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From: Amory20@aol.com
Date: Fri, 23 Apr 1999 03:05:36 EDT
Subject: New: Treatment (1/1) by JLB


TITLE: Treatment (1/1)
AUTHOR: JLB (Amory20@aol.com)
CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR
RATING: aghh...PG-13/R...sexual situations
SUMMARY: sequel to "Schizophrenic" and "Breakdown" -- Mulder gives Scully 
what she wants... (if you need the first two parts, i can email them to you.  
just let me know:)
SPOILERS: none
ARCHIVE: sure, wherever...just let me know.
FEEDBACK: do you really want to see me beg...i assure you it's not a pretty 
sight.  i love feedback of all kinds...good, bad, indifferent.  so make my 
day and drop me a line.  (Amory20@aol.com)
DISCLAIMER:  who owns them?  not me...CC and 1013 all the way.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: well this is a little different...i thought it was time for 
mulder to get the upper hand for a while, let him manipulate scully for a 
bit.  i guess i feel sorry for him after "milagro"...i think my goodMulder 
vibe is coming back, folks!   i haven't entirely erased the memory of "one 
son" but i'm on the way there...maybe after a little batting practice this 
week i'll be back on the mulder band wagon.  (i so want to be...it's no fun 
being angry with him...at least i know how scully feels :) enjoy!

Treatment by JLB

I'm running.  I understand that, have chosen to do it even.  I've made a 
concerted effort to avoid the unavoidable.  And Mulder knows it too.  I've 
seen it -- in his eyes when he briefs me on our latest case file...the anger 
and resentment coloring the hazel...the disappointment that makes his sleepy 
eyes seem somehow more alert, more critical.  I've felt it -- in his touches, 
his hand on the small of my back pressing less insistently, a formal gesture 
now...not an indication of affection or concern.  Detached.  Distant.  

Distance...the thing I've wanted from the beginning.

Yesterday he wanted to talk.  He thought I had agreed -- after holding me in 
the middle of the night, touching me, kissing me with a gentleness I had 
tried to deny he was capable of.  It was strange, frightening but 
exhilarating at the same time.  To give Mulder what he wanted, to take from 
him what he's been desperate to give me, asserting my right, my need to be 
with him like that -- skin on skin, burning lips, maddening touches.  

I felt claustrophobic as soon as we stopped.  So I ran.  Dressed silently in 
the morning, drove to work beside him wordlessly.  We both knew nothing would 
be addressed in the office -- neither of us is willing to forget who we are, 
what our priorities are.  But last night when I stood in the doorway of our 
office, slipping into my jacket, he asked me to come home with him and I 
panicked, I fumbled.  I lied.

Can't...sorry...promised my mother I'd...

I saw the recognition on his face -- the realization that Dana Katherine 
Scully, his beloved partner, his eager lover, paragon of virtue and 
integrity, had lied to him, was actively seeking a way to avoid him, avoid 
the truth.  

The change in his expression was barely perceptible but hit me like a kick in 
the stomach.  It ate away at me all last night -- his face, his clipped tone, 
the thud of the office door closing behind me, leaving Mulder there, me 
somewhere else, across a divide that suddenly seemed infinite, immense.  All 
haunting me relentlessly, so now on Saturday morning, I've wandered -- 
aimlessly I tell myself though I don't believe it for a second -- around the 
city and have wound up on Mulder's door step.  Words need to be said.  I feel 
that now.  Maybe not all the words Mulder wants to hear but something.  My 
mind foresees explosions, raging infernos if I don't find something, however 
small or insignificant, to say.

He doesn't answer when I knock.  I stand outside for almost a minute, 
wondering if he's in and simply avoiding me.  I couldn't blame him really.   
So I go over my 
options -- come back later...leave a note...sit in the hallway beside his 
door like some pathetic welcome mat...or go in.  Let myself in, face him if 
he's there, wait if he's not.  I choose to go in, too tired and anxious to 
leave.

