TITLE: Something Blue
AUTHOR: Jenna
EMAIL: jenna@einini.net
RATING: NC-17
CATEGORY: DSR
NOTE: Element fic. Elements at the end.
ARCHIVE: If you've already asked, you've still got my permission. If
you've never asked, please do. OK for Ephemeral, Gossamer, and XFMU.
DISCLAIMER: My everlasting gratitude to CC for creating these
characters, and to the actors for bringing them to life.
SUMMARY: Happiness is a choice.

For Pige, who didn't want me to have the blues, and Kimbly, who
said, "I need Doggett smut." Here you go, darlin'.

***

 The inn owner's Carolina accent is so thick I'm having trouble
understanding her. "Turn left onto Old Firehouse Road," she says,
or I hope that's what she says because that's what I write down.
"You'll drive about three blocks--are you getting this, honey?"

I detest being called "honey" by strangers, but I say, "Yes,"
anyway. "Turn left on Firehouse Road and drive three blocks."

"Old Firehouse Road, honey," Mrs. Welles corrects me gently, and
then goes on, "We're on the corner of Old Firehouse Road and McCain
Avenue, on the right-hand side."

"Right-hand side," I repeat, scribbling, but the pen only makes a
dry scratch on the paper. I lift the pen, shake it, and try again,
as the owner continues speaking.

"Now, you'll park in the rear of the building and the driveway is
clearly marked. When you check in we'll send a porter for your
bags."

My pen is dry. I scowl and toss it in the garbage can, and start
to rummage through John's desk for a new one. There's nothing on
John's desktop, not even a stray paperclip, except his computer and
desk calendar. I can't resist--I flip the page over to tomorrow,
and there in John's crisp handwriting is "Kimberly's wedding--3
p.m.--Delaney, N.C." The calendar does not tell me where John is
now, though Monica probably knows.

I open the top drawer. Ballpoint pens are lined up in the catch-
all tray, neatly as toy soldiers. Paper clips in a box, a small
stack of Post-It notes still wrapped in plastic--though I bet the
assortment of colors is Monica's doing--and a wood picture frame.

"If you have any trouble finding us just call this number again
and we'll get you here. I know Delaney very well."

"I really appreciate that," I murmur, and pull out the picture
frame. I take a deep breath before I turn it over, though I don't
know why I'm nervous. It's probably a picture of his son, or John
and his wife in happier times. For all I know it's a downloaded
scan of Angelina Jolie. For all I know it's empty.

I turn the frame over. It's the picture of myself and William I
sent out last year with my Christmas cards: both of us in red,
William's arms outstretched in his happy, generous hug.

"Are you there, Dr. Scully?"

"Yes." He keeps a picture of the baby and me in his desk. Not on
it, where people would see and make comments. In it, tucked away. I
say into the phone, "You give very good directions. I'm sure I
won't have any trouble."

"Well, thanks, honey. We'll expect you about ten tonight, then?"

"Yes, ma'am." I put the picture frame away and take a pen to
quickly scribble down the last of her directions. "How late will
you hold my room if I'm not there by ten?"

"Oh, we'll hold it till six tomorrow morning. My husband read in
an article that most big hotels hold rooms until late, so why not
us?"

"That's very kind of you." Monica will be back from her meeting
any moment now, according to her note. This is the only thing that
prevents me from taking out the picture frame again. If John
doesn't want her to know, I won't be the one to reveal his secret.

"And it'll just be yourself?"

"Yes. Though, how child-friendly are you?"

"We allow children, but we don't have a whole lot to amuse them.
Of course, most families spend their days at the beach anyway. Will
you be bringing a child with you?"

"Not this trip." My mother is taking William this weekend: it will
be my first solo vacation since that time I went to Maine.
"Thanks for all your help."

"You're welcome, Dr. Scully. We look forward to seeing you."

"Thanks." I hang up the phone, still dazed by my discovery of the
picture in John's drawer. I know it's only a picture, I know I gave
it to him, but I'm still puzzled that he would hide it away.

"Dana!" Monica exclaims from the doorway, and I look at her and
smile.

"Hi. Are you ready for lunch?"

"Dana, your blouse!" She crosses to Doggett's desk, pointing to my
shirt. I look down to see a blue smear across the white fabric, and
a matching one on my hand: the pen I just opened is leaking all
over my fingers.

"Damn," I say simply and toss the pen into the garbage. "So much
for lunch."

"Ah--wait--" Monica kneels by the desk and opens the bottom-most
drawer. "John keeps a spare shirt in here." She pulls one out,
still in its packaging from the store. She hands it to me,
triumphant. "I'm sure he won't mind."

I take the package. John doesn't indulge himself in many ways, but
he does buy nice shirts. "I don't know . . . I'd hate to use his
spare."

"Oh . . ." Monica waves her hand in dismissal. "I've borrowed one
a time or two and he's perfectly fine with it. All he's asked for
is to have the shirt cleaned when I returned it. You don't have
enough time to go home and change before your afternoon classes, do
you?"

"No, I don't." That settles it: this is a necessity, and John is
both mellow and generous. I could even buy him a new one, if he
wanted. "All right," I say as I get to my feet. "I'll change in the
ladies room."

"I'll be waiting." Monica picks up a file, plops into her chair
and props her feet on her desk. I hurry down the hall to the
nearest restroom. I wash my hands thoroughly. Jacket and blouse
come off, and I unwrap the shirt and put it on. It's a tiny bit
tight across my breasts: the rest of my body has recovered from
pregnancy but my bust will never be the same. Still, I button the
cuffs, tuck in the waistband and smooth the shirt down, rather
pleased.

I sigh, smooth my hair down, put on my jacket and pick up my
stained blouse. I'd like this shirt even more if it smelled faintly
of soap and male skin . . . John smells so good . . .

I shake my head at myself and go back to the office.

***

At lunch, Monica only wants to talk about the wedding. "She has
four bridesmaids and two flower girls," she says, stabbing cucumber
slices with her fork. "But only one ring bearer."

"How many groomsmen?"

"Four. Her brother, his two brothers, and his best friend. The
ring bearer is her nephew. I love it when kids participate in
weddings. They're so cute in formal clothes."

"They are," I say, thinking of the last time I put William in a
baby-sized suit. It was gift from one of my aunts, and he outgrew
it quickly. He did look very cute in it, though.

"And I'm excited to see her dress. Kimberly has such a good
figure. Whatever she's chosen I'm sure she'll look fantastic in
it." Monica tilts her head and studies me. "You're a thousand miles
away, Dana."

"Oh, I'm just thinking."

"Thinking wedding thoughts?" she says with her mischievous look.

"No," I say. "I pretty much don't have wedding thoughts."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'll be getting married anytime soon," I say in a
tone that's meant to finish this conversation, but Monica sweeps
past it.

"That's silly. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman in an
interesting line of work, surrounded by people who care about you.
You could point to just about anyone in your acquaintance and
they'd fall over with joy at the prospect of being with you."

"Thanks, but I don't think that's quite true."

She starts to grin. "You don't think you're beautiful, or you
don't think you're intelligent?"

"Mon . . . I mean I don't think anyone would fall over with joy at
the prospect of being with me. I think the thought of living with
me is more attractive than the reality."

"Hm." Monica eats a few more bites, nodding solemnly. "I think I
see what you mean . . . but I also think I know where you're wrong."

"Oh?"

"I think anyone who was excited at the prospect of living with you
would know what they'd have to deal with in the reality."

I smile at her. "Monica, are you coming on to me?"

She laughs. "Oh, yes, didn't I tell you I've switched teams?"

"I bet Walter would be surprised to hear that," I tease right back.

"I don't think anything I could do would surprise Walter. That's
one of the nice things about dating an older man: nothing shocks
him. Though the other night I did bring out a jar of body-painting
chocolate and a blindfold, and I think he nearly did a double take."

"Monica!" She giggles and I try not to giggle too. The
relationship between Walter Skinner and Monica Reyes has been water-
cooler gossip for almost three months now. Nobody saw it coming,
and nobody has thought it would last beyond a week. From what
Monica tells me, though, all is well and it looks to continue that
way.

Changing the subject seems like a good idea before we fall into
bawdy girl talk. That would be fun, but the last time we got caught
up in that subject at lunch we were asked to leave after Monica
demonstrated some of Skinner's anatomy with a basket of bread
sticks. "Where is Agent Doggett today?"

Monica smirks at me, raising her eyebrows. "What brings him to
mind, I wonder?"

"Oh, stop. I'm just curious. I thought he'd be in the office today."

"He's in New York. He left last night."

His ex-wife still lives in New York--but then, I remind myself, he
has other friends in New York, too. "Do you know when he'll be
back?"

She shrugs. "After the weekend, I guess. I thought he was planning
to go to the wedding, but New York to Delaney is a long way to
drive in one day."

"Oh." I was hoping to see him at the wedding--to see him in formal
clothes, for him to see me in the dress I bought just for this
occasion and because I haven't had a pretty dress for ages.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

"Oh, sure. Weddings make me melancholy, that's all."

Monica puts down her fork and gestures towards me. "Give me your
hand."

"Mon--" I hold out my hand anyway.

She hums and frowns over my palm for a few moments, then says,
"You've got a long life line . . . and a deep love line . . . but I
don't see anything that says you've got to be alone for the rest of
your life. It's a choice, Dana. Happiness is a choice."

I close my hand. "I told someone once that loneliness is a choice."

"It is," Monica says earnestly. "But why would anyone want to make
that choice?"

I put my hand back in my lap and start eating again. "It's not
that simple."

"You can't spend the rest of your life grieving, Dana."

I drop my eyes and say quietly, "I don't want to talk about that,
please."

"I'm just saying that it isn't doing you or Will any good." She
wipes her mouth with her napkin. "All I'm saying."

"Hm," is my only reply as I twirl my fork in my angel hair pasta.

"Look," Monica says, "a wedding is a great place to hook up with
somebody. Everybody's dressed so nicely, there's romance in the
air, there's champagne and good food, music and dancing--I bet, if
you wanted, you could meet somebody to help you blow off some
steam, at least."

"No . . . no one-night stands. Those just get me into trouble."

"Are you sure you don't want to drive with Walter and me, then? I
promise we won't mind the company."

