Title: Territorial
Author: Trixie
Email: scullymulder1121@hotmail.com
Classification: Is there a Smut category? :) Slightly Angsty . . MSR.
Rating: Let's go with a safe NC-17.
Archive: Please. Just lemme know where it's goin', will ya? :)
Spoilers: Alpha, mostly. Some earlier references, but nothing that'll
ruin anything for you.
Summary: Post Alpha: Basically it's some angst & fluff cleverly
disguised so an excuse exists to let Moose & Squirrel have some fun :)
Notes: This thing popped into my head after watching Alpha, and I
finally got the time to finish it. I decided to actually WRITE it when I
read something posted to the Haven site - it was Amy's thoughts on
Alpha, I believe. The moment I knew at least one other person agreed
with me, I had to write this. (Eve! Look! The muse told me what to do!!!
;-D) I do NOT want to split this thing up, but apparently hotmail won't
allow me to send it all at once. *sigh* so it's two parts, although as
it's written, it doesn't work as a break. This thing is ONE part, it's
just a LONG part. Sorry! :)

~~~~

He loves so easily; too easily, perhaps.

I suspected this very early on in our partnership. The way he'd look at
another human being, the way he'd feel their pain as though it were his
own. He is perpetually in search of a damsel in distress he can save
from the world, knowing he can't save his own lost soul; knowing he
can't save his sister. I learned this over the last six years I have
spent by his side. From a fucked up diner waitress, to a blind woman
with too much bravado for her own good, I have watched the man I love
take one wounded bird after another beneath his wing. I have watched him
weep tears of blood, seen the depth of his compassion for strangers
sometimes exceed the compassion most men have for their own families.

He feels more than is probably healthy for him; I doubt he'd know any
other way to live though. He's used to feeling more than anyone else.
He's used to wallowing in depths of despair he's surrounded himself in,
treating his misery like a cauldron of water he must bathe in each
night. Penance, I assumed for many years. But I realize now it's more
than that; deeper than that. He doesn't just hold himself responsible
for his sister being taken. He doesn't just believe he's been used his
entire life as a pawn in some grand government conspiracy to conceal the
truth about extra terrestrial life on this planet. Oh no; that would be
much too simple for him.

Mulder believes he's responsible for every fucked up soul on this
planet; that it's his personal mission to rid the Goddamn world of all
its problems. I sometimes believe he honestly thinks he single handedly
keeps the line between good and evil from blurring too badly.

When I say he loves easily, I don't refer to romantic love; that he
doles out at such paltry rations, it's a wonder there have ever been
women in his life he actually =slept= with. I believe he has loved me
since our first case together. I believe he has loved many of the souls
we've come across on our journey together. I even believe a part of him
loved Melissa Ephisan. Not as a soul mate, as she'd proclaimed he was.
But as another soul he could save, in the hopes he might avoid saving
his own.

It exhausts me to try and save Mulder's soul. Just when I think I won't
be able to do it any longer; that I won't be able to devote any more of
myself to his salvation, he does something remarkable. He opens his
heart to me and lets me in. He shows me a part of himself no other has
glimpsed and it deconstructs me at my most fundamental level. And while
I'm loathe to admit it, even to myself, when I see him give a part of
himself to another person like that, it makes me angry.

It's not jealousy, as some might think. It's really not. It's anger; and
an extreme sadness for him. He has so little of himself left to give,
yet he continues to spread himself thin, to scatter the pieces of his
being to the four winds so whoever might need help will have it.

He accused me of being jealous, a few hours before I brought him his
poster. I'd meant it to be a gesture of peace between us; bringing him a
gift from Karen instead of having it brought down by courier. I let it
go earlier and left him to his wallowing, thinking I'd truly brushed his
comment aside. Looking back now, I realize I'd just bottled it up, like
I always do. Because I'm mad he even =dared= accuse me of being jealous.
If I had to give a name to my behavior, it would be something he's done
with me a thousand times before.

