Taming The Unicorn 4 (1/1) by imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 MSR Summary: IV: In which bad things happen to good people. CREDITS: My thanks and love to "Lone Editors/The Next Generation": CatheRaven, PRhino, Allie Allie Sidekick, and Chaos and Dee la Merc-Mommy, for service above and beyond the call of beta-readers; to PRhino, especially, for the story's title; and ALL the beta readers, SKL and otherwise. DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. (Everyone knows that.) I'm not making any money writing fanfic about 'em. (This, too, should be obvious.) Commentary and criticism welcomed, suggestions entertained, flames cheerfully used to light cigarettes, at the e-mail address(es) given above. Missing story segments can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Hills/1013 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- For Chaos Merc, in payment for services rendered -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn Part 4 (1/1) by imajiru THE STORY SO FAR: I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. II - In which the terms of the wager are defined. III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. ========================================================= IV. The Sundering He awoke to the dull light of near-dawn, and the growl and whine of traffic speeding past on the highway; the cold had seeped into his bones, and his joints ached as he struggled to his feet. He had no memory of having fallen asleep, but the last time he'd been aware of his surroundings it had been dark, so sleep was the only explanation... either that, or he'd blacked out. Whatever. Unconsciousness was unconsciousness, after all, and at least he hadn't *dreamed*. His eyes hurt; it was an effort to blink them open, and keep them that way long enough to get a picture of his surroundings. It was the same highway he'd hiked along for hours last night, until fatigue and stress had finally taken their toll; until he could no longer shut out the voices in his head, the echoes of what had transpired earlier that evening. He had become an expert at repressing his pain, but this was a pain beyond endurance. ***Mulder, we need to talk...*** His car was totaled, a ruined wreck overturned on the shoulder, several miles back; "And they say gas tanks only go up like that in the movies," he'd said aloud, to nobody in particular, as he'd watched it burn. "Guess there was no point in locking the door behind me." His insurance rates were going to skyrocket, and he couldn't bring himself to care... the 'good samaritan' who'd ostensibly stopped to help had instead taken his wallet at knifepoint, and he couldn't bring himself to care about that, either. ***I've been thinking about this... about us.*** He'd walked down the side of the highway for miles, with no particular destination, nothing except the vague compulsion to keep going, as if by doing so he could somehow escape the truth of what had happened. It was no use: he kept hearing her voice in his head, over and over, saying the same awful things. ***I think we're making a terrible mistake...*** He hadn't understood, at first; it had been incomprehensible. Lying in bed beside her, his body wrapped around hers, lazy and satiated -- worse, somehow, that she'd waited until afterwards to tell him. Had she allowed him that one last time out of pity? ***We're friends... good friends. I think we should keep it that way.*** And then it had begun to sink in, like a lead weight, settling in the pit of his stomach: the heavy, sick feeling that he knew too, too well. The sensation of loss: it was an old companion, one that had been with him for as long as he could remember. How masterful his Scully was with an autopsy, that she could rip out a man's intestines without so much as a scalpel in her hand. ***You understand, don't you, Mulder?*** Of course. It was the same old story, after all, wasn't it? Just another betrayal of trust. Except that this one was the worst of all. ***Mulder? Listen to me...*** But what else had there been to say, really? "Stop it," he muttered, through clenched teeth, "stop it, stop it..." His old mantra, from childhood on: repeated over and over in his head, a nonstop litany of mindless thought to keep the painful ones away. He recognized that it was a sign of how far gone he was, that he was actually speaking the words aloud, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, now. ***I don't want our partnership to suffer...*** How could he ever work beside her again? Hard enough to be with her and not touch her, not reach out to her, when they'd been almost-lovers. Now... how could he ever look at her, hear her voice, without feeling that terrible, suffocating ache? ***Mulder, wait a minute, don't go...*** Had she expected him to *stay*? Had she expected him to simply agree with her verdict, and spend the rest of the night on the couch? For him, it had been magic; how could she not feel the same way? He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. His eyes hurt. His head hurt, too, the mother of all headaches; it had begun while he was dressing, throwing on clothes so hastily he'd nearly gotten his underwear caught in his zipper. It had gotten worse after his collision with and pole-vault over the guardrail: seatbelt or no, the bruise on his head was a clear indication that he'd made at least superficial contact with the windshield. The hours he'd spent crouched at the side of the highway hadn't helped... //Concussion,// he estimated, judging from his dizziness and double-vision; for a moment, he had a brief, clear, tactile memory of Scully's small hand on his forehead, and that made the pain even worse. He wanted to be home, so badly he could taste it: home, in his rathole of an apartment, among the clutter and mess, lying on the couch with the lumpy pillows and the broken spring that always caught him in the hip, eating leftover pizza and watching some second-rate porno flick... no, scratch that last. But something safe and familiar and comfortable, something that had existed in his life before Scully had torn his heart to shreds, something in which he could bury himself and perhaps forget, for a little while, the agony of her last words to him. ***Mulder, this is for the best... trust me?*** Trust. Yeah. He passed a pay phone, and had no thoughts of calling anyone for assistance; who was there? Only *her*. She'd helped him enough, thanks very much; she'd given him a brief taste of bliss, of the most incredible happiness he'd ever known, then snatched it away so cruelly... //Does she know?// he wondered. //How could she not know?// And he didn't know which was worse: the possibility that she hadn't known how deeply he cared for her, how much her decree would hurt him -- or the concept that she'd known, but hadn't cared. Either way, the results were the same. She'd ended their relationship, and by extension their partnership, no matter how strenuously she might object against the latter, because there was just no way he could continue to deal with her after this. And he would miss her, oh god, would he miss her: backing him up in dangerous situations, being the voice of reason in the face of his flights of fancy, or the sole dissenting spark of faith against his relentless cynicism, the one factor that he could rely on completely... he missed her already, mourned for their partnership. As he walked, he alternated between mentally composing his request for reassignment, and his resignation; he wasn't sure yet which he would write. His vision blurred again, and he cursed under his breath and reached up to rub at his sore, swollen eyes. //Enough,// he thought, //last night was enough,// and cringed inwardly at the memory of his own loss of control. Of the moment when it had all become more than he could tolerate, when the tears had begun to flow, had become sobs, had become howls. Of the moment when his legs had crumpled beneath him, when he'd fallen to the ground, screaming unheard over the roar of the cars on the highway, crying helplessly, unable to stop. No relief, no release, only the endless pain -- until, finally, the numb darkness of unconsciousness had overcome him. Awareness had brought back the pain: he struggled to hang on to the last vestiges of numbness. Somehow, he managed to keep his feet moving, one step after another... after an eternity, the off-ramp loomed ahead, signifying that he was finally almost home; trudging steadily, he managed to make it to his destination. As dawn moved into morning, the traffic had steadily increased... that's right, it was Monday morning, wasn't it? //Guess who's not going to work today...