TITLE: MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S FANCY AUTHOR: Pebbles RATING: R, for language and imagery, a bit of smut, lots of sap ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just please let me know, 'kay? DISCLAIMER: Wish they were, but they're not. They belong to CC, 1013, Fox, DD and Sainte Gillian WARNING: The first line should tip you off. Kiddies: go home, your mammas are calling you. CATEGORY: MSR, RST, Angst THANKS TO: The UberBetas: Brandon, Robbie, Shannon - the usual suspects... NOTES: This is yet ANOTHER part of the Fancy series. FEEDBACK: Go ahead. Make my day and write me at pebblesb@earthlink.net Midsummer Night's Fancy By Pebbles "Mulder, you are *such* a dick!" The words are out of my mouth before I know it and instantly I regret having said them. The hurt in Mulder's eyes is piercing, but only for a moment. Then the hard mask falls again, the one I had fought so hard to penetrate, the one I thought I had succeeded in banishing. "Last night it was 'Mulder, you *have* such a dick,'" he reminds me, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm that cuts like a knife. "How'd I go from 'have' to 'are' so fast?" I can do nothing but gape at his audacity. We are moments away from a showing of the newest Star Wars movie, which he has finally succeeded at wheedling me into seeing with him. His eyes hold mine in a death grip, daring me to look away. Fearful of boiling my brain in my anger if I don't get away from him, and soon, I turn my back and walk briskly down the hall toward the ladies' restroom. All the way there I feel his eyes on my neck, burning like a brand, at the spot where his mouth claimed my flesh last night as he held me from behind, while I arched into him at the height of ecstasy. Dammit, why do I have to think of that now? Now, when I'm so furious with him I can't see straight? I certainly can't *think* straight. And haven't for weeks now. What the hell is wrong with me? I've had bouts of PMS before, some worse than others, some longer or shorter than the norm. But I've never had it take control of me for such an extended period of time. I push open the door to the restroom and move to the sink, snagging two paper towels as I pass the dispenser. I thrust them under the tap and hold them under cold water for a moment before wringing them out and pressing them to my hot cheeks. As I do I raise my eyes to the mirror. I don't look any different. My hair is just as red today as it was yesterday; my eyes are just as blue. My face is finally beginning to fill out to normal proportions after the ravages of my struggle with cancer. I am only too glad to say goodbye to the Calista Flockhart look. The woman in the mirror appears the epitome of propriety. Even casually attired in light linen slacks and coordinating top the same shade as her eyes, she radiates professionalism. She looks smart, tough and self-assured. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. I like the reflection I see in the mirror. But I don't feel like that woman anymore; the woman I've always been. Cool, calm and collected on the outside, detached from emotional involvement on the inside. For as long as I can remember I have maintained my balance through turning down the volume on my heart. Until Mulder and I, together, learned how to gradually turn it up so that it could be heard. Now, suddenly I am on overload. The feelings that tear through me at any given time of the day or night are staggering in their intensity, often catching me so completely off guard that I'm rocked by their volume. Where once I maintained rigid control, now I am hopelessly inept at governing my emotions. Which pisses me off. I mean *really* pisses me off. Unfortunately, Pissy Scully has joined forces with Wacko Scully and the result is more frightening to me than anything Mulder and I have encountered in the nearly seven years we have worked together. The change really started a few days after we got back from the Bahamas. Our time in the islands had been idyllic, the fulfillment of so many fantasies at once that it was very nearly overwhelming. Making love on a private beach, under the moon and the stars, the song of the ocean ringing in our ears, Mulder and I had once again found euphoria in the outdoors. By contrast, the flight home had been unpleasant, doubtless brought on by having to charter a smaller plane to carry us into Miami before catching a commercial flight home. Mulder had been kindness itself during the first leg of our journey, holding my hand for as long as I needed him to hold it, allowing me to gently disentangle our fingers when I felt a little more comfortable. He repeated the solace on the longer flight into D.C., squeezing tightly as we made our descent. I considered it an accomplishment of the highest magnitude that I had not tossed my Caribbean cookies on either flight. For days afterward, all I wanted to do was sleep. And all Mulder wanted to do was have sex. In every way imaginable. For hours on end. Lest I be miscast as an ungrateful shrew, let me just state for the record that I love sex with Mulder. I crave it like chocolate, like strawberries and whipped cream and banana splits and all those other lovely things I have come to associate with our most erotic moments. But I'm tired. I'm tired and I'm out of sorts and I'm cranky as hell, primed and ready for a fight, just to relieve the tension. And I don't want to do that to Mulder. He doesn't deserve it. Well, maybe just a little bit, but not as much as I've been doling out lately. I discard the soggy towels, dry my hands, straighten my clothing and touch up my lipstick. Finally, I smooth my hair, take a deep breath and head for the door, formulating my apology as I go and already dreading my next outburst. What the hell is wrong with me? