From: Amory20@aol.com Date: Fri, 16 Apr 1999 15:22:59 EDT Subject: New: Breakdown by JLB (1/1) TITLE: Breakdown (1/1) AUTHOR: JLB (Amory20@aol.com) CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR RATING: i'm so bad at this...i don't know PG-13/R, sexual situations SUMMARY: sequel to "Schizophrenic" FEEDBACK: by now, you must know i love it, live for it, crave it like nobody's business. so bring a little sunshine to my world -- drop me a line. Amory20@aol.com ARCHIVING: sure, wherever. just let me know. :) DISCLAIMER: CC and 1013 own them, yada yada yada. AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is a sequel to "schizophrenic" and you really have to have read that to understand what's going on here. if you want it, just email me and i'll send it to you, no problem. and please, angst experts out there -- let me know if i went too soft. enjoy! Breakdown by JLB (Amory20@aol.com) His apartment is always warm. Hot almost. I lie in his bed, and feel the heat, the thick air coating my skin, bearing down on me. I run my hands up and down my arms, convinced I'll find some kind of tangible residue. But nothing. Just my skin, tingling, burning. Beside me, Mulder's still, but breathing heavy. I glance over at him, and see that he's not asleep, that he's staring at the ceiling intently, his face a mixture of exhaustion and anger. His gaze is so steady and fierce that he could almost bore holes in the ceiling. I try to think of something to say. Something neutral or light. Nothing too serious. Just something to break the stony silence. Mulder usually likes to talk afterwards. Not sugary, sweet pillow talk but simple communication. Polite almost. Just to reassure us both, I think, that we're still the same, that nothing's changed. We're still Mulder and Scully who fight conspiracies and search for the truth. To convince us that sex has not affected who we are fundamentally, how we relate to one another. And that's important. To both of us. As much as we might enjoy the physical component of our relationship, neither of us is willing to sacrifice what we had before. I cling to the memory of that time for dear life because it seems to be something so pure and simple, uncomplicated by the effects of tearing each other's clothes off, the consequences and expectations such actions bring about. I love the feeling of Mulder making love to me but sometimes I wonder if we weren't better off before, if somehow we weren't more true to ourselves then, to each other, before we became lovers. Tonight we're different though. Mulder will not speak. I understand this as I watch him lying stiffly beside me. He's angry, hurt, and I feel almost numb-- not to the physical sensations. Never to the sensory experience. With Mulder, every touch, kiss, thrust has impact, a kind of indelible clarity that makes my body throb with pleasure. Maybe it's been like this for every woman that Mulder's been with. Maybe it's just because it's been so long for me. Or maybe it's because of us, together, the way we have always reacted to one another -- in some innate, fierce way that makes everything we say and do to each other take on an intensity and significance that's impossible to ignore. So I can still feel every brush of his fingers, sweep of his tongue, movement of his hips against mine. I swear that sometimes hours afterwards, days even, I can recall one of our encounters, and as the memory begins to play, I actually feel Mulder, smell him, taste his skin against my lips. The sensations are whisper soft, almost phantom like, but I feel them, get weak all over again. He was relentless tonight. I don't know if he thought that's what I wanted or if he was trying to teach me a lesson, prove a point. He kept going for what seemed like hours -- I lost all sense of time and space somewhere around the third time -- and his actions were so deliberate, calculated to drive me wild. I couldn't even find my voice to tell him to stop; I wouldn't have even if I could. I was lost, utterly, terribly lost in him but I loved every minute. When we finally pulled apart, I didn't care if I ever found myself again. For the moment anyway. Dana Scully comes crashing back before I even have time to miss her. She's here now, whispering that I have to do something, fix things, get the equilibrium back between Mulder and I. She doesn't have any suggestions about how to accomplish that, just the razor sharp insistence that it get done. We have to be professional and detached tomorrow morning. We don't have room for unresolved issues, can't carry them with us. She's demanding now that I take action. I want to tell her to shut up. Mulder shifts slightly next to me, maintaining the distance between us. He hasn't glanced in my direction once. I think about pretending to be asleep, or actually trying to drift off, but I know neither option is possible. He'd know I was faking and I'm too wound up to actually sleep. "You've got all the blankets," he says suddenly, his voice rough and thick. I'm somehow unaware of this fact, but I lift my head off the pillow, and see that the blanket and all the sheets are indeed twisted around my legs and ankles. I'm so warm that I hadn't