From bower2@juno.com Fri Apr 25 13:40:21 1997
Subject: *NEW* Affinity 1/2 By Lydia Bower US4 Spoilers 
From: bower2@juno.com (L. B. Bower)
--------

Hi! Sorry I haven't written. ;) This is, of course, my follow up to Small
Potatoes. I really wanted to do something funny in keeping with the
surface story--but, dammit, Vince Gilligan's scripts are never that
simple. Mulder's last line to Scully haunted me and wouldn't shut up
until I wrote this. So here you go. This one is pretty user friendly--no
groping or really rough language--but if the idea of Mulder and Scully
sharing a kiss or two bothers you, you'd better bail now. Feedback is
most welcome. :)

This one's for the gang on the XF-Romantics list and for our Patron Saint
Vince Gilligan. Y'all are the best!

Affinity
by Lydia Bower <bower2@juno.com
Classification: S, MSR
Rating: PG for language
Summary: Continues the final scene of Small Potatoes. What happens next?

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully aren't mine. They belong to the Master of
Yuppie Morbidity, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I also stole
some lines from the final two scenes of Small Potatoes. So sue me. :) 

Affinity
by Lydia Bower

        We haven't talked about it--not really. Typical. Yes, it does
involve the work and an actual X-File, but it's also extremely personal
to both of us--and that's where Mulder is so good at drawing the lines.
To be fair, I'm pretty good at it too. But it's amazing what a bottle of
wine and an invitation to spill my guts can do. Add to that the Mulder
factor and, well, I guess I never stood a chance in hell.
        Except it wasn't Mulder.
        The initial embarrassment has long passed; at least for me.
Mulder's having a little more difficulty with it than I am. He seems to
be having trouble looking me straight in the eye these days. But he's
been sneaking a lot of looks when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I'm
always paying attention, Mulder. Even that night.
        Eddie Van Blundht is good--I have to give credit where it's due.
He certainly had me fooled and my Mulder radar is top-notch. At least I
thought it was. And I can't really blame it on the wine. Two adults
sharing a single bottle of wine shouldn't be enough to dull my mind to
the extent that he could have deceived me as well as he did. Mulder and I
have split a bottle or two of wine over dinner before--but always in a
restaurant, never at my place or his. And the bulk of the conversations
always involved the work. The only plausible explanation for what
happened is that Van Blundht made sure I did most of the talking that
night, cleverly hiding the fact that he knew next to nothing about Mulder
and would therefore be unable to supply any real facts, had I asked. But
he made certain I wouldn't ask. And all he had to do was give me the
opportunity to do what I've wanted for so long: talk to Mulder. Just
talk. About something, anything, besides the damn X-Files, Mulder's
search for the truth and my cancer.
        Was I that transparent in my need? And if Van Blundht had no
trouble spotting my varied vulnerabilities, then how come Mulder can't
seem to?
        And why the hell did he drag me down here to the Cumberland
Reformatory with him? It's Mulder Van Blundht wanted to see, not me. But
Mulder insisted I come with him, claiming it involved the work and so was
part of my job.
        I watch Mulder sign in and enter the visiting room and I turn
away, remembering with fresh chagrin the night Mulder kicked in my door
and discovered a near-perfect replica of himself a breath away from
kissing me. The laser-eyed look he shot me when I hopped off the couch is
imprinted in my mind. I can call it up any time I choose. I still haven't
figured out what was going on behind those wide, dark eyes.
        After ascertaining that I was all right and roughly handcuffing
Van Blundht, Mulder had shoved him back onto the couch, mumbled something
about waiting outside for the squad car he'd requested and walked out the
door. I never did get a chance to ask him how he'd known to come to my
place. I guess I already knew--but it would have been nice to hear Mulder
say it. 
        I hear my name coming from the tinny speaker and turn back to the
black and white monitor. Van Blundht has asked about me. I watch the
scene playing out.
        "What did you want to talk to me about, Eddie?" Mulder is low on
patience. His slouched posture can't mask the tension in his voice.
        "I just think it's funny," Van Blundht tells him. "I was born a
loser; but you're one by choice."
        And you're a real bastard, Van Blundht. 
        "On what do you base that astute assessment?" Mulder the
observer, the psychologist, has stepped in. But the sarcasm is still
there; deeply rooted and as automatic as breathing.
        "Experience."
        That sets Mulder back a little. It does me, as well. We all three
know what experience Eddie is talking about. Van Blundht had even taken
the time to check out the office and Mulder's apartment. And he'd been
clever enough to fool me. His claim to have walked in Mulder's shoes is a
true one, even if he was only able to scratch the surface--or so I tell
myself.
        Eddie sits up in his cold metal chair and advises Mulder, "You
should live a little. Treat yourself. God knows I would...if I were you."
        No confusing the meaning of that little gem, either.
