Momentary Lapses by Dasha K. Please archive at Gossamer. Anywhere else, let me know where you put it so I can visit. Summary: Scully makes a confession. Rating: R for sex and blasphemy Classification: VRH Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance Spoilers: General 5th season Feedback: Need I even ask? dashak@aol.com Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, not mine, yep, you know how it goes. . . I needed an angst break, having been immersed in the Red Valerian series for what feels like *years*, so this is the result- smut and my attempt at a little humor. Momentary Lapses by Dasha K. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I have committed the unpardonable error of sleeping with my partner. On three separate occasions. Okay, I'll admit it, I'm weak. I'm as susceptible to the sins of the flesh as the next person. My businesslike mien is merely the side I show on the surface to the world. There's a lot more going on underneath the neatly buttoned suits and stockings that never, ever, run than you'd think. I get horny, too. Call it a weakness. I'm weak for him, like I'm weak for chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream, weak for Chopin piano concertos, weak for hideously expensive Egyptian cotton sheets with a high thread count. The first time was an accident, pure and simple. It was a blustery February in Washington and we headed to Miami for a case. The whole thing turned out to be rather a waste of our time and the taxpayers' money, so we ended up staying only two days. On the last night, Mulder and I decided to see a bit of the city before we left, and headed for South Beach. On the crowded, bustling beachfront, lined with Art Deco hotels and populated by the most godawfully attractive men and women I have ever had occasion to see with my two eyes, we found a Cuban restaurant and secured an outdoor table. Actually, the only reason why we got such a great table is because the headwaiter seemed entranced by Mulder's sleepy eyes. Our waiter/underwear model, Alejandro, urged us to order mojitos, a powerful blend of white rum, sugarcane syrup and just enough club soda to make the whole thing fizz. Not being big drinkers, Mulder and I got smashed before our puerco asado and plantains were even served. There's just something about Miami, that's all I'm going to say. I'll blame it on three mojitos and the tropically moist air that unfortunately does turn my hair into an unruly mess. Or else, blame it on the way the air smelled, like coconut oil, like cigars, like sea salt and expensive French perfume all at once. Yes, blame it on all that. I certainly had no plans to ravish Mulder, who sat tipped back in his chair in a far too tight black t-shirt and bemusedly smiled at the parade of beautiful people passing before us. It never even entered my mind. Okay, maybe it did flicker through my rum-damaged brain for the merest millisecond, but I'm human. Am I right? We got back to our hotel and Mulder came into my room, to retrieve his laptop. Mmm-hmm. See, it was all his fault. He started it. He set the computer back down on the desk and stood for a moment, saying nothing, but I could hear his breathing from where I was standing at the window, watching the way the breeze ruffled the fronds of the palm trees. Mulder just walked up to me, unceremoniously grabbed my arms and pushed me against the wall. Some women might take offense at that, call it blatant sexual harassment, but I'm not your average woman. Mulder and I had some raucous sex that night, more passion than pleasure, pawing and groping at each other like hormone-challenged high school students in the back seat of daddy's car. It was intense, it was furious, it lasted most of the night until we were sore, bruised and basically immobilized from sheer exhaustion. In the morning we woke up, cleaned ourselves up and caught our plane home. I had to apply a lot of Clinique Natural Ivory to cover the marks on my neck from my rum-scented vampire. We didn't discuss what had happened. We just went on from there like that night had never occurred. It was the wisest, best course of action. Mulder and I had been drunken fools that night in Miami. It was wrong. An interesting note for you: there is no specific Bureau regulation about partners becoming sexually involved, but I know and you know that it's not exactly cricket. You just don't sleep with your partner. It dulls your edge and creates all sorts of sticky issues that get in the way of the job that needs to be done. It was a mistake, albeit an intensely fantastic one, but I swore on a stack of Bibles as tall as myself that we'd never do it again. A few months passed and we were in Wausau, Wisconsin, chasing down some murdering thug who claimed to be a faith healer. We were giving chase in a field on said murdering thug's brother's farm when I slipped on some cow turds and smacked my face on the hard earth. It hurt like a bitch. Mulder managed to catch the overweight, puffing guy and cuff him. When he turned to me I was standing there, blood gushing out of my nose. My mother was right, I should always have a travel pack of tissues in my pocket, because the crimson