DISCLAIMER:  These characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-
Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

This story is an alternate universe continuation of my
SONNET story:  "Riddle Incomplete."  This story does NOT
belong in that universe, nor does it track with my 12
Rites/12 Degrees universe.  This is a whole 'nother
universe.  It would, however, help if you read "Riddle 
Incomplete" first, just so you'll know where we are as
we begin this story.

Clear now?  Let's play....

Rated NC-17 for sexual situations.  V, A, MSR

"Be Still My Heart"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


if we love each(shyly)
other,what clouds do or Silently
Flowers resembles beauty
less than our breathing
          - e.e. cummings



Part I:  If We Love


Dana Scully's apartment
11:14 p.m.


She should have stayed.  

Pure and simple.

She should have stayed.  Reached out her arms to him and
pulled him to her, giving him the comfort and strength and
love he needed from her.  That she needed from him.

Damn Skinner.  Damn the Bureau.  Damn the Consortium. There
were a million reasons she and Mulder should never cross the
line between friends and lovers.  And only one reason why
they should.  

But it eclipsed all others.

She loved him and he loved her.   So pure.  So simple.

And yet, she had left.

She shouldn't have left.

Scully pushed herself up from the couch and paced toward the
door and back.  Yes, he had told her to leave.  But those
were just words.  She'd seen his eyes, the plea in them. 

Don't listen to my voice, Scully.

Listen to my heart.

She stopped at her front door, pressing her forehead against
the cool wood.  Why had she left?  Why had she turned her
back on his silent plea? 

Because she was trying to be the strong one?

What was so strong about running from the truth?

Running from her heart?

Running from his?

Something hit the door beneath her forehead.  Three hard
raps, making her jump.   Her heart jackhammered in her
breast as she rose to her tiptoes to look through the
fish-eye lens.

Mulder.

Her heart rate tripled.

She unlatched the door and opened it, staring up at him, her
breath rasping through parted lips.  He stared back, eyes
wild and dark.

"I shouldn't have told you to go."  His voice was thick and 
hoarse.  "I shouldn't have--"

She reached for him.  He reached back, his arms like thick
vines, growing around her, curling and grafting until she
wasn't sure where he began and she ended.  She had thought
to lend him her strength but now found herself the one who
was undergirded.  Bodies close, limbs entwined, they moved
out of the doorway.  Mulder withdrew one arm from her long
enough to shut the door behind them.  He slumped back
against the wooden surface, taking her weight against him.

"I'm sorry I left," she murmured, lifting her mouth to his
throat.  She flicked her tongue against the hot silk of him,
tasting him.  Salt and sweet.  "I should never have
left...."

He tangled his fingers in her hair, drawing her head back, 
making her look up at him.  "Doesn't matter--"  His words
stopped on a kiss.  Fierce, desperate.  His tongue brushed
against hers, stroked, glided.  Ran over her teeth.  Darted
against the inner recesses of her mouth.  He tasted like 
sunflower seeds and sweet tea and the dark, rich
unmistakable essence of Mulder.  She felt her insides
soften, spread in hot, liquid waves.  She felt heavy, tight,
shivery.

She reached beneath his heavy leather jacket and pushed it
away from him, sliding it off his shoulders.  He shifted,
shrugged, and it fell to their feet.  He still wore the
forest green t-shirt that she'd tugged from his faded jeans
less than an hour ago.  She repeated the effort, pressing
her hands against his flesh, running her fingers over the
heat and the soft and the hard of him. She traced the
contours of his ribs and abdomen, fingers whispering across
the crisp hair of his chest and stomach.  She traced the 
path downward, smiling at his indrawn breath when her 
fingers slipped just beneath the waistband of his jeans.

He went still.  Trembled.

She withdrew her hand and looked up at him, surprised.

His eyes were dark and wild.  "Are you sure?"

She stared at him for a second in sheer wonder.  Then,
knowing it was probably the worst possible thing she 
could do--but utterly unable to stop herself--she started
to laugh.  Loud, hitching, gasping laughter like she hadn't
uttered in years.  Not since a rainy graveyard in Oregon 
when for one crazy moment, Fox Mulder's wild theory
had seemed like the most reasonable thing in the world.

He stared back at her, his expression befuddled.  He
shook his head slightly, only making her laugh harder.

Oh, God, she thought, this is the WRONG thing to do.

But she couldn't help it.  It was like a dam inside her had
finally burst and everything had to come out all at once
or--

He moved like a cat, swift and silent.  Grabbed the back 
of her neck and pulled her to him.   Silenced her laughter 
with his mouth.  Drew her breath into him.  

Laughter left.

Suddenly, she realized she was the weak one.  The 
needy one.  She needed him on her, around her, inside
her---not just inside her body but inside her skin, inside
her head.  

Inside her heart.

He tugged at her sweater, pushing it up her body.  She
lifted her arms and wriggled her way out of the scratchy
woolen garment.  She felt hot. Confined.  

She wanted nothing on her skin but his skin.

He lifted his hand to her breast, brushing his palm lightly
over the soft cotton lace of her bra.  The fabric shifted,
rubbed against her tight nipple.  She expelled a soft hiss
of breath at the electric sensation.

He looked up at her, his gaze intense, as if studying her
to see what she liked.  What pleased her.  His eyes 
never moved away from hers as he lifted his other hand and 
repeated the slow, stroking motion on her other breast.  She
drew her breath, hissed it out again.

He drew slow, exquisite circles with his palms, barely
touching her.  She arched toward him, needing more. 

His eyes darkened.  He dipped his fingers into the cleft
between her breasts, pressing lightly against the curved
flesh.  He found the front clasps of her bra and unhooked 
them, pushing aside the lacy cups and closing his hands
gently over her breasts.  He traced her, pressing lightly.  
Closed his fingers over the tightened tips, squeezing 
gently, eliciting her soft gasp.

She reached for him, needing to return touch for touch. She
gathered his shirt between trembling fingers, pushing it up.
Past his belly, past his ribcage.  She mimicked his earlier
movements, flattening her palms against his male nipples,
circling lightly before she pushed his shirt further.  A low
groan escaped his throat, sending fire coursing through her.

