No Quarter Given III: Surrender by Mish
No Quarter Given III: Surrender
by Mish - [email protected]
Classification: SA, MSR, post-ep for 'En Ami'
Rating: NC-17, for sexually explicit scenes. No kiddies, please!
Archive: Just drop me a line and it's yours.
Disclaimer: Bare bones - not mine. Though I wish they were.
Summary: It can only end in mutual surrender.
Third in the 'No Quarter Given' series.
Author's notes at end.
"There are certain words - ecstasy,
abandon,
surrender - we can wait all our lives,
sometimes,
not so much to use,
as to use correctly"
~ Carl Phillips
... Surrender ...
"For a moment, I saw something else in him." Her words are soft and bordering on compassionate. "A longing for something more than power. Maybe for something he could never have."
Lingering anger rises up in him at the easy way she allows herself to feel for a man who has done nothing but hurt them. And here he is, a man who's almost gone crazy with worry at her whereabouts, who's done things for her he'd never do for anyone else... who's gone to the end of the world to save her from the very same son-of-a-bitch she is bestowing her sympathy upon.
"I'd say he got what he wanted," he snarls, though he knows she is speaking in more benevolent terms. But he can't help himself, the stress of the last few days - the last few years - catching up with him in a heartbeat.
Eyes filled with unfocused confusion meet his.
"What?"
"I can't believe this pity for a man who, in all likelihood, wanted..." You, he wants to say. As if every man in her sphere harbors a secret desire for her body. More so, they lust after her mind, seethe with unfulfilled yearning for her heart. Just as he does.
He has no business bringing up the past, especially a time when they'd both said and done things they later regretted. But he's damned tired of avoiding the subject. His world has changed so much in the past six months and this is one last thing between them that needs to be discussed. This trip of hers has brought back memories of another search - one where he found her, only to lose once again. "Developed a taste for cigarettes again, Scully?"
Her stricken look makes his jaw clench over his jealousy. She recovers quickly, however, arms crossed with defensive ire. "Say what you really mean, Mulder. I just had a weekend of double-talk and I'm damned tired of it."
She's tired of it? A mental picture of himself throttling her is tamped down as he replies, "Think before you do something like this again, Scully. I was scared, all right? And you running off without me was...." Anger and worry are familiar; he'd thought when she'd run off to New Orleans he had been scared.
That's nothing like this - every time he'd closed his eyes the past two days he could see her lifeless body washed up on the banks of the Potomac. "It was fucking stupid."
She blanches at his language and bites back, "Oh, like you've never done that to me? Besides, I told you I was okay."
She's right, but he's so incensed he can't think straight, dismissing her logic with a cold, "An 'I'm fine' via Skinner didn't exactly set me at ease, you know. Especially when I knew you were with him."
That gets him a red-faced, "I told you about the tape. If you'd gotten it, you would have known where I was."
"Yeah, well that would have kept me warm for the next fifty years," he sneers, not realizing just how much he's revealed with those sarcastic words until they are already hanging in the air.
"As opposed to me?" Soft, deadly and precise.
"Excuse me, Mulder, but I think we need to clear up a few things."
"Such as?" he asks with false bravado, too late for back-tracking.
"Such as the fact that I am not your possession. My life is my own, Mulder. Not yours, not anyone's."
He comes within millimeters of completing the testament of so long ago. It's there on the tip of his tongue, the hesitant, "It's my life, too." He knows her life isn't his and he doesn't want to assume anything.
The desire to take her in his arms and show her they are tied together by more than the bonds of partnership is pressing against his temples with the throbbing need to surface. But her reaction would be defensive, to say the least. Instead, all will to fight suddenly gone from him, he tentatively ventures, "And if I find that I want it to be mine as well?"
There it is, he thinks. The first honest, sober step since his stumbling confession that summer - another personal incident they'd largely ignored. The time for sweeping it all under the carpet is gone, however.
He waits. And waits. She half-turns, stiff and unresponsive, squinting against the sunset's dying rays.
And still says nothing.
Turning, he walks away, his long strides creating distance between them as she shouts his name. It's not his name he wants to hear. Her silence already spoke volumes.
The cigarettes are familiar, and he can remember the exact day he gave them up for good. The day Diana left for Europe, taking the last vestige of normal life with her. They used to share a smoke after dinner, a smoke after sex, a smoke over files.
Somehow, he didn't feel like doing that once she'd gone. He settles back and lights one up, taking a long drag.
He can see why this was part of the package; it's a rush like no other. Not as mind-bending as sex, but definitely stirring, like pricking your brain with a thousand needles. Did Scully share a smoke with Spender? Light up with the old bastard in an effort to draw him out? He knows the addiction is always lying under the surface, ready to spring up at the slightest temptation.
He knows she would stop short of - God, he can't even think it, it's so repulsive. Information, even the secrets of the world, aren't that important to her.
But looking at her in that empty office, her eyes soft with hurt... he realized then that the old man managed to touch a part of her that has always been hidden.
He wants to be the one to touch that part of her.
He saw it once, so briefly it's hard to imagine it really happened. But it did, and he knows it's time to try again. There won't always be the opportunity.
Sitting back on the wrought-iron chair, he waits and thinks of chances missed. Of what ifs, of what could have been said... of what was said but not heard.
... futility ...
The Oncology Ward was deathly still at that time of night. He'd spent hours walking and thinking, doing the wannabe hero dance. Cancerman's offer, while flatly rejected outright, was so tempting. Using Samantha to draw him in nearly broke him. Not so long ago, he'd told Scully he'd do anything for her. But he'd never imagined that his promise of anything could possibly include betrayal of his very ideals.
His solemn figure walked through the door as she slept, the beacon of her hair guiding him to her side, where he brushed her ashen face with his fingers.
Softly, with a feathery touch so as not to wake her.
The cancer had taken its toll, the bruises under her eyes speaking of the unspeakable strain on her body and soul. He felt the anguish begin to build in his chest and he fell to his knees in supplication.
Why her?
The question repeated in his tortured mind over and over as the tears welled up and overflowed, dropping in hot pellets from his cheek to her hand. His mouth opened, intending to let it go, let the scream erupt from deep within, but at the last second, he held it in check, instead whispering a vow he heard not long ago.
"I am to my beloved as my beloved is to me...."
.... his tears spent, his love spoken, he took a deep breath and gave her hand one last kiss and knew he wouldn't take the deal. She believed in him and until she was gone, he would do nothing to shatter her trust. Nothing, though he once thought he could do anything.
His arrogance sickened him.
Cigarettes are a bitch, he decides. Just like dying. With disdain, he crushes the smoke into the ashtray.
And lights another. So he won't die today. Still plenty of time for that. Though he may become a bit battered and bruised at the promise of the next Battle of New Orleans, courtesy of Dana Scully.
Patrick is gone, but the hotel remains. Still the same; perfect in its cracked plaster walls and bleached stone parapets. Never changing, slowly disintegrating in the humidity while man fights to keep it alive. It's made for hiding sin and exorcising demons.
He sits and wonders when she'll arrive. It's not like he took special pains to conceal his whereabouts. A quick phone call to Skinner, requesting some time off, then a cryptic email to her, and he is in New Orleans.
Not the same exact room - that would have been too creepy, even for him. But he can see it across the courtyard. If he squints hard enough, he imagines he can see the ghosts of a man and woman on the dark balcony. One dying, though she didn't know it, striving to feel alive.
The other, stupidly giving her what she wanted, asking for one thing in return. Unspoken, but there. And like always, arriving a hair short of his goal.
