Title: Inevitable Author: Flynn Date: January 5, 2002 Rating: NC-17 for adult expressions of affection. Classification: MSR, PWP Keywords: None E-mail: flyn121@yahoo.com Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/ Category: X-Cops post-ep Archiving: Feel free, just tell me about it first. Spoiler warning: Brief nod to Hollywood A.D., SUZ, and the cancer arc. Feedback: Nourishes the soul and is good karma. SCRIBBLER'S NOTE: This is an anxiety-free zone. This is nothing but friends hanging out and feeling frisky. Want anxious? Watch the news. Disclaimer: My name is .... not open to discussion. Let's just say it's not Carter and leave it at that. Thanks to my long-suffering beta-buddy, Christine, my favorite nit-picker in the world. Summary: He knew it was inevitable. They both did. They'd known since New Years .... since that day in his apartment doorway last autumn .... maybe even since before Africa. Sooner or later, they were going to end up in bed. For real. ~~~~~~~~~~~ Inevitable by Flynn ~~~~~~~~~~~ It must have been almost midnight when the rain finally started. From where she sat beside the open window, Dana Scully could hear the patter of drops on the glass, and far below, the sound of traffic. Horns blared occasionally despite the hour. Streetlights flashed green to gold to red, like the leaves of maple trees that grew on base when she was young. The moisture on the glass made the changing colors a light show. Green gold red .... green gold red .... She sighed and let her head fall back against the cushioned backrest. She was bone-weary, but sleep was proving to be elusive. She'd been up too long. They both had. She was still keyed up. She'd tried to rest, of course. She'd stretched out on the bed and tried to lie still .... tried to relax .... but her eyes kept opening and she found herself watching the pattern of lights from passing cars glide across the walls and ceiling. After two hours she gave up and went back to the window. Los Angeles. The end of a case. Well, non-case. No werewolf - sorry, Mulder. No Wasp-man. No Freddy Kruger. Just questions. Like so many of the cases they had been involved with down through the years .... questions that had no answers. Not for him. Not for her. They'd checked in to the hotel earlier that evening, after the requisite paperwork was completed and all the preliminary reports had been submitted by phone. AD Skinner wasn't any too happy that the perpetrator managed to elude them in the end, and even less so that Mulder had taken no great pains to tone down his rather fanciful theories around the film crew. Still, Skinner'd been civil about the matter, at least as much as he could be with his own superiors demanding answers. He told the two of them to check out of the f lea-bag motel they'd been in and get something closer to the airport. As long as they minded their Ps and Qs, he'd sign off on the expense voucher. She couldn't help but smile at that. Guess he was still disgruntled by the charges they'd run up on the company card last spring. Well, Walter, if you didn't want us to spread our wings a little, you shouldn't have let us out of our cage. Slowly she pushed herself to her feet, stretching her arms a little as she padded across the room to the sink. The memories of that particular trip could still make her smile. The movie was a travesty, of course , but the food and the champagne had been utterly decadent. And even if it hadn't been, the night would stand out in her memory forever, because .... well, who knew Mulder could dance like that? There would be no dancing on this trip. Fortunately, the case was wrapped. Tomorrow they'd get on the plane and fly back to the tangible if sometimes mundane reality of the basement. For the moment she was content. Well, except for the fact that she couldn't sleep. The new hotel was nice enough. There was room service. It was terribly over-priced, of course, and the food probably wasn't much better than could be found across the street at Kim's Kozy Kitchen, which might well be where it was procured in the first place .... but at least the carpet was clean and she wouldn't have to go anywhere if she got hungry. She'd been up too many hours straight. That was her problem now. She didn't want to think how long it had been since she'd managed to get m ore than a few minutes of sleep. When had she dozed last? Yesterday at the squad room? In between interviews with deputies and film crews in one of those stuffy, claustrophobic interrogation offices? Maybe sitting on the commode in the women's restroom? She might have nodded off there, had it not been for the smell. It didn't smell here though, so what was the problem? She pursed her lips as she peeled the plastic sleeve off the cheap tumbler that came with the room. Should have taken something a couple hours ago, she mused, running the water a minute before filling the cup. It's not too late. She wondered how the injured deputy, Wetzel, was doing. She estimated he'd lost about a pint of blood in the attack, a little more during surgery on his arm and shoulder. The damage to his reputation, at least as far as he saw it, would not be so easy to fix. She gave her head a shake as she dug around in her overnight case. In law enforcement, reputations came with the territory. Some were good, some not so good. The deputy would have to take his lumps just like everyone else. If he did good work, there would be compensations. She eyed herself in the mirror as she tossed back a tablet. A smile tugged at her mouth. Compensations. Yeah, there were a few. One of hers was sacked out in the next room. Probably - well, hopefully - snoring to wake the dead. He'd pushed his luck with her and he knew it. Compensation or not, she'd come close to slugging him really hard a couple times. She hadn't been afraid, per se, at least not inordinately so. Not of contagion, and certainly not of an attack by a giant wasp. Her mind just didn't work that way. But looking foolish on live television? Hmm. It certainly wasn't as dramatic as "Wasp-man", that she had to admit, but it