November 1997.
"Boundless"
Author: Meredith
Classification: MSR,A
Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations
Disclaimer: I am making no money from this. Never have, never
will. No Copyright infringement is intended.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Under extreme emotional circumstances, no one's
actions are predictable.
Feedback: Oh, please. Please Please. Writing this has given me
chronic heartburn. Please send to meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com
Authors notes: At the end.
********************************************
"Boundless"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Love is not ruled by what must be
nor what is possible. Love knows nothing
of this law; it has no rule, it knows no bounds."
- St. Peter Chrysologus (406-450)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scully could eat, perhaps, if he would speak to her.
From the moment they arrived in Pennsylvania, she had been
nauseated. Her diet had consisted mainly of saltines, hot tea and
Pepto-Bismol. She was beginning to be frustrated by the routine
and idly wondered if she should just spread the viscous pink
liquid directly on the crackers or brew it with a little lemon
and honey for a bit of variety. Sighing audibly, she brutally
popped a Zantac out of its foil-backed bubble and swallowed it
dry.
Mulder's complete and utter paralysis had been a shock. She
expected rage. Joy. Confusion. Hell, even Kubler-Ross' 5 stages
of death and dying. But not this... this absence. This boundless
expanse of nothingness.
He nodded; quite a bit, actually. And shook his head. He even
managed a few short sentences when absolutely necessary. But he
had mainly acquiesced to her investigation and watched
mutely as the events unfolded around him. In turn, Scully did
what was necessary. What she owed her partner. She did what he
was now powerless to do -- uncover the truth.
Wind whipped furiously at the north-facing motel room, causing
the window to shudder in its concrete block frame. The first
brilliant leaves of the season, ripped mercilessly from their
branches, splattered painfully against the glass in wet, dulled
clumps.
An icy numbness settled in her palm, which rested against the
tremoring pane. She could barely make out the stretch of highway
through the horizonless gloom, although she knew it was there.
Beckoning. The path away from this.
She hadn't known what they expected to find. She wasn't the type
to waste time speculating. That was Mulder's job, however
incapable he was of performing it. But with honest acceptance,
Scully understood that people can exist entirely on paper -
their identities defined for unknown purposes by those with a
higher, or lower, agenda. She knew she was ready to find that
contingency.
Angela Connor seemed perfectly suited for that definition. She
might have existed only in the cumbersome databases at the Social
Security Administration, a shell of a human form waiting to
be filled when proving her existence became necessary. There
could have been identical duplicates of her scattered around the
country, a platoon of female clones basing their lives on
the genesis of one actual human being.
Scully had long ago come to terms with the reality of cloning. It
didn't disturb her in the least, not anymore. So she was more
than prepared for the anonymous call they had received the
previous week to lead to that dead end. But for some reason, that
wasn't the case.
There was only one Angela Connor, maiden name Bradshaw, birth
date and location unknown. Age 34, 5 feet 8 inches tall. Brown
hair, hazel eyes. Adopted in 1975 by Lois and Hal Bradshaw
of San Francisco, California. Sister to two brothers, Scott and
Adam. Devoted wife of Peter, mother of Benjamin. Grandchild.
Aunt. Cousin. Niece. Friend. She seemed wholly real and
three-dimensional.
But seeing is believing. At least it comes close.
So they had come to Lancaster.
The urge to pull the curtain closed against the darkening
afternoon fury was suddenly overwhelming. As she yanked on the
pulley cord, a sharp pain below her sternum made her wince.
Thoughts of indigestion or a possible virus skittered around in
her mind, which efficiently avoided the more plausible reasons
for her illness that lurked there. No, too vicious and sudden in
onset to be an ulcer. I'll just have to ride it out, she thought
resolutely. There was no other choice.
Crossing the room, she knocked softly on the connecting door
before opening it. He sat on the edge of the hotel bed in the
darkness, staring mutely out his window at endless stands of
trees bent and stooped by the gale. The room's only illumination
the weak remnants of daylight succumbing to the storm outside.
"Are you sure you want to do this today?" she whispered, touching
his shoulder gently.
He nodded, barely acknowledging her touch. "I need to see her -
to know."
Scully grimaced at the fatigue in his voice, the glassiness of
his gaze. He was still facing inwards, unwilling to meet her in
the eye.
"All right. I'll get an umbrella. It's raining." Her voice
choked, clutched by the instinctive fear that he might never find
his way out of this abyss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The library at the University of Pennsylvania was dim and hushed,
an extraordinarily peaceful haven from the driving gray rain.
