From: Mish <mish_rose@yahoo.com>
Date: Wed, 29 Aug 2001 12:30:26 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: xfc: NEW: No Quarter Given: Abstinence, 1 of 2 (NC-17)
Source: xfc

No Quarter Given: Abstinence
Part One
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com
Classification: SA, post-ep for 'Never Again'
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: She wants to feel alive.
Dedication: To Galia.  I hope this is what you wanted,
my dear.

Warning: Serious angst ahead.  This is not a pretty
one, folks.

More notes at end.




...Abstinence...


Dull, gold plastic.  The final piece of the journey
that sits between thumb and forefinger, its rigid two
by three flat surface so comforting, simply because
it's familiar.  Two dimensional and safe, just like
her.

There is one difference, however.  It can bring him
running in a way that she never could.  A magnetic
summons guaranteed to attract his worry, then his
wrath.  She envies the inanimate card; but then again,
she realizes she's no more alive than the plastic in
her hand.

"Ma'am, I need your card."

The pleasant southern drawl snaps her from reverie and
she hands it over with a vacant smile.

"Your first time in New Orleans?"  He's a smooth,
polished man, with mocha skin and hazel eyes.  The
type who winks at all the ladies and flirts with ease.
 But he's not flirting with her, she knows.  If she
had to guess, she'd say his door swings in the other
direction.  But he's male and he's smiling.  At *her,*
with warm hospitality and genuine charm.  "You're in
luck - with the mild weather this winter, Mardi Gras
season has been excellent.  Of course, we're just off
the parade routes, so if you're looking for
excitement, you may have to walk a bit."

Mardi Gras?  That explains the bustle of the streets;
ordinarily, she wouldn't have stepped foot in this
city in the midst of carnival season.  No wonder the
travel agent was so excited at the last-minute
cancellation that popped up on his computer screen, as
well as the curious look he'd bestowed upon her at the
sight of the wad of cash she'd produced.

She finds herself in the city that care forgot, in the
middle of the most decadent celebration in the world -
so appropriate for her needs.

"It's lovely," she replies, letting her face soften
into a smile.  She's getting it... slowly but surely,
she's coming alive.  "A fascinating city."

The clerk picks up on her burgeoning amiability and
lets his smile broaden, his hand pausing above the
card swipe.  Apprehension flutters in her stomach;
just do it already, she thinks.

"Once you've experienced New Orleans," he says with a
wink, "you'll fall in love with it.  You can't help
but come back again and again."

The nervousness stills into melancholy, as her smile
becomes wistful.  Leaning over the mahogany counter,
she purrs, "You promise?"

His friendly look fades into a simmer of interest, and
she knows he's appreciating the curly fire of her hair
and sleeveless, aqua linen sheath that clings to every
curve.  Maybe he *is* her type after all.

"Cherie, I promise with all my heart.  This city will
treat you like a queen.  It's made for beauty."

The slide of the card in the slot severs the new from
the old.  As he hands it back to her, she notices that
the 'D' has worn, the white raised surface no longer
visible.

She has become 'Ana.'

"Enjoy your stay, Ms. Scully."  He snaps his fingers
and a young man comes running for her luggage.  "My
name is Patrick, if you need anything.  Manny here
will get you settled in."

Manny is the shy side of twenty, no more.  He gapes at
her with open admiration, blushing as she smiles at
him.  Addressing them both, she says with conviction,
"Call me Ana."   The flat tang of the first vowel
pricks at her tongue, making it tingle with pleasure.

"If-if you'll follow me, ma'am," he stutters, turning
quickly to the ancient elevator.

With one last nod at Patrick, she goes upstairs to
await the inevitable.




Five hours of waiting, to be exact.  After an hour,
she'd become claustrophobic in the ornate room and had
ventured outside, strolling the sidewalks of the
French Quarter, cigarette in hand.  A lingering stop
at a local dive had bolstered her flagging courage,
especially the attentive flirting of the early Friday
happy hour suits.  Of course, the liquor had also
loosened the renewed coil of indecision.

Now, she sits just as Patrick had prophesied, a
lily-white queen upon the balcony of her room, the
cushions of the chaise lounge enjoying the slide of
her scarlet silk robe.  To her left, a tumbler sweats
in the warm late February humidity, sitting on the
wrought iron table next to an ashtray cluttered with
cigarette butts.  The far-off din of revelers makes
her heart thrum with anticipation.  A wanton flush
covers the naked skin beneath the robe as the
afternoon's drinking catches up with her.  She dabs
now and then at the trickle of sweat between her
breasts with a hotel towel, wishing he would finally
appear so the heat can break at last.

The sun is setting now, and the courtyard below is
coming alive with tourists on the move.  The sweet
smell of gardenias mixes with the swirl of smoke as
she takes a long drag.  She hasn't smoked in years;
it's amazing how quickly the nicotine addiction
resurfaces.  Little known to her colleagues, the siren
call of nicotine is not the only addiction she's
whipped into control under those prim suits.

She's often wondered if, let loose in a casino, her
life savings would suffer the same fate as her soul. 
Gone, leaving behind a blank page with a big 'zero' at
the bottom.

Her father would frown if he could see her now, those
steely blue eyes condemning her free fall into
depravity.  The thought makes her shift and pull the
edges of the robe tighter to her body.

Hurry up, she wants to scream at the pinkening sky. 
Before I give in to a ghost's reprimand.  This must be
done.

Two short rings from the French phone she brought out
with her makes her jump, as if it's her father's ship
come to call.  Taking a deep breath to dispel the
wraith at her side, her red nails click against the
receiver.  "Yes?"

"Miss Ana?"  Patrick's voice is unsure, shaking just a
bit.

"Yes, Patrick, what is it?"  Though she knows very
well what it is.  Rather, *who* it is.

"There's a gentleman here who insists on seeing you. 
I told him I couldn't give out your room number, even
though he says he's FBI -"

"Send him up," she says, interrupting the clerk's
blustering.

She can picture him turning away from Mulder's ominous
glare to ask in a whisper, "Are you sure?  I can phone
the police, Miss Ana."

Gently, she replies, "It's okay, Patrick. 
Everything's okay."

Lying is abhorrent to Dana's nature, but Ana has no
problem with it.




At the impatient knock and booming, "Scully!" she
crushes the cigarette in the ashtray.

"It's open," she calls out, reaching for the glass of
scotch.

The vibration of the slamming door resonates through
the burn of liquor over her tongue.  His fear wafts
through the open balcony doors like a blast from a
furnace.  The muffled thud of his shoes against the
tapestry rug is hurried, as is the breathless, "Where
are you?"

"Here.  I'm here."  Her reply is soft, lilting into
the now approaching darkness like the tinkling of
windchimes.

At once, he's at her side.  The weapon clutched in his
white-knuckled fingers stays blessedly out of focus,
swimming in her peripheral vision.  "Are you okay?"

She could say that she's fine and it would be true,
but she doesn't feel like saying it.  Instead, she
glances up at his wild eyes and says, "Sit, Mulder." 
She drains the last of her drink and reaches for the
pack of cigarettes.

"Scully?"  All his uncertainty and amazement bleeds
through the rasp of her name.

"It's all right, Mulder.  Sit down before you fall
down."  She nods at the matching chaise to her right.

To her surprise, he does, holstering his gun with
shaky fingers, though he doesn't take advantage of the
comfortable lounge chair, instead perching on its edge
and leaning forward.  "What the hell is going on?"  He
wastes no time in cutting to the heart of the matter. 
"What is this?"  He jerks his head at the cigarette.

She knows he's questioning more than her sudden
smoking.  The flame of the lighter sharpens his face
and a twinge of guilt clogs her throat at the sight of
his two-day growth of beard.  At least he's not in the
same suit as when she saw him last, his unfinished,
"But it's my -" spurring her stunned silence to
action.

Dark as his mood, his clothing is all black, from the
thin sweater to the worn jeans and boots, with only a
hint of t-shirt white at his collar.  He looks as if
he's not slept, and Dana rears her head one more time
at the frantic dart of his red-rimmed eyes.  "I
apologize.  I didn't mean to make you worry."  Her
thumb releases the flame back into its hole and she
inhales sharply, summoning Ana.  "I told my mother
where I was going."

"No, you didn't," he replies, scrubbing a hand over
his eyes.

He's haggard almost, but she refuses to give in to the
one addiction she's lived with for years now - the
hurt/comfort side of their relationship.  Friends do
things for one another besides soothe hurts.  They
understand each other and know when to back off.  When
to set aside the need for answers and just let it be.

And when to realize that the other half of you was
there all along.

"I told her I was taking some time.  She understands."
 The mournful strings of a solitary guitar waft up
from the courtyard below.  It's beautiful, and she
likes to imagine herself the object of a lovelorn
serenade.

But it's not meant to be.  Right now, she's the object
of a possessive man, willing to take but not give. 
He's no smitten swain.  He cares for her... she knows
this.  But what she really needs, he can't give her.

He was so willing to believe that whacko in Tennessee
was his soulmate.  Doesn't he realize that sitting
before him is the one person who will do anything for
him?  Was it so very difficult for him to admit his
life is tied to hers?