He remembers it all, though it's been buried for three years. They were different people then - friends, most certainly. But they circled each other with wary apprehension, only coming together for one night. A pact was forged in that damp, dark room. One that's survived to this day. Promises made to never let that night surface, though he's found it very difficult at times.
... encroachment ...
"Let's just say it ends with you doing the naked pretzel with the 'Stranger' in an unfurnished fourth floor apartment." Vivid flashes of the two of them rose up in an angry haze and his next words were biting, as he knew just how very capable she was of losing control. "I'm assuming that's 'a priori' too?"
Her eyes darted away; he saw the memory envelop her as well. She had the grace to flush, which gave him some amount of reassurance. "I think you know me better than that, Mulder."
He did, which was why he asked in the first place.
Does she think of that night at all? Does it arc through her body in the dead of sleep, awakening her to a need so powerful she can't breathe? If he was asked before a judge, he'd have to say no, knowing her as he does.
But a simple, needy part of him sometimes looks past those cool blue irises and sees the red beyond. The scarlet silk robe, the ruby red nails, the almost orange tint of her hair against the eggshell linens.
The flush of completion that painted her body and his with rosy sweat and tears. Hot, vivid memories of sex and abandon that she cannot deny.
He takes a long drag of the cigarette and thinks of cancer. Despite her remission, he still lives with it every day. It eats at him, and he's had enough.
... engagement ...
It stung, the steamy, slow blast of water that drenched his skin. But the piercing accusation in her eyes was more painful.
He hadn't seen her for at least two hours, ever since Diana and her team had whisked them away to suffer the humiliation of decontamination. But he could see her treatment at the hands of the technicians was just as harsh as his; her eyes were red-rimmed and he winced at the sight of the scrub brush burns on her arms and neck.
He wanted to say something to her, but couldn't make himself speak. The final shower wasn't the place for conversation, anyway. Too hard to talk business when you and your partner were mere feet from each other, naked and sore.
That thought made him grimace, his brows drawing together with the memory of another naked, sore silence. He didn't want to think about that. It was years ago and had nothing to do with the moment at hand.
Instead, he turned his back to her, affording her some privacy. He felt her mind working, however. Sensed the betrayal she felt. And really, he wouldn't know what to say to her if he could.
The water shut off abruptly and he turned, catching a glimpse of the tops of her breasts before she gave him her back in return. As she walked away he lingered, peering over the wall like a peeping Tom, unable to resist the lure of what he'd seen only in his dreams.
Well, not only in his dreams. But struggling to save her in Antarctica, he wasn't stopping to look.
And he really should put the other out of his mind.
He had put the other from his mind.
Hadn't he?
Once in the locker room, he'd fine-tuned his control to a simmer, adjusting his words to the more familiar joking. Before he could get past her ire, they were prodded again in a final examination. He sat, his anger at her avoidance of him growing by leaps and bounds.
"They've burned our clothes."
At last, they were alone, and all he got was a dispassionate observation. He countered with one last attempt at normalcy.
"Hey... I heard gray is the new black."
It didn't work.
"Mulder, this stinks, and not just because I think that woman is a... well, I think you know what I think that woman is."
Christ, he thought - we're back to Diana again? When was she ever going to tell him what she really wanted to say? No matter what it was, he wanted to hear it.
He knew what she thought of Diana, that wasn't the point. He was tired of anger and non-communication.
Speak to me, Scully, he wanted to shout.
"No. Actually, you hide your feelings very well."
Sarcasm worked... a nice deflection. And she bought it - hook, line and sinker.
Despite his snide comment in that locker room, he spoke the truth - as far as he's concerned, anyway.
Kisses on the cheek and brow, the shimmer of happy tears when touched by a moment of their lasting friendship... these come easy to her. And he can't deny that it's manna to his starved soul, especially when he's battered and broken by yet another setback in his lonely life.
But they've traveled so far, and he's so tired. She once stood in a room very much like this one and spoke of a cycle of frustration. Like a time bomb waiting to go off, it sits and festers until exploding in a fury of emotions long repressed.
He knows now what she meant then. And if he's good enough to keep his distance after giving her his body, then he's damned good enough to love her now after waiting so long. If she can allow their worst enemy's untrustworthy words to seduce her away ... when he's plied her with poetry from his soul.... If she won't see any of that, then the explosion may well sever the partnership forever.
Taking a deep breath, he wills his anger to subside.
He wishes for strength, knowing this final battle must be won. He has no other choice.
She really doesn't want to do this, but it's not her nature to be a coward. As if the past three years weren't cowardly enough, she thinks with a rueful shake of her head.
The sun is setting through the airplane window, a red glow to her left that signals the descent into New Orleans. Trepidation comes with the approaching darkness - the last time she lost herself to red in this city, she thought she'd never find her way back again.
It's been a long, difficult journey, but she can finally admit fear. Her innate pride, drilled into her mind from years of military life, wouldn't allow her to experience it, even while she was dying.
Especially while she was dying. Ahab's daughter never faltered. She may stumble, but she always pulls herself up by the boot straps and marches on.
So now, she can let the nervous flutter in her stomach blossom. It's no longer wise to hold it in; he can see right through her with those old eyes.
... fissure ...
"Is that what you think I want to hear?"
"No." Truthfully, she didn't know what he wanted to hear. All she knew was that whatever it was, she couldn't say it.
"You can believe what you want to believe, Scully, but you can't hide the truth from me. Because if you do, you're working against me... and yourself." His eyes bored through her, searching while revealing his fear.
"I know what you're afraid of. I'm afraid of the same thing."
She chose to ignore it. It was easier that way.
"The doctor said I was fine." The argument was weak and she knew it. But she wouldn't let her fear take hold. Not in front of him. Never in front of him.
"I hope that's the truth."
Moments later, the vision of Harold Spuller shook her to the core. It made her want to go back inside and beg for Mulder's embrace.
Silent tears wound down her cheeks and she trembled, her hand on the door handle. It's not shameful to need comfort, she told herself. He won't think less of you. He can give you what you need. Physical or emotional... he can give you life.
The slash of light on the icy sidewalk from the front steps beckoned. She took a deep breath, then held it in when she saw the door beyond fly open. His unbuttoned coat swirled around his body, lending the fierceness of a dark angel's wings to his beloved form.
He walked slowly, head bent, steamy puffs of breath misting the air. As he left the sharp illumination of the hospital, he began to blend in with the night, turning away from her to approach his car. It was no more than twenty yards ahead, parked on the street directly in front of her. This was her chance.
Wiping her cheeks with gloved fingers, she allowed herself to calm, a deep breath relaxing into a small smile. She could make it all go away. Make the fear flee with just a touch of his lips to hers. Gripping the car keys, her hand stole around the door handle once again.
He slipped on the ice as he stepped off the curb, a muffled, "Shit!" reaching her through the frosty windshield. Slumping against his car, his shoulders sagged and the white exhales got faster, deeper. She could only see a dim shadow of his profile, but she knew his breakdown was eminent. It was there in the black defeat of his somber figure. One hand, unprotected against the freezing temperatures, rose to his face and he worried his brow, his whole body shaking with silent sorrow.
A ragged gasp broke from her as she joined in his sadness, a fresh barrage of tears flooding her eyes.
She couldn't bring her misery upon him. She could only watch as he fought for control. It wasn't fair of her to want comfort from him when she had none to give.
She couldn't stop herself from dying. And she could not bear to sap his strength in the futile attempt.
After a few minutes, he composed himself and left, recklessly spinning the vehicle's tires on the frozen pavement. She started her car and headed in the opposite direction.
