No Quarter Given: Greed
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.
Disclaimer: Same as before - not mine, never, ever
will be.
Summary: He wants to hear her say it most of all.

Warning: The angst continues.  Read at your own risk.

More notes at end.



... Greed ...



"Flight 592 non-stop to Washington is now boarding at
Gate 37."

No, no, not yet, his harried mind screams.  He can
hear her soft breathing over the din of the airport,
focusing on the sweet lifeline.  He should have it
memorized by now, and he does, all four years of
logical snorts and disbelieving huffs.

It's the mere hours of shaky gasps and encouraging
sighs that he hasn't had enough of... *years* of
listening to them would never burn them onto his
brain.  More, he wants more.

Abstinence, she said.  I'm tired of abstinence.  A
word he knows nothing of.  Some would say he's lived
without so much for so long; his parents' love, his
sister's presence, a family, a home.

In fact, his greed puts Midas to shame.  Selfish,
rapacious greed, directed at the one person who would
give until her dying day.  He knew... he *knew* he
shouldn't have taken what she was so freely offering.

But once again, he took from her.  "Use me," he said. 
Truth be known, he became the user.  Again and again,
taking her body and thereby stripping away her
defenses.  Her soul - an unknown, tender entity - was
bared to him for those precious hours.  All that she
had left, all that she kept secret... the very thing
he had no business revealing... he stole, like a
schoolyard bully.

No more, he tells himself.  Leave her in peace.
"That's my flight."  That's the way.  Give her back
some normalcy.

For a second, he's sure she doesn't hear him.  Either
that, or she chooses to ignore him.  Which would be
best, actually.  Then she says, "See you Monday."

It's working, it *will* work.  Just keep at it.

"Sure, Monday."  Letting the phone drop, he thumbs the
'END' button with self-derisive anger.

Wait a minute, was that his name?  Quickly, he tries
to re-connect, but to no avail.  Just as well; what's
done is done.  If she won't tell him what he wants to
hear, then he'll live with silence.

If only the vision of her lying beneath him, the
embroidered sheets a pale imitation of her white
skin... if only that would fade into nothing as
easily.




"Fuck you, Scully... fuck you."

Every inch of his skin touches hers now, chest to
breast.  He buries his face into the hollow where slim
neck meets collarbone, and his mouth latches on with
vampiric greed as his hips begin to move again.

He knows he must be hurting her, but he can't stop;
he's so close, has been ready to come since he first
entered her.  It's wonderful and horrible at the same
time.  This is Scully... his best friend.  But he's
made her into an object of lust, just as she's done to
him, and a vengeful part of him wants to brand her,
leaving the imprint of his skin upon hers for all
time.

The rhythm returns with ease, and he grips her waist
to hold her in place.  Her hands do not touch him,
yielding to his command of moments ago.  Distance, he
can't do this without distance.  He shouldn't be doing
this at *all,* but it's too late for regret.

All feeling is concentrated in his cock as it glides
into her slippery warmth.  That's all he wants, to
empty himself inside her though he knows pregnancy
would be insane for them both.  He grimaces against
the pillow... he wants to, *God* how he wants to.  To
chain her to him so she'll never be free.

But he can't do it, can't find the release she found
so easily as he tied her to the bedpost with his arms
and legs.  A frustrated moan erupts from him and he
speeds up, straining, wanting her hands on his back,
but now afraid to ask for the contact.  It's not his
right.

Then he feels her hot breath steal across his shoulder
and move to his neck, mirroring the travel of his
mouth against her body.  Soft lips  move, forming
soundless words, words he longs to hear but can't.  He
knows what she's offering, and the knowledge brings
him to the precipice.

He's seconds away from exploding within her when he
feels her breath hitch beneath him.  Her hips jerk
under his, and she moans as yet another orgasm sweeps
over her, her trembling, "Oh, God," leaving a trail of
fire that singes the beard on his jaw.

Yes, he thinks, give it all to me.  He raises his head
as the last shudders rack her body, intending to ask
her for forgiveness.  To plead for touch... to beg for
love.

She's so still, her eyes closed, her mouth lax.  He
forces a rasping, "Scully?" from his lips as his balls
tighten with the ever-closer end.

