At a Loss for Words (0/?) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

***Introduction***

        Hi!  I've never done this before.  Well, actually I've
never done *many* things, but what I'm referring to specifically
is:  1)  Write a separate introduction; and 2)  Post something
before it was completed.  I do have reasons however for finally
indulging my urge to do both.
        First off, I'm putting all my disclaimer/acknowledgment
stuff in a separate post simply in the interest of space.  My first
chapter was edging closer and closer to 30K and I know that's
the magical number for many people's servers.  So, seeing as I
am rarely a woman of few words (please God, no pun intended)
I thought I better make this a chapter of its own.
        Secondly, I'm posting this baby before it's finished as
a means to keep me on the straight and narrow.  This particular
story has gotten away from me.  I expected it to run four chapters.
I'm currently at six and a half, with at least two, most likely four
chapters still to come.  This wouldn't be all that big a deal,
except that I've made a promise to a cyber-pal that another story
would be done by the magical October 4th premiere date.  (I
swear to God, I'm trying, MD.)  So, I need to move this effort
along.  I figure what better way to do that than post what I
have of this one so that I feel =compelled= somehow to put the
pedal to the metal.
        Now, I realize this approach is not everyone's cup of
tea.  I myself, being the impatient sort,  try to stay away from
incomplete stories.  Although sometimes I *do* get sucked in.
(Mary Ann--am I everevereverever going to see the end of
"When a Tree Falls" or do you plan on torturing me and the
rest of your fans for the rest of our natural lives? <vbg>)  All
I can tell you is that I have six completed chapters.  I plan to
post them one a day, while in the meantime, writing like mad.
        I promise I'll do my best. :)
        Enough yakking.  Let's get down to business.
        This is a continuation of the "Words" series.  (If you'd
like to know what other stories fall under that banner, please
e-mail me for titles.  I would be happy to help you out.)  It is most
definitely NC-17 in nature, and therefore carries with it all the
appropriate warnings.  Having said that, I hasten to add that
the story isn't *all* sex.  <A stunned silence falls over the
newsgroup>  It also has embedded in it a case file of sorts,
some character reflection, Mulderangst, and a touch or two
of humor.
        The title comes courtesy of Adina Ringler, a lovely
woman who suggested it in jest only to have me glom on to it
immediately.  It's not the "Scully Revenge" story, Adina.  But
I think the title works for this piece just the same.
        This story is dedicated to the wondrous Nicole Perry,
writer of the amazing "Road" series, and one of my dearest
cyber pals.  She's been after me for the longest time to do one
of these relationship tales with a file included.  This is that
effort.  Nic, I hope you enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed
our friendship.  You're the best, Bert.
        Disclaimers?  You guys know!  These characters don't
belong to me (M & S that is).  They are the property of CC, 1013,
and Fox.  I'm merely having fun.  There are places in this tale that
actually exist.  I mean them no disrespect.  I added them simply
for authenticity and local color.  And rest assured, all of you, no
money is being made.  At least not by me.  Comments are appreciated
at the above address.  I may not be able to answer them immediately.
But I'll do my damnedest. Thanks for listening.  Onward to Chapter I.

At a Loss for Words  (1/?) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Please check the intro for all the pertinent disclaimer info.
Enjoy.  Comments appreciated at the above address.  Thanks.
************************************************
        Scully was late.
        Way late.
        Her plane had touched down over two hours before.
When it first appeared that she had been delayed, Mulder had
called the airline.  Had convinced the representative to check
the flight manifest.  And yet the perky young voice at the other
end of the telephone line had found nothing unusual to report.
His partner had boarded in Atlanta just as they had planned.
        So where the hell was she?
        God.  He should have known they would be unable to
carry this thing off.  Should have realized that their plan was a
pipe dream at best.  And yet, at the time, the undertaking had
seemed a reasonable enough risk.  They would leave
Washington on different planes, from two different airports,
both using assumed names.  Holding two sets of tickets apiece
to two different destinations, they would each make their
connections in Atlanta.  And from there, land in New Orleans,
Mulder several hours ahead of Scully.
        Well, he had arrived safely in the Crescent City.  Had
made it in without a hitch.
        And yet, he had no idea where she might be.
        That knowledge gnawing on his insides, he had earlier
attempted to contact her via her cell phone; but had only
succeeded in getting that annoying little recording informing
him that the cellular customer was unavailable.  He had then
thought to try paging her at New Orleans International Airport.
Yet, to do so would be akin to dropping a large neon arrow over
her head, thus shooting in the foot any hope of secrecy.  And
so, he had refrained, deciding instead to resort to that measure
only should the need prove dire enough.
        He glanced at his watch.  After eleven.
        Grimacing at the late hour, Mulder ran his hand through
his hair, and paced without purpose across the polished
hardwood floor at his feet.  Not even the sweet sensual scent
of jasmine wafting in through the room's open balcony doors
could distract him from the self-recriminations ringing in his head.
        He would never forgive himself.  Never.  Not if something
had happened to her on account of this.  On account of him.
        God.  It was all so unnecessary.  They would never even
have had to make this trek.  It was all his idea.  Like the majority
of their most harrowing misadventures.  They could be safe and
snug in D.C.  But, no.  He had to insist on their coming here.
Had to drag Scully into the midst of yet another fiasco.
        Perhaps he should just go ahead and make that call.
He could try having her paged under her assumed name rather
than her actual name.  It would still call attention to her, but
the misdirection might be enough to keep any interested parties
from getting overly suspicious.
        He crossed to the dresser and had just picked up his
cell phone from atop it when he heard the faint knock at the door.
        "Yes?"
        "Mulder?  It's me."
        Tossing the phone negligently so that it skittered across
the gleaming surface of the chest of drawers like a puck across
ice, he strode quickly to the door.  Taking a deep and what he
hoped would be calming breath, he pulled the portal open.
        And there stood his partner, as worry-free as could be.
Clad in a long flowing skirt, a lightweight cotton blouse with a
low rounded neckline and a pair of slip-on flats, she appeared
travel-weary, but completely unharmed.  She looked up at him,
one suitcase on a trolley at her feet, a lumpy tote bag hanging
from her shoulder.
        "Hi."
        "Where have you been?"
        Dana Scully raised a finely arched brow and considered
the man before her.  He stood in what she imagined must be the
remnants of one of his suits; the navy blue slacks, and matching
pinstriped shirt he wore contributing to that impression.  And yet,
his emotional state appeared to belie the apparent sophistication
of his dress.
        He seemed . . . well . . . frantic.
        His eyes peered at her a trifle wildly, a small frown of
annoyance, or possibly concern, running in a seam between
them.  His hair had obviously been most recently styled without
benefit of a comb.  And his posture was drawn so tightly that
she wondered if were she to run her finger across his back she
might actually coax from him a note of music.
        "I've been here," she replied dryly as she stepped into
the room, noting with appreciation its elegant layout and decor.
"It was my luggage that had trouble finding the place."
        "Excuse me?" Mulder asked with a frown as he reached
over and took her bag from her shoulder, then relieved her hand
of the suitcase she pulled behind her.
        "My luggage stayed in Atlanta when I changed planes
for New Orleans," she said with a wry smile as she closed the
door behind her.  "So, I thought I should hang out and wait for
it.  With all the precautions we took, it seemed silly to leave
an address behind for them to send the bags."
        Mulder turned from where he had settled her belongings,
his hands on his narrow hips, clearly not placated by her
explanation.  "Why didn't you call?"
        "I tried," she insisted, her hands outstretched towards
him.  "I've been calling on and off ever since I landed.  But the
number was always busy.  When I walked in just now, some girl
was on the phone downstairs with someone named Mark, and
she didn't sound happy.  I think she may be the culprit.  I got
the impression they had been at it awhile.  I just hope for the sake
of our hosts it's a local call."
        Her partner pursed his lips.  "You could have tried my
cell phone.  I tried reaching yours, but I couldn't get through."
        Scully shook her head at that, her expression amused.
"You brought your cell phone, Mulder?"
        His frown intensified; his eyes, by contrast, turned
faintly sheepish.  "Yeah.  Didn't you?"
        She slowly shook her head once more, her smile
broadening.  "No."  With that, she crossed to him, her eyes
twinkling at the disgruntled look he gave her, and said quietly,
"We're on vacation, remember?"
        His lips twisted.  "I know--"
        "I'll bet you brought your gun too, didn't you," she
asserted knowingly, her eyes alight with gentle humor.
        "Yes, but--"
        She sighed, the sound gusty and overdone, her smile
lingering still.  "Only you, Mulder, would lure a girl to the most
romantic city in the continental U.S., and then sleep with a .45
under your pillow."
        "Scully, we need to be careful," he reminded her
obstinately, his hands reaching out to grasp her arms tightly,
the set of his jaw belligerent.
        Her amusement lessened just a touch.  Mulder was right.
Despite the fact that they were thousands of miles away from their
enemies, they still had to watch themselves.  True, it appeared that
they had made their getaway with no one the wiser.  But, that sort
of thing could change at a moment's notice.  They had to remain
vigilant.  She knew that.  Accepted it as part of the bargain.  Part
of what went along with loving the man before her.
        The one who looked as if he had spent the better part
of the evening crawling the room's tastefully wallpapered walls
on her account.
        "I know," she told him softly, her hands resting lightly
now on his chest.  "I know we do.  And I'm sorry.  I'm sorry if
you were worried about me."
        He said nothing for a beat, and instead only looked at
her, his hazel eyes boring into her calm blue ones.  "And you're
all right?"
        "Yes, of course."
        "You're sure?" he asked yet again, his hands running up
and down her arms, smoothing along her skin.
        "Yes," she said a bit more emphatically, bemusement
creeping into her voice once more.  "I'm fine."
        "Well, I'm not," Mulder muttered as he brought his lips
to hers with a kind of barely controlled violence.  His mouth
crushed against hers, surprising her.  Blindly, she clung to his
arms for balance, while he kissed her as if he thought to mark
her in this way, stamp her as his own.
        "I think I've aged ten years in the last couple of hours,
Scully," he admitted ruefully, as his lips plundered her features,
pressing kisses on her mouth, her cheek, her brow; his aim erratic
at best.  "I know it's crazy . . . but I got it in my head that
something terrible had happened."
        "Nothing happened.  I'm fine.  I told you," she
whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as Mulder continued to
exorcise his demons by kissing her senseless.
        And a delightful form of exercise it was too.
        Well, it was official, Mulder thought wryly as he
reveled in the feel of Scully's soft skin beneath his mouth.
The tender bend of her jaw.  The lush fullness of her lips.  The
arrogant little arch of her nose.  He was insane.  Had finally
gone utterly and completely off the deep end.
        What the hell was wrong with him?
        After all, it wasn't as if he and Scully hadn't already
faced down stuff most people would only encounter in their
dreams.
        Strike that . . .
        Nightmares.
        For crying out loud, this woman had battled liver-eating
mutants, killer viruses, madmen with the power to literally climb
inside a person's mind.
        And yet the minute she was inexplicably out of his
sight for a couple of hours he fell apart like a house of cards in
a windstorm.
        Undone by the loss of a couple of suitcases.
