No Quarter Given: Surrender
Part Three

Disclaimer, etc. in part one

He's being a bastard, but he doesn't care.  This is
too important to them both to let her waltz in here
and just pick up where they left off three years ago.

"What's it gonna be, Scully?"

Jesus, she's wearing that same robe.  Red silk that
clings to every curve.  Unconsciously, he finds
himself rubbing against her at every touch point,
reliving the feel of them together.  It's been so
long, but his body reacts the same as it did then,
every nerve ending set afire, every hair standing on
end.

He refuses to let it distract him, though it's damned
hard when she's lying beneath him at last, facing him
with a mute surrender he knows is costing her a great
deal of self-respect.  It makes it all the more
difficult to keep up the taunting, but the end will
justify the means.  He's sure of it.

Well, as sure as he can be with her, anyway.  Seven
years together and what he knows about her life could
fill volumes.  What he knows about the hidden recesses
of her heart would leave half a Post-it note empty.

"C'mon... you know you want it.  Only one thing I want
in return...."

The words coming out of his mouth are bordering on
pimp talk, and he cringes inwardly at the way he's
belittling her.  One thing he never wants to do is
treat Scully with anything other than courtesy.  But
there comes a time when shock value outweighs
politeness.  While not guaranteeing the response he
wants, it will serve to make her angry.  Which is one
step closer on the path to honesty.

"Ana could always get whatever she wanted.  From me,
from herself.  But not this time."

In the candlelight, she looks much as she did three
years ago.  Taking on a persona so far removed from
herself in an effort to create distance.  A beautiful,
fragile creature that inspires him to protect.  He
knew that Ana would emerge from her cocoon if he
called; just as Scully would come running as well, if
he'd taken that route.  But Scully would have marched
in here all cool and buttoned up tighter than a nun.
Asking for Ana meant he'd receive a more relaxed,
willing-to-talk Scully.  And he will take anything he
can get.

"If Ana wants *this* -" his thighs spread hers and his
cock surges against her warmth - "then Scully has to
ask for it."  He bites down hard on his lower lip;
it's all he can do not to bury himself in her with his
next breath.

Please let this work, he thinks.  He can't keep this
up... and he doesn't mean physically, though it's
beginning to be painful for him.  More worrisome is
the way he's treating her to awaken her; he never
wants to hurt her, in any way.

He sees the exact moment that Ana fades and Scully
returns.  Her face transforms from soft, sexy
insecurity - and damned if he finds himself loving
that look - to cool, calculated command.

"Get off me."  She's not letting his surprise attack
go unchallenged.

And he loves it.  Just what he wanted.

&&&&&&&

A mind toughened by years of standing up to
intimidation springs back to life, though her body,
damn it all, is still betraying her.  Her chest heaves
under his, her naked skin under the robe defiant in
its pliancy to his touch.

The only other time she's seen him this bold, he
stripped away all her defenses until she thought she'd
bleed away every bit of reserve she'd gathered over
the years.  And while she came here with the intention
of opening up somewhat and seeing what they could
salvage of their relationship, she didn't come here to
be humiliated.

Anything, she'd told herself a short time ago.  She'd
do anything for him.  But she'll be damned if she'll
let him treat her like a sex-starved whore.

"I said get off of me," she states again through
clenched teeth.

"You sure that's what you want, Scully?"  He brings
his legs to either side of hers, effectively trapping
her in a prison of male dominance.  "That wasn't the
impression I got a minute ago."

"A minute ago, I was a fool."  She slides her right
foot up slowly and smiles inwardly with satisfaction
at the darkening of his gaze.

"A minute ago, you were lapping at my elbow."

That's it, she thinks.  Let your libido get the best
of you, Mulder.  Her plan takes wicked shape...
"Exactly."

Except the goal is just missed, as he swiftly backs
off, her knee glancing the top of his thigh.  While
not the ultimate target, it serves to scare him enough
to retreat, as he stands, his hand rubbing his groin
through his boxers.

