TITLE: "My Ultimate Nightmare" AUTHOR: Kirsten Kerkhof * kirsten_xf@yahoo.com RATING: R CLASSIFICATION: Mulder-Scully Romance KEYWORDS: S A R H SUMMARY: Mulder, Scully and the 'flu SPOILERS: Tiny one for 'Arcadia'. Place in the X- Files universe: about season 6 DISCLAIMER: Not mine ... *sigh* ;-) I don't own 'Ghost' either, but I love the movie. Hope you're not too disappointed by the way I used it. FEEDBACK: Ah, you know it: a Mulder in a white jeans-shirt for those who write! ARCHIVING: At Gossamer, but I'll do that myself. Other archivers: of course, I'd be flattered! Just let me know where you sent the story, okay? I'd like to come and visit ... XxXxXxXxXxX How would you qualify a nightmare? No, truly, what would your nightmare, your worst possible dream be like? You must have one, everyone has got one, I know. I'm a friggin' psychologist, trust me on that. I know what my perfect nightmare from hell would be: a lifetime without my partner. It may sound sappy and corny, but seven years of partnership have taught me one thing and that is that I cannot do without her. Oh yeah, and that she's always, always on time. A late Dana Scully is a sick Dana Scully, is an injured Dana Scully, is a possibly dead Dana Scully. And voilą: my second nightmare. Or nightmare number one a, as it's probably part of nightmare number one. Whatever. Anyway, I always dread the days when she's late. Five minutes are enough to consider calling 911, hell, five seconds late and I'll be climbing the walls with worry. If she knew that about me she'd use it against me once. Perhaps. After all, she's not inherently evil. She was late last week. In fact she failed to show up at work at all. Must have cost me at least two fingernails and my no-claim with the thou-shalt-not-attack-and-mortally-wound-your- superior insurance company. I backed off only after they threatened me with prison terms and lawsuits in excess of ten million dollars. So sue me ... After that I decided to go to Scully. If someone was going to rip my heart out with the horror of finding her dead I might as well do it myself and spare others the bloody images. As I drove down to Georgetown my treacherous mind came up with images I will not, cannot repeat here. Let's just say that the majority of them involved seeing my partner lying lifelessly on the floor of her apartment, the afore- mentioned floor covered in various amounts of her blood and intestines, depending on the image. Guess that says enough about my grasp on reality. Or rather, why on earth didn't I think of the 'flu which had the city firmly in its grasp at that moment? Maybe because I couldn't imagine that someone like Scully would actually fall victim to something as normal, as down-to- earth, as vulgar as the 'flu. It was just not possible. Not her, not Dana Scully. Anyway, I don't think anyone apart from me would have survived the hyper heart beat or the inhumanly high blood pressure I went through ... But maybe we should go back in time a couple of days. Much as I loathe reliving that day, or at least the first bit of it, I'm sure it will make things much clearer for everyone. XxXxX I walk into the office, expecting Scully to be there, but she isn't. A glance at the office clock tells me I'm actually an incredible fifteen minutes early and she'll probably be walking in any second now. Time for coffee. Which, of course, is time for coffee for everyone. Why they don't install more than two machines on a floor of twenty-five-plus people is beyond me. I know, I know, it's more than enough during the rest of the day, but not first thing in the morning when everyone is cranky and in dire need of caffeine to get the brain cells started. When I finally get to the machine I get Scully a cup too. I don't want to make her go through this as well. She's hell on wheels until she has had her coffee and she'd be tempted to take hostages if it was taking her too long. Can't risk that, now can we? I spot the clock on the wall back to the office and I figure she has arrived by now. Great! I've got this new X-File and I'm dying to investigate it. Okay, bad choice of words, but you get the idea. "Hey, Scully, I brought you coffee too!" I say cheerfully, knowing that nothing is better to get her mood up than a cup of steaming hot coffee. I'm met by nothing but silence. There is no sign of Dana Scully, only the twilight of our basement office. What on earth is going on here? The coffee goes forgotten as my worst fears grin maliciously in my face. What the hell has happened here? Where is my partner? I decide to give her another fifteen minutes, reasoning that maybe she got stuck in a traffic jam or something. I cheat time in the end, it's not yet ten minutes later when I take the phone -- actually for the twelfth time -- and dial her number. Three rings and then the machine picks up. I don't know whether that's a good sign or not. BEEP "Hey, Scully, it's me. I'm probably getting worked up over nothing, but I got worried when I found out you weren't here yet. Erm, call me, okay? You know, to calm my nerves ..." Mmmm, bit too desperate