Title: The First Taste
Author: Toniann
E-Mail: ts19@cornell.edu 
Rating: PG-13
Category: MSR
Spoilers: Anything up to and including the first part of season
six; small specific spoilers for "Lazarus", "The Jersey Devil",
"Quagmire", "Never Again", "El Mundo Gira", "One Breath", and
"Darkness Falls".
Keywords: Mulder/Scully, angst, humor, Scully POV
Summary: What if Scully got tired of waiting?

Author's Notes:  I think of this story as, "what would happen
naturally if CC wasn't intent on keeping things platonic", the
PG-13 version. The setting is, I admit, somewhat vague. Put it
as late sixth season, after Two Fathers/One Son. This piece was
inspired by Fiona Apple's "The First Taste" from her CD,
"Tidal". Complete lyrics can be found at the end. Feedback is
greatly appreciated.
Archive: Yes, please do so, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: CC has it all, and I have nothing but my
imagination. Mulder & Scully belong to The Great 1013 in the
Sky, and I am a mere speck in the sands of fandom. Yada, yada,
yada.
________________________________________________________________
 
 

==I lie in an early bed, thinking late thoughts==
 

I wake up, surprisingly, with a smile on my face.

Don't get me wrong; I don't mean to imply that the norm is for
me to wake up screaming from a nightmare, or that I toss and
turn all night, sleeplessly. There have been times in my life
when my sleep has been scattered or interrupted, times of stress
and worry such as everyone has. But for the most part, I sleep
rather well, actually. Frankly, I'm often exhausted. And though
I know we dream every night, many mornings I wake up with
nothing but the memory of an all-too-short stretch of dark and
blessedly empty blackness.

However, I will confess that I sometimes wake up earlier than I
need to. When I have a lot on my mind, I find myself drifting
awake a full hour or so before my alarm goes off. But I don't
mind that so much. I lie in bed and drift from one thought to
another, randomly and guiltlessly, allowing my mind to wander
wherever it wants to. Those are the dreams I sometimes remember
later, and truthfully, they aren't dreams at all.

So it is somewhat unusual for me to wake up smiling, the wisp of
a dream leaving my mind slow enough that I can still catch its
flavor. Having done so, I slip into my early morning ritual...
They say dreams are only interesting to the person having them.
Other people's dreams hold little or no interest for me. And
though I'm not, in any case, inclined to share such personal
thoughts with anyone, I can hardly begin to imagine how I would
convey this particular dream to someone else.

It was so simple. In the dream, I was walking along a shoreline.
The scene was reminiscent of a Lifetime movie, or a video on VH-
1: I was wearing a warm, comfortable fisherman's sweater, my
hair was blowing around in the breeze, I was barefoot, you get
the picture. There was someone walking with me, behind me. This
continued for some time. I did not turn my head; I did not need
to. I just walked. And as I did so, I felt two arms encircle my
waist. I smiled, I stopped. I still did not turn my head.
Instead, in a quick, fluid movement, I began to run. And I did
not turn to see if anyone was following me; I did not need to.
Instead, as I ran, I could see him at my side. That's all.
 

*       *       *       *       *       *
 

As I walk through the halls of the Hoover building, the
satisfied, private smile I woke with has, of course, long since
left my face. Nevertheless, I'm feeling good about myself today-
- though, my mind wanders, that in itself is an admission that
the opposite is far too often the case. Ruefully, I push that
thought out of my mind and duck into the ladies' room.

Two women are on their way out as I enter, so I have the whole
long mirror to myself. Again, I am not entirely surprised to see
that this is one of those random "good days" all women have. You
know the ones where, through no special effort on your part,
your hair looks exactly as you've always wished it would, and
your skin is clear and your makeup flawless, and your clothes
seem to hang just right? And why is it that the days you *want*
to look good, the days you spend that extra thirty minutes
getting ready, you always feel overdone and like you're waging a
losing battle? Still, today, I look, well, good.

I like this suit, it's one of my favorites. Then again, all of
my suits do bear a startling resemblance to each other these
days. A few weeks ago, Mom came over and we sorted through my
closet together for the church clothes drive. I have to tell
you, I can't quite imagine what I was thinking with that red
plaid number. Also I seem to have gone through a beige period
for a while there-- beige, lord help me. When we were done, my
mother said my remaining work clothes looked like I attended
funerals for a living. Ha ha, Mom, that's a good one. Seriously,
though, I don't know what it is, but I feel more comfortable in
black these days. And, to tell you the truth, I think I look
good in it. Certainly better than I did in red plaid.

I tuck a stray strand of hair back and leave the ladies' room,
feeling slightly silly for such irreverent scrutiny. So I look
good today. I'm sure I'll be especially picturesque sitting at
my desk and filling out paperwork across the room from Mulder.

