Title:     Finding Words II - Speech Lessons  
Author: Flynn
Class:    V, MSR, mild MulderAngst
Date:     July 27, 2003
E-Mail:  flyn121@yahoo.com
Archive: Do with it as you like.  Please keep author and
              headers attached, and let me know where to visit.
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
Feedback: Warms the cockles of my heart. 
Rating:   PG-13 w/adult images
Spoilers: all things, Brand X

Summary: .... helping her say the words ....

Note: takes place immediately following events of Finding Words.

Hugs go out to Blackwood and Cratkinson for poking, prodding,
pointing out redundancies, and patiently tolerating author's
moodiness.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finding Words II: 
Speech Lessons
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


     Okay, this was different. 
     Actually, it was something straight out of a dream. He knew at
once, though, that he was not asleep. Dreams, strictly speaking,
were not warm like this. They didn't mold themselves to the
contours of his body, or press and scratch in all the right places.
They didn't ruffle his hair with their slow, rhythmic breathing. A
dream might occasionally involve a naked body, possibly even
that of his partner; but never did even the most convincing ones
leave him with this drained, deliciously aching feeling. And the
smell that clung to him .... well, only one person on earth smelled
like this. 
     Oh, this was real. This was good. 
     He opened his eyes and, without moving his head, looked
around. A wall with framed pictures. A bookcase, neatly
organized. A fireplace, dark and cold. Windows dotted with
raindrops. 
     He smiled. Scully's apartment. Or more accurately, her living
room.   He dropped his gaze to the pale expanse just beyond the
end of his nose. Soft. Warm. Beneath his cheek, the gentle rhythm
of rise and fall; and in his ear, the slow, steady beat of her heart.
He listened for a while, entranced. His eyes settled on a freckle on
her shoulder, just below the fragile-looking clavicle. Or was it a
mole? He couldn't tell from this angle.  
     Slowly, oh so carefully, he raised his head from its very
comfortable resting place on her breast. She didn't move. Her
breathing continued, unbroken. Cautiously he lifted himself higher
and propped a hand under his head. A mole - he could see it more
clearly now. And by straining his eyes, he could see the spray of
tiny, nearly-invisible hairs feathering her skin. Her shoulder. Her
cheek.  
     Her face was turned away, affording him a clear view of her
profile. Bereft of make-up, her features were utterly smooth in
repose. He studied her, rapt. Her lashes, her eyebrows ....
cinnamon in the soft, wet sunlight. The dark filigree of veins in
her eyelids. The gentle convexity of her nose, and the mole
beneath it, the one she always took such care to cover.  
     The mouth he saved until last because it had to be savored.
The full lips. That sweet little dip just above them, the one that
smoothed away into nothingness when she smiled - which, he'd
been pleased to note, was happening more frequently these days.
She'd certainly smiled a little while ago. Smiled, laughed, panted,
pleaded ....  
     Oh, he knew exactly where he was heading when he set out
that morning. Guilt had stymied him at first, of course. After all, it
was her day off, too. Besides, she hadn't just spent the past
three-plus weeks sitting around like he had. Quite the contrary:
during his long recuperation, it had been an endless succession of
autopsies for her, what with Skinner generously loaning her out
to the labs at Quantico. This, after she'd had to watch him there in
that Raleigh hospital - watch his panic and pain and know there
was precious little she could do about either of them. And as if
slicing and dicing a plethora of stiffs hadn't been enough, since his
release from the hospital she'd also had to put up with his silent
whinings - if it was possible for anyone to whine silently, Mulder
would be the one to do it - and answer all his written queries
about why he couldn't just suck the salt off the seeds, and why he
couldn't have just a *little* coffee, and why she wouldn't permit
him to speak even though he knew full well his throat had been
compromised by the larvae in his airways. And what about work;
couldn't she please at *least tell him about the cases piling up on
his desk - or better yet, bring some home for him to peruse .....  
     Yeah, he'd hesitated before calling her .... for about a half a
second. The boredom had just been too grinding. Only it wasn't
just the boredom. He could have occupied himself wandering
around the Internet or watching one of the dozen or so movies
she'd picked up for him in the past week. He could have sneaked
in a short run despite the doctors' prohibitions. Hell, he could
even have ducked into any number of eating places and buried his
sorrows in a pile of hotcakes and sausages. 
     The fact was, he was an addict in need of a fix. Well, *two*
fixes, although he really was fighting the urge for a damned
cigarette. No, his true weakness was not for a poisonous
substance, but for his partner. He *needed* to see her. It had
been four long weeks since they'd had any down time together.
He couldn't stay away. Oh, there was the chance that she'd have
stepped out, maybe for church with her mother, or to pick
something up from the grocery store, or maybe just for a run.
And if that had been the case, he'd have parked in an obscure turn
in her street and waited her out. Sitting in his car and staring at
her building was better than anything he could do in his own
apartment. It brought her closer. 