He had to release her breasts to lift his arms, and she felt
bereft without his touch.  Cool air flowed over her heated
skin, the coldness of deprivation.  She quickly dispatched
his shirt, tossing it behind them.  His low grumble of need
turned into a rumble of laughter.  "I hope you're not going
to yell at me about tossing my clothes all over the
place...."

"Shut up and kiss me," she growled, tugging him closer by
the waistband of his pants.  She unbuttoned the top button
and lowered her hand to the zipper.

It wouldn't budge.

She tugged harder.

Nothing.

She made a low, keening sound.   "Damn it!"  She jerked at
the zipper.

"Ow, Scully!"  He covered her hand with his own, stilling
her desperate movements.  She looked up at him, flushed with
a strange mixture of embarrassment and need.  Beneath her
fingers, beneath the denim and the boxers, she felt the heat
of him.  The hardness.  She felt what she did to him.

Power surged in her.

She slipped her hand from beneath his and cupped him.  Felt
the thickness, the weight of him.  She flattened her hand
against him, stroking through the denim, molding her fingers
and palms to the shape of him.  He shuddered and tugged at
the zipper himself.  A soft swish of metal on metal
announced his success, and she sucked her bottom lip between 
her teeth.

He caught her hand and drew it inside his jeans.  His boxers
were dark blue silk.  The soft fabric was fiery hot; she
curled her fingers in the fabric, felt him through it. 
Stroked him.  Traced the length and the breadth of him, her
eyes never once leaving Mulder's face.

His breath had shallowed to soft, whistling pants.  His eyes
were chips of onyx rimmed by the faintest circle of
silver-green. She closed her hand over him, squeezing
gently, and smiled at the pleasure-pain that washed over his
beautiful face.

She released him, and he sagged against the door, staring at
her, breathing through parted lips. 

She slipped off her black leggings, dispensing with her
underwear in the same swift movement.  When Mulder didn't
move to rid himself of his own remaining garments, she made
a little grumbling sound.  "For God's sake, Mulder, work with 
me...."

A soft, weak chuckle escaped his throat.  He pushed his
jeans and boxers down over his hips, wincing as the fabric
scraped over his erection.  He kicked the garments away.

She took a step closer and reached out, curling her fingers
around him.  The strange thing was, she had seen him naked
before.  But then, he'd been dying, and she'd been working
on nothing but adrenaline and love, willing him to come back
to her.  A naked and aroused Mulder was a completely
different proposition. 

A very welcome proposition.

He bent and touched his lips to hers, a light, almost chaste
caress---as if she wasn't holding his throbbing erection in
her palm.  She was amazed and aroused.  

"You're so beautiful," he whispered.  They were words she
had heard before, in the throes of passion and the aftermath
of release, but she'd never heard them from Mulder.  And she
had never felt the truth of the words until now.  

She couldn't draw a breath.

He ran his hands down her sides, tracing a path of shivering
heat.  He drew little circles over her waist and hips,
running his fingertips over the ridges of her hip bones.  He
palmed the tiny swell of her lower abdomen, splayed his
fingers out and downward.  His fingertips brushed the tangle
of red curls at the juncture of her thighs.

He paused again, his gaze locked with hers.  She could read
his thoughts, the needs and the fears.

I want this, Mulder, she thought.  She stepped closer to
him, hips thrusting into his palm.   She drew a swift, harsh
breath as his fingers pressed into her bare flesh.

I love you, she thought. I love you, I love you, I love you.
The words thudded in her head in rhythm with her pounding
heart.  She arched her back when his probing fingers found
her center.
      
She bit her lower lip and gasped as his touch became bolder,
more insistent, driving her toward madness. She moved with 
him in counterpoint, intensifying every shimmering
sensation.  She was close--too close.... She wanted to wait.

She wanted to give him what he was giving her, but she
couldn't seem to move beyond the twisting, arching movement
of her hips.  It was primal and shattering, and she felt
weak.  Wild. Greedy.

He bent his head and closed his lips over the throbbing vein
in her throat.  His teeth scraped lightly against her skin. 
Fire coursed through her blood.  She had lost touch with him once
he began his seduction in earnest; she reached for him now,
gathering what tiny scraps were left of her wits long enough
to close her fingers over him once again, to share with him
a small portion of what he was doing to her.  She trapped
his erection between her palm and her hip and stroked him in
rhythm with the fluttering of his fingers inside her. 

His teeth closed over the tendon between her neck and
shoulder.  He nipped the flesh, then gently laved the
indentations with his tongue.   He murmured her name against
her flesh. 

Not Dana.

Scully.

A name he had made intimate, a verbal caress.

He said it again.  "Scully."

Soft against her flesh.  Soft and hot.

She felt herself hurtling toward a precipice.  Hurtling
wildly, out of control.

She gasped his name.

Not Fox.

Mulder.

Mulder.

Mulder....

He stayed with her as she soared, coaxing her to greater
heights.  Urged her with his fingers and his murmurs and 
his teeth and his tongue.   She clutched his arms and rode 
out the sensations, gasping, groaning, shuddering.

When the last fluttering contractions ended, she felt heavy
and liquid and hot.  He withdrew his fingers gently from 
between her thighs and bent his head to kiss her, a gentle,
reverent touch like a supplicant paying homage at the foot
of the cross.

She felt wetness on her cheeks and wondered if those were 
Mulder's tears on her skin.  It wasn't until he drew back, 
dry eyed and surprised, that she realized the tears were her
own.



End of Part I

   

 










DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE

S, A, MSR

Rated NC-17 for sexual situations


"Be Still My Heart"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
                        -  e.e. cummings


Part II:  Deeper Than All Roses


Dana Scully's apartment
12:03 a.m.


He stared at the tears on her cheeks, the diamond-like
sparkle on her eyelashes, and his heart clenched with sudden
fear.  Had he hurt her?  Was she afraid?  

"Scully?"

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, her forehead creasing
as if with pain.  He lifted his hand to her cheek and
touched the moisture, rubbed his thumb against the tears as
if to wipe them--and her pain--away.

"I'm okay, Mulder."  Her voice had a raw edge to it. 

