Title:  Telephone Lines & Night Lives by nja3
Time:   Pre-S1 and S6, S7
Description:  Scully’s POV, MSR
Style: Journalistic
Author:  Me!  Nancy!  I’d love feedback; any and all.  Email me at:  
abracadabra1754@hotmail.com


Foreword:
They say that writing about events in your life can be a freeing experience, 
helping the writer to clarify her life,
her desires, her amibitons.  Well, I don’t know about those lofty notions.  
I do know that I’ve wanted to bring
some focus to my life and writing seemed the way to go.  Never one to really 
analyze my life verbally with
others, I thought this vehicle might serve me well.

I’m not sure why I started where I did.  God knows my life began before high 
school.  Maybe I chose that point
because that’s where I first became aware of my relationships outside of my 
family.

Reading through what I’ve written so far also provided a few surprises for 
me.  There seem to be two common
threads.  I’m a little embarrassed to find that one of those threads is my 
relationship with men…I also found
that I picked and chose to write about those events that stood out; held 
some significance, for me.

Well, I’ll let it go at that.  I’m not really sure for whom this excursion 
into the life of Dana Katherine Scully’s
relationships is intended, but, should someone I know read it… DKS.
High School  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
The phone was always my friend as a teenager.  I’d see my friends all day 
during school, then come home, do
some homework and start the calls.  I tied the phone up so much that at the 
age of 16, my parents gave me my
own.  My father didn’t think that I needed it, but my mother reminded him 
that they had done the same for my
older sister, Melissa.  He acquiesed.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t totally lost the ‘tomboy’ traits; not 
entirely.  Actually, my tomboy role fit
quite nicely into my newly burgeoning interest in boys.  It gave me the 
initial ‘in’, but I found I no longer really
wanted to climb trees with them or toss a baseball.  I had other things on 
my mind then.
It’s just that I felt compelled to spend as much time talking, rehashing, 
analyzing and gossiping about
everything that happened in school and every boy I liked.
I did well academically; I think it came naturally to me.  I rationalized 
that as long as my homework came first,
I earned my time on the phone. I spent most of my pre-boyfriend time on the 
phone with my girlfriends. When I
started dating, and probably especially because we were all dating, I spent 
even more time on the phone.
Some of the calls were nothing more than endless minutes of “what’re ya 
doin’ right now?” or “did you see
what he was wearing?” or “wanna hang out at the mall on Saturday?”.  Others 
were deeper, consisting of “do
you think he really likes me?” or “what do you want to buy at the mall on 
Saturday?”
Then, when Marcus came along early in my senior year, I ‘lived’ for the 
phone.  He had the sexiest telephone
voice, as if I knew what a sexy telephone voice was at the ripe old age of 
16.  We spent long hours on the phone
while I walked around my room, while we both read our homework, while 
neither of us said a word.

College  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
So, you see, it was a natural transition from my teen years, into college.  
I had left Marcus at home, so the
phone was, again, my friend. During my first year, when I was sure we could 
maintain the long distance nature
of our relationship, I spent many nights, lights out, under my blankets, 
head buried in my pillow, talking quietly
to him.  (My roommate was either already asleep or out partying.)  I often 
wondered whether he caressed the
phone the way I did, pretending I could summon him through the lines 
connecting our receivers.
As that distance relationship became mere memory and was replaced with live 
connections, the phone became
an adjunct means of interaction.
My first real college relationship started off slowly.  Somehow, even though 
we only lived one quad away from
each other, he’d call me after dropping me off.  He’d find something to ask 
me about, some detail of our night
together to walk through verbally.  I had a single by then, so the necessity 
of burying my phone calls was no
longer an issue.  I would find myself boldly walking around my room, 
trailing the long cord after me.  We
sometimes talked for hours although we’d spent an entire night out.  And, 
sometimes we didn’t need the phone
at all because I had a single.

Medical School  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
Things were initially so intense at Medical School, that I had little time 
for relationships of any kind.  That
included the phone.  I considered myself lucky when I could call home.  As I 
got into my program and hit my
academic stride, I breathed again.  As soon as I had a routine, I was once 
again involved.
Daniel was one of my professors; ‘unhappily married’, as he told it to me.  
Since our schedules were so
different, the phone played a vital role.  I was back to the very important, 
“what’re you doing?” or “when will
we see each other again?”  I hung on his every word. My very basic, white, 
trimline served me well.

I was back to phone calls in bed; although now I was imagining him in bed 
with me when we couldn’t actually
be side by side under the blankets.  I also bought my first cell phone.  
Having thought that I would never be one
of those people I saw all over the campus walking and talking, eating and 
talking, driving and talking, I
succumbed.
Daniel’s erratic schedule as both a faculty member, doctor and husband on 
the lam often meant stolen moments
that were brief, but blindly and intensely passionate.  I sometimes wondered 
whether the forbidden nature of
our relationship on so many levels was what drew me to him.  
Faculty-student, married man-single woman,
older man-younger woman.

At that time, I believed that Daniel was the most passionate man I had ever 
met.  Probably because he was
older, and, I presumed, much more experienced.  I allowed him to ‘teach’ me 
in bed as he taught me in the
classroom.

Now don’t get me wrong, here, I considered myself no slouch in bed!  I 
wasn’t without experience.  However,
he was far from the ‘sex-on-demand’ of the youth I had been (and been with). 
  Slow, oh-so-slow, and intense
with an easy, unhurried pace, became our style.  I found myself caught up 
in, and, if truth be told, subsumed by
Daniel.  As I look back on what I believed to be our adventuresome 
gymnastics, I realize that I was in a rut. I’m
not sure what aspect of our relationship held me to him.  The saddest part 
was that I was starting to feel that he
was making decisions for me; about what I wore, where we went, who I talked 
to.  I let him, too. I was starting
to see a pattern in my relationships with men.

If I had looked more closely at the pattern then, would anything have 
changed?  I can honestly say I don't know.
It was almost as if I were trying to find something very elusive; something 
to capture me and blot out a part of
me.  While I believe that I was happy at the time, I was also subsumed by 
Daniel.  I let him take over.

Then, the phone served me well when I had to tell him I was not going to 
become a practicing physician and,
instead, was headed for the FBI Academy.  I could not bear his rejection.  
Now, don’t think I didn’t have the
nerve to deliver my message in person.  I tried.  I think he sensed what was 
coming and made himself
‘unavailable’ to me.  When I did get his reaction, it was swift and 
judgmental, once again dictating what I
should do with my career.  (I also think his unavailability was another sign 
of his need for control over my life.)
I could not bear to tell him in writing.

As I was to discover years later, he was not my destiny as I believed at the 
time.

Family Men <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
I don’t know why I’ve written this portion here, in between two very adult 
relationships in my life.  Did I have
to wade through all of that before realizing that I was describing my 
relationships and leaving out three very
important men that are/were so influential in my life?  I think personal 
guilt has taken over and I ended up
coming back to insert this section.

My father and my two brothers each contributed…’contributed’; that sounds 
like such a formal word to
describe the familial relationship.  Family members ‘love’, they ‘support’, 
the ‘guide’, they ‘inspire’ and they
exhibit all those other behaviors that complete the weave of the personal 
tapestry that holds us together.

My father; at once a larger-than-life figure in my life, someone I loved, I 
admired, someone from whom I
wanted unconditional support and love.  Someone who pushed me, oftentimes in 
the name of challenging.  I
knew how proud of me my mother was because the words were always spoken, the 
warmth, the touching, were
always there.  I saw some of the depth in my relationship with my father in 
our nicknames for one and other his
Ahab to my Starbuck; the special bond he and I shared.

After his death, I finally realized that I knew deep down inside that my 
father truly loved me and wanted the
best for me.  I also know he was disappointed in me; that I didn’t practice 
medicine in the traditional sense, that
I was on my own in the cruel world.  The disappointment sat heavy with me 
for a long time.  Questioning,
wondering if I lived up to his expectations.  Perhaps, being the younger of 
his two daughters, he wanted more
for me.  Try as I might, I’m still unsure of why he seemed to push me harder 
than Melissa.  She and I in many
ways were cut from the same cloth; headstrong, independent; but our lives 
moved in different directions.
Maybe he decided that he didn’t do enough to push her, wasn’t successful.  I 
was his last chance. My most
powerful recollection of my father comes from a time long ago when, although 
returned from my abduction, I
believed I was close to my own death.  "I never knew how much I loved my 
daughter until I could never tell
her," he told me. He told me he would have traded everything for one more 
second with me.

Bill. “Resolute protector.”  That’s what it says in my friend’s book of baby 
names.  Did they write that
definition after they met my brother?  “Resolute, adj. Marked by firmness or 
determination; unwavering.”  Yes,
Webster met Bill first, too.  The role of the eldest, the older brother to 
younger sister.  I was nothing more than
a mere annoyance to him when I was very young; that’s how Missy told it to 
me.  I was in his way, in his face,
wanting and needing to follow him around.  To his credit, most of the names 
he called me never really stuck.
As I got older, he screened my men friends and potential dates with more 
scrutiny than my father.  I don’t think
anyone will ever be good enough for me in Bill’s eyes.  And, while I know 
his concern is routed in his love for
me, it is also all-encompassing and stifling.  See, “Fox; n. male not 
cunning or wiley enough to evade Resolute
Protector.”

Charlie. “Free man”.  Man, that book is so dead on.  Charlie is cut from my 
mother’s cloth.  Sometimes a gnat
on Bill’s radar screen, my playmate.  Charlie played with us, ran with the 
neighborhood boys, marched in the
high school band.  He married a loving woman, gave me two adorable nephews 
to dote on.  Charlie as always
been my supporter; mostly silent, but still there.  I felt his absence in my 
life, often wishing I could go back and
somehow fix the distance.

A certain profiler I know could probably tell me one helluva lot about my 
relationships with men based solely
on this one journal entry.  Fat chance I’ll give him the change, though.

Quantico  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
The FBI Academy was relentless in its expectations of its cadets.  Quantico 
provided challenge and virtually no
time to explore life outside its walls. The ciriculum was rigorous, the 
faculty demanding.  After all, we were
being groomed to protect a nation!  Enter Jack Willis, Academy Instructor 
extraordinaire.  This man drew me in
first, with his sheer intellect.  Some things never change; I am still 
attracted to men with active curiosity and
intense intelligence.  I needed and still need, the challenge, the 
questioning, the banter.

I badly wanted to meet him outside of the classroom, but the Academy had 
very explicit rules regarding faculty-
student relationships.  That did not stop Professor Willis.

It started innocently enough, I needed help, he was the teacher.  It seemed 
like mere hours from our initial
academic contact to ‘first contact’.  To his credit, he never came on to me. 
  Our discussions revolved around the
most germane issues and debates.  Rapier wit Willis.

The local Starbucks was the scene of our first trip away from the Academy.  
It was very late on a Monday night.
He and I had been working long hours on a joint presentation.  He had asked 
me to present a poster session at
the next Academy Forensics Conference.  We worked in his office, surrounded 
by stacks of books, wall
plaques, old-but-not-antique wooden furniture of mismatched styles and one 
desk lamp.  I was literally falling
asleep on my notepad.

Caffeine was our only option.  That a mug of coffee would lead me to his bed 
was the farthest thought in my
mind.

We ended up in a darkly lit back corner of the place. It was crowded, even 
at 2AM.  We were in a booth, sitting
next to each other.  Caffeine, plans for the next days’ work on the 
presentation, sip here, arm across the back of
the booth there, hand on top of hand, hand on knee, lips on cheek.  I was a 
little surprised that he kissed me and
I sat there wondering if and how I should respond.  Jack made it easy for 
me.  The arm across the back of the
booth landed on my shoulder and he whispered in my ear, “Dana?”; nothing 
more, just my name.  I turned to
look at him questioningly.  I found his lips on mine.  As we pulled back 
from each other, he put a few dollars on
the table, took my hand and started pulling me out of the booth.  I was 
moving through a haze of desire.  For the
sake of propriety, I let him walk out ahead of me and headed into the 
restroom.  Once outside, we met at his
car.  We decided to drop off the materials we had brought with us for the 
presentation and then head out for his
apartment.  When we reached  his office, our plans changed.  Once inside the 
door, he closed and locked it and
left the lights off.  He backed me to the door and I let the notebooks and 
reference books fall noisily to the floor
around us.  We never made it to his apartment that night.

His ultimate death did nothing to remove the memories of the relationship.




FBI; Ethan <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
I think that my relatiohship with Ethan was over almost before it really 
started.  I met him shortly before joining
the Bureau.  As I was getting settled into my new apartment, we ran into 
each other, ‘literally’, in the corner
convienence store.  I was rushing to grab a few things for dinner, he had 
run out of dog food.  My arms were
full; didn’t need one of those baskets, just had to pick up a few things; 
yeah, right.  I rounded a corner and met a
wall that looked like a man with a 25 lb. bag of Purina Puppy Chow.

After probably a full minute of “I’m sorry” and ‘no, really, it was all my 
fault’ we both went to the check out
counter.  We chatted about nothing, both realizing we were new to the 
neighborhood.  He was working at a
local news station in the city. We actually exchanged  phone numbers; highly 
unusual behavior for me.  I think I
felt comfortable with him immediately.

And that’s what probably did us in, along with the fact that he was very 
jealous of my job, my time, and, early
on, Mulder.  We did easy, informal things together at first.  Lunch at the 
café, a movie, a nice dinner, a day in
the park.  Then, I was assigned as Mulder’s partner.

My time became more limited and I could not talk about my work.  He could 
fill me in on everything he did;
national security wasn’t at stake if he told me the proposed line up for the 
news stories.  While I’m sure on an
intellectual level he understood why I could not talk to him about Bureau 
business, it hurt him emotionally.
Partly, he needed to share in my career and I understood that need.  My 
deeper sense was his fear that there
were things about me he felt he would never know; that he wanted to know.

Somehow, even in the midst of the new tensions, we found each other 
intimately. Maybe because of the other
tensions, we sought the physically emotional release.  Ethan was kind, 
patient, caring, but not adventuresome.
He wasn’t controlling as Daniel had been; not in that sense.  He was 
controlling in his rigidity; his life was
planned and that included most aspects of his life. By extension, that 
included some aspects of my life.

Our time together was scheduled.  If he worked late into the night, 
love-making didn’t fit into the schedule
because it would tire him out for the next day. (I had never thought of 
myself as so wild in bed that I could
physically exhaust someone else.  Then again, maybe he was referring to his 
own sexual prowess…)  He was
the epitome of ‘planned spontanaeity’.

The beginning of the end of our relationship came with my first case with 
Mulder, my new partner.  Ethan had
planned a little vacation for us; it had been planned for some time.  He 
smiled initially when I showed up at the
station.  His smile disappeared when I told him I couldn’t take our trip 
because of the Bellfleur, Oregon case.
His jealousy shown brightly when I told him I would be going with Mulder.  
Oh, it wasn’t so much anything he
said, it was the look he gave me.

Ethan wore his emotions. And his testosterone.  In Ethan’s world, heck in 
the world of many of the men I had
been involved with, men and women could not possibly have collegial 
relationships without anything else.
‘Partner’ had meanings deeper than, ‘a person…associated with another for 
purposes of a common interest or
activity…’  Mulder and I shared our work for the Bureau.  Ethan, not knowing 
Mulder, must have decided that
our ‘common interest’ was each other and our ‘common activity’ was bedding 
each other.  While I admit that a
smidgen of jealousy can be exciting, Ethan’s unfounded concerns had started 
to bother me.

The end of the relationship came upon our return from Oregon; a tumultuous 
case where much of our evidence
was burned.  Ethan wanted to be with me the night I returned.  Reluctantly, 
I agreed.  In hindsight, I probably
should have told him ‘no’.  I was exhausted, I was high from my first real 
case and I needed down time to clear
my head.  I was too jumbled emotionally to be coherent.

Initially it was nice to have him there for the comfort, although I had made 
  decision some time during the
Oregon case that I was going to break it off when I returned.  This night 
only served to strengthen my resolve.
We didn’t spend much time talking, we were both too tired.  Where the desire 
and energy came from that night,
I cannot say.  I can only say that we made love.

Sated, we feel asleep; on different sides of my bed.  Then the phone rang. 
It was Mulder.  Our conversation, if
you could even call it that, was short.  We were going to talk the next day. 
  Ethan became quite angry and
wanted to talk then and there.  I had neither the energy nor desire.  I did 
not want to hurt Ethan, but I was about
as prepared to discuss his concerns that night as I was to have a root 
canal.  I rolled over to him, holding his
hands, trying to explain that Agents don’t always keep regular hours, but 
that I was here, with him.  He would
have none of my explanation or attempts to soothe him.  He pulled his hands 
from mine and went to get
dressed.

Although I tried to phone him, my messages were never returned.  I made one 
attempt to visit him at the station,
but was told he was not ‘receiving visitors’.  I had been summarily 
dismissed by him, from him, from his life.

Mulder had  someone caught wind of Ethan; even in that short time.  In true 
Mulder fashion, he told me he was
sorry that my relationship had ended, but it was for the best.  The sad and 
amazing part was that Mulder was
right on target.  Someone, knowing what little he did of me and even less he 
knew about Ethan, he was right.

FBI; Rob <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
Droughts; that’s what they are.  Little periods of time with  no action; no 
men in my life other than my partner
(not necessarily a bad thing, except at that point, I was on a quest for a 
life; whatever that meant then).  Ok, if
I’m to be honest with myself, they’re more than ‘little’.  They sometimes 
share a strong connection to an ice
age, but I digress…

In the end of August, Mulder travelled to a little town near Atlantic City, 
New Jersey.  I had already been
invited to my godson, Trent’s, birthday and told Mulder I’d join him later.  
The Academy instructors had
stressed the need to ‘have a life outside the Bureau’ to help us cope with 
the intensity of our day-to-day work.
Even during our first few cases  together, I saw that their advice was 
prudent.  I attempted to have that life.

Trent’s mom, my friend Ellen, was a joy. I regretted not spending more time 
with her and Trent.  She
acknowledged my need for a life, telling me that I would be great with 
children of my own, but first needed to
“find a man”.  Well, yes, Ellen, that would seem a logical step.  She even 
inquired about Mulder.  “What about
your partner?  You said he’s cute.”  The words flew out of my mouth, off the 
cuff, probably to cover my truer
response,  “He’s a jerk.”  I quickly tried to pull them back in, “No, he’s 
not a jerk, he’s obsessed with his
work.”  The words hung there for a short time.  Her back was to me at the 
time, so she didn’t notice the color
rising in my cheeks.

Ellen tried to play matchmaker with the divorcee father of one of Trent’s 
friends.  Rob was an Estate Planner
and Taxation Specialist; a nice enough man.  He asked me to dinner and I 
said ‘yes’.

Mulder.  Yes, Mulder’s name seems to surface here a lot.  Mulder, already in 
New Jersey, was spending some
time experiencing the seedier locales.  On Friday, he called me at the 
Bureau to request I come to New Jersey to
bail him out. Who else would accomplish the task without giving him too much 
grief?  Ah, Mulder, even then
we were tied together.

After bailing him out, we went for a bite.  Well, actually, I accompanied 
Mulder while he inhaled a small
trucker’s breakfast.  Mulder had a hotel room in Atlantic City for the 
weekend. He invited me to join him and I
declined.  When he heard the reason, he stopped.  He actually stopped eating 
and just looked at me.  He asked
me to cancel my date.  At this point in our relationship, nothing much that 
comes out of Mulder’s mouth would
surprise me.  At that time, I was just learning that Mulder is guileless and 
unpretentious.  If he’s interested, if
he’s curious, he just asks.

I wasn’t sure how to interpret his request; there were so many levels to it. 
  The obvious was most likely his need
for his partner on this case, but I knew he could handle things just fine 
without me.  The less obvious may have
had to do with the relationship dance we sometimes did even back then.  No, 
it wasn’t as complex, as spelled
out as it is now, but there were beginnings of a connection with us.  I 
found myself having to explain my need
for ‘a life’.  Mulder explained that he had a life.  Yes, you do, Mulder…

My dinner with Rob was nice enough, he was nice enough.  ‘Nice enough’?  I 
don’t know who or what I was
seeking, but I truly was seeking something.  Something to show me what this 
‘real life’ might be.  Somewhere
during that dinner, I realized Rob wasn’t someone I’d spend more time with, 
through no fault of his own.  I saw
another potential relationship winding down; this time, before it even 
started.

(The curious thing about Rob, and what probably made him somewhat similar to 
Ethan, was that he had no real
power with me; we were on similar footing.  Daniel, Jack, my father, Bill 
all had positions of some authority
over me during our relationship.  They were powerful men and maybe I feared 
their power.  While I could not
choose my family, I did choose my relationships with Daniel and Jack.  Ethan 
and Rob led very different lives;
more typical, everyday, lives.  My attempt to seek normalcy?  My yang 
seeking yin?  Is it possible to seek
something different in relationships over time?)