blood was completely soaking the lone kleenex I was able to find. His face went white, absolutely white. He had witnessed so many nosebleeds of mine in the past. Grabbing the thug's arm, he ran over to me. "Are you all right?" he asked, breathing hard from the effort of dragging a 300 pound guy with him. I nodded, unable to speak as I was pressing the tissue to my face. When it seemed the deluge had ended, I pulled the soaked kleenex away. "I fell," I said. "I think I broke my nose." The relief on Mulder's face was palpable. The murderer just smirked, as if to say, `Why are you getting so upset over a wussy nosebleed, G-Man?' After we dumped off the suspect and got him booked, we headed to the hospital. The x-ray showed no break, so we went back to the Rib Mountain Motel: Free Cable and Ski Storage. Back in my room, I lay down on the bed with a bag of ice pressed to my beleaguered nose, mourning the loss of my favorite knockoff Jil Sander jacket to the impromptu nosebleed. I heard the connecting door open. Mulder loped in, bearing an ice bucket and two cans of Coke. "I came to see how the patient is doing." "Very funny," I mumbled through the makeshift ice pack. He sat on the edge of the bed. "That scared the shit out of me," he said, his hands doing a funny little dance in his lap. I put the bag of ice on the bedside table and sat up, realizing I probably looked just like Marsha Brady after she got bopped in the nose with the football. "I'm fine," I said. It's my standard response, but this time I meant it. "For how long?" I had to strain to hear that last comment. Scooting down the bed, I sat next to him. "No one knows how long they have." I turned to him and put my arms around him to give him a reassuring hug. If you can't hug your partner, whom can you hug? At least, that was my rationale at the time. I should have known better. Another thing my mother always told me: hindsight is 20/20. The chaste, partnerly hug went on for a long time and gained an intensity of its own and the next thing I knew it was full sun-up and I was lying next to him, buck naked, sticky, sweaty and thoroughly worn out. My nose was throbbing like crazy, as it had. . . um. . . gotten bumped a few times in the throes of our "case consultation". I staggered out of bed, took a few Tylenol 3 from my emergency stash and crashed until mid-afternoon, when Mulder forcibly dragged me out of bed and into the shower so we could make our plane. Again, we pretended nothing had happened. Deny everything is our motto. I should have had that tattooed on my back instead of the snake. Which brings me to last night. We've been in Boston for four days, investigating the mysterious deaths of callers to a psychic hotline. At one time I would have found this case to be unfathomably bizarre, but now it's ho-hum, more decapitations with the heads missing. Another day on the road with Mulder. Not to say I'm bored by my job, I'm just incredibly inured to the grotesque and unusual after six years. Last night I was exhausted and I turned in early, delighted to be in a decent city hotel with clean sheets and carpeting that doesn't smell like Queequeg's flea powder. Yawning, I snapped off the bedside lamp and immediately sank into the black depths of sleep. I awoke with a start to feel something wet slithering along my back. My right hand scrambled for the gun on the table until I realized it was Mulder's tongue, circling my tattoo. We really have to rethink this adjoining rooms thing. Okay, I forgot one important part. Normally, when I'm out on a case, I sleep in pajamas or at least a t-shirt and panties. I was so beat last night that I took a shower, toweled myself off and slid into bed without a stitch on my body. What was I thinking? Without any clothes, I was utterly defenseless against Mulder's advances. My brain told me, in a bossy tone, to kick him all the way back to his own room, but my body vetoed that decision. I'm starting to think my hormones have override power. I did make an attempt, though. "What are you doing?" I asked. "I realized I never got the chance to taste your tattoo and I had to come and find out." With that, I was a lost woman. There was no good excuse for last night, no devilishly powerful Cuban concoctions, no pesky nosebleeds, but he showed up in my bed anyhow. I can't think of a single good reason to explain why I let him stay, let his tongue explore ever nook and cranny of me, let him slide inside me and push me into the firm Marriott mattress. Damn, I'm trying to come up with something here, but my brain is blanking. Sex makes me stupid, which is another good reason why I shouldn't be sleeping with my partner. I've learned some new things about my partner during those three singular nights that will never, ever happen again. Mulder loves oral sex, both giving and receiving, but especially giving. He's not exactly known for his generosity, but he'd keep at it all night if I let him. He likes it best when I'm on top, which is handy, since that's how I like it, too. If you haven't guessed this about me, I like to be in charge of things. He has the best-smelling sweat I've ever had the pleasure of coating my body. Also, he's rather