     But she hadn't been away. In fact, now he was wondering if
she hadn't actually been expecting him to call.  
     He *had* been a little nervous at first. She may have picked
up the phone on the second ring, but his partner wasn't the easiest
person in the world to read. Sitting there on her couch like
Cleopatra on her Nile barge, the newspaper in pieces around her,
those glasses perched on her nose .... he wondered at first if he'd
maybe pushed a little too hard. He was in need of a fix, true, but
maybe she needed her quiet time just a little bit more. Her
expression certainly hadn't helped his nerves much. Quiet,
collected, just like it was when they were being debriefed on a
case - or, as it happened so often, reamed by a superior. Certainly
not serene, which he'd been lucky enough to see maybe a
half-dozen times in all their years together; but gathered.
Composed.  
     Then he'd caught her staring. It wasn't a leer or anything - that
*really* wasn't her style - but the intensity of her gaze told him a
lot about what she was thinking. She was glad he was there. She'd
probably been thinking about him herself. And she seemed to like
the glasses. He hadn't worn them for any ulterior purpose - in
fact, he hadn't intended to wear them at all, but an empty bottle of
cleaning solution effectively gave his contacts the day off. She'd
never said anything about the frames, and he wasn't sure just how
he knew. Something in her carefully blank expression, maybe.
Funny. Most people tended to regard the presence of eyeglasses
as a subtle barrier. Sometimes not so subtle. God knows Skinner
certainly used his as a veritable fortress to shield himself from ....
well, everything. 
     He and Scully weren't most people. They had their defenses,
from the world and from each other, but glasses weren't among
them. Anger, feigned indifference, sarcasm, hard-headed
adherence to fact or mere opinion .... *those* were the walls they
hid behind. 
     Not that those defenses had been too apparent earlier that
morning. 
     He smiled, recalling her half-shouted response that was part
friendly greeting, part veiled command.  
     *Use your key.* Those words granted him permission to enter
her apartment and her life whenever the need or desire arose. Was
she aware of it, he wondered. Did she have any idea just how
much that simple phrase had given him? He suspected she did. 
     *Help yourself.* Well, that didn't need much in the way of
deconstructing, did it?  
     Neither did the pastries. Top shelf, right over the cooking
spices, and well within his line of vision. He'd never seen so many
preservatives in one product around here, ever. She never ate
them. She liked those disgusting frozen tofutti things. She might
sneak the occasional candy bar when she thought he wasn't aware
of it - no doubt all the while quoting to herself the subtle benefits
derived from consuming chocolate - but God forbid if she should
ever ingest pure, unadulterated junk food, with its bonanza of
sugar, fats, and sundry chemicals, for no other reason than puerile
self-indulgence. 
     Staring at the box, he couldn't help grinning like the proverbial
idiot. Here it was, he'd wanted to crow: proof positive that she
*did* think about him when they weren't together, when they
weren't working on a case or licking their respective wounds after
getting their asses kicked for once again overstepping their
bounds or their budgets. It really hadn't been a fluke, what
happened after England. Not that he figured there was really
much chance of *that* .... after all, she wouldn't have slept with
him - hell, she wouldn't even have *approached* him if she'd had
much in the way of doubts. But a lot of time has passed since
then, and he didn't want to take her for granted. Unlike any other
woman he'd known and worked beside - or done anything else
with, for that matter - she didn't seem to feel the need to verbally
autopsy her feelings, about him or anything else. In that void,
oftentimes he could only go on her actions. Yeah, those pop-tarts
told him a lot. The pop-tarts, and the words she'd tried so hard to
utter a little while ago. 
     It didn't surprise him that it bothered her, this inability to
express herself to her own satisfaction. It did trouble him, though,
that she saw it as a weakness. His partner did not like failing at
anything. But she did love him. She loved him, and she trusted
him. Enough to go to him that cool April night and slide into bed
beside him. Enough to let him see her concern and affection for
him as he lay there in that wretched hospital in Raleigh. 
     Enough to lay aside the bulk of her inhibitions and tell him just
what it was she really needed. *I want you inside me .... is that
okay?* 
     Was it okay? He shivered as he watched her sleep. After so
long together; after seven years of careful distance and polite
affection, was it okay, her feeling safe enough to ask him
something so incredibly intimate?  
     Ask me again, Scully. Ask me anything. Whatever you need.  
     He'd awakened that spring night to find her standing at the
foot of his bed. Awakened to the sound of satin and lamb's wool
shimmying down and up and off. A hand on his mouth silenced
his sleepy, confused query. A slow, deep kiss, far different from
that pathetic New Year's gesture of his, the warm pressure of her
mouth asking and offering as only Dana Scully could. A hand on
his neck, his shoulder, his abdomen, revealed her true intent at
that late hour.  