maybe, but she'll understand. Of course now I need to give her time to react and call me back. Or come to work -- after all she'd still be no more than about twenty minutes late -- or something. Maybe she has a meeting with Skinner I'm not aware of. Or maybe it's something else entirely ... I try to concentrate on the X-File I was so enthusiastic about, but somehow it's lost all its appeal. It's true, the X-Files have no colour, no spice in them when she's not there to share the experience with me. I decide to call her cell-phone. I risk her being pissed with me because of this, everything is better than this not knowing. But she doesn't answer her phone, in fact, it's not even on, which means she's not on her way to work. Something is wrong, it must be. My Scully wouldn't switch off her phone -- or, considering it's only half past seven, keep it switched off - - knowing how easily she can frighten me by being unreachable. Okay, enough is enough. I'm going over to her place and find out. The only alternative I've got to this plan is going stark raving mad with worry, which isn't very beneficial to the work that needs to be done either. Not to mention the state of my nerves naturally. I try and reach her one last time. The machine answers again. "Scully, if you're still there, please answer the phone," I say, a bit surprised at the desperate intonation of my words. She doesn't answer. All right, that's it. I'm going over. I yank my coat from the coat hanger and leave the office. Something is wrong and I need to know what it is. XxXxX I knock on her door, but she doesn't answer it. What's going on here? Her car was parked in front of the building so she must still be home, and I tried her cell-phone at least four times on the way here, but no sign of Dana Scully. If she wants to get me to eat my shoes with worry for a kick, she has to continue like this. As far as she wasn't already aware of it, she has just discovered the fail-proof way to drive one Fox Mulder completely nuts. Luckily we have keys to each other's apartments and it's in times like these that they serve their purpose well. I carefully open the door and glance inside. It's dark inside, with just one lamp being lit on the far end of her apartment, casting more shadows than light in the room. "Scully?" No answer. Shit ... I close the door behind me and walk toward the bedroom. Then, from the corner of my eye, I notice a form on the couch, curled up in a little ball. Quickly I walk up to it. It's Dana Scully, looking frightfully much like she's dead. My heart lurches into my throat and panic takes over every little bit of sane sensible thought I had. Oh God, no, she can't be ... A quick check-over proves that I've been over-reacting again and that she is indeed not dead, but that she has the 'flu, my least probable worry. Least probable because I could easily imagine a shot Dana Scully, or a stabbed Dana Scully or an otherwise murdered Dana Scully, but a Dana Scully with the 'flu is something so normal it's simply not in my realm of thinking. "Mulder, is that you?" she says softly. She sounds ill, I think, then kick myself for this highly educated thought. Yay, smart thought, Fox, guess that required the six years of psych- training at Oxford, didn't it? "Scully, you okay?" I ask, kneeling down by her side. Her skin is pale and sweaty and she generally looks miserable. "I think ... I think I've got the 'flu ..." she says. I nod. "Yes, you have," I say gently. "I heard you call, but I didn't have the strength to answer it," she whispers, curling up a little bit more. I'm overwhelmed by an urge to protect her, she just looks so damn vulnerable, and I have to fight my desire to scoop her up in my arms and hold her, protect her, make her better and bring her back to the Scully I know. Because, to be quite honest, this is scaring the shit out of me ... My Scully is never vulnerable, it doesn't suit her at all. Hell, she's a thousand times stronger and braver than I am, and I just don't know how to handle a situation like this. "Why don't you go back to bed, Scully?" I say. She shakes her head weakly. "I can't," she murmurs, "I can't move ..." Oh Scully ... I decide to give in to my desire to hold her. Something deep inside me, something ancient and profoundly human is knocking on the inside of my skull, waking me up from my professional madness and urging me to take care of her. For God's sake it's the least a man can do for his best friend. Her foetal position leaves me more than enough space on the couch to sit down and then I lift her up and into my arms. She feels hot and clammy and very light. She's dressed for work I notice, and I also notice she's put on her make-up, now tragically ruined by the sweat and possible tears, and the way her sweaty hair was no doubt coifed to perfection but which the influenza spoiled into a damp mess. It's clear she tried her hardest to ignore the signs of the fever, but discovered that this illness wouldn't let itself be ignored. She seems happy to be in my arms and I am definitely glad to have her here. It's only now, while