TITLE:     HERDING CATS 
AUTHOR:    FOXPROSE 
E-MAIL:    FOXPROSE2003@YAHOO.COM 
RATING:    NC-17 
WARNING:   Descriptive sex. Smut warning. 
CATEGORY:  MSR 
KEYWORDS:  Slight Angst 
DISCLAIMER: Enough problems with real people in my life, let 
alone fictional characters.  They belong to Chris Carter, Ten 
Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. 
FEEDBACK:  Please!  Send to foxprose2003@yahoo.com 
SPOILERS:  Slight references to Fire and The End. 

SUMMARY:   "Those two agents o' yours are wound up tighter 'an 
ticks on a hound."

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  As always, kudos to Donnilee for her 
incredible beta, constant encouragement, and wonderful website.

A special thank you to Carma, who spent almost as much time on 
this story as I did, and whose feedback on character development 
and motivation elevated this story far beyond my original 
aspirations.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
FBI HEADQUARTERS 
A.D. WALTER SKINNER'S OFFICE 
WASHINGTON, DC 
10:30 AM

Walter Skinner held the earpiece of his telephone a few inches 
away from his face, but this did nothing to mute the disembodied 
voice on the other end.

"Those two agents o' yours are wound up tighter 'an ticks on a 
hound." The speaker was John Hathaway, the SAC of the Dallas 
field office, and he was just warming up.

"Well, thanks for the tip-off, John.  I'll handle it from here.  
Anything specific I should know?" Skinner responded.

"I mean to tell you they were both jumpier 'an long-tailed cats in a 
roomful o' rockers.  And that one?  The one with the animal name?  
Wolf, Fox, Coyote, whatever?  Well, ya oughta have him checked 
for rabies, 'cause he about bit off anyone's head who came near 
'im."

"That would be Agent Mulder."

"And that lil' pathologist who came with 'im wasn't much better.  
We all thought she was gonna jump outta her skin if somebody 
said boo."

"Well, I appreciate the feedback, John.  I'll handle it with the 
agents directly.  Good talking to you." Skinner hung up before 
Agent Hathaway could launch another round of folksy metaphors.  
John Hathaway was a decent agent and a good supervisor.  
However, Skinner could only take so much from a man who had 
moved to Texas and found his inner cowpoke via a Main Line 
Philadelphia family and an Ivy League education.

He rubbed his temples and then picked up the telephone to 
summon the agents to his office, wondering why he had ever 
pursued the FBI's executive track.  Cats in a roomful of rockers, 
indeed.  Unfortunately, it was his job to herd them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
FBI HEADQUARTERS 
A.D. WALTER SKINNER'S OFFICE 
WASHINGTON, DC 
1:00 PM

Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully sat stoically, eyes 
straight ahead, still reeling from the blistering reprimand Skinner 
had issued.  In addition to 'lack of professional courtesy,' 
'unwillingness to develop collegial relationships,' and 'disregard for 
the importance of teamwork,' they were now being charged with 
'nervousness befitting long-tailed cats in a roomful of rockers.' 
Skinner could no longer keep a straight face as he repeated 
Hathaway's comparison.  He made a half-hearted attempt to stifle 
his laughter but gave up the fight.  Mulder and Scully desperately 
needed some levity, and they, too, were overcome by mirth at the 
description of Hathaway's complaints against them.

They wiped their eyes, and Skinner once again became serious.  
"I've checked the records. Neither of you has taken more than a 
single day of vacation in more than two years.  I am not counting 
hospitalizations.  I wouldn't have put it quite like Agent Hathaway, 
but he has a point." Skinner stopped and consulted a yellow legal 
pad.

"Sir," Scully began.

He cut her off.  "The two of you will be assisting the Organized 
Crime Division in the Brooklyn/Queens resident agency in a brief 
undercover role.  Your job there should be finished by tomorrow 
night, and both of you are required to use the rest of the week to 
relax and rest up.  I don't want to hear or see either of you until a 
week from today."

"Does the New York case have anything to do with the X-Files?" 
Mulder asked pointedly.