        But, he had an excuse, he told himself as his mouth
made its way down the slim velvety line of her neck, her pleasure
vibrating against his lips as she hummed her enjoyment deep in
the back of her throat.  He had a reason for his sudden case of
the vapors where his partner's safety was concerned.
        Expectations.
        After all, in the midst of their daily routine, he steeled
himself for the worst.  Whether consciously or no, he recognized
that theirs was dangerous work.  They made their livelihood by
tracking down criminals, those who broke the law and, more often
than not, threatened lives.  So, he was ready for it.  Understood
that the status quo could at any time be altered.  That he might
at any moment be called upon to defend his life.
        And Scully's.
        But, tonight was different.  That evening he hadn't
been in his usual G-man mode.  He hadn't thought he would
need to be.  As the beautiful redhead in his arms had so
succinctly noted, they were on vacation.
        Christ.
        Who the hell went on vacation?
        Certainly not Spooky Mulder, the F.B.I.'s Most
Unwanted.
        And yet, to his never-ending delight, over the past
several months, the latter appellation had proven particularly
inappropriate.  Because as much as it was his nature to question
good fortune, even when it was staring him straight in the eye,
Special Agent Dr. Dana Scully had succeeded in convincing him
how very much she wanted him.
        Almost as much as he continually longed for her.
        And difficult as Fox Mulder found it to trust, he had
never doubted Scully.
        She said she loved him.  He believed her.
        And would do anything, absolutely anything, to make
certain that particular truth was in no way threatened.
        Unfortunately, nurturing a relationship wasn't as easy
for him as it was for the average guy in love.  It wasn't that Scully
was especially demanding or needy.  Not at all.  Lord knew she
put up with things that would have driven nearly any other
female on the planet to gnashing her teeth in vexation.
        But he was handcuffed by their predicament.  By the
roles they were forced to play in order to keep their professional
lives intact.
        God, it was hard.  Hard to pretend they were friends.
Good friends, certainly.  But nothing more.
        At times, he thought that one day he would finally just
snap and ravage her right there on his battered old desk.  Would
at long last shove all the papers, the files, the pens and pencils
to the floor with a sweep of his arm, and lay her there.  Her slim
body, soft and willing.  Her skirt sliding up her milky thigh.  Her
hair spread over the desktop like a rippling river of red.  Her eyes
watching him, smoky and unfocused.  Waiting for him.
Welcoming him.  Into her arms, her body.
        But as much as he longed to, he didn't step over that line.
Not once.  Nor did she.  Instead, while in the J. Edgar Hoover
Building and in the field, they comported themselves like the
seasoned agents they were.  They kept their feelings for each
other under wraps.  No mean feat, that.  After all, they were
alone together all the time.  All the time.  And yet, they always
managed to keep their conduct within proper Bureau standards.
When they worked together, they were the consummate
professionals.  Efficient, focused, thorough.  They each loved
their jobs, recognized the value of what they did.  The truths
they strove to uncover.  And, more importantly, they each
understood that any changes in behavior on their part, any
alterations from the established rhythms of their lives would be
noted.  They weren't certain by whom, or even why such
actions should really matter.  But they knew their lives were
constantly under scrutiny.
        And so they controlled themselves.
        And their urges.
        They had to.  One slip, and they revealed themselves.
        And that was an open invitation for heartache.
        So, they lived their love in the shadows.  Stole moments.
Interludes.  A lazy Saturday afternoon lounging in Scully's bed.  A
heated grappling in front of the TV on his living room floor.  The
sex was shattering.  It always had been.  The intimacy positively
devastating in its power, its tenderness.  But the other things, the
things most couples took for granted, were sorely lacking.  The
freedom to enjoy each other in the open.
        At first, the clandestine aspects of their relationship had
held a certain glamour, danger not being without allure.  But, they
had been living in such a manner for months.  And it was only a
matter of time before the issue came to a head.
        And that had occurred a little over three weeks ago.
        Scully had been trying to coax him to dinner and a movie.
        "Come on, Mulder," she had cajoled winningly.  "It's just
a movie.  Maybe a pizza beforehand.  We can get away with that.
I mean--it's not as if we've never done it before."
        But Mulder had shaken his head, his brow furrowed.
"Scully, we can't.  We shouldn't.  We were together on Tuesday
night.  Twice in one week is going to make them suspicious."
        She had pursed her lips a moment before her eyes had
slid from his sadly, her shoulders slumped.  "This is insane,
Mulder.  You know, I think I saw more of you before . . . before
this--us--than I do now."
        He couldn't have agreed more.  And yet, caution had
prevailed.  For that night anyway.  But, Scully's dissatisfaction
with the arrangement, with their lack of contact, had sparked
something in him.  And unwilling to let that dissatisfaction grow
into anything more unwieldy, he had set about to remedy the
situation.  A kind of fugitive long weekend in the Big Easy had
seemed the perfect solution.
        "So what do you think of the place?" Mulder asked as
his lips slid beneath a fall of her auburn hair to nip and lick at her
ear.
        She chuckled low, his teeth and tongue tickling her in
more ways than one.  "I haven't seen much of it yet, Mulder.
You keep . . . bothering me."
        He smiled against her skin, his hands running urgently
up and down her slender frame, sliding over the silky sweep of
her skirt.  "I *bother* you?"
        "Mmm," she purred in the affirmative, a smile still
teasing her lips.  "Constantly."
        Somehow he liked the idea of getting under the oh-so-
serious Agent Scully's skin.  And, on a whim, decided to prove
to her just how truly bothersome he could be.  Backing her
against the nearest wall, he caged her there with his hands
planted high, near her head, and pressed his hips against her.
Rocked against her.  Circled.  Until they both groaned, and her
small hands tightened on his buttocks in reaction, holding him
to her possessively.
        "Funny.  You seem to have the same effect on me," he
whispered hoarsely as she kneaded him through his trousers.
        She laughed once more, the sound throaty.  Her eyes
shut.  Her head tipped back slightly.  "Hmm.  And what do you
suppose we ought to do about that?"
        He nibbled down her neck, nuzzling her pale soft skin
with his lips, the bridge of his nose.  Grabbing hold of her skirt
and slip, he pulled the fabric slowly yet steadily up until his
fingertips were able to brush lightly against the outside of her
thigh, just above the knee.
        "You aren't wearing any stockings," he murmured with
a touch of surprise, his eyes staring heatedly down into hers.
With the realization, his groin hardened just another degree.
        In answer, she smiled that wicked little smile she
seemed to reserve only for him.
        Thank God.
        "No need," she breathed softly, her lips pressing gently
against his chin, his jaw.  "The skirt is long.  And besides, I
wanted to be comfortable.  And everyone knows how muggy
New Orleans can get this time of year."
        He slowly shook his head, his hand gliding with the
faintest of pressures up and down her thigh, a rather sensual
smile of his own shaping his lips.
        "Not muggy," he corrected quietly, a playful light
twinkling in his eyes.  "If tonight is anything to judge by, I'd
say instead that this place is . . . hot."
        "Humid," she countered in a husky voice, her arms
coming up to drape themselves around his neck.
        "Sultry," he whispered just before his mouth closed
over hers, his lips moving, rubbing slowly against her tender
mouth.
        Scully took a deep, shuddering breath as if to steady
herself when their lips parted a few moments later, and gazed
up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded.
        "Sultry?" she asked, the single word the very
personification of its meaning.
        Mulder looked down at the woman he loved standing
before him.  Her breasts teasing his chest with every breath she
took.  Her lips swollen and rosy from his kisses.  Her color high.
        "=Definitely= sultry," he assured her, as his hand
slipped up even higher beneath her skirt, grabbed hold of her
panties and pulled them down, his other hand delving beneath
her clothing as well to assist with the effort.
        Scully's breath caught.  Her eyes dipped demurely even
as the subtle curve of her lips told Mulder his action in no way
shocked her.  Silently, she stepped out of the silky bit of lingerie
and kicked it away.  His hands now ranged free under the cover
of her skirt and its slip, gliding over her hips, reaching around to
squeeze the smooth roundness of her bottom.
        Shivering slightly, her lids drooped again for a moment,
camouflaging her expression.  Then, moving with a sudden
urgency, she leaned forward on tiptoe and pressed her mouth
to the shallow indentation at the base of his throat, her tongue
slipping out to lap and tease.  Mulder moaned, rough and ragged,
his hands tightening in reaction around her hips.  Scully gasped.
Then, her fingers found his belt and deftly undid the strip of leather.
The zipper on his pants was soon to follow.  Within moments, her
gentle hands cupped him through his boxers.
        This time, his moan sounded desperate.  As if pain, not
pleasure, had prompted it.  Scully smiled, and continued her own
particular brand of torture.
        For a short while they were content with merely
fondling each other.  Each of them allowing their hands to run
over the other, stealing softly over the most sensitive portions of
their partner's anatomy.  The places that most yearned for that
contact, that caress.  Their touches were gentle.  Slow.  A marked
contrast to the reckless sort of neediness that had instigated the
encounter in the first place.
        And yet, that wasn't to say that their ardor had cooled.
        God, no.
        The fire between them built steadily.  The flames
inching higher and higher.  Until the passion that always
smoldered between them ignited into a full-fledged conflagration.
        Mulder stood it as long as he could.  After all, Scully's
hands felt so damned good against him.  Once she had found him,
she stroked him unceasingly.  Her fingers had glided down the
length of him and up again.  At first, just the back of her index
finger as it ran in a leisurely tease along him.  Then, gradually
more pressure, more speed was added as she gripped him
tightly through the fabric.  Until he knew he had to have more.
        Now.
        Gasping for control, he pushed his fingers into her, the
movement so sudden, so forceful, that her body thudded against
the wall as he slipped inside.  Mortified that he might have in
some way frightened or hurt her, Mulder anxiously sought Scully's
eyes, words of apology ready on his lips.
        Only to find they weren't at all necessary.  His partner
watched him languidly from where her head rested against the
wall, her lips parted and moist.  She smiled with reassurance.
        And then freed him from his boxers.
        Lord.  She loved the hot heavy weight of him in her hand,
his skin so soft, so responsive to her lightest caress.  She smoothed
her thumb in a circle over the tip of him.  His voice broke on a sob
of pleasure while his hand slid more deeply inside her as if in answer.
Until he cupped her, the heel of his hand pressing against her mons,
nudging her there.
        She whimpered high and helpless.
        Their eyes met.
        Their hands continued to softly move.
        "Do you trust me, Scully?" Mulder asked hoarsely, his
skin glistening now with sweat, the hand that had earlier rustled
free from beneath her skirt coming up to rest against her cheek.
        A glint of humor in her eyes, she nodded.
        He nodded back, pleased by her lack of hesitation.
And smiling a taut, almost pained looking smile, he gently
pulled his other hand from her.  Scully gasped with the withdrawal,
missing him immediately.  Then, before she could mourn the
loss too dearly, he slipped both his hands beneath her clothing
once more to cup her buttocks, and lifted her, bracing her against
the wall as he did so.  Startled, she let go of the long quivering
length of him, clutching at his shoulders instead.
