn weekend-I'm-bored
phone calls. Hell, you hear it in his silences. He even told you once; he came
right out and blurted the words *I love you.*

Yes, but he was drugged. It was the Demerol talking, to say nothing of that
crazy dream he kept rambling on about.

Bullshit, Dana. You just told yourself that to make it easier to blow him off.
To make it possible to walk away. That's what you did, you walked away,
and you've been doing it ever since.

But I didn't tonight.

No, you didn't. Of all the times when you should have. What you did do is
unbelievable. You kissed your partner. How forbearing would Skinner be if
he were to figure that out? And how the hell can you face him - face *them*
- in that office tomorrow and not have it written all over your face?

Shit, the meeting. She clenched her teeth at the thought. Oh Mulder, I
shouldn't have done that. I screwed up. I've allowed this Thing between us to
endanger everything we have, everything we are to each other. I'm sorry, I'm
so sorry.

Anger suddenly flared, self-righteous and indignant and strong. Damn it
anyway. Damn those mopey eyes of his, damn his ability to get whatever he
wants from you, and damn that sexy Goddamn mouth. That sweet, beautiful
mouth! A film suddenly blurred her vision. She swept a hand over her face.
Those eyes - the utter disbelief in them when she kissed him, and the stricken
expression when she turned away. A stab of self-reproach actually made her
wince. A tender confession - no, not a confession, an *admission* - and what
did you say? *I know*. What a dumb, thoughtless, cruel thing to say! You
know better than anyone what it cost him to say those words! Mulder doesn't
love, doesn't *need* anyone, but he loves you.

A tear escaped her lashes, tickling as it found its way down her cheek. She
swatted it away.

What was she supposed to say? She was hopeless at relationships, she knew
that now. She just didn't open up to anyone. Why couldn't she open up to
Mulder, even just a little?

Would it have changed things if she'd said the words? He hadn't said them to
make her stay, she was sure of that. Jesus, why had he said them at all? It
was one of those things they thought to themselves, expressed through
innuendo, through thoughtful looks and pregnant silences. She'd known for
years how he felt. How could she not see the affection in those puppy-dog
eyes, even when they were full of anger or frustration or reproach? How
could he not see it in hers? Why was it necessary even to think them? Had
saying those three words ever accomplished anything in her life? Oh sure,
she'd said them to Mom and Missy and even Bill, but they were family. What
about someone else? When had she ever felt comfortable telling a man how
she felt?

A hard sigh shook her. There's the rub, she realized. This isn't just about
Mulder and what he said. What he feels. This is about you. Your belief that
it's easier not to want than want something and not get it. Perfect and safe,
isn't it: the ultimate recipe for loneliness. You've always been a loner, haven't
you - and ever since Jack it's only gotten worse. You've systematically cut
yourself off from any chance of getting hurt again, and what have you
gained? He's your best friend, and you can't even tell him. So what that he
knows? Mulder suffers from an inferiority complex the size of this city - your
silence only justifies that self-contempt. Would it have hurt so Goddamn
much to tell him a little of how he made you feel tonight? You tell him plenty
when he pisses you off - why couldn't you just say those words back to him?
Chicken-shit. That's what you are - Dana Scully, Special Agent and total
fucking coward!

There was no way she could handle the meeting. She couldn't possibly face
him now. He'd understand. That thought made her smile bitterly. Like hell he
would, but he'd accept it without much of an argument. She'd call Skinner in
the morning and beg off. He'd make do with a verbal report. It wasn't like she
made a habit out of dodging. But it would wait until tomorrow. Right now
she just wanted to get home and crawl into bed. Alone. Cry if she had to.
Alone. She didn't need anyone to dry her fucking tears.

She didn't need. She didn't.

*Keep telling yourself that, Dana. You might start believing it someday.*

Home. She frowned as she noticed for the first time that she was nowhere
near her neighborhood. Shit, she hated it when she zoned out. Of course, she
was heading to Maryland. To Mom. Dana's in trouble, let's run and tell
Mommy about it. She'll make us feel all better about ourselves.

The front porch light was on, of course; the big brass fixture that was shaped
like the wheel of a ship. Ahab never could get the sea out of his blood. She
eyed it miserably as she mounted the walkway steps. Even with all the time
he spent out to sea, her parents had a good marriage. She didn't have
Mulder's excuse; he'd never known anything but a dysfunctional family life.
Why couldn't she let herself feel a little of what her parents had had?

Maggie beamed at her and immediately engulfed her in a hug. "Honey, what
are you doing here? Is everything all right? Come in, it's getting cold." She
drew her in and looked her up and down, bemused. "Dana, why are you
dressed like that? You look like a college student again."

Scully flushed as she ran her hands unconsciously down her sides. "Oh, I just
got back from a case. Mulder loaned these to me so I . . . " Her voice trailed
off, and she was horrified to feel the tears gathering in her eyes again. "God,
Mom, I didn't have anywhere to go. I guess it's just habit, coming here when
I can't stand myself."

Maggie caught an arm around her shoulders and steered her into the kitchen.
"Wait a minute. Come in here and sit down. What's going on? Are you in
trouble? What's happened?"

The alarm in her tone was unmistakable, making Scully feel even worse.
Great, now she was upsetting her mother, too. "No, it's nothing. I mean, it's
not nothing, but it's not important. I mean, it's personal. Nothing to do with
work. Well, not much. Oh shit, I don't know." She smiled contritely,
ashamed for the vulgarity. It wasn't like her to swear.

Maggie waved her away as she stooped to dig in a cupboard. "Honey, I
married one sailor and raised two others. You can't come up with a term I
haven't heard. Or used." She rose and set the bottle on the counter, then
produced two short glasses from another cupboard and filled them half-way.
"Here. You look like you need something stronger than tea. Go on. Tell me
what's going on. And don't say it's nothing. You wouldn't have driven all the
way over here at this time of night if it were nothing."

Scully shook her head as she picked up the highball. Where to start? "It's
Mulder," she said miserably. "Again. No, he's fine. He got hurt on this last
case - the stupid mule he was riding flipped out, and he sprained his ankle in
the fall."

Maggie smiled into her glass. "Fox never did strike me as the animal type,"
she said quietly.

"No kidding." She took a sip of the liquor, dropping her gaze. Jesus, she
couldn't even meet her mother's eyes. This really was bad.

Leave it to Mom. "Tell me, Dana. What's going on with Fox?"

She sighed and shrank in on herself. "He told me tonight . . . he told me
something. He told me he loves me." She glanced up uncertainly.

Maggie was smiling. Again. "That's not much of a surprise, dear. You must
have known."

It was Scully's turn to wave impatiently. "Of course. I've known for years.
That's not the point. It - it's simply something we've never discussed. Not
remotely. It's like if we never mentioned it, then . . . "

"Then you wouldn't have to deal with it."

She took another sip. "Something like that."

"And what did you say when he came out with this stunning revelation?"

Scully shuddered. "I know."

Maggie blinked. "I know you know. What did you say?"

She didn't look at her. "That is what I said. 'I know.'"

The woman's mouth fell open for an instant. She took a quick sip. "Oh."

Scully looked at her sharply. "Oh. That's all you've got to say?"

Maggie shrugged one shoulder. "You're doing a good job of punishing
yourself. You don't need me to do it for you."

Scully glanced away again. Her cheeks were flaming, she could feel it. "That
isn't all." She closed her eyes, summoning her courage. Just say the words.
Mom won't judge - well, not too harshly. Say the fucking words. "I kissed
him. Before he said it. Before he told me." Surely her mother would react at
that. Surely she would be shocked, or angered, or amused. She didn't know
which she'd prefer, a scolding or a snicker. One would be embarrassing, but
the other would just plain hurt.

But Maggie said nothing, merely looked at her calmly. "And?"

Scully blinked and looked away. "It was quite a kiss, Mom. Quite a few of
them. God, it was so . . . " She struggled to find words, and failed. "Nice. It
was nice."

Nice, Dana? Nice is when he brings you back a bagel and coffee, light. Nice
is when he loans you a pair of clean sweats so you can take a shower and feel
halfway decent. What happened tonight was not *nice*. It was sweet and
tender and sensual, and you diminish it with those stupid, lukewarm terms.

They were silent for a long moment as they each drank their brandy. Without
a word Maggie unstopped the bottle and filled the glasses again, then
recorked it and put it away. No getting drunk over this one. It wasn't worth
it. She glanced at her daughter as she straightened. God, it was difficult not
to laugh. Great oaks from little acorns. Mountains and molehills. She'd seen
the two of them together. Back in the dark days when she'd first met the
man, and those were black days indeed, even then she could see that what he
felt for her daughter was much more than what the Bureau sanctioned
between partners. When Dana was returned and miraculously recovered, she
saw those feelings reciprocated. Was it love? It was tender and respectful.
Tentative and utterly non-verbal, but strong. Dana's illness had only solidified
that. Platonic love, to be sure, but love nonetheless.

Platonic love no more, it seemed. Carefully she laid a hand on her daughter's
arm. "Honey, I don't mean to belittle your feelings, but I think you're making
more of this than there really is." She held up a hand when Scully looked at
her sharply. "Spare me the daggers. Your father was much better at it than
you." She sighed and swirled her glass thoughtfully. "You kissed. He said he
loves you. Dana, forgive me for asking, but why are you here?"

Scully dropped her head onto her folded arms and sighed. "I don't know
what to say to him. I don't know .. . . I know how I feel, but I can't seem to
find any way to express it to him."

"You love him, don't you?"

She rocked her head from side to side. "Well, yeah. I do. I just can't . . . It
would have made him feel so good to hear me say it, but I didn't. It's like it
didn't even occur to me. God, I just stood there like a dumbshit and said 'I
know.' Like he was reminding me it's time to get my taxes done." She heaved
a shaky sigh. "We have a debriefing in the morning. I just. . . I can't face him
right now. God, the look in his eyes .. . . I mean, we've never kissed. Well
there was once, but it wasn't much. I mean, it was nice, but not . . . not like
this . . . and then suddenly we were making out like a couple of kids . . .
God, he's my friend, and he's probably sitting there right now racked with
guilt because he thinks he let me down. Like he's the one who was going to
blow what we have out of the water for the sake of a good screw. God, I'm
sorry, I know this must be embarrassing for you."

Maggie hid her smile behind her hand. *If I'm the one who's supposed to be
embarrassed, why are you the one playing ostrich?* She prudently kept the
thought to herself. Try another angle.

"Honey, I'm not embarrassed. I just really don't see the problem."

