Knee Deep
By Shoshana

"So, Mulder, would you like to attempt a forward pass?"

Did I just say that? Did I slip onto his lap; did I make the first move here? Well, he did last night, and I will not be outdone by my partner today. I felt oddly aggressive for about ten seconds there, and now, now I know I did the right thing.

We've been dancing around this since he came over. He's nervous, I'm nervous, we're nervous together. I've been so jumpy, I failed to notice why he hadn't tried to hold my hand once, much less put his arm around me.

It took one beer and a mental blow to the head to realize I was sitting on his weak side, the side he injured yesterday. Without the constant reminder of a sling, I had forgotten, was too anxious to know any better.

And even after we traded places on the couch, it wasn't enough to just snuggle under his one good arm. No, no, I wanted to hold him in my arms, look him in the eyes, the next time we kissed.

So, logically, sensibly, the participant with two fit arms should use them most efficiently. And the only way I could wrap myself completely around Mulder's six-foot frame (with due consideration to his wounds, of course), was to hop on his lap.

Yes, reasonably, rationally, that is why I'm sitting on his lap, my hands poised on his shoulders. I am not being too aggressive. I am not making a drunken fool out of myself. After all, it's only the afternoon, and I've only had one beer so far. Well, maybe a tiny sip of the second one on the way back from the kitchen... but I am definitely not inebriated. Just a little tipsy. Really.

Mulder and I are equals; we've always been. So why shouldn't I take the initiative? It's killing both of us, waiting for that second kiss. The one we've both been thinking about since he walked through my door.

The one I've been thinking about since, well, ever since the one last night. I haven't stopped wondering how the second one would taste, would feel, against my lips. How long would it last, how much further would it go?

I did the right thing last night. I sent him home with a promise, a promise of things to come. If we had fallen into one of our respective beds during the wee hours this morning, we'd have woken up to a clumsy, awkward silence. And neither of us had been in any shape for lovemaking anyway, if that's what the intention had been.

I guess I would've been happy just to sleep beside him, to hold him in my arms all night. But this is so new, so fragile between us. Before we sleep together, before we take that huge step in our relationship, I'd like to feel the same comfort level with his kisses that I already feel when his gentle, guiding hands escort me through a doorway, lead me down a dark and dangerous corridor.

I'm absolutely positive that practice makes perfect, no matter what activity pursued. So, the sooner we start kissing again, the sooner we'll achieve that optimum degree of ease between us. And we'll certainly know when we're ready for more than just a kiss, just a snuggle on the couch.

If I know Mulder the way I think I know Mulder, he's more shy than he'd like others to believe. The pornography, the off-color jokes, are just a cover for natural timidity. He's much more a gentleman than a womanizer. There've been a few times he's been blatantly flirtatious with other women, but he's done it either to tick me off, or due to circumstances beyond his control.

I think he's often clueless as to how much power he can wield over women with just a glance, just a wink of his eye. Either that, or he doesn't realize how attractive he is... something I find hard to believe.

Maybe he's comfortable enough in his own skin that he forgets about his looks, doesn't give them much thought. And he's so self-absorbed anyway, so totally involved in our work, that he misses all those appreciative glances tossed his way.

The few times I've called him on his behavior, he's tried to pull off that 'who me?' innocent act. Like the time he couldn't take his eyes off the teenage girl in Pittsfield, VA. Yeah, you, Mulder. You with your tongue hanging out.

I didn't mean to seem possessive, just corrective. I'm pretty sure he's never seen me gaping at witnesses in a criminal investigation. At least, I hope not. I always pride myself on having more self-control than that. Usually. Ordinarily. With very few exceptions... that I'd rather not ponder at this time...

Anyway, let's get back to Mulder's lap. I'm on it. He's gazing at me. I'm gazing at him. And I've said what I had to, given him permission to lay one on me.

He's hesitating, making me wait. His good arm strokes up and down my backbone, sending shivers through my spine. His eyes scrutinize me tenderly, irises glowing in shades of hunter green and sandy brown.

He's enjoying this, not saying a word, just making me wait. I twist my lips into a wry expression of impatience and move one of my hands, cradling the nape of his neck. My fingers weave through the fine hair there, recently grown back, soft as silk.

I press my other hand to his feverish cheek, stroking his jaw lightly, inviting him closer. Gently, affectionately, he pulls my face to his, and our lips touch, warm and welcoming. We both apply more pressure than we did last night, eagerly tasting one another.

My lips part, inviting him in, and we kiss deeply, passionately, fueled by love, ignited by lust. My hands cannot stay still, they roam the contours of his face, memorizing every line, every dimple he possesses.

We are desperate for each other's kisses; we drown in them as long as we can. Eventually, reluctantly, we gasp for air. We gulp down a few more hasty breaths, and our lips meet once again.

I am at an advantage. I have two hands, he has but one. And, oh, what that one hand is doing to me. His touch is so light, so sweet. His fingers forge a path across my eyebrows, around my cheeks; they dip to my chin, tenderly caress my throat.

My face feels so flushed, my lips so hot; I break our seventh (or is it eighth?) long kiss and drop my chin to his chest, nuzzling his throat, wrapping my arms around his waist. He fondles my hair, pressing his lips to my forehead with the gentlest of kisses.

"Time out?" he whispers softly, nosing my ear.

"Yeah, just a little."

"You're so pretty, Scully," he says, in a dulcet tone.

I'm so bad at taking compliments. I usually deflect them with humor. But I can't think of a single thing to say; I graciously accept his precious gift. I murmur nonsense into his shirt, squeeze my hands against the strong muscles of his back.