"You forget, Scully.  I have the same copy of that FBI
handbook."  His smile pinches into a small grimace as
he bends at the waist.  Furious yet admiring eyes
flash to hers.  "Ow....  Good thing you didn't have a
gun, or those flashbacks to the Boggs case I have now
and then would have become reality."

Ignoring his jibe, she sits up and pulls the edges of
the robe closer together, trying to avoid his almost
naked form with eyes saturated to the point of
betrayal.

No, she won't look at him again... though his bare
chest beckons with sculpted perfection and a vision of
her hands tracing each line crowds her mind.  She
can't... though his legs have gotten bulkier in the
years past and she pictures her painted toes skimming
over the rough hair of his muscular calves.  God, no,
she swears... though the heather gray boxers cup his
sex with thin cotton fingers.  She remembers *exactly*
what that feels like.

She blinks and tries to control her breathing,
dispelling the sight of his arousal.

Oh, yes - he wants her, all right.  It's hard to
ignore the obvious.  But it took all of her strength
to fight him off a moment ago, and her body cooperated
under protest from the already wet warmth he
generated.  No use tempting herself by looking any
further.  She summons as much dignity as she can;
Scully isn't a coward.

"I just came to tell you I was sorry," she murmurs,
swinging her shaky legs to the floor.  "I see that was
a mistake."

A mistake of monumental proportions.  Much as she
wants to don her armor and leave, however, she doesn't
move.  Instead, she sits on the edge of the high bed,
her feet dangling.

"Which part was the apology?  The attempt at sex or
the ball breaker?"

She cringes at the truth, knowing that neither was the
right course of action.  But for once in her life,
she's at a loss as to what *would* be the best route.
"I don't know," she says simply.  "I don't know what
to think anymore.  You made me come here as..." It
sticks in her throat for a second, but she says it
anyway.  "... Ana.  I see now it was all a ruse.  And
I still don't know what you want from me."

Waiting for him to say something, do anything, she
lets her body sag, all fight gone in a rush of
confusion.  She can hear him breathing behind her, and
when the bed dips, she holds her own breath.

"You hurt me."  Small and accusatory, his words
puncture the balloon of her lungs with sharp
precision.

Sighing, she says, "I know I did.  I'm sorry."  Though
they've grown closer, especially since his butchering
at the hands of Spender, she can't help but take out
her frustration on the man she knows loves her more
than anything.

The fact of the matter is, she loves him, too.  Has
loved him forever, it seems like.  So why does she not
say it?  It's what he's after, she knows.  One final
goal and his life would be complete.  If only she
could give him that last piece of her... tell him that
he's... but how?  Words can never be enough.

"I'm not talking about a few minutes ago.  Not even
yesterday afternoon," he says quietly.

At this, she turns her head.  From the corner of her
eye, she sees him perched on the opposite end of the
bed, hunched over, studying his hands as if they hold
the secrets of the universe.  The gulf between them
spans more than just this bed, and she wilts, not
knowing of what he speaks.  But she has to try.

"Mulder, I know I'm not the world's best at
communication - especially of a personal nature - but
tell me what it is and I'll apologize."

With a snort, he rises from the bed and walks to the
balcony doors.  Hands on hips, back rigid with anger,
he doesn't face her as he says, "You still don't get
it, do you?  I thought our present location made it
perfectly clear, Scully."

Dear God, she thinks.  He's talking about...

"And the light bulb goes off," he murmurs wryly,
facing her at last.  His face is almost lost in the
shadows, but she can feel his sadness envelop her in a
cloak of painful realization.

She opens her mouth to reply but, stunned as she is,
she can't form the words.

"That's right," he continues.  "Amazing how some
wounds fester for years, isn't it?"  He half-turns,
bringing a hand to his face to scrub at his brow.  "I
know I promised never to bring it up again, Scully.
But I can't - *not* speak of it anymore.  I'm tired of
pretending it never happened.  Do you understand?"

Yes, she does.  She understands his desire for
resolution.  She should have known this was coming
years ago; how she could ever have fooled herself into
believing he'd never speak of it... a promise made
that was so difficult to keep, by a man who's built
his life around uncovering the truth.