     She wasn't there to say good night.    What followed was a
gift, plain and simple. He recalled each instant, as if the memories
were an hour old and not a month. Hot, wet kisses. Hushed
words and gentle touches. Smooth hands caressing his back, his
shoulders, his ass; and his hands exploring her, touching where
he'd always wanted but never dared. Throat. Breasts. The tender
flesh of her belly. Her navel. He remembered kissing the curve of
her back, where once a snake had chased its tail. Even in the
darkness, he could see that the tattoo was gone. *When,* he had
wondered. *When did you have it removed, and where was I?*
He hoped it hadn't been too painful. Certainly not as painful as the
turmoil responsible for putting it there in the first place.   More
kisses. The feel of her mouth on him, suckling his flat nipple,
gently biting his chin and stubbled throat. He didn't ask, he didn't
*care* what had brought them to that moment, he merely
accepted that it was real and good. He felt her hold her breath as
he slowly pushed inward for the first time. Oh jeez, the liquid heat
of her body was almost too much to bear. *Am I hurting you?*
he'd asked, his lips brushing the crest of her brow. The thought of
causing her pain, especially now, was almost unbearable. Her
whispered *No .... yes .... no ....* had stopped him dead, and he
would have willingly pulled out and ended it there if she'd
indicated that was what she wanted. But no. Her arms tightened
around him and then went soft again as the discomfort passed,
profound stillness giving way to whispers and subtle movements
as her hips moved this way or that, guiding and directing; the
sounds of her breath catching and flowing and then catching again
- 
     What those sounds had done to him.  
     Movements and rhythms as old as time itself. Soft grunts, hers
as well as his, as he struggled to contain his body's reaction, as
she sought to free hers. The ache in his back; his arms taking the
brunt of his weight, beginning to burn and tremble. How he
wished he could see her expression. Too close - even if they had
left a light on, his cheek was pressed to her temple. Pressure in his
head, in his balls, the sweet agony of battling his orgasm until he
felt hers ripple and quake around him, her voice low and breathy
as she moaned his name; and then his own barely restrained
bellow as he finally, finally, finally gave in and bathed them both
with his warm, fertile wetness.   
     His sweet reverie abruptly ended when she shifted a little
beside him, and he winced at her gentle sigh. She'd be waking up
soon. How long had they been there? He wondered if she would
want time alone with her thoughts, like she had before. Maybe he
should make an excuse and take off. Leave her to her peace and
quiet, to her crossword and her pot of coffee. Solitude was
important to them both, but especially to her. He wasn't the
easiest person to have around. By turns peevishly independent
and compulsively needy, he was a test to her patience on a regular
basis and he knew it. Maybe it would be best if he *did* leave.
After all, he'd had his fix. He couldn't assume that she'd want to
spend the whole day the way he did - limbs entwined, touching
and exploring with hands and mouths, making each other smile
and moan and gasp .... 
     Suddenly anxious, he carefully shifted his legs, untangling
them from hers as he caught a hand on the arm of the couch and
gently angled himself away from her. A rush of cool air filled the
gap between them, and he gasped as tickling gooseflesh rose in
protest on his arms and neck. He'd have to find her a blanket;
couldn't have her lying there naked and freezing .... 
     "Where do you think you're going?" 
     He froze. Damn. Busted. What should he say? Go back to
sleep? See you at the office? Don't get up, I can let myself out?
He struggled with his thoughts. Well, he did have to pee.
Big-time. Would she think it a subterfuge, or take him at his
word? Jesus, just say something! "Uh .... I just .... I was going
...." 
     Slowly her eyes opened and she turned to look at him. "Going
where? I'm not finished with you yet." 
     He felt a smile start as he hovered over her. She wasn't exactly
grinning, but there was a definite gleam in her eyes, one that he'd
seen in the past for moments so fleeting that he could never be
sure it'd been there at all. Not predatory so much as ....
proprietary. Hot damn. Insecurities abruptly vanished. Hey, he'd
tried to give her space. Was it his fault if she didn't take him up on
it? She really did want him there. Now, if only the thought hadn't
left him tongue-tied. "Sorry, I sort of .... I mean, I have to, uh ...." 
     Her lips quirked. "Are you always so eloquent after sex?" Her
arms slid back up around him, her fingers lacing behind his back.
Okay, message received: he wouldn't be going anywhere for a
while. He sighed softly as he let himself relax again. It was
impossible not to give a little moan when she nuzzled into his
throat like a kitten. "Mm, what time is it?" she murmured. 
     He shuddered when he felt her teeth on him, playing lightly up
the length of his windpipe. "Uh, can't say that I know right now."
