No Quarter Given: Abstinence
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com
Classification: SA, post-ep for 'Never Again'
Rating: NC-17, for sexually explicit scenes.  No
kiddies, please!
Archive: Just drop me a line and it's yours.
Disclaimer: Bare bones - not mine.  Though I wish they
were.
Summary: She wants to feel alive.
Dedication: To Galia.  I hope this is what you wanted,
my dear.

Warning: Serious angst ahead.  This is not a pretty
one, folks.

More notes at end.


...Abstinence...


Dull, gold plastic.  The final piece of the journey
that sits between thumb and forefinger, its rigid two
by three flat surface so comforting, simply because
it's familiar.  Two dimensional and safe, just like
her.

There is one difference, however.  It can bring him
running in a way that she never could.  A magnetic
summons guaranteed to attract his worry, then his
wrath.  She envies the inanimate card; but then again,
she realizes she's no more alive than the plastic in
her hand.

"Ma'am, I need your card."

The pleasant southern drawl snaps her from reverie and
she hands it over with a vacant smile.

"Your first time in New Orleans?"  He's a smooth,
polished man, with mocha skin and hazel eyes.  The
type who winks at all the ladies and flirts with ease.
 But he's not flirting with her, she knows.  If she
had to guess, she'd say his door swings in the other
direction.  But he's male and he's smiling.  At *her,*
with warm hospitality and genuine charm.  "You're in
luck - with the mild weather this winter, Mardi Gras
season has been excellent.  Of course, we're just off
the parade routes, so if you're looking for
excitement, you may have to walk a bit."

Mardi Gras?  That explains the bustle of the streets;
ordinarily, she wouldn't have stepped foot in this
city in the midst of carnival season.  No wonder the
travel agent was so excited at the last-minute
cancellation that popped up on his computer screen, as
well as the curious look he'd bestowed upon her at the
sight of the wad of cash she'd produced.

She finds herself in the city that care forgot, in the
middle of the most decadent celebration in the world -
so appropriate for her needs.

"It's lovely," she replies, letting her face soften
into a smile.  She's getting it... slowly but surely,
she's coming alive.  "A fascinating city."

The clerk picks up on her burgeoning amiability and
lets his smile broaden, his hand pausing above the
card swipe.  Apprehension flutters in her stomach;
just do it already, she thinks.

"Once you've experienced New Orleans," he says with a
wink, "you'll fall in love with it.  You can't help
but come back again and again."

The nervousness stills into melancholy, as her smile
becomes wistful.  Leaning over the mahogany counter,
she purrs, "You promise?"

His friendly look fades into a simmer of interest, and
she knows he's appreciating the curly fire of her hair
and sleeveless, aqua linen sheath that clings to every
curve.  Maybe he *is* her type after all.

"Cherie, I promise with all my heart.  This city will
treat you like a queen.  It's made for beauty."

The slide of the card in the slot severs the new from
the old.  As he hands it back to her, she notices that
the 'D' has worn, the white raised surface no longer
visible.

She has become 'Ana.'

"Enjoy your stay, Ms. Scully."  He snaps his fingers
and a young man comes running for her luggage.  "My
name is Patrick, if you need anything.  Manny here
will get you settled in."

Manny is the shy side of twenty, no more.  He gapes at
her with open admiration, blushing as she smiles at
him.  Addressing them both, she says with conviction,
"Call me Ana."   The flat tang of the first vowel
pricks at her tongue, making it tingle with pleasure.

"If-if you'll follow me, ma'am," he stutters, turning
quickly to the ancient elevator.

With one last nod at Patrick, she goes upstairs to
await the inevitable.




Five hours of waiting, to be exact.  After an hour,
she'd become claustrophobic in the ornate room and had
ventured outside, strolling the sidewalks of the
French Quarter, cigarette in hand.  A lingering stop
at a local dive had bolstered her flagging courage,
especially the attentive flirting of the early Friday
happy hour suits.  Of course, the liquor had also
loosened the renewed coil of indecision.

Now, she sits just as Patrick had prophesied, a
lily-white queen upon the balcony of her room, the
cushions of the chaise lounge enjoying the slide of
her scarlet silk robe.  To her left, a tumbler sweats
in the warm late February humidity, sitting on the
wrought iron table next to an ashtray cluttered with
cigarette butts.  The far-off din of revelers makes
her heart thrum with anticipation.  A wanton flush
covers the naked skin beneath the robe as the
afternoon's drinking catches up with her.  She dabs
now and then at the trickle of sweat between her
breasts with a hotel towel, wishing he would finally
appear so the heat can break at last.

The sun is setting now, and the courtyard below is
coming alive with tourists on the move.  The sweet
smell of gardenias mixes with the swirl of smoke as
she takes a long drag.  She hasn't smoked in years;
it's amazing how quickly the nicotine addiction
resurfaces.  Little known to her colleagues, the siren
call of nicotine is not the only addiction she's
whipped into control under those prim suits.