noticed I was lying beside Mulder, entirely uncovered, or that he was bare himself. "I'm sorry. Do you want them? It's really warm in here," I say, turning my head to look at him. He's fully on his back now, an arm resting across his chest, the other draped across his eyes. His breathing has finally slowed, and the light from the street pours in through the window, catching the smooth skin of his chest. He's beautiful -- I almost tell him this but something stops me. "I guess I feel kind of exposed," he says sharply. Without thinking, I quickly untangle the blankets from my feet, and spread them across both of us. I lay the sheet across Mulder's torso and pull the sheet up to my chest, holding it in place under my arms -- the way women in movies and on TV always do. Not real women in bed with their lovers. "Thanks," he mutters, turning on his side, away from me. I stare at his smooth, golden back -- marred now with bright red scratches -- for as long as I can stand it. Silence. Darkness. Heat. They are the only things I am aware of. Suddenly I realize I'm frightened, deathly afraid. I'm not certain at first what's sparked my fear. I struggle for a moment, trying to pinpoint it, and when I can't, I reach my hand out and gently stroke Mulder's back. He's startled, jumping slightly at the touch, but he settles back down. He looks at me over his shoulder. "What?" he asks, annoyed. "Mulder..." I caress his back again, running my finger along one of his scratches apologetically. "It's late, Scully. We have to be up early tomorrow." "So now you're the poster boy for a good night's sleep, Mr. Insomnia," I laugh, trying to lighten the mood, make Mulder turn and face me, touch me. He sighs loudly, and puts his head back down on the pillow. For a moment, he just lies there, still, motionless. I almost wonder if he's still breathing. Suddenly though, he jumps up and sits on the edge of the bed, letting the sheets fall back across the mattress. "I'm tired, Scully," he whispers finally, burying his head in his hands, "I'm really tired." He turns to look at me, and even in the darkness, even in the minimal light, I see his eyes. So sleepy and small, but glowing somehow. I've never seen anyone's eyes glow the way that Mulder's do. When he's hurt, lost, angry, happy -- those warm hazel eyes always seem to glow. I watch silently as he turns and reaches down for his boxers. He pulls the navy cotton up his body slowly, thoughtfully, and then turns to face me. "Maybe I'll go sleep on the couch," he says quietly. I'm stunned for a moment. Too shocked to determine what emotion I'm feeling exactly. Sadness or guilt or anger. I quickly settle on anger. It seems to break the surface faster than the others. "I'll leave, Mulder," I say, sitting up, "I'm not going to force you out of your own bed." My voice is clouded with more emotion than I intended. "Scully, don't turn this around on me. Fuck, I don't know what you expect from me sometimes," he returns strongly, but not angrily. "The problem is not what I expect from you, Mulder, but what you expect from me. I'm not perfect--" "And you think that's what I want from you? Perfection," he laughs vacantly, "God, Scully, it's the exact opposite. I want you to admit that you're human, that you can't be strong and in control all the time, that that's okay. I want you to admit that sometimes you make mistakes, that sometimes you feel things that are too much for you to handle on your own, that sometimes you use me just to block out those feelings." He stops and moves to the edge of the bed, close enough to touch me, though I'm painfully aware that he won't. "But most of all, Scully, I want you to admit that what's been going here," he gestures to the bed, "that it's about more than simply wanting a warm body to press against your own." His voice is firm and steady, more concerned than angry. I snap. Something inside my head just bursts. From the pressure of too many unsaid words, unexpressed feelings. He's a liar, I think, he's convinced himself of something that's entirely untrue. Defender and Champion of the Almighty, All Powerful Truth is spouting lies and half truths easily, effortlessly. "You want me to be human? That's funny, Mulder because I get the distinct impression that you want more than that," I say bitterly, suddenly aware of the foul taste in my mouth. "Scully, you don't know what you're talking about. I haven't ever--" "Mulder, you know this is not the truth. For a long time now, probably since my abduction, you've kept me on this pedestal. When you take the time to think of me at all, that is. You keep me up there, all alone, above you, above everyone, expecting me to be this flawless, noble person who's there to save you or ground you, whatever you need at the time. You expect me to always know and choose what's right, to do it even if it means some kind of sacrifice on my part." I stop catch my breath and see that Mulder's looking back at me, completely dazed, confused. He moves his mouth but no words come out, and I realize this is an opportunity I must take advantage of. "But you, Mulder...you get to be driven by your emotions. You get to run off whenever the mood strikes