Affinity

by Lydia Bower <bower@soltec.net>

Classification: S, MSR

Rating: PG for language

Summary: Continues the final scene of Small Potatoes. What happens next?



Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully aren't mine. They belong to the Master of

Yuppie Morbidity, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I also stole

some lines from the final two scenes of Small Potatoes. So sue me. :) 



Affinity

by Lydia Bower



        We haven't talked about it--not really. Typical. Yes, it does

involve the work and an actual X-File, but it's also extremely personal

to both of us--and that's where Mulder is so good at drawing the lines.

To be fair, I'm pretty good at it too. But it's amazing what a bottle of

wine and an invitation to spill my guts can do. Add to that the Mulder

factor and, well, I guess I never stood a chance in hell.

        Except it wasn't Mulder.

        The initial embarrassment has long passed; at least for me.

Mulder's having a little more difficulty with it than I am. He seems to

be having trouble looking me straight in the eye these days. But he's

been sneaking a lot of looks when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I'm

always paying attention, Mulder. Even that night.

        Eddie Van Blundht is good--I have to give credit where it's due.

He certainly had me fooled and my Mulder radar is top-notch. At least I

thought it was. And I can't really blame it on the wine. Two adults

sharing a single bottle of wine shouldn't be enough to dull my mind to

the extent that he could have deceived me as well as he did. Mulder and I

have split a bottle or two of wine over dinner before--but always in a

restaurant, never at my place or his. And the bulk of the conversations

always involved the work. The only plausible explanation for what

happened is that Van Blundht made sure I did most of the talking that

night, cleverly hiding the fact that he knew next to nothing about Mulder

and would therefore be unable to supply any real facts, had I asked. But

he made certain I wouldn't ask. And all he had to do was give me the

opportunity to do what I've wanted for so long: talk to Mulder. Just

talk. About something, anything, besides the damn X-Files, Mulder's

search for the truth and my cancer.

        Was I that transparent in my need? And if Van Blundht had no

trouble spotting my varied vulnerabilities, then how come Mulder can't

seem to?

        And why the hell did he drag me down here to the Cumberland

Reformatory with him? It's Mulder Van Blundht wanted to see, not me. But

Mulder insisted I come with him, claiming it involved the work and so was

part of my job.

        I watch Mulder sign in and enter the visiting room and I turn

away, remembering with fresh chagrin the night Mulder kicked in my door

and discovered a near-perfect replica of himself a breath away from

kissing me. The laser-eyed look he shot me when I hopped off the couch is

imprinted in my mind. I can call it up any time I choose. I still haven't

figured out what was going on behind those wide, dark eyes.

        After ascertaining that I was all right and roughly handcuffing

Van Blundht, Mulder had shoved him back onto the couch, mumbled something

about waiting outside for the squad car he'd requested and walked out the

door. I never did get a chance to ask him how he'd known to come to my

place. I guess I already knew--but it would have been nice to hear Mulder

say it. 

        I hear my name coming from the tinny speaker and turn back to the

black and white monitor. Van Blundht has asked about me. I watch the

scene playing out.

        "What did you want to talk to me about, Eddie?" Mulder is low on

patience. His slouched posture can't mask the tension in his voice.

        "I just think it's funny," Van Blundht tells him. "I was born a

loser; but you're one by choice."

        And you're a real bastard, Van Blundht. 

        "On what do you base that astute assessment?" Mulder the

observer, the psychologist, has stepped in. But the sarcasm is still

there; deeply rooted and as automatic as breathing.

        "Experience."

        That sets Mulder back a little. It does me, as well. We all three

know what experience Eddie is talking about. Van Blundht had even taken

the time to check out the office and Mulder's apartment. And he'd been

clever enough to fool me. His claim to have walked in Mulder's shoes is a

true one, even if he was only able to scratch the surface--or so I tell

myself.

        Eddie sits up in his cold metal chair and advises Mulder, "You

should live a little. Treat yourself. God knows I would...if I were you."

        No confusing the meaning of that little gem, either.