*Or do I? You didn't tell him because you can't find the words. To say it
would make it too real. Too immediate.* She frowned. "Dana, tell me again
what the Bureau's take is on these matters. Between partners, I mean. Is this
anything you might get into real trouble for?"

Scully snorted softly. "Relations are not encouraged, but it's known and
accepted that the conditions that make for a solid partnership can lead to
deeper involvements. Besides, half the section's taking bets that Mulder and I
are already sexually involved. It's been a favorite topic of discussion for years
now. I wouldn't mind some of that money myself, if there were any objective
way I could prove that nothing's ever happened. Well, until tonight."

Maggie looked at her intently, all humor gone now. "So what's stopping
you?"

She looked up in disbelief. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if there's no threat of reprisal, and it's clear you're both . . . I'm not
encouraging anything, honey - I'm merely asking. What's stopping you? You
trust him, don't you?"

"Only with my life, Mom."

"Fair enough. And you're fond of him, right?"

Scully smirked. "If he didn't have that lip before tonight, he'd certainly have
one now. Yeah, I'm fond of him."

Maggie leaned forward intently. "Tell me something, sweetheart: what
provoked this in the first place? Why tonight? Why after so long?"

Scully was silent for a long moment, her eyes distant as she gave the matter
serious thought. She could feel his mouth on hers, opening and asking and
giving, and tasting so damn good she just want to consume every last bit of
him . . . She bit her lips together hard enough to turn them white. "I guess . .
. I guess it's like I told him. I'm tired of telling myself it wasn't something I
wanted." She sighed and her shoulders slumped again.

"So what's stopping you?"

Her head snapped up, and her eyes were like blue stones. "Dammit, Mom,
quit asking me that. I don't know what's stopping me! It's been with me my
whole damn life, this inability to let go and just *be*. I don't know why.
Personally I think I'm just a coward. A spineless, heartless coward. I mean,
Mulder's had the balls to say it not once but twice, and after I all but laughed
at him the first time."

Maggie stared at her, wide-eyed. "Honey, you didn't."

"Didn't I. Last year in Bermuda, after we found the little creep floating in the
wreckage of his boat. It was no big deal, really. I mean, what's a little CPR
between friends? Thank God it was November. The water was cold enough
to keep his brain from turning to jello. So he wakes up in the fucking
hospital, and he was babbling about some damn hallucination. Nazis and a
body double, and a ship named the Queen Anne. He was on a hefty dose of
Demerol - Langely and I broke a couple of his ribs getting his heart started
again. He was lying in that bed, and he called me back to him and said 'I love
you.' Just like that. 'Scully, I love you.' And what did I say? Not 'I love you,
too.' Oh no, not me. Not even 'You ditched me again, you goddamned shit.' I
rolled my eyes and I said 'Oh, brother.' And I walked away." She clenched
her fist and slammed it down on the counter, hard enough to make the
glasses - and her mother - give a little leap. "He's so goddamn good at
getting into trouble. Forever running off to tilt at his windmills, leaving good
old Sancho Panza standing on the sidelines with the stretcher and crash cart.
You know what they say about all the king's horses, right? Someday Humpty
Dumpty is gonna get himself into a situation I can't fix. Someday he's going
over that wall, and I'm not even going to know where he went."

And therein lies the problem, Maggie thought to herself. She doesn't want to
control him. She doesn't truly want to stop him from being who he is - she
just doesn't want to mourn him when he's gone. When he dies.

They were silent for a long while. As it frequently happened though, Scully's
thoughts had followed the same path as her mother's, and had reached very
much the same conclusion. "I *am* a coward," she said quietly, with
conviction. "He's a pig and a child and a complicated, tortured, beautiful man
all rolled into one package. It's a nice package as those things go, but it's
what's inside that has me by the heartstrings." She looked at her mother with
dull eyes. "I'm afraid to love him for fear of losing him. That's it, isn't it."

It wasn't a question.

Gently Maggie reached out and covered her daughter's hand with her own.
How often has Dana heard the tale, she wondered. About how her father
came off the ship and asked Maggie point-blank to marry him. No hesitation.
No doubt. And she had accepted, likewise without hesitation or doubt. And
what a life it was. Four children and three and a half decades - decades of
separation and nights spent sick with worry. How long would he stay this
time? Will the ship make it back, or will it be lost with all hands? Will the
world survive this latest crisis and allow her husband, her *beloved,* to
return to her for the usual handful of months until he shipped out again?

Again, her daughter followed her thoughts, almost as if she'd voiced them, as
if she could see them racing in her eyes. "Oh, Mom," she breathed. "It's like
you and Dad, isn't it? I mean, Mulder would never concede control of his life
to the military, but - " Her eyes sagged shut and she bowed her head. "How
did you do it all those years, Mom? How could you just let him go, not
knowing if you'd ever see him again? Ever?"

A sob caught in Maggie's chest. She struggled for a moment, forcing the
words past the painful blockage in her throat. "Well, I had to ask myself
something, sweetie. Every time it came to letting go, I spent a good day
talking to myself. It became a ritual. Would it be any less painful to lose him
after only a week? Or a month? A year? Would it hurt any differently to lose
him after ten years? Should I have spared myself the heartache by not
marrying him at all? What if I'd never met him? If I'd played it safe, I
certainly would not have endured all that heartache. And I wouldn't have had
all those sleepless nights, and the days would have gone much more
smoothly because I wouldn't have had four redheads to take care of and keep
track of." She reached out and stroked her daughter's cheek. Scully's eyes
were soft again, clouded almost imperceptibly with tears. Maggie smiled
through her own. "I made the decision, Dana. It wasn't an option for me,
living without him. It was part of the package. You gotta take the bad with
the good. Those used to be just words to me. Just a catchy phrase from some
pop psychology guru. It's when you're in it for the long haul that those words
take on a deeper meaning." She let her hand fall and tipped her head to the
side. "You have to decide. You. You have to ask yourself if what you have is
enough. Not enough for right now, but for the day when he's gone and all
you have are memories. Will a handful of kisses really be enough."

Scully held her gaze for a moment, then looked back down at her glass.
Leave it to Mom. She always finds a way to cut to the heart of the matter.
Well, that's why I'm here, isn't it? I needed someone to lay it out for me. So
there it is. I have a shitload of memories now, but are they enough? When
he's dead and buried and all I have are those faded recollections, will they be
enough to keep my heart beating? Jesus, what more might he give me, if I'm
just willing to accept?