He looks at her, expectation lighting his eyes, asking
her to speak.  Pleading for some sign of empathy with
his raspy,  "Scully?  Did you hear me?"

Something... she has to say something.  Before he
stops talking altogether.  Before this moment sinks
into the abyss forever.  He's seconds away from
surrendering totally to her silence, and they'll never
broach the subject again.

Sighing, he looks away and clears his throat.  "Forget
it.  Go home.  I'm okay."

He's fallen into short, two-word replies, with no
response a hair's breadth away.  Say something, you
idiot! her mind screams.

Taking a deep breath, she stands, wringing her hands
with panic, the words trembling, almost constricting
her throat.

"I love you."

&&&&&&&

It comes out of her mouth in a half-hearted whisper
and he turns, noting her martyred stance.  It's
difficult for her to express her feelings, but he
doesn't want capitulation based on obligation.  He
believes what she's saying, but an evil part of him
can't help but let his anger boil over.  He summoned
her here with his flight, that's true.  But instant
happiness and communion is impossible.

"Flick the switch, warden."  Snide words, hissed over
the night air between them.  "She's ready to fry."

She pales at his comment.  "Mulder, I don't -"

Of course, she's *never* understood.  Physics and
chemistry, certainly.  But even the anatomy textbooks
that line her shelves are unable to make her see her
own heart for what it holds.  Saying is different than
revealing.  "I've never heard a more dreadful
declaration of devotion, Scully."

"What?"  Her reply is disbelieving, then in an
instant, cold as ice.  "Screw you, Mulder."

Raising a finger, he purrs, "Not yet, Scully.  You're
gonna have to wait."

In the dim light from the candle, he sees a flush
creep up her neck and she turns, giving him her stiff
profile.  Her chin lifts to the door then back as he
sees her contemplate the logistics of escape.  But he
doesn't move, though it would be so easy to position
himself between her and the door; his long legs would
surely win the space race.  This has to become her
fight as well as his, something he tries to transmit
with his eyes as he gives her a steady look.  Finally,
she faces him, responding to his silent pull.

He wants to smile with the small victory when he sees
the gamut of emotions run across her face.  She thinks
about it all for a couple of seconds, then her resolve
strengthens before his eyes, her whole body seeming to
inflate with steely ire.  "I can't believe that's all
you have to say to me, Mulder.  It's disappointing, to
say the least."

His lips curl with sarcasm, his eyes narrowing.
"Forgive me if 'you make me a whole person' and
'you're my touchstone' never quite lived up to your
expectations."  He disregards the drugged confession
in the Bermuda hospital; she didn't buy it then, and
she certainly won't give it credence now.  Confident
she's going nowhere, he moves to the table, grabbing
the bottle of wine he'd ordered when he arrived.
Sharing it with her over frank discussion was a
distant hope at the time; that was before she tried to
use sex as a Bandaid.  "Care for some wine?  Worked
for Jesus at the Last Supper."

He fully expects her to haul off and slap him, or
march out the door in a blaze of fury.  What she does
surprises the hell out of him.  And pleases him to no
end.

Attuned to her every move, his ears prick up at the
sound of her bare feet sliding across the rug.  His
hands shake a bit with nerves he won't allow her to
witness.  His spine sends lightning bolts of happiness
to every end of his body.

She has taken up the gauntlet.

"Sure."  The answer is soft, and he tenses as he
realizes just how close she is. *Very* close, as he
can smell the clean scent of soap mixed with the
undertone of heavy desire.  "It's not every day a girl
gets a slap in the face when she tells a man she loves
him.  It deserves a toast, don't you think?"

He grins at her gumption; she's still angry, still
wanting to screw him, but she refuses to let him get
the better of her.  He expects nothing less.

Pouring a glass for her, he decides to succumb to her
attempt at easing the tension. "Wait'll you hear the
good stuff."

"The good stuff?"

"Yeah, you know... the words I store up for special
occasions.  You know - like when you tell me I'm
right.  Or you finally admit aliens exist."