It's not just that, either.  She knows he's
emotionally stunted at times, especially where she's
concerned.  Those closest to him bear the brunt of his
silence, while it's so very easy for him to get
involved with those crippled like him by pain and
suffering.

Enough of that... she came to New Orleans to prove a
point, knowing full well he was bound to follow. 
There are some things that cannot be discussed over
dusty files in the bowels of an office building.  Not
that he could actually help her in any way, no matter
when and where.

Sighing, he raises his head at the sudden flickering
of the gas lamps in the garden below.  "This is not
you, Scully... New Orleans?"

Her lips curl as her gaze settles on the shadows
moving in the room across the courtyard from hers. 
It's a hotel very much like this one, steeped in
romance and old world sin.  She can make out the forms
of a man and woman just beyond the curtains of the
balcony opposite.  The dance begins for them, just as
it will for her.

All she needs is a dance partner.  And Mulder's always
had two left feet.

"I hate Florida and I craved warmth.  Call it a whim."

"Scully, you don't have 'whims.'" His eyes narrow. 
"But *Ana* does, doesn't she?"

At her pointed look, he swallows and lowers his head. 
She so wants to decry his patronizing assumption, but
remembers the time for anger is past.  If he wants to
pick a fight, that's his problem; all she has to do is
make one call downstairs and he's history.  From the
blush of regret creeping up his cheeks, he realizes
it, too.

Before he can open his mouth to apologize, she says
coolly, "Mulder, I've apologized.  Let's leave it at
that, shall we?"

From the corner of her eye, she sees his jaw clench. 
But she knows he's not going to pursue the name
business, not when there's so much more to uncover. 
He's not one to let the obvious slip by.  "Okay.  Can
I ask what brought this on?"

"You really want to know?"

His eyes burn with sincerity and utter confusion. 
"Yes, I do."

Even with the Jerse incident, he remains relatively
clueless, she realizes.  She also knows that the time
for vague generalizations is past.  The truth is all
that will satisfy him... and her as well.

"I saw a doctor a couple of weeks ago."  Stubbing out
the cigarette, she lets her head loll toward him.

His breathing quickens.  "Scully -"

"My OB-GYN, actually.  I saw her a few days before I
went to Philadelphia.  Annual physical."

His brow creases slightly.  "Is there anything I
should know about?"

Her gaze notes the sudden worry and she hastens to
reassure him, one slim hand covering his knee.  "It's
nothing, Mulder.  I'd just been feeling a bit tired
and hormonal.  A headache now and then."  The bony
knob under her hand relaxes a bit.  "Though the visit
did upset me."

The palm that covers her own is cool and damp.  "Upset
you?  Is that why... I mean, this Jerse business..."

"Partly, I guess.  He was convenient, and I was
horny."  She sees him blanch at the frank reply, and
decides she doesn't want to talk about Ed Jerse any
longer.  It's over and done.  Time to move on. "Do you
know what the nurse asked me?"

His lips part as he shakes his head, silently begging
her to continue.

"Routine yearly history, you understand.  Any
problems, any developments..."  She doesn't tell him
of the middle-of-the-night nosebleed; it hasn't
happened again, and her doctor blamed it on stress,
though he referred her to a neurologist for more
tests, just to be on the safe side.  "What form of
birth control you're using."  The last is said with
deliberation, pointing the way for his reply.

"To which you said...."  He's beginning to understand,
she can see it in the forward shift of his head, feel
it in the grip of his hand.

"Actually, nothing at first.  I had to think.  Then I
realized I hadn't used birth control in years...
hadn't needed to, if you get my meaning."  Her
rational mind tells her that there's nothing wrong
with celibacy; it's just not the lifestyle she's
accustomed to.  She's always enjoyed a healthy sex
life... until the work took precedence.

Smirking, he says, "I think I can relate."  Seeing her
serious glare, he sobers and adds, "And this upset
you?"

"No.  Though I must admit I was chagrined at my
stumbling.  I'm almost thirty-three years old, Mulder,
and a doctor.  I felt ridiculous."  With a wave of her
other hand, she brushes aside those sentiments and
continues, "But what really bothered me was when the
nurse said, 'You do realize you could get pregnant,
don't you?' Like I'd just crawled out from under a
rock."

Mulder takes in a heavy breath and begins, "Scully -"

But once again, she doesn't let him finish, doesn't
even want to look at him in her embarrassment.  "And I
shot back, 'Not if I'm not in a sexual relationship, I
can't.'"

He grows silent at that and she waits for...
something, anything.  After a moment, she realizes
there is really nothing that can be said, so she keeps
on, the rest of the tale spilling from her lips.

"'I'll just put down abstinence,' the nurse told me. 
And she did just that, the insensitive moron."  A deep
sigh punctuates her story.

Mulder's fingertips rub along her hand, sliding to the
tip of her index finger, where he plays with the tip
of her nail.  "I know, Scully, that the work doesn't
leave much time for personal relationships," he
begins, apologetic, as if this is all his fault.

Though he shares some of the blame, she admits to
equal fault and quickly corrects him.  "It's not the
work, Mulder.  And it's not just you, either.  It's
me."

"You?"

Pulling her hand away, she shifts on the lounge chair,
one bare leg exposed by the gap of the robe.  Mulder's
eyes darken just before he looks away and she sees him
swallow hard.  One, two seconds pass... when he looks
her way again, only a tic of his cheek remains to tell
her he's not as unaffected by her as he'd like to be. 
But is it what she wants?  Or will just any man do,
like Jerse?

All the while Jerse's sweaty body was crushing hers
into the dank mattress, screwing her brains into mush,
she was thinking of that nurse, wanting to storm back
into that office and proclaim that she'd take condoms,
thank you very much.  Erase that abhorrent word and
write in big, black letters, 'Trojans.'

Funny how she never once gave the man grunting above
her a second of thought beyond the feel of his
latex-covered penis sliding in and out of her.  She
faked an orgasm, kissed his cheek, and asked him if he
wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch.  She was used to
sleeping alone.

Even the usually sure touch of her own fingers wasn't
enough to satisfy her.  It hasn't been for quite some
time, she realizes.

"Abstinence is my life, Mulder.  I don't smoke, or
drink, or have sex.  I hardly eat red meat, I don't
cry at sad movies or smile at your jokes... I realized
the other day that I don't live, I just exist."

"Sex and smoking are highly overrated, Scully, believe
me.  Now - a good steak, that's different."

His attempt to lighten the conversation falls flat and
she sits up, swinging her legs with exasperation.  The
bare limbs crowd between his, and he straightens in
response to her encroachment, a hiss of indrawn breath
barely audible between them.

"You're doing it again.  Stop it."

"Doing what?"

"Not listening to me.  You followed me all the way
here to make jokes, when you could have just waited
until I got back."  With a huff, she stands and walks
into the dark bedroom, the silk falling to her ankles
to brush the floor.  "If you have nothing else to say,
then leave.  I'll be back by Monday."  She tries to
put the impending doctor's appointment out of her
mind, but it's there, always lurking.

"What do you want me to say?"  His words are close,
but physically, he's still keeping his distance.  "I
don't have any answers for you, Scully."

Turning, she meets his shadowed gaze, squinting
against the gauze-filtered light from outside.  "I
never asked you for answers, Mulder."

Hands on hips, he growls, "Then what the hell *do* you
want?"

A dozen words flit through her mind... love, sex,
understanding, respect, all at the top of the list. 
But there's something she wants most of all, something
she craves... that which she thought she'd found with
Jerse, but knows now it was a pale imitation.

"Abandon.  Reckless... insane... release."



End part one


No Quarter Given: Abstinence
Part Two
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Disclaimer, etc. in part one




She waits for him to laugh, or deliberately
misunderstand and back away, thereby releasing them
both from obligation.  Things will go back to the way
they were not long ago; partners and friends, saying
goodbye at the end of the day, only seeing one another
outside of work when necessary.

Misunderstanding, though not deliberate, clouds his
face.  "What?"

"You heard me.  I want release."

Gulping, his hands drop, fingers flexing as though
they itch to shake her.  "You came all the way here to
tell me you want another partner?"

"No.  You're not listening, Mulder."  Tamping down her
growing anger, she forces dispassion into her voice. 
"This is something... I've gone through times like
this before... it's like a cycle of frustration, an
alarm clock sounding when it's time."  

Thinking back, she realizes just about every sexual
relationship she's had began when she just couldn't
stand the frustration any longer.  Love had nothing to
do with any of them; in fact, logic played a big part
in all of them.  Need sex?  Without commitment?  Screw
someone else's husband.  Or the forbidden fruit of the
instructor or the ambitious wannabe whose career path
is definitely at a right angle to yours.  Even the
newborn psychopath who burns his face out of pictures.
 It's guaranteed to give you all the fun for half the
price.  What's a few bruises to the soul, to the body?

Better yet, why stop now?  There's a whole city full
of one-night-stands out there.

Lowering her head in the face of his confusion - and
the truth she can no longer deny - she whispers, "I
need to feel.  I need release."

He draws in a knowing, short breath.  At last, he
sees.  "Jerse?"