All paths lead to him, eventually. Even those littered with broken promises and shards of lost moments. Hopefully, this trip is the one that will bring her home. She's tired of walking by his side only to veer off in a tangent because of fear.
The bump of the landing gear makes her gasp and clutch the arm rests. If she can conquer her fear of flying, she can certainly do this, can't she?
... establishment ...
"I think she just wants us to think she's strong, independent."
Her eyes flashed to his; she knew the words were double-edged. He wasn't just speaking of Marty Glenn.
They sliced through her with all the force of a fingertouch, not meant to hurt, but to awaken.
For a brief second, she let him speak to her, absorbing the acknowledgment of her strength.
"It's important to her."
She accepted it and moved on.
The taxi weaves through evening traffic, nearly colliding with several vehicles on the packed freeway.
She's traveled this route before, and knows it will be just a few more minutes until she's there. She wonders if it still looks the same, then decides that it must. Nothing ever changes in this ancient city, certainly not the French Quarter.
As they exit the interstate, time begins to fall away.
White pavement and steel give way to red brick and black, ornate iron fencing. That he chose the same hotel is very telling, indeed. He waits for her, quite possibly in the same room where it began and ended.
He came all this way to prove a point, just as she had three years ago. She had no choice but to follow, so she has, going so far as to pack an overnight bag.
Whatever he wants, she will do. Anything.
She tells herself this with conviction. But a small voice deep inside clamors for attention.
What if he asks for the impossible?
... penetration ...
She walked from her bedroom in the dawn shadows, dressed and complete once again. A movement to her right startled her, but in the fatigue of a mostly sleepless night, she was slow. Before her fumbling can produce her weapon from her back, he stood, hands raised.
"It's okay, it's me."
Sagging, she continued to the kitchen and flipped on the light. Its glare was harsh, and she hoped he couldn't see the circles under her eyes she took such pains to erase.
"Mulder, what are you doing here?" Her back to him, she busied her shaking hands with the makings of coffee, her words soft and resigned.
From the living room, his reply was sheepish. "I never left."
Too protective. He was always getting too close, invading her space sometimes with suffocating silence and phantom hugs. She could see his arms twitch at those times, hands clenching in his pockets with the effort not to reach for her.
It's oppressive; the last thing she needed. She wanted to rail at him, tell him to stop pushing. Stop trying to pry her apart. But she was so very tired, defeat creeping up on her, though she wouldn't let it surface. "I told you last night I was fine. You should go get some rest."
The glass carafe bent her wrist, anchoring her to the sink.
"I couldn't."
She turned at his emotional, husky answer. Fury filled her chest, her face, and she lashed out, knowing that he was the last person she should hurt with her words. "Will you stop? This is not your problem, Mulder, and I won't have you hovering over me like a nursemaid!"
In the dark of her living room he blended in, but she could make out the visible flinch, the hands in his jeans pockets curling into fists.
"You need help, Scully."
She turned back to the sink and muttered, "Jesus, Mulder... it's just a nightmare. I have them all the time."
"You wake your neighbors with screams all the time?"
Lips pursed, she wrenched on the cold water tap and tried her best to ignore him.
"Damn, Scully... when I got the call from the police I thought -"
"You thought what?" she bit out. "That Pfaster had returned from the grave to finish what he started?
Sorry to disappoint you."
"Disappoint me? What the hell are you talking about?"
God, here it comes, she thought. She could no more hold it back than she could the tides. It will hurt him... this was her last fleeting thought before her tongue took over.
"Did you make another file for my record third appearance in the X-files, Mulder? Or is it fourth now? Surely Padgett's obsession with me counts, doesn't it?" Her voice was loud to her ears, grating on her frail nerves. She wished he would just leave her alone. Leave before her words broke skin.
"Scully," he began, soothing. She could feel him move forward and the alarms sounded in her brain, urging her to swift, slicing destruction.
"Or do you just have a folder with my face on it, labeled 'been there, done that'?"
As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew they'd done the job. Just as she wished in the next instant that she could take them back forever.
Cold settled over her, awash with the icy stone of his silence. At any second, she'd break into tears, just like she did last night in his arms after he arrived.
And that's not something Dana Scully was used to doing. If she allowed herself to dwell on her lack of control, she'd crawl up in her apartment and never venture outside again.
The carafe pinged against the porcelain sink as she turned, the apology already on her lips. "Mulder, I'm -"
The soft snick of her apartment door was deafening in its finality. Stunned at her callous behavior, she stood there, the effort just to breathe weighing her down.
No, she wouldn't cry.
Her body moved as the last brick fell into place around her heart. Fingers that shook held the carafe under the stream of water.
It's bleeding, she thought with wonder. Tiny drops of water seeped through the glass, pushing through the crack, the pressure to escape undeniable.
A gasp made a crack of its own in her battered, glass soul. All that she was, all that she felt, began to seep through, washing away the mortar that had held those bricks in place for so long.
One tear broke through the dam, then two. Crumpling to the floor, she cried. For herself... and for him.
Then she stood, straightened her jacket, and moved to the telephone. Despite the early hour, she remembered the "Call me anytime," she heard as they parted a week ago after the mandatory sessions ended.
After a groggy, "Hello?" echoed over the line, she found her voice.
"Karen?"
It's after eight p.m. when she walks into the hotel.
Not realizing just how much her silence in Cancerman's empty office had affected him, she'd expected him at work the next day. It wasn't the first time they'd argued and it wouldn't be the last. Things would return to normal after a couple of days... they always did.
It was only after two hours of reading the same file over and over that she'd phoned Skinner. Vacation time? Mulder never took vacations... only when it was forced upon him. As she'd sat there, his last vacation came to mind with sweeping dread.
While she'd been in Philadelphia. She never did find out where he'd gone that time....
"Ma'am, may I help you?"
Blinking, she realizes she's standing before the front desk. Patrick is gone, she thinks absently. Then again, Ana has been dead for three years. She only existed for one night; it makes sense that Patrick would have moved on as well.
"Um, yes," she says, then clears her throat. "I'm looking for a man - he would have arrived this morning sometime?" She feels foolish. She knows Mulder is in New Orleans, he told her that he was going there in the email message that had arrived shortly after noon.
Delayed just enough to give him time to get away; delivered just quick enough to stop her from haring off in a panic after phoning his usual haunts with no success.
He knows her so well it's uncanny. Six words that conveyed his location with pinpoint accuracy, compacted into one simple, telling line.
You know what I want, Ana.
So dramatic, almost melodramatic, but then again, this is Mulder. Emotional, intelligent, able to aim with swift sureness at the most vulnerable, hidden part of her. Designed to bring her running with the demand; to bring her to her knees with the name.
Sentimental, hopeful memories provided his exact location, though now she feels maybe she was wrong in her assumptions. She should have asked the Gunmen and made sure. But she didn't want the curious looks; Mulder had already hounded them in a search for her a couple of days ago. And she'd phoned them earlier, trying to hide her concern with casual questions. No, they hadn't seen him. Was anything wrong?
She hates lying. Everything was wrong. Panic trickles back into her body as the inevitable approaches.
What if he didn't want her to follow at all? He's still reeling from his mother's death. And though he said he was free with a wistful smile, the loss of Samantha must still sting.
"Miss Ana?"
Her mouth drops at the soft query. Recognition dawns on her face and she smiles at the young man, remembering his shy, wide-eyed adoration.
"Manny?"
He smiles in return, maturity adding a few inches to his height and serious warmth to his eyes. "One and the same, Miss Ana. So nice to see you again."