        I watch as Mulder gets up and heads for the door, turning my back
just a little as he comes out; trying to give him some privacy. He has to
know that I heard every word. I hear the sound of the pen hitting the
clipboard and he steps to my side. We walk a little way down the hall. I
have to say something.
        I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat. "I don't imagine you
have to be told this, Mulder, but you're not a loser."
        I've purposefully kept myself from looking at him, but I can see
the way he keeps sullenly yanking at the cuffs of his shirt. His silence
stretches and is full of meanings of a thousand shades and flavors. 
        "Yeah," he finally retorts. "But I'm no Eddie Van Blundht,
either...am I?"
        There is a wistful quality to his words. And some regret. I wish
I knew what to say to him. You do, Dana, I tell myself. You know what to
say. 
        But I don't say it. I don't get the chance.
        Mulder chooses that moment to ask, "So, Scully.... What did he
have that I don't have?"
        His question stops me cold. Mulder takes a few steps before he
realizes I'm no longer beside him. He turns and looks back at me.
Regaining my composure, I catch up with him.
        We push through the doors and head to the car. "Well?" Mulder
prompts.
        "It's not that simple, Mulder." I'm not ready for this. I thought
I'd have more time to prepare. How much more time do you need? I ask
myself. It's been over a month. Still, his blunt question has caught me
off-guard.  
        Apparently my answer is enough. Mulder watches me buckle up and
then pulls out of the parking lot, heading for DC.
        The air hangs heavy between us and I try to lose myself in the
landscape that flies by my window. It does no good. The silence is
becoming oppressive. Damn it, Mulder; say something.
        When they finally come, his words startle me and make me jump.
        "Hey, Scully. You really thought it was me that night. Right?"
        We've covered this ground before. It's one of the few questions
he's allowed himself to ask--and one of the queries he continues to make.
It's like he's stuck on these few questions like a needle stuck in the
groove of an old record.
        "Yes, Mulder." I wait for the question that will inevitably
follow; the one that never directly addresses what he saw when he burst
through the door. He can afford to be vague--we both know what almost
happened, what he interrupted.  
        "And you...you were okay with that."
        Second verse same as the first.
        "Yeah, Mulder. I was okay with that."
        He nods. I haven't changed the answer to that one, either. I
think he finds that reassuring--in some odd, Mulderish way. These are
questions to which he already has the answers. He really doesn't require
my input; he could answer them on his own. Perhaps that's why he asks
them: there are no surprises here.
        This is one of the few times I can remember Mulder being afraid
to ask the tough questions. And then I remember what he asked me as we
walked out of the reformatory. I should have given him a straight answer.
It would have at least added to his acceptable repertoire of questions.
         Better late than never. "He just came over, Mulder, with a
bottle of wine. No files, no photos, no tapes to listen to. Just wine."
        I glance over at him. A flick of his eyes asks me to go on.
        "He wanted to talk. Well, actually, he wanted to listen while I
talked."
        "About what?" Mulder quietly asks.
        I shrug and sigh in my throat. "Everything. Nothing. We just
talked about...life."
        "Well, he certainly couldn't have dazzled you with his extensive
knowledge of the X-Files, could he?"
        That forces a smile from me, though I really shouldn't. There is
an underlying resentment in the way he's said it. And a grudging
acknowledgment of what we seem to spend all our time discussing.
        "So," he says. "That's it? You talked?"
        "That's it," I confirm. "It's amazing what you can discover if
you just take the time and make the effort, Mulder."
        That prompts a dead-eye look in my direction. I want to tell him
not to ask if he doesn't really want the answer, complete with
commentary; but I don't.
        We make the rest of the drive in silence. It's only as we reach
the Bureau and Mulder pulls up beside my car that he speaks again.
        "The fireplace. The music. Whose idea was that?"
        I look up into his eyes and my throat goes tight. The hurt and
confusion I see there scares me. I don't know if my answer will hurt him
more or help him.
        "It was mine, Mulder."
        He pulls in his lower lip and nods at me. And then I can't read
his face anymore. It's become blank as a chalkboard.
        "Well, I guess I'll see you later, Scully."
        I take that as my cue to exit the car. I don't bother mentioning 
it's only two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon and we have paperwork to
catch up on. He takes little enough time away from the work--I'm not
going to begrudge him a few hours AWOL.
        I step from the car and grab my briefcase from the back seat.
I've no more than shut the door when he takes off. I'm left in a chilly
underground parking garage, holding nothing but a briefcase and the firm
suspicion that this is far from over. We've set something in motion this
afternoon; only time will tell what comes it.

        XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
        
        I've given myself the night off and all my attention is focused
on the TV and the movie I'm watching when the phone rings. I reluctantly
leave Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant to their business and pick up.
        "Hello."
        "Hey, Scully. It's me."
        "What's wrong, Mulder?"
        "Nothing. Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?"
        Something in his voice makes me reach for the remote and kill the
TV. I can't afford the distraction. "No," I answer him. "It's just
that--"
        "That about the only time I call is when I'm in trouble or I need
something. Yeah, I know."
        This little revelation doesn't seem to require any response from
me.
        "Listen, Scully, if you don't have anything planned.... Look, I
was just wondering if you'd mind coming over."
        "To your place?" For all I know, he could be in the basement.
        "Yeah." There is a almost palpable sense of anticipation that
comes through the phone line. It's as if the world is holding its breath.
Or maybe it's just Mulder.
        Don't screw this up, Dana. You won't get another chance. Fox
Mulder is nothing if not stingy with a sincere overture.
        "Okay. Sure, Mulder. I'm on my way."
        I hear him release the breath he's been holding.
        "Great." He hangs up. He's not one for niceties like hello and
good-bye, either. 
        Forty-five minutes later I'm standing in front of his door. I
glance up at the numbers. The 2 is coming loose again--an X-File in and
of itself. I knock, calling out, "Mulder, it's me." 
        The door suddenly swings open and he's there. I can only spare
him a quick glance as my eye is caught by something about the apartment
behind him. It's not all-the-lights-turned-off dark. It's not quite the
lighting of the lamp on his desk, either. I come up on tiptoes and peer
over his shoulder. The living room is filled with lighted candles. This
is not typical Mulder--at least not the one I'm familiar with. 
        His eyes chase and catch mine. He takes a step back and gives me
a head tilt. "C'mon in."
        I take a few steps inside and turn back to watch him flip the
lock closed.
        Oh, Mulder. Damn that eidetic memory of yours.
        He swings around, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a simple
gray t-shirt. Sneakers round out the picture.
        He's so transparent it's not even funny. 
        The candles are the Mulder version of a fireplace. And I caught
the gleam of candlelight on the crystal wineglasses sitting empty on his
coffee table. The only thing missing is the music.
        Oh. Wait. There it is. The CD player must have been shifting
disks around. The Temptations.
        My eyes suddenly sting with tears even as I feel my lips pull up
into a smile. 
        <Now I'm seeing a whole new side of you, Mulder.>
        <Is that a good thing?>
        Dammit. If only it could be that easy. He doesn't understand that
it wasn't just the wine or the fire or what he was wearing.
        Tread softly, Dana.
        "Christ, Mulder," I shake my head, fighting back laughter. "Go
change your clothes."
        I bite my tongue the second the words are out of my mouth. Yeah,
tread softly with those spiked combat boots, Scully. Way to go.
        I wait for the veil of self-protective calm to fall across his
face. But that's not what happens.
        Mulder jerks a lop-sided smile. "Too much?"
        Thank you, Lord. I owe you one.
        "Yeah. Too much, Mulder."
        He nods in easy agreement. "Okay. I'll be right back." He's
peeling the shirt off as he goes and I discover how beautiful the skin of
his back looks in the honey-gold glow of candlelight. I purse my lips and
let out a puff of air. 
        Do something, Dana. Don't just stand here. 
        So I drop my bag and coat, go take a seat on the couch and get
busy pouring out the wine. Authentic Mulder on the choice of wine--it's
white, not red. I guess that should have tipped me off that night with
Van Blundht. Mulder generally drinks only white wine.
        He comes back a short time later. And I can't possibly ask him to
change again. Can I?
        Snug black 501s and a matching t-shirt. And bare feet.
        My very own dark angel.
        I drop my eyes and reach for a wineglass, handing it to him as he
settles in at the other end of the couch.
        I lift my glass and Mulder gently clinks his against it. 
        "What should we drink to, Scully?"
        Oh my. That could be a very long list. Or a very short one.
        "To conversation, Mulder."
        "Okay. To conversation."
        We sip our wine, throwing side-long glances at each other. An odd
sense of deja vu washes over me. 
        "So..." Mulder twists around on the couch, tucking one leg under
him. 
        We trade nervous smiles.
        My brain has frozen up on me. I can't think of a single thing to
say. Instead, I take a good look around the room--like I've never been
here before. I hear Mulder sigh. The silence stretches until it's
vibrating like an over-taxed rubber band. We both speak at the same time.
        "Mulder."
        "Scully."
        And now we're stumbling over each other's apologies. God.
        Mulder sets down his wine glass and hops off the couch. He paces
a half circle and then stops and looks down at me. "I'm really bad at
this, Scully."
        I wonder what it cost him to say that.
        "I mean, your being here--that's great. I'm good with that." He
falters and gives me a quizzical look. It's as if he's waiting for me to
jump in and help him out. He jams his hands in his pockets and he looks
like a lost little boy. This look is not unusual for Mulder. It's just
that this time it's not contrived.
        He rocks back on his heels. Shrugs a shoulder. "This just doesn't
feel.... It doesn't feel right, Scully. It's not me."
        With that pronouncement he steps to the desk and turns on the
lamp. He grabs the remote from the table, switches off the CD player and
turns on the TV. A silent basketball game flashes on the screen. I sip my
wine and watch him move around the room, blowing out all but a few of the
candles. Then he sits back down on the couch, grabbing his wine, and
stretches his long legs out, resting his feet on the coffee table. He
shifts around a little bit and then turns to look at me. He's waiting.