But he realizes in that instant that she's gone from
him - whether by denial or fatigue, he's not sure. 
Exhaustion has taken hold and no amount of action on
his part will make her come back to him.  Hard on the
heels of that thought is another; this one more
pressing and black with greed.

She can't stop him now.  He can fill her with himself
until there's room in her body and heart for no other
but him.  Once it's done, it cannot be undone.  A bout
of temporary insanity, he can say.  It wouldn't be the
first time he's done something stupid.

But he promised.

Heaving himself up in the darkness, he breaks away
from her warmth and stumbles off the bed, falling to
his knees on the rug.  The rough, short nap stabs into
his flesh as his shaking body refuses to cooperate
anymore.  His cheek hits the floor with a muffled thud
and his hip lands on the more jarring caress of her
discarded robe.

Curled into a ball of unbelievable pain, he grabs his
cock and jerks once, twice.  That's all it takes, and
he shudders soundlessly as his orgasm rockets through
him.

His tears are silent as well.




"Sir."

The soft word drifts into his brain and he ignores it.

"Sir."  Firmer now, he has no choice but to answer.

"Yes?"  Opening his eyes, he focuses on her face
through the layers of restless sleep.

"Are you all right?"  The flight attendant is
concerned, leaning over him, but not too close.  Fear
is shading her creased brow.  What the hell was he
doing?

"I'm fine," he mumbles, turning away from her.  His
sleep was agitated, he knows.  He wonders if he'll
ever find peace in sleep again.  "I have a headache,
that's all.  Maybe coming down with a cold."  Leave me
alone, he adds silently.

"I can get some aspirin for you, if you'd like."  She
glances at the other passengers with calm, and they
turn away, back to their magazines and briefcases.

His dreams must have created quite a scene. 
Pornographic, to be sure.  Was he dry humping the arm
rest or something?  A snide grin covers his face as
his sarcastic, careless nature comes to the fore.  He
doesn't give a shit, really.

But he *does* feel sorry for the slim, pale woman
standing before him.  It's not her fault he's a
tormented asshole.

"Aspirin would be nice," he says.  "Aspirin."

As she nods and leaves, he turns back to the window
and watches the clouds go by.




It's the cold that wakes him, the clammy feel of his
body on the unyielding floor making him start and lift
his head.  Darkness surrounds him, and he remembers it
all.  Instantly, he shuts down, letting his instinct
for self-preservation surface, tamping the emotions
behind a well-worn door at the back of his brain.

Leave.  He needs to leave.  Before she wakes up and
makes him leave.  He checks his watch; he's only been
here an hour.  With any luck, he can quietly dress and
be well on his way by ten.

The soft sound of skin moving against cotton makes him
pause.  Behind him, she sleeps, moving in the bed.  He
imagines she's pulled the covers over her by now,
chilled as her body has cooled down.  He wants to
touch her, to make sure she's okay, but doesn't dare. 
One look at her would be enough to lash him to that
bed as her willing slave.

Quickly, he must move quickly.  He crawls like a cat
over the rug, searching for his armor of black. 
Looking somehow to his clothes for the strength to
resist the growing pull of her night sounds.  The
sticky half-dried semen on his lower belly is an
unpleasant reminder but he's unwilling to take the
time to shower.

There is enough light in the bedroom to see his
clothes scattered upon the floor, and he picks them
up, the scent of his frenzied search still clinging to
them.  Almost there, he's almost there.

Standing, he reaches for his boxers, finding he has to
grab the back of the ancient chair for support, as his
legs are still rubbery.  The muscles are slightly
sore, and he knows it's more from relief at having
found her safe than any physical strain.  They've been
locked in pre-flight mode for more than thirty-six
hours, waiting for her name to pop up on the Gunmen's
network of computers.  He really has to give it to
her; when she wants to ditch him, she knows how to do
it well.

A sigh steals across the room and he freezes. One deep
breath, then two... he won't look at her.  If he
does... then, a rustle of bed linens.  No, he won't...
but his heart betrays him, and he turns like Lot's
wife, knowing it's the wrong thing to do.

And the pillar of salt crumbles.

