Title: ENCORE (1/1) Author: aka "Jake" Rating: NC-17 (graphic sexual content) Classification: SR (Story/Romance -- Mulder and Scully of course) Spoilers: Very vague references to several episodes through season 7 Summary: There are hundreds of fanfic stories about Mulder and Scully's "first time." (Com'on, you know you've read 'em!) Haven't you ever wondered what happens during the all-important second encounter? "Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't love Mulder. And it's not that the sex wasn't good. Hoo boy. It's just...complicated." -- Scully in "Encore" Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit. "Encore" is a follow-up to my story "Acquitted," but there's no need to read that one to enjoy this one. ENCORE (1/1) by aka "Jake" Already I'm doubting the sanity of our actions. Mulder's and mine. Last night. Thrown together in a small cabin in a big snowy woods with an unidentified monster howling outside of our door, an interlude of passion just seemed right at the time -- our first time. But now, in the bright inscrutable dawn of day, I wonder what the hell I was thinking. Mulder and me? Lovers? I must have been out of my mind. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't love him. And it's not that the sex wasn't good. Hoo boy. It's just...complicated. It's like this. Mulder and I are perfect partners -- in a strictly professional sense. We search for mutants, phantoms, and demons and we find aliens from outer space. We search for aliens from outer space and we find government conspiracies. We search for government conspiracies and we find mutants, phantoms and demons. Eventually, we will find everything we're looking for. Case closed. Next X-File, please. Unfortunately, my next X-File seems to be an intimate relationship with my perfect partner and I'm afraid to investigate this particular extreme phenomenon. What will I find in the arms of Special Agent Fox Mulder? Everything I'm looking for? Or not? Hell, I don't even *know* what I'm looking for. Occasionally, I entertain the idea of a house, a family, a dog -- although it's a miracle I can even remember what these things are. For the last seven years, my life has been little more than a ride in the passenger seat of a rental car, chasing one bright light in the sky after the next, and watching Mulder's inevitable disillusionment. Okay, so maybe it *is* time for a change. But sleeping together? I need more time to think about this. There's no denying I'm the kind of person who must look at something from every angle. Study it. Collect the data. Verify the outcomes. Before I can say whether something is real or false, right or wrong, I have to prove it with tangible, quantifiable, incontrovertible evidence. I'm most comfortable with beakers and petri dishes, microscopes and centrifuges. I am a scientist. I want only what I can measure and weigh. Predict. Know. But Mulder -- my opposite in most, if not all, ways -- he is a 'leaper' where I am a 'looker.' He hurtles headlong through the world with his eyes closed, expecting to blindly crash into the truth. He doesn't pause to gauge the consequences of his actions and his act-first/think-later attitude is a mirror's reflection of my own think-first-and-if-everything-looks-A-O-K-then-proceed-with-caution. I am Prudence; he is Passion. So now, today, this morning, with the sun shining a little too brightly into the veiled intricacies of our impulsive coupling, I trudge behind Mulder to our rental car, abandoned where we left it yesterday afternoon on the road beside the woods, a mile or so from here. And 'here' is a mile or so from the one-night-stand cabin where we consummated our still indefinable relationship. Mulder keeps shooting me glances. He's pleased as punch about last night's intimate activities. Despite the wound to his thigh, where the aforementioned monster took a sharp-clawed swipe that cut nearly to the bone, Mulder is standing tall today, pride pinking his cheeks. Frankly, I've never seen him as happy as he looks at this moment. Fox Mulder happy? It's an oxymoron. And me? I'm just tryin' to hide my confusion before my doubt wipes that heart-aching smile off my partner's scruffy, albeit incredibly handsome, face. Do I hear Mulder humming? Neither of us is talking to one another. Typical. During our entire six-hour drive back to DC, despite our mutual silence, I know Mulder is eager to ask me when we will do 'it' again. And I am not eager to admit I don't know when -- or even *if* -- we should attempt a repeat performance. By early afternoon, we're back in the city and, being too grubby to return to the office, Mulder drives us directly to my apartment. He parks in front of my building and we sit there in awkward silence for a minute or two. I stare at the bloody slash in his pants' leg and consider the stitches I sewed in his skin yesterday. Before we did...'it.' "You should clean that," I tell him, pointing toward the tear. I'm surprised how much these four words slice past my vocal chords after going so long without speaking. "I will," he assures me. He turns off the car's engine. Oh God. He wants to come into my apartment with me. I can't help it. I'm suddenly seized with fear. And he must see it in my eyes because his smile quickly fades and is replaced with undisguised disappointment. If he only knew how impossible it is for me to disappoint him, he would not lose all hope. I am no more capable of disappointing this man than I am at stopping the beating of my own heart. But he doesn't know that. He doesn't know because I don't let him know. I've become an expert at hiding my feelings. Even from myself. Mulder's lips press together in gloomy frustration. "Mulder...I