Title: Seduced

Author: cratkinson

Category: MSR, V

Rating: PG

Archive: Yes, please just let me know where.

Spoilers: None

Feedback: Yes, please.

Summary: What is it about Mulder?

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He has seduced me.

Expertly, quietly, unconsciously even. Not with candy or flowers or

compliments. Any man could use these to seduce a woman. But my seducer is

not just any man. And his greatest tool is his knowledge that I am not just

any woman.

He has seduced me.

Slowly - so slowly. Slowly enough that I can't, looking back, pinpoint the

moment that I felt it. The knowledge grew in me like a planted seed. Even

now I can only see the green stem and the tender bud. The flower is still a

mystery.

He has seduced me.

Not with small talk or elegant dinners or money well spent, but with big

talk and midnight take-out and glimpses of his soul. And maybe more

important, glimpses of mine. He is unlike any man I have ever known. He

has let me see his fears, his weaknesses, his passion and dedication, and

then has asked me for mine.

He has seduced me.

With respect. What an intoxicating drug that is. To be respected by

someone you respect. His is not easily given, making its being given to me

that much more valuable. He does not respect me in order to seduce me, but

I am seduced by his respect.

He has seduced me.

With his laughter, infrequent enough that it still has the power to shock

me, to send my heart pounding. Too infrequent, considering the

transformation of his face when he is laughing. Eyes sparkling, white teeth

exposed, laugh lines parenthesizing his mouth and a lightness of spirit that

our work and our life don't often tolerate. His laughter can lighten my

heart, infuriate me, give me hope and it can make me burn.

He has seduced me.

With looks that are more than the exchange of glances or the long gaze of

lovers, but are bone deep searches of my heart. His beautiful eyes can be

blank and cold, showing nothing of his feelings or emotions, guarding his

most vulnerable places. But when he is looking at me like *that*, they are

warm and deep and expose everything inside him. That look, sometimes

lasting just a moment before he closes the curtain behind his eyes, is fuel

for my fire.

He has seduced me.

Not with his beauty, although he is beautiful, but with physical elements

that have captured my imagination and that I recreate in the silence of late

nights. His mouth. Chewing on the pad of his thumb when reading, his

fingers tugging on his bottom lip or brushing across his chin. The little

boy's pout with the strength and sensuality of the man.

And his hands - an artist's hands. A musician's hands. Long slender

fingers, not delicate but elegant. I occasionally catch myself listing the

bones of the human hand while watching him, enjoying the smooth mechanics of

bone, muscle and tendon beneath his skin. I dredge up memories of when

those hands have touched me and imagine them moving over me with a lover's

insight.

His shoulders, wide and straight. I like them when he wears suits, or

sweaters, or his crisp shirts, but I especially like his shoulders when he

wears t-shirts, their strength not disguised or hidden from my hungry view.

The smell of him. Not the morning smell of toothpaste, aftershave and soap,

although these are pleasant, but the afternoon smell of him. Warm and

distinct and utterly his. The smell that is fading from the t-shirt I

accidently packed into my bag on a trip and have never given back. I want

to trade it for one he has just taken off, so I can have not just his smell,

but his heat in my hands.

And his simple physical presence. I've grown so accustomed to it that I

can't work well in our office without him there. I need the sound of his

breathing in order to keep breathing myself. I know when he turns a page or

moves his mouse. I know when he yawns or stretches. I know when he is

looking at me even when he thinks he's being careful. I know when he reads

something he's excited about. I am so aware of him that I'm sure he'll feel

my awareness like threads tugging at him when he moves.

He has seduced me.

Not with the eager caresses of lust or the hesitant touches of romance but

with the solid strong touches of friendship and love. He has touched me so

many ways - in excitement, in sympathy, in comfort, in courtesy, in fear, in

relief, in support, even in anger. I have thought that I would get used to

his touch, but each touch from this man has significance. Touching has

become our shorthand. In those times that we had things to say but could

not say them, touch has been all we needed. A hand clasped, hair brushed

back, a touch on the cheek and occasionally the long, strong, delicious

length of a hug.

He has seduced me.

I have known men before him. I have even loved men before him. But no man

has ever known me like he does. He doesn't just catalog my likes and

dislikes or simply listen to me talk. This man knows what I am saying when

I am silent. He often knows me better than I know myself, and he has never

used that knowledge against me. He knows the ugly things in my heart, the

things that I occasionally lash myself with, and he loves me anyway. Not in

spite of the ugly things, but as part of what makes me who I am.

He has seduced me.

The most seductive thing that he has done is to let me know him as well as

he knows me. Trust is a terrifying thing to grant and a heady, heavy thing

to hold. I value this gift over any I have ever received. I understand the

significance of his often reiterated trust in me, not just with his life or

his secrets, but with his very soul. Sometimes, in a quiet moment alone, I

take this treasure out of its safe place in my heart and carefully unwrap

it, turning it over and over in my mind, relishing the beauty and truth of

it. Then I put it tenderly back in its place and enjoy the weight of it in

my chest.

He has seduced me.

It is not intentional. It is not a game. He has not seduced me in order to

possess me or to conquer me. He just is. And I am seduced.

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