One leg is uncovered, slim and ghostly white.  A hint
of light hair peeks from under the sheet draped on her
hips, and he gulps, his mouth suddenly dry.  Up, up,
his eyes travel, to the one puckered nipple that
crowns her bare breast.  He flexes the fingers of his
right hand, knowing how well it fits in his palm.

What little control he still possesses leaves when he
sees her face.  In the muted shadows, he can see how
her makeup has been smeared by his mouth, by their
sweat, by her tears.  The faint scratches from her
trip to Philadelphia are still there, and he longs to
put his lips to them, to soothe the hurt.

His clothes drop from fingers made lax by the
surrender to temptation.  The decision is made.  Good
or bad, he's not going anywhere.  Not yet.  He sighs,
his resolve floating away with the sad sound.  The
urge to rejoin her is strong, but he doesn't.  The
invisible, frayed rope that stretches between them
threatens to break should he test it so soon.

Not yet.  She needs time.

Moving to the balcony, he breathes deep of the moist
air, forcing himself to relax.  The rain has slowed to
a drizzle, and he can hear the street beyond the
opposite building come alive with Friday night
partiers.  The chaise lounge is soaking wet, but he
reclines anyway, uncaring if anyone can see him in the
darkness.  It's fucking Mardi Gras - nudity is
expected, he thinks.

Is that why she picked New Orleans?  Especially at
this time of the year?  Inhibition is thrown to the
four winds on the streets.  Easy to find someone to -

No.  He doesn't want to think about that now.  Anger
still wars with the more tender pull of love and
desire.  He'd like nothing better than to shake some
sense into her.  Then melt into her until he's
absorbed into her soul.  No way could she get rid of
him then.

Taking a deep breath, he wills his mind to relax.  No
use thinking right now.  He's tired of thinking.  Like
her, he wants to feel.

He smells himself in the night air, mixed with the
lingering scent of her.  When was the last time he
bathed?  Slept or eaten?  Sleep is impossible, he
knows.  Bathing will come later, when he feels like
it.  But he *is* hungry, he realizes.  Reaching for
the phone, he sighs with relief that it hasn't shorted
out in the storm.

A click tells him he's reached the front desk.  The
voice on the other end is breathless and urgent. 
"Miss Ana?"

Jealousy rears its ugly head at the memory of the
handsome man behind the counter, his concern for
Scully speaking of her friendly overtures.

"We need room service," he bites out, his voice low
and steely.

There is silence on the other end for a moment. "Yes,
sir," the man answers finally, in a polite but
grudging voice.  "What can we do for you?"

The hollow of his stomach beckons, and he says, "Food.
 Some bread, cheese... anything... and a bottle of
wine.  For two."  He cringes at his self-confidence,
the fantasy of watching her eat, naked against the
white sheets, rising unbidden to shake him to his
bones.  Biting back the anger at the impossible, he
finishes,  "As quickly and quietly as possible.  Leave
it outside the door."

This time, the clerk retreats to familiar
subservience.  "Yes, sir, anything you need, just -"

He hangs up on the man's groveling and leans his head
back, closing his eyes against the mist.  Anything he
needs, he just has to ask.  If only it were that
simple with her. 

In less than fifteen minutes, he hears the scraping of
shoes outside the door.  He knows she's exhausted, but
he hopes the commotion isn't enough to wake her.  Not
yet, anyway.  He needs sustenance before walking that
tightrope.

The tray is laden with local delicacies, and his mouth
waters at the smell of cayenne pepper.    Never taking
his eyes from the woman in the bed, he eats slowly,
sprawled in the settee at the far end of the room. 
Though hungry, he can eat no more than a few boiled
shrimp and a spicy cup of gumbo with French bread. The
wine he saves just in case, hope flickering with a
last gasp of breath at the thought of sharing it with
her.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as he moves back to
the balcony, his hunger for food abated.  As if
noticing it for the first time, he spies a towel laid
across the back of the chair.  It's soaking wet from
the rain, but as he brings it up to his face, it still
smells like her.  He clutches it in his hands, his
eyes closing with grief.  Touch... he craves touch, he
realizes.  *Her* touch.  How he could ever have denied
himself the touch of her hands is beyond his
comprehension.