need a little time." It's like a slap. And his brows draw together as if my strike was not a wallop of words but an actual blow from my hand. I want to tell him I'm sorry, but find I'm unable to utter a single word, let alone an apology or an explanation. I slide from the car and hurry toward the security of my old, familiar life -- my pre-'sex with Mulder' safe haven. Here things may not be agreeably predictable, but at least they are known. _________________ Next morning, I hesitate outside our basement office door, nervous about what the day might bring. A night of lonesome tossing and turning has left me exhausted. Despite the hours lying awake and thinking, I remain uncertain as to how to proceed. I find myself wishing Mulder might have decided to stay home today. Come on, Dana. You still have to work with the man. Get in there. When I cautiously open the door, I see he is there, sitting at his desk, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He's focused on sorting slides, the light-box softly illuminating his face and reflecting whitely off the lenses of his glasses. "Hey." His greeting is muted, subdued. He doesn't look at me. I flick on my computer and hang up my coat. I don't know what to say to him. I suspect he has plenty to say to me, but he is constrained, keeping himself in check. Already this is beyond intolerable. I have to find a way around our uncomfortable impasse. And honesty is truly the best policy, I think. I step to his desk. "Something on your mind, Scully?" he asks, his tone genial but his expression bleak. The sorrow in his eyes pierces my heart. "Mulder...you know how I feel about you--" "Do I, Scully? Do *you* know how you feel about me?" As always, Mulder is crashing toward the truth. I'm left speechless. He expects me to peer into my heart when I have neither the fortitude nor the skill. "You told me you loved me, Scully. You said it. Did you really mean it or was it just the orgasm talking?" Now he has stung me. He rises from his chair and anchors himself to his desktop with his fingertips. I watch his hands tremble. Is it from anger? Or is he afraid, like I am? We both know, in the throes of passion and in response to his own declaration, I did tell Mulder I loved him. It was barely a whisper and, at first, I didn't think he heard me. Until he slowed his divine rhythmic thrusting for a mere fraction of a second. He grunted the word "good" into my ear, and continued to glide delightfully in and out of me. "I meant what I said, Mulder." "Then what...what the hell is this all about?" His patience is no more than a thin veneer glossing the resentment he feels at my misinterpreted dismissal of him. He thinks I have rejected him. He feels betrayed. Tears flood my eyes in response, blurring my image of him and leaving me blind. "I...I'm afraid," I confess. Immediately he is around the desk, his now-steady fingers gripping my shoulders. He wants to see into my eyes. He wants me to look into his. He wants nothing between us but the truth. "I love you, Scully. You don't need to be afraid of me." I find it hard to keep up with the rushing transformation of his emotions. Where it has taken me an entire day to recognize that I am afraid, a tide-swell of anger and sadness, frustration and concern pounds through him in the blink of an eye. It's no wonder I'm fearful. Mulder is an undercurrent and I'm being swept out to sea. I'm already in over my head and only thirty-six hours ago I lost my life vest while loving him in a little cabin in the woods. "Mulder, our...feelings...make us vulnerable. Not to each other -- I'm not worried about that -- but to the men who want to hurt us." "That's bull, Scully. You *are* worried about being hurt by me. What we did, what we shared in that cabin has nothing to do with government conspiracies. It's *me* you don't trust. You think I'm going to let you down. Ditch you. And I can hardly blame you. I know what I've been in the past. But put the blame where it belongs, Scully -- don't hide behind a false concern of the men we pursue. Admit you don't trust me. Be honest with yourself. And with me," he pleads. My God. How can he think I don't trust him? How can he possibly think--? Abruptly, my throat squeezes closed as the truth of his words prick at me. What *do* I see when I look ahead to a lifetime with this man? Certainly not a house, not a family, not a dog. Not even growing old together. The fact is, I *don't* see a lifetime with him. What I see, what I honestly expect, is that at some point, lovers or not, he will be stripped from me, by his own choice or at the whim of our enemies. The truth, the real truth, is not that I'm afraid to be *with* Mulder, but that I'm afraid to be *without* him. To accept him into my heart only makes me more vulnerable to losing him. I've lived the nightmare of our separation. I've known the loss of him as my partner. How many times have we found ourselves apart, unsure if we would ever see one another again? How many times have I thought him dead? I can never be sure from one day to next where he will be or if I'll be there with him. The uncertainty is torment. Can I live with it? As his lover? What I have failed to realize, however, is that I took Mulder into my heart a long time ago. He has lived there inside me for years while I've pretended we are no more than partners. Because partners can lose each other and still go on with their lives, emptied but not crippled. Lovers cannot. It's clear I'm losing him now by my own inaction. Even as we stand here, I'm unwittingly shutting him out of my life. How long will he patiently wait for me to realize what he has understood for some time? That we are already lovers. That we have *been* lovers for years. Sharing a bed was not the defining moment. I may be unsure of all else, but I know this one truth: I cannot be without him. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose you, Mulder." My voice vibrates with my fear. "I've lost...so much already. I love you...so...I can't..." As angry as it makes me to lose control in front of him or anyone, I start to cry. He responds by folding himself around me, wrapping me in the warm cocoon of his embrace. His closeness only inspires more tears because it's in his arms that I recognize how much I depend on him. How much I need him. Feeling the heat from his chest warm my cheek, hearing the durable beat of his heart beneath my ear, smelling the safe, intoxicating smell that is found only in Mulder's generous embrace, I am more frightened than ever before of the inevitable loss of him. "Scully," he murmurs into my hair. "You're not going to lose me. Now that I've had a little taste, I'm on your tail for life, G-Woman." I can't help but laugh at his double entendre and my unladylike snort dampens his shirtfront more than my tears. "Sorry," I apologize and try to wipe the wetness from his chest. He's not the least offended. To the contrary, he tolerates my oozing nose with a look of adoration. "Scully, we've wasted a lot of time, denying what we mean to each other. I don't want to do that anymore. I love you. I want to be with you," he tells me, uncharacteristically candid about his feelings for me. "What we did...in that cabin...was *great*! I can't help it, Scully. I want to do it again. Don't you?" Lord. How can he think otherwise? Being together was more than great. It was stupendous, wonderful, outstanding. It was perfect. He was perfect. "Mulder, I want..." "Want...?" I blush and suddenly feel foolishly shy. "Yes, Mulder, I do want to be with you again," I admit, as much to myself as to him. Incredibly, my fears begin to dissipate, scattered by the truth in my heart. Mulder's million-kilowatt smile returns, lighting even the dimmest corners of our office. His sudden jolting bear hug squeezes the air from my lungs as he lifts me from the floor. I can feel his laugh reverberate through his chest. I guess I've made him happy. "You're not going to regret this, Scully," he promises and places me back on my feet again. His enthusiasm is contagious, blotting out my previous worry. My heart swells with astonishing pleasure and contentment. And when he kisses me, I laugh against his lips, grateful that I can give him this rare moment of easy delight. His kisses quickly become serious, his smile replaced with a fundamental need. He holds my face between his hands and presses his lips powerfully to mine. "Mulder, don't you think we should wait until the end of the day...after work?" My words are garbled against the pressure of his lips. "It's only 8:10!" He pulls back, stricken. "I already waited *all night*!" "But--" But nothing...he's kissing me again. And his lips...his lips feel *real* nice. Warm. Mmmm. Oh! So early in the day, he still tastes like toothpaste! His body nudges me further into the room, leisurely inching me backward, past his desk to the far wall and the bulletin board that hangs there. As my back makes contact with the board, a couple of pushpins dislodge and they each make a tinny ping when they hit the floor. Continuing his forward momentum, I am hugged between his chest and the corkboard. There is nowhere else for me to go. My shoulders are pressed into the wall and my head rests on his 'I WANT TO BELIEVE' poster. A newspaper clipping of Bigfoot flutters to the floor, joining the fallen pushpins. Blissfully trapped, I allow him to cover me, sink into me. I open my lips and let his tongue glide into my mouth. The heat of his breath, the slippery tickle of his tongue, the soft crush of his lips, all shock me with their demanding immediacy. I am thrilled when his palms climb my ribs and settle on my breasts. Despite the layers of my blazer, my blouse, and my bra, his touch sears my skin through my clothes, inspiring an ardent flush across my chest. He builds a fire in my heart that plummets downward through my body and eventually spills into my dampening panties. He takes my breath away when he grinds into me and I can feel with solid certainty that his desire has outstripped mine. I moan. I can't help it. Shoving my blazer aside, he is frantic for more intimate contact with my breasts. His palms skim over the fabric of my blouse, his fingers dig into my flesh and my nipples harden beneath the pressure of his hands. He maneuvers one knee between my legs and my skirt rides up both our thighs. His fingers trail across my stockinged leg. Every touch surprises me. Every touch pleases me. "Would you prefer the desk, my chair or this wall?" he murmurs into my ear. "Do I have to pick just one?" I reach between his legs and force the heel of my hand into the hardness at his groin. "*Scull-lee*!" he groans, pressing himself against my palm. He hitches my skirt further up my legs. He has entirely won my acquiescence. No matter what he plans for us next, I have no intention of stopping him. Until the phone rings. "Shit." He glares at the phone, reluctant to release his hold on me. "Mulder, we have to answer it." He shakes his head no. "Yes, we do. Here, I'll get it." I try to stretch my arm around him but I'm miles from the phone and he won't free me. He kisses me again instead. The phone continues to ring. "Mulder..." Although his lips don't leave mine, he decides to answer it. He snags the receiver from behind his back. "What?" he barks into the mouthpiece. When his eyes widen and he stumbles backward a step or two, breaking all contact with me, I know