"Was an attempt at feeling."  Now that he knows, her
confidence returns, and she raises cool eyes to meet
his.  "I don't expect you to understand, just as I
didn't want you to follow me, though I knew you would.
 But the hotel wouldn't give me a room without a
credit card, so here we are."

Self-derisive chuckling grates from him, as his eyes
sweep her form with disbelief.  "All this because you
need to get laid?"

Flushing, she tries to explain.  "I didn't say that. 
I said I needed to feel.  Call it biological, or
psychological, whatever... I just know this is
something I have to do right now."  After enduring
several long, tense moments of silence, she looks
away.  "I'm sorry you felt the need to come after me,
but I'm okay, really.  And I don't need you here,
Mulder."

The silence is oppressive, settling over her with
bleak finality.

She turns for the door, her explanations done. 
Dismissing him, she says, "I'll reimburse you for your
air fare... if you're too tired to go right back, I
can see if I can get a room for you -"

His soft reply resounds through the room.  "I can do
this for you."

She stops with her hand on the door knob and whispers
with a rueful shake of her head,  "I can't let you." 
Though she knew once he found out, he was bound to
offer.

"You can let some stranger..." he breaks off, a
gentleman to the very end, and she knows he's biting
back what he really wants to say.  "I'm a much safer
bet, Scully.  Aside from the occasional hospital stay,
unfailing ignorance - and a monstrous ego - I'm
clean."

Hearing the tentative smile in his voice, she faces
him again and lets a slight grin blossom on her face. 
"I dunno, Mulder.  That ego can squash me sometimes." 
Unbidden, an image comes to mind with her words... the
sight of him moving above her...

... And she knows, she can *see* that he's thinking
the exact same thing.  A slow, glowing flame ignites
in his eyes, the only hint of feeling in an otherwise
shadowed face.

He's considering it, has thought about it just as she
has.  She wishes she could see his face more clearly,
then decides it's for the best that she can't.  The
slow slide into the forbidden is better with eyes
closed.  Doing just that, she turns away from him, her
tenuous hold on resolution wilting under his scrutiny.

One last attempt at sanity springs forth, with all the
vehemence of a kitten's purr. "You're too close.  I
couldn't use you like that."

"Use me."

Heavy lassitude worms its way through her body, set
free by those two quick, firm words.  Is this what she
wanted all along?  To use him like he's used her all
these years?

"I can do anything for you, Scully.  I *will* do
anything for you."  She hears the rustle of his
clothes as he moves forward.  "You should know by now
that I -"

"All I want is to feel," she says, interrupting what
she supposes is a sure declaration of love.  Whether
he means it or not, she can't let him say it.  "Just
once, I want to feel.  Just once."

Unspoken is the qualifier - without strings - but it
there's just the same, stopping his approach.  Jack
Willis and Daniel Waterston could have been called
friends, but eventually, they became men who expected
more from her than just sex.  Back then, her ambition
won out over emotion; just as she knows that one day,
emotion will rule.  In this case, though, she's
unwilling to embrace the sexual if it means
sacrificing the friendship.  But she doesn't want the
scare of another Jerse.

Once, that's all she needs.  Just once, to feel.

"I can do once, Scully," he says quietly.  "I can do
never, if that's what you want.  But you have to tell
me."

As if she could ever tell him any of the secrets of
her heart.  She's already told him more than she ever
thought she would; it's not like them to speak of such
intimate things.  But if they do this - and she *so*
wants it - they can't let it go any further.  He's
handicapped by the unceasing quest... she's hampered
by the reluctance to make him choose.

Which leaves only one remaining question.

"Can you promise me we'll stay the same?  That this...
*once*... won't ever be spoken of again?"  Please say
you promise, Mulder, she begs silently.

"Scully, my lips are sealed."

"Say it."  She has to hear the words.

"I promise."


&&&&&&&


She grips the bedpost as he stands behind her, his
open mouth nipping at the exposed nape above the robe.
 She arches under his touch, her hands sliding high
above her head, the curves of the worn oak rippling
beneath her touch.

Not a word had been said between them as she listened
to him undress, her back still to him.  It was only
when she felt his warm hand through the silk on her
arm that she spoke, whispering, "Not in the bed. 
Here.  Right here."

"Okay."  The tense curl of his fingers on her arm
spoke of his surprise, but he said nothing else.

She is taut as a bowstring as his mouth meanders over
the bare skin of her neck, traversing the bump of her
spine and hollow below her jaw like he's following a
map.  When his hand slides up over her breast to her
chin, she knows his intent and quickly gasps, "No!"

Stilling, he asks quietly, "I can't kiss you?"

She tunes out the flash of guilt created by those
small, hurting words.  The memory of Jerse's sloppy
kisses turn her stomach, even now.  On the contrary,
she knows that Mulder's kiss would be devastating. 
Lost, she would be lost to him forever.  Turning
slightly, she presses a kiss to his thumb and murmurs,
"That's not what I need. If you can't do this, it's
okay."

His hands fall to her waist, to pull her back to him,
stopping her flight.  It comes from somewhere in his
depths, the strangled, "I told you... anything you
want."  One warm hand snakes inside her robe, finding
and cupping her breast.  He rolls the nipple between
his fingers, asking, "This okay?"

She gasps at the wandering of his hands and the feel
of his body warmth through the thin silk.  How could
she have ever thought that Jerse could possibly do
this for her?  A poor substitute, indeed.

"More," she breathes.

"Tell me what you want.  You have to say it."  He
knows, she realizes.  Knows that by giving herself in
this almost animalistic way, she has the ultimate
control. 

"Talk to me," she says, her back burrowing into his
chest, seeking life.

"What do you want me to say?" he murmurs, his fingers
gathering up the robe slowly, exposing her quivering
legs.  "That I've always wanted to fuck you?"

She shivers at the profanity.  Immediately, he grabs
onto the reaction and plays it, and her, like a
rolling symphony.

"Fuck you... yes, Ana, just you... only you."

At the sound of her alias, she whimpers, her head
lolling back onto his bare chest, her eyes closing
against the mounting pressure of completion.

The jerk of her robe to her waist startles her and her
breath hitches at the feel of his erection above her
ass, hot and pressing.  One hand bunches the material
up and the other releases her breast to slide down.

"You're so hot, Ana," he groans, pushing a calloused
middle finger into her as his teeth nip at her
earlobe.  "Are you always this hot?"

"Just for -" she breathes, the words catching at the
worry of his finger over her clit. <You,> she finishes
silently, but doesn't dare give the word life.

He steals her breath completely away at the removal of
his fingers and she protests with a moan.  "Raise your
knee," he coaxes, his free hand urging her thigh up. 
"On the bed.  Do it."  The last teeters on the edge of
demand, punctuated by the bite he gives her shoulder.

So she does, her right leg losing all resistance to
his pressure, folding up to rest upon the high,
down-covered mattress.  Her other foot lifts from the
floor and settles on the foot rail, bringing her hips
level with his.

With a muffled groan, he enters her, pushing her
stomach into the thick post.  Her swift inhale is
almost lost in the sensation and she bites back his
name, resting her flaming cheek against the cool,
solid wood.

He is still for a moment or two, allowing her time to
adjust, she realizes.  Another realization comes hard
on the heels of the first.  "Mul... condom?"  She
feels every inch of his burning penis within her and
fear makes her squirm.  "I made *him*..." She stumbles
over the admission.  "We should really -"

"It's okay," he says, wrapping his arm about her
waist, murmuring shushes against her ear.  "You wanted
abandon, Ana.  You can trust me, you know that, don't
you?"

"P-pregnancy?" she stutters, her hips already moving
of their own accord despite the logic that blooms from
the Scully side of her brain.

"I won't get you pregnant, I promise."  His hips set
up an answering rhythm and he says, the plea "Please,
Ana.  Let me fuck you.  I can pull out in time."

Dimly, her last coherent thought is that it's foolish,
his insistence that condom use is unnecessary. 
There's sperm in pre-ejaculate, the textbook in her
mind screams.  He can still impregnate her, though the
chances of that are slim.  But when was the last time
she felt a man's penis within her without the
artificial layer of protection?  And she can't deny
that at this moment, it feels wonderful, the ultimate
in risk... and abandon.  And though he's treated her
like shit in the past, he's never lied to her.  He may
put his life in danger and cause her endless worry,
but he's never lied to her.  If he says he'll pull
out, he will.

Is it worth the gamble?  As the tip of him nudges her
cervix, she breathes her answer, to him and to
herself.  "Yes."

She feels his mouth open against the line of her jaw
as he begins to pound into her in earnest, his litany
of promised words rumbling through her like the
approach of a storm.  Then she realizes there *is* a
storm coming, as she sees lightning flash through the
still-open balcony doors.  A storm without to rival
the one within.

As a particularly violent flash fills the room, he
pauses.  She knows what he's seen, and hastens to make
him continue.  "They're nothing," she pleas, speaking
of the fading bruises from her fight with Jerse.

"I'm hurting you," he whispers.

"You're not," she protests.  "I like what you're
doing.  Don't... please don't stop."

He begins thrusting again, slower this time, his hands
holding her loosely in place.

