~

Chapter 5: Scully's Really Evil Plan or How to Fuck With Your Audience
by Alluding to a Kiss that Never Actually Happens Then Totally Ignoring
it in Your Sixth Season. . . (Sorry, that was the alternate title of
Fight the Future.)

~

Oh. My. God.

Normally my vocabulary isn't totally wiped out with no conscious effort
on my part. Just a few moments ago, I was reflecting on the fact that
I'd finally caught Scully in her romance novel habit. I had almost given
up on the hope of one day having proof of it. I hadn't intended to
disturb her. I just didn't want her to be alone; I even convinced myself
something in her posture suggested SHE didn't want to be alone.

Sue me; I'll believe anything I tell myself.

My mental process was functioning just fine as I rooted through the
modest CD collection the hotel provided to its four star guests. I'd
just popped Eric Clapton into the CD changer when all my brain function
ceased. In my defense, it's not just me. ANY man would be staggered by
it. There are a few gay men out there who might just have to consider
switching teams when confronted with Dana Katherine Scully in her
current state.

She's wearing the bikini I bought her. And a beautiful black sarong
skirt she's tied expertly around her waist, so most of her left leg
peeks out; and, of course, absolutely nothing else.

Dear Lord take me now because I'm never going to see a sight that rivals
this. The only thing that keeps me from vocalizing the thought is the
knowledge that I'm going to be allowed to touch the vision before me. In
a few moments, I'm going to press her body to mine and dance with her in
preparation for an entire night of dancing.

I've only danced with Scully once before. Twice if you count the
impromptu tango in that diner outside Iowa City when Love Me Tender came
on the jukebox (which I'm sure she doesn't.).  Impromptu Elvis inspired
cheek to cheek meetings aside, I'm definitely looking forward to this.
Be cool Mulder, I order myself. Be unflappable; don't let her see what
she's doing to you. Don't make her think you're nuts (too late?); don't
let on how much you want her. Just be there for her; be her friend. She
needs a friend right now.

I wish to God that I were capable of listening to the good advice I give
myself. Usually, the only little voice I pay attention to is the one
that says if I don't go NOW, I could miss out on an opportunity to study
one of the most significant findings of our time, depending on what
we've been investigating at the time. Good intentions aside, I am lost
the moment she gives me that tiny, shy smile she has. She ducks her head
and her hair obscures my vision momentarily. She looks up and she
radiates confidence. How do you do that Scully? How do you go from
scared shitless to fearless in less than six seconds?

"May I have this dance?" she asks, her voice gliding over my nerve
endings like warm honey.  Scully holds out a hand, her eyes offering me
something I'm not sure she intended them to. Nonetheless, I take her
hand and pull her close to me, settling my left hand at the small of her
back, my right holding hers against my chest. Her free hand snakes
around my waist, holding me as we slowly begin to sway to the strains of
`Change the World'.

"You can have all the dances," I murmur without conscious thought on my
part. Had I been thinking, I never would've said anything so inanely
stupid and juvenile. Jesus, it sounded like something a high school kid
would tell his prom date in the hopes she might let him feel her up
later . . .

"Forever and always Mulder?" she asks, interrupting my internal
ramblings. I look down into her eyes and am momentarily stalled as to
what to say. Her voice and the expression on her face is so damned
guileless. She's hopeful, like a little girl asking for the pony she
knows she'll never really get for Christmas.

"Forever and always Scully," I find myself promising her, unable to give
her any other answer. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to
disappoint my partner. I've never enjoyed it; but I used to actually be
able to DO it if I had to. I wouldn't begin to know how anymore.
"Although, I find the concept of forever rather dubious," I hear myself
add, the words definitely escaping my mouth without my consent. I really
don't want to get into a conversation about the definition of forever
with Scully. Those waters are far too choppy and I've already been
seasick once this trip.

"Dubious how?" she asks and I KNEW she wouldn't be able to let it lie.

"Well, think about it," I propose, resigned at this point to having the
discussion. "What is forever, exactly?"

"Until the end of time?" she offers, sliding her arm from around my back
to my shoulder, resting it there as her fingertips brush lightly against
the top of my spine.

"Ah, but if forever is . . . well, =forever=, how can it stop at the end
of time? Just because time itself stops, does that mean `forever'
stops?" I pull her a little tighter against me. I try really, really
hard not to think about the fact that only my t-shirt separates me from
pure ScullySkin.

"I suppose it is something of a paradox," she allows, tipping her head
up to look me in the eye. Her fingertips begin playing with the ends of
my hair and I fight the urge to close my eyes at her touch. "Does
forever mark the end of time, or does the end of time mark the end of
forever?"

"Or," I challenge, spinning us quickly, causing a surprised laugh to
leave us both, "perhaps forever supercedes the end of time. Perhaps time
itself has no meaning to forever."

"To define forever is to define time itself?" she asks, an eyebrow
raised. "Time is a universal invariant; by its essence it can't be
defined."

"I believe the term `forever' is used far too loosely," I mention as the
CD clicks over to `Tears in Heaven'. "People say they'll love someone
forever, or that they'll remember someone forever and I don't think they
mean it. I don't think they mean it because they can't grasp what
they're promising. To define forever is to promise not your life, not
even your soul, but your being; everything that makes you who you are to
another human begin. By saying forever, you're implying something beyond
life and time."

"You mean sort of like you just promised me all the dances?" she
challenges, a playful light in her eyes.

I look down into her eyes for a long, agonizing moment. Time seems to
slow around us and I allow my thumb to gently trace the base of her
spine above her sarong. Her skin is smoother than silk and I find myself
wanting to touch more of it. "No," I disagree. "I meant that."

She looks up at me and I can tell she's trying to decide if I'm serious.
She's biding her time, unwilling to give anything away, for fear I might
change the mood with a glib remark. I hate that I've made her wary of
her own emotions around me. In retrospect, I can see all the times I've
diffused a potentially volatile situation between us with a simple
innuendo. However, I don't want to do that this time. Right now, I want
us to be honest. I want her to know how I feel, how special she is to
me. I'm sick of hiding from her and I'm sick of pretending I feel like a
surrogate older brother to her. I don't and I know damn good and well
she doesn't feel that way about me, either.

"Really?" she asks finally, that beautiful eyebrow raised again. "So I'm
your only dance partner, from here on out?"

I wait a beat, one part of me trying to talk the other part out of what
I'm about to do. "You're my only partner, Scully," I tell her, using the
word partner in every context it applies to. "Now and always."

"Forever?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. When did our faces get
this close? When was it exactly that I started feeling her breath before
I heard her voice?

"Forever," I promise, meaning it with all my heart. I may not be able to
define it, but I know what it is; what it means. Forever Scully, I
silently echo.

I think I'm about to kiss her when her eyes widen and she stiffens in my
arms. I curse myself; stupid, stupid, stupid. She doesn't need some guy
making passes at her. She wants a friend; someone she can have fun with.
Just because =I= might be ready for something more than platonic doesn't
mean she automatically is. With much regret, I slowly pull away from
her, separating our bodies then slowly releasing her hand. She looks
slightly confused by my withdrawal.

"I think we're ready to move and groove with the rest of those funky
Island vacationers," I announce, putting on my glib face with the
greatest of ease. I used to be proud of how quickly I could don that
sarcastic mask; it just makes me sad now.

She smiles wanly, her hands fluttering over her sarong, making sure it's
in place. "You may be right Mulder," she concedes. "Just give me a
minute to change."

"You're not wearing that?" I ask, confused as to why she put it on if
she hadn't planned on wearing it for the contest.