"Thanks, but no. You two don't need me butting in on your romantic
weekend. No . . ." I lean back in my chair, "I'm just going to take
it easy, enjoy the wedding, spend some time with myself. That sort
of thing."

"William deserves a mother who's happy," Monica says, and just
smiles at my impatient noise. She glances at her watch. "Oh, it's
almost one. Time to get back to the real world." She picks up her
purse and starts digging through it.

"I'll get the check. You go ahead."

"Are you sure? I've got my wallet in here somewhere, I promise."

"I'm sure. It'll be your treat next time."

Monica stands and leans over me, and kisses my cheek. "See you in
Delaney," she says and squeezes my shoulder. She leaves quickly,
still looking through her purse for her wallet.

My next class isn't until two-thirty, so I dawdle, eating my pasta
and people-watching. I should, I realize, have pointed out to
Monica that my getting laid is not necessarily going to make me a
happier person--but I'm sure she would retort with Beatles lyrics
or something equally difficult to counter.

Enough introspection. I'm going to have a good time this weekend,
without sex entering the equation.

I sigh and ask a passing waiter for my check.

***

I had imagined Mrs. Welles to be a Southern lady of the old
school: patrician, silver-haired, wearing a cameo at the base of
her throat. She is, instead, plump and black-haired, glittering
with jewelry, with a broad low bosom that you just know has cradled
grandchildren and tired husbands with equal aplomb. I like her at
once.

"You've had such a long drive, honey!" She hands me tea in a paper-
thin porcelain cup and saucer. "Did you have trouble finding us?"

"No, not at all. Getting away was a little difficult." I sip my
tea and close my eyes. "My son didn't want me to leave."

 "And how old is he?"

"He'll be two next month."

"Oh . . . what a wonderful age that is, when they're just starting
to show their personality. I'm sure he'll be fine with his daddy."

I open my mouth, and then shut it again and sip more tea. I don't
want to explain my circumstances anymore, even to this kind
stranger.

"Well," Mrs. Welles goes on, "breakfast is served from six to
nine, and if you want your sheets changed during the day hang the
sign from the doorknob. Good night, Dr. Scully." She rises from the
small table and leaves my room, pausing only to smile when I wish
her good night as well.

Alone, I rest my feet on the ottoman and fold my hands over my
stomach. Mrs. Welles had a fire going for me when I arrived, and it
crackles soothingly, warm against the spring chill. It's a sweet
room, with a soft, curtained featherbed and doilies in every
conceivable place. It would be good for honeymooners or second-
honeymooners or new lovers . . . it's a lot like one room Mulder
and I occupied for a few days that too-brief summer--

I pass my hand over my eyes. Is grief this way for other people?
Does it stop aching eventually and just become resignation,
nostalgia and a faint tremble of regret? I do wish we had more days
to love each other, Mulder and I, and I often wish we had more
nights.

He was infuriating, charming, baffling. He was an endless mystery.
He was a soothing hand, a strengthening hug, a tender kiss. He was
brave when I was afraid, he was strong when I was weak, he was warm
when I was cold. He was father, brother, teacher, son, lover and
best friend.

He's still dead.

And I'm still breathing.

I stare into the fire, and then drink the rest of my tea in one
long swallow. There are a lot of things I do that I tell myself are
for William's sake, but I'm beginning to think it's time to do a
few for myself.

In the tiny bathroom I wash my face and brush my teeth, and put on
my pajamas. I close the curtains and slip beneath the crisp, clean-
smelling sheets. I expect a restless night in this unfamiliar bed,
but sleep comes quickly with calming dreams.

***

In the morning it's too cold to sunbathe properly, but still after
breakfast and a call home, I grab my beach blanket and a book, and
walk the three blocks to the shore. All last night I could smell
the ocean, and I find the closer I get the faster I walk. I'm
nearly running when I reach the concrete steps that lead from the
boardwalk to the sand.

The boardwalk and beach are nearly empty. The season doesn't start
here until June. From here I can see the section of beach where
Kimberly's wedding will be, already set up with a tent for the
reception and chairs for the ceremony.

I spread my blanket on the sand a few yards from the water line,
sit down and lean back on my elbows. There's no smell like the
scent of the ocean. Nothing can duplicate the salty, watery tang.
Mulder used to tell me I taste like the ocean--

Stop it, I tell myself firmly, and open my book.

***

Around noon I wander back to the inn, window-shopping on my way.
I bought the wedding gift already, but it never hurts to add a few
things to a gift bag. I don't see anything that calls out for me to
buy it, though.

At the inn I run hot water in the tub and lay out my dress. A
touch-up with an iron couldn't hurt, so I plug in my travel iron to
warm up while I bathe. I can't remember the last time I took a
leisurely bath--before William's birth, at least. Mulder used to
call me his water baby--

I scowl and sink down beneath the water until it closes over my
head. I miss Mulder. I can't deny that. Gone almost three years and
I still miss him.

But.

I've got to move on. I know this. I knew it before Monica reminded
me at lunch yesterday. I know it every time a colleague asks me out
for coffee. I know it every time my mother offers to watch William
so I can "go out".

Surfacing, I push my hair out of my face and lean against the back
of the tub. I need to move on, and lately I've begun to think I
know with whom I should do the moving. Who, after all, is the one
who stayed? Who is still beside me--in a figurative sense, true,
but enough for me to feel his presence even now? Who would probably
be with me now, if I'd asked him to come, and if he'd put off for
another day that trip to New York.

I shake out my damp hair, splash my face with water and pull up
the stopper of the tub. Time to get ready for the wedding, not
contemplate my utter lack of love life.

***

continued in Part 2


At twenty to three I leave the inn again, and walk towards the
beach. There's still a chill in the air, making me wish I'd brought
the wrap that goes with this dress. The closer I get to the site of
the wedding, the more clusters of people I see, until we're a
rather noisy party climbing down the steps, dropping off our
presents in the tent, and settling into white, ribbon-festooned
chairs. A string quartet plays Pachobel near the dais set up
several feet from the waterline.

I hear a familiar voice-- "Dana!"--and stand to be wrapped up in
Monica's strong hug. She studies my face and breaks into a huge
grin. "Are you having a good time?"

"I am, are you?"

"Very." She glances at Walter Skinner, standing beside her, who
flushes a tiny bit but smiles back. They briefly touch hands, and I
find somewhere else to look. I remember that feeling--secure in the
knowledge that the one you love loves you back--and I miss it, too.
"This is so classy," Monica goes on, coming around the row to sit
beside me. Walter sits at her other side and casually takes her
hand in his. "Now, is he from Delaney or is she?"

"They both are," Walter says. "High school sweethearts, if you can
believe it."

"Really?" Monica turns her attention to him. I try not to feel
envious as one blunt fingertip traces a vein in her wrist.

"They lost track of each other after high school, and then he
turned up in Accounting at the Hoover Building."

"Kim never told me that."

"Did you ever ask her how they met?" Walter says mildly.

"I guess I didn't. Well, I knew he was in Accounting, I guess I
assumed they hooked up in the cafeteria or something. High school
sweethearts." She shakes her head. "So romantic."

"Would you marry your high school sweetheart if he turned up back
in your life?" he asks in a low voice.

"I didn't have one. I was gawky."

"Aww . . ." Walter leans over and kisses her. I smile and look
away again.

Idly I watch a slender man in a blue suit make his way down the
boardwalk steps, and then I get to my feet. "Didn't you say Doggett
was in New York?"

"He was yesterday."

"Isn't that him?"

Monica gets to her feet too, and starts waving. "John! Over here!"

John crosses the sand and joins our row. "Good, familiar faces,"
he says, hugging first Monica and then me, and then shaking
Walter's hand. "I was sure the only person I would know would be
Kim."

He's carrying a blue box wrapped with silver ribbon, and Monica
says quickly, "They're taking gifts in the reception tent, would
you like us to take yours over?"

"Oh--yeah, sure." He gives the box to her, and she, with a subtle
tug to Walter's hand, leads Walter over to the tent further down
the beach.

I take my seat again and John sits at my other side. For a few
minutes we're silent, listening to the quartet and the waves. John
scrapes the sole of his shoe against the rung of the chair in front
of him. He looks very good today: the blue of his suit and lighter-
hued shirt deepen the color of his eyes, and the soft fabrics
smooth his sharp features.

His eyes meet mine and I realize, blushing, that I've been
staring. He starts to smile, and I blurt, "Was that from Tiffany's?"

"Yeah."

"What did you get them?"

"Oh . . ." He looks almost embarrassed, and he says, "Monica told
me Kim said she'd wanted to register for a few things at Tiffany's
but didn't dare because everything is so expensive. So I got them
something frivolous."

"But something frivolous from Tiffany's."

"Yes."

"I'm sure she'll love it. What is it?"

"Two silver spoons." He smiles again. "One is engraved with their
names and today's date, and the other I paid for them to have
engraved whenever they want. Twenty-fifth anniversary or the birth
of their first child . . ." He shrugs. "Whatever."

The sheer thoughtfulness of this gift leaves me speechless, but I
manage to say, "That's so sweet."

He just shrugs again, looking at his shoes.

"I got them the sheets they registered for, and pillows," I say
after a few moments more. "It suddenly seems pale and unoriginal."

"No, no, no," John says quickly. "It's what they needed, what they
wanted. It's perfect."

"You give good presents," I answer. "William still plays with
those trucks you gave him on his last birthday."

"They should keep him amused until he's ready for smaller toys.
Those big clunky things are good for small hands."

"See? You know exactly what to give people. What's your secret?"

"I've never given you anything," he says instead of answering me,
and our eyes hold each for a long moment--until Monica bounces into
the other chair again.

"A limo just pulled up! The bride's here!"

***
" . . . But seriously," the best man is saying, "and I should be
serious because Dave told me to make this toast count--" He pauses
to grin at his brother and there are a few chuckles in the crowd.
"Kim, Dave. You two are my favorite people in the world. We knew
twelve years ago you were perfect for each other, and we forgive
you for taking so long to realize it." He pauses as people chuckle
again. "You hear so much nowadays about divorce statistics and
tricks on how to make a marriage last. I think you two don't need
any tricks. You have the secret already. Love, of course. Respect.
Lots of that. But most of all, you two are friends. That will see
you through disagreements, disasters, and two a.m. feedings." Again
he pauses, and smiles at the newlyweds. "Look at your wife, Dave.
Look at your husband, Kim. And tell yourselves, 'This is my best
friend.'" He raises his champagne glass. "To Kim and Dave!"

