"At a Loss for Words" (13/14) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Not to jinx myself or anything, but I'm thinking that this will
probably run 14-15 parts total.  So, we are winding down.  Oh,
and one more thing--hide the children!  That nasty old NC-17 
stuff is back. ;)  (The beginnings of it, anyway--more to follow
in Chapter 14.  <g>)  Comments are, as always, appreciated.
************************************************
     Scully really hadn't intended for Mulder to go dashing 
out to Cafe du Monde.
     Honestly, she hadn't.
     However, if she were to be totally truthful, she had to 
admit she was rather glad that he had decided on his own to 
make the trek.  After all, she had awakened to find herself 
absolutely ravenous, so the pastries he had gone to purchase 
would indeed be welcome.  But, more importantly, his taking 
off on a beignet run had allowed her to slip into the shower 
and change without him hovering.
     And he had been hovering.
     Like a helicopter.
     Circling endlessly.  And yet, never quite touching 
down.
     Hell.  Never touching, period.  
     Well, that wasn't entirely true.  He had held her hand.
     But only when she had first awakened.  Aside from 
that, after she had roused, slightly befuddled, but actually 
feeling rather well, Mulder had taken a giant step back, both 
literally and figuratively.
     Of course, that wasn't to say that he had ignored her.  
On the contrary.  As they had sat on the bed exchanging 
comforting words of greeting, he had gravely studied every 
change in her expression, every nuance, as if her innocent little 
shifts and frowns were a new and terribly complicated language 
to which he had just been introduced.
     And yet, while doing so, his reticence, his restraint 
had been almost palpable.  A living, breathing thing sitting atop 
the immense brass bed with them.
     Oh, Mulder, she silently sighed as she vigorously 
rubbed a towel over her damp, tousled hair.  I had thought we 
had gotten past the whole guilt thing.  The night before, when 
they had been preparing to leave La Lune Argentine, he had 
seemed more like his usual affectionate self.  True, he hadn't done 
more than kiss her on the head.  But he had been willing to hold 
her to him, to touch her hair, her cheek.
     But in the aftermath of her little enforced beauty rest, 
they were back to being awkward around each other.  No.  Not 
they.  He.  =Him=.  Mulder had reverted to treating her like some 
porcelain figurine.  Precious, certainly.  But fragile.  The sort of 
thing you love to look at, but don't dare handle.
     The very idea galled her.  Of any man she had ever
been with, Mulder had always been the touchy type.  Even
before their relationship had taken a turn towards the personal.  
And now, when she most urgently needed that physical support, 
he denied her it.  It was all she could do not to stamp her foot 
in vexation.
     But on the one hand, she couldn't really blame him, 
she supposed.  She understood, even without him precisely
saying so, the pain and the anxiety Mulder must have suffered 
while she had been under Selene's sway.  They hadn't discussed 
the night before in any great detail.  Not yet.  Mulder hadn't 
seemed quite ready for that little chat right at the moment that 
she had opened her eyes.  So, she had opted to be patient.  For 
the moment.
     She herself couldn't even really remember much about it.  
She recalled feeling tired.  Desperately so.  She had been moving 
about the motel room, trying to unpack the few things she would 
need for the night, when all at once a ferocious wave of fatigue 
had washed over her.  The compulsion to sleep had ultimately 
proven impossible to ignore.  And yet, even as she had turned 
and crossed for the bed, her head swimming, her limbs leaden 
with weariness, somehow, some way she had sensed that the 
urge assailing her was far from natural.
     Selene.
     Scully had no inkling how she had known the dead
courtesan was responsible.  But, in some inexplicable manner, 
the revelation had seared her like a brand.  And once she had 
been assured as to the real reason for her exhaustion, she had
struggled.  With every means at her disposal.  However, with 
the toll her wounds had already taken upon her body, she had 
been no match for the ghost's will.  Her vitality had been sapped 
by the events of the night before.  She just hadn't been able to 
put up much resistance.
     Until Mulder had returned.  She had sensed him near.
Had somehow felt his touch on her skin.  And she had known--
dear God, she had known--what seeing her like that would do
to him.  So, she had fought like a wildcat to reach him.  Clawed
and scrambled her way towards consciousness.
     And had succeeded.
     For an instant.
     No more.
     Selene was just too strong.
     And thus, after another aborted attempt to ward off 
the spirit's control of her body, Scully had reluctantly dropped 
off into a deep and not unpleasant sleep.  She hadn't dreamed.  
Not that she remembered.  Just floated, like a fallen leaf atop a 
gently running stream.
     Until, she had drifted free from the current and swum 
her way back to shore.  And into the big brass bed at La Maison 
de la Lune Argentine.
     "Didn't know if you'd prefer coffee or orange juice, so
I got you both."
     She neatly hung her towel on the rack beside the
bathtub, and peered out into the bed chamber.  Mulder was
shouldering his way into the room, precariously balancing two
white paper bags and a cardboard cup carrier with all four slots
filled.
     "Let me help you with that," she murmured with a smile
as she took a step forward.
     "No, that's okay.  I've got it," he said firmly as he gently
kicked closed the door and deftly maneuvered past her to the
other side of the room.  There, he set their meal on the night stand, 
and turned to look at her expectantly.
     He must be running on pure adrenaline, she judged
with a certain rueful fondness.  Despite the energy he currently
displayed, the man before her looked positively =wiped=.  He
was still wearing the same jeans and black cotton pullover he 
had donned after rousing from his nap the afternoon before.  A 
day's worth of stubble darkened his jaw while a night's worth of 
shadows did the same for under his eyes.  But most disturbing 
to Scully's way of thinking was the brittleness she sensed about 
him.  The aura which suggested that if one knew precisely just 
where to tap, Mulder's hard won composure would shatter like 
flawed crystal. 
     "So how many dozens of those things did you buy?"
she queried with a gentle smile as she padded barefoot out of 
the bathroom in her gray sweat shorts and white cotton 
t-shirt.  Absent-mindedly combing her fingers through her 
thoroughly mussed hair, she crossed over to the bed and crawled 
slowly up onto it.
     He grinned at her in a way that made the lines etched 
around his eyes and mouth only that much more pronounced.  
The unabashed happiness shining in his gaze contrasted 
harshly with the misery still lingering like a stain upon his 
features.  Noting this, Scully yearned all the more to share with 
him an embrace.  After all, she knew with utter surety that he 
needed it as badly as she.  But at the same time, she also 
sensed that he wouldn't allow it.  Not just yet.
     "Only a half dozen," he retorted mildly.  "But I also 
picked up some fruit at the market.  I figured you hadn't eaten 
in awhile, so you might like something a little more substantial."
     You better watch it, Mulder, she longed to tease him.
A girl could get used to all this pampering.  And yet, given his 
present state of mind, the man would probably take her at her 
word; the result being breakfast in bed for the rest of her natural 
life. 
     And even she could only stand so much of a good thing.
     So instead, as she peered into one of the bags and 
pulled out a still warm beignet, she simply said,  "Thanks, Mulder.  
That sounds good.  But you know something?"
     "What?"
     "It looks to me as if you could use a decent meal even 
more than I could."
     He merely shrugged and reached for one of the steaming
styrofoam cups of coffee before settling himself on the chair near
the head of the bed.  A safe distance away from her.
     She regarded him silently for a moment, trying to decide
how best to approach him when he was in this mood.  Then, she 
realized something.  Something to which she felt certain Mulder 
was utterly oblivious.  Their positions were identical to those 
they had shared when he had returned to their room after 
spending the night beating up on himself in the library.  She, 
with her back cushioned by a mound of pillows piled against 
the bed's headboard.  He, sitting a tad formally in the rather 
uncomfortable looking cane-seated chair against the wall.  An 
unexpectedly poignant thought occurred to her.
     Mulder had just placed himself in the punishment chair.
     When she had been in first grade, Sister Mary Catherine, 
an aged gentle soul, had one seat in her classroom that while it 
*looked* like all the rest, was, in fact, markedly different. 
     It had been a simple straight back wooden chair at the
front of the room, right next to the little nun's desk.  And anytime
a boy or girl misbehaved, they were made to come and sit in that 
chair to consider their sin, and face the pity and amusement of 
their classmates.
     Apart from the other pupils.
     Alone.
     Just like Mulder.
     He sat sipping his coffee, totally unaware of her whimsy, 
and watched her, almost as if to make certain that she was indeed 
eating, his eyes intent over the rim of his cup.  "How's the throat?"
     "Better," she mumbled around a bite of baked good, 
thankful that this time around, Mulder had remembered napkins.  
"My headache is completely gone."
     "Yeah?"
     "Yeah."
     "That's good."
     And they say the art of conversation is dead, Scully
mused dryly when it became evident that neither she nor Mulder 
could come up with a way to fill the void that had ensued after 
their admittedly feeble initial exchange.  
     Nope.
     Not a quip.
     Not a quibble.
     Not even a question.
     Nothing.
     Instead, it appeared that all they could do was look at 
each other, their eyes apparently hungrier at that moment than 
their stomachs.
     However, as fond as she was of the shape of Mulder's
face, there came a time when merely regarding it wasn't enough.
     "So, what's the plan?" Scully asked mildly after she 
had finished one beignet and started in on a brightly polished
apple.
     Mulder stiffened, his eyes dropping away from hers to 
study instead his own half eaten pastry.  "I don't know.  I had 
wanted to wait and talk it over with you."
     She nodded, chewing slowly, and considering.  "Okay.
Well, I think it's safe to assume that Selene won't let me leave 
without trying at least one last time to make contact with Jack."
     He nodded as well.  Once.  The motion more a jerk
than anything else.  "I know.  I've kind of come to the same
conclusion myself."
     "But you know, . . . you may be able to go, Mulder," 
she said quietly, her eyes also finding other things to focus on 
than the person seated across from her.  "From what we've 
witnessed, Selene's influence appears to extend only to me.  For 
some reason, she seems to think that she needs my help with 
Jack.  But, we don't know for certain that you have to be present 
as a counterpart for him.  I might be able to do this on my own."
     He lifted his head once more, his gaze rueful yet warm.
"Selene may be many things, but she isn't stupid, Scully.  
Although it's true that she hasn't had me walking the floor at
night as she has you, that doesn't necessarily mean that she 
couldn't if she put her mind to it."
     "So then why hasn't she, do you think?" Scully asked 
as she took another bite of apple.
     "I don't know why Selene has chosen to focus solely 
on you," he admitted with a shake of his head.  "But my guess 
is that when you get right down to it, it's fairly simple.  She's 
recognized that she doesn't need to directly influence my 
behavior to get me to stay."
     "How's that?" Scully queried softly.
     "Because she knows I'd never leave without you," he 
said with a small shrug and an even smaller smile.     
     She felt something blossom inside her chest.  "So then--
we're in this together, Mulder?"
     He hesitated for just a sliver of time before quietly
assuring her, "Yes."
     She cocked her head, unable to hold her tongue a 
moment longer.  And putting aside what remained of her
apple, she wiped her fingertips with a napkin before speaking,
feigning nonchalance.
     "Then why don't I *feel* very together?" 
     Mulder looked at her in confusion.  "What do you 
mean?"
     "I mean that I've never felt so lonely when I was with 
you as I do right now," she explained as gently as she could. 
     "Scully--"
     "Mulder, you've tried to shut me out physically in the 
past," she murmured as she watched her fingers neatly fold the 
napkin in her hands into a series of narrow little pleats.  "I can't
even count the times that you've run off on your own when 
you've thought that a situation was particularly strange or 
dangerous.  And even though it's always made me crazy, I 
understood that you did what you did because you were trying 
to protect me."
     Mulder said nothing.  He merely sat, gravely regarding 
her, his elbows on his knees, his coffee cup now cradled in his 
hands.
     "But there have been other times--times like this--
when you've managed to separate yourself from me while 
standing less than an arm's length away."
     She lifted her gaze in time to catch his head dropping
guiltily.  Damn it.  The last thing she wanted to do was add to
the man's burden.  But, he had to made aware of this.  Made to 
know what his actions were doing to her.  And to himself.
     Taking a deep breath, she plunged on.  "And those
times have hurt, Mulder.  Not only me.  But you too."
     "I don't want to hurt you, Scully," he murmured 
hoarsely as he set his drink on the table beside his chair, and
pushed his hand wearily through his hair, his eyes still skittering
away from hers.  "You've got to believe me.  Not ever."
     "I know," she said, her voice hushed and intimate as 
she leaned towards him on the bed.  "I do." 
