"Longing" by Juliettt@aol.com (completed November 7, 1995) This one takes place during Mulder's and Scully's engagement week (probably about Wednesday before "Epithalamion") and shows just a little of what they went through. Yes, I've had them wait, but they aren't saints, after all. Definitely not saints. . . . And thus I have to rate this one -- oh, I dunno. PG-13, definitely, with a possible mild "R" rating for lustful thoughts, etc. So the few (I think they are few) teens on a.t.x.c. could probably read this without corruption, as it's much, *MUCH* less explicit than what you see on soap operas. So if you think this might bother you, kids, go get somebody over 18 to read over your shoulder . . . . I wrote this after Jodi Kerper sent me her story "Stepping Back," although I had planned a series of stories dealing with the engagement week anyway (yes, for those of you who asked, you *will* get to see the proposal and the moment when they tell Margaret *and* the moment, mentioned below, when Jackie and Marty find out. These particular bits are already written but as I want the stories to be more than just scenes, they aren't ready yet). Another quick note: I wrote this story while listening to "When We Dance," off Sting's _Fields of Gold_ CD. Just a comment for those who like to have "mood music" playing when they write and read -- kind of like suggesting a wine with dinner . Dana Scully and Fox Mulder are the exclusive intellectual and legal property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, FOX Broadcasting, and Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. I have no permission to borrow them, but I'm doing so with the utmost of respect. The remainder of this story is mine. ************************** "Longing" by Juliettt@aol.com ************************** All the calls had been made, the flowers bought, the dress altered and the suit rented. They had spent the better part of the evening moving furniture and boxes of books into their new house, the house they had worried they had purchased too quickly but which they loved even more every time they saw it. They would drive up in the driveway and it would feel like home. And now, with the bookcases full of friendly faces and the clothes hanging in the closets and their pots and pans comingled in the kitchen and a fire laid in the hearth ready for lighting, it was beginning to look like home, too. It had been a frantic half-week of planning, and they had surprised themselves. They might actually be able to pull this off. They crawled into their respective beds at night exhausted and sometimes a little sore, but happy. A little lonely, of course, due to their decision not to become lovers until their wedding night. Sometimes the ache of loneliness was so keen that she was tempted to call him, to ask him to come over and just hold her as he had done after his return from New Mexico. They had kept their hands to themselves then, she argued with herself; certainly they could do so now. Ah, but then they had been merely Agents Mulder and Scully, partners and best friend on the verge of becoming something more, teetering on the edge that had sustained them for nearly four years after that. But now they were that something more, and it would be easy, so easy, to break that vow on one of those nights when they were tired and curled up together and the few days left seemed much too long to wait. They were back at Dana's apartment cleaning up after another picnic-style meal using paper plates and plastic cups since all the dishes were at the new house. At least there wouldn't be any dishes to wash, he thought with a grin. He relished every moment they spent together, even doing the most mundane chores, but tonight -- tonight he just wanted to be close to her, to hold her in his arms, to smell the sweetness of her hair. He pulled her down onto the couch and into his arms. She laughed a little, then settled in his lap, her own arms winding around his neck, and they just sat there in silence for a few moments, their eyes closed, foreheads resting against one another. This sofa was one of the last things they would move; it had been the site of some wonderful memories, and they hoped to create a few more before moving it over to the house. Here they had sat while she called her mother and tried to explain that she and Fox were getting married, here they had been caught necking by Jackie and Marty Nantus, who had *not* heard the news yet, had sat with Margaret Scully planning the wedding, had discussed houses and honeymoons and birth control. And here they had shared some of the most wonderful, exquisite marathon kisses. . . . She felt his fingers brushing her hair away from her eyes and opened her eyes to smile at him. "I like this," he said softly, and smiled. "Makes us the same height." She laughed a little and nodded. "Thanks, Mulder." His face was puzzled. "What for?" "For never teasing me about being short." He smiled at her. "I think you're the perfect height." She smiled back. "I think you're just perfect." His eyes lit up and he leaned into her kiss. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she pressed her lips to his again and again, gentle, teasing kisses that were gradually softening and lengthening and liquefying until -- ahh, yes -- his lips parted under hers and she deepened her kiss and he joined her, a soft sigh escaping his mouth before it closed over hers. It was long and deep and lingering and she felt his heart begin to thud more solidly against her chest. She smiled into the kiss, loving her effect on him, feeling the blood singing in her veins. His mouth moved over hers gently, insistently, exploring and caressing and tasting, and then he drew back slightly to take her lower lip in his mouth and suckle on it softly, his teeth nibbling the soft flesh. She gasped and now her heart began to race, and she felt the rumble of his laugh deep in his chest. So he wanted to play, did he? Well, she would play. She moved her mouth from his, hearing his protest but ignoring it, and trailed soft, purposeful kisses across his cheek to his ear. She whispered her love for him there, deliberately breathing into his ear, feeling the muscles of his thighs tighten beneath her as his toes curled, and smiled, then flicked out her tongue to trace the curl of his ear and flick into it playfully, and then she grazed the sensitive flesh behind and beneath his ear with her teeth and sucked, tasting the salt-sweet skin and feeling his pulse flutter against her lips. He made a gasping sound of pleasure and shifted under her restlessly, but she smiled against his skin and continued her exploration. Her hands ran down the broad strength of his back, clutching and measuring the muscles and tendons that slipped and moved beneath the shirt and his skin. She dropped her mouth to the curve where his neck and shoulder met, and planted a love bite there, then sucked, and then trailed up his throat with soft, fluttery kisses to the tender spot just beneath his jaw where she bit gently, his slight beard rasping against her hot lips and tongue. And then she pulled away to look at him. Eyes wide, the pupils almost swallowing the irises. Mouth slightly open, his breathing heavy. Cheeks flushed with sensuality and desire. His eyes dropped to her lips and stayed there even as he cupped the back of her head and brought her mouth up to his. This kiss -- this kiss was hot and deep as the other, but more passionate, more erotic, and it made her mind swim at the sensations. He tilted her back slightly, gaining deeper access to her mouth, and baring her throat to his free hand. He stroked her throat with long, sensitive fingers, his thumb circling her larynx, then coming up to cup her chin and tilt her head at a different angle, changing the force and direction of the kiss. The other hand caressed the back of her head, the fingers tangling in her hair, moving her head as he moved his mouth on hers, directing her, keeping her just enough off balance. The hand at her chin moved up over her shoulder, then splayed long fingers across her back, moving gently down to the curve of her waist, holding her more tightly against him, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the indentation of her back above her tailbone, and then he deepened and slowed the kiss even more. Hot, languid, liquid. His mouth left hers and his lips brushed the soft skin of her throat and then he kissed her nose and eyelids, soft, gentle, butterfly kisses. He pulled back and looked at her. To his satisfaction her own breathing was uneven now, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips wet and stung-looking. He felt a tightness in his throat, looking at her, seeing her like this, knowing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and it was almost too much for his rigid self-control. "I should go," he said raspily. She simply shook her head and settled her mouth over his again, her tongue meeting with his again and again, tangling, teasing, chasing and retreating, an intricate battle in slow motion, their lips meeting and parting as the depth changed, their teeth gently scraping occasionally. Her hand came up to cup his cheek and the other raked through his hair. This had gone way beyond teasing now. They had forgotten the original purpose: to tease and titillate and distract, and were now deep, deep in the throes of sensual play. His arms tightened around her back, pulling her more firmly against his chest, and he could feel the softness of her flesh against the firmness of his through the thin cloth of their shirts. His mind spun and he wanted her. Not that it was anything new, but now he wanted her with an urgency he had only dreamt of before. And she -- she was shifting on his lap, straddling him now, turning and pushing him slightly so that he slid back onto the couch with her on top of him. The kisses grew more insistent and he heard little noises of pleasure and encouragement, and had no idea whether they were hers or his. They seemed to be of one mind now, though, and when his hands slid down her back again to hold her in a tighter embrace she did not protest, simply crushed her body down against his and returned his kisses with fervor. His mind was reeling. They needed to stop this -- now -- before it was too late. He wanted her -- he always wanted her -- but not like this. Not on the couch, hurriedly, like this. He wanted her in bed, naked, after