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Title: A Simple Kiss Summary: How can something as simple as a kiss become so complicated? Not easy. These two characters are very well-defined in the series; it's hard to stay true to them in fanfiction. I would like to extend a sincere thank-you to my editor, Kate, who dotted the i's and crossed the t's. This couldn't have happened without her help, so everybody give a round of applause for her. (more notes at the end) It's such a simple thing, really. So simple, in fact, that I can't help but *not* cease to be amazed at how much we've complicated it. Oh, I'm not completely blind. Ever since our unexpected detour to Antarctica nearly one year ago, our relationship has been moving on a steady path towards something. I really don't think that either of us knows where it's headed anymore. The only certain thing is that when that motel owner kept referring to him as my boyfriend in Kroner, I wasn't the least embarrassed. When I found out that he was in that car, driving west to nowhere, with a deranged man holding a gun to his head, I feared that I'd arrive too late and find him laying in a pool of blood in the backseat. When Diana made another reappearance, I was so consumed with jealousy, or maybe envy that she had had something with Mulder in years past, that I made it my mission to debunk her. And it's not unusual to find myself at his apartment at two in the morning, dropping by just to make sure he's all right. Or for him to show up on my doorstep at six a.m. on a Saturday, wearing a grin and carrying bagel take-out and a Scrabble board. Friday nights? If I'm not at home, try calling Mulder's number; we're probably zonked out on his couch watching 'Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman' on cable TV. And yes, that is me in the cookie aisle at the grocery store, scaling the racks to try to find his favorite brand of vanilla wafers so if he drops by that night, I can surprise him. It's not that we're -- dating. Not by any means. Nor have we talked about the shift in our relationship. By morning, we're Mulder and Scully, two professional FBI agents who compliment each other so well that they've managed not to kill each other in the six years they've been partners. By night, we're just 'Mulder move your feet' and 'scully do you have any more of these wafer things?'. I know how masochistic it sounds, but the only thing that truly brings Mulder and I together is a traumatic event. Nothing says love like one of us being shot, kidnapped, held hostage in a bank, or having a family member die. Which, I think, is the reason we've been turning to each other more lately. First Antarctica, then the accident in New York, Diana Fowley.... Not to say that I've completely forgiven him for trusting her more than he trusted me, but in retrospect, I think I understand now. He thought he knew her -- maybe he did once, but he doesn't anymore. But at least he values me enough to have quietly informed me a few days after we got the X-Files back that he'd gone straight to her Watergate apartment after our rendezvous at the Gunmen's. It was somewhat comforting. But I digress. I don't think anyone completely understands Mulder's obsession with the X-Files. He's like a little kid in a candy store with those things. His face lights up the minute he thinks he has something new to show me. After six years, I've pretty much become immune to the excitement of a new case. After all, a new case usually means being ditched, shot, or a lot of running in heels. None of which stokes my fire. So when I walked into the office three weeks ago and found him grinning like a Cheshire cat, I sighed. "Morning to you, too, Scully." I hung up my coat, set down my purse, and folded my arms across my chest. "Give it to me, Mulder." I saw the beginnings of a leer, and gave him a look that should have a felled a lesser man. "Anytime, Scully," he said smoothly. Too smoothly. He was waiting for a response. I simply stared back at him until he rolled his eyes and continued. "Four women. All found murdered to death in their homes." He rose and handed me a file. I looked through the pictures quickly, knowing I could get a better look at them on the plane. Suddenly, something caught my eye. "Jesus, Mulder. Their faces." He nodded. "Yeah. I know." His voice lowered, and I knew he was getting down to business. "Local PD is coming up blank on a suspect and a motive." "Two out of three ain't bad. Do they at least know what killed these women?" Oh there it was. The grin. Again. I waited, slightly amused. "A fork." Excuse me? "Excuse me?" He nodded. "Someone -- picked their eyes out. With a fork." "Maybe they interrupted his dinner," he said with a straight face, handing me a plane ticket. "I'm going home to pack. Flight leaves at ten." "Mulder," I said, standing helplessly in the middle of the room as he prepared to leave, "I had plans for tonight." He stopped. "A date?" he asked, and I caught the funny note in his voice. I wasn't going to get into that right then. "It's not important. I can cancel." Mulder closed the door. "Scully if you have a date, then by all means, don't let a simple quadruple homicide stand in the way." "I'm canceling," I said tersely. We glared at each other for a minute before he broke eye contact and shut the door forcefully, muttering a "fine" as he went. "Fine," I said to the empty room. I