TITLE: Caprice AUTHOR: Diana Battis RATING: NC-17 ******** Scully awakens with a start, trapped by twisted sheets and tangled thoughts. She lies there, struggling to identify what has disturbed her. Though the room is strange and her senses are sleep-fogged, the sounds and smells are oddly familiar. She finds herself comforted for a moment, but it soon passes as she remembers -- she's had the dream again. For the fifth time in seven days it has disturbed her sleep. The dream is always the same -- a dark room, a shadowy figure, then.... Shivering, she sits up and pushes away the covers, wishing it were as easy to rid herself of the memories. The pulse of the Atlantic comes to her through the open window, and the pale curtains waft in the moonlight, ebbing like the tide. She breathes deeply, trying to picture an opalescent moon reflecting on the water as waves foam onto ivory sands. But this seaside resort is past its prime, and there is nothing romantic about the salt-laden tang of sea air tainted by the smell of disinfectant. With a sigh, she reaches over to switch on the bedside lamp. Its glow reveals a standard motel room -- the cookie-cutter sameness both a comfort and an irritation. So much of her time is spent in places like this, she realizes with a pang. Cheerless rooms in forgettable towns -- dozens of them, all blending into the bleak sequence of events that are her life. She silently chafes at their current case -- it seems both ridiculous and whimsical. Mulder is on a quest for mermaids, as if this were nineteenth century Copenhagen instead of Grassy Sounds, New Jersey. At times his enthusiasm can be contagious, spreading faster than a cold in a nursery school, but this time she is immune. The TV remote lies on the bedside table, and she eyes it with resignation. Late night salvation from the HBO god. She grabs it as if it were a lifeline, and presses the power button. The room fills with a haunting Puccini aria. 'A Room with a View,' a lyrical look at romance in another century, is playing on cable. This is perfect, she thinks as she allows herself to be caught up in the imagery. But too many late nights and too many disturbing dreams have taken their toll, and her eyes drift shut.... A shaft of moonlight pierces the shadows, illuminating the large, four poster bed. Naked and impatient, her body is spread wantonly across it. She can feel desire rising within her, and her hips rock restlessly against the cool sheets as she waits. Soon a figure enters. He is silent, his body moving with a lithe grace that seems familiar, though his identity is masked by darkness. It doesn't matter. Without seeing his face, she knows this man and lifts her arms to him. Suddenly the air is hot and redolent of sex. The coupling is intense, almost animalistic, their bodies sliding together hungrily. Her senses are full of him, the honeyed taste of his mouth, the feathery brush of hair-roughened skin, the labored rasp of his breath. She reaches up, her fingers moving blindly across his features. Lips, nose, stubble-roughened cheeks. He rears back, his head breaking into the beam of moonlight.... The shrill sound of a police siren wakens her as a high speed chase flits across the screen. Turn-of-the-century Florence has transformed into present-day Los Angeles. Wincing at the television's loudness, she quickly turns off the set. Trembling, her mind fills with images of a shirtless Mulder, hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep, coming to her door. He's the last person she would want to confront after.... With a low groan, Scully presses her palms against heated cheeks. Holding her breath, she listens for sounds from the next room. The only thing she hears is the blood roaring in her ears. Exhaling, her hands drop, nerveless, to her lap. "It's okay," she whispers, but the words of self- comfort are uttered without conviction. Sitting up, she tries to straighten the t-shirt that has become bunched about her waist. The cotton is damp and sticks like velcro to her sensitized skin. Ignoring the uncomfortable tightness of her nipples, she pulls it away and smoothes the fabric with careful hands, forcing herself to concentrate on something besides the unsatisfied ache in her body. As a woman in her sexual prime, she knows there's no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed. She's familiar with her body and its needs. Moreover, she's been celibate for longer than she cares to remember. The nameless dream lover is a natural response to that state, nothing more. But tonight, the second dream had taken an unexpected turn.... She shakes her head, the ends of her hair tickling her skin with goosebumps. Dwelling on it serves no useful purpose. Glancing at the nightstand, she sees the neat pile of notes she made earlier. Work. That's the answer. She leans over to grab her laptop, determined to push the unwanted images from her mind. Immersing herself in the purported mermaid sightings should go a long way in keeping her occupied until morning. Soon the air is filled with the rhythmic stroking of keys, the cadence matching the still-frantic pounding of her heart. Words appear on the small screen, line after line of letters strung together into words and sentences and paragraphs, but they are like a foreign language to her. With a scowl, she shuts off the laptop and pushes it aside. She stands to straighten the rumpled bed, folding and tucking the ends with precision before scooting back under the blankets. Turning onto her side, she snaps off the light. The roar of the ocean seems fainter now, and the room's contours take on a less murky countenance as the first fingers of dawn paint the sky. Though she closes her eyes against the evocative shadows that fill the room, she can still see him. Tall and strong, moving toward her with purpose. A puff of air caresses her cheek and she shudders, imagining his touch there instead. She sees him clearly in her mind, leaning over her, so close she can smell the musk of his skin. The pounding of her heart drowns out the sound of the ocean as she finally admits the truth. Her shadowy lover has a name. Mulder. ******** The ribbon of blacktop twists ahead of them, cutting through the thick growth of trees. Mulder is driving, humming softly as his fingers tap against the wheel. He is the picture of relaxation, dressed in jeans and a black sweater, sunglasses perched firmly on his nose. Good enough to eat. Her body squirms, the vinyl upholstery crinkling with annoyance. Damn him, she thinks, eying him surreptitiously behind her own lenses. How can he be so oblivious to her when she's so aware of him? Everything about him. The spicy scent of his cologne. The unruly spikes of his hair begging to be smoothed. The constant swipes of his tongue over his full lower lip. Oh, God, his mouth. The things she remembers it doing to her in her dreams. She can almost feel the soft kisses running along her jaw, down her neck, lingering in the hollow of her throat until she's nearly insane. Back up to her cheek, sliding across her skin, tasting the corner of her mouth with his tongue until she grabs his head, anchoring his mouth to hers in a kiss that leaves them both breathless. And his hands. Strong and sensitive. She imagines them touching her, stroking along her cheek, lifting the hair from her nape, sliding under the collar of her blouse. His agile fingers unbuttoning and unzipping, pushing clothes away, their callused pads tracing over her flesh.... Her own fingers curl around the seatbelt, knuckles whitening as she wills the images away. What's wrong with her? She thinks back to that night in his apartment, after his trip to England. She remembers sitting with Mulder, sharing thoughts and feelings along with mugs of mint tea. There had been a certain level of intimacy between them that night, but it was exhaustion that had made her feel vulnerable, nothing more. And yet.... Sighing, she pushes the sunglasses onto her head and rubs at her weary eyes. Emotions she's worked hard to sublimate are now nearly impossible to control. She trembles, tired in more ways than one. It's lack of sleep, she tells herself, but the conclusion seems as hollow as one of the fallen trees they pass. A lump forms in her throat, and she chokes it back, forcing herself to focus on the scenery. They've been here before, she realizes, watching the sentry-like pines slip past. Searching for a beast woman. She closes her eyes, picturing that Mulder. Younger, thinner, moving with a quiet self-assurance that had often been mistaken for arrogance. Was it really seven years ago? Blinking, she steals another look at her partner. Still intense, still driven in his quest for the truth; his persona hasn't altered much. But hers has. Time has made a difference in her life. Circumstances have marked her, skin and psyche. And though her battle scars are worn like a badge of honor, the fight is often waged with barely concealed scorn. You pay a high price for the loss of innocence. Her hand slips under the collar of her blouse, resting against the frantically beating pulse in her neck. They wrangle over the issues, case after case, with neither one giving an inch. Par for the course. And yet, despite her skepticism, she can't deny some of the things she's seen or touched, or use logic