I was being territorial.

And damn it, I have every right to be. He is MINE. I don't care what's
ever been spoken aloud between us. I don't care about PC bullshit that
says human beings are above owning one another. I have laid my life on
the line for him, every day, bar none, for the last six years. He's done
the same for me. If he pretends to be emotionally available to other
people, when he isn't for ME, he's damn right I'm going to be
=territorial=. Not jealous; I have only been truly jealous of someone
else in Mulder's life twice. Detective Angela White (which I'm actually
willing to go with Mulder's theory on - the cosmos were out to get us)
and Diana Fowley. In both instances, I believed Mulder had been, or
would soon be, sharing something with them we'd never shared together: A
physical relationship.

For some reason, jealousy never possessed me that badly with Phoebe
Greene; again, I was extremely territorial, as Mulder has been more
times than I can count. Maybe it was just too early on in our
relationship for me to feel truly threatened by their physical intimacy.
I hadn't yet accepted it would never be like that between us, no matter
how badly I might want things to evolve. I don't use the word change,
because the fundamentals of our relationship will never change. By
nature, they can't. I do believe they could evolve though. If we can get
past our mutual fear of what would happen if we do.

He is terrified of the word change; almost as terrified as I am, when it
applies to our relationship. He is my partner; my best friend and the
man I trust above all others. To lose that would be detrimental. I
assume he feels the same way about me. Some time after my missing
months, I forced myself into the realization that we would never be more
than friends. Best friends; partners; perhaps even soul mates, of some
kind. But never lovers; never husband and wife, as some secret part of
me had always hoped.

That realization hardened me more than the work ever could.

We have existed in a perpetual holding pattern for years. We never quite
cross that line between platonic and . . . not so platonic. He makes a
move; I rebuff it. I make an overture; he assumes I'm just trying to
lighten up and starts bantering with me. I don't want banter; I want
him.

Quietly observing from the hallway, I watched him put up that I WANT TO
BELIEVE poster tonight. Never in my life have I wanted to believe a
slogan more than that moment. I want to believe we can move beyond
platonic. I want to believe he loves me; not the way he loved Lucy
Householder, or Marty Glenn or even the way he loved Diana Fowley once.
I want him to love me the way he loves Dana Scully; the way he could
love only me.

I want to believe.

My inner musings are interrupted by a knock at my door. Startled, I
glance at the clock, noting that it's nearly three AM. Knowing there's
no one else it could be, I rise and open the door a crack. "It's late,"
I say without preamble, wondering briefly if perhaps he's gotten drunk
again.

"Depends on your perception," he counters, looking sober enough. "For
people who've actually been to sleep, this is early."

I quirk an eyebrow at his logic, stepping away from the door so he can
enter. I don't watch his progress as I head back for my couch. "What are
you doing here Mulder?" I ask, faced away from him, unnecessarily
fluffing a pillow. I busy myself with my useless task, waiting for him
to speak. When he does not, I turn to face him, seeking answers he will
not give me in words. What I see in his expression staggers me.

"I'm not fine, Scully," he tells me raggedly. The door hangs open behind
him. I move slowly, and close it without once taking my eyes from his.
He is scaring me; Mulder has never scared me.

"Mulder," I begin softly, hoping to diffuse what is building to be a
very tense situation.

"I was sitting there," he states as though he never even heard me speak
his name, "after you'd left," he clarifies, "wondering what kind of
meaning my life had." He turns haunted eyes to mine before looking away.
"Everyone I make some kind of real, human connection with ends up dead.
Why is that?"

Thanks for asking the easy questions, Mulder. I somehow stop myself from
voicing the bitter words. He's here because he trusts me to piece him
back together and send him on his way. I've done it before; he has no
reason to believe I won't do it now. He needs me and I react. It's a
pattern we've established over the years. I don't know how to tell him
that I need him now; that I need him to be something he's never been for
me before.