Mulder and Scully walked slowly through the main hall toward
their destination.
Tiger-oak bookcases 7 feet high framed the chamber-like room at
the south end. Beautifully arched ceilings painted a warm ochre
refracted the smallest sound -- the crackle of thick, slowly
turned pages, the ghostly echo of footsteps on the polished
marble.
There were only two people at the reference desk, and only one
was a woman. The agents walked slowly between freestanding
shelves and the wall, their approach hidden. Thirty feet from the
desk. Twenty. Ten. He stopped short.
"Mulder?" she whispered, looking up at him.
He stared straight ahead and shook his head mutely. "I can't."
"Yes, you can," she said firmly, but he refused to move.
"Ask her a question."
"Mulder, I..."
"Just ask her, Scully," he said sharply, the first sign of
emotion she'd seen from him in days. She couldn't refuse.
Scully, black-clad and showing her fatigue, emerged from the
foreign language dictionaries and approached the desk.
"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you. Could you please tell me
where the ladies room is?"
"Sure," said the young woman. "Take a left outside this room and
you'll see a hallway just on your right. It's at the end on the
left."
"Thank you."
Behind them, Mulder leaned against the dusty volumes helplessly
as the two voices he cherished the most lingered together for one
rare moment -- one well-known, the other familiar in cadence
only. Time shifted and blurred, the past becoming the present,
the future becoming lost, the present having never existed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I got you roast beef with mayo and some chips," Scully said as
she dropped white paper sacks on the small table in Mulder's
room, kicking the door shut with her small foot. The storm had
died a peaceful death, blowing itself out until there was nothing
left but a damp silence encased by night. She neatly chained and
deadbolted the door against the expansive calm without even
thinking.
Mulder nodded, leaning against the cool of the concrete wall, his
eyes unfocused on the black outside. His pale outline reflected
back at his partner from the window, the interior light casting
his image into a visual no-man's land, half within and half
without. There, and yet not. He made no move toward the bags.
"You should eat some dinner," she said softly.
Silence.
Shit, she thought miserably. Nothing she said, tried to say, or
didn't say had made any difference. How long was she supposed to
put up with the ominous silence? Feeling her frustration surge to
the forefront, she began to crack. But he spoke before she could.
"Scully..... I think .... I think when this leave ends, I may not
come back." His voice was barely a whisper, spoken to the trees.
Stunned, she inhaled sharply. Back where? Here? Home?
"Mulder, don't jump...."
"Maybe," he said dully, not noticing her shock, barely noticing
her. "I don't know."
Scully fumbled angrily with the plastic wrap of the deli
sandwich, trying to find the words, any words. There simply were
none.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She knew they made a odd pair, two somber dark-clothed creatures
sitting at the edge of the playground, staring uncomprehendingly
at the wild, colorful abandon of children. But he had left
the motel room on his own volition, and she had no choice but to
follow him.
Scully had traveled far past understanding that they didn't
belong, that their silence stood as a void against the sun and
the sweet, high voices of glee and wonder echoing in the autumn
air.
Dozens of small bodies ran and spun, rode and swung on the bars,
the teeter-totters and slide under the gazes of a smattering of
moms and dads - some standing, some scattered on hard park
benches. Some even played. A crisp wind tossed locks of hair and
coat hems and intermingled the must of decaying leaves with the
clean smell of innocence.
Scully couldn't take her eyes off a small red-haired girl
spinning alone in circles, mumbling lyrical nonsense as only the
very young can. She almost couldn't comprehend it -- the delight,
the utter freedom. Limitless joy. A distant memory, perhaps, its
meaning shimmering on the horizon. There. And gone.
Her partner's eyes were almost focused on a tall brunette who was
laughing at the boy she had in tow. Laughing at his antics,
laughing merely because he was laughing. Mulder sat utterly
still, as if long dead.
The girl was merely the neighbor friend. The boy belonged to the
woman. Scully had discerned that fact back in D.C. After all her
research since the call, there was precious little left to
discover except the full spectrum of what was, evidently, the
truth.
Scully took her partner's hand in her own and squeezed it gently,
his fingers cold and unresponsive in her palm.
The leaves continued their slow, unremitting fall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God. Let this be over, she prayed.
Scully had just taken off her overcoat when the roiling in her
abdomen struck with terminal intensity. She stumbled into the
white bathroom and barely managed to rip off the sterilized-for-
your-protection toilet seat strip before expelling her stomach's
meager contents of the day. She hadn't been able to eat after the
incident in the park, so there wasn't much mess. But no food
meant the dry heaves, which meant the inevitable bile.