As I reach our office, I see that the proverbial lights are on
and no one's home. Well, actually, literally as well as
proverbially. There is evidence of recent Mulder all around this
room. His suit jacket is hanging on an open filing drawer, and
there's a paper cup half-full of coffee on his desk, as yet
untouched by mold. Dropping my purse on my own new, much-
appreciated desk, I start to assemble the files I will be
working on today. Pen... I need a pen... Of course there are
none in my top desk drawer. Not one. No pencils either. Those
are in the ceiling, but the pens, their whereabouts are
something of an X Files, you might say. Despite taking up
initial residence in my desk, they inevitably migrate to
Mulder's. I keep thinking, if I come in early enough, I'll catch
them at it some morning.

Mulder's desk is such a mess. I really haven't the faintest idea
how he finds anything. You would think that, starting over again
as we are down here, he would have less stuff to make a mess
with. And if you thought that, you would be wrong. The top
drawer is littered with rubber bands, pamphlets, crackers,
candy, photos, socks (okay, just one sock), a lengthy paper-clip
chain, parking tickets, newspaper clippings, and yes, pens.
Finally, I can get to work.

"What?!" I jump at least a foot in the air as two arms abruptly
grab my waist. Spinning around, I am hardly surprised to see
Mulder smirking down at me.

"Snooping around in my drawers, Agent Scully?"

I glare at him, briefly, and begin to walk away from the loose
impromptu embrace he has me trapped in. And then... I don't. I
don't walk away. I don't glare. I don't toss back a disparaging
remark. I don't even give him an indulgent grin, or go for the
gold and throw him a daring innuendo. I do none of these things.
I just look at him, pleasantly, and not moving, say, "Good
morning, Mulder."

He smiles, oddly, clearly surprised that I did not opt for any
of the aforementioned courses of action. His hands are resting
loosely on my waist and my hands are resting on his upper arms;
if only we had a string quartet hanging around for these
occasions, we'd be all set. As it is, Mulder quizzically shrugs
and gives my waist a brief squeeze before moving away to lounge
in his chair.

"Hey, Scully, what do you know about snakes?"

For this, he gets the indulgent grin. I cross to my own desk,
one which is, you guessed it, far neater than his, and turn my
computer on. "The reptilian kind, or the human kind?"

"Reptilian. Specifically, those found in Central America."

I sigh. "About as much as I know about Mexican goat-suckers,
Mulder. Not much and probably more than I'll want to, once
you're done talking." Though it's early, the first sunflower
seed shell misses the garbage can. I wish he was a better shot,
but I certainly won't *say* that. Instead, I think I'll start
moving the can an inch or two closer to him every day.

"Scully, sometimes I think you're a little too fixated on the
goat-sucking thing. I mean, that was years ago. Let it go."

"Sure thing, Mulder."

"So I saw this article last week about snake attacks reported in
three different locations in Central America. Only this snake
may be different..."

I tune him out. Come on, wouldn't you? Contrary to popular
opinion, not all of Mulder's wild theories turn out to have
substance. Sure, okay, who would have thought there'd be any
point at all in looking for The Jersey Devil, or Big Blue, or
Mothmen. Not to say that we found any of those things, but while
investigating them as such, we turned up.. something or other of
value to an investigation, anyhow. The point is, though, that
those cases represent a fraction of the ones Mulder is just
dying to check out.

"... I mean, we're talking huge fangs here, huge, bright yellow
fangs..."

I mean, if I agreed to every goose chase he proposed, why, right
now we could in fact be investigating a pothole in Cleveland
that, I've been assured, bears a shocking resemblance to Tom
Hanks. Actually, I'm tempted there. I like Tom Hanks. And it
certainly would be better than traipsing through the jungles of
Central America, looking for a snake. As if anyone *wants* to
find such a thing, while traipsing through the jungle. As if
anyone in their right mind would, in fact, want to traipse there
in the first place.

"... and I can't help but point out that all of the women
attacked were, in fact, wearing nail polish...."

I lean back in my chair, rolling my neck around comfortably,
eyes half-closed. "In their right mind" being the operative
phrase. To be fair, though, I don't think Mulder believes for an
instant that there's a snowball's chance in hell I'd agree to
investigate reports of a giant snake that is drawn inextricably
to nail polish. He's just being... Mulder. And I know that, so I
don't mind that he rambles on this way at times. Actually, I
enjoy it. And he knows it.

"... it seems obvious to me, then, that this snake may in fact
be the reincarnation of a wrongfully slain nail technician."

"Nice try, Mulder, I was listening," I tell him.

"Just testing you, Scully."

I think he keeps talking. I don't really need to look at him to
know exactly what he's doing, or to pay attention to reply when
necessary. And I like it, that we're here, in this office, doing
this. For a long time, we weren't. Now, with the X Files back
and us where we want to be, I'm content. Content is good. But
this morning, it feels... flat. I wish... I wish we were talking
about something else. I wish that something else had nothing to
do with snakes, or Mothmen, or unexplained sightings of any
sort.

It's going to be a long day.
 