it must be AD Skinner on the other end of the line. _________________ A few minutes later, standing in front of AD Skinner's desk, I try to inconspicuously smooth my hair back into place. Mulder is at my side, looking equally rumpled. I notice he has buttoned his coat in an effort to camouflage any lingering after-affects of our close encounter. I silently gesture to him to straighten his tie and he numbly juggles the knot at his neck. Skinner ignores us until he has finished leafing through a report that is not ours. We wait obediently for his attention. "Okay, agents." He slaps the report shut and finally looks up at us. His face is a mask, but the tiniest twitch of his brow indicates annoyance as he scrutinizes us. I feel like Mulder and I are two bacteria magnified under the microscope of Skinner's eyes. "Did you find what you were looking for up north?" In a manner of speaking. Sex in a cabin-- "No, sir. It was a false lead." The ease with which Mulder lies to our superiors is truly impressive. "A false lead?" We simultaneously nod our heads. Given the circumstances, I'm not beyond lying to our boss either. Skinner squints at us. "Agent Mulder, are you, uh... wearing lipstick?" "I am, sir. Yes." The seriousness of Mulder's voice invites no more questions on the subject. Mulder has no compunction about embarrassing himself with this little falsehood. The truth would be worse. Skinner's eyes travel quickly to me. Are men good judges of the color of a woman's lipstick? Can Skinner see that Mulder and I are wearing the same shade? "Well..." Skinner clears his throat. "Since the past two days have been relatively uneventful for you, Agents, you shouldn't mind putting in a little overtime this evening. I'm assigning you to a stakeout." "No-ooh," Mulder blurts his opposition. He looks like he's in pain. "Is there a problem, Agent Mulder?" "Uh, no, sir. Tacos for breakfast." Skinner tugs uncomfortably at his lower lip. "Sir," I intervene, "Agent Mulder was injured during our investigation up north." When Skinner's eyebrows lift, I continue. "His leg, sir. The wound was quite deep and required several stitches. I had to sew him up myself in less than sanitary conditions. He should really stay off his feet for a day or two. Keep that leg erec...uh, elevated." "How exactly did he get this...injury?" Skinner waves a hand toward the lower half of Mulder's body. "It was a bear, sir," I tell him. "Actually, it was Bigfoot," Mulder says. I shoot him my best shut-up-and-don't-argue glare. "No, sir. It was a bear," I insist. "And as Mulder's doctor, I strongly suggest that his field duties be curtailed until his wound has begun to heal. As I said, the lesion was deep, tearing through the superficial and deep fibers of the--" "I get the point, Agent Scully." Skinner looks as if he's swallowed too many of Mulder's imaginary tacos. "I want you both ready for full field work by week's end. Understood? Now go home and go to bed, Agent Mulder. And Agent Scully...make certain he stays there. That's an order." More than pleased with our day's assignment, Mulder perks up considerably. "Yes, sir." He practically beams. Not failing to notice the abrupt change in Mulder's expression, Skinner adds, "I assume you're both fit enough to write a complete report about your 'bear' attack. It'll be due on my desk first thing in the morning. And make damn sure it's not late. That will be all, agents." He dismisses us. Restraining our relief, we turn for the door. "Agent Scully." I freeze at the threshold as Skinner rises from his desk and crosses the room to pinch something off the back of my collar. "Be careful." He drops a tiny pushpin into my palm. "Thank you, sir." Mulder and I bolt for the door. _________________ In the elevator, Mulder takes my hand and his shit-eating grin returns. Or maybe it's a Scully-eating grin. He looks incredibly hungry for such an early hour. "You forget to have breakfast this morning, Mulder?" "Actually, I've always preferred brunch over an early breakfast." "I didn't know that about you." "Oh, yeah, Scully, it's true. So whaddaya say we check out the full-service buffet at Hegal Place? Apartment 42." His eyebrows waggle at the suggestion. "I prefer the food in Georgetown." "Oh, really? What's on the menu there, Scully?" "Must be Tex-Mex because it's red, hot and spicy." "Oooo. Quiero Taco Bell," he growls into my ear. "You need anything from the office?" I ask him, giving his fingers a squeeze. "Only what's riding in this elevator car." "Speaking of cars, shall we take yours or mine?" "Scully, today *I'm* driving." Hoo boy! _________________ Thirty minutes later, when Mulder and I arrive at my apartment, I'm feeling unaccountably ambivalent once more. Mulder is hovering over me, and my doubts about our impending intimacy loom larger than his six-foot frame. I don't know what's wrong with me. Again, I'm second-guessing what felt so right in the cabin two days ago and in our office earlier this morning. My vacillating instincts are making me seasick and I wonder if I should take a dose of Dramamine to counteract the push and pull of my baffling emotions. The key slides into the lock and I open the door. Mulder ushers me over the threshold with the gentle pressure of his fingertips at the small of my back. My feet drag and he notices my halting steps. "Scully, what is it?" He's not suspicious or angry. He's nothing but concerned. And the last thing I want to do is hurt him. But, damn it, I'm so uncertain what to do. My intuition is telling me to hide in the safe haven of the status quo, even though it's already ridiculously too late. He reaches for my hand and, I can't help it, I draw away. "Scully?" "Mulder, I'm...sorry..." His expression of concern transforms to hurt and indignation. My doubt infuriates him. The black pinpoints of his pupils sear me. He paces away, shrugs out of his trenchcoat and hurls it across the room. It lands on the floor several feet beyond the couch. He spins so we face one another, his hands on his hips. He frantically chews his lower lip, biting so hard, I'm afraid he's going to draw blood. "Why...why is it so goddamn difficult to convince you of anything, Scully? Have you become so accustomed to questioning everything I say, you need to question me on this, too? On my feelings for you?" He's shouting. "I...