Exhausted, she lay down with her cheek pressed to the cool tile
floor. Hot, angry tears slipped from her left eye, trailed down
the bridge of her nose and pooled on the floor.
This had to end soon, or they wouldn't survive.
Mindless jealousy began its slow stalk of her conscious thoughts,
as had been its habit every now and again for the last 5 years.
Only this time, she had a target. A picture. A tall, pretty
brunette with a beautiful son and husband. A goddamn nice woman
who, just because she had everything, didn't deserve to be hated
by a woman who had nothing.
How dare that woman hold such power over him. How dare she live
while he slowly died, as he had been doing for 25 years. As part
of her had been doing for 5 years. How dare Angela Connor not
know the misery she was responsible for.
She sighed, accepting the irrationality of her anger and letting
it ebb as she ran out of tears. Angela Connor did not, of course,
have a perfect life. She had normal, everyday problems,
concerns and fears. She must occasionally fight with her husband.
She had a demanding job. Parenting was probably a constant
challenge. But at times, that seemed to Scully like having it
all. Scully would gladly let her have that life if only Angela
could relinquish the one possession she didn't even know she had.
She drew herself up weakly on all fours, then rose slowly to her
feet. Sticky red eyes stared back at her from the vanity mirror,
her swollen face imprinted with small square tile marks on her
right cheek. She feebly rinsed her mouth with Scope before
crawling toward the bed.
Scully's exhausted mind dwelled on a single thought before
falling into a fitful sleep. Mulder's life quest, a quarter of a
century in the making, was over. She just had to convince the
silent, heartbroken man in the next room of that reality.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They were due back in D.C. soon. He had to decide.
If he had had the energy, he might have flipped a coin, simply to
choose one path of hell over another. Destroy one life, destroy
more; destroy a man, destroy a woman; destroy the past,
destroy the future; destroy a sister, destroy a soulmate.
Mulder hadn't moved in 4 hours. He was still sitting on the edge
of the bed, his undershirt untucked, his jeans unbuttoned. In the
process of disrobing he had simply stopped, the will to
continue having evaporated. His hands heavy, unfeeling cold
objects unable to guide his soul out of the limitless despair.
A small part of him knew his lack of action didn't make sense to
his partner. There was no conscious rationalization taking place
in his mind, no semi-logical argument disproving her opinions or
themes. He was simply functioning on autopilot. Reflex actions.
Like dropping to the ground after being kicked in the balls.
There was no choice in that. You just simply fell and waited for
the numbing ache to dissipate.
Mulder had been falling for days, wondering idly when he would
feel the smack of the ground beneath him.
A sudden shudder traveled through his frame, causing him to gasp
and fight for control. If she cursed him, damned him for
revealing his presence -- or even hiding it -- how could he live?
His every waking moment an excruciating torment, knowing that his
choice had ruined other lives?
Why, he thought bitterly, did owning the family name Mulder
require simple choices with such destructive ramifications? Was
damnation merely a required inheritance?
The truth. He had never been ready for the truth. It was an
ambivalent gift, exacting its destructive price. He barked a
short cough of what could have been laughter. This was some
supreme fucked-up fairy tale, surely a morality play to keep
others from making his mistakes. Unfortunately, he was caught up
in the action and no one could tell him in what particular
manner the protagonist would meet his end.
Tonight he had started feeling the pain.
Mulder squeezed his eyes shut against the black. He needed her.
After such involuntary silence, his actions became more the
result of his heart's yearnings than his mind's decisions.
Craving salvation, he rose on stiff joints. The moment had been
inevitable, the pull too strong. He had always been helpless
without her. She would have the answers, would tell him what to
do. She would save him from himself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He could see the faint light in her eyes when she woke, calm. She
knew it was him.
She sat up slowly, peering across the mini-chasm between the two
double beds. It could have stretched for miles, although he could
almost touch her shadowy figure sitting opposite, her form
vaguely defined by the streetlamp glow sneaking between the thick
curtains. She was impossibly close, yet as always fated them, impossibly far.
"Mulder."
"Scully."
Helpless to contain himself, anguish rolled off him in waves,
pouring over her in infinite succession, drawing tears from the
recesses neither thought they had any more. She stretched out
her hand silently toward him. He took it hesitantly and let
himself be pulled into her embrace.