He sits again on the chaise, used to the damp now, the
towel held to his chest, forcing air in and out of his
lungs.  He wants to stay.  God knows he does.  Will
she let him?

The rain picks up again suddenly, and he gasps at the
cold pellets that sting his skin.  It takes a moment
or two, but he allows his body to acclimate, both
loving and hating the feel of the water.  It's a
punishment and a blessing, cleansing his body and
soul.

Knowing he can't be seen from the courtyard below, and
uncaring if he *can* be seen by the patrons across the
way, he stands and spreads his arms wide. The rain
sluices over his body, washing away the last of his
resistance.  Not that there was much left, once he'd
looked upon her.  He breathes deeply, shaking his
head, clearing his mind of nothing but what awaits him
in that bed.  The work, the chase, the worry... all
fade until his focus is once again pinpointed on
*her.*

Turning slowly, he sees her slumbering form in the
bed, illuminated by a far-off flash of lightning. 
This storm is not as fierce as the one before, more
like a slow influx of life-giving water lapping at the
banks of the Mississippi.

He grabs the towel in both hands and wrings out the
water, then one step, and he's inside.  With every
step that follows, he wipes away the droplets that
cling to him, his gaze never straying from her.  His
heart thuds in his chest, from anticipation or dread,
he's not sure.  But the gooseflesh on his arms is real
and familiar, signaling the beginning of a new chase. 
One that has nothing to do with lights in the sky, and
everything to do with the  beautiful enigma just
beyond the shadows.  She sleeps on, wrapped in the
tangle of sheets that add another layer of mystery.

He stands beneath the slow whirr of the ceiling fan
and shivers as it dries him, one hand slicking back
his wet hair.

It's not finished, not nearly.  Raising the towel, he
approaches the bed.



His apartment is still as death, the evidence of the
last frantic hours spent waiting for a signal from her
strewn everywhere.  The phone rests on the coffee
table and his address book is open to her mother's
number.  Her apartment key lays on the floor where it
missed his desk, flung in an angry rage at her
disappearance.  The Saturday evening shadows hide the
way he went crazy, throwing airline manifests and
credit card printouts like a spoiled child.

He really should clean up the mess, but utter fatigue
settles in his bones and he drops to the couch.  Sleep
isn't immediate.




He starts with her foot, a feather light touch of the
cool towel against the sole, careful not to tickle her
awake.  A voice at the back of his mind tells him she
will mount some protest; but if he's lucky, and
gentle, he can forestall the return of her inhibitions
with sure hands and loving care.

One hand is draped by the towel, giving her ankle a
soothing balm.  The other snakes under her calf, and
he is surprised by the heat of her, even in the chill
of the room.  Is she feverish?  No, he concludes. 
She's just overheated from the night's activity, all
the more reason to take his time with her and give her
the balm she needs.

He gently lifts the sheet from her body and he stills
at her deep sigh, glancing up as he holds his breath. 
But she doesn't awaken; in fact, she lets her leg
shift, bending to give him a glimpse of the place he'd
love to bury himself forever.

In answer to her unconscious invitation, his cock
stirs, despite his shivering.  But he persists,
unwilling to give himself over to selfish desires at
this point.  This is about her.

Slowly, he draws the towel up one leg, then the other,
wiping away the fine sheen of sweat.  Pausing now and
then to drop kisses on a dimple here, a curve there,
he makes his way up to her belly, the backs of his
legs trembling with the effort not to join her on the
bed.

Like a slave, he worships her, denying himself the
luxury of intruding into her bed space, content for
the moment to stand above her and watch the flutter of
her muscles react to his touch.  When his hair falls
into his eyes, he shakes it away, careful not to let
the drops fall upon her silky skin.  He is awed by the
beauty before him and he draws in a shaky breath when
his hands cup her breasts through the towel.

One by one, he rolls the cloth over her nipples and
smiles at the way her breathing changes, become
deeper, quicker.

"Mulder...."

A sob hitches in his throat; she's dreaming, and he
stops to watch the shift of her eyes under the
paper-thin lids.  Could it be possible?  Has she
always murmured his name in her dreams?  He can't be
that fortunate.  It's only because he's intruded this
night in a most intimate way. Brushing aside the
yearning, he pulls away to bunch the towel in one
hand.

