No Quarter Given: Abstinence
Part One
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com
Classification: SA, post-ep for 'Never Again'
Rating: NC-17, for sexually explicit scenes.  No
kiddies, please!
Archive: Just drop me a line and it's yours.
Disclaimer: Bare bones - not mine.  Though I
wish they were.
Summary: She wants to feel alive.
Dedication: To Galia.  I hope this is what you
wanted, my dear.

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

More notes at end.




...Abstinence...


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

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

"Ma'am, I need your card."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She has become 'Ana.'

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You really want to know?"

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

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

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

His breathing quickens.  "Scully -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Doing what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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



End part one

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

Disclaimer, etc. in part one




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

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

"You heard me.  I want release."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Use me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which leaves only one remaining question.

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

"Scully, my lips are sealed."

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

"I promise."


&&&&&&&


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More," she breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm hurting you," he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mulder -"

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

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

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

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

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

"Mulder -"

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

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

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

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

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

"Anything."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

He stayed.  That's all that matters.

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

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

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

"It's me."

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

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

"Case?"

"The billboard, remember?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Scully?"

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

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

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

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

Loveyouloveyoudon'tleaveme....

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

Stophimbefore...you'resuchafool....

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

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

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

"See you Monday," she says.

"Sure, Monday."

"Mulder, I forgot to tell you -"

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

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

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

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

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


END


Author's Notes:

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.

mish_rose@yahoo.com

    Source: geocities.com/mish_rose