// Scully would be there, though, he was sure, securely swaddled in her confidence that she was 'doing the right thing' by shutting him out of her heart. Even if he had been in any shape to consider making an appearance, he couldn't have faced her. He could just picture her, pretending that nothing had ever happened between them... He'd thought that losing her had been bad. Having her walk away was worse than he ever could have imagined. He was all the way upstairs before it dawned on him that he'd lost his door key, along with his wallet and badge and everything else; he didn't feel like hunting down the super, so he kicked the door in. //Not as if it hasn't happened before,// he thought distantly -- his security deposit was four times the size of anyone else's, for just that reason - - and it felt good to lash out at something, to release some of the emotion that lurked, simmering, just beneath the thin veneer of sanity. "Hold it right there," said a voice, *that voice*, and he turned to find Scully standing there, her gun trained on him. It hurt to look at her, it hurt to listen to her; her presence *hurt*, and it was more than he could bear. "What are you doing here?" he demanded angrily. She shook her head slightly, as if not understanding. "Tell me who you are," she said, "prove to me that it's really you." "What the hell are you talking about?" It dawned on him, slowly, that she was trembling; that her mascara was streaked over her face in raccoon-bands; that her eyes were wide with shock. He supposed that this should matter to him, but just enough of the blessed numbness remained: everything seemed to be occurring at arm's length, as if he weren't really there at all. Even the pain of Scully's presence was somehow remote... //Concussion,// came to mind, //or else I caught cold or something,// but either way, it didn't make a difference. He had the distinct feeling that if it had felt truly real, if her presence had been more vivid to him, he would have been crying again -- and was glad of the sensation of distance that prevented it from happening. Bad enough that she had the power to destroy him with a few words; she didn't need to *know* it. "Fox Mulder is missing, presumed dead," said Scully, her voice shaking, "his car was found on the side of Route 36, along with a body burned beyond recognition, now *tell me who you are!*" The last was nearly a scream; it vaguely startled him that she should be screaming, for it was a sound he'd rarely heard. Then it sank in, what she was saying; and he heard himself laugh. "Go ahead," he said, "finish the job. You're already halfway there." She blinked at him, lowered the weapon fractionally. "Mulder," she whispered. "Go on," he remarked. "Shoot me. You know how," and he moved past her, toward the couch, disregarding the gun entirely. The safety clicked into place, and he experienced a pang of regret that she wasn't going to follow through, even though he'd known she wouldn't. "What *happened*?" she cried out. "You mean, after you knifed me in the gut?" Couch, blessed couch; his knees buckled under him and he fell -- something hard and solid smacked him in the side, //oops, missed,// he thought blurrily. He thought about trying again, but getting up was too much of an effort -- then her hand was touching his forehead, checking the pulse along the side of his neck, and he nearly strained a muscle trying to squirm away. "Spare me your damned medical concern!" It was too much to endure; her touch drove the numbness away and brought the emotions back to the surface, and he didn't have the strength to fight the demons, not this time. "Mulder, you're sick," and the caring in her voice shattered the last of his restraint. "What do you care? You don't care!" Backing away from her, his blindly questing hand found the couch, and he levered himself off the floor and onto the sofa, sinking into the lumpy cushions that felt feather-soft in his current state of fatigue. "You don't care how I feel. You don't even *know* how I feel. I trusted you, and you..." A wave of nausea washed over him; he fought it back, but the world was slipping further and further out of focus with every passing moment. Why was everything so strange and fuzzy all of a sudden? In his disorientation, his first instinct was to reach out toward Scully; then the little voice popped up in the back of his mind and reminded him, //you can't do that, she's not there anymore; no one's there, remember?// "Get out," he mumbled instead. "Get outta here..." and the blackness overcame him, and the world winked out of existence. * * * * * * * Something cold and wet on his forehead. It felt good. The rest of him didn't feel so bad either, as long as he didn't try to move. Moving felt like falling, the world tilting at crazy angles, and he knew he would slide right off the edge into oblivion if he actually tried going anywhere. Darkness. A shadow. Her face, gazing down at him. Her voice, soft and clear against the pounding rhythm that seemed to permeate the world. "You're very sick," came the syllables, distinct and yet meaningless; he couldn't seem to make sense of them. "You need to rest. You can kick me out later," and the music of her voice changed, dropped into a minor key. He set aside the puzzle of her words as a challenge too difficult to attempt. There was only one thought he was capable of thinking, more essential than even his awareness of his own physical discomfort. "You left me," he heard himself say faintly. The shadow altered as her face changed; he couldn't see clearly enough to decipher the changes, nor could he think coherently enough to do so. "Mulder, no, I..." "You did," he confirmed. "S'alright. I knew you would. They all do." It seemed that she said something then, but he couldn't tell; the darkness had thickened, veiling the shadows of her face, veiling everything. * * * * * * * Consciousness returned abruptly, along with a desperate fiery clenching in his stomach; "Here," said Scully's voice, and her hand was on his shoulder guiding him, and he leaned over and vomited into the green plastic wastebasket she'd placed at the side of the couch. She held his head as he threw up, brought him tissues and cold water when it was over; she had to help him to the bathroom afterwards, and he was just lucid enough to be embarrassed as hell about it. Grateful that she was there, because he couldn't have managed himself -- resentful that he should need her, and worse yet, that she should condescend to be there for him. Better if she hadn't been. Better that he should know where he stood. Better to be alone than to trust and be betrayed... The hypodermic slid into his arm and out again, and it occurred to him belatedly that he didn't know what or why -- apparently, trusting Scully was too strong a habit to break. But he still didn't have his answer, and it bothered him. "Why?" he moaned. "How could you do that to me, Scully?" And again he was denied the answer, as the darkness swept in again and dragged him under. * * * * * * * His next awakening was relatively mild, accompanied by headache and stomachache, but not that horrible pounding disorientation -- silently, she helped him to a sitting position, held the glass as he took a few sips of cold water. "It was the sex," Scully said, very quietly; and he looked at her, and waited. "It's always become the central issue," she continued, after a long moment, "every relationship I've ever had; in the end, it always comes down to sex, and something always goes wrong." What little control he had was precarious at best; he would have preferred to postpone the conversation, but obviously that wasn't going to happen. "So you tried to preserve our relationship by ending our relationship," he said slowly. She blinked, hard. "I was afraid," she murmured. "I was afraid, and I panicked," and this made a certain amount of sense to him, that Scully should panic in such a methodical manner, with such cool clean precision. ***Mulder, we need to talk...*** "Aren't you afraid?" Her anxious query caught his attention, and he found himself suddenly immersed in her intent gaze. There was only one possible answer. "The only thing that's ever scared me was losing you." Her breath caught in her throat; she blinked again, and this time was unsuccessful in holding back the tears. "It keeps happening, though." Some distant, vengeful part of him was pleased to see Scully cry; it suited him that she should feel some fraction of his own pain. Another part of him was heartsick over her distress, but that too seemed disconnected from the rest of his mind -- mostly, he just felt tired, so tired. "I thought I was doing the right thing," she whispered. "I'd convinced myself that it was the right thing to do, and that you would agree with me. And then I saw your face, and I knew I'd made a terrible mistake... I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen." He could see her shudder, hear a sound like a sob wrenched from her tiny frame. "Then I got the call from the highway police, and I thought..." and the tears began in earnest; she covered her face with her hands. "You thought I was dead." She was crying, his Scully, crying, and he was sitting an arm's length away from her, doing nothing -- but he couldn't reach out to her; he *couldn't*. Defenses developed over a lifetime had operated automatically, sealing over his wounds and his aching loneliness with a hard protective shell, separating him from the source of his pain. "I thought I'd lost you. Again." With an effort, she managed to pull herself together; her tears slowed to a trickle. "But you'd already left me," he said, pleased by how calm and reasonable his voice sounded to his own ears. "Mulder, I love you!" It seemed to take her a minute to realize what she'd said; her cheeks flared red, and her eyes widened anxiously, awaiting his reply. As he absorbed her words, he realized that he had known it all along -- and it saddened him to realize that it no longer mattered. "How can you love me if you don't want me anymore?" She tried to answer, but instead began to cry again; she reached out to touch his face, but -- he couldn't help himself -- his instinctive reaction was to evade her hand. "I'm sorry," she whispered through her tears, and he closed his eyes and let the darkness carry him away again. * * * * * * * "So basically, what, I wasn't good enough?" he heard himself saying, before awareness had really even set in; she jumped, startled, at the sound of his voice. "Did I not lick you the right way or something?" "Mulder, you were wonderful. You were *fantastic*. That was never a problem." She was wiping his face with a cool, wet washcloth, and he didn't bother to fight the inevitable -- besides, it felt good. "You're the first man I've ever wanted to have intercourse with," she continued, very softly. He considered this for a moment. "Scully, if you're going to use someone for sex, that's not how you go about it," and she almost smiled. She had such beautiful eyes, and they were so unhappy... "You don't know, do you?" he wondered aloud. "You really have no idea what you did to me." Her first impulse was to deny it, but she reconsidered. "Maybe I don't," she admitted, and he nodded; somehow, her acknowledgment eased the ache fractionally. "I hope you never know," he told her. "I hope you never have to know the pain I feel." It was true, he discovered; he didn't want her ever to have to suffer the way he did, she didn't deserve it. And not for the first time, he wondered, //does that mean I *do* deserve this? Samantha, Scully, everything and everyone I've lost -- I have a degree in psychology; I know better -- but sometimes I wonder...