Like an artist, he dabs at her cheeks and lips, the
streaks of her heavy makeup disappearing.   Forehead,
chin, hollow of the throat... all is wiped clean under
his gentle touch.

Her eyes crack open and he holds his breath, waiting
for some resistance.  But her look is sleepy and
unquestioning, trained upon his face.  She blinks,
trying to focus, but still she's too fatigued to deny
him.  So he continues, with his fingers this time,
cupping her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

"I thought -" she whispers, choking over the
realization that he's still here.

"Shh."  Much as he wants to hear her say she's happy
he didn't leave, he can't take the chance that what he
sees shimmering in those pain-filled eyes is
disappointment.

A little while longer, he pleas silently.

Her lashes droop, and it's enough for now.

Minutes pass as he admires the porcelain skin he
uncovers; a crease at the corner of each eye, a
freckle below her right earlobe, and the mole.

Above her lip, the mark he knew was there, but had
never seen without the concealing film of makeup.  His
thumb glides over it and he licks his lips, wanting to
touch his tongue to it.  Not now, but he will.  He
promises himself that he will.

"Roll over," he says, before temptation gets the
better of him.

"Wha -?" The scratchy confusion is momentary, and she
tenses at the breaking of the spell.

"Roll over," he says again, with gentle urging.

Sighing, she does, her arms curling about the pillow
on the far side.  Burrowing into it, she drifts again,
her breathing slowing to a soft purr.

She doesn't even flinch at the touch of the towel on
her back, and he brings a knee up on the bed to lean
over her.  Every slope, every ridge of her spine gets
equal attention, the circle of the tattoo drawing
special interest from his fingers.

In the dim light, the flesh has the pink glow of
tender skin.  The touch of the towel isn't enough to
wipe it from her skin, though he so wants to erase it
like a smudge of dirt on a scraped knee.  It's a
reminder of his inattention to her needs, but he knows
she sees it as an act of rebellion.  It's not about
him, just as she said not long ago.  He must remember
that.

Instead of lingering there, he passes the towel over
the backs of her legs, one by one, looking for the
same reaction as before.  He's rewarded just the same,
as her legs shift apart and she moans.

Finally, he climbs fully onto the bed and lies down
beside her, letting the towel fall on his hip before
curling an arm around her.  The protest he knew would
come falls weakly from her lips.

"Mulder."  The warning is slight, but there.

"Shh, let me."

To his surprise, she does without any further
resistance.  He settles her back against his chest and
slips an arm under her neck.  His other hand brings
her leg over his, opening her up to him.  Only one
place left to clean....

At the touch of the towel between her legs, she gasps
and stiffens in his embrace.  Her hiss stabs at him,
and he flinches inwardly with her, the calming words
breathed into her ear.  "It's okay, it's okay."

He'd known their lovemaking was rough; his muscles had
been very sore before his impromptu shower in the
rain.  Hers must be just as spent, and the slam of his
thighs into the junction of hers can't help but have
inflamed the soft skin there.

"Better?"

She nods into his arm, keeping her face lowered.  For
a while they lie there, his body cradling hers, one
hand rubbing her hip.  She smells of rainwater now,
and he breathes deep, loving the way the scent of the
outdoors embraces her.  In his mind, she is part of
his earth, a cool, yet fiery goddess that embodies his
every dream.  He would tell her so if he thought she'd
listen; instead, he pays tribute by the touch of his
hands.

"Hungry?" he asks, envisioning himself feeding her
amidst the plump pillows, gulping at the fantasy.  Say
yes, he implores silently, eyes closed with slim hope.
 I'll do anything for you.

Shaking her head no, she brings her arms to her chest.
 She's retreating from him already, putting them
firmly back into their respective places.  As much as
she can, anyway, considering exactly where they are...
and their state of undress.

With a sigh, he begins to pull away from her.

She turns, the towel flung to the floor, her body
melting into his.

"Don't go."




His feet pound the pavement, the dismal Sunday morning
surrounding him like an oppressive, airless black
hole.  Unbidden, the questions come to mind.

