DISCLAIMER: The characters found in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox Network. I mean no infringement. This is a vignette set in the HEARTS series universe, in which Mulder and Scully are already involved in a romantic relationship. Spoilers for "Gethsemane," "Redux" and "Redux II." Category: V, A, MSR Rated: R for sexual content All other information withheld at the author's request "Heart of Midnight" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com "Between the lips and the voice something goes dying Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion. The way nets cannot hold water." - Pablo Neruda; "I Have Gone Marking" He slept in her living room, his body stretched out over the blue and white striped sofa like an overgrown puppy beginning to overwhelm the confines of his box. She found herself drawn to him in the small hours of the morning, when her own healing body could take no more bed rest and forced inactivity. She came here to watch him dream, to hear her name on his lips in the still, blue shadows of the night. She had no doubts about his love. Even in the maelstrom of despair, when she'd been sure that their relationship could bear no more of the stresses that threatened to shatter them, she'd never doubted his love. It suffused him, made him who he was as surely as flesh and bone. Did he have doubts about hers? She had spoken words, in the depths of her hopelessness and outrage, that could not be easy to forgive. She could say with honesty that she'd not meant them as words of blame for the disease that had almost claimed her life. She had only meant to force him to see what was happening to them, how his reckless, passionate quest for the answers he wanted to hear had led him astray from the real truth. The cancer had been meant, not as a warning to Mulder, but as an attempt to destroy the only person who could make him see the truth they never wanted him to know. But Mulder had heard an accusation. She should have known he would. She should have found a different way to tell him. She crouched by the sofa, her legs aching with the unaccustomed strain. She was so weak still, her once powerful body only now beginning to recover from the ravages of disease. She felt frail and dried out, like an autumn leaf left to wither in the chill of winter. She was getting better--every test indicated an almost miraculous recovery--but she wanted to be whole again. Now, not in a few weeks or a few months. She wanted to be the woman Mulder had made love with in this room, the woman who'd shattered beneath his touch and shattered him with her touch. But so much had passed between them since then. The cancer. Mulder's escalating desperation. Her own crisis of faith. She had known loving Mulder would be a challenge. He was not an easy man to know, and she was not an easy woman. That they had found each other was a miracle as amazing as whatever it had been that turned around the cancer consuming her body. But she'd never considered that it would be so hard to find her way all the way back to him now, when the world seemed suddenly rich with possibility. Not loving him was never an option. Not being with him was inconceivable. But in this time of joy, of rediscovery, this time of reprieve, they had thus far been unable to take the final step back to each other. Mulder tread the periphery of her life--sleeping on her sofa, tending to her recovery, showering her with a thousand kindnesses she'd never imagined him capable of. But he hadn't stepped back into the circle of her love. And for reasons she couldn't fathom, here in the heart of the night, neither had she opened the door and bid him enter. In the end, it was as simple as reaching out to touch him. In the river of moonlight drifting through the windows, her hand moved over his sleep-soft cheek like a revenant, translucent and shimmery pale. He shivered slightly at the touch, then jerked awake, his eyes wide and disoriented. "Shhh," she soothed him, stroking his cheek. "Scully--" He studied her face, his gaze a caress that warmed her skin. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." Shaking her head slightly, she ran her thumb over his lower lip. He stared at her, questions in his eyes. She rose, wincing a bit as her weary body protested. Mulder was on his feet immediately, his tall, lean body seeming to fold itself over hers protectively. He smoothed his hand over her shoulder, the touch burning through the sapphire silk of her pajamas. He murmured her name again. She lifted her gaze to his. "My feet are cold." She could see his mind processing, weighing, trying to regain the old rhythm between them that had begun to miss beats over the past few months. So much danger here, she realized with a frisson of anxiety. So easy to make the wrong step, upset the balance forever. Their path would never be free of ruts and stones--that was the kind of people they were and the kind of world in which they moved. But it was their path. She didn't want to walk it alone. She lifted her hand and curled her fingers around his. He squeezed her hand gently and lifted it to his lips. Such a simple gesture, she thought. Chaste, almost. Almost. She wasn't sure exactly what she was offering him beyond her love. The cancer had progressed so far before the remission, ravaging cells that were only now beginning to recover. She felt weak and tired and old, her skin still sallow and her muscles quivering as if she'd been running for miles. Maybe his touch would energize