Title:   Equal and Opposite
Author:   Flynn
Date:   October 10, 2001
Rating:   NC-17 for adult expressions of affection.
Classification:   MSR, A, H
E-mail:   flyn121@yahoo.com
Website:   www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
Category:   MSR, Je Souhaite post-ep
Archiving:   Please link directly to my site,
         then drop me a line to share the good news.
Spoiler warning:   Je Souhaite, all things, Kitsunegari,
         Irresistible, Redux II.
Feedback:   If you like it, just lemme know. That's all I ask.
Scribbler's note:   Brain thing? What brain thing? If it wasn't
in Je Souhaite, chances are you won't find it here.
Disclaimer: My name is not Carter.

Hat's off to my beta, Christine. Never too busy ....

Summary:   Caddyshack's on and the beer's cold. The movie
may not be deep, but someone's thoughts are.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Equal and Opposite
by  Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


It started with the TV remote.

It.

Them.

They.

It hadn't done any such thing, of course. That was to
say, nothing had *started* with the remote. The
beginning .... well, that had been several weeks ago.
It began with a long, strange weekend and a rainstorm
and warm, comfortable talk over tea. It *really* began
when he woke in his dark bedroom to find her standing
in the doorway, watching him. It ended, at least for the
moment, when he woke again, as alone as he had been
in England but this time covered with the smell of a
brand new reality.

What happened with the TV remote .... well, that was
just a continuation of sorts.

And the best part about it was, he didn't have any great
expectations when he asked her over. There was no
ulterior motive to the invitation. At least he didn't think
there was. No, he was sure there wasn't. It just seemed
the thing to do. After all, he'd just spent part of the day
in a world without Dana Scully, and he hadn't liked it.
Rather than try to tell her any more about the whole
thing, which she had already dismissed as impossible -
*nothing scientific about wishes, Scully; did your
encounter with the Invisible man teach you nothing?*
- he decided to put the whole issue aside for the night and
maybe forever, and asked her over for beer and popcorn
and a fun, meaningless flick. He asked, she accepted.
Just like that. After all, they were friends. Good friends.
And it *was* Friday night.



"Caddyshack, Mulder?" Oh, the disdain in her voice.

"It's a classic American movie," he replied around a
mouthful of dry, flavorless popcorn. Hey, if he could
do without butter, she could handle a movie without
a cohesive plot. Or believable characters. Besides,
how could anyone not like Bill Murray?

She shot him a look as she opened her beer. "That's
what every guy says. It's a guy movie."

He snorted very softly. No, Scully, the real guy movies
are in the cabinet on the other side of this wall. You
know, all those tapes that aren't mine. Caddyshack
might not be your first choice, but I'd bet you would
rather see it than, say, Nastygirls From Mars.

Only he couldn't very well say that, could he? He came
up with something nice and glib instead, and they sat
on the couch and ate rapidly cooling and distressingly
bland popcorn, and he could not think of a single place
he would rather be than right there, pretending to listen
to Chevy Chase but really just happy to watch his best
friend drink her beer. Her question about his final wish
garnered nothing more than a smile from him. He didn't
want to think about wishes, or what his blundering
ineptitude had almost cost the world. He didn't want to
think of an existence without this woman. What he *did*
want was to touch her. To reach out and stroke her cheek,
smooth her hair away from her eye, then maybe nuzzle
the soft, pale flesh just there at the point of her jaw. Did
she know how much he loved her? How dead he'd felt
during the hours they'd been apart, when he'd been
running around DC in his Bureau clothes and wingtips,
searching for her?

Searching in vain. The memory made his heart ache. Yeah,
he wanted to touch her. Kiss her. Hold her tight.

But was this the right moment? After all, that wasn't why
he'd asked her over. He didn't want her thinking that it
was. What she thought and what she believed - it was
important. No, he wouldn't kiss her. He could do the
comfortable friend thing and not get carried away.
He really could. They didn't have to dive straight into
the sack just because the opportunity presented itself.

But he remembered how it had felt, lying so close to her
throughout that blissful night that he couldn't move
without touching her .... he remembered the feel of her,
so warm and soft and smooth, and the smell of her and
the taste ....

