"Saying The Words" By Karen Rasch (Part 1/3) This is the sequel to "Three Little Words," which was reposted in conjunction with this story. You really should read that one to understand what's going on here. I know I said that this one would be NC-17, and it is--however, the steamy stuff doesn't make an appearance until Part II. So, all you young Philes feel free to read Part I. There isn't anything here to shock you (with the exception of a few mild profanities). All those who have not yet seen Season III should be fairly safe as well. I have included only one spoiler, which for anyone who has been reading this or any other X-File Sig, isn't going to come as much of a surprise. I would like to thank everyone who has written to me with comments and suggestions. It's just the coolest thing in the world to get letters from people who have been reading your stuff. Some very lovely friendships have sprung up from this correspondence. I count myself lucky. Very special thanks to Helen, Connie, Juliettt and the Troupe, and Ri'an who have provided much appreciated moral support, and who have helped me identify Mulder & Scully in love. Needless to say, these two fascinating characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox and are used entirely without permission (although not without love). No money is being made. I'm just having some fun. Finally-- please, keep those cards and letters coming. My address is krasch@delphi.com. I would love to hear from you. RELATIONSHIP STORY AHEAD. Enter at your own risk. :) He knew it was her the moment he heard the knock on the door. The knowledge didn't come as a result of the uncanny sixth sense they shared, the one that so often let one of them know what the other was thinking without words being spoken. No. This time, his flash of precognition came as a result of simple common sense. After all, it only stood to reason that the determined woman who had worn a hole in his answering machine tape with her messages would eventually tire of his games and seek him at his home. He cracked open the door to his apartment. The hallway's fluorescents blinded him for an instant. Evening came early the first week of December, and his eyes had been accustomed only to the muted brilliance imparted by the Saturday afternoon basketball game continuing still on his television. "Hi. Remember me?" said a husky feminine voice that had figured prominently in so many of his recent fantasies. He stood in the doorway and blinked once, twice to clear his vision, wondering as he did so whether he looked as much like an owl as he felt. A pair of flashing blue eyes surveyed him coolly, the copper hair that framed the eyes, a fiery contrast. "Aren't you that cute little red-haired girl who's always following me around?" "Au contraire, Charlie Brown. =I= am that cute little red-haired girl who has been calling you nearly every hour on the hour for the past week." "Ohh," he murmured knowingly. "=That= one." Dana Scully narrowed her eyes at her partner, not knowing whether to hug him or slug him. He looked like shit. Well, good, she thought without remorse. At least she wasn't the only one suffering. It seemed only fair that he also lose a few nights' sleep and a chunk of his peace of mind. After all, it was his fault they were in this mess. Still, she acknowledged with wry amusement, that wasn't to say that Fox Mulder was without appeal. As he stood in the doorway in his jeans and faded blue henley, he looked younger, more boyish than he usually did in his workaday G-man getup. She had always liked him in casual clothes, probably because the opportunity to see him out of a suit and tie was so rare that it always felt as if she were viewing something special, something tantalizingly private when she chanced to catch him garbed more informally. Some little intimate part of his persona that he didn't share with the rest of his Bureau colleagues. Of course, the fact that he filled out a pair of jeans rather nicely undoubtedly had something to do with it as well. Even with bleary hazel eyes, hair that looked as if it would know a brush only by reputation, and the faint beginnings of a beard darkening his jaw, the man before her had the power to turn heads. Especially hers. Always hers. "So, are you planning on inviting me in?" she asked dryly after a second or two of them staring at each other. "Or would you prefer to come out here and join me?" Mulder grimaced with chagrin and stepped back to allow her entry. She stole one last look at his eyes, then brushed past him and into his apartment. It wasn't fair, he thought as he turned away from her to close and lock the door. Why should the sight of her affect him like a late summer cloudburst did parched farmland? Despite the vehemence with which he had been avoiding this moment for weeks, it took every iota of willpower he possessed to keep from simply staring dumbly at her, a silly grin on his face. God, she looked good. Clear eyed, pink cheeked from the cold, her cap of auburn hair attractively mussed atop her head. Way too good for the sake of his sanity. The really maddening thing was that she didn't even need to make some special effort to twist his insides in knots. She wasn't all dolled up, cosmetics an inch thick, perfume hanging like miasma in a cloud around her. He turned to look at her again, hungry as always for another glimpse of her. She didn't note his silent study. Instead, she was glancing around his darkened apartment as if trying to gage by its appearance his state of mind. While doing so, she absent-mindedly unzipped her jacket. He saw that beneath her bulky coat she was dressed in standard-issue weekend casual: jeans, a soft looking black cardigan with black pearl buttons and a pair of low black boots. Nothing provocative. Nothing intentionally seductive. And yet, all she had to do was stand in the same room with him, and he had to struggle to remember his own name. It hadn't been so bad before Chicago. Before Riggs and a confession Mulder wished he and his partner could both forget. Until he had said the words, he could pretend it wasn't real. His feelings for her. In some perverse way, it had seemed to his wildly rationalizing mind that as long as he was the only one who knew about them, he wouldn't have to deal with them. He could tamp them down, secret them away like some crazy old relative in an attic. Content himself with Scully's friendship, and nothing more. But now those emotions were out in the open. He could hide no longer. And for some reason, the physical yearning he had felt for his partner for the longest time; the need to hold her, to bury his face in her hair, to trace the slope of her shoulder with his lips, to hear her voice break on his name had taken on a life all its own. In the weeks since they had returned to D.C., he had found he woke reaching for her, as if the fevered dreams that plagued his nights might have some basis in reality once daylight dawned. But Fox Mulder had more than just a passing acquaintance with reality. And his arms remained empty. They had to. He just couldn't risk the alternative. "So, who's winning?" He realized with a start that he had been staring unseeing at the floor near his stockinged feet. "I . . . I don't know. The Bulls were leading when I got up to answer the door." He looked up at her just in time to catch her wince as she shrugged off her ski jacket. He crossed over to where she stood in front of the flickering television, and helped remove the coat. "Where's your sling?" he asked gruffly from just over her left shoulder. "The sling was retired over a week ago, Mulder," she said shortly, rotating her sore arm in a gingerly fashion to relieve the slight twinge of pain that remained. "Which you would have known if you had bothered to stop by or return any of my phone calls." Now it was Mulder's turn to flinch as he once again walked away from her to hang her coat on the rack by the door. He had no defense. She was right. Absolutely, positively correct. He was an ass. He hadn't seen her since he had dropped her off at her apartment after the uncomfortable flight home from Chicago. Sure, he had called her every day during the week Skinner had ordered her off work. Short, perfunctory little check-ins each day to assure himself that she was breathing, and indeed recovering from her injuries. But when he had known for certain that she had emerged from their ordeal in the Windy City without any permanent harm, he had decided that even that meager contact was tempting fate. At least for now. Perhaps it was finally time to take that long overdue vacation, he had told himself with false heartiness. Pretending this sudden urge to take some time away from the job had nothing whatsoever to do with the woman with whom he shared an office, he sat at home for a week. And thought of nothing but her. Still, calling on some inner resolve he hadn't known he possessed, he didn't called her. Hadn't dropped by her apartment. Instead, he spent an entire week without seeing or speaking to Dana Scully. Cold turkey. With the exception of her disappearance, it was the longest time he had endured since they had met completely devoid of contact with her. This must be what heroin addicts feel like when their fix is denied them, he had thought in one of his more self-pitying moments. