From suenandrew@berlen.bdsnet.com Fri Feb 28 20:05:02 1997 Subject: story submission From: suenandrew@berlen.bdsnet.com (Andrew & Sue Kennedy) Date: Fri, 28 Feb 1997 18:05:02 -0800 (PST) -------- Death and Desire by Sue Flaxman suenandrew@berlen.bdsnet.com This story is based on characters owned and created by Chris Carter, Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions, who hold the copyright thereto. They are used without permission, although no copyright infringements are intended. There, now that’s all said and tidily put away… This story is rated NC-17 for graphic sexual material. There’s only one sort-of spoiler, from Ascension. I must apologize to all out there who I know are going to write me about the condom issue…all I will say here in my own defense is that the circumstances of the story speak to that issue and anyone who has a problem can take it up with Mulder. When he wakes up. This story takes place in no particular time, it’s just the way I thought it might happen. Mulder and Scully find themselves in a more intimate expression of compassion than they might have expected after a case ends in tragic circumstances. **************************************************************************** ***** DEATH AND DESIRE O camerado close! O you and me at last, and us two only. O a word to clear one’s path endlessly! O something ecstatic and undemonstrative! O music wild! O now I triumph and you shall also; O hand in hand—O wholesome pleasure—O one more desirerer and lover! O to haste firm holding—to haste, haste, on with me. --Walt Whitman Ray’s Diner, Bozeman Montana Friday, 11:30 p.m. Scully slid into the restaurant booth across from her partner. She saw that Mulder had gotten as far as ordering iced tea, but the glass sat untouched before him, the ice cubes melting. She didn’t look at his face right away, but studied the menu as though it might give her the answers—the words she needed to deal with what Mulder must be feeling. "I got us rooms at the motel across the highway," she said, turning to look for the waitress. The bandage on her neck pulled as she did and the stitches underneath gave a sharp twinge. "I’m going to do the post on the girl in the morning and then maybe we can head home." Mulder didn’t respond, only stared into the depths of his iced tea. His hands lay on the table in front of him. Until now, he had functioned as normal since the shooting. Shock, Scully thought. It was catching up with him. Scully wanted to reach out to him, to touch his hand, but when she finally looked at his face, the closed, blank look of it stopped her. She looked at him closer, worried. His narrow features were drawn and pale, his suit rumpled, his eyes haunted when they finally met hers. He had killed a fifteen-year old girl today; a girl who was possessed of a preternatural and inhuman strength; a girl who had been holding a butcher knife at Scully’s throat. Scully found that her hands were trembling ever so slightly as she thought about how close to death she had come. The last time she had come that close, she had been in a coma, unaware of what was happening to her. And Mulder had been there then, as well. He had been there, in that sunlit field this afternoon, standing between her and death. For all Scully’s strong belief, she had no wish to die. All of that—all of that she had to cope with herself and yet she was worrying about Mulder. He was the one who had been forced by circumstance to shoot Carole Jinkins. "Mulder, I—" she started to say, feeling oddly awkward with this man, with whom she had worked side by side for over four years. They had been each others’ strengths, almost since the day she had first walked into his basement office. But this—she didn’t know what to do with this. Scully shook her head at her own thoughts, and gestured for the waitress. She ordered a salad, and when Mulder continued his silence, a cheeseburger and fries for him. When the salad arrived, Scully picked at it, sneaking glances at Mulder from beneath lowered lids. She kept expecting him to snap out of it, to say something wry, or at least to say something at all, but he continued his uncomfortable and unnatural silence. She found that her heart was wrenching for him. He was her friend, and seeing him in pain tore at her. He wasn’t going to eat, that much was obvious. Scully reached out with one hand, then the other, and covered his hands with them. "Come on," she said. "Let’s get some sleep." Scully drove the rented car across the highway and parked in front of their rooms at the motel. "Not exactly the Ritz," she said. "Or even the Motel 6." "Nope," said Mulder. Scully stopped in the act of opening her door and looked at her partner. "No," she said softly. He looked up at her, his eyes storm-gray in the dim interior light of the car. Anguish was etched on his face. "Fifteen…she was fifteen, Scully." Scully sighed. "And she had the strength of five men. She had a knife at my throat and she intended to use it. You saved my life." "Yeah," he said, not sounding convinced. "No one is going to question the shoot, Mulder. Not me, not Skinner, *nobody*. You did what you had to do." "Mm," he said. Scully shoved the door open. She wasn’t getting anywhere with him. He wasn’t behaving normally, and he was the psychologist, not she. Getting out of the car, she took a deep breath of the dry night air. Maybe the morning would be better. In the morning there would be work to do. There were still loose ends to be wrapped up, statements to confirm. She heard the other car door open and turned to see Mulder standing silhouetted against the lights of the parking