TITLE:  Days of Our Lives
AUTHOR:  Exe1121
FEEDBACK: Squiggle1121@lycos.com
ARCHIVE: Please ask first
DISCLAIMER:  I don't own XF or Days of Our Lives
SUMMARY:  Days of our lives…
AUTHORS NOTES:  Both Jess and Claire deserve a huge hug and 
tons of chocolate for 
helping me out on this.  Jess, you're a great sounding board and thanks 
for the title!  I 
couldn't have done this without you… your chocolate covered Mulder 
has been FedExed 
and will be there by 10:30 tomorrow.  Claire, thanks for the last 
minute beta- it was great.  

As for the rest of you… take it easy on me, this is my first fic.

"I was just thinking," Scully tells him, slumped against the passenger door of his car. She's a vision against a backdrop of sunflower shells and empty soda cans, dry cleaning receipts and loose change.
He rarely sees her as anything other than strong, independent Scully. The cool glance she uses to chill a different man's soul ignites his own. She's a sharper shot than he is, can hold on to her gun better. She can fold laundry, color coordinate, spell vulcanization and play poker and win. She hides her emotions with little effort and any sentence from her beginning with 'I think' makes him perk up and pay attention.
"Bout what?" Mulder spits another shell onto the floor, promising himself he'll clean the car one of these days.
"What if we hadn't met?" she asks, tracing a water droplet sliding down the window with her finger. It's been a rainy spring and he's been treated to a warm, wet Scully in his car. Her hair's been curling in the humidity all week and he's had to stop himself countless times from running his fingers through it.
He thinks about her question as he drives one handed, adjusting the radio and windshield wipers with the other. If they hadn't met, he'd have never known this. His mind flips through seven years of memories, her introducing herself, their first lunch together, the first time he saw her without make up. His mind pulls up images of them watching movies together in hotel rooms, the way she ducks her head, how she smiles at him, her quirked eyebrow at one of his jokes. Their late night conversations that are reminiscent of pillow talk without the post coitial bliss. If he hadn't met her, there'd be no one to straighten his tie before meetings, to fix his hair, or to sew his buttons back on. He looks over at her, her hair messed up and her mascara smudged, fighting sleep and about to start drooling on the seat belt. He shyly takes her hand and rests both of them on his thigh.
"I'm glad we did," he tells her, and she smiles faintly.
"All I'm saying, Scully, is that kissing is far more intimate than sex."
She looks up through the window at the house they're supposed to be watching and scoffs. "How can you say that? It's like comparing apples and oranges."
"Apples and oranges? Are we in second grade math here?" She flicks one of his sunflower seeds at him and leans against the car door. "Anyways-"
"Anyways isn't a word, Mr. Oxford Education."
"-they're not completely different. One just leads to the other."
"If you're lucky."
"Are you implying something, Scully?"
She rolls her eyes and wonders how they got on this topic. She also wonders how Mulder, who's interested in all things sexual, likes kissing better than sex.
"I didn't say I like it better," he complains, annoyed that she's misunderstood him when she tells him what she's thinking. "But you can have sex with anyone; it's incredible impersonal if you think about it," he says, tipping his head towards her, "In the modern world it's no longer a show of affection like a kiss might be. It's a form of release, an idea that the media throws at us day after day. But you can't kiss yourself, when you're by yourself and lonely. In that way, it's far more personal."
"You really think that?"
"Well, yeah, Scully. And there's so many different ways; a good morning kiss, good night kiss, lazy Sunday mornings lying in bed. And each one's different." "So? Except for the acts themselves, they're hardly different. You can have hard, hot sex, slow, sweet sex. You can have it standing up, lying down like you said, from behind, facing each other..."
He chokes on his diet soda and glances over at her. "Are you finished?" She gives him a wicked glance and steals a sip of his soda as he continues. "Still, you need two willing parties. There's no porn tape for kissing."She giggles against the lip of his can and he's unspeakably grateful that he can still make that happen.