did pose a certain threat nonetheless. After all the bad PR it had received lately, the Bureau just didn't need anyone else screwing up in a public way. Besides, she and Mulder hadn't been able to exchange so much as a simple comment without finding a damned camera shoved in their faces, and that rankled. Every blink, every twitch, every whisper was caught on film. Shit. None of that had been his fault, of course, but it just didn't help matters when he started playing to those same cameras. Not that it surprised her, really. She knew better than anyone what a showman Mulder could be. She was almost back to her chair when a soft sound caught her ear. It wasn't much, just the sound of a flushing toilet, but it stopped her in mid-stride. He *was* awake. Had he managed to sleep at all? She hoped so. Her gaze returned to the bottle on the counter. Take one tablet with water .... She could check on him. It wasn't often that she indulged herself, but neither was it unheard of for her to look in on him in the middle of the night. He never seemed to mind, and in fact she wondered if he didn't really enjoy the attention. Sometimes she'd get lucky and actually find him asleep, although that was rare. Those were the times she'd linger a while and .... just look. Watch the way his eyes rolled under the paper-thin skin of his lids. His mouth fascinated her, even lax in sleep. She'd listen to the sound of his breathing, and wish she could screw up the courage to touch him. She always left before that could happen. If he ever did the same .... if he came into her room and watched her as she slept .... well, if he did, he kept it a well-guarded secret. The door between their rooms was ajar. She gentled it aside and peered in. Light flickered unevenly, splashing the room and everything in it with garish colors. Television, the chronic insomniac's companion. Not a good sign. The bed was rumpled but empty. Frowning, she scanned the darkness for his familiar silhouette and saw him at once, standing in the shadows by the bathroom. He was leaning heavily on the counter, arms spread, head bowed. God, he looked weary. She didn't have to see them to know just how dark the circles were under his eyes. No, he hadn't slept. Not at all. "Hey," she called very quietly. He didn't move, just stood there apparently staring into the darkness. "What're you doing, Mulder? Are you okay?" He turned slowly. He was, she noted, wearing a pair of baggy sweat pants and no shirt. No shoes. Not even socks. Jesus, he had big feet. No, just the sweats - and a concerned expression. "Sure, I'm good. What're you doing up? I thought you'd have crashed hours ago." She looked at him closely as she took another step toward him, quietly thanking God that, other than a bruised shoulder from knocking in that door, he was unscathed. "I tried. Couldn't sleep. I heard you moving around in here." He heard the concern in her soft tone. He should have known she'd still be awake. Man, she looked tired. Almost haggard. Too much work, too much worry, too little food and almost no rest for the better part of three days. Oh, they made a fine pair, didn't they? "I'm fine, Doctor Scully. Just watching Letterman. Had to take a leak." It bothered him sometimes, the way she worried about him. Not that he didn't appreciate it, her looking after him .... he just didn't need it right now. In fact, judging from the circles under her eyes, *she* was the one who needed a little TLC. The case was a non-issue, at least for another twenty-nine days, and in a nice break from the standard routine, neither one of them had so much as broken a nail. No hospitals, no hard-nosed medical staff telling them what they could and couldn't do, telling them to sign here, stand there, turn your head and cough. The work was all but finished - there was just the debriefing with Skinner to get through once they were back in DC. There was nothing for her to worry about now. Ah, but that isn't what she thought, clearly. He offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Well, here we are, Scully. The middle of the night and it's just the two of us. Just a coupla night owls, aren't we?" She nodded a time or two as she folded her arms. "Regular party animals." She gestured to the open door behind her with a turn of her head. "Listen, I know how you feel about them, but I have a spare sleeping pill if you're interest. You look like you could use the rest." He winced and shook his head. "Thanks anyway. I'll just wait for the boredom of rerun purgatory to knock me out." She nodded again, slowly this time. Silence fell between them. Over his bare shoulder she could see rain pelting the window. In the distance, a tongue of lightning lanced almost horizontally through the night sky. Thunder boomed like an afterthought. The angels are bowling tonight, she thought with a private smile. His lips quirked as he stepped closer. "Share with the class?" Her eyes focused on him again. "Huh? Share what?" He touched a gentle finger to the curve of her cheek, let his fingertip just brush her lower lip. "Happy thoughts?" She shrugged one shoulder but didn't explain. He wouldn't want to hear about Melissa and her angels. He didn't like to be reminded of the damage he'd caused in her life. Or, more accurately, the damage he felt he'd caused. Enough with the guilt, she wanted to say. She didn't blame him for anything. It bothered her that he did. "Happy? Yeah, sort of," she replied. He said nothing, just stood there watching her. She drew her lower lip into her mouth and gnawed it gently. She didn't need to stay. He was okay, and he wasn't interested in taking anything to hurry sleep. Which, she knew full well, wouldn't happen at all as long as she stood there staring at him. Time for a graceful exit. "Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to make sure ...." "Keep me, please," he said quickly, cutting her off. "I mean, stay a while. Listen, I'm about to order something from room service. We can have a little party. You want something? Warm milk, maybe? They say warm milk helps you sleep." She