"Where's Patrick?" The memory of the handsome clerk and her shameless flirting - makes her cheeks pinken, but her question is steady.
"He moved to San Francisco about a year ago, Miss Ana.
Fell in love and moved away." He winks. "I understand he and Martin have their own bed and breakfast now. Doing very well."
With a rueful grin, she concedes that even the fates conspired to throw Mulder into her arms. Looking back, she knows she probably never would have ventured onto the chaotic streets in search of a sexual partner. Her dance card had three names... Patrick, whose door definitely* opened in the other direction... Manny, whose youthful innocence was a bit *too naive... and Mulder.
That porridge was just right, said Goldilocks.
Clearing her throat, she says, "It's Scully, Manny.
Dana Scully. Not Ana."
"I know that, Miss Ana," he replies with a slow grin.
His voice drops to a low purr, and he slides a key across the dark, rich wood. "And I've been told to tell you that he's waiting."
The years fade away to a point in time she's come here to remember. To a man who once followed her into insanity, only to pull her out and quite literally, save her life.
Can she re-capture Ana's courage? Her open nature and frank speech? It's not Scully, and to be honest, she doesn't want to embrace Ana's faults as well as strengths.
Maybe an equal measure of both women would get her through this.
"He's waiting for you, Miss Ana."
Yes, she knows, she tells him with a nod. Once again, she pulls herself up by the boot straps, reaching for the key with shaky fingers.
"Which room?"
Manny's eyes smile, though his back straightens with professionalism. "326. He said to send you right up when you arrived."
She's quiet in her entry, his permission given with the transfer of the key to her damp palm. It's dark within and cool, the balcony doors open to the night air.
He sleeps.
She sees this immediately, his lanky form stretched out on the bed, though it's really too dark to make out his face. But his breathing is slow and even in the hollows of the room, filling her with soothing relief. Closing her eyes for a moment, she says a prayer of thanks at his safety. With Mulder, she's never sure until he's once again in her sight.
Sleep, that once elusive embrace of rest for the weary, comes easier to him now. In the month since California and its revelations, the shadows under his eyes have all but gone. Several times she's had to wake him with a phone call just so he could make it to work on time.
This makes her happy. He makes her happy.
She turns, bag in hand, for the bathroom. Time to wash away the day's regrets before giving in to the night's discoveries.
Piece by piece, the blackness of Dana Scully falls from her skin.
... re-awakening ...
"Hips before hands, all right? Hips..." He moved her rigid body like a puppeteer, loosening her unyielding form with soft words and firm fingers. "... before hands."
There wasn't a part of him that didn't touch her.
Memories, long buried and deep, surfaced from the whirlpool, even though they were chained to a block of unforgiving concrete.
It all returned... the hair on his legs that tickled the fine down on her thighs. His mouth moving up her neck, profanity mixed with telling sighs and possessive tattoos of lips and tongue.
She gripped the bat, wrapping her fingers... around the smooth curves of the bedpost. Her eyes closed for a second as she strove for concentration. What was he saying?
"... to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant partner."
That sunk in and her eyes darted to his for a brief moment. She laughed, mostly to keep from melting over home plate like hot fudge icing.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours."
She wanted to tell him of the slight problem she herself had, but didn't. Instead she locked her weak knees and murmured, "Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball."
And she laughed again, because she knew then what she wanted. She just had to figure out how to ask for it.
The problem is - she never did figure out how to ask for it. Oh, she's said many things in the past year; some good, some bad. Her harsh treatment of him after the Pfaster attack still pierces her chest with guilt.
She'd apologized... in a way. Telling him of her sessions with Karen Kosseff to resolve the issue had been the most she could do. His nod told her of his acceptance.
But now, she knows it's going to take more. Much more than a veiled concession to his worry. Still, she hesitates.
The pale face that looks at her in the mirror does indeed have lips - for a moment, she wasn't sure they were still there. In the shower, she'd whispered a dozen opening lines, forcing them to move with apologies and words of love. But it's difficult and they've become almost numb with fear. Devoid of false color, they nonetheless offer a vivid splash of red to rival the silk robe, thanks to a vigorous scrubbing of her teeth. Her tongue snakes across them nervously, preparing the way for whatever comes.
He takes in a deep breath, not wanting to admit to himself that he'd been afraid she wasn't coming.
But she's here.
Hours of waiting had exhausted him. By seven o'clock he was drooping in his chair, so he'd stripped to his boxers and, thumbing his nose at her lateness, he'd fallen into slumber. Now, he's wide awake, though he's reluctant to make that known to her just yet.
Eyes closed, his mind works to bring forth the memory of her body fitting to his, the smell of her shampoo tickling his nose.
... testament ...
"Get over here, Scully." He said this with just a tinge of demand, so unlike the way he forced his will upon her back then. Will she do it? he wondered with a sudden burst of fluttering nerves.
As she let him curl around her, he wanted to fall to his knees and thank the heavens. She was so stiff, but he felt the tremor that helped loosen her muscles at the first touch of his mouth to her ear.
"This is my birthday present, Mulder? You shouldn't have." Wry, but shaky sarcasm.
Who said anything about this being your birthday present, Scully? he wanted to say. He'd come up with the idea on a whim, not knowing of any other way to get that close to her. Seemed as though the gift worked both ways, to his delighted surprise.
His mouth rambled as his body remembered. Something about ash... Jesus, it was like she was made from the other half of the Fox Mulder mold. Keep talking, he told himself - yes, the pleasure was all his... one hand gripped her waist and the other slid to her hip... he could feel the lingering indentation of his fingers through the layers of her clothing. Don't bruise her this time, take it slow. Don't scare her away.
"... going to make contact. We're not going to think." Easier said than done. Just stay calm and speak. Of anything. Of nothing. Of her. What the hell was coming out of his mouth? "... I - I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours."
She giggled and he melted. Whatever is was, it must have been good.
"Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball."
Look out, Scully, he vows silently. I'm playing for keeps.
A covert campaign that's lasted a year began that night. Subtle touches, multi-layered innuendo, even an outright vow of love; all designed to pick away at the melting ice that covers her heart. He's seen the tenderness beneath and he wants more.
It's been so difficult to wait, especially with the setback of the Pfaster incident. But at least she finally sought help, was willing to talk to someone about it. When she'd told him about the sessions, he almost cried with relief.
Since then, he's kept a safe distance, giving her time to regroup. But several months have passed and he's ready. Enough of the sly inroads... it's time for action.
She emerges from the bathroom with hope, saying goodbye to the hurt, then hello to simply enjoying the freedom, the revival of her body and soul. There are too many things to touch, to hear, to smell; she will savor them all, feel them one by one. She moves to the bed and spies the smooth white column of a candle.
Unwilling to subject their meeting to harsh, manufactured light, she takes a moment to touch flame to the wick. The light is soft and soothing, easing her blindness with a flickering, yellow glow.
The canvas before her presents a portrait of languid, golden limbs spread out beneath the white cotton. For the second time in her life, she becomes Ana. The embrace of her other self gives her comfort and courage, as she draws closer to the canopied cocoon and leaves the other world behind.
He lies upon the mussed bed in Cupid-like repose, one leg exposed to the humid air wafting in from the open balcony doors, the other hidden from her by sheets that bathe in his scent.
Her lips turn up in a half-smile at the twinge of envy she feels. The same sheet that enjoys the feel of his skin also serves to protect him from her ravenous gaze. Is it possible to be jealous of 200-count cotton?
