Date: 21 Sep 1998 20:37:46 GMT
Subject: NEW: Decadence by Jennifer Stoy (1/1)

Decadence
by Jennifer Stoy (jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu)
Description: Mildly NC-17 Scully/Skinner stuff. V/R/A, set as part of the
same universe as Ruby Red Desire.
Summary: Decadence: n. a process, condition, or period of decline;
deterioration, decay.
Disclaimer: I know that Chris Carter owns the show. I know that he does
not sanction this. I know that if I make money off of this, I will be sued
to Kingdom Come. So I'm not.
Archive: Yes, email and name remain attached.

For Nancy

Decadence

She fits just right in my arms, as I'd always imagined. I look at her
sleeping face and notice the traces of tears staining her soft white
cheeks. Perfect symmetry. Her face was bruised with weeping our first
time, and now, this, our last--?

Never the last. I can't quite accept that in the morning, she will go to
Mulder and say, "I love you," and that I will lose the day. In the first
light of dawn, the air is cold, reality is frozen, and I look down at her,
remembering.

I took a wrong turn into her arms, literally. I was looking for Kimberly
(ever notice how ten-minute breaks last forty?) when I stumbled upon Dana
Scully, crying. Not loud, hysterical, girly sobs, just tears that dared
defiantly fall from her crystal-blue eyes. She jumped up in horror when
she noticed me.

"Sir! I-"

"Are you all right, Agent Scully?" I asked.

"I'm fine, sir," she replied belligerently.

"Is it the cancer?"

"No, sir, I'm just-"

She's so fierce; she hates being out of control. Then and now and always.

"Of course," I replied mildly. "Scully?"

Her head snapped back, her eyes met mine with bright defiance. She was NOT
going to look weak at that moment, no matter what-

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you, um, like to come over to dinner tonight? As a friend. To talk.
Whatever."

I thought, I expected, she'd tell me to go to hell. It's just not her way
to open up and talk. She was going to say no. 

"All right," she agreed softly. "Is seven-thirty okay?"

The sunrise is very slow today, and I think of last night with almost
regret. But not really. She shifts a little in her sleep, a lonely sunbeam
illuminating the pale curve of her waist, the sharp round curve of her
hip.

That night, I hated how gaunt and empty she looked in my doorway. I
thought about my deal with the devil and its lack of results.

"Hello," I said slowly. "Make yourself comfortable. Dinner's going to be
ready soon. I hope you like Italian."

She nodded, and rather listlessly (so I thought) sat down at the kitchen
table.

"Do you have plans for this weekend?" I asked, desperately trying to make
conversation.

"My mother wants to go to the theatre," she replied. "I was thinking more
along the lines of a weekend in bed."

"I know the feeling," I replied. "Long week. Would you like something to
drink?"

My control was at its limits. I wanted to know why she had been crying in
the hallway. I wanted to know how sick she really was, or if Mulder had
upset her. If he had, I would shake him silly-

"Just water, thank you."

She turns over and moans in her sleep, immodestly draped by the sheet.
Botticelli would have adored Dana as a model. Trivial details are seared
into my brain this last morning.

"This is delicious," she told me over the pasta. "I wish I had a better
appetite these days."

"You're welcome to take some home."

"I might," she replied. "Sir."

"Yes?"

"Are you going to put me on medical leave?" she asked in a rush of
panicked words.

"No," I replied, looking at her carefully. "Is that why you thought I'd
invited you over? Did you think I was going to--?"

She smiled, in relief, I think. "Yes. I thought maybe my behavior in the
hallway was the final straw and-"

"No, no," I said. "Scully, I admit that I'm concerned, but I wouldn't put
you on leave. No, you can work until you drop dead at the desk-"

She recognized my feeble attempt at humor, and tried to smile.

"Any day now," she murmured. "You want to know why I was crying."

It wasn't a question.

"I don't want to pry."

"No, it's okay," she said. "Mulder and I had a fight. He said that I'm not
being honest with him, that I'm not being honest with myself. I'm not
living up to his standards- he didn't say that. I just-"

If Mulder had been within ten miles of me, I would have torn his punk ass
limb from limb, lit him on fire, and toasted marshmallows for Scully on
his remains. She kept talking, and I seethed in silence.

"I don't want to be a burden for him. I just- oh. Sometimes I wonder if
working too long with Mulder makes me crazy. He's in denial. He's so angry
that I'd dare die on him and our precious quest that he makes every day
more difficult to endure-"

The sun is rising over the city now, reflecting empty, lost things. Broken
things. Every day starts like this, I think as I shift back and forth in
time.

Her next words caught me by surprise.

