Gabriel
Chapter Twelve


The Rocky Mountains
September 20, 2001
6:15 p.m.


There was no way to get out of it, or even to
sneak around it.  She'd done as he asked and
contacted Frohike, so she expected him to hold
up his end of the bargain.  Such a simple task,
really - a haircut and shave.  But his heart
threatened to pound out of his chest as he
slipped the sling over his head and adjusted his
arm into it.  At least the bulk of his arm in
front of him afforded him some protection
against her sure encroachment.

He walked slowly from the bathroom and stopped
at the sight of the tableau laid out before the
fireplace.  She'd pulled a kitchen chair and a
small table from the alcove to the rug in front
of the fire, and had all the needed instruments
of what he knew was going to be sheer torture on
the flat surface of the table.  She looked up
and gave him a smile, gesturing toward the
chair.

"Sit.  I promise not to hurt you too much."  Her
wink was playful.

His eyes were wide as he took that first step
toward what promised to be pleasure and pain.

His body numb with fear - and no small amount of
excitement - he did as she asked, sitting on the
chair she'd pulled close to the fireplace.  He
followed her every move with greedy eyes -
watched as she fingered the things she would
need on the table next to him.  The scissors,
comb, and razor, all placed on a clean towel
with what was, unbeknownst to her, the precision
of surgical preparation.  A small hand mirror
reflected the meager light in the room as she
put it beside the instruments.  Next came the
steaming pan of water and a bar of purplish
soap.  He already smelled like a girl, but he
didn't care.

The firelight cast her in a red-orange glow, and
when she stood just... *there* ... he could see
the outline of her body through the linen shift. 
The swell of her breasts and the curve of her
hip as it met her thigh; he swallowed down his
growing arousal and shifted his gaze to the bare
feet that peeked from beneath the hem of her
dress.  Such small, dainty feet.  Unconsciously,
his own bare feet slid across the floor in
search of hers - with a start, he stopped them
just in time and decided maybe it was best to
close his eyes against the temptation she
presented.

But it was damned hard, especially when the
clean, siren scent that was hers alone wafted
over him.  It hadn't been that noticeable in the
bathroom, blending in with the fragrance of the
shampoo.  Now, it slammed into him.  God, she
was close, he thought, only to have it confirmed
when her voice drifted over his heated face.

"Shall I cut your hair first?"

Mute with the almost overwhelming need to touch
her, he simply nodded, his wet locks falling
forward to tickle his shoulders.  The beads of
water trickling down his chest helped cool his
ardor and he drew a deep breath, waiting for the
feel of his fingers in his hair once again.

Light as a feather, she lifted the heavy,
curling mass away from his neck and the grinding
of the scissors' blades sheared through him. 
His teeth mirrored the cutting action, clamping
down as with one fell swoop, half his hair was
gone.

"That was easy enough," she chuckled behind him. 
"Now for the hard part."

He'd thought the hard part was the shampoo. 
God, was he wrong.  Joy was beginning to melt
his bones; he had hated the disguise, despite
its necessity.  Exposure was a gamble, but
truthfully, he was tired of hiding from her.  If
he couldn't tell her who he was, then at least
he could let her see the real face behind all
that hair.

Most of all, he didn't care what he looked like,
as long as she kept touching him.  She could
butcher his hair to the point where he looked
like a porcupine, and still he would be happy. 
It couldn't be any worse than the haircuts he
used to pay a good money for back home, so long
ago.  Though this freebie might end up costing
him his feeble hold on sanity...

She kept working, snipping and combing as the
hair continued to come off.  His eyes popped
open as an errant curl skittered down his torso
to land in his lap.

"Sorry," she murmured, reaching down to pick it
from his jeans-clad thigh.  At her nearness, he
jerked away, his left hand fisting in the sling. 
She noticed his avoidance, asking softly, "Did I
get any in your eyes?"

He shook his head, dodging the warm breast that
brushed his shoulder.

"I'll try to catch them before they fall, okay?" 
Her voice was filled with regret, as if she'd
somehow hurt him.  But he couldn't bring himself
to tell her it was okay; damn him, he couldn't
even manage to look her in the eye.  If he did,
they'd find themselves tangled on the rug in a
heartbeat.  And he couldn't do that to her.

Instead, he nodded again, urging her to
continue.  She said nothing, just returned to
her task; he sagged a bit with relief as she
moved around to stand behind him once again. 
This time, she cut and combed with a swift
sureness, as if more comfortable with what she
was doing.  He knew if he dared look at her,
he'd find her brow creased in concentration,
maybe the tip of her tongue darting out to wet
the corner of her mouth.  It was a signature of
hers, the way her face reacted to her mind's
workings.