Yes, it *had* been wonderful, but that was no reason to
let his libido dictate how this evening went. It was enough
just to feel her there with him, her shoulder and hip and
thigh just touching his. He loved it when she tried not to
chuckle at the movie's familiar schtick. He even loved
the way she sipped from her bottle. The way she kicked
off her shoes and curled her legs up under her and leaned
into his side. The way she kept fingering the remote,
adjusting the volume on the TV every so often, as though
  it was almost but not quite right. Volume up a little.
Volume down. Play back a particular scene. Was she
oggling the actor in the tightie-whities? It was tempting
to kid her about it, but he wasn't sure just what would
be cute and what might sound accusatory. Did sleeping
with her one time really give him an exclusive claim to
her? Besides, who was he to derogate her for anything
regarding her sexuality? Him, the king of vicarious sex?

Sex. Sex with Scully. Just the concept was a little surreal.
For an instant he was back with her that rainy April night.
No lights, not even the small bedside lamp. The whisper
of sheets as she slipped into bed beside him. How many
times in the past seven years had she touched him?
Steadied him when he was shaky? Bound his wounds
and buoyed his spirit? Exchanged caresses that were as
sweet as they were rare? Well, she'd touched him that
night, and he'd found himself all but paralyzed by it.
By the feel of those hands on his neck, on his shoulders.
His back. Not the firm, sure touch of a doctor examining
her patient, but something much different - hands that
were curious and needy, and more than a little timid.

And not just hands. Lips and tongue. Arms and legs
and feet; and then finally the not-to-be-believed softness
of belly on belly. Movements. Soft groans. Hushed
whispers. Hands on his face. His body. And later, much
later, falling asleep with his head on her breast while
those hands played slowly over him ....



"Whoops. Dammit. Sorry, Mulder." An errant touch sent
the remote rolling off his leg and into the crevice between
her thigh and his. He shivered as the ghostly sensations
abruptly retreated. He reached for the remote but
encountered only her hand, the fingers still cool from
cradling her beer bottle. She half-smiled shyly as she
drew away and continued the search. Their bodies were
just too close; the device eluded them both with freakish
agility.

"I think I can feel it ...."

"Move a little .... no, not that way .... Lift your leg up
and lemme get my hand in there .... "

"Very funny. Quit horsing around, Mulder."

"I'm not! Come on, get your head back. All I see is hair."

"My head's not going anywhere, buddy. Wait, I feel
something. I think if you lift your hips a little ...."

He tried not to laugh and failed. "Jesus, Scully, quit
playing with my ass and just get the remote, would
you?"

"I'm trying, but it's fallen behind the seat cushion.
God knows what I might encounter down there."
She grunted impatiently. "The hell with this. We're
not getting anywhere. C'mon, stand up."

He anchored her with a hand on her knee. "No, wait.
Let me try it solo."

Her brows shot up in an unspoken challenge. "You're
saying you're more capable than I am, G-man?"

He smiled as he wedged his hand between the
cushions. "No offense - my arms are longer. Yes,
there it is. Dammit, I can almost - " If he stretched
his fingers out he could just reach it, but doing so
meant leaning into her, hard. To his surprise she
made no effort to pull away, either to maintain a
semblance of propriety *or* allow him the room to
work. Well, the proximity was nice, anyway - his
cheek pressing into her shoulder, and her face so
close he could smell the Shiner on her breath.
*Whoa, keep on track*, he admonished himself.
*Friends, remember? If I could just get this damn
thing .... There it - shit!* He could imagine the
damned thing give a maniacal little giggle as it
slithered away. "Slippery bastard," he muttered,
reaching again. Jesus, just what *was* down there?
Pens, bottle tops, what felt like a considerable
amount of loose change .... He looked up at her as
he combed through it. "I dunno, Scully .... we
might have to start a file on this .... I think the thing's
purposely eluding capture. It's like it can read my
mind."

She gave a little giggle. "You're saying your remote
is possessed? Why am I not surprised?"

He couldn't help but smile. Man, she was pretty.
More than pretty. She was .... well, she was
everything to him. When had *that* happened?
She was the reason he went to work anymore.
*She* was the reason he showered and dressed
and picked out a tie every morning, just so he
could sit in that office with her. So he could see
her bound into the room, like she had just the
other morning while he was interviewing that
fat little troll from Missouri. She didn't used to
bound. What was different? What had changed?
Oh, yes, she was happy - she'd said so herself.
Scully was happy. With him, no less. He didn't
understand it, but he was determined not to question
it. Hey, if she was happy, then he was, too. His smile
became a grin as he sat there with his cheek pressed
to her shoulder. He could look at her all night. Only
that wasn't going to get the remote back, was it? He
grimaced as he made a final grab. "Ha! Got the
sorry-ass piece of shit."