don't know why I didn't just tell him it wasn't a date. Human beings really are curious creatures. Consciously, I was angry at him for making such hasty plans without so much as a word to me to see if it was okay. Subconsciously, however, I wanted to make him sweat. I *needed* to, almost. I understand perfectly that we're both afraid to voice the feelings we both feel, and some days, it's enough to know that although it's unspoken, we do love each other. And other days, days like then, I wanted some reassurance. So I didn't say a word to him. On the plane there, he sat by the window, I got the aisle, and a teenager blared rap music through his headphones between us. Every so often, he'd glance over at me, and I'd look up at him, and the he'd look away, I'd roll my eyes or make a face, and look away. That continued until we landed. It didn't help matters much that we both noticed immediately that the local sheriff took a liking to me, and made every possible advance before I politely yet firmly, told him thank you, but not interested. I made sure Mulder was within hearing distance. And on our way back to the motel a few hours later, as I was reading aloud to him the sports scores from the newspaper, I suddenly felt the urge to tell him the truth. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" He kept his eyes on the road, but I knew I had his complete attention. I always do. "That date I had the day we left?" He made a noncommittal sound, something relative to a grunt. "I was going to have dinner with my brother." He visibly relaxed. "I didn't know Bill was in town," he remarked casually. "When we get back, he'll probably kick my ass for taking you on a case." I could tell he was just joking, but I sensed the slight fear behind his words. Billy's a big boy, and it's no secret he hates Mulder with a passion equal to my partner's obsession for the truth. "Oh, it wasn't Bill," I replied, folding up the newspaper. "Charlie?" He sounded amazed. "Scully. You haven't seen him in years. Why didn't you just skip out on this one? I would have understood." I shrugged. "He's coming up for the fourth of July. I'll see him then." He shook his head in disapproval. "That's still two months away, Scully." "Oh, come on, Mulder. Think I'd really give up a chance to drive around Podunk, USA on a gorgeous spring night with you while a serial killer is roaming the countryside for a few measly hours with my little brother? How well do you know me, Mulder, I'm disappointed." He grinned at me, and I offered a small smile in return. And that was that. No apologies, no admissions of love. I knew he was sorry for sniping at me in the office two days earlier, and he knew I was equally sorry for trying to debunk his every theory the entire trip. I've come to acknowledge the fact that any peace that Mulder and I acquire is shortlived. There is always imminent danger lurking behind the corner, men who dwell in shadows watching us from those corners, ready to wreck havoc on our lives once more. This most recent shadowy figure came in the guise of a psychopathic twenty-seven-year-old anti-abortion advocate who was so intent on not spending any more time on the 'sinners' as was necessary that he did the deed quickly and painfully with a fork with a flowery handle that came straight from his Grandmother Ann's kitchen drawer. Nick Holloway. Otherwise normal human being who just happened to work as a nurse in the only hospital in Elmer County, Idaho that just happened to have performed recent abortions on Lily Hathaway, Carol Johnson, Abby Gardner, and Paula Timothy. I had just bid Mulder goodnight and stepped into my room when I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Instinctively, I knew something was wrong. I reached behind my back for my Sig, but the next thing I knew, I was being thrown roughly to the floor, the door was being kicked shut, and a heavy body straddling me. We fought for a few minutes, the silver glittering of what I could only assume was his fork driving my desire to kill him first. I made a stupid move, then. I made a grab for the fork, he saw it, and managed to pin my arms above my head. It was over a month ago, but I still remember with startling vividness the sharp contrast his white eyes made against the dark room. How by that point the only sound in the room was my heavy breathing from fighting with him; how I felt my heart drop when I realized I had no way of fighting him off. And I froze. Special Agent Dana Scully froze. I knew, from training, how to handle the situation. Talk to suspect, speak soothingly, try to cajole him out of doing it. Don't lose cool. Never, never attempt to make a sudden grab on the weapon. Keep calm. I don't know what caused it. I only know that I looked up into his eyes, and I felt, to the center of my core, that I was going to die. I was going to die, and I couldn't do anything about it. So I didn't talk to him. I lost my cool, I made a grab for his fork, and I turned all the cards in his favor. My best chance had come had gone why didn't I pull out the gun two seconds earlier? Next door, the sounds of a Knicks game penetrated my haze. Mulder. Oh, God Mulder. I pictured him getting dressed the next day, a new theory on our suspect edited to perfection. Knocking on my door. Realizing it was unlocked when I didn't answer. Opening the door. Seeing me dead on the floor, eyes open, body