From bower2@juno.com Thu Dec 19 13:32:30 1996
Hi gang! This is a post-Paper Hearts vignette and is kinda MSR and kinda
Mulderangst.  I may do a follow-up to it...that all depends on what kind
of feedback I get from y'all. So if you want more, you'll have to
actually write me and tell me so. Rated PG-13 for language. This will
probably be it until after the holidays, so I want to wish you all a very
Merry. Enjoy! :)

Archivers:
The Wisdom of a Man
by Lydia Bower
Rated PG-13 V, M/S Romance, A
Summary: After the events of 'Paper Hearts' Mulder visits Scully when he
realizes that his search for the truth is not the only important thing in
his life.

Disclaimer: Aw, do I have to? No, Mulder and Scully don't belong to me.
They belong to CC, 1013 productions and Fox Broadcasting. I'm just
borrowing them. I promise to return them healthy and happy.


The Wisdom of a Man 1/1
by Lydia Bower <bower2@juno.com>


     I don't know how I ended up here at Scully's. I know why, but the
how of it alludes me. I don't remember leaving my place and driving
here--but I must have. I can see soft light washing through her living
room window. Good, she's awake. I thought she might be.
     "Why don't you go on home and get some sleep?" she'd advised me.
     I couldn't help but laugh. It was my sleeping, and dreaming,
that'd started this whole thing. Or finished it; however you choose to
look at it. No, finished isn't a good word. Not as long as the one
unidentified cloth heart remains. Not as long as there's still a daughter
missing and a family frozen in a cycle of mourning that will never
complete itself. I, too, am familiar with that kind of stasis. But I have
moved a step closer to completion today. 
     I shyly tap at her door. I can sense when she steps to the other
side of it, can feel myself being peered at through the tiny hole set
into the door. I hear the chain slide back and the door opens with a soft
snick. 
     "Hey, Scully." My greeting is both apology and request.
     Scully takes a good look at me and steps away from the door,
opening it all the way. "Come on in, Mulder."
     I am once again struck by how much different she appears when
she's not on the job. Her face is scrubbed clean of any makeup but still
she glows from within. Her naked eyes are wide and childlike and so very
blue. Her mouth reminds me of a perfect pink rosebud on the verge of
blooming. Her hair is damp from a recent shower and curls softly around
her face. Her severely cut suit has been replaced by a pale green
cardigan and blue jeans. I love Scully in blue jeans. She has a dishtowel
draped over her left shoulder. "I thought I told you to get some sleep."
     I grin and shrug abashedly. I feel guilty for disappointing her.
"Well, you know...."
     "Have you eaten anything?" she throws over her shoulder as she
pads barefoot in the direction of the kitchen. "I'm fixing an omelet.
There's plenty if you'd like to share."
     I almost say no, but at that moment my stomach noisily reminds me
I haven't eaten all day. "Sure. Thanks, Scully. Can I help you with
anything?"
     She comes back around the corner and gives me this odd look, like
I've been replaced by a not-very-convincing MulderClone. I'm not known
for offering to help with domestic chores; Scully is aware of this. She
studies me and grins impishly. "Thanks, Mulder. But I've got it under
control. Sit down. I'll call you when it's ready."
     I slip off my jacket and toss it over the back of the chair, fold
myself down onto the couch. It's comfortable, soft. I recognize Benny
Goodman coming quietly from the CD player, an easy sound. The soft tinkle
of dishes and pans being moved and silverware clinking together reaches
me and is accompanied by the warm aroma of melting cheese and buttered
toast. I am comfortable here, within Scully's home; among her things. It
strikes me with perfect clarity that she has, indeed, made this space a
home. I often think of my place as a repository, a rest stop--not a real
home. I am comfortable there, in my own fashion. But Scully's home has
become my true refuge. It's a familiar thought, but only now does it seem
to resonate within me in a way it hasn't before. 
     I tip my head back against cushions that smell faintly of Scully
and close my eyes, allowing myself to drift into the cradling darkness of
aroma and sound and comfort. 
     I only startle slightly when Scully places her hand on my
shoulder. I open my eyes to find her bending over me, a look of concerned
amusement on her face. "Mulder, it's ready. Do you want to eat or sleep?"
As she asks this she is already reaching for the soft cotton blanket that
lives on the back of the couch. I've come to think of it as mine. I've
spent many nights on this couch, covered by its warmth.
     I lick dry lips. "No," I answer and stop her hand, indulging in a
huge yawn. "Food."
     "I'm not bringing it to you," she warns me. "I still haven't
gotten the stain out of the rug from the last time you ate out here." I
shoot her a toothy grin and follow her to the table. Scully will forgive
me most anything. She is much like Samantha that way. 
     The table is set as though she is entertaining. Placemats,
silverware, tall glasses of iced tea. Lighted candles. Two plates are
filled with omelets that are leaking cheese, and there is a basket of
toast on the table. A small glass bowl of raspberry jam is sitting beside
it. This is Scully's way. She has learned to treat herself kindly; and
all others who are a part of her life. I'm lucky to be counted among
them. I didn't always know that or appreciate it. I do now.  
     I take a seat and Scully sits down next to me, pulling one leg up
under her. I put my napkin in my lap and wait, watching from the corner
of my eye as Scully crosses herself and mouths a silent blessing. It's
something I've only seen her do in here in her home, and at her mother's.
The professional Scully is not one for prayer. I often wish I had a faith
like hers.
     Scully would tell me--has told me--that I do. That my faith lies
in believing Samantha is out there someone; and in finding her and
bringing her home. The events of the last few days has brought an as yet
undefinable change to that faith. But it has not diminished it. 
     We eat silently, but it's a comfortable silence. Neither of us
feels the awkward need to fill the air with empty conversation. We've
moved beyond that. I wonder if it's the same with all partners and
friends. I've never worked with anyone as long as I have with Scully, and
I'm not very good at keeping friends; my lack of them proves that. I ask
for far more than I am often willing to give. That's not a good basis for
friendship. Or any other kind of relationship. But Scully is my friend. I
don't question it. I'm merely grateful for it. 
     The omelet is warm and fragrant with herbs, the toast crisp and