lot. She didn’t know what to do, and she didn’t like the feeling. In many ways the enigmatic Mulder was closer to her than men she had allowed into her bed, had shared the deepest of intimacies with. She knew his fears, his hopes, his dreams. She knew what had made him who he was. But tonight, in this remote place, with the cooling breeze blowing her hair around her face; a night that felt as though everything should be well in the world, a young girl was lying in a cold drawer at the morgue, and Mulder was shattering before her eyes. They retrieved their luggage from the trunk without exchanging a word. As they let themselves into their rooms, they didn’t even look at each other. It wasn’t until Scully had stripped off her clothes in favor of her nightshirt and was brushing her hair in front of the bathroom mirror, taking care not to pull her stitches, that the knock sounded on the door. Padding barefoot to the door, she opened it. Mulder fell into her arms. In the darkness of the doorway, he encircled her hard with his arms and buried his face against her shoulder. His weight against her was warm. He had removed only his jacket and tie. Scully was startled, but overcome by a wave of tenderness. She put her arms around his back and stroked him, holding him close. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of him. Tears, unaccountable, rare tears flooded her eyes as they held each other. Mulder released one of his hands and flicked the light switch by the door. Harsh yellow light flooded the hallway. Scully opened her eyes, then blinked. Mulder raised his head. He put his hands up and cradled her face. His palms were hot, burning against her skin. Scully met his gaze. His eyes were dark and stormy. His cheeks were wet with tears. "Mulder, I—" Scully began. She never finished the sentence. Mulder brought his mouth down on hers in a hard kiss, a kiss that rocked Scully on her heels and drove all thought from her mind. He plunged his hands into her hair and held her fast. All Scully was aware of was the feel of him, the heat of him, the need of his lean, muscular body pressed up against hers. Unbidden, she was kissing him back, their tongues meeting in an almost desperate union. In the very back of her consciousness, Scully knew what was going to happen; that it could never end with just a kiss, not this night. The heat she felt building in her body told her that. She wanted him, needed him, more than she had ever needed anything before in her life, it seemed, and all she could do was surrender to the sweet longing and desperate need in their kiss. Mulder closed the door behind him with his foot and moved her urgently into the room, onto the bed. They wrapped their arms around each other. Mulder slid his mouth around to Scully’s neck, kissing feverishly, tracing a path to her collarbone. Scully ran her fingers through Mulder’s soft hair. Funny how she had never realized until now that she had always wondered what that would feel like. She moved restlessly against him. His hands moved down and caught the hem of her nightshirt. He slid it up over her hips. She half-sat and slipped it off, baring herself to him. He raised up on one elbow and looked at her, running his palm from the bandage on her neck, between her breasts, down past the elastic of her panties, until he touched the very center of her. She gasped, her excitement fueled by a sense of being very much alive—more alive than she had ever felt with any other man. Fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, she pulled him closer, clumsy in her haste to feel him against her. He Slipped out of the shirt, kicked off his pants and then fitted his body against hers. He lowered his head to her breasts and flicked her nipples with his tongue, his breath coming on short gasps. The sensation shot through her entire body and she clutched at him, knowing what she needed, what she so desperately wanted from him, but unsure how to ask. His cock was hard as iron against her thigh and her excitement rose in response to his. He brought his mouth down on hers again, harder this time, intense, causing heat to explode in her belly. Their hands were all over each other now, moving in a ritual dance that went to the depths of Scully’s soul. She felt his eagerness, his need, as though he were already a part of her—as though he had always been a part of her. He rolled on top of her and she opened herself to him. As he slipped deliciously inside her, she murmured "Yes, oh, yes," and realized what was happening. It was life they were fighting for, life they were celebrating, battling together against death that had almost claimed her—in the oldest way in the world. Scully looked up into Mulder’s familiar face. There was pain as well as passion in his eyes, mingled together, and she knew this was part of the ritual of healing. This was what she could give him—could give herself. She wrapped her legs around him, bringing him more tightly into her. His breath on her face was hot. "Scully, oh Dana, oh my God," he whispered. "I’m right here, Mulder," she said. "It’s okay. It’s okay." And then she didn’t say anything more, as the pleasure rose and exploded through her body. She felt his body stiffen and arch in her arms, and he collapsed on top of her. Scully held him and stroked his hair, her leg still flung over his as he slid off her and nestled close to her side. After a time, his face relaxed into sleep. Life, she thought drowsily, no matter what the FBI might have to say about partners becoming involved, is always better than death. And love, she thought, drifting into sleep, is better than all.