Kneeling at her bedside, he pressed his face into her stomach,
his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Sick of the denial and
the confusion plaguing his soul, wearied by a lifetime of aching
loneliness and the miserable prospect of nothing else, Fox Mulder
broke down and cried in his partner's embrace.
Do you think she's happy?" He broke the silence an eternity
later, his words muffled by soft cotton flannel at her shoulder.
Scully continued to stroke his back lightly. "I won't lie to you,
Mulder. Sometimes she is, sometimes she isn't. Just like we all
are."
He snorted in bitterness. "I wouldn't know about that."
"Just because you haven't chosen to pursue that particular goal
doesn't mean it isn't possible. Or that you don't deserve it...
that you don't deserve that chance," she retorted sharply.
Softening, she moved her hand to his cheek. "Whether she's always
happy or not doesn't mean a damn thing. She's loved. She loves.
She's living. I would think that would mean something to you."
"I don't know what that means," he whispered.
Scully lifted his face to look in his eyes and smiled softly.
"You do know. You just never open your mind to extreme
possibilities."
"Oh, Scully," he murmured, a spark of humor almost returning to
his face. "I've opened my mind many times."
She continued to hold his cheek. "But not your heart."
Taken aback, he stuttered. "I... I haven't been ..."
"I know," she said simply, and he understood.
She was warm and faintly sweet on his lips as their mouths
tenderly met. Responsive, gentle explorations, hesitant and
longing. Acceptance and forgiveness in every soft touch. His
palms caressed her neck and sensitized the delicate skin before
his lips trailed their way down and back. The inside of her mouth
was cool, her teeth soothing on his bottom lip. Peaceful, slow
kisses ending only with the intrusion of long-ingrained fear.
In the dark, it was easy to become lost.
Mulder suddenly drew back, his eyes flickering away from her
face. "God, I'm sorry... I shouldn't..." He choked back the
immediate onslaught of new tears and stood shakily, retreating
toward the door. "Not like this," he murmured pleadingly. "I'm
sorry. This isn't how..."
A mistake. This was a mistake, he thought frantically, not seeing
her swiftly wipe her still-wet mouth in embarrassment. This was
not the way to save themselves. In desperation, her voice was
solemn in the shadows, words carefully weighed.
"Mulder."
He heard the warning but couldn't turn back, couldn't look at
her, his hand frozen above the doorknob.
Her voice stumbled, then caught. "You need to choose. You can
live in the past, or you can simply live. What do you want,
Mulder?"
It might have been a nod of acknowledgment, or a bow of
resignation. Or defeat. Not that it mattered much. Dana Scully
was once again left alone as her partner silently opened the door
and walked out of her life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It had become remarkable easy to lose track of time, the hours
first, then the days. So simple to stare into the darkened
apartment at absolutely nothing. To think of nothing. No one. To
concentrate so fully on the despair that everything melted into
nothingness in its presence.
It would have been so easy if she were dead. Twenty-five years
ago or yesterday -- no matter. It was a contingency he had been
prepared for --- one of the countless possibilities he had outlined in detail over the years. The outlying boundary of what
he would accept as the truth. The one he was most sure of when he
looked deep inside his heart.
Justice. Revenge. He would have fought to bring her killers down.
Punished. He would have killed in return. But this -- this left
nothing. No focus, nothing to hold in his hand. No connections,
no reasons, no explanations.
If his sister were dead, he wouldn't have to decide if he could
ever be alive.
Mulder glanced at the pile of papers he had recklessly shoved in
his suitcase 5 days ago. The painstaking research Scully had
compiled. The detailed background she had assembled and
begged him to read. The sum total of everything he couldn't face
in Pennsylvania.
He winced in anguish. Scully. He had left the hotel in the middle
of the night and flown home without her. He couldn't face her,
couldn't thank her, couldn't beg forgiveness. Couldn't accept
his precious truth, in all its forms.
She had called, of course, leaving a message on his machine
before he'd even made it home. It was simple, direct, laced with
neither anger nor regret, but with a sadness he had never heard
before.
//Mulder, if you want to come back to work after the
leave of absence, I'll be here. You can have the X-Files
and me as your partner, if that's what you want. If not,
you will have me, always -- as a friend.//
He hadn't returned the call, and she hadn't called again.
Mulder at least knew her well enough to understand the meaning
behind her words. It was his decision to define the terms she had
given. His decision to set their personal boundaries.
A friend. The syllable was bitter in his mouth. Christ. He had
loved her forever.