to refute the evidence. At times, she finds herself crossing the same lines with him, holding on to some of the same beliefs. Some truths are answers, while others only lead to new questions. Like whether or not you believe in magic. Scully presses her cheek against the coolness of the window, thinking about their last case. A genie wrapped in an Oriental rug. Quaint. Original. And all in a day's work at the X-files. The thoughts repeat in sing-song fashion through her mind, like a musical paean to the absurd. But is it so absurd? Jay Gilmour was stricken by something other than microstomia or nasal aplasia. Anson Stokes *was* invisible. And Henry Flanken was.... She winces at the image. Perhaps science doesn't afford solutions to everything. Her hand slips back to trace over her nape, unerringly finding the small scar. If it defies logical explanation.... Stifling a sigh of weariness, her hand drops to her lap as she finally accepts it as truth -- the woman, Jenn, is a genie. A genie who grants wishes. Who granted Mulder's wishes. Three wishes, like in the Tales of the Arabian Nights. The first two are accounted for, but he's never shared his third.... She sees him again, sitting on his couch, Shiner Bock in hand. "So what was your final wish, anyway?" she asked, curiosity getting the best of her. He turned, an appraising light shining in his gold-flecked eyes. He took his time, his gaze speaking volumes as it took silent inventory, but no words passed his lips. Instead, he smiled, then tilted the bottle to take a long pull at his beer. At first, Scully took his silence as teasing. But as time passed, a growing sense of disquiet filled her. His focus seemed to be split between the television screen and her. She felt the quick looks he shot her way, and by the end of the movie she was trembling, her nerves as jagged as broken glass. He clicked off the television, then stood and stretched before bending to gather the bottles and half-empty bowl of popcorn. "Want anything?" he inquired, the offer delivered in a husky tone that sent her pulse racing. She shook her head, watching him from beneath her lashes. The black t-shirt was untucked, exposing the hollow of his strong back, and she closed her eyes against the lure of golden skin. "What about a cup of tea?" Her eyes blinked open to meet his. "No, thanks." Cheeks flushed with awareness, she tilted her head to glance at her watch. "It's after midnight. I'd better go." She slid forward to perch on the edge of his couch, the instinct to flee strong. But there was something intriguing in the warmth of his gaze, and curiosity soon overcame the urge to escape. "That wish, Mulder. You never said what it was." His brows shot up. "No, I didn't." He set the bowl and bottles down and swung around, seating himself on the coffee table. "I wanted to make the world a happier place, and you know how that turned out. Then I decided to narrow my focus." The ghost of a smile appeared. "Bringing a little happiness into one person's life seemed a lot easier to achieve." As he reached back to grab a few kernels of popcorn his knee brushed against hers, a warm slide of denim that struck sparks. She shivered, covering the slow burn of desire with a wavering smile. "Well, that makes everything perfectly clear." He paused for a moment, a frown creasing his forehead. The pink tip of his tongue slipped over his lower lip as he stared into space. "Let's just say I made a wish for someone that she couldn't have wished for herself," he said at last, still not meeting her eyes. She'd left soon after, still in the dark.... Scully chews on her lip, working over the soft flesh as her mind tackles the possibilities. Knowing Mulder, he would approach the matter with serious intensity, especially in light of the mistakes made by others. Careful to get his last wish right. And he claims he made the wish for someone else, someone...female. Who? Figure out the 'who,' and the 'what' should follow. A finger taps against the window, keeping time with the humming wheels. Six months ago Samantha would have figured prominently in this equation. But she's gone, and in light of the Stokes fiasco, an unlikely recipient of Mulder's final wish. Mrs. Mulder? Same scenario. Her lips purse as she mulls over the possibilities. He doesn't appear to be on intimate terms with any women, except for.... Oh, God. Like a wave crashing onto the shore, it hits her, and her uncertainty washes away in its wake. Her dreams, her feelings, are not a by-product of a solitary lifestyle. They must have another origin -- Mulder's wish. Scully shakes her head, causing the sunglasses to slip back onto her face. She is unwilling to believe the obvious. She knows Mulder -- he would never do something so invasive. Then why is she suddenly so aware of him? She shifts restlessly, careful not to touch the arm so close to hers. Be honest, she thinks, her breathing erratic. The attraction has always been there, hidden just below the surface. Mulder is a fascinating and dynamic man. To pretend otherwise would be a lie. But the intensity of her recent awareness has taken her by surprise. She's worked hard to keep her emotions in check. They are friends, partners, and stronger feelings have no place in their relationship. She values the friendship too much to risk it. They both do. Don't they? "You're awfully quiet, Scully. Is something wrong?" Mulder's voice interrupts her thoughts, and she shoots him a quick glance. Though his tone is bland, Scully notes the clenched jaw and feels her anger rising. As if he doesn't know, she thinks, her facial muscles mimicking his. Well, two can play that game. "What could possibly be wrong? It was a relatively stress-free case, even if we didn't reach a tangible conclusion. And we're on our way home. I'm satisfied." "Are you? Really?" He looks at her, his lips curving upward. She hears a slightly mocking inflection in his voice. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, tensing. He shrugs. "Nothing. I'm just used to you taking a more proactive interest in our unsolved cases." "This case isn't unsolved. It's not even a case." She snorts in disgust. "Mr. Hughes and the other 'eyewitnesses' had classic beer-drinker physiques. I'd say their so-called mermaid was probably a dolphin aided by too many Coors." He nods. "The 'beer-belly' rationalization, Scully...is that going into the official report?" "Mulder, I'm tired. I don't feel up to discussing the finer points of delirium tremens at the moment." Resolutely, she turns sideways in her seat, her head pillowed against the window. She shuts her eyes, the monotonous thrum of the motor vibrating through her body. She hopes for a dreamless sleep. ******** The latest issue of a forensic journal lies open on her desk. A steaming mug of coffee rests at her elbow, and she takes small sips of the fragrant brew as she tries to read. Though she's been scanning the page in front of her for several minutes, she hasn't absorbed any of the information. Instead, her attention is focused on Mulder. He's talking on the phone, his tone slow and easy as he peppers his conversation with words like naiad and merrow and selkie. Though the case is without merit and should be closed, he continues to gather information. So very Mulder, she thinks waspishly, rolling her eyes. She hears his soft chuff of laughter. "Let me talk to my partner and get back to you." The sound of his voice caresses her skin, and she shivers as the tiny hairs at her nape prickle in response to the pleasant rumble. It's been like this since their return two days ago. She can't seem to concentrate when he's around. He dominates her waking hours in the same way he does her dreams, and the strain of pretending indifference is beginning to show in her face. The pale skin is like parchment, stretched tightly over her bones. Dark smudges are imprinted beneath her eyes, the signature of restless days and sleepless nights. The phone slams down, and the chair squeals in protest as Mulder tilts back in it. "That was Dr. Friedman of the Center of Marine Biotechnology at the University of Maryland. The CMB has some information I think would be helpful on that New Jersey case." She doesn't need to look at him to know he's wearing a satisfied smile. She closes the periodical and takes a deep breath, counting to ten before releasing it. Her features composed, she swivels around to face him. "What case, Mulder?