"Scully--"

She lifted her hand and caught his trembling fingers in her
own.  She drew his palm to her lips and kissed the center. 
Heat and electricity danced along his nerve endings.

She opened her eyes and graced him with a rare, gentle
smile.  She stepped back, drawing him with her deeper into
the apartment.  Wordlessly, she led him through the living
room, down the short hallway into her bedroom.

A memory of this room fluttered through his mind.  Her
hands, strong and warm against him.  Guiding.  Soothing.
Healing.  

*We have to find out who killed my father, Scully.*

Cool hands on his hot face, then as now.  The bed, soft and
yet firm.  Like Scully.  

She drew him down to the bed with her, reached up with
small, strong hands to pull him into the tangle of her
limbs.  So delicate beneath him; he couldn't reconcile her
tiny stature with the cavernous space she filled inside him.

He could snap her in two.  That she reached for him, bore
his weight, trusted him with her fragility--this amazed him.

His throat closed up with emotion.

She threaded her fingers in his hair and gently urged his
mouth to hers.  She caught his lower lip between her teeth
and suckled lightly, sliding her tongue over his flesh.  His
pulse thundered in his ears.  Her thighs shifted, parted
further to cradle his hips to her own.  He felt the moist
heat of her against him.  He thought he would burst through
his skin.

"Mulder."  

Did she say the word or did he just hear her voice in his 
head?  That voice that had spoken his name a thousand 
times--in fear, in anger, in exasperation, in affection--and 
just moments ago, in a soft moan in the hot, silken 
moment of release. 

"Mulder..."  She did speak aloud now.  Soft, urgent.

He felt slow.  Stuporous.  Mindless. 

"Mulder, in the drawer...."

It took him a couple of seconds to realize what she was
saying.  He went still, looking down into her murky eyes.  

"The drawer," she said again, her voice tight with need.

This is really happening, he realized with a rush of wonder.

He shifted, his body sliding over hers.  In unison they both
drew deep, shuddering breaths at the heat and friction.  

She exhaled in his ear.  "Hurry."

He released a shaky half-chuckle and fumbled with the drawer
of her night stand.  It came out a strange angle and stuck.

He uttered a curse.  

She twisted, joined her hand to his task.  Together, they
quickly got the drawer back on track.  It slid easily open
and Mulder withdrew an unopened box of condoms.

He fumbled with the cardboard flaps for a second before she
took the box from him and opened it with a flick of her
fingernail.  She handed him the small foil packet, her eyes
glittering in the low light from the bedside lamp.

God, he felt like a teenager all over again.  Eager and
scared and utterly certain he was about to make a fool of
himself.  Reluctantly he sat back from her, his body feeling
the ache of incompleteness.  She looked up at him from the
bed, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses, her eyes
dark and heavy-lidded.  His hands trembled as he tore open
the packet and withdrew the latex sheath.

She sat up and covered his shaking hands with her own.  She
lifted her face to his, closing one hand over the back of
his neck to draw him to her.  He slanted his mouth across hers
and drank from her strength.

Her small, deft hands eased the condom over his erection,
soothing him.

Inflaming him.

She stroked him lightly for a moment, played him like an
instrument.  Then she lay back, pulling him down to her,
anchoring him with her arms and legs.  

He sank into the heat of her.  Found her core and sheathed
himself within.

Hot.  Tight.  Clenching around him like a fist.  His heart
banged against his ribcage.  Blood rushed behind his eyes,
throbbed in his temples.  He rolled his hips against hers,
experimenting, testing.  She thrust with him, taking him
deeper into her, holding him there.  She snared him with her
limbs, her body, her eyes, her soul.

The rhythm of their bodies wasn't something he set or she
set--it was a partnership, like almost everything good in
their lives was a partnership.  Giving and taking.  Weak to
her strong; strong to her weak.  Fitting together like two
pieces of a single puzzle, stronger together than they could
ever be apart.

Did she know this about them?

Did she understand?

His body tightened.  Surged.  Caught him by surprise.  He
fought against it--it was too soon.  He wasn't ready.  She
wasn't ready.

"Now, Mulder," Scully sighed in his ear.  "Now...."

He buried himself in her.  In all of her.  In her fiery
center, in her silken arms, his face pressed into the hair
fanning out across her pillow, his heart hiding in the
hugeness of hers, his soul enveloped by her spirit.  In the
shuddering midst of release, he felt himself merge with her.

Her goodness, her warmth, her pure fire infused the tiniest
particles of his being.  He bathed in the glow of her.

He shattered into fragments of pure light.

He dissipated into nothingness.

Slowly, so slowly, his world pieced back together.  Quiet
sounds--her soft, shallow breathing.  His breathing, harsh
and gasping.  The slick heat of her skin pressed to his. 
The velvety warmth that held him within her still.  Her
hands stroking his back and shoulders, her legs twined
around his hips, holding him to her.

The stillness of her body that told him she had not followed
him into the ether.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into her hair.

She smoothed her hand over his hip.  "I'm not."

He rolled to his side, drawing out of her.  He shivered at
the sudden sensation of loss.  She closed her eyes, a soft,
gutteral groan escaping her lips, as if she, too, felt the
deprivation.

He flattened his palm against her belly and stroked gently,
moving lower, brushing his fingers through the dark red
curls.  She made a soft noise and covered his hand with
hers, stilling his movements.  Her gaze met his.  "We're not
keeping score."

He stared at her for a moment.  Loved her madly.

"I want to," he said softly.  "Please...."

She searched his face for a moment, studying him 
with the intensity he'd come to recognize as Scully
trying to solve a riddle.  Slowly, she released his hand, 
and he slipped his fingers into the soft, slick folds of 
her core.  Caressed her, explored gently.  He was slow, 
thorough, taking time now that his own urgent needs 
had been sated.  He moved down the bed, moved
between her legs.  He kissed her lightly, ran his tongue
over the tender flesh of her inner thigh.  He felt her
clench around his fingers at the touch, so he repeated
it.  Kissed and nipped and licked in circles, sometimes
hard, sometimes soft as a whisper.  Moving upward
inexorably.  Pressed his lips in the little valley where her
legs met her torso, his nose brushing through her curls. 
She smelled rich.  Thick.  

