TITLE: Splashing Around (1/1)
AUTHOR: Shoshana
EMAIL ADDRESS: shoshana1013@excite.com 
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, Spooky's site, Xemplary, etc.
SPOILER WARNING: Seventh season episodes through Millennium.
RATING: PG
CONTENT STATEMENT: M/S UST
CLASSIFICATION: VR
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST
SUMMARY: Post-ep for Millennium. Sequel to "Wading In."
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me.
NOTE: Thanks to my great beta readers Char, Meg and Teresa.

Splashing Around
By Shoshana

For the last decade, I have spent New Year's Day alone, nursing
hangovers of various degrees of severity, ingesting objectionable 
amounts of aspirin and tomato juice to counteract the damage done. I've
never been out in the field on New Year's Eve before, nor out of town
for a vacation. I've usually found myself at some lame party, or with 
the Lone Gunmen, getting soused till I can't feel myself think.

Imagine my surprise upon awakening today, New Year's Day, without a
pounding headache, without that familiar nausea which telegraphs to 
your stomach, your eyes, even your toes, that you've had *way* too
much demon alcohol for your own good. Imagine my delight that not only
do I get to spend New Year's Day without a cold compress on my forehead, 
or a hot water bottle applied where it hurts most, I get to spend it in 
the company of a real woman.

Not just any woman. But my partner, my friend, my Scully. My sweet, soft
Scully, whose lips I touched for the first time last night. A slow, gentle 
kiss, one that would never be mistaken for a platonic 'here's to a
Happy New Year' smooch. It lasted just long enough, was just loving
enough, that I knew she would not misconstrue my purpose.

In our nervous fumblings and mumblings immediately afterward, we really
distinguished ourselves, really made the grade... two otherwise mature, 
intelligent adults who couldn't help but bumble about, searching
for the right thing to say, the right way to say it.

Thank God for Scully's courage, her undaunted ability to tell me exactly
how she felt, without lapsing into limitless sentimentality. I hadn't a 
clue what to say or do after declaring that the world hadn't ended, had
it, and a Happy New Year to you, too, Agent Scully.

She managed to assure me that whatever was on my mind, it was probably
pretty damn wrong, if not completely erroneous. That if I was even 
entertaining the thought she was displeased with what happened, I should 
get over it, right now.

I left the hospital parking lot feeling a whole lot better about things
to come, whenever, wherever they did. I can't say I was much company to 
Scully on the way home; I passed out from all the pain medication in
my system.

When she woke me up at our destination, I would have felt remiss if I
hadn't invited her up for coffee. It *was* the polite thing to do, even 
if I was pretty sure she'd decline the offer.

I guess if we were any two other people, bidding one another adieu in
the lot of any other apartment complex, in any other part of town, at 
least one of them, specifically me, should have been more
disappointed that we were going home to our respective apartments alone.

I'm not. I'm eternally grateful that she didn't invite me up, didn't
offer me a glass of wine, didn't let me kiss her again. This way, our 
way, I'll always treasure that kiss at the hospital as the beginning 
of a new life for both of us.

I won't remember awkward moments at her place, won't remember untangling
limbs after making out on the couch, won't remember clumsy, inept goodbyes 
when leaving, oh so certain that I'd done irreparable damage to our friendship.

Scully, ever the cool-headed one, knew that common sense should prevail,
that it was late, that whatever happened may be regretted later on. Okay, 
so I *was* a mite disappointed. I'm a guy, for God's sakes. I would have 
loved to have her stay the night.

But that's not us; it's never been us. It's taken this long to get this
far. A seven year novella, with the two of us as the principal characters, 
and a cast of thousands. I'd really like to see the hero get the girl in the
end, so I'm willing to let Scully set the pace, the tempo of this
relationship.

I trust her, I know she won't make us wait too long. She wants to make
sure that we'll be able to keep everything we have, everything we've worked 
so hard to build between us. 

She's scared, and I have to admit I am, too. If this doesn't work out, 
there's no way we could repair the damage and just go back the way we were.

And as I double park behind her vehicle this January morning of the year
2000, I stifle tremulous feelings inside, feelings I don't need or want 
to think about right now. All I want to do is enjoy watching football
with Scully. Anything above and beyond that is just icing on the cake.

I use my key to the outside door of the complex and take the stairs to
her door. Bonnie Raitt's "Let's Give Them Something to Talk About" is 
emanating from inside. A coincidence, right? Scully couldn't possibly
know the absolute time of my arrival; it's not a subtle hint or
anything, right?

Before I give this too much more thought, I rap on the door and the
music diminishes. It swings open and Scully places her hands on my 
forearms and says, "Hang up your jacket and make yourself comfortable,
Mulder. I'm in the middle of something."

She rushes away before I can respond, and I do as told, shedding my
jacket and filing it away in her hall closet. It feels remarkably 
natural to do that; it feels good to have something of my own among her
material possessions.

I didn't wear the sling I was provided with today. I know Dr. Scully
will have a thing or two to say about that, but I was frustrated by it, 
and didn't want to wear it while driving. The arm feels better today, and I
haven't taken anything stronger than ibuprofen since last night.