Is she still there?  Did she spend another day,
waiting to see if he'd pass through on his way back to
D.C.?  He'd lied about going to Dallas, not wanting
her to think he was treating the day with other than
casual significance.  Truth be known, he didn't want
her to think he'd gone home to wait for *her.*

Which is just what he did, no big surprise there. 
Like a fool, he spent the night in his apartment,
exhaustion finally taking hold, though he slept
fitfully, waiting for a phone call that would never
come.  Why would she call him, anyway?  It was over;
they had gone back to partners and friends, nothing
more, nothing less.

It's his own fault if he wants something more.  His
own misfortune.

The miles rack up for another hour or two, the words
echoing in his brain.

That, you stupid fuck, is *your* misfortune.




His eyes slam shut, sure he's misunderstood her.  Not
wanting to take advantage of her again, he forces
himself to be still, though his hands fist behind her
back with the ache to hold her.

"Scully."  Her name breaks from him on a shaky sigh,
his doubt and yearning carried on the syllables.

In answer, she kisses her way to one of his nipples,
where she opens her mouth over the rapid beating of
his heart.  Her hands press against him, rolling him
over onto his back.  He has no choice but to let his
arms encircle her, though he's already shaking his
head no.  He wants this, but is still not sure she
does.

"Yes," she whispers, raising glassy eyes to his. 
"Again."

As her lips close over his, he lets his eyes drift
shut, unable to withstand the joy.




"Mulder, it's Frohike.  Call us when you get in, dude.
 We're worried... you know."

He presses the 'erase' button on his answering
machine, knowing he won't call his friends.  There's
no way he could keep the emotion from his voice, even
over the phone.




As she unrolls the condom over his erection, he jerks,
unable to deny himself the pleasure her touch creates.
 He doesn't want to dwell on the fact that she has
condoms in the first place; though he knows very well
it could have been some nameless stranger in her bed
this evening.

But fate has given him the chance.  Not once, but
twice.  He wants to savor every moment this time, sure
it's to be the last.

When she slowly lowers herself on him, he has to look.
 And if he thought feeling was the ultimate, then
seeing is nirvana.

Her eyes are slitted, her mouth open on a wordless
sigh.  Bending slightly forward, she runs her palms
over his chest until they wrap around his face.

His eyelids slam shut, burning as he sees her intent.

The kiss is nothing like any he's ever had before. 
Sensual, soft, tickling... humid, hot, serious...
catastrophic to his mind and soul.  He unfolds like a
scarf in the wind at her touch, flying to parts
unknown.  Shattering into a thousand pieces, all
etched with her face and form.

Red-orange desire flashes through him, and his hands
grasp her hips, asking her to move.  Begging her to
give him release.

And move she does, her mouth still close to his, her
tongue painting his lips with warmth.  Slow, even
rocking upon him, designed to prolong the sweet agony
that grips him now.

He can't speak, though every tug of her hot sheath
makes his head twist on the pillow.  Knowing he should
wait for her, he tries to make her join in his frenzy,
his hands gliding to her breasts.  She will have none
of that, though, taking his wrists in her hands to
imprison them beside his head.  His eyes slit open and
he shivers at the sight of her lying upon him,
determination narrowing her eyes.  Of their own
accord, his feet plant themselves on the bed and his
hips answer the call of hers.  Sliding deeper into
her, he cries out, knowing it's just a matter of
moments now.

Her mouth swallows his ragged cry.  After a quick tug
on his lips with her teeth, she backs away,
whispering, "This is what I want."

And he succumbs to her want, a willing slave.





The telephone is in his hand.

He's a fool.  Leaving her after all, keeping the one
promise he knows now he should never have kept.  They
need to talk; *he* needs to tell her that she's
everything to him.

Just do it, you idiot, he tells himself.

But it's been more than a day; has she had enough time
to think?  What if she doesn't feel the same?  All she
wanted was abandon.  Not the love of a self-centered
man with more baggage than one human should have to
live with;  a man who takes every opportunity possible
to state that the 'truth' is all he's after.

Tomorrow.  He needs to do this face to face.  If she
even shows up tomorrow.