        I watch as Mulder gets up and heads for the door, turning my back

just a little as he comes out; trying to give him some privacy. He has to

know that I heard every word. I hear the sound of the pen hitting the

clipboard and he steps to my side. We walk a little way down the hall. I

have to say something.

        I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat. "I don't imagine you

have to be told this, Mulder, but you're not a loser."

        I've purposefully kept myself from looking at him, but I can see

the way he keeps sullenly yanking at the cuffs of his shirt. His silence

stretches and is full of meanings of a thousand shades and flavors. 

        "Yeah," he finally retorts. "But I'm no Eddie Van Blundht,

either...am I?"

        There is a wistful quality to his words. And some regret. I wish

I knew what to say to him. You do, Dana, I tell myself. You know what to

say. 

        But I don't say it. I don't get the chance.

        Mulder chooses that moment to ask, "So, Scully.... What did he

have that I don't have?"

        His question stops me cold. Mulder takes a few steps before he

realizes I'm no longer beside him. He turns and looks back at me.

Regaining my composure, I catch up with him.

        We push through the doors and head to the car. "Well?" Mulder

prompts.

        "It's not that simple, Mulder." I'm not ready for this. I thought

I'd have more time to prepare. How much more time do you need? I ask

myself. It's been over a month. Still, his blunt question has caught me

off-guard.  

        Apparently my answer is enough. Mulder watches me buckle up and

then pulls out of the parking lot, heading for DC.

        The air hangs heavy between us and I try to lose myself in the

landscape that flies by my window. It does no good. The silence is

becoming oppressive. Damn it, Mulder; say something.

        When they finally come, his words startle me and make me jump.

        "Hey, Scully. You really thought it was me that night. Right?"

        We've covered this ground before. It's one of the few questions

he's allowed himself to ask--and one of the queries he continues to make.

It's like he's stuck on these few questions like a needle stuck in the

groove of an old record.

        "Yes, Mulder." I wait for the question that will inevitably

follow; the one that never directly addresses what he saw when he burst

through the door. He can afford to be vague--we both know what almost

happened, what he interrupted.  

        "And you...you were okay with that."

        Second verse same as the first.

        "Yeah, Mulder. I was okay with that."

        He nods. I haven't changed the answer to that one, either. I

think he finds that reassuring--in some odd, Mulderish way. These are

questions to which he already has the answers. He really doesn't require

my input; he could answer them on his own. Perhaps that's why he asks

them: there are no surprises here.

        This is one of the few times I can remember Mulder being afraid

to ask the tough questions. And then I remember what he asked me as we

walked out of the reformatory. I should have given him a straight answer.

It would have at least added to his acceptable repertoire of questions.

         Better late than never. "He just came over, Mulder, with a

bottle of wine. No files, no photos, no tapes to listen to. Just wine."

        I glance over at him. A flick of his eyes asks me to go on.

        "He wanted to talk. Well, actually, he wanted to listen while I

talked."

        "About what?" Mulder quietly asks.

        I shrug and sigh in my throat. "Everything. Nothing. We just

talked about...life."

        "Well, he certainly couldn't have dazzled you with his extensive

knowledge of the X-Files, could he?"

        That forces a smile from me, though I really shouldn't. There is

an underlying resentment in the way he's said it. And a grudging

acknowledgment of what we seem to spend all our time discussing.

        "So," he says. "That's it? You talked?"

        "That's it," I confirm. "It's amazing what you can discover if

you just take the time and make the effort, Mulder."

        That prompts a dead-eye look in my direction. I want to tell him

not to ask if he doesn't really want the answer, complete with

commentary; but I don't.

        We make the rest of the drive in silence. It's only as we reach

the Bureau and Mulder pulls up beside my car that he speaks again.

        "The fireplace. The music. Whose idea was that?"

        I look up into his eyes and my throat goes tight. The hurt and

confusion I see there scares me. I don't know if my answer will hurt him

more or help him.

        "It was mine, Mulder."

        He pulls in his lower lip and nods at me. And then I can't read

his face anymore. It's become blank as a chalkboard.

        "Well, I guess I'll see you later, Scully."