*       *       *       *       *       *
 

==Your hungry flirt borders intrusion==
 

It's much too late to still be here. It has been a long day, but
I have to tell you, Mulder has been pretty entertaining. He's on
an emotional high these days, now that we have the X Files back.
I'm happy for him, for us, but I worry a little bit about his
exuberance. If something should happen, something should not go
our way, well, let's just say that Mulder goes from high to low
faster than a speeding bullet. I know he's excited, and I am
too, but I just don't want to see him crash and burn. He's off
right now, pestering someone in the lab, trying to make sure
they understand how important the forensics reports he requested
are, and how much he'd really like them by Monday morning at the
latest. I wish he'd hurry. I need to know what the verdict is so
that, in turn, I know who to sweet talk Monday to make up for
the feathers Mulder is, as we speak, ruffling. My neck is
cramped and stiff, and I'm longing to go home. I perch on the
edge of my desk, feet dangling, and close my eyes, hands
massaging the sore muscles of my neck and shoulders.

This time, I hear the door open, but I don't give myself away. I
am surprised, though, when he doesn't try to startle me again.
Opening my eyes, I discover that I can see his reflection in the
window, just barely. He's standing by the filing cabinets near
the door, hands in his pockets, looking at me. I can't see the
expression on his face clearly. He just stands there. I'm...
intrigued. But not because he's watching me. Mulder does that.
For one thing, he does it to everyone, from time to time, when
he's trying to get inside their heads. He's subtle about it,
sure, but that's what he's doing, watching, waiting for
something to be revealed. And sometimes he watches me. Usually,
I assume, he does it to remind himself that I'm still there, and
that I'm okay and safe and not going anywhere. I accept that
he's insecure about such things, that he needs that reassurance,
but I will admit that there have been times I've gotten annoyed
with his watchful gazes. But only when I feel he's being overly
protective, and usually not even then. But now, as he stands
here in our office, I wonder if that's always why he watches me.
If maybe sometimes, he's trying to get inside my head. Waiting
for me to reveal something.

These thoughts pass through my mind quickly, but I give no
outward indication that I've noticed his presence. If he needs
to watch me, I'm here to be watched. It costs me little enough,
and somehow, it helps him. My eyelids slide down once again and
I tilt my head back, the muscles of my shoulders and neck
protesting; wincing, I rub my neck ineffectually once more.

I can't help but hear a sharp intake of breath behind me and my
hand freezes, but I leave my eyes closed. Finally, Mulder
speaks.

"Tired, Scully?"

With my eyes closed this way, his voice sounds low and soft, as
if coming from the very air. I... like it. I like the way he
sounds, dark and dangerous like a secret, like a ghost only I
can see or hear. I smile a little at that; a ghost. I realize he
must be waiting for an answer.

"Yes." That's all I say. For some reason, today, it seems that
all I can give Mulder are these simple verbal answers, when
there's so much more to say.

Finally, he moves. I can hear his footsteps come to a halt
directly behind me. At this point, my curiosity really is
beginning to get the better of me and I start to turn around.
Mulder stops me, though, and places his hands on my shoulders.

"Don't."

Wordlessly, I do as he says. I'm too tired to argue, I tell
myself. Too tired to bicker with him as always. But the truth is
that I'm curious, and that I like the way his hands feel as they
begin where mine left off, massaging my shoulders and neck. His
hands are cool and slightly rough. He's good at this. Oh, I've
had a professional massage, several times. And those people
really know what they're doing. Mulder's no masseur, but this
feels good. I sigh; this feels very good. And at least part of
why is because it's Mulder.

There is something about trusting someone that makes you want
more of them, I think. Or maybe it's all of the people you don't
trust that make you cherish those you do. Either way, there are
times when I look at the world and I look at Mulder and I think,
God, how lucky I am to have him in my life. To know him so well,
to understand him so well, to rely on him so much. How lucky I
am to never have a moment's doubt about him, to know that
wherever I go, and whatever I do, he will be there. He is my
strength even when we're apart. Sometimes especially when we're
apart. I can't tell you the times I have thought of him and by
doing so, restored my strength to face what was before me. As I
move alone through this world, sometimes feeling lost in a sea
of humanity, it is Mulder who pulls me back from disappearing in
the crowd, who makes me feel as if I have a constant companion
wherever I go, whether I want one or not.

Abruptly, I realize that my thoughts have veered off in a
somewhat personal direction. These are late-night thoughts,
thoughts I keep to myself, lying in bed, for early mornings and
solitary reflections. In general, these thoughts are not for
sharing, not even with Mulder, especially not with Mulder--
Mulder, whose hands glide over my skin and across the thin
material of my shirt, much slower than before. His fingertips
barely skitter across my shoulders and then trace a path up my
spine, into my hair. A warm shudder passes through me and I feel
my heart pounding so loudly it seems to echo off the walls. If
truth be told, his hands are no longer massaging my neck but
caressing me, slower and slower. I try to slow my breathing and
shudder again as his fingers trail across my spine once more.

"Sorry," he mumbles, moving his hands away from my neck and down
to my shoulders, applying slightly more pressure than before.

I have to clear my throat before I can speak. "Don't be."

The sound of my voice seems to catch Mulder off guard and his
hands abruptly stop their slow seduction. One is entwined in my
hair, lightly grazing against my ear. The other slides down
slowly, purposely along my arms, crossed in front of my chest,
until his arm is wrapped around me and lightly pressing against
my breasts. I relax my fingers and interlace them with his. He
sighs and lowers his face until it rests against the back of my
head. Softly, and then again harder, he kisses me there, his
lips getting tangled in strands of my hair. And then... we stay
that way, for an endless time.