*love*...you. What kind of proof do you need? What kind of evidence do I have to present?" I close the door behind me to keep his angry words from spilling down the hall, trapping his outrage within the confines of my apartment. As the door quietly snicks shut, I wonder what proof he could offer that would permanently assure me. What could he say or do that would evermore erase my doubts and worries? And is it at all fair to expect him to quell my fears? Is that his responsibility or mine? The obligation is not his, certainly. He is already offering me his heart and I'm unduly demanding more. I'm unfairly expecting him to promise happiness ever after. An impossible task. "Trust me, Scully. Trust me," he demands in a mere whisper. I look into his eyes and try to read the future there. Our future. I see what I always see. Belief. His unquestioning and passionate belief -- this time, in us. By the same uncanny, mysterious method he uses to solve X-Files, he knows we belong together. He feels it. Where I try to analyze our relationship, make it rational, he gazes straight into his heart and finds his answers there. Because for Mulder, feeling is as easy as breathing. For me it is not. And as usual, my recourse is to either argue with him or to trust and follow his instincts. I decide to follow him. I nod, hoping I'm finally ready to trust him -- and myself -- and to believe we will take care of each other exactly as we've been doing for seven years. No better, no worse. Why should it be any other way? I can trust him, I think, to watch my back, to care for me, to love me, if I let him. It's what he has always done. He has proved himself time and again. Anger relenting, he steps over to me and removes the coat from my shoulders, slipping it from my arms before draping it over a nearby chair. He repeats the procedure with my blazer. While he is still behind me, he smoothes my hair beneath his palms, stoking my head, my neck, my shoulders. I lean back into his chest and close my eyes, grateful for him. He plucks at the collar of my shirt and his lips dance across the scar that covers the implanted chip in the base of my neck. "Trust me," he sighs into my ear, the heat of his breath rushing to my eardrum. The sandpaper stubble of his cheek draws along my jaw. Kissing the corner of my mouth, he urges me forward, step-by-step down the hall, pressing insistently against my back. A little at a time, we move toward the bedroom. His push is gentle but adamant. With another soft kiss to my neck, he delivers us to my bedroom. _________________ I try to turn, to face him, but he stops me, his hands on my shoulders. "No. Trust me," he quietly insists and I realize this will be something of a test. For both of us. He wants to discover if I am willing to let him guide our actions, if I can let go of my need to control the unknowable events of our future. And he wants to see if he can please me without my direction. He removes my gun and places it on my bureau. Reaching around my shoulders, he unbuttons the top button of my blouse. His fingers tickle as he slips the tiny button through its hole. His breath skates into the open collar and warms my cleavage. Untouched, my nipples tighten, rise. He unhooks another tiny button. Then another, until my blouse gapes open to a point below my bra. He reaches into the vee of my shirt and covers my left breast with his right hand, centering my nipple in his palm. He squeezes and I inhale, swelling into his open hand. He hums into my ear. So far, so good. My body and my heart are willing to do this. Grasping my nipple through the satin of my bra, he pinches and tugs my flesh between his thumb and index finger. Now *I* purr, staggered by the immediate, insistent tingle his touch prompts between my legs. A delightful heaviness settles in my abdomen and flare of heat dampens my panties. "Mmmullderr." I am melting. Smiling into my neck, he chuckles with satisfaction at my pleasure -- pleasure he has caused. I feel the pleasant reverberation of his laugh against my back. His chest blankets my shoulders, his groin cradles my buttocks, his erection prods my spine. The obviousness of his protuberant desire blushes my cheeks. He resumes the undoing of my blouse, releasing the last two buttons from their holes. Drawing the cloth from my waistband, he peels the shirt from me. Gooseflesh ruffles my bared skin as he strips me, allowing the cool air of the bedroom to flood across my flushed torso. My blouse flutters to the floor and his hands return to me, cupping and stroking my satin-covered breasts. His thumbs trace twin circles over my rigid nipples. We both watch my chest rise and fall as I gasp for air beneath his leisurely touch. I expect him to unclasp my bra, but he surprises me when he removes his hands from my breasts and unzips my skirt instead. The zipper's teeth sputter as he slowly lowers the tab at the small of my back, pressing his fingers into my buttocks while he opens my skirt. When the zipper is undone, he curls his fingers around my waistband and draws both my skirt and my pantyhose down