     He frowned then, his lips tightening in a grimace of
frustration made weightier by sorrow.  When he spoke, she had 
to strain to hear him.
     "But that's all I ever seem to do."
     The self-loathing she heard saturating his words made 
her heart break, and if she believed that he wouldn't thrust her 
away from him in a kind of panic, she would have somehow 
sprouted wings and flown into his arms.  As it was, she scooted 
ponderously forward to perch on the edge of the bed, facing 
him, taking care not to move too abruptly for fear of aggravating 
the area around her ribs.  Mulder's head was bowed once more, 
his elbows still braced on his knees, his fingers furrowed in his 
hair.
     "No," she whispered fiercely, scarcely resisting the 
almost compulsive urge to comb her own fingertips through his
crisp brown locks.  She was close enough now to make such 
things possible.  But she refrained.  "No, that's not true."
     He looked at her again, a horrible semblance of a chuckle
escaping his lips.  "Isn't it?"
     "No," she insisted calmly, resolutely, shaking her head
to emphasize her point.  "That is the furthest thing from the truth."
     "Oh come on, Scully.  Look at us," he muttered, a 
desperate sort of rage oozing through the cracks in his facade.  
"Look at our relationship."
     "What is it that you want me to see?" she asked evenly.
     Casting her a disbelieving stare, he surged to his feet.  
His words spewing now like venom.  "=Us=.  The two of us
together.  I mean--what do we have =really=?  What can I even 
offer you?"
     "Mulder, you don't--"  
     "I'll tell you," he said quickly, cutting her off before she
could even attempt to diffuse the suddenly armed bomb ticking 
away before her.  "The answer is *nothing*, Scully.  Nothing at 
all."
     "That's crazy, Mulder," she told him, her voice low and
steady.  "Relationships aren't like business deals.  You don't
decide to be with someone based on what they have to =offer=
you.  You know that."
     "No," he countered as he paced away from her, his stride
uneven, his hands gesturing with an alarming lack of specificity. 
The restless energy that had impelled him through the ordeal 
of the previous night back again in full force.  "No, I don't.  I 
don't know that."
     Then, he swung back on her all at once, his hands now
coming to rest reluctantly on his waist, his weight shifting 
nervously from hip to hip as he fidgeted before her.
     "But I'll tell you what I do know."
     Scully looked up at him from her seat on the bed.  
She saw the ferocious control he was exerting over himself.
Recognized just how close he was to flying apart.  This man
who regarded her with eyes like a winter sky, bleak and
barren. 
     "What?" she whispered, dreading to hear what she 
understood he needed so desperately to say.
     He merely stood there for a seemingly endless span
of time, gazing down at her, an awful tension rolling off of him, 
stealing the very air from the room.  Like some gross parody of 
the murder that had brought them to this point in the first place.
     "When it comes to you and me, Scully, . . . I might as 
well be poison."
     The idea was so absurd, so utterly without merit, that
Scully had to struggle not to laugh.  But, at the same time, she 
was painfully aware just how far from humorous this all appeared 
to Mulder.  So instead, she only shook her head once more, the
motion slow and sure.  "No."
     He advanced on her, his eyes feverish, his hands
fisted.
     "Think about it," Mulder urged, bending down so 
that his face hovered just above hers, invading her space 
as he had so often in the past.  "Think about what being with 
me has done to you.  Done to your career, your family, your 
health."
     Gently, she stretched out her hand and laid it on
his forearm.  He started at her touch, but didn't pull away.
Still, she could feel his muscles bunched rock hard beneath 
her fingertips, like he was readying himself for flight.  Looking 
up at him, her gaze soft, she assured him, "Nothing that has 
happened to me over the past three years has been your 
fault, Mulder.  Not a single thing."
     That did make him retreat.  He staggered back a
couple of steps.
     "Bullshit," he told her succinctly.  And he turned
from her once more, his hands coming up to cover his face
while he stood swaying from a combination of emotion and
fatigue.  
     Scully rose carefully from the bed to stand behind 
Mulder, studying his back, wishing as she did so that their 
areas of expertise would somehow magically flip-flop.  That 
her partner would suddenly become the forensic pathologist and 
she would be the one who had earned the degree in psychology 
from Oxford.  She just wasn't sure how to proceed; how best to 
help him.  She knew that he was in pain.  That he was dying to 
lash out, and yet had no target but her, the one person he 
absolutely refused to use in that fashion.  However, if he didn't 
let off a little steam one of these minutes, he was going to burst.  
Gnawing on the uninjured half of her lower lip, she considered.  
Hmm.  Perhaps Mulder himself could lead her in the proper 
direction.
     With that in mind, she cautiously asked him, "So what 
do you want to do?"
     She heard him draw in a shaky breath.  "Scully, you
know that I love you . . . more than . . . more than anything.  But
I'm not sure that's enough."
     "Enough for what?" she inquired, already ruing the 
decision to let Mulder dictate the way their confrontation 
should resolve.
     At last, he turned to face her, his arms hanging 
limply at his sides, his expression utterly desolate.  "Enough 
for us to go on like this."
     "What are you saying?" she demanded, her voice 
quiet, yet strong.
     He licked his lips, and took a deep ragged lungful of
air.  "Scully, I can't . . . we can't keep tempting fate.  Every time 
we cheat death we only succeed in loading the odds against 
us for the next time.  Sooner or later,  it's all going to catch up
with one of us.  And I sure as hell don't want it to be you."
     She nodded slowly, pleased to feel a bracing sort of
anger boil at her center, bubbling up.  Spreading out from her 
core to suffuse her through and through.  Its heat potent 
enough to burn away the ache that had been curling throughout 
her body like fog.  The pain that had come from bearing mute 
witness to the sorrow in Mulder's eyes.  "I see.  Seems like you've 
given this a lot of thought, Mulder."
     He only shrugged, his gaze falling away.
     "So I ask you again--have you decided what you 
want to do?" she asked calmly, as if they were talking about the
weather, and not the possible destruction of everything that
defined them.
     "I don't =want= . . ." he began, then hesitated.  She
could see the frustration literally throbbing inside him, seeking
a way to vent, an outlet.  Thrumming and pulsing within him, 
its relentless pressure akin to that of the blood pumping into 
and out of his heart.  "But we can't go on like--"
     "Like what, Mulder?" she challenged swiftly, taking
a step towards him, her eyes flashing.  "Are you saying you 
want us to stop working together?"
     "No!  I mean . . . I don't--"
     "Or do you simply want to stop sleeping with me?"
she inquired softly.
     His mouth opened as if he were going to answer her.  
Then, his eyes awash with misery, his lips squeezed shut once
more, unable to say the words.
     And Scully knew that she had found his weakness.
     Not to mention, a possible way to get them past this.
     "Can you tell me that you don't want me, Mulder?"
     His gaze flickered away from hers again.
     She pressed her advantage.
     "Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you
wouldn't care if we never made love again?" she asked him 
in a whisper, watching his face closely.  "That you wouldn't 
miss me.  Miss what we have."
     He didn't answer her.  Instead, he seemed to sink
further and further into himself.  Shrink.  Almost as if he were 
running from her without ever leaving the room.
     "Would you be able to live the rest of your life
without my touching you again?"
     Gently, almost as if she feared startling him, as if she
thought he might shy like an unbroken horse, she reached out
and ran the back of her hand down the slope of his cheek.  He
shuddered beneath the caress, quivering like a plucked bow 
string, his gaze locked on hers.
     "Do you want to give this up, Mulder?" she queried
softly, a small tender smile on her lips, her anger banished in
the face of his fear.  "Do you want to be the one to kill what we 
have?  Not Selene, not Jack, not the even the Cancerman--but 
you."
     He shook his head, regret shimmering in his hazel
eyes.  "No."
     "Because if you do decide to, you should know 
something.
     "What?"
     "I will fight you," Scully promised him, a brow arching 
to underline her point, her fingertips stealing through his 
tousled hair.  "Tooth and nail, Mulder.  You're not going to get
rid of me easily.  Not if I know that you love me."
     "I do," he whispered, as if the simple statement was
the most damning of confessions.
     Her smile broadened.  Her hand rested against his 
cheek.  "And I love you."
     Stretching up to tiptoe, she kissed him tenderly on 
the corner of his mouth.
     "So why are we having this conversation?" she
asked him whimsically as her hand softly drifted down from his
face to rest instead on his chest.
     Mulder looked down at her, his hands at his sides,
his eyes wide and moist, their expression more than a trifle lost.  
"I don't know what to do."
     Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his middle and 
rested her cheek upon his breast.  She could still feel him 
trembling in her embrace.  "Touch me," she breathed.
     As if in answer to her entreaty, his hands found their
way to her waist.  Yet his hold on her was tentative at best.
     Recognizing this, she said in a husky voice.  "I won't
break, Mulder.  Don't be afraid.  You'd be surprised what I can 
take."
     He chuckled sadly, his hands flexing lightly just above
her hips.  "No.  No, I wouldn't."
     She pressed her lips to the vee of skin exposed by
the neckline of his shirt.  "I want you to feel that you can
turn to me when you're hurting, Mulder," she whispered,
her hands now moving slowly, soothingly over his tense
back and shoulders, her nose nuzzling gently at the base
of his throat.
     His breath escaping on a sigh, Mulder's eyes slid 
shut, his head tilting back just a touch in surrender.  "You're 
hurting too," he reminded her, his voice low.  Hoarse.
     "Not like you," she murmured as her lips trailed
softly up the strong yet vulnerable column of his throat.
"My wounds may be more visible.  But I think yours are more
severe."
     He was calming beneath her tender ministrations.
Not all at once.  But gradually.  Relaxing.  She could feel his 
body unbending ever so slightly as her hands and mouth 
roamed over him, spreading warmth.  "Is that your 
professional opinion, Doctor?" he asked quietly, his eyes
still closed, gripping her waist with a tad more confidence.
     She smiled against his skin as she dotted the line of
his jaw with her kisses.  "Absolutely.  And I know just the
treatment.  For us both."
     "What?"
     "You remember what Rachel said, Mulder," she 
said lightly, her lips still grazing his face, his throat.  "Turn
to each other, not away."
     "You believe in tea leaves now, Scully?"
     "I believe we need to heal each other.  That we're the
only ones who can."
     His lips quirked in a reluctant smile.  He looked down 
at her intently, as if seeking to confirm what her playful tone 
suggested.  "And how do you propose we do that?"
     Scully took a small step back, her eyes never leaving
his.  Mulder stood completely still, waiting to see what she
would do.  Saying nothing, she turned and without sparing
him another glance, walked slowly towards the bed.  Carefully,
she settled herself atop the comforter.
     And looked at him once more.
     The invitation clear.
     "Come here," she requested softly as she reclined
against the pillows, her lashes lowered, her hand outstretched.
     Yet even as she plainly saw the yearning in his eyes,
Mulder hesitated.
     "Scully, . . . I . . .um--," he mumbled, his hands slipping
into his jeans pockets as he stirred with indecision.  "With your
ribs . . . I don't . . ."
     Ah.  So the cat's out of the bag, is it, Mulder, she
silently mused.  Well.  It appeared that sometime during the 
night, the man she loved had gotten a look at the worst of her 
injuries.
     Big deal.
     Time to put things in perspective.
     "It's ugly, isn't it?" she admitted mildly, raising her 
t-shirt to take a peek at the livid bruise, almost as if she herself
had forgotten what it looked like.
     "It isn't--" he began with a frown.
     Scully sighed theatrically, cutting off his protest.  
"You're right.  It is.  I know.  And with that, and . . . these . . ."  
She gestured to her face and neck.  "I can understand why you 
might find it difficult to . . . shall we say--get in the mood."
     Gingerly sitting up, she eyed him pointedly before 
grabbing hold of the hem of her shirt and tugging the garment 
up over her head.
     She wasn't wearing a bra.
     It somehow seemed like the ideal moment to bring that 
fact to Mulder's attention.
     "But even though I may not look my best, Mulder,
I'll make you a promise," she said in a throaty voice, laying back
once more, her hands drifting lazily now over her upper body, the
gesture uncompromisingly sensual.  "You meet me halfway, and
I'll make you forget every bump and bruise."
     "That a fact?" Mulder whispered hoarsely, his fingers
twitching at his sides.
     You've almost got him, Dana, she thought ruefully.
Might as well go for broke.
     Slipping her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts,
she lifted her hips from the bed, and tugged the rest of her
clothes off and away.
     She couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw 
Mulder gulp.
     Lying before him, languidly naked atop the covers,
she murmured with sleepy eyes,  "No, Mulder.  I told you--
that's a promise."
     Taking a deep breath, he inclined his head as if accepting
her bargain.  
     And joined her on the bed.
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Continued in Part XIV