What I'm thinking is that I *am* tired. It has been a long and
somewhat arduous road to this day, to this office, this moment
of calm. Much of it was often very frustrating, not the least of
all Mulder. Working and living at his side is an exhausting
process. I expect that to continue and lest you get the wrong
idea, I'm not complaining. I'm right where I want to be. But all
of the tense intrigue of the past few months has receded, and
now we find ourselves in this odd moment of peace. It's jarring,
in a way. I feel as if I've gotten off an escalator and abruptly
stopped moving. But as Mulder breathes into my hair, I think
that maybe we needed this, a moment to simply stand still. And
now that we're in that moment, I discover that I want to move
forward again, together.

I run my thumb lightly along the side of his hand, still
intertwined with mine. "Mulder--"

Abruptly, he pulls away, straightening and heading for his own
desk. "Feel better?" he asks, not looking at me.

"Much." I feel, once again, that I've unwittingly stepped into
unfamiliar territory. I know him so well, there is no doubt in
my mind that we are on the same page here. Just as I knew we
were before, standing in the hallway outside his apartment.

"Happy to be of service," Mulder replies, picking up a file
randomly, still keeping his back to me.

I don't answer him; my mind is occupied elsewhere, though on
him. He loves me. I know that. I love him. He knows that as
well. It is laughable to think, after all these years and all
the things we have done for each other, that anyone could doubt
that love. I can't do anything but love Mulder. He fills up
nearly every corner of my life. If I wanted to stop loving him,
I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to go about it. But I
don't want to, in any case.
 

*       *       *       *       *       *

=I'm building memories on things we have not said
 

When did I start loving Mulder? I don't know. I think I've
always had some sort of feelings for him. When we first met, I
was attracted to him. Then I was aggravated by him. Then he
became my friend. Then, as he became my best friend, I grew to
love him. And then... then I was in love with him. And I still
am.

When did he start loving me? Well, you'd have to ask him,
obviously. But if I had to make my best guess, I think it was
when I was taken from him, and returned. Our entire relationship
changed as a result. At first, I didn't notice so much, because
*I* had been changed by my experience. Then, when I did notice
his overprotective tendencies, I was simply aggravated by them
and pushed him away. I think it was his reaction to that, to my
refusal to allow him to take care of me, that made me realize we
had crossed some sort of line in the sand, and become more than
partners and colleagues. It wasn't business, it was personal.
Very personal.

But that was quite some time ago. For years, now, we've stayed
together, worked together, fought, searched, lost, and cried
together. Neither one of us is going anywhere, of that much
we're both sure. Mulder still needs reassurance from time to
time, but that has much more to do with his own insecurities
than anything I can say or do. I will not leave Mulder or our
search for the truth, and I don't think he's capable of leaving
me. We have reached that stage in a relationship where a fight
or disagreement is no longer perceived as a potential threat,
but simply something to work through. Failure to make this
relationship work is not an option for either of us.

Except we're not in a relationship, in the sense that most
people would use that word.

And why is that?

"Mulder, what did they tell you down at the lab?"

He looks at me then, and the relief on his face is as clear as
day. Relief that he has not offended me, that he hasn't gone too
far, that we still haven't crossed that last line. That things
between us will continue as they always have. Mulder fears
losing what we are, I know that. And though I understand where
that fear comes from, for him, I don't share it, because I know
it's not possible.

He grins. "After much persuasion, the lab boys have assured me
I'll have the results Monday morning, first thing."

"And who, specifically, will I be apologizing to on your behalf,
Monday morning, first thing?" I ask dryly.

"So far, just Agent Brickman. And Agent Pollard. And that lab
assistant, Carrie something or other. But hey, it's the weekend,
Scully, you never know who I'll offend between now and then."

"Then maybe I'd better keep an eye on you."

He laughs. "Scully, nobody does it better than you, that's for
sure. But I promise, I'm going straight home and bonding with
the TV, not much chance for danger there."

"But it's the weekend, Mulder."

"Exactly. They're airing the DC episode of 'Cops' tonight, and
that's must-see-TV."

I smile. "Seriously, Mulder. I want you to come over tonight."

"You wanna watch 'Cops' together?"

"No, Mulder, we need to talk."

He stops laughing. "Something wrong?"

"No."

I've caught him off guard, and I'd be lying if I told you I
didn't enjoy it, just a little bit. He thought he was home free
there, and now he's thinking I've pulled the rug out from under
him. Which I have, figuratively. I work very hard to hide a grin
from sneaking across my face, all the while feeling like the cat
that swallowed the canary.

"Okay. When?" He's got that two-can-play-at-this-game face going
now.

Turning off my computer, I stand and grab my jacket. "Whenever,
Mulder. It's not like you need an appointment. This evening, in
a few hours. Say, after eight, before nine." He looks at me,
amused. "Okay, fine, eight-thirty."