The living room is empty.  There's a warm, half drunk can of Coke on the 
coffee table.  I don't hear the shower.  His bedroom is dark but I know he's 
not sleeping.  It's almost noon -- he'd never sleep that late.  So I sit, 
preparing to wait.  I avoid the couch, opting instead for the stiff backed 
chair at his desk.  Maybe to torture myself.  Maybe to steel myself.  I'm not 
certain.

I try to imagine things to say to him.  Truths that can be told without 
giving too much away.  Ways I can bend what he already knows a little further 
away from certainty, so he's not sure if it's true, if it's only something he 
chooses to believe...a mere possibility, not an unwavering conviction that he 
can cling to, hold up to me as proof.  I can cloud the waters just a little 
bit more, so he can't find facts, evidence.  Only whispers, glances, touches 
-- all open to a wide range of interpretation.  We've never been explicit 
with each other and now I'm grateful for the doubts that come with that.

For a brief moment, I wonder if I've changed.  I wonder if sleeping with 
Mulder has changed who I am.  Would I have sat here three months ago and 
thought up ways to hide from him?  I didn't have to then -- that's the answer 
plain and simple.  We had boundaries, limits.  There was only so much he 
could ask of me.  Now it seems my entire being is up for grabs.  Or at least, 
Mulder thinks it should be.  I want to argue with him.  Explain that my body 
is one thing -- he can have that anytime he wants, I enjoy turning myself 
over to him in that way -- but my soul is something else entirely.

I hear his footsteps outside, echoing the beat of song I heard on the way 
over here, echoing the sound of my heart pounding, and I feel myself go 
stiff.  I brush a piece of hair behind my ear, and try to assume a relaxed 
expression.  It's impossible -- I'm wound up, anxiety coiled way too tightly 
inside me -- itching to touch him, feel him against me, needing to tell him 
that there has to be space, that what we have is good enough, it works just 
fine.  Knowing he'll disagree, force me to say the words I can scarcely 
conjure up, even in my head.

The door opens slowly, and he stands there in the frame for a moment.  He's 
bent over, hands on his knees, eyes half closed, panting wildly.  Running -- 
I immediately recognize the grey sweats, the faded Yankees T-shirt, and 
baseball cap turned backwards as his running attire.  His shirt is soaked 
through, the heather grey material now almost back, I realize as I watch him 
catch his breath.  He hasn't seen me, so I wait patiently, unsure of what 
greeting would be best, appropriate.

He straightens up, and throws the hat off, somewhere beside the door.  As he 
moves to the living room, he finally sees me.  I watch his face shift -- the 
tired, blank expression he wore in the doorway hardens into something darker, 
wilder.  He doesn't say anything as he moves to the couch and begins to 
remove his running shoes.  I sigh just loudly enough so he can't ignore me.

"I didn't expect you," he says hoarsely, still focused on untying his shoes.

"It's good to know I can keep you on your toes," I say softly, smiling, to 
myself, I realize.  He's thrown his head back against the couch, rubbing his 
eyes.

"That's one way of putting it."  He turns to me finally, and I watch as he 
runs a hand across the back of his neck, trying to sweep up the sweat that's 
collected there.

"Good run?"

"Yeah.  Cleared my head."  He looks at me accusingly.  "Temporarily anyway."

I could leave.  I could make up a reasonable excuse, a question, work related 
of course -- something Mulder would see through immediately -- politely say 
goodbye, and leave.  No harm, no foul.  Let whatever it is that's filling 
this room fester.  Divide and multiple until it suffocates us both.  Maybe 
that's the only way.

"Why did you come?" he asks suddenly, his fingers playing with the tab on the 
Coke can.  He's playing hardball.

"To talk," I say simply.  I can do this.

"Really?"  He laughs loudly, harshly.  "For some reason, I find that hard to 
believe.  Imagine that, Scully.  For once, I don't believe."