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed...." His bark of laughter cuts her comments short. "Humor me, Scully. This should be right up your alley." He stands and stretches languidly. Her hungry eyes follow his every motion, staring as his movements pull the crisp, blue shirt taut against his well-defined chest. His arms reach toward the ceiling, pausing with hands outstretched, before dropping to his hips. "I think you'll find what Dr. Friedman has to say enlightening." Turning, he grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugs into it. She drops her gaze to her trembling hands, which are still holding the journal. The once-glossy paper is crumpled and damp, sticking to her sweaty palms. With a small moue of distaste, she replaces it carefully on the desk and looks back at him. "I fail to see how this could be relevant." "What? Why?" His mouth twitches. Averting her gaze, she picks at the journal's cover, peeling away a shred of paper. "Marine biotechnology has nothing to do with the mythology of mermaids," she states, watching with avid interest as the newly removed label quivers on the desktop, curling up until 'ully' is all that's left of her name. "Dr. Friedman is a scientist, Scully, but I'm willing to make the trip anyway." He crosses the room to perch on the edge of her desk. "How about you?" She shifts nervously, unsure whether it's the subject matter or his closeness that is making her feel so uncomfortable. "If you're trying to tell me there is scientific proof that mermaids exist...." Mulder grins as he straightens up and moves behind her chair. "Why don't you come with me and find out?" he whispers, his fingers curling around her arm. She jumps, his touch like a spark to dry tinder, and her once-pale cheeks flame with color. "I would, Mulder, if I thought this were in any way pertinent to a current investigation. As it is...." She shrugs, using that gesture to dislodge his hold. "That case is closed. Besides, I have other work to finish." She is proud of the aloof tone of her voice. He leans down, resting his chin against her shoulder. "What's the matter, Scully?" His warm breath stirs the loose tendrils of hair near her cheek. "Afraid I might be right?" Straightening, he tucks the strands back behind her ear as he delivers the coup de grace. "Or are you just afraid?" There is no mistaking the challenge in his voice. She stands, her posture as rigid and unyielding as steel. "What's that supposed to mean?" The rapier-like tone of her voice slices through the charged silence. He stiffens, pinning her with his gaze. "I don't know," he rasps, a muddle of emotions parading across his face. "Forget it." He walks back to his desk and scrabbles through the mess of papers and files littering its surface. "I want to know what you meant by that, Mulder." Anger at his perceived taunt curls like a viper in the pit of her stomach, and she stalks into the middle of the room, prepared to strike back. He turns to face her, and his mouth twists into a parody of a smile. "It was a joke, and a bad one at that. It's just...hell, Scully, you've been sniping at me for over a week. The case is ridiculous, the theories absurd, and my sources are barely one step from skid row. Nothing I say or do is right. I thought things were going to be different after...." He falters, impatient fingers raking through his hair. "After what?" she asks quietly, but the roar of blood rushing through her ears drowns out his reply. She watches his lips move, their lush fullness pursing and stretching as they form the words. It hardly matters -- she doesn't need to hear him admit to his folly to know the answer to her question. She sways and her eyes drift closed, shutting out his image, but it's a useless tactic. Behind closed lids she still sees him, his smoky eyes sending out an invitation that she is finding harder and harder to resist.... "Scully? Scully!" She snaps back to awareness. Mulder is staring at her, his mouth tight with concern. "Are you all right?" Frowning, he extends a hand toward her. The air is heavy and oppressive, as though a storm were mere seconds from breaking. "I'm fine." Though her chin tilts with determination, the arms that fold across her chest are trembling and protective. Mulder nods once and turns away. He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Are you coming to Baltimore with me?" She hesitates for a moment, struggling to keep her expression blank. She wants to be with him; oh, God, how she wants it. It would be so easy to say yes.... "No," she answers, wetting suddenly dry lips. "There are a number of projects that require my attention here." He nods again, a sharp, quick movement that does little to hide his hurt. "Enjoy your bath, Scully." And he is gone, leaving her standing in the middle of the office with only her thoughts for company. She has never felt so alone. ******** She stands incredibly still, almost afraid to move or breathe. Her heart flutters in her chest like a caged bird, and she fights the urge to turn and run. This must be the way animals feel when danger is near, she thinks. The basement hallway is her safety zone, but once she passes through that door anything might happen. Maybe that's why she is so afraid. Her gaze lingers on the plaque mounted on the door. Once, she'd wondered about her place in this office, rebelling against the narrow scope of their working relationship. But in the end, it hadn't made much of a difference. A small, melancholy smile crosses her lips as she reaches out to trace the letters of his name. It all seems so long ago. Sighing, her fingers leave the plaque to comb through her hair. He waits just beyond the thin barrier of wood. And she's run out of delaying tactics. Her shoulders straighten with almost military precision as she takes a few deep, cleansing breaths. Her normal guise of professionalism in place, she opens the door. Mulder looks up as she enters, his half-closed eyes sweeping over her. He's leaning back in his chair with his feet propped casually on the desk, and his long fingers are busy folding a piece of paper. Though it's still early, the silk tie is already askew, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled back to expose strong, lightly tanned forearms. "Afternoon, Scully," he quips, glancing at his watch. His ironic tone is tempered with a half-smile. Scully looks at her own watch, then raises an eyebrow. "I'm only forty-five minutes late, Mulder." She shrugs off her jacket and hangs it up, pausing to brush away an imaginary speck of lint from its sleeve. "And I stayed until eight last night, in case you're interested," she adds, turning to face him. "Sounds like you had a productive day." His voice drips with forced cheer. "I take it that means you finished the expense reports?" The paper he holds is taking on a new shape under his agile fingers. She nods, then walks to her desk to wave at the stack of folders and envelopes in her outbox. "Among other things." She slides into her chair and begins to sort through the large bundle of mail awaiting her. Separating the envelopes into neat piles with her usual efficiency, she is pleased to note her almost-steady hands. "And you, Mulder -- did Dr. Friedman live up to your expectations?" she inquires, forcing herself to meet his gaze. He laughs, swinging his legs to the floor. "It was an interesting experience. Not at all what I'd expected." With a sharp flick of the wrist, he sends a finished paper airplane sailing across the office. "I learned quite a lot." The ease of his grin is contagious. In spite of herself, Scully mouth quirks in response. "What did he tell you, Mulder?" He looks away, pushing a hand through his hair. "Not 'he,' Scully. She. Dr. Judith Friedman." Her smile sours slightly before she catches it. "Dr. Friedman is a woman?" Mulder's grin turns sheepish. "I didn't mention that yesterday?" Her tongue darts out to graze the corner of her mouth. "No, you didn't," she observes with a raised eyebrow. He shrugs. "Sorry, Scully. Guess I didn't think it was important. Anyway, I wish you had gone with me. I think you'd have liked her." He leans forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. "She's one of the youngest department heads at the university." Nodding, she gnaws on the inner skin of her lip, wondering how she's supposed to respond. "Interesting," she says after a moment, flinching inwardly as he gives her the full Mulder smile, teeth and all. She fights the urge to throw something at him. "Anyway, Judy has one of the largest...." Scully interrupts. "Judy?" she asks blandly. She can see this woman now. Smart and successful. Tall, blonde, beautiful, with long legs that look fabulous beneath lab coats. And with an interest in the supernatural, no less. A damned Mulder fantasy come to life. Mulder nods. "That's Dr. Friedman -- Judi with an 'i.' As I was saying, she's amassed one of the largest collections of data on mermaids in the world. A number of the volumes are extremely rare. Over dinner she was telling me that...." "Over dinner?" Scully's fingers curl, her nails digging into the soft skin of her palms. She is beginning to dislike this woman with a surprising intensity. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, a faraway look stealing across his face. "She'd made reservations at this fantastic seafood restaurant in the harbor, Scully. Great food, and the view was spectacular." "I can imagine," she murmurs under her breath. Her teeth ache from biting back the litany of reproach that flows through her mind. "What?" Mulder's eyes blink open, their dark depths alight with confusion. Her nostrils flare with scorn. "Mulder, unless you're going to tell me that a mermaid served you dinner, I fail to see the connection to the New Jersey case. That *is* what this is all about, isn't it?" She can't help it; the words slip through her lips in a stinging rebuke. He leans forward, his cheeks suffusing with color as the verbal slap connects. "What's going on, Scully? Are we still talking about the case, or is this because I failed to mention Dr. Friedman was a woman?" "Don't be ridiculous," she says quickly. Too quickly, it seems, as a speculative light enters his eyes. She hates him for being able to see through her so easily. Mulder's head tilts in appraisal. "You know, Scully," he says conversationally, "I never said Dr. Friedman was a man, either. And now I'm wondering what, specifically, this has to do with the case?" Her face freezes into an icy mask and she pushes the stack of mail aside. "My point exactly. You've wasted time on a meritless case when we have more pressing matters to attend to." His eyebrows shoot up as he leans forward, his lips fighting a grin. "I think someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," he smirks, losing the battle. "I wish...." Those words are the final straw -- a proverbial red flag. She's put up with far too much these past few days and has reached her breaking point. Hating herself for the loss of control, she stands and walks over to confront him. "Damn you, Mulder. That's what started this whole thing," she exclaims hotly. "What are you talking about?" Mulder swivels around to face her. "Your *wish*, Mulder," she bites out. "I'm lost, Scully. Want to draw me a map?" He rocks back in the chair, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. "I know what you did," she accuses. "With all that's happened, and all you've seen, how could you use it that way? How could you use...." She swallows hard, not wanting to believe he could have done this to her. Not wanting to believe that Mulder could ever have been so selfish. "I don't understand how you could have done it...." Her voice dwindles as she is faced with the hard truth -- maybe she doesn't really know Mulder at all. Or perhaps she doesn't know herself...is it possible her dreams have a basis in reality? Are they a result of her own selfish desires? Mulder stands slowly. "You know what happened with my other wishes. Was it wrong to use the final one to wish someone a little happiness?" There is an underlying note of regret in his words that weakens her. Her anger melts in an instant, and she can do nothing but watch, transfixed, as he approaches her. He cups her chin, his fingers caressing and warm against her skin. "Someday, I hope you'll understand why," he says softly as his head tilts toward her. He's so close to her. She sways, her knees as wobbly as a toddler's, and her hand reaches out to clutch his forearm. His eyes are so green, she thinks absently, unable to look away from him as his head dips lower. She can hear him breathe, short little puffs that stir the wisps of hair touching her cheek. One inch closer and he will be kissing her.... With a gasp, she pushes away from him and flees the office. ******** It is almost six when she enters the coffee shop. The place is deserted, a quiet oasis in the bustle of downtown. The aroma of freshly ground beans fills the air, while hints of chocolate and cinnamon add texture to the heady mixture. Scully inhales deeply, savoring the comforting atmosphere as she gives her order. It has been one hell of a day. Her shoes pinch, and she stifles a groan as she shifts her weight from foot to foot. One hand rests at her waist, trying to ease the ache in her back. Her body trembles with weariness, and she is beginning to regret the impulse that led her to this tiny shop. Sighing, she leans an arm on the counter, eyeing the pastries on display. She hasn't eaten since breakfast, and there is an empty feeling inside her that she tries to blame on hunger. But it will take more than the small sweet roll she selects to assuage it. Nodding her thanks to the dour-faced woman behind the counter, she accepts her change and carries the mocha latte and pastry to a small table in the back. She chooses a wing-backed chair, settling into the upholstered seat with a barely stifled chuff of pain. Hours spent bending over a microscope have tied her muscles in knots, and she hopes to find solace in this peaceful corner. For the first time since the confrontation with Mulder, she lets her guard down. Her head lolls against the chair's back as her gaze turns toward the window. The interior of the shop is reflected on its surface; the cozy room, with its wood paneling, comfortable chairs and diffused lighting, provides an illusive backdrop for the stranger she sees in the glass. The copper hair seems dull, tarnished like an old penny, and dark, almost bruise-like crescents stain the fragile area beneath her eyes. New lines of weariness are etched in the surrounding pale skin, and her mouth wears an inverted smile. Defeat seems to cover her like a blanket; her shoulders sag under its weight, sinking like the sun whose waning rays paint the horizon in tones of tangerine and peach. Her fingers brush against the cold glass, tracing the colorful patterns in the darkening sky. The spectacular sunset is another illusion -- nothing more than light filtering through pollution. In life, nothing is really as it seems. Sunsets. Rainbows. Mulder. She watches, unblinking, until the last of the light disappears, leaving the sky as cold and dark as her thoughts. Shivering, she turns and again reaches for her latte. The richness coats her tongue and pushes back the lump in her throat, while the heat radiating through the cup warms her icy fingers. But inside, she's still cold. She breaks off a piece of the roll and pops the morsel into her mouth. What now? she wonders. A teaching position at Quantico? Or maybe something in the private sector? One thing is certain, there is no way she can continue to work in the X-files. Mulder has destroyed her trust; shattered it with soft words that fell like the blow of a hammer. And yet.... She sighs, forcing herself to swallow the hard truth. Though the partnership is over, she can't imagine her life without it. Without him. Suddenly, the roll is sawdust in her mouth. It takes several sips to wash it down, but even the sweet latte isn't enough to neutralize the bitter taste of betrayal left behind. "Small world." She jumps. Liquid drips down the side of the cup and over her fingers, collecting in a puddle on the table, but she is oblivious to the spill. With deliberate care, she sets the cup down and raises her eyes to the speaker. Though she wears her hair in a more feminine style and her suit is a soft shade of aqua instead of the black she'd worn before, Scully has no trouble recognizing the face of the woman handing her a napkin. "I didn't mean to startle you," the woman apologizes, settling into a matching wingback with a sigh of satisfaction. Scully is silent as she wipes the stickiness from her fingers. Over and over, each stroke rougher than the last until her skin is red and the paper is in shreds. Swallowing hard, she crumples the soiled napkin and pushes it aside. She stiffens her shoulders, covering her agitation with a mask of indifference as she meets the piercing eyes of her uninvited guest. "You're Agent Scully, right? Mulder's partner? You'll have to excuse my forwardness. These little social niceties are a bit new to me." Though her speech is formal, she examines Scully with a frank curiosity that is disconcerting. "And you're Jenn. Mulder's...djinn." Scully spits out the final word as she scans the coffee shop with exaggerated interest. Amused, Jenn sets her cup into the saucer. "Well, now that we know who we are...." "Who unrolled you this time?" Scully's voice is deceptively quiet as she brings her narrowed gaze back to the other woman's face. "Not one for small talk, either." The laconic assessment is accompanied by a telling twitch of her brows. Scully's mask cracks, anger seeping through the tiny fissures. "I don't think we have much to talk about, do you?" The barbed comment hits its mark. "If I've caught you at a bad time, I apologize. When I saw you sitting here...." Jenn shrugs. "I just wanted to stop by, say hello, find out how you're doing." "Fine," Scully asserts. "I haven't made a fool of myself in front of a team from Harvard in, oh, two weeks. Anything else?" "Look, I'm not trying to cause you any trouble...." "Trouble? How much more could you possibly cause?" Scully's lips curl with an ironic twist. "I beg your pardon?" Scully hesitates. There is nothing to be gained from a confrontation -- it's too late to undo things. "I know about Mulder's third wish," she says finally, her voice pitched low and even. A delicately arched dark brow flicks upward. "He told you about that?" Pushing aside the remnants of sweet roll, Scully leans forward to rest her elbows on the scarred surface of the table. "Not exactly. But he didn't have to. It was easy enough to figure out." "Was it?" Jenn counters, a speculative look on her face. "Is there a problem?" "Does nothing ever touch you? How do you live with yourself after what you've done?" Though she wants to shout at the other woman, her tone is cool, betraying none of her inner turmoil. Sighing, Jenn turns to look out the window. "I didn't make the rules, or the wishes. If someone is unhappy with the results, so be it. I'm not responsible for their dreams going awry." The word 'dreams' is like a stone thrown into calm waters, stirring up the sediment. Scully's mind churns at the thoughts it provokes. "What about the innocent victims? The ones caught in the crossfire? Do you spare a thought for them?" The angry words spill out in a rush of breath, a harsh counterpoint to their comfortable