"No, Agent Mulder.  As I understand it, you and Agent Scully will 
be posing as patrons of a restaurant in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.  
The field office in New York has been working to bring down a 
leader in the Russian mob.  They hope to arrest him in the 
restaurant tomorrow night," Skinner explained.

"But the New York office has hundreds of agents ..." Scully 
started to complain.

"Yes," Skinner agreed, "but keep in mind that Russian organized 
crime is filled with former KGB and military intelligence officers.  
These are not garden-variety criminals.  They've already identified 
a number of the agents in the Brooklyn/Queens agency, and no one 
knows how much information they have on agents based in 
Manhattan or Newark.  That's why outside agents are being 
brought in."

Skinner dismissed the two agents, who began to take their leave.  
As they reached the door, he called out, "Just a minute, Agent 
Scully."  She stopped and he motioned for her to re-take her seat.  
Mulder paused, but Skinner nodded his head toward the door.  
Mulder slunk out with obvious reluctance.

Skinner directed his attention to the petite but tough-as-nails agent 
seated before him.  "Agent Scully, I'm going to ask for your help."  
He leaned toward her over his desk.  "You and Agent Mulder are 
often unorthodox in your approach to your work, but you've 
frequently been successful in wrapping up cases that others 
couldn't or wouldn't."

Scully nodded, unsure of what was coming.

"I realize John Hathaway can be pain in the ass with his fake Texas 
accent," continued Skinner in a soft, conciliatory tone.  "But Agent 
Mulder *is* wound too tight.  I can't send him out like this. When 
this undercover thing wraps up, please try to make sure Mulder 
does whatever he needs to do to relax.  I realize you're not 
responsible for your partner's behavior or personal life, but I can't 
have another Dallas.  Do you understand?"

Scully nodded.  "Yes, Sir."  She felt uneasy, as if she were once 
again being used to conspire against Mulder, but she knew their 
boss was right.  The trip to Dallas had been a disaster.

She kept her face expressionless as an idea flitted through her 
consciousness.  Maybe this was the chance she'd been waiting for 
to push the envelope just a little with Mulder.  She'd worked hard 
to keep her feelings for her partner under wraps, and she had 
plenty of circumstantial evidence that Mulder was working toward 
the same unspoken goal.  Somehow, though, the tension seemed 
worse lately.  Every time he touched her, every time she 
accidentally leaned against him, every look he gave her ... well, no 
wonder the Dallas SAC compared them to cats in a roomful of 
rockers.

Skinner nodded his dismissal, and Scully edged out of the room.  
He could see Mulder waiting anxiously for her in the outer office.  
One down, he thought, and one to go.  He picked up the telephone, 
glanced across the office make sure the door was completely 
closed, and began dialing a number with a 212 area code.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
FBI HEADQUARTERS 
X-FILES OFFICE 
WASHINGTON, DC 
3:00 PM

Walter Skinner knocked lightly on the door to the basement office 
occupied by Agents Mulder and Scully.  The door was ajar and he 
could see Mulder hunched over his computer screen.  A printer 
was spitting out paper in the background.

"Agent Mulder?" he interrupted.

Mulder startled slightly at the sight of Skinner, who rarely 
ventured to the basement.  He jumped to his feet as Skinner 
entered the office.

"Is Agent Scully here?" Skinner inquired.

"No.  No, she, uh, went home a little early to grab a bag.  We're 
catching a 7 PM shuttle to LaGuardia."

"Good," said Skinner approvingly.  "I wanted to talk to you."

Mulder listened warily, his unblinking eyes focused on Skinner.

"I realize John Hathaway can be pain in the ass with that stupid 
accent and all," Skinner repeated, using the same speech he'd used 
a few hours ago.  "But Agent Scully *is* wound too tight.  She's 
not as effective like this.  When this undercover thing is over, I 
want you to make sure she does whatever she needs to do to relax.  
Off the record, I'll try to find a way to cover any reasonable 
expenses that the two of you might incur in New York.  I'm not 
asking you to take responsibility for Agent Scully's private life, but 
I can't have another Dallas.  Do you understand?"