She's often wondered if, let loose in a casino, her
life savings would suffer the same fate as her soul. 
Gone, leaving behind a blank page with a big 'zero' at
the bottom.

Her father would frown if he could see her now, those
steely blue eyes condemning her free fall into
depravity.  The thought makes her shift and pull the
edges of the robe tighter to her body.

Hurry up, she wants to scream at the pinkening sky. 
Before I give in to a ghost's reprimand.  This must be
done.

Two short rings from the French phone she brought out
with her makes her jump, as if it's her father's ship
come to call.  Taking a deep breath to dispel the
wraith at her side, her red nails click against the
receiver.  "Yes?"

"Miss Ana?"  Patrick's voice is unsure, shaking just a
bit.

"Yes, Patrick, what is it?"  Though she knows very
well what it is.  Rather, *who* it is.

"There's a gentleman here who insists on seeing you. 
I told him I couldn't give out your room number, even
though he says he's FBI -"

"Send him up," she says, interrupting the clerk's
blustering.

She can picture him turning away from Mulder's ominous
glare to ask in a whisper, "Are you sure?  I can phone
the police, Miss Ana."

Gently, she replies, "It's okay, Patrick. 
Everything's okay."

Lying is abhorrent to Dana's nature, but Ana has no
problem with it.




At the impatient knock and booming, "Scully!" she
crushes the cigarette in the ashtray.

"It's open," she calls out, reaching for the glass of
scotch.

The vibration of the slamming door resonates through
the burn of liquor over her tongue.  His fear wafts
through the open balcony doors like a blast from a
furnace.  The muffled thud of his shoes against the
tapestry rug is hurried, as is the breathless, "Where
are you?"

"Here.  I'm here."  Her reply is soft, lilting into
the now approaching darkness like the tinkling of
windchimes.

At once, he's at her side.  The weapon clutched in his
white-knuckled fingers stays blessedly out of focus,
swimming in her peripheral vision.  "Are you okay?"

She could say that she's fine and it would be true,
but she doesn't feel like saying it.  Instead, she
glances up at his wild eyes and says, "Sit, Mulder." 
She drains the last of her drink and reaches for the
pack of cigarettes.

"Scully?"  All his uncertainty and amazement bleeds
through the rasp of her name.

"It's all right, Mulder.  Sit down before you fall
down."  She nods at the matching chaise to her right.

To her surprise, he does, holstering his gun with
shaky fingers, though he doesn't take advantage of the
comfortable lounge chair, instead perching on its edge
and leaning forward.  "What the hell is going on?"  He
wastes no time in cutting to the heart of the matter. 
"What is this?"  He jerks his head at the cigarette.

She knows he's questioning more than her sudden
smoking.  The flame of the lighter sharpens his face
and a twinge of guilt clogs her throat at the sight of
his two-day growth of beard.  At least he's not in the
same suit as when she saw him last, his unfinished,
"But it's my -" spurring her stunned silence to
action.

Dark as his mood, his clothing is all black, from the
thin sweater to the worn jeans and boots, with only a
hint of t-shirt white at his collar.  He looks as if
he's not slept, and Dana rears her head one more time
at the frantic dart of his red-rimmed eyes.  "I
apologize.  I didn't mean to make you worry."  Her
thumb releases the flame back into its hole and she
inhales sharply, summoning Ana.  "I told my mother
where I was going."

"No, you didn't," he replies, scrubbing a hand over
his eyes.

He's haggard almost, but she refuses to give in to the
one addiction she's lived with for years now - the
hurt/comfort side of their relationship.  Friends do
things for one another besides soothe hurts.  They
understand each other and know when to back off.  When
to set aside the need for answers and just let it be.

And when to realize that the other half of you was
there all along.

"I told her I was taking some time.  She understands."
 The mournful strings of a solitary guitar waft up
from the courtyard below.  It's beautiful, and she
likes to imagine herself the object of a lovelorn
serenade.

But it's not meant to be.  Right now, she's the object
of a possessive man, willing to take but not give. 
He's no smitten swain.  He cares for her... she knows
this.  But what she really needs, he can't give her.

He was so willing to believe that whacko in Tennessee
was his soulmate.  Doesn't he realize that sitting
before him is the one person who will do anything for
him?  Was it so very difficult for him to admit his
life is tied to hers?

It's not just that, either.  She knows he's
emotionally stunted at times, especially where she's
concerned.  Those closest to him bear the brunt of his
silence, while it's so very easy for him to get
involved with those crippled like him by pain and
suffering.

Enough of that... she came to New Orleans to prove a
point, knowing full well he was bound to follow. 
There are some things that cannot be discussed over
dusty files in the bowels of an office building.  Not
that he could actually help her in any way, no matter
when and where.