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to speak to her. After only a few days, his fingers had nearly itched their way through his skin in their desire to pick up the telephone just to hear her voice. But, he couldn't do that anymore. Couldn't do the courtesy call, how-are-you-oh-that's-good-well-take-care-bye-now shit. He had wanted to =talk= to her. Really talk. To hear her laugh. To listen to the way her clever mind could take an idea of his and turn it on its ear without him even being able to muster offense. He had wanted that subtly sexy voice of hers to wind its way round his ears, soothing while it excited. But to do all that, to have a true conversation with his partner and best friend, they would have to talk about =it=. They would have to discuss what they had learned in Chicago. And that was a subject he simply couldn't face. "I'm sorry, Mulder," he heard her say softly from somewhere behind him. "That was harsh. It's just . . . I mean, what were you hoping? That if you ignored me long enough, I'd just disappear?" He licked his lips and closed his eyes for an instant, wondering why the mere mention of such an occurrence still had the power to terrify him. Waiting until he could trust his voice, he turned from the coat rack to look at her. "No. No. I'd never wish for that." Scully heard his words, spoken in that same low rough voice he had used when she had been in the hospital; that first time she had laid eyes on him after so very long, and he had given her that goofy football videotape she still hadn't watched. Memories that both pleased and pained her tussled their way to the forefront of her awareness, tempting tears. Ignoring them as best she could, she smiled tentatively and nodded, all the while silently cursing the apartment's shadows, wishing she could better see her partner's eyes. She knew that without meaning to she had wounded him with her innocent comment, and sincerely regretted the injury. Although, she suspected that an apology would only make matters worse. "I'm glad," she whispered finally, hoping the two words would be enough. They seemed to be. She thought she detected a softening in his eyes. Funny. With all the time they had spent together, all the conversations, all the secrets shared, they had never discussed in any meaningful way what had gone on during the months she had been missing. She had always assumed that Mulder had avoided the topic out of deference to her fears, to the feelings of helplessness and rage that always arose when she considered the time stolen from her. But looking at his face, seeing what she could of the pain etched in the lines around his eyes, the grim set of his mouth, the slight bow of his shoulders, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, the reason her partner shied away from the subject was because he himself could not bear it. She wanted to go to him. To smooth away the guilt and the regret from his features. But, she wasn't sure she had the permission. She didn't know Mulder in this mood, couldn't predict how he might react. She feared that if she were to take the chance, to cross to him, and pull him into her arms, he would reject her, perhaps seeing her comfort as pity. She sighed. She had known this afternoon would be difficult. She just hadn't realized how much. Neither moved. Mulder continued to watch her, his gaze wary, his posture alert. He appeared to be waiting for her to take the lead, something in his eyes telling Scully that with the proper coaxing, he might agree to follow. Okay, she thought ruefully, here goes nothing. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the small side table opposite his couch and turned on the lamp that served as its centerpiece. A soft, hazy glow filled the room. Not banishing shadows, but not promoting them either. Without saying a word, she walked back to the television, and turned it off, interrupting the game's announcer mid-sentence. Then, pinning Mulder with her gaze, she took a seat on his black leather couch. This is it, the look said. We are going to talk. I don't care if it takes all night. I'm not leaving until we're done. His lips twisted ever so slightly, the closest thing to a smile she had seen from him since showing up at his door. He recognized that look, and knew the futility of opposing it. Shaking his head, he gave in, and padded over to sit down heavily on the opposite end of the couch, facing her. "Just make yourself at home, Scully. It's not like I was watching the game anyway." "Mulder, if I waited for an invitation from you, Michael Jordan would already be in the middle of his *second* comeback." He dipped his head as if acknowledging the validity of her statement, his eyes reflecting gentle amusement. That amusement flowed over into her, and she smiled at him, her lips curving sweetly, her eyes warm. Unable to hold them back any longer, she spoke the words that had been threatening to pop out since she had first seen him framed in his apartment's doorway. "I've missed you." It may have been a trick of the room's lighting scheme, but she could have sworn a blush stole across his cheeks. "I've missed you too," he admitted softly, his voice sounding as if it had suddenly been thrown into disrepair. "The office just hasn't been the same without you. Everyone has noticed it," she continued, keeping her tone deliberately light, not wanting him to realize just how much his words pleased her. "In fact, I should probably tell you that you're currently the hot topic of conversation throughout the Bureau." "Some things never change," he murmured dryly, his eyebrows raised mockingly, one leg tucked beneath him as he sat. "Oh, not for the usual stuff," she assured him, the smallest measure of mischief twinkling in her eyes. "It's the vacation, Mulder. A week away from the job that wasn't prompted by medical necessity. The personnel clerk that processed your request may never recover. Rumor has it that smelling salts were called for." "I had the time coming," he said a bit defensively. "I'm sure you did," she agreed mildly, glad to have her partner talking to her again in a way he hadn't since that fateful night in Chicago. "But to take it willingly, without threats from Skinner, . . . or me. . . . Well, you have to expect that people will wonder why." He shrugged noncommittally, his gaze drifting away from hers once more. "Call me paranoid--but . . . I got the impression you might be avoiding me." "Scully--" "What's the matter, Mulder?" she teased softly, cutting off his objection, leaning towards him in an effort to draw him out, to breach his dauntingly thick wall of reserve. "You afraid of me?" At first, she thought he might refuse to answer, as he hesitated prior to replying. In the end, however, he merely looked at her with a mixture of fondness and chagrin, gnawing a moment on his lower lip before speaking. "Scully, you terrify me." The hushed confession stunned her. She had meant the remark playfully, hoping only to keep alive the short volley of banter a few moments longer. The revelation that the man she trusted most in the world might for some reason fear her or her reaction to him rendered her temporarily speechless. For his part, Mulder tore his gaze away from her astounded countenance, already regretting his words and the vulnerability they revealed. There was no way in hell Dana Scully was going to let him regret anything. "Why do I scare you, Mulder?" she asked, laying her small hand on his forearm. He