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Three: Hopeful Romantic
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: PG-13 for some earthy language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, burgeoning MSR
KEYWORDS: Romance, friendship
SUMMARY: Mulder obsesses about Scully. What is their friendship worth
to him?

~~~~~~~~~~

He was late, as usual. Hobbling as fast as he could from the elevator to
Skinner's office, he half-fell in through the open office door. The assistant
looked up, startled. "There's no fire, Agent Mulder," she said. There was an
edge to her voice. "It's still all right to walk in here."
He glanced around as he nodded. No Scully. He thought she'd meet him
there. No phone call either. Shit, that meant -

His phone chirped. He excused himself and stepped back out into the
hallway. He knew even without looking who it was. Touched the key and the
number pad lit up. "Mulder."

"Hi, it's me." Pleasure blossomed in his belly at the sound of her voice. It was
quickly supplanted by anxiety. Her next words confirmed his fears. "I, uh, I
won't be making the meeting with you. I've already spoken with Skinner. It's
a break in protocol, but I think we're forgiven."

He frowned, touched by something in her tone. "Scully, what is it? Is
something wrong?"

He could see her in his mind. The eyes would close for just an instant. The
hand would brush a lock of hair off her forehead. She'd draw her lower lip
into her mouth and bite it gently, just enough to blanch the color from it.
"No, not really. I, uh, I'm with Mom. Drove down here last night after, uh . .
. Anyway, I'll be back tomorrow. I'll see you at the office in the morning."

He stared blankly at the display case across the hall from him.
Disappointment crushed him. "Um, all right," he stammered. "Tomorrow."
He thumbed the power key and shoved the phone in his jacket pocket.

No surprise. She was frightened. Truth be told, so was he. What they had
was comfortable. Familiar. That's what they were with each other: familiar.
This step toward intimacy - maybe they shouldn't have made it. Maybe they
weren't meant to. Was it worth it, becoming lovers if it didn't last? Wouldn't
it be better to remain friends if they could *be* friends for the rest of their
lives?

The issue hung like a cloud over his head. No one noticed his gloom. No one
ever noticed him when he was alone. Scully was the one who drew the looks.
It was Scully who made him feel good about himself.

The meeting was uneventful. Skinner listened to his narrative, compared it to
Scully's, and signed off on the case. He made no comment about her absence.

The day passed. Mulder sat alone in the basement office, snacking on seeds
and drinking too much coffee. A few initial case notes arrived over the fax,
but he barely glanced at them. Hours passed with him rocking in his desk
chair and staring at the poster on the wall. *She'll come back. Even if she
opts for friendship, she'll be back. Can I accept that? Can I live with her as a
friend if I can't have her for anything else?*

*You bet your ass you can. She's the best thing that ever happened in your
miserable life. Don't fuck it up now.*

He gave up late in the afternoon and headed home. Nothing had been
accomplished. Sullen, he tugged on his jacket and limped out to the street,
where he hailed a cab and rapped out the address. Fuck it, he told himself
firmly. She'll be back tomorrow. Things go on. She loves you, you know she
does. Take what she can give. You'll never look back on this day and laugh,
but you *will* look back on it.

The apartment was empty, of course. The rotting takeout in the fridge gave
off an offensive stench. Disgusted, he emptied everything into the trash can,
then struggled down the hall and shoved it into the garbage chute. Dug some
pine-smelling stuff out of the cupboard under the sink and cleaned up the
crusted stains. When that was done, he hailed another cab and had it take him
to the nearest Safeway. Bought a month's worth of groceries and lugged it all
back home. By the time he was finished, his ankle was killing him.

She said to ice it. Fine, I'll ice it. Have a beer and watch some tube.

He got the bag of veggies out of the freezer and threw himself onto the
couch with the bottle in one hand and the remote in the other. He swore
under his breath as he molded the bag around his bare ankle. After the first
initial agony, the cold actually felt good. He popped the beer, but after three
sips gave up on it. Nothing on TV. Infomercials. Discovery was repeating
something on the real Jurassic Park. Great - perfect for the ten-year olds in
the audience. AMC had the most to offer in the form of an old Deborah
Kerr-Robert Mitchum film. He watched a while, but when the romance
blossomed he had to change it. Fine, go back to the dinosaurs. Dozens of
God-damned channels and there wasn't a fucking thing to watch.

There was a knock at the door. His gut immediately tightened as panic shot
through him. This is it. How could he know? Well, it made sense: the only
visitors he got besides Scully were the Gunmen, and all was quiet where they
were concerned, at least for the moment. He clenched his teeth as he
struggled to the door. He'd know as soon as he saw her. As soon as she
looked at him - or didn't look at him, as the case may be. A glance and he
would know. He'd have to be strong about it. Don't let her see how much he
hurt. That wouldn't do any good. Besides, friendship was okay. He could live
with that. He'd rather have a lover, but shit, he wasn't going to lose
everything.

*Stop obsessing and open the damn door.* He sighed to steady himself, then
peered out the small spyhole and caught a flash of auburn. The top of her
head. She was looking at her feet. His heart sank even further. Not a good
start. *Chin up, son. Take it like a man. Don't turn into a quivering mass, at
least not until she's gone.*

He forced his expression into something resembling a friendly smile and
opened the door. No, she didn't look away. At least not at first. That was
good - wasn't it? "Hey, Scully. Is it tomorrow yet?"

She managed a quick smile. "I, uh . . . can I come in?"

He ushered her past and locked the door. She set her purse in one of the
dining room chairs and kept going into the living room. Another good sign.
Her gaze lingered for a moment on the TV before she rounded back on him.
Her chin rose and her eyes were steady as they held his. When she spoke, her
voice was soft and even. "I'm sorry about today. I, uh, I needed some time."

He waved her away. "Turnabout's fair play. How many times've I ditched
you? You didn't miss a damn thing. Between your phone report and what I
had to say, the case is considered solved. Discussion over." He gestured to
the neglected beer on the coffee table. "You want something to drink? I can
get another one."

She frowned. "You only had one."

He forced a grin. "Naw, I did the unthinkable tonight. The Captain has the
week off."

She stared at him in feigned disbelief. "Don't tell me you bought food."

He nodded as he sat down in one of the dining room chairs. It creaked under
his weight. As well it should - the chairs never did get much of a workout.
No one ever sat at his dining table. "Damn straight. And I was just getting
comfortable with my trusty bag of frozen vegetables when you rang.
Thought maybe I'd pickup where I left off."

She took a half-step forward and leaned a shoulder against the living room
doorway. A tense half-smile pulled at her mouth as her gaze dropped to her
shoes again. "Funny you should mention that. What happened last night . . .
well, it's kind of been on my mind."

He glanced at her, then looked away. "Yeah, I figured." He forced himself to
look back. "You going to sit down or do I get the bad news long-distance?"

She blinked. "Bad news, huh? I thought I was the skeptic in our little act."

He almost cut her off, but a wiser impulse made him hold his tongue.
Besides, it was a joy just to look at her. At the glow of her milky
complexion. At the eyes that were almost as intense as the color of her hair.
How could he tell her what he was feeling without frightening her away for
good? He couldn't live without her. He didn't know how to *be* without her.

The silence hung between them like an invisible curtain. She laced her fingers
primly before her and cleared her throat. The navy turtleneck she wore
swathed her from chin to wrists. Had it been a conscious choice, he
wondered. Was it an attempt to make herself unattainable? Was she even
aware of that when she chose it?

"I came to a decision today," she said at last. "Mulder, I don't want to mess
up what we have."

His hopes plunged. He turned and looked back at the TV, trying to focus on
something other than his heartache. Well, he'd expected this. He'd get over it.
He'd done it before. Not over anyone remotely like his partner - but he would
find a way to get over it.

Did he give a tiny, disappointed sigh? He wasn't aware of it; but the way she
was staring at him, he had to wonder. "Mulder, are you listening?"

He nodded, his eyes and mind distant. "You don't want to mess up what we
have."

She snorted softly. "I thought so." She stepped closer and bent before him,
bracing herself with a hand on either arm of the chair. He forced himself to
look at her. God, the pain in his chest was awful. How could she not see it?
Go away, Scully. I'll be okay in the morning. Go away and let me grieve a
little. Just a little.

She looked at him, her gaze unflinching. "Neither of us want to mess up what
we have. But seven years, Mulder - I've been wondering what else we could
have. What else we might have had already." She smiled when his eyes
focused abruptly on her. "You're my best friend. Even after all we've seen
and done - and what we've put each other through - I don't see that changing.
Do you?" She touched his face with the back of her hand. "I might have lost
you. You were the one who was hurt, but I. . . It frightened me. I - I can't
*not* know what it is to love you." She bent still closer then and touched her
lips to his forehead. His temple. The curve of his brow bone. Finally his
mouth.

He shivered. With each touch the heartache lifted more and more until it was
gone. She was right - they'd been through so much together. What did the
future hold? At that moment he didn't care. All that mattered was that she
was here with him now. He caught her face in his hands, and a sob rose and
caught in his chest as he gazed into the blue depths of her eyes.

She reached for him, folding him in her arms and rocking him as she had so
many times in the past. His father's death. His mother's suicide. Her own
crippling illness. This time there was no sorrow, just tenderness and promise
and hope. He held her tight, his arms locked around her waist, his face buried
in soft navy.

The chirp of her phone shattered the stillness. She drew herself away
reluctantly, then bent for a lingering kiss before flipping the speaker open.
Her voice was soft, the tone a little uneven. "Scully. Yes, sir. I'm with him
now. Yes, he told me. When? All right, I'll be there." She disconnected
without another word and looked back at him. Pressed her face to his. He
closed his eyes. Just to touch her was a treat. God, how he missed her when
she wasn't there. Reality, however, provided its own strong counterpoint. He
put her away from him a little and looked up at her. "What did Skinner
want?"

Her eyes met his. "A prisoner turned up dead in the city lockup."

He groaned as he nuzzled into her softness again. Damn, his face was on a
level with her chest. It would be so easy to push that soft blue material up
and look at her breasts. All he wanted was a look. Yet she was leaving.
Again. "The M.E. can't handle it?"

She shook her head slowly. "Their office is tied up with a string of mob-hits.
It's okay, it won't take long. Just a post-mortem."

He sighed. Her breath was warm on his face. God, to be kissed by her was to
be touched by sunlight. Her lashes were like spidergauze on his cheek. He
groaned again when she gently drew herself away. "Mmmm. You want me to
go with you?"

She straightened and reached for her purse. "No. Stay here. You'll only
distract me."

He nodded slowly, smiling. "All right." He rose beside her, following as she
backed slowly to the door. His hands reached for her of their own accord.
She gently opposed them, keeping her distance. "Scully - " She looked at him
expectantly. "Don't come back here tonight. It's already late. Just go home.
I'll see you in the morning."

The corner of her mouth drew back. "Is that what you want, Mulder?"

He brushed a kiss along her jaw line, and she shivered. Even through the
turtleneck he could see what the prickleflesh was doing. Shit, how he wanted
to touch her. "Of course not."

Her smile broadened. "I'll make no promises."

She hadn't been gone for long when his own phone started in. Skinner again.
Mulder listened without comment. The report just came in. A child had
disappeared under peculiar circumstances up in Maine. An older sibling said
something about lights, and a weird inability to react. No reference was made
to his own past, but Mulder immediately heard the comparison. Fine, the
arrangements were being made. Scully had already been contacted and would
catch up with him at the airport. The M.E.'s case would have to wait.

He moved into automatic. Called for a cab, then packed a bag. But the
rehearsed movements, perfected through years of late-night summons, now
had a new significance. Shaving kit so he wouldn't scrape her face with a
day's growth of beard. Shampoo, which he'd never smell again without
thinking of her. Not one pair of running pants but two, just in case she
needed to borrow them again. He eschewed the formal suit and tie, opting
instead for jeans and sweaters. A turtleneck, like her. Maine would still be
cold this time of year.

The cab was late, so he drove himself. Ankle was better, or at least tolerable.
He parked in long term and rode the shuttle to the terminal. Caught a
glimpse of burnished copper from a thousand yards. The feelings it stirred
made him quicken his pace. Another late-night jaunt, just the two of them.
The infinite possibilities stretched out before him like some wonderful magic
carpet.

Her nose was in a book, of course. She rarely went anywhere without
something to read. He slowed as he approached, took an angled course that
would keep him out of her line of sight until he was almost upon her. Still, he
wasn't surprised when she looked up. They recognized one another's footfalls
in a carpeted hallway. Read in each other's silences and expressions what had
not been uttered. The flick of a brow, a narrowing of the eyes. Sometimes
whole conversations were carried out without a single word being uttered.

*My partner,* he thought with a smile as he dropped in the seat beside her.
*My friend.*


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Four: Crossing Over
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: Closure, Redux II
RATING: R for some serious sexual content.
CLASSIFICATION: S, UST, RST
KEYWORDS: Romance
SUMMARY: Where is their relationship heading?

~~~~~~~~~~

The flight took off on schedule. They conferred in low voices, poring over
the file which had arrived by FBI courier just as the doors were closing.
Scully watched her partner as he recited the facts. Twelve year old girl, at
home with an older sister. Parents were at work. Lights and sounds, and an
apparent paralysis. Scully frowned, digesting the situation. The parallels were
too close; how could he be so calm? She saw none of the old tension in his
face though, no pinching at the bridge of the nose or squinting that would
betray inner conflict. It had been a couple of months since the LaPierre
ordeal in California. Had he finally let go? Samantha was gone. It didn't
matter anymore how or why she was taken. She was at peace now, and so
was he. Watching him, Scully felt a stirring of sympathy, of empathy, and
more than a little tenderness. What he'd been through should never have
happened to anyone. Jesus, a little kid barely out of grade school shouldering
a responsibility his parents couldn't even handle. Sometimes she marveled
that he was sane at all.

Almost without conscious thought, she reached out and grasped his hand.
His long fingers entwined with hers, and she found herself smiling. He looked
up from the file and caught her eye. She felt a flutter in her belly as they
leaned in. The kiss was slow and lazy. Her smile broadened as she sat back.
When they got to Maine, the case would take center stage. Until the plane
landed, she was content to let her mind fill with sweet, heretofore forbidden
images.

Soon they would make love.