Sighing, he raises his head at the sudden flickering
of the gas lamps in the garden below.  "This is not
you, Scully... New Orleans?"

Her lips curl as her gaze settles on the shadows
moving in the room across the courtyard from hers. 
It's a hotel very much like this one, steeped in
romance and old world sin.  She can make out the forms
of a man and woman just beyond the curtains of the
balcony opposite.  The dance begins for them, just as
it will for her.

All she needs is a dance partner.  And Mulder's always
had two left feet.

"I hate Florida and I craved warmth.  Call it a whim."

"Scully, you don't have 'whims.'" His eyes narrow. 
"But *Ana* does, doesn't she?"

At her pointed look, he swallows and lowers his head. 
She so wants to decry his patronizing assumption, but
remembers the time for anger is past.  If he wants to
pick a fight, that's his problem; all she has to do is
make one call downstairs and he's history.  From the
blush of regret creeping up his cheeks, he realizes
it, too.

Before he can open his mouth to apologize, she says
coolly, "Mulder, I've apologized.  Let's leave it at
that, shall we?"

From the corner of her eye, she sees his jaw clench. 
But she knows he's not going to pursue the name
business, not when there's so much more to uncover. 
He's not one to let the obvious slip by.  "Okay.  Can
I ask what brought this on?"

"You really want to know?"

His eyes burn with sincerity and utter confusion. 
"Yes, I do."

Even with the Jerse incident, he remains relatively
clueless, she realizes.  She also knows that the time
for vague generalizations is past.  The truth is all
that will satisfy him... and her as well.

"I saw a doctor a couple of weeks ago."  Stubbing out
the cigarette, she lets her head loll toward him.

His breathing quickens.  "Scully -"

"My OB-GYN, actually.  I saw her a few days before I
went to Philadelphia.  Annual physical."

His brow creases slightly.  "Is there anything I
should know about?"

Her gaze notes the sudden worry and she hastens to
reassure him, one slim hand covering his knee.  "It's
nothing, Mulder.  I'd just been feeling a bit tired
and hormonal.  A headache now and then."  The bony
knob under her hand relaxes a bit.  "Though the visit
did upset me."

The palm that covers her own is cool and damp.  "Upset
you?  Is that why... I mean, this Jerse business..."

"Partly, I guess.  He was convenient, and I was
horny."  She sees him blanch at the frank reply, and
decides she doesn't want to talk about Ed Jerse any
longer.  It's over and done.  Time to move on. "Do you
know what the nurse asked me?"

His lips part as he shakes his head, silently begging
her to continue.

"Routine yearly history, you understand.  Any
problems, any developments..."  She doesn't tell him
of the middle-of-the-night nosebleed; it hasn't
happened again, and her doctor blamed it on stress,
though he referred her to a neurologist for more
tests, just to be on the safe side.  "What form of
birth control you're using."  The last is said with
deliberation, pointing the way for his reply.

"To which you said...."  He's beginning to understand,
she can see it in the forward shift of his head, feel
it in the grip of his hand.

"Actually, nothing at first.  I had to think.  Then I
realized I hadn't used birth control in years...
hadn't needed to, if you get my meaning."  Her
rational mind tells her that there's nothing wrong
with celibacy; it's just not the lifestyle she's
accustomed to.  She's always enjoyed a healthy sex
life... until the work took precedence.

Smirking, he says, "I think I can relate."  Seeing her
serious glare, he sobers and adds, "And this upset
you?"

"No.  Though I must admit I was chagrined at my
stumbling.  I'm almost thirty-three years old, Mulder,
and a doctor.  I felt ridiculous."  With a wave of her
other hand, she brushes aside those sentiments and
continues, "But what really bothered me was when the
nurse said, 'You do realize you could get pregnant,
don't you?' Like I'd just crawled out from under a
rock."

Mulder takes in a heavy breath and begins, "Scully -"

But once again, she doesn't let him finish, doesn't
even want to look at him in her embarrassment.  "And I
shot back, 'Not if I'm not in a sexual relationship, I
can't.'"

He grows silent at that and she waits for...
something, anything.  After a moment, she realizes
there is really nothing that can be said, so she keeps
on, the rest of the tale spilling from her lips.

"'I'll just put down abstinence,' the nurse told me. 
And she did just that, the insensitive moron."  A deep
sigh punctuates her story.

Mulder's fingertips rub along her hand, sliding to the
tip of her index finger, where he plays with the tip
of her nail.  "I know, Scully, that the work doesn't
leave much time for personal relationships," he
begins, apologetic, as if this is all his fault.

Though he shares some of the blame, she admits to
equal fault and quickly corrects him.  "It's not the
work, Mulder.  And it's not just you, either.  It's
me."

"You?"