        I take that as my cue to exit the car. I don't bother mentioning 

it's only two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon and we have paperwork to

catch up on. He takes little enough time away from the work--I'm not

going to begrudge him a few hours AWOL.

        I step from the car and grab my briefcase from the back seat.

I've no more than shut the door when he takes off. I'm left in a chilly

underground parking garage, holding nothing but a briefcase and the firm

suspicion that this is far from over. We've set something in motion this

afternoon; only time will tell what comes it.



        XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

        

        I've given myself the night off and all my attention is focused

on the TV and the movie I'm watching when the phone rings. I reluctantly

leave Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant to their business and pick up.

        "Hello."

        "Hey, Scully. It's me."

        "What's wrong, Mulder?"

        "Nothing. Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?"

        Something in his voice makes me reach for the remote and kill the

TV. I can't afford the distraction. "No," I answer him. "It's just

that--"

        "That about the only time I call is when I'm in trouble or I need

something. Yeah, I know."

        This little revelation doesn't seem to require any response from

me.

        "Listen, Scully, if you don't have anything planned.... Look, I

was just wondering if you'd mind coming over."

        "To your place?" For all I know, he could be in the basement.

        "Yeah." There is a almost palpable sense of anticipation that

comes through the phone line. It's as if the world is holding its breath.

Or maybe it's just Mulder.

        Don't screw this up, Dana. You won't get another chance. Fox

Mulder is nothing if not stingy with a sincere overture.

        "Okay. Sure, Mulder. I'm on my way."

        I hear him release the breath he's been holding.

        "Great." He hangs up. He's not one for niceties like hello and

good-bye, either. 

        Forty-five minutes later I'm standing in front of his door. I

glance up at the numbers. The 2 is coming loose again--an X-File in and

of itself. I knock, calling out, "Mulder, it's me." 

        The door suddenly swings open and he's there. I can only spare

him a quick glance as my eye is caught by something about the apartment

behind him. It's not all-the-lights-turned-off dark. It's not quite the

lighting of the lamp on his desk, either. I come up on tiptoes and peer

over his shoulder. The living room is filled with lighted candles. This

is not typical Mulder--at least not the one I'm familiar with. 

        His eyes chase and catch mine. He takes a step back and gives me

a head tilt. "C'mon in."

        I take a few steps inside and turn back to watch him flip the

lock closed.

        Oh, Mulder. Damn that eidetic memory of yours.

        He swings around, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a simple

gray t-shirt. Sneakers round out the picture.

        He's so transparent it's not even funny. 

        The candles are the Mulder version of a fireplace. And I caught

the gleam of candlelight on the crystal wineglasses sitting empty on his

coffee table. The only thing missing is the music.

        Oh. Wait. There it is. The CD player must have been shifting

disks around. The Temptations.

        My eyes suddenly sting with tears even as I feel my lips pull up

into a smile. 

        <Now I'm seeing a whole new side of you, Mulder.>

        <Is that a good thing?>

        Dammit. If only it could be that easy. He doesn't understand that

it wasn't just the wine or the fire or what he was wearing.

        Tread softly, Dana.

        "Christ, Mulder," I shake my head, fighting back laughter. "Go

change your clothes."

        I bite my tongue the second the words are out of my mouth. Yeah,

tread softly with those spiked combat boots, Scully. Way to go.

        I wait for the veil of self-protective calm to fall across his

face. But that's not what happens.

        Mulder jerks a lop-sided smile. "Too much?"

        Thank you, Lord. I owe you one.

        "Yeah. Too much, Mulder."

        He nods in easy agreement. "Okay. I'll be right back." He's

peeling the shirt off as he goes and I discover how beautiful the skin of

his back looks in the honey-gold glow of candlelight. I purse my lips and

let out a puff of air. 

        Do something, Dana. Don't just stand here. 

        So I drop my bag and coat, go take a seat on the couch and get

busy pouring out the wine. Authentic Mulder on the choice of wine--it's

white, not red. I guess that should have tipped me off that night with

Van Blundht. Mulder generally drinks only white wine.

        He comes back a short time later. And I can't possibly ask him to

change again. Can I?

        Snug black 501s and a matching t-shirt. And bare feet.