// "You're all I've got, Scully, you're the only one... but that's not fair to you, is it?" How had he come to depend on her so deeply? How could he have let himself be so vulnerable? "Why should you have to bear the burden of my trust?" "It was never a burden..." "Wasn't it? 'Mrs. Spooky'." The dim gleam of her ring caught his eye, and for a second, just an instant, he regretted it -- the payments on the ring hadn't been a problem before, but now, with the inevitable increase in his insurance, not to mention car payments... "Is that what this is about? You're afraid people will find out you're porking ol' Spooky Mulder -- oh, no, wait, you never actually 'porked' me, did you? So you don't have to worry about cooties." //How mature,// evaluated the psychologist in him dryly, while the rest of his mind lashed out blindly, the violent thrashing of a wounded animal, not caring about unfairness or childishness or anything else. "Mulder..." She drew in a long, deep breath, steadying her voice, herself. "I made a mistake, a stupid, thoughtless, cruel mistake, and I'm *sorry*; can't you forgive me?" Her words gave him pause, and he considered: there was undeniably a part of him that wanted to forgive and forget and go back to the way things had been, but mostly there was just a big chunk of ice occupying his soul, freezing him solid. "You don't understand," he said. "It's not about forgiveness. It's about trust." It seemed that she had nothing to say to that, and the room grew quiet. "How do I fix it?" she whispered finally. He shrugged. "Maybe you shouldn't," and she didn't seem to have anything to say to that, either. Darkness claimed him again, and he welcomed the oblivion. * * * * * * * He awoke, feeling normal. The drifting languor of illness had passed, leaving him with only the remnants of his emotional pain. Absently, as if it was a morning ritual (it was), he tucked the pain away into the box at the back of his mind where he kept all such things. It was a big box that shook and rattled and emitted odd noises as if something large and ominous were contained within; he'd developed the habit of making careful spot-checks, to ensure that the thing never slithered out of its cage. It had almost caught him -- for awhile, on the side of the highway, it *had* overcome him, but now it was restrained once more. For the time being. Scully was asleep in a chair; he spared her only the briefest glance, enough to know that she was there, as he headed to the bathroom. A shower cleared away the last of the cobwebs; unwillingly, he found himself reliving the events that had transpired during his illness, recalling what had been said and revealed. //Scully...// Everything was okay; she hadn't meant what she'd said, it had all been a mistake. She loved him -- she'd said so. Yet all he could feel was the slow encroachment of the iceberg on his soul, no spark of warmth whatsoever. Tears slipped from his eyes and mingled with the shower water, and he didn't even feel them. //Scully...// She loved him, and she wanted him -- wanted all of him, wanted him inside her, the very thing that had motivated and inspired his wet dreams and fantasies for years. It should have mattered to him, and it didn't -- and the fact that it didn't matter was somehow more hurtful than the pain itself. He emerged from the shower, finally, toweled off and slipped into his bathrobe -- a quick flash of memory assailed him, of showering with Scully, sliding into the robe she'd bought him, her wet naked body against his, the sound of her merry laughter... the sheer power of the image nearly thawed his frozen heart. Almost. She was standing in the living room when he came out, waiting for him. "You're feeling better," she said. "Yeah." He moved past her, wondering dimly if there was anything in the refrigerator that he might feel like eating; he was hungry. "I had some Chinese food delivered," she called after him, "there's egg- drop soup, you should stick to liquids for awhile." "I'll be fine." The concern in her voice was unsettling him, undermining him, in ways he didn't want to define. "I guess... I should leave, then," she said hesitantly, following him into the kitchen, standing in the doorway watching him. "If you want me to..." And there it was, the decision. His choice, whether to give in to the tiny voice that screamed silently to love and be loved, or let the indifference chill his soul completely. His choice, whether to dare to trust again. There was only one choice he could make. "I think you were right," he heard himself say, the words falling from his lips like knives, severing the last of the connection between them. "I think that it's a mistake for us to be too close." She hadn't been expecting it; her eyes widened and filled with tears. "We can try to maintain a working relationship," he added, "but anything more... just wouldn't be wise." It was the right thing to do, he knew, the safe thing to do. The walls slammed shut around him, sealing him in with the ice, numbing him so that he hardly noticed the emptiness. Scully bit her lip and nodded; a tear slipped down her cheek, and where once he would have reached out to wipe it away, it didn't even occur to him to try to touch her. "If you don't mind, I, um, I have some things to do... should call my insurance company, for starters..." It was a dismissal: out of sight, out of mind, or so the saying went -- he hoped that it was true. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." She turned away quickly, hiding her face behind her hair, hiding her tears from him. Which was fine, because he really didn't want to know about her pain; he was too preoccupied with his own. She retrieved her purse, her coat, and he wandered out to the living room while the soup was heating, to see her go... a lump formed in his throat, for he knew that it was the last time, the last separation; the final sundering of everything that had been precious to them. Sorrow washed over him, a grief so huge that it dwarfed him, crushed him, drove away the color and the life in the room and rendered everything dull and grey... At the door, she paused. "'Bye, Mulder," she murmured, and the sound of it shattered what little was left of his broken heart -- he nearly called her back. Almost. "'Bye, Scully," he said inaudibly, and watched the last spark of hope in her eyes die. Then the door closed behind her, and she was gone. Alone at last, he dug a clean spoon from the depths of the silverware drawer, fumbled with the remote until he'd found a college basketball game, settled down on the couch to watch. The silence in the apartment thickened around the low drone of the TV announcers and the vague sounds of his upstairs neighbors moving around, forming an additional barrier around him, like cotton wool to soften any blows that might still reach him. It was oddly reassuring, this silence, this aloneness: it was what he was most accustomed to. He'd allowed himself to become distracted for a little while, but he'd come to his senses; he was alone again, which meant that he was safe. The pain would fade, and he would lock it away into the box, never again to be seen. That was the way it always happened. That was the way life worked. He'd survive. He'd survive. Alone. On the screen, the underdog-team scored a point, and he dragged his attention back to the game, and tried to care who won. ================================================== GIL: yes, please repost to atxc Archivers: yes, please feel free Taming The Unicorn 5 (1/1) by imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 MSR Summary: V - In which broken things are made whole. CREDITS: My thanks and love to "Lone Editors/The Next Generation": CatheRaven, PRhino, Allie Allie Sidekick, and Chaos and Dee la Merc-Mommy, for service above and beyond the call of beta-readers; to PRhino, especially, for the story's title; and ALL the beta readers, SKL and otherwise. DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. (Everyone knows that.) I'm not making any money writing fanfic about 'em. (This, too, should be obvious.) Commentary and criticism welcomed, suggestions entertained, flames cheerfully used to light cigarettes, at the e-mail address(es) given above. Missing story segments can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Hills/1013 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- For Chaos Merc, in payment for services rendered -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn Part 5 (1/1) by imajiru THE STORY SO FAR: I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. II - In which the terms of the wager are defined. III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. IV - In which bad things happen to good people. ========================================================= V. The Healing Mulder