Jesus, was that really his voice? It sounded like it belonged to a
stranger, maybe someone who'd recently gargled with battery
acid. Did he really sound that bad to her? How could he not have
noticed it before this? Time? He could barely concentrate on
breathing with her doing that, and breathing was supposed to be
something that just happened without a guy having to think about
it. He couldn't remember where the nearest clock was for the life
of him. Besides, he couldn't seem to get his eyes to open. "God,
Scully, that feels good. What is that, some secret doctor thing?" 
     He felt her smile. "Yeah, I took a course on it in med school,"
she murmured, tipping her head back and granting him access to
her own throat. He fought back the urge to guzzle the sweetness
she was offering. Take it slow, buddy. Enjoy what's happening
right now - don't just leap on to the next course of the Scully
banquet. He groaned softly as he kissed the pulse point beneath
her ear. Oh, he could really get used to this. Her hands stroking
his face, and those soft little breasts that were pressed up into his
chest, to say nothing of that magic place down below that was so
warm and moist and pliant .... She'd laugh and say there was no
such thing as magic, of course, but he knew otherwise. Yeah, it
was probably a safe bet he could wake up like this every morning
for the rest of his life and never, ever get tired of it. The hand that
stroked through his hair did nothing to alter that conviction.
Neither did the sweet, gentle concern in her tone. "Sounds like
you're breathing easier. How're you feeling?" 
     He leered at her playfully. "Can't you tell? That isn't my gun,
you know." Another nuzzle of her pale, perfect throat. 
     The hand in his hair tightened just enough to encourage a little
head-lift. "Come on, I'm being serious here." 
     He rocked back onto one elbow and scowled at her. "Thanks
for asking. I'm fine." He traced the outline of her mouth with a
fingertip. "Scully, I'm *fine.* You gotta quit worrying so much
about me."  
     Her hands settled on his shoulders, and her voice was soft as
she replied, "Sorry, Mulder. That isn't going to happen." 
     He groaned softly as he melted back into her embrace. Good
.... this was so damn good .... he was kissing his partner and she
was kissing him back. He was here and she was here and they
weren't going anywhere, either of them. Her tongue swept into
and around his mouth like a soft, warm breeze, and for a second
time he found he'd forgotten to breathe. Another kiss like that and
he'd forget his name. Hell, another one like that and he wouldn't
care. She rounded it off with a delicate tug on his bottom lip, and
when he could finally get his eyes open, he saw a definite twinkle
in her eye.  
     "Something to smile about, Agent Scully?" he whispered. 
     Her eyes narrowed contemplatively. "Mmm, yeah."   It just
seemed the thing to do, giving a little more lip service to that
delicious mouth. Trouble was, his bladder was beginning to
seriously demand some attention of its own. Dammit. Two big
cups of coffee at home, another one here .... maybe that had been
too much of a good thing. He groaned as he peeled himself away
from her. "Bathroom," he grunted. "Sorry. Now." She released
him, but not without a soft protest of her own. He reached for his
glasses as he stood up. Oh shit - something was certainly
interested in recent developments. Looked like the old boy was
about ready to dance, and the band hadn't even warmed up. Didn't
take long, did it? Who said there was no such thing as magic?
What else could it be, this power she could wield over him? He
looked from his burgeoning erection to her face and back again.
"Okay, this might make things difficult. Any suggestions, Doc?" 
     She followed his gaze, a smile starting. "Yes. I suggest you
use both hands. Or I could get an ice pack ....." 
     Just the thought made him wilt a little. He cupped his hands
over his crotch. "Ooo, you’re a cruel woman, Dr. Scully." 
     Where were his pants? Clear over there, tangled with his
boxers. He scooped them up and shook them out, praying as he
stepped into them that he didn't have pimples on his ass because
he could feel her eyes on him, devouring him across the living
room. He turned back as he tugged them on over his hips. Yep,
she was watching him. Ogling him.  
     Damn, it felt good.  
     It took a few minutes to take care of things in the bathroom.
His bladder may well have been maxed out, but his dick wasn't
much interested in anything so mundane as evacuation. That last
kiss did not help matters. After what felt like an hour, his tensed
muscles finally relaxed enough to let gravity work its own magic
on him, and he bit his lip to stifle an appreciative groan. Oh, yeah
.... sometimes it's the little victories ....  
     He looked around the neat room as he buttoned his fly. He'd
been in there before from time to time, of course, but never had
he really taken the time to appreciate the details. A stall shower
and a bathtub - a *big* one at that. On a shelf within easy reach
stood a line of bottles, each a different shape and each containing
a different colored fluid. A thin layer of dust coated them all.
Clearly she hadn't used the tub much lately; or if she did, she
hadn't taken the time for a good soak. Curious, he picked up one
of the bottles, loosened the cap, and took a cautious sniff. Mmm,
not bad. Sort of almondy. He returned it and tried another one.
Some sort of musky vanilla. A third. Creamy peaches. He smiled
as he carefully returned them. He wondered which was her
favorite, and why she didn't use them more often.  