She smiles and I swear to God that I almost see pity in it. "You think
I'd dress like this for anyone else Mulder?" she asks, keeping just
enough mischief in her eyes so I can write her comment off as an
innuendo should I choose to.

I don't; I may not be sure, but I'm not taking any chances. "I didn't
know how you'd dress for the rest of the world Scully," I murmur softly.
"If what you've got on is just for me, I'd have to say I'm flattered."

What the hell was that? The SophisticatedMulder that lives inside my
head beats the Cro-MagnonMulder who just spit that out to death with his
own club.  What kind of idiotic comment was that? I have a chance to
really wow her, to let her know how much I appreciate that she'd take
the time, how much I fucking love her no matter what she wears and I
blow it.

She looks disappointed. I can see it in her eyes. She hides it so well,
but it's there. Fuck; fuck, fuck, fuck. "Scully," I find myself blurting
out before I can stop myself.

She pauses at her door and turns toward me, an expectant look on her
face. I lick my lips. "It looks amazing," I whisper, my eyes taking in
her appearance.

She blushes slightly. "Thanks," she mumbles. "I mean, you have great
taste Mulder, the bikini does a lot for my figure--"

"Actually," I interrupt, standing nearly four feet in front of her, "I
was referring to what your body does for the bikini." I don't allow
myself to read too much into the look that takes over her face. "I'm
going to go change," I murmur, turning before I'm unable to leave the
room.

I hear her bedroom door shut quietly a moment after mine does.

~

I can't believe that just happened.

It didn't happen. That's all there is to it. What went on in that room
not fifteen minutes ago just =didn't= actually take place. It must've
been my imagination. I haven't slept well lately; I've been awake for
almost forty-eight hours now. The lack of sleep is causing visual and
auditory illusions, prompted by the storm and the events of the last two
days.

It's all perfectly plausible, perfectly explainable, perfectly rational.

And as if I didn't have enough pressure on me, I think Mulder was going
to kiss me just before I saw Felicity.

Woah Dana; you did NOT see Felicity. You THOUGHT you saw Felicity. You
=halluccinated= Felicity.

Then why can I still feel a slight chill run up and down my spine? Why
can I clearly picture her dark black hair flowing around her face in a
mass of curls? Why do I have an image of her face, almost ethereal in
its perusal of Mulder and I in my mind?

Mulder keeps looking at me like I'm insane. Hell, maybe I am. I saw a
figure, silhouetted by the storm raging outside our window. She was
young and I have nothing to base her being Felicity on but my own gut
instinct. Something in me screams that it's her; that something can shut
the hell up, thank you very much. I did not see Felicity. I could not
have seen Felicity, because Felicity would be a ghost, and ghosts do NOT
exist.

Logic; simple and precise as always.

Why don't I feel better?

I watch Mulder watch everyone around us. He can sense what I'm going
through and he's learned over the years this is a time when my `do not
disturb' sign is clearly out. The only difference is, I want him to
disturb me right now. Hell, he's been disturbing me since he woke me up
Saturday morning - he might as well take my mind off this current train
of thought.

I think the only reason I'm not truly freaking out is that Felicity was
in color.

Stop that Dana; she is not Felicity. I didn't see Felicity and I should
just stop referring to my hallucination by name.

I glance up at Mulder and notice his attention has become focused on the
middle of the room. I follow his line of sight and at first see nothing.
Then, I see her; Candy.

Can this day possibly get ANY better?

The stewardess from hell spots Mulder easily and begins waving
excitedly, her breasts bouncing in her obviously bra-less low-cut black
velvet dress. Mulder doesn't acknowledge her in the least and that
puzzles me; he was obviously staring at her. Hell, that's how she saw
him. Why isn't he waving back?

"Mulder?" I hear myself question aloud softly. My voice doesn't seem to
penetrate the deep state of concentration he's in. "Mulder," I say a
little louder; put more authority in it.

"Hmm?" he asks, snapping his neck to my direction. "Scully; ready to
dance?"

He offers me his arm and my confusion grows by leaps and bounds. Before
I can analyze this latest development, however, Candy makes her presence
known.

"Fox!" she squeals. "It's great to see you again so soon! It certainly
is a small island, isn't it?" she asks, giving him a wink.

A wink; it scrunches the entire right side of her face up and, in my
opinion, looks more like a nervous tick than a wink. Of course that
could just be my perspective, I really can't say. "Getting smaller all
the time," I mumble, wishing to God the ground would open up and swallow
one of us.

Mulder smiles politely at her. I know that smile; it clearly states that
he shows as much interest in Candy as he does for Team-Work Seminars.
Maybe he just likes her packaging, I concede wryly. She certainly is
built like a red blooded American male's wet dream. And on the occasion
I've come across one of those videotapes that aren't his, I've
definitely noticed the similarity between those women; almost every one
a Pamela Anderson type.

I realize Candy's speaking again. ". . . got stranded along with
everyone else."

I try really hard to figure out why Candy ended up going all the way
from California to Catalina. Then I realize I don't care. Unless little
gray men flew her in on a flying saucer, I don't give a rat's ass how
she made it to the island sunshine forgot.

God I wanted to have Mulder all to myself tonight. I can't even express
why exactly. I just . . . want him. Not necessarily in a sexual way,
although that certain attraction has definitely been making itself known
with increasing frequency in the last few months; the last ten hours, in
particular. More than that though, I want to talk to him. I want to try
and explain the myriad of thoughts and emotions and contradictions that
have been running through me over the last year or so.

I want to watch the rain splatter against the windowpanes with him and
listen to the wind howl in ever-increasing screams. I want to count the
beats between thunder and lightening, share stories rooted in mythology
and fairy tales with him until we fall asleep together. I want to wake
up with his presence, his bulk, his breath against me, wrapping me
inside him until this aching emptiness that has pervaded me for what
seems like an eternity ceases. Somehow, I know he will help heal me. It
won't be immediate and it won't even be complete; but it will help, God
damn it, and I need that. I need his help in ways I will never be able
to verbalize.

"Tough break," Mulder finally responds, no longer putting up any
pretense of smiling at Candy.

"Would you like to dance?" she all but purrs, her eyes scanning MY
partner like an all you can eat buffet.

"Actually, I'd love to," he answers and my hand moves of its own
volition. I smack his arm, none too gently, giving him a glare I know
makes me look far too much like an annoyed wife than I have a right to.
He meets my eyes, a gentle admonishing quality to his. That look asks me
a question; `how could you doubt me Scully'? He turns back to Candy. "My
wife has dibs on my dance card and we have a competition to get to," he
murmurs, his voice sounding almost apologetic. His hand grasps for mine
and he holds it, circling my palm with the pad of his thumb slowly.

"Your wife?" Candy asks, looking from him, to me, then back again.

What's so fucking implausible Barbie?

I am mortified by Mulder's none-too-discreet snort. Jesus did I just say
that out loud? I glance at Candy's horrified expression and realize I
did. That's it, it's official; I've lost it. Cart me away, lock me up,
Dana Scully is no longer a productive member of society. I am too
embarrassed to look at Mulder. He's still holding my hand, if anything,
his thumb has started moving more soothingly, as though he senses my
embarrassment and wishes to eradicate it.

"Hey look, the contest is starting," Mulder announces, tugging my hand
firmly. He moves us to the table, grabs our number, slaps it on over my
black silk blouse, turning so I can return the favor with his black polo
shirt.

I watch Candy fume quietly ten feet from us as he pulls me into his arms
and slowly sways with me. Oh God this feels good. I don't think I can
remember ever being this close to him physically. He keeps one of my
hands in his, the other wrapping as far around my lower body as it can.
He leans his shoulders down so I'm forced to look at him. He smiles
gently. I bow my head again, landing my forehead against his shoulder.