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What the hell is wrong with her? One minute we're standing peacefully in line, waiting for popcorn, Cokes and Goobers, and the next thing I know she's telling me - and everyone within hearing distance - that I'm a dick. Yeah, so what else is new, partner? Scully knows I'm a dick; hell, *I* know I'm a dick. Although I try hard not to let it happen, sometimes my dick-like tendencies rear up and make me act in ways that I normally wouldn't, were I in control of all my faculties. Lately I haven't been the least bit in control. Not since I discovered the joys of loving Scully. Oh, I've always loved her. Almost always, anyway. Since her abduction and return, certainly. Painfully so, during her bout with cancer. And in the past few months, since we've gotten physical, I'm constantly discovering new wonders in loving the woman. The trust she shows in *allowing* me to love her, after all these years, and the knowledge that her feelings for me run as deep as mine for her, combine to make her a thirst I find unquenchable. I watch her retreating to the ladies' room, remembering last night when she cried a variation of her epithet in the throes of passion. On our knees in the middle of her bed, holding her to me with one hand covering a heated breast, I sheathed myself to the hilt in her even more heated center as she moaned her encouragement. With every thrust into her I used the grip of my hand on her breast to press her body back into me. At some point she began to sing the praises of that part of me she now refers to with such disdain. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face, remembering. Well, it *was* pretty damned good, come to think of it. Good enough to repeat not once, not twice, but thrice in one super charged evening. At my age, too. I still feel like the cock of the walk. So to speak. I glance at my watch, heave a put-upon sigh and lean heavily against the wall, watching moviegoers pass me by in their zeal to get the best seats before the movie starts. If I'm lucky, we'll only miss the previews. But these days there's no telling how long it'll take Scully to cool off. Lately she's been hell on wheels, 24/7. I've worked with Scully for nearly seven years, and known her menstrual cycle for at least six and a half. Pretty quickly I caught on to the fact that if I didn't want to wind up missing parts of my anatomy I'd better steer clear of her pressure points at certain times of the month. For the most part, I've done pretty well. Until this cycle. The neverending one. She started getting quiet on me during the trip back from the islands. I know how uncomfortable flying makes her, doubly so in the puddle- jumper that we caught to Miami on the way home. At first I thought she was airsick. Her color was off, she seemed more nervous than usual, and she took full and unrepentant advantage of my handholding skills during the entire flight. Once back in D.C. and safe in her apartment, she dropped her luggage just inside the door and immediately headed for her bedroom, leaving discarded clothing in her wake. Without a backward glance she left me standing in the open doorway, laden with my own luggage and a hard- on the size of Haiti, watching the pendulum sway of her retreating hips, beckoning me. I kicked the door closed, dropped my bags and turned the dead bolt before following her, one horny fox onto the scent of his mate in their den. We made love 'til the first faint rays of light came creeping through the blinds on her bedroom windows, finally falling asleep spooned together like little baby cats. Not to coin a phrase. I'm brought back to the present by the sight of Scully emerging from the restroom, seemingly in a calmer state than she had entered. I warily watch her approach, trying my best to read her body language as she stops in front of me and silently raises her eyes to mine. "You were right," I jump right in, before she has a chance to speak. "I am a dick." I know it and she knows it, but somehow I just feel like she needs to hear me acknowledge the fact. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. I have her now. I lean down and rest my forehead against hers. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'll try to do better in the future." "Oh, Mulder!" she sighs. "Don't do that!" "Do what?" I ask, backing away, confused. "*That!