He shuffled through the papers, without any real purpose or
intention. Why he now had the compulsion, after nearly a week, he
didn't know. A muddy fax was near the top -- a copy of a
letter to St. Gabriel the Archangel Children's Home, San
Francisco. From Angela Bradshaw Connor. Dated 1989. Despite
himself, he began to read.
// To the Board of Directors:
I received your letter regarding California law 12830-B, which
opens all adoption records to former adoptees at age 25. Thank
you very much for notifying me of the rights I have under this
law. However, at this time I believe it is not in my best
interests to pursue the details of my adoption. I have no desire
to dredge up the past and create any pain for my adoptive family,
my husband, or myself. I am happy to remain looking forward to
the rest of my life, not looking backward to events beyond my
control. Thank you, though, for your offers in this matter. I will always be grateful to your organization for placing me with
such a wonderful family whom I will always consider my true
parents and brothers. //
For a moment, he held his breath. The letter crinkled in his
tight grasp, marring the simple wish of an innocent woman.
With biting awareness, Mulder slowly ripped the already-yellowing
paper into countless pieces, once and for all severing the
threads that tethered him to the past.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He didn't feel guilty at all.
Mulder had never taken the particular liberty of entering
Scully's apartment without her knowledge. Kicking down her door,
yes, but never purposefully invading her privacy.
He understood his actions with a profound sense of clarity.
Tonight it was right.
The apartment was dark, protected from the October night. Winds
gusted outside, electrifying the air with invisible purpose. In
the sanctity of her world, all was peace.
He wandered her rooms noiselessly, barely aware that he was
touching her furniture and personal items, his fingers tracing
patterns on soft surfaces, books and framed photos, absorbing her
presence through his touch. Her life was his. He lived simply
because she allowed him to chart his own stumbling way to the
present. The concrete evidence of his existence borne out through
her life was enough to make him giddy. She had created a future
for him long ago, and he had finally found it in the infinity of
her.
He had never felt more defined in his life.
He marveled at the complexity of their intertwined lives, the
compulsion that drew him to her that night, that always drew them
together. He understood the physics of their union, fundamental
as a natural law of science, yet as unexplainable a phenomenon as
he had ever encountered. The perfect combination. Comprehension, and finally understanding, had come late, but with a profound
sense of what was right. He smiled, because he knew.
Mulder walked past her bed to stare out the window at the small
courtyard below. It would pour soon, he thought absently. The
black nighttime sky had taken an eerie appearance, jaundiced
from the streetlight and approaching front.
Despite the impending storm, the vista was clear. A fence.
Shadows of low shrubs, of tall trees. Flower beds fading in the
late season. They would withstand the imminent sound and fury,
keeping safe their place in the world.
He stood still against the wall for several long minutes, his
thoughts strangely calm. He heard the soft turn of the key in the
lock and noticed the distant light. Yet he remained standing in
the shadows.
Mere moments later, she entered the bedroom quietly, her shoeless
feet making no sound on the floor. A thin echo of light from the
living room strove to reach her darkened silhouette at the
edge of the bed, but failed. She unbuttoned her jacket in the
dark.
The familiar first soft syllable of her name sat poised on
Mulder's lips, but was denied enunciation as he stared at his
partner in rapt fascination. The chair next to the bed received
her discarded jacket and skirt before he even felt the tightening
in his groin.
He swallowed slowly, remembering the tenderness of her touch, and
was completely found.
Her full slip, shining and undulating in the dim yellow light,
slithered to a pool at her feet along with her stockings, leaving
her tiny frame clad only in underwear.
The heat in his body fought his rapid pulse for dominance, for
control, as the erotic image of his Scully consumed every thought
he once had of admitting his presence. In the half-dark of the
blackness she gracefully pulled a t-shirt from a drawer, bending
precisely, emphasizing her gentle curves, her hips, her breasts.
She had only to turn around, but she didn't.
She had only to flip the lightswitch, but she didn't.
She had only to listen, but she didn't.
Breath had left his lungs long ago. As if he'd never known her,
didn't have every sweep and slope already burned in his brain, he
couldn't break his gaze from her luminant skin. As small hands
reached up behind her to undo the bra's clasp, his consuming eyes
finally closed, slowly, achingly.
He heard the rustle of a shirt being pulled overhead, and then
silence.
When he opened his eyes, Scully stood a mere 8 feet from him,
hair mussed, hand loosely grasping the shirt hem just under her
breasts, half-turned, facing him, and frozen in partial motion.
They were the only beings in the world, its only lovers.