over my hips and legs, leaving only my panties in place. He crouches at my feet. My clothes ring my ankles. "Step out of your shoes, Scully." I do as he asks and he sets my shoes aside before removing my hose and my skirt from first one foot and then the other. He leaves the bundle of my clothes puddled between our feet. Standing once more, he again presses his chest to my back. I'm without my heels and he towers over me. He kisses the crown of my head as if to make a point of the difference in our sizes. I try again to turn and face him. "Uh uh," he says, enfolding me in his arms. "Mulder...?" I want to see his face. "No." I sigh my frustration and he chuckles. "Trust me," he challenges. His fingers are at the front of my bra, working the plastic clasp. A faint click tells us both he has released the hook. When he draws away the fabric, my breasts are loosened from their confines. It feels good to be freed. Mulder's eyes don't leave my bare chest as he slips the slender straps from my shoulders and lets the bra slide to the floor. Now his breathing becomes ragged, rushing past my ear as he leans over my shoulder to view my nakedness. His fingers circle my waist, skim my belly and brush the undersides of my breasts. He cups me in his palms, briefly testing the weight of my flesh, before he grips me. His manhandling reddens my skin. One squeeze after the next crushes me. I am about to balk when he suddenly stops and, light as a feather, his fingertips flutter across the over-sensitive surface of my skin. "Ooohhh," I moan and lean into his hands. He grips me again and runs his teeth along my neck, sending an electric jolt down through my body, pulsing past my breastbone, burning through my belly and exploding hotly between my legs. Tiny contractions wring and constrict my inner walls, causing a pool of wetness to soak my panties. I shiver and Mulder licks and nips my shoulder. The excitement of our respite in the cabin returns and I understand why our consummation felt so right. Reluctant to leave my bare skin, Mulder keeps his left hand at my breast while his right moves down to rub across the silk of my panties. His fingers explore the warmth between my legs. When he discovers the wet spot at my crotch, he growls and pushes the dampened cloth into me. His finger sinks to the first knuckle, but is stalled by the fabric of my panties. I want more. So does he. He grates his hips into my back. I try to kiss him, twisting my head to meet his mouth. His tongue plunges past my lips. His finger strains to sink more deeply between my legs. Finally, frustrated by the limits of my panties, his hand dives beneath the waistband. His fingers are hot as they comb through my curls. They burn as they glide over my clitoris and slide between the folds of my skin. He is at my opening. More than anything, I want him inside me. "Mulder..." I whimper. "Pleeease." "Please, what?" He trails the tip of his tongue along my jaw. "Fill me." So he does. He thrusts his finger into me and I gasp with the wonderful feel of him there. The rush of blood to my skin heats me until a thin sheen of sweat forms across my chest, my arms, and my face. He is pushing, pushing, pushing into me. I sigh at the fullness between my legs, in my belly. When he draws his finger out, I could cry for the lack of him. And when he returns with a forceful plunge, I could weep with relief. He pulls from me again, his palm slicked with my wetness. Then rushes back. Again. And yet again. Each time is a homecoming. I hold my breath while he fumbles to insert two long fingers into me. I am stretched by the size of his hand. When he settles deep within me, he kisses my face, my mouth. I can barely feel his lips, my own are so numbed. All I feel is him, between my legs -- his agonizingly pleasant pressure, leaving no room for the air in my lungs. I don't inhale -- I can't -- and the lack of oxygen, along with the increasing swell in my groin, makes me lightheaded. My skin tingles with pins and needles. I feel weightless and floaty. His palm chaffs my clitoris and I am abruptly caught on a wave of scorching pleasure. A torrent of blood pounds across my eardrums and the internal muscles that grip his fingers spasm with rhythmic contractions. At last, I suck in a chest-full of air and Mulder's name grinds from my throat. Deafened by the hammering of my pulse, I can't hear my own cry. My heart propels a tide of blood through me; a crashing heat strikes against the inside of my chest, my abdomen, my thighs. Brutal at first, the drumming slows...slows... THUD! THUD. Thud. When I can breathe again, when I can hear more than my own heartbeat, when I can finally open my eyes, I see Mulder is smiling at me. He nuzzles my neck and buries his nose in my hair. "Want to try for a personal best, Scully?" he coos into my ear. He is still inside me, his fingers buried in my slick flesh. He playfully runs his thumb across my swollen, sensitive clitoris and I shudder. "Mulder!" "Hmm?" He presses his thumb across me once more. "Wait! Give me a minute." He relents and slides from between my legs. "You're very wet," he states the obvious before sticking his fingers into his mouth and sucking my juices from them. "Mulder!" "What? Tastes good," he insists. He slicks my lower lip with his wet finger then draws my lip into his mouth. "Mmm," he hums. When he's finished suckling, he pushes my panties down past my hips. "Time to get naked, Scully." "I was under the impression I was already naked." "Not quite." My panties drop to my ankles. "Step," he says. I do as he asks and free myself from the damp garment. Now I am truly naked and very aware of the fact that Mulder is still totally clothed. It's an odd sensation. I