From krasch@delphi.com Wed Oct 30 18:53:37 1996
"At a Loss for Words" (14/?) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!!!!!!!  As many of you know, I
had hoped to have this story done by the season's opener.  Um,
well . . . we've just finished with week four and this pup =still=
hasn't been put to bed.  Blame it on the Case of the Exploding 
Computer (let me just tell you that the disk on which I had backed 
up my stuff proved to be faulty--I had to go the archives to
find my own stories!! =:0), and a rush of real life interference.
Still, I apologize.  I know what a pain this sort of thing can be.

So--Switch from groveling mode . . .

Okay.  Here we go again.  NC-17 warning still in effect.  Hide 
the minors.  As I intimated before, this *should* be the next to 
the last chapter in our little saga.  So, things are winding down.  
If you're missing any parts, please check out the archives before
asking me to mail them.  I *believe* you can find everything up
to this point at the three (or is it four?) sites.  Much applause, by 
the way, to those of you who have taken on the role of archivist.  
You're all doing a bang-up job (believe me, I *know*).  Thanks 
very much for the support thus far.  I really appreciate all the little 
notes and comments.  Meanwhile, back in New Orleans . . . . ;)
*************************************************
     Slipping off his shoes, Mulder eased himself onto the 
bed's soft flowered comforter and contemplated the far softer 
skin of the woman lying beside him.  Naked, save for the dainty
little silver necklace with which he had gifted her seemingly ages 
ago.  Her gaze was locked on his, deepest blue, and dreamy with 
anticipation. 
     God.  It was as if he were suddenly, inexplicably 16
again.
     Horny as hell, but at a loss as to just what exactly 
he should do about it.
     Oh, he understood the mechanics of the situation.
     It was the subtleties that eluded him.  
     How he could even bring himself to touch her when, 
despite her encouragement, he still wasn't entirely convinced that 
he deserved her?  How, with her collection of injuries, could he
ever hope to make love to her without ultimately hurting her 
still more in the process?
     Scully seemed to sense his dilemma.  She looked up
at him with bemused eyes, her vibrant auburn hair spread
with messy abandon on the pillow beneath her head.
     "You might want to start by kissing me," she suggested
dryly, a tiny smile curving her lips.
     He smiled back at her, his expression tender.  Propping
himself on his side, his chin balanced on the heel of his hand, he 
lightly traced the shape of her mouth with the forefinger of his 
free hand.  His eyes focused darkly on his task, he lingered on 
the narrow split in her lower lip, still swollen, but thankfully on 
its way to healing.
     "I'd love to," he murmured as he ever so softly 
brushed from side to side over the wound.  "But, *this* has me
concerned."
     "Don't be," she whispered, turning her head and
pressing a kiss to his caressing finger.  "It'll be all right.  I 
trust you.  You're always gentle with me."
     Resolutely ignoring the little voice inside his head that 
gleefully reminded him just how untrue his partner's calm 
reassurances were, Mulder shifted so that his upper body was 
supported by his elbows.  Taking his time, he lowered his face to 
hers; near enough to feel Scully's breath puffing lightly against 
his cheek, warm and soft.  Just that scant contact was sufficient to 
start his body quickening.  And he found, much to his chagrin, 
that he needed to take a deep breath to steady himself.  Yet despite 
his desire to do far more, in the end, he merely rested his lips 
against her forehead, his hand coming up to cradle the curve of 
her jaw in his palm.  She sighed and wrapped one arm languidly 
around his shoulder, her hand almost surreptitiously massaging 
the back of his neck.  For a moment neither moved.
     "So gentle," she repeated in a hushed voice, her eyes
closing.
     Trying his damnedest to live up to her estimation of him, 
Mulder delicately let his lips drift from her brow, over to her 
uninjured temple, across both eyelids, and down to first one, then 
the other cheek.  Her fingers burrowed in his hair, Scully hummed 
her pleasure a bit unsteadily, her legs beginning to slide restlessly 
upon the comforter.
     "Kiss me," she finally pleaded in a whisper, her lashes
still lowered.
     Now, when all was said and done, Mulder was only human.  
No way could he hold out against the sort of breathless entreaty the
woman beside him had let slip like a siren's song from her absurdly 
inviting lips.  Not when he recognized with a kind of rueful self-
knowledge that at that moment he would willingly hand over a 
decade or two of his life just to feel that sweet mouth melt longingly 
against his once more.
     And so he gave in.
     "Let me know if it's too much," he softly said as he pulled
back slightly to study her flushed face, his lips hovering just a hair's 
breadth above her own.
     "What if I told you I was into excess?" she murmured 
as her eyes flickered open once more to engage his.
     "Then I'd say I'm the luckiest man alive," he replied quietly.  
And slowly, almost chastely, he touched his mouth to hers.
     Eyes closed now as well, he focused every last bit of his 
attention on the woman beneath him, on her reaction to the soft 
moist caress of his lips against hers.  The kiss didn't seem to pain 
her.  Her mouth was warm against his, her lips pliant.  He nuzzled 
her tenderly, carefully, while his fingertips stroked feather light 
along the edges of her face.  For the longest time, they allowed 
themselves to simply explore each other in this fashion.  The 
intimacy compelling, and yet the physicality of the caress no more 
than what might be shared by two nervous virgins.
     At long last, seemingly intent on taking the initiative, 
Scully let her tongue slip out to stroke along his lips seeking entrance.  
Touching gently.  Lapping playfully.  In response, Mulder felt a 
shiver begin somewhere south of his waist and explode up his spine.  
     Oh Christ, Scully.  Cut it out, he silently implored.  
     Not that he wasn't interested.  
     He was.  
     God.  
     He wanted nothing more than to deepen the kiss.  To 
sweep inside her luscious mouth and trace its contours with his 
tongue.  To crush his lips to hers.  But, at the same time, he was 
afraid.  Worried that if he got caught up in the moment, if he allowed
himself to get lost in the passion this woman so effortlessly inspired, 
he wouldn't be able to judge the exact limits of her tolerance.  At 
that instant, he feared nothing more than the sight of her shrinking 
from him in pain.  To see those lovely eyes shadow with reproach 
or mistrust.
     No.  That was a sight guaranteed to impel him across
the flagstone courtyard on his hands and knees in search of his 
ammunition clip, self-destruction on his mind.
     So, rather than chance it and pursue what had been up 
to that point an exquisite if tentative seduction, he pulled away.
     Only to find that Scully wouldn't let him go.
     "Don't tease me, Mulder," she chided in a soft voice as 
her arms locked steadfastly around the back of his neck.
     "I'm not--"
     "You are," she murmured, her eyes gazing up at him
calmly, but not coolly.  "And I had expected more from you 
somehow."
     Despite the whimsical lilt to her voice, Mulder still
felt his heart clench almost reflexively with concern.  "What do
you mean?"
     She stretched up and nibbled on his chin as she answered. 
Light teasing little bites.  Her hands smoothed firmly across his 
shoulders, down his upper arms.  "You know what you do to me.  
How much I want you . . . want this.  And yet you refuse to give 
it to me."
     The sharp yet gentle nip of her teeth against his skin
zapped him like a quiver full of tiny lightning bolts, shooting 
small sparks of electricity through his blood stream, their effect 
ultimately extending to his groin.  Making him jump.  Harden.  
Yearn.  Gradually, very nearly without him noticing at all, he could 
sense his worries ebbing as his need increased.
     "That right?" he whispered, his voice husky, his eyes
sliding shut.
     "Yes, that's right," she rejoined with mock tartness as 
her lips found a particularly sensitive area on the underside 
of his chin and brushed against it, her tongue slipping forth once 
more to taste his skin.  "And I think it's completely unfair.  You're 
taking advantage of me."
     "If you didn't want me to take advantage of you, you
probably shouldn't have treated me to that little striptease earlier."
     "I thought you liked that," she murmured against his throat.
     "I *loved* that," he corrected with a growl, as his hands 
tightened unthinkingly in her hair.  "But a man can only take so 
much."
     "And I do so love testing your limits, Agent Mulder."
     "You do indeed, Agent Scully.  You do indeed."
     Sighing, Mulder arched his neck as Scully's mouth 
now trailed down from his jaw to press a series of tender kisses 
on the slope leading to his shoulder.  His hands threaded their way 
through her hair, sifting the silky strands through his fingertips.
     "Don't be afraid to test mine, Mulder," she whispered after
a time, the words spoken just before she nuzzled the slight indentation
at the base of his throat with her nose.
     "What?" 
     She looked up at him with a smile in her eyes, her fingers 
lightly tracing the firm line of his jaw.  "I said 'don't be afraid'.  After 
all, when you stop to think about it, so little of me is really even hurt."
     "Ah, but Scully--there is so little of you to begin with."
     She slugged him.
     He chuckled, slowly but surely feeling better.
     "I'll have you know that I could point out to you any 
number of places on my body that can take anything you have to
dish out."
     "Anything?"
     "Try me."
     Mulder arched a brow.  "Okay.  Maybe I will."
     The corners of her mouth tilted upwards.
     "But just to be on the safe side, why don't you go ahead 
and show me the places you have in mind," he suggested, heat 
shimmering beneath the surface of his mildly spoken words.
     Scully pursed her lips thoughtfully.  Then, she stretched
with care atop the covers; the move sinuous, vaguely feline, 
amusement glowing in her eyes.
     "Well . . . *here* for example," she murmured, turning
her chin and reaching up to push aside a fall of auburn hair,
baring her ear.
     "Right here?" Mulder asked quietly, tracing the delicate
little whorls, the velvety lobe with a gentle finger.
     "Ohhh. . . . Yeah.  There."
     "Let's see."  And bending his head, he nibbled his way 
around the curve of her ear.  His lips and tongue traced the path 
as well, soothing away any sting his teeth might have provoked.  
Scully squirmed beneath him, her hands tightening on his biceps.
     "Okay?" he inquired after he had coaxed a soft rough 
groan from the lips of the woman beside him, his voice low and 
husky.
     "Hmm . . . Better than okay."
     And he smiled, his face buried in her hair, thinking that
he just might survive their vacation after all.
     "Where else?" he asked, pulling back to look at her, a
shock of hair falling forward onto his forehead.
     Scully gazed up at him, her eyes cloudy with passion, and
wordlessly offered him the inside of her forearm.  Mulder lightly
ran his index finger up the smooth pale flesh.  Goosebumps rose
in its wake.  For some reason, her obvious sensitivity to him, to his 
touch, pleased him beyond all reason.
     Bringing her hand to the side of his head, he slowly kissed
his way along the tender ivory skin.  Dragging his lips over her, open 
and warm.  Breathing in her scent.  The subtle clean blend of soap
and skin he had come to associate solely with her.  The smell he knew 
without question would somehow only become diluted, more common
perhaps, were it to be enhanced by one of those department store
perfumes.
     Flicking out his tongue to lave the bend of her elbow,
Mulder stole a glance at Scully.  She was watching him.  Her eyes
huge and luminous.  Her gaze strangely solemn, despite the small
tilt of her lips.
     "What?" he queried.
     She lifted the hand he had raised in his own, and softly 
caressed the curve of his face.  Glided it slowly from his temple 
down to his chin, her eyes never leaving his.
     "I love you," she told him, the stark simplicity of the 
statement failing to rob it of any of its power.
     God.
     It was at times such as these that Mulder most felt like a
gawky adolescent.  Most like the terribly shy boy he once had been.
The outcast.  The supposedly self-sufficient loner he had 
metamorphosed into with the onset of adulthood.  Ironic really 
that he should flashback to those personas, those solitary existences, 
at those moments when he was most assured that he was, in fact, no 
longer alone.
     That he had her.
     That she loved him without reservation.  Without 
restriction.  That she would continue to love him when he
screwed up.  When  he was selfish.  Or merely obtuse.  That
she placed him first.  Above all else.
     Even herself.
     And that, in the end, was what so unmanned him.
     After all, when weighed against Dana Katherine Scully, 
who the hell was he?
     Yet he couldn't express that to her just then.  Not with 
the pitiful tangle his emotions were in.  Not when he had so much 
to say to her already.  Words of apology and need and praise, and 
yes--of love. 
     So instead, he knew, with more than a touch of regret, 
that once more he was going to have to rely on actions.
     Trusting that Scully would astutely fill in the blanks.
     Just like always.
     Bowing his head, his lips claimed hers, moving over
them with a force, an urgency he had not previously shown.
His tongue plunged into her mouth, smoothing over her
teeth, rubbing along her own tongue almost feverishly now.
His former reticence fading into memory.
     "Where else, Scully?" he muttered after finally pulling 
away from the kiss, choosing instead to nuzzle her cheek, her 
brow.  "Tell me.  I want to please you.  Where else do you 
want me to touch you?"
     "You know," she whispered, her eyes sliding shut, her
hands delving beneath his shirt to run up the length of his back.
Her fingers kneading his muscles, flexing and releasing mindlessly.
     "What do I know?"
     "How to touch me," she breathed into his ear.  "You've
always known, Mulder.  Since the very first time."
     "But with--"
     "No," she said softly, her eyes fluttering open once more, 
her gaze pinning him.  "Now is no different from any other time.  
It's the same.  I'm the same."
     She was wrong.  Things had changed.  They were always
changing.  And no amount of wishful thinking could alter the course.  
Could freeze that one perfect moment, preserving it like a butterfly 
in a bell jar.
     Mulder knew all about change.  All about the manner in 
which existence could turn on its side like a carnival ride, prompting 
the same sort of squeals, the same type of fearful exhilaration.  
     The same stomach clenching nausea.
     Hell.  That had been the sensation he had suffered when 
his sister had been taken.  Stolen away like an unsuspecting tourist's 
wallet.  When his family had disintegrated around him, his parents' 
stony silence ringing in his ears.  Deafening him.  The same response
that had arisen in him like bile on that final day when Phoebe had, 
without explanation or cause, turned and walked away.  Leaving him 
with only a crater where his heart used to be, an emptiness to which 
he had gradually become resigned.
     After all, he had his work.  His quest.  And if that journey 
was sometimes lonely, if he felt occasionally abandoned or forsaken. . .
     Well, there were worse things.
     Weren't there? 
     And yet he had learned, kicking and screaming his way
through the lesson, that change didn't necessarily have to be 
bad.
     Sometimes, when you least expected it, change could prove 
to be your salvation.  A woman could wander into your life, no more 
suspecting of what was to occur than you.  And . . . *WHAM*.  
Nothing was as it once had been.  You could find that, despite a 
boat load of differences --your points of views, your habits--you 
meshed seamlessly.  You could discover that regardless of how 
many times she stuck a pin in that oddly over-inflated ego of 
yours, you still came back to her.  Bringing for her perusal, her 
judgment, theory after implausible theory, daring her to prove you 
wrong.  Willing her to take you on, not only for the challenge, the 
sheer intellectual thrill to be had; but because in so doing, in 
sharing that with her, she made you better, sharper, wiser.  More 
like the kind of agent--the kind of man--you had always wanted to 
be.
     The kind of man he swore he was going to be for her.
     Now.  This very minute.
     "So you're telling me that you're the same woman who 
wore that wicked garter belt the other night?" he questioned softly, 
his lips brushing with infinite care over the livid assortment of 
bruises dotting her throat.
     Scully chuckled weakly, her hands caressing his back in
long uneven strokes.  "Yeah.  That was me."
     "She was pretty hot."
     "You think so?"
     "I know so," he murmured, sliding down her body to
take one tight pink nipple into his mouth.  Slipping his tongue over
the nubbin, nibbling gently on it.  Suckling lightly, teasingly.  