was having a nightmare. She could hear him, through the paper- thin motel walls. Another nightmare; the third in a single night. If this was representative of how he'd spent his evenings since their breakup, it made his chronic fatigue comprehensible. She'd expected something like this, of course, but the reality was quite a bit worse than the expectation had been. Her first impulse, her overwhelming instinct, was to go to him -- but they had barely begun to repair the damage to their rapport; they had only just gotten back to the point where he'd dropped the prefix "Agent" from her surname, and she thought that forcing the issue might only make things worse. On the other hand, he was hurting, and it was terrible for her to witness his pain and be helpless to stop it. The only thing that had made any of it at all bearable was her absolute certainty that he still wanted her. The request-for-transfer form that had lain in his desk, completed but as-yet-unsubmitted, since his return to the office. The fact that he'd grudgingly accepted her offer of rides to and from work, instead of renting or leasing another car to replace his old one. The myriad ways in which he could have shut her out, yet hadn't... he still wanted her, she was sure of it; but his pride or his pain or some combination of both was keeping him from reaching out to her. So it was up to her to repair the damage she'd done, because Mulder wasn't going to do it. Left to his own devices, Mulder would remain withdrawn, a turtle hiding in his shell indefinitely. She owed him more than that: she owed him a way out, a helping hand back to daylight, especially since she'd been the one to drive him into the darkness. //I fucked up,// she thought bluntly, not flinching from the harshness of the epithet, or her own responsibility for the state of affairs that made it the *only* applicable term. //I thought I was doing the right thing, and instead I fucked up. Oh, Mulder. I'm sorry.// She hadn't realized -- how had she failed to realize? How could she have *not* known how deeply her words would hurt him? Because she hadn't realized what she was saying. She'd wanted some breathing room, a bit more space to reflect on what was happening, a chance for them to both really consider what they were doing and why. She'd wanted a return to the safe contentment of friendship, of partnership, while she pondered the strange new feelings that were assailing her, and how she might assimilate them into her worldview. She'd wanted to take a step back, take a deep breath, and come to terms with her newfound knowledge that he was *the one*... to put everything into perspective, so that she could deal with it properly. Instead, she'd broken his heart. In retrospect, it was all so clear... //I told him it was a mistake,// she thought dismally. //Why did I say that? But maybe I was right after all... look at us now,// as the faint sounds of his night terror filtered through the plaster, bringing tears to her eyes. //There was less distance between us on the first day we met.// And then she heard him cry out her name, almost a scream, and that galvanized her; she was up on her feet and moving before she was even aware of it. His body was huddled into a fetal position, blankets and sheets tangled around him; he was clutching his pillow and sobbing in his sleep, and the sight of him hurt as if someone had shoved a knife into her stomach. She recalled his comment about having been knifed in the gut, and empathized... and without thinking twice, she climbed into bed and curled herself around him, holding him as tightly as she could. "Mulder," she whispered into his ear, kissed his cheek, hoping that he would feel her presence through the nightmare, that she could draw him out of it. She realized, suddenly, that to Mulder, the truth might well be as bad as the nightmare... "Wake up," she murmured, "wake up, Mulder," and kissed him again, smoothing sweaty hair away from his face, and all at once he awoke; startled eyes assimilated the reality around himself, ascertaining what was fact and what had been the fiction created by his troubled mind. It hurt that his first waking action was to move away from her, to put as much physical distance between them as possible. "What're you doing here?" he growled, sitting on the edge of the bed furthest from her, rubbing at tired eyes with one fist. "You called my name," she said steadily, determined not to let her own anguish rise to the surface. "Well, I'm fine. Leave me alone," was his next statement, delivered in a curt tone; unsteadily, he rose and stumbled off to the bathroom. She thought about it, while he was in there, whether to stay or go... but this was the first opening of any kind, the first small break in the wall of tension between them, and she couldn't let the opportunity pass. Who knew when there might be another? and whether it might be too late? So she was still there when he emerged; and she braced herself against his narrowed gaze. "Thought I told you to leave," he said, with as much open hostility as she'd ever heard in his voice. It almost caused her to react, but she held firm against her own impulse to run from the confrontation. "I didn't think that would be wise." "You've been wrong before." He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, and she remembered what she was wearing -- lace and satin, a totally impractical nightgown that she would never have packed for a field assignment, had it not been for her distant hope that she could use it as a visual aid, to lure Mulder back to his senses. She'd underestimated his resolve, it seemed; he seated himself in the chair at the opposite side of the room, the message clear: //stay back, no closer// -- and she sighed. "Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" she asked. "Thought this was what you wanted," and there was a faint note of triumph in his voice: //what *you* wanted, Scully; what's the matter, don't you like it?// "I didn't know what I wanted!" she cried, frustrated with his refusal to listen, with her own inability to make him understand. "Oh, and now you do?" His statement stopped her cold; she had no reply ready, and after a moment of her silence, he laughed -- a bitter sound, acid, the very antithesis of laughter. "That's what I thought." "I miss you," she said plaintively, not knowing what else to say. "Yeah, I'll bet; me, or my tongue. Do us all a favor, Scully; buy yourself a vibrator before someone else gets caught in the crossfire." In the first instant, she was stunned; in the second, a bright spark of fury ignited inside her -- she grabbed the first thing that brushed against her outstretched hand and threw it at him, as hard as she could. It turned out to be an ashtray, sharp-cornered and heavy; he didn't even try to dodge as the missile connected with his shoulder forcefully. A small gasp of pain, at the moment of impact -- his hand reached up to the gashed spot, came away stained with blood. "How much more do I have to bleed for you?" he wondered aloud. "And my gun arm, too; and us out on a case. Nice work, partner." She stared at him, not liking what she was seeing, but with the dismal feeling that she deserved exactly what she was getting. "You're doing this on purpose," she accused him, "you're going out of your way to hurt me, aren't you?" He shrugged -- one-sided, the shoulder she hadn't damaged. "Yeah," he said mildly, and the admission caught her completely off-guard. "*Why?*" His pain, she could understand; his paranoia, his desperate terror of betrayal, all of that made sense to her. What she couldn't comprehend was his viciousness, his intent insistence on vengeance. "Do you really want to break me? Is that what you need?" Her words seemed to strike a chord; his face softened marginally. "Maybe that's all I've got left," he murmured. Taking advantage of the lull, she got up and went to him -- "Leave me alone," he muttered, as she tried to examine the wound she'd inflicted. "Let me see..." "Back off, Scully!" His voice rose almost to a shout, anger growing... "Shut up!" she shouted back, right in his face, and sullenly, he allowed her to check the gash. Nothing too major, a small laceration, and probably a bruise by morning -- enough to restrict the movement of his arm, though, enough to make drawing his weapon difficult and painful, possibly endangering them both. She damned herself silently for her lapse of control: she should have known better, should have been more professional, no matter what he'd said to provoke her. She'd faced down leering requests for blowjobs with more restraint... but this was Mulder; this was the person who could hurt her more deeply than anyone else ever could. "I'm sorry," she said, reaching for a Kleenex to wipe away some of the blood. Another sound that might have been a laugh but wasn't. "It doesn't matter," said Mulder. She abandoned the conversation for a moment, long enough to duck into her own room and retrieve first-aid essentials. When she returned, she saw that he hadn't moved, that he was still sitting there staring at the far wall as if it held some great secret. "It matters," she said conversationally, pouring antiseptic solution over his wounded shoulder. "Of course it matters." His teeth set against the inevitable sting of alcohol against raw flesh. "Not anymore." "It matters," she repeated, gentle fingers cleaning the area, bandaging it. "You can't pretend it doesn't." "Why not?" It was a challenge, but there was less anger in his tone, now, than defeat; she took that as an encouraging sign. "Because it hurts more that way," she informed him. "Right. Like you would know." His casual disdain infuriated her; she struggled to keep a rein on her