"Kim and Dave!" the crowd echoes, and everyone drinks. John starts
tapping his glass with his spoon and all around people follow suit,
so the newlywed couple, blushing and smiling, kiss each other
gently.

There has already been dinner and more toasts. The hotel's serving
staff has cleared away the dessert dishes and passed out flutes of
champagne.

But I'm not sure how much longer I will stay. The band is setting
up at the other end of the tent, which means dancing will start
soon, and I'm not sure I want to watch the newlyweds nuzzle during
their first dance, or Monica and Walter sway in each other's arms,
or John dance with other women--

As soon as the music starts I rise from my chair. A waiter steps
forward but I shake my head: I don't need anything. The tent is
open-air, and I easily walk down the risers to the sand.

It's a mile or so back to my inn, and after a few steps I bend and
take off my shoes. The sand is cool between my toes. After a few
steps more I turn to look at my footprints.

Someone else is following my footprints, too. John. He smiles at
me and catches up in a few quick strides. "Not a music fan, I take
it?"

"It felt like a good time to exit gracefully."

"Oh." We walk in silence until he adds, "That's a pity. I was
hopin' to ask you for a dance."

For a moment my heart pounds painfully hard against my ribs, but I
manage to laugh and say lightly, "You're lucky, then. I'm a
terrible dancer. I never figured out how to follow."

"Maybe you just didn't have someone who knew how to lead," he
says, then clears his throat. "Storm's comin'."

There is a bank of clouds moving rapidly from the sea, blocking
out most of the afternoon sun. "They're lucky it hasn't come
sooner."

The breeze, which has been chilly but comforting all day, suddenly
turns cold, and I shiver. "Here," John says at once, taking off his
jacket, and he wraps it around my shoulders. His arm lingers at my
back. We both smile awkwardly when he takes it away. "That's a
pretty dress but it's no good for spring storms."

"It isn't intended to be weather gear." I hold the lapels of his
jacket, keeping it around my shoulders. It smells like how I wanted
his shirt to smell yesterday, like skin and soap, like John. "But
I'm okay, really. My inn's just up there a ways, and there's no
reason for you to miss the rest of the party."

"I can walk you there and walk back," John says mildly, and takes
my arm. He loosens his tie as we start walking again. "I might even
beat the storm--though I doubt it," he adds with another glance at
the clouds.

The wind blows even harder and colder, and we move closer together
for warmth. He puts his arm around my shoulders again, holding me
near enough for me to catch his scent and feel the muscles in his
side. I want to turn my head and bury my nose in his chest, but I
only bite my lip and concentrate on placing one foot in front of
the other.

The wind blows colder and stronger, and soon John says, "I think
we'd better make a run for it." Glancing up, I agree: we're going
to get poured on in a second. He takes my hand as we run up the
beach and towards the boardwalk steps. We reach the street just as
thunder crashes and rain begins to cascade down.

I lift the jacket from my shoulders and hold it over both our
heads. "Your feet are bare," John reminds me, but I just shrug: wet
feet are the least of my worries right now. I lead him up the three
blocks to my inn, and we run through the wet garden and up the
front steps to the porch.

We stand before the door, panting from exertion, thoroughly
soaked. "Thanks for walking me home," I say, and he smiles a tiny
bit.

"Sure. Too bad about that dance, though."

His words set my heart to pounding again, and I blurt, "Why do you
want to dance with me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he whispers. He touches the collar of his
jacket, still around my shoulders. "How could I pass up my only
chance to dance with you . . ." His finger moves up my neck to my
cheek, which he caresses for a too-brief moment. He clears his
throat and lets his hand drop. "I'd better be getting back. My
truck is parked by the other hotel."

"Is that where you're staying?"

"No. I wasn't planning to stay. I'm going to drive back tonight."

I take a breath, and hear myself saying "No," loud and firm. He
raises his eyebrows, surprised. "No, you're not," I say more
clearly. "You're not driving home in this weather. It's dangerous.
You could get hurt. And I'd hate for something to happen to you.
I'd--I'd hate--"

My words falter. I can't say what I'm thinking: I'd hate to spend
the rest of this day without you. I'd hate to spend the rest of my
life without you.

John stares at me intently, but when I stop talking his face takes
on an expression of wry patience. "Don't worry about me," he says.
"I'm indestructible, remember?"

"No," I whisper. "You're not. No one is." I shiver despite the
warmth of his jacket, and stare down at my pale toes.

John touches my cheek again. "Dana," he whispers.

"Don't go," I say simply, dropping my shoes, and I step closer to
him and wrap my arms around him.        His hands hover over my
shoulders for a moment, and then he spreads them over my back and
holds me even closer. His lips touch my hair.

"You are full of surprises, girl," he whispers.

"I'm not a girl," I mumble into his shirt.

He caresses my shoulders and says, "No, you're not," in a low
voice. He takes a deep breath and says, resolute, "I should be
going. You should--you take a hot bath, okay? You don't need to
catch pneumonia."

"No," I say again. I look up at him. "Stay."

"Dana . . . I can't."

"You can. You should." I smile at him. "You will."

"Your Jedi mind tricks don't work on me," he says, but the joke
falls flat. Still we stand there, holding each other, not moving.

"I'm not going to let you drive back in this weather. I'm
resolved. Period. You're staying here." I gather up all my courage
and say, "You're staying with me."

"Dana . . . I can't. I really can't. I didn't bring any clothes. I
don't even have a toothbrush. And I don't--I can't--" He sighs
heavily. "It wouldn't be right."

"John, this isn't a question of right and wrong. I'm trying to
look out for my friend."

"Oh," he says softly, and starts to frown. He starts to let me go.
"Your *friend* . . ."

This won't do at all. I haul him right back to me, stand up on my
toes and kiss him, hard.

I feel him gasp, and then he eases into the kiss, holding me by
the shoulders. He taste like champagne. He tastes like wedding
cake. He tastes like the ocean.

We part, breathing as if we've been running again. Slowly he
traces my lower lip with his fingertip. "No wonder you've got so
many friends."

I laugh and kiss his finger. "You're staying."

"Yes, ma'am." He scoops up my shoes. "And you're drying off."

"Yes, sir." I smile at him as he opens the door, and we hold hands
as we head through the inn and up the stairs.

***

In the room, John wraps me in a blanket and we lie together on the
overstuffed sofa, watching the rainfall. He strokes my hair with
his palm.

"Tell me something," I say eventually.

"Tell you what?" He sounds sleepy.

"About you. Tell me something about you. Tell me something I don't
know."

"Well . . . I have three brothers. They're all wonderfully insane.
I love them dearly."

"Mm, brothers." I can imagine him with brothers, doing boy-like
things.

He goes on stroking my hair. "You tell me something now."

"Anything." I feel expansive. I want to tell him everything.

"Do you miss Mulder?"

The strangeness of this question makes me sit up and look at him.
He is rumpled and damp, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows,
his hair askew. His eyes are patient, but slightly afraid. "Of
course I miss Mulder," I say, and then wonder if I should get off
the sofa or lie back down.

"What do you miss?"

"Do you really want to hear this?"

"Yes. I do." He grits his teeth a moment. "I have to know."

I frown, and then shift and straddle his waist, the skirt of my
dress hiking up my thighs. His eyebrows shoot up but he watches me,
wordless. I place my hands on his chest. "I miss everything," I say
evenly. "I miss what we had. I miss who I was. I miss the sound of
his voice."

Closing his eyes, John nods. "Okay."

"However," I say, and lean down so that I'm speaking right against
his mouth, "loving the dead is a trap, you know."

"I wasn't aware." His hand comes to rest on the base of my spine.
His eyes open, bluer-than-blue.

"You forget things. Faults, annoyances, petty grievances. I could
spend the rest of my life making my memory of Mulder into a shrine--
but what good would that do? For me or for William? No." I shake my
head. "It's a messy business, this loving the living, but worth it
in the end."

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Only that I'm glad you're here."

He murmurs, "Well, that's something, anyway," and pulls me down to
him again. He touches the sole of my foot with his toe. "Your feet
are still cold."

I pull up my legs and he fluffs the blanket over us. For a moment
I have an urge to suck my thumb, like William does when he's
content. "William has Mulder's toes," I say sleepily. "Long, narrow
toes, and a crooked pinky toe. I have short, square toes, but
William has long toes . . ."

"Luke looked like my wife," John says quietly, and it seems to me
the world goes still. Even the rain seems muted. "Sometimes I think
. . ." He stops, sighs, kisses the top of my head.

"Tell me."

"Like when the Lord of the Rings movies came out. I saw them, of
course. And I saw kids at the theater, some of them scared, some of
them into it, and I thought, Luke would love this. And my heart
breaks all over again."

I hesitate, and then say, "Last week I was reading a book and I
wanted to tell Mulder about a passage of it, and I was reaching for
the phone when I remembered."

"You called me instead."

"Guilty."

"I bought the book."

I lean on my elbows and look at him, relieved to see his faint
smile. "I don't want this to be about grief, John."

"You're right," he murmurs. "That wouldn't be any better than
being alone. And it's not just about getting laid at a friend's
wedding, either."

"Absolutely. It's . . ." I toy with a button on his shirt. I don't
know what it is. It's *him*, my friend, my compadre, my son's
favorite plaything, my comfort, my joy. I kiss his chest and feel
myself blush.

"Dana," John says seriously, and raises my head with his fingers
under my chin. "There's no rush."

"I'm tired of standing still." I lower my head so I can kiss his
fingers. I'm still on top of him and I feel his chest rise and fall
with faster breaths as I grab hold of his wrist and kiss his veins
and his palm, and suck his fingertips.

"Dana," he whispers, and his voice is soft with awe. "Dana, honey
. . ."

I hold his hand flat to my chest, over my heart. "I want you in my
life."

"I am in your life."

I get the feeling he's being deliberately stubborn, that he wants
me to say it. I'm afraid to say it. I'm more afraid if I don't say
it he'll get up and leave. And, of course, it's possible that I'm
imaging our entire connection and he really does just want to get
laid at a friend's wedding.

On the other hand, his eyes are crinkling at the corners like they
do just before he smiles, and his hand is warm and heavy above my
breast. I rub his knuckles. "I. Want. You."