        "Wrap your legs around me," he instructed in a
vaguely strained voice, the recklessness in his eyes beckoning
to her like a dare.  As her feet had been dangling against the
back of his thighs already, it took no more than a simple
adjustment on her part to do as he requested.  Once she had,
she could feel him intimately nestled in the vee of her legs, hard
and needy, as Mulder cradled her carefully to him.
        Without question, the man before her was aware of their
closeness as well.  And he groaned deeply, desperately, when
she molded herself to him, her head on his shoulder, her legs
locked around his waist.  Scully responded by kissing him, her
tongue tracing the shape of his mouth before sweeping inside it.
He welcomed her, his own tongue dancing against hers, stroking
along it, exploring her sweet mouth as completely as she did his.
        Her arousal racing through her veins like water down
a chute, Scully rocked her hips against his.  Arched her back.
Rubbed her breasts over him, dragging her nipples restlessly
across his chest, teasing them both unmercifully.  Mulder
staggered.
        "Hold on. . . .  Hold on," he panted beseechingly, a rueful
chuckle rumbling deep inside him.  "Just wait.  Wait just a minute."
And struggling for balance and restraint, he lifted the woman in
his arms ever so slightly before bringing her carefully down once
more.
        To sit tightly atop him.  Hot and wet.
        Gasping, Mulder leaned his head against the wall,
right beside hers, frantically seeking a modicum of control before
continuing.
        "Are you all right?" he whispered, his voice pulled tight,
like a catapult at the instant before release.
        Scully's words flowed over his senses with the
smoothness of decades old scotch.  Making him lightheaded.
Drunk with the moment.  With her.  "Hmm. . . .  You feel
wonderful. . . .  But, you fall, Mulder, and so help me God, I'll kill
you."
        Her slender arms were twined around his neck, her lips
pressed fervidly against his throat, just beneath his ear.  Her
thighs clung to him, trembling slightly with the effort, circling his
body.
        Mulder clasped his hands firmly around Scully's waist.
        Raised her.
        Then, let her slide slowly down him once more.
        The whole thing felt so positively amazing that he just
=had= to do it again.
        And again.
        Until he was surging into her relentlessly.  Her back
skidding against the wall with the force of his thrust, his rhythm.
His legs aching with the motion as he struggled to remain upright.
        Seeing as he didn't want to alarm the woman riding
him so trustfully, Mulder decided to refrain from mentioning
that he had never attempted anything like this before.  It wasn't
that he lacked invention as a lover, or feared trying something a
bit different.  On the contrary--he liked to consider himself a
reasonably daring guy.  On the other hand, he wasn't the
brawniest man in the world, and logistically this sort of thing
just plain didn't figure to work all that well with someone near
his own height.  Like so many of the women he had dated in the
past.
        But Scully was slim enough and small enough to make
the whole thing possible.  If not plausible.  And so, inspiration
had struck.  He had figured, what the hell?
        They were on vacation.
        Lips curving at just how giddy that notion was tempting
to make him, Mulder allowed his concentration to wander just a
touch.  Disaster threatened, and he wobbled slightly.
        Scully shrieked with a combination of laughter and alarm.
        "Oh great," Mulder murmured, his lips near her ear, humor
underlying his words.  "Here I am trying to move you to new
heights of passion, and all I get for my effort is a fit of the
giggles."
        "No . . .  No," Scully assured him breathlessly, her eyes
shimmering with heat, her mouth curled in a smile.  "I'm not
laughing . . . laughing at you."
        As if to punctuate that statement, Scully dug her heels in
with vigor to the small of his back, bringing her slamming down
against him.  While she succeeded in wringing a moan from his
mouth and a sigh from her own, her enthusiasm once again threw
off their precarious equilibrium.  They tottered, the pants riding
low on Mulder's hips not helping the enterprise one bit.
        A peal of feminine laughter poured forth once more.
        "You =are=, Scully," Mulder challenged, smiling now
himself, his breath uneven, rapid.  Yet even as they bantered
playfully, his hips kept on pumping, continuing to urge both
of them closer to that place where such things as gravity,
balance, and hardwood floors were beyond irrelevant.  "You
*are* laughing at me."
        "Not at you.  At us," she whispered with a smile and a
sigh, her teeth catching on her lip, her fingers winding through
his hair.
        "Doesn't matter," he told her, stopping all at once.  Then,
leaning his head against the wall as if for strength, he paused there
a moment, gathering himself.  Finally, he pulled back and gave
the woman he held a long, slow, deep kiss.  She whimpered when
their lips finally parted.
        "I can't have you laughing when I make love to you,
Scully," Mulder said softly, the light in his eyes telling her he was
in no way serious with his declaration.  "It's murder on a guy's ego."
        Her smile broadened.  Her gaze turned mischievous.
Pulling one hand away from where it clung to the back of his neck,
she trailed her index finger down the center of his face.  From his
forehead, down the bridge of his nose to his mouth.  Lightly,
she rubbed it against the curve of his lower lip.
        "Well then, Mulder," she murmured with a killer arch
of her brow.  "I guess it's up to you to stop me."
        Growling with a mixture of amusement and arousal,
Mulder dipped his head slightly, and captured Scully's finger with
his mouth, his tongue; then sucked on it.  Watching her with pure
challenge shining in his eyes, he waited until he saw her eyelids
flutter in surrender before he released her finger and pushed
away from the wall, weaving in the general direction of the room's
generously sized brass bed.
        Oh please God, keep me from breaking both our necks,
Mulder silently implored with the fervor of the converted as he
tripped first on a shoe that had slipped free from Scully's foot not
long after they had begun, then on the tangled wad of her panties.
        Somehow, he managed to find his way to the side of the
bed, life and limb intact.  Taking care to keep their bodies joined,
he eased Scully down with as much gentleness as he could muster,
then braced himself above her with his hands pressing against the
mattress, his feet planted firmly on the floor.  Beneath him, his
partner looked up, eyes cloudy with passion.  Waiting for him.
        Just like in his office fantasy.
        "Let me know if you have the urge to laugh," he said in a
low, rough voice.
        And pushed his hips forward.  Pressing her down into the
soft bedding.  Pressing himself into the impossibly soft, heated
depths of her body.
        "Don't think that will be a problem," Scully groaned, her
legs tightening around him once more.
        And strangely enough, it wasn't.
*************************************************
        While in a corner of the room, unseen, unsensed, a
presence watched.
        And considered.
*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *
Continued in Part II




Subject:        "At a Loss For Words" (2/?) NC-17 by K. Rasch
From:   krasch@delphi.com
Date:   Mon, 26 Aug 96 20:36:51 -0500

At a Loss for Words  (2/?) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Disclaimers/Credits can be found in the intro.  This is merely story.
Feedback is, as always, appreciated.  Thanks.
*************************************************

        Dana Scully slowly awoke when she felt the mattress
dip beside her.  Scooting up a tad against the headboard and
stretching sinuously, she captured a yawn with the back of her
hand as she prepared to rouse.
        "Keep your eyes closed."
        She smiled upon hearing the low murmured words from
a voice that not only was well known to her, but much beloved.
With a small nod, she readily complied.
        "Open your mouth."
        Lying back against the piled pillows, she lifted her brows
with a blend of amusement and curiosity, and once again did as
she was told.
        And was rewarded.
        Something warm, sweet, and heavenly-smelling was
pressed to her lips.  She took a bite, and whatever it was she was
eating crumbled.  Giggling, she felt a light dusting of what she
assumed to be powdered sugar settle in the corner of her mouth,
then flutter down to dot her chin.  Seemingly discontent to remain
solely on her face, a few more adventuresome granules drifted
south to land on the slope of her breast where it rose above the
bedclothes she had draped across her in some inborn attempt at
modesty.  Although why she bothered, she couldn't say.  After
all, she might be naked beneath the cool cotton sheet, but it wasn't
as if Mulder wasn't already familiar with her body.
        Intimately familiar with it.
        "Ooh.  Hold still, Scully," instructed his voice as it, and
he, moved closer to her.  He placed his hands over her wrists
where her arms lay on the pillows, bent at the elbow so that her
hands rested palm up near her head, and carefully restrained her
there as he bent his head.  Delicately, like a cat lapping cream,
he pressed his mouth to the corner of hers and with his tongue
swept away the sweet residue the still unidentified treat had left
behind, then repeated the action against the curve of her chin.
Her partner was nothing if not thorough.  He took his time with
it.  Licking gently around her mouth, sucking softly on her jawbone.
        Scully's hips began to move slowly, slightly, against the
mattress; unable, as always, to fight the arousal this man could
induce merely by being in the same room with her, let alone
sitting on the same bed, his tongue exploring her face.
Keeping her eyes closed, she could feel the heat of his body as
it hovered over her.  Smell the freshly showered scent of his
skin, the tang of toothpaste on his breath.  And silently
grumbled that although Mulder might indeed find her
alluring lying there clad in nothing but her sparkling
personality, she wished that she too had been afforded the
opportunity to brush her teeth and run a comb through her
hair before indulging in this bit of closeness.
        "Hmm, what's this?" he queried in a light, teasing
voice when it appeared that he had at long last relieved her
face of all the stubborn powdered sugar sprinkled there.  She
opened her eyes.  His warm hazel ones shone down into hers
with boundless affection.  God, he looked good.  His jawline
newly shaven.  His hair a trifle mussed, falling down over his
forehead in a manner he didn't allow when on the job.  He smiled
at her.  It was a good morning sort of smile.  One of greeting.
And longing.
        He kissed her softly.  Then, let his eyes wander away
from hers to focus just below her shoulders.  Where he spied
still more powdery white stuff.
        "Don't move."
        Still holding her securely, he lowered his head to the
ivory expanse of her chest.  Mouth open against her skin, he
pressed his lips to her, his tongue slipping out from between
them to sweep across her, over her, warm and wet.
        "Hmm," she moaned, her eyes sliding shut once more,
her back arching just a touch, pressing her breasts against the
thin cloth hiding them from view.
        Mulder kept at it for a good long while, his hair tickling
her nose, her chin, as he bent over her, intent on stealing away
every last bit of sweetness to be found on her upper torso.
        "Mulder," she murmured as his mouth roamed her chest,
setting her afire.
        He pulled back to look at her, a similar flame echoing in
his own eyes.
        "You always destroy my best intentions," he told her
with a rueful smile.
        "What do you mean?"
        He kissed her brow, the corner of her eye.  "I had
thought to actually let you out of bed today."
        "Who told you to be so noble?" she asked him
with mock indignation as she stretched up to nibble on his chin.
        He chuckled, the sound little more than a rumble in his
chest.  Then, he covered her mouth with his own, and tenderly
lavished it with attention.  For a time, the only sound in the room
was the gentle whir of the ceiling fan overhead and the moist
whisper of their lips moving against each other.
        Finally, they came up for air, each gasping for it
greedily.  Their eyes clung, then Mulder's gaze tore away,
dropping instead to run the length of her body.
        Scully fought the urge to curl her toes with the intensity
of the look.  The way he had of claiming her in that way.  Of
silently calling to her from some little understood yet deeply
persuasive part of him.  Reminding her without words that she
belonged to him, and he to her.