surroundings. Her gaze swings back to Scully, cool and analytical. "You don't like me." "That surprises you?" she asks with quiet vehemence. How could this woman fail to grasp the ramifications of her actions? "You've managed to twist everything around, turning something good into a perversion. Like what you did to the Stokes brothers. And to me." "I'm really sorry about that. I had no idea you'd brought in those Harvard people until Mulder mentioned it. Not that I could have done anything to change it. Mulder was almost as disappointed as you were. He thought you'd finally become a believer, though from what he'd already told me about you I had my doubts." "Mulder talked to you about me?" There's a tightness in her chest, like an iron band squeezing her heart. She struggles against its pressure as her mind wrestles with this revelation. "Oh, please, ad nauseam." Jenn slumps back into the chair. "You were his favorite topic. If you could have seen him after his first wish -- he nearly had a stroke when he realized you were gone." She pauses to take a deep breath. "Mulder thinks very highly of you. He admires your intellect, and your ability to cut through the rhetoric to isolate what's important. Of course, he's a bit blinded by his desire for you. But then, don't all men see the women they want as perfect?" Scully shakes her head with regret. "It doesn't matter how you think he sees me. Because what you say isn't true. If he knew me as well as you seem to think, he wouldn't have used his last wish that way." "This is the second time you've mentioned that, and it's starting to annoy me. You think you have it all figured out, but from your other comments, I'm not so sure that's true." Jenn folds her arms across her chest as a calculating light enters her eyes. "Why don't you tell me -- what *do* you think Mulder wished for?" The blood surges into Scully's cheeks. "You said it yourself -- Mulder...desires me. And he...he wished for me to feel the same," she finishes in a rush. "Is that what you think? Really?" Jenn's brow crinkles in confusion, and she pauses to take a sip of her coffee. "Because if it is," she continues, carefully setting the cup down, "then Mulder's not the only one who doesn't have a clue." "I don't understand...." Scully shifts, the springs of her chair squealing with anxiety. Jenn pats her lips delicately, then drops the lipstick-stained napkin to the table. "No, you don't. But I do -- I've seen it all. Greed. Jealousy. Avarice. Five plus centuries of it. Fashions change, kingdoms rise and fall, but the human race is still the same as it was the day I was born." Jenn pushes her cup into center of the table and leans forward. "But I think you know that already." After a moment, Scully finds her voice. "What's your point?" "I've known a lot of men, heard the secret desires of the petty despots of the world." Jenn leans an elbow on the table, resting her chin in a cupped hand. "You can't imagine what I've been asked to do. Crazy, irresponsible things, all because of some idiot's whim. But your Mulder wasn't like that. He used his wish in a...unique way." Her lips twitch. "I certainly can't find fault with the results." "You admire what he did." A tiny nerve at the corner of her mouth throbs with uncontrolled violence. "How could I not? He could have had whatever his heart desired. But instead of using his final wish for selfish purposes, he thought of someone else -- me. He set me free." The words are uttered in a tone of quiet reverence. "He did what?" Scully's hands grip the edge of the table, nails carving their mark into the scarred surface. "He set me free." Jenn taps the corner her right eye with a well-manicured fingertip. "See? No more mark of the djinn. I'm as human as you are, Agent Scully, though a bit less apt to jump to conclusions." Scully stares as though fascinated by the smooth expanse of unmarred skin, but her mind is reeling from the disclosure. How could she have been so wrong about Mulder? Her lashes lower as her mind riffs through a rapid succession of images. She sees his amused face, hears the gentle tease of his voice, and her discomfiture increases with each passing second. The haunting dreams and her response to the palpable air of sexual tension surrounding them aren't the result of some misguided wish.... "You look sick." She blinks, new color tinting her complexion as the tongue-in-cheek tone of the observation grates across her already battered senses. "I feel sick," she mutters through clenched teeth, aware of the barbed catch in her voice. "It's not that bad." Jenn reaches out to pat a white-knuckled hand. "Trust me. I've seen how he looks when he talks about you. Mulder would forgive you anything." "You think so? I'm not so sure. I jumped to the worst kind of conclusion when I should have trusted him." Scully frowns, chewing on her bottom lip. "Trust is important to Mulder. After some of the things I've said and done these past few days, it's very possible I've lost his." "Listen, I have five hundred years of experience with human nature backing me up. I know he'll forgive you. All you have to do is ask." Frustration builds, and Scully expels a breath that seems to come from her toes. "Just like that? You make it sound so simple, but this isn't like forgetting your best friend's birthday or breaking a date." She releases her punishing grip on the table to lean forward. "Trust is a big issue for Mulder, and for me as well. I don't know if I could be so forgiving, were the roles reversed. So how can I expect blind forgiveness from him?" Jenn nods in understanding. "It seems to me you have a choice. You could sit here, debating whether I'm right or wrong, or you could put my theory into practice." She shrugs. "Up to you. Do what you want." "You're right." Scully reaches for her cup, staring at the caramel-colored liquid. "But knowing what needs to be done and having the courage to face up to the task are two different things." "I guess you need to ask yourself if he's worth it." She takes a sip, grimacing as she sets down the now-cold latte. "I think even you know the answer to that," she murmurs, pushing the cup aside. "Then you know what you have to do." Smiling, she pauses to look at her watch, then swings her gaze back to Scully. "Well, what are you waiting for?" "Mulder isn't the only one I've misjudged." Scully hesitates, then lifts a fingertip to her face, tracing a deliberate circle on the unblemished skin near her eye. Jenn brushes away the gesture with a wave of her hand. "Do you believe in fate, Agent Scully? Think about it -- Washington is a big city. What are the odds I'd walk into a coffee shop and run into you?" "Probably as good as the hypothetical snowball's." Scully leans forward, shoving a delinquent lock of hair behind her ear with impatient fingers. "Pretty dismal," Jenn agrees. "And yet, here we are." Her arms stretch out to encompass the whole coffee shop. "Destiny? Fate? The compelling urge for a hot cup of coffee?" Her shoulders twitch. "I guess it really doesn't matter. The important thing is we did meet again. And despite our earlier misunderstanding, I wouldn't want it any other way." Flushing, she looks down at her hands. "I owe you a debt of gratitude for the refresher course in being human, with all the messy emotions it entails. Especially love. Until tonight, I'd forgotten how it feels to love someone so much it hurts." "I think you've misunderstood the situation." The words spill from Scully's lips with practiced ease, infused with a certainty she doesn't feel. Denial is an old friend and comfortable to be around. But deep down, she recognizes the truth in the other woman's words. "Uh uh." Dark hair swings emphatically against Jenn's cheeks. "I know people, remember? I also know the difference between love and lust. That look in your baby blues means only one thing. And I've spent enough time with Mulder to know exactly where he stands. So why don't you stop pretending you aren't in love and do something about it? God knows I would, if I were in your shoes," she adds, sotto voce. "If you were in my shoes, your feet would hurt." Scully eases out of the chair, her stiff muscles screaming in protest. "I can think of someone who could make 'em feel better," Jenn shoots back. The smile starts in increments; from a sliver to a crescent to a half-circle that lights up Scully's face. "I'll keep that in mind." Turning, she heads for the door. Pausing at the open entry, her gaze returns to the djinn-turned-woman who watches with a small, knowing smile curving her lips. "Thanks," Scully says in a soft tone. "Hey, I'll give you a call. Maybe we can have dinner sometime," Jenn calls after the retreating agent. Scully acknowledges the invitation with a wave from the curb. Dinner with Jenn is not her first priority. Shivering in the chill night air, she heads to her car, her steps echoing with purpose. She knows what's on the menu tonight. She's about to eat crow. ******** A bulb flickers in the hallway, and brass numbers glimmer in the fitful light. Bright, then dim, bouncing off the walls in uneven bursts, the orb hums with uncertainty. Like Scully. She stands under the strobing light; the rhythm of her heartbeats keep time with the bulb's wavering rays. It's been over an hour since she left the coffee