He shifted.  Covered her with his mouth.  Tasted her center.
Hot.  Smoky.  Dark.

He tasted her again.  

A soft groan rumbled through her.  He felt the vibrations
beneath his hands.

He wanted to hear that sound again.  And again.

He worked his mouth over her, tongue thrusting, darting,
roaming.  He felt her hands in his hair--not urging him, not
trying to dictate the pace, just stroking, caressing.

Trusting.

He spoke silently to her, his tongue and teeth forming
soundless words against her flesh.  I love you.  I need you.

I am lost without you.   

The sounds of her pleasure were quiet.  Low.  Guttural. 
Breathless.  Wordless.  He invoked them with his touch. 
Sought them like the utterings of an oracle.  Begged her
blessing upon him.

Her body arched.  Her fingers clenched in the sheets beside
her.  She grew rigid, uttering a long, low groan.  She
pulsed beneath his tongue.  He held her tightly, riding the
waves with her, prolonging her pleasure.  Her body whispered
all the secrets of the universe, and he listened. 
Memorized.

When she finally lay still and spent, he moved up her body
and kissed her.  She enfolded him in her arms and murmured
his name against his lips. Sleep fell over them both in deep, 
purple shadows, slowly blotting out consciousness like night 
swallowing day.  

And Mulder dreamed.

He was in his office in the basement, his head pillowed by
his arms.  He was tired.  Weak.  But it was a good feeling. 
A satisfied feeling.  

That's why the small orb of light surprised him.  It 
fluttered over the floor and up the wall, toward the place 
where Scully's desk should be.  

But wasn't.

He lifted his head and stared at the small, glowing orb
hovering over the empty space where Scully's desk used to
be.  It quivered as if speaking some hidden truth to him.

She's not here.

The light darted around the room toward the door.  Its glow
beckoned him to follow.  He stood, his arms and legs heavy
and slow.  He stumbled after the light, his heart thudding
in his chest.

The light led him on.  Gravity and physics had no meaning in
this place--he walked through walls, floated up stairs,
folded time and space until they had no substance, no form.
He traveled the corridors of the J. Edgar Hoover Building,
seeking her.  Listening for her.  Breathing deeply, trying
to find her fragrance.  

He stopped at Sci-Crime.  Pendrell looked up at him, earnest
boyish face expectant.  

"Where is Scully?" Mulder asked.

Pendrell looked confused.

"Dana Scully.  Where is she?  Have you seen her?"

Pendrell shook his head.  "I don't--"

Mulder was gone, buffeted by the dream to another office. 
Skinner's domain.  He could tell by the odor--ink,
testosterone, tobacco smoke.  He entered the office without
announcement and found Skinner there with the Cancerman. 
Smoke rose about them in a thick, stinking cloud.

"Where is she?"

They merely looked at him.

He rushed forward, grabbed the smoking man by his jacket
lapels.  "Where is she, you black-lunged son of a bitch? 
What have you done to her?"

"I've done nothing to her, Mr. Mulder."  The smoking man's
words rode on a stream of bitter smoke.  "It is you who have
brought about her end."

"Filthy, lying son of a bitch!"  Mulder drew his fist back, his
vision black with rage.  But before he could strike the
blow, his arms were jerked back, pinned behind him.

He struggled, but his captor was stronger.  He heard
Skinner's tight voice in his ear.  "How do you explain
yourself, Agent Mulder?"

He couldn't draw a breath.  In front of him, Cancerman
calmly withdrew a pack of Morley's from his pocket and
pulled out a fresh smoke.  He struck a match and touched it
to the tip of the cigarette.  He drew deeply, and the tip of
the cigarette flared briefly orange.  "You are the guilty
one, Mr. Mulder," he said, his strangely musical voice
lilting with bemusement.  Shrouded by smoke, he lowered
his eyes to Mulder's hands. 

Mulder followed the smoking man's gaze.  His arms were
pinioned by Skinner's iron grip, but his hands were free.
He stretched out his fingers and stared.

His hands were covered with blood.  Drenched with it.  The
hot, sharp iron smell assailed his nostrils.

Her blood.

"She wanted only to comfort you.  But you were greedy, 
Mr. Mulder."  Cancerman took another long draw, expelling 
smoke with his next words.  "You swallowed her whole."

Oh, God, he could taste her on his tongue.  Blood and bone,
flesh and spirit.  His tongue burned as if he'd chewed glass.
He tore away from Skinner's grasp, howling in horror.  The
dream shattered and he surfaced from the black depths of 
the dream into reality, a cry of anguish ripped from his throat.

He was answered by silence and the night.


End of Part II


DISCLAIMER IN PART I

S,A, MSR

Rated NC-17 for sexual situations


"Be Still My Heart"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


Part III:  Every Part Stands Still

how lucky lovers are(whose selves abide
under whatever shall discovered be)
whose ignorance each breathing dares to hide
more than most fabulous wisdom fears to see

(who laugh and cry)who dream,create and kill
while the whole moves;and every part stands still.
                          - e.e. cummings



Dana Scully's apartment
2:43 a.m.


The scream woke Scully from a dead sleep.  Her nerves
jangling and thrumming, she blinked away slumber and turned
to him.  He was hunched and panting, his hands covering his
face.  She reached for the bedside lamp and flicked it on. 
Lamplight bathed them in gold.  

"Mulder?"

His body twitched at the sound of her voice.  The muscles of
his back bunched and gathered.  "I'm okay."  His words were
thick, slightly slurred.

"Nightmare?"

"Yeah."  He moved his hands from his face.

Scully gasped.  

Mulder held his hands up in front of his face.  Blood
spotted his palms, dribbled down his wrists.  He turned to
look at her and she saw that blood was dripping from his
mouth.  He had turned pale as the moon.

"My God, Mulder."  She reached for him, but he drew back,
his hands shaking.  His face blanched even more, and he
lurched from the bed.  He stumbled to the bathroom, and a
second later, she heard the sound of retching.

She grabbed her bathrobe from the hook on her closet door
and wrapped it around her, then followed him into the
bathroom.  He had emptied his stomach and was now fighting
dry heaves;  she took a washcloth from the rack by the tub
and quickly drenched it.  She crouched next to him and
gently placed her hand on his back.  He jerked at the touch,
and she dropped her hand to her side.

