No Quarter Given: Surrender Part Two Disclaimer, etc. in part one She's quiet in her entry, his permission given with the transfer of the key to her damp palm. It's dark within and cool, the balcony doors open to the night air. He sleeps. She sees this immediately, his lanky form stretched out on the bed, though it's really too dark to make out his face. But his breathing is slow and even in the hollows of the room, filling her with soothing relief. Closing her eyes for a moment, she says a prayer of thanks at his safety. With Mulder, she's never sure until he's once again in her sight. Sleep, that once elusive embrace of rest for the weary, comes easier to him now. In the month since California and its revelations, the shadows under his eyes have all but gone. Several times she's had to wake him with a phone call just so he could make it to work on time. This makes her happy. *He* makes her happy. His plea echoes in her mind; she should have said something. And tonight, she's still not certain she can say what he needs to hear. Not with her mouth, anyway. It's a cowardly course of action, but it's one guaranteed to catch him off guard, at the very least. Maybe she won't have to use words at all. He summoned her as Ana, and that's the approach she will use. She turns, bag in hand, for the bathroom. Time to wash away the day's regrets before giving in to the night's discoveries. Piece by piece, the blackness of Dana Scully falls from her skin. .... re-awakening ... "Hips before hands, all right? Hips..." He moved her rigid body like a puppeteer, loosening her unyielding form with soft words and firm fingers. "... before hands." There wasn't a part of him that didn't touch her. Memories, long buried and deep, surfaced from the whirlpool, even though they were chained to a block of unforgiving concrete. It all returned... the hair on his legs that tickled the fine down on her thighs. His mouth moving up her neck, profanity mixed with telling sighs and possessive tattoos of lips and tongue. She gripped the bat, wrapping her fingers... around the smooth curves of the bedpost. Her eyes closed for a second as she strove for concentration. What was he saying? "... to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant partner." That sunk in and her eyes darted to his for a brief moment. She laughed, mostly to keep from melting over home plate like hot fudge icing. "Oh, I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours." She wanted to tell him of the slight problem she herself had, but didn't. Instead she locked her weak knees and murmured, "Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball." And she laughed again, because she knew then what she wanted. She just had to figure out how to ask for it. The problem is - she never did figure out how to ask for it. Oh, she's said many things in the past year; some good, some bad. Her harsh treatment of him after the Pfaster attack still pierces her chest with guilt. She'd apologized... in a way. Telling him of her sessions with Karen Kosseff to resolve the issue had been the most she could do. His nod told her of his acceptance. But now, she knows it's going to take more. Much more than a veiled concession to his worry. Still, she hesitates. The pale face that looks at her in the mirror does indeed have lips - for a moment, she wasn't sure they were still there. In the shower, she'd whispered a dozen opening lines, forcing them to move with apologies and words of love. But it's difficult and they've become almost numb with fear. Devoid of false color, they nonetheless offer a vivid splash of red to rival the silk robe, thanks to a vigorous scrubbing of her teeth. Her tongue snakes across them nervously, preparing the way for whatever comes. &&&&&&& He takes in a deep breath, not wanting to admit to himself that he'd been afraid she wasn't coming. But she's here. Hours of waiting had exhausted him. By seven o'clock he was drooping in his chair, so he'd stripped to his boxers and, thumbing his nose at her lateness, he'd fallen into slumber. Now, he's wide awake, though he's reluctant to make that known to her just yet. Eyes closed, his mind works to bring forth the memory of her body fitting to his, the smell of her shampoo tickling his nose. .... testament ... "Get over here, Scully." He said this with just a tinge of demand, so unlike the way he forced his will upon her back then. Will she do it? he wondered with a sudden burst of fluttering nerves. As she let him curl around her, he wanted to fall to his knees and thank the heavens. She was so stiff, but he felt the tremor that helped loosen her muscles at the first touch of his mouth to her ear. "This is my birthday present, Mulder? You shouldn't have." Wry, but shaky sarcasm. Who said anything about this being *your* birthday present, Scully? he wanted to say. He'd come up with the idea on a whim, not knowing of any other way to get that close to her. Seemed as though the gift worked both ways, to his delighted surprise. His mouth rambled as his body remembered. Something about ash... Jesus, it was like she was made from the other half of the Fox Mulder mold. Keep talking, he told himself - yes, the pleasure was all his... one hand gripped her waist and the other slid to her hip... he could feel the lingering indentation of his fingers through the layers of her clothing. Don't bruise her this time, take it slow. Don't scare her away. "... going to make contact. We're not going to think." Easier said than done. Just stay calm and speak. Of anything. Of nothing. Of *her.* What the hell was coming out of his mouth? "... I - I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours." She giggled and he melted. Whatever is was, it must have been good. "Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball." Look out, Scully, he vowed silently. *I'm* playing for keeps. A covert campaign that's lasted a year began that night. Subtle touches, multi-layered innuendo, even an outright vow of love; all designed to pick away at the melting ice that covers her heart. He's seen the tenderness beneath and he wants more. It's been so difficult to wait, especially with the setback of the Pfaster incident. But at least she finally sought help, was willing to talk to someone about it. When she'd told him about the sessions, he almost cried with relief. Since then, he's kept a safe distance, giving her time to regroup. But several months have passed and he's ready. Enough of the sly inroads... it's time for action. &&&&&&& She emerges from the bathroom with hope, saying goodbye to the hurt, then hello to simply enjoying the freedom, the revival of her body and soul. There are too many things to touch, to hear, to smell; she will savor