having a sick but basically unhurt Dana Scully in my arms, that I realise fully just how incredibly scared I've been. I don't tell her that, though, she's miserable enough as she is, it's no use getting her concerned over something so basically mine. "Mulder, can you get me something for this?" she asks softly, nestling in my arms a bit more. "Some medication, you mean?" She nods. "I tried to get some myself, but I couldn't get up." I smile. "Sure." I lie her down on the couch and walk over to the bathroom where she keeps her medicine cabinet. Of course that faces me with another tiny problem: this woman's medicine cabinet would be the envy of any medium-sized hospital and finding something as mundane as painkillers/flu-repellent will be tough to find. But I'm lucky, finding the Paracetamol almost immediately. Then a glass of water and I'm back to Scully. Sitting up she gratefully accepts the pills and the water. "Thanks," she whispers weakly, trying very hard to smile, but it looks like she's really just too ill to do it. She nudges her way back into my arms and I gladly invite her there. She really feels great, even being ill and all that. We fall silent. She doesn't seem to be in any condition or mood for a case discussion and as for myself, I don't really want to talk either. I pull her a bit closer and her hand creeps up my dress shirt and under my suit jacket, coming to rest on my chest next to her face. The devil inside me, that little demon voice which has been tormenting me all my life and which will one day be the end of me, tries its hardest to make me think about my fears, about the terror I went through this morning, but I refuse to let it have its evil ways. Scully is fine, I found her unhurt and whole, save for that tiny issue of the 'flu, and for the moment I will not think about it. Of course, deciding not to think about something is probably the most impossible thing to do ... Then my eye falls on something near the television and I can't help laughing. "Scully, have you been watching 'Ghost'?" I ask. The video case lies open next to the VCR, a tell-tale sign of her 'crime'. She cranes her neck to look up at me and, Jesus Christ, even with a temperature of 39.7 and everything, she still manages The Look. "It's a good movie, Mulder. Whoopi Goldberg won an Oscar for her part," she says, but I just grin. "Yeah, and it features Patrick Swayze in his good years," I reply, feeling and probably looking extremely smug at my insight in her character. Well, women's character to be honest, and Scully, with all her professionalism and degrees out the yin yang, still enjoys the occasional swoon over Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise. That's okay. It's sweet in a way. She chuckles a bit. It's weak, but she sounds definitely amused. I like it. I want to make her laugh. I constantly want to make her laugh, she looks and sounds so gorgeous when she laughs. She really doesn't laugh often enough and as laughter is healthy too, she could use some of that now. "Yeah, sort of," she says very softly. She rubs her cheek over my chest, humming a bit and the sound travels straight down my body. I refuse to let my body act out its treacherous little tricks. "But honestly, Mulder, would you come back and haunt me?" Would I come back and haunt her? Yes, I probably would. But to haunt sounds so negative. And if I'd come back to her it would never be something negative. But I would come back I think. "If I'd be able to I think I would," I answer, rubbing her arms, forgetting for a second that the 'flu has rendered her skin hypersensitive. She winces and I stop immediately. How could I have been so stupid? She nods. "Yeah, I would, too." Then she smiles. "Though I'd try my hardest to find a bit better a medium than Whoopi Goldberg's character." I smile. "Yeah, me too." She trails her fingertips over my chest. Is she so ill that she doesn't realise what she's doing to me or is she being immensely cruel? Because she has to know the effect of these gossamer touches ... "And then, when you'd be back with me, what would you do?" she asks. I shrug. "I don't know," I answer. "I haven't given it much thought really. Any thought to be exact. What would you do?" "Don't know," she says. "I might come back to the office while you'd be absent and rearrange your X-Files. Give them a proper order." I grimace. Ouch ... "You wicked wicked woman!" She smiles, snuggling up closer to me. "I'd stay around though," she continues, her voice gentler now, "you know, to watch over you. You can use someone to do that for you." I smile, softly stroking my hand over her arms and back. "Always. And I'm glad I've got someone who's doing that right now instead of having to wait for that someone to die." She nods. "So, what would you do if you could haunt me?" I think for a moment. There is only one thing I can think of. "I'd leave you alone, let you live your life without me messing it up any further," I answer softly. It's a sad answer, but it's the truth. She's silent for some time. And when she speaks again she sounds like crying. "Don't