feel exposed, powerless, shy, but sexy and desirable at the same time. With my back still to his chest, he has all the advantage. He can see every inch of me, but I can see none of him. I can only feel him pressed against the bare skin of my back -- the silk of his tie, the scratchy fine wool of his suit coat, even the cold metal of his belt buckle, they ignite my skin. Every touch feels multiplied tenfold. "What now, Mulder? Can I turn around?" "Not yet." "But..." "Not yet." I hear him tug the knot at his neck and drag the tie from his collar. He dangles the silk strip over my shoulder and tickles my left nipple with it. I can't help it -- his action makes me smile, which only encourages him to draw the smooth fabric across my chest, then around my stomach. He even massages my thigh with its satiny coolness before letting the tie drop to the floor. The removal of his suit coat stirs his fragrance into the air. His soap, his deodorant, his sweat combine in a sexy aroma that is uniquely Mulder. His scent makes me feel safe and content and peaceful. I breathe him in and am calmed. He yanks his shirttails from his pants. Looking over my shoulder, I watch him unbutton the small buttons at his neck and sleeves before drawing the shirt up over his head. He tosses it, inside out, in the direction of my bureau, not trying to hit anything but the floor. He kisses my forehead before peeling off his t-shirt, which he lets drop next to my shoes and skirt. The bedroom is littered with our clothes; an explosion of fabric surrounds our feet. Before removing anything else, Mulder hugs me to him. I relish the warmth of his naked chest against my bare back. The hard muscles of his arms tighten around me and the gold of his skin contrasts with the pale ivory of mine. I watch the rippling contractions of his biceps, his supinators, his extensors, as his fingers flex and relax across my skin. The tendons and veins running along the backs of his hands are a wonder of human construction. He is beautiful, right down to the fine dark hairs insulating his forearms. "I love you, Mulder." My words are heartfelt. In response, he tightens his embrace. He says nothing, but stands quietly holding me. I twist to look at his face. His expression is calm, solemn. His downcast eyes are focused not on me, but inward; he is studying the impact of my acknowledgment on his heart, judging the truth of my confession. Belief trembles along his lips. Trust shudders and stalls his breath. Requited love threatens to spill wetly over his soft lashes. I kiss his cheek. "I *do* love you, Mulder." He smiles and shifts his gaze to my eyes. He is happy. "Let's not waste any more time then." He playfully kisses my nose before releasing his hold on me. "Stay right where you are," he warns before I try once more to turn and face him. "Mulder!" "Stay!" "Are you gonna ask me to 'shake a paw' next?" "No, but I might want you to roll over at some point." He chuckles. He sets his gun carefully on the bureau next to mine. Crouching, he unstraps the weapon at his ankle. It joins the two guns already on the dresser. With a hand on my shoulder for balance, he toes off his shoes and strips the socks from his feet. I immediately miss his warm palm when he releases me to unbuckle his belt. But the sound of his zipper distracts me from any regrets over the loss of his touch. He lets his pants drop to the floor. Before stepping from them, he pushes his boxers below his hips and they join his trousers at his ankles. He has no idea how very much I want to turn around and look at him standing naked behind me. "Just don't ask me to 'play dead,' Mulder." "Definitely not my thing." Nudging his clothing away from us with one bare foot, Mulder trails the backs of his fingers up my arms. His stroke sends a shiver up my spine. Noticing, he draws his index finger lightly down my backbone, stopping only to tease the crease between my buttocks. Goosebumps sprout over my arms, and my scalp prickles as all my hairs try to stand on end. Gently, Mulder's fingers encircle my wrists. He lifts my arms high up into the air and, holding my hands above my head, he sidles closer. The heat from his body radiates across the narrow distance between us and warms my chilled back. His erection rests heavily against my right buttock, scalding my skin. He kisses my hair. Grasping both my wrists in one hand, Mulder rests my hands and his on the crown of my head. He brushes the fingers of his free hand delicately across my torso, strumming my ribs, circling my breasts and swirling lazily around my hardened nipples. A tiny jolt of pleasure shimmers between my legs. Beginning at my breastbone, he traces a delicate line downward between my breasts to my navel, over the curve of my abdomen and into the curls covering my pubic bone. He slows as he nears my clitoris. I want him to keep going, continue his path into me, but he pauses. Right there, at the edge of my want and desire. The ragged sound of our breathing is the only noise in the room. His chest just barely grazes my shoulder blades, tickling me, when he inhales. The contact is lost when he empties his lungs. "Mulder?" "What is it you want, Scully?" His whisper is low, husky with his need. "I want you," I sigh. "When?" "Now." "Now?" "Yes!" I whine with longing. "Now!" Releasing my wrists, he propels me toward the bed and hoists me onto the mattress. I settle on hands and knees in front of him. He runs his palms across my hips, my buttocks, then climbs onto the bed behind me, his knees between mine. Hands at my waist, he lifts and pushes me forward, jostling to give himself more room. His thighs force my legs further apart. I brace my arms anticipating his weight on my