embarrassingly noisy, which is no real surprise, since he hardly ever shuts up in real life. Oh, and he's also really, really, really good. Guess his video collection has been educational, or maybe they teach a special course at Oxford. No, I doubt that, the British aren't exactly famed for their prowess in bed. It's possibly because he applies his single-mindedness to sex. I'm not sure what his secret is, but the man should be kept under lock and key. Now there's a tempting thought. . . No. Bad thoughts. Got to keep the bad thoughts away. I jump out of bed and pace the room like a lioness caged at the zoo. Thou shall not covet thy partner. Thou shall not think impure thoughts, especially the one where he reaches up and. . . It will never happen again. I promise, I swear, no matter how much I want to feel him quaking under me, no matter how much I want his tongue in my mouth, no matter how much I may love him. Wait, did I just think that? Oh God, I have it bad. He just makes me so weak, in that slither out of my pantyhose way. He makes me wet with just the most innocent of touches. How do you keep `em down on the farm after they've seen the lights of Gay Paree? How do I stop myself after tasting the crisp, juicy flesh of the accursed apple? I want some apple pie! I'm pacing so much I'm probably wearing a tread in the gray carpeting of my hotel room. This is one of those nights I actually wished I smoked, so I could sit at the window and dramatically puff away, like Jeanne Moreau in one of her films of the 1950s, elegant and tormented at once. I toss up my hands in defeat. Fine, I give up. I want him and I want him in a big way. I can't neatly push this wanting into the Mulder file and lock it away in the cabinet. It's an infection, an addiction. The only way my thirst can be slaked is to have more of him. Now. Does it mitigate my sin to admit that I do love him? Shrugging, I stalk to the connecting door and push it open. I hear the bedding rustle; he's no more awake than I am. >From the dark a chuckle emerges, and then his voice, "I knew you'd come tonight, Scully." "That's entirely up to you, Mulder," I crack. Smiling, I walk to the bed. Bless me father, for I have sinned, as I am sinning now. There are no excuses this time. My flesh is weak. But this is the last time. I swear, after tonight I will sin no longer. At least, I think so. END Feedback is yummy. dashak@aol.com My most gracious thanks to Alanna, Gwen and Plausible Deniability for comments and beta reading beautiousness. Momentary Lapses II: Delirium Title: "Momentary Lapses II: Delirium" (1/1) Author: Plausible Deniability Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com Category: VR, MSR Rating: R (sexual situations) Spoilers: None Keywords: Mulder/Scully Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: Mulder's perspective on the events in "Momentary Lapses" by Dasha K. THANKS to Dasha, the genius behind this story, who asked me to post it against my better judgment. She deserves all of the credit and none of the blame for what I've written. And thanks also to Becky and Hindy, whose comments were invaluable, as always. ---- You know, doctor, I used to consider myself a civilized man. Then again, that was before the fever hit me -- before I touched my partner in a very unpartnerly way, and the red haze of lust drove me to her bed not once, not twice, but three separate times. Sure, I've had a few bizarre theories in my life, and some oddball interests. Essentially, though, I always considered myself a buttoned-down, suit-and-tie sort of person, the product of good neighborhoods and the best schools and generation upon generation of hardheaded Yankee practicality. I had urges like the next man, but I never worried for a second that they were going to get the better of my rational side. After all, that's what separates us from the animals. Or so I always thought. But where Scully is concerned, I suppose, I made the mistake of relying on her to be the rational one. She's the woman, after all, and what match is a man's rationality for a woman's, when it comes to sex? Especially when the man has the woman on the brain, in his blood, under his skin, and his fever just keeps climbing... It's not like I could really have seen it coming, that first time. After a raw February in DC, a month of shabby President's Day sales and leaden skies and slush melting against the curbs, we were just relieved to find ourselves in Miami. The case wasn't much -- not very important, not very challenging. We were only there a day and a half before we'd wrapped it up and were ready to head home again. But we couldn't get a decent flight out until the next morning, and it was warm and sultry, and the night was young. So we found ourselves on South Beach -- where Art Deco meets white sand, bohemian and funky and chic, a mythical sort of place peopled by barely-dressed women and hardbodied men with dark tans and white teeth. The whole strip throbbed to a conga beat, hot and crowded and electric. We found a Cuban restaurant that overlooked the beachfront and got the last available table outdoors. Scully flirted like crazy with the waiter. It took me by surprise, the way she