allowed herself another quick smile. "They? Which they would that be, Mulder?" He shrugged, smiling. "All those smart doctor-types. I read about it in college once." She tipped her head back a little. "Thanks, but warm milk makes me gag. You go ahead though." He laid a hand on her arm, stopping her before she could turn. "Then I'll order cold milk for you. C'mon, Scully, it's early yet." She gave him a wry look. He grinned but didn't release her. "All right, it's late. Appallingly late. So what? We don't fly out until four in the afternoon, and, thanks to Skinner, we're about twenty minutes from the terminal. What, you think you'll get in trouble being in a boy's room past curfew or something? Live a little. I can behave. Honest." She bit back a soft giggle but let him lead her deeper into the room. "All right, I'll stay for a few minutes, but not because you're taunting me." "'Atta girl." He released her and let himself fall backwards onto the bed. The mattress bounced nicely under his weight. He yanked the phone closer to him and winked at her as he punched numbers. "Is this the kitchen? Listen, I can't find it on the menu card, but here's what I want ...." She moved slowly around the room. It didn't matter what he was saying. Sometimes, like now, just the sound of his voice was soothing. She could feel him watching her. He did that a lot these days. Usually that was all he did - just look. Sometimes, though, he'd sidle up close enough for a quick, shy kiss. Not a forehead kiss, either. A real, honest-to-God, on-the-mouth kiss. Those were also the times his eyes were drawn to her chest like iron to magnets. Hmm. Maybe it was a good thing she'd decided against packing the white silk pajamas for this trip - the slate blue ones she was wearing hinted at the goods they concealed, but he wasn't going to actually see anything he shouldn't. And he was looking, she could tell from his flat, distracted tone. "Uh, yeah, that's right. One cold, one warm. Do you have non-fat? Okay, make that the cold one." There was a brief pause, and his attention was abruptly drawn back to the phone. "What? Yeah, something like that. Thanks." He shrugged ruefully as he hung up the phone. "Asked if I have insomnia. Lucky guess." She sat facing him on the bed and drew one knee up to her chest. "Well, I guess it isn't so surprising. We've both been up a long time." She flexed her neck from side to side and was rewarded with a few soft *pops!* "I don't know about you, but I think I'm too tired to sleep." He grunted softly in agreement. "And don't forget the moon's practically full," he said, stretching out full-length and almost but not quite touching her. He laced his fingers behind his head and smiled up at her. She gave him a sideways glance and snorted very softly. "I don't think I'm too likely to forget that, but thank you for pointing it out." He shrugged. "I assume you're familiar with the effects of lunar radiation. I only mention it because it has to be a factor, too." He paused and softly added, "Well, it *might* be a factor." She sighed. The television was muted, but she could see Letterman was interviewing - or was it interrogating? - Julia Roberts. "I'm aware of the phenomenon," she said. "I'm also fairly certain my opinion on the matter in no way resembles yours." She looked at him curiously. "Not the change the subject or anything, but .... what did you order just now? What are we having with our milk?" She sighed. "Please tell me you're not going to wolf down a burger and fries at *this* hour." He scowled up at her. "Weren't you listening?" She shook her head. He rolled onto his side and propped a hand under his cheek. His eyes were storm-colored: gray and green and just a little dangerous. A smile drew the corner of his mouth back. "What do you want with your milk, Agent Scully?" he asked. *What are you offering?* The words were almost out before she could stop them. Thankfully, the rational part of her brain was alert and functioning despite the hour. She half-smiled and looked away. "You're full of shit, Mulder, you know that? After what we've seen and done the past few days .... Stop looking at me like that." "Like what?" His voice was warm gravel. She bit back a self-conscious giggle. "Stop it. I didn't come in here for this." His eyebrows tilted, and she saw a familiar crinkle appear between them. Oh, the times she's wanted to kiss that little thing away. His eyes were bright. "Didn't come in for what?" She was blushing. The realization actually made his pulse skip. Her eyes couldn't seem to find a target; she was looking at his forehead, his cheek, his chin ..... He always knew he had her when she couldn't quite look him in the eye. "Don't," she said. He leaned a little closer. "Don't what?" he breathed. Her hand rose and circled in a vague gesture. "This .... what you're doing. What you do when you want ...." She sighed and drew her other leg to her chest, clutching her arms around her knees. Pink was suffusing her cheeks. "Just knock it off." He edged himself closer and gently nuzzled her forearm. She didn't move. "All right." A kiss to her bicep, then her shoulder. "I will." Higher still - the side of her face. "I promise. In just a minute." She was trying without much success to scowl. And still she wasn't looking at him. "Mulder ...." she said softly. He felt a thrill of anticipation. Was it a threat, or a declaration of intent? It wasn't always easy to tell. This part of her .... this part of them .... was still very new. God, she smelled so good, it made his mouth water. What would she do? Would she retreat? Hide behind propriety and decorum? Would she accept his overtures? Or better yet, would she respond to them? He felt her lips brush his forehead then, and the sensation froze him in place. Oh, yes! His breath caught in his chest. Slowly her mouth trailed down the slope of his browbone and temple to his cheek. His eyelids sagged and closed. Warm, she was warm and soft, and if he wasn't very careful indeed, he was going to get hard just from that simple, intoxicating touch .... How far