TITLE: BREACH OF TRUST  

AUTHOR: CindyET

E-MAIL ADDRESS: cindyet@tdstelme.net 

DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine -- I write 'em for you to read 

'em. 

SPOILER WARNING: En Ami

RATING: NC-17 (Language, Violence, Graphic Sexual Content) 

CLASSIFICATION: V, MSR, Post-Ep, Smut 

SUMMARY: Post-Ep for En Ami. Dark, dark, dark. Smutty, smutty, 

smutty. Need I say more?

"To lose myself...and Scully. I hate what I've become." -- Fox 

Mulder in One Breath  

Disclaimer: Do these characters really all belong to Chris 

Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright 

infringement intended. Entertainment, yes. Profit, no. 

Author's notes: This is a story about anger, unbound and out of 

control. Not a pretty picture. This is NOT a rape story; all 

parties are willful participants. Absolutely no kiddos allowed, 

however. Inspired by mimic117's story "False Assumptions," 

this nasty seed takes Mulder's (and Scully's) rage a few steps 

further. Without apology, I'm blaming this on you, MB. 

BREACH OF TRUST (1/1)

By CindyET

"You may be right, Mulder, but for a moment, I saw something 

else in him. A longing for something more than power. Maybe 

for something he could never have."

Scully's refusal to see the truth chafes at Mulder.

"Let me repeat, Scully, he did it for himself. His sincerity 

was a mask. Cancer Man's motives never change." Rancor oozes 

from Mulder's lips, pillorying the smoking man. Fox Mulder is 

not immune to hate. He almost drowned in it while Scully was 

missing. "He used you."

CGB Spender's offices stand vacant. Stale Morleys paint the 

barren walls and despite efforts to eradicate all trace of 

villainy, shadows of evil still linger in the stink of the 

devil's cigarettes.

"Let's get out of here." Mulder turns from the rooms as if 

from Hell, his shoulders hunched against the fire of his own 

anger.

"Where are you going, Mulder?"

"Anywhere but here."

Resentment blisters the air in his wake. He jogs down the 

stairs, never looking back for Scully. She's left staring 

after him, bitten twice by her trust: first by Cancer Man, who 

promised her a cure, and then again by Mulder, who promised 

her espousal. Or had he? She is his constant, but is he hers? 

How far does "I've got your back" go? After so many years, she 

assumed their partnership was unconditional. He apparently has 

other ideas. 

"Mulder!" she calls after him. Her voice rattles in her chest 

as she descends the stairs, rushing to keep up. Her haste is 

unnecessary; she finds him holding the door at the street -- a 

feeble remnant of his civility. She hasn't been honest with 

him and now he's balanced atop an edge, walking a thread 

between reverence and contempt, while hiding his high-wire act 

behind good manners. "Mulder, I don't think Spender was lying. 

Not completely," she insists, ducking beneath his arm. Bright 

afternoon sun jabs her eyes. She squints up at Mulder's 

disenchanted face. Now she feels anger rising in her gullet, 

too. He questions her instincts and because she has come to 

trust his so implicitly, she can no longer trust her own. He's 

right and she's wrong or she's right and he's wrong -- both 

things can't be true. 

"A partial lie is still a lie, Scully. He duped you."

The accusation infuriates her. "And he's never fooled you?" 

"I didn't say that."

"Then what's the difference?"

"This is about *you*." He grunts the words through gritted 

teeth. Why can't she understand? He is nothing; she is 

everything. She could have been killed. He doesn't think he's 

capable of living without her. Not anymore. "Let me drive you 

home," he spits before his fury overtakes him right there on 

the sidewalk.

They ride in compromised silence. His knuckles are white on 

the wheel. Her lips press into a thin line. The trip seems to 

take an eternity although the distance is short. It scares the 

hell out of her to see she's lived this close to the smoking 

man all these years. It frightens her even more to stew in the 

heat of Mulder's seething temper. 

Their indignation escalates with every mile. 

The car is still rolling when Scully unlatches the door to 

step out. Mulder tugs on the parking brake and yanks the keys 

from the ignition. He plans to trail her to her front door. 

Due to habit or due to her recent disappearance, he can't 

bring himself to let her out of his sight. Not yet. 

Still, he feels extraneous. Impotent. She betrayed his trust 

by hiding the truth from him. She didn't want or need him. He 

staggers in her wake.

Let him follow, she thinks. Do whatever he damn wants. Her 

anger doesn't permit her to care. She never imagined she could 

be so infuriated by him. 

He never believed he could love her so much he'd want to 

strangle her over an indiscretion. Careless! So goddamn 

careless! Her deceit, her imprudence, they promise to undo 

him.     