"Harder."  The bend of her legs doesn't allow for much
maneuvering, but it creates a narrow channel for him,
and so much pleasure for her.  She wants more, and she
insists, "Harder, I said."

Groaning, he pushes even further into her, panting
from exertion.  "Like this?"  His balls slap against
her thighs with every thrust and his right knee joins
hers on the bed, the outward press creating leverage
for him, forcing her legs wider.

"Yes, yes," she cries, thinking that it couldn't have
possibly felt any better, but knowing that it just
did.  "Jesus...."

"Fuck," he growls, his bent leg moving hers on the
bed.  He brings his hand to her thigh, effectively
trapping her in a prison of long limbs and straining
muscles.  "Touch yourself," he demands.  "Do it, Ana. 
Make yourself come for me."

Bracing herself against the bedpost with one hand, she
lets the other wander to her waist.  A pang of lust
for this man, so severe and intense, detours her
trembling fingers, and she reaches around to his
sweat-slickened flank, rasping her nails over the
flexing tendons.  He feels so good to her and she
finds herself wanting to prolong the coupling, to make
him lose control along with her.

"No!" His angry outburst is louder than the rolling
thunder outside.  "Don't... not me... you... *you.*"

Tears threaten to fall at the slice of his reprimand,
and she finds herself falling out of the moment.  This
is not what she needs, after all.  Not this selfish,
consuming manipulation of the man who has set aside
his own needs to satisfy hers.  He's only human, not
some callous whore doing this for money.

"Mulder." All her grief is poured into his name, but
he's lost to her now, and she feels it with every puff
of hot breath in her ear.

"Touch yourself, I said."  It's harsh and demanding,
and he quickly guides her hand with his to where they
are joined.  "Do it."

She doesn't know if she can, but she tries, her
fingers held in place by his.  Combined, the friction
created makes her blood sing again.  It isn't long
before the orgasm denied her by Jerse is ripping
through her, fueled by his, "Come on, baby... that's
it... let it go."

A ragged sigh slips from her lips as her walls
contract around his cock.  She tenses as wave after
wave of pleasure consumes her, finally subsiding as
she falls boneless into his waiting arms.

Thunder rolls in closer as the seconds tick by;  he is
still hard within her, waiting.  She pushes back,
urging him to seek his own orgasm, the whisper from
her scratchy throat seeking to release him from his
promise.

"Mulder -"

In an instant, he is gone from her, swiftly turning
her to face him, his mouth hard on hers.  His tongue
plunges within, scraping the roof of her mouth. 
Immediately, she responds, all resistance to emotion
flown from her mind in a hazy burst of love.  Her robe
is gone as well, flung away by the insistent stealth
of his hands.

"You happy now, Ana?" he says, the words ground out
between their mouths.

Gasping for breath, she breaks away, bringing her hand
to his stubbled cheek.  Now, she wishes for light, and
it seems the gods have deigned to give her a glimpse
of his face, as lightning illuminates the room.

Anguish lines the hard planes of his cheeks.  It
brings tears to her eyes, the pain she sees written in
every line.  She never meant to bring him to this, and
she opens her mouth to tell him so.

"Shut up," he growls, his features lost once again as
darkness descends.  "Shut up and get on the bed."

"Mulder -"

"Do it, God damn it, or I'll walk right out of here."

And she'll never see him again.  She knows this to be
true; too little, too late, she sees how she's done to
him what people have been doing to him all his life. 
All he's ever wanted is to be loved, to be cherished. 
Right now, he wants to hear neither.

Later, she can tell him later, she thinks.  Tell him
that it's him she loves, him she wants.  Tell him that
she's sorry for putting him through all this just so
she can feel alive.

She never takes her eyes from him as she backs into
the bed.  His hands are clenched at his sides, his
cock stiff and glistening with her wetness.  He
watches her every move, watches as she shoves the
covers down with her feet and lies back.  When she
lifts a slow hand to him, he inhales sharply.

"Just once," he says, bringing a knee up on the bed,
"I want to feel alive."  He moves to cover her,
prowling like a sleek jungle cat, the more frequent
flashes of lightning peppering his muscles.  She
imagines she can see the fine hair of his arms
standing on end, mirroring hers.

"Anything."

"Just once," he continues, boxing her in with both
arms as the scent of sex fills her nostrils, "I want
to come inside you."  Straining, he probes at her open
thighs, and she reaches down to guide him in.  "I
want... I want...." His eyes narrow, and she sees him
fight for words.

"Yes," she whispers, "anything... anything you want." 
As he slides home, she fights to keep her eyes open,
and she brings her hands to his face.  "I promise." 
She lifts up to touch her lips to his.

"No." He jerks away.  "That's not what I want."  He
pulls out of her and thrusts back in, his face closed,
the words gritted out through clenched teeth.  "*This*
is what I want."

Outside, the rain begins, a torrent that is so fierce,
moisture clings to the air, draping them in a cooling
blanket of nature's teardrops.  With a faint nod and
clogged throat, she acquiesces, letting her hands fall
away to grip the pillow.  She realizes he's determined
to ride her long and hard, but she's not afraid; this
is something he needs now.  Plenty of time later for
apology, on both sides.

Within seconds, he's pounding her into the mattress,
his mouth falling to the arch of her throat.

"Fuck you, Scully," he groans, "fuck you...."

Sweet oblivion overwhelms her as her lips form
soundless words.  Love you, Mulder... love you....




A chill awakens her and she shifts under the coverlet,
turning to face the dawn.  Cooler air has settled in
and it makes the pleasant ache of her muscles
bearable.  They burn with misuse; after all, it's been
quite a while since she's had such marathon sex.

Just once... turned into three times.  Three distinct
rounds of heart-shattering lovemaking, sometimes slow
and filled with soft, sweet kisses... sometimes a
repeat of their first encounter, heated with residual
anger, but ending with apologetic sighs.  Very few
words passed between them in the darkness after that
first time.  Communication existed through skin and
breath instead.

He'd kept his promise that first time, pulling away at
the last second, denying himself the completion within
her he'd said he wanted.  Reeling from a second orgasm
- and more so, from the feelings suddenly come to life
within her - she'd feigned total exhaustion and
listened as he'd stumbled from the bed.  Sure he
wouldn't stay, she'd retreated into fitful, sorrowful
sleep almost immediately, not wanting him to witness
her emotional breakdown.

Now, she lies with eyes closed, secure in the
knowledge that he stayed.  Spent the whole night
exploring her body as she did his; carefully using the
condoms she'd brought with her, though a tiny flicker
of hope shoots through her at the thought that there
is a remote possibility of pregnancy.  No, she really
shouldn't hope for it - there lies insanity.  And, at
this moment, they have more pressing things to
discuss.

He stayed.  That's all that matters.

Smiling, she turns her head upon the pillow to greet
the man she now calls lover.  But he's not there; the
bed is indented with the weight of his body... but
he's gone.  As her arm sweeps under the covers, she
realizes it's still warm.  Faint, but noticeable. 
He's not far away - half hour at the most.

Quickly, she sits up and scans the room.  Not a trace
exists of his presence besides the lingering
remembrance now stamped upon her skin.  She stumbles
from the bed and rummages through her suitcase.

He answers after three rings, a terse, clipped word. 
"Mulder."

"It's me."

Silence reigns for several moments, and she can hear
the faint sound of an airport announcer.  He's
leaving.  Stunned, she murmurs, "You're going home?"

His voice is tinny and cool.  "Actually, I'm on my way
to Dallas.  The case I told you about?"

"Case?"

"The billboard, remember?"

Vaguely, she recalls his mumbled recounting of a
missing girl appearing on a billboard.  "Yes.  Mulder,
I'm -"

"It's okay, Scully," he breaks in, regret shading his
voice.  "I did sort of spring it on you at the last
minute, didn't I?"

No, he didn't, she thinks.  And that's not what this
conversation is supposed to be about.

"Don't worry, I don't think it's legit... I'll just
catch up with the local PD tomorrow and be back in the
office by Monday morning."

What?  She's speechless, confused.  Sure that he can't
just ignore the previous night, she finds herself at a
total loss for a reply.

A few tense seconds pass in which they say nothing. 
Then, Mulder opens the door a minute crack, his words
deliberate.

"I promised I'd look into it ASAP... and I always keep
my promises."

He's not going to say a word, just as he told her he
would.  She feels the burn of tears at the back of her
throat.

"Scully?"

Can't say it, she can't say it.  I love you, Mulder...
damn it, just say it!

Worry edges his next words.  "Scully?  Scully, speak
to me."

She drops to the chair, eyeing his crumpled t-shirt on
the floor, half-hidden under the ruffled edge of the
sofa.  In his haste to leave, he must have forgotten
it.  She brings it to her face, a million words
clamoring for release in her numbed brain.  Words she
can never say.

A broken sob is lost in the fabric... it smells of
him, pungent with last night's panic.

Loveyouloveyoudon'tleaveme....

"Scully!  Damn it, are you okay?  Scully, say -"

Stophimbefore...you'resuchafool....

A shaky reply flutters up from her chest at last. 
"Sorry, Mulder," she says, clearing her throat,
"someone's at the door.  I have to go."