would the game go tonight? This dance, this challenge, this .... This courtship. He knew it was inevitable. They both did. They'd known since New Years .... since that day in his apartment doorway last autumn .... maybe even since before Africa. Sooner or later, they were going to end up in bed. For real. That they hadn't yet was probably due more to missed opportunities than doubts or misgivings. It was easy to resist thinking about it in DC .... well, easier, at any rate, surrounded as they usually were by constant reminders of the rigid status quo. Eyes always watching, tongues always wagging. The Bureau was a sinkhole of gossip-mongers. And oh, how some of their superiors would love to catch Spooky Mulder in a breach of protocol. Sure, it'd be a minor transgression if anyone else committed it, but God knows what they'd do if he just happened to be the guy who thumbed his nose at the establishment and took his partner to bed. They weren't in DC now. Inevitable. The kisses came more easily these days. Surprisingly easy. Never in public, though. Never when there was a chance somebody could see them. His apartment. Hers. A darkened theater - yes, they'd even seen a few movies together. In the car on the Beltway on the way to work. Funny, how often they carpooled since that day in his hallway. He'd been cautious about it at first, approaching her slowly as one might approach a head-shy horse - except in this case, *he* was that horse. Each time he expected her to rebuff him. She was intelligent, after all. And she was sexy as hell. She could have anyone she wanted. The fact that she also happened to know an awful lot about him didn't exactly put him in any position of advantage. Of course she'd rebuff him. But she didn't. Not that night in January, standing there in that hospital waiting room. Or in her apartment a few days later. Or a month after that. Not even on the terrible night she'd told him about his mother's suicide. He'd kissed her that night, too. Really kissed her. Not the soft, tentative caresses they'd shared up until that point, but hard, almost brutal clashes of lips and teeth and tongues. She'd had what he needed that night, and he took it. It was fortunate for them both that he was too caught up in his grief to act on those impulses. He didn't want their first time to be lost in a miasma of rage and grief and regret. She deserved better. Hell, they both did. She held him together that night. When he kissed her, hard and demanding and desperate for something positive to cling to, she gave it to him. Later, when the sobbing and swearing and anger and sorrow left him, and left him drained, she sat and held him as she might have held a small, lost child, her soft, not-quite-meaningless words soothing the ache in his heart like a balm would sooth a burn. He remembered falling asleep there on the tired leather couch, his head in her lap, her hand in his hair. In the morning he awoke battered and sore and infinitely weary, but whole. A gentle touch pulled him back to the here and now. Lips grazed his nose, kissed one side of it .... hovered over the corner of his mouth, barely touching. He couldn't contain a groan. Jesus, he was so aware of her, aware of the hand touching his face, the fingertips exploring the curves of his ear .... the warmth of breath and body, the fullness of her lips, the graceful heat of her tongue .... and then suddenly she was gone and he could not, he could *not*, contain a soft little groan of protest. Her eyes were a little glassy as she looked at him. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. Hear? All he could hear was the blood rushing in his veins; all he could feel was the chill on his face where her hand and her mouth had been. How did she do it? Was she even aware of the power she could wield over him? Where did his intellect go? He *was* intelligent. He could think faster and clearer and better than ninety-eight percent of the hacks in the Bureau, *and* give that last two percent a good run for their money. But when she was near, near enough to smell and taste and .... and count the freckles on her nose .... he was conscious of her, of *only* her, and thinking was something that other people did. "Didn't hear anything," he managed to say, and reached for her again. She managed a soft, "No," as she caught his hand. The look on his face would have been comical on anyone else: confused, anxious ..... hurt. Only it wasn't funny. This man had been hurt enough; she wouldn't do it again now by laughing at him. "The door," she whispered. "Whatever it was you ordered .... it must be here." He nodded as he schooled his face into its customary blank mask. "No," she murmured again, squeezing his shoulder when he sat up. "I'll get this one." He swallowed convulsively. "Th - thanks." It was harder than she would have thought, walking away from him. As she turned, she couldn't help but notice the bulge growing at the juncture of his thighs. Was he aware of it? She couldn't tell. "Do you have any money?" she asked, brushing her hair off her forehead and struggling to keep from staring. Her pajamas whispered around her, touching her everywhere with a lover's caress. Her nipples were hard, she could tell without even looking. Dammit. Was she blushing? "Huh?" He was staring again, and not at her face. This time she couldn't help but smile. "For the tip, Mulder. I want to tip the bellboy. I don't usually carry money to bed." "Oh." He blinked and swallowed, then nodded toward the bathroom. "My pants are in there. I think I have some bills in one of the pockets." She nodded and turned away. He stood up and swiped his hands over his face, banishing the mental cobwebs. A glance in the mirror across the room confirmed his greatest fear. No, Scully, I'm not packing anything but honest admiration for you. With the proper adjustment - a quick shove and a roll of the hips - he was .... well, not exactly presentable, but at least it wasn't so damned obvious. Had she noticed? He wasn't sure. She reappeared a moment later sporting a large tray and a pensive smile. "I