the jam sweet, the tea cold and bracing. As we finish the simple meal
something passes between us and my eyes are drawn away from my plate and
up to meet Scully's. It's strange how that happens. It's as though we're
connected at some unexplored level and will sometimes find ourselves
moving beyond the need for words--because our eyes will say it all. 
     Scully is wondering what's brought me here tonight. She is glad
I'm here, but curious. And worried. I don't like to worry her, but I
often find myself doing things that will. At those times I'm not
disregarding her concerns, even though I know she thinks I am. I don't do
it because I don't care; I do it because I'm driven. 'Passionate' is a
word that Scully often uses to describe me. It sounds more polite than
obsessed. Or crazy. Or spooky.
     There is a tiny dab of jam of Scully's upper lip and I
unthinkingly lift my hand and capture it on the ball of my thumb. Scully
goes very still as I place my thumb in my mouth and suck away the jam.
"Sweet," I comment around a grin.
     Scully rewards me with one of her inscrutable looks. I don't
think she's in the mood to be teased tonight. Truth be told, I'm not much
in the mood to tease her, either. I'm here for more important things. I
think we both know that. 
     I push back from the table and stretch my legs out, slumping a
little in the chair. I fold my hands over my stomach and regard her. Who
will be first? 
     This particular silence begins to make me uncomfortable. I am the
one to break it. "I've had an epiphany, Scully," I tell her. 
     She arches an eyebrow and cocks her head. Waits for an
explanation. 
     "The dream I have about what happened when Samantha was taken?"
     "Yes? What about it?" Her response encourages me.
     "It was different this last time. And not just because Roche
figured in it." I offer her small tidbits instead of the whole. She is
patient with me. Scully knows me well; knows that it's not always easy
for me to open up to her. A result of not being taken seriously for so
long. Not even four years with Scully can completely dispel my
hesitation. 
     "How was it different, Mulder?" She gently pulls me from my
self-imposed isolation. 
     "I wasn't twelve anymore. I was in that room with Samantha as an
adult this time. It started out the same, but instead of feeling all the
terror of knowing what was going to happen, it was like I was playing a
part, repeating the words instead of feeling them. And then the lights
went out and the room started to shake and...."
     "And then it was same?" Scully asks.
     I nod my head. "Yeah. Except that Roche was there. I was still
frozen in place, unable to move; and Roche was there to take Samantha
away. But I wasn't twelve anymore." I am unable to look at Scully.
     She is quiet for a time before she asks, "What do you think it
means, that you relived that night as an adult?" 
     I look up at her and smile. "I thought I was the psychologist,
Scully. Now you sound like one."
     And then she shocks the hell out of me by retorting, "I'll be
whatever you need me to be, Mulder."
     I gape at her, my mouth hanging open. It's not exactly what she's
said, but how she said it. Tenderly. Lovingly. I flash back to the office
and the way we reached for each other before Scully left me with the
advice to get some sleep. It seemed the most natural thing in the world
to pull her close and lean into her, feel her stroke my hair. It was not
the touch of a friend consoling me. Or even something maternal. It was
both those things and yet so much more.
     It has become easier lately for us to turn to each other, hold
each other. I don't know why. I don't have to know. But now I wonder if
the change in me began not with this new and different kind of acceptance
towards what may or may not have happened to Samantha, but months before
that--and comes because of another acceptance within me. Within both of
us, perhaps. 
     "Mulder, close your mouth," Scully instructs me, a hint of a
smile on her face.
     I do as I'm told and then open it again to say, "Be careful,
Scully. You could give a guy ideas making a statement like that."
     "That was my whole point, Mulder."
     My mouth is suddenly very dry. I reach for my tea, waiting for
Scully's soft smile to widen to a teasing grin. It doesn't. I am left at
the table completely baffled as Scully rises and begins to clear the
dishes away. Benny Goodman finishes up and there is a short silence
before the next CD begins. I recognize Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons.' Scully
has eclectic taste when it comes to many things. She is hard to pin down
and put a label to, despite the efforts of many people within the Bureau
to do just that. Mrs. Spooky. Ice Maiden. Red. None of them fit her. She
is simply Scully to me. Dana, when there is no other way to capture her
undivided attention.
      The chore done--and again without my assistance--she comes back
to the table and looks down her nose at me--an assessing look. I have no
idea what she's searching for and her words give me no clue. "C'mon,
let's go finish our talk in the living room. I need a more comfortable
place to sit." As she walks away I'm unable to drag my eyes from her
softly swaying hips.
     I follow her like an obedient puppy dog and sit down next to her
on the couch. Scully curls her legs up close to her and turns to face me.
"So what do you think the dream means, Mulder?" 
     I glance down and study her small hands. They are folded atop her
knees. I reach out and brush my fingers across her hand, pull them back.
It's a glancing touch and I don't know why I've done it. I look up to
find her eyes on me. Her expression is calm, inviting my confessions. I
shake my head. "I... I don't know what it means."
     "Yes, you do."
     She's right. But knowing it and saying it are like apples and
oranges. Scully glances aside and quietly sighs. "Do you trust me,
Mulder?"
     My hand finds its way back to hers and this time it stays there.
"You are the *only* one I trust. You know that."
     Scully allows my hand to stay where it is. She pins me with her
eyes. "Then trust me; tell me."
     I feel unwanted tears burn my eyes and I close them. I am so
tired. I wish I could sleep. But with sleep comes dreams. I cannot
tolerate them tonight. "I think I'm growing up, Scully," I blurt, afraid
she might laugh at me. But I open my eyes to find her looking at a spot
across the room, a contemplative expression on her face. Thank you for
not laughing at me, Scully. 
     After a short time passes she says, "So, you think the dream
means that you're beginning to be able to look at Samantha's abduction
with the wisdom of a man instead of the guilt of a child?"
     Her words force a grunt of astonishment from me. I pull my