The cacophony of the airport is the only sound for
several mournful seconds.

"That's my flight," he says absently, breaking their
silence.

"See you Monday," she says.

"Sure, Monday."

"Mulder, I forgot to tell you -"

But he's gone, the click of his disconnection severing
her words.

"That I have a doctor's appointment Monday," she
finishes weakly, letting the phone fall from her ear.

I will not cry, she tells herself.  I won't.

But the moisture gathering on her lips is salty in its
betrayal.  Impatiently, she swipes at the unwanted
emotions, freezing at thick feel of it.  One drop,
then two, falls to dye the soft cotton.

The investigator in her notes that the color matches
her fingernails perfectly.  She files it away, just
like everything else.


END


Author's Notes:

As always, if I'm treading familiar ground (God, how
could I *not* be, going this far back) - I apologize. 
No infringement intended.

Many thanks to the ladies of Musea, whose always
helpful beta is deeply appreciated.  Especially with
title suggestions and the 'go for it' boosts.  Any
mistakes are my own.

This is a departure for me.  I began reading fanfic
after ReduxII, and basically was immersed in angsty
cancer-fic from the get-go.  And I hold a deep respect
for the authors who can so effortlessly make me feel
such relentless emotion.  I'd never felt anything
quite like that before, having had no personal
experience with the sometimes overwhelming futility of
fighting a battle that can't be won.  Let's just say,
I've learned since then.

I don't think I've ever tried my hand at such an
unforgiving tale, and still, it's not done.  My battle
with this storyline continues, simply because it must.
 I realize the scenario presented is bordering on A/U,
and the characterizations may be stark and
unbelievable to some, but I'd love to hear your
thoughts.

Thanks for reading.

mish_rose@yahoo.com





=====
Galia makes a lovely home for my fic at:
http://sf.exit.mytoday.de/visionsoftruth/mishfic.htm

Musea, A Collection of Beauty:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/

From: Mish <mish_rose@yahoo.com>
Date: Fri, 31 Aug 2001 09:41:07 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: xfc: NEW: No Quarter Given: Greed, 1 of 2 (NC-17)
Source: xfc

No Quarter Given: Greed
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com
Classification: SA, post-ep for 'Never Again'
Rating: NC-17, for sexually explicit scenes.  No
kiddies, please!
Archive: Just drop me a line.
Disclaimer: Same as before - not mine, never, ever
will be.
Summary: He wants to hear her say it most of all.

Warning: The angst continues.  Read at your own risk.

More notes at end.



... Greed ...



"Flight 592 non-stop to Washington is now boarding at
Gate 37."

No, no, not yet, his harried mind screams.  He can
hear her soft breathing over the din of the airport,
focusing on the sweet lifeline.  He should have it
memorized by now, and he does, all four years of
logical snorts and disbelieving huffs.

It's the mere hours of shaky gasps and encouraging
sighs that he hasn't had enough of... *years* of
listening to them would never burn them onto his
brain.  More, he wants more.

Abstinence, she said.  I'm tired of abstinence.  A
word he knows nothing of.  Some would say he's lived
without so much for so long; his parents' love, his
sister's presence, a family, a home.

In fact, his greed puts Midas to shame.  Selfish,
rapacious greed, directed at the one person who would
give until her dying day.  He knew... he *knew* he
shouldn't have taken what she was so freely offering.

But once again, he took from her.  "Use me," he said. 
Truth be known, he became the user.  Again and again,
taking her body and thereby stripping away her
defenses.  Her soul - an unknown, tender entity - was
bared to him for those precious hours.  All that she
had left, all that she kept secret... the very thing
he had no business revealing... he stole, like a
schoolyard bully.

No more, he tells himself.  Leave her in peace.
"That's my flight."  That's the way.  Give her back
some normalcy.

For a second, he's sure she doesn't hear him.  Either
that, or she chooses to ignore him.  Which would be
best, actually.  Then she says, "See you Monday."

It's working, it *will* work.  Just keep at it.

"Sure, Monday."  Letting the phone drop, he thumbs the
'END' button with self-derisive anger.

Wait a minute, was that his name?  Quickly, he tries
to re-connect, but to no avail.  Just as well; what's
done is done.  If she won't tell him what he wants to
hear, then he'll live with silence.

If only the vision of her lying beneath him, the
embroidered sheets a pale imitation of her white
skin... if only that would fade into nothing as
easily.




"Fuck you, Scully... fuck you."

Every inch of his skin touches hers now, chest to
breast.  He buries his face into the hollow where slim
neck meets collarbone, and his mouth latches on with
vampiric greed as his hips begin to move again.

He knows he must be hurting her, but he can't stop;
he's so close, has been ready to come since he first
entered her.  It's wonderful and horrible at the same
time.  This is Scully... his best friend.  But he's
made her into an object of lust, just as she's done to
him, and a vengeful part of him wants to brand her,
leaving the imprint of his skin upon hers for all
time.

The rhythm returns with ease, and he grips her waist
to hold her in place.  Her hands do not touch him,
yielding to his command of moments ago.  Distance, he
can't do this without distance.  He shouldn't be doing
this at *all,* but it's too late for regret.

All feeling is concentrated in his cock as it glides
into her slippery warmth.  That's all he wants, to
empty himself inside her though he knows pregnancy
would be insane for them both.  He grimaces against
the pillow... he wants to, *God* how he wants to.  To
chain her to him so she'll never be free.

But he can't do it, can't find the release she found
so easily as he tied her to the bedpost with his arms
and legs.  A frustrated moan erupts from him and he
speeds up, straining, wanting her hands on his back,
but now afraid to ask for the contact.  It's not his
right.

Then he feels her hot breath steal across his shoulder
and move to his neck, mirroring the travel of his
mouth against her body.  Soft lips  move, forming
soundless words, words he longs to hear but can't.  He
knows what she's offering, and the knowledge brings
him to the precipice.

He's seconds away from exploding within her when he
feels her breath hitch beneath him.  Her hips jerk
under his, and she moans as yet another orgasm sweeps
over her, her trembling, "Oh, God," leaving a trail of
fire that singes the beard on his jaw.

Yes, he thinks, give it all to me.  He raises his head
as the last shudders rack her body, intending to ask
her for forgiveness.  To plead for touch... to beg for
love.

She's so still, her eyes closed, her mouth lax.  He
forces a rasping, "Scully?" from his lips as his balls
tighten with the ever-closer end.

But he realizes in that instant that she's gone from
him - whether by denial or fatigue, he's not sure. 
Exhaustion has taken hold and no amount of action on
his part will make her come back to him.  Hard on the
heels of that thought is another; this one more
pressing and black with greed.

She can't stop him now.  He can fill her with himself
until there's room in her body and heart for no other
but him.  Once it's done, it cannot be undone.  A bout
of temporary insanity, he can say.  It wouldn't be the
first time he's done something stupid.

But he promised.

Heaving himself up in the darkness, he breaks away
from her warmth and stumbles off the bed, falling to
his knees on the rug.  The rough, short nap stabs into
his flesh as his shaking body refuses to cooperate
anymore.  His cheek hits the floor with a muffled thud
and his hip lands on the more jarring caress of her
discarded robe.

Curled into a ball of unbelievable pain, he grabs his
cock and jerks once, twice.  That's all it takes, and
he shudders soundlessly as his orgasm rockets through
him.

His tears are silent as well.




"Sir."

The soft word drifts into his brain and he ignores it.

"Sir."  Firmer now, he has no choice but to answer.

"Yes?"  Opening his eyes, he focuses on her face
through the layers of restless sleep.

"Are you all right?"  The flight attendant is
concerned, leaning over him, but not too close.  Fear
is shading her creased brow.  What the hell was he
doing?

"I'm fine," he mumbles, turning away from her.  His
sleep was agitated, he knows.  He wonders if he'll
ever find peace in sleep again.  "I have a headache,
that's all.  Maybe coming down with a cold."  Leave me
alone, he adds silently.

"I can get some aspirin for you, if you'd like."  She
glances at the other passengers with calm, and they
turn away, back to their magazines and briefcases.

His dreams must have created quite a scene. 
Pornographic, to be sure.  Was he dry humping the arm
rest or something?  A snide grin covers his face as
his sarcastic, careless nature comes to the fore.  He
doesn't give a shit, really.

But he *does* feel sorry for the slim, pale woman
standing before him.  It's not her fault he's a
tormented asshole.

"Aspirin would be nice," he says.  "Aspirin."

As she nods and leaves, he turns back to the window
and watches the clouds go by.




It's the cold that wakes him, the clammy feel of his
body on the unyielding floor making him start and lift
his head.  Darkness surrounds him, and he remembers it
all.  Instantly, he shuts down, letting his instinct
for self-preservation surface, tamping the emotions
behind a well-worn door at the back of his brain.

Leave.  He needs to leave.  Before she wakes up and
makes him leave.  He checks his watch; he's only been
here an hour.  With any luck, he can quietly dress and
be well on his way by ten.

The soft sound of skin moving against cotton makes him
pause.  Behind him, she sleeps, moving in the bed.  He
imagines she's pulled the covers over her by now,
chilled as her body has cooled down.  He wants to
touch her, to make sure she's okay, but doesn't dare. 
One look at her would be enough to lash him to that
bed as her willing slave.