*" She touches my cheek softly, melting me with those baby blues. "Don't be so eager to take all the blame. I'm just as responsible as you; I don't have to blow up like that over such a little thing." She drops her hand, looks down at her feet. "I don't know what's wrong with me lately. I've been such a bitch." What, my Scully, a bitch? I pull her into my arms for a quick, tight hug, and she lets me. "And I'm a prize asshole," I admit, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "What say we call a truce and see if we can escape to fantasy- land for a couple of hours?" I feel her nod against my chest and kiss her again for good measure, enjoying the feel of my lips against the softness of her hair. At length she pushes away and nudges me toward the refreshment stand. "I'll go find us a pair of seats, you go fetch the goodies," she tells me. "You're buying." Relieved that the moment of tension has passed, I give her my best grin. "Coke, Pepsi, saline I.V.?" She favors me with one of her winning smiles. "Something sweet," she says. "Something salty. And, oh yeah," she pauses for effect, her eyes dancing. "A big box of Goobers." I almost remind her that she has me, but figure my smart ass mouth has already gotten me into enough trouble this evening and I decide to leave well enough alone. I find her hand and squeeze it momentarily before turning back to the line of hungry moviegoers. "Get us a couple of seats in front," I suggest, immensely glad the storm has passed. "Hurry your ass up, partner," she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the door. "You don't want to miss the movie, do you?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I can't believe I'm crying. Here, in the middle of a Star Wars movie, in the presence of a full-house crowd of every age, size and description. The woman who refuses to cry in public is now a weeping mess. Over a silly movie. I'm sitting here in the darkness of the theater, watching little Anakin say goodbye to his mother, trying in vain to keep my eyes from welling and running over. Mulder's hand is covering mine on the armrest so that I cannot retrieve a napkin to covertly wipe my streaming eyes. I blink furiously, succeeding in containing the tears for a moment only, before the look on the mother's face as she sends her young son off to his destiny tears me up again. Damn. Now my nose is running, too, and there is no way I can deal with it in a discreet manner. I rub my sleeve against it, trying to staunch the flow but only making matters worse. I'm going to have to sniff eventually and then I will no doubt have Mulder's full attention. I feel a nudge against my free hand and look down and see a handkerchief. A big, white, man's handkerchief. Mulder's. Anticipating the unforeseen, as usual. I silently take it and wipe my eyes, my nose. I wad it into a little bundle and slip it into my left hand, the one lying on the armrest, covered by Mulder's right hand. I feel a little squeeze and wish my hand were positioned so that I could squeeze his in return. Instead, I lean my head a little to the left, coming to rest on the shoulder that is always there when I need it. His right arm comes around my shoulders to hold me close and we watch the rest of the movie together without further incident. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What the hell is wrong with her? Back at her apartment I unlock the door with my key, open it and usher her inside with a hand at the small of her back. She cried at The Phantom Menace. Scully, the woman who cries only under extreme duress, cried at a Star Wars movie! Who the hell cries at a Star Wars movie? I wish she'd let me in on why she is so upset. I know it's not me, for once. At least I don't think so. She's actually sharing her uneasiness with me, as much as she will allow herself to do it. A year ago she would have maintained the stiff upper lip if it had killed her, never giving the slightest hint that there was anything amiss. Now she is making only a token effort to conceal it. I suppose I should be grateful for that, the increased openness, I mean. Of course, it also means that now I actually have to deal with whatever it is that's bothering her so. And I remain, as usual, without a clue. I watch her in silence as she moves across the living room, slowing only slightly to remove her shoes, one at a time, spaced a step apart and barely breaking stride as she makes for the bedroom. I watch her disappear into her room and then I just stand there, waiting, unsure whether to stay or go. Automatically I lock the dead bolt, quietly place my keys on the coffee table, and tiptoe down the hall to the doorway of her room. She's lying on the bed, fully clothed, and I stand motionless, watching her, waiting for a signal to tell me what I should do. "Stay," I hear her say, as if on cue. I toe off my loafers and pad over to the bed. She lies facing me, the big wide expanse of empty bed yawning before me. I sit down gingerly, feeling like I've suddenly been reassigned to the bomb squad, on short notice and without