them all, feel them one by one. She moves to the bed and spies the smooth white column of a candle. Unwilling to subject their meeting to harsh, manufactured light, she takes a moment to touch flame to the wick. The light is soft and soothing, easing her blindness with a flickering, yellow glow. The canvas before her presents a portrait of languid, golden limbs spread out beneath the white cotton. For the second time in her life, she becomes Ana. The embrace of her other self gives her comfort and courage, as she draws closer to the canopied cocoon and leaves the other world behind. He lies upon the mussed bed in Cupid-like repose, one leg exposed to the humid air wafting in from the open balcony doors, the other hidden from her by sheets that bathe in his scent. Her lips turn up in a half-smile at the twinge of envy she feels. The same sheet that enjoys the feel of his skin also serves to protect him from her ravenous gaze. Is it possible to be jealous of 200-count cotton? As she slowly rounds the bed, it all comes back to her, returning on the high tide like a ship from the sea. His hands... ah, the hands that knew exactly where to touch her, the hands that once explored her body and soul... they are quiet; if she has her way, they will soon be strumming her into mindless ecstasy and unwrapping the layers of denial that pile upon her each day. They are asleep, resting one upon the clingy sheet and the other in the vast expanse where she’d lain in similar dreamless slumber so long ago. His arm twitches - the fingers searching for her, perhaps? Radius, ulna, metacarpal... Tricep, bicep, collarbone. Bone and sinew that flows under his skin in a symphony of movement and perfection. She remembers it all, embraces every moment that will live again. The hollow where his shoulder meets his chest that was so sensitive to her lips. The ripples of muscle that stretch in endless dunes her fingers so loved to walk through. The heart that slowed under her ear in the aftermath of their joining, its hum lulling her, soothing her, protecting her. And his face. She can barely see it, but she remembers it in the tingle of her fingertips and the phantom tenderness of her lips. Lean angles, soft eyebrows, strong, yielding mouth. The way his exhale matched her inhale, the way his nose dipped into her cheek like the last missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The way his hair curled about his forehead in damp disarray, though it's so very short now. The way his eyes, dim and colorless in the night, glowed above her, daring her to look away. Impossible, she thinks. Though I blinded myself to him then, I could never do the same now. She sighs and watches him engulf the bed, much as he has devoured her life. His toes brush the railing at the end and his head is angled awkwardly on the pillow. It hurts her just to look at him, trying to fit his six foot frame in the double sized antique bed. A sudden thought is filed away for later attention - her bed is not much bigger than this one. After this night, she'll have to find another; one more suited to this man who will hopefully share it with her. For now, though, she sets the hope aside and gathers her courage. Her hand skims over the railing in a caress designed to stall just a bit... she doesn't want to rush things, counting the grooves in the wood one by one in her mind. It's exhilarating, like a countdown to liftoff. At number twelve, she brushes the arch of his foot, and he breathes just a bit heavier. She stills, waits until he settles, then continues her last journey across the great divide between them. In the semidarkness, she rounds the end and stops, bringing her knee up to sit at his feet, slowly, so as not to bring him to full awareness just yet. Her eyes roam over him; though she's seen it all before, it is so new, so full of discovery. She hasn't had the pleasure of simply *looking* before. It's pure delight, and she wants to start every journey of theirs in this way from now on. Find the one thing that is previously unknown to her, the mark that sets him apart from all others. Her gaze settles upon the hand that had given up its search for her moments before. Palm up, it beckons her to explore. Even though she can barely see it, it is there. That little something different. A freckle. Maybe a smooth mole, actually. It is unusual for such a beauty mark to be hidden in the callouses of the hand. At the very bottom of his little finger, it winks at her with every quiver of his hand. Come to me, it says. So she does, lowering her mouth to his palm and caressing it with her warm breath in a whispered hello. Nice to meet you, she voices with the press of her lips. Now that I know you’re here, I’ll never forget you again, she promises with the touch of her tongue. Like a single spark, her caress awakens his hand, his fingers jerking to life, touching her cheek in an instant of questioning, then curling over the square of her jaw. She spreads her tentative wings, sprinkling cinnamon kisses over his wrist, tracing the flow of blood just under her lips. She stops at another treasured spot, the hollow of his elbow, as his hand takes the opposite path through her hair before coming to rest on the nape of her neck. His whisper stills her movements with a crushing blow. "Scully?" Her breath hitches in a gasp. She's not Scully, she's Ana. Scully can't do this, can't give him what he wants. It's foolish to feel such panic, her logical self insisting that he knows she is Scully and is doing this to bring her out. It was his plan from the beginning. A very calculated, well-executed plan and under any other circumstances she would applaud him for it. But all she can feel now is panic and indecision. She begins to pull away, tears in her eyes. Suddenly, she finds herself on her back, her wrists pinned to the pillows. And he's there above her, somehow heavier than she'd remembered. All muscle and tense, long warmth, pinning her with his eyes as well as his body. "You wanna ride this train again, Scully?" His husky voice sends a shiver of fear mixed with desire from her head to her toes. "Got your ticket right here." His hips thrust between hers, insinuating with hot, greedy purpose. "Mulder." She tries to make this into something different with the plea, but he's not buying, holding fast to her with every inch of his body. Not hurtful, just... consuming. "Forget it, Scully. This one's gonna cost you... and I don't mean money." End Part Two ===== Visit my fic at: http://www.geocities.com/mish_rose/ Musea, A Collection of Beauty: http://www.geocities.com/museans/ __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Listen to your Yahoo! 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