temper. "Do you really think you're the only person in the world who knows anything about pain?" she countered. "Do you truly believe that this isn't hurting me, too?" He sighed. "Scully, you have no idea what you did to me," and his voice was so forlorn, so miserable, that she couldn't stop herself from embracing him. His body stiffened in her arms, resistant, as if her touch was more than he could bear, but she held on, feeling that if she let go of him now, they'd drift so far apart that she'd never reach him again... and after awhile, very gradually, she felt him relax. She settled her hip on the arm of the chair, felt him rest his head against her chest, and only when the first warm droplet splashed against her skin did she realize that he was crying. In retrospect, it was easy to see how badly she'd misjudged him, how severely she'd underestimated his capacity for fear and pain. She'd let the atmosphere of easy affection lull her into a false sense of complacency; she'd mistaken arrogance for confidence, determination for strength. She'd assumed that he had as much faith in her as she'd had in him -- she'd forgotten that this was, after all, Mulder, for whom nothing had ever been a certainty. Mulder, who was on intimate terms with loneliness, who was gradually learning the concept of unity with her assistance, but who had only the vaguest comprehension of any possible shade of grey between the two. Mulder, one of the most intelligent men she'd ever known, who somehow couldn't quite emotionally grasp the difference between a mistake and a betrayal... Nor had she realized how completely she held his soul in her hands. It came to her in that moment: //you're going to spend the rest of your life doing this, Dana, if you stay with him it'll always be like this; there's a fracture running the length of his psyche that's maybe too deep to ever be healed. You'll be his support, holding him together: is that really what you want, to spend your life tending to his wounds? Is it worth it?// She rested her palm against the side of his face, meaning to brush the stray droplets from his cheek, and his hand came up to rest lightly on her wrist, holding it there -- he was fighting the tears, struggling and losing. For a moment, she wanted to tell him to stop fighting, to let it all out... but this was Mulder: if he did, would he ever be able to stop crying? or was there too much pain in him to ever be released? Not to mention, she was afraid that if she called attention to his tears, he'd become self-conscious and walk away -- too much of a chance to take -- and in the end, she simply held him, and let herself cry with him. Her own sadness had been so close to the surface, ever since the night it had happened; it seemed that she was constantly struggling to hold her pain at bay. There'd been times at work, listening to his too- formal phrasing of her name, when she'd been sure she was about to burst into tears, and the only thing that had stopped her was her conviction that it would push him right over the edge and out of her life for good. That, and her fear that he would simply sit there and watch her crying and do nothing; that her misery would be meaningless to him. She didn't think she could bear that. But now he was too absorbed in his own anguish to notice, and she cried for him, and for herself; for what she'd done to him inadvertently, and for the soul that had been scarred so badly that even the lightest blow could constitute a mortal wound. Then she felt him shift position -- fear surged up within her, and she was certain that he was going to push her away -- but instead his arm snaked around her waist and latched on tightly, and she started crying all over again from sheer relief. If he could still reach out to her, they hadn't lost everything; it wasn't all gone. They could recapture lost ground. They could rebuild what had been destroyed. It didn't *have* to be over. "I love you," she told him, striving to keep her voice comprehensible despite the sobs that shook her. "I love you so much, and I'm so sorry." The Truth, as simple and pure as she could make it. She could only hope that they'd reached the point where he could accept it. He didn't reply, but it seemed to her -- it might have been wishful thinking, but it felt as if his grip tightened, just a little. She held him, long past the point when her own tears had stopped, when her rear end had gone numb from her ridiculous balancing act on the arm of the chair; she held him until he stopped shuddering, until his tears slowed and dried, stroked his hair as he rested against her relearning how to breathe -- and felt something in her shatter when resolutely, he disentangled himself from her embrace and stood up, albeit unsteadily. "Um, I gotta get some sleep," he said, not looking at her. //Oh, no, you don't. I'm not letting go of you now!// "I'll help," she said, rising and following him. "I don't think that would be a good idea," and he turned away from her, doing his best to block her out. "You'd prefer to be alone?" she asked him. "It's better that way," was his reply, delivered in a tone of finality. "No. It's not." She took his hand, felt his fingers curl around hers -- an involuntary response, perhaps, but one that heartened her. "Scully... go to bed, will you?" There was more than a hint of tenderness in his voice along with the weariness, reinforcing her conviction that this time, she *was* doing the right thing. "Sure," she said, pulling him toward his bed. "That's what I had in mind." "I meant *your* bed." But he didn't resist, sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. "We can sleep in my bed, if you prefer," she told him. "Scully..." A long, heavy sigh. "I'm not going to get rid of you, am I?" "Is that really what you want?" She didn't wait for him to answer; she had the feeling that he didn't know what he wanted. Instead, she moved so that she was sitting cross-legged behind him, and began to rub his shoulders, being careful of the one she'd injured. A nice, non-threatening massage: something he could accept without having to give too much of himself away. Her fingers dug into tense muscles, trying to loosen the knots... she wasn't surprised that her efforts were largely unsuccessful. Apparently, though, something was working; she felt him leaning into her hands, felt him swaying slightly in time with her caresses in slow surrender. "Lie down, will you?" she said softly, and he obeyed, stretching out on his back with his eyes closed; he still couldn't quite meet her gaze without evident discomfort, but he was letting her touch him, and that was a helluva good place to start, in her estimation. She let her hands wander over his chest, applying enough pressure that he could justify it as a continuation of the backrub if he needed to, making sure to nudge all the sensitive spots she'd discovered on previous reconnaissance missions. Her fingertips strayed across his nipples, and she felt him shiver, and knew that she'd won this round. Tomorrow might be another story, but he wouldn't be struggling against her any more tonight... Small soft strokes, little wet kisses, starting at his collarbone and working down slowly: it was imperative that she proceed with the utmost care. His arousal was a delightful side effect, but not the main purpose of the exercise -- what he needed most was comfort, and company, to counter the weight of his self-imposed exile. The wrong move, the wrong word, any mistake right now could be disastrous; he was so vulnerable... But that vulnerability also added an extraordinary sensitivity, so that even the mildest caress sent a tremor through him; she could sense in him the desperate need for contact, and for the first time realized that it had very little to do with passion. Strange, that a man with a drawerful of porn-on-video should invest the act of sex with such deep emotional significance, but that was Mulder: one contradiction after another, infuriating and wonderful. Contact. Her hands gliding over him, every part of him, leaving not an inch of skin untouched. Sliding the sweatpants over his hips, his knees, his ankles, and off: shedding her nightgown in the space of a heartbeat and pressing the length of her body against his. More kisses, more and more and more, moving slowly downward; taking him into her mouth, hearing his soft plaintive cry and feeling his sudden urgency, knowing that he couldn't wait -- she held off long enough to make it intense, not long enough for it to hurt, brought him over the edge and down the other side. Before he'd had time to recover, while his resistance was still at its lowest, she snuggled into his side, wrapping herself around him... and nearly burst into tears all over again when he rolled over and slid his arms around her in return. "This isn't gonna work." His voice was sleep-slurred, and held little conviction -- in this, he didn't want to believe; but he needed convincing that any other outcome was possible. That was all right -- she would convince him. He was asleep before she could dispute his claim, and she held him and listened to his snores for awhile. How irritatingly typical, that the man who believed a dozen impossible things before breakfast every day would no doubt wake up in the morning fully confident that their relationship was doomed to fail. How ironic, that she was fated to find herself in the position of demonstrating what couldn't be scientifically proven: that the bond they shared was stronger than any detracting influence, even that of their own fears. //So I'll keep the faith for both of us,// she decided, and spent her last few minutes of wakefulness trying to figure out what the morning might bring. The exercise