Mulder is kissing me. I mean *REALLY* kissing me.
Mouth-to-mouth. Finally completing the action he began over a year ago. His lips are, somehow, both firm and soft at the same time. I lean in a little, add some pressure to the kiss. We're equal partners, after all.

After a few moments, he slowly lifts his head. I sigh
softly, then open my eyes and smile at him. He smiles
back.

"Hey," he whispers softly, "the world didn't end."

"No," I murmur, "it didn't."

Not only did the world not end, I didn't get stung by
an alien-virus-carrying bee. Another Mulder didn't
just burst in to interupt us. While we are,
admittedly, in a hospital, it's just the waiting room
and, by our standards, neither of us is seriously ill
or injured.

Mulder continues to smile at me as he slips his arm
around my shoulders. I'm a bit surprised at that. I'm
used to his hand in its accustomed spot at the small
of my back or, sometimes, holding mine. But this is. . . nice. We walk out to the car.

For maybe the sixth time in our six-year relationship, I'm the one behind the wheel. It's only a short drive to Mulder's apartment building and we don't talk much on the way over. Just glance at each other and smile a couple of times.

"Can you get up to your apartment and to bed by
yourself?" Scully asks me as she pulls
up alongside my building.

I desperately want to tell her, "No, I need your help
getting to bed," but I bite my tongue and just nod. It may sound silly to say this after six years together, but I don't want to rush her. Scully responded to my kiss at the hospital, but that could have simply been a momentary lapse of judgment or an automatic reflex. It doesn't necessarily mean she's ready to shift our relationship from platonic to romantic.

Scully leans over to open the door for me, then
brushes my lips with hers on the way back over. It's
the merest whisper of a kiss, but it sends my heart
into overdrive. Because she initiated it this time. I
think maybe, just maybe, I can take this is a sign
that she enjoyed kissing me at the hospital and would
like this to become a habit with us.

"Goodnight, Scully."

"Goodnight, Mulder. I'll come by and check on you
tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll be here, Scully."

I drive home in a daze and let myself into my
apartment.  I wander into the bedroom, slip out of my
clothes and under the covers. Only then do I allow
myself the luxury of replaying the kiss in my mind. Of course, I've wondered what it would be like to kiss Mulder. I'm a normal woman, after all, and he's an attractive man with whom I spend a lot of time. After the two near-misses - the one nearly three years ago with a "Mulder" who turned out to be Eddie Van Blundht and the one last summer when I got stung by that damned bee - my desire to kiss him intensified. I told myself this was merely curiousity, that after coming so close it was natural I'd want to complete the action.

I think I'll start the new millennium with a bit of
honesty, instead of my 20th century self-denial. My
curiousity is satisfied, but my desire isn't. Far from it. I'm in love with Mulder. And if he thinks I'm going to wait *ANOTHER* six years for him to kiss me again, the man is even crazier than generally assumed.

I flop down on my couch, careful not to cause further
damage to my injured arm. Just one kiss. I've been
telling myself, for years, that all I wanted was to
kiss Scully once. Just once.

For a man whose holy grail is supposed to be the
truth, I sure managed to feed myself a load of lies.
Because now I know. Kissing her once isn't going to be enough. I remember my psychology courses, both at
Oxford and Quantico. We used to debate which was the
most addictive substance on the face of the planet,
heroin or cocaine. Now I know it's neither.
Scully-kisses are, without a doubt, the most addictive substance on Earth. After going six years without one, I've had two in the past hour. And I'm already craving another one.

I hold off on leaving my apartment 'til 11:30 the next morning. I did tell Mulder I would check on him in "the afternoon" which means, technically, I'm
obligated not to show up until at least 12:01 p.m. I
figure if I leave now, stop to pick up the pizza I
ordered, and hit all the traffic lights right, I
should be at his place at exactly that time.

It's 12:02 when, juggling the pizza box and jug of
iced tea, I give a perfunctory knock on his door and
yell out my typical "Mulder, it's me!" greeting.
Without waiting for him to answer, I dig out my key
and unlock his door.

"Hey, Mulder! I brought lunch. You decent?" I holler
as I enter.

"Hey, Scully," he answers from the bedroom. "I wasn't
expecting you quite so soon. Just barely."

"Just barely what?"

"I'm just barely decent, that's what," he replies,
sauntering out into the living room.

It's all I can do not to drop the pizza on the floor.
My jaw *does* drop. In amazement. I manage to stifle a whimper, but it's a close call. Mulder is clad in only a pair of blue jeans. They're zipped, but the button at the top of the fly is undone. He's both bare chested and barefooted. His jaw is covered with a day's worth of dark beard stubble. Decent, my ass! The man is so sexy, it's INdecent!

"Scully?" I say gently. She's staring at me like she's never seen a half-naked man before. I know this isn't true. She grew up with two brothers, has had at least one lover that I'm aware of and she's a doctor, for crying out loud! For that matter, there's been a time or two when she's seen *ME* wearing consderably less than I have on right now.

"What?" she says, but her voice is odd; a breathy
whisper.

"Do you want me to go put on a shirt?"

"No!" she practically hollers. "I mean, um, I'll help
you put on a shirt later, if you want me to, but we
should eat the pizza before it gets cold.