"It's not true," I say, the words coming out stilted and far too long
after he voiced his question. My ability to think quickly, to act cool,
calm and collected has been impaired over the last few months. I lack
the energy and inclination to pretend with him anymore. I have lost my
fear of being with him in every way I can be.

"Isn't it?" he asks bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "It's
like signing their death warrant if I care for someone," he continues,
pacing my floor like a caged tiger. "Everything I touch withers and
dies," he pronounces in a voice so lacking any self-pity that I cannot
fault him his beliefs.

"I'm not dead," I hear myself say, as though I weren't really
responsible for it. How odd that tonight of all night's we're going to
have this conversation. I'd always assumed it would be something he'd
initiate. Of course, he did come over here tonight, didn't he? Maybe he
isn't quite as afraid as I'd thought he was.

"Not yet," he counters, pinning me with his intense gaze again. He moves
toward me, his hand slowly moving between us. He cups my jaw in his
palm, the touch gentle, almost reverent. "But you've come so close," he
whispers, his voice tight, raspy. "And I made something die behind your
eyes," he continues. "It was there that first day I met you. It was even
there through a few of our first cases. But I killed it. I killed a part
of Dana Scully and I'll never forgive myself for it." His eyes shut as
though he can't bear to look at what he believes he's done to me.

"Not you," I whisper, missing the lack of contact as his hand falls from
my jaw in defeat. I raise my own hand to the side of his face, brushing
my fingertips against the stubble below his ear. "It wasn't you," I
enunciate carefully, feeling tears clog both my voice and my eyes. "It
was Them. They have taken so much from both of us. But never confuse
what they've done with who you are. Their lives touch yours. That's what
makes everything die Mulder. Not you," I stress for what seems like the
thousandth time for myself. I need him to really hear me right now. He's
slipping away and I'm afraid I might lose him.

"How can you still care when knowing me has cost you so much?" he asks
dejectedly, staring at me like he really doesn't understand. His cheek
leans into my palm just enough to let me know he needs this. He would
never admit it, but he needs me to tell him it's okay to need me; that I
don't resent him for it.

"Mulder, knowing you has given me much more than it's cost me," I tell
him slowly, choosing my words carefully. It's true; I wouldn't lie to
him, not about this. I offer him a gentle smile. "I meant what I told
you. I wouldn't change a day Mulder. A slight change might mean we
weren't together now, and as frustrating as it's been at times, I like
having you in my life," I finish, voicing the understatement of the
year. Yea, I like having Mulder in my life; the same way I like having
food and water and air in my life.

"I like having you in my life too," he confesses, the darkness in his
mood lifting just a bit. He gives me a weary smile. "I don't know why
you put up with a neurotic, morose bastard like me, but I'm really glad
you do," he whispers sincerely, staring down at the floor, his eyes
closed.

I feel myself losing control; all control. I've given him what he needs
from me, but I haven't taken what I need from him. He wouldn't deny me;
I know he wouldn't. Even if he didn't feel the same, he wouldn't deny
me. "Mulder, I love you," I whisper so quietly I doubt he can even hear
me. Not waiting for him to meet my eyes again, I trace the tips of my
fingers along his jaw to his chin, feeling his skin, memorizing the feel
of his face. As though it weren't connected to the rest of my body, my
hand moves slightly, my fingertips brushing his full lower lip. His body
stills and his head slowly lifts, his eyes meeting mine. I do not give
him the chance to voice the questions I read in his eyes. I rise on my
toes and press my lips to his, the touch almost chaste. It's just a
comfort kiss, I tell myself. I'll pull back in a minute. I just need
this for a minute.

But I don't pull back. I lengthen the contact until this kiss can no
longer be thought of as chaste. It's gentle, but it's anything but
chaste. Both my hands creep up to cup his face, his stubble scratching
my palms as I luxuriate in the feel of this. I pull his lower lip
between both of mine and simply let it rest there. Somewhere in the back
of my mind, a part of my brain is still saying 'I'll pull back in a
minute' and I believe it. I honestly believe I'll pull back in a minute.
