Subject: *New story* Title: Figs (1/2) First off, the disclaimer. These two wonderful creatures do not belong to us, they belong to Chris Carter and Gillian and David (Love conquers all!), all of whom would probably roll over in their proverbial graves if they knew what the Brain and I visualize them doing. But we have tried to do them justice in our representation of them. Please don't sue us - even if we did have enough money to pay the media moguls, the Brain is a legal student so we might even win the rights to them :-). Victor Thompson is ours. He's revolting, but you can borrow him if you *really* want to. Figs is a piece that we have been working on for probably months by now. It contains romance. No, scrap that, it IS romance. If the thought makes you sick in the stomach this is where you get off. You have been warned. While the story does have heavy romance it does not get into graphic sex, so, not quite NC17. Many walks, many three o'clock in the mornings and many many obscure phone calls resulted in this story.We never dreamt that it would get posted, but there you are. We hope you enjoy it. Any comments should be posted to Imp@hotmail.com (Poster interrupts-my sincere apologies if replies are not forwarded immediately) Oh, and the poem is one of D.H.Lawrence's brain children. The sickest one we could find that suited our purposes. Thanx: The Pen and the Brain. ====>, {*}. ***** FIGS. THE first thing Fox Mulder noticed when looking down at his petite partner was that as she reached out to unlock her front door, her hands were trembling. It was the only indication of anxiety he had seen her show that night. Somehow she had remained calm during the entire ordeal; the hostage situation, the insane ravings of Georg Cane. Even when the cold barrel of a gun had pressed hard against her temple she had remained calm and in control. God knows he had to admire that in her. Admire that the only sign she revealed was that slight tremor of her fingers as she forced the key into the lock and turned it. He himself had been a frenetic whirlwind of misplaced energy. He had spent the evening charging around the building like a lunatic. Occasionally losing his temper with a SWAT team that just, damn it all, sat around in the stairwells doing nothing. He cursed his own uselessness, while some nut with an arsenal of weapons held Scully and seven other people hostage on the eighteenth floor. The adrenaline that had kept him going then, pumping through his veins like some potent drug, was leaking from him now, and he wanted nothing more than a cold beer, a couple of aspirin and a pillow. However he hadn't quite trusted that young blond cop to get Scully home safely, much less merely leave her at the door. So, here he was on her doorstep, watching her open the door to her darkened apartment, wishing for the umpteenth time she had agreed to spend the night at his apartment. "You're sure you'll be okay?" He asked her again. And again she nodded, a look of annoyance flashing briefly in her startlingly blue eyes. He caught her elbow, but gently, insistently. "They're still looking for Thompson, Scully," he said in an attempt to alleviate the situation. "I know, Mulder," she replied. "That means he's still on the streets." "I *know*, Mulder." "He might come after you." She sighed, turning and fixing him with a look that clearly said, you're trying my patience, Mulder. "I can't think of any sane reason why he would." He clenched his fists at both her unyielding stubbornness, and her irritating habit of being right. "Who said Victor Thompson was sane?" he said. "Besides, that's the same excuse you gave me this morning...nearly. And look what happened." "Mulder." She spoke his name in a voice that was, by now, unmistakable. He was treading on thin ice, and he shouldn't push his luck. He chose to ignore the warning. "Remember Duane Barry," he cautioned her, still not releasing her elbow as she turned her face away in frustration. "Eugene Tooms-" "Mulder." Oh yes, the voice was final now and he didn't even bother to dispute it. He knew it would be futile. Still, he couldn't bear to leave her with just that, so he leant down and brushed a light kiss on her cheek. A whisper of contact that nevertheless threatened to fling him over his own precipice of control. "Just be careful," he said and walked back down the path to where his car stood in the shadows, casting a last glance over his shoulder as she stepped inside her apartment. Dana Scully closed the door with a groan, slapped on the light and waited for his car to finally pull away before moving through her apartment. She switched on a lamp and closed the blinds and curtains against the darkness of the night. She kicked off her shoes, dumped her coat and bag over the back of a chair and collapsed gratefully into the couch, prying her gun from the uncomfortable holster and placing it on the coffee table. *Please, God, just a few moments of peace and quiet*, she begged silently, closing her eyes and rubbing the nape of her neck. She felt grimy and sore and wondered if she had the energy to have a shower or whether she should just fall asleep where she was. She decided upon the shower, and set it running then undressed, watching the steam that heated the room coiling like a wraith from the torrent of hot water. She stepped into the cubicle with a tired sigh, taking pleasure from the feel of the water beating against her head and shoulders. It plastered coppery hair to her neck and ran in warm rivulets over her body. She reflected on the day, as she always did, wondering what she might have done differently. Getting herself home, for example. Mulder had given her the third degree about spending the night alone, and although she couldn't imagine someone she didn't even know coming after her, she had to grudgingly admit to herself that he had gotten her worried. *Paranoid*, she muttered to herself angrily. *You're being paranoid.