The blender is whirring away in the kitchen, and Bonnie is still singing
on the stereo. I sit down on the couch and take off my sneakers, setting 
them to the side. Scully's running around barefoot, and she did
say make myself comfortable...

The racket ends, and she yells out, "Whaddaya want to drink, Mulder?"

"Whatever you're having is fine," I say, turning on the television, then
muting the sound. I'm don't really care about the outcome of any of these 
games, but it's interesting to watch some of the match ups. I'm
much more of a basketball or baseball fan, and I haven't exactly had
time to keep up with current events lately.

I suspect Scully knows a whole lot more about football than she implied
last night, but I wouldn't dare say that. If she wants to appear blissfully 
ignorant so I can explain it all, that's her perogative. It certainly didn't
harm our baseball lesson, and any opportunity to flirt with Scully is a
good one, if you ask me.

She finally comes around the corner, two Heinekens in her hands. She has
on a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt with a scalloped, low 
cut neck. Gentleman that I am, I make a concerted effort to meet her eyes, 
not her bustline, when she sits on the couch.

She's wearing very little makeup today. I only get to see her that way
occasionally, and I've never had the nerve to tell her how beautiful she 
is without it. I've always been wary of giving her compliments, from the
very beginning of our partnership. I always wanted her to feel like an
equal, and pointing out how attractive she is would have made her very 
uncomfortable. I wonder if that still holds true.

"Whatcha making out there?" I say, skirting any other issues on my mind.

"Dip. I hope you don't hate spinach, Mulder. I debated even telling you
what was in it, considering your aversion to certain members of the 
vegetable family."

"I never met a vegetable I didn't like, Scully. I just don't like the
way they're prepared at some of the premier dining places we end up at 
on the road."

"Well, I'm not much of a cook, but my mom's recipe is great. And fresh,
believe it or not. Where's your sling? Or should I even ask?"

"As long as I don't throw any forward passes I'll be fine. I haven't
taken any pain pills since I woke up around noon. You didn't tell me 
when you wanted me to come over, so I just showered and left. How'd
you know when I'd be over?"

"I dunno. Intuition. Hunch. Lucky guess. I used all my best
investigative techniques, all learned from you."

I smile at that, easing my back further into the corner of the sofa,
stretching my legs out, hugging the armrest with my one good arm. She 
smiles at me mysteriously, and I know there's more.

"And I called your home phone a half hour ago and you were already gone."

"Excellent deduction, Dr. Watson. You know, Scully, this is the first
New Year's Day I haven't nursed a hangover in years. I'm not very good 
company after overindulging."

"Well, have no fear. I only bought a six-pack. You won't get drunk here."

"I wouldn't want to. I'm not much of an instructor when I'm impaired."

Her girlish laugh shocks me. God, she looks happy and relaxed today.

"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. Football lessons."

She chortles to herself, placing her beer on the coffee table and
reaching into the cabinet of her end table. Before I can prepare myself, 
a flying object whirls at me. It lands innocuously beside me, but not
without startling me, causing me to shield myself from its impact. When
I realize what it is, embarrassment warms my cheeks briefly. Scully's 
raised eyebrows and expectant expression ease my initial reaction,
and I grin at her broadly.

"Nerf ball? Well, Ms. Scully. I think you've met your match at playing
Nerf ball."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I've been practicing with my godson lately. And I'm
sure I can whip your butt, Mulder. But... since you're really not up 
to it today... it's merely a prop, something for inspiration. We'll 
have to wait till one of us isn't debilitated in one way or another 
to play touch football..."

I purse my lips and raise my eyes to the ceiling, then back to the
coquettish expression on Scully's face. She is openly flirting with me. 
It's so beautiful, so sweet, I want to grab her right now. I resist the
temptation. Not only am I a bit 'debilitated,' I'm too busy enjoying the
look of sheer satisfaction on her face. She's rendered me speechless, 
and we're both savoring the moment.

She gives me one more Scully smirk, and sinks back into the couch,
throwing her little bare feet up on the coffee table. Jesus, God, this 
is getting difficult. She is irresistible today, and she knows it. Her 
outfit, her toes, her talent for innuendo, have all conspired to make 
my relaxed-fit jeans very uncomfortable.

"Ahem," I croak, springing off the couch. I throw the Nerf ball at her
playfully, and she catches it with one hand.

"I'll be right back," I say, heading for the john.

She's still smiling when I glance back at her, and she says, "Okay, I'll
go get some food."

Right. Food would be good. Food might just take my mind off the boner in
my pants. Goddamn, this is way worse than being stuck in an administrative 
meeting with Scully. The ones where I daydream about where and how I'd 
like to seduce her.

Chances are, I won't be the one doing the seducing here. She's already
got me completely under her spell, and I couldn't be happier. I'd like 
to drag out this friendly courtship a bit longer, but once we get
close to one another again, once we risk another kiss, that's it for me.
I don't know if I can be responsible for what happens after then. I don't 
know that either of us will really care, if either of us can stop the
inevitable from happening.