was so ready to smile at him. He was swarthy and charming and he rolled his Rs, and I would have felt decidedly threatened if I hadn't had the strong conviction that there was never going to be a Mrs. Alejandro. Scully let him talk us into ordering mojitos, and that was the beginning of the end. You see, what sounded like it was going to be a girlie drink actually wasn't, and the rum that laced my sugar-water burned its way hotly down my throat. So we were sitting there drinking and waiting for our puerco asado. The sinking sun was glowing on the surf, and the girls on inline skates were swinging past in their string bikinis, and Scully's hair was blowing in the faint breeze. And as much as I was enjoying the view, the dark eyes and the long legs on the sweet young things, I also noticed just how many of the men around me kept turning to look at my pretty partner. Or at least, the straight ones did: the young guys and the married men and the old Cuban gents in their guayabera shirts. Who could blame them? She had her chin cupped in her hand, and her eyes were shining, and the salt air had whipped her hair into a glorious mane that robbed her of any hint of offices and timecards and ordinary workday life. She didn't look like my partner. She looked like a woman -- like a woman with sun-kissed cheeks and slightly swollen lips and maybe, just maybe, bedroom eyes. But I was still being good. *Civilized*. My smile was abstract, and I was careful as we walked back to the hotel not to let my hand brush hers. So could I help it if I needed my laptop? Could I help it if I had left it in her room? I picked it up and was even turning toward the door. In fact I really think I would have made it out, mojitos notwithstanding, if she hadn't been poised there at the window. A storm was moving in. You could hear the thunder far off in the distance. The breeze was picking up, that thrilling tropic breeze that smells of palms and the Caribbean and sets the human heart to racing. As she stood there looking out, the sheer white window curtains lifted and billowed around her. I just stopped and stared, struck to the bone. The *want* hit me so hard and so suddenly that it literally knocked the breath right out of me. I fought it for a second, gulping air, and then some primitive galvanic response shoved me powerfully in her direction. I grabbed her arms and twisted her toward me, forcing her up against the wall. "Mul -- " she started to say, eyes wide, but I stopped her protest with my mouth. I still don't understand what came over me. I only know there was a roaring in my ears, and heat licking at my veins, and I wanted my hands to be everywhere at once. I kissed her so hard I'm sure I bruised her lips. And then kissing wasn't enough, and hands weren't enough, and the bed was the only answer. Frenzied -- that's how it was. All night went like that, until by the time morning came, we were both battered and drained and I actually staggered when I tried to get up and walk. But I did get up, and I did walk. And, lo and behold, civilization reasserted itself. A shower, a shave, a tie; soon I was sitting on the plane with Scully, talking business, and it was like the night had never happened. Like it really never happened. I never dared to bring it up. I was too ashamed. What do you say to your partner when rum and lust have gotten the better of you, and you've become a caveman? It wasn't rape, I knew; but it wasn't civilized either. I was never going to do that again, I promised myself. I'd had a bad case of what Shakespeare called the fire in the blood, but that was past. I'd gotten it out of my system. I was a rational man, a Twentieth Century man, and I respected Scully too much not to keep those feelings under control. Months passed. Cases came and went. Eventually serial murders took us to some godforsaken corner of Wisconsin, where we wound up in a foot chase on a dairy farm, trying to bring down a big, bloated con man who had lured five people to their deaths. You have to admire the pluck of a woman who charges so fearlessly after a goon three times her size. I was running at a pretty good clip, but Scully was only a few feet behind me. It wasn't long before I caught the guy. He doubled over, wheezing, and I snapped the cuffs on his thick wrists. Then I turned back to check on Scully. My heart stopped. She was standing several yards back, and blood was streaming from her nose. It ran over her lips and covered her chin. She was holding a tissue to her face, but it was red and her fingers were red and there was red dripping on her jacket. I grabbed our suspect and yanked him almost off his feet, hauling his fat ass with me in a half-run to where she was standing. "Are you all right?" I demanded, fear lending my voice a breathless quality. She didn't answer, just bobbed her head up and down a couple of times weakly. I stood and stared, my heart lodged in my throat. Oh God no, not that, not now... She wiped ineffectually at the blood with her sodden tissue. "I fell," she mumbled. "I think I broke my nose." I sagged with such intense relief that I had to brace myself with a hand on the suspect's shoulder to keep from losing my balance. It