        My very own dark angel.

        I drop my eyes and reach for a wineglass, handing it to him as he

settles in at the other end of the couch.

        I lift my glass and Mulder gently clinks his against it. 

        "What should we drink to, Scully?"

        Oh my. That could be a very long list. Or a very short one.

        "To conversation, Mulder."

        "Okay. To conversation."

        We sip our wine, throwing side-long glances at each other. An odd

sense of deja vu washes over me. 

        "So..." Mulder twists around on the couch, tucking one leg under

him. 

        We trade nervous smiles.

        My brain has frozen up on me. I can't think of a single thing to

say. Instead, I take a good look around the room--like I've never been

here before. I hear Mulder sigh. The silence stretches until it's

vibrating like an over-taxed rubber band. We both speak at the same time.

        "Mulder."

        "Scully."

        And now we're stumbling over each other's apologies. God.

        Mulder sets down his wine glass and hops off the couch. He paces

a half circle and then stops and looks down at me. "I'm really bad at

this, Scully."

        I wonder what it cost him to say that.

        "I mean, your being here--that's great. I'm good with that." He

falters and gives me a quizzical look. It's as if he's waiting for me to

jump in and help him out. He jams his hands in his pockets and he looks

like a lost little boy. This look is not unusual for Mulder. It's just

that this time it's not contrived.

        He rocks back on his heels. Shrugs a shoulder. "This just doesn't

feel.... It doesn't feel right, Scully. It's not me."

        With that pronouncement he steps to the desk and turns on the

lamp. He grabs the remote from the table, switches off the CD player and

turns on the TV. A silent basketball game flashes on the screen. I sip my

wine and watch him move around the room, blowing out all but a few of the

candles. Then he sits back down on the couch, grabbing his wine, and

stretches his long legs out, resting his feet on the coffee table. He

shifts around a little bit and then turns to look at me. He's waiting.



        end part 1/2    





From bower2@juno.com Fri Apr 25 13:40:21 1997

Subject: *NEW* Affinity by Lydia Bower 2/2 US4Spoilers 

From: bower2@juno.com (L. B. Bower)

--------





Disclaimer in Part 1. This is nothing but story

-------------------------------------------------------------------



        "Feel better now, Mulder? More comfortable?"

        "Yes, I do. Thanks for asking. How 'bout yourself?"

        "I'm fine, Mulder." 

        He eyeballs me. "Good. Kick back, Scully. Let's talk."

        His grin is infectious. 

        "What do you want to talk about?"

        He looks away and I can see he's really considering my question.

I watch the small movements of his face. It's fascinating how mobile it

is when he's too occupied in the playground of his mind to worry about

who might be watching him. I'm glad Mulder doesn't hide this from me.

        It's mostly his eyes and his full mouth. But you can spot things

in the set of his jaw or the twitch of an eyebrow; if you really pay

attention.

        He turns back and gives me the once-over before leaning forward

and snagging the wine bottle. He adds half a glass to mine and refreshes

his. "Why did you decide on medicine, Scully?"

        "Why did you choose psychology?"

        "I asked first." 

        I just look at him.

        "Okay," he says. "Tell you what. I'll race you around the block.

Winner gets to go last."

        "It's not a contest, Mulder."

        "You're just saying that because you know I'll kick your ass. I

ran on the track team in high school, y'know. You're looking at the

fastest thing on two legs this side of the Mississippi."

        "Oh, really?" I'm having trouble picturing Mulder joining any

kind of team.

        "Yeah, I always was good at running away from things. Figured I

might as well get a letter jacket for it. A chick magnet, y'know?"

        I ignore the first and last and concentrate on the middle. "You

lettered in high school?"

        "Yeah. You wanna see the jacket? I've still got it."

        "You've got to be kidding me." I feel almost giddy. This isn't so

hard after all. 

        "Scout's honor, Scully. I'll get it."

        He hops up and heads for the auxiliary office that was intended

as a bedroom but never got past the mostly unused mattress and box spring

on the floor and a dresser tucked in the corner. All the other space is

taken up by boxes neatly stacked six foot high in some places; all

crammed with things pertaining to the X-Files and Mulder's quests. I've

been in that room once. What it signified saddened me. He won't even

allow himself the comfort of a real bed to sleep in, or a room he can use

as a refuge from the world.