As she slowly rounds the bed, it all comes back to her, returning on the high tide like a ship from the sea. His hands... ah, the hands that knew exactly where to touch her, the hands that once explored her body and soul... they are quiet; if she has her way, they will soon be strumming her into mindless ecstasy and unwrapping the layers of denial that pile upon her each day. They are asleep, resting one upon the clingy sheet and the other in the vast expanse where she'd lain in similar dreamless slumber so long ago.
His arm twitches - the fingers searching for her, perhaps? Radius, ulna, metacarpal...
Tricep, bicep, collarbone. Bone and sinew that flows under his skin in a symphony of movement and perfection. She remembers it all, embraces every moment that will live again. The hollow where his shoulder meets his chest that was so sensitive to her lips. The ripples of muscle that stretch in endless dunes her fingers so loved to walk through. The heart that slowed under her ear in the aftermath of their joining, its hum lulling her, soothing her, protecting her.
And his face. She can barely see it, but she remembers it in the tingle of her fingertips and the phantom tenderness of her lips. Lean angles, soft eyebrows, strong, yielding mouth. The way his exhale matched her inhale, the way his nose dipped into her cheek like the last missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
The way his hair curled about his forehead in damp disarray, though it's so very short now. The way his eyes, dim and colorless in the night, glowed above her, daring her to look away. Impossible, she thinks.
Though I blinded myself to him then, I could never do the same now.
She sighs and watches him engulf the bed, much as he has devoured her life. His toes brush the railing at the end and his head is angled awkwardly on the pillow. It hurts her just to look at him, trying to fit his six foot frame in the double sized antique bed. A sudden thought is filed away for later attention - her bed is not much bigger than this one.
After this night, she'll have to find another; one more suited to this man who will hopefully share it with her.
For now, though, she sets the hope aside and gathers her courage. Her hand skims over the railing in a caress designed to stall just a bit... she doesn't want to rush things, counting the grooves in the wood one by one in her mind. It's exhilarating, like a countdown to liftoff. At number twelve, she brushes the arch of his foot, and he breathes just a bit heavier. She stills, waits until he settles, then continues her last journey across the great divide between them.
In the semidarkness, she rounds the end and stops, bringing her knee up to sit at his feet, slowly, so as not to bring him to full awareness just yet. Her eyes roam over him; though she's seen it all before, it is so new, so full of discovery. She hasn't had the pleasure of simply looking before. It's pure delight, and she wants to start every journey of theirs in this way from now on. Find the one thing that is previously unknown to her, the mark that sets him apart from all others.
Her gaze settles upon the hand that had given up its search for her moments before. Palm up, it beckons her to explore. Even though she can barely see it, it is there. That little something different.
A freckle. Maybe a smooth mole, actually. It is unusual for such a beauty mark to be hidden in the callouses of the hand. At the very bottom of his little finger, it winks at her with every quiver of his hand. Come to me, it says.
So she does, lowering her mouth to his palm and caressing it with her warm breath in a whispered hello. Nice to meet you, she voices with the press of her lips. Now that I know you're here, I'll never forget you again, she promises with the touch of her tongue.
Like a single spark, her caress awakens his hand, his fingers jerking to life, touching her cheek in an instant of questioning, then curling over the square of her jaw. She spreads her tentative wings, sprinkling cinnamon kisses over his wrist, tracing the flow of blood just under her lips. She stops at another treasured spot, the hollow of his elbow, as his hand takes the opposite path through her hair before coming to rest on the nape of her neck.
His whisper stills her movements with a crushing blow.
"Scully?"
Her breath hitches in a gasp. She's not Scully, she's Ana. Scully can't do this, can't give him what he wants. It's foolish to feel such panic, her logical self insisting that he knows she is Scully and is doing this to bring her out. It was his plan from the beginning. A very calculated, well-executed plan and under any other circumstances she would applaud him for it. But all she can feel now is panic and indecision. She begins to pull away, tears in her eyes. Suddenly, she finds herself on her back, her wrists pinned to the pillows.
And he's there above her, somehow heavier than she'd remembered. All muscle and tense, long warmth, pinning her with his eyes as well as his body.
"You wanna ride this train again, Scully?" His husky voice sends a shiver of fear mixed with desire from her head to her toes. "Got your ticket right here." His hips thrust between hers, insinuating with hot, greedy purpose.
"Mulder." She tries to make this into something different with the plea, but he's not buying, holding fast to her with every inch of his body. Not hurtful, just... consuming.
"Forget it, Scully. This one's gonna cost you... and I don't mean money."
He's being a bastard, but he doesn't care. This is too important to them both to let her waltz in here and just pick up where they left off three years ago.
"What's it gonna be, Scully?"
Jesus, she's wearing that same robe. Red silk that clings to every curve. Unconsciously, he finds himself rubbing against her at every touch point, reliving the feel of them together. It's been so long, but his body reacts the same as it did then, every nerve ending set afire, every hair standing on end.
He refuses to let it distract him, though it's damned hard when she's lying beneath him at last, facing him with a mute surrender he knows is costing her a great deal of self-respect. It makes it all the more difficult to keep up the taunting, but the end will justify the means. He's sure of it.
Well, as sure as he can be with her, anyway. Seven years together and what he knows about her life could fill volumes. What he knows about the hidden recesses of her heart would leave half a Post-it note empty.
"C'mon... you know you want it. Only one thing I want in return...."
The words coming out of his mouth are bordering on pimp talk, and he cringes inwardly at the way he's belittling her. One thing he never wants to do is treat Scully with anything other than courtesy. But there comes a time when shock value outweighs politeness. While not guaranteeing the response he wants, it will serve to make her angry. Which is one step closer on the path to honesty.
"Ana could always get whatever she wanted. From me, from herself. But not this time."
In the candlelight, she looks much as she did three years ago. Taking on a persona so far removed from herself in an effort to create distance. A beautiful, fragile creature that inspires him to protect. He knew that Ana would emerge from her cocoon if he called; just as Scully would come running as well, if he'd taken that route. But Scully would have marched in here all cool and buttoned up tighter than a nun.
Asking for Ana meant he'd receive a more relaxed, willing-to-talk Scully. And he will take anything he can get.
"If Ana wants this -" his thighs spread hers and his cock surges against her warmth - "then Scully has to ask for it." He bites down hard on his lower lip; it's all he can do not to bury himself in her with his next breath.
Please let this work, he thinks. He can't keep this up... and he doesn't mean physically, though it's beginning to be painful for him. More worrisome is the way he's treating her to awaken her; he never wants to hurt her, in any way.
He sees the exact moment that Ana fades and Scully returns. Her face transforms from soft, sexy insecurity - and damned if he finds himself loving that look - to cool, calculated command.
"Get off me." She's not letting his surprise attack go unchallenged.
And he loves it. Just what he wanted.
A mind toughened by years of standing up to intimidation springs back to life, though her body, damn it all, is still betraying her. Her chest heaves under his, her naked skin under the robe defiant in its pliancy to his touch.
The only other time she's seen him this bold, he stripped away all her defenses until she thought she'd bleed away every bit of reserve she'd gathered over the years. And while she came here with the intention of opening up somewhat and seeing what they could salvage of their relationship, she didn't come here to be humiliated.
Anything, she'd told herself a short time ago. She'd do anything for him. But she'll be damned if she'll let him treat her like a sex-starved whore.
"I said get off of me," she states again through clenched teeth.
"You sure that's what you want, Scully?" He brings his legs to either side of hers, effectively trapping her in a prison of male dominance. "That wasn't the impression I got a minute ago."
