Illumination by Leyla Harrison 
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 
Productions. 

Classification: VA, MSR

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: a small one for Fight the Future.

Summary: Scully receives a visitor in the night.

Archiving: Not on Gossamer; all others only by permission.

Timeline: sometime in mid-sixth season.

****

In the dark, he comes to me.

It is always dark, always well into the early morning hours when he slides his 
key into the lock of my front door, turns the handle and slips inside.
I am always waiting for him.

I always hear the light tread of his footsteps as he crosses the floor, avoiding 
the creaky floorboards, trying not to wake me.

Such foolishness. He should have figured out by now that I'm already awake. 
Already waiting for him.

He enters my bedroom silently, like an intruder, shedding his clothes quickly 
and effortlessly, letting them fall where they may on the floor. He climbs into 
bed with me, sliding under the sheets and pressing up against my body.

Tonight is like every other night. I am naked and waiting for him. I have moved 
to one side of the bed so that he can have the other side. 

The heat of his body presses up against mine.

Sometimes he smells of alcohol, sometimes of sweat.

Mulder can't sleep at night. His demons keep him awake. Sometimes he runs until 
his lungs are ready to explode, or he drinks until he realizes that he never 
meant to get drunk in the first place. But by that time it's too late.

This is not like Mulder. Mulder runs for health, for pleasure, for release. 
Mulder rarely drinks. 

Those things are of the past. Now, Mulder does whatever he can to escape. And 
when those things aren't enough, he comes to me.

Tonight I can smell the salty tang of his sweat on his skin, skin that is so 
close to mine that I can feel the two surfaces melting into one, our bodies 
fusing together like hot wax. I open my arms to him, sighing, pulling him 
closer. I brush my lips over his ear so that he knows that I am awake. That I am 
there for him.

His nocturnal visits have always been unannounced and are never spoken of in the 
light of day.

Even the first time, which came months and months after our return from 
Antarctica, he never spoke to me, not before, not during, not after. It 
surprised me; I had expected us to finish the kiss we had started soon after our 
return. But it was not meant to be, not those times. We haven't ever spoken 
about it, never resolved it with words.

That first night, he simply stole into my apartment late one night, slipped into 
bed and undressed me. He made love to me with a passion I did not expect. He 
surprised me that night, entering me so easily, finding his release and then 
helping me to find mine, and then he was gone, with no words, no explanation, no 
goodbye.

He surprised me that night, but since then I haven't been surprised.

Tonight he wants my release -- I can feel it as sure as I can feel the pulse in 
his thumb as it beats against the edge of my nipple, which has been hard since I 
heard the key in the door. He toys with it as if it was a smooth round marble, 
rubbing back and forth as I shift restlessly on the bed, rumpling the sheets.
Mulder creates such a fire in me, such a need, that I cannot question it or deny 
it. There is no pretending here, no wonder, only a desperate desire for an 
overtaking that only he can give.

Usually our coupling is a sad aching, an intense longing for something we cannot 
provide for each other. My longing is for him to take me. I wonder sometimes if 
he knows that. I wonder if he knows how I ache for his touch, how I focus on his 
strength. 

Mulder thinks of himself as a small child, a lost little boy who has thrown a 
baseball through a window and is wearing a constant look of apology. Even in the 
dark, I can see his apology on his face as clearly if we were again in the 
whiteness of the Antarctic. 

After that first time, when he first started coming here at night, it was for 
his own release. His own needs. And I understood that. I respected it. I gave to 
him what he so desperately needed. 

Things have changed now. Now, he needs me. He needs to give me what I have given 
him.

I can feel his erection pressing into me. His hands slide over my skin, his 
fingers trailing along my ribcage. He rests his hands on my hips and I arch my 
lower body up for him, trying to tell him without words what I want, what I 
need.

But I don't have to show him. He already knows.

One hand parts my legs and I gasp as he shifts on the bed, moving so that he is 
lying between them. He has never done this to me before, and I have not expected 
it. Then again, I have expected nothing from him. I have been willing to accept 
only what he is able to give.

His breath is hot on my inner thigh, and I breathe carefully, trying to keep 
from jumping as I feel his teeth nip at the sensitive skin there. He laps 
delicately at the skin that he has just bitten, and then without any further 
warning, plunges his head deep between my legs, his tongue searching and finding 
the source of my need.

There is nothing gentle about his assault. Passionate, yes, but gentle, no. His 
tongue pushes its way into me almost harshly and I moan aloud. He removes his 
tongue and uses two fingers to take its place. He eases them inside me slowly, 
from the tip all the way to the knuckle. My lower body rises from the bed into 
his touch, and his mouth finds me once again.

Using his lips to suckle at me, Mulder slowly begins to slide his fingers in and 
out of me in a smooth rhythm. I rock against his hand, my body meeting his 
thrusts. For a moment I am reminded of the first time he entered me, hard and 
hot, so deep that I thought I would cry. He would not meet my eyes that night, 
and he has not done so on any of the other nights he has been here. That night I 
clutched at his shoulders and moaned, whispering his name as I smothered my 
groans of pleasure into his shoulder.

Tonight I am clutching at the sheets, grabbing large handfuls of the material 
and pulling, doing anything to try to hold out against the assault he has waged 
against my body.

I can hear his fingers making tiny smacking noises as they push in and then out 
again. I clench my inner muscles instinctively and I suddenly hear him moan, a 
sound I have rarely heard from him before. I tighten the muscles again, and am 
again rewarded with the same sound.

I file this information away in my mind.

Mulder's tongue is laving over my clitoris now, back and forth like a cat would 
lap milk from a bowl, and I can feel the roughness of his tongue against the 
softness of my flesh. He is determined. He has a goal in mind. 

The goal comes faster than I expect. The arousal washes over me in waves, and I 
feel the orgasm come up from nowhere, building and peaking in a matter of 
seconds.

I can't help it; I cry out his name, sobbing, and his fingers and his mouth stay 
with me until the tremors have slowed. Then he eases his fingers from my still 
shaking body. He kisses me gently, right up against my clit, and I moan from the 
exquisite tenderness of pain and pleasure.

And then I feel the bed shift, and Mulder gets up. I hear him pulling his 
clothes on even through the haze of the aftermath of the orgasm.

I can't help it. I have to speak.

"Mulder?"

The rustling of clothing stops abruptly. The word is loud, harsh, and echoes off 
the walls of my bedroom.

I don't know what I want to say. I don't know what he needs to hear.

After a long silence and no response, I hear him finishing up the task of 
getting dressed. He moves to leave the room.

"Mulder, wait," I murmur, and he stops.

I want to turn on the light. I want to illuminate the room. I want to let him 
see me, my face flushed with pleasure. I want to see him. I want to know what 
expression he is wearing.

"Please don't go," I finally whisper.

He waits for a few long moments. Then I hear his response, soft and almost 
tearful.

"I can't, Scully."

"Mulder --"

"I can't," he repeats, and leaves my room.

I lie in bed, still as a statue, and listen to him cross the living room to the 
front door and quietly let himself out of my apartment. And I am left alone. 

Alone with my trembling legs and hands, alone with my still somewhat uneven 
breathing.

END
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