Mulder nodded numbly.  Was he serious?  Not take responsibility 
for Agent Scully's private life? His entire fantasy life was built 
around his desire to 'take responsibility' for Scully's private life! 
Well, be a major part of it, anyway.  He spent hours daydreaming 
about ways to make a place for himself in her private life and 
hours being depressed when his little schemes failed.

Skinner exited, closing the door behind him.  Mulder stared into 
space as he mentally flogged himself with unwelcome memories.  
He recalled Scully receiving a steady stream of personal phone 
calls from family and friends -- people she did want in her private 
life.  Scully disrupting business in each backwater field office they 
visited as every heterosexual male panted for her attention.  Scully 
yearning for a 'normal' life.  Scully consistently unimpressed by 
what he had to offer, namely his passion for his work and feelings 
for her.  He felt his eyes sting slightly, and he rubbed them with his 
fingers, disgusted by his emotional wallowing.  Be a part of her 
private life? Yeah, right. 'In my dreams,' he thought miserably.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
JACKIE ROBINSON PARKWAY - 'THE INTERBORO' 
QUEENS/BROOKLYN, NY 
8:30 AM

"So, you guys up here to help us get the Russians?" asked Special 
Agent Leo Fine, turning briefly to face Scully.

Agent Fine was driving the government-issue sedan through the 
hairpin turns of the famed 'Interboro' connecting Queens and 
Brooklyn.  The posted speed limit was 30 MPH, but traffic was 
moving at 60.  Mulder sat in the back seat while Scully occupied 
the front passenger side. Scully's hand was white where she 
gripped the handhold in the door, and she noticed Mulder had 
closed his eyes.  All three agents were dressed casually, Scully in 
jeans and a sweater and Mulder in chinos.  They had been asked to 
look like a couple dining out in a neighborhood restaurant.

"Um, yeah, I guess so," gulped Scully.  "Our A.D. at headquarters 
told us they wanted fresh meat, that too many agents up here had 
been identified."

"Yeah, sometimes the bosses know what they're doin'," Fine 
agreed in a thick Brooklyn accent. "So, you're a doctor and you're a 
psychologist.  How'd you two end up with the Bureau?" he 
continued.

Mulder smiled in spite of himself.  This guy was straight out of 
central casting!  Most special agents were lawyers or accountants 
or both, and he wondered if the FBI had sent Agent Fine for 
lessons in sounding like a two-bit mobster or if he'd developed the 
skill on his own.

Scully was answering, or rather, not really answering.  "Oh, you 
know how it is.  You're in grad school, not sure what you want to 
do.  Someone talks to you about law enforcement in general or 
about the Bureau.  You apply, and before you know it, you're 
risking your life on the Interboro," she smiled weakly.

"I gotcha," agreed Agent Fine, nodding, but apparently missing the 
humor.  "Same wit' me.  I finished law school and just couldn't see 
sittin' around in a suit for 40 years writin' briefs.  'Course, my ma, 
she was ready to kill me.  She and my dad worked to put me 
through an expensive college and law school, and all she gets is a 
kid who sounds like he makes a living shakin' down fruit vendors 
in the 'hood."

Scully laughed in recognition.  "Oh, I definitely know that 
problem," she said.  "Where did you go to school, anyway?"

"Undergrad at Penn, law school at Columbia," he answered, and a 
discerning listener could have heard the Brooklyn accent recede 
for just a moment.

"Well, I'm glad you're on our side," Scully said with a smile. "And 
I hope your mom comes around."

They exited the Interboro and wound through a maze of residential 
streets and small business districts until they reached Brooklyn's 
'downtown.'  Fine pulled into a parking garage and escorted them 
to an elevator that dumped them squarely in the 'bull pen' of the 
Brooklyn agency of New York's field office.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
NEW YORK FIELD OFFICE 
BROOKLYN/QUEENS AGENCY 
QUEENS/BROOKLYN, NY 
NOON

Mulder and Scully gathered their few notes and stood up and 
stretched.  What could you say about an operational briefing?  On 
one hand, you wanted to pay attention because knowing the details 
could keep you alive.  On the other hand, keeping your eyes open 
was almost impossible during the repetition of minutiae that had 
nothing to do with you.