"A minute ago, I was a fool." She slides her right foot up slowly and smiles inwardly with satisfaction at the darkening of his gaze.
"A minute ago, you were lapping at my elbow."
That's it, she thinks. Let your libido get the best of you, Mulder. Her plan takes wicked shape... "Exactly."
Except the goal is just missed, as he swiftly backs off, her knee glancing the top of his thigh. While not the ultimate target, it serves to scare him enough to retreat, as he stands, his hand rubbing his groin through his boxers.
"You forget, Scully. I have the same copy of that FBI handbook." His smile pinches into a small grimace as he bends at the waist. Furious yet admiring eyes flash to hers. "Ow.... Good thing you didn't have a gun, or those flashbacks to the Boggs case I have now and then would have become reality."
Ignoring his jibe, she sits up and pulls the edges of the robe closer together, trying to avoid his almost naked form with eyes saturated to the point of betrayal.
No, she won't look at him again... though his bare chest beckons with sculpted perfection and a vision of her hands tracing each line crowds her mind. She can't... though his legs have gotten bulkier in the years past and she pictures her painted toes skimming over the rough hair of his muscular calves. God, no, she swears... though the heather gray boxers cup his sex with thin cotton fingers. She remembers exactly what that feels like.
She blinks and tries to control her breathing, dispelling the sight of his arousal.
Oh, yes - he wants her, all right. It's hard to ignore the obvious. But it took all of her strength to fight him off a moment ago, and her body cooperated under protest from the already wet warmth he generated. No use tempting herself by looking any further. She summons as much dignity as she can; Scully isn't a coward.
"I just came to tell you I was sorry," she murmurs, swinging her shaky legs to the floor. "I see that was a mistake."
A mistake of monumental proportions. Much as she wants to don her armor and leave, however, she doesn't move. Instead, she sits on the edge of the high bed, her feet dangling.
"Which part was the apology? The attempt at sex or the ball breaker?"
She cringes at the truth, knowing that neither was the right course of action. But for once in her life, she's at a loss as to what would be the best route.
"I don't know," she says simply. "I don't know what to think anymore. You made me come here as..." It sticks in her throat for a second, but she says it anyway. "... Ana. I see now it was all a ruse. And I still don't know what you want from me."
Waiting for him to say something, do anything, she lets her body sag, all fight gone in a rush of confusion. She can hear him breathing behind her, and when the bed dips, she holds her own breath.
"You hurt me." Small and accusatory, his words puncture the balloon of her lungs with sharp precision.
Sighing, she says, "I know I did. I'm sorry." Though they've grown closer, especially since his butchering at the hands of Spender, she can't help but take out her frustration on the man she knows loves her more than anything.
The fact of the matter is, she loves him, too. Has loved him forever, it seems like. So why does she not say it? It's what he's after, she knows. One final goal and his life would be complete. If only she could give him that last piece of her... tell him that he's... but how? Words can never be enough.
"I'm not talking about a few minutes ago. Not even yesterday afternoon," he says quietly.
At this, she turns her head. From the corner of her eye, she sees him perched on the opposite end of the bed, hunched over, studying his hands as if they hold the secrets of the universe. The gulf between them spans more than just this bed, and she wilts, not knowing of what he speaks. But she has to try.
"Mulder, I know I'm not the world's best at communication - especially of a personal nature - but tell me what it is and I'll apologize."
With a snort, he rises from the bed and walks to the balcony doors. Hands on hips, back rigid with anger, he doesn't face her as he says, "You still don't get it, do you? I thought our present location made it perfectly clear, Scully."
Dear God, she thinks. He's talking about...
"And the light bulb goes off," he murmurs wryly, facing her at last. His face is almost lost in the shadows, but she can feel his sadness envelop her in a cloak of painful realization.
She opens her mouth to reply but, stunned as she is, she can't form the words.
"That's right," he continues. "Amazing how some wounds fester for years, isn't it?" He half-turns, bringing a hand to his face to scrub at his brow. "I know I promised never to bring it up again, Scully.
But I can't - not speak of it anymore. I'm tired of pretending it never happened. Do you understand?"
Yes, she does. She understands his desire for resolution. She should have known this was coming years ago; how she could ever have fooled herself into believing he'd never speak of it... a promise made that was so difficult to keep, by a man who's built his life around uncovering the truth.
He looks at her, expectation lighting his eyes, asking her to speak. Pleading for some sign of empathy with his raspy, "Scully? Did you hear me?"
Something... she has to say something. Before he stops talking altogether. Before this moment sinks into the abyss forever. He's seconds away from surrendering totally to her silence, and they'll never broach the subject again.
Sighing, he looks away and clears his throat. "Forget it. Go home. I'm okay."
He's fallen into short, two-word replies, with no response a hair's breadth away. Say something, you idiot! her mind screams.
Taking a deep breath, she stands, wringing her hands with panic, the words trembling, almost constricting her throat.
"I love you."
It comes out of her mouth in a half-hearted whisper and he turns, noting her martyred stance. It's difficult for her to express her feelings, but he doesn't want capitulation based on obligation. He believes what she's saying, but an evil part of him can't help but let his anger boil over. He summoned her here with his flight, that's true. But instant happiness and communion is impossible.
"Flick the switch, warden." Snide words, hissed over the night air between them. "She's ready to fry."
She pales at his comment. "Mulder, I don't -"
Of course, she's never understood. Physics and chemistry, certainly. But even the anatomy textbooks that line her shelves are unable to make her see her own heart for what it holds. Saying is different than revealing. "I've never heard a more dreadful declaration of devotion, Scully."
"What?" Her reply is disbelieving, then in an instant, cold as ice. "Screw you, Mulder."
Raising a finger, he purrs, "Not yet, Scully. You're gonna have to wait."
In the dim light from the candle, he sees a flush creep up her neck and she turns, giving him her stiff profile. Her chin lifts to the door then back as he sees her contemplate the logistics of escape. But he doesn't move, though it would be so easy to position himself between her and the door; his long legs would surely win the space race. This has to become her fight as well as his, something he tries to transmit with his eyes as he gives her a steady look. Finally, she faces him, responding to his silent pull.
He wants to smile with the small victory when he sees the gamut of emotions run across her face. She thinks about it all for a couple of seconds, then her resolve strengthens before his eyes, her whole body seeming to inflate with steely ire. "I can't believe that's all you have to say to me, Mulder. It's disappointing, to say the least."
His lips curl with sarcasm, his eyes narrowing.
"Forgive me if 'you make me a whole person' and 'you're my touchstone' never quite lived up to your expectations." He disregards the drugged confession in the Bermuda hospital; she didn't buy it then, and she certainly won't give it credence now. Confident she's going nowhere, he moves to the table, grabbing the bottle of wine he'd ordered when he arrived.
Sharing it with her over frank discussion was a distant hope at the time; that was before she tried to use sex as a Bandaid. "Care for some wine? Worked for Jesus at the Last Supper."
He fully expects her to haul off and slap him, or march out the door in a blaze of fury. What she does surprises the hell out of him. And pleases him to no end.
Attuned to her every move, his ears prick up at the sound of her bare feet sliding across the rug. His hands shake a bit with nerves he won't allow her to witness. His spine sends lightning bolts of happiness to every end of his body.
She has taken up the gauntlet.
"Sure." The answer is soft, and he tenses as he realizes just how close she is. Very close, as he can smell the clean scent of soap mixed with the undertone of heavy desire. "It's not every day a girl gets a slap in the face when she tells a man she loves him. It deserves a toast, don't you think?"