proper training or equipment. One wrong move, and KABOOM! I bite back the mental sarcasm and focus on Scully, who is watching me with those amazing eyes and whose hand is extended in silent invitation. I accept it and lie down, opening my arms. She settles her head into the crook of my arm and shoulder, snuggling her body against mine. I clasp the hand that rests lightly on my chest and give it a squeeze. She emits a tiny sigh. I smile at the sound. At long last: a peaceful Scully. In two minutes she is breathing deeply and I know that she's out like a light. She's always been able to do that, go to sleep on a dime if presented the opportunity, whereas I have to fight my body for every minute of slumber I can manage. I'm glad she has that ability, I think as I hold her, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against mine. Moonlight streams into the room from the slanted blinds at the window and through them I can see its source, round and glowing and golden in the summer night. I am reminded of our moonlit romp in the forest and the smile I'm nurturing grows to a full-fledged, face-splitting grin. Beltane mating rituals will be forever imprinted on my memory after the night we shared. I move smoothly over mental snapshots of our beach sessions in the Islands and on to other stepping stones in our new relationship. They lull me to the edge of sleep, singing all the songs of Scully; Scully and her husky voice, deep with passion, Scully, crying my name as she finds her release, Scully calling for me, urging me to stay... And then it hits me. The full moon. I open my eyes wide, drinking in the proof of the calendar, realizing the enormity of what was missed during those wild and crazy days and primal nights of May, the thing that never happened. The reason for the neverending cycle, the PMS that doesn't stop, the wildness in Scully's eyes when she raged at me for no apparent reason. For the first time in my memory of her, Scully has missed her cycle. And she's scared shitless. Lying there in the moonlight with her cradled in my arms, soft and warm and infinitely precious to me, I suddenly know quite clearly what the hell is wrong with her. The question now is: how do I get her to admit it? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As the first rays of light drift through the blinds at the open window I wake, vaguely aware of some unease, unidentifiable as yet. My nose is buried in a warm, fuzzy place which I soon identify as Mulder's chest. I snuggle closer, taking in the unique scent of him, and of us, together. Passion. We smell of passion. And something else I refuse to identify. I mentally play back the events of the past month: the arguments I've started out of my own fear, the times I have opted for the coward's route and run away from a discussion of what is going on with me. The way I did three weeks ago, at the movies with Mulder, on the night of the full moon. The way I did last week, when the new moon had again come and gone. From the age of twelve I had come to expect my period at the same time of the month. Even after my abduction, my menses were as regular as the moon. But my last cycle began in the middle of April and we are now entering late June. And coming up on yet another full moon. I carefully roll away from Mulder and onto my back, feeling my brow crease with familiar tension as worry gnaws at my stomach. I silently chide myself for refusing to face the reality of what is happening, at the same time wondering how I can possibly explain it to Mulder when I can't for the life of me figure it out myself. I open my eyes and instantly regret it as the ceiling seems to slither above me. My stomach gives a mighty heave and I propel myself from the bed and into the bathroom, barely making my target before the sickness engulfs me, striking me in a wave reminiscent of those which rocked me in the throes of chemotherapy. I drop to my knees in front of the toilet as my body purges itself of what is left of last night's dinner, and weakly hold myself upright with an elbow on the tissue holder. With my free hand I try to push my hair away from my face. I feel a gentle hand on my forehead and another at the nape of my neck, where Mulder is gathering my hair into a ball to keep it from being soiled. In the midst of my misery I bless him for being there, though I am simultaneously mortified that he is. But I am not exactly in a position to protest, either. A few minutes later, shaking and drained, I am helped back to bed by my partner, sweetly solicitous and just this side of annoying in his concern for me. I lie back on the pillows as he bathes my face with a cool cloth. My eyes remain closed but I can picture his hovering presence above me. I am too weak to do anything but lie there and let him take care of me. Even though it embarrasses me and puts me to shame. I hate for him to see me this way. After a few minutes he folds the cloth and leaves it lying across my forehead. I wait in silence, knowing the question will come but not exactly ready to encourage it. "You okay, Scully?" he finally