But she was always so giving, so genreous with her time and her interest. There wasn't anything I said that was ignored or dismissed. She remembered how I liked my coffee, how I folded the towels, when my favorite programs were on.

And the little things about her just sucked me in. The smell of the honeysuckle bath gel she favored always lingered about her. She'd play with her hair absently while reading or watching tv, twirling a lock over and over on one finger till I wanted to push aside he hand and plunge my fingers into the dark mass of curls and feel them wind around me. Even the way she ate popcorn, carefully selecting each kernal, then nipping it into sections.

And her complete oblivion. She didn't notice that I'd spend long minutes just watching her, saying nothing. She doesn't know that on several occasions I've removed some of her clothing from the hamper in the bathroom, and slept with it, drinking in her scent as I fell asleep. Or that I've started to go through her things occasionally, just looking at them, touching them. Because they're hers.

When I came home from work that evening, after once again trying to help Mulder explain an expense report to a very skeptical Skinner, I was once again tensed like a spring. Free, wearing the baggy, ragged shorts and tee shirt she calls her 'civies', spotted it the moment I walked through the door, and got the wine. I waited and, as I'd hoped, as I'd prayed, she offered to rub my neck.

"That sure did help last time, Free. But you told me you do backrubs?"

"Yes. Would you rather have one of those?"

"If you don't mind." I tensed even more, waiting for her response. But I'd judged her well, she couldn't refuse a request from someone so uncomfortable.

"Sure."

"Great. Come on in the bedroom."

As we walked back to my room she said, "This'll work out perfect. I traded days off, so I don't have to go in tonight. That means you won't even have to get up to give me a ride, you can just drift off to sleep if you want to."

In my room, I turn off the lights, except for a bedside lamp, and strip my coverlette down to the foot of the bed. As I begin to unbutton my blouse I say casually, "Check the nightstand. I think I have something in there that'll make it more relaxing." As I remove my skirt and hose, she finds the little bottle of massage oil I purchased and placed there after the neck rub.

Free uncaps it and sniffs curiously, then smiles. "Honeysuckle. That's nice. But won't this be a little messy?"

"Don't use much, and it won't." I'm leaving on my underwear, bra and panties. I might make her uncomfortable if I get naked, like I want to. And, if all goes well, I'll be naked soon, anyway.

I get on the big bed, in the center, arranging the pillows comfortably under my chin and chest so that my torso is slightly elevated, then wait. She stands at the bedside, cocking her head this way and that, deciding the best way to approach her task. "Could you scoot over some?"

"Nah. I'm too comfortable to move. Just get up on the bed, too. It'll be easier on your back."

"Oh, okay, Lazy." I feel the matress sink under her weight as she kneels on it, and I shudder at the thought that she's now with me, in my bed. "Dana, are you cold? Should I go set the heater?"

"I'm fine. I just need to relax."

"Okay, help is on the way. Lemme see, I can reach around... No. Or the other side... No, not that either. Well, there's just no other solution. Let me know if I mush you."

She moves, and suddenly she's straddling my thighs. I close my eyes and smile into the pillow as I feel the smooth slide of her leg, bare beneath the old shorts, against my own thigh. "Okay, let's see now." I glance over my shoulder. She's poured a little of the oil into her hand, and now she sets the bottle aside on the nightstand. She rubs her palms together, warming and spreading the oil.

I close my eyes when I feel her press palms on either side of my spine, heels facing each other. "Watch your breath." Suddenly she stiffens her arms, pressing down with a sharp, hard, even thrust. I hear a muted crackle, and something gives way in my back.

"Free! What are you doing?"

"Popping your back, of course. Hang on, just a couple more. Hasn't anyone ever done this for you before?"

"No." Her hands have moved up another couple of inches, and there's another sharp push, another crackle. "Uhn. What is this, some sort of Oriental pre-torture thing?"

