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 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