His fingers lightly rolling the other swollen peak.  Rubbing it 
between his thumb and forefinger.  All the while, sharply attuned 
to the shifts and sighs of the woman beneath him.  Delighting, 
when he felt her hook one leg over his hip, almost as if she were 
trying to crawl inside him.
     "Did you want me to touch you there, Scully?" he asked
when he had lavished both breasts with the same sort of attention.
Even as he spoke, his hand still trailing over them, his fingertips 
gliding over her softness, her roundness.
     "Yes," she whispered, her hands now cupping his behind,
squeezing it.  
     "What about here?"  His lips kissed a slow path down her 
middle, skirting the lurid puncture marring the pale even spacing 
of her ribs, his weight balanced carefully over her so as not to put 
any undue pressure on her injuries.
     She shifted with a kind of erotic agitation, her breath
echoing her disquiet.
     "Mulder . . ."
     "Hmm?" he hummed, his tongue dipping into the tiny
indentation of her navel, his hand stroking with urgency along 
her now quivering thigh.
     "No . . . wait . . ."
     "Wait?" he echoed, gliding his nose back and forth, just 
below the slight curve of her belly.  That exquisitely tender patch 
of skin where the smallest caress can make a woman jump, twitch.
     Whimper.
     Surrender.
     "But Scully, you told me that you didn't want to have to 
wait,"  he reminded her between soft damp kisses aimed just above 
the nest of curls guarding the most sensitive, most private portion 
of her anatomy.
     "I know . . . but . . ."  Her voice was high and small, her
eyes scrunched shut, her fingers clamped tightly on his shoulders.
     "You said you didn't want to be teased," he murmured 
with a small smile as settled himself between her legs, sensing 
with satisfaction the need slowly consuming the woman beneath 
him.  Swallowing her whole.  "You asked me not to."
     "Yes . . . yes.  But, Mulder . . ."  Her head was tilted 
back upon the pillow so that her neck was curved and vulnerable.
Her breath escaping in a shaky series of tiny little gasps, she wound
her fingers through his hair.
     "Of course, if you've changed your mind, I'd be happy 
to oblige," he told her quietly as he slid his arms beneath her
knees.  "After all, I've always enjoyed . . . keeping you on
edge."
     And curling his arms around her thighs, he spread her
open with his thumbs.
     And lowered his mouth to her.  Open.  Hot.  Wet.
     Scully cried out, sobbing inarticulate sounds of longing,
and arched up off the bed.  For a moment, Mulder feared that she 
might have injured herself with the sudden whiplash motion.  But 
when, after a time, she did no more than moan with the feel of his
tongue sweeping slowly over that keenly sensitive bundle of nerves
hidden in the folds of her body, he reasoned that she had thankfully
managed to keep herself from harm.
     "Is this what you want, Scully?" he muttered against her
core, his voice so low, so roughened by his own rapidly escalating
desire that he feared she might not be able to understand him.  To
make sense of his words.  "Should I make it last?  Take it nice and 
slow.  Or do you want it now?  Do you want me to see just how 
quickly I can take you over the edge?"
     Not waiting for her reply, he bent his head once more, his
lips finding her and holding her captive.  Sucking on the tiny swollen
bud like a nipple.
     She screamed, the sound not one of pain, and thrashed upon
the mattress, tightening her legs around his shoulders.
     "Tell me what you want, Scully," he whispered once more,
his teeth testing the resilient flesh of her inner thigh.  "Tell me, and
I'll give it to you.  I swear it."
     Even as his tongue stroked over her once more, he 
wondered if perhaps he had driven her past the point of speech.  
Had urged her into a place of pure sensation, where language 
had ceased to exist.  To that point, his queries, his coaxing had 
earned him nothing but still more ragged moans, more breathy 
little mewls.
     Not that they were unwelcome.
     There were days when he could sit at his desk at the J. Edgar
Hoover building and bring himself to painful readiness merely by
thinking about the sounds torn from the ever so reserved Agent Scully 
as she twisted in the grip of passion.
     However, in this particular instance, they just didn't give 
him much direction.
     Then, all at once, he realized that the hushed murmurs 
emanating from her lips were actually words.  Three, to be exact.  
Spoken over and over again.  The order sometimes jumbled, but 
the meaning unmistakable.
     "You.  I want you . . .you . . . I want . . . I want . . ."
     Raising himself onto his elbows, he peered up at her.  "What?
What do you want from me?"
     She looked back at him, her gaze nearly feverish, her hands
reaching for him.  He met her halfway, and twined his fingers with
hers, holding on tight.  Panting as if she had just finished a marathon, 
Scully licked her lips, then spoke.  Her whisper like skin sliding over 
silken sheets.
     "I want you naked, Mulder.  I want you naked . . . beneath me
 . . . inside me . . . I want to feel you moving.  Pushing and stroking, 
harder and faster, . . . sobbing with it, groaning . . . until you can't 
take anymore . . . until neither of us can . . ."
     Shit, if you keep talking like that, Scully, that 'can't take 
anymore' part is going to come real soon-far too soon, he thought 
with an almost torturous rush of arousal.
     Oh Christ.
     "Are you sure?" he queried when he was certain he could
speak without his voice cracking.  "Are you sure you're not going to
hurt yourself?"
     She slowly nodded.
     Well.  If she was sure . . .
     His eyes holding hers for a beat longer, he nodded as well.
     And sat back on his heels to remove first his shirt.  Scully's 
legs were sprawled on either side of him as she watched him disrobe, 
the heat of her stare very nearly convincing him that his skin had 
suddenly turned flammable.
     Within minutes, the rest of his clothes were shed as well, 
puddled on the floor beside the bed.   That done, Mulder found his
way up to the headboard, alongside where Scully rested against 
the pillows.  And wrapping his hand around the nape of her neck, 
he pulled her to him for a long slow deep kiss.
     "I love you," he said, his forehead flush against hers, his
hand still curled around the back of her neck.  "And I'm yours for
whatever you want, whatever you need.  Take it from me.  I want 
you to have it."
     Upon hearing that, it appeared for just a second that her 
eyes misted, grew softer.  Then, her lips curved.  And she whimsically 
questioned him, her voice husky in the extreme.  "Are you telling 
me that you're my Boy Toy, Mulder?"
     "I'm your slave."
     "No, you're not."
     "Try me."
     She smiled still more at hearing her own words volleyed
back at her.  And as Mulder had suspected she would, apparently 
decided that two could play at that game.
     "Okay.  Maybe I will."
     With that, she gently pushed him down onto his back, so
that he rested atop the pillows which had previously cushioned her,
and carefully scooted to just even with his hip.  Stretching out her
hand, she lightly drew her fingertips up his now pulsing erection.
     Mulder moaned helplessly, his face closing on a grimace 
of pleasure, his hips lifting to meet her caress.
     Pleading for it.
     "So what exactly are a slave's duties?" she murmured as 
she played with him.  Grasping him in her small hand.  Squeezing.
Stroking along his hardness.  Swirling her index finger over his
tip, smearing in a tight little circle the moisture that had escaped 
from him unbidden.
     Stop, stop, stop, he wanted to scream.  God, it was all he 
could do not to grab her hands.  To push them away from him with
a kind of frantic desperation.  Not that he really wanted her to stop.  
Not at any time within the next millennium.  But, if she didn't, there
was no way in hell he was going to be able to hang on.  Never.  Not 
with the best will in the world.
     "I think . . ." he began, then paused when his train of thought
derailed.  "Um . . . I think . . that's your decision."
     "Mine?" she queried innocently as she at long last ceased
her torment and cautiously straddled his lean hips.  
     "Yeah," Mulder nearly groaned as he felt her descend over 
him.  Not taking him in.  Not yet.  Just flowing over him.  Hot and 
sweet and wet.  Oh God, . . . so wet.  So ready for him.  "Yours."
     "Oh, that's right," she whispered as she leaned forward and
balanced herself with her hands against his chest.  Lifting up just a 
touch, she rubbed over him.  Root to tip.  Slowly.  Slick as butter 
and hot as flame itself.  
     Oh Jesus.
     He didn't know about the rest of her, but there was certainly
nothing wrong with the small of her back.  It undulated over his 
rigid length with all the flexibility of a slinky. 
     She smiled at him, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lush lashes
hiding her expression.  "This is all about me, right?"
     Well, it was supposed to be.  But at that moment, when 
the woman he loved was moving that round little bottom of hers
in a steady wicked rhythm, her breasts bobbing in time, Mulder 
wondered if indeed that sort of thing was written in stone.
     But, in the end, he answered her as he thought he ought.
     "Yes."
     To his surprise, Scully shook her head.
     "You're wrong."
     And with that, she raised up onto her knees and gently
guided him inside her.  
     Slowly
          Slowly
               Slowly 
                    Slowly 
                         Slowly she sunk
down on top of him, her lower lip seized by her teeth as if to
hold back still more of those lovely little sounds he had come to
crave.
     For his part, Mulder had no such self-control.  He could 
only moan his ecstasy, his eyes drooping shut, his mouth pulled 
tight in a rictus of pleasure.
     For a moment, neither moved.  Scully sat absolutely still
atop him, like a rider getting used to an unaccustomed mount.
Her fingertips lazily drew patterns on his midriff while her eyes 
bored down into his.
     "You're wrong," she repeated softly after a time.  Her words
not triumphant or challenging, merely a statement of fact.  "Regardless 
of what position we try or what game we play, *this* is never about 
only one or the other of us."
     "I . . ."
      "Mulder, you and I are bound together in ways I won't even
pretend to understand," she told him, her gaze almost unnervingly 
tender.  "I could no more 'take' this from you, than you could from
me."
     Still sheathing him tightly within her slender body, she 
carefully leaned forward and kissed him gently upon the lips.
     "This should never be about making amends, Mulder," she
said, eerily picking up on his errant musings, his secret motivations.
Her eyes so soft now as they regarded him, so blue.  "This should 
be about making love.  Always."
     A terribly unwelcome lump was forming in his throat.
One that blocked all those words, all those things Mulder swore he 
would one day say.  Even if it took him a lifetime.
     So instead, he nodded.  The gesture feeling to him horribly
inadequate.
     Scully didn't seem to mind.  She smiled her most beautiful
smile at him, the split in her lip not hindering her one bit.
     "Together, Mulder?"
     "Together."
     And keeping her eyes trained on his, Scully began to move.
Up until he nearly slid free from her body.  Then, down once more.  
     The pace she set was leisurely.  Due in part, Mulder was 
certain, to her injuries.  And yet, he also got the sense as their hands 
found each other, and fingers woven, held on tight, that the tempo 
Scully maintained had nothing at all to do with the speed at which 
she hoped to reach gratification.
     Instead, it appeared to him that she simply didn't want 
their union to end.  That this particular coupling seemed to 
symbolize so much more--passion certainly, but forgiveness, and 
acceptance, and trust, and sacrifice, and celebration, and dozens 
of other components that had all somehow gotten drawn into the 
mix.
     He felt it too.  And knew, as their breath grew more 
belabored and sweat oozed forth to dot their brows, that the 
outcome would be devastating.
     In the best possible way.
     So he stayed with her.  Focused on her.  Breathed with
her.  Their hands locked.  Their bodies straining.  Scully's lovely
breasts gently bouncing and swaying, her necklace swinging 
between them.  The mere sight begging him to release her small 
hands and capture those soft mounds of flesh instead.  But he 
refrained.
     Or at least, compromised.
     Stretching forward, he sucked one hard pointed nipple 
into his mouth and tantalized it.  His lips and teeth and tongue intent 
on wringing more of those voluptuous sounds from the woman sitting 
astride him, rising and falling like a piston.  He succeeded.  And a 
stream of breathy entreaties poured from her lips, drenching him
like a gentle spring rain.
     At long last he let her slip free.  He couldn't concentrate
anymore.  Not enough to make it good for her.  Not when everything 
he had was fixated on the hot moist slide of their lower bodies.  On the 
ever-increasing friction.  The speed.  The angle.  The way in which
he was positive he was going to split apart.  To helplessly rip in two 
inside her; he felt that hard, that swollen, that out of control.  
     Leaning forward now so that their linked hands were 
braced upon his chest, Scully increased the rhythm, her hips pumping 
over his with escalating urgency.  Her hair falling forward like a 
silken drapery, hiding her from view.
     But Mulder wanted to see her.  To witness the expression
on her face at the moment of her release.  So, finally untangling 
their fingers, he cradled her face in his hands and pulled it close to
his own.
     Sweat slicking their bodies now, he studied her eyes, 
sapphire blue, and so sweetly unfocused.  She looked right back at
him, her gaze unwavering, her body drawing tight.  Arching and 
releasing almost mindlessly, readying itself for climax.
     Just like his.
     Mulder surged his hips up to meet hers, all caution 
forgotten as slap after slap their groins met, then parted.
     "Scully?" he queried hoarsely, no more words necessary.
     "Yeah," she panted breathlessly.  "Yeah."
     And rocking fast, furiously, desperately, he drove into her.
Until finally he stiffened, the part of his body buried inside her
leaping with its surrender, ripping apart perception, sundering
his senses.  The shout that issued from his mouth to mark the 
moment starting gravelly low; as if strangled somehow.  Ending,
by contrast, with a whimper, a weak needy sort of sound he had 
never before heard coming from his lips.
     For her part, Scully suddenly arched like a slender ivory
bow, her head tipped back so that her chin pointed skywards, her
hair flying, her eyes shut like fringed curtains.  Her small frame 
quivered as if shock waves were rippling through it.  Her faint 
languorous cries like watercolors made aural.  And Mulder
could feel the flutter of her soft inner muscles pulsing against
that part of him embedded in her still.  Milking him.  Draining
him, even as their union filled him with something entirely new
and far more precious.
     And in that moment it seemed as if creation itself were 
holding its breath.  As if the image of Scully drawn taut in ecstasy 
above him, the curve of her back equal in sheer artistry to 
anything the Louvre might have to offer, was suspended there for
all time.
     Still, mesmerized as Mulder was by the sight of her before 
him, flushed and unspeakably lovely in her arousal, after a breath
or two, he unexpectedly found his eyes lured to the shiny silver charm
dangling from her neck.  Swaying.  Glinting in the light leaking
into the chamber from outside.
     The tiny woman riding the moon, her arms braced against 
it; her eyes lifted to the stars, her lips curled in a smile.  A look of
near rapture transforming her features.
     La Lune Argentine.
     And in that instant, she reminded him of Scully.
     Yet, oddly enough, the notion didn't frighten him.  Mulder
hadn't once thought of Selene Broussard and her captain since
joining Scully on the big brass bed.  And now, now that Scully
had gracefully folded over onto his chest, her slight limp weight 
nestled against him in total surrender, utter trust, he found
himself musing that perhaps their crafty ghost did not, in fact, 
have the upper hand as he had once believed.
     True, she and her kind might possess the ability to 
manipulate him and the woman cradled in his arms.
     But not control them.  Not completely.
     Because to do that, she and Jack would have to cleave 
the bond he and Scully shared.  Shred it.
     Scully sighed against his throat, her body laying lax
against his, her cheek settled in the space between his ear and
shoulder.
     "I love you, Mulder," she whispered, too tired at that
point to even lift her head and look him in the eye.
     He kissed her brow.
     "Every minute of every day, Scully," he murmured with 
his eyes closed, his head resting against hers, their hair entwined.  
"With every breath, every heartbeat."
     He felt her press a soft kiss to his throat, and tightened
his arms around her. 
     Poor Selene, he mused, rocking Scully gently in his 
embrace.  She had no idea what she was up against.
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Continued in Chapter 15