"Or when you insist I saved the world from Nazi
domination?" she purrs, her brow rising with a tart
challenge.

He pauses in the act of stoppering the wine bottle and
gives her a surprised, pleased glance.  So she *does*
give that hospital confession some credence after all,
he thinks.  Best not to let on just yet that he wasn't
*that* out of it.

"Ah, but that wasn't the good stuff, Scully.  Besides,
Demerol makes the most fumbling man a poet."  There's
a few more lines in that mostly smooth forehead, but
it adds character, he thinks. "Believe me, I can do
better than that.  So can you."

She chuckles, sipping at the red wine with soft, pink
lips.  He almost salivates at the sight.  "I don't
think so."

At her opening, he worms his way in.  "Try."

The cloak of reserve that falls upon her shoulders is
immediate, but not yet permanent. "Mulder..."

"You once told me what you wanted," he says, with
deliberate softness, pursuing and pushing past the
flimsy barrier.  "*This* is what I want."

&&&&&&&

His request stirs up memories that, while not
forgotten, have been buried in that place she
considers the purgatory of her soul.  On one hand,
they're tinged with regret and shame.  But they're
also filled with life and emotion, and she can hear
herself speak the same words as if it were yesterday.

He waits, his face a calm mask, though his eyes burn
with the plea.  Words such as he's asking for do not
come easily to her, and even her always rigid backbone
seems to fail her as she looks away, her taste for the
wine gone as well.

"I've told you what I feel," she begins, placing the
glass on the table.  The shaking of her hand makes the
wine quake, some of it spilling from the edge to stain
the white linen below it.  "I can't do better than
that, Mulder."

"You can," he urges, placing his glass next to hers,
his hand reaching for her arm.  She tries to hide the
flinch his touch creates, but he picks up on it,
rubbing his fingers over the silk in a soothing
caress.  He leans in and continues, "You told me once
that you wanted abandon.  Is surrender so very
different?"

Surrender.  To relinquish power to another.  Spender's
words come back to her with deadly accuracy.

<You're drawn to powerful men but you fear their
power... you'd die for Mulder but you won't allow
yourself to love him.>

No, she can't do this.  It's abhorrent to her nature,
the antithesis of the control she's labored to
maintain for as long as she can remember.  On the trip
here, she'd vowed to do anything to make Mulder happy.
 Sex, love, trust... but she didn't bargain for giving
him her soul.

"What you're asking is impossible."  She pulls away
from him and gives him her back, looking out the
balcony doors as she closes in around herself, her
arms tight around her waist.  "I can't."

She hears him move behind her and his soft reply stirs
the hair at the nape of her neck.  "You can fuck me
but you can't talk to me?"  It drips with hurt,
designed to make her face him, but she resists,
letting her chin fall.

"I'm not fucking you," she says weakly, her logic
surfacing with a last gasp above the drowning pool.

"But you would have.  Just like three years ago.  You
would have used me... let me use you.  We probably
would have walked out of here together tomorrow
morning... back to D.C. where we'd fuck each other
some more."

Every word slices a hole in her armor with the swift
sword of truth.  She would have done just that,
showing him the false promise of love with her body,
then retreating behind a hazy fog of sexual need.
Never letting him get too close, never giving him
total capitulation.

"And as much as I want to, Scully... *God* how I want
to... I need more this time."  His arms snake around
her and she sighs, melting into his chest.  "It nearly
killed me when I walked out of this hotel three years
ago."  His voice shakes with emotion, rumbling from
his chest through her back to grab at her heart.  "But
I'll do it again, I swear I will.  You see, I learned
long ago that I'm a greedy bastard.  I want it all."

Say something, her mind screams.  Tell him what he
wants to hear.

But she doesn't know where to begin.  A dozen
instances of hurt and silence come to mind, each a
suitable springboard for communication.  Moments lost
when she should have said more, should have given him
an inkling of compassion or genuine anger instead of
stony silence.

As he begins to pull away, sighing at her perceived
reluctance, she whispers the first thing that comes to
mind.

"I want to believe... that he was wrong."