But he didn't want to look; therein laid
trouble.  He sat still as stone under her
fingers and after a while, he relaxed enough to
open his eyes once more, though he trained his
vision on the dancing flames of the fire.  He
felt his ears get cold at their exposure to the
chilly air of the room and he couldn't suppress
the shiver that ran through him, especially when
she ran her finger over the lobe on his right
side.

"Wouldn't want that to take root, would we?"

Jesus, she was a delight to behold, laughter
coming so easily to her now, warmth and joy
seeming to surround her, despite the clouds she
lived under daily.  He wanted to let the forest
grow around them, to keep out everyone and
everything so he could hold her and love her to
his heart's content...

"There," she pronounced, jerking him back to
awareness as she came to stand before him with
crossed arms.  She cocked her head to one side,
then the other, surveying her work with a purse
of her lips before smiling.  "I left it just a
bit long on top - what can I say?  I like the
way it curls.  Would you like to see before we
move on?"  She shifted, reaching for the mirror.

Gabriel shook his head, his right hand coming up
to feel the wavy strands.  A lopsided grin
blossomed on his face; in the ensuing months
since he'd had a haircut, his hair must have
taken on life of its own.  No longer weighed
down, it sprang about his head, much curlier
than he remembered.  He'd never hear the end of
it from the Colonel, who was bound to seethe
with jealousy.

He looked up and his grin faded as he faced her
head-on, her smile taking his breath away.  It
wasn't fair that she stood before him with such
innocence, her mind deprived of all they once
were to each other.  Frustration burned his eyes
and he dropped his chin, looking away lest she
picked up on his sudden sadness.

With a short sigh, she spoke.  "Well... let's do
something about that face now, shall we?"

OhGodohGodohGodnooo...  But he couldn't move,
even though he wanted to run from her.  A
selfish part of him craved more of her touch and
he was helpless to deny himself, even though he
knew this was going to be more difficult than
the haircut.

She moved to the table, shoving up the sagging
sleeves of her thin dress before wetting the
towel in the hot water.  A soft hiss made him
sit up straighter as if to rise, but she turned
her head and gave him a wink.  "It's okay - just
a bit hot.  My skin is just not as tough as
yours."  Her hands were slightly red as she
wrung out the towel, the water bleeding through
her fingers like rivers of tears.  With her
profile to him, she formed an 'o' with her mouth
and gently puffed cooling air on the steaming
white terrycloth.

It was almost his undoing.  He squirmed in his
chair, trying to decide if maybe this wasn't
such a good idea after all.  His groin tightened
in the confines of his jeans and a fine sheen of
sweat broke out on his forehead.

"There," she said, letting the towel unfold with
a wave.  "Tilt your head back, please, Gabriel."

Like he could refuse her, he thought, despite
his rapidly escalating desire for her.  Letting
his eyes slip shut, his neck popped as his head
fell back.  In seconds, the towel was wrapped
around his bristly cheeks, and he jumped a bit
at the heat of it.  Guilt flashed through him at
the realization that her silken skin had
probably felt the burn ten times more than his
leathery covering, in the basin *and* in the
bathtub.

He could hear her splash around in the water and
the smell of lavender mixed with the steamy
smell of the towel.

"I hope you don't mind, but this is the only
razor I have," he heard her say.  "It's one I
use on my legs.  You can use it from now on, if
you want to.  I don't think I'll be able to
reach them for much longer."

A picture of her running the razor over her
naked legs in that huge, claw-footed bathtub
made him groan under the towel.  He wanted to
rip the towel off and beg her to let him do that
mundane task for her from now on.  He'd wash her
hair, scrub her back, shave her legs - do
everything her pregnancy wouldn't allow her to
do.

I'll be your slave, Scully, his mind sobbed.

Cool air graced his warm cheeks as she took the
towel away.  Replacing it with her hands, she
lathered his face with the soap, her voice close
at his side.  "Too girly, I know.  But it's all
I have, sorry."

Sorry?  He'd gladly rub his girly-smelling face
into his pillow tonight, if it meant he'd see
her in his dreams.  At the cessation of her
speech, he opened his eyes, unable to withstand
his self-imposed blindness any longer.

"Hi there," she smiled, her hands massaging the
soap into his beard.  "Ready to begin?"

He blinked twice, feeling as though he was an
idiotic fool.  Mesmerized by her brandy-warm
voice and strong, yet gentle touch, by the sight
of the few wisps of red hair that had escaped
her braid and the pull of those happy eyes, he
sat there, struck dumb by her simple attention.