Mulder called during dinner.  It’s not lost on me that Mulder’s name appears 
here more than my date’s.  His
call provided my escape.  I willingly joined him on the case.  Rob was very 
understanding, but also hurt.  I
didn’t need his understanding, I needed him to take a stand, to be upset, to 
question.  I couldn’t ask for what I
needed at that time, so I left.

We returned to DC, the case as resolved as it could be given its nature.  
Mulder was heading for the
Smithsonian when the office phone rang.  It was Rob.  Mulder left the office 
as Rob invited me to join him, his
son and Trent at the Cirque du Soleil.  I turned him down and joined Mulder. 
  Mulder, curious, but doing a
passing job at feigning nonchalance asked if I had been asked on another 
date.  When I told him I declined the
date to accompany him, he smiled.  Mulder’s repartee, finely honed.  “Don’t 
you have a life, Scully?”
Something tells me that Mulder was happy with my decision to join him.

Rob did not phone again.


FBI; Ed Jerse, Part 1  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
A Philly stockebroker, recently divorced and tattooed.  Yes; that almost 
sums him up nicely, but doesn’t quite
hint at the strange depth of my short-lived relationship with Ed Jerse.  
Sometime in January we met.

I was in one of those darn, winter, rutted potholes of my personal and 
professional life.  Work was work,
Mulder was; well, he was being more frustrating than usual.  Again, not 
solely his fault; it takes two to tango
and sometimes I left my dance partner lead and sometimes I step all over his 
toes; and don’t care.  This was one
of those times.

He was being forced to take some time off and I was talking with him about 
taking care of things while he was
away.  I knew he was okay with the set-up; we have that professional respect 
even in the absence of anything
else.  I was walking around the office that morning, trying to ask him 
questions about cases on hold and what
might be upcoming while he was away.  I had this urge, this stubborn urge, 
to sit down at *my* desk. But, I
didn’t have a desk.  Now this was our 4th year together, four years I hadn’t 
had a desk, but *now* I was angry
about it and I let him know in no uncertain terms.  Mulder looked, shall I 
say, somewhat surprised at my
outburst, but calmly replied, “I’ll get you a desk if you want one, Scully.  
It’s just that I always thought of this
area as yours,” he said as he swept his arm generally in the vicinity of I 
don’t know where.  He was trying to tell
me it might be too crowded for my desk.  In true Mulder fashion, he went on 
to say that maybe we could have
our desk butted up against each other and ‘play battleship’.  Mulder was 
amused.  I was not.

He was already angry with me, but tried to keep it light.  He had been 
meeting with a Russian about some UFO
information and I was with him.  We were at the Viet Nam War Memorial.  
Mulder was fuming because I
wandered off during his interview with the man.  I wandered off because 
their interview resembled more the
banter between Rocky and Bullwinkle.  Mulder actually brightened a bit at my 
reference; he does love his
cartoon characters…

I was generally pi$$ed at everything, including him.  That did not, however, 
stop him from assigning me to
follow up with the Russian’s by doing an INS check in Philadelphia.  I was 
specifically pi$$ed at this case for a
number of reasons; all centering on my partner.  He assigned me the case, I 
didn’t like that.  He treated it like
part of his mission in life; it wasn’t mine.  He told me that I was merely 
assigned to the X-Files while he’d
made them his life’s work; he stated the truth but flung it at me like so 
much dirty laundry.  Then he told me I
didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to; nice shot at the ‘reverse psychology’ 
smarty pants.  We both agreed  that
time apart would be a good thing.  I wanted to know where he was going.  God 
help me, I wanted to know.
Can’t live with him sometimes, can’t live without him most times.  He tried 
to make it sound convincing when
he told me he was going on a spiritual journey.  That was an interesting 
notion to ponder; Mulder on a spritual
journey.

Obviously, I was not in the best frame of mind when I left for Philly.  I 
set up my stakeout plan and headed over
to the Russian’s business, but after so much time with no action, I grew 
bored.  I decided to check out the area
around the business and found myself wandering into the local tattoo parlor. 
  I have this thing about tattoos and
I don’t know how to classify it exactly.  In some ways, I admire them; the 
artful quality, how and why an
individual chooses the depiction.  In other ways, the practical side of me 
abhors the wanton quality, the planned
abuse of the body with a permenant foreign substance, the ink marking, 
imprinting, laying stake to make a
statement.  The interesting thing is that some are done for public view and 
others that only the bearer and a few
chosen others acknowledge.

Ed was in the shop.  It seemed that something was wrong with his tattoo.  He 
found me admiring one design in
particular.  Admiring may have been too soft a word.  I was almost 
mesmerized by it; the ourobouros, a snake
eating its own tail, birth/death or birth/rebirth.  I was transfixed and I 
was at an a turning point, but I wasn’t
even sure how to define the turning point.

Ed inquired about why I was in the area and I lied, telling him I was there 
to see my aunt. I’m not sure why I
lied except that I just couldn’t bring myself to talk about my job.  He 
looked disappointed when I told him I
couldn’t go out with him.  I lied again and said I was leaving that night, 
in the surging downpour that had
recently started.  He smiled sadly, but gave me his card and told me to call 
the next time I was in town.  I went
back to my room, the case was wrapped up and I was leaving; or so I thought 
at that point in time.

The phone rang and I knew it would be Mulder.  The man has the infallible 
timing of the nation’s atomic clock;
sometimes.  Not usually for meetings, not usually when we have to be 
somewhere critical.  Usually when he’s
going to interrupt my life he’s dead on.  His ‘spiritual journey’ had taken 
him to Graceland.  Is there any
psuedo-supermarket rag story hot spot to which the man will not be 
attracted?  I told him the case was wrapped,
but his questions kept coming.  Questioning me, what I learned; god, he was 
giving me the third degree.  We
had not yet had enough time apart, that much was true.  He assumed I was on 
my way home and I just don’t like
it when Mulder assumes for me.  I told him I was staying.  Silence.  I could 
actually hear the wheels in that
beautiful head turning, figuring out what to say next.  Yes, he asked. “So, 
Scully, you got a date or something?”
<Yes, Mulder, a date *and* something.  Oh, boy did I have *something*.>  I 
was in my full anger mode at this
point and hung up on him, knowing he’d be angry.  And I didn’t care.  Where 
I was in my own head at that
point, I was probably glad I’d made him angry.  Hell, Mulder was in his 
parental and territorial role with me
again.  I didn’t need another father…

I called Ed and told him I had changed my mind.  He played it cool, but I 
could tell he was happy.  Now things
were a little strange with Ed and his tattoo, Rosey, I think she was called. 
  When I got to his place, I noticed that
he had a bloody bandage over the tattoo.  I also noticed a family picture 
from which he was missing, burned
out.  Somehow, the strangeness intrigued and drew me like a moth to a flame. 
  I felt the need to explain to him
that I didn’t date much, but every few years I broke away from my usual 
pattern, from my ‘good girl’ life. We
went to a biker bar and had a drink; neither of us was into going out to 
dinner.  I needed an escape and so did
he.  I really wanted to see his tattoo, but he resisted.  He suggested I get 
my own.  I thought about the
ourobourros I had seen earlier and we left for the tattoo parlor.

The experience of having the snake inked into my skin was at once painful 
and somehow erotic.  I could not
explain further if I had been asked why I felt that way.  It just was.  I 
felt somehow freer than I’d felt in the last
few months.

We ended up going back to Ed’s place.  I felt like a small wave just ebbing 
onto the damp beach sand.  I knew
where I would end up, but had little control about how or why I would 
arrive.  We talked about nothing and
everything.  I still badly wanted to look at his tattoo.  I just could not 
silence my medical training.  He acquiesed
this time, but seemed to pull into himself when I looked at it.  Assured 
that he would heal just fine, I got ready
to leave.

Ed was concerned about me leaving in the drenching rains and asked me to 
stay, saying I could have his bed
and he’d stay on the couch.  I decided to stay. I remember feeling an odd 
thrill at the situation; attraction,
revulsion, that fine line I was teetering on precariously.  Ed got to me 
somehow, the proverbial spider
underneath my skin, I wanted him out and I wanted him in.  Vaccine and venom 
swirling in my mind and doing
strange things to my head, my body.*

Somehow, our night in his apartment turned dangerous as I found more 
information about what was going on
with his tattoo and the other people in his building.  My carelessness with 
my badge allowed him to discover
who I was and he was able to find out that I was checking up on him.  I 
nearly lost my life when Ed became
enraged because of his tattoo (actually, for the record, because of the 
hallucinatory nature of the ink that was
used).  Burning his own tattoo off his arm, he also tried to burn me.  I 
don’t play half-heartedly when I decide I
need a ‘freeing’ situation in my life.

When I returned from Philly, things remained far from good for me and 
Mulder.  Mulder told me I was a ‘two
time X-File’ and did not endear himself to me…  The man’s timing was poor as 
usual as he tried to joke about
getting himself a New York Yankess tattoo on his butt to celebrate their 
victory.  At another time, I might have
found some dreamy and exciting thoughts running through my head thinking 
about that possibility, but this was
not the time.  I greeted his relentless comments and jokes with utter 
silence knowing full well that Mulder does
not like my silence.  I could tell he was starting to feel badly, but again 
I did nothing to comfort him.

The final straw came when he asked me if this whole situation was about my 
not having a desk. Lord help me;
no, lord help *him*, I couldn’t take it anymore and tried to explain to him 
that not everything is about him.  I
was struggling with my own life and he was turning it to him.  He started to 
mutter something about it also
being about his…and then stopped.  I let that unfinished sentence, that 
unspoken sentiment sit there.  The
tension between us was unresolved for quite some time.
*”…spider underneath my skin, I want him out, I want him in, venom and 
vaccine swirling..” borrowed from
Bree Sharp

FBI:  Padgett; Part 1  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo

Anyone would have to ask a very serious question about me at this point, as 
I prepare to write about Phillip
Padgett.  That question would be:  how do I get into these situations with 
men who are either extremely
controlling, father figures or outright deranged?  To be honest, there are 
probably other questions that come to
my mind, but I don’t think I can tackle all of that right now…

I still have some difficulties with writing about Padgett. Partly because I 
cannot believe I ended up in the
situation.  ‘Ended up in’; makes it sound like I had no control over the 
situation.  Well, that may be true to the
extent that we can all find circumstances beyond our control into which we 
feel led.  The other part, in
retrospect, was that I was being contrary.  Oh, hindsight is so 20-20 and I 
was at another one of those points in
my life, in my relationship with my partner.  Those spots where I couldn’t 
figure out what was really
meaningful for me and how I remained ‘me’ with ‘him’.  I think one of the 
scariest parts of that journey for me
was the little detours I was making.  My attraction for him was stronger; 
stronger than it had been in a while.  I
would move closer.  If I’m being honest with myself, I’d acknowledge that as 
soon as I took a step closer, I took
two steps away.  My walls would crumble a bit only to have someone find more 
mortar and brick and do a
repair job.  At this time, the repair work was moving along pretty well.

Mulder and I were on the case together. In my mind, one of the strangest 
facets of this case was my accidental
(?) meeting of one of the prime suspects.  I met enigmatic Padgett in the 
elevator in Mulder’s building on my
way to see Mulder.  His initial, open stare gave me a distinctly strange 
feeling and I looked away.  When the
elevator stopped, I walked out quickly, hoping Mulder might have heard the 
elevator and come to greet me. Not
that he’s ever done that, but a woman can hope.  Padgett let me exit first 
and I turned as I exited to see if he
would follow.  He moved silently, but persistantly to the apartment nextdoor 
to Mulder.  His gaze never lost its
intensity.  Although no one but Mulder probably would have noticed, I would 
have kicked his door in if he
hadn’t answered it as fast as he did.

I didn’t want Mulder to see my anxiety, my fear, not because I chose to hide 
it from him, but because I felt
almost silly about it.  A two minute elevator ride and fast walk down the 
hall do not necessarily a mugger make
and I knew that.  But, my radar was working overtime and I usually pay 
attention to it.  We began to review the
file; a truly grotesque and bizarre case involving the removal of the 
victim’s heart without the use of any tools
other than the human hand and while the victim was still awake.  Now, after 
all my years working for the
Bureau, on the X-Files, not much gets to me, but this one was--heck, I don’t 
really know, so I’ll leave it there.
Trying to sound casual in my request, I asked Mulder who his new neighbor 
was.  Mulder muttered something
about having met him, that he was a writer, but that Mulder didn’t know what 
he wrote.  Very casual response,
no cause for alarm from Mulder.  We moved on to review the autopsy report.

Mulder proposed that this was a case of ‘psychic surgery’, <suuurrreee 
Mulder…> “Mulder, it’s more like some
man dipping his hand in a bucket of chicken guts and pretending to remove 
tumors from the sick and gullible."
Mulder wasn’t about to let it go, saying that there was no M.O., no other 
way of accounting for the murders...
that it could be the perfect crime. I reminded him if we found the motive of 
the killer and we’d find the man.

Now, what neither of us could have known at this point was that Padgett was 
indeed a writer; a rather
extraorindary writer at that.  A writer who, (and, oh boy, would Mulder love 
this one)  who wrote non-fiction
before it actually occurred!  My partner would have had a field day with 
that; and he did later…

The next day, I went in to the office. As I walked in the door, there was an 
envelope on the floor, but before I
could retrieve it, the phone rang.  It was Mulder calling to let me know 
another victim had been discovered.  It
was a 16 year old on ‘lover’s lane’.  Sometimes, in the very darkest pits of 
our fieldwork, Mulder senses the
tenseness; an uncanny knack he possesses. When I questioned his certainty 
about the M.O., he replied, “I'm sure
many a person's had their heart broken out here, but not quite like this. I 
was hoping you'd be here to explain it
in medical terms to the local PD.”  Simple as that.

On my way to join Mulder, I picked up the envelope. Inside was a pendant; a 
design I could not explain.  It
puzzled me.  I could describe the upraised heart engraved on it, but its 
very coldness raised the hairs on my
neck.  I wondered if it was from the killer; a message?

As I discovered later, Padgett had also written my discovery of the charm, 
the pendant, he had left for me. “Her
prompt mind ran through the possibilities. Was this trinket from the killer? 
Was there a message contained in its
symbolism? Was he a religious fanatic who had in fervent haste licked the 
envelope, leaving behind telltale
DNA that would begin his unravelling. She had a (something) certainty that 
the killer was a male, and now as
she held the cold metal at her fingertips, she imagined him doing the same, 
trying to picture his face. It would
be a plain face, an average face, a face people would be prone to trust. She 
knew this inherently, being naturally
trusting herself. But the image she conjured up was no better than the 
useless sketch composites that littered her
files. Preconsiously, she knew this wasn't her strength as an investigator. 
She was a marshall of cold facts, quick
to organize, connect, shuffle, reorder and synthesize their relative hard 
values into discreet categories.
Imprecision would only invite sexist criticism, that she was soft, 
malleable, not up to her male counterparts.
Even now, as she pushed an errant strand of titian hair behind her ear, she 
worried her partner would know
instinctively what she could only guess. To be thought of as simply a 
beautiful woman was bridling,
unthinkable. But she was beautiful, fatally. Stunningly prepossessing. Yet 
the compensatory respect she
commanded only deepened the yearnings of her heart. To let it open. To let 
someone in."  When Mulder read
Padgett’s book later and then shared it with me, my heart raced.  I cannot 
possibly explain how on God’s green
earth the man got inside me as he did.  I choose to not even consider how 
the words appeared as the action took
place.  My mind could not wrap itself around those thoughts, those 
speculations.

When Mulder returned later, I tried to tell him what I had learned about the 
pendant.  As I explained that it was
called a ‘milagro’, a Spanish word for ‘miracle’, he nodded, acknowledging 
my discovery of facts that might be
pertinent to the case.  I had checked with the desk security staff and 
learned that a male in his late 20’s or early
30’s had dropped it off.  I was sure there was a connection to the killer.  
Mulder did not agree.  I wanted and
needed to do more in-depth analysis, but Mulder told me he had scheduled me 
to autopsy the boy.  I was angry,
pulling at the percieved leash I felt tightening around my investigative 
intention.  I informed him, rather curtly,
that that would be one appointment for which I would arrive late.  I must 
say, the look on his face ranked right
up there as grounds for celebration!

I wandered into church and found myself drawn to a painting of Christ 
holding his own heart in his hand.  As I
stood transfixed, Padgett appeared next to me, inquiring if I knew the story 
behind the painting.  Train collision
of emotions within me; fright, attraction, curiousity and more I could not 
identify.  My own heart was racing,
but I willed myself to relax.  Safety overrode all else and I asked him why 
he was following me.  My eyes
widened as he explained oh-so-calmly that he was not; he merely imagined I 
would come here.  I wanted to
flee, I wanted to stay.  He went on to tell me the story of the painting 
followed by random facts about me;
where I lived, the date on my Georgetown parking permit, what I like to 
purchase in the local market.  I was
being stalked!  He admitted he had sent me the pendant and that he had a 
secret attraction to me.  Why I didn’t
run, I don’t really want to admit, but I’ll admit it anyway.  I think in 
some dark corner of my being, I shared a
certain fascination, his ‘secret attraction’ with this unknown and haunting 
man.  Another stab at ‘breaking free’
for me?  He must have noticed the tears because he apologized for makig me 
uncomfortable. ‘Uncomfortable’?
Is that what it was…”It's just that I'm taken with you. That never happens 
to me. We're alike that way.”  Those
statements are what he left me with at the Church.  Left me shaken. Left me 
realizing a truth?

They say turnabout is fair play.  When I arrived (very late, thank you very 
much) for the autopsy to the
wonderment and puzzlement of my partner, I told him I no longer believed the 
pendant was associated with the
killer.  Surprise!  Mulder now believed is was.  I explained some of what 
had just occurred, telling him of
Padgett’s audacity in learning so much about me.  Mulder was clearly 
concerned and wondered if Padgett was
the killer.  I assured him he was not.

That did not deter Mulder from doing some digging to learn more about 
Padgett.  Just because Mulder has
sworn to uphold the law, do no harm, seek justice does not mean he is above 
tampering with the mail.  Mulder
on a hunch, on the trail, is to be reckoned with.  He discovered Phillip 
Padgett’s name by stealing his mail; and
was caught in the act. They rode up in the elevator together, Mulder trying 
to casually inquire if Padgett has
written anything Mulder might be familiar with. This is Mulder, the man 
probably hasn’t sat still long enough to
read a book since he left graduate school.  Casefiles; yes.  Novels? I think 
not.  Padgett smiled and said ‘no’.  as
they were about to enter their apartments, Padgett dropped a little 
bombshell on Mulder, much as he’d done
with me, telling Mulder he was with the FBI.  Padgett also asked Mulder if 
Mulder was working on anything
Padgett ‘might be familiar with’.  Not to be left without the last word or 
thought, Mulder said, “possibly.”

I don’t believe in dramatics, overstaging, calling something anything but 
what it is.  That said, I have to say I
was drawn to Padgett’s apartment on my way to meet Mulder.  Ostensibly, I 
went to return the pendant.  On
another level, I went to learn more about him, to attempt to sever the 
growing connection I could not fathom or
explain.  I noticed his lack of furniture; a transient.  Sometimes, you get 
what you seek; even if you did not
want it.  Padgett talked to me of his lonliness and how much like my own it 
was.  He shared that he was writing
about me and revealed that he had tried to get an apartment in my building.  
My mind was racing; in
competition with my heart.  I was trying to stay a few steps ahead of him, 
but I was losing ground.

We sat on his bed, we talked.  Mulder burst into the room, calling my name.  
He was frightened for me, but the
slightest shift in his eyes occurred when he found me sitting with Padgett 
on his bed.  Just as Mulder can read
my every look, I can do the same; most of the time.  What I saw there for 
the briefest of seconds was jealousy.  I
grew indignant and left.  Mulder put Padgett under arrest.

As Mulder questioned Padgett in the cell, Mulder took hold of Padgett’s 
manuscript.  Padgett calmly told us
that he did not commit the murders; he merely wrote about them. Mulder was 
becoming more frustrated,
though he admirably, at this point anyway, tried to control it.  Padgett 
went on to explain that, “Jungians would
say it's the characters that choose the writer, not the other way around, so 
I guess you could argue he directed
me.”
Mulder lobbed a question back, “Which is the truth?”
Padgett would not be outdone by words, “By their nature, words are imprecise 
and layered with meaning. The
signs of things, not the things themselves. It's difficult to say who's in 
charge.”
No slouch in the discussion of all things theoretical, unless he’s fed up, 
Mulder was aching for a confrontation.
I subtly redirected him and we left Padgett’s cell.