&&&&&&&

He stills at the simple words, sensing they mean so
much more than text that could be found in a child's
reading primer.  Tightening his arms around her once
again, he murmurs, "Who was wrong, Scully?"  He rest
his chin on her shoulder and nudges at her hair,
trying to get a glimpse of her eyes.  The tears
gathering in the corners shimmer in the light from the
risen moon.

Her hands wrap around his forearms, her damp fingers
speaking of her fear.  "Spender."

At the odious name, Mulder raises his head, not
wanting her to witness the freeze he feels cementing
his cheeks.  Her trip with the old man is what
precipitated this confrontation, and to say he's still
angry is the understatement of the year.  But now
that's she's taken the first step, he's damn well not
going to stop her with a retread of the angry words he
flung at her in the aftermath.  He's more worried that
Spender plied her with secrets not on that disc.

"What did he tell you?"

"He told me I would die for you... but I would never
allow myself to love you."

He can't help the chuckle of relief.  "Wrong on both
counts... he obviously has never witnessed a death row
confession like I just did."  A brief kiss to her
cheek makes up for his teasing.  "And I'm pretty sure
you meant what you said, didn't you?"

Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she hangs her
head and nods.

"He's wrong," he says with conviction, the painful
knit of her brow making him hurt, too.  "Especially
about us.  He knows nothing."

"But what if he's right?  What if I can never -"

It takes no effort to turn her in his embrace, her
slight form swaying with indecision.  "Stop it."
Hands on her pale cheeks, he forces her to look at
him.  "You can do anything, Scully.  Anything."

"Not without you I can't," she murmurs, tears now
seeping down her cheeks.  "Mulder, you know it's
difficult for me to let go."

"I know."  He keeps his gaze on hers, locking them
together in much the same way as the day she was
headed for Salt Lake City.  "I'm not asking you to say
you love me, Scully.  I know that already."  Her
watery smile confirms his words and he continues with
a sober whisper, "I'm asking you to let yourself love
me.  The words are unnecessary.  Show me, don't tell
me."

"How do I do that?" she asks, a tremor in her voice.
"Mulder, I can't - *we* can't be physical in public.
Hand-holding and tonsil hockey on the street just
isn't in me, I'm sorry."

Chuckling, he drops his hands, taking hold of her
waist with one and her fingers with the other.  In a
second, he's kissing her, ignoring the surprised hum
in the back of her throat.  His tongue spars with hers
and he feels a second of hesitation before she joins
in, fervently deepening the kiss as her fingers grip
his.

God, he thinks, her tongue is strong from years of
arguing and - he's absolutely sure of this - sticking
out at his back with frustration from across the
office.  And he's thankful for all of those exercises,
as it now parries his with more heat than he thought
possible.

He kisses Scully for the first time.  It's full of
wonder; so different from the angry meeting of mouths
with Ana years ago.  There's challenge and discovery
in their shared breaths.  Open desire hums in the back
of her throat and he answers with a hungry groan,
knowing they can't kiss forever.

Dragging his lips from hers, he sucks in a long
breath, resting his brow against hers as he fights for
control.  "I'd say it's in you," he grins.

She does the same, her words breathy.  "Hate to break
it to you, Mulder, but this isn't exactly the corner
of Pennsylvania and Tenth."

"Now, did I say I wanted you to kiss me on the front
steps of the FBI?  Though the idea does have definite
merit...."  He breaks off at the feel of her nails
pinching his ass.  "I like *that* move better,
actually."

She snorts.  "You would."  She pulls away a bit and
looks up at him.  "Seriously, Mulder, I don't know
what you want me to do."

It occurs to him that he has no real plan as well.
But he speaks anyway, the words solid and sure.  "I
know what I *don't* want you to do, Scully."

"What's that?"

"Don't run off like that again.  We need to at least
tell each other where we're going.  We're way past the
ditching stage of this relationship, don't you think?"

Warmth ratchets up several degrees at the way she
licks her lips.  He knows she tastes the goal that
emerges on the horizon, just as he does.  "Agreed.
What else?"

It has to be said and he does so without hesitation.