Their stares fused. Inflamed.
Mulder found his voice. "You."
She cocked her head.
"The answer to your question, Scully," his tone ragged, seductive. "is you."
Interminable seconds passed. She approached him cautiously until
they were inches apart, her hand still supporting the shirt,
exposing her smooth stomach. He caught his breath, and
continued.
"She has what she wants. I now know I have all I've ever wanted-
you. I've found my truth. I've had it all along."
Scully stared deeply into his eyes, her expression inscrutable
until the moment she spoke. With one word, she solidified their
fate, united their souls, and led him by the hand into the
future.
"Mulder."
They kissed with a fierce hunger, an almost primal instinct. He
claimed her with possessive force, one arm lifting her off the
ground and the other hand tangled in her hair. Their kisses
passionate, deep, consuming.
The need to feel his skin on hers quickly became overwhelming.
She wriggled from his hold and swiftly untucked the soft black
sweater from his battered jeans. He understood her instinctive
need and drew it over his head as she deftly unbuttoned his
waistband. Grabbing her hand, he chuckled softly, effectively
slowing her movements.
She laughed in response, a pure, sweet sound that sent shivers
of warmth through his chest. She took a step backwards and
slowly, tantalizingly, pulled the baggy white shirt over her
head, exposing her breasts to the dim light. A low growl came
from Mulder's throat as he quickly stepped toward her, completely
forgetting his original intentions of lingering. Bringing his
hands to cup her weight, he lowered his mouth to the soft skin.
The feel of her nipples on his lips was exquisite.
Her urgency quickly fled with the agonizing pleasure, heat
building in her depth and radiating throughout her body. After an
eternity, she grudgingly ceased running her fingers through his
soft hair, brought his lips back to hers and led him toward the
bed. Turning quickly, she pulled the covers down in one fluid
sweep. Mulder removed the rest of his clothing in one clean
motion before pulling her under the covers with him.
Their pace slowed as they began to explore, learn, memorize. The
smoothness of her thighs, the strength of his shoulders. Touches
that made her quicken, strokes that made him lose control.
Settling in the home that was the cradle of her thighs, Mulder
was dimly aware that he had buried himself within her without any
conscious knowledge. Shame at his selfish action immediately
abated when he felt the full impact of her warmth and wetness
around him and heard her throaty purr echo into his mouth. The
sensation of being inside her, of her inside him, surrounding
him, completely within and around him, was the dawning of
ecstacy.
Scully slowly felt her senses narrow and melt until vision became
smell and touch, creating a thrumming vibration she'd never
experienced that consumed her consciousness. She could see
the heat of his skin, taste the green in his eyes, smell the edge
they were both so precariously balanced on. She was utterly
seduced by the intensity of their union, and was the first to
succumb.
With her cry muffled in the crook of his neck and the spasm
wrapping around his length, Fox Mulder ceased to exist. In a
surge of blood and elemental force, he abandoned the ache and
lonliness in favor of the boundless mystery of two becoming one.
Their souls finally merged, as their hearts had done long ago.
Outside, lightning illuminated the sky in a brilliant streak,
casting the room in a sudden brightness. The sated passion in her
eyes, the redness of her swollen lips nearly sent him back
over the edge. He caressed her cheek lovingly. "I'm sorry,
Scully," he whispered, his voice catching. "I'm sorry I left
you."
"You didn't," she smiled, and he understood.
END
Feedback would be absolutely wonderful. Talk to me at
meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com.
Authors confessions: A few of you might have seen a very early
version of this at the September X-Press. For such a small story,
it's really been difficult to finish. The best analogy I've been
able to come up with is that it's like I set out to make
chocolate mousse, only to find I had ingredients for a pot roast.
I didn't want pot roast, damn it. I wanted *mousse.*
I want to express my boundless thanks to all those who were kind
enough to comment on early drafts. Thanks so much, Jill Selby,
Joyce McKibben and Elizabeth Flynn! But super-sized rolls
of Tums go to two folks who endured draft after draft crammed
down their throats. Oy! Talk about indigestion. Thank you GirlGone
and MCA, who (thankfully) never let me get
away with not trying my absolute best and constantly keep my
spirits up and my words in their proper place. I owe you both
big-time. Also, Lynda Phung - as usual, thanks for just about
everything. :-)
Finally, thanks to you, for reading. Coming to grips with what
was available in my refrigerator was a painful process. Any
reassurances that this was palatable would be more appreciated
than you'll ever know.
** Meredith **