fingers through my hair, my hand instantly missing the warmth of hers.
"You've been hanging around me too long, Scully. You're beginning to
sound really spooky." 
     She turns her eyes back to mine. She has a smug look on her face.
"So, I'm right?"
     "Pretty much," I admit. I'm thinking that it's only the tip of
the iceberg. But it's a start.
     "So catch me up, Agent Mulder."
     I scrub my nose and collect my thoughts. "I was absolutely
terrified to even consider that Roche might have taken Samantha. But I
had to, Scully. I don't know what I was scared of the most: that he might
have been telling the truth or that if he was it would mean that
everything I've believed all these years was a lie. But either way, it
was the first time I've ever been able to consider other possibilities. I
think that's a sign of maturity, don't you?" 
     "Yes. But I also think it's the sign of a troubled man who's
looking for some closure and some peace. You're teetering on the skinny
edge of  burnout, Mulder. You know that, don't you? You can only take so
much before it all builds up and you explode. And I'm worried about you."
     I chuckle, trying to give myself some time to recover from the
impact of her words. On the skinny edge of burnout. Yeah, I guess that
fits. It's an explanation for a whole myriad of truly idiotic things I've
done lately. Like punching Roche. Like taking him out of prison and
putting another little girl in harm's way just to satisfy my need to be
certain he had nothing to do with Samantha. And that was just this week.
It doesn't explain any of the other things away. And anyway, explanations
are not excuses. I have no excuse. And because of me we'll probably never
know who the last little girl is. No excuse. 
     "I know you're not going to believe this, Scully, but it's better
now than it's been for a long time. I can't explain why, but this whole
fucked up mess has given me back my hope."
     "Hope for what, Mulder?"
     "For Samantha. That someday I'll know what happened to her. That
I'll find the truth."
     "Even if it means finding out that what you think happened isn't
the way it really was?"
     "You mean, if it should turn out that she's buried in a shallow
grave somewhere, the victim of an all too earthly murderer?"
     I watch her nod, her eyes intent and watchful. She's afraid of my
response. "What was it Addie Sparks' father said? 'I used to think that
missing was worse than dead, because you never knew what happened,'" I
remind her.
     "Ahuh."
     "Yeah, Scully, there are worse things than not knowing. But I'm
beginning to believe that even if I never know for certain, it'll be all
right. And if the worst thing does happen, I'll survive."
     "What's changed, Mulder?"
     I know that this is where it will get sticky. I leave the couch
and begin to pace the living room. I cannot be that close to her and
still say what I need to say. Distance is safety. The apartment goes
quiet as another CD spins into place. Some woman who sounds like she's
about fifteen musically wondering  who's going to save my soul. I already
know the answer to that one.
     I keep my back to Scully as my hands move to my hips. "It used to
be my whole life, you know: chasing after Samantha and the answers to
what happened to her that night. But it's gotten so much bigger than any
one person, any one occurrence. We've both seen so much, Scully, and paid
the price for our knowledge. In blood, in tears, in regrets. I used to
live to find the truth. I don't anymore. It's still important to me, but
not like it once was."
     Scully is impatient now. Her repeated words reflect that. "What's
changed, Mulder?"
     I ignore her efforts to get me to the point. There are things
that need to be said; as much for my benefit as hers. "There was a time
not too long ago when I was willing to sacrifice everything to finding
the truth." I snort a bitter laugh. "I actually thought that it was very
noble of me to be willing to give up everything in that pursuit. I liked
that image of myself. A lot. I told you earlier that I thought I was
growing up. Maybe it's just that I'm getting cynical; I don't know. But
I've finally figured out that there are other things that are just as
important to me as the truth."
     I turn back to Scully. She is perched on the edge of the couch,
head down, studiously avoiding my eyes. "Do you have any idea how much
you changed my life when you walked into my office that first day?" There
is a barely perceptible shake of her head. "You grounded me, Scully,
centered me. You made me question almost everything I believed--about
myself, about the things I'd seen and done. I really hated you for it
sometimes. In all honesty I still do, from time to time. But you brought
credence to the work. And we've managed to make the X-Files almost
respectable. I couldn't have done that without you."
     "Mulder," She looks up at me then and I can see the sparkle of
tears in her eyes. And pride. And something else that is both wonderful
and terrifying to me. "All I did, all I've ever done is--"
     "Everything."  
     I go to her then and crouch down in front of her, placing a hand
on her knee. We are of equal height now; I don't need to look down at her
nor she up at me. Equal. Our eyes form a bridge and I am once again
struck by the perfection of her face. Scully would pass it off as nothing
more than a lucky combination of genes. I know better. Her beauty lies in
her soul and radiates outward. Scully captures her lower lip between
small white teeth. 
     "You've done everything. From covering my ass and taking the heat
for me to forgiving me for all the times I've treated you like shit.
You've lost so much by helping me. Time. A sister. Not to mention all the
occasions I've taken off on you that you've somehow managed to overlook,
or at least been kind enough not to harp on. You've given so much of
yourself to me and the work, Scully, and asked for so little in return.
You deserve more than I've given you and I don't really understand why
the hell you haven't bailed out on me yet."
     "I think you know why, Mulder," she whispers.
     My eyes drift closed then and I feel the corners of my mouth lift
in a faint smile. A wonderful sense of peace is settling over me. I open
my eyes to find her watching me. Waiting. I pull in a deep, cleansing
breath and take both her hands in mine.
     "I need you, Scully. I'm a prideful, selfish man and a general
pain in the ass. I know that. And I know that sometimes it gets in my
way. But I need you. And I think it's past time that I started giving
something back to you." I drop my eyes. I cannot look at her. My heart
pounds in my chest, my mouth is dry, and I find it hard to breathe. I
lower my voice and I can see Scully leaning toward me to catch the words.