"Are you sure when they cut you open they didn't find a little guy in there with a sign, reading space for rent?" She's grinning as she speaks and hands back his soda. He takes a playful swipe at her and she grabs his ear, brushing away his hair and peering closely inside it. "I can see the light at the end of the tunnel," she says between laughs. He turns his head and kisses her smile, his lips firm and soft against her mouth.
"One thing leads to another, huh?" he asks, their mouths barely separated. She gulps and smiles nervously at him.
"If you're lucky." XxXxXx
They stay up late one night in a motel room, pizza congealing in the box, baseball on TV and playing cards spread out between them. He discovered her competitive streak early on in their partnership and her passion for Spit not long after. He plays it with her because it's messy and loud, and because it gives him an excuse to touch her.
"I hit that one first, Mulder," she warns, taking a dainty sip of her beer and letting out a not so ladylike burp. He grins, glad that they're off the clock and that she's having fun.
"Cheater," he mutters and she swings a pillow at him. The report is saved on her laptop, the rental car returned and they've called a cab to take them to the airport in the morning.
Nights like this are rare between them, and he wishes he could wrap each on up and store it next to his heart.
He makes the mistake of yawning, and even though he tries to cover it up with a sip of Coke she notices it and starts to gather up the cards.
"Mulder, you need your rest," she says sternly and he feels like a child again.
"Just five more minutes."
"That won't work for me, mister."
She follows him into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bathtub as he takes out his contacts and washes his face. She's wearing shorts and one of his long sleeved shirts, her hair messily pushed back from her face and her make-up gone. She looks adorable and cute, sitting on her hands and pretending she's not watching his ass as he leans over the sink.
"Did you know your tongue is your strongest muscle?" he asks, drying his face and his hands, feeling like his mother is watching to make sure he scrubs behind his ears.
"Not my strongest muscle," she returns, and he's glad it's late and she's in good enough mood to joke around. She pinches his nose when he leers at her and sets his travel alarm as he climbs into bed. His shirt and pants hit the floor with a satisfying whack and she turns out the lights and TV.
He's warm and solid when he coaxes her to lie next to him, his breath ruffling her hair and his hand stroking her hip. It ought to be weird, she thinks, to be in bed with him. They've been in every other position possible together, yet being together like this is still new and exciting.
"Just till you fall asleep," she murmurs, all ready drowsy herself. He grunts something, and turns on his stomach, draping his arm across her. She presses her lips to his bare shoulder blade, not really a kiss at all.
"I love you," she thinks he whispers but she's not sure if she's just dreaming.
Mulder hits at the alarm until it quiets. She's molded to his back, her arms around his shoulders and her leg hooked over his hip. Scully groans and snuffles against his neck, pulling him tighter against her when he moves to get up. She mumbles something as he sits up and scratches his balls, yawning and stretching in the morning light. He moves to the bathroom, kicking his jeans back towards the bed and stripping off his underwear as he goes.
Lying on the bed, Scully pulls his Muldery smelling pillow over her head and pretends she didn't just love what she saw. She dozes as he brushes his teeth, enjoying the buzz of his electric razor and the sight of him in a towel through the half open door.
When she finally tumbles out of bed, her skin creased from sleeping in her clothes, she trips over his jeans and curses. She wishes it was her room that they had fallen asleep in so she could yell at him about being a slob but instead she simply picks up his wayward wallet.
"Scully," he calls over the sound of the sink. "Can you toss me my soap?"
She digs in his suitcase for it, dumping his deoderant and contact case on the floor before she finds it. She turns the Irish Spring over in her hands and lifts it to her nose when she's sure he isn't looking. She's on Mulder scent over load, the memory of waking up with her nose in his neck still fresh in her mind.
"Scully," he repeats, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. "The soap."