Quickly, he must move quickly.  He crawls like a cat
over the rug, searching for his armor of black. 
Looking somehow to his clothes for the strength to
resist the growing pull of her night sounds.  The
sticky half-dried semen on his lower belly is an
unpleasant reminder but he's unwilling to take the
time to shower.

There is enough light in the bedroom to see his
clothes scattered upon the floor, and he picks them
up, the scent of his frenzied search still clinging to
them.  Almost there, he's almost there.

Standing, he reaches for his boxers, finding he has to
grab the back of the ancient chair for support, as his
legs are still rubbery.  The muscles are slightly
sore, and he knows it's more from relief at having
found her safe than any physical strain.  They've been
locked in pre-flight mode for more than thirty-six
hours, waiting for her name to pop up on the Gunmen's
network of computers.  He really has to give it to
her; when she wants to ditch him, she knows how to do
it well.

A sigh steals across the room and he freezes. One deep
breath, then two... he won't look at her.  If he
does... then, a rustle of bed linens.  No, he won't...
but his heart betrays him, and he turns like Lot's
wife, knowing it's the wrong thing to do.

And the pillar of salt crumbles.

One leg is uncovered, slim and ghostly white.  A hint
of light hair peeks from under the sheet draped on her
hips, and he gulps, his mouth suddenly dry.  Up, up,
his eyes travel, to the one puckered nipple that
crowns her bare breast.  He flexes the fingers of his
right hand, knowing how well it fits in his palm.

What little control he still possesses leaves when he
sees her face.  In the muted shadows, he can see how
her makeup has been smeared by his mouth, by their
sweat, by her tears.  The faint scratches from her
trip to Philadelphia are still there, and he longs to
put his lips to them, to soothe the hurt.

His clothes drop from fingers made lax by the
surrender to temptation.  The decision is made.  Good
or bad, he's not going anywhere.  Not yet.  He sighs,
his resolve floating away with the sad sound.  The
urge to rejoin her is strong, but he doesn't.  The
invisible, frayed rope that stretches between them
threatens to break should he test it so soon.

Not yet.  She needs time.

Moving to the balcony, he breathes deep of the moist
air, forcing himself to relax.  The rain has slowed to
a drizzle, and he can hear the street beyond the
opposite building come alive with Friday night
partiers.  The chaise lounge is soaking wet, but he
reclines anyway, uncaring if anyone can see him in the
darkness.  It's fucking Mardi Gras - nudity is
expected, he thinks.

Is that why she picked New Orleans?  Especially at
this time of the year?  Inhibition is thrown to the
four winds on the streets.  Easy to find someone to -

No.  He doesn't want to think about that now.  Anger
still wars with the more tender pull of love and
desire.  He'd like nothing better than to shake some
sense into her.  Then melt into her until he's
absorbed into her soul.  No way could she get rid of
him then.

Taking a deep breath, he wills his mind to relax.  No
use thinking right now.  He's tired of thinking.  Like
her, he wants to feel.

He smells himself in the night air, mixed with the
lingering scent of her.  When was the last time he
bathed?  Slept or eaten?  Sleep is impossible, he
knows.  Bathing will come later, when he feels like
it.  But he *is* hungry, he realizes.  Reaching for
the phone, he sighs with relief that it hasn't shorted
out in the storm.

A click tells him he's reached the front desk.  The
voice on the other end is breathless and urgent. 
"Miss Ana?"

Jealousy rears its ugly head at the memory of the
handsome man behind the counter, his concern for
Scully speaking of her friendly overtures.

"We need room service," he bites out, his voice low
and steely.

There is silence on the other end for a moment. "Yes,
sir," the man answers finally, in a polite but
grudging voice.  "What can we do for you?"

The hollow of his stomach beckons, and he says, "Food.
 Some bread, cheese... anything... and a bottle of
wine.  For two."  He cringes at his self-confidence,
the fantasy of watching her eat, naked against the
white sheets, rising unbidden to shake him to his
bones.  Biting back the anger at the impossible, he
finishes,  "As quickly and quietly as possible.  Leave
it outside the door."

This time, the clerk retreats to familiar
subservience.  "Yes, sir, anything you need, just -"

He hangs up on the man's groveling and leans his head
back, closing his eyes against the mist.  Anything he
needs, he just has to ask.  If only it were that
simple with her. 

In less than fifteen minutes, he hears the scraping of
shoes outside the door.  He knows she's exhausted, but
he hopes the commotion isn't enough to wake her.  Not
yet, anyway.  He needs sustenance before walking that
tightrope.

The tray is laden with local delicacies, and his mouth
waters at the smell of cayenne pepper.    Never taking
his eyes from the woman in the bed, he eats slowly,
sprawled in the settee at the far end of the room. 
Though hungry, he can eat no more than a few boiled
shrimp and a spicy cup of gumbo with French bread. The
wine he saves just in case, hope flickering with a
last gasp of breath at the thought of sharing it with
her.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as he moves back to
the balcony, his hunger for food abated.  As if
noticing it for the first time, he spies a towel laid
across the back of the chair.  It's soaking wet from
the rain, but as he brings it up to his face, it still
smells like her.  He clutches it in his hands, his
eyes closing with grief.  Touch... he craves touch, he
realizes.  *Her* touch.  How he could ever have denied
himself the touch of her hands is beyond his
comprehension.

He sits again on the chaise, used to the damp now, the
towel held to his chest, forcing air in and out of his
lungs.  He wants to stay.  God knows he does.  Will
she let him?

The rain picks up again suddenly, and he gasps at the
cold pellets that sting his skin.  It takes a moment
or two, but he allows his body to acclimate, both
loving and hating the feel of the water.  It's a
punishment and a blessing, cleansing his body and
soul.

Knowing he can't be seen from the courtyard below, and
uncaring if he *can* be seen by the patrons across the
way, he stands and spreads his arms wide. The rain
sluices over his body, washing away the last of his
resistance.  Not that there was much left, once he'd
looked upon her.  He breathes deeply, shaking his
head, clearing his mind of nothing but what awaits him
in that bed.  The work, the chase, the worry... all
fade until his focus is once again pinpointed on
*her.*

Turning slowly, he sees her slumbering form in the
bed, illuminated by a far-off flash of lightning. 
This storm is not as fierce as the one before, more
like a slow influx of life-giving water lapping at the
banks of the Mississippi.

He grabs the towel in both hands and wrings out the
water, then one step, and he's inside.  With every
step that follows, he wipes away the droplets that
cling to him, his gaze never straying from her.  His
heart thuds in his chest, from anticipation or dread,
he's not sure.  But the gooseflesh on his arms is real
and familiar, signaling the beginning of a new chase. 
One that has nothing to do with lights in the sky, and
everything to do with the  beautiful enigma just
beyond the shadows.  She sleeps on, wrapped in the
tangle of sheets that add another layer of mystery.

He stands beneath the slow whirr of the ceiling fan
and shivers as it dries him, one hand slicking back
his wet hair.

It's not finished, not nearly.  Raising the towel, he
approaches the bed.


End part one


No Quarter Given: Greed
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Disclaimer, etc. in part one



His apartment is still as death, the evidence of the
last frantic hours spent waiting for a signal from her
strewn everywhere.  The phone rests on the coffee
table and his address book is open to her mother's
number.  Her apartment key lays on the floor where it
missed his desk, flung in an angry rage at her
disappearance.  The Saturday evening shadows hide the
way he went crazy, throwing airline manifests and
credit card printouts like a spoiled child.

He really should clean up the mess, but utter fatigue
settles in his bones and he drops to the couch.  Sleep
isn't immediate.




He starts with her foot, a feather light touch of the
cool towel against the sole, careful not to tickle her
awake.  A voice at the back of his mind tells him she
will mount some protest; but if he's lucky, and
gentle, he can forestall the return of her inhibitions
with sure hands and loving care.

One hand is draped by the towel, giving her ankle a
soothing balm.  The other snakes under her calf, and
he is surprised by the heat of her, even in the chill
of the room.  Is she feverish?  No, he concludes. 
She's just overheated from the night's activity, all
the more reason to take his time with her and give her
the balm she needs.

He gently lifts the sheet from her body and he stills
at her deep sigh, glancing up as he holds his breath. 
But she doesn't awaken; in fact, she lets her leg
shift, bending to give him a glimpse of the place he'd
love to bury himself forever.

In answer to her unconscious invitation, his cock
stirs, despite his shivering.  But he persists,
unwilling to give himself over to selfish desires at
this point.  This is about her.

Slowly, he draws the towel up one leg, then the other,
wiping away the fine sheen of sweat.  Pausing now and
then to drop kisses on a dimple here, a curve there,
he makes his way up to her belly, the backs of his
legs trembling with the effort not to join her on the
bed.

Like a slave, he worships her, denying himself the
luxury of intruding into her bed space, content for
the moment to stand above her and watch the flutter of
her muscles react to his touch.  When his hair falls
into his eyes, he shakes it away, careful not to let
the drops fall upon her silky skin.  He is awed by the
beauty before him and he draws in a shaky breath when
his hands cup her breasts through the towel.

