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Title: Just Another Day in Paradise Summary: Mulder, Scully and William spend a Sunday afternoon at home. Told in first person, Mulder's POV. Note: This story isn't part of my "married" series (the ones where Mulder and Scully got married in Las Vegas). You could assume they're married in this if you want to or that they're just living together or whatever floats your boat; I'm not real specific about that. I'm stretched out on the couch, watching football on TV, with William on my stomach. Every once in a while, I share a bit of fatherly wisdom with him, like "That's called a touchdown, son," and he gurgles his approval. Scully walks through occasionally and rolls her eyes at me, but she's smiling, too. I've got my shirt off. This is Scully's idea; she claims it helps William bond with me better if the two of us have skin-to-skin contact. I suggested Scully just likes looking at my chest and abs, fully expecting her to say something along the lines of "In your dreams, Mulder," but instead she smiled and said, "Well, yeah, there's that, too" ... all these years, and she still keeps me guessing. I don't mind the shirtless bit, though. Scully keeps the apartment warmer than I'm really comfortable with. She says it's for William's sake, but I've had enough battles of the climate controls with her in rented cars over the years to know that she's the one who wants our home kept at a sub-tropical temperature. That's okay; William and I have a thermostat coup planned for her first day back at the office. "Hey, Scully, would you mind coming and holding William for a minute?" I ask the next time she walks through. "I want to get up and get a beer." "Mulder, wouldn't it be easier for me just to bring you the beer?" "Well, yeah," I agree. "But I figured hollering out 'Hey, honey, bring me a beer!' while I was lying on the couch watching football would be a good way to get myself shot." "Just don't think I'm going to make a habit of it," she answers with a smile. So I lie there, holding my son and watching a football game, while a gorgeous woman- one I just happen to love more than life itself - brings me a beer. I feel like I've drifted off into some sort of alternate reality: male fantasy 101. It only gets better when Scully climbs up on the couch besides us and snuggles close. Unlike a lot of women, she has at least a basic understanding of the game and doesn't keep asking 'What just happened?' every time I erupt in a cheer. She says it's because Bill Junior played the whole time he was in junior high and high school, so she grew up watching him and it sort of rubbed off on her. Guess there's something I have to be thankful to Billy Boy about, after all. After a few minutes, though, William begins to fuss. "I agree, son. It was a lousy call," I say soothingly. Scully laughs softly and says, "I don't think he's objecting to the refereeing, Mulder. He's probably ready to be changed and fed, then go down for his afternoon nap." She scoops him off my chest and heads into the bedroom to change him. An advertisement comes on and I take a bathroom break myself; like father, like son, I suppose. Then I grab another beer, pour a glass of orange juice for Scully and head back to the couch, depositing both drinks on the coffee table. Scully and William soon return and resume, more or less, their former positions. I've read that a lot of fathers get turned off or feel left out when mothers breastfeed, but that's certainly not been my experience. For one thing, Scully usually tries to nurse like this - lying down, snuggled up to me. Her bare breast is against my chest and I can feel the movement of William's cheek against my skin, the answering pulse of milk flowing through Scully's breast. Far from being a turnoff, the experience leaves me both mildly aroused and profoundly relaxed; I feel like an alpha male, protecting my family within the warm circle of my arms. "I need to switch him to the other breast," Scully says during the next commercial. "Want me to flip around to the other end of the couch, so you can still watch the game?" "No, that's okay. I think I'll take a nap now." So I continue to watch the game, taking care to mute my cheers so that mother and son can get some rest. I can tell when they drift off to sleep. William's jaw muscles slow down and finally stop and Scully's breathing evens out. I feel a small puddle of dampness begin to form in the center of my chest; either William is drooling or Scully is leaking, or perhaps a bit of both. God, it must be true love when the feel of another person's body fluids pooling on your chest is glorious rather than disgusting. I let my hands wander over Scully's body while she sleeps. It's almost absentminded, but I'm still filled with wonder that I can do this; touch her anywhere I want, anytime I want. I slide my hand under her open shirt to rub her back and shoulders, then caress her ass through the soft cotton of the shorts she's wearing. Eventually I move onto her legs, running my hands up and down them from mid-calf all the way to the top of her thighs. Once the game ends, I click off the TV. I'd be content to simply lay there, holding both of them, but Scully awakens and whispers, "I'm going to put William in his crib." She's soon back in the living room but, surprisingly, her shirt and bra are still open. That's a bit odd. While Scully certainly doesn't feel that breastfeeding is anything to be embarrassed about, she generally covers back up once William is finished. She pauses in the doorway and says, her voice quiet but carrying, "Come to bed, Fox." Oh, boy! The only time she ever, ever calls me "Fox" is in the throes of passion or immediately prior. Guess I understand why she didn't bother to cover back up. "I thought you were tired," I murmur as we begin divesting ourselves of our clothing. Since I'm already bare-chested and her shirt and bra are already open, it doesn't take long. "I was only half-asleep. I could feel you feeling me up." "I"m sorry," I begin but she shakes her head. "It's okay. I'm flattered that you can't keep your hands off me." We lie down on the bed, snuggled together without a beloved, pint-sized barrier between our bodies. We kiss, long and slow and deep. That's another thing I have a hard time believing I'm now free to do whenever I want. I let my hands wander down to the juncture of her thighs and am surprised by how wet she is. I raise my head and gaze into her eyes, one eyebrow quirked up, asking a silence question. "I *told* you I liked having your hands on me," she explains with a smile. "If you're ready, I am." It's not like I need an engraved invitation. I guide myself into her and we both sigh with pleasure at our union. I set up a leisurely pace, keeping my eyes locked to hers. By the standards of those videos I used to watch - the ones that weren't mine - it's not particularly exciting sex. We're on a bed in the missionary position. But, these last couple of months, we've experienced lovemaking on a whole different plane. The sex before I was abducted was spectacular but there was always a tiny hint of sadness in it, because we were both under the impression that no matter how much we loved each other or how frequently we expressed our love physically, it would never - could never - result in new life. Now that we know that's not true it's an utterly joyful experience, both mystical and earthy at the same time. I can tell when Scully's getting close and I slide my hand under her ass to tilt her hips a bit more. I am rewarded by a tightening of her muscles, a long, soft sigh and a sweet smile. I keep going for quite a while after that, but eventually come myself with a harsh groan of her name. Then I roll off and spoon her up beside me. "Scully?" "Mmm?" "I love you." "I love you, too, Mulder." Let's see.. .football, beer, my son, Scully telling me she loves me: just another typical day in paradise.
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