     He looked at the tub again. An idea stirred. Hmm.   He found
her in the kitchen, washing their cups in the sink. She'd donned
her underwear beneath the sweater, but hadn't bothered with her
jeans. He eyed her bare legs appreciatively as he approached. Pale
and smooth. Nice muscles in the calves, but Jesus, bare-footed
like she was made her damn short. No wonder she always wore
those killer heels.  
      She looked up at his quiet footfall, a smile starting. "There
you are. Hungry?" 
     He folded his arms, eyeing the sweater as he lounged
comfortably beside her. She'd re-buttoned the old thing, of
course, but it still gapped jauntily. "For you? Always." 
     A pink flush touched her cheeks, and she dipped her chin to
hide her smile. "That's not quite what I meant." Her hands fussed
with the sponge under the tap, squeezing and rinsing and then
squeezing it again. "It's almost noon. You don't have to rush right
out, do you? I mean, do you have time for lunch? You seemed so
intent on food earlier ...." 
     He smiled at her discomfiture. Guess she really doesn't want
me to go. The realization caused a delicious flip and flutter in his
belly. No files to read, no case to discuss or theories to punch full
of holes .... nothing but each other. This was all but uncharted
territory for them. Slowly he swept a lock of hair away from her
right eye, then let his hand fall. "You know me, Scully. I'm always
hungry. What'd you have in mind?" 
     She turned and glanced around the kitchen contemplatively.
"There's some lasagna in the freezer." 
     He allowed his expression to darken. "Vegetarian or that soy
stuff?" he asked, his lip curling. 
     "Vegetarian. Don't worry, I know how you feel about tofu. I
made it last weekend after the Nimzici postmortem." 
     He held her gaze, deadpan. "I hope you remembered to wash
your hands first." An eyebrow twitched up at that, and he snorted
softly as he reached past her and turned off the water. "Yeah, it
was nice of Skinner to consign you to the morgue while I was
down for the count. Remind me to send him a thank-you card.
Must be some kind of payback for all the medical paperwork
we've generated for him this year." 
     She eyed him as she dried her hands, a smile lifting one corner
of her mouth. "You'd rather he sent me out into the field alone?
Or better yet, assign someone to work with me until you were
back on your feet? That didn't end too well the last time they tried
that, if memory serves." 
     If memory serves. Boy, did it ever. Mulder shook his head
firmly, his jaw set. "Skinner ever tries to pull a Kirsch on us and
.... well, forget insubordination - I'll be up on attempted murder."  
     Her fingers laced with his. "I don't find that comment
especially comforting." She tipped her head playfully to one side.
"C'mon. We're talking about food here. Lasagna. Big chunks of
garlic, buttered bread, the works."   He sighed, smiling. She really
did have a knack for getting to him. He turned her hand so he
could kiss her palm, which was warm and damp. Her fingertips
caressed his mouth, the touch light and tentative, and an
answering rush of heat arced deliciously through his body.
"Mmm, sounds good. Then after we eat, maybe we can get back
to that slow touch-and-feel thing." He kissed her fingertips.
"*Slow*, this time. A promise is a promise." 
     That earned him a smile. Ooo, more than that, even - a real,
honest to God grin. "Going to hold me to it, Mulder?" she
quipped, gently pulling her hand free. She turned away, but not
before copping a feel through his jeans. He stood up a little
straighter and made a grab for her wrist. She evaded him, but the
smile didn't go anywhere. "Mmm, I certainly hope you do." 
     Why was meaningful speech suddenly so difficult? His mind
feebly groped for a suitable comeback. Distantly he figured that
blood was the problem. It was heading south in a hurry, and it
was taking a good portion of his intellect with it. He blinked
twice, and caught her smirk as she tugged on the refrigerator
door. "Hold you to it ...." he replied. "Hold *it* to *you* ..... one
is as good as the other. What would be even better, though,
involves more of a, uh .... an insertion sorta thing ...." 
     She grinned so wide that dimples actually appeared.  "Really."
She glanced at the clock over her stove. "The lasagna's going in
the oven to warm, and then I'm taking a shower. Lunch'll be in
half an hour. Can you stay out of trouble for that long?" 
     He thought suddenly of all those bottles in her bathroom, lined
up like little soldiers on their little shelf, and smiled. Sometimes
things just turned out right, without any effort on his part.
"Actually, Scully .... I have something else in mind." He raised her
hand to his mouth and pressed another kiss to the warmth of her
palm. Her eyes, cobalt blue and aglow with mirth, held his
without effort. "You might want to turn the oven down a little. I
think this is going to take some time." 

~~~~~~ 

     They didn't light candles. Watery afternoon sunlight spilled in
through the half-drawn shades, rendering any other light
redundant and unwelcome. She led the way and then turned to
him, and he saw a tinge of pink suffusing her cheeks. "I, uh .... "
Her voice trailed off uncertainly, and she darted a glance at the
tub. He found himself frowning. Was she still plagued by images
of what might have happened that terrible night last winter? God,
he hoped not.  