limp. Lifeless. Saw him shaking me, trying to force the life back into my body, wondering how he could have let this happen to me. Imagined him putting his Sig to good use. Thought about how Skinner and the Bureau would react would they know right away it had been my murder that had drove Mulder to kill himself, or would they think it was some crazed lovers' pact? Lovers' pact. My thoughts raced to the previous Christmas when I had readily traded Christmas with one family for Christmas with another -- with Mulder. So I did the only thing I could do. I screamed. "Mulder! Mulder, I need your help!" Again, another asinine mistake. My attacker immediately retaliated. Black eye from the punch, bruised rib from the kick. He brought the fork up to my face, then. I can count on two fingers the times I've told him I needed his help. The first time was four years ago, in a very similar instance with Duane Barry. The second was that moment. I hadn't even finished screaming his name the first time before my door flew open, and I saw him over Nick Holloway's shoulder. One eye on the fork hovering mere centimeters above my eye, one trained on Mulder. I saw the look of utter horror pass over his face before he kicked into action. Nick never had a chance. Autopsy report has it at six bullets in the back and head. I distinctly remember hearing seven shots. I had been in that position before -- a sharp object above my eye, ready to strike its prey. I did something there on that motel room floor that I didn't do three years before: I cried. Mulder dropped to his knees, shoved Holloway off of me, and pulled me into his arms. Somehow, he had managed to call the police from the cellphone he pulled out of my jacket. He held me, no questions asked, until the PD came fifteen minutes later. He held me during the car ride to the station, throughout my statement to the county sheriff who professed his sincere apologies of the tragic event, and on the flight back to D.C. He didn't let go until I was safely tucked into bed. I clearly remember feeling his warm hands on my forehead as he pushed the hair out of my eyes. And then he was gone. Mulder knows me better than anyone; better than my mother, more than Melissa did, more than any person I've called best friend. There are times when this comes in handy. And then there are times when I want to crawl into myself and hide, and he simply won't let me. Case in point: two weeks after Holloway attacked me, we were back at work, doing our normal paperwork, when I sighed. A simple sigh. Nothing more. I'd been having nightmares since that night. I relived that moment when I saw the fork making a beeline for my eye a hundred, perhaps a thousand, times each night before I went to sleep. And when I did sleep, it was fitfully and for a short duration. Every other hour I'd awaken, drenched in sweat, breathing hard, my left hand shielding my left eye from my invisible assailant. Mulder didn't know about my nightmares; I'd never tell him in a million years. Maybe if he wasn't the ever-consummate guiltaholic who thrived on wallowing in self-pity and torture. I could see the blame in his eyes the minute he stood in my doorway, my knight in shining armor. But Mulder's armor is dented from the abuse he inflicts on himself; I won't be a party to that. I know I keep things from him -- many things. I never really discussed Emily with him outside of our time in San Diego that winter. We never once have talked about the bee, or what happened thereafter. It's not that I don't trust him, or that I feel the need to hide truths from him. I'm just not an open person. I grew up as a Navy brat. Bill, Missy, Charlie, and I became each other's best friends when we realized it was impossible to make new friends in the short time we stayed in each city. And to play with Billy and Charlie, one must not act like a 'girl.' I figured that out after a week of taunts when I scraped my leg playing baseball with them in the backyard. From that moment on, little six-year-old Dana Katherine Scully vowed never to let anyone see her weak. I bear everything with a stoic face, a rigid posture, and four walls built out of 'I'm fine's. I built myself a little house, moved in, and I can't seem to vacate the building, even almost thirty years later. It's psychological, I know, and I bet Mulder already has a profile on me, but I am who I am. My sigh at work that day meant absolutely nothing. It was the product of too many sleepless nights, not enough food, and irritation at having to sit at a computer all day when I absolutely longed to get outside and stretch my legs. I saw Mulder glance up at me in my peripheral vision. I ignored him, and he looked away. A minute later, he was looking again. I felt his eyes boring into my head, as though he were trying to get inside it and see what made me click. Another minute under his gaze and I turned my head irritably at him. "What, Mulder?" "Is something wrong, Scully?" "No," I answered shortly, returning to my screen. He waited a minute before continuing. Then *he* sighed. "Do you want to talk about it?" Talk about gall. The absolute nerve. No, I did not want to talk about anything. If I did, I'd have started talking by then. "No," I replied evenly. He rubbed his eyes. "Why not?" Oh for God's sake, I thought. I pushed back my chair and glared at him. "Do you have something you'd like to say to me, Mulder?" He blinked in