One by one, he rolls the cloth over her nipples and
smiles at the way her breathing changes, become
deeper, quicker.

"Mulder...."

A sob hitches in his throat; she's dreaming, and he
stops to watch the shift of her eyes under the
paper-thin lids.  Could it be possible?  Has she
always murmured his name in her dreams?  He can't be
that fortunate.  It's only because he's intruded this
night in a most intimate way. Brushing aside the
yearning, he pulls away to bunch the towel in one
hand.

Like an artist, he dabs at her cheeks and lips, the
streaks of her heavy makeup disappearing.   Forehead,
chin, hollow of the throat... all is wiped clean under
his gentle touch.

Her eyes crack open and he holds his breath, waiting
for some resistance.  But her look is sleepy and
unquestioning, trained upon his face.  She blinks,
trying to focus, but still she's too fatigued to deny
him.  So he continues, with his fingers this time,
cupping her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

"I thought -" she whispers, choking over the
realization that he's still here.

"Shh."  Much as he wants to hear her say she's happy
he didn't leave, he can't take the chance that what he
sees shimmering in those pain-filled eyes is
disappointment.

A little while longer, he pleas silently.

Her lashes droop, and it's enough for now.

Minutes pass as he admires the porcelain skin he
uncovers; a crease at the corner of each eye, a
freckle below her right earlobe, and the mole.

Above her lip, the mark he knew was there, but had
never seen without the concealing film of makeup.  His
thumb glides over it and he licks his lips, wanting to
touch his tongue to it.  Not now, but he will.  He
promises himself that he will.

"Roll over," he says, before temptation gets the
better of him.

"Wha -?" The scratchy confusion is momentary, and she
tenses at the breaking of the spell.

"Roll over," he says again, with gentle urging.

Sighing, she does, her arms curling about the pillow
on the far side.  Burrowing into it, she drifts again,
her breathing slowing to a soft purr.

She doesn't even flinch at the touch of the towel on
her back, and he brings a knee up on the bed to lean
over her.  Every slope, every ridge of her spine gets
equal attention, the circle of the tattoo drawing
special interest from his fingers.

In the dim light, the flesh has the pink glow of
tender skin.  The touch of the towel isn't enough to
wipe it from her skin, though he so wants to erase it
like a smudge of dirt on a scraped knee.  It's a
reminder of his inattention to her needs, but he knows
she sees it as an act of rebellion.  It's not about
him, just as she said not long ago.  He must remember
that.

Instead of lingering there, he passes the towel over
the backs of her legs, one by one, looking for the
same reaction as before.  He's rewarded just the same,
as her legs shift apart and she moans.

Finally, he climbs fully onto the bed and lies down
beside her, letting the towel fall on his hip before
curling an arm around her.  The protest he knew would
come falls weakly from her lips.

"Mulder."  The warning is slight, but there.

"Shh, let me."

To his surprise, she does without any further
resistance.  He settles her back against his chest and
slips an arm under her neck.  His other hand brings
her leg over his, opening her up to him.  Only one
place left to clean....

At the touch of the towel between her legs, she gasps
and stiffens in his embrace.  Her hiss stabs at him,
and he flinches inwardly with her, the calming words
breathed into her ear.  "It's okay, it's okay."

He'd known their lovemaking was rough; his muscles had
been very sore before his impromptu shower in the
rain.  Hers must be just as spent, and the slam of his
thighs into the junction of hers can't help but have
inflamed the soft skin there.

"Better?"

She nods into his arm, keeping her face lowered.  For
a while they lie there, his body cradling hers, one
hand rubbing her hip.  She smells of rainwater now,
and he breathes deep, loving the way the scent of the
outdoors embraces her.  In his mind, she is part of
his earth, a cool, yet fiery goddess that embodies his
every dream.  He would tell her so if he thought she'd
listen; instead, he pays tribute by the touch of his
hands.

"Hungry?" he asks, envisioning himself feeding her
amidst the plump pillows, gulping at the fantasy.  Say
yes, he implores silently, eyes closed with slim hope.
 I'll do anything for you.

Shaking her head no, she brings her arms to her chest.
 She's retreating from him already, putting them
firmly back into their respective places.  As much as
she can, anyway, considering exactly where they are...
and their state of undress.

With a sigh, he begins to pull away from her.

She turns, the towel flung to the floor, her body
melting into his.

"Don't go."




His feet pound the pavement, the dismal Sunday morning
surrounding him like an oppressive, airless black
hole.  Unbidden, the questions come to mind.

Is she still there?  Did she spend another day,
waiting to see if he'd pass through on his way back to
D.C.?  He'd lied about going to Dallas, not wanting
her to think he was treating the day with other than
casual significance.  Truth be known, he didn't want
her to think he'd gone home to wait for *her.*

Which is just what he did, no big surprise there. 
Like a fool, he spent the night in his apartment,
exhaustion finally taking hold, though he slept
fitfully, waiting for a phone call that would never
come.  Why would she call him, anyway?  It was over;
they had gone back to partners and friends, nothing
more, nothing less.

It's his own fault if he wants something more.  His
own misfortune.

The miles rack up for another hour or two, the words
echoing in his brain.

That, you stupid fuck, is *your* misfortune.




His eyes slam shut, sure he's misunderstood her.  Not
wanting to take advantage of her again, he forces
himself to be still, though his hands fist behind her
back with the ache to hold her.

"Scully."  Her name breaks from him on a shaky sigh,
his doubt and yearning carried on the syllables.

In answer, she kisses her way to one of his nipples,
where she opens her mouth over the rapid beating of
his heart.  Her hands press against him, rolling him
over onto his back.  He has no choice but to let his
arms encircle her, though he's already shaking his
head no.  He wants this, but is still not sure she
does.

"Yes," she whispers, raising glassy eyes to his. 
"Again."

As her lips close over his, he lets his eyes drift
shut, unable to withstand the joy.




"Mulder, it's Frohike.  Call us when you get in, dude.
 We're worried... you know."

He presses the 'erase' button on his answering
machine, knowing he won't call his friends.  There's
no way he could keep the emotion from his voice, even
over the phone.




As she unrolls the condom over his erection, he jerks,
unable to deny himself the pleasure her touch creates.
 He doesn't want to dwell on the fact that she has
condoms in the first place; though he knows very well
it could have been some nameless stranger in her bed
this evening.

But fate has given him the chance.  Not once, but
twice.  He wants to savor every moment this time, sure
it's to be the last.

When she slowly lowers herself on him, he has to look.
 And if he thought feeling was the ultimate, then
seeing is nirvana.

Her eyes are slitted, her mouth open on a wordless
sigh.  Bending slightly forward, she runs her palms
over his chest until they wrap around his face.

His eyelids slam shut, burning as he sees her intent.

The kiss is nothing like any he's ever had before. 
Sensual, soft, tickling... humid, hot, serious...
catastrophic to his mind and soul.  He unfolds like a
scarf in the wind at her touch, flying to parts
unknown.  Shattering into a thousand pieces, all
etched with her face and form.

Red-orange desire flashes through him, and his hands
grasp her hips, asking her to move.  Begging her to
give him release.

And move she does, her mouth still close to his, her
tongue painting his lips with warmth.  Slow, even
rocking upon him, designed to prolong the sweet agony
that grips him now.

He can't speak, though every tug of her hot sheath
makes his head twist on the pillow.  Knowing he should
wait for her, he tries to make her join in his frenzy,
his hands gliding to her breasts.  She will have none
of that, though, taking his wrists in her hands to
imprison them beside his head.  His eyes slit open and
he shivers at the sight of her lying upon him,
determination narrowing her eyes.  Of their own
accord, his feet plant themselves on the bed and his
hips answer the call of hers.  Sliding deeper into
her, he cries out, knowing it's just a matter of
moments now.

Her mouth swallows his ragged cry.  After a quick tug
on his lips with her teeth, she backs away,
whispering, "This is what I want."

And he succumbs to her want, a willing slave.





The telephone is in his hand.

He's a fool.  Leaving her after all, keeping the one
promise he knows now he should never have kept.  They
need to talk; *he* needs to tell her that she's
everything to him.

Just do it, you idiot, he tells himself.

But it's been more than a day; has she had enough time
to think?  What if she doesn't feel the same?  All she
wanted was abandon.  Not the love of a self-centered
man with more baggage than one human should have to
live with;  a man who takes every opportunity possible
to state that the 'truth' is all he's after.

Tomorrow.  He needs to do this face to face.  If she
even shows up tomorrow.

His cell phone shatters when it hits the wall.  He's
such a fucking coward.




He drifts up from sleep, warm under the covers, the
faint light of pre-dawn trickling into the room.  As
he blinks away the clouds of his empty dreams, he
feels a sigh caress his chest and he starts, looking
down.

She's still there, wrapped in his arms.  His heart
slows from its fearful tripping as he gathers her
closer.  She didn't leave. *He* didn't leave.  It
wasn't a dream.

Just a few minutes longer, he thinks.  All he needs is
the feel of her for a little while longer.  The slim
strength of her arms curled up against him, the firm
line of her legs entangled with his.  The smell of her
hair that tickles his nose, the sound of her breathing
that tells him she's alive... that which gives him
life as well.