We debated, rather hotly, whether or not Padgett could have written about 
that which was committed by
someone else; especially since I had discovered that the ‘someone else’ had 
been dead for two years.  Mulder
continued to insist that no one could predict human behavior.  Mulder, so 
far off his mark here, forgetting
himself as a highly competent behavioral profiler who often delved into the 
psyche and came up with
surprisingly accurate answers…

Mulder unceremoniously dropped the manuscript into my hands and directed me 
to read about me, Padgett and
the ‘naked pretzel’; lovely term, a Mulder soundbyte.  I was shocked; 
shocked into reading it.

When we came upon other information that would not allow us to hold Padgett 
any longer, Mulder returned the
manuscript to him, said he had been wrong and that Padgett was free to 
leave.  As we were about to leave,
Padgett stopped us, telling Mulder that Padgett was wrong about something 
too.  Simple sentences followed
that simply rocked me. “In my book I'd written that Agent Scully falls in 
love, but that's obviously impossible.
Agent Scully is already in love.”

I guess I missed a part of the manuscript in thinking back.  I had missed 
the part where the very ‘dead’ man
comes back to remove my heart, as Padgett had been willed to write.  I can’t 
say it was the only time in my life
I had known sheer fear, but it was nonetheless earth-shatteringly freaky and 
frightening.  Had Mulder’s
encounter with Padgett in the basement not resulted in the burning of the 
manuscript, I do not know whether I
would be writing this story.  I know that once again, as it has happened 
countless times, Mulder arrived to save
me, give me back my sanity, give me someone to cling to.  While I had no 
words to describe it at the time, my
heart was bursting; from the relief, from the joy, from knowing that Mulder 
somehow, was always there.


FBI; Skinner <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo

A man of so many sides, titles, names, loyalties.  That is how I first 
thought of A.D. Skinner.  When I was
assigned to Mulder and the X-Files, Skinner was the A.D. in charge.  Over 
the ever changing status of the Files,
we were assigned to other A.D.s, but never far from Skinner.  Never far from 
his influence, his aid, his support,
his disdain.

Walter Sergei Skinner, a man of much complexity.  Having spent time as a 
Marine in Viet Nam, Skinner was
inducted into a culture of government manipulation, exotic landscapes 
ravished by gunfire and chemical agents
rigorous training and mind altering substances to help blot it out.  He once 
told Mulder about having to shoot a
10 year old Vietnamese boy three months into his tour.  A powerfully life 
altering experience for an 18 year old.
Even if that 18 year old was a Marine.  No wonder, like so many others, he 
found a need to numb the pain of his
experience.  The fact that he was also ambushed while on a routine patrol 
and claimed to have had a near death
experience adds to the deep nature of his persona.  Skinner shared these 
experiences with Mulder to try to
convince Mulder to look past the closing of the X-Files early on in our 
quest. A rarely-seen baring of his soul.

Ever changing, ever shifting allegiances.  As one of 9 A.Ds at the Bureau, I 
know Skinner best.  Yes, partially
because for most of my career I have reported directly to him.  More than 
that because of the mosaic nature of
his relationship with me and my partner.  I have complied with his orders, 
done my personal best to solve cases
for him personally, I have trained my weapon on him, slapped him, kissed 
him, fought to save his life.  All of
this and more in the short span of almost 7 years.  I would say those are 
strong behaviors indicative of strong
feelings and emotions.

Unlike Mulder, AD Skinner is not a man to readily show his emotions.  When 
his marriage of 17 years broke up
my 3rd year at the Bureau, only those who knew him well would have guessed 
at the trauma he was
experiencing.  He allowed nothing more than superficial words of sympathy 
and concern. Sharon, his ex, once
told me after their break up that "he lives under this misguided notion that 
silence is strength. He's built a wall
to keep everyone out - especially [her]."

‘Silence is strength’.  An interesting concept.  ‘…A wall to keep everyone 
out…’  Okay, that one hits very close
to home.  Perhaps a reason why Skinner and I are, in some fundamental ways, 
kindred spirits.  And, why we
often flash-fire around each other.

Skinner once told me, (and I’m doing my best to remember his exact quote 
here, although the sentiment should
come through) “Every minute of every day we choose; who we are, who we 
forgive, who we defend and
protect.  To choose a side, or to walk the line.  To play the middle.  To 
straddle the fence between what is and
what should be.”  At the time, I was just beginning to see how difficult his 
professional relationship with me
(and Mulder) was. Although, that one aspect of our relationship can only 
done justice as a separate piece…  I
wondered if he had been talking about himself or about me since I have 
straddled that fence so many times in
most of my other relationships.

Back to his wavering allengances.  In those early years, I was very 
concerned about his ties to the CSM and his
cronies.  I sensed that a Sword of Damocles hung over Skinner’s head, but 
did not know who put it there or why
it was there.  While I fully recognize and acknowledge organizational 
politics and the necessity of playing the
game, my own belief system would not allow me to do so.  (Although, 
interestingly enough, it was and is
usually me who tried to get Mulder to go with the game…)  I found myself 
running smack into those politics
more times than I cared to count.

Torn as he may have been, Skinner always found a way to come through for me, 
for Mulder, saving us many
times.   I have never known someone to whom I was so eternally greatful and 
at whom I was so exceedingly
angry.  The fine line between love and hate.

While there has never been any outward signs of a relationship between me 
and Skinner, I have always known
that in his way, he looks out for me and cares what happens to me.  He has, 
in the last few years, uncovered
some of the true nature of my relationship with Mulder.  Has been once 
again, placed in a precarious position
because of his knowledge.  As a friend, has tried to look without seeing.  
As a superior, has tried to guide us out
of the spotlight to discover our relationship.

Logically, I know there must be feelings inside me for him.  Oh, heck, what 
does logic have to do with it?  I
don’t think I can completely fathom just what those feelings might be.  
Probably one of the only other people
outside of my family in whom I do place my trust.

FBI; Byers, Frohike, Langley  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo

I’m not sure why I’ve included them.  No, that’s not totally true.  I know 
‘why’; I just don’t know why it took
me so long to get to them.  When I look at the order this story has taken; 
how I’ve thought about my
relationships, it seems funny to me that I’m writing about the Lone Gunmen 
inbetween A.D. Skinner and my
very best friend.  Sometimes, though, things are revealed, uncovered, made 
known (oh, I can even hear Langley
now, ‘Yeah, man, it can so happen that way, Scully> that are surprising.  
When I think about the role the LGM
have played in my life, it seems fitting that I write about them here, 
sandwiched inbetween two very important
people; a bridge, if you will, there when I need it to cross over.

Maybe another reason why I waited, hesitated has to do with my initial 
meeting and subsequent reaction to
them.  It would be unfair, though, to continue to lump them together.  While 
they certainly work (and I’d
assume, play) together quite nicely, their symbiotic relationship shouldn’t 
be allowed to cloak their
individuality.

John Fitzgerald Byers was named after JFK.  Byers would tell you that before 
the assassination his parents were
going to call him Bertram.  ‘Bertram Byers’, hmmm, doesn’t quite have the 
same ring and doesn’t seem to suit
him.  Prior work in computer systems for the Federal Communications 
Commission gave Byers an interesting
combination of talents to share with his fellow Gunmen.  Byers is handsome, 
in that straight, home spun, take
home to meet the parents sort of way.  His charm and dedication have won him 
a soft spot in my heart.  He
sometimes appears as the voice of cogent authority, the leader with a 
conscience and he who leads with his
heart where women are concerned.  While the leadership (and I use the term 
loosely) of this group is fluid and
shifting, Byers brings a touch (and I emphasize ‘only’ a touch) of 
organization to it.

Langly…I started to give him a first name, but as with many other things 
Lone Gunmen, his first name is up for
conjecture, speculation.  I’ve heard them taunt him with ‘Ringo’ when they 
really ought to use ‘Garth’ (from
that dreadful movie, Wayne’s World).  A true communications expert in every 
wired, warped and out there
way, Langly is about connections, information retrieval and sharing.  The 
man owns more rock tee shirts than
anyone I know.  Although I’m really not old enough to have actually 
experienced it, Langly reminds of a throw
back to the early hippies movement crossed referenced with the 80’s punk 
movement.  (It’s the hippies
movement I’m not old enough to have experienced; I just don’t want to give 
the impression that my age is a
problem for me.)  The man possesses a dry wit and friendly sarcasm that can 
actually make me giggle--although
I’d be hard pressed to allow any of them to see it.

Melvin Frohike, a.k.a., ‘Hicke.  Guru of operations and photography. If 
“Hacker” were listed in a career
opportunities brochure, Frohike’s face would appear on the cover.  He’s 
also, probably the oldest of the trio and
the most complex.  Frohike’s got the hots for me.  I don’t know how else to 
say it!  Although, given his
interesting, softy side, ‘crush’ would work just as well.  The man is also 
equal parts horntoad. (Mulder would
love that description as he’s had to stomp Frohike down a few times…)  
Frohike is an orchestrater; weaving the
talents of his partners with the needs of his clients.  I was deeply touched 
when he came to see me in the
hospital.  And, although I did not see him, Mulder’s description of his 
gallant dress and his gift of flowers
showed me that his interest goes deeper than mere lust.  Quite the 
contradiction; caring and romantic, lustful
and leering.  ‘Hike’s probably a better name for him…

That they have collectively and individually a place in my heart is an 
amazing fact given our initial meeting.
Aside from the fact that they seem to live in the walled, locked down and 
barricaded place they call their office-
- aside from the fact that their ideas seemed even more ‘out there’ than 
Mulder’s, they are three of the most
loyal friends I’ve ever met.  From our first year as partners, they have 
been there through the best and the worst
of it.  Even when Mulder and I were split as partners, they openly gave each 
of us whatever we needed.  The
only thing they asked in return (well, almost the only thing anyway) was a 
chance to share their conspiracy
theories.  From Mulder, they also acquired a ‘buddy’; someone from the 
establishment who was almost as anti-
establishment as them.  A playmate, a confidant, another alpha male to play 
their alpha male games (when the
reindeer games end).

Although I could provide numerous examples of how I believe they have 
occasionally used their finely-honed
skills to generate warped theories and subplots, I can think of only one 
time I was really ready to wring their
ever-loving geeky necks.  Las Vegas…about 2 years ago, middle of the night 
call from ‘computer-generated
voice Mulder’ <clever ploy, Three Stooges>.  They were on the track of the 
woman who broke Byers’s heart at
a Defense Contractor’s Conference.  I later heard that they wanted Mulder, 
but he was much too ‘high profile’
for this case.  That begs the question, ‘so just what the heck was I?’

While I was able to use my forensics skills to assist them in at least part 
of this crazy scenario, I also found
myself drugged and apparently, the talk of the hotel.  I remember none of it 
and want to seriously doubt
Frohike’s description, especially of my time in the hotel bar…  However, 
lascivious he may be, but liar he
surely is not.  When I discovered their ruse, I let them know they were 
going to be so sorry.  I actually think
they were scared!

As I think about it, ‘Three of a Kind’ definitely fits them so well.

Brief Interlude:
I’m editing my own work.  No, I know that’s not unusual.  It’s just that I 
had actually written this part of my
story first. The need to create order, even within my emotions, caused me to 
come back here.  When I looked at
how I had written these final sections, I noticed how very different they 
were.  At first, my own reaction was
simply that they’re different because my relationship with Mulder is very 
different from any of my other
relationships.  True though that is,  that wasn’t explanation enough for me. 
  I mean, my whole tone and style
were very different here.  I almost did a major rewrite.  Then, aside from 
the sheer impracticality of that notion,
I noted that the reason I wrote it the way I did was because it so 
accurately reflects the relationship described.

FBI; Mulder  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo

“Mulder.”
“Mulder, it’s me.”
“Hey, Scully, what’s up?”
Cell phone, land line, cell phone, pay phone, land line, cell phone; we’ve 
experienced it all.
I think I have spent more time on the phone; on *any* phone with Mulder than 
with all the other people I’ve
ever known.  Now, don’t get me wrong, we have a wonderful *face-face* 
relationship (and don’t get me started
on that face…I’m in a particularly good mood while writing this section, 
probably because I do not yet know
just how difficult it might be for me to finish.).

Mulder loves words; for their ability to tell a story, for the way they 
combine artfully to describe pictures he
sees in his head, because they connect him to others, because they share his 
thoughts, because they help him
communicate his wonderful and sometimes frustrating, leaps of logic.  He is 
equally fond of the absence of
words.

Mulder’s face can express the merest disappointment, fleeting sadness, full 
blown joy, storm clouds laced with
anger and the throes of passion with equal aplomb.

My first experience with his verbal and non-verbal communication was our 
first case.  The “Mulder Slide
Show” was an event in and of itself. Give the man a case with possible 
paranormal overtones (or even
‘undertones’), a captive audience (me), a slide projector and a 
semi-darkened room and watch the games begin.

Now, keep in mind that words alone do not convey meaning.  Delivery, tone, 
affect the true meaning.

Mulder’s monotone is legendary.  That’s not to say he is without inflection. 
  Did I say ‘inflection’?  That would
sometimes be a true understatement.  When his ‘flash point’ is reached, he 
is capable of loudness and
projection.  Anger is rare for Mulder, however.

Back to the slide show monotone; a special brand of that elusive vocal 
quality.  He delivers his information in
organized fashion, even with the occasional editorial comment and humorous 
innuendo.  It is not hard to realize
his pre-Bureau days were in the classroom.  He asks ‘fill in the blank’ 
questions, carefully leaving the space of
only a few seconds for my response.

Never one to be totally comfortable standing in one place for more than, 
shall I say, 5 seconds, his monotone is
accompanied by pacing.  Half of the Slide Show show is trying to keep track 
of my partner as he moves around
me.  Sometimes, probably for sheer effect, he places himself directly in 
front of the screen producing a
wonderfully artful experience; Mulder ‘wearing’ the picture.  The number of 
murder scenes or victims I have
seen in all their glorious and sad color displayed on his back or, chest and 
face, cannot be counted.  I secretly
think he does that just to see my reaction.  However, I am quite practiced 
at the ‘non-reaction’ reaction.

I can think of at least two times when he has used the phone to catch me off 
guard or surprise me.  In Dallas, we
had that explosives search at the Federal Building.  As I walked around and 
around the roof of the building, in
my FBI jacket under the close to 100 degree sun, I called him on my cell.  
Thinking he was downstairs
somewhere, he surprised the he!! out of me by appearing right behind me, 
still on his cell…  The man is
relentless in his pursuit of humor on the job. (I believe another motivation 
is trying to catch me off guard.)

The second time of note was our case with Harry Weems in Chicago.  Mulder 
had asked me to meet him on the
street corner.  The taxi dropped me off; no sign of Mulder.  I called him on 
my cell.  He appeared, still on the
phone, right behind me, from the underground via a freight carrier.  My 
slight smile gave away my amusement,
I’m sure.

Now, the most special phone connection we have usually occurs while I’m in 
bed.  No, this isn’t some strange,
slightly off-center sexual connection. Mulder keeps strange hours.  I know 
he sleeps because he is usually rested
when he’s at work and because we have been side-by-side in connecting hotel 
rooms.  Sometimes, though,
inspiration strikes him during that time when those of us less consumed by 
our round the clock quest for the
truth would rather sleep.  At other times, his need to share his latest 
theory on an on-going case or a potential
case, surfaces in the absence of sunshine. And sometimes, one of us just has 
a need to hear the other's voice for
solace, for support, for calming effect or to make our special, inexplicable 
connection.

Then, there are those fortunately few times when he or I are in the throes 
of life torture.  Mulder’s emotional
need to connect sometimes arises when the rest of the living world has 
slowed down.  Possibly because of the
absence of other distractions.

While the ringing of the phone at some ungodly hour is usually disrupting 
and disorienting, for some reason,
when I hear, “hi, Scully, it’s me”, I don’t mind the disruption, the 
disorientation.  Much.  Mulder truly has what
is best described as a bedroom voice.  It is easy on the ears and often 
times more than that.  There have been
times recently, when we have ‘played’ with those late night calls.  While 
phone play probably wouldn’t be the
first thought in my mind, Mulder, the more creative partner, has come up 
with some, shall I say, unusual ways
to use the phone.

What follows are a few examples.  As I originally wrote about each example, 
I realized that it was starting to
sound as if Mulder and I spend all of our time together moving from one 
physically arousing situation to
another. As if everything we do becomes physical.  While it is true that our 
relationship has moved into that
realm, I think it’s important to note that that process was slow. The two of 
us danced around each other, around
our building emotions and around the consequences of a relationship for so 
long that we might have ended up
in the Guiness Book. The process involved many leaps of faith followed 
sometimes by set backs.  Testing,
trusting, questioning.  What else should I have expected?

I thought I had to come back to this place in my story and write a little 
bit more about how we got to that point.

Our paths tangled from our first interaction.  No; it was definitely not a 
case of ‘love at first sight’.  The
circumstances of our partnership made relationship development a challenge. 
The first piece of that relationship
had to be our ability to work together, to play off each other’s strengths, 
to fill in for and balance out our
weakenesses.  My obstinance, my science, my need for rational explanations 
that signified truth, evidence, fact.
Mulder’s leaps; of faith, of fact, of intuition, of belief, his need to 
accept that which felt right and should
therefore, most assuredly be the truth.  Oil and vinegar; but, hey, they do 
compliment each other and coat a
salad very well.  Over the years, those differences became  the harmony and 
balance for us.

I liked Mulder from the start; that much is true.  I think I liked him so 
much because in so many ways he really
was, ‘the FBI’s Most Unwanted’.  I had very mixed feelings about the manner 
in which I was assigned to work
with him.  I had suspicions, even at that early point in my Bureau career, 
about some other agenda, but there
would have been nothing I could do to prove my suspicions.  The fact that 
the mysterious, most-likely
nefarious, CSM appeared twice during our first case together had my atennae 
up early on.

People were afraid of Mulder as they would be of anyone possessing such a 
keen intellect and amazing skills.
But, Mulder also contributed to his reputation by his maverick ways and his 
shotgun approaches.  When I
wasn’t completely frustrated by some of that maverick behavior, I came to 
rely on it and him.

In his personal search for the truth, through his quest to uncover 
conspiracies and in his quest for all-that-may-
be-paranormal, Mulder is dedicated.  His personal core values and belief 
system are well-defined.  This trait by
itself stands high on my list of reasons why I am so overwhelmingly and very 
simply in love with this man.

The fact that we have participated in the extreme highs and lows of each 
other’s lives and are still able to call
each other friend ranks right up there.  I cannot think of a situation in my 
life where Mulder would not be
present or welcome.  He has challenged me, sorely tested my patience, pushed 
me to experience that which is
beyond my realm of plausibility and kept me safe; emotionally and 
physically.  I trust him with my very life.
It’s as simple as that.

Of all of the relationships I have written about here and some I have not, 
Mulder is the only one who has the
consistant ability to both physically and emotionally reduce me to a state 
of total oblivion.  And I mean that in
the most complimentary way.  Usually, as my relationships progressed, I 
found myself becoming ‘used to’ my
partner.  The looks that were once exciting became expected.  The touch that 
was once firey became nice,
comfortable.  With Mulder, my senses remain charged.  His touch has the 
ability to totally unnerve me,
sometimes rendering me completely useless for little else but pleasure.  I 
would continue, but even as I type, I
find my blood pooling somewhere south of middle…

The actual story about when and how we shared those feelings with each other 
is for another time or a later part
of the story.
Hopefully, what I have described here will put the examples that follow into 
a more coherent frame.

Exposure<<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo

We had just wrapped up a very tough case.  It involved child abuse and 
death; always very hard for us to deal
with. It was emotionally draining and as usual, we were stuck in some 
godforsaken hole in the wall town in the
late-summer-Midwest in a flea bitten excuse for a hotel.  The walls were so 
thin that I could hear Mulder
change the channels with the remote.

After another night of take out pizza sitting on the floor in his room, we 
said our goodnights.  I went next-door
to get ready for bed.  I gave up on thoughts of a bath when the water 
running in the sink slowed to a drizzle and
then just quit.  Pulling on my silk tank and panties, I got into bed and 
turned on the late news, wildly hoping for
some connection to the outside world.  I fell asleep, remote in hand.  The 
sound of the phone startled me since
other than my mother, no one should be calling me here.  Since it  was 
midnight in the Midwest, I knew my
mother would be deeply asleep since she was 2 hours ahead of me.

It was Mulder.  It took me a few seconds to let it sink in.  <Mulder is 
calling me on the phone and he’s right
next door.>  Ok, this *is* Mulder I’m talking about.

“Scully” I said.  “Hey, Scully, it’s me”  “Yes, Mulder, I know.”

Three sentences of our conversation and I was weary.  Mulder ‘senses’ things 
more easily than anyone I know.
He senses things about me very easily.  Some would say that’s due to the 
almost 7 years we’ve worked and
spent time together and that is partially the explanation.  Others would say 
we truly share some type of psycho-
emotional connection.  Call it what you will, we are connected and I don’t 
know how to explain it in terms that
make sense to me.  And, I don’t even know that explanation is necessary.  It 
is simply fact.

