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We haven't talked about it, not really. Typical. Yes, it does involve the work and an actual X-File, but it's also extremely personal to both of us - and that's where Mulder is so good at drawing the lines. To be fair, I'm pretty good at it too. But it's amazing what a bottle of wine and an invitation to spill my guts can do. Add to that the Mulder factor and, well, I guess I never stood a chance in hell.
Except it wasn't Mulder.
The initial embarrassment has long passed, at least for me. He’s having a little more difficulty. He seems to be having trouble looking me straight in the eye these days. But he's been sneaking a lot of looks when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I'm always paying attention, Mulder. Even that night.
Eddie Van Blundht is good, I have to give credit where it's due. He certainly had me fooled and my Mulder radar is top-notch. At least I thought it was. And I can't really blame it on the wine. Two adults sharing a single bottle of wine shouldn't be enough to dull my mind to the extent that he could have deceived me as well as he did. Mulder and I have split a bottle or two of wine over dinner before - but always in a restaurant, never at my place or his. And the bulk of the conversations always involved the work. The only plausible explanation for what happened is that Van Blundht made sure I did most of the talking that night, cleverly hiding the fact that he knew next to nothing about Mulder and would therefore be unable to supply any real facts had I asked. But he made certain I wouldn't ask. And all he had to do was give me the opportunity to do what I've wanted for so long: talk to him. Just talk. About something, anything, besides the damn X-Files, his search for the truth, and my cancer.
Was I that transparent in my need? And if Van Blundht had no trouble spotting my varied vulnerabilities, then why can’t Mulder? And why the hell did he drag me down here to the Cumberland Reformatory with him? It's him Van Blundht wanted to see, not me. But he insisted I come with him, claiming it involved the work and so it was part of the job.
I watch as he signs in and enters the visiting room and then turn away, remembering with fresh chagrin the night he kicked in my door and discovered a near-perfect replica of himself a breath away from kissing me. The laser-eyed look he shot me when I hopped off the couch is imprinted in my mind. I can call it up any time I choose. I still haven't figured out what was going on behind those wide, dark eyes.
After ascertaining that I was all right and roughly handcuffing Van Blundht, he’d shoved him back onto the couch, mumbled something about waiting outside for the squad car he'd requested, and walked out the door. I never got a chance to ask him how he'd known to come to my place. I guess I already knew - but it would have been nice to hear him say it.
My name comes through the tinny speaker and I turn back to the monitor. Van Blundht has asked about me. The scene plays out in black and white. Seems fitting.
"What did you want to talk to me about, Eddie?" Mulder is low on patience. His slouched posture can't mask the tension in his voice.
"I just think it's funny," Van Blundht tells him. "I was born a loser; but you're one by choice."
And you're a real bastard, Eddie.
"On what do you base that astute assessment?" Mulder the observer, the psychologist, has stepped in. But the sarcasm is still there, deeply rooted and as caustic as ever.
"Experience."
That sets him back. It does me, as well. All three of us know what Eddie is talking about. He’d even taken the time to check out the office and his apartment. And he'd been clever enough to fool me. His claim to have walked in Mulder's shoes is a true one, even if he was only able to scratch the surface. Or so I tell myself.
Eddie sits up in his cold metal chair and advises Mulder, "You should live a little. Treat yourself. God knows I would... if I were you."
No confusing the meaning of that little gem, either.
Mulder gets up and heads for the door and I turn my back just a little as he comes out, trying to give him some privacy. He has to know that I heard every word. The pen he uses to sign out hits the clipboard and he steps to my side. We walk a little way down the hall. I have to say something.
I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat. "I don't imagine you have to be told this, Mulder, but you're not a loser."
I've purposefully kept myself from looking at him, but I can see the way he keeps sullenly yanking at the cuffs of his shirt. His silence stretches and is full of a thousand shades and flavors.
"Yeah," he finally retorts. "But I'm no Eddie Van Blundht, either... am I?"
There is a wistful quality to his words. And some regret. I wish I knew what to say to him. You do, Dana, I tell myself. You know what to say. But I don't say it. I don't get the chance.
He chooses that moment to ask, "So, Scully... What does he have that I don't?" His question stops me cold. He takes a few steps before he realizes I'm no longer beside him. Turns and looks back at me. Regaining my composure I catch up with him. We push through the doors and head to the car. "Well?" he prompts.