Her keys jangle as she stabs at the lock. Her fingers are 

unfeeling, singed by her pique, and she drops the ring of keys 

on the stoop. *Commemorating Apollo Eleven and the mission to 

the moon, July 1969.* Mulder's hand swoops in and snags the 

keys. Without a word, he unlocks the door, swings it open. She 

is forced to walk beneath the bridge of his outstretched arm 

once again.

She tries to ignore the way he herds her into her apartment. 

He looms over her, his size increased by his ire. He blasts 

her like an over-stoked furnace. The drive has done nothing to 

cool him. His agitation is too much for her.

"What are you doing here, Mulder?"

Her question locks his legs. He's not sure why he's come. Is 

she throwing him out? 

With smooth purpose, she removes her jacket, takes it to the 

closet. This is her place, not his. She belongs here. Does he?

"Go home, Mulder."

Her dismissal cracks his patience. Pacing away from her, he 

rips his coat from his arms and hurls it across the room. It 

lands on the floor several feet beyond the couch. He spins to 

face her, hands on his hips, lower lip caught between his 

teeth. He bites so hard he draws blood.

Pupils shrinking to pinpricks, he aims his anger at her. 

Scully has never been afraid of this man. Never. Until now. 

His control is so fragile, she expects him to shatter. To 

protect herself from the shards of his impending outburst, she 

retreats one tiny step. Her miserable withdrawal launches his 

fury. 

He sweeps her mantel clean with the swipe of one arm. 

Candlesticks and photos thunder to the floor. A spray of glass 

erupts from a framed picture of the two of them together, 

dressed in matching FBI jackets, hair flailed by the wind. In 

the picture, arms pressed from elbow to shoulder, he leans over 

her and tells her a secret she can no longer recall. 

She blinks at the spoiled photo and her eyes swamp with tears. 

He overlooks her regret. Temper unappeased, he heads for her 

desk, intending to upend the entire thing, spew its contents 

across the floor. He flings the desk's chair out of his way, 

causing it to somersault over the sofa.

"Stop it, Mulder!" she shouts, alarmed by his intensity. 

He can no more stop his outpouring than he can stop loving her. 

She could have died! She could have died! She could have DIED! 

And he can *not* lose her! The desk wheels into the air, 

scattering papers and pens, laptop and letters across the 

hardwood floor. The clatter and crash rings through the 

apartment like gunshots. The noise shocks Scully more than 

Peyton Ritter's lethal bullet. She grabs her abdomen at the 

memory and Mulder catches her gesture. He, too, is reminded of 

Peyton Ritter, of Scully's near-death experience, of his own 

absence. She is too vulnerable and he is unable to protect her. 

The realization blazes through him, knocking the breath from 

his lungs and razing his heart. He lunges for a table lamp, 

intending to smash it to bits against a wall.

Scully is furious. She grabs his sleeve with her left hand, 

stilling his arm. With her right she slaps his face hard. The 

blow burns her palm while raising a red print on his cheek.

She holds her breath. 

Surprise hisses from his lungs.

To restrain a punch of his own, he locks his arms around her 

waist and plows her to the wall. Pinning her there, his anger 

has nowhere to go.

"I didn't know where you were, Scully," he hollers and flattens 

her body beneath his. To him, her subterfuge is a breach of 

trust -- the one thing he can't abide, especially from her. 

She lied to him. She *lied*. 

"I didn't do anything you haven't done." She balls her fists 

against his chest and shoves with all her strength. She's 

unable to dislodge him. He leans more heavily, pumps his 

chest, his hips against her and she considers kneeing him in 

the groin to loosen his hold, get him off her. Feeling her leg 

rise, he blocks her by sliding his knees between her thighs. 

"Let go," she demands, meaning more than his hold on her. "You 

can't be with me all the time, Mulder."

This is a truth he doesn't want to hear. If he had his way, 

he'd guard her every minute. He buries his nose into her hair, 

presses his lips against her ear.

He steams her with a growl. "It's my job to watch your back."

"You aren't responsible for me. Jesus, Mulder, you're hurting 

my ribs!" She's not pleading; she's locking horns. She intends 

to make this man understand she is strong and capable, able to 

take care of herself. The fact that he bullies her with his 

size, proving his point, irritates the hell out of her. 

Ducking away from his lips, she glowers at him. "Fuck you, 

Mulder."

A flush creeps up his cheeks. Resentment sputters his eyes. 

The situation is intolerable. He is so certain she needs his 

guardianship he can't release her or the idea that he is her 

protector. Arrogance twitches his nostrils, heaves his lungs. 