think the bellboy had some ideas about what's going on in here." He quickly cleared everything off the dresser. "What ideas would those be?" he asked with studied innocence. She snorted softly but said nothing, merely brushed past him and set the tray down. Travel clock, leather wallet with his credentials, holster and Sig .... the trappings of a very adult life all disappeared into the top drawer. For the moment, they no longer existed. He lifted the cover off the little plate with a flourish. "Voila. See? No burgers. No fries." She flashed him a grin complete with dimples. "You and your sweet tooth." He bent just enough to touch his lips to her cheek. "Soul food, Scully. I don't want to hear one word about fat grams or calories or how many crunches it's gonna take to unload these things, either. Some things are worth it." He held up one of the cookies. "After you." Smiling, she took a cautious bite. "Mm. Soft." He proffered one of the brimming glasses. "Now some of this." She remembered the last time he'd fed her. It hadn't been a game then. The headaches from the tumor had all but killed her appetite, and then with the IV in her right arm - all the veins in her left arm had been exhausted by then - well, cutlery was simply more than she could handle. He wasn't looking much better than she was in those days, what with the dark circles under his eyes that looked more like bruises, and a dreadful pallor that had less to do with a lack of sunlight than with the fact that he never seemed to sleep. Without fanfare, without asking permission, without so much as a spoken word, he'd taken the fork away and, bit by bit, helped her to eat. "Hey." A finger touched her chin, drawing her back to the reality of cold milk and a warm, bare chest staring her in the face. "Where'd you go?" She blinked away the dark memories. "Sorry. Just thinking." A large hunk of cookie disappeared into his mouth, and she found herself smiling again. "Do you bother to chew at all, or are you swallowing them whole? I'm just curious - I hadn't planned on practicing the Heimlich tonight." He sat on the edge of the bed with a grunt. "'Course I chew," he mumbled around a mouthful. "You're falling behind. C'mon, eat up." She took another bite as she sat down beside him, and scowled when he reached for the plate again. "Is this a race or something? Give that to me if you're going to hog them all -" He quickly set the plate beyond her reach. "I can't help it if you're a slow eater." "Yeah, well, if I had a mouth the size of yours, I'd probably be on my fourth cookie, too." He mimed a laugh. "Hardy har. Hand me the surf board, would you? I'm tired of Letterman." She scooped up the remote and flipped channels with her free hand. Commercial. Infomercial. Music channel. Country channel. She sighed impatiently. "You know, there's one thing I hate about all the traveling we do." He was eyeing the screen intently. "*One* thing? Wait, go back. That looked good." She ignored him and kept flipping. "I can never find the stations I watch at home. Where's CNN? Where's the History channel? Look at this .... crap. Crap. Crap." Impatient now, he snatched the remote away from her. "Jeez, you're not doing it right." She made a fast grab for it and missed. "What do you mean, I'm not doing it right? How difficult is it to change channels? Give it back, Mulder." He glanced at her, a playful gleam in his eye. "Ooo, want a little cheese with that whine? Wait, just wait, I saw ...." She feigned an irritated scowl as she nibbled at her cookie. "What, Attack of the Killer Tomatoes? Godzilla? C'mon, I don't want to see a monster with a zipper running down his back. At least find something good." She tried again for the remote and succeeded only in wrapping herself around his outstretched arm. He shrugged her away, but the effort was clearly half-hearted. He was enjoying this, the bastard. Oh, he was *so* dead. He thought she'd whined before? "There." He grunted in satisfaction and dropped the remote in his lap. No way she'd try for it there, right? "C'mon, Scully, tell me this isn't one of your favorites." She stared at the screen, expressionless. "This isn't one of my favorites," she replied, deadpan. He gave a soft snort. "Then how did it happen to get in your VCR?" She looked at him coolly. "Excuse me?" He shrugged. "You were changing. I was waiting. I was curious, so I checked out the title in the VCR. Sue me." She shifted a little and drew one leg up under her. The maneuver brought her closer to him. Considerably closer. He could smell the chocolate on her breath .... Damn, why couldn't he keep his eyes off the gap in the neckline of her pajamas? What were they made of, anyway? He liked them. "Uh huh," she was saying. There was a definite lilt in her voice. "Anything else you just happened to check out when I wasn't looking?" Silk. Yeah, maybe silk. Man, it was soft. And so blue that it almost hurt his eyes. Only that wasn't what she was talking about, was it? Something about checking out. Shit, if he didn't bring it up to speed, he'd be in real trouble. Was he in trouble? Her eyes were just as blue as her shirt, but they weren't nearly as soft. In fact, they were pretty damned hard. Only they weren't really. He'd seen her pissed plenty of times. This wasn't pissed. This was playful. Delight fluttered low in his belly. She was toying with him. God, how he loved it when she was in this mood. "I said," she half-growled, leaning closer until their noses were scant inches apart, "what the hell were you doing snooping around my apartment? And when?" It was difficult, but he quelled the impulse to kiss her. "Last week. The Lafferty case. Remember, the dog jumped up and got mud all over you? We stopped by your place on the way back to the office? Ring any bells?" She glanced at the television again. "And just because you happened to find a copy of Casablanca in my VCR, you assume it's one of my favorites?" He smiled without answering. "Did you ever notice how Claude Rains always has on black when he's with the Germans, but when he's chatting it up with Bogie, he's