It was no longer a matter of *if*. Just the thought of it liberated a thousand
butterflies in her middle. It wouldn't happen until the case was solved, surely,
or until it was decided the Bureau had no jurisdiction over it. For the
moment she closed her eyes and indulged herself in a little fantasizing. His
slim runner's body was a thing of beauty. She was already aware of that.
Dressed the way he was, jeans and a dark turtleneck and that flowing
trenchcoat - how the women in the airport waiting area had stared. She'd
seen him any number of ways. Slumped in the chair at the office, or sprawled
on a couch. Dressed to the nines and looking oh-so delicious, or lying
helpless and broken in a hospital bed. Last night had offered something new
and strange and a little frightening; yet at the same time it was somehow
wonderfully familiar. She liked it. She'd had a sample of him, had taken his
full weight on her, holding him in the cradle of her arms, of her legs.

It surprised her how much she wanted him.

His smile, when he used it, could stop traffic. In seven years it'd made her
catch her breath more than once. It took very little effort to imagine those
hands on her, his fingers caressing the tender spots she'd schooled herself to
ignore. Her neck. Her throat. The flesh over her breastbone. She ached to
feel his hands on her breasts.

"I know what you're thinking." The voice was silky, the breath in her ear
warm. God, he was kissing her without even touching her.

She looked at him. His face was inches from hers. What a liberty it was,
returning his gaze without having to temper her own with feigned
indifference. In Maine she'd have to resume that cool, distant exterior. She
didn't have to do it when it was just the two of them. Not anymore. 

"You do." It wasn't a question.

His sigh was soft and deep. "This is going to be tough, not being able to
touch you."

She smiled as she studied him. Eyes that fairly twinkled with mirth. The mole
on his cheek. The pouting mouth. Oh, that mouth. *God, tell me something I
don't know. I've been not touching you for years.*

The fingers squeezed her hand again, the thumb gently circling and stroking.
It was hypnotic. Erotic. God, how could he do that? How could he turn her
on so just by touching her damn hand? She held his gaze, trying to burn into
her memory the shade and character of his eyes. Hazel eyes. No, not quite
hazel; more green. Yes, green but touched with gray. Shit, she never had
been able to decide, and staring at them now gave her no clearer insight. She
touched his cheek with the back of her hand. *If we're ever alone again,* she
told him silently, *you are in such trouble.*

His mouth twitched in the faintest of smiles. *Likewise,* his eyes gleamed
back.

The pilot's voice came over the PA system. They were getting ready to land.
Seatbelts on, please. No smoking until well clear of the terminal.

*Oh, right*, she thought, trying to get her fill of his smoky eyes. *We're
sitting here absolutely smoldering. This goes on much longer and we're going
to spontaneously combust. They'll have to put us out with a couple of seltzer
bottles.*

The descent was mercifully short. They released each other and gathered up
their belongings. Habit and necessity helped her find the distance she needed.
The casefile went into her briefcase. His expression, like hers, now carefully
blank. No one looking at them could guess.

They knew. Things could no longer be as they had been. Not anymore.

The neighborhood was ablaze with lights. Yellow tape cordoned off one
whole block, keeping the crush of reporters and on-lookers from invading
the crime scene. Scully looked around, noting details, already analyzing. A
glance a her partner told her he was doing the same. Passion was set aside.
They were good at what they did.

Each took a parent and questioned them. No hint of judgment in their tones,
and not much in the way of overt sympathy. Don't get personal on a case.
Then while Mulder interviewed the sister, Scully conferred with the cops. No
ransom call. No petulant message indicating a runaway. No one saw the
lights except for the sister, who was understandably upset. Had she described
what she had seen? Yes, but in vague terms. She was in shock, or under the
influence of something. Parents would not consent to a tox screen. Scully
nodded thoughtfully. With his gentle persistence, Mulder would get it out of
them.

She heard him call her name and excused herself. He drew her down the hall,
away from any prying ears. "Kid's a basketcase," he said, his voice barely
above a whisper. "Something's bugging me though. It's too pat. It's like she's
reading the transcript from a typical abduction scenario, reciting the facts
verbatim."

Scully glanced down the hall at the parents. "So you think this is a
confabulation."

He shrugged and nodded. "Can't say for sure right now, not yet, but I don't
think this is anything like an alien abduction. She's disassociating herself from
the whole situation. I'll need a couple psych tests, but my guess is she's a
borderline personality type. Maybe even schizophrenic. If one child is like
that, there's a good chance the other is, too."

Scully's eyes widened minutely. "They didn't find any physical evidence, did
they? Is it possible she killed her sister?"

He shook his head. "I don't get that from her. I think the kid's run off. I
mean, look. Twelve year old kid. A dysfunctional family, parents who by
their own admission are hardly ever home . . . Hey, I know whereof I speak."

She nodded. His aptitude in such cases was remarkable. She'd learned to
trust him. "All right. What do you plan to do?"

He looked past her to the mother, sitting like a statue on the living room
sofa. "I'm going to get permission for a tox screen. Then I'm having the girl
taken to the local hospital. Get a shrink to talk to her, do a full psych
screening. Hey, it's amazing what you can learn from an inkblot."

That earned him a wry smile. "Okay. I'm going to talk to the forensics team,
see if they've found anything that looks even remotely like a bloodstain. Let
me know before you take off anywhere. I'd like to be there."

"Yeah, I want you there, too. You need to order the blood work. That's your
bailiwick."

She nodded, and he turned away. The woman looked at him with huge,
haunted eyes. He spoke at length. She shook her head vehemently, but when
he kept at her, pressing and cajoling, she finally agreed. He patted her hand.
Scully watched it all, knew how he sounded even without hearing him. It
didn't matter what he said so much as how he said it. His voice was soothing.
Unaccusing, but unrelenting. *Help me help you.* So typical. No one knew
the woman's pain better than Mulder.

No one knew his better than Scully.

They checked into the motel around six the next morning. The girl was in
custody at the hospital, though all involved were careful not to call it that.
Her blood was drawn for the tests Scully ordered. The psych screening was
scheduled for that afternoon. They had time to sleep a little. Recoup from a
long night of stress and questions.

They took adjoining rooms, of course. The door between them remained
open. He went to a nearby coffee shop and bought juice and bagels, and they
ate them in his room. She studied him over her glass. He looked tired, but the
old tension still had not found its place in his expression. Perhaps he was well
and truly free of it. Did that make him care less about this case, or this
missing girl? Not a whit. His senses were honed, his movements both
physical and mental smooth and efficient. If anything, he was more focused
now. Didn't project the family's grief onto himself. Didn't find their anguish in
his own heart. Didn't need to carry it with him as he would have once.

Meal finished, she yawned and stood up. "Get some sleep, Mulder. I'll call
and arrange a wake-up at noon."

He nodded as he rose with her. Walked her to the door of her room just like
he was walking her home. Stopped in the doorway, not placing so much as a
foot past the threshold. Proper. They were on a case.

Almost proper. He caught his hands on either side of the doorjamb and
leaned down to her. It wasn't planned, but it was welcomed. A single, long
kiss. His mouth was warm and tasted of cinnamon.

They were separated by circumstance, but they weren't alone. The door
remained open.

The tox screen was negative. The psych screening bore out his theory: the
sister was disturbed. A thorough search of the neighborhood turned up
nothing, but a deeper investigation turned up a boyfriend unbeknownst to the
parents. The girl was found hiding in his closet. She too was put through a
battery of tests. The parents were given a list of psychiatrists.

The case was closed.

They drove in near-total silence down the coastal highway, heading back to
the small airfield. The view was breathtaking. No one does the vast, rocky
shoreline thing like Maine, Mulder thought. An impulse made him pull off the
highway and down a narrow road, to a state beach named after some
long-dead war hero. Scully said nothing. Their flight wasn't for two hours.
They had time to sight-see.

He followed the meandering road to the shoreline. The tide was out,
revealing a battlefield of worn granite battered smooth by the pounding of
the sea. Mulder felt no little connection to them. Such relentless forces had
shaped him, too. Yeah, the hulking boulders were kindred spirits.

They got out and walked down to the still water of a tidepool. Scully moved
to his side and stood just beyond his reach. "God, it's beautiful here," she
murmured. So green. So gray. Jesus, like his eyes.

He gazed at her. The view was suddenly inconsequential. "You ever been up
here?"

She shook her head. "Naval bases all over the place, but never this far north.
You?"

He grunted softly. Connecticut wasn't that far away, but after her divorce, his
mother had never been interested in much of anything. Places with nice views
had no place in her self-imposed isolation. For him, vacations amounted to
time spent away at summer camp. A tall, thin kid with gawking limbs and a
big nose - oh, yeah, he'd been the life of the party. No, happiness had not
been a frequent visitor in his life.

Not until now.

It was evening when they landed in DC. They walked together to her car,
slowly because of his ankle. She matched her strides to his. His hand hugged
her low at her waist.

They loaded the bags into her car, and then she drove him out to long-term
parking where his own was waiting. He silently opened his door, then leaned
back for a slow kiss. She felt the heat in her face as he drew back and looked
at her. What was there to say? He smiled and limped away. Unlocked his
own car and disappeared into the shadowy depths. She smiled as she pulled
away, out onto the highway heading for home. His headlights in her mirror
were a comforting beacon in the descending night.

He remained behind her, for once not bombing past in his haste to get . . .
somewhere. Anywhere. He stayed there, too, all the way to her Georgetown
neighborhood. Drove slowly past and parked a half-block away. She didn't
wait for him, but hurried up the walkway and shouldered aside the outside
door. Her fingers were unsteady as she unlocked her apartment. There was a
definite chill in the air; had to do something about that. She dropped her bag
and briefcase beside the couch, then went to the thermostat on the wall and
turned it up to seventy-six. Went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the
mirror. Her face was uncharacteristically flushed. Her mouth went dry when
she heard the soft knock at the door.

Somehow she resisted the temptation to run to him. She steadied herself with
a deep sigh and forced herself to walk slowly to the door. They were
grown-ups. They could do this.

Even before she turned the doorknob, she knew what was coming.

There was no greeting. No pretense of polite conversation. He stepped in,
one hand on the jamb and one on the knob, and kissed her. She could have
backpedaled - he left her the out, bless him. Her hands latched onto his face
as if drawn there by magnets, turning his head this way and that, seeking and
finding more of what she wanted. His hands left the structures they were
clinging to and found their way around her. No hesitation. Her arms were
around his neck. He smiled against her mouth as he straightened, lifting her
bodily inside. She reached behind him, fumbling a little, and set the deadbolt.

Then she got a hand on the collar of his jacket and gave it a little tug. He
dropped a shoulder, and the offending article fell at their feet. His shirt soon
followed it. She tugged hers off over her head and lost track of it. They
found it later on top of the armoire.