Back to our conversation, what there was to it.
“Mulder, is something wrong?”  “Uh, no, Scully.”
I could tell he was having second thoughts about this call, although I 
didn’t yet know why.  Sometimes, the
sheer ambiguity of Mulder intrigues me.  This became one of those times…
“Mulder?”  Time to bring him to the point.  “Scully, I was just thinking 
about you.”
<Ok, he’s doing better>, I thought.  I waited.  He placed the call.  I 
wasn’t about to work for it; that was *his*
job.

“What are you doing right now, Scully?  I mean, besides talking to me?”  
“Well, Mulder, I was sleeping rather
peacefully.  What were *you* doing before deciding to wake me?”  My question 
came out just a tad more
harshly than I had intended and I knew it.  So did Mulder.  “Ok, sorry to 
have bothered you, Scully.”

He was about to hang up before I knew why he called.  Before I knew why he 
hadn’t just knocked on the damn
door.  Actually, with the lack of wall thickness, he could have just had the 
conversation with me without the use
of the phone, but when Mulder finds something he likes, he sticks with it.

I tried to reassure him.  “No, Mulder, it’s ok.  I just don’t understand why 
you don’t just come over here.”
“That’s not what this is about”, he told me.  Ok, I decided to bite.  “What 
*is* this about, Mulder?”  To be
honest, I was becoming more and more intrigued.  As I said before, Mulder’s 
voice over the phone is soothing
at the least and a turn on at the most; guess it kind of depends on your 
perspective.

We had grown quite a bit closer in the last few years.  Our relationship was 
taking turns I hadn’t even guessed
existed.  When Mulder remained silent, I re-asked the question.

He answered in his own, roundabout, answer-a-question-with-a-question 
manner.  “Is your bed comfortable,
Scully?  I mean, really comfortable?”  “Actually, yes, it is, Mulder. Is 
your bed ‘really’ comfortable, Mulder?”  I
decided to not only toss the ball back in his court, but bound it right into 
his hands.  I swore I could hear him
breathing a little harder.  Truth be told, I was, too.

He decided to change the subject with another question.  “What are you 
wearing, Scully?”  Two could play this
game.  “What are *you* wearing, Mulder?”  Any reservation or timidity in his 
voice was gone with my
question.  Mulder was on a roll.  “I’m wearing my boxers, Scully.  Those 
gray cotton ones you picked up for me
when they fell out of my suitcase when we checked in.  You know, the ones 
you said you didn’t know I liked to
wear because they looked rather form fitting?  Those boxers, Scully.”  
<Could you describe them a little more
clearly, Mulder?>  He just let that answer sit there.  Actually, I helped a 
little because I was speechless and
breathing too hard to form any sounds that most humans would consider 
intelligible speech.
“Scully, are you there?”  <Oh, yes, Mulder, I’m right here igniting my bed 
linens.>  “Yes, Mulder, I’m here.”
“Then, Scully, what are you wearing?”  Toss; the ball’s heading for me full 
speed.  “I’m wearing my pale blue
tank top and panties.  You know, Mulder, the ones you haven’t seen?”  I 
couldn’t resist.  I was feeling a little bit
more confident in what I determined was Mulder’s latest phone game.

At that point, we both heard a loud ‘clunk’ followed unceremoniously by a 
louder, ‘bang’.  The air
conditioning, the one, other, ‘luxurious’ quality about this place, had just 
checked out.  “Scully, did your AC
just stop?”

“That would be one word to describe what happened, Mulder.”  <The 
understatement; in full Mulder-glory.>

“Guess there’s no need for blankets anymore, huh?”  I could sense a slight 
change in his strategy, but I was
starting to see where this was going.  <Jeezus, Mulder, you planned the AC 
outage to fit your little phone
game.>  “No, Mulder, I don’t need the blankets anymore.”  “Soon, it’s going 
to be really warm in there and in
here, Scully.  You do know that, don’t you?”  <Hmmm.>  “I do know that.  Do 
you think we should call the
front office and see if they can fix it?  Maybe you took a special course at 
Oxford?  An elective in heating and
ventilation systems, maybe, Mulder?”  I was smiling and I guessed he was, 
too.  He loves it when I play his
game. And, most of the time, I enjoy it, too.

“No, Scully, no elective.  I don’t think the front office can help us out.  
I think we need to improvise.”  I tried to
decide what I was going to do at this point.  Oh, yes, I knew right where he 
was taking this conversation.  I was
very comfortable, it would still take a while for the lack of new cooled air 
to register.  I was laying on my side
with the phone on the pillow under my ear.  I still had the sheet over me.  
I tried to picture Mulder next-door,
maybe even facing my wall; facing me. I didn’t really trust myself to 
picture much below his face at this point
seeing that that much was enough to make me blush already. My choices were 
to let him ask the series of
questions I knew he was leading up to or to start the series myself.  I 
decided to take the plunge.  “How are we
going to improvise, Mulder?”  I could almost hear his smile growing and see 
the light in his eyes increase.
“Well, I think less clothing could help, don’t you?”  “I don’t know about 
that Mulder, sometimes fabric,
especially natural fibers like cotton and silk, can help cool the body by 
whisking away excess moisture.”  And I
knew I was going to need every fiber present in my cheap hotel room to whisk 
away the excess moisture from
certain areas of my body at the rate I was going.  Damn his slow build-up!  
<Work your way around that logic,
Mulder.>

“Usually, I’d have to agree with you on that point, Scully. However, the 
more exposed skin area, the more area
to receive cooling benefits of what’s left in our rooms.”  <Touché, Mulder.> 
  And, he wasn’t stopping there.  “I
was thinking that maybe you should remove your tank top, Scully.  Now, you 
don’t want to inadvertently
increase the heat by fast or sudden movements.  You should pull it up over 
you body nice and slowly, just
letting those natural fibers, silk, right?, move over you very lightly.”

Now, I knew his little game was getting to him, too.  His breath caught on 
that last phrase.  “Mulder, are you all
right?  You sound as if you’re experiencing respiratory difficulties.”  <Ah, 
the medical words flow for me so
easily.  Out of my mouth, into my partner’s ear.>  “Uh, no, no, I’m ok. So, 
where were you?  Are you taking off
your tank?”  Yes, I was taking it off; very slowly, just as he directed me 
to.  I was creating pebble flesh on
myself as the silk tank whispered over me.  As I pulled it up to my chest, I 
felt a chill.  That chill wasn’t from
what little was left of the AC, either.

“Scully, tell me where the tank is now, please.”  The addition of the 
‘please’ almost undid me.  That combined
with the fact that I was stripping for my partner who was achingly close, 
but so far away.  “It’s right at my
chest, Mulder.”  God, the heat had really started to fill my room.  I 
wondered whether Mulder’s room was more
comfortable and almost asked him.  “That’s good, Scully, that’s very good.  
Doesn’t the silk feel nice going
over your body?”

Before I could think clearly, heck, I hadn’t been thinking clearly for some 
time now, I inhaled deeply and then
moaned right into the phone.  “What was that, Scully?  I don’t think I heard 
the answer.”  I was very helpful at
that point.  I moaned again.  “Scully, finish taking the tank off and then 
I’ll help you with your panties.”  <Oh,
yeah, Mulder, help me with my panties.>  I pulled the tank off completely 
and nearly flung it across the room.
It amazed me just how far and how fast silk could fly when the air is still.

In order to once again try to regain some vestige of control, I asked, “So, 
Mulder, isn’t it your turn?  I mean, I
think those boxers need to come off, don’t they?”  I heard static and 
rustling, then, an almost inaudible, “Damn,
you Scully.”  “What was that, Mulder?  It sounded like you were cursing me.  
Is something wrong over there?”
No answer was coming.  I waited a few moments longer, “Mulder?”  Just as I 
was getting out of bed to head
over there <Yes, Scully, walk out into the night in a sheet and your 
panties.>, Mulder said, in a low whisper, “I
think I could use some help, Scully.”

Now I was torn.  On many levels.  There was the level of our actual 
relationship; what it was, what it might be.
There was the level of the sheer physical attraction I think we shared.  I 
mean, I know I was very powerfully
drawn to Mulder physically, but it was also tied in to our emotional 
connection.  Then there was the nagging
level of how our actions could jeopardize our careers.  At that point in 
time, my body, closely followed by my
mind, was sending me very strong signals to do its bidding.  Which was a 
soundbite for ‘I really needed to get
over to his room or get him in here.’

I was having a hard time figuring out how to keep the phone connection.  
There is something very alluring to
me in having him near, having his voice in my ear and feeling my body 
respond.  “Mulder, I don’t think I’m
dressed enough to come over to your room, if you know what I mean.  Why 
don’t you come over here and I can
help you?”

I heard the knock on the door before I realized he was no longer on the 
other end of the phone line.  I quickly
replaced the receiver in its cradle and took a few deep breaths.  The only 
light in the room was about to be the
two column candles I had found in the desk drawer; probably placed there by 
management due to power
outages such as this one.  <How very accommodating of them.>  I grabbed some 
matches from the nitestand.  I
quickly fluffed out my one-sided pillow hair, grabbed the sheet around me 
and went to the door.

Mulder has much less inhibition than I do as evidenced by what I found when 
I opened the door. His bare torso
and slender, boxer-clad, hips were backlit by the bright mercury vapor 
parking lot lights.  His hair also bore
pillow signs, but, unlike me, he had not bothered to do anything about the 
condition.  Tufts and spikes of hair
against the parking lot lights gave him a punky, surreal look.  “Hi, 
Scully”, he said as if he usually dropped in
on me half-clothed in the very early morning hours. “Mulder, come in here”, 
I said trying not to laugh.  I
reached out and grabbed his hand.  Without preamble, he started tugging on 
my sheet.  “Scully, I thought we
were working on cooling you off in this heat.  That sheet can’t be helping 
much.” <Oh, yes, Mulder it can.  It’s
helping me hide physical evidence.  Evidence of just how glad I am that 
you’re here. Looks like you could use a
sheet, too…>

As Mulder walked closer to my bed, the candles lit what I could not see at 
the door.  I used every last ounce of
whatever feeble self-control I still had to keep my hands clutched to my 
sheet.

Grasping at straws, <so I wouldn’t grasp anything else just yet>, I 
suggested we talk a bit.  About what, I wasn’t
sure.  I just knew that I needed some modicum of breaking power here.  My 
mind wandered and I briefly
wondered why I answered the phone to start with.  I wasn’t sure if I could 
go any farther with Mulder’s latest
phone game.

I  sat down on my bed and Mulder pulled up a chair, the chair back facing 
me.  He straddled the chair.  I was
once again hit by an internal heat wave.  He placed his hands on my knees. 
“Scully?  What’s wrong?  Did I do
something?”  Mulder, worrying about what he may have done wrong…  Sometimes 
I think the man needs a
good dose of self-confidence.  I mean, I’m the one who invited him over to 
my room.  I’m the one who was just
as scantily clad as he was.  “No, Mulder.  Nothing wrong.  I’m just not sure 
where this is leading. Where we are
in all of this.”I was starting to feel the effects of the dead AC.  I wasn’t 
sure how much longer I could sit with
the sheet wrapped over me.

Mulder carefully considered my words.  “Scully, you know I wouldn’t do 
anything that would make you
uncomfortable.  You do know that, don’t you?”  He was right; I did know that 
without a doubt.  Maybe the
person I was worried about was me?  I needed to slow things down because I 
wasn’t sure if I was ready for this
to go where it seemed to be heading.  I was starting to feel funny; silly.  
This was Mulder I was thinking about;
my friend, my partner, my…what?  I don’t know what else I was thinking; it 
was a jumble for me.  All I knew is
that I was nervous, but I didn’t want him to leave.

He was trying hard to read my reaction, to intuit what I wanted, what I 
needed at that moment.  True to his
nature, he stood up, taking my hand.  He pulled back the bedspread and 
blanket and lowered me to the bed.  He
kissed my hand.  That one gesture totally blew me away in its simplicity and 
meaning.  He looked at me one
more time and started walking toward the door.  I called his name, asking 
him not to leave.  I wanted him to
just sleep with me; nothing more, nothing less.

Mulder went to the other side of the bed and lay down on his back.  I rolled 
to face him, unwinding some of the
sheet to cover him as I lay my head on his chest.  We fell asleep in each 
other’s arms that night.

Fizz  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
I believe in having some constants in my life.  They help stay the chaotic 
tides.  Mulder, although certainly
unpredictable and chaotic, at times, is one of my constants.  He possesses a 
depth of caring, perception and
serendipity that is often hard to come by in one person.  When I look into 
myself, I sometimes see a more
studied person.  While my family and those few friends I am close to matter 
deeply to me, I do not readily
display my feelings openly or with Mulder’s same sense of seeming abandon.

His studied, analytical, eidetic memory aside, he is comfortable with dry 
humor and play.  And, oh how he
loves to ‘play’ with the phone.  That is, when he’s not letting it run down, 
losing it or forgetting it.  The man
probably owns hefty Nokia stock.

One month ago, we were sent on a stake out in a rather run-down part of 
town. A local bar owner was suspected
of running book in his backroom. The stakes were high.  Some big guns from 
out of town were expected to
drop quite a bit of cash.  Laundering was suspected.

Stake outs are not my favorite type of case.  They mean long hours in the 
car or a van; usually in weather
extremes.  This time, it was frigid , mid-February winter cold and ice.  If 
I drank one more cup of tea or coffee
in a fruitless effort to stay warm and awake…well, the picture paints 
itself.  We brought a good supply of CDs
with us, but the chatter from the games seemed to be steady, so we really 
had little time for the music.  In
between bursts of gameroom talk, Mulder regaled me with some one-liner 
responses.  I secretly think he plans
them to elicit a reaction.  The diffused glow of the overhead street lights 
accentuated his lopsided grin as he
told yet one more half-baked joke.  As half-baked as it was, it caught me 
off guard and I laughed so hard, I
thought I’d really lose it.  He laughed with me.

In the midst of our laughter, the gameroom chatter heated up a few notches.  
Deals made, money changing
hands.  Time to move in.  We turned the volume down on the recording device, 
locked the car and moved out.
The establishment-and I loosely call it that-was across the street and in 
the basement level of a rather run-down
building.  No surprise since it was in a run-down section of town.

We could hear oldies playing in the bar and the usual ‘bar sounds’; glass 
clinking, bottle caps hitting the wood
counter or floor, the TV playing some basketball game, raised, jovial 
voices.  Badges ready, we walked down
the steps and toward the bartender.  I give him credit, he kept his cool 
while professing to know nothing about
any activities that we heard about; ‘not on his premises, never’.  We showed 
him our badges and the search
warrant.  Given the amount of alcohol flowing and the good natured attitude 
of his patrons, I don’t think we
could have cleared the joint with anything less than that.  The back room 
hosted about half a dozen men.  Flip
the badges, cover the two exits, signal for back-up.  Textbook raid, 
textbook response.  Pats on everyone’s
backs; job well done.

Mulder decided to head out with the Section Chief to give details.  He said 
he’d meet me at the car.  I walked
out with some of the other officers and helped them process the perps.  We’d 
turn in our surveillance tapes at
the station.

As soon as I left the building, my cell phone started ringing.  “Scully.”  
“Scully, it’s me.”  <Music to my ears,
Mulder…>

“Mulder, is something wrong?”  I couldn’t imagine what could have happened 
that necessitated the phone call
when the car was only a block away--  I take that back.  The car was not 
where we left it.  “No, Scully,
nothing’s wrong.”  I swear there’s a smile in his monotone.  “Where are you 
Mulder?”  I’m walking around the
lit street, not sure if I want to be playing cat and mouse with my partner.  
At least not in this section of town in
the dark, in the cold.

“I just had to move the car so I could give the officers our tapes.”
I’m still walking toward where I think the car might be.  It’s almost as if 
following the sound of his voice will
lead me to it and him.
“I thought we were going down to the station to hand them in?”  Mulder keeps 
me talking. He doesn’t
comment on the tapes.

I smell a ruse.

I go back to, “Where are you Mulder?”

Now I *know* I hear a smile.
I’m trying to control mine before it gives me away.  I want him to hear 
frustration and maybe a smidgen of
anger.  The man knows no limits sometimes. And sometimes, I like to push 
those limits with him.

“Scully, I’m not too far from you.”
Okay, Mulder can see me…  “Just keep walking straight on Ashton Drive.  Turn 
left when you hit Main, ok?
You’ll see the car.”
I play along.  “Mulder, why couldn’t you just come pick me up?”  <What 
happened to the overly protective
partner of mine?  Has he been abducted?>

I’m now within sight of the car, but no Mulder.  I can see the exhaust 
coming out of the tailpipe; he has the
engine running.  The car is parked in a warehouse parking lot just outside 
the glare of the parking lot lights.  It
looks like it’s sitting in a field of some sort.  I can’t tell if there’s 
anyone in the car and now I’m very curious.
“Mulder, I see the car.  Where are you?”

“I’m here, Scully; just keep coming.” At this point, I’m glad I wore my low 
heels.  I hadn’t expected to be doing
this much walking on a car stakeout.  And, luckily for Mulder, the wind has 
died down some so I’m not
freezing.  He definitely wouldn’t like me freezing.

We were still talking with each other on the phone although I was about 10 
feet from the car.
“Mulder, are you going to join me or do I have to come pick you up?”
I headed around to the driver’s side, but it was locked.
“Scully, just open the back door and get in.”
Oookaaay…I was intrigued, I admit it freely.

As soon as I got in, I could make out Mulder in the shadows.  The doors 
locked around me.  He flipped his
phone shut.  I’m not sure how long I sat there just staring at him with an 
ear to ear grin on my face. All I do
recall is that a thrill ran from my stomach to my mouth and in a straight 
line right back down to my very core.
Something about the combination of having the doors lock around us and that 
damm sexy smile of his…

“Mulder?”  He didn’t say anything, but moved a little closer to me.  I could 
smell the cold in the wool of his
coat and the musky aftershave all mixed in with the warmth from the car’s 
heater.

“Are you cold, Scully?”  Mulder has a way with opening come ons.
“Nooooo… What’s this about, Mulder?”
“Scully, you do remember what day it is, don’t you?”  I ponder that 
question.  <Of course I remember. It’s
*my* darn birthday. >
“No, Mulder, other than Thursday, I couldn’t tell you.”  He reaches over the 
front seat and turns the CD on.
The strains of Pachibel’s Canon in D Minor fill the car.  He has chosen one 
of my all-time favorite melodies. It
fills my soul instantly.
He takes a small bouquet of baby’s breath tied with a white lace ribbon from 
the front seat and gives it to me.

I’m speechless.  If he pulls dark chocolate out of a hat, I’m a goner.  
“What Mulder, no chocolate?”
He produces one large, perfect Godiva dark chocolate truffle, dusted in 
cocoa and filled with even darker
creamy chocolate tinged with amaretto.  He brings it to my mouth.  Just as I 
am about to take a bite, his face
comes close.  He is mere inches from my face as he also bites the same piece 
of chocolate.  His proximity is not
lost on me, oh, no.  With chocolate between our lips, I reach one hand 
around to his shoulder.  The baby’s
breath bouquet flutters unceremoniously to the seat.  His hands pull on my 
coat sleeves.  Our tongues mix the
chocolate between us and our heat melts it. The chocolate amaretto center 
was thick on our lips and tongues.  I
pulled back to look at him, licking the chocolate from the corner of my 
mouth.  I brought my finger up to wipe
the remaining chocolate off my lips, but he stopped me, caught my wrist.  He 
took my hand, gently pulling my
fingers until my hand was open.  He placed my palm to my lips, transferring 
the chocolate from my lips to my
palm.  At this point, I was transfixed, my eyes watching every movement of 
his eyes and my own hand.  I
believe a pulse check would have indicated that I had entered the anaerobic 
zone…  He brought my chocolate-
smeared palm to his mouth.  My own lips parted and I distinctly felt quite 
wet below.  His lips parted and he
flicked the tip of his tongue quickly across my palm, causing me to utter 
his name linked with a higher deity.
He licked my palm until I thought I might come from that action alone.  <My 
god, Mulder, [edit] by palm
licking?>

He leaned forward and tongued any remaining chocolate from my lips.  I 
wanted to kiss his lips so badly it hurt,
but he pulled away, the corners of his mouth curving upward slightly.  I 
pulled back, the frustration on my face
readable.