She thinks nothing of walking into the bathroom while he's all but naked, the towel slung low on his hips giving her a nice view of his flat stomach and the line of hair that trails enticingly downward. He flicks water at her, her punishment for being so slow and she thinks about sinking her teeth into his neck, marking him as hers.
She doesn’t know when her social group became one UFO chasing man and three computer geeks but the move was slow and sure. She thinks nothing of an evening spent sitting around a monitor with them, eating pizza and drinking beer. Mulder invited her, of course, and she couldn't resist his gravely I-just-woke-up voice.
His arm rests on the back of her chair and she leans slightly into him, smelling his aftershave and leather scent. She'd like to drag him somewhere private and inspect his slapdash shaving job up close but settles for circling her finger on his thigh and watching him squirm.
The Gunmen pull up some vintage computer game and ask Mulder to play; they look suspicious when he declines, affronted that he'd chosen her over them. Get used to it, she wants to gloat but it's still too soon to lay such definitive claims on him.
He leans towards her and his lips brush her ear. She's glad the Gunmen are engrossed in their game so that they don’t notice the flush that spreads across her face at his closeness.
She's surprised at how comfortable he feels next to her, the same man she does case reports with is now tracing her ear with is lips.
"What's happening between us?" he asks, his breath puffing against her neck, his fingers starting to draw lazy patterns on her arm.
"Hmm?" she murmurs, enjoying how warm and solid he feels.
"Never mind," he says, losing his nerve and drawing away slightly. "It's nothing."
She kisses him when they leave the Gunmen's later that night, tasting pizza and beer in his mouth. She hopes the Gunmen see her arms around him, her tongue in his mouth, marking him as hers.
He can't truly remember having a woman cook for him; Diana certainly never went near a stove, and he didn't trust English cooking enough to eat what Phoebe made. His mother cooked a bit before Samantha was taken and afterwards he was on his own to find food. He watches as Scully drains the pasta, a cloud of steam curling the ends of her hair and knows the other women couldn't have come close to this.
It's a non-date; they claim they're just spending time together at her apartment, maybe they'll go over some cases after dinner or watch a movie. He imagines what their colleagues at the FBI would think of Mr. and Mrs. Spooky wooing each other over pasta primavera, white wine, and smiles.
"What are you laughing about?" she asks, brushing her hair back. Her skin looks gorgeous in the soft light and he can see the faint marks he left a few days ago.
"This is weird," he replies, waving at the space between them. His legs are sprawled out from where he's sitting at the kitchen table and she steps over them on her way to the fridge. "You, me, us."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"It's never been like this for me."
She gives him an odd look and hands him a glass of milk.
"Drink up, you need strong bones." She stirs the sauce and tosses the salad, focusing away from him for a moment before responding. "I'm no good at relationships either, if it's any conciliation."
"That makes me feel a whole lot better."
He grabs her wrist when she passes him, setting forks and knives on the table. I'll cook and you clean, she had said when she answered the door.
"Scully…" She looks down at him, his thumb circling the back of her hand, his eyes bright and intense. "Go out with me."
She laughs and looks away, amazed at the sixth grade feel of this, the newness and excitement. As if they have all the time in the world to work this thing out between them, as if there's no rush. It's never been like this for her either.
"Mulder…" she replies in much the same tone, drawing his name out. He looks up at her, all bright eyes and tan skin. God, he's gorgeous, she thinks and has the urge to rip his shirt over his head and never let him leave her sight again. He's nervous, she sees and thinks it's ridiculous that after all this time he could think she doesn't want him. "I'm scared," she whispers, unsure of where that came from.
"Of what?" He's genuinely confused. "I don't think I'm that scary."
"What if it doesn't work out?" she asks. What if you don't feel the same way about me as I do you? She doesn't speak her greatest fear aloud, trusting him to read it on her face.
"We'll take it slow," he declares, as if that will fix everything. "We'll figure it out."
"What about work? What happens in hotel rooms, on cases-?"