asks, restrained, as he has learned to be with me. Automatically I respond in the manner I know he despises. "I'm fine." An uncomfortable silence reigns for a few moments before he finally speaks again. "Are you ready to talk about it?" Not really, I think. I still don't know how I can even be contemplating the possibility, given my past, the fact that all of my eggs were supposedly harvested years ago, rendering me infertile. Sterile. Barren. But Mulder is no Joseph and I am certainly no candidate for Immaculate Conception. How what I think has come to pass *has* come to pass is beyond me. And I don't know how to talk with him about it. So I do what I do best. I retreat. "No, Mulder," I say. Feeling his tension at my words I quickly add, "Not yet. Can we just talk about it later, please?" I allow weakness to seep into my voice. "When we get to the cabin, okay?" He is quiet beside me. I open my eyes and look at him from beneath the cloth. He's got that look in his eyes, the one that tells me I'm only going to get away with this for so long. Finally he finds my hand and squeezes it. "You still feel up to going to the cabin this afternoon?" he asks, trepidation etched in his voice. I know how much this trip means to him. His chance to take us on a little jaunt which promises romance among the wonders of nature. He has rented a cabin, deep in the forest along the banks of a river whose name I've already forgotten. All I know is that Mulder has promised me a mountain view from a jacuzzi, and no cell phones or other forms of interruption while we languish for a few days of well-deserved vacation. "Of course I do," I assure him. "You said it was Midsummer. We can't miss our chance to watch the fairies come out." He smiles at my teasing, apparently mollified by my humor. He leans down to kiss my cheek. "Why don't you stay here and rest for a bit while I get stuff together?" he suggests. "Can I get you anything?" I think of two things that will likely help how I'm feeling. "A cup of tea, please," I say. "Decaf, there's a box of it in the kitchen cupboard. And some soda crackers, on the shelf below it." There's that look again, and my stomach flip-flops as I realize -- he knows. God help me, he knows. And he's almost as afraid to talk about it with me as I am of discussing it with him. *The cabin.* I clearly hear his thought in my head. *Then the truth will come out.* He rises and squeezes my hand again before letting it go. "Be right back with your tea and crackers," he says as he heads for the door. I close my eyes and wait. Knowing that this will be my last time to dodge the bullet. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The cabin belongs to a long forgotten cousin I hadn't spoken to in years; but I remembered he had it and didn't hesitate to call on distant family ties in order to secure it for Scully and me. Less than two hours out of D.C., it is situated on the banks of the Shenandoah River in northern Virginia. By early afternoon we are pulling up in front of it and I'm parking the car. I glance over at my partner, asleep again, her red hair spilling across the headrest, her mouth slightly open in repose. I am almost reluctant to wake her; she so obviously needs the rest. And I'm pretty sure why. Which is high on my list of topics for discussion once we get settled. For now I simply brush my fingers against her cheek and watch with rapt attention as she rises to the surface of wakefulness. She blinks, confused. "What time is it?" she asks warily, as if realizing she's overslept and is late for work. I smile back at her reassuringly, brush that stray lock of hair away from her cheek and tuck it behind her right ear. "Time to get out of the car," I suggest, letting memory play back in my head, gratefully accepting the answering smile she throws back at me to show she does indeed remember another time, another place, in another car where she suggested that she wanted exactly that. We open our doors simultaneously, get out and walk around to the trunk to get our bags. I try to take Scully's along with my own but she stops me cold with one look. *Don't start that shit with me*, it clearly says. I reluctantly concede the point but put that on my mental list of Things That Will Have to Change. For now, though, I can wait. With one hand at the small of her back, I usher her up the front steps and turn the key in the lock on the rustic, wooden door. It swings open into a spacious living room with a huge stone hearth that takes up an entire wall, pillows galore before it, and a bay window to the side that looks out upon the mountains in all their summer glory. I've been here before, years ago, on summer vacation from Oxford. Back then I never thought I'd bring anyone to my own private haunt. But this isn't just anyone, this is my partner, my friend and my lover, the person I cherish above all others. This is Scully. And we have some serious business to take care of; business which can't wait much longer. It's so obvious that she knows I know. Just as it's also obvious that this waiting game has just about reached