He raises her off her feet, knowing his manhandling is what 

she least desires. She will fight him and he will win. With 

his physical advantage, he'll make her see he's right on this. 

Adrenaline surges through him, keeping logic at bay. He hauls 

her down the hall.

"Stop it, Mulder! Stop!" She thrashes in his arms, swings her 

fists at his head. He lets her strike him. He doesn't care 

when she clips his nose and draws blood. Dropping her onto her 

bed, he waits while she boxes his neck and ears. When she 

tries to scramble off the mattress, he latches onto her leg 

and drags her back. He leans over her, anchors his fingers to 

the bed and traps her between his arms. She stares up at him.

She doesn't move. 

They are at a standoff. 

"What now, Mulder?" Her voice is steady. A drop of blood 

dribbles from his nose and plummets downward, staining her 

blouse. A pinpoint of crimson on her gray blouse. Marking her 

heart. His jaws clamp shut and his lips tighten.

The mattress heaves when he crawls onto the bed, maneuvering 

himself over her. Jostled by his petulance, they ride a tidal 

wave of his unfounded fears. He straddles her hips, locks her 

beneath him and bellows at the top of his lungs, "You lied to 

me! I couldn't find you!"

"Which of the two bothers you the most?" 

How could she ask that? How could she-- "I didn't think I'd 

ever see you alive again!" Sweat streaks his face but he 

shivers. As a doctor, she knows he's experiencing a 

physiological response to an imagined threat: her 

betrayal...her disappearance...her death. His body's reaction 

is automatic. Involuntary. His hypothalamus releases 

norepinephrine causing his adrenal glands to produce 

adrenaline. His heart rate, pulse, respiration are soaring. 

Pupils are dilated, awareness intensified, impulses 

quickening. Blood sugar, lactic acid, cortisol are readying his 

body to fight or run. He is a victim of his feelings of dread, 

fear, impending doom. The longer his stress continues, the 

more panicky he'll become. His system will bypass his rational 

mind, move him into an "attack" mode. He will perceive almost 

everything as a threat, everyone as an enemy. 

Yet knowing all this does little to make her sympathetic. The 

pressure of the last few days has stressed her every bit as 

much as it has him. Unrelenting tension has fueled her body's 

fight or flight response, too. She is stubborn and has no 

intention of running from his assault. He's treated her as if 

she is made of glass and she doesn't need his goddamn 

coddling. She plans to show him she's not as fragile as he 

seems to think. 

Clutching the fabric of his sweater, she shakes him. "I'm 

still alive, Mulder. I'm right here. I didn't get killed." She 

grabs his hand and presses it to her chest, concealing the 

drop of blood on her shirt. "See? My heart still beats!" The 

heat of his palm brands her breast. Her nipple hardens beneath 

his scorching caress. He doesn't miss the transformation.

All of his anger, all of his goddamn-awful anger zigzags 

through the muscles of his arms and legs. He dips his head 

until he is brushing her lips with his words. 

"He...used...you...Scully!"

"So go ahead and use me too, Mulder. Do it! Fuck me."

"I..."

She can smell his desire, his passion, thick and heady and 

tempting. But he doesn't move. Afraid to act on his terrible 

exigency, he stops short of fucking her.

"Do it," she goads.

"Scully..."

"Do it!" To provoke the act, she reaches between them and 

drives the heel of her hand into his erection. He's hard 

beneath the denim of his jeans. He's been hard ever since he 

lifted her off her feet in the livingroom. "Mulder, you know 

you want to do it."

He does. More than anything, he wants to plunge into her. With 

all of his frantic energy, he wants to pinion her to the bed 

and fuck the bejesus out of her. Not like the other times 

they've made love. Not like love at all. This act has little 

to do with love, except in the most distorted sense. This is 

about marking territory, domination, possession. At this 

singular moment, he wants to own her, bend her to his will. 

Following a convoluted and addled line of reasoning, he wants 

to assure himself she is alive and safe and his. The relief of 

knowing she is beneath him, around him, would feel 

so...God...damn...good. Seizing her breast, he addles her, 

too, by the press of his fingers, by the lust in his eyes, by 

the rigidity of his cock against her palm. She squeezes his 

hard-on and leaches a whimper from his throat. His eyes close, 

his face turns ceiling-ward and she exults in his loss of 

control.

"Do it, Mulder." Her power over him causes a jolt of pleasure 

to shimmer between her legs. She craves to hold him inside 

her. "Mulder..." She will make him do this thing.