        As if she would have it any other way.
        She returned his regard, noting with satisfaction that
Mulder seemed as swept away by their little early morning
tete-a-tete as she.  His chest rose and fell raggedly.  Rapidly.
And his cheeks were flushed.  As if he ran a fever.
        And perhaps he did.
        "I love you," he told her quietly, one hand
releasing a wrist to cup her cheek.
        "I love you too," she assured him as his thumb
smoothed over the satiny rise of her cheekbone.
        His lips opened.  Then, shut with a sigh.  As if he
thought to say more, but language proved inadequate to what
he felt he needed to express.  She understood.  Words had
never come easily for her either.  Luckily, that had never seemed
to matter with the two of them.  Some of their very best
communication had come without benefit of speech.
        Finally, he merely whispered, "Dana. . . ."
        And closed his lips over the tender tip of one breast.
        She cried out with it.  With the feel of his mouth tugging
on her through the sheet.  Suckling her.  Playing over her with
his teeth, his tongue.  Until she was ready to commit murder to
have that troublesome bit of bedding pulled away so she could
experience the hot moist sensation of his mouth on her skin
without encumbrance.  But his hands were holding her captive
once more.  And he made her wait for it.
        "Come back to bed, Mulder," she implored, her hips
twisting restlessly now, craving what the man beside her
promised with his caresses.  "New Orleans will still be there
when we're finished."
        Mulder raised his head once more, reluctantly
relinquishing her nipple as he did so.  His eyes searched her
face, a great deal more than sensual desire revealed with the
gaze.  "I don't think I'll ever be finished with you," he admitted
softly.  "Sometimes I doubt that there are enough minutes in
one lifetime for us."
        Scully feared for one horrified instant that she just might
burst into tears.  Good grief!  Here she had been musing over how
expressive Mulder could be at times without words, and then he
had to go and say something like that!
        "Then let's not waste a moment," she suggested in a
husky voice once she figured out a way to speak around the
lump in her throat.  "I want you, Mulder.  Right here.  Right now."
        He looked at her for a beat longer before nodding, then
sat up and pulled his shirt over his head.  Scully reached out and
ran her fingertips over his chest, stopping to trace the chain on
which dangled the cross she had given him.  He closed his eyes
for the span of a breath, seemingly giving in to her touch before
standing a bit unsteadily, and toeing off his shoes.
        "You've got me, Scully," he murmured as he swiftly undid
his jeans and, with his boxers, shoved them to the floor.  "Anytime.
Anywhere."
        "Now," she urged with slumberous eyes and a warm
sensual smile.
        He chuckled, bending down to skim his knuckles over the
curve of her jaw.  "Some people are so *demanding*."
        Shrugging without concern over his playful observation,
she then lay still once more as Mulder slowly drew the sheet down
and away from her body, revealing her slender form with heated
anticipation glittering in his eyes.
        "Looks like you've got a few demands of your own,
Agent Mulder," she noted dryly, her eyes glancing at the part
of his body that bobbed before him, betraying his interest.
        He smiled wryly at her quip and crawled carefully onto
the bed, lowering himself over her to rest in the cradle of her hips.
"What if I do?  Think you can keep up with me, Scully?"
        "Just try losing me," she challenged an instant before
kissing him.
        "Now why the hell would I want to do that?" he asked
with a growl as their lips met yet again.
        And a Friday morning in New Orleans slipped away.
************************************************
        Hours later, the two agents reclined in each other's arms
against a mound of pillows, happily munching on the now cooled
baked goods Mulder had brought back to the room just after dawn.
        "So these are beignets, huh?" Scully queried, licking her
fingers clean.  She and Mulder had discovered that if they each
broke off pieces of the pastries from inside the white paper bag in
which they had arrived, they had a better chance of actually
getting the treat to their lips without a thorough dusting of
powdered sugar raining down upon them both.
        Not that she had any complaints about the last time that
had occurred.
        "Mm-hmm," Mulder murmured around a mouthful of
beignet.  "From Cafe du Monde, no less."
        "Cafe du Monde?"
        "It's been around for over 100 years.  Our hosts
recommended it to me when I arrived."
        "Bill?  Tall guy, glasses, receding hairline?"
        He nodded.  "Yeah, that's him.  Apparently, when he's
not playing innkeeper he's a professor at Tulane.  And his wife,
Laura.  She's an artist."
        Scully shook her head.  "I didn't meet her.  But Bill let
me in last night.  He seems like a nice man."
        "He is," Mulder agreed, popping another bite of pastry
into his mouth.  "They both are.  Nice, that is.  We chatted a bit
when I first got here.  I wonder what makes your average college
professor want to run a place like 'La Maison de la Lune Argentine'."
        She smiled at the way the words tripped a tad awkwardly
off his tongue.  "Okay.  Spanish was always my foreign language
of choice, so help me out here."
        "The House of the Silver Moon," he translated with a
smile of his own.  "Didn't you notice the crescent on the front
door?"
        She nodded.  She had seen the decorative little slip of
a moon when she had arrived the night before.  "What's the
significance of the name?"
        Mulder shrugged.  "Don't know.  Guess we'll have to
ask Bill and Laura."  He nuzzled the tender skin beneath her ear
with his lips as he tightened his arms around her.  "If and when
we ever get out of this bed."
        She chuckled and tilted up her chin to grant him better
access.  "So how did you ever stumble across this place?"
        He stopped his investigation into whether her throat
could possibly be as soft as he remembered, and eyed her with
what he was certain Scully would be forced to label a distinctly
uneasy look.  "I read about it in the Post."
        She arched a brow.  "In the Post?  You never struck me
as a reader of the Travel section, Mulder."
        His lips twisted.  "I didn't find it in the Travel section,
Scully."
        "Where then?"
        "In Features."
        "Features?  How come?"
        He hesitated a moment, then murmured, "I was reading
a piece about haunted houses."
        Scully lifted her head from where it lay nestled in the
crook of his shoulder and stared at the man before her,
incredulous.  "=Tell me= you're joking."
        He slowly shook his head, a mixture of humor and chagrin
shining in his eyes.
        Of course, she mused wryly.  Why should she find this
revelation surprising?
        "So this is a 'busman's holiday' then, Mulder?" she asked
with a dry smile.
        "What?"  he countered innocently. "You don't like it here?"
        On the contrary, she thought fondly.  She loved it.
Who wouldn't?  La Lune Argentine was romantic in the extreme.
The inn itself was an attractive brick establishment covered with
ivy and accented with wrought iron railings and embellishments.
To compound its allure, the place was tucked away on one of the
French Quarter's more picturesque streets, its neighboring buildings
similar in architecture and Old World charm.  She didn't yet have
a feel for how big the inn was, having arrived too late the night
before for a proper investigation of its layout.  But she did know
from peering out their balcony window that the structure contained
at its center a flagstone courtyard complete with a small stone
fountain, and shaded by abundant magnolia and orange trees.
        And their room itself . . . .  It was exquisite.  Done up in
what she assumed was an attempt at recapturing the opulence of
the mid-nineteenth century, its cherry wood antiques echoed
beautifully the warmth of the chamber's burgundy, mauve, and
green wallpaper, and matching bedding.  If she chose to forget the
plane that had brought her south the night before, Scully could
almost convince herself while luxuriating in their lodgings that
she and Mulder had indeed taken a step back in time.  The
room had no television, no mini-bar.  Just wood, and porcelain,
and brass, and fabric, and glass.
        And a ceiling fan.  Thank God.
        She stared into the eyes of the man holding her.  He
seemed a wee bit anxious that she not be miffed over what had
drawn him to La Lune Argentine in the first place.
        "You done good, Mulder," she told him with a soft
kiss on his cheek.  "It's beautiful."
        Something in his eyes eased, and he nodded at her,
his lips curled in a smile.
        "So tell me about the ghost," she urged as she settled
comfortably against his chest once more and nibbled another bite
of beignet.
        "According to the story, she is a former owner of the
house," Mulder said softly as he smoothed his fingers over the
rumpled silk of her hair.  "A courtesan who was murdered by her
lover."
        "Hmm," Scully murmured as she chewed.  "That sounds
appropriately gruesome.  So what does she do?  Rattle her chains
or toss around breakables?"
        "Neither," Mulder assured her.  "She supposedly walks
the halls and cries.  The article said several of the house's previous
owners have heard her."
        "Poor ghost," Scully said with sympathy.
        "Spirits don't often have happy endings, Scully," Mulder
said reasonably from near her ear.  "That's what makes them spirits
to begin with."
        "Well then, if my life were to end this very minute I don't
imagine anyone would find me haunting them."
        "How's that?"
        She rolled over in his arms, and taking the bakery bag
from where it had rested atop his body, placed it instead on the
night stand beside the bed before pressing her lips to the
center of his chest.  "I'm entirely too content, Mulder," she
explained with shining eyes.  "Happy, actually.  Plain and simple."
        He regarded her silently for a time before saying in a low
gruff voice,  "I want to make you happy, Scully."
        "You do," she assured him softly.
        He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her with
every ounce of what he felt for her in the touch.  Every bit of
joy, every iota of thanks, every drop of reverence.  She
responded in kind.
        And it was well after 1:00 before they actually made it
out of the inn and on to the streets of New Orleans.
************************************************
        Scully discovered, with a touch of surprise, that she
enjoyed playing tourist with Mulder.  She hadn't known what
to expect, never having been in such a situation with her partner
before.  But, much to her delight, she and Mulder proved very
good at that sort of thing.  They both approached their
exploration of the city in the same manner, leaving themselves
open to wander freely.  To investigate a particularly interesting
street or promising shop should the spirit so move them.  They
kept no timetable, followed no map.  Instead, they simply walked
through the Quarter, alert for the unusual, attuned to the amusing.
        It went without saying that at least half of what made
the afternoon so entertaining was Mulder himself.  Lord!  He was
just like a little kid.  All boundless energy, and never-ending
curiosity.  Scully trailed after him at times, ferociously squelching
the urge to ruffle his hair fondly as one might an excitable boy
at the county fair.
        "Scully, this place is supposed to be the original 'House
of the Rising Sun'!" he urgently impressed upon her at one point.
        Her only comment was a murmured, "Why does it *not*
surprise me that you know that?"
        And . . .
        "Do you know they say that Jackson and Lafitte met in
this very bar to plot strategy for the Battle of New Orleans?"
        She, of course, felt it necessary to remind him, "Mulder,
there is no proof whatsoever that Jean Lafitte and Andrew
Jackson ever even *met*, let alone worked together during the
Battle of New Orleans."  He scowled at her lack of faith, but she
knew he had, in a way, expected it of her.  Given their relationship,
such observations were, after all, her job.
        She even let him drag her to the New Orleans Historic
Voodoo Museum.  And although the place brought back a
host of unwelcome memories regarding that frightening case in
North Carolina involving poor Chester and his fellow Haitian
refugees, she found she enjoyed the museum once she gave
herself the chance.  She doubted she would ever buy into the
whole idea of zombies and black magic, but from a purely scientific
standpoint, the religion was fascinating.  And browsing through
the assortment of powders, potions, and talismans she and
Mulder found so proudly displayed, she lost herself considering
the whys and wherefores of the herbal remedies in which voodoo
was grounded.  The beliefs that had been passed down through
generations of family practitioners and midwifes.  In fact, in the
end, it was Mulder who ended up hustling her out of the place,
and not vice-versa.  However, neither of them exited before leaving
behind an "offering" to Exu, the museum's resident spirit.  A
candy bar was suggested as an appropriate token of their esteem.