say something as sad as that, Mulder, I'm feeling too emotional right now ..." "You don't want me to leave you alone, Scully?" She shakes her head. "No, I don't, Mulder. I want you with me every step of the way." I'm struck silent. "You do?" I whisper. It sounds so good. It sounds too good. Far too good to be true. She nods. "Yes, I do," she whispers. Now this is offering me a whole new perspective. "Then maybe I'd stick with you, but stay a bit on the background. Try not to crowd you or interfere with your life too much," I say. I'm touched by the idea that she wants me with her but I still know she'd be so much better off without me. "Oh, Mulder, you can interfere with my life as much as you want," she sighs. My answer is to hug her a bit closer. We are silent for a while. I don't know what she's thinking or whether she's thinking at all, but I myself am still trying to figure out how this revelation is supposed to fit into my miserable excuse for a life. Yes, a revelation, that's what it is. A honest-to-God revelation. I, Fox Mulder, am wanted. How about that for an ego-boost, huh? "How are you feeling?" I ask, not showing her my thoughts, or at least trying my hardest not to. "Better. TLC and Paracetamol. It's a winning formula," she quips mildly and I smile. "Uh-uh, I know. Works wonders, too, when you're shot or drugged by the government." She chuckles. "Yes, it does." She yawns. "I am sleepy though. Didn't get much in the sense of sleep last night." "Been hugging the toilet bowl?" I say and she nods. "Yeah ..." I frown. "Why didn't you call me?" "I thought I'd be fine," she answers. "I thought I'd make it to work today. I knew you had that X-File to show me and I didn't want to miss it. To disappoint you." "Scully, that X-File could've waited," I answer. "Besides, it's not that good anyway." "Yes, it is," she answers gently . "Judging from the way you've been kissing Skinner's ass all week long, I knew it had to be good." "I have not been kissing Skinner's ass," I protest, trying hard not to laugh. "Oh yes, you have. Actually, he asked me what was going on, you got him all suspicious," she says and I hear the smile in her voice. "What is the X-File about?" I have to think quickly now. She shouldn't be worrying about work right now, she should be in bed. "It's about a Special Agent for the FBI actually," I think up, "who has come down with a nasty case of the 'flu and whose partner is too stubborn to tell her about the case they were going to investigate, but who is going to take his wonderful partner to bed with the promise not to leave her side unless she wants him to and who will not talk about aliens or mutants or monsters until she's fit enough to deal with them. One hell of a case, you'll have to admit, won't you, Scully?" "Oh, yeah," she smiles, "and I can't wait to start investigating." "All right then," I say, getting up from the couch and scooping her up in my arms, carrying her to her bedroom. "Let's get the investigation under way!" I seem to remember thinking that this vulnerability didn't suit her, how off-character it was for her, but I think I've been wrong there. I think that, despite the fact that this softness, this vulnerability only shines through when she's ill or otherwise more open to her emotions, it still is a side of her that suits her. It's just not her Scully-side, it's her Dana-side. This is Dana Katherine Scully, sister and daughter. Woman. Instead of Special Agent Scully MD, consummate professional. I like it ... When we reach the bed I lie her down -- and face a whole new problem. Or set of problems: how on earth am I ever going to get my partner, my gorgeous partner, out of her clothes and ready for bed and still maintain a cool professional exterior? Shit, just thinking like this is getting me into trouble. Actually, I've been fighting myself as long as I had her in my arms, her perfect body so close to me. "Scully, erm, you think you can manage to undress by yourself?" I ask, turning around for modesty's sake. Much as I'd enjoy an impromptu striptease, it is not the right time for that now and I know it. I receive no answer so I turn back again. And find out that my worries have been rather redundant. She's fast asleep. Oh, Scully ... Carefully I take off her pumps -- how she can run and keep up with me wearing these two- inch heels is simply beyond me -- and unbutton and remove her suit jacket. I'm not going any further now, but that tailored jacket seemed too confining to contribute to a comfortable night's sleep. Then I sit down on the bed and look at her. Really look at her, marvelling in watching her sleep. It's so relaxing and still so intense and intimate and I love it. I lie down beside her to be able to watch her even closer. I love the way her eyelashes rest on her cheeks and the way her lips are just the slightest bit apart. I could watch her sleep for hours and hours and never grow tired of it. I smile and touch her cheek, wiping a bead of sweat away. She's still feverish and that's not going to go away for another few days to come. She's still beautiful