From krasch3251@aol.com Mon Nov 25 03:16:06 1996
"At a Loss for Words" (15/15) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Hi!  I don't mean to confuse anyone, but I'm posting this on AOL
even though my main server is still Delphi.  *sigh*  For some
reason, my newsgroup access on the big "D" is royally screwed
up.  I haven't been able to log on to it for two weeks now.

Thank God for that handy AOL back-up.  :)  

So, if you're thinking of dropping me a line <Karen says with
greedy anticipation>, please do so at the Delphi address.  I'm
trying not to use this secondary account any more than is necessary.

Okay.  Wow.  I think this is it.  Barring unforeseen circumstances, 
this should be the final chapter of Mulder & Scully's little escapade
in New Orleans.  I hope you guys have enjoyed it.  Many thanks to 
everyone who took the time to drop me little nudge notes as this
progressed.  I honestly never intended for the story to run so long 
or take so long to post.  And I learned a valuable lesson.  Never 
=ever= do the post-as-you-go thing again.

Too much pressure. :)

All official disclaimers in the intro.  This is just story.
**************************************************

     "Scully, I want you to tie me up."
     "*Now?*"
     Dana Scully crossed from the bathroom doorway where
she stood framed, and strolled to where her partner was seated 
on the edge of the bed, clad in a pair of black jeans and a faded blue
T-shirt, his brow furrowed with intensity.
     "But, Mulder," she murmured with a smile as she came
to a halt between his splayed legs, her fingertips reaching out to 
drift lazily through his hair.  "I don't think we have enough time 
to do it *properly*."
     Mulder gazed up at her, a reluctant smile of his own
tugging at his mouth, his hands finding their way to the swell of 
her hip.  He flexed them there lightly against the soft gray fabric of 
her sweat shorts, seemingly enjoying the firm yet pliant feel of her 
body flowing beneath his fingertips.
     "And there are some things I absolutely refuse to rush," 
she teased just before pressing her lips to his forehead.
     "You know, until recently I had always thought of you as 
such a good girl," he commented with dry humor as his palms slid 
slowly up and down her sides.
     "Disappointed?" she drawled, her hands resting on his
shoulders.
     "What, are you nuts?" he growled as he gently pulled down
her head for a long leisurely kiss.
     "Don't start something you can't finish, Mulder," she
whispered breathlessly when their lips had parted.
     His eyes glinted with a hint of the devil.  "What time is 
it?"
     She checked her watch and cocked a brow.  "Nearly 
six."
     He grimaced, then sighed his disappointment.
     She chuckled.
     Sorry, Mulder, Scully thought wryly.  But, time does tend
to fly when you're having . . . fun.  
     Her silent use of that woefully inadequate word brought 
a bemused twist to her lips.  *Fun*, Dana, she wordlessly challenged 
herself.  True, she had more than enjoyed the past several hours.  The 
resulting collection of aches and pains currently  filtering through 
her already battered body served as a testament to the enthusiasm with 
which she had thrown herself into the afternoon's activities.  Yet to 
look at what she and Mulder had shared as mere recreation seemed 
to her way of thinking almost a kind of blasphemy.
     After all, there was sex.
     And then, there was making love.
     But as lovely as the experience had been, as much as she
longed to return to lying contentedly in the arms of the man before 
her.  Sheltered there, secure and drowsy and utterly replete.  The two 
of them had other considerations.
     Because the sun had begun its slow yet inevitable slide towards
the horizon, night falling right along with it.  Soon, Selene would be 
venturing forth once more, in search of her captain.
     And the two people she planned to use to that end needed to 
prepare.
     "I'm serious, you know," Mulder said quietly, holding Scully
in place before him when she started to cross away.
     "About my tying you up?" she queried, her hands smoothing
over his upper arms as if to soothe him.
     "Yes," he said, tugging her down beside him on the bed.
When she started to voice her protest, he stopped her before she
could utter a word.  "Listen to me, Scully.  It makes sense."
     Very little about this entire experience makes sense,
Mulder, she yearned to retort.  Yet, they didn't have time to argue.  
If they had ever needed to present a united front, this was certainly it. 

Resolutely pressing her lips together, Scully held her peace and let 
her partner continue.
     "Selene wants the two of us together," he said, his voice 
calm and controlled, his hand setting lightly on her thigh.  "We know 
that.  She believes that she needs us to communicate with Jack.  But 
there's nothing that says that any sort of physical contact needs to 
take place.  Nothing that dictates that we have to in any way be 
touching for this plan of hers to succeed."
     "So you want me to restrain you so we don't have a repeat
of the other night," Scully surmised softly.
     Mulder nodded, his expression darkening.  "Scully, much 
as I hate to say this--I just don't trust myself to be strong enough to 
do it on my own."
     "Mulder--"
     "And I don't know what I would do if something like that
happened again."
     Scully had an inkling.  And it wasn't pretty.
     Thus, much as it pained her to resort to something as
extreme as lashing the man she loved to a piece of furniture, she 
reluctantly agreed that in this instance it was perhaps the wisest thing 
to do.
     "All right, Mulder.  If you're sure," she murmured with a 
quick nod.  "We'll play it your way.  So, where do you want be for 
this?"
     He shrugged and looked around the room for inspiration.
"I don't know.  We should probably secure me to something I can't 
drag around.  Um . . . Well, . . I suppose the *bed* is our best bet."
     She had to chew on the inside of her cheek to keep from 
smiling at the direction in which their conversation seemed intent on
heading.  Hmm, interesting how they had first discussed this topic
with her being the one fixed in place atop a mattress.
     Ah, well.  Either arrangement held promise.
     "You want me to tie you to the bed?"
     "Not exactly standard Bureau procedure, is it?" Mulder said 
with a grin, his brows lifting a tad sheepishly.  "But can you think of 
a better idea?"
     "Yeah, but I'm not sure this is the time," she offered with
a suggestive arch of her own brow.
     "Oh, don't hold back now, Agent Scully," he urged in a low
rough voice.  One intimate enough and arousing enough to very
nearly make her forget the rather serious topic that had started their 
discussion in the first place.  "You know how much I value your 
opinion."
     "Let's just say that the next time I tie you to a bed, I promise
it won't have anything at all to do with ghostbusting," she murmured
in a husky voice.
     "Who you gonna call, Scully?" Mulder countered softly, his
eyes twinkling at her.
     "My name, Mulder," she purred, her hand stretching forth 
to caress the side of his face.  "My name."
     For a moment, they just sat smiling at each other.  This 
is absurd, Scully thought with a touch of bemusement.  We shouldn't 
be behaving like this.  After all, the past few days had been difficult.  
Fraught with danger and mishap.  She had almost died.  That 
tragedy nearly having come at the hands of the man beside her.
     And yet, despite such knowledge, she just simply couldn't 
muster the appropriate fear, the proper sort of dread.
     Strangely enough, Mulder's mood seemed to reflect her 
own.
     "Does this seem at all odd to you?" she finally queried
softly.
     "What?" he parried with a quirk of his lips.  "Our being 
on vacation?  Our getting ready to do battle with a ghost?  Or
our looking at my being tied to a bed as a viable defense against
things that go bump in the night?"
     Scully smiled, then shook her head.  "None of it.  All of
it.  I don't know. . . . It's just . . . it seems that given what we've 
been through lately, I should be more worried about this than I am."
     "You're not afraid?" Mulder asked her quietly.
     She considered for a moment, then smiled once more.
"No.  Isn't that weird?"
     He laughed shortly, the sound more a grunt than a chuckle.  
"No more than anything else, I suppose."
     Her smile continued.
     "But, I know you mean," he ventured after a instant.  "I kind
of feel the same way.  And I'm not sure why."
     His eyes dropping from hers, Mulder reached out and 
took Scully's hand in his, cradling it carefully.  "I've been so crazy 
the last couple of days.  Feeling . . . out of control.  What with you, 
and my own . . . problems, I got . . . lost.  You know?  Off balance."
     She looked at him, her gaze gentle with understanding.
"I know."
     He shrugged and took a deep breath.  "But I think maybe 
that's past.  At least . . . I hope it is."  
     Scully tightened her fingers around his.  "Me too."
     Mulder just studied the woman sitting next to him for 
a moment, his affection for her naked in his regard.  "But you know 
what I find really weird, Scully?"
     "What?"
     "Your accepting this whole thing.  I mean . . . ghosts,
possession--does all this mean that we're going to have to find a new
skeptic to balance out all *our* crazy theories?"
     She narrowed her eyes at him.  "Three's a crowd, Mulder."
     He grinned.
     "No," she said an instant later, dropping her playful facade 
of annoyance, and searching for the words that would best explain to
her partner her reasons for suddenly believing in the unbelievable.  
"No, don't worry.  I'm not jumping over to your side of the fence just 
yet.  But, I can't and I =won't= deny hard evidence.  And even though 
you and I may not have anything tangible to hold on to with all this, we 
do have our own experiences, our own memories of what went on inside 
our heads.  Now, I don't know about you.  But, I =know= that I didn't
imagine all those things I told you about.  The images, the emotions--"
     He nodded, his eyes grave.  "I know.  Neither did I."
     She smiled bittersweetly.  "I don't doubt it."
     "So if we concede the reality of those experiences," she 
continued, "then what do we look to as an explanation for them?  
How do we rationalize my seeing you as Jacques LeFevre before I
had ever even known what the man had looked like?"
     "Or my recognizing the mystery woman I mistook you for
as Selene Broussard," Mulder murmured quietly, his focus now on 
their clasped hands.
     Scully nodded.  "Exactly."
     They sat quietly for a moment.
     "So, you're okay with this?" he queried after a time, his 
fingertips lightly caressing her palm.
     She chuckled ruefully.  "Oh, I don't know.  'Okay' may be a 
bit overly optimistic."
     He smiled, his hand tightening over hers once more.
     "But I'll survive," she assured him softly.
     "Yes, you will," he said in a low, certain voice.
     The words a promise.
     And with that, and a quick hard kiss on the forehead of
the woman beside him, Mulder rose from the bed in search of 
something with which to bind his wrists.
***************************************************
     "You know, Scully--I had actually =liked= this tie."
     "Think of it as having been sacrificed for a good cause."
     "All right.  But what about this other one?"
     "*That*, Mulder, is more like a mercy killing."
     Fox Mulder glared up at the petite auburn-haired woman
before him with mock aggravation, and attempted for perhaps the
tenth time to free himself from the restraints securing him to the 
headboard of the room's wide brass bed.
     The restraints formerly known as two of his silk neckties.
     He wasn't really interested in pulling free.  Rather his goal
was to make certain that such escape was impossible.  He planned on
taking no chances.
     Not with the life of the woman looking down at him, concern 
creasing her brow.
     "Are you sure you're okay?" she queried softly as she 
crossed to sit on the bed, even with his waist, her hand stretching 
out to rest gently on his chest.  "Are you comfortable?  Do you
need anything?"
     He smiled up at her from where he rested against an
impressively plump mound of pillows, and let his arms fall again
to frame his head.  "I told you, Scully.  I'm fine.  I was just making
sure.  That's all."
     "Well, cut it out," she chided without any real heat, her 
fingertips combing through the strands of hair on his forehead.  
"You keep up that straining and your wrists are going to have 
bruises that rival mine."
     "How are *you* feeling?" Mulder questioned swiftly,
mentally chastising himself for not having asked earlier.  Since
her awakening, Scully had seemed so much like her old self that 
despite the discoloration on her face and neck, he had almost 
forgotten that she was still recovering from her injuries.
     His partner didn't seem to take offense at his lapse.
     "I'm good," she said with a small smile before she 
carefully leaned over and touched her lips to his.  "Really.  I am."
     He regarded her gravely for a moment, searching her
eyes as if wondering whether she might be attempting in some
way to spare him.
     "But I do think I'm going to have to sit out a few days
from work when we get back," she said dryly.  "I intimated as
much when I called in to Skinner while you were in the shower."
     "What story did you give him?" Mulder queried, knowing
that in addition to having to make new travel arrangements for 
their return to D.C., Scully and he were also going to have to 
coordinate fictions to explain their unexpectedly extended absences.  
No one would believe that each of the pair had taken extra time off 
work without notifying the other of their decision to do so.
     Scully grimaced.  "I decided to go with 'auto accident' as an
explanation for the mess on my face.  It seemed a reasonable enough
excuse, and as I made myself a passenger in the imaginary car rather 
than the driver, it should be tougher for anyone to disprove."
     He nodded.  "And Skinner bought it?"
     She grinned slyly.  "I didn't talk to him.  I talked to Kimberly."
     "Ooh," he murmured with a half-smile.  "Some people have 
all the luck."
     "Why--what did Skinner say when you talked to him?"
     "Haven't done it yet," he admitted wryly.  "I figured that I'd
wait till tonight and leave it on his voice mail."
     "Coward," Scully teased without heat, her brow lifting to 
further lighten the statement.
     "Pragmatist," Mulder corrected, his smile widening.
     They looked at each other as the seconds ticked away, 
Scully's hand gently stroking his chest.
     Then, Mulder sighed.
     "So, now what do we do?" he asked in a put-upon voice.
     She shrugged, amusement at his impatience shining in her
eyes, and crossed away from him to glance out the window.  "Wait, 
I guess.  It shouldn't be too long.  The sun has already fallen beyond 
the roof line."
     He glanced out the open balcony doors, and saw that
she was right.  Although the transition to night was in no way 
wholly complete, the courtyard below had been cloaked entirely in 
shade.  Their room itself was murky with shadows.  Soon, they would
be unable to maneuver freely without the assistance of lamplight.
     "You know, I'm going to feel pretty silly if Selene decides
to bother someone else tonight," he muttered, looking with 
vexation at the silken ties binding him to the bedposts.
     "This was your idea, Mulder," Scully reminded him softly 
as she turned to face him once more.  "Just say the word and I'll 
untie you."
     "No!" Mulder said quickly, his tone sharp.  "No, whatever
you do, do =not= release me, Scully.  Not until you know for sure
that it's safe."
     She hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then nodded.
     And as Scully crossed to the wing chair, and turned on
the floor lamp beside it, the two agents settled in to wait.
     It wasn't all that difficult.  After all, the two of them were
used to stakeouts.  To cross country flights.  To hours spent behind
the wheel of one rented automobile or another.  They knew how to
fill the minutes between them.
     And besides, it wasn't as if either of them viewed sitting alone 
together as a kind of punishment or chore.  Whatever private time they 
managed to steal was cherished.  Valued.
     And almost always put to good use.
     Yet, this time they couldn't escape the pall that hung over
the room.  The nagging frustration that came with knowing that while 
something *should* happen, something unpleasant, they had no idea 
when, or what, or how.  Still, they had to keep on alert.  In that 
respect, their present waiting period was not unlike that aforementioned 
staple of modern crime-fighting, the stakeout.  Unfortunately, the only 
difference was that unlike all those nights spent as a team, sitting side 
by side in a parked car, they were not truly a unit fighting an external 
foe.  Although their current battle did indeed feature an antagonist, her 
weapon was ironically enough the agents themselves.  As much as they 
longed to cling to one another for support, they couldn't turn a blind 
eye to the threat such a proposition offered.
     So, they sat--or rather, Mulder laid--making small talk, and
watched the room slowly dim.  
     As time stretched on, Mulder found himself perversely 
wishing that something =would= finally break.  Although the manner
in which Scully had tied him allowed him some small mobility--he
could scoot up and down against the pillows--his arms were growing 
weary of being bent at the elbow.  He longed to stretch, to move around.
     But he had no intention of sharing his desires with Scully.
     Because she would see that they were fulfilled.
     And there was no way in hell he would ever let that happen.
     Thus, he continued his half of the vigil with the mute 
forbearance of a saint, breathing deeply, and willing himself to 
remain relaxed.  It seemed to be working.  Scully and he had at long 
last fallen silent for a time, each content to simply be; Scully curled in