surprise. "It's not about me, Scully." "The hell it isn't." "Fine, whatever. Look. I don't want to fight. I was just extending a friendly gesture and letting you know that I'm here if you need me. That's all. But apparently, I'm not, so, fine. You win. Just like always, Scully. You. Win." With that said, he got up, stalked across the room, grabbed his jacket, and slammed the door behind him. I sat in surprise in my chair, stilled into silence. What the hell just happened here? I wondered before anger got the best of me and I shot off after him. I caught up with him in the elevator as he was pushing the button. I squeezed through the door and glared at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" "With *me*?" he repeated incredulously. "Yeah. You, Mulder. You just blew up at me back there, or didn't you notice?" The elevator dinged and we stepped out into the lobby. He took off at a fast pace and I struggled to keep up with him. "Gee, Scully, am I supposed to smile and bow down when you rebuff me when I try to get you to open up? Oh. Sorry," he retorted sarcastically. I grabbed his arm and made him face me, unaware of the looks the other agents were giving us. "Forgive me for not swooning, Mulder. I'm sorry that I don't automatically do what you want me to do. I didn't rebuff you, for God's sake. Nothing was wrong. I'm --" "Fine. Right. You're always fine, Scully." He was infuriating me. "You're angry because I won't talk about what happened in Idaho." He simply stared at me. I threw up my hands. "What do you want me to say, Mulder? He attacked me, yes. I fought back, yes. You saved me. He's dead. Yes, yes, yes. What more do you want from me?" His face softened a little. Then he turned and disappeared outside. All right, so I blew things with Mulder. But like I said, it goes completely against my character if I were to open up truthfully to him. Which is why I wrestled with the decision for nearly six hours before reaching a conclusion. A conclusion that found me driving in the pouring rain at eleven twenty-one at night. I had my hand up to knock on the door when he opened it. We stared at each other for a moment before he stepped back and I walked inside, shrugging off my jacket. I stood in the middle of his living room, unsure of what to say. His television was on, muted of course, and there was two empty bottles of beer knocked over on the coffee table. I looked at him. He looked at me. And I knew what to say. "I haven't been sleeping well lately." It wasn't one of Shakespeare's sonnets, it wasn't a flowery declaration, nor would my meaning be clear to anyone else. Anyone else but Mulder. His hazel eyes smiled, though his mouth did not. This was a serious conversation. But I saw how pleased he was. "Coffee?" "Please." Forty-five minutes later, refreshed by the coffee and having watched an I Love Lucy rerun, he once again muted the TV, and I turned to face him. There are plenty of attractive men in the world, but no one I've ever met has quite compared to Mulder. He's not handsome in the classic sense of the word -- his nose is too long, he hardly ever smiles, he wears possibly the ugliest glasses in the world, and his chin is kind of square-ish. But it's precisely these things that make him so attractive -- what attracted me to him. I thought about all of this when I looked at him that night on that couch. I wasn't even sure I could go through with it; was I ready to open myself up, be vulnerable, and let him see me at my weakest moment? I gazed into his eyes, and I forced myself to begin. "I haven't been sleeping well," I repeated. He smiled a little. "You already said that." I gave him a warning look before continuing. "It -- it started right after Idaho. Even on the plane back to Washington, I had a nightmare." "What do you dream about?" he asked, putting an arm on top of the couch, the other occasionally lifting a half-empty beer bottle to his lips. I was mesmerized by that gesture. Whenever he took a drink, I found myself parched and lifting my own bottle that housed considerably less than his. I shrugged. "Just what happened. Sometimes it varies, but it's mostly just the same nightmare. He's -- he's there, and the fork, it's right above my eye, and I can feel the edge glaze over my eye, and then I wake up." His body visibly recoiled when I mentioned the fork. I took a deep breath. "Last night I dreamt that you were there instead of me. That Holloway had you, and I -- I found you too late." "Scully," he said gently, quietly. I stared at some point over his shoulder and continued on. "The blood, Mulder. God. It was so horrible. I remember that I...I dropped down on the floor next to you, and I checked your pulse....And when I didn't find one, I -- it felt so empty." I refocused my gaze on him. "Like he'd killed you, too." I nodded. "Yes." My voice was barely audible. I swallowed, trying to maintain my composure, and continued. "I guess -- I guess I feel like I put myself in that position." "Scully, how --" I squeezed my eyes shut. "I froze, Mulder. I'm a goddamn FBI agent, trained to handle those kinds of things, and I *froze.