wearing white?" "Don't change the subject." "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Scully. You were watching an old romance movie." He leaned closer and whispered, "It's a guilty pleasure. Everyone does it. Didn't you know that?" An eyebrow quirked at him. "*Everyone* does? Might I ask, Mulder, just how you happen to know so much about what is arguably the best-known chick film ever made?" He shrugged as he tossed the remains of his cookie back on the plate. "I had a teacher in high school who talked about it all the time. She was a real film buff." He paused for a quick gulp of milk, then looked over her shoulder at the screen. "Did you know they had most of it filmed before the script was even finished?" She tipped her head to one side and looked at him contemplatively, trying to imagine what he'd been like at sixteen. Reed-thin, no doubt. Thin, yes, but muscular. Even then his eyes had been old. This she didn't have to ask .... she just knew. Geeky, gawky, his young body a bundle of planes and sharp angles and large, bony joints. Definitely a late-bloomer. What would she have thought of him back then? Probably not much. Melissa was the one with the eye for the boys, anyway. Little Dana had been more interested in science books. And now? Was she interested now? Oh, yeah. He was watching her with steady, inquisitive eyes. Smiling. A spot on his face, just below the corner of his mouth, caught her attention. Chocolate. Slowly she dabbed at it with her thumb, and succeeded only in smearing it. His face was prickly with stubble - evidently in the confusion of the day, he hadn't found time to shave. The smudge fascinated her. She could lick it off. He wouldn't stop her. Hell, he'd probably enjoy it. "So tell me," she murmured, her thumb playing over the blemish, her mind toying with possibilities, "have you ever thought of us like that?" He found himself hard-pressed to pull his eyes away from that luscious pout. Thank God he was already sitting. "Like what?" She leaned slowly forward and brushed a kiss along his jaw. Then her tongue slipped out and she licked him, slowly and deliberately, right at the corner of his mouth. He barely managed to restrain a startled grunt. *Again again again!* his nerves sang, delighted. Slowly she drew back and fixed a gaze on him. God, she smelled like sugar and chocolate and something even more delicious. Feminine, he decided. She smelled feminine. Her lips curved just a little as she looked at him. "You know exactly what I mean," she said very quietly. Man oh man, it was getting hard to think. He tried to swallow the knot forming in his throat. Did he dare tell her? *Could* he tell her? After all, it was a taboo subject. Seriously taboo. Oh, they could talk about work until they were both blue in the face, couldn't they? Facts and theories? Rates of decomposition? Were modern-day monsters born or made? Hell - would the Yankees make it to the Series next year .... no problem. None at all. But this? *Them?* In seven years, the closest they'd come to discussing anything personal was that day they'd argued about getting her a desk. No, he corrected himself - there were other times. There was that cool autumn morning in his apartment doorway. Words like *my constant* and *touchstone* .... those didn't have any place in the casefiles, did they? He found himself smiling again. What the hell. It wasn't like she didn't already know. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, wondering what he could do that might coax another lick from her. "Yeah," he said very softly. "Yeah, I have." The nuzzle became an open-mouthed caress. This time he couldn't contain a groan. He heard a gentle sound as she pressed her temple to his, and he knew beyond any doubt that she was smiling. His eyes refused to open. And his hands were doing .... things. One was sliding up her arm while the other was edging its way around her. "I've thought about it, too," he heard her whisper. Her fingers slipped delicately into his hair, stroking and petting. "I think about it a lot, actually. Is that a bad thing?" Bad? What could be bad about it? The only people who could possibly find a down-side to this were all back east, every damned one of them up-tight middle-aged men with paunches and more hair on their knuckles than their heads. What she was doing now .... touching him .... kissing him .... it was *not* bad. All he had to do was lean just a little bit and those wonderful breasts would be pressed right into his chest. God, he wanted to lean. He wanted it in the worst way. But should he? Should *they?* Was this the right time? It might be inevitable, their sleeping together, but this might also be the wrong night for it. After all, it had been a stressful week. They were both dead-tired. When it happened .... if it happened ..... he didn't want her wondering if they should have waited - or, worse, deciding the whole thing had been a mistake they should just put behind them. Somehow he managed to pull back. Not much .... just enough to find her eyes with his. *Are you sure?* A smile was her only response. *Yes.* Her arms were around him then, drawing him close. He kissed her. A long, slow play of lips and tongues. Hand on his neck, in his hair, stroking. "Scully, what are we doing?" It was barely a whisper, but he had to ask. Jesus, it was too good to be true, he *had* to ask. She didn't pull away at all, just held him closer and harder. "Do you want to stop?" Her hand gripped him by the back of his neck - he couldn't get away even if he tried. Yeah, like that would ever happen. "God, no." His voice was gone. Hands explored. Fingers tangled over buttons, pushing and tugging and freeing. And then she was over him, poised .... ..... reaching between them and grasping .... guiding .... ..... and he was inside her. Inside her. Hot and slick and tight, like his fist only infinitely better .... "Don't move," he breathed. So close, so close, Jesus, don't move .... Hands stroked his chest, slid down his arms and guided his hands up. Her breasts, with their tiny, hard nipples, fit