A/N: I love the X-Files, and I wish the characters belonged to me, but they don't. S/o to Chris Carter for making me laugh and cry more times than I can count.

Haven't written a fic in a very, very long time - please be gentle!

He always imagined his head between her legs.

Not that he didn't have plenty of other fantasies about her; he had those in spades. Fox Mulder was nothing if not a man who appreciated variety. And, to his credit, the fantasy was never quite the same. But no matter what, he always pictured himself nuzzled between her thighs, teasing and tasting her, making her squirm and moan.

He was never sure how it would happen. Ideally, he thought, it would be in her luxurious queen bed and not on his dingy leather couch. He played out the scenario over and over in his head: somehow they'd end up in her apartment, maybe going over a case file after hours or unwinding on one of their rare days off. They'd sit together on that striped couch of hers, the same one where he'd caught that sick bastard Eddie Van Blundht. This time, however, it would be different. They'd sit together, just close enough to feel the ever-present electricity between them but not close enough to cross any professional boundaries. They would take a break from whatever they were doing, enjoying the comfortable, shared silence they had come to appreciate after years of chaos. He hoped she would be thinking about the same things he was, about how much they had been through together, about how much they needed each other. The bond between them was intense but rarely addressed aloud; only in their darkest moments did they dare to admit how deeply they felt for each other. It was taboo, clearly beyond a professional level, even beyond friendship. It could ruin their careers, it could endanger their lives, and it could save them.

He wasn't sure who would speak first. In all honesty it would probably be him; his reputation as loquacious (bordering on verbose) wasn't without merit. He wasn't even sure what he would say. Sometimes he imagined a dramatic declaration of love, but it felt unrealistic. Neither of them was ready for that. There was too much pain, too much vulnerability, too much at stake for it to happen so suddenly. Sometimes he tried to imagine he said nothing at all and somehow they both just knew, a cautious embrace leading to a kiss they had both dreamt about for years. He knew this was just as unrealistic; he needed to be sure that she felt the same way, that she wanted this just as much as he did, that she was ready to take this step together. He didn't need a proclamation from the rooftops or promises of undying love, just a mutual acknowledgement of their desire, emotional and physical. His imagination continued, pushing past their quiet confessions. There was no use in agonizing over the right thing to say. He was sure he wouldn't know until he was actually there with her.

They would look at each other, feeling exposed and nervous in the best way. He would lean in slowly as they both felt a shiver of anticipation. Afraid she would change her mind, or that the feeling was less mutual than he hoped, he would brush her lips lightly, silently praying she would assuage his fears. He had to laugh at himself; even in his wildest fantasies he wasn't fully ready to believe that she would ever want him like he wanted her. He chuckled and the fantasy continued as her lips met his, carefully at first but deepening quickly as her tongue ran along his bottom lip, begging for entrance. Her hands would reach to hold his head, fingers snaking through his hair and tugging ever so slightly. He would exhale sharply, his mouth traveling from her lips to her jaw. He would plant tender kisses all the way down to her neck, tonguing the sensitive spot right above her collarbone as she moaned softly and tugged again at his thick hair. She would pull him back up to meet her lips again, kissing him hungrily.

He had fantasized about undressing her hundreds of times in hundreds of ways. Sometimes it was slow and gentle as he took time to adore every exposed inch of skin. Sometimes it was fast and rough, buttons flying and nylons ripping as desire overwhelmed them. This time, he imagined it would be a mix of the two. He would nip at her earlobe and trace his tongue down her neck again as his fingers made swift work of the buttons down the front of her blouse. Her hands would run down his back, fingernails scratching lightly at the cotton of his collared shirt. She would shrug the blouse off her shoulders, exposing the delicate lace trim of her otherwise simple black bra. He'd nibble at her collarbone as he reached to cup her breasts which fit perfectly in his hands. She would moan again, eagerly pulling off her shirt and tossing it aside.

It was at this point that his fantasies converged, not in specifics of the scenario but in his desire to please her. If she tugged at his shirt or fiddled with his belt buckle he would stop her, gently yet confidently. She might protest but he would insist; hopefully this would not be the only time they found themselves in this situation. There would be plenty of time to explore each other fully in any and every way they could dream of, but this was important to him. More than anything else, he wanted to worship her.