He grins at her gumption; she's still angry, still wanting to screw him, but she refuses to let him get the better of her. He expects nothing less.
Pouring a glass for her, he decides to succumb to her attempt at easing the tension. "Wait'll you hear the good stuff."
"The good stuff?"
"Yeah, you know... the words I store up for special occasions. You know - like when you tell me I'm right. Or you finally admit aliens exist."
"Or when you insist I saved the world from Nazi domination?" she purrs, her brow rising with a tart challenge.
He pauses in the act of stoppering the wine bottle and gives her a surprised, pleased glance. So she does* give that hospital confession some credence after all, he thinks. Best not to let on just yet that he wasn't *that out of it.
"Ah, but that wasn't the good stuff, Scully. Besides, Demerol makes the most fumbling man a poet." There's a few more lines in that mostly smooth forehead, but it adds character, he thinks. "Believe me, I can do better than that. So can you."
She chuckles, sipping at the red wine with soft, pink lips. He almost salivates at the sight. "I don't think so."
At her opening, he worms his way in. "Try."
The cloak of reserve that falls upon her shoulders is immediate, but not yet permanent. "Mulder..."
"You once told me what you wanted," he says, with deliberate softness, pursuing and pushing past the flimsy barrier. "This is what I want."
His request stirs up memories that, while not forgotten, have been buried in that place she considers the purgatory of her soul. On one hand, they're tinged with regret and shame. But they're also filled with life and emotion, and she can hear herself speak the same words as if it were yesterday.
He waits, his face a calm mask, though his eyes burn with the plea. Words such as he's asking for do not come easily to her, and even her always rigid backbone seems to fail her as she looks away, her taste for the wine gone as well.
"I've told you what I feel," she begins, placing the glass on the table. The shaking of her hand makes the wine quake, some of it spilling from the edge to stain the white linen below it. "I can't do better than that, Mulder."
"You can," he urges, placing his glass next to hers, his hand reaching for her arm. She tries to hide the flinch his touch creates, but he picks up on it, rubbing his fingers over the silk in a soothing caress. He leans in and continues, "You told me once that you wanted abandon. Is surrender so very different?"
Surrender. To relinquish power to another. Spender's words come back to her with deadly accuracy.
No, she can't do this. It's abhorrent to her nature, the antithesis of the control she's labored to maintain for as long as she can remember. On the trip here, she'd vowed to do anything to make Mulder happy. Sex, love, trust... but she didn't bargain for giving him her soul.
"What you're asking is impossible." She pulls away from him and gives him her back, looking out the balcony doors as she closes in around herself, her arms tight around her waist. "I can't."
She hears him move behind her and his soft reply stirs the hair at the nape of her neck. "You can fuck me but you can't talk to me?" It drips with hurt, designed to make her face him, but she resists, letting her chin fall.
"I'm not fucking you," she says weakly, her logic surfacing with a last gasp above the drowning pool.
"But you would have. Just like three years ago. You would have used me... let me use you. We probably would have walked out of here together tomorrow morning... back to D.C. where we'd fuck each other some more."
Every word slices a hole in her armor with the swift sword of truth. She would have done just that, showing him the false promise of love with her body, then retreating behind a hazy fog of sexual need.
Never letting him get too close, never giving him total capitulation.
"And as much as I want to, Scully... God how I want to... I need more this time." His arms snake around her and she sighs, melting into his chest. "It nearly killed me when I walked out of this hotel three years ago." His voice shakes with emotion, rumbling from his chest through her back to grab at her heart. "But I'll do it again, I swear I will. You see, I learned long ago that I'm a greedy bastard. I want it all."
Say something, her mind screams. Tell him what he wants to hear.
But she doesn't know where to begin. A dozen instances of hurt and silence come to mind, each a suitable springboard for communication. Moments lost when she should have said more, should have given him an inkling of compassion or genuine anger instead of stony silence.
As he begins to pull away, sighing at her perceived reluctance, she whispers the first thing that comes to mind.
"I want to believe... that he was wrong."
He stills at the simple words, sensing they mean so much more than text that could be found in a child's reading primer. Tightening his arms around her once again, he murmurs, "Who was wrong, Scully?" He rest his chin on her shoulder and nudges at her hair, trying to get a glimpse of her eyes. The tears gathering in the corners shimmer in the light from the risen moon.
Her hands wrap around his forearms, her damp fingers speaking of her fear. "Spender."
At the odious name, Mulder raises his head, not wanting her to witness the freeze he feels cementing his cheeks. Her trip with the old man is what precipitated this confrontation, and to say he's still angry is the understatement of the year. But now that's she's taken the first step, he's damn well not going to stop her with a retread of the angry words he flung at her in the aftermath. He's more worried that Spender plied her with secrets not on that disc.
"What did he tell you?"
"He told me I would die for you... but I would never allow myself to love you."
He can't help the chuckle of relief. "Wrong on both counts... he obviously has never witnessed a death row confession like I just did." A brief kiss to her cheek makes up for his teasing. "And I'm pretty sure you meant what you said, didn't you?"
Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she hangs her head and nods.
"He's wrong," he says with conviction, the painful knit of her brow making him hurt, too. "Especially about us. He knows nothing."
"But what if he's right? What if I can never -"
It takes no effort to turn her in his embrace, her slight form swaying with indecision. "Stop it."
Hands on her pale cheeks, he forces her to look at him. "You can do anything, Scully. Anything."
"Not without you I can't," she murmurs, tears now seeping down her cheeks. "Mulder, you know it's difficult for me to let go."
"I know." He keeps his gaze on hers, locking them together in much the same way as the day she was headed for Salt Lake City. "I'm not asking you to say you love me, Scully. I know that already." Her watery smile confirms his words and he continues with a sober whisper, "I'm asking you to let yourself love me. The words are unnecessary. Show me, don't tell me."
"How do I do that?" she asks, a tremor in her voice. "Mulder, I can't - we can't be physical in public. Hand-holding and tonsil hockey on the street just isn't in me, I'm sorry."
Chuckling, he drops his hands, taking hold of her waist with one and her fingers with the other. In a second, he's kissing her, ignoring the surprised hum in the back of her throat. His tongue spars with hers and he feels a second of hesitation before she joins in, fervently deepening the kiss as her fingers grip his.
God, he thinks, her tongue is strong from years of arguing and - he's absolutely sure of this - sticking out at his back with frustration from across the office. And he's thankful for all of those exercises, as it now parries his with more heat than he thought possible.
He kisses Scully for the first time. It's full of wonder; so different from the angry meeting of mouths with Ana years ago. There's challenge and discovery in their shared breaths. Open desire hums in the back of her throat and he answers with a hungry groan, knowing they can't kiss forever.
Dragging his lips from hers, he sucks in a long breath, resting his brow against hers as he fights for control. "I'd say it's in you," he grins.
She does the same, her words breathy. "Hate to break it to you, Mulder, but this isn't exactly the corner of Pennsylvania and Tenth."
"Now, did I say I wanted you to kiss me on the front steps of the FBI? Though the idea does have definite merit...." He breaks off at the feel of her nails pinching his ass. "I like that move better, actually."
She snorts. "You would." She pulls away a bit and looks up at him. "Seriously, Mulder, I don't know what you want me to do."
It occurs to him that he has no real plan as well. But he speaks anyway, the words solid and sure. "I know what I don't want you to do, Scully."
"What's that?"
"Don't run off like that again. We need to at least tell each other where we're going. We're way past the ditching stage of this relationship, don't you think?"