"I can't believe I said that," I mutter, feeling the mortification anew.

"Neither can I," he agrees, whispering into my hair. "Barbie Doll's all
over the world were offended."

I find myself laughing, my head snapping up to look him in the eye
again. "Mulder," I exclaim, exasperated. He isn't supposed to find this
amusing. But he does; I can see it in his eyes, the way they sparkle and
dance, refusing to leave my own.

"Scully," he replies, using the same tone I had.

I bust out laughing; I can't help myself. He pulls me to him and I feel
his jaw against my temple. I wrap my free arm around his neck and press
a kiss to his cheek. "Thanks Mulder," I whisper, moving a little faster
with him as an old Three Dog Night song picks up tempo, telling us it's
coming down in three part harmony.

"Anytime Scully," he whispers back, pulling back from me long enough to
spin me outward, then back again.

We do pretty well. Considering we spend most of the time laughing at one
another and ourselves, I'm surprised we =only= came in eighteenth of
thirty. Banished to the corner of the dance floor with the rest of the
losers, we couldn't care less. In fact, I dare say we've never been this
carefree. I thought once we were done that we'd go back up to the room.
But Mulder has made no move to release me. Instead, he actually seemed
to draw me closer when we were eliminated from competition. As though he
sensed my natural inclination toward distance and sought to prevent it.

I will not run from him tonight. I have no desire to be away from him;
no desire to be without him. I thought before that I'd never been that
close to him; foolishly, I'd believe I couldn't possibly be closer so
long as we remained fully clothed.

I was so wrong.

My breasts are pressed deliciously into his chest and one of his hands
keeps making the trip up and down my back, his fingertips brushing over
the back of my neck. If I still felt brave about speaking thoughts I
have out loud, I might ask him if that was a flashlight in his pocket,
or if he was just happy to see me. Hell, I can't really fault him for
being a little turned on. God knows I'm a LOT turned on. And I truly
have only myself to blame.

He wasn't doing anything overt until I started it. I was subtle at
first; I started brushing my nose over that little spot where his neck
becomes his jaw. I kept drawing little circles up and down his spine
with my fingers, my other hand staying just high enough above his ass to
make him wonder if I'm doing it on purpose.

So naturally, being the competitive person he is, Mulder began nuzzling
my ear with the tip of his nose. His hands started running up and down
my sides, before one of them dared to roam so low on my ass I had no
doubt that he was doing it on purpose. His other hand buried itself in
the back of my hair and held my head to his shoulder until we were
called off the dance floor.

We're much less blatant at this moment; we haven't cooled down, we're
just back to being ambiguous. As much fun as it can be, I'm sick of
ambiguous. We've been teasing each other for years, both intentionally
and unintentionally. I don't want to tease him and I don't want to be
teased. Perhaps one day when we've become more substantial to one
another than living touchstones I will be able to tolerate this kind of
dance. But I can't now; not anymore.

As I think it, his hand tugs at the back of my head, bringing me back to
look into his eyes. I go willingly, staring up into those depths that
have turned honey brown. He leans toward me and I lean toward him, our
faces so close I'm breathing his breath. I almost feel a sense of dj
vu, cruelly hurled back to that moment in his hallway when we were so
rudely interrupted. His fingers trail from my hair to the back of my
neck and his fingers rub gently over my skin. I laugh slightly as I
realize what he's doing; checking for bees, Mulder?

The sheepish amusement I see in his eyes confirms my suspicions. No bees
Mulder, I silently promise. There's nothing else to ruin this moment.

God I want him to kiss me. But he seems hesitant; as though he's waiting
for something. I suppose I could kiss him. I just . . . God what if I'm
reading him wrong? What if somehow I've totally misinterpreted the last
six years of our lives and he doesn't want to kiss me and I ruin this
almost idyllic partnership we

Oh God, his lips, they're brushing mine and OW!!! God DAMN it!

"Sorry," some guy with a bad Hawaiian print shirt apologizes. My ire
rises further as I realize he's dancing with Candy. Of course; of
fucking course.

"It's all right," I hear Mulder mumble solicitously.

It's all right, I mock in my head. No, no it's really NOT all right.
That was our FIRST kiss and it was ruined. It was absolutely ruined. The
mood is wrong, the feel is wrong and it's all Candy's fault. Her and
that nineteen seventies reject she's dancing with.

"Hey Scully," he whispers into my ear, pulling me away from my thoughts.

I look up at him, cursing the loss of whatever was going on here. It'll
be gone when I look into his eyes. He won't look at me like he wants me
and he won't pull me to him and kiss me. We won't go on dancing as
though nothing happened and all the fantasies I had in my head of him
fulfilling this aching desire I have deep inside me just flew out the
window. And considering how badly it's raining, there's no chance it
survived the fall.

"Yea Mulder?" I ask, annoyed with myself that I've allowed a hint of the
frustration I feel color my voice.

He's not even looking at me. His fucking eyes are focused across the
room. Jesus, the least he could do is look me in the EYE while he
ignores what just happened between us.

"Why don't you go on up to the room?" he suggests, finally meeting my
eyes. "I've uh . . got to check on something down here."

"Sure you do," I answer crisply, folding my arms over my chest. "Ghost
hunting without me Mulder?" I ask, giving him the God damn excuse I
always give him; helping him write it off. Why do I do that again? And
why the hell does he let me?

"Something like that," he mumbles distractedly. He places a hand on my
shoulder. "I'll be up later," he promises, drifting away.

If he weren't walking away from me, I could =almost= believe that meant
something more than he eventually intended to return to the room.

~

Chapter 6: Finally Nearing the End or Finally the Story Warrants an
NC-17

~

Maybe everyone's been right all these years; maybe I am a few forks
short of a dining set.

Scanning the dancing crowd, I try to locate him again. He was there,
then he was gone. I thought I'd imagined the man who'd stood in the
center of the dance floor and disappeared before my eyes. In fact, I'd
convinced myself of it. But then I saw him - then didn't see him -
again. That, combined with the chill that ran up and down my spine in
his presence, leads me to believe something isn't entirely kosher in
Catalina.

Scully's pissed at me again.

I can't blame her for it; I'm pretty pissed off at myself. The fact that
I kissed her at all is going to cause issues between us. I just
compounded those issues by pretending it didn't happen. She knew, too; I
could tell. More than anything, I wanted to make the certainty that I
was going to do exactly what she knew I was going to do go away. I
wanted to kiss her again, a real kiss, something more substantial than
the fleeting contact we shared before Candy and her current paramour
slammed into us.

I guess I remember how to disappoint her, after all.

It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't gotten a glimpse of =him=. In
fact, I daresay we'd be upstairs by now, buck naked and halfway to
heaven.  Instead, my nature has gotten the best of my libido. Not many
men can say they'd pass up the opportunity to neck with Dana Scully in
favor of searching an over-crowded dance floor for traces of a ghost. I
check my watch; 2:45 AM. Wow; I hadn't thought we'd been dancing THAT
long. Time with Scully really does fly by.

I've almost decided to give up when I spot him again. He's lounging by
the elevator bank Scully disappeared into not fifteen minutes ago. I
beeline for him, snaking my way through moonstruck newlyweds the entire
way. He doesn't fade from view this time; if anything, he grows slightly
more substantial. I can see right through him when I get close, yet he's
so defined I can tell what color his eyes are - bright, vivid blue.

"Anthony?" I question softly, already knowing the answer to that
particular question.

"The one and only spirit haunting this island with that name," he
confirms, tipping an imaginary hat toward me. "What can I do for you?"
His eyes actually =twinkle=. "Or shall I guess?"

