She liked to dream about dancing with him.

She liked to think about his body pressed against
hers, her face in his chest, his arm wrapped around
her waist, their feet moving in unison to a slow, sexy
beat.

And then she laughed, picturing Mulder that way.

She couldn't help herself, though. Just the thought of
it made her toes curl.

It was silly, of course. Frivolous. Pointless. But it
helped sometimes, when she was trying to fall asleep
and she imagined that every sound in the background
was Duane Barry come back to take her away.

It was less childish than sleeping with a stuffed bear,
she supposed. A better ward against nightmares. And
safer than the other fantasies she sometimes had about
her partner, late at night. Darker, more intense fantasies.
Sensual. Visceral.

So she kept to the safer fantasy as often as possible,
holding it close to herself like a tiny treasure that only
she could ever consider valuable. Guarding it the way
it guarded her against the dark.

Sometimes, she could see it so clearly in her head, that
it was hard to believe it wasn't really happening. The vision
of him was startlingly crystal: the soft fall of brown hair on his
forehead, the quicksilver hazel eyes, the full lips, the small
mole on his cheek. He wore a tuxedo, of course -- if you
were going to fantasize, there was no sense in doing things
halfway. The formal wear hung on his rangy frame as if it
were tailor made for him, which of course it was.

She could never see quite as clearly what she was wearing;
it didn't occur to her that it mattered. A gorgeous gown,
something she would never wear and could never afford, that
was sufficient. Maybe something long, black, sleek, with a slit
up the side that would ordinarily make her blush. Or something
white, pure white, with a plunging neckline and a low back, so
that his fingers would have to brush her bare skin as they danced.

He would take her in his arms just as the band struck a deep, liquid,
moody number, a tale of love lost and dreams shattered. One hand
would clasp hers; the other would settle at her waist, warm against
her hip, and she would marvel at how right it seemed. Natural.

His body -- Dana got sidetracked whenever she considered his body.
His physique would be firm, warm, muscular. Full. Pressed against hers
so that their body heat mingled and caused a low flame to burn between
them, through their clothes to the skin beneath. His arm would tighten
around her as she gently pushed her pelvis against his, causing his groin
to press against her leg.

They would move slowly, in time with the beat, in perfect synchronized
harmony. She didn't have two left feet in her fantasies and neither did
Mulder, although she suspected someone as lithe as her partner wouldn't in
any case. She would allow him to lead, taking her through the motions,
swirling her across the parquet floor with such grace it didn't seem as if their
feet even touched the floor. The burning lights of the chandeliers blurred
into one bright flame and the people around them dissolved into a
multicolored smudge as he swept her along, holding her firmly, demanding
that her attention be on him, only him.

And then the music would slow even further, forcing their bodies to slow
too, into a lazy, languorous rhythm. They would both be flushed and
breathless from the dancing, and his eyes would sparkle as he looked down
at her. Even in her fantasies she found herself discomfited by his intense
gaze, the hunger she could see in his eyes. His hand stole up to the back of
her neck, playing with the ends of her hair, as his other hand pulled her even
closer to him, lining their bodies up so that not even air could get between
them.

His solidity was reassuring, terrifying, and undeniably male. She could feel
his breath in her hair, and she inclined her head so that she was resting against
his chest, the linen of his shirt scratchy against her cheek, his heart beating
strongly beneath her ear. She wrapped her arms around his waist and spread
her fingers over his broad back, feeling the back muscles through the cloth,
wondering what it would be like to feel them skin to skin.

Their feet were still moving in time to the music, but just barely, minuscule
motions back and forth to the languid, churning beat. She never thought of
a specific tune, just knew that the beat was in rhythm with their hearts and
caused them to sway with a timeless instinct she didn't even know she
possessed.

Then, his lips would brush against the top of her head, his fingers would
trace the line of her jaw, and he would tilt her head up slightly, ever so
slightly so that she was looking up at him, her eyes meeting his boldly,
more boldly than she ever could in the harsh light of day. Their heads
would move closer, ever so closer until finally their lips met, soft,
questing, unhurried. His lips were warm and pliant and somehow
familiar. She opened her mouth to him and his tongue filled her mouth,
sliding against her own, exploring, hot, wet. Time stood still as he held
her, no longer moving to the music, his hands traveling up her back and
then her neck until finally he cradled her face, his thumbs gently caressing
her cheeks while his body remained pressed against hers. Her hands
roamed across the expanse of his chest, her heartbeat quickened
until the blood pounded in her ears --

And then she would cut herself off from the dream. To go any further
was too heady, too dangerous to indulge in more than sparingly.
To go deeper would only excite and frustrate her until sleep was an
impossibility. So she held onto the final image of Mulder in her arms,
his mouth on hers, his hands cradling her face like she was made of fine
porcelain.

She curled up in a fetal position and held the vision close to her as she
finally drifted off to sleep, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

End.