sighed, shaking his head, a self-deprecating smile flirting with his lips. "Because you know the truth." "Isn't that what you're always after?" she challenged gently. "What the two of us have been looking for all this time?" He rubbed his hand over his face, and turned away from her slightly, struggling to come up with the words to make her understand. "Somehow, it's more difficult when that spotlight falls on you, Scully. You know?" She nodded slowly. He was right. Up to that point, the onus had fallen on him. He had been the one whose emotions had been put on display, whose secrets had been stolen, whose pretenses had been revealed as nothing more substantial than paper and colored lights. She, on the other hand, had found herself in the enviable position of Sphinx. Her mystery intact. Her will unknowable. She hadn't wanted it to be that way. If it had been up to her they would have hashed the whole thing out on the floor of that blood-stained warehouse. But Mulder--her brilliant, aggravating, terribly private partner-- had ducked her best efforts. And unwittingly given her the power to shatter his world. She supposed that some women might relish holding such sway over a man. One tall, leggy Brit sprang instantly to mind. But, Scully just couldn't do that. Credit the guilt instilled in her by the army of well-meaning nuns that had trouped through her grade-school years, or perhaps the old-fashioned values with which she had been raised by Ahab and his loving Maggie. But regardless of what had sired it, her own innate sense of fair play kicked in. Alone, Mulder had suffered the indignity long enough. The playing field had to be leveled. "How do you feel about sharing the spotlight, Mulder?" His head cocked in response to her query, his eyes radiating confusion. "What do you mean?" She smiled, treading carefully, her own reticence not making it any easier for her than it had been for him. "Aren't you curious, Mulder? Just the tiniest bit . . . I mean, through all of this you've never once asked me how I feel." His lips tightened. Half smile, half grimace. "Scully-- you don't have to do this." He didn't want her to think she was obliged to say something to make him feel better. They would never even have been having this conversation were it not for the intervention of a madman with a knife. There must be a hundred reasons why their feelings for each other were better left unexplored. If she did indeed love him, where did that leave them? How could they go on the way they had? He didn't see how they could be both lovers and partners. And as attractive a proposition as the former was, he didn't think he could face his life without the latter. And if she didn't love him . . . well, he grimly hoped that in that event the shards of his broken heart might somehow pierce something vital and put him out of his misery. "I know I don't have to," she said softly, looking at him with those shining eyes, the ones that seemed to catch every little slip, every little foible, and then forgive him for them just the same. "But what if I want to? What if I want to say the words?" He dared not blink, afraid that if he closed his eyes for even an instant, he would miss the moment he had both longed for and dreaded, seemingly since he had met her. "Don't you want to hear me say 'I love you,' Mulder?" The question was asked so simply, so sweetly, that for the briefest measure of time his eyes filled. "Only as much as I want my next breath," he admitted, not knowing before the words left his lips what exactly what he had planned on saying. She nodded, then opened her mouth to say the magic phrase. But he stayed her, his fingertips stopping within a hair's breadth of her lips. "But, I don't think that would be wise." She took his hand from in front of her face and held it tightly in both of hers, her eyes echoing the fierceness in her voice. "You may be able to prevent me from saying it. But you can't stop me from loving you, Mulder." His hand clenched her's painfully, his voice releasing wistfully on a sigh, sadness lacing it like veins in a leaf. "Oh, Scully . . . that's the last thing I want to do." She let go of his hand in frustration, squelching the urge to shake him, and pulled her legs beneath her in agitation so that she knelt upon the couch. "Then why are you fighting it? Why are you fighting me?" He perched on the edge of the sofa now, facing forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head in his hands. "Because to allow this to happen, everything that came before it would have to go." "What are you talking about?" He turned his head to look at her, and she was stunned by the anguish pooled in his eyes. "Us, . . . working as partners. The X-Files. That wouldn't be allowed to continue if word got out that we were together. It would be just the excuse they'd need to shut us down." "Then word won't get out," she told him calmly, her eyes resolute. "No one will know." "Scully--" "Mulder, answer me this," she said, crawling towards him slightly, needing to be closer to him, as if physical proximity alone would be enough to reach him. "What you told me in Chicago--that wasn't a revelation for you, was it? I mean . . . it wasn't something that just occurred to you at that moment." "No," he admitted, a bit puzzled as to where this was going. "I had known how I felt about you for a long time." She smiled, her beautiful heart-melting smile, the one that he waited for like a kid waits for Christmas. "I thought so. It was the same for me. I had known that my feelings for you had grown into something more than friendship for . . . well, for quite a while." He smiled shyly at her, surprised by her admission, and pleased beyond all measure by it. "And . . .?" "And--don't you see, Mulder?" she said, her enthusiasm bubbling over. "We're better actors than we give ourselves credit for. We fooled them, we fooled each other, and if we're being completely honest here, we fooled ourselves for months. Who's to say we couldn't carry out the charade indefinitely?" What she proposed was so tempting, so damn easy to agree to. And he wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. In fact, at that moment, he wanted it more than he wanted to see Samantha again, knowledge which he greeted with a touch of wonderment and guilt. But, Mulder had spent the better part of his life having those things he most desired snatched away from him. It seemed to him that the things he cared the most about were those that exacted the greatest price. "Scully, you more than anyone know the dangers our enemies pose," he said softly, his eyes studying his hands. "Nothing stays secret from them very long. You know it would only be a matter of time before they found out. And then it would be the most natural thing in the world for them to use our relationship against us." "No," she said shortly, steel girding her tone. "They can't have this." He looked at her, his eyes filled to overflow with questions. She stared gravely back, her face pale, but composed. "They have taken so much from me, from both of us," she said quietly, her intensity moderated not a bit by her lack of volume, her so, so serious eyes never leaving his. "They've stolen from me my illusions, months of my life, memories, Mis-. . . my sister. Even without knowing about our feelings for each other, they've tried to take you away from me more than once. It's gotten to the point where they don't even have to do anything, and yet we second-guess ourselves, wondering if we're making the right decisions, the right choices. Well, I won't let my fear of what they may or may not do keep me from being who and what I am. And I sure as hell won't sacrifice this . . . what we could have . . . in the misguided belief that it will keep either of us safe. There are no guarantees, Mulder. You, of all people, should know that. We can't let them win. I refuse to." His throat closed painfully as he listened to her, and felt that familiar sense of admiration and pride well up inside him when he considered her bravery, her absolute courage. It was absurd, really. He was supposed to be the senior partner in their relationship, the one with more field time, more years logged at the Bureau. And yet, at moments like this, he knew which of them possessed the true strength, the utter and complete certitude in their combined power. How ironic. People always referred to her as the skeptic. But not