"Whoa, Scully, I said slow," he reminds her and she's embarrassed for jumping so far ahead. She nods and squeezes his hand in hers.
"Shit, the sauce-" She jerks away from him and hurries to the stove, turning off the heat and moving the pan to another, cooler, burner.
"Scully…" He fidgets, unsure of himself now that he can't see her face.
"Ok," she answers, fixing their plates and finding her nice napkins.
"Scully," he hisses, grabbing her shoulder and shaking her. "Scully, there's *bugs* in my room."
She reacts on pure instinct to his scandalized voice and wide eyes, shoving the covers down and jumping out of bed. It's not until her feet hit the floor and she's wildly looking for her gun that she processes what he's said.
"*Bugs,* Mulder?" she asks. "*There's…* Mulder, are you feeling ok?" She puts the back of her hand on his forehead and he slaps it away, offended. "Scully, *bugs.* I *hate* bugs."
She remembers a case with a certain entomologist and rolls her eyes. "Why don't you call Bambi to help you out on this?"
"Bambi who?"
"Good answer."
He shifts from side to side, clearly agitated as Scully flicks on a lamp, throwing golden light on his bare muscles.
"Mulder, it's forty degrees outside," she admonishes him, pulling one of his shirts she won't admit to having out of her suitcase and throwing it at him. He pulls it on, covering the smooth skin and she swallows.
"I hoped to give you a thrill," he quips.
"Why are you here again?" She pokes at the lumpy hotel pillow and resisting the urge to smooth his messy hair.
"*Bugs,* Scully," he grabs her hand and pulls her towards him. "You've got to help me."
Dear God, she thinks, eye level with the few strands of hair peeking from his collar. She swallows again, her mouth dry and allows herself to be propelled from her room. She is reminded of running through the Antarctic snow with Mulder; all though it isn't nearly as cold here, her bare feet burn as they hit the pavement, hurrying across the parking lot to Mulder's room. Anyway, they've actually kissed now. And there's *bugs.*
He tosses the door open but refuses to enter and she nearly collides with him in the doorway. Images assault her as she looks from Mulder to the room and back. His panic face in Dallas, his midnight confession about his fear of bugs, swarming locusts in Africa… The room's not nearly as bad as she thought from his fright, but it is a little gross.
"How did you not notice this before?" she asks, watching a colony of ants march up and down the wall. She approaches the bed, carefully lifting the pillows and dislodging two mating spiders. The bathroom reveals a wasp nest in the medicine cabinet and another ant colony in the shower head. The bed frame has termites living in it and carpenter ants have left a nice pile of sawdust outside the closet.
"I was, um, busy," he stammers, still outside. He peers in cautiously and she glances at him.
"Cleaning your gun and watching porn again?" she asks, amused when he nods sheepishly. "Call the manager in the morning," she suggests and brushes past him on the way back to her room.
"That's it?" he whines. "In the morning? Scully…"
"Mulder," she says, stopping in the middle of the parking lot and facing him. He looks like a lost boy with is hair standing straight up and his pajama pants rumpled. Gorgeous too, she decides and indulges herself for a moment, admiring him in the dim light. "I'm tired, my feet are dirty and bugs aren't going to kill you."
She thinks about how they must look, him tall and lanky, his skinny frame back light by washed out lights. She knows the dim lights conceal the shadows beneath her eyes, but without a robe she's cold and crosses her arms tightly around her middle. He cautiously touches her elbow and pulls back quickly, moving ahead of her and walking backwards. She thinks of herself, arms wrapped around her waist, shivering against the cold and trudging determinedly past him.
"I'll lick them clean," he suggests pitifully, jogging to catch up with her. The white lines dividing the parking spaces glow eerily and she nearly trips over the curb, opening her door. "You feet that is. Can I sleep on your floor?"
"I'd have to listen to you complain about your back all of tomorrow," she says, wiping her pavement blackened feet on the carpet and flipping down the bed covers.
"Your bathtub?" he asks hopefully as she checks the alarm.