John smiles slowly, like a sunrise, and slides his hand down my
chest. "Huh," he says, his voice raspier than ever. "Could you be
more specific, please?"

I let my head fall back and bite my lip to keep from moaning as
his hand begins to knead my breast and his hips start to grind
against my pelvis. "I want you--ah, mm--to make me pancakes on
Saturdays--" He starts laughing and his other hand grips my other
breast--"and I want to--oo--pick you up after work--oh, oh--and buy
groceries with you--oh my--and sleep next to you--John--John--"

"You've got this all planned out," he whispers, drawing up his
knees behind me so I can lean against his thighs.

"You asked for--specifics--" I grab his wrists and wrench his
hands from my breasts. "I'm trying to talk to you."

There's an honest-to-God twinkle in his eyes. "I'd say you're
trying to seduce me, pretty Miss Scully. Not that I mind."

 It shouldn't get me, but it does. I feel myself soften all over.
"You think I'm pretty?"

John sits up, and I shift a little so I'm not sitting so heavily
on his hips. He takes my face in his hands. "Dana," he says
solemnly, "I think you're beautiful."

I put my arms around his neck and kiss him. He hums and slides his
hands up and down my sides. "I think," he whispers, kissing me,
"you're sweet--" kiss "--and funny--" kiss "--and delicious--" kiss
"--and--oh, Dana!" He kisses me, his tongue leisurely exploring my
mouth.

Lying together to warm up is one thing, but this is a Kiss With
Intent. And oh, I hope he's intending, because I sure am.

continued in Part 3

I rake my hands through his hair and kiss him back, until he
breaks it off to plant little kisses around my face. "I want to
taste every one of your freckles," he murmurs, and I don't hold
back my giggle. He pulls away and looks into my eyes. "I like
hearing you laugh." He lowers his head and rests his cheek above my
breast. "I like hearing your heartbeat. I like hearing you say my
name . . ."

"John," I whisper, and he chuckles.

"Just like that." He raises his head and looks at me. He cups the
back of my head in his hand and tilts it back, and begins to kiss
my neck. I close my eyes and knead his shoulders. I love this slow
gentleness, I really do, but I want his skin on mine.

I take my hands from his shoulders and find the knot of his tie,
to loosen it and pull the tie away. He moans when I start
unbuttoning his shirt, and stops kissing me. "Wait a second, just a
second," he whispers. "Condom?"

"What?" I've had this hypothesis about his ears for months, and
now seems like a good time to try it out. I tongue the top of his
ear and he jumps.

"Dana! C'mon. Don't for a second, okay? Do you," he says slowly,
while I pout because I'd rather be kissing, "have a condom?"

"No."

"Do you have anything? I have no idea what you normally use."

"John, I haven't had sex in nearly three years, and it was a good
six before that. I am completely unprepared."

He sighs and lifts me up to put me off his lap. "Okay. I'll--um--
do you suppose they'll know where I can find a drug store at the
front desk?"

I have an uncomfortable moment, knowing what Mrs. Welles will
think--sneaking off for a naughty weekend with my lover while my
husband stays at home with the baby--and say, "I trust you, you
know."

But he's already putting on his shoes. "Can I use your car keys?"

"They're on the table."

He puts on his jacket and turns to caress my cheek. He looks
rakish and handsome, his hair ruffled and his shirt open, just a
few buttons, just enough to tease the eyes with his white t-shirt.
"It's not that I don't trust you," he says quietly. "I just don't
wanna knock you up. Not yet," he adds with a half smile, and I have
to remind myself to breathe. He bends and kisses me quickly. "Won't
be long." He leaves the room, closing the door carefully behind
him, and I stay trembling on the couch.

After a few minutes I regain my composure. It's all hypothetical
at the moment: of course you think about having a child with a new
lover, it's part of human biology. But then I think about a little
girl with John's mesmerizing eyes and hug myself. I always wanted a
big family.

I get to my feet and start to unzip my dress, but hesitate. If we
were home I could put on something pink and slinky but all I've got
here is cotton pajamas, jeans and t-shirts. I want him to undress
me, but not from something that looks like I'm ready to go jogging
or take a nap.

 But I did put my hair up for the wedding, and it can come down. I
pull out the bits of baby's breath and hairpins, and comb my
fingers through the braids until my hair falls in waves to my
shoulders. William would suck on the ends of my hair when he was a
baby, and now he'll cry "Pretty!" and pet my hair like a cat when I
let it down. He sometimes tries to help me brush it, but he hasn't
gotten the hang of how the brush should move through my hair yet.

John is good with William, after some initial awkwardness when
Will was tiny. Infant William looked lost in John's big hands, and
John didn't look much at home either. Now William runs to him when
he comes over, and John will carry him around comfortably for as
long as William will stay in his arms. When I'm on the phone with
John William will tug at my hand: "Wan' talk wif Zawn, Mama."

Having John more completely in my life is for me, yes, but it's
for William too. They love each other, too.

 I kneel on the sofa and open the curtain to look out at the
drenched garden. Neither of us has said a word about love, though I
want to. And I will: I will take a deep breath and just say it,
just let it out, just be honest and vulnerable in front of him. I
can do it. I tell William I love him all the time--John can't be
any more difficult.

Except, of course, that there's a world of difference between
one's two-year-old son who adores you and a forty-five-year-old man
who may or may not love you back.

I frown at myself and let the curtain close. I trust John. I care
about him. There was pain and misunderstanding between us at first,
but since Mulder's death John has been nothing but supportive and
gentle. He is everything I want, for my son and for me.

I hear a knock at the door and jump to my feet. He's back.

I open the door eagerly, and am greeted by John's quiet smile. "I
hurried," he says, putting my keys and the box of condoms on the
table. He hesitates. "You . . . didn't have any second thoughts,
did you?" he says, trying to be light, but there's a little worry
in his eyes.

"None," I say, taking his hands. I lead him to the bed and we both
sit on the edge. He holds my face in his hands and again starts
placing small kisses along my jaw.

"You surprise me so much, little girl . . . I know, I know, you
don't like being called girl," he adds before I can chasten him.
"Sorry. I tend to think of you that way. My girl. I'll stop, I
promise."

"Well . . . if that's the way you like to think of me . . ." I
move my legs casually over his and pull myself into his lap. "Maybe
I could not mind so much."

John slings his arms around my waist. "Sweet girl," he murmurs,
and kisses me.

For several minutes we kiss, deeply, slowly, as his hands stroke
my back and I run my fingers through his hair. Being out in the
rain cooled down his skin and his mouth, but both heat up quickly
enough as we kiss. When I stop to look at him his sharp cheekbones
are highlighted further by his flushed skin. He rubs tiny circles
into my temples. "You took your hair down."

"No lingerie, so . . ."

"I like it down. It's pretty." He nuzzles his face in my hair. "So
pretty . . ."

I chuckle, and notice his ear is within reach again. He groans as
I run my tongue along the ridge. "Mm . . . you like playin' with
me, don't you," he murmurs and lightly tickles my side. I have to
stop licking him to laugh.

"That's because you're such a willing and wonderful plaything." I
hold his face in my hands and kiss him again.

"And what was that about lingerie?" he adds when again we pause.

"Oh, while you were gone I wished I had something special to put
on for you. But as I'm sure you guessed, I really wasn't planning
on anything happening this weekend, so no lingerie."

He smiles and thumbs the inside of my elbow. "I don't think
anything you could wear would make you more desirable than you are."

He melts me. There's no other way to put it. I thank him with a
kiss. "You say the nicest things," I whisper.

"Just bein' honest, darlin' . . ." He grasps the zipper tab at the
back of my dress, and as he kisses me lowers the zip. I feel every
bump of his fingerprints as he strokes my bare back. He pulls his
mouth away and looks at me as he lowers the sleeves and bares me to
the waist. Yes: no bra. My mother would be shocked.

"God," John murmurs.

"They're just breasts, John."

"Yeah, but they're your breasts." He dips his head and runs his
tongue along the upper curves. I rub my cheek against his hair, and
as he kisses and nuzzles my breasts I push off his jacket and
unbutton his shirt. He pauses so I can pull the t-shirt over his
head. Both shirts fall to the floor, and he lets me look at him for
a moment, lets me run my hands over him. "It's just a chest," he
teases softly.

"Yeah, but it's your chest." I glance up to smile at him, and kiss
the tattoo on his arm. It occurs to me I've never seen so much of
his skin before: he's always in suit and tie, or at least a t-
shirt. I rub his arm and whisper, "You were there, weren't you?"

"Yeah. That's what these are from." He points to scattered scars
along his side, that lead down below his waistband. I slide from
his lap and kiss his scars. He makes a soft sound and traces my
collarbones with his fingertips. He lowers his head and traces my
cleavage with his tongue. I comb my hands through his hair,
whimpering faintly, wanting more of his touch but not wanting to
rush him, either.

He lays me on my back and spends a moment looking at me, running
his fingers over my skin. He doesn't speak but when our eyes meet,
his are dark with passion and wide with wonder. I rub my palm
across his cheekbone, and he smiles and kisses my hand.

When he lowers himself onto me again his kisses are even deeper,
longer, wetter. His hands knead and squeeze my breasts, and I arch
and writhe beneath him. My nails rake over his back. This is what I
want--give me heat, give me passion, give me all of you and I
promise I'll give you all of me in return.

His lips move down my body, and his mouth latches onto my nipple.
My head presses back against the mattress and I grasp his
shoulders, moaning, "Ooo . . ." He fingers my ribs, my hips and my
ass, suckling me intently. "John, John," I whisper, and I feel him
smile.

His mouth leaves the left breast--wet with saliva, hard with
arousal, marked faintly by his teeth--and moves to the right. He
grasps my left breast, warming it and squeezing it, as he fiercely
suckles the right. I wiggle my hips, as much to feel his erection
as to get out of my dress.

John chuckles at me again, and lifts his head from my breasts to
rise up on his knees. I whimper and reach for him, wanting his
warmth back on me. He kisses my palms and tugs my dress past my
hips and off my body. "Should I hang it up?" he whispers, the first
words we've spoken for several minutes.

"No." I slide my hands down to the waistband of my panties. John
licks his lips as he watches me pull them off, and his chest
heaves. I let my panties hang from the tip of my finger for a
moment, and then they join the scattered clothes on the floor.