"It's not that simple." I'm not ready for this. I thought I'd have more time to prepare. How much more time do I need? It's been over a month. Still, his blunt question has caught me off-guard.
Apparently, my answer is enough. He watches me buckle up and then pulls out of the parking lot, heading for DC. The air hangs heavy between us and I try to lose myself in the landscape that flies by my window. It does no good. The silence is becoming oppressive. Damn it, Mulder, say something. When they finally come, his words startle me and I jerk in my seat.
"Scully. You really thought it was me that night. Right?"
We've covered this ground before. It's one of the few questions he's allowed himself to ask, and one of the queries he continues to make. It's like he's stuck on these few questions like a needle in the groove of an old record.
"Yes, Mulder." I wait for the question that will inevitably follow, the one that never directly addresses what he saw when he burst through the door. He can afford to be vague: we both know what almost happened, what he interrupted.
"And you… you were okay with that."
Second verse same as the first.
"Yeah, Mulder. I was okay with that."
He nods. I haven't changed the answer to that one, either. I think he finds that reassuring, in some odd Mulderish way. These are questions for which he already has the answers. He really doesn't require my input; he could answer them on his own. Perhaps that's why he asks them: there are no surprises.
This is one of the few times I can remember him being afraid to ask tough questions. And then I recall what he asked me as we walked out of the reformatory. I should have given him a straight answer. It would have at least added to his acceptable repertoire of questions. Better late than never.
"He just came over, Mulder, with a bottle of wine. No files, no photos, no tapes to listen to. Just wine." I glance over at him. A flick of his eyes asks me to go on. "He wanted to talk. Well, actually, he wanted to listen while I talked."
"About what?" he quietly asks.
I shrug and sigh in my throat. "Everything. Nothing. We just talked about... life."
"Well, he certainly couldn't have dazzled you with his extensive knowledge of the X-Files, could he?"
That forces a smile from me, though I really shouldn't. There is an underlying resentment in the way he's said it; a grudging acknowledgment of what we seem to spend all our time discussing.
"So," he says. "That's it? You talked?"
"That's it," I confirm. "It's amazing what you can discover if you take the time and make the effort." That prompts a dead-eye look in my direction. I want to tell him not to ask if he doesn't want the answer, complete with commentary, but I don't. We make the rest of the drive in silence. It's only as we reach the garage at headquarters and he pulls up beside my car that he speaks again.
"The fireplace. The music. Whose idea was that?"
I look up into his eyes and my throat goes tight. The hurt and confusion I see there scares me. I don't know if my answer will add to the pain or help soothe it.
"It was mine." He pulls in his lower lip and nods at me. And then I can't read his face anymore. It's become blank as a chalkboard.
"Well, I guess I'll see you later, Scully."
I take that as my cue to exit the car. I don't bother mentioning it's only two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon and we have paperwork to catch up on. He takes little enough time away from the work; I'm not going to begrudge him a few hours AWOL.
I step from the car and grab my bag from the back seat. I've no more than shut the door when he takes off. I'm left in a chilly underground parking garage, holding nothing but a bag and the firm suspicion that this is far from over. We've set something in motion this afternoon; only time will tell what comes of it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I've given myself the night off and all my attention is focused on the movie I'm watching when the phone rings. Reluctantly leaving Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant to their business, I pick up.
"Hello."
"Hey, Scully. It's me."
"What's wrong, Mulder?"
"Nothing. Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?"
Something in his voice makes me reach for the remote and kill the TV. I can't afford the distraction. "No," I answer him. "It's just that-"
"The only time I call is when I'm in trouble or I need something. Yeah, I know." This little revelation doesn't seem to require any response from me. "Listen, Scully, if you don't have anything planned... Look, I was just wondering if you'd mind coming over."
"To your place?" For all I know, he could still be in the office.
"Yeah." There is an almost palpable sense of anticipation that coming through the phone line. It's as if the world is holding its breath. Or maybe it's just Mulder.
Don't screw this up, Dana. You won't get another chance. He’s nothing if not stingy with a sincere overture.
"Okay. Sure, Mulder. I'm on my way."
"Great." He hangs up. He's not one for niceties like hello and good-bye, either.