I walk gingerly to the bathroom to pee, my 'problem' diminishing only
slightly in my vain attempt to banish erotic Scully thoughts from my mind. 
It's nearly impossible. I'm not drunk, I'm well-rested, alert, make that
'very alert,' and horny as hell.

I briefly consider my options. A cold shower is out; I just did that two
hours ago. Leaving is out; I don't wish to insult my hostess. Honesty 
appears to be the only option. Easier said than done. She obviously knows
her affect on me; she's toying with me like a kitten with an unfurling
ball of yarn.

Though I'd love to admit to her that she's managed to arouse me after
ten minutes of not so innocent conversation on the couch, I find that 
option unthinkable. I'm not used to revealing that kind of information
to her. To anyone.

I'm not the fucking Lothario everyone assumes I must be. I've had some
luck with women as an adult, but I was painfully shy as a teenager. I 
revert to that mindset every time I'm interested in one particular
woman. I compensate by using humor, but honesty is difficult when you're
terrified of rejection. And I've been anticipating rejection close to 
seven years now.

Knowing that she's receptive to my feelings, knowing that she's returned
my sentiments for a long time now doesn't make things any easier. I don't 
want to rush this. I value her too much. I want to give her everything, 
I want to make love to her when she's ready, not when my fucking dick is.

Well. This little talk with myself seems to be working. I leave my
self-imposed isolation and stride out to the living room. Scully is grazing 
on vegetables and dip, a carrot between her thumb and forefinger. Her
eyes light up when she sees me and I feel a surge of self-confidence. We
can do this. We can become more to one another and not have our lives 
transformed into melodrama.

"Come on, Mulder. Eat something. You look a little flushed from your
injury. I bet you haven't eaten breakfast."

My God, she really has no idea why I left the room. It's all in my head.
She *doesn't* know how excited I got from our flirtatious behavior. She's 
so controlled, so self-possessed. I'm the weak one, the one who's
finding the new path of our relationship so troublesome. Maybe she's
given more thought to this than I ever imagined. Maybe she's so with it 
because she's anticipated this all along. She's reconciled herself
to it, she's ready for it. Jesus, I hope so.

I sit down next to her, a lot closer this time. Might as well go for
broke. Take a chance; this isn't such a long shot anymore. She wouldn't 
have invited me over today if last night hadn't meant something to her. 
If all the nights we've spent together, as friends and colleagues, as
partners and survivors, hadn't meant something to her, I wouldn't be 
here now.

I dig into the food, and we spend a long time consuming every ounce of
spinach surprise, or whatever she calls it, while we watch the Rose Bowl. 
She turned up the volume while I was out of the room and it's helped a lot, 
a whole lot, to divert my thoughts, bolster my determination.

I will not attack her. I will not grab her and capture her lips with my
own. I will not pull her close and kiss her passionately, our tongues 
touching tentatively, our hands roaming through each other's hair. I will not
pull her on top of me so that she can grind her hips against mine, so
that I can fondle her ass, touch her thighs, play with her delicate toes.

"How about another beer?" she asks, shaking me out of my irreverent
thoughts.

"Um, thanks," I croak.

Okay. In just a few hours it'll be Saturday night, and she's already
getting me slightly tipsy. And she said I couldn't get drunk on a six-pack. 
How about on you, Scully? How about the inebriation I feel from you? I
won't be able to walk a straight line soon, and it has nothing to do
with the alcohol. You, Scully. Only you, could affect me like this. 
Does she know? Does she realize? Does she know what she does to me?

"Here we go," she says, coming back and standing by the couch. She
doesn't hand me my beer though. She's thinking about something and 
finally says,"Switch places with me, okay?"

I look up at her, questioning her eyes for half a second till I get it.
She wants me to her right, so I can put my arm around her. She knows 
it's difficult to lift my right arm, so she's commandeering the left 
one. Or at least suggesting that possibility.

I acquiesce, moving to the other side of the couch, then taking my beer
from her hand. She sets hers down on the table before us. She then sits 
to my left, close enough for comfort, and I put my arm around
her left shoulder. No need for timidity now. We're not teenagers in a
movie theater, and I don't have to inch my arm toward her in some 
elaborate adolescent mating ritual.

"That's better," she says quietly, snuggling a little closer to my side.

I look down at her at precisely the moment she lifts her eyes to mine.
She breaks into a perfect smile, and I answer her with my own. I turn my 
head, nuzzling her hair, then kissing her forehead gently.

She rubs her cheek against my chest, then kisses me there, before
encircling my waist with her arms and pulling herself on my lap. She 
takes the beer out of my right hand; I've been balancing it there,
precariously, dangerously.

She stretches to place it on the table, then returns her attention to
me, positioning herself across my lap, placing her hands on my shoulders.

"Comfortable?" she asks, kneading my shoulders lightly with her hands.

"Of course," I manage to say, my eyes roving the contours of her face,
my left arm caressing her backbone.

I silently ask her permission, the love in my eyes asking her what she
wants, what she needs. Do you want me to kiss you, do you want me to do 
it again, Scully? Please tell me, Scully. Please tell me yes.

"So, Mulder, would you like to attempt a forward pass?"

I love football.

fin

Please send feedback to: shoshana1013@excite.com