you. You get to play the role of the flawed, tortured hero, while I have to be steady, dependable Scully. Always ready to pick up the pieces, clean up the mess." I'm surprised by the relative calm of my voice. It almost sounds as if I'm reporting lab results to him, nothing emotional or dramatic at all in my inflection. Mulder remains motionless at the foot of the bed. He shakes his head slowly, and then runs a hand through his hair. I'm not finished, I realize. I should say it all. Leave Mulder entirely speechless. "In a way, it's almost flattering. That you think I'm capable of all that but I have to tell you...it gets really lonely up here. It's difficult to want to stay up here, Mulder. And what I'm most afraid of is that one day you'll realize that I never belonged up here in the first place. That I can't be everything you want me to be. Expect me to be," I say in a rush, the words flooding the room before I have a chance to consider them fully. I immediately want to slap myself. Jesus, what have I done? I've laid all my cards on the table, thoughtlessly, carelessly. I realize I have no idea how Mulder will react, that I'm unprepared for his onslaught. How could I have done this without calculating the risk? My head begins to pound dully and I feel my stomach flip several times. Mulder stares at me like I'm a total stranger -- certainly not his partner of seven years. Not even his lover of a little over two months. His face is impossible to read at this moment. I almost feel the urge to cry when I realize that I've never been unable to tell what he's feeling before, that I've never looked into Mulder's eyes before and not known what's going on there. I've failed him. Or he's failed me. I'm not sure anymore. He places his hands on his hips, and his boxers slide a little lower. I fleetingly admire his stomach, the strong, defined abdominal muscles, before I chastise myself. This isn't about sex anymore...right, Dana Scully? She declines to answer. Mulder takes a deep breath, and wets his lower lip. He's preparing for the attack. I try to brace myself, pulling the sheets around my body as some kind of protection. "Okay, okay," he whispers under his breath, trying to get his thoughts in order. I just watch him, unable to move or speak. "You don't get it, Scully," he says finally, his voice hard and cold, "I might have you on a pedestal, I might hold you above everyone else...but only because you've given me reason to believe you belong there. But even so, I understand you're not superhuman, I understand you're flawed. You get scared and confused just like the rest of us. What I want is for you to admit that, to tell me how you're feeling. Just talk to me." He stops and paces at the foot of the bed. When Mulder finally makes eye contact with me, I see what I couldn't before. The pain in his eyes, the ache that I put there, that I have the power to make go away but for some reason, can't. "Scully, you can't treat me all day as simply your coworker...someone you see because they're paying you to...with disdain most of the time...and then come here at night, fuck me like your life depends on it, and not expect me to have a difficult time reconciling the two," Mulder says excitedly. He's trying to force my hand, I realize. Perhaps my poker face is that bad. "Mulder, I can't help it if you--" "I can't do it anymore. Either you let me...or we don't this at all." He lets out a sharp breath, and I know he's serious. He will not back down from this. "Why do you get to call all the shots, Mulder? Why is it your right to decide everything?" My voice is strained, hoarse. "It's all been on your terms so far, Scully! We both know this has never been how I wanted it for us. I never expected hearts and flowers but this is...I mean, I like it too. I like touching you, kissing you. I love your body, the way it feels to be with you like this but it's not enough. Not anymore. Not with you, not after everything we've gone through." I can't respond. I cover my face with my hands and pray that I don't cry. I can't cry in front of him. Especially now. "You know, if that's all this is," he says, the anger back full force in his voice, "why does it even have to be me? If all you want is some fast, hot sex, I'm sure there are plenty of guys willing to--" "Jesus, Mulder! You know how I feel," I snap, enraged that he could imply such a thing. "No. No, I don't. And since you don't seem to want to tell me, I'm left entirely in the dark." He moves to the head of the bed and grabs a pillow. He won't look at me. I want to scream but I won't. I'll just sit here and watch him go. "I'm going to the couch. Stay. Please. I don't want you driving around at three a.m." he tells me quietly. I realize how absurd that is -- we both know I've been in much more dangerous situations than driving from Arlington to Georgetown at three in the morning. But for some reason I won't argue with him. "Fine," I say, watching him nod his head and then shut the door. I move to the center of the bed and spread out, trying to take up as much room as possible. I kick the sheets off me again, and lie there, exposed, alone. I try to determine when things flew so entirely out of my control. The answer makes me tremble a bit -- the day I walked into that basement office. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm out of bed, searching the floor for some item of discarded clothing. I come across Mulder's T-shirt, and slip it on, delighting in its softness, letting it rub against my skin for a couple of seconds. Then I'm opening the door, padding down the hallway to Mulder's living room. To Mulder's couch. He's lying on his side, no blankets, no sheets. He hasn't turned the TV on as he normally does. It's so quiet I wonder if he's fallen asleep. "Mulder," I whisper, standing at his feet, close enough to run a finger along his calf. "You should be sleeping," he says softly. I wonder where his anger has gone. "I know. I..." I forget what I wanted to say, if I even knew in the first place. "You know, in that light," he rolls over so he's on his back, and lets out a sigh, "you're so beautiful." I shiver, even as I marvel again at how warm his apartment is. I know what he's thinking, what he's trying to do, and I panic. I self consciously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He sits up, keeping his eyes on me the entire time. He's daring me to sit beside him, I realize, so I do, close enough that our thighs are just touching. "Is there something you wanted?" he asks, playing with the corner of a file I abandoned on the coffee table hours before. "Mulder..." My voice is so soft I almost breath his name. He looks up at me, suddenly, meeting my eyes quickly, then focusing intently on my neck. I look down but don't see anything of interest. I wonder if he's reacting to the fact that I'm wearing his shirt. He usually likes that but maybe tonight, I've crossed some line. He reaches a hand out slowly, and slides his forefinger against a patch of skin on my neck gently. "You'll have to cover these tomorrow," he says quietly, and I realize I must have some bruises or bite marks on my neck. I slowly raise my hand to join his and for several seconds, we stroke the skin together. "Unless of course, you want to set the tongues a-wagging," he adds lightly, a small smile crossing his lips. He drops his hand to his thigh, and slowly rubs back and forth, his pinkie brushing up against my bare skin. Slowly, smoothly, his hand slides from his thigh to mine, and he begins tracing figure eights just above my knee. I try to force back the sigh I feel coming, but it escapes. Mulder catches my eyes, and smiles at me smugly. "It's late," he whispers, his voice husky. "I know," I tell him, nodding my head. I watch as my hands cover his on my thigh, almost against my will. I turn his hand over, and slowly trace the lines of his palm. "Your hands are so warm," he whispers, some kind of awe in his voice, as if he just realized this now. I turn slightly and move my hands to his back, grazing over the muscles in soft, steady strokes. We look at each other, his eyes pleading with me. From his eyes alone, I realize how badly he wants this, how badly he needs it. He leans towards me so our foreheads meet, and for several seconds we stay like that, my hands resting motionless on his back, our breathing shallow but in synch. He moves suddenly, placing his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me towards him. He kisses me then -- a kiss we've never shared before. It's not desperate or angry or hungry. It's soft and thorough and tender. When he finally breaks the kiss, I feel dizzy and slightly disoriented. Mulder's got more tricks of sleeve that I ever realized. He smiles at me, stroking my cheek, and I smile back. I can give him this, I think. He can have this exactly as he wants it. We'll go slow and easy and gentle. But he can't ask for more. I don't have anything else to give him. I feel his hands at the hem of his T-shirt, tugging lightly. I raise my arms as an invitation and pulls the shirt off me in one smooth motion. I'm bare again, and I can feel him taking in every curve and line of my body, noting, probably, all the places he was rough and careless with earlier so he can soothe now. Erase any marks or blemishes on my skin with his fingers and lips and tongue -- gentle now, thoughtful, reverent. I lie back against the sofa and wait for him -- we must do this together, I understand, on equal footing, but I don't know where to begin. He presses his body against mine, and I feel myself start to give in. The feel of his skin, the taste. This is right, I tell myself. Mulder deserves this. I push up against him, trying desperately to merge our bodies together, eliminate all space between us. Just as I pull his boxers off, he whispers against my ear, "We still have to talk, you know." I freeze momentarily -- I don't want to talk, can't talk, have no use for talking. I need to have something for myself, that belongs only to me. He doesn't understand. He won't ever, I realize. Mulder looks at me questioningly when I don't move, and I nod my head slowly. Let him have this night, I think. I shouldn't spoil this for him. When he's finally inside me, words don't matter anyway. the end. who loves feedback? i do! i do! amory20@aol.com
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