the big chair in the corner, he flat on his back.  The quiet was lulling. 

Mulder felt as if he were drifting, edging ever so slowly towards 
sleep.  Not that he should find such a journey all that unexpected.
     God.
     When was the last time he had slept?
     Could it really have been just the previous afternoon?
Granted that still meant that he had remained awake for more
than 24 hours.  Yet, with as heavy as his eyelids presently felt, it
seemed far more likely that his last slumber had occurred sometime 
during the Reagan era.
     But then again, Mulder had always equated the former
President with shut-eye.
     Both as an actor and as a politician.
     His lips tilting in a smile at the musings winding through
his head, the bound agent vaguely found himself wondering just 
when it had been that his eyes had drooped shut.
     Then he thought he heard something.
     "What was that?"
     Had Scully spoken or had he?
     His lashes snapped open.  When had it gotten so dark?
The room's only source of illumination came from the lamp in 
the corner, its brightness muted by its own fringed burgundy shade.
The chamber's corners were nearly black with shadow.  Mulder 
couldn't even clearly see his partner's face from where she now 
stood at the balcony door.  By contrast, the white of her T-shirt 
seemed to catch what little light was present, eerily suggesting 
that in fact she was actually the ghost for whom they waited.
     "Did you hear that?" she asked finally as she peered
out through the French doors, almost as if she thought the 
answer lie outside the room rather than inside, her voice hushed.
     Mulder licked his lips.  "I'd thought I'd heard something."
     She nodded, still not looking at him.   "So did I.  A voice
maybe . . . Not . . words, really.  But a sound--"
     Then, before Scully could finish her thought, her knees
buckled.  A small whimper trickled from her lips.  She staggered, her 
hands stretching out blindly as if searching for a means with which 
to steady herself.
     "=Scully!=" Mulder cried from the bed, his body arching up
off the mattress, his heels digging into the comforter, the muscles 
in his arms cording as he strained to reach the stricken woman
before him.
     But she didn't fall.  Somehow, her small hands found the
corner of the dresser at the foot of the bed, and clung to it, her 
knuckles white with the effort, her head bowed.
     "Scully, are you okay?" Mulder asked worriedly, his
former pleasantly drowsy state a thing of the past.
     "Yeah . . ," she mumbled, her countenance still hidden
by a silken wall of auburn hair.
     Then, Mulder heard it.
     The soft low sound of a woman sobbing as if her heart
would cleave in two.
*           *          *          *          *          *          *
continued in part XVb

     

From krasch3251@aol.com Mon Nov 25 03:24:45 1996
"At a Loss for Words" (15b/15) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Oh god, I wish I knew what I was doing!!!!!!  Sorry for the bother,
but I wound up having to split this puppy in two.  If all you swell
archivists wouldn't mind, could you mend this chapter back together
for your sites?  (Or I'll send you the complete chapter myself if 
that's easier.)  It kind of ruins the flow to do it this way.

*sigh*

Enjoy. :)
**************************************************************************
**

             With that, Scully shuddered, tremors coursing through her
slender frame.
     Try though he might, Mulder couldn't tell if her reaction 
had been born of fear.
     He was just getting ready to speak once more, to perhaps ask
her just such a question or maybe instead to inquire again as to her to
her well being.  All he knew was that he needed to say something to 
his partner.  To make that connection.  But before he could come up 
with the words, Scully pushed upright as before, her arms shaking
with the effort, and slowly turned to face him.
     Her complexion pale.
     Her eyes not her own.
     And for just a moment, Mulder almost believed that
their sea blue depths had somehow been inexplicably lightened to 
the coolest, palest shade of gray he had ever seen.
     Pearl gray.
     Silver.
     The woman standing at the foot of the bed stared at him
solemnly for a handful of seconds, her expression tender.  Slowly,
a sad smile curved the corners of her mouth.
     "Jack," she whispered, the word sounding to Mulder's ears
frighteningly like an invocation.
     He soon rued the insight.
     Because all at once, a rush of what felt like adrenaline 
poured through his veins, firing his body even as his head tingled
as if touched by frost.  He felt light-headed, like someone or something
had conspired to deny oxygen to his brain.  
     Oh God, it was happening.  Against his will, the change 
was taking place.  
     Knowing now, in a way he had not previously, what would 
inevitably occur, what these physical sensations boded for him 
emotionally and even psychically, Mulder struggled in Selene's hold.  
Fought the intrusion of the entity known as Jack. 
     And like Scully before him, failed.
     Shimmering like a curtain of rippling water, his vision 
slowly, irrevocably blurred.  He laid there for the span of a heartbeat
or two.  Blind, like an old man with cataracts.  His body rigid as he
stubbornly battled for control.  Finally, his eyesight returned.  
Gradually, like steam being wiped from a window.
     And the sight that greeted Mulder made the skin on the back 
of his neck prickle.
     For now, the woman staring down at him so intently, longing
vivid in her expressive eyes, was no longer petite with hair the color 
of autumn leaves.
     Instead, she stood nearly as tall as he, her inky hair tumbling
about her shoulders and down her back, thick and wavy, and 
ridiculously erotic.
     "Selene," he hissed, unsure whether the emotion coloring
the word came from Jack or from himself.
     It didn't matter.  She appeared not to notice the venom in
his voice.  Instead, her eyes glistened upon hearing her name snake 
from his lips.
     Mulder felt his groin harden merely from the sight of her.
     And violence creep into his heart and mind, crackling and 
bubbling upon his insides like a slow steady drip of acid.
     Still he resisted with steely determination the impulses that
had begun surging through him.  The need to wound, to conquer.  
But, it was like trying to rein in a runaway horse.  The spirit sharing 
his body burned with a whirlwind of pain.  Anger, yes.  But, guilt 
and remorse.  Need and hurt.  The molotov cocktail of emotions 
swirling inside Mulder confused him, made his brain ache just from 
trying to make sense of it all.  
     Lord, had LeFevre's psyche always been this tormented, 
Mulder wondered.  Had he always been this confused, this twisted 
in knots where Selene was concerned?  The captain's anguished 
uncertainty made Mulder's own demons appear mere imps by 
comparison.  
     And yet, perhaps a century or more of solitary wandering, of 
living for eternity with the knowledge that you were responsible for the 
death of the one person you had loved above all others would do that 
to a soul.  Mulder prayed to God that he himself never had to learn if
such speculation was true.
     However, despite his misgivings, his own instinctive distaste
for LeFevre's crime, Mulder felt a certain sympathy rise inside him 
like the tide, a wave of pity for a man who had tragically fallen victim 
to all the wrong sorts of passion.  How wisely Antoine had chosen his 
revenge, the agent mused.  How clever, and ultimately how cruel he 
had been to twist his rival's greatest joy into his greatest fear.  And 
ironically, if what Mulder could sense rolling around inside him was 
anything to go by, how easy the plan must have been to carry out.  
After all, everything suggested that LeFevre had been a man who 
had felt things deeply.  One prone to act, then consider.  One ruled 
by his heart rather than his head.
     Much like Mulder himself. 
     The dead man's agony made it next to impossible to think.
To reason.   And when the woman Mulder knew to be Scully yet
looked for all the world to be Selene stepped around the corner of the
bed to draw closer to his side, he had no clue, no idea what he should
do to make this confrontation come out right.
     To keep Scully safe.
     But, he had no time to ponder the problem.  Because, without 
conscious thought, words overflowed his lips.  "What do you want,
Selene?" he asked in a low ragged version of his own voice.  "Why do
you torture me?  Why will you not leave me?  Just leave me alone."
     A lone tear trickled down the smooth pale cheek of the woman
standing before him clad in a gown the color of sapphires.  Its hue 
nearly as beautiful as Scully's eyes.  
     "I can't leave you," she whispered, the words a husky rumble 
of sound.  "I've had decades to try, and yet I couldn't master the skill."
     Mulder felt his features contort into a sneer.  "You lie.  Just
like always.  The words trip prettily off your tongue, my love.  But
their worth is as weighty as smoke."
     "I tell you nothing but the truth, Jack."
     "AND I SAY AGAIN, YOU LIE!" Mulder roared, his throat
aching with the effort.  "You can't =leave= me?  Funny, you looked 
damn ready to leave me when I burst in on you and Antoine."
     "No--" she began, shaking her head, her composure slipping.
     "Or perhaps I'm wrong," he interrupted with all the slashing
violence of a knife stroke.  "Perhaps you weren't going to walk out
after all.  Maybe instead you thought you could have us both.  Live 
in my house, take my name, and yet cuckold me with your lover."
     "Antoine was not my lover!" the woman with the now 
swimming eyes insisted.  "Not after I had met you.  He drugged me.  
Forced me--"
     "Lies again!" Mulder spat, his hands fisted in their 
confinement, his blood pounding thunderously at his temples, the fury 
LeFevre had sent racing through his body threatening to make him 
nauseous.  "I begged you for =months= to leave Antoine!  Months of 
watching you two together.  Of living with the knowledge that while 
I lay in my bed alone at night, dying for you, Antoine was happily 
rutting between your legs."
     "It wasn't like that--"
     "Wasn't it?" he goaded, a mocking smile twisting his lips.
"Would you lie to me, Selene, and claim that you managed to keep 
Antoine from your bed while you were sneaking around with me?
That you lived like a nun in that bastard's grand house.  You, a 
woman who at the theater let me take you against a wall during the 
interval, and then calmly returned to your box to watch the rest of the 
show with the man who owned you."
     Mulder saw the woman living inside Scully's body blush
crimson with her lover's insult, and yet despite the slight tremor
that shook her graceful form, she stood firm.  Instead of crumpling, 
she merely regarded him, her lips pressed tight, and lifted her chin
as if daring him to strike her there.  The move was so signature
Scully that for a moment he felt his own eyes water in recognition.  
And he knew without question that Selene had begun borrowing a 
little of his partner's courage.
     "No, I won't lie to you, Jack," she told him softly as she took
a step still closer to the bed.  "During those months, Antoine shared 
my bed."
     "I thought as much," retorted the man on the mattress a trifle 
smugly, although his expression suggested that he got little pleasure
from being proven right.
     "But he was not my lover."
     Mulder thought that Jack in his disbelief would make his
eyes literally spring from their sockets.  "What are you talking about?"
     Selene crossed to perch on the bed, her hip snug against his
waist.  "He only had my body."
     "What--"
     "You were the keeper of my heart."
     Mulder felt the pain begin to roil once more.  "No--"
     "My soul," she murmured, her hand floating out of nowhere
to rest on his chest.
     "=Stop it=," he said, shaking his head until he thought his 
brains were in danger of careening from side to side inside his skull
like bumper cars.  "I don't believe you."
     She smiled down at him, the look gentle and marbled with
sadness.  "But you do.  At least part of you does."
     "=No=," he insisted, the word gritted out from between his 
teeth.
     "If not, why did you end your life?" she queried, her eyes
liquid now.  "Why kill yourself, Jack, over a common whore?"
     To Mulder's profound relief, he could sense her words making
an impact.  He didn't know if the calm wisdom flowing from Selene's
lips came from her or from Scully, but he could feel some of the 
bitterness clinging to LeFevre's soul easing.
     "I don't . . . know," he muttered, pulling with frustration on 
the bits of fabric holding him in place.  "I can't . . . remember.  Can't 
think."
     "Ssh," she crooned, her fingers lacing themselves through
his hair as she strove to calm him.  Mulder went absolutely still
beneath her touch, almost as if he thought that the caress might 
somehow wound him.  Or that the sweet contact was ultimately too 
much to bear.  "It's all right.  It'll be all right.  Trust me, my love."
     Then, suddenly, Jack found a defense against her tenderness.
     "=Trust!=," he bellowed, the word strangled as he leaned 
forward, straining against his confinement.  "You want me to trust a 
woman who would tie me down like an animal?!"
     Hey pal--if you want to talk about trust you may want to
consider how very *little* of it the lady should have for you, Mulder 
longed to lecture the man renting space within him.  
     But what Scully/Selene did next froze the words inside his
brain.  She just looked at him, her regard unblinking, then nodded.
     And standing once more, stretched across his body to
free his right hand.
     "=NO!=" Mulder screamed, knowing without question that 
this most recent outburst belonged to him and him alone.
     Yet the woman above him ignored his cry, and just as
smoothly and as calmly untied his other hand.
     For a moment, Mulder did nothing.  He laid with his arms
drawn up tight against his chest, his hands fisted, like a pugilist on
the defensive.  But slowly, as if beset by a force of nature, he could 
feel his will wearing away.
     "No.  Please . . no," he quietly pled, not certain to whom
the entreaty was addressed, his eyes screwed shut, his chest heaving.  
"Please . . . ."
     But his body betrayed him.  And striking with a speed he
hadn't known he possessed, he reached up like a flash, grabbed hold
of the woman standing beside the bed, and tugged her down onto
the mattress.  With a quick spin and a grunt, he wrestled her beneath
him so that he rested squarely atop her, his hands locked around her 
wrists, her body anchored to the bed.   He looked down at her, 
breathing hard, the part of his anatomy that had stiffened when Selene 
had first been made manifest reacting with glee to the fact that it was 
now nestled in the cradle of her hips.  Mulder burned with shame, and 
did his damnedest to keep the bulk of his weight off Scully's ribs.
     And yet, the woman he crushed to the comforter returned
his regard, if not calmly, at least with resolve.
     "Do you trust =me=, Selene?" he muttered through thinned
lips, mocking her apparent naivet , clearly believing that he already 
knew her reply.
     But instead, she surprised him.
     "Yes," she whispered, her eyes shining up at him like 
twin moonstones.  "I do.  Of course, I do."
     And before Mulder's stunned countenance, Scully's beloved 
face reappeared, her familiar gaze shimmering with the same sort
of emotion he had witnessed there so often in the past when they had
been in these positions.  Him looming over her, his hardness pressed
to her softness, his body caging hers.
     He clung to her.  To her presence.  Her strength.  But, it
was so hard.  Jack was fighting him.  Struggling against his control.
Against Mulder's own needs.  He could feel himself slipping away
once more.
     But Scully pulled him back from the edge.
     "Do you trust me?" she asked him quietly, the question
loaded with all the resonance that particular word held for the two
of them.  All the meaning they had managed to cram into those five
simple little letters over the years.
     Trust.
     Knowing that this person valued you.
     Respected you.
     Had faith in you.
              Shared with you.
     Would kill for you.
     Die for you.
     Would willingly place their life in your hands, secure in the
belief that there was no safer place on earth for it.
     "Yes," he told her, wondering if Jack spoke the words with
him or if he and Scully really were in this all alone.  He couldn't be
sure.  LeFevre had gone strangely quiet inside his head.
     Such serenity was a blessing.
     Beneath him, Scully smiled, the curve of her lips reminding
him of sunshine.
     And without knowing precisely why, whether the idea was
Jack's or his own, Mulder bent his head and touched his lips to Scully's.
They were warm and yielding.  Trembling from the contact, he 
released her wrists and plunged his fingers into her tousled hair.  She
welcomed the shift in position, winding her newly freed arms tightly 
around his back, sealing their bodies' bond.  And Mulder felt as if he 
would gladly stay in just this pose for all eternity, locked in his
lover's 
embrace, resting heavily against her softness.
     But before the kiss could turn into anything other than pure,
he sensed a change taking place inside him, a turbulence, a churning
that felt different than all that LeFevre had unleashed in him up to that
point.  Dizziness assailed him.  And Mulder found himself sincerely
grateful that his eyes were already closed.  Unable to concentrate on
the kiss he had been enjoying only moments before, he instead buried 
his head in the curve of Scully's neck, seeking comfort like a child with 
a nightmare, and waited out the storm.
     Images assaulted him.  Formed in his mind's eye.  Slapped 
against his psyche like angry hands.
     <Antoine at Selene's door, a bottle of port in his hands,
apology shining in his beady eyes.>
     <A civilized chat in the library.  Antoine every inch the
gentleman.  Pouring her drinks.  Sharing his concern.  Yet, something
wasn't right.  Her mouth tingled strangely.>
     <Head hot.  Like a fever.  Limbs heavy.  Vision blurred.
Antoine offering his assistance.  Insisting upon it.  Waving away the
servants.  Sweeping her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing
more than air.>
     <Her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  He set her down.  Dazed.
Awake, but not.  Antoine's fingers at the fastening of her gown.
Undressing her as if she were a child.  Swiftly.  Mercilessly.
Stopping only when she lay naked before him on the bed.  His
eyes glinting cruelly.  His cold clammy hand reaching out to stroke
along her tender skin.>
     Mulder couldn't stand it any longer.  He felt certain he was
going to be physically ill.  His eyes ached with unshed tears.  Every
muscle in his body throbbed with tension.  Somehow raising his head,
he peered down at the woman beneath him.  Thankfully, he saw Scully's
eyes softly gazing up at him.  His hands shaking as if weak from 
sickness, he cradled her face in his palms.
     "I never knew," he whispered as finally one tear poured forth 
to run unchecked down his cheek.  "I swear to heaven I didn't."
     She nodded gravely, her eyes glowing with forgiveness, her
hands glancing over his face, tracing the line of his brow, his cheek.  
"I didn't betray you."
     "No," he agreed with infinite sorrow, the word barely audible.
     "I loved you," she said, her voice at the same volume as his,
her fingertips continuing their restless trek across his features, as if
she were trying to store up tactile memories of his face.  "Always."
     He shut his eyes, and pressed his lips to her forehead, the
corner of her eye, her temple, her cheek. The need and the love
fueling the caresses overwhelming him.
     Scully lay beneath him, her lids lowered as well, her 
breathing slow and regular.  Finally, needing to see her once more, 
desiring to assure himself as to her condition, Mulder opened his eyes, 
and saw her gazing up at him, a smile filled with longing curving her
lips.
     "I've missed you," she said softly, then let her lashes droop
shut once more.
     And with that, Mulder felt the room spin.  Low buzzing
filled his ears, and his arms were no longer able to support his upper
body.   With a degree of desperation, he heaved himself to the side
so that he lay beside Scully on the bed, curled around her smaller body,
and yet a safe distance from her injured ribs.
     "Scully?" he queried weakly, his hand flailing until 
it found hers.  Finally latching hold, he clung to her fingers as if 
he feared she might be torn from him.
     "It's okay," she mumbled from somewhere near his ear.  
"S'okay. . . ."
     And with that, Fox Mulder passed out.
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
I lied!! :)  There's an epilogue!!!