shop. Time enough to shower and change, to make the drive from Georgetown to Alexandria. To weaken her leap of faith. What if Mulder won't forgive her? What if Jenn is wrong? What if he doesn't.... She swallows hard, the taste of fear and regret warring for supremacy as doubts dance through her mind in rapid procession. Despite her earlier resolve, the words she's rehearsed are fading. Now her thoughts exhibit all the weight and substance of her twirling shadow. She inhales deeply, holding the breath behind lips stretched in a thin, mirthless smile. Her fingers curl, the skin pulling taut across the fragile bones as nails dig furrows into her palm. She can feel the blood pulsing through her veins as she raises the clenched hand to the door. Her knuckles connect with wood, and three short raps echo in the near-silence. Footsteps vibrate across the floor. "That was fast," a voice murmurs over the slow, creaky slide of the deadbolt. The door inches open and Mulder's head appears, his hair damp and tangled. "Hey, Scully." His mouth parts in an uncertain half-smile as he pulls the door wide in invitation. "Thought it was Mario's." She releases the breath, holding out her empty hands as she crosses the threshold with tentative steps. "Sorry, Mulder. No pizza." He closes the door behind her. "Too bad. I'm starving, and the cupboard is practically bare. I don't have much to offer you." His response, delivered in a slow rumble, does little to settle her nerves. "That's okay. I'm not...." The words die in her throat. Oh, God, his cupboard isn't the only thing that's bare. Mulder leans against the door, his palms pressed flat against the wood. He's barefoot, wearing only tight black jeans that hang low on his hips. Hair arrows up from the unfastened button at his waist in a thin line that spreads across his chest, where drops of water glisten in sparse curls. She shivers, tongue flicking out to touch her lips as her eyes skitter up to his face. "You're not...what?" he asks in obvious confusion. The air is full of his scent, a mixture of shampoo and soap with an underlying hint of spiciness that tantalizes her senses. "I'm not very hungry," she finishes, afraid her too-pink cheeks reveal her thoughts. He pushes away from the door with languid ease and grabs a t-shirt slung over the back of a chair. Muscles ripple as he pulls the olive cotton over his head and smoothes it over the damp skin of his chest. "I didn't expect to see you tonight." The words are uttered without rancor as he moves a few steps closer, a hand coming to rest on her shoulder. "But I'm glad you're here, Scully." Even without shoes, he towers over her, and her chin juts with false bravado as she meets his searching gaze. "There are some things we need to discuss." The words are sharp and precise, yet the quivering note in her delivery betrays her inner conflict. Nodding, his thumb skims across her collarbone. "Maybe I should call an attorney." The flippant reply is met with silence, and his jaw tightens perceptibly. He seems to sense her uneasiness; though his hand is gentle, there is something insistent about the way he touches her. She is aware of each individual finger branding her, and her shoulders shrink under his indomitable warmth. She turns toward the living room, grateful for the excuse to break his hold. The room is dark save for the twin glow of fish tank and computer monitor, and she paces across the floor as if it were a minefield. Reaching the safety of the couch, she settles on the edge, wrapping her arms across her chest as she waits for him to follow. "Anything in particular you want to discuss?" Pausing, he rakes a hand through his still-damp hair. "Or are we playing this by ear?" He leans against the doorway, his expression guarded. She manages a small smile. "Actually, I do have a specific topic in mind." With distance, she has regained some of her poise. Her tone is cool and even; her face a perfect blank as her arms loosen their desperate hold and drop to her lap. "About yesterday's trip to Baltimore, and...and running out on you today...." She hesitates, biting the soft flesh of her lip. "I'm sorry. I've been a bit...edgy lately, and you've had to bear the brunt of it." He moves to the desk and switches on a lamp, the sudden glare a harsh intrusion. Turning, he balances a hip against the desk and curls his fingers around the edge. "It's okay, Scully. We all have off days." His voice is pitched low, the words barely above a whisper. For reasons she's unable to identify, his calm acceptance irritates her. She stalks over to the desk to confront him, her lips pinched tight with exasperation. "Damn it, Mulder, do you have to be so understanding?" Dark eyebrows fly up in surprise. "I thought that's what you wanted. My acceptance, with no questions asked. What the hell am I supposed to do -- beg you to confide in me?" he scoffs. "We don't *talk*. We discuss, we debate, we argue. But talk?" Shrugging, he folds his arms across his chest. "That seems to be out of the realm of possibility for us." She shivers with denial, the note of resignation in his voice chilling her to the bone. "It takes two to have a conversation," she points out. He nods, lips pursed tight as he briefly to consider her words. "So why don't we?" His face wears a look of perplexity as the truth of her words sink in. "What do you think holds us back?" "I don't know." She takes a step back, dropping into the desk chair as though suddenly exhausted. "Maybe it's the natural instinct for self-preservation. An act of benign neglect. If we don't convey our thoughts or feelings, it somehow cancels them. And...and we won't get hurt." She swivels around to face him. "But sometimes, Mulder, it hurts more not to." He nods, shuffling his feet against the worn carpet. "So where do we start?" he asks, the timbre of his voice weighed with concern. Exhaling slowly, she ponders his question. Her attempts to be more open began weeks ago, when she'd trusted him enough to share her history with Daniel. Stripping away the first few layers of armor had been hard; it had taken years to acquire that level of protection. She knows it won't be easy to cast off the rest. Intimacy does not come without a price. But it's worth the risk. He's worth the risk. "I saw Jenn tonight." He nods, stroking a palm across his rough cheeks. "I see." "She told me what you did for her." She shifts her gaze to his feet, watching as his toes scrape shallow trenches in the rug's pile. "I was under the impression you...you used your last wish differently. I thought...." Her voice dwindles as new heat flood her cheeks. His toe traces a slow circle in the pile, then carefully erases it with a swipe of his foot. "What did you think?" She pauses, chewing her bottom lip. "I...thought you used your wish to affect *me*," she replies after a moment, tucking back a wayward lock of hair. "Not everything is about *you*, you know," he says quietly. She flinches at the gentle rebuke. "I'm sorry." "Why?" he asks in an uncertain tone. Pausing, she takes a calming breath. "I was having dreams...about you." The words fall from her lips, soft and tentative as a child's first confession. "That, and the fact that I was...jealous of Dr. Friedman...." The digging motions stop, and his foot drops flat on the floor as he shifts against the desk. Her disclosure is met with silence, and she chances a quick glance at his face. His expression is unreadable, and with each passing second her doubts multiply as the silence stretches, thin and tenuous as a cobweb. God, why doesn't he say something? she wonders, twisting her hands in her lap. Suddenly, she is afraid to look at him, afraid of what she might see reflected in his eyes. Instead, she settles her gaze on the gurgling tank, scrutinizing the fish with all the intensity of a starving feline. A soft sigh breaks the silence, and the gracefully undulating bodies in the tank are blocked from her view as Mulder crouches before her. "I hope you know I would never, ever do something without your consent, Scully. No matter how much I may want it." "I know," she whispers, dipping her head. "I should have just asked you about that...and about Dr. Friedman." "Judi is a wonderful woman. Intelligent, beautiful, funny." He hooks a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face. "But none of that matters, because she's not what I want." His voice lowers a notch. "And if you weren't so busy showing the world that you don't need anyone, you might be able to see what I *do* want." The gentle words of reproach feather along her spine, a tender slide of warmth that wraps her in its embrace. His trembling hands cup her face, his fingers splaying across her cheeks with gentle insistence as an answering tremor rolls through her body. It licks over her skin in a conflagration of heat. Visceral. Primitive. Inevitable. Swallowing back a whimper, she meets his steady gaze. His eyes are a kaleidoscope of color -- green and brown and gray. Emotion blazes in their depths, igniting the flecks of gold sprinkled through the irises. An urgent sense of awareness blooms in her, pulling at her with the force of a whirlpool. She can't fight the current. They rise in unison, and her hands reach up to circle his wrists, grazing the skin with a nervous kiss. These are unchartered