     After a pause of a heartbeat - or one that encompassed a
dozen - she looked up at him again. "I haven't done this in two
decades," she said, her tone so soft he could barely hear. He held
her gaze as he bent lower, straining to catch the words. She must
have seen the confusion in his eyes, because she gestured to the
tub with a turn of her head. "This. Bathing with someone. I
haven't don't that since I was a kid. Missy used to help me wash
my hair."  
     He followed her glance, a smile starting. "Well, you're years
ahead of me," he replied, reaching out and taking her hand. "I've
been doing my own hair since I was ....." He let the sentence trail
off. It wouldn't do to delve into his childhood, especially now.
There be dragons. He kissed her to cover his lapse. "Since I
turned thirty, at least." 
     He saw another flash of uncertainty in her eyes.  "Would you
rather use the shower? I don't mind. I mean, I usually take
showers myself anyway .... that way we won't have to, um ..... I
mean, you're tall enough, you might not find the tub all that
comfortable ...." 
     He gave her hand a squeeze. She fell silent as she looked up at
him. He nodded to the shelf of plastic bottles. "I can't decide
which I like the best. Which is your favorite?"  
     Her shoulders rose and fell as she sighed, and he saw some of
the tension leave her expression. Good. This was supposed to be
fun. She slipped past him, brushing her hands along his bare sides,
and picked up one of the bottles. She uncapped it and held it up
to him. "This one."  
     His eyes held hers as he bent closer and gently inhaled. God,
he knew that fragrance. He could pick it out in a crowd - hell, he
could find her in a packed stadium, blindfolded. He loved that
smell. Sweet, but not too. A little musk. A little pine. A little of a
whole lot of things - he never had excelled at the smaller details in
a woman's life. Never really had the chance. Never really wanted
to, before now. 
     She ran water until it was warm, then stopped the drain and
sat back on the edge of the tub. He watched as she carefully
tipped some of the lotion into the stream. Bubbles immediately
boiled into a froth, and the tangy aroma began to waft around
them in the rising steam. He closed his eyes and inhaled again,
deeply this time. He opened his eyes to find her regarding him
curiously. "What is it?" she asked. 
     He slowly blinked, then gave his head a shake. She kicked her
underwear aside as she stood up. Without a word, he raised a
hand and stroked her bare breastbone. A smattering of gooseflesh
rose in his wake, and she couldn't repress a shiver. Slowly his
hand trailed down to the tender flesh between her breasts almost
but not quite covered by the old, worn sweater. He resisted the
impulse to kiss her, because to start and not finish would be
impossible. This wasn't just another opportunity to make love.
That would come later. He wanted to touch her. He wanted her
to touch him. Not a touch of arousal, but of familiarity.  
     He stopped her when she started to shrug the sweater off.
"No, let me." Her hands fell away. Carefully he grasped the hem
and gently lifted it straight up and tossed it aside. For a long
moment he didn't move, just let his eyes have their fill. She bore
his scrutiny for as long as she could - ten seconds, maybe - and
then she tipped her head back and gave a low chuckle. "Mulder, if
you don't touch me soon, I'm going to go crazy." 
     His gaze met hers again. Without a word he grasped her hands
and pressed them into his chest. Her fingers stroked him gently.
He caressed her wrists, her forearms, biceps and triceps, and
allowed his fingers to linger at the inner curves of her elbows. The
flesh was thin and tender, and she shivered as he dragged his
thumbnails oh, so lightly over the creases there. Her breasts
tightened and became pebbled, and it was all he could do not to
drop to his knees before her and drag them, one after the other,
into his eager mouth. She wanted him to do that. He could see it
in her eyes, but he steeled himself against the temptation. Not yet.
Not yet.  
     When he'd acquainted himself with the soft smoothness of her
arms, he made his way down her torso, pausing to brush his
fingertips over her shoulders. Scapulae. Sternum. Ribcage. Her
own hands were not still, but were traveling the breadth of his
own chest, skimming and exploring the ridge of his collarbones,
the planes of his abdomen. The line of dark hair that ran down his
belly and disappeared into the depths of his jeans.  
     "Water," she breathed, turning away and breaking the spell. A
jerk of her wrists and the taps were closed. She looked at him
again, and he saw a sweet, hot fire in her eyes. "Careful getting
in," she whispered, grasping him by the waist and expertly flicking
the buttons open down his fly. The jersey boxers were beginning
to strain against the bulge rising in his crotch. A smile tugged at
her lips, and he knew without asking that, left to her own devices,
it was not her tub that she wanted him to slide into.  