Warmth ratchets up several degrees at the way she licks her lips. He knows she tastes the goal that emerges on the horizon, just as he does. "Agreed.
What else?"
It has to be said and he does so without hesitation.
"Don't use sex as a distraction. Or as a shield for what you really feel." He feels the muscles of her waist tighten under his hand and he rushes to clarify, his voice husky with certainty. "It's going to be great between us this time, Scully. And I refuse to enter into it if you're not totally with me. It will always mean something to me... whether it's love or anger or the simple need to connect. You have to feel it, too."
Her eyes are steady. "I already do." She waits for a beat, then adds, "I always have, though I've obviously hidden my feelings very well. But you have to see that I'm still learning, Mulder. I can't promise that I won't want my own space now and then."
"You mean, you're gonna be the kind that fucks me senseless all night long then is gone before dawn?" he teases, knowing full well that may happen a time or two. But he's ready for it. At this point, he's ready for whatever she throws at him... as long as it's not full retreat.
That eyebrow goes up and her eyes settle on his chest. "Well... maybe not before dawn. I'm counting on being fucked senseless myself, you know." Mirth greets him as her eyes lift up once again.
His cock, already half-hard from her sheer proximity, awakens to full, unabashed attention. He notes with satisfaction the way her eyes darken, sure she can feel him through their skimpy attire. "I'll do my best," he says with a smile, then sobers as he adds, "With everything. With anything."
"As will I," she promises, reaching up to touch her fingers to his cheek. "Mulder, I'm so sorry. For three years ago... for yesterday... for tomorrow."
This time, he bends to give her temple a warm kiss, gathering her and her words close. "For tomorrow?
What are you going to do tomorrow?" The question is teasing as he tucks her head under his chin, though slight worry edges the words. Their beginning is still tentative and he knows the journey won't be easy.
He feels her grin against his chest. "I'm sure I'll not say something you want to hear. But it doesn't mean it isn't there in me. I'm just covering all the bases." She raises her head, forestalling his reply, as she brings her lips up. "And I need to apologize for what I'm about to do now."
"What's that?" He's still reeling from the gigantic leap forward they've taken.
Brushing his mouth with hers, she whispers, "I'm taking you to bed, where I hope we can give that senseless thing a try. I'm tired of talking. Is that blunt enough for you?"
His arms tighten around her and he sweeps her up in his arms, loving the way she laughs, his name flying from her with surprise. "Apology accepted." She continues to giggle as he lopes toward the bed, pretending to struggle with her slight weight.
"Don't hurt yourself," she admonishes.
"Too late," he groans, laying her on the sheets. He crawls over her, then flops on his back at her side.
Closing his eyes, he adds, "I may never recover." One eye pops open and he watches her shed her robe before covering him, his heart speeding up with joy.
As her legs settle to either side of his hips, she purrs, "That's okay. It's been a while, but I've ridden this train before, remember?"
All humor gone, he draws her to him.
"I've never forgotten."
Funny how she could never say what she most wanted to say, she thinks. It's more ridiculous that she can't shut up, even as she moves above him.
"You make me feel," she whispers, her hands embracing his straining neck, forcing his eyes to come to hers. "I hurt because of you. I feel joy because of you."
He groans, his hips moving faster now, grinding up into hers. The feel of his cock pushing its way into her is ten times more electric than it was then, the need for protection thrown to the winds. And she has to tell him, though the pleasure building within her makes speech difficult.
"You give me life."
"Scully," he breathes, slowing his thrusts to a jerky, unfocused slide. She sees his eyes narrow and can tell he's becoming overwhelmed with emotion, just as she is. Completion is still far away for them both, and she doesn't want him to push the issue.
"No," she protests, her hands moving to his shoulders. With languid ease, she rests upon him, her body still joined with his. She brings her lips to the short hair at his temple, and breathes deep of his damp, musky skin. "It's enough for now. Rest."
For several moments, they allow their breathing to slow, though he remains hard within her. She rests her cheek at the junction of his neck and shoulder and presses her lips to the steady beat of his pulse.
It's not supposed to be perfect, she tells him with her caresses.
She feels him respond in kind, his hands tracing the line of her back. He's as exhausted as she is, and not just from the stress of the past two days. The years have taken their toll. But they weren't emotionally ready for this back then. And to believe that their lives will not change because of it is a fallacy.
She wants to continue, and they will - as always, at their own pace, in their own time.
Beneath her lips, she feels the bob of his swallow. His words are quiet; she feels them more than hears them. "I wanted to make you pregnant."
His murmured words catch her in the throat. Is he saying he can't finish? His hope of making her pregnant is nil, and he knows it. But it's so like him to champion a lost cause, and she doesn't have the will to correct him. "I know."
"No," he chokes out, "back then. I wanted it back then. Before we knew you couldn't - it was the only way I knew to make you stay, to tie you to me somehow.
But I couldn't do that to you... I promised."
She glides her lips over his face, her hands turning his chin until their eyes meet. "I wanted it, too,"
she confesses, kissing away his sweat and tears. He smiles weakly, and she gives to him the only words she has, praying they're the right words. "You didn't know it, but you had me, Mulder - big time. In all possible ways. You still do."
His smile is emotional, beaming through the night like a lighthouse, guiding her in. "Shit, Scully... you had me from the moment you shot me. I don't let just any girl put a slug in me, you know."
Laughter tinkles from her at his definitely Mulderesque eloquence. Her thumb caresses his cheek with playful tenderness. "I thought you were saving the good stuff, Mulder."
In answer, he gives her a slow, languid circle of his hips, holding fast to her butt with both hands. "I am. You know what I want to hear."
Her laugh fades to a shaky sigh as she answers his body's call, sliding away for leverage. "Never in a million years, bub."
He turns her onto her back and she gasps as he begins the slow thrust in and out, telling her with challenging eyes that he now wants equal time on top. "Then I guess I'll just have to wear you down."
As he moves to kiss her, she gives him a secret smile, silent to the end.
His need for sleep has passed. He holds her to him, his hands gently roaming as she dreams. He has no need to dream anymore.
He couldn't even if he wanted to. Though fatigue is getting the better of him these days, he can't remember the last time his mind worked normally and gave him the Technicolor fantasy of dreams. His doctor warned him it would happen. Dreams first, as his diseased brain simply wouldn't summon the energy to fire the synapses during sleep.
At first he didn't believe the diagnosis. And at times, he still refuses to believe it. But he knows a change is coming, feels it in his bones. He reconciles himself to it already.
He knows she won't let him go quietly, no matter where his journey takes him. But he's content with the fact that her strength is now joined with his in every way. She'll need each precious ounce in the days ahead.
As he closes his eyes, he presses a kiss to her tangled hair, his fingertips gliding over her skin with futile attempts at holding on to the memory. It's going, too, slowly but surely.
He wonders if, when the time comes, he'll remember what to say. If 'the good stuff' will still be floating around somewhere in there.
Not wanting to wake her, he whispers it.
Just once, before he forgets.
END
This is as happy as it gets, folks. I had to listen to the muse. :)
Many thanks to Musea, as always. Especially to Forte, for her usual bodaciousness and Aud, who provided the quote at the very beginning of the story and turned me on to Carl Phillips' poetry. Any mistakes are my own.
Also, a big smile and nod to the stalkers... you know who you are.
Dedicated to Galia. You asked me to do this and though I thought I couldn't, I found out that I could.
Thank you for the gentle push and the friendship.
Love you, dear. :)
Continue to No Quarter Given IV: Truce (Incomplete)