Forty minutes later I'm standing in front of his door. I glance at the numbers, a force of habit now. Yep, the 4 is coming loose again - an X-File in and of itself. I knock once, twice, but don’t get a chance for a third.
The door suddenly swings open and he's there. I can only spare him a quick glance as my eye is caught by something in the apartment behind him. It's not all-the-lights-turned-off dark. It's not quite the lighting of the lamp on his desk, either. I peek under his outstretched arm. The living room is filled with lighted candles. This is not typical Mulder - at least not the one I'm familiar with.
His eyes chase and catch mine. He takes a step back and gives me a head tilt. "C'mon in." I take a few steps inside and turn back to watch him flip the lock closed.
Oh, Mulder. Damn that eidetic memory of yours.
He swings around, dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple gray t-shirt. Sneakers round out the picture. He's so transparent it's not even funny. The candles are his version of a fireplace. And I caught the gleam of candlelight on the crystal wineglasses sitting empty on his coffee table. The only thing missing is the music.
Oh. Wait. There it is. The CD player must have been shifting disks around. The Temptations.
Now I'm seeing a whole new side of you, Mulder.
Is that a good thing?
Dammit. If only it could be that easy. He doesn't understand that it wasn't just the wine or the fire or what he was wearing. Tread softly, Dana.
"Christ, Mulder," I shake my head, fighting back nervous laughter. "Go change your clothes." I bite my tongue the second the words are out of my mouth. Yeah, tread softly with those spiked combat boots. Way to go.
I wait for the veil of self-protective calm to fall across his face. But that's not what happens. He jerks a lop-sided smile instead. "Too much?"
Thank you, Lord, I owe you one.
"Yeah. Too much."
He nods in easy agreement. "Okay. I'll be right back." He's peeling the shirt off as he goes, and I get to see how beautiful the skin of his back looks in the honey-gold glow of candlelight. I purse my lips and let out a slow puff of air.
Do something, Dana. Don't just stand here.
I drop my bag and coat, go take a seat on the couch and get busy pouring out the wine. Authentic Mulder on the choice of wine: it's white, not red. I guess that should have tipped me off that night with Van Blundht. He usually only drinks white wine.
He comes out of the bedroom a short time later. And I can't possibly ask him to change again. Can I?
Snug black 501s and a matching t-shirt. And bare feet.
My very own dark angel.
I drop my eyes and reach for a wineglass, handing it to him as he settles in at the other end of the couch. I lift my glass and Mulder gently clinks his against it.
"What should we drink to, Scully?"
Oh my. That could be a very long list. Or a very short one.
"How about to conversation?"
"Okay. To conversation."
We sip our wine, throwing sidelong glances at each other. An odd sense of deja vu washes over me.
"So..." he twists around on the couch, tucking one leg under him.
We trade nervous smiles.
My brain has switched off. I can't think of a single thing to say. Instead, I take a good look around the room, like I've never been here before. Mulder sighs. The silence stretches until it's vibrating like an over-taxed rubber band. We both speak at the same time.
"Mulder."
"Scully."
And now we're stumbling over each other's apologies. God, this is awkward.
He sets down his wine glass and hops off the couch. He paces a half circle and then stops and looks down at me. "I'm really bad at this."
I wonder what it cost him to say that.
"I mean, you being here, that's great. I'm good with that." He falters and gives me a quizzical look, as if he's waiting for me to jump in and help him out. He jams his hands in his pockets and he looks like a lost little boy. This look is not unusual for Mulder. It's just that this time it's not contrived. He rocks back on his heels. Shrugs a shoulder. "This just doesn't feel... It doesn't feel right, Scully. It's not me."
With that pronouncement he steps to the desk and turns on the lamp. He grabs the remote from the table, switches off the CD player and turns on the TV, muting it. A silent baseball game flashes on the screen. I sip my wine and watch him move around the room, blowing out all but a few of the candles. Then he sits back down on the couch, grabbing his wine, and stretches his long legs out, resting his feet on the coffee table. He shifts around a little bit and then turns to look at me. He's waiting.
"Feel better now, Mulder? More comfortable?"
"Yes, I do. Thanks for asking. How 'bout yourself?"
"I'm fine."
He eyeballs me. "Good. Kick back, Scully. Let's talk." His grin is infectious.
"What do you want to talk about?"