"Anything you say, Scully," he replies.

Finally, on the way to my car and unseen, the smile I woke up
with this morning returns.
 

*       *       *       *       *       *

=Darling, just start the chase - I'll let you win but you must
Make the endeavor
 

Smile back in evidence on my face or not, I do not, as you might
have imagined, go home and soak in a bubble bath, scatter
candles throughout my apartment, and put Sarah McLachlan on the
CD player. I have grocery shopping to do, actually. And not fun,
whimsical shopping either, no loaves of fresh bread and a bottle
of wine or anything along those lines. No, regular old grocery
shopping. Paper towels. Milk. Cereal. Windex. It's not sexy, you
know, but a girl's gotta get this stuff done when she can.

Even so, I have a few spare minutes to myself before Mulder gets
here, assuming he's on time. I imagine he will be. He might be
purposely late, though. Only time will tell. I debate the issue
with myself for a few minutes, and then decide he'll be on time.

Some people might find Mulder to be unreliable, a constant
unknown factor. Skinner asked me once if it's just that I enjoy
the sheer surprise of never knowing what he's going to do next.
But that's not it at all. Mulder doesn't surprise me much, at
least not any more. He takes off and follows half-leads and I'm
lucky if a get a call from the road, and that usually because he
needs me to follow him across the country as soon as possible--
but believe me, I'm used to that by now. I'd have to be,
wouldn't I? He makes leaps of illogic that I never would-- but
I'd expect nothing less of him, now. I expect the unexpected
from Mulder, and he has yet to disappoint me.

I frown a little; I know him so well. Does he know me the same
way? I'm not as open about my thoughts and feelings, I don't
share my emotions as vocally as he does, I know that. And to be
fair, I'm sure my reticence is as frustrating to him as his
flights of fancy are to me. Still. He knows me. Whether I have
wanted him to or not, Mulder has seen through me. Truth be told,
I don't mean to put up defenses. Not consciously, anyhow. It's
more of an ingrained habit at this point. The need to maintain a
professional demeanor in an old boy's network. The desire to
develop a scientific approach to any situation.

And the resolve to not laugh at *all* of Mulder's jokes. You
know how they have signs at the zoo that say "don't feed the
animals"? It's for their own good, right? And because they'll
eat whatever you feed them, even if they're not hungry or if
dinner's in an hour or if the junk you're tossing at them is no
good for them. Basically, because it encourages them. It's the
same thing with Mulder. If I laugh, he won't know when to stop.
So it's the game we play. He tries to make me crack, I don't let
him, he knows it and keeps trying. We're good at it. I'm the
best straight man in the FBI, let me tell you.

Knocking... that's my comedic other half now, I imagine. I
glance at the clock on my way-- 8:33. On time. Essentially.
Score one for Scully. As I open the door, Mulder is already
talking.

"As always, Scully, Frohike sends his love."

I smile. "That's all? Last time he sent a proposal."

"Hardly an honorable one, though."

"Nevertheless, a sincere one, I gather."

Mulder laughs soundlessly and takes off his coat and sprawls on
the couch where I'd been just a moment before. I turn away from
him to hang up his coat, shaking my head as I hear the click of
the remote-- though no sound-- I swear, Mulder either reads lips
or just figures a picture's worth a thousand words. Or maybe he
knows I hate the sound of the TV blasting through my apartment
and he's being nice. It's possible.

It's funny. I knew we'd get to this, someday. Oh, I don't mean I
always knew. Just that I've known for awhile. And to be honest,
I always imagined I'd feel a little more... nervous. A twinge of
doubt, perhaps. A few reservations.

But I don't. Not one. Because there's really no logical reason
why I should, after all. There's nothing particular keeping
Mulder and I apart. Oh, in the beginning I suppose there were
some technicalities. After my break-up with Jack, I wasn't all
that eager to start dating another co-worker. It just didn't
seem like a good idea for a healthy relationship. There's always
a concern, working for a government law enforcement agency, that
you'll get a reputation for sleeping with your partners, that's
true. But that's only if you go through them like used Kleenex;
Mulder and I have "long-term" written all over us already. And
Jack was a long time ago, and a different set of circumstances.

As for the danger we'd be in, together... that would be
different from our current circumstances, how? What, some dark
sinister figure might find out we had "feelings" for each other
and use that against us? Well, sorry to tell you, it's been
done. Over and over again. It's a little too late for Mulder and
I to hide the fact that we care desperately about each other.
It's one of the worst-kept secrets of the FBI.

Lastly, of course, our feelings did have something to do with
it. I steadfastly ignored my attraction to Mulder for years.
Then I felt a little embarrassed about it. Then I didn't. As for
him... actually, I don't know what he'd have to say on that
subject. You'd have to ask him. Or maybe I will.

Speaking of Mulder, he's watching me quizzically from the couch.
"So, Scully, spill the beans."

I sit down at the other end of the couch, curling my feet under
me and leaning my head on one hand. He sits up and does the
same, smiling but a little confused. Mulder is actually nervous.
It's kind of, for lack of a better word, cute.

"Mulder, you know why I asked you to come over tonight."