Agent Fine, who had apparently been appointed their New York 
guardian, begged off escorting them to lunch.  But he jotted down 
a virtual U.N.'s worth of ethnic eateries within walking distance.  
There would be time for a long lunch before they were transported 
via van to Brighton Beach with the other agents.

Male agents swarmed around Scully, flirting, joking, offering to 
take her to lunch, or just trying to get her attention.  Mulder 
watched as she skillfully dispersed the crowd without wounding 
any egos.  This performance by Scully was a regular feature when 
they traveled, and Mulder always felt a twinge of pride spiked with 
melancholy.  Yeah, he was simply one more puppy panting after 
her, whom she could swat away without missing a beat.

"Hey, Scully, you want to try Ethiopian food?" Mulder asked as he 
read the list. "Or what about Bulgarian?"  He knew she would want 
to eat light but couldn't resist teasing her a bit.

"How about sandwiches or salad," she said firmly, and it was not 
phrased as a question.

"So does that mean Mama Tessa's All-You-Can-Eat Italian 
Smorgasbord is out?" he inquired with a grin.

"Yup, and you can also cross off the Irish place.  I'm not eating 
brisket and potatoes just before a stakeout."

They compromised on a coffee shop that, to read the menu, served 
everything in the world. Scully was happy with a tuna sandwich 
while Mulder ordered a complete breakfast platter.

"Why do you think Skinner sent us up here?  I mean, why did he 
really send us?" Mulder queried over his scrambled eggs.

Scully paused.  She knew that he was fishing for information about 
Skinner's private chat with her.  Should she let Mulder know about 
her 'assignment' to make sure he got some R&R?

 "Mulder, you've got to admit, things didn't go all that well in 
Dallas.  Maybe Skinner's trying to help us.  After all, he kept the 
Dallas SAC from taking any official action against us," she 
answered back.

"So what are we going to do?" Mulder questioned sarcastically.

Good question, thought Scully.  She noticed that Mulder used 'we.'  
Maybe her hidden agenda would work out more easily than she'd 
expected.

"Let's just wing it," she said.  "Do you have any ideas?"

"No," he answered sullenly, and immediately regretted his tone.  It 
wasn't Scully's fault that he had no ideas for spending four relaxing 
days in New York  -- or anywhere else on earth.

Scully left the tip and Mulder went to the cashier to pay.  They 
returned silently to the Bureau office, thinking more about their 
enforced vacation than about the upcoming undercover job.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
TIBELISI RESTAURANT 
BRIGHTON BEACH 
BROOKLYN, NY 
7:00 PM

The FBI had commandeered the family-owned restaurant that 
served as a meeting place for local mob figures.  The family 
acquiesced happily.  They were less concerned about losing 
organized crime patronage than pissing off the FBI, who in turn, 
might piss off the IRS, a more formidable foe than the FBI and the 
mob combined.  Seventeen agents sat in place for three hours, 
posing as diners.

Finally, the target arrived, Boris Para-something-or-other.  Three 
men, all of them known to the Brooklyn field office, accompanied 
him.  They were shown to a table fitted with a microphone that was 
taped to the bottom.  It wasn't exactly James Bond, but it worked 
and it was legal - the judge had signed the order yesterday 
morning.

At a signal from the SAC, Boris and his friends were surrounded.  
The arresting agents cuffed them and led them outside.  Like true 
professionals, the suspects were unsurprised by this turn of events.  
They remained polite if not exactly friendly.  In a few minutes, 
their lawyers would be rushing to their sides.

"It's like a dance," commented Mulder dejectedly as he and Scully 
retrieved their jackets and prepared to leave with the rest of the 
agents.  "We take two steps forward and push them back, and then 
they take three steps forward while we're sitting on our asses in 
court.  It just goes on forever."

"C'mon, Mulder," Scully coaxed.  "RICO changed a lot.  Look at 
all the old-time bosses who've been brought down."

"Right," he continued dourly.  "And there are two guys ready to 
step up to bat for every one we put away."