     "The only problem, Scully, is that I don't have anything to give
you but myself. It ain't much, but it's all I've got. Will you let me
love you, Scully? Today, tomorrow, however long you can put up with me?
Can I give you that?"    She draws her hands from mine and they move
up to cup my face. Scully pulls me to her and settles her mouth on mine.
Her lips and warm and sweet and so very soft. Just as I reach for her she
pulls away and rewards me with one of her brilliant Scully smiles.
     "Mulder, it's the best gift I've ever been given."
     "Even better than the 'Operation' game I gave you for Christmas?"
     "Oh, yeah. Much better."
     "Well, Scully, I bet I can come up with something we give each
other right now that'll beat even that."
     Scully chuckles under her breath and stands. I peer up at her as
she reaches her hand out to me in invitation. "Too late, Mulder. I've
already thought of it."
     Laughing, I take her hand and let her lead me in the direction of
her bedroom. "Hey, Scully? I probably ought to warn you that I snore."
     She looks back over her shoulder at me, Her face is luminescent,
her eyes dark with desire. "What makes you think you're going to get any
sleep, Mulder?"
     I have no answer to that. We've moved beyond words.         
      
     THE END

From bower2@juno.com Sat Dec 28 10:39:41 1996
Okay, folks, this one is pure mind candy and is not for the kiddies. It's
a sequel to 'The Wisdom of a Man,' which can be found on the archives.
Rated NC-17 for sexual content. Feedback is always welcome. :)

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully don't belong to me. They are the property
of CC, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I'll take good care of
them, I promise.

Dancing With Mulder
Part 1/2 NC-17
by Lydia Bower <bower2@juno.com>
R, Mulder/Scully romance
Summary: Follows 'The Wisdom of a Man.' Scully's thoughts on her changing
relationship with Mulder.
  

     I still knock on Mulder's office door--even though there doesn't
seem to be much purpose to it. I don't know why I've continued to do it
for so many years. Am I expecting that one day he will call out "Sorry,
you can't come in," and I'll turn the knob only to find it locked? Isn't
this office just as much mine now as it is Mulder's? I think it is. We
share so many things these days. I will not knock again.
     I open the door and step inside. The room smells of old files and
new adventures--the promise of truths waiting to be uncovered. It also
smells like Mulder. That underlying clean, masculine aroma that doesn't
seem to come from any cologne bottle. It's wonderful, and unique to him
and him alone. Mulder is tipped back in his chair at a gravity-defying
angle, feet propped up on his desk and crossed at the ankle. Someday his
luck will run out and he'll end up flipping over backwards, chair and
all. When that day comes, I've promised myself I won't laugh at him. 
     He hasn't been here long--he's still wearing his suit jacket.
There is an open file in his lap and he's chewing on a pencil. A steaming
mug of coffee sits within easy reaching distance. I notice he's filled my
mug as well, and it waits for me on my desk. 
     Mulder looks up and smiles as I cross the room and set my
briefcase and purse on the desk and hold out a small white bakery bag to
him. 
     "Hey, Scully," he says in greeting. "Is that my cheese danish?"
     "Just don't blame me when they're wheeling you in for coronary
bypass surgery, Mulder. Good morning. And you're welcome." 
     He takes the bag from my hand and our fingers brush. His smile
turns to an impish grin and he drawls, "G'morning, Scully. And thanks."  