neatly into his palms. God, they felt so good. He wanted to look at her, he wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything, but if he did then he might lose what control he had over himself and he didn't want to do that to either one of them .... ..... but he had to look .... couldn't *not* look at her .... She saw insanity in his eyes. He was staring up at her, eyes wide, his lips drawn back in a hard line. "Mulder," she whispered, beginning a slow rhythm of rise and fall. A whimper was his only response. His hands still framed her breasts, unmoving. She wanted him to fondle them. Maybe if he touched her just so, and if she could slip her hand down and .... no, it just didn't work like that for her. She needed him to be on top, and she couldn't ask him to move now, not when he was clearly dancing on the brink. He was huge inside her, and it was clear that even this slow dance wasn't going to last long. She laid her hands on his chest, stroking and then gently plucking at his flat nipples. This time the moan carried a distinct note of panic. Close indeed. "Mulder ...." she whispered again, "don't wait for me. It's all right. Just .... don't wait." What did she mean? He couldn't do that .... couldn't use her for his own jollies .... He gave his head a hard shake. "Can't," he grunted, biting his lip. Maybe if he didn't look at her, the urge to pump up into her would dissipate and he'd be able to breathe again. Only he couldn't look away .... What was she doing? Jesus God, what was she doing? As if that slow undulation wasn't enough to bear, now she was clenching around him, gripping him at the apex of that hideously slow stroke .... He grimaced as his hands dropped to her waist, some parts of him falling into a rhythm that was only too natural while other parts of him - the weaker parts - tried desperately to resist. "Don't ...." he managed to warn. Too little, too late .... His back arched as he succumbed, the explosion beginning with a tightening, a single wet spurt that quickly became a gush. Not fair not fair not fair, he wanted to scream, but he couldn't, he just pressed his head back into the pillow and groaned in defeat as his hips jerked again and again .... A low moan escaped him as his hands dropped away from her. He lay motionless beneath her, limbs akimbo, eyes closed. His heart was pounding - she could feel it shaking his whole body. After a long moment, she leaned forward and whispered his name. He smiled at once, a shy, chagrined smile that made her own heart give a little flip. Slowly, he turned and looked up at her through half-closed eyes. "I just want you to know .... I can do better." She smiled. "I'm glad to hear it." He let his eyes fall closed. "It's been so long, I couldn't .... God, I'm sorry." "Well, I'm not." She slumped forward and stretched out atop him, kissing and then worrying the side of his neck. One arm rose and closed around her, holding her tight. Her movements broke the seal between his body and hers, and she felt a disconcerting rush of liquid. No, she wanted him to stay there, right there, wanted his essence to find a home inside her. So what that she was barren? She clenched herself tight around him again. He flinched a little, then chuckled. "Keep that up and you're going to wake the dead, you realize that." She smiled against his throat. "Been there, done that," she replied dryly. "Not quite like this." Sighing, he rolled onto his side, taking her with him. She was looking at him, her eyes wide and soft and blue, like the ocean on a day when the wind was still. The warm, pungent smell of sex rose up around them, and he felt his balls tighten a little. Mmm, it may have ended too soon the first time, but he wasn't through yet. "Tell me something," he murmured. Her thumb was tracing the outline of his mouth. "Sure." He willed her to look at him, eye to eye. "What's all this *Don't wait* bullshit? A guy's supposed to wait, unless he's the kind of man he really isn't supposed to be. I don't want to be like that." She shrugged one shoulder. "It would have taken more time than you had. I wasn't looking for that to happen. It doesn't always. Spare me the stricken look, Mulder. It was enough to watch you. I'm not complaining, really." His hand played slowly up and down the length of her torso. Shoulder to hip .... shoulder to hip. "I'm sorry, Scully," he murmured. "That's just not acceptable." Oh, hell. Before she could raise a protest he was on the move, using lips and tongue and even his teeth, licking and kissing his way down her neck, over her collarbone to her breast. She caught at his hair as he latched onto a nipple. "Mulder, don't .... you don't .... oh ...." Heat shot through her, starting at his mouth and shooting down through her to the wet place between her legs. Sensation quickly replaced thought. To speak was impossible. He'd come inside her. Mulder had come inside her, thick white fluid that was inside her right now. The vault of her womb was full of him. Full of Mulder. Just the thought was provocative. A hand touched her gently, exploring her body as he suckled her breast, and she heard herself moan softly. She clutched at his hair, great double handfuls. One finger gently circled as two slid home .... circling .... suckling, and that slow, rhythmic penetration .... When had she forgotten to breathe? It rocketed up out of her, a spasm that arched her back off the mattress. Her legs splayed shamelessly as she quivered in time to the rhythm of that mouth, a silent cry swelling in her .... yes yes yes yes YES! And before the storm could fully die away, he was on her .... he was in her .... She gasped as he drove deep, carefully if not exactly gently, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, and yet he was already hard. How had that happened? And *when?