Releasing her hold on his cock, she fumbles for the hem of her 

blouse. Mulder's gaze returns from the ceiling, follows her 

trembling fingers. When her turtleneck refuses to pull free 

from the waistband of her pants, he becomes overly impatient 

and grasps the soft fabric in both hands. He yanks the shirt 

upward, baring her belly, her satiny bra, the creamy mounds of 

her breasts.

The slope of her cleavage invites the tip of his finger. His 

tongue. His nose. He exhales into the valley of her breasts. 

With a moan, he sinks his teeth into the plump heat of her 

skin. She jerks beneath his bite. Pain barks from her throat. 

A flush of warmth expands across her chest, singes her heart 

and plummets downward through her body, melting her resentment 

and spilling hotly inside her panties.

Mulder prods between her breasts for the clasp of her bra. His 

quaking fingers break the fragile clasp, tear the delicate 

fabric. Shoving the satin out of his way, he exposes her. His 

thumbs message her nipples, forcing them rise, harden. He 

pinches them. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, fire beneath 

his lips, flesh pressed between his flexing tongue and the 

sensitive curve at the roof of his mouth. His tongue circles, 

trying to satisfy an instinctive craving. She aches as he 

draws on her empty breast. She longs to give him so much more.

Digging her nails into his back, she tries to spread her 

thighs, but his knees still pin her legs together. She tugs at 

his belt, unfastens the buckle. Sliding the button through the 

hole at the top of his fly, she loosens his waistband. She 

claws at his zipper until his pants open. He groans against 

her breast when she grasps him through the fabric of his 

underwear. 

Abandoning her breast, he pounces on her mouth, plunges his 

tongue between her teeth. He swirls to the back of her throat, 

filling her, panting. His fingers dive into her hair, pin her 

head to the blankets. Her scalp throbs from the wrench of his 

grasp. His tongue plugs her mouth and she can't breathe. He is 

so terribly hungry for her. Finishing his kiss, he allows her 

one breath of air, then laps her, gnaws at her lips, nips at 

her chin, her cheeks.

"I want you, Scully." He pumps his groin against her palm, 

grapples for the top button of her slacks. He can't get the 

tiny button through its tinier hole. His arms shake with 

furious want. He deserts the button and yanks at her waistband 

until he hears the fabric tear away. Backing out of her grip 

on his cock, he drags her pants from her hips, his nails 

scraping a row of flushed welts down each ivory thigh.

Her boots stall him. Leaving her pants crumpled at her ankles, 

he unzips each boot, pulls one at a time from her feet and 

hurls them somewhere behind him. He jerks her pants from her 

legs and then tears off each sock. 

She waits on the bed, shirt bunched around her armpits, 

breasts exposed. He is mesmerized by her beauty. Her white 

skin vibrates his bones. Her vulnerability threatens to buckle 

his knees. Holding his breath, he traces a desperate line with 

his index finger from her neck to the elastic band of her 

panties. Goosebumps stipple her flesh beneath his passing 

hand. He cradles her pubic bone. Careful at first. Then savage 

fingers dig into the cleft between her legs. Her wetness 

dampens his palm, even through the fabric. He can smell her 

need for him.

"Take them off."

She thinks at first she has made the demand -- the thought is 

so clear in her head. But it's his voice that echoes through 

the room. He stands at her feet, watching. His tongue travels 

across his lower lip. His hands clench at his hips.

She focuses her eyes on the open vee of his jeans and skates 

the panties from her hips. When the silky garment reaches her 

knees, he takes over, skims them from her calves, her ankles, 

her feet. He brings the underwear to his nose and inhales her 

passion.

With purposeful indolence, she parts her knees and spreads her 

legs, opening herself for full view. She trails one perfectly 

manicured nail through the curls of her mons until she strokes 

her clitoris.

"What now, Mulder?" she repeats her earlier question, but her 

voice has lost its storm.

Air stutters from his lungs.

"I guess...I fuck you, Scully."

"I guess so."

With one graceful stretch, he hauls his sweater and T-shirt 

together up over his head. While his face is masked behind his 

shirt, she inventories the muscles of his chest. Pectoralis 

major, latissimus dorsi, obliquus externus, and, perhaps her 

favorite, the linea alba, dividing his torso from breastbone 

to pubic bone, splitting him into two perfect halves. She 

studies the rippling contractions beneath his golden skin and 

waits to feel the press of him on her.

Mulder drops the shirt on the floor. Toes off his shoes. Tugs 

off each sock. He shoves his pants and boxers down his legs. 

Stepping from his clothes, he closes his fist around his 

swollen erection. His thumb travels across its tip, spreading 

the drop of lubricant that glistens there.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters."