And so, Scully reluctantly gave up one of the sumptuous pralines
she had bought earlier that afternoon at a neighborhood
confectionery.
        "You're going to ruin your appetite, you know," Mulder
cautioned a while later as they strolled along one of the Quarter's
busy streets, Scully now nibbling on one of her precious pralines
herself.
        "You're just angling for a bite of my praline, Mulder,"
she retorted blithely, and then held out the sweet to her partner so
he could indeed sample it.  His hand closed over her wrist to
steady the offering, their eyes meeting over the brown sugar treat.
She flashed him a full-blown smile as his lips closed over the
candy.  Wide.  Guileless.  Her affection for him so plain in her
expression, so utterly and completely without limits or conditions,
that Mulder's heart did a back flip Mary Lou Retton would have
been proud to call her own.
        Without caring who the hell might see them, or what
the action might reveal to Scully or anyone else, Mulder slung
his arm around the shoulder of the auburn-haired woman beside
him and tucked her up against him as they resumed walking,
thinking to himself that he couldn't remember the last time he had
felt this good.
*************************************************
        "Get out of here, Mulder."
        "I think I'm hurt."
        "You will be if you don't get out of here and let me get
dressed."
        They had arrived back at their room a little over an hour
before, after a long, leisurely afternoon spent touring the French
Quarter.  He had just finished his shower and changed into a
pair of khakis and a simple white shirt when Scully had leaned
against the bathroom doorway clad in what Mulder almost
instantly determined to be perhaps *the* sexiest bit of silken
finery he had ever seen.  It was a robe.  Short.  Cinched at the
waist.  It's pattern, floral.  Tiger lilies, maybe, against a black
background.  He couldn't be sure.  He had never been any good
with flowers.  And anyway, what the damned thing looked like
was really beside the point, because what caught and held his
attention wasn't actually the lingerie at all.  But what it failed to
conceal.  Slim legs and shadowed cleavage.  Surprisingly deep
cleavage when one stopped to consider how petite the woman
before him was.
        And he, of all people, was definitely guilty of considering
Scully's physical make-up from time to time.
        "That new?" he asked with a nod to the garment she
had belted loosely around her.
        She smiled at him a trifle shyly.  "Yeah.  You like it?"
        He nodded slowly, his eyes going into more detail
regarding his feelings towards her recently purchased article of
clothing.
        "Good," she murmured with satisfaction.  "Now, why
don't you go ask Bill for some restaurant suggestions so I can
take it off, and finish getting ready."
        Mulder felt his heartbeat accelerate with the images
her playful instructions conjured, and dryly inquired of his
partner, "And you believe that bit of information will actually
work as an incentive to get me out of this room?"
        She tilted her head and pretended to consider the idea.
"Hmm.  No, I suppose not," she allowed in a low throaty voice.
"So maybe we ought to do this instead."
        Mulder arched a brow in an attempt to mimic his favorite
redhead.  "What did you have in mind?"
        Scully said nothing.  Instead, she curled her index finger
in a come-hither gesture as old as Eve and walked gracefully
away from him to the other side of the room, looking over her
shoulder as she did so as if to make certain she retained his
interest.
        She did.
        Mesmerized by the gentle sway of her hips, Mulder
followed as obediently as if she had him on a leash.  In fact, it
wasn't until she had the door open and him framed in front of
it that her intentions even registered.
        Only by then it was too late.
        She stepped nimbly behind him.
        Her small hands landed between his shoulder blades.
        And Mulder landed in the hall.
        "Go downstairs," Scully called through the door after
slamming it in his face and locking it.  "I'll be down soon.  I
promise I'll hurry."
        Shaking his head at just how ridiculously they were
both behaving, while at the same time grinning with the sheer
joy of it, he retorted calmly, "You are a cruel woman, Dana
Katherine Scully."
        And although only a few months earlier he would
have doubted the reserved, dignified woman he worked with
capable of such a thing, Mulder could =swear= he heard her
snickering on the side of that thick, unyielding, wooden door.
************************************************
        Glancing at her watch from where it lay on the bathroom
vanity top, Scully mentally calculated how long she had already
kept her partner waiting.  Not bad.  In the end, he wouldn't wind
up cooling his heels for too terribly long.  She had rushed through
her shower, and knew from experience that make-up usually didn't
take her very long.  She never wore much of the stuff anyway.  No.
She could breeze through that part of her preparations without too
much bother.
        That just left her hair and her dress.
        Hmm.  Her hair.
        Dana Scully had fought her entire life with hair that just
couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to be wavy or straight.
Stylistically, she normally opted for a smooth, polished bob.  It
looked more professional.  And, when all was said and done, her
auburn tresses were more prone to lose a curl than hold one.
        Except when confronted with the kind of humidity New
Orleans was noted for.
        "'Sultry' my ear, Mulder," she murmured into the mirror as
she considered the mass of damp hair atop her head.  Well, armed
with a battery of styling aids, she guessed she could wage war
against Mother Nature and wrestle her do into a reasonable
facsimile of her usual everyday look.
        Or, she could run a little mousse through her hair, scrunch
it with her fingers, and call it a day.
        She knew which solution sounded better to her.
        Two down.  One to go.
        The dress.
        That was a no-brainer.  She had picked up her outfit
of choice during the same shopping spree which had resulted
in the robe that had so enticed Mulder earlier.  It had been a
long time since she had bought clothes with the specific
intention of impressing a man.  And yet, Scully recognized
without a doubt that when it came to these newest additions to
her wardrobe she was guilty as charged.  She supposed the
feminist in her should rail against this sudden urge to employ
her feminine wiles.  To don articles of clothing with the express
purpose of arousing a man.  After all, she liked to believe that
Mulder had fallen in love with the inside of her rather than the
outside.
        However, she had to admit that the look of frankly
masculine approval she would note in his eyes when she walked
into work in the morning dressed in a suit she knew hugged her
figure just right, or his whispered words of praise when their bodies
were moving together towards completion--telling her how beautiful
she was, what it felt like to lose himself inside her, how the way
she moved her hips threatened to steal his very soul--did
something to her self-esteem that no amount of advanced degrees
could.  And what was more, she liked this Dana Katherine Scully.
The woman Mulder saw her to be.  The person whose intelligence,
courage, and humor shared the stage equally with her sensuality,
her femininity.
        Mulder's equal?  Damn straight.
        But no less a woman for it.
        Smiling to herself at the random musings floating through
her consciousness, Scully stood before the cheval glass just
outside the bathroom door and critically considered her appearance
before heading downstairs.  Okay.  The hair was a bit more wild
than she was used to, but given the occasion, she thought it
would do.  And she had gotten a touch of color in her face from
their afternoon jaunt.  Not too much.  Just enough to give her the
suggestion of a tan across her cheeks and nose.  Of course, with
that blush came the inevitable freckles.  Ah well.  Maybe Mulder
wouldn't notice.
        Right.  And maybe the Cubs will finally win that pennant,
Dana.
        Eyebrows lifting as she imagined in advance Mulder's
teasing, she decided to ignore what she couldn't control and
instead focus on the really important issue.
        The dress had made the journey from D.C. to New Orleans
with nary a wrinkle.
        Saying a silent prayer of thanks, she smoothed her hand
over the outfit's skirt, and made ready to turn away from her
reflection in order to slip on her sandals and grab her purse.
        When she saw it.
        At first, she thought she had gotten something in her eye.
She didn't know how else to explain it.  That thing she noted in the
mirror.
        Shimmering there.
        Behind her.  Just to her left.
        For a moment, she simply stared, unsure what to make of
it.  Hell, she wasn't even positive what she was looking at.
Whatever had caught her eye didn't really have a shape.  And it
certainly didn't have substance.  She could see right through it.
What it most reminded her of was heat rising from a highway.
Those waves that often taunt drivers on hot summer afternoons.
        And yet, although the early evening was warm, it
was nowhere near hot enough to generate that kind of
phenomenon.
        Puzzled, she turned around.
        And saw nothing.
        Not a damn thing.
        Just the quiet elegant confines of their room.
        "I must be hungrier than I thought," she murmured
with a shake of her head.
        And thinking no more about it, she left to rejoin her
partner.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Continued in Part III



Subject:        "At a Loss for Words" (3/?) NC-17 by K. Rasch
From:   krasch@delphi.com
Date:   Tue, 27 Aug 96 21:09:29 -0500

At a Loss for Words  (3/?)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

See intro for credits.  Thanks!
************************************************

        "Ah!  I believe this is the person you've been waiting
for."
        "Hey, Scully, guess what?  I just found out how La
Lune Argentine got its name.  It's the--"
        Whatever Mulder had thought to share with his
partner fizzled inside his brain like a couple of Alka-Seltzer
tablets hitting water.  Dissolving away into nothing.
Disappearing without a trace.  The sensation certainly proved
an unexpected one for a man with his mental prowess and gift
for gab.
        But how the hell was he supposed to hang on to
thoughts, retain the function of speech, when Dana Scully
sauntered into view wearing something like *that*?
        Mulder didn't know whether to throw a jacket over
her or rip the damn dress from her body in a fit of pure
unadulterated lust.
        And what in God's name was up with her hair?
        The woman who walked slowly yet steadily towards
him across the shade dappled courtyard wearing a pair of
strappy black heels and smiling a small knowing smile, looked
nothing at all like the agent he had for the past three years worked
beside.  True, that woman shared this one's intrinsic grace, her
obvious sophistication, intelligence, and beauty.  But the
government employee he normally called 'Scully' usually had about
her a kind of restraint, a finely constructed barrier between the
person she really was and the world around her.  Oh, Mulder liked
to pat himself on the back over the way he had managed to rip
down a few of those shields since they had partnered together.
To congratulate himself on astutely knowing that beneath the
professional mask Dana Scully considered a necessary
component of her workaday wardrobe lie a sweet simmering
sensuality hot enough to melt through more than a couple
layers of his own reserve.  His own well developed means
of self-protection.
        But *this*. . . this side of the enigmatic Dr. Scully
threatened to burn away all of his pretensions towards
civility, and certainly any hope he might that evening entertain
of behaving like a proper gentleman.
        Sweet God in heaven.  How did the woman expect
him to make it through an entire night without succumbing
to the nearly primal desire to ravage her?
        She was dressed in black, a color he had often in the
past appreciated on her.  He had always admired the way the
darkness contrasted with her skin's creamy complexion; the
way it seemed to bring the richness of her hair into sharper relief.
Besides, the hue was almost archetypally erotic.  Seeing the
woman he loved clothed in such a fashion seemed to signal to
him all sorts of . . . extreme possibilities.
        But the dress had more going for it than simply its color.