We settle down to eat the pizza and I keep stealing
glances at her mouth. I  hope that she'll get a bit of melted cheese stuck to her mouth and I'll have a good excuse to clean it off for her but, alas, Scully eats neatly.

She keeps sneaking glances at my chest when she thinks I'm not looking at her. It's beginning to bug me until I finally figure out why she's doing it. For the same reason I sneak peeks at her ass in the office when I think she won't catch me.

When we're finished eating she insists that I take my
pain pills, despite my protests that they'll just
knock me out. Then we flip on a football game.

"Come sit by me on the couch," Mulder invites.

"I don't want to hurt your arm."

"You won't. I want you to sit by me."

I nod and scramble up to the couch. He curves his good arm around me and snuggles me against his side. I smile up at him, then try to focus my attention on the game instead of his face or body.

Eventually, Mulder's eyes begin to drift closed and he grumbles, "I told you that medicine would knock me
out."

"You need to rest," I murmur.

Don't leave."

"I won't."

As he falls asleep, he stretches out on the couch,
flinging out his arms and legs. The only way to remain beside him is to squash myself into an odd position where I am half-beside and half on top of him. So I settle down comfortably and begin to let my hands wander a bit. First over the beard covered stubble on his jaw. Then along his broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. Mulder's upper arms are one of my secret vices. Wearing his traditional suit-and-tie his body looks lean, almost skinny. But when he wears at T-shirt - or even less, like he is now - I get to look at those big, hunky muscles.

Then I let my hand wander into new territory. After
all, I've touched his face and arms before. But,
except in a medical capacity, his hands, face and arms are the *ONLY* parts of his body I've ever touched. Now I let my fingertips tangle softly in the sparse patch of hair on his chest. He's got just the right amount, I think dreamily. I've never cared for guys without any hair on their chests; they look too much like adolescent boys. On the other hand, the
"near-werewolf" look of men I've glanced occasionally at beaches and swimming pools isn't a turn-on for me,
either. Mulder's chest is perfect.

Right, Dana, I tell myself cynically. Like there's a
part of his body you *don't* think is perfect?

I trace the faint line of hair bisecting his flat
stomach muscles, then stop when I reach the top of his jeans. Glancing up to make sure his eyes are still closed, I gently run my fingers along his waistline.

Shit! I know Scully thinks I'm asleep, that she
wouldn't be this bold if she knew I was savoring and
cataloging her every touch. I've been drifting in a
happy haze between dreams and reality, with Scully
figuring prominently in both. But now I'm tired of
being a passive recipient of her caresses. I've got
some kissing and caressing my own to do.

"Scully," I murmur, the word slurred because of my
medication.

She glances up at me, her eyes wide. Then she blushes. I grin. I've seen Scully blush maybe twice in all our years together. Because she's a redhead, the flush doesn't just stain her cheeks, but also her neck. I wonder how far down it continues?

I want to drag her up to my mouth for a kiss, but with only one arm in use that presents some logistical difficulties. When I realize she's lying with both her knees on either side of my thigh, it's no problem at all. I simply bend my knee and the action sends her skittering up along my body, with her face next to mine. I don't say anything, just smile at her. Then I wind my hand into her hair and pull her down for another kiss.

Oh. My. God. The first kiss, last night, asked a
question. This one is providing the answer. The
previous kiss was sweet, gentle. A kiss from a friend
seeking a lover. This one is hot, passionate and
demanding. Scully's tongue is dueling with mine as we
dart back and forth between my mouth and hers.

Lack of oxygen, not lack of desire, finally forces me
to break the kiss. Scully smiles at me, takes a deep
breath, then dives back to my mouth for a weird sort
of almost-kiss. She's licking and sucking and nibbling at my lower lip, not allowing me to participate. I growl and move my thigh, which is between her legs.

I gasp and raise myself up so I can look into Mulder's eyes.

"Like that?" he asks.

I nod.

"Want me to do it again?"

Another nod. He does it again and I smile.

"Cat got your tongue, Scully?"

I smile wider and whisper, "Nope. A Fox got my
tongue."

It takes him a moment to get the joke; a play on words on his given name. Then he groans.

"Are you going to insist on calling me that now?"

"What if I do?" I ask with a smile, teasing him.

He sighs. "Then I guess I'll let you. But I really,"
he stops to punctuate the word with a kiss to my neck, "really," another kiss, this one on my ear, "REALLY" this time he doesn't kiss, he nibbles, "like the way you say 'Mulder'. It's what you always call me."

"Mulder."

He grins.

"Yeah?"

I take a deep breath and say, "I" only to be
interupted by the shrill ringing of his phone, mere
inches away from our heads on the couch.

"I'll let the machine get it," he says. "Let's just
see who it is."

After four rings, the machine kicks in. After the
terse, "This is Fox Mulder. I'm not in, but if you'll
leave a message, I'll get back to you." We hear,
"Agent Mulder, this is Frank Black. I need to talk to
you as soon as possible."

I meet Scully's eyes and she nods. Pleasurable though
our current activities are, this takes precedence. She sighs and slides off me. I grab the phone with my good hand and say, "This is Agent Mulder, Mr. Black."