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From: All4Mulder@aol.com
Date: Mon, 20 Nov 2000 20:03:23 EST
Subject: NEW: Opacity by Diana Battis (NC-17)
Source: xff


TITLE: Opacity 
AUTHOR: Diana Battis
DISTRIBUTION: OK for Gossamer, Xemplary.  Anywhere else, just ask.  I usually 
say yes.  
CLASSIFICATION: I chose not to classify for the story's sake.
KEYWORDS: None
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Within
SUMMARY: Clarity comes with the dawn.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em.  Never have, never will, damn it. 
FEEDBACK: All4Mulder@aol.com  or DianaBattis@aol.com
Author's notes at the end.
My fanfiction can be found at: 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html

********

The air smells of dust and neglect, overlaid with the faint scent of cologne.

Mulder's cologne.

You stand in the shadows, breathing deeply of the scent.  The faint glow of a 
streetlamp spills light through dusty panes of glass, illuminating the empty 
room with gut-wrenching clarity.  You never imagined seeing it again under 
these circumstances.  Without him...

Swallowing, you let your eyes sweep across the room.  Every crack in the 
plaster, every scar in the hardwood, all seem achingly familiar to you as 
though they've been indelibly imprinted in your mind.  Maybe they have.  
Nothing about Mulder is easy to forget.

Biting back a grimace of pain you cross to the windows, the worn carpet doing 
little to muffle the sound of your footsteps.  Outside, the sky seems to 
bleed as dawn touches the horizon and turns the clouds to rust.  Time is your 
enemy, and as morning approaches you find yourself willing back the sunrise.

You are no closer to finding him.

A sigh escapes you and you turn away, your eyes gravitating toward the worn 
couch.  Your mouth tightens as you survey its length.  The surface is cracked 
and worn in places, like a comfortable old shoe.  Hidden springs create hills 
and valleys that, even in the dim light, take on the contours of his body.  
You could fool yourself into thinking he'd just left the room to grab a fresh 
beer.  Almost.

It looks so unbearably empty now.

Unable to help yourself, you step over and sink into it, the crinkled surface 
groaning softly as it accepts your weight.  The smell you've associated with 
him is stronger here.  So real that you can practically touch it.  Your hand 
traces along the arm, the black leather cool and smooth under your fingers.  
You try not to notice how they tremble.

Next to you is a pillow, its cover faded and edges frayed.  You slide your 
palm over it; the tapestry-like fabric is rough against your skin.  There is 
a dark spot on its cover, marking the place where his head usually rested.  A 
fresh wave of pain hits you, and your nails bite into the stuffed surface as 
memories that have been circling from a distance tear into you like birds of 
prey... 

Mulder never sat.  He lounged or sprawled or slouched, his body always loose 
and relaxed in unknowing grace.  

That last night was no exception.

You stood in the doorway, your eyes taking in every inch of him.  He was 
stretched out on his back, the darkness of his clothing blending into the 
shadows of the room.  The faint blue glow from the television blessed his 
features with its cool light, almost hiding the lines that seemed to etch 
deeper into his face with each passing day.

One arm was curved beneath his head, the other resting across his stomach, 
his fingers curled over the black cotton.  For a moment you thought he was 
sleeping, the slow rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible in the eerie 
light.  Upon further scrutiny, the faint movement of one slender finger 
captured your attention.  It moved at a measured pace, tapping an uneven 
rhythm on the tautly stretched tee-shirt as though keeping time to music only 
he could hear.

As if he heard your thoughts his finger stilled, and his head turned to focus 
on you.  You watched as his eyes registered your presence, his features 
softening in recognition.  He smiled, a slow stretch of lips that told you 
more than any words could express.  He pushed himself upright, patting the 
now-empty spot beside him in silent invitation.  It was impossible to resist.

Sitting next to him was always a surprise.  That his quick mind intrigued you 
was never in doubt.  But the attraction, the physical pull you felt whenever 
in his presence, that was a revelation.  The way his jaw curved, the light 
dusting of hair that covered his arms, the long, elegant feet that were now 
propped so casually on the pitted surface of the coffee table.  Everything 
about him seemed to tug at your emotions until you became powerless to resist.

Twisting around to face him you stretched out a finger, tracing a deliberate 
line down the center of his chest as the hammer of his heart increased in 
tempo.  The heat of his skin was barely contained by the fabric covering him, 
the firm muscles contracting under your touch.  When you reached his waist, 
you tugged at the hem of his shirt, noting how his complacent smile widened 
as he raised his arms.  In one smooth movement his shirt was off and tossed 
over your shoulder to the floor, leaving you to revel in the sight of the 
golden, hair-roughened skin you exposed.

His brows raised in amusement.  "See something you like?"  Less a question 
than a challenge, the words were delivered in a low, mocking tone that 
flooded your cheeks with heat. 