It was made of a fabric he couldn't identify, but one that swirled
and floated around Scully like mist.  And yet, that wasn't to say
that the garment was shapeless.  Oh God, no.  Its waist was marked
by a wide belt made of the same cloth as the rest of the dress.
When coupled with the slight flare of its skirt, it made Scully's
middle appear impossibly small.  So tiny that Mulder mused he
could easily span it with his two hands should the urge arise.
The skirt itself hit somewhere an inch or two above her knee.
So he couldn't in all good faith accuse the outfit's length of being
overtly provocative.  And yet, every time she moved, its bottom
half seemed to cling lovingly to a hip . . . a thigh . . . the curve of
her buttocks . . . then flow free once more.  The whole thing, one
great big perpetual tease.
        And the bodice . . . Or, more to the point--what there
*was* of a bodice. . . .
        First off, the dress had no back.
        None.
        Zip.
        Nada.
        And what it had as a front was . . . well . . . overtly
provocative.
        The damn thing was a halter.  It closed around the back
of Scully's slender throat, held in place by a single black button.
And what were held so securely by that fastening were two wide
shirred swathes of fabric that neatly ran up either side of her torso.
Her breasts were covered, true.  There was even a bit of overlap
down near where those strips of cloth met the waistband, which
lent the dress the appearance of respectability, arguably even,
restraint.
        But there was nothing whatsoever restrained about
Mulder's reaction to the sight of Scully's breasts quivering
freely, gently, beneath that halter as she glided towards him;
the whisper of her stockings, the soft click of her heels against
the flagstone, serving as soundtrack for the scene.
        She knew, he thought with self-directed amusement.
Scully knew the reaction she was drawing from him with her attire,
the emotions she was evoking.  The physical need she stirred.
She had to.  He was way past the point of feigning nonchalance.
And she had always been able to pick up on his moods, the
serpentine manner in which his mind often ordered his thoughts.
Yeah, she recognized she had him right where she wanted him.
The sparkle of pure devilry shining in her eyes nearly blinded him.
        Not to mention the way it turned him on.
        Breathe, Mulder, breathe, he instructed himself
wordlessly.
        Oh boy.
        Oh my God, look at his face, Scully thought with a touch
of giddy humor and the smallest measure of self-satisfaction.
Mulder's expression was priceless.  As far as she could tell, at that
precise instant her partner seemed utterly incapable of  moving.
Instead, he stared at her, his eyes wide and a trifle
uncomprehending, their color a mossy green.  Even simple
conversation seemed more than he could muster.  His mouth
hung open mid-word, parted in a manner that made her think
of long slow kisses, and how well, how beautifully those lips
fit against hers.  No doubt about it--Mulder appeared positively
dumbstruck.  Speechless.  Quite a change from the usual glib
ease with which he normally conducted himself.
        Score one for the Irish.
        "What were you saying, Mulder?" she asked innocently
once she had reached his side, her hand stretching up to push a
thick wavy fall of hair out of her eyes.  Mulder found himself
longing to bury his own fingers in her tousled curls.  Or better
still, to see that wonderfully rumpled head of hair spread on a
pillow.  His pillow.  "You found out how La Lune Argentine got
its name?"
        Scully was standing close, inches away, her lips curved,
glistening in the courtyard's shadows in a way that promised all
manner of pleasure if he just gave in to the impulse, the need that
rose in him like a rocket leaving Cape Kennedy bound for distant
worlds.  To kiss her.  To grab her and meld his lips to hers.  To fuse
them.  To weld the two of them together so that Scully and he
would be locked in a never-ending embrace.  An eternal kiss.
        Yeah.  As if that would be long enough.
        Her body was turned towards his so that her left breast
bobbed only a hair's breadth away from his right arm.  Mulder
wondered for one crazy moment if were he to brush that arm
against her sweet curve right there in front of Bill, some-time
innkeeper, full-time college professor, he might possibly feel her
nipple rise up to meet him through the dress.
        The temptation was almost too much to bear.
        His groin thickened merely with the notion.
        His arm twitched in readiness. . . .
        "So, are you going to enlighten me, Mulder?  Or do I
have to guess?"
        Mulder snapped out of his reverie as abruptly if
someone had dashed ice water in his face, and reluctantly took
a half step away from Scully in hopes of avoiding any future
calamity like the one he had been contemplating only seconds
before.  Shifting his gaze, he took in his partner's thoroughly
amused expression.  And, as absurd as he knew the idea to be,
felt alarmingly certain that somewhere along the way the auburn-
haired woman on his right had turned clairvoyant.
        "Why don't you ask Bill to tell you the story?" he
suggested dryly as he tried by sheer force of will to hold back
the color he could feel rising up to tint his cheeks.  "I'm sure he'll
do a better job of it than I would."
        Especially right at this particular moment, he added
silently in chagrin.
        "Be happy to," Bill offered smoothly, apparently
unaware of the currents flowing not at all subtly between the
two people before him.   Or perhaps choosing simply not to
acknowledge them.  "It's pretty simple really.  The place was
named for its best known owner."
        Scully curiously arched a brow.  "And who would that
be?"
        "Selene Broussard."
        Scully smiled and shook her head.  "I'm afraid the name
doesn't ring a bell."
        Bill smiled back at her.  "Itouldn't.  Not anymore.
But in her day, Selene was one of New Orleans' most famous
citizens."
        "Famous for what?" she inquired.
        "Her beauty.  Her wit," Bill said as if ticking off items on
a grocery list.  "Her *temper*.  Selene was a courtesan.  According
to local legend, one of her lovers built this house specifically for
her.  Tragically, he supposedly later killed her here as well."
        "The ghost!" Scully exclaimed with a look at Mulder
for confirmation.
        Bill chuckled.  "Aha!  So you've heard about our resident
spook."
        "I may have mentioned it," Mulder murmured.
        Bill nodded.  "At first Laura and I worried that rumors
about the place being haunted would be bad for business.  But
surprisingly, the opposite has proven true.  People love the idea.
I had one lady call up and ask if she could rent out the entire
place to do a seance."
        Scully's lips curled.  "And what did you tell her?"
        Bill ruefully shook his head.  "'No thank you.'  The last
thing I need is a house full of Ghostbusters on my hands.  One
sad little spirit seems a much better bargain."
        "I was just getting ready to ask you before . . . before I
got distracted," Mulder said with a self-deprecating smile and a
sideways glance at Scully.  "Have you ever seen or heard her
yourself?"
        "Me?" Bill inquired.  "No.  I never have.  But, Laura
thinks she's heard something.  The sound of footsteps and a
muffled sort of crying.  I don't know if I buy it, to tell you the
truth.  But, the folks we bought from said that they had heard
Selene on several occasions.  And, after all, we've only been in
the house for a little over a year.  Maybe she and I have just
never crossed paths."
        "Well, you and your wife have done a wonderful job
with the place," Scully assured him warmly.  "It's absolutely
beautiful."
        "Thanks," Bill said, beaming.  "We're pretty proud of
it. "
        "So, I understand the 'moon' part of the name--Selene
obviously being a moon goddess," Scully said thoughtfully.
"But how exactly does 'silver' enter into it?"
        "Her eyes," Bill answered simply.  "By all accounts,
they were her most striking feature.  They were gray apparently.
A very light gray.  Somewhere along the line someone referred to
them as silver.  And that, coupled with her first name gave Selene
the nickname  'The Silver Moon'.  I suppose it was the same sort of
thing as with Dumas' 'La Dame aux Camellias'."
        "I suppose," Scully murmured with a nod.
        "She really was lovely," Bill enthused, obviously
an admirer of the woman in question.  "At least--if her portrait is
anything to go by."
        "Her portrait?" Mulder queried.
        "Yeah," Bill confirmed with a grin.  "It was a real find.
We discovered it tucked away under the eaves when we moved
in.  You'd have thought someone would have donated it to a
museum or something.  But it didn't happen.  Of course, the poor
thing is understandably a bit worse for wear.  Hell, it had probably
been sitting upstairs for God only knows how long.  Laura has
made restoring it a pet project of hers.  Although with as busy
as we've been with the inn I can't say that she's really had the
time to get very far with it."
        Pausing for a moment, the tall slender bespectacled
man self-consciously ran a hand through his thinning blond
hair.  "Speaking of time, if I don't shut up, you two aren't going
to have enough of it to go get something to eat."
         "Don't be silly," Mulder told him with a smile.  "We
appreciate your taking the time to answer our questions."
        "My pleasure."
        "In fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask one more,"
Scully quickly said.
        "Shoot."
        "I understand that Selene was killed by her lover,"
she began with a wry smile.  "But how did the whole thing
come about?  What exactly happened?"
        "He strangled her," Bill said succinctly.  "In a fit of
passion.  He came home and found her in bed with another
man."
        "How awful!" Scully mumbled softly.
        "Oh, it gets better," Bill assured her.  "Or worse, as the
case may be.  In the end the guy was overcome with guilt.  He
wound up hanging himself.  Over the bed in which he had ended
Selene's life."
************************************************
        At one point early in the evening, Mulder had mused
that the blood-thirsty topic of conversation he and Scully had
discussed with Bill before leaving the inn should, by all rights,
have put them both off their appetites.  But then again, the
woman with whom he was dining that particular Friday night
spent a hefty percentage of her time cutting up corpses.  So he
guessed, in the end, one long ago crime of passion probably
didn't do much in the way of unsettling her stomach.
        For his part, Mulder knew it would take more than
hearing the details regarding a violent lovers' spat for him to
pass up the chance at fresh seafood.  Growing up on the
Vineyard had spoiled him when it came to fish.  As blas? as
he was about most of the rest of his diet, if something with
fins or a shell hadn't been caught that day, he just wasn't
interested in eating it.  No problem in the Big Easy.  Especially
not at the quiet little back street restaurant Bill had suggested.
The innkeeper had told Mulder it wasn't anything flashy.
        "You won't get a souvenir bib or a drink that lets you
keep the glass as a momento of the experience," Bill had said
with a smile.  "But, if you're looking for the best seafood in town,
all I can say is--this is where the locals go."
        And wise people they were too.  Because the food was
amazing.  Shrimp as big as his hand.  Gumbo that managed to be
spicy but not overpowering.  Bread that made him want to rail at
the injustice involved in allowing that tasteless white stuff he
always seemed to find on sale for under a buck to go by the same
name.  And wine that had Mulder wishing he knew enough about
things like 'vintage' and 'bouquet' to fully appreciate the bottle
Scully and he were sharing.
        The restaurant itself was hushed, subdued, despite the
fact that every table was filled.  Candlelight provided most of the
establishment's illumination.  White linen and fresh flowers adorned
the tables, all of which were far enough apart to promote the illusion
of intimacy.  Many of the patrons seemed to know each other, and
they nodded and smiled at acquaintances as they wound their
way through a decor composed more of wood than anything else.
The service wasn't quite as vigorous as what Mulder was used
to in some of the places he frequented near the Beltway.  But,
that was all right by him.  He wasn't opposed to lingering.
        After all--he couldn't fault the scenery.
        "What?"
        Mulder was sitting back in his chair, his long legs
crossed at the ankles, and eyeing with unabashed appreciation
the woman across from him.