proved more soporific than counting sheep; before she could even come close to an answer, she was fast asleep. * * * * * * * She awoke to find herself alone in his bed, to the sound of the shower running, and she was willing to bet anything that he'd locked the door -- testing her hypothesis, she found it correct. //About what I expected,// she thought to herself philosophically, as she trudged wearily through the connecting door to her own room and bathroom. She didn't see him again until after she'd showered and dressed and headed to the motel office for a cup of the ubiquitous sludge that masqueraded as complimentary coffee; he'd already found his way there, was sitting on the shabby sofa reading a newspaper through dark sunglasses -- or was pretending to; from what she could see of his face, she had the feeling that he was barely keeping his eyes open, let alone managing to focus on the words. "I'll drive today," she said conversationally, settling in beside him. His head turned fractionally toward her, a sidelong glance. "Good idea," he conceded, and that in itself was a sign of his fatigue. She picked up another of the daily newspapers strewn over the coffee table, sipped at her own coffee, carefully not making conversation. Best to let things settle for a while. He was still hurting too badly to think clearly, let alone dare to believe in happy endings. But she had demonstrated that she loved him, that she was there for him, and he had quite inadvertently shown her that there was still hope for them... now, the only treatment left to be administered was the same one used for the common cold: rest, and time. After a few moments, she felt the tension in him dissipate; the couch shifted as he tossed the newspaper aside and leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. "I feel like hell," he murmured -- then shot her another small sideways look. "No offense." "None taken," she replied, smiling because his last two words had said far more than he'd meant them to. "So, what's first; we question the last of the witnesses from the QuickieMart?" "Think you can stay awake long enough?" "I'll manage." With a sigh, he levered himself upright -- and his hand brushed ever so lightly against her arm, too gently to be construed as an actual caress, but too deliberate to be anything but intentional. "Might as well get started." "Might as well," she agreed, still smiling, and followed him out into the too-bright sunlight. =========================================== GIL: yes, please repost to atxc Archivers: yes, please feel free Taming The Unicorn 6 (1/1) by imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com Rating: NC-17 MSR Summary: VI - In which Mulder's bed is unearthed. CREDITS: My thanks and love to "Lone Editors/The Next Generation": CatheRaven, PRhino, Allie Allie Sidekick, and Chaos and Dee la Merc-Mommy, for service above and beyond the call of beta-readers; to PRhino, especially, for the story's title; and ALL the beta readers, SKL and otherwise. DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. (Everyone knows that.) I'm not making any money writing fanfic about 'em. (This, too, should be obvious.) Commentary and criticism welcomed, suggestions entertained, flames cheerfully used to light cigarettes, at the e-mail address(es) given above. Missing story segments can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Hills/1013 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- For Chaos Merc, in payment for services rendered -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Taming The Unicorn Part 6 (1/1) by imajiru THE STORY SO FAR: I - In which a wager is made, and a secret is revealed. II - In which the terms of the wager are defined. III - In which a holiday is celebrated, not according to plan. IV - In which bad things happen to good people. V - In which broken things are made whole. =========================================== VI. The Definition of Forever "Scully..." "What?" "Nothing." She shrugged, went back to the paperwork she was doing; he tried to tear his eyes away from her, and couldn't. It had become patently obvious that she was waiting for him to make the first move, that she was giving him every opportunity to do so, that she would welcome any pathetic, feeble attempt on his part -- he missed her desperately, missed her smiles and her kisses with an intensity that consumed nearly every waking moment -- and yet somehow, he couldn't seem to take the single step that would bring them back to their old unity. He'd tried to write her a letter, had wasted several hours staring at a computer screen, typing and then deleting his efforts; intelligent, eloquent, he'd never had a problem stringing sentences together in ways that suited his needs, but when it came to telling Scully how he was feeling, he just couldn't find the words. Roses were sterile, impersonal; singing telegrams, too flashy for her subdued tastes; there was no way he could afford another expensive present, like the ring that she'd never stopped wearing -- and the simplest forms of communication were the ones giving him the most difficulty. He couldn't figure out what to say, what to do... And all he could think about was touching her, what it felt like when she touched him... but he couldn't very well tell her that, could he? The situation was getting ridiculous; it was all so *stupid*! It hadn't been this difficult the first time she'd gone down on him, or the first time he'd lavished his attentions on her... but then, this meant more. Those first times, they'd been able to pretend it was just a dare, only the terms of a wager, but now... She'd said that she loved him. Not just the affection he'd come to take for granted, never again merely the deep caring of a close friend. Even in the face of his rejection, even as he'd pushed her away, she'd stood her ground with firm resolve and told him that she loved him. Now, she was sitting only a few feet away, her eyes flickering in his direction every few minutes, waiting for him to say something, anything, and he *couldn't*. He felt incredibly awkward, like the twelve-year-old boy who'd had the most outrageous crush on his teacher... and then it came to him, in a wave of inspiration; he didn't know if it was the most brilliant idea he'd ever had, or the most unfortunate, but at least it was something. Grabbing a pen, he scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper, then began folding it before he could lose his nerve, flattening each fold to razor sharpness with careful precision -- a triangular shape formed from the flat page; and when the paper airplane was finished, he aimed with trembling fingers and threw, watching as the projectile sailed across the office and lodged in her sleekly shining hair. Startled, she plucked it from her hair; sparing him the briefest glance, she unfolded the paper, smoothed it out flat on the desk -- and he waited, feeling the weight of the lump in his throat approaching nausea, his stomach turning somersaults in anticipation of her reaction. Her brow furrowed slightly, and his heart stopped beating -- //it's wrong, it's all wrong, I should have said more than just, 'I love you'...// ...and then she looked up at him, and smiled. Warmth in that smile, sunny sweetness; limitless patience, complete acceptance; affectionate amusement and silent sympathy, and the pale shimmer of unshed tears sparkling in her bright eyes. "So," Scully said, her voice soaked through with tenderness. "You want to stop for pizza on the way home?" And all he could do was nod: something had come undone inside him, some vital restraint, and he knew, he just *knew* that if he tried to speak, he was going to break down completely. Crying, laughing maybe, and at least a fifty percent chance that he'd start kissing her and not be able to stop... She nodded back, and returned to her work; and Mulder closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. * * * * * * * The walk to Scully's car seemed endless, eternal, one step after another stretching into infinity, just like the hours and minutes and seconds had been, all leading up to this -- he followed her, close enough to touch and not daring, not trusting his own control, his ability to stop with one small caress. Carpooling, a convenient excuse, a way to avoid relinquishing that last bit of contact with her, which he could not survive without... now, she was so close, they were so close to being close again, and the tension of waiting was fraying his nerves to shreds. Once inside, he buckled up the seatbelt, strapping himself securely into the passenger seat so that he couldn't give in to his longings and reach out... he snuck a quick look sideways at her, found her looking at him at him, and wondered if he was wearing the same expression of forthright desire that graced her lovely face. "I think," said Scully, slowly and evenly, "that we can safely forget about the pizza." He tried, he really tried to dredge up something witty and snappy in return, but all he could manage was, "How much do you like that shirt?" The rich sound of her merry laughter surprised him, delighted him, caused a shiver of pure lust to course down his spine and settle in the usual locale; her voice, when she spoke, was a low purr that finished the job her laughter had begun, leaving him hard and aching. "How much do you like yours?" //Breathe, Mulder, breathe.