waters, and she suddenly feels lost, her instincts dulled by irrational fear and confused by arousal. She leans into him, tentative and unsure until she feels his body surge against hers. The connection is scorching and electric, and the air fairly crackles. His kiss is a brush of warmth, so delicate she barely feels it. Scully stands on tiptoe, straining to get closer, but he holds back. His mouth taunts her, teasing her skin with the lightest of touches until a soft moan of frustration escapes her. "Talk to me." He murmurs against her throat, desire crimping the edges of his words. "Tell me what you want." A slight huff of breath is her only audible response as his tongue trails fire from her neck to her ear. She shivers, her nipples already tight as his teeth nip at an earlobe. Her fingers skim along his forearms, over the strong biceps, slipping across his shoulders to wind in the silky darkness of his hair as all her fears wither away. "You," she finally whispers, tugging his head up. Her tongue flicks against the closed seam of his lips, and she tilts back to repeat the word, stronger and surer than before. "You." "Scully...." He draws a ragged breath as his hands span her waist, sliding under her blouse to trail along the ridges of her spine. His lips bless the copper hair feathered at her temple. Whisper over her eyelids. Taste the tiny, intriguing mole that decorates her face. Eliciting faint whimpers with each teasing touch until finally, he pulls her close and covers her mouth with his. Everything is forgotten at the first touch of his tongue against hers, a jolt of electricity that spreads across her skin like wildfire. She doesn't remember moving to the bedroom or kicking off her shoes. But somehow, she is barefoot, lying across his bed, her body crushed beneath him. The faint glow of the bedside lamp casts shadows across the planes of his face. She can feel him trembling against her, the solid length of his erection hard and insistent. His mouth is wet and hungry, his hands cupping her face as he plunders the softness of her mouth. Gradually, the dynamics of the kiss change. It becomes softer as desperation is replaced by a tenderness so sweet she can taste it in the languorous glide of their tongues. Feel it in the soft tickle of his hair against her palms. Hear it in the broken words gasped against her lips. Finally, he rolls away to look at her, his breathing harsh and uneven. "Is there anything else you want to know?" he rasps, stroking a thumb across her lower lip. She peeks at him through lowered lashes. She wants to savor this, but the blood that races through her veins is as uncontrolled as white water. She takes several deep breaths, trying to focus her thoughts. "Tell me about your meeting with Dr. Friedman," she suggests, fingers sliding under the edge of his t-shirt to brush through the downy hair on his stomach. His skin ripples like warm silk against her palm. "Judi...gave me some of her files...Christ." His face contorts with almost agonized pleasure as her searching fingers slip beneath the waist of his jeans, her nails circling the tender skin near his groin. "Files," she prompts, sliding that hand upward over the muscled hardness of his stomach to his heart. It beats a dramatic tattoo, his chest rising and falling as the increased tenor of his breathing pushes the pinpointed flesh into her palm. Mulder rolls upright and tugs her to a sitting position. "Mythology files." He fingers the front of her blouse, toying with the buttons. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he flicks them open with a measured pace, his knuckles brushing against her as each button is freed from its confining hole. The corners of his mouth curl in triumph as the last one is unfastened and the fabric parts. "Rare and extremely detailed." The collar of her blouse is pushed away, and he dips his head to suck on the soft skin of her shoulder. Light, teasing nips scrape along the line of her collarbone, then he lifts his head to look at her, his lips shining wetly. "I was planning to enter the information into a searchable database." "Why a database?" Her skin is flushed with heat, and she quivers under his gaze. One finger touches her sternum, gentle as a butterfly's wing, and his face wears a look of awe that brings a lump to her throat. "For further analysis," he murmurs, his fingers fumbling with the front clasp of her bra. For a second she wonders if he's speaking about her or the file, until the clasp gives and her breasts spill into his waiting hands. "The database uses searchable keywords, like...perfect," he rumbles, capturing a rosy nipple between his slightly roughened fingers. "Keywords, like p...perfect?" Scully arches into his questing hands as his thumbs stroke across the engorged tips. "Keywords, like selkies." He tugs the blouse off her sagging shoulders. The bra follows, and the newly bared skin dimples with goosebumps as his hand slips down to tickle the underside of her breast. "Are you familiar with the legend?" Mulder leans low, lapping at a hardened nipple. "Selkies." Her back arches involuntarily at the delicious pull of his mouth, his tongue flicking across the swollen flesh he sucks with single-minded intent. Still quivering, she grabs his head, raking her fingers through the soft tendrils as she guides his caresses. "Celtic, isn't it?" Her voice holds all the resonance of a secret. He shifts to her other breast, his eyes dilated to ebony as he gives its tip with the same attention. "Right," he mumbles, the emery of his cheek pinking her tender skin. Scully shakes with the need to be closer to him. Unsteady hands grab the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it up with barely concealed frustration. "Mulder," she pleads, forcing his head up as she tugs ineffectually at the olive cotton. In one swift movement, he strips off the shirt and throws it to the floor, his hands returning to span her waist. "Selkies are seal-like creatures, their origins primarily Sco...ahhh." His voice catches as she kisses her way over the newly exposed flesh, her tongue leaving a trail of wetness as it circles a brown nipple. "Scottish, though the Irish have also laid claim to them." "I'm Irish, but I've never laid...claim to them." The tip of her tongue peeks out between kiss- swollen lips, and her eyes gleam with anticipation as she slips a hand over the straining front of his jeans, measuring his bulk through the heavy fabric. "Big...creatures?" she whispers, tickling the length of his zipper with a fingernail. A hiss escapes through gritted teeth as he grabs her wrist, gently circling the fragile bones to bring her hand to his shoulders. "Big enough," he growls, standing and pulling her to her feet. She sways on rubbery knees, braced against the solid strength of his body. "Tell me more," she invites, kissing the center of his chest. "There are some beautiful myths associated with selkies." His hands fumble at the side of her skirt. "They're purported to be fallen angels." He is impatient, struggling to push the button through its hole without success. "Doomed to spend their lives as seals until Judgment Day." A muttered curse, a sharp pop, then the ping of a ricocheting button sounds. He sighs an apology as he works on the zipper, then slides his hands beneath her loosened waistband to smooth over the softly rounded flesh below as her skirt falls to the floor. "They should have wished harder," she replies, running her hands over his back. She loves the feel of his skin, the way his muscles bunch and flex under her touch. "Maybe they needed their own djinn." Grinning, he drops to his knees. "Another legend holds that they're the corporeal embodiment of souls lost at sea." He skims her panties and hose to her ankles. While she clutches his shoulders for balance, he lifts one leg then the other to remove her underthings, tossing them with her skirt to join the growing pile of clothes on the carpet. "Souls condemned to live as seals...." He stands slowly, backing away to sit on the bed. "For eternity." Tugging her into his lap, he whispers the last words against her ear, and shudders rack her body. "They need the right person to set them free." She twists around, sliding a leg on either side of him. Her knees hit the mattress, the scratch of denim abrading the tender skin of her thighs as she straddles him. His hands rest at the small of her back, tracing gently over her skin as she moves against him; nipples brushing over the hair-roughened skin of his chest with each new twist of her body. Face flushed with heat, her mouth opens on a silent cry as his erection hits her in just the right place.... Instant sensory overload. Her eyes snap shut, lights dancing behind her lids as her body sags against his. How many times has she dreamed of this? Her arms snake around his shoulders, fingers curling in his hair as her head rests against the curve of his neck. It all seems so strange, more dreamlike than any of her nocturnal fantasies. Scully tastes the hollow of his throat, the skin like velvet beneath her mouth. He tastes salty and oddly sweet, and she sucks the heated flesh with reckless abandon, wringing a long, low moan from him. His hand slides across her hips, lifting her to her knees. "For one night a year, these creatures are permitted