She smiled when he offered it to her. Jesus, she was
still so close. Why wasn't she pulling away? She
used to. He remembered a time when she'd been
very careful about keeping her distance. Casual
touches were rare, meaningful ones even more so;
his hand on her back had been his mainstay for
years. Now she wasn't moving away. She wasn't
even *looking* away. Why wasn't she looking
away? She just sat there, staring at him with those
bluer-than-blue eyes and that wistful little smile ....
Her hand rose, and for a breathless second he thought
she might actually touch him. He wanted her to. God,
how he wanted it.

The hand gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
She didn't look away, though.

When she slowly ran the tip of her tongue out along
her lips, he knew he was a goner.

Who leaned first? He couldn't say. Her lips were soft
and warm and lusciously pouty, and though the kiss
didn't last long, it was enough to set his pulse hammering
in his temples and free a dozen or so butterflies in the pit
of his stomach.

They drew apart slowly. There was a nice color rising in
her cheeks, and he noticed that she was having some
trouble keeping her eyes off his mouth. Perhaps she
was no more immune to him than he was to her. Hmm,
wasn't *that* interesting? Still, there was that little
matter of not letting his dick determine the course of
the evening. Not that he didn't want to scoop her up
and carry her to bed and pass the rest of the evening
doing decidedly un-partnerly things with her. It wasn't
like he would have any real problems handing the reins
over to his hormones. He could, easily .... *so* easily ....

No. Granite determination settled somewhere around
his prostate. He wouldn't. Friends. Tonight they were
friends. Just friends.

A little frown was drawing her brows together. He almost
groaned. Did she have any idea how sexy that expression
was? "Mulder, what is it?"

He blinked. "Huh? Nothing. Why?"

Her eyes met his briefly, then dropped to his mouth again.
"I know that look. Tell me what's going on."

He looked at her with what he hoped was sincere candor.
"Nothing. Really." Oh, shit. What did it matter how he
looked - he *sounded* like someone had his testicles in a
death grip. Hell, she wouldn't suspect a thing, would she?
He fought to stifle the voice of anxiety chanting, sing-song,
in his head. *Poor little Fox is thirty-nine and still can't
keep a secret. What a weenie. What a fuckup. What a loser.*

Why did the voice sound so much like Woody Allen?

She tipped her head a little and gave him that look, the one
that could cut through any amount of bullshit he might try
to throw at her. "Yeah, right. C'mon, Mulder. Give."

He let his breath out slowly. Damn. Busted. Well, okay, she
*was* his partner. It wasn't any great surprise, really, that
she could read his expression and maybe even his silence.
Hell, there were times when he wondered if she could read
his thoughts. Not that she'd *ever* admit to such a possibility,
of course. Dana Scully did not believe in clairvoyance. Which
was probably not a bad thing, all things considered. For
instance, what would she say if she knew how many times
he'd gone into her hotel room over the years and just watched
her sleep? How many nights he'd sat there in the darkness
and found solace in the steady cadence of her breathing? Every
brush with danger, whether real or imagined; every madman
or monster or phantasm from a nightmare and he'd end up at
her bedside, sure as God made little green apples.

Okay, so she wasn't truly psychic. She *did* know him.
Besides, didn't she have every right to know the truth?
After all, it wasn't *bad* news why he wasn't going to
sleep with her, right? He glanced down at his hands, lying
twisted and white in his lap, then looked at her again. *Say
it. Screw your courage to the sticking place. Say the words.*
He swallowed hard. "Well, um .... to be honest, this isn't
what I had in mind when I suggested a movie ...."

It was her turn to look bemused. "Really?" She drew back a
little. He could see her unease in the sudden stiffness of her
posture, the set of her shoulders ..... in the way she suddenly
couldn't tear her eyes away from the TV. Yeah, like a fake
gopher could be all that interesting. "I'm sorry, I guess ....
I just .... you look so ...."