I just need to taste him first. That's all. Just one taste and I'll be
able to pull back. . . .

I move my tongue slowly, barely flicking it over his lower lip. I
realize as I do this that Mulder's hands have already found their way to
my hips. He doesn't hold me or squeeze me. His hands are merely resting
atop my hips. My index fingers slide behind his ears, gently rubbing the
sensitive skin there as I probe my tongue further into his mouth.

That was a mistake.

The realization comes too late. Like a woman dying of thirst, after just
one taste, I only want more. I can't stop kissing him; I don't even
=want= to stop kissing him. I just know that I should. Unfortunately,
I've been doing what I should do for a very long time and I've become
sick of it. And then, like magic and every moment of relief and joy ever
expressed throughout time, Mulder is kissing me back. And not just
politely kissing me back, the way he might if he were trying to let me
down easy. This is intense. His tongue is in my mouth, sliding along
mine, tracing the roof of my mouth with slow, seductive movements. His
hands leave my hips and slide around my lower back, tugging until I'm
flush against his body.

Very slowly, I move my hands from his face to his neck, then lower over
his chest, taking the opportunity to touch as much of him as I can. We
seem to be of like mind in this, for his hands begin sliding up and down
my spine, from top to bottom and back again. He slants his mouth over
mine and bends down until my feet land flat on the floor again. He's
everywhere, above and below and beside me. His scent, gun leather and
Mulder fills my nostrils; his taste, uniquely his own and lightly
flavored with the salt of sunflower seeds fills my mouth.

A familiar refrain runs through my mind. MINE, I think as my hands slide
lower to his waist, pulling his white dress shirt from his pants. MINE,
it chants as my hand smoothes up his bare skin, fingernails tickling his
rib cage gently. MINE, I cry silently as his gentle laughter in my mouth
makes me want to weep with joy. I'm definitely territorial where he's
concerned. But I think he's the same way with me. I'm sure of it as his
hand creeps up my side to cup one of my breasts through my blouse. His
touch is possessive in the way his touch has always been. Only now, that
touch has layers to it; it moves beyond merely possessive or
territorial. His touch is now the touch of a long-time lover's. Secure
that he has the right to touch me; sure of the way I wish to be touched.

Finally, after what seems like minutes, I break the kiss between us long
enough to rip his tie over his head. Noticing I hadn't even bothered to
push his jacket off earlier, I do so, letting the black Armani fall to
the floor in an undignified heap. I move away from him until my back
hits the door. I keep my eyes on his as his arms drop to his sides. He
looks slightly confused at my sudden withdrawal and I smile wantonly at
him in reassurance. My hands slowly creep up my sides until they reach
the first button on my blouse. Undoing it slowly, I move to the next,
then the next, then the next, until I've unbuttoned them all. I reach
for one of his hands and pull him toward me. I press that hand to the
skin revealed by the parted blouse, just above my breast. Taking his
other hand, I place it directly opposite the first. I allow my hands to
move away and begin unbuttoning his shirt. As I do, he gently shoves my
blouse off my shoulders, the heels of his hands smoothing over my skin
as he does.

I pause in my task long enough to shrug my blouse off, then go back to
undoing his buttons before it hits the floor. I practically claw at the
material covering his shoulders, taking a moment to breathe only when
his shirt joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor. I lean forward
and press my lips against his skin over his heart, feeling the slight
vibration of its beat. My eyes close as I inhale him, taking him into so
much more than my lungs.

"What're we doing here Scully?" his husky whisper asks from the top of
my head. I can feel his lips move over my forehead as his hands rest
just below the clasp of my bra on my back.