* The water came down, lulling her senses and unwinding tense, knotted muscles, so Scully was more than half asleep when the pounding started on her front door. Stiffening, she turned off the shower and in the silence that ensued, the pounding began again, louder this time. She opened the shower door, growling mentally as it jammed for a moment on it's tracks, and reaching out a wet arm for her bathrobe stepped onto the cold tiles. She slicked her hair back from her eyes, feeling the rapidly cooling water slip down her spine, dried her hands on the robe and stepped through the bathroom door. The beating on the front door grew more frantic as she padded down the hall into the living room where she retrieved her gun. She wished she'd had more time to dry, hoped the gun wouldn't slip in her grasp as she moved toward where the door was beginning to shudder under the onslaught. Fully alert and awake now, she reached out to silently draw aside the curtain. If she could just catch a glimpse of who... "Scully!" It was Mulder. She yanked the door open with a, "Mulder! What the hell kind of stunt are you-" and got no further as he came charging in, cannon balling past her without even stopping to glance at her, whipping the muzzle of his gun around the room. She closed her eyes for a moment, unsure of whether she had the energy to deal with him or not. Probably not, she thought. "Mulder!" she snapped. "Are you okay?" he asked her, concern darkening his eyes. "I was until you came barrelling in like that." She reluctantly pocketed her gun. "I was in the shower, you scared the living daylights out of me. What in God's name possessed you to come pounding on my door like that? You *have* a key." He finally paused, taking in her appearance for the first time. He offered her his very best "Little Boy Bashful" look. "Oh," he said, his gaze flicking from her bare feet up to her drenched hair. "Sorry." "What are you doing here?" *And when are you leaving?* He shrugged, fell into a comfortable slouch on her sofa and gave her a lopsided grin, but when she failed to melt he straightened. "I had one of my hunches." "Well, go and have it somewhere else!" she groused, "I'm tired. I'm not in the mood for this." He brushed dark hair from his brow and shifted uncomfortably where he sat. "I think I'd really feel better if I slept with you tonight," he said, giving her an earnest look. Her heart stuttered to a stop, but she still mustered the control to raise a single sceptical eyebrow. "For my own peace of mind, you understand," he said misinterpreting her expression. "I don't want you alone in here if Thompson turns up tonight. Humour me, okay?" He tried the grin again. She glared at him half-heartedly, trying, with little success, to keep the answering smile from her face. *If I smile it'll only encourage him.* "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she said pointedly. He ruffled his hair, looking a little sheepish. "I know you are. But let me stay anyway, for me if not for you. Now, would you close that door?" he added, "It's cold out and you're wet." His gaze travelled the length of her body again, starting a small fire in the pit of her stomach. "Very wet." She let the door swing shut with a sound of frustration. Standing with her back to it, she glowered at him sitting calmly and uninvited on her couch. "Have you eaten?" she asked finally. He shook his head. "Not since breakfast. You... sort of kept me occupied all day." She shot him a look, *Back off, Mulder*, then sighed, realising that her foul mood was not going to make anything easier for either of them. "All right then. Amuse yourself while I get dressed." He started to say something, thought better of it and just nodded at her back as she disappeared into her bedroom. A soon as she had left however, the customary, slightly self-deprecating smile fell from his lips. He buried his head in his hands and sighed to himself. *What was he doing here?* He wondered. *Why wasn't he at home, catching up on much needed sleep? Away from the pressures of work. Away from unfulfilled desires held too long in check. Away from her.