"Scully, wait." He shifted when she started to move away,
almost but not quite touching her hand. "That's not what I
meant. I didn't .... I didn't invite you over here for some
kind of makeout session, that's all." At that she shrank
back even further, and he cringed inwardly when that little
pinched thing appeared between her eyebrows. Great one,
asshole. Now she thinks you don't want her. She thinks
you're not interested. What is it they say about the road
  to Hell? Paved with what? Tell me, Dr. Scully, what
would you prescribe for the patient with recurrent and
chronic athlete's tongue? He mustered a smile as he gave
his head a shake. "What I mean," he added, at last taking
her hand and squeezing it gently, "is that I'm not asking
you to do anything you might not be inclined at the moment
to do."

She looked at him then, and he was relieved to see
amusement beginning to supplant the anxiety in her eyes.
"What makes you think I wouldn't be inclined to indulge
in a make-out session with you?" She raised her free hand
and brushed her fingers along the side of his face, and a
smile tugged at her mouth when he shivered. "Or do you
think I didn't enjoy it the last time?"

Last time. Sighs and deep, low moans .... her hands on
his hips as he buried himself in her over and over ....
soft cries that quickly crescendoed, sounds that she tried
without success to muffle against his neck ....

No doubt about it. She'd enjoyed it.

He realized his grin was assuming cheek-splitting
proportions. "Well, I guess I ...." His voice caught in
his throat when she nestled back beside him again. Ooo,
the hills and valleys of her body melted against him just
like warm, malleable chocolate. He liked chocolate. If only
his mind had not chosen that moment to go blank. "Yeah.
I just .... I don't .... I, uh, didn't .... want to force the issue.
It was .... I mean, it's been a weird week and I didn't want
you to think ...."

"Mulder, when have we *not* had a weird week?" Oh man,
how did she do that? That thing with her voice that was fire
and ice all at the same time. A dimple appeared in her cheek
when she smiled. "So .... you're saying you were thinking
of my virtue, is that it?"

He swallowed hard. Her hand had begun a slow-motion
roam up and down the length of his left thigh, following
a path down around his kneecap, then back up until it
almost almost ALMOST grazed the rapidly-forming
bulge in his lap. Each pass made speech more difficult.
"Virtue," he repeated hoarsely, willing his body to
remain still beneath that wandering hand. God help him
when she showed her playful side. His good intentions
sputtered and died. "Yeah. Well, sort of. I mean, you're
my friend. I didn't ...."

She tsked softly. "You don't want to take me for granted.
I know. I appreciate that. I really do." She leaned even
closer and nuzzled his cheek, then pressed slow, open-
mouthed kisses along his jaw. The hand played down
his leg and back again, and he bit his lip to restrain a soft,
pained groan. God, if she didn't touch him soon .... REALLY
touch him ....

"Mmm," she murmured, pressing her nose into the cleft
beneath his ear. "Tell me, Mulder, do I seem at all unhappy
here?"

Best not to assume the question was a rhetorical one.
Trouble was, with those lips seducing his throat, he
could barely string two syllables together. "Uh .... uh ....
not .... not really, no."

Shit, now her tongue was lapping at his Adam's apple.
She giggled when a groan finally made it past the rigid
muscles in his throat. "In fact," she added, working her
way up his neck to the cleft in his chin, "does it appear
as though I'm doing *anything* against my will?"

He couldn't manage a verbal response, so he just shook
his head a few times. His hands, like other, more self-
governing parts of his anatomy, had developed a sense
of purpose along with their own will - they were no longer
clenched in his lap but had begun exploring anything they
could reach. Her face. Her hair. The ball of her shoulder,
the angle of her ribcage, the curve of her breast .... His
arms found their way around her, and with a soft groan,
he dragged her into his lap.

This time the kiss was for real.


Dana Scully was nothing if not methodical. She proceeded
from one step to the next on whatever case they were
working, backtracking only when necessary, and rarely
if ever allowing herself to be rushed, be it in the lab or
the field. He knew that, and he respected it. Well, just at
the moment *he* was the case, and all the temerity and
determination she usually reserved for her work was
suddenly and unequivocally focused on him. It was a kiss
and yet so much more; it was a heartfelt smile, a whispered
endearment, a warm embrace on a wintry afternoon, all
rolled into one breathtaking package. Her hand slid up his
chest to his face, touching and tickling as she played her
lips slowly over his. A kiss? A *feast*. Teeth and tongue
and even her breath moved in concert with his and all but
overwhelmed those dozen or so brain cells of his that were
actually functioning. It was sensual. It was delicious. It was
magic.