         Mulder takes refuge in other things: the work, his quick and

keen mind. And me. I've known that for a long time and maybe it's selfish

of me to want more than that, but it isn't enough. Mulder hasn't yet

learned that the safest refuge is the one that's shared. He's never been

willing to share before now. I'm not even certain he knows how. But he's

earned the right to try.

        He lopes out with the letter jacket and a goofy smile on his

face. I ooh and ahh over the jacket and obediently try it on for him. The

sleeves hang almost to my knees. Mulder makes a production of

straightening the various class pins stuck on the front of it and then

lifts his eyes to mine. His breath falls lightly on my face. And then he

lifts his hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek.

         "Dust," he explains. 

        I can't seem to look away from him. I will drown in his eyes if

he doesn't let me up for air.

        For all the myriad things we don't know about each other, at the

most elemental level Mulder knows me very well. He steps back and glances

away for a moment before looking back.

        "Looks better on you than it does on me, Scully."

        I glance down at the hanging sleeves. "I look ridiculous."

        "You look beautiful. You always do."

        "Thank you, Mulder." Oh, don't let me start blushing now. I'm a

grown woman. I should be past blushing--especially with Mulder.

        "You're welcome." He reaches out and tries to take my hand but

can't find it in the sleeve. Thus begins a hunt replete with low chuckles

from Mulder.

        "You make a crack about my size and I'll bust you one," I warn

him, struggling with the sleeve and his intrusive fingers.

        "Just as long as you don't shoot me again, Scully."

        "That's not beyond my capabilities. You were the one who taught

me to carry my gun everywhere I go."

        "Are you packing? 'Cause I have a thing for women who pack heat."

He slips the jacket off my shoulders and does a short but intense study

of my jeans and sweater-clad figure. "I don't see it. Where'd you hide

it?"

        "None of your business and I'll break your fingers if you go

looking for it."

        He laughs. I love it when Mulder laughs. He doesn't do it often

enough. He grabs my newly uncovered hand and leads me back to the couch.

"So why did you pick medicine, Scully?"

        And this time I tell him.



        XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

        

        I've spent the last two hours undergoing a transformation that is

both sharply familiar and brand new. I can only speak for myself but I

think Mulder feels it, too--at least the novelty of it.

        At first I found myself comparing the two evenings and, truth be

told, the two Mulders. Eddie Van Blundht was a master of disguises. If I

was more like Mulder I might even find it plausible he was able to adopt

not only a man's identity, but his personality as well. 

        There have been moments this evening that've closely mirrored

those of a month ago--so much so that I've had to repeat to myself over

and over that this really is Mulder and not a lesser duplicate. I had to

excuse myself from the room when Mulder upended the mostly empty wine

bottle over my glass and gave the bottom three healthy slaps.

        "No sense in letting it go to waste," he'd said.

        Mulder is a very good listener when he wants to be. And I've

found it very easy to talk to him. Most amazing of all is that he's

talking back. We've been trading stories all night. 

        It hasn't been easy for him. Mulder holds himself so closely to

the vest. I think he probably always has--if always began with Samantha's

disappearance. It's his armor and his weak spot all rolled up into one. I

had to gently poke and prod at first, ask leading questions and allow

long silences to fall as he ran all the ramifications of the possible

answers through his head, searching for the one he thought would please

me most. It didn't take me long to figure out what he was doing and call

him on it. He cheerfully accepted my rebuke and shifted back into the

irreverent, acerbic, but unendingly compassionate Mulder I know so well.

        It dawns on me that I should've had no trouble figuring out that

the Mulder who knocked on my door a month ago was not the same man who

sits beside me now. It's a bittersweet realization because it is the

essence and spirit of Mulder that was missing that night. And I can't

dismiss the shame I feel now that I didn't question it then. 

        I can only chalk it up to the need I had that night that only

Mulder could fill; a man I consider my best friend--and so much more. 