Bare torsos touched for the first time, and he gave a soft groan. "God, you're
beautiful."

She kissed him hungrily. "Try to carry me anywhere and you'll be in the
hospital."

That made him smile again. "Wouldn't dream of it."

When had the hallway gotten so damn long?

It took about six months to reach the bedroom. A trail of discarded items lay
in their wake - shoes, socks, her pants. The bed creaked softly as it took their
weight. She didn't think they'd ever get his jeans off. Something was
definitely holding up the show. His hands caught hers when she started to
yank down her bra. "No," he breathed, drawing her fingers away. "Let me."

She clenched her teeth in anticipation. As sweet as it was, his slow-motion
torture was almost more than she could take. He seemed to have no such
problem. Slowly he rolled her over on her back, and her legs automatically
rose around him. He nuzzled and kissed the underside of her jaw line, then
her neck, then her collarbone. Slowly he slipped down one side of her bra,
baring her breast. Bending, he first nuzzled, then kissed it. She almost
screamed in anticipation. At last he opened his lips and took it in his mouth.
Suckled. His mouth was hot against her skin. It stole her breath away, and
she lay motionless, rapt, suddenly unable to move or think. Her hands
tangled in his hair, holding him impossibly close. More. Oh, more. She
couldn't open her eyes. The sensations were maddening. Had a mouth on her
breast ever felt like that?

"Look, there's another one," he murmured, turning his attention to the
neglected twin. She almost laughed, but opted instead to murmur his name.
Oh, this was insane. Her heart was beating a wild frenzy in her chest, and
they were just getting started.

He moved to her mouth and kissed her. She greeted him hungrily. He braced
himself on his arms, bearing himself up over her. She wanted his weight.
Sought it, asking with movements and whispers for him to let go and just
*be.* It was what their bodies were designed for, this full-frontal,
face-to-faceness. Gradually he relented, allowing himself to melt over her and
press her into the softness of her mattress. The sounds she made all but drove
him to distraction. There were no moans or histrionic sighs, but tiny gasps as
his thumbs worked themselves around her wet nipples, first one and then the
other. She was murmuring his name, too - always Mulder, never Fox. After
so many years, what was the intimacy of a first name to them?

He felt her arch beneath him, trying to work him closer, trying to work him
in. He looked at her and whispered her name. Kissed her face, her eyelids.
"Look at me. I want you to look at me." There was a pause, and then he
found himself staring into the most beautiful pools of blue he had ever
imagined. He fought the impulse to look away. She stared up at him as he
worked his hips a little, and for the first time a soft moan escaped her. He
needed no guiding; she was right, she was designed just for this. Just for
*him.* Male and female, meeting in an act as ancient as time itself. And she
was ready for him, slick and warm and open. But he felt so damn big and
clumsy - God, he didn't want to hurt her, and she felt so tiny beneath him.
"Look at me," he breathed. "Look at me. God, you're beautiful. You're so
beautiful."

With one slow thrust he was in her. She stiffened and her eyes went wide,
then closed. For just an instant she grimaced as if in pain, and he felt a stab of
self-loathing. Of course it hurt; how could it not? He froze, torn. Should he
move? Did she need him to be still? How could he know without asking?
How the hell could he ask anything so fundamentally stupid right now?

Her eyes opened again and focused on him, and he felt her move a little
beneath him. "Better," she whispered. Her hands glided up and down his
back, caressing, leaving trails of fire on his skin.

He kissed her once. Twice. He wasn't hurting her. God, he might be able to
do this right. His spirit suddenly soared. To be in her felt so good he almost
cried. He bit his lips hard, fighting the urge to move, because just a thrust or
two now and it would be over, at least for him, at least for a while. He
bowed his head and pressed his temple to hers, murmuring her name. "Scully.
God, Scully."

The insanity passed. He began to move, slowly at first. Experimenting.
Moving his hips this way and that. Gentle circular movements. She moved,
too, sometimes with him, sometimes opposing him. When she sought his
neck with her mouth, he found the sensation almost more than he could bear.
Gently he caught her hands and drew them up over her head, crossing them
at the wrists. His face hovered over hers. Their gazes were locked. One.
*They* were one.

He could feel himself growing within her. Actually growing. He couldn't hold
out much longer at this rate. He slowed his movements and then abruptly
rolled, placing her on top. She followed his lead without protest. His arms
slid up and crossed around her rib cage, binding her to him. It took only a
moment to adjust, to find the perfect pressure. She climaxed almost at once
and somehow he sustained it, drawing it out as he began to pound in earnest.
A soft gasp escaped her as she writhed, impaled. "Wait for me," he
whispered against her temple. A veil of copper hair fell over his eyes as he
drove into her. Again. Again. Again. Then he heard her cry his name and that
was it he couldn't stop the sweet madness he was coming coming hard losing
himself in their cries *"Oh God Oh God Oh God . . . "*

He thrashed, arms still locked around her, legs stiff. It was never-ending, it
was crushing him, draining him, it was killing him but it felt so good he
wanted to die forever . . .

And then it was fading and he could breathe again. He drew a deep,
shuddering gasp as he slowed, then went slack beneath her. She raised her
head and looked at him. He stared back, dumbfounded.

She didn't have to say it, he could see the emotions in her clear, beautiful
eyes. She loved him. *She* loved *him.* Her hand rose and stroked his face
as a sob rose in his throat. What the hell had he ever done that he should be
worthy of such a gift as this woman? "No," she whispered, first wiping and
then kissing away his tears. He shook his head and tried to look away,
ashamed of his emotions, mortified by his inability to control them. She
wouldn't permit it. "Shh. All right. Let go, Mulder. Just let go."

He held her tightly as he wept. The tears weren't for him, he wanted to say;
they were for her. She'd been through so much bullshit because of him. Jesus,
how she'd suffered. Fear and loss and terminal illness, her own death averted
by some act of intervention they *still* didn't understand. Yet here she was,
not only still with him by choice but willing to love him. It was unfathomable.

His tears were for her. All he was, she was responsible for now. Anything
good, she had made him.

At last the sobs died away. He pressed his face to hers, drawing on her
calmness and strength to center himself. As he always had. As he always
would.

She dipped her head to kiss him again. He stared at her mutely, utterly spent.
A smile drew at her eyes, spread slowly to her mouth. "Better now?" she
whispered, touching a fingertip to his lips. He kissed the finger and nodded,
and her smile broadened. He almost cried again. God, to make her smile like
that - he'd make it his mission in life to make that happen every day. Every
damn, glorious day.

She scooted down, separating them where they were still joined, and tugged
the blankets up over them. He cupped a hand around her neck, pillowing her
head on his shoulder as she nestled herself around him. She smiled when he
pressed his lips to her forehead.