when it came to the two of them. Her fearlessness only made his own doubts seem that much more cowardly. But he had one more confession he had to make. "Scully, . . . there is something else," he said haltingly, a tiny self-mocking smile flitting across his lips, his eyes dancing back and forth between her patient gaze and his own trembling hands. "I, um . . . , I had a lot of time to think this week. More than I probably should have. And, uh . . . I discovered something about myself. Something . . . something I'm sure you probably noticed a long time ago. I don't deal very well with loss." He looked at her then, full on. His hazel eyes shadowed, but not without humor, directed, as usual, at himself. Taking her cue from that humor, Scully found she wanted to laugh. Not at Mulder. Not at his fears, or his pain, or for the losses he had already suffered. But for the endearing way the man beside her had of taking his deepest, most dreaded phobias, and making them sound as if they were nothing more than minor inconveniences. Abandonment. Such a common fear for such an uncommon man. Yet, she understood it. Knew that it wasn't just their enemies about which they had to worry. Separation could come from a drunk driver, an unexpected illness, or simply two people growing apart. And as much as she wanted to, she couldn't make him promises. But, she would swear to him and to anyone else who cared to listen that she planned on fighting for this, for them, with every ounce of strength she possessed, secure in the knowledge that Mulder would do no less. That was one of the things she most admired in him. His commitment to those he loved. It amazed her that although throughout his life the people for whom he had most cared had routinely turned their backs on him or simply disappeared, he was willing to take chances on friendships. And occasionally, on something more. When he did so, his loyalty was absolute. And his need, almost frightening in its intensity. Scully knew that Mulder didn't let go of something--of someone--without a ferociously fought battle. After all, he spent every day of his life searching for a sister who had gone missing more than 20 years before. And although her sister and mother had never relayed to her the whole story of what had transpired after she had turned up so unexpectedly at Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, she had gotten the sense that he, more so even than her own family members, had flatly refused to let her die. She had been told that he alone had contested her living will, the document that he himself had signed. She could also remember, admittedly only in the vaguest terms, how he had sat beside her the night before she had awoke. His words and the sensation of his touch were things she could recall only as if they had taken place in a dream. But, his presence, the almost tangible pull of him, clinging so stubbornly to her, personally barring her way to heaven, had imprinted itself upon her much more lastingly. He hadn't given up on her, even when everyone else had told him it was the wisest, sanest thing to do. She loved him for that. And for a great many other things. Not the least of which was his ability to recognize the things that frightened him most and then wage war against them just the same. "Are you so convinced that our being together will only hurt you in the end?" she asked softly, her thumb brushing lightly along his upper arm, her face wandering closer to his. "I'll admit, the thought has crossed my mind," he said dryly, turning his face towards her, so near suddenly that their noses were in danger of rubbing. He found he liked having her close, and realized he had an almost overwhelming urge to play Eskimo. "Well then, I guess I'm going to have to prove you wrong," she whispered, her eyes growing dark, heated as if from within. "But to do that, I have to ask you something. A favor." "What?" His throat felt like the Mojave. And who the hell had turned up the thermostat? "Can I kiss you, Mulder?" she asked softly, her lips curved ever so invitingly. "Would you mind? I've wanted to for the longest time." He swallowed hard, thinking that if his blood roared any more loudly through his head, he'd soon be unable to hear her. "Sure, Scully. Never let it be said that I'd deny you a favor." (Continued in Part II) =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "Saying The Words" 2/3 (Sequel to "Three Little Words") Date: Tue, 28 Nov 95 06:41:53 -0500 Here we go again. Acknowledgments and disclaimer in Part I. The sex starts here (and flows over into Part III). You've been warned. Read at your own risk. Let me know what you think. My address is krasch@delphi.com "Saying the Words" NC-17 By Karen Rasch (Part 2/3) "Thanks, Mulder. I knew I could count on you," Scully said softly, her smile widening ever so slightly as she moved still closer to him. "And I promise--it won't hurt a bit." He wasn't so sure. She was taking all the time in the world, and he felt quite certain the wait alone might kill him. Still, he held on, watching her, fascinated by the subtle changes taking place in his partner. Gone was the cool, efficient government employee. The tiny redhead curled up on black leather beside him fairly radiated heat. Her eyes met his, dusky blue, their pupils large and just the tiniest bit unfocused. Her face was flushed, and her lips held that maddening little Mona Lisa smile, the one that made him both nervous and more than just a trifle aroused. She was on her knees beside him, the only way they would ever be of equal stature. Placing her small hand on the corner of his jaw, she pulled his head towards her so they faced one another. She just looked at him for the space of a breath or two, then took her fingertips and lightly threaded them through the hair that fell across his forehead. Mulder had to fight the urge to close his eyes and give himself over to the sensations her touch engendered, the sparks of pleasure and fire that travelled down his nerve paths like a telephone call down a wire. But, he didn't want to miss a moment of this. He wanted to-- needed to--see her, to take in the emotions that played so tellingly across her features. Her tiny frown of concentration; the way her mouth hung full and relaxed, the white of her teeth barely visible behind her lips; the manner in which her eyes were closed just a fraction, her lashes hiding their smoky depths like a feathery veil, the intensity and intelligence he had so often witnessed in them now trained on him and his reaction to her. He was glad he had withstood the temptation when not a moment later she leaned in to press her lips to his temple. He followed her mouth with his eyes until it passed from his view, noting for maybe the thousandth time since he had met her the shape and texture of it, and wondering if it would taste as sweet as it looked. It was all he could do not to reach up and grab her beautiful face, anchoring those lips to his own. But he tamped down on the desire, not wanting to disrupt the woman next to him's slow yet infinitely promising seduction of him. Her lips were as warm as he had imagined they'd be and soft, and even though the caress was nothing more than a mother might give a wayward child, he could already feel his body quickening. "There now," she whispered, her breath puffing against his ear, inducing shivers strangely at odds with the heat rising through his body like mercury up a thermometer. "Did that hurt?" "I don't think so," he said in a low voice that crackled in the back of his throat like paper. "But why don't you try it again to be sure." Scully giggled, a goofy child-like sound that Mulder wished he could surprise out of her more often. "Greedy man," she chided softly before once again kissing his face, this time lower, in the hollow beneath his cheekbone, just in front of his ear. He made a rough short humming noise behind closed lips that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. The need to do more than just sit there and enjoy her ministrations was beginning to gnaw at him. At the very least, he wanted to be able to touch her as well, to make her feel the fiery little tendrils of excitement that even now coiled in the pit of his stomach. Unable to stand it any longer, he reached out and lightly grasped her slender waist in his two hands. She swayed in his hold like a willow. His thumbs made slow little