having perhaps undressed her from a soft, silky garment she had purchased just for their first time, or from her wedding dress, unveiling her lovely body inch by sweet inch, revelling in the sight and feel and taste of her, taking all the time in the world to show her how much he loved and cherished her and how perfect this was. Her mind spun. She wanted this to go on forever, as far as it would go. She knew how far that would be. But something in the back of her mind cried out at her to stop, that this wasn't right, like this, that they had waited for far too long and through too much to give in to what was admittedly a force of desire like nothing she had ever felt before. She wanted him to herself, in the dim cool of an evening room, half-lit and shadowy, for the first time, blocking out the rest of the world but him and her and their nakedness together for the first time in bed. White sheets for the first time. Cotton the sheets and silk their raiment -- a blend of innocence and knowledge, purity and passion. The flames would dance on his skin and she would touch and taste him all over and feel his body on hers, absorbing the sweetness of his weight, welcoming him. It would be slow and thorough and everything, everything she had ever wanted, and she would give herself to him and take everything he had to offer and it would be magic and perfect and this -- this was not it. They pulled away from one another, gasping and trembling with the effort of pulling back from the edge, and she rolled away and sat clutching one of the throw pillows to her, her eyes closed as she regained her breath. He sat up and swallowed hard and rubbed a hand over his face. Filled with regret and remorse and relief. Sorry that they had pushed it so far, sorry they had to stop. Wanting her -- oh, yes, he still wanted her, with every fibre of his being except for the still, small voice in the back of his mind that promised him that it would be even better later. After a long moment of silence they turned and looked at one another. He gave her one of his crooked grins and she relaxed and smiled back. He held out his arms to her, tentatively, and after a moment's hesitation she came to him and they held one another. The desire was there, oh, yes, indeed, it was still there. But it was warm and enveloping instead of hot and raw and grasping. She snuggled up to him and he laid his lips against her temple. She sighed. "Fox. . . ." He nodded. "Sorry." She lifted her head to look at him. "No -- no, don't be. I'm sorry -- but in a way I'm glad, too." She reached out and brushed his now-messy hair away from his face with a tender smile. "If we ever had any doubts. . . ." He laughed a little. "I never did." "No," she admitted, "I guess I never did, either." They sat for another long silence. "I think I should go," he said finally. She burrowed a little deeper into his arms, laying her head against his chest. "I don't want you to go." "I don't want to go." She pulled back and looked at him again, gazed into his eyes, then down at his mouth, and her voice was hoarse. "I think you should go." At the door he turned and bent down and kissed her, chastely, and then she reached up and held his face in her hands and kissed him back, not so chastely. They let it escalate for a moment and then pulled away, slightly flushed. "I love you," he whispered. "Love you, too," she whispered back. He turned away and their fingers grazed as their hands parted. At the foot of the steps he turned again. She was silhouetted against the light from her apartment and it was like a beacon to him. He wanted desperately to go back, wanted nothing more than just to hold her in his arms. He wouldn't even kiss her, he promised himself, just hold her, just ease the ache of this longing, this emptiness. And for a moment he hesitated, and for a moment it looked like she would call him back. But then the moment passed and he turned and went to his car. As he opened the door he looked up, and she was in the window watching him. He waved and she waved back and he got in his car and drove away, back home, home to his empty apartment and silent fish and cold shower. And to dream of Dana Scully. And she turned away from her window with a sigh and changed into a pair of pyjamas and crawled into the middle of her big, empty bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling, knowing that if he knocked on her door she would not turn him away, from her apartment or her bed or her body. Knowing this, and hoping he would come and hoping he would not, and lying there tense and waiting until she fell asleep to dream of him, to dream of Fox Mulder. *End* (for now) I guess I should say that this is the first (first written, at least) of another group of stories, which someone has suggested I call the Engagement series. They accompany (and are actually a part of) the Marriage series although they are all set before "Epithalamion." The first of these stories, chronologically, will be "Start Spreadin' the News" Part One, which follows hard on the heels of "The Gordian Knot," also known as "The Story Formerly Known as 'MayDay'" (insert wierd symbol here), the story which sets up the series. Confused? No kidding. . . .