John starts to bend over me, but then rises up again and backs off
the bed. He grabs the box of condoms from the table and fumbles to
open the flaps for a moment--when that takes too long he rips open
the box with his teeth. He slams the box on the nightstand and
turns to where I'm sprawled on the bed, waiting for him.

Quickly I sit up and tackle his belt buckle, kissing his rock-hard
stomach. He groans as I unzip his pants, hisses as I ease his crisp
cotton boxers past his erection. He grasps my shoulders and kisses
the top of my head, stroking my hair.

"Hold on a second, let me--" John kneels down and takes off his
shoes and socks, and then shucks the rest of his clothing. Nude and
magnificent, he gets back on the bed.

More Kisses With Intent, warm and hard kisses that make me quiver
with need. "Let me touch you, let me suck you," I plead as I wrap
my hand around his cock, which throbs against my palm. His hips
thrust and he groans, pushing my hand away.

"Later, baby," he mutters, kissing me. "I promise, later you can
do whatever you want to me, but right now--please, baby," he kisses
me again, "please, I want to be inside, let me be inside, I just
want to be inside--"

"Yes. Yes." My hand flails at the nightstand, searching for the
box of condoms, knocking off my book and something that lands with
a crash in the process. But I still manage to grab the box and
fumble out a condom. John kisses my neck while I try to get the
packet open.

Finally I pant out, the condom ready for action, "If you stop
doing that for a minute I can put this on you--and let me remind
you, this was your idea. I was all set to throw caution to the
winds but no, you wanted to be careful--"

He holds himself above me and looks at me through his eyelashes.
"So put it on me," he rumbles.

I push on his chest so that he gets on his knees. I kneel too and
carefully unroll the condom down the length of his cock. He moans
in his chest, turning his head away, and shifts anxiously on his
knees.

"There," I whisper, and swallow hard.

John grabs me and kisses me. His hands grasp my ass and he lifts
me up--my legs go around his waist, my arms around his neck--he
slams me down onto his cock, forcing a cry from my throat and my
back to arch.

One hand leaves my ass and he reaches out, finding the wall by
touch. He walks us, on his knees, to the wall and presses my back
against it. All the while he's kissing me and I'm kissing him--
lips, noses, eyes--and he's rocking his hips against me.

With the wall for leverage now, John pulls back a little--close
enough to feel each other's breath, not close enough to kiss--and
watches me as he thrusts into me, slow and deep. We tease each
other, almost kissing, almost nuzzling, touching no more than
breath and the tips of tongues. He watches me with his eyelids
lowered. He moans softly in his chest.

"Dana," he whispers. He kisses my eyebrows and pushes my hair back
from my face. "God . . . Dana . . ."

I can only moan in reply. It's John, John inside me, John fucking
me like he wants it to last forever--I have to close my eyes.

"Oh," he whispers, "don't, baby, don't close your eyes. Let me
see, Dana. I want to see you." He cradles my cheek and kisses me.
"Please don't hide from me, baby."

I open my eyes at his sweet pleading, and meet his gaze again.
Neither of us has said a word about love, true, but no one can
convince me it's not love I see--that it's not love I feel deep
between my legs, deep inside my soul.

His name is on my lips now, between kisses. He whispers back to
me, kissing my neck and shoulders and face. "Dana--sweet Dana--oh,
my baby--"

"My John," I whisper, drawing my fingers over his mouth. I love
him. I do. I love his strong body, his whiskey voice, his electric
eyes, and his stubborn, linear mind.

And at this moment I particularly love his thick, hot cock that is
fucking me so exquisitely.

I can't touch him enough--I want to feel every one of his muscles,
every pore of his skin. I taste his sweat as it drips down his
face, comb my hands through his hair, and smooth my tongue along
his throat.

John's body is shaking hard. His thrusts and his kisses are
rougher, and his hands hold my hips in a bruising grip. We've
reached a nearly frenzied pace, and it almost feels like--yes--
please--

I moan and my nails dig into John's shoulders as colors burst
behind my eyelids. I feel as much as I hear his orgasm--his shiver,
his groan, his grip, and finally his ease as he comes down.

We hold onto each other, just breathing. I shake all over still.
John kisses my lips and gently lifts me, to lay me on my back
against the pillows. Again he kisses me, and strokes my hair. He
gets off the bed and goes into the bathroom to dispose of the
condom.

While he's in there I force myself up long enough to turn down the
covers. There is an unmistakable wet spot on the bedspread. I crawl
between the sheets and lie on my side, pillowing my head on my arm.

John comes out of the bathroom, and smiles a little when he sees
me. He gets into bed beside me and gathers me to him, gives me a
few more kisses and lays down his head. I rest my head on his
shoulder and sigh deeply.

After a moment, John takes my hand and holds it to his chest, just
over his heart. I smile and kiss his shoulder, settle my head again
and close my eyes.

No words are spoken. No words are needed.

* * *

When we both dozed off the room was still gray with rainy, late-
afternoon light. When I open my eyes again the room is much darker,
and the space beside me is empty.

I sit up. John's clothes are still on the floor, which makes me
breathe more easily. I remind myself, too, that it's John and not
some random stranger: he's not going to just get up and leave.

I lean back on the pillows and smooth the coverlet. My body is
sore from our lovemaking earlier--a good, satisfying soreness. But
I want John back in my arms--I want reassurance, I want to feel the
reality of his love.

I only have to wait a minute or two: the bathroom door opens and
John comes out, carrying a cup of water. He pauses at the window
and lifts the curtain to peer outside. Raindrops tap quietly at the
glass.

I turn onto my side and observe John as he sips his water and
watches the rain. There are a great many things that attract me to
him, and his body is in the top three. He is strong and slender,
muscular, and you could bounce a quarter off that ass.

The thought makes me giggle, and John looks at me and lowers his
glass. "What're you laughing at?" he murmurs, coming to the bedside.

I take his hands. "Just thinking what a hot lover I've got."

"Ahh . . . so I'm hot, huh?" He turns my hands over and kisses the
base of my palms.

"Hotter than the Fourth of July," I tease softly. "Come back to
bed."

"Come look at the rain with me," he says instead. "It's beautiful
out."

I get out of bed. He leads me by the hand to the sofa, and wraps
the same blanket from earlier around our shoulders as we get
comfortable. He holds me close, his hand warm on my hip.

It is beautiful out. Streetlights paint the raindrops silver, and
the flowers in the garden below are aglow in the wet light. Even
the clouds have a magical look about them, purple and golden and
midnight blue.

I lean my head against John's shoulder. He kisses the top of my
head. "Are you warm enough?"

"I'm wonderful."

He chuckles. "Yeah, you are."

I laugh too and put my arms around him. "So are you, baby." I turn
his head towards me and kiss his cheek, then his lips. He holds my
chin and kisses me back. In a moment we're making out, tongues and
noses and fingers and loud, smacking kisses. "Mm, mm, mm," I moan,
or he moans--it's hard to say.

John pulls away from me and holds my face with trembling hands. He
leans his forehead against mine.

Before he can speak someone knocks on the door in a series of
quick, serious raps. "Fuck," Doggett mutters, letting go of my
face. "Do you want me to get that?"

"I'd better." I get up and put on my bathrobe, while John covers
himself with the blanket. I open the door, to see Monica and
Skinner standing there.

continued in Part 4

"Dana, come to dinner with us," Monica begins--then her eyes grow
wide when she sees that I am naked except for this robe, and
sporting a serious case of sex hair. And I don't doubt she can see
John, sprawled on the sofa and nude under the blanket. "Oh," she
says. "Oh!"

Skinner is just as surprised, though he shows it far more mildly,
and he says, "We thought you might want some dinner, but if you two
have other plans--"

"I think dinner sounds great," John says from behind me. "Don't
you think, Dana?"

"Dinner sounds fine," I murmur.

"We'll wait in the lobby," Skinner says, taking Monica's hand. She
pauses long enough to give me a huge smile and a "Way to go!"
thumbs-up, and then allows Walter to lead her away.

I shut the door and turn to John, crossing my arms over my chest.
"What?" John says. "Would you rather do something else?"

"I'd rather stay here and fool around some more," I admit. "I'm
not sure I'm ready to go public yet."

"It's dinner with friends, not an announcement in the Times."

I know he's right, but there's some fanatically private part of me
that isn't ready to face anyone else as John's lover. It's the kind
of thing I'd rather cherish between us for a while.

I mutter, "I need to clean up," and go into the bathroom. I turn
on the faucet and run my brush under the water, then drag it
through my hair. My makeup is smeared all over my face: lipstick
reduced to a blur around my mouth, mascara smudged into raccoon
circles beneath my eyes, eyeliner gone completely. My face is pink
with stubble burn.

However, I'm also aglow with sexual satisfaction, from skin to
eyes, and I can't help smiling at myself. I look like I got laid
but good.

John gives me a few minutes, and then taps lightly on the door.
"I'd like to take a quick shower."

"Come in."

Still nude, John enters the bathroom, and squeezes past me to the
shower. He turns the water on and stands, waiting for the water to
warm up, with his hand under the spray.

His shoulders are set so tightly I know he's upset. He's not at
the twitching-muscle-in-the-jaw stage, at least.

I put down my brush and go to him. I slip my arms around his waist
and start kissing the freckles on his shoulders. He sighs.

"I know you like to keep your business your own, Dana, but they're
our friends. I also know you and Monica talk about everything--
you'd have told her eventually."

"I'm not ready to share you yet."

"Share me? Are there plans for an orgy later?"

"You know that's not what I mean," I begin, and he chuckles. "You
think you're so funny."

He turns in my arms. "You think I'm pretty funny too," he says and
kisses me. "I do know what you mean," he goes on in a serious tone.
"And I think I understand--but Dana, I *do* want to show you off. I
want to know I'm going home with the most beautiful girl around--
and I want everyone else to know it too. Besides," he adds with an
arching brow, "I thought you said I'm hot."

I rest my cheek against his chest. "You are. I'm proud to be with
you, I really am. I just want you to be only mine for a while."

"Dana." His voice is soft and serious. "I *am* yours."

I look up, search his eyes, and smile.

John smiles back, hesitates, and then kisses me. His tongue moves
slowly over my teeth and the roof of my mouth. I arch my back,
thrusting my breasts against his chest. He moans in his throat and
his mouth slides down my chin to my neck. He noses my robe open,
and his tongue drags along my shoulder. A little more nudging and
my breast is exposed to his eager mouth.