        "Nothing," he murmured with a shake of his head and a
quirk of a smile just before he took another sip of his wine.
        On the opposite side of the table, a brow arched in silent
reproach.  Although Scully's answering smile took away any sting
the look might have provoked.  "Oh, I don't know, Mulder.  It
didn't look like 'nothing' to me."
        He dipped his head, acquiescing.  "I was just thinking
that it's a good thing Frohike can't see you in that dress."
        "Oh, and why is that?"
        "'Cause then I'd have to kill him."
        Knowing just how fond her partner was of the Lone
Gunmen's oldest and shortest member, Scully wasn't too terribly
alarmed by this pronouncement.  "You know, it isn't as if my
dress is the equivalent of that DAT tape, Mulder," she drawled
mildly as she rested her elbows on the table and steepled her
fingers before her lips.  "Seems to me that even if Frohike did
happen to catch a glimpse of my outfit, he should probably still
be allowed to live."
        "No, you don't understand," Mulder told her as he leaned
forward in his seat and drew closer to his dinner companion.  "I
mean . . . Frohike has already elevated you to goddess status.  You
walk into a room, and the poor guy gets so flustered he starts
speaking in tongues."
        Scully chuckled, remembering the late night conversation
she and Frohike had shared when they had each thought Mulder
was dead and that the X-Files were no more.  Much to her surprise,
her would-be worshipper had proven a good friend that night, and
a source of some much needed support.
        Even if his turning up on her doorstep had added another
item to her recycling bin.
        "But if he *ever* saw you in that dress," Mulder continued,
his gaze warm, a slight smile still tugging on his lips.  "Well, I'm
afraid it would be the equivalent of a holy war.  An all or nothing
kind of thing, you know?  He'd want you all to himself.  I know I do."
        Scully ducked her head a bit shyly, a suggestion of a
smile softening her mouth.  "I wouldn't worry.  For all his quirks,
Frohike is a bright guy.  I don't think it would take much for him to
realize that he was outmatched."
        "I don't know, Scully.  Maybe we shouldn't underestimate
him.  After all, it's surprising sometimes just what exactly a man
in love is capable of."
        "Ah . . . ," Scully playfully said with a lift of her brows.
"And who are we talking about now, Agent Mulder?"
        The dark-haired man with the sleepy hazel eyes merely
shrugged.
        "Mulder, at this point in our relationship there is very
little you could do that would surprise me," she purred with
deliberate provocation.
        His lashes lowered indulgently for an instant.  "Hmm . . .
That sounds suspiciously like a dare, Agent Scully.  Do you
really believe that I'm incapable of shocking you?"
        She moistened her lips.  "I really believe that I would
like to see you try."
        Mulder slowly nodded.
        And signaled for the check.
***********************************************
        Yet, in the end, the two agents didn't wind up running
back to their accomodations.  Trying to flag a taxi didn't even
occur to them.  Experience had taught them the piquant
sweetness of anticipation.
        So instead, they walked.  Why not?  The night was
lovely.  Mild for spring in New Orleans, with a light wind off
the river to help slice through the humidity.  They strolled side
by side, Mulder taking care to match his stride to his partner's.
Each remained surprisingly silent, almost as if they feared
shattering the mood, the circle of privacy they could feel
encapsulating them, fragile and beautiful as a soap bubble.
Shielding them, setting them apart, as they walked amidst a
sea of similar couples.  Similar men and women.  Visitors and
natives alike.
        It was uncanny, really, the manner in which they could
sense their bodies being drawn to one another.  At times it
seemed as if the pull existed without they themselves being
able to control it.  To rein it in.  They would find their arms
brushing against each other as they walked.  Or from time to
time, Mulder's hand would magically end up caressing the
smooth warm slope of Scully's back, guiding her as they turned
a corner or maneuvered through pockets of other pedestrians
out enjoying the evening.  Even Scully's dress conspired to
ensnare the man walking beside her.  Its skirt would flutter with
the breeze, the draft created by passerbys, and slip between
Mulder's legs or slap lightly against his thigh.  Like a
reminder.
        As if he needed one.
        And so, it actually came as little surprise when their
fingers ended up woven together.  At first, just a couple of them.
Entwined lightly.  Tentatively.  Then, without either of them
knowing who instigated it, their hands slid more firmly together.
To clasp.  Wholly, completely.  Palm to palm.
        Forming a bond.
        They traveled that way for a time.  Neither taking
particular note of what had occurred.  Until, at last, almost as
an afterthought, Mulder glanced down at their hands.  He
considered for a moment.  Then he smiled, his eyes raising to
find Scully's.  She had followed his gaze with her own, and smiled
back, the pleasure she received from the evening, from his touch,
shimmering in her eyes like sunlight off still water.  Mulder
basked in the warmth of that look, then nodded.
        Who knew that a simple thing like the sensation of her
small hand resting in his larger one could signify so much more,
he thought with a touch of amazement.
        And that the act of acknowledging that connection
on a public street would feel like a kind of promise.
        A vow.
        No less holy for being spoken without words under a
lazy star-lit Louisiana sky rather than beneath a church's vaulted
ceiling.
************************************************
        "Dance with me, Mulder."
        They had returned to their room.  The inn was still.  Its
other guests either out or asleep for the night.  In the darkness,
Scully stood beside Mulder framed in the balcony's wide archway,
breathing in the night's scented air.  In the distance, they could
faintly hear a saxophone moaning with a lonely sort of longing,
piercing with its melody the city's muffled undertones of
automobiles and fragmented conversations.
        "I'm not much of a dancer, Scully," he murmured from
right above her ear, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder.
        For just a quarter second, she flashed back to another
time, another dance, another woman, and a certain hotel hallway.
        Oh Mulder, I seem to remember you doing just fine
with Phoebe, Scully thought with rueful humor.  And then, just
as quickly, she dismissed the memory.  Ancient history.  That
scene had nothing to do with the present.  With them.
        "I'll teach you," she whispered, and turned into his arms.
        He welcomed her there as if there was nowhere else on
earth that she should be.  And indeed, that was how it felt to her.
To them both.  Sighing with the homecoming, she wrapped a
slender arm up and around the back of Mulder's neck.  He
curved his around her waist.  Their remaining two hands linked,
his covering hers protectively, and settled against his chest.
        Scully nestled her cheek just below Mulder's shoulder,
reveling in the subtle ebb and flow of his muscles shifting against
her delicate frame as they slowly turned and swayed to the faraway
music.  Her partner had nothing to fear, she mused fondly.  He
may not be their generation's Fred Astaire, but he was a natural at
holding her.  And wasn't that what this sort of dancing was, after
all?  Merely an excuse to be close.  A reason to rest their bodies
against each other.  An opportunity to touch and be touched.  She
closed her eyes for a instant, sinking in to the sensation, giving
herself over to the moment.  To him.  She didn't want this to end.
This sweet interlude.  This strange yet wonderful sense of oneness
she felt enfolded in Mulder's embrace.
        He smelled so good.  Soap and sweat and man all
blending together to form a mix a girl just couldn't buy over the
counter.  Although, Scully had to admit that if someone did figure
out a way to bottle the fragrance, she would undoubtedly be the
new cologne's number one customer.
        She honestly couldn't get enough of him.  Not that night.
Not ever.  Everything about him aroused her both mentally and
physically.  Even the sound of his heartbeat charmed her.  The
steady thud of it beneath her ear, its even rhythm, serving as a
kind of pulmonary percussion section to the phantom saxophone
serenading them still.
        "I can hear your heart," she told him quietly as she
combed her fingers through the silky hair grazing his collar.
        "I'm not surprised," he replied just as softly, the words
vibrating with a rumble in his chest.  "It's had a lot to say the past
couple of days."
        "Does that bother you?" she asked, pulling back to look
into his eyes, knowing that even obscured by the room's shadows
they would reveal to her his answer long before his words would.
        "That I feel more these days?" he inquired with a gentle
lopsided smile.  "No, Scully.  I don't mind when my heart decides
it needs to chat.  Not when you're the topic of conversation."
        She smiled at him, tenderness for this man filling her,
pushing aside all other thoughts, all other considerations.
"You've always 'felt', Mulder.  Sometimes too much."
        "Not enough to do anything about it," he reminded her
 ruefully, his lips nuzzling her hair.  "Not when it came to us."
        No, Scully thought as she and Mulder continued to slowly
move to the music filtering in through the balcony's french doors.
Neither of them had dared act upon their feelings for each other, the
love they had each kept hidden like a pirate's treasure.  Buried for
what seemed an eternity.  Not until a madman had driven them to it;
forced them to recognize what had been staring them brazenly in the
face for so very long.  That the person with whom they worked had
somehow, some way, become the single most important individual
in their lives.  The one without whom they were something less
than whole.
        After all, wasn't that what she had felt when she had
come home from New Mexico alone and disheartened.  When she
had understood with the most terrible sort of self-knowledge that
part of her had remained beneath the hard packed earth so many
thousands of miles away.  Buried there under a blazing sun
whose heat was challenged only by the fire that for awhile she
had believed had ended Mulder's life.  That separation had ached
like a mortal wound.  The kind that would never heal, never close.
That no amount of doctoring or time could cure.
        And yet, they had been lucky, hadn't they?
        Mulder had been given another chance.  As had she
before him.  Not all the players in the little drama she and Mulder
called their lives had been that fortunate, Scully acknowledged as
Melissa's gentle face drifted bittersweet into her mind's eye.  But
she and Mulder had thus far survived.  And in some respects,
thrived.
        The happiness she felt singing through her blood
supplied for her all the proof that last statement required.
        And, as she tightened her arms around her lean, lanky
dance partner, Scully realized with a rush of resolve, that such
triumphs had to be celebrated.  Had to be relished.  Life was too
fragile, time too fleeting, to do otherwise.
        "I know what I want to do, Mulder," she whispered in a
low husky voice.
        "And what is that?"
        She tilted back her head to look at him, the hand she had
around his neck coming forward to trace his hairline.  "I want to
make love to you."
        Mulder returned her gaze, his eyes warm and liquid in the
half-light, his smile tender.  "Scully, I always knew that you were
the real brains of the operation."
        They stilled their movement, and remaining in the circle
of Mulder's arms, Scully stretched up to kiss him.  He sighed with
pleasure.  And she smiled slightly against his mouth, surprised as
always by just how soft his lips were.  How utterly he could
seduce her merely by moving them gently against her own.
        She had almost succumbed to his ministrations, had almost
gotten lost in his kiss just as she had so many times before, when
she pulled back, and instead ran the backs of her fingers down the
slope of his cheek.
        "Do you trust me, Mulder?" she asked a tad mischievously,
consciously echoing the question he had asked her just twenty-four
hours before.
        "You know I do," he answered quietly, a faint quizzical
smile tilting his lips.
        "With you heart?"
        He nodded solemnly.
        "With your body?" she queried lightly, her hand still
caressing his face.
        "With my soul."
        Scully felt her insides suddenly constrict, her eyes well.
        "Then let me," she whispered, as her fingers drifted down
to the top button of his shirt and slipped it free.  Another slipped
loose.  And another yet again.  "Trust me."  She strung a string of
kisses down the center of his torso.  Slow moist kisses that ran in
a line from the base of his throat to directly between his nipples,
ending just above the cross around his neck.  He gasped as her
mouth descended.