* I knew what to do, and I didn't do it. I could have died that night, Mulder. I should have. And it would have been my own Goddamn fault." It was only when I felt his finger under my chin, tilting my face up to his, that I opened my eyes. "What happened when I left you, Scully?" "I opened the door, and he was there. I reached for my gun and he -- he knocked me to the floor. Pinned my arms up. I couldn't. . .move." I broke off, memories flooding me. Unconsciously, I rubbed my wrists where he had held them so tightly. "So your arms were above your head? With no way of reaching your gun." He shook his head angrily. "Tell me, Scully, exactly how this is your fault, because I'm frankly not getting it here." "I made a move for the fork." I shook my head, trying not to let the tears fall. "I should have talked to him, Mulder. Tried to gain control over the situation. But. I. Froze." "You mean you let yourself feel the moment, Scully. For God's sake, after everything we've been through, Scully, I don't remember ever seeing you completely break down, really let emotion in. It's normal to be frightened. He was going to kill you. No one expected you to feel anything less, except for yourself." I glared at him through my filmy haze of tears. "I'm not supposed to break down, Mulder." "You aren't SuperWoman, Scully. You're only human. Deal with it." "Mulder, if I let myself lose control every time something goes wrong --" "Is that what this is about? Scully? Losing control? Not being the one who holds the upper hand, about not knowing what could come next?" "It's about my inability to get the job done, Mulder," I replied evenly. "Look at me," he said angrily, grabbing me by the shoulders. I forced myself to look him in the eye. "You. Are not. At fault here. He was the murderer, Scully! You didn't do anything to deserve what he did to you. It isn't your fault." Damn him, I thought as the tears streamed down my cheeks. "You are not weak, Dana Scully. You're possibly the strongest person I've ever known. But you're human, Dana. You can't always be the victor right away. There are going to be times when you lose control, when you *have* to lose it." "I don't want to be weak," I whispered. "You aren't," he said quietly. "I feel weak." "You aren't," he repeated firmly. I didn't speak for a moment. "Aren't I?" I finally asked softly. He pulled me to him gently, murmuring something unintelligible as I went easily into his arms. He held me once again as I cried. I don't cry. I've never been much of a crier. Perhaps because I do need to maintain some semblance of control. But for the time that I was in Mulder's arms, his hands making soothing circles on my back, I didn't feel weak. I wasn't ashamed to show my emotions. I felt strong and whole, for the first time since my ordeal. "Have you been eating, Scully?" Mulder asked suddenly. I could have laughed. I shook my head hesitantly. "I mean, just not as much. How can I, Mulder?" "It's hard. I know. I just -- I wish you'd let me help you, Scully." "That's not what I meant. I threw away all of my forks." He pulled away and looked at me. A sprinkle of emotion flickered across his face. Surprise, laughter, amazement, amusement, incredulity. "Seriously?" he asked finally. I nodded confirmation. "The day after we got back." He laughed, then, and so did I. For how long, I don't know. It felt good to laugh. We hadn't done that in such a long time. When we finally stopped laughing, I felt my eyes drawn to his. Somehow, in my newfound ability to open up to Mulder, I had also inherited the courage to look him straight in the eye and not want to look away. Apparently, so had he. Time seemed to stand still for the next two minutes. We allowed ourselves one simple luxury -- the luxury of just looking at each other. Somehow, we were closer on the couch than I remembered us to be, even during our hug, and I was increasingly aware of his presence. Danger, Dana, my mind warned. I saw something in his eyes flicker and die, to be replaced by something altogether unexpected. I froze. I knew that look. Dear God, I've seen that look a hundred and one times in my head. I memorized it the first time I saw it ten months before. In his hallway. Hallway. Kiss. Bee. One word was flashing in my mind. Danger. "I should go." The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I watched his visage change once more. He swallowed, and I tried to concentrate on breathing. "Right," he said huskily. "Of course." "It's late," I added unnecessarily. "Right." "Right." I hesitated before pushing myself off of the couch. I left a large piece of my heart back there on that couch the minute I stood up. Don't misunderstand me. I wanted to kiss Mulder. More than anything in the world, I wanted to be able to finally feel his lips on mine and not have to wonder anymore. But not only do I close myself off, but I also have a tendency to distance myself from things that I think my complicate my life. Not that Mulder would be a bad complication. I can't imagine a more natural shift in my life than to move from partner to lover. But instinct drove me from his couch, whether I wanted it to or not. I was halfway towards the door when I realized he was behind me. Move faster, I commanded myself sternly. "I'm glad you came over," he said as we stood in front of his door. "I am, too, Mulder." Another pause. I reached up to touch him, but I dropped my hand just short of his arm. "Bye." "Bye," Mulder echoed. He stepped back. I opened the door and took a step out when I heard him quietly murmur my name. Before I could react, he had grabbed my arm gently, pulled me back into the apartment, and his hands slid up my shoulders to cup my