From krasch3251@aol.com Mon Nov 25 03:29:03 1996
"At a Loss for Words" (epilogue)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

I've run out of intro dribble. ;)  This is shorter than most of my
other chapters (thus the designation of "epilogue"), and will basically
just wrap up a few of the story's loose ends.

Oh yeah . . . and hopefully leave you wondering about the 
next entry in the series. ;)

All mail to the Delphi address, please.  Nothing personal against
AOL.  <g>

Thanks, you guys.  Happy Turkey Day!
***************************************************

     "The bags are in the car."
     Dana Scully looked away from her last minute perusal of
the bathroom cabinet, and smiled at her partner.  In truth, she really 
hadn't thought that she had left anything behind.  But she had wanted 
to be certain.  After all, she didn't imagine that they would be venturing

back to New Orleans anytime soon.
     Mores the pity.
     "Great," she said with a smile as she crossed to Mulder
and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  "I guess that means that we're
just about ready to head out."
     He nodded.  "As soon as we make that visit upstairs."  
     She cocked her head and considered his expression.  He
didn't look too pained over what was to come.  Still, she needed to
be sure.  Because when all was said and done, this last minute
change in their schedule had been her idea.
     "If you don't want to do this, Mulder, I'll understand,"
she murmured as she hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of 
her jeans and regarded the man standing before her.  He was garbed
in a similar fashion.  Snug fitting denim on his bottom half, a plain
white oxford clothing his top.  She had opted instead for a soft peach 
colored cotton sweater.
     "No.  It's okay," he insisted.  "I want to."
     She arched a brow.  "It could be awkward.  It's bad enough
the sorts of looks we're going to get at the airport.  But Laura knows
you.  Knows that I was supposedly 'ill' when we returned.  She may ask
questions.  I'll do my best to allay her suspicions.  But, it may not be
enough."
     He smiled ever so slightly.  "It's all right, Scully.  I can
handle
it."
     She nodded, still not entirely convinced, and wished that she 
could better explain to the man she loved what exactly was motivating 
her.  "It's just . . . I want to see her portrait." 
     "I understand," Mulder said quietly, drawing her into his arms.
     Nestling there, burrowed against his warmth, Scully looked 
back with a touch of amazement over the events of the previous night.  
It had been nearly midnight when they had finally awakened, Mulder 
first; her moments later, urged to consciousness by his soft entreaties, 
and realized that at long last it appeared their ordeal was at an end.
     Because neither of them had sensed the lingering presence 
of either Selene Broussard or Jacques LeFevre.
     "Do you think they're really gone?" she whispered from her
resting place in his embrace, her words muffled by his shirt.
     He considered for a moment, then answered, his arms 
tightening around her slender back.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I do.  I mean . . .
why would they stay?  Selene has finally gotten what she wanted."
     "Jack?" she queried.
     "Yeah," he grunted in reply, his breath rippling her hair.  
"Although why she bothered I still don't entirely understand."
     Scully pulled back to look at him.  "Why do you say that?"
     Mulder grimaced.  "Come on, Scully.  You can't exactly call
what those two had a 'healthy relationship'."
     "Oh, so now you're Dr. Ruth?" she teased, merriment dancing
in her eyes.
     He chuckled ruefully and ducked his gaze.  "=No=.  It's just . . .
the woman haunted this house for over a century. . . haunted =us=, 
nearly killing you in the process, all for the love of a man who 
=murdered= her.  Who didn't care enough, didn't trust her enough
to listen to her side of an admittedly incriminating situation.  It just 
seems to me that no matter how you look at it, Selene got the raw end 
of the deal."
     She pondered his words for a moment, then shrugged.  "I 
don't know, Mulder.  Much as I suppose this statement is going to 
contradict a significant portion of my world view, I really don't think 
that you can logically explain the human heart.  We don't always fall 
in love with the one it appears to others would be best for us, you 
know?  The whole process is more mysterious than simply picking the 
person who seems most compatible or is considered best looking."
     "Yeah," he muttered, his eyes hooded, his lips twisting with
wry humor.  "I'd have to agree that certain pairings *are* a mystery."
     Scully didn't pretend to misunderstand him.
     "Ah.  But there is =no= mystery to our relationship, Mulder," 
she murmured before pressing a kiss to the pulse beating steadily 
at the base of his throat.
     "You think not?"
     "Uh-uh.  It's simple really when you stop to think about it."
     His gaze turned tender.  "Oh, that explains it then--I've never
been any good at simple.  Maybe you ought to just spell it out for me."
     "But, I don't need to," she said laughingly.  "You just hit 
the nail on the head.  Simple doesn't apply to you and I."
     "What do you mean?"
     "I mean that you're a challenge.  Everything about you keeps 
me on my toes."
     "Excuse me?"
     Scully laid her hand upon his cheek. "You, Agent Mulder, 
are many things.  But you are never, =ever= dull.  I've had to work 
hard to keep up with you.  Both in the field, and . . . elsewhere.  
You don't cut me much slack, you know."
     Mulder silently mulled her statement over for a time, his lips
pursed thoughtfully.  "So you're saying that you love me precisely 
because I'm not an easy man to love."
     Her eyebrow quirked again.  "Hmm.  Well, I probably wouldn't
have phrased it quite that way.  But, I suppose that, overall, that 
statement is reasonably accurate."
     He gazed down at her, slowly shaking his head.  Whether 
the subtle side to side motion was meant to signal disagreement or 
amazement she couldn't judge.  Ultimately, the point was moot.  
Because he laughed.  Shortly.
     "Whatever, Scully," he murmured softly as he folded her to 
his chest once more, and rocked her gently in his arms.  "Just do me a 
favor, okay?"
     "What?"
     "Don't stop," he whispered into her hair.  "Don't ever stop 
loving me.  No matter how difficult I may become.  Or how crazy all 
of this may get."
     "Don't worry, Mulder," she said in a husky voice as she 
nuzzled her cheek against the pocket of his shirt, wishing that the thin 
cotton barrier might somehow be magically removed and the two of 
them would once again be skin to skin.  "I took a vow somewhere along 
the line.  I don't even remember exactly when.  But, it's a promise I take