"Something we should've done years ago," I answer quietly, brushing
light kisses across his breastbone until I reach his clavicle. I suck
lightly and dart my tongue out to taste his skin. Again, I cannot stop
with just one taste and I find myself kissing and licking and lightly
biting on his skin until I reach his neck. I press my lips against his
throat and I can feel him humming. He's trying to suppress a moan I
realize with a thrill of pleasure. I move my hands over his abdomen,
slowly, teasingly brushing them along his ribcage. I kiss the underside
of his chin.

"Scully," he whispers jaggedly, his fingers flexing against my back in
an effort to keep control. He's afraid. He's afraid of what's happening
between us, of what he's feeling. I don't want him to be afraid now. I
want him to embrace this with me; to accept it as inevitable. His arms
are around me, but he isn't touching me. He's here, but he isn't
participating.

"Mulder," I murmur against his throat, nipping lightly at his Adam's
Apple. "Mulder please touch me," I whisper, moving my mouth to his ear.
I pull the lobe into my mouth and suck gently. "I need you to touch me."

His hands leave my back. One rests again on my hip, the other trails up
my stomach to cup one of my breasts through my bra. I gasp as his thumb
brushes over my nipple, the lace of my bra causing a pleasant friction.
He leans his head away from me just enough to look into my eyes. "Like
this?" he asks, his voice low as his thumb continues to move. I can see
the confidence building in both his eyes and his touch. There's still
fear there, but he isn't letting it rule him. By telling him what to do,
I'm taking the consequences of his actions away from him; taking any
blame he might heap upon himself, any blame he believes I might place on
him. "Is this how you like to be touched?" he whispers, his eyes never
leaving mine.

A smile curves my lips as I involuntarily arch into his touch. "No," I
manage to get out, biting my lower lip to contain a moan. The smile
grows wider. "I don't want anything between your hand and my skin," I
tell him, reaching for his other hand. I bring it up to my other breast,
placing both my palms over the backs of his hands, holding him to my
breasts. "It would feel so much better, skin against skin," I whisper to
him, trying to make the proposition sound as enticing as possible.

His eyes leave mine and land on his hands. He stares at his hands on my
chest, a fascinated look on his face as his hands cup my breasts, his
thumbs still rolling over my nipples. The sensation is incredible and I
work hard to contain a whimper. I want to really feel him before I allow
a sound to pass my lips. As though he senses this, Mulder's hands slip
behind my back and quickly undo the clasp of my bra. He shoves it off my
shoulders and his hands return to my breasts. Unable to hold it in any
longer, I moan as he rolls one of my nipples between his thumb and
forefinger. He smiles at me and I force my eyes to stay open. I don't
want to miss a moment of this.

"Does that feel better Scully?" he asks me, his voice sandpaper rough.

"Yes," I whisper, moving my hands to his shoulders. I squeeze lightly in
reaction to his touch.

He bends his head and takes one of my nipples into his mouth. I groan at
the sensation and thread my fingers through his hair. "How does that
feel?" he asks, his breath fanning over my breast.

Rather than answer him, I force his head back down, leaning against the
back of the door to keep from sinking to the floor. He lavishes his
attention on both my breasts, moving from one to another slowly,
devoting plenty of time to the skin in-between. Pulling one of my
nipples into his mouth, he nibbles gently around the aureole, then sucks
lightly. I moan his name (or something resembling it) and clutch at his
hair.

I cannot remember the last time I was this lost in sensation. His mouth
is warm and wet and everywhere at once. In the recesses of my
consciousness, I can dimly remember a time when the feel of his mouth on
my breasts ranked high up on my list of 'sensations I want to experience
one day'. However, now that I'm experiencing it, I'm finding I'm not
enjoying it as much as I should. It's great; wonderful in fact. It's
just that I'm too anxious to fully appreciate the feel of his mouth. I
want more; I want more for me and for him.

"Mulder," I begin, then stop, realizing my voice came out like a purr.