* "Aaa .... yeah ...." Oh, that could not be her, it simply could not. Could it? Soft, gasping sighs and moans that were much too high to be her partner's .... Shit. Definitely her. He was kissing her cheek, her mouth, her ear and temple .... anything he could reach as he deliberately set about driving her insane. He was doing something with that ass of his, too .... it wasn't just the standard rhythm, he was circling and moving in her and above her, using that sparse hair on his chest to tease and tickle her breasts as he pumped into her. And when he wasn't kissing her, he was whispering barely audible words. "God, Scully .... so good, so damned good .... too quiet, let me hear you ...." And before she was aware of doing it, she'd taken his hips in her hands and was guiding him, indicating with sounds and movements what she wanted, how fast and how hard. Her legs were wound up with his and she was gripping him with her thighs and caressing his calves with her bare feet. She couldn't get enough. Heat was building in them and between them and the only remedy was more him, more pressure and more friction and speed. Her back arched, changing the angle of penetration, doubling the tension that was already caroming out of control. A line was running from her nipples and her breastbone to that little spot he was grinding so effectively .... she was being stretched and squeezed all at once .... pounded and pummeled and driven and crushed .... Lips grazed hers. She pressed herself into the touch, seeking contact with a strangely satisfying desperation. "Let me hear ...." he whispered again. "Let me hear ...." Huge he was huge the pressure was killing her but it was a good kind of death .... He was watching her, she could feel it, he was watching her just like she'd watched him .... Heat blossomed in her pelvis and her head and in her heart .... She arched again, this time lifting them both off the bed. She could hear herself keening very softly as she rode the wave, carried from peak to peak on the movemments of his hips. "Yes .... yes .... yes ...." His voice penetrated the haze, and she felt his mouth touch hers again. "Scully ...." Vaguely she registered the desperation in his tone. He was liquid velvet, his body and his mouth and his eyes and even his voice. The tide was leveling out, his rhythm still deep but long and slow now, he was gigantic inside her, huge and long and rigid and he simply couldn't get any bigger .... "Wha-at?" It was unreal, that she could be lost in her orgasm and still find breath for speaking. His eyes were clouded behind the dark fringe of his lashes. "I'm .... I'm gonna come." He spoke the words softly and clearly and matter-of-factly; and then his face contorted into a grimace that wasn't pain or anger or grief or any of a dozen emotions she'd witnessed down through the years, but was the sweet, pure refrain of ecstasy. A smile emerged as he made good his promise and she felt the warmth expand inside her once again, HIS warmth and HIS strength pouring out of his body and into hers through that proud conduit, spilling and filling and completing .... And then, with a quiet, "Fuck," he collapsed. He was heavy, too heavy to hold for long, but she didn't care. "M - M - Mul ...." she panted, delighted to realize she could feel his heartbeat, as he could no doubt feel hers, everywhere they touched. He raised his head and looked at her. She couldn't help but giggle. ".... correct me if I'm wrong," she said, a little breathless, "but I think we just did." He didn't have the energy to laugh. Slowly, laboriously, his penis stretching and elongating as her body released it - reluctantly, it seemed - he tipped himself to one side and spilled onto his back beside her. Don't worry, he silently promised that copper triangle - his new-found friend. I'm not finished with you yet. They were silent for a moment as they lay there, motionless but for their breathing. "Mmm." She sighed, rolling her head to the side, and looked up at him with languid eyes. He followed suit, and even found the energy to plant a kiss in the middle of her forehead. She was still smiling. "S' nice," she murmured. He was warm. And wonderfully sleepy. He smiled as he found her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Yeah. I think we might have stumbled across a cure for insomnia." She sighed and closed her eyes. "Hmm. Licensing might be difficult." Warm twitches were starting in his over-taxed muscles. "Yeah," he murmured, "but think how much fun the marketing's gonna be ...." His eyes closed. Sleep beckoned, warm and silken, but she found herself resisting. There was something she needed to do. It was a rare event that they had the chance to sleep late, and she certainly wasn't going to let an efficient member of the Housekeeping staff do anything to bother them. She squeezed the hand that still held hers. "I'll be right back." He jerked awake and looked at her, bleary-eyed and confused. "Whaddisit?" She held up a hand as she slipped out of bed. "Shh. I'll be right back." It only took a moment to hang the Do Not Disturb signs on their doors. Another minute to brush her teeth. She switched off the television on the way by. The bed was warm and smelled of him. She smiled as she slipped under the covers beside him. "You opened the window." His words were almost lost in a mumble. "Yeah, I want to hear the storm." With a soft sigh, he curled up around her and nestled his head on her pillow. "Tell me something," he murmured. His breath still smelled of chocolate. She smiled. "What is it?" He nuzzled her hair. "Why? Why here, why tonight?" It was a good question. A very good one. She considered her answer for a long time. Was it simply because they were far from home? Far from the system that told them they couldn't have the one thing they truly wanted - each other? Was it more than that? A natural culmination, something that had been developing for years, something that had drawn them together, her heart and his, through chaos and calamity, sorrow and loss? A force as irresistible as the gravity that held them earthbound? Extreme possibilities? Hardly. She sighed and stroked the warm, smooth arm that cradled her. "Mmm .... would you believe me, Mulder, if I said it was inevitable?" She heard him smile. "Yeah, I think I'd believe that." They slept. ~~~~~~~ End, Inevitable