// "Y'know," he murmured, trying to sound casual and not even managing to approach it, "my place is closer." "Mmm." She inserted the key in the ignition with deliberate care, turned it; the engine growled to life. "Close is good," she remarked. Their commute was much shorter than it would have been, had they headed north and east toward her apartment; and with every passing mile, the nervousness and desire built tension inside him, until his stomach felt as if it was tied into knots -- a not unfamiliar feeling where she was concerned. Things were so much the same, so much different than before. Distance between them, yet he was acutely aware of her every breath, the almost imperceptible tremor in her hands, the taut anticipation that lived inside her own soul. So close, and so far... the dichotomy tugged at him, magnified the faint shred of fear that he could never quite escape. How was it possible? How was any of this possible? Scully. His partner, his friend, a doctor and scientist... a goddess, a mysterious and magical creature who could grant his every wish save one, fill all but the single corner of his soul reserved for his lost sister... that one spot was reserved for Samantha: everything else inside him, everything else he was belonged to Scully. How, in this day and age, could such a thing occur? She was an independent woman, and he was a relatively liberated and reasonable man, and this was the stuff of fairy tales -- as if she were the princess who might kiss a frog and break the spell that held the prince bound; as if he were the valiant knight who might defend his lady from the fearsome ogre that lurked beyond the castle moat. Ridiculous... Scully was perfectly capable of defending herself, and he'd managed to survive over three decades without ever once finding himself croaking from an enchanted lilypad, and the feelings that lurked in his heart were archaic and idiotic, unworthy of note. //Except, maybe, for one basic truth,// he realized, as she stopped for a red light. "I love you," Mulder said softly. Her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked hard. "I can't drive while I'm crying," Scully responded, her voice completely level, very calm. His fingers curled around her hand, lifted it from the steering wheel and brought it to his lips; he kissed her palm, then replaced her hand on the wheel where it had been, all without a word. Five blocks later, they hit another red light. "Love you too, y'know," came the murmur from the driver's seat. "I know," said Mulder, and that was the best part: he really did. Could feel it, warm and vividly real inside himself, with a certainty he'd never quite possessed before. "I'm sorry," he added, a little while later, after they'd cleared the bridge and entered Alexandria. Scully shook her head. "We both made mistakes," she reminded him. "It happens. We'll survive," and it made him smile, because for the first time he actually found himself believing it. As they neared his apartment, he let his hand edge tentatively toward her, until his fingertips touched her thigh; and she slid her own hand from the wheel and twined her fingers with his, even though it meant she had to navigate the last turn with difficulty. She had to let go of his hand, in order to park; and he nearly sprained his fingers in his anxious rush to unfasten his seatbelt; //can't do that, I'll need those later,// was the dim thought that passed through his distracted mind as he followed her to the door. Then they were inside, alone, apartment door shut and locked and sealing them together; he gazed down at her, some part of him marveling at the accuracy and texture of his dream, knowing that it was too good to possibly be true. Her lips parted, shaped his name, aided by the low slow sultry growl that emerged from her throat -- her arms encircled his hips, drawing him to her, and abruptly it was unbearably real, and more than he could stand. The feeling rushed through him, *that* feeling, the same sudden swift escalation of passion, the same sweet sharp loss of control, and he seized her, lifted her off her feet... suppressed his imminent climax by the barest margin; it had been far too long, he'd been far too lonely, to settle for anything so brief and superficial. Instead, he held her, exulting in the fervent strength of her arms around him, savoring the intensity of their mutual passion. "Scully," he whispered in her ear, and her lips and teeth took hold of a section of his neck and sucked hard, branding him with what would surely be a notable hickey in the morning. The feeling of immediacy receded, just a little, just enough to allow him to breathe -- what *was* it about her that provoked him this way? "I love you," he told her, and she blinked up at him and smiled that so- lovely smile, echoed his words back to him. //That would be the reason, yes... ah, Scully.// One small hand settled at the nape of his neck and pulled him down firmly; he yielded happily to her insistence, where he could not quite allow himself to give in to his own. "So," she said, after the kiss. "Do you actually *own* a bed?" It made him laugh. "Of course I do," he affirmed. "But, um, there's some stuff on it..." She took his hand and entwined her fingers with his, set off toward the bedroom as he trailed behind her. "You're not kidding," she said, as she surveyed the situation. "I usually sleep on the couch," he explained unnecessarily, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment rushing to his face. "When you sleep at all, right?" She hugged him briefly, then set to work clearing the bed: moving the piles of laundry, stacks of papers, relocating them to the nearest possible site, and he hastened to help her. Library books ("September 1991?" Scully noted in disbelief) that he'd never gotten around to returning, newspapers containing relevant articles that he'd never gotten around to clipping, the odd videotape here and there, migrating from the bottom-drawer collection in the living room -- one tape he'd been missing for some time, which he could have cared less about at that moment, since 'the real thing' was obligingly working on clearing some space for them to share; he chucked it into the garbage, heard the plastic case crack with the impact, and didn't dare look up to claim his partner's small, approving smile. There was enough accumulated debris to have shielded the wrinkled bedspread from having gathered too much dust; he stripped it off, and studied the sheets he'd put on the bed the last time he'd actually bothered to prepare it for sleeping -- which had been when? how many years ago? They were still clean, not too musty-smelling; he would have preferred silk or satin for his beloved goddess's delicate skin, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that he didn't even own another set of bedsheets. "Now I know why we always sleep over at my place," she commented, moving to her side of the bed -- funny, the way beds didn't have sides when she wasn't sharing them -- and beginning to matter-of-factly unbutton her blouse, the way she always did when she didn't quite trust him to take the proper care removing her garments. And suddenly he was nervous all over again; was it really going to be this easy? Just... climb into bed with her as if nothing had ever happened to separate them? "Scully... um, we should talk," he began. "You want to *talk*? Now? Mulder, you never cease to amaze me." She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the bed cross-legged, tilted her head slightly to one side as she gazed up at him. "What's the matter?" He followed her example, sat down facing her; he took her hand, trying to ignore her half-unbuttoned blouse and the luscious curves revealed. "I don't know, I just... there should be more to it than this. Shouldn't there?" "More than love?" She shook her head. "What more is there?" "How do we know this won't happen again?" he asked her. "We don't know anything, Mulder." Her words were stark; her voice was warm and caring, sinking into his soul and saturating him with her concern. "We don't know that one or both of us won't be abducted or killed tomorrow, and we don't know that we won't inadvertently hurt each other. We don't know, Mulder; we *can't*." Her hands wrapped around both of his, massaging, caressing, reminding him of how skilled they were at other forms of pleasure. "All I know," she said, with quiet resolve, "is that I'm not willing to lose you, not for any reason; and anyone and anything that tries to separate us again is in for a fight." Her eyebrows lifted eloquently, punctuating her words. "Even you. Even me." He freed one hand from her grasp, reached out to rest his palm alongside her cheek. "I agree," he murmured. She turned her head slightly and kissed his hand, reached out to loosen and remove his tie. "Is that what you needed said?" she inquired, with the startling honesty he so treasured. "Almost," he said, after a moment's thought. Very carefully, with utmost restraint, he began to complete the job she'd started, undoing her blouse button by button, more for something to do while he was talking than for lascivious purposes. "You know," he continued, almost casually, "you mean a lot to me. A lot more than I think you know." "I think I know," she said softly. "Now... I think I know." "Maybe." He caught her hands as they strayed to the buttons of his shirt, the left one in particular. "I meant what I said," and his fingertips brushed over the ring he'd bought her. "Forever. That's what I want with you." All at once, there was a stillness about her, as if time had ceased to move. "Mulder," she said slowly, "tell me, what -- exactly -- does 'forever' mean to you?" "Forever is forever, Scully," he responded simply. "As long as we have." She glanced away from him, down at their clasped hands, or perhaps at her ring. "That... wasn't quite what I meant." "Yeah, I know." The salesman at the jewelry store had congratulated him on his choice, wishing him luck with the impending engagement; he'd known exactly what the ring