"Okay, then."  Wiping her hands on the towel,
she reached for the razor.  "Let me know if I
hurt you, okay?"  She pulled the table a bit
closer for easier access to the water and then
began.

Slowly drawing the razor down his cheek, taking
the beard with it as he watched her... her mouth
lax and her eyelids lowered in concentration. 
In this, she worked as he imagined she'd done
with his haircut, taking her time with
meticulous glides of the blade against his skin. 
His breathing slowed to match hers; in, out,
in... out.  He was lulled to the point of
fascination, and jerked only when he felt the
cut below his temple.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she whispered, almost
stumbling in her search for the towel.  His hand
shot out, steadying her with a grip of her
waist, the pain really non-existent in the face
of her distress.  She brought the towel up to
dab at the cut, her hand shaking and her eyes
full.  "I'm too clumsy these days," she
apologized.

Gabriel shook his head, decrying her guilt with
a re-assuring lift of his gaze.  He knew what he
had in mind was dangerous, but he'd be damned if
he'd see her injure herself in a fall.  With a
slight pull at her waist, he allowed his legs to
spread wide, urging her to stand between them,
his eyes silently asking for the intrusion.

She hesitated, the reticence of isolation these
many months blooming in a pink flush on her
cheeks.  Gabriel didn't want to push her, but
his trembling fingers betrayed him, brushing
over the fabric at her waist like a plea.  With
a breathy exhale, she smiled, dropping her eyes
as she put the towel away.

"Guess it *would* be better, wouldn't it?" She
chuckled at her embarrassment and moved closer,
tilting his chin up with one small finger, the
razor poised.  "This doesn't guarantee your
safety, you realize."  Her teeth tugged on the
fullness of her lower lip as she poised the
razor over his jaw.  "I may not remember what I
did before, but I *really* don't think I was
very adept with any type of sharp instruments."

At that, Gabriel's face broke into a broad smile
and his husky laughter filled the room.  She
pulled the razor away and said with an affronted
air, "It's not funny!  I don't want to hurt you,
Gabriel."

Sobering with the greatest difficulty, he pursed
his lips, though he could feel his good humor
still shine from his eyes.  Jutting out his
chin, he offered his face to her, promising
compliance with a lift of the corners of his
mouth.

"That's better," she stated, shifting from one
foot to the other within the trap of his legs. 
She licked her lips and moved in.  "Now, keep
still."

I'm not going anywhere, he pledged silently,
shutting his eyes in simple acquiescence.  It
would take an earthquake of catastrophic
proportions to move him from that chair.  The
devil himself could walk in, flanked by Elvis
and - well, no use wondering what an EBE looked
like.  Been there, done that...

Jesus!  His wandering thoughts were cut short by
the soft cushion that pressed against his
wrapped arm.  He knew what that was - don't
look, don't open your eyes.  But they fluttered
open anyway and his lips dropped open as well.

"Gabriel."  Her slow warning made him close his
mouth quickly and she kept on, though he knew
she hadn't caught on to what he was seeing.

Her breasts, made fuller by the pregnancy,
brushed against his chest, right above the
sling.  The roundness below them - her baby -
was firm against the knuckles of his left hand. 
The rope of her braided hair snaked down her
collarbone and he wanted to cry at the beauty of
the yellow ribbon that was bowed around its
curling tip.  It was back where it belonged;
*he* was back where he belonged.

Every now and then, she swirled the razor in the
water, shifting and stretching, the braid moving
with her.  He was hypnotized by the sight of it
and her; she was bathed in firelight, glowing
with health and heat.  As he watched, a red
flush crept up her neck and a single bead of
sweat traveled slowly down between her breasts.

"Almost done," she murmured, still unaware of
his scrutiny.  "Lift your chin, please."

He did so, knowing she was being doubly careful
around the scraped skin of his lower neck.  The
rope had bit into him just below the edge of the
beard.

"I think I can get it all," she said.  "Just be
very still - I don't want to hurt you."

Hurt him?  God, she could never hurt him.  The
gunshot was a distant memory, filed away as an
aberration - the product of a mind under the
control of another.  This - *this* was the real
woman, even though she knew not who she was. 
The gentle touch and loathe to bring pain to
anyone was still there, making her as 'Scully'
as she could be.

"Just one more spot," she said, gripping his
chin to make him look at her.  "Do this."  She
gave him the 'time to shave the moustache
grimace' and he complied, bringing his upper lip
down, his eyes straying from her chest to her
mouth.