* If someone had asked Fox Mulder when his feelings for Dana Scully had changed, he wouldn't have been able to give them a definite answer. The realisation had just crept up on him. There had been no great burst of light when he realised he had fallen in love with his partner of three years. No singing cherubs or violins in the background.Just a heightened awareness of her presence, an indefinable something when she stood near him. He'd been trying for months now to deny his feelings, but it was all becoming too difficult. She was his best friend, but he wanted more than her friendship. She was his confidante and his companion. And yet he still yearned for more. He told himself he was greedy and selfish, but it didn't change matters. He wanted her. Dejected he stood up and began to wander around the room, pausing at the mantelpiece where a few framed photographs stood. Scully and her mother, her sister, a full family shot with both brothers, and a simple wooden frame that stood slightly apart from the others containing a picture of her father in full dress uniform. Mulder wondered what sort of man he had been. He removed his coat and hung it up in the wooden closet, scooping hers up as he passed the couch and hanging it too. An automatic gesture. In the corner on a small bookshelf a small clock ticked away seconds that passed too slowly as he waited for Scully to reappear. Set next to it was a small musical box that played a somewhat abbreviated version of the first few bars of Tchaikovsky's "Waltz of the Flower Fairies" when he wound it. "Sixteenth birthday present from Melissa," came Scully's voice, startling him out of his reverie. He turned and found her somewhat drier, dressed in a loosely fitted blouse and trousers. She was still barefoot and looked uncharacteristically young. Surprised, he found it easy to imagine her at sixteen, intense and aloof, already possessed of that sometimes frightening self control. She would have been innocent then. She walked past him and he caught a hint of her fragrance in the air.An indefinable combination of sweet scents, her skin, her hair. Eau de Dana. "What do you want for dinner?" she asked him. He shook his head. "I don't want you to be inconvenienced, just go to bed." "I'm up now and we're both hungry," she said briskly. "What do you want?" "I-" he began. "Spaghetti?" He shrugged, nodded, shrugged again and trailed after her into the kitchen, perching on the bench beside the kettle and watching somewhat helplessly as she bustled around noisily. Setting water to boil here, dicing vegetables there. She leant around him to grab a wooden bread board, her small body pressed against his for a moment and he laughed to cover his discomfort. She pulled back sharply and clutched the board against her chest. "Can I help at all, Scully?" he asked at length. She looked up at him, as if to see if his offer was genuine, then relented, smiling gingerly; "Fetch me the basil." "Basil," he repeated. "And that would be?" "A Herb." "Like spice, but not," he clarified, nodding. "Yes." "In the pantry." *What do you think, Mulder?* "Yes," "Box?" She rolled her eyes. "Bottle, Mulder. A little bottle with a green lid." "Ah." She went back to the simmering sauce, and he headed for the cramped little pantry where a row of little green-topped bottles looked smugly back at him from nose height. *Unmarked* little green- topped bottles, he noticed a moment later. "Scully?" he said after a minute of turning each one over in his hands. "They're not labelled." He heard her sigh and come up behind him, then she ducked under his arm, took a bottle of the shelf, and held it up, open for him, instructing him briskly to smell it. "Basil," she said. He inhaled, cautiously. "Smells familiar." "Oh, *good*," she said. "Progress. Set the table." When dinner was finally served, he sat opposite her at the table. Shebegan her meal without glancing at him, smoothing a serviette over her lap before twirling pasta around her fork. He watched her, his eyes never leaving her face as he began his own meal. She paused and looked up, met his frank stare, then finally put down her fork. "What?!" she asked him. He shook himself out of his reverie and fastened his gaze on his plate. "It's good," he said, indicating the meal. "Yes?" She didn't seem entirely convinced, so he gave her a crooked grin, "I didn't know you had hidden culinary skills." She permitted herself an elusive smile. "I have many hidden talents you don't know about yet, Mulder," she replied. Obviously. He'd known her for, what, three years? And she still never failed to surprise him with her intelligence, her intuition, her amazing and practical solidity that had become such an integral part of his life since her arrival in his office. Together they ate in silence. But it wasn't the companionable silence that they usually shared, it was uncomfortable and excessively formal. Scully bore it for as long as she could, until finally she had to break it before it stifled her. "Mulder," she said, waiting for him to look up at her before continuing. "What's on your mind?" He instantly looked away from her searching gaze, his mouth beginning to form the word nothing, before he reconsidered. "Us," he replied simply, meeting her eyes suddenly. "Our relationship. How it has...developed." She stood up, deliberately avoiding the intensity of his eyes, and began to clear the table. Mulder noted her reaction and continued carefully, standing to help her clear up as he did so. "When you first came I was pretty hostile, I admit. I didn't want you there," he saw her nod. "In all the time that we've worked together you've never given me any reason to distrust you, and over the space of time you've taught me to