Within seconds you were holding him, his smug grin kissed into submission.  
His face, peppered with evening stubble, rasped against your fingertips as 
they slid along the taut skin of his jaw.  The sandpapery feel of it was a 
delicious contrast to the smooth heat of the tongue gliding against yours 
with increasing urgency.

When he finally pulled away, his chest was pumping like a bellows.  A few 
small beads of sweat decorated his flushed face, leaving wet salty trails as 
they trickled down to his chin.  You smiled then, leaning forward to catch 
one drop with your tongue, then another, gratified to hear the low moan 
hissed through clenched teeth as you lapped at his skin.

You felt his hands moving across your back, his fingers hot through the 
fabric of your shirt.  They slid beneath the waist of your jeans, pulling 
until the cotton was free, baring your back to his touch.  

"All's fair," he stated in a husky whisper, and you understood what he 
wanted.  It thrilled you to see the spark of danger glittering in his eyes as 
you leaned away to comply.

You slipped back into his arms, savoring the feel of his skin against yours.  
So incredible, you remember thinking as you rubbed against him, the 
smattering of hair on his chest a pleasant abrasion.  Your head dropped 
forward, resting against his shoulder as you focused on the curve of his 
neck.  Tasting the firm, musky flesh under your lips with your tongue, you 
marveled at his maleness, and at the fate which brought you there.

His head fell back against the couch as you continued your journey, sampling 
his flesh along the way.  Your lips trailed to his chest, licking around one 
button-like nipple.  It peaked under your tongue, pointed and hard, and he 
shuddered as you scraped your teeth over the tender flesh.

"Enough."  You raised your head at the gravel of his voice.

Hands at your shoulders, he pushed you, and you fell backward onto the couch. 
 He stood then, allowing you to swing your legs up.  Leaning over you, he 
unfastened your jeans, his eyes boring into yours as he slid the zipper down. 
 Passivity was never your forte, yet you allowed him this measure of control, 
letting him strip away the rest of your clothes until you laid bare against 
the black leather.

He gazed at you and licked his lips, his expression almost feral.  Your heart 
raced as he repositioned himself over you to straddle your hips.  Leaning 
down, he sucked on your lower lip, then nipped it lightly, soothing the sting 
with the balm of his tongue.  And then he kissed you, a clash of lips and 
tongues and teeth that was as violent as it was heady.  You were moaning 
continuously, and his mouth swallowed the sounds with something akin to 
greed. 

His lips were everywhere, nibbling along your jaw, pulling at your ear.  At 
your neck he paused, his breath harsh against your skin.  You raised your 
hands to stroke through his hair, the damp strands clinging to your fingers, 
sticky like cobwebs.  "Here," you directed, feeling the burn of his stubble 
against your skin as you urged him lower.

Mulder was not to be rushed.  For one moment he rested his cheek against your 
heart, the flutter of his eyelashes tickling your skin.  Then you felt it, 
one tiny swipe of his tongue, then another, until teasing little laps painted 
your flesh with goosebumps.  He circled a nipple, tasting the surrounding 
skin with feathery brushes of his tongue, then opening his mouth and sucking 
hard at the nub.  Back and forth, from one to the other, until you thought 
you'd lose your mind.

You were still cradling his head; the hair prickled against your palms as he 
slipped lower, planting kisses along your sternum and over your stomach.  He 
paused to dip his tongue into your navel, his hands anchoring your hips to 
the couch as you thrust forward reflexively.  "Easy," he warned, nuzzling 
your flesh, his tone soft and gentle.  Light, soothing caresses drifted 
across your stomach, moving lower and lower until your breath caught in your 
throat as his fingers stroked where you wanted him most.  Before Mulder, 
you'd never realized how sensitive your skin was, and your eyes slammed shut 
as the sensations flowed over you.

You groaned in unison with the springs when his hands left your flesh.  
Grinning, he shifted up on his knees.  "Is that what you wanted?"

His voice came to you over the blood pounding in your ears, and your husky 
affirmation brought a chuff of laughter from him.  

"Look at me," he urged, his tone suddenly serious.  Your eyes opened with 
difficulty, focusing on him.  The flickering light cast ominous shadows over 
his face; he seemed almost like a stranger.  His gaze never leaving yours, he 
reached down to touch you again, spreading your wetness carefully.  And then 
he raised his fingers, flicking the pink tip of his tongue against the 
already-damp skin.  You shuddered, as though the tongue had touched you, and 
his eyes widened knowingly.  "Want a taste?" he asked, touching your lips 
with those same fingers.

Your mouth opened on a gasp, and one fingertip slipped in.  Closing your lips 
around it, you sucked with enthusiasm.  Another finger joined the first, and 
you lapped at the skin, swirling your tongue along the underside, cleaning 
away every trace.  Scraping your teeth over his knuckles elicited a deep, 
almost agonized groan from him.  You had to bite back a cry of disappointment 
when he pulled the fingers, glistening with your saliva, from your mouth.