Pulling her hand away, she shifts on the lounge chair,
one bare leg exposed by the gap of the robe.  Mulder's
eyes darken just before he looks away and she sees him
swallow hard.  One, two seconds pass... when he looks
her way again, only a tic of his cheek remains to tell
her he's not as unaffected by her as he'd like to be. 
But is it what she wants?  Or will just any man do,
like Jerse?

All the while Jerse's sweaty body was crushing hers
into the dank mattress, screwing her brains into mush,
she was thinking of that nurse, wanting to storm back
into that office and proclaim that she'd take condoms,
thank you very much.  Erase that abhorrent word and
write in big, black letters, 'Trojans.'

Funny how she never once gave the man grunting above
her a second of thought beyond the feel of his
latex-covered penis sliding in and out of her.  She
faked an orgasm, kissed his cheek, and asked him if he
wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch.  She was used to
sleeping alone.

Even the usually sure touch of her own fingers wasn't
enough to satisfy her.  It hasn't been for quite some
time, she realizes.

"Abstinence is my life, Mulder.  I don't smoke, or
drink, or have sex.  I hardly eat red meat, I don't
cry at sad movies or smile at your jokes... I realized
the other day that I don't live, I just exist."

"Sex and smoking are highly overrated, Scully, believe
me.  Now - a good steak, that's different."

His attempt to lighten the conversation falls flat and
she sits up, swinging her legs with exasperation.  The
bare limbs crowd between his, and he straightens in
response to her encroachment, a hiss of indrawn breath
barely audible between them.

"You're doing it again.  Stop it."

"Doing what?"

"Not listening to me.  You followed me all the way
here to make jokes, when you could have just waited
until I got back."  With a huff, she stands and walks
into the dark bedroom, the silk falling to her ankles
to brush the floor.  "If you have nothing else to say,
then leave.  I'll be back by Monday."  She tries to
put the impending doctor's appointment out of her
mind, but it's there, always lurking.

"What do you want me to say?"  His words are close,
but physically, he's still keeping his distance.  "I
don't have any answers for you, Scully."

Turning, she meets his shadowed gaze, squinting
against the gauze-filtered light from outside.  "I
never asked you for answers, Mulder."

Hands on hips, he growls, "Then what the hell *do* you
want?"

A dozen words flit through her mind... love, sex,
understanding, respect, all at the top of the list. 
But there's something she wants most of all, something
she craves... that which she thought she'd found with
Jerse, but knows now it was a pale imitation.

"Abandon.  Reckless... insane... release."


She waits for him to laugh, or deliberately
misunderstand and back away, thereby releasing them
both from obligation.  Things will go back to the way
they were not long ago; partners and friends, saying
goodbye at the end of the day, only seeing one another
outside of work when necessary.

Misunderstanding, though not deliberate, clouds his
face.  "What?"

"You heard me.  I want release."

Gulping, his hands drop, fingers flexing as though
they itch to shake her.  "You came all the way here to
tell me you want another partner?"

"No.  You're not listening, Mulder."  Tamping down her
growing anger, she forces dispassion into her voice. 
"This is something... I've gone through times like
this before... it's like a cycle of frustration, an
alarm clock sounding when it's time."  

Thinking back, she realizes just about every sexual
relationship she's had began when she just couldn't
stand the frustration any longer.  Love had nothing to
do with any of them; in fact, logic played a big part
in all of them.  Need sex?  Without commitment?  Screw
someone else's husband.  Or the forbidden fruit of the
instructor or the ambitious wannabe whose career path
is definitely at a right angle to yours.  Even the
newborn psychopath who burns his face out of pictures.
 It's guaranteed to give you all the fun for half the
price.  What's a few bruises to the soul, to the body?

Better yet, why stop now?  There's a whole city full
of one-night-stands out there.

Lowering her head in the face of his confusion - and
the truth she can no longer deny - she whispers, "I
need to feel.  I need release."

He draws in a knowing, short breath.  At last, he
sees.  "Jerse?"

"Was an attempt at feeling."  Now that he knows, her
confidence returns, and she raises cool eyes to meet
his.  "I don't expect you to understand, just as I
didn't want you to follow me, though I knew you would.
 But the hotel wouldn't give me a room without a
credit card, so here we are."

Self-derisive chuckling grates from him, as his eyes
sweep her form with disbelief.  "All this because you
need to get laid?"

Flushing, she tries to explain.  "I didn't say that. 
I said I needed to feel.  Call it biological, or
psychological, whatever... I just know this is
something I have to do right now."  After enduring
several long, tense moments of silence, she looks
away.  "I'm sorry you felt the need to come after me,
but I'm okay, really.  And I don't need you here,
Mulder."

The silence is oppressive, settling over her with
bleak finality.

She turns for the door, her explanations done. 
Dismissing him, she says, "I'll reimburse you for your
air fare... if you're too tired to go right back, I
can see if I can get a room for you -"

His soft reply resounds through the room.  "I can do
this for you."