And it was not enough. He wanted more. Why shouldn't
they do this? After all, hadn't she effectively shot down
his just-friends argument? The woman knew what she
wanted. What was the point now in denying themselves?

Magic. The slow movement of cloth on leather. Hushed
whispers. The warmth of skin on skin.

To hell with Chevy Chase. He could get his own girl.

It seemed unreal. Too good to be anything like the truth.
He gasped when he felt her hands caress his sides. There
was a jolt of warmth as his bare belly met hers. White shirt
and black - where had they gone? It didn't matter. They'd
find them later. She still had her bra on, a delicate, cream-
colored piece of silk and lace that enhanced as much as it
concealed. He drew back a little and for a moment just
looked at her. At the red hair fanning out against the worn,
dark leather; the pale throat with the throbbing pulse-points
- the dilated eyes that held his as a drowning woman would
cling to a life-raft .... and he thanked whatever deity who
might be listening for the gift of this remarkable woman.
Then he dipped his head and ....

*Friends? Is this being friends?* He almost groaned aloud.
Shit, Woody Allen was back. Why did the little prick only
sound off when Scully was within arm's reach? Where was
Woody all those times he was sticking his hand in some
noxious substance or other? Or when he was running off
with that bastard Spender for another lesson in humiliation?
*Does she really want this,* he heard the whiny little yutz
ask. *Does she want this, or is she just playing along because
she knows it's what YOU want? Would it be so hard to make
sure?*

Shit. Okay, fine. He'd give her a chance to end this before it
began - he owed it to her. *Thank you, Woody. Now for God's
sake, go away.* Somehow he dragged his mouth away from
the white perfection of her breast. *Deep breath. Be strong.
Make sure.* The effort it cost him made him physically weak,
but he raised his head and gave her a searching look. She was
frowning. He knew that expression: she was trying to figure
out just what was going on in his head, and she wasn't having
much luck with it.

His blood was singing in his veins, but he willed it to silence.
Now or never. "Tell me to stop," he breathed against her cheek.

Her frown deepened as she digested the words. "What?"

He dropped his head a little and groaned softly as he nuzzled
the side of her throat. "Tell me to stop."

Hands stroked their way up his bare chest and tangled in his
hair. She drew his face even with hers and looked at him
gravely. Her gaze didn't waver. Not one bit. "Don't. Don't
stop."

Her voice was soft, but her message was clear. She wasn't
going anywhere. She wanted this. His heart skipped a beat
and the muscles in his back flexed, pressing him into her.
She let out a soft gasp at the contact, and he shuddered
when her legs closed tight around him. God, it was hard to
get the words out. "Scully .... you know what's going to
happen ...."

She sighed. "Yes."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You want this?"

Her eyelids fluttered closed and a little smile tugged at her
mouth. "Jesus, Mulder, you really can be dense sometimes,
you know that?"

He didn't reply. He couldn't speak. Not anymore. Not with
those hands doing what they were doing up and down his
back, gripping and caressing by turn. She arched a little
under him, and he heard his name escape her in a whisper.
He could die a happy man. Later. Much later. Certainly not
now. He had better things to do right now. Mmm, things
like pushing his nose into the valley between her breasts
and licking his way from her sternum to her chin. Things
like unclipping her bra - it was one of those nice front jobs -
then kissing and suckling and caressing each breast, one and
then the other and back again until she fairly purred. When
he rolled her gently from side to side, insinuating his arms
under and around her, she raised a hand and stroked his face.
Cat-like, he leaned into her touch.

It was wonderfully familiar, losing time with her. This time
there were no bright lights. No spray paint to mark the road.
No confusion or fear.

Warmth. Tenderness. Love, however unspoken.