Slitting her eyes, she reaches between her thighs and dips one 

finger between her folds. Mulder tightens his hand around his 

cock. Waits. She withdraws her finger and holds it up for him 

to inspect. He steps closer. Leans over her. Takes her finger 

into his mouth and cleans it with his tongue. His cock 

twitches in his hand, impatient to push into her. Her perfume 

overwhelms his sinuses, his lungs, his heart. This, this is 

the woman he loves. This is the woman he wants to protect at 

all costs. This is the woman he manages to hurt time and 

again. Like now, he thinks. 

Releasing her finger and himself, his anger disintegrates. 

Although he climbs onto the bed, knees between her splayed 

thighs, she reads defeat in his expression. Brow furrowing, he 

supposes his earlier actions are unpardonable. He surrenders 

his anger and waits for her to forgive him.

"Mulder, what do you want me to say?"

He wants nothing from her. Not now. He's already taken more 

than his share. Shaking his head, he can't speak.

"Do you want me to apologize? Say I'm sorry I trusted Cancer 

Man and didn't trust you? Well, I am sorry." Her admission 

gives him no pleasure. "But under the same circumstances, I'd 

do it again."

Tears shimmer on his lower lashes. His voice has vanished and 

she has to read his lips to understand what he tries to say. 

"I didn't know where you were."

Drawing him down until he collapses onto her, she wraps her 

arms around him, listens to his heartbeat, soaks in his 

desolation. She is strong. Strong enough to withstand their 

combined disenchantment. She has always buoyed him, saved him 

from drowning himself with recrimination.

"Sculleee," he breathes her name into her neck. 

"He...he said I'd die for you, Mulder, but that I don't allow 

myself to love you."

"Who? Cancer Man?" Mulder lifts his head. "He doesn't know the 

first thing about you...about us."

"He may know more than you might think."

"What are you talking about?"

"He said I'm attracted to powerful men."

"Meaning...?"

"You. Maybe him." The specter of the smoking man drifts 

between them, dividing them as they cling to one another. His 

ghost is a rift between their hearts. A fissure that splits 

their trust.

"Did he touch you?" Mulder's fury threatens to return. He 

searches her eyes, clutches her arms. 

"*Did*...*he*...*touch*...*you*?"

"I don't know." She remembers waking up in Spender's cabin, 

dressed in her nightclothes. "Yes, I think." She pets Mulder's 

back. Fiery. Muscular. Safe. Tries to sooth his returning 

rage. He trembles in her embrace, from anger, from fear, from 

hate. "Spender was wrong about one thing, Mulder." She kisses 

the jittery muscle dancing along his jaw. "I do allow myself 

to love you."

Her words mend him, repair his broken trust. Her admission 

fills the gap between her heart and his hope. 

"I'm so sorry, Mulder."

"For what?"

"For lying to you. For breaking your trust."

"I'm the one who should be apologizing, Scully, not you."

"I don't expect you to be my knight in shining armor."

He plucks at her hair. Twists a spiraling tornado into her red 

locks. "Settle for rusty armor?" 

"I'm not a damsel in distress."

"You're vulnerable, Scully." He releases her hair and strokes 

her cheek instead. "Whether you want to admit it or not. 

Demons like Old Smokey, they don't lose."

"Stop looking for the devil, Mulder. Cancer Man is just a 

man." She traces the edge of his lips with one finger. He 

bends to kiss her. She murmurs against his mouth. "What now, 

Mulder?" she asks for the third time.

"I make love to you."

THE END

Author's notes: This was a tough one to write. Can't tell you 

how often I wanted to return our heroes to a gentler sea. But 

they're adults. They live in a stressful universe. Tempers are 

bound to flair on occasion. Doesn't mean they don't love each 

other. And no permanent damage was done.

I wrote "Breach of Trust" to stretch my writer's wings. I don't 

necessarily subscribe to violence or angry sex. If you prefer 

LoveSmut, "Acquitted" and "Encore" were written for you. If you 

enjoy BawdySmut, take a peek at "The Case of the Exuberant G-

Man."  

Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my stories. 

Send comments to cindyet@tdstelme.net. 

Visit my other fanfic at 

http://www.crosswinds.net/~bluefroggie/cindyet.html, maintained 

by the stupendous bluefroggie.

"Mulder, you're not suggesting that he is himself a devil, are 

you?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I think the facts speak for 

themselves." -- Mulder and Scully in Terms of Endearment

"People think the devil has horns and a tail, Scully. They're 

not used to looking for some kindly man who tells you what you 

want to hear." 

"He's just a man, Mulder." -- Mulder and Scully in Signs and 

Wonders