And then he kissed her.

He tastes like oil and salt. Popcorn, she thinks.

Except she's not thinking.

Because thinking means she'll understand that Mulder is kissing her and his hand is down her pants.

Not thinking includes not noticing his mouth on her neck and his fingers sliding into her until she gives a soft little moan. His lips are smirking as he speeds his hand.

She isn't thinking about the way he knows how to make her body react.

It's harder to get his pants open, not-thinking requires abstract muscle manipulation, and she's nearly breaking under his fingers and thumb before she's got her own hand inside his pants.

His mouth closes on hers as she comes, body stiffening and unclenching. Seconds, minutes, hours of not-thinking, she dazedly decides as they both fumble.

And he falls off the couch, first.

This is not Mulder on her floor, on his back, staring at her in surprise right before she lowers herself. And he slides in and it feels so so good, she wants to think about this, to analyze the sensation and record it for posterity.

Well, it is him. But if she admits that, and thinks about what it means, things will stop.

They always stop.

She's resentful about that as he growls, his fingers digging into her hips. He always gets his way, always has to be the one in charge. His mania claims them both.

Dana Katherine Scully might be a good little Catholic girl, but she knows how the human body works. Autonomic responses, and feedback loops, and her fingers slide between them, stroking at herself until she can't help but lose control.

If she's going to start thinking, she'll be damned if she doesn't come first.

Mulder arches beneath her, and she sits back, taking him in deeper, her relaxed muscles protesting even as he gasps out a strangled moan. Something that might have been a name, but she's still not thinking.

And then she is.

Sweat soaks her skin, and something is sliding stickily down her thighs (their thighs). Mulder's eyes are dark as he stares at her. "Scully..."

"It's okay, Mulder."

But it's not okay, she thinks as they pull away awkwardly. As he straightens his pants and tucks himself back in after looking at the evidence with a kind of puppy dog astonishment (no, I did not steal the cookies, ma'am).

Logic says a towel would be good. But she's not feeling very logical as she looks at the one pants leg still around her ankle.

"Scully, we need to talk about this."

Do we have to? She thinks. She wishes they were back to not-thinking. Or before that, when it was just cuddling. Just simple human contact. Of course, sex is simple human contact, but on a larger level. More precarious, more binding. "Mulder, I'm tired. Can we talk about it tomorrow?"

"I... Yeah. Sure."

She watches him walk away, heading for her front door and his car. Heading out of her life. And she thinks, as she always does when he leaves her alone, that he is leaving her behind.

And she thinks she can live with that.

-f-

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