It took him a few moments to swallow back the last of the
heaves.  He slapped at the toilet handle to flush and
collapsed back against the wall, tucking his knees up close
to his body.

She held out the washcloth to him.  He stared at it for a
moment before he took it from her and wiped his mouth.  
Blood spotted the cloth.

"You okay?"

He nodded, blotting his mouth again.  "I think I bit my
tongue in my sleep."  He sounded as if he were trying to
talk with a mouth full of rocks.

She didn't try to touch him again, knowing he would reach
out to her when and if he was ready.  "That why you woke up
screaming?"

"Ever bit your tongue, Scully?  Hurts like hell."  The weak
attempt at humor fell flat, and his little grimace showed
that he knew it.  

"You're shivering, Mulder.  Feel up to moving?"

He nodded, pushing himself to his feet.  She rose with him,
close but not touching him.  "I'm sorry about this."

"You sure know how to boost a girl's ego, Mulder."  She
ventured a half-smile.

He returned it, but she could see his heart wasn't in it. 
Whatever had propelled him from sleep had horrified him.  He
was still deathly pale and shivering far more than he
should, considering her furnace was working at full blast.

"Here, brush your teeth.  It'll make you feel better."  She
crossed to the sink and pulled an unopened toothbrush from
the cabinet.  She removed it from the packaging and handed
it to him.  She leaned against the wall while he brushed his
teeth.  Blood from his injured tongue mingled with the 
toothpaste, but by the time he rinsed, the blood flow had
stopped.

He followed her back into the bedroom and sat down on the
edge of the bed, raking his fingers through his mussed up
hair. 

She stood in front of him.  "You want me to get your
clothes?  You're still shivering."

"Don't mother me, Scully."  His voice was tight. 

She looked away, stung by his words.  "Sorry."

As she started to move away from him, he grabbed her wrist.
"No--I'm sorry."  He pulled her to him, pressing his face
against her abdomen.  His breath was hot, seeping through
the soft terry-cloth robe.  She reached down and stroked his
hair.  "I'm sorry," he murmured against her stomach.  His
arms circled her hips, holding her tightly.

She rocked him gently for a moment, sliding her fingers
through his silky hair.  After a bit, he loosened his grip
and lifted his head to look at her.

"What was the dream about?" she asked softly.

He pulled away, dropping his hands to his lap.  As if he
suddenly realized he was naked, he reached out and drew the
blanket from the bed around his hips.  

Defense mechanism, she thought.  Girding himself.  She
reached out to him again, smoothed her palms over his
shoulders.  "Was it like the others?"  Had he dreamed of
another child?  Had he solved the mystery of the final heart
in his sleep?

"No."  He shook his head.  He held himself apart from her,
somehow.  He didn't respond to her touch.

Her heart thudded uneasily in her breast.  "Can you remember
any of it?"

He was quiet.  

"Mulder?"

"I remember all of it."  He twisted away from her, pulling
his knees up to his chest.  He wrapped his arms around his
knees and tucked his head.

Scully moved quietly to her side of the bed and sat, careful
not to jostle the mattress too much.  She mimicked his
posture, drawing her knees up into the circle of her arms. 
"You don't have to tell me about it, Mulder.  If it's too
painful--"

"It was about you."  His voice was faint.  Dead.  He'd shut
himself down, the way he always did when he was talking
about something deeply painful.  "You were--gone."

"Was it about the time I was missing?"

He shuddered, and the bed jiggled. "No.  It wasn't like
that."  He shook his head.  "It was--now.  Right now.  I was
in the office, and I saw this little ball of light."

Like his Alice in Wonderland dreams, she thought.  "And you
followed it?"

"It moved across the office to where you should have been--
the desk you use.  But the desk was gone."

She rubbed her chin against her bent knee.  "What happened
next?"

"I followed the light."  He told her the dream, how he'd
followed the path of the glowing orb, searching for her,
trying to hear or smell or see some sign that she'd ever
existed.  "I ended up at Skinner's office.  Cancerman was
there."

She closed her eyes.  Might as well say the devil was there,
she thought.  To them, he was evil incarnate.  The demon
fouling their world.

"He told me--"  Mulder's voice cracked. 

She looked at him.  His face was stony, his eyes staring
across the room at some inspecific point of space.  He
wasn't seeing her bedroom, of course.  He was back in the
abyss of his nightmare.  

She waited for him to speak again, but he remained silent.

"What did he tell you, Mulder?"

He bowed his head, pressed his forehead against his arms. 
"He said I devoured you with my neediness.  I swallowed you
whole."

She felt a little chill ripple through her.  

"I looked down at my hands.  There was blood on them.  I
could taste you in my mouth.  Blood...."

She blew out a little breath she hadn't been aware of
holding.  "You bit your tongue and it bled.  That what you
tasted."

He turned his head, resting his cheek on his forearm as he
looked at her.  "Do I devour you?"

Sometimes, yes, she thought, meeting his gaze.  Sometimes he
did devour her.  But it wasn't a bad thing, to be consumed
by him.  It was exhilarating.  Challenging.

And there were times she consumed him, as well.  She could
control him with a look or a touch--calm him, tame him, turn
him.  It wasn't something he did to her or she did to him--
it was something they did together.  Not a swallowing but a
merging.

"Mulder, you know me better than anyone.  You know I wouldn't 
be here if I didn't want to be."

"But why do you want to be?"  His gaze was wary, his body
tense as if preparing for a death blow.  "Do you feel sorry
for me, Scully?"

She arched her eyebrows.  "Sorry for you?"

"You're the best friend I've ever had, Scully."  He pressed
his lips together briefly before continuing.  "I've never
been shown such loyalty and faith in my life.  You're like--
you're like a tigress defending her young."

"And you think that what happened here--" she waved her arm
between the two of them--"was about mothering you?"  She
shook her head.  "Now that you've decided you can associate 
me with being a mother, you're stuck on it as an image?"

"You've always been a source of comfort to me, Scully."  He
looked away from her, rubbing his chin against his knee. 
"You--"

"I don't do comfort sex, Mulder."