     He leans up and opens the bag, drawing out a danish wrapped in
grease-stained wax paper. He peers up at me. "Nothing for you?"
     I lean back against my desk and fold my arms across my chest.
"Unlike you, Mulder, I had a healthy breakfast this morning."
     "Twigs and stems in a bowl?"
     I shoot him a mildly chastising look. "If you'd bother to read
something besides 'Adult Video News' you might discover that fiber is a
very important element in one's diet. It decreases the chances of colon
cancer, not to mention--"
     Mulder holds up his hand like a stop sign, chuckling, "Okay,
okay, I get the point. I'll have rabbit food for lunch. Will that pacify
you?"
     "Temporarily," I offer. I nod at the file in the hand that's not
busy shoving pastry in his mouth. "New case?"
     "Nah," Mulder answers around a mouthful. He swallows, looks down
at the file and flicks his wrist, closing it. "Just surfin'." 
     I turn away and slip out of my coat, remarking, "Well, if you're
not going to drag me off in search of any little gray men today, I
suggest we get some of this paperwork taken care of before someone comes
down here and discovers we've been crushed to death under a mountain of
expense forms and field reports."
     "Nobody I'd rather be crushed with, Scully, or against, for that
matter."
     I turn away from the coat rack and face his child-like grin.
"Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere, Mulder. I got a not-so-gentle
reminder from Skinner this morning. I think he was lying in wait for me.
He caught me just as I walked in the door."
     "Aren't you the lucky one."
     "And as I recall," I continue as I sit at my desk and began to
make two piles of forms. "The last time around yours truly was stuck
doing most of the paperwork. I seem to remember something about 'Cross my
heart and hope to die, Scully--the next time I'll do the bulk of the
work.'" One pile of forms is growing significantly thicker than the
other. 
     Mulder sits up all the way and licks icing off the tips of his
fingers, eyeing the piles I've made with more than a little dread. "I
said that?"
     "Do I have to show you the paper you signed?"
     Mulder chuckles. I have that slip of paper in my desk. He knows
it. And I know that when faced with the truth, Mulder has no choice but
to follow it. 
     He sighs in resignation and holds a hand out for his share. I
pass it over to him, a deliberately smug grin firmly planted on my face. 
     "You're a real slave driver, Scully, you know that?"
     "Careful, Mulder. Slaves who complain are subject to the whip."
     He leers at me. "Promises, promises." 
     We trade smiles and get down to business. The office is quiet,
save the occasional put-upon sigh emanating from Mulder. He loathes
paperwork and anything that smacks of protocol and relative order. One
look around at this office confirms that. While my area is neat, files in
level stacks and most everything in it's place, Mulder's reminds me of
the damage wrought by a hurricane. Files, books, photos and papers are
haphazardly piled on his desk, more than a few file drawers are pulled
open, distinctive red and white X-Files spilling forth with abandon or
shoved carelessly back into place. I've given up trying to figure out
Mulder's filing system--if, in fact, he has one. He claims he does. It's
far easier to ask him to locate a file for me than attempt to find it
myself. After much fuming on my part I've finally realized that Mulder's
messes are as much a part of him as his keen mind and sharp wit and have
accepted it. He personifies ordered confusion.
     Suddenly a white envelope flies across the space between our
desks and lands in front of me. I glance over at Mulder. He's watching
me, wrist still cocked from flipping the envelope in my direction. I
can't see his eyes. The light from my desk lamp reflects off his glasses.
"I almost forgot about this," he says. "I thought I'd let you open it."
His voice is low, with just a tinge of some emotion I can't quite put my
finger on. Regret? Sadness? I wish I could see his eyes; they tell me so
much.
     "What is it?" I ask as I pick it up and examine it. It's
addressed to Agents Mulder and Scully. I glance at the Portland, Maine
postmark and then the return address. My heart speeds up a bit and I
throw a sharp glance in Mulder's direction. He's turned his head and his
eyes are focused on the forms before him. But he's not filling them out.
He's waiting. 
     I slide a finger under the flap of the envelope and tear it open,
pulling out a single sheet of onion paper. It whispers as I unfold it. I
start to skim over it and then stop, looking to Mulder. "Do you want me
to read to you?"
     He shrugs. The glasses come off and he scrubs his eyes as if he's
been at this all day instead of just a few hours. 
     
     Dear Agents Mulder and Scully,
          Please forgive the time that has passed between the
          sending of this note and the delivery of your news to
          us last month. It has been a time of both tears and 
          relief. 
          I thought you might like to know that we were able to lay
          our dearest Amanda to a peaceful rest two weeks ago.
                          There are no words to express to you our
thanks for your          diligent search for her, and for bringing
her back home to         us after so many years. The flowers that
Agent Scully             sent were beautiful. However did you
know that                wildflowers had been     Amanda's
favorite?

          Thank you and God bless you both,
          Henry and Elizabeth Hastings 

     I fold the paper and slip it back into the envelope. I place it
on the center of my desk, my open palm resting atop it. 
     "You sent flowers?" Mulder asks me, his voice husky.
     "Yeah," I answer. "From both of us." I turn my head and our eyes
meet for a moment before Mulder's flick away. "You did good, Mulder. You
found the last of Roche's victims and now we can finally put the whole
thing behind us."
     "*We* found her," he reminds me.
     I dip my head gratefully but we both know who spent the majority
of the endless nights going over missing persons reports on children from
1973 to 1991 for every state along the eastern seaboard. Every state that
John Lee Roche was known to have traveled in before Mulder's profile had
put an end to the pedophile's kidnap, rape and murder spree. The last
cloth heart had finally had a name put to it. And it wasn't Samantha
Mulder's.
     I still don't understand how Mulder was able to pinpoint the
location of the last body. Once we'd narrowed down the leads and begun
our interviews with the parents and relatives of the still-missing
children, it was after only the fourth interview that Mulder had walked
out of the house and back toward the car, leaning close to me and
announcing urgently, "It's her, Scully." 
     Amanda Hastings.
     He'd been right. Mulder and I had gone back the next day with the
cloth heart. Elizabeth Hastings had fainted seconds after Mulder had put
it in her hand, and once recovered enough had disappeared up the stairs
and returned with a bolt of fabric from which the nightgown had been
made. She'd kept it as a reminder, a keepsake. It was the first item of
clothing that Amanda had helped her mother make, and the first night
she'd worn it to bed. 
     That same night Mulder dragged me out of the motel bed in the
middle of the night and drove me to a wooded area past the state line,
some thirty miles away. "She's here, Scully," he'd said. I believed him.
And he'd been right again.
     It was downright spooky. I'd told him so.
     I meant in the most respectful of ways and that's how he took it.