"Well, I guess we should be thankful we're not assigned to 
Organized Crime," she concluded.  "It might be even more 
discouraging than the government conspiracy beat."  She grinned 
at Mulder, forcing him to smile in return.

The other agents were all in high spirits on the ride back to the 
office.  Their role was finished, completed without any casualties, 
property damage, or legal problems.  High-fives were exchanged 
and details of the operation were retold again and again.

"Hey, guys!"  Leo Fine turned around to address Mulder and 
Scully, who occupied the very rear of the passenger van.  "I heard 
you're spending a couple a' days here in the Big Apple?"

"Um, right.  I guess," answered Mulder, looking at Scully for help.  
"We've been putting in a lot of hours lately and our A.D. told us 
we could play tourist 'til the end of the week."

"Well, I gotta deal for you!  Why don't you check out of that 
Marriott place you're at and use the Bureau's apartment in the city?  
I checked with the boss, and no one's gonna be there until Saturday 
night.  It's got two bedrooms and it's in a great building.  It's got a 
doorman and everything.  We usually use it for undercover stuff or 
visiting bigwigs or whatever, but it's yours for three days if you 
want it.  Kind of a 'thank you' from the field office to HQ."

"That sounds perfect!" exclaimed Scully.  Her shining eyes 
reflected her inner delight.  She couldn't have orchestrated such a 
perfect opportunity if she'd tried.

Mulder's neck snapped around in surprise.  He put his arm around 
her in the darkness of the van and leaned in to whisper in her ear.  
"Scully, are you sure?"

She didn't say anything, but she nodded and smiled.

Mulder took a risk and left his arm around her. He felt her snuggle 
into him slightly, as if to keep warm.  He looked at her again in the 
dark of the car.  She usually jumped when he touched her. Was this 
his Scully or an alien imposter?

"Great!  You'll have a fantastic time," Agent Fine responded and 
turned back to the conversation.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
THE UPPER WEST SIDE 
MANHATTAN 
11:00 PM

The apartment more than lived up to Agent Fine's promises.  It was 
on the fifteenth floor of a modern high-rise.  Unlike many 
Manhattan doormen, whose performance of their duties tends to be 
cursory until the few weeks preceding Christmas bonuses, this 
doorman checked their names and credentials against a 
computerized photo database before admitting them to the 
elevators.

"Thank you, Mr. Mulder, Dr. Scully," he said in a theatrically-
trained voice.  "Mr. Fine asked me to tell you that dinner will be 
delivered shortly.  Courtesy of the office."

"Uh, thanks," responded Mulder as his eyes met Scully's.  Since 
when did the New York field office take lessons from Martha 
Stewart?

"That was strange," Scully whispered when the elevator doors 
closed.  "He seemed to have a lot of details about us."

"Except that we're with the Bureau.  The employees of the building 
probably don't know who the real tenant is.  They probably just 
think it's some kind of corporate apartment."

The elevator stopped, and they found the apartment without 
difficulty.

Both inhaled audibly as the entered.  Expertly decorated, the 
apartment looked neither masculine nor feminine, neither young 
nor old.  The apartment was unmarred by the possessions that 
characterize real life.  There was no hodge-podge of mismatched 
furniture and knick-knacks, no goofy cards from relatives, no tacky 
refrigerator magnets from local businesses, and no corners stacked 
with odds and ends that seemed like a good idea at Wal-Mart.

"Can you believe this place?" Scully asked as she placed her bag 
on the floor and twirled around before plopping down on a leather 
couch.

"Now you know where the money for your desk went," answered 
Mulder, smiling.

"Yeah, really," she concurred.

Mulder was still trying to process Scully's enthusiastic acceptance 
of offer to stay in New York. He was thrilled, of course, but he was 
nervous, too.  What did she expect?  Had she simply grabbed the 
opportunity for an innocent shopping trip or did she have 
something else in mind? He had to get it right, and the pressure 
was mounting.

"So what's the game plan, Scully?" he asked, trying to sound 
casual.  "Are we hanging out together or do you have plans of your 
own?"  He remembered sourly the bullpen in the Brooklyn office.  
Had one of the agents finagled a date with her while his back was 
turned?