"No, Scully, I don't," he says very sincerely.

Which gets him the eyebrow.

"I mean, I have a feeling you want to talk to me about something
important to you, and you know I'm always interested in whatever
thoughts or theories you have."

Okay, the grin.

"Seriously, Scully, you asked, I came. I live to serve."

Nothing. Come on, Mulder, you can do it.

"Is this..." He looks down, at the upholstery, then back up at
me. "Does this have something to do with...today..."

Finally I answer him, in just the same way as I did in our
office hours ago. "Yes."

His eyes widen a little and freeze. "I'm sorry--"

"Mulder."

He stops, looking confused. "I don't know what you want me to
say."

"You're not sorry." He starts to protest, and I cut him off
quickly. "Why would you be? I'm not sorry. There's nothing to be
sorry for."

"Well, right," he says. "What can I say, I trained with the
Olympic Swedish Massage Team back in 1980. They were a friendly
bunch. Must've rubbed off on me."

I sigh and roll my eyes. Okay, Mulder, that was a pretty lame
joke. He does that, to lighten the mood, that self-deprecatory
mocking. And that's another trait of Mulder's I'm more than used
to: the permanent lease he's taken out on the doghouse, for use
whenever convenient. I'm getting tired of reassuring him that he
hasn't done anything wrong. I mean, enough games, right? I know
this is one we usually play, but not tonight. He knows I'm not
"mad" that he made an innocent massage a little more
affectionate than would be termed partnerly. I mean, even if he
thought I didn't love him, it's not all that big a deal.
Certainly not big enough to call him over here and ream him out
about. And that's beside the point, because he does know.

And that's when it hits me.

No, he doesn't.
 

*       *       *       *       *       *

=I do not struggle in your web because it was my aim to get
caught
 

Oh my.

I feel stupid. I feel... blind. Here I was so smug,
congratulating myself on how confident and secure and sure I was
of everything. I was rather proud of how *not* nervous I was. I
even found it mildly endearing that Mulder *was* nervous,
assuming it was in a sort of jittery, wow, we-finally-hit-the-
finishing-line kind of way. And I'd been all wrong. Great work,
Agent Scully. Real perceptive of you.

Okay, deep breath here. Not entirely wrong. I mean, I do, in
fact, love Mulder. I want him. Oo boy, yes I do, there's not a
doubt in my mind about that. So, fine, I'm right about me. It's
Mulder I'm wrong about. More deep breaths. Wait, wait, not
entirely wrong. He... he loves me. Okay, that I always knew.
And... yes, he does want me. Oo boy, to repeat a phrase, yes he
does. So, then, what am I so wrong about?

I realize that the silence has begun to stretch between us, that
I haven't said anything to respond to Mulder's weak joke. I'm
still staring at him, still looking at him, eyes wide and
registering shock. I can tell that's what my expression looks
like because Mulder, on the other hand, is looking downright
terrified. I mean, he's making The Face. The real Face. Okay,
that's right, I remember what I'm wrong about. I thought he
knew. I thought he knew me. I thought he knew how I felt.

I thought he knew I loved him.

"Mulder--"

And I stop. I don't know what to say. I don't have a script
prepared for this. Had I known he didn't... I mean, if I'd been
aware, beforehand, that this would have been a big revelation to
him, I would've planned things differently. I wouldn't have
teased him, wouldn't have left him guessing. Mulder is, first
and foremost, my best friend. And now I realize, in a rush of
self-flagellation, that I've been causing him pain for some time
now. And that's the last thing I wanted. I have to fix this.

"Oh, Mulder--"

"Stop," he says, raggedly, and breaks our locked gaze. He pulls
away, not just emotionally but physically as well, moving to the
other end of the couch and turning his face from me. "Just stop.
Can't we just forget about the whole thing, Scully? I'd...
rather not talk about this."

I sigh, still too thrown to choose my words well. "No, Mulder.
We can't. I don't even--"

"Scully--"

"No, Mulder, you don't understand, I never meant--"

"I think I should leave." He stands up, abruptly, and heads for
the door, stopping to take his coat from the closet.

Time... freezes. In reality I have exactly ten seconds before he
finishes putting his coat on, before he walks out the door,
before it close behind him, before I'm left here alone with my
recriminations, before I spend a sleepless night, before
tomorrow, before I wait nervously for him in our office, before
he comes in late and nonchalant, before he cracks his first
carefully careless sarcastic remark, before he evades my
carefully prepared attempts to tell him what's on my mind,
before he shuts me down completely with a case, a phone call, a
crime, a mystery, an X File, Cancer Man, anything.

But for the moment, I'm stuck here, frozen, staring at him. And
thank God I am, that I was wrong, that time isn't a universal
invariant, that our perception of time can change and alter
beyond the norm. Because in that moment my head takes the time
to clear. I know what I want. I even know what he wants. And I'm
damned if I'm going to let it slip away, let us go back to
business as usual, let the moment pass us by, let him walk out
that door.

I hardly remember getting up, but the next thing I know I'm
standing behind him, my arms wrapped around his waist, head
buried in his back. He stops all movement, just stands there,
quiet, and he lets out a frustrated breath. "Don't."