In one swift motion, he removes his T-shirt, crumples it into a tight ball, 
and throws it in the general direction of the television.  I have to fight 
the urge to pick it up and toss it in the laundry basket he has hidden 
somewhere in his bedroom.  Doing things like that, domestic things, things a 
girlfriend would do, will only complicate the issue.

He eases himself back against the couch, one arm draped across the back, the 
other resting lazily on his stomach.  Almost all the sweat has dried but his 
chest still glistens faintly, the peppering of hair there shining against his 
tan skin.  I'm distracted already.  I feel a faint line of perspiration 
forming above my lips.  I force myself to look down at my lap, and squeeze my 
voice out.

"I want to talk, Mulder," I say finally.

The rooms seems to get smaller.  Hot air circulates back and forth.  From 
Mulder to me, me to Mulder, back again.  I can almost feel his breath, the 
rise and fall of his chest, his pulse under my fingers, as if he were right 
beside me, touching me.

"So talk," he says sharply.  He toys with the draw string of his sweats, 
twirling it around his finger.  "No one's stopping you."

If I'm going to leave, now is the time.  We're reaching a line, about to 
cross it, teetering on the edge.  I try to inch across it.

"You're upset with me."

His only response is a cold stare, a stare that betrays almost nothing.  It's 
almost as if Mulder is painfully indifferent to the whole situation.  I've 
stated such an obvious fact that he can't even dredge up a response.

I wonder, if only for a moment, what Mulder would do if I just walked over to 
him and straddled his hips, kissed him until he was barely conscious, buried 
myself so deeply inside him that I couldn't find myself, so that Mulder 
couldn't find me.  He'd never stop looking, I realize.  Mulder could never 
let me go.

"Look at you," he says suddenly.  "It's a Saturday afternoon and you're 
dressed as if we're in a meeting with Skinner.  Don't you ever relax, Scully? 
 You know, put on jeans and a T-shirt, and just let loose."  He sneers at me, 
and I look down at my clothes -- a short sleeve white blouse, carefully 
pressed, my black trousers with perfect creases, the matching jacket hanging 
on the back of my chair, and black heels to match.  All I ever wear these 
days.  It helps me understand who I am, remind me what I'm allowed to do, 
what I'm not allowed to do.

"I'm sorry," is all I can think to say.

He glares momentarily, and then summons me with his finger.  "Come here."

I stand slowly, my fingers aching to touch his warm, bare skin, my head 
flooded with visions of legs tangled, arms full, bodies melting into one 
another.  My skin is suddenly so sensitive to every sound, every smell, every 
color filling the room that I can barely walk.

When I reach him, Mulder moves over slightly, and I sit beside him timidly.  
I jump as he places his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him.  
Mesmerized, I watch as he begins to unbutton my blouse, slowly, carefully.  
He pulls the fabric back so it just barely falls off my shoulders.

"That's better," he declares, lightly tracing the edge of my bra with his 
finger.  He drops his hand to his lap, and moves back against the sofa.

I can hear myself buzzing, my skin is buzzing.  I feel and hear it.  I'm sure 
Mulder can see the waves rising off me right now, breaking into sparks at the 
surface of my skin.  And I want to hit him -- for touching me, for making me 
lose control...and then pulling away.

"I'm supposed to concentrate like this?" I say weakly, almost choking on the 
words.

"Is it a problem?" he asks smugly.

He knows the effect he has on me.  He's always known, I suspect, that he had 
the power to move me like no other, but I think he was taken aback when he 
realized how responsive I could be to him physically.  It was something he 
hadn't accounted for, prepared for, and I think it took some getting used to 
for Mulder.  But now he takes advantage, revels it.  I can feel it, see it 
even.  The way he looks at me across the office sometimes, knowing he can 
make me scream, whimper, moan whenever he chooses.  He can hold it over me, 
torture me.  Maybe it's what I deserve.