She stops with her hand on the door knob and whispers
with a rueful shake of her head,  "I can't let you." 
Though she knew once he found out, he was bound to
offer.

"You can let some stranger..." he breaks off, a
gentleman to the very end, and she knows he's biting
back what he really wants to say.  "I'm a much safer
bet, Scully.  Aside from the occasional hospital stay,
unfailing ignorance - and a monstrous ego - I'm
clean."

Hearing the tentative smile in his voice, she faces
him again and lets a slight grin blossom on her face. 
"I dunno, Mulder.  That ego can squash me sometimes." 
Unbidden, an image comes to mind with her words... the
sight of him moving above her...

... And she knows, she can *see* that he's thinking
the exact same thing.  A slow, glowing flame ignites
in his eyes, the only hint of feeling in an otherwise
shadowed face.

He's considering it, has thought about it just as she
has.  She wishes she could see his face more clearly,
then decides it's for the best that she can't.  The
slow slide into the forbidden is better with eyes
closed.  Doing just that, she turns away from him, her
tenuous hold on resolution wilting under his scrutiny.

One last attempt at sanity springs forth, with all the
vehemence of a kitten's purr. "You're too close.  I
couldn't use you like that."

"Use me."

Heavy lassitude worms its way through her body, set
free by those two quick, firm words.  Is this what she
wanted all along?  To use him like he's used her all
these years?

"I can do anything for you, Scully.  I *will* do
anything for you."  She hears the rustle of his
clothes as he moves forward.  "You should know by now
that I -"

"All I want is to feel," she says, interrupting what
she supposes is a sure declaration of love.  Whether
he means it or not, she can't let him say it.  "Just
once, I want to feel.  Just once."

Unspoken is the qualifier - without strings - but it
there's just the same, stopping his approach.  Jack
Willis and Daniel Waterston could have been called
friends, but eventually, they became men who expected
more from her than just sex.  Back then, her ambition
won out over emotion; just as she knows that one day,
emotion will rule.  In this case, though, she's
unwilling to embrace the sexual if it means
sacrificing the friendship.  But she doesn't want the
scare of another Jerse.

Once, that's all she needs.  Just once, to feel.

"I can do once, Scully," he says quietly.  "I can do
never, if that's what you want.  But you have to tell
me."

As if she could ever tell him any of the secrets of
her heart.  She's already told him more than she ever
thought she would; it's not like them to speak of such
intimate things.  But if they do this - and she *so*
wants it - they can't let it go any further.  He's
handicapped by the unceasing quest... she's hampered
by the reluctance to make him choose.

Which leaves only one remaining question.

"Can you promise me we'll stay the same?  That this...
*once*... won't ever be spoken of again?"  Please say
you promise, Mulder, she begs silently.

"Scully, my lips are sealed."

"Say it."  She has to hear the words.

"I promise."


&&&&&&&


She grips the bedpost as he stands behind her, his
open mouth nipping at the exposed nape above the robe.
 She arches under his touch, her hands sliding high
above her head, the curves of the worn oak rippling
beneath her touch.

Not a word had been said between them as she listened
to him undress, her back still to him.  It was only
when she felt his warm hand through the silk on her
arm that she spoke, whispering, "Not in the bed. 
Here.  Right here."

"Okay."  The tense curl of his fingers on her arm
spoke of his surprise, but he said nothing else.

She is taut as a bowstring as his mouth meanders over
the bare skin of her neck, traversing the bump of her
spine and hollow below her jaw like he's following a
map.  When his hand slides up over her breast to her
chin, she knows his intent and quickly gasps, "No!"

Stilling, he asks quietly, "I can't kiss you?"

She tunes out the flash of guilt created by those
small, hurting words.  The memory of Jerse's sloppy
kisses turn her stomach, even now.  On the contrary,
she knows that Mulder's kiss would be devastating. 
Lost, she would be lost to him forever.  Turning
slightly, she presses a kiss to his thumb and murmurs,
"That's not what I need. If you can't do this, it's
okay."

His hands fall to her waist, to pull her back to him,
stopping her flight.  It comes from somewhere in his
depths, the strangled, "I told you... anything you
want."  One warm hand snakes inside her robe, finding
and cupping her breast.  He rolls the nipple between
his fingers, asking, "This okay?"

She gasps at the wandering of his hands and the feel
of his body warmth through the thin silk.  How could
she have ever thought that Jerse could possibly do
this for her?  A poor substitute, indeed.

"More," she breathes.

"Tell me what you want.  You have to say it."  He
knows, she realizes.  Knows that by giving herself in
this almost animalistic way, she has the ultimate
control. 

"Talk to me," she says, her back burrowing into his
chest, seeking life.

"What do you want me to say?" he murmurs, his fingers
gathering up the robe slowly, exposing her quivering
legs.  "That I've always wanted to fuck you?"

She shivers at the profanity.  Immediately, he grabs
onto the reaction and plays it, and her, like a
rolling symphony.