He looked up at her.

"If I wanted to comfort you, Mulder, I'd have tucked you
into bed with hot chocolate and read you a bedtime story. 
Which is still not out of the question," she added with a
half smile.  "But that wasn't why I took you into my bed."  
She unfolded herself, moving around so that she
knelt before him.  She lifted his chin, made him look into
her eyes.  "If you think that what happened between us
tonight is about anything but me loving you and you loving
me, you're wrong."

He stared at her silently for a long, breathless moment, his
expression never changing.  As the silence deepened, she 
began to feel the first tiny creeping of doubt.

Then his lips started to tremble.  He blinked as moisture
pooled in his eyes.  His mouth worked, searching for
words.

She bent and touched her lips to his, stilling them.  The
kiss was soft.  Sweet.  Undemanding.  "I don't need words,
Mulder.  I know."

He opened to her, arms and legs unfolding to envelope her. 
He kissed her, parting his lips to her, inviting her entry. 
She ran her tongue against his teeth, tasted the cool mint
of toothpaste.  She darted her tongue further, finding his,
savoring the heat, the roughness.  

He made a little grumbling noise, and she drew back,
remembering his injured tongue.  "I'm sorry."

He shook his head, his eyes dark and drunk.  He tangled his
fingers in her hair and drew her back down to him, opened
his mouth and welcomed her back inside.

He was letting her make love to him, she realized with a
rush of excitement.  He lay back against her pillows,
bringing her down with him.  She parted her legs to straddle
him, feeling the quickening of his body beneath hers.  She
drew back from his mouth, looking down at him through the
curtain of red hair that had fallen into her eyes.  

He returned her gaze with a look of such trust that she
found she couldn't catch her breath.  For Fox Mulder, trust
was one step BEYOND love.  It was his most precious, deeply
guarded possession, and he had chosen to give it to her.  He
had given her the tool of his destruction, trusting her to
use it only his benefit.

She felt her heart clench in her chest.  

The urgency of her desire transformed into something equally
powerful but somehow less frantic.  She felt as if she were
taking a vow as she bent and pressed her lips to his chest,
kissed the flesh over his pounding heart.  She untied the
sash of her robe and let it fall open around them,
enveloping them both in the soft fabric. 

He reached inside the folds of the robe and smoothed his
hands over her hips, gently urging her closer.  She felt his
hardness against her softness.  She rocked her hips,
rubbed against him.  His answering gasp was like music.

She rose slightly, moved over him.  She reached between
their bodies to touch him, surprised to find him so ready. 
Impressive, Mulder, she thought.  She flashed him a little
smile.

He reached up and cupped her cheek with one hand.  She
turned her head and kissed his palm.  Darted her tongue out,
suckled the tender flesh at the center of his hand.

He shifted beneath her, twisting slightly.  She pushed back
her hair and watched him retrieve the box of condoms.  He
tore open another foil packet and handed her the latex disk.

She sat back and moved her hands over him, fingers teasing
him as she unrolled the latex.  

His answering chuckle was slightly pained.  "How many of
these things do you think we can go through?"

"I'd say that's up to you, Mulder."  She darted him a wicked
glance.  "I have just the one box, though--so pace
yourself."

"Just one box?"  He bit his lip briefly as she slid her hand
down the length of him, testing the fit of the condom.  "Do
you usually keep a box of condoms in the drawer of your
nightstand?"

She heard the unspoken question behind his words.  "I bought
that box about eight months ago."  She felt him relax
slightly beneath her.  So you ARE the jealous type, she
thought, hiding her smile.  "You were right after all,
Mulder.  I have no life."

"Why eight months ago?"

He seemed more interested in her answer than he was in the
stroking motions of her hands on his erection.  She arched
her eyebrows, surprised.  But then, Mulder was generally one
surprise after another.  "I bought them after the Pusher
case."

His face darkened.  He never seemed able to forgive himself,
and she knew that he agonized over every minute of the
Robert Patrick Modell case, reliving those tense, horrible
moments in that hospital room at Fairfax Mercy, when he'd
pointed a gun at her heart and almost pulled the trigger. 
She released him and bent forward, brushing her lips against
his to dispel the bad memories of that case.  

"I knew that day that you loved me," she whispered against
his skin.  "I saw it in your eyes.  You think of that
experience as a nightmare, Mulder, but I remember it as an
epiphany.  And I knew then that it was just a matter of time
before we became lovers.  So I decided I should be prepared." 
She kissed his chin and sat back.

He looked up at her, his eyes speaking those same, silent
words of love that she had seen eight months ago.  "You and
the Boy Scouts of America?"

"That's a nasty, unfounded rumor, Mulder.  The Boy Scouts 
and I were just close friends."  She shifted and took him 
inside her.

He expelled a soft sigh, his hips rising to meet hers.  She
bent over him, twining her fingers through his.  He lifted
his head, closed his mouth over her right breast.  His teeth
lightly rasped against her taut nipple.  Sparks of
electricity shot through her at his touch, settling in her
belly, igniting a fire there.  She pulled her lower lip
between her teeth and stifled a whimper.  She rolled her
hips, taking him deeper.  His fingers tightened around hers.

He moved to her other breast, laved it, suckled, nipped. 
She felt herself growing hot and tight, tension building in
her core like a tidal wave getting ready to break.  The
speed of her burgeoning climax caught her by surprise--she
arched her back at the first spasm, released a low growl. 
She rocked her hips against him, greedy for the moment,
seeking her own pleasure with a fierce determination that
both shocked and thrilled her.  He urged her on with soft,
wordless murmurs.  He thrust up into her, hard, swift.  

As the wild, frantic spasms of her body eased to a low hum,
she found her thighs quivering with weakness.  She clenched
her teeth, fought the sudden, unwanted frailty of her body. 
Just a few moments more.  That's all she needed.  He was
close--she felt his body gathering beneath hers.  Just a few
more moments....

Her legs ached, trembled.  But she drove onward, needing his
release more fiercely than she had needed her own.  She bent
over him, lowered her mouth to his chest.  Nipped at one
nipple.  Moved her head, ran her tongue over the other. 
Drank in every sigh, every groan he uttered.  Pushed
herself.  Pushed him.  She pressed her lips against his
Adam's apple, ran her tongue over the ridge of his clavicle.