back, but he doesn't mount me. "Mulder?" Deliciously, he draws his finger from my clitoris to my rectum, causing me to gasp for breath. "Now, Scully?" His delay is almost more than I can bear. "YES!" I hiss. The mattress rebels as he maneuvers behind me. With his palms spread wide across the cheeks of my ass, he uses his thumbs to open me. Again, I lock my elbows. His erection prods at me and I close my eyes in exquisite anticipation. Slowly, he presses into me, stretching my flesh as he inches forward to fill me. When he is buried only halfway, he draws back, pulling himself almost entirely from me. Desperate for him, I rock my hips backward, trying to regain the pleasure he has withdrawn. I want to hurry him, but he stills my movement with his palms. He will set our pace. Not me. Gradually, he returns, filling me a little deeper this time. My greed for him is unappeasable. Having him inside me is all I crave. It's a hunger. I am desperate. He withdraws again and I whimper. My emptiness is intolerable. Mulder, fill me. Please. As if reading my mind, he hauls my hips to him and plunges himself deeply, completely into me. I cry out, my surprise is so great. I am split up the middle. Mulder holds himself there. Maybe he is giving me a moment to adjust to his presence. Maybe he is enjoying my tightness. "What's fifteen times thirteen, Scully?" Okay. Maybe he's trying not to come. "One hundred and ninety-five," I moan. "Are you sure?" "No. I'm not sure of anything other than how good you feel inside me." He bends over me, his chest pressing to my back. Supporting his weight on one arm, he wraps the other around my body and hugs me to him. Burying his nose in my neck, he groans against my skin. "Oh, Sculll-leee." I gulp in a lung-full of air when he draws his cock from me. The same air explodes from my chest a moment later when he drives back inside me. He repeats the motion. I am entirely complete while he occupies me. Filled and fulfilled. In and out and in again, he is unrelenting, establishing a steady rhythm that rocks and satisfies us both. Each and every thrust is an anticipated pleasure. He skims his free hand across my skin, crushing my breast, pinching my nipple, grinding his fingers into my clitoris. I gasp when he touches me there, so he presses again, rubbing small circles and stroking my sensitive skin. It is almost too much. The friction against my clitoris and the pounding jolts to my insides push me close to climax. I tremble as I near the edge. I can almost predict the number of his thrusts before my orgasm explodes. Five, four, three, I count down. My climax is inevitable, unstoppable at the count of two. One. And I am there. Falling and flying and spinning. I float weightless. Unseeing and unfeeling except for the fire that washes like a tide through my abdomen and across my thighs. I am between heartbeats. My senses are stripped from me. I hear nothing but the deafening crash of blood thundering like a waterfall inside my ears. I feel nothing but the incredible pulsing glory between my legs. I must have called out, warned Mulder of my impending ecstasy for he has altered his pounding rhythm. Now he hammers into me. I lose my grip on the bed, my hands slide across the mattress and I clutch for the blankets. His hips slam into me, collapsing me under his weight. I am amazed when he persists his jarring strokes even when I am flattened beneath him. With my legs spread wide, I am pressed between his bare skin and the bedspread. He continues to glide in and out of me. Now his orgasm is approaching. He has gripped my arms. His fingers dig into my flesh. A groan wrenches from his throat and he stiffens, embedded deeply between my legs. While a surge of liquid heat gushes from him into me, his teeth scrape and sink into the back of my neck. He pumps three, four more times. His semen floods into me, oozes down my thighs, puddles stickily beneath us. He breathes hard. His heart drums against my back. His teeth release their sharp hold on my neck and his fingers uncurl from my arms. Sighing, he settles his cheek, flushed and slick with sweat, on my shoulder. We lay there, unmoving, for several minutes. I'm grateful for the weight of him on my back, for the feel of him still within me. I listen to his steadying breath. In no hurry, Mulder's arms fold around me. He rolls off my back, turning me with him until, at last, I face him. He gathers me close, tucks me to his chest, gently kisses my hair. I finger the bandage on his thigh, knowing I sewed stitches in his skin beneath it only two days ago. A souvenir of our encounter with a bear. Or Bigfoot, if you want to believe Mulder's version of events. "Does it hurt?" "Nah," he yawns and closes his eyes. I nestle against him, content to be held in his drowsy embrace. What exactly did I find in the arms of Fox William Mulder today? Certainly not that house, family or dog I briefly entertained as important. It was something much more significant than that. I discovered I am in love with this man. He is all I want or need, without conditions -- on his part or mine. There is no desire to bargain. No need for compromise. No changes I wish to make, remolding him. He is perfect whole, even with his imperfections. I accept him entirely. He is a gift to me. He provides a balance that keeps my spirit from toppling. He offers me something to hang on to. He makes my world solid, despite the unreality of our daily lives -- the mutants, phantoms and demons, the aliens from outer space, the government conspiracies. Today we came together for the second time. A repeat performance. A perfect encore. And I found the truth. Exactly what I was looking for. Case closed. Next X-File, please. THE END