He loved her. No, more than that: he adored her. He'd do anything - anything
- for her. Now. Always. Right now he would just hold her as she slept.
Would she dream of him? He hoped so.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part Five: Small Hours
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: R for Romance, some tender loving
CLASSIFICATION: S, MSR
KEYWORDS: Romance
SUMMARY: Sacking out on the couch takes on a whole new meaning.

~~~~~~~~~~

He woke. Felt the softness of the blankets, the bulk of the pillow wadded
against his belly. His arms tightened around it as he muffled a quiet oath.
Alone. The dream was just a dream, but this time so real . . . so real. Her
eyes staring into his, her lips a warm open O against his, her warmth in him
and on him, surrounding him . . . but the dream ended. Again.

But where was he? This wasn't his bed. His place didn't smell like this. Shit,
these sheets smelled like . . .

They smelled like . . .

. . . like Scully.

He lifted his head with a jerk and looked around. A smile split his face.

There was a light coming from the living room. It cut the darkness in the
bedroom and cast long, writhing shadows on the walls. The TV was on. He
tossed back the covers and sat up, then drew on his jeans and buttoned them.
Carefully he padded out down the hallway and peered around the corner.

She was curled in a ball on the couch, wrapped in the soft green blanket that
lived there. She spied him at once and lifted her chin in greeting, as if it was
nothing new for her partner to wander out of her bedroom in the middle of
the night. He returned the gesture as he approached, then knelt on the carpet
before her.

The blanket fluttered and shifted, and her hand emerged and reached for his.
He quickly wrapped it in his own. "What time is it?"

She glanced at the wall clock over the TV. "Just after three."

He tried for a sullen pout but couldn't hold it. The dream had come true. "I
woke up alone," he murmured. Kind of scared me for a minute. I thought
maybe it had all been a dream."

She sat up and gestured to the couch beside her. He obediently draped
himself around her and drew her close. She pressed her face to the hollow of
his jaw. Oh, the times she had wanted him to hold her like this. "You were
asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

He nuzzled her hair. The faint scent of her perfume tempered with
perspiration still clung to her. He drew a deep, hungry breath. "Mmm, you
smell wonderful." Something on the TV caught his attention, and he looked
up curiously. The sounds of battle, of men dying. "Jesus, Scully, what are
you watching?"

She dropped a kiss on his nearest hand. "Braveheart," she whispered as she
unerringly found his mouth. No hesitation. She made love with the same
determination, the same singleness of purpose that she did everything else.
His heart skipped a beat. "I watched you sleep for a while," she said between
kisses. "It's weird though - " kiss "you knew you were being watched." kiss
"I could see it really bothered you. So I came out here." She kissed his brow
bone, his eyelids. He couldn't contain a soft moan of contentment. Didn't
even try not to respond to her touches. The first round of lovemaking had
allayed his appetite without satisfying it. Oh, the things she did to him could
drive all thought from his head.

Something in the film caught his attention and he frowned, squinting at the
screen. Uncontrolled mayhem. "You know, that's something we just don't get
a lot of around here."

She frowned a little. "What's that?"

He gestured with a lift of his chin. "The swords. We don't see many bodies
impaled on claymores."

She winced as she shifted, coming to face him. "And thank God for it, too,"
she murmured. The blanket slipped around her, and she smirked as his
attention immediately focused on her bare shoulder. He dipped his head and
pressed an open-mouth kiss to it. "If memory serves," she added, "there was
an impaling of some sort not long ago. I have to wonder if there won't be any
more of them."

He snorted softly with laughter. "You know how these characters work -
he'll keep it up as long as he can."

"Ooh, I hope so."

She opened the blanket and encircled him with it as she spoke. The hair on
his chest tickled her breasts, and her nipples immediately hardened. His arms
slipped around her bare back, caressing her with their warmth. God, it felt so
good. Every damn bit of him was like a draught she couldn't drink fast
enough. She kissed his mouth, then played her teeth down the line of his
stubbled jaw, tasting the salt and substance that was undeniably his. It was
like candy. She couldn't get enough of him. Her hand slipped down the
length of his torso, almost burning him with its warmth. "Dammit Mulder,
why'd you bother with your pants?"

He shivered as her lips played down the side of his neck, teasing the thin,
sensitive skin and setting him on fire. Jesus, but she was a quick study.
"You're right," he gasped, bucking his hips and shedding the jeans. "I don't
know what I was thinking."

She settled the blanket around them both, shuddering as she eased herself
down over him, around him. He bit back a gratified moan, then caught her
head in his hands and kissed her hard. She started moving, grinding herself
on him. His hands rose, caressing the flesh of her breastbone, circling the
hard nipples with his thumbs. He watched the changes in her expression.
God, she's beautiful. Her eyes closed and her head fell back, exposing the
pale column of her throat. He bit it gently, playing his teeth and tongue down
the length of her windpipe. A strange little smile drew at her lips as she
caught her breath.

"Hey," he murmured, lifting his hands away. She managed to open her eyes.
They were heavy and full of fire. Her hips kept up their unobtrusive
movements as he kissed her. "Enough with the sighs already. I want to hear
you." He gently bit the point of her chin. Her mouth found his again, but he
managed to drag himself away - God, the effort that took. "I want to hear
you, Scully. Let me hear you."

Her eyes burned as they stared into his. She was drunk with him, he could
see it. She nodded slowly as her rocking increased. His arms were around her
waist, increasing the lift, the impact. Harder. Harder. He whispered in her
ear, coaxing, teasing, pleading as she writhed in his arms. Within seconds she
was panting audibly, her arms locked tight around his neck, her face straining
against his. "What're you doing to me?" she breathed. "God, I can't . . . I
can't . . ."

At last a sound the likes of which he'd never heard rose out of her, a high
keening wail, soft and drawn out. Jesus, she was singing his name, over and
over in her rapture. *I'm making her sing.* With that realization, the last
degree of control slipped away. A sweet explosion ripped through him,
starting in his vitals, spurring him, rending him, squeezing and breaking and
consuming him. He couldn't have contained his own cry even if he'd tried.
His surrender was complete, the climax intense to the point of pain. He was
in her, in her heart and her body, and in that moment his own heart all but
exploded.

An eternity passed as they hung there in that nether-world, caught between
ecstasy and exhaustion. They were aware of sounds and smells, of the
smooth touch of warm, wet skin. To move was a physical impossibility. She
felt groggy, her limbs unwieldy, her thoughts scattered. Some part of her, the
clinical part, knew what it was. Oxygen deprivation. The effect of lactic acid
built up in overly-taxed muscles. The repeated sharing of carbon dioxide shed
during the exertion of sex.

What a cold description of something so sublime. To hell with science - it
was magic, this thing that existed between them. It was magic, what he did
for her. What she did to him. Stop the presses, world. She, Dana Scully, was
admitting to the existence of magic. How else could they go from frenzied
ecstasy to profound lassitude and even slumber in the blink of an eye? One
extreme to another in the time it took for pulse rates to fall back within
normal limits.

She summoned the energy to move, and his arms, which had gone slack,
immediately tightened around her again. A soft murmur rumbled in his chest.
"Jesus, Scully, I think I felt my heart stop."

It took tremendous effort to lift her head and look at him. His eyes held hers
effortlessly, beautiful gray-green in the half-light from the set. The madness
she had seen in them was in abeyance, but it was still there in the impish
twinkle. The slow half-smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth. Oh, he
might be subdued, but he'd never be conquered. She didn't fight the impulse
to kiss him. She could do that. Here, away from prying eyes and speculating
whispers, she could do whatever she damn well pleased.

He drew a breath and combed the hair away from her face with an unsteady
hand. "You take my breath away, Agent Scully," he whispered. "I'd like
nothing more than to accommodate you again, but I don't think I can move
right now."

She smiled as she lowered her mouth to his shoulder. "Mmm, you don't have
to," she murmured, gently biting the side of his neck. The fluttering carotid
throbbed just beneath the skin. She nuzzled and then kissed it. The smell of
him was intoxicating. How could she want him still, after what had just
happened? It made no sense. It just was.

She glanced at the TV. Wallace and the Princess were in the shepherd's
cottage, talking. He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing just a little. "I've
never seen this before," he murmured, "but if I'm reading their body language
correctly, they're about to do the wild thing." Wallace stepped close for the
kiss, and Mulder gave a satisfied grunt. "God, am I good or what."

She smiled. Said nothing as she watched him watch the couple. He allowed
himself to be studied for a few moments, then turned his attention back to
her. Kissed her gently. "Mmm, I don't need a thigh-cam to know what they're
doing."

She smiled when his stomach rumbled softly. Something was definitely ailing
him, and this time sex was not the prescription. She leaned close. "Protein,"
she murmured against the stubbled skin of his throat. "Gotta have it if you're
going to keep giving it away." Slowly she pushed herself up, lifting away
from him. He gasped at the chill left in her wake. "Stay here. Watch the
movie. I'll be back."

Jesus, after his furnace-like warmth she was all but freezing. She left him the
blanket and hurried to her bedroom. Her teeth actually chattered as she
tugged on her robe and slippers. She glanced at the clock. It was almost four
in the morning. Breakfast at that hour wasn't insane. The fact that she hadn't
slept much and didn't even want to - that was insane.

She set about scrambling some eggs. Made toast and coffee. Found the
biggest glass she had and filled it with whatever juice there was in the fridge.
All the while she could feel his eyes on her. Eyes the color of that
wind-swept bay in Maine, green and gray and brimming with emotion. A
twinge of melancholy tugged at her heart. Eyes that had seen so much, and a
heart that had lost even more. A mind suddenly, violently forced to maturity
at an obscene age. Childhood arrested.

He'd had no choice but to take up psychology, if only in an attempt to come
to terms with himself.

She felt the warmth of his hand on her waist even through her robe. "Mmm,
can I have some?" he murmured, stepping close and linking his arms around
her.

His breath was warm on her neck. She closed her eyes for an instant, steeling
herself against his gentle onslaught. "Who do you think this is for?"

His reply was muffled against her neck. "I wasn't talking about the eggs." He
chuckled at her uncharacteristic giggle.

She managed to shrug him away. "Back off, G-man. I don't want to get
burned here. Here, take this and go sit down."

He took the proffered items, a plate of toast and the jam, then came back and
dug in a cupboard for a cup. Favored her with a lingering glance, then drew
out a second and filled them both. She scooped the steaming eggs onto a
plate and joined him. Stirred cream into her cup and watched as he attacked
the food.

He glanced at the microwave, making note of the time. "Going to be light
soon. Funny, I don't feel tired."

She allowed herself a patient smile. "No, my guess is the fatigue will set in
around one or so."

He took a sip of coffee and grunted behind the cup. "I think we should just
stay in today. Phone in sick. I'll tell Skinner I'm taking the day off. Wrapping
up case notes. Working at home is more interesting anyway."

She gave him one of her looks, the one that said Spare me the bullshit. "You
know that isn't possible."

He scowled. "You're really going to make me sit in that basement with you
and not let me even touch you?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't think we should spend much time together
at all today. You're very good with those blank looks, but I don't think I can
maintain the facade. Not today."

His scowl deepened into a frown. "You're not staying home alone." It wasn't
a question.

She smiled into her coffee. "I didn't say that. There're some things I can do
out at the labs. Enough to keep me busy. I can come up with a plausible
excuse for blushing as long as you're not around."

He reached across the table and stroked her face. He didn't smile, but his
eyes were full of laughter. "I make you blush?"

She cast a meaningful glance at the couch. "You make me do a lot of things,
none of which are suitable for the workplace. Are you finished? C'mon, we
can get at least a few hours' sleep before we have to haul ass."

He clutched the blanket around him as he pushed himself to his feet, the
twinkle in his eye already apparent. "Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

She gave him one of her pained looks. "Sleep, Mulder. Don't make me send
you home."

He opened the blanket and enfolded her. Nuzzled the hair away from her ear
and breathed on it seductively. Her eyes closed in reflex. "Mm, how would
you do that? I'm a lot bigger than you are." The nuzzle became an active kiss.
"Thanks for the food. I'm feeling stronger already."

She tried to push him away, but the attempt was half-hearted. "Sleep," she
repeated, her tone stern.

He shadowed her down the hall to the bedroom, and pouted when she
donned a long shirt in place of the robe. "Spoilsport."

She flashed him a wry smile as she drew back the covers. "Sleep, little fox."

He dropped the blanket and nestled in beside her. She didn't protest when he
drew her close, sculpting her body into the curve of his chest and hips and
legs. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. Mmm, his little bit of heaven.
No longer an unknown, but always a mystery. Always that. He laid his head
on the pillow with hers and closed his eyes.

It occurred to him that she might never say the words. She was thinking
them, of that he was sure. Strange that it didn't bother him. Then again, her
reserve was a large part of who she was. Besides, some things didn't have to
be uttered. He'd seen it in her eyes.

Happily, he felt no such compulsion to silence. Lazily he dragged his lips
down the back of her neck, and smiled when he felt her shiver. "God, I love
you so much."

There was a pause, and then she turned and looked at him over her shoulder.
Returned the gentle kiss. Half-closed eyes sought his, and then she smiled.
"Likewise." He smiled and drew her even closer.

They slept.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 6: "Paging Dr. Scully . . ."
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: V, H
KEYWORDS: Hickey.
SUMMARY: See above. Enough said.

~~~~~~~~~~

Quantico
Friday 10:17 a.m.

God, this was really awkward.

The whole day had started out surreal. No, scratch that - the day *started
out* like something from a dream. It was just since leaving her apartment
that things began to take on a certain strangeness. It wasn't a bad strange; but
it was definitely weird.

First off, she couldn't quit smiling.

It wasn't the goofy, I-just-got-lucky grin that she was sure would be on
Mulder's face for days. Rather, it was a gentle smile, perhaps even a smirk,
that simply wouldn't fade. It tugged constantly at the corner of her mouth
and drew at her eyes even when she tried to look stern. God, if she didn't
watch herself, she was going to start humming. How un-Scully would that
be?