face. "Deja vu," I whispered. He seemed to be drinking in the sight of me, and I him, and then, in a split second, my world changed and darkened as I closed my eyes. I felt his soft lips bump lightly against my own a nanosecond later. I let out a tiny sigh. He pressed up against my lips, then, and kissed me. Heaven. Pure, perfect bliss. Ever since I first viewed Gone With the Wind with my grandmother, mother, and Melissa back in 1977, I've wondered what Rhett meant by "you should be kissed, and often. And by someone who knows how." I think I know now. His lips were soft and warm and seeking on my mine. I felt completely displaced from my lips, which had opened on their own accord. I found, to my delight, that Mulder and I fit together like two missing pieces of a puzzle. I drank in his taste, his smell. He must have brushed his teeth before I came over, I realized. The soft flavor of Colgate blended well together with the taste of beer and something else, something distinctly Mulder. I ran my hands through his hair, pulling him closer. He pulled me back fully into the apartment and I absently kicked the door shut behind me, only to be pushed up against said door by said man, where we promptly resumed kissing. I had wound my arms around his neck, and when we finally broke for air, I realized that I had a better view with my arms around his neck. When he straightened, I was lifted a little, and I could see straight into his eyes. Straight into his soul. "Hi," I murmured. "Hello." I think I was the one who demanded we continue where we left off. I simply guided his head back down to mine, and that was the end of that. Minutes, hours, hell even days later, when we raised our heads for a second time, I tried to let my head clear out. I knew this was a dangerous thing to be doing. Mulder, me. Kissing. Apartment dark. Six years of barely touching. Bad, bad, bad. I brought my hands up to his face, gave him one last, long kiss, and pulled away again. "I should go." And then I left. The next day was Saturday, and I woke up early, more out of instinct than habit. It was unusual not to be awakened by a five a.m. phone call from Mulder, explaining to me the importance of a new case and why we had to be at the airport in half an hour. It was seven when I woke up, and it took me all of my ten minute shower to realize I had absolutely nothing to do. No lunch planned with Mom, no errands to run, no case to start on with Mulder... Mulder. God. I had barely gotten a wink of sleep that night. The minute my head had hit the pillow, I had started to wonder if I should call him. Or go back to his apartment. Or should I just not do anything at all? I hadn't been that nervous since my first kiss at seventeen. So I tried to do what any normal person would do on a Saturday. I made myself a bowl of Special K, curled up on my couch, and watched Katie Couric try to make sense of the latest international crisis. That lasted a whole hour. Next? I asked myself. Clean. Okay. I did my kitchen, dusted and ran the sweeper in my living room and bedroom, cleaned the bathroom. It was ten by then. I had never realized before how completely dependent on Mulder my weekends were. What kind of a woman doesn't know what to do on a free Saturday? I should have a lunch date with my mother, a shopping trip with a friend, a date that night with a fellow doctor or someone my family had set me up with. I shouldn't have to consciously think about what I should do. Mulder probably had fifty things planned. That did it. I picked up the phone. "Mom?" I dug into my chef's salad, greatly aware of the blunder I had made. My mother had known immediately all was not well the minute she'd answered the phone and realized it was me. "Dana? Honey?" I shook my head to clear my thoughts and refocused. "Sorry, what?" She gave me a disapproving look. "You haven't heard a word I said this entire meal, honey. What's going on?" "Nothing, Mom," I insisted, taking a drink. "Is it a crime to want to have lunch with my mother?" "Why aren't you on a case?" "Contrary to popular belief, Mother, we aren't *always* in the field every weekend." Pause. "Are you hiding from Fox, Dana?" "What? Mom..." "Did something happen? Did you two have a fight?" I sighed and gave up. "Mom," I said, after a minute, "have you ever -- done something that you weren't sure you should have done?" "Such as?" she replied, resting her elbows on the table. "Such as...anything." She thought. "Well, I suppose we've all done some things we've regretted afterwards. What did you do, Dana? Are are we still talking about you and Fox?" "There is no 'me and Fox,' Mom," I said, irritation starting to get the better of me. "I just -- for the past year, Mulder and I have had this new level to our partnership. And sometimes -- sometimes I wonder where it's all going. I went over to his apartment last night because of a fight we had at work, and we had a long talk, and...." I broke off, realizing I was talking to my mother. "And?" she prodded. "And nothing, Mom," I said, averting my eyes. I could lie to her, as long as she couldn't see my eyes. "Dana," she said. "I can read you like a book." I sighed. "Nothing." Mom read my signals loud and clear then, and she started off on some story that Tara had told her about Matthew, and I listened politely, grateful to be out of the spotlight. I drove my mother home after lunch, went window shopping at the