every bit as seriously as my Hippocratic oath."
     "And what promise would that be?"
     "To love you in spite of everything," she told him.  "In spite
of whatever obstacles Cancerman may throw at us or whatever monsters-- 
human and/or otherwise--get in our way."
     Mulder softly kissed the top of her head.
     "And even in spite of you, Mulder," she said quietly, gently.
"In spite of all the things that make this . . . what we have, so
difficult
for you sometimes."
     He went still suddenly in her arms, his body not even pulling
in oxygen.  Then, Mulder did the unexpected.
     He chuckled.
     "You've got your work cut out for you," he told her dryly.
     Scully smiled against his warm solid frame.  "Yeah.  Well . . .
it's a good thing I don't scare easy."
     Laughter rumbled in his chest yet again.
     "=That=, Agent Scully is without a doubt the understatement 
of the century."
***************************************************
     "Anybody home?"
     Fox Mulder pushed open the heavy wooden door leading
to Laura's studio, and after ushering Scully inside, closed the portal
behind him once more.
     At first, no one answered his call.  And yet, the boom box
by the door was on, mellow classical piano the music of choice,
thus suggesting that indeed someone was in residence.  Hmm.
Perhaps their hostess had needed to step out for a moment.  This 
might not be such a bad thing.  Although Mulder recognized that he 
and Scully couldn't linger overlong, Laura's absence did allow the two
of them to take a curious look about the place, free of any scrutiny.  
              It was basically what he had expected.  Paintings, some 
little more than brushstroke sketches stood on easels scattered about 
the room, several more works in progress piled against other surfaces
as well.  A sturdy table standing on the side wall was neatly arranged 
with a variety of pigments, brushes, palettes, and other artist's tools.  
The chamber itself was enormous with ceilings made to look all that 
much taller by the skylights that for all intents and purposes had 
replaced the roof above their heads.  Consequently, the studio was 
flooded with the day's mid-afternoon sunlight.  It formed even rows of 
neat golden rectangles strung end to end across the room's hardwood 
floor, the effect suggesting that the shapes had been pressed in that 
fashion by an enormous cookie cutter.
     Then, after a moment, Mulder thought he heard something in 
the room's far corner, coming from behind what looked to be a muslin 
screen.  Water, it sounded like, barely audible beneath the music.  
Splashing a tad irregularly as if something were blocking its flow, 
moving beneath its stream.  Scully noted the faint noise as well, and 
after a quick glance in her partner's direction called out, "Hello?"
     This time, they were heard.  The water ceased its murmur, 
and Laura walked into view, her hair pulled back in a bun, her 
rounded form clad in a tie-dyed T-shirt and overalls that had 
somewhere along the way been liberally anointed with spatterings 
of paint.
     "Oh, hi!" she said with a friendly smile as she crossed towards
the couple, wiping her hands on a frayed piece of toweling.  "I'm sorry
if I ignored you.  I couldn't hear, what with the sink and Chopin."
     "That's okay," Mulder assured her with a smile of his own.
"We don't mean to bother you.  It's just that we're getting ready to go,
and we wanted to stop by before leaving.  Um . . . Laura, this is Dana 
Scully."
     Inwardly wincing, he watched as Laura's eyes settled on the
woman beside him.  They widened upon taking in the bruises on Scully's
face and neck, then narrowed, not unkindly, in speculation.  "Hello, 
Dana.  It's nice to finally meet you."
     "Likewise," Scully said, a faint hint of humor which no doubt 
came as a result of Laura's scrutiny underlying her tone.
     Laura nodded thoughtfully before pinning Mulder with her
gaze.  He met it unflinchingly, feeling a momentary sense of triumph
as he managed to do so.  "I thought that Bill had said that you had 
settled your tab with him this morning," she murmured a tad coolly.
     Seemingly aware of just where Laura's thought processes 
were headed, Scully protectively sidled up alongside Mulder.  And 
wrapping her arm around his waist, leaned her slight weight against 
him in a silent display of affection.  Her partner felt his throat thicken

in response.
     "We did," Scully said, her voice calm and firm.  "We're
all checked out.  But we wanted to do one last thing before we left."
     "What?" Laura queried, her concerns diminished by Scully's 
actions, but still not entirely gone.
     "We'd like to see Selene's portrait," Scully said.
     Laura's brows lifted.  "Selene's?  How did you even know about
that?"
     "Bill told us about it," Mulder explained, his arm draped now
across Scully's shoulders.  "He had loaned me his book, and told us that
you were working on restoring her picture."
     Laura frowned, her eyes a bit sheepish.  "Well . . . I am.  But, 
it's not finished yet.  Restoration is painstaking work, and to be honest,

I've been putting in the hours on my own stuff instead."
     Scully smiled soothingly.  "We understand.  And believe me,
neither of us are art critics.  We just . . . we'd like to see her. 
That's all."
     Laura regarded the couple before her intently, in a way that
made Mulder wonder just what she made of their motives.  Finally, 
however, she nodded.  A kind of understanding in her eyes.
     "Okay.  If you want to," she said softly.  "She's over here."
     Trailing behind the pretty young woman with the big brown
eyes, the two agents followed her to a muslin draped easel on the far
side of the room.  Upon it looked to be an enormous canvas, nearly as
high as Scully was tall.  Grabbing hold of the drapery, Laura tugged it
from the painting with all the panache of Houdini himself.  Scully
gasped upon seeing what lay beneath.
     "Oh my God," she murmured from Mulder's side, her words
like a prayer.
     Mulder understood the sentiment.  It was one thing to see a
black and white photograph of their apparition.  A picture where her 
face was only as big as his thumbnail.  But, this . . . this was almost 
life-sized.  All the colors, all the shadings faithfully rendered.  Mulder

didn't know who the artist had been.  But he or she had been 
exceedingly talented.  The oil was almost photographic in its accuracy.  
     And after all, he would know.
              He had seen the model first-hand.
     "Is this . . .?" Scully queried softly as she took a step closer
to the portrait.
     "Yes," he confirmed as he crossed to in back of her and 
wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind so that she rested 
against him, her back to his chest.
     Slowly, she shook her head, a few stray strands of hair tickling 
his nose.  "She was beautiful, wasn't she?"
     "Yes," he whispered again.  "Yes, she was."
     "You've heard her, haven't you?" Laura suddenly asked with
quiet surety.  Her question cutting through their rapt study of the 
painting, slicing their shared reverie in two.  "You've heard Selene."
     Scully glanced up over her shoulder at Mulder.  He shrugged,
leaving the decision in her hands.  "Yes," the auburn-haired agent told 
the woman before her.  "Yes, we have."
     Excitement glowed in Laura's eyes.  "I knew it!  I knew there
had to be a reason why you wanted to see this.  What was she like?"
     Mulder smiled over her reaction, always pleased to find a 
fellow believer.  And checking with Scully for permission, decided to
let their artistic friend in on still more of the story.  "Like that. 
Like 
her picture."
     "You mean you've =seen= her too!?" Laura asked, her voice
sliding up the scale until it squeaked.
     Mulder could only chuckle and nod.  And although with the 
way they were standing, he couldn't see her face, he felt certain Scully 
was smiling as well.
     "Oh, my God.  You're so =lucky=!" Laura enthused, all her 
reservations about the pair before her now forgotten in the face of 
their revelation.  "I told Bill I'd thought I'd heard her.  But he only
laughed at me.  He doesn't believe in that stuff, you know?"
     Mulder bent his head to steal a look at his partner.  She
poked him in the ribs.
     "But =I= do!" Laura continued happily, oblivious to the 
byplay going on in front of her.  "I've always known she was real.  
Well, what do you know?  Wow.  Maybe I'll catch a glimpse of her 
too one of these nights myself."
     "I wouldn't count on that," Mulder cautioned with a smile.
     "Why do you say that?" Laura asked, her brow creased.
     He shrugged.  "I don't know.  I just get the feeling that
Selene may not feel the need to wander these halls any longer."
     "What did you do?" Laura teased, her thrill over the event
her guests had shared proving difficult to dim.  "Perform an exorcism?"
     Scully stepped away from Mulder's arms, but reached out
and took hold of his hand, almost as if she regretted breaking the
embrace they had shared.  "No, I don't think that either of us is quite
qualified for something like that."
     Laura tilted her head.  "Then why do you think Selene
is through with this place?"
     "There isn't anything she needs here anymore," Scully
explained a tad wistfully, her gaze drifting over to Mulder's and
staying there.  "Somebody told me once that only unhappy souls
feel the need to haunt."
     Laura nodded.  "Well, I guess that's true.  I mean . . . that's
what you always see in all those old horror movies."
     Scully smiled.  "Well, I think what Mulder here was trying
to say is that we have reason to believe that Selene is no longer quite
so . . . troubled.  And that's a good thing, isn't it?"
     Laura considered, her gaze flitting back and forth between
the pair holding hands before her as if trying to determine the full
scope of their knowledge.  They looked back at her, their eyes friendly
and yet utterly without the information she sought.  Sighing, she 
finally nodded once more, the action executed a tad reluctantly.  "I 
suppose so."
     "Believe me, it is," Mulder assured the brunette, and with a 
quick peek at the woman beside him for confirmation, crossed to 
Laura to offer her his hand.  "And now we really do have to go."
     Laura grasped his hand warmly, her smile genuine.
"Thank you for staying at La Lune Argentine, Mr. Mulder, Dana.
Bill and I hope to see you again sometime."
     "We'd like that," Scully said, offering her hand as well.
"And thanks.  For everything."
     "My pleasure," Laura murmured as she watched her former
guests walk away from her and towards the door, her hands absent-
mindedly twisting the towel in her hands as she pondered all that 
they had said.
              And all that they had not.
              The couple had almost reached the room's entryway before 
she spoke one last time.
     "Dana!" the woman in the overalls called on a hunch.
     The pair by the door turned at the sound of her voice, 
Mulder's hand on the small of Scully's back.
     "You got those bruises staying here, didn't you?" Laura asked,
her tone of voice clearly suggesting she would brook no prevarication.
     Still, Scully glanced at Mulder before answering.  He did
little more than shrug.  But it was enough for her to recognize that her 
partner had left it up to her.  "Yes, I did."
     Laura slowly nodded.  "Should I be worried?"
     "No," Scully said softly, her gaze steady and reassuring.  "No.  
We don't think so."
     Laura let out a great sigh of relief.  "Thank you."
     The couple before her smiled again.
     And exited her studio.
***************************************************
     "Are we there yet, Mom?"
     Scully smiled and squeezed the hand of the man sitting next
to her, his long legs folded like an accordion into the narrow space
between their pair of airplane seats and the seats in front of them.
     "Almost," she murmured, knowing that the flight attendant's 
announcement instructing them to ready themselves for landing had 
undoubtedly been what had awakened Mulder.  She too had been 
dozing, her head resting on his shoulder, prior to the crackle and pop 
of the intercom.
     "You know, I have to admit, this is nice," she commented
softly.
     "What is?"
     "Our traveling like this," she replied.  "Together, rather 
than playing James and Jane Bond."
     "What?" Mulder asked with a sleepy chuckle.  "You didn't
like our earlier Spy vs. Spy mode of transportation?" 
     Her lips tilted in a wry half-smile.  "Mulder, between all
the changing of planes and my luggage taking a hike, what should 
have been a three hour flight took nearly twice that long."
     "Yeah.  Well . . . much as I'm enjoying this too, I still wish 
that we had been able to find separate flights, Scully," Mulder said, 
his tone suddenly turning a tad more serious.
     "It couldn't be helped," she said philosophically.  "Nothing
else was available.  Not until tomorrow.  Besides--do you actually 
think that we're in any danger?"
     He shrugged.  "I don't know.  We did use assumed names,
after all.  And I did pay for the tickets in cash.  Still, it could be
that I 
had already blown it days ago with the rental car.  I mean . . . if 
anyone had *really* wanted to find us, all they would have had to 
do is track my credit card.  But, who knows?  Maybe we got lucky.  
Maybe nobody is watching."
     Scully considered his words for a moment, then sighed.  
"You know, our being together isn't a crime."
     He turned in his seat to face her more fully, his lips close
to her cheek.  "No, it isn't.  But, it could have consequences."
     "I know," she said with a tiny nod, her voice hushed.  "I
know the rules, Mulder.  It's just that not having to live by them
the past few days has made me less tolerant of them.  That's all."
     His eyes searched her face, his gaze a trifle concerned.  
"No regrets, Scully?"
     She smiled warmly, and spoke without hesitation.  "No 
regrets."
     His lips curving as well, Mulder raised her hand to his 
mouth, and pressed a quick kiss to its back.
     Just then, the gentle floating motion their aircraft had
settled into as it landed altered, coming to an end as the wheels
touched down on the tarmac with a bump and a bounce.
     "Welcome home, Scully," Mulder whispered near her ear.
     And Scully knew that as long as she was by his side, home
was exactly where she would be.
***************************************************
     The man in the trench coat studied the young couple as they
embarked from the gate area.  Walking close.  Talking softly.  The 
woman so much shorter than her companion.  Both of them rumpled 
from their journey.  Tired, it appeared.  But happy.  He could see that 
from across the crowded airport corridor where he sat, hidden in the 
shadows of one of Dulles' several bars.
     The man swallowed the last of his watered down scotch 
and pulled from his pocket his cell phone, knowing as he did so that 
he looked to any curious passer-by like any other business traveler.  
Medium height, medium age, medium build.  Nothing to distinguish 
him from the crowd.  Nothing to set him apart.
     That would only have defeated his purpose.
     And despite the fact that he would not, indeed, be climbing
aboard a plane that evening bound for distant lands, his trip to the 
airport did in the end have its purpose.  
              He was there to watch.
     And report.
     "They've arrived," he murmured into his phone.  "Just as we 
had believed they would."
     The voice on the other end was pleased.  And asked him the
question he had been expecting.  The one he had been sent to confirm.
     But before he answered, his eyes wandered back to the subjects 
of his mission once more.  The couple was laughing as they struggled 
to control the trolley on which the petite auburn-haired woman was 
pulling her carry-on bag.  Despite their best efforts, the apparatus 
wouldn't cooperate.  And when she tried to quickly lean down to grab 
her bag before it tumbled to the floor entirely, she winced.  The 
movement sharp, and painful looking.  The tall dark-haired man 
gently cupped his hand around her elbow and guided her upright once 
more, his head bent to ear, his expression tender.  He asked the woman 
something.  She nodded.  Then, his brow still furrowed with concern, 
the man combed his fingers through the hair at the woman's temple, 
lightly pushing the shiny strands away from her face.  His hand 
lingering for just a moment on the curve of her cheek.
     The man at the bar smiled.
     "Yes, sir.  I'd say that your information is correct.  From what
I have been able to gather, Agents Mulder and Scully have chosen to 
move their relationship to a decidedly non-professional level."
     The voice at the other end was silent for a moment before
softly murmuring a single word.
     Good.
     "How would you like me to proceed, sir?" asked the man in
the trench coat, a certain eagerness in his tone.
      But the voice told him to go home.  To get a good night's 
sleep.
     After all, they didn't need to act on this information 
immediately.
     They had all the time in the world.
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

THE END

Heh . . . heh.

Evil, I know.  I can't help myself.  It's all those hours staring at a 
computer screen.  It'll *warp* ya, I tell ya!!

I may not get to this for awhile.  Other stories are demanding my 
attention.  But, I promise you.  I =will= deal with this new twist in 
the tale.

Eventually.  ;)

Peace