We sit comfortably for a few minutes, then I lift my head to meet his eyes.

"I think that broke the ice. What do you think?" I say.

"All melted now," he responds, grinning happily.

I slide off his lap, stand to one side, then insinuate myself between his knees. I bring both my hands to his face and kiss him once more, chastely.

"Let's get some air," I say, my thumbs dropping to his lips, tracing their swollen curves.

I help Mulder slip on his jacket, then put on my own. I can feel the weight of a gun in the depths of his pocket, so I don't bother to bring mine. I'm not expecting anything more threatening than neighborhood kids whizzing by on their skateboards. One armed paranoiac is really enough for today.

I grab his left hand as we leave my apartment and lead him toward the stairs instead of the elevator. It's just a short walk down, and we emerge from the building foyer, our hands still joined.

I swing our arms back and forth playfully, and say, "Where to?"

"How about the high school?" he replies without hesitation.

"So, Agent Mulder, how do you know all the best places to hang out in my neighborhood?"

He colors at my words, and I know I've hit paydirt. He knows why I asked him that, and I'm going to wrest an explanation from him somehow.

He drops my hand and walks down the steps of the building, stopping when he reaches ground level. I follow him down, then step around in front of him, placing my palm on his lowered cheek.

I speak softly, caressing his feverish face, "I go jogging on the track there every weekend I'm in town. Ever since last April. And every morning without fail, a blue van has been parked across the street for the two hours it takes me to do all my stretching exercises and run till I'm exhausted. At first, I thought it might be the Consortium, or even another stalker, but I traced the plate number after the second week... and it came back to a rental in the name of Fox Mulder."

I smile upward, forcing him to look me in the eye. He does so, and I sense a bit of embarrassment, commingled with genuine repentance.

He opens his mouth to elucidate his actions, but I cut him off with a finger to his lips.

"I didn't have the heart to say anything about it, Mulder. I was so flattered that you would get up at 5:30 in the morning and drag yourself over to Georgetown every weekend morning just to watch over me..."

"You, you know why," he stammers. "You told me that Padgett knew your routine, knew your jogging route. It's just something I found myself doing, thinking that I'd do it a couple times and then stop. But, Scully... I *liked* watching over you. I couldn't help it..."

He avoids my eyes, staring at the ground beneath our feet. Despite all my assurances that I didn't mind his attentiveness, he still seems ashamed of his little deception.

I slip my hands inside his jacket and lean my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, remembering those traumatic events last spring. His hand reaches up to massage my neck, his chin drops down against my forehead.

I pull out of his embrace, and place my hands on his hips, smiling up at him. I've got some new three-inch heeled walking shoes, so fortunately I'm not getting a crick in my neck from this perspective.

"Hey. Don't worry about it. It was kinda cute, you know..." I tap the end of his distinctive nose once, then turn around and start walking toward our destination.

He catches up easily, capturing my right hand in his left one. The weather is beautiful today, 49 degrees and sunny. DC can have snowstorms one week and lovely days the next. We're just lucky to have fine weather today.

No one is on the school grounds, which isn't very unusual for a holiday when most adults are nursing hangovers, and most children are at home playing with their new Nintendo cartridges. We sit down on the steel bleachers, side by side.

I take his hand in mine and say, "If it makes you feel any better, I have a confession to make."

"What Scully, what about?" His brow knits anxiously, confused by my comment.

"I've followed you, too."

"Oh, we're still talking about that," he says, visibly relieved that it's not something else, something else from his vivid imagination.

I wonder what he thought I was going to say? Was he speculating that I might be having second thoughts? That I might plead with him to forget the last few hours, that we didn't need a physical relationship complicating our already all too complicated lives?

Is this my worst fear now? That one of us will cut and run? That this is too much to ask of ourselves, that we are reckless fools to believe otherwise?

No, no. I must remain calmly optimistic. Although it's entirely possible that Mulder has doubts about our ability to disguise our present happiness from others, I sincerely believe that he would never leave me or entertain the thought that I would leave him. Not now. Not after so much hinges on our continued partnership, personal and otherwise.

I return to my train of thought, "I would get feelings, suspicions that you were going to take off on another wild goose chase. Sometimes I'd just sit across from your apartment in my car and watch your window at night. Just for awhile, long enough to calm my fears. It was really silly. I don't know why I thought that sitting for less than an hour outside your window would accomplish anything. I'd have to bug your apartment twenty-four hours a day to really keep you out of harm's way. But it made me feel better. And I'd always call you when I got home, no matter how late."

"Now I understand all those late night phone calls," he says thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I always wondered if you'd catch on some day, if you'd see me out there in my car, sneak down the back stairs and catch me in the act. I guess I'm a pretty good agent, Mulder," I say with a grin, "you never suspected a thing."

"And I've never known," he says gravely. "I've never really known how much grief I could bring to you, Scully... by running off without a word. I've been very selfish. I've imagined that not telling you was good for you, that it keeps you safe from my stupid actions. But, really, it just pulls you along in the undertow. Sooner or later, you get involved, having to haul my butt out of jail or fish me out of the sea. My shortsightedness has almost killed us both too many times. I'm not going to let that happen again. Not now. Not when we have everything to live for."

He wraps his arm around me, pulling me close. I turn my face toward his, and, as though we've sat on these bleachers, and done this dozens of times before, his lips meet mine and we take comfort in the warmth and love of our kiss.

fin

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