     It's easier now to be around Mulder. There aren't as many land
mines laid in his heart and mind as there used to be. I have always been
very direct with him. And there had always been an invisible but
nonetheless tenable barrier that stood between us. That barrier is gone
now. I have found myself teasing him more than I ever did. I find myself
smiling more, and laughing with him. I have even allowed myself to cry.
Alone. And with Mulder. If John Lee Roche ever accomplished one good
thing in his whole miserable life, it was being the sledgehammer that
finally broke down the barrier.
     Mulder and I became lovers during the Roche case. The same night
he put a bullet in Roche's head--ending a nightmare and weaving yet
another thread into the dense and complicated tapestry of the
relationship Mulder and I share.
     Perhaps it's not Mulder who's changed so much as me. I often try
to pinpoint which it is. I don't think I was ever truly comfortable with
Mulder before. Or he with me. There were too many contradictions, too
many subtle nuances that thrummed between us. Too many emotions and
thoughts we didn't dare share with each other because we had so much to
lose. We still do. It's just that now that we've seen how good it can be,
how we make each other whole, we've discovered how very much we have to
gain. Perhaps in finally admitting our feelings for each other and giving
them form and substance it's no longer necessary to analyze every word,
every look, every touch, and weigh them against what has come before. 
     I love Mulder and he loves me. And maybe it's just that now we
can finally get out of each other's way and learn to relax and enjoy one
another. 
     And there's so much to enjoy about him. Fox William Mulder is the
most complex man I have ever been lucky enough to know. And the most
infuriating. But he is also intelligent, loving, compassionate, tender,
witty, dedicated, brave and loyal. I have fought for him and with him and
by his side; have whispered to him and screamed at him; have sat by his
bed when he was hurt or sick; worried about him when he ditched me;
cursed him for his recklessness and praised him for his courage. I have
come back from the brink of death for him, as he has for me. I have loved
him and despised him. I live for him and I would die for him. 
     These truths no longer frighten me because I believe in Mulder's
love. I believe in what we've built and what we share. 
     I look at him now and my heart breaks a little. These last two
months have been so hard for him. Part of him shrank away from the
possibility that Samantha might have been one of Roche's victims, while
another part of him was guiltily disappointed when we found out that she
hadn't been. It would have been a relief to finally have the answer he's
been seeking all these years; no matter what its form. I reach out my
hand to Mulder and he leans forward and closes the distance between our
fingers, squeezing my hand in his. The touch lasts only moments. We
cannot chance anyone walking in and seeing us like this.
     "You okay, Mulder?"
     He nods as he meets my eyes and enough of his faint smile is
genuine that I believe him. "Yeah, Scully, I'm okay. Just a little raw
around the edges." 
     He turns back to his paperwork and I take a few moments to study
his profile. He is such a handsome man. His face is a wonderful sculpture
of cheek and jaw and chin, of forehead and eyes, nose and mouth. His face
is lean and mobile, though he prefers to hide himself behind a deadpan
expression. But I have seen the way his face changes when he laughs. He
looks like a boy. And I have watched his eyes change shade in a matter of
seconds, belying the different emotions behind the low-key persona. I
have seen him when his eyes are dark with desire and his face flushed
from the heat of our lovemaking. I have heard him moan my name. He grows
more beautiful to me every day. 
     He absently pulls a hand through his hair and all his work in
front of the mirror this morning is for naught. Most of it falls back
into place. But enough strands spike out or fall forward onto his brow to
make him look less the Special Agent and more the enduring man-child
playing dress-up in an Armani suit and a loud tie. A part of Mulder will
always be twelve.
     I smile at him and Mulder catches me at it, cocking his head a
little. His eyes capture mine and hold them before they dip down to my
lips and then back to my eyes. A shiver runs through me. "Something I can
do for you, Scully?"
     "No," I answer, hearing the happy lift of my voice and becoming
aware of the subtle pull that has begun to thrum between us. Never before
have I been with a man who could twist my insides with a simple look or a
lift of his mouth. "I think you're doing quite enough as it is."
     He jerks a smile and comments, "I never promised you easy."
     We both know what he's talking about. I didn't realized how hard
it was going to be not to touch him, to respond to the way he looks at me
and touches me when we're working. I never had to think about it before.
But now the most simple of touches brings forth the memories of caresses
we are only able to enjoy secretly. Mulder's hand on the small of my back
used to be almost routine to me; a gesture of his upbringing and his
gentlemanly ways. Now it reminds me of what his hand feels like when it
slips lower to cup me, or slides around to run over the swell of my hip.
His fingers on my elbow bring thoughts of his hands moving over me,
exploring far more intimate places. A touch on my shoulder could easily
become his arms wrapped tightly around me. He speaks to me about a case
and my eyes are drawn to the fullness of his mouth and the fire in his
eyes. 
     There are evenings when our need is so fierce that our lovemaking
begins in the car on the way to his apartment or mine, and we have to
struggle against the desire to pull into a dark alley and finish there,
fumbling in the back seat like love-struck horny teenagers. Moments when
we are barely inside the door before we are pulling at each other's
clothes in helpless abandon. But we both agreed from the start that what
we do and who we are off the job would not affect the work we do. We
can't let it; it's too important. I've begun to feel as though we're
living double lives. It's not easy--sometimes it's damn hard. But it's
worth it.
     Mulder leaves his desk and begins digging through a file cabinet.
I envy him his ability to shift gears as well as he does. I guess I
imagined it would be easier for me than Mulder. Yet another of my
preconceived notions shot all to hell. 
     I go back to my paperwork like the dutiful FBI agent I am. It's
only after a few minutes that I hear Mulder begin singing under his
breath as he flips through files, digging out receipts for the expense
forms. I lay my pen down and listen carefully. I recognize the song, but
Mulder has substituted his own lyrics. As he comes back around and takes
his seat with nary a look in my direction, the words become more
distinct.

Me and Agent Scully,
We got a thing goin' on
We both know that it's wrong
But it's much too strong
To let it go now

We meet every day
With the same thing in mind
Her bed or mine, I know, I know she'll be there
Holding hands, making all kinds of plans
While the stereo plays our favorite song

Me and Agent, Agent Scully.... 