        end part 1/2    


From bower2@juno.com Fri Apr 25 13:40:21 1997
Subject: *NEW* Affinity by Lydia Bower 2/2 US4Spoilers 
From: bower2@juno.com (L. B. Bower)
--------


Disclaimer in Part 1. This is nothing but story
-----------------------------------------------------------------

        "Feel better now, Mulder? More comfortable?"
        "Yes, I do. Thanks for asking. How 'bout yourself?"
        "I'm fine, Mulder." 
        He eyeballs me. "Good. Kick back, Scully. Let's talk."
        His grin is infectious. 
        "What do you want to talk about?"
        He looks away and I can see he's really considering my question.
I watch the small movements of his face. It's fascinating how mobile it
is when he's too occupied in the playground of his mind to worry about
who might be watching him. I'm glad Mulder doesn't hide this from me.
        It's mostly his eyes and his full mouth. But you can spot things
in the set of his jaw or the twitch of an eyebrow; if you really pay
attention.
        He turns back and gives me the once-over before leaning forward
and snagging the wine bottle. He adds half a glass to mine and refreshes
his. "Why did you decide on medicine, Scully?"
        "Why did you choose psychology?"
        "I asked first." 
        I just look at him.
        "Okay," he says. "Tell you what. I'll race you around the block.
Winner gets to go last."
        "It's not a contest, Mulder."
        "You're just saying that because you know I'll kick your ass. I
ran on the track team in high school, y'know. You're looking at the
fastest thing on two legs this side of the Mississippi."
        "Oh, really?" I'm having trouble picturing Mulder joining any
kind of team.
        "Yeah, I always was good at running away from things. Figured I
might as well get a letter jacket for it. A chick magnet, y'know?"
        I ignore the first and last and concentrate on the middle. "You
lettered in high school?"
        "Yeah. You wanna see the jacket? I've still got it."
        "You've got to be kidding me." I feel almost giddy. This isn't so
hard after all. 
        "Scout's honor, Scully. I'll get it."
        He hops up and heads for the auxiliary office that was intended
as a bedroom but never got past the mostly unused mattress and box spring
on the floor and a dresser tucked in the corner. All the other space is
taken up by boxes neatly stacked six foot high in some places; all
crammed with things pertaining to the X-Files and Mulder's quests. I've
been in that room once. What it signified saddened me. He won't even
allow himself the comfort of a real bed to sleep in, or a room he can use
as a refuge from the world.
         Mulder takes refuge in other things: the work, his quick and
keen mind. And me. I've known that for a long time and maybe it's selfish
of me to want more than that, but it isn't enough. Mulder hasn't yet
learned that the safest refuge is the one that's shared. He's never been
willing to share before now. I'm not even certain he knows how. But he's
earned the right to try.
        He lopes out with the letter jacket and a goofy smile on his
face. I ooh and ahh over the jacket and obediently try it on for him. The
sleeves hang almost to my knees. Mulder makes a production of
straightening the various class pins stuck on the front of it and then
lifts his eyes to mine. His breath falls lightly on my face. And then he
lifts his hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek.
         "Dust," he explains. 
        I can't seem to look away from him. I will drown in his eyes if
he doesn't let me up for air.
        For all the myriad things we don't know about each other, at the
most elemental level Mulder knows me very well. He steps back and glances
away for a moment before looking back.
        "Looks better on you than it does on me, Scully."
        I glance down at the hanging sleeves. "I look ridiculous."
        "You look beautiful. You always do."
        "Thank you, Mulder." Oh, don't let me start blushing now. I'm a
grown woman. I should be past blushing--especially with Mulder.
        "You're welcome." He reaches out and tries to take my hand but
can't find it in the sleeve. Thus begins a hunt replete with low chuckles
from Mulder.
        "You make a crack about my size and I'll bust you one," I warn
him, struggling with the sleeve and his intrusive fingers.
        "Just as long as you don't shoot me again, Scully."
        "That's not beyond my capabilities. You were the one who taught
me to carry my gun everywhere I go."
        "Are you packing? 'Cause I have a thing for women who pack heat."
He slips the jacket off my shoulders and does a short but intense study
of my jeans and sweater-clad figure. "I don't see it. Where'd you hide
it?"
        "None of your business and I'll break your fingers if you go
looking for it."
        He laughs. I love it when Mulder laughs. He doesn't do it often
enough. He grabs my newly uncovered hand and leads me back to the couch.
"So why did you pick medicine, Scully?"
        And this time I tell him.

        XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
        
        I've spent the last two hours undergoing a transformation that is
both sharply familiar and brand new. I can only speak for myself but I
think Mulder feels it, too--at least the novelty of it.
        At first I found myself comparing the two evenings and, truth be
told, the two Mulders. Eddie Van Blundht was a master of disguises. If I
was more like Mulder I might even find it plausible he was able to adopt
not only a man's identity, but his personality as well. 
        There have been moments this evening that've closely mirrored
those of a month ago--so much so that I've had to repeat to myself over
and over that this really is Mulder and not a lesser duplicate. I had to
excuse myself from the room when Mulder upended the mostly empty wine
bottle over my glass and gave the bottom three healthy slaps.
        "No sense in letting it go to waste," he'd said.
        Mulder is a very good listener when he wants to be. And I've
found it very easy to talk to him. Most amazing of all is that he's
talking back. We've been trading stories all night. 
        It hasn't been easy for him. Mulder holds himself so closely to
the vest. I think he probably always has--if always began with Samantha's
disappearance. It's his armor and his weak spot all rolled up into one. I
had to gently poke and prod at first, ask leading questions and allow
long silences to fall as he ran all the ramifications of the possible
answers through his head, searching for the one he thought would please
me most. It didn't take me long to figure out what he was doing and call
him on it. He cheerfully accepted my rebuke and shifted back into the
irreverent, acerbic, but unendingly compassionate Mulder I know so well.
        It dawns on me that I should've had no trouble figuring out that
the Mulder who knocked on my door a month ago was not the same man who
sits beside me now. It's a bittersweet realization because it is the
essence and spirit of Mulder that was missing that night. And I can't
dismiss the shame I feel now that I didn't question it then. 
        I can only chalk it up to the need I had that night that only
Mulder could fill; a man I consider my best friend--and so much more. 
        What ultimately makes Mulder a winner and those like Eddie Van
Blundht losers is the absolute, complete faith Mulder has in himself.
While he may harbor more than his fair share of demons, Mulder has a calm
self-confidence about himself and his life's work that Eddie was missing.
He long ago quit caring what anyone else thought and I think that allowed
him to focus all his considerable skills and devotion on those things
that matter to him most. It became a single-minded determination that
somehow led to his decision to lead an almost monkish life. It's not at
all that Mulder doesn't know how to relate to me or anyone else on a
personal level, it's that he made the choice not to. 
        There's that and then there's also the encyclopedic mind that
still manages to stun me. Van Blundht is not even on the same scale. I
suppose I should have seen that, too. But when you're busy telling your
life story to a person you think is the man who's quite literally become
the center of your universe, it's harder to notice what's missing that
should be there.
        "Hey." There is a touch on my arm as soft as his voice. I pull
away from my thoughts and look over at Mulder. And dammit if he doesn't
have that face on. The one that's halfway between sleepy little boy and
consummate hunter. The dark, hooded eyes. The slightly parted lips. 
        I'm in big trouble.
        I had that same realization a month ago. Only this time it's not
so foreign. I've been through this before. A dress rehearsal for the real
thing.
        "Where'd you go?" Mulder asks me.     
        "I was just...." It isn't a conscious thought and the question
comes out of nowhere. "Mulder, why are we doing this?"
        He studies me, his eyes moving over my face. "Does it make you