see past my narrow way of thinking. I do appreciate that." "I'm... glad," she didn't know what else to say. He tried to study her face. "What I'm trying to say is that since we met I've experienced a wide variety of emotions. And now I sense that my feelings are changing again." He waited for her to respond, caught the briefest glimpse of uncertainty in her expressive blue eyes before she hastily averted her gaze and turned from him. He watched her, watched the way she stood away from him, keeping the table between them as she continued to put the kitchen to order. "I think yours are changing too," he pursued as he slipped his plate into the dishwasher, next to hers. Her face was as damnably unreadable as ever. She refused to respond to his prompting, keeping her eyes hidden, knowing his uncanny knack of reading things in their depths. "Dana?" the name felt unfamiliar coming from his lips. *When did I last call her that? When her father died? No wonder she's unprepared for this.* "It's not like you to avoid a discussion." She took a deep breath. "I suppose I'm unfamiliar with the topic, Mulder." "Are you?" he felt suddenly overcome with an urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her. All in all, not an unfamiliar emotion. "I don't think so." She remained calm with what appeared to be very little effort. "What could possibly make you think you know what I-" "Damn it all, Dana!" he cut in angrily, "because I know you! Because I am closer to you than-" "*Don't* yell at me, Mulder," she said, unflinchingly. "Not about this. Don't *ever*." He felt defeated and sank into a slouch against the workbench as she unhurriedly finished tidying the kitchen. He wondered how to say it to her, wondered what it actually was he wanted to say, but found himself increasingly distracted by the simple, wonderful way that she moved. She shot him one or two looks, silently imploring him to please leave, but he did not intend to accommodate her. Not this time. "If you're running from it, Scully, don't bother. I've already tried that tactic- it has the opposite of the desired effect." She looked up at him, frustration burning in her eyes, or was it something else? "I have no idea what you're talking about." *Again*. " Oh, for God's sake! You feel it every bit as much as I do," he replied. "You're just better at hiding it." "Mulder..." But she didn't get time to finish the sentence. The phone rang at that moment and they both looked at it. "Leave it," he told her firmly. *Like Hell*. Her lips tightened and she picked up the receiver, speaking quietly into it as Mulder shot her a look that would have scared anyone else with its' intensity. She spoke mildly into the mouth piece, her eyes never venturing to seek out his face as she rang off and replaced the phone. "Who was it?" he asked her. "Skinner," she replied, moving past him into the living room. He followed close on her heels. "What did he have to say?" "'Don't come in tomorrow', and 'where's Mulder?'" "What did you tell him?" he asked, knowing the answer, but hoping she'd change her mind. She turned to face him. "That you were on your way home." "I'm not leaving," he said quickly. She didn't shrink away from his closeness. "I know." "Then why did you-" "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her eyes wide, if not entirely innocent. "Did you *want* to talk to Skinner?" He shook his head, laughing a little, still not moving away, though. He wasn't going to let her wriggle out of this discussion. "Where were we, before his interruption?" "Making sleeping arrangements," she replied, firmly. "You have three choices. You can go home-" "Yeah, right." "- You can sleep on the couch, or you can sleep in my bed." He opened his mouth, tempted to say something, then shut it with a snap when she gave him one of her Don't-Even-Think-About-It- Mulder, looks. "I sleep on a couch all the time," he said. "You sleep in your bed." She looked uneasily at it, then back at him, as if trying to judge whether or not his long, lithe frame would actually fit. "Are you sure?" she asked uncertainly, "I mean, even if you curled up, which I know for a fact you don't do when you sleep, your feet would still hang over the edge." "I'll cope," he responded wryly, "just give me a couple of blankets, a pillow..." *You..* She shrugged. "Okay, it's your spine." He followed her into her bedroom where she began to pull sheets and a pillow from the top shelf of her wardrobe. The entire room held her fragrance and the effect had Mulder light headed. He saw her struggling to reach a doona that was just out of her grasp, her diminutive stature making her once again seem younger and fragile. He was suddenly overcome with a helpless urge to protect her, and ruthlessly squashed it as being a totally Neanderthal show of male testosterone. Yes. Admittedly she was petite, pale, fine boned. But in Scully's case appearances really were very deceiving. Not only was she more adept at handling a gun than him, but she wielded a scalpel with alarming accuracy. He winced to think of what she'd do to him if she knew what he was thinking. No, this damsel was definitely in no form of distress. Any attempt to rescue her would probably result in a frosty look and several sharp words directed at