     His voice drops away and then he glances over at me and winks.
His eyes are bright and filled with wicked glee. He is the kind of man my
mother always warned me about when I was younger. Now I know why. Mulder
is a very dangerous man. "Wanna do lunch, Scully?"
     I glance at my watch. "Mulder, it's only ten-thirty."
     He leans back and locks his hands behind his head, his eyes still
on me, burning into me. They telegraph his thoughts and they are far from
innocent.
     I shove down my desire to leave my desk and hurl myself into his
arms. I missed him this weekend. He spent it with his mother and I with
mine. My bed was so cold and so large without him there. And Mulder's
voice on the telephone is no longer enough. "Work, Mulder, work."
     He looks down at his watch and pulls his lower lip into his
mouth, sucking at it. I watch, mesmerized. "Let's see," he says in a
conversational tone. "Traffic should be light this time of day. Ten,
maybe fifteen minutes to get to my place, a few minutes more to get back.
That'd leave us about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes if we push
our luck. What do you say, Scully? You up for it?"
     He could just as well be talking about a trip to the dry cleaners
or the grocery store. I can't help but laugh. This is so unlike him.
"What's gotten into you, Mulder?"
     "Ah, it's not what's gotten into me, it's what I wanna get into
*you*." 
     "Mulder!"
     He laughs then. He is completely unrepentant and I don't think he
has any idea what his words have done to me. Or maybe he does. He gets up
again and steps to my chair, crouching down beside me. He looks up into
my eyes and lays his hand on my leg, just above the knee. Slowly he
begins to slide his hand up along the inside of my thigh, his fingers
whispering against the thin fabric of my pantyhose. Why did I wear a
skirt today? Part of my mind is screaming at me to tell him to stop, that
we can't do this here. Another part allows my thighs to drift open. I
drop my eyes and I cannot seem to pull them from his hand. I watch it
move farther and farther up, pushing my skirt up with it, unable and
unwilling to stop its slow progress. Mulder leans closer to me, his
breath warm on my skin. "Have I ever told you how great you look in a
skirt, Scully? All I can think about are the insides of your thighs. How
soft they are. How great it feels to have them straddling my hips, my
face."
     A ragged sigh leaves my mouth. I can't believe he's doing this. I
can't believe I'm letting him. But God, his hand feels so good. His words
and the images they bring to mind shoot through me like an electric
current. I feel myself flood with moisture. And then his fingers reach
their goal. He brushes the back of them against me once and then slides
up and turns them until his palm is resting on my lower abdomen, his
fingers splayed out against me. His thumb settles on my clitoris and
begins to rub in slow circles. My hips lift off the chair and I moan,
closing my eyes. I feel his breath against my mouth and he whispers, "So,
lunch?"
     My eyes fly open and I find myself falling into the vivid
greenish-gold depths of his. I take one calming breath and push his hand
away, stepping by him and heading for the door. I look back at him as I
slip on my coat. 
     "Last one to the car is a rotten egg." I'm inordinately proud
that my voice is as calm as it is. I am vibrating with desire. 
     Mulder pulls himself up to his full height, smiling widely, and I
can see the stiffness of his erection through his pants. He joins me at
the door, pulling on his coat and flipping off the lights as he opens the
door and guides us out, his hand firmly planted on the small of my back. 


end part1/2


From bower2@juno.com Sat Dec 28 10:39:41 1996
Disclaimer in part 1. This is just story. Feedback as always to
<bower2@juno. com>. Enjoy!

Dancing With Mulder
Part 2/2 NC-17
by Lydia Bower <bower2@juno.com>
R, Mulder/Scully romance