"Get in bed, Mulder," she sighs, hoping she doesn't sound ecstatic at the idea.
"Really?" She shoots him a look and slides under the covers, adjusting herself on the lumpy mattress. A large arm slides around her waist and she feels him getting comfortable.
"Good night," she says, reaching out to turn off the light and relaxing back against him.
"G'night," he murmurs, his voice muffled.
"Are you smelling my hair?" she asks, identifying the snuffling sounds.
"Smells good," he grunts, pulling her closer. She flips over to face him, stroking his face, not surprised when he leans in to kiss her. So this is what happens in hotel rooms, she thinks, backing up to their previous conversation.
"Mulder, we're on assignment," she admonishes him, pulling her traitorous hands from his shoulders and wiping her mouth.
"Risky, isn't it?" he sighs, pressing his lips to her neck. Oh God, she thinks as he moves over her, large and ungainly. He's all long limbs and knobby knees, his elbow digging into her side and his hair tickling her nose. He's perfect.
"Mulder…" she grinds out, slapping his hand away from the buttons of her top. "C'mon, Mulder, not in some hotel room."
"Sorry." He immediately pulls away, flopping on his back and pressing his fists in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't sleep here."
She tugs him back down, kissing his hair and wrapping her arms around him tight.
"Relax," she whispers, and he snuggles deeper into her. She thinks he'd crawl inside if he could. "Anyway, there's *bugs* in your room."
Her knees digging into the floorboards of Mulder's apartment and his hand fisted in her hair, she is strangely reminded of sucking on her thumb as a child. Except her thumb never groaned her name, never squeezed its eyes shut when she reached for its fly and it certainly wasn't this big. Thumbs don't have flies, she thinks absurdly as she slides him a little deeper in her mouth. Then again, neither do penises.
Scully has an irrational worry that she's doing it wrong, sucking too hard or not hard enough, her hand pumping too slow or too fast. She remembers going down on Jimmy McFarland in tenth grade, her braces nearly drawing blood. Good God, she thinks, listening to him moan and feeling the shudders racing through him as she cups his balls gently, that was nothing like this. It's been so long since she's had something so substantial in her mouth. And rocket pops don't count.
He moans her name as he comes, slumping against the wall and dragging his hand across his face. He's flushed, his lips swollen from her earlier kisses, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath.
"Shit, Scully," he moans, dragging his pants back up and stumbling to the couch. He sits on the edge, still shaky enough that he slides off and ends up sitting against it, his knees drawn up to his chin.
She leaves him there and walks to his bathroom, pulling out the toothbrush she keeps there. She'd expect to look different, like something fundamental about her has changed in the last half hour but she finds the same face as always staring back at her. She straightens her hair, running her fingers through it and untangling what damage Mulder's fingers did.
He clears his throat from the door way and she turns around, suddenly terrified. Will he expect sex now? To go down on her? To look over the case files stacked on his desk? He still looks shaky standing there, one hand braced on the door frame and the other toying with the hem of his shirt. She remembers licking the line of hair trailing just under his hand and gulps.
"Scully, I-
"Mulder, I think-"
They grin sheepishly and he holds out his arms to her, drawing her against his warm bulk and kissing her hair.
"Much better," he murmurs, and she holds on to his waist tightly. The back of his shirt is wet with sweat and she trails her fingers up and down his damp spine, kneading the muscles there. She can hear the faint sounds of his neighbors, a car honking in the street and is amazed that life still goes on after this.
"It’s early," she says, drawing away to rest her forehead on his. She pulls her hand up his back and glances at her watch over his shoulder. "Not even seven." He grunts and tightens his hold on her, his own watch digging into her hip and she swears she can feel it ticking slowly, they’re so still.
"Did you know the average person spends two weeks of their life kissing?" he asks her.
"A one minute kiss burns 26 calories," she returns, briefly feeling up his ass and watching him bite his lip.