She checked in with the pathology department and put herself down for a
couple of the overflow cases. There were always autopsies that needed
doing; with the exception of her partner, investigating officers usually didn't
tend to care who cut up their stiffs. Then she went to the lounge and changed
from her street clothes into scrubs. The gray-green of the simple cotton held
none of the appeal that her partner's eyes did; neither did the rather bilious
color do much for her complexion.

It *was* her complexion, wasn't it? She scowled at her reflection in the
mirror, barely recognizing herself. Okay, she'd always heard about the glow
that great sex could lend a woman, but up until now she'd never seen it. Shit,
even when she tried, she couldn't get rid of the simper! Sighing, she scooped
together as much of her hair as she could and trapped it in a tail. It was
largely a futile gesture; that last hair cut had been a big mistake.

And that's when the day got just a little stranger.

*Oh, hell. What's that?* Eyes wide, she tilted her head to the side and
frowned as she peered at her reflection. A mark. No, strike that - a bruise.
She had a God-damned bruise on her neck right below her ear, just the size
and shape of a human mouth. It was faint yet, barely more than a blush on
her skin, but by the end of the day it would be a shiner. *Ah, hell. Damn this
shitty pale complexion! Might as well wear a big damn sign on my chest that
says Yes, as a matter of fact, I did!* She immediately released the tail and
shook out her hair, then combed it down with her fingers. *There, that's not
so bad. God, why did I get it cut so short. Okay, think! I suppose I could
wear my turtleneck under the scrubs. Tell people I'm cold. The bays are
chilly; maybe they won't find it too strange, my being swathed up to my ears.
I swear I'm gonna kill Mulder. When the hell did he do it? Must have been
this morning's . . . session. Jesus, I can't believe him. I've always known he's a
sexual creature, but *three times?* What the hell does he eat? Is it all those
sunflower seeds? How in the name of God will he be able to function
today?*

She went to a bench and sat down with a little grunt. A twinge of discomfort
lanced through her pelvis, and she winced as she shifted a little. Oh, perfect.
She was sore. Small wonder; the last time some of those muscles had been
used, George and Barbara were still in office.

She stripped off the shapeless top, pulled on the blood red turtleneck she'd
been wearing, and donned the scrubs over it. The colors didn't work at all,
but at least the bruise was covered. Well, mostly covered. She scowled at
herself again. *Don't sing, Dana. Don't hum. Whatever you do, don't even
think about him. People around here aren't stupid. They've had you two in
bed for years, and here you are with bright eyes and a dumb smile and a
hickey on your neck the size of a fist. All you need to do is connect the dots
for them. Hey, everyone, look! The Icemaiden got laid last night!*

She rose and looked at her reflection again. There it was. The smile. *Love
you. Love you, Scully.* His voice whispered back to her from the night, and
she felt her skin tingle from his phantom touches. Oh, God, he could do it to
her without even being there. How was that possible? *Magic. You said it
yourself. What he does is magic.* She gave her head a shake. Yep, there it
was. Now she was blushing. Ah, hell. She heaved a sigh. *They've had us in
bed together anyway, maybe they won't notice that it finally happened.
Screw'em.* She lifted her chin and set her shoulders. *Don't forget why
you're here. The cadavers won't give a shit what you've been doing. Just go
get the work done.*

And don't even think about Mulder. Don't think about that sound he makes
when he's inside you, or that thing he does with his eyes at *just that
moment,* and for God's sake, don't think about the look on his face when
*you* made that sound last night . . .

She hitched her collar a little higher up her neck.

God, this could really get embarrassing.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 7: Hopeless
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: None
RATING: PG-13 for language.
CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR
KEYWORDS: none
SUMMARY: Trapped in a meeting with nothing but his thoughts for
company.

~~~~~~~~~~

He hated these meetings.

He was running late, of course. Barely made it into the Hoover Building
before Skinner lassoed him with a dreaded request. Quarterly staff meeting,
and McMartin was out with acute appendicitis. Could Mulder sub for him on
the Violent Crimes cases he and Scully had assisted on?

Appendicitis, for God's sake? Who the hell got appendicitis at, what - how
the hell old was McMartin anyway? Fifty? Okay, so it wasn't exactly
something that he could have planned on - but Mulder had seriously looked
forward to holing up in his warren and doing a little napping. A little thinking
about Scully. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his face. No, can't
smile, not here in a meeting surrounded by a dozen federal corpses. Just sit
there, numb with boredom and not able even to pop sunflower seeds. Shit.

He wondered absently if he had reacted to the sound of his partner's name
rolling out of Skinner's mouth. He was fairly certain he'd schooled his
expression, maintaining his customary blank look. Skinner was old school
when it came to such matters. There was no way he couldn't be aware of the
rumors that had been swirling for years around Mulder and Scully, but
because he expected more from them, it probably wouldn't even occur to him
that they had committed a sizable transgression. Well, transgressions. Plural.
Still, the man wasn't stupid. Mulder would have to watch himself. Shit, it was
going to be tough, not smiling when he thought of her.

Especially when he could still taste her. His flesh remembered her touch; he
could still feel her even though she was miles away at Quantico. Working in
the labs, assisting in classes maybe, or lending a hand with autopsies. Lucky
fucking stiffs, having those hands touch them. Those hands that, hesitantly at
first, had explored his body, stroking and probing, touching, fulfilling hopes
and fantasies he'd always felt guilty for ever entertaining . . .

With a start he realized that Skinner was looking at him. His turn to speak.
Calmly he recited the facts from the X-files that paralleled those in the
Violent Crimes Division. There were a few patronizing looks from the agents
around him, but he was long used to ignoring them. Stoically he gave the
facts and figures, then retired with a sigh and picked up his pen. Put it down
again for fear of doodling on the pad, for fear that, like a hyper-hormonal
teenager, he would begin writing her name over and over in the margins. Or
worse yet, draw shapes that reminded him of her. *No, don't even go there.
Distract yourself. Think about work. Think about cases.* No, that wouldn't
work either; Scully was too tightly interwoven through work. Almost
frantically he cast about for some thought that wouldn't prove arousing. Shit,
what was the matter with him? Three times in twelve hours wasn't enough?
He was hopeless! If he couldn't keep things under control when she wasn't
around, how the hell would he manage when she was right there in the room
with him?

The meeting lasted forever. When at last Skinner released them with a curt
nod, Mulder rose gingerly for fear that his burgeoning hard-on would be
clear and obvious for all to see. No, all the other agents were busy elsewhere,
drawing up their files and notes and such. Some looked bleary-eyed and
slumberous, as if they had indulged in a waking nap. He made a quick exit,
before anyone could ask him about his partner's absence, and beat a hasty
retreat to the basement.

A glance at his watch as the door slammed behind him. Three-thirty. Fatigue
still hadn't set in. He sighed as he dropped the files on his desk and picked up
the phone. He had her cell number dialed before he realized what he was
doing. Ring ring ring. The cellular customer you are . . . Dammit, she was
tied up somewhere.

Lunch? No, he wasn't hungry. Coffee would suffice. He set a pot brewing,
then checked the fax. There were a few incoming cases that might prove
interesting. Later though. God, what if Skinner came up with something for
him to do? He felt a twinge of genuine anxiety at the thought. What if he sent
him off on some miserable case in Nosewipe, Arkansas? Now, when he had
the entire weekend to look forward to? The thought was unbearable. Forget
the coffee, forget the new case notes. He'd done his bit for the company; he
was taking some personal time. After all, they'd just completed two cases in
one week. He still bore the battle scars. Without sparing it a second thought,
he called Skinner's assistant and asked her to break the news to the boss.
Scully would be occupied all day out at Quantico, and he, Mulder, was going
home to nurse a sprained ankle.

Okay, so that cleared him for the day. Should he go home? What he really
wanted to do was drive out to Quantico himself. Poke around, see if there
was anything interesting he could dig up. Hope to catch a glimpse of his girl.
His heart leapt at the thought. Not just his partner - his girl. The one he had
seen coming out of the bathroom that morning, swathed in that damn robe,
her face glowing from a lot more than a good scrubbing. The one who had
wrapped her legs around him in the night, and left small but impressive dents
in his back from her nails.

He felt a tickle deep in his belly as he headed for the garage. His partner, he
thought with a smile. His lover. His friend.

He'd give her something special to come home to.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 8: After Hours
~~~~~~~~~~