     There is no conversation in the car. And we don't touch each
other; even though I so desperately want to and I can tell Mulder feels
the same way. There is a sweet torture in forcing ourselves to stay
silent and as far away from each other as the car will allow. We trade
glances and I am fascinated by the heavy, hungry look in his eyes. I
study his hands as they hold the steering wheel. His long, elegant
fingers grip and release the wheel time and again; his only concession to
his inner tension. I know he wants his hands on me instead, and watching
the motion of them reminds me of how they grasp and squeeze my breasts,
my hips.
     We reach his apartment and the game continues as we stand on
opposite sides in the elevator. Mulder's hands are shoved in his coat
pockets and he licks his lips as he raises his eyes to the floor
indicator above the door, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. I
don't think it's ever taken so long to ascend four floors. 
     And then we are there, inside the apartment. Mulder has stepped
inside before me and I hear the click of the deadbolt sliding home as he
closes the door behind me. He turns to me and there is a moment when our
eyes lock that time stands still. He growls "Come here," and I step to
him. My arms wrap around his waist as his hands fly up and grasp my face,
his fingers lacing through my hair. He tips my face upward and urgently
brings his mouth to mine. His kiss is rough and wet and hot, his tongue
plunging into my mouth and dancing across mine. There is no finesse, no
practiced technique; only raw desire. His mouth devours mine, his teeth
bruising and rough against my tender skin. Never let it be said that Dana
Scully doesn't give as good as she gets. I drop my hands from his waist
and cup the rounded cheeks of his butt in my hands, pulling him tightly
against me. I can feel the rock-hard heat of his erection pressing into
my belly and he catches my laughter in his mouth. I have discovered that
there is no power quite so heady as that of knowing what I can do, have
done, to this man. It exhilarates me. It makes me giddy. 
     Mulder is yanking my coat from my shoulders. I shrug out of it
and begin to work on his. He drops his arms to help me and pulls his
mouth from mine. His lips are wet and pouting and I stand on tiptoe and
take his bottom lip between my teeth. Mulder moans and pulls my blouse
free of my skirt, his warm hands slipping under it and playing along my
ribs and back before they move around to cup my breasts. I pull at his
tie and work it loose, starting on the top buttons of his shirt. I am
reckless, bold. I grasp the edges of his shirt in my fists and jerk out
and down, ripping the buttons loose. Mulder chuckles wickedly and leans
into me, his tongue playing along the line of my jaw as he works the
buttons free on my blouse. He pulls it off my shoulders and tugs at my
bra, pulling the fabric down to expose my breasts. He gently pinches my
hardened nipples between fingers and thumbs, watching me, waiting for my
reaction.
     "Harder," I plead.
     "Like this?" he asks and pinches again, rolling the nubs between
his fingers. A low moan escapes me. "Yeah. You like that, don't you,
Scully?"
     "God..." I feel so wanton standing here half dressed, my breasts
exposed and lifted by the bunched fabric of my bra beneath them. I am
panting, out of breath, as though I've run all the way here. And I can
feel Mulder's eyes on me. I watch as they drop from my eyes to my breasts
and his tongue snakes out and wets his lips. I know what he will do now
and I tangle my hands in his hair and pull his mouth down to them. I sigh
and throw my head back as he begins to suckle me urgently, nipping and
licking at one nipple as his fingers dance across my other breast,
squeezing and kneading the soft flesh.. 
     "Yes, Mulder," I sigh. "Oh, don't stop."
     His hands move to my waist and he unhooks my skirt. It drops to
the floor. I step out of it and closer to him. His mouth lifts and traces
a path up my neck to my mouth. He grabs my bottom in his hands and grinds
his erection against me. I am breathless, dizzy. I want him so badly. He
turns me slightly and his hand slips beneath my hose and panties, his
fingers seeking me out. My knees grow weak as he pushes a finger inside
me, exploring me. Mulder groans and mutters against me, "God, Scully.
You're so hot, so wet. Jesus."
     His finger goes to work on me, sapping any strength I might have
had left. His arm around my waist supports me as I sag against him.
Mulder brings two fingers together and plunges them into me before
stroking them upward and unfolding me. He lays them flat against my
clitoris and begins to rub against it.
     ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.... 
     "C'mon, Scully, say it," he urges. "C'mon, tell me."
     "I want you, Mulder. Oh God, I want you."
     My eyes are heavy and I want to close them, surrender to the fire
that burns through me. But Mulder won't let me. He pierces me with eyes
gone black with desire. His voice is husky and fierce and full of
promise. "I'm gonna make you come so hard." 
     His words alone are almost enough to bring me to orgasm. "Then do
it, Mulder," I beg. "Make me come."
     He chuckles deep in his throat. "Uh uh. Not yet."
     He bends, making one swift movement and my panties and hose are
peeled down my legs and tossed aside. My bra is unhooked and joins the
rest of my clothes on the floor at our feet. He turns to the table that
sits by the door and sweeps it clean with his arm, scattering books and
papers and tall candlesticks, and then lifts me up and places me on the
edge. The cold wood against my heated skin makes me gasp. I reach for
Mulder's belt and pull it free as his hands roam my breasts and his mouth
comes down on my shoulder, biting and licking at the tender skin. I
unbutton his pants and pull down the zipper, slipping my hand inside his
boxers. Mulder moans as I wrap my fingers around him. He is hot and hard
and huge. 
     Suddenly he steps back and places his hands on my thighs, roughly
spreading them apart. He sinks down in front of me and plunges a finger
inside me, his eyes focused on his task. It excites me to see Mulder
looking at me this way. His eyes are hooded and soft as he watches his
finger moving in and out of me. I can smell myself in the air, a heavy,
musky aroma. He pulls his finger out of me and I watch him slip it into
his mouth, sucking away my juices. His fingers settle back on my clitoris
as he lifts his other hand, his thumb pulling back the small hood of skin
that covers it. He raises his eyes and they lock onto me. His mouth is
open, his breath coming fast and hard. 
     "Mine?" he asks me.
     I can no longer make the words to answer him. All thought has
left my head. I bite my lower lip and nod, the motion jerky and loose.
     "Mine," he declares and brings his mouth to me.
     I grip the edges of the table in my hands and slump against the
wall behind me, my legs lifting and settling on his shoulders. His lips
are soft, his tongue firm, his mouth hot, and he is quickly driving me
out of my mind. I don't have to direct him or shift my hips or place my
hands on his head to guide him. Mulder knows exactly where and how to
touch me. He always has. From the very first time we both seemed to know
without words or gestures what we each needed and wanted from the other.
Mulder and I have always been very good at that. First as partners and
friends, and now as lovers. We are seamlessly connected. 
     As though to prove my thoughts, as soon as my hips begin the tiny
circles against his mouth that foretell my climax, Mulder pulls away from
me and stands. I can do nothing more than moan and reach for him. His
unfastened pants are riding low on his slim hips and I can see the tip of
his erection peeking out of the top of his boxers. I free it, jerking
pants and boxers down. Mulder quickly bends over and pulls off his shoes
and steps out of his clothes. He turns to me, and grasping me around the
waist, tugs me to him, slipping easily and fully inside me. I watch as
his head tips back and his mouth opens. He sighs and drops his head, his
eyes opening and finding mine. A peaceful smile plays on his mouth.
Mulder dips his head until our foreheads touch.
      "Home sweet home, Scully," he whispers, his voice rich with
pleasure. He moves slowly against me, thrusting gently as I lift my legs
and wrap them low on his hips. The table is the perfect height for this.
We fit together well. 
     The furious nature of our lovemaking has subsided, leaving us
content for the time being with small movements and this easy connection.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that we have come to regard the
initial joining of our bodies as a benediction, a thing to be treasured
and enjoyed, not hurried through. The sex is just another link in the
chain that binds us, one to the other; but it is now, this special
moment, that has finally defined us. We are one. Truly. Completely.
Always.
     "I missed you, Scully," Mulder whispers against my mouth. "No
more weekends apart."
     I kiss him once. Twice. "No more ditching me," I bargain.
     "Never again."
     "Liar."
     We both laugh. Mulder wraps his arms around me, under my butt,
and lifts me from the table, turning us towards his bedroom. I am impaled
on him, and my arms snake up around his shoulders. He lifts a hand to my
back, easily holding me up with one arm. He splays his fingers across my
back and I lean into his hand as he continues to pump slowly inside me in
full, long strokes. "May I have this dance, Scully?"
     I grin at him. I am so happy here. "Little too late to be asking,
isn't it, Mulder?"
     "It's never too late. Not for us."
     I kiss the tip of his nose. "Then dance with me, Mulder."
     "That's my girl." He kisses me and carries me into the bedroom.
     We're only a little late getting back from lunch.

THE END