His cell phone shatters when it hits the wall.  He's
such a fucking coward.




He drifts up from sleep, warm under the covers, the
faint light of pre-dawn trickling into the room.  As
he blinks away the clouds of his empty dreams, he
feels a sigh caress his chest and he starts, looking
down.

She's still there, wrapped in his arms.  His heart
slows from its fearful tripping as he gathers her
closer.  She didn't leave. *He* didn't leave.  It
wasn't a dream.

Just a few minutes longer, he thinks.  All he needs is
the feel of her for a little while longer.  The slim
strength of her arms curled up against him, the firm
line of her legs entangled with his.  The smell of her
hair that tickles his nose, the sound of her breathing
that tells him she's alive... that which gives him
life as well.

But it's not to be, as she stirs, her eyes lifting to
meet his sleepily.  With a sad heart, he allows her to
pull away, though she doesn't retreat fully, just
enough to lay her head on the other pillow.

Are they going to talk now?  If so, he wonders what he
could possibly say to her.  Apologies, of course. 
Assurances that this will be forgotten.  Maybe he
should just get dressed and leave.  He waits for her
to begin.  This is her party, after all.  He's just a
guest.

But she doesn't say a word, just closes her eyes with
a sigh.

It's all the confirmation he needs.  With a jerk, he
pulls away and leaves the bed, ignoring her whispered,
"Mulder."

He knew it, *knew* she would still feel the same in
the morning.  He'd laugh at his stupidity if he didn't
feel like crying.

"No, Scully."  It's all he can manage to say as he
fumbles with his jeans.  "Shit," he spits out, when
the zipper threatens to catch on the tender skin of
his dick.  Where the hell is his boxers, anyway?  And
why won't his hands stop shaking?

"Mulder, please," she says, this time with a catch in
her voice.

He whirls, his jeans forgotten, anger making him
tremble.  The familiar pull of lust slams into him
again at the sight of her, naked to the waist, sitting
up in the bed.  But he can't give in to it.  "Please
what, Scully?  What the hell else do you want from
me?"

She bites her lip and turns away, her arms coming up
to cross over her chest, a pink flush covering her
bare skin.

"God damn it, you can't say it, can you?" he cries. 
No, he can't give in to it, he can't... even though
she looks so forlorn and fragile, the delicate line of
her spine beckoning to his mouth.  "Why can't you say
it?"

No, he can't... just as she can't give voice to what
she's feeling for him, he can't give in to his heart's
desire.  He won't do it, he swears, his hands fisting.
 He won't.

Like hell he won't.

Two steps and he's back in the bed, grabbing her
shoulders to pull her to him.  Her gasp of shock
emboldens him, the surprise in her eyes at his rough
handling making him instantly hard once again.

"You can't even face me now?" he says, reaching for
the condoms even as he challenges her.  "What's with
the frightened virgin routine?"  It comes out, sharp
as a needle, though he doesn't mean it to be. "*Ana.*"

Her eyes fill with tears at the use of the name, but
he refuses to let them stop him.  She's not fighting
him, and all the signs of arousal are there - from the
hard points of her nipples to the hot urging of her
hips beneath his.

He'd thought they'd gotten past this last night.  That
the last time they'd made love, she'd realized...
hell, he didn't know *what* she thought anymore.  But
he'd seen the reticence in her eyes a few minutes ago,
slipping past her defenses as she'd awakened.

He knows she feels something for him, but she won't
allow herself to say it.  It saddens him, the look
she's giving him now.  Lost, still unsure and not
knowing how to reconcile the turmoil within her.  If
he thought his love would help, he'd say it in a
heartbeat.

But he knows deep down it would do no good.  She'd
repeat it back to him, but regret it later.  Logic
would come with the morning light and he'd lose her
forever.

No.  This must be the end.  The last time, if she'll
let him.

Unable to withstand the pain in her gaze, he drops his
lips to her forehead.  Sure he's written his ticket
out of there with his failing anger, his hand fists
over the condom, grinding it into the pillow.  It
almost burns his palm with the need to be free as it
lays just inches from the wild red hair.