I'm disconcerted for a moment until I remember this is Mulder; I want
him to know what he does to me. He either didn't hear me, or he took
what I said as encouragement; either way, he's still devoting his full
attentions to my breasts. "Mulder, we're both wearing too many clothes,"
I finally manage to protest, not liking at all that we're only naked
from the waist up.

I'm really not certain, but I think he mutters something like 'let's
rectify that, shall we?' His mouth is pressed to my skin too firmly for
me to hear him clearly. His lips brush over my abdomen and his fingers
land on the buttons of my pants. He undoes them quickly and shoves them
down my hips. I do a little shimmy, which seems to please him, given the
subtle chuckle he emits and my pants land at my ankles. He helps me
step out of them, then returns his mouth to my skin, moving down my
abdomen to the waistband of my simple cotton panties. His tongue darts
out and he begins tracing the waistband, occasionally dipping beneath
the elastic band. His hands trail slowly up my thighs, then higher, to
cup my ass.

I shiver at the feel of his tongue, and a whimper that I don't recall
ever emitting in my life passes my lips. It is a plea and an approval of
what he's doing. I'd be begging for more if I could speak. He seems to
understand, however, as his teeth close over the fabric of my panties.
In an agonizing slow progression, he pulls them down my hips using only
his mouth. I hadn't thought I could want him more; I'm almost
embarrassingly wet and getting more so by the second. My panties are
removed and his mouth returns to my stomach, his lips pressing soft
butterfly kisses around my belly button. He presses a fleeting kiss to
the jut of each hip bone, then moves on to my thighs, determinedly
ignoring the place I want his mouth most.

After an interminable amount of time, I nearly sob with relief as I feel
the very tip of his tongue touch my clit. As it is, I jerk with the
suddenness of the move, a high pitched cry leaving my mouth. I can feel
him grinning against me as he flattens his tongue and licks slow,
languid circles around my clit, as though he were eating an ice cream
cone, loathe to allow a single drop to be missed. My knees are going
weak on me and my hands trail from his hair to his shoulders, using him
as a brace. He's down on both knees, moving his tongue so slowly it's
maddening. His touch grows more possessive with every sound I make, with
every twitch of my hips under his mouth. I revel in that possessiveness;
encourage it, even.

His hands curve around my ass, anchoring me to his mouth, tilting my
hips for the best possible angle. His tongue moves lower, dips inside me
and he moans. That moan sets something off inside me and I nearly come.
I stop myself though, because as much as I'm enjoying this, it's not the
way I want it to be. With more than a tinge of regret, I tangle my
fingers into his hair and tug lightly. He ignores me and continues lick
and suck at me, almost causing me to forget that I don't want to come
until he's inside me. "Mulder," I whimper, unable to muster up the
proper shame at how weak I sound. "Mulder stop," I order breathlessly.

Regretfully, it seems, he pulls away from me and rests his cheek against
my stomach. I stroke his hair for a moment, regaining control of my
breathing. "You okay?" he asks softly, caressing my abdomen with his
cheek. He sounds scared again, possibly afraid I don't want this.

"I'm fine," I answer automatically, then wince at the words. He doesn't
need to hear them any more than I need to say them. "I'm incredible
Mulder," I add, sliding my hands down to his cheeks. I move his head
back and drop to my knees so we're almost eye level. I lean forward and
brush the gentlest of kisses over his forehead. His eyes shut and I
place a fleeting kiss to each of his closed eyelids. I feel him shudder,
his body close to mine and I share the vibration with him. "You make me
feel sounds and hear sensations," I whisper, brushing my nose with his
side to side in an Eskimo Kiss. The kind my father used to give me at
bedtime that I'd completely forgotten about until this moment.

"How do I do that?" he asks, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine.

I smile gently at him. "We'll talk about it later," I promise, sliding
my palms down his neck to his shoulders. "Right now," I add, switching
my mood back to playfully seductive, "you're still wearing too many
clothes." My smile widens; becomes almost predatory. "I very, very badly
want you inside me Mulder," I tell him, averting my eyes from his, shy
at saying the words aloud.