"I really need someone to listen to me."

I took her hand. "I'm listening."

She smiled sadly. "Thank you, but-"

"My pleasure," I replied. She looked at me quizzically over the table.
God, she was so beautiful, even when she was that sick. There was a long
silence.

"What are you thinking?" she asked suddenly.

"You're beautiful," I said, not thinking. "What are you thinking?"

"Will you dance with me?" she asked. "Please?"

I couldn't deny her anything. I can't deny her anything. I rose and led
her into the living room. I'd turned on some light jazz before her
arrival, and that's what played while we danced.

She stretches, slowly waking up, and a long yawning groan comes out of the
round O of her mouth.

"Good morning," I whisper. "How are you?"

"I don't want to be alone," she told me during our dance, just before she
stood on tip-toe, and drew my mouth to hers for a kiss. For me, it was if
all my prayers had been answered.

"Are you sure?" I murmured, savoring the feel of those delicate, perfect
lips.

"Please," she'd whispered. "I'm lonely-"

That was all I needed to hear. I'd save her, if only for that night. I'd
do something. I kissed her again, stroking her hair. She shook her head,
and broke the embrace. I looked at her, confused.

"Morning," she mumbles, squinting at the sunlight. "I'm okay."

Even fuzzy-eyed and bed-headed, she's so beautiful.

"Please," she whispered, the ghosts of the past overwhelming the present.
"Don't fight this."

She'd pulled me into the bedroom, my bedroom, and took off her shirt. I
looked at her, unable to believe that it was real. I stopped her,
delicately cupped her face, looking at her with a question in my eyes. She
nodded. I dropped my hand, and drew her to me. She pulled back again,
undoing her bra and climbing onto the bed. I followed her, ridding myself
of my shirt.

I nuzzled her breasts, traced paths down her stomach, enjoying each touch,
each taste. She whimpered in response, her hands kneading my shoulders,
moving in maddening ways. My hands fumbled, found zippers, buttons, eased
off her pants. How could anyone resist this?

"Wait," she murmured as my head moved lower. "Not like that. Please-"

Her delicate hands tried to move me upward.

"What?"

"Just make love to me. That's what I want."

I did what she wanted, pulling away briefly to remove the rest of my own
clothing, then returning to her arms and the rest of that divine body,
feeling the shift of her hips beneath me. Please, indeed. I moved my hand
down her skin slowly, feeling that soft sensation of flesh which is
somewhere between silk and suede and satin. I lost any hope of restraint
when I realized she was wet, she was aroused, that she wanted this as
much, maybe more than I did. I lost myself in her body, thinking with
every thrust that she couldn't be dying, she couldn't die, that she felt
so alive and real beneath me, keening with more and more force-

"OhmyGod," she finally gasped. "OhGodyesyes-"

Roses, you know, are dying at their fullest bloom. She informed me of this
while she was still dying, while her hands grasped desperately at my
shoulders, her body writhing beneath my mouth. I think she understood that
I loved her then. She wanted me to survive her death.

Such a curious history we've had. Sex and love and need and time that all
seems to be borrowed, first because she was dying, and then because she
didn't trust me, and now--?

"I'd kill for a cup of coffee," she tells me, pulling herself up from me
and the bed.

"You know where it is," I answer, watching her put on underwear and a
sweatshirt, leaving her legs bare. Damn, Dana might not have long legs,
but they're sexy as hell.

She pads to the doorway and looks back at me. "Walter," she says. I'm
surprised- it's been a year and I can count how many times she's used my
given name to address me.

"Yes?"

She looks troubled, but manages to get the sentiment out.

"Thank you so much. You've-" and she gestures at the air, trying to find
the right words- "Kept me sane. I want you to know that I appreciate it."

The sentiment hits me square in the gut, squeezing all of the air out of
me. This is the end, it really is. God- and for whom? Mulder. I respect
Mulder for a lot of things and for a lot of reasons, but I know he won't
appreciate what he has. He never has, why would he start now?

I nod, I think, just staring up at her. The doorway frames her perfectly,
and the sunlight pours around her in a halo. Outlined, she looks
otherworldly, unreal, ready to disappear. She's hardly an angel of mercy,
but still an angel as she walks out of the room into forever, into never,
leaving me nothing but her silhouette burnt into my eyes by dawnlight.

END
Practice what you preach and send feedback. jstoy@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu,
and thank you so much to my beta readers: Rach, Reade, Nancy, y'all are
the best.

Jennifer
http://members.tripod.com/~j_stoy/writing.html
"Your apocalypse was fab-- for a girl who couldn't choose between--
the shower or the bath"-- Tori Amos