mall, and treated myself to a movie. When Guy got Girl, however, my thoughts were wandering. What do I say to Mulder on Monday? Do we ignore this? Acknowledge it but never let it happen again? Or... Or what, Dana? Have a relationship with him? The thought sent tingles down my spine. I tried desperately to remember my list of reasons why I could never be involved romantically with my partner, and they were all very good reasons, too. It would distract us from doing our job in the field. It would give our enemies an even bigger advantage over us. What if OPR got wind of it -- Jana Cassidy hated me from our Dallas incident the summer before. And Skinner, what would he have to say about it? On the drive home, I think it was my heart that began its arguments against my logic. You're a professional woman, Dana. I highly doubt you'd allow yourself to be distracted in the field. And what if you were? Isn't it a distraction enough to be in such close confines with him and not be able to do anything about it? More of an advantage, eh? They obviously knew you were a way to get to Mulder five years ago when they abducted you from Skyland Mountain. Or Antarctica. There's no doubt in any of their minds that both you and Mulder would die to save the other. They've known it since the day you returned that alien fetus in exchange for his life. There's no formal rule about fraternization among partners. Everybody does it. Look at you and Jack! He was your teacher, for God's sake. Everyone at Quantico knew about the two of you, and no one said a word. And they all think you're having an affair with Mulder anyway; why not give truth to the rumors? Not like it'll make much of a difference. I had made up my mind to call him as soon as I had gotten a long, hot bath. I approached my door and knew immediately something wasn't right. I had locked it, hadn't I? I always locked my door. I pushed it open cautiously, gun drawn, bath long forgotten. The lights were turned down to a soft dimness, and I saw that the kitchen light was on. I walked towards it slowly, wondering what the hell kind of robber I was dealing with here. As I passed by my coffee table, I caught sight of a pair of keys and sighed, returning my gun to its holder. Mulder. Figured. Before I could chew him out for scaring me, the doorbell rang and he rushed out of the kitchen in casual Mulder-dress -- jeans, gray t-shirt, short hair tousled. It was surprisingly sexy. "Oh hey, Scully," he said in a voice like he was in my apartment at dinnertime every night. "I didn't hear you come in." He opened the door with a flourish, and I saw the trademark white outfit of a delivery boy, and sure enough, when Mulder closed the door and turned to face me, he carried take-out from the neighborhood Chinese place. "Hungry?" he asked, holding up the bag. Mulder was back in the kitchen before I could reply, so I did what I could do. I simply followed him. "Mulder?" "Yep?" he asked absently, pulling the cartons out of the bag. "What are you doing?" He threw a look over his shoulder, one that said 'what do you think I'm doing'. "I'm getting dinner ready, Scully," he said patronizingly. "Yes, I can see that, but I meant, what are you doing in my apartment?" Mulder was fixing the food onto two paper plates. "Do you want the shrimp or pork egg roll?" "Shrimp. Don't evade the question." "Lo mein okay?" "Yeah. Mulder, I'm serious." "So am I, Scully. Could you get out some glasses and your old chopsticks? I forgot to ask for new ones." I sighed in frustration, but I did what he asked. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. "Are we eating in the kitchen or the living room?" "Living room. You know, Scully, your kitchen really is kind of small." I threw him a withering glance as we carried out plates out to my living room and settled down on opposite ends of my couch. Was it just me, or had my sofa gotten smaller since the last time I'd seen it? Mulder on my couch was nothing unusual, but for some reason, he'd always seemed a little more...farther away than he did that night. Mulder had flipped on the television to some basketball game, and I concentrated on my food. Somehow, my eyes found themselves watching him as he brought his food up to his mouth and chewed. I really love his lips. I mean, I love everything about him, but his lips were really very nice. I couldn't help remembering how they'd felt the night before. I must have been staring at him for at least a full five minutes before he said dryly, "You know, there's a name for what you're doing, Scully," without taking his eyes of the screen. Damn him. I blushed. "Oh yeah?" Somehow, my voice remained normal. He nodded, pouring duck sauce over his eggroll. "Yeah." He chanced a quick glance at me. "It's called sexy." I think I blushed all the way up to my roots. That was something I had heard, in some form or another, many a time in the past six years. But after that kiss the night before, his innuendo took on a whole different meaning. It's not innuendo, a voice corrected me. He's blatantly flirting with you. My mind was not functioning. I simply stared at him, unable to reply. Mulder looked at me again. "Sorry." I found my voice again. "N-no. No, it's okay. I wasn't prepared for that, that's all." He shrugged and turned back to the game. I felt lost. "Mulder?" I asked. "Mmm?" "Why are you here?" "Dinner, Scully. I had no food." "Why didn't you just