     "Get in," she directed in the same soft tone. He obediently
shimmied his pants down and off, tossing them in the corner with
her sweater. Turning, he saw her eyes were on him. No hiding it
now: he was aroused. Not yet rigid, but heavy and just beginning
to lift. Well, of course he was aroused; she was as nude as he
was, and nothing got the attention of a heterosexual male like a
nude female. But he could wait. He wasn't an adolescent. No
more racing in the showers. The true victory now was not in
being the first, but the last. 
     He folded his glasses and laid them on the sink, then turned
away and stepped into the tub. The water was deliciously hot. He
swallowed a yelp as he carefully sat down - damn, that was really
warm - and then relaxed against the angled back, arms resting
comfortably on the sides of the tub, and looked up at her. She
was watching him appraisingly, and from the look in her eyes and
the smile just touching the corners of her mouth, he figured she
liked what she saw. Her gaze lingered over his crotch, and he felt
his own smile grow. His penis bobbed against his abdomen, to all
appearances erect. She'd know that wasn't entirely the case, but it
didn't stop her from admiring it. That she could be so
comfortable, with herself and with him, pleased him.  
     "Come here," he beckoned. She immediately complied, but he
stopped her when she would have straddled him. "Wait, not like
that .... turn around." She hesitated, pouting a little; then with a
resigned sigh, she stepped over the side and settled between his
legs. He guided her with his hands on her hips. "Yeah, like that." 
     She grunted softly as she situated her legs around his. "It's
crowded. Are you all right? I'm not hurting you, am I?" 
     That made him smile all over. "Get back here, Scully." Gently
he grasped her shoulders and nestled her comfortably against him.
His arms crossed around her and held her fast. The pressure of
her back against his erection was enticing, and for a moment he
allowed his mind to dwell on how good it would feel if she could
just ....  
     No, he reminded himself, that wasn't what this was about. Be
patient. 
     She sighed deeply - he felt his arms rise and fall along with her
chest. "Mmm, this is nice." 
     He allowed his lips to trail along her temple, down to her brow
bone and then back up to her hairline. Sweat was beginning to
pearl on her skin, and when he licked his lips, he tasted salt.
"Yeah," he breathed against her skin. Surrounded by the hot,
heavy aroma of Scully ...... it couldn't get better than this.  
     He kissed her temple again. Water lapped around them and
between them, and in the half-darkness he saw the pale-on-pale
line of the laparotomy scar that marred her belly. There was a
corresponding one on her back, now hidden against his own
middle. He swallowed the sudden rush of bitter anger. Let it go.
It wouldn't have happened if you'd been there, true, but the fact
is, you weren't there. What's done is done. We're here now. 
     He groaned softly. Just another scar. Something else that had
been taken away from her. He spread his hand wide over her
abdomen, the span of his fingers almost enough to cover her
belly. What was left there beneath his hand, he wondered. Why
had her ova been taken? He'd like to think the bastards heading
the Project had wanted the very best genetic material they could
get their leprous hands on. That didn't ease the grief, though. She
had been medically raped. She had been denied a son. A daughter.
That was what galled him so badly. If the decision had been hers -
if she had decided that motherhood was something she had no
interest in .... But no. They had taken the decision away from her.
They had taken it away from *him.* There was no one else he
would ever want to have a child with.  
     Slowly his hand closed into a fist and pressed gently into her
belly, just below her navel. Empty. She was empty, and so was
he. No one would follow them. They would each end their
respective lines with their deaths. Not fair. Not fair. 
     He swallowed hard to dispel the hard lump suddenly forming
in his throat. "What do you think she'd have looked like?" he
whispered. 
     It was dangerous, that kind of question. For a moment she
didn't respond, and he wondered if perhaps she'd drifted off in the
wet heat of his embrace. Scully could fall asleep just about
anywhere. Then her head jerked slightly to the side, and though
he couldn't see her face, he knew she was frowning. "Who?" 
     He didn't reply, just pressed his hand a little more firmly into
her belly. Over her empty uterus. A barren womb. Not fair. Her
head turned again, and he could imagine the look in her eyes as
she stared into the distance.  
     Her chest rose and fell gently on a sigh, and her hands crossed
with his over her abdomen. "Not the hair," she murmured. 
     His smile would not be denied. She knew. She knew exactly
what he'd meant. What was more, she was willing to play the
game. *What if?* But to have a child with her that did not have
the pale skin and fiery red hair of the ancient Celts .... the thought
was heretical. At least it was in the Church of Scully, where he
would willingly worship every day for the rest of his life. He
kissed her temple again. "Not the hair? You're kidding me, right?" 
     Her answer was firm despite the velvety softness of her voice.
"Not the hair, Mulder. I wouldn't want another kid to be teased
and ridiculed for something they had no control over." 
     He smiled into her hair. "You mean, like this nose?" 
     She glanced at him again, and he heard the soft sound that
always accompanied her smiles. "It's a nose. So what that it's a
little ..... generous. I happen to like it." 
     He nuzzled her again. "And I like the hair." 