her, remind her body of what it once had known and would know again. Maybe in pleasing him, she would find new strength. Or maybe they would simply lie together, bodies spooned, and heal in their sleep. She knew only that she could trust Mulder implicitly. Whatever happened now, it would be what was best for her. Mulder would make sure of it. She turned, drawing him with her toward the door to her bedroom. He followed behind, his bare feet padding quietly across the cool hardwood floor. Once in the room, she released his fingers and gave him a little nudge. He sat on the bed and gazed up at her, his face shadowy and mysterious in the gloom. Bedhead, she thought affectionately, smoothing the wayward strands of hair. He leaned into her touch like a cat, rubbing his jaw against her wrist. His beard stubble rasped against her tender flesh, reminding her that she was alive. He reached for her almost sleepily, his arms looping around her hips and pulling her against him. He rested his cheek against her breast, his breath warming the silk of her pajama top. "My feet are cold, too," he murmured. His sleep-roughened voice rumbled through her like distant thunder. She wriggled her bare toes against his. They WERE cold, she noted, smiling a little. "Why don't we get under the covers, then?" He stroked her back for a moment, as if he were unwilling to move out of their easy embrace. But after a moment, he let her go and slid under the quilt and comforter, making room for her to join him. She curled into the snare of his outstretched arms, nuzzling his throat with her nose. Like old friends, their limbs intertwined, finding that which was familiar even after this time apart. His hips settled in the cradle of her thighs, and she felt the warm, heavy pressure of his sex against the softness of her own. A few small thrusts of her hips and she could have him ready and willing. She smiled against his throat, reveling in the knowledge of that power. So much of her life had been beyond her control in the last few weeks. Even simple things like getting up to go to the bathroom or keeping down her dinner had been colossal tasks. So it was exciting to realize this moment of control, to know that she alone held the key to the next few minutes of her life. If she wanted him buried inside her, she could make it happen. If she wanted to simply lie there and fall asleep in his arms, she could make that happen as well. He ran his hand down her back, his fingers tracing the ridges of her vertebrae. She shivered at his touch, realizing in that one brief frisson of need that her sense of control was an illusion. His love unraveled her, reknitted her into a creature of light and air and joy. Her body sang with possession. His lips brushed across her forehead, lingering for a moment on the ridge of bone that had harbored a time bomb, then skittered away, raining light kisses on her eyelids and her nose and her cheeks. Finally, he kissed her lips--once, twice, three times in light caresses. "I missed you." His breath mingled with hers. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so--" He silenced her with his mouth, stilling her tongue with his. But even as his lips conquered and claimed her, his hips shifted out of the warm cradle of her own. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, then pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her lips. "Tell me what you want." She threaded her fingers through his hair and drew him to her, turning so that his body pressed into the softness of her own. His body's response was immediate and gratifying. She smiled against his lips, feeling inexplicably strong. He rolled away slightly and began to pluck at the buttons of her silk pajama top. The bedroom was slightly cool; her skin pebbled as he bared it to the night air and he smoothed his hands over her flesh to warm it. But when his fingers reached the bony ridges of her rib cage, he drew a sharp breath and froze. She looked up at him, trying to read his face in the darkness. "I've lost a lot of weight." She kept her voice carefully neutral. "I'll gain it back eventually." He was silent and still for a long, thick moment. Then slowly, carefully, he ran his fingers over her ribs, tracing each ridge and furrow. She closed her eyes and shivered, her body coming alive beneath his reverent touch. He skimmed the soft swell of her breasts, leaving fire in his wake. "I've missed you," he repeated. The message was different this time. Visceral. He touched the hard, aching point of her right breast, eliciting a raw gasp from her throat. Her eyes flew open in time to see his small, triumphant smile. "Did you miss me?" "Yes," she breathed, not caring how weak and needy she sounded. He smoothed his palm over her breasts, one at a time, curling his fingers to cup each swell. "Are you sure?" She nodded, beyond words. He flattened his palm against her breastbone and began to draw slow, gentle circles downward, over her ribs and across the valley of her abdomen. He slid her pajama bottoms down over her hips, and she kicked them away impatiently, needing him to touch more of her. All of her. She almost keened with relief when he curled his hand over the soft curve of her sex, pressing his fingers against her through the thin cotton sheath of her panties. He began to peel away her underwear, and she shifted to make it easier for him. But his fingers brushed over the too-prominent tip of her hip bone and faltered once again. She reached down and closed her fingers over his. "I won't