"If we spent 30 minutes a day kissing, does that mean you'll stop putting that bee pollen crap in your food?"
They stand there awkwardly and Scully has to fight the urge to fidget, uneasy with the tension between them.
"The Yankees are playing."
"Scully, I didn't think you cared."
He kisses her on the nose because he loves her and is beginning to think that's ok.
Scully is making her bed, jerking at the mattress pad and smoothing it down again. She nearly twitches with irritation and Mulder considers simply leaving.
"All, I'm saying is-"
"I don't care what you're saying," she snaps back, throwing four pillows at him and their cases. The rain pelts against her bedroom window and he flashes back to their first case, standing in the rain and laughing. "You told me I'd be able to spend this weekend at home."
"You were home last weekend," he points out helpfully.
"That. Was. Last. Week." She accents each word with a pull on the sheet and Mulder is sure that she is going to rip it soon.
"Did you know the average America walks four or five miles making their bed each year?"
"Unless this is a case about a homicidal bed maker, you're not being helpful, Mulder."
He pouts and picks up one of the pillows, shaking it into the case and throwing it back at her. Stop it, he wants to shout, to grab her and shake her until they can get back to the point they were at a few days ago. Things were going so well, he thinks.
"-don't see why we have to fly to New Hampshire anyway. This is barely a case and I'm sure the local PD can handle it without us. If you would just stop sniffing around for these things-"
"Five unexplained deaths isn't 'barely a case,' Scully. *Unexplained.* As in they just died, no cause of death whatsoever. The local PD called the Boston bureau and they forwarded-" He stops short, half bent over to grab another pillow case. "Sniffing? I don't sniff, Scully."
He straightens and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hand. He doesn't know what's happened since that night in his apartment. He reviews it carefully in his mind; ate dinner together, did the dishes, she gave him a blow job, they watched the Yankees game and he kissed her goodbye. Was she expecting something more? he thinks, his blood chilling at the thought. Was that where I went wrong?
"You can meet me at the airport at eight tomorrow," he finally says, carefully not look at her, afraid he might be right. Should he have pressed the whole sex issue that night? Shit, should he have gone down on *her?*
"I'm not going, Mulder," she says, settling the comforter over the bed and tucking her hair behind her ears. She plants her hands on her hips, facing him and getting prepared for a fight. "I've had enough of you dragging us to the middle of nowhere on half assed leads. There's no case here, and certainly no X-file. No more of this; from now on I want a say in what cases we take and when we take them. Did Skinner even see the 302 for this, Mulder? He didn't, did he? You're just going again, no regard for protocol-"
"Eight o'clock," he interrupts, sliding his jacket back on and heading out the door. "I'll see you then."
The woman in front of her is pregnant. She's sure of it, the slight swell underneath her tank top, the way she orders decaf coffee. Scully watches the woman's husband approach, the way his hand slides over her stomach as he kisses her. Damn it, she thinks, leaning around them to grab extra napkins and some ketchup.
Scully heads back to where Mulder's sitting, slouched against the back of the booth, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He looks adorable, she admits to herself and wonders if it's still acceptable to lean over and kiss those pouty lips.
"She's pregnant," she informs him and he barely glances up, reaching blindly for his drink.
"You didn't get me a straw?"
"Bet it's their first, the way they're acting."
"Scully, I asked you to get me a straw."
"Shut up, Mulder."
He glares at her, dragging himself out of the booth to get his own straw. He doesn't fit in McDonalds, him with his overly expensive suits, his impeccable manners, and the slight swagger as he walks.
"Who's pregnant?" he asks, sliding back in and blowing his straw wrapper at her. She bats it away and plays with her salad. He finally tears himself away from the case report and looks up at her. "Scully?"
"If we get involved, I can't have your children," she states calmly, spreading her salad dressing.
"Is that what this is about?"
She shrugs and picks at her dinner, her knee bumping the congealed gum on the bottom of the table. It's a concern of hers, that she's somehow inadequate for him even if she knows it's not true.