circles over the slinky knit of her sweater, its weave gliding over her skin teasingly. The moment his hands closed over her waist, Scully bowed her head, and with the bridge of her nose traced the side of his face, nuzzling him, much the way a particularly affectionate kitten might its master's hand. To his surprise and infinite pleasure, Mulder discovered one of his fantasies coming true. Her hair, fragrant, soft, cool against his heated skin, hung before his eyes like a curtain. Powerless against the reality of dream made flesh, he finally closed his eyes in surrender. Her lips continued their exploration of his face, finding his brow, his hairline, the corner of his eye, the tip of his nose, the slight indentation in his chin. Everywhere but where he wanted most to feel them--against his own. "Am I still scaring you, Mulder?" she asked in a voice whiskey smooth, her cheek rubbing gently against his, her breath tantalizing his ear. Now it was his turn to chuckle, his hands tightening in reaction around her middle. "Yeah. Yeah, but it's a good scare." Oh god . . . her mouth was at his ear, making small biting little kisses around its curve. He felt his heart soar then plunge like an elevator out of control. "What do you mean 'good scare'?" she asked softly from right at his ear, speaking so closely that he felt the words as much as heard them. "You know. . . ," he said with a shaky smile, his restless hands now roaming up to her shoulder blades and back down to just where sweater gave way to jeans. ". . . Like a haunted house at Halloween." She drew away from his ear and eyed him with a dry half-smile, her lips already swollen from their contact with his skin, her arms looped loosely around his neck. "I had no idea you were such a smooth talker, Mulder. I've been called a lot of things, but never a 'haunted house.'" "Hey, that was a compliment," he teased, his smile lopsided but tender. "Any kid knows that the best haunted houses give you the thrill of a lifetime. And once you've experienced one of those, you want to go back again and again." She smiled more broadly, deciding the comparison pleased her. "Well, I don't know if I can compete with things that go bump in the night. But, I'll do what I can to give you a thrill." Cradling his face in her hands, she finally gave him what he had been wishing for with increasing desperation since they had begun. She brushed her lips against his, lightly, chastely, just enough to let him sample their texture, but not enough to let him learn it. She pulled back and looked at him. Their eyes clung, each pair feeding off the other's heat. Satisfied with what she saw, she once again dipped her head, this time deepening the contact. And yet, the kiss retained its innocence, its sweet, non-threatening nature. They continued their gentle play, each realizing it was an introduction of sorts, a way of getting to know the person beside them in a new and decidedly unprofessional manner. Time temporarily in a holding pattern, they slanted their lips over and against each other's, each discovering just what it took to cause breath to shorten or sighs to whisper. Gradually, Mulder's hands gave up their place on Scully's supple back, and instead buried themselves in her hair. She must have sensed his growing urgency as she caught his lower lip between her teeth and nibbled, tugging on it with exquisite care. A surprised gasp turned groan escaped his lips, and she smiled against his mouth. He felt her lips curve lusciously against his, and decided that it was long past time for him to turn the tables. Figuring turnabout was fair play, he started by mimicking her actions, capturing her lower lip, and restraining it carefully between his teeth. Then, slowly, softly he ran his tongue tenderly over it as if to soothe away a hurt. He felt rather than saw the shiver course through her, and with the most gentle of kisses released her from his hold. She pulled back once more, only this time not as far, a dreamy bemused look in her eye. "I may be crazy, Mulder. But I don't think you're frightened of me anymore." He wanted to tell her how wrong she was. How she scared him more than anything because he needed her more than anyone. How she was more important to him than air, or water, or light, or tomorrow. How he would forever look at his life as divided into two parts: before and after he had met her. How she and only she brought out what was best in him. How she made him stronger, better than he had any right to be. How when they were together, he felt safe and loved and understood, and as if with her beside him he could accomplish anything, anything at all. And how it would all dissolve into dust if one day she was gone. But to make that most damning of confessions, he would have to stop kissing her. And he had just discovered that together they were so very good at this. So instead, he merely murmured with eyes at half mast, "Let's test that theory, shall we?" Before she had the opportunity to realize his intentions, Scully found herself tumbled across Mulder's lap, his strong arms supporting her shoulders and lower back, her legs hanging off his to lie on the couch, her bottom nestled where her partner's legs met his hips. She only had a moment to adjust to her new position, to recognize the purpose in the hazel eyes that watched her so intently, before his mouth swooped down to claim hers. She met him at least halfway, the urgency with which her arms clung to his neck straining the barely healed flesh on her upper arm. She ignored the pain, focusing instead on the moist heat of his lips. On the unexpected and most welcome introduction of his tongue, the play of it against hers, the insistent stroking, the slow glide of it over her teeth, the roof of her mouth, her lips themselves. Chasing his mouth with hers, she found herself pressing her upper body sinuously to his, seeking the friction of his chest against her breasts to soothe their aching tips. She wanted him so badly she was almost delirious with it. Her fingers tangled themselves in his silky hair, grabbing hold of it tightly to keep his face just where she wanted it. He let her have her way for a few fevered kisses, then his strength reasserted itself, and he tore his lips from hers to run his open mouth along the ivory column of her throat. She bent back in his arms to allow him better access, trusting he would support her, offering up her neck like a sacrifice. He accepted it gladly, nibbling and licking and trailing his lips against her skin, luxuriating in its velvety grain. Finding, like the excellent investigator he was, all her hidden hollows and secret sensitivities, driving the woman in his arms to twist and start with pleasure, the whispery moans and sighs escaping from her lips falling on his ears like benedictions. Then, his mouth ran across a patch of skin different from the rest. He paused, and lifted his head to stare at her neck. His breath came in great gasps, as if he had run a long, long way. Scully pulled herself reluctantly from the world of sensation and insensibility in which she had been drifting to look up at him, her breathing no less labored. "What is it?" Mulder didn't answer her directly. But his actions told her what was wrong. He took his forefinger and lifted it to just below her jawline, beneath a fall of auburn hair that worked like camouflage to disguise what lie beneath it. With a touch like eyelashes grazing skin, he brushed it against her throat. Following the angry, jagged path of a nearly healed knife wound. Still silent, he careful pushed her tousled hair back over her shoulders, searching with shuttered eyes for the scar's companions. He found one peering over the neckline of her sweater. Like before, he traced it, this time with his thumb, the pressure so light she almost couldn't feel it. Scully pushed herself up from her half-reclining posture, and turned so that she faced Mulder, straddling his lap, her knees resting on the sofa. With solemn blue eyes, she waited until his haunted gaze met hers. Then, ever so slowly she reached up, her eyes never leaving his, and undid the top two buttons on her sweater, the black faux pearls slipping easily through the holes. Calmly, she spread the opening into a wide vee, revealing one more puckered red wound. And her cross. Mulder didn't touch this additional momento of Rigg's abuse, choosing instead to finger the delicate