"You'll like this even better," he promised, tracing one of those wet fingers 
around your opening.  Your body arched up, hands scrabbling for purchase 
along the slippery leather as he entered you with one finger, a sweet 
incursion that stole the breath from your lungs.  Slowly, evenly, he invaded 
your body, his touch sure and gentle.  Two fingers, then three, and soon he 
was filling you with thrusting motions that mimicked what your body craved.  
Over and over, his fingers twisting with each incredible stroke, bringing you 
closer to the edge.    

You grabbed his wrist, stilling his motions.  Much more of this and you'd be 
gone.  You didn't want that to happen...not until his cock was in you.  
"Please," you finally managed to gasp, your voice little more than a whisper. 
 "Fuck me."  The words sounded strange to you, as though they'd come from 
someone else.  You'd never talked to any man like that before.  But he wasn't 
just any man, and your body was aching to be filled by him.

You felt the cushions shift, and your head tilted to watch as he stood.  He 
moved with an almost feline grace, stripping off his jeans and boxers with an 
economy of motion.  The muted light from the television highlighted his body; 
broad shoulders and long limbs, perfectly muscled.  A well-defined chest 
tapered to slim hips, the light covering of hair deepening as it reached the 
juncture of his legs where his cock, thick and erect, sprang from the dark 
wiry curls.  God, he was beautiful, you thought, as your glance moved to his 
face.

He stared at you for a moment, his chameleon-like eyes dark and almost 
brooding.  And before you realized what was happening he was over you, a 
cushion hastily shoved beneath you.  Your legs were bent upwards and he 
pushed into you, his cock enormous within the slick, tight channel of your 
body, invading you in one sure thrust that screamed both pain and pleasure.  
Relentless, unforgiving...the same way he filled your soul.  Muscles 
tightening, you clenched around him, holding onto this moment with something 
akin to desperation.  But he was too good, too sure, too perfect.  Your body 
betrayed you -- it didn't take more than a few strokes to make you come...

Your eyes snap open, your breath rasping in your throat.  The room is flooded 
with sunlight now.  Leaning forward, you release your punishing grip on the 
pillow, placing it back onto the couch.  You swipe almost violently at your 
cheek, pretending it's sweat and not tears that make it wet.  No matter, 
there's no one to see you cry.

A slight sound reaches your ears, and you stiffen, the adrenaline fueling 
fear now.  You stand, reaching for your gun as you tread carefully toward the 
bedroom door.  The weapon feels cold against your damp palm as you pause for 
a minute, listening.  You hear only silence.  Breathing again, you turn the 
knob, opening the door to his bedroom with care.

There's a body on the bed.

All the places you've looked, yet you hadn't thought to come here again.  You 
hold your breath, moving carefully across the threshold.  The pounding of 
your heart increases with each step you take.  The sunlight hasn't reached 
the bed, and as your eyes become accustomed to the dimness you note the 
brick-colored spill across the pillow.  Like dried blood, is your first 
thought, and your gut twists painfully until the picture becomes clearer and 
you realize your mistake.  Not blood...hair.

Her hair.

You ease the gun back into its holster and silently approach the bed.  She 
lies on her side, a shirt clutched in her hands.  Mulder's shirt.  So many 
pieces fall into place in that second, and you swallow the bile that sours 
the back of your throat.  You escape from the room and close the door, the 
snick of the latch like a gunshot in the eerie stillness of the apartment.

Crossing to the windows, you stare out at the street.  Ten years since your 
Lieutenant sent you down to DC to help search for a congresswoman's missing 
nine-year-old daughter.  Ten years since it first occurred to you that the 
Bureau might have more to offer than the NYPD.  Ten years since you've been 
in this apartment...looked into his eyes...touched him...kissed him.
  
Turning your head you note the fish in the aquarium, gliding through the 
water.  Who takes care of them now?  A quick search of the shelves over the 
tank turns up a small can of food.  You flip open the lid to shake in a few 
flakes, watching the fish swim up from the bottom to feed.

In your time with the bureau you have wondered if your paths would ever 
cross.  You've wondered how it would feel to hear him say 'John' again.  But 
in all your musings, being assigned by the Deputy Director to search for your 
former lover was never a scenario.

Setting your jaw, you walk to the desk and drop the can of fish food into a 
drawer.  Petty, but what the hell; you've got nothing left to lose.  Lips 
tight, you turn on your heel.  Time to wake up Sleeping Beauty and get the 
show on the road.

********

End

Feedback welcome: All4Mulder@aol.com or DianaBattis@aol.com

Author's notes: My heartfelt thanks to the following people: Jintian and 
Syntax, for the pointy sticks and yodeling slugs.  Alicia K, for beta bravery 
above and beyond the call of duty.  Lara Means and bugs, for agreeing to be 
the beta equivalent of guinea pigs.  Audrey Roget and mountainphile, for 
support, encouragement and wicked ideas.  Alanna, for knowing what it was all 
about and reading it anyway.  And to Musea, for always being there.