He looks away and I can see he's really considering my question. I watch the small movements of his face. It's fascinating how mobile it is when he's too occupied in the playground of his mind to worry about who might be watching him. I'm glad he doesn't hide this from me. It's mostly his eyes and his full mouth. But you can spot things in the set of his jaw or the twitch of an eyebrow, if you really pay attention.
He turns back and gives me the once-over before leaning forward and snagging the wine bottle. He adds half a glass to mine and refreshes his. "Why did you decide on medicine?"
"Why did you choose psychology?"
"I asked first."
I just look at him.
"Okay," he says. "Tell you what. I'll race you around the block. Winner gets to go last."
"It's not a contest, Mulder."
"You're just saying that because you know I'll kick your ass. I ran on the track team in high school, you know. You're looking at the fastest thing on two legs this side of the Mississippi."
"Oh, really?" I'm having trouble picturing him joining any kind of team.
"Yeah, I always was good at running away from things. Figured I might as well get a letter jacket for it. Plus it was a guaranteed chick magnet."
I ignore the first and last and concentrate on the middle. "You lettered in high school?"
"Yeah. You wanna see it? I've still got it."
"You’ve got to be kidding me." I feel almost giddy. This isn't so hard after all.
"Scout's honor, Scully. I'll grab it."
He hops up and heads for the auxiliary office that was intended as a bedroom but never got past the mostly unused mattress and box spring on the floor and a dresser tucked in the corner. All the other space is taken up by boxes neatly stacked six foot high in some places, all crammed with things pertaining to the X-Files and his quests. I've been in that room once or twice when I had to use the bathroom. What it signified saddened me. He won't even allow himself the comfort of a real bed to sleep in, or a room he can use as a refuge from the world.
Mulder finds that in other things, I guess: the work, his quick and keen mind. And me. I've known that for a long time, and maybe it's selfish of me to want more than that, but it isn't enough. He hasn't yet learned that the safest refuge is the one that's shared. He's never been willing to share before now. I'm not even certain he knows how. But he's earned the right to try.
He lopes out with the letter jacket and a goofy smile on his face. I ooh and ahh over it and obediently try it on for him. The sleeves hang to the middle of my thighs. Mulder makes a production of straightening the various class pins stuck on the front of it and then lifts his eyes to mine. His breath falls lightly on my face. And then he raises his hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek.
"Dust," he explains.
I can't seem to look away from him. I will drown in his eyes if he doesn't let me up for air.
For all the myriad things we don't know about each other, at the most elemental level he knows me very well. He steps back and glances away for a moment before looking back. "Looks better on you than it does on me, Scully."
I glance down at the hanging sleeves. "I look ridiculous."
"You look beautiful. You always do."
"Thank you." Oh, don't let me start blushing now. I'm a grown woman. I should be past blushing - especially with him.
"You're welcome." He reaches out and tries to take my hand but can't find it in the sleeve. Thus begins a hunt replete with low chuckles.
"You make a crack about my size and I'll bust you one," I warn him, struggling with the sleeve and his intrusive fingers.
"Just as long as you don't shoot me again."
"That's not beyond my capabilities. You were the one who insisted I carry my weapon everywhere I go."
"Are you packing right now? 'Cause I have a thing for women who pack heat." He slips the jacket off my shoulders and does a short but intense study of my jeans and sweater-clad figure. "I don't see it. Where'd you hide it?"
"None of your business, and I'll break your fingers if you go looking for it."
He laughs. I love it when Mulder laughs. He doesn't do it often enough. He grabs my newly uncovered hand and leads me back to the couch.
"So why did you pick medicine, Scully?"
This time I tell him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I've spent the last two hours undergoing a transformation that is both sharply familiar and brand new. I can only speak for myself, but I think Mulder feels it, too - at least the novelty of it.
At first, I found myself comparing the two evenings and, truth be told, the two Mulders. Eddie Van Blundht is a master of disguises. If my thinking ran more like Mulder’s, I might even find it plausible he was able to adopt not just a man's identity, but his personality as well.
There have been moments this evening that've closely mirrored those of a month ago, so much so that I've had to repeat to myself over and over that this really is him and not a lesser duplicate. I had to excuse myself from the room when he upended the mostly empty wine bottle over my glass and gave the bottom four healthy slaps.
"No sense letting it go to waste," he'd said.