gold chain around her neck, running it between his thumb and forefinger in a way that reminded Scully of someone saying a rosary. Finally, he mumbled something she didn't quite catch. "What?" she asked softly. His eyes, which had lowered to study the gleaming necklace pinched so tightly between his fingers, found her's, the pain reflected in them hurting her more deeply than Rigg's knife ever could. "I said, 'Too close'. Too . . . damn . . .close." She nodded, not agreeing so much as accepting. "But I survived." "This time." "We take it day by day, Mulder. That's the best anyone can do." His brow furrowed, his fingers still clinging to her cross and chain. "What if I want better for you?" "Better than what?" "Better than this. Than me." She understood his fear, lived with her own version of it every minute of every day. Wondering if this time they would be quick enough, smart enough, or just plain lucky enough to make it through another case intact. Reliving in her errant daydreams and most vivid nightmares all the near misses, all the bedside vigils. She laid her hand upon his cheek. "I appreciate the sentiment, Mulder. But that's not your call. I'm a big girl. I can make my own choices." She rose up on her knees and pressed her lips to his forehead. "And I choose you." He stared at her moodily, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. "More fool you." "Hey--you better watch that!" she cautioned in a laughing voice, dropping down on his lap again, her other hand coming up to mirror the first so that she cradled his face between them. "You're talking about the man I love." For a moment he didn't move. Instead, he only looked at her, a complex mixture of emotions she found impossible to label shining in his eyes. Then, the dam broke. "I'm so glad." His hands raised to pull her face towards his. "So glad." His eyes slid shut, hiding a suspicious glitter. "So glad." His lips found hers, clinging to them fiercely, his arms crushing her to him. The rest of the chant was silenced by the fusing of their mouths, but the words echoed endlessly inside his head. Over and over and over again, strengthening their meaning rather than diminishing it. Scully clung to him, feeling herself growing heavy and moist, the slow clenching need her partner so effortlessly stoked within her compelling her bottom to shift restlessly atop his lap. Mulder moaned into her mouth, and arched up beneath her. She smiled with just a touch of womanly triumph, some tiny detached part of her brain musing over the way nature compelled her body to soften in readiness for their union, while at the same time urging his to harden. His hands ran over her arms, her hips, her back, her behind; their movement quicker, less fluid than it had been only moments before. His fingers found the front of her sweater. Trembling, they popped the tiny buttons securing the garment from their holes. Scully egged him on, alternately nibbling on then laving with her tongue the muscles in his neck. He gasped, flinging back his head to accommodate her. Finally, the cardigan lay open, framing her demure black lace bra and her torso's ivory expanse. Bringing his head once more upright, Mulder laid his hands again on her waist. This time, the contact was skin against skin. Scully stopped her loving assault on his neck, and pulled back to look at him. He gazed at her, panting. His eyes had turned a cats-eye gold, appearing positively molten in the room's half-light. The heated anticipation in his regard sparked a pinprick of anxiety in her. Under normal circumstances, Dana Scully was quite content with her body. Sure, she wouldn't have minded a few additional inches, preferably tacked on to the length of legs. But overall, she was pleased with her form, knew it to be strong, gently curved, and capable of eliciting admiring glances from the opposite sex. She wasn't blind. She had seen Mulder eyeing her in that way, understood that he that found her attractive. But she also knew that the women with whom he had recently spent the most time were of the fantasy variety. Immortalized forever on celluloid in all their silicone perfection. Now, while she didn't harbor any deep, dark, secret envy of Barbie, Bambi, and the rest of the girls, she recognized with all the clear-eyed honesty that was her hallmark that in some ways, when compared to these screen queens, she didn't quite . . . stack up. And it was suddenly very, very important to her that the man before her not be disappointed. She rested her hands against his chest, felt it rise and fall beneath them in a quick, shallow rhythm, his heart thudding in soothing counterpoint under her fingertips. His hands ran slowly up and down her sides from her waist to the edge of her bra. He let his fingers slide loosely over her, so she experienced the sensation of his touch rather than the touch itself. The gentle teasing was electric. She could feel goose flesh rising on her arms and back. And yet he made no move to turn the caress more overtly seductive, to get to what the kids in junior high would once have referred to as second base. He seemed to be waiting. Waiting for some sign from her. A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but one, she told herself with a touch of ironic humor, wondering why one of her father's pithy homilies would choose that moment to enter her mind. Her eyes retaining their hold on his, she reached up and carefully pushed the sweater from her shoulders, leaving it to pool on the floor behind her. Cool air swept over her naked skin. She felt her nipples tingle in reaction. Something indescribably arousing flared in Mulder's eyes. Then died when his gaze flickered to her shoulder. There lie the worst of Rigg's damage. The wound extended for nearly four inches. It had cut deeply and had required a multitude of tiny precise stitches. Despite her physician's best efforts to the contrary, she knew she would forever carry the scar. And yet, it wasn't the physical disfigurement she was concerned with at that moment. It was the emotional one. Mulder took the back of his hand and tenderly smoothed it over the pink, tortured flesh. To his eyes, the neat row of black stitches appeared obscene against her shoulder's ivory curve. "It doesn't hurt," she said softly. "Liar," he challenged without any rancor, his fingers still dancing lightly over her upper arm. She smiled wryly, her eyebrow lifting in acknowledgment at getting caught with her fib. "Most of the time," she amended. He nodded, still not meeting her eyes. She took the hand of her uninjured arm, and combed her fingers through his hair to soothe him. He accepted the caress, but she couldn't tell if it in any way eased him. Finally, he leaned forward, and pressed his lips to the wound, the touch feather-light. She, in turn, kissed the top of his head, the short silky strands of hair tickling her nose. "Maybe you should try and take my mind off of it," she whispered against his temple. "What?" She leaned back and looked at him with pure devilry shining in her eyes. "The pain. Maybe you should try distracting me, Mulder." He knew what she was doing, understood that she was injecting humor and a dose of sexual teasing into the moment in the hopes of detouring his slide into a colossal blue funk. He supposed that his awareness of her tactics should have mitigated their effectiveness. But, there was no way in hell he was proof against the half naked woman he loved straddling his lap. The one who was so damned sexy when she suggested he do what he already wanted to do more than anything in the world. His eyes skimmed down from her face to her waist, and then back up again. On their return trip, his hands followed along for the ride, sliding up to cup her breasts, lifting them ever so slightly. Her flesh rose over the bra's cups, full, creamy white, gently rounded. He squeezed. Scully's eyes fluttered shut. His hands clenched carefully again. "Hmm . . . . and what do you suppose it would take to distract you, Agent Scully?" The gentle kneading continued, his thumbs finding her nipples through the lingerie, and sweeping slowly over them, persuading the nubbins to pucker ever more tightly. Her voice, throaty and low, sounded as if it took every smidgen of concentration she possessed just to form the words. "Oh, I don't know. . . . That's not a bad start." (Continued in Part III) =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "Saying