"Fuck you... yes, Ana, just you... only you."

At the sound of her alias, she whimpers, her head
lolling back onto his bare chest, her eyes closing
against the mounting pressure of completion.

The jerk of her robe to her waist startles her and her
breath hitches at the feel of his erection above her
ass, hot and pressing.  One hand bunches the material
up and the other releases her breast to slide down.

"You're so hot, Ana," he groans, pushing a calloused
middle finger into her as his teeth nip at her
earlobe.  "Are you always this hot?"

"Just for -" she breathes, the words catching at the
worry of his finger over her clit. <You,> she finishes
silently, but doesn't dare give the word life.

He steals her breath completely away at the removal of
his fingers and she protests with a moan.  "Raise your
knee," he coaxes, his free hand urging her thigh up. 
"On the bed.  Do it."  The last teeters on the edge of
demand, punctuated by the bite he gives her shoulder.

So she does, her right leg losing all resistance to
his pressure, folding up to rest upon the high,
down-covered mattress.  Her other foot lifts from the
floor and settles on the foot rail, bringing her hips
level with his.

With a muffled groan, he enters her, pushing her
stomach into the thick post.  Her swift inhale is
almost lost in the sensation and she bites back his
name, resting her flaming cheek against the cool,
solid wood.

He is still for a moment or two, allowing her time to
adjust, she realizes.  Another realization comes hard
on the heels of the first.  "Mul... condom?"  She
feels every inch of his burning penis within her and
fear makes her squirm.  "I made *him*..." She stumbles
over the admission.  "We should really -"

"It's okay," he says, wrapping his arm about her
waist, murmuring shushes against her ear.  "You wanted
abandon, Ana.  You can trust me, you know that, don't
you?"

"P-pregnancy?" she stutters, her hips already moving
of their own accord despite the logic that blooms from
the Scully side of her brain.

"I won't get you pregnant, I promise."  His hips set
up an answering rhythm and he says, the plea "Please,
Ana.  Let me fuck you.  I can pull out in time."

Dimly, her last coherent thought is that it's foolish,
his insistence that condom use is unnecessary. 
There's sperm in pre-ejaculate, the textbook in her
mind screams.  He can still impregnate her, though the
chances of that are slim.  But when was the last time
she felt a man's penis within her without the
artificial layer of protection?  And she can't deny
that at this moment, it feels wonderful, the ultimate
in risk... and abandon.  And though he's treated her
like shit in the past, he's never lied to her.  He may
put his life in danger and cause her endless worry,
but he's never lied to her.  If he says he'll pull
out, he will.

Is it worth the gamble?  As the tip of him nudges her
cervix, she breathes her answer, to him and to
herself.  "Yes."

She feels his mouth open against the line of her jaw
as he begins to pound into her in earnest, his litany
of promised words rumbling through her like the
approach of a storm.  Then she realizes there *is* a
storm coming, as she sees lightning flash through the
still-open balcony doors.  A storm without to rival
the one within.

As a particularly violent flash fills the room, he
pauses.  She knows what he's seen, and hastens to make
him continue.  "They're nothing," she pleas, speaking
of the fading bruises from her fight with Jerse.

"I'm hurting you," he whispers.

"You're not," she protests.  "I like what you're
doing.  Don't... please don't stop."

He begins thrusting again, slower this time, his hands
holding her loosely in place.

"Harder."  The bend of her legs doesn't allow for much
maneuvering, but it creates a narrow channel for him,
and so much pleasure for her.  She wants more, and she
insists, "Harder, I said."

Groaning, he pushes even further into her, panting
from exertion.  "Like this?"  His balls slap against
her thighs with every thrust and his right knee joins
hers on the bed, the outward press creating leverage
for him, forcing her legs wider.

"Yes, yes," she cries, thinking that it couldn't have
possibly felt any better, but knowing that it just
did.  "Jesus...."

"Fuck," he growls, his bent leg moving hers on the
bed.  He brings his hand to her thigh, effectively
trapping her in a prison of long limbs and straining
muscles.  "Touch yourself," he demands.  "Do it, Ana. 
Make yourself come for me."

Bracing herself against the bedpost with one hand, she
lets the other wander to her waist.  A pang of lust
for this man, so severe and intense, detours her
trembling fingers, and she reaches around to his
sweat-slickened flank, rasping her nails over the
flexing tendons.  He feels so good to her and she
finds herself wanting to prolong the coupling, to make
him lose control along with her.

"No!" His angry outburst is louder than the rolling
thunder outside.  "Don't... not me... you... *you.*"

Tears threaten to fall at the slice of his reprimand,
and she finds herself falling out of the moment.  This
is not what she needs, after all.  Not this selfish,
consuming manipulation of the man who has set aside
his own needs to satisfy hers.  He's only human, not
some callous whore doing this for money.