I gasp, "Monica--Walter--in the lobby--waiting for us--"

"They'll wait," John murmurs. He raises his head, a glint in his
eye. "Unless you *want* me to stop."

"No--no--" I thread my fingers into his hair, cupping the back of
his head. "Don't stop."

He chuckles, lowering his head. He scatters kisses along the upper
slopes of my breasts, pulling open my robe with deliberation. He
lowers it from my arms as his tongue slides down my ribs, my belly,
my thighs.

"The water's hot," he mutters, rising up again.

". . . water . . . oh . . ."

John nearly has to lift me into the shower, where we're enveloped
in water and steam. I compose myself enough to grab the soap and
washcloth, and start up a lather. John smirks at me.

"You want to wash my back?"

"Yes. Stop laughing."

"I'm not laughing." He turns his back to me, shaking out his
shoulders and neck.

I step closer to him and place an open-mouthed kiss between his
shoulder blades. "I like your back," I murmur. "I like your
shoulders. I like your freckles." I start to rub the washcloth over
his shoulders.

"All body parts present and accounted for," he murmurs.

"And I like every single one," I answer. For a long while we're
silent as I wash his body. His eyes are closed and his mouth is
slack, but his cock, already starting to perk when we were kissing
outside the shower, is alert and pulsing. Still facing his back, I
rub the washcloth down his chest, his stomach, and his balls--then
gently wrap my fingers, covered by the soapy washcloth, around his
shaft.

John groans as I stroke him. "Dana, the condoms are in the other
room."

"Then we'll do something else." I give his cock a squeeze and he
groans again.

He turns to face me and grabs me around the waist. He kisses me so
hard he bends me backwards. My nails dig into his shoulders.

John straightens me up and presses me against the shower wall.
Cupping my breasts in his hands, he pushes them together and stoops
to kiss them. His tongue slips over the curves and then into the
cleavage. I moan and he grunts, his tongue thrusting between my
breasts. My head lolls and my body writhes against the wall. My
hands clutch at his head.

Just when I think I can't bear any longer without John inside me,
he raises his head again and kisses my mouth. "What something else
did you have in mind?" He's got the rumbly voice again, so deep it
reverberates through me like a bass guitar.

"I--I--" I want him to fuck me again, with or without a condom.
His concern about impregnating me is touching, but probably
misplaced. Still, I know he won't see it that way.

I run my hands over his wet chest, and lean forward to lick up a
droplet of water or two. He releases a deep breath. "Dana . . ."

"I want to suck your cock," I whisper, and he moans in response. I
circle his nipple with the tip of my tongue. "I want to taste your
come."

"God, girl," he breathes, grasping my skull. His fingertips rub my
scalp as I kiss my way down his body. I'm already on my knees when
he tilts my head up and says, "Wait--I've got a better idea." He
helps me stand, and then carefully lies down, his back against the
slope of the tub and his feet sticking out over the edge. "Kneel
over me."

I smile at him and arrange myself awkwardly over his body. The
throbbing in my belly is even more insistent. I moan aloud at the
first touch of his tongue to my thigh.

But the point of this position is the mutual pleasure of give-and-
take. I stroke the head of his cock with the underside of my
tongue, and he squeezes the cheeks of my ass as he kisses my
thighs. He sucks my outer labia as I lower my head, taking him
further into my mouth. His tongue flicks my clit as my lips slide
up and down the length of his shaft.

All the while hot water beats on my back and runs down my sides,
into the cleft of my ass, over my shoulders. It only adds to the
sensuality of this experience: we're wrapped up in heat, in
wetness, in the scent of soap and sex.

And pleasure is washing over my body like the water, through me
and around me as if it's in the air.

In the back of my mind I know Walter and Monica are waiting for us
downstairs--I know we should be taking a quick, sensible shower and
not delay. But I'm enjoying the thrum of John's cock against my
lips far too much; I'm enjoying the persistent press of his tongue
on my clitoris. If his muffled moans and the thrust of his hips are
anything to go by, so is he.

After his first exploratory kisses, John has been concentrating on
my clit--around, around, around, over and over and over. I imitate
him, flicking the tip of my tongue in the tiny opening of his
penis. His head rubs against my thigh. His hands have been kneading
my ass, but one hand moves down for a lone finger to slide into me,
soon joined by a second. His fingers fuck me and he sucks my clit
like it's a nipple.

I have to let his cock slide out of my mouth, to throw back my
head, to moan and shudder through an orgasm that is deep and
intense. I thrust my entire body back against him, riding out my
climax until I slump to a stop.

John lets his fingers rest inside me and softly kisses my upper
thighs. "Uh . . . darlin'? Do you mind . . ?"

I cup my hand around one testicle and place a kiss on the weeping
head of his cock. He moans as I lick down his length. "Oh," he says
faintly, "oh, good . . ."

I laugh and continue drawing my tongue up and down his cock. John
wraps one hand around my calf and presses his face to my thigh,
moaning low and long.

I take him between my lips again, easing his cock as far in as I
can and moaning in my throat with anticipation. His skin is burning
hot. The taste of soap is long gone, replaced by salty flesh and
water. I know he's trying not to thrust, but part of me wants him
to--part of me wants him to fuck my mouth. I raise my head and look
at him over my shoulder. "It's okay," I whisper.

His eyes are squeezed shut.  "What's okay?"

"I want you to let go. Do what you want to me. It's okay. I trust
you."

John exhales and rubs one cheek of my ass with his open palm.
"Yeah," he says vaguely, and moans with relief when I wrap my lips
around him one more time. His thighs are tense and his feet press
against the wall.

Balancing on one elbow, I concentrate on the head of his cock and
explore him gently with my fingertips. His balls are tight against
his body. He groans when I stroke his scrotum, twitches when I
flick my fingernail at his anus. His hips thrust with abandon and
his fingers dig into my calves. "Oh, yeah," he mutters, "oh, yeah .
. ." His cock is spasming in my mouth--I raise my head enough to
bring the tip of his penis to the front of my mouth, and stroke and
stroke the head while he moans my name. His entire body rises up
when he comes.

When he relaxes and I've swallowed the last of his semen and
licked his penis clean, I kneel and turn around. John watches me
through his lashes, and wraps me in his arms when I fit myself
beside him. The water is still hot, by some miracle.

I whisper, "I'm sorry I took so long. I'm out of practice."

"'S'okay."

"Do you feel all right?"

"Yeah. I feel great." He sounds like he's about to doze off. "Are
you okay?"

"Yes." I stroke his chest. "Should we call down to the lobby and
tell them to go ahead without us?"

"No, I'm hungry."

"We should get going, then." Neither of us moves.

After a few minutes, John says, "Hey, Dana?"

"Yes, baby?"

There's a long pause, and he says, "Nothin'. C'mon, they're
waiting for us," and gets to his feet.

* * *

It's been so long since I've had ordinary friends I'd forgotten
how pleasant it could be. To make small inside jokes, to talk about
movies we've seen or books we like, to go over every detail of the
wedding even though we all were there--and to never once bring up
aliens, conspiracies, or our fears for the future. I think, This is
how everybody else lives, and feel deeply content.

Monica and Walter are discreet enough not to mention the hour we
kept them waiting, though Monica has the pleased smile of a
successful matchmaker. I suppose I can allow her that--her prodding
did encourage me to take the chances I've taken today.

And it's well worth it, I think as John takes my hand and leans
close to ask if I want dessert.

"I don't," I murmur back. "I think it's time to go." I glance at
Monica and Walter, who are whispering to each other too, Monica's
hand cupping Walter's jaw.

Before I can suggest we leave, however, Monica stands and
announces, "Ladies' room. Come with me, Dana."

"I'm summoned," I tell John as I get to my feet.

"We'll wait," he replies, squeezing my hand.

Monica waits until we're in the restroom to pounce. "So! Tell me
what happened!" She pulls herself onto the counter and crosses her
legs. "I should have known when you two disappeared at the same
time that something was up."

I open my bag and take out my powder compact to touch up my nose.
I dressed up again for dinner, though nowhere as elaborately as for
the wedding. Just the minimum of makeup, and my hair bound up in a
way that reminds me of a Roman frieze. John has been playing with
my stray curls all through dinner.

"He walked me back to the inn," I tell Monica. "It started
raining, and I kissed him."

"Interesting cause and effect," Monica observes.

"I didn't want him driving in the rain." I lean closer to the
mirror and smooth away some stray powder.

"Ahh . . . Altruism. Very good. Well, our afternoon was quiet
after the reception--naps at the hotel, that sort of thing." She
hesitates. "Dana. I keep thinking about the best man's speech. What
he said about being friends."

"What about it?"

"Walter and I . . . we weren't really friends before. We were co-
workers with lust. I wonder sometimes is lust is really all we've
got."

"Well . . . you and Walter talk, too, don't you? You don't only
have sex."

Monica is about to answer when one of the stall doors opens and an
elderly woman scurries out. She stops at the sinks long enough to
give her hands a perfunctory wash and rushes past us, glancing at
us as if we're deviants. A piece of toilet paper flaps from one
heel, but she's out the door before either of us can say anything.

Monica looks puzzled, but just shrugs and says to me, "We do talk,
but it's usually bookended by sex. Everything we do is usually
bookended by sex."

"There's nothing wrong with a passionate relationship."

"But there is something wrong if passion is all you've got. I like
Walter. I love him. But I can't look at him and say he's my best
friend. *You're* my best friend."

I haul myself onto the sinks too and put my arm around her
shoulders. She leans her head on my shoulder and I kiss her dark
hair. "You're my best friend too."

"And then there's John. If you two aren't best friends you're
pretty darn close."

"We do enjoy each other's company . . . but tell me something:
tonight, while you were waiting for us at the inn, what did you do?"

She squirms a little. "We talked."

"No making out?"

"Of course not! We talked about--I don't even remember now. I made
him laugh. I do that a lot."

"I think that just proves you understand each other."

"Yeah . . . Weddings make me have relationship crises, I think. I
broke up with my last serious boyfriend after we went to a wedding
together. I'm in no rush to get married but there's something about
the atmosphere that makes me doubt, or at least question, the
relationship I'm in."

I say, "It's the symbolic nature of the whole thing. Witnessing
that raw commitment, the absolutes of it all, can make you wonder
if you can do that with the one you love now."