its end. "Oh, Mulder," she croons appreciatively, dropping her bag beside mine just inside the door. "It's lovely!" I grin my best "aw, shucks, ma'am" grin and take her hand, leading her through the small dining area to the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck beyond. The meandering Shenandoah River flows passively by just below, and the Blue Ridge Mountains beckon from beyond. I walk with her over to the railing along the edge of the deck and ease her in front of me, pulling her back against my chest. My arms encircle her middle, my hands aching to reach down and caress her belly, just for a moment, a moment in which to connect. I hear her sigh against me and a minute or two later feel her hands reaching for mine, taking them into a gentle grip and bringing them around to lightly cup her stomach. And I hold my breath because she's letting me in again, giving me clues where I am so dangerously inept at reading them. I allow my hands to rest against her, feeling that I am holding within my hands a miracle. "Yes," she whispers from in front of me. "Yes." They are the only words I need to hear. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am finally beginning to accept the reality that this might actually be happening to me -- to us. This miracle of new life springing from a once barren field. Mulder and I are in a grassy patch by the river's edge, lying on our backs on a thick quilt procured from the guest bedroom, which certainly will see no use tonight. He has led me down to a sheltered grove of rhododendron and laurel and scattered hemlock pine, where we have finished a fine repast of fresh fruit and assorted cheeses, smoked salmon and herbed bread. An empty bottle of sparkling cider rests on its side at the far end of the quilt. Our stomachs are full and our hearts at peace, with the twilight creeping upon us and the wonders of an unfettered nighttime sky only moments away. Mulder gets up and rummages in the picnic basket, finally emerging with a stack of small paper bags and a handful of citronella candles. He smiles at my quizzical expression and begins to retrace the path to the cabin, stopping every few feet to set out a candle, using the paper bags and a handful of dirt as lanterns. On the return trip he lights each one in turn, and by the time he stretches out next to me on the quilt again, the hillside is aglow with candlelight. Mulder has planned this little sojourn to the nth degree, I realize, as he snags the pillows we brought down from the plundered guest room and tucks them both under our heads. He pulls me tight against him, spooning my backside into his front, his right arm warm and comforting around me, his hand resting over my own, which quite naturally covers my vulnerable stomach. We lie there in blissful contentment, marveling at what has befallen us, wondering what the future holds in store. "What do you know about Midsummer, Scully?" I hear his voice at my ear, stirring the fine hairs at the edge of my face, almost but not quite tickling. "What do you want to know?" I challenge. I am reminded of the question and answer session which preceded our Beltane initiation, the night most likely responsible for this new life lying beneath our hands. "What is its significance in the grand scheme of life?" he elaborates. "We know what Beltane was meant to signify: a renewal of life." His hand squeezes mine gently from where it rests on top of our secret marvel. "Obviously. But what do you know about the ancient celebrations for Midsummer?" Actually, I know quite a bit. And just as happened at Beltane, I can't resist the temptation to show off a bit. "Well, because it was believed that the sun was at its zenith on or about June 24th, it was celebrated as the longest day of the year." I struggle to paraphrase the words I had memorized so long ago in college, now coming back to me as if the classes I took as part of my study of ancient religions were only yesterday. "The sun was central to the Celtic activities surrounding the ritual year. At Midsummer the therapeutic value of the sun was aligned with the healing properties of water, and solar shrines would often be set up at healing springs, perceived as the mystical entryway to the Otherworld." I look up at the trees towering above our little circle of flowering shrubs. Oak, ash and hawthorn grow in abundance in this forest, and I remember that it was this combination that was often associated with the nocturnal activities of fairies and other wee folk of the night. Recounting now the legends of my ancestors, out here amid the abundance of nature in her summer mantle, I can certainly understand how the tales had caught hold of the people's imaginations and spread like wildfire, until they were regarded as truth unquestionable. "Tree worship played a vital role in the celebration," I continue, watching the shadows play on the sheltering leaves above us. "Oaks growing near wells were decorated with flowers and ribbons while the people danced around them, rejoicing in the renewal of life, in reverence for the power of nature." We