"Don't hide from me Scully," he orders gently, bringing a hand up to
tilt my chin toward his face. Our eyes meet again. "I want," he begins
softly, his brows furrowing, seemingly at a lost for words.

"What?" I ask softy, undoing the buckle on his pants. His hands still
mine, as he still appears to search for the proper wording. I wiggle my
hands out from under his, bringing them to cup his cheeks. "Mulder, what
do you want? You can tell me, what do you want?" I ask, desperately
wanting to know.

"I want," I begins again, his voice awestruck at whatever conclusion
he's reached. His mouth opens then closes once. When he smiles, it's an
amazed, partially disbelieving thing. "I want everything," he says
slowly, as though barely believing it himself. "With you," he clarifies,
looking straight into my eyes.

I am totally unprepared for that and it shows. I don't even realize I'm
crying until he curses under his breath. His hands move to my cheeks,
his thumbs brushing at the tears. He's mumbling an apology for saying
too much and I start laughing and crying at the same time. He leans back
from me, giving me a look I usually reserve for him: He's looking at me
like I've lost my mind. Pulling myself together enough to speak, I lean
forward and kiss him, hard, my arms wrapping around his neck. Our bodies
come in close contact until not even air separates our skin.

Very slowly I pull back, resting my forehead against his. His arms are
wrapped tightly around my waist, his embrace almost bruising in its
intensity; I love it. "I want everything with you," I whisper before I
can chicken out. I smile, a lopsided, tearful little smile. "I always
have," I confess, only the slight quaver in my voice betraying how
nervous I am.

"Don't say that," he whispers and I feel my heart stop for an endless
moment. It beats again with his next words. A pained chuckle leaves his
throat. "Don't tell me I could've had you - this - all along and I was
just too stupid and scared to reach for it," he implores me.

"I have an idea," I whisper, knowing whatever needs to be said will be
said in time. "I think you should shut up and make love to me," I say in
a throaty voice, kissing him before he can speak. From his enthusiastic
response, I doubt he has a problem with my idea.

I strip him of his pants quickly, his boxers soon following. I give his
chest a gentle, playful push and fall with him. We land on the floor
with a thud, him on his back, me straddling his waist. It's almost
awkward for a moment, lying here naked with Mulder.

Hell, it is awkward. I feel it and he feels it. It was safe before; we
were getting into the swing of things. But this moment is the point of
no return. Emotions have been spilled and we're fumbling with each other
like two teenagers in the back of a Buick.

"Hey Scully," he whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

"What?" I ask, wary. I've braced my elbows on his chest and I'm sort of
hovering above him, my body much tenser than it should be.

"Have we gotten to third base yet?" he whispers into my ear.

I giggle; I can't help it. The question was so unbelievably appropriate
for this moment with us. It also served as the perfect icebreaker. I
lose my balance and collapse on top of him, almost melting into him. He
presses a kiss to my ear and wraps both arms around my back. "Screw
third base," I mumble when I've gotten control of myself. I lean back
and take his cock in my hand, stroking slowly. He groans. I grin down at
him. "I say we go for a home run," I propose, raising my hips and taking
him inside.

We let out a groan that isn't mine and isn't his; it's ours, slowly
increasing in volume until he's buried as deep as he can go. I bite my
lower lip and feel a moment of amusement creep up on me as I realize
he's doing the same thing. Content for the moment, I press my body to
his, lay my ear just above his heart and trail my hands up his arms
until they encounter his own. He twines our fingers together and we rest
where we are for a moment, connected, total and complete for the first
time. We are breathing in time with one another and I rise with his
chest with every breath he takes. One of his hands abandons mine to land
in my hair. His fingers sift through it and he lifts a strand to his
nose, inhaling deeply.

My nose buries itself in the crook of his neck, and I press a kiss
there. I dart my tongue out and taste his skin again, growing restless.