His mind wandered back to her couch, where he would pull her onto his lap, kissing her deeply as one hand played with a rosy nipple peeking out of the lace of her bra and the other reached around to unclasp it. The black lace would fall to the floor and he would pause to admire the incredible sight before him. He had seen her naked before, so he had a decent idea of what she might look like, but it was always in a dire medical context and so it felt disrespectful to apply to his fantasies. He imagined that her breasts were full, yet perky, rising and falling softly with her breath. Her nipples were the perfect shade of pink, deepened and hardened by her arousal. He imagined bringing his lips to one, sucking and licking as her breath quickened and she whimpered, raking her nails across his scalp. He would turn his attention to the other breast, tracing circles around her nipple with his tongue. He would take his time adoring her breasts, kissing and licking, nipping and sucking until she was squirming in his lap, whispering desperate pleas between short breaths. It was at this time that he would reach under her ass, a wonder unto itself, and lift her up, grateful for all the late night gym visits which made carrying her already light frame seem even more effortless. She would crush her mouth to his as he made his way to her bedroom, tongue exploring his mouth with a hunger built up for years.

This was his favorite part of the fantasy. He would lower her to the bed, never breaking their kiss. He would come to rest on top of her, supporting his weight on his elbows so as not to crush her. His erection, obvious and straining ever since he pulled her onto his lap, would brush against the heat of her arousal as he reached for a pillow behind her head. He would gasp, not only at the sensation, but also at the thought that she was this aroused for him. He had done this to her. He would pull the pillow from behind her head, placing it under her hips and reaching for the zipper of her skirt. He would tug the skirt gently over her hips, pulling her nylons down with it and revealing a matching pair of black lace panties. It would take everything he had not to rip them off immediately, diving desperately to taste her. Instead, he would start at her feet, slowly kissing his way up one leg until he reached the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. There he would suck and nip lightly, watching her reach for her breasts as she let out a soft moan. He would want to take his time, hoping this exquisite torture would last forever. He'd run the tip of his tongue up and down the line where her panties met her silky skin, making her arch her back in a vain attempt to press herself against his mouth. He would withdraw, moving back down to her feet and repeating the process on the other leg. Once he reached her panties again he would start to tease her, kissing her over the fabric as she squirmed, growing more desperate for his mouth every second.

Even in his fantasy, he was barely prepared for what would happen next. It was something he'd imagined more times than he could count, and every time it was just as incredible as the last. He would hook two fingers under the lace of her panties, gently sliding them down her legs and over her feet, tossing them off the bed. Her legs would spread ever so slightly and he would be able to see her glistening wetness, wanting nothing more than to taste her. He'd bring his lips within inches of her, inhaling deeply as he lifted her legs over his shoulders. Finally, after years of longing, he would bring his tongue to her, taking his time with long, slow licks up and down her lips. She'd gasp, rolling her head back as he savored the bittersweet taste that was uniquely her. He would trace the tip of his tongue around her clit, circling it until she begged him for more. He knew after that he wouldn't be able to deny her any longer, desperate to make her come in his mouth again and again, as long as she would let him. He would slip one finger, then two, into her center, feeling her muscles tighten around him. He'd lick and suck her sensitive bud, rolling it between his lips while he pumped his fingers in and out of her. She would moan his name, maybe gripping the sheets between her fingers or (better yet) running her fingers through his hair, pressing him closer to her. As she got close to the edge she would clamp her thighs against his ears, squirming under his tongue and clenching tighter around his fingers. When she came, he would watch waves of ecstasy rock her entire body as she shuddered beneath him. He'd never been a religious man but watching her come in his mouth, tasting her sweetness and hearing her cry out his name, could convert him right then and there. He would kiss his way up her body, making his way back to her lips so she could taste herself on him. If she would let him, he would spend hours -

The phone rang, snapping him out of his dream. He reached over to answer it, lamenting the interruption.

"Hello?" he asked with exasperation.

"Mulder, it's me."

His mind went blank, slightly embarrassed, as if somehow she knew what he'd been doing.

"Listen, I know it's a little late but I was thinking about ordering some takeout, maybe catching a movie on TV," she continued before he had a chance to respond. "I thought maybe, if you don't have any other plans, you'd like to join me?"

He scrambled to collect his thoughts, his heart racing with a mixture of arousal, nervousness, and excitement. She never called him this late.

"That sounds great, Scully," he said after a short pause. "I'd love to."

After they hung up, Scully sank into her couch, adrenaline coursing through her veins. It wasn't unusual for them to get together like this, to grab a bite to eat after work or just shoot the shit for a while, unwinding after a long day. It was, however, unusual for that to happen long after they'd both left the office, saying their goodbyes for the evening and each going home to empty apartments. She was tired of her empty apartment, her lonely nights, and her empty bed. It wasn't as if she couldn't fill that space, she'd never had trouble picking up men, but she knew there was only one man she'd ever want there. She had no idea how Mulder felt - he seemed to be perfectly content in his bachelor-pad-turned-paranormal-storage-unit - but she couldn't go on not knowing any longer. She had no clue what she would say, when she would say it, or if she'd even say anything at all. She was almost embarrassed, wantonly inviting her partner over for a late-night visit even though he had no idea that she hoped it would turn into much more than dinner and a movie. After all, she'd always imagined his head between her legs...