But it's not to be, as she stirs, her eyes lifting to
meet his sleepily.  With a sad heart, he allows her to
pull away, though she doesn't retreat fully, just
enough to lay her head on the other pillow.

Are they going to talk now?  If so, he wonders what he
could possibly say to her.  Apologies, of course. 
Assurances that this will be forgotten.  Maybe he
should just get dressed and leave.  He waits for her
to begin.  This is her party, after all.  He's just a
guest.

But she doesn't say a word, just closes her eyes with
a sigh.

It's all the confirmation he needs.  With a jerk, he
pulls away and leaves the bed, ignoring her whispered,
"Mulder."

He knew it, *knew* she would still feel the same in
the morning.  He'd laugh at his stupidity if he didn't
feel like crying.

"No, Scully."  It's all he can manage to say as he
fumbles with his jeans.  "Shit," he spits out, when
the zipper threatens to catch on the tender skin of
his dick.  Where the hell is his boxers, anyway?  And
why won't his hands stop shaking?

"Mulder, please," she says, this time with a catch in
her voice.

He whirls, his jeans forgotten, anger making him
tremble.  The familiar pull of lust slams into him
again at the sight of her, naked to the waist, sitting
up in the bed.  But he can't give in to it.  "Please
what, Scully?  What the hell else do you want from
me?"

She bites her lip and turns away, her arms coming up
to cross over her chest, a pink flush covering her
bare skin.

"God damn it, you can't say it, can you?" he cries. 
No, he can't give in to it, he can't... even though
she looks so forlorn and fragile, the delicate line of
her spine beckoning to his mouth.  "Why can't you say
it?"

No, he can't... just as she can't give voice to what
she's feeling for him, he can't give in to his heart's
desire.  He won't do it, he swears, his hands fisting.
 He won't.

Like hell he won't.

Two steps and he's back in the bed, grabbing her
shoulders to pull her to him.  Her gasp of shock
emboldens him, the surprise in her eyes at his rough
handling making him instantly hard once again.

"You can't even face me now?" he says, reaching for
the condoms even as he challenges her.  "What's with
the frightened virgin routine?"  It comes out, sharp
as a needle, though he doesn't mean it to be. "*Ana.*"

Her eyes fill with tears at the use of the name, but
he refuses to let them stop him.  She's not fighting
him, and all the signs of arousal are there - from the
hard points of her nipples to the hot urging of her
hips beneath his.

He'd thought they'd gotten past this last night.  That
the last time they'd made love, she'd realized...
hell, he didn't know *what* she thought anymore.  But
he'd seen the reticence in her eyes a few minutes ago,
slipping past her defenses as she'd awakened.

He knows she feels something for him, but she won't
allow herself to say it.  It saddens him, the look
she's giving him now.  Lost, still unsure and not
knowing how to reconcile the turmoil within her.  If
he thought his love would help, he'd say it in a
heartbeat.

But he knows deep down it would do no good.  She'd
repeat it back to him, but regret it later.  Logic
would come with the morning light and he'd lose her
forever.

No.  This must be the end.  The last time, if she'll
let him.

Unable to withstand the pain in her gaze, he drops his
lips to her forehead.  Sure he's written his ticket
out of there with his failing anger, his hand fists
over the condom, grinding it into the pillow.  It
almost burns his palm with the need to be free as it
lays just inches from the wild red hair.

"Last time?" he whispers, his mouth lax against her
skin.  He wants to kiss her into complying, seduce her
with lips and hands, but he waits.  He's done enough
already.

He holds his breath as her hand trails down his
abdomen.  It slides under the open jeans, her nails
lightly scraping the wiry hair.  She's either giving
him his fondest wish, or about to unman him, he
thinks.  And while not expecting the first, he's
surely deserving of the second.

Lifting her chin, she brings her other hand to the
pillow to cover his fist.  They both watch as she
forces his fingers to unfurl.  "Last time," she
whispers, her eyes darting back to his.

At this moment, it's not what he most wants to hear. 
But he steals the words from her lips anyway, greedy
to the bitter end.




It's 10:15 and she still hasn't made it in.  Worry
nibbles at the edges of his mind, the pencil between
his teeth chipped and scored with anxiety.  It's not
like her to be so late without a phone call.

He stares at the bouquet of flowers on her desk.  Like
an embarrassed fool, he'd sneaked them into the
building under his coat, not wanting to endure the
raised eyebrows and smirks.

Another night of silence has really set him on edge;
now they *really* have to talk.  And he won't take her
distance for an answer.  The flowers are just the
start of what could be a lengthy war, in his mind. 
One that he's determined to win.  He'll use every
weapon at hand, if necessary.  Dinners for two, subtle
persuasion, gentle wooing... hot and heavy sex,
because he knows she can't resist it now.

He loves her and he's sure she loves him.  She just
doesn't know it yet.  But she will.  She will say it
to him.  Even if he has to say it a thousand times
first.

At the ring of the telephone, he jumps.  It's her,
saying she's waiting for him at her place - where the
hell is he?  Or better yet, she's quitting and
bringing him up on harassment charges.

"Mulder."

"It's me."

For a second, he allows relief to flood him.  A small
part of him hadn't even expected her to grace him with
a call.  "Where are you, Scully?"

Please say you're still in New Orleans... you want me
to come back... we can take the week off....

"Mulder, I have to tell you something."

ShelovesmeIknowshedoes...tellmeyouloveme....

"Yes?"  His heart speeds up.

"I need you to come down here."

Yes!

"Okay," he answers, forcing a calm he doesn't feel. 
He has to make her say it.  "Where is 'down here'?"

"Holy Cross Memorial Hospital."

It slams him in the chest, taking a chunk of his
heart, stopping its pounding altogether.

"Where?"

"Holy Cross.  Hospital."

He stands, reaching for his coat.  "Are you okay?  Are
you hurt?" Where the hell are his keys?

"No, nothing like that.  I'll be waiting for you in
the Oncology Ward."

*That* freezes him.  "Oncology Ward?"

"I - I've had some tests run," she continues, and he
can hear the underlying fear and disbelief thread
through her voice.  "I need you to... I want to tell
you the results."  She takes a deep breath and
finishes, "Can you come?"

Cancer.  No, it can't be.  There must be some mistake.
 The memory of the day Scully informed him of the
women in Allentown rises, pricking at his brain.

"Mulder, I need you here."  Her voice breaks slightly.
 "I have to tell Skinner and I don't know how."

So she calls her best friend.  Unbelievable pain
staggers him for a second, grinding his romantic hopes
into dust.  Loyalty and friendship rise up in the hole
left behind, right next to the love he'll always feel,
but now never speak of.  It's not what she needs.

Stunned, he makes his reply soft and reassuring. 
"I'll be right there," he says. "Scully, hang on, I'll
be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you."  Her thin whisper is the last he hears
before she hangs up.

As an afterthought, he picks up the flowers.

No.  It can't happen to her.  He won't let it.  He's
greedy that way.

Like he told her, he'd do anything for her.

Anything.



END


Author's Notes:

Again, my love and gratitude to Musea.  There's none
better at love, friendship, and instruction.  My
writing is what it is because of my teachers, past and
present; my life is what it is because of my sisters. 
Real and adopted. :)

Thanks to the many who told me I was doing something
right.  This is dedicated to them.

And I'm still not finished.  As long as the muse
cooperates, the angst will thrive.  Though I think
this story will come to an end shortly, one that I
hope will be satisfactory.

Thanks so much for reading.

mish_rose@yahoo.com


=====
Galia makes a lovely home for my fic at:
http://sf.exit.mytoday.de/visionsoftruth/mishfic.htm

Musea, A Collection of Beauty:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/
From: Mish <mish_rose@yahoo.com>
Date: 30 Sep 2001 20:36:43 -0700
Subject: [all-xf] New: No Quarter Given: Surrender, 1 of 3, NC-17
Source: atxc

No Quarter Given: Surrender
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

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.  In order,
they are:

Abstinence
Greed
Surrender

and they can be found here:

www.geocities.com/mish_rose/Mishsite/NQG.html

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 ...


Part One


"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.

<Ironically enough, it's a place I've always wanted to
visit.  A spiritual journey.>

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."




End Part One

No Quarter Given: Surrender
Part Two

Disclaimer, etc. in part one



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.

<And if I want it to be mine as well?>

His plea echoes in her mind; she should have said
something.  And tonight, she's still not certain she
can say what he needs to hear.  Not with her mouth,
anyway.  It's a cowardly course of action, but it's
one guaranteed to catch him off guard, at the very
least.  Maybe she won't have to use words at all.  He
summoned her as Ana, and that's the approach she will
use.

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."




End Part Two


No Quarter Given: Surrender
Part Three

Disclaimer, etc. in part one



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.

<You're drawn to powerful men but you fear their
power... you'd die for Mulder but you won't allow
yourself to love him.>

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. <g> Hope this is satisfactory!

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. :)

=====
Visit my fic at:
http://www.geocities.com/mish_rose/

Musea, A Collection of Beauty:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/