"All I want right now is a bath and something to eat," she answered 
with a smile.  "So what do think it'll be?  Pizza or Chinese?"

"The odds are on pizza.  Go ahead and take a bath, and I'll listen 
for dinner."

"Thanks, Mulder," she answered in such a sweet, sincere way that 
it made his heart melt.  She took her bag from the floor and 
disappeared into the smaller bedroom.

The possibility of romance was replaced by more straightforward 
lust a few minutes later as he watched her emerge from her 
bedroom and enter the bathroom wearing only a satiny robe. Scully 
would soon be naked and wet and just a few feet away.

The door buzzer sounded.  Mulder shook himself out of his 
daydreams and answered.  It was not pizza, nor was it Chinese 
food.  The man confirmed Mulder's identity, though less rigorously 
than the doorman, and beckoned to two young men bearing sturdy 
boxes.  The three men went straight to the kitchen, where they 
began unpacking.

As far as Mulder could tell, he and Scully were going to be eating 
aluminum foil for dinner.  Pan after pan, each swathed in foil, was 
unpacked and ceremoniously placed on the countertops. Bakery 
boxes emerged from one of the crates along with mineral water 
and ... champagne? Clearly there had been a mix-up.

Mulder laid out a tip to the supervisor and ushered the crew out of 
the apartment before they had a change of heart.  He walked 
quietly into the kitchen and began peeling foil covers back:  
Shrimp and lobster salad, filet mignon, double-baked potatoes, 
fresh green beans in some kind of sauce. He was getting ready to 
check out the bakery boxes when he heard Scully emerge from the 
bathroom.

Her robe clung to her damp body.  Mulder, like a deer caught in 
the headlights, was transfixed by the image of Scully in the thin 
wraparound robe.  His eyes sought out spots where her breasts and 
hips were explicitly outlined by the damp fabric, and he could 
smell the citrus fragrance from her freshly washed hair.

"Mulder?" she asked pointedly to bring his attention back up to her 
face.  Scully couldn't suppress a smile at his discomfiture.  Oh, this 
was too perfect!  His defenses were crumbling by the minute!

"Uh, what?" he answered after a brief pause, during which he did, 
indeed, drag his eyes to meet hers.

"Dinner's here already? That was fast."

"Yeah, but Scully, get a load of this stuff!  What do you think is 
going here?"  Mulder, afraid he'd been caught ogling her, was 
happy to steer conversation toward the food.  He pulled back the 
foil covers to show her the full range of their bounty.

"Beats me.  Is that champagne?" she asked with interest.

"Two bottles.  It's the good stuff, too," he replied.  The champagne 
was cold, and Mulder found a dishtowel to hold over the neck as 
he loosened the cork, using the trick he'd learned watching PBS.  
Scully opened cabinets until she found the glasses, including 
champagne flutes.

They postponed dinner for a bit and drank champagne while 
checking out the view from the living room windows.  The 
champagne was so good they delayed dinner just a few more 
minutes. Second glasses were consumed curled up on the couch, 
chatting about the day's work and the characters in the 
Brooklyn/Queens agency office.  They had returned to the kitchen 
for thirds when Scully opened the bakery boxes.

"Oh look, Mulder, éclairs!" she cried.  These were not overblown, 
mass-marketed pastries, but tiny, individually crafted works of art.  
She selected one and held it up for him to taste.

Mulder opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him.  He bit 
down softly, and some of the custard filling escaped onto Scully's 
finger.  She kept her finger aloft, and he finished the tiny pastry in 
another bite, this time using his tongue to clean up the stray custard 
off her finger. They stood frozen for a moment by the erotic 
charge, his mouth still cushioning her finger.  Neither moved.  
Mulder waited for Scully to retreat behind her special agent 
persona while Scully waited for Mulder to make a risqué joke.

A thought ran through Scully's mind.  'Oh yes, much easier than I 
expected.'

Instead of backing away from him, Scully moved closer and 
smiled.