"Guess?" I ask, bemused by this entire situation.

"Actually, guess implies that I don't know exactly what you need," he
clarifies, the type of kindly smile on his face you'd usually reserve
for an All-American Boy Next Door.

"And what is it I need?" I challenge, more unsettled than I care to
admit by him.

"What we all need from time to time," he responds, pushing away from the
elevator banks to give me a grin. "To let go."

~

"What do you mean let go?"

Felicity laughs, the sound light an airy; I'd compare it to what a
fairy's laugh must surely sound like. That is, if I believed in fairies,
which I don't. Of course I don't believe in ghosts either, yet here I
am, having an extremely surreal conversation with one.  Yep, just
another normal, ordinary day in the life of Dana Scully . . .

"I mean you need to loosen up Dana," she states, as though it were
obvious. "You need to give in to a few wants and needs." Her lips quirk
upward and I swear she's laughing at me. "Don't you have any dark,
sinful desires just dying to be revealed?"

"No," I answer quickly; too quickly. She's onto me and there's not a
damn thing I can do about it. I suppose I should know better than to
attempt lying to a ghost. God I'm lying to a ghost - I'm talking to a
ghost, I can't be talking to a ghost, ghosts do NOT exist, but there she
is, real as can be, standing there, looking at me like I'm nuts which I
MUST be because there's no other excuse for me to be talking to a ghost
. . .

"Dana, shh," she murmurs soothingly, moving forward until I can feel her
. . . whatever brush against me. Her . . . hand presses against my
forehead and I instantly feel calmer. Logic is gone; it's meaningless
here, now, anyway.  "I should've known better than to ask you for a
fantasy," she mutters, sounding annoyed with herself. "You'd never allow
yourself to be that open; not even to yourself."

"What are you . . .?" I find I can't finish the thought, let alone the
question.  I feel hot and heavy and so . . . =aroused= I can barely
contain myself. It reminds me of a dream I had a long time ago,
something that I'd woken up from, feeling ashamed yet so turned on I
couldn't stop my hands from roaming over my body, couldn't stop them
from moving to places good Catholic girls are taught never to touch. I
remembered that dream fully and have tried every moment since to forget
it; especially when we were on the road in adjoining motel rooms . . .

"And we have a winner," Felicity whispers, a wide, sprightly smile
curving her lips.

A winner, my mind silently echoes; winner, winner, winner take all . . .

~

"A definite winner," I hear Anthony agree with someone I can't see or
hear. He chuckles and I feel his hand move away from my forehead. "You
two," he murmurs, the way an exasperated but ultimately loving parent
might comment on their children.

"What about us?" I ask, dazed and confused. I have a need in my mind; I
have to go upstairs, I have to see Scully. I don't know why. Two parts
of my mind are vying for equal attention. My soul, my heart, my body
=needs= me to get to Scully for some reason I can't define. My mind, my
intellect, my consciousness =needs= to process this latest turn of
events in our bizarre lives. I'm speaking to a ghost, up close and
personal. And he's not torturing me, he's not trying to get me to join
some weird lover's suicide pact - if anything, he's helping me get back
in touch with . . .

Me.

"You both have such capacity for happiness, yet you choose to be
unhappy. Together, always together, yet ultimately alone." His eyes are
genuinely puzzled. "Why do you do that? No one is stopping you; no one
is telling you that you're not allowed to love her. Why don't you?"

"I do love her," I hear myself say. "I love her every moment of every
day."

"But do you say it? Do you show it?" he counters, no accusations in his
eyes, merely a gentle kinship.

"No," I answer slowly, feeling a haze settle over my consciousness. I
feel like I'm under a spell; something that isn't controlling me, but
rather something that's making me unable to control myself. An
enchantment forbidding me to ignore the wants and needs of my soul. "Not
like I should."

He smiles. "Then do so. Go to her. Show her, tell her, make one of the
fantasies you share come true."

"Why did you kill yourselves?" I ask, desperately wishing to know. I can
understand the desperation; even the temptation to ensure you're with
the one you love forever.

He smiles sadly at me and for a split second, I see something I haven't
seen in him before. Gone is the carefree young man; in his place, a
troubled, scared, desperate child stands, trying to put into words
something he doesn't quite understand himself. "We wanted to be together
always," he finally whispers.

"And death was the only way to accomplish that?" I ask.

He chuckles ruefully. "I admit, it probably wasn't the best way. But we
saw it as the only way. It was a different time, Fox," he explains
slowly. "We weren't allowed to be together as far as the rest of the
world was concerned. And we wanted . . ." he trails off, at a loss for
words. He looks up at me and smiles. "Forever," he finally finishes.

"Forever," I echo softly, the mystique of the time and the place weaving
its magic around me. I can feel my heart beating, feel every fine hair
on my body charge with an electric current. I am =alive= right now;
alive and unable to resist my heart's desire.

~

I barely notice as she fades away. I am only conscious of the pulse
points all over my body beating in smooth, fluid rhythm with one
another. I move into my bedroom and shut the door behind me, performing
a ritual I have performed many times, though never with Mulder so near;
never when there was a chance he might walk in on me.

Slowly, I peel the clothes from my body, letting my hands drift over my
nipples, feeling them tighten almost painfully. God I've never been this
turned on. My thoughts are in tumult, my emotions and my body's cravings
the only things I truly comprehend at this moment. Dispensing with my
underwear, I lay on the bed, naked, the cool sheets a relief against my
heated skin. My hand trails over my breasts, thumb and forefinger
meeting to tug at a nipple briefly before moving downward. I spread my
hand low on my belly, teasing myself even as I realize I have no
patience for teasing tonight.

My hand slips between my thighs and I slowly brush my fingertips over my
wetness. I shudder at the proof of how truly aroused I am. Eyes closing
of their own volition, I lean my head back and continue to tease myself,
refusing to give my body what it demands, waiting for . . . something,
waiting, waiting, waiting . . .

I open my eyes and see him. He is standing there, door wide open behind
him. He is breathing heavily, my dream realized, his eyes glued to my
hand, only leaving it to roam over the rest of my body.  His gaze
manages to be longing and possessive at the same time and I feel his
eyes like a physical touch.

In reality, if the usual Dana Scully had control, this is the moment I
would jerk on the bed, grab the sheet and pull it over myself in some
pretense of modesty around a man who's seen my naked soul. But this is
not reality; at least not as it normally is. This is some kind of
suspended unreality, somehow blending and shifting until it IS real. The
unreality adds to its substance. These facts contradict themselves, yet
just this once, I do not question the inconsistency of my emotions; I
accept that they simply are.

So I do not move my hand; I leave it where it is. I spread my legs a
little further on the bed, letting him look, wanting him to look;
=needing= him to look, to do MORE than look. My eyes must communicate
with his as is our way, for he slowly makes his way to me. He sinks to
his knees by the bed, his head near mine. I scoot on the mattress until
I can inhale the small puffs of breath escaping his mouth. I am so lost
in the euphoric sense of peace I experience in his eyes that I don't
notice his hand cover mine for a moment.

It is dj vu times ten as my hand begins to move again, his eyes
begging me to continue. We are connected now, more so, possibly, than we
have ever been. His hand flows over mine, melting into it but making no
independent moves of its own. Instead, he moves with me, allowing me to
set my own pace. He feels the movements of my hand, memorizing them,
learning, I realize, how I like to be touched.

I cannot begin to comprehend how most secret desire has become reality;
I don't care to comprehend it at this moment. All I wish to do is enjoy
it; to live it.