"Good."  She scraped the hair from his lips and
chin and he felt the warmth of her breath on his
face as she leaned over him.  Dry tufts of
imaginary cotton took up residence in his mouth
as he watched her tongue dart out to wet her
lips.

If she knew the direction his thoughts had
taken... how he wanted to pull her face down to
his for a kiss, then let his lips travel over
the graceful arch of her neck to bury themselves
in the cleft of her breasts... she'd run.  Take
herself far from his madness and never look
back.

The hand at her waist slid around her back
slowly, giving in to the pull of her warmth. 
Heat drifted up between them to fill his head
with thoughts of the sensual exploration of days
past.  Slow, languid lovemaking in a dim room on
a pallet of blankets; hot, hurried couplings in
a shower stall and soft, satisfied kisses of
completion and love.

Her name clogged his throat, threatening to
burst forth.  At the last second, it was denied
birth, as she laid the razor on the table and
gently drew the towel over his face, cleaning
away the last of the soap.  The towel fell away
from her fingers to the floor as she drew in a
sharp breath.

"Oh, Gabriel."  Her words were husky and her
eyes glazed over with tears as her fingers slid
over the scar on his chin; she'd seen its end on
his chest, but not its beginning on his face and
neck.  "Who did this to you?"
  
With a bite of his lip, he looked down, feeling
more hideous than he ever had before. When he
looked like a grizzly bear, he felt so abnormal,
wishing that he could rid himself of the cloak
of the accused.  Now he felt naked, his past
exposed for her to see.  He turned his head,
trying to keep his scar from her white fingers.

But she held fast, her hand curling about his
face, her thumb caressing his cheek.  "I knew
you were handsome under all that hair," she
whispered, her smile chasing away the shadows. 
For a second, her eyes clouded over and he held
his breath, dreading yet hoping for a sign she
knew him.

Remembrance was there for just a second; whether
brushing the clouds in those blue eyes away of
its own accord, or reflecting that which he knew
was shining from his own moist gaze - it was
there.  Did he dare risk her safety by letting
it overtake them?  He so wanted it to happen.

But then it was gone in a flash.  "I guess we're
done," she said, lowering her gaze with a sigh. 
His hand slipped from her body before he knew
it.

Her face fell with disappointment, more in
herself than in the lost moment.  He knew she
wanted it.  But just like him, she knew the
possibilities.  In spite of her bravado after
the seizure, it had frightened her.  That wasn't
the only scary thing, he realized.  She knew as
well as he did that they were treading into
intimate territory.  What was always there
between them was pulling them together like
magnets.  Her body knew him, remembered the
lingering touches and movements, craved it just
as his did, though she herself knew not why. 
And though her physical self was virginal no
longer, her mind certainly was.  Stripped of the
memory of lovemaking, it trembled with the fear
of the unknown.

In the midst of his amazing discovery, he almost
failed to notice her shying away, stepping back
from the brink as she closed in on herself with
a sigh.

But he wasn't finished; little did she know he
was just beginning.

Before she could break the warmth around them,
he caught her hand, bringing its warmth to his
lips.  Closing his eyes, he pressed his mouth to
her palm, bestowing his thanks in a reverent
kiss.  Giving her the promise of more to come in
the slow brush of his open mouth to the soft,
damp skin.

The hitch of her breath reached his ears in the
split second before she pulled away fully.  He
opened his eyes to see her silhouetted in the
firelight, hands clasped, surprise warring with
something familiar - desire.  He'd seen it
enough to recognize the burn in her eyes.

That dilated, heavy-lidded stare... those
parted, pink lips and flushed cheeks... it
wasn't fair what he was doing to her, he knew. 
But God, he wanted her.  Even if she'd never
remember him, he wanted her trust back.  He
wanted her mind and her body... her love.

Gabriel, the bringer of a new truth.  No matter
who they were, they were meant to be together.

She cleared her throat and looked everywhere but
at him.  "Well... I - I need to get back.  I'll
come back tomorrow, okay?"  Moving to the door,
she slipped on her shoes and cloak.

No, no, she couldn't leave.  He stood, the force
of his need slamming the chair backward.  His
lips moved, his throat aching with the attempt
at speech, his hand shaking as it stretched out
toward her.

She started, stopping to look at him, her hand
on the door knob.  "No, Gabriel," she pleaded,
bringing the edges of her cloak together, fear
and confusion shadowing her face and voice. 
"Let me go.  I'll come back tomorrow, I
promise."  A blast of cold air came through the
door, and she was gone into the twilight.

Raspy and filled with tears, his thready voice
echoed in the empty room.

"Scully."



End Chapter Twelve