        What ultimately makes Mulder a winner and those like Eddie Van

Blundht losers is the absolute, complete faith Mulder has in himself.

While he may harbor more than his fair share of demons, Mulder has a calm

self-confidence about himself and his life's work that Eddie was missing.

He long ago quit caring what anyone else thought and I think that allowed

him to focus all his considerable skills and devotion on those things

that matter to him most. It became a single-minded determination that

somehow led to his decision to lead an almost monkish life. It's not at

all that Mulder doesn't know how to relate to me or anyone else on a

personal level, it's that he made the choice not to. 

        There's that and then there's also the encyclopedic mind that

still manages to stun me. Van Blundht is not even on the same scale. I

suppose I should have seen that, too. But when you're busy telling your

life story to a person you think is the man who's quite literally become

the center of your universe, it's harder to notice what's missing that

should be there.

        "Hey." There is a touch on my arm as soft as his voice. I pull

away from my thoughts and look over at Mulder. And dammit if he doesn't

have that face on. The one that's halfway between sleepy little boy and

consummate hunter. The dark, hooded eyes. The slightly parted lips. 

        I'm in big trouble.

        I had that same realization a month ago. Only this time it's not

so foreign. I've been through this before. A dress rehearsal for the real

thing.

        "Where'd you go?" Mulder asks me.     

        "I was just...." It isn't a conscious thought and the question

comes out of nowhere. "Mulder, why are we doing this?"

        He studies me, his eyes moving over my face. "Does it make you

uncomfortable?" 

        I don't hesitate. "No. No, not at all. I like it. I'm just not--"

        "Scully, can we talk about that night?" he blurts.

        I knew this was coming; it was only a matter of time. "What would

you like to know, Mulder?"

        There is a short silence. And then instead of the expected

laundry list of questions, Mulder tells me, "I knew what Van Blundht had

in mind when he locked me up, Scully. I knew what he was going to try.

And I knew it because he saw something we've been turning a blind eye to

for a long time. I don't think he would've attempted to do what he did if

he didn't think he had a chance of succeeding."

        My heart has begun to pound. I'm both fascinated and frightened

by what I suspect this is leading to. "What are you trying to say,

Mulder?"

        He shifts around to fully face me and I can see the familiar fire

blazing to life in his eyes. "Well, just think about it, Scully. This is

a man who can assume the identity of anyone he chooses. Despite the fact

that what he did was reprehensible, he was able to get away with it for

so long only because he came to these women in the guise of men they

trusted and cared for; women he knew wouldn't harbor any suspicions if

the man they encountered was someone they felt comfortable being with in

that type of situation. Eddie Van Blundht was in many ways these women's

fantasy lover."

        "You almost sound like you envy him, Mulder."

        All his energy and focus shift to me and I'm helplessly pinned by

his eyes. "Only when it comes to you." 

        "Mulder...."

        "No, just hear me out, Scully. I knew he would come to you

because that's what I would have done, if I'd had the courage. It's

something I should have done a long time ago."

        "Attempt to seduce me?"

        "No. No. Just set that part of it aside for a minute."

        I can't help the wry tone of my reply. "Easier said than done."

        He chuckles and lets my comment pass. "What I'm trying to say is

that he gave you an opportunity to open up, to let some of the barriers

down and allow the Dana Scully who isn't an FBI agent to come to the

forefront. I envy him that."

        "He didn't do anything you couldn't have done, Mulder."

        His head is bowed, eyes downcast. "I doubt that."

        I reach out and cover his hand with mine. He peers up at me.

        "You shouldn't," I tell him. I wait as his hand turns under mine

and our palms meet, fingers entwining. His hand is warm and a little

damp. "Mulder, what almost happened that night, what you saw when you

busted down my door--and by the way, you'll be getting the bill for that

soon--happened because it was what I wanted, too. And it wasn't because

Eddie was being a Mulder I'd never seen before and liked better than the

original. It was because he was being the Mulder I knew you could be if

you'd only allow yourself."

        He takes some time to absorb this, his thumb absently stroking

the back of my hand. "It's hard, Scully," he finally admits.