As much as my mind would like to stay like this forever, my body has
other ideas. So does his. He's already begun moving his hips ever so
slowly. Both his hands lock around my back and he moves quickly, rolling
us until he's on top of me, never once severing the physical connection
we have.

"This is the best there's ever been," he whispers into my ear, moving
his hips in a slow, hard rhythm.

I wrap a leg around his hips, groaning with every move. He's right; this
is the best there's ever been. I reflect on when he'd silenced me
earlier. We could've had this all along. We could've taken solace in one
another almost from the beginning. We could've sought shelter in our
passion, relief from the trials and stresses of the day in each other's
arms. We've wasted so damn much time . . .

No more, I resolve, wrapping my other leg around him to get better
traction. I move my hips against his, instinctively picking up the pace
as he does. I feel his lips move over my shoulder, his teeth nibbling
gently on my skin. He bites down, not enough to hurt, but definitely
enough to leave a mark. He laves his tongue over the bite and I shudder,
knowing what he's doing. He's marking me as his and he probably doesn't
even know it. Relaxing the grip in my hands, I realize I've done the
same thing; Mulder will wear ten crescent moon shaped marks on his back.
MINE.

His hips pick up the pace and my mind becomes muddled. There is only
Mulder; his scent, his touch, his taste. I pull on his hair until his
face is near mine. I need to kiss him; I need to taste him . . .

At the touch of his lips, I arch against him, sobbing his name into his
mouth as an intense orgasm tears through my body. He follows me a moment
later, no longer kissing me, just resting his lips against mine, as
unwilling as I am to give up the contact. He collapses on top of me and
no weight has ever felt this good. I soothe my fingertips up and down
his back as he nuzzles the side of my neck with his nose. Focusing on my
living room ceiling, I realize the thought of stopping long enough to
make it into my bedroom never even occurred to me. I wanted him so badly
it blotted out all rational thought.

A wide, satisfied smile spreads across my face. He made the rational
part of me go away. That should terrify me; it gives me hope. Because I
think I chased his demons away; at least for a little while. And if I
can live without control for a few minutes, and he can forget his demons
for the same amount of time, we might actually have a shot at making
this thing work.

"What are you grinning about?" he asks, brushing his lips against my
jaw, letting me feel his own smile as he does.

"I was just thinking," I begin slowly, my voice as sleep as I'm
beginning to feel.

"Dangerous," he warns softly, his hand trailing down my side to rest on
my hip.

"I was thinking about how we might actually have a chance," I blurt out,
glancing to look at him quickly. "That we might actually make it
together."

"Scully, I know we will," he says firmly. "Not to sound possessive and
totally Alpha Male or anything, but . . . you're mine," he explains, as
though he couldn't think of anything else to say. "And I'm yours," he
hastens to add. "It's just . . . how we work. For better or for worse,
we're stuck with each other."

For better or for worse . . . I decide not to call him on that Freudian
slip just now. There will be time later. Apparently, all the time we
have. "You know Mulder," I begin, a teasing note to my voice, "you're
sounding awful territorial."

He chuckles and I giggle back because I can still feel him inside me.
"So is that what we were doing?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Marking
the rug?"

"Mulder!" I admonish, slapping him lightly on the chest even as I can't
contain a laugh.

"Scully," he interrupts, a serious look on his face. "I just realized
something important."

"What?" I ask, worried now.

He purses his lips. "We haven't marked your bed yet," he warns me in the
most dead serious voice I've ever heard.

I nod, my expression grave, even as my eyes twinkle only for him. "Or
the shower," I add. "Or the kitchen, or the couch, or--"

"Good God woman, what are we doing just lying here then?" he asks,
sounding genuinely outraged. "We've got =work= to do!"

I can't find a single argument to refute him, so I decide to stop
trying.

We do have a lot of lost time to make up for.

~~~~

END