Another long, slow slide as his body glided into hers. She
gave a little gasp as she clung to him. He kept his strokes
slow and measured until her hips began to roll, until her
whispers appealed to him for more. It didn't take long.
"Harder. Oh God, Mulder, yes .... "

*Mmm, gladly. Whatever you want, Agent Scully.* She
tipped her pelvis, offering more depth, and it was *his*
urn to gasp. Her legs were practically up around his
shoulders and, damn, it was good. He groaned as he sank
into her again and again. That resistance .... right there at
the apex of his stroke .... that must be her cervix. The
thought released even more butterflies in his belly. What
if she wasn't really barren? After all, how many children
were born to women who'd been told they would never
conceive? Maybe the so-called experts were wrong. Maybe
if he held off as long as he could .... if he pressed himself
hard against that little edifice as he climaxed .... if he left a
rich, fertile clot right where it needed to go ....

As if reading his thoughts, she shuddered and let out a soft
little sob. *Oh yes .... do that again,* he thought as he
redoubled his efforts. *Maybe there's some truth to that
old wives' tale. Maybe if we come together, we'll start a
baby. I'm willing to chance it. Hell, I'd be willing to sell
my soul, if only to see you a mother ....*

A second storm, precipitated by his rolling pace, closely
followed her first. Her eyes fluttered, and the pressure of
her legs around his ribs made him groan. He grimaced as
he spared a look at what was happening between them.
Dark tangled in auburn, rigid meeting softness, his length
disappearing into her depths .... depths that were warm and
wet and so damned inviting ....

*For every action there is an equal but opposite reaction ....*

..... equal but opposite .... opposite but equal ....

*Like us.*

A whisper caught his attention. She was looking at him.
Smiling. Gasping his name. Her eyes were shining.

*Jesus, she's beautiful .... my Scully is beautiful .... *

Beautiful. Beautiful like that night in Minnesota - the night
he'd wrested her away from the monster Pfaster. The
memory made his heart ache anew. *So beautiful ....
so frightened ....* He remembered the strength in her
arms as she clung to him and for the first time let him
comfort her. He recalled feeling even through the bulk
of trenches and winter clothes the sheer femaleness of
the person he called partner.

He was in awe of her.

Now was not the moment for sadness - he knew that,
yet the hard memories refused to fade. Watching her
illness consume her. Seeing the fear in her eyes with
every nosebleed, every hospital visit, every medical
test. Knowing she was frightened, for herself *and* for
him, and knowing there was not one damn thing they
could do to help one another ....

Sitting there in the darkness of her hospital room, holding
her hand as she slept and realizing he had no choice but
to accept the Faustian deal Spender was offering ....
knowing that regardless of the path he took, she would
soon be lost to him forever ....

..... watching her put her weapon to her head and pull the
trigger .... the blast of the report, and the image of her life
pumping out on the floor of that God-awful warehouse ....

And then that very afternoon, when his arrogant self-
righteousness created a world where she had never been
born ....

Jesus, they were all horrible, but that was the worst. The
worst. She couldn't *not* exist .... neither could he, not
without her ....

Hands cupped his face, drawing him back from that awful
darkness. She studied him as she brushed away the sweat
gathering on his forehead. He slowed his pace a little,
easing the burn in his lower back. Her hand settled on
his neck, and he sank his hands into her hair, holding her.
The rhythm of their kisses matched that of their hips and
his own thoughts. *Love you, Scully. Love you. Love you!
Love you!*

She smiled a little as she slipped her arms around him. "Tired?"

It took a minute for the word to fully register. "Hmm ....
mmph .... little ...."

Her hands settled on his hips and stayed their movements.
"Wait. Turn over. I have an idea."

God, it was hard to comply. Reluctant to break their
connection, he withdrew slowly and sat back on his heels.
His penis reared up between them, dark and slick and
gleaming, and he gasped when she reached out and slowly
pumped him, down and up. "Jesus, Mulder, what have you
been eating?" There was a lilt in her voice, a gleam in her eye.
Oh, how he loved it when she teased him.

He smiled as he stretched out on his back. The couch creaked
softly beneath their shifting weight. "Never underestimate the
power of the sunflower. C'mere."

She took his hands and pressed them to her hips, then folded
herself forward and braced her arms on either side of him.
"I'll be sure to remember that," she murmured. He smiled
when her pebbled nipples brush his cooling skin. With a
minor shift of his hips, he found his way into her again.
This angle was different; he could feel her working around
him, her muscles clenching and relaxing, coaxing and
sucking. Was she doing that on purpose? Probably. One
of those cool doctor things she knew about. Or maybe it
was a woman thing. She was watching him, too, studying
the subtle changes of his own expression. Slow rise, slow
fall. It was good but oh, he needed more. Craved it. Ached
for it. He groaned pitifully as he squirmed beneath her.
"Faster," he whimpered. "Go faster."