Noticing that his mouth still held some unclaimed chocolate, I leaned 
forward again. My finger caught a bit that
had oozed onto his chin.  I smudged it with my thumb, then guided his face a 
little closer to mine.  I took his
bottom lip between mine, tasting the last bits of the chocolate.  When I bit 
him, he grabbed me, pulling me
closer.  I ran my tongue over his lip where I had bitten him and then kissed 
his lip. Our tongues in each other’s
mouths, the taste of chocolate, the taste of Mulder; Hershey’s Chocolate 
Kisses didn’t compare to ours

Mulder pulled back.  “Scully, I have some champagne for us, too.”  I knew I 
had died and gone to heaven.
Although those that don’t know me well probably wouldn’t mistake me for a 
romantic, these little touches were
moving me.  Mulder has a carefully hidden heart that really knows how to 
show itself.  We started sipping
champagne.  “Mulder, this is really nice.  I mean, ‘really’ nice! When did 
you have time to plan this?”
He simply thanks me for the compliment; my question unanswered.  The music 
continues, moving from
Pachibel to Vivaldi.

I am fast becoming mush; putty in his hands if he chooses.

It would be a mistake to think that this level of closeness between my 
partner and me was common place.  I
cannot deny that he has been the subject of many fantasies and daydreams for 
me.  I’m not even sure exactly
when it started.  We have had some ‘moments’, though.  Suffice it to say 
that although the feelings had not yet
been outright declared, they were there.  We were, each in our own way, 
exploring and testing, pushing the
edges a little more, a little more.

We had wrung the very last drop from the first champagne bottle.  I knew I 
was warm enough to no longer need
my coat and Mulder was already down to his shirt sleeves.

“Mulder, how on earth are we going to get home tonight?”  There was no way I 
was going to drive, nor was I
going to let him drive.  “I’ve taken care of that already, Scully”, he 
informed me.  He picked up his cellphone
again.  He muttered a few ‘yes’s’ and ‘ok’s’ and hung up.

“Soon, Scully, soon”, was all he said.  I slid over next to him and rested 
my head on his chest.  His arms came
around me, massaging me through my peach angora sweater.  I briefly wondered 
whether the combination of
the car’s heater, the soothing music and our body heat could cause 
spontaneous combustion.  I knew if I asked
Mulder, he’d say that anything is possible. Right at that moment, I would 
have believed him, too.

He was kissing my hair, running his fingers along my collarbone.  I turned 
and leaned back in his lap and
reached my arms around his neck.

Just as we started kissing, a limousine pulled up.  The driver lowered his 
lights.  “Scully, collect your things,
we’re leaving in the limo.”  ‘Collect your things’ he told me.  Ok, picking 
up my coat, the bouquet, our CD’s
would be easy enough.  Turning down my raging pulse and pounding heart was 
another matter.  My face felt on
fire and I know I was already breathing hard.  Probably the champagne, yup, 
that’s it. Mulder grabbed the
second bottle of bubbly.

Mulder didn’t seem affected at all.  He beat me to the limo.  He 
unceremoniously dropped all of our assorted
items in a small cabinet, put the bottle of champagne next to us and pulled 
me to his lap.  The driver nodded in
the rearview mirror and the one-way, dark glass window between our 
compartment and the driver silently
closed.  The combination of the luxurious cabin area and the CD sound nudged 
the heat another degree or two
for me.  Mulder pulled me back into his lap only this time I sat facing him, 
my legs over his, framing his hips.

I vaguely recall tossing all caution aside and almost drawing the very life 
from him with my first kiss.  I was
living one of my fantasies.  I sometimes found myself picturing us in the 
office, all business prim and proper.
Mulder at ‘the’ desk, his glasses on, reviewing some paperwork.  As my 
fantasy would play out, I would walk
over to him, remove his glasses, sit in his lap and kiss him; hard, before 
he had any idea what was happening.  I
would continue my lock on his lips until he was so breathless he begged me 
to stop.  Ok, so this wasn’t the
office, but limos are good.  I was willing to change the setting for this 
fantasy; especially for the sake of reality.
The firm, but yielding, texture of his lips started my small, but 
intensifying core meltdown.  I guessed that he
was about to join me as he arched up off the seat.  I took one hand from his 
shoulder and [edit].

I briefly wondered if Mulder had asked the driver to just drive until he 
said ‘stop’.  I had absolutely no idea
where we were.  We should have been home in about 20 minutes.  By my 
reckoning-and mind you, given the
champagne, my reckoning might have been slightly off-we should have been 
home already.  The motion of the
limo and the sheer ‘quiet’ around us provided a safe feeling.  Being in 
Mulder’s arms was at once safe and
extremely dangerous. I had come to realize that I liked ‘Mulder danger’.

I recall a fleeting thought that getting it on with Mulder on my birthday 
would be an interesting present. The
real question would be who was giving whom the present...

Back to our kiss.  We pulled back in order to regain breathing ability.  
Mulder’s eyes were closed and his mouth
was open, his hands in my hair.  He opened his eyes, searching my face and 
then traced my lips with his tongue.
We fought for control of each other’s mouths.  Our tongues dueled, my 
fingers touched his lips, explored his
mouth.  Mulder’s hands moved under my sweater.  I found myself on my back on 
the leather couch with his
face on my abdomen.  His tongue trailed across my abs and into my navel.  
His upper body completely covered
my lower body. My body seemed to have a mind of its own; arching up to meet 
his.  I was trying to tell him
where I wanted that mouth of his, but he couldn’t ‘hear’ me just yet…


I ripped his shirt out of his pants and nearly scattered half of the buttons 
around the limo.  I had an
overwhelming desire to shed clothing.  Our frantic movements sent us sliding 
off the couch and onto the floor
with a resounding thud and ‘ooaff’.  I really couldn’t afford to lose 
anymore breathing capacity… Mulder was
now underneath me and I crawled over him, pulling his hands back behind his 
head. I brought my face down to
his and licked him from his chin to his lips to his nose to his forehead.  I 
planted small kisses on his eyelids and
nibbled his earlobes.  He was writhing under me.  I briefly let one of his 
hands go so I could grab the
champagne.  I poured some of it into my mouth and swallowed.

I smiled before I made my next move. Mulder was watching me like a hawk.  I 
let his hands go and licked the
rim of the bottle ever so slowly.  His eyes followed every movement I made.  
I dipped my tongue into the mouth
of the bottle.  I then started to lean closer to his face.  He looked 
expectant, yes he did.  However, I don’t think
he was quite expecting what he got.

I tipped the bottle just a bit and wet my pinky.  As I ran my champagne wet 
finger over his lips, I placed my
other  thumb over the opening and held the neck of the bottle with my hand 
and I shook it; hard.  Mulder’s eyes
opened wider and he tried to move out from under me.  He wasn’t going 
anywhere.  I was firmly planted where
I could hold him nicely in place.  He saw the bubbles rising in the bottle 
and he saw the look on my face.  I
brought the bottle closer to his face, then moved it out of the way and 
licked his mouth.  Having momentarily
distracted him, I let go of the bottle opening and brought it closer to him. 
  Champagne fizz sprayed onto his face
and I let some drip onto his neck.  I immediately recorked the bottle and 
let it roll aside.

I slurped the small pools of liquid from his neck with my lips and tongue.  
I moved up his neck to tongue his
face.  Champagne kisses are right up there with the melted chocolate 
variety, I discovered.

I think Mulder was enjoying himself.  “Scully, you’re a snake, you know 
that, don’t you?”  Mulder was all over
me then.  He took the champagne bottle from where it came to rest when I let 
it roll aside. Copy cat that he
chose to be, he shook the bottle quite hard and crawled toward me.  I tried 
desperately (ok, not quite as
desperately as I could have) to get away from him, but even in the large 
limo, the space was finite.  I wondered
whether the driver was used to this much activity from his passengers.

I kicked my shoes off and gently tossed them at Mulder, hoping to keep him 
at bay a little while longer.  When I
ended up scrunched into the back corner of the farthest seat, I squealed and 
shrieked.  “Mulder, you keep that
bottle away from me!  You’ll ruin my good sweater.” <A feeble attempt.  The 
farthest thought on either of our
brains was ruining my sweater..>  Afterall, I only allowed a tiny bit of the 
fizz on him.  The amount of head
building in the neck of that bottle looked lethal.

I tried again.  “Mulder, it’s my birthday. You have to be nice to me.”  It 
wasn’t working.  “Scully, I *am* being
nice to you.”  He chose that moment to let go of the bottle opening.  
Champagne spewed everywhere covering
me and Mulder in the process.  We became a tangle of arms and legs; hands in 
hair; mouths and skin; tongues
and lips.  Can alcohol enter the blood stream through the skin?

Mulder, centimeters from my left ear, whispered, “I don’t have any cake for 
your birthday, but I have something
sweeter in mind.”

A few things happened, not necessarily in this order:  I froze, I swallowed 
hard, my legs went weak and I had a
distinctly warm rush through the center of my body. “Show me, Mulder.”

Touching  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo
There have been many times that we’ve needed some late night ‘debriefing’.  
About two months after my
birthday, we concluded our reports for a case involving a very disturbed 
man.

Suffice it to say, he went out of his way to try and debase Mulder and 
undermine his self-esteem.  While Mulder
is a confident man and competent Agent, he, like many of us, cannot always 
leave behind his demons.  Access
to information about Mulder’s quest for his sister is probably not hard to 
come by for the truly devious and
exploitative.  A little study into Mulder’s background would provide enough 
information to allow someone to
play to his personal guilt; guilt with a capital G.

Bart Sinese materialized out of Mulder’s early days at the Bureau.  Neither 
one of us was ever quite sure exactly
what his connection to Mulder was at the time, but he had an axe to grind.  
And he was going to grind it on
Mulder’s guilt.  Bart began his trail with type-written notes that he 
somehow left in our office.  No fingerprints
were ever found and oddly enough, Charlie could never find any sign of him 
on the surveillance tapes.

Initially, the notes were nothing more than hollow taunts; a word, a phrase; 
almost child-like in their content. “I
know your sister was taken by them.” Or, “They don’t have her, I do.”  Then, 
he turned to emailing Mulder and
the messages became  more detailed although the details could also be easily 
obtained.  Mulder was agitated at
first, then became frustrated that he could neither put a stop to the 
messages nor identify their source.

I became much more involved when Bart became bolder.  One morning, while 
Mulder was at the dentist, Bart
showed up at the office.  The name badge clipped on to his coat indicated 
some type of connection to a
government agency although it did not ring any bells with me at first.  He 
introduced himself to me and asked
me to give a message  to Mulder.  Having no idea who he might be, but 
comfortable enough with his clearence
and easy demeanor, I invited him to wait as I believed Mulder would return 
shortly.

He smiled. Actually, it was more like a smile turned sneer.  I became 
suspicious. He then laughed; a laugh that
was at once the sound of someone thoroughly amused at something and slightly 
on the other side of reality.  I
asked him how he knew Mulder.  He told me they went ‘way back’, they had 
almost worked together as
partners.  Curiouser and curiouser.  He inquired about my partnership with 
Mulder; was it everything I thought
it was going to be, did he discuss his sister frequently.  Already suspicous 
of this man, the sister question sealed
it for me.  I had to keep him talking until Mulder returned.  I found myself 
wondering what was taking him so
long, hoping he hadn’t decided to christen his new filling with a double 
cheeseburger and fries on the way back
to the office.

I offered Bart a seat.  He declined and started pacing.  He continued to 
pursue the questions about our
partnership; how we got together, what I thought of Mulder’s work; the 
questions becoming more specific and
more personal.

I stood up thinking I’d offer him some coffee and hopefully break his line 
of questions.  Wrong move.  He
walked toward me and grabbed my wrist, squeezing it hard.  He told me he 
couldn’t wait any longer, but he had
to give Mulder one last message.  I tried to pull my wrist free of his hand, 
but his grip was like iron.  I don’t
think he knew he was hurting me, he was so focused on delivering his 
message.  I took the opportunity to get a
closer look at the Agency printed on his name badge.  “Zone 15”.  I had a 
vague feeling I had seen some
reference to Zone 15 in one of our files.  I made a mental note to check it 
out.  I implored him to let go of my
wrist and he did, looking down at his hand and my wrist.  He took me by the 
shoulders and sat me down on the
edge of the desk.  He stood very close, almost as if he were afraid that I 
would miss the urgency of the message
he was about to deliver.

“You be sure to tell Agent Mulder that Bart made a startling discovery about 
Samantha.  Tell him that his
‘almost partner’ has been very active seeking ways to help him on his quest. 
  Tell him that failure to contact me
could prove to be his second bad move.”  The man was most likely deranged, 
which also meant dangerous.  He
knew too much about Mulder and me.

He turned and walked toward the door.  When he reached  it, he turned 
slightly and said, “Dana, do be a good
girl and remember the message.”

I finally exhaled.  Mulder arrived not ten minutes after Bart left.  Mulder 
could tell I was upset, I think I must
have been shaking.  Mulder had stopped at McDonald’s; he was munching on the 
last of the fries as he walked
in the door.  “Gee, Scully, you’re a little on edge this fine morning, 
aren’t you?”  That’s my Mulder, always
able to read a situation dead on.

“Mulder, I found the author of the notes and emails.  He was here looking 
for you this morning.”  Mulder still
had that goofy smile on his face as he walked toward me.  “Want some fries, 
Scully?”  I wondered if he’d heard
me.  “Ok, so who is this guy and what does he want?”

I asked him to sit down and get serious.  I was absent-mindedly holding my 
wrist.  That action caused him to
stop and look more closely at me.  He tossed the fries into the wastebasket, 
his attention now on me.  “Scully,
what’s wrong with your wrist?”  He reached for my hand and noted the slight 
redness at my wrist.  I pulled it
away, telling him it was nothing.  I then told him who his visitor was.  
Mulder blanched, his face losing color
quickly.  So quickly I wondered if he might fall over.  I helped him over to 
a chair, asking if he was all right.
He nodded.  I told him that Bart had a very specific message for him, but I 
wasn’t all together sure now was the
time to deliver it. Judging from his response to the name, I doubted the 
message itself would do much to cheer
his mood.

Mulder nodded, telling me to relay the message.  When I finished, he looked 
very disturbed, very angry and,
something more I couldn’t quite identify.  I pulled a chair up beside him 
and held his hand.  “Scully, tell me
about how he behaved.”  I described his behavior, inlcuding how he had 
grabbed my wrist.  Mulder was visibly
concerned for me, but I pushed his concern aside.  The message obviously had 
a major effect on him. “Scully,
this man is dangerous.  He’s still upset that you ended up as my partner 
when he had put in a request.  This isn’t
only about his anger with me, it’s about you.  I don’t think you should stay 
by yourself.”  I was touched by
Mulder’s concern, but I was more worried about his frame of mind.  I assured 
him that I would be fine.  I
suggested that we put out an APB on Sinese since we now knew who was 
responsible for the stalking.  Mulder
would have none of it, choosing, instead to deal with the problem on his 
own.

I admit I was nervous that night.  I got into bed knowing that sleep would 
not come easily.  After tossing and
turning, I lay on my back staring into the darkness.  The phone rang, 
startling me.  “Hello.”
“Scully, it’s me.  Did I wake you?”
“No, Mulder.”
We held on, neither of us speaking for a few minutes.  “Mulder, is something 
wrong?”
“I just wanted to make sure that you were ok.”
“I’m ok Mulder, really.”
“But you can’t sleep.”
“Obviously, neither can you.”
I tried to make it sound light, but he wasn’t ready for ‘light’.

“Mulder, tell me about Bart Sinese.  Maybe it will help you sleep.”

“I don’t know, Scully, it’s so long ago.  Bart was a year behind me coming 
into the Bureau.  He had a penchant
for detail and a strong curiousity that made him a good investigator.  For 
some reason, he set his sites on me as
his partner.”

“Mulder, that’s flattering, isn’t it?”  Mulder drew in a breath, I could 
hear it clearly.  He was trying to form and
frame his answer.  “I guess it was, at the time.  But he was also obsessive 
and possessive; had to know which
cases I was on, what I was doing, etc., etc.  When you were assigned to me, 
he almost lost it.  He asked around
about you; where you’d come from, why you got the assignment and he didn’t.”

“Did anyone explain to him just ‘how’ I came to be assigned to you?  Would 
he really haven’t wanted my
assignment?”  While I knew it was hard for Mulder to discuss this situation, 
I also knew he needed to do so.  I
wanted to take whatever pain I could from him; for him.  Mulder is wonderful 
at understanding others, helping
them find within them that which needs resolution.  However, just as doctors 
know they cannot medicate
themselves, Mulder knew somewhere deep inside that as a trained 
psychologist, he could not analyze his own
thoughts and feelings; at least not totally.  That he allowed me to help him 
touched me deeply.

“I think he must’ve gotten that information, Scully.  If no one told him 
directly, he was bright enough and
manipulative enough to find it out; figure it out.  It wasn’t about him 
understanding your assignment, it was
about him not having had the choice.  Bart liked to get his own way.  He 
didn’t get it this time.”  I could hear
anguish in his voice, but also exhaustion.

Not wanting him to feel placated, I gently asked, “Mulder, you do know you 
weren’t responsible for him not
being assigned to you?  Mulder?”  “Yeah, I guess I do, Scully.”

I moved on.  “Mulder, why was he using Samantha in his communcations with 
you?  Does he have information
that could be helpful?”  I knew how much Mulder’s on-going search had cost 
him.  At the outside chance that
information, any information, even from a strange source, could be helpful, 
I didn’t want him to lose it.  Mulder
sighed.  “No, no he doesn’t, Scully.  He knew about my search directly from 
me at the time. And, he had the
same access to the casefile I opened as you did, possibly more access.”  
This puzzled me.  “How?”

I thought I could hear a slight smile in Mulder’s answer.  “Scully, he’s 
with Zone 15 and has been for almost his
entire career.  Not ringing any bells with you, huh?”  I told him that I had 
never heard of it, but assumed it was
some covert operation out of the Defense Department.  “You’re partially 
correct, Scully.  Zone 15 is a covert
link between the Defense Department and the deep cover section of the CIA.  
Their actual workings are only
partially know around the Bureau. I think Skinner probably knows a lot more, 
but that’s mainly a result of his
position and his, um, ‘connections’.  They’re highly secretive and 
well-hidden.  One of our favorite problem
children was linked to them at one time.”

“’Problem children’, Mulder?  Which one?”  He paused and then said, 
“Ratboy.”  I drew in a breath.  I knew
Alex Krycek had more connections than I could track, but this was 
interesting and would make a great
conversation topic; at another time. I didn’t want to sidetrack Mulder’s 
discussion of Bart.  I asked him to
continue. “Well, Scully, I think it’s just Bart’s desperate attempt to 
cling.  He holds me responsible for him
ending up in another sector.”  “And, I repeat, Mulder, you do know you 
aren’t responsible.”  A statement this
time, not a question.

For awhile, neither of us spoke.  I rolled onto my side, almost hugging the 
phone to my body, trying to send
some comfort his way.  We must have been on the phone for almost an hour.  
No matter how often Mulder
called me in the middle of the night, for no matter what reason, a sense of 
deep calm overcame me.  That may
sound strange given the intensity of some of the discussions.  I admit that 
the emotion of the conversations have
ranged from anger to frustration to anxiety, sadness.  But they have also 
been wonderously joyous and caring ad
have always strengthened our bond.

I wondered whether Mulder was on his couch or in his bed.  I’m not sure 
exactly what prompted me, but I
found myself asking him if he wanted me to come over to his place.  I could 
hear him moving around, static,
banging.  It sounded like the receiver dropped.  Shock?  Surprise at my 
offer?  At any rate, he finally responded,
“Scully, I don’t want you to have to come out at this late hour.”  He didn’t 
say ‘no’…  “Mulder, I’ll be there in
a little bit.  Got any wine laying around that fridge of yours?”  Mulder’s 
refrigerator would have made a great
eighth grade science lab--experiment.  He laughed.  Oh, how good it sounded 
to my ears.  “I can do even better
than that, Scully.”

I threw on some sweats and sneakers and drove to Mulder’s.  It was 12:30A.  
Although I had been dead tired
when I got into bed, I was now wide awake; somewhere in that twilight 
between needing sleep and being able
to hold it at bay for awhile longer.  It probably comes with the territory; 
FBI Agents;especially Field Agents,
don’t often have normal sleep schedules.

Mulder greeted me, bottle of wine in one hand and popcorn in the other.  
<Sophistication; one of the many
things I admire about Mulder…>  “Is this what you meant when you said you 
‘could do even better than that’,
Mulder?  If so, I’m impressed.”  I gave him a crooked smile and patted his 
arm.

He put the wine and popcorn on the coffeetable and we sat beside each other 
on the couch, not saying anything
for a while.  We each had a glass of wine.  I could feel it heat its way 
through my body and felt a flush in my
cheeks.  I looked at him.  Mulder, the late night look; hair mooshed here, 
sticking up there.  I’d seen this look or
some variation of it over the years.  He spoke first, “Scully, thanks for 
coming. Sorry I brought you out so late.”
He looked at me; almost as if he were seeing me for the first time; 
searching my face.  I wasn’t sure for what,
but I knew I needed to assure him.  “Mulder, you know I wouldn’t be here if 
I didn’t want to be.”