him. He moved to help her anyway. She heard him come up behind her and his hand fell lightly on her hip, his touch inexplicably disturbing as he lingered a heart- stopping moment before moving her gently out of the way. She stepped back, trying to catch her breath and watched him as he reached for the doona, moving with the easy, fluid grace that was so characteristic of him. His frame held a hidden strength now evident in the line of his back and the taut muscles moving under the smooth skin of his arms. Perhaps sensing her eyes on him, he turned more quickly than she had expected and caught the tail end of the gaze. The slight rosy flush that stained her cheeks faded as she took the doona from him with murmured thanks. He wondered what she had been thinking. He'd never actually seen her blush before. To be perfectly honest he had thought her incapable of it. Not that Dana Scully was incapable of doing anything worth doing... Mulder was standing too close, he was having difficulty concentrating. She looked more beautiful than ever standing there with her arms laden with linen and her eyes fastened somewhere in the vicinity of her bare feet. *God, I never wanted her so much!* Her hair looked soft, her skin creamy. He wondered what a momentary touch of her full lips would cost him. A little pride? Some self-control? A loss of her trust? No. That price was too high. Not for anything would he risk a loss of her trust, not even for a brief healing moment of her warmth, for it would mean a loss of her, and *that* he couldn't bear. She hadn't moved away during his long scrutiny of her. He saw her blouse rise and fall with her breathing, the scent of her hair muddled his senses, and suddenly it was all too much to bear. His hand rose and cupped her face, gently tilting her face to his. Her eyes were closed and he could faintly hear her breath, shallow and fast. His hand slid into her hair, and leaning down he touched his lips to hers in a lingering kiss. She didn't lean into him, didn't respond at all to his embrace. Didn't try to pull away, just endured the kiss like a stone statue. For a single absurd moment he felt like Pygmalion, doomed to love an inanimate creature, and the thought extinguished his desire with the sudden heavy weight of sorrow. He pulled away with trepidation. ========================================== End of Part One. ============================================== Subject: Figs (2/2) By the Pen and the Brain. Disclaimer: All rightio. Umm, I hope you've enjoyed everything so far As usual these characters do not belong to us, *sigh*, they belong to David, Gillian, Chris, 1013, yadda, yadda, yadda ;-). You know the drill. This is where you meet the villian of the story. You have angst, you have sex, you have poetry. What more could you want? Barely out of PG range (We're not that game). The poem is not ours. Swear to God. You have to thank D.H. Lawrence for the delightful visual images it pulls up. Anyway, on with the story... ===>, {*} She turned from him quickly, her hair swinging forward to shield her face. Mulder was instantly overwhelmed with fear. He'd lost her. He'd warned himself not to risk her, had, as usual, ignored himself, and now he'd lost her. Even if she didn't throw him out of her house right there and then, nothing would be the same. She'd withdraw from him, be uneasy in his presence. He watched her as she calmly put down the sheets and doona, aching from inside with suppressed emotion, lit from within with a burning compulsion to turn her to him and consume her. "Dana?" He wanted a reaction so badly. Needed it even, and tried to force it from her, speaking her name like a plea. *I love you. Don't hate me. I need you*. He knew it was futile. She had made her decision. He looked to the ceiling, as if seeking the strength he required to bear her rejection. He felt her hand on his arm. Her touch was warm. He waited for her to speak, tried to compose a suitably nonchalant expression. "Mulder..." The tone of her voice caught him by surprise, as did her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. It felt entirely alien to have her clasped tightly in his embrace, yet, strangely, uncannily natural. Part of him recognised this as being the logical outcome of a relationship as close as theirs had become. It had always been going to happen, it was just a matter of time before they took their friendship that one step further. He focused his attention on the liberating warmth of her kiss, the touch of her hands as they moved silkily around the back of his neck, the feel of her body, soft against his. The feeling totally engulfed anything he had felt with any other woman. Up to, and including Phoebe, who had once broken his heart. They all lacked this complete compatibility, the knowledge that he belonged to her, just as she belonged to him in every conceivable way. She finally broke the kiss with a small gasp, pulling back from his hands and his lips and brushing her hair behind her ears. When she spoke her voice was husky and he saw the pulse beating wildly at her throat. "I need to think about this, Mulder." "I understand," he said and stepped away from her, lest her proximity rouse deeper emotions than those already surfacing. "I'm still wary about leaving