Wordlessly I turn him around; he doesn't resist me, as if he
knows he can't, simply isn't up to even trying, but wishes like
hell that he could. I wait until he meets my eyes, tired and
defeated. "Mulder, listen to me. I was wrong."

"No, Scully, you weren't."

"But I was. I thought you knew-- I thought you could read my
mind the way I read yours."

He laughs soundlessly, and somewhat mirthlessly. "I'm an open
book, Scully. At least to you."

In return I smile, much more genuinely than he's doing at the
moment. "Yes, you are. Even right now. Damn it, Mulder, you're
not easy."

"Believe me, neither are you."

He looks a little calmer now. My arms are still at his waist,
and he brings his up around my shoulders, pulling me into a
loose hug. Resting my head on his chest, I listen to the sound
of his heart beating, steadily and finally without haste.

"Mulder."

"Hmmm?"

"I love you."

For a moment, I swear, his heart stops. I felt it, beneath my
cheek, and thankfully I felt it start beating again. I didn't
enjoy that one little bit, I have to tell you. Then his
shoulders sag, almost imperceptibly. "I know you do, Scully.
Your friendship means the world to me--"

That's it. I've had it. I guess I'm not as good at living in the
doghouse as Mulder, because I'm finding the accommodations
downright restricting and unpleasant. So without another word,
without another miserable attempt at explanation, I wrap my arms
around his neck and haul his mouth down to mine.

As kisses go, this one is mostly characterized by delayed
reaction. I'm not saying Mulder doesn't return the kiss at all,
but he's a little too surprised, at first, to put his heart into
it. And as for me, I'm not looking to win a Best Kissing award
here either. I just can't think of any other way to cut through
the years of layers of double-talk we have perfected to keep
moments like this one from happening.

Carefully, then, finally, I pull away from him. His arms are
tighter around me, but his eyes are somewhat unreadable. Still,
mission accomplished: I've got his full attention now, and as an
added bonus, he's speechless.

"No, Mulder, not as a friend, not just as a friend, anyhow." I
still can't tell what he's thinking, he just looks down at me,
surprised. "I'm sorry. I was wrong. I thought... I thought you
always knew."

"The way you knew?"

I smile. I think part of him would prefer this was a revelation
to both of us, but I can't pretend any differently now. "Yes,
the way I always knew."

He looks away, almost as if embarrassed. There's so much more I
want to say to him, but I don't want him to feel overwhelmed.
Change in script or not, I was ready for this tonight. Mulder
was not, and now I begin to wonder what else he isn't ready for.

He looks back at me finally, no longer embarrassed but still
unreadable. "I stopped trying to hide it, I guess, so I
shouldn't be surprised that you knew."

"I know." I move away from him slightly, tugging us both towards
the couch. He collapses there next to met and I take his hand in
mine. He grips it tightly but looks at the floor. "Mulder, I
didn't mean to hide how I felt about you, but I guess I did. I
shouldn't have done that."

"No, Scully, I should've told you how I felt instead of...
instead of relying on your ability to see right through me. But
it was easier, that way."

At first I can't quite define what it is I'm feeling, sitting
there on the couch, holding Mulder's hand. And then I realize
I'm feeling nervous, finally. Because I was wrong once already,
and I could be wrong again. I know that I want our relationship
to move forward this way, but I can't be sure Mulder agrees. He
seems so hesitant, and I can't tell if it's still surprise or if
it's doubt.

I try to pick my words carefully. "In some ways, it was easier
for both of us, Mulder. But in other ways... at least for me...
it was hard. Hard never being able to turn to you the way I
wanted to. Hard never telling you how I felt-- there's no one
else that I want to tell these things to, no one I want to
confide in, except you. Mostly, just hard not love you."

He shudders, a little, and grips my hand harder. "Tell me about
it."

"I wish you would." He looks at me, quizzically. "Mulder, I...
assumed a lot of thins I shouldn't have. And I don't want to do
that anymore. I want you to tell me the truth, tell me what you
want."

"What I want?"

This is quickly beginning to feel impossible again. We just keep
going around and around, striking glancing blows at this thing
that lies between us. I no longer know the right thing to say,
or what to tell him, or how to proceed. I have spent my life
carefully planning my actions, choosing my course, plotting my
path. Doing so has brought me here, to this moment in time, and
I'm out of directions. And Mulder isn't helping.

I take a deep breath, to continue what I undeniably started.
"What you want for us. What you want us to do." He looks up at
me abruptly, still not speaking. "I have had the luxury of
knowing how you felt about me, but I'm not so sure what you want
to do about it. Whether you want us to stay just as we are or...
or not. Whether you want... me. Us. This."