break," she promised. He met her reassuring gaze, fear and need waging a fierce battle in his shadowed face. She released his hand and reached up to cup his jaw, drawing him down to her kiss. She kissed him deeply, tasting him, devouring him, inflaming him. To her relief, he slipped his hand between her thighs and found her center with skill born of familiarity. She arched against his touch, her body surging. Her blood sang in her veins. This is what it is to be alive, she thought. Tears of wonder squeezed from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Mulder withdrew his hand for a moment, reaching over to the bedside table. She caught his hand and shook her head. "Not tonight," she said softly. He stared down at her, his eyes as dark as the heart of midnight. She reached out and touched his cheek gently, knowing that her next words would hurt them both. "We both know protection isn't necessary, don't we?" His eyes glittered, and he dipped his head, releasing a soft, ragged breath. "It's okay," she whispered, curling her arms around his waist and pulling him down over her. She opened her thighs, cradling his hips. Through the fabric of his sweat pants, his erection pressed against her center, driving away the crush of sadness. Later, there would be time to worry about what was wrong. Right now, she needed what was right. This was right. She tugged at the waistband of his sweats. He joined her effort, sliding them down over his narrow hips until nothing touched her skin but his. She took a swift, deep breath, going utterly still. Slowly, so slowly she feared she would cry out from the exquisite torture, he entered her. Flesh to flesh for the first time. She heard a soft, keening groan and had no idea whether it had come from her or from him. She knew only the fullness of him, the way her body clung to him, holding him there in its warm cradle as if he were part of her. He bent and kissed her, his lips barely brushing against hers, a simple kiss somehow more moving, more shattering than any she'd ever known. Inexorably, their bodies joined the ancient dance, hearts drumming in intricate syncopation to primal rhythm of life. His gentleness broke her heart; she kneaded the corded muscles of his back, wordlessly giving him permission to abandon himself to his need. But he relentlessly pursued her pleasure, coaxing her body to a joyous new pulse. She soared, clasping him in her arms to bring him with her. They danced together in heaven for a long, kinetic moment before plummeting back to earth to drown in the liquid aftermath of passion. Much later, Mulder was the first to move, shifting to curl his body protectively around hers. Limbs tangling, hearts still thudding in tandem, they lay spooned together in comfortable silence in the dark. Scully's eyes began to drift shut, sleep beckoning her tired body even as she struggled to stay awake to savor one more perfect moment. She curled her fingers through Mulder's, clasping his hand to her belly. His lips pressed against the back of her neck, and she smiled. "You okay?" He chuckled against her skin. "I'll live--I think. How about you?" "I think I'll live, too." She felt the slightest tension ripple through him at her words, a reminder of what he'd gone through over the past couple of weeks. But she didn't apologize. If she and Mulder were ever to recover from her illness, they had to let go of the fear. Yes, she knew that "remission" didn't equal "cure." But her prognosis was good--Dr. Zuckerman had been amazed at her progress. And she couldn't waste a single precious moment worrying about what might go wrong. She squeezed his hand, tucking herself more firmly into the curve of his body. "Matter of fact, I feel so good, I think I'm going to go to work tomorrow." "No, Scully." She arched her eyebrows. "Funny--I don't recall asking a question." "Your doctor said you should take a month to recuperate." "He also said that I could do whatever I felt up to doing--that I'd know what my body could handle." She jutted her chin slightly. "I'm not asking to go on field assignment yet, but considering how crazy the past few weeks have been, I'm sure there are any number of forms that need to be filled out and filed. And I can check in at Quantico, see if I might be needed on any pathology consultations." She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckle lightly. "I need to work, Mulder. We both need to get back to some sort of normal routine." She gauged his silence, trying to read his thoughts in the slight tension of his arms around her and the whisper of his breath against her neck. Finally, he nipped her earlobe gently and murmured, "Wanna carpool?" She smiled. "Do I get to drive?" "So demanding!" He sucked lightly on the tendon on the side of her neck, disentangling his hand from hers to slide it over her abdomen and into the curls at the juncture of her thighs. One finger dipped into her center, and she drew a swift breath. All drowsiness disappeared in a single, hard shudder of need, and Mulder's soft laughter rumbled in her ear. "I like that about you, Scully." "You're just trying to wear me out so I'll be too tired to go to work tomorrow," she protested without much conviction. His fingers worked slow, languorous magic on her body. "I could probably take a personal day myself." "You're playing dirty now, Mulder." His name escaped on a swift, breathy groan as he touched a particularly sensitive spot. "It's what I do best." Her body arching beneath his caress, she had to agree. - End -