SECRET II (1/1) *** NC-17 *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@parkpub.com DISCLAIMER: I don't own Mulder and Scully. Leyla Harrison does. No, no -- just kidding. Everyone knows the Fox lawyers own 'em. God bless lawyers. I love them so. I mean it. SUMMARY: Mulder has a secret -- and Scully may never know. SPOILERS: None that I can remember. CLASSIFICATION: V, slight Mulder-Angst, MSR RATING: NC-17 for language and sexual situations. This story is not appropriate for anyone under the age of 18 (21 in some states and provinces) who isn't perfectly comfortable about lying about his/her age. Just kidding. Don't be naughty please. Well, it's been a while. Thanks to incessant nagging by Leyla Harrison, I've agreed to emerge out of my self-imposed, largely alcoholic-coma-induced silence. Actually, it's only been three months or so since I've posted, thanks in large part to new professional responsibilities, but you know how mushy cyberspace is -- talk about "fame is fleeting."That's okay -- in the interim I've had a chance to catch up on some of my fanfic reading and I must say I'm very impressed by some of what I'm seeing out there. Leyla's nagging, in truth, isn't my real motivation for writing this story. The fact is she wrote a very lovely piece which seemed to scream for a sequel, and since she does Scully so well, and since my forte is Mulder, well... you know. One thing led to another and before you knew it, I made this. So this story is dedicated to Leyla, to her talent and to the gritty determination with which she infuses her Scully. Read Secret first, though -- otherwise this sorry sequel won't make much sense. ******* My God. I never knew. It's funny, you know, because after all this time you'd think I'd've suspected. I mean, it's not like I'm completely unattractive, right? So maybe it's true that I'm no Clark Gable and I'm a bit of a goofball. And maybe it's true she could have anyone she wants. Hell. Who am I kidding? She could have anyone anytime. Anyone at all. I guess it never occurred to me that I could be anyone at all. So now I'm lying here on the fucking couch like I do almost every night and as God is my witness, I don't know what to do. She hung up on me. Jesus Christ. You know? I thought it was just in my mind. I thought it was just my own little sick twisted fantasy. Scully wants me. I've spent years dreaming that she wants and needs me. I just never dreamed it was true, you know? And now when she finally reveals that my madness has some basis in fact, when she finally gives me something to wish for, to hope for, to live for, she has the *fucking* nerve to hang up on me. And now I know she wants me. "No, Mulder." That's all she said. And then click and a dial tone. Poof. Just like that. Jesus. No, Mulder. How many times have I heard those words from her in one form or another? No, I don't believe it. No, I don't trust it. No, I don't want it. No, I don't need it. Even when she doesn't use the words, her body speaks it. Her body says "no" more clearly than her voice ever does. Don't touch me, Mulder. Don't crowd me, Mulder. Don't try to fix it, don't try to heal it, don't try to answer questions I've never asked. Don't look for answers, Mulder. And then, of course, let's not forget the classic line. Mulder, I'm fine. Yeah, right. And now of all times, now when she knows she isn't fine, when she's far from fine, when she may not be fucking fine ever again. But isn't it just like her. It's just like her to deny everything, isn't it? She's denying what she knows is the truth. Christ. She's denying me. If I could, right now I'd go over there. Never mind the fact that she's told me not to. Never mind the unconvincing evidence of her words. I know she wants me there. Hell. I know she's imagining me there right now. I'd go there right now. If I had the nerve. I'd walk in on her. On what I know she's doing. What she's been doing for some time now while she's been thinking of me. I can see her. My God. I feel like maybe I can taste her. Right now she's lying on her bed, possibly diagonally across it since I know my phone call startled her and she had to reach for the receiver. The thing is I knew something was going on the minute I heard her voice. "Hello." Jesus. Her voice was sultry and rich, timid too, and just slightly irritated. She knew it was me. After all, who else would call her at 10 minutes to one? "Scully?" I winced when I said it. Who else would it be, for God's sake? Unless she was sleeping with a woman who sounds just like her, of course. Just like her when she's aroused, as I've learned to read it. What a fucking pathetic dweeb I am sometimes. "Yes, Mulder." She sounded long suffering and I cringed, doh-ing inside like a some kind of Homer Simpson loser. "Um, did I wake you?" Loser. Christ. Loser loser loser. "No, Mulder. I was already awake." Probably going over some files or something, I thought. Planning the next day's itinerary. Whatever. While I was lying here, thinking of nothing. Nothing but her. I couldn't let her know this, of course, but my cock was rigid and straining against my jeans. It almost always did that in the middle of the night when I called her. But I couldn't very well tell her that, could I? I couldn't very well let her know that my own need fuelled my late-night calls to her, that just the sound of her voice was enough to give me the stimulation I needed, the ammunition I craved for the shameful solitary act that inevitably followed after I hung up at last. Just the sound of her voice unarmed, sleepy, open and available. At last. And then the words slipped out before I