wasn't cancer. She'd just had an accident. She wasn't going to die on me just yet. I'm sure it hurt, of course. I gave her my handkerchief, and she held it to her nose on the drive from the farm to the police station, wincing with every bump in the country roads. But she got it checked out at the hospital, and it wasn't broken. They just gave her a handful of acetaminophen samples and told her to keep it iced. I drove her back to our motel to get some rest. I tried to lie down for a while myself, on the bed in my room, but I couldn't seem to relax. I still had the jitters from that field, remembering what it had felt like when I'd turned around and seen the blood flowing from Scully's nose. I got up and paced a little, trying to walk the feeling off. It didn't work. Finally I hunted through my pockets for change and took a stroll to the motel's vending machines. I let myself in Scully's room as quietly as possible, in case she was sleeping, but she raised her head from the pillow as soon as I slipped in. "I just came to see how the patient is doing," I said, setting the Cokes and the ice bucket I'd brought on her night table. She watched me from over the cold pack she was clutching to her swollen nose. "Very funny." I sat down on the edge of her bed, feeling it dip under my weight. "You know, that scared the shit out of me," I said, trying to make it sound casual. Trying; but failing miserably. She set her ice pack aside, and wiggled into a sitting position. "I'm fine." It was what she always said, no matter how false it was, so it didn't comfort me at all. I hung my head and struggled for words to express the worry gnawing at me. Finally I managed, "For how long?" She moved down the bed, and set her small hand on my shoulder. "No one knows how long they have." I gave a hollow little laugh, more melancholy than accepting. "Mulder," she chided, and put her arm around my shoulders. It was a simple hug, nothing more. I smiled wanly, and turned to hug her back. It felt good, holding her in my arms. She felt warm and soft and reassuringly alive. "Oh, Scully," I sighed. "It's so hard, sometimes." She reached up to stroke my hair. "I know, Mulder." I gently kissed her forehead. She looked up into my eyes and smiled. I smiled back. Slowly, I leaned in for a second kiss. That's how the fever got the jump on me. The next thing I knew we were lying on her bed, and I was tearing her clothes off her, and her willing hands were working at my buttons. I was breathing in harsh pants, kissing her, touching her, crushing her under me, frantic, wild- eyed, starving. The feeling built and built, until I was completely out of control; but even the furious culmination that followed just seemed to whet my appetite for more. So much for my promises to myself. Poor Scully never knew what hit her. I kept her up all night and into the morning like that, until the sun was high in the sky and I made myself get up and go back to my room. She fell into a deep sleep. In fact, it's probably a good measure of the abuse I'd put her through that at a quarter to three I had to use the fireman's carry to get her into the shower so we wouldn't miss our flight. But I still couldn't talk with her about it. What apology is adequate to that sort of behavior? What excuse can a supposedly civilized man make for that kind of savage possessiveness? And Boston...well, Boston was the worst bout yet. We'd been in the city for four days, puzzling over the murders of six 900-number customers. All of them had been having extramarital affairs, all had sought help from psychic hotlines, and all had been found headless. Somerville and Cambridge, Brookline and Newton; we'd trekked all over the greater Boston area asking questions. Finally, we'd both agreed to call it a day. At least in Miami I'd been drinking, and in Wisconsin I was still reeling from the grip of fear. Alcohol. Fear. Both operate powerfully on the limbic system, the primitive center of the human brain. But this had been a typical case, an ordinary day. I didn't even have an excuse. Except maybe...well, it isn't an excuse, exactly, but Scully certainly looked lovely that day. And Boston reminded me of my adolescence, of hopping the ferry off the Vineyard and escaping for a while, of sunning in the grass by the Charles and flirting with the college girls, of lunch at the No-Name and baseball at Fenway -- in short, of everything that had then been good in my world. Scully and I had dinner in the North End, in an Italian place which probably made no impression on her at all, but which rang with happy associations for me. I was all set to spend the evening showing her the town -- walking along the cobbled road past the Old North Church, maybe, and gazing out across the water toward Old Ironsides, or taking the T to the Common and strolling through the Public Gardens. But she pulled the rug out from under me. "I'm tired, Mulder," she said with a barely-concealed yawn. "I just want to go to bed." So I sat alone in my hotel room, all keyed up with no place to go. I listened to the sounds through the connecting door, and pictured her undressing. I put the TV on and tried to get interested in a mafia movie. I