        She paused at that, and looked up at him, her blue eyes
nearly black in the faint light leaking into the chamber from outside.
"I'm going to seduce you, Mulder," she told him with a suggestion
of a smile and a challenging arch of her brow.
        He chuckled, the sound a bit wobbly.  Then, his hands
flexed on her slender waist, giving her middle a squeeze.  "I've
got news for you, Scully.  You already have."
        She shook her head, her fingertips running faintly over
the planes of his chest.  "No, not yet.  I need you to do something
for me first."
        "Anything."
        Now, it was her turn to chuckle.  "Don't stop me."
*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Subject:        "At a Loss for Words" (4/?) NC-17 by K. Rasch
From:   krasch@delphi.com
Date:   Wed, 28 Aug 96 21:39:05 -0500

At a Loss for Words (4/?)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

************************************************
Those following along at home may remember that at the end of
our last chapter, Dana Scully implored Fox Mulder:

        "Don't stop me."
        He cocked a brow and a smile.  "And why ever would I
do that?"
        She tugged his shirt free from his pants, a playful smile
gracing her own lips.  "Well, . . . perhaps  'stop' is the wrong word.
What about 'distract'?  Or maybe, just plain 'help'."
        "You don't want me to help you seduce me?"
        She laughed softly once more, and brushed her lips
against his.  "What I want is for this to be about you.  Only you."
        Something flared a bit wildly in his hazel eyes, only to
at once be ruthlessly brought under control.  When he spoke, his
lightly teasing words echoed this restraint.  "I see.  And where
will you be?"
        "Right where I belong."
        With that she kissed him again.  More deeply this time,
her tongue rubbing slowly, provocatively, against his.  Her arms
twined tightly around his neck, her breasts pressed heavy against
his chest.
        "Let me," she implored breathlessly as she sprinkled a
deluge of tiny soft kisses on his face.  "Let me give this to you,
Mulder.  Please.  I want to.  And I have a feeling that it wouldn't
take much for you to want it too."
        His hands came up and framed her face, trembling slightly
against her cheeks as they did so.  He held her still for a moment
while their eyes carried on a silent conversation.  But, before she
was willing to let it go, Scully had one more thing she had to say
out loud.
        "I promise, I'll take good care of you."
        With that, Mulder shook his head, a touch of wonder in
his expression.
        "I'd have to be as nuts as everyone claims I am to say
no," he murmured wryly, his thumbs smoothing over her
cheekbones.  "All right, Scully.  We'll do it your way.  As of
right now, I place myself in your very capable hands."
        "You won't be sorry."
        "I'm counting on it."
        Their eyes clung for a moment.  Then, her hands returned
to the remaining buttons on his shirt, and smoothly freed them
from their holes.  In a matter of seconds, the white cotton shirt
hung open from his shoulders.  Scully could see the strong lines
of his chest, his stomach's tender skin.  Lightly she ran her palms
beneath the shirt, skimmed her fingertips over his warm torso.
        "Have I ever mentioned how much I like your body,
Mulder?"
        He laughed softly, shortly.  "Maybe from time to time."
        She smiled up at him, then kissed him right where she
judged his heart to be.  "Ah, well--I didn't want to overdo it.  I
wouldn't want you to think me shallow."
        She slid her hands up to his shoulders and pushed his
shirt to the floor.  He stood before her, his hands at his sides, his
chest rising and falling in a rapid, uneven manner.  Watching and
waiting, as she had requested that he do.  He was beautiful, she
thought, her admiration for him glowing plainly in her eyes.  He
had a swimmer's body; all long muscles, and loose-limbed grace.
Like most athletes in that sport, his waist was slim, his shoulders
broad.
        Lightly, almost experimentally, she drew her fingertips
across his skin, using them like an artist's brush, tracing muscle.
With a gentle touch, she painted her own variety of abstract art;
her canvas, his chest.
        "But perhaps I've been remiss, Mulder," she murmured as
her mouth lowered to one of his small brown nipples.  She closed
her lips tenderly around it, and flicked her tongue over the nubbin.
Mulder groaned.  She smiled at the sound.  "Perhaps I should tell
you just what exactly I think of you."
        "Go ahead," he whispered with a shaky smile, his eyes
sliding shut as Scully's mouth turned its attention to his other
nipple.
        She waited, choosing instead to tantalize the man before
her with her tongue, her teeth.  Carefully, she even suckled at his
breast.  Mulder responded by hissing in a quick lungful of air,
and throwing back his head as if in agony.
        She knew better.
        Finally, she released him and looked up, her eyes
sparkling.  Mulder met her gaze, his dark and fathomless.  She
reached up and outlined the shape of his mouth with her index
finger.  "You're perfect."
        Despite his arousal, the man before her chuckled
ruefully.  "Uh-oh, Scully.  It sounds as if all those blows to the
head you've suffered over the years have finally impaired your
judgment."
        She grinned, and wrapped her arms around his neck,
tugging down his head for a long lazy kiss.  "You are, Agent
Mulder," she told him when their mouths parted company.  "To
me, you are.  You're everything I want."
        He moistened his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Then that's all that matters."
        She nodded, and kissed him again, her mouth open and
hungry against his.  Mulder returned the kiss, greedily slanting
his lips over hers.  And yet, he continued to allow her to take the
lead.  Instead, he merely held her.  One hand splayed against her
silky back, the other buried in the soft cloud of her hair.
        Scully ran her hands over her partner's naked skin.  The
smooth sculpted breadth of his shoulders, the gentle curve of his
waist.  She could sense how her touch excited him, could feel the
evidence pressed hard and impatient against her belly.  His need
fed her own desire, her own physical demands.  And yet, she
refused to hurry.  She wanted this to last.  For the man in her arms
to be the recipient of every weapon in her feminine arsenal.  Hell,
let's be honest, Dana--you want Mulder to be screaming for you
when he comes, she acknowledged dryly.
        After all, she owed him.
        Finally tearing her lips from his, she trailed them down
the line of his throat, lapping and sucking her way along while her
hands found his belt buckle and deftly unfastened it.
        "What's your greatest fantasy, Mulder?" she asked him
in a low throaty voice, her fingers fluttering lightly along his
waistband.
        "You," he answered without hesitation.
        She chuckled.  "I'm not a fantasy.  I'm real."
        "Exactly," he told her quietly, his eyes glittering down
into hers like diamonds.  "Why would I need make-believe, when
I finally have the real thing?"
        She kissed him on the sensitive patch of skin just behind
his ear.  "I don't know, Mulder.  There's something to be said for
imagination.  If nothing else, the women you create in your head
never give you any lip."
        "I love your lips," he protested with a growl and a
wolfish smile.
        She captured his lower one with her teeth and carefully
nibbled on it while her fingers grabbed hold of the zipper on his
pants and lowered it.  "And I love yours," she whispered, kissing
the object of her affection tenderly upon releasing it.  "But that
still doesn't take care of the problem."
        "We don't have any problems.  At least not in that
regard."
        She knelt before him like a geisha and freed his shoes
from his feet.  His socks were gently removed as well.  She then
stood once more, and eased her hands inside his slacks, slipping
them between boxers and skin, her breasts brushing like a tease
against his middle.  "Maybe it's my problem then.  My concern.
You see, I've always been very competitive.  When I do
something, I like to do it well."
        "You do," he assured her as he nuzzled her brow, the
subject of their cryptic conversation never in doubt.
        "Thanks, Mulder," she said with a small smile as she bent
to remove his trousers and shorts so that he finally stood before
her naked.  "But there are always ways to improve."
        Mulder hummed non-committally as she stood again and
circled him, her hands smoothing over his heated skin with a kind
of purely carnal enjoyment.  He was hers, she thought with a surge
of nearly painful satisfaction.  This brilliant, beautiful, gentle,
insane
man belonged to her.  He proved it to her every day with his
devotion, his loyalty, his love.  And now, he had made himself
absolutely vulnerable to her, standing there unmoving, his eyes
half closed, trusting that she would keep her promise.  That she
would cherish him as much as she knew he did her.
        The idea aroused her more than the most fervent caress
ever could.
        She stepped around behind him, not quite ready to let
him look into her eyes right at that moment.  Not certain she could
maintain control if he did.  She pressed her cheek against the
powerful sweep of his upper back, nuzzling him there.  Sighing, she
clasped her arms around his waist, one hand coming to rest, fingers
spread, on his chest; the other, just below his navel.
        "You're so strong, Mulder," Scully whispered against his
skin, her breath hot and moist.  "Do you even realize sometimes
how strong you are?  I feel so safe with you.  Like nothing can
touch us as long as we're together."
        Mulder didn't feel strong.  Not one bit.  In fact, he
ruefully mused, right at that moment a particularly husky
preschooler could probably take him.  Effortlessly tumble him
right over on his ass with a push of the little one's tiny hand.
God, it was taking all of his concentration, all of his supposed
might, merely to remain standing.  Because for all his calm
forbearance, Scully was reducing him to a pale quivering
imitation of a man with her touch.  Her heatedly spoken words
of praise.  The frank look of approval in her eyes.
        "Do I make you feel that way, Mulder?" she inquired
quietly as her lips began inching their way down his spine.  She
went slowly, her mouth open as she pressed one soft kiss after
another down the length of his back.  At the same time, her hands
moved just as gently over him, sweeping across his chest, his
shoulders, his upper arms, his waist.  "Do I make you feel safe?"
        Now?!-- he wanted to whimper.  =Right now=?  No, Scully.
Not safe.  Anything but safe, he wanted to confess.  You make me
hot and weak and nervous and reckless and happy--so blessedly
happy that if his life ended right then and there he knew he would
be unable to muster a complaint.  After all, he had been allowed
this.  Amidst all the pain and the fear and the failure that had
dogged his days, he had been given a gift.  Her.  Some merciful
deity somewhere had looked down on him and granted him Dana
Katherine Scully.  Mulder didn't know what he had done to
deserve such a prize.  He had no idea what act had finally
convinced the powers-that-be to grace him with a woman like her.
But, he meant to make certain that she never regretted their
relationship.  Never wondered if perhaps the whole thing wasn't
some sort of terrible mistake.
        That kind of resolve, that sort of responsibility, weighed
heavily at times.  Hell, some days it seemed as if the odds against
him, against them, were frighteningly astronomical.  First, Scully
and he had to battle all the silly foolish little things all couples had
to face.  The jealousies.  The annoying little habits and peccadilloes
that when two people were just getting to know each other were
seen as endearing, only to later become the source of immeasurable
irritation.  And, to make matters worse, they had to put up with
all the petty vexations while virtually living in each other's pockets.
They saw more of each other than did many married couples.  And
yet they failed to enjoy the freedom such a relationship should,
by all rights, have entailed.  No.  The subterfuge and care that went
into maintaining the platonic myth of their partnership had made
restraint second nature.  And control, the touchstone by which
they lived their lives.
        So, at times like this, when Scully asked him to
disregard that control, to let loose, to fully open himself up to
her, Mulder wondered sometim