uncomfortable?" 
        I don't hesitate. "No. No, not at all. I like it. I'm just not--"
        "Scully, can we talk about that night?" he blurts.
        I knew this was coming; it was only a matter of time. "What would
you like to know, Mulder?"
        There is a short silence. And then instead of the expected
laundry list of questions, Mulder tells me, "I knew what Van Blundht had
in mind when he locked me up, Scully. I knew what he was going to try.
And I knew it because he saw something we've been turning a blind eye to
for a long time. I don't think he would've attempted to do what he did if
he didn't think he had a chance of succeeding."
        My heart has begun to pound. I'm both fascinated and frightened
by what I suspect this is leading to. "What are you trying to say,
Mulder?"
        He shifts around to fully face me and I can see the familiar fire
blazing to life in his eyes. "Well, just think about it, Scully. This is
a man who can assume the identity of anyone he chooses. Despite the fact
that what he did was reprehensible, he was able to get away with it for
so long only because he came to these women in the guise of men they
trusted and cared for; women he knew wouldn't harbor any suspicions if
the man they encountered was someone they felt comfortable being with in
that type of situation. Eddie Van Blundht was in many ways these women's
fantasy lover."
        "You almost sound like you envy him, Mulder."
        All his energy and focus shift to me and I'm helplessly pinned by
his eyes. "Only when it comes to you." 
        "Mulder...."
        "No, just hear me out, Scully. I knew he would come to you
because that's what I would have done, if I'd had the courage. It's
something I should have done a long time ago."
        "Attempt to seduce me?"
        "No. No. Just set that part of it aside for a minute."
        I can't help the wry tone of my reply. "Easier said than done."
        He chuckles and lets my comment pass. "What I'm trying to say is
that he gave you an opportunity to open up, to let some of the barriers
down and allow the Dana Scully who isn't an FBI agent to come to the
forefront. I envy him that."
        "He didn't do anything you couldn't have done, Mulder."
        His head is bowed, eyes downcast. "I doubt that."
        I reach out and cover his hand with mine. He peers up at me.
        "You shouldn't," I tell him. I wait as his hand turns under mine
and our palms meet, fingers entwining. His hand is warm and a little
damp. "Mulder, what almost happened that night, what you saw when you
busted down my door--and by the way, you'll be getting the bill for that
soon--happened because it was what I wanted, too. And it wasn't because
Eddie was being a Mulder I'd never seen before and liked better than the
original. It was because he was being the Mulder I knew you could be if
you'd only allow yourself."
        He takes some time to absorb this, his thumb absently stroking
the back of my hand. "It's hard, Scully," he finally admits.
        "I know that. It is for both of us, Mulder. It means having to
bend a lot of the rules we've been playing by for so long--and even
throwing  some others out. But all these feelings, all these issues this
situation has forced us to confront are real. They're not something new
and they're not something that just came out of the blue. It's difficult
because we both know what we're risking and neither of us wants to lose
what we've worked so long and so hard to build." 
        Mulder releases my hand and moves closer to me, lifting his arm
and resting it on the back of the couch. I feel his fingers begin to move
through my hair and come to settle on the back of my neck. If he takes
note of the shiver that runs through me, he makes no mention of it. 
        He waits till my eyes raise to meet his. "I honestly didn't know,
Scully." He swallows hard. "I didn't know how you'd react if I ever tried
to cross that line. I could only hope that...." He sighs and shakes his