For a moment only, he simply stares. And then, in one swift,
rough motion, Mulder pulls my body to his, dragging me half
across his lap. Before I can even catch my breath, his mouth
descends upon mine, claiming it, hard and warm and blinding. Our
first kiss, just moments ago, was more about making my point
than anything else; I was too concerned with his reaction to
think about details. Now, I'm finding it difficult to think at
all, as his hands travel the length of my body, over and over,
and it feels as if he's touching me everywhere, all at once. His
mouth has not left mine, and I feel as if I've known the taste
of his lips my whole life. His kiss is like coming home, like
that final release at the end of a long day, like warm whisky
and honey and everything good. When he finally releases them, my
own lips feel bruised and my breathing is ragged; he buries his
face in my neck and kisses me there, over and over, until his
warm breath tickles my ear and I let out a small moan.

I lower my head to his shoulder and he speaks softly into my
ear. "Scully, I want this more than I've ever wanted anything in
my life. I want this more than life. I don't want to live
without it."

I feel like the room is spinning. That sounds clichÇ, but it's
true. "Mulder... I just want you to be sure..."

He laughs, and it's beyond a doubt the most beautiful thing I've
ever heard. I raise my head and he turns, slightly, so that we
can see each other. His hands are beneath my shirt, one holding
my hip and the other caressing my stomach, lightly, moving in
slow lazy circles that make me want to stay this way forever.
"Now I'm sorry," he says.

"Why?"

"Because somehow you have in your head that I don't want you."

I shake my head. "No, that's not it. I know... I just wonder if
you're as sure it's worth the risk as I am."

"What risk?" he asks with a grin.

It's hard to speak coherently with Mulder touching me the way he
is. But I'm starting to feel as if, though I'm still without a
map, I've at least found my way back to the road. "Mulder, I
don't think there are any risks, but I don't know whether you
agree with me or not. I know that nothing can change how we feel
about each other. I know that, unfortunately, nothing can put
either of us in more danger than we're in already. I also know
that we are stronger together than either of us could ever be
apart. I am sure of those things, as sure as I have ever been
about anything."

"Scully..." He kisses me, softly, quickly. "Six years together,
when have you ever been wrong?"

I laugh. "Don't start saying things you don't mean, Mulder."

"I mean it. And I am as sure as you are."

"Then... " I hesitate; the last thing I want, though, is for us
to leave anything unsaid. If there was ever a time for the truth
to show its face, right here and right now, this was it. "Then
why did you seem so... stunned? I know I'm not the easiest
person to read, and I know I could've been more forthright with
you. But couldn't you tell at all how I felt about you?"

Again, he smiles. His hand leaves my stomach and he reaches up
to touch my face, softly, as he speaks, pushing my hair behind
one ear. "I *was* stunned, Scully. I didn't expect... I didn't
let myself believe you felt the same way I did. There were times
it seemed you did, but then I always convinced myself I was only
seeing what I wanted or needed."

He pauses and his eyes leave mine for a moment as he seems to
weigh his next words; when he turns back to me, he cups my face
in his palm and looks at me intently, eyes brimming over with
emotion. "I need you, Scully. I know that's not the healthiest
way to be, but I do. I need you every bit as much as I need air
to breathe. You have built every part of me that is good, and
you make up every part of me that is alive. Without you...
anything I have, without you, is empty. There is no one else.
And I know that's a lot to ask of anyone, too much to ask. You
know I want you to have the best of everything, the best life
has to offer. But I love you. I love you and I need you way too
much to be unselfish, here. I want you, and I will never stop
wanting you."

"You're not being selfish, Mulder. I'm not some honor you could
never deserve."

"Well, I hope not... because I have every intention of spending
the next couple of decades making sure I do deserve you. Making
sure you've been right about me all along. That is, if you'll
let me. And the idea that you will left me, momentarily, a
little stunned. I promise if you give me a little more time,
I'll bounce back to my normal, every-day, charmingly annoying
and irresistible self."

I'm not crying. There's no reason to be crying. Crying is
something you do when you're sad, and let's face it, I don't
even do it much then. Crying is definitely not for when you're
beginning to feel so happy that your heart is going pitter-pat
and you have a strange urge to jump up and down and dance in the
moonlight and sing silly love songs, all at once. No, crying at
such a moment would be pretty illogical, so of course there's no
way I am currently sniffling and laughing, all at once. "Hey
Mulder."

"Yeah?" He looks a little confused at my tears, but smiles at
the wide grin on my face.

"Do something for me."

"Anything."

He means it, too. And so do I.

"Shut up, already. Shut up and kiss me."

"Just lead the way, Scully."

And so I do.
 
 

END
 
 

________________________________________________________________
 

The First Taste - F. Apple

I lie in an early bed, thinking late thoughts
Waiting for the black to replace my blue
I do not struggle in your web because it was my aim to get
caught
But daddy longlegs, I feel that I'm finally growing weary
Of waiting to be consumed by you

Give me the first taste, let it begin heaven cannot wait
Forever
Darling, just start the chase - I'll let you win but you must
Make the endeavor

Oh, your love gives me a heart contusion
Adagio breezes fill my skin with sudden red
Your hungry flirt borders intrusion
I'm building memories on things we have not said
Full is not heavy as empty
Not nearly my love
Not nearly my love
Not nearly

Give me the first taste, let it begin heaven cannot wait
Forever
Darling, just start the chase - I'll let you win, but you must
Make the endeavor