are silent for a few moments, feeling our own reverence for the force of life which has brought our shared miracle to pass. "Did you know," Mulder interrupts my thoughts, "that your namesake, Danu, the Celtic Magna Mater who mothers the land, was also the goddess of pregnancy, ripening and the home?" I turn my head just enough to make eye contact with him and convey my surprise at his latent knowledge. "Yes, I did know, Mulder," I tell him, "but I'm surprised that you do. Since when did you become so knowledgeable about ancient pagan celebrations?" "Since Beltane," he tells me readily, and I question him no further. Of course he would have learned all he could on the subject, once I opened the door in such a fashion. I wonder if he has an ulterior motive for bringing up the subject tonight, if he plans to consummate the observance of Midsummer's Day the way we did back on May Eve. *Not if you don't want to.* I hear the thought as clearly as if it were voiced and send back an immediate mental assurance that I do. To make things crystal clear I push my bottom back into his crotch and smile to myself as I feel his immediate response. He begins to plant soft kisses against my hair, my ear, my neck and suddenly I can't bear to be so far away from his mouth. I turn in his arms and capture his lips with mine before he has a chance to recover. Our kiss is at once sweet and innocent, passionate and primal, and I want to spend the rest of my life honing this courtship ritual to a fine art. We finally come up for air and I immediately latch onto his ear, alternately suckling on the lobe and swirling my tongue around its edge. His body reacts fiercely and immediately and I hear a groan escape his lips that echoes off the trees. He catches my shoulders, pulls me away so that he can look at me straight on. "Scully," he says, his dear eyes dark and earnest, despite the trembling I feel in his fingertips. "Are you okay with this?" "*This* being what, Mulder?" I ask him, stroking his cheek, loving him with my eyes. "Being here, with you, in the forest, on the banks of a lazy river, with your arms around me and your child growing within me?" I see the shimmer of sudden tears in his eyes and long to kiss each one away before it falls. I put my lips to his eyes, tasting the moisture, warm and salty, and then I continue down his face, over his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose, down to the lips I love so much. I kiss him with all of the pent-up emotions I have held for so many weeks now, kissing away the hurt and the fear and the worry about what the future will bring. I kiss him for the sheer joy of it, and for the happiness it brings to me and to him, and in celebration of the fact that our love together has created...a child...*our* child. Something I never allowed myself to think would happen. "I'm SO okay with it, Mulder," I assure him when I finally release his mouth. "Show me, Mulder," I implore. "Show me that you are, too." "Scully," I hear him gasp a moment before his lips reclaim mine and I give myself up to the pure, unadulterated joy of making love to the man I love. Somehow we divest ourselves of our clothing and now lie together on the soft ground by the river's edge, petting each other, stroking, caressing, loving. He is careful and oh so tender with me, worshipping every inch of my skin with his hands and his lips, suckling at my nipples as the babe that grows within me will someday do. I hold his head against me, marveling at the exquisite sensations wrought by his mouth on my sensitive flesh. He leaves my breasts to rub his face against the small swell of my belly, closing his eyes as he seeks a connection with the life that awaits. When we finally come together we do so face to face, lying side by side, my right hand joined in his left hand, my left leg over his right hip and my free hand caressing the swell of his buttocks as he presses firmly but carefully within me. We rock together on the quilt beside the river, the sound of the cleansing water flowing past, the glow of the candles he has set providing a romantic luster to the proceedings, the surety of our love wrapping around us as surely as our bodies are entwined. And afterwards, lying in each other's arms, drunk with afterglow and joy, I see just out of the corner of my eye, a glimmer at the river's edge, shimmering with an ethereal light, dancing on the mist that rises from the rushing water. My fanciful thoughts turn to fairies, watching us as we are enveloped in our happiness, and I know first hand the warmth and life-giving energies of the Earth Mother Danu. Midsummer is a time of reverence, for life and for love, for the fruitfulness of the Earth and of the womb. Now, here, in this forest, beside this river, with this man, I have found my own reverence. And in that discovery I have likewise found my peace. And my hope for the future. Heart at peace, soul fulfilled, womb stretching with renewed fertility, I sleep. And am rewarded with the sweetest of Midsummer Night's dreams. End Feedback is greedily consumed at pbburks@bellsouth.net