The tendons in his neck went rigid.  His whole body coiled. 
He cried out, a low, strained groan that spooled out around
her.  He rose up, taking her with him, releasing her hands
so he could wrap his arms around her, crush her to him.  He
found his release in a series of hard, deep thrusts, while
she melted around him, enveloped him in her heat.

They fell back against the pillows, gasping.  He buried his
face in her throat.  Murmured something.

She lifted her head.  "What?"

He looked up, his eyes heavy-lidded.  His expression was
relaxed.  Replete.  "I said wow."

She chuckled.  "Wow?"

"You can take that as a compliment, you know."  He lifted
his hand, the gesture slow and weak, as if his limbs had
grown impossibly heavy.  He brushed her hair back from her
face.  "Every day that I have known you, Scully, you have
found a way to amaze me.  Tonight is no different."

She felt absurdly pleased by his words. 

He gently turned them so that they lay side by side.  He
discarded the used condom in the trash can by the bed, then
reached for her.  Their limbs tangled, merged.  The intimate
touch of their spent bodies was so exquisite she felt tears
spring to her eyes.  She was supremely content.  Happy to
live in this one perfect moment.  So his soft, hesitant
words took her by surprise.  

"What about tomorrow, Scully?"


End of Part III



DISCLAIMER in part I

S, A, MSR    

This section rated R for mild sexual situations,
adult language



"Be Still My Heart"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


no heart can leap,no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea.
For love are in you am in i are in we
                       - e.e. cummings


Part IV:  Sizeless Truth 


She was so silent he thought his heart would stop from the
suspense.  He shifted restlessly against her.  He felt her
arms tighten around him.  

"What do you want to happen tomorrow?"  Her breath warmed
his throat.

"I want us to fly to Aruba and spend the rest of our lives
making love and selling tacky souvenirs to the tourists, but
that's not going to happen."  He sat up, pulling her up with
him.  

She grumbled softly as the movement separated them.  She
scooted forward so that she sat facing him.  She still wore 
her terry-cloth robe; she pulled the flaps shut and tied the
sash as if girding herself for battle.  With a rush of sheer
affection, he watched her get ready for the discussion,
watched her sleep-softened face compose itself as her mind
kicked into logical mode.  

He crossed his legs beneath the sheets, scooted forward so
that their knees touched.  "The only thing I'm absolutely
sure of, Scully, is that I can't go back to the way things
were before."

"Of course not."

He touched her lips with his finger tips.  "Let me finish."

She pressed her lips together in frustration.  

"I want to be with you."  He saw her eyes soften, her lips
part.  "I want us to be together whenever we can.  But--"

She closed her eyes.  "You want us to keep things secret,
don't you, Mulder?"

"We have to."

"Mulder--"

"Scully, hear me out.  We're already in a precarious
position at the Bureau.  If they found out we were involved,
they would separate us in a heartbeat."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he caught her lips
between his fingers and gently closed her mouth.  

"You'll get your say."  His thumb lingered on her bottom
lip, traced the softness of it.  "I'm not saying that we
can't be together.  I'm just saying we have to be very
careful and very discreet."

"Discreet."  She sighed.  "Like we're doing something
wrong."

He reached for her hand, drew it out of her lap.  He pressed
his lips to her knuckles.  "I want people to know, Scully--
don't you think I do?  I want to walk through that entire
building holding your hand and tell them all that Dana
Scully loves me.  I want that so much I ache inside."

Her expression softened, her eyes pooled.

"But if we make that move, they have to make a countermove.
It's how they work."  He didn't have to tell her who "they"
were--she knew.  She had lost as much to "them" as he had.

"How do you know they don't know already?"

He frowned.

"Mulder, this room could be bugged.  It wouldn't be the
first time."

A shudder skated down his spine.  She was right.  Someone
could be listening as they spoke.  Recording.  Would a cabal
of shadowy conspirators sit around a table in a New York
suite tomorrow morning and listen to them making love?

He looked around the room.  He felt vulnerable.  Exposed. 
Naked.  They could have hidden a device anywhere.  

God, could they have planted a video recorder--?

"Mulder, we'll call the guys tomorrow and arrange for sweep
to make sure."  She touched him.  His skin rippled beneath
her fingers.

He closed his eyes, focused on her touch.  The heat of her. 
He let it soothe away the surge of paranoia.

"Mulder, let me tell you what I think we should do."  She
caressed the back of his hand.  Made him look up at her. 
"We don't mix this with our work.  What happens at the
office doesn't touch us here.  And what happens here doesn't
go with us to the office."

He nodded slowly, wondering briefly if that were possible. 
Then he realized that, of course, it was possible.  He had
spent the last three years working by her side while wanting
her desperately.  He'd always managed to separate his desire
for her from his desire to solve the riddles they faced on a
daily basis.  If anything, it would be easier now, knowing
that when things got crazy, they had this safe place to
retreat to.

It might actually improve their partnership. It wasn't like 
he and Scully were new to each other--they'd shared a 
non-sexual courtship for years now.  They'd negotiated the
worst relationship obstacles already.  He knew her tastes,
her hot buttons, the way her mind worked, what she cared
about.  She knew those same things about him.  They were
like long-time lovers that way.  The only thing missing had
been sexual intimacy.

Now that they had scaled that wall as well, Mulder wondered
why they'd waited so long.

"Office hours are off-limits," she continued.  "We're
partners on the clock, not lovers.  That includes out of
town cases."

He nodded again, knowing she was right even as he wistfully
waved goodbye to some of his better fantasies.  

A cabin at Lake Huevelmann, Georgia, came to mind....

"Until we're off the clock," she added.

His eyebrows arched.  "Oh?"

"Once the case is settled, if we have to stay overnight
before catching a plane, we can consider that leisure time."
Her blue eyes glowed as they met his. 

Welcome back, fantasies, he thought, unable to stifle a
grin.

"We don't make any big announcements about our relationship,
and we don't give anyone reason to wonder about us while
we're on the job.  But I refuse to hide in the shadows like
a criminal."