you here until we bring Thompson in. I'll see if I can bend someone's arm-" "I'm not throwing you out," she said. "You can stay. Just give me a moment." *Oh*. He tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn't let him. "Sure, I'll just..." "Go make some tea, or something. Assuming you can stumble your way through my kitchen." When he was gone she sat on the edge of her bed, trembling slightly. How long had he felt like this? How long had he hidden it from her? She heard him clattering around in her kitchen, the sound of him painfully familiar. She imagined lying in bed in the mornings listening to him make her breakfast, then ruthlessly she thrust the thought into the deepest recesses of her mind. She had no right to feel this way. He was her partner. He was not by any stretch of imagination her lover. Was he? Obviously his feelings for her were a little more than platonic, but her feelings for him? He was her closest and most loyal friend, the intimacy she shared with him and the trust she had in him, scared her sometimes. He'd always treated her with the utmost courtesy, never betraying that he felt anything more towards her than friendship, and at the most, brotherly love. But she remembered the few times he'd let his shield slip and his desire had burned in his eyes. And she remembered the way those looks made her feel. The breath caught in her throat, her hand went to her stomach, she felt the blood rush to her face. She heard the door to her room open again, heard him hesitate in the doorway, then she lifted her head and looked at him smiling slightly. He approached and pushed a mug of steaming tea into her hands, its spicy scent bringing her back to her senses. She looked directly at him and took a deep breath, concentrating on holding his gaze without losing herself in the warmth of his hazel eyes. "I need to know that this won't affect the way we work together," she said firmly, standing to bring herself, more or less, on eye level with him. He took a deep breath, feeling relief surge through him, then he felt the grin come to his face. "Of course it won't. It'll still be you and me...only it will be us." He wondered if anything he was saying was making sense to her. "Oh, I'm sure the result of every case will be the same-" He chuckled. "Inconclusive." "But that's not what I meant. I meant while we were working. At the office. I need to know that we won't...that we..." He understood. "You don't think I'll be able to keep it up? Don't worry about it. After all, I've been doing fairly well hiding my feelings, haven't I?" She gave one of her rare wide smiles. "You have..." "Thankyou." "Thank*you*," she replied, her voice throaty, her eyes on him as she leant closer and initiated a deep kiss. Her body moulded to his and her arms went around his neck, bringing him closer. He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her forehead. His hands travelled the length of her spine and came to rest on her hips. He felt her fingers on the buttons of his customary business shirt. He moved to kiss her neck and savoured the touch of her hands, smooth against his chest. From somewhere in the apartment he heard the shrill tone of a mobile phone. Dana tensed, her hands ceasing their venture. "I think it's yours," she said into his hair. "Hmmmn..." he murmured incoherently against her throat. His phone continued to ring. "Are you going to get it?" "No," he kissed her lips again, drawing her to him, trying to drive out the mocking trill of the phone with the slightly unsteady sound of her breathing. She pulled her face away. "It's probably Skinner." He moaned. "I have better things to do than talk to him." "He probably wants to tell you not to come in tomorrow." He sighed and stepped reluctantly back, moving into her living room where he had left his jacket. Then, with a final pained look at her, he picked up the phone. It was, indeed, Skinner. "Agent Mulder," he said testily. "You took your time." "I was on my way to bed," replied Mulder irritably. He thought he heard a smothered laugh and Dana's arms slipped around him from behind. "Really?" Skinner's voice was sceptical. "Yes," said Mulder, feeling Dana's body pressed against his back. "We've brought in Victor Thompson," said Skinner. "Can you come in?" "Yes. Where is he?" "Washington Police Department. Building four. Go to the desk, they'll direct you there. Mulder hung up without saying goodbye and turned back to Dana with a sigh. "They've found Georg Cane's partner. Skinner wants me to go in." She forced a smile and sat on the couch. "Do you want me to go with you?" He was already reaching for his overcoat, but he paused and touched her cheek gently, his fingers brushing over her lips. "No," he cleared his throat. "No. Stay here and get some sleep. I'll be back." "Okay," she murmured, standing up and helping him into his coat, brushing a soft, silent kiss on his lips before retreating again to her bedroom. Mulder watched her go. *** Victor Thompson was a huge man, meaty, yet attractive in a forties' gangster sort of way. He had crafty sly eyes that flitted over Mulder's face, past his shoulder and out the door before it shut. "Agent Mulder," he said by way of greeting. His voice was highly educated and strangely mellifluous, incongruous