Monica mulls over that, then says slowly, "I think part of that
is, I've come to the realization this is not going to last the rest
of my life. It will, at most, last the rest of his." Her voice
chokes up a little at this, and she lifts her head to look at me.
"Twenty years, Dana! The year I was born he was still in Vietnam.
We'd have maybe thirty years, if we're very lucky."

"Gee, only thirty years," I say dryly.

"Oh, Dana, sweetie, I'm sorry!" Monica exclaims, stricken. "I
didn't even think about you and Mulder."

"It's okay." I rub her back and she lays her head on my shoulder
again. "The thing is," I say slowly, "even though we really didn't
have much time to love each other, I still treasure every second. I
miss him every day, but the thought of him doesn't make me sad
anymore."

"And John?" Monica whispers. "He loves you. He's crazy about you."

"I know." There's a lump in my throat because I do know it: I've
seen it in his eyes, felt it throughout my body. It's hard to
articulate, though. "John . . . heals me."

Monica nods. "Maybe . . . instead of wondering why we love each
other, we should just be grateful that we do."

"Exactly."

She wipes her eyes with the side of her hand. "Do you have a
tissue? We should be getting back. The boys are probably arm-
wrestling by now."

I chuckle at her image of "the boys" and give her a tissue from
the dispenser beneath the mirrors.

John and Walter are not arm-wrestling--they are waiting at the
table, now empty except for coffee cups, and quietly talking. They
both stand when we approach. Walter puts his arm around Monica's
waist and kisses her cheek. "All right?" he asks her.

"All right." She kisses his cheek too and puts both her arms
around him.

John takes my hand. "We took care of the bill. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes." On impulse I hold his face and kiss his cheek too, which
earns me a small, pleased smile.

It stopped raining while we were in the restaurant, so John and I
tell Walter and Monica good night, we'll see you in Washington, and
walk back to the inn.

Most of the clouds still linger, blocking out the stars and giving
the moon a hazy glow. The air smells clean and salty. There are
stone planters all along the sidewalk, filled with flowers still
sparkling with raindrops. John stoops as we pass one and picks a
violet, which he tucks behind my ear. He smiles and touches my
cheek, and we continue walking.

"So how did you decide who paid the bill?" I ask him after we've
passed another block.

"We wrestled over it."

"You didn't!"

He laughs. "Of course not. Flipped a coin." I chuckle, and he
says, "So you tell me: what were you and Monica talking about for
all that time?"

I hug his arm to me. I know he hears Monica's half of our phone
conversations, and I'm sure they talk to each other as much as she
and I do. Monica brings that out in people. Still, I just tell him,
"Monica needed some reassurance. Dating someone nearly twice your
age isn't easy."

"Neither is dating someone almost half your age," John says
quietly. I watch him and wait for him to continue, but he only
says, after a moment or two, "Would you like to walk on the beach a
little?"

"Yes, of course," I murmur, and hug his arm closer. At least this
time I remembered the wrap.

continued in Part 5

Once we're on the sand again I take off my shoes and John unknots
his tie. I pause for a moment, letting the ocean breeze play
through my hair and inhaling the scent. John hangs back,
understanding my need to be alone with the ocean however briefly,
and takes my hand when I hold it out to him.

We're near the hotel where the reception was held. The chairs and
the tent have been cleared away, but there's still a party going on
in the hotel lobby. I can't tell if it's the same party, but there
is laughter, dancing and music inside.

"Do you want to go in? Say hello?" John asks when I pause.

"No . . . It's nice music, though."

John nods, looking up at the hotel. He starts to smile. "Hey," he
says softly. "Hey."

"Hey what?" I answer, just as softly.

"I still wanna dance with you." He pulls me into his arms. "Okay?"

"Yes." I put my arms around his neck, holding my shoes by the tips
of my fingers.

It's not so much dancing as swaying and turning in a slow circle,
but none of that matters. There's a smile in John's eyes, and I'm
sure there's a matching one in mine. Nothing, I think, could make
me love you less. I'll only learn to love you more.

He kisses me. His lips are cool from the night air. His mouth is
hot. When his tongue strokes mine I moan helplessly and wrap my
hands in the lapels of his jacket.

"Dana . . . Dana," he whispers, thrusting his hands into my hair.
"Do you want to go in? Or stay out?"

"I'd like to stay out, just a while longer."

John smiles down at me. "Let's walk a bit, then." He kisses me,
and we hold hands as we walk down the beach together.

About halfway between the big hotel and our inn, John takes off
his jacket and spreads it on the sand, a few yards away from where
the water breaks. We sit on his jacket and he puts his arms around
me.

"I hope you have a good dry-cleaner," I murmur. "This is a nice
suit."

"Oh, he's the best." He kisses the top of my head.

We listen to the waves, holding each other and exchanging small,
quiet kisses. Happiness blossoms through me--a feeling of warmth
and security and love that I haven't had for far too long. I wonder
if he feels the same thing from me.

Wanting him again, I get onto my knees, straddle his lap, and hold
his face in my hands as I kiss him. John grunts and grasps my upper
arms, to pull me away. "No."

"If you check your wallet you'll find a surprise," I whisper.

"That's not it--"

"Is it too public out here?"

"Just a bit--but, Dana, I need--we need to talk."

I rest on his thighs, still holding his face. "Okay."

He studies me, serious-faced. "All that stuff you said earlier--
how much of it is true?"

"Which stuff?"

"The pancakes on Saturday morning stuff."

"All of it. All of it's true." I kiss his forehead. "All of it."

He nods. "Hm. Okay."

I arch an eyebrow at him. "'Okay'? I'm not sure I like the sound
of that."

"Dana . . ." He rubs my thighs. "This has been one hell of a day."
He says in a serious tone, "I'm in love with you. I have been
almost since we met. I've been watching you--I watched you mourn,
and I watched you come out of it stronger. I've been wondering if
you could ever need me."

"Of course I need you," I whisper. "I love you."

He smiles quietly and kisses me. "But you don't need me," he
whispers against my lips. "I may be crazy about you, but I'm sane
enough to know that."

I softly laugh against his cheek. "I do need you. Every day, I
need you, John, I need you so much."

"For more than sex?" He ducks his head to look into my eyes. "For
more, Dana."

"More sex," I tease, but he doesn't laugh. "John . . . You know I
like you. You know I care about you. I need you to believe that I
love you."

He sighs. "I don't want to compete with a dead man."

"You're not in competition with anyone."

"What if sometime we have a fight and you start thinking, 'Mulder
and I never fought'?"

"Mulder and I fought all the time." I start kissing his face.
"Mulder and I fought about everything. You and I, at least we fight
about sensible things. Real things." Again he sighs, and I stop
kissing him to look into his eyes. "John. I meant every word--I
mean every word now. I know I didn't always like you, but I learned
to trust you . . . and I learned to love you." I stroke his face
with both palms, and John's gaze never wavers from mine. I whisper,
"I love you," as I lean in to kiss him again.

This time he lets me.

His hands stroke my thighs as we kiss, easing up beneath the
skirt. My breath comes faster, as does his, and his hips begin to
rise up to meet my pelvis. I moan when his erection hits the fabric
of my underwear.

His fingertips drift across my thigh and move my undies aside. I
gasp into his mouth when his fingers part my labia and seek out my
clit. "God, you're wet," he mutters.

I rock my hips against his fingers. "This is what you do to me."
His voice, his touch, only increases the demanding rhythm deep in
my belly.

"You said something about a surprise?" His mouth sucks on my neck
and slides down to my shoulder.

"Check your wallet." My lips flow across his forehead. "I slipped
a little something in . . . just in case."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Girl . . ." He has to remove his
hand from my panties, and lifts his hips to get his wallet from his
back pocket. The condom is tucked behind his driver's license. He
holds it between two fingers. "Just in case?"

I shrug, grinning. "My libido's been hibernating a long time."

He grins too, and kisses me again. "Lucky me," he murmurs against
my lips.

It takes just a little adjusting to work his cock out from his
pants and undershorts. John leans back on his hands, his eyes
closed, and his cock throbs against my palm as I stroke him. "Can't
believe we're doing this."

"You don't seem especially nervous," I point out, tearing open the
condom wrapper.

His eyes crack open and he gives me a sly smile. "Yeah, but I'm
lookin' *that* way."

I smile too, and scoot back on his lap to smooth the condom onto
his cock. He may get to look at the ocean, at the clouds and the
moon, but I get to look at him.

John's head falls back and he groans as I lower myself onto him.
He's still supporting himself on his hands, and he digs his heels
into the sand so he can lift his hips. His chest heaves beneath my
hands, and he raises his mouth eagerly when I bend down to kiss
him. He gives a gravelly chuckle when I lick the dip in his chin.

I had planned on doing all the work, to let him rest and enjoy,
but John apparently will have none of that. His hips meet mine
thrust for thrust and his tongue slides along my collarbones. He
tongue-fucks my cleavage again, pushing my breasts together with
his big, warm hands. He sweetly kisses my mouth.

And finally, as I start to feel his cock twitching inside me, he
lies back on the sand, breathing through his open mouth and his
hand beneath my skirt to stroke my clit. Even his eyebrows are into
this, moving up and down his forehead in cadence with our bodies.

John turns his head away from me, moaning into the sand. His
fingers dig into my hips and then slowly let go. I let my eyes
close and my head fall back, let my orgasm come as naturally as the
waves meet the shore.

I lay my body onto his, curling up my legs behind me I kiss his
throat. He strokes my back.

"Every word, huh?" he murmurs.

"Every word."

"Good." The silence is filled with the crashing of waves. "'Cause
I make great pancakes."

* * *

In my pajamas, face washed and teeth cleaned, I come out of the
bathroom to see John has undressed and gotten into bed. His clothes
are neatly folded on the sofa. I sit on the edge of the bed and
kiss his forehead. He chuckles sleepily.

"Tired?" I kiss his nose.

"Very." He strokes the inside of my arm. "How come you're so peppy?"

"Endorphins." We both smile.  "Look . . . I want to get an early
start tomorrow. I'd like to get home before William wakes up from
his afternoon nap."

"Okay. Do you want to set an alarm?"

"I seem to have broken the clock."

John starts to grin. "There's an alarm on my watch. What time
would you like me to set it for?"