though. How does she do it? I love her, I suddenly think and that thought refuses to leave my head. I do love her, more than anything or anybody I've ever known, more than life itself. That's where this nightmare came from, that's why I was so utterly terrified when I couldn't reach her. I love her and I couldn't stand the thought of losing her. She's so incredibly important to me ... I softly stroke her cheek. "I love you, you know," I say softly. "I think I've loved you since the day we met." I have no idea whether she has heard me at all or not, but her hand comes up and covers my hand which is on her cheek. And then all thoughts of leaving her tonight are wiped from my head. Screw the rules, but I'm not leaving my partner's side tonight. XxXxX As a child I used to be able to control my nightmares. That's how often I was plagued by them, I'd actually devised a way to deal with them and control them. It wasn't very hard, you know, you just had to know what signs to look for. A nightmare would start out as any normal dream, but a real nightmare would change at a certain point. All the images would be twisted around like a tornado and that would be my cue to become actively involved: waking up now would mean never knowing what was going to happen but I'd be able to sleep again that night, or letting the dream continue, knowing it was going to be absolutely terrifying and going to cost me the rest of the night, but in the knowledge of knowing how this dream/ nightmare was going to end. This innate curiosity has cost me several nights of sleep, I can assure you. When I grew up and joined the FBI I thought little would have changed concerning the control I had over my nightmares. Of course I was wrong, how dense can a man be ... But this particular nightmare proved to have a happy ending of sorts. I mean, obviously I'd had control over it as well, but not like it used to be. Whatever. I called her mom the next morning and Margaret was by her daughter's side in less than two hours. I could see from the expression on Scully's face that this solution was rather a mixed blessing and I've known her mom long enough to know what she meant by that. Margaret Scully is a lovely woman, but she tends to get a little bit over-protective when she thinks you're in dire need of that. On the other hand I don't think I should be saying a great deal when it comes to being over-protective, but okay. Anyway, her mom nursed her back to health in no time -- and I got to spend lonely hours fighting my conscience: I'd told Scully I loved her. And just how much of that would she return? Oh, I know I love her. I do. I'm not saying these things to just anybody, and I surely would never have said them to Scully if I hadn't been 100% sure about myself. It's just ... how does she feel about me? She must love me to a certain extent, that's only too clear to see. This kind of caring, of devotion to a person so far beyond the call of duty, this kind of electricity, that simply cannot be one-sided. But I love her like text-book lovers are wont to do -- and considering just how remotely text-book I am that is quite an achievement --, like settling down and have 2.5 kids. Ouch, painful thought. And we're not the cute house, white picket fence sort of people. We tried it once as an undercover assignment and it turned out to be the greatest fiasco of my entire life. Arcadia indeed ... But I don't know whether she loves me that way too. And basically I'm too much of a coward to try and find out, I guess. There has to be a neat psychological label for that, but in simple layman's terms I might as well call it cowardice ... She's coming back to work today. She called me last night, saying that her mom had left and that she'd be in first thing in the morning. I'm glad, I missed her. Yes, I missed her. How, you may ask? Well, being the total loser that I am I hardly visited her during the past few days, and besides her mom was constantly hovering around us so we didn't have much in the sense of privacy anyway. I can't imagine what she must be thinking, I don't want to imagine it. Thinking about that reminds me of my college period when I handed in a report more than two years late. God, I'll never forget the shame and humiliation I felt when I finally did hand it in. But it was that kind of uncertainty, that feeling of knowing that you need the mark for that report to be able to graduate, but not knowing whether your professor is even going to bother reading it because you're so god-damn late. It's hell on earth. Yeah, maybe that would be my new nightmare, I could do with a new one, feeling like the utter masochistic bastard I can be. I take a deep breath and prepare to embark on the quest for coffee, battling the other grumpy, semi-sleeping Special Agents whose alleged intelligence has decided to send their 3D holographic image in to work and stay in bed a bit longer. 