She leaned closer and touched her face to his.
"No," she breathed. "Not yet."

He turned his head, seeking her mouth. "Iwannacomeinyou."
It came out as a single word.

She shushed him with sounds and touches. "I know," she
crooned. "I know. You will." A pause as she trailed kisses
over his face, his brows and cheeks and mouth.

He arched up beneath her. "Scully .... I can't .... please ....
faster ...." He grimaced as he stared at her, imploring.
" .... please ...."

She held his gaze as her movements gradually increased.
Another roll of her hips and her eyes closed. "Oh ...."

It wasn't at all like the movies. There were no histrionics.
No screams. Just a profound stillness, and with it a soft
gasp as her breath caught in her throat. She stiffened and
slowly twisted, first to one side and then the other. He
couldn't look away. Was there anything more beautiful
in life? He couldn't think of anything. "You're coming,
aren't you?" he breathed. His thumbs traced quick paths
around her tiny, hard nipples. "I can feel it .... you're
coming right this minute."

Her expression was heartbreaking. Rapt, as if she was
looking at Heaven itself. "Yes," she breathed as she
ground herself on him. "Yes. Yes." Slowly she brushed
her lips against his. Again. A third time. He could smell
her, her breath and her body, and as her mouth opened
under his, he tasted her too .... and though he managed
to remain motionless, he could feel the warmth of his
own discharge beginning to well up.

Madness danced with his wits. Orgasm was a heartbeat
away. He let out a soft groan. "Please, Scully .... God,
please ...."

Her mouth slid away from his, and her breath was hot as
she kissed the side of his neck, that place beneath his jaw
where the skin was ridiculously sensitive. Her voice was
high and plaintive. " .... now .... now ...."

*Oh, yes.* He surged to life beneath her. *Yes. Yes. Yes!*
He was holding her. He was in her, deep. His cock was
flying and his balls were bursting and he was about to
come a blue streak. Oh, this was good. This was the way
it was supposed to be. She wasn't frightened .... she wasn't
clinging to him in terror and revulsion .... she wasn't hurt
or sick or dying. There was no world where she did not exist.

They were wrestling over ice cream ....

..... opening gifts on Christmas morning ....

..... lying in bed listening to a soft April rainstorm, their limbs
tangled, their breathing and heart rates just beginning to slow.

This wasn't sex - it was celebration.

He loved her.

His arms fell into place around her waist. Hips pumped, driving
him deep. Hearts beat an insane tattoo.

"Mulder ...." A shudder pounded through her, and he knew
she was flying once more.

He echoed her frantic whisper with a bellow of his own.
Insanity pounced on him, ripping away sense and intelligence
and his very breath, narrowing his focus, his very purpose, to
this single task. Smiling .... laughing .... touching .... loving ....
His hips jerked rhythmically with every thought until he
couldn't contain it, and he sobbed her name as he flowed
into her in a hot, creamy tide.

The spasms passed. He went slack beneath her, his heart
pounding a crazed tempo, his muscles burning and already
taking on that delicious glow of exhaustion. Carefully she
slipped off him, then settled between his bulk and the back
of the couch, and he heard her murmur something as she
rolled her head on his shoulder. He looked at her through
half-closed eyes. A nice rosy flush colored her face. He
nuzzled her temple and let his eyes close again.

She gave a contented little hum. "I don't want to move." It
came out a whisper.

He smiled into her hair. "Don't." Slowly he traced patterns on
her bare skin. Mmm, she smelled good. *They* smelled good.
Sweat and semen and something else, something sweet and
pungent and ineffably female. He inhaled deeply. "Don't
move," he breathed. "Don't go anywhere. Just let me hold you."

With a sigh, she nestled deeper into his embrace. "Mmm ....
can we stay like this for a while? Just a while."

He couldn't say the words, but he could think them. *Stay. Stay
with me tonight. Stay with me forever.* He nodded without a
word.

Within minutes she was asleep.

He smiled. The morning would come. The sun would rise and
the rivers would flow, and she would still be there.

She would be there.

No wish of his would ever change that again.




~~~~~
   end
~~~~~