The Words" 3/3 (Sequel to "Three Little Words") Date: Tue, 28 Nov 95 06:42:50 -0500 This is it--the climax! (Isn't that awful? I can't believe I just wrote that. . . .:) That's what writing smut will do to you. ) Again, credits/disclaimer can be found in Part I. I hope you all enjoyed this one. I had a heck of a time putting it together. Let me know. Drop me a line at krasch@delphi.com. I would love to hear from you. "Saying the Words" NC-17 By Karen Rasch (Part 3/3) He smiled, and with his hands coming around to support her slight weight, bent his head to kiss the skin directly below her bra. Then, his lips trailed downwards. Scully arched in his arms, lowering herself farther and farther back as his teasing lips made their way down her torso. Eventually, she came to rest almost parallel to the floor, her stomach muscles jumping in reaction when Mulder nibbled right above her navel. His smile broadened. With a quick kiss to the small indentation peeking out from her jean's waistband, he slowly brought her upright again. Her hair was an auburn cloud, back lit from the lamp across the room so that it glowed like a nimbus, framing her flushed face. Her lips were rosy and slightly parted, her eyes glazed with need. She ran the edge of her hand against his face, then reached down to undo the clasp at the front of her bra. Mulder stopped her. "No. I want to." He twisted the tiny plastic fastener and slid it apart. Black lace clung for a moment to ivory skin before falling free. All the while silent, he reached up and slowly pushed the slender straps down her arms. His eyes were focused low, intent on the skin he was uncovering. Scully sat on his lap, holding her breath, waiting for him to say or do anything that would let her know that she pleased him. He took his finger and lightly stroked the back of it over first one than the other pink tipped nipple, glancing over the peaks, circling the aureoles with a maddening lack of pressure. She swayed into him, desiring firmer contact. His eyes lifted, and what she saw there silenced all her nagging little insecurities. He sighed. "Oh, Scully . . . " Smiling with tenderness and exceedingly male appreciation, his hands came up to cup her shoulder blades. Saying nothing more, he rested his face between her breasts, and slowly, so very, very slowly turned it from side to side, lost in the sensation of her velvety skin caressing his cheeks. He wanted to tell her just what she looked like to him. How he saw her at that moment. The way her mesmerizing mix of burnished red hair, pale soft skin, flame blue eyes, and what had to be the most exquisitely constructed mouth on the planet aroused him to the point of pain. He didn't think he would ever get enough of the sight of her sitting astride him, wild in a way he would never have imagined possible, her oh-so pretty breasts quivering before him provocatively enough to tempt a saint. But, he knew she'd never believe him. Not when he told her what a siren she was. She would never recognize herself as the bewitching woman he saw her to be. God . . . She was driving him half out of his mind. He desired nothing more than to toss her to the floor, rip off what remained of her clothes, and bury himself so deeply inside her that nothing the world might throw at them could separate them ever, ever again. But, he had been reining in those impulses since she had first pressed her lips to his temple, had squelched the urge to hurry, to turn their coming together into nothing more than a venting of physical need. He had done his damnedest to take it slow, to try to express to her through his touch, his kiss, just how much she meant to him. To make their first time together special. For her. However, he wouldn't lay odds as to just how much longer his badly over-taxed control was going to prevail. Mulder's lips made their leisurely way to the tip of her breast. Oh, thank god, she thought fervently. She had been wondering if she might die waiting for the hot wet feel of them wrapped around her furled nipple. "Oh . . .!" She had to revise that thought not soon after he closed his mouth over her and began to suckle. Instead of the anticipation, she mused, she might just die from the pleasure. His tongue swept over her pebbled skin, coaxing still more hardness from the sensitive peak. His lips clung tightly, their gentle in-and-out motion narrowing her awareness of the world to only the sensation of his mouth tugging on her breast. It was dizzying, the pressure, the pull. His strong hands, still cupping her shoulder blades, were the only things allowing her to remain upright. He turned his attention to her other side. This time his teeth grazed her sensitive skin, their impact carefully measured. He kissed her there, rubbed his cheek against her, his tongue, then his lips began their tortuous suction. Oh, god, God, =God=--he had a fabulous mouth! And the things he could do with it . . . . She grew light-headed merely considering the possibilities. She whimpered in his hold. Her need was becoming unbearable. Blindly, her hands reached for his henley, and pulled it with barely restrained violence from his jeans. "I want . . . .," she began, the words sounding breathless and high to her ears. "Yes," he agreed quickly, his voice rumbling from somewhere south of his waist, his mouth having released her breast to help her remove his shirt. She ran her hands over the breadth of his chest and down to his flat stomach, her mouth lowering to just where his neck met his shoulders. She closed her teeth over him, teasing the sensitive network of nerves gathered there with finely honed pressure. "Oh god. . . " His eyes drifted shut, his breath sucking in on a hiss. She touched his skin with her tongue and tasted the faint tang of salt. She wanted more of the flavor, and her lips roamed his chest seeking it. She found other pleasures as well. Buried within the light sprinkling of hair, she discovered first one, then another small flat nipple and lavished on them the same attention Mulder had shown to her's. Nipping at them, suckling, licking, her hands all the while vying for his regard as they swept across his torso, flooding him with desire. He wanted to shout with it. But all he could do was groan. His hands grabbed hold of her hips and yanked her down, while at the same time thrusting up beneath her. Scully raised her head from its contemplation of his chest to look him in the eye. God, he was beautiful. His face, always handsome, had altered with his passion for her. His color had heightened, his eyes had gone soft with a lambent glow that warmed her just to look at them. The grim lines life had conspired to bracket his mouth had disappeared, leaving behind only those lips. Those lips that were fast becoming an obsession with her. She loved this man. Her mouth curved at the corners, she let her hand drift to his lap, found him through the denim of his jeans, and squeezed. He arched again, a throaty moan tumbling from his mouth. He caught her head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through her hair to cradle the base of her skull, his thumbs framing her eyes. Trembling, he pulled her to him. "I want you." She kept her hands in his lap, slowly stroking him through the fabric, feeling his flesh jump against her caress. Lengthen. Harden. She raised her eyebrow at him, a look he had seen hundreds of times, although certainly not in this context. No. Now it served as an invitation, or perhaps a challenge. "Then take me," she whispered, her voice low, husky, like honey coated gravel. Mulder let loose with something like a growl, and holding her close, swiftly turned so that they lay facing each other on the couch. His lips once again taking possession of hers, he freed her from her remaining clothes. With her help, his soon joined her's in a pile on the floor. Running his hand up her smoothly muscled thigh, he paused momentarily from his tongue's investigation of her ear to murmur, "You know, I do have a bed." Her smile could have lit up most of D.C. single- handedly. "I don't think my legs could carry me that far." "Mine *might* manage for both of us." "No," she said softly, rubbing her thumb gently along his lower lip. "This couch. This is what I think of as your 'territory,' Mulder. Your domain." He smiled tenderly. "And what, Scully--you're looking to stake a claim?" She nodded unabashedly. "Mmhmm," she