"Last time?" he whispers, his mouth lax against her
skin.  He wants to kiss her into complying, seduce her
with lips and hands, but he waits.  He's done enough
already.

He holds his breath as her hand trails down his
abdomen.  It slides under the open jeans, her nails
lightly scraping the wiry hair.  She's either giving
him his fondest wish, or about to unman him, he
thinks.  And while not expecting the first, he's
surely deserving of the second.

Lifting her chin, she brings her other hand to the
pillow to cover his fist.  They both watch as she
forces his fingers to unfurl.  "Last time," she
whispers, her eyes darting back to his.

At this moment, it's not what he most wants to hear. 
But he steals the words from her lips anyway, greedy
to the bitter end.




It's 10:15 and she still hasn't made it in.  Worry
nibbles at the edges of his mind, the pencil between
his teeth chipped and scored with anxiety.  It's not
like her to be so late without a phone call.

He stares at the bouquet of flowers on her desk.  Like
an embarrassed fool, he'd sneaked them into the
building under his coat, not wanting to endure the
raised eyebrows and smirks.

Another night of silence has really set him on edge;
now they *really* have to talk.  And he won't take her
distance for an answer.  The flowers are just the
start of what could be a lengthy war, in his mind. 
One that he's determined to win.  He'll use every
weapon at hand, if necessary.  Dinners for two, subtle
persuasion, gentle wooing... hot and heavy sex,
because he knows she can't resist it now.

He loves her and he's sure she loves him.  She just
doesn't know it yet.  But she will.  She will say it
to him.  Even if he has to say it a thousand times
first.

At the ring of the telephone, he jumps.  It's her,
saying she's waiting for him at her place - where the
hell is he?  Or better yet, she's quitting and
bringing him up on harassment charges.

"Mulder."

"It's me."

For a second, he allows relief to flood him.  A small
part of him hadn't even expected her to grace him with
a call.  "Where are you, Scully?"

Please say you're still in New Orleans... you want me
to come back... we can take the week off....

"Mulder, I have to tell you something."

ShelovesmeIknowshedoes...tellmeyouloveme....

"Yes?"  His heart speeds up.

"I need you to come down here."

Yes!

"Okay," he answers, forcing a calm he doesn't feel. 
He has to make her say it.  "Where is 'down here'?"

"Holy Cross Memorial Hospital."

It slams him in the chest, taking a chunk of his
heart, stopping its pounding altogether.

"Where?"

"Holy Cross.  Hospital."

He stands, reaching for his coat.  "Are you okay?  Are
you hurt?" Where the hell are his keys?

"No, nothing like that.  I'll be waiting for you in
the Oncology Ward."

*That* freezes him.  "Oncology Ward?"

"I - I've had some tests run," she continues, and he
can hear the underlying fear and disbelief thread
through her voice.  "I need you to... I want to tell
you the results."  She takes a deep breath and
finishes, "Can you come?"

Cancer.  No, it can't be.  There must be some mistake.
 The memory of the day Scully informed him of the
women in Allentown rises, pricking at his brain.

"Mulder, I need you here."  Her voice breaks slightly.
 "I have to tell Skinner and I don't know how."

So she calls her best friend.  Unbelievable pain
staggers him for a second, grinding his romantic hopes
into dust.  Loyalty and friendship rise up in the hole
left behind, right next to the love he'll always feel,
but now never speak of.  It's not what she needs.

Stunned, he makes his reply soft and reassuring. 
"I'll be right there," he says. "Scully, hang on, I'll
be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you."  Her thin whisper is the last he hears
before she hangs up.

As an afterthought, he picks up the flowers.

No.  It can't happen to her.  He won't let it.  He's
greedy that way.

Like he told her, he'd do anything for her.

Anything.



END


Author's Notes:

Again, my love and gratitude to Musea.  There's none
better at love, friendship, and instruction.  My
writing is what it is because of my teachers, past and
present; my life is what it is because of my sisters. 
Real and adopted. :)

Thanks to the many who told me I was doing something
right.  This is dedicated to them.

And I'm still not finished.  As long as the muse
cooperates, the angst will thrive.  Though I think
this story will come to an end shortly, one that I
hope will be satisfactory.

Thanks so much 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/