His eyes are liquid velvet, gray with specks of golden brown scattered
around his pupils. Our hands continue to move as he makes love to me
with his eyes. The pace is unhurried, neither of us in any rush for this
to be over. As much as I want it to be his hand (or his mouth) and not
my own, I cannot make my vocal chords cooperate long enough to ask. We
never speak, my Dream-Mulder and I. Somehow, it seems inappropriate that
we should speak now as it is happening for the first time.

Time seems to stretch and bend, folding in upon itself even as it
remains the same as it has always been. It is magical and surreal and a
thousand different adjectives I can't seem to find the words for. His
forearm rests comfortably against my belly and I feel him draw nearer,
his breath against my forehead a phantom whisper. His lips brush against
my brow, an echo of what was, what is and what will always be.

In unspoken entreaty, both our hands increase speed.

It's hot; I'm hot and hazy at the same time. I lick my lips and arch my
back into our hands, amazed as I do that his gaze doesn't embarrass me
in the least. It only succeeds in arousing me further. His lips move
over my temple, my cheek, always the barest contact, never giving me
anything more substantial than phantom touches. Our fingers set up a
steady rhythm over my clit, the build-up over now; he needs me to come
almost as badly as I do. I can see it in his eyes, in the way his
breathing speeds up against my face as his ghostly kisses become
slightly erratic.

So close; so close; so close.

Mulder's lips wrap around my earlobe and he tugs, biting down with his
teeth at the same time.

A moan is wrenched from the depths of my soul. My body shudders as I
come and Mulder's other hand touches me for the first time, stroking my
hair as his nose nuzzles the side of my face. His touch calms me,
bringing me down from this high I don't think I've ever been to before.
The hand resting over mine separates itself, his fingertips trailing
over my knuckles, circling the skin, soothing the tremors that still
shake me.

Invariably, the dream always ends here; I do not have a conclusion to
this particular fantasy, so I suppose it's up to us now. RealMulder and
RealScully get to figure out where to go from here. Given that the
fantasy has ended, my powers of speech magically return. With those
powers, my rational side returns as well. Rather than chastise me for
what has just occurred, RationalScully surprises me. She points out that
what just transpired WAS between us. It was real and pretending it
wasn't makes it cheap.

I will =not= allow anything that happens between Mulder and I to be
cheap.

I open my eyes to find his, still watching me; studying me. I give him
the widest smile my tired face can manage at the moment. "Didn't I tell
you something about knocking?" I whisper, making sure he senses no
malice in my words.

He returns my smile, only his is much more brilliant than mine could
ever be. His is the kind of smile women die for.

However, before he can answer me, there's a loud crash as a palm tree
literally comes through that lovely glass wall in the living room,
shattering more than just the mood; the thought occurs to me that
perhaps there could've been no more appropriate end to our first sexual
encounter.

~

Chapter 7: Sexual Frustration Comes (no pun intended) to a Close or As
Good as It'll Ever Get for Mulder & Scully

~

NOW it's sunny.

To look at the weather now, you wouldn't believe Catalina had been
ravaged by one of the worse storms in recent history a mere two hours
ago. It's so hot in this wide open lobby that my shirt is sticking to my
body and I swear to God if they don't get us into another room, and I
mean RIGHT NOW, I'm grabbing Scully and we're ducking into a closet.

I'm not even going to pretend to understand what the hell happened up
there.  I have a few theories; theories I plan to share with Scully once
I've shared a few other things with Scully. That is, of course, assuming
she =wants= to share those things with me. Although, given the zeal and
enthusiasm she's putting behind taking her turn at berating the hotel
manager, I'd say she's almost as eager as I am to make the rest of the
world go away for a few hours.

Once the fact that we were really going to have to leave the room
without some serious nookie happening first sank in, I assisted Scully
in very quickly and haphazardly dressing.

I don't have the heart to tell her that black silk blouse of hers is
buttoned wrong.

I should've known something like this would happen. I mean, the first
time I tried to kiss her she got stung by a bee, an alien virus infected
her and we both nearly froze to death. It figures that the first time I
try to make love to her a tree would literally come through a window;
I'm almost surprised it didn't fall =directly= on top of us.

Ghosts that get inside my head disconcert me. I think that's a normal
reaction; in fact, I'm willing to lay money on the odds that any
average, well-balanced every day American mortal would be totally
freaked out by the dearly departed plucking one of their most tightly
held fantasies from them. The reality of what went on upstairs hits me
anew and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Honestly, in my heart of hearts, I never really thought it would happen.
I'd resigned myself to being her partner, and nothing but her partner,
for as long as she let my sorry ass reside in her life. I should've
known I'd end up wrong about this. I'm usually wrong when it comes to
Scully's place in my life. From my first instincts, that she was
planning to spy on me, all the way to my conclusions that the X-Files
could never be usurped as the most important facet of my life.

I used to want to touch her. The feeling would hit me out of the blue,
for no reason whatsoever and I'd find myself assuaging that desire by
laying a hand on her lower back or brushing the hair out of her face.
Those touches satisfied the urge for years and I didn't give it a second
thought. So I like touching Scully - you wanna make somethin' of it?

And then she tried to leave me. For the first time, I consciously
thought of Scully as a viable sexual entity; she was a woman I could
trust and love and feel safe with. It was irresistible and I tried to
kiss her. It turned out to be a disaster, but that doesn't negate what
it brought about. It changed the way I think about her. And soon, those
casual touches weren't enough. I wanted to touch her skin, to feel it
next to my own and I somehow knew, like a man dying of thirst, once I
had, one touch would never be enough.

I have touched her; and I need to do it again. I need to drink from her,
to quench this thirst that has plagued me, unconsciously, I believe,
from the very beginning.

"They found us one room, Queen size bed, view of the ocean," her voice
breaks into my thoughts.

I look up at her, meeting her eyes with my own. I smile a tiny, and I
hope sexy, smile. "Let's go G-Woman," I murmur, getting to my feet.

Something flickers behind her eyes; something I can't name but
instinctively respond to on some deeply primal level. Oh please God
don't let that be my imagination; please let me touch her and hold her
and make love to her. Please don't let us have some kind of sane moment
until later when we'll be better equipped to deal with it; when it's too
late to back out of wherever it is we're heading with this.

Scully turns on her heel and walks ahead of me toward the elevators,
seemingly trusting that I'll follow. Not wishing to disappoint her, I
do, catching up to her quickly with a few long strides. We step into the
elevator together, followed by an elderly couple who hit the floor a few
numbers below ours. Mind swimming with doubts I don't want to entertain
at the moment, I stare up at the top of the elevator, willing it to go
faster. I jump slightly as I feel the backs of Scully's knuckles brush
over the half-erection I've had since my encounter with Anthony.

My head snaps down to look at her, but she's facing forward, expression
totally composed, her hands once again folded neatly in front of her.
The elevator stops and lets two more people on from the pool level.
Ostensibly to make room for them, Scully moves in front of me, that
gorgeous ass I've admired from afar for so many years pressing firmly
against my ever-expanding hard-on. The elevator stops again before
reaching anyone's floor and I nearly groan with a combination of arousal
and frustration.

Three teenagers stand outside. "Waiting for the down," they explain,
looking like juvenile delinquents.

Scully's arms slide around my lower back as the doors shut, her hands
landing on my ass. She pulls me hard against her back and I emit a low
hiss into her ear. "Scully," I mutter warningly as I turn her slightly
away from the elevator's other occupants.

"What?" she whispers back, leaning up and craning her head to whisper
the word into my ear. This movement rubs her against the front of my
jeans and I place both hands on her hips to keep her still; she smirks.
"Am I doing something that disturbs you, Mulder?" she questions softly,
a teasing in her voice I've never heard in quite that tone.