"Don't use sex as a distraction.  Or as a shield for
what you really feel."  He feels the  muscles of her
waist tighten under his hand and he rushes to clarify,
his voice husky with certainty.  "It's going to be
great between us this time, Scully.  And I refuse to
enter into it if you're not totally with me.  It will
always mean something to me... whether it's love or
anger or the simple need to connect.  You have to feel
it, too."

Her eyes are steady.  "I already do."  She waits for a
beat, then adds, "I always have, though I've obviously
hidden my feelings very well.  But *you* have to see
that I'm still learning, Mulder.  I can't promise that
I won't want my own space now and then."

"You mean, you're gonna be the kind that fucks me
senseless all night long then is gone before dawn?" he
teases, knowing full well that may happen a time or
two.  But he's ready for it.  At this point, he's
ready for whatever she throws at him... as long as
it's not full retreat.

That eyebrow goes up and her eyes settle on his chest.
 "Well... maybe not before dawn.  I'm counting on
being fucked senseless myself, you know."  Mirth
greets him as her eyes lift up once again.

His cock, already half-hard from her sheer proximity,
awakens to full, unabashed attention.  He notes with
satisfaction the way her eyes darken, sure she can
feel him through their skimpy attire.  "I'll do my
best," he says with a smile, then sobers as he adds,
"With everything.  With anything."

"As will I," she promises, reaching up to touch her
fingers to his cheek.  "Mulder, I'm so sorry.  For
three years ago... for yesterday... for tomorrow."

This time, he bends to give her temple a warm kiss,
gathering her and her words close.  "For tomorrow?
What are you going to do tomorrow?"  The question is
teasing as he tucks her head under his chin, though
slight worry edges the words.  Their beginning is
still tentative and he knows the journey won't be
easy.

He feels her grin against his chest.  "I'm sure I'll
*not* say something you want to hear.  But it doesn't
mean it isn't there in me.  I'm just covering all the
bases."  She raises her head, forestalling his reply,
as she brings her lips up.  "And I need to apologize
for what I'm about to do now."

"What's that?"  He's still reeling from the gigantic
leap forward they've taken.

Brushing his mouth with hers, she whispers, "I'm
taking you to bed, where I hope we can give that
*senseless* thing a try.  I'm tired of talking. Is
that blunt enough for you?"

His arms tighten around her and he sweeps her up in
his arms, loving the way she laughs, his name flying
from her with surprise.  "Apology accepted."  She
continues to giggle as he lopes toward the bed,
pretending to struggle with her slight weight.

"Don't hurt yourself," she admonishes.

"Too late," he groans, laying her on the sheets.  He
crawls over her, then flops on his back at her side.
Closing his eyes, he adds, "I may never recover."  One
eye pops open and he watches her shed her robe before
covering him, his heart speeding up with joy.

As her legs settle to either side of his hips, she
purrs, "That's okay.  It's been a while, but I've
ridden this train before, remember?"

All humor gone, he draws her to him.

"I've never forgotten."

&&&&&&&

Funny how she could never say what she most wanted to
say, she thinks.  It's more ridiculous that she can't
shut up, even as she moves above him.

"You make me feel," she whispers, her hands embracing
his straining neck, forcing his eyes to come to hers.
"I hurt because of you.  I feel joy because of you."

He groans, his hips moving faster now, grinding up
into hers.  The feel of his cock pushing its way into
her is ten times more electric than it was then, the
need for protection thrown to the winds.  And she has
to tell him, though the pleasure building within her
makes speech difficult.

"You give me life."

"Scully," he breathes, slowing his thrusts to a jerky,
unfocused slide.  She sees his eyes narrow and can
tell he's becoming overwhelmed with emotion, just as
she is.  Completion is still far away for them both,
and she doesn't want him to push the issue.

"No," she protests, her hands moving to his shoulders.
 With languid ease, she rests upon him, her body still
joined with his.  She brings her lips to the short
hair at his temple, and breathes deep of his damp,
musky skin.  "It's enough for now.  Rest."