She laughs, and moves up to repeat the action between my shoulder blades. "Dana, you only do this for people you really like. Doesn't it feel better?" It does. My spine feels much looser. "I don't know about everyone else, but this is one of the redneck signs of affection, if you're willing to pop someone's back for them. Most folks would rather have a good back pop than have you loan them money."

"I can see why."

She's moved back down to the small of my back, and starts massaging, digging knuckles deep into the tight muscles. It hurts a little at first, but the knots loosen. Then she switches to fingertips, kneading firmly, but with less agression. She repeats this process up my back, pausing once to get some more oil.

She starts singing. This time it's low and plaintive, soothing but melancholy. It sounds like an old folksong. "I went out to meet my lover, and he held me through the night. We gave our all to each other, and I went home by morning light." She speaks matter of factly. "Dana, your bra is going to get goopy."

"So take it off." I murmur. Her hands pause on my back, warm fingers splayed. Then I feel her unfasten the hooks. My nipples stiffen beneath me as she spreads it open, leaving it loosely hooked on my arms by the straps.

She begins massaging again, singing. "Smile for me, mother and father. And forgive me for my pride. I have been with my sweet lover, and he wants me for his bride." She's making long, sweeping strokes, up and down my back. "Far away there is a battle. He must go, and I must stay. He'll return, when duty's satisfied. That will be my wedding day."

She's leaning forward, resting weight on the heels of her hands as she massages my shoulders. I can't restrain a quiet groan. Her thighs shift as she reaches, squeezing my own legs together, and I feel the liquid heat building in my sex. My fingers flex on the sheets.

"Cry for me, my friends and neighbors. Weep for me, you stars above. For today I got a letter. I have lost my one true love." God, isn't that the oldest story, love and loss? The odd melancholy mingles with the sexual heat I feel growing inside. It's like the woman touching me: sad, sweet, intense, but somehow detatched from the world, from me.

She's rocking slowly, back and forth, sweeping me with each pass. I'm making little grunts in the back of my throat with each motion. Is it possible that I'm going to come just from getting a back rub?

"Shelter me, you rolling river. Spread your arms, and take me in. Let me sleep beneath your waters, till I see my love again." God, death songs. Morbidity and sexuality, a twisted, but strong combination. I feel boneless now, molten. It won't take much to send me over the edge. If she'll just kiss me, taste some of the oil she's been rubbing into my flesh. If she'll just slip a hand beneath me and touch my pebble hard nipples. Or better yet, slide a hand into my panties and touch my even stiffer clitoris. I'm so close...

"Dana, are you asleep?"

The whisper is barely audible, her movement has stilled. *Don't scare her off, Dana.* It's all I can do to keep from screaming when she gets off the bed and tiptoes out of the room, leaving me lying there--leaving me aching with arousal and need, feeling my panties dampen.

Son of a bitch, she didn't know. She didn't know. She almost brought me to orgasm just by touching my back, and she didn't realize it. Why hadn't I turned over, grabbed her, and rolled on top of her when I had the chance? Because it would have sent her screaming from the room, and I wouldn't have been strong enough to hold her--not in a direct, full frontal assault, and she's apparently not going to be seduced.

I can't stay here like this. I'll never be able to sleep, and it isn't safe to stay here in this state, with her peacefully watching tv or sleeping in the other room, because I might do something. I'll have to be careful, or she'll run, but I need to be taken care of. I dial a number that I haven't used for awhile. "It's me. You said whenever." I listen to her as she tells someone who's there that something has come up, and they'll have to leave. She's sorry, but it's important. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Be ready for me."

I hang up. You meet a lot of interesting people working on the X Files. I'm pretty sure that Mulder has picked up a few bed partners this way, too. I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, getting rid of the bra, then head for the livingroom. She's tucked up on the couch, watching an old movie in the dark. She's startled by my sudden appearance. "Oh, I thought you were asleep."

"I'm going out. I may not be back tonight."

She doesn't question me, compliant as usual, but not as compliant as I need. "Okay. Didn't the massage help any?"

"It worked a little too well, Free." She looks puzzled, but I don't explain. I can't explain. I'll just have to show her later.