"Seven, please." He picks up his watch from the nightstand, clicks
a few buttons, and puts it back down. I lie down by his side,
curling up next to him, and he puts his arm around me. He kisses
the crown of my head.

After a few minutes he whispers, "Dana?"

"Uh-huh?"

"What happens tomorrow?"

"Well . . ." I say slowly. "We go home . . . and we fumble our way
through it, just like everyone else. We'll fight sometimes, we'll
make up, we'll talk and we'll laugh . . . we'll have fabulous sex .
. ."

John breathes deeply beneath my cheek. For a moment I think he's
just sighing, but when he doesn't respond to my teasing I realize
he's asleep. I prop myself up on my elbow and smile down at his
peaceful face. "I love you, John," I whisper and kiss him. He hums
in his sleep.

 I get up to turn out the lights. For a moment I stand by the
window, looking out at the dark sky, and then let the curtain fall
closed. I slip beneath the covers and fit myself to John's side,
and am asleep in only a breath.

* * *

I wake up first, before John's alarm goes off, and lie quietly for
a while, enjoying the warmth of John in my arms. I could get used
to this, his sleep-scented skin and the soft sound of his breathing
beneath my ear.

There was a time when I couldn't see myself with anyone but
Mulder. I thought no one else could even begin to understand the
complexities of my life, that no one else would value and cherish
me as much as he did. When he died, I thought my heart died with
him.

But William, my precious little pumpkinhead, proved to me that I
could still love. And John, my sweet friend, wouldn't let me forget
how.

Nothing is going to keep me from loving him to the fullest. Fear
held me back once before. I won't let it hold me back again.

John's watch buzzes, and I reach over him to turn it
off. "Lower left button," John murmurs.

"Thanks." I press the button and lay my head on his back for one
moment more. He rumbles a laugh and fidgets beneath me.

"What time does Will usually wake up from his afternoon nap?"

"Three."

"So . . . in theory, you wouldn't have to leave until, say, eleven."

I hesitate, and then say, "There are a few stops I want to make,
too."

"Oh." He hesitates too. "I'm guessing one of those stops is in
Raleigh."

"Yes." He sighs and I hug him closer. "Don't be upset."

"I'm not upset. I understand. God knows I wish I could visit
Luke's grave more often."

"Did you visit him when you were in the city on Friday?"

"Yeah." He adds, "My ex, too. Just to say hi."

"How is she?"

"Good. She's good. I don't think she misses me."

I kiss behind his ear. "I'd miss you."

John turns over to face me, and kisses me soundly. His morning
erection prods against my thigh, making me whimper. "I'd miss you
too," he whispers. "Dana--baby--are you sore? You've got to be
sore."

"A little," I admit, but I open my legs anyway and put my arms
around his neck. "Just a little."

"I'll be gentle," he whispers as he bends to kiss me. It is a
sweet and deep kiss, with a slowly stroking tongue and softly
pressing lips. He holds my chin in one hand, and slides it down my
neck as his mouth follows.

I arch my neck and close my eyes, my fingers threading into his
hair. He squeezes my breasts, rubbing face between them, and then
moves down to the bottom of my pajama shirt to start unbuttoning
it. He kisses my stomach and ribs as he opens my shirt. I caress
his neck and scrape my fingertips over his scalp.

When my top is unbuttoned I expect more kisses, but John holds
himself above me and studies me, his eyes dark and his face gentle.
He traces the line of my face with his fingertips. He tries to
speak, but stops and simply smiles and lowers himself down to kiss
me.

He slept nude, having no other clothes, and I indulge myself in
touching him. Every inch of his smooth skin, every bulging muscle,
every soft hair--they all make me hum with pleasure as we kiss.

John gets onto his knees and lifts my legs against his chest. He
watches my face as he draws my panties and pajama bottoms down my
legs, and then kisses the soles of my feet. Holding my ankles, he
lowers my legs again, opening them wide. Neither of us speaks as he
takes a condom from the box, tears open the foil, and unrolls the
condom over his cock. "Tell me if it hurts," he whispers as he
takes me into his arms.

"It won't hurt."

And it doesn't--he is as gentle as he promised, gentle as comfort,
gentle as a loving kiss. The pleasure he brings to my body is as
gradual and soft as dawn. I know when I come it's not going to be a
screaming, thrashing production number, but still my orgasm is long
and rich and deeply satisfying.

He follows me a few thrusts later, sighing into my neck. "Mm, Dana
. . ." I push my body up to his a moment as he relaxes against me,
loving his weight.

I caress his placid face and whisper, "I have to go."

John raises himself up on one elbow and cups my face in his hand.
"Say you're mine," he whispers.

"I'm yours, John." I kiss him. "I'm yours."

"I'm yours," he says seriously, "but I think you've known that for
a long time."

I smile, kissing him a few times more. "I've had an inkling a time
or two . . . Like when I found that picture of William and me in
your desk."

He groans. "Aw, Dana, you weren't supposed to see that."

"From the looks of it, I'd say no one was supposed to see it."

"No . . . I just didn't want people thinking the wrong thing."

"But if they do think the wrong thing, it'll be the right thing
now."

He grins at me, and says, "Okay, then, come Monday morning I will
proudly put that picture out on my desk, and if anyone asks I'll
tell them, 'That's my girl and her little boy.' How's that?"

"Perfect." I kiss him once more, and he pulls out of me with a
sigh. He watches me as I get out of bed. I say, as I drop my
pajamas onto my suitcase, "By the way, I borrowed your spare shirt.
Do you want it back?"

"Nah, you keep it a while longer. Don't wash it before you give it
back," he adds. I pause in the bathroom doorway and arch an eyebrow
at him. He
just grins back. "Please."

He melts me again. "Okay," I say softly, and go into the bathroom.

* * *

I take John to his truck, which is still parked by the big hotel.
I wear his white shirt again, tucked into a pair of old jeans. John
likes the jeans: he shoves his hands into my back pockets as he
kisses me goodbye.

"These look great," he whispers.

"They're falling apart." I show him a threadbare seam and a hole
in one knee.

"They still look great. Fit you like a second skin." He kisses me
again, squeezing my ass through my jeans.

"Come over tonight," I say, slipping my hands to his behind and
giving him a friendly squeeze. "I'd love for you to spend the
night."

"Okay." Yet another kiss, and his hands move up to span my waist.
"Okay," he says again. "You need to get on the road. I'll see you
tonight. I love you."

"I love you." Every time I say it his eyes smile, even if his
mouth doesn't.

He hugs me close and kisses the top of my head. "Drive carefully."

"You too." Reluctantly I step out of his arms. He holds onto my
hand until the last possible second, and doesn't get into his truck
until I'm in my car. He even waits to leave the parking lot until
I'm on my way.

I make two stops before I leave Delaney: a toy store to get
something for Will, and a florist's. Then I'm on the highway,
heading north.

The cemetery in Raleigh is a few miles off the highway, a familiar
route to me now. I haven't brought Will here yet. He's not old
enough to understand about his daddy's body being in the ground. He
doesn't really understand when we tell him his daddy is in heaven.
I'm not even sure he understands what a daddy is.

But that will change.

Slowly I drive through the cemetery to the Mulder family plot, and
park the car. I take the bouquet and
 a few things out of my bag, lock the car and walk across the grass.

It's been a while since I've been here, but the grave is neat and
well tended. I kneel down and lay the flowers below the headstone.
"Hi, Mulder. I brought you a picture of William." I tuck a photo
into the bouquet. I know it's an irrational thing to do, but I
always feel the need to bring him something of his son. "He's not a
baby anymore. He's running around and talking, getting into
everything and asking questions . . . He's so much like you,
Mulder. He wants to know everything. He wants to understand
everything."

 I have to stop a moment and wipe my eyes. "Mulder . . . Mulder,
I've done something. It's a good thing, but it's going to change my
life and Will's. I'm in love, Mulder. He's a good man. He's strong
and kind and so *good*, Mulder. He adores William and he loves me."
I run my fingers through the grass over the grave. "He'll be such a
good father. He's everything I want for our little pumpkinhead." I
pause, and whisper, "He's everything I want for me. The only thing
that's wrong with him is he isn't you, and I can forgive that. He's
quite wonderful, just as himself."

I hear a car door slam and look over my shoulder. John's big black
truck is parked behind my car, and John is standing beside it,
leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest.

"That's him," I whisper to the grave. "That's my sweetheart." I
expect John to cross the grass and join me, but he stays by his
truck.

"Is it all right, Mulder? I don't want you to be jealous. I want
you to be happy for me. I'll always love you, but I want to be
happy. I choose happiness." I close my eyes a moment, wishing for
some feeling of benediction. There is only the spring breeze,
stirring my hair.

I open my eyes and get to my feet. "I love you," I whisper. "I'll
be back soon." I kiss my fingers and press them to his name on the
headstone, then walk back to my car--to John.

When I'm close enough he unfolds his arms and takes my hands. "I
figured you'd want to be alone with him."

"Thanks." I squeeze his hands. "How did you know I'd be here?"

"Just a hunch. Are you okay?"

"Very. I'm ready to go home."

John puts his arm around my waist and walks me the few steps to my
car. I unlock it and open the door, but stop before I get inside.
"John."

"Yeah, baby?" He toys with a curl at my neck.

I smile--I never liked being called baby, but from John's mouth it
sounds so natural--and say seriously, "You make me happy, John."

He smiles with his entire face, and bends to kiss me between my
brows. "You make me happy too." He wraps his arms around me and I
clasp him around his waist. We hug each other tight as the breeze
caresses us.

Finally John says, "Let's go home," and I nod in agreement. He
shuts the door for me once I'm in the car, and then gets into his
truck.

I take one last glance at the grave--at the bright flowers and the
little flick of white that is the photo of William--and start the
car. I can see John in my rearview mirror: he smiles at me and
gives a small wave. I wave back and pull into the narrow cemetery
road.

With John in my rearview mirror, I smile all the way home.

*END*

The Elements:
--a wedding
--something in a Tiffany's box
--a new pen that leaks all over someone's white shirt
--a pale blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up just *so*
--a pair of tight but tattered blue jeans
--a pen that runs out of ink during a crucial note taking moment
--a hug
--toilet paper stuck to someone's shoe
--Doggett's eyes

"Xander, don't speak Latin in front of the books."
http://www.einini.net