Mulder is a very good listener when he wants to be. And I've found it very easy to talk to him. Most amazing of all is that he's talking back. We've been trading stories all night.
It hasn't been easy for him. He holds himself so closely to the vest. I think he probably always has; if always began with Samantha's disappearance. It's his armor and his weak spot all rolled up into one. I had to gently poke and prod at first, ask leading questions and allow long silences to open up as he ran all the ramifications of the possible answers through his head, searching for the one he thought would please me most. It didn't take me long to figure out what he was doing and call him on it. He cheerfully accepted my rebuke and shifted back into the irreverent, acerbic, but endlessly compassionate man I know.
It dawns on me that I should've had no trouble figuring out that the Mulder who knocked on my door a month ago was not the same man who sits beside me now. It's a bittersweet realization because it is the essence and spirit of Mulder that was missing that night. And I can't dismiss the shame I feel now that I didn't question it then. I can only chalk it up to the need I had that only he could fill; a man I consider my best friend - and so much more.
What ultimately makes him a winner and those like Eddie Van Blundht losers is the absolute, complete faith he has in himself. While he may harbor more than his fair share of demons, he has a calm self-confidence about himself and his life's work that Eddie was missing. He long ago quit caring what anyone else thought and that allowed him to focus all his considerable skills and devotion on those things that matter most to him. It became a single-minded determination that somehow led to his decision to lead an almost monkish life. It's not at all that he doesn't know how to relate to me or anyone else on a personal level, it's that he made the choice not to.
There's that and then there's also the encyclopedic mind that still manages to stun me. Van Blundht is not even on the same scale. I suppose I should have seen that, too. But when you're busy telling your life story to a person you think is the man who's quite literally become the center of your universe, it's harder to notice what's missing.
"Hey." There is a touch on my arm as soft as his voice. I pull away from my thoughts and look over at Mulder. And damn it if he doesn't have that face on. The one that's halfway between sleepy little boy and consummate hunter. The dark, hooded eyes. The slightly parted lips.
Oh. I'm in big trouble.
I had that same realization a month ago. Only this time it's not so foreign. I've been through this before. A dress rehearsal for the real thing.
"Where'd you go?" he asks me.
"I was just..." It isn't a conscious thought, and the question comes out of nowhere. "Mulder, why are we doing this?"
He studies me, his eyes moving over my face. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"
I don't hesitate. "No. No, not at all. I like it. I'm just not-"
"Scully, can we talk about that night?"
I knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time. "What would you like to know?"
There is a short silence. And then instead of the expected laundry list of questions, he tells me, "I knew what Van Blundht had in mind when he locked me up. I knew what he was going to try. And I knew it because he saw something we've been turning a blind eye to for a long time. I don't think he would've attempted to do what he did if he didn't think he had a chance of succeeding."
My heart has begun to pound. I'm both fascinated and frightened by what I suspect this is leading to. "What are you trying to say, Mulder?"
He shifts around to fully face me and I can see the familiar fire blazing to life in his eyes. "Well, just think about it, Scully. This is a man who can assume the identity of anyone he chooses. Despite the fact that what he did was reprehensible, he was able to get away with it for so long because he came to these women in the guise of men they trusted and cared for; women he knew wouldn't harbor any suspicions if the man sitting next to them was someone they felt comfortable with in that kind of situation. Eddie Van Blundht was, in many ways, these women's fantasy lover."
"You almost sound like you envy him."
All his energy and focus shift to me and I'm helplessly pinned by his eyes. "Only when it comes to you."
"Mulder."
"No, just hear me out. I knew he would do what he did because it's something I should have done a long time ago."
"Attempt to seduce me while disguised as someone else entirely?"
"No, no, no. Just set that part of it aside for a minute."
I can't help the wry tone of my reply. "Easier said than done."
He chuckles and lets my comment pass. "What I'm trying to say is that he gave you an opportunity to open up, to allow the person who isn't just an FBI agent to come to the forefront. I envy him that."
"He didn't do anything you couldn't have done."
His head is bowed, eyes downcast. "I doubt that."