Mulder’s wine was gone in a flash and I poured him a little more.  He was 
sitting with his shoulders hunched
forward and practically up under his ears.  “A little tense, Mulder?”  He 
smiled.  “How can you tell?”  I got on
my knees and moved toward him.  “Turn around a little.”  He looked over at 
me, a lazy smile forming on his
lips.  I could see tiredness behind his eyes, but I could also see something 
else there.  Our eyes locked briefly
and then he complied.

I put my hands on his shoulders.  I could have had my hands on granite with 
a tee shirt over it.   “Lower those
shoulders, Mulder.”  He relaxed; but just a bit.  “Ok, good.  Now, lower 
them a little more.”  He turned around
with a look that probably said something like, ‘ok, smart a$$, just give me 
a massage’, but I didn’t ask for a
translation.

I started massaging his neck and shoulders; he was tighter than a drum.  I 
moved slowly, first pressing and
running my hands over the muscles to increase the blood flow to the area.  I 
could see his neck turning a deep
rosey pink.  That was a good sign.  He hung his head forward, relaxing some 
under my touch.  I then made my
ministrations more specific and more probing, tracing the outline of his 
traps, his delts; moving from the upper
end of his neck, out toward his shoulders and into his upper back.  
“Mulder?”  I know I heard a sound; a cross
between a growl and a moan. “You okay?” His only response was a slight nod.

I moved my hands down over his shoulder blades and upper back.  I could feel 
his muscles beneath his gray tee.
“Mulder, why don’t you lie down and let me work on your back for you?”  He 
turned around and looked at me
again, questioningly, smiling.  The man doesn’t always make voice his 
innuendoes, but they’re there and I
know just how to read them… “Mulder, just lay down and don’t give me that 
look.”  He turned over and
sprawled out face down on the couch.  As I moved out of his way and stood 
up, I took a deep breath. The man’s
a$$ in jeans nearly overcame me.  Well, there’s only one way to remove the 
sight of temptation; I straddled his
hips and sat.  Mulder adjusted himself to my weight.  It was late, I was 
sleep deprived and giving Mulder a
massage.  That must have been why I was wondering if he was adjusting more 
than his weight.

Sometimes, when I ponder our relationship, I am amazed at what it’s been, 
what it is and what it can be.  There
are just so many levels.  Those levels sometimes scare me in their 
complexity, mainly because no other
relationship has existed on so many levels for me.   To say that we fulfill 
each other at once defines, but limits
the relationship.  I struggle to describe that, which by its very nature, 
goes without description.  Yet, somewhere
deep within me, in that place that Mulder, and only Mulder holds, I do know 
the description.  It’s not a nice
dictionary definition, can’t be summed up in a sentence or two.  Sometimes, 
only single words will come;
complete, safe, love, lightness.  Other times, it’s as if his famed 
slideshows play out in my head.  Fleeting
pictures of times together, times apart, from beginning to end click in 
front of me and then vanish to produce
the next image; a rough vision of who we are together.

Slow build-up would make a nice, yet, incomplete, description.  Ok, 7 years 
is more than slow, but I honestly
think we each knew there was something there long before that time.  In our 
own, individual ways, we
hesitated.  Me because of stubbornness, my upbringing and a keen wariness 
about what might happen to our
professional roles.  I think I was also very unsure of what he felt for me. 
I’d like to attribute my wariness not to
Mulder, but to my previous relationships and my own self-imposed 
insecurities.

Mulder, well Mulder is probably another story.  I can only guess at some of 
it; we haven’t really discussed this
area in much depth specifically, yet.  I have no doubt that we will, it’s 
just the way we are.  Mulder’s family did
not do much in the way of open affection where he was concerned.  The entire 
situation with his sister’s
disappearance, the guilt surrounding the circumstances and the knowledge 
that he may have been the intended
target at first have left emotional scars that run deep.  The saddest part 
is that, while they were alive, they never
seemed to acknowledge the heavy burden they placed on their only son and 
sole surviving child.

While I’m pretty sure I don’t know the extent of all of his previous 
relationships, Diana Fowley and Phoebe
Green certainly did a number on him.  From what I observed and what he’s 
said, they were both, in their own
bizarre manners, self-serving.  They took advantage of his warmth and caring 
and his need to connect.  Phoebe
preyed on Mulder’s innocence and his intense desire for approval.  From what 
he’s said, I picture a very one-
sided, controlling relationship with sex and power used to hold him in 
check.  It amazes me that Mulder has
come to a place where he is uninhibited in his personal relationships; that 
he has allowed his guard to fall.
With Diana, it sounds as if there was at least an initial combination of 
shared professional and personal
interests.  Where the deceit, the lies and the backstabbing took over, I 
cannot say.  Mulder’s need to believe the
best in her; at least for a time, was at once extremely hard for me to 
swallow and highly indicative of his depth
of caring.

Add to that level of guilt his inaccurate belief that my troubles since 
working with him have been his doing and,
well, you can see where that puts him emotionally.  There are times all I 
want to do is hug and kiss him and tell
him it will be all right; assure him that he is loved and he is safe with 
me.

Writing this; this description of who we are together, just confirms for me 
the depth of my love for this man.  It
also made me sometimes wonder if I had not been assigned to him if we would 
have ever met?  He would
almost certainly say we were fated to meet.  And, after some recent 
experiences for me, I believe that our paths
were destined to cross as surely as I know my own name.

So…  I was straddling his hips, ready to massage his back.  Mulder wriggled 
once or twice, probably settling
himself into the couch, and then he relaxed.  “Do you have any oil, Mulder?” 
  His face came up slightly off the
couch and he turned to try to see mine.  Never one to miss an opportunity 
for a wry comment, he asked me,
“Are you giving me a massage or preparing to stir fry me, Scully? Or, did 
you have something else in mind?”  I
lightly cuffed the back of his head. <Stir fry; interesting choice, Mulder.> 
“Oil, Mulder.  It lets the hands move
easily on the skin, cuts down on friction.  Any kind except motor oil will 
do.”

He thinks for a few seconds.  “You have two choices; I have a small bottle 
of olive oil and a little bit of baby oil
that came in a newspaper ad last week.”  Now it’s my turn to think.  Hmmm… 
either would work fine, but
somehow, the smell of the baby oil on Mulder just doesn’t work for me. It 
would interfere with the scent that is
his alone. I go for the olive oil. I find it in one of his kitchen cabinets 
tucked between a box of Cap’n Crunch
Berries, some soda crackers and a jar of spaghetti sauce. <Mulder making 
spaghetti? I suppose if little grey men
exist then it’s also plausible that he can cook.>

I returned to him with the oil.  I was afraid he might have fallen alseep, 
but he muttered something to me about
putting on some music.  I found some Dave Koz and turned the volume down a 
bit. The sax lent just the right
mood.

Before returning to my seat on his backside, I stood completely still, 
holding the bottle of olive oil in my hands,
looking at Mulder prone on the couch.  His long, lovely form totally 
relaxed, hopefully adrift in some alien-
first- contact fantasy, lay before me.  It’s strange how sometimes just the 
very sight of him fills me to where I’m
sure my heart will burst.  I feel myself drifting, as well.  I’m lifted into 
a sea of clouds that at once support me,
cocoon me and remain lighter than air around me.  “Did you change your mind 
about stirfrying Scully or do I
get my massage?  The clouds return to their natural state and I plummet to 
reality.

I put a few drops of the oil into my hands and rubbed them together, 
spreading the oil and warming my hands.
Before I sat back onto his hips, I told him to remove the tee.  I had also 
grabbed a towel to put under him so the
oil didn’t get onto his leather couch.

I covered the mouth of the bottle with my thumb to block some of the opening 
and let a few drops of oil fall
onto Mulder’s back.  He unexpectedly lifted slightly underneath me as the 
drops hit his skin.  “Whoa, boy.”  I
said as he settled down again.  Had he moved just a little bit harder, he 
could have tossed me from my perch.
As he came back down, my hands landed on his back. I had to grip his hips 
with my thighs to keep from
pitching forward.  This time, I was relatively sure that his movements 
beneath me had to do with accomodating
a part of him that refused to relax…

I began with his lower back, one hand on either side of his waist moving up 
and out with broad strokes.  His
skin was turning pink as it warmed.  I continued with the broad strokes 
moving up to his middle and then,
upper, back.  I was glad to have my sweats on.  I hadn’t planned on having 
oil on my clothing and they allowed
me to move a lot easier.  As I leaned forward to massage his shoulders, my 
sweatshirt was in contact with his
oiled skin.  I stopped momentarily to remove it.  I figured Mulder was 
pretty far gone since he hadn’t moved or
spoken when my hands left his body.  I tossed the sweatshirt onto the 
coffeetable, leaving my stretch cotton
tank.  Again, his head came up slightly, “Scully?”  Just my name.  Just a 
question.  Just noting the disconnect.

“I’m here, Mulder.”  I returned my attention to his body beneath me.  Once 
his skin was warmed, I started
moving along his spine, my thumbs pressing together down its length applying 
just enough pressure to relieve
some of the stress there.  I moved back down to the waistband of his jeans 
and slid my thumbs underneath, my
fingers splayed across his lower back.  I applied some pressure with my 
thumbs while letting my fingers radiate
across his lower back.

They say massage is sensual.  Whoever ‘they’ are, they are correct in their 
assessment.  I had not started this
massage with anything else in my mind other than helping Mulder relieve some 
of his tension.  However, the
feel of his warm, oiled skin beneath my hands and his very nice butt 
underneath me was starting to have its
effect.  I took a deep breath and continued massaging.  Even without my 
sweatshirt and accounting for my
movements, I felt the first heated flush in my face.   All good intentions 
aside, I knew I was becoming quite
aroused.

Occasionally, I would check on how he was doing.  “Mulder, how’s the 
pressure?”  “Hmmm.”  “Mulder, are
you doing ok?”  “Hmmm.”  I decided he was doing just fine.

I was doing fine for awhile, too, content to focus on relaxing him.  The 
fact that he hadn’t fallen asleep amazed
me.  I never really lasted through the hour when I received a professional 
massage.  Then, my mind and body
took over again.  Maybe it was the late hour, maybe I don’t really care what 
it was…

I became acutely aware of my inner thighs holding his hips in place; my very 
center in extremely close contact
with his a$$.  I realized I was gripping is lower body tightly and had to 
will myself to release my muscles.

I couldn’t help but notice the fine cut and outline of his back and shoulder 
muscles.  Even at rest, I could see
the definition of his lats and deltoids; could feel their outline.  Mulder 
would never have a body builder’s ropey
physique, but what he did have looked pretty fine.

I moved forward on his butt a little more to reach his neck.  Like most of 
us, he carries his stress there.  I
worked up toward his scalp, probing into his hairline, my fingers pressing 
gently into the ridge just above his
neck, in his hairline.  I moved my fingers behind his ears, circling them 
lightly.  My touch elicited a few moans
and grunts.  “Are you ok, Mulder?”  “Oh, yeah, Scully, fine…”

I moved my hands down over his neck again and forward onto his shoulders as 
far as I could reach before the
leather couch impeded me from going and farther.  I had to slide farther 
forward to reach and  my arms were
starting to fatigue from the strain because of my position.  When I looked 
at the clock, I noticed that it had been
almost 40 minutes since I began.  I slowly, oh-so-slowly, moved my fingers 
back down to his neck.  I moved my
hands across his shoulders and down along his back, hoping to signal him 
that I was finished.  It was late and
we both needed sleep.

As I started to climb off of him, he somehow snaked an arm back and caught 
my thigh.  “Where’re you goin’,
Scully?” he slurred in that massage haze I know so well.  “Mulder, my arms 
are tired and I think you can sleep
now.  Unless you want to talk some more about Bart?”  I finished standing 
and he slowly sat up.  His face was
smooshed from the leather and he looked like he was ready to nod off.

I was wrong… “I don’t want to talk, Scully.  I’m feeling better.  But, 
you’re not finished.”  I whined.  There’s
not much I would deny Mulder, but I really was physically tired.  “Mulder, 
my arms are tired.”  He smiled.
Mulder is the man of many smiles and they each say something a little 
different to me.  This smile in particular
is the, ‘I have something in mind that I think you’ll like’ smile.  “Scully, 
I don’t think you took care of all of my
tension.”  <Oh, no, can’t head down that road.  Work in the morning…>

Mulder moved to the center of the couch.  “Come have a seat.”  He patted his 
hands on his jeans.  I must have
looked a little uncertain because he followed that gesture with a raised 
eyebrow and titled his head to the side,
motioning me over.  I stood still.

As I write this, I recall vividly my feelings and my thoughts at that one 
moment.  It felt as if I were on a
precipice with an unknown destination below.  I was foggy from a combination 
of lack of sleep and the
intensity of my enounter with and subsequent discussion of Bart.  I was also 
with Mulder and, as much as I
knew him, I knew he could be unpredictable.  In my ordered world that both 
unnerved and thrilled me.  I had a
fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach and my heart in my mouth.

I complied.  He took the bottle of oil and gave it to me.  I admit I was 
lost.  There were any number of ways this
could play out.  I didn’t have a clue what he had in mind.

He led me to the clue…  He held the wrist of one of my hands and turned it 
palm up.  He then took my other
hand with the bottle of olive oil and poured a few drops into my open palm.  
He took the bottle from me and set
it down on the coffeetable.  He held both of my wrists and brought my hands 
together, sliding them back and
forth to spread the oil.  The entire time, I was watching his hands, totally 
fascinated.  He was watching my face.
He took my oiled hands and placed them on his chest, holding them in place, 
one hand over his heart, the other
parallel to it.  His heart was beating hard and I think I had forgotten to 
breathe.  Not letting my wrists go, he
began to move my hands over his chest and abdomen. I was entranced.

If I were actually thinking at the time, I might have been running through 
the possible outcomes of our current
situation.  One very clear outcome had us shedding clothing and, as my 
partner so reverently termed it not that
long ago, ‘doing the naked pretzel’.  Another outcome had me simply 
finishing my massage for him and
leaving.  I know there might have been other outcomes, but, god help me, 
most of them circled right back
around to the first outcome…

Again, I stress, ‘if I were actually thinking’, which I could not seem to do 
with any clarity at that point.  I was
reduced to sensory mode.  I felt the slick heat of Mulder’s chest beneath my 
hands, his heart pounding into my
palm.  I felt the weight of him underneath the weight of me, his thighs 
hard, stable.  I felt his hands still circling
my wrists, gentle pressure, his thumbs moving back and forth over my skin.  
I could hear his breathing,
somewhat labored or maybe that was me?  What I could see was as powerful as 
what I could feel.  His face.  So
simple, so elegant in its structure and composition.  His hair, parted on 
the side, some of it hanging in his face;
casual.  His eyes, low, lidded, the greenish hazel darkening slowly.  His 
mouth.  I always find myself caught
here.  The lower lip, so full and pouting, the shape of his upper lip, lazy, 
bow-like.  Now, lips slightly parted,
neutral.

My hands started to move on their own.  It dawned on me at that point that I 
had made a decision regarding the
outcome.  Mulder took his hands from my wrists and moved them to my upper 
arms.  The thin straps of my tee
ended up on my upper arms.  I think I heard him in my personal fog.  I just 
remember thinking, ‘Mulder just
said something.’  I looked at him and focused.  “What?”  He grinned; a 
one-sided grin.  “I said, ‘thank you,
Scully’.”

Was I being sent home?  I think that thought scared me.  “For what?”  I was 
really curious.  He rubbed his hands
up and down my arms, his fingers moving under the straps, stilling my hands 
on his chest.  “Thank you for
coming, for talking to me, for my massage.  Just thank you.”  Simple, to the 
point.  I was being sent home and I
was sad about it.  I started to move off of his thighs.

He moved quickly. He asked tenderly. “Where are you going, Scully?” Oh, man, 
I thought, I must be seriously
in need of sleep. I’m getting so confused.  ‘Do I stay or do I go?’  I know 
what I wanted to do, but I was still
having trouble reading Mulder’s wishes.  Direct, that’s what would work.  “I 
thought you wanted me to leave,
Mulder.”  He sat me down next to him on the couch.  “No.”  Again, simple, to 
the point.  The tension in my
body was palpable.  ‘No’ he didn’t want me to leave.  Now what?

Mulder was speaking again.  “I want to repay the favor.”  “What favor, 
Mulder?”  He was already moving
forward on the couch, moving the coffeetable farther away from the couch.  
He then took the towel from the
couch and spread it out on the floor.  Without a word, he went into his 
bedroom.  He returned with a blanket
folded it in half lengthwise and placed it over the towel.  I could see 
where this was going and I liked it.  “Your
turn, Scully.”  I laid face down on the blanket with my forehead on my 
hands.  “Do you prefer baby or olive oil,
Scully?” Uh, oh, a decision; not a very difficult one, but a decision 
nonetheless.  “You choose, Mulder.”  He
stuck with the olive oil.

Just as I had done, he straddled my hips, but he wasn’t putting his weight 
on me.  I guess he was a little
concerned about the major difference in our weights.  After putting oil on 
his hands, he placed them on my skin
under my tee.  I remember trying hard to focus on his touch as a massage and 
nothing more.  I was not
succeeding.  His hands were very warm from the oil and the rubbing.  The 
sheer size of those hands allowed
him to easily cover my entire lower back from my waist to just below my 
shoulder blades.  I was glad to be
laying down already because I was sinking into the blanket slowly but 
surely.

The tee shirt was getting in the way of his efforts.  “Scully?” He asked 
while lifting the hem of the shirt slowly.
I understood the question and sat up.  I looked briefly at Mulder who was 
sitting back on his heels.  I pulled the
shirt up over my head. Our eyes locked for a brief minute; something was 
communicated.  I laid back down.

Mulder’s hands were all over my back, my shoulders, my neck. When they swept 
down my sides, I giggled.  He
increased the stroke pressure and that did away with the giggles. Mulder was 
tracing wide arcs along my back
with his hands and it felt wonderful.  At some point, he pulled my arms 
gently down by my side and started to
massage them, too.  I found myself wondering where he learned his technique 
as it somewhat mimicked what
my usual massage therapist did.  When he finished my arms, I moved my hands 
back under my head which I
turned to one side.

At first I thought he was finished, but he was moving farther down to my 
hips.  He placed his hands on my
backside and just left them there for a minute; another question.  I 
muttered, ‘sure’.  His hands were actually
kneading me.  If I had felt drowsy and ready to sleep while he stroked my 
back, that feeling changed.  While I
was very relaxed, I was also getting hotter by the moment.  His hands 
pressing into me, then moving to the
outsides of my hips and back in was setting off a lazy spiral inside me.  He 
started lifting my hips slightly off
the floor, then massaging them as he lowered me back to the floor.  I was 
delirious.

“Mulder” I muttered into my hands.  When he didn’t respond, I realized he 
probably couldn’t hear me.  I picked
my head up slightly and said his name again.  He leaned down close to my 
face.  I didn’t actually know what I
ws going to say.  It may have been along the lines of ‘get your body down 
here now’ or ‘I want you to [edit] me
now’.  I just knew I was in a precarious place.  He pushed the table farther 
away and lay down on the floor
facing me, his head on his elbow.  He placed one hand on my face.  I somehow 
inched over closer to him.  He
was letting me call the shots and I wasn’t sure.  “Mulder, either I should 
leave now or--“  I didn’t know what
‘or’ choice to give.  I was hoping he’d do that.  “I don’t want you to 
leave, Scully, but you call it.”  Ok, he did
help me out there. Damn, there are times I can’t for the life of me figure 
out why I hesitate around him.  I think
sometimes that ‘good girl’ upbringing comes to the surface; at the wrong 
time!  I knew this is exactly where I
wanted to be.  Forget about the fact that we both had to be in a meeting 
with Skinner at 9A and it was already
2A.  Forget about the fact that I’d have to go to my place to dress or show 
up disheveled in sweats.  I did forget
about all of that.  The choice wasn’t too difficult with Mulder this close 
to me.

I lay on my back and told Mulder that I didn’t think he was finished with my 
massage.  He reached for the
bottle of oil and let some of it drip onto my chest.  I nearly came out of 
my skin.  Mulder started the massage
with his fingers on my shoulders and the heels of his hands on my pecs.  He 
swept his hands upwards toward
my shoulders, moving in the direction of muscle fibers.  Although his 
strokes were close to those of a
professional, I wasn’t ‘draped’ as I would have been.  I was starting to get 
a chill and he knew it.