whispered, her eyes aglow. "That's right. I want you to make love to me here, Mulder. The place where you usually spend your nights." "Alone," he said quietly, feeling the need to finish off her sentence, to acknowledge the way his life had been unspooling until that night. She kissed him, her lips sweet and clinging. "Not any more." At that moment he would have willingly done the wild thing with her in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue if it would have made her happy. As it was, he wondered with the tiny pocket of his brain that wasn't completely and totally taken up with Dana Katherine Scully just what it ran these days to dry-clean leather. His hands gripped her buttocks, squeezed the soft skin, then drifted forward to tangle themselves in the nest of hair at the juncture of her thighs. She moaned, luscious and low. He nuzzled her neck with his lips while his fingers gently explored. The folds of flesh hidden between her legs were swollen, and moist, and nearly hot enough to burn. Lightly, he stroked the opening to her body. Then, his fingers slipped inside. Her hips rocked languidly beneath his touch. Her neck arched , her teeth closing sharply over her bottom lip to hold back a groan, her eyes sliding shut. "Look at me," he implored, kissing the corner of her jaw, her cheek, her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, their expression dazed. His hand continued its slow, unrelenting rhythm; his long sensitive fingers gliding into her heated center; then out, a fraction at a time. "Oh, Mulder," she whispered. "I don't know if I can." "I want to please you," he explained softly, his face even more boyish than usual with his eyes shining down at hers so openly, and his hair flopping over onto his forehead. "I want to make you feel . . . everything. And your eyes . . . . they tell me all I need to know." She reached up with a hand that had begun to tremble as much as his, and smoothed her fingertips over his brow. "All right. Hold onto me, Mulder." "Always." Lifting up and over her smaller frame, he settled himself on his knees between her legs, one arm snaked around her shoulders. She reached down and stroked him, root to tip. Now, he had to bite back a groan, to struggle to keep his eyes open and on her's. She repeated the caress, over and over, varying the pressure and the direction of her touch. Until, with a gasp, he had to pull her hands away for fear he would embarrass himself. For a moment, they just looked at each. Heated hazel eyes gazing down into vivid limpid blue. Then, her hands found him again, and carefully guided him inside her. Each whimpered, low and harsh from the back of their throats, as he slipped inside. His body stretched her, making her feel full, possessed. One arm still around her slender shoulders, the other locked around her waist, Mulder began to move. He started slow; an easy, gentle rock. Scully's hips soon picked up the rhythm, and her legs twined around his lower back, her heels drumming on his behind. Before long, the tempo picked up. Sweat beaded along his hairline, and his back grew slick beneath her fingertips. Her breath came in little bursts against his face, the air flowing raggedly in to and out of her mouth, the rise and fall of her chest bringing her sensitized breasts into teasing contact with his chest. He gripped her more tightly, trying to bring her body flush against his without further injuring her wounded shoulder, needing to delve as deeply into her as he could, unconsciously trying to meld their bodies into one. If the slash pained her, she gave no indication. Instead, she gripped him with a strength he hadn't known she owned, her fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. Her hips slapped against his, her legs holding him close. On and on, he drove into her, knowing he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. He stole little sipping kisses from her lips, his eyes still locked on hers, watching intently to judge which stroke most made her shiver and clench, which angle heightened the tension coiling inside her, which caress was most likely to send her over the edge. Oh, god--she was close . . . soclosesoclosesoclose soclose. . . . . She took her arms from around his waist and shoulders, and grabbed hold of his hair, pulling his face down so that it hung mere inches from hers. She could feel his arms shaking with the strain of holding back, sense the current that ran through his body as he readied himself to let go. "Mulder, say my name," she begged him, surprised to find that her voice still even worked, her tongue coming out to sweep over her swollen mouth, moistening it.. "What . . . .?" His mind was a whisper away from incoherent. "My name. Say . . . my . . . name." His hips quickened even more, the pace nearly unbearable. His legs ached. His body screamed for release. Even so, he smiled. The look in his eyes blindingly tender. He knew what she wanted. And it was his great pleasure to be able to give it to her. "Dana," he breathed softly, marveling at how good --how right--it felt to speak that name while passion stretched him so tightly on the rack. "Dana . . . I love you." Her smile nearly split her face in two, and throwing her head back, she splintered apart in his arms, her cry of joy and triumph pulling him along with her. He gave one last final thrust, and then came, muffling his shout in her shoulder. Unable to support his weight any longer, he collapsed into her arms, his limbs heavy and limp, utterly relaxed. They stayed that way for a long time, a jumble of body parts resting wearily against one another, their skin cooling. Finally, realizing that not only was he undoubtedly smothering the woman beneath him, but most probably pinning her wounded shoulder with his own, Mulder pressed his hands against the couch to lift himself away. "Stay." He looked down into his partner's slumberous blue eyes. Softly, he brushed her tousled hair from her face before leaning down to touch his lips to her's. "I'm not going anywhere." "Good," she murmured, a faint smile flirting with her lips. "I like you just where you are." His lips quirked in an answering smile. "You're sure I'm not crushing you?" "Uh uh. It feels good. Besides, you're warm." "Are you cold?" he asked in concern. "Hmm," she hummed non-committally, blinking up at him sleepily. "A bit. Funny . . . I didn't notice it before." He chuckled. "I'll tell you what--how about if we compromise?" he offered, and turned them both, their bodies still joined, so that they rested on their sides facing each other. "I'd play blanket myself, but I don't think my knees would hold out. Old basketball injury." "You and half the NBA." He kissed her again and tugged down an ancient blanket he kept tossed over the back of the sofa for those nights when the couch served as his bed. Sensing that she was drifting off, he tried not to jostle her as he settled the covering over them. Scully sighed and snuggled closer to his warmth. "You know, this couch isn't exactly built to sleep two people," he said quietly at her temple, playing with her hair's silky strands, combing through them with his fingers. "You'd probably get a better night's sleep in my bed." "Who said I plan on sleeping the night away?" He pulled his face away from herself to look into her eyes. He saw humor lurking there. "You getting old on me, Mulder?" she asked teasingly. "First it's your knees. Then you want me to sleep my way through a Saturday night." "I just thought that maybe I had tired you out some," he said quietly, smiling as he nuzzled the hair on her forehead with his lips. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "Maybe just a tad." Her fingers brushed lightly against his chest. "But I think I still have enough energy to do this." "What?" he asked in a whisper. She reached up to touch his face with her hand, her eyes soft and warm. "To say 'I love you.' I love you Mulder, so very, very much." He took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, holding it against his mouth for a moment afterwards. Finally, he released it, and bent his head for a long, lingering kiss. "You better rest up Scully," he warned, his eyes glinting with humor and something decidedly more earthy. "'Cause you know the old saying--actions speak louder than words." And he intended to show her with every means at his disposal just how true that adage was. THE END