     They were silent for a long time. Then she moved a little in his
arms, shifting a little in the close confines of the tub. "Okay, so
you want red hair and I want the nose. Freckles too, I suppose,
on that nose." 
     "Of course." 
     She feigned a dispirited sigh. "Fine, if she has to have the hair
and the freckles, the poor kid gets your eyes. I'm not arguing this
point." 
     He chuckled. "Suits me. I have a kid that looks *too* much
like you, she's not leaving the house until she's drawing Social
Security."  
     She chuckled a little at that. "You'd let her go, Mulder. You'd
do it because it'd be the right thing to do. I know you." She
turned her head and nuzzled her face into his throat. "Besides, the
music'd drive you crazy. You've heard some of the crap they
listen to these days." 
     He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and
kissed her. "Just think about all the stuff we'll have to teach her.
How to walk, how to dress." 
     "How to do math." 
     He snorted softly. "That's your department. Besides, you're
kind of jumping the gun, aren't you? I'm thinking walking and
talking, you're skipping straight ahead to homework. Jeez, not
everyone's the over-achiever *you* are, you know." 
     She giggled. "I am not an over-achiever." 
     "Oh, yeah. Right. You only rewrote Einstein." 
     She pretended to sniff haughtily. "Fine, we'll back up a little.
Walking. Baby steps. We're both good at that." She kissed him
gently. "Holding her steady for her first steps. Dressing her in
runners and tiny little scrubs." 
     "In your dreams, Dr. Scully." Gentle kiss. "Teaching her the
difference between a Freudian and a Jungian." Kiss. "A phobia
and an archetype." 
     A delicate Scully snort. "Just so she can express herself. I
don't want any kid growing up having the same hang-ups I have.
And keep her away from Freud, will you please? All that Oedipal
and Electra shit ....." 
     He smiled against her cheek. "Scully, please! That's not the
kind of language we want her to pick up." 
     She chuckled again as she let her head fall back against his
shoulder. Slowly he raised his arm from the warm water and held
it out before them. After a moment she followed suit, and their
fingers merged into a single form. "Hand," he whispered, praying
that she would follow along, that by playing his game, she might
banish at least this one self-perceived character flaw once and for
all.  
     "Hand," she repeated, little more than a breath. 
     His finger stroked her knee tenderly. "Leg." 
     The smile sound. "Leg." 
     A touch to her nose. "Scully." 
     A giggle as she repeated, "Scully." 
     He pressed her hand to his cheek. "Mulder." 
     A soft sigh. "Mulder." 
     He touched his lips to her lashes. "Eye. 
     Her breath caught in her throat. "Eye." 
     He opened his hand on her chest, just below her left
collarbone. "Love." 
     She hesitated. When she spoke, it was so soft that he could
barely hear her. "Love." 
     He touched a finger to the rounded point of her chin, and his
voice all but failed him on the last syllable. "You." 
     A sound similar to a smile sound and yet different, and then
the sound of a choked swallow. She pressed her face into his
throat again, and he felt the quiver that passed through her.
Would she say it? *Could* she? 
     She remained silent, and he felt a bitter twinge of
disappointment. Not in her, but *for* her. He held her just a little
closer, willing her to feel in his heartbeat the depth of his
emotions. She was strong. She was tenacious. He knew there was
nothing she couldn't do.  
     Well, almost nothing. 
     Give it time, he chastened himself. Some day it would happen. 
     Some day.  
     In the silence broken by the soft lap of water and the gentle
rhythm of their heartbeats, he heard the whisper of rain. Glancing
at the window, he saw drops once again feathering the glass.  
     She clasped his hand and held it between her breasts, sighing
as she followed his gaze. He could just imagine her, eyes at
half-mast, face utterly relaxed. She was smart, sexy, and beautiful.
And she loved him. So what that she couldn't say it? He was a
lucky man. No words, whether spoken or not, would change that. 
     "I love you, Mulder."  
     Carried on a breath, the words were so soft that he thought he
might have imagined them. She pressed her face more firmly into
the side of his throat. "I do. I love you." 
     Warmth bloomed in his chest, and his arms tightened ever-so
slightly around her. Emotion tugged at his heart and robbed him
of voice. His mouth opened and then closed futily. His eyes
closed, and he sighed contentedly as he pressed a kiss to her
forehead. I know you do, Scully. I know. 
     Later there would be more. He would hold her there in her
big, soft bed; he'd watch her expression change as he moved over
her and in her, feel her run hot and liquid around him as she took
flight and dragged him with her. He'd say the words even as he
made good on them. He'd see the love in her eyes, would taste it
in her kisses. If he was very lucky, she would say the words
again, too. 
     But for now they didn't speak, merely sat with tangled limbs
and watched the rain fall silently beyond the window. For now,
they needed no words.  
      
~~~~~
end
~~~~~