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead while placing his palms lightly on 
my chest.  I was reaching my
limit.  My nerve endings were liquid fire.  I somehow managed to pull him 
down on top of me, but he rolled us
over until I was on top of him.  It was rather surprising that we didn’t 
slip and slide off of each other.  Between
the two of us, we were coated in enough olive oil to make a good Italian 
chef proud!  I looked at him for a
moment; neither of us moving.  I had to think hard to remember how and why I 
had come to his place tonight.
“Mulder?” One of the many things I still find intriguing and sometimes 
bewitching (yes; that’s me using the
term ‘bewitching’) about our relationship is our ability to say much without 
saying much.  Mulder had his hands
on my shoulders, drawing lazy patterns on my oiled skin with his fingers.  
He smiled at me.  “Scully, I really am
ok about Bart.  He just came out of nowhere into my life; our lives, and he 
caught me off guard.  I’m going to
just leave it alone.”  I smiled back at him and gave him a chaste kiss on 
his lips.  “I should go home, Mulder.”
He helped me up off the floor and grabbed the throw from his couch, wrapping 
it around my shoulders.  “No,
Scully, you shouldn’t.”

Flexibility  <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo

Thursday afternoon

The ability to change one’s course of action.  Having a plan and then no 
longer having that plan.  Moving from
the known to the unknown without fear.  Sounds plausible; for those of us 
who aren’t grounded in the facts of
life, liberty and the pursuit of the truth.

As is probably obvious at this point in my writing, I am fundamentally the 
same person I have always been.
With a few minor exceptions.  I cannot and would not go so far as to say 
that others changed me.  I do not
believe that we change unless we so choose.  However, external influences be 
they life circumstance,
relationships, can shape our view and ultimately effect who we are; who we 
become.

Such is the case with my relationship with Mulder.  It has been a two-way 
street.  While he would most likely
be described as the more open, whimsical and 
subject-to-change-for-change-sake partner, he does have his
stubborn side.  I have found that it sometimes exceeds my abilities in that 
area…  I love a challenge and Mulder
has provided a few.

“Keep an open mind and give it a try, Agents.”  That’s what the Employee 
Training Department told us when
we were about to go into rigorous training for future fieldwork.  “It” was a 
yoga course.  Mulder was not
amused by “it”; no, not at all.  Mr. I’m-as-Open-Minded-as-the-Next-Guy had 
never heard of any guys taking
yoga.  He went on to ‘explain’, as he called it, (I called it whining) that 
his body just didn’t ‘move that way’ and
that he was not about to ‘wrap his legs around his neck’ in front of just 
anyone. <So, Mulder, you would wrap
your legs around your neck for anyone special?>

In my best attempt to enlighten him, I tried to explain the benefits.  Mind 
you, I was partially attempting to
convince myself.  I do workout; quite strenuously.  I also love to relax, 
but, up to this point, a bubblebath
seemed to do the trick.  I’d heard and read a lot about yoga and I relayed 
this information to Doubting Mulder.
He needed ‘proof’, although he was quick to tell me that it wasn’t ‘me’ he 
doubted, just the fact that there could
be any real benefits.

“If yoga is supposed to be ‘relaxing’, ‘slow-moving’ and help me stretch 
better, just what are we in training for,
Scully?  I mean, how many cases do you know of where I might be required to 
stand for long periods of time
like a tree?  Or, do that ‘salute the sun dog’ position; or whatever it’s 
called?  We need agility, stamina,
strength.  We already have that.  Would you care for a demonstration of my 
current state of skill?”

Mulder, never able to stay focused for too long on a serious note.  Trying 
to explain to him just how core body
strength and agility are essential to all else he noted wasn’t working.  I 
wasn’t sure whether he was just trying to
be contrary (we’re pretty accomplished at the fine art of discuss/debate) or 
if he was simply embarrassed at the
idea of doing yoga poses.  Skeptic that I am, I was mildly intrigued when I 
wasn’t worried about tripping over
myself.  However, I was not about to show Mulder any of my hesitation.  I 
knew that he’d never let the issue
drop at that point.

The first class was on Friday morning.  I had exactly one day to try to 
convince myself so I could convince him
and figure out what to wear.  That is where Mulder wanted to start.  “What 
do I wear, Scully?  I’m not going
around in any of those weird yoga clothes.”  Sweeping generalizations from 
the man with an intellect to rival
the best gurus.  “What exactly are ‘yoga’ clothes, Mulder?”  He told me his 
perceptions included long flowing
loose clothing and bare feet.  He didn’t like to bare his feet.  I knew 
this, but couldn’t figure out why. But,
realizing we all have body parts about which we are less than happy, I never 
pushed the issue.  Lord knows I’ve
seen them enough times and they don’t frighten me any, but I’m not Mulder.  
I told him clothing was his choice
but he needed to be able to move unimpeded.  He could wear socks.

“Better Life through Healthy Living”.  “Who comes up with these names, 
anyway?”  Mulder hadn’t even made
it in the door to the studio and he was already criticizing it.  We were off 
to a great start.  I didn’t dare respond.
I had chosen some of those ‘yoga clothes’; thin, lightweight microfiber jazz 
pants, long-sleeved lycra top, bare
feet.  Mulder wore sweats and a turtleneck and…his socks.  “Good choice of 
clothing, Mulder.”  I was being
supportive.  He was spoiling for a nasty comeback, but stifled it.

As we walked in to the studio, I could hear the group leader, “…Iyengar is a 
type of hatha, or, physical, yoga.
Iyengar’s particular style of performing the yogic asana (or postures) is 
distinguished by tremendous attention to
practioners' individual bodies and alignment. It requires an unrelenting 
search for deeper levels of awareness
and self-penetration in each and every moment of each and every pose.  While 
our lessons will be based on
Iyengar, we will also borrow from other forms.”  Mulder wanted to know who 
Iyengar was and just how he was
expected to achieve ‘self-penetration’.  I swatted him on the arm.  We 
walked in to the studio.

We each grabbed a sticky mat and found a spot on the blond, hardwood floors. 
  The studio had floor to ceiling
mirrors on three of the walls and windows with blinds on the fourth.  It was 
light and airy.  We sat toward the
back since we were among the last to enter.  There must have been about 20 
other Agents and Directors already
there.

As the group leader continued to explain, his voice became softer and more 
level.  I noticed the very faint,
melodic music in the background.  In spite of myself, the combination of his 
voice and the music started to lull
me.  I looked over at Mulder, sitting cross-legged on his mat; those long, 
slim, muscular legs crossed in front of
him, his hands resting on his legs in an interesting approximation of a 
basic breathing posture.  He, too, seemed
drawn by the voice and music.

He had to have noticed the attention I gave him and decided he wasn’t quite 
ready to succumb to the
atmosphere.  He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “If he starts to sing, 
I’m outta here, Scully.”  He smiled
and returned to his position.  <You’re not fooling anyone, Mulder.  You are 
so getting into this.>

We began with breathing techniques.  The room fell silent as the weight of 
our collective breath settled around
us.  I found myself strangely quiet; quiet in body, quiet in thought.  That 
is, until I noticed Mulder ‘breathing’.
His eyes closed, his lashes laying softly on his face, his lips parting 
slightly as he exhaled (even though we were
instructed to keep our mouths closed on both the inhale and exhale).  His 
chest rising and falling slowly.  I
found myself matching his rhythm.  I wanted to close my eyes, too, but if I 
did, I would surely miss a chance to
see true Mulder peace.  I had oriented myself to his body, his posture, his 
breath.

Two stubborn, set in our own ways of knowing, of experiencing life people, 
sat side by side unlearning and
relearning.

Since this session was intended solely as an introductory venture, we moved 
slowly.  Our next experience
incorporated the breathing technique and an attempt to become more ‘in 
touch’ with our own body.  It was a
tribute to the group leader’s skill that Mulder didn’t even attempt to make 
a crack about being in touch with his
own body. (And I was pretty proud at myself for not even thinking about 
being in touch with his body.)

We were instructed to lay on our backs on our mats, knees bent, arms at our 
sides.  This would be a partner
activity.  I knelt by Mulder’s waist and was told to place the palm of my 
hand below his ribs.  Mulder giggled.
So much for my misperception that he was relaxed.  The laying down partner 
was told to practice the deep
breathing technique.  The kneeling partner was supposed to help her/him 
focus attention on the breathing.  Did
the group leader forget to tell everyone what this actually ‘felt’ like?  
How about the incredible connection
formed when feeling the very breath moving through someone else’s body?  How 
about the fact that I don’t
think the group leader knew what this was doing to me?  Mulder’s eyes were 
closed again and his arms moved
out at his shoulders to he looked like a huge “T”.  Lord help me, I wanted 
to ‘really’ connect with his breathing.
I figured that if my palm could feel his body move, my body on top of his 
would probably let me feel even
more.

I snapped back to reality.  It was time to change places.  Mulder’s hand 
rested on me with gentle pressure;
enough that I knew he was there, but not intrusive.  Then, his hand started 
moving. At least I think it did.  The
warmth from his hand on my shirt and my deep breathing were playing strange 
games with my perception.  It
almost felt as if he were ‘gliding’ the breath up to my lungs, forcing it to 
expand my ribcage.

We had not spoken two words to each other since Mulder’s earlier comment 
about ‘self-penetration’.  It seemed
like years had passed us when it was probably 20 minutes.  I felt as if my 
breath was coming from Mulder and
moving through me to be returned to him.  It was at once exhilirating and 
calming.

Before we were allowed to fall asleep, the group leader had us stand to 
begin preliminary work for the basic
poses.  We started out with warm up for the Triangle Pose.  We would end up 
working with our partner again
after individual warm up.  The group leader explained that while there were 
classes for partner yoga, the truer
form was done on one’s own.  We were practising partner techniques to keep 
us in working connection to our
field partners.  I reminded myself to think of it only in that way next time 
my breath caught while looking at
Mulder.

We started with our feet about hip width apart, imagining our weight evenly 
distributed in our feet.  The weight
in our feet was distributed along three points of a triangle beginning in 
the center of the heel, moving to the ball
of the great toe and across to the pad beneath the baby toe.  So much to 
think about!  From there, we were told
to reach one arm up toward the ceiling while sliding the other hand down the 
side of our body.  Since Mulder
was leaning away from me, I was able to watch him.  Now the only problem 
(aside from the need to comment) I
could see for Mulder would be static poses.  Mulder loves to fidget; to 
move.  While the group leader explained
that once we had the poses down, we would move through them one right after 
the other, at this point, we were
static much of the time.  Mulder’s long, lean body held Triangle Pose quite 
nicely.

We next moved to the Tree Pose.  It consisted of standing on one leg with 
the other turned out at the hip, foot
just above the knee, against the inner thigh of the standing leg.  Mulder 
and I looked at each other, both
thinking there’d be no way in he!! we’d ever get a leg there.

Mulder decided I should be the first recipient this time.  He was instructed 
to stand close behind me.  He was
going to serve as physical support as I found my balance and attempted the 
Tree Pose.  We were told to initially
use our arms however would help us balance.  Our final pose would have the 
arms parallel to each other,
fingers to the ceiling.

Mulder sensed that I didn’t want him to touch me at first.  I needed to 
achieve this pose on my own. I shifted
my weight to my right leg, arms slightly flailing and pinwheeling to capture 
and keep my balance.  I brought my
knee up and started to turn out at the hip.

That’s when I felt Mulder’s warm breath on my neck.  I hadn’t even realized 
he had come closer I was so
absorbed in my Pose.  I tried not to focus on the whisper light warmth, 
tried not to imagine how close his lips
were to my skin.  I slipped, my arms careening to keep me standing.  My 
partner caught me under the arms and
righted me.  I tried again.  And again.  And again.  They say the third try 
after the first failure is the charm.

I managed to hold the pose with my hands; palm to palm, in front of me.  
Mulder was close behind me should I
fall out of the pose.  I didn’t.  He brought his arms every so lightly 
around my body and pressed his palms
against the backs of my hands.  I’m not sure how I managed to hold my Pose 
at that point.

It was his turn.  “Scully, if I fall, I’ll knock you over.”  Mulder, ever 
solicitous.  “Mulder, I’ve saved your butt
many a time. I think I can handle a little yoga pose.”  I assumed my 
position behind him.  Mulder’s balance was
actually pretty amazing.  It was clear that he didn’t need any physical 
bolstering from me.  The group leader
walked among us, offering sage comments and tips.  When he reached me and 
Mulder, he congratulated Mulder
on his ability to hold the Tree Pose.  He then suggested that I practice 
connecting with my partner by placing
my hands on him in demonstration of my support.  Mulder continued to hold 
the pose as if he’d done this a
million times before…I found it just a little bit hard to picture my 
ever-moving, active partner that
‘balanced’…<Oh, Mulder, if you’ve been playing me on this one, you will so 
regret it.>

The group leader suggested that based on my size and height, I should 
support his center.  I was about to ask
him exactly where along Mulder’s lithe body his ‘center’ might be when he 
took my hands and placed them on
Mulder’s hips.  “Hold him with your strength and give him your breath.  Hold 
him here.”  <Hoo-boy>

Well, I knew I felt very connected to Mulder after a few minutes of Tree 
Hugging; I mean Tree Posing.  The
first session was over and we were told to practice more at home.  I still 
had my suspicions about past
experience for Mulder.  Especially since Mr. Skeptic so readily turned 
Believer…

My suspicions grew on our way out.  “Hey, Agent, how was your *first* 
session?”  Agent Blaine leaned toward
Mulder’s ear and added; in what he *thought* was his best stage whisper, 
“With that hot little partner of
yours?”  I smirked at them both and started to turn my back on them.  As I 
was about to head for the door, I
heard Blaine remind Mulder about ‘tantric yoga’. Mulder all but leered at 
Blaine and told Blaine that he’d done
some checking and thought maybe we’d use some of it for our practice 
sessions. <Oh?>

Now, as I looked at it, anything that produced *that* look on Mulder’s face 
usually meant trouble, videos of a
perverted nature or just plain old mischief.  I was leaning toward 
‘trouble’. I had a feeling I had better do a little
research of my own.

“So, Scully, what are you up to this weekend?”  Mulder called me later that 
afternoon.  We actually had no
reports, no paperwork to finish.  We did, however, have to practice for our 
sessions next week; Monday,
Wednesday and Friday.  “Oh, I don’t know, Mulder, I figured I’d do some 
practicing.  What about you?”
Mulder suggested we practice together in the name of ‘partnerly connection’. 
  <Sure can turn a phrase,
Mulder.>

I put Mulder off until Saturday afternoon, telling him I had a few errands 
to do.  That was true.  But, the biggest
*errand* was my on-line research concerning ‘tantric yoga’.  What surprised 
me most was not that Mulder
knew about tantric.  What surprised me was the endless variations of yoga.  
My basic understanding of yoga
began and ended with what I had told him before our first session.  Based on 
the short time in our session, I
could tell that it would be both relaxing and energizing.  However, I think 
I could see where Mulder was going
with his interest in tantric; and it wasn’t solely to “…awaken the powerful 
psychic  energies through which the
one can enter into higher states of consciousness…”.

I arrived home about an hour before Mulder was due to arrive.  I had printed 
out a few articles I located on the
‘net.  I changed into my jazz pants and a sports bra and turned on the AC.  
Although it was only the end of May,
we were having one of those early spring heatwaves.  I sat down on the couch 
and started reading.  After the
first few paragraphs I wondered if  I had forgotten to turn on the AC.  
Mulder hadn’t said anything about
practicing tantric, but I had a feeling he was going to attempt to work it 
into our afternoon.  Besides, I still had
my suspicions about  Mulder’s feigned lack of prior yoga experience.  I 
considered it a strong possibility that he
might ‘know’ about  tantric, but not have  ever done ‘real’ yoga.  Ok, I 
considered that scenario a remote
possibility.  My reasoning went something like this:  Mulder is curious, 
inquisitive.  When he is interested, he
will move heaven and earth to learn more.  He is relentless is his pursuit 
of knowledge.  That skill is part of
what makes him such a good investigator.  His proclivity for experiencing 
that about which he has new
knowledge makes him…Mulder.

“Because Tantra is a mystical subject,<Yes, Mulder would find this 
fascinating.> it is nearly impossible to
define. Even eminent scholars have had a hard time explaining what Tantra 
actually is. The different
explanations of Tantra indicate its multifaceted nature.”

“Tantra is a spiritual science, which means it is also mystical, in its 
interconnectedness, the holistic wisdom
link between ourselves and the universe <oh, Mulder, who so wants to be 
connected to his universe> we
inhabit.”

I felt as if someone was trying to change my ‘plan’, my world view. It’s not 
so much that I lack belief in
spiritual connections.  I can allow for their existance, can understand how 
they can be the basis of hope.  I guess
I have just not found much need to dwell in my spirituality.

So much for the purity of this holistic wisdom.  “By recognizing and 
stimulating our inherent sensual
spirituality, we discover parts of ourselves that have remained asleep or 
have been repressed.”  I actually
pondered that statement for some time.  As I’ve been writing recently about 
my relationship with Mulder, I
would agree that ‘…stimulating my inherent sensual spirituality…’ has caused 
me to do some soul searching.

Then, the information took a slight turn.  “Tantric sex <where did *that* 
come from?> is meditative,
spontaneous and intimate lovemaking. Through it you learn to prolong the act 
of making love and to channel,
rather than dissipate, potent orgasmic energies moving through you, thereby 
raising the level of your
consciousness.”  It went on to explain how tantric yoga poses bring one 
closer to her/his inner self and allow the
more sensual coupling.

Knockknockknock!!!

Startled from my reading, I said ‘come in’ before thinking.  Heck, I wasn’t 
thinking past the words on the page.
Mulder waltzed into my apartment and leaned over the back of the couch in 
greeting.  “What’re you reading,
Scully?”  He reached for the pages.  My reflexes were quicker.  I hopped up 
off the couch, removed my glasses
and headed for the bedroom.  There was no way on the face of god’s green 
earth that Mulder would find out
about my research.

I took two seconds in the bathroom to splash cold water; lots of cold water, 
on my face.

Mulder was warming up and relocating my furniture. When I came back into the 
living room, he had moved the
furniture to create a more open space.  “Mulder, you’re ready to jump right 
in?  You; Mr. Skeptic?”  He smiled
as he rolled his shoulders in bacward circles and then pinwheeled his arms.  
He told me he had already been out
for a run, so he was pretty much warmed up. And, it appeared he was revved 
up, too.  A man with a plan.

We began with our breathing.  Facing each other, standing.  Mulder took my 
hands and placed them on his abs
as the group leader had shown us.  Somehow, though, it seemed more intimate, 
here, in my apartment.  Yoga,
me and Mulder.  As he placed my hands on him, he placed his on me.  The 
effect was…warm and moving.  I
was at somewhat of a loss to describe that feeling. “You know, Scully, 
doctor’s listen to your breathing with the
stethescope on your back, too.”  Simple statement, accurate statement.  
Mulder moved his hands to my mid-
back, and, in so doing, moved me a little closer to him. “Mulder, I don’t 
this this is what the group leader had in
mind for practicing together.”  I pushed out of his arms, breaking the 
connection.  I saw emotion in his eyes, but
he then suggested we go through the two poses we already knew; Triangle and 
Tree.

We took turns doing the Tree.  As I became  more comfortable with it, I 
wanted to try and lift my arms above
me.  Mulder offered to help me.  He stood behind me as he had done in class. 
  I managed to smoothly move
through the palms together phase on my own; no wild flailing this time!  As 
I pulled my palms apart and one at
a time, reached my arms overhead, I started wobbling.  Mulder reached up and 
lightly held my upper arms.
That did the trick. His touch was light, but steadied me.  Then, he was 
talking to me again; close to me, talking
to me.  “Scully,” he said lowly, “How about I test your ability to stay in 
the Tree?”  <What?>  I murmured
something, but I was still at that stage when my balance could be effected 
by such mundane things as talking,
touching, breathing; those little things.

Mulder must have assumed I agreed.  His hands moved down my arms, toward my 
shoulders, slowly.  All the
while, he talked to me, so quietly.  “Hold your balance, Scully.  Focus 
inward.  Slow your breathing and bring it
through the center of your body; slow in, more slowly out.”  I was focusing 
on my balance, but I was aware of
my breathing; very aware.  I could feel Mulder’s eyes from behind me.  They 
were ensuring the steady rise and
fall of my chest.  “Mulder, I don’t think I can--“.  He didn’t let me finish 
and he didn’t answer me.  He moved
his hands to my waist and then to my hips.  “Mulder, what are you doing?” 
<And, why aren’t you just walking
out of the pose, Scully?>  “I’m helping you focus. You’re doing just fine; 
very fine, Scully.” I swear her
‘purred’ my name.  I broke out of the pose by sheer will.  I likened the 
effort to those few times when I am so
dead asleep with my face in the pillow that I dream I can’t breathe.  The 
dream is reality.  I have to will myself
to wake enough to pull my face out of the pillow.  This is the same 
sensation (except for lethally depriving
myself of air!).  I mentally focus on lowering my leg.  When I manage  to 
come out of the pose, I find myself
more shakey.  Mulder steadies me.

It was now clear to me that my partner certainly knew much more about yoga 
than I did and much more than he
acknowledged.  For what reason, I was beginning to find out.  And, I 
admitted to myself, his sly maneuvering
was more inviting than if he had asked to come over and show me some yoga.