'Night of the Living Dead' had more energetic lead characters than the Federal Bureau of Investigation at 6.45 in the morning ... She's right on time. Isn't it great to know things are back to normal? "Hi, Mulder." I smile widely. "Morning, Scully," I say, walking up to her. "I got you coffee." She smiles back at me, her smile a bit more beaming than it used to be. At least I think it is, but I may be imagining it. My confession that I love her has made the whole world just that tiny bit brighter. That's something even my doubts won't hide. She walks over to her part of the office and puts away her briefcase, purse and coat. Then she walks back to me. "Mulder, I've been thinking," she says, and she's no longer smiling. "Er, okay, what have you been thinking about?" I ask, bracing myself for the seemingly inevitable. I knew it! I knew she'd never return my feelings. I can't blame her either. After all, and let's be reasonable now, who could ever love a guy whose main thrill in life seems to be to get you hurt or killed because of his insane urges to find the truth about extraterrestrials? I look at her. She seems a bit nervous. Don't be, Scully, whatever you have to say I'm sure I can take it. After all, nothing you can say would be less than the wisest thing for you to do. Just don't tell me you've just handed in your resignation or requested a transfer. I can live without your love, but I cannot do without your presence. "These past few days have given me ample time to think," she says softly, her big blue eyes looking up at me. "And I have been thinking a lot. You, erm, you surprised me a bit by telling me that you loved me ..." "Well, slip of the tongue, I guess," I sigh. "But you were serious, weren't you?" I nod. "I was. That's not something I'm in the habit of saying to just everyone." She smiles. "I know." We fall silent. I can feel the nervous tension crackling between us and it's getting sickening. I want to have it over with so we can go on with our lives. "What is it, Scully? What have you decided?" She looks at me again and I feel how she takes my hand in hers. "I just thought ... I don't really want to wait until I'm dead before I can have you with me every step of the way ..." I'm struck silent by the possible implications of these words. "You mean to tell me that you love me, too?" She smiles and nods. "Yes. Yes, I do. I think I've loved you for a long long time." She takes a deep breath. "Just never got round to telling you though ..." I feel exhilarated by this news. But then, of course, black realisation kicks in. "But I'm so dangerous, Scully, I'm a walking time bomb. I don't want to see you get hurt or killed because of me ..." Her free hand cups my jaw. Her hand is so light and cool and dry. "Mulder, I've been considering that, but I know that doesn't really bother me all that much. I want you. Simple as that." I smile. "You do?" She smiles widely back and nods. "Yeah." We keep standing there, not moving an inch. Don't ask me why. We just keep looking at each other, smiling, holding hands. Oh brother, I'm going all mushy now ... "Come," she says softly, "show me that X- File you've got." We let go of each other's hands and I walk over to the file cabinet. And then the Mulder- devil inside me decides to play one last prank on me: "Hey, Scully, can I kiss your ass next time?" She shoots me a look of death and destruction -- or rather, she tries her best, but doesn't pull it off. She realises it and begins to laugh. "Of course, Mulder, as long as you pay attention to the rest of me as well ..." I groan involuntarily. "You wicked woman," I say, but she just smiles. "Oh, Mulder, you don't know half of it yet," she replies and I realise I'm terrifyingly close to losing my professional hold on reality. XxXxX Only one week ago I thought I'd found the ultimate nightmare. And at the time it certainly was, no doubt about that. But somehow the situation which scared the living daylights out of me then, has turned into heaven itself one week later. Suppose life is full of surprises. We're in Iowa at the moment. In a motel I found which is actually slightly better than the fleabags we usually stay in. At least the beds don't smell like they've been used as furniture for temporary dog shelters ... The X-File which I'd been so enthusiastic about gradually turns out to be a complete waste of time, but I don't think that's really my main concern at the moment. The door to the bathroom opens and Scully walks out. "Scully, those foxes we found with their heads chopped off, what do you think is to blame for that?" I ask, lying back on the bed. Nice bed, by the way. Very nice bed. She shrugs and lets the big white towel drop to the floor. Thank you, Jesus ... "I don't know," she says. "There were a couple of witnesses though, maybe we should interrogate them." I smile as she smoothly moves into my arms. I let my fingertips tickle her skin in a way I've quickly learnt is going to turn out very good for both of us. "Yeah, tomorrow," I whisper, seeing how her body reacts to my touches. I'm entranced. She nods and smiles. "Tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow sounds good ..." THE END So, what did you think? Let me know, okay? kirsten_xf@yahoo.com Kirsten Kerkhof The Netherlands, 10-3-2000 (c)