Was she was giving permission, he wondered hazily.  Did she want 
this!  He withdrew her finger from his mouth slowly, not wanting 
to break the mood.  It was now or never, he realized.  He screwed 
up his courage and bent his head to her.  He'd always dreamed of 
making their first real kiss gentle, but he abandoned that idea 
immediately.  The tension was too high, their desperation too 
great.    Their tongues met and dueled to explore each other's 
mouths and Scully pressed against his body, molding her form to 
his.

She began to move her hands, running them first over his shoulders 
and chest, then reaching down to stroke his thighs, and finally 
outlining the curves of his ass as she pulled him even closer. 
Mulder's heart soared.  She could certainly feel his arousal; in fact, 
she was pulling him toward her, setting a thrusting rhythm to their 
contact.  Yes!  She really did want this!  He wouldn't have to use 
any of the apologies he'd mentally prepared.

The belt on Scully's satin robe had given up its fight, and the robe 
hung open.  Emboldened, Mulder ran his hands first along her back 
and the curve of her waist and followed the trail to her breasts.  So 
many fantasies over the years.  He traced the contours of each 
breast, memorizing the feel.  Her nipples were hardened and he 
finally broke their kiss to take a single nipple into his mouth.

"Yes," she hissed, and her hands cradled his head as she stroked 
his hair back from his forehead.  "Yes, please!"

He used his teeth gently and experimentally on her breasts and was 
rewarded with a whimper and the arch of her back.

"Scully?"  He pulled away and held both her hands in his, "Make 
love to me.  Please make love to me?"

She raised her eyes, which had been downcast, and smiled.  "I'd 
like that, Mulder," she answered simply.

She took the lead, pulling him toward the larger bedroom.  Her 
robe had fallen back from her shoulders and trailed behind her as 
she held lightly onto Mulder's hand.   It took only the slightest 
push to drop him on the bed, but instead of joining him 
immediately, she crossed the room to turn on a lamp.

"I want to see you," she said softly.

Mulder, lying fully clothed on his back, was speechless.  The 
trailing robe accentuated her nudity and the play of shadows on her 
body.  Though he'd fantasized about the two of them in every 
possible location and position, Mulder had never planned what he 
would do with such an opportunity in real life.  He started to 
remove his shirt, but Scully crossed the room quickly, climbed 
astride him, and swatted away his hands from the buttons.

"Unh uh.  Let me."

The robe was now an annoyance, and she cast it off on the floor.  
She centered herself, on purpose or by accident, Mulder couldn't 
say, directly on top of his erection and allowed him to feel her heat 
through his jeans.  With more finesse than he could have managed, 
she slowly unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hands beneath his 
undershirt.

He had never thought much about his nipples when he was 
younger, but they had become his most important erogenous zone -
- okay, second most important erogenous zone -- when he reached 
his mid-thirties.  Even routine friction could give him an erection, 
and his hips began to buck involuntarily when Scully raked her 
nails across both nipples simultaneously.

"Whoa, slow down, cowboy," she teased as she slid back a bit to 
rest on his thighs.

She unbuckled his belt and carefully unzipped his jeans.  She slid 
back until she was standing at the foot of the bed between his legs 
and pulled his pants and boxers into a pile on the floor.  She 
giggled slightly as she pulled off his socks, but her face became 
grave when she spread his legs and crawled into the V-shaped 
space.

"No regrets, Mulder.  And no going back," she said seriously, 
meeting his eyes. "I love you too much.  And I think you love me, 
too."

He was flooded with relief, giddy happiness, and gratitude.  Lots of 
gratitude!  Could he have said the words first?  Well, maybe, in a 
life-threatening situation or under the influence of enough 
narcotics, but he was profoundly thankful to follow Scully's lead.

"I ... I love you, Scully," he stammered, searching for his voice.  "I 
need you so much.  God, Do you know how much I need you?  
You're all that matters in my life."  He realized he was starting to 
babble in response to releasing such tightly corked emotions.

 "Shh," she cooed as she stretched to stroke his lips.  His arm 
cushioned her head as she lay parallel to him.  The urgency to mate 
abated slightly, and he allowed himself to be drawn into the 
languid rhythm with which she stroked his body.  It seemed she 
staked out every inch of his body, except for one place, the place 
now throbbing in anticipation of her touch.