head. "I didn't know. And I was too much of a coward to find out."
        My focus has narrowed until everything fades but the sensation of
his fingers against my skin, the depths of his eyes, the fullness of his
mouth. "But you know now. Don't you?"
        "I think so," he murmurs. 
        His hand moves until it cups my cheek and then drops to the curve
where shoulder meets neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
        "Mulder, will you do something for me?"
        "Name it."
        "Will you...will you kiss me?"
        He smiles gently and says, "I thought you'd never ask."
        And this time, instead of sitting still and waiting--locked into
a shocked paralysis--I move when he does, leaning into his kiss. There is
only the briefest hesitation on Mulder's part, and none on mine, before
his lips meet mine. And they are soft and full and warm--just as I knew
they would be. 
        His kiss is tentative, inquisitive. I lift my fingers to his hair
and I knows he's heard my answer as the pressure of his lips on mine
increases. And then he pulls away, leaving me caught on the edge of a
ragged sigh. I open my eyes to find him looking at me, a blend of warm
affection and amusement softening his features. I mirror his shy grin.
        "Well, Scully," he declares after taking a deep breath. "That
was...pretty damn remarkable."
        "And I don't think the world came to an end."
        "I don't think I would have noticed if it had," he tells me.
"Let's try that again, just to make sure it wasn't an anomaly."
        No hesitation this time. On either of our parts.
        Well now you've gone and done it, Dana Katherine. There can be no
going back. Are you happy now?
        You bet your britches.
        Mulder is again the one to break the kiss. He's going to have to
stop doing that. I watch as he licks his lips and hot current of desire
runs through me. He is tasting me on his lips and wanting more.
        And then our eyes lock and I know he's seen the need in mine.
Mulder laughs as he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear.
        "I'm, um, I'm gonna kick you out, Scully."
        "What?"
        "You need to go home now," he tells me and he's up off the couch
and offering me his hand.
        I take it and stand, asking, "Why?"
        He looks aside and chews his lip. "I like to savor things,
Scully. No sense rushing a good thing, huh? And besides," he tells me as
he leads me to the door and helps me on with my coat. "I'm no Eddie Van
Blundht."
        I look up at Mulder and I know it's going to all right. The step
we've taken tonight will no doubt have its repercussions--good and bad--
but I've grown used that these last five years. Sometimes I think I even
crave it now. I've learned a lot of hard lessons these last months and
what I've come away with is that in order to truly live we have to take
risks. To learn to seize the opportunities we're presented with and fight
the battles that need fought. To accept the defeats and relish the
victories. Mulder and I have won this one. And it's so sweet. 
        I think Mulder understands this now, in a way he hasn't before. I
don't blame him for wanting to take the time to enjoy it.
        I turn to him and go easily into his arms. He squeezes me
tightly, drops a kiss on the top of head and guides me out the door.
        "I'll see you in the morning, Scully."
        "G'night, Mulder."
        I head for the elevator and stop only when I hear his door close
and the deadbolt slide home. Then I turn to the wall and lean my forehead
against it, a wide smile creasing my face. I swallow down a chuckle and
then another one.
         Oh, what the hell? I've just been kissed by the man of my
dreams. I'm entitled to be happy about it. I move to the elevator and
slap the down button, chuckling under my breath.
        No, Mulder is certainly no Eddie Van Blundht.
        Thank God.  

        XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

        The End