"Mulder." All her grief is poured into his name, but
he's lost to her now, and she feels it with every puff
of hot breath in her ear.

"Touch yourself, I said."  It's harsh and demanding,
and he quickly guides her hand with his to where they
are joined.  "Do it."

She doesn't know if she can, but she tries, her
fingers held in place by his.  Combined, the friction
created makes her blood sing again.  It isn't long
before the orgasm denied her by Jerse is ripping
through her, fueled by his, "Come on, baby... that's
it... let it go."

A ragged sigh slips from her lips as her walls
contract around his cock.  She tenses as wave after
wave of pleasure consumes her, finally subsiding as
she falls boneless into his waiting arms.

Thunder rolls in closer as the seconds tick by;  he is
still hard within her, waiting.  She pushes back,
urging him to seek his own orgasm, the whisper from
her scratchy throat seeking to release him from his
promise.

"Mulder -"

In an instant, he is gone from her, swiftly turning
her to face him, his mouth hard on hers.  His tongue
plunges within, scraping the roof of her mouth. 
Immediately, she responds, all resistance to emotion
flown from her mind in a hazy burst of love.  Her robe
is gone as well, flung away by the insistent stealth
of his hands.

"You happy now, Ana?" he says, the words ground out
between their mouths.

Gasping for breath, she breaks away, bringing her hand
to his stubbled cheek.  Now, she wishes for light, and
it seems the gods have deigned to give her a glimpse
of his face, as lightning illuminates the room.

Anguish lines the hard planes of his cheeks.  It
brings tears to her eyes, the pain she sees written in
every line.  She never meant to bring him to this, and
she opens her mouth to tell him so.

"Shut up," he growls, his features lost once again as
darkness descends.  "Shut up and get on the bed."

"Mulder -"

"Do it, God damn it, or I'll walk right out of here."

And she'll never see him again.  She knows this to be
true; too little, too late, she sees how she's done to
him what people have been doing to him all his life. 
All he's ever wanted is to be loved, to be cherished. 
Right now, he wants to hear neither.

Later, she can tell him later, she thinks.  Tell him
that it's him she loves, him she wants.  Tell him that
she's sorry for putting him through all this just so
she can feel alive.

She never takes her eyes from him as she backs into
the bed.  His hands are clenched at his sides, his
cock stiff and glistening with her wetness.  He
watches her every move, watches as she shoves the
covers down with her feet and lies back.  When she
lifts a slow hand to him, he inhales sharply.

"Just once," he says, bringing a knee up on the bed,
"I want to feel alive."  He moves to cover her,
prowling like a sleek jungle cat, the more frequent
flashes of lightning peppering his muscles.  She
imagines she can see the fine hair of his arms
standing on end, mirroring hers.

"Anything."

"Just once," he continues, boxing her in with both
arms as the scent of sex fills her nostrils, "I want
to come inside you."  Straining, he probes at her open
thighs, and she reaches down to guide him in.  "I
want... I want...." His eyes narrow, and she sees him
fight for words.

"Yes," she whispers, "anything... anything you want." 
As he slides home, she fights to keep her eyes open,
and she brings her hands to his face.  "I promise." 
She lifts up to touch her lips to his.

"No." He jerks away.  "That's not what I want."  He
pulls out of her and thrusts back in, his face closed,
the words gritted out through clenched teeth.  "*This*
is what I want."

Outside, the rain begins, a torrent that is so fierce,
moisture clings to the air, draping them in a cooling
blanket of nature's teardrops.  With a faint nod and
clogged throat, she acquiesces, letting her hands fall
away to grip the pillow.  She realizes he's determined
to ride her long and hard, but she's not afraid; this
is something he needs now.  Plenty of time later for
apology, on both sides.

Within seconds, he's pounding her into the mattress,
his mouth falling to the arch of her throat.

"Fuck you, Scully," he groans, "fuck you...."

Sweet oblivion overwhelms her as her lips form
soundless words.  Love you, Mulder... love you....




A chill awakens her and she shifts under the coverlet,
turning to face the dawn.  Cooler air has settled in
and it makes the pleasant ache of her muscles
bearable.  They burn with misuse; after all, it's been
quite a while since she's had such marathon sex.

Just once... turned into three times.  Three distinct
rounds of heart-shattering lovemaking, sometimes slow
and filled with soft, sweet kisses... sometimes a
repeat of their first encounter, heated with residual
anger, but ending with apologetic sighs.  Very few
words passed between them in the darkness after that
first time.  Communication existed through skin and
breath instead.

He'd kept his promise that first time, pulling away at
the last second, denying himself the completion within
her he'd said he wanted.  Reeling from a second orgasm
- and more so, from the feelings suddenly come to life
within her - she'd feigned total exhaustion and
listened as he'd stumbled from the bed.  Sure he
wouldn't stay, she'd retreated into fitful, sorrowful
sleep almost immediately, not wanting him to witness
her emotional breakdown.