For several moments, they allow their breathing to
slow, though he remains hard within her.  She rests
her cheek at the junction of his neck and shoulder and
presses her lips to the steady beat of his pulse.
It's not supposed to be perfect, she tells him with
her caresses.

She feels him respond in kind, his hands tracing the
line of her back.  He's as exhausted as she is, and
not just from the stress of the past two days.  The
years have taken their toll.  But they weren't
emotionally ready for this back then.  And to believe
that their lives will not change because of it is a
fallacy.

She wants to continue, and they will - as always, at
their own pace, in their own time.

Beneath her lips, she feels the bob of his swallow.
His words are quiet; she feels them more than hears
them.  "I wanted to make you pregnant."

His murmured words catch her in the throat.  Is he
saying he can't finish?  His hope of making her
pregnant is nil, and he knows it.  But it's so like
him to champion a lost cause, and she doesn't have the
will to correct him.  "I know."

"No," he chokes out, "back then.  I wanted it back
then.  Before we knew you couldn't - it was the only
way I knew to make you stay, to tie you to me somehow.
 But I couldn't do that to you... I promised."

She glides her lips over his face, her hands turning
his chin until their eyes meet.  "I wanted it, too,"
she confesses, kissing away his sweat and tears.  He
smiles weakly, and she gives to him the only words she
has, praying they're the right words.  "You didn't
know it, but you *had* me, Mulder - big time.  In all
possible ways.  You still do."

His smile is emotional, beaming through the night like
a lighthouse, guiding her in.  "Shit, Scully... you
had me from the moment you shot me.  I don't let just
any girl put a slug in me, you know."

Laughter tinkles from her at his definitely
Mulderesque eloquence.  Her thumb caresses his cheek
with playful tenderness.  "I thought you were saving
the good stuff, Mulder."

In answer, he gives her a slow, languid circle of his
hips, holding fast to her butt with both hands.  "I
am.  You know what I want to hear."

Her laugh fades to a shaky sigh as she answers his
body's call, sliding away for leverage.  "Never in a
million years, bub."

He turns her onto her back and she gasps as he begins
the slow thrust in and out, telling her with
challenging eyes that he now wants equal time on top.
"Then I guess I'll just have to wear you down."

As he moves to kiss her, she gives him a secret smile,
silent to the end.

&&&&&&&

His need for sleep has passed.  He holds her to him,
his hands gently roaming as she dreams.  He has no
need to dream anymore.

He couldn't even if he wanted to.  Though fatigue is
getting the better of him these days, he can't
remember the last time his mind worked normally and
gave him the Technicolor fantasy of dreams.  His
doctor warned him it would happen.  Dreams first, as
his diseased brain simply wouldn't summon the energy
to fire the synapses during sleep.

At first he didn't believe the diagnosis.  And at
times, he still refuses to believe it.  But he knows a
change is coming, feels it in his bones.  He
reconciles himself to it already.

He knows she won't let him go quietly, no matter where
his journey takes him.  But he's content with the fact
that her strength is now joined with his in every way.
 She'll need each precious ounce in the days ahead.

As he closes his eyes, he presses a kiss to her
tangled hair, his fingertips gliding over her skin
with futile attempts at holding on to the memory.
It's going, too, slowly but surely.

He wonders if, when the time comes, he'll remember
what to say.  If 'the good stuff' will still be
floating around somewhere in there.

Not wanting to wake her, he whispers it.

Just once, before he forgets.

END

This is as happy as it gets, folks.  I had to listen
to the muse. :)

Many thanks to Musea, as always.  Especially to
Forte, for her usual bodaciousness and Aud, who
provided the quote at the very beginning of the story
and turned me on to Carl Phillips' poetry.  Any
mistakes are my own.

Also, a big smile and nod to the stalkers... you know
who you are. <g> Hope this is satisfactory!

Dedicated to Galia.  You asked me to do this and
though I thought I couldn't, I found out that I could.
 Thank you for the gentle push and the friendship.
Love you, dear. :)

=====
Visit my fic at:
http://www.geocities.com/mish_rose/

Musea, A Collection of Beauty:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/

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