"Yea," I whisper raggedly into her ear, the hand furthest from prying
eyes sliding up her hip to land over her breast, brushing her nipple
against my palm through the shirt. She isn't wearing any underwear,
whatsoever and I have been very studiously trying to ignore this fact
for the last few hours; it's pure ScullySkin under that shirt and
slacks. "You're a very disturbing woman, Agent Scully," I whisper right
into her ear, delighting in the shiver that runs through her body.

The people from the pool exit on their floor and we both try damn hard
to act normal until the elevator starts moving again. One floor and
Scully's wiggling her ass against my crotch again, the single hand I
have kind of restraining her hips doing absolutely no good. Of course,
it might help if I actually WANTED her to stop.  Determinedly, I brush
the pad of my thumb over her nipple, making sure she feels it as I weigh
her breast in my palm.

"Do you want something, Agent," a tiny moan as I nip her earlobe,
"Mulder?"

The elevator stops again, the motion rocking the car slightly. We both
bite lips to keep moans from escaping. The elderly couple departs rather
quickly, causing the amused thought that they knew exactly what was
going on in here to flit through my mind. But then the doors close and I
whip Scully around and all I can think about is kissing her. I back her
into the elevator wall, inserting my knee between her legs.  One of my
hands lands on her hip, the other threading through her hair. I tilt her
head back and stare into her eyes. "Frankly Scully, I'd love to banter
with you for awhile about just how much I want you, but I'm totally
unwilling to let some other damn thing stop me from doing this," I
mutter, crushing her lips to mine in an almost bruising kiss.

It has no hesitation, this kiss; our mouths open simultaneously and I
feel her tongue against mine, probing the inside of my mouth. One of her
hands grips my ass, pulling me to her tightly again, the other landing
at the back of my neck, holding my head to hers, totally unwilling to
let go, even when the elevator stops once more, this time on our floor.
Realizing as loathe as I am to move from this spot, I'd still rather be
in bed with her, I manage to stumble backwards with her through the
doors, never once breaking the kiss, or the full upper body contact we
have.

"Scully," right back to her mouth, pulling her lower lip between both of
mine, "what's our," a moan, as she nips my bottom lip in retaliation,
"room," I manage to pant, that little hand of hers slipping between our
bodies to cup my cock.

"Thirteen Ten," she mutters, abandoning my mouth so she can fasten her
lips around my throat; she sucks hard, darting her tongue out to lick at
my skin.

Tiring quickly of the slow progress we're making down the long hall, I
regretfully abandon her hair, both hands snaking around her ass. "Hold
on," I mutter, lifting her until her feet leave the floor and I can pick
up the pace.

To my complete surprise and utter enjoyment, Scully's legs wrap around
my hips and she grinds her crotch against mine as her mouth returns to
nibble at my lips. I plunge my tongue into her mouth, tasting as much of
her as I can. Thirteen-oh-two, thirteen-oh-four, thirteen-oh-six, come
on, come on . . .

Mulder-r-r," she purrs into my mouth, her little hands clawing at my
back, trying to pull my shirt up. She finally succeeds at
thirteen-oh-eight and her fingers make contact with my skin. As we
finally reach thirteen ten, her fingertips start massaging my back,
touching every inch she can reach.

"Scully," I mutter against her mouth. "Key," I manage, hoping to God she
understands me cause I really don't think I can be much clearer with her
crotch rubbing against my erection, her hot little mouth refusing to
release mine even long enough for me to talk.

"Back right hand pocket," she whispers in that raw, husky voice I've
heard from her far too infrequently. I slide my hand up from its holding
place on her thigh to her ass, easily sliding the card-key from her
pocket.

I slam her back none-too-gently against our door, wincing, even as the
reverberation sends a shudder of pure pleasure through my body. "Sorry,"
I mumble, kissing the corner of her mouth to resonate the apology as I
fumble with the key, trying to fit it in the hole. Jesus, insert tab A
into slot B . . . this would be a hell of a lot easier if my brain
wasn't focused on inserting a very different tab A into an extremely
different slot B.

"Don't be," she almost whimpers, managing to pull my shirt past the tip
of my shoulders, catching it on them, leaving my back totally bare for
her wandering hands. She leans her head back against the door, moving
every part of her body - save the ones still wrapped around my hips -
away from mine. A sultry little smile crosses her face. "I liked it,"
she confesses, running her hands down the front of my chest, scraping
her fingernail over one of my nipples for emphasis. "I like rough
sometimes," she elaborates and I hear the key slip into the slot with a
`beep,' signaling it is now unlocked.

I slam the handle down, stumble into the room with her and kick the damn
door shut behind us. She slides down my body, taking her sweet time,
making sure we're pressed together as tightly as we can be until her
feet hit the floor. I place both my hands on her shoulders, taking in
her finger-tousled hair, her swollen pink lips and those fuck-me sea
blue eyes. My gaze is drawn to the line of her blouse and the button
that is out of place.

"What?" she asks, biting her lower lip.

"Your blouse is buttoned wrong," I reply, tracing the skin just above
her breasts with my index finger; I slide it down slowly, dip it into
her cleavage briefly, then circle one of her buttons slowly.

Her eyes shut for a millisecond then open again, focusing on my face.
"Fix it," she implores in what is probably the sexiest damn voice I have
ever heard.

Bringing my other hand to join the first, I take hold of both sides of
her shirt, giving a hard pull. The buttons go flying and I part her
shirt so that the very edge of both her nipples peek out behind black
silk. I can't help but notice the contrast with her pale skin as I
slowly trace my fingertips from her throat to the hem of her pants.

"All fixed ma'am," I whisper, bending my head to brush a kiss against
her collarbone.

"I don't like the way it hangs now," she murmurs dryly and I can't quite
contain a chuckle. I slide it easily off her shoulders until it tangles
at her wrists. Before she can shrug it off, I tighten it and twist until
both her hands are imprisoned behind her back. I spin her around and
hold her hands between our bodies.

Her breathing is heavy and I can feel her heart beating through her
back, against my chest. "Do you really like rough, Scully?" I whisper
into her ear, dragging my teeth over the side of her neck.

She whimpers softly as my teeth close over the pulse at the base of her
neck. "Yes," she finally whispers. "Which I think is a cruel irony,
given the fact that I've never felt comfortable enough with a man to try
rough out too much," she adds, sounding almost clinically detached.

That bothers me; I don't want her to be detached from any part of this.
Keeping her hands trapped with one of mine, I slide my free hand around
to her stomach, un-doing the buttons of her slacks. I slide the zipper
down, brushing my fingers through her curly hair. I cup her gently,
giving her only the most insubstantial contact as her slacks hook on her
hips.

"Do you feel comfortable with me?" I whisper into her ear, moving my
fingers through her curls in such a way I know she will make me pay for
my torture later.

A throaty chuckle escapes her lips, quickly turning into a small cry of
pleasure/frustration. "Right now, you're making me very uncomfortable,"
she mutters. "But I trust you; I trust you with my life."

"Just your life?" I counter, moving my hand up her stomach to her
perfect, beautiful breasts. I cup one of them in my palm, squeezing with
the gentlest of pressure.

"Aren't we greedy," she comments, arching her breast further into my
hand, trying to get more pressure than I'm giving her.

"When it comes to you Scully?" I whisper, nibbling on the shell of her
ear, darting my tongue into the whorls that make her shiver. "I make no
pretense of wanting anything less than absolutely everything," I inform
her as I bite down on her shoulder, not quite hard enough to really
hurt, but definitely hard enough to leave a mark. I'm greedy for all
things Scully the way most men are greedy for money and power.