SPOILER WARNING: none
RATING: R for sexual content
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, MSR
SUMMARY: What to do after a hard day's work?

~~~~~~~~~~

Scully glanced at the wall clock as her assistant whipped the sheet up and
covered the pale corpse. Almost four. She had time for a cup of coffee
before checking the PCR on the case she was looking into for McMasters.
Funny that she hadn't heard from Mulder all day. Something was keeping him
occupied. He'd been running late, of course, what with having to go back to
his apartment to change for work. Had Skinner been pissed off by his
tardiness? Not likely, but not impossible. Skinner was nothing if not prickly.

Then again, she didn't keep her cell phone on hand when she was up to her
elbows in a cadaver. Maybe he had tried to call and been stymied.

A voice called after her as she headed for the elevator. "Dana, do you have a
minute?"

Shit, it was Carl Lawrence. She tried not to wince as she turned. Nice
enough as colleagues went, but beyond dull. A regular CPA with a scalpel.
Hastily she forced her mouth into a polite smile. "Sure, Carl. What is it?"

He shrugged apologetically and nodded over her shoulder to one of the bays.
"I'm in a bit of a bind. More work than I can get done today, and I hate
falling short on promises. I heard you were still here, and I was hoping I
could prevail upon you for -"

A soft chirp cut him off. Her cell phone, quiet all day, thankfully chose that
moment to demand attention. She half-smiled as she dug it out of her breast
pocket. "Yeah, Scully."

"What're you wearing?"

Oh, the heat that rushed into her face at those words. Somehow she managed
to retain her composure, kept from grinning like an idiot. "Mulder, what is
it?"

"The question was, what're you wearing? One of those sexy scrub outfits, I'll
bet, with your hair tied back at the nape of your neck, maybe wearing one of
those paper hats. Has anyone noticed that bruise under your ear? I'm really
sorry about that. Haven't given anyone a hickey since college."

She closed her eyes. Restraint. Gotta have restraint, what with the Professor
standing beside her, listening to every word she said. "Yes, Mulder, I am
busy just at the moment. What do you need?"

Oh, bad choice of words. He promptly listed each of his desires, and the
litany quickly approached erotic. She stepped away with a hasty glance at
Lawrence, fearful that Mulder's voice would carry across the few steps
separating them. "Wait, wait a minute. Where are you? Please tell me you're
not at the office."

He gave a soft purring moan. "Where do you think I am? Home, in my dingy,
lonely apartment. I took the afternoon off. Told the boss I was coming home
to ice my poor little foot. Yeah, I'm having a real problem with swelling. I
was kinda wondering if you could come by and assess it for me. The rate it's
going, something's going to blow. Soon."

She pressed a hand to her forehead, unable to block out the image. "Yeah, I
get the idea. I, uh, I need a few minutes to finish up here. Stay put. I'll be
there as soon as I can." He started to say something more, but she cut him
off with an unceremonious stab at the power button, then turned back to
Lawrence with a contrite smile. "Sorry, Carl. My partner needs me on a
case."

He peered at her as he waved the whole issue aside. "No, don't apologize.
Dana, are you all right? You look flushed. Not coming down with something,
I hope."

She allowed herself a cautious smile. "No, I'm fine. I'm sorry I couldn't be
any help. Good luck." She spun away and stabbed at the elevator call button,
chewing furiously on her lip. Clearly it was time to set down some ground
rules.

First, though, he had to make good on a few things he'd just mentioned.

It was a long ride to Arlington. Not so many miles, but traffic was well into
its Friday night stutter-step, and the knowledge of what awaited her made
time absolutely creep. Nothing to do but snail along. She thought about him
in his darkened apartment, reclining on the couch, nursing that swelling he'd
mentioned, and her stomach did a flip-flop. Gotta find a distraction or I'll go
mad. Radio? Blah blah blah. New station. Some guy wailing I can't go on
without you. New station. Country? No way. Gotta remember to pick up a
few CDs! Back to silence. Her thoughts - and her body - were screaming.

Three weeks later, or so it felt, she pulled up outside the apartment building
on Hegal. Her fingers were shaking as she locked the car. Shit, how many
times in the past seven years had she been there, and now suddenly she was
an adolescent again.

Ain't love grand. Love, and the promise of some delicious sex.

Another three weeks' wait for the elevator. It lurched to a stop on the fourth
floor. Her knees went weak at the sight of his door. Get a grip, Dana, she
told herself firmly. It was laughable, what the thought of him was doing to
her. Funny that she hadn't the breath to so much as chuckle.

A note was stuck over the deadbolt, with two words in Mulder's familiar
untidy hand: *Use Key*. She fumbled for her key ring. The deadbolt went
thunk. She gave the door a little shove and took a hesitant step in.

The apartment was dim, the only illumination coming from the late afternoon
sun. It was also apparently empty. From very far away she heard the soft
strains of jazz. The sound was distant, diffuse - she wasn't sure it was even
coming from his stereo. She frowned as she looked around. "Mulder?"

Behind her, the door closed of its own volition. A hand caught itself around
her wrist, the long fingers molding themselves around her flesh like warm
steel. She suspected that any effort to pry them away would be wasted.

As if she would even try.

Don't move." It was barely a whisper. His breath stirred her hair and caressed
her face. She stood frozen in place, unable to draw a decent breath. The hand
released her, rose to her collar. He drew the blazer off and away, then hung it
with care on one of the coatrack prongs. Arms slid around her waist then,
and a warm mouth found its way under her hair and down her neck.

Someone moaned softly. She wasn't sure who.

"Welcome home," he whispered, spreading fire with his breath. She closed
her eyes as his tongue supplanted his lips, drawing a warm, wet line from ear
to collarbone. "Mmm, salty. Tough day at the office?"

She allowed her head to fall back against his shoulder, then reached back to
touch him with her hands. They encountered silk. His own hands slid up and
began slowly working at the buttons of her sweater. It wasn't a complicated
problem, and he proved to be adept. She murmured his name as he brushed a
hand along the bare skin of her abdomen.

They began swaying very slowly in time to the music. Yes, definitely his
stereo.

His hands were driving her a little crazy. She tried to turn into his embrace,
eager to lose herself in his warmth, but he stopped her with a murmured
reprimand. "Shh. No need to rush." He nuzzled her ear tenderly. She turned
her face, caught a hand around the back of his neck, and drew him down to
her. Their first kiss was slow and soft. He teased her with his tongue, playing
it just between her seeking lips before withdrawing it. She moaned a gentle
protest.

"I want to feel you," she whispered. Her voice was unsteady.

He smiled against her cheek. "I'm right here."

Her arms rose and encircled the empty air before her. "I want you here."

Those God-blessed lips were working their way around the back of her neck
and starting in on the other ear. "You know what Spock said," he replied
softly, punctuating his words with soft, wet kisses. "Having isn't so great a
thing as wanting."

A shiver racked her. For her very soul, she couldn't open her eyes. "Spock
was full of shit. I liked McCoy."

He snorted softly against her skin. "Figures." He reached the blemish under
her ear, the one that fit the dimensions of his own mouth, and kissed it.
"God, you smell good."

It was her turn to snort. "Like an autopsy theater?"

"Mmm, not at all. You have a smell all your own. All the chemicals and
mentholatum in the city couldn't change it. It starts out as your perfume and
shampoo and whatever else you use. Add a little sweat, and simmer all day.
God, there's nothing like it." He slid his hands up her sides and drew the
sweater off, then caught her hands and spread her arms wide. She shivered as
gooseflesh rose on her arms and chest. He made an approving sound. "Oo,
Braille. Thanks for the assist." His hands stroked down her arms and back
up, down and back, touching and caressing the tender flesh inside her
elbows, her wrists, under her arms. The sensations were intoxicating; she felt
as though she were drugged. Then the hands set a new course, encircling her
waist and at last turning her to face him. She murmured as she reached for
him, but found herself once again denied as he fell slowly to his knees before
her, clutching his arms around her and molding her to him. He pressed his
face into the valley between her breasts and groaned very softly. She stroked
his hair, mussing and then straightening it again. By stooping, she could just
reach his forehead to kiss it.

How long were they like that, frozen and yet hot enough to melt the wax on
his hardwood floor?

A finger caught itself under the strap on her shoulder and drew it down. She
knew what was coming and braced herself for it, but it was too little too late;
the sensation of the first suckle almost dragged her to her knees. She swayed
against him and tried without success to bite back a throaty moan. "Jesus
God, Mulder."

He looked up at her, and she had no trouble seeing the humor in his smoky
eyes. "Are those their names? Which one is this?"

It was all she could do not to crush his nose back into her breast. "Call them
anything you like, just don't stop."

He snorted softly as he lavished the overlooked breast with similar attention,
then gently drew the nipple between his teeth and let it slide free again.

Then he faltered. She looked at him in time to see his eyes narrow minutely.
He'd found it: the scar where that cretin from New York had shot her. It was
high up, right of midline and just under her rib cage. She didn't like the
stricken look that immediately replaced the teasing desire in those eyes.
Firmly she caught his chin in her hand and lifted his face, tearing his gaze
from the mark. "No," she said softly. "Don't you dare start deconstructing
the past. It happened. It's a part of me, part of the map that makes up who I
am." He looked at her silently, and she saw the guilt and uncertainty in his
eyes. He was unconvinced. Bending a little, she covered his mouth with hers.
If she couldn't banish the demons completely, she could at least drive them
back into the shadows. After a moment she felt him respond. Ah, that was
better. And she could hold him now. Jesus, to fold her arms around him was
one of life's sweetest rewards. She wasn't aware of falling to her knees with
him. Bare skin met bare skin. Lips touched and opened, inviting and
responding. Their tongues met and twined in a continuation of the caress.
Salt and sweet - God, the taste of him . . .

He broke off and looked at her, and she saw at once that she'd succeeded: his
eyes were shining with mirth. "We've brought each other to our knees," he
whispered, lifting her hand to his mouth and trailing his lips across her
knuckles. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to sack out on the dining
room floor. C'mon, let's take this to a softer playing field."

The sensual strains of music followed them to the bedroom. Her clothes fell
in their wake. His silk boxers joined them.

The sheets were soft and inviting and smelled of him. He too had his own
scent and, like him, she could not get enough of it. Their passions played out
not in the manner of the previous evening, but slowly and with great
deliberateness. They explored. Memorized. Experienced with every sense
available to them. Oblivion was their ultimate destination, but tonight the
journey was long and warm and sweet.

Still, it ended much the same. He watched her in the light of the dying sun.
The trust she had in him, in his ability to do these things for her - he couldn't
help but be moved. And to feel the changes in her, the hot fluid of her
excitement, the unrelenting need to hold and be held - her pleasure became,
in essence, his. As she approached insanity, he rolled her over and redoubled
his efforts, gliding without effort or thought into her, his stroke long and
heavy. She arched her back, rising to meet him, her delight finding voice
between her sharp gasps. He covered her mouth with his, muting her cries as
she succumbed, one wave following the next and each sweeter than the last.
He tumbled right after her, lost all semblance of conscious thought, felt
nothing but the crippling power of his own explosion. Throwing back his
head, he cried out from the depths of his soul.

How she liberated him.

She held him tight as he slumped around her, bones dissolved, limbs flaccid,
all thought driven from his head. He couldn't think at all, merely lived
through what he felt. The warm limbs still gripped him, her arms around his
chest, her legs his hips. Somehow he found the energy to lift his head and
kiss her. She caught her hands round his face, framing his flesh with hers. Oh,
the sweetness of her mouth against his. It was enough in life just to be there
with her, to feel her full lips caress his temple, his closed eyes. His own
mouth.

Slowly he rolled to the side, freeing her. She held him as post-coital inertia
claimed him. Coiling her fingers through his hair, she listened as his breaths
evened out and lengthened. His heart beat just above hers. So right. It was all
so right.


~~~~~~~~~~
More Than A River, Part 9: Caught in the Act
~~~~~~~~~~

RATING: PG-13 for acts of affection.
CLASSIFICATION: S, H, MSR
KEYWORDS: none
SUMMARY: Sometimes that ringing phone should not be ignored.

~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere, a phone was ringing.

Mulder groaned softly as he rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock.
Five-thirty? Who the hell would be calling now? He sighed as he dropped his
head back on the pillow. Let it ring. He knew who it *wasn't,* and that was
enough for the moment. The answering machine picked up on the fourth
ring, and he heard his own disembodied voice begin its spiel. *Fox Mulder,
yadda yadda yadda . . .*

Blindly his hand groped about the bed and encountered a warm body,
encased in cotton and burrowed under the warm comforter. Ah, there she
was. He edged closer and slid his arm around her. She murmured a sleepy
protest. "No, s'too early."

He sighed as he dragged her back against him. "Go t'sleep," he whispered,
settling his head b