"Scully--"

She touched her fingers to his mouth this time.  Stilled his
lips.  Brushed her fingertips over his bottom lip before
dropping her hand to her lap.  "They'll find out, Mulder. 
No amount of discretion can stop them.  But I don't want
tongues wagging at the office any more than you do.  So
we'll be careful to make sure our private lives don't
overlap with our professional lives."

"They're looking for a reason to shut us down."

"Not anymore, Mulder."  She met his troubled gaze with a
serene, serious expression.  "If they wanted to shut us
down, you gave them all the ammunition they needed over the
past few days.  The fact that you still have a job makes me
believe that someone is determined to keep the X-Files
OPEN."

Oh, God, he realized, she was right.  He himself had
wondered at the fact that he'd not been dismissed outright
for his actions during the Roche case.  A two week
suspension wasn't even a slap on the wrist for the severity 
of his misconduct and lack of judgment.

Somebody big was pulling strings.

"They've decided they can't stop us from going after the
truth, so now they're trying to manipulate us, make us do
their dirty work, show them where the leaks are so they can
plug them."  She leaned forward, covered his knees with her
hands.  "We've got to be smarter than they are, Mulder.  We
have to keep our eyes and ears open, make sure we're not
being manipulated."

He looked down at her hands.  Even through the sheets and
blanket, their heat warmed him.  "I've let them manipulate
me too many times."

"You have a lot of buttons to push, Mulder.  They know that.
They take great pleasure in pushing all of them."

He covered her hands with his own.  "I'm a pushover, you
mean."  

"You feel things deeply, Mulder, and they exploit that."

"How do I stop them?  I can't ignore the information they
dangle in front of me, Scully--what if the next clue is the
one that we need?  How do I turn my back on it?"

She squeezed his hand.   "You don't.  You just come to 
me and we follow it together."

He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles, 
then released them.  She dropped her hands to his knees,
lightly tracing the bones and ligaments through the
bedsheets.  Her touch calmed his heart--and inflamed his
body.  "I didn't think I could involve you when I took
Roche to Martha's Vineyard.  I didn't feel I had the right
to jeopardize your job as well as mine."

"Your job wasn't the only thing you jeopardized, Mulder."
Her voice was low, reluctant.  He couldn't meet her 
gaze, shame washing over him.

She was right, of course.  Compared to what had almost
happened to Caitlin Ross, his job was insignificant.  But 
by the time he realized what his actions had wrought, 
it had almost been too late.  As it was, the child would
probably have nightmares for years.  

Because of him.

He shuddered.

"Mulder, I need you to do something for me."  She reached
up, lifted his chin and forced him to meet her strong, blue
gaze.  "I need you to promise me that you'll think before
you act.  That if you think there's a risk that needs to be
taken in order to get to the truth, you'll come to me first.
Let me help you figure out what to do."  She loosened her
grip on his chin, gently stroking his jawline.  He heard the
whispery rasp of his beard stubble against her fingertips.

"You always know what's best," he said softly.  "I know 
that in the back of my mind, but I...."  He sighed, his 
voice fading away.

"You're used to doing everything alone, Mulder.  You've 
spent so many years alone, not trusting anyone but 
yourself.  Even though you tell me you trust me, it's still
second nature to you to try and go it alone."  She dropped
her hand to her lap.  "I don't know--maybe you just think
you're protecting me, somehow.  You have a pathological
need to shelter the ones you love.  You do it with your 
mother, and God knows, your quest to find Samantha is
colored by the guilt you seem to feel about letting her
be taken in the first place."  She sighed and pushed 
back a tendril of hair that had fallen into her eyes.  "I 
know these things about you, Mulder.  I can accept them
to some extent."

"But...."

"But not when you pull what you did in the Roche case.
It's not just what happened to Caitlin, which was horrible
enough.  But Roche could have easily killed you, Mulder.  
I don't know why he didn't, except that he was a sick 
bastard who enjoyed molesting your mind as much as he 
enjoyed killing those little girls."

She was right.  She was always right about him.

"I love you, Mulder.  I want to be with you, knowing all 
these things about you.  But I need you to help me.  I 
need you to promise that you won't keep running off and
putting everything and everyone on the line for your quest." 
She touched his hand.  "A long time ago, you told me that
nothing mattered to you but finding the truth about
Samantha.  But I don't believe that anymore.  I believe that
you care about other people.  You care about justice, even
if you're not sure it can be found. I know you love me as
much as I love you."

He clutched her hands in his, drew them to his chest.  "I
do.  I swear, I do."

He saw tears sparkle in her eyes.  "Tell me you'll try."

"I'll try.  I promise."  He wasn't just saying the words
because he knew she wanted to hear them.  As much as he
wanted to please her, he was utterly aware that she was
right.  When he went out on his own, played the lone wolf,
he made dangerous errors.  Dangerous for others as well as
for himself.

Dangerous for her.

So he vowed, in the warm stillness of her bedroom, her soft
scent enveloping him, to become her true partner--in life,
in work, in the bedroom, in their hearts.

"So we agree we're going to handle things the way I
suggested?" she asked.  "No big announcement, but no cloak
and dagger, either."

He felt a creeping sensation ripple down his spine.  Old
habits die hard, he thought.  But he nodded.  "Okay."

"Well--actually...."  She plucked at the edge of her robe as
if she were trying to gather the courage to say something to
him. 

He covered her hands with his own.  "What?" 

She looked up at him.  "There's no way in the world I'm not
telling my mother about us."

A slow grin spread across his face as he pictured Margaret
Scully's face when she heard the news.  "Only if you beat me
there."

She smiled and launched herself at him.  He caught her and
fell back against the pillows, her small body covering him
like a sweet, hot blanket.  The response of his body was
strong and immediate.  He slipped his hand inside her robe,
running his fingers over her buttocks, fit her hips against
his.  He reveled in the soft heat of her.  "What HAVE I
gotten myself into here?"

She chuckled against his throat, rocking her hips against
his, sending fiery tingles through his entire body.  "I
think it's called love."

He withdrew his hands from her hips and cradled her face. 
He brushed his lips gently against hers.  "Be still my
heart." 

But it wasn't still.  Not for quite some time.


The End.