We have to get back on track.  I can't let myself lose sight of what's 
important here.

"I know you wanted to talk last night but...I just needed time to gather--"

"I've never seen this one before," he says thoughtfully, fingering the clasp 
at the front of my bra.

"No, I don't think so...no."  I have to force the breath into my chest.

"I like it."  He moves to slide my shirt off entirely, and I find myself 
helping him, shrugging out of it.  

"You're warm, aren't you, Scully?"  He looks at me with dark, insistent eyes, 
a smirk breaking across his face.

I nod mechanically, feeling the flush come across my body.  Boiling over, 
melting point, sublimation right there on Mulder's sofa.

"I came here to talk," I assert halfheartedly, watching his fingers slowly 
trace over the skin above my breasts.

"Yeah, like always," he whispers, fingers now spread across my stomach.  "I'm 
listening, Scully."

"It's just hard for me to know what to say to..."  His hand winds its way 
down to the button on my pants, fingering it carefully but leaving it 
fastened.

"I know a secret, Scully," he breathes, trailing a finger along my inner 
thigh, "Want to know what it is?"

"Yes..."  I stroke his bicep absently, my vision blurring slightly.

"You don't really want to talk," he grins, smug, satisfied, "Oh, no..."  He 
opens the clasp on my bra and slides it off gracefully.

"But you do, Mulder.  You said we couldn't do this anymore if we didn't 
talk," I manage to choke out, confused, by his words, his hands.  

"I'm tired of fighting you, Scully.  I'm tired of trying to convince you.  I 
can't show you anymore...so if you want this," he tells me, unbuttoning my 
pants and unzipping them quickly, "then I'll give you what you want."

Something in the room freezes.  I'm suddenly cold, shivering.  I reach for 
Mulder desperately, pulling his warm skin against mine.  I need to feel him 
on top of me, against me.  I need him to ward off the chill.

"Come on, Scully...who am I to deny you?"  He looks at me seriously.  "This 
is the least you deserve."  

I'm lost...disoriented.  I feel my heart beating against my skull. Loudly, 
uncontrollably.

"Mulder, maybe we should..."

His finger crosses my lips, silencing me.  I feel his hands lightly caress my 
breasts, and I throw my head back against the cushions.

"What Scully wants, Scully gets," Mulder says slowly, punctuating each word 
with a nip on my neck.

It hits me then -- I want to talk.  I want to ask.  To know.  How does he 
feel about me?  What does he think?  What happened between he and Diana 
Fowley?  Did he love her?  Does part of him still love her?  What tore them 
apart?  Why was it easier to trust her than me?  Why does he seem to look 
past me whenever he gets a glimpse of the Truth?  Why do I feel incidental so 
much of the time?  Can we walk away from all of it?  Ever?  Will we still be 
together when it's all over?  Does he know how I feel?  What I need?  Why 
can't we let go -- why do we have to hold on so tightly, scratch and claw, in 
some kind of death grip?  I want answers.  I want the truth.

Mulder slides my pants over my hips, his finger trailing across my legs, 
thighs, and I'm trembling again.  I've lost my voice as well -- I try to say 
something but can't, my mouth dry, my tongue heavy.  All I can do is touch 
him, taste him, my tongue on his skin like some kind of life force.

I cling to him desperately.  I can't let go.  Won't.  He struggles to stand 
up, my legs wrapped around him, making his movements awkward.  He gets to his 
feet, and carries me to his bedroom.  As Mulder lowers me to the bed,  I shut 
my eyes and try to block out the voices.

accept this scully...it's what you asked for...it's what you wanted

The last sounds I'm conscious of before the room spins, swirls, splits in two 
with the thrust of Mulder's hips, the touch of his fingers, are breathless 
moans.  My own 
violent moans.


the end.
(to feedback...or not to feedback?  oh come on it's not a difficult question! 
 amory20@aol.com :)