thought about going out by myself, and decided it would just be too pathetic, a thirty-seven year old man out mingling with all the college kids. I did sit-ups until my abs burned. And then I thought some more about Scully... The next thing I knew I was opening the door into her room. It was like an out of body experience: I could see myself walking to the bed and lifting the sheet, and yet I seemed to have no power to stop myself from doing it. She was lying on her side, turned away from me. She wasn't wearing a thing. As I slipped into bed beside her, I could make out the dim outline of her tattoo in the darkness. I had to know how it tasted -- Do you see what I mean? These are not the actions of a rational man. Why she didn't throw me out I'll never know. But that's something I've come to realize about Scully: she looks all proper and contained on the outside, but on the inside she's like a banked fire waiting to blaze up. And I am acquainted with the inside of Scully, intimately acquainted... She lets me lose myself, if that makes any sense. When I'm making love to her, I can forget the real world and my real worries. Not that she makes me do all the work; not by a long shot. She doesn't mind it when I just lie on my back and stare up at her while she's on top. She doesn't seem to mind anything I do. Do you know what it's like to be with a woman in bed, and have her so turned on, she's purring under you? God, if they could bottle that feeling, it would make oxygen obsolete. Which is why I think I could spend my whole life with my head between her thighs. Yes, I would happily live that way, letting the room service trays stack up in the hotel hallway, if only Scully would let me. Who needs food and a paycheck and the light of day, when the alternative is making Scully moan? Not me. What a dangerous notion... This kind of thinking could bring civilization to its knees. Damn it, what's wrong with me? I'm supposed to be a sensible man. I have an Oxford degree and a good job and commendations out the yin-yang. How did I get this caught up in her? It's a fever, I'm telling you. A disease. There has to be some kind of medical term for this condition. It deserves a label, this power she has to make me hard even when I'm trying my best not to think of her that way. A Latin label, I mean. I already know I love her. Yeah, I love her. I figured that part out all by myself. Which is stupid, isn't it? Stupid because it's so one-sided. I mean, every single time it's been me forcing myself on her: me taking advantage of the mojitos in Miami, me twisting her sympathy into something it wasn't in Wisconsin, me stealing into her room like a common thief last night. Scully's never once made a move in my direction. Love? I'm just deluding myself. This one-sided thing is properly called stalking. But I can't help it, when I keep learning so many spellbinding Scully secrets. Her tattoo tastes like the salt on a margarita glass, like pure serendipity, like finding a lottery ticket and hitting the jackpot. She's shy about making noise, but she loves it when I kiss her neck. And do you know what? I just found out last night that Scully will laugh if I crack a joke in bed. Not just smile tightly in that haha-very-funny-you-poor-immature-loser kind of way, but really laugh, a wonderful sexy throaty laugh. Especially if she's just come. Who knew nice Catholic girls could be so deliciously abandoned? One thing they say about Catholic girls is certainly true: they do give the best head. I know, I probably shouldn't have let that particular personal detail slip, but I just couldn't help it. You'd talk too much, too, if you were this ridiculously grateful. What a curse, what an unfunny cosmic joke it's so damn one-sided. One-sided gratitude. One-sided delirium. What I wouldn't give if, just once, Scully were to make the first move. Then I could tell myself it wasn't entirely my problem. Then I could dream that I wasn't the only one in the grip of this disease. Maybe I should just stop beating myself up about it. Sure I'm out of control, but she's sapped my resolve. How can I possibly keep my hands off her in this weakened state? How can I possibly think clearly when I'm on fire for her? I'm not responsible. Besides, you know what they always say -- starve a cold, feed a fever. Anyway, is it really so wrong when I love her? Jeez, I'm a sick man. A sick, sick man. I have no sense any more of what's reality and what's just self-justification. I'm lying here trying to make sense of something that has no rhyme or reason. Lying here, not the least little bit able to sleep... I hear soft footfalls. The connecting door swings slowly open. I look over in surprise. Scully comes through the doorway into my room. Her faint smile simultaneously questions my absence from her bed and dares me to remedy the oversight. Huh? Well, what do you know. I hide my amazement behind a teasing comment. "I knew you'd come tonight, Scully." Her smile widens, and she moves slowly towards me, hips swaying. I watch her with a galloping heart. Okay, maybe I'll make just one more promise to myself: This time, I'm not going to lose my cool. Well, not much, anyway. **** END