"Then stop playing with me Mulder and just take me," she mutters,
turning her head so her cheek is brushing against my shoulder.

Slowly, I untangle her wrists from her blouse, wincing as I hear the
fabric rip. "Sorry," I whisper into her ear as I toss the blouse in the
general direction of the bed. "It gave its life for a good cause," I
add, looking on the bright side.

She turns in my hold to look me in the eye. "I'll have to reward it by
turning it into a pillow case or something," she mumbles, wasting no
time in practically ripping my shirt from my body. Her hands flatten
against my chest then slide down to my abdomen, her nails scraping my
skin with just the right amount of pressure.

"Can we stop talking about your blouse now?" I mutter, tunneling my
fingers through her hair. I force her head up to mine, plundering her
mouth with my own for a few fleeting moments. In the interim I release
her hair and slide my hands down her body, grazing the sides of her
breasts before moving to her hips. I shove her pants down, my palms
covering both of her cheeks as I pull her hips back to mine where they
belong.

She moans into my mouth and I swear to God I could come just from
listening to her moan. Stepping out of her pants, she breaks our kiss,
opting instead to trail her lips down my jaw to my neck. She spends an
inordinate amount of time sucking and licking and biting at my neck and
shoulders (not that I'm complaining) before she moves on to my chest. At
this point, she obviously decides to give me a tongue bath and I decide
maybe =this= is the exact moment I could die a perfectly happy man.

But then she looks up at me, her eyes tell me exactly what she's got in
mind and I take it back; no benevolent God could take a man before he
experienced this. Her hands quickly undo my jeans and she pushes them
and my boxers down my hips. She's on her knees and her lips are wrapped
around the tip of my cock before I can fully process what she's doing.
My mental state is reduced to the consistency of Jell-O as I watch those
swollen lips of hers slide down what may possibly be the most impressive
hard-on of my life.

Before I can really enjoy the sensation, however, she stops. She takes
her mouth away from me and sits back on her heels, looking up at me
through half-lidded eyes. "Mulder," she whispers in that sex roughened
voice I'm growing to love, "I should warn you I'm experiencing some
sensations I'm not entirely used to."

I blink and try to focus my mental power on her; it's damned hard
considering I'm so . . . well, damned hard. "I think it's safe to say
that's mutual," I manage to mumble.

"I feel like someone I used to . . ." she pauses, pulling her lower lip
between her teeth. "No, that's wrong; I feel like someone I used to stop
myself from being." Very slowly, she stands and I take the opportunity
to kick my jeans away. Her hands fall to either side of my ribcage,
caressing gently. She leans close to my face and licks my lips, careful
not to touch them with her own. "I feel wicked Mulder," she breathes
against my mouth. She backs away from me slowly, lying flat on her back
the wrong way on the bed. She bends her knees and spreads her legs as
far as they'll go, propping herself up on both elbows. "Would you like
to be wicked with me?" she asks, her tone all beguiling innocence,
totally belying her posture.

As I am sure I've mentioned, I am =not= an idiot and when presented with
a ready, willing and able Dana Scully, asking me to be wicked with her,
I most assuredly do NOT have to be told twice.

I dive onto the bed next to her, causing a fit of giggles to over-take
us both as one of my arms goes around her waist. I pull her on top of
me, her legs landing on either side of my hips as I slide my fingers
through her hair. I lean up and press a kiss to the very tip of her
nose, then her forehead. "What's gotten into you Scully?" I ask,
delighting in this side of my partner I've never seen but always
suspected existed.

"Not what I =want= in me, Agent Mulder," she responds, her hand trailing
down my stomach. She gives me that grin of hers; the one I don't see
very often but crave sometimes like an alcoholic craves liquor. "I just
feel . . . light," she answers, laughing softly. "I haven't felt light
since before I joined the FBI; and I don't think I've =ever= felt this
light and easy and . . . free," she whispers, lowering her head towards
mine. She leans her head down and brushes her lips over my cheek; her
nose nuzzles against me and I feel it move into the crook of my neck. "I
have no worries and no concerns and I'm totally free to do whatever it
is I want to do," she whispers against my skin.

I hook my leg around her calf and roll her beneath me. I take my weight
on my elbows and use one of my hands to brush the hair out of her
surprised, laughing face. "And you want to be wicked," I whisper,
pressing my body against hers just because I want to feel it.

"I want to be wicked with =you=," she clarifies, tracing my shoulder
blades with her fingertips. "But we've got the rest of our lives to be
wicked," she concedes, bringing one of her hands to the side of my face,
cupping my jaw with the most tender touch I have ever been the recipient
of. "Right now, I think I'd just like to make love with you," she
whispers against my mouth, leaning her upper body off the bed to brush
her lips against mine.

We kiss each other the same way we do everything else; give and take is
applied to the pressure of our lips. Tongue, teeth and lips work
together to give a full bodied flavor to each brush and nip and peck.
Layers and subtext are added to the mix, a simple touch of our mouths
reminding us of a thousand experiences shared and survived. We are
partners in the way we make love to one another, as we are in
everything. It's wonderful and I swear if I'd known the entire time it
would've been like this, I don't know if I'd have been able to resist
her all these years.

What began as an affirmation of desire quickly gains pace, our tongues
sliding along each other, our mouths opening wider until it feels as
though we're trying to devour one another whole. One of her legs slides
up my hip until her foot lands on my ass. I feel her tighten it,
bringing me closer to her (if that's even possible) as her hands lose
themselves in my hair (what little there is of it).  My full weight is
deposited on top of her when she knocks my elbows out from under me.

"You could've just asked," I mutter against the side of her breast. My
lips close around her nipple and I suck, flicking my tongue over the tip
as we roll to our sides, never once separating our bodies. Hands finding
her back, I cup her shoulder blades against me, switching breasts as she
whimpers against the top of my head.

"So I'm asking," she mumbles, both hands seizing hold of my head. She
pulls it forcefully to her own, instigating another almost violent kiss.
In what seems like a split second, she's sitting astride me, her hand
wrapped around my cock. "Mulder, would you please stop taking your time
and make love to me?" she whispers tenderly. "Not that I don't enjoy
absolutely everything we have to offer each other - I'm just kind of
afraid a tidal wave is going to knock over the hotel or a fire will
start or =something= will stop us long before I'm ready to stop."

"Scully," I interrupt, raising both my hands to hold her hips.

"What?" she asks, slipping just the tip of my cock inside her.

I have to take a moment to remember what I was about to say. "You're
babbling," I whisper, shoving her hips down a little further, groaning
at the feel of being halfway inside Scully.

"Am I?" she questions aloud. She braces both her hands on my chest and
slides the rest of the way down until our hips touch. "I suppose that's
part of the total lack of control I feel," she mumbles, sounding like
she's thinking aloud. Another breathtaking ScullySmile crosses her face.
"Thank you, Mulder, for being the first man I've ever felt safe enough
with to lose control around."

I'm sure the full impact of what she said will hit me sometime when I'm
not marveling over how fucking incredible she feels. We're not even
moving yet; I'm just inside her. I'm =INSIDE= Scully. As many things as
I've wrapped my mind around, as many extreme possibilities as I have
considered, I can't quite get myself to believe this extraordinary fact.

Gently, I place my hands on her back; she seems to be reading my mind
again and we both move up at the same time until we're sitting. Her legs
wrap around my hips, her hands cradle my head as she presses her lips to
mine again. I find one of her hands with my own and thread our fingers
together. Scully's body is wrapped around mine and all I can smell is
her, pure unadulterated ScullyScent clinging to my every sense; I am
touching, smelling, hearing, seeing and tasting her.