could stop them. "I was just, well, I was... thinking about you, Scully." Oh, Christ. What the hell did *that* mean? So then I started to babble, kind of. "Scully, listen..." I tried to take a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for calling so late." Lame. I mean, how lame could you get? "I'm sure you have better things to do." Right. Better things to do at one in the morning. Anything other than talking to you, asshole, is a better thing to do. The bitterness of my own inner voice singed me. "Actually, Mulder..." I held my breath. I swear. I don't quite know why. "I was thinking about you too." My mind reeled. "You were?" The words came out in a sort of a squeak. "Yes." God. Oh, God. This time I took a deep breath and tried to count as I did it. Oh God. So what else could I do? Huh? What else could I ask? "What were you thinking?" Lame. Lame but I meant it, dammit. "Mulder..." Yes. Yes. Yes, Scully. What? "...do you ever get lonely? Do you ever..." And then her voice trailed off, as though she knew it was a foolish question. Of course I get lonely, Scully. And so do you. I know it. It's just that we never talk about it. I chuckled suddenly before I could catch it. "Why do you think I have all those videos, Scully?" Lame. But oh so true. "The ones that aren't yours?" Oh ha ha ha. I grinned despite myself. "Those would be the ones." It's always so relaxing to banter with her, to share this thing with her, this space that we inhabit. All of a sudden it's all I need to feel that link between us again, the one I take for granted far too often, it seems, especially since it feels like it's so rarely there, even though it's really always there, lurking right under the surface. "So what *were* you doing, Scully?" It's light and it's rakish and it feels so right; the easiness of our comfort slides in as it so often does before I can stop it. "It's a secret." Her voice teases me, caressing like a lover's touch. Cliche, I know. Whatever. "Come on, tell me." At this point I don't even care what she tells me. All I know is I love her voice when she's like this and I crave the easy laughter behind her words. The only problem is that my erection is throbbing and I curse myself for that particular weakness; I've learned to accept so many others of my own. "Really?" "Yes, really." I'm still laughing inside even though something in her tone has turned just a little dangerous. "Well, Mulder, I as lying here in bed, thinking about you making love to me, and well..." And well. And that's pretty much when my world splintered and flew apart. Quite frankly, I don't quite remember what I did. I think maybe I breathed. Barely. And maybe I swallowed, just a little, but I knew I was still alive because eventually I breathed again. What do you say when something like this happens? Take it from me. You're actually lucky if you ever speak again at all. What I did was tell myself that she had to be kidding. Except that somewhere, as it happens, I knew that she wasn't. And that's when I knew it was time for the truth between us. "Funny you should say that, Scully." The words came of their own accord and I swear I didn't know quite where they came from. "Because I was thinking about making love to you." The truth is out there. Yep. I know because whatever else the truth might hold, this was part of it. "God." That was what she said. Just that. Just the name of the one thing she probably understood better than I did. It's a biggie -- and believe me, I don't take that lightly. "Scully..." And that's when I knew that even though she said nothing, she'd already closed herself off from me. Just like that. If you paid attention, you would've heard the audible snap. "Scully, I'm coming over." I was desperate now, but it was already too late. I knew. Damn. Damn it all to hell. There was panic in her voice, fear, and rejection too, although part of me knew that it didn't have anything to do with me, only with the fear of what she might reveal. She wasn't ready. My heart swelled suddenly but thankfully my rib cage apparently stopped it from bursting. This time. And so all I have left is the vision of what I know she's doing, of what her voice has revealed to me. Not for the first time. But this is the closest we've gotten to sharing. This is the closet we've come to being together -- together. I know it. And dammit, I won't give up hope. Because I know she's lying there right now, her fine-boned tiny hand between her sweet thighs, and in my dreams I can't help but believe that she sees me coming closer, that I'm almost in the room, that any minute now she'll let me in and I'll take the place of her own anatomy, that I'll push her hand away and place my mouth where her need is the greatest, but only after I've teased the rest of her with my hands, my lips, until all that's left is her need for me, her love for me, her wish to make us both whole at last. She's hung up the phone but I feel her still with me. My mind is filled with her, the smell of her, her urgent call which I'm too weak to answer, for now, only for now as I grasp my own flesh in my hand and pump angrily, desperately, in lieu of everything I need, everything I want, until the orgasm shakes me despite my shame, and I come without her except for the way that she fills my soul and my heart and my very fibre so that I can never again do a single thing without her. Scully. Oh, sweet Jesus. It's never been this intense and yet I feel the unmistakable wetness of what must be tears against the pillow and which for a moment in a daze I mistake for her moisture. Scully. Please believe me. I've got a secret. END