I reach out and cover his hand with mine. He peers up at me. "You shouldn't," I tell him. I wait as his hand turns under mine and our palms meet, fingers entwining. His hand is warm and a little damp. "Mulder, what almost happened that night, what you saw when you busted down my door - and by the way, you'll be getting the bill for that soon - happened because it was what I wanted, too. And it wasn't because Eddie was being a version of you I'd never seen before and liked better than the original. It was because he was being the Mulder I knew you could be if you'd only allow yourself."
He takes some time to absorb this, his thumb absently stroking the back of my hand. "It's hard, Scully," he finally admits.
"I know that. It is for both of us. It means having to bend a lot of the rules we've been playing by for so long, and even throwing some others out. But all these feelings, all these issues this situation has forced us to confront are real. They're not something new and they're not something that just came out of the blue. It's difficult because we both know what we're risking and neither of us wants to lose what we've worked so long and hard to build."
Mulder releases my hand and moves closer to me, lifting his arm and resting it on the back of the couch. I feel his fingers begin to move through my hair and come to settle on the back of my neck. If he takes note of the shiver that runs through me, he makes no mention of it.
He waits till my eyes raise to meet his. "I honestly didn't know." He swallows hard. "I didn't know how you'd react if I ever tried to do something like that. I could only hope that..." He sighs and shakes his head. "I didn't know. And I was too much of a coward to find out."
My focus has narrowed until everything fades but the sensation of his fingers against my skin, the depths of his eyes, the fullness of his mouth. "But you know now. Don't you?"
"I think so," he murmurs.
His hand moves until it cups my cheek and then drops to the curve where shoulder meets neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
"Mulder, will you do something for me?"
"Name it."
"Will you.. will you kiss me?"
He smiles gently and says, "I thought you'd never ask."
And this time, instead of sitting still and waiting, locked into a shocked paralysis, I move when he does, leaning into his kiss. There is only the briefest hesitation on his part, and none on mine, before his lips meet mine. And they are soft and full and warm, just as I knew they would be. His kiss is tentative, inquisitive. I lift my fingers to his hair and I knows he's heard my answer as the pressure of his lips on mine increases. And then he pulls away, leaving me caught on the edge of a ragged sigh. I open my eyes to find him looking at me, a blend of warm affection and amusement softening his features. I mirror his shy grin.
"Well, " he declares after taking a deep breath. "That was... pretty damn remarkable."
"And I don't think the world came to an end."
"I don't know that I would have noticed if it had," he tells me. "Let's try that again, just to make sure it wasn't an anomaly."
No hesitation this time. On either of our parts.
Well now you've gone and done it, Dana Katherine. There can be no going back. Are you happy now?
You bet your britches!
Mulder is again the one to break the kiss. He's going to have to stop doing that. I watch as he licks his lips and hot current of desire runs through me. He is tasting me on his lips and wanting more. And then our eyes lock and I know he's seen the need in mine.
He snickers as he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear. "I'm, um, I'm gonna kick you out, Scully."
"What?"
"You need to go home now," he tells me and he's up off the couch and offering me his hand.
I take it and stand, asking, "Why?"
He looks aside and chews his lip. "I like to savor things. No sense rushing a good thing, huh? And besides," he tells me as he leads me to the door and helps me on with my coat. "I'm no Eddie Van Blundht."
I look up at him and I know it's going to be all right. The step we've taken tonight will no doubt have its repercussions, good and bad, but I've grown used that the last four years. Sometimes I think I even crave it now. I've learned a lot of hard lessons the past few months and what I've come away with is that in order to truly live, we have to take risks. To learn to seize the opportunities we're presented with and fight the battles that need to be fought. To accept the defeats and relish the victories. Mulder and I have won this one. And it's so sweet.
I think he understands this now, in a way he hasn't before. I don't blame him for wanting to take the time to enjoy it. I turn to him and go easily into his arms. He squeezes me tightly, drops a kiss on the top of head and guides me out the door.
"I'll see you in the morning, Scully."
"G'night, Mulder."
I head for the elevator and stop only when I hear his door close and the deadbolt slide home. Then I turn to the wall and lean my forehead against it, a wide smile creasing my face. I swallow down a chuckle and then another one. Oh, what the hell. I've just been kissed by the most fascinating, attractive, intelligent, aggravating, and sensual man I’ve ever met. I'm entitled to be happy about it. I move to the elevator and slap the down button, chuckling under my breath.
No, Mulder is certainly no Eddie Van Blundht.
Thank God.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~