I am struck by the random thought that this must be what home feels
like.

After we've soaked each other up for a few minutes, or a few hours (I
lost all sense of time after I got her blouse off) we slowly roll around
on the bed until I find myself on top of her again. Both her legs are
wrapped high on my hips, her nails slowly scraping up and down my back
as we both begin to thrust. We move together, the same way we had when
we began dancing, as though we'd been doing it together forever.

One of my hands anchors itself in her hair, my fingers tangling until I
can hold her still. I lower my head to hers and slowly kiss her, the
kind of long, deep erotic kisses you see in the movies and don't think
actually exist. Let me tell you, they exist and God this is good, this
is better than baseball and aliens and sunflower seeds all rolled into
one Jesus she's beautiful and she's mine (she might not kill me if she
knew I referred to her as MINE after all) and I love her so much and
I've never told her and suddenly I really, really want to tell her.

"I love you," I whisper into her mouth as soon as the kiss breaks. My
words are so low I doubt she could've even heard them. But once again,
Scully is obviously intent on proving me wrong.

The hand not making crescent moon shapes I'll carry for a week on my
back drifts into my hair, her fingers curling around the base of my
skull. She lifts her head to my ear and tugs at the lobe until my head
joins hers on the bed. "I love you Mulder," she whispers into my ear,
darting her tongue out to lick that spot on my jaw that makes me shudder
(how the hell did she find out about that already?).

Wow; that was easier than I thought it would be. It was almost  . . .
natural. It was natural and as inevitable as what we're doing right now
is. Without conscious thought on my part I find myself laughing at the
thought that we've waited this long to do something about what we feel
toward one another. Some of the time warranted it; we weren't always
this close, this ready for each other. But the last two years have just
been ridiculous. The last two years of solitude have been totally
unnecessary and if I have anything to say about it we will never repeat
them again.

I almost consider sharing my new findings with Scully; but she starts
thrusting her hips against mine faster and I lose my train of thought. I
notice she's laughing softly herself and I join her again, letting our
laughter reverberate through both our bodies; letting it heighten the
sensations we're both feeling.

Earlier, Scully put into words exactly what I'm feeling right now. It's
not necessarily different from how I've felt before in her presence;
it's just more. It's raw, unguarded emotion and it's manifesting itself
in the most amazing physical, spiritual and emotional ways. I haven't
felt this damn GOOD since . . . hell, not even when I =was= a child.
I've =never= felt this good.  And it's NOT just the sex, although on a
purely physical level kissing Scully is like tasting ambrosia;
everything else is icing. No, the GOOD comes from a place so deep inside
I don't think I can lay name to it. It comes from feeling her feeling
the exact same indefinable, undeniably cleansing THING.

This isn't what home feels like; this IS home. Scully is home. How could
it have taken me so long to realize it?

"Mulder."

God, she's moaning my name into my ear. Now =that's= good.

"Harder," she whispers in a breathy voice; I could sincerely sit in rapt
attention while she read autopsy reports to me, so long as she used that
voice.

Always give the lady what she wants . . . the only damn piece of advice
my father ever gave me I've applied in my life. I slide my hands down to
her hips and hold on tight, giving myself the angle I need to give her
what she wants.

"Scully," I whisper into her ear, sliding my lips down to the crook of
her neck. I lap at her skin, grazing it with my teeth. "Scully," I
repeat again, having no idea what I want to say to her; maybe I just
need to say her name.

She lets loose another moan, followed by a groan as I feel her hips
pumping against mine in perfect tempo. I can feel her entire body
tightening, beginning to shiver in prelude to her climax. Her nails have
become almost (but not quite) painful on my back and I nip her shoulder
as I increase the speed of my thrusts again. I slide one of my hands
between our bodies and flick my thumb over her clit, timing the
movements to occur with every thrust. A throaty sound that isn't a moan
but couldn't be called a scream, either, leaves Scully's lips as she
mingles my name and God's.

I'm far too consumed to really notice as I feel a shudder run through my
body and I come harder than I can ever remember coming before.

 I can still feel small little tremors milking my cock as I return back
to Earth. Her hands are sort of clutching and un-clutching at my back,
one of them sliding up to my hair, stroking with her fingers. I press a
kiss to the skin just above her breast and rest my head against her
shoulder, far too exhausted to move. I dart my tongue out, licking the
little wound I've left her with, feeling her smooth those soft, gentle
hands over the indents she's given me on my back.

I don't know how long we lie here together in silence, gently touching
and caressing one another, the rare sunshine beating down on our skin
through a window that hopefully won't shatter. I don't know and for once
in my life, I don't care. I have no desire to move, but I realize I must
be heavy on her and I attempt to roll to the side. The way she tightens
both arms and legs around me stops me easily. I settle back against her,
my cheek pressing just above her breast. Once she's sure I will not move
again, her hands go back to lazily trailing over my body and I return
the favor gladly.

"Mulder?"

I blink my eyes open, unsure as to whether I've slept or not. I don't
think so; I'm not as disoriented as I should be after being woken up;
just pleasantly fuzzy.

"Yea?" I mumble sleepily, amused to detect even unconsciously my hands
and fingers have continued to trace idle patterns on her skin.

"Everything's in color," she whispers, as though it's the most
exhilarating, fascinating observation she's ever made; the most
important thing she's ever told me. "It's always going to be in color,"
she adds firmly, as though it's something she finally =believes=, the
same way I believe that they've been here for years.

I nuzzle my cheek against her breast, then press a kiss to the underside
of her chin. Upon further reflection, I come to the conclusion that
maybe, just maybe that =is= the most important thing she's ever said to
me.

Or at the very least, the most hopeful.

~

Shattered glass covers the floor, sunlight reflecting off each tiny
shard, causing rainbows to dance on the walls. If you listen carefully
enough, you could almost hear the strains of `Fools Rush In' as they
echo off the walls of the temporarily unavailable suite.

If you're an extremely lucky individual, you might catch a glimpse of
two lovers, wrapped in each other's arms, dancing their last dance for
all eternity. If you're an extremely special individual, desperately in
need of . . . something, you might get a very special gift you didn't
plan on when you booked your trip to Catalina.

You might be given the chance to live out a fantasy or two; the chance
to temporarily abandon maturity and logic for a weekend, or even a few
hours. You could frolic in the sand, remember why you fell in love with
your spouse all those years ago, meet the person you'll spend the rest
of your life with, or even gain the courage to tell the computer analyst
you met in the bar tonight you think they're cute and would they like to
dance?

In the not quite rare enough to be considered rare chance you come to
the island with someone you love; someone you are destined to be with
forever, you just might have an experience that changes you both
forever. A permanent change; something that stays with you, something
that gives you a peace that can't be taken away by a boat and plane ride
back to reality.

A certain something that makes you grin a shit-eating grin when you're
asked about the experience; something that implores you to respond in no
other way.

You might learn a lesson from two lost souls who made a mistake a few
decades ago; two souls who, rather than wallow in the bitterness of
their youthful error in judgment, have chosen to help others find a
better way. You might just be a little awed and grateful to these
generous, pained spirits who have decided to live their afterlife, as
they weren't allowed to live their life.

That is, of course, assuming you believed in ghosts.

And after all, we know ghosts don't =really= exist.

Right?

~

"Scully?" A sleepy breath, mumbled after an endless silence.

"Yea?" equally sleepy, breath puffing against the top of the head
nestled beneath her chin.

"It feels really good to let go."

A mutual agreement made in the now dark room, louder than the silence.

~

The REAL End

~

Please, please, PLEASE have gotten through . . . . . :)

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