Now, she lies with eyes closed, secure in the
knowledge that he stayed.  Spent the whole night
exploring her body as she did his; carefully using the
condoms she'd brought with her, though a tiny flicker
of hope shoots through her at the thought that there
is a remote possibility of pregnancy.  No, she really
shouldn't hope for it - there lies insanity.  And, at
this moment, they have more pressing things to
discuss.

He stayed.  That's all that matters.

Smiling, she turns her head upon the pillow to greet
the man she now calls lover.  But he's not there; the
bed is indented with the weight of his body... but
he's gone.  As her arm sweeps under the covers, she
realizes it's still warm.  Faint, but noticeable. 
He's not far away - half hour at the most.

Quickly, she sits up and scans the room.  Not a trace
exists of his presence besides the lingering
remembrance now stamped upon her skin.  She stumbles
from the bed and rummages through her suitcase.

He answers after three rings, a terse, clipped word. 
"Mulder."

"It's me."

Silence reigns for several moments, and she can hear
the faint sound of an airport announcer.  He's
leaving.  Stunned, she murmurs, "You're going home?"

His voice is tinny and cool.  "Actually, I'm on my way
to Dallas.  The case I told you about?"

"Case?"

"The billboard, remember?"

Vaguely, she recalls his mumbled recounting of a
missing girl appearing on a billboard.  "Yes.  Mulder,
I'm -"

"It's okay, Scully," he breaks in, regret shading his
voice.  "I did sort of spring it on you at the last
minute, didn't I?"

No, he didn't, she thinks.  And that's not what this
conversation is supposed to be about.

"Don't worry, I don't think it's legit... I'll just
catch up with the local PD tomorrow and be back in the
office by Monday morning."

What?  She's speechless, confused.  Sure that he can't
just ignore the previous night, she finds herself at a
total loss for a reply.

A few tense seconds pass in which they say nothing. 
Then, Mulder opens the door a minute crack, his words
deliberate.

"I promised I'd look into it ASAP... and I always keep
my promises."

He's not going to say a word, just as he told her he
would.  She feels the burn of tears at the back of her
throat.

"Scully?"

Can't say it, she can't say it.  I love you, Mulder...
damn it, just say it!

Worry edges his next words.  "Scully?  Scully, speak
to me."

She drops to the chair, eyeing his crumpled t-shirt on
the floor, half-hidden under the ruffled edge of the
sofa.  In his haste to leave, he must have forgotten
it.  She brings it to her face, a million words
clamoring for release in her numbed brain.  Words she
can never say.

A broken sob is lost in the fabric... it smells of
him, pungent with last night's panic.

Loveyouloveyoudon'tleaveme....

"Scully!  Damn it, are you okay?  Scully, say -"

Stophimbefore...you'resuchafool....

A shaky reply flutters up from her chest at last. 
"Sorry, Mulder," she says, clearing her throat,
"someone's at the door.  I have to go."

The cacophony of the airport is the only sound for
several mournful seconds.

"That's my flight," he says absently, breaking their
silence.

"See you Monday," she says.

"Sure, Monday."

"Mulder, I forgot to tell you -"

But he's gone, the click of his disconnection severing
her words.

"That I have a doctor's appointment Monday," she
finishes weakly, letting the phone fall from her ear.

I will not cry, she tells herself.  I won't.

But the moisture gathering on her lips is salty in its
betrayal.  Impatiently, she swipes at the unwanted
emotions, freezing at thick feel of it.  One drop,
then two, falls to dye the soft cotton.

The investigator in her notes that the color matches
her fingernails perfectly.  She files it away, just
like everything else.


END


Author's Notes:

As always, if I'm treading familiar ground (God, how
could I *not* be, going this far back) - I apologize. 
No infringement intended.

Many thanks to the ladies of Musea, whose always
helpful beta is deeply appreciated.  Especially with
title suggestions and the 'go for it' boosts.  Any
mistakes are my own.

This is a departure for me.  I began reading fanfic
after ReduxII, and basically was immersed in angsty
cancer-fic from the get-go.  And I hold a deep respect
for the authors who can so effortlessly make me feel
such relentless emotion.  I'd never felt anything
quite like that before, having had no personal
experience with the sometimes overwhelming futility of
fighting a battle that can't be won.  Let's just say,
I've learned since then.

I don't think I've ever tried my hand at such an
unforgiving tale, and still, it's not done.  My battle
with this storyline continues, simply because it must.
 I realize the scenario presented is bordering on A/U,
and the characterizations may be stark and
unbelievable to some, but I'd love to hear your
thoughts.

Thanks for reading.

mish_rose@yahoo.com



=====
Galia makes a lovely home for my fic at:
http://sf.exit.mytoday.de/visionsoftruth/mishfic.htm

Musea, A Collection of Beauty:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/