with the unpleasant scars that criss-crossed over the backs of his knuckles. "We found him cruising along Springwood," murmured the blond cop who had earlier offered to take Scully home. "A constable pulled him over for speeding and they found Roslyn Gordie under a tarp in the back seat." "Was she alive?" asked Mulder. The blond cop shook his head. "Pity, too. Pretty girl. Nice body." Mulder sat down behind the desk and regarded Victor Thompson with implacable hazel eyes. "Your partner is dead, Thompson." "I know," came that cultivated voice. "Hard luck for him. Speaking of partners though, where's your luscious Dr Scully?" Mulder felt the anger well inside him, but he forced his reply to remain emotionless. "At home, in bed." "Alone? Agent Mulder, I'm disappointed in you," Thompson chided him gently. Mulder shifted slightly in his chair. The blond cop was looking at him strangely. "After what she went through she probably needs some... physical comfort. Do you want her?" Thompson smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. "My partner did." Mulder repressed a shudder at the thought of Georg Cane's hands on Dana. "I was just on my way to see her. Did they tell you that? I was almost hoping I'd catch you in flagrante delicto... with the crime still burning, so to speak." Mulder tensed involuntarily, his eyes blazing a warning to Thompson. *Leave her alone*. "Does she let you call her 'Dana'?" Thompson drawled lazily. "When you touch her does she gasp out your name? 'Fox!' What does she taste like? Is she a fig?" "Excuse me?" Thompson tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "...'That's how the fig *dies*, showing her crimson through the purple slit, like a wound, the exposure of her secret, on the open day'... Are you familiar with D.H. Lawrence's work, Agent Mulder?" The poem 'Figs' came back to him like a shock of cold water. He'd always hated the sordid connotations. The degrading imagery painted by the poet. Of all of D.H. Lawrence's works this one had disturbed him most. With a predatory look in his eyes, Thompson watched Mulder recoil from his words. "...'The vulgar way to eat figs is just to put your mouth to the crack and take out the flesh in one bite.' Do you like figs, Agent Mulder? How do they taste? Does each one have a distinct, individual flavour? What's Dana's" It was too much. Mulder clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. "Get him out of here!" "Agent Mul-" the blond cop began. "Just *do* it!" commanded Mulder in a voice that was not to be disputed. Victor Thompson smiled, knowing he had won this round. Mulder heard his voice echo down the hallway as he was led away. "...'It stands for the female part; the fig fruit: the fissure, the yoni, the wonderful moist conductivity towards the centre, involved'..." Mulder rested his head on his hands for a moment. He hated this part of his job. The blond cop was now lounging against the wall, watching as Mulder shrugged on his overcoat and prepared to leave. "Doug," he said, as Mulder moved past. Mulder looked at the extended hand. "Yes?" "I'm Doug Matthews." The hand was projected further, so with a sigh Mulder shook it. "Agent Fox Mulder." "So your name really *is* Fox? Cool." Mulder forced a smile and tried again to leave. "How true is that stuff that guy was saying, Fox?" asked the blond cop earnestly. "I mean that stuff about you and Dana Scully. That was her name, wasn't it? The pretty little red-haired agent?" Mulder narrowed his eyes and gave the cop a hard look. What did the guy really want to know? "I've never slept with her." Well, it was true. Just. "Cool," said the blond cop. "So she's available?" "No." Leaving it at that, Mulder pushed past him and walked down the hallway into the cold and dark night. There was little traffic that late at night, so Mulder made it back to Dana's by 1:58am. Letting himself in with his own key this time he found her asleep in bed, in the warmth of her room. The doona and pillows, he noticed with interest, had been put away. Beside the bed, her robe was folded over the back of a chair. On her bedside table was her gun. She stirred when he entered and blinked sleepily at him. Her eyes were dark in the shadows of the room, her skin perfect cream. "You're back soon," she commented dryly. "Couldn't stay away," he replied flippantly, "every moment apart it like forever." In the darkness she chuckled warmly. "Spoken like a true poet." He went and sat beside her on the bed, leaning over her and searching her face. In her clear blue gaze, the pain of Thompson's words was fading. "Mulder are you okay?" she sounded concerned, and he felt the butterfly touch of her hand on his cheek. "Why don't you ever call me by my first name?" he asked her then, instead of answering her. She laughed slightly and withdrew her hand. "I tried to, once, and you wouldn't let me. You were fairly adamant about it too, if my memory serves me correctly." "It's different now." "I don't *want* it to be different!" She propped herself up on the pillows and switched on the bedside light, breaking the intimate atmosphere. In the rosy glow of the light she saw his face and her momentary anger faded. "Something *is* wrong, Mulder. Tell me." He couldn't repeat Thompson's words. Especially not to her. "It's nothing." "It's not nothing. Mulder. For God's sake, I am your *partner*. You have to tell me. Was it Victor Thompson?" Seeing it was so on his face, she sighed. "What did he say to you?" "Things." "What things?" "Just *things*. Please, Dana, leave it at that." "Things about Samantha?" she instinctively reached for the one thing that she knew could upset him to this degree. "Things about you, okay? And things about us." "Mulder-" "And everything he said cheapened what we have. How I feel-" "Fox!" The sound of his name from her lips cut through the pain and he had to look into her intense gaze, into the strength of her soul. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't push you." He gave a quiet laugh. "You should. You challenge me." "I wonder if that's necessarily a good thing. Lot's of things challenge you." He laughed again. She touched his brow, smoothing her hand over his forehead and cheek. "Will you stay tonight?" "Where?" he asked her innocently. "Here." "With you?" She pulled a teasing face. "Yes." "Are you willing to take the risk?" He had to ask her. "Will you respect me in the morning?" she smiled, then her hand moved over his mouth before he could give a wounded reply. "While you were away I gave it some thought, Mul-, Fox. We're both adult enough and professional enough not to allow this to affect our work." "Thankyou for having that faith in me," he said, touching her shoulder. Her smooth arm reached out from under the covers, there was a soft click, and the room was plunged once more into night. She heard him moving through the room, the whisper of cloth as his jacket hit the floor, the sound of him as he sat on the edge of the bed. She realised she was shaking, but ruthlessly thrust the fear from her and reached for him. This was right. She didn't regret the decision she had made. He felt her hand on his arm, warm through the material of his shirt. Giving up the battle with the buttons on his cuffs, he turned to her. Sliding his hands into the silky coolness of her hair he brought her face towards him, finding the sweetness of her lips in the darkness. Their kiss was tentative, still exploratory, as if each was committing to memory the exact touch and feel of the other. Her hands made their way to his chest and began working on the finicky shirt buttons. Then they were on his shoulders, his skin warm under her fingertips as he pulled the shirt off, struggling with the sleeve that refused to slip off his left wrist. Dana laughed quietly against his mouth as he finally freed himself and wrapped both arms tightly around her waist. She pulled him gently down until his weight pressed her into the quilt on her bed, his hands moving against her, his eyes seeking hers. He felt the cotton of her singlet, rough against his fingertips and he slid it away to find the smooth skin of her side. She gave a convulsive little twitch against him when he touched her, making him gasp. "You're tickling." He grinned, "Special Agent Dana Scully is ticklish? Ah ha! I spot a weakness-" Her mouth on his stopped him, and she pulled the singlet off entirely, dropping it off the side of the bed and reaching for him again. He kissed her shoulder as one of her hands slid into his hair, the other fumbling for the covers. He caught her wrist. "Are you cold?" he asked her. "No," she shook her head, her hair moving across the white pillow case with a whisper of silk on silk. "Good." He twisted his hand, entwining her fingers with his as he bent to kiss the inside of her elbow. Dana's breath caught in her throat and she was suddenly caught in the grip of totally unreasonable uncertainty. *Is this what I want? Is this what I honestly believe should be happening? Or is this just my hormones taking charge of my body. Again?* Then her gaze met his and she thought: *I don't want to think any more*. He felt her relax against him, her eyes on his face, then she smiled a little tentatively. "Do you know what I've just decided?" "Tell me." "I've decided I think too much." He shrugged, hiding his smile in the crook of her shoulder as he kissed her collar bone. "I wasn't going to say anything..." "Good. Don't." He smiled warmly and rolled over, pulling her on top of him. She watched his face, his lips, his eyes. He saw a new expression enter her face, a tenderness in her features and her slightly parted lips. "I love you," he said and realised that it was true. She inhaled slowly, feeling every last remnant of doubt leave her. "I think I love you too." "I want you." Her reply was not in words as she leant forwards and touched her lips to the base of his throat, trailing tingling kisses from his shoulder across his chest. His hands tightened around her waist and he exhaled explosively, his entire body tense with the need for her. They made love in the silence of her room, slowly, gently. No words exchanged, just looks and expressions. The length of her body arching against his. His quiet gasp against her mouth as they surrendered themselves to the unresolved tension of three years. *** Okay, I know we wimped out a little here, but it's our first time- be gentle with us. Stay tuned. ===>, {*} *** -Let not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. -William Shakespeare.