order in from your apartment?" He muted the game and faced me. "Do you want me to leave, Scully?" Dammit, this wasn't where I was going with this, Mulder. "Of course not. I mean -- I'm just at a loss, here, Mulder. You never show up at my doorstep, food in hand, without something serious on your mind. I know you. I'm just wondering what it is. That's all." "I'm at a loss, too." "What's that supposed to mean?" He sighed. "Nothing." "Mulder." He turned back to the basketball game, and I sighed. "Fine." "Fine." I un-muted the TV and we watched the rest of the game in silence. I took our dishes out to the kitchen without a word to him. I knew it wouldn't work. It was too easy. Normal people fall in love, kiss, date, get married, have a couple of kids, end of story. Mulder and I? One kiss and we're at each other's throats the next night. I was washing the dishes when I felt him behind me. I refused to give him the pleasure of turning around. He leaned on the sink beside me. "Scully?" "Hm?" "We do we argue like that?" I scrubbed the knife a little harder. "I don't know, Mulder. You tell me." "I'm not taking that bait, Scully." He watched me wash the dishes for a minute before continuing. "We do turn everything into a battle, though, you know." "I know." He brought his fingers up and began playing with my hair. "So are we gonna talk or what?" I wondered if he knew how distracting his hands in my hair were. "Talk about what, Mulder?" I asked him steadily. Unconsciously, I turned the knob to cold. "Scully, don't shut me out." "I'm not shutting you out. It was a simple, valid question." His hand fell away. I wasn't sure if I was glad or missed it. "Are we going to just ignore what happened in my apartment last night?" Hoo boy, there we go, Mulder. I thought I was supposed to be the one who got straight to the point. He must have been taking notes. Suddenly, I had the strange sensation that my walls were closing in, and I was being suffocated. I didn't want to talk about our kiss. I just wanted for us to continue as normal. Couldn't we do what we did a year ago, Mulder, and just ignore the kiss? Let it just pass us by as another stage in our relationship? I must have been quiet for too long. Mulder rubbed his eyes with one hand and stepped back a few feet. Physical distance. Not good. "Okay. Fine, whatever, Scully; we'll do it your way. It never happened." I still couldn't find my voice. Where the hell was the Dana Scully who could banter back and forth with this man? What happened to all the things I had decided in my car on the way home? When did I become some blubbering idiot who stood in the middle of her kitchen with her mouth open, eyes wide, and watched silently as the man she loved got farther and farther away? "Just tell me something, Scully. Did that kiss not mean anything to you? Just for the record." "It meant everything to me," I said quietly. Maybe my voice was just waiting for an appropriate time to jump in. I never saw Mulder's face change so quickly because of something I've said to him. In the time it took me to finish that declaration, he had gone from angry to looking like he'd just won the lottery. "What did it mean to you, Mulder?" I asked, looking him straight in the eye, my voice still soft. "It meant everything to me, too." This new turn of events filled me with courage. I crossed the room, closing the distance -- physical and mental -- between us. When I reached him, we simply continued to stare at each other. I put my hands on his chest, and his chin lowered to rest on my head. "So what do we do now?" I asked him. "I...don't know. Take it one step at a time." He pulled back and looked at me. "Do you want this, Scully? I mean, really want this. The way I do." Before our kiss the night before, it had been -- well, a long time since I'd been in a man's arms. I refused to count Ed Jerse. I had had quite enough, thanks, of talking with Mulder. We'd said the necessary words, passed the awkward after-kiss stage, so what the hell were we waiting for? I had no doubt in my mind as to what my answer to his question would be. So I wrapped my arms around his neck, lowered his face to meet mine, and kissed him with all the pent-up passion of any healthy thirty-five-year-old woman who hadn't been kissed in as many years as me. I've never thought of myself as an overly demonstrative person, but I think Mulder got the hint. In fact, he got the hint so well that we both mentally agreed my couch was the proper place to continue our line of discussion. The rest of the evening is really somewhat of a blur, and I don't really remember who turned the lights or the television off or who led who where. But by some miracle, I awoke this morning in his arms, and we watched the sunrise together as he dropped butterfly kisses down the side of my neck. Talk about an epiphany. So, all in all, I have to say that I really don't understand why either of us felt the need to make something so easy as a kiss so complex. It really is a simple thing after all. The End. Author's Notes Continued: Now that you all have read this story, what do you think? I'd really like to have feedback on this story; M and S aren't quite out of my system yet, and I'd like to turn this into a semi-series. Please tell me what you think. Thanks! http://members.tripod.com/~SueBridehead_2/f anfic.html JessLB@aol.com
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