"Scully," he says softly, leaning across the table. "I want to work this out."
She shrugs again and fumbles for his hand, grasping his long fingers and squeezing. He curls his hand around hers, his foot finding hers under the table and stepping lightly on her toe.
"I want this to work," she confesses, pulling his hand closer and cradling it in two of hers. "And I'm terrified that it won't."
He speaks slowly, choosing his words. "I think that we've proven we can do just about anything," he says, putting his elbow in his ketchup so he can lean closer to her. "I think that after all these years, all the monsters, all the injuries and heartache that we deserve this."
"Tell me it's all going to work out."
He draws back, a bit surprised at her uncertainty. They seemed to have switched roles here and he smiles softly. "It's all going to be fine."
They lay for hours on his motel bed, rolling around a bit, talking in rough voices. They kiss endlessly, his mouth warm and skilled on hers until she can't think. Her entire world has shrunk to him, his hand under her shirt, his long thigh in between her legs and his tongue stroking along hers. She can feel the low fire burning in her, throbbing between her legs and running in her blood. She thinks that if he were to let go now, she'd float away on endorphins and Mulder scented clouds.
You're my tether, she wants to tell him as he grinds his hips into her leg. She wonders where the whole touchstone business went and decides she doesn't care when he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
Later they lie under the covers, getting used to being naked around each other. Their entwined hands lay on the bedspread and Scully presses her cold toes against his leg. His erection bumps her hip and they smile shyly at each other.
"I'm kinda nervous," he confesses, tucking her hair behind her ear and grinning stupidly. "I feel like I'm losing my virginity again."
She feels the same way and gingerly moves closer to him until their bodies brush against each other. He whimpers when she traps his erection between their stomachs and she rolls over him, her face tucked into his shoulder. His hands run soothing lines up and down her back and she kisses his neck.
"Don't go looking for an impressive performance," he warns as she raises her hips up a bit. "This could be over real quick; it's been a while."
"M'kay," she slurs, sliding down on him and bracing her hands on his chest. He cradles her face in his hands, pulling her down to kiss.
"This isn't weird," he says as if he expects it should be.
"Shut up, Mulder," she says for the second time that night, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. He thinks of all that's lead up to this, the fights, the flirting, the shy kisses.
He traces her throat with a finger then leans up and kisses it. No, he thinks. This isn't weird at all.
To his mild disappointment, he's found she still fights with him. About everything.
"I don't care if it's raining," she says. Breakfast is the topic this morning and he huddles down into the blankets. Her bare back is gorgeous in the soft morning light and he traces her tattoo with his finger. She bats his hand away and keeps on talking. "You said you'd go get bagels because you ate all my cereal yesterday and anyways, I'm out of coffee."
"Anyways, Scully, MD?" he teases, prying himself out of the warm cocoon of her bed. He's still a bit sticky from last night. Or was it early this morning? No matter, he feels great and glances at the woman sprawled under the covers. "I love you," he murmurs, bending down and kissing the back of her neck. They're still giddy with revealing these feelings to each other and she slaps his ass affectionately.
He drags on his jeans and goes to her dresser where he's started keeping some of his clothes. The sheets rustles around her and when he turns around she's on her back, light spilling over her breasts and stomach. How can I walk away from this? he asks himself and kneels by the bed, his hand sliding under the covers and finding her. She's all ready wet and moans quietly as he explores with his fingers.
"Stop lurking and go get breakfast," she says, rolling away and pulling up the sheet to hide the flush on her cheeks. He grins at her word choice and kisses her ear. "Dilly dallying, wasting time, whatever, just go."
"It's my birthday in two weeks," he says, backing out of her bedroom and taking on last look at her. "I know what you can get me."
"You share your birthday with nine million other people," she shoots back. "Now get."
He chuckles and runs his fingers through his hair, pulling on his jacket and closing the door behind him.