Monday Evening; Better Life through Healthy Living

Mulder seemed a little more eager for our next yoga lesson.  I was more 
eager for our ‘practice’ sessions and
would make sure we perfected all of our poses.

The group leader picked up the pace a bit, moving us through the warm-up, 
Triangle and Tree Poses.  He then
explained that the next pose would be Downward Dog.  I waited to see if 
Mulder would again fake his obvious
deep knowledge of yoga once again, but he held his tongue.  We were told how 
this pose would serve as a deep
stretch for our hamstrings and glutes, as well as, a strengthener for our 
upperbody.

I glanced over at Mulder standing on the mat next to me.  The morning had 
started out at approximately 80F in
the shade.  Mulder broke out a pair of black, rip-stop nylon short that he 
wore over a pair of grey cotton bike
shorts.  He topped his outfit with a black tank cut extremely low through 
the armholes and neckline.  The black
socks added a nice “Mulder touch”.  Somehow, even with the crew socks 
hugging his slim ankles, I found
myself very turned by his get up.

I was even more turned on when he attempted Downward Dog…Hinged forward from 
the hips, palms on the
mat, his feet, a$$ and palms forming a triangle with the mat beneath him. 
His shoulders working to support his
body.  I wasn’t sure how happy I was that the group leader designated this 
pose individual.  It looked very much
to me like Mulder could use a little steadying through those hips and maybe 
the backs of his legs or maybe it
was just my over-active imagination.

I decided the only way to keep my jaw from hanging open was to try the pose 
myself.  I considered myself
pretty agile, but this pose required hip and hamstring flexibility and great 
upperbody strength.  I tugged my
short-sleeved lycra top down and adjusted my shorts before leaving forward.  
The pose proved to be easier for
me than I thought.  I was staring at the mat through my hair as it fell 
forward around my face.  The group leader
was talking us through breathing technique; practise lifting the ribcage up 
off of the hips; lift up and out, pull
the breath up from the feet, through the hips and out through the hands. I 
lifted my breath all the way through
my body and was feeling quite light headed; a combination of the blood 
rushing to my head and my deep
breathing.

And maybe, just maybe I was lightheaded because I had that sense, again, 
that someone was close to me.

“Scully, I don’t think you’re really working hard enough to lift your 
ribcage up off of your hips.”  “Mulder, shut
up.”  “I’m serious, Scully.  Let me help you.”  I tried to ‘walk’ myself up 
and out of the pose.  Heck, we were
still in the class!  I’m as strong as the next person; strong of conviction, 
that is.  My convictions were telling me
to treat this building scenario as another foray into partnerly connection.  
I was angry at my body for wanting to
focus on the possibilities of what Mulder would do to assist me, his 
partner.

“Mulder, I really don’t need any help!  I *am* lifting my ribcage--“  I next 
saw Mulder’s face; underneath me.
He was laying on his back next to me, his face tickled by my hair as it fell 
forward, my breath on his face.
“Scully, you really are lifting, but your breathing is a little faster than 
it needs to be.”  I swore to anyone that
would listen to me that if he so much as placed one hot little hand on me I 
would…I wouldn’t be able to control
myself in this very public place.

Mulder just smiled, causing me to really show just how much blood had pooled 
in my face.  Then, he stood up,
grabbed my waist and pulled me upright.  Most yoga poses are meant to be 
entered into *and* moved out of
purposefully and slowly.  Color drained from my face, blood rushed to my 
extremeties, leaving me shakey and
panting.  Mulder, back to his professional self, merely placed an arm on my 
shoulder until he saw that I was all
right.  I glared at him and took a step back.  He smiled; his eyes lighting 
up his face.

The group leader was thanking us for our hard work, saying he’d see us again 
on Wednesday night.  I grabbed
my shoes and headed over to a bench to put them on.  Mulder, still in his 
socks, slid over to me on the highly
polished wood floor.  He kicked my shoes away from me.  I looked up at him, 
a six foot child in one helluva a
man’s body.  “Scully, I think we should stay.”  Nothing more.  One statement 
and he was going to make me beg
for more.  I sat up and continued to look at him, my arms crossed in front 
of me.  I decided to wait this one out.
The man had me on edge for most of this session and he was going to work for 
my attention!

Mulder can *wait* quite well, too.  Hands on his hips, he let just the 
barest of smiles play across his mouth.  I
glanced behind him to the mirrored wall.  The man looked just as fine coming 
and going.  Neither one of us
wanted to cave first.  I continued to stare…and so did he.  Finally, my 
curiousity getting the better of me, I
asked, “Why should we stay, Mulder?”  “I thought you’d never ask, Scully.”

He pulled me to my feet and walked me back to our mats.  “Mulder, we should 
really get going.  We can
practice again on the weekend.”  It was almost 9:30P and I was tired.  Tired 
and curious.  Tired and curious and
something else.

We were standing on the mats, facing each other, hands by our sides.  
“Scully, I was wondering what else you
know about yoga.”  I looked at him, puzzled “You know this is my first yoga 
class, Mulder.  Isn’t the real
question what else *you* know about yoga?”  He walked around me slowly, 
talking.  “Well, you could be right,
Scully. Sharing everything I know with you is what a good partner would do, 
isn’t it?”

He stopped moving when he was behind me.  He placed his arms around my 
waist, pulling me against him and
continued talking.  “Did you know Scully that in India, traditional 
Tantrikas spend many years under the
guidance of a spiritual teacher and engage  in elaborate yogic rituals to 
purify and master the body and mind?
These practices were intended to awaken the powerful psychic energies 
through which the adept could enter
into higher states of consciousness.”  I think I shook my head indicating 
that I didn’t know any of that.  Mulder
continued, “When a disciple was deemed ready he or she partook in sexual 
rites with a partner.” I *know* I
didn’t know that little tidbit of knowledge.

“Better Life through Better Living, Scully.  Yoga transcending all aspects 
of our lives.  Yoga creating agility,
stretchability, flexibility.  Scully, are you with me, here?” <I am so with 
you Mulder…>  “Mulder, where did all
of this come from?  I thought you were new to yoga, that you didn’t like 
it?”  Mulder rested his chin against the
top of my head, his arms resting across my abs. “I don’t think I ever 
actually said I didn’t like yoga or that I was
new to it.  I just said I’d never heard of men taking yoga. Ok, so I 
participated in a campaign of misinformation;
just a little.”  I could hear his smile.

He picked his head up again and pulled me against him, affirming his 
presence.  The center of his lower body
pressed solidly and quite warmly into my backside was enough to affirm his 
presense.

“Scully, just let your body go limp.”  <If it were any more limp, Mulder, 
I’d be puddled on the mat.> “Fall back
against me.”  I tensed and I wasn’t sure why.  We were alone, his arms were 
wrapped snugly around me, my
shorts weren’t providing much of a barrier to the heat coming off of either 
one of us. And that’s probably why I
tensed.  My legs went rigid, locking me into position.  Mulder didn’t pursue 
my limpness; much.

He just started talking again, “Tantra has been well tested over thousands 
of years. Well, not in worldly
laboratories but in the laboratories of the human body, Scully. By Yogi 
scientists and Tibetan Lamas who were
not driven by commerce but by the earnest desire for spiritual knowledge and 
liberation.” Words, just so many
words.  Words coming out of Mulder’s mouth straight to my totally focused 
center.  The words continued,
“Their observations and insights have been passed down to us and the sacred 
Hindu and Buddhist scriptures
known as Tantras provide detailed instructions on a wide range of topics, 
including spiritual knowledge,
technology, and science. Science, Scully.” <Yup, linking ‘science’ with 
tantra has made me a believer,
Mulder.> Not missing a single beat, “Their content is often paradoxical. In 
Tantra, science and mysticism go
hand in hand, as do sensuality and asceticism.”

My legs unlocked and I half-fell, half-sat back into Mulder.  I still had my 
back to him, but was now sitting
between his legs which were wrapped around mine.  My legs covered in 
goosebumps in the now warm
studio.his very warm, very strong legs melting the goosebumps but setting my 
skin afire.

He hugged me to him as if I might escape.  I leaned into him, my head 
tiltled to one side against his chest,
hoping to ‘hear’ more of his tantralizing words.  “Do you know how often 
those yogis had to practice Scully
until they were considered enlightened enough to enter into the perfect 
sexual union?”

I looked up at Mulder.  I broke out of my haze.  “No, Mulder, I don’t.  But, 
if I ask nicely, would you tell me?”
My boldness probably came from my overwhelming urge to touch every available 
part of him, demonstrating
my ability to be agile, stretchable and flexible.  He kissed me chastely; 
the first time. The next few times were
not as chaste and I somehow managed to turn around to face him, my legs 
around his hips.  “How often,
Mulder?  I don’t think you answered me and I did ask you nicely.  Inquiring 
minds and bodies really, really
want to know.”

“Well, Scully, these yogis spent days upon days researching and practicing; 
hours and hours without end.  But
their rewards were numerous.”  He gazed into my eyes; into my soul.  And, I 
laid my soul bare for his eyes.

“They were so adept that they were able to please their partners; mind, body 
and soul, with ecstacy beyond
belief.”  <…ecstasy beyond belief…>  We had not done anything more than 
touch and kiss and my ecstacy
thermostat was heading for the danger zone.  I slid closer, needing to fill 
my soul, make that soul and body, with
as much of Mulder as I could.  I placed my hands through the very thin 
fabric that passed for the low cut front
of his tank and I pinched his {edit}s hard. I then rubbed my thumbs over 
them.  Mulder didn’t have any more
multi-syllabic words for me.

We practiced our partnerly connection breathing, followed by our partnerly 
connection prone breathing.  I
invented a pose of my own when Mulder asked what I was doing.  “Prone, 
parallel, partner breathing, Mulder”,
I whispered into his mouth while laying on top of him.  He lifted his head 
off of the mat and licked my face.
“Mulder, I don’t recall the group leader demonstrating any poses that use 
the tongue to touch the partner’s
flesh.”  Mulder kissed me, possibly telling me to stop talking.  “We haven’t 
gotten to that pose yet, Scully.  But
I probably know quite a bit more than the group leader.” <I’m sure you do, 
Mulder.>

I licked his face next making sure I practiced this new pose.  Both of our 
tongues extended, tip touching tip
playfully, then passionately.  I pushed what little there was to the 
armholes of his tank down from his shoulders
feeling the thin fabric rip beneath my fingers.  Mulder tried to roll me 
over, seeking to change our positions, but
I wasn’t quite finished.  One hand on either side of Mulder’s face, I held 
him in place, my tongue outlining his
lips one at a time.  I tongued lazy circles on each of his cheeks, on the 
bridge of his nose.  His chest was
heaving, his breathing rough.  “Tell me more about just how these yogis 
practiced, Mulder; how they achieved
enlightenment?”  Before he could answer me, I slipped my tongue into his 
mouth.  When he responded, I
sucked on his tongue, drawing it into my mouth.  Just as he tried to bring 
his hands to my face, I stopped him.
“You’re not answering me, Mulder. Cat got your tongue?”  I smiled at him.  
His look turned darkly erotic.

“What do you say I ‘show’ you what these tantrics actually did to bring 
their bodies and minds into
enlightenment, Scully?  I’m game if you are.”  A challenge.

It started to rain outside; nighttime rain to cool the heat of the day.  I 
could see the street lights hitting the
pavement and the steam rising off of the sidewalks.  It was raining and I 
was as steamy as that pavement.

“I’m game, Mulder.” <I’m game, I’m hotter than he!!>  He rolled us over and 
we sat up facing each other.

All that moving around on the sticky mat had caused Mulder’s bike shorts to 
ride up his thighs. He caught me
looking at those thighs in the pushed up bike shorts and he smiled.  
“Naughty, naughty, Scully.  Yogis start out
pure of thought.  Bring those wandering eyes of yours right back here.”

He pointed to his eyes, which, if it were possible, we sparkling and dark at 
the same time; mischief and
sensuality.  “We’ll start with a basic partner stretch to give us 
flexibility through the lower back and the groin.”
I swallowed hard. “Excuse me, Mulder?”

He reached his hands behind him to show me his lower back.  I think I was 
holding my breath waiting for him
to show me---  He reached  one of his hands toward me; almost touching me.  
“I think I get the idea, Mulder.”  I
swatted his hand away.  He laughed; low, throaty.  I merely swallowed again, 
wondering why the studio seemed
devoid of breathable air.

“Sit with your legs like this, Scully.”  Mulder sat with his long legs 
spread apart, heels on the mat, knees
slightly bent belaying his tight hamstrings.  “Our feet should touch and we 
need to hold hands.”  I struggled to
yank my own shorts down a bit more, although why I was suddenly so modest, I 
didn’t know.  Possibly the fact
that one wall of windows faced the street?

Our socked feet touching and holding hands, our bodies were as far from 
touching as possible while still
connected.  This position was interesting.  No points of contact other than 
socks and hands, but extremely open
to each other.

Once I found my voice again, I asked Mulder what the yogis actually used 
this stretch for.  He explained as he
showed me.  “Spread your legs a little farther, Scully, and then hold on 
tight to my hands.”  I did and he gently
pulled on my hands.  The sensation was strange; I felt the stretch through 
my lower back and my inner thighs.
“Now, you pull on me, Scully.” <Ahem, Mulder?>  I tugged him forward, 
eliciting an ‘ow’ out of him.  Mr.
Flexible was not quite as flexible as he wanted me to believe.

I felt like a child; each of us pulling the other, back and forth, round and 
round.  I also noticed that my muscles
were relaxing, allowing me to lean farther forward.  I also noticed that I 
probably wouldn’t have been able to
stand up straight if my life required it.

“Soooo Mulder, what happens next?”  I was feeling pretty ‘stretched’, along 
with hot and bothered.  If he didn’t
do some more explaining and/or demonstrating, I was prepared to take things 
into my own hands; willingly.  I
was sitting with my legs spread farther than I would have guessed possible, 
my hands holding Mulder’s and
looking at some rather obvious signs of ‘enlightenment’ or ‘ecstacy beyond 
belief’.

Call it what you will, but from the bottom of his black sock clad feet, 
through his wonderfully stretched legs to
his visibly excited groin, to his muscled bare chest and shoulders, Mulder 
was enjoying himself; immensely.

“Mulder, it must be difficult to maintain this stretch without a partner 
bracing you.”  I looked him in the eye,
innocent statement tone in my voice, far less innocent intent in my mind.  
He took the bait as I knew he would.
“No, Scully, I told you I’m flexible and I practice my stretches.  I’d be 
fine without you bracing me.”  To prove
his point, Mulder slid back on the mat and let go of my hands. He moved his 
hands to the mat just behind him
close to his hips.

“That’s very good, Mulder.  Now, I’m going to show you something.”  On my 
hands and knees, I crawled
toward him.  When I was between his outstretched legs, I sat back on my 
heels, my hands in my lap.  I leaned
slightly forward and kissed him on the cheek and then quickly on the lips.

“I can think of another very good reason that the yogis wanted to perfect 
this stretch.”  I had his undivided
attention; I could tell by the look on his face and the fact that he didn’t 
move.  “In order to be able to ‘enter into
the perfect sexual union’, you have to make, um, certain ‘things readily 
available; you know, to share with your
partner?”

As I spoke, I laid my hands on his upper thighs, rubbing gently.  The double 
layer of fabric; bike shorts and rip
stop nylon, didn’t really hide Mulder’s reaction to my proximity and my 
hands.  I kneaded his thighs, my
thumbs on his nicely stretched inner thighs.  At my touch, his muscles 
contracted, tensing.  As I continued to
knead and press his muscles I implored him to let go and connect to my 
touch.  He tried to bring his hands to
me, but I pushed them back and shook my head at him.

Mulder’s eyes fluttered closed slowly and then re-opened; his mouth opening 
and closing soundlessly.
“Mulder?  I believe you’re starting to enter into an enlightened state.”  
Even as his chest rose and fell and signs
of his very obvious arousal became more prominent, he managed to get a word 
in.  “Scully,” he whispered,
“I’m not quite sure *what* state you’re talking about.  As a matter of fact, 
I don’t think we need any more
talking.”

Now, one of the things I’ve learned about Mulder is that he likes to have 
the last word; word, or innuendo, it
doesn’t matter as long as he can have it.  That’s not to say that he seeks 
the power of it.  He merely loves a good
conversation and finds it hard to resist putting a spin on an otherwise 
innocuous statement.  All right, my
statement about his enlightenment wasn’t entirely innocuous…

“But, Mulder, I want to explain to you what I’m doing, how what I’m doing 
will help you achieve ‘ecstacy
beyond belief’.”  His eyes widened.

Truth be told, I wasn’t quite sure how much longer I could ‘talk’ to him, 
either.  I had gone from unadulterated
yoga skeptic to dyed in the rip stop nylon shorts believer in a matter of a 
few short days.  As is true when I’m
learning anything new, I desperately wanted to make the connection between 
my newly-found ‘book learning’
and life experience.  Mulder was just such a good teacher, too.  Almost like 
having a lab partner to try my
experiment in life experience.

I knew that I had to ‘do’ something soon.  Holding the stretch position 
would start to get more uncomfortable
for Mulder very soon.  And, I think that even the stretchy bike shorts and 
lightweight nylon shorts would start to
become more restrictive for him.  I know they were very restricting to me…

The rain was hitting the flat roof in a steady rhythm and a low fog was 
suspended above the sidewalks pierced
eerily by the street lights. Although the studio lights were off, the 
reflected street light on the mirror bathed the
studio in enough light to allow some very interesting visions.

“Scully?  I think we’ve done enough explaining; really.  I think we just 
need to ‘do’.  You know, when I was in
grad school, we talked about a lot of theories.  As students, we could 
appreciate that theory, but wanted to put it
into practice.  Theory into practice; an important concept.”

Before I had a spare minute to reflect on what he had said and its 
implications, Mulder pulled his legs together,
boxing me in.  He brought his arms up from behind him and caught mine.  The 
only word I could manage was a
startled, “Oh!”

<Creative, Scully…>  He surprised me with his quick reflexes, although I 
don’t know why.  I know with
certainty that Mulder can be lightening quick and exciting.  He rolled me 
onto my side, joining me.  One arm
wrapped around my waist, one leg wedged between mine.  I lifted my leg to 
his hip, locking him in position
against me.

The soft sounds of nylon rustling against me and the rain on the roof were 
playing with the light in the mirror
behind Mulder.  Just enough light in the mirror behind Mulder to outline his 
a$$ with my leg draped over his
leg possessively.  I moved my hand up under his nylon shorts, feeling his 
warm, muscled thigh and outer hip
through the stretchy knit of his bike shorts. It wasn’t much farther from 
there to his well-defined a$$.  I ran my
fingers lightly across his a$$ and then grabbed him tightly.  The mirrored 
sight of my leg over his, my hand
buried beneath his shorts and him starting to buck into me had already 
pushed me to the top.

Mulder pushed my hair away from my ear and leaned in close; very close.  I 
felt his warm breath as he blew
into my ear, my name trailing his breath.  His hips thrusting and his leg 
between mine moving just enough
brought me right back to focusing on my center; and sent me into waves of 
sheer ‘enlightenment’.

His lips found mine and we were pretty close to achieving something rather 
close to ecstacy.

“Mulder, I --“

“Me, too, Scully.”

Oh, we communicate so well.  “I really want to tear every piece of your 
clothing off of your body and
experience the hottest trantic sex you can possibly demonstrate.  And, 
furthermore, if it doesn’t happen within
the next five minutes, I’m--“

His hand gently clamped over my mouth and I licked his palm.

“Shut up, Scully.”

We spent the next hour or so ensuring that the adepts would consider us 
worthy disciples in the pursuit of
ogasmic ecstacy beyond belief.

Just as it hadn’t really worked on the overheated pavement, the rain on our 
bodies as we walked to the car only
succeeded in allowing whisps of steam to rise from our bodies.  We had to 
drive carefully in order to make it
home; especially if we ever wanted to practice more.

We had both heard that it took lots and lots of practice to be really good.

Secretly, I knew that Mulder was already *very* good…


Reflections <<xx>><<xx>><<xx>>oooooooooooooooooo

It feels as if I’ve been writing for such a long time; years, maybe.  Yet, 
when I stop to think about it, I find only
several days have passed since I began this endeavor.  I’m tired, I’m 
smiling.  I want to call Mulder.

I’m not sure what else to write.  There is so much more that I want to write 
about, but I’m tired of typing and
my eyes are a little bleary from looking at the screen for so long; for so 
many days.  The act of writing has
provided me with clarity; purpose, but, I guess this is my work in progress.

I’m wondering where Mulder is right now and may just have to call him.

I keep hearing Melissa telling me, "Life's just a path.  You follow your 
heart and it'll take you where you're
supposed to go.”

DKS