        "I know that. It is for both of us, Mulder. It means having to

bend a lot of the rules we've been playing by for so long--and even

throwing  some others out. But all these feelings, all these issues this

situation has forced us to confront are real. They're not something new

and they're not something that just came out of the blue. It's difficult

because we both know what we're risking and neither of us wants to lose

what we've worked so long and so hard to build." 

        Mulder releases my hand and moves closer to me, lifting his arm

and resting it on the back of the couch. I feel his fingers begin to move

through my hair and come to settle on the back of my neck. If he takes

note of the shiver that runs through me, he makes no mention of it. 

        He waits till my eyes raise to meet his. "I honestly didn't know,

Scully." He swallows hard. "I didn't know how you'd react if I ever tried

to cross that line. I could only hope that...." He sighs and shakes his

head. "I didn't know. And I was too much of a coward to find out."

        My focus has narrowed until everything fades but the sensation of

his fingers against my skin, the depths of his eyes, the fullness of his

mouth. "But you know now. Don't you?"

        "I think so," he murmurs. 

        His hand moves until it cups my cheek and then drops to the curve

where shoulder meets neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.

        "Mulder, will you do something for me?"

        "Name it."

        "Will you...will you kiss me?"

        He smiles gently and says, "I thought you'd never ask."

        And this time, instead of sitting still and waiting--locked into

a shocked paralysis--I move when he does, leaning into his kiss. There is

only the briefest hesitation on Mulder's part, and none on mine, before

his lips meet mine. And they are soft and full and warm--just as I knew

they would be. 

        His kiss is tentative, inquisitive. I lift my fingers to his hair

and I knows he's heard my answer as the pressure of his lips on mine

increases. And then he pulls away, leaving me caught on the edge of a

ragged sigh. I open my eyes to find him looking at me, a blend of warm

affection and amusement softening his features. I mirror his shy grin.

        "Well, Scully," he declares after taking a deep breath. "That

was...pretty damn remarkable."

        "And I don't think the world came to an end."

        "I don't think I would have noticed if it had," he tells me.

"Let's try that again, just to make sure it wasn't an anomaly."

        No hesitation this time. On either of our parts.

        Well now you've gone and done it, Dana Katherine. There can be no

going back. Are you happy now?

        You bet your britches.

        Mulder is again the one to break the kiss. He's going to have to

stop doing that. I watch as he licks his lips and hot current of desire

runs through me. He is tasting me on his lips and wanting more.

        And then our eyes lock and I know he's seen the need in mine.

Mulder laughs as he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear.

        "I'm, um, I'm gonna kick you out, Scully."

        "What?"

        "You need to go home now," he tells me and he's up off the couch

and offering me his hand.

        I take it and stand, asking, "Why?"

        He looks aside and chews his lip. "I like to savor things,

Scully. No sense rushing a good thing, huh? And besides," he tells me as

he leads me to the door and helps me on with my coat. "I'm no Eddie Van

Blundht."

        I look up at Mulder and I know it's going to all right. The step

we've taken tonight will no doubt have its repercussions--good and bad--

but I've grown used that these last five years. Sometimes I think I even

crave it now. I've learned a lot of hard lessons these last months and

what I've come away with is that in order to truly live we have to take

risks. To learn to seize the opportunities we're presented with and fight

the battles that need fought. To accept the defeats and relish the

victories. Mulder and I have won this one. And it's so sweet. 

        I think Mulder understands this now, in a way he hasn't before. I

don't blame him for wanting to take the time to enjoy it.

        I turn to him and go easily into his arms. He squeezes me

tightly, drops a kiss on the top of head and guides me out the door.

        "I'll see you in the morning, Scully."

        "G'night, Mulder."

        I head for the elevator and stop only when I hear his door close

and the deadbolt slide home. Then I turn to the wall and lean my forehead

against it, a wide smile creasing my face. I swallow down a chuckle and

then another one.

         Oh, what the hell? I've just been kissed by the man of my

dreams. I'm entitled to be happy about it. I move to the elevator and

slap the down button, chuckling under my breath.

        No, Mulder is certainly no Eddie Van Blundht.

        Thank God.  



        XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX



        The End