might be construed to imply. He'd bought it anyway, without bothering to question his motives. Now, finally, she was wondering -- and he hadn't the faintest idea what to tell her. Her eyes met his, and he realized that she wasn't going to press him... "Forever is forever," she repeated, smiling slightly. "Not a bad deal." He smiled back, relieved and vaguely disappointed at once, and finished unbuttoning her blouse. After the frantic urgency he'd felt at the door, he was surprised to find himself undressing her slowly, prolonging the small ritual, savoring it -- too many nights, lying alone on his couch trying valiantly to sleep, he'd found himself remembering the little things: tactile memories of sliding her bra straps down her shoulders, following the line of the garment to the clasp at the back. The big important memories had been easy to block, but the tiny details of their relationship had snuck in under his defenses and undermined his resolve, time and time again. Now, every moment was unbearably precious to him, each touch a stark reminder of the solitude he'd endured; he wanted it to last, as long as possible. She reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her close and held her, delighting in the feel of her breasts against his chest, skin against skin... not just sex but intimacy, closeness and trust beyond anything he'd ever known, so immense and intense that physical desire paled in comparison. How could he have ever imagined resisting something so wonderful? Might as well try to stop the sun from rising. In his world, Scully had become a force of nature, something like a tornado or tsunami: a wondrous upheaval, shattering the complacency of his pain, rearranging the landscape into something brand- new, and leaving a rainbow in its wake. The imagery made him laugh; and Scully stopped nuzzling him long enough to shoot him an inquiring glance. "What?" "Oh, I was just thinking..." and he related the sequence of thought, so that by the end of the tale she was laughing as well. "You think too much," she scolded him lightly. "'Hurricane Scully', indeed." "You're too little to be a hurricane," he informed her, in the same airy tone. "A tropical storm, maybe." "I think I've been insulted." She leaned forward and nipped his shoulder with her teeth playfully. "Ouch," he said, with mild sarcasm, pretending to react. "Hurt me, baby..." "Yeah?" She responded to his challenge by leaning further forward and seizing his left nipple ever so gently between her teeth, not biting, just barely grazing... and this time he didn't have to pretend; a fierce electric shudder raced through him at the sudden stimulation. //Breathe,// he reminded himself, through the bright haze of passion. "Hey," and the note of concern in her voice brought him back to earth, "are you okay?" He blinked, focused, grinned at her. "Oh, I'm just *fine*." "Mmm." Her hands explored the terrain. "Yeah, you are, aren't you?" she observed, and began to remove the rest of his clothes. "And I suppose I'm the only one?" He let his fingers do some walking of their own, along her leg, up to her thigh and beyond. "Right through the pantyhose, huh?" "Don't sound so smug. You might want to take them off while you're there," she suggested. "Keep doing that thing with your hand, and I might just chew 'em off." Her skirt surrendered to his insistence, and she wriggled out of the garment, squirming delightfully. "Skirt, slip, pantyhose; what is it with all the layers?" "How can you properly appreciate something if you don't have to work for it?" was her prompt reply, delivered in a teasing tone. Abandoning his efforts to undress her, he cupped her face in both of his hands. "Believe me," he whispered, "I appreciate you, Scully." Her hands covered his; her eyes shone up at him. "I believe you," she said. "I believe in you, Mulder." She couldn't have said anything more perfectly right at that moment; he kissed her, very gently, very thoroughly, so that by the time they came up for air, both of them were trembling. The last remnants of clothing disappeared quickly, until they were lying together naked on the not-too-musty sheets, on the bed that he'd used so rarely that he could remember each and every time; and he thought, //memories like this, and I might just start sleeping here...// For a time, he was content to simply hold her, to relish the feel of her body against his own, to nestle close and snuggle; passion simmered on the back burner, while tenderness reigned. Then her lips brushed against his earlobe, and she spoke directly into his ear, her voice soft and clear and steady. "I want you to make love to me," she said. "I want... all of you. Inside me." It took a few moments to sink in -- even though she'd already told him as much: that had been purely theoretical. This was real, this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for, this was... this was... This was Scully, who he loved; and he drew a deep, deep breath and forced himself to speak, though they were the last words he wanted to say. "I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't ask you... are you absolutely sure about this?" Her expression radiated serene confidence. "I'm sure," she said simply. "You're the one." Every dream, every fantasy he'd ever had about her, all culminating in this moment of exquisite promise... his erection pressed firmly against her, straining toward the virgin territory, aching for the long-imagined sensation of plunging into that hot, tight, wet heaven... "No," he heard himself say; and it was an open question as to which of them was more stunned by his pronouncement. Her wide-eyed shock began to mutate into hurt; and he rushed to explain. "Not now, not here, not like this... Scully, you've waited so long; you deserve better than this. You should have moonlight and roses, champagne, candlelight, romance... something special, something planned." A sudden burst of shyness struck him, bringing a wave of heat to his face, but he struggled valiantly to complete the thought. "I can't let you give me such a precious gift, not unless you let me give you something in return." Tears sparkled in her eyes; she began to speak, choked up, tried again. "Y'know what?" she said unsteadily. "You never cease to amaze me." "I hope I never do." He kissed her forehead, ignoring the tiny indignant voice that spoke up from within his midsection somewhere, demanding to know if he was insane for turning down such a chance: it was the right thing to do, he knew it. It was the only thing he could do -- this was Scully, after all. "All I want is you," she murmured, "and I want you so much..." "Oh, believe me, I feel the same way," he said fervently, with deep sincerity, "but more than anything else, I want it to be *right*. We've made mistakes... I don't want this to be one of them. I want it to be perfect for you." Her body shifted against his ever so slightly, creating friction, and another sharp tremor raced through him -- "I must be crazy," he muttered. "You're noble," she corrected, punctuating her statement with a kiss. "And gallant." Her hand moved between them, wrapped around his hard-on; more friction, carefully applied, exactly the way he liked it best. "You're Mulder," said Scully, as if that explained everything, "and I love you." With that, she kissed him in earnest, and he abandoned himself to the feeling, and to her. Somewhere in the middle of things, with her on top of him setting the pace, he realized that she could have her way at any time -- he had so little self-control where she was concerned, and most of his resistance had been based on her preferences. But she seemed content with his decision; it was the same old routine, if ecstasy could ever become routine through repetition, which he doubted... in the end, it didn't matter what procedure they chose. Paradise by any other name was still the best thing that had ever happened in his life. And afterwards, resting in each other's arms and letting the sweat dry, he reminded her: "You really have won the bet, you know." "Hmm?" Lost in her pleasant languor, it took her a while to make the connection. "You're convinced, then." "Thoroughly." It had been her contention that it was possible to have a satisfying sexual relationship without intercourse, and he had disbelieved. "It's official: I'm your slave for life." "Ah, I see. So *this* is your idea of forever." Her fingers ruffled through his hair, trailed down his neck to his shoulders, playing connect-the-dots with the love bites she'd left there. "My devoted slave. One last task," she teased, "and I'll release you from your bonds." "Is that supposed to be a chore?" he asked, tracing the ones he'd inflicted on her porcelain skin. "I'd consider it a reward for faithful service. And don't ever..." a spot along her collarbone beckoned to him, and he bent to place a kiss there "...don't ever release me, okay?" "Promise," she whispered into his ear, running her tongue along the edge to the lobe, tickling him in more ways than one. "Hey, boss... wanna go again?" Not the most romantic proposal, but she would understand. Merry laughter was her response. "Sure," she said. "And then we can order that pizza. Your treat." "Yes, ma'am," he said obediently, grinning from ear to ear, and headed down for another taste of heaven. ---------------------------------------------------- The story will continue until the virginity is gone. I promise. :) -- Love, imajiru ** Webgoddess/SOSFK * ListMom/FORKNI-L * CoFounder/SKL * MercBaby ** * WarMistress #8 * CyberMom o'Many * CyberChistiakoff * XFromantic * ** SAVE FOREVER KNIGHT! ** < http://members.aol.com/CuznJamiMR/ > ** *** The Truth Is Out There. Just maybe not in our jurisdiction. ***