to regain human form." He strokes the flesh of her belly, soft, delicate caresses that elicit a string of incoherent words from her. His fingers trace around her navel, then slip lower to push through her damp curls. "Just one night." His voice lowers suggestively as he dips a finger into her. "Able to feel what's been denied them for so long." Her head drops back, hair tickling her shoulder blades as his finger moves within her. Teasing along the outer folds before dipping in again. Her mind tries to process what he's whispering, but the finger twisting and rubbing within her holds all her attention. It feels incredible, and the air rushes out of her lungs in a heated gasp as the heel of his palm bumps against her clit. She plants her palms on his shoulders, feeling his muscles ripple under her gripping hands. "Thought you said these myths were b...beautiful." Her body arches as a second finger enters her slick wetness. "I don't associate condemnation with p...pleasure." She shudders, grinding against his hand at an ever-increasing pace. "Not all selkies are condemned to spend their lives in the sea." His now-slick fingers slide from her body; a half-smile flashes across his face at her cry of disappointment. He kisses the pulse throbbing at her neck, then lifts her from his lap to set her against the mounded pillows. "Legend has it that a selkie can take human form by shedding her skin." "Mm...more legends?" She watches through half-closed eyes as he rises to his feet. The bulge in his jeans seems almost obscene; she nervously licks her lips as his fingers work the zipper, its rasp sending chills of anticipation through her. Hooking his thumbs in the gaping waist, he pulls the jeans down with care. His erection springs free, huge and engorged with blood, and she sucks in a quick breath. Free of the denim, he stretches out beside her, his body sleek and golden in the muted light. "If a mortal happens upon the selkie skin...." He focuses on her with an almost frightening intensity, and her hips rock beneath his hands as he traces random patterns in the soft flesh of her belly. "....he can steal it and claim the creature as his wife." "What, no male selkies?" She kisses the slight indentation in his chin. His skin is like fine grade sandpaper, a pleasant rasp against her over-sensitized lips as they slip along the underside of his jaw to his mouth. Her teeth capture his lower lip, crowning the plump flesh with teasing little bites before soothing it with wet swipes of her tongue. "Hardly seems fair...." "Oh, there were males, Scully," he murmurs against her lips in a seductive purr. "In those small island communities, a surprise pregnancy could easily be explained away as the result of a visit from an alluring selkie-man." His mouth meets hers in a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his hand smoothing along the inner softness of her thigh. "A convenient alternative to kiss-and-tell." Scully manages a choked whisper, toying with the soft hair covering his chest. "Does...." Her tongue slips out to glaze her lips with moisture. "Does the woman get to keep his skin?" She isn't talking about legends or selkies now. He swings upright, kneeling between the legs that automatically part to accommodate him. A hand slides up to catch a nipple, the friction of his fingertips both torment and ecstasy. Breathing labored, he stares at her with heavy lidded eyes. "Only if she wants it...." A lazy hand skims down his chest, caressing every inch of golden skin she can reach. Her fingers follow the line of hair that narrows past his navel until she reaches his groin, his cock pulsing with need. She touches the engorged flesh with a finger, tenderly sliding along his length until she reaches the tip. A pause, then a tentative brush over the head to wipe away the drop of fluid glistening there. Curving her fingers around his firmness, she slides them over the velvety skin, his harsh cry leaving her breathless. "Does she?" he asks, his voice whisky rough as he pulls her hand away to replace it with his own. Positioning himself, he enters her with just the tip of his cock, a tentative slide through her slick folds that grazes her clit with the lightest of touches. There is a hint of uncertainty in his voice that gives her momentary pause. The sharp little ache in her chest grows larger, stealing the air from her lungs. Doesn't he know how much she loves him? Her fingers twist the rumpled sheets as he traces over her wetness, teasing the tight bud hidden within. "Mulder," she begs, barely able to hear her own voice over the jackhammer pounding of her heart. "Please." "Does she?" he asks again, repeating the toe-curling motions. She brushes away the faint line of doubt creasing his brow. "Oh, God, yes." Blood surges beneath his skin, his eyes wild and dark. His mouth opens, teeth clamped tight on his lower lip as he carefully enters her. "Better?" he asks, sliding his length into her with slow, even thrusts. "Y...yes." Her breath catches as he fills her. Her lungs forget the reflexive action of breathing as he thrusts into her again and again; each time more deeply than the last. She throws an arm across her face, mouth open against the sweaty skin as he maintains the maddening pace. "Faster," she pleads in a muffled voice. "Like this?" he pants, picking up the pace, sliding in and out of her in long, deep strokes. "Mmmhmm." Her hips strain to meet his downward stroke, a leg wrapping about his waist as she seeks to force him deeper. One arm skitters across his back, the other behind his neck, and she yanks his head down to kiss his voluptuous mouth in a frenetic counter-rhythm of tongues. Swinging her other leg around him, she arches up to meet each frenzied thrust. The sound of the blood rushing in her ears seems only a decibel short of painful as the tension increases. Perspiration turns the hair spilled across her brow to rust and trickles down the undersides of her breasts to dampen the rucked sheets beneath her. Her body tightens, her inner muscles contracting on each stroke. There is an almost feral look about him as he moves over her. His muscles shimmer, oiled with sweat, and his hips pump relentlessly, so hard it should hurt. But the time for soft, gentle caresses is past. She won't be moved by anything less than these delicious thrusts that make her ache for release. Mulder slows his pace, watching her with eyes that burn with green fire. His hand slips between them, fingers grazing the apex of her sex to slide inward. He traps her clit between two fingers, rubbing the delicate flesh with the perfect touch, urging her climax closer with each stroke until her body shudders with need. He's everywhere -- over her, on her, in her, giving her so much pleasure it's almost impossible to bear. Soon she feels a warning tingle, and her mouth opens on a wobbly sigh as the sharp little frisson radiates along her nerve endings. Another follows, then another, each gaining in intensity until her limbs slacken and her whole body thrums. Her head rolls on the pillow, and his name spills from her lips as she gives herself over to the inexorable sensations. At her cry, Mulder quickens his thrusts, his trembling hands dancing on her hips. His movements are sloppy, and she tightens her shaky arms about his shoulders as she attempts to meet each erratic stroke, their bodies grinding together wildly. "God, Scully...." His muscles are suddenly rigid, and his eyes roll back in his head as he surges within her. Burying his face against her neck, he whispers, "Love you..." and she twines her arms around him, kissing the top of his head as she lets him ride out his climax until his arms give out and he collapses onto her. She brushes through the damp hair at his neck, murmuring soothing words as she holds him. Though his body is lax and heavy, she welcomes the weight and the humid breath heating her shoulder. Her eyes close, and she feathers a kiss across the cheek so close to her own until, gradually, his breathing returns to normal. Minutes later, she's nestled in his arms, the green comforter thrown over their satiated bodies. She rubs her cheek against his skin, and her fingers twirl in the sparse hair covering his chest. "Mulder, what happens to the male selkie after his skin is stolen? Is he happy?" He strokes through her tangled hair, pressing a kiss against her damp hairline. "If the thief loves him, he's very happy." He pauses, his hand faltering. "But if she doesn't, he's not surprised. In folklore, most tales have an unhappy ending." She pushes herself up to look in the eyes that study her with intensity. Her fingers trace the strong line of his jaw as a slight smile curves her lips. "She loves him." And she proceeds to show him just how much. ******** End Author's Notes: I'm always eager to finish a story, and at the same time sad that it's over. That's me -- a bundle of contradictions! My thanks to the following: Narida, for kick-ass beta and cyber-brownies...with nuts! Alanna, for late night chats, super insta-beta, and much appreciated encouragement. Kristy, for keeping me energized. And especially Musea: Angel, Aud, Bonnie, Cameo, Jintian, Mish and mountainphile. You've been a source of friendship and support, a sounding board, and collective shoulders to lean on. I love you all!