"Can I taste you?" she asked softly.

Mulder was mute.  A ragged moan escaped and he nodded slightly.

A single shuddering breath and she was between his legs again, 
licking and nipping around and under his balls before taking him 
into her mouth.  Her hands worked in concert with her mouth, and 
his breathing became frantic and shallow and punctuated by 
incoherent moans.

He was close, very close, when it permeated his brain that there 
would be only one 'first time' with Scully.  "No," he said hoarsely, 
and with a little regret allowed himself to slide out of her mouth.  
He stood up shakily and pulled off his shirt and undershirt.

Scully watched him with a bemused expression.

"Tell me you love me, Scully.  I don't even care if it's not really 
true.  Just tell me again."  She'd said she loved him, but a part of 
him feared that Scully would treat this experience more casually 
than he did.  He rationalized that even if she did, he would have 
her words to replay in his memory.

"I fell in love with you in Oregon," she said quietly.  "Then I grew 
to love you.  Truly love you."  Her voice was unusually hesitant 
and so genuine that he gave in to his desire to believe her.

"Really, Scully?  You've thought about us before?  Why didn't you 
ever tell me?"

She didn't respond at once.

He kneeled on the bed and then stretched out, partially covering 
her body with his as he explored her with his hands and tongue.

"Scared, I guess," she finally answered.  "Didn't think you were 
interested.  Thought you still wanted Phoebe or ... someone like 
her."  She did not speak the name of the rival she feared most.

Remorse flooded him.  She had seen him with Phoebe.  The 
Gunmen had tipped her off to Diana. It was his own stupid fault 
that she had never given him any signals.  He took a deep breath.  
The next words had to be perfect.

"Scully, I'm so sorry you thought that.  I was stupid not to tell you 
how I felt or give you some kind of clue or even just ask you out.  
I'm sorry I caused us to waste so much time."

She was silent, and he hoped this meant he was forgiven.  She 
wrapped her legs around his, working them to his waist.  Entering 
her was inevitable now.  She reached between them to provide the 
slightest direction as he allowed her muscles to pull him in deeper 
than he had ever dreamed.  The motion was inevitable, too, and she 
met his rhythm.  They clung to each other, uttering half-formed 
words that confirmed each other's need.

She guided his fingers to the perfect spot between their bodies and 
he could feel each of her muscles react when he located the tiny 
fold.  Again he circled her flesh with his thumb, and again. Her 
nipples were now tiny peaks and a shiver went through her.  One 
more time, roughly this time, and her body stiffened.  She emitted 
a low-pitched mew as her head snapped back with each spasm.

Mulder needed no further invitation.  In fact, he was relieved he'd 
lasted this long!  Her internal muscles were gripping him in waves, 
coaxing his own orgasm.  He slammed into her harder now until he 
felt his own wet warmth mingling with hers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 
THE UPPER WEST SIDE 
MANHATTAN 
12:30 AM

The man in the darkened 17th floor apartment lowered the 
telescope that had been trained on the unit across the street.  The 
couple he had been observing continued drinking champagne and 
breaking for long kisses as they strained for a view of Central Park, 
oblivious to this unseen witness.

He retreated to a bedroom where he extracted a cell phone from his 
pocket and dialed a Washington number.  "I think you'll find the 
problem is solved, Sir," he reported in a deferential tone.  His 
Brooklyn accent made him sound like a gangster movie capo 
reporting to the big boss.

There was a pause as he listened to the response. "No, Sir.  I 
wouldn't describe them as jumpy or tense.  At least, not anymore."  
He paused again. "Rocking chairs, Sir?  There were no rocking 
chairs in my surveillance."

A shorter pause this time.  "Thank you, Sir.  It was no trouble at 
all.  The New York field office is happy to do whatever we can to 
help out the bosses in Washington.  Feel free to call me personally 
if there's anything else you need."  He paused significantly so the 
listener would understand that a favor would be asked in return 
someday.

Finally he ended the call and pocketed his cell phone, locking the 
apartment door as he left.

THE END.